#THIS WAS JUST SITTING IN MY DRAFTS FOR A WHILE

[musingsofheaven]

TEN SECONDS TO RUN

summary: The trend said run from your cop boyfriend. You sent him a video as a joke, but you didn’t think he’d make you run. So you run with a ten-second head start.

pairings: cop!rafe cameron x afab!reader

warnings: 13.9k words. mature themes. consensual non-consent (cnc). dubious consent. primal play. unprotected p-in-v. uniform kink. breathplay (light choking). spanking. clit stimulation. nipple play. mock resistance. degradation / praise kink. overstimulation. cockwarming. outdoor sex. light exhibitionism. impact play. power imbalance. d/s dynamics. read & consume responsibly.

note: hi!!! this has been sitting in my drafts for weeks now :// it took me forever to finish. it’s based on that trend from tiktok. please read the warnings carefully and only continue if you’re in the right headspace bcs your comfort comes first always :) ♡

If five years ago someone told you that you would live with your boyfriend of four years, you would laugh at them because you love having your own place and don’t like the idea of living together unless you are married already. And here you are, living with him. It’s been three years since you started living in this town, and it has been longer than you planned. It’s already long enough for you to get comfortable in the place. The air and environment are fresh and smell like grass and woodsmoke. You and Rafe have a house close to the forest. It’s nothing fancy, but it has a cute porch and a backyard that faces the woods. Close enough to hear the birds at dawn or when you wake up. The house is far enough from the other houses so no one really sees what’s happening in or outside of the house.

It’s domestic, soft, and steady in a way you’re still not used to, especially since you came from a city, which is loud and where time moves fast compared to being here. Rafe told you before that he used to live on some island or near the water; he doesn’t really talk about his past. Not that you press much about it since you respect his boundaries. He managed to pick up work with the sheriff’s department in a sleepy county where no one really runs and no one really fights, so it’s like they’re just protecting the peace and quiet here.

He has the badge and the uniform and gets free coffee at the diner. Everyone says he’s cleaned the town up, which is something to be proud of considering he’s kind of new to the town. It’s not like he found enemies already, but some men from the sheriff’s department envy him, and women from this town love him. But you know what he really is. He is restless, wired for something, a man who needs a target, and someone who wants to protect others. Especially you, since you are his top priority, and you’ve always been good at making yourself the center of his attention.

Before you know it, he has already left for his morning shift before 8 AM. He’s quiet about it and didn’t wake you up, just gave you soft kisses on your temple and boots low on the hardwood. You’re stirring awake when he closes the door shut and the sun touches your sheets. It doesn’t take you long enough before you walk barefoot towards the kitchen in a tank top and shorts, too lazy to get out of your night clothes. It feels too sleepy when you boil hot water and you scroll while waiting. Watch some clips that keep showing the same trend the whole time she’s waiting for water.

FYP plays it like a loop. You see girls running in spandex. They’re breathless, laughing, and glancing back as they run. Some of them don’t even show they got caught, but there’s the implication of it. Even now you pour the boiled water on your coffee, and you still see the same five videos again. Just click the heart button and scroll away, but you didn’t just heart it. You know you shouldn’t, but you are stubborn, and the trend reminds you of Rafe. So you tap share, scroll, tap his name in your contacts, and send it.

It doesn’t have any additional text or emoji, just the video. Then you put your phone face down like it’ll make you innocent again. Just try to ignore your phone for hours because you feel like you just sent something embarrassing and you’ll regret it. So you let it sit there while hours stretch. You cleaned, you read, and you did everything that needed to be done in the house. But it didn’t really last; curiosity is eating you, and your itching hands check your phone once only to see the seen under your message, nothing else, and your stomach tightens.

You shower, do your skincare routine, and do all the beauty things that you always do to stay pretty for him. You distracted yourself because there’s no knock, no call, and no message. Just wearing your favorite faded shirt- no bra underneath- and black cotton short shorts that cling around your thighs and ass and ride up. You tell yourself that you wear them because they’re comfortable, not because Rafe finds them sexy, even though they’re not the lingerie-level sexy. Maybe it’s because of all the clothes you wear; he still finds you sexy and beautiful.

After some time, you set the table and cook food for dinner, and it’s almost dark when you hear tires and sounds from the car outside. The door clicked open, boots across the kitchen. You don’t turn, but you know it’s him. “Smells good,” he says, voice rough and deep. Still in his uniform, and the scrape of Velcro rings in your ear as he pulls off his vest from his body. Walking towards you, his hand slides around your waist to hold you close, and his mouth is on your neck. “Missed you,” he whispers as he grazes his lips on your skin and gives it small kisses. “Missed you too,” you say back to him before you pull out of his hold and sit on the chair across from his seat. This night feels off, but not at the same time. It’s normal. Too normal. He doesn’t even mention the video and doesn’t tease you like he usually does. He just eats quietly while you try to read to him.

The whole dinner, he never mentioned it. He just talked about his day and how annoying the other officer at work is. How lunch tastes like shit since you’re not the one who made it. Even when you cleaned the table and dishes, nothing. Then, ten minutes later, when you’ve convinced yourself he forgot, he leans against the counter with arms crossed. His eyes flicked down your legs. Then up. “What was that video about?” he asks. Tone low, flat, not angry, and not playful. It’s just quiet in a way that you will feel something is off. Your body straightens before you realize, and fingers tighten around the plate. You blink, trying to play dumb. That will work. Yeah, it will. “What video?” His head tilts. Oh, so you will go that route. You’re not getting out of this. He saw it at 9:41 a.m., boots on the dash, sun on his thighs, and the notification ping: Baby ❤️ sent a video. He opened it without thinking; anything from you will always get his attention.

As it played, something in him stirred because of the caption in the video saying, “Just conditioning to outrun my cop boyfriend.” The woman is giggling, carelessly running ahead without glancing back. His mouth dried as he watched it, fingers locking on the wheel. You weren’t a TikTok girl. He knows you don’t do videos that are on the trend. And he knows you didn’t send shit like this unless it meant something. He stared at it for a full minute. Then tapped the sound and scrolled just to see more girls running and getting caught. The comments nearly made him lose it. People commenting things like “My bf tackled me into the grass” or “He chased me barefoot in the woods.” He should be guilty, but his cock twitched behind the belt, and he has no shame. Jerking himself raw in the cruiser while picturing your breath catching, thighs flashing as you disappear into the tree line. He’d actually thought about it before while his teeth were on your shoulder: ‘You ever think about running from me, baby?’ But he bit it back and didn’t say it out loud because he didn’t know if you were ready. Now, after that video, it’s like an opening for him.

He steps forward in your direction. “That video,” he says again. Slower and heavier. “That cop boyfriend one. Where the girlfriend runs.” His tone is serious, and it makes your stomach pull tight knots. You say nothing, feel your mouth getting dry, your skin too warm and flushing, and your thighs pressing together. He doesn’t touch you, doesn’t raise his voice, but his presence presses in the whole house. It eats you in and almost suffocates you. “You sent it to me.” Your fingers twitch before you put the last plate inside the rack, and your knuckles tighten. “Oh, that?” you say, voice too airy. “I dunno. It’s just a trend.” Your laugh is shallow, hoping it sounds like nothing, but his silence answers first. You glance at him, and his jaw is tight.

You try again, hoping he will buy it. Your voice is much softer and sweeter. “I thought it was cute,” you offer. “Made me think of you.” Like that’s the reason, like it’s the only reason. Brow lifting at your words, a twitch that says he knows you’re lying but will not call it out directly. “Cute,” he repeats, like he’s baiting you. Throat bobbing, and eyes want to look away from him, but didn’t. “I wasn’t- I didn’t mean anything by it.” His hum isn’t agreement, just a low sound, like a dog deciding not to bite yet. “Have you been seeing it a lot?” You nod too fast. “Yeah, it kept popping up,” praying to anyone above you to make your boyfriend believe your words, but that seems impossible at the moment. “Hm.” His eyes dip to your oversized shirt riding high, bare thigh under the table.

“And what do they do? Just run?” Your breath wavers. You nod more slowly. “They run, the boyfriend chases, sometimes tackles. It’s dumb,” because it is, and you don’t even know why the trend exists! But… It’s hot at the same time, even if it’s dumb. “It looked serious to me.” The voice is sharper, but not louder, just cutting. “Comments were fucked up.” Your heart kicks. You hadn’t thought he’d read those. “Dragged me back by the ankle,” he quoted and also used both of his hands to show what he read, eyes on yours. “Didn’t even wait to get home.” You let out a brittle laugh. “TikTok people are dramatic.” Take the bait, goddamn it. Why can’t he just believe you? You are not some sort of criminal, hello? There’s no smile on his mouth when you tell him that; you can’t read what mood he is in or what he’s thinking. It’s just the sick silence wrapping around the both of you.

Thumb hooking on his belt, not to remove it but just out of habit, and the shift in the air is so evident. “Did you want to try it?” The breath stutters in your chest. Why would he even ask that? It’s not like you want to be chased like that. You know he will easily catch you, unless you are high on adrenaline. “What?” you manage to say. “I said,” he repeats before asking you again, “did you want to try it?” Your mouth opens again. “I didn’t mean it like that,” quiet words let out from your mouth before you bite your bottom lip between your teeth and take a deep breath. “No?” Your cheeks are warm while you shake your head, embarrassed like you’ve been clocked out. Thighs tensing, pupils wide, and he can see it. His eyes focused on you like he’s watching you like a fucking hawk. Eyes notice the way you move even just a little, how you press your thighs shut, your chest rising more and catching, your lips parting like you want him to kiss you, and how your pretty fingers twitch like something is scaring you. He's known you for four years now; he already knows how to read you like he knows you more than you know yourself. He knows what makes your nerves anxious and shake from excitement. Or when you are just being you, he knows it even when you don’t say things out loud.

Working as a cop is nothing if he can't observe people in a way he needs to; it means he’s not good enough if he can’t be able to read you. Luckily for him, it’s just you. He leans close to you before speaking, voice warm and comforting, “Hey.” His hand brushes from your hips down to the side of your thigh and squeezes it. “You can trust me, yeah?” The words wrap around you, thick with promises you should fear. But it’s only a disguise for something else, you know it. You look up, glassy-eyed, lips parting like you might say yes, maybe, or I don’t know, but nothing comes. God, he’s using his pretty smile against you, again. The smile that always fools other people in this town without knowing what he hid behind those teeth. “I know it looked intense,” he says like he’s trying to reassure you but it comes more like he’s just convincing you. You feel his warm palm that he managed to sneak on the side of your thigh, his touch is not like he’s trying to do something because it looks like he’s just holding you. “I know the way he grabbed her is harsh, but that’s not what I’m asking for.” His thumb rubs slowly. “We wouldn’t do something like that.”

“I wouldn’t hurt you,” he assured you, his voice sounding so sweet and quieter now. “You say stop, I stop. You get too far ahead, and I let you win.” Letting you win tastes like bait. He knows how to catch people, and he’s using it to help you. It’s like cat and mouse; besides, you are the mouse who’s going to get caught. “I promise.” You look down, feeling his fingers tightening on your knees. “I just thought it could be fun,” he says, smoothing it over, “get outside, get some air. “You don’t even have to go far.” That made your eyebrow raise, and you blinked like you knew he was hiding something behind those words. He notices, eyes flickering before he leans in and levels himself down to your height before tucking hair behind your ear. His thumb drags at the edge of your mouth. “I was thinking,” he murmurs softly, “you could run down to that old fence at the tree line.”

“You hit the fence, you win. Game over.” His eyes gleam. “I’ll even wait. Give you a ten-second head start.” Your lashes lower, a small nod following, not a real yes, but enough because you want to believe it’s a game. But it sounds fair at the same time. His offers sound sweet; they’re promising even. He kisses your forehead with the same gentleness and softness he always shows to you. You are his girl after all, you need the best treatment, especially from him. “You trust me, don’t you?” Eyes looking up at him, lashes batting while you’re thinking if you don’t want to try it or you are too shy to admit that you want to do the trend with him. You nod, and that’s all he needs. He rises, fingers brushing his belt, pausing at the door to look back once- soft eyes, familiar mouth- before leaning down, voice nearly kind. “Go ahead, baby,” he whispers. “Tie your shoes.”

When he steps out, back door swinging shut, boots heavy on the porch, you don’t see the way his mouth twists. You feel the coldness of the knob under your fingers when you go upstairs just to change clothes or maybe just to put shoes on. It didn’t take you too long before you got out of the house, and he’s already there waiting for you. The breeze catches his uniform, sleeves rolled, badge glinting- and tugs it against his frame. He hasn’t changed, says he likes the weight of the day on him, and says it reminds him of who he comes home to. His eyes find you instantly. You haven’t changed either, just tied your shoes, and he notices, gaze dragging from your socks to your legs, to your shorts clinging to your hips, to your favorite shirt hanging loose. Your perfume hits him, faint, floral, and curling off your skin.

His head tilts. “…Perfume?” You glance away. “I don’t know, I just… felt like it,” the voice sounded so shy and flushed. Your words actually made him smile- the one that can make your stomach turn upside down. “You wore it for me?” he asks, stepping closer, voice warm, too tender to question. “Even just for a game?” You shrug, helpless. “You were already dressed up.” Heatness found your cheeks as he looked at you with adoration as if he was complimenting you through his eyes. “Hmm.” His smile grows. “Guess I have to make it worth it then.” You shift, nervous but not enough to pull away. He gestures toward the trees, the fence leaning in the dusk. “You see that post? That’s the finish line. No tricks. That’s the end of it. You reach it, it’s over.” He brushes his knuckles to your cheek before making you look up at him, and you do glance up at him with hesitation in your eyes. “Hey,” he says softly. “You can trust me.” You want to. You always do.

“I’m not gonna scare you,” he murmurs. “Just a run. Just you and me.” He presses a kiss to your forehead. It’s soft, and grounding. “I’ll give you ten seconds’ head start, alright?” That’s good, right? Means you will be far from him when you run. “Okay,” you whisper. He backs away, giving you space, like this is still yours. He lifts a finger, smirking. “Ten…” You turn. And run. You don’t use your full speed, not that you try it and you are not much of a running person. Your pace is enough to move away quickly from the house and away from Rafe. The wind touching your skin makes you shiver, but it also feels good because of the good weather. The fence runs closer to your sight as you continue to move your feet, and you can remember how many times you passed by it but you never ran toward it like this.

Your heart pounds. You feel your limbs running like you are in a marathon, him behind you but he’s not running yet. Your feet just continue ahead, not looking back at him. The voices in your head tell you to focus and just run because you are going to win. But in all honesty, you don’t think you do. And behind you, Rafe continues counting with his being loud and you can still hear him. It was so cheerful even. “That’s it, baby! You look good out here!” That actually made you laugh breathlessly. You feel high, nervous, and maybe you’re already twenty yards out as your hair is whipping your face, and your muscles are burning. You’re not sure if it’s effort or anticipation. “Look at you go,” he calls out, It’s like he’s admiring you. “Didn’t think you’d be this fast!” His words make your stomach turn upside down and you giggle. Smile creeping to your face and maybe for one stupid and sweet second, you believe what he’s saying. You pass the garden, lavender brushing your calves, the ground dipping, grass uneven, the fence like a promise.

“Keep going, baby!” Rafe calls, warm on the breeze. “You’re doing so good!” he adds, low, like a hand on your back. You run harder, earth shifting under your feet, packed dirt turning soft, grass thickening, roots tugging at your rhythm. Feet don’t slow. Can’t. You told yourself it was fun, but something’s curling in your gut now, tight, low. “You’re so fast,” he calls, louder. “I’m proud of you, baby.” It sounds like praise. It’s not. You glance back once- just once- and the stretch behind you is empty, but that doesn’t comfort you. Because you know Rafe, how quiet he can be, how patient, and how kind he sounds when he’s about to do something.

The fence is there, old wood that looks fucked up. “Five!” he calls. Your chest tightens; you almost trip. “Four!” he shouts, voice sounds playful. Something in you knows he’s already moving even though you can’t hear the footsteps. “Three!” He continues counting. “You’re almost there!” Your lungs burn. “Two!” A sound breaks out of you, looks like a halfway between a gasp and a sob. You keep working harder, and your arms are pumping. “One!” Silence. Your legs falter, already weakening. The fence is closer but not close enough, and then, from behind, too near now- “There she is,” Rafe stated, voice thick with a grin. “My fast fucking girl.” It sounds proud and tender, like he’s cheering. But something deep in you pulses, that part that doesn’t believe him. Maybe because he sounds like a liar right now.

“You look so pretty when you run,” he calls, expression amused, and feeling aroused. “All flushed and breathless.” Just keep going. Just run. Don't look back. Don’t speak. Continue. There’s a thick air in your throat while trees blur from your eyesight. The path was turning faint. The branches brush your arms when you get too close to them. You keep going, past the garden, past the clearing, past the point you promised you’d stop. Rafe’s voice followed from behind, “God, I love watching you like this,” You don’t know what that was supposed to mean. Watching you run is fun? Watching you squirm and get sweaty and breathless? “You’re making me work for it, huh?” Oh yes, you do. Maybe it’s the adrenaline making you keep running. Maybe it’s your instinct. Maybe it’s fun. Legs are starting to feel tighter as you reach the fence after three more steps. But you didn’t stop. Legs keep moving even though you almost fall because of that stupid rock you didn’t notice, but you are not a quitter so you continue.

You also take that chance to slow down… to bend forward with your hands on your knees to get air that you know is not enough. Chest feels tighter, your legs are starting to shake when you try to catch your breath, and you feel the world is spinning around you. You reached the finish line. Or is that really the finish line? Because it doesn’t feel over. Your lungs burn, your calves ache, your throat is dry, the woods are blurring, feet are slamming harder. Something in you says: Run. So you do. You passed the garden, the tree line, the fence, but you run because your chest knows what your brain won’t say: He’s still coming. He never said what he’d do when he caught you. “Baby,” his voice calls, honey-slick, teasing, echoing off branches.

“You passed it. You got past the fence.” Voice echoing behind you and you can’t figure out what’s his tone he’s using, if he’s sincere or fucking around so you don’t stop. Your body doesn’t believe that voice. Not when your legs are still flying forward, or lungs clawing for air, or heart slamming your ribs like it’s trying to escape. The woods thickened, the last light almost gone. You are deep inside of it now, you just know it. Can’t even the road or the house or the surroundings beside the woods, the fence is gone from your eyesight if you turned around. Each step is just dragging and pulling them at this point, but it doesn’t matter because you are stubborn as fuck. Still proud to stop even when you feel him, maybe it’s your competitive streak that you have in your system. The shirt starts to get damp, and it feels cold and burning in your chest at the same time. Steps get uneven and you walk and run like a person who just got out of a hook up and is doing the hookup shame. Clue: limping. You run like you just get fucked, but God you didn’t… You still run. There's a messed up part of you that wants to keep running not because you want to win, but because you want to get chased by Rafe.

Behind you, Rafe slows, silent, watching you weave through tree trunks like a trembling deer. It’s beautiful to him. You don’t notice how far you’ve gone, how far he’s let you go. That’s the game. He doesn’t want to catch you yet. He wants to watch you run yourself ragged. Want your knees weak before he touches you, want you panting and brainless so when he closes in your body won’t know if it’s fear or relief that makes you fall. The ground dips, your ankle twisting on a root, and you curse under your breath, slower now. Shadows thicken, your body wanting to stop, lungs aching, your mind whispering: just one second. Then- “Still going?” His voice, smooth, amused, curls around a tree ahead.

You flinch, stumble. He’s in front of you now. You don’t know when that happened. But there’s a safe distance and he’s not catching you in his arms. “And you said to me before you are not a runner baby,” he said. You feel his presence looming over you. “This is surprising, actually. Didn’t think you’d make it this far.” You bite your lips, eyes looking up at him with your face sweaty and your hairs close to your forehead is soaked. “But you’re slowing down,” he adds. “Tired already?” You swallow, don’t answer, cold licking up your legs, wanting to move but frozen, and quivering. “You can stop anytime, baby,” Rafe says gently. “All you gotta do is fall.” You want to believe that means safety, that if you stumbled, he’d carry you back home.

But your body doesn’t believe him. Not your lungs, not your legs, and not that deep animal part that remembers how he looked earlier. That part screams: Run. So you do. Get past him and you feel the grass touching your shins. The branch almost makes you stumble and it strikes your thigh, but you don’t feel any pain. At this point you don’t give a fuck anymore. It’s all about adrenaline in your system that is giving you an energy like a redbull drink. Don’t forget how the woods feel unfriendly, it’s thick and dark: you don’t know where you're going to run. You don’t care. All you know is he’s behind you, somewhere, patient, letting you burn yourself out.

Breath starting to hiccup while tears are pooling under your eyes. Pace is unstable like you are some criminal running away from crimes you didn’t commit. Throat tasting like metal and burning. Arms feel heavy as if you carried the world on your shoulders. Behind you, his voice comes- closer than it should. “There she goes,” he teases. “I knew you’d run if I asked nicely.” You don’t dare look back. He sounds far, but Rafe’s a liar, patient, the kind of man who would walk through fire just to feel you melt. “You’re so fucking pretty when you panic,” he calls. It’s not even winding, it’s more like he’s like he’s strolling and has all night. “Keep going, sweetheart. You’re doing so good for me.” You trip over a root, barely recover, and still- you run. Because you know once he’s done watching, he’ll start running too.

And when that happens? You won’t make it far. You know it. It’s only a matter of time before he catches you. Then you hear a branch snap behind you loudly. It’s not just some step that feels powerful but it’s fast and thicker. It’s like the woods feel him and you know you can’t look back because it will slow you down. Mostly because you know you’ll see him. “Alright,” Rafe calls, voice loose and at ease. “You wanna keep going?” He exhales. Sounding sharp, and excited. “Then I’ll run too.” And then- you hear it. The steps. His boots. It’s heavy. It’s fast and trained. You know you’ll lose it because it’s different now. Should’ve just stopped when you reached the fence, what a regret, right? “Oh, baby,” he calls, closer now. “You should’ve fallen when I gave you the chance.”

It’s like your body is screaming already to stop but instead you try to run harder with uneven steps, legs burning, chest aching. Don’t give a shit about drenched in sweat and how your shirt is clinging as your every breath cracks on your ribs. He laughs- like it’s his favorite part. Maybe it is. “Told you to trust me,” he pants, “but you wanted to run.” Another branch snaps, closer, and you sob once, soft, confused, something between panic and something wetter. “You look so fucking scared,” Rafe growls. “You know that?” You trip again, just a little, and enough. He doesn’t pounce. Not yet. He’s close now, your panic bleeding into the dirt. Then he says it with want: “Don’t fall yet, baby.” A pause. “Let me decide when.”

So you didn’t fall because if he catches you, you’re not walking back. You don’t even know how long you’ve been running. It could be thirty minutes or an hour. Maybe less but it feels like it. The woods are getting darker and more dirt is showing, you don’t even notice the branches that make you stumble, but thankfully you don't fall on each branch you fail to notice. And don’t talk about your heart because it’s beating so fast it might punch your ribs to get out or you might be in cardiac arrest. Let’s not forget that the sound of his boots as he goes towards you is on the top list of your most hated things in the world. He talks again just to remind you he’s still here, “You getting tired, baby?” You gasp, throat raw, unable to answer, but your body does- legs buckling, stride faltering, trying to push but too late. You don’t fall because he takes you down. Heat and weight slam into your back, leaves crunching, and your breath is stolen in a ragged cry.

“Fuck,” Rafe snarls into your neck, voice wrecked. “You made me run, sweetheart.” Your cheek grinds into dirt, his hand fisting your shirt, yanking you back. His body shakes- not from effort, but restraint. You feel it in his chest caging your spine, also the hard press of his cock grinding slowly against your ass like it’s claiming. One hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back without asking. His other hand splayed across your belly underneath you. His palm dirty, breath hot in your ear, his forearm brushing under your tits. “You looked so pretty when you ran,” he whispers, all praise, all heat. “So fucking pretty when you get scared.”

The filthiness of his words makes you squirm and it’s shameful to feel it. He tightens. “Ah, ah,” he scolds, before he sits down and drags you with him to sit on his lap like something disobedient. “Where are you gonna go now, baby?” You can’t answer. Your breath’s gone, body loose, raw from running, fear, want. His chest is like a wall at your back, thighs spreading yours, your thin shirt is damp with sweat, and there’s nothing underneath. You don’t fight it. “You wanted this,” he growls, hand clamping your jaw, the other sliding under your shirt, feeling your heat in his palm. His fingers splay wide over your stomach, claiming, then lower, dipping between your legs, finding you wet, open, waiting.

“No panties?” he murmurs, voice like gravel. “No fucking bra either?” You flinch, thighs trying to close, but it’s too late. He knows. “Christ, you really wanted it,” he says, “was gonna be sweet, let you catch your breath, maybe kiss you.” His hand tightens under your chin, the other dragging through your slit like a promise. “But now?” He laughs. It’s low, and mean. “You’re dripping all over my jeans, and you’re still pretending this wasn’t planned?” No it wasn’t planned but you also know it will be just running from the house to the fence and quickly going back probably laughing because he catches you too quickly, but that’s not the narrative right now, isn’t it? “I didn’t mean- Rafe-” He yanks your head back, mouth at your ear. “You shouldn’t’ve sent me that fucking link.”

That link should have stayed there on TikTok, that will save you both a lot of trouble. It will make you just take him softly and pretty in the bed you share, especially at this hour instead of doing this. Your legs twitch, his thigh flexes under you. His hands grinding your hips down so your clothed cunt will rub against denim. The friction is brutal, perfect, and everything you weren’t ready to admit you needed. “You wanna be chased?” he growls. “Wanna be dragged down, split open in the woods like prey?” He ruts slowly, the bulge in his pants obscene, one hand yanking your neckline until your breasts spill free, his palm rough, rolling your nipple. “Fucking tight,” he mutters against your neck. “Still hot from running. This pussy’s starving.” Your voice breaks: “Please-” Lower lip caged between your teeth, thinking about what are you even asking about- the thing is, you don’t know if you want him to fuck you hard or go back inside the house. But the first choice is winning and making you excited by the idea of being here with him and trying this after a long time just being vanilla in bed. “Please what, baby?” he sneers. “Didn’t want me to catch you? Or didn’t want me to stop?”

