#I also escaped a situation I have wanted to escape for years now | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bratbarzal · 5 months ago

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Let It Happen (LH43) 1/3

Pairing: Luke Hughes x Fem!Reader

WC: 17k

If you're ready, all I mean is we could go, I've never craved someone's attention as much as yours.

General Warnings: an almost unbearable amount of sarcasm and snark, even more idiotic shenanigans, many affectionate empty threats of murder/violence, fluff, mentions of golf 🤢, cursing and I'm pretty sure that's it for this half

A/N: in line with the general consensus lmao this has been split, part two will be posted as soon as it's finished (lol) but it's best read as one whole fic, it isn't a multi-part situation really!! it was originally supposed to be my submission for the eras tour fic challenge (hence the graphic I'm too attached to to change) but took a different direction to the song I was given, and I missed the deadline, and I pretty much listened to the secret of us exclusively while writing this whole thing. also dropping an overwhelmingly summery fic in december might actually be my brand. keep your eyes peeled for a christmas fic in july.

very special shoutout to shea @sleepretreat I made a random comment one day that luke gives seth cohen energy, and she fanned that flame like a full time job. ily shea!! I hope this lives up to any expectations and I owe a lot to your instigating!!

AS ALWAYS!!! never proofread!! I'll probably get around to it when the thought of a spelling mistake keeps me awake at night. and also!! please let me know what you think I am like a teeny tiny little plant that can only thrive under the constant shower of validation and you don't want me to wither and die do you? (I’m kidding) (I’m not)

You kind of, sort of, think you might hate summer.

You haven’t always felt this way, though. Growing up, it had always been your favourite time of the year.

No school? Check.

Going on vacation, sometimes multiple, all expenses covered by your parents? Double check.

Getting to do all the cool things you don’t have time for in the school year with all your friends? Concerts, festivals, beach days, bonfires on the evenings. Check, check and check again.

But 4 years ago, your whole world as you knew it was torn apart, and summers have never been the same, since.

A season that was once filled with light and companionship, never ending plans and joviality, became darker - isolated, getting yourself out of the house even if everyone else was busy, driving just to drive and making the best of your own company.

School ended up becoming your escape, especially since you had started college - your studies and the chaos of Greek life distracting you from the calamitous state of your home life, making new friends that became like family and sticking to them like glue, where possible, clingy and possessive to the point of ruin, almost - and so the lack of it in the summers now actually sends you into some sort of warped spiral.

It’s manageable in the winter and spring, the breaks no longer than a few weeks at a time, but going home for summer is somewhat of a nightmare.

It’s hard to go back, hard to ignore the mess your mind has become when it’s just you and your mother - or, you, your mother and whatever bottle of pinot she’s 3 glasses deep into at any given time of the day - and you’re sat in a house that’s a cold reminder of the warmth that once filled it.

But when Ellie - your best friend since moving to college, the girl who took the sister part of sorority sister to the next level at all possible opportunities over the years - found out you’d put your name down to be the caretaker for your sorority house instead of going home, she had put her foot down on your summertime sadness session.

Which is how you end up moving into her family home - spending the first few weeks integrating yourself into their routine while trying to grip desperately onto some form of your own - trying not to get too used to the feeling of such a big family when you know it won’t be forever.

You braid her little sister’s hair everyday, kick a soccer ball around with her little brother when he needs someone to stand in goal, wash the dishes with her mom, talk sports with her dad, and before long, you blend like a chameleon into their dynamic.

You pick up a summer job at the country club to cling back onto your independence. Your commute provides the solitude and quiet you‘ve grown accustomed to in the years before, a bus journey through town with headphones on, watching the scenery and admiring the greenery until you get to work, donning your navy blue polo and tucking your little notepad into your hip apron as you serve tables at the clubhouse restaurant and bar.

It’s a much needed escape from Ellie, if you’re honest.

You love that girl with all your heart, appreciate her housing you more than you’ll ever be able to say, but if you have to hear her sit and mope about how hopelessly in love she is with Jack Hughes for even a second longer, you’re going to vomit. Or scream. Or both.

Jack and Ellie grew up together - their families close, Ellie’s dad best friends with Jack’s uncle, or something - and she’s been into him since he had teeth missing - a point she loves to hammer home when it comes to you always listing that as one of his (many, if it’s up to you) cons. Considering his job, and the fact he already lost one, not too long ago, a toothless boyfriend seems like a massive ick, if you’re honest.

But Ellie is beyond reason when it comes to him. She worships the ground he walks on - talks about him non-stop, messages him every day, regales you with stories you, awfully, but realistically, couldn’t care less about - and it’s the only real problem about living with her.

Even beyond the summer, you two had shared a room your first two years in college, still live in the same house - and it’s a year round problem.

But being unable to escape, having your days tied to close to hers, and knowing that it’s bound to be worse with proximity, Jack back in Michigan for the summer, himself, she’s starting to drive you up the wall.

It wouldn’t bother you if you had never met Jack, but the two of you don’t exactly get along. He’s rude, and self-absorbed, and had looked down on you the first time he ever laid eyes on you, and you really shouldn’t let it get to you, but you do - the thought that your best friend is in love with an asshole, and that she won’t let you hear the end of it.

Won’t stop whining about how he’ll never feel the same, or that she can’t handle another summer of biting her tongue, of being around him, feeling the way she does, and not being able to do anything about it.

She deserves better.

Ellie has a heart of gold, and she deserves someone who handles it with care. If Jack Hughes doesn’t like her back, that’s his loss - but you’re kind of getting sick of telling her that.

Getting through a whole summer of it is going to be hard, you think, but it’s better than the alternative. Better than being entirely alone. So you put on a brave face, use work as your escape in the same way you usually do with school, and avoid blowing your top for as long as you can, suffering through the late nights and heart to hearts where Jack is the sole topic of discussion, and bask in the good stuff.

In the chaos of her siblings, in the closeness of her family, and the way they’ve welcomed you with open arms.

This summer could be okay, you’ve just got to give it a chance.

Luke Hughes loves summer.

He loves being back home in Michigan, spending his days out on the lake, or making the trip out to parade around Ann Arbor, catching up with all his college buddies, making the rounds at all the UMich sporting events he now gets a VIP pass to thanks to his last name.

The routine of it all is familiar, and warming, and it restores a sense of normality that playing in the NHL for the past year has so brutally ripped from him, already.

He had enjoyed starting his summer overseas - making the team for the world championships and competing beyond the abysmal end to his rookie season - had enjoyed the time away from his brothers, if he’s honest. Quinn and the Canucks making it a few rounds into the playoffs, and Jack back home recovering from getting surgery on his shoulder - and it’s the latter he needed the reprieve from.

He does love living with his brother.

Jack looks after him in ways he’ll never really be able to make it up to him for. He always has, Quinn has too, but ever since Luke got drafted to the Devils, Jack has helped him adjust to the chaos of his career without much fuss or hardship.

And he really is grateful for that.

But, God, can he be annoying.

Especially when it comes to his infatuation with his best friend, Ellie.

Jack and Ellie have always been close - despite the fact she’s Luke’s age - and grew up thick as thieves, spending summers together, especially when the family moved to Michigan, and Ellie’s family were just on the other side of town.

He’s always been obsessed with her, even if it hasn’t always been love - but these last few years have been different. Like a switch flipped in his head when Jack saw what Ellie was like when he came to visit Luke in his freshman year of college.

A version of Ellie that was no longer just his - no longer exclusive to their summer bubble, and lived in a world beyond lounging by the lake and hanging out with the Hughes family.

A version of Ellie who liked partying, liked schmoozing and charming everybody she came into contact with, liked being the centre of everyone else’s attention, not just Jack’s.

And it’s that version of Ellie that has driven Luke’s brother crazy, which has, in turn, started to drive Luke crazy. He talks about her non-stop, and it was those much needed weeks away in Czechia that almost had Luke forgetting just how stupid his brother has gotten about the whole thing.

Until he came home to Michigan, and Jack, in all the commotion with his shoulder, with ending his season early and starting his summer off alone, has worked himself into such a stupor about the whole thing that merely a week into his return, he has driven Luke up the wall.

He’s grumpy, all the time - which leads to him being snarky, all the time. He huffs and puffs around the house so much Luke is starting to think he might need an inhaler, and he really can’t take any more.

Not when he’s making such a show of his irritation, stomping around with heavy feet and slamming doors that don’t need to be shut in the first place.

“What crawled up your ass and died there?” Luke frowns as he follows Jack into the kitchen upon his return from therapy, holding out for the doors he swings open with a little too much vigour so that they don’t swing back into his brother’s slinged-shoulder. “I thought the physio is going alright?”

“It is,” Jack huffs, storming over to the fridge and yanking it open, the jars and bottles in the door clanking together in a way that makes Luke cringe. “I’m fine.”

“Tell that to all the hinges you’re testing the limits of.”

“Don’t start with me, Luke, I’m not in the mood.”

“You just said you’re fine.” Luke rolls his eyes as he starts to scroll through his group chat with his friends from college, trying to check who said they might be free today to get him out of this vicious circle.

“It’s nothing.”

“Clearly not.” It’s interactions like this that confirm to Luke just how annoying Jack has become - because what reason does he have to be so evasive? Luke is handing him the opportunity to air out his grievances on a silver platter, and he’s rather slam cupboards and create creases in his forehead from frowning 24/7.

“Fine, it’s Ellie.”

Luke wishes he never bothered asking, although he has been wondering why he’s been seeing way less of her already this summer. He had figured Ellie was away with family until he saw her at the gas station the other night - had watched from the car as Jack had what seemed like a heated conversation by the entrance.

“She’s refusing to hang out with me.”

“Has she said why?” Luke asks, although he doesn’t really care. He’s just asking to get it out of the way in the hopes that Jack talking about it might lighten the load, might make his own life a little easier.

It’s the bitter muttering of your name that captures Luke’s full attention, his neck audibly cracking at the speed in which his head shoots up, no longer caring what could possibly be going on with the boys in the group chat.

“She isn’t going back to whatever fiery hell pit it is that she comes from for the summer, and she’s staying with Ellie’s family, therefore Ellie isn’t staying with us.”

Luke hasn’t heard your name in a while. Not since he left college last year, not since he got caught up in the whirlwind life in the NHL, when a schoolboy crush on a girl he interacted with once in his entire college career became the least of his worries.

But one utterance of it has his spine straightening, just like it would have done just over a year ago.

You’re in Michigan. You’re at Ellie’s, on the other side of town. You’re barely two degrees of separation from him.

“Why can’t Ellie bring her here?” Luke asks, throat dry and voice breaking so subtly that he hopes Jack doesn’t notice. That could be fun. Would make up for the hell his brother has been putting him through since he got here.

Maybe a little glorious sunshine might finally get you to notice his existence. He wouldn’t mind third wheeling Jack and Ellie if you were there, too. It would give him the perfect opportunity to prove he’s worthy of your attention - too shy and too scared to do so, back in college, but he’s different, now. Confident, almost. More sure of himself.

“She hates me.” Jack huffs, “Last time we met she was giving me the stink eye all night.”

And of course it would be his brother to ruin his plans, yet again. You’ll probably hate him, too - a hatred so strong for Jack that it seeps through his entire bloodline, because Luke of all people knows he can be annoying like that.

“Trust me, she probably doesn’t care enough to hate you,” Luke scoffs, not realising the spool of information he’s just given Jack to unravel.

“You know her?”

“We had a class together. I know of her.”

Not the truth, but not exactly a lie.

Luke knows a lot about you. It’s borderline creepy, the observations he can still remember, even after so long.

He knows you like only like coffee if it’s iced, had seen you with too many clear plastic cups to count, had watched plump lips chewing at straws by the time you had finished the drink. He had even, one time, tried to zoom in on a picture of your order printed on the side in one of his many states of delusion where he had been trying to build himself up to ask you out.

He knows you can hold your own in an argument, had watched you debate with the best of them in your business comms class, has watched you shoot down most guys that approach you with a sharp tongue and even sharper wit, and has watched you take down a frat guy or two, usually in defence of your sorority sisters - who Luke noticed you’re the most protective of.

He knows you match your perfume to the colour of your outfit, had notice you smelled citrusy like lemons in yellow, floral like roses in pink, sweet like candy in purple, and clean like fresh cotton in blue.

He knows the pieces of hair that frame your face curl when wet from the rain. Knows you used to volunteer at the pool on the weekends it was open to the kids of the community, would teach them how to swim. He knows you listen to Taylor Swift and has heard you humming just about every song of hers he knows.

But he doesn’t really know you - not on the level Jack is assuming, when his eyes widen and hope flashes across his crystal irises.

“You know how I’m your favourite brother?”

“No,”

“And I let you live with me all year?”

“My name’s on the lease.”

“Maybe you could talk to her for me?”

Luke sighs, shoulders heavy and eyes rolling practically to the back of his head. “I already told you, I don’t really know her like that.”

“C’mon, you could at least try! I’m dying here, Luke! She’s hogging all of Ellie’s time, and she won’t give me the time of day if I try!”

If only Jack knew how much time you’d ever given Luke, he wouldn’t be asking him such an absurd request.

You’re so out of his league, it isn’t even funny. He probably couldn’t convince you to light a candle in a power cut, much less to give his annoying brother a shot to prove himself.

“You’re wasting your time, Jack,” Luke responds, “I’m gonna meet Dylan at the club. No, you can’t come.”

And by the time Luke makes it out to his car, he’s relieved to have ditched that conversation, entirely. He knows what’s waiting when he gets home, what his brother is going to be like for the next few months to come, but a temporary relief is all he needs.

He had already been planning on getting a few late morning holes in at the club, and meeting up with Dylan had been a white lie, needing some alone time away from Jack’s incessant whining to think about how he was going to survive the summer - and seeing you on your break, perched on the edge of the fountain in the courtyard by the clubhouse bar, basking in the sun and talking with your co-worker, he feels like he might have just struck gold.

Since when do you work here?

He supposes since you decided to spend your summer with Ellie’s family - it only makes sense. Ellie doesn’t live too far from the club - not as close as the lake house, but closer than Ann Arbor, at least. She’d worked in the club shop last summer, even when Jack insisted he’d pay for whatever she needed while she was staying with them - had said it was nice to pass the time with something else while they all went off doing whatever - and he assumes you’re doing the same.

It’s the first time he’s seen you in a while, outside of coming across your pictures on his Instagram feed occasionally, or the flash of your figure in Ellie’s stories.

He had thought that, after the year he’s had, he’d be over schoolboy crushes like this - would be over the way his breath catches just at the sight of you, over the way the hairs on the back of his neck prick up and stand to attention, over the way his throat goes dry as he watches your eyes crinkle from afar, watches your lips curve up into a heart-stopping grin.

But it’s like he’s picked up straight from where he left off at the end of his college career, pining after you from afar with hearts in his eyes and feet that start to shuffle at just the thought of approaching you.

If he’s going to do this, though, he needs to be clever about it, he thinks.

Approaching you on your break, limited to the amount of time he can use to put his point across, wasting yours, doesn’t seem like something that will work.

Which is how he finds himself bypassing you completely and walking straight into the bar, offering a friendly nod to the guy stood at the front of house, and letting him point him toward the right section to be served in.

It isn’t long before you’re in front of him, sidling up to his booth, and he had almost forgotten how pretty you are up close. Hair clipped up with loose strands framing your face, chewing at your plump bottom lip as you scribble on your notepad to get your pen to work. And your honeyed voice settling deep in the pit of his stomach, warmth spreading throughout as you introduce yourself, like he has no clue who you are, and tell him you’ll be his server, “What can I get for you?”

“Five minutes of your time?”

The Luke that spent his college years obsessing over you might have stuttered - his voice might have broke, squeaked or choked in your presence - but while his throat does feel a little dry, he’s able to maintain his cool now, even when you look up from your scribblings to meet his eye. Maybe he can do this. Maybe he has matured.

His heart might jump in his chest, his mouth might tingle, his spine might stiffen, but he holds your gaze, hoping if you see a reflection of confidence that you might give him the time of day.

He’s seen you interact with guys before, has familiarised himself with the ten-foot walls you have in place, has seen others fold and try find a long way around, but he thinks that maybe matching your energy is the way to break through.

Who doesn’t love a shortcut?

Your eyes narrow back at him as pouted lips form around a response, looking him up and down before tilting your head, and coming back with, “I all of a sudden feel the need to inform you we do have security here,” you point the tip of your pen to the entrance, where he was greeted on the way in. “I meant a drink.”

“Water’s fine,” his gaze flickers to the movement of your wrist as you click the other side of your pen, not even writing it down. “Maybe with a side of conversation?”

“I’ll go get your water,” you offer a smile, and the insincerity of it does little to cool his bravado, even if you head off with mutterings of why do I always get the creeps?

He watches you as you make your way over to the bar, not creep-like whatsoever, and he channels the nerves that sneak up on him, now that you’re distanced, through fiddling with his fingers on the table, pinching at the tips of them when you glance back over your shoulder, probably telling the girl behind the bar just how lucky you were to once again get the weirdo in your section.

It surprises him how little he cares, possessing more of your attention now than he ever has before, and if he could tell the Luke from two years ago, who spent every shared Principles of Marketing class ritualistically watching you chew on the end of your pen, that he’d be able to make eye contact without dribbling and breaking out into full body sweats, he’d have lost his mind.

He embodies a strange level of dislocated arrogance that manifests itself in his body language, sinking into the booth with arms outstretched across the back, a dangerous smirk teasing the corner of his mouth when you return, placing a pitcher of water down on the table and a glass with ice.

“I’m Luke,” he tells you, placing a hand on his chest and doing his best to ignore the thudding he feels beneath it. “Hughes. Jack’s brother,” and when you look back over to him with a raised brow, he adds, “Ellie’s Jack.”

“And who’s Ellie?” You ask with a tilt of your head, your voice dripping in teasing sarcasm.

“Funny,” he quips, biting back the urge to call you what he actually means. He can hardly call you cute, you’d probably pour that water straight over him. “I went to UMich, we had a couple classes together.”

Your eyes narrow again, and he knows it’s an intimidation tactic, a way to make him feel smaller than he’s acting, shrinking him down to a version of himself you can stamp your authority on, but he finds himself being resilient for once, carrying on like he isn’t affected.

He is. Massively, in fact. Just not in the way you probably want. Your indifference drives him in a way that presses into his spine, an inner voice pleading, notice me, I’m breaking through!

“Bauman’s class, Business Comms, you sat in the second row, I sat in the third, you dropped your pencil one time and I-,”

“I know who you are.”

So he’s been yapping on at you for no reason? Fantastic.

He can’t let his momentum slip, though, so he forces the corners of his lips into a victorious smile, and counters, “So you know I’m not a creep.”

“You literally memorised my seat in a class from 2 years ago, so…”

“I have a good memory,” he’s quick to defend, fighting the urge to let his eyes linger on your pouted lips.

“Right,” you roll your eyes, “What is it you want, again?”

“I came to talk about Jack and Ellie.” He nods to the other side of the booth, and has to roll his shoulders so that his chest doesn’t inflate with misplaced hubris when you shuffle into the seat with a huff, discarding your notepad to the side as you level him with another raised brow.

“What about ‘em?”

“About how they’re hopelessly in love with each other and doing nothing about it.”

“You got hopeless right. What’s that got to do with us?”

Us. Oh, he likes that.

“I’m thinking they need a little shove in the right direction. And maybe we could be the shovers.”

You presses your lips together in faux-apology, a lopsided, patronising, adorable frown taking over your expression. “No can do, I don’t shove, I’m a pacifist.”

“A nudge, then?”

He isn’t giving up easy, no matter how much sarcasm you try to throw his way. You wouldn’t have sat down if there wasn’t something about this situation that irks you, too.

If Ellie is being only half as annoying as Jack is, he knows that you’re having a bad time of it. And you’re supposed to spending her summer with her - it can’t be easy, having your friend constantly pining over someone and refusing to do anything about it, if anything, making it your problem.

“Are you here to eat or annoy me?”

“Both,” he smiles, “I just figured a problem shared is a problem solved, and all.”

“How profound.”

“C’mon, you sat down, you at least agree they’re into each other, and I know you’re staying with her this year, so I know you’ve been getting the same grief I have.”

“I’ve been on my feet 4 hours, I wouldn’t look too deep into me sitting down.”

“Jack’s been moping around about her for years, I can’t listen to it anymore, he’s all, she’ll never like me back, this, and, I’ll never find a girl like her, that,” he whines, imitating his brother’s voice in the most annoying, high pitched tone he can muster, “I can’t take one more breakdown of her snap stories, especially not if it’s all summer if she’s not gonna be staying over, I’m gonna lose my mind.”

“How supportive,” the sarcasm in your bite does little to hide the beginnings of your smile, your glare softening into what he hopes is the start of some sort of bond, a shared feeling of exasperation. Finding your footfall in common grounds.

