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gloomwitchwrites · 3 days ago

Note

you've done 'in the rain'...what about "snowed in"?

I know snowed in during a mission is a pretty popular trope...but what about also a 'snowed in' while on base and everyone else is out or while on leave together.....or like neighbors who decide to keep each other company while they wait it out

Could be platonic, romantic or even a teammates who didn't get along till they actually talked kinda thing?

Jokes on you! I made the whole thing naughty! Sometimes, I really cannot help myself, and the idea of being "snowed in" with the 141 made the smutty gears turn. Some of it is cute and romantic, some of it borders on dubcon. Either way, this was completely self-indulgent.

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings: 141!reader, apocalypse au (Ghost’s), making out, dry humping, unprotected piv, intimacy, hurt/comfort, friends with benefits, neighbor!Price, oral sex, dubcon (Ghost), creampie, shower sex, mechanic!Gaz

Word Count: 3.1k

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // imagines & what if series

John Price

“Stop your banging!” you shout as you wrap a blanket tightly around you. “I’m coming!”

Someone is at your front door, their knocking insistent and loud, stirring you from your mini-coma on the sofa. It’s late in the evening, bordering on bedtime, and there’s a goddamn blizzard outside. A brutal one that’s knocked out the power.

Flipping the deadbolt, you yank the front door open, ready to berate the person on the other side. As your eyes adjust to who stands in front of you, every snarky remark evaporates into the air like steam.

“John,” you breathe, startled that it’s him.

John Price.

The man who lives next door.

The man you’ve been hooking up with but aren’t actually dating.

Without asking—or even speaking—John steps forward, forcing you to move back as he enters. Grasping the edge of the door, John shuts it behind him. Closing out the cold does little to warm you. The power has been out for hours and all the head in the house has evaporated.

“What are you doing here?” you stammer.

John tugs on his scarf, revealing his mouth. “Came to check on you.”

“That’s sweet of you,” you murmur, stomach flipping over in excitement. “Thank you.”

He glances around, frowning. “It’s bloody freezing in here,” he mutters.

“Powers out,” you reply.

“It’s out for the whole damn neighborhood.” John returns his attention to you, the middle of his brow creasing with concern. “You should come to my place.”

“I’m doing good on my own.”

John continues like he didn’t hear your passive rejection. “That’s where we’re gathering.”

“We?”

John turns away from you, heading for your entryway closet. “Where’s your coat?” he asks, reaching for the handle.

“We, John?” you prompt.

“The street,” he replies, peering into the closet. “Johnny and Simon have been going door to door. Taking people to my home.”

It makes sense. John’s home has several fireplaces and a large backup generator. No one needs to try traveling in this weather to a warming center.

“Hopefully the power won’t be off for long,” you muse.

John holds out a large coat. “This the one?”

“It is,” you answer.

He offers it to you with silence. This isn’t an optional request. He expects you to go with him.

The coat is taken, the two of you braving the blizzard together. John might be next door but the wind is brutal, creeping in to freeze your bones. By the time the two of you make it inside, you’re shivering. Inside, dozens of people loiter in the front room and kitchen, bundled up in blankets. Snow-damp coats, jackets, gloves, and scarves hang near the roaring fire to dry. On the coffee table is an arrangement of food that people pick at.

“You weren’t joking about the whole street,” you observe, fingers reaching to undo the front of your coat.

John beats you to it. “You’re shivering,” he murmurs, opening your coat and helping you out of it. “You should shower.”

You smile at him. “The power is out. Your water heater won’t work.”

He leans with a sly smile. “Hot water is a luxury I can’t live without.”

“It’s hooked up to the generator, isn’t it?”

His smile widens, and you nearly jump with joy.

It’s a sprint upstairs with John following. You don’t even care that you’re not dating him, or that there are people downstairs. The clothes come off quickly, and when you’re bare, you reach for him, urging him to join you with gentle tugs.

The hot water is delicious, but it’s John’s kisses that truly keep you warm. Pressing you against the shower wall, John holds you by your throat, seeking demanding kiss after demanding kiss. Your pussy aches with the desire of wanting him inside you. Grasping his cock, you stroke until he’s hard in your hand. John groans, nipping at your neck.

With a little shift of your hips and a lift of a leg, you guide him to your entrance. John grasps your waist, and pushes forward, sinking in until your bodies are flush. Pinned to the wall, you’re at his mercy, taking his cock as he rocks his hips forward and back. At this angle, his pelvis rubs against your clit. You keep kissing him, seeking tongue and lips, whimpering his name as John’s thrusting increases.

“Can I come inside you?” he growls against your mouth. He sounds desperate. Needy.

“Yes,” you breathe, surrendering to him.

A few more thrusts, and then John grinds forward, sealing your bodies together as he empties inside your pussy.

He goes in for a kiss. Another. Eases his cock from your body.

As the water starts to cool, John shuts off the tap, but you’re no longer shivering from the chill.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

“Can—can you help me?”

Your voice stutters in time with a shiver. A burst of cold air hits Kyle in the face as he opens the door wider, allowing you entrance into the shop’s small lobby.

Minutes ago, Kyle flipped the deadbolt, intent on closing up. A snowstorm rages outside, and all of his mechanics are stuck at home. He sees no reason to keep the place open in these conditions. But here you are, shivering and stranded, your broken-down car smoking slightly in the parking lot.

“Thank you,” you stammer, rubbing your arms. You’re not even wearing a coat, just a threadbare hoodie. “My phone is dead. I can’t call anyone.” You shake your head, clearly frazzled. “I pulled in here hoping someone would answer.”

“You’re lucky,” replies Kyle. “Planned on leaving.” Not that he has to go far. His house is attached to the car shop. “I have a phone you can use.

“And my car,” you gasp, pressing your hand to your forehead.

You’re a pretty thing, especially with the half-melted snowflakes covering your lashes.

Kyle offers a gentle smile. “Give me your keys. I’ll bring it into the bay.”

At the moment he might be a one-man show, but Kyle manages all the same, rolling the vehicle into the bay. It’s no longer smoking, but perhaps it wasn’t to begin with. There isn’t a burning smell that Kyle can detect. With how bad the wind is, it’s possible that the smoke Kyle glimpsed was just a trick of the eye.

While you stay wrapped up in blankets and warming your toes in front of the space heater in the lobby, Kyle checks the car over. Everything appears fine until he checks the oil level.

“When did you last get an oil change?” he asks as he takes a towel to his fingers, rubbing at a bit of grease.

“A what?”

Bloody hell.

Kyle tucks the towel in his back pocket. “Won’t take me but half an hour to do one. Should be fine after that.”

Your face falls. “I—I have no way to pay you.”

Kyle might think you a sweet thing but he’s not going to take advantage. You’re stranded and cold and he has nowhere to be.

“I’ll take care of it,” he replies gently.

“Are you sure?” you ask, standing, moving toward him.

“Positive.”

“I can’t…make it up to you?” You lean into him, batting your eyelashes.

Oh. Kyle’s in goddamn trouble.

“You don’t—”

“But I do,” you croon, gaze roaming up and then down his body.

Blood rushes straight to his dick. How long has it been since he’s fucked something other than his hand? And you’re willing?

“Sit down,” you murmur, and Kyle doesn’t need to be told twice.

As he settles into the chair your just occupied, you allow the large blanket to slide off your shoulders, revealing nothing understand.

“Fuck,” he whispers as you kneel on the crumpled blanket before him. His legs spread and you settle between, hands sliding up his thighs to toy with the front of his jeans.

A quick tug. A pop. And then you’re reaching inside, fingers wrapping around his hard dick. Kyle groans. Your fingers are no longer cold from the storm. You’re warm, and it feels fucking good.

Kyle’s eyelids flutter, head tilting back as you stroke him. But it’s your mouth suctioning around the head, tongue lapping over his slit that forces his attention back on you. The snowflakes on your eyelashes have melted, leaving behind wet lines that make it appear like you’ve been crying.

You swallow him down, and Kyle’s ball tighten.

Grasping the back of your head to ground himself, Kyle watches your lips, how they move up and down his length, how to the vein disappears and reappears with each bob. It doesn’t help that you’re completely fucking naked, or that your hand is between your legs playing with your pussy.

You slowly ease your lips upward. Kyle’s dick pops from your mouth.

“You want to come inside me?” you ask, but Kyle can tell that you’re begging—that you want this too.

“Fucking know I do,” he growls.

With a lusty smile, you place your hands on his knees using them as leverage to stand up. Kyle takes in your naked body, and then your gorgeous backside as your turn around. Leaning forward, and spreading your legs just a tad, Kyle receives a clear view of your pussy. It’s glossy with arousal.

He grasps your hips, shifting you back, lining himself up, and then you’re sinking on him. Kyle watches as his cock perfectly pushes in, disappearing into warmth and snugness.

“Fucking hell,” he gasps as you take every fucking inch of him.

You rock back, and Kyle thrusts up, both of you groaning loudly. He doesn’t give a fuck that you’re a stranger—that he doesn’t know your name. Your pussy is perfect, and the snow is thick and raging.

Kyle’s release rises. His fingers tighten their hold, digging into your skin. You try to move, but he holds you fast, sealing your bodies together, filling you with his cum. As you keep still, fingers teasing your orgasm from you, Kyle knows that you could easily stay for the evening.

No one should be driving in this weather.

And he can do the oil change tomorrow.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Ghost finds you in a net, snow-covered and half dead.

When he cuts you down, you hardly move. It’s a shift of the eyelids and a little puff of breath that tells Ghost anything. He puts you on his sled beside the stag he’s downed, traversing the cold and knee-deep snow back to his cabin. The years have melded together, becoming one continuous understand. Ghost hasn’t come across another human in ages. He hasn’t used his voice at all. He’s not even sure if he still knows how to talk.

Not that there are many humans left in the world.

Ghost hangs the stag in the shed behind the cabin, securing the door to keep out any hungry scavengers. You he brings inside, stripping you down until you’re naked, placing you in front of the fire on a nest of worn blankets. He wraps you up, taking extra care to look after your toes and fingers. Though your limbs are cold, you appear to have staved off frostbite.

It’s a lingering quiet where Ghost holds vigil as you warm.

And when you open your eyes, you peek out from your sanctuary of blankets.

You do not scream. You do not scuttle back and away like a beetle. There is…curiosity. Ghost’s cock twitches, wanting attention, liking the way you peer at him. It’s a staring contest, the two of you watching the other without speaking.

Another human. Life. Warmth.

The tips of Ghost’s finger twitch. He reaches out, but you do not flinch. His hand slips beneath the blanket, cupping your bare breast, fingers teasing the nipple. You remain calm, gaze fixated on Ghost. The nipple between his fingers hardens. Ghost moves to the other.

But you surprise him, finally moving, grasping his wrist.

Ghost stills, but you do not draw his hand away. Instead, you bring it down, down between your thighs. You guide his fingers to your pussy, thighs opening slightly to accommodate him.

Ghost strokes, teasing your clit. Dipping into your pussy, he spreads the growing slickness around, returning to your clit. Your eyelids flutter, mouth parting slightly. A shiver runs through you, and your thighs quiver against his hand. He’s already shoving his pants down, opening the blanket to come above you.

You blink slowly, shifting onto your stomach, resting your cheek against the blankets. Ghost settles, rubbing the head of his cock against your pussy. Without ceremony or warning, Ghost thrusts deep. The only sound you make is a small gasp.

Ghost grunts above you, hips snapping, your ass bouncing with each thrust. He loses himself in the warmth and tightness of you. With his face pressed to the back of your head, Ghost pins your wrists above you.

His pace increases, the need to finish a rushing, pulsing shiver beneath his skin. You spread your legs a bit wide, giving him better access.

He doesn’t ask—only grinds his hips against your ass, his cum oozing out around his dick.

The wind kicks up, rattling the covered windows.

A storm is brewing.

John "Soap" MacTavish

“He’s not coming.”

“Willing to put money on it?” asks Johnny, his mouth quirked into a sly smirk.

Matching his energy, you present a few pound notes. There’s a handshake. A verbal agreement. If Captain Price isn’t here by midday, he’d not coming in. And why would he? It’s a bloody blizzard out there. No one is driving in this.

“Without Price around to give orders,” muses Johnny, slowly counting the cash you handed him. “How should we…occupy our time?”

Johnny says occupy slowly—almost deliberately as if he already has something in mind.

You tilt your head to the side as if in deep thought. The two of you will have the run of base for the rest of the day, possibly even the next if the predicted snowfall is correct. You and Johnny can do whatever you want while everyone else is stuck elsewhere.

The soft smile on your lips widens. “I have a few ideas.”

Ideas can be foolish. Spontaneous. Silly.

Neither of you grab your coats. It’s a simple burst of speed and sheer joy as the two of you go rushing out into the blizzard with only your fatigues on. Snow crunches under your boots, and the wind kicks up white waves that stick to your clothes and soak in until the cotton adheres to your skin.

With a screech of glee, you dive into the snow, scooping up a massive clump. Hurriedly, you shape it into a ball. Turn. Hurl it at Johnny. It strikes the back of his head, and he stumbles forward.

“Fucking shit!” he laughs, launching a snowball right back at you.

This one you dodge, giggling hysterically as the two of you dart and dance in the falling snow, slinging heaps of it at each other.

When your fingers grow cold and your cheeks burn, you somehow manage to drag Johnny inside with you. Snow-covered and shivering, it’s all warm smiles, a hot shower, cards in the rec room with the kettle on. It’s shitty jokes and board games with missing pieces. It’s an old television with poor satellite reception and a communal oven that doesn’t want to hold temperature.

“It’s a ghost town out there,” observes Johnny, glancing out the window.

There are no moving cars. No planes or helicopters taking off. All is silent and still. It’s odd really, like the two of you are locked in a snow globe.

“Yes,” you agree, shuffling the deck of cards.

With a heavy sigh, Johnny walks over to his bed, flopping down onto his side. The neat stack of cards explodes, scattering everywhere.

“Really, Soap?”

“I’m bored,” he replies, falling onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. Your only response is a muted grunt. Johnny turns his head to look at you directly. “Want to make out?”

You freeze; fingers just shy of lifting some of the scattered cards. “Do I what?”

With a mischievous grin, Johnny turns on his side, leaning on his elbow, resting his chin in his hand. “Just a snog. Won’t mean anything.”

You flick a card at his face. Johnny retains that flirty smile.

“Come on,” he croons. “Just one.” You roll your eyes, then give him a quick kiss on the forehead. “Not what I meant, lass.”

As you draw back, Johnny grasps the back of your neck, tugging you to him. At first, you resist, but then Johnny’s lips meet yours, and you realize it’s not so bad after all. It’s slow and sweet. No tongue. No shoving. It’s passionate but with a hint of restraint.

“Like that,” he murmurs against your lips.

Oh. Oh fuck.

You don’t resist when Johnny goes in for another, or when he pushes you onto your back. The fatigues are gone, replaced with sleepwear. Johnny’s fingers slide beneath your shirt to cup your breasts. He pebbles one nipple and then the other, eliciting a little moan from you as he seizes yet another kiss.

There is nothing gentle about these. Johnny demands, and you surrender, allowing him everything. Boredom is melting, turning into lust, turning into panting heat. Shirts are gone, and then pants. His lips move down to taste and tease. Your thighs fall wide, and Johnny kisses your pussy before tonging it. Your fingers thread through his mohawk, and Johnny groans as your nails scrape across his scalp.

The snow falls in thick sheets outside, crusting everything in a damp cold.

But your blood is heated, and Johnny is warm.

taglist:

@glitterypirateduck @suhmie @z-wantstowrite @kylies-love-letter @keiva1000

@iloveslasher @ravenpoe67 @sadlonelybagel @nishim @arrozyfrijoles23

@voids-universe @itsberrydreemurstuff @sageyxbabey @xllizs @miaraei

@weasleytwins-41 @eternallyvenus @chaostwinsofdestruction @cherryofdeath @ninman82

@fern-reads @waves-against-a-cliff @beebeechaos @smileykiddie08 @whisperwispxx

@jianyi22 @sethell @atpeacee @konigssweatyhood @dreamingoftomorrow

@katerinaval @morguethemagpie @galactict3a @sarah-the-bird-nerd @mikachu-bitez

@unclearblur @kurochan3 @sans-chara @all-by-myself98 @hisuccubus

@km-ffluv @thriving-n-jiving @carbonnite-copy @sobbangchan @codeseven

@youre-a-wallflower-charlie @tiredmetalenthusiast @sporadicpizzainternet @tessakate @mistresssolana

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reignpage · 9 hours ago

Text

❀ In which husband!Nanami makes a big decision after your labour Tw: hard labour, difficult pregnancy, allusions to death, angst, not proofread

“Are you sure about this?” The doctor asks again.

Kento leans back in his chair, staring straight ahead at the older man before him. He notes, with a little humour, how concerned his doctor looks at the prospect of a younger, more virile man like him undergoing such an operation. There seems to be some stigma surrounding the quick and low-risk operation, almost as if the idea of any man willingly sacrificing an essential part of their identity, their manhood, is so abhorrent one must check again and again if they are certain this is what they want.

And he is.

If asked, and he’s sure when he discloses his decision to friends and family, they will ask, he’ll tell them it is the easiest choice he has ever made — second only, of course, to his decision to marry you.

No matter how many times the doctor reminds him that contraceptives are satisfactory, that abortion is available up to twenty-two weeks gestation, and he might come to regret this later when the pain settles in, Nanami Kento will not change his mind. Not even when you, his beautiful wife, argued, pleaded, with him.

You resented the thought of not being able to give him the big family he’s always dreamed of, but how could he possibly tell you, through your tears and the quiet suckling of the nursing baby in your arms, that you’ve already given him everything he could ever want?

That it isn’t a big family he wants but rather, simply, a family with you.

Years of giving you everything you’ve ever wanted makes this one act extremely uncomfortable; defying you goes against his nature, after all. But he sees no other way to go about this. Perhaps it's just better to ask for forgiveness than approval on select occasions.

The pregnancy had been hard. The labour even harder. Lasting longer than twenty hours, the nurses and doctors rushed around, beelining in and out of your room with all sorts of expressions on their faces, ranging from professional sternness to mild worry to pure panic, all reflecting the emotions he wore on his own face as he waited outside.

At first, things went smoothly — the overnight bag was ready by the door, your contractions were consistent and you were both able to get ahead of your water breakage. He was by your side throughout it all, holding your hand, brushing your hair back, going through breathing exercises, and giving you encouragements.

You were anxious but excited, rattling off baby names as back-up plans in case the baby was 'giving off a different vibe,' worrying about the crib you both picked out, the colour of her room, and trying to remember every single advice you heard from your experienced friends. “What was it babies can’t have until much later? Ugh, I can’t remember now. It was something I really like and was super bummed I can’t let her taste until like centuries later. “

“Honey?”

“Yes, dear?” You grinned at him.

His lips twitched.

“That’s all I get? I thought that was hilarious.”

He wiped the sweat off your forehead. “It was very funny, my love. I hope our baby gets your sense of humour. She’ll make for a successful clown.”

The eye roll you gave him, for one happy moment, convinced him that this labour was going to be just as they said.

There was nothing to be concerned about. Your tests were clean, there’s no history of complications, you followed the recommended diet and have been diligent with the vitamins. It was just going to be your standard birth and they have years of experience.

You’re in safe hands.

So why were you straining for so long?

Why were you screaming through gritted teeth, threatening to break every bone in his hand?

Why was he growing dizzy at the sight of your shaking body?

“Just breathe, sweetheart, alright? Breathe for me.”

You tried. You tried so hard. “Yes, y-yes, I am. Oh, fuck, Kento, it hurts. It really hurts.”

“I know, sweetheart. I’m so sorry.” Mouth dry, face flushed, and voice broken, he could only mutter empty promises. A true failure of a husband, unable to do a single thing to alleviate your pain. “Hang in there, please. They’ll sort it out. It’s all going to be fine.”

The nurses began whispering among themselves, too hushed and hurried for him to understand. "Is everything alright? What's happening?"

More people came in, crowding the bed and pushing him away. He tried to tell them you needed him by your side, that you needed something to hold, someone to keep your hair out of your face. He was being escorted out, wordlessly.

"Ken? Wait, don't leave. I'm scared." Your hand was outstretched and he fought, against better judgement, to hold it just for a second to soothe your worries. They didn't let him.

"It's okay, sweetheart. T-they're going to take care of you."

Hours flew by. He paced the floor, and answered all the messages and calls he received from worried loved ones with responses he didn’t really believe in but knew he had to: ‘she’ll be fine,’ ‘she’s in good hands,’ and ‘it’s probably nothing.’

Sitting on a cold, hard bench, in a large waiting room with people he could only hope weren't in the same position as him, Kento couldn't sleep. Instead, he listened to the incessant ticking of the clock, the dull thrumming of the TV in the corner, and the monotone voices of nurses talking among themselves.

He wasn’t in the room when your baby was finally out, missing out on her first cry, on watching that instant connection you talk about form, on being able to thank you.

They only beckoned him in with relieved smiles some time later. Finally, he could see you, could hold you, tell you how amazing you are. And he did. He held the baby too, small, beautiful, unable to even open her eyes, but had a great set of lungs on her, just like her mother.

“Oh, sweetheart. She looks just like you,” he breathed out.

You didn’t reply, couldn’t look at him, couldn’t smile. You simply held his hand and gave him a reassuring squeeze. The feeling of your cold, clammy hand weak and quivering like you were holding onto a thin rope just so you could say goodbye will forever haunt him.

"Sweetheart? What's wrong, love?" He turned to the nurses, tried to meet their eyes. "What's happening to my wife?"

The events after that were hectic and Kento, try as he might, couldn’t piece together what happened. Rapid beating and beeping, sudden shouts, baby taken away, and he was pushed out of the room. The last glimpse he had of his wife, the last glimpse he thought he would have forever, was of her spasming on the bed, surrounded by strangers in masks and stained robes.

