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rosierin · 3 days ago

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just a kiss (it wasn’t) | suna rintarou

synopsis; (y/n) and suna share the story of their first and only kiss. they don’t talk about it much but that doesn’t mean they’ve forgotten

warning; NSFW, mature content, explicit content‼️

this fic is part of the off-season quartet™ series! for more, click here :)

It was a rainy Saturday evening—which, in this household, meant one thing:

The perfect excuse for a movie night.

The pitter-patter of rain filled the living room, the sound rousing the sort of mood that made you want to burrow under a blanket and never crawl out. The scent of burnt popcorn (courtesy of Atsumu) still lingered in the air, barely masked by a candle someone had lit a few minutes earlier. On the TV, a romcom played, casting lights across a couch that had seen better days.

They were all tangled somewhere on and around it.

Suna was slouched in his armchair, one hand tucked behind his head, the other loosely holding the remote. The couch, meanwhile, was a mess of limbs. (Y/n) was wedged between the twins, blanket pulled over her legs, comfortable enough not to apologise when her thighs accidentally bumped one of theirs. It was cramped, a little too warm, but somehow still perfect in that lazy, lived-in way.

The movie was halfway through.

Some soft-hearted childhood-sweethearts plotline—filled with lots of longing glances, a slow dance in the kitchen, and a romantic first kiss on New Year’s Eve under fairy lights.

It was sweet and frankly a little bit sappy. But to (y/n), nostalgic in a way that made the room feel warmer than it was.

‘Course Atsumu had to go and ruin it.

“Okay but like,” he gestured towards the screen, “it’d be so weird kissin’ someone you’ve known since you were, like, six. Right? Isn’t that basically incest?”

(Y/n) sighed and pressed her eyes shut. “That’s… not how incest works.”

“No, but you get what I mean,” Atsumu rambled. (Y/n) didn’t grace him with a response. “You’ve watched ‘em eat glue and pick their nose yer whole life. How d’you go from that to makin’ out?”

Osamu made a thoughtful noise. “I mean, I get it. It’s weird if they feel like family.”

“Exactly!” Atsumu said. “Just feels wrong.”

Suna, who had diligently said nothing for the last fifteen minutes, shifted in his chair.

(Y/n) glanced at him, saw the barely perceptible twitch of his mouth, and cleared her throat.

And for whatever reason—maybe it was the sensual kissing scene playing on screen, maybe it was the quiet thrum of mischief in the air—she spoke without thinking.

“I’ve kissed Rin before.”

For a moment, nobody spoke. The rain drummed steadily against the windows.

She could practically hear the gears turning in the twins’ heads, the words ricocheting around their skulls before slotting into place.

Atsumu’s frown was pure instinct. “…Huh?"

Osamu turned his head, eyes widening a fraction. “You what? Seriously?”

Suna gave a lazy shrug. Then, with a quiet hum—like it wasn’t worth making a fuss over—he responded, “Yeah.”

“Wait. Hold on.” Osamu pointed between them, a grin tugging at his lips. “You two. Kissed. Like—on the mouth?”

(Y/n) raised an eyebrow, fighting back a smile. “Is there another way?”

Atsumu’s eyebrows pulled together, not quite a glare, but close. “Wait—when?” His tone sounded as though he didn't know whether to be be confused, angry, or both.

She hesitated.

That was the thing. It had been years ago. Just once. A long, blurry night tucked behind them like a folded photograph they never took back out. But even now, her face grew warm.

“It was… a while ago. We were… eighteen, I think. Funnily enough it was on New Year's too." She pointed to the movie.

Atsumu turned toward her fully, one leg folded beneath him, the other dangling off the couch. His brows were drawn tight, mouth parted. “And yer just tellin’ us now?!”

(Y/n) offered a weak shrug. “It wasn’t a big deal.”

Oh, it was.

It definitely was.

But she wasn’t about to give the twins the full retelling.

The whole time, her attention was drawn to Suna—trying to get a read on him, even though he wasn’t giving her much to work with. Still, she had a feeling he was more invested than he let on.

“Was it, like... a dare?” Osamu asked.

Suna shook his head. “Nah.”

“So... a practice thing?”

He popped a kernel into his mouth. Smirked just a little. “Ask, (y/n).”

Bastard.

At once, both twins turned to look at her.

Atsumu was the image of impatience. Leaning in, eyes narrowed like he was half expecting her to admit she was joking.

Meanwhile Osamu, calmer but no less curious, raised one brow in silent question.

She shrank back against the couch cushions, suddenly hyper-aware of the space—or lack thereof—between them.

Two sets of expectant eyes on her.

Two completely different expressions.

One identical intensity.

She swallowed.

She could still remember it—the quiet pop of fireworks outside Suna’s window. The way his eyes looked that night, different somehow. Older.

The memory made her pause, words caught somewhere between embarrassment and pride.

She glanced at Suna and their eyes met.

He didn’t say anything outright, but his shoulder lifted slightly. A silent go on. And if she hadn’t known him for so long, she might’ve missed the faint flicker of amusement dancing in his eyes. The quiet, smug little challenge that said:

Go on. Tell them. Let’s see what version you pick.

She cleared her throat and chose her words carefully, eyes darting between Atsumu and Osamu.

“So… we were alone. Remember? We’d gone to his parents' house over the holidays. You guys had gone back to Hyōgo to spend Christmas with your family.”

The twins nodded. Let her continue.

“Anyway, at first we were just talking...” Her fingers toyed with a loose thread in the blanket over her lap.

“Then he looked at me,” she went on, gaze drifting towards Suna. She paused, unsure how much he was willing to let her to share—if he wanted her to tell the rest.

He didn’t look her way. Just let the silence stretch, eyes fixed on the credits like none of this concerned him.

Right. Point taken.

“And he just… I don’t know—you know how guys have that specific look when you wanna kiss someone?”

Osamu snorted. Atsumu shook his head. "No?"

(Y/n) rolled her eyes. "Okay, well—you do. Anyway. He gave me that look and..."

“And?” Atsumu clicked his tongue. “Jesus woman, how long ya gonna keep edgin’ us for?”

Her fingers curled into the couch cushion as she shot him a weak glare. “Well… after that, he kissed me. So… I kissed him back.”

Her tone was even, but a flicker of a smile tugged at her lips—because no matter how nonchalant she tried to sound, the memory still lit something warm in her chest.

Osamu let out a low whistle.

Atsumu gawked—shocked, maybe a little relieved. “That’s it?”

She risked a glance at Suna.

It was faint, but she could tell he was biting back a grin. That quiet glint was there again. Something so typically Suna—aloof, amused, and just a little bit smug. Like he was remembering it too.

“She’s leaving out the good part."

(Y/n)’s heart jumped. “Rin—”

Suna either missed the flicker of panic on her face, or ignored it. He just sat up with a slow stretch, sweatshirt riding up to reveal a sliver of skin. A sound slipped from him—half sigh, half yawn.

“It wasn’t just a kiss,” he stated—flat, but a little too suggestive. Probably on purpose.

Osamu’s eyebrows shot up, eyes locked on Suna now. “You guys…?”

“No,” Suna said before anyone could finish the thought. “We didn't get that far."

That earned him a full double take from both twins.

“Go on," Atsumu demanded.

(Y/n) was at a loss for words. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust the twins. It’s not like they’d go around repeating the story—why would they? But even so. Nobody knew about her past… lore with Suna. Not a soul.

And while she didn’t mind mentioning the kiss, the rest—well. The rest was, for lack of a better term, not safe for work.

Not safe for her dignity, either.

That night had been a lot of things.

Spontaneous, yes. Heated. But also more complicated than she'd ever admit out loud.

She’d known the twins for years—ever since they were teenagers. And yet, she’d never told them about her crush on her best friend. Never told them about one of the most pivotal nights of her love life.

And perhaps tonight wasn't the night for that.

Instead, she shook her head, cheeks burning as the memories began rushing in. “I dunno what to say! We were just… stupid and curious and just being your typical horny teenagers, that’s all.”

That earned a quiet snort from Osamu, who looked more amused than surprised at this new piece of backstory.

Atsumu, on the other hand, didn’t laugh. He just stared, like he was trying to figure out what to say but didn’t quite know how to frame it. His lips parted, then pressed shut again.

As for Suna... He simply kept quiet. Knowing him, he was probably just as torn about sharing the details. If anyone valued their privacy, it was Suna.

And (y/n)—despite herself—felt her gaze drop to her hands in her lap, fingers twisting in the sleeves of her hoodie Her skin prickled—not quite from embarrassment, but from the heat of the memory... and the leftover tension hanging in the air.

Mercifully, neither twin pressed any further. Even Atsumu, surprisingly.

(Y/n) exhaled a little breath as Osamu pulled his brother and Suna into a brainstorm about which movie to watch next.

Hopefully not another romance.

She wasn't sure if he'd done it out of sympathy, or if it just happened to be good timing. Either way, she was grateful for the distraction.

They never brought it up again.

But that didn’t mean her mind didn't.

Every now and then, she’d glance over at Suna. He looked relaxed—detached, even—but she couldn’t help but wonder if his mind was buzzing too. If his hands had gotten clammy. If his heart had even skipped a beat.

She was too caught up in her thoughts to notice him pull out his phone.

Her phone buzzed seconds later.

Blinking herself out of the haze, she looked down at her screen and gawked.

From: Rin tell your brain to be quiet can hear it from here

She ignored his message.

And glared at him instead.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

It was right after graduation. In winter, on New Year’s Eve.

A night with no romance, no candles, no feelings—just the quiet kind of chaos that only happens when trust, timing, and tension mix in the worst possible way.

They’d known each other since they were nine.

Back then, it was simple. He was the quiet kid who liked video games and hated group work. She was the chatty one who always finished her lunch first and dragged him out of the house. They just… clicked. Simple as that. A friendship built on years of inside jokes, late-night calls, and knowing each other like the backs of their hand.

It wasn’t until middle school that her feelings began to change.

Not overnight. Far from it. But somewhere between study calls and the first time he pulled off his hoodie in front of her, something settled in her chest. It crept up on her like a slow burn. A feeling you don’t notice until it’s already been there a while and planted its roots.

She started caring more. Laughing harder at his jokes. Noticing when his replies came slower, when his voice sounded a bit more tired than usual. Being around him just felt... better than being around anyone else. There was comfort. Trust. And the type of closeness that made her heart ache for all the right reasons.

Love, probably. But the shy, unspoken kind. The kind you don’t confess because you're afraid it might ruin everything.

And then, of course, they both had a glow-up—that was just the truth. He got taller. His voice dropped. His jaw sharpened. And she noticed.

The same way he noticed her legs that summer she started wearing shorts more often. The same way his eyes lingered a little too long when she bent over to grab something. The way his teasing lost a bit of its brotherly edge and got a bit more... biting.

She wasn’t stupid. He found her attractive. She knew that.

But she also knew that’s where it stopped. It was purely surface-level. Because Suna wasn’t the type to fall easily. And if he ever saw her as anything more, it never lasted long enough to mean something.

Not like hers had.

She’d been in love with him for years. Secretly. Hopelessly. Love you don’t act on because it’s easier to carry in silence than risk putting it down and never getting it back.

So no—

They weren’t a thing. They weren’t anything.

Except... aware.

Almost as if something sat between them, constantly humming just beneath the surface. A quiet almost that only one of them seemed to feel.

Until that particular New Year’s night, when the hum turned into something louder.

His house was quiet. His parents and little sister were off celebrating with friends, and he’d bailed last minute with the most Suna excuse ever:

“Too many people. Too much noise. Don’t feel like pretending to care about countdowns.”

(Y/n) had agreed without thinking. Like always. By now, saying yes to him felt like second nature, so when he suggested she stay the night, it didn’t even feel like a choice.

Now they were in his room—lights off, movie playing in the background, the faint sound of fireworks crackling somewhere in the distance. Her legs were curled up on his bed, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands. Suna sat beside her, phone face-down, arm draped loosely across the back of the mattress.

They weren’t saying much. Just watching. Existing.

Until the scene changed.

And—what the fuck?

Where the hell did this come from?

Out of nowhere, the couple on screen were now tangled up on a couch—shirts half-off, lips clashing. Moans slipped out between kisses, fingers clawing at fabric like they couldn’t get close enough.

The scene wasn't explicit by any means, but showed enough to make (y/n) cringe. Flushed skin. Bare thighs. The unmistakable rhythm of two people getting lost in each other.

Her spine straightened on instinct.

She cleared her throat and looked away, shifting in her seat under the guise of getting comfortable.

She could feel Suna's eyes on her.

“Do scenes like this make you uncomfortable?” he asked, voice laced with amusement.

She stiffened. “No. I mean—maybe a bit.”

He hummed, glancing sideways. Her eyes flicked between the couple on screen and Suna, trying very hard not to combust at the explicit sounds that now filled his moderate sized bedroom.

“…Do they not make you uncomfortable?” she countered.

He shrugged, gaze slipping back to the TV with that usual calm. “Nah. Not really.”

Typical.

She narrowed her eyes. "What does make you uncomfortable, then?"

His response came far too fast. “Kita.”

She fought back a grin. “Seriously?”

“Correct." He gave a curt nod. “Kita Shinsuke freaks me out.”

Out of all the things. His stoic volleyball captain from high school is what got him?

She snorted, shaking her head a little. “How come? I think he’s nice!”

Suna’s face stayed neutral, but she could've sworn she saw him shudder.

“Try having him breathe down your neck for a day,” he mumbled. “That guy’s terrifying.”

“Kita’s not scary,” she argued. “He only picked on you ’cause he knew you were a major slacker.”

His lip twitched. “Only one who got scouted to Inarizaki though.”

(Y/n) nodded, conceding with a half-smile. “That you were.”

Thankfully, by the time she turned her attention back to the TV, the sex scene had ended.

Thank God.

Unfortunately, it was only then that she noticed how close they were sitting. She blamed the way she’d shifted earlier, trying to act normal. That was on her. And maybe it was the scene that had just played out on screen, but now the space between them felt… tight.

Suddenly, the movie wasn’t the only thing messing with her focus.

She looked over at him once. Then again.

Their thighs brushed every now and then. Not fully touching, but enough for the heat of him to bleed into her side. Every shift he made—the way his hoodie rustled, the subtle rise and fall of his breathing—felt loud in her ears.

She tried to focus on the movie. Really, she did.

But her eyes kept drifting.

Just for a second. Then another.

He looked good. Effortless like always with his hoodie half-pulled over his messy hair, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, eyes half-lidded like he could fall asleep any second.

But he wore his tired well. Even the faint shadows beneath his eyes didn’t make him look worn—they made him look soft. Still strangely handsome.

Her gaze slipped to his jaw. Then the sliver of collarbone visible beneath his hoodie, the way the fabric stretched across his broad shoulders.

Then lower—to where his hands rested in his lap, fingers loose and half-curled, adorned with a silver ring on each pointer finger. She didn’t remember when he started wearing them.

Her throat tightened slightly. They suited him. She’d always thought his hands were pretty. Usually, it was just a fleeting thought. A simple observation.

But tonight—tonight, she found herself wondering what those hands could do. What they’d feel like against her skin.

Her cheeks flushed. She looked away. Cleared her throat.

Get a grip, (y/n).

It wasn’t a big deal. It shouldn’t have been a big deal. She was over him. Had been, for a while now. This was the movie's fault. Or maybe some leftover curiosity—that’s all.

“Hm?”

Suna's voice drifted over, pulling her from her daze.

She straightened a bit too fast, hating how guilty she sounded when she replied, “What?”

There was a twitch at the corner of his mouth when he glanced over. “Were you checking me out?”

Her response was like a bad reflex. “No.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. I was just—” Her eyes dropped to his lap, and she could've cursed at the mindless action.

Why'd I do that?

He's probably gonna think I was looking at—

She caught the way his brows lifted as she looked back up, his smirk broadening into something almost boyish.

Of course.

"Your hands,” she clarified, louder than intended.

“My hands?” He echoed, almost innocently. But something in his voice sounded suspiciously pleased.

She could’ve brushed it off. Could’ve left it at that. But her mouth had already run ahead of her.

"Mhmm. I was just thinking how nice they are."

If her words weren't enough to make her cringe, then Suna's reaction was. He didn't bother hiding his amusement this time, not as he slowly lifted a hand in front of him and flexed his fingers a few times.

She hated how her gaze lingered on the movement, on the glint of silver on his fingers, the subtle shift of muscle beneath skin, pronounced with each curl.

Lazy, controlled—like he knew exactly what he was doing.

"Thanks," he drawled.

She swallowed.

God.

Her mind went somewhere it absolutely should not have gone.

Her thighs squeezed together under the blanket.

He dropped his hands back into his lap without a word and looked at her.

She daren't meet his gaze.

She shouldn’t be having these thoughts. Not about him. Not now. They’d sat like this before—shoulder to shoulder, legs touching, even sharing a bed more times she can count. But it had never felt like this. Never made her pulse quicken or her mind wander the way it was tonight.

So why now?

Maybe it was the quiet. The late hour. Maybe even the stupid movie.

Or maybe it was the fact that it was just the two of them—alone in his room with nowhere to be, nothing to do, and too much unsaid sitting between them.

Because something about being here with him like this always brought old feelings to the surface.

“Do you think we’ll be different this year?”

The words slipped out before she could stop them—quiet, barely a whisper.

Suna’s eyes flicked to her face. “You mean like… emotionally evolved?”

She tried not to fidget too much and nodded once, lips pressed together, already regretting her question.

But Suna didn't make her feel guilty. Didn't tease. Didn't overreact. Just held her gaze and asked, “Did you want it to be different?”

The question made her stomach twist, eyes drifting to the way her hands fiddled with the sleeve of her hoodie. She could feel it, that pulse of awareness between them. The one that made the hairs on her arms prick up. The one she used to feel and thought she’d finally outgrown—until now.

“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “Probably not.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. But it certainly wasn't the kind she was used to.

She swallowed the lump in her throat as Suna turned to her fully. The slight shift in position was negligible, probably nothing but a few centimetres. But she felt it enough to make her heart stutter.

It took her a great amount of effort not to shrink beneath his gaze.

Suna and his damn eye contact.

"Something's on your mind."

It wasn't a question. More like an observation that landed straight in her gut.

Her breathing shallowed. "How can you tell...?"

“You’re acting weird tonight,” he murmured. Not an insult, but something almost like curiosity.

“So are you,” she shot back, voice mirroring his hushed tone.

A ghost of a smirk. “Yeah?”

“You’re sitting closer than usual.”

“Am I?”

“You’re looking at me different.”

Indeed. He didn’t deny it.

His eyes were half-lidded. Hazy. Fixed on her like he was seeing something he hadn’t let himself look at before.

She recognized that look.

She’d seen it in other guys before—guys at parties, in passing glances, in moments that felt fleeting and charged.

But never from him. Not Suna.

And now that it was him—looking at her like that—her stomach twisted with something half-forgotten. Old and perhaps unfinished.

Something she thought had burned out long ago.

Her voice came out smaller than she intended, tight in her throat. "...What’re you doing?"

He didn’t answer right away, but the dip in atmosphere was palpable.

“Tell me to stop.”

Her heart lurched—at the words, at the tone. Silken, but brazen. Familiar, but suddenly foreign.

The feeling in her chest felt like reopening a book she’d shelved a long time ago.

A chapter she never thought she’d revisit.

She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just sat there, heart hammering as he leaned in—close enough for her to catch the scent of his cologne. For her eyes to flick to his mouth—once, then back up.

"...What?"

Usually she'd deflect. Change the subject. Look away. But she couldn't this time. Or rather... she wouldn't.

“I said,” he murmured, gaze dropping to her lips, “tell me to stop.”

Her mouth parted, but no words came out.

Not as he tilted his head, lips brushing hers in the faintest whisper of contact.

Not when his nose bumped hers and her breath hitched.

She barely had time to register what was happening.

Next thing she knew—

He was kissing her.

No rush. No pressure. Just the feeling of his mouth on hers, tentative and warm, slow enough to give her time to pull away, soft enough to make her brain fog.

And in her head, all the years came rushing in.

The laughter. The teasing. How she used to look for him in every room like it was second nature. The late-night calls. The company that had always felt like safety.

She thought she was past this. She really did.

But now, with Suna kissing her like that—like she was something precious and just barely his—she wasn’t so sure.

His mouth moved against hers with a kind of lazy confidence, lips parting just enough to make her dizzy. Her body tensed beneath the softness, thighs pressing together, fingers twitching where they rested in her lap, aching to reach for something. Him.

And just when she thought she might actually lose her balance, he pulled away. Not far. Just enough to look at her.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t move. Just stared. Eyes locked on hers like he was watching her process the moment in real time—studying every twitch, every breath. Waiting to see if she’d move first.

But (y/n) was in a daze, her lips still parted. Eyes bleary and blinking as if she was seeing a different reality entirely.

She had kissed Suna.

Suna.

Her best friend Suna.

The one she had pining over for years.

And better yet—he had made the first move.

"Earth to (y/n)..."

His voice reeled her back in. Soft and teasing.

"I..."

Suna’s brows lifted just slightly as she searched for words.

He didn't press. Didn't joke. But there was something playful in his gaze, and maybe just a little bit restrained. Like he was holding back on purpose. Not just out of respect, but to test her. To see what she’d do next.

A quiet dare.

Her nerves flared. She tried to fight it—tried to keep still. Tried to fight the urge to do something truly and utterly reckless. But failed.

Because for a moment, her nerves didn’t matter.

The second-guessing, the what-ifs—gone.

Fuck it.

She reached for him, fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie—and crashed her lips onto his.

Harder this time. No hesitation.

He groaned low in his throat—surprised for half a second before melting into it, as if that was all the permission he needed.

His hand came up fast, fingers sliding along her cheek, then down to the hinge of her jaw, guiding her into him with an impatience that felt so unlike him.

(Y/n)'s body lit up at the contact—something involuntary slipping past her lips, a soft, needy sound she didn’t mean to make.

Suna was on her in an instant, tongue slipping past her lips without hesitation—slow, coaxing, claiming, like he’d been waiting for this exact moment to break her open.

A shiver rolled down her spine.

She fisted the front of his hoodie, tugging him closer, anchoring herself to him. The kiss felt good. Intoxicatingly good—like finally getting something you stopped wishing for.

She wasn’t sure what it meant. But right now, she didn’t want it to stop.

His hand moved almost carefully, brushing her jaw, then dropping down to her thigh. Warm. Grounding. Asking without asking.

Her body responded before her mind could make sense of it all.

Buzzing. Yearning. A little afraid.

She broke the kiss for half a second, lips brushing his as she whispered, “Rin”—barely more than a plea.

“Still with me?” he asked smoothly.

She nodded.

He leaned in again. This time his mouth found her neck.

Her breath caught.

Then his hand slipped under the hem of her hoodie, fingers dragging along her waist, slow and tailored to make her shiver.

She let out a shaky breath. “This is insane.”

“Yeah,” he rasped. Then, with a tinge of humour, “Don't worry, I locked the door.”

She almost laughed, but then his hand slipped higher beneath her shirt, and all she could do was gasp.

His fingers traced her ribs. His mouth brushed the spot just beneath her ear, where her pulse fluttered.

She was trembling, and yet he didn't stop.

But he did pause. Looked up at her again. “Still okay?”

She nodded.

She didn’t know what started it—maybe the silence. Maybe the look in his eyes when he was about to kiss her. Maybe the way she didn’t stop him when he leaned in.

Whatever the reason, she didn't have it in her to pull away. And clearly, neither did he.

Not when his mouth claimed hers again—slow, heated, open.

Not when his hand slid up the back of her hoodie and skimmed her bare spine as though he’d been holding himself back.

Not when he pulled her onto his lap, her knees pressing into the mattress on either side of his thighs, bodies flushed, hearts thudding in sync.

The kiss deepened. Got messy. Hot. A mixture of pants and breathy sighs.

They barely parted for air before their mouths collided again, each kiss more desperate than the next, breaking only when their lungs forced them to.

Every kiss said, Don’t stop. Every inhale said, More.

Her hands slid into his hair, threading through the soft strands at his nape—pulling, guiding. He groaned softly into her mouth as his tongue brushed hers, slow and filthy. And when she let out a soft, helpless sound against his mouth, he gripped her tighter.

She felt it then—him—hard beneath her, pressing up where she was aching, and her body reacted in the most hopelessly honest way.

She rocked against him once.

He sucked in a breath.

The reaction must've snapped something in him, because in a blink, he was kissing down the column of her throat—eager hands roaming her flushed curves. His mouth working its way along her skin, teasing, but never quite giving her what she wanted.

He pulled her hoodie up in one fluid motion, breaking the kiss just long enough to yank it over her head. Her top followed, peeled away with the same quiet urgency, until she was left in nothing but her bra.

His gaze dipped once and everything soft about him disappeared.

She barely noticed the cold.

She noticed his mouth.

On her collarbones. On her chest. Open, warm, teeth dragging lightly just to make her gasp. She tilted her head back, lips parting around a little sigh, hips unconsciously rolling into his lap again and again like her body was trying to chase something it didn’t fully understand.

His hands found her hips, head hitting the headboard with a quiet thud.

Suna made a noise, low and hoarse—like the air had been knocked out of his lungs. His jaw went slightly slack. His hands tightened.

“Do that again.”

The authority in his voice was mind-numbing. She could’ve sworn goosebumps rose along her arms at the command alone.

Her cheeks flushed, heat prickling across her skin. But her hips moved again, experimentally and obediently. The drag of her clothed core against him made them both stutter a breath.

Something curled in her chest. Not quite pride. Not quite shock. Just a quiet thrill—sparked by the way he looked at her, like she’d just undone something in him.

His eyes were half-lidded, dark and heavy. Every shift of her hips made his lips part a little more. His breathing became ragged, jaw tightening when her movements grew bolder. His fingers dug into the dip of her waist like he was trying to keep her steady, or to keep his own hips from bucking up.

She ground down again—this time with more pressure.

His head fell back. “God, (y/n)—”

She kept going.

Grinding in slow, shallow rolls. The heat between her legs was blinding, the friction building in waves. She could feel the outline of him beneath her, hard and twitching through thin layers of clothes. His hoodie had ridden up his abdomen, her thighs trembling against his joggers.

Yet, Suna—despite the state he was in—was somehow still completely focused on her, like he physically needed to watch her fall apart in his lap.

His hands slid up under her bare stomach, raking over her waist, ribs, then cupping her clothed breasts. His thumbs brushed over her nipples and she gasped, hips jerking at the sudden contact.

“You like this,” he muttered darkly, “You’re getting off on the thought of riding me."

She bit her lip, but couldn't bring herself to deny it.

For a moment, she wondered what that non-verbal confession had done to him. If she’d imagined the glint in his eye. The way his muscles tensed beneath her.

She got her answer soon enough.

With one rough, fluid shift, he flipped them—her back hitting the mattress with a soft thump. Suna hovered over her, one knee pressing between her thighs, caging her in.

She looked up at him with wide, glazed eyes as he bent low, hooked a finger under her shorts, and gave them a slight tug.

“Next time we do that,” he murmured, “I’m taking these off.”

She didn’t answer—just whined as heat coiled tight in her abdomen.

His hand slid between them.

Inside her shorts.

Then inside her underwear.

Her whole body seized up.

His fingers found her—hot, slick, already aching—and he hissed like the feel of her actually hurt him.

“Shit,” he muttered, jaw flexing as his eyes dropped. “Already?”

He looked up again, lips curling slow. Confident and just a little bit smug. “I barely even touched you.”

Disbelief flickered across her flushed face, her eyebrows pinching above her lidded eyes. “You’re joking, right?” she whispered, a little breathless.

Suna just smirked.

His fingers moved again—confident, unfairly skilled, trailing through her slowly without slipping inside. Testing. Mapping her with long, maddening strokes.

She could feel the way her body clenched around nothing, the unmistakable warmth pooling between her thighs. Every nerve ending lit up, impossible to hide.

Her face burned.

He didn’t rush.

It was almost cruel, how calm he was. He didn’t need to ask what felt good. He could read it in her breath, every soft gasp that slipped from her lips, every poorly concealed moan as he deliberately avoided the places that would’ve undone her too quickly.

She pressed her forehead to his shoulder, his name slipping past her lips in a quiet whimper.

He worked her open with soft, torturous rhythm. One finger, then two. The stretch wasn’t new, but it still made her gasp—tight, full, a pulse-deep pressure that had her legs falling open wider, heels digging into the sheets.

His fingers curled deep, knuckles pressing just right against that tender spot inside her, and then he started moving—slow, sinful, obscenely precise—each thrust dragging just enough to make her clench around him, like her body couldn’t bear the emptiness he kept leaving behind.

Her head fell back. A broken sound slipped past her lips.

“Please,” she whimpered. “Don't stop—”

She didn’t care how her voice sounded—needier and more desperate than she’d ever heard, her fingers clutching at Suna’s arm. Her best friend's arm.

Her hips pressed into him, seeking that pressure, riding the curl of his fingers like her body couldn’t help it. Her movements weren’t shy or composed anymore. She was writhing, desperate for more—chasing every thrust of his hand with a helpless pace.

Suna watched her like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

His mouth was slightly open. Eyes cloudy, fixed to the point where their bodies met.