“It’s relentless, we can’t go a single conversation anymore without him bringing her up,” he sighs, slumping into his seat, finally giving in to all the ways this is starting to grate on him. “I don’t get why neither of them do anything.”

“Yeah,” you sigh, too, relenting a little. “She talks about him so much it kind of makes me nauseous.”

“How supportive,” he mimics, nerve endings set alight when your eyes meet his over the table, and narrow in a different way, almost appreciative, almost respectable.

“Can it, Hughes,” you scoff, “Me even entertaining this conversation right now is support enough, I’ve had it in my ear for months about how she doesn’t know how she’ll make it through another summer.”

“That’s what I’m saying. If we can get them together this summer, then we’re both better off. No more whining or crying or earaches for either of us.”

“I’d hope you didn’t make your way out here with the mere promise of no more earaches, Luke.” He tries not to preen at the way you say his name. “What’s in it for me?”

“You and Ellie can stay at our lake house.” He suggests, straightening up before he leans onto the table, elbows extending so that he can rest on them, “It’s closer to the club than her family’s place, it’s gotta be better than having her siblings running around you all the time, I can even drive you to work when I’m free, if you want?”

You blink at him slowly, as if to say, and? “So I can stay at your glorified frat house, and you can be my chauffeur?” You ask with an unimpressed raise of your brow, before letting out a humourless scoff of, “What more could a girl want to do with her summer?

“What do you want?” He asks, leaning further forward.

“To go back to work and not worry about strange guys propositioning me, funnily enough.”

Luke laughs, a deep, breathy laugh that rises from the depths of his chest and comes alive in an almost-bark, and he doesn’t miss the way your eyes flicker to his mouth when it comes out.

This is fun.

There’s no way he’s letting you leave this table without agreeing - just the thought of one more singular interaction keeping him on his toes.

“Why don’t we make it interesting, then?”

“It’s about time you tried.” The quiver of your lip tells him everything he needs to know - and that’s without the entertained glint in your eye that accompanies it. You’re enjoying this, just as much.

“We could make a competition out of it.”

“A competition?” You ask, with a curious tilt of your head.

There it is, he thinks. Interest: piqued. He practically has you in the palm of his hand. Who would ever have thought, the way to a sorority girl’s heart would be a friendly little wager?

“Whoever actually gets them together, wins.”

It’s all he can think of in the moment - petulant and part-planned, but it seems to be enough.

“Wins what?” You lean onto your elbows, your gaze levelling his as he mirrors your positioning, having to slouch a little further forward in his seat to meet your pretty eyes.

“Whatever you want.” He doesn’t intend it to come out as low as it does, doesn’t realise how close the two of you have gotten over the table, but he sees the flicker of something cross your features as your head tilts again, eyes still locked on his as yours begin to narrow, still just as pretty even when they’re glaring at him.

“It’s what you want that concerns me.”

“Don’t worry your pretty little head over it,” he jibes, watching the way your lips part in preparation of another witty comeback. “What do you say?” He asks, not giving you the chance, seeing the way it makes your skin crawl that you weren’t quick enough, for once. “Are you in?”

You heave out a sigh, shoulders slumping - a tell-tale sign that you’re about to acquiesce - and Luke starts to feel his chest puff out in victory. This feels like a shut-out. It feels like the best performance of his life.

“You’re gonna make me regret this, aren’t you?”

“Oh definitely,” he smirks, eyes tracking you as you lean back into the booth, retreating from him in defeat, a hand running through your hair as he promises, “You’ll warm up to me soon enough, though.”

“I can’t see that happening.”

“I can,” he shrugs, leaning back too. “I’ve been told I’m inevitable.”

Luke can remember, like it was yesterday, the first time he ever saw you.

Freshman year, the week he moved into his dorm at Michigan, Jack had sent him across campus to check in on how Ellie was getting on. He had arrived with some extravagant gift basket in tow, plastic wrapped, a giant blue bow tied around the top and an assortment of snacks inside, and was left knocking for at least five minutes before you showed up.

“Please tell me you’re not another stripper-gram.”

If his throat hadn’t gone so dry all of a sudden, he thinks he would have had more wits about him to have questioned the use of another - a concept that had stuck in his head for weeks until he caught wind of a story of pledges for Pike being sent around campus and forced to lure girls to their house through way of humiliating song.

But God, you were pretty.

Siren eyes narrowed toward him, glossy lips pouted pensively, long lashes blinking impatiently as you awaited some kind of response that didn’t come in the form of an open, drooling mouth.

“I’m Luke.”

“Right.” You had sighed, pretty eyes rolling at him. “You’re blocking my door."

“Oh, I’m-,” he stuttered, immediately stepping to the side for you to come forward and insert your key into the lock. “Does Ellie live here?” He asked, confusion etched into his features as he watched you swing the door open, turning in your place to look him over again.

“Depends who’s asking.”

“I’m Luke.”

“So you’ve said.”

“I know her.”

“Clearly.”

“This is her basket.”

“Does she need to sign for it?”

“No, I-,”

“I’ll make sure she gets it, thanks, Lu!”

And when you had taken the basket from his hands, he had been too distracted by the way your skin brushed against his to properly respond, or worry if you had called him that as a nickname or had already forgotten his name, entirely.

He then spent days thinking about you, looking for you - at parties, in the campus coffee shop, online, despite not knowing your name - trying to commit to memory the way your eyes had sparkled when looking his way, until his first Business Communications class.

He had been a little early, first week nerves playing out and his constant craving for positive validation coming to the forefront, and was watching the door waiting for the professor to arrive. He had been slouched in his seat, chin in the palm of his hand, foot tapping rhythmically against the floor, and he had almost given himself whiplash when you walked in.

He learned your name from there, learned a lot just from watching you in that class, but never really captured your attention.

And if the Luke that has been driving you to work every few days, who has been living with you for the past two weeks - who sits around the same dining table, laughs at the same jokes cracked when you’re all lounging around the house, sits out under the same sun, drinks from the same carton of orange juice in the morning - could tell the Luke that sat pining after you all that time, all the little ways in which he’s captured your attention lately, he’d probably have an aneurysm.

When you and Ellie moved in, Luke had been the only one allowed to touch your stuff - and there’s a part of him that knows it was mainly because you enjoyed watching him work like a packhorse, hauling your cases up the stairs and dropping them in front of you with a huff, but there’s a larger, more delusional part that thinks you preferred him to the others, maybe even trusted him.

He’s taking credit for how quick you’ve adapted to the dynamic of the house, too. Of all the different faces coming in and out - Quinn’s friends, Jack’s friends, his friends, sometimes even his parents. If you’re around, you’re pleasant. You abide by house rules, some of them stupid, but set by the brothers so long ago that they just work now - like no phones outside of your rooms so that you can be more present. You insert yourself comfortably into conversations, you form your own relationships with everyone - you and Quinn trade book recommendations, you and Jack bicker while Ellie mediates. You do your fare share of chores - laundry, dishes, cooking, even.

And he’s so caught up in just sharing space, just being around you, even, that for those first couple weeks, he forgets why you even agreed to be there in the first place.

At least, he forgets the incentive part - because he watches mindlessly as you interfere in Jack and Ellie’s dynamic, without a care in the world for the fact that it means he’s losing.

He watches you push one of them out of the way to claim whatever seat at the table or in the car forces them to sit beside each other. He watches you taunt Jack to just the right point where Ellie interferes, coos at him protectively and he melts into her affections. He watches you agree to plans he knows you wouldn’t in a million years follow along with, just to get them together - and all he can do is admire how easy you make it seem.

He admires when you come out wakeboarding with the group, when you let him fasten you into a vest and don’t flinch when his fingertips brush against bare skin. Watches you bite your tongue over the fact you just got your hair blow dried - a fact you have no problems relaying back to him when he drives you to work the next day, and you’re muttering in his passenger seat about lake water giving you frizz - just so you’re not dampening the mood.

And when you agree to tag along to the golf course on your day off, despite the fact it’s so close to work if could be considered triggering, and you stick by Luke’s side so that Ellie can feign some sort of incompetence until Jack takes it upon himself to correct her form.

You stand by Luke’s side, the two of you watching with mirrored expressions of almost-disgust as Jack wraps his arms around Ellie’s body, and send a shiver down his spine when you lean in for only him to hear as you say, “I’d ask if you’ve put any more thought into what you want out of our bet, but I so have this in the bag.”

The bet.

Luke hasn’t thought about it since that day in the restaurant, if he’s honest, but he had known what he wanted then.

He’s hardly going to tell you, now, though.

If he’s ever going to take you out on a date, he doesn’t really want to force your hand - not that he has a chance, he’s fallen so behind with this Jack and Ellie thing that it isn’t even funny.

He needs to up his game, if only for the fact that you’ll no doubt catch on to his lack of efforts, soon.

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” he taunts, because it’s what he does best, “I have a few tricks up my sleeve.”

“And how long do you plan on keeping them up there?” You call him out so easily, tilting your head when his eyes meet yours, mischief highlighted by the sunshine that speckles in your irises.

“Maybe I’m luring you into a false sense of security,” he shrugs, “Maybe I’m letting you do all the heavy lifting so I can swoop in when those weak arms get tired.” He pokes at your side, basking in the way you scowl like you pertain any sort of threat to him.

He has you figured out, by now.

“I didn’t have you pegged as being lazy, Hughes.”

“You spend a lot of time thinking about me, huh?”

“You wish,” you scoff, shoving when he dares to get too close, and it’s when Luke is biting back a full-blown grin that Ellie comes back over.

“This sun is crazy, I think I left the sunscreen in the locker room and Jack’s nose is going all red, would you come back with me?”

You smile sweetly at your best friend and agree, only glaring at Luke over Ellie’s shoulder when she’s distracted with saying her brief, temporary goodbyes to Jack, and once you’ve turned and made your way over to the cart, he lets his eyes linger on your figure as you retreat.

The soft sway of your ponytail, the expanse of smooth skin along your legs, he’s completely hypnotised, and he needs to pull himself together, he thinks.

He tries to regain focus as he and Jack work their way through the next couple of holes, caddying their clubs around without the cart, and chatting mindlessly until Jack sighs heavily, like he’s been waiting to bring something up.

“I want to take Ellie out on the boat tomorrow,” He states as Luke tees up, resting on his club as he squints against the sun to watch his little brother, “Just the two of us, so we can talk about stuff.”

“Sounds riveting,” the disinterest in Luke’s tone is amplified by the lack of attention he’s giving overall, looking out across the green and trying to measure his swing before he takes it. “Have fun.”

“I was thinking I’d need your help for it to work.”

“I’m not being your boat-butler again,” Luke scoffs, mind immediately going to all the times their parents would make Jack take Luke out with him and his friends, and all the times he was made to wait on his older brother hand and foot to make up for crashing his hang-outs.

“I’m not asking you to tag along,” Jack scoffs, “You third-wheeling would be the ultimate buzz-kill. I thought you could be of use elsewhere.”

“You’re making whatever it is sound so fun.”

Luke takes his swing, driving the ball and watching it soar to his desired point with a hand shielding his eyes from the sun. Jack watches too, stepping to Luke’s side to measure how far from his own ball it lands.

“Nice,” he mutters appreciatively as the two of them load their clubs into their stand bags. “I need you to keep Regina George busy, distract her or something, she’s stuck to Ellie like glue, it’s beyond annoying.”

If only he knew, Luke thinks, a worry in the back of his mind about how his brother owes more to you than he even realises.

“You worried she’s gonna make her see sense?”

Jack swats at his arm and rolls his eyes.

“I’m worried she’s gonna ruin the good vibes like she usually does and I won’t be able to bite my tongue from saying something and looking like the asshole.”

Distracting you isn’t the worst thing he could be doing with his time, Luke thinks. It’s not like he has to go all out, you’ll no doubt be hanging out around the house and the two of you can hang together. All he has to do is keep you off your phone. Shouldn’t be too hard. You’ve adapted pretty well to mimicking the guys when it comes to staying off theirs.

It ticks off the box of trying to fight for a scrap of your attention. With no one else around, you’ll have no choice but to entertain his company.

And it puts him in front of your little race - lending a helping hand to Jack’s plans to talk to Ellie is surely the same as getting them together. It’s all falling so perfectly into his lap. He isn’t being lazy.

But he can’t let Jack know that, so he heaves out a sigh and offers a slow shake of his head for dramatic effect. “Fine,” he groans, “But you owe me. Big time.”

You’re starting to find it harder and harder to pretend like you don’t want to be at the Lake House.

If you’re being honest, you don’t entirely know why you’re even trying to keep up pretences, but using your disinterest as armour has become like second nature over the years, and you’re hardly going to stop now.

Even if there are already so many little things about being there that are starting to wear you down.

Quiet, early mornings, for one - birds chirping just outside your open window, sun rays pouring in through sheer curtains that flow in the slight breeze, that light feeling that blows through your chest when you’re sat out on the deck behind the house with a fresh cup of coffee, looking out over the still lake and basking in the peace of it all.

And even when it’s not so peaceful, when the kitchen is full of bodies swerving around each other to try and throw together some sort of breakfast spread - pastries and fruit, bacon and eggs, various boxes of cereal on the counter. Quinn had even made a whole batch of pancakes one morning, and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t come down every day since hoping to see him donning that same frilly apron that Cole had draped around his waist and working his magic with a pan.

You’ve never really been a part of such a full house. You had been an only child for so long - and by the time your parents split, and it was just you and your mom, on the days she wasn’t already at work when you got up - and were so ingrained in your own routine in the morning that you think you might actually need the chaos to function better. The rush of bodies, the arguments over who drank the last of the juice, the bickering over who’s turn it is to do the next grocery run - it’s a kind of entertainment you haven’t been privy to in a long time.

Being kind of disconnected from everything else isn’t as bad as you thought it would be, either. You’re not attached to your phone, checking socials to see what everyone else is doing, to see if your dad has sent any messages yet this summer, and you find yourself connecting a little more with the people around you and leaving your family stress on the back burner. You’re more focused on what’s in front of you, and your relationships with other people. With Ellie, with some of the guys in the house, with your friends at work, even.

And it’s nice to be closer to work too. You don’t have to rush around trying to make the bus - Luke has been keeping his word and driving you to the club most days, and where he can’t, either somebody else has offered, or you’ve just ridden one of the bikes in the garage that the boys said were free to use - the helmet hair is an easy fix when you have access to the locker rooms.

It’s an adjustment, for sure, getting used to being in a full house. Especially this one - with a constant revolving door of faces, friends of the brothers switching out week by week to come and stay, departing just as you’ve started getting to know them with a promise of dropping by again soon.

So far, you’re almost at double-digits for the names you’ve had to memorise. Some of them you were already familiar with, guys from Michigan who you already knew or knew of, but others were more Jack or Quinn’s friends that you’d never had the pleasure of meeting before now.

Cole Caufield being one of them.

He had arrived a couple of days after you and Ellie moved yourselves in, closer to Jack than the other two brothers, you had noticed, and was going to be staying longer than any of the other visitors - having his own designated room in the house, similar to you girls.

You like Cole - he’s good fun, can take a joke unlike his supposed best friend, and has the kind of smile that almost gives you a buzz whenever it’s flashed your way. Your first few interactions with him were seemingly pleasant, despite Jack constantly in his ear with a hardened glare pointed your way and no doubt unsavoury words uttered. Cole would just shrug him off, laugh, meet your eyes and drop a wink your way - a gesture you’d usually squirm and cringe at, but Cole kind of pulls it off.

He joins in when you chirp Luke, too - which, if your honest, is your main source of entertainment since arriving, so your interactions with him grow day by day.

You haven’t really spent any one-on-one time with Cole yet, though. You were hoping to, before he left to visit home for the weekend - for no other reason than to get the scoop on something you’d happened upon at work last week - and had planned on asking him to hang out on your day off. But with Cole now gone for a few days, Jack and Ellie off doing god knows what, Quinn and Luke working out wherever, you have no choice but to spend your free Sunday lounging around the house, trying to find something to suppress your growing boredom.

You start with your nails, painting them a summery orangey-red and doing your toes to match, then do your laundry, abiding by house rules that you rotate the loads between the machines, and fold out whoever’s clothes were last in the dryer and place them in the hamper on the side.

You’re hoping you haven’t had to fold Jack’s underwear but you decide to live in blissful ignorance - trying to identify the load based on the rest of the clothing in there is impossible when they all share, so it kind of works in your favour.

You FaceTime your mom for almost an hour, getting an update on what she’s been up to with work, and giving her updates on how your summer is going, trying to focus on your time at the club and Ellie so she doesn’t worry too much again that you’re spending your summer in a house filled with boys.

And by the time Luke and Quinn come back from their workout, you’re in the lounge, 50 pages deep into a book you really couldn’t care less about, but there’s something in you that refuses to beg one of them for company, so you suffer in silence.

Even when Luke does join you, throwing himself down onto the opposite side of the couch you’re occupying and pushing your feet off his side like it’s his sole purpose just to annoy you.

“I was comfortable there, asshat,” you frown, lifting your feet back into their previous position and using one to give him a light kick to his thigh.

“Yeah, well, I hardly want your feet all up in my business while I’m trying to relax,” he sighs, sinking into the cushions with hands clasped behind his head, biceps flexing and tightening the arms of his t-shirt in a way that momentarily catches your eye. You’re thankful for his closed eyes, chewing at the inside of your cheek as you divert your attention back to the mundane words on the pages in front of you.

“And yet here you are when there are 2 other couches.”

“Yeah, well, I know how much you like to be near me.”

You try to ignore him, pulling your feet a little closer to your body and focusing back on the book, but it’s hard when Luke has such a presence. You feel the little looks he keeps sending your way like a physical touch, and the couch shifts with every slight movement he makes, so when he constantly shuffles, you start to think he wants your attention.

Of course he wants your attention. This is Luke Hughes.

“Are you just sitting down here to annoy me?”

He lights up, like he’s just been waiting for you to ask, and shuffles in his seat to face you, fully, bouncing in place like a puppy being teased with a tennis ball.

“I’m actually trying to distract you, if you must know.”

“Bold of you to assume you have enough of my attention to be distracting in the first place,” you scoff, trying not to react to the way he smirks in your peripheral, the words in front of you all blurring together. If you were actually focused on them, you’d have lost your place, already.

“I think you pay more attention to me than you’d like to admit.”

“That’s some ego you’ve got on you, Hughes,” you narrow your eyes as you look above the edge of your book, “Is that what you spend that big NHL paycheque on, charisma classes? How to flirt for dummies?”

“Oh, is that what we’re doing? Flirting?”

Damn. You walked yourself right into that one.

Sometimes biting back at Luke comes like second nature, words first, thoughts after - and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t like it that way. It’s easy, the back and forth, and you can’t really think of an instance with him where you’ve sat in a lingering, awkward silence. You’ve really grown to hate silence, lately.

“You wish.”

“You think I’m charismatic,” he teases in a sing-song voice, knocking at your knee and wiggling his eyebrows when you glare at him.

“I think you’re an idiot.”

“You’re not gonna ask what I’m distracting you from?”

“I don’t really care,” you lie, eyes darting back down and diverting the attention he so desperately craves away from him.

“Jack wanted to take Ellie out on the boat.” He says, ignoring your attempts to ignore him - pushing your buttons like a full time job. Like an operator for your last nerve.

“Good for her.”

“Alone.”

“No shit.”

“To ask her out.”

“Whoop-de-doo.”

“Whoop-de-,” Luke straightens up, like a whack-a-mole with his head positioning itself over the top of your book, and you kind of wish you had one of those soft mallets right about now. It would be so satisfying to bonk at his head, you think. “What do you mean, whoop-de-doo, is this not what you agreed to be here for? To get them together?”

You scoff, flicking to the next page of the book in feigned disinterest. “He isn’t asking her out today.”

This is the exact something you had wanted to talk to Cole about - whispers in the staff lounge at work earlier in the week doing the rounds would imply otherwise, but your main source is kind of a gossip, and you’re not entirely sure of their reliability, despite the few degrees of separation to the subject at hand.

Mutterings of Jack and Cole and their little country club connections.

You can hardly ask Luke of all people if his brother is as much of a man-whore as everyone is making out. Cole was a safe bet - he’d probably just tell you straight up what they’re up to, wear his pride like a shining gold medal. He’s upfront about his promiscuity, at least. Luke is more protective. Of himself, of his family, you’re not entirely sure. There haven’t been as many whispers about him.

“How could you possibly know that?”

“Because he’s a spineless idiot,” you retort, eyes flicking up momentarily to take in his furrowed brow. “No offence,” comes out of nowhere, and you surprise yourself with the instinct to lessen the blow of your words for the first time in forever.

“None taken, he’s only my flesh and blood,” Luke huffs, “You’re just jealous I’m winning our bet.”

