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uracutieraka · 3 days ago

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Bakugo Katsuki who finally gets a date with his support course crush!

find part one here!

*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*

Bakugo Katsuki started acting completely different after he met you. His once perfect (to his standards at least) reputation was now ruined. The reason? Midoriya's cute support course friend.

Ever since you waltzed over to him with your sweet smile, and oh so pretty eyes, he finds himself nearly bewitched by you. It was driving him absolutely insane!

What was even more insane though, was watching this all unfold from and outside perspective.

Denki found himself nearly throwing up anytime you were even brought up in front of his friend, not because he thought you were gross, in fact it was the opposite. He found how down bad Bakugo was for you down right disturbing.

The normally mean and arrogant man seemed to do a 180° personality change when you came around, or even got mentioned in passing.

Denki especially hated it when you had now found yourself a regular member of their little lunch table. It just meant 40 minutes of watching Bakugo mindlessly nod his head with a glazed over look in his eyes, every. time. you. spoke.

"Gross." Denki says aloud as he bites into his sandwich. Eyes squinting as he watches the two of you like a hawk.

Sero looks over at his electric friend with a knowing smirk.

"You are so jealous Kaminari."

"Am not!"

The ruckus on the other side of the booth has you and Bakugo breaking away from your vicious flirting to study the source of the commotion.

His friends are sitting across from you arguing back and forth as Kirishima continues eating as if all was normal.

"Is everything okay?"

The boys now look over at the sound of the worried voice to see you. You have a concerned look on your face as you dart your eyes back and forth between them.

Denki looks over at his friend to see what his reaction will be to the boys interrupting you and him. To his dismay, bakugo has that stupid dopey smile on his face as he watched your every move.

Ok so maybe Denki was slightly jealous, but like, who wouldn't be? You were pretty and obviously attentive, smart but not arrogant, and worst of all, you liked Bakugo of all people.

Maybe he wouldn't be so upset at the situation if you liked Kirishima or literally anyone but the brooding Blond. It's not that he didn't want his friend to be happy, it's just that he didn't want him to get a girlfriend before he could.

So yeah maybe he was a bit jealous, but it wasn't that crazy.

Sero is quick to tell you everything is fine and to go back to what you were doing and you're quick to flash him a smile and nod of acknowledgment before turning back to the boy you were originally sat over here for.

You watch from the corners of your eyes as his friends go back to arguing but this time they're whisper yelling at each-other. You yet again lean slightly past Bakugo to see the red head sat behind him.

Kirishima only takes his eyes up from his tray of food when he hears his name being said. He looks up with a mouth full of food at the sound of your voice in his ears.

He takes a moment to hurriedly chew his food and swallow before responding.

"So, I was thinking, what if we just added some horns to your head gear instead of you always having to style your hair?"

Bakugo watched you interact with his classmates and feels himself pout a bit at the lack of attention.

You quickly glance at him through your peripheral vision and can see his bottom lip poking out as his eyebrows are furrowed together.

You decide to leans ever so slightly closer to the side of him so your knees are no longer the only parts of you touching.

He flushes and you feel him take a deep breath once your hip and leg is completely flush with his.

You now use your hand on his upper arm to support yourself as you look at Kirishima.

You and Kirishima share a few ideas back and forth with each other about the schematics of his hero costume.

You only end it when you see Bakugo roll his eyes.

You're quick to check your watch and stand up to excuse yourself.

Bakugo feels himself grow disappointed at the idea, a sad frown crossing his face to prove it.

You shoot him that intoxicating smile and ask him if he'd like to walk you to class.

"It's just awfully far and the walk is so boring by myself."

Bakugo yet again giggles at the invite and cleans up his lunch. He take the tray from your hands and you silently laugh at the way he puffs out his chest when you thank him and call him a gentleman.

Once he properly disposes of the trays you grab his wrist and quickly make your exit from the crowded area. He allows himself to be dragged off by you with a wide smile and soft eyes, chuckle bubbling out of him at your eagerness to leave.

If you told Bakugo a month ago that he'd be acting like one of those corny shojou manga guys he probably would've tried to fight you, but here he is now. Eyes never leaving the back of you as you lead him through the vast halls of UA.

After a few minutes of walking you slow down and drop his wrist, coming instead to stand at his side. He's kind of sad at the loss of contact with you but its quickly dissipated when you lean into him and nudge him slightly with your shoulder.

He looks down at you with a smile on his face and you give him the same expression as you two continue dow the halls towards your classroom.

Before the two of you turn down the hallways to your class, you stop him and lean your back on the wall.

He gives you a suspicious look and you tuck you hair behind your ear before talking.

"I don't want my teacher to see us yet.," a dry laugh comes from you before you decide it's best if you maybe actually looked at him while taking. He swears he can feel his heart stop (ifykyk) when you look back at him with a blush on your face and big doe eyes.

"I just wanted to say that I think you're super cute and wanted to know if you were maybe free tonight?"

He can feel his chest tighten at your words and he inhales at the sudden pit of anxiety in his abdomen.

He was free tonight, as he was most nights anyways.

"Yeah, are you?" He cringes internally at the dumb question, obviously you were. You wouldn't be asking him if you were busy. He feels a sense of relief when your siren like giggle swims around in head, ringing in his ears.

"Actually, I'm pretty busy tonight. I'm hanging out with this guy later then have some work to do on his friends costumes." You're tone is flat and he takes you seriously.

You watch as heartbreak over takes his face.

You playfully scoff and swat his chest.

"I'm talking about you Katsuki!" Another heavenly laugh graces his ears and he almost cries tears of joy from the sound alone.

"Oh." He says, heat creeping up his neck and ears as he awkwardly rubs the back of his neck.

"Pick me up at my dorm at 7:30?"

Normally, if you were anyone else, he would shut them down with s 'no' and the fact he goes to bed at 8 p.m. sharp every night. Though he quickly hears a desperate 'yes' tumble out his mouth before he can say anything else.

"Perfect!" You say, standing on your tippy toes to lean up and give him a soft peck on his cheek, something you had been doing since the day you met him. Though today you wore lipstick, something you normally skipped due to the inconvenience of it.

The dark red color stains his skin and you giggle before turning and walking off to class. The bell chimes and you turn around to holler at him.

"You have 10 minutes before you're supposed to be on the training course by the way Kacchan!" a mischievous smile tugs its way on your face as you wink and blow him a kiss before disappearing into your classroom.

He watches you with a fascinated look before he fully registers your words.

'Shit.' He thinks before bolting off to his class.

*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*

"You're late Bakugo." Aizawa dead pans as he walks up to the rest of his class on the platform.

He rolls his eyes and goes to respond before he's cut off again.

"Hey, what's on your face?" Midoriya asks, pointing to his cheek.

A few other students crowd him to get a look at the mysterious red mark.

"Is that a lipstick stain! What were you and that support course girl doing?!" Mineta pipes up.

Bakugo goes to hit him but is stopped when Mina goes to wipe it off.

He shoots himself up into the air and away from all of them.

They all watch in shock at his quick reflexes.

"Don't touch me idiot!"

Mina rolls her eyes and finally Denki chimes in.

"Bakugo, dude, get a grip it's just makeup."

Him and Denki ended up fighting so bad that he has to call you with the other boy to explain that he'll be there at 8 to pick you up instead, due to the fact him and Denki had to help Aizawa grade papers and clean the dorm showers as punishment for the disruption in class.

You giggle when he finally does come around to get you later that night. He has his hands shoved into his pockets and a nervous look on his face that seems to subside when you come out the front door and yet again leave a small kiss to the side of his face. He swears that you must have secret powers because of the way he gets so flustered anytime you even just breathe in his direction.

He hadn't heard the end of it in weeks, his friends constantly making fun of him for his rapid change in behavior. He didn't care though, which he even found weird himself, though he would never admit that to anyone.

He admires your cleaned up appearance, though he found it cute when you had your hair thrown up messily and grease stains on your face from whatever project you were currently working on in class.

"So, Katsuki," The sound of his actual name causes his ears to perk up and another woozy smile to sit on his face. "There's something that I want to show you."

You reach out and place your hand gently on his shoulder and run it down his arm, fingers lazily intertwining with his. You study how he reacts to your touch. You would be lying if you said you didn't throughly enjoy watching the notoriously angry man fold underneath the slightest bit of attention from you.

Though, you also can't help how it seems like your brain just turns off when you talk to him, a ditzy side of you that you didn't even know existed seeps out of you. It's like you can't help yourself. The desire to see that lovesick grin cover his face is all consuming.

You watch as he eventually gives you a few slow nods, showing you his approval to seeing whatever it is you want to show him. His eyes never leave where your hand is connected with his.

He thinks that this is probably the most amount of affection he's ever shown or accepted for anything.

You two walk in silence as you lead him to the school building, only when you scan a card to get in does he stand firm in his place with a weary look on his face. You turn back with a small frown at his solid stance.

"What's wrong?"

"Why are we at the school?"

You let go of him and turn around with and eyeball and a sigh, he knows it's just you poking fun at him due to the way the corners of your lips twitch up a bit as you speak.

"I don't know if you know this but support course students have 24 hour access to the school."

He in fact did not know this. You watch as his face contorts in confusion so you explain why as you rescan your ID card and open the door for him.

"Well for starters, our teacher is always here. He practically lives in the work room." He watches as a small snort leaves your body at the idea of your teacher living at school. "And it's also hard to stop us from working on our projects outside of class. The principle decided it was best to give us full access after a students dorm almost caught on fire when he plugged in his power saw." You continue to mindlessly ramble about how dumb he was for even attempting to do something like that in a small dorm, and how it's frustrating to have to walk all the way here in the middle of the night just to tinker around with small gadgets you could work on in bed.

He doesn't really hear anything you're saying though as his eyes are focused on the way your lips move and eyes seem to glimmer in the florescent lighting of the school halls.

He now fully takes in the way your hair is neatly styled and laid over your shoulders, and the way you have makeup on. He feels a since of pride at the idea of you getting all dolled up just for him to see. Though he quickly feels his knees buckle when you suddenly stop and push yourself up to him and wrap your arms around his neck before giving him a quick hug.

When you pull away you turn your head in an attempt to shy away from his gaze before you start talking to him.

He watches as you mess with the hem of your awfully short summer dress.

His face flushes at the way he can't tear his eyes off where the hem of the dress sways around your thighs.

You finally stop your gentle swaying and take a deep breath.

It's only when the flowy material stops moving completely that he looks back at you, he has to take in a harsh breath at how you look.

Sure you had looked at him head on before, and sometimes you had even bit your lips and blinked up at him! But this? This was something else. You had a wavering smile on your face as your cheeks were now full blown red. For once you were the overly flustered one.

"So uhm, Katsuki, I've been working on this for a couple weeks, and uhm, I'm really nervous to show you," You give him and awkward close eyed smile as you wipe your hands on the sides of your dress, because of this you miss the way he physically swoons at how adorable you look right now. "and it's not like its super amazing or anything! So don't make fun of me, okay?"

"No promises." A cheeky grin now hung on his face, it's the most confident you've seen him act around you, but like always it's cut short by you laughing and rejoining your hands to keep pulling him to your classroom.

You open the door and cringe at how squeaky it is. You turn back and put your finger up to your lip, signaling for him to be quiet.

"Mr. Majima?" Your voice chirps and echos through the metal work shop.

Bakugo wonders who you're calling out for.

He looks around the space, eyeing all the different things in wonder. He's shocked he's never been down here before. He looks back when he hears a loud crashing noise and sees someone pop around the corner.

"Oh! Y/n! Hi! I see you brought your, what'dya call him? Oh that's right! Your friend boy." A teasing tone is laced in the young teachers tone as you loudly groan and flick a lose nail up at the metal gear on his head.

"Bakugo Katsuki!," The teacher he now knows is Power Loader makes his way over to the blond. He watches as the man walks around him and inspects him a bit. Mumbling under his breath. He now turns back to you. "Interesting."

Bakugo feels like a bug getting crushed under someones foot at the choice of words.

"Whatever, Higari. Why don't you go tell my dad about how you nearly blew me up this morning with your stupid new invention." An eye roll and scoff has the older man backing off. Mumbling under his breath about how you were a spoiled brat.

Bakugo watches as he quickly leaves from the way you two had just entered.

"So you know him personally?" His voice holds a slight tremble at the new idea of how completely alone you two were.

You dryly chuckle and begin digging around, what he assumes, is your work station.

"Yeah, him and my dad have been friends since like forever ago. He's actually the one who convinced me to come here to UA. My top pick was a sister school in America."

Bakugo takes in the new information and stores it in his brain under a big fat file with your name on it.

"Wow," he shoves his hands back deep in his pockets. "America? That's far." He wants to slam his face into the wall for being so awkward.

You let out a frustrated huff before turning back to him with a laugh.

"Yeah it is!," you pout your lip out and tap your chin for a moment, lost in thought. "That means I wouldn't have met you! I guess staying has some perks." You send him a small smile before your more focused and frustrated scowl causes your brows to furrow close together, turning back to searching for whatever you had been looking for to begin with.

His eyes scan over the papers lazily tacked and stuck to your wall.

Sketches of Kirishima's costume are laid at the top of all papers. He steps forward to get a better look as you continue throwing drawers open and rummaging through them.

He slides the papers over and now realizes you had sketches of most of his friends costumes, with notes about what you could take away and add. He smiles softly before his eyes catch on a paper tucked underneath all your other ones. He sneakily glances at you through the corners of his eyes to make sure you're still preoccupied. His hand quickly shoves the paper to the side and double checks you didn't hear.

When he's 100% positive you're still busy he allows himself to fully look down. He feels his eyes get wide as he's greeted with the image.

Heat rushes up in his face as his eyes scan over it. Your name is scrawled all over it, but that's not what has him all giddy inside. His last name is written so prettily next to it. He thought his last name was so simple and boring but seeing it like this. In your handwriting? He's convinced it's the most beautiful name ever written, ever.

You stand up quickly and he jumps away from the desk, like he had gotten caught doing something he wasn't supposed to be doing.

Your eyes quickly fall onto where he was just standing looking down at, and widen. Heat shooting all over your body in embarrassment.

You jump over and shove papers around to cover it up.

You're apologizing to him frantically, but he doesn't care. He's looking at you like you just hung the stars up in the sky. The idea of you sitting there and doodling that over and over again yet again bring a cocky since of pride over him.

He takes the moment of clarity to show his true self a bit.

"So? Y/n Bakugo, huh?" He sees you deflate in on yourself and he suddenly feels bad for teasing you. He stutters in his head before deciding to say something else.

"It, uhm, it's a good fit." He was definitely going to make Kirishima punch him in the face later.

He watches as you now tilt your head and give him a confused stare.

"Our names...together..."

Oh my god why is he so nervous?

He watches as you bring your hands up to cover your mouth as you stifle a laugh. After a moment of fighting it you finally let it out. He watching with curious eyes until you stop and look at him, now putting your hands on your hips and standing up straighter.

"This is so awkward." The remnants of a chuckle slowly die down after you're done talking.

He feels slightly relieved at the fact you think so too, and that you also were nervous.

Bakugo hadn't spoked much since you met him, which always perplexed you for a few reasons.

He was known for being a loud and obnoxious student.

He was extremely talkative over text.

And lastly, he just overall seemed like the type to like hearing himself talk.

You hummed and motion for him to follow you. As you're walking you begin talking again.

"Ok, so like I said, you can't make fun of me for this, it's not my best work but I can always tinker with it later."

He's so busy looking around that he doesn't see you stop, causing himself to bump into you slightly.

He lets a sorry out under his breath as he goes to stand you up straight.

You tell him its okay before telling him to close his eyes.

"Why?" You can tell he's unsure about this but he reluctantly does it anyways when you tell him he'll see in a moment.

You walk around and place your hands on his shoulders guiding him forward a few feet. He feels cold when you let go of him.

He listens as you rummage around for a moment, he pokes his eye open but you're quick to run over and put your hands over them.

"Hey! No peaking!" You slightly uncover his eyes by sliding your fingers open. He has them screwed shut now.

You pull away from him and continue setting up.

"Okay!" You chirp out after a moment. He opens his eyes hesitantly.

He looks around for a moment before his eyes land on a pile of fabric neatly folded on a table.

"Well, aren't you gonna look at it?" You use your arms to motion between him and the present.

He walk towards it, slowly and unsure. You sigh and step forward, extending your hand out to him. He takes it with no hesitation. You guide him to stand over what he now notices as the base for his costume.

He gives you wide eyes.

"Is this..." His voice trails off as he brings his fingers to run over the soft material.

"Yep! A completely new type of fabric that's never been invented before!"

He was looking between you and the clothes in awe and shock. Did you really go out of your way to do this for him?

You clear your throat and begin to tell him about the process.

"So basically it's completely flame resistant while simultaneously feeling like 100% cotton. It also traps the sweat on your skin in the arm area, since that's how your quirk functions."

He had mentioned a brief complaint about the material of his costume to you in passing while you two were texting after his training one day.

He hated the feel of the current flame proof material that the support company had provided for him. It was stiff and itchy. But he couldn't wear his regular cotton shirts due to the fact they burned right up when he used his quirk.

"Oh and also.." You reach behind you and pull out a box, it's wrapped in cute pink wrapping paper with unicorns on it. He chuckles at the girly design as he grabs It out of your extended hands.

"Sorry, it was the only kind I had on hand." You shrug slightly and he laughs quietly and nods 'no'

"It's cute, very you."

You blush at the idea of him perceiving you enough to think something was 'very you'.

He stares at it for a moment.

"Open it." You whisper and he briefly flickers his eyes up at you. You have a soft smile on your face but your eyes are bright and excited.

He's gentle opening it. Using a quick finger to slide under the tape and carefully pull the paper off. You think it's cute the way he's so delicate and coordinated. He slides the top of the box off and can feel a familiar lump in the back of his throat, he's quick to swallow it down and look back up at you.

"Did you seriously make this? By hand? With your own brain?" You laugh at his boyish excitement.

You teasingly tap your temple and spout off a witty remark.

"All me baby. 100% the real thing too."

He looks back down in the box. They don't look like anything exciting or crazy but they were in fact the opposite.

To anyone else they would look like regular earplugs, but to you and him they were the invention that could potentially save his hearing in the long run.

"They tune out loud explosions, and any smaller ones. There's a small bracelet like band in the long sleeve I made you that can detect the size and estimated impact of an explosion by the temperature of heat that radiates on your body therefore calculating important information that then gets sent to the earphones to effectively muffle the sounds of the blasts."

You're so beautiful when you talk smart.

His eyes widen as he realizes he said that out loud and not in his head. For the nth time tonight alone he feels his face flush in embarrassment.

You stop your rambling as you turn to look at him.

"What?" Your voice is sweet and a teasing smile plays at your mouth.

He decides that if there was anytime to stand his ground it was now, but as he goes to talk the words seem to suddenly be stolen straight out of his mouth. You had taken his moment of weakness to close the distance between the two of you. Your hands wrapping around both of his biceps, giving them a slight squeeze as you push your face up into his.

"You think i'm beautiful?" Your voice is in a low whisper as you look at him with hooded eyes.

He stutters over his words at the proximity.

"Y-yeah," he take a deep breath. "of course I do."

You let out a quiet titter and lean in. Pressing a quick and chaste kiss to his mouth.

You pull back quickly though, because the doors reopen.

You both look across the large room to see a few of your classmates with your teacher.

"Aha! So you are with Bakugo Katsuki!" An accusatory finger points at you as your friend yells across the room at you.

Bakugo looks at you and you give him a nervous shrug.

"I told her that I wasn't seeing you tonight," you drop your voice low and lean over with a hand covering your mouth. "She doesn't like you because of what you said at the sports festival that one time."

He internally kicks himself for being such a douchebag back then.

"Whatever!," You shout back, making your way towards the man that was hidden behind your three friends. "Higari! You seriously went and snitched on me?" He watches as you stomp towards your dads friend with an annoyed look.

The man is quick to shuffle even closer behind the small wall of your friends, a sign of fear.

Bakugo chuckles as he looks back down to the box in his hands, then over to the clothes on the table. He now realized he had a new life goal, one that was far more important than becoming the number one hero. Bakugo Katsuki was going to marry you one day.

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yourlocalangeldoll · 22 hours ago

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*ੈ Dom, Sub or switch? / Squid game

characters: Gyeong su / player 256, Thanos / Player 230, Nam Gyu / Player 124, Hyun ju / Player 120, Kang Dae ho / Player 388, Jun ho

a/n: last post before short hiatus 🎀 Trust me y’all will be FED whne i come back. Gyeong su and Thanos are lowk half assed because i wrote them both TWICE than tumblr glitched and got rid of it.

cw: 18+!, mdni, light smut, nsfw talk obviously, degradation, spit, hand kink mention, nsfw link, pegging mention, handjobs, toys mention, overstimulation, restraints, mentions of surgeries(not in an nsfw way), only proofread once.

*ੈ Gyeong su / Player 256

*ੈ 100% a switch. When he’s dom he is ALWAYS a softdom but still a freak. KING of body worship when he’s both subbing and domming. He NEEDS to be physically close to you at all the time but ESPECIALLY when subbing. Doggy position while you peg him will just not work, even prone position is pushing it. Peg him in missionary and he’ll cum in a matter of seconds. When subbing he’s all whiny ‘n needy. More of a handjob than blowjob guy. Get’s sooo subby when you’re giving him a handjob.

- . . Gyeong su’s body is leaning into yours. Your own body behind his while he’s practically wrapped in your arms that were brought around and tugging on his cock. Your neck covered in tears and saliva where his head was hidden. Body shaking from your continued stimulation on his spent cock from his previous orgasm just seconds ago. “Come on, you can give me one more right?” You pout. Your words earned a whine from him in response but a nod nevertheless, his body relaxing further into yours. “Good boy,” You praise while placing a soft kiss to the top of his head, smirk on your face while you sped up your hand on his cock, feeling his cock twitch at your words. . . -

*ੈ Thanos / Player 230

*ੈ Dom obviously. Being a sub is practically unheard of with Thanos. He’s the one doing all the work most of the time. He’s such a good mix between hard and soft dom. He fucks ‘n pleasures you like he hates your guts but then is all soft when talking, still filthy but his words softer. And don’t get me started on of he’s the one to take your virginity. But don’t let that fool you, if you’ve annoyed him and gotten on his nerves a little too much he will not hesitate to put your back in your place. In the rare instance he does Sub it’s most likely because he fucked up and you aren’t getting over it easily or you’ve begged him a lot.

- . . Rough groans escaped Thano’s lips. Your hand working fast on his cock but stopping before he could release. His hands tied behind the chair lazily along with his ankles to the feet’s of the chair. He couldn’t help the pathetic groans that escaped him when you halted your movements again, head thrown back frustratedly. “You’re such a dick, i don’t even know why i’m still with you.” You complain, focusing more on letting all your frustrations out in words instead of his dick, much to his dismay. Thano’s was only half listening, knowing your words were nothing but frustration. But one thing he caught onto -“Can’t even get out of some lazy restraints.”- made him struggle to restrain the smirk that formed on his face, knowing damn well he could snap out of the restraints if he wanted, hell he practically holding them together. But he’d let you believe anything if it means his girl isn’t upset with him anymore. . . -

*ੈ Nam Gyu / Player 124

*ੈ Hard dom, is that really surprising? He’d be so mean and you’d absolutely lovee it. He is SO into humiliating you and gets off on you crying big time. spit spitting spit. He’d have a field day if you have a hand kink because his hands are SCRUMPTIOUS and he knows it 😮‍💨 I feel like despite being such an ass if it’s your first time or maybe not in the mood to be too rough he’d be completely fine with going softer but that’s not typically the mood with him. He’d either fuck you rough and fast as fuck or still rough but deep af thrusts. You’d swear he’s trying to push past your cervix or sum. He’d force you into such awkward positions that aren’t typically the norm. Some positions like corkscrew, prone or sideways 69. He LOVES to fuck you in the ‘Butter Churner’ position.

- . . You’re back’s straining from the position your boyfriend managed to convince you to get into. But god did you feel fucking amazing. The cool surface of the wooden floor was a stark contrast to the warmth and sweat on your body. Nam Gyu was nice enough to help you by holding your ankles in his hands. But his pace was unrelenting and had your back getting littered with light scratches with each jolt of your back against the wood. “So fucking easy to use, like a sex doll.” He’d say while spitting down on you, laughing as your face contorts in disgust as his spit lands right on your eye. . . -

*ੈ Hyun ju / Player 120

*ੈ Soft dom of course !! i really can’t see her as a sub tbh. She’d be so sweet, whispering praises while she fucks you with her fingers. She’d even gently brush your hair out from your face while placing a soft kiss to your cheek 💞💞. I do feel like she’d use toys.. nothing too crazy. Either has a wand or rabbit vibrator and a single dildo, pretty simple ‘n vanilla. She is SO talented with her fingers and mouth. I imagine if she hasn’t had all her surgeries yet she’d be a little less inclined to be naked herself. Controversial take but i don’t think she’d fuck you if she hasn’t had bottom surgery yet.. it’s just hard to imagine.. i mean she doesn’t even like people staring at her.

- . . You’re laying on your back, body comfy on the bed while you made out with Hyun ju. What started as a relatively innocent movie night taking a slight turn as Hyun ju’s hand made way past the band of your pj and panties and started rubbing soft, experienced circles on your clit. Just hard enough to have your thighs closing around her hand. The two of you’s tongue ‘fighting’ for dominance as her hand made way further down. A gasp escaping your lips once one of her fingers pushed past your folds and into you. Hyun ju just chuckled slightly, wrapping arm around your back and up, gently brushing hair out of your face. Her words gentle while you hid your head into her chest. “So pretty f’me.” . . -

*ੈ Kang Dae ho / Player 388

*ੈ Switch. I feel like if he’s domming or subbing would mostly be up to his partner. He doesn’t care much if he’s sub or dom because it feels good all the same 🤷‍♀️ The only time he’ll be overly rough with you is if you’re being a biggg fucking brat or you ask him to. Bro is a SUCKER for missionary. It’s just such an intimate position and he THRIVES of intimacy. He loves to be comforted ‘n praised ‘n all that so PLEASE do. I said this before here, but he’d either be constantly praising you while you ride him -which is also one of his favourite positions- or staring up at you in admiration. the second king of body worship hello?? Is that even really surprising?? Like Gyeong su he craves being physically close to you, during and not during sex. He’s vocal and IS NOT ashamed of it. He hates when you hide your own sounds aswell… doing that is one way ticket to either getting your hands tied to the headboard or his fingers shoved in your mouth ‘n keeping your mouth widee open. Y’all can and will do some of the filthiest shit together but it somehow still feels so intimate. If he’s subbing then he’s not too different.. but definitely more vocal, desperate ‘n whiny. There is SO much more i wanna say about my man but i’ll hold off for now..

- . . All you could feel was Dae ho’s hands roaming your body, his sloppy kisses to your neck, and the fast pace of his cock ramming in and out of your pussy. The only sounds in the rooms were your moans, the forgotten movie, wet sounds of skin slapping against skin and Dae ho’s own grunts ‘n moans. Your nails clawed at his bare back- sure to leave marks tomorrow for him to explain if anyone manages to see. “Shit.. you feel so good.” He groans into your neck, pulling away just enough to litter kisses to your face. “Look so pretty too.. can’t believe how lucky i am.” He says through kisses, hands coming up to squeeze your chest through your bra. “I love every part of you, you know that right?” And what you say in response doesn’t matter to him, because he’ll be rambling on about each part of your body and how he loves it. . . -

*ੈ Jun ho

*ੈ i feel like he’d be a mix between soft dom and hard dom. Sometimes you guys would fuck all slow ‘n lovey dovey, Jun ho whispering praises in your ears. While other times he’d be using you like a ragdoll and either saying nothing or saying light degrades(i don’t see him being too mean tbh just a bit more rough.) He’d hold your body up with ease and fuck you fast while you’re practically crying from overstimulation- having came from both his tongue and fingers. And he’d do nun but whisper soft degrades in your ear and tease you. Even when he’s soft he’d tease you A LOT. The only difference is that when y’all are soft the teasing is more playful. When you guys finally stop he is SUCH a gentleman and king at aftercare.

- . . “Please- too much Jun ho! too much-“ You’re crying out while Jun ho holds you by your arms. His cock going in and out of you at an almost dizzying pace. Despite the overstimulation your poor pussy is feeling it clenches around his cock at the chuckle that escapes his lips. His body moving forward, abdomen filling the arch of your back while his arm moved to wrap around your waist. His breath hot against the shell of your ear while he spoke. “Come on baby, i know you can last more than three rounds. If not then you shouldn’t have been such a fucking brat. Now quiet down and take it, i don’t want to hear any more complaining.” . . -

⟡ ݁₊ . written by yourlocalangel, 2025 on tumblr! © do not repost on any third party website or repost as yours. Doing so will result in me blocking you and reporting.

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secretl1fe0fm3 · 2 days ago

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your turn ~ billie eilish x fem!reader

summary: you’re billies best friend and personal photographer, taking photos of her for every occasion imaginable. you loved being behind the camera, constantly admiring her beauty from afar. one night, post concert, you both get to share a hotel room, and billie decides you should be the one in front of the camera for once.

warnings: pure smut, camera usage, photographer!reader, dom!billie, teasing, grinding, dirty talk, fingering, reader is absolutely pathetic (me too)

18+ minors dni!!!

1.7k words

The sound of the rain against the window echoed throughout the hotel room. Billie was laying on the lounge as you snapped photos of her, the only sound being the rain and the shutter of the camera continuously going off. Your breathing was slightly ragged as you focused, her body draped over the small couch perfectly. You bit your lip absentmindedly, the flash lighting up the room.

Billie looked up at the camera, the look in her eyes almost seductive. She didn't even have to try though, her ocean blue eyes always stood out as the main focus in the majority of your photos of her. The look on her face made you bite your lip even harder, heat pooling in your belly at her gaze.

"Yeah, keep your eyes up, right there- perfect Billie." You mumbled out, zooming in and snapping a few close ups. She kept her position, a small smirk forming on the corner of her lips at your praise. You always made her feel so much more confident in front of the camera, and comfortable.

A bright strike of lightning pulls you out of your routine and you bring the camera down, staring out the window behind her. She sits up on the lounge, turning her body to look out the window. "Damn, it's really storming out there." Billie breathed out, a small laugh escaping past her lips.

You nod, moving towards the couch and sitting down next to her. She scoots closer to you as you go through the photos, agreeing with Billie when she points out the ones she likes. Her eyes flicker from the screen of the camera to the side of your face, watching how your hair falls down, framing your features.

"You know, you should let me take some pictures of you." Billie suggests casually, as she studies your face. You look up at her and almost roll your eyes.

"Me? Yeah, okay." You scoff out playfully, nudging her, but Billie's face remains straight, her gaze stern. She wasn't joking.