“Look at you," he breathed.

She barely heard his voice.

She just kept moving, breath hitching every time his thumb caught the right spot. The pressure inside her was building too fast, overwhelming, but she didn't stop. Couldn't.

“Usually so sweet,” he crooned. “So polite. So proper.”

His smirk was lazy, laced with awe. “And now you’re fucking yourself on my fingers."

A shaky, flustered sound escaped her throat. “Rin—please—”

“Didn’t know you could be this filthy,” he teased, lips brushing her temple. “You were holding out on me.”

She whined, hips stuttering for a second—mostly from pleasure, partly from shame.

“Bet you touch yourself thinking about this,” he muttered. “About me doing this to you. Making a mess of you."

She bit her lip, eyes squeezing shut. Her body was moving on instinct now—hips rolling into his hand like she didn’t care how it looked, how desperate it felt. And maybe she should’ve cared. Maybe she should’ve been mortified by how easily she came apart for him. But right now, with his fingers buried inside her, and that voice in her ear—

She couldn’t bring herself to stop.

“Oh, fuck, you do,” he groaned. “That’s why you’re squeezing me like that.”

She was close. So close. Her body burned, curling toward his hand, her movements frantic now, messy—rocking hard against him like she couldn’t hold out any longer.

Her stomach tensed. Her entire body locked up.

“I’m—Rin—”

“I know,” he murmured. “That's it—just like that."

One more stroke. One more definitive grind of his palm against her and the tension inside her belly snapped.

Her whole body arched into him. Her hands clutched his shoulders, lips parting in a silent cry as she came on his fingers—thighs trembling, chest heaving, whimpers spilling out between broken sobs of his name.

Suna didn't ease up yet, working her through it, his fingers slowing just enough to guide her through the last wave of it.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he muttered, watching as she fell apart. “Good fucking girl."

She twitched, chest rising and falling in shallow gasps as he finally relented. He eased his fingers out, gliding them slowly through the mess between her thighs.

(Y/n) was limp against the sheets—dazed, flushed, and thoroughly exhausted.

And yet, amid the wreckage of her orgasm, one stupid thought surfaced like a stray balloon floating into the mess of her mind.

Has Rin always had such a potty mouth?

Something must’ve shown on her face—maybe the pinch of her brows, the slight narrowing of her eyes, or the way her lips parted in quiet confusion—because Suna glanced down at her with a bemused expression.

“You okay?”

He had the audacity to look as casual as ever, hovering over her with one arm braced beside her head. She tried not to shudder as his other hand slowly traced the length of her bare thigh, and instead met his gaze with an almost sceptical stare.

“…Since when are you so chatty?”

He stared. And then, to her delight—he actually laughed.

It wasn’t his usual dry, sarcastic snort either. No—this was one of his rare laughs. Breathy, warm and genuine. The sound made her chest feel funny. The sight even more so: the slight crinkle of his nose, the way his sharp eyes softened like the moment meant something.

“That’s what’s on your mind right now?” he asked, half laughing as he said it.

(Y/n) rolled her eyes but her cheeks flushed anyway, one hand coming up to brush her hair back from her face.

“Well—yeah,” she huffed. “It was just—you know, a lot.”

His smirk lingered, followed with a slight tilt of his chin, brows raised in quiet expectation. If he was waiting for her to elaborate on that statement, he was sorely mistaken.

She groaned and covered her face with her arm. “Don’t make me say it," she grumbled. "You clearly had a lot to say. You never talk that much, even during volleyball.”

He chuckled, quiet but no less smug. “Guess we’re both full of surprises tonight.”

That line landed like a spark on open flame.

She dropped her arm just in time to catch the pointed look he gave her. Like he hadn’t forgotten the way she’d been squirming under him moments ago, how she’d clutched at the sheets and rolled her hips into his hand like a woman possessed.

Her face burned as she averted her gaze.

“Don't,” she warned weakly.

“C'mon, I thought we were past the shy part.”

She kicked weakly at his thigh, but her heart was thudding all over again. That look in his eyes—it wasn’t gone. If anything, it had simmered. Softer, but no less heated. Like he was watching her come back down just to see if he could wind her up again.

And then he just… looked at her.

Not in the lustful, primal way from earlier. This was quieter. His gaze flicked over her face in that typical, unreadable Suna fashion.

She shifted beneath it, suddenly aware of her appearance—her smudged makeup, her flushed skin, the way her hair was probably a mess against the pillow. Something about the way he stared made her feel more exposed than before.

She wondered what was going on in that indecipherable mind of his. What he was seeing. The flaws. The cracks. All the little imperfections she’d spent years picking at in the mirror.

Then his hand lifted, thumb brushing her cheekbone with a tenderness that sent butterflies loose in her stomach.

“Pretty girl,” he murmured.

That was it. Just two words. And yet they hit her square in the chest. Her breath caught, the corners of her eyes prickling with the irrational urge to cry.

His gaze lingered on her, searching or admiring.

“You look surprised,” he mused softly.

She blinked at him, stunned. For a second, it felt like they were fifteen again—a time when her words jumbled and her mind raced. A time when everything felt awkward, flustered, and a little too much like love.

“You’ve never called me that before,” she whispered.

His thumb kept moving in slow, reverent strokes across her cheek. “Doesn’t mean I haven’t thought it,” he said. “You’ve always been beautiful."

Something swelled in her chest, something old and warm. And when he traced his hand lower to run his thumb over her bottom lip—slowly, like he wanted to memorize it, brand it into memory—her heart cracked a little.

Still, her mouth parted for him.

And he stared, stared at the way she wrapped her lips around the pad of his thumb, at what she was allowing him to do. She caught the subtle clench of his jaw, the flicker in his eyes—the exact moment his restraint gave out.

His kiss wasn't soft.

His body pressed flush to hers, and she could feel him now, fully. Hard. Hot. Nestled right where she was still sensitive.

His hips ground against her, slow and firm, swallowing the tiny gasp she let out. She arched up, and he groaned low. His breath was hot against her ear when he spoke.

“You gonna take me for real this time?”

He shifted again, one hand gripping her thigh, spreading her legs just enough. He slotted between them, the thick heat of him pressing right against her core, only the thin layers of her shorts and his sweats between them.

He rocked once. Harder.

A moan slipped past her lips, more drawn-out than the rest.

“Yeah?” he crooned, almost breathless. His hips rolled again, the length of him dragging slow and heavy right against her clothed core. She felt how hard he was. How ready. How badly he wanted in. "You want it? Just say the word."

“Okay,” she whispered. Her hands were already in his hair. Her hips lifted.

He reached down, hooking his fingers into her shorts and underwear in one motion. She lifted her hips without needing to be asked, then raised her legs so he could pull them all the way off.

Then she felt him.

Skin to skin.

Hot, flushed, heavy against her entrance.

He didn’t push in—yet. Just lined himself up. Let her feel it. Bare and hot and right there, rubbing slowly against her—back and forth, teasing, testing her breath.

The pressure. The stretch. The way it would be.

And it hit her.

Each inhale came shakier than the last. Her body tensed, but not like it had before.

She wanted to want it. God, she really did.

But something cracked inside her chest. Like a wave of uncertainty slamming into a brick wall.

Her mind felt loud all of a sudden.

This wasn’t just a hook-up. Not with him. It couldn’t be.

Not after everything.

Not when her feelings had just barely begun to quiet down.

Not when she still didn’t know what this meant. Or what it didn’t.

Her body buzzed, but her heart tripped over itself. And it was like her mind finally caught up to what was happening.

This is Suna.

Her best friend.

The boy she’d loved.

The boy she was supposed to be over.

And she wasn’t ready for what would come after this.

The weight. The shift. The maybe.

Her breath hitched. Her fingers stilled in his hair.

He noticed instantly.

He didn’t push in. Just stayed right there, wary, his breath stalling as he searched her face.

“(Y/n)?” he asked, voice softer now. Cautious.

He hovered. Silent. His fingers flexed where they were gripping her thigh, like he was holding himself back from giving in completely.

She could feel him twitch against her. Feel how close they were to crossing that line.

She bit her lip, and the world narrowed to nothing but heat and heartbeat.

She couldn’t do this. Not like this.

“I…”

She stared up at him—at the flushed cheeks, the blown pupils, the lips that had been all over her skin. At her best friend. She felt the pressure of him, still right there. Felt the heat in her cheeks, the racing of her heart, the way her thighs clenched tight without meaning to.

“I can’t,” she rasped, throat tight.

He nodded. Instantly. Pulled his hips back. “Okay.”

“I want to, but—I just…”

“It’s okay.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, face burning.

“Don’t be.”

“I thought I could but—”

“Hey.” His voice was soft now. Calming. “It's okay. I get it.”

She looked at him. Really looked.

And what hit her hardest wasn’t disappointment or frustration—it was the absence of it. He wasn’t angry. Didn't look bitter or impatient. He just remained still, like he was giving her space to breathe, letting the moment settle without putting more weight on it.

Maybe that’s what made the guilt feel worse.

Her skin still tingled from the way he touched her. Her body was still wound tight from the high he gave her, and he hadn’t gotten anything in return. He’d given her so much—his hands, his patience, his restraint—and she’d unraveled completely under him, only to stop short. She felt raw. Vulnerable. Embarrassed. And above all, selfish.

He kissed her forehead, slow and lingering, and pulled the covers over her exposed body.

The act was so gentle it nearly broke her.

“Thanks for stopping,” she murmured, barely a whisper.

“Hey,” he started. But his voice, although mostly gentle, was laced with something serious. “Don’t ever thank anyone for that. Promise?"

Her throat tightened. She forced a nod.

He laid back beside her, one arm slipping beneath her shoulders, tugging her gently into the space beside him. No questions. No pressure. Just his steady presence.

She didn’t know what she expected—to cry, maybe. Or for him to roll over and distance himself. But instead, he did the opposite. He held her in silence like nothing had changed. Like she hadn’t just flipped the entire dynamic between them on its head.

She curled into him, tucking her face into the crook of his neck, too ashamed to look him in the eye. His scent was still on her skin. Her pulse was still racing, her body still warm—and yet her chest felt hollow.

His hand rested on her back, moving slowly in comforting strokes that made her feel fragile. Not in a bad way. Just… a bit vulnerable.

The room was quiet for a long while.

Then, his voice—

“Did I scare you?”

Her eyes, drooping slightly like she might fall asleep, immediately shot open.

She debated moving so she could look at him. But Suna didn't move. Just stayed where he was, breathing steadily, his thumb still brushing small circles against her spine. But it was his voice that gave him away. Quiet. Careful. Laced with something unspoken. Guilt, maybe. Or doubt.

Her chest ached.

“No,” she said softly. “You’d never scare me.”

And she meant it.

But she didn’t know how to explain the rest—that it wasn’t fear holding her back, but the opposite. That it was the feelings she had buried, the ones she had never voiced that made her back down. The ones that had clawed their way back to the surface the moment he touched her tonight.

She swallowed, choosing her words wisely.

“It just… felt like a lot, all at once.”

A pause.

Then a quiet hum from him. Not disbelieving, not dismissive—just thoughtful. Like he’d been hoping for more, but wouldn’t ask.

Instead, he just pulled her closer.

His hand settled again on her back, firm and grounding. Like he was telling her, wordlessly, that he was still here. That nothing had changed.

She let herself believe it.

612 notes · View notes

lanadelspray02 · 3 days ago

Text

A BEAUTIFUL MISTAKE: CHAPTER 1

paige x azzi

warning: sexual content !!

hey guys! an anon on tumblr requested a friends with benefits series, so here it is. I will still be mainly focusing on hold me anyway, but i will every now and then release a chapter for this series. let me know what you think or if you even want me to continue it :) I honestly dont know how i feel about this.

crossposted ao3 here

masterlist here

wc: 7370

--------------------

The AC in Azzi’s dorm apartment had been broken for two weeks, but neither of them seemed to mind tonight. The windows were cracked just wide enough to let in a breeze that barely touched the edges of the room, fluttering the corner of a Kobe Bryant poster on the wall.

Azzi was sprawled across the couch in biker shorts and a too-big UConn shirt, one bare leg tucked beneath her and the other brushing against Paige’s thigh. Paige pretended not to notice — or maybe she just didn’t want to admit how badly she did.

The music playing was a mellow, late-night playlist Azzi had made on Spotify — mostly H.E.R. and SZA, with a little bit of Brent Faiyaz thrown in. It pulsed soft and low from a speaker on the windowsill, fading into the quiet hum of the room.

Paige leaned back against the armrest, one socked foot propped on the coffee table, an almost-empty can of spiked seltzer dangling from her fingertips. She looked relaxed, but Azzi could feel the shift in the air. The slow burn of eye contact that held too long, the laugh that stuck in her throat half a second after Paige’s smile.

This had been happening for weeks. Maybe longer. Paige wasn’t subtle when she flirted — and Azzi wasn’t stupid.

“You're actually insane if you think Bryson Tiller clears Summer Walker,” Azzi said, grinning around the lip of her glass as she took another sip.

Paige raised an eyebrow. “He’s literally heartbreak personified. She’s great, but you can’t tell me Exchange didn’t wreck you in 2017.”

“I was fourteen in 2017.”

“Exactly. Prime wreckable age.”

Azzi snorted, shaking her head as she leaned over to refill her drink. Her hair was pulled into a loose bun, a few curls sticking to the back of her neck. Paige’s gaze followed the movement of her arm, the dip of her shirt collar as she reached for the bottle. She didn't say anything. Just sipped her seltzer and tried to pretend she hadn’t noticed the way Azzi’s thigh pressed a little closer to hers when she sat back down.

“You’re quiet,” Azzi said after a beat, tilting her head toward her.

Paige shrugged, lips twitching at the corner. “Just taking it all in.”

“Oh yeah?” Azzi asked, amused. “What exactly is there to take in?”

“You,” Paige said, and her voice wasn’t teasing this time. It was low and easy, like it had just slipped out — honest without asking for anything in return.

Azzi blinked, her expression flickering for a moment into something unreadable. Then she gave a lazy smile, one brow arching as she leaned in just a little closer. “You trying to be smooth right now?”

“Do I have to try?”

That earned a laugh — soft, close to genuine — and then Azzi reached out and flicked Paige’s shoulder. “Cocky.”

Paige didn’t move away. “Confident.”

“Same thing.”

“Nope.” Paige leaned forward, bracing one arm on the back of the couch behind Azzi’s shoulders. “Confidence means I know what I want.”

Azzi’s smile faltered just enough to make the air between them shift again. Paige’s fingers brushed lightly against the back of Azzi’s neck — not quite a touch, more like a suggestion. The music dipped into a new song, something with a slow bass line and lyrics they weren’t really listening to anymore.

Azzi swallowed. “And what is it you want, exactly?”

Paige didn’t answer with words. She just reached down, slowly, and curled her fingers around Azzi’s waist — firm but careful — and pulled her into her lap.

Azzi made a quiet sound, surprised more than anything, her knees folding on either side of Paige’s hips as she adjusted her balance. She was warm. Solid. Close in a way that erased the space between flirting and something heavier.

“That’s bold,” Azzi murmured, but her voice had dropped half an octave.

Paige looked up at her, hands still resting low on her waist. “You gonna stop me?”

Azzi’s hands landed on Paige’s shoulders, fingers curling slightly in the fabric of her t-shirt. Her smile turned sharp. “I didn’t say that.”

The kiss happened like an exhale — slow at first, then deeper, more deliberate. Azzi shifted her weight forward, pressing Paige back into the couch as her hips settled into the space between Paige’s legs. Paige let out a soft sound that might’ve been a groan, her hands sliding up Azzi’s back and pulling her closer until there was nothing between them but heat and history and the kind of want that had been building for months.

Azzi’s hair brushed Paige’s cheek. Paige kissed her harder. Azzi answered without hesitation.

They didn’t say anything for a long time.

Only moved — lips and hands and the slight, rhythmic push of Azzi’s body against Paige’s lap as tension coiled tighter between them like something inevitable.

--------------------

Azzi’s mouth was on hers again, open and wanting, all soft lips and sharp edges. Paige couldn’t remember the last time she’d been kissed like this — like someone had been waiting for permission. Azzi shifted her hips in Paige’s lap, slow at first, testing, and Paige exhaled hard, fingers digging into Azzi’s waist. Her t-shirt had ridden up just enough to bare skin, and Paige’s hands found it greedily — warm, smooth, real.

Azzi pulled back just enough to breathe, just enough to look down at her with something dangerous flickering in her eyes. “Still think you’re in control?” she asked, her voice low and uneven, her hands slipping up under Paige’s shirt, palms dragging over her ribs, thumbs brushing just under the swell of her chest.

Paige licked her lips, leaned forward until her mouth was at Azzi’s ear. “Not yet,” she murmured, and then stood.

Azzi yelped softly in surprise as Paige rose to her feet, her arms instinctively winding around Paige’s neck, legs still locked around her waist. Paige held her easily, one hand under her thighs, the other braced across her back, guiding them through the small dorm apartment like it was muscle memory. The hallway was short, but the tension between them stretched it long — every second taut with heat, with the way Azzi’s breath caught against Paige’s neck, with the way Paige pressed her a little tighter against the wall as they passed, just to feel the gasp that slipped out.

Paige’s mouth found Azzi’s jaw, her throat, the place just beneath her ear that made Azzi twitch in her arms. Her grip tightened, and Azzi let her head fall back, lips parted, fingers threading through Paige’s hair as her body arched toward the contact.

By the time they reached the bedroom, they were both flushed, breathing uneven, teeth flashing between kisses that turned rough in the way that only happened when restraint finally snapped.

Paige set Azzi down gently on the edge of the bed, but Azzi didn’t let go. She pulled Paige down with her, dragged her into the sheets with urgency, and their mouths found each other again like they were starving.

Paige kissed her again, then shifted downward, dragging her mouth along Azzi’s chest — slow and open-mouthed — until she caught one nipple between her lips. Azzi gasped, her back arching, fingers tightening in Paige’s hair. Paige swirled her tongue around it, then sucked hard, just to see how Azzi would react. She wasn’t disappointed.

“Fuck—Paige,” Azzi breathed, hips twitching upward as she tried to anchor herself to something. Paige moved to the other breast, repeating the same hungry attention, and Azzi whimpered beneath her, pulling at her shoulders, trying to get her closer, deeper, more.

Paige smiled against her skin. “You’re already so sensitive,” she murmured. “Bet you’ve been thinking about this, huh?”

Azzi opened her mouth to respond but couldn’t find anything but another moan as Paige’s hand slipped lower, past the curve of her waist, fingers teasing the waistband of her underwear.

“Say it,” Paige said, her lips ghosting against Azzi’s stomach now, moving lower. “Say you’ve been thinking about me.”

“I—” Azzi’s voice cracked, half a breath, half a confession. “I have.”

“Good,” Paige whispered.

She hooked her fingers in Azzi’s underwear and dragged them down, slow and deliberate, exposing her inch by inch. Azzi tried to close her thighs, overwhelmed, but Paige pressed a firm hand to the inside of one, pushing her open again. She kissed along the inside of her knee, then up, slow and hot and teasing, until she could feel the tremble in Azzi’s legs. Paige looked up — and Azzi was already watching her, eyes glazed over, lips parted.

“Don’t look away,” Paige said, and then lowered her mouth to her.

Azzi’s reaction was instant — a choked gasp, her hips jerking up into Paige’s face, one hand flying to the headboard, the other fisting in Paige’s hair. Paige groaned against her, tongue parting her folds and licking through them like she already knew every part. She was warm and wet and tasted like every fantasy Paige had tried not to let herself have.

Paige flattened her tongue, dragged it slow from bottom to top, then circled her clit — gentle at first, then faster, firmer, until Azzi was panting above her, thighs squeezing tight around her head. Paige moaned at the pressure, loving it, letting Azzi ride her face as she worked her tongue in tight, rhythmic circles.

Azzi’s voice broke on a curse. “Oh my God, don’t stop—”

She didn’t.

Paige reached up, slipping one hand beneath Azzi’s ass and lifting her just enough to keep her in place, the other hand slipping between Azzi’s thighs to tease her entrance. She pressed a single finger inside, slow and deep, and Azzi’s whole body arched like she’d been hit with electricity.

“Paige—” It came out broken. Begging.

Paige added a second finger and started moving — curling with every thrust, tongue never stopping on her clit. Azzi was losing it, gasping, cursing, her heels digging into the mattress as her body fought to keep up with how good it felt.

Her voice was ragged. “Gonna—fuck, Paige, I—”

“Let go,” Paige murmured, barely pulling back enough to speak. “I got you.”

That did it.

Azzi came hard, thighs trembling around Paige’s head, her whole body tensing, breath catching in her throat before breaking into a long, desperate moan. Paige didn’t stop — kept licking her through it, fingers working her slow and deep until Azzi was shaking, overstimulated, pleading softly through clenched teeth.

When Paige finally pulled back, her mouth and chin slick, she crawled back up Azzi’s body and kissed her. Azzi tasted herself on Paige’s lips, and groaned into her mouth, grabbing her face like she couldn’t stand to be any farther away.

“You’re fucking unreal,” Azzi whispered when they finally broke apart, voice hoarse.

Paige smirked, brushing sweat-damp curls away from her forehead. “Told you I knew what I wanted.”

Azzi pulled her in again, rolling them so Paige was beneath her this time, and kissed her until her legs started shaking again — until wanting turned into needing all over again.

Azzi kissed her like she was making up for all the time they'd spent pretending they didn’t want this — deep and dizzying, tongue sliding against Paige’s as her hand skimmed down her chest. Paige was still panting, the aftershocks of what she’d just done vibrating through her muscles, but she didn’t resist as Azzi shifted on top of her, dragging her leg over and straddling her waist.

Paige’s hands found Azzi’s hips, still trembling slightly, and Azzi grinned against her mouth. “You good?” she asked, but the glint in her eyes said she already knew the answer.

“I will be,” Paige rasped, “once you stop teasing.”

Azzi leaned down, her mouth trailing a path along Paige’s jaw, her throat, across the collarbone already marked by a few of Paige’s earlier bites. “Then shut up and let me focus.”

Her hands were everywhere — confident but reverent, like she was still wrapping her head around the fact that she was allowed to touch Paige like this. She cupped her breasts, brushed her thumbs across her nipples, then bent down to take one into her mouth, sucking just hard enough to make Paige gasp. Paige arched into her with a sharp inhale, her fingers digging into Azzi’s back.

Azzi moved slow at first — kissing down the center of her chest, then her stomach, tongue sliding along the ridges of muscle as Paige tensed beneath her. When she reached the waistband of Paige’s shorts, she hooked her fingers there and looked up.

“Can I?”

“Azzi,” Paige groaned, “if you don’t—”

That was all the permission she needed. She pulled them down quickly, underwear with them, then tossed them off the side of the bed. She paused for half a second to just look — at Paige laid out beneath her, lips kiss-swollen, chest rising fast, legs spread open and slick with arousal.

“You’re so fucking pretty,” Azzi whispered, more to herself than anything.

Paige opened her mouth to fire back something cocky — probably a joke, probably a tease — but then Azzi’s mouth was on her, and nothing clever came out.

She licked her slowly first, just to watch Paige react — the twitch in her thighs, the way her hand flew up to grip the sheets. Then she flattened her tongue and dragged it through her folds, savoring the taste, before closing her lips around her clit and sucking hard.

Paige cursed loud and bucked her hips, one hand reaching down to grab Azzi’s hair. “Holy fuck—”

Azzi smiled against her and kept going — her tongue worked in tight, steady circles, her hand sliding up to press down gently on Paige’s stomach, grounding her. Every now and then she’d back off just to tease, to flick her tongue lightly or drag it maddeningly slow, only to suck again harder when Paige started to whine.

When she felt Paige getting close — her hips rolling, her thighs starting to shake — she slipped a finger inside her. Paige choked on a moan, eyes flying open, head falling back against the pillow.

Azzi curled her finger, then added a second, pumping them in deep, slow thrusts while her mouth never let up. Paige was falling apart under her — cursing, gasping, hand tight in her curls as if she couldn’t stand the thought of Azzi stopping for even a second.

Azzi loved it — loved the sound of Paige breaking for her, the way she’d gone from cocky to wrecked in minutes. “That’s it,” she murmured against her, voice low and thick with arousal. “Come for me, Paige.”

And Paige did — hard. Her whole body tensed, her breath caught in her throat, her hips stuttered. She let out a broken sound, deep and raw, as she fell over the edge. Azzi kept her mouth on her until Paige physically tugged her up, dragging her in for a kiss with the little strength she had left.

They kissed for a long time, still half-naked, chests slick with sweat, legs tangled. Neither of them said anything for a while — not because there was nothing to say, but because whatever they’d just done wasn’t the kind of thing you could explain out loud.

--------------------

The room was quiet, save for the low hum of the fan spinning unevenly in the corner. Outside, campus had gone still — no more late-night stragglers, no more music bleeding through the walls. Just the soft sound of breathing and the occasional creak of the mattress when one of them shifted.

Paige lay on her back, arm curled under her head, eyes fixed on a faint crack in the ceiling she’d never noticed before. Azzi was on her side, the sheet tangled around her legs, her bare shoulder brushing Paige’s lightly. They hadn’t spoken in almost five minutes. The kind of silence that wasn’t just tired — it was loaded. Something was shifting between them. They both felt it.

Azzi cleared her throat, voice still hoarse from earlier. “So… are we gonna talk about it?”

Paige didn’t look at her. “Talk about what?”

Azzi rolled her eyes. “You know what.”

A pause. Then Paige exhaled and turned her head just enough to glance at her. “You mean the part where you came on my face and then pretended nothing happened?”

Azzi blinked, caught between a laugh and a glare. “Jesus.”

Paige smirked, just a little, but it faded quickly. “Fine. Yeah. We should talk.”

Azzi sat up, hugging her knees to her chest, hair a mess around her shoulders. Paige pushed herself upright more slowly, the sheet pooling at her hips. They didn’t look at each other at first.

“So what is this?” Azzi asked, voice quieter now.

Paige rubbed a hand over her face. “It was… good sex.”

Azzi shot her a look.

“What?” Paige asked. “It was. Really good. Possibly illegal in some states.”

Azzi snorted, but the laugh didn’t reach her eyes. “You’re deflecting.”

Paige looked at her for a long moment. “Okay. Yeah. I am.”

More silence. Not heavy. Not yet. Just cautious.

Azzi hesitated before saying, “I’m not looking for a relationship.”

Paige’s stomach twisted — not because she didn’t expect it, but because hearing it out loud still stung. She nodded slowly. “Me neither.”

Azzi raised a brow. “You sure?”

“I wouldn’t have pulled you onto my lap if I wasn’t.”

Azzi squinted at her. “That logic makes zero sense.”

Paige shrugged, voice dry. “Welcome to my brain.”

They stared at each other for a beat longer, then Azzi finally leaned back against the headboard. “So… rules?”

“Sure,” Paige said, though her chest already felt tight. “Rules are good. Rules are smart.”

Azzi started counting off on her fingers. “No catching feelings.”

Paige gave her a look. “Obvious, but okay.”

“No sleepovers.”

Paige gestured vaguely at the bed. “Failing spectacularly already.”

Azzi shrugged. “Exceptions can be made for post-orgasm comas.”

“Noted.”

They were both quiet for a moment, then Paige said, “No texting at weird hours.”

Azzi frowned. “Why?”

Paige glanced away. “Because 2 a.m. texts start to feel like something else.”

Azzi chewed on her bottom lip, nodding slowly. “Okay. No late-night texts unless it’s strictly logistical.”

Paige snorted. “What, like ‘meet me in ten, bring ice packs’?”

“Exactly.”

She was trying to make it funny. They both were. But the edges were too sharp, too close to something real. Paige shifted uncomfortably and added, “No telling the team.”

Azzi nodded. “God, no. You know they’d never shut up.”

“KK would start a countdown for how fast we’d catch feelings.”

“And Nika would have a betting pool by breakfast.”

They both smiled at that, a flicker of ease sliding into the space between them. But it didn’t last.

Azzi leaned her head back and stared at the ceiling. “What about… seeing other people?”

Paige froze.

Azzi looked at her. “Like… we can. Right?”

Paige forced her jaw to unclench. “Of course. Yeah. This isn’t exclusive.”

Azzi nodded quickly, like she was reassuring herself. “Right. Just sex. That’s it.”

“Exactly.” Paige laid back down again, staring at the ceiling. “Just stress relief. A mutual favor.”

Azzi laughed once. “You’re so bad at pretending you don’t care.”

Paige’s smile was tight. “So are you.”

Another silence. This one stretched.

Azzi laid back down beside her, not quite touching. “It doesn’t have to be complicated.”

“It already is,” Paige said quietly.

Neither of them said anything for a long time after that.

Eventually, Azzi rolled to her side and said, voice soft, “You’re still staying, though, right?”

Paige looked over. “Thought we weren’t doing sleepovers.”

Azzi shrugged, not meeting her eyes. “There’s an exception for post-orgasm comas, remember?”

Paige chuckled, but it didn’t quite reach her chest. “Right.”

She reached out under the sheets and found Azzi’s hand. Their fingers laced automatically.

No more words. Just that fragile, unspoken thing growing between them.

They fell asleep like that — not touching, but tethered.

