#I CHECKED IT THIS MORNING AND WAS LIKE HUH? | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

throttleheart · 16 hours ago

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⸻ ⸻ ⸻

Where the Sea Meets Us

Pairing: Lando Norris x fem!Reader

Genre: Fluff, best friends to something more, a pinch of angst, paparazzi being unethical

Word Count: ~5.6k

Summary: A quiet coastal bedroom, with a sea breeze through fluttering curtains, you, him & the world. The good and the bad happens.

⸻

You hadn’t meant to wake up this early.

The sea breeze had slipped past the half-open window, dancing the sheer curtains across the room like something out of a movie. It tugged at the hem of your oversized t-shirt and coaxed you out of bed with that salty, sun-warm scent that only exists near the ocean.

You padded across the wooden floor, the chill making you shiver just slightly, arms wrapping around yourself as you stood by the window. From here, the sea looked endless, framed perfectly by the gentle curve of the wrought iron balcony. You let your fingers rest lightly on the cool railing.

A creak behind you startled you slightly.

You turned to see Lando in the doorway, hair a chaotic mess, one hand rubbing at his eye, the other still holding the doorknob like he hadn’t quite decided if he was awake yet.

“I thought I heard something,” he said, voice rough from sleep. “Guess it was just you being dramatic with curtains.”

You laughed under your breath. “They’re doing it on their own. I’m not that theatrical at six in the morning.”

He smirked, stepping in. He didn’t move toward you, but he looked at the window and then at you like the view was fighting for his attention. “Nice, huh?”

You nodded. “It’s peaceful.”

He didn’t answer right away, just leaned on the doorframe with his arms crossed, like he was anchoring himself there.

“You couldn’t sleep?” you asked, still facing the ocean.

“I slept,” he said, then shrugged. “Woke up. Your door was open.”

You looked over your shoulder, raising a brow. “Were you checking on me?”

Lando rolled his eyes, though the corner of his mouth twitched. “No. I was checking to see if you’d stolen all the good pillows.”

You gave him a pointed look. “I’m in the guest room.”

He shrugged again, casual and totally not casual at all. “Still.”

You shook your head, turning back toward the window. “You can come sit if you want.”

There was a pause—just long enough for your chest to tighten—before his bare feet padded across the floor. He didn’t sit too close. Just enough for your shoulders to feel warmer.

You didn’t say anything for a while. The breeze filled the silence, brushing past both of you like a secret it hadn’t shared yet.

Finally, Lando spoke, quietly. “You always wake up this early?”

“No. Just… didn’t want to waste this.”

He hummed. “Yeah. Me neither.”

You glanced at him. His gaze wasn’t on the sea anymore.

It was on you.

You don’t look back at him again, even though you feel it—that weight of his gaze. Like sunlight on the back of your neck.

Instead, you keep your eyes fixed on the sea, determined not to let your breath hitch the way it wants to.

“I thought you’d sleep in,” you say, mostly just to say something. “You usually do.”

“I usually don’t have someone pacing around like a ghost at sunrise,” he says, teasing, but there’s something gentler underneath it.

You huff a soft laugh and hug your arms tighter around yourself.

A few seconds pass.

Then: “Cold?”

You shake your head. “Just… processing.”

He doesn’t ask what that means. Doesn’t push. Which is a relief—and also slightly disappointing.

You feel the mattress behind you dip just slightly. He’d moved, finally, settling on the edge of the bed, careful not to sit too close. There’s still a respectful distance between you.

Still that space. Always that space.

“You know,” he says after a minute, “this whole trip feels kind of fake. Like—too quiet to be real.”

You glance at him.

His eyes are on the sea now, at last. Not you. But his brows are furrowed like he’s trying to memorize the shape of the horizon. Like maybe if he studies it hard enough, it’ll stay with him when he leaves.

“I know what you mean,” you say quietly.

Silence stretches again, but it’s not awkward. It’s thick with all the things neither of you are saying. Like how this place feels too soft, too still, to match the lives you’ve both come from. How this morning feels like a pause you don’t know what to do with.

You break the quiet this time.

“I don’t think I’ve had a morning like this since I was a kid.”

Lando hums again. “You used to live near the sea?”

“No. But I used to imagine I did. I’d open the windows, close my eyes, and pretend the wind from the highway was waves.”

That makes him laugh. It’s low and real and it warms your ribs.

“I would’ve believed you,” he says. “You’ve got the ocean girl vibe.”

You raise an eyebrow. “What, sunburned and salty?”

“No. Like… you belong somewhere like this. Somewhere quiet.”

You don’t know what to say to that. So you don’t.

And maybe he feels the weight of his own words because he clears his throat and suddenly stands.

“I’ll make coffee,” he says, avoiding your eyes now. “Want some?”

“Sure.”

You watch as he walks to the door. Just before he leaves, he pauses, turning slightly.

“And hey,” he adds, “if you ever feel like pretending again… I’ll sit by the window with you.”

Then he disappears down the hallway, leaving you with fluttering curtains, salt in your throat, and a heartbeat that won’t slow down.

⸻

You finally leave the window when your stomach starts to grumble loud enough to be embarrassing.

By the time you wander into the kitchen, Lando’s already there, battling the coffee machine with a stubborn frown and a determined finger jabbing the same button over and over.

“You know,” you say, sliding into the doorway, “I think it likes being romanced. Maybe try whispering sweet nothings.”

He glances back at you, fake-offended. “Excuse you, I’ve been nothing but respectful.”

“Mmhmm. Aggressively respectful.”

He gives the machine one last annoyed poke before you step in and flip the switch he’s missed.

It immediately starts to hum.

You grin. “See? Seduction works better than threats.”

Lando narrows his eyes at you. “Remind me never to bring you to a team briefing.”

“I’d charm the data right off those spreadsheets.”

He laughs, leaning his hip against the counter while the machine gurgles to life. “You wanna go down to the beach later? It’s still early.”

You tilt your head. “Beach walk before noon? Who are you and what have you done with Lando Norris?”

“I’m evolving,” he says. “Plus, I figured you’d want to. You’ve been staring at the ocean like it’s gonna reveal the meaning of life.”

You fake gasp. “You noticed?”

“Hard not to,” he mutters, grabbing two mugs.

You pretend not to hear that last part.

Ten minutes later, you’re both dressed and walking the narrow path down to the beach, warm mugs in hand. Lando’s sipping his like it’s fuel. You’re letting yours warm your hands. Neither of you talks for a bit, but it’s easy, natural.

Your elbows bump. Neither of you moves.

When you reach the shore, he drops the towel down with an exaggerated sigh like he’s just trekked across a desert.

You kick off your shoes and flop down beside him. “Such a struggle. Truly heroic.”

“I suffer for your happiness,” he says, flopping dramatically.

You roll your eyes and nudge him with your foot. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You like it.”

You don’t respond. You don’t need to.

The waves roll in and out, and you both sit there watching them like people who’ve been doing this their whole lives. You don’t fill the silence because you don’t need to—not with him.

“Okay, real talk,” he says, tipping his head toward you. “If you could stay here forever, just like this, would you?”

You raise an eyebrow. “With you or without?”

He grins. “Ouch. With me, obviously. Don’t be rude.”

You smirk. “Then yeah. Probably.”

Lando hums like that answer does something to him, but he covers it with a sip of coffee.

A few minutes pass. The air’s warm now, and the breeze tastes like salt and something sweeter.

“You always get this quiet near the ocean,” he says, not looking at you.

You glance at him. “You’ve noticed that too?”

“I notice everything.”

You don’t say anything to that, but your heart skips all the same.

Then he adds, casually, “Also you hum when you’re thinking too hard.”

You groan. “I do not.”

“You absolutely do. Don’t worry, it’s cute.”

You kick sand at him.

He laughs and lets it hit his leg. “Hey! Uncalled for.”

“I’m keeping you humble.”

“I’m already humble.”

“You’re the definition of not humble.”

He grins, leaning back on his elbows. “And yet… you’re still here.”

You look at him, and for a second, the teasing softens. There’s that familiar ease between you, but now it feels heavier. Like it’s holding something it didn’t used to.

You turn back to the waves.

“Yeah,” you say, quietly. “I am.”

And he doesn’t say anything to that.

But he doesn’t look away from you either.

⸻

The afternoon passes slowly, stretched and golden, heavy with sea air and the kind of quiet that only exists when you’re too far from the world for it to find you. The AC clicks on again overhead with a soft hum, pushing cool air into the corners of the beach house, and your wireless headphones shift slightly as you lean forward, elbow-deep in flour.

The dough’s already soft and warm beneath your palms, elastic from a patient, steady knead. You’d started it without thinking, letting the rhythm of the process calm you—flour, water, salt, sugar, yeast. A few ingredients and a little time. Simpler than most things.

You’re in the zone when Lando’s voice cuts in, a familiar blend of amusement and faux desperation.

“There’s nothing to eat in this place,” he announces from the doorway like he’s discovered a crisis. “I checked. Three times. All we have is cereal, old grapes, and whatever that thing is in the freezer that looks like a fossil.”

You don’t turn. You just press your knuckles into the dough and nod slowly. “You’ve survived harsher environments.”

“I’m an athlete. I need fuel,” he insists, flopping dramatically onto a barstool at the kitchen island. “I’m withering away.”

You glance over your shoulder, hair tucked behind one ear, headphones dangling from your neck now. “You just ate lunch.”

He points an accusing finger. “Yeah. A salad.”

“That you made.”

“That I assembled,” he corrects. “Barely. It was lettuce and self-pity.”

You wipe your hands and cross your arms, eyebrow raised. “So what? You want me to fix that?”

He leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on the counter. “What I want,” he says, slowly, like he’s building suspense, “is a real burger. A messy one. With bread that isn’t sad and meat that didn’t come from a frozen packet.”

You snort. “That’s specific.”

“Homemade buns,” he adds, like he’s daring you.

You narrow your eyes. “You’re literally watching me make them right now.”

“Sure,” he says innocently, “but maybe I’m just trying to inspire you. Push you toward greatness.”

You turn fully toward him now, flour still clinging to your forearms. “You’ve had my cooking, like, twenty times. Why are you acting like I’m some amateur?”

“Because it’s fun to mess with you,” he says, not missing a beat. “And because the face you make when you’re pretending not to be smug is very entertaining.”

You roll your eyes, but your mouth twitches anyway. “You want burgers? Fine. But you’re grilling.”

Lando places a hand dramatically over his heart. “I accept this sacred responsibility.”

“Don’t burn the house down.”

“Zero faith,” he sighs, sliding off the stool and heading to the fridge like he owns the place.

You go back to work, rolling the dough into perfect spheres, placing them gently on the baking sheet. The kitchen smells faintly of yeast and salt, warm and clean and nostalgic—like the first rainy weekend of fall or the memory of Sunday mornings that belonged to someone else. The breeze from the sea pushes gently through the half-open door, ruffling the edge of the kitchen towel you drape over the buns.

Behind you, Lando’s rattling around with the spices like he’s doing something important. You don’t interrupt.

He leans over your shoulder a few minutes later, suspiciously close. “You put magic in these, right? The buns?”

You glance at him sideways. “Just butter. And patience.”

He nods solemnly. “So, magic.”

You huff a laugh, already moving to the meat. It’s instinct at this point—seasoning it the way you always do. Garlic powder. Onion. A splash of Worcestershire. A pinch of smoked paprika. Salt and pepper. Lando watches like he’s studying for a test.

“You could help,” you offer.

“I am helping,” he says, holding up a plate like it’s a contribution. “This is moral support.”

“Mmm. So helpful.”

“Extremely.”

Once the patties are shaped and resting, the buns proofing again, he finally rolls up his sleeves and steps toward the stove.

You pause. “You sure you know what you’re doing?”

“I’m about to grill the greatest burgers of our generation,” he says, confidence absolutely unwarranted. “Step back, baker girl. Let the grill master work.”

You cross your arms and lean against the fridge, watching as he fumbles slightly with the heat, then too-casually presses a patty into the pan with far more sizzle than necessary.

He looks back, smug. You don’t dignify it with a response.

But the smell—rich, smoky, layered with the rising scent of bread in the oven—makes your stomach twist in the best way.

When everything’s done, you plate the burgers without ceremony. Toasted buns, juicy patties, crisp lettuce, fresh tomato, sharp cheddar, a smear of mustard. No overthinking, no garnish. Just food that tastes like effort and feels like home.

You both sit on the cool kitchen floor with your backs against the cabinets, knees brushing, plates balanced carefully. Outside, the ocean breathes quietly against the shore. The wind plays with the edge of the curtain. The kitchen’s half-lit by the last of the afternoon sun filtering through the window.

Lando takes a bite and immediately groans. “Okay. This is actually insane.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You say that every time.”

“Because every time it is. I would sell my car for these buns.”

You laugh through a mouthful. “Which one?”

“Pick one. Dealer’s choice.”

There’s a comfortable silence after that—one that settles between you like a favorite blanket. No rush to fill it. Just shared food, shared air, and the kind of closeness that’s always felt easy, even if lately it feels like it might mean something else.

He finishes his last bite, then glances at you sideways.

“You ever think about doing this, like, for real?” he asks. “Opening a bakery or something.”

You pause. “Sometimes. But then I remember I like it better when it’s quiet. When I can take my time.”

He nods slowly, like he gets it.

“I think it’s cool,” he says after a beat. “How you make space feel like… I don’t know. Like it’s yours. Like you’ve always belonged in it.”

Your chest tightens just slightly. You don’t say anything.

Outside, the wind shifts. Inside, the AC clicks off. The quiet wraps around both of you, layered and still.

He clears his throat after a second. “I’ll do dishes.”

You glance at him. “You sure?”

“No, but I’ll do them anyway.”

You nudge his knee with yours. “Thanks, grill master.”

He grins. “Anytime, baker girl.”