"Im serious, I wanna take some pictures of you." Billie grabs the camera out of your hands, looking at you with a mischievous glint in her eyes. You hesitate, looking down at the satin and lace pajama set adorning your body.

"But I'm not even dressed prope-" You start, but Billie is quick to interrupt you, the words dying on your tongue.

"Are you kidding? You look great in that set, it would give the pictures a more intimate feeling anyways. I think they would be cute." She dismisses your hesitation, shaking her head. Her eyes stare into yours, and you swallow hard, contemplating her words.

"Fuck it, fine." You grunt out, standing up off the couch, fixing your pajama shorts and tank top anxiously. Billie grins ear to ear, staying on the lounge, sitting towards the edge.

"Go kneel on the middle of the floor over there." She motions towards the empty spot a few feet away from her.

There was a white circular fluffy rug sitting on the marbled floor. You glance at her, not sure where she was going with this. The position or atmosphere of that specific area in the room wouldn't have been your first pick, but you bit your tongue and let her have the artistic direction this time.

She watches you closely as you walk to the spot on the middle of the rug and drop to your knees. You look up at her, placing your hands in your lap. Her smile grows, and she points the camera towards you, "Tilt your head down a little and look up through your lashes," she breathes out, and you follow her directions.

Billie snaps picture after picture of you, her breathing slightly heavier than earlier. She's focused as you continue to pose, spreading your knees slightly and placing your hands between your legs. You lean forward a bit, arching your back and putting the majority of your weight on your hands.

She persistently takes more photos of you, "Now crawl towards me, slowly." Her eyes flicker from your exposed chest, to your lips, then back to your chest. Your tits practically spilling out of your satin tank from your new position.

You crawl towards her, your eyes never leaving the lens of the camera. Billie spreads her legs and leans back on the couch, camera still tight in her grasp. She pulls her lip between her teeth as you approach her, heat forming in her stomach now.

"Good girl," She whispers, her comment barely audible, but you were close enough that you could hear her. Your cheeks heat up at her words, glancing down at her spread legs then back to the camera. You kneel in between her legs, looking up at her with big doe eyes.

The sound of the camera shutter makes you bite your lip as you squeeze your legs together, trying to create some kind of friction. Billie keeps the camera on you, her gaze hungry and trained on your face.

She leans forward, her quick breaths fanning across your face. Her hand reaches out and grips onto your chin. Squeezing your cheeks gently between her fingers. Your mouth parts instinctively as your eyes flutter shut, the flare of the flash lighting up behind your closed lids.

You hear Billie let out a small moan and your eyes blink back open, focusing on her face. She looks like she wants to absolutely devour you.

Before you can even process anything, Billie sets the camera down on the lounge and pulls you up on her lap. You gasp out at the quick movement, straddling her as she focuses her eyes on your plush lips.

"You're so fucking sexy. " She purrs out, her hands gripping your hips hard. All you can do is whine out, holding onto her shoulders tightly.

Billie pulls you down closer to her, letting her lips teasingly ghost across your neck. You throw your head back, exposing your neck even more for her.

"So fucking needy and I've barely touched you, pretty girl." She murmurs against your neck, placing soft kisses up towards your jaw. One of her hands moves off your hip and holds onto your chin, pulling your head back down towards her. You start to let out a moan at her touch but Billie's mouth quickly covers your own, the moan dying on your lips.

She kisses you passionately, her tongue pushing past your lips, exploring every crevice of your mouth. Both of her hands move back to your hips, slowly rocking you against her. You let out a pathetic whine against her lips at the friction. She smirks into the kiss, pushing you down even harder, relishing in the noises you're making.

"Fuck." You groan into the kiss, grinding your hips onto hers. She grins wickedly, pulling away from your lips for a moment. Her hand sneaks down between your legs, brushing over your wet heat. She pulls your shorts to the side, her thumb pressing against your clit.

"Billie," You whine out her name, your eyes squeezed shut tight. "Please." You beg, as her thumb speeds up, rubbing small and fast circles against the bundle of nerves.

"Does that feel good? Hm? Gonna come for me already? God, you're so sensitive and eager for me, yeah?" Billie's words go straight to your core, and you nod eagerly, breathy moans slipping past your lips. She furrows her brows in concentration as she continues to abuse your clit with her thumb, her other fingers stroking across your wet folds.

High pitched moans fill the hotel room, unable to control yourself. Suddenly, the hand circling your clit disappears and your eyes fly open, staring at Billie confused.

Billie's eyes bore into yours, a wide smirk evident on her face. She pulls you off her lap, setting you down next to her. You lean back on the arm rest of the small couch, your head leaning back and staring up at the ceiling, breathing heavily.

"Look at me." Billie demands, and your head snaps back up, staring at her with blown pupils. The camera is in her hand again, aiming the lens towards your blissed out expression. You hear the shutter go off a few times.

"You look fucking stunning, should be in front of the camera more often." Billie praises, eyes falling back down to your legs. She reaches her free hand down and pushes your thighs apart, fingers teasingly stroking your soaked cunt.

A blush creeps up on your cheeks, "Billie.." You moan out, pushing your hips down against her fingers.

"You sound so pretty too, keep saying my name, pretty girl." She urges you, slipping a finger into your tight heat. Your eyes close in pleasure, biting hard onto your lip.

Billie resumes taking photos of you, her finger continues to open you up, eventually sliding a second finger in. You try and stop the whines from slipping past your lips.

Her fingers speed up, wanting to hear your moans. She curls her fingers up, and you scream out her name. You clench down around her as she continuously hits your sweet spot. Your orgasm quickly approaching.

Billie's fingers continue to thrust in and out of you, while her thumb rubs aggressively at your clit. Her other hand gripping onto the camera hard, keeping it aimed at you, but too focused on getting you to finish to take any photos.

You continue to moan out her name, repeating it like a mantra. She grins at you, her eyes watching your face contort in desire as you reach your peak. Billie moans with you as you squeeze around her fingers, your hips twitching.

Your hands fly out and grip onto the lounge as your orgasm washes over you, your head thrown back onto the arm rest.

"Shit." You curse out, trying to catch your breath. Billie watches as your chest rises and falls quickly. She slowly pulls her fingers out of you, watching your writhe in pleasure, a small wine escaping your lips at the sudden loss.

She watches you closely as she brings the camera up again, snapping a final picture. You looked like pure sex, your cheeks flushed and your legs spread wide. Your lips were pink from being bitten raw, and your mouth was slightly agape, your lips parted in a silent moan.

Billie stares at the picture for a few moments before setting the camera down and turning her attention back to you. She looks pleased with herself, grinning big as her eyes try to memorize the current state you're in.

"You have to send me that one."

my masterlist

#billie eilish #billie eilish x reader #billie x reader #billie eilish smut #billie eilish imagine #wlw #wlw smut #this idea came to me in a dream #ahem #yeah

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enyaliuswrites · 2 days ago

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➽ Girl Dad Caleb

Thank you @erensfeed for the idea!! She was a huge contributor! Gave me so many good ideas, made all of this possible!! <33

Girl Dad!Caleb who goes absolutely crazy when you’re in labor—on the surface he’s smiling and being strong for you while holding your hand, but once everything is over he’s crying and laughing all at once. Girl Dad!Caleb whose face is covered in tears as he carries his daughter for the first time. Your daughter crying made him cry and now that’s making you cry. (You all crode together.)

Girl Dad!Caleb who buys so many apple themed baby clothes that it can fill the bathroom even though you told him not to.

“Caleb! She’ll outgrow them in a few weeks!” “But she looks so cute in them! We can take pictures and keep a memento of how tiny she was!”

Girl Dad!Caleb who cries when your daughter takes her first steps. Your beloved husband frantically grabs a camera and records these precious moments as he then rushes over and kisses the two most important girls in his life.

Girl Dad!Caleb who uses his evol and takes your daughter flying around the house or at the park. He loves hearing her giggles.

Girl Dad!Caleb who keeps on trying to make the first words your daughter speaks to be him.

“Say ‘Dada’! Come on, I know you can do it, Princess.” “Caleb! She’ll say it when she wants!” turns to your daughter, “Say ‘Mama!’”

Girl Dad!Caleb who cooks whatever you and your daughter wants. Pasta? Done. Barbecue? Done. Beef Wellington? Done. A random recipe you saw on tiktok? Done.

Girl Dad!Caleb who keeps trying to put off sending your daughter to school. He wants to be with you guys all the time :(

Girl Dad!Caleb who gets emotional when you finally send your daughter to school. He was all smiles in front of her and now he’s holding you with tears running down his cheek.

Girl Dad!Caleb who always picks your daughter up from kindergarten with you and one day sees her holding a boy’s hand.

“Hold on… Is that boy holding our princess's hand?” “Caleb, it’s finee. Kid probably doesn't even-” “No no. Who does this little Romeo think he is?” “Caleb!”

You had to kiss him to hold him back from beating up the poor kid. (He was joking, he just wanted some attention)

Girl Dad!Caleb who places your daughter’s things in high places so she has to ask him to make her float to get it or ask him to get it for her. He still does that to you too.

Girl Dad!Caleb whose heart melts when he sees you dressing your daughter up in mini colonel clothes. His hat falling over and covering her face when she excitedly waves at him.

Girl Dad!Caleb who can't help but tease your daughter. He’ll make her toys just out of her reach, make her beg him to buy her sweets, accidentally trip her and save her, tell her scary stories at night so she’ll snuggle up to him when she’s sleeping.

Girl Dad!Caleb who always has time for you and his princess. He loves you both and would kill anyone and everyone if he had to.

A/N: Can you tell I’m having Baby Fever? Caleb would be such a great father but he’d always want you and your daughter(or son) to lean on him. Anyways! Stay delusional! (*´∀`*) Dividers by @omi-resources

#caleb x you #caleb x reader #caleb x mc #caleb love and deepspace #lads fluff #love and deepspace #lads x reader #lads x you #caleb fluff

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i-dared-myself · 1 day ago

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Skirt War

Requested by anonymous: Could I req a fic with the stray kids' ninth member being put in a short dress/skirt (you know those that don't look like it'll ride up if you move but it does and its annoying af??) for a performance with a dance dance - that she has to move around a lot and then she keeps trying to pull the skirt down but that piece of shit just keeps going back up. And she spends the whole performance playing tug of war with a bunch of fabric trying not to be indecent and humiliated. And backstage she feels shit bc she couldn’t dance well and looked pathetic and she's disappointed and frustrated and embarrassed and yk. Idk if this is understandable anymore

“Wow, Felix,” you say, “you look really good! The stylists worked really hard with this new set of outfits.”

Felix hums his agreement, adjusting his gloves. “Where’s yours?”

You glance down at yourself. You’re still in your normal clothes. “Ah, they haven’t called me back yet. I think they’re finishing with Seungmin now.”

Felix makes a small sound of understanding, reaching up to touch his hair. He stops himself and drags his hand back down to his side. “Should I dye my hair soon?”

You shrug. “Do you want to? Is your hair even alive at this point?”

You hear someone softly call your name, and turn before you head Felix’s response. A staff member is waving you over as Seungmin and Jisung walk by.

“Looking good,” you compliment them, smiling brightly. You’re excited for what you’ll be wearing for the performance.

So you’re handed the set of clothes that you change into. You don’t even get a chance to look at yourself in a mirror before you’re whisked away for makeup and hair.

You eventually step out, joining the others. It seems as if everyone else has finished with their own styling, and everyone looks great.

There’s one tiny little problem, though.

Your tiny little skirt.

Your shirt is amazing, and you can’t disagree with the fact that you look hot in it. But the skirt is as small as they get. You’re amazed that you’re even allowed to wear it.

You’re fairly certain it’ll stay in place during thr performance, but you really don’t want to take chances. So you do an experimental twirl, heart sinking when the skirt instantly flies up.

Hyunjin recoils when he sees you. “What the-“

“Watch it!” Chan warns, narrowing his eyes. He faces you, eyes widening. “Oh. Oh boy.”

You tug the material down, fiddling with it anxiously. “Is it that bad?”

Jeongin is averting his eyes, which does absolutely nothing to make you feel better. “Nope. It’s totally fine.”

“Did they ask you about this?” Minho frowns deeply, glancing out at the crowd between the curtains. The sound check is almost complete, so you’re running out of time to deal with this.

“No. I wasn’t aware that I’d be wearing this.” Your hands tremble. You feel sick with how short it is. You half believe you’re at risk of your most intimate areas just being on display.

Seungmin grunts a little. “Want my sweater? To tie around your waist?”

You consider it for a moment before shaking your head. “Maybe later. I don’t want it to look like I’m disrespecting the stylists.”

“But it’s fine!” Jisung assures you. “These aren’t our usual stylists, and they don’t know our boundaries.”

“But we also don’t want to start something with this event,” you point out. They stylists had come with the gig, and you didn’t want to disrespect them if you didn’t usually work with them. It might ruin any other opportunities.

“Positions, everyone,” Chan suddenly says. He gives you a pitying look as everyone files into their assigned places. “You’ve got this.”

You’re not as confident as he is, but you force a smile. You tug the skirt down one last time before bounding out onto stage.

The music starts up and you begin to dance. Every movement that involves legs (pretty much all of them) has the skirt flipping up. Felix is behind you for the beginning, and when you catch a glance of his face it’s bright red.

You miss a hand gesture because you’re adjusting the fabric again, and your stomach tumbles. The media is going to have a field day with this. Everyone is going to be talking about how unprofessional you are.

Positions are swapped, and then you’re next to Changbin. He turns his gaze away to be respectful, but it just reinforces the idea in your head that the outfit is bad. That you’re indecent.

You blink back tears as you stumble over yet another move, too busy holding the skirt down to make it to the next spot in time. You’re falling behind, mind focused on your decency and not the dance.

Then your lines come, and your voice cracks. You’re lucky enough that you don’t have to hold your microphone up, because you honestly don’t have a spare hand.

It comes to an end, and you all bow. You walk off stage, perhaps the most humiliated that you’ve ever been.

Changbin loops his arms around you, tying his sweater around your waist. You mutter your thanks and wrench your headset off.

“Hey.” Chan gently grabs your arm and steers you back to the group. “Let’s talk about it.”

“I don’t wanna talk about it.” You keep your head ducked, gaze locked on the floor. Your throat burns and you’re struggling not to cry.

Jeongin comes up behind you and rests his chin on your shoulder. “I think you did great.”

You shove him away. “Well I didn’t! I sucked because of this stupid skirt! I let it get in my head, and now everyone’s going to be talking about it!”

Minho sits on the ground and takes your hands in his. He gently pulls you down to his lap and lets your cry against his chest. “Yeah, it wasn’t your greatest performance.”

“How is that supposed to help?” Jisung hisses out.

“But Stay loves you no matter what. And if they don’t, they can go suck it.” Minho strokes your hair.

Chan clears his throat. “I might not have said it in those exact words, but he’s right. And from now on, I’ll make it clear to our managers and staff about our boundaries. Including those that we work with for the first time.”

You hiccup between tears, burying your face further against Minho. “Really?”

Chan hums. “Absolutely. And we have time to change before our next song, so why don’t you go to the stylists again?”

You sniffle and push yourself out of Minho’s grip. Seungmin gives you a reassuring smile as you wander off.

“Excuse me?” you hesitantly say as you approach one of the stylists. “Would it be okay if I got a different skirt? Or maybe some pants?”

He tilts his head, nose wrinkling. “Why? Is there a problem with it?”

“Uh, it’s just that-“ You toy with the material as you try and find the correct words. You don’t want to insult the man. “Dancing in this is very difficult. I don’t feel comfortable in this.”

He smiles mockingly. “Oh, really? Well it’s fine. It’s not even that short.”

“I just danced in it and it didn’t go that well.” You’re aware that you’re running out of time. You need to hurry up. “Can you please just direct me to-“

“Have you considered that maybe it’s just your skill?” he interrupts. He sighs and shakes his head, turning away. “But fine. I could find something else.”

You swallow thickly as you follow him.

Is it actually your own fault? Are you just not a talented enough dancer for these clothes?

“Is this good enough for you?” The stylist holds up a new set of bottoms, and you wince. It’s even smaller than the one you’re currently wearing.

“Ready yet?” Jisung comes sliding in, eyes widening at the skirt being held up. “Wow, that’s small.”

“Uh, almost,” you weakly tell him.

Jisung’s eyes catch on your face and trembling bottom lip. His arms shoot out to wrap around you, and he pats your back. “It’s okay!”

“Are you wearing this or not?” the stylist snaps.

“No, she’s not.” Jisung tightens Changbin’s sweater on your waist. “She’s wearing this and we have to go now, since we’re on in less than a minute. But I’ll be telling Bang Chan about you.”

The man pales. Having an idol complain about you was pretty much a death sentence, especially when that idol had as much influence as Stray Kids.

Jisung grabs your hand you the two of you dash out onto stage. You burst out and join the rest of the members, just in time for the music to begin.

This time it goes smoother. The sweater gives enough weight to keep the skirt down, and you’re able to focus on the dance. Your movements are fluid and well-executed, and you know even Hyunjin would be proud.

When you go backstage, you feel mildly more confident. You take a swig of your water bottle as Jisung tells Chan about the stylist.

Jeongin huffs, overhearing the conversation. “What an asshole.”

Seungmin hums his agreement. “A real dick.”

Chan holds up his hands. “Let’s watch the language, everyone. We’re professionals at work.”

Changbin snorts. “Right. If he’s a professional, why did he basically humiliate her?”

Felix hooks an arm over your shoulder. “It’s okay, I bet Minho will screw up soon and everyone will forget about today.”

Minho makes a sound of protest, narrowing his eyes. “Why me?”

Hyunjin wipes the sweat off his forehead. “Relax, it’s just an example.”

Chan calls the stylist over, who appears vaguely nauseated as he steps closer. He bows briefly to Chan before his eyes flick to you for a fraction of a second.

“I heard you had a bit of an issue with one of my members?” Chan blandly asks. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him this angry. “Were you the one who put her in that skirt? Were you planning for her to humiliate herself and get kicked out of the industry?”

“Yeah!” Jisung cries out. He’s immediately silenced by Minho.

“S-Sorry,” the man mutters. “I just- I’m sorry.”

“No, no, continue.” Chan arches an eyebrow challengingly. “You just what?”

“Bet he just wanted to see her in it,” Seungmin drawls. “Is that it?”

A bead of sweat rolls down the stylist’s forehead. “Well- It wasn’t that short!”

“Would you feel comfortable wearing it?” Felix chimes in. “Because I thought it was pretty short.”

“Guys,” you say. “Let’s just go home. I’m tired. It’s been a long day.”

“Poor thing.” Hyunjin pats your head. “Wanna eat a whole bunch of ice cream with me?”

“Maybe,” you slyly say, walking with him to the van. You ignore the sounds of Chan still scolding the man.

“If you ever need my sweater again, just ask.” Changbin comes up from behind you to poke at the fabric of the borrowed clothes.

“Are we just stealing these?” Jeongin questions once everyone is in the van. Everyone is also still in the performance clothing.

Chan frowns. “Oops.”

Taglist:

@velvetmoonlght @jinnie-ret

#skz x reader #stray kids x reader #stray kids #skz #Skz are now thieves #They stole from that show #In the sequal they’re on the run from the police #(There’s no sequal guys)

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leeeedith · 1 day ago

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SEVENTEEN reaction to their S/O falling asleep on them

S.Coups 🍒

Seungcheol would immediately go into protective boyfriend mode. The second he notices you dozing off against him, he'd adjust ihs positions so you're comfortable, wrapping an arm around you securely. He might chuckle softly and whisper, "Tired, baby?" before stroking your back gently. If the other members notice and tease him, he'd just shrug, "What can I do? They're adorable."

Jeonghan 😇

Jeonghan would smirk to himself, feeling victorious. He wouldn't move at all, letting you sleep peacefully, but expect him to tease you about it later. "Wow, I must be really comfortable, huh?" He might even pretend to be asleep too just to mess with you when you wake up. But deep down, he's be really soft about it, enjoying the quiet moment with you.

Joshua 🐰

Shua would smile sweetly, his heart melting at how cute you look while sleeping. He'd carefully tuck a strand of hair behind your ear and make sure you're comfortable. If he's playing guitar, he might start strumming softly, humming a lullaby just for you. "Sleep well, angel." He'd be so soft and gentle, making sure nothing disturbes you.

Jun 🐱

Jun would be super amused but also really soft about it. He'd freeze for a second, then slowly adjust his posture so you can rest better. He might take out his phone and snap a sneaky picture, smiling to himself. If you wake up and apologize, he'd just laugh, "It's okay, you looked adorable. Want to go back to sleep?"

Hoshi 🐯

Soonyoung would try so hard not to freak out from how cute it is. His hands would hover over you for a second, unsure if he should move or stay still. Eventually, he'd relax and let you sleep, but expect him to excitedly tell the members later, "They fell asleep on me! I think I'm their favorite pillow now." If you wake up, he'd pout, "Nooo, go back to sleep! I liked it."

Wonwoo 🦊

Wonwoo would pause his book or game the moment he realizes you're asleep on him. He'd glance down at you, a small, fond smile forming as he watches you breathe softly. He wouldn't move an inch, making sure you stay comfortable. If the members tease him, he'd just say, "They were tired. Let them rest." But inside? He's secretly loving it.

Woozi 🍚

Woozi would freeze up at first, not sure what to do. He'd feel his heart flutter but act completely indifferent on the outside. He might pretend it doesn't affect him, but the tiny smile on his lips would say otherwise. If you wake up and apologize, he'd just shake his head, "It's fine. You can do it anytime." If you fall asleep while he's working on music, he might even whisper, "I'll write you a lullaby next time."

DK 🍕

Dokyeom would be so flustered but so happy. He'd try to hold in his giggles, but his excitement would be obvious. He'd look down at you with the biggest smile, resisting the urge to squish your cheeks. He'd probably tell the members later, "They fell asleep on me! Does this mean I'm comforting?" If you wake up, he'd give you his brigtest grin, "You looked so peaceful! Want to nap longer?"

Mingyu 🐶

Mingyu would absolutely melt on the spot. He'd carefully adjust so you're even more confortable, probably pulling his jacket over you to keep you warm. He'd be too scared to move, worried about waking you up, so he'd just sit there and admire how cute you look. If you wake up and apologize, he'd say quickly, "No, no! Keep sleeping, I don't mind at all."

The8 🐸

Minghao would be so soft but act chill about it. He'd glance down at you and sigh lightly, adjusting his posture to make sure you're comfortable. He'd probably stroke your hair absentmindedly while continuing whatever he was doing. Later, he'd tease you, "Guess I'm your favorite pillow now." But deep down, he'd really love it.

Seungkwan 🍊

Seungkwan would be so dramatic about it. He'd gasp softly, cover his mouth, and whisper to himself, "Oh my gosh, this is the cutest thing ever." He'd be super careful not to wake you, but later on, he'd absolutely bring it up. "You fell asleep on me! Do you know how adorable that was? I almost cried." If you apologize, he'd pout, "No, do it again next time."

Vernon 🐢

Vernon would just sit there like, "...Oh." He'd be totally chill about it but secretly loving it. He might put his phone away and just sit still, enjoying the peaceful moment. If you wake up and apologize, he'd just blink at you and say, "It's cool. You can use me as a pillow whenever." Then he'd go right back to whatever he was doing, but with a small smile.

Dino 🦖

Chan would be so soft but also so shy. He'd stare at you for a moment, not sure what to do, before finally relaxing and letting you sleep. If the members see and tease him, he'd get all flustered, "Shh! Don't wake them up!" But secretly, he'd be so happy. If you wake up and apologize, he'd interrrupt you quickly, "No, no" I liked it..."

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ippipo · 2 days ago

Text

self aware caleb

it was merely sexual attraction. from the moment he saw you, he felt attracted towards you sexually. you were funny, witty, so you, and god, it hurt. he swore it was just sexual attraction.

it was a sick obsession. a throwback to his in-game personality that made him easily vulnerable to these situations. he just wanted to keep you with him all the time. but good lord, did it hurt him when you were down. he hurts for you. but he kept telling himself that it was just obsession, infatuation at least.

but the more he spoke with you, the realisation dawned upon him that he was down bad. you haunt him every night before he goes to sleep and bless him like food in famine every morning he wakes up. it was addicting. he wanted all of you and every part of you.

and it truly, absolutely, devastatingly hit him when his desire to be next to you increased tenfold. he needed you so much, it made him want to curl up into a box small enough to suffocate him and take him away from all the pain he was enduring being away from you.

so he decided to risk it all and come to you. he didn't realize he needed you that badly until that one moment when you were talking to him as usual, laughing by yourself while reminiscing something funny from your childhood. and during that time, a question popped up that made him wonder.

"you can't come here right? does that mean you'll go back to mc if this thing, you know, stops?"

and the answer was as clear as day.

he should.

but not a single inch of him wanted to. he only wanted to be with you. when all your life has been dedicated to loving someone against natural will, it crumbles in mere seconds when you find out it wasn't meant to be. and during that period of feeling inadvertently lost when you find someone who gives you a sense of self and structure to your meaningless life, you cling onto them.

you cling so tightly that the mere thought of finding someone else or going back to the life you used to have seems more scrambled than you'd expect. to caleb, it felt like a million puzzle pieces had been scattered everywhere and when he realized your existence, everything fell back into place.

but when he did try going back to his life, skyhaven, mc, and every other thing related to his past, it felt like something had ruthlessly ruined his puzzle, throwing around all the pieces left and right so he could never rearrange them.

this uncomfortable reality of his prompted him to escape, pull every string that he could and fight against the odds of time and space to reach you. it wasn't easy at all, but he knew it was worth it.

he watches as you laugh with your friend and sylus, and he wishes it was him in their place. the dull ache in his chest lingers as he notices how your phone remained untouched throughout the night, contemplating whether to text you or not.

the ache began spreading like wildfire the more he waited. and he decided it was time to stop stalling.

kale 🥬

go to your room

you spring up from your seat when you hear the sound of a notification, not expecting it so late at night. you look at andy who was passed out, and sylus was no longer visible on the screen.

your heart drops when you read the name of the sender, but it wasn't the time to wallow anymore.

you

what the fuck?

where have you been?

why are you texting me now?

you couldn't help the way your hands were shivering as you type. "what is wrong with you, caleb?" you whisper to yourself as your eyes well up again.

kale 🥬

im sorry ill answer everything but js go to your room please

you

fine

and you get up to leave the living room, ignoring the way your heart was pounding against your chest and a lump in your throat that made it difficult to breathe.

"hey," an eerily familiar voice greets you in the dark. you look around frantically only to see nothing but pitch black.

you flinch when a hand grabs you by the shoulder and pulls you close to a body. a tall, lean, muscular body. you could feel his chest, a husky vanilla cologne filling your senses, overwhelming you and making you sensitive to everything around.

you try not to scream, and you didn't. everything felt oddly alright. nothing out of place, as if you were expecting it already, expecting someone already.

"did you miss me?" the damning voice whispers so close to your ear, sending a chill down your spine and straight to your core, arousal pooling. but at the same time, your body screamed to react violently, make it known that you were upset and angry.

and so, you turn around to face him, and push him by the chest. "what the fuck, caleb?!" you whisper-yell. he didn't budge at all, and your fingers lingered over his chest a little longer than you intended them to, but this was not the time to feel horny because you were freaking out.

you close the door behind you and everything becomes even darker. you locate yourself in front of him and grab his collar. "tell me what's happening. why are you here—no, how are you here? d-do you know how long i've waited for you to talk to me? not even a single text from you for so fucking long," you couldn't stop your voice from quivering as you punch his chest in anger, not impactful enough apparently with how he didn't wince at all.

he brings his hand towards your face to caress your cheek but you slap it away. "don't fucking touch me."

you gasp when you realise what you had just said, hands retracting to your sides. the pained look in his eyes made it so very clear. "i'm sorry, i-i didn't mean that," you quickly try to explain. nevertheless, he shoots a sad smile towards you and caresses your cheek. the warmth in his touch makes you lean towards his hand, closing your eyes to consume the sensation unconsciously.

caleb watches as you make yourself home in his touch, blushing at the hazy look on your face. 'control, control, control,' he tells himself, not wanting to take you then and there right in that moment while you were vulnerable. "i'm sorry, i didn't mean to.......leave you. it took longer than i expected to figure out the way to reach your world," he finally gives you the explanation you wanted.

"is that why you couldn't talk to me at all?" your voice carried a kind of distress that made it very evident that you suffered in his absence.

caleb nods, making you sigh. "and here i thought you no longer wanted me."

he slides his arm around your waist and pulls you closer towards him gently. his thumb drew circles on your side. his other arms reaches out to your face and his fingers brush your hair behind your ear. though you couldn't see him properly, except that he was pale as fuck and practically a glow stick in the dark, you could make out his smile.

"i've waited for so long to hold you like this," he whispers softly. he could only wish that you didn't hear the way his heart was hammering against his ribcage as you snuggled into him. "mhm, me too," you mumble as you rest your head on his shoulder.

you flinch when you hear caleb wince as your hand slides around the back of his waist. curious, you let your hand wander around that area once more and you don't ignore how his body tenses up. choosing to not comment on it since you just met for the first time, you let it be for now. but you weren't going to let it go until you receive an answer.

#love and deepspace #lads x reader #lads fanfic #lads smut #lads #caleb lads #lads caleb #caleb lnds #lnds x reader #lnds caleb #lnds #caleb fluff #caleb love and deepspace #caleb x reader #caleb smut #caleb

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jungkoode · 3 days ago

Text

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 𝐟𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬

˗ˏˋ that first night (her POV) ˎˊ˗

"There's a theory that says you meet everyone in your life twice—once as strangers, and once when it matters. That first night at 'Pulse', with vodka cranberry on your tongue and his eyes burning into yours, was supposed to be the stranger part. No one warns you that six months later, he'll be standing in your new apartment's doorway, looking at you like he's seen a ghost. But that’s a problem for Future you."

⋆｡°✩ story details ✩°｡⋆

collection: Before It All (FMU)

wordcount: 15k

pairing: fmu!jungkook x fmu!yn (cocky!jkxbratty!reader)

rating: explicit, 18+

playlist: spotify

content: new york city setting, university setting, strangers to roommates (eventually), nightclub setting, hookup, one night stand, drunk hookup (buzzed/tipsy but consensual), explicit sexual content, oral sex (cunnilingus), protected penetrative sex, multiple orgasms, wall sex, rough sex, choking/breath play (light), hair pulling, marking/hickeys, size kink, manhandling, dirty talk, praise kink, bickering during sex, snarky banter, grinding, multiple positions, slight pain kink, slight degradation kink, praise kink if you squint, sexual tension, sexual chemistry, mild exhibitionism (making out in uber/club), slight voyeurism (being watched in club), mild dubious condom practices (that one scene), alcohol consumption, bite kink, aftercare (mild), spooning, scent kink, vanilla scented products, enemies to lovers (eventual), size difference (height), strength kink.