And neither of them dreamed about anyone else.

--------------------

Azzi woke slowly, the way you do when your body wants more sleep but your mind has already decided it’s over. The light coming in through the blinds was soft and diluted, just enough to tint the room in a pale gray that made everything look quieter than it was. She blinked up at the ceiling, adjusting to the stillness, and only when she reached out on instinct did she realize Paige wasn’t there.

Her arm stretched across the mattress, fingers brushing the sheet, but the spot where Paige had been hours ago was already cold.

Azzi didn’t move for a moment. Her hand stayed there, resting against the empty space, and she stared up at the ceiling like maybe if she stayed still long enough, the world would shift backward. Just a little. Just to last night.

The room smelled like her shampoo and Paige’s deodorant. There was a sweatshirt on the floor that didn’t belong to her, one sleeve turned inside out like it had been taken off in a rush. Her nightstand drawer was half-open — she didn’t remember opening it. Her phone was face down. And on the chair by the closet, her clothes were folded neatly, but the edge of Paige’s t-shirt was gone.

No text. No note. Not even a missed call.

Azzi exhaled slowly, more habit than feeling, and rolled onto her back, dragging the sheet up to her chest like it might hold something together. It didn’t. Her body was still sore in places she hadn’t been touched in months — tender reminders of a night she wasn’t supposed to hold onto. But it was hard to forget. Her skin still buzzed with the shape of Paige’s hands, the echo of her mouth, the weight of how it felt to be wanted like that.

She closed her eyes for a second longer, pressing the heel of her hand gently against her sternum. It wasn’t heartbreak. It wasn’t even disappointment. It was just… that slow, empty pull. The reminder that she’d made the rules. That Paige was just following them.

Azzi finally sat up, legs swinging over the edge of the bed. Her bare feet hit the floor with a dull thud. The air was cooler than it had been last night. Her window was cracked open an inch, letting in the distant sound of someone on a skateboard and a few birds that wouldn’t shut up. She pulled her robe off the back of her desk chair, slipped it on, and padded into the kitchen without turning on the lights.

The apartment was still. Caroline and Ice were probably still asleep, their doors shut. Azzi moved on autopilot — kettle, mug, instant coffee, a splash of oat milk. Her hands moved like they were used to distraction, like they’d memorized the steps of pretending everything was normal.

She sat at the small dining table, one leg pulled up under her robe, cradling her mug with both hands. The first sip burned her tongue slightly. She didn’t care.

Her phone lit up on the counter — not a message from Paige. Just Caroline: “Brunch? I’m starving and bored.”

Azzi stared at the screen for a second, then typed back: “Sure. Let me shower.”

No mention of last night. No questions. No confessions.

She locked her phone, sipped her coffee, and kept her face blank as the mug warmed her fingers.

Just sex, she reminded herself.

She didn’t believe it either.

--------------------

The brunch spot was barely a five-minute walk off campus, one of those places that always smelled like cinnamon and espresso no matter what time of day it was. The windows were fogged slightly from the heat of the kitchen, and the patio seating was already half full of students in sweats and sunglasses nursing iced lattes like hangover remedies. Azzi spotted Caroline immediately — tucked in the far corner under an umbrella, one foot propped on the empty chair across from her, sunglasses perched in her hair and a nearly empty mimosa in her hand.

Azzi approached quietly, adjusting the strap of her crossbody bag across her chest. She’d tied her curls up into a high bun after her shower, loose strands escaping around her face. Oversized hoodie. Leggings. Big black sunglasses she hadn’t bothered to take off even though the sun wasn’t that bright.

Caroline looked up as she approached and dropped her foot from the chair with a grin. “There she is. I was about to order for you and pretend we were dating.”

Azzi huffed a soft laugh, sliding into the seat. “As if they’d believe you could land me.”

“Ouch,” Caroline said, clutching her chest. “See if I order you the good pancakes now.”

Azzi let herself smile — small, easy — and picked up the menu, even though she already knew what she wanted. Something about pretending to think helped slow the morning down.

“You look like shit,” Caroline added after a beat, not unkindly. “Rough night?”

Azzi’s eyes stayed on the menu. “Didn’t sleep much.”

Caroline hummed, stirring the last inch of her mimosa with the straw. “Doing what?”

Azzi looked up briefly, then back down. “Just… thinking. Trying to reset.”

“Sure,” Caroline said, tone casual but eyes sharp. “You know you ghosted me last night, right? Whole team was in the group chat. You just vanished.”

“I wasn’t feeling it.” Azzi folded the menu closed and placed it on the edge of the table. “Needed a quiet night.”

“You always need a quiet night,” Caroline said, but it wasn’t an accusation — just an observation. She leaned forward, rested her chin on her hand. “You weren’t alone, though.”

Azzi didn’t flinch, but she didn’t meet her eyes either.

Caroline watched her for another second, then leaned back as the server arrived to take their order. Azzi asked for a green smoothie and banana pancakes. Caroline ordered eggs and hashbrowns, another mimosa. The server smiled and left. The silence returned.

“I’m not trying to pry,” Caroline said finally. “Just… checking in.”

Azzi nodded once. “I appreciate that.”

“But also,” Caroline added, tapping her fingers lightly against her glass, “if you’re going to sneak around and act mysterious, at least let me pretend to be supportive.”

Azzi laughed under her breath, and this time, it sounded real. “There’s nothing to support. It’s not a thing.”

Caroline tilted her head. “Uh-huh.”

“I mean it.” Azzi picked up her water, took a sip. “It was just… whatever. Not a big deal.”

“You’re talking like I asked for a ring size.”

Azzi gave her a look.

Caroline held up her hands. “Okay. Not a big deal. Totally normal to disappear for a night and show up looking like you wrestled a fever dream.”

Azzi smirked. “You’re annoying.”

“And you’re deflecting.”

Their food arrived, giving Azzi a moment of reprieve. She busied herself with syrup, focusing a little too hard on pouring it evenly. Caroline didn’t push further, but the silence between them stretched in that familiar way — not uncomfortable, just heavy with what neither of them was saying.

Azzi stabbed a piece of pancake, chewed slowly, then asked, “What’s the group chat say this morning?”

Caroline shrugged. “Mostly nonsense. Nika wants to go out tonight. KK’s being KK. Someone made a joke about Mia again, which I still don’t understand.”

Azzi’s fork froze halfway to her mouth.

Caroline clocked it.

But Azzi just said, “Mia’s a freshman. Paige tutors her sometimes.”

“Interesting.”

“Not really,” Azzi muttered, setting her fork down. “She’s just loud.”

Caroline didn’t say anything else. She just picked at her eggs, let Azzi sit in her own quiet.

They finished the meal without circling back. But when the check came, Caroline paid for both of them without comment, and Azzi didn’t argue. As they stood to leave, Caroline bumped her shoulder lightly and said, “Just don’t shut me out, okay?”

Azzi adjusted her sunglasses and gave her a small nod. “I won’t.”

She already had.

--------------------

The gym was half-lit and echoing when Paige pushed through the back doors, a worn-out hoodie tugged over her tank top, earbuds already in. The playlist was old — one of her summer grind mixes — all bass-heavy and wordless enough to drown things out. She liked the gym this way, still waking up, not yet buzzing with team chatter or Coach’s whistle. It gave her space to move without thinking. Just repetition and sweat.

She dropped her bag, tied her shoes tight, and picked up a ball without stretching. The first few jumpers were lazy, loose-wristed, just enough arc to feel it again. The fourth clanged off the rim and bounced hard. She chased it down, jaw already tight. Fifth went in. Sixth rattled, but fell. Seventh — smooth.

It was muscle memory. The one thing she could trust to not get complicated.

She didn’t hear the door open, didn’t notice Nika until she was standing at half court, spinning a ball on one finger like she’d been there all morning.

“You work out in silence now?” Nika called out.

Paige popped her earbuds out. “I wasn’t expecting company.”

“You’re not that hard to find. Also, you missed breakfast.”

Paige caught the ball off a bounce and wiped her wrist across her forehead. “Didn’t feel like a crowd.”

Nika cocked her head. “You always feel like a crowd.”

Paige smirked. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Doesn’t have to. You get my point.”

They moved into a rhythm without really talking about it — Nika rebounding, Paige shooting, the kind of flow that came from years of knowing each other’s timing. But even with the ease of it, Nika was watching her. Paige could feel it. The too-long silences. The way Nika let her miss four shots in a row without a comment. That wasn’t normal.

After the next make, Paige said, “You’re being weird.”

“I’m being observant.”

“Same thing.”

Nika tossed her the ball, then crossed her arms. “You’ve been quiet lately. Like, Paige quiet. Which is worse than regular quiet because it means you’re either overthinking or actively self-destructing.”

Paige let the ball bounce once before catching it again. “I’m fine.”

Nika gave her a flat look. “You disappeared last night. Didn’t answer the group chat. And now you’re here at nine in the morning like it’s therapy hour.”

“I just needed to shoot.”

“Uh-huh.”

Paige took another jumper. Swish.

Nika walked closer, dropped the ball she was holding. “Look. I’m not asking for a diary entry, but you know you can tell me shit, right?”

Paige exhaled slowly. “I know.”

“Then tell me why you’re acting like you got hit by an emotional semi-truck.”

“I’m not.”

“You only dodge like this when there’s a girl involved.”

Paige hesitated — just for a second — and that was all Nika needed.

“Oh my god,” she said, eyes lighting up. “Who is she?”

“There’s no girl.”

“Lie better.”

“There’s no relationship.” Paige corrected, catching her own slip too late.

Nika’s eyebrows went up. “So there is a girl. And something happened.”

Paige shook her head, turned back toward the hoop. “It’s not a big deal.”

Nika folded her arms. “You know, I was gonna invite you to Ted’s tonight. Whole crew’s going.”

Paige hesitated again, then said, “I don’t know if I’m up for—”

“That’s exactly why you’re coming.”

Paige shot again. Missed.

Nika grinned like she’d just won a bet.

They didn’t say anything for a while. Just the rhythm of ball on hardwood, sneakers squeaking, the low hum of music still leaking from Paige’s phone speaker in her pocket. But then Nika pulled her own phone out and tapped into the group chat with a mischievous gleam in her eye.

“Just to let the people know,” she said.

--------------------

Group Chat – “UConn Fam”

9:04 AM

Nika:

Ted’s tonight. 9PM. I expect chaos. No excuses.

—

1:57 PM

Aaliyah:

I'm in. who’s trying to black out responsibly

Aubrey:

Im 100% in

Ines:

Only if someone keeps KK away from the DJ booth this time

Ice:

Can’t promise anything

KK:

Is Paige even alive??? girl’s been dodging us like we’re taxes

Aaliyah:

Fr she’s been in stealth mode all week

KK:

She was probably with Mia again 👀👀

Caroline:

Who the hell is Mia???

Nika:

Freshman Paige tutors. loud. confident. definitely crushing.

KK:

Tutoring. suuure 😏

Ice:

Here we go again 💀

Paige is typing…

Nothing sent.

POV: Paige

She’d been lying on her bed, hair still damp from her post-gym shower, phone face up on her chest. She hadn’t opened the group chat when the first message came through that morning — just saw Nika’s Ted’s invite flash across her lock screen and ignored it. But this? She read through the thread three times.

Mia. Of course they brought her up.

Her thumbs hovered above the keyboard. She could’ve joked it off. Said something dumb. Given them the reaction they wanted.

But the idea of Azzi seeing her name tied to someone else made her stomach twist — not because of guilt. Because she didn’t want Azzi thinking it meant anything. Because it didn’t. Not even close.

She typed, “you’re all sick” — then deleted it. Locked the screen.

Let them think what they wanted.

POV: Azzi

Azzi had just gotten back from brunch and dumped her bag on the floor, hair still in a half-undone bun, hoodie sleeves pushed to her elbows. She wasn’t even hungry, but she’d eaten anyway. Smiled at the right times. Lied when it counted.

She hadn’t opened the group chat until the notifications stacked. Her eyes skimmed the thread. Then froze.

Paige was probably with Mia again 👀👀

The name hit harder than it should have. Azzi stared at it, thumb trembling just slightly over the screen. The kind of joke that wasn't really a joke. The kind of thing that clung.

Her jaw tensed. She exited the app. Turned her phone face-down on the windowsill.

She wouldn’t ask. She wouldn’t care. She wouldn’t let herself care.

But her chest still felt hollow.

--------------------

POV: Azzi

Azzi adjusted her crop top in the mirror for the third time, smoothing her palms over her ribs as if the fabric would magically shift into something more comfortable. It was tight — on purpose. The kind of top she usually reserved for nights she needed to feel in control of something. Paired with high-waisted jean shorts and the same black sneakers she always wore when she wanted to look casual but still hot, it was… a choice.

“You sure you don’t want to bring a hoodie?” Caroline called from the kitchen.

Azzi looked down at herself. “No.”

Caroline popped her head into the room and let out a low whistle. “Okay, damn. You’re showing up tonight.”

Azzi turned slightly, checking her profile in the mirror. “Too much?”

“For a regular night? Maybe. For seeing your almost-hookup-you’re-trying-not-to-have-feelings-for? Perfect.”

Azzi gave her a look. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Caroline said sweetly, already walking away.

Azzi sprayed perfume lightly over her neck and wrists, then pulled her curls over one shoulder. Her lip gloss was subtle. Her earrings matched the thin chain around her throat. She looked effortless.

She didn’t feel it.

Ice was already by the door in camo pants and a tiny halter top. “We going or what?”

Azzi grabbed her phone, glanced at the lock screen. Nothing.

She wasn’t expecting anything. That’s what they’d agreed.

Still, she lingered for a beat before answering. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

POV: Paige

The mirror above her desk was streaked at the edges, but Paige leaned in close anyway, swiping on a quick coat of mascara with practiced ease. It was the only thing she ever wore — just enough to make her eyes stand out without looking like she cared. Her hair was freshly straightened, parted down the middle and tucked behind her ears, still warm from the flat iron.

She pulled her oversized white tee over her head, the cotton soft and slouchy against her skin. The neckline hung a little loose, just wide enough to show the strap of her sports bra and a peek of her collarbone. She adjusted it without thinking, then grabbed her black cargo pants from the back of her desk chair and stepped into them, cinching the waist tight. They sat low on her hips and hung just right — baggy, but not shapeless. She checked herself in the mirror. Oversized shirt, cargos, fresh sneakers, silver cross chain glinting at her collarbone.

Casual. Comfortable. Still hot.

“You look like the kind of girl that ruins lives,” Nika said from the doorway, one brow raised.

Paige smirked. “That’s the goal.”

KK piped up from where she was sprawled on the futon, holding her phone over her head. “Mia’s gonna combust if she sees you in that.”

Paige rolled her eyes, grabbing her phone from the windowsill. “She’s not going.”

“You sure?” KK grinned. “Girl looked ready to fake an ID just to find you.”

“I’m not going for Mia,” Paige said, shoving her phone into her pocket.

“Didn’t say you were,” KK sing-songed. “But she’s definitely going for you.”

Nika gave Paige a look, but kept her mouth shut. Just handed her the hoodie Paige had left crumpled on the chair. “Take this. In case you want to hide your shame.”

“I don’t have any shame,” Paige said, pulling it on but leaving it unzipped.

KK cackled. “Lies. But she looks fine as hell.”

Paige didn’t respond. Just grabbed her keys and nodded toward the door. “Let’s go.”

But as they left the dorm, she tugged the hem of her shirt down once more, fingertips brushing her hips — like she was already thinking about who might be looking.

--------------------

POV Azzi

Ted’s was packed — low ceilings, sweaty walls, and music that hit harder than it had any right to on a Thursday. The bass rattled through her ribs, all synth and bassline and bodies packed too close together. Azzi stuck near the front with Caroline and Ice at first, drink in hand, eyes scanning through the blur of familiar heads and half-lit faces.

Then she saw her.

Paige.

Standing across the room near the back wall, just a little outside the crowd, lit by the dull red glow of the overhead lights. Oversized white tee, black cargos, silver chain catching the flicker from the DJ booth. Straight hair tucked behind her ears, her posture loose like she didn’t care — but Azzi knew that look. It was curated. Paige looked relaxed, cool, unfazed.

She looked hot.

Azzi took a slow sip of her drink, already half warm in her hand. She wasn’t going to stare. She wasn’t.

Paige turned at the same moment, eyes locking with hers like it was choreographed. Azzi didn’t look away. Neither did Paige. The corner of Paige’s mouth lifted — not a full smirk. Just enough to say yeah, I see you too.

Azzi’s stomach dipped.

Then someone stepped into Paige’s space. A girl. Shorter, brunette, loud in the way freshmen always were. She leaned in close, too close, her hand brushing Paige’s arm in a way that made Azzi blink.

Mia.

Of course it was Mia.

She said something that made Paige laugh, head ducking slightly. Azzi’s jaw clenched. She didn’t wait for more. Just turned, walking straight toward the bar without a word.

POV Paige

She felt Azzi’s eyes before she saw her.

Across the room, tight black crop top, denim shorts, thighs out, curls framing her face like it was personal. Her skin glowed under the lights — bronze and smooth and soft in a way Paige remembered way too well. She couldn’t stop looking. Wouldn’t. Azzi looked unreal. And Paige knew she was doing it on purpose.

Paige’s fingers curled into her pocket, trying to keep cool.

Then Mia appeared out of nowhere — all perfume and confidence, brushing against Paige’s arm like it was nothing.

“Didn’t expect to see you out tonight,” she said, already half shouting over the music.

Paige kept her tone casual. “Didn’t expect to be here.”

“You look good,” Mia said, eyes flicking down. “Dangerous. In a fun way.”

Paige forced a laugh, but it didn’t land. Her eyes drifted back across the room — only Azzi was gone. A flash of dark curls weaving through the crowd, headed toward the bar.

Something tugged in her chest. Harder than she wanted it to.

“Hey, you want a drink?” Mia asked, still touching her.

Paige stepped back a half-step. “I’m good. I gotta—yeah. One sec.”

She didn’t wait. Just moved — slow but direct — slipping through the crowd until she found Azzi leaning against the bar, waiting for the bartender, arms crossed under her chest like she was trying not to look annoyed.

“You ran off,” Paige said, sliding in beside her.

Azzi didn’t look at her right away. “Didn’t realize I owed you a debrief.”

Paige smirked. “You looked good tonight.”

Azzi finally turned to face her. “You looked busy.”

“That wasn’t—” Paige sighed. “I didn’t ask her to come up to me.”

“Didn’t stop her from touching you.”

Paige leaned in a little closer. Her voice dropped low, just for her. “I didn’t want her.”

Azzi’s brow arched. “And who do you want?”

Paige’s mouth hovered near her ear, breath warm. “When can I fuck you again?”

Azzi didn’t flinch. Just tilted her head slightly, lips brushing a smile against the rim of her glass. “Depends.”

“On what?”

“How tonight goes.”

Paige chuckled, low and quiet. “So I need to be on my best behavior?”

Azzi turned to face her fully now, her voice sweet but loaded. “No, Paige. You need to be interesting.”

The bartender arrived. Azzi ordered another vodka soda. Didn’t ask if Paige wanted one.

Then she turned and walked back into the crowd — leaving Paige standing there, smirking to herself, aroused and entirely off-balance.

--------------------

POV Paige

She watched Azzi disappear into the crowd, glass in hand, hips moving like she didn’t know she was being watched — or worse, like she did.

Paige stayed at the bar for another minute, pretending to care about nothing. Then she turned, rejoined Nika and KK near the edge of the dance floor, trying to act like her pulse wasn’t jackhammering in her throat.

The lights were low and hazy now, flickering between violet and red as the DJ dropped into something grimy and bass-heavy. Around her, everyone was moving. Laughing. Drunk.

Paige wasn’t.

She let KK shove a cup into her hand, took a sip without tasting it, eyes scanning through the blur of bodies. She found her fast.

Azzi was near the center of the floor now, surrounded by people but not with any of them — just dancing, head tipped back, curls sticking slightly to her neck. Her crop top rode high as her hands moved up, hair bouncing with the beat, the curve of her waist catching every flash of light like a fucking magnet.

Paige didn’t realize she’d stopped breathing until Nika nudged her. “You good?”

“Yeah,” Paige said, eyes still locked.

Nika grinned like she already knew. “You’re about to do something stupid, huh?”

“Very.”

And then she moved.

It wasn’t a rush. Just a slow weave through the crowd — casual, discreet, like the music pulled her in. She let herself get swallowed by the pulse of it, drifting close, close, until Azzi’s back was just inches away.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t give a warning.

She just slid a hand low on Azzi’s hip and pulled her gently back into her front.

Azzi didn’t flinch. Didn’t turn.

She leaned into it.

Pressed her ass into Paige’s pelvis with a slow grind that matched the beat — one hand lifting to rest lightly behind Paige’s neck, the other snaking back to guide Paige’s grip lower.

Paige’s mouth parted slightly, breath catching. She moved with her, bodies aligned, letting herself get lost in it. Her hand flattened against Azzi’s stomach, anchoring them together as they moved.

It was heat. Friction. Payback.

No one around them noticed — or if they did, no one would remember. Not in this crowd. Not in this chaos.

Azzi tilted her head back, mouth grazing the curve of Paige’s jaw.

Then, her lips at Paige’s ear, low and breathless:

“Let’s get out of here.”

Paige didn’t answer.

She just grabbed Azzi’s hand and led her through the crowd — fast, deliberate, like she already knew how the night was going to end.

#azzi fudd #paige bueckers #pazzi fics #uconn wbb #pazzi #paige x azzi #wlw

494 notes · View notes

tearvls · 2 days ago

Text

200 follower special!!

INFO: Mark Grayson Variants reaction to you getting your nipples pierced!!

— warnings for nipple play!!

GN! Reader x Mark Variants!!

— SINISTER MARK

The second your shirt rides up and those piercings catch the light, his entire demeanor shifts. One moment he’s lounging like he owns the room — the next, he’s deadly quiet, sharp gaze locked on your chest like a predator locking in on prey. You can feel the change in the air around him, thick with heat and tension. “You did this without telling me?” he says, voice low and dangerous, but eerily calm — like he’s holding back something violent, or worse, possessive. He moves closer, slow and deliberate, every step radiating restrained hunger until he’s right in front of you. His hand rises — gloved, precise — and hovers just an inch above your skin. He doesn't touch immediately, just watches your body respond to the anticipation. “You let someone else mark you like this?” he murmurs, eyes narrowing. “Put metal through my favorite parts?” His thumb brushes just barely against one ring, and when you flinch — whether from sensitivity or healing pain — his smirk widens. “Still sore? Healing?” He sounds amused. Not sympathetic. And then he does touch, gently at first — thumb dragging in slow, calculated circles around the piercing, before he leans in and closes his mouth around the other, tongue warm and wet and sinful. He sucks slowly, deliberately, the pressure just toeing the edge of too much. “I don’t give a fuck if it hurts. If you’re gonna put these here,” he growls against your skin, “then I’m gonna ruin you."

— MOHAWK MARK

He clocks the piercings the second your shirt lifts, and his reaction is instant—brows shoot up, and that wild grin of his spreads across his face like a slash. “No fuckin’ way,” he mutters, already moving in, eyes glued to your chest like you’ve just handed him a gift with a bow on it. He doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t give you time to explain. He just palms your chest with a calloused hand, thumbing close—too close—to one ring like he’s testing your reaction. “These real?” he asks, not really caring about the answer. “Goddamn, you just had to make yourself even more distracting, huh?” He leans down, mouthing just beside the metal, breathing hot against your skin before he gently tugs your nipple with his teeth—not enough to hurt, but enough to make you shiver. And when you twitch, probably from the healing soreness, he pauses. “Still healing?” he asks with a smirk. “Mmm. That’s cute.” He doesn’t stop. His tongue swirls around the piercing, lips closing over it, and you feel the heat of his breath as he moans low in his throat. “Bet you were thinking about me when you got ‘em done. You knew I’d go fucking crazy over this.” He alternates between licking and sucking until your knees go weak, never once letting up. “Shit, you’re gonna have to heal around me, babe. I’m not leavin’ these alone.”

— OMNI MARK

He sees them as soon as your shirt shifts—and immediately, the air gets heavier. His gaze drops, unreadable and intense, locked on your chest like he's assessing a threat or a tactical advantage. He doesn’t speak at first. He just steps in closer, slow and composed, towering over you like he already owns the moment. Then his fingers lift—bare, ungloved, clinical—and he brushes them just beneath the jewelry, not touching the piercings themselves, but skimming close enough that your breath stutters. His brows lift slightly. “You got pierced,” he says, not a question, just observation. His thumb moves in a slow, circling motion around the base of one nipple, careful not to disturb the healing—but firm enough to remind you that he’s still in control. “Tch. Reckless,” he murmurs, and for a second, it seems like he might scold you further—but then, just barely, the corner of his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. Not quite approval. He flicks one ring lightly, just once, to watch the way you react. “You didn’t think I’d notice?” he asks quietly. “Or did you want me to?” His fingers linger for a moment longer, and then he steps back, voice cooler, but final. “They look good on you.”

— MASKLESS MARK

The moment he sees them, his whole face lights up like you’ve just given him something precious. His breath catches, and his eyes go wide—staring, but not in a crude way. He looks genuinely captivated, lips parting slightly as if he forgot what he was saying. “Whoa… seriously?” he murmurs, stepping closer like he’s afraid to touch without permission. “When did you—? Wait, why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve gone with you.” His hands hover over your chest for a moment, trembling just a little with restraint. When you nod or guide him closer, his fingers finally land—so gentle it’s barely more than a brush. He traces around one piercing, circling it slowly, taking his time to admire every detail with a quiet reverence. “God, these look amazing on you,” he says softly, in awe more than lust. “Like… really amazing.” He leans in, not to bite or suck, but to gently kiss your skin beside the metal, lips soft and warm. When he tugs lightly on one ring between his fingers, it’s playful—not rough—and the moment you flinch, he stops immediately. “Sorry, too soon?” he whispers, clearly a little flustered. “I’ll behave. Just—damn, you’re already so hot, and now you do this?” His hands cradle your sides, thumbs grazing your skin with tender reverence. “You make it so hard to be good.” He presses another kiss to your sternum, just below, murmuring against your skin, “They suit you. So, so well.”

— VILTRUMITE MARK

His gaze snaps to your chest the second your shirt is lifted, and he goes still—not with surprise, but with a kind of focused scrutiny, like he’s cataloging new data. “What is this?” he asks flatly, reaching out without hesitation. His fingers land on your skin with zero gentleness, thumb brushing one piercing, then the other, slow but firm—more curious than considerate. “You let someone drive metal through your flesh?” he mutters, not judging, exactly… but definitely not approving either. He doesn’t ask if they’re healed. He doesn’t care. He gives one an experimental tug—short and sharp. Not enough to be cruel, but enough to make you wince. He watches you closely when you flinch, eyes narrowing like he’s testing your reaction, testing you. “Sensitive,” he notes simply, as though the pain is a flaw he’s filing away for later. Then he twists one ring between his fingers, idly, as if it's nothing more than a hinge or a lever. “You humans and your modifications… always trying to make yourselves more appealing.” He hums to himself, low and almost amused. His eyes never leave your face. He doesn’t apologize. Doesn’t stop until he is satisfied. Then finally, he releases you with one last brush of his knuckles over your chest and offers a noncommittal, “They don’t look bad.” The closest thing to a compliment you’ll get from him—grudging, clipped, and barely earned. But he lingers after he says it, gaze dragging slowly back to the piercings with just a flicker of interest behind his usual mask of dominance.

— PRISONER MARK

The second your shirt lifts and he gets a look at your chest, his expression sharpens like a blade. “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he mutters, stepping in close before you can even speak. His hands are rough and calloused, worn from fights and restraints, and they move before you give permission—thumbs ghosting over your chest with calculated pressure. He doesn’t touch the piercings at first. He just stares, like he’s trying to figure out what the hell possessed you to do it. “You really went and did this while I was locked up?” His tone is low, pissed, but there’s something else there too—something that betrays how tightly he’s holding himself back. He wants to hate them. The idea of someone else being close enough to put them there twists in his gut, and for a moment, his grip on your waist tightens possessively. “Looks like hell to heal,” he mutters, and yet, his fingers are already drifting toward one, brushing it just enough to make your breath hitch. That smug grin curls onto his face, slowly. “Sensitive, huh?” He tugs lightly, testing your reaction. Then again—harder this time. Not cruel, but bold. Messy. Like he’s punishing you for turning him on. “Yeah, I hate ‘em,” he says, eyes still locked on the way your body tenses beneath him, “but fuck—” he breathes out a short laugh, low and hungry, “they do something to me.” He leans in, forehead resting against yours for a beat, his voice softer but still strained. “Next time you think about decorating yourself like that, maybe run it by me.” Another pull—possessive this time, slower. Then he lets go, rough hands trailing down your sides. “They’re stupid. But they look… good.” He says it like it physically hurts to admit it.

— NO GOGGLES MARK

The second he sees the piercings, his grin stretches wide—too wide. There's that glint in his eye again, the one that never bodes well for your sanity. “Oh, you’re just asking for it,” he laughs, stepping up so close you can feel his breath on your chest. He doesn’t hesitate—not even a second. His hand is on you immediately, fingers curling around one of the piercings, thumb pressing down hard enough to make your whole body jolt. “Still healing?” he says with mock sympathy, and then slaps one nipple—sharp, fast, stinging. He watches the way you flinch, and a low, breathless chuckle escapes him. “Oh damn, that was beautiful.”