⸻

The plates are nearly empty now, save for a few breadcrumbs and a smear of mustard you’ll rinse off in a minute. Lando’s halfway through sipping the last of his Coke, sitting back with a satisfied groan, his bare feet stretched across the kitchen floor.

“I’ll do dishes,” he repeats from earlier, as if trying to beat you to it before you can argue.

“You said that twenty minutes ago,” you say, collecting the plates anyway, stacking them neatly, out of habit.

“Yeah, well, I was digesting. That was a full-body burger experience.”

You roll your eyes but say nothing. The kitchen smells like bread and spice and evening. The sun has officially dipped past the horizon, but the golden wash still lingers through the windows, soft and amber, casting everything in that magic-hour hush.

Lando follows, eventually. Not in a hurry—he rarely is when it’s just you two like this.

You’re already running the water by the time he steps in behind you. It’s warm, not too hot, the way you like it. Soap bubbles slip between your fingers as you rinse the plates, methodical and slow. You don’t look at him when he joins you, just scoot over a little to make room, knowing he’ll grab the towel without asking.

He always does.

“You know,” he says after a beat, drying the first plate you hand him, “this is suspiciously domestic.”

“Suspiciously?” you echo, lips twitching.

“Yeah,” he says, matter-of-fact. “Like if someone walked in right now, they’d assume we’ve been married for seven years and fight about what kind of almond milk to buy.”

You hand him the next dish, arching a brow. “I’m not lactose tolerant.”

“Even more suspicious,” he deadpans. “A perfectly compatible fake marriage.”

You let out a soft snort, shoulders shaking.

The faucet hums. So does the silence.

Lando leans a hip against the counter, brushing a wet plate dry with lazy movements, but his eyes flick sideways more often now. You can feel it—the way he’s watching you, not the dishes.

“You always do this,” he says, quieter now.

“Do what?”

“Make a place feel… like it’s been lived in. Like it matters.”

You glance at him, hands pausing briefly in the suds. “It’s just a kitchen.”

“Yeah, but it’s your kitchen. Even when it’s not.”

Something in your chest shifts. You rinse the last plate and pass it to him, brushing his fingers in the process. Neither of you flinch. But you don’t pull away either.

“I just like feeding people,” you say after a second. “Makes it feel worth something.”

Lando nods, towel still in hand, eyes on you.

“You ever get tired of doing all of it alone?”

It’s a question that lands heavier than it should. He says it casually, but it hangs in the air with weight, like a kite caught on a wire. You could pretend he means the dishes. The food. The baking. But you know he doesn’t.

You shrug one shoulder, voice low. “Not always.”

He folds the towel slowly, too neatly. Something’s crackling underneath the quiet now—nothing dramatic, just the subtle friction of maybe-wanting and maybe-not-knowing-how.

Then, like he’s cutting through the thread too neatly tied between you, Lando clears his throat and nods toward the patio again.

“You wanna sit outside for a bit? I’ll bring the rest of the chips.”

You give a soft smile, grateful for the shift, even if part of you hated the way the moment bent and broke. “Sure. I’ll grab a hoodie.”

By the time you return, he’s got the lights strung along the deck turned on—those low, warm ones that look like something out of a lazy summer dream. The kind of light you only ever look good in when no one’s trying to look. A bowl of chips sits between you, and he’s already lounging in one of the patio chairs, drink in hand, eyes toward the sea.

You sit beside him, knees pulled up, hoodie sleeves hiding your hands.

The ocean sounds different at night—deeper, softer. Like it’s whispering now instead of roaring. The moon reflects faintly off the water. Salt is still in your hair.

Lando doesn’t say much. He never really has to. He just tilts his head toward you, eyes tired but fond, and offers the bowl your way.

You reach for a chip, fingers grazing his, and this time, neither of you move.

Not for a long, long moment.

⸻

The sun filters in warm and golden, spilling lazily through the gauzy curtains onto the beach house patio. The waves whisper against the shore, just beyond the private fence, and seagulls cry somewhere in the distance like the world is still stretching awake.

You’re half-buried under a blanket, stretched across the patio couch, body tangled loosely with Lando’s. One of his arms is under your head, the other curled around your waist. Your cheek is pressed to his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear. It’s the kind of morning that feels like a secret.

Neither of you meant to fall asleep out here.

But the air was too gentle. The wine from the night before still hummed in your blood. And the warmth of him beside you had lulled you into a peace you rarely allowed yourself to feel.

Lando shifts slightly, his body going rigid.

You don’t notice at first. You’re too wrapped in the haze of waking up slowly. But then his hand brushes over your back—not in a sleepy, lazy kind of way, but purposeful. Careful.

He tucks the blanket higher. Over your shoulders. Then over your hair. Over your face.

Your breath hitches. “Lando?”

His voice is low. Controlled. “Stay still. Don’t move.”

That’s when you hear it. The soft click-click-click of a camera. Close. Too close.

Your stomach plummets.

You’re on a private beach. This house, that you and Lando rented for the week, this patio—each one has its own fenced section. The gates are locked. There’s no public access this far out. Whoever is taking pictures had to climb over to get them.

Your pulse thuds in your ears.

Lando doesn’t panic. He doesn’t sit up. Doesn’t make a sound that might make the intruder think he’s been caught.

Instead, he reaches—quiet as ever—for his phone, tucked under one of the throw pillows behind him. Still lying down, with you shielded under the blanket, he unlocks it, turns the camera on, and starts recording. The movement is smooth, practiced. Like muscle memory.

You hear the camera shutter again. And again. The photographer thinks he’s winning. Thinks he’s hidden.

But Lando has him.

He keeps filming, capturing the long camera lens poking between the slats of the fence. The flicker of movement. The flash of a sneaker behind the bushes. He even tilts his phone just enough to catch the guy’s face when he shifts slightly—trying to get a better shot.

Your face is completely hidden now, the blanket tucked tight.

Lando gently exhales through his nose, almost like he’s amused.

“This is getting old,” he mutters under his breath, just loud enough to make sure it’s caught on the recording.

You don’t dare speak. You stay tucked close, breathing in the cotton-soft smell of the sheets and the faint citrus scent of his skin.

Then, finally, after another shutter snap, Lando raises his voice—clear and cutting, but calm.

“Hope you got what you needed, mate. Would hate for you to waste your trespassing charge on a blurry photo of two people sleeping.”

There’s a rustle. A sharp intake of breath. Then crashing footsteps retreating quickly—someone running.

Lando lowers his phone, ends the video, and finally sits up, pulling the blanket away from your face but still keeping it wrapped tight around you.

You blink up at him, heart pounding. “Did he get anything?”

“Not of you.” His voice is gentler now, brushing hair from your forehead. “I covered you before he got the first shot.”

“You’re sure?”

He nods. “I’m sure.”

The tightness in your chest doesn’t fully ease, but you nod, swallowing thickly.

“What now?”

He exhales, not angry—but focused. “Now I send this to my team. And to the property manager. And then I take a deep breath and go make coffee.”

True to his word, Lando doesn’t post the video on social media. He doesn’t call out the photographer publicly or stoke any drama. He sends the video to his lawyer and his manager. He forwards it to the owner of the beach house community, who confirms that yes—someone had scaled the fence. That security footage caught the same guy entering the property line. And that yes, there would be consequences.

The photographer is identified. He’d already tried to sell the photos. But none of them were usable—Lando had made sure of that. Your face had been hidden. And now, with the evidence in hand, the guy is facing charges for trespassing and invasion of privacy.

The photos never get out.

There’s no media circus. No leaked tabloid stories. No Twitter frenzy dissecting your every movement. The world keeps spinning. Blissfully unaware of how close it came to crashing into yours.

You stay wrapped in the blanket long after he leaves the patio.

When he returns, two mugs of coffee in his hands, he leans down and kisses your forehead.

“Still safe,” he says softly, setting the mugs down. “Still private.”

You nod.

Still private. Thanks to him.

⸻

The statement goes out mid-afternoon.

You’re curled on the couch in one of Lando’s hoodies, scrolling through your phone with the kind of slow, anxious curiosity that comes after a storm. He’s beside you, not saying much—his hand hasn’t left your knee in over ten minutes.

“McLaren condemns the illegal actions taken against Lando Norris and a guest during a private moment at a secured property. No photos have been authorized, and legal action is underway. We ask that fans and media alike respect boundaries, safety, and basic human decency.”

The post is up on every major platform. Bold. Direct. Unapologetically furious.

Your breath catches when you refresh Instagram—and see Lando’s story go live.

It’s the video he filmed that morning. You didn’t realize he’d posted it already.

There’s no caption. Just a shaky few seconds of the camera catching a figure beyond the patio fence—lens up, snapping photos before bolting. You can hear the fabric rustle as Lando subtly adjusts the sheet to cover your face. You hear his breath, low and even. The way he whispers into the mic, “Mate, really? That’s how we’re doing this now?”

It’s intimate without being revealing. Sharp without being cruel. But it says everything.

The internet explodes.

Within minutes, thousands of fans flood the comments with outrage. Not just at the trespassing—but at the gall of someone climbing over a private beach fence to catch two people asleep on a patio in the one place they were supposed to feel safe.

“You can literally see the gate—he climbed over it.”

“This isn’t paparazzi. This is stalking.”

“How is this even legal? Oh wait—it’s not.”

“I don’t care if it’s Lando Norris or some random couple, this is disgusting.”

You set your phone down. Your hands are shaking just slightly.

Lando notices.

“Hey,” he murmurs, turning to face you. “You okay?”

“I don’t like people knowing where we were. That close. They weren’t supposed to see us like that. It felt like ours.”

“It was ours,” he says, voice firmer now. “Still is. They just didn’t have the right to it.”

You look at him, and for a second, all of the noise—the reposts, the reaction videos, the outrage—it blurs into background static. All you hear is him.

“They’re not gonna get away with it, Y/N,” he adds. “The team’s on it. Police too.”

“Good,” you whisper. “Because I don’t want to sleep out there again. I don’t want to have to worry.”

He nods and tugs the blanket higher around your shoulders. “Then we don’t. We keep it ours. Let the rest of the world scream into the void—we stay here. We stay us.”

You give a small, tired smile.

His thumb brushes over your knuckles without thinking.

Outside, the world burns with fury. Inside, you let yourself lean against him again, trusting him to be the shelter you need.

⸻

It’s evening by the time the adrenaline fades. The sky is pink through the windows, melting into a blue so soft it looks like it could fall apart if you touched it.

The beach is quiet now. No footsteps near the fence. No shadows in the dunes.

Inside the house, you and Lando decide—wordlessly—not to talk about it anymore.

Not tonight.

Not while the house smells like butter and the couch is overflowing with pillows. Not while the fairy lights cast warm little halos against the walls. Not while there’s a half-finished bowl of popcorn and a stack of board games on the floor between you.

Lando holds up a battered box of “Guess Who?” with a skeptical look.

You raise an eyebrow. “Scared I’ll destroy you?”

He gasps. “Excuse me. I am a trained professional in identity deduction.”

“You’re a Formula One driver.”

“Exactly. You have to be observant.”

“Okay, Sherlock. Let’s go.”

You set up the game, and within three rounds, it becomes aggressively competitive. He narrows his eyes at your board, suspicious.

“Is your person wearing a hat?”

You glance down. “Yes.”

“Ha!” He flips like seven characters down and grins smugly.

“You’re awfully confident for someone who thought Martha had a beard.”

“That drawing was ambiguous!”

You’re both laughing now, relaxed in that perfect, silly way that only happens when you’re safe. The tension from earlier is still there, of course—humming under the surface—but it’s softened. Made bearable by the sound of his voice and the weight of his knee bumping against yours.

Eventually, the game devolves into accusations of cheating and dramatic reenactments of each character’s backstory (complete with accents and tragic monologues). You’re crying laughing by the time Lando insists the man with the glasses is a secret agent who runs a cheese shop as a cover.

“No, listen—Gerald has layers,” he insists, face deadly serious. “He’s misunderstood. He has a complicated relationship with dairy and justice.”

You’re doubled over, clutching your stomach. “Please stop, I’m going to choke on this popcorn.”

He tosses a piece at you. Misses. You retaliate. A war breaks out. It ends with popcorn everywhere and you half under a blanket, trying to breathe.

And that’s when it happens again—so quietly you almost miss it.

He looks at you with that kind of fondness that sticks. Not flashy. Not loud. Just… steady.

“You’re my favorite person to be boring with,” he says, voice low and unfiltered.

Your breath catches.

You don’t respond right away. You just smile—soft, a little crooked—and nudge your shoulder against his.

The silence between you is warm now, full of things you haven’t said yet. But they’re not scary anymore. Just waiting. Patient.

Outside, the sea sighs against the shore.

Inside, your world is small, and golden, and safe again.

⸻

The popcorn war winds down eventually—mostly because Lando yawns so dramatically it makes you yawn, too. He’s sprawled half across the couch, one leg thrown lazily over the armrest, his curls a little flattened from the pillow and his shirt crumpled from all the flailing.

You, somehow, have ended up sitting sideways, your feet in his lap, a throw blanket tucked around your knees. His hand rests absentmindedly over your ankle, fingers tracing slow, absent-minded shapes.

The game boards are forgotten. The lights are low. The only sound is the soft clink of the popcorn bowl as you reach in blindly and come up with a single kernel.

“Do you think Gerald ever found peace?” you murmur, voice low and teasing.

Lando shifts just enough to glance at you from under his lashes, smile lazy. “Nah. He definitely ran off with that cheese heiress and vanished into Switzerland.”

You grin. “A romantic and a fugitive.”

“The best kind.” He stretches a little, shifting your legs with him. “You tired?”

“Kind of. But I don’t want to move.”

“Then don’t.” His voice is gentle, a little hoarse. “We don’t have to do anything.”

And it’s true. The air feels still, but not stiff. The kind of stillness that wraps around you like a second blanket—content, peaceful. Safe.

You turn your head slightly, watching him in the low light.