Alone.

Terrified.

Failed by her husband.

Never again, Kento swore. Never again will he put you through that, the pain, the suffering, the fear. He’ll never drive you to the edge of life and allow you to teeter on your own. If it’ll be anyone, it’ll be him. It has to be.

You survived this time and he’ll do everything in his power to make sure there isn’t a next time — he’s not sure he could step up and be the father your baby needs without you.

His hand still shakes.

In his sleep, at his absolute worst, he hears your screams, holds your limp body, and grieves your presence. He's ashamed to admit he couldn't pick his baby up for days after, that he had let dark circles grow, allowed darker thoughts to permeate his mind, consuming him.

How could he possibly look in his little girl's eyes and know she almost lost her mother? That in a split second, everything you two built together could have burned down in front of him? That when it mattered most, he was powerless as a man, as a husband, and as a father?

"You've been washing the same plate for five minutes, Ken. I think you need more sleep," you said, hugging him from behind.

He had wandered into his mind again, running on autopilot as he washed the dishes. Clearing his throat, he forced a smoothness into his voice. "Yes, you're probably right."

"Are you still thinking about going to the doctors?"

"Yes."

You sighed. "I'll be okay, Kento. You don't need to do that. We're going to be fine. Let's just live as we always did and let the universe take us where we need to."

Wet hands clutched your dry ones. There was a firmness to them, unyielding and tight. When he spoke, his tone commanded attention, rendering you as silent as the baby sleeping in her crib. He didn't turn around, likely couldn't, for he knew if he did, his resolve might just crumble.

"I won't leave your life in the hands of anyone else. I refuse. Your life holds more value to me than my own and I will not spend it so carelessly, leaving it in the hands of the universe or God or whomever else. I can't see you go through...that again. I can't. I w-wouldn't survive it. And I know you want more children because you think that's what I want, but sweetheart, I need you. I need you. You may never understand what I mean and that's alright. The life we have is good. It's perfect. I can't risk it. I won't. So, I'm sorry but I don't think there's anything you can say to change my mind."

Pressing a kiss in between his shoulder blades, you said, "I know."

Unending, your patience is commendable — you don't grouch when he wakes you up in the middle of the night just to make sure you’re still breathing or get irritated when he insists on carrying the heavy lifting around the house.

He took off more time out of work, desiring nothing more than staying at home so he can keep you fed, can take care of the baby whilst you catch up on sleep, and help you shower on unsteady legs.

Every moment, every kiss on his knuckles, every brush of your hand on his cheek, every admission of love bears a thousand times more weight now. The persistent crying in the middle of the night, the mess, the diaper-changes, the vomit on his clothes don't frustrate him; they're a mark of what you and him had fought so hard for.

This is the family he’s always wanted. The family he must protect.

And damn it all if he lets it, you, slip away.

So, he says, calmly and with the most certainty anyone can muster, “Yes, I’m sure.”

Jello! Had some time to make this since my exam was pushed later. Sorry for yet another angsty piece, I just couldn't get the idea out of my head. It's very rushed, as I'm sure you can tell. I think I'm a little out of practice cause it's been almost a week since I last wrote something

Well anyways, this is just a snack to keep you guys fed whilst you wait for me on the other side

Blessing and good tidings y'all

#jjk fluff #jjk angst #nanami angst #nanami fluff #jjk x reader #jjk oneshot #jjk x you #jjk drabble #nanami x reader #Nanami Kento #nanami x you #nanami drabble #nanami oneshot #jujutsu kaisen nanami #jujutsu kaisen fluff #jujutsu kaisen drabble #jujutsu kaisen fic

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yintous · 2 days ago

Text

💭 thinking about waking up next to the batboys in the morning ｡｡｡ [masterlist]

notes. not proofread, more content under the cut, lowk cheesy, written in second pov, the only thing my writer’s block allowed me to finish 😭

Night and morning, DICK GRAYSON is all over you, his acts devoid of shame. His hair, his limbs, his everything, are wrapped against you. He is shamelessly generous with his physical affection and gives you his utmost attention, asleep or awake.

His subconscious refuses to let you get away from him, ever.

Waking him up is surprisingly easy because one move away from him results in his leg wrapping even tighter around your hips while a subtle whine falls from his lips. He would only let you go if you told him you needed to pee.

However, that does not mean his patience would magically grow. No, he will stand outside the bathroom door, so he would be able to droop his figure over you again once you were done with your business.

Once the sun rises and the curtains radiate a light that makes your eyes squint in retaliation, it will be the same— an endless cycle of his displayed devotion and adoration for you. As long as the pair of hands that are waking him up is yours, DICK'S smile will effortlessly ghost upon his lips before he kisses you; a morning without a kiss, he insists, is a form of torture.

Plus, the smell of your shampoo and the soothing note of your voice are enough to convince him that he is still asleep, helplessly indulging in a sweet dream; he is just a weak man, at least for you, who is he to deny such a glorious opportunity?

JASON TODD, like his older brother, is easy to wake up. A whisper or a slight movement is enough to make his eyes open involuntarily; it’s likely muscle memory.

Unbeknownst to him, he slightly drools in his sleep, leaving a dry trail on his cheek by the time he wakes up, right next to one of the scars on his face.

The confused and slightly dazed expression on his face is as endearing as it is absurd. Despite spending many mornings with you, his brain sometimes struggles to register that you are truly his.

Just as your hand caresses his cheek, he instinctively hovers his palm over yours, momentarily thinking of you as a potential threat. But then the sight of you softens him; his thumb gently brushes against your hand, and his lips press to your palm.

Normalcy can be elusive for him—he is acutely aware of that. Yet cooking breakfast with you, combined with your irresistible smile, makes him feel like an ordinary man. With you by his side, the day suddenly doesn’t seem so dreadful to seize.

Waking up next to TIM DRAKE doesn’t always mean waking up on a soft mattress, especially if you indulge in his tendency to nap anywhere at any hour. There are numerous places you might find yourself waking up: a mattress, a couch, the stools near the counters, or even on a random rooftop.

The one constant, however, is the sight of your boyfriend actively trying to pull you closer in his sleep, even when you’re already as close as you could be. His subconscious leads him to hold you as tightly as possible—one might think he’s having a nightmare.

But no, he simply enjoys holding you.

Waking him up feels like pulling teeth. He is definitely not the type to rise early and make breakfast with you; he is the complete opposite of a morning person. Without hesitation, he will drag you back into bed when you attempt to get up, eager for a few more moments of rest with you.

If you persist in waking him up, he may reluctantly comply—on the condition that his fingers can thread through your hair while you shower him with kisses on his face. In those moments, mornings don’t seem so bad to him, and he will consume your love for breakfast.

DUKE THOMAS wakes you up with morning kisses. He makes it his mission to rise before you, the early morning light casting a warm glow in the room, ensuring that your day begins wrapped in the love that flows so effortlessly from his heart.

His love is a rare treasure, so pure that it's the kind of longing poets can only dream of capturing in their sonnets.

He mutters your name with utmost care, as if it's a sacred incantation, kneading away the tension in your muscles with the hands of a delicate lover; a gentle touch enchanted with an intimacy that speaks of years shared.

It isn't long before the tantalizing aroma of breakfast wafts through the air, drawing your attention to the small tray perched on the bedside table.

Your heart swells as you take in the sight—each item perfectly arranged, your favorite breakfast lovingly prepared with attention to every little detail. From the fluffy pancakes dusted with powdered sugar to the perfectly brewed coffee, it’s clear that DUKE has poured his heart into every aspect of this morning ritual, just as he pours his heart into your life.

Each meal together is another chapter in your love story, written one delicious bite at a time.

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leechqnsgirl · 2 days ago

Text

ᓚᘏᗢ your lips, my lips, apocalypse

notes: based off of this ask | can be read as a part 2 to this

-- niki comes home drunk one night. drunk and desperately horny. or in other words, your first time making him cry out for you.

18+ | niki x fem!reader | wc: 1.7k | smut, mini fluff/crack at the end | masterlist

warnings: language, jake makes a small appearance, niki's drunk and kinda subby??, kissing/making out, use of good boy, piv, overstimulation

****

your boyfriend was out with his friends the whole day.

he had let you know a few days earlier about the planned celebration that they would be having. so when the day came, you didn't mind his absence.

but you couldn't help but get a bit worried. it was nearly eleven pm and he still wasn't home.

you shot him a text.

no response.

was his phone dead? did he not have it on him? you had no idea.

you had just finished your night routine, sitting down on the couch with some snacks to watch a movie as you waited for niki.

twenty minutes into the movie you heard harsh knocks at your door.

"what the hell?" you muttered, standing up to peek through your peephole.

it was niki. and he was...hanging off of jake's shoulders?

you opened the door and jake was just about ready to throw niki at you.

"god, take him." he huffed out.

you giggled as you pulled niki into your apartment by his jacket.

"good luck, he's a mess. all fucking night we've had to hear about how much he misses you and shit." jake rolled his eyes, "never allow him to drink freely again. please." jake pleaded with the most tired expression and tone one could have.

you nodded, "okay...let me get him inside."

after you locked the door, and niki was practically falling over trying to get his shoes off, you took him over to the bathroom.

"okay, honey, take a shower and i'll be right outside waiting for you."

he was sitting on the toilet seat, staring at you as you placed his clean clothes on the sink for him to wear after his shower. he groaned and shook his head.

"c'mere." he said in a quiet voice.

you made your way over until you were standing right in front of him.

he pulled you into him for a hug, his hands wrapped tightly around your back as his face was resting right in your chest.

he breathed out contently. you brought a hand over to rest on his head.

you felt flustered, a bit shy even. your boyfriend wasn't usually this clingy or affectionate. he preferred to show his love for you in other ways.

you felt him press a kiss against you through your thin sleep shirt, "mm...I missed you." you smiled to yourself, one hand still in his hair and the other rubbed circles on his back.

"I missed how you care for me.." he turned his head, so now his cheek was resting on your chest instead of his forehead.

when you looked down at him, you could see his eyes were glossed over. he seemed like he was silently pleading for something.

"what's wrong?" you asked, the hand that was in his hair traveled down to his jaw, pulling his face away from you.

his eyes were everywhere but looking at yours.

"riki..." you urged gently. soon enough his eyes met yours. he sighed through his nose softly.

"I..." you knew he was drunk, so you gave him his time to speak. "ineedyoureallybad." he hastily whispered in one breath.

you chuckled, "niki, what?"

he dropped his head, rubbing his face with his hands. "I didn't just, like, miss you. okay? i-i missed you."

you hummed, understanding what he meant now.

"so..you're horny is what you're trying to say..?" he nodded his head.

"can we go to your room?"

he gave you no chance to breathe once you made it to the room, he pushed you down onto the bed and went straight for your lips.

he took one of your hands, still kissing you, and brought it down to the front of his jeans.

he wanted you to feel what you do to him.

he broke away for just a second, eyes darting all across your face, "fuck, I can't wait." he gave you one more kiss before pushing back to take off his clothes.

fully naked, he moves to your body now, taking off your clothes. starting with your shirt, slowly at first before getting impatient and eventually tugging down your pants and panties.

he ducks his head down to your tits, sucking on one while his hand gropes and tweaks the other.

you moaned out, arching your back. he switched his mouth to the other side, you put one hand into his hair, tugging at it.

soon enough he pulls away, dragging a hand down to your cunt.

he rubs your clit gently at first, his hand shaking a bit.

he puts that hand on your thigh now, muttering something under his breath.

"w-what?" you asked breathlessly.

"said I needa taste you, sweetie." he brought his head between your legs, both arms hooked around your thighs.

he wastes no time, sucking your clit harshly. your hand, yet again, finds its way to his hair. moaning when you would occasionally pull his hair.

"f-fuck, niki, hold on-" he cut you off by sticking two fingers into your pussy.

"mm, no." he said quickly, going back to making out with your cunt.

you could feel your orgasm building up, but you didn't want to cum. not yet, at least.

"fuck! niki, baby, please," he finally lifted his head, meeting your heavy eyes.

wordlessly, he stood on his knees, lining himself up with your hole.

he had one hand beside your head, and one on his cock, leaning down to whisper into your ear, "all day..." he pushed his tip into you.

"the whole time i'm out with the boys, I couldn't stop thinking about your sweet fucking pussy, baby." he was halfway in now.

"popped a fucking boner in the middle of the bar 'cause of you." he groaned when he bottomed out, "y-you know how I am, don't you? you know I can't last a few fucking hours without my girl." your nails dug into his back.

he trailed rough kisses on your neck when he started thrusting into you.

"t-tried to rub one out in the bathroom...but it didn't work. I felt like a fucking horny virgin, getting hard at the thought of my pretty girlfriend."

his words only egged you on, feeling yourself get closer. he started moaning, knowing he wouldn't last too long either.

he pulled out of you for a second, rubbing his tip against your clit. "w-why'd you stop?" he didn't answer you right away, catching his breath.

"can you ride me? fuck baby, please, i-i can't stop thinking about last time."

as soon as he said that, all the pieces connected in your head.

every time the two of you have had sex from that moment on, it always seemed like he wanted to ask something of you. like he was holding something back.

now you know what it is. and now you know that your boyfriend only has the confidence, or willingness, to tell you when he's drunk out of his mind.

you quickly switched position, sliding back down onto him now.

niki threw his head back, moaning loudly. it was like he didn't care anymore. and god, did you love that.

his hands were gripping your waist as you fell down and came back up on him.

continuing, you never let up, it wasn't until you felt a twitch in his legs that you knew he was getting close.

"I'm so close, so close." he whined out. "yeah? come on, baby, I'm c-close, too.” you moaned, pressing your lips against his.

even in the kiss he was whimpering and moaning.

who knew that niki, who's always so composed, would only need alcohol and your tight cunt around him to be so loose.

you did your best to move your hips faster, feeling like you're seconds away from your climax.

he gave your ass a light spank, groping the area of it afterwards. felt yourself cum, relief washing over your whole body as your hips came to a slow stop.

niki came at the same time you did, his orgasm hitting him hard.

you were about to move off of him when he suddenly held you down by your hips.

"j-just a little more, o-okay?" he sounded like he was convincing himself more than you.

you furrowed your brows, "baby, you don't wanna at least take a break?" he shook his head, "p-please?" he stuttered out, "you just feel too good baby," he raises your hips up a bit now, thrusting upwards.

you gasp, you didn't actually think he would start again.

he's moaning the whole time, loudly too.

you still couldn't believe that this was your boyfriend, your niki. he never showed himself to you like this.

barely a few minutes passed when he dug his face into your neck, spewing out nonsense into your ears. half of it you're hearing and the other half you can't hear over the pleasurable pain of your own overstimulation.

"fuck, you're so warm baby. I can't," he nearly sobbed out. "I love you, s-so much, f-fuck!" he groaned, his hands having a bruising and unmoving grip on your hips.

your heart warmed, "oh, baby, I love you too." your nails were running up and down his back, "are you gonna cum now? hm? you wanna be my good boy and cum?"

and that's what made him shoot his sticky load right inside you, both of you moaning and whimpering at the feeling of your second climax.

he dropped on his back, pulling you down to lay atop him.

it was niki's alarm that woke him up.

he reached for his phone to turn it off and put his head back on the pillow, he threw an arm at the opposite side of the bed, seemingly searching for the warmth of your body.

but, you weren't there?

he opened his eyes a bit, scratching his head as he sat up.

"y/n?" he called out, voice still deep with sleep.

you walked back into the room, a glass of water in your hand.

"morning, ki." you said quietly, unsure how bad his hangover headache is. "come on, be a good boy and drink up, okay?" you said, biting back a smile.

he looked at you confused at first, before he widened his eyes. "shut up." he grumbled, covering his face. but that did nothing for him as you could see the tips of his ears turn a shade of red.

"come on! take a joke." you laughed, pushing his shoulder lightly before placing a kiss to the crown of his head.

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paarksunghoon · 2 days ago

Text

resignation (6)

SUMMARY: For the last six years, you’ve dedicated your career to ensuring Park Sunghoon never misses a day of work in his life. But you’re tired of endless days that seem to blend together, and seeing him living his fun, luxurious lifestyle makes you think about what else you might be missing out on. When Sunghoon finds your resignation letter on his desk, he does everything in his power to convince you to stay.

NOTES: life comes at ya fast…updates will come as I have more inspo and time to write. :) this is unedited

WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER: cunnilingus, slight coercion (but is it really if she wants it?).

SERIES PLAYLIST + SERIES MASTERLIST

***

Midweek comes around slower than you’d like and it feels as though your days are dragging on the more you try to tie up loose ends and review resumes of potential candidates.

Sunghoon has agreed to transfer some of the responsibilities onto the secretaries for the time being. They’ll be responsible for attending meetings in-office and other tasks that can be taken off of your plate as you focus on what’s at hand.

“Are you any closer to finding me a new assistant?”

He asks this at least once every few hours. He’ll do it when he hears you typing away on your keyboard or when you’ve neglected to hear him call you from the door. Sunghoon says it with a smile that looks too playful for your liking.

“Not any closer than I was since the last time you asked me.”

“Shame. But perfection takes time, doesn't it?”

You roll your eyes. “Come in and close the door, will you? It’s hot as shit outside and you’re letting all of my cold air out.”

“Maintenance is working on fixing the air conditioning in the main areas. My office isn’t as cold as yours, I’ll say that.”

“Maintenance likes me better.”

“Nuh uh.”

You look up from your monitor. “What are you, a child?”

“Maybe.” You roll your eyes again and focus back on your work. “Any candidates I should know about?”

“Are you asking me because you’re interested or because you’re bored?”

“Is there any difference?”

“Yes. You either care about who’s going to take over my position once I’m gone, or you enjoy watching me suffer by being in my presence.”

“The latter, actually. You’re cute when you’re angry at me.” You scowl at him. “See? Cute.”

“I’m not cute.”

“You say that, and yet you are.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re really cute, especially with my hand between your legs.” Your face grows hot and Sunghoon grins when he realizes he’s rendered you speechless.

“If you aren’t going to be of any help, might as well go back to your office and do your job.”

Sunghoon puts both hands up. “Alright, alright. I did come here with the intention of an update, though. Heeseung mentioned you’ve made some progress when I saw him earlier this morning.”

“Some. I’ve been getting hundreds and hundreds of applications, and it’s getting hard to sift through all of them.”

“What kind of things are you looking for?”

“Experience, mostly. Someone who meets half of these qualifications and won’t be an ass about it.”

“Got any contenders?”

“I haven’t met with anyone yet, so I can’t be so sure right now. I’m in correspondence with some to meet at the office next week for an initial interview before I decide.”

“How many interviews?”

“Three. One introduction, a second so they can see the office, and a third with you.”

“With me?”

You roll your eyes. “Yes, you. I need you to like your assistant.”

“The way I like you?”

You near your throat.

“I surely hope not.”

“You don’t have to worry about that. I just need an assistant who can handle the job and not complain about it too much.”

“That’s the goal.”

“Who are you meeting with next week?”

“Cho Miyeon’s coming on Monday morning and Kang Taehyun will be coming the same afternoon.”

“Yang Jungwon on Tuesday too, huh?” Sunghoon peers over your shoulder and stares at your calendar. “You’ve got a busy week.”

“I’m doing my best. My workload is being shared while I look for my replacement, so it’s not too bad. Don’t get any ideas and add things on my docket, though.”

“Well…”

You sigh. “Sunghoon, please. I’m trying to be diligent and do right by you, but you’re making me want to quit on the spot.”

“Hear me out at least, okay?”

Sunghoon sits on the edge of your desk and sees the top button of your blouse unbuttoned. It’s not enough for him to see your bra underneath, but his mouth runs dry thinking about it.

“It’s our turn to choose a restaurant for the next quarterly dinner party. As you know, it’s important because we as a company build internal connections and reward those who work under us with an all expenses paid meal.”

“Plus quarterly bonuses from the respective employers.”

He nods. “Yes, plus the bonuses. Anyway, I’ve booked a reservation at a highly rated Spanish place that serves tapas style for tonight. Cool, huh?”

“You cannot seriously expect me to drop my plans to work.”

“You don’t have plans.”

“Okay, fair point. But Pochi, Sunghoon. And I don’t want to work!”

“We won’t be out until late into the evening, if you’re worried about feeding her. We’ll leave the office early and I’ll have you home before nine. And you won’t be working. Not really.”

“Asking me to try food for a work event is considered work.”

“Just come with me, okay? If you like it, we’ll host the party there. If not, we try another one on the list.”

“What list?”

Sunghoon merely smiles but he doesn’t explain further. “Don’t worry about it. Get yourself hungry and we’ll leave at five.”

“You, leaving work at five…”

“Early, I know.” Sunghoon laughs. “So what do you say?”

“I say you want me to ignore all of my tasks and distract me with food. Why can’t you go with another assistant who actually gives a shit about this party?”

“Because I care about your opinion, not theirs.”

“I don’t have time to entertain this when it’s not on my immediate priority list. You can bring Jongseong to dinner, for all I care. He’ll appreciate that more than me.”

Before you know it, he’s on the floor and turning your chair to face him.

“Sunghoon!”

He situates himself between your legs and spreads them apart by pushing your knees away. His fingertips gently touch your skin and inch up the skirt you’re wearing, pushing the fabric up your thigh. Your resolve seems to crumble when you see him like this and look around hastily.

“W-What are you doing?”

Sunghoon doesn’t speak. He looks at you and smiles like he knows something you don’t.

“My window is open,” you say in a haste, trying to push his hands away from your legs.

Sunghoon merely laughs and leans down to press a kiss to the inside of your knee while maintaining eye contact. You sit frozen in your chair as you watch him stand, eyes trained on his semi-hard cock outlined in his trousers. He makes no fuss and faces the windows to close the blinds before turning back to look at you.