✧ author's note ✧

Hi my little demons! (｀∀´)Ψ Welcome to the prequel that started this absolute dumpster fire - AKA the night our emotionally constipated idiots first met.

Let's talk about how THIS happened, because honestly? I've rewritten this scene approximately 47 times (not exaggerating, my Google docs are a MESS). I initially wasn't even going to write it, but then my 3AM brain, fueled by what was probably my 8th espresso, decided we NEEDED to see these two disasters collide for the first time. And boy, did they collide. (￣ω￣;)

First things first: This is pure, unadulterated filth. I literally had to take several walks around my apartment complex while writing this because these two WOULD NOT BEHAVE. Like, I was trying to be somewhat respectable here, but they said "No♥️" and chose violence. So you know what? I just let them do their thing and documented it like the professional disaster that I am.

Now, let's talk about our girl for a second. Writing her at this specific point in her life was FASCINATING because you can really see all the pieces that made her who she is—the family pressure, the small-town suffocation, the desperate need for control while simultaneously wanting to lose it completely... She's such a beautifully complex mess and I love her for it. (Don't worry, she'll grow. Eventually. Maybe. We'll see.)

And Jungkook... Oh boy. There's SO MUCH about him that I've deliberately sprinkled throughout this chapter. Little details, subtle hints, tiny breadcrumbs that'll make sense later. I'm actually really proud of how many easter eggs I managed to hide in here - come back after future chapters and tell me if you caught them! (Though let's be real, you're probably not here for the literary analysis, you thirsty gremlins.)

The biggest challenge was honestly Emma. Like, how do you get the world's most protective best friend to leave her bestie alone in a club? I spent WEEKS trying to make this work in a way that felt authentic to her character. The sister crisis was my 3AM solution and I'm actually pretty proud of how it turned out. Realistic character motivation is my kink, okay? (＾▽＾)

Speaking of realism—that's literally why this fic exists. I got so frustrated with how many unrealistic elements I kept seeing in stories that I went "Fine, I'll do it myself" and here we are, 35 pages of smut later???? Huh. You're welcome????

Side note: I have this whole thing narrated in audio (female voice only, because no male voice matches Jungkook’s, my beloved ¯\_(ツ)_/¯) but Tumblr said "file too big bestie" so... might drop it on ko-fi if enough people are interested. Let me know in the comments! Speaking of comments—PLEASE tell me your theories about all the little hints I've dropped about Jungkook's past. I'm dying to see what you guys pick up on! (⌒ω⌒)ﾉ

Until next time, you disaster pandas! (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

Kiki. 🍓

P.S. Any typos are between you and god because I've stared at this document for so long the words have lost all meaning.

⋆｡°✩ read more ✩°｡⋆

main story: fuck me up

read on ao3

read on wattpad

So here's the thing about nightclubs: you either love them or you hate them.

You? You're more of a 'hate them' kinda girl. The sweat, the noise, the people... not your scene. Not usually, anyway.

But usual went out the window the second Emma suggested this little adventure. Sweet, reliable Emma who you lost touch with after high school but who immediately became your secret accomplice when you reached out about transferring to NYU. Who's been your underground informant for months now—sneaking you tips about the English department, virtually walking you through the campus layout via late-night FaceTime sessions, and helping you plot out the perfect transfer application your parents know nothing about.

Emma, who didn't even blink when you showed up at her door with a weekend bag and a story for your parents about "visiting your responsible friend in the city." (They bought it immediately because, well, it's Emma. Their golden standard of What A Good Influence Should Be.) You'd spent the whole day doing exactly what you came for—touring NYU's campus, sitting in on a couple of English classes Emma snuck you into, and gathering all the transfer information you could get your hands on.

"You can't just transfer here and not know what the nightlife is like," she'd insisted, already rummaging through her closet for something that wasn't your campus tour outfit. "That's like... buying a car without test driving it."

Which, okay, terrible analogy, but you get her point. You've spent months planning this transfer—going over NYU's transfer requirements, crafting the perfect escape from your suffocating small-town university, calculating exactly how to tell your parents once it's too late for them to stop you. The campus visit was supposed to be just that—visiting your responsible friend Emma for a weekend while secretly checking out NYU.

Emma, bless her overprotective heart, had taken one look at your face after that final tour—that specific blend of desperate hope and terrified excitement—and decided you needed to see the whole picture. "The real college experience," as she put it, already pulling out her phone to text her club promoter friend.

"Location sharing on?" she'd asked for the fifth time before you left her apartment, double-checking your phone settings like some kind of Gen-Z mother hen. As if you hadn’t spent the last three months planning this transfer with military-grade precision.

"Yes, mom," you'd rolled your eyes, but something warm had settled in your chest at her fussing. It's... nice, having someone in on the secret. Someone who gets it.

"Emergency contact updated to my number?"

"Check."

"Spare key to my apartment?"

"Emma, I swear to god—"

"Just checking!" She'd grinned, already knowing she was being ridiculous but doing it anyway. "One more thing..."

And that's how you ended up with a literal tracking app on your phone, an emergency SOS button setup, and Emma's solemn promise to "never leave your side, scout's honor." (She was never actually a scout, but whatever.)

Parents really think you're just visiting your studious, sensible friend Emma for a nice, quiet weekend in the city. Having some wholesome catching-up time. Maybe seeing some museums.

Ha. If only they knew you're actually scouting out your future escape route.

If only you knew.

Because let's be real, this isn't exactly in your wheelhouse. But Emma's right there, keeping her scout's honor promise, bouncing between the bar and dance floor like some kind of safety-conscious terror. And maybe it's the way she keeps checking in with subtle thumbs-up signals, or maybe it's just knowing someone's actually got your back in this whole secret college plan thing, but you're... kind of having fun?

Which is how you find yourself here, in this pulsing, thrumming mass of bodies and sound. 'Pulse', the club's called. Fitting, considering how you can feel the bass thumping in your veins, the strobe flashing like lightning in your skull. It's... a lot. But not in a bad way?

Yeah, definitely not bad, you decide as you scan the room. Leather booths, gleaming bar top, and a dance floor packed with the kind of gorgeous twenty-somethings that make you feel simultaneously inadequate and oddly triumphant. Like 'yeah, I might not be that, but at least I'm here.'

And honestly, it's pretty nice here. Clean, classy even. Good lighting over the bar, vigilant security, and Emma vouches for the place. She's your safety net tonight, because God knows you'd never try this solo. But Emma... Emma knows everyone. Gets you both in with a wink and a wave, like some kind of VIP.

The girl's got pull and she's not afraid to use it. You envy that a bit, that confidence. Wish you could borrow just a dash of it, to fortify your nerves as you perch on this barstool, spine too straight and fingers too tight around your glass. But it's fine, it's good, you're good. That’s what you tell yourself, anyways—even if it’s not entirely the truth.

It's just one night. One chance. One small rebellion before you go back home and drown yourself in expectations and demands. Hardly even counts as rebellion, really, in the grand scheme. Not like you're planning on getting blackout drunk and ending up in jail or anything. Just… dipping your toe. Sampling the other side. Just for a night.

What's the worst that could happen?

Famous last words. Or in this case, famous last thought, as you take a too-big sip of your drink and nearly choke on watery vodka cranberry. Good thing no one's paying attention.

Well, except for one guy, apparently. And he's...

Oh. Oh damn.

He's the kind of gorgeous that makes you almost forget how to swallow, even as you scoff internally. Guys who look like that? They're usually bad news. Cringe edgy boys. Like the ones you see on TikTok. The jaw, the eyes, the whole brooding bad-boy package. Not your type. Not even a little.

But he’s hot. Truth be told.

And he's watching you. Not in a creepy way, but… intense. Interested. And wow, okay, maybe there's something to be said for the whole 'still waters' vibe he's giving off, because that gaze is doing things to you. Things you're not entirely sure you're ready for.

But then again... isn't that the whole point? To try something new? To be someone new, just for a night? The girl who holds the stare of a beautiful stranger. The girl who lets the charge build, heart kicking up and skin tingling. The girl who—

"Shit, shit, shit." Emma's suddenly at your elbow, phone clutched to her chest, face twisted with genuine distress. "My sister just called. She's having some kind of breakdown about—god, I don't even know, her boyfriend? Something about him showing up at her dorm? She's hysterical, I can barely understand her—"

You watch Emma's face cycle through about twelve different emotions in three seconds. She keeps glancing between you and her phone, clearly torn. "I should go check on her. But I can't just leave you here alone. Fuck. Maybe we should both—"

"Em, I'm fine," you try to reassure her, even as your stomach sinks a little. Great. Just when things were getting interesting with dark eyes over there. "I can just get an Uber—"

"No, no, wait." Emma's scanning the club like she's looking for something specific. Her face lights up suddenly as she spots someone by the weights machine in the club's weird gym corner. Because apparently some clubs have those now. "Oh thank god—hey!!"

She waves frantically at some guy who's been doing bicep curls between taking selfies for his Instagram story. You vaguely recognize him from Emma's study group—one of those guys who probably knows the protein content of everything in his lunch and considers gym updates a legitimate form of social interaction.

"Perfect timing," Emma says as he approaches, already dabbing his face with a workout towel. She's rapid-fire texting, probably her sister. "You're still doing that safe walk program thing for the student union, right? The volunteer thing they made you do after that frat party incident?"

"Yeah bro, community service hours almost done," he confirms, then looks confused as Emma practically shoves her phone in his face, showing him what you assume is your location-sharing setup.

"Great. This is my best friend from high school. She's got location sharing on with me, SOS button setup, fully charged phone." Emma's talking so fast she's almost tripping over her words. "I have to go deal with my sister but I'll be back in an hour tops. Could you just... keep an eye out? Make sure no creeps bother her?"

Your face heats. "Emma, seriously—"

"I know, I know, you can handle yourself," Emma cuts you off, already shouldering her bag. "But humor me? He’s actually great at this. Always walks girls home after study group. Total golden retriever energy."

You catch the way her eyes flick meaningfully toward where dark eyes is still watching from across the room. Like she's trying to say 'here's your safe but slightly dim option if you want it, but...'

Your phone buzzes with an incoming wall of texts:

Emma: 𝚒'𝚖 𝚜𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢!!! 𝚒 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚒 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞 Emma: 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒 𝚜𝚠��𝚊𝚛 𝚒'𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚝𝚘𝚙𝚜 Emma: 𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚐𝚢𝚖 𝚋𝚛𝚘 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛, 𝚝𝚘𝚝𝚊𝚕 𝚙𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚢 Emma: 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜... 👀 Emma: (𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗 & 𝚝𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎!!!)

"Hey there. Emma had to run, but she didn't want to leave you alone. Asked me to keep you company. That okay?"

The voice cuts through your spiral, and you blink up at the interloper. Brent? Brad? Some monosyllabic gym bro who's friends with Emma and apparently your new babysitter.

Great.

You paste on a smile, even as your attention flickers back to him. Dark eyes, dark hair, and a mouth that could probably do very interesting things, you bet your money on it. But no. Don’t get distracted. Eyes on Brett. He's safe, he's known. Boring as a beige wall, but that's better. Smarter.

"Yeah, of course," you say brightly. Too brightly. Even you can hear the false note, and you cringe. "Thanks for keeping me company."

Because that's why you're here. For safety, for company, for sampling the world, but through a protective barrier. Not for tall, dark, and dangerously appealing over there. Definitely not for him.

Even if you kinda wish it was.

"You're pretty."

And like... okay? Thanks? But also, ugh. It's not that you're not flattered—you are, in that vaguely uncomfortable way that makes you want to simultaneously preen and roll your eyes into next week. Because yeah, duh, you know. You own mirrors. You're aware of your assets, thank you very much. But there's something so wonderfully, terribly basic about guys who lead with that.

Still. You give him another once-over, because fair's fair and also because like... why not? He's not bad. Actually pretty decent, if you're being honest (and you are, because what's the point of lying to yourself?). Broad shoulders, nice arms, that whole gym rat aesthetic that apparently some girls go crazy for.

Not that you're necessarily one of those girls. You've always preferred a more... balanced build. Something between "I can bench press you" and "I've never seen the inside of a gym." Like, yeah, muscles are nice and all, but you want to be able to actually cuddle without feeling like you're laying on a marble statue. Give you some softer edges any day. Something to sink into, you know?

But beggars can't be choosers and honestly? You're kind of tired of being a beggar. Or, well, not a beggar exactly, but definitely... selective. Too selective, maybe. Conservative. Careful. All those words that really mean "scared to actually live a little."

Not tonight though. Tonight you're in New York fucking City, three hundred miles from your parents' suffocating expectations and that small-town mindset that makes you want to scream into your pillow sometimes. Tonight you could be anyone.

So when you say, "Thank you, you're not bad yourself," it comes out smoother than expected. Almost flirty. And his laugh? Not terrible. Kind of nice actually, even if it doesn't quite reach his eyes. They're nice eyes too—warm brown, honest. Safe.

"Would you like to dance?"

The question hangs there, and you consider it. Really consider it. Because this—this whole thing—it's what you came for, isn't it? To try something new. To be someone new. Someone who says yes to dancing with attractive strangers in clubs that pulse with bass-heavy Usher remixes.

"You feeling confident?" you throw back, and okay, maybe that was a little sharp, a little too much of your usual self bleeding through. But he just smiles (no dimples, and why does that matter? Since when do you care about dimples?), and holds out his hand.

His fingers are cold when they wrap around yours. It's... not great. You've always hated cold hands, which is ironic considering yours are perpetually freezing. But you let him lead you onto the dance floor anyway, because what the hell. What the actual hell. You're here, you're young, you're... actually kind of buzzed now that you think about it. That vodka cran hitting different after all.

His hands hover at your hips, eyes asking permission, and you give him a look that you hope translates to "yes, but don't get crazy about it." Must work, because his palms settle, grip light but present. You rest your hands on his shoulders (nice shoulders, you'll give him that), and try to find the rhythm.

It's not terrible. Not amazing either, but definitely not terrible. He can move, keeps a decent beat, doesn't try to grind up on you like some horny teenager. His hands stay respectfully placed, thumbs making small circles that should probably feel more exciting than they do.

Everything about this should feel more exciting than it does.

Maybe you need another drink. Maybe you need to stop overthinking every little thing and just... be. Maybe...

Maybe that's when it happens. Your eyes drift up, over his shoulder, like they're being pulled by some invisible thread. Like something in you just knows where to look. And there he is.

Dark eyes locked on yours, expression unreadable in the strobing lights.

One second. Two. Three.

An eternity compressed into the space between heartbeats. Your skin prickles, heat crawling up your spine that has nothing to do with the crowded dance floor or the alcohol in your system. The weight of his stare is palpable, laden with something unnamed but acutely felt. Something that turns your mouth to the Sahara and your pulse into a kickdrum.

Usher croons about falling in love while Pitbull drops his signature "dale" in the background, and isn't that just fucking hilarious? Because this—this moment, this look, this stranger—this isn't about love. This is about want. Raw and simple and completely uncomplicated by things like names or histories or futures.

This is about the way his jaw clenches slightly as he watches you dance with someone else. About how his fingers drum against his glass in perfect time with the beat. About the little scar on his cheek that catches the light when he tilts his head, studying you like you're a puzzle he wants to take apart piece by piece.

Your dance partner's hands feel colder by the second.

It's not that his hands are bad, exactly. They're... nice hands. Big hands. The kind that wrap around your hips like they were made to be there, fingers long enough to span the distance between hipbone and hipbone. And yeah, okay, you have a thing for hands. Who doesn't? It's practically universal at this point—like liking bread or hating people who talk during movies. Just basic human nature.

But something's... off.

Your brain is doing that thing. That stupid, annoying, overthinking thing where it won't shut up long enough to let you enjoy anything. And god, you hate this. Hate how your mind rebels against perfectly good situations, like it's allergic to straightforward pleasure or something. Because objectively? This should be working. Hot guy, good music, decent amount of alcohol in your system. Your body's definitely on board—you can feel the low simmer of attraction, the way your skin warms under his touch. The basic chemistry is there.

But your mind? Your mind's like that one friend who shows up to parties just to list off everything that could possibly go wrong. His hands are cold. His laugh doesn't reach his eyes. No dimples. The way he said "pretty" like he was checking off a box on some "How to Pick Up Girls" checklist.

You sigh, already stepping back. Watch the confusion flicker across his face, quickly masked by what you're sure he thinks is an understanding smile.

"Everything alright?"

And like... no? Yes? Maybe? How do you even answer that when you're not sure what's wrong in the first place? When you're standing here on a dance floor that's vibrating with Usher's voice while your brain short-circuits over the temperature of some guy's hands?

"Yeah, I'm just..." You pause, teeth catching your bottom lip as you reconsider. Fuck it. Might as well go with the classics. "The vodka. Has me feeling buzzy, I think I'm not feeling too good."

It's a cop-out and you know it. But it's also an easy out, the kind that doesn't hurt anyone's feelings or make things weird. Because that's what you do, isn't it? Keep things smooth. Keep things nice. Even when you're lying through your teeth to some guy whose name you can't quite remember.

"Hey, that's okay." His smile stays steady, concerned even. "No hard feelings. You need a ride home?"

And that—that right there—that's actually kind of sweet. In another universe, maybe that offer would seal the deal. Nice guy, worried about your safety, probably has a stable job and calls his mother on Sundays. But in this universe? In this universe, your eyes are already drifting over his shoulder, drawn like a compass needle to true north.

You press your lips together, scanning the crowd like you're actually looking for someone. Like you haven’t known exactly where he is this whole time, haven’t felt his eyes raking you up and down non-stop.

"Actually I know someone just across the way, so honestly, zero worries."

The shock on his face would be comical if it weren’t so irksome. "You positive? Weren’t you visiting from out of town? Emma mentioned you were just in for the weekend."

And okay, what the actual fuck? Why does he need your whole life story? Yeah, sure, he's probably just being nice. Probably just wants to make sure you're not about to wander off and get murdered or something. But still. The irritation rises in your throat like bile, sharp and inexplicable.

"Doesn't mean I don't know anybody in New York," you say, and wow, okay, that came out with more edge than intended. Quick, fix it, smooth it over. You paste on a tight smile, the kind that probably looks more like a grimace but hey, at least you're trying. "See you around, Brent."

You're already moving as you say it, heels clicking against the floor with purpose. You think you hear him call after you—something about his name being Peter?—but you're beyond caring. Beyond thinking about cold hands and careful smiles and all the safe choices you should be making.

Because your feet know where they're going, even if your brain is screaming about bad decisions. Even if every rational part of you is throwing up warning signs and red flags. Even if—or maybe because—you can feel his eyes following your every move, heat spiraling up your spine with each step closer.

The bass drops, and your heart kicks up to match it.

Dale, indeed.

You don't need to look at him to know he's watching. You can tell. Can perceive it. It’s like standing too close to a bonfire. The kind of heat that makes you want to step closer even as your survival instincts scream danger, danger, danger.

And this? This is definitely dangerous.

You don't do this. Like, ever. There's a whole routine to these things, right? Guy sees girl, guy approaches girl, girl decides if she wants to deal with whatever fumbling attempt at flirtation follows. That's just... how it works. How it's always worked. Because guys? They're usually terrible at being approached. Their fragile little egos can't handle a girl making the first move. Plus, most of them aren't worth the effort anyway.

But.

But your feet are already moving. But your heart is already racing. But something about the way he's been watching you, like he could devour you whole and still be hungry—it makes you reckless. Makes you stupid. Makes you brave.

"Dance with me."

It comes out more command than question, your voice steadier than it has any right to be. He looks up at you from his seat, and fuck. Just... fuck. Because the way he tilts his head? The slow, deliberate motion of it? That should not be as hot as it is. That should be illegal in at least three states.

Then he smiles. Just one side of his mouth lifting, lazy and confident and—oh god. A dimple. One perfect little dimple that makes something in your chest squeeze tight.

"That's bold."

His voice is lower than you expected. Rougher. Like whiskey over gravel, and you want to drink it down until you're drunk on it. Want to find out what other sounds you can pull from that throat.

"You've been looking at me for 10 minutes." The words fall from your lips before you can stop them, sharp and challenging. "You gonna come dance or not?"

He chuckles—actually chuckles, who even does that?—and holy shit, there's another one. Two dimples. Two perfect little dents in his cheeks that make heat pool low in your belly, thick and sweet like honey. Your fingers twitch, aching to touch them, to press thumbs to those tiny curves and feel him beam against your flesh.

When he stands, it's one fluid motion that makes it feel like someone replaced your esophagus with a cracked porcelain vase. Because he's tall. Not incredibly, super tall. But yes the kind of tall that means you'd have to stretch up on your toes to reach his mouth, that means his hands could probably span your whole waist, that means—

No. Nope. Not going there. Not yet anyway.

He follows you onto the dance floor, and you can feel the energy shift. Like the air itself is charging up, preparing itself for both of you. His friend—some guy with killer dance moves who's been holding down a corner of the floor all night—catches his eye and shoots him a look. Something passes between them, quick and meaningful, before Mystery Man's attention is back on you. All on you.

And yeah.

Yeah, this is happening.

This is definitely happening.

The bass pounds through your marrow as Usher's voice continues suffusing the air, talking about DJs and falling in love, and honestly. At this point you’re barely listening to the music itself, too focused on finding a more secluded spot.

Your pulse picks up speed. Can’t help it, really. Because this? This is definitely going to be worth breaking all your rules for.

You lead him to some darker corner of the club—might be by a column, might be an alcove, who fucking knows because your brain's too busy short-circuiting to care about architectural details right now. All you know is it's slightly away from the main crush of bodies, slightly more private, slightly more...

Oh.

His hands find your hips the second you turn to face him. No hesitation. No silent question. No careful hovering or polite uncertainty like what's-his-name earlier. Just warm, sure palms sliding over the curve of your hips like they belong there, like he's claiming territory, and—

And you should be annoyed. You should be fucking livid. Because excuse you? The audacity of this man to just assume he can touch you without so much as a "may I?" Some feminist you are, getting weak in the knees over this caveman behavior while poor Brett (Blake? Whatever) at least had the decency to ask permission with those puppy dog eyes of his.

But your brain? Your traitorous, horny, absolutely useless brain? It's sending signals straight between your legs because apparently that's what does it for you now. The confidence. The heat of his hands—and god, they're so warm, burning through the thin fabric of your dress like brands. They're not as broad as the other guy's, but his fingers are longer, elegant almost. Artist's hands, scattered with tiny tattoos that disappear under his sleeve, and that silver ring on his middle finger catching the light as his grip tightens just slightly...

(Middle finger. Not left-hand fourth. So not married then. Good. Last thing you need tonight is adding "homewrecker" to your expanding list of dubious habits.)

Your arms loop around his neck almost on autopilot, and then you're moving. With him. Against him. The bass is a living thing between you, and he matches your rhythm instantly, like your bodies already know the steps to this dance. Like you've done this a hundred times before, in a hundred different lives.

His eyes lock onto yours, heavy-lidded and dark as sin, and every hair on your neck stands at attention. Electricity crackles down your spine, sharp and sweet, as his thumbs press into your hipbones. Just enough pressure to guide you closer, until there's barely room for breath between you.

"Didn't catch your name earlier," he says, voice pitched low enough that you have to lean in to hear him over the music. His breath fans hot against your ear, and you suppress a shiver.

"Didn't throw it," you shoot back, because apparently your mouth is running on autopilot now too. Great. Just great.

But he laughs—a quick, rough sound that you feel more than hear—and his hands flex against your hips. "Feisty. I like that."

"Bet you say that to all the girls who proposition you at clubs."

"Nah." His head dips closer, nose brushing your temple. "Just the ones who stare at me for ten minutes first."

"Excuse you, you were staring at me."

"Maybe we were staring at each other."

And okay, that's... fair actually. But you're not about to admit it. Instead, you roll your eyes, even as your fingers find the soft hair at his nape. "Does this usually work for you? This whole... whatever this is?"

"You tell me." His smile is audible in his voice, and you just know those dimples are making an appearance again. "You're the one who told me to dance."

"Maybe I just felt sorry for you, sitting there all alone."

"Wasn't alone. Had my friend."

"The dancer? Please, he was too busy killing it on the floor to keep you company."

His laugh vibrates through his chest into yours, and when did you get this close? When did your bodies start pressing together with every sway of the music? When did his thigh slip between yours, creating a friction that makes your breath catch?

"You been watching my friend too? Should I be jealous?"

The word sends an unexpected thrill through you, even though his tone is clearly teasing. "Wouldn't you like to know."

"Yeah," he says, and suddenly his voice isn't teasing at all. His grip tightens fractionally, pulling your hips more firmly against his. "Yeah, I would."

Goosebumps ripple across your arms, slow and inevitable, like lava carving its path through stone. His eyes burn into yours again, scorching hot, wild, and consuming—a downpour drowning a raging fire, leaving nothing but aftermath. What’s left in their wake is the kind of black that clings. Opaque. Dense. Like ash, settling over a forest stripped to its bare bones.

The sensible part of your brain—the part that usually keeps you from doing stupid, reckless things with beautiful strangers—is suspiciously quiet. Probably because all your blood is currently occupied elsewhere, namely with the way his hands are starting to trace slow patterns on your hips, the way his breath keeps ghosting over your neck, the way his body moves against yours like he's writing sin in cursive.

And maybe it's the vodka, or maybe it's how he's gazing at you like you're tranquility amidst his chaos, but you hear yourself say, "Buy me a drink first."

His smile is slow, dangerous. "That an order too?"

"Consider it a... suggestion."

"Mm." One hand slides to your lower back, pressing you impossibly closer for just a moment. "I'm starting to like your suggestions."

Your skin feels too tight, too hot, too everything. "Starting to?"

"Give me time." His lips brush your ear as he speaks, and this time you can't suppress the shiver. "Night's still young."

He actually does buy you that drink, which is... something. You're not sure what exactly, but definitely something. The way he guides you to the bar with his hand still on your lower back, fingers splayed wide enough to make you notice the imprint of his warmth? Also something.

"Another vodka cran," you tell the bartender, because hey, if it ain't broke. Then you catch his raised eyebrow and can't help adding, "What? Were you expecting something more sophisticated?"

"Nah." That damn dimple makes another appearance. "Just trying to figure you out."

"Good luck with that."

When he pulls out his wallet to pay, you catch a glimpse of multiple cards fanned out in the leather fold. Credit cards, maybe? Must have money then—or at least good credit. Not that it matters, because this is a one-time thing. A never-gonna-see-you-again thing. A what-happens-in-New-York stays-in-New-York thing.

Your fingers find the cocktail napkin beneath your glass, absently creating sharp creases with your thumbnail. It's one of those fancy ones with the bar's logo embossed in gold—pretentious, like everything else about this place.

Still. You notice how he pauses, studying one card for a beat too long before selecting it. Like he's making sure of something. Weird, but whatever.

The napkin disappears into your clutch without conscious thought. A habit you'll question later but can't explain now. You're too buzzed to care about his personal finances or your own questionable souvenir-keeping tendencies.

"Whiskey neat," he orders, and you barely contain your snort. Of fucking course he drinks whiskey. Probably thinks he's Don Draper or something.

"Pretentious much?"

"Says the girl drinking what's basically juice with a splash of alcohol."

"At least I'm not trying to prove anything."

His laugh is rough, genuine. "Who says I'm trying to prove anything?"

"Please. Whiskey at a club? That's like wearing a suit to McDonald's."

"Maybe I just like whiskey." He takes a deliberate sip, throat working in a way that absolutely doesn't make your mouth water. "Maybe I like the burn."

There's something in his voice when he says that, something that feeds the banked flame in your belly. His eyes are on you again, alternating between your eyes and your mouth like he can't quite decide where to focus.

"That line score you points often?" you manage to ask, even as your voice betrays you, emerging breathier than intended.

"I wouldn't know." He's definitely closer now. When did that happen? Did he move, or did you? "Is it scoring points now?"

And god help you, but it is. It really fucking is. Maybe it's the alcohol finally hitting your system properly, or maybe it's the way he's looking at you, but you find yourself swaying toward him. Drawn in like a moth to flame, even though you know you're probably going to get burned.

"You're kind of an asshole," you inform him, even as your free hand finds its way to his chest. His very firm chest, holy shit.

"Yeah?" His fingers trace up your spine, feather-light but deliberate. "Seem to like it though."

"Cocky too."

"Haven't heard any complaints."

He's so near now you can smell him—something clean and vicious, like a tempest raging on the coast. His breath fans across your lips, whiskey-warm and promising. One of his hands cups the back of your neck, thumb brushing your jaw in a way that makes your skin buzz.

"Anyone ever tell you you talk too much?" you murmur, and that's it—that's all it takes.

His mouth crashes into yours like a wave breaking against rocks, hot and insistent and absolutely fucking flawless. His lips are softer than you expected but he kisses hard, like he's trying to devour you whole. Like he's been thinking about this as much as you have. The hand on your neck tightens, tilting your head to deepen the angle, and holy fuck.

You've been kissed before. You've been kissed a lot, actually. But this? This is something else entirely. This is lightning in a bottle, this is matches in gasoline, this is every hackneyed poetry metaphor about fire and flame and immolation except it actually makes sense now because your entire body is electric with it.

His tongue swipes across your bottom lip and you open for him without hesitation, vodka cranberry forgotten in your hand. He tastes like alcohol and dewdrops and something else you can't name but instantly crave more of. The noise he makes when you tug his hair—low and ravenous and almost startled—shoots straight between your legs.

Someone whistles nearby—probably his dancer friend—but you couldn't care less. Not when his other hand is sliding down to your hip, pulling you closer. Not when he's kissing you like he's trying to memorize the shape of your mouth with his tongue. Not when everything in you is screaming more, closer, now.

You're definitely going to hell for this. But with the way he's kissing you?

Might be worth it.

His forehead rests against yours, and you're both breathing like you've run a marathon. Which is... embarrassing, actually. When was the last time a kiss left you this affected? What are you, some freshman at their first house party? Because this is ridiculous. You're ridiculous. Your heart is hammering against your ribs like it's trying to escape, and your lips are tingling, and—

And fuck it. Fuck everything. You want more.

"Let's take this outside," you say, surprising yourself with how steady your voice sounds considering your internal chaos. Because yes. Outside. Away from the crowd and the music and all these people who aren't him.

"Your house?" The words are barely out of his mouth before you can finish your suggestion, and okay, that's kind of hot. The eagerness. The way his fingers flex against your hip like he's already imagining it.

You can't help the smile that tugs at your lips. At least you're not alone in this desperate teenage hormone bullshit. At least he's just as affected as you are.

But then reality crashes in like a bucket of ice water. Your house? What house? You're crashing at Emma's place and—oh god, Emma would actually murder you. Like, literal homicide. She's already doing you a solid by covering for you with your parents, and bringing back some random (incredibly hot) guy from a club? Yeah, that would definitely void the best-friend contract.

"Yours?" you counter, trying not to sound too hopeful.