He tugs the ring, twists it, presses it down just enough to blur the line between pleasure and pain, giggling like it’s his favorite toy. “You look so fucking good like this—pierced, helpless, all twitchy and sweet.” His other hand joins in, swatting at the other nipple, then pinching it between two fingers with cruel amusement. “I shouldn’t be doing this. You’re probably gonna bruise, huh?” He doesn’t sound remorseful at all—just turned on. Hard. You can feel it when he presses up against you, still laughing softly.

He leans in close, lips brushing your ear. His voice is a low growl, hungry and gleeful. “Oh fuck, I can’t wait till I see you in bed,” he whispers, breath hitching. “When I’m twisting them so hard you scream for me.” He pulls back just enough to look you in the eye, still grinning like the devil. “That’s the kind of music I live for.”

— FULL MASK MARK

The second he sees them, he physically freezes—like you just hit him with a brick. There’s a beat of stunned silence, and then the full mask tips downward in the most obvious attempt to not stare, which completely fails when his head jerks right back up for another glance. “Holy—wow, okay,” he stammers, voice cracking slightly through the modulator. “That’s, uh. That’s new.”

He doesn’t reach for you right away—he’s too busy short-circuiting. His hands twitch at his sides, flexing like he wants to touch but is still trying to figure out if he’s allowed. When you give him the okay, he moves in slow, reverent, like he’s afraid to break you. His fingers hover, then gently trace the edge of one piercing, careful not to brush too close. “They… they look really good on you,” he says, breath catching. “Like—too good. Like unfair levels of hot. Honestly, how am I supposed to focus now?”

His gloved hand lifts to cup your chest, firm but sweet, and he lets out a nervous laugh when you shiver under the touch. “God, you have no idea how hard it is not to stare,” he groans. “I’m gonna be thinking about this all day. All week. You already drive me crazy and now you’ve got shiny little… distractions right where I’m weakest?” He leans in close, resting his masked forehead against your shoulder for a second like he’s overwhelmed. “That should be illegal,” he mutters. “Seriously.”

Then, just before he pulls back, he whispers—soft, but honest—“You looked good before, but this? This is unfair.”

— SHEISTY MARK

The moment you lift your shirt and show him the piercings, time stops for him. His jaw drops, eyes bulge, and then—“Baby, what the actual fuck?” he exclaims, voice jumping a full octave. He’s grinning so hard it’s almost ridiculous, one hand already moving to your chest like he has to confirm it’s real. “You—you really went and got ‘em done? Like for me? Shit, don’t tell me that or I’m gonna lose my goddamn mind.” He doesn’t even pretend to hold back. His mouth is already trailing kisses down your chest, eyes flicking up with wicked delight. “Damn, they look so fucking good on you, baby. I mean—fuck. You’re trying to kill me, huh? Is this a test?” His tongue flicks out like he’s teasing a treat he’s not allowed to have, but that doesn’t last long. The second he knows you’re healed enough, he dives in. One nipple’s in his mouth, then the other—hot, greedy, wet. He’s sucking like he’s making up for some deep childhood deficiency, groaning through it like he’s never tasted anything better. His hands pin your hips like he needs you to stay still, hips grinding into yours like he’s beyond help. “Shit—shit, you don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he pants between sucks, breath hot and needy against your skin. “You’re so fucking hot—I swear to God, I’m gonna be thinking about this every damn time I close my eyes.” Then, with your nipple still lightly grazed between his teeth, he mutters, “Baby, if you thought I was bad before—just wait. I’m gonna suck on these like I wasn’t even breastfed.”

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fruitiesss · 2 days ago

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bob reynolds NSFW alphabet !

as requested lol, i listened to the people and the people want bob smut.

MINORS + AGELESS DNI. SMUT.

send requests in! characters are on my pinned posts, just give me a hot minute to write them ^^

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex) Bob's very into cuddling and being close in general, he's also a human heater so if you're not cold you're gonna have to push him off until you are (his pouty face ensues). If it was really messy, he'll run a bath and get in with you situated on his lap. He keeps water bottles by the bed and isn't above running quickly to the store to grab some food if you need it.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s) Bob likes his hands. They're almost constantly in use because he likes to fidget and read, so he's more than capable with them, and he loves the way you come apart under them.

He'd like your thighs and hips, it's something to hold onto while he fucks into you or when you ride him. He also loves the squishiness of them, much better than any stress relief toys you buy him.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically) Bob's never been in the place mentally (or physically) to risk having a kid at his age. He's always used condoms or pulled out when he's been in quick hook-ups before (though not many, he's quite inexperienced). You would have to sit him down and discuss kids with him first, but even then he's still hesitant and nervous.

He prefers to cum on your stomach or back if you'd let him. He cleans it up fast though, knowing the stickiness when it dries is less than desirable.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs) He rarely watches porn - why would he need to, he has you! - but does when you're away on a long mission or a trip. He takes inspiration from it and tries to incorporate a position or kink he'd watched that he thought you might like.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?) This boy is inexperienced. As I said before, he's had a few hook-ups here and there but he's never been interested enough to learn. You're gonna have to teach him a few things and he is so eager to please you in any way you want. He's incredibly good at following orders.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying) COWGIRL. FUCKING RIDE HIM HE WILL CUM INSTANTLY. Just the way he can see you - all of you - makes him harder than a fucking rock. Ugh, this man will have his hands anywhere, eyes half lidded in pure bliss as he watches you bounce.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.) Bob's a mix of both. He's serious when he's concentrating, trying to reach the spot that makes your toes curl, but he laughs and jokes with you when he's not. He can't take himself seriously and neither can you, it feels so good but it's also really funny.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.) He's never taken care of himself properly before. Now that he's clean, he probably trims a little down there so it's not completely unbearable but he won't be smooth or clean shaven. He dyed his hair blonde ONCE and nobody will let him forget it, so YES the carpet matches the drapes thank you. He also doesn't mind if you shave or not. Hair is natural and he understands that, he actually prefers if you don't shave, as long as you're clean.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect) Sex for him is all about connection. He's done the unfeeling, unromantic stuff before and he hates it. You are his everything and he needs you to know that. He's complimenting you with every other word, letting you know how much he loves you or how good you make him feel. He is all about you.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon) He rarely jacks off because you're right there all the time. Though when you're out of town or on a long mission he will do it a couple of times just to keep himself sated until you can come back. He's needy for you always.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks) BOB LIKES HIS HAIR BEING PULLED. Grab it by the roots and pull and he will give you the sweetest sound you've ever heard. He loves praise too, call him a good boy and he's already on his knees for you so he can do anything you want. He's a switch 100%, will do anything you want but likes to be dominated sometimes.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do) He likes being in bed with you, he's very hesitant to do anything in public because you're his to see and he's yours to see. He will if you really want to, but he won't like it. When he's really needy, he'll corner you wherever you are in the tower until you take him up to one of your rooms, with him following like a dog on a leash.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going) You. If you're in the mood, he's in the mood. If he sees you, he's in the mood. Wearing something revealing? He's on you. You opened the floodgates when you first laid with him now lie in the bed you made.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs) He's not into any kind of bodily fluid (other than cum, obviously) or anything where he hurts you or you hurt him. He refuses to lay a hand on you. Unless it's a soft slap. Impact play is a big no no.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.) He likes to get his dick sucked. He loves it, actually. You look so pretty on your knees with his cock in your mouth. He prefers giving, though! He wasn't so good at it when he started out but he has definitely gotten much better since he started out and he is a MUNCH. This man will spend hours between your legs if he can, his intense eyes staring into yours.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.) Bob as a person is very soft and sweet despite everything he's been through. He would take it slow and sweet with you, afraid to break you as if you were made of glass. He could take you fast and rough but he wouldn't be able to keep it up.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.) He doesn't like them. Too fast, it blurs in his head. He needs to know you're satisfied before he can leave you. He will take you for a quickie if you really, really beg him and only if you're in a place where you can't get to your beds.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.) He likes to experiment with anything you bring to him. He'll do anything (other than his nos) at least once.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?) Thanks to his powers, he has very good stamina. He'll last about 6 rounds with water breaks in between but if you wanted more, he will give you more. Anything for you. He'd last the whole day for you.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?) He's never seen the need for them. His hand did the job just fine when he was low on money (or needed the money for drugs) and even now he doesn't see the need for toys. He doesn't get jealous if you have any toys either, he'll use them on you if you're into that.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease) He thinks he's a tease but really he gives in whenever you so much as pout at him or whine. He's so smitten for you and wants to provide everything you need.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.) Bob will be quiet at first, biting into his hand to stifle any of his moans or grunts so he can fully hear the beautiful noises he elicits from you. But that's when he's on top. Get him submissive and that boy is LOUD for you. Pull his hair and he WILL moan. Overstimulate him and he WILL whine.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character) He likes to bite and suck marks into your skin. Especially in those spots that are hard to cover up. It gives him a sense of pride, knowing that he did that to you. He's also very bitey in general. Very cute.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes) He's not small at all but he'd not HUGE. I'd say he's 6 inches, nice and thick. Knows how to use it once he gets the hang of sex in general. It curves slightly to the left and has a nice pink tip, cut.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?) This guy is super needy. He's ready for you at any time, you just need to ask and he's already pouncing on you.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards) He only lets himself fall asleep once he's sure you're comfortable enough to. He is very sleepy after, though. He's falling asleep as he's scrubbing you in the bath, head slumping forward onto your shoulder until you nudge him. Once you're taken care of though, he's out like a light on the bed.

#marvel #bob reynolds #thunderbolts*#robert reynolds #bob reynolds x reader #bob thunderbolts #bob reynolds smut #robert reynolds smut #sentry #the void #the new avengers #mcu #thunderbolts #robert bob reynolds #the sentry #x reader

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topherwrites · 2 days ago

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𝘈 𝘍𝘖𝘙𝘌𝘚𝘛 𝘍𝘐𝘙𝘌

jack abbot x fem!reader — you have a shared understanding of each other, it's the worst sort of relation. warnings: mutual pining, angst, burn out, grief, terminal illness of parent, attending x resident, hr hates to see them coming. a/n: wrote this while sick and sleep deprived, so it's in third person for some reason. let me know if ya'll like this!

Jack has seen burnout, the way this job chips away at even the soundest of doctors. He’s used to tired eyes and cracked hands and sore backs. But this is different. It’s like watching a ghost move through the hospital.

She's crumbling under the weight of grief. She’s always clocked in; there’s no escape from it. No air to come up for. There’s just a void, deep and dark, that she pulls with her through every day.

And she doesn't sleep well anymore—or at all—terrified every time she closes her eyes that she won't be there when it—the horrible thing rapidly approaching—finally happens, that her mother will be alone. That she’ll have failed in the simplest of tasks.

She doesn’t feel human now, not really. She’s a candle burning at both ends—wick nearly gone.

He sees it, the barely hidden exhaustion, the forced smiles, the vacant stare when she doesn't know anyone’s looking. But he is—always, watching her for a reason he can’t face, knows is wrong.

And so he’s there to witness her collapse, a full breakaway. They lose a patient—young. Stupid young. One of those ones who should’ve made it. Who would’ve made it, if the universe cared for things like fairness.

His eyes stay on her as he calls it, as she slowly stops compressions, discards her gloves silently, and slips from the room like if she’s quiet enough, she can just disappear. He knows that look. He follows her at a distance, checking in with Dana, the other residents, keeps his eye on her the entire time. A ticking time bomb. He sees the tremble in her hands, the measured way she’s taking in every breath.

And then she bolts—not truly, but in her professional way, she does. Sets the chart in her hand down and goes straight for the stairwell.

Dana catches him watching her and tells him to go.

He pushes the door open, stands in the doorway as he watches her fold into herself on the cold, concrete stairway floor—knees pulled to her chest, shoulders shaking in that awful, silent way. The dam has broken.

She sees him then, her breath hitching, and a sob, uncontrollable, leaves her throat—because now there’s a witness to her failure. She’s failing her patients and her mother and him. The door shuts behind him with a click, the sound of her breaking echoing around them.

He moves, kneeling in front of her, as well as he can, every old part of him protesting all the while. He tries not to crowd, just be there.

“Hey,” he says, voice firm, “Look at me.”

He knows what she needs, her Type-A constitution: someone to tell her what to do, give her permission to stop brute forcing her way through this.

She tries to swallow her emotions back down, regulate her breathing, get back to it. Her eyes raise from the ground, but she doesn't quite look at him. That's fine.

“You’re off.” She opens her mouth. “Don’t argue.”

“I can’t, I just,” her throat clogs, she imagines going home, to that house that shouldn't be as quiet as it is, just dead air and the sounds of machines.

He sighs a long breath out of his nose, thumbing it as he offers something up to her. A piece of his own grief.

Death, the great equalizer.

He husks out, “If you stop for even a second, it’ll all go to shit, right?”

He waits to see her eyes.

He knows some of how she’s feeling, not the same, but close. She was there one day, gone the next. No in between, dead in everything but name. He imagines her version is worse. The long goodbye. The drawn-out cruelty of it.

His hand, large and calloused, cups her knee, thumb rubbing gently at the tendon there, grounding. She swallows down hard. Finally, her focus returns to him, and the look in his eye—understanding—draws her out of her spiral, if only for a moment.

“It won’t," he takes a breath, waits to see if she's really listening, “Not unless you don’t take a moment for yourself.”

She wants to believe him. But the thought of having to go back—to that house, to the hospice nurse, to her mother’s living death—makes her stomach churn. She feels ungrateful, selfish.

Her mother’s dying, and her daughter’s trying to figure out a way not to go home.

She finds she keeps having a particular thought, more and more these days, I want to go home. And yet she never seems to find herself there in the quiet of her childhood home. There’s no relief or sense of safety. Just quiet dread. I want to go home. And it’s the cool skin of her mother, paper thin. The occasional brittle sound that works its way out of her throat.

She thinks, I want to go home.

But there’s no home anymore. Just a ticking clock.

And she’s trying to let go of something that isn’t even gone yet.

He keeps his eye on her. He’s sure that his words won’t sink in until later, the truth of them hard to swallow for people like them.

“My shift ends in an hour.” He leans back. Reaches into his pocket. His knuckles prod her closed fist, and something cold is placed into her grasp. Keys. He says, “Wait for me.”

She nods.

What else is she going to do?

Then he leaves her in the stairwell.

Eventually, she gathers herself together, eases back up onto her feet, and ambles her way out of the sliding doors. In a haze, she clicks the lock button and locates his car by the responding beep. It’s nice, smells like leather and pine—attending salary, she supposes.

She sinks into the passenger seat, numb; it’s the first time she’s sat still in weeks.

The car is quiet when he slides in beside her.

She doesn't open her eyes, just hears the soft click of the door, the sound of his bag hitting the backseat, the sigh he lets out like he’s been holding it in for hours.

He doesn’t start the engine right away. Just sits with her.

“You hungry?” he asks, like any of this is normal routine. Like this could be a date.

Her tired mind pauses. Like she isn’t very obviously in the midst of a clinical breakdown.

So, she shrugs halfheartedly. Can’t quite remember the last time she ate, especially the last time she ate without her mom’s nurse forcing her to just sit and chew. She feels reduced to a child, unable to care for herself.

His fingers tap against the steering wheel.

“Okay.”

The engine turns over. She sits there with her head against the window, watches the city lights blur past in the dawn. He doesn’t talk, doesn't force conversation onto her. But she can feel his eye occasionally drift over; she can’t think about the beat of her heart when it does.

His place is clean in a lived-in way. Coffee cups in the sink. A stack of foreign medical journals on the kitchen counter. Throw slung over the back of the couch.

She doesn’t say anything, just stands in the doorway. A tad uncertain and eyeing.

He toes his shoes off onto a rack. Shrugs his jacket off and hangs it on a hook next to her.

He motions for her to turn around, helps her out of the stiff shell of her scrub top with gentle hands. Careful. Like she might break.

She shivers against the cool air of his apartment, sweat clinging to her skin and tank top.

His hands purposefully don’t linger. He steps away, through the large sliding barn doors at the back, where she assumes his bedroom is. A moment later, he comes back with a sweatshirt and blankets in hand.

He presents the sweatshirt to her silently. Their fingers brush as she takes it, slipping it on over her head. Worn cotton. Faded logo. It smells like detergent and him.

Already, she feels a little more alive.

“You can take the bed,” he offers, already walking toward the kitchen, giving her space. “I’ll be on the couch.”

It takes a moment. And then, “What?”

She pads quickly after him, floorboards creaking under her foot.

He doesn’t answer right away—just opens the fridge, peers down, and makes a vague sound of confirmation—nothing particularly edible left.

“I can’t cook for shit, so…”

She glances past him, can't help the comment, “And your fridge is sad.”

His eyes narrow and slowly, he straightens up, but there’s the giveaway, a little twitch of his lips. “I invite you in and you go in on my-”

“It’s, like, mostly condiments.”

And beer, but she doesn’t mention that. She’s pretty sure Harrison, McKay's kid, would call it divorced dad core. He pulls two out, silently tips one toward her in offering. Why not, she figures, reaching out and taking the bottle from him. She cracks it open, takes a sip, and leans on the counter—the taste reminds her of college, probably the last time she can remember relaxing.

Then, she sighs, returning to the topic, despite his attempt at a detour, “I’m not kicking you out of your bed.” Voice scratchy with fatigue, she adds lamely, “Don’t be stupid.”

He exhales through his nose, sentiment he doesn't know how to word staying firmly in his throat.

Arms tucked into the sleeves of his sweatshirt, she watches him over the counter.

There’s something buzzing in her chest. Inappropriately tender.

“Not a big deal,” he says finally, then drinks, his eyes on her. Not in a waiting-for-her-to-fall-apart way. Just… on her. He’s watching her like she’s a person and not a patient, not a problem to be solved.

She’s not quite sure what to do with it. At work, at home, she has to keep it together, pretend in equal measure that nothing is wrong, that she has it all together. So now, with the space to just breathe, she falters. She doesn't know how to be anymore.

“You let strange, frazzled women crash your place often?” she says, trying for levity, settling into a stool across the island.

He seems to ignore her self-deprecation entirely. Doesn’t smile, doesn’t flinch. Not even a pity laugh thrown her way. The quiet that’s left sobers her. Again, he sees her.

She shifts, realizing how near he is—how inconsequential the island is between them.

“No,” he swallows, looking down at the counter, then up at her, “just you.”

It lands with weight. She wonders what it means, if he even knows.

She tries to take it casually. But as it rests in the quiet, she’s forced to swallow down her clashing confusion of feelings.

She wants to say something, anything, to fill the void. Make a joke about him agreeing with her—she is frazzled. More so now. And there’s something dangerous crackling in the quiet. Instead, she sits there, eyes tracing the lines of his shoulders, the way his jaw tightens slightly when he notices her watching him.

She’s so fucking tired, and her brain is a mess—fogged by grief, adrenaline, the echo of chest compressions, the tremor still in her hands. She could be imagining it all. Probably is.

Just you.

“You need sleep,” he says, firm. “Real sleep. Not just half-hour naps when your body gives out on you.”

“Look that bad, huh?”

“Little worse for wear,” he starts, a familiar tilt to his mouth, “Still better than most on their best.”

Again, he throws her a fraction off-kilter.

She takes it better this time. A quick study—as he’s told her before. She’s usually better at volleying, but today she’s an exposed nerve. In the ED, the banter feels harmless, a way to pass the time. Here, in the confines of his place, it feels charged, intentional. Dangerous.

Jack sighs, more at himself than anything else, and pushes off the counter. Releases himself from looking at her. His fingers flex at his sides, a twitch like muscle memory, like he’s already imagined what it’d be like to touch her. Pull her close. Lay his palm against the back of her neck and give in to the worst of his urges, the ones that have built up in him since he very first saw her.

But he doesn’t.

He won’t.

Because she’s grief-struck and unraveling, and he knows this would be a sort of theft.

He wouldn't be able to take it back. And she rightfully may not forgive him. He might shatter this bit of comfort he’s been able to extend to her. Or perhaps worse, she’ll want him, this, now, but not when the fog dissipates, when a clearer head prevails.

“I’ll order in,” he says as he turns from her, flicks open a drawer overflowing with takeout menus. Mindlessly, he rifles through them as he takes a breath. He feels her eyes on his back, that prickling awareness at the base of his neck.

She knocks her knuckles on the counter, “Kay. I'm forewarning you, I’m gonna snoop.”

His eyes meet hers over his shoulder, and he nods to the low shelves in the corner, “Records over there.”

He watches her turn, the corners of her lips lifting in response. She unwinds, that last little bit of tension leaving her as she falls back into a familiar rhythm.

“You're such a hipster piece of shit.”

“No, just old,” he states dryly just to get a smile out of her. He’s rewarded with it, accompanied by a short exhale out of her nose.

She wanders over to the corner, squatting down as her fingers run over his collection. Taking her time gently sorting through them, she occasionally pulls one from the shelf, eyes scanning the tracklist. He can’t help the interest that’s settled into him: Which ones are to her taste? Which are bands she’s never heard of?

He’s curious about her, always—the briefest glimpses of her leading to more questions.

“You,” she starts, declaring as she pushes to stand, “are a fleetwood mac stan.”

“Of course I am, I'm a self-respecting child of the seventies.”

Her eyes stay on him for a moment before she hums, approving.

It’s that bit of curiosity that’s going to do him in.

He hasn’t told his therapist about her. Not exactly. Not in a way that counts. The predicament that’s not a predicament. Because he’s kept his head, kept things mostly professional.

His voice rings in his head, saying what he knows the man would, placid to promote some amount of self-reflection: 'Are you sure that’s a good idea, Jack? '

No. He’s not.

But he’s already in it. Not much farther to fall from here.

She watches as Jack pulls out a diner menu, asks her, “You like pancakes?”

“I'm partial to them.”

They remind her of weekends and summer and her mom. Of giggles and the smell of burnt batter. So yes, she supposed she likes pancakes.

Jack pulls out his phone. Presses it between his ear and shoulder like it’s muscle memory. Always multitasking.

“You a chocolate chip or blueberry kind of gal?”

An hour later, they’re sitting side by side, quietly eating. Forks clink against ceramic. Her elbow brushes his every now and then. Neither moves away.

He’s taken his leg off. She’s let her hair loose from its bun. Something about it feels telling.

Too comfortable for what their relationship should be.

Beer and pancakes. Two things that shouldn't mix.

“Thank you for,” she sighs, “you know.”

The air is still around them.

He looks over at her, and his eyes are as soft as she’s ever seen them, kind and unguarded in a way that’s a punch to the gut. They quietly roam her face—pinning her. It sits between them—this vast unnamable thing. She wonders what he’s looking for in her face. Perhaps the same thing she’s looking for in his.

When his gaze lands on her lips—momentary, maybe accidental—it zips down her spine, lands hotly in her stomach.

He doesn’t know how to formulate the devotion on his tongue, say, I’d do anything for you or I’m sorry or Maybe if circumstances were different.

So instead he says, “You’re not a machine. You can’t run on two hours of sleep and caffeine forever.”

She hums in return.

He knows she’ll show up to the next shift the same way—dark circles, thermos in hand, too much tension in her shoulders. Tonight, his words, will probably change very little in the grand scheme of things. Change is difficult at any scale. Especially for people like them. He’s learned that much.

But if she sleeps soundly, lets some of that tension in her shoulders release, even if only for a few hours, then maybe that’s enough.

The rest of their meal is finished over hushed conversation—him digging up the remnants of his past for a good story. A few close calls, some risky maneuvers, the periodic breaking of protocol all teased out to keep her eyes on him. But eventually, time runs out, she stifles a yawn into her fist and her lids grow heavy.

Quietly, he takes her empty plate and slides it into the dishwasher, urges her up with a hand between her shoulder blades. A gentle push to bed. His grip slides down to her waist as she reaches up onto her toes and thanks him with a press of her lips to his cheek.

And then she’s gone, the sound of her feet padding down the hallway. She doesn’t say goodnight.

She thinks, in another version of this night, he might have followed her.

But in this version—the only they have—he just stands in the kitchen, eyes on the hallway long after she’s disappeared. He rinses the cups. Wipes down the counter like it matters. Like it keeps him from thinking too hard.

He turns the record player on. Starts an album. Keeps the volume low.

Jack sinks into the couch like it’s an old friend—his hip cracks, his back protests. This isn’t his first stint sleeping in his living room. On certain nights—bad ones—his bed is too big, too empty, too quiet, too full of memory. He’ll grab a blanket and crash out here, maybe catch an hour or two of actual rest before his next shift.

Now, he stares at the ceiling as if it might offer him clarity, like it’s penance.

It doesn’t. It never does.

He remembers how she looked—backlit by his kitchen light, sipping beer like this was any normal Tuesday, like this morning wasn’t a death sentence for his already fragile grip on propriety. It’s not even the presence of her that wrecks him—it’s the ease of it. Like she belongs here. Like it’s natural. Like the universe didn’t put a giant red do not fucking cross this line between their lives and laugh every time he toed it.

She’s asleep in the other room.

And nothing happened.

Nothing will happen.

But still, there’s that buzz in his fingertips. He wanted something to happen. It burns behind his eyelids.

Somewhere, faint through the speakers still murmuring in the background—

Billy Joel starts to hum again.

She steals like a thief, but she's always a woman to me.

Jack sighs, closing his eyes.

Sun starts to fill the room.

Oh, she takes care of herself; she can wait if she wants. She's ahead of her time.

A/N: Thank you for reading!

#jack abbot x reader #jack abbott x reader #jack abbot #jack abbott #the pitt #the pitt fic #the pitt hbo #jack abbot fic #jack abbot fanfic #my writing

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hot-patootiee · 1 day ago

Text

Part 3

part 2 here. I’m writing these like right after my Calc BC exam and I have a killer headache but fuck it we ball. Aka Steve is not the only one to obtain brain damage because of an ex.

Don’t worry about the headache, I’m having a special gummy and chilling.

…

Eddie wakes up to an empty bed. He finds a note on the nightstand.

Had to go to work, see you later

-Steve

An idea forms in his head on what to do to help apologize. Steve’s constant complaints about the big empty house he lived in. How he wished Robin or Eddie could stay forever.

Eddie was still a little unsure. It would be quite an assumption to make. He would probably have to talk to Robin during her break and see if she would also be on board and if she thought it was a good idea.

But, he knew Steve would be ecstatic to have people he cared about close by. Eddie couldn’t help but remember the nights he was woken up from Steve calling to make sure he was alive.

It would suck moving away from Wayne, but Eddie figured that taking the relationship too serious would be better than not taking it serious enough.

Eddie decided that despite just waking up at this unholy hour (11 am), he would go see Robin and brief her on his plan.

When he got to family video, luckily, Steve was working in the back and Robin sat at the desk.

She perked up as soon as she saw him.

“Eddie I messed up.” Robin stumbles out with a groan.

Eddie waits for her to continue.

“I didn’t know that Steve thought you two were dating. He’s been talking about you for weeks and I never noticed.” Robin whines again, head dropping shamefully.

“I have just the thing.” And just like that Robin is up again.

“Really?” Robin exclaimed, jumping on her toes as she leaned against the counter. Eddie personally didn’t think Robin could show this much emotion, but with Steve’s stories, it doesn’t really surprise him.

“Do you think Steve would be on board with us living with him?”

“He’s been asking me to forever, it’s just my parents give me crap for moving in with a single man.” Robin replied plainly, hints of resentment lacing her voice.

“Well you’re 18 and therefore you make your own decisions. Do you want to move in with him?” Eddie probes and Robin smiles at him in return.

She nods hard, making her hair bounce with the stiff jerks of her head.

“I want to do something else too.” Eddie mutters.

Robin seems a little suspicious as she says “Good idea, but why?”

“This is kinda both a burden and a blessing. Steve’s been wanting it for a while, but it ultimately gives him more work to do.” Eddie points ponders slowly. He rolls over potential actions in his mind, seeing how smoothly they work before coming to a conclusion.

“Maybe just a nice night. Steve gets headaches and weed might help him relax. Or He’s been talking about hosting a game night forever, we could take care of everything and just let him relax.” Eddie shrugs, thinking through different dinner options and possibilities of what Steve would like.

“Ask Steve if there’s anything you can do to make his life easier. He’s selfless by nature so there’s probably something you’ve been doing that he doesn’t like.” Robin replies coolly. She then winces. “I should probably stop putting my feet on his dash.” She murmurs in a guilty tone.

“That’s a good idea.” Eddie nods.

“I gotta pack my shit, I’ll help you pack yours, you help with mine?” Robin inquires. The way she bats her eyes might’ve seemed flirty to anyone else, but it was evidently just effective manipulation. Because Eddie knew unless he was throwing all his shit out the window, she would immediately get bored and ditch him for a German dictionary.

News flash: she did.

…

Steve surprisingly did not get impatient as time trudged on. Eddie searched his face for any mark of displeasure, but failed to find any.