He’s scrolling absently on his phone now, eyes scanning something. But you can see it—his body’s relaxed, but his jaw is tight. Still carrying some of that tension from earlier. Still carrying you, even if he won’t admit it.

“You okay?” you ask softly.

He blinks, looks over at you. “Yeah. Just… you know. Still a little pissed.”

“Me too.”

He nods once, and then adds, quieter, “I hated seeing you scared like that. It’s not fair.”

You shift, curling in a little closer, toes bumping his side beneath the blanket. “You covered for me. Literally.”

He gives you a tiny, crooked smile. “It was the least I could do.”

“Lando?”

“Yeah?”

You pause, your voice softer now. “Thanks for not freaking out. Not really, anyway.”

He exhales a quiet laugh. “You kidding? I was freaking out so much. I just couldn’t show it ‘cause you looked like you were about to hide under the floorboards.”

You snort. “I was close to doing that!”

He laughs, hand still loosely wrapped around your ankle.

Then, without looking at you, he says it—like he’s been meaning to for a while, like it’s been simmering beneath everything else:

“I really like being around you, you know?”

You look at him, heart a little too loud suddenly. “I like being around you too.”

It’s not new. It’s not surprising. But this time it lands differently. No noise, no crowd, no deflections.

Just you, and him, and the feeling that something is shifting—slowly, steadily, like the tide outside.

You let it sit there between you, soft and unspoken.

And then, just to break the spell, you whisper, “Gerald would be proud of us.”

Lando’s laugh is immediate and real. “Gerald would’ve officiated our wedding with a wheel of Brie.”

You throw a pillow at him again.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻

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zenmiren · 3 days ago

Text

"FEVERISH"

michael kaiser x reader

content: fluff, no angst, nothing suggestive !!

sypnosis: [name] has come down with a horrible fever, and her partner, michael, comes to the rescue.

likes and reblogs are appreciated !!

the winter wind rattled the windows of the apartment, and though the heater hummed softly in the corner, the cold still seemed to cling to the air like static.

wrapped in layers of blankets, [name] lay half-awake in bed, her body aching, skin clammy, and her head pounding with every breath.

her phone sat face-down on the nightstand, long forgotten after a half-hearted attempt to message someone that morning.

she had hoped it was just a sore throat, maybe a mild cold. nothing worth making a fuss over. then came the full-body chills, the fever, the way her thoughts blurred and spiralled.

she couldn't remember when she last ate. even getting out of bed to refill her water felt like climbing a mountain.

somewhere between consciousness and sleep, she vaguely registered the sound of a door unlocking, followed by footsteps—familiar ones. soft but confident, never rushed, mihya was home!

“i told you i’d be back by evening,” his voice echoed through the apartment, calling out to her. “and you still didn’t answer your damn phone…”

she didn’t respond. she couldn’t.

moments later, the bedroom door opened. he paused in the doorway, sharp blue eyes scanning the dim room until they landed on her curled form. his posture shifted instantly—his signature swagger melting into something quieter, heavier.

“scheiße (shit),” he muttered under his breath, setting down the keys in his hand. “you look like death.”

“thanks,” [name] croaked weakly, attempting a smile. it came out more like a wince.

he crossed the room in a few strides and knelt beside the bed, brushing the hair off her face. her skin was burning up.

“why didn’t you tell me it was this bad?” he asked, voice low. there was something edged in it. not anger, exactly—but concern that sat too close to panic for his comfort.

“you were busy with training...” she whispered. “didn’t want to bother you.”

his jaw clenched, and he stood abruptly. “don’t say that again.”

before she could reply, he left the room. for a moment, she thought he might be upset—leaving in frustration. but then she heard cabinets opening in the kitchen, the sound of boiling water, and the crinkle of medicine packets.

he returned ten minutes later, carrying a tray with a mug of tea, a thermometer, a small bowl of soup, and cold medicine.

“sit up,” he said, more gently this time. when she didn’t move, he set the tray down and helped her himself, one hand behind her back as he eased her upright, supporting her as if she might break.

she leaned heavily against him. he didn’t complain.

he tucked a pillow behind her and handed her the thermometer. “mouth.”

she blinked. “you’re bossy.”

“someone has to be,” he said, but his lips twitched like he wanted to smile.

after checking her temperature—103.2°F, which made his brows furrow—he handed her the mug of honey lemon tea. she held it with both hands, letting the steam warm her face. kaiser stayed sitting on the edge of the bed, watching her with a level of intensity he usually reserved for the field.

“you’re never allowed to get sick again,” he muttered. “i don’t like seeing you like this.”

she looked up at him, a little dazed. “you actually care, huh?”

he clicked his tongue. “don’t act surprised.”

“it’s weird,” she teased, even through the congestion. “you’re never this nice.”

“whatever..” he rolls his eyes. but his hand reached out anyway, brushing her cheek again. his fingers were cool, soothing against her overheated skin.

he helped her take the medicine without a word and adjusted the blanket around her once she lay back down. she stared up at him, half-lidded and sleepy.

“you should go train,” she mumbled. “don’t wanna get you sick.”

kaiser snorted. “i’ll survive. besides…” he leaned forward, eyes meeting hers. “i’d rather be here with you.”

her heart fluttered despite the fever.

he stayed beside her bed even after she dozed off again. at some point, he took her hand, gently lacing his fingers through hers. his thumb brushed slowly, idle circles over her knuckles

the room was still. the world outside felt far away.

after several minutes, he leaned in close, his breath warm against her ear. his voice, barely audible, “i hate that my favourite slave is so weak right now. so… next time, don’t hide how bad it is. let me take care of you. i want to.”

he kissed her temple, soft and lingering, then rested his head against the edge of the bed, still holding her hand as sleep finally overtook her.

the sun peeked in slowly through the curtains, casting gentle golden stripes across the blanket. the room smelled faintly of honey and lemon and something warmer—familiar. [name] blinked blearily, her head still heavy but no longer spinning. the ache behind her eyes had dulled into something tolerable.

her body felt stiff, tangled in too many blankets, but it was the pressure on her hand that drew her attention first.

she turned her head slightly.

there he was—her mihya, half-slumped over the edge of her bed, still holding her hand in his. his cheek rested against the mattress, soft waves of blonde hair tousled from sleep, and his lips were parted just a little. his breath was slow, even.

he must’ve stayed like that all night.

her heart ached—not from the fever this time.

how could someone so arrogant, so loud and bright on the field, look this gentle in the quiet of morning?

she shifted her fingers a little, brushing her thumb along his. he stirred, eyes fluttering open, blinking up at her in confusion. for a second, he looked completely disoriented—like he’d forgotten where he was.

then his gaze met hers.

“…hey,” he mumbled, voice rough with sleep. “you’re awake.”

“mm. yeah,” she whispered, throat still scratchy.

he sat up slowly, rubbing his neck with his free hand. “you’re not burning up anymore. that’s a good sign.”

“did you sleep there all night?”

“maybe,” he said, then smirked. “you hogged the bed.”

she snorted weakly. “you didn’t even try to move me.”

“obviously not.” he looked away for a second, pretending to be more focused on the blanket than her face. “you looked too pathetic.”

she smiled, half-lidded eyes soft. “you’re really bad at hiding how much you care.”

he froze. then, after a beat, he leaned in, brushing her hair behind her ear with that same careful touch from the night before.

“yeah,” he admitted quietly. “i know.”

there was a pause. she could feel something unspoken hanging in the air—something fragile, not quite ready to shatter but close.

“you scared me,” he said suddenly, voice lower now. “i came back expecting some stubborn attitude, maybe a few texts complaining about being lonely. not… this.”

“i didn’t mean to scare you.”

“i know you didn’t.” he sighed, resting his forehead against the side of the bed again. “but still. next time, just tell me. no more pretending you’re fine.”

“okay,” she whispered. “next time, i’ll tell you.”

he smiled against the blanket, eyes closing briefly like he could finally relax “good.”

silence settled again, but it was peaceful this time. not heavy. not worried. just… calm. eventually, he sat up and stretched, cracking his back with a dramatic groan.

“i’m making breakfast,” he announced, already heading for the door. “you stay there. i’m not letting you faint next to a stove.”

“your cooking?” she called after him, surprised.

he glanced back over his shoulder with a smug little grin.

“for you, sure.”

and.. he up and left, disappearing into the kitchen, leaving [name] in bed, leaving her in her thoughts.

'he soo wants me..'

borders from @kodaswrld and @dollywons !!

(earth shattering borders, 10/10 would recommend)

this isn't proof-read btww so just ignore grammar and spelling mistakes

#michael kaiser #michael kaiser x reader #michael kaiser x you #blue lock #blue lock x reader #kaiser x reader #michael kaiser fluff #zenmirenwrites

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darknight3904 · 1 day ago

Text

Every Breath You Take

Chapter Six- Good Vibrations

Summary: A prepper restores your little group's faith in humanity, and you and Tommy decide to spend your evening celebrating in bed together.

Warnings for this part: Canon typical violence, themes, language, gore, and horror. Smut 18+, use of a sex toy, p in v, oralF!receiving ,riding Tommy Miller like a horse (as nature intended, ofc). Check the Series Masterlist for expanded warnings.

Word Count 3.6K

Previous Part / Series Masterlist / The Last of Us Masterlist

April 2005, Allensville, Pennsylvania

Robin Williams once said, “Spring is nature's way of saying, 'Let's party!'". And sure, there wasn’t much to celebrate these days, but right now you felt like you were on top of the world. With the snow gone, your little group had set out to canvas some of the other homes that were within a few-mile radius. An unassuming, puke green home was the last one for the day, you were all tired, and the baby was getting restless in his sling, a scarf that Lara held him with. You’re pretty sure all the kid wants is to be held, since he hasn’t cried once since she put him in there this morning.

Joel pried the front door open with a crowbar, and you expected to see what you’d been seeing: an abandoned home, a few odd cans of food, and dusty clothes. Instead, you’re met with a gold mine.

A prepper. A fucking prepper lived in this home.

You could cry right now, break down, and never get up as you held a can of Campbell’s tomato soup in your hands. Even Joel looks surprised as he takes in the abundance of things. Perfectly organized in different bins and labeled bags, you swore you were seeing things.

Tommy lets out a low whistle, his hands running over a huge box of ammunition, “How the hell are we gonna carry all this back?”

“We’ll figure it out.” You hum, walking over to where he stands, handing him a jar of peanut butter, “How long has it been since you had a spoonful of peanut butter?”

A chaste kiss is pressed to your lips, his dark facial hair tickling your face as he pulls away, “Too damn long.”

Joel approaches the two of you, Tommy’s hands loosening from where they wrap around your waist to take the box Joel holds out.

Trojan Ultra Thins Value Pack! 36 Count!

Your face goes hot in embarrassment as Tommy chokes on his spit, taking the box and quietly thanking Joel.

“There’s a whole box of ‘em, can’t have any more babies running around,” Joel mumbles before walking off to survey the many bins of canned foods you now have.

Tommy turns to you, a sly look on his face, “Guess we better start working our way through these, huh, hot stuff.”

For added measure, he wiggles his eyebrows, shaking the box in front of you as you roll your eyes.

“You’re disgusting.”

A loud gasp from Lara has all of you turning to look at the girl. She’s staring into a duffle bag, her hands shaking as she pulls a container out. As usual, she’s wordless, but she does do you all the courtesy of turning the can towards you, Similac Baby Formula.

“I could kiss the fucker who hoarded all this to himself.” Tommy declares, a smile on his face, as Lara shows the baby the many cans of food.

“You’re a really strange guy..” You poke his side

“Yeah, I am.” He proudly accepts your tease, poking you right back.

Joel claps his brother on the back, a loud smack resounding through the room, “Quit flirtin' with your girl, there’s a car parked out back, let’s go see if we can get it running.”

Joel and Tommy disappear into the backyard, where a shed and hopefully a working car await them. You cross the room to Lara, who is trying to pick through the baby stuff, her boy letting out little grunts of discontent.

“I can hold the baby while you look.” You offer.

Lara had begun letting you hold her child recently. You could tell she was still hesitant to really give him her all, instead letting you take care of the nurturing while she simply fed and changed him when he needed it.

The baby, who still has no name, kicks his feet happily when you pull him from the sling after Lara nods to you. You sit on the floor with him, balancing him on your knee as he looks at his mother with big blue eyes.

“You’ve got a buffet now.” You say to him, “All you can eat. There’s like at least forty cans of formula up there for you.”

The baby blinks back at you, a gurgle leaving his lips as drool falls down onto the floor below him. Your eyes scan his appearance, he’d gotten chubbier in the past weeks, Lara having a steady diet of half your food meant more breastmilk. Now, his once loose onesie was looking a bit snug as he sat on your lap, staring at you and his mother.

“Hey, I’m gonna go upstairs to see if there's something new for him to wear.” You say, perhaps this nameless prepper had also snagged some baby clothes.

Lara waves you off, motioning for you to leave the kid on the floor. You hesitate for a second, technically you know he shouldn’t be left alone, afterall she isn’t going to watch him. But, he also couldn’t even crawl yet, he’d only accomplished sitting up recently.

So, you left him on the carpet handing him a still closed bag of fruit to marvel over, its shiny packaging should have him enamored for at least twenty minutes.

Upstairs is pretty boring, empty of things, it’s a simple two bedroom home, one of which was pretty much empty except for a box filled with old tax documents and a busted lamp. The furnished bedroom has a small full bed pushed up against one wall, a dilapidated nightstand beside it, holding a bottle of lotion and box of tissues. Gross. Guess whoever lived here was a dude.

Clothing apparently wasn’t a top priority for this man, simple jeans and shirts lined his closet, a couple of sweatshirts and a big winter coat were shoved in the way back. The dresser drawers are pretty much the same deal, socks, underwear and a few pairs of well loved sweatpants. One t-shirt says “Best Dad Ever!” its faded and nearly falling apart A hazy memory of Joel wearing something like this came to mind, a fathers day many years ago, you had taken Sarah to the mall and both of you bought one for your dads, convincing them to wear them out at the same time had been a whole ordeal.