He makes this sound—half hiss, half groan—that shouldn't be as sexy as it is. "Can't."

"What, mommy and daddy don't let you?" The snark is automatic, defense mechanism kicking in to mask your disappointment.

"Nah, but my friend might not like it."

"Mine either."

You stare at each other for a moment, eyes darting back and forth like you're both trying to solve the same puzzle. The absurdity of the situation hits you at the same time—two grown adults, hot and bothered in a club, cockblocked by their respective roommate situations—and suddenly you're both laughing.

His chuckle is deep, rumbling through his chest where you're still pressed against him, and it's... nice. Really nice. The way his eyes crinkle at the corners, the way his dimples flash (and seriously, those things should come with a warning label), the way his thumb absently strokes your hip like he's forgotten he's doing it.

"Well, this is..."

"Stupid?" you offer.

"I was gonna say unfortunate, but yeah. Stupid works too."

You're still close enough to feel his breath on your lips, still wound tight with want, still buzzing from that kiss. And now you're both laughing about it, which should probably kill the mood but somehow doesn't. Somehow makes it better, actually. More real. Less like some fantasy hookup and more like...

Nope. Not going there. This is still just a one-night thing. A one-night thing that's currently being cockblocked by your respective living situations, but still. Just one night.

"So what now?" he asks, and his voice has dropped back into that lower register that you really want to hate. "Because I really want to kiss you again."

"Just kiss?" The words slip out before you can stop them, teasing and suggestive and probably way too candid.

His grip tightens, just marginally. Just enough to make your breath catch. "Definitely not just kiss."

"Fuck," you breathe, because eloquence has left the building. Possibly the state.

"That's the idea, yeah." And how he says it—all gruff edges and sinful vow—makes embers spark low in your abdomen. "Just need to sort out the logistics."

Which brings you right back to your current predicament. No Emma's place, no his place, and you're pretty sure having sex in the club bathroom is both tacky and probably illegal. But the way he's looking at you, like he really, really wants to wreck you…

"We could..." you start, then pause. Because what? What brilliant solution are you about to offer here? Your practical brain is absolutely useless right now, short-circuited by the lingering taste of whiskey on your tongue and the steady pressure of his hands on your body.

"Could what?" His thumb traces your bottom lip, and your train of thought derails completely.

"I have no idea," you admit, and his laugh is somehow both frustrated and fond.

"This is definitely stupid," he says, but he's still holding you close, still looking at your mouth like he's considering kissing you again anyway, roommate situations be damned.

"So stupid," you agree, already tilting your face up to meet him halfway.

You lick your lips, tasting geosmin and want and really awful decision-making skills.

Fuck it. Fuck everything. Emma can kill you tomorrow.

Your fingers wrap around his wrist—god, his hands are so warm—and you're already moving, already pulling up the Uber app with your free hand. Thank fuck for muscle memory because your brain is absolutely useless right now, too busy cataloging the way his pulse jumps under your fingers, the way he follows without hesitation.

"Where we goin'?" His voice is low and hoarse as he trails behind you, wrist a hostage to your grip.

"To my friend's place," you mutter, trying to type Emma's address without typos.

You: 𝚎𝚖𝚖𝚊, 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚠

You don’t mention you’re not heading home alone. She’ll find out herself.

The dude, for his part, just hums in response, like he's fine with whatever as long as it means getting somewhere private. Which, fair. You're kind of operating on the same wavelength here.

You make it to the coat check line first, because priorities. You’re not leaving your jacket behind. And it is moving at a glacial pace, because of course it is. The universe clearly wants to test your self-control by forcing you to stand here, his chest pressed against your back, his breath hot on your neck.

The way his fingers keep "accidentally" brushing your thigh has you seriously considering saying fuck it and just leaving your jacket behind.

"Could just come back for it tomorrow," he murmurs, like he's reading your mind. His lips brush your ear as he speaks, and you barely sigh in response. Bastard knows exactly what he's doing.

"It's January in New York. I'm not getting hypothermia just because you can't keep it in your pants for five minutes."

"Could keep you warm."

And okay, that line should be cringeworthy. That's the kind of shit that would usually make you roll your eyes so hard they'd get stuck. But he has a way with words—or maybe it’s just his fucking voice—and somehow you like it.

"Next," the coat check girl calls, mercifully saving you from having to respond. You practically lunge forward, fumbling with your ticket. Better than letting him feel how that stupid line affected you.

He reaches past you to hand over his own ticket, arm bracketing you against the counter. And really? Really? This is some romance novel bullshit right here. Who does he think he is, Christian Grey? You should be annoyed. You should definitely not be noticing how good he smells, or how the position highlights just how much bigger he is than you, or—

"Here you go!" The coat check girl's voice is way too cheerful for—you check your phone—3:46 AM. She hands over your coats with a knowing smile that makes your face heat. Great. Just great. Even the coat check girl can tell you're about to make terrible life choices.

He helps you into your jacket because apparently he's decided to be a gentleman now, after spending the last hour making you question your life choices with his mouth. His hands linger on your shoulders just a fraction too long, and you have to bite your lip to keep from making an embarrassing sound.

"Ready?" he asks, voice still pitched low enough to make your skin tingle. You nod, not trusting yourself to speak, and let him guide you toward the exit with his hand on your lower back.

The coat check girl calls out "Have fun!" as you leave, and you seriously consider moving to a different city. Maybe a different country. Somewhere people don't immediately clock your questionable decision-making skills.

The Uber arrives embarrassingly fast—some higher power must be looking out for horny idiots tonight—and you both slide into the backseat. You start on opposite sides because you're trying to be decent human beings, trying to remember that your poor driver doesn't deserve a free show.

But then he's moving closer.

And closer.

And suddenly his mouth is on yours again, hot and demanding, and okay, yeah, sorry Mr. Uber driver but this is happening. His hand cups your jaw, tilting your head just so, and you're definitely making some kind of noise in the back of your throat but you're beyond caring. Beyond thinking about anything except the way his tongue slides against yours, the way his other hand grips your thigh.

Fifteen minutes. That's all it is from the club to Emma's place. Fifteen minutes that somehow feel like both seconds and eternity, lost in a haze of wandering hands and stolen kisses and trying (failing) to keep things PG-13. You're vaguely aware of streets passing, of turns and stops, of the driver pointedly turning up the radio.

And then your attention shifts. His teeth graze your bottom lip, fingers slowly sliding on your inner thigh. Hisses when your nails find his scalp. Heat. Want. Need. Building higher with each passing minute until you're practically vibrating out of your skin.

By some miracle (or possibly divine intervention), you make it to Emma’s building. You stumble out of the Uber, giving the driver your most apologetic smile-grimace combo. He just shakes his head, probably adding you to his mental list of "drunk hookups I never want to see again."

But then he's pressing you against the building's front door, mouth hot on your neck, and you really can't bring yourself to care about your Uber rating right now. Not when his hands are everywhere, not when he's making these little sounds against your skin that go straight between your legs.

It takes three tries to get the key in the lock—partly because it's 4 AM and you're tipsy, mostly because he won't stop kissing you long enough to focus. When you finally get the door open, you nearly fall through it, saved only by his arm around your waist.

"Smooth," he murmurs against your lips, laughing softly.

"Shut up," you breathe back, already pulling him in for another kiss. His back hits the closing door with a thud that's definitely too loud for 4 AM, but you're past caring. Past thinking about anything except the way his hands feel sliding up your sides, the way he tastes, the way he's eating you up with his eyes.

Emma's definitely going to murder you tomorrow. But with the way his fingers are digging into your hips, the way he's kissing you like he's trying to crawl inside your skin?

What-fucking-ever.

He pushes off the door like a man on a mission, and suddenly you're airborne—your legs wrapping around his waist on pure instinct. And okay, that's hot. The way he lifts you like you weigh nothing, the solid press of his body against yours, the little growl he makes when your hips roll against his.

"Room?" His voice is wrecked already, breath hot against your mouth between kisses that make your head spin.

You gesture vaguely toward Emma's guest room, too busy mapping the muscles of his shoulders to form actual words. He exhales sharply against your lips, already moving. Your jackets become casualties somewhere in the hallway, dropped with fumbling hands and zero grace because yeah, the vodka's definitely hitting now. Everything's warm and hazy and electric, your skin buzzing everywhere he touches.

Then you're falling backward onto the bed, and holy fuck. The way he's looking down at you—like he's been lost in the desert and you're a fucking oasis—it makes your breath catch in your throat. Makes heat pool low in your belly, makes your thighs press together in anticipation.

His shirt comes off in one fluid motion and—

Jesus fucking Christ.

You've seen attractive guys before. You've seen gym bros and athletes and the whole spectrum of male bodies. But this? This is like someone took Michelangelo's David and decided to make him real but better. He's all lean muscle and smooth skin, but with just enough softness to make him touchable. Human. Perfect.

And his chest—god, his chest. It's not the rock-hard wall of muscle you'd expect from someone who looks like that. Instead, there's this ideal balance of firm and soft, creating the most magnificent set of man tiddies you've ever laid eyes on. The kind you could actually cuddle up to without feeling like you're resting on concrete. The kind that would make a flawless pillow after—

Your lusty brain stops working as he leans down, pressing his hips deliberately against yours as his mouth finds your neck. His tongue traces patterns on your skin that make you arch up against him, desperate for more contact.

"Fuck," he breathes against your throat, nosing along your pulse point. "You smell so good. Like vanilla and..." He inhales deeply, making your skin erupt in goosebumps. "Like something sweet I wanna taste."

Your hands slide up his back, feeling the play of muscles under warm skin. He's perfectly balanced above you, using just enough of his weight to make you feel deliciously pinned without crushing you. You fucking love it. Don’t know why, don’t know how. Maybe it's just how attractive he is, or the heat of his mouth on your neck, or the press of his body against yours or the way he keeps making these little sounds like he can't help himself.

He's kissing you again before your vodka-soaked brain can process anything beyond rudimentary want, primal need. It's all heat and tongue and teeth, messy and perfect in the way only drunken hookups can be. One of his hands slides up your neck, fingers spreading across your throat. Not squeezing, just...resting.

It's fucking electric.

Your hands map the expanse of his back, nails dragging lightly in a way that makes him groan into your mouth. He's all smooth skin and sinewy muscle, hot to the touch and absolutely unfair. No one should be allowed to feel this good. To make you feel this good, just by existing.

He drags his mouth down your neck, teeth grazing your artery. Your fingers tangle in his hair, gripping tight enough to make him hiss. Which is hot. Way too hot, because that noise? It immediately spirals straight between your thighs.

And fuck, how he grinds down against you in response. It's obscenely filthy, the perfect pressure in just the right spot to make you want to moan aloud. To be shameless.

"Fuck," he breathes against your skin, and you feel it more than hear it. Feel the heat of his breath, the barely restrained want in the way he's touching you. "You feel so fucking good."

Your hips roll up to meet his in a way that's purely instinctual. Because yeah, he feels good too. Better than good. You feel the maddening length of him grinding against you through his jeans; his hand around your neck and—god, you want to claw his back, to wrap your legs around his waist and just take.

The hand on your neck flexes just slightly, thumb brushing your jawline and you think you die just a little because hello? You like that. You really, really fucking like that. New kink unlocked, it seems.

"Want you," he murmurs, voice low and rough with arousal. "Want you so fucking bad, you have no idea."

And oh, you do. You really, really do. Because wanting him is all you can think about right now. All you can focus on beyond the thrumming of your heart, the aching throb between your thighs. You want his hands, his mouth, his—

"Off," you manage, tugging at his jeans with clumsy fingers. "These need to come off like, yesterday."

His chuckle vibrates through his chest into yours. "So fucking bossy."

But he's already leaning back, already working on his fly as you prop yourself up on your elbows to watch. And Jesus Christ, the way he looks right now—shirtless and disheveled, dark hair falling into darker eyes, lips red from your kisses—it's unfair. Unreal.

So fucking hot you think you might actually die if he doesn't touch you again in the next ten seconds.

His jeans hit the floor with a soft thud and holy fuck—the sight of him in just black boxer briefs should be illegal in at least forty-eight states. Like, someone call the police because this? This is absolutely criminal. The way the fabric clings to his thighs, the obvious bulge that makes your mouth water—

But then he's on you again, and thinking becomes a foreign concept.

His hands find the hem of your dress, bunching the fabric up with an urgency that makes heat pool between your legs. You arch up to help him, already anticipating the slide of fabric over skin, but—

Oh.

The second the dress clears your elbows, he presses down. Uses the fabric to pin your arms above your head, effectively trapping you against the mattress. And that's... that's...

Fuck.

His mouth is suddenly on your breast, hot and wet and absolutely perfect. No hesitation, no teasing—just the wet slide of his tongue over your nipple before he sucks it into his mouth, and holy shit.

Thank god you wore this dress. Thank every fucking deity that you chose the tight red one that doesn’t need a bra, because the feeling of his mouth directly on your skin is absolutely devastating.

A moan tears from your throat—embarrassingly loud in the quiet room—as his teeth graze sensitive flesh. His responding groan vibrates through your chest, sending shivers down your spine. Your back arches instinctively, pressing more firmly into his mouth as his tongue swirls around your peaked nipple.

His free hand finds your throat again, and—

Oh god.

His fingers spread wide, applying the slightest pressure. Testing. Exploring. Like he's curious about your reaction, about the way he feels your heartbeat flutter faster in response.

You can't help the soft sound that escapes you—somewhere between a whimper and a moan. His grip tightens fractionally in response, and your cunt clenches around nothing. Because fuck, that shouldn't be as hot as it is. The way he's controlling your breath, the way he's holding you down, the way his mouth is absolutely ruining you one suck at a time...

"Sensitive," he murmurs against your skin, and you can hear the smirk in his voice. Bastard. His thumb strokes along your jugular, feeling the way your breath hitches. "Wonder what other sounds I can get that pretty throat to make."

You'd have a snappy comeback for that. You know you would. But then he's switching to your other breast, teeth scraping just right, and coherent thought becomes a distant memory. All you can focus on is the wet heat of his mouth, the steady pressure of his hand on your throat, the way he's using his other hand to keep you pinned against the bed.

And maybe it's the situation, or maybe it's just him, but you've never been this turned on in your life. Never been this wet, this desperate, this needy. It should be embarrassing really—the way you're practically writhing beneath him, the way every little touch sends electricity sparking through your veins.

But with the way he's groaning against your skin, the way his hips keep grinding against yours like he needs it? Maybe you're not the only one that’s losing sanity here.

His teeth catch your nipple just as his fingers flex against your throat, and the combination pulls a sound from you that you didn’t even know you could make. High and breathy and absolutely wrecked.

"Fuck," he breathes, hot against your wet skin. "The sounds you make..."

His thumb brushes over your throat again, slower this time, before gliding up. Along the underside of your jaw. Pausing at your bottom lip. He applies the slightest pressure, watching as your mouth falls open on instinct. You're not sure whether you breathe or whimper, but it makes his gaze go impossibly darker, makes his hips roll against yours in response.

And then his thumb is there, pressing against your tongue, and—goddamn him—you're sucking without a second thought. The groan he lets out is a shattered thing, low and guttural, as though he's just as wrecked as you.

For three glorious seconds, he just... freezes. Like his brain's temporarily offline, like you've actually managed to short-circuit whatever smooth operator routine he had going.

And okay, maybe that gives you enough time to yank the dress out the rest of the way, tossing it off your bent elbows in a way that you hope was sexier than it felt. He doesn’t seem to notice—too busy looking at you like he's forgotten how he got here. Or how to breathe.

Either way, it's a little distracting.

But then he's moving, yanking his hand back like you've scorched him. And before you can even process the loss, he's sliding down your body, trailing open-mouthed kisses that make your skin come alive.

Your tipsy brain tries to catch up with what's unfolding—manages to register the flex of his shoulders, the heat of his mouth marking a path down your stomach, the way his hands are suddenly gripping your thighs and—

Oh.

Oh fuck.

He pulls you to the edge of the bed like you weigh nothing, kneeling between your spread legs like he belongs there. And how he looks up at you through his lashes, mouth hovering just inches from where you're absolutely drenched through your panties...

You prop yourself up on your elbows because fuck if you're missing this show. The movement makes your head spin slightly—reminder that you are definitely not sober—but the sight of him between your thighs is worth any potential vertigo.

His breath fans hot against your core, and your hips twitch involuntarily. A smirk plays at the corners of his mouth, but before you can call him out on it, he's leaning in. Pressing his open mouth against you through the thin fabric of your underwear, and—

"Fuck."

The word tears from your throat unbidden because holy shit, this shouldn't feel this good already. It's barely anything—just the heat of his mouth, the slight pressure of his tongue through fabric—but your body's lighting up like a fucking supernova. Like every nerve ending is suddenly dialed to a hundred.

Your fingers find his hair without conscious thought, tangling in the dark strands as he works you through your panties. The grip of his hands on your thighs tightens in response, and fuck—that's definitely going to leave marks.

And okay, yeah. Maybe you're embarrassingly wet. Maybe you can feel it soaking through the fabric, making everything slick and messy. Maybe you should care about that, about being this affected this quickly.

But you don’t. Not really, with the way he's groaning against you like he's dying for it. Like he can't get enough. Yeah, dignity can take a backseat.

Besides, all thoughts of pride or shame fly right out the window when he finally, finally hooks his fingers under the waistband of your panties. Your hips lift automatically, helping him slide them down your legs. They catch on your heels because of course you're still wearing your fuck-me pumps, but he doesn't seem to mind. Just lets the fabric dangle from one ankle as he dives back in, and—

"Holy shit."

His tongue drags up your slit in one long, deliberate stroke, and your brain temporarily stops working. Like, full system shutdown. Windows XP error sound and everything. Because fuck—that shouldn't feel as mindbogglingly good as it does.

Then he flicks your clit with the tip of his tongue and you make this absolutely mortifying noise—some choked little "guh" that would humiliate you if you were sober enough to care. His lip ring adds this extra edge of sensation that makes your thighs quake, cool metal a sharp contrast to the heat of his mouth.

He makes this sound against you—something between a hum and a growl (and okay, yeah, maybe 'growl' isn't the right word because what are you, fucking animals? But you're drunk and getting your pussy eaten properly for the first time in forever, so vocabulary can fuck right off). Whatever it is, it vibrates through you in a way that has your hips jerking up, seeking more.

Then he's doing these small, slow circles around your clit. So. Fucking. Slow. Like he wants to drive you crazy, wants you to fucking writhe against him. You try not to just grind up against his face. Because that would be desperate, right? That would be—

Damn.

The circles suddenly get faster, tighter, more intense. His tongue flicking over your clit with the kind of speed and precision that would put Fast & Furious to shame. And the sounds coming out of your mouth? Yeah, those aren't even words anymore. Just a stream of "oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck."

If Emma’s home—because it’s probably been an hour already—she’s probably getting one hell of a show through these paper-thin walls. But you know what? She fucking owes you. All those times you covered for her sneaking out to Bobby Martinez's house in high school? Yeah, consider this payback with interest.

He drags his tongue back down, gathering your wetness (and okay, yeah, you're basically flooding at this point but whatever), then slides back up. Adding texture to his movements like some kind of oral sex virtuoso. Because apparently this stranger knows exactly what he's doing with that mouth, and honestly? Good for you. You deserve this. You deserve to have your pussy eaten by someone who treats it like a goddamn art form.

So you lean back, let yourself enjoy it. Let him explore and taste and fuck—the way he's absolutely feasting on you like you're his last meal. His tongue finds your clit again, and this time he sucks it into his mouth, and the sound that rips from your throat probably violates noise ordinances in several states.

The wet sounds of his mouth on you are absolutely obscene. Like, pornographic-level obscene. All sucking and slurping and Jesus fucking Christ, you should not find that as hot as you do. But with your stiletto digging into his back (when did that happen?) and his hands gripping your thighs hard enough to leave fingerprints...

Yeah. Yeah, definitely hot.

Then his tongue drags down, down, down—and fuck, you can feel every ridge, every texture against your sensitive flesh. He reaches your entrance and just... circles it. Like he's mapping you out. Like he’s thinking about his next move.

Five blessed seconds where you can actually catch your breath. Where your brain starts to come back online and—

Fuck.

His tongue plunges into you without warning and your hand definitely just yanks out some of his hair but who fucking cares because his nose is nudging your clit while he tongue-fucks you and—and—

And your brain's offline again. Good talk.

He adjusts his arms, somehow pulling you even closer to his face. As if you weren't already basically smothering him. As if he literally wants to drown in your cunt. And that thought shouldn't be as scorching hot as it is but holy shit.

A moan tears from your throat—loud enough that Emma's probably googling noise complaint laws right now. But you can feel it building, that telltale tightening, that electric tension spreading through your core. Your clit's throbbing in time with your racing pulse and—

And he doesn't change a thing.

Because this guy? This absolute genius between your legs? He knows better than to pull that amateur hour bullshit where they speed up right when you're close. No, he maintains the exact same rhythm, the exact same pressure that got you here. Like he's done this before. Like he actually pays attention to what works.

(And okay, maybe you shouldn't be thinking about his past experience right now but your brain's kind of shorting out so whatever.)

Your stiletto digs deeper into his shoulder—might actually be drawing blood at this point but he doesn't seem to care one iota. If anything, he groans against you like he's getting off on it. Like pain turns him on. And that's...that's definitely something to stash away for later.

Or never. Because this is a one-time thing. Right. Focus.

Except focusing is basically impossible when he's eating you out like it's his actual job. When the pressure's building and building and—

Oh.

Oh fuck.

Your back arches off the bed like you're auditioning for America's Next Top Model: After Dark Edition. The orgasm hits you like a riptide, waves of pleasure so intense your vision actually whites out for a second. Your thighs clamp around his head, heel probably leaving permanent marks on his back, and you're definitely making sounds that would make a porn star blush but—

But holy shit.

His tongue flicks over your oversensitive clit one last time—the absolute bastard—and your whole body jerks as you whimper. Which, okay, definitely earned that one. Because holy fuck.

You slump back against the bed, bones liquified, as he prowls up your body. His hands plant on either side of your face and—wow, okay, up close he's even more unfairly beautiful. All sharp jawline and scorching eyes and lips that are literally glistening with...yeah.

"You taste exactly like you smell," he murmurs, and what kind of weird-ass compliment is that? Like, thanks? Good to know your pussy matches your perfume brand?

Except...it kind of works? Something tingles in your face and no. Absolutely not. You are not getting all swoony just because Hot Stranger is saying vaguely poetic shit during sex. This is just your horny lizard brain going 'hot man say words, neurons go brr.' That's all.

Then his mouth is on your neck and—yeah, okay, thinking is canceled anyway. His hands trace maddening patterns down your stomach, feather-light touches that make your muscles jump. And when he tugs his briefs down, his cock springs free and—

Oh.

Well then.

Your body apparently didn’t get the memo about the standard refractory period because hello, Round Two suddenly seems very appealing. It hasn’t even been five minutes since you came but here you are, already clenching around nothing like some kind of sex-starved teenager.

He leans back slightly, reaching for something and—ah. His jeans. More specifically, his wallet. From which he produces not one but multiple condoms, and honestly? We love a prepared king. Nothing hotter than a guy who practices safe sex without having to be asked.

(And yes, you're literally evaluating his sexual responsibility while naked and still tingling from one of the best orgasms of your life. Sue you.)

He grabs one condom and tosses the others somewhere on the bed. Then—because apparently he's auditioning for some porno-meets-action-movie hybrid—he puts the wrapper between his teeth. Locks eyes with you. Rips it open.

And okay, PSA time: Kids (not that any kids should be reading this, what the fuck brain?)—this is not how you open condoms. Use your fingers like a normal person, not your teeth like some kind of sexual menace. That's literally Condom Safety 101.

But then again, when a guy this stupid hot does literally anything, your brain just kind of... accepts it. Like yeah, sure, demolish that condom wrapper with your teeth while maintaining smoldering eye contact. That's normal. That's fine. You're fine.

He gives the condom a cursory check (okay, at least he's being thorough), pinches the tip between his fingers and you just... watch. Wait.

"You gonna fuck me tomorrow or...?" The words slip out before your self-censor can nab them, biting and teasing.

Bad choice.

His hand—his stupidly large, stupidly warm hand—wraps around your thigh and yanks you down the bed in one fluid motion. And why the fuck is that so hot? Why are you noticing how his fingers practically span your whole thigh? Why is the heat of his palm against your skin making your breath catch?

Your eyes flicker back to his cock and—oh. When did he even get the condom on? You must have missed that while you were having your crisis about his hands. But he's ready now, thick and hard and—

Fuck.

He pushes in with one swift motion and your body just... takes him. Like you're literally eager for it, still slick and open from his mouth. He makes this soft gasping sound like he's actually dying, like your cunt is some kind of religious experience.

"Fuck, you're so wet," he groans, hips flush against yours. "So fucking slippery and warm, feels like silk—"

"That's—ah—what happens when you eat someone out properly," you manage, even as your walls flutter around him. Because apparently your mouth doesn’t know when to quit, even with a dick inside you.

His laugh is rough, breathless.

"I’ll keep that in mind."

And fuck—the way he says it, like a promise, like a threat. Your cunt clenches at the thought and he actually growls.

He pushes your thighs down against the mattress and—ow. Okay, that's definitely going to hurt tomorrow. Future You is probably already plotting Present You's murder, adding your name to some karmic hit list right next to Emma’s (who, let’s be real, is definitely contemplating homicide through these paper-thin walls right now).

But then he starts moving and—oh.

Oh fuck.

Every coherent thought evaporates because he's burying himself so deep you swear he's trying to carve out a permanent place inside you. Like he wants your body to remember exactly how he feels, wants to leave an impression that'll last long after tonight.

You didn’t even get a proper look at his size earlier (too busy fizzing over his hands, his mouth, literally everything else), but holy shit. What you do know is he's thick—like, properly thick. Every inch of him pressed against your walls like he's trying to eliminate any space between you, like he's mapping out your insides for future reference.

"Fuck, you're tight," he groans, and you actually feel him twitch inside you. "So fucking—"

"Less talking," you manage to gasp out, "more moving."

His laugh is rough, breathless. "As you wish."

He snaps his hips once—testing, exploring—and your breath hitches in your throat. Then again. And again. Quick thrust in, torturously slow pull out, and every single time has you gasping like some Victorian maiden with a too-tight corset.

"Like that?" He sounds way too smug for someone balls-deep in a stranger. "The way you squeeze me every time I—"

"You always this chatty during sex?" Your voice comes out embarrassingly breathy, but whatever. "Or am I just special?"

Another snap of his hips that makes your eyes roll back. "Maybe I just like the sounds you make when I'm inside you."

And fuck—why is that hot? That shouldn’t be hot. You're still so wet from earlier that you can hear it, can feel how smoothly he glides in and out, nice and easy.

"You're certainly—ah—confident," you manage between thrusts, because apparently your mouth doesn’t know when to quit. "Compensating for something?"

His grip on your thighs tightens. "Want me to stop and let you check?"

"Don’t you fucking dare."

His pace quickens and—oh hello, is that a smirk he's biting back? It is. It absolutely fucking is. And your brain, your stupid, traitorous brain, finds that scorching. Because of course it does. You squint your eyes shut because you can’t deal with how cocky he looks right now, can’t process how that cockiness is actually doing it for you.

Congratulations, you've officially lost it. This is your villain origin story. Death by dick-induced insanity. They'll write case studies about you in Psychology Today: "Local Woman's Brain Melts Because Hot Stranger Has Good Dick Game." Your mother would be so proud.

But also? Also shut the fuck up, brain, because you're literally getting the best dick of your life right now so maybe save the self-reproach for later? Like, there's a time and place for your characteristic overthinking and this ain’t it.

He leans forward then, changing the angle as he chases your mouth, and holy fuck. Each thrust goes deeper, harder, faster—like he's trying to reach parts of you no one else has touched. His kiss is messy, all tongue and teeth and desperation, and you're actually whimpering into his mouth like some kind of—

Wait.

Hold the fucking phone.

Since when do you whimper? What is this, some kind of Harlequin romance novel? Are you secretly the protagonist of a Fabio-covered paperback? Because you don’t whimper. You don’t make these soft, needy little sounds into strange men’s mouths. That’s not your brand. That’s not—

But then he rolls his hips in this way that makes you see actual fucking stars, and okay, you know what? Fuck your brand. Fuck everything. Because the way he's moving? The way he's filling you up like you're some kind of horny piñata? Yeah, that takes precedence over your identity crisis.

And speaking of crises—why does this feel so fucking good? Like, mathematically speaking, dick is dick. It's basic anatomy. Tab A into Slot B. So why does every thrust feel like he's rewriting the laws of physics? Why does your body respond to him like he's got some kind of sexual Midas touch?

The worst part? The absolute worst part? You can feel another orgasm building already. Which is ridiculous. Impossible. You literally came like ten minutes ago. This man hasn’t even finished once and here you are, ready to go again like some kind of horny Energizer bunny.

You need to have a serious conversation with your pussy about standards and expectations. Like, what happened to the refractory period? What happened to playing hard to get? Because this? This instant response to everything he does? This eager little flutter every time he hits that spot just right?

This is just embarrassing.

But also really, really fucking good.

"You take my cock so fuckin' well," he groans against your neck, voice rough and slurred. "Like y'were made for it, so perfect—"

And okay, what kind of porn dialogue bullshit is that? Who actually says things like that during sex? More importantly, why is it working? Why does every filthy word from his mouth send electricity shooting straight to your cunt?

"Hnnngh—"

That's it. That's all you can manage because your brain-to-mouth filter is totally fried. Your nails dig into his shoulders as he hits that spot just right, and you're pretty sure you're leaving marks but whatever. Future Him problems.

"F-fuck, how you clench around me when I say shit like that," his words come out breathless, hitching. "Like hearing how good you feel? How tight and wet and fucking flawless—"

"Shut up." But it comes out more like a whine than a command, completely undermining any attempt at snark. Your walls flutter around him traitorously, and his responding groan vibrates through your whole body.

"Make me," he challenges, punctuating it with a particularly vicious thrust that has your eyes rolling back. "Or maybe you don't want me to? Maybe you secretly get off on—fuck—on hearing how amazing you are, how nobody's ever swallowed me this deep before—"

"Nghh—" Your brain's offline. Completely fucking offline. No thoughts, head empty, just the overwhelming sensation of him moving inside you, the heat of his breath against your neck, the absolute filth falling from his lips.

"S'true though," he pants, pace growing erratic. "Never felt anything like this, like your—oh fuck—"

A moan tears from your throat—loud and wanton and utterly mortifying. But you can't help it, not when he's fucking you like he's trying to ruin you for anyone else, not when he keeps saying these things that make your insides turn to molten lava.

"That's it, lemme hear you," he encourages, and you want to punch him for how smug he sounds but you also want him to never stop. "Love the sounds you make when I'm deep in this pussy, when I—shit—"

His voice catches as you deliberately tighten around him, a small victory that makes you smirk despite how your body's on fire.