“Sure,” you drawl, eyes widening to emphasise the sarcasm as you make a point of angling your head to the next page, like you’ve taken a single word in for the past five minutes. “He’s been talking to one of the girls from work. There’s no way he’s doing that and asking Ellie out, unless he’s completely brain dead.”

And when you look back at Luke, that furrowed brow has shifted into a full blown frown, pouted lips and eyes cast down as if he’s trying to figure everything out in his head.

It’s probably the pout that has you cushioning your words, once more.

“Again, no offence, I doubt it’s in your DNA.”

“How do you know?”

“I’m no bio student but I don’t think there’s a genetic marker for being a fuckboy.”

“No, about him talking to one of the girls at the club. He didn’t tell me that.”

Why does he have to sound like that? Let down and unsure, quieter than you think you’ve ever heard him. It’s like the tone he carries goes straight to your fingers, clasping the book closed without marking your page - because what business do you have carrying on that charade?

“Do you guys tell each other everything?” You ask as you throw the book until it lands on the coffee table with a gentle thud, shuffling until you’re sat against the arm of the couch with knees bent in front of you, giving him your undivided attention and feeling guilty that it might not be enough.

“I thought we did,” he scratches at the back of his head, nervously, “He literally told me yesterday he was taking her out to talk about stuff, why would he make a point of asking me to keep you busy if he’s not serious about asking her out?”

“You don’t want to hear my answer to a question about your brother not being serious.”

“Who’s the girl?” He asks, ignoring your comment despite the slight ghost of a smile you see flash into the corner of his mouth.

“Jessica, she works at the pro shop, apparently they’ve been texting all summer.”

You know for a fact that since you’ve started paying attention, you’ve seen Jack on his phone a lot for a guy who chirps you for your own screen-time, and who has enforced the house rule of no phones outside your room like a prison guard yells out no touching at visitation. So it sort of checks out. You’ve tried to sneak a peak, but he’s protective of his stuff like a yappy little dog with attachment issues at the best of times, so you haven’t really put too much effort into it.

“There were a few people talking about it in the lounge at work the other day,” you shrug, “One of the girls talking about it is Jess’ best friend, so not exactly from the horse’s mouth, but I don’t think she’d be spreading lies about her friend around like that.”

“Can you find out?”

“You ask that like I haven’t been trying.” That gets a full smile, a small chuckle that lifts his shoulder, even, “I was gonna grill Caufield about it but he’s gone. But I know you guys have plans when he gets back tomorrow, so if you want to take Cole I’ll hack away at the grape vine at the club?”

“Does this mean we’re teammates?”

“No. It absolutely does not.”

Hacking away at the grapevine is really a lot more like plucking absentmindedly at an overgrown patch of grass when it comes to workplace gossip.

By the end of your shift, you’re leaving the club with a fist clutched full of loose blades, fingers stained green from the amount of information people were willing to ‘fess up.

Liam who works behind the bar had overheard a conversation where Jack had mentioned Jessica, but could only give you useless tidbits, like how he had to stop by the shop for a new putter, and Jess had been the one to ring him up.

Hardly incriminating, but you had a feeling it would be a small piece of a way larger puzzle. That, and guys are notoriously useless at gossiping, there’s definitely more to that story than Liam could even comprehend in his tiny man brain.

Cassidy who works at the front desk had seen Jack and Jess talking in the main lobby last week, definitely flirting, she had said - with hair flips and giggles galore - and way too familiar to be new.

Much better.

Paola who has the alternative shifts in the pro shop was more than willing to take up ten minutes of your time ranting how Jess’ work is never fully done when it comes to a handover, and she spends half her time on her phone. Kiran, who works the bev cart every Monday, said Jack is always one of the most charming in their golfing group, so it’s no surprise if he is exchanging texts with girls from the club.

You get dirt from most corners of the place, and it leads you all the way back to your station, to reservations set for the restaurant, where tonight’s list - unfortunately a shift you’re not set to work, although you very much question the serendipity of that - has Jack’s name down at 7pm. A table for 2 in the back corner, shielded from prying eyes and intimate.

And if it weren’t for the fact you’ve already worked a full shift, you would consider staying just to get the full scoop.

You know Ellie isn’t going to be the one sat across from him, she’s been sending you pictures all day of her various hauls for her quiet night in. New paints and pencils, a sketchpad, some candles - she has all intentions of working on her watercolour technique.

So it has to be for him and Jessica.

Imagine his face, you think, picturing wide, panicked eyes as you roam up to his table to take his order. He’d actually crap his pants.

But, it’s another set of eyes that you picture when you start to enjoy the scheming a little too much. The sad, teary eyes of your best friend, when she finds out the guy she’s been hung up on for half her life, who she has all but convinced herself isn’t interested, and is - absurdly - ‘far too good’ for her - yeah, right - is dating other girls while taking her out on not-so-platonic boat dates only the day before. A boat date that she had come back to your room, flung herself onto her belly on the bed, and kicked her feet as she gushed all about it.

So you make your way back to the house after a long day, and resign yourself to the fact that you’re going to have to, yet again, get all your information on Jack’s date second hand.

You primed Cara, your colleague in the restaurant, to keep an eye out, and she promised to send updates on her breaks, and you have been holed up in yours and Ellie’s shared bedroom trying to keep her busy when there is a persistent knock at the door, and a mop of soft, curly brown hair pokes in before his eyes meet yours.

“Hey, Luke!” Ellie chimes, cheery and all too blissfully unaware of the potentially horrific circumstances you’ve stumbled upon. “You need to borrow my conditioner again?”

You scoff from your position on the bed, watching a slight pink hue flush up Luke’s neck.

“What? No,” he denies, running a hand through his hair and seemingly frowning a little at the way it feels. “I’m going to the store, wondered if either of you needed anything?”

“Nah, thanks, we’re good,” Ellie smiles, attention diverting straight back to where she’s drawing in her sketchbook, missing the way Luke widens his eyes and tilts his head as if to encourage you to take him up on his offer.

“Can I come with?” You shuffle from your position on the bed, swinging your legs out from beneath you and over the side as Ellie looks back at you.

“Sorry, I didn’t realise you wanted something.”

“Someone’s got to show the poor guy what’s what on the haircare aisle, El.”

And you’re thankful that Ellie has settled herself in for the evening already by 6:45, showered, pyjamas on, otherwise she might have tried to tag along, too, just for something to do.

You swipe her phone before she can notice and hide it under your pillow before you leave, thinking it might reduce the risk of her getting bored and texting Jack, or, worse, checking his location.

A trip out gives you the chance for you and Luke to debrief each other on your findings of the day - or, as it turns out, just you, because Luke Hughes might be the worst information-gatherer on planet Earth.

Finding his life’s niche in hockey is fortunate, because he definitely wouldn’t cut it as an investigator.

“He just said he didn’t know anything,” Luke shrugs of his earlier encounter with Cole, and you try not to gape at him in disbelief as he fiddles with the screen in his BMW, scrolling through the interface in search of the nearest store.

You swat his hand away with a scoff, typing in a destination, “And you believed him?”

“Was I not supposed to?”

“You’re about as useless as a chocolate teapot, Hughes. What is it with guys and gossip, are you all really that dumb?”

“That’s the address for the club,” he points out, ignoring your jibe as he starts driving.

“Well done, you can read.”

“Why?”

“Because, thankfully, one of us is a good detective.” You snark, “Jack’s there.”

“So?”

“He’s on a date.”

“No he isn’t,” Luke frowns, attention momentarily taken from the road as he looks over at you. “I’ve been with him all afternoon, he would have told me if he had a date, tonight.”

“Oh yeah? Where’d he say he was going when he left, earlier?”

He hadn’t been home when you got back from work, but that had been around an hour ago. You figured if he was sneaky enough to book into the restaurant when you’re not working, he’d have his wits about him to avoid you, entirely. Whenever the two of you cross paths, you can’t help but try get on his last nerve, and he’s hardly going to want to start his evening in a foul mood.

“To get his hair cut.”

Jesus Christ, you think, he’s so lucky he’s cute.

“You’re so clueless. He’s at the lounge with Jessica, the girl I told you about yesterday.”

“And what are we supposed to do about that?”

“We’re gonna supervise. And maybe interfere, if necessary.”

You don’t really have a plan, but it seems like the right thing to at least get a look in as to what the hell Jack thinks he’s doing, especially if you’re going to carry on with this whole plan of getting him and Ellie together. If he’s seriously entertaining other girls while making out to Luke that he only has eyes for Ellie, your plans might have to change. You’re not sure if Luke will be on board with the new path you’re willing to take, but you’ll be happy to kill his brother on your own.

“Interfere?” Luke’s eyes are wide, but he keeps them on the road, fingers flexing against the wheel. “I just came out for chips to make nachos, not play spies!”

“Cara’s working tonight, she said she’d keep an eye on them for me. I bet if I cover her hosting shift on Friday she’d sabotage their date. We’d just have to sit back and watch.”

“Oh,” Luke’s brows furrow, as if it’s taking any consideration at all to mess with his brother. “You really are an evil genius.”

You try not to think too hard about who’s been spewing that rhetoric already in his ear, and instead you smile when he casts his eyes your way, proud and pleased.

“Thank you.”

It takes another 15 minutes to get to the club, considering Luke’s best Driving Miss Daisy impression, so their date is already underway by the time Cara is ushering you to a booth in the far corner, where you can see Jack’s table, but he shouldn’t be able to see yours, and agreeing to play along.

“Can I get you guys any drinks?” She asks as she hands over two menus, and you’re too interested in trying to gauge the vibe at the other table while Luke looks over his.

“Two diet cokes, shaved ice, no lemon,” he says, and you can’t help but frown at the way the specificity of that order rolls so easily off his tongue. That’s your order.

“Any food?”

“Could we just get some nachos, please?” You ask, sliding your menu across the table without even looking, not wanting to give Luke too much of a chance to peruse his own out of fear you’ll be here all night. “And extra picante on the side.”

“Extra guac, too,” Luke adds as Cara scribbles the instructions on her notepad, “And some of those chicken tenders, and extra ranch. And maybe some fries. Yeah, chilli fries. And breadsticks.”

You level him with a glare, already proven right in your decision not to give him too much time to think about what he wanted. He’ll order every appetiser on the menu, if given half the chance.

“Thanks, Cara, that’s everything.”

“Sure thing, should be around fifteen minutes. They only just ordered,” she points her pen back to Jack’s table, where Jess is leaning onto the table and Jack is leaning back in his seat - heavy on the distance but even heavier on the eye contact. That little shit.

“Does he have any allergies?” You lean onto your own table to ask Luke, quirking a brow up when his eyes darken in response, mischief swirling in his emerald irises.

“Absolutely not,” Cara interjects, “I’m doing this so you cover my job, not make me lose it.”

“Let me guess, he ordered the steak, medium-rare?” Luke asks, and she nods, hesitantly. “Char it.”

“Won’t he complain?”

“He’ll just grumble to himself about how tough it is. It’ll put him in a bad mood. That’s what we want, right?”

“Yeah,” you confirm, nodding your head to ease Cara’s worries despite what you really want is for Chef Michael to poison the cut, entirely. If Jack Hughes wants to play with your best friend’s heart, you’ll play with his gut. But you can settle for burnt meat. Luke can work some sort of magic with that, you think, convincing Jack of all people that any first date that resulted in him coming home all sour-puss and sulky should never result in a second. “Bad mood. Bingo.”

“Fine,” Cara grumbles, “But if he even thinks about asking for a manager, you’re covering my next 3 Fridays.”

She storms off to the kitchen, and you and Luke simultaneously sink into your seats, attention immediately diverted back to the table in the opposite corner of the room.

“We should have kept the menus,” Luke mutters from across the booth, “Could have hidden behind them.”

“What are we, children?” You snark, “You can’t think of any more creative ways to stay hidden?”

“I heard PDA makes people pretty uncomfortable,” he leans onto the table, dropping you a wink when you glance over out of the side of your eye, “We should make out to throw everyone off the scent.”

“In your dreams, Hughes.”

Luke sort of envies the charm you hold over people.

The way you can convince people to do your bidding with a mere flutter of your eyelashes or a flash of pearly teeth and a glimmer in your irises.

He has trouble, sometimes, skirting around his honesty or hiding his intentions - and he knows that’s not a bad thing, knows that being clear and truthful is an admirable trait, if anything - but the way you persuade others to bend to your whim with intricate white lies based on observations you’ve made or intel you’ve gathered is a praiseworthy level of genius.

It had taken such minimal effort for you to get Cara on side, to convince her that being a little clumsy is hardly grounds for her termination, and spilling a little of Jack’s drink close to the edge of the table - close enough that it drips onto his pants and Luke can see the steams of frustration exuding from his brother’s skin from all the way on the other side of the restaurant - or bumping her hip on the edge of their table every time she passes are really just harmless irritations, not likely to cause actual complaint.

You had used the mere tone of your voice to convince Liam from behind the bar to squeeze a little lime in Jack’s water, knowing just from observing him back at the house that he hates the taste, face curling in disgust at even the slightest hint of it, and Luke had watched your eyes gleam in delight every time Jack took a sip of his drink and tried not to spit it back out, seeking much needed reprieve to swallow down the world’s toughest steak cut.

You’d even worked your magic on him, pouting your lips when the food had arrived at the table, and he had initially declined to share his chicken tenders with you - your grumblings at him ordering enough to feed the five thousand fresh in his memory, but so easily wiped away by the soft, sad look in your eyes, and your whining of, “But I didn’t realise how hungry I’d get. Plotting and scheming is hard work, Luke.”

You ended up eating half, but he could hardly complain - you were doing the heavy lifting out of the two of you.

He was sitting back and enjoying the show - enjoying your company, if he’s honest. Enjoying the way his gangly limbs would sometimes knock into yours under the table, enjoying the way he kept getting little nuggets of information out of you while you were distracted, sipping at your coke and making little comments about yourself, about your life, without even realising you’re doing it.

And an unplanned, pseudo date ends up being the first time he thinks he’s had a glimpse at the real you.

The you who knows more about hockey than you’ve ever let on before, who comes back to his stories with contextual questions about the game, even has references to a few games of his back at Michigan, and keeps the conversation flowing despite your feigned disinterest, and a constant gaze cast his brother’s way.

That would usually drive him crazy.

He’s experienced it so often that he has come to expect it, people only entertaining his company to acquire the attention of his brothers, but that’s not what you’re doing. Not really.

You pay more attention to Luke than you’d ever let on.

You ask him about his time in Ostrava at the beginning of summer, even though he’s only mentioned being overseas once while you’ve been staying with him - an offhanded comment from Quinn at breakfast that you must have taken on. Ask him about all the food he tried while out there, when he mentions he doesn’t like picante, and you use it as a springboard to talk about what sort of spices he does like, or if he’s the type to try things or stick to what he knows.

You ask him about being the youngest sibling, and it stems from an offhanded comment Luke had grumbled about always being the last to be clued in on stuff, about how Jack had probably confided in Quinn about his extracurricular activities at the club, and didn’t trust him enough to let him in on the fact he’s going out on dates. You ask if he usually figures things out himself before he’s told them, if that’s what makes him so good at observing and analysing stuff, and he hadn’t ever realised he was particularly good at those things before you brought it up. But then you reference a day in class one time, where he had picked up on something in a textbook that you never would have figured out in a million years, and his heart leaps at the praise you don’t even realise you’re giving him.

You sandwich your perceptions in your usual snark, but he doesn’t miss the slight curve of your lips anymore when he bites straight back, knowing now that there is some part of you that feels the nip of his teeth, that acknowledges his existence beyond him being a speck of inconvenience in your peripheral.

And he gets a little carried away in that acknowledgement - stops paying attention himself to what is happening on the other side of the room and tries to focus on what’s in front of him; the girl he pined after his entire college career, sat sharing nachos and pretending not to know him at a level you so clearly do.

You must get carried away, too, because neither of you notice Jack’s date wrapping up until Luke catches him hand his card over to Cara.

He’s lost count of how long the two of you have been at the club, now - way longer than it takes to get chips from the store, that’s for sure - and all he does know is that if Jack catches either of you two here, after a night of mishaps, bad food, spilled drinks and Cara’s incessant clumsiness, he’ll know who’s to blame.

“We better get out of here before he sees us,” Luke sighs, not entirely wanting to wrap up his time with you but knowing he doesn’t really have a choice.

“I’ve just got to pick something up before we head back,” you reply, edging out of the booth at the same time Luke does, “I’ll meet you out front just give me two minutes?”

“Be quick,” he tells you before you scurry off, and he flags down Cara, who tells him you already put your bill on your worker tab. He tells her to switch it to his, and that he’ll drop by tomorrow to pay it off, promising to leave her a good tip for her stellar services for the evening.

He waits where you asked him to, making sure to stick to the side of the entryway where he can duck for cover if his brother makes an appearance - but you show up first, skipping out from the staff lounge with a bag of tortilla chips in hand.

“Let’s go, Lukey boy!” He follows you out like a puppy on a leash, all the way to where his car is parked, almost bumping into you when you stop and turn without warning, stretching your hand out to him. “Give me your keys.”

“Are you crazy?” He snorts, “You’re not driving my car!”

“I know a shortcut!” You reason, stepping forward and making a grabby motion with your fingers, “We gotta beat Jack home, I just paid another server $20 to spill a whole drink on him before he leaves and he’s gonna be pissed. I want to see the meltdown back at the house and you drive like a nun!”

Luke doesn’t know why he gives in so easy - it could be the proximity, the way you’re so close you have to look up at him, eyes twinkling softly under the moonlight, voice carrying over to him like a siren song, or it could just be because he’s weak - but he hands his keys over with a roll of his eyes and climbs into the passenger side, sliding the seat back with a huff to accommodate his long legs and watching as you adjust the driver’s side, cringing at the way he’s gonna have to figure out exactly how he had it before.

You drive like a maniac, to the point where Luke has to screw his eyes shut as you use some back road, can hear the squelch of mud beneath his tires and squirms at the thought of having to take it to the car wash, tomorrow.

But you make it back to the lake house much quicker than if he were driving, he’ll give you that. So quick that you feel comfortable enough to turn to him once you’ve pulled up, in no rush to unbuckle and get out to get inside before Jack gets home.

“Just so we’re clear, this is a point under my name. You’re not claiming tonight as a win.”

Luke chuckles, turning in his seat to face you, features illuminated by the dim overhead light that turns on when the engine switches off and a slight flush of exhilaration to your cheeks. There’s no pretending you haven’t enjoyed yourself, not tonight. “But the steak thing was my idea?”

“If it weren’t for me, you’d be sat watching baseball and thinking he was getting a 3 hour haircut, you can’t seriously be trying to steal this from me, I thought you athletes had integrity!”

“You’re really keeping score?”

“You’re not?”

If Luke’s honest, he hasn’t really thought about your whole wager all night. He’s been too wrapped up in the idea that his brother had lied to him. Twice. And now his whole plan for the two of you all summer has potentially been messed up. But hearing you mention it, hearing you talk about it like it hasn’t been flushed down the toilet by his brother’s idiocy sparks something in him - excitement, anticipation. He doesn’t want to let this go.

“I actually think we made a good team back there,” he shrugs, eyes meeting yours to gauge your reaction to the thought of doing this together.

“You’re only saying that ‘cause you’re gonna lose,” you retort, eyes sparkling with those same sentiments he had just felt.

“Probably,” he acquiesces, “Also ‘cause you kind of scare me a little after tonight, last thing I wanna do is go up against you when you have the power to turn half the country club against me.”

You smirk, and his eyes are drawn to the plush curve of your lips, watching them as they form around the softly spoken words, “God forbid you can’t go a round of golf without your caddy breaking down.”

“Exactly.” He mutters back, glad to see your gaze is still zeroed in on him when he meets it again. He can feel the thump thump thump of his pulse in his ears, and takes a deep breath before proposing, “Partners?”

He cocks a brow and holds his pinky out over the centre console, and you eye the digit, sceptically, narrowing your eyes into a glare before raising them to meet his. “Fine,” you grumble, then hook your little finger through his and tighten it to shake, a slight yelp of surprise filling the car when he tugs, your lax arm giving way until your knuckle touches his lips and he kisses it.

“Ew,” you whine, snatching your finger back as he fills the space himself with a hearty chuckle, wiping it on his hoody in disgust. “That’s gross!”

“No take backs,” he smiles, victorious, with his chest puffed out, primed for you to swat at with the flex of your hand, and the two of you are only pulled out of the moment by the sound of tyres pulling up on the gravel behind you, both of you stumbling to unbuckle yourselves and climb out of the car.

Jack is exiting his own vehicle behind, and stomps down the driveway, shouldering past you until he realises who he has passed, turning back and looking at you with suspicion cast across his features.