You whimper. “You ran like you wanted to be taken.” His hand returns between your legs, pushing inside your shorts, two fingers plunging deep, making you jolt, his groan at your heat. “You did this,” he pants. “Sent that video. Wore this little shirt. No panties.” That video is cute, you don’t know it will work him up like this, but maybe he just likes the idea of chasing you in the woods like his prey. “I- I didn’t-” Okay, you might hope something will happen, maybe you got bold that’s why you wore nothing underneath- maybe it’s the sense of something to have him control you like this. You trust him to have you like this. Maybe you are just hiding this side of you underneath many layers of softness. Ever since you started dating him, you know that he’s the kinda of man you like to have control, and have that urge to take. “Don’t lie to me.” You cry out when he curls his fingers, the other hand fisting your shirt to your collarbones.

“You wanted me to fuck you like I caught you. Like I own you.” When he undoes his belt, unzips with one hand still working your cunt- you don’t beg him to stop. Back just arch. Cries found from your mouth, thighs jerking, heels digging into dirt as he stretches you open, uncaring, relentless. The other hand yanks your shirt higher, baring your tits to cold air. It bites. His breath burns. He doesn’t wait. Doesn’t slow. “You wanted me to fuck you like I caught you,” Rafe growls in your ear, “like I fucking own you.” He owns you, in a way. Not in the way he’ll lock you up to hide from others. It’s more like you learn to depend on your pleasure on him, just let him do the work for you. “No,” you breathe, too thin, too soft, a lie. His hand covers your mouth, silencing you, cutting the sound off like he’s sealing it in your throat. Then- “No?” he mimics, cruel, pitching it up in a parody of your voice.

“No, Rafe- don’t- please-” When Rafe heard it, he literally pouted but you know he’s taunting and messing with you. “Please,” he repeats like some broken vinyl. His tone is nasty, like it’s a joke, like he knows you don’t mean it. “You’re fucking soaked,” he snarls, fingers pressing harder. “Don’t fucking lie to me.” He shifts, spreading your legs over his lap, boots braced in the dirt, adjusting you like you’re his. Your back arches, and you hear the pop of his button, the hiss of the zipper, feel the heat of bare skin against your ass. His cock drags along your folds outside your shorts. He’s thick, flushed, slick with your mess.

He strokes once, and it glides easily, the sound filthy. The tip nudges your clothed entrance, and you shake your head- slow, shallow, like you know what’s coming. “Don’t,” you whisper, meant to stop him, but it sounds like begging for more. Inside, you’re screaming, ‘Please. Please don’t stop.’ He groans in your ear as he hears it. “Shouldn’t’ve sent me that link,” he hisses, hand dragging across your chest, groping like you’re something he earned. “Should’ve kept your pretty fucking mouth shut.” You whimper, try again, weaker: “Stop-” But he’s licking into the corner of your mouth, hand fisting your shirt tighter.

“Stop, Rafe- don’t- please,” he mimics nastier, rocking his hips until his cock is flush against your dripping slit. “You sound so cute begging for shit you don’t want me to stop.” You’re soaking him, denim dark, mess everywhere, and he hasn’t even pushed in. “You wanted to be chased,” he growls. “You wanted this.” He shifts, your breath stuttering, his hand yanking your shorts aside, not removing them, just enough to push his cock through, not inside yet, just rubbing, slow, heavy, and deliberate. The blunt head drags along your soaked folds, smearing your slick fabric, folding back, and sticking to your skin.

He keeps going, grinding through your folds, your wet soaking everything, the ache making your eyes roll back. “Feel that?” he murmurs. “That’s me. Right there. Not even inside.” He groans, thrusts again, slow, mean, cockhead nudging your clit before sliding back. “Hear that?” he grits. “That wet sound? That’s you, baby.” Your breath punches out. You want to grind down and tilt your hips, but he holds you still, hands firm. “Uh-uh,” he warns. “You’re not in charge.” He rocks again, cock dragging through your slickness, never entering, never giving you enough.

Just rutting between your folds, the head nudging your entrance, slipping lower each time. “I could fuck you like this,” he growls. “Through these fucking shorts. Not even needing to take ’em off. Just keep going until I mess you up from the outside.” Your legs shake, you pant, and he grins against your neck. “Not even inside you yet,” he murmurs, “and you’re already going to cum, huh?” And you are. Your hips twitch, chasing his cock, desperate. He chuckles. “Greedy,” he says, “fucking greedy little baby.” You feel him tense, like he’s about to give it to you, exactly how your soaked cunt’s been begging for.

Your body leans in, thighs flexing, breath stuttering. But then he stops, letting the thick head rest, hot at your entrance, twitching where your slick is messiest. “You want it?” he breathes against your ear, soft like a lover, sharp like a blade. You don’t answer. You can’t. You blink hard, try to nod, and whimper something like ‘please’ but you’re too far gone, strung out, every part of you vibrating with him so close yet not inside. He waits, letting you drown. His hand brushes your hip like he’s calming a spooked animal, mean in its gentleness. He leans in, breath hot. “Cat got your tongue?” You shiver.

He clicks his tongue, low, mocking. “I asked you a question, sweetheart.” Still no answer. His thighs tighten, hand sliding to your throat- not choking, not yet, just claiming space, holding you still. “That’s what I thought.” He laughs, soft and bitter. “You sent me that link like it was a joke. Like it didn’t mean anything. Like you weren’t imagining this exact thing while you watched it in bed.” You shake your head, barely, instinct, denial. “Oh, no?” he murmurs, his hand tightening at your throat, just enough for you to feel how easily he could take the air from you.

“You didn’t want me to chase you? To catch you? To knock you into the dirt and take what’s mine?” You’re shaking now. Not from fear, not really. From how badly you want it. But he keeps going, feeding it to you slowly, heavy, and cruel. “You didn’t want to be dragged back, crying and slippery and too fucking far gone to stop it?” You make a tiny noise, somewhere between ‘don’t’ and ‘yes.’ His cock drags lazily through your folds, slow against your clit, your slick streaking down his shaft. Still, he doesn’t give it to you. “You’re dripping,” he growls. “Soaking these fucking shorts.”

He tugs the waistband aside, gaping you wider, exposing more skin, but doesn’t strip you. “Fuckin’ greedy. Can’t even look me in the eye, can’t even ask- but your cunt’s screaming for it.” He presses forward just enough to make you gasp, then stops, watching you fall apart from the promise alone. “Tell me again how you didn’t mean it,” he croons. “Tell me again how that video was just a joke.” Lips sealed close, not saying yes or no through it but you’re shaking your head with your eyes wide, chest that is heaving, and your hips that won’t stop moving. Rafe sees it. Knows. “Poor baby,” he sighs, dragging the head of his cock down until it bumps your entrance, soaked, twitching, but still not inside.

Your hips tilt toward the pressure, desperate, trembling. His cock slides wetly against your folds, the sound obscene in the dark. Instead of giving in, he shifts his grip and flips you. His hand clutches your thigh, bruising it, wrenching you sideways in one pull. You gasp, head snapping back, knees buckling, and then you’re on your back, spine in the cold dirt, shirt bunched, tits exposed, and nipples stiff. The surrounding smells like wet wood, pine, body sweat from you and him. Rafe is kneeling behind you. One knee is the side of your hips while the other is touching the side of your left thigh. You could feel his cock touching your ass- thick, flushed, soaked in your mess. His eyes were dark and satisfied.

Hands warm in your hips and using the same hands to yank you down until your ass is closer to him. “Lay the fuck down,” he growls, palm pressing to your sternum. “Let me look at you.” You whimper, shaky, but your thighs stay spread, fingers twitching. He stares, like a wolf over a kill. “Is this how you wanted it?” he murmurs. “Pinned in the dirt? Little shirt up, tiny shorts hiding nothing?” He pushes your thighs wider, spits into your cunt, and watches it mix with your slick, his thumb pressing your clit sharply enough to make you jolt. “Shit,” he hisses. “You don’t even know how easy you made it.”

Words can’t even come out from your mouth properly when you try to speak. He’s rubbing the head of his cock against your slit, letting the fabric stretch with each drag. “I could fuck you like this,” he murmurs. “Don’t even need to take ’em off.” He drags himself along your slit again and again until your legs tremble. “But you don’t want that, right?” he teases. “You said no. You said stop.” His cock presses hard enough to hurt but never pushes in. Your thighs shake, your cunt pulses, and your mouth falls open, a broken whimper. His hands slide down, fingers curling beneath your waistband.

“You wore these knowing they’d be easy to take off,” he mutters. “Didn’t even wear panties.” His knuckles dig in, then one rough tug and your shorts are at your thighs, and then it’s gone. Nothing between you but the heat of him and your slickness. His eyes drop, devouring you, then look up, hungry. “You said no,” he says quietly. “You said don’t.” He strokes his cock, dragging the head over your bare, glistening cunt, watching your breath hitch, chest rise, and fingers twitch, remembering you can’t cover yourself with him pinning you down.

“But your pussy,” he murmurs, “your pussy says something different.” He pushes forward, but just barely and you can feel the head nudging into stretching you then he stops again. “You want it?” he asks like a dare. You blink up, lips parted, hips twitching, cunt clenching around nothing. “I-I don’t know,” you whisper. His eyes darken. “No?” he echoes, shifting forward a fraction, pressing deeper. “You don’t know?” Your breath catches. “I just- I thought…” It’s like you are getting mushy already even though he’s not yet fucking you completely. “You thought what, baby?” he murmurs, soft, sharp. “You thought I’d laugh? Say maybe next time?”

You don’t speak. He pushes again, slowly, sliding another inch in, enough to make you feel the stretch. Your head tips back, thighs trembling, and spine arches- except you’re not trying to escape. “Feels like your pussy knows,” he says quieter. “Feels like you’ve been thinking about this a lot.” Muscle pulls tight around the slow stretch, a soft, wet sound catching under the hum of cicadas. Heat gathers low, a pulse throbbing where slick meets skin. “I didn’t mean-” Leaves move above, and the night feels heavy and warm. Wet sounds mix with quiet breaths; each slow push is felt deep inside. The cool ground stays firm under shaking legs. “You didn’t mean to send it?” he interrupts softly. “Didn’t mean to get dressed up? Didn’t mean to run?” His hand comes to your throat, warm, a collar without pressure. “Didn’t mean to get wet?” You shake your head but it’s weak, unconvincing.

“Say it again,” he tells you, voice like gravel. “Say you don’t know.” And you do, whispering it with trembling body, “I don’t know.” His mouth breaks into a sharp grin. “Yeah,” he growls. “That’s what I thought.” You whimper when he pulls back, the absence cutting deeper. Your body clenches around nothing, twitching. Rafe sees your hips chase him, the tremble in your thighs, and the shine at your cunt. He smiles, predatory. “Look at you,” he murmurs. “Didn’t even take it yet and you’re already desperate.”

You shake your head, but it’s not a real no. He feels it, the yes buried under every shiver. “You want to pretend you didn’t ask for this,” he says at your jaw. Grasp let out from your mouth when his cock presses back against your folds. “But your pussy’s soaked,” he hisses. “So wet you’re drooling down your thighs.” You try to turn away. He grabs your chin, holding it steady. “Don’t look away,” he growls. “You said you don’t know? Let me make it simple.”

His hips jerk forward, shoving the tip inside again, deeper, a stretch you feel high and sharp, still slow, still manageable. “You want me to stop?” he asks. You don’t answer. Can’t. He pushes further, another cruel, slow inch. “You want me to stop?” he repeats, taunting. “Fuh-fuck I-I don’t know.” His hand lands hard on your thigh. “Wrong answer,” he snarls. Then he thrusts, all the way in one rough and punishing stroke that knocks the air from your lungs and pins you to the dirt. You scream. It’s a half-moan, half-shock, and maybe full surrender. He growls into your neck. “Now you fucking know.”

You’re split open on his cock. Too full, too deep, too sudden, and your cunt grips him anyway, tight, needy, like you were made for it. He doesn’t move right away, buried to the hilt, feeling your walls flutter, your breath quake. Then, slowly, cruelly, he pulls back. “All that attitude,” he whispers. “All those little rules you pretend to set.” His hips slammed forward again, harder. “And now look at you.” Another thrust. Your fingers scrabble in the dirt, your back arches, and your tits bounce with every snap of his hips. Tears catch in your lashes- not from pain, but from how your body loves this.

“You don’t say yes,” Rafe growls in your ear. “You don’t say no.” He fucks you again, brutal, possessive. “You just take it.” And God- you do. You take it so well. He doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t soften. Every thrust lands like punishment, like you broke a rule you didn’t know existed. The sound is obscene and wet, the slap of his hips echoing in the trees. “Say it again,” he pants. “Tell me you don’t know. C’mon, baby.” You whimper, caught in the snap of his hips, eyes squeezed shut. “I don’t-” Wrong. He pulls out so suddenly your cunt flutters around nothing.

You sob, back arching, and then- yank. His hand fists in your hair, dragging your head back, throat stretching, jaw slack, a broken gasp spilling out. “Eyes on me,” he snarls. “Fucking look at me when I fuck you.” You open your eyes, barely, and he’s right there- mouth twisted, eyes blown, sweat dripping. He looks unhinged. Beautiful. God, it’s so awful that he’s mesmerizing. Most importantly he looks yours. “Good girl,” he growls, cruelly tender. Then he spits on your chest, warm, slick, and messy, rubbing it in with his palm over your nipples. “Mine now,” he hisses. “Fucking mine.”

A cry rips from your throat when he thrusts back in, harder, faster. One thick arm wraps around your waist, dragging you down while he drives up, the other tangled in your hair, controlling every angle. “Nngh- Rafe-” you whimper and eyes rolling back. “You don’t get to hide,” he pants. “Not from this. Not from me.” His hand shifts going over your mouth, down tight around your throat. He’s not choking you, it’s just there. His thumb finds your pulse point but he doesn’t press and just rests it to feel it stutter. “You like this, don’t you?” he whispers. “Chased you down like a bitch in heat. Caught you. Now I’m breaking you open.”

“Gnh- fuck-” claws out. It’s raw and needy. The sound catches before you can swallow it, and he hears it as a win for him. “You’re soaking me,” he growls. “Came out here in little shorts like you dressed up to be chased.” His hand grabs your hip, spreading you open where there’s nothing left to hide, nothing between you. “You’re going to remember this,” he hisses. “Every step tomorrow. Every time you sit. You’ll feel me.” A soft, broken “mmf- p-please,” slips when you start crying, everything too much, shame and need flooding you, and he sees it and lives for it.

“That’s my good girl, begging when it’s too late.” You try to rise, maybe protest, but his hand comes to your shoulder, pressing you back down. “Stay.” And you do. Open. Shaking. Ruined. Exactly where he wants you. The ground is cold behind you, dirt and uncomfortable. It’s not the best feeling in the world and it’s soaking into your body. It sticks some dried and fresh leaves into your thighs, twigs that scratch your skin, but none of it really matters. All you can feel is him. Rafe doesn’t wait. He drags the head of his cock through your slickness, lets it catch on your entrance, then pushes in slow and steady, stretching and brutal. Your cunt clamps around him, trying to keep him out, or hold him in, or both. It doesn’t matter.

He’s bigger than you can take, deeper than you can hide from. He groans low. “Fuck, baby. Still tight? After all that running?” His palm plants on your shoulder, pinning you down, while the other slides under, groping your tits and your waist, cataloging you from the inside out. “You feel that?” he pants, rocking forward slowly but heavily. “This pussy’s hugging me,” you whimper, half-choked, half from the way his fingers find your clit, rubbing slow circles that make your thighs twitch. “Fuckin’ soaked,” he mutters. “Ran from me just to end up begging in the dirt.” His pace stays slow. Deep. Intentional. Like he’s not trying to get off- he’s trying to ruin you for anything else.

The movements of his hand never stop teasing your clit. It’s unbearable, especially the rhythm; it’s not yet enough to make you cum, but it’s enough to make your leg shake. He groans with his teeth gritted. “You’re squeezing me, baby.” Your lips are starting to feel like metal now from how you stop yourself from moaning so loudly. You can’t even speak to say what’s on your mind because you are getting cockdrunk more than you can admit to yourself. All that comes out is a gasping sob, and you both know he likes it.

“Yeah,” he breathes in your ear as he leans in, “just like that, baby.” Your back arches like a cat because the pleasure gets more into you while his hands are tightening on yours. Suddenly he just shifts above you and pulls out his cock from your pussy that is enough to make you whimper. You barely even process the pull before he flips your body to change position. He dragged your hips and rolled you onto your stomach. The position made your cheek touch the dirt and leaves sticking to your arms, and breath roared out a shocked gasp when your hips got yanked up, ass in the air with your thighs trembling.

“Stay just like that,” he rasps, one hand pressing between your shoulder blades, forcing you to arch, while the other drags down, spreading your folds open. You can feel the thick, soaked head of his cock teasing your entrance again, lining up, not giving you a second to think before his hips slam forward, cock sliding in deep from behind- so deep you see stars- and his fingers splay across your clit, pressing down while he pounds into you.

“You don’t even know how pretty you look like this,” he rasps. “Bent over, split wide, taking my cock like you were meant to.” Your thighs twitch, breath stuttering, but he doesn’t speed up. Not yet. He just rubs- deep and slow, one hand groping your tits, the other teasing your clit until your legs tremble. “You’re going to come so fucking easy,” he growls. “A little pressure and you’ll break.” But he doesn’t let you. This isn’t about you coming. It’s about him fucking you exactly how he imagined- wet, open, helpless, face-down in the dirt, your cunt swallowing every inch slowly and desperately.

Soft body bucks beneath him, getting more stubborn just to piss him off. “Get the fuck off me,” you hiss, voice ragged. Not that you really want him to get off, but in your mind, it’s thrilling to fight him off just for him to show you the control you let him have over you. Knees dig in the dirt while your hands scrabble at it; you try to crawl forward, and hips grind back against him like you are also moving every time you welcome each of his thrusts despite you pretending to fight him to get off. It just didn’t work because every time you crawl forward, you just end up getting dragged back, or it’s your own body betraying you, so you grind back. Rafe just laughs, low, like you’re adorable when you fight. “Oh, baby,” he groans, dragging his cock deeper, filling you until your back bows.

“You’re so fucking cute when you pretend you don’t want it.” Head shaking, just for the thrill of it- to push him more off the edge. “N-ngh- I… I-I don’t,” you snap, but your voice breaks, cunt clenching like it didn’t get the memo. His thumb flicks over your nipple until you gasp again. “Yeah?” he pants, mouth dragging hot over your shoulder. “Then why the fuck are you sucking me in like this?” He rolls his hips, grinding slowly. The stretch makes you sob. The angle is sharp, and unforgiving. “F-fuck you,” you breathe. “You’re trying,” he murmurs, teeth scraping your neck. “God, you’re really trying. That’s so brave, baby.” He licks the back of your neck, wet and slow, like a claim. “Think you’re gonna fight me with a dirty mouth?” His hips slam forward, one hard thrust with no warning. It made you yelp, loud, broken. “Aw,” he coos. “Was that too much?”

You growl. “I hate you.” He laughs harder. “Yeah? Hate me so bad your pussy’s crying for me?” His hand dips lower, finds your clit, and flicks fast and cruel. You squeal and kick. He pins you harder. “You say no,” he mutters, lips brushing your jaw, “but this greedy little cunt says yes, sir, every time I push in.” Your mind scrambles, hating how good it feels, hating how your hips keep lifting. You think you should push him away, but your body begs for more. You can’t even hide it, every nerve waiting for him to do it again. “Shut up,” you pant. “You shut up,” he snaps, grabbing your face, palm over your mouth, turning your head so he can see you. “Before I make you fucking mean it.” Your eyes flutter, a moan caught behind his hand. “That’s better,” he whispers. “Be good.”

He watches you, ragged and wet and silenced, grinding again, cock sliding so deep it punches the air from your lungs. “You want to curse me out?” he growls, breath hot in your ear. “Want to tell me to stop? You better fucking say it like you mean it.” You don’t because you just can’t. You tremble, whining into his palm, arching back, cunt squeezing, thighs shaking. “Oh,” he breathes, softer now like it’s devastating. “You’re so fucked.” He releases your mouth just enough for you to speak- but not enough to escape, thumb at your pulse. “Say you don’t want it,” he dares. “Go on. Tell me again.”

You do… Well, you did try, but not really because you didn't form a word besides moaning a broken ‘a-ah’ from your mouth. It looks like you’ve already surrendered your body to him. Maybe you have. The earth is cold beneath your knees, damp with every grind of his hips. Leaves bite your shoulders, moss clings to your calves. Your body is open, bent, used, and breathless, and Rafe doesn’t give you a second to breathe right, not when you’re clenching like this. He’s got one arm looped around your waist, palm pressing between your shoulder blades, holding you down and pulling you back at once.

His other hand moves under you, dragging across your chest to cup your tits like it’s his lifeline. “Fuck, baby,” he groans against your shoulder. “You feel that? Feel how tight you are around me?” You feel everything. The stretch. The burn. You know he fucking loves the feeling you wrapped around him because he barely pulls back before sinking back again. It’s like he’s savoring the feeling of your pussy and if that’s even possible but it gets deeper each time he slams his hips. He wants to shape his cock inside of you, to make a mark inside of you. It’s like he’s reminding you that your cunt feels better and fit with him than any man will try to get you. He’s choosing to keep you here, face down, ass up, your knees scraping the dirt as your body twitches with every thrust. Your breath catches as he shifts his grip, hand sliding down to grab your hip, hauling you back onto him, making you cry out, the angle hitting something unbearable. “Yeah,” he pants, sweat dripping onto your spine. “Right there. That’s where I want you.” Your shorts are twisted high, your shirt bunched around your shoulders. He hasn’t stripped you; he’s just fucking you through it, under it, around it, because he can.

The earth is cold beneath you, damp with every grind of his hips. Maybe each leaf under you is angry at you because of the way it bites your knees. Or maybe the moss prefers you more because it’s so clingy with your calves. Maybe it’s just how you bent forward with your chest, feel breathless and face warm from the way his cock and hips move behind you. The goddamn woods knows you try to keep your trembling thighs to keep steady and how you try to balance yourself with the way your fingers dig in the dirt to have something to hold. Rafe doesn’t give you a second to breathe right, not when you’re clenching around him like this, taking him so deep you feel split open. “Shit, baby,” he groans, one hand fisted in your hair, the other gripping your hip, dragging you back onto him with every thrust. “You feel that? Feel how tight you are around me?”

You feel everything. The stretch. The burn. The slick mess running down your thighs. The way he barely pulls back before slamming in again, deep, like he’s trying to leave himself inside you. A ragged, high sound spills out of your mouth, helpless. “Nnh- mff- g-gah- Rafe-” You sound like some girl from a porn video especially from the way you can’t control it. “What, baby?” he grits, rutting into you harder, your back arching under the force, another dark grunt tearing from his chest. “What do you need, huh?”

“Ah- please-” you gasp, voice breaking around a soft hiccup as your hips rock back. “I- oh- wanna- nngh- wanna see you- p-please-” He stills, cock twitching inside you, a low growl rumbling in his throat. “Fuckin’ hell…” Slowly, his hands slide to your waist, guiding you down, pulling out just enough to make you whimper- “mmf- s-shit-” before he flips you over, pressing your back into the cold earth. Your legs spread instinctively, hips tilting up, your cunt clenching around nothing.

“There,” he mutters, eyes dark, chest heaving, lips parted. “You wanna watch me while I fuck you, pretty girl?” Of course you do. You don’t give a fuck if you are going back and forth from being all fours and laying down. Both feel good, but you want to see him, or you are going to bawl your eyes out if you don’t. “Uh- y-yeah- please-” you whine, lashes wet, body shivering as he lines himself up and pushes back in, thick and slow, forcing a strangled sound from your throat. “Ahh- mmh- fuck-”

The air is cold, but Rafe is molten, leaning over you, chest brushing yours, hands sliding everywhere- one gripping your thigh, the other palming your breast, thumb flicking over your nipple until you let out a small, shocked squeal. “Mmn- n-no- s-sensitive- oh-!” His mouth drags along your jaw, your neck, biting down when your moans rise too loud. “Quiet, baby,” he pants, hips rolling in deep, deliberate thrusts, controlled, heavy, making your body jolt with every push. “Stay still for me.”

You try, but every thrust drags another helpless sound out of you, fingers clutching at his shoulders, head tipping back, mouth falling open around incoherent, needy noises. “Hah- nngh- mmf- Rafe- s’deep- oh- c-can’t-” Each moan coming from your lips is showing how far gone you are. You can feel his eyes locked into you, he’s watching you like he’s a director for the show you are giving out to him and he has to direct it with his cock that is plunged deep inside you. One of his favorite sounds in the world is the way your voice cracks whenever he hits your g-spot. And right now he’s hearing it and it makes him let out a low grunt from his chest with his jaw flexing. “Fuck- look at you, baby.”

Your moans spill out like you can’t control them, wet, slurred, pretty in their desperation. “Mmm- ah- unnh- fuck- R-Rafe-” The last word slips, soft, high, your eyes going wide even as your cunt squeezes around him. And he loves it. The way you look up at him, tear-glossed, dumb with it, your mouth dropping open around every choked whimper while he fucks you like he’s trying to ruin you for anyone else, each thrust pulling a gasp, a sob, a broken syllable out of your throat until it’s all you can give him.

He thrusts forward and stays there. He’s buried, and grinding tight circles that make you claw at his back. Can’t even stop the way his cock pulses and twitches. He’s trying his best not to nut faster than he likes. He wants you to come first before him. “You’re so warm,” he breathes out. The feeling of your pussy is making him lose track in his mind and making him crazy. “So wet I don’t even have to move and you still squeeze me.” You whimper, your body shuddering under his weight as his hand drags down your stomach, sliding between your legs, two fingers finding your clit, barely touching, just pinning it there like it’s his.

Your body locks up, a gasp tearing out of you as your hips jerk, his grin pressing against your cheek as he shoves you closer, deeper, until you swear you’re not breathing air anymore, just him, denim scraping your thighs, the heavy push of him inside, and the cruel press of his fingers holding you exactly where he wants you. “You like this?” he breathes. “You like being touched like this? Fucked like this?” You don’t answer. You can’t do that because you feel too stuffed from his cock, it’s stretching out, you also feel so hot despite the wood feels windy, and you are definitely too fucked even he haven’t even let you come around him yet.