You return the old shirt to its place in the drawer, something else catching your eye. A polaroid camera sits on a bookshelf, beside it a dusty picture of a woman, her long hair a tangled mess of dark curls. She smiles at you, her eyes crinkling as she lounges on the beach. You pick up the polaroid, the film counter reading that it still had four photos left.

The loud sound of a thump has you rushing back down the steps, ducking your head through the camera so it dangles off your neck. Back in the living room, you find Lara, standing over a knocked-over box of old magazines, her eyes fixed on something at her feet. The baby remains where you left him, his hands slapping the bag of fruit like it’ll open for him like that.

You walk over to Lara, and at her feet is a fitness magazine, a young man poses, his arms confidently crossed, showing off tanned biceps as he smiles, his teeth an unnatural white.

10 ways to lose that gut! Mike Leeds shares his secrets!

“You uh okay?” You ask her softly, the man’s sandy blonde hair and bright blue eyes suspiciously match the baby’s, who sits a few feet from you.

Lara moves fast, faster than you’ve ever seen her move, even that day she jumped Tommy, she didn’t move this quickly. Grabbing Mike Leed’s magazine, you watch as she rips the cover off, proceeding to shred the entire thing into a thousand pieces at her feet, her chest heaving as she does.

Fat tears begin falling down her freckled face as you watch with concern. You stare at the destroyed magazine for a moment then look back at her. Lara’s arms wrap around herself, and quiet sobs leave her lips as she stands there, her chest rising and falling abnormally. Before you can even think about it, you pull her into you, her wavy red hair tickling your nose as you hug her, her head resting on your shoulder.

“Shhhh.” You soothe, “You’re alright. You’re safe…”

You run a hand up and down her back, holding her tight as she cries. The baby stares up at the two of you, the bag of fruit still in his hands.

The sound of the backdoor has you looking away from Lara for a moment, she’s still wrapped in your arms when Tommy enters.

“Hey, Joel got the…What happened? Why’re we huggin’?”

You wave him away, pointing at the door. Your boyfriend spins on his heel, a sigh escaping his lips as he goes. Lara pulls away from you after she hears the back door swing shut again, wiping at her red eyes as she bends down to pick the baby back up. She moves to grab the bag of formula cans, her hand brushing yours as she moves.

“Hey, you ever wanna talk about it, let me know, okay?” You prompt wishing she’d make eye contact. All you get is a soft grunt from her as she walks off, the baby humming as he stares at you from over her shoulder.

It takes the rest of the day to get everything from the puke green home to your little blue one that’s only four miles away. Joel and Tommy do a lot of the heavy lifting, loading shit up in wheelbarrows and tossing it into the Toyota 4Runner they had resurrected. Some of the most exciting things consisted of more batteries, about a million packs of toilet paper, the formula, and of course the seemingly endless canned goods and bags of rice. Oh, and the seven boxes of condoms, that was cool too. By the end of the day the kitchen and attic of your home looked just like the preppers did, although you were actually going to get some use out of it all.

“What do you think happened to the guy who owned all this shit?” You ask as the four of you slurp up cans of beef ravioli from your new favorite man, Chef Boyardee.

“Ah well…” Tommy scratches his head, staring at Joel who shrugs in return from his spot across the room in the wooden rocking chair.

“What?” You ask cluelessly, knocking your knee against Tommy’s as the two of you sit on the sofa together

Lara spins around, she’s sitting at the kitchen table, her notebook in hand, baby at her feet, a bottle in his hands, the nipple stuffed in his mouth. Her spindly hand writing stands out against the paper.

Tell us

“He was layin’ out in the shed, all decomposed and shit,” Tommy says

“What, like he killed himself?” You ask

“Nah, we think he slipped and fell. There’s this big stack of cinder blocks out there, he was layin’ next to one that was all bloody. Probably tripped on his untied shoelaces.” Joel chimes in before Tommy can speak again.

“Oh.” You say, thinking of the best dad ever shirt and the dusty photo of the woman on his bookshelf. You’re a bit sad for this stranger, tripping and bashing his head open, no one in his home to rush to his side to save him.

After dinner, Tommy helps Joel unload the last car full of stuff from the man’s home. Arguably, this might be the most important of them all, the weapons. There’s a decent pile of about 10 new guns in your house now, plus seven big boxes of ammunition to go with them. Joel says it should last well over two years of hunting, as long as no big groups of people or infected find you out here.

That night, you lay in bed, safely tucked away from the world and stomach full, your eyes should flutter shut. Instead, you squirm around on the mattress, Tommy’s figure beside you, his light snores filling the room as you try to sleep.

You turn on your side, pulling open the drawer of your nightstand. A few months ago, when you’d gotten settled here, you tossed a few miscellaneous items into the drawer, not really bothering with them until now. Over a year ago, you’d found a still packaged vibrator in the drawer of a home you, Tommy, and Joel had stopped in. Of course, you didn’t have any batteries for the damn thing so it sat forgotten at the bottom of your backpack. Now, thanks to the nameless prepper, there was an overabundance of triple-A’s, enough that you’d been able to sneak two of them into your pocket without Joel taking note earlier.

A soft hum filled your ears as you clicked the toy on, softly sighing as it met the delicate flesh between your legs. You press the button again and a noise leaves your lips, your hips canting up towards the soft silicone as you rub your clit. You’d always had a hard time getting off yourself, your fingers never hitting the right spots to get it done.

Since you’d gotten together with Tommy, self pleasure hadn’t been necessarily needed. You’d probably been overactive while living at the cabin but recently not so much. The past few weeks had been spent busy trying to survive, rationing and trying to catch licks of sleep when the baby wasn’t crying. This left you with very few moments for lust would take over, resulting in the lack of lying next to him, breathless and sweaty, between damp sheets.

To put it bluntly, you were needy. You missed the regular feeling of Tommy in you, pleasing you til’ the sun came up some days. You bring your spare hand up your shirt, gently tweaking your nipples as another quiet whimper escapes your lips when you bump the toy’s settings to go higher. Fuck, you were close, you were so damn sensitive just a little bit more…

“What the fuckr’ you doin?”

“Nothing!” You gasp, regretfully ripping the toy away from your body, clicking it twice to turn it off

Tommy shifts a click being heard before light floods the room from the lantern he kept on his own nightstand. A squeal leaves your lips when he pulls the covers partly off you, staring between your legs at the discarded toy, a harsh, bright pink that stands out from the light green sheets that were on your bed.

Tommy reaches between you, careful not to touch your aching center as he picks up your contraband, rolling the small bullet vibe between his fingers as he stares at it in the light.

“This is why you took those batteries? To power up a sex toy?”

You squirm guiltily on the soft mattress, perhaps you hadn’t been as discreet as you thought you were, “No…”

Tommy’s brows shoot up at your blatant lie, an amused smile working its way across his face. “Yeah, alright.”

“Quit embarrassing me, go back to bed so I can finish.” You say, plucking the toy from his big hands.

A quiet chuckle escapes Tommy’s lips as he leans in to press a kiss to your cheek, “Nah, think I’ll stay awake. Besides, clearly I’ve been neglecting my girl if you’re stealing precious batteries.”

“But aren’t you tired? You helped unload all those boxes of supplies today.” You softly say

Tommy slots himself between your thighs, pushing your shirt up so your navel is exposed, he presses kisses to the skin, slowly leading down to where you want him the most, “Never too tired for you, darlin’.”

He leans back down, a trail of kisses pressed to your skin as he finishes his path with a kiss to the bundle of nerves between your legs, already raw and sensitive from earlier.

“Quit teasing me.” You mumble, hands fisted in the sheets

“Yeah, yeah, needy girl.” Tommy waves you off, his hand reaching for the toy that lays in the sheets, “It seems like I have some competition, wanna tell me who’s better?”

You scoff and roll your eyes, men and their egos, “Well, the toy doesn’t talk back, so…”

“Oh, so it’s like that?” Tommy asks

“It’s like that.” You confirm arrogantly

“We’ll see about that then…”

Twenty minutes later, you’re strung out, your bottom lip is probably bleeding from how roughly you’re biting down on it. Tommy has a big hand splayed across your middle, you wrap your own hand around it, squeezing tightly. He’s been alternating between his tongue and the bullet vibe, always switching off when you were close, laughing into your cunt whenever you’d quietly whine in protest.

“Let me cum…” You tiredly mumble

Tommy pulls away from you, a nip of his teeth have you yelping when they brush your soft folds.

“Think you deserve it?”

“Yes.” You huff

“Dunno…you seemed pretty eager to get off on a piece of rubber. Why don’t you try asking nicely?” He asks, a thumb gently running across your thigh.

This fucking guy. You were so going to kill him when this was over. You tug on Tommy’s arm, feigning a pout as you pull him up towards your face, his dark eyes roaming yours as he moves for you.

“What’s wrong?” He asks concerned

Before he can ask you again, you catch him off guard, flipping the two of you around so his back is on the mattress. A grunt leaves his lips as you clamor on top of him, determined to get your release. Pushing his underwear down, you sigh loudly when the warm skin of his cock touches your soaked hole.

“Fuck, wait, wait!” Tommy groans

You freeze, worried you’d overstepped and that he wanted to stop, “Fuck, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to-I’ll get off you.”

One of his hands flies to your hips, keeping you above him, “Just needed to grab one of these.”

You glance down to where a small silver square sits in his hand, a condom from the box Joel had shoved into his arms earlier today. Tommy rolls it on with practiced motions as you watch.

“Condom number one is officially in use.” He declares proudly

“You’re fucking weird.” You comment

“You lov-ahh fuck…”

Tommy’s mouth snaps shut as you sink down on him for the first time in two and a half weeks. His name falls from your lips as you desperately try to keep quiet, your hips immediately beginning to rise and fall while he grunts below you. You’re utterly wrecked as you roughly roll your hips down into his, reveling in the friction from his pubes on your clit. Tommy’s whispered, frantic voice fills your ears as slick noises leave where the two of you are connected.

“S-Slow down, M’ not gonna-Fuck!”

You lean down, slamming your lips into Tommy’s as he brushes a sensitive spot inside you, your cunt clenching as it does.

“Mmm you feel so fucking good.” You mumble into his lips, drunk on him

Straightening back up, you continue your movements, tasting blood as you bite down on your bottom lip when Tommy’s hands run up your body and under your shirt to your soft chest.

Tommy’s back raises slightly from the bed, his hands falling to your hips, slowing your motions down exponentially, a quiet whine leaving your lips.

“Not, fuck, gonna last like this, you’re killin’ me here.”

Your hands land on his still clothed torso, nails biting through the fabric as he winces. You gently push him back down, no real malice behind it, if he wanted to he could toss you off him at any second.

A chuckle leaves his lips as you stare down at him, silently pleading for him to just stay put.

“Alright, you win.” He concedes

Rough hands resume their place on your waist, squeezing as you stifle your moans, wishing that the two of you were alone in this damn house.

“Good fucking girl,” He groans, knowing how you love it when he says that. Tommy’s hand falls off you, searching the bed sheets for something.

Your lust riddled brain barely registers as he finds the vibrator, you only react when he places it on your needy clit. Your mouth opens to scream just as Tommy places his hand across your mouth, sitting up as he muffles the cry.

“Fuck, Fuck..Cum for me.” He mutters into your neck, sucking at the soft skin there

A muffled moan escapes his hand as you stare at him, too fucked out to really speak.

“C’mon darlin’, use me, let me feel it.”

Three more rolls of your hips and then you’re gone, shaking above him as the toy’s soft hum fills the room. Tommy grunts below you, spilling into the condom as he brings his lips to yours, his hips jerking with erratic movements.

Tommy rests his head in the crook of your neck, his chest heaving as he catches his breath.

“You almost killed me, girl.” He smiles dopily up at you as you press a kiss to his damp forehead, “Damn near lost my mind with you on top like that.”

“Mmm, good.” You giggle, his nose brushing your chin

Tommy wraps his arms around you, holding you close as the two of you come down, sweaty skin sticking to your t-shirts. You’ll have to boil water for a bath tomorrow, perhaps he’ll even join you if you beg hard enough.

“Remind me to never neglect you in the bedroom again.” Tommy says

A laugh escapes your lips, kissing him as you lean into his touch.

“Seriously, I think you just stole a piece of my soul back there. It’s probably trapped in the condom or something.”

You laugh, climbing out of his lap, falling into the messy sheets, pulling the covers up your body, “You’re so fucking weird, Tommy.”

Next Part- Coming Soon

I really need to eat more vegetables and fruits. I'm gonna end up with scurvy or something crazy one of these days.

Comment to be added to the tag list. This tag list is not chapter by chapter; I carry the tags over to each part.

Tags:

@freythecrazyfae @rae-gar-targaryen @keseqna @eniepascal @jakecockley @aphroditesblunt @soberbabes @daisyhams

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alittlegiraffe · 3 days ago

Text

Title: “Too Much Skin”

You hadn't meant to make a statement.

Honestly, you barely thought about the shorts when you tugged them on backstage, rushing to change out of the too-hot jeans you'd arrived in. They were simple—denim, soft from years of wear, a little frayed at the hem. You didn’t wear them to show off. You wore them because they were comfortable and you didn’t expect anyone to look at you twice.

You always tried to blend in. Stay in the wings. Be his support, not part of the spectacle.

But somehow, that night, you became part of the show.

You stood side stage while Marshall moved like a storm across it, sweat glistening on his neck, crowd roaring with every syllable. You always loved watching him like this. Focused. Unfiltered. Alive.

You swayed a little to the beat, sipping water, thinking about absolutely nothing until a flash from someone’s camera hit your eyes. You squinted, startled—but you were used to that. Fans always caught glimpses of the people around him. You turned your face, let it pass.