“Where have you twobeen?” Jack asks, glancing a curious eye between the two of you before meeting Luke’s gaze, levelling him with an inquisitive glare.

“We went to the store for chips,” Luke holds the bag up, the crinkle loud enough for Jack to hear, and he feels an insurgence rising within him, spurred on by the way his brother is looking at him like he’s the one who should be ashamed of his actions. “Nice haircut.”

Jack runs a hand through his hair, surprise crossing his features in a brief flash at the call out, like he had never even expected Luke to notice his hair looks no different to the last time he saw him mere hours ago, like he would never even need to question his alibi.

“Oh, yeah, I got the day wrong. Went out for dinner instead.”

“On your own?” You ask from beside him, your presence giving Luke the kind of back up he very much needs right now, a new target for Jack’s narrowed eyes that takes the heat off of him a little, lessens the burden of lying to his brother - despite Jack being the one who started it, it doesn’t make Luke feel any less bad, doesn’t quell the need to word vomit and admit to all the ludicrous things he had done to ruin Jack’s night. “You end up having a little accident there, bud?”

Luke tries not to outwardly laugh as his attention is diverted to the wet patch that still soaks up the front of Jack’s pants, lips quivering as he presses them together, oblivious to the steam pouring out of his brother’s ears as he immediately gets riled up.

“One of your esteemed colleagues at the club apparently lacks hand eye co-ordination. Plus, some of us like our own company,” Jack scoffs, “Some of us can go an evening without the need to annoy anybody else.”

“It’s not news to me that you’re in love with yourself, dude,” you retort back, entirely unbothered by his jibes. “Bet you’ve got all sorts of riveting thoughts swirling around that ginormous head of yours, must keep you busy for hours on end.”

“At least I have thoughts, at least I’m not some airheaded-,”

“Hey,” Luke’s tone is authoritative when he calls out, stern and demanding, “Cut it out, Jack.”

“She started it!”

“She asked you a question,” Luke frowns, disappointed with how quick his brother had taken to escalating the situation, all in an attempt to deflect the attention from his own deception. He knows you don’t need him to protect you from Jack’s sharp tongue, knows you can very much defend yourself, but he needs to vent his frustrations, somehow, without causing a bust up on the driveway. “You could have just give her a straight answer without biting her head off.”

He feels like you’re a little closer, all of a sudden, and he doesn’t know it’s the slight brush of your arm against his or if it’s something else, something less tangible - but it warms him, all the same. Steadies the static thump of his heart in his chest at the thought of starting an argument with his brother out of nowhere.

“Whatever,” Jack rolls his eyes, “I’m going to bed.”

And as Jack turns, Luke sees your lips part, ready to send him off with the last word until a large hand clamps itself over your mouth, and your wide eyes meet his over the sides of his fingers.

He’s not sure why he did it, why he all of a sudden feels comfortable enough to cross the boundaries of purposeful touch, but he doesn’t entirely regret it.

Plush lips press mid-word against his palm, and your skin is soft, cheeks warming ever so slightly beneath his hand.

“You gotta let him go, there’s no use fighting with him tonight, it’s better to drag it out. Didn’t think I’d have to teach you about the beauty of the long game,” he says, voice low as he watches his brother retreat to the house, waiting until he’s safe inside to retract his hand. “Not like this, anyway.”

“Your brother’s an asshole,” you grumble, “Full offence.”

“No arguments from me,” Luke concedes, holding his hands as if surrendering to the fact, himself. “What are you gonna tell Ellie?”

“Nothing.” You sigh, stepping a little down the drive and toward the house before turning back to him. “We’ve got a lot of work to do, partner.”

There have only been a handful of times in your life you’ve ever been thankful for work coinciding with huge plans, but when the group had decided that they wanted to go see Zach Bryan play Ford Field, you had thanked your lucky stars you had been put down to work a full shift at the restaurant and wouldn’t be able to go.

Not only for the fact that he isn’t really your thing, but for the fact that you’re finally getting a full evening to yourself.

So far, in your time at the house, most evenings have been spent with everyone else - group dinners, game nights, movie nights, even a couple of girls nights with just you and Ellie scattered in there, but nothing on your own, yet.

You can’t wait. And with an empty house, you have a full pamper night planned. You’ve been stocking up odd bits on your trips to the store over the past couple of weeks - sheet masks, aromatherapy candles, you’ve even picked up some flower petals from the spa at the club, in the hopes that you might even treat yourself to a relaxing soak in the bathtub. You can play whatever music you want, make whatever food you want, sit wherever you want in the house, out on the deck, overlooking the lake with a book in hand and no chirpy voices in your ear all night.

You can’t wait.

The only downside is not having a ride home, but you haven’t finished too late. The sun will still be up for a couple of hours, and a walk in the simmering heat back to the house doesn’t sound like the worst thing in the world.

Your feet carry you with ease down the back roads, and you even make the journey without your headphones on, taking in the scenery, the blissful peace of your surroundings, so lost in the tranquility of it all that the sight of Luke washing his car on the drive when you get home dampens your mood as quick as a torrential downpour of rain, flash floods coursing through your evening and wrecking your plans entirely.

“What the hell are you doing?” You can’t help the bite in your tone as you approach, sneakers crunching against the gravel as Luke pauses the hose, looks over at you with the sun in his eyes, and you have to remind yourself he’s just ruined the one night you have for yourself before you get distracted by the fact that he’s shirtless.

“Washing my car?” he calls back, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in Detroit right now?”

Luke shrugs, and you have to will your eyeballs not to move any lower than his neck to watch his shoulders lift and drop, lest you get too caught up in the broad expanse of his chest and do something ridiculous like drool.

“Wasn’t feeling it.”

“You weren’t feeling a concert you guys haven’t shut up about for weeks, but you were feeling washing your car?”

He’s dead. When he’s finished with his car and he retreats to his room, you’re gonna smother him with a pillow and discard of his body in the lake. You’re not even gonna let him shower, first. That’s what the lake’s for.

He’s crapping all over your plans because he wasn’t feeling it?

“It needs cleaning,” he shrugs again, and you swear you’re gonna jump in and run him over with the damn thing, “In fact, you really should be helping me.”

There’s a small part of you that feels like the thoughts of violence are worryingly aggressive, but then a larger part of you realises he must have a death wish.

“How’d you get to that conclusion?”

“You’re the one who drove us through a swamp,” he scoffs, a pointed hand flung toward the body of his car, where the sides are lined with a thick layer of dried dirt from the other night, “You get it dirty, you clean it up.”

“As much as I would absolutely love to fulfil your pervy car wash fantasy, I have much better things I could be doing with my time.”

Or you did, until Luke rained all over your parade of solitude.

“Like what?”

“Literally anything but this.” You gesture at the show he’s putting on. The suds dripping from the roof of the car, the hose in his hand, the buckets scattered around the perimeter. “I need to shower, I just walked from the club and I-,”

A death wish might actually be an understatement.

Luke wants you to murder him in the most gruesome, horrific way you could possibly muster - he has to, because there’s no other explanation for why he’d turn the hose on, point it straight at you, and drench the front of you, entirely.

You can feel the fabric of your t-shirt dampening and sticking to your chest, and you scrunch your eyes shut to stop droplets of water slipping into them, thankful that when they open again, his own are looking back at you, and not any lower.

You’d really have a reason to kill him, then.

“You did not just do that.” You growl, glaring back at him with a clenched jaw as the fucker beams back at you, pressing the trigger once more in a short burst that fires straight at your chest, again.

“What, that?”

“You’re so dead.”

You drop your bag and launch for him, aiming to take the hose from his grip, but he fires it again out of sheer panic, the water spouting out from between your splayed fingers, cold and pressured, and it soaks the both of you, raining down as you grapple for the head and Luke remains unrelenting.

There are squeals and yelps called out into the misty air between the two of you, and you get to a point you can’t tell what sounds are coming from who, but you manage to wrestle the hose from his grip and point it straight at him as he jets away with a laugh that rumbles straight from his belly.

It’s the kind of laugh that elicits another, and you don’t realise until he’s circling back to you that the laughter is coming from you - giggling, even, as the two of you engage in a water fight like misbehaving children - and it isn’t long until all aggressive thoughts wash away with the suds that slip to the gravel, forgetting why you were even annoyed in the first place.

It shouldn’t be as fun as it is, but after the long day at work, and the tiring walk back, letting your guard down and engaging it a little mindless chaos seems to wake you up a little.

Your childish game gets Luke what he wanted, anyway, the two of you working together to clean his car when you realise he’s only running in front of all the parts that actually need hosing off and relying on you having bad aim to get the job done, and you figure getting your hands a little dirty is harmless when you’re already soaked through and in dire need of a shower.

And your pamper-plans of a bubble bath and self-care don’t entirely come to fruition, but Luke promises to make up for his petulance by ordering pizza and sticking a movie on, so you bite your tongue to refrain from voicing your initial complaints, and decide to just go with the flow, for once - he hasn’t exactly led you astray, yet.

You take a little longer in the shower than normal, with no one around to complain about hogging the bathroom or worry about them barging in unannounced, and you suppose that’s a small victory - one little luxury you get to cling to as you bask in the steam, letting all the tension slip from your aching muscles after being on your feet all day.

And once you’re out, hair dried just enough with a towel that it isn’t going to drip or soak your t-shirt, and you’re dressed in your pyjamas, you make your way downstairs, where Luke has already set up a plethora of snacks in the living room.

Nachos, popcorn, candy and drinks scattered across the coffee table as he relaxes on the couch, hair extra curly after his shower and an old Michigan t-shirt stretched tight across his now much-broader chest.

“Thought I’d wait for you to pick a movie,” he chimes up from where he’s sat, gesturing with a lazy point to the wall of blu-rays beside the TV.

“Did Netflix never make it to the Hughes household?” You scoff in disbelief as you take them all in properly for the first time. You’d seen them in your peripheral when you’d been hanging out down here, before, but actually looking at them up close, reading all the titles, seeing the sheer volume of how many there are, it kind of surprises you.

“We can look on Netflix if you want. They always take stuff off, though.”

You know. All your favourite movies get taken off of streaming, and you only ever find out about it when you’re really in the mood to watch them. As soon as you realise the wall is alphabetised, you know exactly where to look.

“That’s alright,” you shrug, stepping to the side as you track backwards, through M, L, K and J. “You guys are pretty analogue, I’ve noticed.”

“What do you mean?”

“The board games, the DVDs, the whole no phones around the house thing.”

“No phones around the house is common courtesy,” he chuckles, “But I guess we’re a little weird about the other stuff.”

“It’s pretty cool,” you shrug, spotting the DVD you want and sliding it out to assess the case. “It’s old school. Probably better for the brain. My little brothers can’t really function without an iPad and they’re 5, it’s freaky, like they’re haunted by the capitalist ghost of Steve Jobs or something.”

“I didn’t know you had brothers,” Luke frowns where you almost expect him to laugh, and you spin on your heel to face him. He has this look about him like he should have known that - like the two of you have ever conversed in anything other than sarcastic quips and scrunched up faces, or whatever attempts at flirting have been on his part.

“Technically they’re half brothers,” you shrug, “They live out in Philly with my dad and step mom, I don’t really get to see them much.”

“Didn’t know you were from Philly, either.”

“I’m not, my dad moved out there when him and my mom got divorced.”

It’s not something you really love talking about.

The few times you’ve tried, you’ve been shot down, patronising tones scoffing at how your biggest trauma is the separation of your parents, as if your whole world didn’t crumble down with the demise of their relationship, the demise of life as you knew and very dearly loved it.

“You don’t see him even in the summer?”

“Him and his family are on vacation in Europe for 6 weeks. England, France, Spain, Germany, the boys are into soccer so they’ll be out there until the Euros.”

You don’t miss the way Luke’s face scrunches at how you call them his family, and you’re not sure you’re ready for him to start pitying you, so you throw the DVD case toward him before you can second guess your choice.

Interstellar.

You hope he doesn’t pick up on why it might be one of your favourites. Especially not considering the topic of the conversation at hand. Something about the crippling regret Cooper has for leaving Murph behind plucks harmoniously at some unidentifiable strings deep within you, but you’re hardly about to admit that to Luke, of all people.

“I love this movie,” he smiles, almost surprised, as if he expected you to throw The Notebook his way. Maybe next time - he’d probably love that movie, too, if he gave it a chance.

“Me too. I love space movies.”

“Like Space Jam?” He asks as he pushes himself up, going toward the TV to set up the movie with the DVD in one hand and the remote control in the other.

“No, like movies about Space,” you say, throwing yourself down onto the same couch he just vacated and tucking your feet beneath you to get comfortable. “Although I guess Space Jam would technically fit into that bracket.”

“I didn’t realise that was a genre,” he chuckles.

“Not the scary ones, though, I don’t wanna be freaked out by space.”

“Is that like a thing? You just like any movie set in space?”

“I like anything about space, period. Movies, documentaries, books. Thinking about it makes me feel really insignificant.”

“Insignificant? Is that not a bad thing?” He asks as he makes his way back, settling into his side and angling his body toward yours.

“Do you ever think about how big the universe is, Hughes? It’s humongous! If I ever feel anxious or panicky I think about just how big it is and how I’m not even a speck of dust in the grand scheme of things. If I’m so tiny, how big can my problems actually be?”

“I guess that makes sense,” he seems to mull it over in his head, the thought of him even considering it and not making you feel stupid warms your chest - makes you forget just how much of yourself you’ve shared with him in the last couple of minutes alone, makes you worry less that you’re sharing too much. “I think I might be the opposite, though. Probably the youngest brother in me, I only feel better if I feel bigger.”

You think that might be why he’s always trying to one up you - sassy comments and inappropriate jokes galore. Not that you mind any of it, not really.

“What about you? What movies do you like?”

“You’re gonna be so shocked.”

“Sports movies?”

“Look at you, knowing me like the back of your hand.” He coos, nudging at your knee with his hand. “I’ll watch anything, though. We should take it in turns, whenever it’s just us,” he says like the thought of spending time alone with you has only just crossed his mind. “Picking a movie to show each other.”

You think there’s a lot of yourself in the media you consume. The movies you watch, the music you listen to, and sharing those things with Luke feels like giving him the only other key to a high security vault. It’s something you’ve avoided so far - letting him play his songs in the car, avoiding making any sort of pick in the group movie nights. It’s daunting, and it’s a lot of pressure, and so you don’t know why you agree with so much ease - a shrug, and a casual muttering of, “Sure, why not?”

The pieces of your dynamic slowly start to slot together, and you start to realise why you’ve been entertaining his company so often, lately. Why your mood so quickly de-escalated itself, earlier. Why you’ve found yourself curled up on the same couch as him, instead of literally anywhere else in the house, doing anything other than this. Why you’re so quick to agree to letting him access all these unseen parts of you.

And why you think he might be able to read your mind, after he asks, “Can I ask you a question?”

“Only if I get to ask one back.”

“What were you gonna do tonight, if you were on your own?”

Thank God, you think, your heart jumping at the thought of anything else he could have asked.

“I was gonna do a sheet mask and steal the bottle of wine Quinn stashed behind the laundry detergent.” You admit with a nonchalant shrug, the plans you had been looking forward to all day seeming mundane in comparison to this. “Why’d you stay behind? You love Zach Bryan.”

“I love sheet masks and stolen wine, too.”

Your lips curve up before you get the chance to huff at his non-answer, and you feel your throat go a little dry at the way his curve, too - the way his green eyes darken when they meet yours, and you feel like he’s looking straight through you.

It’s around half way through the movie that you realise how much you’re enjoying yourself - when you look over at Luke, and the light from the screen is still bouncing off the sticky white sheet plastered to his face, only just able to make out his round eyes through the little slit in the fabric.

You sip at your wine to hide your smile, and turn your attention back to the TV until Luke nudges at your feet with his, and your eyes meet over the tops of your bent knees.

“You tell anyone I did this, I’ll never speak to you again.”

Your laugh ripples through every inch of your upper body, rumbling up from your belly and manifesting itself in shaking shoulders, your smile wide and your sheet mask slipping out of place. “You can’t threaten me with a good time, Hughes.”

You spend the rest of the night trying not to think about how there might just be a tiny door in your heart, eking it’s way open for him to squeeze his gangly limbs into.

>PART TWO<

another a/n: I don't want to put a timeframe on when the next part will be posted bc as soon as I do that, my brain will revolt and it won't happen, but I'd love to know your thoughts in the meantime!!! I have a lot of the rest actually written, and what I don't have written, I have drafted, so it shouldn't be too long but!!! like I said no timeframe!! I've had a lot of fun with this dynamic, and hearing any opinions would mean a lot to me!!

this was my first time writing reader insert if you saw any instances of she/her where they shouldn't be, no you didn’t. I tried as best as I could to avoid using Y/N because it takes me out of it I don’t even remember if I put it anywhere but sometimes it's hard to get around I did my best ok!!!

#luke hughes #luke hughes x reader #luke hughes imagine #nhl imagine #nhl fanfiction #luke hughes fluff #my hearts going pitter patter pitter patter like I could throw up #need to post this before I fall asleep lmao #*writing

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raghadayyad · 9 months ago

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Hello my dear friends🇵🇸

I am Raghad Ayyad from Gaza, specifically from the Shuja'iyya area in northern Gaza. I am 19 years old, a second-year pharmacy student.👩‍⚕️❤

I belong to a family who have been displaced since the beginning of the war from the north to the central area, which is supposed to be safe. I have been displaced more than 6 times within the central area to escape the bombing that is chasing us everywhere.

Ten days ago, with the deterioration of the situation and the continued bombing in the central area, orders were issued to evacuate the area in which we live. We were forcibly displaced for the seventh time to Khan Yunis.

Now we live in a tent that is completely uninhabitable, but we cannot find another place.🥺💔

My father is paralyzed in his right leg. Several months before the war, he underwent hip replacement surgery in Egypt. He was supposed to return to Egypt to complete his treatment, but the war prevented him from completing the treatment he desperately needs. He still suffers from continuous and severe pain, to the point that painkillers are no longer effective, if they exist, because the medications are not available to him in Gaza.

My dream and my father's dream was to graduate from the Faculty of Pharmacy, which I loved so much. I was doing my best to get the highest grades, and my father promised me that he would establish my own pharmacy as soon as I graduated from university, but the occupation destroyed my dream and my father's dream by demolishing my university and everything we owned. I lost a whole academic year, and the second year will start while we are still in this war, and I fear that I will lose another academic year. All I want is to get out with my family and survive this genocide so that I can achieve my dream and continue my studies and graduate from the Faculty of Pharmacy, and continue treating my paralyzed father.

I am not the only one in the family who lost an academic year. My sister Basma was supposed to finish her high school studies and then move on to university, but she lost her academic year, and my brother Mazen and my sister Nuha, who are studying in middle school, also lost an academic year.

We all dream of completing our education. We all need to get out of this genocide to complete and rebuild our lives, and this is not easy after everything we lost in this war. It will take us a long time to rebuild our lives.

I urge everyone who supports Palestine, especially those who support education and treatment, to help me and my family.

We depend on you and we have no hope but you.✌✌

I would be grateful to all of you if you stand by us and support us.❤

My campaign vatted by

✅️ @gazavetters , my number verified on the list is ( #346 )

✅️ @funds4gaza

✅️ @bilal-salah0

Thank you very much everyone.

@palestinegenocide @apollos-olives @queerstudiesnatural @palistani @buttercuparry @burtlebabe @oorevitcejda @neshamama @mansbutchery @sar-soor @brutamente-meiga @riding-with-the-wild-hunt @moayed01 @schoolhater @gayorc @acesthwtics-blog @neptunerings @black-and-white @omegaversereloaded @omegomagnit @heritageposts @feluka @drangues @afropvnk @transmutationisms @horrorandhalloween @commissions4aid-international @imjustheretotrytohelp @jezior0 @approvers @turian @journalsforpalestine @palestinecharitycommissionsassoc @kyra45-helping-others @tortiefrancis @fromjannah @criptografarei @amygdalae @ankle-beez @dykesbat @chilewithcarnage @ghelgheli @sayruq @deepspaceboytoy @post-impressionisms @junglejim4322 @kibumkim @neechees @appsa

#90 ghost #nabulsi #el shab hussein #ibtisams #fairuzfan #gaza genocide #free palestine #free gaza #palestine #from the river to the sea palestine will be free #gaza strip #@sayruq @neptunerings @flower-tea-fairies @appsa @dlxxv-vetted-donations @gaza-evacuation-funds #@el-shab-hussein @self-hating-zionist @thenewgothictwice @raelyn-dreams #@unfortunatelyuncreative @butterfly-pumpkin @licencetokrill @jezebelgoldstone @ramelcandy @petracourtjester @labutansa @sammywo #@autistwizard @tortiefrancis @sparklinpixiedust @feluka @revcuse @golvio @leftismsideblog @star-and-space-ace @rainbowywitch @marscoded #@oursapphirestars @dalekofchaos @annoyingloudmicrowavecultist @boyvandals @the-bastard-king @13ag21k @agentfascinateur

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mohamedjshamia · 8 months ago

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Help My Family Escape the War in Gaza: A Cry for Safety and Survival

Dear Friends and Supporters,

I write to you with a heart heavy with pain and urgency. My name is Mohammad Jamal Shamia, and I reside in Sweden. I am raising funds to help my family and loved ones, who are trapped in Gaza, escape the unimaginable horrors of war. Their lives have been turned upside down, and now they stand on the brink of despair, with no place to call home and no future in sight. We are fighting for their survival.

