#all sharpened it to an extreme | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

yieldtotemptation · 2 months ago

Text

PYTHON ft. Danielle

danielle x male reader smut

17k words

“You really need to stop showing up like this,” you’re saying, knowing full well that it’s falling on deaf ears. But it doesn’t hurt to try.

Danielle tilts her head. Glossy lips part, flashing a smile. It’s pretty. So clearly practiced, and so fucking obvious. Worst of all—it absolutely works on you. “Like what?”

“Unannounced,” you start, before swerving, “Naked.”

“Well.” Danielle takes a step closer. Then another. Suddenly making you feel like a stranger in your own apartment. “If you really had a problem with it, you’d have changed the door code by now. Or told my sister what we’ve been up to.”

You need to correct her before this can get any further out of hand, there’s no we to tell anyone anything about, but—look. She’s half-right. You were going to get around to changing the locks. Eventually. The other part, the nuclear option, the sister of it all—“You know I can’t do that.”

“Then you’re just going to have to deal with me until you can,” she says, casually.

Doing that thing all pretty girls seem to have built into their genetic coding. Standing there, posing, like she’s the sum of a dozen happy accidents—the hip cocked just so, the hand at her impossibly tiny waist. The wet hair, the pout, the fucking collarbone.

Accidents—yeah right.

Anyone else but her, and maybe you’d buy it.

“Besides, I’m not completely naked,” she adds, smile sharpening into a grin, and—fuck.

She is far too gorgeous for her own good. She is also extremely, without a shadow of a doubt, bad news, persona non grata, unbelievably off-limits.

“I'm wearing your towel, after all.”

—

(Okay, okay, okay.

You’re well aware you’re the only person on this planet that wouldn’t be delighted to have Danielle stepping out of their shower.

But maybe consider the following points:

1) You’re still raw, wound’s barely scabbed over from the last woman you let into your home;

2) Your whole career kinda rides on the fact that you keep your head fucking straight and free from any distractions, especially the kind that’s crazy enough to break into your apartment and hot enough to make it seem like a perfectly good idea; and

3) If you were going to ignore points 1 and 2, and just decide you’re going to let that towel drop and let whatever happens, happen (hopefully something with a lot of moaning and a lot of sweat and a lot of giving up on what little modicum of peace you’ve managed to claw back from the world)—she’s your ex-girlfriend’s sister, for fuck’s sake.

Counterpoint:

She’s Danielle fucking Marsh.)

—

Clearly you should’ve ended things a week ago when she first showed up—kicked that irredeemably cute, tight ass out of your apartment and slammed the door behind her.

You should’ve seen Danielle for the walking, talking red flag that she is: a jump-scare in skin-tight jeans, or a barely-there top, or more frequently than necessary (or not frequently enough, depending on how honest you’re feeling) in nothing but your towel that’s now clearly found its home around her razor-thin waist.

The girl is apparently allergic to clothes.

“I’m gonna make some ramyun,” she’s calling from the kitchen, rifling through your fridge. Voice carrying over the sound of a week’s worth of meal-prepping and pre-blended protein smoothies being carelessly shuffled out of order. “You want some too?”

No, not a ‘would it be okay for me to help myself’, or even a simple ‘do you mind?’. Just straight up making herself at home, helping herself to your bathroom, your kitchen, and after a very strong suggestion, one of your old sweatshirts.

Your casa; now her casa. Or something like that.

“I don’t have any ramyun,” is your answer. It comes out weak.

To that, she whips around, cradling in her arms her bounty—a pack of noodles, a tub of kimchi, and a cut of pork belly you’ve been saving for a special cheat day. Throws you a far-too-easy grin that you’re realising is her signature. “I know. I picked some up on the way here.”

“Of course you did.”

“It’s a good idea to eat normal people food every once in a while, instead of whatever this is,” she says, nodding her head to your stacks of perfectly portioned containers; your towers of health and virtue.

“I think I’m good,” you reply, cautiously. Resisting the urge to let your eyes wander and get caught for the nth time. Don’t want to give her even more ammunition in her campaign against your very clumsily-established boundaries.

At least not until you’ve made your cursory attempt to get her the fuck out of here. Trying (and inevitably failing) to come up with a compelling argument that would convince her to leave. Something to illustrate that this isn’t going anywhere, she doesn’t do a thing for you, let alone register as anything other than a mild strain on your already tenuous relationship with your ex-girlfriend.