"Fuck, you're evil."

"You talk too much," you manage to get out between gasps, even as your hips chase his rhythm desperately. You're close—so fucking close—but not quite there.

He laughs against your neck, the sound dark and promising.

“Touch yourself for me."

When you don't immediately comply—because for some reason you still want to challenge him—he pulls back just enough to look you in the eye.

"Rub that pretty clit, show me how you like it."

The command in his voice shouldn't turn you on this much. "Make me," you challenge, because apparently your mouth has a death wish.

"Oh?"

His rhythm slows to something torturous, each thrust deep and deliberate. "Do I need to show you where it is? Guide those lovely fingers myself?"

You're about to snark back when his hand slides between your bodies, and—oh. Oh.

"Found it," he says with infuriating smugness, circling your clit with practiced ease. Your whole body jerks at the contact, oversensitive and desperate. "Seems like I know exactly where it is. Don't I?"

"Fuck—" Your voice breaks as he applies just the right amount of pressure, the bastard. "You're so—nghh—"

"I'm so what?" He's grinning now, you can hear it in his voice even as you squeeze your eyes shut. "C'mon, tell me. Use your words."

"Insufferable," you grit out, but your body betrays you, arching into his touch. "Arrogant—ah—asshole—"

"Maybe." His fingers speed up, matching the pace of his thrusts, and holy shit you're going to die. "But I'm an arrogant asshole who's about to make you cum again, aren't I?"

He's right and you hate it. Hate how well he reads your body, hate how he found your clit without hesitation like he's got some kind of carnal GPS, hate how fucking good he is at this.

"That's it," he encourages as your breathing hitches, as your nails dig into his shoulders. "Let me feel you fall apart. Wanna feel this cunt clamp down on my cock when you—"

His hips stutter and you can feel him pulsing inside you, even through the condom. The way his whole body tenses, the broken sound he makes against your throat—it pushes you right over the edge. Yeah. Your second orgasm says hi; has you curling your toes against his back, tensing your thighs around him as if he would ever dream of leaving right now.

"Fuck fuck fuck—" You're not even sure which one of you is saying it anymore. Maybe both. Maybe neither. Maybe you're having an out-of-body experience because Jesus Christ.

For a moment, there's just silence. Just breathing. Just the sound of your heart trying to recall its normal cadence. Then he chuckles against your cheek—a low, sated sound that you'll deny remembering tomorrow—and follows it with a quick nip that makes you jolt.

"Fuck, that was good," he breathes, still catching his breath.

"S'alright," you manage, even though your legs are literally jelly and your brain's still rebooting.

He pulls back just enough to quirk an eyebrow at you, that infuriating smirk playing at his lips. "Just alright?"

"Fishing for compliments?" You raise your own eyebrow, trying to ignore how his hand is still absently stroking your hip. "That's kind of desperate."

"Says the girl who came twice."

And—okay, rude. Accurate, but rude.

He shifts then, carefully pulling out (and at least he's considerate about it, making sure not to hurt you), and starts dealing with the condom. But then he just... stands there. Looking lost. Condom in hand and this adorably bemused expression that makes something in your chest do a weird little flip.

No. Not adorable. Nothing about this guy is adorable. Hot? Yes. Skilled with his tongue? Abso-fucking-lutely. But not adorable. You refuse to find anything about him cute, especially not the way he's glancing around the room like a lost puppy trying to figure out where to—

You can't stifle the snort that escapes you. "Trash can's over there, genius." You gesture with your head toward the small bin by the dresser. "Try not to get lost on the way."

He rolls his eyes but moves across the room, and you definitely don't watch the play of muscles in his back as he walks. Or the way his ass looks in the dim light. Or how his hand rakes through his tousled hair as he leans down to dispose of the condom and—

Fuck.

Because here's the thing: you've had one-night stands before. You know how this goes. Quick fuck, awkward goodbye, never see each other again. That's the routine. That's the protocol. That's what smart, sensible people do.

But.

But you're already thinking about how his mouth felt between your legs. About how he filled you up just right. About how he seemed to know exactly what to do with his hands, his hips, his—

And you know what? Fuck it. Fuck being sensible and sane. Fuck playing it cool. You've got a hot guy with stellar dick game right here, right now. Might as well take advantage while you can.

Before your brain can talk you out of it, you're launching yourself off the bed. Your legs are still a bit wobbly (thanks, Mr. Two Orgasms), but you manage to catch him just as he turns around. Your mouth crashes into his, messy and demanding, as you push him against the wall.

His surprised grunt turns into a pleased hum against your lips, and his hands immediately find your hips like they belong there. Like this is exactly what he was hoping would happen.

Cocky bastard.

He spins you around so fast your head spins—or maybe that's just the lingering vodka. Either way, suddenly your back's hitting the wall and—oh. Okay. This is happening. Again. Because apparently your body doesn't give two shits about being thoroughly fucked already.

His mouth crashes back into yours, hungry and insistent, and it should be gross really—you can taste yourself on his tongue, everything's messy and uncoordinated and frantic. But instead it's just...hot. So fucking hot you feel like you're melting from the inside out.

Then his hands slide down to your thighs and he's lifting you like you weigh zilch (and seriously, what is it with this guy and manhandling? More importantly, why do you like it?). Your legs wrap around his waist automatically, and how his cock twitches against your stomach—already getting hard again—should not make you feel this smug.

"Eager?" you manage to gasp between kisses, because apparently your mouth doesn't know when to quit.

He bites your bottom lip in response, just hard enough to make you whimper (and fuck, there's that sound again, what is wrong with you tonight?). "I’m sorry? Weren’t you the one jumping me?”

"Just felt sorry for you." The words come out breathier than intended as his mouth finds that spot behind your ear. "Standing there looking all lost with your used condom—"

His growl cuts you off, vibrating through his chest into yours. One of his hands tangles in your hair, yanking your head back to expose your throat, and—fuck. The way he attacks your neck like he's trying to mark you up, like he wants everyone to know exactly what you've been doing...

Then his mouth finds yours again, swallowing whatever protest you might have made. And it's different this time—sloppier, needier. All clashing teeth and warring tongues and his hands everywhere at once. You're pressed so tightly between him and the wall you can feel every twitch of his muscles, every stuttered breath.

One of his hands slides up your thigh, fingertips trailing fire in their wake, and you're already embarrassingly slick again. Already aching for him like you didn't just have him inside you minutes ago. Your hips roll against him craving friction, and the sound he makes—half groan, half snarl—shoots straight between your legs.

"Condom," you gasp against his mouth. "Need a—"

"Yeah," he breathes, but he doesn't move away. Just keeps kissing you like he's suffocating and you're oxygen, like he can't bear to stop even for a heartbeat. "Yeah, just—fuck, you feel so good—"

Your brain's rapidly disintegrating, especially with the way he keeps grinding against you, the way his mouth keeps doing that to your neck. But you manage to remember: "Bed. Other condoms. On the bed."

He makes this sound of acknowledgment but still doesn't budge, just shifts his hips in a way that has his cock sliding against your clit and—jesus fuck.

"If you don't get a condom right now," you warn, voice embarrassingly unsteady, "I'm going to kill you."

His laugh is rough, breathless. "Such violence."

He practically teleports to the bed—like, Olympic-level sprinting for that condom. It'd be comical, the way he fumbles with the wrapper (apparently Mr. Smooth isn't so smooth when he's desperate), except you're too busy being embarrassingly turned on by his urgency.

You're about to suggest moving to the bed—because your legs are already shaking and wall sex seems ambitious after two orgasms—but—

Holy fuck.

He's got you up against the wall again in one fluid motion, hands gripping your thighs as he lines himself up and—oh god. The sound that rips from your throat as he fills you in one swift thrust is utterly shameful. But the broken "fuck" that falls from his lips? How his whole body shudders as he bottoms out?

Yeah, okay. Maybe worth the mortification.

"Jesus fuck," he breathes against your neck, voice wrecked. "You feel—shit, how do you feel even better than before?"

"Hush it," you gasp, even as your walls flutter around him. "And move."

He laughs, breathless and gritty. "Demanding little thing." But he's already moving, setting a pace that has your head lolling back. "God, you’re even wetter than before, taking me so well—”

"That your professional opinion?" Your attempt at snark falls flat when it comes out as more of a moan. "Done extensive research, have you?"

His hips snap up particularly hard at that. "Never—fuck—never felt anything like this."

And that should be a line. That should be the kind of bullshit guys say during hookups to stroke their own egos. Except the way he says it—all breathless wonder and raw honesty—makes something hot unfurl in your chest.

"Yeah?" It comes out embarrassingly breathy, but whatever. Can’t really care when every thrust is melting honey down your spine. "Prove it."

He makes this sound—half growl, half moan—like he fucking loves your audacity. "Already made you come twice."

"Maybe I was faking."

"Sweetheart, nobody's that good an actress."

And honestly? Fair. But you're not about to admit that, not when he's already so smug about how well he plays your body. Instead, you drag him down for a kiss that's more teeth than finesse, swallowing his groans as his pace gets more erratic.

"F-fuck," he pants against your mouth. "Gonna make you come again. Wanna feel you—"

"Big talk for someone who—ah—hasn't delivered yet."

His responding thrust makes your back arch off the wall. "Jus’ wait."

His hips snap up harder at your challenge, making your head thump back against the wall. And fuck—the way he's moving now, all rough desperation and graceless rhythm. Everything's wet and messy and absolutely filthy, the sounds of skin on skin blending with your breathless moans.

"Still—ah—ah—waiting for that delivery," you manage, even as your nails dig into his shoulders.

"Fuckin’—" His breathless laugh is menacing. "Always—fuck—gotta have the last word, don’tcha?”

You'd have a comeback for that, you really would, except he chooses that moment to shift his angle and—holy shit. Because now? Now his pubic bone grinds against your clit every time he moves, every time he thrusts deep inside you. And honestly? Fucking unfair that even his bones know where your clit is.

You can feel him twitching inside you, can tell he's close by the way his breath comes in harsh pants against your neck. And you're almost there too, just need a little more—

But then he's groaning, hips stuttering as he cums. His whole body tenses, pressing you flatter against the wall as he empties into the condom.

And okay, great for him, congratulations, but you were so fucking close.

You tap his back urgently. "Keep goin’."

"What?" He's still catching his breath, forehead pressed against your shoulder. "Gimme a second, ah—I just—"

"I was—right there," you whine (and yes, you're actually whining now, this is what you've been reduced to). "Don't you dare stop."

He lifts his head, looking at you incredulously. "I literally just filled the condom—"

"I don't give a fuck, just move."

And okay, yeah, PSA time number two: This is definitely not safe sex practice. The second a condom's full, it needs to be changed. That's like, Sex Ed 101. But also? Also your clit is throbbing and you were this close to coming and your horny lizard brain has completely taken over.

"Jesus," he breathes, but he's already starting to move again, shallow little thrusts that make your eyes roll back. "You're fucking insatiable."

"Like earlier," you gasp, grinding down against him. "With the… with your hipbone."

He laughs against your neck—a rough, breathless sound that shouldn't be as arousing as it is. "Gotcha."

And he does. Repositions himself, makes sure he’s got exactly the same position he had earlier. His hipbone comes in contact with your clit as he begins thrusting faster again, and fucking yeah, that’s what you needed.

"Fuck, the way you feel," he groans. "So slick and snug and—shit—"

"Shut up shut up shut up—"

Because you can't handle his voice right now, can't deal with how his words make the drowning sensation grow more and more intense by the second. You're so close you can taste it, right on the precipice, just need a little more—

Then he nips at your neck, his tongue flattening against your pulse point. And that's it. You're a goner. Again. For the third time tonight.

Your entire body locks up as bliss courses through, lapping at your core like waves at a shore. Your eyes instinctively close as you relish it in all its intensity, and you're pretty sure you make some kind of mortifying noise but whatever. Three orgasms in, dignity is a distant memory.

He slows his movements gradually, letting you ride it out, and you can feel him softening inside you. Your head drops to his shoulder because keeping it upright seems like way too much effort right now. The residual booze is hitting different after getting thoroughly wrecked—everything soft and fuzzy around the edges.

You vaguely register him checking the condom with his free hand—the other one still supporting your ass because apparently you're not ready to unwrap your legs from his waist yet. Your brain's moving in slow motion, heavy with alcohol and mist and the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that only comes from really good sex.

"Hey." He taps your back lightly. "You falling asleep on me? Dick game that good?"

"Die," you mumble into his shoulder, not even bothering to lift your head. "Just... shut up and die."

You hear him chuckle, vaguely. It should be irritating. It isn't. You're too drained to care. Everything's warm and hazy and your limbs feel like they're crafted from lead.

You're only half-aware of him moving you to the bed, of sheets being pulled up, of a warm body pressing against your back. Your consciousness is already drifting, floating in that space between awake and asleep where nothing quite computes.

The last thing you register, right before slumber claims you completely, is his nose pressed against your neck and his drowsy murmur:

“Smell like vanilla now too."

⋆｡°✩ TAGLIST ✩°｡⋆

@cannotalwaysbenight @livingformintyoongi @itstoastsworld @somehowukook

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sensationallysangwoo · 2 days ago

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𝚂𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝙳𝚊𝚢: 𝙲𝚑𝚘 𝚂𝚊𝚗𝚐-𝚠𝚘𝚘 𝚡 𝙶𝙽!𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝙵𝙻𝚄𝙵𝙵🧡

🧡𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚗 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛-𝚝𝚑𝚎-𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚂𝚊𝚗𝚐-𝚠𝚘𝚘 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚞𝚌𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚜 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔.

🧡𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝: 𝚂𝙵𝚆, 𝙵𝚕𝚞𝚏𝚏, 𝚂𝚒𝚌𝚔!𝚂𝚊𝚗𝚐-𝚠𝚘𝚘, 𝚂𝚘𝚏𝚝!𝚂𝚊𝚗𝚐-𝚠𝚘𝚘

🧡𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚑𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝙸’𝚟𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚊 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚕 𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚒𝚝! 𝙴𝚗𝚓𝚘𝚢!

🧡𝚃𝚊𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝: @trashk1tty , @torasgfreal , @dilfismz , @pulparindos , @reddead-salem , @daeholuvs , @radarbiterlover , @partyb0yyyy , @sawlover353 , @m4nbl00d , @swtt4hk

🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The alarm clock screeches, signifying 5:00 a.m. You feel a stir next to you, followed by a groan. Sang-woo should be rolling out of bed in approximately 1 minute to get ready for work. This is the normal Monday-thru-Friday routine.

You’re privileged enough to be able to sleep in. You stay home and take care of the house while Sang-woo happily financially supports you. You wouldn’t have it any other way. Normally you wake up briefly to give him a kiss goodbye, and then you nestle under the covers for another 3-5 hours.

Today is different, however. Sang-woo doesn’t feel like reaching for his glasses. He takes an extra moment to lift his body, still heavy with sleep, out of the bed. You notice abnormal heat radiating off of him, way more than usual.

“Sang-woo, you gonna get up or what?” You mumble sleepily.

“I’m not feeling too good this morning, darling. Probably just didn’t sleep well. I’ll be okay, though.” He mutters, voice nasally with congestion.

He attempts to stretch despite wincing from the muscle aches. “I can feel you, you’re literally a walking oven. Do you have a fever?” You ask, yawning.

“I’m fine.” He pressed.

“Okay….” You reply, your voice filled with concern.

You hear the shower running, but you also hear a lack of movement in the bathroom. You drowsily drag yourself out of bed to go check on him.

He sat weakly on the closed lid of the toilet, too weak to even take his PJ’s off and get in.

“Baby you can’t go into work like this. No way. Come on, give me your phone. I’ll call your boss.” You gently grab his face in your hands. “You’re burning up, sweetheart.”

“I can’t miss work today. I have an important meeting at 3 that I really can’t cancel.”

You reach into the cabinet and pull out the thermometer. You scan his forehead. 101 degrees. “See that? You are sick. Stop being such a work-o-holic and rest today Sang-woo. Please? For me?”

He finally gave in. “Okay. I’ll call up my boss now. You can’t say I didn’t try to go, though.”

You smile to yourself. Even when he’s a stuffy, feverish mess he’s still absolutely adorable.

“Mr. Kim? Yeah. I’m not making it in today. I’m really sick. 101 fever. Thank you. I will rest up. Goodbye.”

“See how hard was that?” You tease. “Cmon, let’s get you back into bed.”

You turn the shower off and lead him back to the bedroom. You tuck him back into bed and kiss his forehead. He looks miserable.

He hardly ever got sick so the opportunity to take care of him is a rarity. You can’t wait to show him how much you love him and care for him at this time.

You head into the kitchen and make him a cup of his favorite tea. You also grab some medication for him as well and head back to the bedroom.

He lays in bed sniffling and coughing and sneezing. His eyes are droopy and he looks pale. You notice a light sheen of sweat across his handsome face, making his dark hair stick to his forehead slightly. You love him more than anything, even like this.

You hand him the cup of tea and he offers you a meek smile in return. “Thank you, love.”

“Make sure you take these, too. They’ll help you feel so much better.” You gently drop the pills into his hand.

He finishes his tea and sets the empty cup on the bedside table, for now. You’ll get that later.

He lays his head on your chest, arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you close.

You almost laugh at how comical this is. He’s so cold and harsh towards the average person. Stoic and unbothered. But you, you’re his safe space. You’re the only person he ever has, and ever will, let his guard down around. Cho Sang-woo, a man who scoffs at anyone who he even suspects has a lower intellect than he, wants you to hold him and cradle him while he is sick. The effect you have on this man is unreal.

You playfully roll your eyes and wrap your arms around him. One of your hands finds its way to his hair as you stroke the dark strands lovingly. You gently and softly kiss his forehead once more. Within what seems to be seconds, he’s snoring.

You feel yourself getting tired again, too. Between his weight pressing down on you, the light snores and the steady pulse of his heart against yours, your eyelids sink comfortably.

You dream of more sick days. Not that you want him to be sick, more-so you want to spend entire days with your lover. You want to see this soft, almost helpless side of him more often. You don’t need to worry though, cus his heart is entirely yours. The emotional wall he’s built for years is crumbling down all because of you.

As for him, he’s dreaming of your homemade soup, your soft touch and your tender, lingering kisses. It’s early. You still have a whole entire sick day ahead of you.

🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡

Ohhhh the maternal urge to care for a cold stoic character and shower them in love and affection😩Bahahahaha yk what I mean!!! Anyways hope you liked it, have a wonderful rest of your weekend everyone! -G🫶🤍

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menagerofmischief · 2 days ago

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nsfw alphabet -> nr6

masterlist

nsfw alphabet (a-z) / 18+

nico rosberg x fem!reader

an: this one was a requested a while ago, I never pass up a chance to write for my favorite diva.

A= Aftercare (what they’re like after the act)

Nico is someone who values intimacy a lot and he takes aftercare absolutely seriously, he's doing the full experience every time. Bringing you water, snacks, drawing you a bath or taking a shower together and ending up wrapped in blankets with your favorite show playing.

B= Body part (favorite body part their own or their lovers)

His favorite body part of yours are absolutely your thighs, no matter the size he adores them. Will be touching, gripping or stroking at any opportunity, even during public dinners.

C= Cum (anything that has to do with it)

Like I said, he values intimacy a lot so he absolutely goes feral for coming in you. It's the best for him, no need to pull out and it makes him feel even closer to you so it's his go to. If you ask him to cum on any part of your body, boobs, face, ass, back, you name it he'll do it but if you leave it up to him, it's going inside.

D= Dirty secret (Pretty self explanatory)

He knows you'd never let him live it down so he doesn't mention it but he has a very secret very special sex playlist of Britney Spears songs which he'd love to play while fucking you.

E= Experience (do they know what they’re doing)

He has enough experience to know what he's doing and is down for learning about every little thing that feels good for you. Hasn't been around plenty but he's a good learner.

F= Favorite position

He mostly prefers positions where he can look at your face because he loves the look on your face when you're close to orgasm. Also likes doggy in front of a mirror.

G= Goofy (how serious are they)

He can go either way depending on the mood. Sometimes it's all very lighthearted and you're both giggling other times it's full on deep in the moment and passionate.

H= Hair (grooming habits)

For himself, he keeps it neatly trimmed because he finds that's what works best for him - for you, he's fine with whatever you're the most comfortable with.

I= Intimacy (in the moment romantic or rough/dirty)

Most of the time he's really romantic and into it, gazing into your eyes and everything. But he can absolutely go filthy and rough if he's has a bad day or something (Lewis) annoyed him much.

J= Jack off (do they masturbate and how often)

Does it occasionally, especially if he's really pent up but doesn't like doing it alone. If he's away and you couldn't come he's video call you so you can both get off together.

K= Kink (kinks what they like possibly unusual)

He likes mirror sex, and is a fan of foreplay. Otherwise he isn't really specific about his kinks and is open to trying pretty much anything at least once.

L= Location (where they like to get it on)

He prefers the bedroom but as long as it's a closed space with walls and not too public, he's down to go.

M= Motivation (what gets them going)

He doesn't need a lot to be able to go really, and anything you do that's even remotely suggestive had him ready and needy.

N= No (something they won't do)

Anything that actually hurts you in a definite no. Some roughness is okay to a certain extent but when it feels more like pain and less like pleasure it's an absolute no go for him.

O= Oral (receiving or giving and how skillful they are)

Lives for giving you head, and has worked hard to perfect his technique, finding all your sensitive spots and trying to see how fast he can make you fall apart. Really does it for his own enjoyment, seeing as he gets completely lost in it. Would be happy to drown in your pussy.

P= Pace (do they prefer it slow or fast)

Somewhere in the middle. He's not exactly going slow but neither is he going that fast. Will listen to what you tell him you want in the moment, increasing the rhythm of his thrusts as soon as you moan out a "Nico, please faster, baby please!"

Q= Quickie (do they prefer quickies or taking their time)

He prefers to take his time and make you fall apart multiple times, first on his fingers and tongue and then on his cock. But he can absolutely go for quickies as long as it's somewhere private.

R= Risk (do they like to try new things)

He's down for experiment and trying new things with you. He's happy to try anything you bring up, and if you like it great, if you don't at least you tried.

S= Stamina (how many times they can go)

It depends on how exhausting the day was but he can usually go multiple rounds with little to no breaks in between.

T= Toys (are they game for using sex toys on themselves or lovers)

He's okay with toys, it wasn't something he thought about it at first but after you tried it once he discovered his love for them and all the ways he can use them on you.

U= Unfair (how do they tease or do they enjoy suspense themselves)

Mostly he does it unintentionally at first, but once he notices there's a glint in his eyes and a smirk on his lips, will tease you for as long as possible.

V= Volume (are they loud, what sounds, and do they talk)

He moans and grunts, sometimes if you're teasing him he'll whine. Overall he makes really pretty sounds. Also very good at dirty talk but his voice will sometimes crack as a moan slips past.

W= Wild card (random headcannon of any sort)

During the big Brocedes fall out era he has fucked you rough, purposefully trying to make you be loud, all against the wall separating his driver's room from Lewis's.

X= X-ray (what’s down below in those pants)

He's a bit above average for length and around average girth, also has a pretty pink tip, always sensitive and leaking.

Y= Yearning (sex drive)

He's not fully sex crazed but is quiet needy. Ideally 3-4 times a week.

Z= Zzzz (do they sleep after if so how quickly after)

Nico will wait for you to fall asleep first, holding you close, his hands stroking your skin, the movement slowing down and coming to a stop once he can no longer fight off sleep, his face buried in the crook of your neck.

#dia's abc's #f1 x reader #f1 x you #formula 1 x reader #f1 x female reader #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #formula 1 x you #formula one imagine #formula 1 #dia writes #nico rosberg smut #nico rosberg x reader #nico rosberg imagine #nico rosberg #nr6 x reader #nico rosberg x you #f1 smut

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not-neverland06 · 2 days ago

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𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙿𝚛𝚘𝚍𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚕 𝚂𝚘𝚗

Pairing ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ Arthur Morgan x fem!reader

A/N: It's finally here, the fruits of my labor have finally come forth lol. I finally managed to get out those last few bits that I was struggling with so much. Turns out, finally getting on anti-depressants is actually a fucking game changer. Who knew?

I'd like to apologize for how long this took, but, also, I'd like to thank you all for being so supportive. I know there can be a lot of toxicity in fandoms, especially in fanfiction. I have been absolutely blessed with such wonderfully supportive, understanding, and kind readers. I want you to know that I do not take you guys for granted and absolutely love the small community I've found on here. Thank you all, and know that the epilogue is nearly finished and will be posted within the next 1-2 days, as I'm sure some of you will be wanting it after this one.

Next Part - Hell Hath No Fury Series

Summary: The end is nigh. Arthur feels it in the air, the broiling tension and building hostility within the gang. Their enemies are no longer their biggest problem. Instead, they have to worry about each other now. There's betrayal at every turn and Arthur is stuck in the middle of it all, pulled incessantly between two worlds. His old life as an outlaw, and the possibility of a new one with you.

You heave the hog off your shoulder and drop it onto Pearson’s table with a heavy thud. The legs creak under the weight, groaning as though they might give way. For a moment, you hover, watching the table tremble before it steadies. Satisfied, you take a step back.

Pearson ambles out of his tent, wiping his hands on his stained apron. He spots the hog, and his face twists into a suspicious scowl. “What the hell is that?”

You give a faint grin, more out of habit than humor. “Helped a farmer down the road. Didn’t have the coin to pay me, so he gave me one of his prize hogs.”

Pearson’s frown deepens, his lips twitching as though he’s struggling to process the situation. After a beat, he shrugs. “Alright, fine.”

You scoff, the lack of gratitude digging under your skin. Would it kill him to crack a smile? Shaking your head, you turn away, irritation simmering as you leave him to his work. Maybe you’ll go for another ride tonight—most likely camping out under the stars. Anything to clear your head.

You’ve still got a few hours before sunset, so you mull over how to kill the time. A race with Sadie might do the trick. The familiar sound of hooves splashing through the mud catches your attention. Normally, you’d ignore it, but a sudden commotion pulls your focus.

Mrs. Grimshaw’s gasp pierces the air, her hands clasped over her mouth in shock. Frowning, you follow her gaze, your stomach twisting as you spot riders approaching. Their faces are blurry in the distance, but something about the way they move makes your chest tighten. Stepping closer, your heart drops like a stone.

Dutch is at the head of the group, leading his men back into camp. Those who’d been on the ferry are all there, alive and well—except for one. The absence burns hotter than the sun on your back. Anger flares like wildfire in your chest, threatening to consume you.

The others cheer and laugh, crowding around the returning riders. Your gaze locks with Micah’s, and your teeth clench so hard it hurts. Dark circles frame his eyes, and he coughs into a bloodied cloth. The sight of him—the fact that this bastard gets to live while Arthur doesn’t—is enough to make you sick.

You turn away sharply, unable to stomach the celebration. Across the camp, your eyes meet Sadie’s. She’s leaning against the cabin, her face a mask of restrained fury. The sight of Dutch soaking up the adoration like a starving dog gnaws at what’s left of your patience.

You can feel it slipping away—your peace, your freedom. Dutch’s return threatens to drag it all back into the muck. But not this time. You swear it, not this time.

Dutch Van der Linde isn’t your leader. He isn’t your friend or your family. He’s nothing but a man who takes and takes until there’s nothing left.

Your gaze hardens on his back, your lips curling in quiet defiance. Tonight, you’re leaving—for good. Damn the gang. Damn this camp. And damn Dutch Van der Linde.

Arthur finds Diablo waiting for him at Shady Belle, as though the horse knew exactly where he’d return. He walks up to him, rubbing the horse’s nose gently. He finds an apple and gives it to Diablo, relishing in the familiar connection.

He’d known, deep down, when he was on his way here, that the gang wouldn’t be around. There was no way they could stay near St. Denis after what happened. Still, when he doesn’t see you immediately, the gut-deep ache doesn’t fade, even if he’d expected it.

The note Sadie leaves is easy enough to figure out. Going off the hooves circling around the house, he’s sure the men who were ahead of him discovered the location too. Mounting Diablo and riding off toward camp is such an achingly familiar feeling it almost hurts. After weeks in Guarma, scorched by the sun and tortured by corrupt politicians, riding Diablo feels like a return to something sacred, something he can’t quite explain.

Reacclimating himself to the feeling of riding a horse isn’t an arduous task, but it is uncomfortable at first. He’d walked across every inch of Guarma, then spent weeks on a boat. It’s been so long since he felt the freedom of the open plains.

Arthur looks toward the horizon, to the setting sun and the golden light casting its net across the world before him. It won’t be much longer until he’s back with you. He’s almost looking forward to hearing you say ‘I told you so.’

It’s not much longer before he’s riding through the muddy puddles in front of the cabins deep in the moors. Sadie is the first to see him. Her head is ducked, eyes down as she speaks in hushed whispers with you. Your back is to him and he doesn’t know if he’s grateful or not. The idea of a reunion has felt like a distant dream, he’s not sure if he’s truly ready to see you again.

Sadie’s head lifts slightly, eyes locking on his. Her face goes slack with shock, cheeks pale, and eyes wide. “Sadie?” You ask, and your voice is like a balm over all his aches and pains. “What is it?” You don’t look,as stubborn as ever, you nudge at Sadie’s shoulder, waiting for an answer.

She spares you a brief glance as Arthur dismounts, eyes still stuck on him. “Turn your ass around and look,” she demands, her voice a mix of disbelief and wonder.

Arthur doesn’t notice the way Sadie throws herself at him, her arms wrapping around him, pulling back, and slapping his shoulder. He’s too focused on you. Your shoulders are stiff, fists curled tight like you know he’s there but can’t bear to turn around. In all his time thinking of this moment, of seeing you again. He’d forgotten something very important.

Finally, you turn around. Arthur grins, the relief in his chest rising. “Well?” He teases, arms open wide as he narrows his eyes at you. “Aren’t you gonna say hi?”

You don’t answer, eyes nearly bulging out of your head as you look close to tears. Arthur’s brow furrows in confusion. He thought you’d at least look happy to see him. “Arthur Morgan,” Sadie chides from beside him, though her grin betrays her. “I thought you were dead, you bastard.”

Arthur feels his heart drop, finally realizing why you’re acting like you’ve seen a ghost. He was gone for weeks, last you heard he’d been on a ship. And word had probably gotten around that they’d been shipwrecked. Weeks without word, the shipwreck, and the rumors that must’ve circulated. He hadn’t thought for a second that you might actually believe he’d left you behind. After the way you’d parted, he supposes he didn’t do enough to convince you otherwise.

“Sweetheart,” he starts, chest clenching tight, “I-”

You take quick steps toward him, boots splashing through the mud. He mutters your name lowly, an apology and a promise laced between the syllables. You suck in a sharp breath and he thinks you might hug him. Before he can say anything else, his head is whipping to the side, cheek stinging.