“Better?”

All you can do is nod. Sunghoon drinks you in with his eyes. His gaze starts at the bottom of your heels until you feel his stare drag up your body, locked in on the flesh of your collarbones until his eyes meet yours. It’s hard to keep eye contact with him when he’s looking at you like that, never mind the fact that the outline of his dick is practically at eye level.

He brings his hand to his mouth and rubs his jaw, huffing something you can’t quite make out. He then resumes his positions on his knees and this time, you don’t complain when Sunghoon pries your legs apart.

“Can I try to convince you?” he asks in a sultry tone. His voice might as well be made of soft velvet and you find yourself nodding. “Yeah? Can I have my way with you right here?”

Sunghoon has his answer when you widen your legs before him and parts his mouth like he’s in awe. He observed the way your skirt rides up your thighs even more, then shifts his gaze to your covered cunt. Sunghoon looks like he might as well be high; his gaze is hyper focused between your legs and his well you panties mold to the shape of your cunt.

His bottom lip becomes wet with his saliva and you’re almost positive that Sunghoon would start drooling the longer he looks at you. His hands delicately hold your ankles in place when you brush your thumb against the corner of your mouth.

“You’re drooling.” Sunghoon looks up at you.

“I can’t help it,” he says, kissing the pad of your thumb. “You’re so perfect down here.”

Your cheeks flush for the umpteenth time. Sunghoon’s hands move from your ankles to gently caress the outer skin of your calves before he brings one hand to push your skirt until it sits just below your waist. You lift your hips to help him and settle back down in your chair at a steep slouch.

Sunghoon holds you there and you feel as if you’re being presented on a platter. Still unused to being like this in front of him, you resist the urge to close your legs to prevent yourself from being even more flushed than you already are. He pushes his face between your legs and gives one, long kiss to your covered slit.

“So perfect.” Sunghoon mumbles against you, and you suck in a quick breath. He sticks his tongue out to taste the wet slick soaking from the fabric. “That’s really good.”

Never in a million years would you have ever guessed how good Sunghoon looks on his knees. He’s brash and confident, proud and stoic. The ease in which Sunghoon fell to his knees knowing he’d see what you hide between your legs makes you feel like you’re on top of the world. Sunghoon, who stands down for no one, kneels on his knees for you.

He pulls your body down and brings his tongue all over your covered cunt. The surface of his tongue makes you clench against him and buck your hips. Sunghoon chases after it, pushing against you harder than merely grazing like he was previously. He licks a confident stripe and laps at your panties like a kitten drinking milk.

His ginormous hands and caresses your outer thigh like he’s trying to make you relaxed and unashamed of the pleasure he wants to give you. You’re reminiscent of how you felt the morning Sunghoon’s hands were on you for the first time—nervous, excited, and extremely horny.

When Sunghoon pulls your panties to the side to reveal your lap to him, he groans and his warm breath makes a shove run down your spine. He admires the way your pussy clenches in front of him and kisses your naked slit like he’s trying to reassure you.

“Relax, love. It’s just me.”

“Kind of hard to relax.”

“Why?” Sunghoon kisses your slit once more and you sigh in contentment.

“I’m not used to people looking at me like this.”

He looks up. “Get used to me between your legs.”

When you deal with Sunghoon’s demands during working hours, you’re a force to be reckoned with. He’s stubborn and loves to fight back until you frustratingly give up or until you’ve backed him into a corner. You’re used to his hotheaded tendencies and never back down if you can help it.

But Sunghoon’s hands keep you locked before him so gently that it makes you think you’ve got nothing to worry about. His fingers caress your skin in a way that makes you tingle with excitement and lust, and it’s been a while since you’ve felt this way about anyone.

He can feel your body respond to him when you loosen the tightness in your hips and let your legs fall beside him. Sunghoon’s mouth kisses your outer lips and avoids your clit, but the feeling is all the same when you haven’t been in this position in years. He takes his time, moving his plush and moistened lips across your skin like he’s mapping out every inch of you.

Sunghoon’s head moves to your inner thigh and his hair brushes your skin. His eyes remained closed as if to savor the taste of your body. You can’t seem to look at anything but him like you’re afraid he’ll disappear if you close your eyes and allow yourself to lose yourself in his touch.

Feeling so exposed is out of your comfort zone. You feel completely naked in front of him despite wearing a blouse and a skirt, technically. The sheer act of intimacy, even if Sunghoon walks away from you forever after he’s done kissing you between your legs, still feels like more than a mere hookup like your previous experiences.

Sunghoon is still fully dressed and you wonder if he’s as hard as he was before kneeling. Your mind races when he switches legs and kisses all the way to the inner portion of your knee, dabbing gentle pecks that makes your heart race much faster than you would’ve ever anticipated.

He must know by now you’re as inexperienced as a woman your age could be. It’s never for the lack of trying; men leave you disappointed and the pool of new lovers falls short when you aren’t the type of person to lose yourself in strangers who will never love you back. Sunghoon touches you like he’s more than somebody you’ve worked with for the last six years. It scares and excites you all at once.

His breath ghosts over your cunt before he sticks his tongue out to lick a fat stripe. It feels like the entire surface of his tongue covers the entirety without a single inch being undiscovered by his mouth, and the sensation makes your toes curl in your heels. It’s enough to make your back arch slightly. Sunghoon watches you and puts both of his hands at the side of your hips to keep you steady before him.

Sunghoon takes his time and doesn’t rush it like you think he will. He sounded so desperate to get you to agree to come with him to dinner tonight. You were sure he’d get on both hands and knees like a dog to beckon you to come. The sense of urgency seems to have been tossed out the window when he closed the blinds. Despite being in your office and hearing faint sounds of the copy printed from outside the doors, you feel like it’s just the two of you existing in the same space.

His tongue moves up and down your slit slowly. Sunghoon’s eyelashes are long and dark, fluttering against his cheek with every pass. You wonder if this is what he looks like when you’re kissing him. It’s unfair how sexy he looks when his tongue is coated in your slick and when he’s sighing against your pussy like this is a meal that has finally satisfied his craving.

“You’re so wet,” he murmurs against you the second he pushes his tongue past your folds. The vibrations continue to add to your pleasure and you buck your hips against his face.

“S-Stop talking.”

He chuckles. “I think you like it when I talk to you like this.”

You shake your head stubbornly. Sunghoon hums like he doesn’t believe you. His fingers dig into your hips to pull you closer to his face instantly, latching onto your cunt with the urgency you anticipated beforehand. He shoves his tongue deep inside of you to the point where you grip the handles of your chair until your knuckles feel sore. Your palms have grown sweaty and you fear you’re losing your grip on both the chair and your sanity.

He looks up at you before taking one hand and putting it in his hair. It’s like a foreign instinct takes over. Your hand grips his hair until you’re holding his head in place. His eyes flicker back to yours before focusing on lapping up your wetness, no doubt coating the lower half of his face in it.

There’s no real method he’s adhering to. It’s messy and growing louder by the second with his saliva mixing in with your juices. Sunghoon slurps you up like he’s trying to taste all of you at once and flexes his jaw to accommodate shoving his tongue inside of your folds and thrusting.

Your legs eventually wrap around his shoulders and Sunghoon can feel your heel digging into his suit jacket. He doesn’t mind. You’re sure this encourages him to fuck you like this harder because his tongue moves in circles inside of you when your thighs keep his head locked in place. His dark brown eyes open to look right at you and the moans you’ve been holding in escape.

Sunghoon moans against you too. Your whimpers and short breath sent the blood straight to his cock, but he knows this isn’t the time nor the place to make you moan the way he wants you to. He’ll take what he can get, but that single, deep moan that came from his tongue bouncing over your clit makes him think it would be worth it for everybody to hear you come.

He looks so good with your thighs suffocating his face. Sunghoon doesn’t complain, he just puts his hands on your thighs and squeezes you to keep them there. Your hips start to chase his mouth when you feel your orgasm building and when Sunghoon sees your chest heaving off of the chair, he keeps his steady position and flicks his tongue across your swollen bud.

You don’t even realize your hips are rolling against his mouth until you come against Sunghoon’s tongue. He doesn’t give you a second to breathe as he laps it up, opening his mouth as best as he can with your legs still wrapped around his face. He moans when he tastes all you have to offer and bucks his hips to grind against the tightness of his slacks when he sees your eyes wired shut and mouth gaping.

The grip on his hair loosens when your body relaxes and so does the grip on your legs. Your breath feels much heavier than before and when you open your eyes, Sunghoon’s looking at you with a drunken smile on his face. Your cheeks instantly heat up and you try to pry your legs back down, but he keeps you steady there and moves his head to kiss you on each thigh.

“You look so pretty when you come.”

“S-Sunghoon…”

“Yeah, love?”

You blush harder. “You’re just…”

“I’m just what?”

You avoid eye contact. “You looked really hot.”

He laughs and you feel his eyes still staring at you. Sunghoon lets go of your legs and helps settle them back down on the ground before pushing your panties back in its proper place. He wipes his chin with the back of his hand and sits on the back of his knees to help you regain balance and sit upright in your chair as you fix your skirt in an attempt to look decent.

“You did so well for me,” he says, pushing upwards to kiss you. Your taste lingers on his lips. Sunghoon braces himself on your thighs and his palms feel comforting.

“I-I can’t believe I let you do that in my office.”

“Such a rebel, hm?” Sunghoon chuckles between kisses before pulling back to look at you. “Did that convince you to come with me tonight?”

You nod shyly. “I don’t want you to think I’m the type of girl who can be bribed by sex, though.”

“I don’t think that of you. Matter of fact, I know I had you reeled in when I told you I’d take care of the details.”

“Hmph.”

“I ate you out because I wanted to.”

Sunghoon kisses you again before standing up. The sheer size of it makes your mouth water and you see the small, wet stain left by his precum. He watches you with fascination and watches your hand reach out with hesitation, pulling back before you’ll do something you might regret.

He doesn’t force you to touch him, nor does he ask you to do anything in return. You watch him with hooded eyes and the sight of you looking up at him while he stands will fuel his dreams for days to come.

“You’re hard.”

“That I am.”

“All that from eating me out?”

He laughs. “You underestimate how much I’m attracted to you.”

Your eyes flicker up. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. So much that I ate your cute little pussy in your office.”

You swat the side of his thigh and look away from him. “I…My pussy isn’t cute.”

“So cute and so tight. Felt it with my fingers and I felt it again with my tongue. Can’t help but wonder what it’ll feel like with my dick.”

“Sunghoon!”

“Too soon?” The blush on your face gives your desire away, but he laughs and backs off.

“I have a pair of fresh slacks in my office. Let’s finish the rest of today and then we’ll head over for dinner, yeah?”

You raise your eyebrow. “You’re gonna walk out of my office while you’re hard?”

“It’s like, two inches from yours.”

“People could see.”

“Aw, are you worried about me?”

You huff. “Let people see how hard you get for me, for all I care.”

Sunghoon smirks. “Atta girl. I think I just might.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“Just how you like me to be.”

You don’t argue with him. You both know he’s right. He eventually makes his way to the front door and is about to leave before he comes back around your desk. Sunghoon takes you by surprise and leans down to kiss your lips once more before wordlessly exiting your office.

It takes a great deal of strength to stand up and open the blinds.

***

taglist 1: @i58ssj @motherscrustytoenailclippings @immelissaaa @sunnyjayjays @skzenhalove @tobiosbbyghorl @babystrlla @sagegreenhairclip @doririsstuff @second-floors @sievenderz @favoritten @kiikiisblog @ynzyy @jessicaradreamer @questionsdearreader @leeymws @wonislife17 @semi-wife @synamon @letwiiparkjay @spicxbnny @bbinwrld @25dejulho @globaloppaaa @1-800-peakyblinders @heesunghooney @ambi01 @simpforskz143148 @shaysimpss @steddie-steddie @ning2lover @fairystudio @yujinxue @dearmyfavoritepeople-bts @in-somnias-world @mellowgalaxystrawberry @1ckyw1ckyyyyy @kgneptun @ithinkulikeme @kristynaaah @jessxxxfwd @lovingjongseong @intoomanyfandom-s @jeoncarla008 @just1moodz.

please adjust your settings if I couldn’t tag you!

#enhypen x reader #sunghoon x reader #park sunghoon x reader #enhypen smut #sunghoon smut #enha x reader #kpop x reader #park sunghoon fanfiction #park sunghoon fluff #sunghoon fluff #sunghoon angst #kpop fanfiction #kpop fanfic #sunghoon #fic: resignation #my writing*

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littlegochu · 2 days ago

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backstage │ jjk 18+

“they cheer for me. she bleeds for me."

pairing: jeon jungkook x reader (f)

genre: idol jungkook, cold female lead

rating: 18+, smut

synopsis: on stage, jungkook is untouchable — perfect voice, perfect moves, perfect mask.

but backstage, when the lights go down and the cameras disappear, he’s a different kind of wreck. obsessive. quiet. desperate to keep the one person who knows how to hold him when the world won’t stop watching.

you weren’t supposed to show up tonight. but you did. and now he’s not letting you leave.

he finds you before you can even knock.

drenched in sweat, chest still rising and falling from the performance, mic earpiece half-off, black hair sticking to his forehead.

he doesn't say hi. doesn't smile.

“why are you back here,” jungkook mutters, wiping his face with a towel. his voice is rough from shouting lyrics and running the stage like it owed him something.

you arch a brow. “hi to you too.”

he glances around. no one’s in the hallway. yet. “you weren’t supposed to come tonight.”

“well, i missed you.”

he scoffs under his breath, turning toward the dressing room.

but he doesn’t tell you to leave.

you follow him in. the room smells like hairspray and heat and too many bodies moving fast. it’s quiet now, just the two of you.

he drops the towel on the couch and rips off his stage jacket with a sharp tug.

“you shouldn’t be here,” he mutters again, not looking at you. “you know how it is.”

“you’re mad i came?”

“i’m not mad.”

“you look mad.”

“i’m not.”

“you’re pouting.”

he turns sharply. “i’m not fucking pouting.”

you smirk, taking a step closer. “you get all cold when you miss me.”

he opens his mouth to argue, but doesn’t.

instead, he just stares at you. and his eyes — god, his eyes. they’re always a little mean when he’s soft.

you take another step. reach out. run your fingers along the hem of his shirt, right where it clings to his waist.

he tenses.

“you’re all sweaty,” you whisper.

he swallows hard.

“so?”

“so,” you murmur, looking up at him, “you gonna kick me out or kiss me?”

his jaw tightens. “people are outside.”

“so lock the door.”

he hesitates. then moves.

you barely register the sound of the door clicking shut before he’s on you — fast, urgent, rougher than he means to be. his hand grips your waist, the other sliding into your hair, and his mouth is hot and desperate against yours.

you kiss him back just as hard.

he pulls away only for a breath, forehead resting against yours.

“i’m not soft,” he mutters, breath ragged.

you smile. “i know.”

he kisses you again.

but softer this time.

his lips press to yours like he’s trying to prove something — not to you, but to himself. that he can take his time. that he’s not as desperate as he feels.

but then your hands slide under his shirt. nails graze his stomach, slow and innocent.

he flinches.

and you smirk against his mouth. “you’re so jumpy.”

“shut up.”

“didn’t say anything.”

“you’re thinking it.”

“you don’t know what i’m thinking.”

he pulls back just slightly, eyes narrow.

“you’re being a fucking brat again.”

you blink up at him, feigning wide-eyed sweetness. “who, me?”

his jaw clenches. “you do this every time.”

“do what?”

“push.”

you tilt your head, mouth brushing his jaw.

“what are you gonna do about it?”

his hand tightens at your waist. “don’t start.”

“too late.”

you tug his shirt up, just enough to expose the cut of his abs. then slide your hand across his skin like it’s casual. like he’s not already trying not to lose it.

“you’re burning up,” you say quietly.

“i just performed for two hours.”

“still. you could use a cool down.”

his eyes flick to yours, and his tone dips — low and dangerous.

“you think you’re funny.”

you grin. “no. i think i’m right.”

you press your thigh between his legs, slowly — lightly — just enough for him to feel the friction.

his breath catches.

for a second, he doesn’t move.

then his hand snaps to your throat — not tight, not rough, just enough pressure to make your smirk freeze.

he leans in.

“if you keep pushing,” he mutters, “you’re not walking out of here without shaking.”

your breath hitches.

“maybe i want to push.”

“of course you do,” he says, smirking now.

you glance down at where he’s hard against your leg, pressed tight through his sweats.

he walks you backward until your back hits the vanity counter. the mirror behind you rattles. “keep talking.”

you don’t flinch.

his hands trail down, finding the edge of your skirt — dragging it up, slow. his fingers skim your thighs. deliberate. teasing.

you kiss him again, biting at his bottom lip, smug and sharp.

he groans low. “you’re gonna regret that.”

“promise?”

he turns you around with one quick motion, bends you slightly over the counter. your cheek presses to the cool surface. his hand slides up your back to keep you there.

“you don’t listen,” he mutters, voice tight.

“nope.”

his fingers slip under your panties — just two at first. enough to draw a gasp from your lips. enough to make you arch back into him.

“such a mouth on you,” he breathes. “but you’re already soaking.”

you glare at him in the mirror. “shut up.”

he smirks.

“make me.”

his hand slides up your back, pressing between your shoulder blades just enough to hold you down as he kicks the back of your knee gently.

“get on the couch,” he mutters.

you turn your head, smirking even with your breath caught in your throat. “you’re bossy when you’re turned on.”

he leans down until his lips graze your ear. “you're always running your mouth.”

you roll your eyes, but obey. you sink into the couch cushions, your skirt already discarded, the air cool on your thighs. jungkook kneels between your legs without a word, dragging them open with both hands.

his eyes drop to your panties — pale pink, lace, already damp and clinging to your skin.

he exhales slowly through his nose, like he’s trying not to lose it all at once.

“so dramatic,” you say, just to push him.

his gaze flicks up. “you think this is funny?”

“a little.”

he hooks two fingers into the waistband and slides the fabric down in one slow motion, eyes never leaving yours.

“you talk a lot for someone about to beg.”

“you think i’m gonna beg?”

he leans in, close enough for his breath to hit you, warm and deliberate.

“you always do.”

you shoot him a glare, but it dies the second his mouth touches your thigh. not rushed — slow, reverent, like he’s trying to memorize the taste of your skin.

you try not to squirm, but he notices. of course he does.

“nervous?”

“bored.”

his lips twitch. “then shut up and be quiet.”

he dips his head lower and licks once — just once — through your folds. soft and slow and agonizing. you jolt, sucking in a breath. his hands slide under your thighs, pulling them over his shoulders.

you try to snap back, but your voice breaks. “you’re—taking your time.”

“yeah,” he mutters, breath hot against your skin. “i am.”

he licks again — longer this time. his tongue flattens against your clit, then drags down, curling back up. his grip tightens when you twitch under him.

you gasp, hand flying to his hair. “fuck—jungkook—”

“what?”

“don’t stop.”

he groans into you like you taste better than anything he’s had all night. he spreads you wider, then kisses you messily — tongue deep, slow circles, sucking until you’re panting, back arching into the couch.

you glance down and see it — one of his hands palming his cock through his sweats, slow and lazy, like your moans are getting him off just fine.

“seriously?” you breathe, flushed. “you’re getting off to this?”

he smirks up at you. “you’re the one making a mess on my face.”

you open your mouth to bite back, but then he sucks hard on your clit and your thoughts vanish. he slides two fingers inside you, curling them deep, hitting that spot without hesitation.

your moans spill out helplessly.

“you’re clenching,” he mutters, voice rough. “you gonna come just from my mouth?”

“s-shut up—”

he fucks you with his fingers harder, faster, his mouth not letting up.

you fall apart once — then again — thighs trembling around his head, hands gripping the cushions like you’ll fall straight through them.

he doesn’t stop until you’re whining, writhing, trying to push his head back.

“too much—jungkook, please—”

he finally pulls away, his lips slick, chin wet, eyes dark.

“you always talk like you’re in charge,” he breathes, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “but you come every time i say so.”

you glare at him through your haze. “fuck you.”

he stands slowly. towers over you.

“yeah?” he says, pulling down the waistband of his sweats, cock already hard and leaking against his stomach. “that’s the plan.”

authors note: pls comment for suggestions and ur opinions on this story!

#jungkook #jungkook scenarios #bts jungkook #jungkook smut #jungkook ff #bts army #bts x reader #bts smut #bts fanfic #bts #jeon jungkook

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heartyluv · 3 days ago

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I love your writings of Zayne and Sylus! Can you do one of Zayne and Sylus (separately) where reader tells them that she thinks they should break up because she feels like she isn’t good enough for him so she needs to focus on herself, plus he’s been so busy, and they haven’t had time to be with each other for a while. Which leads up to this moment. Zayne and Sylus ofc get angry because they love reader so much and deny her request. No matter what they will always chose her and who is she to tell him how to feel. Kind of angsty, passionate, and deep yearning if you get what I’m saying. Thank you.🙇🏻‍♀️

Note: You guys are getting all the angst today LOLL. I had some extra time to actually get this done, especially since it didn’t need to be too long. I hope you enjoy, luvly! Thank you so much for being here.

Warning: You talk badly about yourself in this, but I’m here to tell you that all of you luvlys deserve nothing but the absolute best and nothing less. I luv you. 😚

Zayne

Zayne was worried when he got a text from you while he was at work during another one of his late night shifts. He hasn’t been able to be around you for long for the last couple of weeks because of being on call so often lately, so when you messaged him on your own accord for the first time in a while at almost one in the morning, all his focus was out the window. It was a good thing he was due to go home soon.

“Hey, Z. Sorry if you’re busy. Nothing’s wrong, but if you had time tomorrow, could I come by and we talk for a little bit? Love you.”