What you didn’t see was the angle. What you didn’t know was that your leg was bent just enough, and your shorts were riding just high enough, to reveal the mark he’d left on the inside of your thigh that morning.

It wasn’t meant to show. You hadn’t even thought about it. You didn’t think anyone would ever get that close.

By the time you and Marshall made it back to the hotel, you noticed your phone vibrating like crazy. Dozens of texts, mentions, tags. You frowned, swiped to unlock.

The photo was everywhere. Crystal clear. A perfect image of you standing just beyond the stage lights, biting your lip, one leg cocked, and a very distinct purple bruise decorating your pale skin. His mark. His signature.

You felt your face burn.

“Oh my God.”

You turned the phone toward Marshall, who blinked at it like he couldn’t process what he was seeing.

“…That’s hot,” he said eventually, breaking into a slow, wicked grin. “You mad?”

“I’m mortified!”

He laughed—really laughed—and pulled you into his chest like it was the funniest thing in the world. “They’re just jealous,” he murmured into your hair. “You’re mine. I don’t give a fuck if they know it.”

You looked up at him, scowling, but your chest warmed anyway.

“I just… I wasn’t trying to be seen.”

He held your face in both hands, gaze softening. “I know. That’s what makes it so good.”

You groaned into his hoodie. “I can never wear shorts again.”

“Oh, babe,” he said, already reaching for his phone, “You definitely have to wear them again.”

You tried to smack him. He kissed your temple and kept scrolling.

---

You didn’t check Twitter for a week.

Okay, that’s a lie. You checked it once—on day two—curious to see if it had blown over.

It hadn’t.

Not only was the picture still floating around, it was edited. Meme-ified. Zoomed-in. Cropped. Someone even added one of those fake TMZ-style headlines:

“Slim Shady’s Wife Wearing Slim Shorts—and He’s Leaving Marks.”

You nearly threw your phone in the sink.

Marshall thought it was hilarious.

“Yo, you see this one?” he snorted, waving his phone in front of your face as you tried to disappear into your hoodie.

“I’m not looking at anything,” you grumbled, pulling the hood tighter.

“It’s got a red circle and everything. Like it’s Bigfoot.”

You groaned. “I am Bigfoot. I’m never leaving the house again.”

He laughed so hard he coughed, flopping dramatically on the couch beside you. “This is your villain origin story, huh?”

You didn’t respond. Just buried your face in a throw pillow and waited for the world to forget.

But the world didn’t forget.

Some fans were supportive.

“LET HER LIVE”

“She’s literally married to Marshall, what did y’all think was gonna happen?”

Others were more intense.

“I would pass out if my man did that.”

“Queen of quiet flex.”

“My Roman Empire.”

You nearly screamed. You showed Marshall one of those comments and he didn’t stop grinning for half an hour.

“You’re trending, baby,” he teased. “Didn’t think I’d have to be jealous of my own hickey.”

You smacked his arm. He caught your hand and kissed your knuckles like he hadn’t just caused a small internet meltdown.

For the next show, you wore sweatpants. Full coverage. Hoodie tied around your waist. Baseball cap low.

“Going incognito?” one of the crew asked with a smirk.

You nodded seriously. “I am a shadow.”

Marshall just leaned over and whispered in your ear, “I liked the shorts better.”

You glared at him. “I swear to God, if you even look at my thighs tonight…”

He leaned back, held his hands up innocently. “Hey. Not my fault you’re hot.”

But his smirk said otherwise.

---

You thought it was over.

The original photo had run its course. The memes had faded. You’d gone back to blending in—hoodies, longer hemlines, careful sitting positions when cameras were around. The internet had moved on to some beef between two rappers you didn’t know. You were safe.

Until someone posted a TikTok titled:

“This Is Not the First Time: A Hickey History (Eminem Edition)”

And it had slides.

The first was the recent one—inner thigh, show night, crisp and scandalous.

But then came others.

One from three months ago, when you’d worn a slouchy tank top backstage and leaned down to grab a water bottle. A mark just under your collarbone.

One from a paparazzi shot—barely visible, but there, along your jaw.

One from a grainy fan pic, where you’d worn a dress and sat beside Marshall in the wings. A purpling bruise blooming behind your knee.

Each image zoomed. Highlighted. Frozen in time. With captions like:

“Another one??? Bro.”

“Marshall said THIS ONE’S MINE.”

“Every time she wears skin, he leaves receipts.”

By the time the TikTok hit 4 million views, the phrase “Eminem marking kink” started trending on Twitter.

You stared at your phone in disbelief.

“No. No, no, no.”

Marshall peeked over your shoulder, toothbrush in his mouth, then started laughing. Choking, even.

“I told you they’d find more,” he said around a mouthful of foam.

“You KNEW this would happen?”

He shrugged, totally unbothered, spitting into the sink. “You bruise easy, babe. Not my fault.”

You smacked his arm. “This is humiliating!”

“This is awesome,” he corrected, grinning wide. “I’m trending again and I didn’t even drop an album.”

“You’re trending because people think you have a kink for biting me.”

He leaned against the bathroom doorframe, smirking like he was proud of himself. “Do I deny it? Or give them more content?”

“MARSHALL!”

The comments weren’t helping either.

“He’s a BITER and a LOVER. Iconic.”

“Me if I was married to him? I’d have bruises shaped like Michigan.”

“Eminem’s love language is claiming his girl like a werewolf. And honestly? Respect.”

You turned off your phone and didn’t turn it back on for two days.

Later that week, you caught Marshall scrolling through fan posts, smirking to himself.

“They’re calling me a vampire now,” he muttered, amused. “Should I get you a shirt that says ‘Property of Count Slim’?”

You just groaned and sank into the couch. “Remind me why I married you again?”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Because you’re mine.”

He leaned down and kissed your neck, deliberately slow. “And I mark what’s mine.”

---

It started as a joke.

Or at least you thought it was a joke.

After the TikToks, the memes, the fan theories, and the small avalanche of DMs asking “are the bruises real?”—you figured Marshall would back off a bit. Maybe give you a few weeks of bite-free affection. Let things settle.

Instead, he doubled down.

It started subtle. You’d be getting dressed for a show and he’d catch you in the mirror, eyeing your outfit, tugging at a hem.

Then he’d wander up behind you, mouth brushing your shoulder as he murmured, “Gonna wear that onstage?”

You’d nod, already suspicious. “Yeah. Why?”

And he’d smile against your skin.

“No reason.”

That should have been your warning.

The first time he did it on purpose, he left one on your hip.

You didn’t even realize it showed until someone posted a zoomed-in photo from the side of the stage with the caption:

“he’s doing it again.”

Then came the neck. You’d worn your hair up that night. It was unmistakable.

Trending again.

“Marshall’s gone feral.”

“How does she walk???”

“He treats her like a walking canvas and I respect that.”

You were losing the battle.

“You are doing this on purpose!” you hissed one night, jabbing your finger into his chest while he casually scrolled through your mentions like they were sports highlights.

“Me?” he asked, all fake innocence. “Babe, I’m just loving my wife.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Loving your wife doesn’t usually involve being an international hickey headline.”

He leaned back on the bed, arms behind his head, grinning. “Can’t help it if you taste good.”

“MARSHALL!”

He laughed, grabbed you by the waist, and pulled you down on top of him like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Relax. You’re famous now.”

“I don’t want to be famous.”

He kissed your cheek, then your jaw, then lower. “Too late, sweetheart. You’re my muse.”

You tried layering. Scarves. Concealer. Strategic lighting. Nothing worked.

He always found a new spot. Somewhere just out of reach, just visible enough, like he was planning it. And by the time the next photo went viral, he’d just look at you and shrug like, “Oops.”

Eventually, you stopped fighting it. Mostly because your defenses crumbled every time he murmured “mine” against your skin.

At the next show, a fan yelled “LET’S SEE THE HICKEY” during his set.

He didn’t miss a beat. Just looked toward side stage with that cocky little smirk and said into the mic:

“She’s covered up tonight. I got her good yesterday.”

The crowd lost it.

You covered your face and threatened to never speak to him again.

He sent you flowers that night with a card that read:

“Still trending. Love, your bitey husband.”

---

You were folding laundry when the thought hit you.

Not a slow, creeping realization—more like a slap in the face. One second you were matching socks, the next you were blinking at your thigh, the faint outline of another bruise just barely peeking from your shorts.

This one was from two nights ago. He’d caught you coming out of the shower, tugged you into the hallway, and kissed a path down your hip like he couldn’t help himself. It had been fast. Familiar. Gentle, but with teeth.

It was always with teeth.

And then it hit you:

Oh my God. He’s not just playing into the bit. He likes it.

Like… really likes it.

You froze, towel in hand, and said aloud to the empty room: “Does Marshall have a marking kink?”

The silence said yes.

You tried to brush it off. You really did.

But now it was all you could think about. The way he always smirked when you winced in the mirror the next morning. The way he aimed now—choosing spots that would show just enough. The low rumble in his chest every time he saw fan posts freaking out over the latest bruise.

You remembered the way his hands gripped you tighter when you flinched. How his voice dropped when he said mine.

Oh God. You’d married a man with a marking kink and didn’t realize it for twenty years.

When you finally confronted him, it wasn’t exactly a carefully planned moment. You were brushing your teeth in your sleep shirt, pacing in front of the bathroom mirror.

“Marshall,” you said suddenly, toothbrush still in hand. “Do you have a marking kink?”

He looked up from his phone on the bed, blinked at you, then started laughing. Hard.

You stared at him, foaming at the mouth, half-offended. “What’s funny??”

He just shook his head, grinning like he was genuinely delighted.

“Baby,” he said between laughs, “it took you twenty years to figure that out?”

You spat your toothpaste out like it was betrayal. “YOU NEVER TOLD ME!”

“I didn’t think I had to,” he said, standing and walking toward you. “You never stopped me.”

“I thought you were just… aggressive!”

“I am aggressive. Especially about you.”

You crossed your arms. “That’s not a defense.”

He leaned down, arms sliding around your waist, voice low in your ear. “What can I say? I like seeing my mouth on you.”

Your knees nearly buckled.

“Okay, stop talking,” you muttered, face burning.

He kissed your jaw gently—no teeth, just warmth.

“…You mad?”

You sighed. “No. Just… confused. Do I have a thing now? Are we a thing?”

He smirked. “Oh yeah. We’re definitely a thing.”

Later that night, as you climbed into bed and tugged the covers over your hips, he glanced over and said casually:

“Turn the light on. I need to pick my spot for tomorrow.”

You threw a pillow at his face. He caught it. And laughed like it was the best day of his life.

---

It was like a switch flipped.

You saw it everywhere now.

Not just the bruises. Not just the now-infamous hickeys fans tracked like they were decoding a map. No—now that you knew, you couldn’t not see the dozens of little ways Marshall marked you. Ways he always had. You just hadn’t noticed until now.

It was in the way he always chose your perfume.

The same bottle, worn down to the last few sprays. He never said he liked it, but he always noticed when you tried a different one.

“You smell different,” he’d murmur against your neck.

Every single time.

It was in the way he put his hoodie on you before he’d wear it himself. Even backstage, even at home. He’d slip it over your shoulders first, like claiming you in fabric. You’d catch him later wearing the same one, and he’d act like it was coincidence. It wasn’t. You knew that now.

It was in how he’d guide you with a hand on your lower back when walking through crowds. How he stood behind you in photos, fingers resting lightly on your hip, like he needed people to see the connection. His silent, steady way of saying mine without a single word.

It was the way he kissed you before every show. Without fail. Not rushed, not just for luck—but full-bodied, hand at your neck, lips lingering. Like he needed to remind you before he stepped into the spotlight.

You sat with it one night, curled up beside him on the couch, phone on mute as some old horror movie played. He was half-asleep, thumb lazily tracing patterns along your knee.

And you thought: He’s been doing this the whole time.

Maybe not always with teeth.

But always with intent.

With claim.

With love that didn’t need announcing—just traces.

You leaned your head against his shoulder. “You really like it,” you said quietly.

He didn’t pretend not to understand.

His hand paused, then squeezed your thigh. “Yeah,” he said simply. “I do.”

“Why?”

He turned his head a little, thoughtful. “I like knowing I was there. That you felt me.” His voice dropped lower. “That the world sees it too.”

You didn’t speak for a second. The words sat heavy and hot in your chest.

“And if I don’t want the world to see it?”

He glanced at you. Not a flinch, not a flicker of disappointment. Just honesty.

“Then I’ll leave ‘em where only you know.”

That night, he kissed his name onto your skin like a secret.

High on your ribs.

Inside your thigh.

Behind your ear.

All the places only you could feel in the quiet.

---

It started slow. Quiet.

Like the way a favorite song fades out before you realize it’s over. You didn’t notice the difference at first—not when it came with a kiss, or a lingering touch, or a playful remark. Marshall was still Marshall. Still yours.

But the bruises stopped showing up.

At first, you thought maybe he was being careful. Respectful. Thoughtful after your little meltdown about trending over a thigh hickey and fans shipping you with his teeth.

You’d laughed, curled into his chest, said something like, “Let’s not give them too much material this month.”

He’d kissed your hair and hummed, “Yeah, alright.”

And just like that… he stopped.

No new marks bloomed behind your knee after late-night teasing. No gentle pressure of his mouth under your jaw. His kisses were still soft, still full—but they no longer lingered with intent. His hands were still everywhere, but they didn’t grip anymore.

He’d gotten more subtle.

Scarves. Neck kisses without teeth. Hugs in public instead of the way he used to pull you into his side like he was warning the room.

There was still love. Still affection. But the claiming was gone.

And you missed it.

It hit you hardest one morning when you stood in the mirror, fresh out of the shower, and realized your skin was clear. Completely. Not a single trace of him anywhere.

Not one mark.

Not one bruise.

Not one kiss that still stung in the best way.

You touched your neck absently, your fingertips brushing over nothing.