Your hand lingers in the air for a moment, as if still caught in disbelief. You stare at him, your eyes wide, voice trembling. “Arthur?” you whisper, your words barely audible, your face crumpling under the weight of the truth.

You surge forward, grabbing the collar of his tattered shirt and dragging him down. You surge up, pressing your lips to his with a desperation that nearly matches his own. He can taste the salt of your tears as you kiss him, the way they streak down your cheeks.

Arthur’s heart drops. He’s used to being a disappointment to the people around him. He’s experienced this a hundred times. His relationship with Mary was no exception, he should be used to this pain by now. But knowing he’s failed you, makes it hurt worse than it ever has before. Arthur grabs you by the waist, desperate to make up for everything. He pulls you as close as he can get, pressing his lips to yours.

You wrap your arms tightly around his neck, desperation nearly a physical thing as you return his touch. You hold each other as though this kiss could somehow erase the weeks of suffering you’d both endured.

He doesn’t want to let go again. Arthur never wants to see that heartbroken look on your face. And he doesn’t ever want to be the cause for it, not anymore. The ache in his chest loosens as he breathes you in like you’re the only air he’ll ever need. Arthur won’t let you go again, he swears it to himself, because he knows you won’t ever believe him again.

You and Arthur sit toward the back of the cabin, away from the heart of the gathering. Everyone had been thrilled to see him alive, their greetings warm yet subdued, their relief tempered by everything they’d been through in his absence.

Your hand rests loosely in his, a token of comfort you hardly seem aware of offering. Arthur studies your face as you listen to Dutch’s grand retelling of Guarma, your narrowed eyes betraying the skepticism simmering beneath your otherwise still expression. Each time Dutch embellishes a detail, you flick your gaze toward Arthur, silently searching his expression for the truth. The scrutiny makes Arthur shift uncomfortably, though he knows it’s not unwarranted.

“I truly do not know how you all made out so well here.” Dutch comments, lips curled slightly as he glances around at the thick layers of dust and dirt coating the walls

Tilly grins eagerly, motioning toward you and Sadie. “It was all Mrs. Rowe and Sadie, they found this place. They been taking care of everything.”

Arthur’s brows furrow as he watches a sheepish smile grow on your face. He squeezes your hand and you glance toward him. He lifts his brow in question and you nod your head. “Ain’t been doin’ much,” you tell him, shrugging.

Sadie must hear you because she scoffs and rolls her eyes. “You kiddin’ me? Once you finally stopped mopin’, you were the only reason we didn’t all lose our minds.” Your smile tightens, the edges hardening as your shoulders stiffen.

“Well,” Dutch interrupts smoothly, his voice cutting through the tension. He fixes you with a look, and you straighten under his gaze. “I suppose I should thank the both of you for holding things together.”

“Suppose you should,” you reply sharply, meeting his eyes without flinching. “Or maybe you could apologize for that half-assed plan that got us stuck in this mess in the first place.”

Arthur’s hand tightens on yours, his voice low and warning. “Don’t—”

You whip around, glaring at him, and he’s startled by the fire in your eyes. Without a word, you yank your hand free and stand. Arthur opens his mouth to protest, but Dutch steps forward, his gaze narrowed in on you.

The tension is interrupted by the door bursting open behind Dutch. Bill stumbles in, his face red and sweaty. “Go’damn!” he bellows, his chest heaving. “I’ve been lookin’ for you all damn day. Had to ask every soul in town where the hell you were.”

Arthur’s gut twists. He bolts to his feet, striding toward you and Bill. “What’dya mean you asked around town?”

Bill falters, his face draining of color. His lips part as if to speak, but the words are stolen by a booming voice from outside.

“This is Agent Milton,” the voice calls. The blood drains from Arthur’s face as he grabs your arm, pulling you toward him. “You have one minute to surrender before my men decide to take you in dead.”

“Dammit, Bill, you fool,” Arthur growls, the words biting through clenched teeth. His mind races as he grips your arm firmly. He knows the men outside won’t hesitate. They aren’t the type to spare the women or the children. They’ll gun you down just for being around him and the others. He tugs you closer, instinct has him shielding you from the chaos as best he can.

Milton doesn’t wait for the countdown. “Forget it,” he barks. “Start shooting.”

The first bullets shatter the cabin’s windows, sending shards of glass spraying like rain. Arthur curls his body around yours, as the rest of the gang scatters, some diving to the floor, others scrambling for cover. A lamp explodes nearby, and the oil catches fire, dripping to the floor and licking at the walls.

Arthur’s focus is on you, but you’ve already moved. You duck and grab a rifle from beneath a cot, slinging it over your shoulder. There’s no hesitation, no look back for approval. You dart toward the door, your movements swift and purposeful.

“Wait, dammit, don’t!” Arthur shouts, but you’re already outside, firing before the Pinkertons can adjust their aim. The sun has dipped below the fire, he only spots you through flashes of bullets and the fire steadily growing behind him. He tugs his revolver out, shooting wildly, the Pinkertons are swarming out of the forest like wolves, there's no point in aiming now.

Arthur follows along behind you, taking cover behind a wagon as some of the others pick up their own guns. He spots Sadie running past him, shouting something indecipherable as she takes out the Maxim gun. Blood flies as bullets make their marks, after weeks on a boat it almost feels foreign to feel the warmth of someone else’s life pressing against him.

Through the chaos, he watches you move with precision, directing shots with a cold efficiency that makes his chest tighten. You’re not the woman he left behind. You’re faster, bolder, and sharper, your confidence and stupidity is clear as you throw yourself into the center of danger, taking aim at some of the men on the roofs of the cabins.

Arthur sees another man creeping up behind you. His gun has been abandoned somewhere, he only has a machete in his hand now, arm arcing down toward your head. Weeks without practice might have left him slower than he used to be, but he’s still quick enough to shoot the blade out of the man’s hand.

You flinch at the shot, whipping around with a pinched expression. The attacker shouts, clutching his bleeding hand to his chest. Without hesitation, you rise and swing the butt of your rifle at the back of his skull. The man crumples face-first into the mud, lifeless. You don’t even look at him again, your focus snapping back to the fight as you resume shooting, each shot clean and deliberate.

The tide of the fight begins to shift. Once Sadie got ahold of the maxim, the Pinkertons had no choice but to start their retreat. Even outnumbered fifty to one, the gang still has some fight left in them. But it’s a fragile victory, and Arthur knows it won’t last.

He weaves his way toward you, his mind racing, but you speak first before he can get a word out.

“They’ll regroup,” you say, your voice firm but low. “We need to track them into the woods, pick them off before they get away.”

Arthur’s eyes widen. “What’re you talkin’ about?” His voice is sharper than he intends. “You’re stayin’ right here. You hear me? I’ll deal with it.”

Your face screws up and it’s the first time you’ve given him a glance of the anger that had been burning under the surface. You go silent, lips set in a firm line before you glance over his shoulder. “They’re getting away,” you tell him quietly. “You can stay here if you want, but I’m going after the rest with Sadie and Charles.”

You move around him without waiting for a response, your rifle brushing his arm in a way that feels deliberate, distant. The message is clear: you no longer need his protection. Arthur watches, stunned, as you stride toward the others.

For a moment, he stands frozen, the weight of the realization sinking in. The way you fight now, the fire in your eyes, the complete lack of hesitation, it’s all different. You’ve become someone who doesn’t need him, someone who’s learned to stand alone.

His chest tightens as he mounts Diablo, his gaze flickering toward you one last time before spurring the horse forward. He’ll follow the Pinkertons like you suggested. But even as he rides, a different battle churns inside him.

This isn’t something a few dead Pinkertons will fix. The distance between you both is growing and for the first time, Arthur feels powerless to stop it.

Dutch moved them down to Beaver Hollow, it’s a nice enough spot near the base of the mountains. The only problem is a bad brood of folk called the Murfree’s. A bunch of animals masquerading as men, cannibalizing people, and taking women without a care. Arthur hates the idea of you being anywhere near them. He’s doing his best to keep you in camp and you don’t argue. Arthur’s surprised at your easygoing obedience after what happened at the other camp.

He’s getting worried about you. You’re quiet more often than not, you don’t bite back at Dutch or Micah like you usually would. And you’re more on edge than he’s ever seen you. He tries to talk to you about it, to understand what’s going on with you, but you won’t tell him.

You always just say you’re worried about what’s going to happen when everything finally goes wrong. He thinks he knows what you mean, even if he doesn’t want to admit it to himself. Too many times has he been told that the reign of outlaws is over. There’s no room left for them anymore.

When he was a boy, he would have thought that the time of outlaws was immortal. It’s easy when you’re young and foolish to think that you’re invincible, that nothing can ever touch you. He sees everything coming close to an end now, though. Despite the elation of their return back to a land they know, nothing’s the same.

Micah’s only gotten worse since they returned from their shipwrecked time in Guarma. He’s always coughing, blood leaking from the corners of his mouth. A doctor down in St. Denis told him it was tuberculosis a while back, Arthur knows that their time on the island only further agitated the disease. Since then, he’s been angrier, always whispering in Dutch’s ear.

And Dutch, he won’t listen to Arthur anymore. Since the Pinkertons turned up at the cabins, he has it in his head that everyone’s a traitor. The only person he’ll trust is the one whispering poison into his ear. It drives Arthur mad. He keeps trying to get Dutch to tell him what’s going to happen next but he just says the same thing every time. “I have a plan, Arthur. Don’t you trust me?”

Before Guarma, before the O’Driscolls, before you, he would have said yes in a heartbeat. But he doesn’t trust him anymore, he can’t. Not after Dutch left him for dead, and then Sean and John. Sadie and Arthur had to go bust them both out of the chain gang they’d been working at in jail. It had been a mess and a half but when they’d returned to camp the only thing Dutch had to say was, “I had a plan.”

He’d been angry at them for rescuing the men and Arthur couldn’t understand why. He never would have left them to rot if Hosea were still here.

The thought of the old man’s death leaves an ache in Arthur’s chest. He keeps picturing him lying on the St. Denis road, bleeding out. He knows Dutch couldn’t have done a damn thing about it, that bastard Milton was never going to spare him. But, if he had been given the opportunity to save Hosea by turning himself in, Arthur knows he wouldn’t have taken the chance. Dutch has grown selfish and arrogant, prioritizing himself over the rest of the gang and it only makes Arthur’s resentment grow.

Still, he can’t help but see him as the man who’d taken him off the streets. Dutch and Hosea had taught him how to shoot, how to read and write. They’re the reason he knows how to hunt and make it on his own in the wild. How can he turn against the man who raised him to be who he is today?

You shift restlessly beside him, turning out of his hold and onto your side. Arthur frowns at the action, placing a light hand on your arm. You don’t shrug out from under his touch but you don’t reciprocate. You’ve turned cold and it’s only making everything harder.

“I want to leave,” you whisper, and he startles slightly, thinking you’ve been asleep this whole time.

“Huntin’?” Even as he speaks, he knows it’s not what you want, but he tries anyway.

You scoff, the noise bitter and angry. “No.” You tell him shortly, tone clipped as you rise from the cot. Without another glance at him, you start changing out of your nightgown. Arthur sits up slowly, watching you. He doesn’t know what he’s done to spark this sudden shift in you, but the tension is near suffocating. “You have to see it, Arthur,” you say, pulling up your pants and tightening the belt. You glance over your shoulder, your expression is expectant, almost pleading.

He lets out a rough sigh, figuring that there’s no chance of convincing you to rest a little longer. “See what?” He asks, dragging his hand over the stubble on his jaw. A low groan slips from his lips as he gets to his feet, back protesting at the too-small cot.

“This,” you motion wildly, arms swinging out towards the camp that waits outside the closed flaps of his tent. “All of this, Arthur. It’s coming to an end. I can feel it,” you tell him, voice impassioned with fear and urgency. “There’s only so far we can run.”

Arthur looks away from you, shrugging on his shirt. “I know it’s hard right now. But Dutch-”

“Has a plan?” You snap, taking a step closer to him. Your brows knit tightly together, anger burning hot behind your eyes. You swat his hands away as he fumbles with a button, doing his shirt up for him. Even in your frustration, you can’t help but help him. It’s oddly endearing, despite the tension yawning between you. “He’s gonna get us to Tahiti?” You scoff, voice dripping with sarcasm as you roll your eyes. You smooth out his collar before stepping back, movements curt and precise.

He reaches forward, hands catching your waist and tugging you back toward him before you can get far. You don’t meet his eyes, stubbornly looking away, but you don’t stop him from pulling you closer.

“We’ll leave,” your head whips towards him, face lighting up with hope. He winces, wishing he was more clever with his words. “For a few days,” he clarifies and your eyes narrow into irritated slits.

“I promise, what happened in St. Denis isn’t going to ever happen again.” He needs you to believe him, to understand just how much of a fool he felt like getting on that boat with Dutch. They hadn’t truly had another choice, but if he had a chance to do it all again he would have ran away with Charles. He never would have even left you at camp.

“After a certain point, Arthur,” you squeeze his hand in yours and he feels just a little bit of relief at you finally returning his touch. “Your promises stop meaning much when you don’t keep them,” you slip out of his hold and his face falls flat, chest caving slightly. “But, sure, we’ll leave for a few days,” you shake your head, slipping out from his tent as he stares at the spot you’d once occupied.

How had things gotten so bad?

“And where are you going, Mrs. Rowe?”

Arthur turns toward the sound of Dutch’s voice, spotting him standing near Pearson’s station. He looks for all the world like he’s at ease, but the tense set of his shoulders and twitch at the corners of his lips betray him. Arthur’s gaze shifts to you, standing by Lady, one hand gripping the reins of the restless mare.

“For a ride,” you say curtly, your tone flat and face pointedly blank. “What’s it look like?”

Arthur’s stomach knots as he notices the tension in the air. You’re already gripping the horn of Lady’s saddle, pulling yourself up with practiced ease. Arthur watches as you glance down at Dutch, your expression hardening and eyes slit in challenge.

Dutch steps closer, his mouth curving into a thin smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I understand things were run a little differently while we were gone. But I don’t think you going out alone is what’s smart right now-”

“Frankly, Mr. Van der Linde,” you interrupt, voice laced with venom, “I don’t give a damn what you think. I’m going for a ride.”

Arthur watches the muscle in Dutch’s jaw tighten, the flare of his nostrils betraying his irritation. Dutch turns to him, his eyes sharp, searching Arthur’s face for the usual complacent obedience.

Arthur whistles, and Diablo trots up to him obediently. Swinging into the saddle, he shoots you a quick look. “You heard the lady. We’re goin’ for a ride.”

The trail you lead him down is unfamiliar, winding through thick trees and rocky inclines. Arthur catches himself stealing glances at you- the way you sit tall in the saddle, the ease with which you guide Lady over uneven terrain. He tries to meet your eye, but each time, you only offer him small, polite smiles. They feel hollow, and it gnaws at him.

The silence stretches, prickling at his nerves. Finally, he speaks, voice cutting through the suffocating stillness. “Alright. Where are we goin’?”

You glance at him briefly, nodding toward the mountains in the distance. “Meeting up with Charles and the local tribe. I’ve helped them hunt a few times, but,” you trail off slightly, voice growing heavy, “they’ve been having problems.”

Arthur raises a brow. “Problems?”

You hesitate, your jaw tightening. “With the military,” you admit.

He doesn’t feel like you’re telling the whole truth and he can’t help but prod you further. “What kind of problems?”

You let out a frustrated sigh, shifting in your saddle. “The kind Dutch has been making worse.” You shoot him a pointed look and his jaw clenches at the blame lurking in your gaze. “He’s been riling up the chief’s son, getting him involved in jobs he shouldn’t.”

Arthur’s frown deepens, his brows furrowed as he struggles to think of Dutch’s reasoning for getting involved with the local tribe. Though, it’s not as if he’s been involving him in many plans lately. “Why would Dutch do that?”

Your head snaps toward him, your eyes filled with pent-up ire that’s been waiting to spill over. “I knew you wouldn’t believe me.”

“Hey, now,” Arthur objects defensively, his tone growing just as sharp as yours. “I’m just askin’ a question.”

You fall silent, your expression flattening as you look ahead again. The weight of your resentment hangs heavy between you, unspoken but undeniable. Arthur feels it like a stone in his chest, and it makes his teeth grind.

Arthur isn’t sure what he expected, but the sight before him twists his gut. Women huddle around children, feeding them thin soup from chipped bowls. Elderly men and women cough into bloodstained rags, their frail bodies barely covered by thin blankets. The air smells of sickness and desperation.

Arthur glances at you, but you’re already dismounting and striding toward the center of the settlement. Despite the distrustful stares from the tribe members, you move with purpose, your shoulders squared.

Charles stands near an older man, his voice low but urgent. Arthur catches the tail end of the conversation. “…my people will not survive this much longer,” the man says, his voice weary but resolute.

Arthur follows behind you as you approach. The man carries himself with a quiet strength, but his face is lined with worry and it’s ageing him by the minute. There’s a glint of familiarity in his eyes as you approach and he nods his head in greeting.

“Arthur, this is Rains Fall, he’s the chief of this tribe,” you explain to Arthur, introducing the two. “He-”

“I know you,” Rains Fall interrupts, still looking at Arthur. “You were there in the city. Your leader was meant to help my people.” He shakes his head, and Arthur sees the pain of being betrayed one too many times in the old man’s face. “Now the military is holding our medicine hostage.”

Arthur’s jaw tightens as he takes in the scene. It’s worse than he imagined. He’s heard the stories—the government stealing land, taking children—but seeing it up close is something else entirely.

Being associated with Dutch has never brought about anything but pride. But standing here, seeing the people he’s taking advantage of, he’s overcome with shame. Rains Fall speaks again, his voice steady despite the weight of his words. “If we cannot retrieve the vaccines soon, we will lose many more. My people are already weakened.”

Arthur looks to Charles, who meets his gaze with grim determination. “We’re going to get the medicine back.” he tells him, and Arthur knows that you’re going to help, whether he wants you to or not. “The officer’s camp isn’t too much further down the mountain. But we can’t risk this looking like the tribe’s retaliating, it’s why I need your help, Arthur.”

Arthur and Charles are close, perhaps not as close as they should be. But they respect one another. Right now, Charles isn’t just asking for a favor, he’s asking for the help of a friend. Of a brother. And Arthur won’t allow himself to keep disappointing the people he cares about.

Arthur nods, his decision immediate. But the truth burns in his chest: Dutch’s hand is in this. Somehow, the man he once idolized has turned these people’s suffering into a means to an end.

He glances at you, and your expression says it all. This is what you’ve been trying to warn him about. The look you give him is sharp, almost scolding, as if to say I told you so. Arthur doesn’t have the words to argue—not this time.

The conversation with Rains Fall and Charles winds down, and the three of you prepare to part ways. Arthur adjusts his hat, turning toward you. “You comin’?”

You pause, exchanging a glance with Charles. The look between you is brief but meaningful, and Arthur feels a pang of something he can’t quite name.

“We’ll catch up,” you say simply, your tone dismissive.

Arthur hesitates, searching your face for… something. An explanation? Reassurance? But you’ve already turned away, speaking quietly with Charles. He lingers for a moment longer, then mounts Diablo.

Arthur finds himself screwing up more often than not lately. But letting Dutch know about the plans for the tribe, has to be one of the stupider things he’s ever done. Dutch wants to get involved, of course, for the good of the natives, he claims. Arthur knows him, though, he knows it’s more than that.

Together, they go and find Eagle Flies, the chief’s son. He’s already with his own band of men, each of them young and healthy, the few fighters their tribe has left. Their plan to get the medicine back, to stick it to the military, is far more violent and grand than yours and Charles had been.

“This is the dumbest idea I have ever heard,” Arthur tells Eagle Flies, glaring down at the dynamite in his hand. He turns toward Dutch, expression disbelieving, “I can’t believe you’re encouragin’ this!”

“Encouraging what, Arthur? These young men to fight for their home, their land back. I’m disappointed in you son,” Dutch chides, and the way he says son rubs Arthur the wrong way. “I thought you, of all people, would support a cause such as this.”

“I support the cause,” Arthur snaps, snatching the dynamite out of Eagle Flies hand, “but I cannot support acting like damn fools and getting yourselves killed.” He turns toward the boy, imploring him to see reason, not to listen to Dutch’s silver tongue. “My friend has a plan for your people, he can get the medicine back. And he can do it without getting anyone killed.”

“What is the point in that?” Eagle Flies growls, taking the dynamite back from Arthur. “You want us to just lay down, belly up like dogs and let these men take everything from us? You would have us stay quiet instead of fighting back? The only way your people hear us, is if we make ourselves loud.”

He steps back, looking around Arthur to Dutch. “Tonight, we’re going to their camp and we will send them a proper message. You can join us or not,” he snaps, storming back toward his men.

“Dutch-”

“I’m disappointed in you, Arthur,” Dutch starts, shaking his head as he makes his way back to the horses. “Not just for this, but for how you’ve been acting lately.”

Arthur stops in front of Diablo, eyes narrowed on Dutch, “And how have I been actin’?” He snaps, tired of the superiority that Dutch carries himself with, as if he’s not trying to get these boys killed.

Dutch stares down at him, distrust and suspicion lingering between the both of them, “Like someone I can’t trust.”

“Well,” Arthur shakes his head and mounts Diablo. “I guess we both feel the same, then.”

Charles is furious as Arthur tells him Eagle Flies plan to blow up the military encampment and steal back not just the vaccines, but the deed to their people’s land. “We had a plan,” Charles shouts, the first time Arthur has ever truly seen him lose his temper.

“Arthur,” you start, letting out a low sigh. “Why did you tell him?” He doesn’t need you to say his name for him to know who you’re talking about.

“I thought,” he can’t finish his sentence. Too ashamed of what the end might be. He thought that, maybe, you were all wrong, that Dutch could still be relied on. That the man he once knew was still in there somewhere. It felt too childish to admit out loud.

“We’ll need the others,” you start when it's clear Arthur doesn’t have a reasonable excuse. “We won’t be able to stop Eagle Flies on our own. Especially not if he actually picks a fight with the military.”

It doesn’t take long to gather the rest of the gang, some of them ready to join Dutch as he goes to see Eagle Flies. But Arthur knows that he’s doing this for the wrong reason. He doesn’t understand what Dutch thinks he can gain from exploiting the tribe, and he knows that Dutch is never going to share it with him.

The ride toward the military encampment is quiet, the tension thick enough to choke on. Eagle Flies and the other men are already moving around the area when they arrive, dynamite placed and ready to ignite. Their faces are set with the determined fury of men ready to face death.

Charles brings Taima to a harsh stop and swings down before she’s fully still. He heads straight toward Eagle Flies, face tight with anger. “What the hell are you doing?” He demands, voice sharp as he jerks the boy forward by his arm. “We had a plan! Your father-”

“My father would do nothing!” He snaps, ripping his arm out of Charles's grasp. His hands ball into tight fists at his side, as though he’s prepared to take his anger out on anyone close enough. “He waits, and we die slow. The army has taken everything from us, and you want me to stand by and watch?”

Arthur dismounts from Diablo, mud splashing around his boots as they hit the ground. “You blow this place sky-high, you think they’re just gonna walk away? They’ll come down even harder on your people.”

Eagle Flies’ expression flickers for a brief moment, the weight of his father’s disappointment visible in the tightness of his jaw. Before he can respond, a sharp sound cracks through the night. Everyone turns to face it as another breaks the silence. A gunshot, clear as day.

Chaos erupts instantly, soldiers startling from their tents and returning from their watch along the treeline. They run forward, rifles raised, gunfire already ringing out through the night. “Shit!” Arthur curses, reaching for his revolver.

As he turns to run for cover, the rest of the gang scattering, he realizes that he can’t find Dutch. He doesn’t want to assume the worst, he can’t. But he wasn’t beside Arthur when the first shot rang out, and the soldiers didn’t even know they were there yet.

He doesn’t have time to linger on the thought as the first explosion detonates prematurely. A fireball launches to the sky, the ground below him shaking as though it’s about to split open. The horses make a run for it, bucking off riders and racing for cover. Shouted orders and screams become one cacophony as he finds cover. He fires from behind a stack of crates, bullets disappearing into the dark of the night, but the return fire is relentless.

Arthur has lost sight of everyone, you, Charles, he sees no one except the soldiers bearing down on him.

He grits his teeth and keeps shooting, even as the fire begins to spread across the dry grass and smoke fills his lungs. He sees one, two, three men drop before he’s forced to reload. As he turns, he spots Dutch nearby, moving through the smoke and fire with a calculated calm. For a brief moment, Arthur feels a flash of relief, if only to see one familiar face.

Then, something slams into him. He’s knocked to the dirt, teeth rattling from the force. A soldier grapples Arthur and raises his arm, a knife flashing in the firelight as he swings it toward Arthur’s throat. He catches his wrist just in time, muscles straining and breath ragged as he holds the soldier back. The blade trembles inches from his neck, the soldier’s weight pressing him further into the suffocating earth.

“Dutch!” Arthur chokes out, struggling to keep the knife at bay. “Dutch, help me!”

He sees Dutch stop and turn to face him. The gunshots have lessened, soldiers dropping to the ground like flies as the gang swarms over them. Dutch has nothing to worry about as he watches Arthur. Yet, his eyes are unreadable, cold in a way Arthur has never seen before. He looks at Arthur for a long time. Then he turns.

And runs.

Arthur’s grip slips, for a horrifying second, he nearly lets the knife drive through his throat. The shock and betrayal hits him like a punch to the gut. But before the knife can land, a wet, gurgling sound fills the air. The soldier jerks, eyes going wide and face paling as blood spills from his lips.

Eagle Flies stands behind him, his knife buried deep in the man’s throat. He rips it out without a care and the body slumps to the ground. Arthur remains in a state of shock as Eagle Flies offers his hand. He hesitates, only for a second, before grasping it and hauling himself to his feet. He barely has a moment to catch his breath before another shot rings out.

Eagle Flies gasps, his body jerking to the side as blood blossoms from his ribs. “No!” Arthur shouts, whipping around and putting a bullet between the eyes of the soldier who fired the shot. The man drops, but Arthur barely pays attention as he turns back to the boy. He grabs Eagle Flies as he wavers, slinging his arm over his shoulder.

“Come on, kid. We’re gettin’ outta here,” he swears. Eagle Flies groans in pain but doesn’t argue. Arthur grits his teeth, half-dragging and half-carrying him away from the battlefield, bullets whizzing past him.

He stumbles through the trees as the soldiers scream, wildfire consuming them quicker than his revolver ever would. He hears your voice over the sounds of death, sharp with desperation. “Where’s Arthur?” You shout and he lifts his head. You stand by the horses, face tight with worry and finger twitching close to the trigger.

Dutch stands in front of you, expression impassive. “Where the hell is he?” You demand, stepping back from Dutch and raising the rifle to be level with his face.

“Here,” Arthur calls out before you put a bullet in the man’s skull. You spin, your relief immediate but fleeting as your eyes fall on Eagle Flies slumped in his arms. Charles steps forward, his face contorting with grief as he looks at the boy.

Arthur meets Dutch’s eye, something flickers in the man’s expression, something that could be shame if Arthur didn’t know better. He stares at him, and for the first time, he sees Dutch for what he truly is. A liar, a coward. And a man who would leave him to die.

“I’m takin’ him home,” he turns his back to Dutch and prepares for the long ride back.

He pushes Diablo faster than he ever has, heels digging into the shire’s side as he pushes him over the edge. Eagle Flies is only getting weaker and he can’t return another dead son to Rains Fall. He can’t be the reason that the rest of his family dies.

He knows, though, that there is no chance of survival for a wound like Eagle Flies. No herbal remedy or medicine could fix this. But the least he could do is give them one last moment together.

When he rides back onto the reservation, Rains Fall is already waiting to greet them. He rushes forward, face stricken as he sees his son slumped against Arthur’s back. Charles walks over, helping Arthur gently lower Eagle Flies from his horse.

Rains Fall kneels beside his son, quickly scooping him into his arms and pressing his forehead to his. Eagle Flies is too weak for words by this point, eyes fluttering shut as he relaxes into his father’s embrace.

“You brought him back,” Rains Fall murmurs, his voice breaking. Arthur nods, not trusting himself to speak. The chief closes his eyes for a long moment. When he opens them, they’re wet with sorrow. “This land will never be safe for us. We must go. Find somewhere else to settle.”

Arthur looks away, knowing nothing he could say would ever fix this. He could never salve over a wound like this with something as trivial as empty promises or kind words. You and Charles stand at his side, watching Eagle Flies take in his last shuddering breath. The disappointment is palpable.

He can’t face it any longer. Can’t face the death or the grief that seems to follow him wherever he goes. Without a word, Arthur mounts his horse and rides off into the night, leaving the weight of it all behind him.

And he knows, deep in his very soul, that nothing will ever be the same again.

The trail lightens as the sun begins to rise. The sounds of the reservation fade behind him, swallowed by the rustling trees and the distant call of an owl. He rides without direction, without thought, just the steady rhythm of Diablo’s hooves against the earth, carrying him further from everything he no longer knows how to fix.

Then, a voice cuts through the silence.

“Oh!” Someone shouts from the trees, “You goddamn, useless,” the man’s voice trails off into a series of expletives that’s too quick for Arthur to make out. Face pinched in confusion, he nudges Diablo forward, leading him towards the man.

An old man stands in the middle of a clearing, hopping around on one leg, fist waving wildly in the air as he curses to himself. Arthur chuckles to himself, watching the man plop to the ground with a huff. He reaches down and rolls his pant leg up, revealing a stump where his leg should be.

Arthur frowns, slipping off Diablo and moving closer to the stranger. He’s barely got a chance to greet him before the man's whipping out his revolver, eyes narrowed in suspicion as Arthur approaches.

“I ain’t lookin’ for trouble, sonny.” The man tells him, pulling back the hammer of the gun.

Arthur puts his hands up in surrender, shaking his head, “I’m not lookin’ to cause any. Only wanted to see if you needed any help.”

The man’s eyes turn into thin slits, lips pursed as he eyes Arthur up and down. He looks the part of an outlaw, but right now the stranger doesn’t have much choice but to trust him. He lets out a heavy sigh and puts his gun down. “Hamish Sinclair,” he offers as an introduction. Arthur gives him his name and Hamish gives him a brief smile.

“Forgive my poor manners, don’t see much of anyone ‘cept those Murfree folk.”

Arthur shakes his head in dismissal, taking a step closer. “It’s fine. You wanna tell me what’s got you out here shoutin’ at the sky?” He can’t help the slight chuckle that slips out when he sees how Hamish’s shoulders slump in embarrassment.

“It’s my damn horse, Buell, bucked me off, took my leg with him.” He gestures vaguely behind Arthur with a huff, “ran off that way.” Arthur nods, grabbing his rope off Diablo and heading off. “Feel free to shoot him,” Hamish shouts from behind him, “bastard’s caused me enough trouble.”