Hips pressing deeper, making his cock kiss your cervix and it’s enough to earn a gasp from your throat while you clenches and walls flutters around him like they want to keep him jailed inside of you. Rafe hisses, breathing hard against your jaw, dragging it out like he wants to break you inch by inch, muttering, “God, baby, you’re holding onto me so fucking tight.” Your hips twitch, cunt clenching around every slow, brutal grind, still not the way your body begs for it- he’s not fast, not rough, just deep and steady, like he’s fucking into the shape of you, molding you around him, claiming you.

“You’re so fuckin’ good like this,” he breathes, forehead pressing to yours, “just letting me use it. Letting me keep you.” He hands sneak into your cheek and strokes it with his thumb grazing your skin like it’s some instinct every time he touches it. “I’m not going to pull out,” he says, voice so soft and not even fitting to the scene the both of you are in. “You know that, right? God if you just know how I feel around you baby- f-fuck. I’m gonna fuck it in deep and leave it there.” His words makes your clit pulse, or maybe just your cunt in general. You even try to reply to his words, but he just hushes you with his thumb brushing your lips. He can feel your hot breath when he settles it there as he speaks, “You don’t have to say anything.” He adds, “Just lie back. Let me finish what I started.” When he moves again, it’s slower, still deep, still designed to have you, but there’s no rush.

Movement is steady. There’s this rhythm that is certain that translates to he’s fucking you until this fuck is going to be craves into your brain and your bones. He can feel and see how your thighs shake, the way your lips can’t close because of your little noises, how your body is caged by him. He knows you are far gone to speak to him, you don’t even speak much during sex because you are a whiner, you are loud, and he likes hearing you. God, don’t also forget how your cunt pulse around him. It’s tight and choking his cock like it’s begging without any words. This time, Rafe doesn’t tease. Doesn’t pull away or smirk. From your face, he slides it down to your hip to hold you down while the other settle between your thighs and touches your clit. “You’re right there, huh? You feel it?”

“Mhm- mmf- yeah- so good-” You cry out with a nod. “Feels s’good-” Eyes fluttering, cunt clenching around him with your mind only thinking about him, and your head tipping back more to the ground. You can’t even pretend you don’t love this from the way your pussy is sucking him more deep and how your hips lifting from the ground just to welcome his cock. His hand from your hip lifts up to swat your sweaty hair away from your face and his gaze is just on you like you’re his world. “You don’t have to hold it back,” he murmurs, thumb rubbing slow, wet circles. “I want you to come. Wanna feel you cum on me.” His hips don’t slam now; they roll- deep, controlled, heavy- like he’s fucking the orgasm into you instead of ripping it out. His body braces around yours, chest pressing to yours like he needs to feel your heart stutter when you go over. “You’re being so good,” he whispers, thumb grazing your jaw, eyes hungry and dazed, “so fucking perfect for me.” Your legs shake, eyes flutter, then he says it, quiet, rough, almost sweet: “Come for me, baby. Let go.” And you do.

Your body locks, arches, and goes tense; the sound you make- high and broken- has his eyes rolling back. You come hard around him, hips bucking into his hand, legs trembling, your body jerking like it doesn’t know how to contain it. Rafe moans, deep and guttural, kissing you like he needs your breath to survive while staying buried inside, fingers working you through it, praising you with every wave. “That’s it. That’s it, baby,” he groans, forehead touching your shoulder. “God, you’re so tight. So fuckin’ sweet.” Mouth can’t form any words for him and you are just twitching beneath him with your eyes wide and cunt still cleaning around him and it triggers the gates for him. His rhythm starts to stutter. His hips jerk deeper. It’s heavier, and he’s chasing it now.

Groans get more ragged while he’s folding your legs tighter as he fucks into you slow and hungry motion. “Shit- baby- ” his voice breaks as he buries his head to your neck. “You’re still fucking squeezing me- ” He moans as he listens to your whimper, and feel your cunt still fluttering with every drag of him. “I can’t- I can’t hold it-” and then he’s coming with his body locked above you. But he doesn’t stop moving, he can’t just find the will to stop. Movement is soft and grinding his hips as his cum settles inside your pussy and touches your cervix with a hot feeling. That doesn’t stop him from grinding deeper inside you, forcing more of his cum in and stuffing you full to the last drop while your cunt flutters at the feeling.

His hands also didn't stop touching you, it’s like it can’t calm down and continues to feel the curve of your body while his other hand is stroking your cheek and whispering low and warm into your hair. “You did so good, baby,” he murmurs, kissing your temple. “Took it so well,” he adds before pressing kisses and peppering you with it. Lips touching your cheek, neck, and shoulder, and he drops his head down to kiss the cleavage of your chest. “So good,” he whispers, hoarse, trembling, “so fuckin’ good, baby- made me feel so good-” You can barely respond, breath caught, body spent, aching, still wrapped around him, but he doesn’t need you to say anything. He can’t stay still because his lips are on your body again like he’s worshipping you and his hands are doing the same too. Words are softer now with his ruined voice like he’s trying to sink inside you. He moves gently and calms you both down without letting you go as his hands caress your thighs up to your stomach and ribs and to your nipples. “You took all of me,” he whispers, “all of it. So fuckin’ perfect, baby.” You’re still trembling, twitching in the afterglow, and he feels every flutter of your cunt gripping him through the last throbs of his orgasm.

Lips press more kisses to your mouth- slow, open, grateful- and then he just stays there. Cock still buried, weight folded over yours, like leaving isn’t an option. He doesn’t pull out even as he softens a little, even as you pulse around him, overstimulated and sore, pressing deeper, hips flush, cock snug inside your aching cunt like he’s trying to plug the mess in. His fingers trace your hips, coaxing you back to earth while you can’t speak, just panting, lashes fluttering, and chest heaving. Your back sticks to the dirt. You feel filthy, beautiful, and exposed. His hand moves your hair out of your face with gentleness and palms your jaw after with his thumb grazing the softness of your cheek before his hips give you one more thrust that makes you clench and flinch.

He kisses your temple before he shushes you when he hears you whimper. “I know. I know, baby. You did so good.” Your voice finally comes, small and hoarse. “Still inside,” you whisper. His breath catches, but he doesn’t pull out. “I know.” Your heavy-lidded eyes take him in: the uniform, the smudged jaw, the weight of him braced over you while you lie there beneath him. “I’m all messy,” you breathe. “You made a mess of me, Rafe.” His jaw ticks, eyes darkening, one hand sliding between your thighs, and fingers brushing the mix leaking down your legs. “I know, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “You’re fucking dripping for me.” You gasp, body tensing. His hands just continue holding you there. You feel full, stuffed, warm, and trembling in his arms while the woods are quiet around you. The air smells more like sex more than the environment. Or maybe you are just close to each other. And you lie there, messy and stretched open, caught under him, both of you breathing slowly. Just like that. Exactly where he wants you.

“Too much?” he asks when he starts moving his hips a little, just so gently, not slamming fully. Moving only just to ease more pleasure for you, and not to get another orgasm out of you. Hum found your lips, but you shook your head. “No. Just… a little. Please.” His smile deepens; it’s soft, and his eyes are full of adoration. “Yeah?” Rafe pulls his cock just to push it halfway in slow motion. You can feel it even if the whole of it is not inside. His hand holds your jaw while the other is resting on your stomach just to stroke your skin like he’s soothing the pain from the sex he caused you. “Feels nice…” You whisper. He kisses your shoulder.

“Is that good for you, angel?” His cock stays deep while your cunt keeps tightening around him, the air thick as you catch your breath. “Mhm…” Pressure eases in your chest while you listen to how he breathes. You like how his body stays heavy and warm against yours as your legs soften and shift around him, and you like letting him hold you close while you are getting out from the intensity of what you both did. “You’re still fluttering around me,” he murmurs. “Still squeezing me like you don’t want to let me go.” Lashes blink slowly while you feel how your body clings to him without thinking and how each slow push reminds you of what you took, how you let him stay inside while you let your head rest back against his arm. “I don’t want to,” you confess, too softly. His hips stutter, a groan slipping out. “I know,” he mutters, licking his lips and eyes while watching you. “That’s why I’m still here. You’re safe, and I know the sex… was intense. I’m sorry,” he apologizes before he kisses you everywhere. It’s slow and hungry, tasting your throat, your shoulder, and your tits, like he can’t stop.

“That was new to me, but I like it,” you say before you whimper beneath him, skin hot and open, your body full and aching. His cock softens but stays inside, his body covering yours, kissing words into your skin instead of growling them in your ear. “We should talk about it next time, Rafey… The, uhm… like the limits, safe word, and the other things, y’know,” you add, and it’s not like you are completely clueless about this, the rough sex. No. But you are just too shy to bring it to him, but you are aware that he might like it. The air cools, dirt sticking to the sweat behind your shoulders while his uniform is still buttoned, all tight authority while you’re naked and trembling under him. He does those little thrusts- it’s barely there. The movements of his hips are not even about fucking anymore, just staying.

“Rafe…” Breath hitches while fingers curl in the fabric at his chest, pulling him closer without thinking. Thighs tighten around his hips, holding on while air slips out shakily. “I know, baby. We will talk about it, pretty girl.” His words slide near your ear, warm and low, while his hand drags up your side and your lashes flicker with the quiet pulse that keeps pulling him deeper. “Did I go too hard on you?” A shake of your head comes slowly while your lips part, chest lifting as you try to catch a breath, the tight clench inside begging him to stay, needing every inch he gives. “No. It’s not that, I just-” You swallow, breath catching. “Maybe a little… But I don’t want you to stop.” He exhales, hand cupping your cheek as he tilts your face up, eyes soft, full of you. “You’re so fucking sweet like this,” he whispers, thumb dragging over your mouth. “Letting me fuck you in the woods like a filthy girl, now clinging to me like I’m all you got.”

You blink, dazed. “You are all I got.” His breath catches, cock still buried in your soaked cunt. That melts his heart, so he leans down to kiss you slowly and warmly. His lips are gentle, and there’s not even a tongue when he kisses you. It’s like he’s just savoring you and feeding you pieces of himself with every breath before he pulls away to kiss your forehead. “I fucking love you like this.” Something in him feels scared to admit how easy it is to call this love when your body holds him so sweet, how much he wants to keep you like this because letting go feels like losing air. This softness feels dangerous, a need curling in his chest that wants to claim, protect, and never leave. “Like what?” you breathe. “Just there. Messy. Full of me.” Another slow thrust. “Like you were made for me.”

Your eyes flutter shut. “Don’t say that,” you whisper. “I’ll believe you.” Can’t help wanting it to be true, wishing it’s real, wishing it could stay this warm and close forever. Every slow pull makes you melt in a way that feels safe. It’s like maybe you’re allowed to need him, allowed to let him have you. “You should.” Then he pulls out. It’s slow and gentle. You can feel your body clenching on nothing, both of your cum spilling out, which breaks out a desperate sound breaking from your throat. He groans, watching the mess leak from you. “Jesus, look at that.” You squirm, thighs twitching, but he lays you back gently, shushing you, one hand gathering the spill, the other cupping your jaw. “Still warm,” he murmurs, “still mine.”

Then he kisses your jaw down to your neck and collarbone and shoulder. His kisses are soft and wet. It is gentle. Maybe he’s saying sorry to you through it. Maybe he’s trying to make up for being rough with how he chased and fucked you. “You’re so beautiful,” he breathes. “Don’t want to let you go.” His breath is warm while he presses closer, grounding you in the dark. Kisses sink into your skin, gentle after everything he’s done. You feel safe right here, not caring about anything else. “Then don’t,” you whisper. “I won’t.” You settle with him and his uniform rumpled with his cock wet with you. His head leans down before his forehead rests against your chest, and his lips give the same area multiple pecks, and his arms are warm and wrapped around your waist. “Are you going to carry me back to the house?” you ask him gently, but you are more like teasing him because you know that your legs are too wobbly to walk properly back there. He laughs softly but doesn’t answer. He just leans in and presses one last kiss to your temple before shifting back, sliding his hands beneath your thighs and back, lifting you like you might break. He sits there first while holding you and his back leaning against a tree. He settles you into his lap while you melt into him, folding your knees in, tucking your face to his chest.

Neither of you speaks. Both of you are just breathing slowly and coming down. The woods are humming around you. His lips in your hair, nose against your temple while fingers rub circles into your thigh. “Are you okay?” You nod against his chest. “Mhm.” His hand brushes your jaw. “Are you hurt, baby?” You shake your head. He leans back to see your face, cupping it. “Sure?” You meet his eyes and nod. “Good girl,” he whispers, eyes soft. “You took me so well.”

Your eyes flutter shut as he kisses your nose. “Didn’t even cry,” he teases. “Kinda wanted to see that pretty lip wobble.” You huff a laugh. “I almost did.” He grins, kissing you slowly, warmly, unhurriedly, and full of something softer. You pull back with a shaky breath. “That was…” Should feel embarrassed, but there’s nothing left to hide. Muscles still shaking, cunt still dripping, your skin carries every mark he left. It should feel like shame, but it only settles warm and quiet inside you. “I know,” he says softly. His fingers trail down your side, tracing where he left bruises, like he’s sorry and memorizing it all at once.

“Can we stay here?” you murmur. “Just for a minute?” No rush to move when the world feels so heavy and quiet. Warmth pools low while your limbs go light and your breath catches as your body remembers what he did. The air smells like sweat and dirt, like him, and it feels safe. Chest loosens with every slow inhale while the trees sway above as it hides you both from everything else. Everything feels clear, like the world outside doesn’t matter for now. “Yeah,” he says instantly. “We’re not going anywhere yet.” He holds you tighter, letting your head drop to his shoulder and your legs fold across his lap. His breath slows with yours until you’re both sinking into something warm and quiet. Something that has nothing to do with roughness anymore. Just you. Just him. Just the soft, fucked-out silence of the woods.

⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀twenty-twenty-five © addie / musingsofheaven.

⠀⠀⠀

[itsnotyouithink]

can’t help falling in love

pairing: wednesday addams x fem!reader

summary: wednesday addams is hopelessly in love with you but doesn’t know how to show it.

warnings: none

author’s note: felt like i should post the heartwarming imagine that i’ve had in my drafts for a while after tearing u guys to shreds with ‘without you’

————————

There is a version of you that Wednesday Addams only visits in the privacy of her mind.

This version never walks too far ahead in hallways. She never leaves without looking back. Her voice is always just above a whisper — a secret tether meant only for Wednesday's ears. In this version, your laugh doesn't make her stomach twist with the kind of need that borders on violent; it simply exists, soft and sun-drenched, like the echo of a summer memory she was never supposed to have.

But in real life — in this world where Wednesday pretends not to notice the way her heart gives itself up every time you speak — you are an ache.

A distraction she resents. A fixation she can't unfasten. Something warm and mortal and utterly maddening.

You don't even realize what you do to her.

Not when you rest your chin on your palm during class and turn toward the window with that faraway look. Not when your perfume lingers in the corridor long after you've gone, crawling down her throat like smoke. Not when you defend the outcasts who don't have sharp teeth or claws, who can't make themselves scary, but still try to survive anyway. Not when you look like sunshine in the form of a blood-sucking vampire with fangs. You don't know. And it kills her.

Because Wednesday Addams, for all her disdain for clichés, has fallen in love.

Completely. Catastrophically.

And it is the cruelest joke the universe could play — that she, who prides herself on never needing anyone, has memorized the way you sigh when you think no one's listening. That she knows your footsteps apart from everyone else's. That she walks the long way to class just to pass you. That she knows the exact placement of the freckle beneath your right eye.

She tells herself it's research. Observation. Pattern recognition. But that's a lie, and Wednesday Addams does not lie — not to others, anyway.

You sit next to her in botany. You smell like peaches and ink. You doodle on your paper when you're bored, and she steals them when you're not looking — folds them up into tiny squares and tucks them into the hollow space behind her cello case. There are seventeen now. She counted.

And today — today you called her "Wen."

Like it was nothing. Like it didn't detonate inside her.

She didn't answer. She couldn't. Not with her mouth dry and her spine locked and her entire bloodstream on fire. But she heard it. Over and over and over again.

Wen.

She's going to die, she thinks, and it's going to be your fault.

She doesn't sleep much. She never has. But since meeting you, sleep has become an impossibility — not because she's restless, but because her mind has become a shrine to you.

She lies in bed at night and replays your conversations, all two to three minutes of them. She rewrites them, imagines what she should've said, what you would've said back. She imagines you laughing harder, leaning in closer, reaching for her hand without hesitation. Sometimes, she imagines you crying. Not out of pain — no, she'd never wish that upon you — but the kind of crying that only comes from knowing someone understands you completely. She wants to be that person for you. She already is, secretly.

No one sees the way her eyes track you across the quad. No one notices the way her fingers twitch toward you and then still. No one knows that the girl who speaks in riddles and cuts open frogs in biology would tear the world in half if you asked her to.

Wednesday Addams, bringer of silence, keeper of shadows, would burn down the moon for you.

But you... you smile at Xavier Thorpe like he hung the stars himself. You share headphones with Enid, who looks at you like you're the best dream she's ever had. You run your fingers along the spines of old books and dance barefoot in your dorm when you think no one's watching.

But Wednesday watches. Always. Every version of her has you inside it.

The first time you touch her — truly touch her — it's barely anything. A brush of fingers. A squeeze of her wrist when she flinches after a teacher calls on her too suddenly. You lean in, your voice a soft murmur at her ear:

"You okay?"

Two words. That's it.

But they ripple through her like a curse, like a spell spoken in a language she never believed in until now. She doesn't remember what she said in response. She only remembers the heat of your palm and how her skin felt different after.

She marks the date in her journal. In ink. She circles it twice.

She dreams of it. Over and over. Except in the dreams, you don't pull away.

There's a photograph of you in her room. It's not even meant to be of you — just a group shot after a school assembly. You're in the background, slightly out of focus, but your smile is clear, unbothered by the chaos around you. She cut the others out with surgical precision. What's left is just you, and it's tucked inside the cover of her Poe collection, pressed flat like a pressed flower she's terrified of ruining.

Sometimes she opens the book just to look at you. Just for a second.

She's not proud of it. But she's not ashamed either.

This is what devotion looks like, she thinks. This is what poets die for.

One night, you find her in the library.

It's nearly midnight. Everyone else is in bed or pretending to be. She's seated in the corner, candlelight flickering across her face, a book of Latin poetry open on the table. Her hair's loose. Her tie's undone. She looks almost... undone.

And you, barefoot and wrapped in a threadbare hoodie, walk right up to her and say:

"Do you ever get tired of pretending you don't feel things?"

Wednesday doesn't answer at first. She closes her book slowly. Sets it down like something fragile. Looks at you like you're even more fragile than that.

Her voice is quiet. Cold. But it shakes — just barely.

"I'm not pretending."

You smile. Sad. Knowing. Your hands are trembling and you hide them in your sleeves.

"Me neither."

And then — as if it costs you everything — you lean forward and press your lips to her cheek.

Not a kiss. Not really.

But it's enough to make her believe in death and rebirth in the same breath.

She doesn't sleep that night either. She just lies there with her hand pressed to the place your mouth touched and pretends her ribs aren't breaking open from the inside.

She doesn't tell anyone.

Of course she doesn't.

Not when you sit beside her in class with your hand brushing hers and pretend like the library didn't happen. Not when you pass her notes folded into shapes — bats, coffins, tiny roses — and she unfolds them like artifacts from another life. Not when you say her name like it's soft, like it's something that doesn't bite.

She doesn't tell Enid. Not even Thing, and Thing knows everything.

It festers. Grows. Sharpens.

Because you're still you. Still laughing with others. Still throwing your arm around Ajax and holding eye contact with Bianca like it's nothing. Still offering Wednesday pieces of your apple during lunch, like that's a normal thing people do when they're trying not to shatter each other.

You keep living in your softness. And Wednesday keeps falling.

Hopelessly. Obsessively. Completely.

She writes about you in her journal, every night, with ink that smudges and handwriting that grows more erratic with each entry. You have your own section now. Seventeen pages. Labeled: Symptoms. She lists things like: Breathing irregularities when subject smiles, tendency to romanticize eye contact, recurring hallucinations involving shared futures, possessiveness / protectiveness / deranged affection, compulsion to stab any idiot who makes subject laugh louder than I can.

She underlines that last one.

Twice.

The breaking point doesn't come loudly.

It never does with her.

It happens in the dark, in your dorm room, after a thunderstorm that shakes the whole school like it's being punished. You open the door in socks and a band tee, hair damp, your cheeks flushed from sleep. You're not wearing makeup. You look like a secret.

And all Wednesday says is: "Can I come in?"

You nod. You always do.

You sit on your bed. She stands by the window, arms folded tight, like she's trying to strangle the ache in her chest.

You say her name. Soft. Too soft.

"Wen?"

She turns.

And then, without ceremony, without warning — she cracks.

"I'm in… love with you."

Just like that. Like it's a curse. Like it's a punishment she's finally decided to endure out loud.

You blink. The air stills. She sees it — that flicker of surprise, of fear, maybe, or something like it. Her jaw tenses.

"I don't expect reciprocity," she says quickly, voice low, strained, breaking like glass beneath silk. "I just... I need you to know. Before it consumes me completely."

You stare.

And then you rise. Step toward her.

And when you say her name again, it sounds different.

"Wednesday."

It sounds like surrender.

You kiss her.

Of course you do.

You kiss her like you've been waiting a thousand lifetimes. Like every version of you, across every universe, has been pulling toward her in quiet desperation. Like all her silence finally makes sense.

It's not soft.

It's desperate. It's raw. Teeth and salt and shaking fingers. You push her against the window and whisper, "I've been in love with you this whole time."

And she grunts. But it's not a happy sound — it's wrecked. Like something buried deep is clawing its way out.

"You never said anything," she breathes.

You press your forehead to hers. "Neither did you."

You don't leave your room that night.

The rain keeps coming, a slow lullaby against the glass. She lies next to you on your bed, still in her uniform, still stiff and unsure, until you pull her close and bury your face in her neck. She doesn't breathe for a full minute.

Then, quietly: "You smell like sugar."

You laugh. "And you smell like blood and sadness."

She smirks. "You always know the right thing to say."

You fall asleep like that. Entangled. Safe. Stupid with affection.

She's still Wednesday Addams.

She still writes about murder. Still threatens boys who annoy you. Still keeps her distance in public, even after everything. She says I love you like it's a confession she wants to regret but can't. She holds your hand under the table, never above it. She’ll kiss you in private, never in public. She scowls at the people who look at you too long.

But she also learns how to braid your hair.

She reads you poetry when you can't sleep.

She leaves notes in your locker that say things like I want to die (with you) and you make existence bearable.

She touches your face like she's memorizing every angle.

She invites you to her home for summer break and the two of you share a bed in her freezing room.

And sometimes, when you kiss her — slow and unhurried — she whispers things into your mouth that make your chest ache:

"You ruin everything."

"You're the only thing that feels real."

"I wish I met you sooner, so I could've started loving you earlier." She tells you this one after kissing you on your collarbone in her bed post-Addams Family dinner.

And one night:

"If you ever leave, I will not survive it."

And you don't.

Not ever.

Because you — chaotic, warm, lovely, messy you — are hopelessly in love with her, too.

And loving Wednesday Addams is not easy.

But it’s real.

And it’s forever.

__

author’s note 2: i’m so excited for season 2 of wednesday

[valiwrites]

vali where did you go??? you didn't love us anymore?? :((

[ found this in my drafts :) yes i was gone for a while 😔 school drained me im sorry for waiting, i will make more stories from now on! otherwise check my wattpad: vickybutter for full stories ]

sick ━ charles leclerc

pairing: charles leclerc x female reader

warnings: nothing only fluff

The sky over Monaco was a dull grey, heavy clouds rolling over the coast like someone had drawn the blinds on the entire city. The rain hadn’t let up since dawn, the soft patter against the windows weaving in and out of your thoughts like background music to a film.

You stood barefoot in the kitchen, stirring a pot of chicken noodle soup with one hand, phone cradled between your shoulder and cheek. You were talking to your mom, half-distracted, eyes occasionally darting to the hallway leading to the living room.

“…no, Mom, he’s not dying. It’s just the flu,” you said with a small laugh, though your brows furrowed slightly. “Yes, I made him tea. No, not the ginger kind. He hates ginger. Yes, I made him change his socks.”

You hung up just as the soup hit a slow, rolling boil. The entire flat smelled like garlic, thyme, and something soothing. Comfort food. You hoped it would help. Charles wasn’t a good patient—he hated being down, hated being weak. Maybe it was the athlete in him, or the Monegasque stubbornness, or both.

You ladled the soup into a bowl, grabbed a glass of water, some tissues, and the cold medicine you’d all but forced him to take earlier. You balanced everything on a tray and padded into the living room.

Charles was exactly where you’d left him: slumped sideways on the couch in a sea of fleece blankets, his face half-buried in a pillow, damp hair matted to his forehead. His usual olive skin was paler than normal, with a rosy flush over his cheeks and nose that would’ve been cute if he didn’t look so miserable.

“Soup delivery,” you announced softly.

He stirred, blinking blearily. “You’re an angel.”

“You say that now. Wait until I make you take another dose of that disgusting syrup later.”

He groaned, weakly. “I’d rather crash the Ferrari.”

You laughed, setting the tray down and sitting beside him. You pressed a hand to his forehead, frowning. Still too warm. “Your fever’s not breaking.”

“Maybe it’ll go away if I just… stop acknowledging it.”

“Oh, so we’re doing the ‘ignore it and hope it disappears’ method? Very scientific, Mr. Leclerc.”

He cracked a tired smile. “It works for tire degradation.”

You rolled your eyes and handed him the soup, waiting as he slowly sat up to sip at it. He made a small, appreciative sound in the back of his throat after the first spoonful. You reached over and tucked the blanket around his legs again—he’d been kicking it off in his sleep all morning.

“Do you want to try eating more later?” you asked, gently carding your fingers through his hair.

“If it’s this soup, then yes.”

You tilted your head. “You’re sweet when you’re feverish.”

“I’m always sweet,” he croaked, before breaking into a harsh cough that made him double over. You rubbed his back until it passed, then handed him the water.

“I don’t know how you still look good like this,” you muttered. “It’s genuinely unfair.”

He sniffled dramatically. “Don’t lie. I look like a sickly goat.”

“You do not. Goats don’t have eyelashes like yours.”

He leaned his head against your shoulder after a few more bites of soup, warm and slightly damp. “Marry me.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

He chuckled, throat raw. “Not now. But one day. When I’m not disgusting.”