But, apparently Eddie just wasn’t the one seeing it. Something about Steve had changed a little bit, instead of backing down when challenged, he just dug his heels in. It reminded Eddie of the Steve in the upside down.

Allegedly Steve had been driving all the kids down to the new diner. Mike had been skeptical about Steve’s directions and had started loudly declaring that he had gone the wrong way.

“It’s not like you’re the intellectual authority on anything Steve.”

The breaks were hit so fast that all the boys jerked forward with the sudden stop.

According to Dustin Steve then yelled “WELL I AM THE AUTHORITY OF THIS GODDAMN CAR, GET OUT IF YOU HAVE AN ISSUE!”

Steve waited a few beats and when nobody moved, put down the parking break and the engine whined slightly as Steve shifted into first a little too violently and pulled out.

Mike was scared so badly that he just sat there petrified for the rest of the ride.

So, Steve was evidently frustrated.

Eddie went to visit Steve immediately after hearing what happened. When he found him, Steve was grumbling on his bed. Obviously still peeved about earlier, every few seconds he would reflexively rub his temples.

Steve nearly jumped out of his skin when he noticed Eddie.

Eddie didn’t say anything, he just pulled out a joint and handed it to Steve, who took it apprehensively.

“It helps with headaches.” Eddie weakly justifies, but it seems to be enough to convince Steve, who then leans forward and sticks his hand in Eddie’s pocket and extracts a lighter.

He lights the joint with little fanfare, like he was just having his third daily cigarette. He breathes it in easily before expelling the smoke through his pursed lips.

“This is a little different.” Steve comments, slightly more relaxed at the promise of a high that the joint brought.

“I swapped seeds with Argyle, I had sativa, he had indica. What you’re smoking, just indica, apparently argyle is trying to get the hybrid strain.” Eddie says in a blasé tone as he climbs into Steve’s bed.

“What’s the difference?” Steve asked before taking another hit, longer this time.

“It’s supposed to relax you more. Less high, but more relaxing.” Eddie loosely explains.

Steve hogs the joint a little, but Eddie honestly thinks he deserves it. When Steve finally plops his head on Eddie’s lap, he gets an idea.

Eddie sinks his fingers into Steve’s hair and slowly begins to massage his head. Steve immediately melted into it, muscles straining occasionally when Eddie dragged his fingers especially hard at a tender spot.

Conversation became less frequent as Eddie pushed his fingers into Steve’s jaw and massaged the tense muscles there. Steve made the occasional noise, a grunt or a strange trill that he seemed to find incredibly funny.

The tension and brewing migraine seemed to have completely melted off Steve, leaving him tired and happy. He giggled through half lidded eyes and smiled impossibly wide when Eddie left and came back with reheated leftover pizza from Steve’s fridge.

Eddie struggled not to focus on Steve’s face, his gaze traced Steve’s wide smile and the sparkle in his dark eyes.

“Kis’me” the words came from Steve with a slight lisp. An unwavering smile still plastered on his face.

Eddie obliged because honestly how could he not?

The movement caused Eddie’s face to feel like firecrackers were going off on his skin. The tingling sensation danced across his skin, warmth blooming from where Steve and him met.

Eddie couldn’t focus, incredibly overwhelmed by the assault on his senses of different textures and pressures. The plushness of Steve’s lips contrasted with the lean muscle Eddie’s fingers dug into.

Eddie pulled away when his lungs went tingly from lack of air. He giggled as Steve and him stayed close, puffing out breaths of air right next to eachother.

“Wish you could stay all the t’me.” Steve yawned out, stretching his back slightly like a cat and dipping further into Eddie’s personal space.

“I can.” Eddie replies firmly.

“Really?” Steve is smiling again, so wide that Eddie was worried it might hurt from pulling his lips.

“How’d you like that? I move in with you, maybe Robin too.”

Steve trills, making soft stringy vocalizations at Eddie’s proposal. Steve nearly seems to glow at the proposition.

“Youu move ‘n tomorrow?” Steve’s muscles jump erratically in excitement, his knees tapping and jerking like he can’t control it.

“If you still want me to in the morning.” Eddie whispered, stroking Steve’s hair.

…

When morning came, Eddie woke gently, the after effects of the high still cradling him and making him relaxed.

Unfortunately it didn’t last long as he heard a shrill whistle and the telltale thump of something falling and Robin’s witchlike giggles. Eddie reluctantly pulled himself out of bed and found the hallway scattered with boxes. He turned the corner and Will and El were both there, but not to make things easier. El had a little whistle she was happily blowing whenever someone passed her. Will seemed conflicted on whether he found it funny or entirely too disrespectful for him to take part in.

Unfortunately, the first time El did this, it scared Robin so badly that she nearly threw a box of her own clothes down the stairs.

And there Robin was, clothes halfway out of the box and engulfing her upper body. Steve was laughing his socks off which promptly led to a fistful of clothes being thrown in his face.

Eddie quickly decided he wanted nothing to do with this and quietly made his way back to Steve’s room.

Best to act like he didn’t know them for a few more hours.

…

When Eddie finally arose at a normal time (11:30am) he found Robin setting up the room across from Steve with her stuff.

“Heya birdie.”

Robin glared at him.

“I talked it over with Steve, he’s apparently thrilled enough to forgive me only after I cook gnocchi.”

Eddie makes a half confused noise.

“Potato pasta.” Robin paused. “And you’re helping.” Robin asserts, making Eddie grumble.

Eddie leaves without seeing Steve, opting to also grab his shit to move to Steve’s house. Luckily, he and Robin had already boxed up a majority of the room.

It was probably a good thing he’s moving, Wayne’s back couldn’t take the couch springs much longer.

He packed his boxes into the van, the summer sun making his sweat so much he was forced to change into one of his sleeveless tops.

When he arrived back at Steve’s the kitchen had been fully commandeered by Robin who was peeling steaming potatoes with her fingers. Eddie didn’t get more of a glance as he began moving his stuff upstairs, abandoning it in the hallway because he was a little unsure what room Steve would want him in.

During one of his trips back down to his van, Steve finally appeared. He was sitting next to the counter and stealing potato bits from Robin as she worked. He looked at home in his own house for the first time in a while. His eyes traced Robin carefully as she worked as if she’d disappear. When Steve noticed Eddie, his eyes immediately flicked over to him.

“Which room should I move my stuff in?” Eddie asked with false casualness.

“Mine.”

Steve made no move to help, which was honestly something Eddie fully expected. Instead Steve bounced his feet on the floor with a smile and stuffed another crumbling bit of potato into his mouth. Eddie had apparently failed to realize the two little gremlins sitting in Steve’s shadow. Will and Eleven similarly shoving potato bits into their mouths.

Eddie couldn’t help but smile at Steve’s happiness.

…

Later that night, with boxes still artfully scattered around the second floor, a train of children entered the house. Each carried either a food item to contribute or a housewarming present.

Max grumbled as she handed Steve the Apple pie that had evidently been made by the Sinclairs, judging by the streak of flower on the back of Lucas’s shirt.

Eddie was setting up ‘a game of things’ which he knew from experience would always wonderfully devolve into Regan jokes and idiocy.

Steve got to sit and relax as Eddie and Robin hosted the party, letting him play with the kids and receive their guilty apologies. Since they were still kids, Steve forgave them. Heck, he was way more self absorbed and dickish at their age.

When Eddie finished, he dropped behind Steve, putting his hands on Steve’s shoulders and beginning to rub into the tense muscles. Steve twitched occasionally when Eddie hit a knot, but otherwise seemed pretty content.

“Your metal music gives me headaches.” Steve says suddenly. “You play it too loud and it hurts.”

“Then I’ll turn down the music. You’ll never get a headache from it again.” Eddie affirms.

Steve just hums.

“I forgive you.”

Steve paused for a moment.

“But that doesn’t mean you can stop massaging me.” Steve snapped, head lolling back until it met Eddie’s arms.

AN: have a head massage while high, it’s the best thing ever.

Also, I just don’t understand grand gestures of love, they never made me feel good. Like thanks for the stuffed animal and candies, kinda doesn’t make up for you being a dick about my dead dog. How about you instead like make something that takes time and actually shows you give a shit or go out of your way to give me a good night. I don’t understand the fall in love fast thing a lot of people do. I cultivate my love by the light of the hearth, not the light of a firecracker.

Ps. If you want me to do a follow up where Nancy and him talk. Just let me know. It’s just I didn’t really see her as central part of this story. Thought it would be better to highlight the kids, Robin, and Eddie.

Tags @stripey82 @genderfluidbitch @mensch-anthropos-human @c4tharsys @scoops-aboy86 @breealtair @raleighrox @wannabe-edgy-grandpa @flustratedcas @shoujo-wizard @polysdoitforscience @exasperatedsighohmy @piemaker93 @tinyplanet95 @skepticalqueen @sharingisntkaren @scarletyeager @crypticcrytid @midnightskeeper @wheneverfeasible @ancientwormcivilization @fucjinf-whatever-dude @estrellami-1 @queenofshenanigans @grilledcheesehasfeelings <- get out of my walls

@ellietheasexylibrarian @live-laugh-love-dietrich @turinspeachjam @me-ig7 @revevivant @motherofpirates @xxfiction-is-my-realityxx @samsoble @legalmenace87 @thehanwen @bigspongey @thedragonsaunt @newagemyth @pentapoctopus @my-hyperfixations-hell-blog @bumbledoubletea @blackbirdflyflyfly @what-if-a-dragon @reddiandbyler4life @i-think-i-thunk @gregre369 @fiddledeedee85 @ladykailitha

You know the drill, rest of the tags in the comments.

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codnasties · 2 days ago

Note

Could you maybe do more graves p links 🥺

farmer graves 🪦 (🌽 link)

because of the location of his farm, relatively close to a town that college students go to party and get pissed drunk during the holidays, graves has had unwanted visitors. and they tend to be quite light-fingered.

at first, it was things he didn't notice, maybe some fruit, a bale of hay, or the ashtray the farmhands had outside the bunkhouse. but you decided to go big and steal from the secret stash of booze he had in one of the barn. but you have such bad luck, because he saw you. like a deer in headlights as your eyes meet his angry ones before you make a run for it, the man close behind you.

for some reason, you thought stealing from graves' farm would have no consequences. good luck with that one because the man himself will make sure that you never think of doing it again. once he catches you, he peels your skimpy clothes off your body with his expert hands and bending you over.

right there, on the pasture. dry grass rough against your knees as he spits on his palm, running it over his cock as he bring it to your cunt. and much to his surprise, you are dripping wet. 'you wanted this, didn't you, whore?' your sweet cunt swallowing him whole, his balls slaping against your clit with each thust. the stimulation enough to bring you over the edge with a loud prolonged moan. walls squeezing him hard, making him follow suit.

he though he was going to catch a thief and ended up catching a wife

#cod #cod smut #cod x reader #cod headcanons #cod x y/n #cod x you #p!link #graves x y/n #philip graves x reader #graves x you #graves x reader #phillip graves #cod graves #graves cod #graves smut

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mullermilkshake · 3 days ago

Text

It’s pointless if you don’t know the reason

Part 8 <- Part 9 -> Part 10

The Chairman wades in and Jinwoo is in the dog house again.

Yandere!Jinwoo Sung x Fem Hunter!reader Tags - No major tags, pregnant reader

<<< For more Dark/Yandere content, click this link to go back to the Masterlist! >>>

<<< Or back to this fic's Master list. >>>

“It’s fantastic to see you both. I hope you don’t mind me dropping by, I simply couldn’t wait to congratulate you.”

Jinwoo watched the Chairman closely, his whole stance was wrong, the gentle look he gave you was wrong. The way he confidently sat on the living room sofa with his fingers laced together was smug and utterly wrong. Jinwoo just couldn’t place it.

“Thank you, Chairman.” Did you know that something was off too? You held your stomach as though on instinct, looking down at the floor like you had something to feel shameful for.

“Twins…” The chairman smiled without Jin-chul accompanying him this time, he was close by no doubt. “It’s such wonderful news, I was hopeful we’d have an anomaly such as this when the programme got on its way years down the line. But seeing it on the second try truly is a marvel.”

“It’s quite a shock, Chairman. Our apologies that we couldn’t tell you ourselves.” You edged closer to Jinwoo, subtly enough though the Chairman caught it instantly.

“That’s quite alright. But this does beg the question now that you’ll let the association hold a celebration for you. Twin babies ought to be celebrated.”

You made it adamantly clear when your pregnancy came to fruition that you did not want the fuss that came with it. However, the choice might not be in your hands.

“Chairman-“

“With all due respect, Chairman.” Jinwoo stepped in before you could, saying your name with authority. “She made it clear that she didn’t want a celebration, I trust you can understand the pressure she’s under to remain calm and well rested as per the association’s Doctor’s recommendations.”

Despite the squabbling and bickering from the hospital to the front door, Jinwoo’s priorities had shifted somewhat. It wasn’t just you now that this compulsion had over grown like ivy, it was towards the babies too. By the hour-no, the minute, his mind was overtaking itself at levels he wasn’t sure how to comprehend.

“I understand that. But as this is your duty, it’s made you National heroes.”

So the Chairman would go down a pushy route? It went against everything Jinwoo knew him by. It put his back up, sharp and pointing right at the Chairman’s face. This was what his new state of mind did to people that weren’t you.

In other words, he’d kill the Chairman right now if he threatened your life and he’d feel no remorse for it either.

A dangerous sentiment. But Jinwoo did not care.

“Chairman, I’m very tired. I would like to respectfully decline.”

“Of course you are, you’re growing two very special children inside you. That takes plenty of energy. I simply won’t have you worrying over anything, so I’ll handle this myself and inform you of all the details at a later date.”

Huh? What did he just say?

The Chairman rose to his feet and traipsed on over to the front door, where conveniently, Jin-chul was waiting right outside.

“I’ll see you two very soon, though be sure to pay Hunter Cha a visit soon, she could use the company.” And then he left, leaving Jin-chul in the hallway.

He slipped off his sunglasses and tucked them inside his breast pocket. “A word of advice? Play the long game and entertain him. Korea is the first of the many countries to participate in this programme, and the first produce twins as a part of it. By the way those two are producing mana the way they are, it’s more than just an anomaly, it’s a mystery… and the Chairman is hopeful that this union will give the association an edge.”

“These babies aren't weapons.” Jinwoo had to hold you back, hoping to keep the crazed look in your sudden maternal eyes.

Jin-chul didn’t seem the least bit phased. “Not weapons. Just a statement. If those children are born at B-Rank or above without having an awakening, high officials all over the world will want to see. Just bear that in mind. Heed my advice, or don’t, it’s your choice, but one choice will make life easier and the other won’t.”

Jinwoo glared at him as he turned and walked away with his hands smoothly in his pockets. Just what was the Chairman up to? Did Jong-in and Hae-in have this tak with the Chairman too? He had to find out, he needed to understand the larger picture, but his gut told him to do it the old fashioned way and not entertain the idea of posting a shadow onto the Chairman under any circumstances. He just wasn’t sure why.

“Why do they want to put babies on display- just to say ‘hey, we have more than you’, like, really? Jinwoo, I don’t like this. And the Chairman wants to parade us in front of everyone just because I’m pregnant now."

“I feel the same way.” He sat you down on the sofa, kneeling in front of you with his hand reassuringly on your knee. “I want you to rest though, can you do that? I need to see Jong-in, ask him a few questions…”

Would you snap at him again if he asked? Only one way to find out.

“Can I leave Igris here with you? I’d feel better if I did.”

“Jinwoo, I don’t…” you hesitated, the agonising drawn out pause by the way you looked at him took forever. “Okay… just- can I meet him first?”

“Y-yeah, uh, you can meet him.” Jinwoo swallowed hard and paused, thinking of all the ways this could go wrong, yet did it anyway. “Igris, come out and introduce yourself.”

He did, delicately showing himself like undisturbed smoke, billowing into his form to kneel. His head lowered deeper than anything he’d ever done before.

That’s odd. He never thought to address it, though Igris had never kneeled to anyone other than Jinwoo.

“Hello, Igris.” There was only normality in your voice, not fear or awkwardness. Just normality, watching the humanoid shadow kneel.

Like a knight kneeling before his queen.

Jinwoo watched you closely, knowing he’d fallen for the right person, the perfect woman to start a family with, and his shadows welcomed it.

“He can’t speak, but I can tell he enjoys your presence.”

“Oh, right. Well, it’s nice to meet you, Igris.”

Igris dropped his head lower in acknowledgement, holding firm with a form of respect Jinwoo had never received.

You hesitated, placing a hand on Jinwoo's. “Actually… can I come with you? It would be nice to see how Hae-in is doing. She’s pretty much on her own over there.”

“Are you sure?”

There was a high possibility that Jong-in was over there right now and Jinwoo didn’t think he could sit through an hour of that man hovering about.

“Mhm, if I’m terrified about all this, I can only imagine how she must be feeling.”

While your sentiment was admirable, Jinwoo’s inability to make you more at ease snapped away at him. He was trying to be as accommodating as he could within reason, and you were still terrified, as you put it. Would seeing Jong-in make matters worse? Jinwoo never stopped and thought long and hard whether Jong-in was a stepping stone closer to you.

Long story short, would Jong-in’s presence make you feel things towards him that you never admitted to Jinwoo’s face?

Jinwoo wanted to limit your interactions with him going forward, to preserve his relationship with you. It wasn’t that Jinwoo felt threatened, but Jong-in’s presence didn’t help settle things. He couldn’t exactly forbid you though, could he? Your reaction to Igris was a plain and unmistakable reminder of how strong willed you were.

Against his better judgement, Jinwoo agreed. “Alright. We’ll head over now.”

“Thanks, Jinwoo.”

Hae-In opened the door cautiously when you knocked, she peered through the gap and opened it once she realised who it was.

“Oh… hello, Jinwoo.” She addressed you first, but bashfully watched Jinwoo exclusively. “What are you both doing here?”

“We wanted to see how you were doing, and need to ask you a few things, if you’re up for it?” You said, stepping through the doorway into the apartment.

“Me? You might be better asking Jong-in. I’m not sure how useful I’ll be, my brains all over the place lately.”

“It’s alright, it’s just a few quick things that we aren’t sure of.”

“Oh, is it baby stuff? Because I’m still finding out myself, the morning sickness is really bad. You went for your scan today, didn’t you? Jong-in told me about it.”

How the hell did Jong-in find out?

“Well,” you looked away and sat yourself down in the sofa. “It went alright, just a little shock but-“

“We’re having twins.”

You gasped though tried to keep it in, you never stifled your emotions well and this time was no different. Jinwoo knew how Hae-in felt about him and he didn’t care what the outcome was.

“Right… well I think a congratulations are in order, Jong-in will be pleased with the news.”

“Hae-in- I’m so sorry- Jinwoo-“ You glared at him. But the damage had already been done.

Jinwoo just had to rip off the bandaid to ensure she moved past the feelings she held for Jinwoo, and crushed them under his foot. Jinwoo would never return those feelings and was better she got it out of her system.

“So…” Hae-in smiled as best she could. “Twins, huh? Maybe that’s why I sensed that odd aura when you came through the door.” She chuckled to hide her pain.

Jinwoo could tell that it upset you, the fact an acquaintance and fellow hunter could sense the babies and you couldn’t.

You swallowed back it well enough.“The Chairman’s taking a liking to us after finding out and we wanted to know what he’s been like with you and the baby. Has Hunter Woo come by at all?”

“He’s been around, but not too involved. The Chairman was happy at first, but since he found out you were pregnant, we haven’t really seen him.”

So he’s flitting between pregnancies? Or looking for one in particular? The babies mana might be something to keep an eye on, no doubt he would have picked up on it if Hae-in has.

Jinwoo contemplated confronting the Chairman directly, but as more and more hunters would inevitably fall pregnant, he assumed for now that the Chairman would follow suit and move on. For now at least.

“Was he pushy in having the announcement dinner? He wants to make a big deal out of this and to be honest, I just want to get the next nine months out of the way and going public is the last thing I want.”

It was wrong that Jinwoo wanted to go public, more so that he could rub it in the faces of everyone who either talked down at his previous E-Rank, those who wanted you, or wanted Jinwoo away from you. It wasn’t clear yet who did, if there was anyone, but still, Jinwoo wanted it that way.

“I wouldn’t say he was pushy, but before I fell pregnant, he did sit down and talk to us about being a little more…” she searched for the word. “Intimate? But I think it was a publicity thing or something like that.”

“Right…” you said, standing up and straightening yourself out. “Thank you, Hae-in. Sorry you found out about the babies like that.”

Jinwoo knew your eyes were burning into him. “If you need us, you know where we are… I need to have a lie down, it’s been a long day.”

You left before Hae-in could even utter a word, stomping off towards the front door, you zipped around Igris who was waiting by the door without another word. Jinwoo called out to you once the door closed behind him. He knew you went straight to the bedroom but called out anyway.

“Don’t start! I’m not happy with you, at all!”

Igris turned and looked away from Jinwoo, heading off towards the living area in some form of protest.

He knew what he’d done wrong, he just never thought he’d get this type of response. He could put it down to pregnancy hormones, though you’d only deal more damage to him.

And it would kill him if you gave him the silent treatment.

I guess I'll go grovel.

Part 8 <- Part 9 -> Part 10

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DISCLAIMER - Crossposted from my AO3 - I do not own any of the characters or anything from the anime or manhwa. This is a work of fan fiction and is absolutely not representative of the views or intentions of the original creator(s).

Also please don’t post any of my work without permission thank you!

#solo leveling jinwoo #solo leveling x reader #only i level up #jinwoo x reader #jinwoo sung x reader #sung jinwoo #x reader #fem reader #reader insert #jinwoo #jinwoo x you #sung jinwoo x you #solo leveling #minors dni #minors do not interact #pregnant reader

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piroulinewafers · 2 days ago

Note

could u write something about hybrid puppy caleb being nasty as hell..(leaving this open, feel free to do whatever uw im open to anything). i love ur writing sm i cant stop sending asks BYEEE i was wondering if u take anons? if so can i be 💐? have a lovely day xx

𝐚/𝐧: i love puppy hybrid caleb... i dont think this is very "nasty" in the sense of the word, but i've been brainrotting about puppy waiter caleb for quite some time and maid day was a few days past so... i love writing for hybrids hehe. back in the day, there used to be this hq hybrid acc i was super into on here and i would frequent their page often heh. i kind of got distracted at the end but whatever its fine sighhh. thank you 💐 anon for giving me an excuse to write this 😋.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭: puppy hybrid! caleb x fem! reader 𝐜𝐰: smut, overstimulation. 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐬: open.

it had started with a stupid comment.

she hadn’t meant it seriously— just an offhanded joke tossed to one of her friends while she and caleb were out buying groceries one evening, something about how those themed cafes with butlers or maid were always kind of… cute. silly. harmless

she hadn’t thought anything of it, merely a mention that they’d likely have a sale for the upcoming “maid day”. but caleb had heard.

he hadn’t said anything that night. just turned his head slightly, one ear twitching in the subtle way it did when he was paying attention to something he pretend not to be.

and now, somehow, here she was— standing in the their living room after returning home from work, door barely half-shut, blinking in stunned silence.

frankly, it was suspicious. caleb was rarely quiet, especially not in the mornings. usually he greeted the day like it owed him something— loud yawns, half-buttoned shirts, big grins.

but today? silence. at least, until she finally spotted him.

there stood caleb, ears perking up at the sound of her entering the open-plan kitchen-living room space.

the white button-up shirt he wore stretched across his chest, its collar messily done up, and the sleeves bunched up and slightly wrinkled like he had had been tugging at them nervously earlier. the pink pants were too fitted to be deemed anything close to comfortable in her eyes, the apron tied at his hips doing absolutely nothing to tame the broad frame it cinched in. it was pink and white plaid, with little ruffles along the hem and a small satin bow at the base of his spine, right above the soft wage of his tail.

and, as if that wasn’t enough— frosting. a small, very deliberate smear of white on his cheek.

he simply beamed.

“what are you wearing, caleb?” she finally asked, brows drawing into a confused furrow.

caleb tilted his head, hands innocently behind his back as his tail wagged a mile a minute. “it’s maid day,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “wasn’t that somethin’ you mentioned once? somethin’ cute?”

“you… remember that? were you eavesdropping?”

he stepped closer, ignoring her accusation entirely. “i made breakfast,” he said, proudly. “figured i’d serve it up like a proper house pup.”

she sat slowly, still stunned as caleb presented her a plate with surprising care: pancakes, stacked with melted butter and syrup dripping along the edges with a mound of frosting, beside a slightly too runny sunny side up egg.

he stood behind her once she started eating, arms crossed, watching eagerly.

“well?” he asked, tail twitching almost nervously, ears perking up against as he waited for her response.

“it’s good,” she said, voice muffled by a mouthful of pancake. “why’s the egg so— “

“don’t worry about it,” he interrupted, before she could ruin the moment. “it was just that stupid pan, but i tried real hard, so isn’t that all that matters?”

she could tell by the flicking of his tail that he was nervous, eagerly awaiting her response.

there was another beat of silence as she took another bite— and that’s when caleb leaned in.

“by the way…” he said, practically purring, brushing a knuckle to his cheek. “i think i got a lil’ somethin’ right here. right there. frostin’. could you maybe…”

he trailed of, nudging his face toward her, ears twitching.

she sighed. “you’re ridiculous.”

but she leaned up, gently brushing her thumb over the smear. that was all the permission he needed.

in an instant, caleb let out a pleased, puppy-like hum and nuzzled into her hand, rubbing his cheek against her palm before quickly shifting to lick it— one long, deliberate lap.

“caleb!” she gasped, trying to pull away, but he caught her easily, tail wagging wildly.

“you said i was ridiculous,” he said, half laughing, half whining. “but you haven’t told me to stop.” he held her hand pressed to his cheek with two firm ones.

“your hands are so gentle,” he whispered. his eyes, flushed deep violet, looked up at her with a dangerous kind of devotion, all puppy-dog sincerity wrapped in pure, unadulterated, debilitating love.

his tongue brushed along her cheek before she could speak. “you like this, don’tcha? you like it when i act dumb for you.”

“stop it— “

“but you were smilin’,” he said with a wicked grin. “saw it. you’re all flustered.”

she tried to push him off, but caleb was bigger. stronger. and annoyingly needy.

he whined again, low and soft in his chest, like she was about to leave him out in the cold. “c’mon, baby. just pet me a little. tell me i’m good. i dressed up and everythin’…”

his tail brushed across her legs as he leaned in closer, voice dropping. “i’ll do anything’….”

her heart kicked hard against her ribs.

the apron brushed against her knees as he grew close, his hands sliding around her waist, warm palms pulling her closer. “been thinkin’ about this all mornin’,” he admitted, half under his breath, “’bout you touchin’ me. praisin’ me. let me serve you properly. like a good waiter would.”

the air shifted between them. heated.

he leaned in again, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “say i’m good. say it once and i’ll be the best pup you ever had.”

her hands found his hair, sliding between the soft space between his twitching ears.

and when she finally spoke, low and soft, it broke something in him.

“you’re such a good boy, caleb.”

his breath caught. and then he growled— not in anger, but in something needier, more primal.

she barely had time to register the shift before he leaned forward and kissed her— messy, eager, with the same urgency he gave to every part of his life. his ears twitched, on flopping forward as if to listen in on her heartbeat, his tail curling slightly behind him in its furious wagging.

he didn’t stop at one kiss. caleb chased her mouth like he was starving, like she was the only thing in the would that could sate him. his hands gripped her waist, pulling her flush against him as he licked her bottom lip with a small, teasing flick— less polished, more instinctual.

“i wore this dumb frilly thing just for you,” he mumbled against her lips, breath warm and quick. “didn’t think i’d like it, but… you lookin’ at me like that— “ he groaned softly, his forehead pressed to hers now. “say you like it. please. just say it.”

wide-eyed and breathless, she nodded slowly. “you… you look cute,” she whispered, barely audible.

his whole body responded— ears perked, tail wagging in a blur. he lit up like a fuse, practically vibrating with joy, before dragging her down into another kiss, hands roaming but still restrained— just barely.

“tell me i’m good again,” he muttered, mouth brushing against the curve of her jaw now. “tell me i’m good, please. woke up early to make you breakfast. got frosting’ on my cheek and didn’t lick it just so you’d touch me. all for you.”

his lips ghosted along her neck, needy and reverent. his breath hitching as she scratching behind his ears, a delight sound spilling past his lips.

“i’ll do anything— ‘m serious. i’ll behave, i’ll kneel, i’ll bark, i don’t care— just say it again.”

the apron bunched around his waist as he shifted against her, still clinging, still pressing kisses anywhere he could reach. his tail thumbed again, half-wrapped around her ankle now and his ears twitching at every sound she made, every soft breath or sigh.

“i love you, caleb…”

eagerly in response, he licked her cheek without warning again— just a soft, eager swipe like it was the most natural thing in the world. “you taste sweet too.”

“caleb,” she said, a mixture between a laugh and an exasperated sigh.