A Family Torn Apart by War

My family consists of eight members: my father, my mother, my four sisters, and my two brothers. Each one of them has a story of pain and loss, but I will start with my father, Jamal Shamia, who is still in Gaza. His home was destroyed in the very first days of the war. A single rocket shattered not just his home, but also our hopes and dreams. The life he had worked so hard to build was reduced to rubble in a heartbeat. He now stands without a roof over his head, in a place where there is no security, no peace, and no hope for the future.

My mother, who left Gaza for surgery in Egypt before the war started, is now stranded on the Egyptian side, unable to return and without any support. She worries every day about my father, her children, and grandchildren who remain in Gaza, not knowing if they will survive another day.

Sisters in Crisis: Homes Lost, Lives Disrupted

My sister Rasha Jamal Shamia and her husband, Khalil Abu Samaan, have two children, Mira and Omar. They have been forced to flee their home in Gaza City and are now living in a tent in Rafah, far from everything they once knew. Their home, their children’s education, and their future—everything is gone. Their days are filled with fear, and their nights bring no rest. The constant sound of bombs haunts them, and they have no way to provide their children with the life they deserve.

My sister Rana Jamal Shamia and her husband, Mohammed Salama, are in a similarly desperate situation. Their two children, Amir and Taim, witnessed the destruction of their home firsthand. The bomb that took away their shelter also left Rana and her family with deep physical and emotional scars. They are now displaced in Rafah, struggling every day to survive. The trauma they have endured is unimaginable.

My sister Maram Jamal Shamia and her husband, Mareed Al-Suwirki, were able to leave Gaza with their children, but they carry with them the scars of war. Their home in Gaza was destroyed, and they lost everything. Mareed, a dentist, lost his job, and they are now trying to rebuild their lives outside the war zone, but they need your help.

My youngest sister, Reem, has been living outside Gaza for some time, but she hasn’t been able to reunite with the family. The pain of separation and worry for her loved ones has been unbearable.

A Brother’s Dreams Shattered

My brother Ahmad Jamal Shamia is a bright, ambitious student who was in his third year of dental school at Al-Azhar University in Gaza. The war took everything from him—his education, his home, his dreams. Ahmad was ranked first in his class, always striving to be the best and help others. Now, he is left with nothing. He moves from one temporary shelter to another, hoping for a chance to continue his studies in Egypt. But without financial support, this dream too will be lost.

The Desperate Situation

The situation in Gaza is beyond dire. Every day, my family faces unimaginable hardships. They live in constant fear, with bombings happening around them day and night. They are without basic necessities—no reliable access to food, water, or medical care. The trauma of living through this horror has left deep emotional wounds that will take years to heal, if ever.

We are desperate to get them out. We want to transport them to Egypt, where they can begin to rebuild their lives and find safety. But this escape comes at a high cost. It will take $5,000 per adult and $2,500 per child to cross the border and start anew in Egypt. My family is counting on this fundraising effort to save their lives.

How You Can Help

Your support can make a life-saving difference. Every contribution, no matter the size, brings us closer to rescuing my family from this nightmare. With your help, we can reunite them with safety and security on the other side of the border. Time is running out, and the risks increase with every passing day.

Please consider donating to our campaign. Your generosity will not only provide my family with the means to escape the immediate danger but also offer them hope for a future where they can begin to heal and rebuild their lives. I cannot thank you enough for your support.

Together, We Can Save Lives

My family is relying on the kindness of strangers and friends alike to help them escape the ongoing violence. Your donation is not just financial assistance—it is a lifeline, a chance at survival. We need you now more than ever. Please, stand with us and help bring my family to safety.

Thank you for your kindness, your compassion, and your support. Together, we can make a difference. Together, we can save lives.

@pcktknife @palestinegenocide @plomegranate @punkitt-is-here @northgazaupdates2 @el-shab-hussein @nabulsi @sar-soor @sayruq @helpingg @horrorhorizon @heydreamchild @terezbian @tamamita @everydaylouie @palipunk @queerstudiesnatural @onedollopofsourcream @relelvance @itslucyhenley @jackrackhams @just-browsing1222 @junosaccount @what-even-is-thiss @wildandmoody @walaaibrahim @arabian-batboy @soon-palestine @gazafunds

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lifeasaya · 7 months ago

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🚨 Vetted Fundraiser 🚨

My name is Aya Maher, a 24-year-old Palestinian from Gaza. I want to share the heartbreaking story of my family 💔.

My mother, Ashwaq is 43 years old, my brother Hamza is 22 years old, my brother Bader is 16, my little sister Nada is 12, and myself. We've endured 376 days of continuous bombardment during this devastating war. Since its onset, we've faced a relentless cascade of losses. Our lives have been emptied, and the dreams we once pursued now seem like unattainable fantasies.

We were displaced from our home, and tragically, we lost our new home as well—a place we had worked tirelessly to create, hoping it would become a sanctuary where we could build beautiful memories.

My professional life has been utterly decimated. For three years, I thrived as a user interface designer on freelance platforms.

However, since the onset of this war, my ability to work has been obliterated. The occupation's relentless bombing campaigns have ravaged internet infrastructure, rendering it barely functional. Now, even basic online tasks are nearly impossible. Consequently, I'm left without any financial means to sustain myself.

We were displaced from our home due to occupation forces and found refuge with relatives. Our lives were repeatedly threatened by bombings, escaping death twice during tank attacks and enduring a four-day siege under intense bombardment.

Despite immense hardships, my family and I stayed in Gaza, facing constant bombings and severe shortages. After five months of siege, we're on the brink of famine, lacking basic necessities. We've decided to leave for safety, but high coordination costs are a barrier.

🚨 Vetted Fundraiser 🚨

Our previous account was trusted and verified by many people 90-ghost, palestinecharitycommissionsassoc , nabulsi , el shab - hussain.

Also we are on the list with el-shab hussain, number (216) here is the link.

I'm reaching out for your help to achieve our goal swiftly, driven by the fear of losing a family member.

We sincerely hope you can empathize with our situation and amplify our message to make a difference.

Your contribution could save a family and bring hope in these difficult times. Thank you for your kindness and support 🙏💜

#support #free palestine #pets #save gaza #save palestine #free gaza #gaza genocide #gaza strip #all eyes on palestine

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latteodyssey · 4 months ago

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celebrity gossip | Tim Drake x Vigilante!Reader ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

summary: while lounging on the watchtower, you decide to comment with red robin about gotham's newest celebrity gossip. (part two of this story here!) masterlist

You’re lounging on the sofa in the Watchtower, the usual tension of crime-fighting missing in the quiet of the night. Red Robin is at the computer, eyes glued to the screen, but the city below remains disturbingly calm, the only sound filling the room was of quiet typing. It’s just the two of you for now.

“What are you doing?” he asks, breaking the silence.

“Catching up on Wayne drama,” you reply, still scrolling through your phone without looking up. The glow from the screen lights up your face, casting an eerie, almost ghostly light. “Can you believe Bruce Wayne is already on his third girlfriend this year? It's like this guy is trying to break his own personal record or something.”

“Is that, like, interesting to you?” Red Robin's tone is flat, but you can hear the curiosity in it.

“I mean, you’re from Gotham, right?” You finally glance up, raising an eyebrow. “You don’t really escape it. They make sure it’s shoved down our throats every day.”

“I’m not really into it” He tries to keep his voice monotone, as if he doesn’t care about the situation.

He’s used to the media circus, it helps him and his family, in a way. The more obnoxious the Wayne’s are, the less likely it is for the public to think they’re Gotham City’s caped crusaders. I benefited him.

Yet behind his mask, hearing you talk about it made him a little tense.

Ever since you entered the team, he’s been interested in you, hell, he was into you before that. You’ve met before, but he never expected his high school friend to become a vigilante as well, although seeing you in your superhero uniform made his heart skip a beat. Ever since then, he’s been secretly happy every time you’re paired up in missions, he treasures the moments where you two talk alone.

“I mean, they’re obviously obnoxious with the whole out-of-touch rich guy stuff.” You pause for a second “Tim is nice, though. I went to high school with him, he was pretty down-to earth. I had a massive crush on him, too.”

Red Robin freezes for a second, his fingers stilling over the keyboard. You don’t notice the slight stiffening of his posture as he processes what you said. He returns to typing on the computer, trying to regain some semblance of control.

You shrug, leaning back into the sofa as you casually reply. “He was a charming nerd with all the gadgets and the brains. He was also really kind to me, so yeah”

"He sounds nice." He forces himself to sound casual, to play it off. He cringes a bit internally, it feels strange to talk about himself like this, besides that, is it weird that he wants you to keep talking?

“Yeah, we don’t talk anymore, though,” you reply, a trace of nostalgia in your voice. "I really miss him."

Tim’s mind stirs, his fingers pausing over the keyboard again, caught in the sudden surge of emotion—maybe it’s the way your voice seemed filled with affection when you mentioned him. He takes a slow breath, trying to push the knot in his chest aside, turning around in his chair to face you, abruptly changing the subject.

"What other gossip do you have there?"

"Oh, you have no idea!" Your face lights up as you prepare to tell him every useless information you've learned in the past few hours.

And as the night stretches on, with the calm of the streets below, Tim lets himself believe that maybe, just maybe, this could be the start of something more.

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rafecameronsslut4ever · 8 months ago

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CASUAL pt.2— lando norris (angst)

pairing; fem!reader x lando norris summary: it took lando too long to realise it wasn't just 'casual'. warnings: a LOT of angst, toxic relationship, sexual implication, not proofread a/n: casual part 2 was not really a part of the plan but the audience had demands 🦧also i think this was too long lmao. AND IM SO SORRY FOR THE LONG DELAY OMG

part 1 - casual

miami grand prix: the biggest pr nightmare for every driver—especially lando norris.

the media had been all over him that weekend, going to the lengths of literally calling him 'the hottest catch on the single market'. hollywood stars and instagram models were so desperate to marry him and have his kids that they didn't catch on the fact that he was a 23-year-old racing driver who couldn't give a fuck about them.

because he was stuck on you.

for weeks, he'd waited—hoping you’d reach out, or at the very least, watch his instagram stories. he posted shirtless photos, sun-kissed photos—hell, he even threw out a thirst trap just for you. But you didn’t take the bait. you didn't take the fucking bait.

you hadn't texted him or spoken to him since the moment you walked out of that hotel room weeks ago, so he didn't try to reach out either. "would've been a blow to my ego," he'd told sainz.

but now, he didn't give a shit about his ego. he was tired of waiting.

his eyes darted across the packed club, friends and guests scattered all around. he couldn't wait to get out of there.

he hadn't been drinking. didn't really feel like it. truth be told, he hadn’t been feeling much of anything at all.

pool parties, clubs, yachts, champagne and girls.

he was tired of the glitz and glam of his life, and you were the only escape from it.

but you were gone.

his mind wandered to that morning, when you had kissed him and the two of you had ordered room service. when he had held you for the last time.

he hated how the only thing on his mind was you. how it was the only thing on his mind all through the celebrations, as hookers danced around him and people tried to pour drinks into his mouth.

for fuck's sake, he had won a grand prix for the first time in his life, and yet he was unhappy.

how did he get here?

he looked up, eyes falling on a group of men in the VIP section, the lights illuminating their faces.

everyone could tell something was off with lando. he didn't want to do any of this.

all he wanted was you. you, you, you.

the girl who had left without an explanation.

why had you left, anyway? no calls, no texts. your friends avoided him, and you avoided his friends. it was like the two of you were nothing.

lando norris was many things, but he was not a fool. he could recognise when something was wrong, or when a situation had escalated beyond his control.

he knew that there was a reason why you left, but the reason never clicked in that thick brain of his. what had he done wrong? where had he gone wrong?

"i'm not feeling too well, mate." he muttered, handing the beer bottle back to the guy standing next to him.

okay, maybe not admitting his feelings for you had fucked things up. but, what could you expect? he didn't have the time to give you what you deserved.

not right now, at least.

"what are you waiting for, then?" the other man asked, shoving his hands into his pockets.

"what?"

"just call her, bro. i know it's about a girl because there's no way any sane man would say no to expensive beers and a million hot hookers."

did lando even know this man? probably not.

"i can't call her. she doesn't want to talk to me. trust me, i've tried."

"have you?"

he didn't know how to deal with rejection. not like this, not with you. you weren't supposed to leave.

"judging by your sulkiness, i doubt you're going to find a girl like her again. and you'll never have her if you're here."

lando didn't have a heart of stone, as much as his social media persona might suggest. he didn't care for any of this. the women, the money, the fame.

he wanted to hold you again. kiss you, tell you he loves you. he wanted to hold your hand. he wanted to be near you, and only you.

so, when his feet hit the floor and he found himself walking towards the exit, he wasn't surprised.

yeah, it was foolish of him to leave a party full of women who were celebrating him (literally) for a girl who had ghosted him, but the need was stronger than his pride.

out of the yacht, he was dialling the only number he'd ever memorised. the phone rang, and then it rang again.

would she be wearing his clothes, or would she have gotten rid of everything related to him?

maybe she'd found another man, finally realising that lando was a bad investment.

as the phone rang, you were hidden in your apartment with blankets wrapped around you and a youtube video playing in the background.

it had been months since you'd heard the word 'casual' leave his mouth. months since you had fled london and monaco to move to miami.

at first, his words had echoed in your mind constantly, and you'd cried yourself to sleep a few times more than you'd like to admit.

but just like every heartbroken poet in history, the hurt faded and the pain slowly morphed into hatred. and anger.

you wanted to slam your head against a wall. scratch that, you wanted to slam his head against a wall.

it was so stupid, and you hated yourself for believing he'd been genuine.

it was just sex. that's all it ever was. it truly was just casual.

the phone was still ringing. your finger hesitated over the answer button. you weren't going to answer it.

it wasn't worth it. you didn't want to hear his voice. didn't want him to have the satisfaction of knowing that his words had hurt you. you didn't want to know if he was sleeping around, if his girlfriends were prettier than you.

so the line went dead.

lando stood by the harbour, watching as yachts and ships sailed past him. the air was humid and his t-shirt clung to his body, the heat almost unbearable. the sound of waves, the distant laughter and music, and the sound of his ragged breaths.

he ran his fingers through his hair, looking around. where was his car?

he had to find his way back to his hotel. he was a mess, and his clothes were sticking to his skin. he needed to fix his appearance, buy a bouquet a flowers.

he checked the time on his watch, and cursed as he saw the numbers. it was almost 3 am. he wouldn't find flowers anywhere at 3 am.

"fuck it." he said, running over to his car. the drive was quiet, save for the low hum of music and his occasional swearing when someone drove a little bit slower than he'd like.

lando norris had the world on his fingertips. he could have any girl he wanted. anyone, really. but he only wanted you. he was a hopeless romantic, and you were his muse.

when he pulled up outside the apartment, his nerves were going haywire. he ran a hand through his hair and took a deep breath before getting out of the car.

he knocked twice on the door and when it opened, his eyes lit up.

you stared back at him, sleepiness in your eyes and confusion etched on your face.

and god, did you look gorgeous.

he loved you, he realised. he had to cross his hands behind his back to stop them from reaching out and holding you close.

"lando?" you breathed out.

he had grown a slight stubble since you last saw him. his hair were still the same, except a little bit longer. his blue eyes were wide as he looked at you.

"hey," his voice was shaky.

"what the fuck are you doing here?"

he wanted to say so many things. ask you why you left, where it went wrong, why you moved to miami. he wanted to declare his love for you, press his lips to yours, hold you by the waist. he wanted to hear you say that you loved him too.

he was so in love with you, and you had no idea.

"lando? why are you here?" you asked again.

he was at a loss of words. what could he say? he couldn't exactly just stand there and say nothing.

"because," his voice cracked, "i miss you."

your throat went dry. he could not just say that.

it had been weeks. weeks of him not contacting you, weeks of you not speaking to him. the phone calls had stopped, the text messages had stopped, the late night chats had stopped. everything was just gone.

and now, he missed you?

tears welled up in your eyes, a lump forming in your throat. you shook your head, pushing back the tears, "go away."

"what? no, wait. wait. don't do this." he pleaded, his voice fragile and desperate, like a child trying to avoid bedtime.

"lando-"

he interrupted you, voice louder than before. "can we please talk about this?"

"what is there to talk about?" you were raising your voice. you hated him. how could he act like this after all that happened?

"everything. just—please, can i come in?" he sounded so pathetic. he felt so pathetic. his hands were slightly hovering over the door, ready to push it open and walk in.

the request took you by surprise. "i-no."

you missed him. there was no denying that.

you wanted him to tell you it was okay. wanted to go back to that night in his mclaren, the night he told you he liked you. wanted the weekends spent in london with his family. you wanted him, all of him.

his curly hair wrapped around your fingers, blue eyes staring at you, soft lips kissing you. his cold hands grabbing yours, and his voice saying your name. you wanted it to not be casual.

"i just want to talk to you."

he was drunk. there was no other way he would've showed up here, let alone begged to talk to you. the fact that he needed to be drunk to have this conversation made your blood boil.

"do you still have my jacket?"

of course, you still had his stupid jacket. the one that had his smell embedded into the fabric. it was an exclusive print mclaren had given him, and he had swung it around your shoulders after the night you had first made love to each other.

but he didn't care about the jacket, and neither did you. it was just a reminder.

you were silent for a while, taking in the sight of each other. it was his breath mingling with yours.

"i love you." he whispered.

your breath hitched in your throat, the tears finally falling out of your eyes as you sighed.

"i love you," he repeated to himself. "yes, i do. and i've known that since the day i met you."

you choked back sobs as you shook your head, "you're drunk, lando."

"i'm not," he chuckled, "maybe a little, but not enough."

then, he added, "i mean it. i love you." his voice was steady. he truly meant every word. but he didn't know what would happen now.

"what do you want me to say, lando?"

he sighed, "anything."

you laughed bitterly. anything, he said.

anything would've been better than what had happened.

"i don't think i can do this, lando."

"we can take it slow."

"you've never done slow."

he fell silent again because you were right. he'd never done slow. he didn't know how to take things slow. he was a fucking formula 1 driver, after all. slow wasn't something he did. he'd always lived life like it was the last day. and that's how he had lost you.

"i'm sorry," he began, his voice breaking. "i should've been a better person. i'm sorry for everything i did. i should've given you more, i-i should've loved you more, because you deserve so much more. i'm so, so, sorry."

"lando," you whispered, "it's not—"

"don't make excuses for me, please. i love you, i really do. and if i have to spend the rest of my life proving that, i will." and he meant every word. "i just want you back."

your mind was racing, a million thoughts running through it. it was like a movie. his blue eyes, his voice, the desperation in his tone, the way he stood before you.

"okay," you muttered.

"wait, okay? does that mean—"

"you're gonna have to work for this," you said.

"i know, and i will. i promise."

you sighed, rubbing your temple. this wasn't a good idea. "get in."

lando's face lit up, and before you could change your mind, he had walked into the apartment. he hadn't really been here before, considering you moved here after the two of you had stopped talking. but the apartment was lovely, homely. everything you.

you closed the door behind him, watching him look around the living room.

"how'd you know where i live?"

he chuckled, turning to face you. "i'm a famous driver. i have my sources."

"i'm sure." a tense silence followed, neither of you knowing what to say.

"i'm not letting this happen again," he blurted, "i'm not. i don't know how, but i won't."

"i don't believe you." you scoffed.

"fuck, baby, what do i have to do for you to believe me?" he stepped towards you, closing the distance.

"stop calling me that."

"you are my baby." he tried to joke.

"lando, i'm not joking."

"i'm serious too," his voice was sincere, "i love you, and i'll do whatever it takes for you to believe me."

you had been through a lot together. the highs, the lows. you had seen him at his best, and at his worst. the good and the bad.

he moved closer, reaching a hand out to hold yours. you didn't know why, but the moment his hand touched yours, it was like a switch had flipped inside of you.

you let his hand wander over yours like a ghost, his calloused fingertips tracing over your knuckles. he intertwined your fingers together, eyes casted down.