He wasn’t waiting until tomorrow. Especially when he tried to text and call you and you didn’t answer any attempt. And not when you texted him like that. No emojis, no babe, no lovebug, not even an I in saying that you love him. So when he finally was able to get out of the hospital, the first thing he did was drive to your home.

He doesn’t know about the mental turmoil you’ve been dealing with. He doesn’t know that it’s been going on long before he started getting really busy.

You’ve been feeling insecure about, well, everything. About you not feeling like you’re good enough for someone as talented, intelligent, and handsome as your boyfriend, feeling like he deserves someone who can match him in ways you believe you’re incapable of doing. The distance hasn’t helped, and all you could think of was all the pretty doctors and nurses that he’s around everyday, all the women he encounters on the daily who are undoubtedly just as enamored by him as you were when you first laid your eyes on him.

You tried to convince yourself that this was just you having a moment of weakness, that you simply missed him so much that your brain couldn’t help but try and pin something on you since you haven’t seen him in what feels like forever. It got so bad that you genuinely wondered if he was working overtime, longer than usual, just to get away from you.

Because you knew Zayne was never that cruel, you came to the conclusion that it was time to talk, to tell him that perhaps breaking up is good for the both of you so he doesn’t have to deal with you.

You were rehearsing all of what you hoped you could properly communicate in your bed, when you got a text.

“I’m outside. Please open the door.”

Your whole body froze. He wasn’t supposed to be here now. But you couldn’t just leave him out there, so you dragged yourself out of bed to get ready to tell him something you’d never be prepared enough to say.

His eyes were full of curiosity, confusion, and concern when you stood face to face. He was so worried that he didn’t even bother removing his coat or making himself comfortable. Instead, he just turned your light on so that he could see you properly.

“I got your text, yet you didn’t respond to me when I tried to message and call you back. You’ve worried me. Tell me, what’s wrong?”

You swallow, feeling the tears in your eyes burn as you tried to get yourself right to say what you needed to. But every time you looked into his worrying eyes, your heart cracked. For yourself and for the fact that even with the love in them, you couldn’t help but feel like you were undeserving of it.

“I think we need to break up, Zayne,” you rush out, shutting your eyes and breathing out as if you were being held underwater. No amount of tugging on your pajama sleeve was going to ease your nerves, so you resorted to your fingers, picking at the skin until it hurt.

Zayne hated that. He placed a large palm on both of your hands, looking down at them before he looked up at you.

“Is it something I’ve done wrong? Because of my recent increase in absence?” he studies you, trying to look for any of your ticks to try and see if you’ll lie.

“I just—” the tears fall loosely, rushing down your cheeks. Instead of piecing your thoughts together, they just start spilling out uncontrollably. “I just believe you deserve so much more than me, than what I offer you. I could never be what you need, what you deserve. You’re one of the youngest and most successful surgeons in the world, Zayne. You are so perfect that it makes me wonder how I was so lucky to be given someone like you. And because of that it’s best for me to just let you go so that you—“

“Stop,” he interrupts you. “You don’t get to tell me what I deserve when everything and all I’ve ever wanted, needed, is standing right in front of me, trying to leave.”

Your heart beats rapidly from the intense emotions and heavy stress you’ve weighed upon yourself.

“I could lose my job, lose everything I’ve ever earned in this life, and the only thing that would keep me going is you, do you understand that?” He reaches his hand up to cup your face. “But because you’ve come to me with this, it’s obvious that I’ve failed in making sure you know and understand how special you are to me. And it is my responsibility to instill that security in you and us, again.”

He leans forward, pressing his lips to yours. He shut all of that down before you had the chance to dig an unnecessary hole deeper, even if that uncertainly is still in the back of your mind.

“I will listen to your concerns and I will mend your heart, but I will not let you discredit or talk down on the only person I’ll only and will ever, love. Is that fair?”

You nod, unable to speak due to embarrassment, relief, and even because of that tinge of fear in your chest. “I’m sorry,” you only mumble.

“There’s no need to apologize to me. It’s my fault for letting these thoughts have the chance to stew in your pretty mind when I know that reassurance is one of the things that keeps us strong. We’re okay, my love. We always will be.”

Sylus

When you started ignoring Sylus’ text messages today, he tried to give you the benefit of the doubt. You had times where you forgot to even look at your phone, so he couldn’t fault you. His kitten, funnily enough, was still human. He was bothered that you had only spoken with him once this morning and it was almost five in the evening now.

Even then, he figured that since he’ll see you later, you can tell him what was so much more important than him while he teased you about it. But when you ignored his phone calls, he knew there was a problem.

You never missed a call from him because his ringtone was the song he had playing when he asked to be your boyfriend. It was a beautiful night on a luxurious rooftop restaurant that he rented for the night as a special way to romance you. It was unique and the song always had you smiling, floating to your phone when you went to pick up as that same dreamy memory replayed in your mind. So now that you’re not answering, his anger and concern began to mend together.

“She’s home?” Luke says with confusion when he gives Sylus your location. He had him find you after his first and only attempt to call you went to voicemail.

“Boss, did you do something?” Kieran asks, his tone laced with shock. You never got like this and the only thing he could think was that after almost three years together, you must’ve had your first real big fight that they were unaware of.

Prepared to debunk that theory, he suddenly got the text message that had him in front of your house faster than anything or anyone could comprehend.

“I’m breaking up with you, Sylus. I’m so sorry.”

Sylus angry was scary—because he didn’t look angry. He had the face that you could compare to a sleeping baby; calm, peaceful unbothered. But under the surface, he was one wrong sentence away from losing his shit.

Your door was thrown open, broken off the hinges when you ran into your living room. His head quirked to the side when he saw you. Puffy and eyes, runny nose, oversized clothing in a relatively warm house. He didn’t know what was wrong, but running from him? He wasn’t allowing it.

“It seems you’ve gotten my attention as you anticipated, sweetie.” He steps toward you, feeling his heart twist with concern as you look at everything but his eyes. “You ignore me, and I allow it all day. Yet to repay me for my generosity, my sweet kitten decides to push her luck and sends me nonsense.”

His playful attempt to control himself drops when he thinks of how prepared you were to just send him that message as if he would ever just accept such a thing. “There is nothing above me that I an incapable of fixing when it comes to keeping you happy. Talk to me. Tell me what needs to be done so that we can resolve it together like we’re supposed to.”

You taught Sylus what real communication was. In this moment, he’s thankful for it because he’s determined to use it to get rid of all your worries and concerns. He tilts your chin up when you refuse to look at him and that sends the waterworks rushing again.

Sylus has been so busy that this was the first night you would’ve seen him face to face in over a month. A part of the reason as to why you were driven to send him that message is because you felt like he was only ready to see you since you nagged him so much.

Even if you didn’t seem to understand that, it couldn’t be further away from the truth for the man looking down at you with determination. Being away from you was hard, but your safety meant more to him than anything. Being apart from you was necessary to ensure nothing ever touched a hair on your head while he handled things you didn’t need to concern yourself with.

Between him being gone and the type of charismatic man he is, you firmly believed that Sylus would inevitably find someone better. You became so dependent on him in a way that made you feel desperate. You felt that maybe you were way in over your head, that this separation was needed so that you could accurately reflect.

You believe that he should have someone secure in themselves, someone who could keep up with him. Someone that was better than you, someone more than you’d ever be.

“I’ve been thinking… And I believe that it’s good for the both us to separate. I didn’t intend to drop this on you, not like this. I just feel like I’m not worthy of you—that you’re a man that women would give nothing but the best to. All I want is for you to get the things that make you happy, not have you settling for something like me.”

You’re surprised that he actually let you finish.

He breathes out, shaking his head slightly. “For someone so smart, your mind must’ve worked tirelessly to convince you to believe something so ridiculous.”

His thumb runs along your bottom lip, staring at them before he looks into your eyes. “It insults me that you don’t think that I know what I want, that I know what I deserve. It insults me that you would belittle the only real thing I’ve ever had in my life, so boldly. It angers me, that I’ve not done my part to properly ensure that you know that you are the only person alive that I would destroy this planet and myself for.”

Your breath hitches when he pulls you closer. “If you ever believed for a second, that I’d let you simmer in this darkness, that I’d let you leave me, I need to do a better job in showing you the kind of man whose children you’ll carry.” He kisses your nose. “Whose ring you’ll bear.” Another kiss to your lips. “Whose heart you will always own.” A final one to your forehead.

“Sylus…” you whimper, feeling the emotions bubble inside you again, threatening to spillover. You want to believe that what you sent was a spark of simple insecurity. But you know it’s been inside you long enough for it to erupt the way it did.

It’s the fact that he would never even allow you to deal with any of this on your own that makes your tears spill.

“You don’t need to say anything, pretty.” He rubs the tears away, one by one as they come. “The only thing you need to tell me are ways we can make sure that this belief never plagues your mind again and how I can keep you confident in my love for you.”

He simply takes your hand, walking out of your apartment and makes a phone call to have your door repaired tonight because you’ll be staying with him until further notice.

“You’re stuck with me for life, kitten. Not even death could keep me from you. And I’m going to make sure that you always understand that.”

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader #love and deepspace sylus #love and deepspace zayne #zayne x you #zayne x reader #sylus x you #sylus x reader #lads sylus #lads zayne #love and deepspace angst

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txjis · 3 days ago

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cw: puppyboy , hybrids , sub!gojo

a/n: i don’t have a word count this was supposed to be 3 paragraphs tops idk what happened i went into a coma or something. if this flops i may cry real tears.

hybrid!puppyboy satoru who you told to behave while you had to leave the house. you warned him.

you only said you’d be gone for a few hours.

just a few. that’s what you told him, hand brushing over his snow-white ears as he pouted dramatically on the couch. but a few hours to a puppy like gojo? that’s basically a lifetime. and you, his favorite person in the entire world, just left him.

the moment the door clicked shut, the performance began.

first came the flopping—full dramatic belly-flop onto the floor, limbs splayed like his soul had left his body. He whined once. then again, louder, just in case you were hiding in the hallway ready to rush back in and comfort him. when no one came, he dragged himself to the door like some war hero.

“cruel,” he mumbled to no one, tail giving a feeble twitch. “absolutely heartless…” how were you going to nag at him to behave then just leave.

gojo satoru, your sweet but utterly shameless puppy hybrid, doesn’t do well with being left alone. not when your scent is all over the apartment. not when he’d just barely woken up, messy-haired, shirt slipping off one shoulder, his tail wagging lazily as you kissed the corner of his mouth and told him to be good was the last memory he had of you.

he sat by the door for a while, praying to whatever god would listen to bring you back to him. every noise from outside the small apartment made his ears perk up only to lay back down when the doorknob didn’t turn. gojo made his way back to the couch with a shuffle, only to huff and make his was towards your shared room instead.

flopping face first into the mattress seemed like a good idea at the time, he was upset, dramatics were his go to even when no one else was around. your scent clung to the sheets— soothing, yes, but also maddening.

“you’re evil,” he groaned, burying his face in your pillow. “pure evil.” he rolled onto his stomach, grinding into the mattress with frustrated little whimpers and whines.

time dragged. every noise made his ears twitch—hoping it was you, back early, ready to give him the attention he deserved. but no, just silence. just him and his thoughts and the low, pulsing need that refused to go away.

by the time you finally opened the door, gojo was shirtless, flushed, and so ready to make you pay for abandoning him. he practically tackled you the second you stepped inside, lips finding your neck, tail wagging wildly behind him.

“you have some nerve,” he growled, though his voice trembled with anticipation. “leaving your poor, needy pup alone—…” you dropped your keys, startled and breathless as he pulled you towards the bed, you landed in front of him with a soft ‘oof’ sound. his eyes glinted with something dark and hungry, pupils blown wide, his fluffy ears twitching.

“i waited,” he said, lips brushing your jaw. “i was good. but now…” his kiss is messy—needy in a way that borders on desperate, like he’s trying to make up for every second you were gone.

your fingers threaded into his soft, snowy hair, and he melts under your touch instantly. his tail thumps behind him, frantic and clumsy, betraying just how worked up he is. you pull back slightly to look at him, and his lips chase yours like he can’t stand even the smallest distance.

“missed you,” he breathes, cheeks flushed, voice soft and whimpery. “missed you so much, it hurt.” your eyes rake over him— bare chest, pink across his nose, pupils blown wide and full of longing. the waistband of his sweatpants is riding low on his hips, the barest hint of a tremble in his thighs as he presses closer.

“were you good for me, ‘toru?” you drag a slow hand down his chest, feeling the way his breath hitches. he nods quickly—too quickly.

“y-yeah. tried. i tried, i did— didn’t touch myself, even though i wanted to. i needed to.”

“needed? you raise an eyebrow at your poor worked up puppy.

he bites his lip, ears flicking back bashfully. “you left me and i got all worked up… all hard and aching. couldn’t stop thinking about your hands, your voice, the way you—” his words cut off in a soft gasp as you cup his cheek, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth.

you lean in, close enough that your lips just barely graze his. “you know you’re not allowed to cum without me, right?” he whimpers— an actual whimper. his body tensing in anticipation as he nods again. “please�� please, i’ll be so good. i’ll do anything. Just—don’t leave me like this please.”

you smirk, pushing him gently backward until his back hits the headboard. he sits, wide-eyed and eager, tail wagging in short, nervous bursts.

“you’re mine,” you murmur, straddling him. “and when I get home, i expect my pup ready, aching, and begging—just like this.” he looks up at you like you hung the moon, his fingers twitching at his sides, unsure if he’s allowed to touch yet. “can i—can i touch you now?”

“only when i say so..” you lean in close to his ear, your breath hot against his skin.

his breath stutters as you settle fully in his lap, your weight grounding him in the most delicious way. he’s already trembling beneath you, trying so hard not to touch— even though every fiber of him is screaming for it. his tail is wagging slow now, low and anxious, his ears drooping just a little in that telltale way that means he’s overwhelmed—in the best way.

you tilt his chin up with two fingers, forcing him to meet your eyes. “look at you,” you murmur. “all squirmy and obedient. you like being teased like this, don’t you?”

he swallows hard. “i— i like being yours.” the words spill from him like a confession, soft and unguarded. his pupils are blown, lips slightly parted, and there’s a vulnerable pink flush crawling all the way to his chest. you stroke a thumb along his cheekbone, slow and deliberate, watching the way he leans into your hand like he needs it to survive.

“i waited,” he says again, barely more than a whisper. “didn’t even take my pants off. just… laid there thinking about you. about your hands, your voice—what you’d do to me if you caught me being bad.” your smirk is slow, predatory.

“and were you bad, puppy?”

he shakes his head quickly. “no, no— i wanted to be, but i didn’t. i was good, i swear. please i need you to touch me. i’m losing my mind.” he’s panting now, hips subtly rocking under you, barely restrained. his fingers twitch like they want to hold you, grip you, worship you—but he’s still waiting, still obeying, just like you told him.

so you reward him. your hands trail down his chest, slow and purposeful, nails scratching gently over his skin. he moans— head dropping back against the headboard, throat exposed, tail thumping under his weight and yours weakly.

you lean in and kiss the hollow of his throat, feeling the vibrations of his needy little noises against your lips. “you’re such a good boy for me, ‘toru,” you whisper. “you waited so well. think you’ve earned a reward?”

“yes,” he gasps. “please— i need you so bad. just want to feel you. want to fall apart for you.” and when you finally press your lips to his—deep and slow and claiming. he lets out the softest, most broken sound, like he’s unraveling from the inside out. his hands hover near your hips, barely touching, trembling with restraint. you break the kiss, just enough to murmur against his lips.

“then be good and fall apart for me, baby. i’ll take care of everything.” and he nods, breathless and wrecked and beautifully yours, ready to give in completely.

do i make a pt.2 to this omg…

#❥ ~ ɢᴏᴊᴏ ꜱᴀᴛᴏʀᴜ #cw: hybrids #cw: puppyboy #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk smut #gojo smut #gojo x reader #gojo x you #satoru gojo #satoru gojo smut #satoru gojo x reader

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aleese1111 · 2 days ago

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hii!! i love the way you write the whc boys so much. can you do something with the eunjang quartet x fem!reader but in a platonic way. like she is there to patch them up and treat them to some food or something after every fight (especially after the last one they had with the union - which she was understandably worried about)

after the storm | eunjang!quartet x fem!reader

summary: after the brutal fight against the union, they show up at her family’s restaurant—bloodied but alive. she worries, she scolds, she patches, she feeds. in between, there's banter, comfort, and something quiet and tender that lingers in the silences.

warnings: [platonic?] canon-typical violence aftermath, light blood/injury description, hurt/comfort .

author's note: this is so wholesome :(( . requests ,,

the familiar scent of frying oil and garlic wafted through the air as she wiped down a table by the window, cloth in one hand, mind far from the rhythms of the restaurant. the neon sign of her family’s fried chicken place buzzed softly behind her, but the usual comfort it brought her felt distant today. she hadn't been able to stop thinking about it—the fight. the one she wasn't supposed to know about, but of course she did. she always did when it came to them.

her hand slowed over the tabletop, worry nesting in her chest. the late afternoon sun spilled golden light through the glass, casting long shadows and warming the wooden floors, but it did little to settle the twist in her stomach. she had checked her phone twice in the last hour, hoping for a message, even just an emoji. nothing.

just as she turned to the next table, she caught a glimpse of movement outside. her breath caught.

the four of them.

yeon sieun, stoic as ever; baku, somehow still smiling even with dried blood on his brow; jung tae, bruised but beaming; and go hyuntak, his arm slung carelessly over sieun’s shoulder, eyes bright with the adrenaline of victory.

she dropped the rag.

"are you serious?!" she half-shouted, half-squeaked, rushing to the front entrance, throwing open the door so fast the bell above it clanged in protest. she stormed outside, arms flying in disbelief.

"what the hell happened to you guys?! look at your faces! jung tae, are you even walking properly?! baku, your lip—! gotak! you're bleeding through your shirt! and sieun—" she stopped at him, heart clenching at the sight of crimson staining his temple. "you too?"

they all looked at her like she was a sight from a better world. baku chuckled, reaching forward to ruffle her hair with a bloodied hand. "missed you too."

she slapped his hand away with a huff, eyes wide with exasperation but soft with relief. "you're all idiots. absolute, complete idiots. come inside before you all faint on the street."

they followed without protest, brushing past the bell once more as she ushered them to the back of the restaurant where it was quieter. her parents peeked in from the kitchen, and she waved quickly. "can you make extra portions? they need food. a lot of it."

"rough day again?" her father asked, already pulling out the pans.

"something like that," she muttered.

she dragged out the first aid kit and moved toward the table where the boys sat—some slouched, some upright, all bruised. gotak was the first she started with, dabbing a cloth gently over his cheek.

"you didn’t even try to block, did you?"

he grinned, his hand naturally resting on her thigh like it always did, no thought to the gesture, and she didn’t mind. "didn’t need to. we won."

"that’s not the point," she said, flicking his forehead.

"ow," he chuckled, his eyes catching hers for just a second longer than usual. her hand lingered a beat longer too, thumb brushing just under his jaw. he didn’t flinch.

she cleared her throat and moved to sieun next. he sat perfectly still, letting her tend to him like he always did. their eyes met—no words exchanged—but he gave the smallest nod. she returned it with a faint smile. he never needed to speak much. he always understood. but something in the way his gaze lingered today made her chest tighten. like he was reading more than he let on.

jung tae winced as she pressed antiseptic onto a scrape on his neck.

"don’t be a baby."

"you’re treating me like one."

"because you are one," she said, patting his cheek. "you’re lucky i don’t swaddle you in bubble wrap."

he flushed, muttering something about being strong as she moved on to baku, who held out his arm with a dramatic sigh.

"you should open a clinic," he teased. "but only for good-looking guys."

she smirked. "so i guess i’ll be closing after today, then."

"ouch. that’s cold."

they bantered easily as she wrapped gauze around his forearm. it was always like this with baku—like talking to a much older friend who still knew how to laugh like a kid. he leaned a bit closer as she tied the final knot in the bandage.

"you’re really good at this, you know?" he said more seriously, his voice low. "you keep everyone stitched up, not just with tape and gauze."

she blinked, taken aback by the sincerity. "you’re just saying that because i’m your free nurse."

"nah. saying it ‘cause it’s true."

food arrived not long after, filling the air with sizzling spices and warmth. plates clinked. drinks poured. for a moment, the chaos of the outside world paused.

gotak’s hand stayed on her thigh as he ate, casual and unthinking, but every so often his pinky tapped against her knee like he wasn’t quite as unaffected as he looked. she leaned slightly into him without thinking. it was just how they were—but tonight, the warmth of him beside her seemed to sink deeper into her skin.

sieun sat across from her, meeting her gaze occasionally with the tiniest of smiles. that was enough. except this time, he didn’t look away as quickly. his eyes lingered. she looked down at her plate, suddenly aware of how warm her ears felt.

jung tae animatedly talked about how he “almost” knocked a guy’s tooth out, while she poked fun at his exaggerated expressions.

"you should’ve seen me! the guy was huge. i mean, hulk huge."

"and you? what, ant-man?" she laughed, nudging his side.

"i’m tall!" he protested.

"you’re adorable."

he groaned, dropping his chopsticks in defeat. "why does everyone call me that?"

"because it’s true," gotak chimed in with a grin, ruffling jung tae’s already messy hair.

and baku, between mouthfuls, reached over to ruffle her hair again.

"you’re good at worrying," he said.

she rolled her eyes, but a smile tugged at her lips. "and you’re good at making me do it."

as the night wore on and the plates grew emptier, the energy shifted into something slower, softer. gotak leaned back, his shoulder brushing hers, and she didn’t move away. when she yawned, he tilted his head toward her.

"tired?"

"a little. long day."

"want me to carry you upstairs?" he teased.

she rolled her eyes but laughed. "you’d trip over the first step."