“what?” he grinned, all mischief and love as he pulled back a bit to get a better look at her face. “you let me kiss you. now i gotta touch, gotta hold— gotta do somethin’ or i’m going to explode.”

gently, she cupped his cheeks, thumbing over the faint freckles on his face. she watched him tilt his head in her grasp, staring up at her with that smitten gaze of his. with a hum, she peppered sweet, feather-light kisses to his skin, finally giving into his pleas.

she kissed him again, and again and he melted into every one— hot, soft, trembling with affection as he murmured, “love you, love you so much. let me show you. let me— “

his violet eyes gleamed with a mix of playfulness and barely restrained desire as he straddled her lap, his larger frame enveloping hers.

the soft fabric of his pink pants stretched taught over his muscular thighs, the frill apron at his waist fluttered softly as he shifted his hips, grinding down against her pajama-clad bottom.

caleb’s breathing grew heavy as he nuzzled at her collarbone, nipping at the sensitive skin as he panted. he was painfully hard, his erection straining against the confines of his pants. the outline of his cock, complete with the distinct knot at the base, was clearly visible. he squirmed, leaning more of his weight against her, unable to contain the overwhelming urge to claim her, to make her his.

his fingers crept up under her shirt, pushing the fabric higher up her torso as he explored the soft skin beneath. he wanted to touch her, to feel every inch of her body against his own.

“please,” he whined, his voice taking on a more canine-like timbre. “i’m so hard, i need to— fuck— “

his actions forced a sharp gasp to leave her, cold hands pressed against the bare skin of her stomach as she looked up at him, lips parted.

she bit her lip, feeling the heat of caleb’s body pressed so urgently against her own. as much as she loved seeing him all dressed up just for her, she couldn’t help but feel a bit overwhelmed by his intensity, even though she was used to it to some extent.

it was still so early, and her stomach grumbled with hunger, the half eaten eggs and pancakes calling her name while caleb rutted against her. “caleb, wait…” she started to protest, fingers curling into the collar of his shirt, trying to smooth the fabric and perhaps calm the manic energy radiating off of him.

but caleb seemed not to hear her, too lost in his own desperate need as he captured her wrists, pinning her hands above her head as he loomed over her, eyes wild and hungry. “please,” he growled, his voice a deep, resonant rumble that sent shivers down her spine this time. “i can’t wait anymore. i need you so bad…”

before she could voice any further objections, caleb had hoisted her up and then gently but firmly pushed her down onto the wooden floor. she let out a soft grunt as her back his the ground, the air leaving her lungs in a rush as she rubbed her back.

“caleb, the floor is uncomfortable— “

any attempt at a complain fell on deaf ears, as caleb was already settling his weight on top of her, his hips neatly between her spread thighs. he rocked against her, his painfully hard cock straining against the confines of his pink pants as it chafed against her pajama bottoms. the knot at the base of his shaft pulsed and throbbed.

she squirmed beneath him, cheeks flushed pink as she fettle heat of his desperation, the way his body trembled with the effort of holding back. “it’s too early, caleb, i didn’t even finish breakfast…”

his ears twitched and flattened back against his head as he leaned down to shut her up, capturing her lips in a searing kiss, his tongue delving into her mouth, claiming her. his tail wagged frantically behind him, the long, fluffy appendage brushing against her thighs as he ground his aching cock against her core. he groaned into her mouth, the sound a mix of pleasure and frustration.

“i know, i know,” he panted, breath hot against her neck as he nipped and sucked at the sensitive skin. “i’ll make it up to you, baby. i promise. i’ll spoil you rotten, just please— “he punctuated his words with a particularly sharp nip to her earlobe, sending sparks of pained pleasure through her.

caleb’s hands roamed her body greedily, pushing up under her pajama top again to expose the soft skin of her stomach and chest. he splayed his fingers wide, gripping her waist and rocking more insistently against her as he gazed down at her with burning eyes.

his hands slid down to her pajama pants, fingers curling into the waistband as he tugged impatiently at the fabric. she knew she should protest more, should insist that he slow down, but the hungry, desperate look in his eyes stole her breath away. she gasped softly as he yanked her pants down, baring her lower half to his heated gaze.

the knot at the base of his cock throbbed almost painfully, straining against the fabric of his boxers and the tight confines of his pants. it rubbed deliciously against her clothed slit, the friction sending sparks of reluctant pleasure zinging up her spine.

his desperation reached a fever pitch, fingers clumsy in their urgency as he forced her panties to the side, , exposing the glistening folds to the cool air. the scent of her arousal filled his nose, making his head swim with lust.

still clothed in his straining pink pants, caleb tried to shove the right fabric down his thighs, panting harshly as he struggled to free his aching cock. the button and zipper fought against his desperate, trembling fingers until, with a final frustrated snarl, he ripped the fabric, tearing a gaping hole in the crotch of his pants. the ruined garment hung in a tattered state as he threw it to the side wtith his boxers, his throbbing erection springing free, bulbous knot at the base pulsing angrily.

she gasped at the sight, eyes widening. “caleb!” she scolded lightly, her cheeks flushing pink. “look at what you’ve done to your nice pants!” despite her words, there was a hint of amusement in her voice as she propped herself up on her , sitting up a bit.

caleb was too far gone, too consumed by his own need to care about ruined clothing. he shook his head, ears flopping as he gazed down at her with glazed, lust-filled eyes. drool dripped from the corner of his mouth, splattering onto her exposed clit, making it glisten obscenely and forcing a shaky sigh past her lips.

“don’t look at me like that…” he grumbled, dejection clearly clinging to his words.

he was left only in the frilly apron, still tied snugly around his waist, his fat cock tenting against the fabric and leaving an obscene damp spot in it's wake.

before she could offer any sort of response, caleb was rutting against her again, the swollen head of his cock kissing her entrance, smearing her arousal around her delicate folds. she gasped, back arching off the floor as he grunted and panted above her, hips moving in a frenzied rhythm.

he tried once, twice, each time clumsily trying to sink into her, but his cock kept notching against her hole and slipping out, rubbing against her folds on her thigh.

then, with a single, powerful thrust, he drove forward, burying his thick, pulsing shaft into her tight, wet heat. she cried out, nails raking down his back as he split her own on his fat cock, knot catching on her entrance and tugging at her stretched flesh.

caleb set a relentless pace, hips slapping against her thighs with each desperate, needy thrust. the wet, obscene sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, punctuated by caleb’s grunts and growls of pleasure.

he didn’t give her time to adjust, didn’t bother with gentle or slow. he just took her, claimed her, body driven by a primal, animalistic instinct.

“i’m sorry,” he panted, his voice strained with exertion and ecstasy. “i’m sorry i didn’t prepare you better. ‘couldn’t wait any longer. fuck, you’re so tight, so perfect…” his words dissolved into a low, keening moan as he snapped his hips forward particularly hard, the head of his cock battering her cervix.

she could only cling to him, fingers digging into the muscles of his back, feeling them flex and tense with each powerful thrust. her legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into his ass as he rutted into her, thick cock stretching her walls deliciously. she could feel every ridge, every vein, every throbbing inch of his shaft as he plunged in and out of her dripping cunt.

caleb’s ears stood tall and alert atop his head , swivelling and twitching with every sound and sensation. his tail brushed against her calves, wagging with wild abandon as he lost himself in the sensation of her tight, wet heat gripping his aching cock.

his tail thumped against the the floorboards with reckless abandon, each thrust forcing more breathy moans past her lips, eyes screwed shut.

“please, please… please look at me. look, look— “caleb whimpered, his breath coming in harsh, desperate pants against her neck. “i love you, i love you so fuckin’ much. i need to… i need to…” he couldn’t even finish his thought process, his hips twitching.

“‘gonna knot you, yeah, can i?” he forced out, though they both knew that he wasn/t the type to wait for anyone’s permission before acting.

his cock pulsed and jerked inside her as thick ropes of hot, sticky seed finally painted her inner walls.

she cried out, walls clamping down around him like a vice as she felt his release fill her up, her own orgasm crashing over her like a tidal wave, body shaking and shuddering as she came hard on his pistoning cock.

caleb’s body shuddered, muscles tensing as his knot swelled and notched in her. he let out guttural grown as he felt the bulbous flesh expand, tying them together as he squeezed his eyes shut, the sensation of being deeply, irrevocably bound to her sending shockwaves of pleasure-pain through his body.

despite the discomfort of his knot stretching her to her limits, caleb couldn’t stop the instinctive need to rut, to claim, to mark his mate. his hips jerked and twitched erratically, his softening cock rubbing against her sensitive walls as he weakly humped into her, chasing the fading embers of his release.

“can’t… can’t stop,” he panted harshly, his breath hot and moist against her neck. drool dribbled from his chin, splattering not her collarbone as he ground his pelvis against hers, his knot throbbing and pulsing inside her with each weak thrust.

she whimpered, her inner muscles fluttering and clenching around the thick obstruction lodged deep inside her. the sensation of being so utterly stuffed, of feeling caleb’s seed sloshing heavily inside her as he rutted into her, was intense and overwhelming.

it was almost too much, the pleasure bordering on pain as her tender flesh struggled to accommodate his insistent movements.

she gasped out, her fingers digging into his shoulders, nails biting into his skin as she tried to anchor herself amidst the tempest of sensation. “it’s t-too much. you’re hurting me…” despite her words, she made no move to stop him, her body instinctively yielding to his claiming thrusts.

caleb just groaned in responses, hips giving a particularly sharp jerk as he buried his face into the crook of her neck, inhaling deeply and lapping at the teeth marks he had left early.

his body shuddered, muscles quivering with exertion as his hips seemed to jerk on their own, instinct-driven thrusts. he panted easily, breathing coming out in ragged gasps against her sweat-dampened skin. “sorry,” he grunted, voice strained. “I know i’m hurtin’ you, i just.. i can’t stop. fuck, it feels too good.”

he let out a low, agnozied groan as a particular jolt of discomfort shot through him, his knot twisting and tugging at her stretched, sensitive entrance, any attempt to pull out to thrust in any deeper stopped by his inflated knot.

“hurts… fuck, it hurts, but i can’t— “

finally, with a shuddered gasp, his body went limp, knees weak as he slumped forward, practically collapsed on top of her, pressing her into the floor.

she let out a weak, breathless protest as she as she found herself pinned beneath him, still so intimately connected. she gently hit his shoulder with a closed fist.

“ow, caleb, you jerk…” she whimpered, shifting her hips gingerly and wincing at the feeling of him inside of her. “you’re a bad dog, you need to learn how to control yourself and— oof!”

caleb suddenly rolled them over so that her body was splayed out on top of him, soft curves molding to the hard planes of his body.

he just pouted up at her, lips curling into a miserable frown. he looked so adorably sorry, looking up at her with those irresistible puppy dog eyes. “i know, i know,” he mumbled, his voice thick with guilt. “you don’t really think i’m a bad dog, do you? i just love you so much… i can’t help myself around you…”

he nuzzled into her neck once more, his nose brushing against her jawline as he breathed in her scent, still heavy with the musk of their coupling.

the room had gone quiet, save for the slow, steady rhythm of caleb’s breathing and the soft thump-thump of his tail against the floor. he lay sprawled on his back on the floor, cheeks flushed pink and the apron still bunched up around his waist, with her draped over his chest like she belonged there— and she did. his arms were wound tightly around her waist, fingers twitching now and then as if to remind himself she was real, she was here, and she was his.

he gave a soft, tired whine, muffled in her hair as he nuzzled the top of her head. “m’not lettin’ you go,” he mumbled, tail giving another lazy wag against the wood floor. “even if i could.”

she gave a sleepy huff of laughter, nose tucked against his collarbone, her legs tangled with his. “hm, is that so, puppy?”

that earned a pleased rumble from deep in his chest. his ears gave a lazy twitch, one flopping sideways as he smiled, dazed and dopey. he was still flushed, still panting just a little, but more than anything, he looked happy. puppy-happy. glowing with the kind of simple joy only he could manage after something so intense.

“you’re real warm,” he mumbled, cheek smushed into her temple. “perfect size. like a little blanket just for me.”

“you’re the heater here,” she teased weakly, but her voice was fond, her fingers lazily combing through his hair and brushing along the base of one ear.

he let out a whuff of a sigh and arched into it, tail thumping a little faster now.

“spoilin’ me,” he murmured. “i’m going to get all needy if you keep that up.”

“you’re already needy as is,” she said, and he didn’t even deny it— just gave a dopey grin and licked her cheek again, soft and slow, like he couldn’t help himself.

“guess i am,” he said, his voice all gravel and sunshine, “but you like it. admit it.”

she rolled her eyes, but didn’t move. didn’t want to move. not with him still knotted inside her, not with his arms like iron around her and that soft, puppyish whine every time she shifted too far away. not with his tail brushing her calves and his thumb lazily stroking her lower back in slow, content circles.

“i like you like this,” she admitted finally, cheek resting over his heartbeat. “all clingy and warm. soft.”

his ears perked up, tail wagging harder now despite how tired he was. “yeah?”

“yeah.”

he made a soft, pleased wuff again, kissed the top of her head, and tightened his hold. “then i’m stayin’ like this forever. right here. with you. no one else gets you like this, alright? just me.”

she smiled into his skin, letting her eyes drift shut, wrapped in the arms of the world’s biggest, clingiest, most lovably infatuated puppy.

“so needy, caleb,” she hummed. she let out a soft sigh, pressing a kiss to his bare chest as she rested her cheek against him..

“just you.”

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moongirlcleo · 2 days ago

Text

Waxing Tides

❤︎ tags and content: aphrodisiac wine, dub-con, drinking, oral sex m!receiving, riding, emotional sex, GoT Myth, Rafayel x f!Reader, sub Raf ❤︎ author note: check out all my fics by searching #moongirlcleo or on AO3

It started with a visit. A quiet night, a little too much wine, and words that were never meant to be spoken aloud. Now the tide’s turned, and nothing between you feels quite still. He remembers more than he should. You give more than you planned. And somewhere between worship and ruin, something ancient wakes.

You find him exactly where you hoped you wouldn’t.

Mo Art Studio lies open, the heavy oak door unlatched just enough for sea breeze to curl inside and scatter red pigment dust across the wooden floor like blood powdered fine. The evening fog outside rolls in off Whitesand Bay, thick and silver-blue, brushing past your ankles as you step over the threshold. Somewhere in the distance, gulls cry into the dusk, but the sound barely touches this place.

He doesn’t hear you enter.

Rafayel sits cross-legged on the paint-stained floor, shirtless, spine slumped against a half-finished canvas as if it had caught him mid-collapse and decided to cradle him there. His dusky hair falls across one eye in loose waves, damp at the temples. A wine bottle—cheap, dark, already half gone—rests beside him, tipped at an angle like even it’s given up.

He hums something off-key, the kind of fragile melody that sounds like it once had words but lost them to saltwater long ago. His lips are stained dark, almost bruised-looking, and you can see the flush that rises from the hollow of his throat all the way to his cheekbones. He’s not fully drunk, but close enough to have drowned whatever self-control he usually wears like a second skin.

The room smells like him. Not just paint and ocean salt, but something older, something wilder: a storm that never reached land, a memory of copper and coral and candle wax. You don’t call his name. Not yet. You just watch, breath held, because something about this version of him feels unguarded in a way he never lets you see.

His hand moves lazily across the canvas behind him, fingers dragging lines of red that are more vein than brushstroke. The image is too abstract to place, all angles and aching color, but you recognize something in it. The curve of a jawline, the slant of your mouth. He’s painting you again. He always does this when he thinks you're not looking.

Then, without turning, he speaks.

"You came back."

The words are slurred around the edges, but soft, too. Not accusatory. Not surprised. Just tired. Maybe relieved. Maybe not.

"I wasn’t sure if you would. I left the door open in case."

You step closer, each movement swallowed by the thick silence inside the studio. His gaze flicks toward you then, slow, bleary, but unmistakably focused. Eyes blue and pale rose that catches the low light like glass.

"I was trying to get your mouth right," he says, tapping a smudge of red across the canvas, then bringing that same finger to his own lips like he’s testing something. "But it kept looking like it wanted to lie to me."

He smiles then, a crooked thing, vulnerable in a way that makes your ribs ache.

"Do you want a drink?" he asks, and when he reaches for the bottle, he nearly knocks it over entirely. His reflexes are slow but not gone- he catches it just in time, giggling softly as though the whole world has turned ridiculous around him and you’re the only real thing in the room.

"Sit with me," he says, patting the floor next to his thigh, palm still stained with pigment. "I promise not to bite unless you ask."

You sink to the floor beside him, your knees grazing the hem of a drop cloth that’s already soaked with forgotten pigments and old wine stains, the fabric stiff in places where his genius spilled out too fast for his brushes to catch. Rafayel watches you with that dreamy half-lidded stare, like he's not sure if you’re really here or just another vision bleeding out from the fumes of coral dust and alcohol and too many memories he refuses to paint in full.

You pick up the bottle he nearly spilled and hold it to the light, swirling the dregs like you’re appraising something rare and tragic.

"Raf, are you drinking the good stuff or just raiding the bargain shelf again?" you murmur, tilting the bottle toward him as though it contains answers he doesn't want to give. "Because if this is the same garbage you used to clean brushes last week, I should probably call a priest."

He gives a lazy grin, the kind that normally has just enough mischief to set your pulse skipping, but tonight it slips too easily into something softer, almost like a boy who’s been caught playing at being a man.

"Only the finest poison," he says, reaching up to steal the bottle from your hands, but you pull it just out of reach and raise an eyebrow, daring him to try harder.

He slumps back dramatically, one hand over his heart, the other flung to the side as if overcome with grief. "Cruel muse," he groans, the words slurred just enough to make the melodrama stick. "You come into my temple, interrupt my divine creation, and now you deny me communion. What’s next? Will you shatter my brushes, too?"

"You’d just paint with your fingers like a feral little sea goblin," you shoot back, nudging his thigh with your knee. "Don’t act like you’re not used to making a mess with your hands."

That lands. His eyes flick up to meet yours, and the grin that curls at the edge of his mouth this time is slower, darker, like the undertow tugging just beneath the surface.

"I only get messy when I’m inspired," he murmurs, voice dipping lower, the kind of tone that drips honey and danger in equal measure.

You hum thoughtfully, pretending to consider that like you haven’t already memorized the weight of his gaze when it gets like this.

"That so?" you ask, leaning in just enough that he can smell the salt still clinging to your skin, the citrus of whatever perfume you wore when you weren’t planning on being seen. "Because all I see right now is a drunken man-child covered in coral powder and regret."

His hand ghosts toward yours, not quite touching, fingers hovering close like he’s waiting for permission or maybe just trying to remember what it felt like the last time you reached for him first.

"And yet," he breathes, almost too softly, eyes fluttering to your mouth, "you’re still here."

You smile then, letting the silence between you stretch out, thick with things unsaid and undone.

"Maybe I’m just curious what a sea god looks like when he begs."

***

He blinks at your words like you struck a match too close to oil, the grin slipping just slightly, enough for you to see the tremble underneath, the way his breath catches in his throat like it’s snagged on something sharp and half-buried. For a moment, he just stares, lips parted, flush high on his cheekbones, eyes glinting with something far more dangerous than wine.

You don’t move. You’ve learned how this works. Rafayel’s truths are creatures that surface only when you hold still and let the tide bring them in on its own.

His mouth opens, closes. His hand curls against his chest, not dramatically this time, but with a kind of restless panic, like he’s trying to quiet the drumbeat behind his ribs.

"You used to hum," he says suddenly, the words tumbling out all at once with no filter and no pretense. "You used to sit at the edge of the tide pools and hum that stupid little song to keep the crabs away."

He laughs, breathless and hoarse, but the sound is cracked at the edges, bleeding memory.

"I remember the way you smelled. Like sunlight in cold water. I remember your hair in my hands. I remember what it felt like to die with your name on my tongue, even though you hadn’t been born yet."

Your heart lurches. You’ve heard this before, in dreams that tasted of salt and summer wind, in nightmares where the sea wept through broken temples and your lungs ached with the weight of water and grief.

He shouldn’t remember that. You shouldn’t remember it either. But you do. Both of you do.

"I wasn’t supposed to say that," Rafayel mutters, blinking fast like he’s waking up, like he’s realizing the dam’s already broken and the ocean is swallowing the studio whole. "You weren’t..."

He trails off and looks at you then. Truly looks. And something inside him folds, just like that. The wine is still in his system, but clarity strikes him like lightning. Swift and raw.

"Fuck."

It’s not anger. It’s surrender.

He pulls at his shirt, already half undone and stained with pigment, clinging to the sweat along his collarbone. He shrugs it off without grace. The fabric falls away like it offends him, as if skin-to-skin is the only way to be real now.

"I can’t wear lies anymore," he says, dragging his fingers down his own chest like he’s trying to wipe away the centuries he spent pretending he didn’t remember you. His voice drops to a whisper. His eyes are fever-bright, fixed on yours. "If you remember too, then I don’t have to be gentle anymore, do I?"

Your breath hitches. The room goes quiet except for the wind dragging its fingers across the windows, and the slow, deliberate sound of Rafayel unbuckling the belt at his waist, silver clinking softly like a ritual bell.

"Tell me you remember," he murmurs. He kneels in front of you now, hands trembling not with hesitation but hunger. The kind born from waiting too long. "Tell me you know who you are to me. Tell me so I don’t have to pretend anymore."

You do not speak at first. You let the moment stretch and bend between you, heavy with salt-thick air and the scent of paint still wet on canvas. The low hum of the sea outside the studio windows rolls like breath through an open mouth, and Rafayel waits, kneeling before you with his belt halfway undone and his pulse visible at the base of his throat.

He is shaking, not with fear but with something else, something older than desire, something hungrier than touch.

“I shouldn’t be like this,” he whispers, voice rough and splintered with something too close to shame. “I should be quiet. Gentle. Grateful just to be near you again.”

His hands fall to his lap, and he stares at them like they are stained with things you cannot see. Slowly, he pulls at the belt until the leather slithers loose in his hands and drops to the floor. The buckle hits the wood with a dull metallic sound, final and low, like a heartbeat held underwater too long.

“I bought that wine from a man in N109,” he continues, eyes unfocused as he speaks. “Said it was a blend for inspiration. Something to loosen the spirit. Didn’t mention it would make me want to fuck the stars out of the sky.”

You blink, startled by the bluntness of it, but his expression is far from crude. If anything, he looks reverent. His breath trembles on the way out of his lungs, and he leans forward on his hands, the movement slow and unsteady, like gravity itself has grown heavier with each passing second.

“It’s your fault,” he says, eyes lifting again to find yours. There is no mask this time, no playful smirk, no sly tilt of his mouth that hides what he truly feels. “You walked in and the wine pulled at everything I’ve buried. Every ache. Every memory. Every need.”

His fingers reach for the buttons at his waistband, slow and unsure. Not seductive. Not coy. Just desperate to feel less like a lie. The tension in his body rises with every inch of skin revealed, as if each layer shed brings him closer to some irreversible edge.

“I remember what your voice sounded like underwater,” he says softly, not looking at you now but at some phantom image just beyond your shoulder, something ancient and sacred and probably not real. “You sang to me once. Not here.. Somewhere deeper. I think I watched you die with that sound still in my ears.”

He swallows hard, his throat working around the weight of emotion thickening with every breath. His pants hang loose now at his hips, the sharp lines of his abdomen catching what little light filters in from the studio’s narrow windows.

“You’re warm,” he says, reaching out as though you are the only thing that can tether him to this moment. His palm hovers just above your knee. He does not touch you yet. “The world is always cold without you in it.”

You can see the strain in him now, not just the tension of arousal but the ache of restraint. The wine has taken root beneath his skin, blooming through his veins like heat rising from a volcanic trench, and he’s trying to hold it back out of respect, out of fear, out of reverence.

“I would never hurt you,” he says, voice barely a breath now, lips parted as though already tasting something forbidden. “But I am not entirely myself tonight. I want too much. I feel too much. I remember too clearly. And you look like you did the day I lost you.”

He presses the heel of his hand to his forehead, panting now, sweat clinging to his hairline, his body trembling with restraint. His hips shift subtly forward and his half-undone trousers betray just how badly the wine has kindled something he cannot smother.

“If I touch you,” he whispers, raw and reverent, “I won’t be able to stop.”

You reach for the bottle.

Not to soothe or to tease. You do it slowly, deliberately, letting your fingers curl around the neck of the dark glass. His eyes track the motion, and though he doesn't speak, something in his posture tightens as if the air around you has grown heavier, charged with a promise neither of you has dared to say aloud yet.

The wine is still warm from where his lips touched it. You can feel the heat, faint and lingering, like the echo of a kiss passed from glass to mouth. You tip it back, unbothered by the taste, which is bitter and strange and slightly metallic, as if it has been steeped in crushed petals and seawater and some unnamed thing that should not burn as gently as it does.

You drink, slow and unflinching, letting the liquid roll over your tongue and coat your throat, and when you lower the bottle again, you do not smile. You only look at him, and the silence that settles between you now feels different, no longer cautious or hesitant, but waiting.

Rafayel’s pupils dilate. You see it happen. The faint shimmer of pink and blue swallowed by widening black, hunger made visible behind his gaze. The tremble in his hands intensifies, not just from arousal, though that pulses visibly beneath the surface, but from the gravity of what your gesture means.

You want this. You want him.

He exhales, and it comes out like a moan cut short, strangled by disbelief and lust and centuries of restraint snapping thread by thread.

"You're sure," he says, and it isn't a question, not really. It is awe made sound. It is worship.

You nod, still silent, because there is no need to answer with words when the wine on your lips already speaks for you.

He rises onto his knees, unsteady, a low sound building in his throat as though something inside him is being loosed, something wild and sacred that has waited far too long in the dark. He strips the rest of the way in near silence, every movement reverent, as though shedding the last of his clothing is not for seduction but for honesty. When he finally bares himself almost completely, save for his trousers, he does not preen or pose. He simply kneels there, exposed and trembling, the sharp lines of his body bathed in moonlight diffused through fog and glass.

His skin is flushed and radiant, marred only by streaks of red pigment where his fingers had once wandered in distraction, and his chest rises and falls with shallow, uneven breaths.

"You don't know what you're inviting," he says softly, though the words lack conviction, as if he wants you to disagree. As if he wants you to pull him under.

"I would break myself to make you remember," he whispers, the wine thickening his voice into honey. "But if you're here now, if you’re really mine, I won’t have to be so dramatic."

His hand reaches for yours, tentative, the barest brush of skin to skin. And when you do not flinch, when you let your fingers slip between his, his whole body trembles like the sea finally being allowed to crash against the shore.

The moment your fingers slip between his, something in him fractures.

It is not a clean break. It is the cracking of an old cathedral window that has held too long against the pressure of time and storm, the splintering of something sacred that cannot bear to be quiet anymore. Rafayel exhales with a sound that is almost a sob, a sharp, gasping breath punched from deep in his chest, and then he is moving before you can think, before you can even process the way his hand tightens around yours like he’s terrified you might disappear again.

He surges forward, not graceful, not poised, all that practiced elegance abandoned in favor of pure need, and when his mouth finds yours, it is not soft or careful. It is hungry. Desperate. Starved in the way only something immortal could be, something that has waited through lifetimes for a single moment of contact and now cannot be asked to wait a second more.

His lips crush against yours with a fevered urgency, mouth already parting to taste the remnants of wine on your tongue, and his moan is raw, nearly pained, like your kiss physically hurts him in the best possible way. His body presses close, skin burning hot and slick with heat, and you feel the full weight of him shudder against you, every muscle drawn tight with restraint he is no longer trying to keep.

"You feel the same," he breathes against your mouth, voice ragged and reverent. "Exactly the same. Gods, your mouth... your soul..."

He cannot stop touching you. His hands move as if possessed, sliding over your arms, your back, your waist, fingers curling and clutching and learning every contour like he is memorizing you through his skin alone. His lips break from yours only long enough to trail down the line of your jaw, to your throat, where he lingers with an open-mouthed kiss that borders on a bite, breath shuddering against your skin.

"You have no idea what you've done," he mutters, voice hoarse, lips brushing the hollow of your throat with each word. "You touched me and now I can't think. I can't stop. I need... I need—"

He breaks off with another sound, this one lower, rougher, buried in the space between your collarbones as he kisses down the slope of your shoulder with frantic devotion, hands now gripping your hips like you are the only real thing left in a world made of smoke and memory.

There is nothing theatrical left in him now. No poetry. No smirking charm. Just a man, trembling and burning and undone beneath the weight of his own longing.

His kisses grow sloppier. Less precise. The kind of open-mouthed worship that says I remember you and I need you and I would drown in you all at once. His hips shift forward against yours without rhythm, without grace, just a slow grind of fevered pressure and shuddering tension, as if some part of him believes that friction alone might be enough to unravel this ache that has lived in him for lifetimes.

You thread your fingers into his hair, not to control him, not even to guide him, but simply to feel the tremble that travels through his entire body when you do. His breath catches again, stutters against your collarbone, and when he pulls back, just enough to meet your eyes, he looks absolutely ruined.

Blushed from chest to cheekbones. Lips red. Eyes blown wide and glassy with heat.

"Please," he whispers. The word cracks, not from shame but from how badly he means it. "I need you to... I need—"

He does not finish the sentence. He does not have to.

Instead, with hands that shake only slightly, Rafayel takes yours and brings them down, lower, pressing your palms over the heated flush of his abdomen. Then lower still.