"i've never cared about anyone the way i care about you." he admitted in a soft voice.

and then he pressed his lips to yours. his other hand wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer to him.

and god, did he taste the same. lando had a way with his lips. it was a talent. he kissed you like he needed your lips to survive. he was desperate for your touch as if he had been starving without it.

you were so lost in the feeling that you hadn't realised how far you had pushed him until the back of his knees hit the couch, and he fell on top of it.

his eyes were wide, mouth hanging open. his shirt was halfway unbuttoned, exposing his chest and toned abs.

the two of you stared at each other, eyes searching the other's.

"i love you." he murmured for what seemed like the hundredth time that night.

maybe it was the way his blue eyes bore into yours, or the way his lips quivered, or maybe it was the fact that he had driven across the city to say this.

but for the first time that night, you believed him. and suddenly, the anger was gone. it was all gone.

"i love you, too." you whispered.

it was the only thing the two of you needed. the confirmation, the reassurance. the love.

you leaned down and connected your lips once more, hand reaching up to his curls and tugging lightly. he moaned into the kiss, pulling you on top of him.

your tongue entered his mouth, the taste of him making you lightheaded. his hands roamed over your body, the feeling of his skin against yours.

"baby," he whispered between kisses, "i want you so bad. i've waited so long."

his lips trailed along your jaw and down your neck, sucking marks into the sensitive skin.

"i want you," he murmured against the crook of your neck, "so fucking bad."

but he pulled away, flipping the two of you over so he was on top of you. he took off his shirt, and rested his head on your chest. he cleared his throat, "i should've asked this question earlier, but are you single?"

"yeah." you chuckled, running a hand through his curls.

"so, can i be your boyfriend?"

"lando norris," you hummed, "did you finally get the guts to ask me out?"

"yes," he smiled, lifting his head up to look at you, "yes, i did. will you be my girlfriend?"

"you're a dork."

"that's not an answer."

"yes," you laughed, "yes, i'll be your girlfriend."

lando grinned, and you grinned back.

yeah, it wasn't casual anymore.

(u guys im so sorry if i've tagged someone who doesnt want to be tagged i just had no idea how to let non-followers know part 2 is out bcs tumblr is not letting me reply to comments😭if anyone wants their tag removed, feel free to dm me!! i hope u liked this) @oscarpiassrri @meglouise00 @f1fantasys @technicallypleasanttree @ggaslyp1 @obxstiles @nataliambc @prudyhoo @idkwtdwml123 @ushygushybaby @emilyroxy @yootvi @fishingarden @pillowprincess4him @herexpertcollector

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kisses4reid · 9 months ago

Text

sleep talking | ·˚ ༘ spencer reid ,,

fluff, one bed trope, r sleep talks, mutual pining

You lined up two pillows in the middle of the bed, fluffing them upright to create a barrier. Spencer smiled, emerging from the bathroom with wet hair and classic plaid pants. His black tshirt stuck to him slightly, and you had to pinch yourself behind the pillow wall to rip your eyes off of him.

“What’s this?” He asks, bending down at his bedside table to charge his flip phone. Your hands start fidgeting and you smile sheepishly,

“I’m a very active sleeper. Also, you hate germs. I doubt sleeping in the same bed as someone makes you sleep better.” Spencer sits down and covers his lower body in the soft duvet the hotel had washed freshly just the night before.

Although he looks casual and calm, like being roomed with you is a reoccurring situation, his heart palpitates under his ribs.

Maybe he didn’t want the pillow barrier, but it didn’t matter - if you wanted it, he’d agree.

He shrugs, smelling of coconut soap and linen. You turn your face away to smile slightly. David knew exactly what he was doing when he roomed you two together. You tugged your sleep shirt down and lean again the head board, clasping your book from the bedside table - an escape from your own feelings.

But there’s a gaze. It disrupts your senses and you turn your head to meet hot chocolate eyes and a shy smile.

“Thank you for thinking of me.” He whispers, and your eyes dart from his eyes to his lips.

“It’s okay. It’s better than you spraying down the bedsheets.” You jest, and he breathes out a tired laugh. Your eyes hold each others before you glance away to your book, and Spencer grabs his own.

It’s almost domestic. The aircon is at a comfortable, warm temperature (you both hate the cold), the bedsheets are clean, and the lamps are a warm glow that illuminates the room dimly. The only sound is soft breaths and turning pages.

It’s the calmest you’ve been in years.

It’s 2:34am, and Spencer’s just woken up to the soft whispers emitting from your side of the bed. He lifts his head, curious and somewhat concerned. You could be having a nightmare, or maybe you’re sick - or maybe you simply couldn’t sleep. But no, it was none of those.

You warned him.

“Spencer.”

“Yeah?” His voice croaks, confused. You were still. He rubs his eyes and tries to make out if you’re awake or not.

“Oh, you’re here?”

Spencer furrowed his brows and then widened his eyes, ‘I’m an active sleeper’.

“Don’t leave, okay?” You continue, and he smiles, laying his head back down. The pillows are flat on the bed, a consequence of your own sleeping habits, and it gives Spencer a perfect view.

Your hair is sprawled over the pillow, one piece covering your right cheek as you face him with a calm expression.

“I won’t.” He replies, heart aching a bit at your longingfull words. It’s silent for a few seconds before your hand reaches over the pillow, just falling short of his shoulder.

“But you’re so… far away.” You pout in your sleep and his heart crumbles. Spencer has no idea what you’re dreaming over, but whatever it is seemed solemn. He hesitantly outstretched his hand to wipe that piece of hair away, but he stopped short when you continued, “I don’t like it when you’re far away… m’feel lost…”

He picks up the barrier pillows and softly places them lower on the bed, shuffling forward slowly and laying his head down on his pillow (that’s now only a few inches away from yours). You smile in your sleep before going calm again, and Spencer thinks you’ve finished your sleep-talking before you let out one more soft whisper.

“That’s better.”

You wake up on your back, feet resting on a pillow and body entangled in the soft duvet. And Spencer’s there laying on his stomach, elbows pointed out and sleeping face angled towards yours. He looks gorgeous.

His hair is a mess, and there’s a piece stuck in his mouth, but his skin looks slightly tan and so clear. His eyelashes flutter slightly but he doesn’t wake - you try not to focus on how his shirts ridden up.

You turn towards him and lift the blanket up to cover his back. The warmth of the room, and the scent emitting from the man beside you lulls you to ignore the time crunch of your early flight, and drift back into the best sleep you’ve had in years.

taglist (open) - @jeffswh0re @reap3erslov3 @candyd1es @0108s22m @aurorsworld @theoraekenslover @c-losur3 @littlelearningbrat @khxna

#criminal minds #spencer reid #cm #criminal minds imagine #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds fluff #spencer reid oneshot #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x fem!reader #dr spencer reid #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds oneshot #🍵 —☆ pia’s pages

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emmiesoverthemoon · 16 days ago

Text

what's a little ink?

pairing: han jisung x reader

word count: 7.3k

summary: you wanted the upper hand. you came for a tattoo. you also came for him. and somehow you ended up in his hoodie, eating his eggs, and wondering how a bet turned into this stupid, soft thing you just can’t resist wanting

tags: tattoo artist au, friends to lovers, fluff and smut. porn with plot. sweet, sappy, and gross romance. enjoy

requested by @burlesquerade hope u like it honey

It all started with a simple, completely ridiculous bet. You and Han had been hanging out for hours, as you often did, swapping old stories and making fun of each other’s quirky habits. Laughter echoed around the cozy living room, the kind of laughter that was easy and natural, the way it always was when the two of you were together.

"Okay," Han said, a sly grin spreading across his face. He leaned forward, eyes glinting with that playful spark you knew all too well. "If you can beat me at this stupid game one more time, I will get you whatever you want as a prize."

You raised an eyebrow, already suspecting he might be setting you up for something ridiculous. "Whatever I want? Really?"

"Yep. No holds barred. You name it, and it’s yours," Han assured you, his tone full of confident mischief. "But if I win…" He paused for dramatic effect, leaning in so close you could feel the heat of his breath on your cheek. “You have to let me tattoo you.”

You snorted, shaking your head. “Tattoo me? Really? That’s your big gamble?”

Han’s smile grew wider. “I’m a tattoo artist, remember? It's a fair trade. I think you’re too scared to let me do it.”

You couldn’t help the laugh that escaped your lips, your fingers tapping idly on your cup. “Scared? Please. I’m not scared of a tattoo.”

His eyes narrowed, a challenge sparking in their depths. “Oh, so now you’re saying you can handle it? Alright then. You’re on. But we both know I’m going to win.”

You gave him a playful smirk. “Big talk for someone who has no idea what they’re up against.”

The game you were playing—a mix of cards, trivia, and guessing games—was silly, and it didn’t take long for the competition to become heated. But, much to your surprise, you did win. By a narrow margin, of course, but a win was a win.

Han’s mouth dropped open in disbelief, and you had to bite your lip to stop yourself from gloating too much. You had been expecting him to be smug, but now, as the reality of the situation sank in, you saw a flicker of something else cross his features.

“Alright, alright,” he muttered, trying to hide his grin. “You won. So what do you want?”

You leaned back in the chair, considering your options. There were so many things you could ask for—something extravagant, maybe—but you had been thinking about this for a while. Han had been inking people for years now, and you had always wondered what it would feel like to have him work on you.

So, you decided to go for it.

“I want a tattoo,” you said with a straight face, barely able to hide the excitement in your voice.

He blinked at you. “Wait… you’re serious?”

“Totally,” you answered, your grin impossible to hide. “You’re going to ink me, Han. And you can’t back out.”

He stared at you for a long moment, as if trying to make sure you weren’t joking, but then the challenge returned in his eyes.

“Well, if I have to do this, I get to choose where,” he said, his tone slightly mischievous. “No complaints, okay?”

You snorted, rolling your eyes. “Fine. As long as I get to decide what the design is, I’ll leave the location to you.”

Han smirked and held out his hand. “Deal.”

The text from Han came just before noon.

“Hope you’re not chickening out. Studio at 3. Wear something loose. ;)”

You stared at your phone longer than you meant to, heat crawling up your neck. Chickening out? Hardly. But that stupid winking face was another story. He always knew how to push just the right buttons—just enough to make your pulse quicken, just enough to stir things that should probably stay buried.

Still, you showed up. Of course you did.

His studio was tucked into a quiet side street downtown, its glass windows fogged slightly from the early spring chill. You had been here before—countless times, really—but never like this. Never with your skin on the line. Never with your heart threatening to beat out of your chest for reasons that had very little to do with ink or needles.

The soft chime above the door rang as you stepped in. Han was already inside, hunched over a sketchpad, his brows knitted in concentration. A pencil twirled between his fingers as he tapped it against his lower lip, eyes flicking to you the moment you walked in.

And just like that, the air shifted.

He smiled, slow and crooked. “You came. I’m impressed.”

“You told me to. I don’t exactly think that counts as bravery,” you replied, trying to play it cool, even though you were already peeling off your jacket, already catching the way his eyes flicked to your collarbone with something unreadable.

Han rose from his chair, brushing his fingers through his soft brown hair. “I sketched some ideas. Wanna see?”

You nodded, joining him by the desk where several sheets were spread out. The designs were delicate—subtle, intricate things, clearly drawn with you in mind. One of them caught your eye: a minimalist crescent moon nestled inside a trail of tiny stars, the lines fine and whisper-soft.

“I like this one,” you murmured, fingers brushing the paper.

“I thought you might.” His voice had dropped a bit. He was watching you closely, as if your reaction meant something more than approval. “It’s gentle. Quiet. But it lingers.”

You swallowed.

“I’ve decided where to put it,” he added after a beat, stepping closer.

“Oh?” you asked, lifting an eyebrow. “Do I get a hint?”

Han smiled, tilting his head just slightly as his eyes traveled—unapologetically—over your exposed shoulder, down the dip of your neck. “Upper shoulder. Right where it curves into your neck. Here.” He reached out, fingers grazing the exact spot, the barest ghost of a touch. “It’s a place you never see, but everyone else does. Intimate. Subtle. Kind of like the moon.”

You froze. It was a good idea—too good, actually. Because now, your body was responding to more than just nerves. The closeness. The delicacy in his voice. The way his fingertips lingered, resting there a heartbeat longer than necessary.

“I trust you,” you whispered, hoping it would ground you.

Han met your gaze. For once, he looked serious. “Then lie down for me.”

The chair was cold at first, the studio quiet but for the low murmur of music and the faint clatter of his tools. You lay on your side, hair pulled up and shirt slightly off one shoulder, baring the space where he would work. The air kissed your skin, but it was Han’s presence—his warmth—that you felt most acutely.

He cleaned the area with methodical care, the scent of alcohol and antiseptic somehow comforting. But it was the way his hand curved around your shoulder, the way his thumb brushed the nape of your neck, that made you hyper aware of every inch of yourself.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

“Mhmm.”

“Tell me if it hurts too much.”

You chose not to tell him that it already did—but not because of the needle.

As the machine buzzed to life, the first kiss of ink stung. You flinched, just slightly, and felt his other hand firm on your back in response. Steadying. Anchoring.

He worked in slow, precise strokes, the pressure rhythmic, hypnotic. But each time his fingers brushed your skin, each time his breath tickled your shoulder from how close he leaned—it lit something warm and aching inside you.

His voice broke through the quiet after a while, low and slightly hoarse. “You’re really still. Most people twitch like hell when it’s here.”

You exhaled, barely moving. “I think I just… don’t want to mess you up.”

“You couldn’t,” he murmured. And for a second, the machine paused. His hand stayed, resting lightly over the fresh lines. “You’re kind of perfect like this.”

Your breath caught.

You didn’t dare move. Didn’t dare ask what he meant. But in the pause between one stroke and the next, the silence pulsed—thick with something fragile, something not quite spoken yet.

He resumed working, but something had changed. His touches had always been skilled, steady, but now there was a new kind of deliberateness in the way his fingers slid across your skin—slower, more lingering, more aware. The buzz of the machine became background noise to the static dancing along your spine.

Your breath came shallow and controlled, each exhale purposeful, but no amount of focus could erase the way heat pooled low in your belly each time he adjusted your position, each time he leaned in just close enough that his breath grazed the shell of your ear.

"You’re warm," he said suddenly, voice barely audible over the low thrum of music.

You tilted your head, cheek brushing the leather of the chair. “Is that your way of saying I’m sweating too much?”

A quiet laugh. "No." He wiped the spot gently, fingers spread wide against your upper back. “Just saying... your skin feels alive.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, willing yourself not to shiver.

He paused to dip the needle again, but his other hand stayed pressed against you—thumb dragging absently along the edge of your spine. And then, as though the words slipped free without permission, he added, “It’s kind of driving me crazy.”

The machine stilled. Your eyes snapped open.

“What?”

Han blinked, as if he had not meant to say it aloud. But the corner of his mouth lifted anyway, a half-smile that was equal parts sheepish and satisfied. “Nothing. Just... hard to stay focused when you’re under my hands like this.”

Your pulse spiked. “You’re the one who insisted on choosing the placement.”

“Maybe I wanted an excuse to touch you like this. To drive you crazy”

The air between you crackled. He was close now—too close. His hand still rested against your skin, fingers slightly curled as if resisting the urge to grip tighter. You felt it in your bones: the shift from friendly banter to something heavier. Something hungry.

The tattoo needle remained idle, forgotten for the moment.

Your voice came soft, but steady. “Are you always this... handsy when you’re working?”

He leaned in slowly, slowly, until his mouth hovered just behind your ear. “Only when the canvas makes it impossible not to be.”

Your breath caught. You could feel the heat of him, the deliberate pause before he moved again—not toward his tools, but toward you. His hand slid from your shoulder, knuckles brushing the side of your throat in a line so featherlight it made your skin pebble.

Your voice was barely above a whisper. “You said you wanted to drive me crazy, too.”

“Is it working?” he murmured.

You closed your eyes, exhaling. “I think you already know the answer.”

Han chuckled under his breath, but there was a tightness in it—like restraint stretched thin. Still, he didn’t kiss you. Didn’t push further. Instead, he pressed a hand to your waist and guided you gently back into place, the spell not broken, only deferred.

“I should finish,” he said, almost hoarse.

You nodded, breathless. “Yeah. Finish.”

But every second after that was charged. Every brush of his hand, every hum of the machine, every stolen glance when you dared to peek up at him—all of it thrummed with the knowledge that something had shifted. And neither of you could pretend it hadn’t.

You lost track of time. Moments bled into minutes, drawn out by the quiet rhythm of his work and the unspoken weight between you.

By the time he shut off the machine, your body felt like it had become a tuning fork—tight with tension, humming with everything unsaid.

“That’s it, you're done,” Han said quietly, voice thick.

He reached for a clean cloth, gently dabbing the inked area. The sting had dulled into a soft ache, but the way his hand moved over your skin—slow, deliberate, reverent—was what left you breathless.

He lingered there, thumb brushing just above the fresh lines. “You did good. Barely moved.”

You shifted onto your elbows slightly, twisting to catch his face. “Is that praise, or are you just surprised I didn’t faint?”

His gaze met yours. For a second, he said nothing. Then, a smile tugged at his lips—but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“You’re a lot tougher than you let on.”

You sat up, pulling the collar of your shirt gently over one shoulder. “Maybe you just bring it out of me.”

Han stood there, still holding the cloth, still watching you with that unreadable expression. The tension between you was no longer subtle. It stretched between your bodies like a wire, thin and tight, vibrating with things neither of you had said out loud.

You looked away first.

“Let me pay you,” you said, reaching for your bag.

“Don’t,” he interrupted. “This wasn’t about that.”

Your fingers froze on the strap. You turned slowly. “Then what was it about?”

He hesitated, jaw tight. The weight in his gaze softened for a beat—something bare flickering through, like he wanted to say everything but chose instead to say:

“I wanted something of mine on you.”

The words landed in your chest like a drop of ink in water—sinking, blooming.

You didn’t respond right away. The silence folded around you again, but it was thick, pulsing, the air saturated with all the ways you almost touched.

Finally, you smiled, small but real. “Well... now you’ve got it.”

He laughed under his breath, but it was quieter this time. A little more careful. “Yeah. Guess I do.”

You moved toward the mirror, pulling your shirt slightly aside to see the finished piece that now lay protected by second skin. The crescent moon curved delicately against your skin, soft as a secret, sharp as a wish you hadn’t meant to speak aloud.

It was beautiful. It was everything you could have asked for.

You caught Han watching your reflection—eyes fixed not just on the ink, but the shape of you, the moment of you. Like he had never really allowed himself to look until now.

And still... he did nothing. And neither did you.

Just two bodies, standing too close, tied together by a single piece of ink and a silence that spoke louder than anything else.

You turned from the mirror, fingers brushing down the edge of your collar one last time. The skin was still tender beneath your touch, but not as tender as the weight in your chest.

“I should go,” you said, voice a little too light. A little too careful.

Han nodded once, but he did not move from where he stood. “Right. It’s late.”

You moved toward the door, bag slung over your shoulder, shoes forgotten under the bench. The silence followed you like smoke—slow and curling and hard to breathe through. You could feel his eyes on your back.

But just as your hand touched the knob, you paused.

“…I’m not usually like this.”

The words escaped before you could catch them.

Han’s voice came from behind you, lower now. “Like what?”

You didn’t turn to face him. “This affected.”

A beat.

Then: “Me neither.”

You turned then. Slowly. He was closer than he’d been a moment ago. Still not touching. Still not reaching.

But close.

The streetlights from outside filtered through the frosted windows, casting soft shadows over his face—his expression was unreadable again, but his eyes were not. They were dark and warm and searching. Like he wanted to speak with his hands instead of his mouth.

“I should walk you out,” he offered.

“I don’t need—”

“I know.” A pause. Then, his voice was gentler, “Let me anyway.”

You nodded.

He opened the door, and the cool air of the hallway hit your skin like a shock—like stepping out of a dream. The clack of your shoes echoed softly as you both walked, side by side, neither of you speaking.

You reached the door to the street. The city breathed on the other side. Stillness clung to the space between you like fog.

“Hey,” Han called, just as you stepped onto the threshold. His voice pulled you back. “Wait.”

You turned, heart stuttering.

He was standing close again. Too close. The kind of close that felt deliberate. His hand hovered near your waist, fingers flexing once, like he was debating whether to touch you again.

He didn’t.

Instead, his voice dropped. “If I kiss you right now… would that mess things up?”

Your breath hitched.

The world held its breath with you.

You let the silence stretch. Let the ache of it crawl up your spine. And then you said—quietly, honestly:

“I think not kissing me might mess things up more.”

And still—still—he did not kiss you. He only looked at you like he wanted to memorize the moment, the space between your mouths, the way you had just told him everything without saying it outright.

He smiled, slow and heavy with intent. “Then maybe I’ll wait until it really ruins me.”