And your chest ached.

He was still playful. Still gave you the middle seat on the plane and brought you coffee before interviews. Still slept with a hand splayed over your stomach, as if instinctively keeping you close.

But you noticed the difference.

How he paused more often before touching you in front of people.

How he held back a comment once during a fan Q&A, biting his tongue when someone joked about "leaving evidence."

How he stopped smiling when you scrolled past the edits.

You’d told him once you didn’t want to be famous.

And maybe… maybe he believed you.

But now, all you could think was—

Did I make him stop?

Did I tell him to quiet something that made him feel like himself?

You missed the sting of his mouth against your collarbone.

Missed the smirk he gave you after seeing a photo online.

Missed feeling marked—not just touched. Known.

You hadn’t realized how much it made you feel like his until it was gone.

That night, you curled into his side, unsure of how to bring it up.

“Marsh?”

“Mm?”

You hesitated. “You’ve been real gentle lately.”

He glanced at you, something flickering in his expression. “That a bad thing?”

“No. Just…” You traced a circle on his chest, soft. “You used to be less careful.”

Silence.

Then—his hand tightened just slightly on your hip. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to remind.

When he spoke, his voice was low. Rough. “You said you didn’t want the world to see it.”

You nodded slowly. “I know. But… I didn’t mean stop.”

He shifted, pulling you closer. His breath warm at your ear. “Then say it.”

You swallowed. “I miss when you left a little more of yourself behind.”

His fingers pressed into your skin, grip firm. “Yeah?”

You nodded.

And in the dark, he smiled against your throat and whispered, “Then I’ll give it back.”

---

The next morning, you didn’t expect anything to change.

You figured last night’s quiet admission would settle into something soft, slow—a gradual shift back to the version of him who left marks like whispered poems. But Marshall Mathers has never been a slow-burn kind of man.

So when you woke up, his side of the bed was empty. The coffee was already made. And there was a note on the counter in his crooked handwriting:

Don’t make plans tonight. You’re mine. —M

Your stomach flipped. Your heart did a thing.

You had no idea what he meant. But you didn’t cancel a single thing—you cleared the evening.

It started the second the front door shut behind him.

He didn’t say anything. Just looked at you from across the room with that look—the one that used to show up in the studio when he got a verse exactly right. Focused. Intent. A little dangerous in the best kind of way.

Then he crossed the space in three strides, backed you into the hallway wall, and kissed you like he’d been starving for it.

You gasped against his mouth. “Marsh—”

“Shut up,” he muttered, lips at your jaw. “You asked for this.”

He didn’t rush. That wasn’t his style anymore.

He was methodical. Hands sure. Mouth devastating. And when he dropped to his knees in the hallway, looking up at you like you were a prayer and a dare all at once, you realized—

This wasn’t about fan photos.

This wasn’t about trends.

This was about you. His.

He kissed your hip, dragged his mouth lower, and bit just hard enough to make you gasp.

“There,” he murmured, eyes on the skin already blooming red. “You feel that tomorrow, you’ll know who did it.”

Another mark. Inside your thigh.

One on your ribs.

One just under your breast—hidden, perfect, secret.

He worshipped you like canvas, like home, like someone he never planned to leave untouched again.

Later, curled into him under warm sheets, your skin buzzing with love and ache and heat, he kissed your temple and whispered,

“You needed to feel owned, huh?”

You nuzzled against his chest, breath unsteady. “Maybe a little.”

He chuckled. “I’ll stop holding back. I promise.”

Then, quieter:

“I didn’t think you wanted that part of me anymore.”

You looked up at him, touched his face, and said, “I want all your parts. Even the ones that leave bruises.”

His breath hitched. His mouth met yours again, slow and soft.

And somewhere inside that kiss, you felt everything settle back into place.

#eminem #marshall mathers #eminem x reader #marshall mathers x reader

66 notes · View notes

epletsplayhouse · 2 days ago

Text

Authors note: I’m sorry, it’s taken me a long time to finish the episode! I’ve been really busy lately, and it’s also been hard for me to get out of my writer’s block! I must admit it’s not as good as I wanted it to be, but my mind is about to explode!😂

Word count: 4,2K

Warning: Smut! +18 dni!

Dontcha’ think It’s time

Part 7 (Part 6 here)

The sun streamed through the windows of Graceland. You had never woken up this happy in your life, remembering that kiss, a kiss you had longed for.

In the living room, Elvis was sitting cross-legged on the couch. He had a cigarette in one hand and a small notebook in the other. In front of him, Colonel Parker spoke with his usual overwhelming energy, gesturing with a half-finished cup of coffee.

“I’m telling you, E,” he muttered, “if we don’t confirm Houston before Wednesday, the whole summer tour’s gonna fall apart. I need your answer today.”

Elvis nodded seriously, but he was playing with the pen, distracted. The Colonel’s words slid right past his ear.

Then, without announcing yourself, you entered.

Barefoot, you wore a short cotton dress still wrinkled from sleep, and your hair held the last traces of last night’s waves. Your steps were light, as if you belonged in that space without asking. As if nothing had changed.

“Good morning,” you said, with a bright smile meant only for him.

Elvis blinked.

You crossed the room as if it were yours and sat beside him on the arm of the couch, nestling close to him for warmth. Your leg brushed against his. You leaned in slightly, looking at him with puppy-dog eyes, waiting for him to turn toward you. To do something. To continue what he had started.

But he didn’t move.

Elvis fixed his gaze back on the notebook, his jaw tense. “Morning, honey,” he mumbled without looking at you, almost automatic.

The Colonel didn’t even flinch, but Elvis knew any misstep could raise suspicions.

You leaned closer, playful, teasing, like a kid fishing for attention. “What, no good morning kiss?” you whispered, your voice light, like it was a game.

He turned his head just a little, his eyes scanning your face with a strange look. There was something about you that didn’t fit. That calmness, that confidence… didn’t you realize what had just happened?

“We’re in the middle of business,” he said under his breath, forcing a tight smile. “Later, okay?”

But you didn’t want to wait.

The Colonel stood up for a moment to check some papers on the back table, turning his back to you while continuing his monologue. And then, without a second thought, you turned Elvis’s head and kissed him. Quickly. A stolen brush at the corner of his lips.

You didn’t even think about it. It was sweet. Warm. Intimate. Like a new ritual, like a game between lovers.

Elvis froze.

His whole body tensed up. His eyes opened just slightly, and his hand moved away from you, shaky. He didn’t say a word, but the pressure in his chest was overwhelming. He didn’t look at you. He didn’t touch you. He just gave a quick “uh-huh” to the Colonel, who hadn’t noticed a thing.

The Colonel turned back around just as Elvis rubbed his nose, playing it off.

“All good over there?” the Colonel asked, flipping through his papers, not suspecting a thing.

“Yep,” Elvis said, clearing his throat, his voice rougher now. “All good.”

But you felt it. The way he pulled back without moving an inch.

Then, while the Colonel went on with his speech, Elvis leaned toward you, his voice so quiet it was barely there, sharp but unsteady:

“You can’t do that.”

You frowned, confused. “What?”

“Not here. Not now. Not like that.”

He looked at you, and his eyes were a mess.Part desperate, part scared. Like half of him wanted to pull you close and kiss you again, and the other half wished he could disappear for letting it happen at all.

He clenched his jaw and shook his head.

And for the first time since you’d met him, it seemed like Elvis Presley was afraid.

In the pool, the air smelled of chlorine, freshly cut grass, and the faint whiff of warm beer wafting from scattered bottles.

Lisa was floating on her inflatable ring, rocking loud palm-tree arm floaties, shouting, “I’m a mermaid!” and splashing like a tiny hurricane. The guys were in their element: Red sprawled on a lounge chair, a sweaty beer in hand, sunglasses crooked; Sonny juggling an empty can while dipping just his toes in the pool, like the court jester; Joe bobbing on another floatie, and Jerry perched on the pool steps, cooling his neck in the water.

You stepped out into the garden barefoot, your short white cotton dress clinging to your skin in the sticky heat. Lisa spotted you and let out that heart-melting giggle, waving wildly.

You grinned, and without a second thought, slipped off your dress in one smooth motion, revealing a red bikini.

The air froze for a split second. Red straightened his sunglasses, Sonny let out a “Holy shit, what an entrance!” and Jerry raised his eyebrows with a quiet, “Well, damn.” You sprinted toward the pool, hair flying like a flag, and cannonballed in. The water erupted like a bomb, sending waves that soaked the lounge chairs and triggered hysterical giggles from Lisa, who clapped at Red’s reaction.

Red jumped up, clutching his drenched beer. “Goddamn it, kid!” he roared, shaking his shirt like a wet dog as water flew everywhere. “That was the last cold one!”

“Wouldn’t be an issue if someone hadn’t downed so many they ended up cuddling a plant instead of their girl last night,” Joe quipped, nodding at

Sonny’s antics from the night before.

Sonny cracked up. “Yeah, last night was wild.”

Red turned to you with a devilish grin. “Kid, those friends of yours from last night…” He let out a whistle. “You gotta introduce me. Ol’ Red’s still got some fuel in the tank!”

Jerry rolled his eyes. “Red, for Christ’s sake, tone it down. You sound like a horny teenager.” His voice was sharp, but there was a glint of amusement in his eyes, like he couldn’t believe Red was this unhinged.

Red shot him a glare. “Let he who’s without sin cast the first stone, or did you forget your ‘sex guru’ lessons in her room?” He tilted his head toward you.

“Red’s definitely not cut out to preach with that mouth,” Joe said to you, chuckling as Red and Jerry bickered.

Sonny, staring into the void with a grin, added, “Best part of last night was that Godfather scene we pulled. We’re gonna end up living up to that silly Memphis Mafia nickname.”

“That bastard Mike won’t set foot in Memphis again, that’s for sure,” Red said. “But yeah, seeing Elvis in action was something else.”

Jerry, who’d been quiet, raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, it was… intense.” His tone was dry, but his eyes sparkled with amusement.

You sank to your shoulders in the water, leaning against the pool’s edge, letting the droplets slide down your arms. The guys’ laughter wrapped around you, but a knot started tightening in your stomach. “What happened to Mike after?” you asked, your voice more serious than you meant, glancing at Red and Sonny. “I didn’t see him again.”

The vibe shifted. Red straightened, setting his beer down with a dull thud, and gave you a crooked smile that screamed trouble. “That asshole? We left him in a puddle on the street, scared shitless.”

Sonny hopped onto a lounge chair, miming a gun with his fingers. “Best part was Elvis pulling out the piece…Damn, the guy’s got style, though I nearly shit myself watching.” Lisa, clueless, shouted, “Pew, pew, that’s my daddy!” flailing her little arms like she was shooting.

Red added, “I’m serious, I thought he was gonna lose it and pull the trigger.”

Joe sighed from his floatie, shaking his head. “Poor kid.” He looked at you, eyes soft and warm. “Don’t worry, babe, you’re safe with us.” His smile was so kind it almost untied the knot in your gut.

Red spun on Joe, incredulous. “Poor? Poor my ass! That son of a bitch said he was gonna hurt her! Mess her up! If we hadn’t overheard his plan, or if E hadn’t bashed his face in, we’d be crying right now.”

You froze, the water suddenly feeling icy. “He said that?” Your voice came out shaky, cheeks burning with a mix of shame for doubting Elvis and raw anger. You could barely believe Elvis had pulled a gun.

Sonny nodded, a fierce glint in his eyes. “Yeah, kid. That’s why we kicked his ass to kingdom come.”

Lisa swam over, clambering onto you like a soggy monkey, her sticky hands wrapping around your neck. She planted a wet, chlorine-scented kiss on your cheek.

You smiled, feeling genuinely cared for, protected. They really had your back. But the heat in your cheeks lingered. The image of Mike, bloody and raging stuck in your mind, and the mention of Elvis… made your heart race, even though he hadn’t shown up yet.

Some time later, Elvis strode into the garden with heavy steps, sunglasses slipping down his nose, his face etched with exhaustion and a flicker of irritation. He wore an open shirt, not fully buttoned, yet somehow looked sharper than ever.

“The Colonel again?” Joe asked, already knowing the answer.

“Again. And again. And again. He’s burnin’ me out, man” Elvis muttered, shaking his head like he was trying to fling the old man’s words off his neck like stubborn dust.

Red let out a gravelly laugh and straightened up a bit with a grunt.

“I’m so damn sick of that guy. For real.”

But Elvis wasn’t listening anymore. His eyes had caught on something reflected in the pool.

Lisa, fast asleep on her floatie, drifted on her back with her mouth slightly open, blissfully unaware of the world.

An unexpected, tender smile crept across Elvis’s lips. He slipped off his sunglasses with slow, deliberate movements, crouched down… and gently placed them over his daughter’s face with all the care in the world.

“Much better,” he whispered, barely audible.

Everyone burst into soft laughter,some stifling giggles, others placing hands on their chests at the sweetness of it. Even you, holding yourself back all this time, let out a quiet laugh.

But he didn’t look at you.

He stood up and walked over to sit with Red and Joe, lighting a cigarette without saying a word. He started chatting about random things: a Hollywood story, a problem with the sound crew… Every word felt like a carefully placed brick in some invisible wall. Even his laughter sounded just a little too rehearsed.

You watched him quietly. Waiting for him to look at you. But he didn’t. And that got under your skin. He’d ignored you once. You weren’t going to let him do it again.

Minutes passed. The sun was beating down hard. You dipped your feet in the water to cool off, still staring at him. And then, like the devil himself gave you a little nudge, you stretched out your leg… and sent a small splash in his direction.

He didn’t move.

You tried again. A drop here, a flick there. Still nothing.

Jerry, who was a few steps away, frowned at you.

“You alright?” he asked, voice low.

“Yeah. Sure. Perfect,” you replied way too fast.

The third time wasn’t subtle. You kicked harder, sending a wave of water right at his back, soaking his shirt.