You feel it immediately. The press of him, or rather, the press of both, firm and flushed and twitching beneath the weight of your touch, barely concealed by the loosened fabric of his pants. He’s not asking anymore. He’s offering himself up like a sacrifice. Like a secret he’s been dying to show you and never had the courage to name.

His breath shudders out of him in a broken sound, half-gasp and half-prayer, and his fingers tighten over yours, holding you there.

"You don’t know what it’s like," he chokes, voice barely a whisper now, thick with wine and want. "Having this... needing this, and not being allowed to ask. Always pretending I’m whole without you. Always pretending I can wait."

You apply the faintest pressure and he bucks forward without thinking, a soft cry escaping him like it was pulled from the deepest part of his chest. He is already hard, already leaking, the heat of him seeping through the thin fabric as if he is trying to brand the shape of his desperation into your skin.

“I dream about your hands,” he murmurs, lashes fluttering as his head tips forward, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “On me. Holding me. Telling me I’m still yours.”

He is panting now, hips twitching in tiny, involuntary movements beneath your touch, as if the need is too much to contain and the act of restraint is physically hurting him. He tries to speak again, but the words falter, lost to another moan, high and broken and helpless.

“If you tell me to stop, I will,” he whispers, still holding your hands in place like a man caught between obedience and ruin. “But if you don’t... I will beg. I will fall apart in your hands and thank you for every second of it.”

You do not speak at first. You only shift your palms slightly, dragging them lower with unbearable care, the movement slow enough to make him gasp. Your thumbs brush across the fabric that barely hides him, the thin linen damp with the evidence of his arousal, and both of them twitch beneath your touch in a way that steals the last of his composure.

He whines. Truly whines. A soft, breathy sound that slips past his lips like he is ashamed of it, but too far gone to care. His hips jerk, a shiver rippling down his spine, and he nearly collapses forward, pressing his forehead to your shoulder as if your steadiness might anchor him through the trembling quake of his body.

"You’re not even doing anything," he breathes, voice thin and wrecked and sweet. "You’re just... touching me."

You smile, slow and cruel and fond, and let your fingers trace one of the rigid lengths beneath his pants, just once, just enough to make him moan into your neck like he is trying to bite it back and failing. He is panting again, hips caught between stillness and the desperate urge to thrust up into your hand like a starving thing, and it only makes your next words come quieter, softer, more dangerous for their calm.

"Take them off."

He freezes.

Your hands still, but do not pull away, still cradling him through the fabric, still reminding him who holds the moment now. He lifts his head, barely, enough to look up at you through strands of hair clinging to his forehead, flushed all the way down to his collarbones, mouth parted in awe.

"What?" he asks, even though he heard you.

Your fingers curl a little tighter, not enough to hurt, only enough to remind him how good your touch already feels through layers he no longer deserves to wear.

"You heard me," you say, quiet and clear. "If you want me to keep touching you, Rafayel... then take them off."

He sucks in a breath like it hurts, eyes fluttering shut for a moment as he rocks forward again, his body instinctively chasing friction even now. He looks overwhelmed. He looks ruined. But most of all, he looks obedient.

He rises to his feet slowly, every movement unsteady with arousal and tension, and his hands go to the waistband of his pants. You do not help him. You only sit there and watch.

First one side slides down, then the other, and he peels them off with a kind of reverence, not looking away from you as he bares himself fully. There is no shame in it. Only devotion. He is not trying to impress you. He is not even trying to seduce you. He is simply showing you what already belongs to you.

His body is lean and pale and flushed, the same pigments from his fingers streaked faintly across his thighs, and when the last of his clothing falls to the floor, he steps forward, breath shaking in his chest.

Both of them are stiff and leaking, the sheer size of him made more overwhelming by the doubled arousal, twitching with every heartbeat, helpless in their response to your gaze alone. Rafayel stands there, naked and needy, and you watch the way his hands twitch at his sides like he wants to cover himself but knows better.

“Is this what you wanted?” he asks, not because he doubts it, but because he needs to hear it from your lips. “Is it enough?”

You look up at him slowly, and you smile.

You rise onto your knees in front of him, the floor beneath you rough with the scattered traces of his art, the air between you thick with heat and breath and something older than lust, something shaped like worship. Rafayel stares down at you with a look that borders on disbelief, lips parted, cheeks flushed, hands trembling faintly at his sides like he does not know where to put them, or if he’s allowed to touch at all.

You reach out and curl your fingers around both of them, warm and rigid and slick at the tips, and his knees nearly buckle at the first contact. He makes a sound high in his throat, like a choked moan that never finished forming, his hips jerking forward instinctively before he catches himself and stands perfectly still, panting like he has run miles through memory to find you here at the end of it.

"Gods," he breathes, his voice nothing more than air and ache. "You’re really... you’re touching me, you’re..."

You look up at him, slow and steady, and your voice comes low, honey-thick with everything you’ve never had the chance to say until now.

"I’ve wanted this for so long," you murmur, your grip tightening just slightly, just enough to make him gasp. "You don’t even know how many nights I’ve thought about this. About you. About having you like this. In my hands, begging me without even realizing it."

His eyes flutter shut, jaw slack, a moan spilling out of him unbidden as you stroke along the length of both shafts in tandem, adjusting your grip until the movements are fluid and deliberate, letting your thumbs tease just beneath the heads until his hips twitch with every pass.

"You think I didn’t dream of this too?" you continue, leaning in now, your mouth brushing against one of them without quite taking it in. "You think I didn’t lie awake remembering the way you looked at me like I was already yours, even before you ever touched me?"

Rafayel sobs out something that might be your name, or might be a curse, or might be a prayer, and then your lips part and you take the first one into your mouth, slow and indulgent, just enough to feel the way he shakes beneath the weight of that pleasure.

He gasps sharply, hands fisting at his sides as he tries not to move, tries not to thrust, his body locked in place by the effort it takes to behave, but his legs are already trembling and his breath is nothing but broken little sounds spilling into the charged air between you.

"Please," he whispers, voice wrecked, eyes wide and wet when he dares to look down at you. "I can’t... I’m trying to stay still but it feels so good, you feel so..."

You hum around him, slow and deep, the vibration making him cry out again, high and needy and helpless, and when you pull back just slightly, you keep stroking both shafts with a grip that borders on cruel, teasing the edge but never giving him enough to fall.

"I don’t want you to stay still," you murmur, voice low and sultry against the heat of him. "I want you to fall apart for me. I want to see what you look like when you let go."

His knees give just a little, his thighs shaking as he grabs for your shoulder, not to guide, not to control, but simply to ground himself in the fact that you are real and this is happening and he is allowed to be loved like this.

"You’re going to break me," he says, barely audible, eyes wild and glassy and full of you.

You take him deeper this time, the second shaft pulsing hot in your hand while the first slides past your lips, slick with the taste of him, your tongue curling just right along the underside until his whole body jolts like a wave has crashed through him from the inside out. He is gasping now, truly gasping, chest heaving with every breath, his fingers gripping your shoulder tight enough to bruise, though he does not pull you closer, does not force a thing.

He wouldn’t dare.

You hum again, slow and indulgent, letting him feel the shape of your mouth and the patience of your pace, letting him know that you want this, that this isn’t about breaking him quickly, it’s about savoring the way he falls. The hand working his second cock doesn’t falter, matching the rhythm of your mouth with a steady tempo that keeps him trembling, keeps him teetering right on the edge of losing himself.

His head tips back and he groans, loud and needy, a sound dragged from somewhere deep and raw and aching. His thighs quiver beneath your touch and he is barely holding himself up now, sweat slick along his chest, his belly tight with restraint he is seconds away from losing.

"You’re gonna kill me," he pants, voice shaking, cracking right down the middle. "You’re gonna make me come like this and I haven’t even... I haven’t felt you yet, I haven’t been inside you, please–"

You suck him deeper again, slow and smooth, and his moan turns into a high, broken whimper that splits open into something almost desperate.

"Please," he gasps, voice raw and thin, like he’s trying not to cry. "Please, I need to feel you, I need to, I can't–"

He bucks forward slightly, barely a twitch of his hips, but it betrays everything he’s trying to hold back. The ache in him is no longer just arousal. It’s longing. It's the need to be as close to you as a body can allow, to sink into you and forget where he ends and you begin, to feel you wrapped around him in a way that says you are mine and I am yours and nothing else matters.

"Let me," he pleads, his voice dissolving into breath and heat. "Please let me fuck you. Please, I need to be inside you, I need to feel you, I need–"

He breaks off with a whimper, his forehead pressed to the top of your head, his whole body shaking under your hands, cock twitching in your mouth as you keep your rhythm steady, still patient, still deliberate.

"Please," he whispers again, softer now, like a final prayer. "I’ll be good. I swear. I’ll be so good. Just let me feel you. Please."

You release him with a soft breath, the drag of your mouth leaving him shuddering, and his hands hover like he wants to reach for you, but still doesn’t dare. The wine has made him pliant, has loosened the cage of his control, but not even that is enough to make him touch you without permission. He is waiting for it. Needing it. And you give it to him, not with pity, not with gentleness, but with something far more intimate.

With yes.

"Lie back," you say, your voice low and certain, and the way he obeys, the way he immediately shifts to the floor with his back against the cool wood and his limbs trembling beneath him, makes something hot and possessive bloom in your chest. You rise to your feet slowly, letting him watch, letting him see every movement, every breath, every shift of fabric as you begin to undress in front of him.

His eyes follow your hands like he’s being hypnotized. His lips are parted, flushed and wet, and there’s something wild in his gaze now, something animal and reverent and barely contained.

"You wanted to feel me?" you murmur as you tug your shirt over your head, letting it drop to the floor beside you. "You begged for it. On your knees. Like you’ve been dreaming of this moment longer than I’ve been alive."

"I have," he breathes, his voice cracked and reverent, eyes wide as you peel off your last layer of clothing and step over him, bare and glowing in the half-light. "I have dreamed of you like this for centuries. You have no idea what it’s done to me."

"You’re going to show me," you tell him, sinking to straddle his hips in one fluid motion, your knees pressing to the floor on either side of his trembling thighs, your hands bracing against his chest where his heart thunders like something wild caught in a cage. "You’re going to feel me now, Rafayel. No more pretending. No more waiting. I’m done watching you fall apart next to me when you could be falling apart underneath me."

He moans, a high, fragile sound that shudders out of him as your heat presses down against both of him at once, his cocks slipping between your folds as you grind down slowly, deliberately, not taking him in yet, just letting him feel your warmth, your wetness, the unbearable closeness of what he’s been aching for.

"You feel that?" you whisper, leaning down to kiss along his jaw, your mouth brushing over skin that’s flushed and damp with sweat. "That’s what you’ve been begging for. That’s what you cried over. And now you’re going to earn every inch of it."

He arches up into you, panting, nearly sobbing now, one hand finally rising to cradle your waist, the other clenching into the floor as if it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

"Please," he whimpers, voice barely more than a breath. "Please, I can’t... I need to be inside you. I need you to take me. I need to feel all of you."

You smile against his skin, your voice a low hum as you press your lips to the curve of his ear.

"Then stop begging," you murmur. "And start worshiping."

You lift your hips just enough to guide him in, the angle slow and deliberate, your hand wrapped around the base of one of his cocks to line him up, and the moment the first thick head slips inside, Rafayel loses the last thread of his restraint.

He surges upward with a strangled groan, his hips bucking up into you before you can even take him fully, his second shaft grinding helplessly along your folds, slick and hot and throbbing with the pulse of someone whose control has completely fractured. The stretch is intense, sudden, but you’re ready for it, soaked from the teasing, open from the wanting, your body aching to be filled and taken and devoured.

"Fuck," he gasps, his voice ragged and high, both hands suddenly clutching your waist like you’re the only thing tethering him to the earth. "You feel, oh gods, you feel too good, I can’t, I can’t go slow."

"Then don’t," you breathe, teeth grazing your bottom lip as you sink the rest of the way onto him, both shafts pressed deep inside you, stretching you open in a way that feels impossible, overwhelming, perfect. "Don’t hold back, Rafayel. Fuck me like you’ve wanted to since Lemuria drowned."

And that’s all it takes.

He loses it.

Rafayel bucks into you with a force that rattles the air between you, a loud cry ripping from his throat as his back arches off the floor, sweat streaking down his chest, muscles tense with the strength of his thrusts. Your thighs burn as you ride him, grinding down with every bounce, meeting him halfway as the studio echoes with the wet slap of skin on skin and the breathless litany of moans pouring from his lips.

There is no rhythm now, not really. Just the frantic, desperate collision of two bodies trying to erase centuries of distance in a single moment. Every time he thrusts up into you, you cry out, your nails raking down his chest, and he loves it, his head thrown back, teeth clenched, eyes squeezed shut like the pleasure is too much to bear.

"You’re mine," he gasps, his voice barely a whisper under the strain. "You’ve always been mine. You were made for me. Fuck, made to ride me like this, to take both of me, to feel me come inside you, I can’t, I need—"

You slam down onto him harder, grinding your hips as you do, and he lets out a sound that is almost a scream, his cock twitching violently inside you as his hands fly to your hips, dragging you down onto him again and again, harder, faster, his pace growing erratic as the pleasure mounts.

Your head falls back, mouth open, every nerve lit with fire as his cocks pound into you, filling you so completely it feels like you might split in two, and yet you never want it to stop, you want more, you want him to break you.

"Raf," you gasp, voice hoarse and wrecked, "You feel so fucking good, you’re so deep, I can feel you everywhere."

"I’m gonna come," he chokes, his entire body trembling beneath you, thrusts turning wild, out of rhythm, driven by need and nothing else. "I’m gonna come inside you and you’re gonna take it, you’re gonna feel all of me, I can’t stop, I can’t—"

You lean forward and press your forehead to his, sweat mixing with sweat, your breath tangled in his, your bodies locked together in this spiral of heat and chaos and overwhelming release.

"Then give it to me," you whisper. "Come for me. Come in me."

And he does.

Rafayel’s cry breaks the silence like a storm, a sobbing, shuddering sound that echoes through the studio as he thrusts up into you one final time, hips jerking violently as both cocks spasm inside you, hot and thick and overwhelming. You feel him fill you, pulse after pulse, the heat of his release spreading deep and fast as he clutches you against him like he’s afraid you’ll vanish mid-climax.

His body trembles, eyes wet, mouth open in a silent moan as he rides the wave, and you hold him through it, grinding against him as your own orgasm crests and crashes, your walls clenching tight around him, dragging every last drop from his trembling frame.

He breathes your name like a prayer, over and over, lost, desperate, worshiping.

***

For a long moment, the only sound in the studio is your breathing, loud and uneven and tangled with his, like the two of you are still trying to remember how to exist as separate bodies after the collision. Rafayel is slack beneath you, every muscle in his body trembling with the aftermath, his chest rising and falling fast beneath your hands as you rest against him, both of you flushed and sticky and soaked in sweat.

His arms are around you now, not gripping, just holding, loose and reverent, as if he’s afraid you’ll shatter if he touches you too hard, or maybe as if he’s the one who might fall apart if you pull away too soon.

"Fuck," he whispers, voice hoarse and barely there, like the breath was stolen from his lungs and hasn’t quite found its way back. "I’ve never come like that before. I didn’t even know I could."

You laugh, quiet and breathless, forehead pressed to his shoulder, your skin still humming with the aftershocks of what you’ve both done, the way he filled you, the way he came undone, the way your bodies moved like they had always known how.

"Of course you didn’t," you murmur, lips brushing his collarbone. "You’ve never had me before."

That earns you a soft groan, part embarrassment and part disbelief, and he shifts beneath you, his hips jerking slightly as you’re reminded, quite suddenly, that he’s still buried inside you. Both of him. Still hard, or nearly so, still twitching, still impossibly sensitive.

He whimpers, hands tightening just a little at your waist as the movement sends a ripple of overstimulation up his spine.

"Please," he breathes, voice cracking. "Don’t move yet. I don’t think I can handle it."

You smile against his skin, wicked and warm, and you shift your hips just slightly anyway, just enough to feel him gasp and twitch inside you, his whole body flinching as the sensation courses through him like lightning.

"You’re still hard," you whisper, teasing now, your voice like velvet and smoke as you nuzzle into the side of his neck. "You came like a man possessed and you’re still hard. I think your body’s trying to tell me something."

He lets out a strangled sound, halfway between a laugh and a sob, his face buried in your hair, and you feel the shudder that rolls through him from head to toe.

"It’s the wine," he mutters, barely intelligible. "That damned N109 wine. I can’t think. I just feel you everywhere. Inside, around me, on me. I can’t—"

You clench around him, slow and deliberate, and he gasps, eyes flying open, lips parting as another helpless sound escapes him.

"Then feel me," you whisper, rocking your hips once, slow and smooth, grinding down against him as his fingers dig into your waist and his head thumps gently against the floorboards.

"I don’t think I can come again so soon," he says, almost laughing, breathless and trembling. "But if you keep doing that, I’ll try."

You shift again, rolling your hips once more, and he chokes on a moan, already ready again, already shaking beneath you.

"Good," you whisper, mouth brushing the edge of his jaw. "Because I’m not done with you yet."

#love and deepspace #lads #lnds #lads rafayel #rafayel love and deepspace #lnds rafayel #rafayel x reader #rafayel smut #qi yu smut #qi yu #moongirlcleo

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tobesolnelyx · 2 days ago

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fratboy!lottie with a VERY insightful + empathic girl fem!reader who literally sees right through Lottie. her inner pain, the reasons for her behavior, what she hides, everything. fem!reader doesn't know the exact answers, but she always guesses (and somehow always right), and she just really wants to help Lottie feel better, her main goal is to make Lottie feel accepted and loved, but Lottie herself has a hard time with someone digging around in her head. She is simply very scared that someone sees her so deeply, but at the same time, it seems, continues to love her. NSFW or SFW it doesn't matter!!

I really hope that this request will be heard because I have never seen anything like this. thank you for everything you do!

— every breath you take || fratboy!lottie matthews x fem!reader 🪐

a/n: yes, im very aware about what this song is. STILL, it reminded me about this cute little tik tok trend. it's not as cute lol, wrote this while listening all too well 10 minutes version

summary: your girlfriend has problems, but you can't really help when someone is scared of that, can you? hurt/comfrot.

warnings: toxic parents, family issues.

word count: around 1.6k

“Are you alright?” you asked, even though it was more than certain Lottie wouldn’t answer. At least not directly, not with any honesty. That wasn’t what frustrated you most—it wasn’t that she was unreadable. In truth, she wasn’t that hard to decipher. Not because she was transparent, but because when she shut herself off from everyone and pretended she didn’t need anyone, you could still see right through her.

She wanted to be your support, but she didn’t necessarily want it to work the other way around.

You never quite understood why you got her so well. Honestly, Lottie found it more irritating than anything else. You always seemed to know what to do, what to say, how to act. And she had no idea what to do with any of that. She didn’t like how deep you could dig, didn’t like the part of her that knew she would eventually have to open up if this thing between you was going to work. After all, no one had ever taught her how to build something healthy… how to go through all this.

Even the way she held herself—tense, frozen, like an animal alert to danger—told you that things were far from okay. She was staring at some invisible point in the distance, sitting on the porch, lazily smoking a cigarette in her left hand. Her blouse was unbuttoned and wrinkled, the aftermath of whatever that family gathering had been.

Eventually, Lottie looked at you and sighed, then wrapped an arm around you, pulling you close. She smelled like cigarette smoke and some absurdly expensive perfume. You didn’t even know the brand, but it stung your nose—it always did. She used too much of it.

“Sure” she murmured. Even though her voice sounded like she’d just spent an hour breaking rocks in a quarry, her tone was firm enough to shut down the topic. “Just tired.”

The problem was, you tended to push. Not because you wanted to burden her further or expose all her wounds at once and betray her entirely. It was more that you just wanted to help. You just didn’t know how—other than always being right.

The porch light flickered. Moths and mosquitoes had begun to gather around it. The Matthews’ backyard was wrapped in stillness, broken only by the rustling trees and the gentle trickle of water in the pond. Evening was cooling, and Lottie was lazily rubbing your arm, trying to warm you up. You’d have to go back inside soon anyway—someone would eventually notice and come looking. Lottie definitely didn’t want to be found. She preferred to return on her own, even if it meant facing more passive-aggressive comments, masked in charm and soaked in overpriced wine.

She never told you outright, but you saw it. It wasn’t hard to miss. From the first dinner with her parents, you noticed how stiff she became in their presence. At first, you didn’t understand. Lottie had everything she could ever want. She practically embodied the stereotype of a rich brat who thought the world owed her.

But by the next family gathering—the one you had the (dis)pleasure of attending—you saw what you’d missed the first time. When her dad cracked his jokes at dinner, and her mom offered you dessert with a too-sweet smile, you finally noticed the barbs. The offhand comments, prettily wrapped like gifts, pretending to be something they weren’t. It wasn’t just comparisons to other kids from that outrageously wealthy neighborhood. It was the nitpicking, the little jabs placed precisely where the seams were weakest, slipping through soft fabric to pierce the core.

You wondered if they said things about you, too, behind your back. Maybe Lottie never meant to tell you, but by the way people looked at you across the table—and the way Lottie’s hand grew clammy as she held yours beneath it—you were fairly certain you weren’t the dream candidate.

“Girls,” came the sugary voice of one of Lottie’s aunts, the kind that made her visibly shudder. “It’s getting cold. Come in.”

It wasn’t a request. Not even a question. Just an order, as if the woman—dressed in hopelessly mismatched clothes—might perish from scandal if you didn’t obey. Sometimes you wondered if it had always been this way. If Lottie had always lived under this looming pressure, with family breathing down her neck, whispering that she had to be someone. That she had to do something worthwhile—anything that wouldn’t bring shame to them all.

Fights happened.

Maybe even more often than either of you wanted to admit. They weren’t an everyday occurrence, but they were a constant presence—repeating themselves in familiar rhythms. Something would stir inside Lottie, something she wasn’t willing to talk about, and all it took was a glance from you to know something was off. Most times, it had to do with her family, so guessing the source of the tension wasn’t exactly difficult.

“Lot,” you murmured, climbing into bed beside her as she sat, hollow-eyed, nursing yet another cigarette like it might ease the pressure bearing down on her chest—as if it might offer some kind of solace.

Lottie felt disappointed. Disappointed that her parents had never given her what she truly needed. And until she met you, she’d believed love simply wasn’t for her. The whole idea of it seemed distant, like something meant for other people, never for her.

“I’m fine. It’s fine,” she muttered, waving you off like a fly buzzing at her ear, trying to quiet the world.

It ended differently each time.

Sometimes in sex—when you slipped behind her and offered something to anchor her, if only for a moment. In those tangled limbs and synchronised breaths, she could almost believe she was someone worth holding on to. Someone you needed.

Sometimes she simply left—fleeing the conversation, disappearing for hours to wrestle whatever storm raged in her mind. You knew what haunted her. That knowledge alone unnerved her. She had been ignored for so long, bought off with money and silence. And then you came along and gave her too much attention. Too much care.

And sometimes—worst of all—you both ended up screaming.

You tried to understand her, always. But you were only human, with a storm of your own. The frustration would rise until it boiled over. Lottie never needed to explain herself—because you already knew. But that didn’t mean she wanted to talk about any of it. Partly because she feared you’d one day treat her like her parents did. And partly because saying it aloud—naming that fear of never being enough—might make it real. Like a curse fulfilled the moment it passed her lips.

“You don’t get it!” she’d explode when you pushed too hard. But she knew you did. Probably better than anyone ever had, and that scared the hell out of her.

“For God’s sake, just let it go! Can you even do that?”

“I’m asking for one conversation, Lottie!” Your arms fell to your sides, your eyes wide with disbelief. Like you hadn’t had this same, senseless argument a dozen times. But maybe that’s what it took. Maybe this was some part of the process. You clung to the hope that one day, Lottie would understand you the way you tried so hard to understand her.

“It’s not that much, is it? I see something’s wrong!”

“Because you’re a nosy bitch, that’s why!” She didn’t mean it. But she wasn’t thinking about what she said. “Just stop hovering, okay? Maybe we’re together, but I don’t need you playing my fucking mother all the time!” She gestured wildly. “I’m sick of your bullshit. You don’t know shit about how I feel!”

Lottie was terrified by how deeply you saw her. So she did what she knew: she pushed. Hard.

You pressed your lips into a thin line, drew in a long breath, and readied yourself to say something—maybe to soothe her, to try again, to start from the beginning like you always did.

But the door had already slammed behind her, Lottie gone in a fury.

Only to return hours later with flowers in hand, kissing your face like a woman drowning, apologising through half-sobs. Telling you she didn’t mean any of it. That she’d just been upset. That she loved you more than anything, and she couldn’t lose you—not over something so stupid.

You both knew it wasn’t just something stupid. But you let it slide. Even though you knew better.

You gave her space to be safe, even when she squirmed inside it, unable to sit still in her own skin. You forgave her—because no matter how often she pushed you away, she always pulled you back again. Like she didn’t know what to do with this strange new feeling—being seen, heard, held—for the first time in her life.

Later, Lottie would learn what a healthy family could look like.

She’d learn it when you brought her home for the holidays, to your parents’ house. She might’ve cried—just a little—when your mother baked her favourite cake just because she wanted. Curled beside you in bed late that night, she let the tears fall quietly, not saying a word. You might’ve planted that idea yourself. Just maybe.

#yellowjackets #yellowjackets x you #my writing #lottie matthews x fem!reader #lottie matthews x you #lottie matthews x reader #lottie matthews

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ipegtoji · 3 days ago

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⊹ ࣪ ˖ 𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐝 𝐬𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐫 | ft. megumi x f!reader

cw: pure fluff + megumi being a sweetheart for once

wc: 657

you rolled back and forth in bed, unable to get comfortable and on top of that, megumi wouldn’t quit snoring. he was just like his dad. he snored so damn loud for no reason. acting like he’s got a 9 to 5 job and 3 kids! how dramatic.

“ugh.. megs, shut up,” you grumbled, rolling over to face him. he was knocked OUT. full on drooling, arm over here—arm over there, leg thrown over a pillow. it was kind of cute but didn’t change the fact he was still snoring like a 45 year old man.

you sigh, shifting closer to him in the bed and placing your hand on his chest, rubbing it gently to see if that’ll get him to wake up. spoiler alert—it didn’t. he’s knocked out cold. you let out another sigh and sat up in bed, rubbing your eyes that were filled with crust and eye boogers.. eugh. your hair was a mess, bags under your eyes, shirt was hanging off your shoulder, and one of your socks was missing. great. just great.

you leaned back down towards megumi’s face, placing your hand on his cheek this time and rubbing it, seeing if he’ll wake up. spoiler alert—again—he didn’t wake up. you tried to be nice and patient since he has been doing missions all week and was probably exhausted, but so were you! and he’s over here snoring like there isn’t other people trying to sleep!

“megumi fushiguro,” you spoke up, a little more louder to see if he’ll hear. he didn’t, once again. his snores were probably blocking out your voice.

“megumi!” you snapped, finally raising your voice. he woke up this time! his eyes immediately snapped open and he jumped up like he just had the worst nightmare of his life—breath heaving, chest rising up and down, eyes wide like he just saw the most traumatic thing of his life. well, he was about to. he had an exhausted, angry girlfriend in his bed right now.

“god.. you scared me,” he mumbled, letting out a deep sigh and falling on his back against the soft mattress, tired eyes looking up at you. “what?”

“don’t what me. you’ve been snoring like a grown ass man and i’m trying to sleep some sleep too.” you weren’t playing around either. the bags under your eyes were enough to talk.

he let out an exhausted sigh and closed his eyes, one of his arms coming up to cover his eyes. “i’m tired, okay? i didn’t mean to snore. you don’t gotta yell like that, geez..”

“i’m tired too, megumi!” you grumbled frustratingly, your hand coming up to take his arm away from his face, wanting to look him in the eyes. “just.. please keep it down. i need some sleep too.”

megumi let out a sigh as he saw your expression, seeing how exhausted and frustrated you were—not to mention how you were on your cycle too. he didn’t like seeing his girlfriend sad, frustrated, tired, none of it.

“i’m sorry,” he mumbled, his arms lazily wrapping around your hips to try and lay you down with him, his eyes shutting back closed.

you sighed but couldn’t help the smile that creeped up on your lips, leaning down and laying next to him, letting his arms wrap around you to pull you into a warm embrace. “it’s okay, megs.”

he smiled but hid his face in your neck, his warm breath hitting your skin as his grip on your waist tightened, wanting to keep you as close as possible. “i won’t snore anymore. if i do.. smack me until i wake up.”

you let out a small chuckle at that but nodded in agreement, moving his spiky black hair away from his forehead and pressing a soft kiss there, your arm falling to wrap around him, completely cuddling each other.

“okay, will do.”

“..i love you.”

“i love you too, baby. goodnight, megs.”

a/n : this was so cute, i love megumi ❤︎︎ !!!

hes so freakin’ dumb and cute i love him.

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk x reader #jjk fanfic #jjk fluff #fushiguro megumi #jjk megumi #jujutsu megumi #megumi x reader #jujutsu kaisen megumi #megumi x you #megumi x y/n #megumi fluff #fluff #female reader #f reader #i love him hes so cute #i wish he was real #i need megumi irl

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sunparadiso · 12 hours ago

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don’t save him he don’t wanna be saved

college student caleb x college slut reader/smut-slight angst?