Arthur laughs quietly to himself, Hamish reminds him a bit of you.

It doesn’t take long to find the horse. But Hamish wasn’t lying, he was a right bastard. It was more of a chore than Arthur thought it would be to get him lassoed and corraled back to the old man.

Hamish’s leg, as he’d promised, was still tucked into the stirrup, the wooden appendage waving in the wind as Buell stomped around. “Oh!” Hamish shouts, waving his hand as Arthur brings the horse forward. “Shoot the son of a bitch, I’ll go get me somethin’ nicer,” he mutters, reluctantly bringing a hand up to pet Buell’s nose.

Arthur offers Hamish a hand up, holding the wooden leg out for him to take. Hamish holds himself steady on a nearby rock and latches the leg back on. “Cannonball,” he says idly.

“Which war?”

“Civil, whatchu think?” Hamish snaps, narrowing his eyes at Arthur and shaking his head. “Named this damn thing,” he lays a heavy hand on Buell's side, “after my commander. They were both pains in my ass, and they both cost me my damn leg.” Hamish laughs at himself, swinging up onto the saddle and glancing down at Arthur. “Comin’ or not?”

Perhaps it’s the loss of Hosea that has Arthur following this man. Or maybe it’s just the need for a moment of escape. Either way, he finds himself mounting Diablo and following after him. “What were you doin’ out here, anyway?”

Hamish digs his heel into Buell’s side with a huff, driving the horse down a small path Arthur wouldn’t have found on his own. “I went out to get some bait. Got this pike that’s been eatin’ all the fish in my creek,” he turns and gives Arthur a wild grin over his shoulder. “I’m lookin’ to turn it into my dinner.”

A smile curls upon Arthur’s lips, something uninvited and unnoticed. Things in camp have been so tense, every conversation with you or Dutch just feels like a noose tightening around his neck. He’s being drawn in so many different directions that he’s forgotten what it feels like to just talk to someone without any ulterior motives. There’s no hidden message within Hamish’s gaze or underlying threat to his words. For right now, he can just ride and pretend that all is fine within his world.

“Can’t seem to get the damn thing on my own, maybe you’ll have better luck. You seem a touch spryer than myself.”

Arthur snorts and shoots the old man an amused look, “A touch?”

“Hey,” Hamish warns, tone light as he grins, “I may be weathered, but I can still take you down, sonny.” Arthur raises his hands in surrender, bowing his head in defeat as Hamish lets out a low chuckle. “Gotta say, been a while since I hollered at anyone ‘cept those Murfree boys. It’s quiet out here, that’s for sure.”

Arthur takes in the scenery around him. The way the sunlight just barely parts through the thick cover of trees and shines across the creek running beside them. The deer he can hear rustling off in the distance. There’s a whole other world around him, one he hasn’t been a part of in a very long time.

“Quiet’s what I’m looking for,” he mutters, not much thought behind the words as he makes note of a bunch of wildflowers. They look like some you used to pick for the tent.

“No point in quiet when you’re all alone,” Hamish chides softly, a heavy sadness hangs off his shoulders that Arthur’s not sure he’s ready to dissect. Hamish doesn’t leave him worrying for long, shooting Arthur a quick smile and shaking away the emotions. “Nearly there,” he tells him, nodding toward a clearing.

Wildflowers and rocks that reflect the midday sun surround a shimmering lake he’s never noticed on his travels. Arthur’s fingers twitch toward the journal in his satchel, the scene too perfect not to draw. Still, he doesn’t think Hamish would appreciate the interruption much.

Instead, he commits the image to memory. The quaint cabin that sits in the middle of it all, so unimposing it looks as though it had grown there like a tree. He’d have to draw it later, maybe even show it to you.

Hamish leads him around the cabin and orders him around like he’s spent all his life doing it. Arthur drags out the fishing poles and takes the boat off the shore. He laughs when Hamish slaps his hand away when he tries to help in the boat. And he laughs even harder when Hamish nearly topples over the edge in his stubborn fit.

The fishing itself is spent in silence. One of them occasionally breaking it by humming something or thinking they spotted movement in the water. It makes Arthur’s chest ache with a familiarity that’s a stranger to him. Yes, he used to do this with Hosea. But Hamish wasn’t Hosea, and there would never be anything to replace or soothe that gnawing pain of never being able to sit on a boat with him once more.

“There!” Hamish slaps his shoulder hard enough to force Arthur out of his spiraling grief. He nearly knocks him out of the boat as he starts frantically jumping up and down, arms pinwheeling to keep himself balanced. “There’s that bastard, whoo I got you now!” He hollers, lighting a stick of dynamite and tossing it into the water before Arthur knows what's happening.

He ducks, bracing himself as a ripple of water nearly puts the boat on its side. It’s quickly followed by a fin rising up in the water in the distance before disappearing once more. “My god,” Arthur gets to his feet, jaw gaping as he watches the behemoth of a fish swim away. Not once, has he ever faced a pike as large as that before. It could eat him.

“What’re you doin’, you fool? Reel it!” Hamish snaps, already lighting another stick of dynamite to force it back towards them. Arthur shakes off the silent astonishment and quickly grabs his fishing pole. It feels like a battle, hauling this fish toward them and finally killing it.

They must spend nearly an hour on those waters, blowing up half the lake just to haul a fish the size of Bill out of the water. Hamish is cackling and hollering the whole way back to his cabin. He goes on and on about how long that pike has been taunting him. How Arthur must be his goddamn lucky charm to have gotten it on their first day.

It’s only when Arthur lingers by the edge of Hamish’s doorway do either of them acknowledges the shared pain between them. Arthur doesn’t know exactly what Hamish lost in the war, but he knows it must be something just as bad as Arthur. There's a creeping loneliness that they both know neither one of them can fill. But that doesn’t mean they won’t try.

“You helped kill the bastard, sit down, I’ll cook up some of him for ya.” It’s an invitation that Arthur can’t deny. He gives Hamish a small smile, sitting down at his table while Hamish moves quickly through his cabin.

“Did I ever tell you,” Hamish starts, as though they’ve been friends long enough for Arthur to hear his stories. Arthur doesn’t object or interrupt, he leans back, eyes alert as he listens to everything Hamish tells him. Tales of the war, the time before, the time after. Arthur shares a little about himself, but for the most part, he’s content to let the old man talk.

That’s how most of their time together goes. When Arthur manages some time away from Dutch’s suspicious eyes, he goes to Hamish. He listens to his stories. And they use the excuse of hunting animals Hamish claims to be haunting him. It’s on his fourth visit that Arthur mentions you.

“I don’t get it. You’re big, strong, you gotta have someone.” Hamish pauses, glancing away from his fishing pole and narrowing his eyes at Arthur. “Don’t tell me I’m your only friend, son.”

Arthur chuckles a little, shaking his head. “I got a lady,” he tells him, reluctant for Hamish to know exactly what company he keeps. Hamish nods his head, giving him an expectant look. Arthur lets out a low sigh, rubbing his palms across his pants and shrugging. “She’s gorgeous,” Hamish lets out a disbelieving snort and Arthur shoots him a look. “Smart” he continues and it’s the first time he’s ever struggled to describe you.

Such simplistic terms don’t seem fitting for someone like you. If he had his journal, if he could show him a drawing of you, of the little bit of you he’s managed to capture on paper, maybe Hamish would understand. “And she’s a good person, a better one than I ever will be-”

“Then what’s she doin’ with a fool like you?” Hamish interrupts, snickering when he sees the irritated look on Arthur’s face.

“Weren’t you just tellin’ me what a catch I am?” Arthur snaps, eyes narrowed in amusement at the old man.

He shrugs, tugging slightly on the string of his fishing pole and huffing out a laugh. “Eh, she can’t be that great if she’s with someone like you.” Arthur straightens up but Hamish barrels on, paying him no mind. “Bring her down tonight. I’ll cook up whatever we catch here. It’ll give me something other than your ugly mug to look at.”

Arthur scoffs, “You are a piece of work, old man.”

Hamish waves him off, leaning back in the boat and smiling softly as he waits for a fish to bite his bait. Arthur shakes his head, looking back to the familiar blue waters and feeling something like contentment settle over him.

“You didn’t have to dress up,” Arthur tells you, holding his hand out to you. Perched atop Lady, you give his outstretched palm a long look before slowly settling your hand in his.

“I’d hardly call a corset and some nice pants dressing up, Arthur,” you tease. It’s the first time you’ve spoken to each other without there being some underlying current of tension to your conversation.

He leads you toward Hamish’s front door, smiling slightly when you stop to admire the garden at the side of the cabin. “I wanted to make a good impression,” you tell him, straightening up from where you’d been smelling some of the flowers. You give him a brief look out of the side of your eye before brushing dirt off the knees of your pants. “You’ve been talkin’ about him a lot and well,” you suck in a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “I know things have been hard after Guarma,” you can’t seem to look at him, eyes always darting away from his.

Arthur stays silent, worried anything he says will ruin the first honest conversation you two have had. “And everythin’ has been so odd between us." You take a step forward and Arthur follows, craving the closeness that has been so sorely lacking. Looking up, you finally manage to meet his eye. The hurt and frustration so plainly displayed on your face makes his stomach clench.

“I care about you, Arthur, deeply. And that’s not ever goin’ to change.” He expects there to be a ‘but,’ some clause added on that means he needs to change his ways. Or even you telling him that you just can’t handle this life anymore. He wouldn’t blame you if you told him that, but just the thought of it makes him hurt.

Instead, you give him a smile and lean up, pressing your lips timidly against his cheek. Your hands find his, squeezing slightly, like an assurance to you both that there’s still something to be saved between you.

Arthur can’t help himself as he turns his head, capturing your lips between his own and tugging you closer. You let out a short huff of laughter, smiling against his lips. It’s a chaste kiss, certainly one of the more demure ones you’ve shared. But it means more to him than he ever thought it would.

“What the hell are you two doin’?” You startle back from him, eyes wide as you turn. Hamish has his head peeked around the corner of his porch, a stern look on his face but a slight mischievous tilt to his lips. “I invited you to dinner, I didn’t need a show to come with it,” he scolds, but there’s no hiding the humor in his tone.

You bite your lip and move away from Arthur, though you let your hand linger in his as long as you can before you slip to the porch. “It’s nice to meet you,” you tell Hamish sheepishly.

“Hm,” Hamish shakes his head as he looks at you, “Can’t believe you let Arthur fool you into bein’ with him.” He grins at Arthur’s affronted scoff and nods you along. “Go on inside, fish is almost ready.” You send Arthur one last look before heading off.

Climbing the steps of the porch, Arthur lightly shoves at Hamish’s shoulder. “What’re you playin’ at, old man?”

Hamish shrugs, beckoning him inside, “I need somethin’ to entertain myself with.”

“How long have you been out here?” You ask Hamish as you settle down at his too-small table. He plates the fish and takes a seat across from Arthur, brow wrinkled as he thinks.

“Well,” he laughs lightly and shakes his head. “It’s been so damn long, I can’t quite remember. Probably longer than you’ve been walking, sweetheart.”

Your eyes round, something like concern flitting across your face. “All on your own?” Arthur pauses from where he’d been cutting into his meal, content to let you carry the conversation. He glances up at Hamish, gauging the look on his face.

Hamish’s solitary lifestyle has been something Arthur’s been avoiding talking about. He knows there’s something painful in Hamish’s past, something he does his best to keep quiet about. Arthur hasn’t wanted to push, too afraid that he’d ruined the good thing they had going.

But the look on the old man’s face isn’t defensive or angry. It’s soft, his eyes are sad as he looks nostalgic, as if thinking back to happier times. “All on my own,” he confirms and Arthur sees the way your expression slacks with sympathy. “Honestly, this cabin is starting to feel too big,” he admits, glancing around at the barren walls.

Where some would have family portraits, heirlooms, or memorabilia, Hamish has mounted deer and stuffed fish. There’s nothing besides a slightly dusty metal from the war to hint at what his life had once looked like. “It needs a family, or,” he glances back at you and smiles, “someone besides a sad old man.”

Hamish turns back to his meal and asks Arthur something, he responds vaguely, eyes still trained on your face. Your gaze has hardened as you glare down at the fish on your plate. There’s a wrinkle between your brows that he’s come to know as you plotting something. Whatever Hamish has said has given you an idea that Arthur’s not sure he wants a part of.

“Well, I’ll be damned!” Hamish shouts, jumping from his seat and running toward the window. “That goddamn bastard!”

You shoot Arthur a bewildered look and he shakes his head, standing up to join Hamish by the window. “What is it?”

“That boar! It’s back!” Hamish points to a vague shadow of a shape on the crest of the hill. It’s larger than any boar he’s ever seen, but Hamish seems to be cursed with animals of legendary size and vindictiveness. He runs from the window, grabs the rifle mounted above his fireplace, and runs toward the front door. “You better get a move on, boy, I ain’t waitin’ for ya!” He hollers over his shoulder, already whistling for Buell.

Arthur sighs and gives you an apologetic look. “I oughta make sure he don’t get himself killed.”

Smiling, you wave him along, “Go ahead, though,” you muse, glancing out the window, “it doesn’t look like he needs much help.” Arthur turns, letting out an aggrieved huff as he sees Hamish already shooting wildly at the beast.

“Won’t be long,” he promises as he rushes out the door.

He only vaguely hears your small, “I’ve heard that before.”

Arthur spots Buell grazing in a small patch of grass and leaves Diablo beside him. The two horses don’t seem to get along very well, but he’s more concerned with the trail of blood in the underbrush than them.

Kneeling down to investigate, he’s stopped by nearby shouting. “I’ve almost got him, Arthur, hurry-” Hamish’s voice is cut off by a loud cry of pain and a boar squeal that almost sounds like screaming.

Dirt flies up under Arthur’s boots as he races forward. He pushes through the thick foliage, stumbling out into an open area where Hamish lay sprawled on the ground. His body twitches, fingers weakly grasping at a dark, gaping wound in his stomach. Blood pools beneath him, soaking into the earth.

“Oh, Hamish, no,” Arthur mutters, dropping to his knees beside him. He presses his hands over the wound, trying to staunch the bleeding, but it’s no use. He can see it in the way Hamish struggles for breath, his chest stuttering with each ragged inhale.

Hamish lets out a shaky laugh, the sound wet and gurgling. “Flesh wound,” he croaks, though the blood trailing from the corner of his mouth says otherwise. His voice is strained, each word dragged from his throat like it pains him to speak. “I’m an old man, Arthur. This was bound to happen sooner or later.” Arthur wants to tell him to stop talking, to save his breath. But he’s seen death enough times to know there’s no coming back from this.

“Don’t,” Hamish chokes on his blood and flinches forward. Arthur props him up on his knee, still keeping his hand over the wound. It’s not doing anything except prolonging this, but he can’t find it within himself to let go. Hamish settles, lungs wheezing with effort. “Don’t be like me. Don’t die lonely.”

Arthur doesn’t have the chance to tell him he’s not alone before the light leaves his eyes. He finally takes his hands off of him, looking up as he hears squealing. He spots the boar in the underbrush and picks Hamish’s rifle up off the ground.

The trek back to the cabin is slow. Hamish’s body is slung over Diablo and Buell carries the boar. Arthur wonders if Buell knows that his master’s dead. If he can smell it, or if he even cares.

He leads them both toward the hitching post at the side of the home. He sees you watching in the window, eyes narrowed in on Hamish’s body before you disappear from view. Footsteps sound out on the porch as he slings the body over his shoulder and walks it toward the clearing of wildflowers.

“What happened?” You call out, voice soft as you join him.

“Boar,” he answers shortly. He doesn’t have the patience to speak. He’s faced and caused death hundreds of times, but something about this feels like a slap in the face. It wasn’t enough that he had to lose Lenny and Hosea and then watch as what used to be his family falls apart. He had to drag Hamish into his problems, had to loop you into this business.

He knew, when his mother died and when his son died, that he was cursed to lose everyone he loved. That he would never be allowed a happy, or a simple life. And yet, like the fool he is, he keeps trying. He keeps trying to allow himself a sliver of peace or happiness.

You hand Arthur a shovel as he sets Hamish down on the ground and he starts to dig. Until the sun sets and the moon is high in the sky, he digs a grave for Hamish. You stand there with him the whole night, never saying a word, and for that he’s grateful. He’s learned that it's better not to have to do something like this alone.

When he’s done, and Hamish is six feet deep, facing the east so he can see the rising sun, he leads you back to the cabin. It’s a comfortable quiet as you help him rinse the dirt and blood off his hands. You take the clothes he stores on Diablo and bring them to him, convincing him to just stay at the cabin for the night.

He’s too tired to understand the concentrated look on your face, but there’s something niggling at the back of his mind. A sort of intuition he usually wouldn’t ignore but can’t bother with tonight. “Good night, Arthur,” you whisper but he’s already asleep before he can say it back.

When he wakes up, you’re sitting at the table, writing something on a scrap piece of paper. You turn slightly, smiling briefly at him before going back to the paper. “What’re you writin’?” He asks, sitting up in bed and stretching out the soreness from digging for so long.

Your shoulders tense up, expression going blank before carefully reconstructing itself into something pleasant. Placing the pen down, you slide the paper away from yourself and turn fully to face him.

“Eagle Flies is dead.” Your voice is clipped, emotion buried beneath steel. “Dutch was at the heart of it all. He didn’t just destroy a tribe and a family for nothing but his own gain, he left you for dead.”

Arthur grimaces, shooting you a sharp look. “I don’t need the reminder-”

“I think you do, Arthur.” Your tone hardens, cutting through his defensiveness. “Charles is devastated. He won’t stay with the gang much longer after this. That’s who the letter’s for,” you say, nodding toward the paper on the table. “I need to tell him some things before he disappears for good.”

Arthur watches you carefully. There’s something else behind your words, something bigger than just grief over Eagle Flies. A knot of unease tightens in his stomach.

“John and Abigail are leaving soon,” you continue, voice steady but insistent. “They won’t risk Jack getting caught up in Dutch’s mess. Sadie’s been itching to go off on her own for a while-”

“What’re you gettin’ at?” Arthur snaps, frustration creeping in. He’s tired, exhausted from everything, and you dragging this out isn’t helping.

You inhale sharply, rolling your shoulders back as if bracing yourself. “I want to stay here.” Your expression is unreadable, your voice flat. “Here or anywhere else, but I am not going back to that camp. I won’t.”

Arthur stiffens, dragging a hand down his face before swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He tugs his shirt back on with sharp, jerking movements, frustration simmering beneath his skin. “You want me to just leave?”

You shake your head, voice calm but firm. “I want you to do what you need to do.”

Arthur doesn’t believe that. He can’t accept that you would be so calm giving him permission to leave again. He searches for an ulterior motive, for some hidden tone to your words, even though he knows there won’t be one. “They’re my only family. You expect me to just walk away?”

Your expression softens, but he can see it in your eyes, the steel behind each word. Your resolve isn’t bending, you won’t be changing your mind anytime soon. “I expect you to decide for yourself, for once.” You step closer to him and he feels two ideals, two lives, warring against each other in the back of his mind.

“You’ve spent your whole life followin’ someone else’s lead- Dutch’s, Hosea’s.” Arthur wants to leave before he has to listen to anymore, not ready to confront the truth. “Even now, you’re just tryin’ to hold it all together because you think you have to.”

Arthur swallows hard, “It ain’t that simple,” he argues, even though, deep down, it truly is.

“It is,” you counter gently, voice calm like you’re soothing a bucking horse. “I’m not tellin’ you to abandon anyone. But you know how this ends,” the look in your eyes shifts. It changes from something earnest to the distant gaze of someone whose sick and tired of marking new graves. “You’ve always known.”

Arthur sucks in a sharp breath, his jaw tightening as he turns away from you. If he doesn’t meet your eyes, maybe he won’t have to face the truth in them.

But you’re stubborn as all hell and you never know when to quit. “I’m stayin’ here. This is my choice. And I’ll be here when you get back,” you pause, your last words quieter, “if you choose to come back.”

Arthur hesitates by the door. There’s so much hanging over the gang, the Pinkertons, Cornwall, Dutch’s tightening grip. Even if they all wanted to leave, Dutch would never let them. And Arthur…

Arthur has to see this through.

“I have to go.” His voice is quiet, resigned.

“Then go,” you tell him as if it’s the simplest idea in the world.

He lingers a moment before stepping through the door. He doesn’t look back, but he knows what he’s fighting for now. What he’s fighting to come back to.

Arthur rides into camp, his gut twisted with unease. He’s not sure what he was expecting, certainly not an idyllic scene, but the sight before him still takes the breath from his lungs.

Molly lies sprawled in the dirt, blood soaking the earth beneath her. Mrs. Grimshaw hovers over her body, shotgun in hand and the barrel still smoking. Her face is unreadable. The rest of the gang looks at her in stunned silence, some horrified, others grim.

“She said,” Susan mutters, voice hoarse. “She said she sold us out. Gave us up to the Pinkertons.”

Arthur’s stomach drops. He steps forward, his voice low and urgent. “No, she didn’t,” he looks at Molly, the flickering light of the fire dancing across her lifeless face. He turns his gaze to the real snake in their midst. “It was Micah.”

Mrs. Grimshaw pales and Micah scoffs. “Oh, give me a goddamn break.” He leans lazily against a post, arms crossed over his chest, a smirk tugging at his lips. His eyes are alight with amusement as if this is all some great joke to him. “You’re graspin’, Morgan. I get it, you need someone to blame, and Molly’s already dead, so why not pin it on me?”

Arthur’s jaw clenches, “I see you for what you are, you rat bastard.”

Micah just shrugs, cocky as ever. Mrs. Grimshaw, though, in all of her wisdom and unflinching loyalty, sees right through him. Her eyes narrow and she comes to stand beside Arthur, “Arthur’s right.”

That’s all it takes. The shift on Micah’s face is instantaneous. The gunshot rings out before Arthur can even react. Mrs. Grimshaw jerks back, her body crumpling to the ground. Blood seeps through her blouse and spreads across her chest.

The camp erupts. Shouts ring out, insults are thrown, and guns are pulled by people who had once called each other friend and brother. Dutch steps forward, getting between Arthur and Micah, his hands raised, eyes darting between them both. Arthur can’t read his face. It’s calm on the surface, but beneath it, something fragile and uncertain lingers.

Micah steps back, but he isn’t alone. Bill and Javier fall in beside him, weapons drawn.

John pushes Abigail and Jack behind him. Charles and Sadie round up the rest of the women, dragging John’s family off as they lead them to the horses to flee. John meets Arthur’s eyes, and there’s no hesitation. He grabs his revolver and steps to Arthur’s side.

Arthur breathes out sharply, giving Dutch one last chance. “You can still do this,” he tells him, voice raw. “You can still make this right, Dutch. You can stop this.”

Dutch’s face twists, pain, doubt, anger, all flickering at once. He shakes his head slowly. “I thought of you as a son, Arthur.” His voice is quiet, barely above a whisper. Then louder, firmer, “I can’t believe you’d betray us.”

Before Arthur can say another word, the Pinkertons ride in, guns blazing. Chaos takes hold of the camp as Micah takes his eyes off of him to start shooting at the others. Arthur doesn’t hesitate, grabbing John as they bolt for their horses. Bullets fly past them, grazing against their clothes and nearly nicking them. Pinkertons certainly aren’t good shots.

They mount the horses, racing through the woods. The sound of gunfire and shouting follows behind them before slowly fading. They can’t afford to slow down or stop, wordless as they push their horses harder and faster than the animals can stand.

They don’t stop until they reach the base of a mountain. The money’s nearby, stashed away in Dutch’s greed-fueled paranoia. It’s their only chance of making something out of this mess. Arthur can’t afford to let Dutch and the other’s get to it first.

Arthur dismounts and John follows. “This is it,” Arthur turns toward John, placing his hand on his shoulder. “You take the money, you get Abigail and Jack outta here. Make somethin’ of yourself.”

John frowns, shaking his head. “Arthur, I ain’t-”

“Go,” Arthur’s voice is firm. The finality of it stops John short. “I’ll hold ‘em off.”

John hesitates, and Arthur knows how desperately he wants to stand beside him and fight. To prove that he’s more than a coward. But he knows better than to argue, and he knows he can’t leave his family behind. He gives a short nod and starts running.

Arthur begins his climb up the mountain, hoping to find a vantage point to hold the Pinkertons and the others off. He’s not far when he hears them behind him. Turning, he sees Micah and Dutch closing in.

Micah grins, “Should’ve run while you had the chance, Morgan.”

White hot fury floods through Arthur’s veins, it pushes him forward and he lunges at Micah, grappling him to the ground. Micah lets out a wheeze, his blackened lungs not prepared for the attack. He doesn’t hesitate, bringing his fist down until he feels bones crunch under the force of his hand.

Micah struggles against him, kicking him off and struggling to his feet. Arthur lets him get up and then he goes after him again. He pins him against the wall of rock behind them both, letting his rage drive him forward as he hammers against his face. Micah keeps gasping for air, arms rising feebly in defense only to get knocked down again.

A click echoes through the cold air and Arthur freezes, dropping Micah and letting him slump to the dirt. His eye is purpled, swollen completely shut and Arthur almost can’t recognize him anymore.

He turns, finding Dutch standing behind him, gun aimed at his chest.

For a long, silent moment, they just stare at each other. Dutch’s finger hovers over the trigger and Arthur just watches. He sees the conflict in Dutch’s eyes, the doubt warring with years of manipulation and ego.

But in the end, Dutch does what he always does.

He runs away.

Micah groans, nails digging into the dirt as he struggles for air. Arthur doesn’t bother finishing him off. He watches Dutch disappear into the night and leave them both behind. Breathing slowly, his chest heaving, Arthur turns away from Micah and leaves him to rot.

The ride back to the cabin is slow. Every muscle in Arthur’s body aches, his lungs burning with each breath, but for the first time in a long while, he’s not carrying the weight of the gang on his shoulders. It’s over. Dutch is gone. Micah is as good as dead. The life he’s known has fallen apart, but he’s still here. And he’s free.

He crests the final hill, the cabin coming into view, and there you are- waiting.

You’re not crying with worry or pacing in anger that he left again. You stand, arms crossed, watching the road like you always knew he’d come back.

Arthur exhales, something in his chest easing at the sight of you. He slows Diablo to a stop, dismounting with a grunt of pain. You don’t rush over to him and demand to know what happened, or how he got the fresh bruises littering his skin. The both of you have always known that the only way this was going to end was bloody. Arthur looks up and you hold his gaze, waiting for him.

Waiting for him to finally decide. The outlaw life, or this new one with you.

He takes a step toward you, and you stay still as a statue, another and he’s nearly on top of you. You don’t move away or take a step back, you peer up at him, meeting his gaze expectantly. “It’s over,” he tells you simply.

You nod, nothing gleeful or victorious on your face that you finally got him right where you wanted. You’re not Dutch, this was never about controlling him, he realizes that now. Without his loyalty blinding him, he can finally understand that you were only ever trying to help him. “I know,” your voice is calm as your eyes rove over his face.

A silence stretches between you, heavy with words left unsaid. Then, slowly, Arthur lifts his hand toward you. You don’t pull away, and when his fingers brush your waist, you sigh, your shoulders easing like you’ve been holding yourself together for too long. Arthur doesn’t waste any more time pulling you in close to him, the both of you holding each other up.

Arthur breathes out slowly, resting his forehead against yours and pulling you as close as he can get. Your hands come up, gripping his shirt like you’re trying to make sure he doesn’t slip away. But he knows he won’t, not ever again.

For the first time in what feels like forever, Arthur allows himself to feel real and true hope. He keeps you tight in his embrace, and you bury your face in his neck, he can feel your lashes flutter against his neck as they finally close and you relax against him. He’ll make something of this second chance. He’ll become a man you can be proud to call your own.

As the sun rises, casting its golden light over the both of you, Arthur finally leaves behind his old life, to begin this new one with you.

Hell Hath No Fury Taglist: @buckysblondie @littlebirdgot @heloixe @summerdazed @committingcrimes-2047

@m1stea @pokiona @fleouris @soupvender00 @warmsideofthepillow03

@whimsiwitchy @cloudywithachanceofcrisis @martinys-world

#Arthur Morgan x reader #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan imagine #arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2 x reader #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 x you #rdr2 x reader #rdr2 imagine #rdr2 #Hell Hath No Fury

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gabstertrapster · 3 days ago

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⟡ - dropping a cute stink bomb infront of ATEEZ

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝𓆟𓆝

⋅ synopsis - you accidentally fart in front of ateez they may or may not be a little dramatic…

⋅ pairing - ateez member x gn! reader.

⋅ genre - absolute crack

⋅ warnings - maybe a little potty humour but it’s funny trust me

word count: 1.4k

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

↳ kim hongjoong 🐿️

Hongjoong stops mid-sentence, his face twisting in pure horror as the smell hits him. “Oh my—Y/N?!”

He waves his hand in front of his face, gagging dramatically. You cover your face in shame, but he’s already getting up from the couch. “No, no, I need a second. I need air. I need a break.”

He opens a window, dramatically placing a hand on his forehead like he’s in a K-drama. “This is why I can’t have nice things.. it’s worse than the time Wooyoung left his gym shoes in the dorm.” He mumbled to himself.

Despite his suffering, he comes back and grabs your hand, sighing. “You’re lucky I love you. But if you ever do that again, I’m charging you rent for polluting my air.”

Then, suddenly, he straightens up, face serious. “…I must restore my honor.”

You blink “hongjoong what..?”

“I’M FARTING BACK.” He clenches his fists, concentrating.

↳ park seonghwa 🐰

Seonghwa’s eye twitches, nose wrinkling immediately. He physically stops breathing as he slowly looks at you.

“…Are you serious right now?”

“Y/N- You. Did. Not.” He clutches his chest, fake crying. “HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME?”

You shrink under his gaze, dying of embarrassment, but he just shakes his head slowly, lips pressed into a thin line. You mumble an apology, but he just stands up, dusting himself off. “No, it’s fine. I just need to reevaluate some things. I did not sign up for this biological warfare.” Fanning the air dramatically.

But after a few seconds, he softens. “I won’t tell anyone… yet. But if this happens again, I can’t promise you won’t be roasted.”

He’s joking (mostly), but when he sees you pouting, he sighs and pulls you into a hug. “Aigoo… my little stink bomb. What am I gunna do with you” Then, he smirks. “Actually… maybe I should get revenge.”

You blink. “What?”

He just grins evilly. “Just wait until you’re sleeping tonight.”

“…If you fart, I fart.”

You panic. “Hwa, DON’T.”

↳ jeong yunho 🐶

Yunho gasps SO loud, you’d think he just witnessed a crime.

“OH. MY. GOD.”

“NO. WAY.”

You curl up in embarrassment, but he just points at you, laughing hysterically. “YAHH. THAT WAS INSANE.” Then, as if it’s not bad enough, he starts cackling. “Nah, that wasn’t a fart. That was an earthquake.”