“Charles,” you said with a soft smile, wrapping an arm around him, “you could propose in the middle of a tissue avalanche and I’d still say yes.”

He paused, eyes lifting toward yours in that half-sleepy, vulnerable way you’d only seen a handful of times—moments when the helmet was off, the walls down.

“…Yeah?” he whispered.

You kissed his temple. “Yeah.”

A few hours passed in quiet.

Charles fell asleep against you, the soup forgotten, his fingers still loosely tangled with yours. You scrolled through your phone, read a few pages of a novel, checked his temperature again. He stirred every now and then, mumbling in French, half-lucid dreams mixing with the sound of the rain.

At one point, he startled awake, sweating and disoriented.

“Shh, baby, it’s just the fever,” you murmured, wiping his forehead with a damp cloth. He leaned into your hand like it grounded him.

“I thought I missed the race,” he said, still halfway in the dream.

“There’s no race. You’re safe. You’re home.”

He exhaled slowly. “Okay.”

Later, you coaxed him into a lukewarm bath to help bring his temperature down. He sat in the water like a sulking cat, hair damp, eyes drooping.

“I hate this,” he muttered.

“I know. But you’ll feel better. And I promise not to take any embarrassing photos.”

“…You better not.”

You tossed a clean towel at him. “I’ll delete the ones I already took, then.”

“Chérie!”

That evening, the rain let up for a while. The apartment glowed gold with lamp light, warm against the grey outside.

Charles was bundled in fresh pajamas and propped up with pillows in bed, scrolling aimlessly on his phone. You sat beside him with a heating pad over your lap and a book in hand. The air smelled faintly of eucalyptus from the diffuser you'd set up earlier.

“Thank you for taking care of me,” he said, voice still rough but clearer.

You looked over. “You’d do the same.”

“I know. But still. You could’ve just left me to wallow.”

“You’d get soup on the ceiling if I did.”

He laughed—really laughed, even if it turned into a cough halfway through. You leaned over and pressed your lips to his cheek, letting them linger.

He reached up and gently cupped your face, thumb brushing along your jaw. “You make even the worst days feel bearable.”

You kissed him again, softer this time. “That’s the job, isn’t it?”

His eyes searched yours, even glassy and heavy-lidded, and there was something more serious behind them now. “If I ever got really sick—like, properly sick—would you stay?”

The question knocked the breath from you for a moment.

“Of course I would. You don’t even have to ask.”

“I think about it sometimes,” he admitted, “how racing is everything one day, and the next… it’s gone. What if I wasn’t Charles Leclerc anymore?”

You closed the book and set it aside, fully turning toward him.

“You’d still be you,” you said, fingers brushing his. “I fell in love with you. Not just the driver. Not the Ferrari suit. Not the podiums. You, who snores when he’s stuffed up and eats cereal with a fork when we’re out of spoons. You who loves his family more than anything and sings off-key in the shower.”

He swallowed hard. “You make it sound like I’m worth staying for.”

“You are,” you said simply.

A long pause, just the sound of the rain starting up again outside.

Then: “I’m definitely marrying you.”

You laughed, threading your fingers through his again. “Not until you can say it without coughing halfway through.”

“Fine. But start looking at dresses anyway.”

[dc-jxsontxdd]

My favorite Jason Todd headcanons always involve how he was raised.

Jason grew up around crime alley. He grew up with an addict mother and neglectful father, Hunger is something Jason is accustomed too. Now as an adult? Fridge fully stocked in any of his safe houses. Takeout ? On the regular but he much prefers actually eating something homemade. No one around this man has had their stomach rumble since.

He'll pack your lunchboxes, learned all your favorite food. Keeps your favorite safe foods on hand sometimes. He Loves taking you out to eat. Sometimes fancy, usually not. It's usually placed he used to go to in his youth, and he wants to share that with you.

Your backpack/purse always has at least one protein bar and you know you didn't put that in there.

Jason grew up in small apartments. This is still something he's never grown out of. He likes the intimacy of it and he sees no reason to have more space than needed. It just doesn't seem practical to him. He's not one to buy nice furniture or knickknacks unless they're yours. The apartment dedicated to you two is well decorated with nice furniture while his solo safe houses are borderline war zones. Your apartment is probably filled with pictures of you two, all he wasn't excited to take but he needs to capture specific times and memories because something tangible to him like that is important.

Jason was raised religious. He still probably is in some capacity. He used to pray every night for God to keep his family safe, now he does the same with Bruce, his brothers, his friends and you. He doesn't love as much as he worships. It's devoted, intimate, a soft but definite whisper. His love doesn't need to have words, just action.

A/N: this been sitting in my drafts for a bit but I'd really love some requests please I need more Jason content and I'll make it myself if I have too I just need ideas people

[n3ptoonz]

'Timeless'

Pairing: Congressman!Bucky/Congresswoman!Reader

Fandom: MCU

Warnings/tags: None; fluff(?), angst if you squint, lover boy, cute lil fic, tried to give it some plot, his trauma mentioned - dude misses the 40s a lil, tried to stick to the theme of the tweet i hope i did it well! half proofread

not my original idea! this is based off a tweet i saw and HAD to write for it 😁 og tweet here!! tweet below in case you can't access the link

Word count: 1.9k+

The Congressman rarely ever smiled. Always wore that resting face Sam constantly reminded him of. Didn't converse much outside of politics talk, and even that was very little because he didn't understand half of it. Or more he didn't care. The goal was and always will be to take down whatever shady shit Valentina was involved with. Sooner or later, her down fall will come. He'd rather sooner.

The press, God, he hated the press. Less than half a term and he's already ready to quit. Turn in his resignation letter now as we speak. The Congressman never had a reason to trust the system, yet the title he wore gave him no choice. So, as he walked into where the impeachment proceedings were being held, his eyes didn't fall to the suspect on trial. They landed on the woman sitting next to Congressman Gary. You.

He sat down, watching and listening intently to the hearing. Valentina's undeniable charisma and charm didn't go unnoticed, which couldn't have bothered him more. He's played these games before.

Your eyes only met his one time when he walked in and took his seat. His chest might've tightened a bit. A little warm under the collar. You were composed; poised. Professional. Damn good at your job. Dressed prim and polished. Not "out there" but it's not like you didn't draw eyes to you every once in a while.

Luckily, she didn't have the entire committee under her thumb. Gary, you, and many others on the board weren't hearing her bullshit. He spoke, you added on, making it clear that the investigation was due to continuation. No matter how confident Valentina seemed in her innocence plea.

The meeting ended. The Congressman's eyes lingered as Valentina passed by him. At first off in space, then to you. He stood up when you did. Keep it subtle. He walked out, a little more pep in his step. He watched people file out with nods and an attempted smile of acknowledgment like he wasn't waiting on one person to round that corner.

You were speaking with someone when you rounded the corner. Passing by Bucky without even glancing his way. He felt stuck. He wanted to reach out and get your attention but the words died in the back of his throat. He let his metal hand dangle at his side as he watched you descend the corridor. Even your walk was perfect. Effortless. Wore that pantsuit like it was nobody's business.

He tore his eyes from you and he sighed. Bucky couldn't help but feel stuck in time when he was around you. Hell, merely seeing you teleports him back to '43. He feels like that solider in his late twenties who wants to impress the young lady he spotted at a diner. The girl he'd write letters to. Some tear stained. Some playful. Some just plain sincere. You just reminded him so much of that time, he started to picture all types of scenarios. You'd be someone he never got to give a proper farewell to. Someone The sergeant would be too shy and too lovestruck to actually say something to.

Bucky swore he'd forgotten all about that time. He didn't have a choice. It was foggy. Fragments of, ironically, the happiest he had been. Despite being drafted. He hadn't smiled like that in a long time. Last time was when he spent time with the Wilsons. The few conversations you've shared, though, had him cheesing. Almost like everything up to this point was worth it.

The cryo, the torture, the deafening screams. Forgetting any and everything that tied him back to James Buchanan Barnes. How ice cold and fiery hot his veins felt during and after every brain wipe. One snicker at a stupid joke he made about how frustrating the system was worth it all. Every moment with you was better than the last.

"Barnes." he was startled out of his daydreaming upon hearing a voice to his right. Bucky looked over and saw you standing there with an apologetic expression on your face. "My apologies if I scared you there." you continued with a sheepish laugh.

Bucky almost lost his train of thought there, but now with you actually standing here he couldn't just blink you away.

"No, no, all good. You're good." he said as he returned your energy as best he could. "I was just thinking about all this." he added while gesturing around to their surroundings. The implications were hopefully there. He couldn't help but cringe at his own self whenever he talked to people. Especially you.

"Ah, yes. This investigation, this case is no joke. They're doing the best they can to uncover the truth on Valentina. But, enough with that. I couldn't help but notice I walked straight past you earlier. My assistant told me it looked like you had something to say but I was too in the zone to tell. Unless she read that wrong...?"

Bucky nodded along as you finished talking, "I did, yeah. I, uh, I was wondering if you were going to, err..." he trailed off, trying to cover up his nerves with a dry chuckle. "Are you going to the gala tonight?" he finally spit out. A part of him holding on strong enough to not let his eyes trail any further than your eyes.

Your laugh matched his as you thought about it, checking your watch. "I'm not entirely sure." you said. He hoped you didn't hear him gulp. "I'm kind of behind on some paperwork I should've signed and gotten done a few days ago. There's a chance, but it's small."

Bucky gave a look of understanding even if he was a little disappointed. That was really the only thing he was looking forward to since he was only going to keep an eye out. Maybe get Mel on board.

"Understandable. Well, I hope that small chance trumps all. Don't think I've ever seen you without pants." he replied. After about two seconds his face went pale. You narrowed your eyes and his collar suddenly felt tighter than before.

"Oh?"

"I am so sorry, that is not how I meant that to come out-"

"-I think I got what you meant." you cut him off and turned halfway to leave but couldn't hide the smile growing on your face. "I'll see you around."

Bucky waved weakly as you walked away. Didn't even have the energy to say goodbye. Of all words that could be put together in an English sentence, really? He tried to shake it off and not overthink and/or panic. Just go on about his day.

To nobody's surprise, the gala felt stuffy and snobby. Not a single sincere conversation within an earshot of him as he traversed the floors. He couldn't bear anymore fake smiles and short lived laughs at dry, corny jokes that he definitely didn't understand. So, he took to brooding on the second floor. Standing at the banister and watching over people like there was something brewing.

The Congressman couldn't help but let his mind drift off again as he leaned forward on his elbows. Seeing these people dressed up, champagne in hand and conversing gave parlor vibes. Back in his day when socializing at least seemed desired. And without missing a beat, he'd have a dame on his arm for the night. Then he thought of you. Again.

If only you actually had time to be here. So hard working and caring or whatever. Imagine. He could only sigh and smile to himself, wondering what it'd be like to hold you close and drown out the noise.

The banister shifted forward very slightly from the extra weight, but not from him. He blinked with furrowed brows thinking he accidentally put too much pressure using his metal arm.

"Congressman."

Bucky jolted again, like earlier. You stood there, leaning on your hip. He turned his attention to you. He caught himself before he started gawking.

Eyes up here!

"Congresswoman." he replied but he made it so obvious he was completely caught off guard. Not necessarily by your sudden presence but surely how you were not wearing pants. A gorgeous gown in your favorite color--he remembered--paired with that necklace you always wore under your collar.

"Someone's feeling social today."

Bucky scoffed, but not at you. He briefly glanced at the crowd below and rolled his eyes.

"Would you want to talk to these people about 'diplomacy' and 'the climate of D.C. politics' right now?"

You immediately shook your head with a halfhearted smirk. "Hell no." you said. "That was apart of the paperwork I was just finishing up."

Bucky listened to you talk about what your last three to four hours looked like. Paperwork stacked to your knees but luckily most of it was just putting your signature on it and mailing it out. Then it started up again. Young James Barnes by happen chance meeting a girl that he was genuinely interested in what she had to say.

"Wow, that's...a lot." he commented. Your gaze met his for a moment before he smiled at you in attempts to make sure he didn't look inevitably threatening due to his resting face.

"Yeah." was all you could say back because you really were stressed. And Valentina's case didn't make it any easier.

Bucky noticed immediately.

He held out his flesh hand towards you before saying anything, watching your eyes fall to his palm.

"May I have this dance?" he asked. He figured, fuck it. There was no better time than to ask. He'd been bumbling most of the time you two talked. Words weren't really his strong suit...but he could've told you that.

You took his warm hand in yours without second thought. He didn't even really move far from the banister either. The second floor wasn't as crowded so he was going to take advantage of it.

"This isn't really 'dancing music'." you pointed out the soft jazz idly playing in the background. Bucky shrugged and held your hand anyway, the other around your waist.

"Any music is 'dancing music'." he said. So quiet you were surprised you heard him. "My mom used to say that all the time."

You both swayed back and forth in each other's arms. Eye contact never breaking and the rhythm never faltering.

"Sounds like a great woman of great taste." you said, matching his volume. His lips curled up in admiration. Oh, his mother would adore you. His father would tell him to not be stupid. To keep you close because you were different. Made Bucky act different. More like a man than ever.

"Why're you looking at me like that?" you asked in a teasing manner. Bucky's breath caught and his metal hand instinctively held you tighter, pulling you closer. You didn't mind. You found it...oddly comforting.

Wholesome.

"Your face, it's just..." he said in a low, softened tone. Studying every centimeter so he could never forget what you looked like. Should he, for some reason, lose his mind again. Experience that bimonthly random short term memory loss, this is a sure fire thing he can bury deep into his memory. If not your laugh, your lopsided grin, the way your face contorts without you realizing, your confident stride, it's the way you look up and into his eyes. Giving him your full attention. There's no way he'll forget it.

"It's...?" you prompted him to go on. Heart beating loudly in your chest in anticipation. Bucky looked at you like you were the only woman in the world. Like everything was okay. Like it was worth it. He slowed his movements and inched you closer. Your faces a few inches away before he spoke again. Probably the softest most sincere way he's ever spoken to anybody in his entire life.

"It's timeless."

[sixeyesonathiel]

literally my biggest pet peeve ever is how some women—yes, WOMEN—turn into the most misogynistic people over a damn mlm ship. the way they will demonize, erase, or straight up infantilize female characters just because she’s canonically close to the man they wanna see in a yaoi scenario.

the girl could be strong, complex, or supportive—and they’ll reduce her to “annoying,” “useless,” or “just a silly little girl who doesn’t understand him like his bro does 🥺” ...do you hear yourself??? you are literally a woman talking like women are inherently inferior. where is the shame when you’re benefitting from the very feminism you’re mocking? you wouldn’t even be allowed to read fanfiction, use a phone freely, or enjoy fictional media without feminism being demonized as corrupting or immoral. you’re sitting there calling a fictional girl a pickme while benefiting from centuries of real women fighting for you to have basic autonomy. it’s funny until you realize your misogyny is real, even if the female character isn’t.

and let’s be honest—the yaoi pandemic pipeline really did a number on some of these people 💀 because suddenly female characters became enemies of progress, and some of you suddenly weaponize queerness to drag women for sport. like congrats, you escaped heteronormativity just to rebuild the same patriarchal shit in fanon. how revolutionary.

they act like they’re uplifting the queer community, but what they’re actually doing is tearing down women to push their fanon agenda. this isn't activism. this is internalized misogyny with rainbow frosting. queer representation doesn't require you to spit on canon female characters. it doesn't require rewriting a canon dynamic just to make the woman look unworthy or disposable. you want queer rep? then support queer creators. make queer media. there's an entire world of original queer content that doesn’t involve sabotaging feminism or turning women into villains for existing.

it’s just so wild to me seeing straight women act like they’re so progressive because they ship gay couples, but then turn around and say the most degrading shit about female characters. calling them pickmes. downplaying their arcs. infantilizing them to make the man x man ship look deeper. you are not doing feminism any favors. you’re literally just showing how much you hate women too.

the hate is even more intense when the mlw ship becomes canon. canonically part of the story. canonically important. but that’s not enough for you, huh? you'd rather rewrite and reject the narrative so she looks like a childish obstacle, and your fave gets to cry into another man’s arms because “only he understands him.” like be honest… what would you even do if your man cheated on you with another man and said “chill babe, it’s fanon”? would you cry or are you suddenly their #1 shipper with a wattpad fic in the drafts? let’s unpack that.

[borkunlimited]

Wonder Cat Rosmontis - 1

Cat Hybrid! Reader x Dragon Hybrid! Sylus Summary: A police lieutenant and a crime boss her CI with unproven crimes looks after a little cat hybrid suffering from amnesia with telepathic abilities she can't control just yet.

Author's Notes: I am actually a found family trope enthusiast. I am glad @blessdunrest asked me about this last time and while there is no concrete outline, I figured I should post little snippets here and there until I am ready. Unofficial title as well because there is a high chance I will turn this into a series. I just really love Rosmontis from Arknights and I have been enabled by @cygnuusss on this (Thank you also for reading the original draft!) Word Count: 1,032

“You look pathetic, Sylus.”

“Am I pathetic enough to be invited inside, sweetie?”

“You’re already on the balcony. What more do you want?”

Sporting bruises, cuts, and a black eye, he still managed to grin when you opened the door wider for him to step inside despite your words and you didn’t ask where he got those injuries, knowing he will give you vague answers and will do anything to dodge your questions.

As long as he isn’t bleeding, no interrogation is necessary.

Sylus made his way inside your apartment. Small because you stared him down when he pointed out rather extravagant ones located in the upper district but this is better compared to the old one, a good distance from your assigned precinct, a grocery story three blocks away and the main selling point that convinced you to move here is-

-You can also walk your kitty cat to pre-school before going to work.

“Where’s kitty cat?”, he asked, moving the frog stuffed toy on his lap before sitting down on the couch, watching you move to the kitchen with your tail swaying lazily, a ribbon tied around it and he is sure kitty cat has once again managed to convince you to reenact the mother cat from her favorite film.

As much as he quietly enjoys observing you, his gaze is always pulled on the surroundings of your new home even when he has been here countless of times, always welcoming himself and sending away any babysitters you hired for kitty cat so he can spend more time with her.

Labels. Kitty cat has a bad memory recall but on her way to recovery and each item in the household has a label to remind her what it is called. Some labels written by her own hand, taped to a household item with a sticker from the sticker pad she managed to convince Luke and Kieran to buy.

Drawings. Her first drawing from her first day in pre-school is still in its frame. Stick figures of you, him, kitty cat, the twins and she even included Mephisto and an imaginary friend she calls her ‘brother’. She always corrects both of you that her ‘brother’ is real yet when asked where he is, she always replies he is in the same room as she is.

Walls. Still intact. Kitty cat is having less and less incidents recently on causing destruction every time she blacks out from being unable to control overwhelming emotions.

A frame from the Aristocats is on pause in the television, an old one you refuse to replace until you get promoted as captain, and Sylus doesn’t need to play it to know the lines spoken by the white kitten, kitty cat’s favorite character.

“Ladies do not start fights but they can finish them.”

He is sure kitty cat managed to convince you again to run this film for the nth time.

“She fell asleep after I played the film for the third time tonight,” you answered from the counter, pouring a glass of cold water for him after throwing a bag of frozen peas in his direction that he caught, immediately letting out a sigh of relief as he pressed it on his black eye.

“What happened to introducing her to new films, Miss Lieutenant Hissy Cat?”

“What happened to not buying her new  toys, Linkon’s Most Wanted?”

“Kitty cat brings a test with a perfect score, she gets a new friend. That’s my agreement with her, sweetie.”

“Buy her a boat with her name while we are at it,” you rolled your eyes but you know you have given him an idea when you recognized that familiar glint in his eyes.

One opportunistic dragon he is.

But before he can even confirm that he can and he will the next time the kitty cat does bring a test with a perfect score, both of your heads immediately turn towards the sound of small feet shuffling towards you.

“Papa?”

Small, still a little frail, and hair the same color as Sylus’, his gaze softened as she rubbed her eyes, blinking out sleep and each step she took, a yawn followed by the sound of her little shark dragged at the wooden floor.

“Mama said you won’t be able to go here tonight,” she said slowly and Sylus reached out to pat her head, his little kitty cat letting out a small purr, pushing her head against his touch.

“Well, I told my friends I don’t want to miss my kitty cat’s favorite film.”

“They don’t mind?”

“Oh, papa’s a very convincing man.”

Friday night. His usual poker game ended early but his new opponents weren’t too pleased with the results coupled with him wanting to leave in a haste that resulted in a brawl and yet, he still stood by his word.

If anything, he will have that poker game rescheduled just so he can have a guarantee not to miss this night with you and his kitty cat in this small home where a police and a criminal is playing house to a little girl from nowhere.

“Oh my, sweetie, sleeping with the enemy? Your superiors will not be so pleased.”

“I’ll kick you out of this bed if I ever hear you say that again.”

“No arguing allowed,” your kitty cat grumbled, burying her face on your chest and you gave him one last glare while he gave you a smirk in return, his arm around the kitty cat as the two of you settled with her in between on her small bed.

He will be gone by tomorrow morning once he is sure kitty cat is snoring softly and that usual crease that forms in between your brows is gone but before he leaves through the balcony, he does a little ritual.

A kiss on the forehead for kitty cat and-

-His eyes will linger on your peaceful face, his favorite lieutenant, always the enforcer of the law, and even when you are close, you are always out of reach of the likes of a man such as him.

If only you know the lengths he is willing to go through to make this little charade permanent.

Author's Notes: Rosmontis is an actual character in Arknights. One of my favorites, actually and I supposed a very tragic character (but we will change that here). I like giving orphaned children in the games I play parents they deserve which is why I am writing this. (Also, I supposed I am very inspired by Spy x Family and Buddy Daddies.) Thanks for reading!

[vibewithma]

Gumbo

Sinners Modern!Au

Preacher Boy/Sammie x Black Church Girl!Reader

A/N: guys I this is my last draft🥱 gonna write a new one

On a slow, aching Tuesday, two weeks since she’d last set foot in church, Y/N finally decided she needed some different kind of healing.

She’d been drowning herself in Psalms and Proverbs, underlining verses with a shaking hand, scribbling prayers in the margins of her Bible so fierce the pages wrinkled. Spent hours outside, hoping maybe the sun and God’s green earth would do what scripture alone couldn’t.

But the quiet in her room felt suffocating.

So when her heart tugged her toward Annie’s, she listened.

Only catch?

She’d lent Dawn her car for the day.

So she pulled on her long skirt and simple white tee, grabbed her canvas bag and took the hour-long ride and walk to the bus stop, transfer once, then shuffle up the long dusty road to Annie’s place.

When she stepped through that door, it smelled like onions sizzling, fresh herbs, old memories.

Homey in a way that made her eyes sting.

“Look at you, chile,” Annie fussed, wiping her hands on her apron before pulling Y/N in for a hug. “Skin glowin’. Still got them pretty eyes. Sit down, rest them feet. I’m workin’ on some gumbo.”

So she did.

She sat at the little kitchen table, toes curled on the worn linoleum, stirring the pot when Annie stepped out to talk to a neighbor.

It was perfect.

Until the screen door squeaked open behind her.

She didn’t even have to turn. Her spine went stiff all on its own, her breath locking up in her chest.

Sammie.

She could smell him before he even said a word.

There was a long, awkward silence his eyes on her back, her pretending the gumbo needed all her concentration.

Finally, his voice, low and rough:

“You look good.”

She didn’t bother turning. “Mm. Thanks.”

Dry as the Mississippi dirt in August.

He huffed, scratching at his jaw. “I uh… I brought Annie the rest of her money.”

“Cool.”

Still didn’t turn. Still stirred.

Then, like an angel on cue, Annie bustled back in through the door.

“Oh good, you two are meetin’ again. Sammie, sit your hard head down. You stayin’ for supper. Gumbo’s almost done.”

Sammie shifted, clearly about to make an excuse, but Annie gave him a look that brooked no argument.

So he sighed, dropped the cash on the counter and slid into the chair across from Y/N.

Annie set three bowls down, humming while she ladled steaming gumbo over rice. “Look at this. Two young folk who used to run around my place like puppies, now actin’ like strangers. Go on, eat. This’ll fix whatever’s eatin’ ya.”

So there they sat.

Three of them at that tiny round table.

Y/N kept her eyes on her spoon, blowing at the broth like it was the most fascinating thing she’d ever seen.

Sammie couldn’t stop sneaking glances at her at her bare collarbone, the faint gold chain resting there, the way her lashes fluttered when she blinked too fast.

And Annie?

She just shook her head, smiling softly like she knew exactly how messy it all was, how two hearts could ache for each other across a table, even when neither one wanted to say it out loud.

After a while, Annie leaned back and patted her belly.

“Mmm. Lord, that hit the spot. I’m gon’ go water my herbs. You two clean up, alright?”

And just like that, they were alone again.

Sammie cleared his throat.

“You ain’t been at church.”

She didn’t look up. Just scraped the last bit of rice from her bowl.

“Nope.”

“You… been okay?”

That question sounded like it took a chunk of him to get out.

She finally met his eyes. Hers were shiny, fierce and sad all at once.

“Why do you care, Samuel?”

He opened his mouth. Shut it. Ran a hand down his face.

“I, Look, I know I messed up. I was mad, jealous, said things I shouldn’t—”

“Do you know, Samuel?” she shot back, voice cracking.

“Yeah. I know. But I—”

He leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes pleading.

“I missed you. I still, I can’t stop thinkin’ about you. About us.”

She shook her head, pushing her chair back with a little squeal of wood.

“Boy, don’t. Please. I can’t do this right now.”

Then she stood up and started gathering bowls, hands trembling.

Sammie watched her like a man starved, like he wanted to reach out and pull her right into his lap, beg her to just let him hold her.

But he didn’t.

He only sighed, dropping his gaze to his hands.

And together, in that tiny kitchen that smelled of thyme and regret, they cleaned up the dishes both of them pretending it was just a normal dinner.

But their hearts?

Their hearts were still stuck two weeks ago, in the dark, with her in his lap, whispering things they both couldn’t forget.

A warm rain turned heavy a fat, urgent Mississippi downpour that drummed on Annie’s tin roof like impatient fingers. By the time Y/N peered outside, the dirt road was already dark with puddles, the bus wouldn’t be coming, and she was stranded.

She tried.

She called Dawn first, but Dawn was at some pop-up market with her phone breaking up.

Then her daddy, Lenny, who sounded stressed at work and couldn’t leave.