Your throat went dry.

“Night,” he murmured, stepping back.

And just like that, the door closed between you.

But your heart stayed in his hands.

It was past midnight when your phone lit up.

"You still awake?"

You stared at the screen, thumb hovering, heart already answering before you could.

"i never really went to sleep"

Three dots appeared, then vanished. Then again.

"Me neither"

A beat of no incoming messages passed, then:

"I'm keeping myself up thinking about earlier''

Your breath caught.

"the tattoo?"

"Not exactly.."

You didn't respond right away. You didn’t have to. The air in your room had changed—thicker, tighter, like his voice might pour from the cracks in the wall's paint if you leaned in close enough.

And then the screen lit up again—this time, a call, to which you answered—not after panicking for a few seconds, of course.

“…Hey.” You whispered into the microphone.

His voice was low, rough from too many unsent words. “You looked good tonight.”

You swallowed the simmering embarrassment down. “You saw a lot of skin.”

“Not the part I meant.”

A silence stretched. Not awkward—intimate. It curled through the receiver like warm breath against your neck.

“Come by tomorrow,” he said finally. “I need to check your tattoo.”

“You just want to touch me again.”

“I'm not gonna sit here and lie to you by saying I didn't love every second of touching you. Come by tomorrow, please?”

Your skin flared at the bluntness. There was no smirk in his tone. No teasing this time. Just heat. Quiet and real.

You whispered, “Okay.”

The next day, you were back at his studio.

You told yourself it was just for aftercare, but the second you walked in, saw the way he looked up at you—eyes dark and steady—you knew you were both done pretending.

“Shirt,” he said softly, gesturing to the seat.

You sat. You peeled the fabric from your shoulder, the same stretch of skin that had sparked the night before and haunted his thoughts since. His hands were gloved, but his touch still felt like bare electricity.

He leaned in, inspecting the ink, but the space between you crackled. “Looks good,” he murmured. “You’ll heal fast.”

“So I can go?” you teased, voice thinner than usual.

He gave you no answer. Just peeled off the gloves, tossed them aside, and placed his bare hand against your back—palm flat, warm. Possessive.

“You came back,” he said. “That’s what I wanted.”

You turned your head, letting your cheek rest against your shoulder, watching him. “I did as I was told, Han. So what now?”

Han stepped around to face you. He reached up and touched your chin, tilting your face to his. The air between you shrank to nothing.

“Now I kiss you.”

And this time, he did.

His mouth was warm, unhurried, like he was tasting something he had waited weeks to touch. His fingers cradled your jaw, and you melted into it, into him, into the truth that had been aching beneath your skin for days.

He pulled back, just an inch.

“Still messing things up?” he asked, breath brushing your lips.

You smiled. “Only in the best way.”

The kiss tasted like every moment that came before it—charged, aching, sweet with restraint. His mouth moved against yours like a secret unraveling, like he had memorized the shape of your lips before ever daring to touch them.

You leaned into him, fingers curling into his shirt, pulling him closer like instinct. Like gravity. Han followed the movement without hesitation, one hand sliding around your waist, the other brushing the side of your neck—soft, reverent, as if you might vanish if he held you too tightly.

When he pulled back, just enough to breathe, your foreheads touched. Your eyes stayed closed.

“You have no idea what you’ve been doing to me,” he whispered.

You opened your eyes. “Then show me.”

The words cracked something open between you. Quickly, he sat beside you on the tattoo bed and pulled you onto his lap.

He kissed you again—deeper now, his hands no longer tentative. One slid under your shirt, fingers warm against the small of your back, the other braced at your hip like he needed the anchor. You shifted in his lap, and before you realized you had even moved, he groaned low in his throat at the feel of you straddling him, bodies pressed with no space between.

Still, he slowed. Just for a breath.

“You okay?” he asked, voice rough.

You nodded, nose brushing his. “More than.”

His lips returned to the bare side of your throat—soft at first, then with the scrape of teeth. Your hands threaded into his hair as you tilted your head for him, shivering when he dragged his mouth down the slope of your shoulder.

“Han,” you breathed.

He stilled for a moment, forehead pressed against your skin.

“I’ve wanted this,” he said. “But not just this.”

You stilled, heart thudding.

“I want every version of you,” he continued. “The fire, the softness, the silence. I want the way you look at me when I'm not looking. I want the way you talk like you are not afraid but touch like you’re terrified.”

You exhaled, chest caving. “You noticed everything?"

“I tried not to.”

He leaned back to meet your gaze. His hands moved with more intent now, but still gentle—still you-first. His thumbs traced the curve of your hips beneath your shirt, and you shivered under the slow build of it.

And then, still holding your waist, he laid you back against the padded bench—carefully, gracefully—like you were something rare. Like he had dreamed of this exact moment in the quiet between days.

Your shirt came off slowly, inch by inch. His hands explored like a map he was finally allowed to touch. Every kiss was a promise: I will not rush this. I will learn you inch by inch. I will memorize every sigh.

When his mouth found yours again, the kiss burned hotter—teeth clashing gently, breath shared. You tugged at his shirt, and he pulled it over his head in one clean motion, your hands already seeking skin, already desperate to feel.

Still, even in the heat, he slowed now and then—traced your ribs with a single finger, kissed the inside of your wrist. Whispers scattered between kisses.

“I want you,” he said. “But I also want you.”

You arched into him, fingertips splayed across his back, heart wide open. “You have me.”

The second his shirt hit the floor, your hands were on him—tracing the taut muscle beneath warm skin, nails catching just enough to make him hiss. His mouth was back on yours before you could take your next breath, more forceful now, more needy. Tongue sliding against yours with a hunger that made your spine arch and your legs tighten around his hips.

Han groaned when he felt it—your thighs drawing him in like a vice, like you already knew exactly how this would end.

“Fuck,” he murmured against your mouth. “You feel too good.”

“You haven’t even felt me yet,” you whispered back.

His eyes darkened.

He pulled you up in one fluid motion, strong hands gripping your thighs as he laid you down atop the workbench, your back pressed against cool wood, your skin burning beneath his palms.

He kissed down your throat, not slow anymore. Messy, greedy, open-mouthed kisses that left your pulse stuttering. He bit lightly at the curve where your shoulder met your neck, and you gasped—head tipping back, legs spreading instinctively, begging for more contact, more friction, more.

His hands slipped beneath the band of your pants, thumbs dragging over the sensitive skin at your hips.

“These need to come off,” he growled, voice thick with want. “Right fucking now.”

You lifted your hips to help, letting him tug them down along with your underwear in one swift motion. The heat in his gaze when he looked at you—all of you—bare on his table, flushed and panting, legs spread for him like it was the most natural thing in the world—

It made your stomach flip, made your core throb.

“You’re gorgeous,” he said, like he was angry about it. “So fucking pretty and wet already, and I haven’t even touched you properly.”

“Then do it,” you whispered. “Touch me.”

And he did.

One hand pressed your thigh open, the other sliding between your legs, fingers stroking through your slick folds in a rhythm that was maddeningly light. He teased your clit with the pad of his thumb, watching the way your hips jerked, your mouth parted around soft gasps.

“You gonna let me make you come with just my fingers first?” he murmured, leaning close, breath hot against your ear. “Wanna feel you grip them before I fuck you. Want you so messy I can’t think straight.”

You whimpered, back arching. “Yes—please, Han—”

He slid one finger in, slow, letting you feel the stretch. Then two. Then a curl of his knuckles that had you crying out, your hands scrabbling for purchase on the edge of the table.

“That’s it,” he groaned. “Grind on my fingers. Let me see how desperate you are.”

You did—hips rocking, thighs trembling, your core clenching around him as he worked you open with deliberate pressure, circling your clit with his thumb until the pressure built fast and dizzying.

“I can feel you getting close,” he said against your throat. “You gonna come for me, baby? Right here on the table where I ink people’s skin?”

“Fuck—Han—yes—”

You shattered with a cry, legs shaking, body arching against his mouth as he kissed you through it—murmuring things you could barely process, words lost in the white-hot rush.

And when you finally came down, breath heaving, he leaned back and licked his fingers clean with a satisfied smirk.

“Think you’re ready for my cock now?”

You nodded, dazed. “Please.”

He undid his belt with one hand, gaze locked to yours as he stroked himself—slow, thick, already slick from the sight of you. Then he lined up, ran the head through your folds once, twice, teasing your oversensitive clit just to watch you twitch—

And then he pushed in.

You both groaned—deep, guttural—like relief and hunger all at once. He filled you in one slow, brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt.

You were soaked. Sore. Already wrecked.

But he did not stop.

He fucked you—hard, deep, each thrust lifting your hips from the table, your hands clawing at his back, your moans turning to whimpers, then cries. His name over and over.

Your moans spilled out in sobs as your second climax hit you like a dam bursting. It was hot—blinding—your release painting his cock in pulsing waves, your entire body locking up beneath him. All the hunger, the want, the times of aching tension you had swallowed back whenever he so much as looked at you with those dark, unreadable eyes—it all came out in that moment. You clenched tight around him, and he groaned loud and low, his head dropping to your shoulder.

“God—look at you,” he rasped, voice wrecked, pride and awe tangled in every word. “So good for me. So perfect when you come.”

But then, his hips stopped to a jarring halt. He was still buried inside you, forehead pressed to yours, breath ragged. You could feel the tension in his body—every muscle taut, his hips stuttering in that way that told you he was right on the edge, right there—

But holding back. Just for you.

You cupped his jaw, breathless but steadying. “You didn’t come.”

He shook his head, eyes fluttering. “Wanted to feel you first. Wanted to see—fuck—how tight you get when you come around me.”

Your body gave a little twitch at the memory, still oversensitive, still full. But a flicker of something else lit behind your eyes.

You kissed him—slow and deep—and then, with a sly smile, clenched around him deliberately.

He choked on a moan, arms trembling where they braced beside your head.

“Baby—don’t—”

“You always so in control?” you whispered, brushing your lips along his jaw, down his throat. “Or are you just that good at hiding when you want to break?”

He groaned, head falling to your shoulder. “Please—fuck—”

You rolled your hips beneath him, just a little. Just enough.

“You’re still so hard,” you murmured, voice thick with satisfaction. “Still deep inside me like you need to be. You want to come? Want to fill me up?”

“God—yes.”

“Then allow me.”

You pushed him gently, and he let you—collapsing back into the chair beside the bench, cock glistening and flushed as it slipped free, twitching with the aftershocks of restraint. He barely had time to breathe before you dropped to your knees between his legs and wrapped your hand around him—tight, slow strokes from base to tip that had him gasping and clenching the arms of the chair.

“You look so pretty like this,” you murmured, kissing the head of his cock, licking the slit just to taste the salt of him.

His hips bucked and he cursed—head thrown back, abs tensing.

“Sensitive already, aren’t you?” you purred.

“I’m gonna—fuck—I’m gonna come—”

You took him into your mouth before he could finish the sentence—deep and warm, tongue swirling as you bobbed your head, one hand cupping his balls, the other pressing down gently on his hip to keep him from thrusting.

He was loud now, whimpering, begging, gasping your name like prayer.

And when he came—god—

It was with a broken moan, back arching, thighs shaking under your palms. You swallowed everything, licked your lips, and looked up at him through your lashes as he tried to remember how to breathe.

His eyes were glassy, hair clinging to his forehead, chest rising in jagged waves.

You smiled. “Still in control?”

He laughed—wrecked, breathless. “Fuck no.”

You climbed into his lap again, your bare skin still warm, flushed and tingling, and curled against him with a quiet little hum.

He wrapped his arms around you like instinct. And then, softly:

“…Round two’s gonna ruin us both.”

You grinned against his neck. “Good.”

The studio held comfortable silence for a moment.

Only your breathing filled the space—shallow and warm, mingling with his where you straddled him on the tattoo bed again, skin flushed and shining in the low amber glow of the work light. The air smelled like sweat and sex, care, and ink—hot, heavy, and honest.

Han was still beneath you, arms slack, mouth parted. His chest heaved, his cock softening between your thighs.

You dragged your fingers along the lines of his jaw, smug and satisfied. “Speechless?”

He blinked once. Then again. Something shifted in his eyes.

“No,” he rasped. “Just… trying not to fuck you so hard this bed breaks.”

You laughed softly—until his hands shot to your hips and slammed you down onto his thigh.

You gasped, the sudden friction making your oversensitive body jolt.

“I let you ruin me once,” he growled, voice low and wrecked. “Your turn now.”

You barely had time to react before he stood, arms beneath your thighs, lifting you like nothing. Your back hit the nearest wall—your bare skin flush to cool concrete, legs wrapped around his waist, his cock already hardening between you again.

“What—Han—”

“You think you can just look at me like that,” he snarled against your neck, grinding up between your soaked folds. “Touch me like you own me. And then walk out of here? Nah.”

You shivered. His cock pressed right against your entrance.

“Han—”

“Look at me.”

You did.

He didn't give you a warning. Just a brutal promise, growled against your skin; “I’m gonna fuck you so good you’ll forget your own name—but still remember mine when your hands are between your legs for weeks after.”

Then he was inside you again—deep—in one smooth, merciless thrust, hips snapping forward so hard your back hit the wall with a dull thud.

You gasped—high and breathless—arms clinging to his shoulders, nails biting into skin.

“Han—fuck—”

He caught your cry in a kiss that was anything but sweet. All tongue, teeth, and desperation, lips crushed to yours like he needed your breath to survive.

Your walls fluttered around him already—sensitive from the first round, still dripping wet and raw, but ready despite the ache. He filled you so completely, so perfectly, it stole the air from your lungs.

“I felt this pussy clench around my fingers,” he groaned, pulling back just enough to slam into you again. “But it’s nothing—nothing—compared to how you grip my cock. So fucking tight. So wet.”

You moaned—helpless—every part of your body trembling as he started to move.

Hard. Fast. Focused.

Your back scraped against the wall with every thrust, the studio echoing with the filthy slap of skin on skin, the sound of your choked gasps and his rough groans.

“You want control?” he hissed, fingers digging into the underside of your thighs, forcing them open wider. “Then take it.”

He pulled out.

You nearly cried from the loss.

Then he moved you back to the table, your knees hitting the workbench edge as he turned you, bent you forward, pressed your chest flat to the table.

You barely had time to breathe before he plunged back inside from behind, the new angle making you cry out, high and broken.

“Louder!” he commanded. “Let the whole damn building know how good I fuck you.”

And louder you were when he found that spot inside you—over and over again, the pace brutal and relentless.

He gripped your hips, pulling you back to meet every thrust, the obscene sound of your slick arousal growing louder with every stroke. Your legs started to buckle—nerves frayed, every inch of your skin alight.

“F-fuck—Han—I can’t—too much—”

“You can. You’re taking it like a fucking dream,” he rasped, reaching down, rubbing your clit in tight, wet circles that made your vision blur.

Your whole body tightened—shaking, clenching, desperate to come again, and again—

He leaned over you, lips to your ear, voice hoarse:

“Come on my cock again, baby. Milk it. Let me feel that pretty pussy worship me.”

And you did.

You shattered—body convulsing, mouth open in a silent scream as you came hard, squeezing him so tight he cursed and slammed into you with one final, brutal thrust.

He came with a shout—loud, raw, high—hips jerking as he spilled inside you, his hands fisting in your hair, his teeth grazing your shoulder.

You stayed like that for a moment.

Ruined. One tangled, sweaty, aching mess.

Then his hands softened—smoothed up your back, traced the curves of your hips like reverence.

He pressed a kiss between your shoulder blades.

“…Still remember your name?”

You laughed, wrecked and breathless.

“Remind me?" you whispered.

You did not remember collapsing—just that one moment he was still inside you, and the next, you were draped across the tattoo bed like laundry left out to dry. Your skin tingled, nerves alight, thighs sticky and trembling, your mind still floating somewhere just above your body.

And Han?

Han was slumped in the chair again, legs spread, one arm thrown dramatically over his face.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered into the crook of his elbow. “I think I blacked out. You short-circuited me.”

You snorted, face still pressed to the cool surface of the bench. “You short-circuited me. I’m literally leaking.”

He scooted the chair to get a full view of what you were talking about, eyes glassy but mischievous. “Good. I want it dripping down your thighs next time you show up in those little skirts you wear.”

You blinked. “Next time?”

Han grinned, wicked and lazy. “Oh, baby. This is so not a one-time thing. I’m gonna put a stamp on you like a repeat customer loyalty card.”

You rolled onto your side, raising a brow. “You’re gonna fuck me five times and give me a discount on a flash piece?”

He laughed—loudly. Like you caught him off guard. “God, you’re a menace.”

“You’re the menace. Who says that shit mid-stroke?” you shot back, mimicking his earlier line with mock dramatics: “‘Forget your own name but still remember mine?’ Who writes you?”

He leaned forward, dragging his fingers up your bare spine. “No one writes me. I just improvise.”

You narrowed your eyes. “So… you freestyled your way into making me cum thrice and see stars?”

He winked. “What can I say? I’ve got bars and stamina.”

You smacked him with a rolled-up paper towel, but he caught your wrist and pulled you into his lap, arms curling around your waist like he never wanted to let you go.

Then—softer, like he almost did not mean to say it aloud:

“…I really like you.”

You stilled, looked over to him and kissed him gently, pouring every single ounce of reciprocation your being had to offer him. Because maybe he was a cocky, ridiculous, and insatiable man—but he was your cocky, ridiculous, and insatiable man.

Even when he was a little bit of a menace.

The silence after pulling away was heavy—not the uncomfortable kind, more like an exhale. A shared, serene stillness, your heartbeat slowing while his lips ghosted along your jaw, your collarbone, the tender edge of your throat.

He had not moved far.

Still close. Still inside your gravity.

Then Han shifted, propping his head on one elbow which rested on the arm of the chair, eyes sweeping your face like he was memorizing something. His fingers moved before his mouth did—brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, thumb dragging down your cheek.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

You blinked up at him, still dazed. “Hey.”

He hesitated—not out of uncertainty, but because this, somehow, felt bigger than everything you both had already done.

“You don’t have to go home tonight.”

You blinked. “Huh?”

His voice stayed soft, careful, “I mean… you could stay. With me.”

You stared.

He rushed to fill the silence, eyes darting between yours.

“Not just for more of this—though God, don’t get me wrong, I want more of this—but like. We could crash at my place. Order food. You could steal my hoodie. Wake up and make terrible coffee together. You could see what I’m like in the morning. Spoiler: not sexy. Kind of grumpy. But you’re good with chaos, right?”

You laughed—but something in your chest ached, cracked just a little.

Because he meant it—this wasn’t just about lust anymore. Not even about proximity or chemistry.

It was a choice.

He was asking you to stay, to see him past the high, into the quiet.

You leaned up, kissed him once—slow and certain.

“I’ll stay,” you whispered.

And the way he looked at you then—hopeful and smug and so unmistakably fond—made you feel warmer than anything else that night.

Sunlight crept in like it was in on a secret, painting lazy gold across your bare shoulder.

You stirred, slowly, blinking awake to the smell of coffee and something warm—eggs?—cooking in the kitchen nook. Your body ached, in all the right places. Inner thighs sore. Lips swollen. A fingerprint or five pressed like stamps into your hips. You stretched, wincing slightly, and smiled.

And Han—God, Han—was nowhere in the bed, but his hoodie had been draped over your legs like a blanket, his scent wrapped around you like a sigh.

You slipped it on, oversized and soft, sleeves swallowing your hands, and padded barefoot across the polished concrete toward the sound of gentle humming and the clatter of a pan.

Han stood with his back to you—shirtless, hair wild and sticking up in twenty-seven different directions, tattoos flexing as he flipped something in a pan. There were two mugs of coffee already out. One black. The other just the way you liked it.

You leaned on the doorway, biting your smile.

He sensed you, because of course he did.

“You’re up,” he murmured, glancing over his shoulder. And then, softer, like he couldn’t help himself: “Fuck, you look good in my hoodie.”

You padded up behind him, wrapping your arms around his waist, pressing your face on his nape.

“You’re feeding me. You really trying to make me fall in love with you?”

He chuckled, flipping the egg once again with a practiced hand. “That was the plan, yeah. Ruin your body, then win your heart with food.”

You laughed against his skin. “Tactical.”

He turned the stove off and turned in your arms, resting his hands low on your hips, looking down at you with sleepy warmth in his eyes. You felt it then—not just the physical closeness, but the easiness of it. The comfort. The pull.

“You staying the whole day?” he asked, voice quiet now, vulnerable in that way he rarely let show.

You nodded, brushing your lips over his collarbone.

“Only if you kiss me like that again,” you teased.

He grinned.

And did just that—slow, sweet, a kiss with no agenda other than to keep you there.