He turned slowly, one eyebrow raised.

Red whistled under his breath.

“Uh-oh… someone’s picking a fight.”

Joe chuckled, glancing at Elvis with a grin.

“Come on, boss. Give the girl some attention.”

Elvis stayed silent for a moment, his gaze locked on you, cutting through you inch by inch. A look that gave nothing away. Then, without a word, he unbuttoned what little of his shirt was still fastened, shrugged it off, and let it fall onto the lounge chair. Your heart was already beginning to race.

He walked toward the edge of the pool, placed the cigarette gently in the ashtray… and without another word, climbed up onto the diving board.

“Oh, no…” Jerry muttered, covering his face.

“He’s not gonna do what I think…” Red started.

“He is,” Joe confirmed.

“What the hell are you doing?” Sonny asked, brows furrowed as Elvis approached the edge still in his pants, socks and all.

“What needs to be done,” Elvis murmured.

He took a few steps, rolled his shoulders like he was about to perform in front of thousands, and then he cannonballed into the water.

The splash was outrageous.Vengeful. And it hit you square on, soaking you head to toe.

Elvis emerged, shaking water from his hair with a crooked smile, droplets streaming down his body as he drifted closer to where you were sitting on the edge. Lisa stirred on her float, mumbling something in her sleep. You spat out a mouthful of water, torn between laughing and fake outrage.

The tension knotted in your throat as he approached with that dangerous calm of his.

He rested his arms on the edge, right in front of you, dripping wet, eyes locked on yours.

“You was itchin’ for some attention, wasn’t ya, darlin’?” he asked, voice low, rough, heavy with a meaning only you could decipher.

Before you could answer, his hands grabbed your ankles and with one sharp pull, he yanked you into the pool. No time to think, no time to breathe.

A muffled shriek, a wave of laughter in the background—and then you were under, tangled in his arms as he playfully dragged you beneath the surface.

“Elvis!” you gasped between bursts of laughter, splashing him hard when you came up.

“This what you wanted, huh?” he teased, mock-serious as he dunked you again for a second.

You managed to escape underwater, pulling away until you reached the edge and leaned back, breathless with laughter, soaked to the skin, your pulse racing. Elvis stayed near, floating lazily beside you, as if he hadn’t just dragged you in front of everyone.

Then, without turning his head, you heard him say, so softly it was almost just breath:

“We’re gonna get caught…”

His tone wasn’t playful. It was something else, lower, darker. A warning… and an invitation.

You turned to him, but he was already looking at you. Steady. Intense. Under the water, his leg brushed against yours. Slowly. Not by accident.

He smiled…barely. Just a ghost of a grin. A crooked line on his wet lips that had nothing innocent about it.

Your stomach flipped. That look froze you in place. His fingers slid along your arm beneath the water.

But then he backed off. Just slightly. And with that voice that set your skin on fire, low, dangerous, never looking away, he whispered:

“Hold on for me in my room, honey”

——————————

You had been waiting in his room patiently, just like he asked. You were fearing the worst. Maybe Elvis was going to set things straight and say this was all a mistake. You started praying it wasn’t.

A while later, you heard the door open. Elvis walked in, his eyes searching for you.

“C’mere, honey” Elvis said in a low, gentle plea.

You crossed the room with hesitant steps, and when you were close, he took you by the waist with a delicacy that masked the storm within him. He guided you to the bed and sat, pulling you gently until you settled in his lap, straddling his right thigh.

He looked into your eyes, with heavy and uneven breathing, and caressed your waist with his thumbs, a light touch that made you hold your breath.

Elvis whispered tenderly, “Forgive me, honey. For how I’ve been today… avoidin’ ya, puttin’ up walls.” 

You frowned, but he continued, his fingers tracing small circles over the fabric of your dress, moving up and down your sides as if trying to soothe the chaos consuming him.

“All day long, I have been watchin’ you laughin’ with the boys, givin’ me those eyes that cut straight through me… and it’s been killin’ me inside. But I gotta keep it together. The Colonel, the press, the whole damn world… I can’t let them see what I feel for ya. Not yet.”

You asked softly, almost a murmur, “Why not? What’s wrong with that?” 

Elvis shook his head: “It’s not wrong, honey. It’s just that who I am… and who you are…make… make things a lil’ harder than usual,” he said, planting a kiss on your cheek. “Give me some time, darlin’.”

You nodded, moved by the raw plea in his voice, and he smiled, leaning in slowly to kiss you. It was a tender, pure kiss. Your tongues met, and you sighed, your hands rising to tangle in his hair.

Then, Elvis slightly lifted you with his leg to kiss you deeper. The kiss continued, intense yet calm, until you pulled back a little, panting with flushed cheeks. You looked at him hesitant, and then you spoke with a shy voice but full of curiosity. 

“The other day… in the pool room, when you were moving your leg under me like that… I felt something. I don’t know what it was, but it was… strange.”

Elvis frowned, his hands paused at your waist. He looked at you surprised but with tender eyes, his thumbs resumed those small circles that keep you on edge.

“What d’ya feel, darlin’? Tell me everything,” he purred

You lower your gaze, the blush spreading from your neck to your chest.

“It was like… a tingle, but stronger. Like something inside me wanted to… explode. It scared me a little, but… I liked it a lot.”

He took a deep breath, processing your words, then tested it, moving the leg beneath you with a slow, intentional gesture. Your hands flew to his shoulders, nails digging in, your body tensing, surprised by the intensity.

“This what you meant hmm…?”

You nodded, biting your lip, and he grinned, a mix of awe and desire in his eyes. His hands slid up your sides, stopping just under your breasts, and he inhaled deeply, as if fighting to maintain control.

“You ever felt that before, honey? Just… when you are by yourself?” 

You looked at him, genuinely lost.

“No… I don’t know what you mean by that.”

“Oh lord,” Elvis swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. The thought of your innocence hit him like a shockwave, and the bulge in his pants grew instinctively, straining against the fabric, a dull throb pulsing in his groin. He ran a hand through his hair, messing it up more, and breathed deeply, loosening his shirt collar as he searched for words.

Then he spoke in a low, tender voice, “Now listen close, baby… I wanna explain somethin’ crucial to you.” 

You nodded, and he began, his voice soft but laden with an intensity that enveloped you like an embrace.

“See, baby… your body’s wakin’ up” he explained, tracing lines down your back with his hand. 

“When you feel all hot and twitchy like this… it’s ‘cause that spot down low’s callin’ for ya. Right there, between your legs. Touch it gentle, real slow… and you’ll find out just how powerful you are.”

He moved his leg again, firmer, with a hint of mischief, and you gasped, a soft sound that made him shiver. His hands dropped to your hips, guiding you slightly, and he continued, his voice cracking under the effort to stay gentle.

“Y’okay honey?”

You nodded, but your breathing quickened, and your hands gripped his shoulders more tightly. The heat between your legs intensified, a growing wetness soaking through your panties.

“It only gets deeper from here, under that dress.”

Elvis said, his voice so velvety it sounded like a sin. One hand slid up your leg with a slow, heated hiss, disappearing beneath your dress.

But then, you stopped him.

Your hand shot to his wrist, gripping it tightly. Your body tensed as you leaned back slightly, putting space between you.

“God… I can’t. Just… don’t look down there, not yet, please…” You implored with a shaky, timid voice. You trembled at the idea of Elvis looking down,of his eyes taking in the most private part of you for the first time.

He froze, his fingers hovered just there. His eyes widened, caught between desire and a fresh wave of doubt. The demons came back, louder, whispering that this was a mistake, that he was crossing a line he shouldn’t.

“I shouldn’t… damn, honey, I shouldn’t be touchin’ ya like this. I don’t know what I’m doin’… shit, m’sorry,”.

You looked at him, panic rising in your chest. That’s not what you meant at all.

“No, please… don’t stop. Just… don’t look.”

You leaned toward him, seeking his lips, and kissed him urgently. He stiffened, glancing aside as if wanting to escape from you, from himself. But you wouldn’t let him. Your small, firm hands grabbed his cheeks, forcing him to face you.

You kissed him again, harder, pressing your trembling lips against his, your hot breaths mingling. You couldn’t describe this feeling, it was a drug you were starting to lose control over.

“Please… keep going. I need you… don’t leave me aching like this,” you gasped between kisses.

Elvis resisted for another second, the demons kept roaring in his head, voices screaming that this would destroy him, that you were too pure, too young. But then you bit his lower lip, a desperate nibble, and he shattered. A wild growl escaped his throat, his hands returned to you like magnets, grabbing your ass and pulling you against him with a force that made you gasp.

“Damn baby…” he cursed, his voice hoarse and surrendered.

Elvis kissed you back, hard, hungry, his tongue claiming you as his leg moved again, a steady rhythm that made you moan against his mouth. His hand trembled as it slid under your skirt, rough fingers brushing the inside of your thighs, moving slowly, torturously, until they found your panties.

“You’re so wet… God, you’re killing me,” he groaned.

His heart felt like it might give out, knowing what was about to come, the first time someone would touch you, and it would be him. He kept his promise, his eyes never leaving yours for even a second as his fingers moved in.

His fingers began to stroke your hot, slippery folds with a slow, torturous rhythm. Then, he pushed your panties aside and found your swollen clit,and pressed softly, tracing delicate circles that made you arch into him.

“Here, honey… this is the spot. Do ya feel it?” he purred.

You trembled, your hips beginning to move on their own against his hand, craving more. You nodded, eyes half-lidded as the pleasure began to envelop you. Elvis quickened the pace, his fingers firm, precise, knowing exactly what to do.

“It’s… it’s too much, too intense,” you gasped, desperate not sure if that kind pleasure was even real

He growled low in his throat, the bulge in his pants pressing hard against the fabric, thick and throbbing.

Then he leaned in, his breath hot and damp against your cheek, and his fingers kept moving, rough and sure, dragging wave after wave of pleasure through you.

“It ain’t too much, honey… it’s perfect.” he murmured.

His fingers moved faster, intense circles that arched your back, your legs trembling around his thigh. The pleasure swelled, a pressure building in your belly, hot and wild, and you moaned louder, a sound that shook him to his core. Your nails dug into his cheeks, marking his skin, and he groaned with you, his voice breaking from the desire he could barely hold back.

Almost crying, you begged, “Elvis… I can’t bear…”

The orgasm began to build, a current surging through you, and you tensed, your whole body vibrating against him. Your breathing quickened, and his blue eyes glowed with a mix of tenderness and lust as he guided you to the edge.

“That’s it, honey, you’re close. Feel how it burns, how it fills ya… don’t fight it. The best is comin’,” Elvis whispered.

You let out a choked cry, your hips thrusting against his hand, and the pleasure exploded like lightning, a violent spasm ripping through your pussy. Your body shook, a tremor coursing from your core to your fingertips, and a broken scream tore from your throat, echoing through the room like a raw release. Your legs quivered, collapsing around his thigh, and the wetness of your climax soaked his fingers and pants, leaving a stain on them.

He kept stroking you gently, drawing out the aftershocks, your ragged breathing slowly steadying as you returned to reality while he held you, his free hand rising to caress your cheek, his thumb brushing your lips reddened from kisses.

As you came back to yourself, you realized how loudly you’d screamed. Shame washed over you, and you whispered, vulnerable, “What was that? Sorry, I… I broke apart…”

He chuckled softly, a warm, exhausted sound rumbling in his chest, and leaned in to kiss you, tasting the salty heat of your skin.

“That, darlin’, was an orgasm. And don’t you dare be sorry for it” he said gently.

You looked up at him, a nervous little smile tugging at your lips, your cheeks still burning. “So… does this mean I’m, like, actually a woman now?” you paused “like…officially?”

Elvis smiled, a mischievous glint dancing in his eyes, his lips grazing your forehead, then the corner of your mouth. His arms tightened around you, pulling you against his steady, warm frame.

“I’ll save that answer for another day”

Tags: @atleastpleasetelephone @iloveelvisss @makethemorning @i-r-i-n-a-a @kawaiiwitchy @beaupr3sley ❤️

#elvisaaronpresley #elvis #elvis presley #elvis fans #elvis the king #elvis history #70s elvis #elvis the pelvis #elvis x reader #elvis x you #elvis fanfic #elvis smut #austin elvis imagine #austin butler x you #austin butler x reader

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absdollievu · 9 hours ago

Text

The space between us

tattooartist!abby x baker!reader

Warnings: fingering (r!receiving)

The next day, she’s late.

You try not to notice. You really do.

But you find yourself glancing at the door every few minutes, pretending you’re just checking the weather, or that you’re waiting for a delivery, not for her. You even made her cinnamon roll early—set it aside in a separate little box, scribbled the note before the morning rush even hit.

And then the bell above the door finally chimes, nearly an hour past her usual time.

Abby steps in, soaked again.

“You really have a vendetta against umbrellas, huh?” you say, trying to sound casual, not like your stomach just unclenched.

She breathes out a laugh, pushing rain from her braid. “They break. Or I break them. Not sure which anymore.”

You slide the box toward her. “Was starting to think I’d have to eat your cinnamon roll myself.”

Abby opens it, eyes flicking to the note stuck inside:

“Glad you didn’t skip out on me.”

Her fingers pause on the edge of the box. She doesn’t look up right away. “I almost did.”

You tilt your head. “Why?”

She leans on the counter, arms folded, gaze flicking out the window like she’s suddenly looking anywhere but at you. “I didn’t mean to—yesterday, I mean. I wasn’t trying to cross a line.”

“It was an accident,” you say softly, trying to ease whatever weight you hear under her words.

“Yeah,” she says, but her voice doesn’t match the word. It’s quiet. Tired. “Still… didn’t want to mess this up. Whatever this is.”

You watch her for a second, heart tugging.

“Abby,” you say, and she looks at you. Really looks. “You didn’t mess anything up.”

A small silence grows between you, stretched taut.