“I should be mad, but honestly? I’m impressed. That takes skill” He grins. Then, suddenly, he stops laughing and cracks his neck.

You blink. “…Yunho?”

He nods solemnly. “I need to fart too… I must defeat you.” He grunts dramatically, focusing all his energy. And then… he lets one out.

It’s long. It’s deep. It’s resonant.

Both of you sit there in pure shock. Finally, Yunho bursts into laughter, wheezing. “NO WAY. DID YOU HEAR THAT?! Y/N, I BEAT YOU.”

Then, without hesitation, he tackles you in a hug, still giggling. “Our friendship is unbreakable now.”

↳ kang yeosang ⭐️

Yeosang does not move. He just slowly turns his head toward you, his face unreadable. After a long pause, he calmly says: “…Are you proud of yourself?”

Then, after another long pause, he just sighs, rubbing his temples. “…I want a refund.”

You open your mouth to apologize, but he cuts you off. “No, really. Was that your goal? To make me suffer? They stink like old man farts” He grips his scrunched nose.

Then, without warning, he sits up straight. “Fine. If I must suffer, then so must you.”

You blink. “…What?”

He closes his eyes, focusing. You gasp. “WAIT, YOU’RE NOT—”

“YES. I AM.”

After several tense seconds of silence, he finally opens his eyes and sighs. “…Never mind. I’m too classy for this.” You just hear him let out an evil laugh from the other side of the couch.

↳ choi san ⛰️

He starts fake coughing, rolling away from you like he’s been mortally wounded. “I trusted you! I let you into my heart! AND THIS IS WHAT I GET?!” He but his finger pretending he’s gunna faint.

“HOW COULD YOU DO THIS… diabolical smell” He says the last bit to himself still keeping his dramatic demeanour.

“…No. I refuse to be the only victim here.”

He sits up, looking weirdly determined, but soon slouching again pointing a finger towards you.

“No! I am the victim! You wanted to blow me away with that fart. Goodness” he chuckles at his comment and looks over at you.

You groan, hiding under a blanket, but he’s already crawling back, grinning. “Nah, we’re officially family now.” He nuzzles into you, whispering, “My little fart machine:3.”

↳ song mingi 🦖

Mingi literally jumps, his whole body jerking in shock. The smell hits him a second later, and he immediately starts fanning the air, panicking. “ARE WE UNDER ATTACK??!” He scrambles for safety, grabbing the nearest pillow to shield himself.

You bury your face in shame, but he just groans dramatically laughing in the process “Y/N I swear, I felt that in my SOUL.” He paused to think for another comeback “you just hit me with a nuclear bomb.”

“….i must fight back.“

He grits his teeth, focusing.

And then… it happens.

It’s loud. Brutal. World-ending.

Both of you sit in stunned silence.

Be bursts out laughing at his ground shaking fart (ya know the silent mingi laugh please do)

↳ jung wooyoung 🦊

Wooyoung freezes mid-breath. Then, his face contorts in slow-motion horror as he processes what just happened.

“…EXCUSE ME?”

You brace yourself, but it’s too late—he’s already grabbing his phone. “No, because this needs to be documented.”

“WOOYOUNG, NO—”

“YES.” He’s cackling, opening the group chat. “GUYS. YOU WON’T BELIEVE WHAT JUST HAPPENED.”

You lunge to steal his phone, but he just runs away, still laughing. You scream, finally tackling him, but he’s already laughing hysterically.

Then, suddenly—he pauses.

“…Wait.” His eyes narrow. “I’m farting back.”

He focuses so hard that his face turns red… but nothing happens.

“I guess I’m not as gassy as you” he grins as he earns a smack from you.

↳ choi jongho 🐻

Jongho immediately stops scrolling. He sighs deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “…”

You try to pretend it wasn’t you, but he glares, flapping his hand in front of his face. “Seriously? You let that bomb off right next to me?”

You whimper in embarrassment, but he’s already standing up, grabbing his jacket.

“Wait—where are you going?!”

He just glances at you, completely deadpan. “To rethink my life choices.” “Oh by the way you have green steam coming off of you” He teases laughing it his comment but shortly getting a punch on the arm by yourself.

“If we ever fall out I WILL use this as blackmail.” He grinned.

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princessmaeee · 2 days ago

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Bisexual Lights _ P2

Hello Everyone ! So, even if no one Asked, I did another part for this story cause I wanted to explore it a Little bite more. So this part is shorter than the first one and content Less Smut, But still have it No worries. It talk more about how the reader feel after what happened in the first part and for the next part I think about focusing more on Nam Gyu since how this part end. So tell me what you taught of this part and if you want to be part of the TagList ! TW : Oral ( Female receiving ) - Fingering - Orgasm denial - Nam Gyu being a cunt and having a mental break down at the end - Language - No Squid game

The next morning, you woke up in Thanos’s Bed with Nam Gyu’s arms wrapped around your Body, his head resting on your chest. You smiled and gently removed some hair from his face. Why does that guy have to look so adorable when he’s asleeps ? Almost looking like a pure Angel, but dear lord he’s absolutely not. Nam Gyu can be really nice and protective with people he likes, but with the others, mostly everyone except Thanos and You, he’s Harsh and a real cunt. But it’s okay, that’s how you like your friend, especially when you can see him as vulnerable as he was last night.

After giving a look at your phone, you gently push Nam Gyu from your body to be able to get out of the bed. He grunt and just turned around, still sleeping.

You made your way to the bathroom to go to the toilet and slowly remember really clearly what happened last night when you looked at yourself in the Mirror. Some light red appareard on your cheeks while you pass your fingers on the hundred red marks the guys have done On your body. Some were lights and others looked like bruises. Now you're gonna have to cover everything with makeup.

Getting out of the bathroom, you go to the kitchen, following the smell of the coffee. Once in the room, you found Thanos at the table with a lot of sheets around him and a Cup of black coffee. When he saw you entering the room, he smirked.

«-What some beautiful colors you have on your Neck, senorita. -Shut Up, Thanos.»

You take a Mug in the cupboard, putting some hot coffee in it. You felt lost from last Night. Of course you were all High, but you never planned things to go that far. Thanos and Nam Gyu were your friends and nothing more. You just wanted to play a little bit with Nam Gyu to shut him up for once. You didn't think it would go that far. While you brew your coffee to make the cream and the sugar mix together, you feel Thanos Arms wrap your body as he rests his chin on your shoulder.

«-Something’s wrong ? Asked your purple haired friend. -No. Everything’s fine.»

You lied, of course. You weren't really sure how you felt yet. You enjoyed everything that happened last night and nothing was forced. But what’s gonna happen next ? Was it just a one shot time ? Will things change between you three ? Did the guys enjoy it as much as you did ? You felt weird to have all those questions this early in the morning. Why did you even care ? You didn’t even fucked, it was just some nice forplay. Actually, they both kissed and touched you way better than your ex’s did.

«-What happened between You and Nam Gyu after I went to bet ? -We had continued to make out and just jack each other off. »

You felt your cheeks fired up as you imagined it. Being between them, being touched by both of them, taking care of both of them, you liked it and somehow you wish it could happen again. As you remember Nam Gyu’s lips around your nipples, his nails in your skin as you grinded against him, Thanos Lips on your neck, his tongues between your legs, you felt some fire down there and you squeezed your tights.

«-Are you doing that often ? Both of you or just with other girls ? -Never. It was the first time for both of us, with each other. I don’t know if Nam Gyu tried with other people though. I personally did once or twice, but it was nothing compared to Last night. -What do you mean ? What was different ? -I don’t know, maybe our friendship ? We are pretty close to each other, alway together. You both sleep here often. I just felt like it was natural.»

The feeling was mutual and that’s why it scared you so much. The future of this friendship seems fuggy, cause it’s clear nothing will be like before after what happened last Night and you don’t know how you will handle it.

«-Have you enjoyed it ? He asked. »

Your breath stuck in your throat. The answer was easy, but saying it out loud could be a Mistake.

«-Yeah, I did, you answered with a soft, shaky voice. -So what’s the problem ? -Nothing. I’m just still tired, you lied.»

Thanos grunt and turn you around, grip your ass and lift you up to sit you on the counter. His hands were now on each side of you as he locked his eyes in yours.

«-I know you too damn well. You lie. What is it ? -I don’t know, I guess I’m just afraid of what’s gonna be our friendship now… »

Thanos let a light laugh escape his lips before smirking at you.

«-It depend. What would you like our friendship to be ? »

His hands move to your knee, resting there as he still looks at you. You swallow the extra saliva in your mouth as your heart starts to beat faster in your chest. Your eyes were on your friend’s hands. His thumb gently caressing your skin, made you shiver. You bite your lower lip when the feeling between your thighs starts to get stronger.

«-I-...I don’t know, you manager to say -Lier.»

Thanos' hands rose higher until they got under his to-long-for-you-T-shirt-you-borrow-him, squeezing your thighs. You softly gasp. Fuck, now you was hungry for more of his touch. Your body is asking for it.

«-Say it. -What ? -Say that you want me to touch you and I will. »

You were hesitant. You clearly want to feel his touch again and even if your mind would not agree, your body says the complete opposite. But you don’t want to look too easy. Thanos’s your friend, you doubt he would judge you for this, but he’s still a Man.

Noticing your hesitation, Thanos starts to kiss your neck, teasing you more by squeezing your tights. His lips go to your jawline, the corner of your lips. You half opened as your breath was heavier. Your arousal dominated your body, making it almost painful. You could feel your cunt clench around absolutely nothing as it hoped to feel your Friend’s fingers inside.

«-Fuck it, you softly said in a breathe, please, Su-bong…touch me. »

That’s all he needed. That Soft, desperate voice of yours asking for him. He smiled and pressed his lips against yours. He spread your legs a little bit and let one of his hands slide between it. His thumb met your clit and he gently started to rub it, making you moan through the kiss. Your hips moved by their own, silently asking to have his fingers inside of you and he noticed. Pulling away from the kiss, Thanos catches his breath and kneels in front of you, spreading your legs more. You wrap them around his head when you feel his mouth on your clit, letting a louder moan be heard and you quickly cover your mouth, not wanting to wake up Nam Gyu who was still asleep in the next room.

Thanos' mouth sucked and licked your sensitive bun of nerves, adding two of his fingers in your wet core. You felt your body melt under his touch as your muscles softened all their strength. You hand met his hair, gripping it harder as your pleasure built up inside you. His finger went at a different pace dépending on how your grip was on his hair, curling inside you, touching this soft and spongy spot who made you moan louder.

«-That’s a pretty entertaining show you put on here, you two. »

You blushed when you noticed Nam Gyu, leaning against the kitchen entrance. Pulling Thano’s head, you try to make him stop, but he grunt and grip your tights harder as an order to stay in place. You felt his fingers entering you more brutally as a Warning and you gasp, letting a little painful whine escape you.

«-I think he doesn't mind me, Nam Gyu said, and I don't mind it at all. »

Your friend gets closer to you and hands you your phone.

«-You boss called, enough time to wake me up, so you should call him back. -Yeah… later, you managed to say. »

You were about to take your phone from Nam Gyu’s hand but he pulled it away, A devilish smile on his face.

«-Why Wait ? It’s maybe super important. »

He pressed on your boss' contact and put it on Speak. Your eyes opened wildling when you heard the ringtone. Thanos smiled against your core and pulled his lips away to look at you, moving only his fingers, slowly. Those guys can really be the worst bastard you ever met.

«-I hate you so much, you hissed while looking at Nam gyu, before you heard your boss' voice. -Y/N, I’m happy you called me back. I know you are on your day off, but I really need you to come to the office to finish the last project we worked on. The client wants it sooner. I’m sorry, it’s a last minute thing. »

Thanos looked at Nam Gyu with an amused Smile before going back between your legs, sucking more on your clits while his fingers going deeper in you. Nam Gyu, still holding your phone, pulls up your top, revealing your naked body. His eyes roamed over it as he bite his lower lips.

«-Y-yeah… no problem I will come…»

You grip Thanos' hair harder as you feel your orgasm build up more and more as Thanos touch your sensitive Spot again and again with his fingers.

«-Fuck, you wissper, I will be there as soon as I can. -Excellent, you’re a lifesaver. »

And the call ended. Nam Gyu dropped your phone on the counter, still looking at your body, his own arousal started to be painful in his pants.

«-Fuck, you’re so hot like this, he said with his eyes still on you.»

Still with his annoying little cunt smile, Nam Gyu gives a little tap on Thano’s shoulder.

«-Bro, let her go, She have to leave for Work and I bet she needs to pass by her place before.»

Thanos pulled away as you were so close to the release, making you whine.

«-No… Thanos, please… I was so close… -Yeah I know, but I don't want you to arrive too late at work, he answered as he removed his fingers.»

You grunt, unsatisfied and look at Nam Gyu.

«-Why do you have to be such a Cunt ? -Just a little payback for last Night. I hate when people play with me like you did.»

His Smile never left his face and you felt more annoyed by it. Getting down off the counter and taking back your phone, You got closer to your black haired friend.

«-You’re just mad cause you know how much you liked it. And maybe you’re jealous Thanos was taking care of me this morning and you weren’t part of it this time ? »

His expression changed to something darker. You knew you touched his weak spot. As much as he tries to convince himself he has no feelings for Thanos, deep down you both Know how much Nam Gyu cares for him more than any other person. He also cares for you, when he’s not a pain in your ass. His hand came to your throat, gripping it harshly as he brought you closer.

«-Watch your mouth or I will put it to good use next time. -You fucking Wish. »

He grunt and let you go. You left the kitchen to go get your clothes from last night and Pull it back before you leave Thano’s apartment, still mad about what just happened and still full of questions about your friendship with them. Maybe you're gonna need time to think about it.

Once you have left, Nam Gyu Sight heavily. You really play on his nerves with your attitude. Pulling his hair out of his face, he take the mug of coffee you had initially made for you and take a Sip of it.

«-That bitch, I swear she plays on my nerves. -Maybe a Good fuck with her could help both of you. -No thank You, I already have all the Bitch I want at the club. I don’t need a new one. »

Thanos goes back to his seat at the table and lights up a cigarette.

«-But Y/N is not just a Bitch. She’s our friend and you can call her all the names you want, I know you like her. Cause if it weren’t the case, even High, you wouldn't let her have seen that soft and submissive part of you that you showed last night. »

Out of Anger, Nam Gyu threw the mug of Coffee against the wall Behind Thanos, Breaking the mug in many pieces.He didn’t know why that affected him like this, but all that happened last night felt like it shouldn't to him. He lost control, he let his emotions lead his action and He hated that. And even if he liked it, he couldn’t accept it.

«-Nothing happened Last Night ! We were just high and that was it. I don’t want to ear another fucking thing about this ever again ! »

Thanos was surprised by his friend's reaction and just stayed there, in silence. Nam Gyu’s body was trembling as he started to sweat. Grunting he took a deep breath and passed his hand in his hair to place them, trying to calm himself. He’s often like this without drugs in his system, but he never let Thanos or Y/N see him like this, unable to control his emotions.

«-Forget about Last Night. »

That was the last thing he said before leaving his best friend’s apartment.

#x reader #thanos squid game #thanos x reader #squid game #smut #fanfiction #namgyu smut #nam gyu squid game #nam gyu x reader #nam gyu x thanos #player 230 #player 124 #squid game x reader #nam gyu x reader smut #thanos x reader smut #thanos x y/n #nam gyu x y/n #female reader

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nakylvr · 5 hours ago

Text

MISSED YOU (FINAL)

daniela avanzini x fem!reader

summary: dealing with the repercussions of your actions, you try your absolute best to fix everything.

warnings/tags: hurt/comfort(?), happy ending (yay!), dealer!dani au, language

wc: 3,5 k

part 1 | part 2

you woke up to knocking on the door. lifting your head from the bed, you immediately felt your head pounding with a headache, making you groan quietly as you got up and left the bedroom. walking to the front door, you peer through the peephole and let out a sigh of relief to see manon.

you unlock and open the door, being met with the taller woman who was holding a convenience store bag in her hand.

“did you sleep?” manon questions, taking notice of the dark bags under your eyes mixed with the tear stain marks on your cheeks.

“a little.” you shrug, opening the door wider and walking further inside.

“better than nothing,” manon replies, walking in and shutting the door behind her. she follows you to the living room, setting the bag down on the coffee table as you sit on the couch and curl up into a ball in the corner. “here,” she rummages through the bag before pulling out two cans. “i didn't know if you'd want the redbull or the coffee, so.” she holds both of them in front of you.

“thanks,” you mumble, taking the energy drink from her hand and opening it.

a silence fills the apartment again, one that lasts a while before you finally manage to speak up.

“i don't know how to fix this,” you say quietly, making manon look over at you. “i doubt she wants to see me right now, or ever again.” you look down at the drink in your hand, finger spinning around the rim of the can. “i should’ve listened to her, then none of this would've happened.”

“it's okay,” manon says. “i mean, it's not, obviously, but it’ll be fine. you can't say that she probably doesn't want to see you, because we both know that she always wants to see you. whenever you're not around you are literally the only thing she talks about, and with what you told me about your last conversation, she probably thinks sophia forced you to do it – which she did, so i don't think she's mad at you exactly. if she is, i’d be surprised.” she pauses for a moment. “you have to just do it. get her out, and then you can talk it out. you can figure the rest out as you go.”

“yeah,” you murmur, still looking at the can in your hands.

“yn,” manon grabs one of your hands making you finally look at her. “i’ve known dani for years, she isn't going to be mad at you. when i say you are the only person she talks about, i mean literally you are the only person she cares about. i’ve seen her go through girls so fast that when she started talking about you i felt bad. i thought ‘well, there's another poor girl to add to her list’. but she said you were different. so i tried to believe her. now, i’m going to be honest with you here, okay? because i love and care about both of you very much, and i want you two to fix this, okay?” she stops, waiting for you to nod before continuing. “dani has said multiple times to multiple girls that they're different. so when she said it about you my first reaction was how you were going to get hurt. but things started changing, dani started changing. and that has never happened. you know dani is a pretty independent person, and what she does has her that way because of shit that's happened in the past, but to see her changing – changing for the better? i knew she was right about you.”

“not one other girl has even been able to remotely change one thing about dani,” manon continues. “she always kept them at a distance, she never let them get too close. and the day she told me she took you with her to one of the deals? something that she never let anyone do? i knew she seriously loved you. when she said that you insisted on going with her, she told me that she hesitated. but not for the same reason it usually was. she wanted to protect you. she always wants to protect you, yn. but she lets you come with. she trusts you with the money. she trusts you with certain clients. she trusts you. she loves you. no one else. i don't know why she did what she did, but i know she regrets it. you are the best thing that's ever happened to her, and i don't want this to fuck it up for you two. i can't tell you what to do, but i will support whatever decision you make, okay?”

listening to everything manon said, you slowly nod your head while taking in all of it. tears pricked at the corners of your eyes and you could feel them threatening to spill, with your bottom lip tucked between your teeth to keep it from trembling. “i ju-st want to fix this,” your voice cracks as you speak. “i love her so much.”

“i know you do,” manon is quick to reply, scooting closer to you and wrapping her arms around your shaking frame. “and i know she loves you just as much. you just have to tell her. you have to talk this out, and you have to tell her about what happened last night.”

you physically tense up at her last words, the memories of the night before flooding your mind as you put your hands into fists to keep them from shaking so much. “i can't– she’ll really hate me then,” you reply, shaking your head.

“you have to, yn,” manon tells you. “i know you don't want to, but you have to.”

a few tears fall from your eyes, but you slowly nod your head, knowing it was the truth. it could make matters worse or it could improve them, but you had no idea how to even go about it. “can you– can you come with me to the sheriff's station? i already have the bail money in a bag, i-i just don't want to go alone right now,” you speak quietly, more tears trailing down your cheeks.

“of course,” manon replies with a nod. “has sophia tried reaching you?”

“there was texts and calls for the first couple of hours, but i think she gave up,” you answer with a shrug. “i read a few of them…” your voice goes quiet again.

“bad?” manon questions, judging by the tone in your voice when you said it.

“yeah.” you nod.

“ignore them,” manon tells you sternly. “you don't need to be seeing her lash out on you because of something terrible she did. you didn't do anything wrong, okay? you don't deserve any of what's happened to you in these months, and it's not your fault for going to the person you thought would keep you safe. but this means you have to fix things with dani. if all else fails, then you can stay with me for some time, okay? you’ll always have a place to stay with me.” she rubs your back reassuringly.

“okay,” you mumble, nodding again. “thank you again, i owe you for this.”

“no you don't.” manon shakes her head. “you're one of my best friends, i’d do anything to make sure you're okay.” she then pulls away from you, grabbing the can from you and setting it on the coffee table. “when does the sheriff's station open?”

“nine, i think,” you answer.

“we’ll go right when it opens, then,” she says. “get it done as fast as possible so that she doesn't have to stay in there too long. then you can talk things out. i’m sure you'll already be on her good side just by bailing her out after what you said when she was arrested, so you have a good starting point. get her something to eat, get some drinks, and talk it out here in the home you two have made. it’ll all be okay. i promise.”

“okay.”

…

one week later you were standing outside the jail, biting your nails with your foot tapping on the ground anxiously. thankfully, you had enough to cover the bail and have a little leftover, which was a relief knowing it didn’t take everything in the safe. you had yet to even speak to daniela, despite manon telling you to at least try and see if she would talk to you. you didn’t want to hear yelling over the phone, you’d rather hear it in person where you could explain everything easier than if you were arguing over the phone line that would cut after five minutes. manon told you over and over again that she wouldn’t be mad at you, but the nervous feeling was still rooted deep inside you as you heard the loud buzzing and the gate slowly opening.

looking up from the ground, you spot daniela walking with her bag of things. her eyes subtly widen a bit from what you can see, since they didn’t exactly tell her who bailed her out, just that she was able to leave.

she slowly steps over to you, stopping in front of you and looking at you without saying anything.

“hey,” you say quietly. “i’m really sor–”

you’re cut off from your apology by daniela kissing you. your eyes go wide for a second, but when her arms wrap around your waist you find yourself melting into the kiss, practically feeling all the emotions she was pouring out into it.

when she pulls away, you’re both a little breathless, quiet panting coming from you two.

“do you wanna get something to eat and head home?” you ask softly. “i’d rather talk at home.”

“yeah, we’ll talk at home,” daniela responds in the same voice.

“okay.” you nod.

…

by the time you two arrived at the apartment, it was already leading into the evening, the sunset coming down just as you opened the door and walked inside with bags of food and drinks in your hands.

walking behind you into the apartment, the first thing dani notices is how clean it is. she figured it’d be destroyed when they came to get her, only feeling worse when she realized it had to have been you that cleaned up the place. she follows you silently, setting the food down on the dining room table and going to sit on the couch next to you.

there’s a silence that fills the room. one that was far from comfortable. both of you sitting there not knowing what to say first, or to say anything at all. until you speak.

“i’m really sorry,” your voice is barely able to be heard as you fiddle with your hands. “i-i didn’t think– i didn’t mean for it to go down that way, i-”

“don’t apologize,” daniela cuts you off, shaking her head. “there’s no reason for you to be apologizing. i deserved it.” she goes quiet for a moment before continuing. “i’m really, really sorry. i shouldn’t have done what i did, and i know i fucked up. i’m not sure why i did it, but i regret it so much. i don’t know why you bailed me out, i thought the last time was really going to be the last time. but…i’m glad you did. i just want to talk it out.”

“i know, and that’s why i bailed you out,” you start. “listen, dani. i went to sophia to figure out what to do, and…it wasn’t a smart idea. i know you two already don’t like each other, but this could really make things worse for everyone. i– she convinced me to call the police even though i didn’t want to. i felt so bad once i saw how upset you were. i knew you knew you fucked up and was trying to do anything to make me stay a-and i ignored it. i-i thought it would make things easier but it made everything so m-much worse. everything just t-turned into a shit show a-and i didn’t know what to d-do.” you began stuttering over your words as a few tears fell from your eyes.

“hey, hey, it’s okay.” daniela is quick to wrap her arms around you and pull your head against her chest. “it’s okay, okay? i’m not mad at you for what you did. i deserved it. so please don’t beat yourself up over what you did, baby. i’m not upset at you.” she presses a gentle kiss on your head.

“there-there’s something else i h-have to tell you,” you manage to get out, your anxiety growing and your breathing getting heavier. “please don’t get mad when i tell you th-this.”

“nothing will make me mad, i promise,” dani responds. “what happened?”

clutching onto her shirt, your face is still pressing against her chest as you try to find the words to explain it. “i-i went to sophia’s after. y-you know she’s always had feelings f-for me, so i-i…i fucked up, dani.” you start fully sobbing into her chest at this point, which has her arms tightening around you both from you crying and what she was thinking you were going to say next. “i-i let her have her w-way with m-me b-b-but i hated it. it was t-terrible. sh-she didn’t care that i w-was uncomfortable, she di-didn’t stop even when i w-was crying. all i c-could think about was how y-you would never do that. i-it didn’t feel the same. sh-she didn’t care, she continued a-and i felt so bad after th-that i left immediately. i’m so sorry.”

once you finished your words through sobs, daniela pulled you closer to her onto her lap, her arms tight around you as you cried. there were hundreds of thoughts running through her head, but they were far from being mad at you. she wasn’t mad at you. she was livid at sophia. “it’s okay,” she tells you over and over. “i’m not mad at you, i swear. i’m not mad.” hearing your cries continue made daniela wonder just how much sophia put you through when she wasn’t around, and thinking it made her jaw clench, anger bubbling inside of her. “baby, look at me,” she says softly.

you slowly lift your head to look down at her, your eyes red and puffy with a few sniffles coming from you now and then.

“i’m not upset, okay?” she says, running her hand through your hair. “i understand, i do. which is why i’m not angry at you. i’m angry at sophia, okay? she should’ve known better than to try and do that, let alone continue when you were crying. you haven’t seen her since, have you?”

you immediately shake your head quickly. “no, no, i haven’t. she tried texting and calling but i just ignored them.”

“good.” daniela nods. “that means it’ll be a fun surprise for her when i show up at her front door.”

the way she says that has your eyebrows furrowed together. “what do you mean?”

“don’t worry about it, mi amor,” she says, pecking your lips. “let’s just say she won’t be a problem anymore.”

“as long as you don’t get arrested again, you can do what you want,” you tell her, hooking your arms around her neck.

“i won’t, i promise.” she smiles at you. “are we okay?” she asks after a moment.

it takes a minute for you to respond, but you nod your head in the end. “yeah, we’re okay.”

“i love you,” daniela says, looking you in the eye.

“i love you too,” you reply, leaning in and kissing her.

…

it was late into the night when daniela got up. but not for the same reason it had been the past few months. was she going to see someone? technically. was it sophia? yes. was she going to beat the living shit out of her? probably.

the latina carefully got out of the bed, unwrapping your arms around her and looking at the time on the digital clock. late enough. you shift around feeling her presence leave the bed, and you open your eyes to see her putting on a hoodie and her shoes.

“where are you going?” you mumble tiredly.

dani turns when she hears your voice, leaning down and pushing some of your hair out of your face. “i’m heading to sophia’s with manon and minji. don’t worry, i’ll text you once i’m there and when i’m on my way back.” she presses a soft kiss on your forehead. “i’ll bring you back something to eat if you’re awake when i’m leaving.”

you nod your head, murmuring out a quiet “okay”. this is what you missed. if you were too tired to go out to deals with her, she would always say this. that she’d text you when she was there, and that she would text you when she was leaving that everything was okay, even then she would send more messages than necessary. but, you didn’t mind it. she knew you often got worried when it came to certain clients, and she always reassured you when she would go alone. it hadn’t been like this in months. for the past few months you’ve woken up to her already gone, not bothering to tell you where she was going. for the first time through this hell that’s been these last few months, it was starting to feel normal again.

“be safe, please,” you say quietly.

“always,” she replies, kissing your head again.

walking out of the apartment, manon and minji were already waiting outside in front of minji’s car. the two turn when they hear footsteps coming towards them to see daniela walking towards them.

“is it bad to say i’m surprised you showed?” daniela says, stopping in front of the car.

“not really,” manon shakes her head.

“thanks, anyways then,” daniela looks between the two. “are you both sure you want to do this?”

“obviously,” manon says.

“i’ve never liked her anyways,” minji adds, crossing her arms over her chest.

“alright,” daniela nods. “let’s go then.”

…

it was three in the morning when you heard the front door open. you were partially awake after daniela told you where she was going, glancing at your phone occasionally when it would light up. it had been thirty minutes since dani told you she was on her way back. just when you were getting worried you heard the creaking of the front door opening, and the jingling of keys. you sit up on the bed a little bit when daniela walks into the bedroom with a bag of food and drinks in her hands.

“hey.” she smiles at you. “i got you some food and a milkshake from sonic. i’m sure you’re tired of it by now but it’s like, the only place open at this hour.”

“i don’t mind.” you shake your head. “thank you.”

“it’s no problem,” she says, sitting down next to you on the bed. “here.” she hands you one of the drinks and takes the food out.

sitting in silence while eating, you had a warm feeling radiating through your body. the type you hadn’t felt in months while everything was going on. the silence wasn’t awkward, it wasn’t tense. it was comfortable. it was normal, like it used to be.

“i really missed this,” you say randomly in a quiet voice. “i missed you.”

daniela looks over at you when you speak, seeing the small smile on your face that subconsciously makes a smile grow on her own face. “i missed this– i missed you, too,” she replies in the same voice.

when you look over at her, you can barely make out her face with the lamp on your nightstand, but staring into her eyes, you know she’s genuine about it. “promise me we won’t do this again,” you tell her.

“i promise,” she replies in a heartbeat. “you know why?”

“why?” you encourage her, curious as to what she’ll say.

“because i’m gonna marry you one day.”

your breath hitches in your throat at her words. in the two years you’ve been together, she’s never mentioned anything of the sorts revolving marriage or that kind of commitment. and after what manon told you, you weren’t sure she would ever even consider the thought. to say you were surprised would be an understatement.

“really?” your voice comes out in a whisper, as if you were doubting her words.

“really.” daniela nods. “i don’t want to be with anyone except you. i don’t want you to be with anyone except me. i know i fucked up right now, but i swear in the future i’ll give you the newlywed life you want. i swear.”

tears build in your eyes without your knowledge, so focused on her words that you didn’t even notice a few falling until dani’s hand reaches towards you and wipes them away with her thumb, her hand cupping your face. “you can’t go back on me now, y’know,” you say in a hushed voice. “you better stay.”

“i will,” she responds. “i will, i promise. i don’t want anyone else. i just want you.”

“then you’ll show me?” you say, your voice changing into a tone daniela was far too familiar with.

“oh, i’ll show you.” she leans in and kisses you.

#katseye x reader #katseye imagines #katseye scenarios #daniela avanzini x reader #daniela x reader #daniela imagine #daniela scenarios

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