Later, with your stomach full, your limbs loose and drowsy from the best kind of indulgence, you found yourself curled up on the couch—Han’s head in your lap, your fingers absentmindedly playing with the messy strands of his hair.

Some terrible movie was playing on his television. Neither of you was really watching it. The remote lay forgotten on the floor. His fingers traced idle patterns on the bare skin beneath your borrowed hoodie, the both of you half-clothed, half-tangled, fully comfortable.

“This is dangerous,” you murmured.

Han cracked one eye open. “What is?”

“This. Us. You looking at me like I hung the stars and made your coffee.”

He smirked without moving. “You did, though. Kind of. That coffee was perfect.”

You rolled your eyes, but your cheeks warmed anyway.

His expression softened, gaze dropping to where his hand rested just beneath your ribs. “You should let me tattoo you again,” he said after a long beat.

You looked down at him. “Now?”

“No,” he smiled, “not now. But someday. Something small. Just for me. Somewhere only I get to see.”

Your stomach flipped at the idea. You tried to play it off. “That’s a lot of trust, letting you draw on me permanently.”

His fingers slid a little lower, dangerously close to a place that still pulsed with the memory of last night.

“You already let me ruin you once,” he said with a grin. “What’s a little ink?”

You snorted, swatting at him half-heartedly. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“And you’re still here,” he countered easily, nuzzling into your thigh like he belonged there. Like he always had.

You sighed contently as you carded your fingers through his hair again.

“Yeah,” you whispered, half to him, half to yourself.

“And I'm here to stay.”

drops this in your hands and runs off into the sunset

taglist (ask to be added here): @petersasteria @gdinthehouseee @aizshallnotbefound @burlesquerade @floofeh-purpi @ldydeath @wcnderlnds @ttturnitup @breakmeoff @sherrayyyyy @ricecake9999 @leni111 @scream-queen-25 @spiritualgirly444 @fairyprincesslvr21 @loonybunny1 @uuchii @sherxoo @m-325

#emmiesoverthemoon #han jisung #han jisung x reader #han jisung smut #han jisung skz x reader #han jisung skz #han jisung stray kids #han jisung stray kids smut #han stray kids #han skz #han skz x reader #han skz smut

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planet-hwa · 4 months ago

Note

can i request pervy roommate seonghwa who loves taking upskirt pictures of you and steals your panties. he got caught snooping in your room and you decide to punish him.

a subby seonghwa would be great. reader doesnt have to be dom but hwa loves it when shes mean to him.

thank you for your time! 🫶🏻

CORRUPTED THOUGHTS — 성화

✎ summary although you were no more than roommates, seonghwa was obsessed with you — completely infatuated by your mere existence. along with the pure admiration he had towards you, it also came with the immoral perverted thoughts that filled his mind every time he caught your scent…

pairing roommate!seonghwa x reader genre university/college au [only the reader, seonghwa is a few years older], a lot of perverted smut… my apologies word count 3.7k

warnings MDNI obsessedperv!seonghwa, reader is in a fwb situation, petnames/nicknames, swearing, underwear fetish, panty sniffing, masturbation [m], voyeurism i think, ruined orgasm, vibrators, pillow humping [f], caught masturbating, name-calling/degrading, punishment, handjobs, blowjobs, overstimulation, orgasm control, orgasm denial, bondage [m], dirty talk, crying from overstimulation [m], cunnilingus, face sitting, face riding, hands-free orgasm

❝ she lives in daydreams with me, she’s the first one that i see ❞ 🎧 now playing she ; harry styles

Although you were no more than roommates, Seonghwa was obsessed with you — completely infatuated by your mere exsistence. He couldn’t go a day without thinking about you, haunted by the lingering scents of your sweet perfume after you had left for your classes. Everything you owned and collected through your life was placed decoratively around the house, along with his own collections.

There was no escaping you.

He tried his hardest to control himself, but perverted tendencies drove him in other directions, all of this starting one day by just doing the laundry. While you were at one of your exams, one you had been stressing about all week, Seonghwa decided he wanted to help remove some sort of chores in your life and washed your dirty laundry.

Little did he know: this would be the worst thing to do.

Sorting through the blacks and whites, he would occasionally come across your underwear, which he had no problem with of course. That was until one pair of your panties, a navy blue pair with small white flowers and a white lace trim, ended up in his grip. This happened to be the pair you had worn last night, laced with your pre-arousal from your very teasing casual hookup, the smell was pungent. The aroma filled the small room and travelled its way into Seonghwa’s nose. He stared at the pair with wide eyes, his thumb tracing over the darkened, now dried, patch of the previous night's intimate moments.

It was as if his mind had lost control of his body, his hands slowly pulling the panties to his face and breathing them in deeply. The fragrance was intoxicating, his mind instantly becoming fogged and heat swiftly rushing through his body, targeting the area between his legs. He had never become harder quicker, his dick twitching desperately in his sweats and leaked with pre-cum — all from one whiff. In desperation, he ran to his bedroom and stripped himself of his pants. Your panties in one hand and his throbbing erection in the other, creating the beginning cycle of perversion.

_________________________

Seonghwa tried his hardest to respect your privacy, attempting to block out the sounds of your sexual actions in the next room with his headphones, hands originally distracted by his animal crossing game. But how could he not be distracted, with the beautiful melody of your moans that cracked through the walls. Even knowing they were fake, they were still music to his ears.

You were currently in a friends-with-benefits situation with a guy at your college. He was cute, a good kisser and good at turning you on, but he could never finish the job. Seonghwa didn’t understand why you would still invite him over time and time again, especially with the knowledge that the moment he would leave, your vibrator would be in between your legs to pull you through the unfinished orgasms. That’s how he knew the difference in your moans, fake vs real, he heard both without even touching you.

“Fuuck, right there.” You moaned loudly, the familiar knot building in your stomach as the man pumped sloppily into you. Unbeknownst to you, Seonghwa sat in his room listening to your whimpers, secretly praying he was the one driving you with pleasure. His erection tented in his pajama pants, desperately twitching for friction. Fingers grazed over the bulge, fluttering at the light touch before they turned into a palming movement. Lifting the waistband of his pants, he watched as pre-cum dribbled out of the reddened tip. He dragged his thumb over it, wincing at the feeling before he started slowly pumping himself. The sounds of your moans echoed through the hall and into Seonghwa’s room, mixing with a lewd symphony of his own silent whines and desperation to cum. His hand pumped with the rhythm of your sounds, growing faster every time you did. A tension grew in his stomach, a combination of pleasure and guilt. He knew this was a disgusting thing to do, but he physically couldn’t stop, no matter how hard he tried.

Just as he was about to fall over the edge, the sounds of sex stopped and footsteps fell through the apartment, the front door opening and closing quickly. Seonghwa curiously got up out of bed, taking a peak through the crack in his bedroom door. He watched as you locked the front door and wandered back to your bedroom, wearing nothing but a cropped band tee and black lace panties — corruption bled into his brain as he stared at the panties clenching around your ass, knowing they would be his next victim of fetishising. The sound of vibrations pricked at his ears, whimpers quietly following.

Tip-toeing through the hallway, he glanced through the open crevice into your bedroom, eyes widening at the sight before him. The bunny vibrator pressing into your clit deliciously as you grind your dripping cunt on a pillow that usually sat on the chair in the corner of the room. Seonghwa watched as you humped the pillow desperately chasing your unfinished business, his hardened erection reminding him of his own. His hands moved down his abdomen and under his waistband, his slender fingers wrapping around the base of his cock and pumping hopelessly — his eyes remained on the view between the cracked open door. Your moans heightened in pitch as you rutted against the pillow, vibrator still tightly held to your puffy clit, you pressed the button to the fastest setting causing your legs to begin to shake uncontrollably. The sight was hypnotic to Seonghwa, his hand pumping to the rhythm of your hip movements. With parted lips, a small whimper escaped them causing him to slap his free hand to his mouth in an attempt to not blow his cover. Thankfully for him, you were too invested in making yourself finish to notice that just two metres from you was your roommate pursuing the same feeling.

Your belly tightened as your orgasm crashed over you, body shaking hopelessly as you fell backwards, the vibrator rubbing your arousal around your entire core. Your breathing was heavy as you slowed down from your high. Behind your bedroom door, Seonghwa had the same feeling wash over him like a tidal wave. His hand pumped around his bulge with desperation as hot ropes of cum filled his pajama pants, a sticky wet patch now coating the inside of them. He leant back against the wall accidentally causing a creak to rustle through the house. Without hesitation, he sharply ran back to his room and closed the door quickly but quietly, praying that his perverted self wasn’t caught.

The noise of creaking and silent footsteps entertained your eyes, thinking that your roommate had just heard you masturbating, but in your post-orgasm bliss — you didn’t seem to care and ended changing into pajamas and drifting off to sleep.

_________________________

Seonghwa searched destructively through your laundry basket, looking for that hypnotic black lacy pair of panties that were clad to your ass last night. Currently alone in the house, with you at your morning classes, he knew you’d be gone long enough for him to relieve himself of his depravity — or so he thought…

Finally, the lace of the panties tickled his finger tips, quickly snatching them up and bolting to his room. The second he entered, his pants and boxers were discarded somewhere on the floor, the loose shirt being his only coverage. He sat up against the headboard staring at the object in hand, observing the previous patch of wet arousal on them. He felt like he could cum right then and there just by the sight, both lips and tip drooling in anticipation. His hand wrapped around his twitching cock, finger grazing over the sensitive red tip and down the underside vein of his length, dragging his pre-cum over it and beginning to stroke.

His grip tightened on the panties as he moved his hand rhythmically, the other slowly bringing the fabric to his face and dipping his nose into it — he inhaled the scent letting it reroute his brain. He whined desperately into the fabric as his hand pumped around his raging erection faster. He couldn’t hold himself back any longer, hips bucking hopelessly into his hand and moaning incoherent mumbles of your name — he had never been this turned on by someone, a person who wasn’t even there. Seonghwa was so caught up in euphoria that he didn’t hear the clicks of the front door, or the footsteps that grew closer to his room.

Classes finished early today, which meant you got to go home and relax after having such a stressful school week. The front door unlocked swiftly and you entered with a huff, throwing your shoes off into the corner and placing your coat over the arm of the couch. Muffled groans filled the apartment, all coming from Seonghwa’s room. You cocked an eyebrow at the thought of him having someone over — you couldn’t judge of course but you had never known him to be one for hookups. Curiosity got the best of you and you tip-toed towards his room, the door left slightly open but not enough to see. You lightly pushed it open, eyes widening in shock at the sight of the man on the bed. His hand wrapped securely around his very hard, very large, dick, moving in a fast rhythmic pattern and glistening with pre-cum. You watched as his eyebrows furrowed and eyes rolled backwards, his other hand covering the majority of his face. As his face contorted with pleasure, you felt a warmth move to your core, something you never thought you’d feel for your roommate of all people.

Paying unnecessary close attention to his facial expressions, you noticed he held something compressed against his nose; quick enough to realise what it was. Slipping on your feet slightly, the door opened wider and revealed your presence, Seonghwa too intoxicated to notice until the sound of your voice penetrated his ears.

“W-what the fuck?” You stuttered, frozen in shock at the sight. “Seonghwa, what are you doing?”

“Oh, oh my god! I’m so sorry!” He jumped, spitting apologies whilst trying to cover himself. You walked up to his bed and snatched your panties out of his hands, putting the pieces together as to why they kept going missing for a few days but showing up suddenly after mentioning it.

“Why do you have these?” You shouted, the stickiness of pre-cum latching onto your fingers, caused by his speediness to cover himself up with his hands. You watched his body tense up, his face was flushed down to his neck, big boba eyes looking at you with fear and guilt.

“Y/N, I’m so sorry, I thought you were going to be out all morning-”

“I don’t care! Why are you taking my underwear, you perv!” Ignoring the more perverted fact that you were so turned on by the thought of his getting off to you. A silence followed as you both collected your thoughts.

“I’m truly so sorry,” His voice hushed, eyes glossing with guilty tears. “Y/N, please forgive me. I’ll do anything, just please forgive me.”

You brows furrowed in thought, staring at the desperation in his expression; coated with so many guilty and lustful emotions. Although you were no more than roommates and never had been, you could see that Seonghwa was obsessed with you — completely infatuated by your mere existence.

‘Anything’, he said it himself.

You had complete control right now.

Quietly sitting down next to him, he shifted in his spot as you grew closer, hand grazing his bare thigh. The soft touch sent chills up his spine, his hands still cupping his erection in coverage.

“I just want to know,” Your gaze moved to his face. “Why?”

“W-why?”

“Why do you get off to my panties,” Your fingertips trailed up and down his thigh, growing closer to his hard-on with every line. “When you could just have me?”

His eyes widened as the question lingered in the air, your hand now centimetres away from where he wanted it most. Lips parted and unable to get words out, he watched as your face moved closer to him, your breath grazing against his lips before connecting them with yours. Instantly falling into the kiss, he memorised how soft and delicate your lips were, his hand removing his cover and cupping your face to keep you close. The kiss quickly fell into a passionate mixture of moans and groans, tongues dancing in tangent and twirling around each other.

Both of his hands now cupping your face, you took this as the opportunity to wrap your fingers around his length. He whined into the kiss as you slowly stroked him, collecting sticky pre-cum from his tip and dragging it up and down his throbbing erection. The kiss was unbreakable, hopeless moans falling in from Seonghwa, his brain unable to process what was truly happening. The tension already began to build in his stomach due to his previous orgasm being ruined. You broke the kiss to look at him, watching as he tried to follow you for more. His eyes were hooded and eyebrows scrunching in different shapes as his orgasm grew closer.

“You know – fuuck – I’ve always dreamt of being with you.” He swore, legs starting to tremble beneath him.

“Are you close, Hwa?” You asked with a sultry voice, melting into his ears.

“Y-yes.” He mumbled, scrambling for words but ultimately losing to the continuous symphony of whimpers that flowed like a river. His hips began to buck into your hand for more friction, understanding and swiftly speeding your movements. You watched as his orgasm sat on the edge; stomach tensed, eyes rolled back, hands clutching at the sheets — a complete moaning mess.

“Y/N, ‘m gonna cum-” Mere seconds before his release, you removed your hand from his leaking tip and listened to him whine in agony.

“You didn’t really think that I would let you cum that easy, did you?” You laughed, his pain serving as a comedy show for you. “You’ve been such a naughty boy, stealing my panties and using them to get off. Don’t you think you deserve some punishment?”

A pout grew on his face, puppy eyes staring at you in despair.

“Unless you don’t want me to touch you at all-”

“No!” He snapped, a usual tone of anger turned into a beg. “Please…”

You smirked at the perverted man, watching as he poured his heart into begging for your touch, smiling once you gave in.

After multiple denied orgasms, Seonghwa’s body was shaking all over, arousal leaking into his bloodstream. His lips were swollen from your kisses, face coloured in a crimson red and sweat beading down his skin. His hands were now tied tightly to the bed posts, a penalty caused by his inability to keep his hands away from his cock every time you repudiated his orgasm — which happened to be four or five of them by now. The tip of his length was a matching shade of red to his face, swollen and oozing out clear liquid that probably couldn’t even be called pre-cum from the amount of times it had happened. Every touch from you caused his skin to burn, a good and bad sensation.

“Pleease Y/N,” He cried, tears welling up in his eyes and piercing the corners as they rolled down his cheeks. “It’s too much now, please let me cum.”

“But I thought this was what you wanted?” You looked up at him with innocent eyes and purred, running your tongue along his slit and wrapping your lips softly around the tip, slowly pushing your head down until his length hit the back of your throat. A guttural groan trembled between Seonghwa’s lips, tears now streaming like niagara falls down his flushed and puffy cheeks as you sucked him in. “Weren’t you the one who said you dreamt of being with me?”

“This isn’t – aahhh – exactly what I had in mind… shit…” His voice vibrated through the room, it was unstable as his sloppy upwards thrusts into your hands.

“Well, I did say you needed to be punished, but…” You removed your hand once more and brought it to cup his warm cheek, his glossy boba eyes staring into yours. He looked so vulnerable right now, you almost felt bad. “I think you’ve had enough, baby. What do you want me to do?”

“Sit on my face.”

The response was instant, almost as if a switch snapped him back on. The words were audible compared to his previous mumbled groans and curses, leaving you surprised. You had been so focused on giving him tortuous pleasure that you were completely ignoring the wet patch that soaked your panties the moment you entered the room, his statement made your body realise that you had silently been torturing yourself as well.

Swiftly discarding your clothes, you straddled his chest, thighs sitting comfortably next to his face and letting your dripping core hover above his mouth. He looked up at you from underneath checking for any uncertainty, both sending each other silent confirmations. He licked his plush lips before sticking his tongue out, waiting as you lowered your weight onto him.

He slid his tongue through your folds in a slow motion, earning a moan from you — music to his ears. As worn out and tired as he was, his energy regained instantly at the small taste of you. He quickly began lapping at your soaking folds, lewdly drinking up your wetness and following the pleasured sounds falling from your lips. Breathing in your scent was intoxicating to him, and finally it was from the source and not a patch of lacy fabric.

One hand grasped tightly at the headboard whilst the other ruffled itself into Seonghwa’s long locks, body jolting at the tip of his tongue suddenly hitting your clit. It swirled and flicked over it at a speed nobody has ever done, already feeling the knot grow in your lower abdomen.

“Fuuck Hwa, feels so good.” You cried, knuckles beginning to turn white from the pressure on your grip. He hummed in response as he continued to drink you up like a starved animal.

Hands still tied to the bedposts, he had no option of burying his slender fingers deep inside of you so instead he began pulsating his tongue in and out of your tight hole, feeling you clench around it which was driving him insane. You instinctively began grinding against his face, his nose tapping your clit with every roll of your hips.

The blend of lewd slurping and desperate moans filled the atmosphere, loud enough for neighbours to hear but neither of you cared. As you bucked your hips against his face, dragging your essence over his nose and chin, his moans shuddered beneath you sending new shockwaves of pleasure through your body. You felt your high building and your thighs began tightening, squeezing around Seonghwa’s face, almost cutting off the circulation. But he didn’t care. Infact, it turned him on even more to know the effect he was having on you. From listening to you hook up with your classmates and hearing you masturbate afterwards, he knew that these moans were real and you were truly enjoying yourself.

“Hwa, m’ gonna cu– ahhh!” In desperation to be washed over by your arousal, he began rubbing his face against your pussy, long tongue still roughly pumping in and out of you and nose thrashing your bud with every move. Both hands held securely onto the headboard as you rode his face hopelessly before your orgasm crashed over you, body shaking harsher than ever before as you layered Seonghwa’s face in your squirted essence.

He whined at the sensations of your juices guzzling down his throat, making sure to drink up every drop. The feeling of your body trembling above him caused his own orgasm to rush through his body. Warm ropes of cum spurted out of his throbbing cock and onto his abs, painting the scene with white cream continuously as his body rid him of all the build up pressure. He moaned into your soaked core and sent a melody of sensations through your body, causing a small aftershock of overstimulation.

Both breathing heavily, you climbed off of him and quickly untied his wrists from restraint, his arms instantly dropping to his sides. His chest fell and rose harshly, still trying to regain his composure back. You hopped off the bed and grabbed a towel from his washing basket, presumably an already dirty one, wiping his tummy clean and throwing the towel away. You stood up once more before a soft grip to your wrist stopped you.

“Where are you going?” Seonghwa sobbed, tear stains very prominent on his cheeks making you realise how far you pushed him.

“I’ll be back in just a second, I promise.” You whisper before wandering to the kitchen and returning with two glasses of water. “Drink this, baby.”

Seonghwa took the glass and gulped it down, watching as you moved around his room collecting items of clothes for him before stealing a shirt of his to wear yourself. Helping him sit up, you gently pulled a shirt over his head and gave him a pair of boxers to put on before he lay back down. You sat on the edge of the bed, guilt fading into you at the sight of him.

“Don’t feel bad,” As if he read your mind, he smiled softly at your concern. “This was everything I wanted and more.”

You returned him with a small smile of your own before leaning in and placing a delicate kiss on his swollen lips. The kiss, so soft and gentle compared to the previous scene, was sending an emotion through you that you hadn’t felt before after sex. A mutual understanding of the need to be around each other, especially following such a tormented situation. You pulled away and watched his facial expressions, not an ounce of regret or disheartment was in his eyes, only love and adoration.

“Do you have any more classes today?”

“I don’t, why?”

“Can you stay with me?”

A question that no guy had ever asked you or expected of you after sleeping with them. You finally understood why Seonghwa was always so caring towards you, despite his perverted tendencies, he was still so gentle with your emotions — he was deeply in love with you.

author's note i hope i did this anon request justice, i didn't add a few things because they weren't working out as well as i wanted them to so i'm sorry for that ;-; i hope that the anon who requested this sees it and enjoys it either way ♡

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