You reach for a rag, pretending to wipe the counter just to give your hands something to do. “And, for the record… you weren’t the only one thinking about it afterward.”

That earns a flicker of something—relief, maybe. Maybe something more dangerous. Her fingers brush the edge of the counter, and her voice drops.

“You always write those notes like you’re teasing,” she says, “but sometimes I think you mean them.”

You glance up. “Sometimes I do.”

She shifts forward, close enough that the air between you tightens again. Close enough to smell the rain still clinging to her jacket and the warmth of cinnamon drifting up from the box between you.

“Okay,” she murmurs, almost like she’s testing the word. “Good.”

As she takes her coffee and turns to go, you call after her.

“Hey, Abby.”

She looks back, one hand on the door.

“I always mean the notes.”

Her smirk returns, slow and sure. “Then I’ll keep showing up.”

And she leaves with the softest kind of promise in the air behind her.

⸻

It’s late morning when Abby walks in.

She looks dry for once—no rain, no damp hoodie clinging to her frame. Just her usual calm, a little tension around the eyes like she hasn’t slept enough. Her braid’s loose today, a few strands falling near her temple. She glances at you as she steps inside, and the look she gives you makes your stomach flutter in a very specific, very dangerous way.

“Hey,” she says, walking up to the counter. “Got a cinnamon roll left for me?”

You nod, already sliding one toward her, but she doesn’t take it. Not yet.

Instead, she leans on the counter, one hand loosely curled around her coffee mug, her eyes on you in that focused, quiet way of hers.

“I’ve got a break,” she says, voice casual but something behind it not casual at all. “Wanna come next door? I could give you a tattoo.”

You blink, caught off guard. “A tattoo?”

She shrugs, the corner of her mouth tugging up. “You’re always looking at mine. Thought maybe you’d want one of your own.”

You open your mouth to respond, close it again, then laugh softly. “I don’t know… I’ve never even thought about what I’d get.”

Abby leans in a little closer, resting her elbows on the counter now. “Come on. Just something small. I’ll go easy on you.”

You hesitate again—but her gaze is warm and steady, and something about the idea, impulsive as it is, sends a thrill down your spine.

You slowly untie your apron and toss it under the counter. “Fine. But only if I get to pick something stupid.”

Abby’s grin is all teeth and mischief. “Deal.”

You turn the “OPEN” sign to “CLOSED,” lock the door behind you, and follow her out into the warm midday air.

⸻

The tattoo shop smells like antiseptic and faint ink, with low music playing somewhere in the back. It’s cooler inside, dimly lit, with flashes of artwork on every wall. Some bold. Some soft. All of them uniquely from Abby.

She gestures toward the chair and starts prepping her equipment, her hands steady and practiced. You settle into the seat, nerves buzzing.

“What do you want,” she asks, glancing up at you with a teasing spark in her eye, “and where do you want it?”

You bite your lip. “Uhm… a muffin. Small. On my shoulder.”

Abby snorts. “Seriously?”

��Yup.”

She just shakes her head, already smiling as she turns to grab a stencil. “You’re unbelievable.”

“You said I could pick,” you remind her, eyes following her every move.

“I did. No regrets. But you’re not paying for this one. It’s on me.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

“Call it… a thank-you. For feeding me.”

Your heart skips.

She sanitizes the area on your shoulder, and her hands are so careful, her touch so deliberate, it makes your breath catch.

The hum of the tattoo gun starts up, sharp and buzzing in your ears. You brace yourself, and then—

It hurts, but it’s not unbearable. Her hand is steady against your skin, her touch grounding. She checks in with you more than once, her voice soft, words close to your ear.

When it’s done, she wipes it clean, pressing a bandage over the tiny muffin inked on your shoulder.

“There,” she says, voice husky. “Now you’re officially part of the club.”

You turn to look at her, and she’s close—closer than she’s ever been.

“Thank you,” you say, and your voice comes out quieter than you mean it to.

Abby doesn’t back away. “You’re welcome.”

The silence stretches again, like something holding its breath.

Your gaze drops to her mouth, then back to her eyes—and before you can talk yourself out of it, you lean in. Just a little.

Abby closes the space.

The kiss is slow at first, exploratory—like she’s giving you time to change your mind. But you don’t. You lean into her, and then her hands are in your hair, at your waist, pulling you closer. The kiss deepens, heat blooming like wildfire between you.

Her mouth moves down to your neck, your collarbone, tracing the edge of your skin like she’s memorizing it.

“Here?” she murmurs against your shoulder, just below the fresh bandage.

“Yes,” you breathe.

She lifts you, gently, easily, setting you on the edge of her work table like you weigh nothing. Your legs part instinctively, letting her step between them. Her hands roam carefully—nothing rushed. Just tension, desire, and reverence.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” she whispers, forehead pressed against yours.

“I don’t,” you whisper back, fingers curling into her shirt.

And when her lips return to yours, everything else fades—the bakery, the rain, the world outside. Just you and Abby, tangled in heat and want, in a moment that feels inevitable.

⸻

The kiss deepens until it’s no longer careful—until it’s need, pressed into every inch of space between you.

Abby’s hands are firm at your waist, sliding beneath your shirt with the kind of patience that still feels hungry. She touches you like she wants to remember you by feel alone, and every place her fingers graze leaves heat blooming in your skin.

You’re already breathless by the time she draws back, eyes searching yours. “You sure?”

You nod, heart pounding. “Yes. I want this.”

That’s all she needs.

She lifts your shirt slowly, her fingertips skimming the curve of your spine as it comes off. Her eyes roam you with quiet reverence, pausing at the bandaged tattoo on your shoulder, and something soft flickers behind her gaze.

“You’re beautiful,” she murmurs, brushing her lips there—just beside the ink, as if sealing the moment into your skin.

You reach for her shirt next, tugging it over her head, revealing the strong lines of her body, inked and striking. Your hands trace the tattoos on her arms, the curve of her biceps, the warmth of her sides. She’s solid. Real. She breathes deeper under your touch.

When her mouth returns to yours, it’s deeper now—needy. Her hands cup your thighs, urging your hips closer until you’re flush against her. Every slow roll of her hips into yours makes your breath catch, your body answering with a pulse of desire that’s almost dizzying.

She pulls your bra down gently, kissing across the newly exposed skin with slow, deliberate reverence. Her mouth finds one nipple, then the other, her tongue flicking, her teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp. Her hand supports your back as she takes her time—like she’s savoring every reaction you give her.

You thread your fingers through her hair, head tipped back, breath shuddering.

“Abby…” you whisper, and her name on your lips sounds like something sacred.

She lowers you gently onto the padded table, lips trailing fire across your stomach, her fingers working open the button of your pants with practiced ease. She pulls them down, along with your panties, and kisses the inside of your thigh—slow, teasing.

“Still good?” she asks, voice thick.

You nod, legs already trembling slightly. “Please.”

Abby lowers herself between your legs like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Her mouth finds you, warm and soft and thorough, and your breath stutters into a moan before you can hold it back.

She learns you fast. Pays attention. Adjusts when you shift, when your fingers tighten in her hair, when your hips roll forward. She stays steady through it all—lips, tongue, fingers—all of her focused on drawing you out slow and complete.

When you come, it’s with a soft cry, your body arching into her, legs tightening around her shoulders as you fall apart in her hands. She stays with you through it, gentle, grounding, easing you back down with kisses to your inner thighs, then your hips, then finally your lips.

You’re still panting, blinking slowly as she leans over you, her braid draped across your chest.

“You okay?” she asks, brushing your hair from your face.

You smile, dazed. “More than okay.”

She grins, slow and crooked, and kisses you again—this time soft, sweet, like a promise.

⸻

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bluem1lls · 23 hours ago

Note

PLSSS we need part 2 of ‘i'm addicted to you’ I BEGGGGG 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏 pls pls pls pls pls pls pls

don't you know that you're toxic?

toxic! se-mi x reader - summary: do not get back with your toxic ex!!! or do... and get a good fuck and fresh heartbreak. - content: angst!! toxic se-mi!!, smut mdni, strap (r! receiving) fingering (r! receiving) spanking hehe (r! receiving), top! se-mi x bottom! reader, cheating - author's note: YALL KEEP requesting toxic se-mi???????? FINE here it is. i love yaaaaaaaaaall<3 tysm for reading!!!!

part one. part two (you're here!)

⠄⠂☆ No contact for a few months has been working! You're actually better than ever —better than with her at least. Everything has been working out.

You're not doing the "dating someone else to forget her" thing, no, you're being mature!

Until the party.

I mean, It's a saturday night. Youre alone and it doesn't really matter that she might be in the party that Sae-Byok is throwing. You're there to see the common friend that you share with her. Not to see... your ex.

Clearly.

That's the mantra you've been repeating to yourself for the past few hours.

So why is it that you're stuck in a bathroom at 3 am, drunk out of your mind, feeling her wet kisses down your neck as she kneads your ass with one hand and your tit with the other one and your hands are on her neck pulling her closer?

"Missed this so bad" you hear her mumbling from the side of your neck, she hides her face there making you hum in pleasure, eyes closed.

Her kisses go up until they find your mouth.

And fuck, she kisses like she loves you.

⠄⠂☆ So i guess it's not really 'strange' when you wake up saturday morning with her arm wrapped around your waist.

You turn in bed to see her black hair framing her face, eyes peacefully closed and mouth slightly open.

Huh. When she sleeps this quietly, she doesn't even look like the girl who broke your heart.

⠄⠂☆ And as you slowly get out of her bed and you're putting in your shirt, you PROMISE yourself you're never coming back to this.

You're not a cheap slut.

No.

You're worth more.

It took exactly 1 year and 4 months to stop crying everytime you remembered her.

You're done. You're better.

She has no power over—

⠄⠂☆ "Th-that's my good girl" she hums, biting her lip at the sight in front of her. "You see? You're so pretty when that bratty mouth is filled with little whimpers"

And oh my god. You're not sure but your eyes are probably rolled back, drool slips from the corner of your mouth as your legs are spread and fuck...

It's not your fault!

She's just hitting the exact point.

Right there.

"Oh, oh I'm- I'm gonna- se-m" all you can do is babble as her thrusts become faster. Her fingers pick a pace inside you and her right hand circles your clit that way that has your spreading legs shaking. "y-y-yes like that! i'm gonna-"

And you don't even get to finish the sentence before she feels her fingers get coated with your release. Your body trembles and you can only moan loudly. Her fingers come out creamy white as she removes them from inside to put them in your mouth.

"So much for all that bullshit you were talking before huh?" she chuckles sarcastically as she pats your — still shaky— thigh. "getting over me, hating me. yeah, i bet." she mutters under her breath as she removes herself from the middle of your legs to stand up off bed.

⠄⠂☆ And listen. Your friends call you stupid — and they're right — but hey! she did said she's going to a therapist now! and she's been so, so sweet; bringing you presents, sleepoving over, organizing dates.

And you know —believe me, you know— it's only been two weeks, but you can tell she’s changed!

You can feel it!

This time it's for real!

⠄⠂☆ "Ah, you're so fucking dramatic" she says, rolling her eyes as she walks into your apartment. "I was literally just checking her oufit! You do that all the time with other girls!"

"Because I literally check their oufits! you touched her waist and said 'such pretty skirt' even after i told you five minutes ago that she was watching you too much!" you shout back as she stares at you, bored.

God, how overdramatic you were.

If only you could hear what she says to your friends, she thinks to herself.

That would give you a real reason to sob.

⠄⠂☆ Oh, but when it comes to you?

Try to get close to another bitch in her presence.

Try.

se-mi: whos she

se-mi: why are u following her

me: shes just a friend???

me: i introduced her to you baby

se-mi: ok stop following her

se-mi: or is she some whore you've been fucking around while i was gone?

me: i??

me: no

me: but ill stop following her if it bothers u or makes u feel insecure

me: oh and also

me: can u stop following the girls i told you the other day too?

me: the ones you like their bikini photos on ig.

(se-mi is typing...)

se-mi: they're influencers

se-mi: god youre so dramatic????

⠄⠂☆ You're exhausted, and you promise yourself today is the day you come over and leave her. I know! It's the fifth time you say this in the entire month!

But how could you, when she's fucking you this good?

When you're on all fours, wetting your own messy pink bedsheets while drool falls from your pouty lips as she presses your head to your soft silk pillowcase. Cheeks squezed, eyes shut close from the pleasure as she's pouding in and out of you with a seven inches strap that's hitting in all the right places. Your ass even has a red mark of her palm.

A complete slut, at her mercy.

"You're so so good. Such a good girl" she says breathless as she moves faster, harder, fucking you dumb. "fuck, look at that" she gives one more harsh smack to your ass making you clench around her cock. Her hands travel to grab your hips, moving you to follow her ryhtm as she bites her chapped lips.

A soft moan escapes her lips when the strap hits her just right. "mh- j-just like that Hana—"

And just like that, the entire moment goes cold as you turn around to stare at her in shock, her mouth agape.

Oh god. Here we go.

⠄⠂☆ "Listen. She's my best friend. But why are you letting her treat you like that? and look who's talking!" Sae-byeok says as you sigh, your elbows resting on the table, hiding your flushed, ashamed face in your hands.

Se-mi didn't allow you to hang out with anyone, except the shared friends you two had because she trusted them.

Maybe she shouldn't have.

"I just love her" you pout as Sae-byeok moves from her seat to the one by your side. Her hand finds your face, cupping it gently, fingers brushing against your skin.

"But there are... so many girls waiting to treat you better" her hand sneaks to to the back of your neck "Why don't you let me prove it to you?"

And fuccck.

When her lips find yours, the kiss turns hungry, sloppy and messy. Her hands wander to touch every single part of your body.

The adrenaline tilts the moment towards soft bites, desesperate moans that escape your mouth as her hand slowly reaches your inner thighs.

Yeah, you're starting to understand why your girlfriend cheated so many times.

But it's okay!

Maybe it's time to give her what she deserves.

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