Even Chris didn’t pick up.

Y/N cursed under her breath, pacing Annie’s tiny living room with her phone pressed to her ear.

Annie leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, one brow raised.

“Girl, you gon’ catch a cold frettin’ like that. Just let Sammie take you.”

Y/N snapped her head up.

“I’d rather walk in the rain, Miss Annie.”

Annie gave her that look the one that said she’d raised three boys tougher than either of them would ever be.

“You gon’ do no such thing. He sittin’ out there waitin’. I done told him to. Now go on. Don’t be rude.”

With her last thread of pride fraying, Y/N snatched up her bag and stormed out into the rain, where Sammie’s old truck sat idling.

He was leaning against the driver’s side, hood up against the wet, watching her like he expected a fight.

When she didn’t say anything, he just opened her door for her.

“C’mon.”

She climbed in without a word, staring out her window as he got in and pulled off.

The first few minutes were quiet except for the wipers working overtime.

Then Sammie tried.

“You still mad at me, huh?”

She didn’t even turn. “Don’t flatter yourself, Samuel.”

He blew out a frustrated breath, tapping the wheel.

“You always gotta be like this? Can’t even give me a real answer?”

“You didn’t deserve one.”

Silence.

Heavy.

Like the rain.

Then he jerked the wheel to the side, pulling off into an empty gas station lot and cutting the engine.

She blinked at him, heart thudding.

“What are you doing?”

He leaned back in his seat, eyes fixed on her with that intense, stubborn set to his jaw.

“I ain’t drivin’ another mile till you talk to me normal.”

“Oh please.” She folded her arms tight, nose in the air.

“You think you can make me?”

A slow grin cracked across his face, though it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Girl, you are the most hard-headed thing God ever put on this earth.”

“Funny. You’re the biggest disappointment He put on it.”

That one actually made Sammie laugh, a bitter, broken thing.

“Aight. Suit yourself.”

And he started the engine again, but instead of taking her home, he pulled out and turned the opposite way.

It took her a few blocks to catch on.

“Where are we going?”

He didn’t even glance over.

“Somewhere dry. Since you don’t wanna be civil, you can sit quiet in my apartment instead.”

“Your what?!”

He parked outside his place, hopped out and didn’t look back.

Y/N sat stubbornly in the truck for a good ten minutes, arms still crossed, rain pounding the roof. But when lightning cracked and the thunder rolled so close it rattled her seat, she caved.

With a muttered curse, she grabbed her bag and dashed up the walkway, soaked by the time she reached his door.

Sammie opened it without a word, standing aside so she could slip past him.

She didn’t meet his eyes.

He didn’t try to touch her.

Inside, his little apartment smelled like clean laundry and faint cologne. Her heart twisted painfully.

“Make yourself at home,” he muttered. “I gotta grab you a towel. You’re drippin’ all over my floor.”

And when he walked away, she finally let herself look around, at the scattered guitar picks on the coffee table, the old Bible open on the couch arm, the pictures of him with his cousins.

It hit her all over again how badly she’d missed him.

But pride?

Pride would keep her from saying it.

So she just stood there, cold and wet and stubborn while Sammie, somewhere down the hall, ran a hand over his face and wondered how long it’d take for them to stop hurting each other.

The apartment was quiet except for the hum of the rain against the windows, like the sky was whispering all their secrets. Sammie came back from his bedroom holding a soft folded big shirt.

He didn’t look smug. Didn’t look teasing. Just tired.

“Here. Bathroom’s down the hall. You gon’ catch pneumonia standin’ there like that.”

Y/N snatched the clothes from him without a word, storming off.

She changed quickly, tugging the oversized shirt over her body, drowning in his scent faint woodsmoke, clean linen, that little bite of cinnamon gum he always chewed.

It hurt. More than she’d admit.

When she came out, Sammie was sprawled on his couch in just some grey sweatpants and a wife beater, elbows resting on his knees.

For a minute, they just stared at each other.

Him, taking her in.

Her, stubbornly glaring, hugging her arms around herself like that could keep him out.

Finally he tilted his head.

“C’mere, Y/N.”

She didn’t move.

So he patted his thigh, slow.

“Don’t make me tell you twice.”

Another long, bitter stand-off.

But something about the way his voice dipped low that mix of weariness and pleading, finally got her feet moving.

She shuffled over, refusing to meet his eyes.

The second she was close enough, he reached up, hands firm on her waist and pulled her down into his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Y/N stiffened immediately.

“Tsk. Samuel, don’t.”

“Stop callin’ me that.” His hands slipped around her hips, thumbs rubbing slow circles, voice softer than she expected.

“You know I hate when you do that.”

She tried to twist away, but he just tightened his grip, forcing her to straddle him proper.

“Look at me.”

She shook her head, stubborn jaw set, eyes darting anywhere but his.

“Look. At. Me.”

Finally, painfully, she did.

And oh, he was close. Closer than she could stand. Those dark eyes searching hers, trying to find something he’d lost weeks ago.

“Why you actin’ like you don’t even wanna be in the same room as me?” His voice cracked right at the end, all that bravado from the club gone.

She swallowed hard.

“Because… I don’t.”

His jaw ticked.

“Lie again. Look me in my face and lie again.”

She couldn’t.

So she tried to turn her head, but his hand slid up, palm warm against her cheek, forcing her right back.

“Y/N… don’t do this. Don’t run from me when I’m right here tryin’ to fix it.”

That tore something open inside her, made her eyes sting.

But she bit down on her lip so hard it almost bled, just to keep the words in.

Because if she said how much she missed him, she’d crumble. And he didn’t deserve to watch her break.

So she just sat there, stiff and silent, heart beating too loud.

And Sammie?

He rested his forehead against hers, breathing her in like she was air after drowning.

Neither of them moved. Neither of them spoke.

It was war and truce and heartbreak all tangled up in one hush, both of them too damn stubborn to say what needed to be said.

Sammie held her there, thumbs pressing gentle on her hips, forehead still resting against hers like he was afraid if he let go, she’d vanish.

Then he sighed deep, ragged, like it clawed straight out his chest.

“Y/N… I’m sorry. Alright?”

His voice cracked.

“For not textin’ you. For not showin’ up how I should’ve. For lettin’ you think you was just some girl I wanted to get up under instead of someone I—”

But she shook her head fast, cutting him off before he could finish that thought.

He closed his eyes, tried again, softer this time.

“I’m sorry, baby. For real.”

For a split second, her face twitched something fragile in her eyes. But she smothered it quick.

And without saying a word, she stood up.

He didn’t stop her. Just watched, helpless, as she padded across his living room in her bare legs and his oversized shirt.

Watched the way she paused in the hall like she might turn around, then kept going.

A minute later he heard the soft creak of his bedroom door, then silence.

Sammie sat there on the couch, elbows on his knees, hands steepled over his mouth like he was praying.

Finally, he stood and walked to his bedroom.

He found her there, small in the middle of his big bed, curled up on her side, facing away from the door.

She had tugged the blanket up to her chin, like she was trying to hide from him or maybe from herself.

For a moment he just leaned against the doorway, watching her breathe.

Then, without a word, he turned off the hall light and left her alone, pulling the door almost shut.

He pressed his palm against the wood, closed his eyes.

“Goodnight, Y/N,” he whispered so quiet it was nearly a ghost.

Then he left her to sleep, heart heavy with all the things he wished he could fix with just an apology.

Taglist:

@https://www.tumblr.com/cosmicautomatonshark @https://www.tumblr.com/fanfictiononly4 @https://www.tumblr.com/pinkpantheris @andthatsonmaryhadalillamb @sweetalittleselfish-honey @bleufu1 @https://www.tumblr.com/fruitypatooties-blog @heyyimmisunderstood @https://christinabae.tumblr.com/ @https://www.tumblr.com/jackierose902109 @https://www.tumblr.com/jaybbygrl

[jjksdoll]

OVERDRIVE | jjk

in which. the idol you work behind the scenes for, who also happens to be your boyfriend, is performing tonight; but something is clearly wrong.

pairing. idol!jungkook x staff member!reader

genre. fluff, angst (?)

aus. established relationship au, idol au, bts au

rating. 13+, sfw

words. 1.05k

content/warnings. mentions of fainting, anxiety, jungkook almost collapses, dizziness, overworking

note. this has been sitting in my drafts for a while. thought i should share it with y’all since this one’s actually kind of realistic): have a good read my babies. ♡

tap. tap. tap.

the heel of your boot hasn’t stopped bouncing against the concrete for the past hour.

you’re backstage. technically on duty, technically coordinating logistics for the post show breakdown. but your eyes haven’t left the stage once.

he’s up there, drowning in lights and screams and pressure, and he’s not okay.

you can see it in the way he moves. it’s subtle, but you know him. the slight missteps in choreography, the way his hand keeps twitching by his side when it should be relaxed. the way his chest rises too quickly even in moments of stillness. the sheen of sweat coating his face. not the usual kind, but the cold, sick kind. like his body is trying to fight something off and failing.

your boyfriend is performing for thousands of people, and he looks like he’s about to fucking pass out.

and you can’t do a damn thing about it.

you warned him before the show. when he came up to you ten minutes before call time, pale and quiet, and told you his chest felt tight and his breathing was off.

you told him to sit it out. just once. just this one performance.

he looked at you with that stubborn fire in his eyes. told you how there’s ‘no way he’s letting them down.’

fucking hell.

you love him, but sometimes you want to shake him until he learns to love himself half as fiercely as he loves his goddamn job.

“five minutes til wrap!” someone yells behind you. one of the audio techs.

your fingers are halfway to your mouth, biting at your nails.. a habit you’d kicked years ago but came clawing back the second he stepped on stage tonight.

you’re so far past nervous it’s not even a word anymore. you’re fucking terrified. because you’ve seen idols collapse. you’ve helped catch them, wipe blood off their faces, call ambulances in the middle of chaos. it’s not glamorous. it’s not romantic. it’s horrifying.

and right now, you’re watching the person you love edge closer to that line every goddamn second.

he hits the last note of the final song and drops into the ending pose. the crowd erupts.

you don’t care.

you’re already stepping forward, motioning to the crew behind you.

“get the towels, the fans, everything. as soon as they’re down, we need cooling stations ready.”

someone nods and takes off running. another follows.

your eyes snap back to the stage when you hear his voice through the mic. his goodbye speech.

it’s short, too short for jungkook. no jokes, no long winded thank yous. just a few sentences. his voice is hoarse. shaky. his grip on the mic is loose.

and then..

he drops.

not all the way, not unconscious. just to one knee. like his legs gave out and he’s trying to play it off as part of the exit.

your stomach sinks so fast you feel sick.

you take a step forward, ready to run, when a hand grabs your wrist.

“he’s okay. he’ll be okay,” one of the makeup staff mouths, eyes wide.

you shake her off.

he forces himself up. stumbles. jimin’s hand steadies him for half a second before they all start walking downstage.

your breath doesn’t return until you see him reach the bottom of the stairs. even then, it’s shallow.

namjoon passes you first. then seokjin. hoseok, yoongi, taehyung, jimin.

and then him.

he’s barely standing.

you reach him before anyone else can. his body leans into yours like instinct, like it’s the only place he can rest.

“fuck,” you breathe, arms wrapping around his waist as he sags against you. “baby - ”

he’s burning up. drenched in sweat. breathing ragged into your neck.

“you’re okay,” you whisper, voice shaking. “you’re done. it’s over. i’ve got you.”

he doesn’t answer. just grips the back of your shirt like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

“someone help me!” you shout. “get him water, cooling pads - anything!”

people rush in. two staff members ease him off of you and onto a couch in the center of the green room. you’re right there beside him, ignoring protocol, ignoring boundaries, ignoring everything but him.

you place a wet towel on his forehead. someone else hands you a fan. another brings a sports drink. none of it matters unless he opens his eyes.

he groans, eyes fluttering open just enough to look around in a daze. you lower yourself between his legs, palms on either side of his burning face.

“jungkook.”

no response.

“jungkook, look at me.”

his gaze finally locks on yours.

you exhale like you’ve been holding your breath for years.

“move, for fuck’s sake,” you snap at the crowd of well meaning staff hovering too close. “back up. give him space.”

they back off. most of them, at least. you don’t care if they’re annoyed. let them talk. he’s the only thing that matters right now.

his lips part. “i’m okay,” he whispers. barely. but it’s enough.

you close your eyes for a second and press your forehead against his.

“you idiot,” you whisper, voice cracking. “how could you do this to yourself? you scared the shit out of me.”

he gives a weak chuckle, eyes glassy with guilt.

“m’sorry.”

you swallow down everything you want to scream at him and just breathe. your fingers rake through his hair, pushing the soaked strands back from his forehead. his hand finds yours, rests it against his chest like he needs to feel you there.

he tugs lightly, motioning for you to come up on the couch. you do. you don’t even think about it.

his head falls to your chest, arms looping around your waist, and you hold him like he’s the only thing grounding you to the earth.

his breathing evens out slowly. the tremble in his hands stops.

you close your eyes and press your lips to the top of his head, arms wrapped around him as the chaos of post show cleanup continues around you.

and for the first time all night.. you let yourself breathe.

thank god he’s okay.

© jjksdoll

[camficdiner]

1.5, 2.3, 3.2, 4.3

So the Sharks lose, and Will feels like he was the main reason they lost coupled with the media comparing him to Mack and them always saying he won't be better than Mack has Will very insecure. Reader and Will have a back and forth relationship, they both want each other and they know the other does too but won't do anything about it. Reader says she wants Will finally, and then soft smut ensues (I’m thinking older reader, and sub Will)

Thank youu 💛

☕️ cams fic diner — order 116

🍒 thank you: to the ones who know he’s not like the others — who want the quiet confessions, the unspoken pining, the soft after. this one’s yours.

💬” The things you didn’t say”

✨ description & prompts:

character: will smith

prompt: late-night hotel room confession after a loss

type: older reader x sub!will, mutual pining, soft smut, emotional vulnerability, romantic aftermath

wc ~1.6k

You hear the door shut before you see him.

It’s past midnight. You hadn’t expected him to come to your room — not tonight, not after the loss. You’d seen the way he hung his head on the bench, how he took the blame silently, how he avoided the cameras like they might bite.

But now, there’s a knock. A soft one.

You open the door, and Will’s standing there with his hoodie on, shadows under his eyes, mouth pressed into a miserable line. Not his usual golden-boy confidence. Just a tired kid with the weight of the world on his shoulders.

“Hey,” he says, voice low. “Can I…?”

You step back. “Of course.”

He sits on the edge of your hotel bed like it might give out beneath him. His hands clasp between his knees. You don’t ask him anything, not yet.

After a minute, he says, “It’s my fault.”

“It wasn’t.”

“It was,” he insists, sharper. “I could’ve buried that third-period one-timer. I could’ve—” His breath hitches. “I saw the replay. I flinched. I hesitated. Like a fucking rookie.”

You step closer, kneeling in front of him. His fists are clenched tight.

“They’re already comparing me to Mack again,” he mutters. “Same draft class. Same team. He’s doing everything right and I—fuck, I keep losing us games.”

Your hands reach for his. He doesn’t pull away. You rub your thumbs across his knuckles.

“Will,” you whisper. “You are not Mack. You’re you. And I don’t want you to be anything else.”

He stares at you like he wants to believe it. Like he’s scared to.

You swallow. “Can I say something else?”

He nods.

“I want you.”

His breath catches. His eyes dart up to yours. “What?”

“I want you,” you repeat. “I’ve wanted you for a while. I thought maybe you knew. But I’m saying it now because… you don’t deserve to sit here thinking you’re not enough. Not when you’re everything I’ve ever wanted.”

There’s a pause.

Then his voice, hoarse: “You do?”

You smile softly. “Yeah.”

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath all season.

——

He’s quiet when you kiss him again — quieter still when you guide him gently to sit back against the headboard, your hand warm on his chest.

“I meant what I said,” you murmur, straddling him. “I want you. I’ve wanted you.”

Will’s eyes flicker shut like he’s overwhelmed by the weight of it — of being wanted by you, finally, in this way. He exhales, shaky, hands barely grazing your thighs like he’s scared to hold too much.

“You’re allowed to touch me,” you tease softly, and he lets out the smallest laugh — the sound of someone breaking just a little.

“You always talk like that?” he whispers.

“Only when I want someone to listen.”

His hands slide up your hips, slow, reverent. You kiss him again — long and unhurried — until you feel him melt under you, pliant and eager, like he’s been waiting for this all season.

When you reach down to palm him through his shorts, he chokes out a breath, the sound guttural, raw.

“You’re so good,” you whisper against his neck. “You’re always so good.”

He moans quietly, head tilted back. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“No,” you smile. “I’m gonna take care of you.”

You stroke him slow, teasing him through the fabric until he’s twitching, whining, desperate under your touch. His hips jerk up slightly, but you keep control, guiding the pace — slower, softer, deeper.

“Let me?” you ask, fingers curling into the waistband.

Will nod, breathless. “Please.”

You pull him free and wrap your hand around him — warm, sure, confident. His eyes flutter shut, lashes trembling, lips parted in bliss. You stroke him while you whisper praise into his skin, letting your mouth trail over his neck, his collarbone, the slope of his shoulder.

“You feel good,” you whisper. “So warm, baby. So pretty.”

He whines into your chest, the word breaking from his throat like a prayer. “Don’t stop.”

You don’t. You stroke him slow and deep, and he bucks into your palm, mouthing at your skin like he’s starved. You shift your hips slightly, grinding down against his thigh for friction, letting him feel how worked up you are — how much you want him too.

When you bring your mouth back to his, Will groans like he’s losing his mind. His hips stutter.

“Let go,” you say softly. “I’ve got you.”

And he does — moaning into your mouth, shaking under your body, coming warm and messy across your hand while your name falls broken from his lips.

You kiss him through it. Hold him through it. Let him melt into you like you’re the only safe place in the world.

Afterward, he’s still breathless when he looks up at you.

“You really wanted me?” he whispers.

You smile and kiss his cheek.

“I still do.”

⸻

Will’s head rests on your chest, his curls damp with sweat, his breathing soft and even now — like all the weight he’d been carrying finally slipped from his shoulders.

You run your fingers through his hair slowly, gently, over and over.

Neither of you speaks for a while. There’s only the sound of the AC humming quietly in the hotel room and the faint noise of cars far below on the street.

Eventually, he murmurs, “You always know what to say.”

You smile. “That’s because you never say what you really feel.”

He doesn’t deny it. Just hums against your skin and slides his arm tighter around your waist.

“I wanted to win tonight,” he whispers, so small you almost miss it. “I wanted to prove I belonged out there.”

“You do.”

“But I didn’t—”

You stop him gently, cupping his jaw so he’ll look at you.

“You’re not less because of one game,” you say. “You’re allowed to be frustrated. But you don’t have to carry it alone.”

He blinks — slow, like your words are taking time to reach him.

“You always talk like you’re older,” he teases, a sleepy smile tugging at his lips.

“I am,” you grin, brushing his cheek with your thumb. “And smarter.”

He laughs, soft and genuine, then presses a kiss right beneath your collarbone.

“I like being with you,” he says. “Even if we pretend we’re not.”

You pause for a second — heart full, eyes warm.

“Then let’s stop pretending.”

His eyes widen just a little, then soften, and he leans in to kiss you again — slow, grateful, real.

The kind of kiss that says: Thank you for picking me. For knowing me. For staying.

And when he finally drifts off, curled up against you in that stiff hotel bed, his hand stays locked around yours like he doesn’t want to let go.

You don’t, either.

[mononijikayu]

chapter (7) — ETA.

GENRE: alternate universe - actors/celeb au!

WARNING/S: not safe for work (nsfw), r-18 and above, actors/singers au!, romance, fluff, minor angst, slow burn, humour, slice of life, will they won't they, light-hearted, flirting, playful, possessiveness, teasing, explicit content, possible, kissing, sexual content, innuendos, drama, feels, hurt/comfort, falling in love, love, happy ending, actor/singer! sukuna, actress/celeb! reader;

WORD COUNT: 4k words.

NOTE: apparently someone came to this series after someone recommended it to them and they were begging me to update and i really felt bad about not updating this series for so long, so i finally found the drafts and wrote it. @needsleep3000 this is for you!!! anyway, everyone enjoy the update!!! i love you all!!!

TAGLIST: @kunasthiast, @midnight-138, @v3nd3ttal3on, @r0ckst4rjk, @theshxaverse, @cheescakebroom, @kariatenoh, @ggukfikz, @sukunadckrider ;

masterlist

hey lover! series

YOU DON’T TYPICALLY DO MUCH FOR YOUR BIRTHDAY. Just like every other celebrity out there, you rarely celebrate your birthday. Especially back then when you were just a rising star.

You were very focused on making sure that you were able to do what you could to continue getting work. It was an obsession at the time too, just booking any and all sort of work you could. 

Now you have mellowed down as you got older. You were years into your career, there was now security for you in the industry. And you were grateful for that.

Because this meant that you would have the chance to just enjoy the fruits of your labor. Your parents would stop worrying for your future and well-being. Most of all, just do something nice for your birthday.

Though, even with your birthday nearing, you still didn’t have anything planned. But that's okay. You weren’t looking for a lot on your special day. Just a good time, where you could relax, not think about work and just have fun.

However as you wrapped up with your appearance for the month for this season of Jujutsu Kaisen, you felt it in the little things that were odd. And you knew it was related to you. But it was always related to you when it came to Ryomen Sukuna. You just knew it.

It was the way Sukuna lingered around you more, the hushed conversations he’d abruptly cut short the second you walked in, the way his phone always seemed to disappear into his pocket with just a bit too much haste. Something was definitely up.

But you didn’t press on about it. You weren’t that type of person. And you knew that Sukuna wasn’t the type to be told when to reveal a surprise.

He liked control on that front. He liked watching you squirm with curiosity. And you let him have it, if only because his joy in teasing you was always worth the wait.

That afternoon as you finally were able to go back to your hotel, you felt your charging phone buzzing while you were sitting on your long queen sized bed, sipping a good cup of hot cocoa and scrolling aimlessly through your inbox.

[KUFUKUNA]

what’s your ETA right now?

You blinked at the message. 

Huh, what’s he going on about? ETA?

You typed back quickly.

[Y/NASAUROUS]

maybe the hotel pool in 15. just finished my tedious errands. why?

His reply was instant.

[KUFUKUNA]

you free for the rest of the day?

You paused, biting your lip as you checked your calendar. You don’t really often check your calendar until your manager reminds you that you. Usually, you even forget about it.

But just for him, you knew you’d check. You scrolled through the dates and suddenly, you felt surprised. Free really didn’t even begin to cover it.

[Y/NASAUROUS]

yeah cause im not coming in for night shoots….uhhhh, tomorrow, and the next three days. birthday week cleared. no shoots, no meetings, no deadlines. i’m officially a free woman. well unless kotoko can find something for me to do (again).

Three dots appeared.

You drink a bit of your cocoa.

Then you hear the ding.

[KUFUKUNA]

okay great to hear that, doll. thanks for the confirmation. needed it since i’m planning your birthday.

You raised your brows at his words.

You put down your hot cocoa.

You focused, grinning to yourself.

[Y/NASAUROUS]

sly little man you are, aren’t you?.......you’re just deciding that now?

[KUFUKUNA]

i’ve been planning it for weeks. i’m just letting you know now. you know your senpai has been very VERY busy, doll.

You laughed softly at his reply.

You didn’t expect anything less from him.

This was typical of Ryomen Sukuna.

[Y/NASAUROUS]

can i have one hint at least? pretty please? birthday girl deserves clues!

[KUFUKUNA]

absolutely not.

[Y/NASAUROUS]

rude.

[KUFUKUNA]

do you trust me?

You stared at the screen for a second.

Isn’t this a no brainer already?

It didn’t take you long to type back at him. 

[Y/NASAUROUS]

dearest senpai of mine, with my life. and my birthday.

[KUFUKUNA]

you make me sound way too old when you call me senpai like that, doll.

You couldn’t help but giggle at his words.

You like teasing him like that too well.

You know he loves that it a lot, though.

[Y/NASAURUS]

stop acting like you don’t enjoy it. 

[KUFUKUNA]

….no comment. anyway, pack light. and wear something warm. the rest, i’ll buy for you as pretty little presents, doll.

You looked out the wide windows.

It was still sunny and humid outside. 

You frowned at his text for a moment.

[Y/NASAUROUS]

...are we going somewhere cold?

[KUFUKUNA]

stop asking questions. you’ll know tomorrow morning.

TOMORROW DID COME QUICKLY AND SOON ENOUGH, IT WAS ALREADY YOUR BIRTHDAY. The bright beaming sunlight poured in through the sheer curtains, and birds chirped just beyond your window.

There was a strange calm in the air. Still wrapped about the wool bathrobe, you stretched lazily, half-awake, and as you sat up, you spotted a small ivory envelope resting on your bedside table.

He must have asked staff to bring it in for him with your breakfast. You did know he got back late from set, so you have no doubt that he would have had the chance to catch the staff before he went to catch some rest.

You leaned in to look even closer. Your name was written in his handwriting. As always, you could only be in awe of him. Like always, his kanji looks the best. It was precise, elegant, with that unmistakable little flick on the first letter of your name that gave him away every time.

You reached for it and carefully tore it open with good care. Almost instantly, you see it. Your eyes widened slightly. Inside the elegant fold, you found a plane ticket.

You felt frozen for a moment, trying to get yourself straight into reality once again. You took a look once again and you looked at the information. The destination? Bern, Switzerland.

And beneath it, a note in that same careful script:

“Happy birthday, doll. Pack your bags and meet me down at the lobby before everyone gets up. We’re going on an adventure.”

You sat there, stunned at everything. You put it down and then put it up again. The breakfast was being left unattended and soon enough, cold. You didn’t need that right now. You need to get this through your head.

Once again, you lifted the letter to your face, eyes tracing over every familiar curve of his handwriting. Then again. And again. You couldn’t help it. Your hands trembled slightly, the weight of the moment hitting you in waves. Switzerland. 

You’d always dreamed about it, ever since you saw it on your dad’s postcards. You fantasized about the snow, the villages, the mountains and you’d talked about it so many times with Sukuna. 

On the many quiet nights on set. Sometimes when you were hanging out in passing.Maybe even over coffee. After long days during the press tours.

But never did you think he actually remembered…let alone planned something like this. Your heart was racing. Your mouth dry. You stood frozen beside your bed, completely stunned.