"still worth the offer."

across the table, sieun watched quietly, fingers tapping against his drink. their eyes met again, and for a heartbeat, everything felt still.

it was nothing. probably nothing.

but maybe it wasn’t.

the table bubbled with quiet laughter again. they were beaten, bruised, borderline limping—but they were together.

and that made everything feel okay again.

#weak hero class 2 #class 2 x reader #whc2 #whc2 x reader #eunjang!quartet x reader #yeon si eun x reader #go hyuntak x reader #gotak x reader #baku x reader #park humin x reader #seo jun tae x reader #aleese1111

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boyfhee · 11 hours ago

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ㅤㅤㅤㅤ I SAY THINGSㅤ ✩ㅤ𝗂 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇

𝓖𝐈𝐒𝐓────𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗌𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇.

❪ GALLERIA ❫ ｡ enhypen x fem ! reader 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 angst, comfort, skinshipㅤㅤ⠀✦ ㅤ154Oㅤㅤㅤ✿ㅤㅤㅤwrote this in a hurry, hope you enjoy reading :3

HEESEUNG

he says it mindlessly, words spiked with venom and vitriol. he doesn’t even realise until it’s a little too quiet, until he looks at you in the eyes and sees tears brimming at your waterline. there’s an ache in his heart when he sees hurt spelled all over your face. and you would try to walk away but heeseung wouldn’t let you, trying to hold onto your arm, hand, fingers— anything. anything to fix the damage he has done. he would wrap his arms around you from behind to stop you from leaving and would whisper endless apologies, each one an exhibit of how much he needs you. “i did not mean any of that, i could never.”

JONGSEONG

“oh, dear,” is all he can mutter when he returns home later that night, cheeks flushed from the cold outside. he wanted to put off the conversation till the next morning until his gaze lands upon you sitting at the dining table with food, dozing off, and he feels his break breaking into a thousand pieces. he feels like a coward for hurting you and then leaving out of fear of facing you. when you wake up due to his footsteps, concern and relief glistening in your red, puffy eyes, he finds himself kneeling on the floor in front of you and taking your hands in his, afraid you might not want him close. “i’m sorry, darling. i was being stupid, i never meant to say those things,”

JAEYUN

it is hurting him too, knocking the breath out of his chest. he regrets those words as soon as they leave his mouth, watching your eyes widen in disbelief. his heart cracks when he sees a single tear roll down your cheek. he chokes on his own sobs when he watches you close the bedroom door behind you, wanting to reach out despite knowing you need space. but when he hears quiet sniffles and cries from across the door, he can’t help but walk inside and instantly wrapping you in his arms, sharing every wail and tear with you, rocking you gently while pressing tender kisses on the top of your head. “i’m sorry, angel. i love you, please forgive me,”

SUNGHOON

he hates how he does it over the phone, saying you’re hard to talk to only to end the conversation. he knows he has messed up when you aren’t even leaving him on seen like you do when you are upset. sunghoon feels dread creep under his skin when it’s midnight and he hasn’t heard a word from you, when every thing he said starts ringing in his head like a ugly reminder. it’s two in the night when he finds himself at your door, breathless, drenched, desperate, yet relieved to see you. he feels sick in his own skin when he sees you tear up at his mere presence, when your voice cracks up even before you could utter a word, and he finds himself gulping in guilt and remorse before whispering. “you always listen to me. i’m sorry for not knowing how to talk,”

SUNOO

he cries with you, before you. arguments with him go eye to eye, but when you stop looking at him, when he catches a glimpse of your shiny eyes as you crumble down— he breaks. he immediately reaches out to hold your hands when you take a step back, the action feeling like a sword through his chest. his grip is firm as if you would disappear if he let loose and his heart is in shambles when he sees you breaking down, bits and pieces. he’s ready to get on his knees and beg, apologies pouring out between your sobs twined together to prove just how wrong he was. he lets you cry against his chest, hugging you close and realising he has a lot to make up to when you don’t hug him back.

JUNGWON

he doesn’t realise the impact of his words until he hears absolute silence from you. usually, you respond, you fight back, but you are quiet. and then he sees you standing at a distance looking so small and broken with your lips quivering— it’s all that takes him to drop whatever he is doing and run to you and hold your face ever so gently in his hands. he wants you to argue, to curse him out, but you look away, holding back your sobs and it shatters his entire world. jungwon fears he might have done something irreversible and despite his consoling words and warm caresses, you can feel his hands shaking. he wipes your tears and kisses their remains off your cheek, his chest feeling tight at every sob that falls off your lips. “you know i did not mean any of that, right?”

NI-KI

he says it in defence, only to save himself from getting hurt, but it comes back to him ten times worse when he realises he has broken your heart. he freezes in his stance, unsure of what to do. he feels panic rise within himself when you start walking away. your boyfriend can feel his knees going weak and he feels so ashamed of not being able to say anything when you were probably expecting him to stop you from leaving. it takes him a while but he finally finds the courage to face you, even though you are lying with your back facing him. it’s scary, his arms are shaking when he wraps them around you. and when he feels you relax despite the silence, he pulls you closer to his chest. “let me fix this, please,”

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ryanthedemiboy · 22 hours ago

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-lay on the floor. I'm so serious.

-taking a cold shower is fine, but right before you get out, turn it to warm. It'll cool you down (and keep you cool longer) than stepping out of a cold shower

-keep an eye on the temp in your place of residence, and outside it. If it's cooler, open every door and window. Once it gets even or just under, close up. Fresh air is only good when it's not heating you up.

-if you feel sick, drink cool water, not cold water. I've seen some debate on this, but some people say drinking ice cold water can cause you to go into hypothermic (hyperthermic? I forget which) shock

-look up resources of your national health organization and look at the symptoms of heat stroke and heat exhaustion. Learn how to treat it and when to call an ambulance.

-don't use your computer/laptop unless absolutely necessary. I'm so serious. Shut it all the way down. It heats the area up substantially.

-keep as many lights off as you can. I don't know about LEDs, but every other light heats up the area.

-don't use any big electronics, TVs and speakers included.

-modesty doesn't exist at home. Strip.

-evaporative cooling tools don't work well above a certain humidity. The closer you are to 100% humidity, the less it will work.

-leaving your fridge open will not cool your residence down.

-wear sunscreen when you go outside. I don't care if it's cloudy. You don't need a sunburn on top of the heat (and you can absolutely get sunburnt even if it's overcast)

-when you use ice:

Be very careful for two reasons.

1. You can get frostbite. Yes i'm serious. You should have something between ice/ice pack/frozen thing and you if it's going to be on you as a frozen object for more than a few minutes. Regardless, if you go numb, you need to take the icepack off that location.

2. Your body can't tell the difference between cooling down during a heat wave and freezing to death. Putting ice packs at major blood flow sites (groin, neck, armpit, etc) is a good way to cool off, but if you're not being mindful, you could get your brain or organs too cold and your body will work hard to heat you up.

(I live in a hot desert, and our temps are over 100F/38C for 4+ months of the year, and i'm heat intolerant to boot)

how to deal with extreme heat without A/C

For anyone in the UK and Europe and wherever else who needs this -

Close blinds and drapes to keep the sun out of your house and reduce the incoming heat.

Drink a lot of a water. Like a shit ton of water. More than you think. I know ice water is less of a thing in some countries, but it's preferable because it'll keep you cooler.

In addition to plain water, make sure to replace electrolytes lost through sweating, by drinking something like Gatorade. You can make a homemade electrolyte drink by mixing water with a small amount of sea salt (~ 1/4 tsp) and half a lemon or lime, and sweetener if needed.

Dip a non-terrycloth tea towel (or any spare cotton like an old undershirt) in water and then stick it in the freezer for 5-7 minutes until it is icy cold but still pliable. Drape these cloths over bare skin, like your neck, legs, and forehead, and sit in front of a fan. The fan will continually evaporate heat and the cloth will stay very cold against you for quite a while.

Fill up a spare spray bottle with water and spray yourself while in front of a fan. (Not quite as effective as #4 but still good.)

Don't exercise. It exacerbates the stress on your body. You can skip one day gym bro.

Don't forget to eat, and only eat cold things. If you don't have an appetite because of the heat, drink something like a smoothie.

If it gets really bad, go to a cooling center if you can. Don't fuck around with extreme heat. Heat stress is deadly and often hard to feel until it's too late.

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honeyslibrary · 2 days ago

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I Love You, I'm Sorry | Luke Hughes

Pairing; Luke Hughes x Fem!Reader

Warning(s); Long distance relationship, angst, not sure what else, edited once

Summary; Reader and Luke get a taste of how difficult being in a long distance relationship is.

Word Count; 4.5k

Authors Note: This is a part one. I’d love your thoughts on what you think the ending should be. I personally love angst, but I know a lot of you love happy endings, so let me know (: As per usual, reblogs are appreciated 🩵 -Honey

It's late, nearly midnight in Ann Arbor, and your room is dim except for the soft glow of your laptop screen. Outside, snow is falling in slow, half-hearted flakes that dissolve before touching the ground, visible only when they drift through the cone of yellow light from the streetlamp below. Your desk is cluttered with notebooks, highlighters with their caps missing, and a half-eaten granola bar that's been sitting there since noon, its wrapper curled at the edges.

When Luke picks up, he's backdropped by the familiar off-white walls of his place in Jersey, hair damp and curling from a post-practice shower. He's wearing that oversized black Kith hoodie — the one he practically lives in, frayed at the cuffs from constant wear — and his voice comes through, slightly distorted by distance and poor connection.

"Hey."

You smile, automatic, muscle memory that hasn't faded despite everything. "Hey."

There's a beat of silence where neither of you rushes to fill the space. It's not awkward. Just... distant. Like the signal is fine, but the connection is still lagging, caught somewhere between Ann Arbor and Jersey, lost in the miles between what you were and what you've become.

"You look tired," he says, eyes scanning your face through the screen.

"Thanks," you deadpan, but self-consciously run a hand through your unwashed hair.

He smiles, a little, the corner of his mouth lifting in that familiar way that still manages to make your heart stutter. "Rough day?"

You nod, feeling the weight of hours spent hunched over textbooks and lab equipment. "Had a three-hour chem lab and then my professor went rogue and assigned us a ten-page paper due Monday, even though it's supposed to be a five-week course project. So, yeah. Classic Thursday."

"Damn." He leans back against his headboard, the wood making a soft thunk. You can see the edge of a team photo taped to his wall, the corner peeling. "I don't miss that."

"You're telling me," you say, rubbing your eyes until pinpricks of light dance behind your closed lids. "I've had coffee for dinner two nights in a row. My blood is basically caffeine at this point."

He watches you for a second, eyes softening with something like concern or maybe nostalgia. Then asks, quieter, "Is it still like... non-stop all the time?"

You hesitate, fingers playing with the frayed edge of your sleeve. "Yeah. I mean, I guess I'm getting used to it again." The lie tastes stale on your tongue.

Luke nods slowly, a micro-expression of hurt flashing across his face so quickly you almost miss it. Then he glances away for a second, like he's thinking about whether or not to say something. When he looks back, there's something different in his eyes. Not annoyed, just... worn down, like fabric that's been washed too many times.

"I was trying not to bug you," he says, carefully measuring each word. "With the whole settling-back-in thing. Figured the first couple weeks of school would be hectic, so I didn't want to be, like... all over your phone."

You shift in your seat, the old wooden chair creaking beneath you, uneasy. "You're not bugging me."

"I don't know," he says, fingers absently tracing the team logo on his hoodie. "It kind of feels like I am."

You go still. He's not raising his voice. He's not accusing. But it hits anyway, like a door closing quietly but firmly in your face.

"I mean, you barely text me," he continues, voice level but threaded with something raw. "We haven't FaceTimed in... what? Over a week? And when we do talk, it's usually because I called first."

You swallow, suddenly too aware of how quiet your room is, just the faint hum of your laptop fan and the distant bass from someone's music three doors down. "I've just had a lot going on."

"I know," he says quickly, too quickly. "Me too. But... it's been a month now."

You glance at him. His jaw is tight, a muscle working at the corner, and he won't quite meet your eyes, instead focusing on something just past your shoulder.

"I was giving you space because I thought you needed it," he says, voice dropping lower. "But now I'm starting to feel like maybe I'm just... not part of your life anymore. Not really."

Your chest aches, a physical pain that spreads outward like ice cracking. "Luke—"

He cuts in, not unkindly, but with a firmness that makes you flinch. "I'm not mad. I just... I didn't think this would be so one-sided."

You open your mouth, but all that comes out is a pathetic defense: "You know I suck at texting."

He gives a short laugh. Not mean, just tired, the kind that carries no actual humor. "Yeah. I do. But I thought you'd try. Because this is different now. We're not two blocks apart anymore. We're two states apart. I can't just swing by after practice or meet you at Espresso Royale with those stupid chocolate croissants you like." His voice catches slightly. "You're all I've got, and half the time, it feels like I'm not even crossing your mind."

"That's not fair," you whisper, the words hanging in the air between you like frost.

He meets your gaze, and it's the quiet in his voice that stings the most. "It doesn't have to be fair, it's how I feel."

You press your fingers to your forehead, like that'll stop the swirl in your brain, the mounting pressure behind your eyes. "I wasn't trying to ignore you. I've just... I don't know. Everything's overwhelming again. And I guess I thought if I didn't reach out, it would hurt less. Like... not reminding myself how far away you are."

He looks at you for a long second, the blue light of his screen making shadows under his cheekbones. "It hurts anyway."

And there it is.

The truth neither of you wanted to face, finally spoken aloud. Your fingers go cold.

You look at him, the dark circles under his eyes, the way his fingers fidget with the drawstring of his hoodie, twisting it into a knot and then releasing it. You feel like you're staring at something that's slipping through your hands, slow and inevitable, like sand or water or time.

He sighs, quiet, the sound barely reaching your speakers. "I'm gonna head to bed. Early skate tomorrow."

You nod, barely, feeling numb. "Okay."

He doesn't hang up right away, and for a second, it seems like he might say something else, something to soften or backtrack. Offer a lifeline. But instead, he just gives you a small, sad smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

"Goodnight."

Then the screen goes dark.

And you're left staring at your own reflection, sitting in the silence you built, with only the soft tapping of snowflakes against your window for company.

You wait for a text that doesn't come.

The next morning, you send him a message, something casual about hoping he had a good practice, a peace offering disguised as small talk. Usually, he responds within minutes. This time, your phone stays silent for hours, until finally, mid-afternoon: It was fine. Pretty tired though.

No questions about your day. No follow-up. Just five words that feel like a door closing.

You tell yourself it's nothing. He's busy. He's tired. But the pattern continues. Your texts receive shorter and shorter replies, sometimes hours later, sometimes not until the next day. He doesn't call. When you try calling him on Sunday night, he doesn't pick up, just texts back twenty minutes later: Sorry, was out with the guys. Talk later maybe?

Later doesn't come.

By Wednesday, the realization hits you with startling clarity: this is what it feels like to be on the other side. This is what you've been doing to him for weeks.

Thursday night, you're sitting in the library, pretending to study organic chemistry but really just staring at your phone, willing it to light up with his name. It doesn't. A week ago, you would have been annoyed by the interruption. Now you'd give anything for it.

Your roommate slides into the chair across from you, giving you a strange look. "You okay? You've been staring at that same page for like, twenty minutes."

"I'm fine," you mumble, but your voice sounds hollow even to your own ears.

"Luke?" she asks, eyebrows raised.

You look up, surprised. "How did you—"

"Well, for starters, you've checked your phone approximately eight hundred times in the past hour. And you've got that look."

"What look?"

"Like someone stole your favorite hoodie." She pauses. "Which, by the way, isn't that his Devils hoodie you're wearing right now?"

You glance down. It is. Luke left it with you when he left for pre-season, and you've been sleeping in it for weeks. It still smells faintly of his laundry detergent and that cologne he pretends not to use.

"He's not talking to me," you admit finally, the words feeling strange in your mouth. "Or, well, barely. It's like... he's just gone cold."

Your roommate doesn't look surprised. "Girl, are you stupid? You've been doing the same thing to him for weeks."

The bluntness of her assessment stings. "I've been busy," you protest weakly.

She gives you a look that makes it clear she's not buying it. "We're all busy. That's college. But you don't see me ghosting my boyfriend back home."

"I wasn't ghosting him," you insist. But even as you say it, you know it's not entirely true. You were keeping him at arm's length, minimizing contact, treating him like an obligation rather than a priority.

"So what are you going to do about it?" she asks, closing her notebook and giving you her full attention.

You stare at your phone again. No new messages. "I don't know."

Friday morning, you check your phone the moment you wake up. Nothing. Friday afternoon, between classes, you find yourself opening your photos, scrolling back through pictures of the two of you. Friday night, you cave and call him. It goes straight to voicemail.

Hey, Luke. It's me. I just... I miss you. Call me back?

He doesn't.

Saturday passes in a blur of anxiety and regret. By Sunday, you're sitting on your bed surrounded by unfinished assignments, your laptop open to a half-written paper, but all you can think about is him.

The silence stretches into a second week. His social media offers glimpses of a life continuing without you: team photos, a night out bowling, a video of him laughing at something one of his teammates said. He looks fine. He looks happy. He looks like he's moving on.

It's only when you're scrolling through your calendar to check a due date that you realize what tomorrow is: one month since he helped you move in. One month of being apart. You'd talked about celebrating somehow, doing something special over FaceTime. Now you wonder if he even remembers.

Monday morning, your phone pings with a text as you're walking to class.

Can we talk tonight? 9pm?

Your heart jumps into your throat. You text back immediately: Yes. Definitely.

The day crawls by with excruciating slowness. By 8:45, you're sitting at your desk, hair combed, room hastily tidied, wearing a sweater he once said brought out your eyes.

At exactly 9:00, your laptop chimes with an incoming call. You take a deep breath and click "accept."

Luke appears on screen, looking tired but more serious than you've ever seen him. There's none of the warmth from before, none of the easy familiarity. Just his eyes, steady and questioning.

"Hey," you say, voice small.

"Hey," he replies. Then, after a pause that stretches too long: "So, I think we should talk about what happens now."

You swallow hard, suddenly afraid of what "now" might mean. "Luke, I'm sorry. I know I messed up. I know I made you feel like you weren't important, and that's not true at all. I was—"

"Stop," he says, not unkindly but firmly. "I don't need apologies. What I need is to know if this is even worth fighting for anymore."

The question hangs in the air between you, heavy with implication.

"Because," he continues, voice steady but with an undercurrent of hurt that makes your chest ache, "I can't be the only one trying here. These past two weeks... this is what it felt like for me, for a month. Waiting for calls that never came. Checking my phone fifty times a day. Wondering if I still mattered to you at all."

You feel tears threatening, but you blink them back. "You do matter. You matter so much."

"Then why didn't you act like it?" The question isn't angry. It's genuinely confused, which somehow makes it worse.

"I don't know," you whisper, and then, forcing yourself to be honest: "I think I was scared. Of how much I missed you. Of how hard this was going to be. It felt easier to just... pull back. To pretend I was fine on my own."

He's quiet for a long moment, considering this. "And are you? Fine on your own?"

You look at him, really look at him, and shake your head slowly. "No. These past two weeks have been awful. I hated every minute of it."

"Welcome to my world," he says, but there's less edge to his voice now. "So what do we do? Because I can't go back to how things were before. I won't."

The silence stretches between you, full of all the things you've left unsaid. You know you're at a crossroads. You can make more promises, beg for another chance. Or you can face the truth: that long distance is harder than you thought, that you're both changing, that maybe what you had belongs to a different time, a different version of yourselves.

Luke waits, his expression unreadable. The choice is yours.

"I don't know how to fix this," you admit finally, voice barely above a whisper. "But I want to. I really want to."

He sighs, running a hand through his hair, a gesture so familiar it makes your heart ache. "I want to believe that."

"You can," you say, leaning forward. "Luke, these past two weeks... I've been miserable. And it made me realize that I've been taking you for granted. I've been acting like you'll always be there, waiting, no matter how I treat you."

He's quiet for a moment, eyes searching yours through the screen. "Why should this time be any different?"

It's a fair question. One you've been asking yourself all week.

"Because now I know what it feels like to lose you," you say simply. "And I never want to feel that way again."

He looks down, and you can see him weighing your words, deciding whether or not to believe them. When he looks back up, his eyes are guarded.

"I need more than words," he says. "I need to see it. In your actions."

You nod, relief and anxiety tangling in your chest. "I know. I understand that."

"Do you?" he asks, and there's a challenge in his voice. "Because what I need is for you to make time for us. Real time. Not just when it's convenient for you or when you don't have anything better to do."

You flinch at the truth of it. "I will. I promise."

He shakes his head slightly. "Don't promise. Just do it. Or don't. But I can't keep...hoping things will get better. That's the part that kills me, you know? The hoping."

You feel tears threatening again, but this time, you let them come. "I'm sorry," you whisper. "I'm so sorry, Luke."

His expression softens just slightly. "I know you are. But I'm not looking for an apology. I'm looking for change."

You wipe at your eyes, nodding. "So...what now?"

He seems to consider this, then says, "Now we take it day by day. See if we can build something that works for both of us. But I need you to be honest, with yourself most of all. If you can't do this, if you don't want to do this, then let's not drag it out."

The words hit you like a physical blow. "Is that...is that what you want? To end it?"

Luke's gaze is steady. "What I want is a relationship where I don't feel like I'm chasing someone who's always running away."

The silence stretches between you, heavy with everything that's been said and everything that hasn't.

"I'm not running," you say finally. "Not anymore."

He nods, but there's still hesitation in his eyes. "Okay."

"Okay," you echo, not sure what else to say.

"I should go," he says after a moment. "Early morning tomorrow."

Panic flares in your chest. "Wait, can we talk again?"