We’ve all heard the old saying: men love hoes. And Caleb is no exception.

Everyone thinks he’s a sweet boy. He’s super friendly, so thoughtful and generous. He’s the kind of guy parents want their kids to be friends with, such a well-mannered young man with a spotless GPA. He gets along with practically everyone-he’s the best guy to go party with, never got too drunk to be useless and never too sober to be a buzzkill. Girls always gravitate towards him and if they weren’t drunk caleb would spend the night playing wingman.

Thus to everyone, sweet and kind boys like Caleb deserved a good girl, a kind of girl he could take back home to his granny. The kind of girl a guy like caleb could marry. And to everyone, you’re definitely not that girl.

You were a different kind of trouble. Unbelievably attractive, and so incredibly easy.

The guys he hangs out with occasionally are so quick to pull up your track history as if Caleb wasn’t already ignoring the group chat they put him in.

-yk the basketball team ran a train on her in their hotel room right after nationals?

-I think my plug is smashing her too dude i see them riding around and shit

-weed been extra good tho i won’t lie

-lmaoo cal bro u kiss her ur kissing a 1000 dicks

-ong dude hit and quit that immediately

-frr get your piece and let her goooo she’s not the one for u trust me

But caleb doesn’t want to let you go :(

Much to the disappointment of everyone around him, he likes you..a lot, and he feels almost too old to be having a crush, but it sums up what he’s been feeling. He couldn’t pass up the opportunity to get close to you when he sees you're in the same physics lab. Every Thursday from 5-8pm, he's pushing his chair closer to yours, enough to drown in the sweetness of your perfume. Burning up from your smile when you laugh at his dumb jokes. Trying not to stare too long at your ass when go up and ask the TA a question. Finally locking in and getting the work done when he starts bricking up in his sweats imagining what the lip you bite on tastes like as you crunch numbers on his calculator.

Truth is, he quite enjoys the fact that you're highly experienced. Virgins just don’t do it for him, a self realization he comes to learn when he finally does get a taste of you. Why find somebody so amateur when he has you? A pretty girl with a cute smile that knows exactly what to do with his dick.

How could he let you go when you suck his cock sooo good? You love that it’s fat, love the struggle of getting it down your throat, immediately choking, eyes getting glossy with tears. It really inflates his ego when your throat lets out violent gurgles, filling up his room. "a-ah-damn baby keep goin'” You’re slurping up your drool oozing down his cock all over the short hairs at the base, and caleb loves the sound of it, sopping with your spit and his pre decorating your tongue. Slick pink muscle lapping at his cockhead as you look at him all cute, teasing the blunt end, coaxing for his nut that’s he’s shaking on his elbows. Right when he’s close, you suck his balls fisting him quickly, suckling on them as they tighten up against your lips and ducking your tongue down on the little patch of skin above his ass. “yeahyeah-get me there gorgeous o-oh-fuckk babe ‘m cummin’ -” You’re quick to envelop your mouth around him and he sees white, shooting quick and thick ropes, twitching on your tongue sending load after load and he watches your throat bob, swallowing him. Caleb shamelessly kissing you hard after, nice and sloppy with his tongue tasting the semibitterness of his seed on your lips. Who cares? it’s his dick in your mouth now.

So what if others got a taste before he did? It’s not like your body remembers them anyway. Pretty pussy all warm and tight. Struggling to take him as if you’ve never been fucked before. “fuuckk caleb-‘s too much” you whine on his dick as you bounce on it, the fat ass plastered all over your instagram jiggling on his lap as you come down. He can’t get enough of it, his large hands meeting your skin in slow and loud smacks. So damn soft and supple, he’s grabbing handfuls to spread and watch your stretched out hole devour him. “alll for you baby-‘n you’re takin’ it -nice and-ngh deep h-ah you like that?” Pussy fluttering each time you sink down, gushing cream that forms a wet ring at the base of his cock. You begged to take him raw and that’s why you're the best, so eager to feel him. Letting his bare tip rub the gooey spot deep in your guts. Letting him kiss your cervix and feel your sticky walls spasm. You’re so fucking wet-wetter than your throat and he feels like he’s drowning, losing his cock in your little water park that can’t help the noise.

His name drags out of your mouth like a wail and it only makes him raise his hips up to meet you, “o-oh-fuck me caleb-harder- yesss ‘s so deep-” He gets you louder, let his stupid friends hear that he’s got you now and you're not going anywhere. Those guys were never his friends though, that much is clear.

Whatever. Caleb reckons your previous hook-ups never made you finish. Decides to take you in missionary just so he can see what they haven’t, toying with your clit under his fingers and watching you play with your tits as he drills your hole, “wanna feel you cum beautiful-fuckk yeah baby- cum on your dick- mhmm-‘s yours” It takes everything in him not to bust first, the way you writhe under him , spreading your legs wider to take more drives him crazy. You sound so fucking sexy when your build up peaks that it’ll play in his head for weeks. God your greedy little pussy latches onto him like a vice, like it’s desperate for his load. Your pretty mouth gets to begging for it too, begging for him to make this pussy his. Fuck he wants to-so so bad. He has no choice but to cum deep inside you, letting you feel his cock twitch, his heartbeat rubbing up on your walls as he empties into you. Yeah he’ll gladly make this pussy his, for life, and nobody can change his mind.

The only thing he wish he could change was what happens after you fuck. You let him wipe you down and get you water. You let him spoon you in bed and watch Tiktoks on your phone. But everytime caleb wants to make plans for a date- to take a step towards something permanent with you, you're sliding out of bed putting your clothes on, telling him you have plans with friends or you're going home for the weekend. It’s like you're here with him, but just a touch away and he can’t get close.

It keeps him up late sometimes, staring absentmindedly through his window lost in his thoughts about you and him. But then it clicks one night when he realizes he’s watching you in a tiny jean skirt hop on the back of some guy’s obnoxiously loud motorcycle, zooming out of the parking lot. It makes him blink several times just to make sure he’s not imagining it. Huh? There’s someone else..?

But who?

#love and deepspace #lads caleb #caleb x reader #caleb smut #lads smut #my fics #first day in caleb country don’t jump me :p

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caleignii · 2 days ago

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PossessiveMechanic!Caleb/Reader

mentions of: smut, dubcon, kidnapping, somnophilia, stalking, p in v, possessive behavior, mouth spitting, cumming, breeding, abuse (?), masturbation, rough sex, orgasm, praising kink, sexual overstimulation, use of drugs, minor violence, probably panty sniffer, stockholm syndrome (?), yandere tendencies, forced pregnancy, caleb is totally a pervert.

summary: reader moves into a new town, unexpectedly ran to a hot guy who seems unharmful, that later on developed an obsessive behavior towards her.

a/n: english is not my first language so bear w/ me. :3

MDNI 18+

“Ughhh what now!”, you mumbled as you repeatedly start your car engine, only to it not responding.

Moving out is so stressful, having to go back to your old home to collect the things you've left behind, it's such a hassle and definitely getting on your very last nerves!

On the other hand, you couldn't help but feel a sigh of relief, moving onto a new town with scenery so breathtaking you could almost feel like your soul has been taken into the depths of cloud nine. The town was small but lively, and you loved that it felt safe or so you thought.

You're on your way back to drop off your last belongings and couldn't wait to rest, because of the entire week of you going back and forth. On your way home, your car decided to not be cooperative making you stuck in the middle of the town's street. You were still on the shoulder, trying to Google what the hell might have happened to your car, when a soft knock was heard in your window.

“Heyyy, I couldn't help but notice that you've been here in 'yer car for quite a while now, is something wrong?”

You stopped on your tracks noticing the tall, astonishing looking man that wore denim pants along with his white tank top that surely flexes his well built biceps, with a concerned look squinting down into your window.

You couldn't help but to stare at his sunset looking eyes that really lured your attention to, something about it somehow made your tummy tickles. “Miss?”

Lost in your thoughts the man seems to be worried since you're not responding who's clearly captivated by his looks. “Oh yeah uhmm, it's just my stupid car... I think there's something wrong with it”, “Do you think I could help ya'? 'm pretty good at fixing things if you may ask.” with a boyish smile, you couldn't help but to accept his offer.

I mean why not? Having a handsome and muscular guy helping you fix your car while looking so hot and delicio—, what the hell am I saying!? You screamed internally as you carefully observed how his hands glides thru the car engines for who knows whatever he's doing.

“Sooo what's a pretty girl doin' in here? Never seen you around before.” He asked, looking at you while continuing his duty. “I just moved in here for quite some time now, just finishing up my new home.” he hummed at your response.

Later that day, you've learned that the man who helped you was Caleb, you felt lucky after he said that he was the town’s only mechanic—a tall, easy-smiling man with grease on his hands and dimples deep enough to drown in.

Looking at the paper he handed earlier with his number written on it, he said in case your car acts up again. Remembering how he fixed your car earlier that day and refused to charge for labor.

“You’re new here,” he said with a shrug, “Consider it a welcome gift.” you stupidly smiled as the memories of earlier flooded back in.

You two became surprisingly close after that incident on how both of you met. Him occasionally showing up in your home, sometimes showing up unannounced with his usual sweet, boyish grin.

And the worst part? You let him every. single. time., ignoring the strange prickle so close to your neck, waiting to be weave in any seconds like a ticking bomb.

The first time he came to your house, it was just a social call—at least, that’s what it looked like. Besides, nothing could go wrong. right?

There was a knocked mid-morning with a white box from the local diner in Caleb's hand. Inside were apple turnovers and a note in careful cursive: Best in town. Ask Caleb if you don’t believe me.

You blinked, surprised. “You didn’t have to—”

“I didn’t. I wanted to.” He grinned. After receiving it, you invited him inside.

He stood awkwardly in the entryway, looking around like he was trying to memorize every inch. The visit was short. Friendly. He made a few jokes, complimented the paint colors, told her he’d grown up a few blocks away.

You told yourself it was nothing. Just small-town kindness.

“I figured you hadn’t gotten the lay of the land yet,” he said. “This place’s got good folks, if you know where to look.”

Both of you chatted not noticing the darkness that is settling in. Sometimes he would ask some questions like: “Do you like your new home?”, “Did you met any of our neighbors?” or even becoming bolder such as, “Sooo are you single?” which totally left you flustered.

After he left, you can't help but feel a strange feeling that seeps in your stomach, is this what they call butterflies in your stomach?

The next week, he showed up again.

This time, he had tools.

“Your mailbox is leaning,” he explained, already halfway into the project before you answered the door. “One strong wind and it’ll be flat. I had a spare post. Figured I’d help.”

You didn’t know how to say no. Not when he looked so sincere! Not when he smiled like he meant it.

And then the pattern started.

Every few days, he was there. Fixing things. Pointing out things even you didn’t know needed fixing.

Your porch light flickered once? The next day, it was replaced.

Your garden hose had a kink?—sure he left a new one just for you.

You found him once crouched in the side garden, dirt on his knees, pulling up the withered flowers.

“This place deserves to be kept nice,” he said.

Hesitation and anxiety starts creeping in every inch of your skin, as you began to feel trapped by his kindness. He never asked to come in—he just offered help. And always with that same half-smile, that practiced ease. It made you feel crazy for feeling watched. Paranoid.

Convincing yourself he was just lonely. Just sweet. Just a friendly guy who always has your back

But then came the incident with the door.

Certain you'd locked it that morning. But when you returned from work, it was slightly ajar. Nothing stolen. No signs of forced entry.

Only a coffee mug washed and placed back in the wrong cabinet.

Heart thudded as you stood in the kitchen, mug in hand. Told yourself you must’ve misremembered. That it was nothing.

You started cataloging every detail of your home like a detective in your own life.

Even taking photos of each room before you left for work. Marked the position of your silverware, shampoo bottles, the books on the shelf. You made a spreadsheet of timestamps and room temperatures and light bulb wattages.

“Am I losing it?” you stammered, feeling uneasy and stressed on current happenings.

“You said the mug moved?” Tara asked during lunch. “Maybe you did it and forgot.”

You smiled tightly, didn’t bother explaining. How could I make someone understand that it wasn’t just one thing? It was a thousand small things, like threads being plucked, one by one, until the whole fabric started to fray.

The toaster would be unplugged when I came home, though I never unplugged it.

My laundry would be a little too folded, neater than you ever managed.

The smell of someone else’s cologne would linger for a second too long in the hallway.

Until a week later, when Caleb stopped by unannounced again, tool bag slung over one shoulder.

“Thought I’d fix the outlet near your sink,” he said, already halfway through the door.

“I don’t remember asking about that,” you said.

“No, but I noticed it,” he replied, tapping the wall. “Could be a hazard. Water 'n electricity, y’know?”

You felt a hint of hesitation—but still let him in.

He moved through the kitchen casually, too casually, like he knew it better than he should. He knelt, tinkered with the wall. As you watched him the entire time, arms crossed.

He worked in silence for a while.

“Hey Pips, can I use your bathroom for a sec'?” the man says as he was leaning on your door frame.

He was gone ten minutes.

Too long.

You stood at the edge of the hall, listening. No flushing. No water. Wondering what else he could be doing taking so much time.

“Hey Caleb, are you good? You've been there for 10 minutes is something wrong?” you slightly raised the volume in your throat, abruptly knocking on the door.

When he finally stepped out, he smiled. “Yeah 'm sorry about that, just had a lil' tummy ache that's all.” Both of you went back in the kitchen shortly after that.

And you not noticing the slightly gap between the drawer where you put all your used undies and other clothes. You have so much underwear, two pairs missing shouldn't be a problem right? right.

Later that night, something inside of you just snapped. An ominous feeling on the back of your head that you kept ignoring but failed to do so. You can't help but to feel like you're being watched by some unknown.

So the very next day, you made your way into the mall, bustling every store you can that promotes security cameras.

A new camera system you had bought—high-end, cloud connected, motion sensors. You set up four cameras outside and six inside.

For a week, nothing happened.

Then, one night, all the cameras went black.

Simultaneously.

When you checked the footage, it had been wiped. Completely clean. Not a second of stored data. As if someone had never wanted them there to begin with.

You didn’t sleep that night. As you sat in the hallway with back to the wall, a knife clutched in your hands, waiting for a sound. Any sound.

None came.

But you knew he had been there.

Not just because of the cameras.

Because her toothbrush was wet.

After a long hours of work you've lost track of the time, and now you're here walking home in the dark as you keep yourself cautious and wary of your surroundings. As you were walking you couldn't help but hear footsteps joining with you, but as you turned back you saw nothing. no one. maybe you're just too naive and too dumb to notice the figure creeping behind the walls.

It happened fast. Too fast.

Before you know it, large arms embraced you from behind keeping you from moving away. “Let go of me! HELP!” You yelped, adrenaline rushing in to you as you tried to squirm.

“Shh shh, it's okay princess you have me now.” as the man behind coos thinking that maybe, just maybe it'll sooth your panicked nerves.

“NO! STOP! PLEASE SOMEONE HELP ME!” thinking you could escape, you kicked him on his knees, but falls into nothing.

“Aggressive aren't we? You left me no choice then, Pips” with that he took out a cloth from his pocket, shoving it onto your nose.

“No pwease, dwont do dwis” your muffled voices slowly vanishing into thin air, as darkness engulfs your sight.

“Sweetdreams my baby, you know that I love you a little bit too much right.” as Caleb nuzzles in your unconscious body, feeling the warmth and softness of your tender skin.

When you woke up, you find yourself laid on bed that you sure that isn't yours.

There's an invincible force keeping you pinned. You couldn't move.

You're in a state of confusion.

Panicked and scared.

As the blurred vision in your eyes began to fade, you tried to ease yourself by looking down only to realize that you're wide open, naked, legs stretched out. Noticing the white liquid slowly dripping in your cunt down to your thighs, it was extremely a lot that it's nearly pooling between your ass and the bed.

Too focused on examining yourself, you didn't notice the door creaking in followed by a calculated steps.

“Finally up hmm?” Caleb walked towards the bed, “I was worried I put a lot of dosage that made you unconscious for a day” the bed shifted as he sat beside you.

“'m sorry baby.” he gently caresses your cheeks. “Caleb release me right now.” you demanded firmly and cold, but ineffective to hide the scared tone in your voice.

“Or what? What'cha 'gon do 'bout it, Pipsqueak? Call the cops?” he threatened, faint chuckle was heard after.

“I want to go home please, I'll give you whatever you want. Money, you want money right? Just please let me go” trying to hold back the tears that can fall down any second. “Silly but you're in home, our home”.

“I don't care about your money, do you not get it? It's you. I want you.” he blurted with an airy voice.

“No! I don't want this y—”

“Stop playing with me, we both know you're lying when you have your pussy here so soaked in here because of my cock.” as he traces your wet cunt with his cum still on the inside leaking out, from him fucking you multiple times while you were still knocked out.

“D'ya like my present?” he kept humping your lower half, until you felt something on his pants slowly arising.

“Why don't'ya be a good girl f'me hmm? I'll give you anything. everything.” as he was buckling his belt off, removing his pants along with his boxers that clearly has a stain of his pre-cum, turned on from the sight of you wide open for him still immobilized by his Evol's doing.

“Caleb, please don't do this to me.” you pleaded to him, glazed eyes looking at him praying to every gods to convince him to spare you.

But to Caleb, how can he stop himself when you're looking at him with those cute doe-eyes? It's your fault for being so adorable, that he lost all his control from keeping you captive, caged, away from anyone and everyone else. Just for him to see, to feel, to hear, to taste. They don't even deserve to breathe the same oxygen as you? He thought.

“My name isn't a safe word, y'know?” without a warning, he plunged himself deep inside you.

You swore your vision faltered as soon as he drilled his hard cock in your walls so wet, you can even hear the squelching so loud.

Plap Plap Plap

“So tight f'me. 'y so wet and you...nghhh said you didn't want this?” as he continued to fuck your brains out.

You feel your body easing up as his Evol starts to soften around you, allowing you to arch your back from the extreme pleasure you're receiving.

“Nggghhh...Caleb ahh s-slow please” gasping as of the lack of air you're getting in. “Can't aha...p-leasee” poor mind can't even produce coherent words from being too cock-drunk.

“Shhh...y'can take it yeah? I know you can baby.” huff huff huff was heard across the room along with the sounds of skin slapping.

His hard cock goes deep inside your pussy kissing your cervix multiple times, he watches how his member disappears—going in and out. in. out. in. out. in. out. Which evidently turned him on even more. “Fuuuckkk mmmhh”.

He descended towards your head, body-weight definitely crushing you down, his hands serving as a necklace in your neck. He doesn't squeeze, just holding it indicating that he's the one in-charged here.

“Look at you, moaning so loud f'me. Do I feel that good hmm?” as he licks your neck, even biting it that'll definitely leave a mark.

He didn't like that he was being ignored, so he pinned your neck down nearly choking you—using his other hand to slap you in the face.

“Answer me pretty or you'll be punished even more, wouldn't want that right?”

Unable to comprehend Caleb's words from being fucked out, you just nonsensically responded to him whatever it is on your mind. Your mind however, feels like you're above the clouds, drawn at the ecstasy that made you so high you don't even give a single care at the world; forgetting the defiance you showed from him awhile ago. You just wanted to cum.

“Caleebbb...pleasepleaseplease aaghhnnh. I do anything pweasee.” you whined at him, eyes rolled back, you surely are close. Feeling a hard knot building up below your belly button.

As your mouth agape, drool escaping your lips, Caleb spat on your mouth. His saliva mixing with yours watching as you obediently swallowed it without any protest.

“What a good girl you are. You're mine. You're my good girl” he slammed his lips into yours, resulting a messy and sloppy kiss. His tongue freely exploring you as his thrust became even faster, the speed so inhumane you doubt if he even is a human.

“Gon' cummm, gon' cum, ahaahh...nghh Calebb.” the lewd sounds you're making was enough to make his control vanish.

“Yeahh? You want my load so bad? Such a good girl.” unable to control himself, he shoots his cum deep inside your womb, still moving slowly as both of your juices mixed.

You had a chance to breathe properly as he pulled out his cock, watching his semen oozing out in your pretty little pussy. For a moment heavy pants filled the room, body twitching from the previous orgasm, closing your eyes as you sensed the exhaustion consuming your body.

You're finally drifting off to sleep, buuut Caleb has other plans.

“Not yet baby, uh-uh the night is still young, yeah?” as he followed the trail of his cum using his dick, shoving it right back to where it should belong.

“Have to make sure 'yer pregnant, so that you'll never leave me alone hmm.”

You sure have to brace yourself, 'cuuzz it'll be a long night for you~

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wheneverfeasible · 3 days ago

Text

Mother’s Day

Below is a little thing I wrote just now to try to process my own emotions surrounding Mother’s Day and the pain of not being loved enough by someone who should have loved you unconditionally. So excuse any typos because it’s not really edited yet lol. It did admittedly become more Steddie focused though lol what can I say, even in emotional turmoil these little gay idiots are my brain rot.

wc: 1.8k || rating: T || warnings: child neglect, toxic mothers, dead mothers, difficult relationships with mothers/parents

Steve waited a respectful distance away as Eddie knelt at his mother’s grave. A year ago, Eddie had been fighting for his life, had been so gravely injured that no one really expected him to make it, to survive. He coded at least three separate times those first few months, and each time Steve had to watch the way Dustin and Eddie’s uncle began preparing for the worst.

Miraculously, however, he did it. Eddie pulled through. Eddie lived.

It took some doing, but they even got the charges against Eddie dropped with the help of the prodigal Hopper, back from the dead and about to make it every government and city officials’ problem. He tore into Powell for allowing the town to put out a witch hunt, for indicating that Eddie could be guilty with no evidence that Eddie even touched Chrissy.

Powell quietly stepped down, willingly taking a leave of absence, and Hopper stepped right back into his role as Chief of Police as a resident hero. It became much smoother sailing for the Munsons after that, especially after the Carvers left down after the death of Jason and bad publicity from his apparent lunacy.

Eddie still had much to overcome, however, having had half his guts chewed to bits, and his physical therapy was long and arduous. He at least had company in the form of Max, recipient of metal implants in her body to fix her shattered bones, though even now her eyesight had yet to return.

Steve helped them, of course, because he didn’t know what else to do with himself. Robin and Vickie were getting along swimmingly now and Steve knew she needed her own space to work out what that all meant, so he had plenty of free time.

Plus, the little brats were at the hospital every spare second of their day to visit both Max and Eddie, and they frequently needed a ride. Nancy and Jonathan helped out sometimes in that regard, but more often than not it was Steve. He didn’t mind, however. Having come so close to losing Max, Steve liked to keep an eye on her as well.

And then there was Eddie.

Eddie was something…different.

He was a friend, certainly, but Steve knew that had none of this happened, they probably never would have become friends quite like they were now. He was also aware that, now that things were finally and truly over thanks to Eleven—Jane—that Eddie had no reason to want to hang out with someone like him.

Except Eddie always seemed happy when Steve peeked through the doorway with a little finger wave, face lighting up in delight and proudly proclaiming to his uncle that he wouldn’t have survived without Steve’s help, much to Steve’s embarrassment.

Steve’s parents, miraculously, returned to town. Steve had thought, perhaps, they’d finally pay attention to his injuries. That they’d see the hospital bill and the antibiotics Steve had to take and the bloody bandages and the nightmares that wouldn’t leave him alone and just…finally care.

It was wishful thinking.

Steve’s dad set to work trying to take advantage of things for his business, to take over the roles left empty by the “earthquakes” to gather even more influence and resources for himself. Steve’s mom set to volunteering, though always looking picture perfect for the multiple articles about her benevolence in the newspaper.

Steve’s mom was loved in the community, respected, adored. She played her part well. No one except those close to him would ever suspect Steve of being neglected at home, his needs always coming second to his parents’ schemes towards their public image. Nevermind that his father’s cheating was an open secret, or that his mother could cut someone down and have them cast out of the social elite with just a few words.

Steve had learned at a young age that he would never be either of his parents’ priority.

Seeing Wayne, unashamed tears in his eyes, clasping Eddie’s hand from where he sat at his bedside day and night as he recovered wasn’t the first crack but it was definitely a significant one for Steve to finally see how parents should treat their children.

Did he even really have parents? Were the Harringtons truly his family? Or was it the ragtag bunch who, despite the constant bickering and snarky comments and insults, had his back when things mattered? Who put bands on his face, held ice to his head, tore their own clothing to form bandages, who bared their souls to him in shitty public restrooms, who smiled when they saw him like they were genuinely happy to see him?

When Steve left his house for the final time, he didn’t even think his parents noticed. He honestly still didn’t know. When he showed up on Robin’s doorstep with his single duffle bag of items, she didn’t hesitate to bring him in with a smile on her face that said she was proud of him for finally making himself a priority.

Her parents didn’t feel quite comfortable with him staying there, however, so he hopped around and stayed with the Hopper-Byers who accepted him without a word after he explained things to them. Joyce was still wary of him a bit, he could tell, because of his past altercations with her children, but she didn’t turn him away.

It was a little uncomfortable staying with the boy your ex-girlfriend left you for and his entire family, however, so Steve somehow found himself staying with the Munsons as well. Which worked out, honestly. As part of their hush money promise, the government had purchased them a small two bedroom house in one of the areas left undamaged by the earthquakes, the previous residents having left the cursed town for good.

And that was…weird, but mostly weird because it wasn’t. At first it had been, sure. But he’d gotten so used to Eddie and his uncle while Eddie was still in the hospital that it really didn’t change things up too much. Plus, Steve being there allowed Wayne to return to work, and Steve helped Eddie to and from his physical therapy and anything else he needed.

And so they got closer.

And closer.

Until one night Steve didn’t have to sleep on the couch.

In the morning, there had been chaos. Or he thought it would be chaos. He’d been ready to jump up and protect Eddie when Wayne found them curled up in bed together, was preparing himself for hateful words and hard fists. He’d been terrified, but thought to give Eddie enough time to make his escape, except…

Wayne just sighed out ‘finally’ and told them breakfast was on the table.

Robin punched him in the arm later when he told her, but since she was sporting a hickey on her neck barely covered up by her blouse, he figured she didn’t have much room to talk.

When Eddie finally felt well enough, there was talk of taking a trip. Eddie wanted to get out of town for a while and Steve honestly couldn’t blame him. Steve thought a change in scenery would do well for both of them, especially when Steve kept seeing his parents around town and being hailed as benevolent heroes of the community for their volunteer work and (taxable) donations, yet they never looked for him.

When they did see him, their eyes skimmed away like Steve was nothing more than a stranger to them. Perhaps he was. Perhaps he had always been a stranger in his own house.

Summer was once more fast approaching. Having received his GED last year, Eddie was ready to get the hell out of town before the school year ended, especially since he wanted to visit somewhere specific first.

His mother’s grave.

Eddie told him late one night under the covers, his fingers absentmindedly tracing through Steve’s chest hair, that the last time he flatlined, the time everyone finally thought that that was it, he saw his mother again.

He didn’t know if it was a hallucination or maybe a glimpse into the other side, everything was possible now he supposed, but she looked as beautiful as she did before she got sick and crushed him to her body. She had whispered how much she loved him, how proud of him he was, but that it wasn’t his time yet. She had told him he deserved to be loved and that he would find it soon, that it was closer than he thought, and she would always be with him.

Eddie had looked up onto Steve’s eyes from where his head rested on his shoulder and smiled, saying that his mom had been right. Love was closer to him than he’d ever thought possible. It was the first time Eddie told him he loved him, the first time Steve told him the same, and Steve knew then that this was what home was supposed to be like.

Watching Eddie now, whispering his final goodbyes he never got the chance to say and telling his mom how right she had been, Steve felt an ache in his chest. He felt guilty as well, or rather he felt guilty that he didn’t feel guilty.

He wished he could change places with Eddie, felt jealous of him, wished that his mom had loved him even if it meant she was dead too. Had his mother ever told him she loved him? He honestly couldn’t remember.

He felt like a terrible person for thinking such things, but the ache in his chest was still too raw, still too painful. Especially on today of all days.

“Happy Mother’s Day, mom,” Eddie whispered, one beringed hand clasping onto her headstone, tears evident in his voice. “Goodbye.”

Steve was there in an instant, arm around Eddie’s waist to help him up as he steadied himself on his cane. Eddie smiled at him, thankful and loving, even as tears rolled down his cheeks. Steve gently kissed them away, feeling Eddie’s expression soften beneath his lips.

“She would have loved you,” he whispered, allowing Steve to guide him back to the car.

Steve kissed Eddie’s head as he helped the man settle in the passenger seat, watching the way his eyelids flutter, emotional and physical exhaustion taking its toll. He glanced back at the grave, and for a split moment, he thought he could almost see a sparkle of light and feel a mother’s love.

“Thank you for loving him,” he whispered. “I’ll take care of him now, I promise.”

Maybe Steve’s mother would never love him the way he wanted her to, but as Steve drove off towards the rising sun, hands clasped with the man he loved, he allowed himself to heal just a little more. The ache may never leave him, but he wasn’t alone anymore. And he never would be again.

ao3

Hostage Hotties (open):

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#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #steve harrington has bad parents #angst #steve harrington angst #steve harrington emotional whump #anti mothers day #plot thots

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