“Ryomen Sukuna, you didn’t—” you called out, half-laughing, half-shocked, the plane ticket still clutched in your hand.

That’s when he appeared in the doorway, as if summoned by your disbelief. He leaned against the frame casually, arms crossed over his chest, wearing that damned smug grin. The one that always spelled trouble, or in this case, magic.

“Oh, but I did do that, doll.” he said smoothly, head tilting ever so slightly. “And we’re already late. Come on, dress up. You can eat breakfast on the plane.”

You blinked at him, stunned. “You’re serious?”

“I don’t buy fake tickets, sweetheart.” he replied with a wink. “Now, bags. Let’s go.”

“You’re insane, you are.” you muttered, grinning as your pulse kicked up again.

“Mm, of course I am.” he shrugged, pushing off the frame, walking into the room to take the ticket from your hand. “And yet you married me anyway.”

“We’re not married, sir.” you shot back, grabbing a nearby jacket. “The show, maybe. But not right now.”

“Tomato, tomato. That’s just technicalities, doll.” he said with a wave of his hand. “Let’s not ruin the pacing here.”

You snorted, tossing your hoodie into your duffel bag. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I get that a lot.” He moved behind you, wrapped his arms around your waist, and rested his chin on your shoulder. “Are you excited?”

You leaned back into him. “Honestly? Yeah. Like, beyond.”

“You’re going to love it. I booked the chalet with the view you liked from that video you showed me, do you remember? The one with the fireplace and the old library?”

Your eyes widened. “You remembered that?”

He pulled away just enough to look at you, expression softening. “You remember everything about the people you deeply care for, doll. And you know….I care a lot about you.”

Your heart clenched at the quiet honesty in his voice. For a second, you just stood there staring at him. This man who drove you crazy, who made your life chaotic and unpredictable, and somehow still made you feel more seen than anyone else ever had.

“You’re going to make me cry before we even get to the airport, you stupid man.” you mumbled, turning away to zip your bag.

He chuckled lowly, brushing your hair behind your ear. “Nah. I’ll wait till we hit the Alps for that.”

As you reached for your passport, he pulled out his phone and checked the time. “Alright, birthday girl. Flight leaves in three hours. Car’s waiting. Let’s get out of here.”

You grabbed your bag, your heart still hammering in your chest as you followed him down the hallway. “You seriously planned all this?”

He glanced back with a smirk. “Next time, maybe I’ll throw in a pony and a string quartet. But this year? Just snow, chocolate, and me.”

You grinned. “That’s already perfect.”

And it was, you were sure of it. You hadn’t even left the country yet, but you already knew this would be one of the best birthdays of your life. You just knew. After all, it was Ryomen Sukuna with you.

YOU WERE HAVING WAY TOO MUCH FUN. The trip was a blur of laughter, altitude, and wide-eyed wonder. Switzerland welcomed you with snow-dusted peaks and cobblestone villages, the scent of melted cheese, roasted chestnuts, and crisp mountain air curling in every breeze.

Sukuna, surprisingly, blended right into the serenity. There was something softer about him there to you, well at least what you’ve observed. You had noticed that there was something quieter, more present. 

If you were being honest, this sort of relaxation suited your very busy fuschia haired senpai more than anything. But of course, you knew that he would say otherwise. He liked being booked and busy. Just like you.

You skied so many times throughout the days that came. Sometimes gracefully, but mostly not (and fell....repeatedly) and sometimes, there was a tumble.

Each of those tumbles were met with laughter and exaggerated gasps from Sukuna as he stood a few feet ahead, watching your slow descent into a pile of snow like it was the most entertaining thing he’d seen all week.

“Are you even trying to stay upright?” he called once, arms crossed, goggles perched uselessly on his head. You could barely lift your face out of the snow to glare at him.

“I swear the slope is cursed, goddamn.” you muttered, flopping back into the powder.

He skied over effortlessly, bent down, and offered his hand. “Or maybe you just have no coordination.”

You took it, muttering something about divorce despite not even being married or at all dating. But then you take that back. You don't know anymore. And you don't care. You just wanted to beat Sukuna at skiing.

(Which you do not. But no one has to know all about that.)

When you weren’t making a snow angel involuntarily, the two of you wandered through twinkling towns that looked like storybooks come to life for you both.

The golden lights strung across rooftops, old clock towers chiming in the distance, the scent of mulled wine and roasted chestnuts wafting through cobblestone alleys.

You’d stop at stalls to sample sweets or pick out handmade scarves, your faces hidden beneath layers of wool and scarves but your eyes warm and always meeting.

And then there were the walks. Your favorite part. Quiet, easy strolls near frozen lakes where the air turned your breath to mist, and the snow blanketed the earth so softly it felt like walking through silence itself.

You were giddy about it. From ear to ear the whole time, even. Your cheeks flushed bright red, giggles slipping out without warning as you swung your gloved hands in his.

You insisted on walking beside him at all times. As much as you can. Though walking was such a generous term to describe it all. You shuffled. Slipped. Nearly face-planted more than once.

Ryomen Sukuna, of course, was maddeningly stable. Years of combat training and supernatural balance turned him into a skiing demigod and a walking glacier whisperer.

You, meanwhile, were on the verge of sliding into oblivion at any given second. You were scared that one moment, you'll just surrender to the icy currents.

“For safety reasons, 'kuna!” you said once, clutching his hand like a lifeline. “We have to hold hands.”

He raised a brow, amused. “For safety, huh?”

“Yes, we do!” you replied matter-of-factly. “Or else I will fall into a frozen Swiss river and perish.”

“Dramatic as always.” he smirked, tightening his grip. “But I’ll allow it.”

It became an unspoken rule: you didn’t walk anywhere near ice without your fingers laced in his. Not because you had to—though that was true—but because you wanted to.

Because the warmth of his glove in yours, the way he tugged you gently along each snowy path, the way his thumb would absently rub along the back of your hand when he thought you weren’t paying attention, it made the cold feel almost irrelevant.

And even when your legs ached, even when your nose was pink and your mittens were soaked, you couldn’t stop smiling. Because you were in Switzerland. With him. Exactly where you were meant to be.

After that, you both went and tried every kind of Swiss chocolate, and he bought your favorite one in bulk. He even made hot chocolate for you in the chalet, smugly boasting about his “secret technique” which turned out to just be a mountain of whipped cream.

You stayed in a secluded cabin where time seemed to stop. This was where he took care of you, like you deserved to. It was the best experience ever, just being away from the fame and glamour. 

He cooked you breakfast in the mornings and made sure that you were always listening to some good jazz music. The man even made sure you were always warm, chopping as much firewood to feed the flames, just to make sure you wouldn’t freeze to death.

He didn’t post anything, just like he promised and just like you wanted. He didn’t tell a soul about it at all. You wanted to keep this moment to yourself and he respected that. He wouldn’t do anything until you gave him the greenlight.

Because he understood this was everything for you.

This was yours to fully enjoy, to keep and to own.

And that’s why you knew it would be perfect.

Ryomen Sukuna just knows what to do.

IT WAS ONLY MONTHS LATER THAT PEOPLE FOUND OUT. It was a schedule in Gojo Satoru’s podcast months later that you spilled it all. You found yourself sitting in a cozy studio bathed in warm, ambient light. The setup was casual and comfortable. It was just how Satoru liked it.

You could see all the soft spotlights overhead, the warm and plush chairs angled toward each other, and the beautiful bright two mugs full of warm hot cocoa steaming on the coffee table between you and your host.

Gojo Satoru, as always, dressed like he had just barely remembered to button up before the cameras started rolling. His luscious hair was a white, rebellious mess, his sunglasses slightly askew, barely hiding his eyes. 

Your rather actor friend was bare-faced and yet still looked so drop dead gorgeous. You couldn’t believe he uses nothing but moisturizer, while you finally sat on the chair as an assistant fixed the mic in front of you.

This was how he usually is with this rather famous podcast. Well, even behind the scenes on set, he was like this. But there was something different with how informal he is when it comes to the podcast.

Gojo Satoru does things his way more than usual with this one the most out of all his other projects. And he liked it that way. This was the only one that he had major roles in everything, from script writing to the budget.

You laughed at something he said as he fixed the flashcards, a familiar smirk playing on his lips. He has invited you for years to be a part of his show. But you just never really found the time. Though, after making him wait for so long, you just felt like this was the time to do it. 

The mic was finished, the test was done. Everyone was cueing that their stations were all well and done. Soon enough, the bright big cameras were already rolling. The podcast was live. Tens of thousands were already tuned in.

Satoru and you began to talk about the basic things first. How you guys met, how long you’ve been friends and colleagues, how you both were under the same agency.

Then all about your career and your future in the industry. All that jazz. But soon enough, it pivoted to another conversation. One you never expected.

He twirled a pen between his fingers, then pointed it at you like it was a wand. “So, [name], you had quite an eventful few weeks.” he said, drawing out the word.“But we wanna know….what did you do for your last birthday? You’ve been suspiciously quiet about it.”

“Yeah, I did hear that I was trending on SNS about it. Like…#WhereIs[name] was the top search somewhere.”

“Usually, you post something. I mean even the agency does it for you sometimes.” Satoru added. “But there was only pre-planned content, no?”

“I really wanted to go and do something for that, like a song or vlog. But unfortunately, I couldn’t.” 

“Hmm, I mean you were just filming for the next season of JJK, since you play Hiromi and another character we aren't spoiling for anime fans!" He laughs. "So no doubt, you probably wouldn’t have the time to put something new out.”

You leaned back, trying to keep your expression even. “Yeah….Though, I would say that I did nothing that fun. Nothing too crazy.” you replied, casually. But there was a traitorous twitch at the corner of your mouth.

Satoru narrowed his bright blue eyes dramatically. “Liar. You’re glowing. That is not the face of someone who had a boring birthday. That is the face of someone who—” He gasped for dramatic effect. “—was whisked away in the dead of night to a secret location.”

You laughed, brushing a hand over your knee. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He raised both eyebrows and leaned forward. “Let me guess: Actor, model, industry veteran Ryomen Sukuna was involved? With a dramatic gesture. Possibly involving a helicopter, fire, and something illegal in five countries.”

You rolled your eyes. “Okay, it wasn’t that dramatic.”

Satoru pointed the pen again. “So it was him!”

You shrugged with a little smile. “Define insane for me……”

He squinted like he was trying to x-ray your brain. “Wait. Wait. Rumor has it—” He put a hand dramatically over his heart. “—that he took you to THE wonderful, bright, beaming Bern, Switzerland.”

Your head whipped around to look at him. “How the hell did you know that?”

He grinned like a cat that had just caught the mouse. “So it’s true!”

You stared at him, lips parted in disbelief. “Gojo Satoru—who’s leaking my location to you?!”

He gave a scandalized gasp. “Oh, I never reveal my sources.”

You groaned at his words. You just know it was either Sukuna slipped out or Yuji heard and ended up telling Fushiguro, who would have told Kugisaki, who would have told Maki. Which would have led to the rest of the cast.

You found yourself slumping in your seat as the studio crew started chuckling behind their headsets and the cameras. You started fidgeting with your fingers. The chat began lighting up wildly, you just can tell.

“Fine, fine.” you said, throwing your hands up in surrender. “Yes. He surprised me with a trip to Switzerland for my birthday. Like all expense winterland trip. Like, he did everything!”

Loud gasps echoed across the crew. Everyone thought Gojo Satoru was kidding and you were playing along.The screen showing the live chat was a flurry of shocked emojis, heart eyes, and screaming in all caps.

Satoru’s jaw dropped. “You’re joking. You’re actually serious about it?!”

“Dead serious, bro.” you said with a laugh. “He had the whole thing planned. Like first-class tickets, this beautiful little chalet halfway up a mountain……There was even a fondue dinner in the Alps. It was like being trapped inside a Hallmark Christmas movie. That’s how I can explain it.”

“I think I just saw the next dimension because this is insane.” Satoru clutched his heart like you had personally wounded him. “I can’t breathe. I’m emotionally overwhelmed. I need a moment.”

You laughed again, shaking your head. “You’re so dramatic. You’re the one who asked!”

“And you’re out here living my dream life, lady. That’s just how it is!” he retorted, sitting up straight. “Okay, okay—but you have to tell me: did you ski?”

You groaned. “Unfortunately.”

The studio cracked up. You continued your words, “I fell about seven times in the span of one run. Sukuna kept pretending to zoom past me like some Olympic athlete, and when I face planted, he just stood there laughing. He didn’t even help me up!”

Satoru laughed so hard he nearly fell out of his chair. “That sounds exactly like him. Ah senpai, you’re still the same! The man has zero chill when it comes to watching people suffer. It’s part of his love language.”

“Oh, definitely.” you said, nodding as you laughed. “That, and excessive chocolate.”

Satoru perked up. “Ohhh, the chocolate. How was it?”

You leaned in, eyes wide. “Life-changing. I think I gained five pounds in cocoa. We tried truffles, hot chocolate, chocolate-covered fruit, chocolate fondue—”

“Chocolate everything.”

“Yes! He even bought a block the size of a textbook because I said I liked it.”

Satoru made a face. “Okay, that’s cute. That’s actually—ugh. That’s disgustingly adorable. You’ve turned Sukuna into a softie.”

You smirked. “He’s still terrifying, though. But sometimes he’s terrifying with a mug of hot chocolate and a cashmere blanket. Especially after dark.”

The studio erupted once again with laughter. You knew that the chat won’t ever move on from that knowledge you just imparted happily. This was a surprise for them. A welcomed one. You were everyone’s favorite “we wish you were a real couple” actors after all!

The screen filled with hashtags:

#SukunaSurprise

#ChocolateSkiGod

#BirthdayGoals

#SimpkunaConfirmed

Gojo Satoru shook his head, mock disappointment in his expression. “You’ve officially raised the bar for birthdays so high that no one else can reach it. Like, this is an intergalactic level of adoration people will want now.”

You shrugged playfully. “Good. Keeps everyone on their toes. Never settle for less, ladies, gents and non-binary friends!”

“Okay, but I need a full breakdown about it, though.” he said, holding up his hands. “Did he pack your bags for you? Did he say something cheesy when you landed? Did he—wait, wait—did he try to speak French to the chalet staff?”

You burst out laughing. “Oh my god, yes! He tried to order wine in French and butchered it so badly the server gave him a glass of warm milk instead.”

He was howling. “Ryomen Sukuna. The King of Curses. Reduced to milk.”

You grinned, fondness rising in your chest. “Honestly? It was one of the best trips I’ve ever had. Nothing will probably top it for a while.”

Satoru smiled softer now, voice dipping just a bit. “You look happy.”

You nodded. “I am.”

There was a beat of warmth between you. It was just a shared recognition, a shared peace. Then, Satoru leaned back, and placed his right hand over his heart again. You shake your head at him, smiling.

“I swear, if he doesn’t do anything about this and not date you already and propose on a gondola in Venice next year, I’m boycotting every essence of love.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Who says we are dating?”

“[name], please—”

“And who said we already aren’t dating? Who knows?”

“You and your mysterious ass.” Satoru shakes his head as he grins. “He’s probably thrilled we’re talking about him right now. Trust me, he’s watching this right now.”

You looked at the camera and winked. “You heard the man, Ryomen Sukuna, senpai! He says you better start planning. Go on with it, old man!”

And just like that, the studio roared with laughter again. The audience was completely hooked. Somewhere in the chaos of sound and stories, your smile lingered through out.

It was grateful, soft, still holding traces of Switzerland in your heart as you continued to talk to him about something else. You didn’t know it yet but in your phone, still on silent in your coat pocket, was a trail of messages from Ryomen Sukuna waiting for you.

[KUFUKUNA]

“Well, he’s not wrong about that. Also, I need to do better, as a senpai. Don’t you think so?”

“Venice, huh? Do you like Venice? Italy even?”

“Or do you want stars this time? Maybe Norway?”

You’d answer all of that later, though. In great detail. You kept him waiting, kept him on his toes like everyone else.  After all, the next story had only just begun. And to continued to play a good game, enjoying it all for yourself, was the best part.

YOU ALREADY KNEW WHAT HE WAS GOING TO POST. The moment Ryomen Sukuna hit post, the internet exploded. Within minutes, the photo was everywhere on the planet. First the retweets,then the story shares, then the fan edits. Even the meme pages were in it. 

In the quaint space of Ryomen Sukuna’s apartment, in the far flung edges of Tokyo Metropolitan, your phones wouldn’t stop buzzing all over. Even all the group chats you’d forgotten you were in had suddenly resurrected with a flurry of notifications.

“HE POSTED IT??”

“NO FUCKING WAY—THEY’RE MATCHING HATS???”

“I’m on the floor. The table. The ceiling. I’m everywhere.”

“Is this… is this what soft Sukuna looks like???”

You were curled up on the couch, phone in one hand, the other holding your stomach as you laughed so hard you nearly fell off the cushions. Your giddy eyes were already watering when you saw Satoru’s comment flash across the screen:

gojosatoru_07: no way he posted about it LMAO

“He’s never letting you live this down, ‘kuna.” you snorted.

Ryomen Sukuna, who was casually scrolling through his own comments like it was nothing, didn’t even look up. He shakes his head. “He talks too much for his own good, this kouhai. I swear.”

You tilted your phone toward him, grinning. “He says that he isn’t making waves with pulling a fast one on me on the podcast. He’s such a troublemaker, this old geezer!”

He side-eyed you. “It’s not a bad thing, though. I mean, well—”

You cackled. “Then what was that? A declaration?”

Before he could answer you, another comment popped up:

yuuji-kunkun: unc just confess already omg

You lost it at the reply. 

You burst into laughter.

Sukuna’s eye twitched.

“Unc? Oh my god, ‘kuna!” you wheezed. “Your own nephew’s calling you out.”

“He’s grounded.”

“He’s twenty.”

“Still grounded.”

You could barely catch your breath from laughing. Your own DMs were a riot. Many, maybe half your friends screaming in all caps, the other half demanding full details, chocolate recommendations, and a wedding invite just in case.

Sukuna’s phone buzzed again. He glanced down, paused, then looked at you with a deadpan expression.  “Someone just made a fancam of the two of us. Just drinking espresso by the Lichtspiel.”

You clapped your hands in delight. “Is it a Taylor Swift song?”

“…….Yes.”

You nodded proudly. “You’ve made it.”

He groaned. “I regret everything.”

“No, you don’t.”

And he didn’t. Not when you were beside him, still laughing, beautiful eyes bright from joy. Not from the post, but from the memory behind it. Bern, Switzerland. A quiet morning. Coffee. Matching caps. Peace.

Let them scream, you thought.

You already had the best part.

Only the two of you know that.

[thetidesthatturn]

Petals in Ink - Part Two

Pairing: non-idol florist Park Seonghwa x tattooist female reader

Warnings: use of Y/N, alcohol use, smoking, smut, switchy/needy hwa, throat fucking, unprotected sex (wrap it!!!), head f&m receiving, disgustingly fluffy aftercare - list is not exhaustive, read at own risk

18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI

This is a work of fiction and is not meant to represent any similarities to real events/people

Tag list: @idknunsadly

Part One

The next morning, you’re shrugging on your jacket when your phone buzzes.

One new message.

Seonghwa

Coffee is on me again—just come to my store.

You stare at it for a second longer than necessary. Not because you’re surprised.

Because you’re not.

Of course he’d remember your routine. Of course he’d offer. That’s just… him. Thoughtful. Intentional. The kind of man who feeds you kimchi stew and walks you to your cab. The kind who wipes soap suds from your nose and kisses you like he means it.

You smile—small, involuntary, but real.

And maybe, for once, you don’t feel the need to hide it.

When you push open the door to his shop, the bell chimes softly above you.

It’s early, but the space already smells like sunlit citrus and something green—fresh-cut stems, damp earth, morning air. It’s quieter than your studio at this hour. Softer.

Seonghwa looks up from behind the counter, a takeaway tray resting beside him with two iced americanos already waiting.

His eyes light up when he sees you, and that same smile—the one that made you say yes in the first place—spreads across his face.

“Morning,” he says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like yesterday happened, and nothing needs to be explained.

“Morning, and thank you,” you murmur, fingers curling around the cold cup. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Seonghwa tilts his head, a soft smile playing on his lips. “I wanted to.”

You glance around, coffee momentarily forgotten in your hand.

It’s your first time stepping into his store, and it’s even more beautiful than you imagined.

Soft morning light spills through tall front windows, catching the dew still clinging to petals and leaves. Every surface is carefully curated—wooden shelves lined with vases of wildflowers and single-stemmed roses, bundles of dried lavender hanging from ceiling hooks.

There are hand-painted signs in delicate script, labeled trays of pressed flowers, and a small section in the back where potted herbs sit like quiet secrets.

It doesn’t feel like a shop. It feels like a living thing.

“Wow,” you breathe, eyes drifting to a collection of pale yellow tulips arranged in a tall glass vase. “It’s… incredible.”

He smiles, stepping closer, one hand slipping into the pocket of his apron. “You’ve seen it from the outside for a while now.”

“It’s different from the inside.”

His gaze lingers on you then, steady. “Most things are.”

You look away, biting back a smile, heart doing that thing again—tripping over itself.

He watches you quietly for a moment, then nods toward the back. “I was just about to unbox some new deliveries.”

You follow him a few steps toward the back, but pause just short of the counter, glancing at the clock on your phone.

“Ah—shit. I’ve got a client at ten. I should get going.”

He stops, halfway to a crate of fresh stock. “Of course.” His smile softens, unbothered. “I’ll save the tour of the back rooms for another day.”

You hesitate a second longer, fingers brushing the strap of your bag. And then—almost without thinking—you pull out your iPad.

“I… actually meant to show you something.”

He tilts his head slightly as you swipe it open, unlocking the screen, opening Procreate. You scroll past rough outlines and client drafts until you find it—the sketch. The one that happened before you even realised what your hands were doing.

You turn the screen toward him. “I drew this yesterday, had some free time after a client.”

It’s the bouquet he gave you. Not exact—more impression than replica. But it feels like it. The soft tilt of the ranunculi. The gentle sweep of eucalyptus. The unnamed lilac bloom rendered in muted strokes, fading at the edges like a memory.

Seonghwa steps closer, eyes fixed on the screen. He doesn’t speak at first.

Then—softly. “You remembered them this clearly?”

You shrug, suddenly shy. “Couldn’t stop thinking about them.”

You don’t mean just the flowers. But he hears it. You can tell by the shift in his eyes.

“They’re beautiful,” he says, voice low. “You made them feel like more than they were.”

“They already were,” you say quietly.

A moment of silence washes over you both.

Then, before you can chicken out. “I was thinking of turning it into a flash piece. Maybe even tattooing it.”

His eyes flick up to yours, surprised. “On you?”

You nod.

The moment hangs.

“You’d wear my flowers on your skin,” he murmurs, like it’s not just a statement. Like it’s a question of something deeper.

You swallow. “Maybe.”

He smiles, and it’s different this time. Softer. A little stunned. A little moved.

“I’d be honoured,” he says.

And for a second, that tiny shop feels like the centre of the universe. But the spell breaks as you glance at the time again.

“I really have to go.”

He walks you to the door without asking.

And as you step out into the soft noise of morning traffic, you hear him call after you—

“Text me if you do it.”

You turn over your shoulder, already smiling. “You’ll be the first to know.”

You barely get one foot inside the studio before you’re ambushed.

“There she is!” Nari shouts, standing dead centre in the front room like she’s been lying in wait.

“You didn’t open,” Ryu adds, appearing from behind the desk with a wild look in his eyes. “You. Didn’t. Open. You’re never late. Not even when you were literally concussed that one time.”

“It was a mild concussion,” you mutter.

But it’s no use. They’ve seen you. They’ve clocked the direction you came from.

And now?

They’re circling.

“Did you kiss?” Nari demands.

“Did you fuck?” Ryu follows.

“Did you stay at his place? Is that his sweater? Why didn’t you text us?! We thought you’d been murdered or married and neither would’ve surprised me, frankly.”

“I texted last night!” you protest, dropping your bag onto the counter. “I said I got home safe!”

“One vague ‘made it back’ doesn’t count,” Ryu says, hands on hips. “You left us on a cliffhanger, babe. We were two seconds away from tracking your location and breaking in with a taser and a bottle of wine.”

Nari narrows her eyes, stepping in closer. “So?”

You cross your arms. “So what?”

“So what happened?” they both shout in unison.

You take a breath.

Then, slowly, casually, you reply, “We had dinner. He made kimchi stew. It was… good.”

Ryu groans. “Don’t you dare downplay this.”

Nari grabs your arm, deadly serious. “Did. You. Kiss.”

You hesitate for half a second too long.

Her jaw drops.

“Oh my god. You did.”

You shrug, failing miserably to hide the smile threatening your face. “Maybe.”

Ryu screams—screams—and collapses into a dramatic heap onto the client couch.

“I can’t breathe,” he whines. “She kissed him and didn’t text us. Do you understand how betrayed I feel right now?”

“He’s got you acting shy,” Nari marvels, mouth still open. “That’s so hot. Oh my god.”

You run a hand down your face. “I’m never telling you anything again.”

“You will,” Ryu says from the couch, peeking up. “We’re all you’ve got.”

And maybe that’s true.

But you wouldn’t have it any other way.

You’ve just finished cleaning down your station after your last client when you hear the soft click of your door easing open.

You don’t have to look up.

“Ryu.”

He glides in like a smug spectre, arms crossed dramatically, a wistful look on his face.

“I still can’t believe it,” he sighs. “Y/N. Kisses a boy. Our cold, ruthless, emotionally unavailable ink queen…” He trails his fingers over your supply cart like he’s in mourning. “Taken down by a man with soft sweaters and a stew pot.”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t make it weird.”

“It’s already weird. My whole worldview has shifted. Up is down. Left is gay.”

“You are gay,” you point out.

He places a hand to his chest. “And I was so hoping he was too. I mean, have you seen his cheekbones? That jawline? That apron? It’s homophobic, honestly.”

Just then, Nari pops her head in, brow raised. “Are we still being dramatic about the kiss?”

Ryu gasps. “It wasn’t a kiss, Nari. It was a betrayal.”

Nari steps into the room, expression completely deadpan. “Let her have this. She probably has cobwebs down there.”

You choke on air. “I—excuse me?”

“I’m just saying,” she shrugs. “You’ve been emotionally constipated for years. This is good for you. A little… dusting out of the haunted house.”