The question hangs in the air. Before, he would have been the one asking that. The one worried about when the next call would be. Now it's you, and the role reversal isn't lost on either of you.

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "I don't know. When do you want to talk again?"

You recognize the test in his words. "Tomorrow? I don't have class until eleven. We could have coffee together. Virtually, I mean."

He considers this. "I'll be up at six for training."

"Six is fine," you say quickly, even though you haven't voluntarily seen six a.m. since high school.

His eyebrows rise slightly. "Really?"

"Really." You've never been more certain of anything.

He studies you for a moment longer, then nods. "Okay. Six it is."

"I'll be here," you promise.

"We'll see," he says, and it stings, but you know you deserve it. Before he ends the call, he pauses. "You're wearing that sweater I love."

"What?" You glance down, feeling heat rise to your face. "Oh yeah."

The corner of his mouth lifts in a half-smile, the first real smile you've seen from him in weeks.

Then the call ends, and you're left staring at your reflection again. But this time, it's different. This time, you're not paralyzed by indecision or regret. This time, you know exactly what you need to do.

You set your alarm for 5:45 a.m. Then you open your calendar and begin to carve out time, real time, for the person who matters most. Not leftover minutes between classes or half-attentive late-night calls when you're too exhausted to really talk. Actual, intentional time.

It won't be easy. Nothing worth having ever is. The distance is still there. Your schedule is still overwhelming. His hockey season is just getting started.

But as you close your laptop and get ready for bed, you realize something: you're not just fighting for Luke. You're fighting for yourself, too. For the person you want to be. Someone who knows what matters and acts like it. Someone who doesn't take love for granted.

You curl up under your blankets after changing back into his Devils hoodie. Outside, the snow continues to fall, covering everything in a clean, white blanket. Like a fresh start.

Morning will come early. But for the first time in weeks, you're looking forward to it.

The blaring of your alarm cuts through your dreams like a knife. You groan, blindly pawing at your phone until the noise stops. Your room is dark, the sky outside still black. For a moment, you lie there, disoriented, wondering why on earth your alarm is going off at this ungodly hour.

Then you remember. Luke. The call. Six a.m.

You force your eyes open, squinting at your phone screen.

7:28 a.m.

Your stomach drops. No. No no no.

You bolt upright, suddenly wide awake, heart hammering against your ribs. How did this happen? You set your alarm. You remember setting it for 5:45.

But the evidence is right there on your screen, mocking you: three missed alarms, all snoozed in your half-conscious state. And worse, two missed calls from Luke.

"No," you whisper, panic rising in your throat as you fumble to call him back. It rings once, twice, three times. Then his voicemail.

You try again. Straight to voicemail.

Your hands shake as you type out a text: Luke I'm so sorry. I slept through my alarm. Please call me back.

Nothing.

You try calling once more. Voicemail again.

Please Luke. I swear I didn't mean to. I set three alarms.

The message shows as delivered, but there's no response. You sit in the cold light of morning, the reality of what's happened sinking in like lead. One chance. You had one chance to show him you were serious, that things would be different.

And you blew it.

By 8:15, you've tried calling five more times. Each time, straight to voicemail. Your roommate finds you sitting cross-legged on your bed, still in his hoodie, staring at your phone like you can will it to ring through sheer force of desperation.

"Whoa," she says, taking in your expression. "What happened?"

"I messed up," you manage, voice hollow. "I was supposed to call Luke at six this morning. I slept through my alarm."

She winces. "Ouch."

"He won't answer," you continue, feeling tears build. "He probably thinks I just... didn't care enough to wake up."

Your roommate sits on the edge of your bed. "Did you explain?"

"I tried. He's not responding."

"Give him some time," she suggests. "He's probably at practice anyway, right?"

You nod weakly. She's right. He's probably on the ice right now, skating through drills, trying not to think about you. Or worse, thinking about you too much.

"What do I do?" you ask, hating how small your voice sounds.

She considers for a moment. "You wait. And then you try again. And you don't give up after one mistake."

The words echo in your mind as you drag yourself through your morning routine, as you force yourself to attend your classes even though you can barely focus on what your professors are saying. By late afternoon, you've checked your phone approximately a thousand times. Nothing from Luke.

At 4:17, just as you're leaving your last class, your phone finally buzzes. You nearly drop it in your haste to check.

Can talk now. Call me.

Your heart races as you find an empty bench outside your building and call him with trembling fingers. He picks up on the second ring.

"Luke—" you start, the relief of hearing his voice almost overwhelming.

"Are you kidding me?" His voice is tight, controlled, but you can hear the hurt beneath it. "Seriously? After everything we talked about last night?"

"I know," you say quickly. "I know how it looks. I set the alarms, I swear I did. I even set three of them. But I must have turned them off in my sleep. I never even heard them."

"Right." His tone is flat with disbelief.

"It's true," you insist. "Luke, please. You have to believe me. I wouldn't do that to you. Not after last night."

There's a long pause, and you can almost see him pacing in his dorm room, running a hand through his still-damp hair, trying to decide if he believes you.

"You know what the worst part was?" he says finally. "I actually got excited. I set up my laptop on the kitchen counter while I made breakfast. I thought... I actually thought this time would be different."

The quiet disappointment in his voice is worse than if he'd yelled.

"It will be," you say, desperate. "It is. Luke, I messed up. I know that. But it was a mistake, not a choice. I wanted to talk to you this morning. I was looking forward to it."

Another silence stretches between you. Then, quietly: "I think we need to take a break."

The words hit you like a physical blow, knocking the air from your lungs. "What? No. Luke, please—"

"I can't do this anymore," he says, his voice oddly calm. "I thought I could. I thought if we just talked it out, if you just understood how I was feeling... but this morning made it clear."

"It was one mistake," you plead, tears filling your eyes. "One morning."

"No," he says, and the gentleness in his voice somehow makes it worse. "It's not just this morning. It's every morning. It's the fact that I keep hoping things will change, and they never do. It's the fact that I'm constantly disappointed, and I'm starting to think that's just... how it's going to be with us now."

"It won't," you whisper.

"Maybe not," he concedes. "But it's how I feel. And I can't keep feeling this way. It's killing me."

You press a hand to your mouth, trying to stifle a sob. "So what, we're just... done? Just like that?"

He sighs, and you hear so much exhaustion in that sound. "I don't know what we are. I just know I need some space to figure out if this is even worth fighting for anymore."

"Of course it is," you say, voice breaking. "Luke, I love you."

"I love you too," he says quietly. "But right now, that's not enough."

The finality in his voice sends a chill through you. "How long?" you manage to ask. "How long of a break?"

"I don't know," he admits. "I need to focus on hockey. On myself. And honestly, maybe you do too."

You want to argue, to fight, to promise him that you'll do better, that you'll be better. But the words stick in your throat because deep down, you know he's right. You haven't been the person he needs. You haven't even been the person you want to be.

"Okay," you say finally, the word barely audible.

"I should go," he says after a moment of heavy silence.

"Luke—" you start, not ready for the call to end, not ready for whatever comes after.

"Take care of yourself, okay?" he cuts in, voice soft. Then, almost as an afterthought: "Keep the hoodie. It looks better on you anyway."

Before you can respond, the call ends.

You sit there on the cold bench, phone clutched in your hand, tears streaming down your face. Around you, students rush to classes, laughing, talking, completely unaware that your world has just imploded.

Eventually, you make your way back to your apartment. Your roommate takes one look at your face and opens her arms without a word. You collapse into them, the sobs you've been holding back finally breaking free.

"He's gone," you choke out. "He's gone and it's my fault."

She holds you as you cry, stroking your hair, telling you it will be okay. But you know it won't be. Not for a long time.

That night, you curl up in your bed, still wearing his hoodie. You know you should take it off, that it will only make things harder, but you can't bring yourself to do it. Not yet. Outside, snow is falling again, heavier now, erasing footprints, covering everything in blank whiteness.

Your phone sits dark and silent on your nightstand. No goodnight text. No plans to call tomorrow. Just emptiness where there used to be him.

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#luke hughes #luke hughes imagine #luke hughes imagines #luke hughes fanfiction #luke hughes fic #luke hughes x reader #luke hughes x you

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theamaus · 6 hours ago

Text

All I need is you

“Ah, so zhis is vere you’ve been hiding.” Friedrich closes the door behind him and steps out into the cool summer air. The music plays in full swing inside and the wedding guests are chatting and having fun. Ivan is standing outside in the moonlight, smoking.

“Hm.” he grunts in acknowledgement, “Is hot inside. And noisy.” He takes another drag of his cigarette.

“Ja natürlich, it’s a party. I haven’t seen you in a while, have you been out here long?”

Fritz goes to stand beside his lover, shoulder to shoulder. The air is not exactly cold, but the closeness is nice nonetheless. He hands Ivan the cold beer he brought. The larger man accepts it and takes a sip. Fritz drinks from his soda.

"Немає, was talking to John and Tavish, then I go here.”

“Are you not having fun?”

Ivan shrugs, “Eh, is not for me, but it does not matter. Is Mikhail and Herbert's day.” He takes another drag of his cigarette as he looks in through the window to the hall. Misha and Herbert are sitting together at one of the tables and seem to be busy in separate conversations. Misha is talking to Gabriel, the red teams spy, and Herbert to Dell, the engineer. They look nice together in their suits with matching red ties.

He turns back to Friedrich and puts an arm around him.

“You’re having fun, так? I see you talk with engineer.”

“Ah, ja, he vas telling me about how he made ‘improvements’ to his hand. Honestly it’s not a bad cut for an amature, although i vould have chosen a sharper saw. Zhe cuts are jagged and-” he looks up at Ivan, who is looking through the window again.

“You are not listening, schatz.” Ivan looks down at him, “Hm? Sorry, ангел.”

His thoughts are elsewhere. He looks at Misha’s sisters, his mother. They’re so happy for him, and for Herbert. He wonders if his own mother would be happy for him if she knew where he was. If she knew he’d found a steady job, friends who cared for him. Love. Probably not, and he doubts Fritz’ mother would be thrilled if she knew her son had chosen to share his bed with a man like him. Or maybe the fact that he was a man at all would be enough to earn her disapproval. Who cares, he thinks.

“I zhink they’re about to dance soon.” Friedrichs voice interrupts Ivans thoughts.

“Hm, dance?” Ivan asks and looks down at the doctor.

“Ja, the first dance. Oh, zhis is your first wedding, richtig?” Ivan nods and takes a sip of his beer. “Ah, vell, at some point in zhe evening zhe couple has zheir first dance und after zhat everyone can join in on zhe dancefloor.”

“You know a lot about weddings.” Ivan says, “Do you want to get married?”

He doesn’t think about how that question sounds before he says it, but the speed with which Fritz looks up at him clues him in. “Excuse me?”

Ivan quickly puts his hands up, “I mean not in future! As boy did you- argh! Fuck! Wording was wrong…”

He prepares himself for an awkward conversation, but to his surprise Fritz laughs. He relaxes a bit.

“I know vhat you mean, Süßer, but you could have vorded zhat better! To answer your question, ja, vhen i vas a child I thought I vanted to get married. But not anymore. I don’t need all zhis.”

He takes the beer out of Ivans hand and places it on the ground with his own drink. The music from the party quiets down.

“All i need is you”

He takes Ivans hand in his as the music changes to a slow waltz.

“I can’t dance.” Ivan says but he lets Friedrich guide his hands to the correct positions anyway.

“It doesn’t matter” Fritz says as he begins to guide the large man in a slow simple waltz-like motion. He rests his head on his lover's broad shoulder as they sway to the muffled sound of music from the party inside.

“Do you vant to get married?” He asks. “No.” Ivan replies simply and smiles, “All I need is you.”

#tf2 #oc #team fortress 2 #heavymedic #blu oktoberfest #red oktoberfest #tf2 medic #tf2 heavy #tf2 blu medic #tf2 blu heavy #one shot fanfic #my fic

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sweeterthanficstion · 2 days ago

Text

— all the right reasons || l.s.k

pairing: older!rockstar!leon x popstar!fem!reader

tags: music au, set in 2011, leon is a rockstar (obviously), and reader is a popstar (think like, sabrina carpenter type). rivals to lovers, lots and lots of shitty banter, feelings are CAUGHT!, really bad music related puns, MDNI 18+, unprotected p in v, reader rides that dick into next weeeek, vaginal fingering, lots and lots of dirty talk too. sappy ending <3

summary: You're a sugarplum tabloid darling who's making headlines across the globe, he's a tried and true rockstar who's a household name. Leon S. Kennedy was just another thorn in your side. Until he wasn't. He’s older, meaner, and too good with his hands. You’re supposed to hate him. So why do you feel like you’re falling in love?

word count: 8.4k

a/n: omg... so like... hi again... it's been a while!! i dragged myself out of the depressive pit that is trying to date real men and reminded myself of what REALLY matters (writing fanfiction of men who don't exist) so that's how i'm back here, lmao.

also, BIGGEST thank you's to my gorgeous girls vivi and lea for offering to beta read and leaving the silliest, funniest comments and feedback

anyway enjoy asshole-older-rockstar leon, he's stolen my heart and i want to [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED]... i've been shot 47 times

playlist⭑masterlist⭑AO3

You never liked Leon Kennedy.

He’s always been bark and bite, broody and callous. All whiskey breath and tired denim and the kind of stubble that looked more like laziness than effort. Too jaded. Too old. His time has come and gone, and still, somehow, he was headlining festivals, charting on billboards, signing tits.

You’d met him twice before you ever really spoke. Once at an awards afterparty, where he didn’t even look at you when you said hi—just brushed past with a half-hearted “sorry, sweetheart,” before disappearing into a crowd of laughing industry men. The second time, backstage at some benefit concert. He’d been in the wings, watched you be hurried past in a blur of glitter and gold, murmured something you can only imagine was unsavoury under his breath.

So yeah. You weren’t exactly dying to be his friend.

Which is why it’s so fucking inconvenient that your first real single is now under the same label as his—why you pass each other in the hallway at Capitol every other week, the scent of his cologne arriving before he does, heavy and heady and masculine.

But you’re not stupid either. You knew who he was long before you ever stood in the same room as him. You knew the album that broke him, the single that went triple platinum, the first stadium he sold out. You knew the way critics talked about his guitar playing like it was something they’d never seen before. You might’ve even had a crumpled tour shirt buried somewhere in your closet from high school, but that was a long time ago. That was before you learned what it meant when people said never meet your heroes.

But still there were moments, little things that made you reconsider. Once, at the label offices, he held the elevator door open for you even though you were halfway across the hallway. He didn’t look at you when you stepped in. Just said, “You gonna hit the button or stand there all night?” but his voice had been warmer than you expected.

And maybe it’s all in your head. Maybe he’s not thinking about you at all. Maybe he’s just that kind of man—coated in disinterest, carved out of concrete. Still, there’s something behind the way he looks at you that you still haven’t quite figured out.

It’s midnight when Leon finds the fork in the road that decides his fate.

It’s the voice of an angel that seals it.

He’s not even supposed to be standing in the liminal space outside your door and wondering if he should go in. He’s not even meant to be thinking about you at all.

He was thinking about the rain. About how he’d failed to remember an umbrella, about how his car smells like mildew and the CD player is still shot. About how he hasn’t written a decent song in six months. His manager had so kindly told him to go home, sleep it off, stop showing up to the label’s building like a ghost to its haunt.

And fuck if he’s already had his fill with the shitty elevator. Leon’s busy jamming the buttons to the ground floor, stuck on the second, when he hears it.

A pretty litany of sun-soaked lyrics that spills into the hallway and the elevator the same way the light from the half-opened door does.

That’s how he finds himself here: standing outside your studio door, staring at the plaque with your name engraved in gold like it’s daring him to knock.

He doesn’t. Just opens it.

“Didn’t know they let you keep the studio past your bedtime.”

It’s a joke. Kinda. He winces halfway through delivery, like he hears it too late. Nose scrunching like he didn’t mean it, and truthfully he doesn’t think he did. God, Kennedy, didn’t anyone teach you to think before you speak?

You flinch—just a little—eyes snapping open as you pull off the headphones. The track dies in your ears, and the silence feels abrupt, almost rude, like it’s been interrupted mid-confession.

You glance over your shoulder. Leon stands in the threshold looking exactly like he always does—leather jacket, dark jeans, stubble that's a little more dirty than charmingly rugged. He could be anywhere else. He should be anywhere else. And yet.

Your brow lifts, unimpressed. “Didn’t know they let you out of the retirement home either. Should I call someone?”

Leon scoffs. “I’m not geriatric.”

“Sure.” And you turn back to the soundboard like he doesn’t exist.

He stands there, lips pursed like he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself.

“So… what was that?” he asks.

You sigh like it costs you. Slip the headphones off and let them settle around your neck. “A song. You’re familiar, yes?”

Leon rolls his eyes. “Plenty. You’ve got a smart mouth, kid.”

You grin, all teeth. “Thanks.”

He lets that hang in the silence for a beat, then has the bright idea to push off the doorway. He wanders in and makes himself at home in your space. His boot grazes a stack of scribbled sheet music, and he nudges it aside with his toe like he’s being polite. Then he drops onto your couch without asking—moves a cushion, spreads his knees, settles like it’s shared property.

You shoot him a look. “Comfortable?”

Leon shrugs. “Your feng shui needs work.”

“What do you want?” You finally ask, defeated.

He nods toward the board. “Play it.”

You blink. “What?”

“The song. Play it.”

“You’re really bad at this, y’know.”

“At what?”

“Basic human interaction. Hospitality. Small talk.”

He blinks, caught off-guard like he’s never been told that a day in his life.

“Sorry,” you say sweetly. “Too honest?”

“Play the damn song.”

You raise a brow. “Magic word?”

Leon just stares.

You sigh, press spacebar. The track tumbles out of the speakers, raw and half-finished. It holds for a moment, teeters, then collapses—unfinished and unsatisfying. You pull your headphones off with a huff. Leon thinks it's cute.

The weight of his gaze burns a hole into your back, makes heat crawl up your spine. You glance at him when it gets too much. “What?”

“I didn’t say anything,” he hums.

“Felt like you wanted to.”

He laughs a little then, like the meekness to your voice is amusing. “I was just gonna say it’s close.” He murmurs, “But it’s stuck.”

You exhale through your nose, lean back in your chair, swivel from left to right. “No shit.”

You don’t see him move as much as you hear him, the creak of the aged leather couch, before there’s the familiar dull ring of your guitar.

“You don’t mind, do you?” He asks as he slips into the second chair next to yours, you try to ignore the way your skin prickles when his knee knocks yours.

“Mi casa, su casa,” you sigh defeatedly, his lips quirk and you find yourself smiling against your will.

Leon decides your song just needs some weight to it. Typical of him. All his music has weight. A smoky, heady bass, a sexy guitar, heavy drums, but what he plays for you is none of that.

Yes, it holds weight, but a different one to what you pinned him for. It carries something gentler, softer chords that fill your lungs with exactly the type of yearning you were aiming for.

You pause. “That’s…”

“Exactly what you wanted?”

You nudge his knee with your own, hit record on the soundboard, “do it again.”

And so it begins.

You find that Leon isn’t so bad when he’s writing music with you. In fact, within the four soundproof walls of your studio, he’s almost nice. He listens when you tell him to change a chord. He lets you needle him, prod at his composure like you’re tuning a guitar string too tight just to hear it snap.

Most nights you’re in the studio until the twilight hours before sunrise. You stay until your voice is worn ragged, fingers blistered from overuse. Until your limbs give out and you’ve passed out in the swivel chair, curled up like a cat in the glow of LED strips and mixing boards. You always wake to something left behind—a lukewarm cup of coffee, a half-drunk energy drink, sometimes the old throw blanket draped over your shoulders. It’s a rhythm now, syncopated and strange, yet something you’ve grown fond of.

It’s only inevitable, the way you grow closer with time.

“Don’t lie sweetheart,” he murmurs one night in the hush of your studio, “I think I’m growing on you.”

“Like black mold.” you shoot back, but the grin tugging at your lips betrays you.

And it’s just all too easy to think about him when he's not there.

You remember watching his set from the wings at that summer festival—the first time you’d shared a stage. The downpour had been terrible and insistent his entire performance, rain slicking his thread-bare shirt to his skin, turning his hair dark and wild. He’d looked like straight up sex appeal, sweat and storm and strobe lights, and you’d had to physically stop yourself from reaching for him when he walked offstage.

He’d smelt like a thunderstorm, heady as he’d squeezed your shoulders like he was grateful, damp and buzzing with leftover adrenaline. “How’d I do?”

“Not bad, rockstar,” you’d said, but your voice had come out all soft.

Now he lives in your notebooks.

That’s the real inevitability of it, you think. Unreleased verses tucked between grocery lists and studio appointments. Lyrics written in the haze of 2 a.m., voice notes left half-sung on your phone, songs you’ll never show him during your secret writing sessions.

They’re not the kind of songs you should be writing.

They’re laced with want—velvet and teeth, obsessive and desperate. They don’t sound like you, not the way your label wants you to. They’re darker, sultrier, leave you flushed when you play them back.

It’s not like you mean to write them about him. They just come out that way. Something about the way his voice sounds when he's two glasses of whiskey in and recounting a silent film he’d watched three fortnights ago. They’re all pent up tension—the way he pretty much knows his way around your apartment now, well enough to find where you keep the good wine anyway, the way his fingers move over the fretboard of his Paul Reed Smith with a guitar pick between his teeth, the phantom weight of his palm on your lower back when he passes by you.

You bottle every look, every breathy half-laugh, every fleeting moment where you wonder what his hands would feel like if they dipped lower.

Your songs are about him, yes, and they’re for him, in all the infuriating ways you wish they weren’t.

So naturally, the smartest thing to do is keep them buried—demo files hidden in unlabeled folders, notebooks tucked behind equipment cases. Off-limits. Confidential. A bomb waiting to go off.

At least, until tonight.

You’re curled up on the studio couch, Leon’s out at some fancy party tonight, said he couldn't write. There’s a half-empty bottle of wine and the glow of your laptop screen to keep you company, but it’s not enough not the same without him.

There’s a particular song that haunts you. It’s a confession wrapped in delicate ribbons of sultry melodies. Your voice a touch away from a moan, lyrics that dance around his name.

You shouldn’t have written it.

Definitely shouldn’t have recorded it either.

And now you find yourself hovering over the file like it’s taunting you.

Maybe you can blame it on the buzz in your veins, or the way you’d caught his eye earlier that morning in the breakroom. He’d looked at you over the rim of his mug, winked at you like he could read you. You curse yourself under your breath at the memory. He totally knows he’s getting to you. You’d dropped the I-hate-you act three moves back.

So you drag-and-drop the demo. Chew your lip. Hit send.

Check and mate.

But by the time you’ve sobered up enough to panic, it’s already much too late.

Seven minutes. He texts back, and it sounds nearly like a threat.

Bad, bad, bad idea. No, actually, bad doesn’t even begin to encapsulate how horrific of an idea that was. A category-five hurricane of a mistake.

What were you thinking?

Well, clearly you weren’t.

You clamber to your feet, pace barefoot on the studio carpet, wearing a frantic path into the fibres. Back and forth, back and forth. Damage control is like a roulette wheel spinning in your mind, you could delete the message, a phone malfunction, yes, totally. Your label leaked it by accident, or it’s just one big elaborate joke.

Or, or— and this is the best one yet, you could change your name, dye your hair, move to another country where six-time award winning rockstars with stupid voices and stupid fingers on guitars don’t exist.

You’re halfway through plotting your escape through the window when the door clicks open exactly seven minutes later.

You startle like a deer in headlights, eyes wide when they snap up to the man of the hour—to Leon— and your stomach drops clean through the floor.

“You drive fast,” is what you manage. Leon clicks the door shut behind him.

His hair’s an artful mess, like he’s either run his hand through it a million times on the drive here, or just rolled out of bed. You like the former option so you pretend it’s that. His shoulders look tense, jaw tight, and his eyes—dark, sharp, dragging over you like he’s trying to see right through you.

His eyes flick to the littered coffee table, your notebook, the bottle of wine that looks at least a quarter drained.

Something strange flickers in his gaze, and for a minute you paint him as disappointed.

Oh. You realise, with startling clarity, that he thinks you’re wasted.

It’s like a light at the end of the tunnel, a saving grace. It’d be an easy way out, wouldn’t it? Oops, Leon, sorry, wasn’t in my right mind, don’t even remember sending it, haha, how embarrassing!

But you’re not, at least not anymore, you’re standing in front of him with unfortunate sobriety.

“Are you drunk?” He asks, voice low and rough around the edges.

Your mouth falls open, as if you’ve been scandalised. “Uh, rude?” You gesture wildly to the wine, then yourself. “I had two drinks, max. I am perfectly—” you take a dramatic step forward, stop, then another, arms out like you're proving a sobriety test, “—-fine.”

Leon doesn’t budge, stands there with his brows cinched like he’s in deep thought. It gives you space to take the upper hand back, if it was ever yours in the first place. “You, on the other hand,” you point an accusatory finger across the room, “are looking at me like I crashed your car or something.”

You might as well have with the way you have his heart hammering up his throat. He hates it, how you make him lose his carefully crafted cool. Being this nonchalant doesn’t come easy.

His tongue swipes over his teeth. And fuck him, because that shouldn’t be so distracting.

“Fine,” he starts, slow, “you wanna play dumb?’

“M’not dumb, it’s called being coy,” you hum, all too self satisfied.

Leon lets out a short breath of laughter, sharp, shakes his head and turns away like he needs to physically remove himself from you before he does something stupid.

And you should leave it there, because his buttons are officially pushed, yet you don’t feel familiar satisfaction curl around your chest like it should. “If this is about the song—”

His head tips, just slightly. “If?”

You swallow. “I mean—”

He scoffs. Sharp. Disbelieving. Runs a thumb over his lips. “If this is about the song,” he repeats, like he can’t believe you even tried that.

You open your mouth, then close it, then open it again. "I—"

“Don’t,” he mutters. “Drop it.”

Your jaw shuts, and it takes less than a second for Leon to close the distance between you, effectively stealing all the air from your lungs. You resist the urge to back away, to give him that satisfaction, even when your body screams at you to. Not out of fear, but because he’s looking at you like he can finally see right through you.

"You sent it to me first," he says, quiet, but sure. His eyes flick down, over your lips, your throat, back up.

Your stomach turns, and you force yourself to bite back your words, despite how hard they are to swallow.

“And I wanted to believe you were drunk when you sent it,” he says, voice rougher now than before, “would’ve been easier that way.”

You shift your weight, but don’t bow your head. “Easier?”

Your gaze flickers to where his jaw flexes. "Would’ve been a mistake, then. Would’ve meant I could just forget about it."

Forget about it. That shouldn’t sting.

You shrug, aiming for nonchalance, but your voice comes out quieter than you mean it to. "So forget about it."

His voice, that stupid calibre of his, drops to something even lower, something barely above a whisper.

"You really want me to?"

Your breath stutters. He takes your loss of words as an answer.

His fingers brush against your wrist, deft hands circle around the bone, his thumb brushing up against your pulse. Your skin burns where his finger’s graze. His other hand skims up your other arm, brushes against your jaw, and it’s so soft, tentative in a way that makes you shudder, an oxymoron to the storm brewing in his eyes.

“Tell me,” he murmurs, “if I kiss you right now, are you gonna pretend you don’t want it?”

The question hangs in the space between, thick like tar.

It’s only when his thumb brushes against your cheek, that you feel your restraint, thin as hair, give. Slowly—so slowly—you tilt your chin up, just a fraction, just enough to close the distance so that your lips ghost over his, an echo of a kiss, but not quite one. Your move, rockstar.

It’s a thread-thin dangerous thing that sets his jaw tight, he inhales sharply, and you swear you see him tremble.

You laugh softly at that, sweet as ever.

Leon caves.

His hand shifts, curls around the nape of your neck, pulls you flush and slots his lips against yours.

The press of his mouth is warm, wanting, firm and demanding.

But then you smile against his lips—satisfied, smug, victorious—and he groans something devastated.

It’s a low, deep, wrecked sort of sound, something that comes right from his chest, heavy with everything unsaid. His other hand finds your waist, squeezes tight, feels your skin give under his hold, like you’re finally his to keep and he can’t quite get enough.

“Minx,” he mutters, breathless frustration bleeding into his words.

You revel in it, your skin erupting in goosebumps.

His hand tightens around the back of your neck, tilting your head just so—like he’s determined to kiss that satisfaction right off your lips.

Spoiler: he won’t.

Because you kiss him back just as fiercely, just as insistently, pressing up on your toes like you need to get closer, like you could crawl inside his skin if he let you.

Your hands curl around his shoulders, move up to the junction where they meet the column of his throat, tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck. You tug and he lets out something that sounds dangerously close to a moan.

And you wonder if he hates this, how easily he unravels for you, how easily you undo him. It’s like you’ve been sent right from heaven to torture him.

His hands find the curve of your waist, skate down the warmth of your skin, the swell of your hips, the back of your thighs, until he’s pressing in, guiding you backward—steady, steady—until the backs of your knees hit the couch.

Your balance wavers.

“Careful,” he murmurs, half-amused like this is funny to him.

He doesn’t give you the grace of finding your footing, pressing forward until you’ve sunk into the cushions.

Leon stands there for a second, looking down at you, eyes heavy-lidded, dark with something that makes heat coil in your stomach. He drags a hand over his mouth, like he’s trying to wipe away whatever impulse is written across his face. Like it might be something reckless, ruining.

Then, he exhales. Sharp and quiet, he sinks to his knees in the space between your legs, a sight so devastating you forget to breathe.

Broad hands wrap around the plush of your thighs, fingers pressing half-moon divots into your skin.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, half to himself, half to you, something dangerously close to adoration lacing his words. His thumb brushes absently along the sensitive skin just above your knee, gaze tracking the way your breath shudders. Ruining, indeed.

And then—oh, then— his palm slips to hook underneath your knee, pulls your leg over his shoulder. You suck in a sharp breath, unable to tear your gaze away from his; bright blue eyes that sparkle something wondrous in the low light.

You try to handle yourself, lest he watch you fall apart from a simple look. “If you think I’m just gonna melt the second you put your hands on me, you’re—” Your breath unfortunately hitches the second his grip tightens around your thigh, makes your pulse jump.

He raises a brow, infuriatingly smug, like he’s daring you to finish that sentence.

You clear your throat. “—you’re sorely mistaken.”

Leon huffs out a laugh, low and knowing. “Sorely?”

You fruitlessly dig your heel into his back, a half-attempt at a kick, a half-attempt at saving some of your dignity. “Yes, sorely.”

His hands slide up in a wordless answer—dragging his nails back down your thigh, nosing at the soft fat, pressing his mouth against the skin. The brush of his lips alone unravels you enough that you can’t muster an appropriate response, shivering, sighing instead.

“Someone’s quiet,” he muses lazily, drags his teeth just barely along your skin before soothing the spot with his tongue. “Where’d all that attitude go?”

You scowl before you can stop yourself. “It’s recalculating.”

A shit-eating smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, “Yeah?” He does it again, open-mouthed this time, sucks supple flesh between his lips, bites, pulls away. “Let me know when it’s back."

Your chest feels like it’s on fire, so instead, your hands find the broad line of his shoulders, curl into the fabric of his shirt, and pull him up by the collar. He follows without much give, your thigh falls off his shoulder when he climbs up to press you into the plush cushion, cages you in. And fuck—you don’t think you should be this turned on by his weight atop you, by the heat of him, by that look in his eyes.

You can hear the way your heart pounds, blood rushing in your ears. Can feel it in your fingertips when you drag them down his chest, his stomach, until they catch the hem of his shirt. You push it up enough to reveal the hard muscle of his abdomen. He shudders atop you.

Leon’s lips are back on yours before you can even think to be smug about it, before the teasing grin can curl at the corner of your lips. It’s hotter now, deeper, tongue sliding against yours like he’s trying to drown you. And in the heat of it, his knee presses between your thighs. You’re not sure if he does it on purpose, if it’s a brilliant accident, but either way it makes you keen, a gasp of pleasant surprise tumbling from your lips.

He groans into your mouth, one hand tightening on your hip. “You sound better than I imagined,” he breathes heavily, and heat floods your face.

You swallow hard. Shut up, shut up, shut up.

Your heart jumps at the thought of him having imagined this. Having imagined how you sounded, how he would’ve imagined you falling apart. It does horrible things to your head and even worse things to the slick heat between your thighs.

You should have a response by now, something sharp and devastatingly witty, but all you can really focus on is the way he looks at you. Like he’d let you ruin him and call it a privilege. And then he moves, pressing closer, knee pressing up between your thighs more purposefully than before, and whatever witty remark you had queued up promptly exits the premises.

The sound that leaves your mouth is embarrassing. Mortifying, even.

“Oh,” Leon murmurs, voice all smoke and velvet, “there it is.”

You absolutely despise how much you like that, refuse to let him have it. Can’t. Won’t. His ego is slowly swelling to the size of a stadium, and the last thing you need is for him to think he has you all figured out.

So, you do what any self-respecting, prideful person in your position would do: you take the liberty to push at his shoulders, and when he leans back, you seize the opportunity. Grip the front of his shirt, and push him down against the couch. He lets you, laughing under his breath, hands settling easy against your thighs as you straddle his lap.

“Don’t look so smug,” you warn, fingers sliding down, slow and deliberate. His stomach tenses beneath your touch.

“I’m not smug,” he argues, but he’s smiling something devilish—lazy, lopsided, thoroughly enjoying himself. His hands flex against your legs, and you let yourself believe he needs it to ground himself. “Just waiting to see what you’ve got planned.”

Your pulse thrums in your throat, but you play nonchalance better than he gives you credit for. “You got a request?”

“Don’t think I need one,” he says, watching as your hands dip lower, brushing over his belt buckle. “You wrote a song about it, m’sure you have ideas.”

If looks could kill he would be dead, because you’re glaring at him like he’s said something horrific. He is right, but you don’t let him have the satisfaction of hearing you admit it.

Instead, you hook your fingers under the leather, tug just enough to make him suck in a harsh breath. His eyes darken, and it’s thrilling—watching him unravel, shift beneath you.

“Aw, is that all it took?” You coo, pleased beyond words, leaning in close to brush your lips against his jaw. “Usually so put together, doesn’t take much to get you like this, does it?”

Leon huffs a laugh, but goes willingly, tilts his head to let you mouth down his throat. “You wanna talk about falling apart? What was that sound you made just a minute ago?”

You bite down, enough to make him hiss. “Stop talking.”

You can picture the smile that tugs at his thin lips, feel the way his warm, broad palms skim up, under your shirt, pressing into your back, fingers tracing the curve of your spine, slipping under the band of bra.

His belt slips free with a quiet clink, and you savour the way his muscles jump under your hands as you undo the button of his jeans, the steady sound of his shallow breathing when your fingers brush against the sharp line of his hip bone.

He tries not to push, but you can just about feel the restraining in him, the way his fingers twitch where they rest against your thighs, jaw clenched, muscles tight like a wire pulled taut.

You drag your nails lightly over the plane of his stomach, card your fingers through the thin trail of hair that leads down from his navel, just to see what he does when you do.

Leon sucks in a sharp breath, his head tipping back against the couch, and the sound he makes—low and barely restrained—sends a rush of heat straight through you.

“You’re trying to kill me.” He swears, voice beyond wrecked, and for a second you think he might start begging for mercy.

“No,” you hum, tilting your head, hands running up his chest, under his shirt. “Just having fun.”

Leon laughs—all breathless, shaky around the edges. But there’s something desperate in the way he exhales, in the way his hips shift up just barely like he’s fighting every instinct to meet you halfway.

There must be a devil on your shoulder, he thinks, because you make it worse.

Your hips roll down, testing, barely any pressure, but enough he feels it. His breath punches out of him like you’ve knocked the wind from his lungs. His fingers dig into your thighs, desperation in his grip.

His head falls forward, eyes flicking up to meet yours, and fuck, you really weren’t prepared for how he looks at you—half-lidded, dark with something simmering just beneath the surface.

“You enjoying yourself?” he asks, voice low and rough, like it pains him to think too hard.

A grin stretches across your lips, heart thrumming with satisfaction, you’ve won, you think, made him fall to pieces without even touching him properly.

But then he exhales sharply through his nose, takes your hand.

He presses it to his chest, right over his heart—fast, heavy, pounding.

“You feel that?” His voice is low, his other hand, still on your back, coaxes you closer. Close enough your lips brush. “You did that.”

You let out a shaky breath, Leon curses because he thinks he finally has you breaking.

You didn’t expect him to do that, to let his walls come down and show you just how much you affect him. Didn’t think he’d pull the rug from under your feet and admit defeat in one fell swoop. He looks at you like he actually wants you, not just the game of it, not just for the win.

He wants you.

…You want him.

Leon watches your face like he’s waiting for you to stop him, but when you don’t, when your lips part like you’re about to ask for something, maybe even beg—he decides.

He leans up, closes the short space between you, and kisses you deep and slow. Like you’re the best thing he’s ever had the pleasure of tasting. He doesn’t rush, nor does he fumble. Just touches you like he means it. Like he really has thought about this more than he’s willing to admit.

His fingers push at the hem of your shirt, sliding up your ribs, pulls the fabric off like it’s nothing. And when your body trembles against his, he swears to himself he’d do just about anything for you.

He lets you tug his jeans lower, helps you. His hands are steady, careful when he presses against the fabric of your underwear.

Leon watches your face, watches the way your lips fall open, breath uneven, the way your fingers tighten in his shirt, and then—

Then you make a sound so sweet, so utterly wrecked that his resolve snaps like a thread pulled too tight.

“Christ,” he mutters, like it physically pains him, and then he’s kissing you twice as hard as before, deep and wanting, swallowing every breath, every soft noise, every shaky exhale.

His fingers press firmer, so, so eager, willing to coax any sound out of you that you’ll let him. Your hands curl at his shoulders, hips bucking deftly against his palm.

“Leon, Leon, Leon,” you murmur, breathless and shaking, spilling his name into his own mouth.

He stills just barely, and fuck, it wrecks him—he doesn’t know if it’s the way you say it, like he’s something sacred, or the fact that you’re coming undone just for him.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he whispers, pulling away even if it kills him, pressing warm lips against your jaw. “Gotta use your words.”

You blink up at him, dazed. “Don’t baby me.”

His mouth twitches. “You don’t want me to baby you?”

You want to tell him everything. That you want him to touch you like this, and talk to you like that, but also see you, really see you. Want him to want all of it—not just your body, not just the thrill of it, but the gentler parts too. The parts of you that ache when he leaves the room. The parts that want to believe someone like him could care that deeply.

“I want—” you start, then stop, teeth sinking into your lip.

He softens. Just a bit. Just enough.

“Alright, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “Tell me how you want it.”

Your throat works around the words. You reach down, let your fingers trace along the waistband of his boxers, and look him dead in the eyes.

“Wanna ride you.” You whisper, voice is thin with adrenaline and want.

Leon groans like it’s been punched out of him. “Fuck. Jesus. Shit.”

You grin, all teeth, trying to ease the gravity in your chest. “Oh, c’mon, rockstar. I’m sure that’s not the first time you’ve had a girl say that before.”

He huffs out something like a laugh. “S’different,” he says quietly.

You’re too scared to ask how.

So instead, you kiss him like it’ll shut out the question. Like you can pour your want into his mouth and he’ll take it, keep it, like your secret's tucked somewhere between your teeth and if he’s patient enough, if he presses hard enough, he’ll find it there.

Leon groans into it, hands dragging along the curve of your waist, your hips. His palms are firm there, like he’s claiming something, like he’s grounding you both.

“You ride me,” he murmurs against your lips, “and I swear I’m not gonna last long.”

“Aw,” you tease, all syrup and heat, brushing your nose against his, “poor baby.”

He bites your bottom lip in retaliation, gentle but pointed, and you gasp.

“I’ll make it worth your while,” you whisper, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt before finally, finally, dragging it up, over his head, revealing sweat-warmed skin that you wish you could lick clean with your tongue.

Unfortunately, there doesn’t seem to be much more time to waste. Leon’s handsiness, you’ve discovered, is both a curse and a gift—he can’t seem to stop touching you, and you’re in no hurry to make him.

He helps you shimmy out of your underwear, breath catching when you’re bare before him. He drinks you in, staring like a man praying for patience. Then you sit back slightly, thighs spread over his lap, and he does it again, that mouth of his.

“God, look at you,” he mutters, like he can’t believe his luck. “You’re unreal.”

It makes your head swim, the way he says it.

In hindsight, you should’ve taken more time, wish you’d used your hand to stroke his length until he was begging for more, but the heady haze of sex-soup your brain is swimming in doesn’t leave you much choice. You’ll get him next time, you decide.

So instead you hide the flush of your cheeks with the sink of your hips, and you think it just about does it. Leon groans like it knocks the wind from him, his head tips back against the couch, throat bared, lashes fluttering.

The stretch is deep, thick, just shy of overwhelming. It steals your breath and then your balance, and you fall forward, catching yourself on his chest. He’s warm there. Bare skin and heart beneath your palms, his pulse kicking against your fingertips like it might leap out and run to you.

“Fuck— God you’re warm. You’re so warm,” he mumbles, and it’s so hot and heavy it makes you blush hard enough you feel it in your ears, your chest, your thighs.

“Romantic,” you breathe against his jaw, trying for wit but inevitably melting into the moment.

He huffs out a laugh, half-amused, half-ruined. “Mouth on you.”

“You like it.”

“Unfortunately,” he grits out, squeezing your thighs. “You gonna move or just sit there lookin’ pretty?”

He feels you grin against the column of his throat first, then feels you roll your hips sickeningly slowly second.

“Christ,” he moans obscenely, fingers digging into your skin. “You’re—fuck. This is a bad idea.”

You pant, shake your head. “I think we’re way past bad ideas.”

Leon’s hand slides up your back, catches at the nape of your neck, forces your mouth back to his like he needs to taste your smugness. You feel him twitch inside you when you moan into the kiss—high and desperate, something wild climbing up your throat.

“You sound so sweet when you’re full of me,” he murmurs against your lips, and it’s awful, the way your body clenches down at the filth of it. “All that smartass attitude, but now you’re just—” he cuts himself off with a groan, “—fuckin’ whimpering.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

Your hand finds the back of his neck, you tighten your grip in his hair and drop your hips again, slower this time, grinding until he groans like you’ve punched the air out of him. You want to crawl inside him, disappear beneath his skin.

“Pretty girl,” he says, low and reverent. “You sound so fuckin’ sweet.”

You whimper at that. Your rhythm stutters.

Leon finds it really doesn’t take much to melt your poor brain. You’re already gone—thighs trembling, mouth open, whimpering nonsense between the slick drag of your hips. He takes advantage where he can, thrusts up into you with a force that makes you hiccup on a wet moan. Cute, cute, cute.

“Leon,” you whisper, voice thin and cracked and ruined. You’re not sure what you’re asking for. More? Less? Everything?

“Yeah, baby,” he breathes, eyes glassy as they flick between your face and where your bodies meet. “Feels good, huh?”

God, his voice. You want to drown in the low timber that rattles through your head when he speaks like that. And of course, you nod. Desperate, mindless, somewhere between obsession and devotion. Your nails dig half-moons into the meat of his shoulders, your hips rocking pitifully.