“Oh my god,” you groan, covering your face with both hands.

“She’s blushing,” Ryu whispers like it’s sacred.

You peek through your fingers. “I hate both of you.”

“Sure,” Nari says with a grin, “but now you’re a woman of passion. Who are we to stand in the way of destiny?”

“She’s gonna marry him,” Ryu adds, flopping dramatically into your guest chair. “I’m going to have to wear beige at your wedding.”

“Don’t you dare wear beige,” you mutter.

“See?” Nari grins, nudging your arm. “She’s already planning it.”

After a moment, Nari jolts so suddenly that you nearly drop your stencil binder. Her entire body straightens like she’s been struck by lightning, eyes going wide with a wild spark that can only mean trouble.

“Oo oo oooo!” she squeals, pointing directly at you. “I know what we’re doing tonight.”

Ryu sits up straighter, sensing a shift in the air. “Oh god. What?”

“Drinks!” Nari beams. “We haven’t gone out in ages, and this? This is celebration-worthy. Y/N kissed a man. A real one. With a functioning kitchen and plants.”

You blink. “Wait, why is that the qualifier?”

Nari ignores you entirely. “We’ll go to that bar downtown—the one with the neon snake in the window and cocktails that cost our dignity.”

Ryu gasps. “Midnight Bloom. Yes. Yes. I have an outfit already picked in my soul.”

“No.” You hold up both hands. “Nope. You two go. I have a date with a bath and my couch.”

“You always have a date with your couch,” Nari groans.

“And I like my couch. It doesn’t drag me to expensive places and make me flirt with strangers.”

“You already flirted with someone. You’re one of us now,” Ryu grins.

“It was barely flirting,” you argue. “It was domestic. It was soft. It was stew.”

“Exactly,” Nari says. “Which means you need balance. Come out. Get tipsy. Wear something tight and terrifying. Let strange men buy us overpriced drinks and tell us we’re intimidating.”

You shake your head, but Ryu’s already grabbing his phone. “I’m booking the booth. It’s happening.”

“I’m not—”

“Y/N.” Nari’s voice softens, the teasing dropping for just a second. “You’ve been working nonstop. No dating. No fun. No breaks. You deserve a night.”

You glance between them. You hate how they’re right. Even worse, you hate how the idea… doesn’t sound terrible.

A long sigh escapes you. “Fine.”

“YESSS!” they both shout in perfect sync.

And that’s how you end up in a bar in downtown Seoul.

The room pulses with low bass and warm light, neon casting a blush of magenta and blue across the walls. The air smells like lime and sugar, cut with the faint burn of spirits. Laughter, music, and the distant clink of glass surround you.

You’re in black—fitted, low-key, and a little dangerous. Nari’s gone full glam, hair up and eyeliner sharp enough to slice egos. Ryu’s in mesh and leather, living his best life.

You’re seated at a small table with your first drink already in hand.

And just like that—you remember.

How it feels to be out. To be alive. To let the night stretch wide in front of you, open-ended and sparkling with possibility.

You’re several shots deep when the buzz hits you full force—warm, heady, electric.

The lights in the bar blur slightly at the edges, the music vibrating through the soles of your boots. You slam another soju glass down on the sticky tabletop, nearly missing the coaster, and throw your head back in laughter as Ryu tells the story of how he once accidentally got mistaken for a backup dancer and ended up on stage at a club in Hongdae.

You’re wheezing, face hot, sides aching.

“Have a little fun, babe!” Ryu grins, leaning across the table with flushed cheeks and mischief in his eyes. He glances around the room, eyes picking out men who look available and to your taste.

“Oh, she’s already got a man,” Nari smirks, slamming her own glass down. “Look at her—won’t even look at another guy. Loyal as hell. Wife-coded.”

“I kissed him once!” you protest, laughing.

“And he fed you!” Nari cries, wiggling her eyebrows. “That’s commitment in my books.”

“Alright, alright,” you say, standing up and swaying slightly. “I’m going to the bathroom before this can continue and I end up agreeing to a spontaneous tattoo or something.”

“We support that,” Ryu calls after you, blowing a kiss.

By the time you return, something is off.

They’re too quiet. Or rather—giggly. Whispering over a phone, hunched like gossiping schoolkids caught in the act.

You narrow your eyes as you approach. “What did you do?”

Ryu straightens up fast, too fast. “Nothing!”

Nari grins like she just lit a match in a gasoline room. “Oh, you’ll see…”

Your stomach drops. “Oh no. What did you do?”

They glance at each other, lips twitching with poorly concealed satisfaction. Nari slides the phone face-down onto the table, the way someone does when they’ve sent a message they know they’ll regret—but also definitely won’t.

You snatch it up.

“Nope!” She lunges across the table, but you’re quicker.

You flip it over. And there it is.

A message to Seonghwa.

From your phone.

Guess who’s a little tipsy in a bar downtown? 💋🌼

Your soul briefly leaves your body.

“You texted him?!”

Ryu giggles into his glass. “We might’ve also added a cheeky ‘wish you were here’—but you’re welcome, honestly. This is the stuff of cinematic romance.”

“You’re drunk,” you say, deadpan.

Nari shrugs. “So are you.”

Before you can respond, your phone buzzes in your hand.

A message. From Seonghwa.

Seonghwa

I’ll be there in 15.

You freeze.

Ryu gasps. “He’s coming?!”

Nari’s mouth falls open. “Oh my god, it worked?!”

You slam the phone down. “You guys are actual menaces.”

But beneath the panic? There’s something fluttering in your chest.

A little wild.

A little nervous.

And completely, absolutely thrilled.

Your hands are shaking as you type the name of the bar.

Midnight Bloom. The one near the station. I’m in the back booth with friends.

The message sends with a quiet whoosh, and suddenly everything feels very real.

You drop your phone onto the table like it’s burning you and slide your head into your hands, groaning.

“I can’t believe you did that.”

Ryu lets out a delighted gasp. “She’s panicking. She’s actually panicking. I’ve never seen this before.”

“She’s blushing,” Nari adds, poking your shoulder. “You look so cute when you’re scared of your own feelings.”

“I’m not scared, I just—he’s coming here!” you hiss, still half-buried in your hands. “To this bar. Where I’m wearing this ridiculously tight top, and I’ve had—what—six shots of soju?”

“Five and a half,” Ryu corrects, sipping his drink like a scandalous little gremlin. “You spilled the sixth when you got excited about the story of me falling off a stage.”

Nari leans in, grinning. “Babe. You’re fine. You look hot. You’re glowing. This is perfect.”

You peek at them between your fingers.

“You texted the man I just kissed last night to come to a bar where I’m tipsy, loud, and currently questioning the emotional choices that led me here.”

“And he still said yes,” Ryu beams. “Now that’s a green flag.”

“Unless he shows up and sees me like this and runs.”

“He won’t,” Nari says firmly, placing a hand over yours. “You don’t see it, but when you talk about him? It’s different. You like him.”

You stare at her. Then glance down at your drink. Then back at the entrance.

Your phone buzzes again.

Seonghwa

On my way in.

Your stomach drops.

You sit up straight, heart pounding in your throat.

Ryu clutches your hand dramatically. “This is your Cinderella moment. But like, tattooed and slightly drunk.”

Nari downs what’s left of her drink. “Look alive, bitch. Your flower boy’s here.”

And there he is.

You spot him the moment he steps through the door, and for a second, you forget how to breathe.

You’re used to him looking soft. Gentle. Warm, like sunlit soil and the delicate things that grow from it. Aprons, linen shirts, hands dusted with pollen. The kind of beauty that settles in quietly.

But tonight?

Tonight he looks like a five-course meal and a sin you’re ready to commit twice.

All black. Form-fitting. A button-up tucked into dark jeans, sleeves rolled to the elbow, the first two buttons undone—just enough to reveal the faint dip of his collarbone and the silver glint of a chain. His hair is styled off his forehead, effortlessly honed. Polished. Dangerous.

He looks like a sharpened blade.

Your mouth might actually be watering.

Oh god—it is.

You subtly dab at your lips with a napkin as he scans the bar, and then—his eyes find yours. His expression softens instantly, and then the smallest smile curls at the corner of his mouth.

Ryu lets out a low whistle beside you. “If you don’t jump him, I will.”

Nari fans herself with a cocktail menu. “I take back what I said earlier. That man is not just soft. That’s ‘silk sheets and ruined reputations’ energy.”

You shoot them both a warning glare, but they’re already beaming as Seonghwa approaches your booth.

“Hi,” he says, eyes flicking to yours first before greeting your friends.

“Hi,” you echo, voice caught somewhere between stunned and oh no he’s hot-hot.

“I hope I’m not crashing anything.”

“Please,” Ryu grins, practically purring, “we were praying for this exact interruption. I’m Ryu.”

“Nari,” she adds, sticking out her hand. “And yes, we’re the meddling besties who texted you.”

Seonghwa shakes both their hands with a laugh. “I figured. I didn’t think the flower emoji was Y/N’s style.”

You groan and hide your face in your drink.

“You’re a vision, by the way,” Nari says, not even pretending to be subtle. “Has anyone ever told you you should be illegal?”

Ryu nods solemnly. “Criminal levels of attractive.”

Seonghwa smiles, a touch of pink colouring his ears, but his eyes are still on you. “Can I sit?”

You slide over without a word.

He slips into the booth beside you—close, but not too close. Warmth radiates from him like a second skin.

“Hey,” he says again, softer this time, just for you.

And somehow, that quiet word in the middle of a loud, busy bar is the only thing you can hear.

You really should’ve known better.

You’ve seen them in action before—Ryu and Nari in full wingperson mode is a force of nature. But somehow, with Seonghwa seated beside you, their energy feels weaponised.

“And then,” Nari says, leaning over the table with a conspiratorial grin, “Y/N slammed the soju like it owed her rent.”

“She even smiled,” Ryu adds, eyes wide with faux wonder. “Smiled. I thought she was glitching.”

“She blushed,” Nari gasps, clutching her chest. “I almost called emergency services.”

“She was nervous,” Ryu nods. “It was so sexy. Like watching a cat walk into a room and pretend it meant to trip.”

You groan, burying your face in your hands. “I’m right here.”

Seonghwa chuckles softly beside you, sipping from the drink Nari forced on him the moment he sat down. “I kind of like this,” he murmurs, just for you. “It’s cute. You’re… different with them.”

“She’s feral with us,” Ryu stage-whispers, and you genuinely consider crawling under the table.

“I need another drink,” you mumble, starting to slide out of the booth.

But before you can rise, Seonghwa gently touches your arm.

“I’ll get them,” he says, already standing. “What’s everyone having?”

You blink. “You don’t have to—”

He smiles, easy and confident. “I want to.”

“A gentleman!” Nari squeals, kicking her heels against the booth like a teenager in a K-drama.

“Make mine a gin and tonic,” Ryu says, pointing a finger in the air like royalty. “With lime. Two limes, if he’s feeling flirty.”

“Whiskey sour for me,” Nari adds with a wink. “Also, tell the bartender I’m single.”

Seonghwa laughs softly, already committing their drinks to memory. Then he turns to you.

“And you?”

You hesitate, then murmur your go-to order, suddenly self-conscious under his gaze.

He just nods. “Got it.”

And then he’s gone—gliding through the crowd toward the bar like he belongs there. Confident, calm, all black everything.

You exhale like you’ve just come up for air.

Ryu leans in with a grin. “You’re welcome.”

“I hate you,” you say, already smiling.

“I accept that,” he shrugs. “But just look at him.”

Nari sighs dreamily. “He’s like if a love song was tall and wore cologne.”

You watch Seonghwa at the bar, framed in neon light, waiting for drinks with one hand in his pocket. Calm. Unshaken. Completely unfazed by your chaos.

You let out a small, breathless laugh.

Yeah. You’re screwed.

You don’t wait for the drinks to come.

The noise, the teasing, the warmth spreading beneath your skin—it’s too much. You slide out of the booth with a half-mumbled excuse and make your way toward the back of the bar, weaving through the crowd until the music fades behind a thick metal door and you’re pushing out into the cool night air of the smoking area.

It’s quiet out here. The air bites your flushed cheeks, the scent of smoke clinging faintly to the breeze.

You reach into your back pocket, pull out a slightly crushed packet of cigarettes, and tap one free. A flick of your lighter, a low inhale, and the familiar burn settles into your lungs.

You exhale slowly, watching the smoke curl into the air like a thought you’re not ready to say out loud.

The door creaks behind you. You don’t turn right away.

But then you hear his voice—soft, warm, cutting through the night like a familiar song.

“Not your thing?”

You glance over your shoulder.

Seonghwa stands a few feet away, framed by the doorway. The glow of the bar spills out behind him, painting the edges of his silhouette in gold.

He steps closer, hands in his pockets, his brow lifted just slightly—not judging. Just… curious.

You shrug, bringing the cigarette to your lips again. “Needed air.”

He tilts his head. “You okay?”

You nod. Then shake your head. “They’re a lot.”

He laughs under his breath. “They’re perfect.”

“They’re menaces,” you mutter, taking another drag.

He watches you for a beat, then leans against the brick wall beside you. “You’re different out here.”

“Different how?”

“Quieter,” he says. “Still.”

You scoff. “That’s just code for ‘more tolerable.’”

“No,” he says gently. “Just… more you.”

You go still at that. The cigarette burns low between your fingers.

He glances down at your hand. “May I?”

You hesitate, then offer it to him. He takes a drag, easy, practiced, then passes it back—his fingers brushing yours.

The contact is brief, but it’s enough.

“Thanks,” he says, exhaling slowly.

“For the cigarette?”

He smiles at you, something quiet and sure. “For letting me find you.”

Then, he moves closer. His hand reaches up slowly, fingers brushing a loose strand of hair from your cheek. Tucking it gently behind your ear. His touch is featherlight, but your heart stutters like it’s been struck.

Your breath falters.

And now, he’s right in front of you.

The cigarette still burns low between your fingers, forgotten as you drink him in—how the light from the bar spills across his features, how his eyes search yours like he’s listening for something you haven’t said yet.

Your chest rises and falls, breath unsteady. Erratic. He smells like wine, and woodsmoke, and that subtle floral note you’ve come to recognise as him.

His gaze drops to your lips.

That’s it. That’s the match to the fuse.

You drop the cigarette to the pavement, crushing it beneath your heel. Your hands are on him before you can think—fisting into the front of his shirt, dragging him to you.

Your voice is low. Rough. Needy.

“Seonghwa,” you breathe, “just fucking kiss me.”

His breath catches.

Then he’s moving.

His hands come up, one sliding to the back of your neck, the other to your waist, gripping like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he’s not holding you tight enough.

And then—he kisses you. Harder than last time. Hotter.

Like he’s been waiting for this just as long as you have, but didn’t know if he was allowed to want it.

His lips crush yours, your body colliding with his, chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat. Your fingers twist in his shirt, pulling him closer still, and he groans softly into your mouth like you’ve knocked the air from his lungs. It’s messy. Hungry. Less perfect, more real.

And fuck—it feels so good.

You kiss him like you mean it, like you’ve been aching for it. And he kisses you back like he’s not afraid to be devoured.

You stumble back into the bar, hand wrapped tightly around Seonghwa’s.

Your lipstick’s smudged. His hair is a little mussed. You’re both a little flushed, breathing just a little harder than before. But you don’t let go of him—not even as you weave through the crowd, not even when the neon lights catch every trace of what just happened on your face.

You reach the booth, cheeks still hot, and slide in without a word. Seonghwa follows, still composed, but his lips are redder now. His chain glints in the low light. You wonder if anyone else can tell.

Oh, they can.

Ryu narrows his eyes like a hawk. “And what were you two doing out there?”

Your eyes flick to him with a blank expression. “Smoking.”

“Smoking,” he repeats flatly.

“Yes.”

Nari sips her drink dramatically. “And what, exactly, were you smoking? Each other’s mouths?”

You glare at her. “Do you want me to leave again?”

“Not before you tell us everything,” Ryu hisses, leaning in like he’s about to conduct a televised interview. “Because you left here in a flurry of emotional avoidance and came back looking like you ate him for dessert.”

“She dragged him back,” Nari adds gleefully. “Like a hot little crime scene.”

Seonghwa chuckles under his breath beside you, sipping calmly from his drink like he didn’t just maul you in a back alley behind a bar.

You sink lower in your seat. “I hate you both.”

“Sure you do,” Ryu says sweetly. “Now, start from the beginning.”

You meet Seonghwa’s gaze beside you, a slow smile tugging at your lips.

He leans in just a touch, whispering, “You okay?”

You nod. More than okay.

And for now, that’s all they need to know.

~

The night winds down slowly, like the last track on a record.

You’re all pleasantly drunk; laughing a little louder, swaying a little more when you stand. Even Seonghwa is buzzed, cheeks faintly pink, his usually measured voice just the slightest bit looser. And he’s playing along with Ryu and Nari—really playing along. Matching Ryu’s sarcasm, indulging Nari’s wild stories, even teasing you gently when they start ganging up.

And he’s not phased at all.

Not by how loud they are. Not by the inappropriate jokes. Not by the way Nari kept wiggling her eyebrows at you all night or how Ryu kept asking him deeply inappropriate questions with zero shame.

No. He just rolls with it. And that—more than anything—makes heat bloom in your chest.

By the time you’re all huddled into the back of a cab, squeezed shoulder to shoulder, the windows fogged slightly with leftover laughter and tipsy warmth, you feel yourself relaxing more than you have in months.

“Stop here,” Nari calls, tapping the window.

The cab slows, and she and Ryu both start gathering their things.

“Be safe, babe,” Ryu sing-songs, winking so hard it’s practically illegal. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“Which is… what, exactly?” you deadpan.

He shrugs. “Honestly? The list’s shorter the other way.”

Nari leans across you, looking Seonghwa dead in the eye. “She’s special. Break her heart and we will tattoo your face in the most compromising position on every inch of Seoul.”

Seonghwa just nods, lips twitching into a smile. “Duly noted.”

And then they’re gone.

The cab pulls back into motion, now quieter. Dimmer. Just the two of you. Your apartment comes into view faster than you expect. The cab slows. Stops.

You look out the window.

Then the words leave you before you’ve thought them through.

“Do you… want to come up?”

You glance at him, heartbeat tapping behind your ribs.

He looks at you, expression unreadable for half a second. Then—

“I’d like that.”

Your fingers wrap around the door handle, and you step out into the night. This time, when he follows, he’s not just following your footsteps—

He’s stepping quietly, willingly, into your world.

As soon as the door of your apartment clicks shut behind him—quiet, final—you don’t even think.

You turn.

He barely has time to blink before you’re on him, pressing him back into the wood with a heat that’s been building all night. Your hands fist into the front of his shirt, dragging him down just enough.

You kiss him. Hard.

No hesitation. No teasing.

You suck his lower lip into your mouth, biting down—just enough to make him groan.

That sound, it positively wrecks something in you. It’s deep and desperate, like he’s been holding back and you just pulled the dam open with your teeth. His hands find your waist immediately, gripping tight, anchoring himself to you like you’re the only thing tethering him to earth.

“You’ve been driving me crazy all night,” you breathe, your words hot against his mouth.

“I know,” he growls, voice rougher now. “You looked so good, I could barely think straight.”

“You didn’t say anything.”

“I was trying to behave.”

Your laugh is breathless, dangerous. “Don’t.”

His lips crash back to yours, more demanding this time—his mouth moving against yours like he’s memorising it. Like he needs it.

Your fingers slide into his hair, tugging slightly, and he groans again—low and broken.

Seonghwa’s hands roam your sides like he’s been dying to touch you all night, like he’s afraid you might vanish if he doesn’t learn you by heart. His lips trail down your jaw, slow and deliberate, and your head tips back, breath catching.

You tug his shirt up—impatient, insistent—and he lets you pull it over his head, his chest rising and falling hard beneath the soft light of your apartment. You’ve seen him calm and elegant, but now? He’s undone.

You let your eyes linger.

God, he’s beautiful.

You run your palms down his chest, over the lines of him, feeling the heat under his skin.

He leans in again, pressing his mouth to your throat, voice ragged against your skin. “You sure about this?”

You nod, whispering, “I wouldn’t have asked you up if I wasn’t.”

That’s all it takes.

His hands slide under your top, pushing it up, lifting it over your head—tossing it somewhere without looking. His fingers are warm on your skin, trailing lightly from your ribs to your hips as he kisses you again, slower this time. Deep. Claiming. Like he wants to taste every sound you make.

You moan into his mouth, arching into him, and he groans—one hand gripping your thigh, the other moving to cup your face—steadying you as if he needs to feel your heartbeat in his palm.

“Jump.”

You loop your hands around his neck, obeying, and his arms circle around your thighs.

“Bedroom?”

“Just through there, second door to the right.” You breathe, before attaching your lips to his collarbone.

He hisses, gripping into your flesh tighter as he pushes open your bedroom door with his thigh. Once you’re inside, he sits down on your bed, still supporting your weight. You’re straddling his waist now, wrapped around him like python ready to strike.

Your breath catches in your throat as he nips at the sensitive skin on your neck, so consumed in the feeling that you don’t even register him unclasping your bra until it falls away from you—and then he’s tilting you backwards, planting kisses down your chest. The whimper that erupts from your chest when he swirls his tongue around your nipple is mortifying, but you’re too far gone to care at this point.

“Fuck, Seonghwa.”

You feel him smile against your skin, then he’s back on your lips. It’s hungry, feral, raw with need and desire. Nothing like the Seonghwa you first met, but you welcome it with open arms.

But you also wonder if you can coax that side out of him again. Wonder if he can be needy…

So you flip the script. Your hand anchors onto the centre of his chest, pushing him backwards onto the mattress. He’s confused at first, his eyes widening slightly, but then you’re fumbling at his zipper. You can practically feel his heart stutter.

“Y/N…”

But you don’t respond, at least, not with words. You slip his jeans down just far enough to expose the outline of him inside his boxers.

Shit, he’s thick.

You palm him through the thin material, and delight in the way he bucks up to meet you.

You want more. No. You need more. You need to hear him—see him fall apart under your touch. His jeans hit the floor, along with his boxers, and god damn, even his dick is pretty.

When your fingers wrap around him, he’s already breathless—and when your plush lips grace his tip, he lets out the most earth shatteringly beautiful whine. You want to save it to your Spotify playlist.

You start off slow, flattening your tongue against his length, and he shivers. His hands anchor into your hair, tugging lightly. It makes your eyes roll back into your head.

You pick up the pace, needing his responses like some sort of hard drug. His grip tightens in your hair as he softly pants, so you pull back and roll your tongue once over his head. His hips buck, sending him straight to the back of your throat. You stifle a gag, and he immediately pulls back.

“Fuck, I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

But you’re more than okay. And it’s given you a wicked idea.

Slowly, you release him from your mouth. His chest is rising and falling furiously as he looks down at you through half-lidded eyes.

“Fuck my throat.”

He blinks. Hard.

“What?”

You don’t respond, instead you reattach, taking him all the way to the back of your throat. You smack the side of his thigh, and he bucks again, but this time you hold him there for a second.

“Fuck, fuck. Shit. Please.” He groans, then begins to move.

Bingo.

He thrusts into your mouth again and again—until tears are rolling down your cheeks. It’s all worth it to see the look on his face. The way his lips are parted, brows knitted together. The soft moans each time he rolls his hips.

Then he stops.

He grasps you by the arms, pulling you up and switching places. He spins you, then pushes you forward onto the bed by the small of your back.

“It’s my turn.”

In a flash, your remaining clothing is discarded into a pile on the floor, and he’s diving between your legs.

“Seonghwa, oh my god.”

Your hands fist into the sheets as he practically assaults you with his tongue, his hands winding from behind you to cup your breasts. Your mind is spinning—it’s never felt like this. None of the men you’ve ever been with before have had you in this much of a chokehold.

You can’t help but feel bad for your neighbours, because this is anything but quiet. You’re positive you’ve never made these noises before—but fuck—you can’t keep them in. The way he’s drinking you up, it’s like he’s been wandering in a desert for days and just found a source of hydration.

The heat in the pit of your stomach blooms, your entire body feels like it’s on fire. You arch back into him, desperate for the release that’s building. He wraps his arms around your thighs and yanks you further into him, and that’s what does it.

“Hwa. I’m—” you can’t even finish your sentence before you tense up, pleasure jolting through every nerve ending. Your body trembles as he carries you through it, still focusing on you. You don’t even notice that he’s rocking into the mattress himself.

When you finally stop shuddering, you don’t waste a moment.

“Fuck me, fuck me now.”

He fumbles around on the floor, trying to find his wallet. Once you clock what he’s doing, you turn your head.

“I said now, no time for that.”

Seonghwa moans, like actually moans. He doesn’t need to be told twice. His hand grips your bare ass as he lines himself up, then eases in.

“Oh god.” He hisses through gritted teeth.

When he starts moving, it’s not soft or careful. He snaps his hips into you, each motion grazing the most sensitive part within you. It feels like both heaven and hell at the same time. Holy and sinful. You could ascend up or down at any point, but there’s nowhere else you’d rather be right now. If you could suspend yourself in this moment forever, with Seonghwa buried deep inside you, you would.

“Come for me again, please.”

You turn your head slightly so that you can see his face, and it nearly breaks you in half. His lip is tucked behind his teeth, eyes rolling up towards the heavens, sweat rolling down his brow in steady droplets. You want to frame it and hang it up in your living room.

Your walls begin to contract—squeezing him so tightly that he sputters behind you.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck. Y/N.” He hisses.

Your arms give way beneath you as your second orgasm crashes over you in waves, a string of curses leaving your lips as you still and go limp beneath him. He’s seconds behind, pulling out of you and painting your lower back.

Your breathing is just beginning to slow when you feel it, a soft press of lips between your shoulder blades.

Then his voice, low and warm behind you. “I’ll be two minutes.”

You barely manage a nod, already melting into the mattress, skin still flushed, limbs pleasantly heavy.

He slips from the bed, the soft rustle of discarded sheets and his bare footsteps padding down the hall the only sound left in the room. You close your eyes, sinking into the warmth he left behind, letting yourself breathe him in on the pillow, your heart still beating too fast for something that’s already over.

Moments later, he returns.

You open your eyes as he appears in the doorway, backlit by the soft glow of your kitchen. Still naked. Still beautiful. Still impossibly Seonghwa.

He crosses the room with quiet purpose and hands you a glass of water without a word.