“Can’t—can’t think,” you admit, a choked sound riding the edge of a sob.

Leon lets out a sharp breath through his nose, swears under it. “Good.” His voice is hoarse, fraying at the edges. “Don’t wanna hear you think. Just wanna hear you come.”

“Yours,” you whisper without thinking, tears burning and cresting your pretty lashes. “Yours, yours, yours—”

“That’s it,” he groans, “My girl.”

Your head jerks slightly, like the words ripple straight through you.

“Your girl?” you echo, dazed, like it floated up out of your mouth before your brain could catch it.

He doesn’t answer—not with words. Just thrusts up into you slow and deep, like he can fuck the truth back into you. Kisses you like you’ve ruined him completely.

And just like that, it’s all too much.

The rhythm you’ve managed to keep starts to splinter, your movements losing precision. You’re clinging to him, breath coming in hot, wet gasps, thighs shaking, body screaming for that last push.

Leon feels it. Sees it in your face.

“You gonna come for me?” he pants, hands sliding down, down, gripping the back of your thighs as you lift and drop, roll and press. “You gonna soak my cock like a good fuckin’ girl?”

“Don’t wanna yet,” you whisper, but it’s fragile, a lie at best. You’re already falling apart.

He groans like you’ve stabbed him. “Jesus, you’re killing me. I haven’t fucked you stupid enough yet, huh?”

His hand slides down, fingers finding your clit, circling slow and punishing.

You arch into him with a cry, loud and unfiltered, every inch of you unraveling.

“There she is,” he breathes, reverent and wild-eyed, watching you fall to pieces on top of him. “God, baby. Just like that.”

“You’re bein’ mean,” You whine, words all slurred, as the tears begin to well and dribble down the pretty apples of your cheeks.

“Oh, angel,” He coos, and god you really do hate how smug he gets. “Me? Mean? You wound me, pretty.”

“Shut up,” you pant, whining high and rutting hopelessly against him.

“C’mon,” he pants, thumb still working lazy circles against the throb of your clit, “I wanna feel you beg for it.”

It’s cruel. Cruel, the way he says it—rasped out like a curse, like it’s the last thing he’ll ever ask for. His hand is steady even as his breath breaks apart. He’s wrecked. Close. You can feel it in the way he shakes under you, in the stutter of his hips against yours.

You giggle helplessly into the crook of his neck.

His thumb presses firmer, tight figure eights.

“Leon—!” your voice catches on a sob, you’re so close it’s dizzying, so wet and full and tense that your whole body tightens like a string about to snap. “Can’t—too much—”

“Too much?” he echoes, low and amused, and god, it shouldn’t sound so tender. “Thought you said you didn’t wanna come yet. Changed your mind?”

You nod before you can stop yourself, head lolling as your hips rut down in frantic little circles, chasing the friction.

He groans at the sight, palm spreading wide across your spine like he’s trying to hold you together. “Fuckin’ knew it. Talk big, but look at you now—makin’ a mess on me.”

One arm tightens around your waist, locking you down, and the other braces at your back as he thrusts up into you again—deeper now, sharper, fucking the air right out of your lungs.

You keen, and he laughs—breathy and soft and so fucking fond that it breaks you open.

“Look at you.” He noses at your cheek. “You’re outta your mind.”

You are. You really are. And it’s all him. The heat of him, the rough scrape of his voice, the way he touches you like you’re something to worship and ruin in the same breath.

“Gonna come,” you choke out, breath hitching as your thighs start to shake. “Please—Leon, please—”

“Fuck,” he groans, and his hips stutter. “Go on, baby. Let go. You’ve been so good for me.”

That’s all it takes. The words hit like a match to gasoline. Your whole body seizes—tight and trembling and gasping as your climax crashes over you like a wave, dragging a whine out of your throat that doesn’t sound human.

Leon holds you through it, rocking you through every pulse, every shudder. He murmurs something into your skin, something quiet and unintelligible, and then he follows—his body locking up beneath you, his breath catching.

“Fuck—fuck,” he hisses, head tipped back, mouth open. You feel the heat of him inside you, feel the full-body tremor that wrecks him. He’s still buried deep, still gripping you like he’ll fall apart if he lets go.

It’s a long moment before either of you moves.

You can feel his heartbeat against your chest, wild and unsteady.

“You alright?” he asks after a minute, voice low and rough around the edges.

You nod, cheek resting heavy against his shoulder, still trembling even when he eases you back. Your body feels like it’s been rung out, soaked in sugar, nerves singing somewhere between pleasure and disbelief.

Your fingers twitch where they rest against his chest, and you murmur something against his neck—something nonsensical, vowels dragging like honey.

“What was that?” he asks, voice hoarse but amused, his hand smoothing over your back, tracing your spine like a secret.

“Dunno,” you mumble, “I think I saw God.”

Leon huffs a laugh. “You talk a lot.”

You don’t respond, just hum again, lost in the float of it—too far gone to be embarrassed, too fucked out to pretend you’re not still clenching around him. You feel him begin to shift, and what starts as a delighted little hum, turns to protest, a whimper slipping from your lips before you can think to stop it when you realise he’s pulling out.

“No,” you whisper, eyes glassy, fingers curling weakly at his wrist like maybe you could keep him there. “Wait—Leon—mmph.”

His laugh is breathy, wrecked. “That good, huh?”

You glare, or try to. It’s weak at best. “Don’t—don’t be mean to me.”

“You’re the one whining.”

“You made me whine,” you grumble, but it comes out slurred, a little dreamy.

Leon grins like he’s won the lottery. He’s still so close, and maybe the way his hands are smoothing over your thighs, up your hips, dragging the touch out like he can’t stand to stop can make up for how empty you feel now.

He has no shame when he cups between your thighs again and presses two fingers there, slow and lazy, you jolt. “Leon—”

He hums, smug. “Messy,” he murmurs, fingers slipping between your folds. “Look at what you let me do to you.”

You shiver hard, half from oversensitivity, half from the way his voice drips with possessiveness. You’re too blissed out to argue, too soft to push him away. Especially when he slides one of those fingers back in, just enough.

You gasp. “Ohhhhh,” you sigh, all delight and dazed affection.

You squirm against him a little helplessly, make a face when you feel him push a little deeper, like he’s guiding what’s left of himself back into you. Your head tips back with a helpless sound.

“Leon—what the fuck?”

He has the audacity to look smug. “What? Can’t let any of it go to waste.”

“Gross,” you whine, trying and failing to wiggle away. He keeps you right there, hands firm but fond, and you know, deep in your bones, that you don’t really want to go anywhere but where he is.

He offers you a real clean-up after your thighs have stopped shaking, drives you back to your place and walks you to the door like a gentleman. It feels all too sweet for the type of night you’ve had, and every part of you wishes this won’t be the last of them.

You half expect him to say something—to ask to come in, or kiss you goodnight, or at least promise to see you again.

But he just smiles. Nods. Taps two fingers to his temple in a lazy salute.

“Night, sweetheart.”

Then he’s gone.

And in the warm lull of dawn, with your sheets still cold and your heart beating somewhere between your ribs and your throat, you wonder what to do with the ache of him still lingering under your skin.

So when morning properly comes—sun high, coffee half-sipped, hair still tangled from the night before—you call.

Just to see if he’ll pick up. Just to hear the line connect.

It rings once.

Twice.

And then you hang up in a panic.

You curse under your breath. Call yourself a hundred kinds of idiot. Your thumb is still hovering over the screen when your phone buzzes in your hand.

Leon Kennedy is calling you.

Shit, shit, shit! You muster whatever dignity you have left, swallow, and answer.

“Sweetheart?” His voice is all sleepy, a little hoarse with morning, makes your heart bloom with warmth. You sink deeper into your mattress at the sound of it, curl into your pillow like it’s his chest.

“Yeah?” you say, like you’re afraid you’ve imagined the whole thing.

“You alright?”

“Mhm.”

“You called?”

“Yeah.”

“Wanna say something?”

You pause to worry your lip between your teeth.

“…No.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. You can hear the rustle of sheets over the line, the sleepy shift of his weight. You picture him in bed—bare chest, tousled hair, phone pressed to his ear, eyes still half-lidded with sleep.

“Alright,” he murmurs.

And then he hangs up.

You stare at your phone, wide-eyed like you can’t believe he really did it. Then you hit call again before you can talk yourself out of it. He answers right away.

“Hi,” you say.

“Hey,” he breathes, voice quiet and curious like a secret. “Couldn’t stay away, huh?”

You roll onto your back, smiling helplessly at the ceiling. “No.”

He chuckles, quiet and fond. “Me neither. Was already thinkin’ about you.”

You close your eyes. “I liked your voice just now.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

“I like yours too,” he says, voice thick. “Sound all soft. Like I should be wakin’ up next to you.”

The room feels warm again, like the night before never ended, whatever figurative line that you’ve drawn in the sand between you seems thinner than ever.

“Maybe next time,” you say softly.

There’s a careful pause. You both hang in the quiet, waiting to see if the moment passes.

“Have you…” he starts, then clears his throat. “Have you eaten yet?”

You shake your head although he can’t see. “No.”

“You want me to bring you something?”

The question bowls you over. It’s too sweet, too easy. Like he’s asked it a hundred times before, like this is just what you do.

“You don’t have to,” you whisper, but the fond curl of your lips slips into your voice and gives you away.

“Didn’t say I had to. Just figured you might want it.” A pause. “Something hot and filling.”

Your throat closes up a little, an uncharacteristic flush to your cheeks. “You mean pancakes?”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Among other things.”

“Leon,” you say his name urgently, too much bubbling to the surface all at once.

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

“You’re being…” You trail off, plucking at the fraying cuff of your sweater, too afraid to name it how it is, to ruin a good thing.

Another pause, you can hear the soft rise and fall of his breath. “I can be soft on you.” He murmurs, “If you let me.”

You press the phone harder to your ear, eyes stinging. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

“Good.” He says finally. Then, “Any coffee left at your place?”

“Only if you make it.”

He chuckles, low and fond. “I’ll be there in twenty.”

likes n reblogs r very much appreciated <3

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blueberrybirdsworld · 1 day ago

Text

Collision 15/20

Summary:

Lando always had a type : blonde, models, not ready to settle down. Yet once he met her, all his world is changed and he slowly start to realises maybe he was wrong all this time.

It's a prequel story of The Cat Distribution System, on how Lando Norris fall in love with Ariana. Could be read seperatly.

Pairing : lando norris x original female character

Genre : SMAU, Fluff, slow burn, enventual smut and angst

Warning : angst, Lando is sad (yes it's a warning)

CHAPTER 15 :

Serie Masterlist

The villa was too quiet.

The kind of quiet that wasn’t peaceful but tense, sharp-edged, and waiting to explode.

No one laughed today. No one joked. No soft teasing over breakfast. No sunbathing by the pool. The warmth of Brazil felt foreign now. Wrong. Like it belonged to someone else's story.

Ariana had locked herself in her room since their fight.

Lando hadn’t said a word to anyone.

Not a joke. Not a glance. Not even a sigh.

Max tried twice to get through to him: once with food, once with sarcasm. Neither worked. Charles suggested they go surfing. Lando didn’t answer. Carlos tried to break the tension by calling him “Romeo, version parano”, but even that landed flat.

Everyone knew.

Something had happened.

Something big.

Kika stood outside Ariana’s door at least three times, knocking gently.

“Babe, just tell me if you’re okay.”

Silence.

Pietra eventually snapped. “They need to talk.”

“Not our job to force it,” Max muttered.

“No,” Kika said, eyes hard, “but it’s our job to stop them from breaking something real.”

By the time sunset rolled across the sky like fire, the tension in the house had become unbearable. And Kika had enough.

Lando was pacing in the living room. Ariana hadn’t emerged all day.

So Kika did what no one else dared.

She marched upstairs. Knocked on Ariana’s door. “Put on something. Five minutes. You’re talking to him.”

Then she went straight to Lando, grabbed his wrist, and dragged him like a furious little storm cloud through the house.

Pierre tried to interfere. She silenced him with a glare.

“Get. In.”

She shoved them into the smallest guest room, snapped the door shut behind them, and locked it.

From the other side: “You’re not getting out until you talk. So fix it. Or burn it down. But decide.”

Footsteps faded.

Silence fell.

Ariana stood near the bed, arms crossed. Lando by the door, fists clenched.

The space between them felt oceans wide.

Neither moved.

Her voice came first, quiet but sharp. “We just have to pretend we’re fine. Then Kika will let us out. I’ll go back to my room, pack my things, and leave first thing tomorrow.”

His jaw clenched. “Back to Paris.”

She nodded. “Obviously.”

“Back to your dear dancer,” he snapped.

She froze.

“What?” Her voice was hollow.

Lando laughed, humorless and mean. “Isn’t that what this is? You come here, say all the right things, play with me for a week, and then go back to the guy you never stopped seeing.”

She stared at him.

He kept going, voice getting louder, sharper. “He’s the one, right? The one from the photos. The one you said was nothing. You still with him, aren’t you? Just couldn’t resist the thrill of sneaking around?”

Her voice cracked. “Lando—”

He cut her off. “Was I just a fun distraction?”

Silence.

Her tears welled instantly, blurring her vision.

She took a shaky step forward. “Do you really think… I’m cheating on my ‘boyfriend’ to be with you?”

He didn’t answer.

“Do you really think,” she whispered, voice shaking, “that I would say all of that, do all of that, travel across the world to be here with you… if I was still with someone else?”

Still silence.

Lando stared at the floor, chest heaving.

She let out a breathless, hurt laugh. “You don’t even see me.”

“You never said anything,” he muttered. “You never explained. You refused to talk about him. I had to find out online.”

“So that’s your excuse?” she shouted suddenly. “You believe Twitter over me?”

He flinched.

She stepped closer, voice rising. “You think gossip blogs and blurry pictures know me better than you do? Since when do you care about that kind of bullshit?”

He stayed silent.

And in that silence, something in her broke.

“You want the truth?” she said, voice trembling, “here’s the truth.”

She took a deep breath like she was pulling a blade from her own ribs.

“I dated him, yes. His name is Marc. He was my partner for three years. We were together the whole time. I thought he was the love of my life.”

Lando blinked, stunned.

She kept going.

“But he lied, hurt me, change me in a way I hated. Turns out he was cheating on me with half the damn company. Sleeping with students. Assistants. Anyone who smiled at him.”

Her voice cracked fully now. “I found out. I left him. That was a year ago. That’s how old those photos are. And no, I’m not still with him. I fucking hate him.”

Lando’s breath hitched. “Ari—”

She shook her head. “No. You wanted the truth, so just listen.”

His mouth snapped closed.

“I still have to dance with him. Still have to see him. Smile. Be civil. Pretend everything is fine because it’s my job. Because it’s the fucking Royal Ballet and I can’t let heartbreak cost me everything I’ve worked for since I was a kid.”

She wiped a tear off her cheek, furious with herself for crying.

“And this fucking jerk is still around me, remembering me of how much an idiot I was for falling for him, to believe all his lies and manipulation. He still posts about me or hugs me after a show like I am still his and it’s killing me. But I can’t say a thing because he is the fucking lead dancer, he had power and connection, so I had to work with him and pretend I get along, until the day my contract end and I will return to Paris, until now.”

Lando didn’t say a thing, he just looks at the ground, his heart fill with guilt and shame.

“So yeah. I lied that night at the Opera in London. I told you he was just a friend because back then, you were a stranger, Lando. A stranger I met at a Christmas party. And I didn’t owe you anything.”

He stood frozen, every muscle in his body aching.

“But now you know. Now you’ve ripped it out of me. Congratulations.”

Her voice dropped.

“Do you know what hurts the most?”

He lifted his gaze.

“I told myself I would never trust another man again. Never fall for someone. Never let anyone in after him. And then I met you.”

His throat burned.

“I fell for you. I loved you,” she whispered. “I know I should've explain it to you but Lando I was scared, and it's a part of my life I prefer to forget, to not talk about. You could've understand it, be patient, be kind, but no the moment it got hard, the second you felt doubt… you turned on me. You threw everything I gave you in my face and treated me like the villain."

She tried to breathe, to find words through the mess clawing at her throat.

"I never asked you about your past," she whispered, voice cracking with hurt. "Because it didn’t matter to me. Because I trusted you."

He was crying now, silent, hot tears that slid down his face like punishment.

"After everything I've been through..." she pressed on, voice breaking, "after everything, I still chose to trust you." Tears blurred her vision, but she refused to look away. "I saw the pictures too, Lando. I'm not blind. The girls at the clubs. The rumors about you. About the way you used to be."

His mouth parted, chest shifting with a sharp inhale.

"Ariana, I—"

She shook her head sharply, cutting him off before the words could leave his mouth.

"Don't," she whispered, voice thick with unshed tears. "Don't you dare try to explain now."

He stepped forward instinctively, reaching for her, but she stumbled back, out of reach.

"I ignored all of it," she said, voice trembling. "Because I knew you. Because I believed the Lando I fell for was different."

He flinched at that, visibly.

And then she added, softer, broken, like it was costing her everything, "But maybe I was wrong."

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Lando stood there, hand half-lifted like he didn’t know whether to reach for her or let her go.

She turned to the door.

“Kika!” Her voice was sharp. “Open the door.”

Seconds passed. Then a quiet click.

The door swung open.

Kika stood there, silent.

Ariana didn’t look at Lando again.

She walked out.

Up the stairs.

Straight to her room.

And the sound of her suitcase unzipping was the final note in the symphony of everything falling apart.

The house was still dark when she left.

6:04 a.m.

No sunrise yet. Just a dim grey light casting long shadows across the marble floors of the villa, painting everything in the dull palette of goodbyes. Just her suitcase in hand, hair pulled back, eyes heavy but dry, the tears had already come in the quiet of the night.

Ariana descended the stairs like a ghost.

Kika stood first, wrapping her in a long, warm hug, whispering things into her ear that Ariana would later forget the words of, but not the warmth. Pierre kissed the side of her head gently and said nothing. Alexandra gave her a sad smile and Charles a long squeeze of her hand. Max, still in his hoodie and socks, looked heartbroken.

“Are you sure?” he whispered.

Ariana nodded.

Pietra was crying in Rebecca arms while Carlos had no words.

Lando stood in the doorway.

He hadn't slept. Hadn’t eaten. His hoodie was stained with salt from silent tears dried and cried again.

Ariana didn’t look at him.

Didn’t say a word.

Not goodbye. Not even a fuck you.

Just silence.

The kind that broke bones.

And then she was gone. Out the door. Into the waiting car. Into a plane. Out of his world.

Back in their room, it was still dark.

The air was heavy. Still.

Lando stepped in slowly, as if the room would collapse if he moved too fast.

Her perfume was still there.

Sweet, floral, soft. Like summer mornings and pointe shoes. Like the softness of her neck pressed into his chest. Like her laugh when she tried to cook pasta barefoot.

And on the chair by the closet, the hoodie she always stole from him.

Folded.

Untouched.

Cold.

He sank to the floor.

He didn't sob. Not at first.

He just sat there.

Then his chest heaved once, twice, and suddenly he was curling into himself, arms wrapped around his knees, the hoodie clutched to his chest like it was the only thing tethering him to her memory.

And he cried.

Hard.

Ugly.

Painfully.

The kind of cry that comes when you realize you’ve truly, completely, irrevocably fucked it all up.

She was gone.

She had left him.

And this time, it wasn’t a game. There would be no playful texts. No teasing glances. No lazy mornings and paint-stained kisses. No ballet tickets.

Just absence.

Downstairs, the mood was shattered.

The group didn’t know what to say.

No one wanted to touch it.

Max, finally, got up and went upstairs. Quietly opened the door to Lando’s room and saw the boy he’d known since childhood curled in the ground.

“Mate,” he said gently, stepping in, “I don’t want to tell you how to feel right now. You’re in hell. I get it.”

Lando didn’t answer.

“But you need to talk to her. Fix it.”

Still nothing.

Max sighed, ruffling his curls, helpless. “Alright. Be sad. But don’t stay here forever.”

He walked back out.

And that’s when Kika came in.

She didn’t knock.

Didn’t soften her voice.

Didn’t give him any chance to prepare.

She walked right up to him, arms crossed, eyes blazing.

“What the actual fuck are you doing?”

Lando flinched slightly, looking up from the floor.

Kika didn’t stop.

“She’s gone. She left. And you’re just sitting here like you’re the victim in this?”

“I know I’m not,” he muttered hoarsely.

“Then why are you acting like it’s over?”

He looked away. “Because it is.”

“No.” Her voice was sharp. “It’s over because you’re letting it be over.”

“Kika—”

“She loved you.”

“I know.”

“She trusted you.”

“I know.”

“Then what the hell are you doing crying on the floor instead of going after her?”

Lando stood up slowly, eyes bloodshot. “Because I broke her. Because I said things I can’t take back.”

“And?”

“She won’t forgive me.”

“Not if you don’t fight for her,” she shot back. “But maybe that’s the truth, maybe you don’t actually love her the way she loved you.”

His head snapped up. “Don’t you dare.”

“Then prove me wrong,” she hissed. “Because right now? She’s in a car. She’s in an airport. She’s in a goddamn plane flying away from the guy who she thought would never hurt her. And you’re just… what? Gonna stay here? Let her leave?”

He didn’t answer.

Kika’s voice cracked now, not angry, desperate.

“Are you really going to let the love of your life walk away from you, Lando?”

His eyes closed.

“You know where she lives. You know where she dances. If you really love her, if you meant all of it then one mistake shouldn’t ruin everything.”

Lando was breathing hard now, like he couldn’t catch his breath.

Kika whispered. “Or will you let your fear ruin it.”

The room was quiet again.

But something inside him had cracked open, wider than guilt. Deeper than sadness.

Something that ached to be fixed.

And for the first time since she walked out the door…

Lando wasn’t crying.

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