You sit up slowly, taking it from him, and he watches you drink—shoulders relaxed, a small smile tugging at his lips. Not smug. Just… content. Like bringing you water after wrecking you is the most natural thing in the world.

You hand the empty glass back. He sets it on your nightstand carefully, like everything he touches matters.

And then he climbs over the bed to you.

He settles in beside you, arm sliding around your waist, body warm against yours. He kisses you again—this time not with heat, but with reverence.

Soft.

Lingering.

His lips move slowly against yours, mouth tilted like a promise. His fingers graze your skin like he’s trying to memorise it all again. It’s a high contrast from what just passed between you—less hunger, more worship.

You rest your forehead against his. “You’re dangerous.”

He hums, smiling. “You’re the one who told me to kiss you.”

“You didn’t have to do it so well.”

He kisses you again—just because he can.

Later, after you both get cleaned up, laughter mingling with quiet touches and half-dressed wandering through the apartment, you return to bed. This time under the covers, bare skin tucked beneath cotton and warmth.

He curls around you from behind, arm draped over your waist, hand slipping into yours.

You don’t speak. There’s nothing left to say.

Only the rhythm of your breath, the slowing beat of two hearts finding a pace together. And long after your eyes drift shut, Seonghwa stays awake—just for a while—listening to the soft sound of you breathing.

As if it’s the first song he’s ever loved.

And the only one he ever wants to hear again.

~

The first thing you notice is the light.

Soft and golden, slipping through the gap in your curtains like it’s trying not to wake you.

The second thing? The space beside you is cold.

Empty.

Your eyes flutter open fully now, heart skipping.

He’s gone.

Your brain kicks into overdrive almost instantly. Did he leave in the night? Did he regret it? Was it too much? Were you too much?

You sit up slowly, clutching the edge of the comforter to your chest. The room is still. Too quiet. Your heart pounds as memories of last night flicker through your mind in flashes—his mouth on yours, his voice, the way he’d held you like you were something precious.

It felt real. It felt right.

But now the silence leaves space for doubt.

You swing your legs over the edge of the bed, toes hitting the cool floor just as the door creaks open.

Your head snaps up—and there he is.

Standing in the doorway.

Tray in hand.

Two plates of breakfast. Two cups of coffee. A sheepish, sleepy smile tugging at his lips.

Your breath catches.

“I wasn’t sure if you were a sweet or savoury person,” he says quietly, “so I made both.”

You blink. “You… made breakfast?”

His smile widens, just a little. “In your kitchen, obviously. Which, by the way, is terrifying. I think it took me longer to figure out where you keep your spatulas than it would’ve taken to drive home and cook there.”

A laugh bubbles out of you—half relief, half disbelief. “You made me breakfast in bed.”

He walks over, setting the tray down carefully across your lap. The scent of coffee hits you first—rich and familiar. Then toasted bread. Eggs. A little fruit. A drizzle of honey.

“I didn’t want you to wake up and think I left,” he says softly, kneeling beside the bed so he can meet your eyes. “I just… wanted to do something nice.”

You stare at him for a moment.

Then reach out, fingers brushing his cheek.

“You’re ridiculous,” you murmur.

“I know,” he smiles, eyes crinkling. “But you kissed me first. So really, this is all your fault.”

You roll your eyes, but your smile betrays you. As you take your first sip of coffee, your heart finally steadies.

He’s still here.

And maybe—just maybe—he’s not going anywhere.

~

It’s been a month.

A month since that first night. Since he kissed you in his kitchen. Since he made you stew, and kissed your shoulder blades, and curled into your bed like he’d always belonged there.

Now, it feels like he always has.

You’re inseparable.

Seonghwa appears in your life like clockwork; in the soft clink of café cups during morning coffee runs, in the sudden burst of fragrance every time he opens the studio door, in the gentle brush of his hand on the small of your back when he thinks no one’s looking.

And every day—without fail—he brings flowers to your studio.

Fresh.

Personal.

Always arranged just for you.

They sit proudly on the windowsill next to your station in a rotating series of handpicked vases, each new bouquet becoming part of your ritual. You draw them obsessively now—on your iPad, in your sketchbooks, on the edge of spare stencil paper. Sometimes he’ll stand behind you quietly, watching with that gentle awe in his eyes.

Each time you show him, he smiles. That kind of smile that radiates right out of his chest.

Pride. Admiration. Something deeper.

He lunches with you. Teases Ryu and Nari like he’s known them for years. He helps clean up when you’re too tired to move, reads while you finish late-night sessions, and brings you hot packs for your shoulders without being asked.

He’s the most attentive person you’ve ever known, and you’re not used to it. But you aren’t afraid of it anymore.

Today starts like any other.

You’re mid-consult, flipping through flash sheets with a regular, when the front door chimes softly. You glance up—expecting a walk-in, or maybe someone for Nari.

But it’s him.

Of course it is.

Seonghwa leans casually on the front desk, an iced americano in one hand, a soft grin on his face.

You finish up the consult, confirm the appointment, and wave your client off with a smile before you call across the room—

“You’re early.”

“I brought the good coffee,” he replies, lifting the cup like a peace offering. “That earns me ten extra minutes.”

You smirk, walking over. “Is that a rule?”

“It is now.”

He passes you the drink, and just as your fingers graze his, he clears his throat softly.

His voice is casual. Too casual.

“I want an appointment.”

You pause. “With me?”

He nods. “I want you to tattoo me.”

Your brows lift, surprised—but your heart immediately kicks up.

“You sure?” you ask, searching his face. “It’s not just because you’re sleeping with the artist, right?”

He laughs. “No. I’ve been thinking about it for a while.”

You tilt your head. “What do you want?”

He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper. You open it slowly.

And your heart stops.

It’s your drawing. The one you made that first night—his bouquet. The first thing he ever gave you. Pale yellow ranunculi. Eucalyptus. That soft lilac bloom.

Your lines. Your shading.

“You kept this?”

He nods. “It was the moment everything changed.”

Your throat tightens. “Where?”

He touches his chest, just over his heart.

“I want it here,” he says. “So I can carry that moment with me. Always.”

You can’t speak for a moment—your eyes still locked on the design.

Then, softly, you whisper, “Okay.”

And he smiles like you just said yes to everything he’s ever hoped for.

The studio buzzes quietly—just low music, soft voices, and the familiar hum of machines.

But your focus is narrowed.

Laser-sharp.

Your gloves are already on, your machine prepped, stencil placed perfectly on the left side of his chest—just over his heart. The first bouquet he ever gave you now inked in purple outline, waiting to be brought to life.

Seonghwa lounges back on the couch, shirt off, arms behind his head, looking entirely too calm for someone about to be stabbed repeatedly with a needle.

You glance down at him, arching a brow.

“You’re getting tattooed by your girlfriend today,” you say, mock-serious as you lower the arm of your machine. “Any last words?”

He grins up at you—easy, relaxed, completely smitten.

“Be gentle with me,” he says, teasing. “It’s my first time.”

You roll your eyes, but the smile on your face betrays you. You rest your free hand against his chest. His heart beats beneath your fingers, steady and real.

He looks up at you with nothing but trust in his eyes.

“Ready?”

“For you?” he says softly. “Always.”

Your breath catches—just for a second. Then the machine whirs to life.

You begin.

Your strokes are careful, practiced, confident. But your heart stirs with every pass. Because you know this body. This heart. This man. And now, you’re leaving a piece of your art—yourself—on him. Permanent. Irrevocable. Woven into his skin.

He doesn’t flinch. Not once. Just watches you work, eyes soft with something far deeper than pain.

And as the bouquet begins to bloom beneath your hands, petal by petal, line by line—you realise you’ve never loved your craft more than you do in this moment.

The machine winds down with a quiet click. You set it aside, peel off your gloves, exhaling slowly.

“It’s done,” you murmur, voice soft with something you can’t quite name yet. “Go take a look.”

Seonghwa sits up slowly, bare chest rising and falling with each breath. He walks to the mirror at the far end of the studio, the light catching on the fresh sheen of ointment you’ve spread over the new piece. His eyes lock on the reflection.

And he freezes.

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. Then—quietly, “It’s perfect.”

He turns slowly, eyes glassy with emotion, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

“It’s everything I wanted. And more.”

You lean back slightly on your stool, heart thudding, cheeks flushed. But before you can speak, he crosses the room.

And takes your hands in his.

Not hurried. Not dramatic. Just… genuine.

His fingers slide between yours, holding you like he’s grounding himself in this moment.

“I’ve thought about how many different ways I wanted to tell you this,” he says, voice a little rougher now. “But this feels like the right one.”

You stare up at him, breath caught in your throat.

“I know I’ve only known you for just over a month,” he continues, “but in all honesty? It’s the happiest I’ve been in a long time.”

You blink hard, tears stinging your eyes before you can stop them.

“Things with you are just… easy. You bring something into my life that I’ve never had. Something warm. Real.”

He smiles, brushing his thumbs gently over the backs of your hands.

“I might be a flower boy,” he murmurs, “and you might be a slightly scary, emo, tattoo girl—”

You let out a watery laugh.

“—but we make so much sense.”

He leans in slightly, forehead nearly touching yours now.

“I love you, Y/N.”

The words settle over you like the final line of a poem.

“I really love you. For all that you are.”

You can’t speak right away—not with your throat tight and your hands trembling in his. But when you do, it’s quiet.

Steady.

“I love you too, Hwa.”

And for once, neither of you has to say anything more.

Because he’s yours. And you’re his.

Ink, petals, soft hearts and sharp edges—all tangled into something that feels like forever.

[beatlebvm]

𝘀𝗵𝗲'𝘀 𝘀𝗼 𝗵𝗶𝗴𝗵

summary: you thought that weed and uncle aegon could've been the perfect combo for the nicest afternoon. his jokes, the lightheartedness of the encounter, the hidden piece of freedom... weed left your mind dizzy, carefree, but you were enjoying it — you were with aegon, nothing could've happen to you. or at least, those were your illusions.

pairing: modern!aegon II targaryen x reader

word count: ~1.5k

warnings: not proofread, 18+ mdni, smut, NON-CON, aegon is ass!!, manipulation, reader doesn't understand a thing, language, oral sex (m receiving), drugs (?). ENGLISH ISN'T MY FIRST LANGUAGE!!!

author's note: this ISN'T my prompt, but i read it on @takemywearybones 's blog — i just can't find the post, i'm sorryyy 😭 this was sitting in my draft for a while, and ofc, i hate it :))) hope you can like this more than i do!!

divider by @firefly-graphics, love it!!

“don’t you want to make uncle aegon happy?”, aegon asks, a smirk on his lips, his tone is soft and he knows you are too far lost to catch on the clear manipulation and bad intentions hiding behind that pretty face.

you giggle, an uncoordinated hand reaches for him and the next thing aegon does is to push that same hand down his torso and to the bulge of his pants, his cock getting hard just at the thought of having those pretty lips wrapped around him.

his violet eyes are attentively fixed on you as he guides your flat palm over the fabric – of course aegon is alerted, the last thing he wants is for you to snap out of the bubble and realize how fucking wrong this is, how fucked up your uncle aegon’s mind is.

he can’t - and won’t - imagine your reaction if you regained your consciousness in the middle of it. you would probably cry, snap at him, scream and even might kick him in the balls – and aegon knows he deserves it. you would probably also run back to your family, tell everything to rhaenyra and viserys and it would be surely the end for aegon. but you don’t.

aegon might be worried, but thanks the fucking gods you are so gone and pliant your hand moves on its own, fingers lazily stroking the outline of his cock and it is enough to send a shiver down his spine. he groans and fights the urge to shift his hips against your touch, but he is careful to not startle you and so lets you go to your pace.

you barely understand what you are doing, you're able to register the hardness in your grasp and the sounds coming out of aegon’s lips – but not how wrong it is, not that you are stroking your uncle’s cock and how much of a shitty person he is. you don’t even realize aegon unbuttons his pants and wraps your fingers directly around his dick, your eyes focused on his face and finding solace in how good you are making him feel.

“that’s it, pretty girl,” his voice is low now, and you hardly understand his words because aegon leans forward and his head disappears in the crook of your neck. his lips plant open-mouthed kisses on the column of your throat and your skin tingles, making you moan louder than you should.

the sound goes straight to aegon’s core, his cock twitches in your hand and he wonders how many moans and whimpers he can coax out of you if that is your reaction to a few kisses on your neck. how would you react if he just slipped his fingers in you? would you scream? oh gods, aegon is sure you would if he could fuck you, his cock pistoning in and out of you. he bets your cunt feels like heaven.

aegon realizes those thoughts are sending him on the edge already and he barely got what he wants from you, and no matter how warm and soft your hand is—he wants a taste of your mouth, he wants to have your lips around him and hear you gag and choke on his dick.

a second later his lips are on yours, and the force aegon put in the kiss has you nearly lose balance and fall backwards. your response is messy and lazy, and aegon almost feels bad taking advantage of you in such a state, when your mind is so clouded it takes you a few seconds to understand what is happening to you—if you do. but when could an opportunity like this one recur again?

no, he is going to take it.

“aegon…”

“shh,” aegon nibbles at your bottom lip, your mouths connected by a thin string of saliva when he parts away from you. “want you to make me feel even better.”

by the way he phrases it, you have no choice. and it is not like you ever had one, since you can merely form a coherent thought or sentence. you nod wearily, a loopsided smile on your lips that has aegon almost lose it right there, his heart beating fast against his rib cage. he is going to do it.

his hand guides your head down his lap, his free one wraps around the base of his cock and gives it a shallow stroke. aegon can’t really complain about his size, but next to your face he feels even bigger and he fights the need of mercilessly fuck your face and your pretty little mouth. he can’t stop himself from lightly slap your cheek with it and you just giggle. aegon you should fucking stop it.

“open your mouth,” aegon demands and he is definitely not stopping. you willingly part your lips and even poke your tongue out, the sight is maddening and takes him every ounce of self control to not pounce on you.

finally your mouth envelopes him and aegon shudders, his eyes roll in the back in his head as your tongue takes a teasing lick of his tip and you can detect some saltiness invading your taste buds. you don’t have the time to flick it again that aegon pushes your head down, forcing you to relax your jaw and take more of his cock, more than you can manage. but you don’t know it.

aegon is surprised — he imagined it a lot more awkward, but you are taking him very well and he is very pleased, the waves of pleasure and the weak moans coming out of his lips prove it.

sure, your movement are uncoordinated and messy, and aegon definitely had better blowjobs in his life but his niece is a completely new experience, and you alone definitely make it better than anyone else.

he has to guide your head, the constant up and down has your mind spinning violently and for a second aegon is actually afraid you might throw up on him — and he doesn't want that at all. he gives you a break, relenting the grasp on your hair and maybe also starting to contemplate his choice, his entire life choices that brought him to this day.

his guilt is short-lived because your head willingly returns down his lap, your lips are stretched around him and aegon almost cums on the spot watching you struggle swallowing all of his dick. he wants you to choke on it, to hear those sweet gagging sounds.

you suck him eagerly, maybe your tongue is a little awkard — a few kitten licks here and there and aegon is torn between furrow his brows or smirk in amusement, curious to know what the fuck your mind is making you see and feel. what are you even imagining? to get so eager to lick his cock like a fucking lollipop?

does aegon really care? no, as long as you're doing your job. and you do it so well it's actually embarassing how short aegon lasts, because a few seconds later he's gently pulling at your hair and spilling all over your pretty face.

he barely feels his peak coming, but it must be one of his best in his disgusting life — the heat in his belly pools down in his groins, his balls tighten up and then he fucking explodes, your sweet and innocent features are marked by the result of his deprived mind. his hand frenetically strokes his sensitive cock, drawing out every last drop of his release until he's spent.

your scalp tingles as aegon grips your hair, the sensation has shivers running down your spine and a smile to appear on your face, but it's the warmth of his release that makes you giggle as your skin tickles. you don't know what it is, you're too focused on how fucking good the effects of the weed feel on your clouded mind.

aegon is sure, he has never seen a prettier sight than the one in front of him — pretty is an euphemism: hottest and maddening are more indicated. he can’t even explain how much is driving him insane the way you’re licking your lips, how your tongue cleans away his release. he helps you — because he’s such a good uncle — in his own way, his thumb traces across the soft and flushed skin of your cheeks, smudging his cum and claiming you as his in a dark way, in a way that has you unaware of the deep meaning of his actions.

of the wrongness of all of it.

but aegon won’t stop, and now that he’s got a taste — he’ll probably do it again.

[cheekybarnes]

just wondering how many more oneshots you’re planning to post before you actually finish a seat at the table or point of impact. no shade, but it’s getting kind of hard to keep caring when you keep starting new things instead of following through.

hi there! just wanted to let you know that you maybe didn’t need to make this ask as rude as it came off :)

this the third of these types of anonymous inboxes i’ve received the past few weeks and i was willing to look beyond the first two, but i have a lot of feelings and things to say about this after this one. i truly hope you read it, respect it, and understand it:

i get it. you’re clearly invested in a seat at the table and point of impact, which i appreciate. truly. i love that those stories have found readers who care about what happens next. what i don’t love? the tone that drips from this message like it’s been sitting in a lukewarm glass of entitlement.

there’s been a HUGE uptick lately in bitchy-ass anons crawling out of the woodwork to complain about writers…writing. which is wild, considering every single one of us is doing this for free. free, babes. zero dollars. negative dollars if you count the hours of emotional labor, unpaid creative effort, and time sacrificed from our actual lives to write these stories. which, AGAIN, are available to you at the low, low cost of absolutely nothing.

so if i’m being honest? if you’re going to show up with that energy, i’m going to go ahead and match it. i’m going to throw it right back. because what we’re not going to do is pretend i owe anyone content on a schedule. i’m not amazon prime. i’m not a vending machine you get to kick until your next chapter drops out.

i’m a person. i have a full-time job. like, a real one. a 9–5 that pays my bills and eats my brain. i have a partner. i have friends. i have errands and grocery runs and laundry piles and migraines and plans that fall through and burnout that creeps in when i’m not looking. i have hobbies beyond writing, as shocking as that may be. i love writing, obviously, it’s why i’m here, but my entire existence does not revolve around serving up fic on demand.

i write what inspires me in the moment. and sometimes that’s a messy, emotional one-shot. sometimes it’s me finally chipping away at a draft for one of my series. sometimes it’s a request someone sends me. sometimes its something that came from instantaneous idea and i don’t want to let it go. and all of that? is valid. is mine. is part of the joy i get from being in fandom. this is supposed to be fun, not a second unpaid job where strangers audit my output like it’s a quarterly report.

and if you actually paid attention instead of tallying how many times i post new oneshots like you’re running a fic IRS you’d notice i do still update those series. they’re not abandoned. they are active WIPs that i care deeply about. but rushing them or forcing out chapters just to appease people who forgot that writers are humans is not the move. it leads to burnout. it leads to resentment. and it sure as hell doesn’t lead to good writing.

so yeah. i’ll keep posting what i want, when i want. whether that’s a new chapter or a chaotic little oneshot that dragged me out of bed at 1am. because this is my space. this is my joy. i WANT to share it with a community and have built a lovely rapport of mutuals. and if that’s not enough for you, there’s a simple solution: log off and go touch some grass.

or, and this is a wild idea, maybe just say thank you and enjoy the free content while it’s here.

have the day you deserve 🫶🏻

[heissenn]

zani x boss!reader.

note: this was sitting on my drafts for a while now.

it only took a few shots after a particularly hard mission and a few piles of paperwork. you thought it would have taken more but you'd be lying if you deny you were already lusting after your hot employee.

it was around halfway through your third glass when zani came knocking in for her daily report. she looked ragged, more than usual, yet still look the finest. only fragments of her words registered in your mind; your attention fixated on her lips—what would it be like covered in red? would it still look soft and fluffy? or sinfully inviting?

“zani.” you call out to the woman heading towards the door, her back facing you. “care to join me for a drink?” you just wanted answers to your questions.

you were passing her fifth that you poured when it happened. zani takes the glass from your hand and with firm and slow movements, tapped the arm rest of her chair. the sound of skin muffled by the velvety leather echoed through the room. sit. zani orders loudly, despite not opening her mouth once.

so you did. because who are you to deny your ever so hard working subordinate.

the petite armrest supports your weight as your back faces her side. both of you sip the red liquid in your hands quietly for a brief amount of time, each second the tension in the rooms thickens and another bob your throat edges you closer to the line between office workers to something more.

the sound of glass echoes behind you; zani puts her drink on the side table. there’s shuffling behind you until a small gush of breath fans your ears and an arm snaking through your waste. “did you really think his would be enough to get me intoxicated?”

a shiver ran through your spine. your moment of shock was taken advantage of as zani easily moved you to her lap. she bring you further into her with one swift motion and now her soft breast press against your back. you feel something hartouch your thigh.

“zani.” you bit your lips in anticipation.

“i can think of other ways you can help me relax though.” zani turns you heads sideways and meets your lips with hers. the breath that fanned your ears mixes with your own. her hand glides to the back of your head to deepen the kiss. her lips intoxicating you than any other alcohol, lulling you into doing things you probably shouldn’t.

zani moves back to give you a pause to catch your breath. both of your eyes stare into one another, a storm of pure lust and hunger. after a beat, you were the one to dive in this time. zani’s fingers tug your chin downwards. you open your mouth to welcome her tongue with yours. both of your saliva becoming one and you feel her strong hands roam your body, but never really touching you where you want them.

“on your knees,boss” zani whispers.

your knees touch the cold hard floor, it’s been such a long time since you’ve look up to someone. maybe such a time didn’t exist. but zani’s eyes peered at you from above with eyes drowning in power. one hand caress your face with tenderness, her thumb parting your lips lightly. your eye contact breaks when her dilated pupils glance downward. and you wasted no time placing your eager hands on her knees, slowly riding upwards.

your fingers make quick work of her pants to confirm your suspicions earlier. hard plastic greets you. its girth makes you wonder how you failed to notice its existence when she walked through the door.

the sound of your tongue stroking zani’s dick echoed through the vast walls of the room. from the tip to the bottom, nerves and the base, no part left dry. your lips part to welcome the head and slowly lower your face to try and meet the end of the plastic.

zani’s hand reach out to caress your face. “surprised?” she chuckled as she pushes your head down and tears form in the edges of your eyes from the impact. “why do you think i gave you that bottle knowing the busiest and most hectic time of the year is coming up?”

your eyes widen, you always thought your horniness went one way. it seemed like zani had her own ways to bed you too. zani’s little laugh joins the sound of your gags. then, she bunched your hair and pulled you into a heated kiss while her hands undress you swiftly.

“come. i’ve been wearing this for the past week just for you,” zani drags your waist and positions it above her length. hearing her words was enough for you to slam yourself down and you feel it fill you up on ways you haven’t before. you imagine zani having this under her pants for the past week just for the slim chance the she can fuck you.

“zani,” you moan.

“yes, all of this is just for you.” zani guides your hips as you bounce rhythmically. the tips knocking at the deepest parts of your inside got you screaming zani’s name over and over. meanwhile, zani nibbles your ear.

“fuck, im close,” zani blows one last breath in your ear and moved to bite your neck while her hips thrust to meet yours. you felt yourself shaking and getting weak from the upcoming climax and zani took it as a que to flip your positions. your bare back hits the soft leather as zani pounds your insides so hard the chair started squeaking and rocking.

“come,” zani commands as her fingers gives both of your nipple a hard pinch. and the stimulation was enough to send you over the edge and more. you feel yourself dampening the arm chair below with your juices.

zani places a kiss on your forehead. “i think i could get used to this kind of ‘rest’”

[c4shm0neyxxx]

Can you do a baku version of him finding out about readers sh scars?

“Still Here”

Pairing: Park Humin (Baku) x Reader

CW: Self-harm scars mentioned (no graphic details), emotional vulnerability, comfort

2 post in one day😱😱😱jk I had this in my drafts for a while, though I’d just post it😭😭😭(don’t forget to check out my blog update also😏😏)

⸻

You never meant for him to see them.

Not because you didn’t trust him—Humin was steady, grounding in a way you didn’t think anyone could be. But it was just… hard. Those marks weren’t just scars. They were stories. Days you didn’t want to remember. Battles you barely survived.

So you always wore long sleeves. Even in the summer. Even when he’d teasingly pull at the cuff of your hoodie and ask, “Aren’t you dying in that?”

You’d laugh. Shrug. “I’m fine.”

And he never pushed.

Until today.

⸻

It had been a long day. The sun was high, sweat sticking to your neck, and Humin had dragged you to a small hill behind the school for some peace and quiet. It was secluded—his favorite place to sneak away from the chaos.

You were lying on the grass beside him, head tilted back, feeling the breeze. He had brought drinks. Your hoodie sleeves were rolled up just a bit, just enough to cool down.

You didn’t notice when the fabric slid higher as you reached for your drink.

But he did.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stared.

And then his hand reached out slowly—not to touch, but to gently cover your wrist with his palm, as if shielding it from the world. From judgment. From shame.

Your heart dropped.

You froze.

“…I wasn’t gonna say anything,” he said softly. “But I saw.”

You looked away, heat rising to your face. You pulled your sleeve back down quickly, hand trembling.

“It’s nothing,” you whispered.

“Don’t say that,” he said firmly—quiet, but steady. “Don’t call it nothing.”

A long silence stretched between you. The kind that tightens your throat.

You expected discomfort. Awkwardness. Maybe even pity.

But Humin’s voice cut through it like a blanket being laid over you gently.

“You still here, right?”

You blinked. “What?”

“You’re still here. Still fighting. Still breathing.” His eyes didn’t leave yours. “That means something.”

Tears stung behind your eyes, uninvited.

“I didn’t know how else to deal with it,” you murmured. “Back then… I just… I didn’t think anyone would care.”

He exhaled slowly, like the wind had been knocked out of him.

“I care,” he said. Not loud. But solid. Like it had weight. “You could show up with a thousand scars, and I’d still want to hold your hand.”

Your throat closed up. “Humin—”

“I don’t need to know everything. Not unless you wanna tell me. But you don’t have to hide from me. Ever.”

You let out a shaky breath. His fingers lightly brushed yours.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

He shrugged, gaze still on the sky, but you saw the faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Next time it gets bad… tell me,” he said. “Even if you don’t say a word. Just come sit next to me. That’s enough.”

And somehow, that made you feel like maybe—just maybe—you weren’t broken.

Just healing.

And for the first time in a long while, the warmth on your skin didn’t feel like something you had to hide from.