Yeah, you don’t even believe that shit yourself.

Regardless, recognise that your first instincts, like always, are terrible ones. Ignore all the parts of your brain that are telling you to do things that could end with you buried in some unmarked grave along the DMZ. Ignore how good she looks wrapped up in your oversized sweatshirt; how it looks so lovely draped over her body, stopping short of the tops of her thighs, letting the damp, pale skin peek out and glisten and—

Fuck.

Maybe you should take the sweater back. Peel it right off her body and—

Again. Fuck.

“Trust me, you’ll want some. Everyone thinks they don't, right up until they do,” she says, and there she goes, pursing her lips together, throwing you a wink. God knows what she’s insinuating.

“Do whatever you want,” you’re saying, leaving out the implied—‘not like I can stop you’.

“Careful with your promises,” she’s laughing to herself, turning away and setting her culinary treasures next to your stove. “I just might have to hold you to them.”

That you pick up on immediately. But she lets it rest, putting a pause on the flirting-that’s-totally-not-flirting, busying herself with the task on hand. Reaching for your pots, your spices, navigating around your kitchen like she’s done it a million times before. So at ease, so… natural, in your space.

It’s eerily intimate.

Wearing your clothes, cooking for you, chatting over her shoulder as if she’s the sister that you have the years of history, of baggage with. First times and fuckups. All the messy, complicated shit in between.

(No matter how well she fits the role, a reminder: she’s not.)

There’s all these incidental miracles too—a curtain of chestnut brown hair sweeping aside as she stirs, a hint of bare shoulder, a column of porcelain along her neck. The sag of her collar until it’s falling down one arm, and there’s no sign of a top underneath, no strap, nothing to curb your imagination from running wild.

And it's all extremely unfair, how the hemline rises with each sway, how it clings right to her waist and curves around the flare of her hips. It wasn’t built for someone like her, wasn’t designed to withstand being worn like this.

But it tries it’s best. You do too.

You really should force your eyes elsewhere. The living room, the TV, the window. Anywhere but her. But you can’t help yourself.

“So,” she starts, happy to let the dish come together on its own. Asks, apropos of nothing, “You ever wonder why my sister never wanted to leave us alone together?”

You blink, torn from the hypnosis of her bare skin. “What?”

Danielle’s facing you again, leaning over the kitchen island. Playing with a loose strand of hair, looping it around her finger. Taking the dumb look on your face as an answer. “I mean, before all these little hangouts we never even had a full conversation, just me and you. One-on-one. Isn’t that weird?”

No. It never occurred to you, because it’s not weird at all.

Because Danielle is, and this is plain fact at this point—not in any way, shape or form exaggeration—unfathomably, quite offensively hot, and very much aware of the devastating effect she has on the people around her just by simply existing.

You hardly trust yourself at the moment.

“Then again, she probably knew what I’d do if given the chance.”

Danielle bites her lip, and you make the mistake of staring for just a second too long.

Yeah, it makes a lot of fucking sense.

(Back in the kitchen, the pot boils over.)

—

(It was somewhere close to the end of things; when it became more common to talk in loud accusations than sweet whispers, that your ex was telling you—“I do love her. But I swear sometimes, I can’t stand her.”

“Who?” You’d asked, because playing dumb was much easier than accidentally stumbling into some new argument you weren’t quite prepared for.

“Dani.”

“Your sister?” you replied, too quickly, and without thinking, “I don’t know—she seems sweet.”

There’s a pause, a tension in the car and your hand clenches around the steering wheel as you realise what you said, and the entire world holds its breath. Then, she laughs. Something sad and bitter that makes you wince. “Sweet? Yeah, sure. She’s a fucking angel.”

And before she can even elaborate on that, she’s looking out the window, leaving you to wonder how you’re at fault this time.

So, you decide then and there to never mention her again, never even look in said sister’s direction when she’s around. Push her out of your mind completely. As far as you’re concerned, she never even existed.

That lasts right up until the next time you see Danielle, and she’s all smiles and friendliness and barely-dressed and so painfully attractive and so very happy to see you. And sure, maybe you smile back, reciprocate the hug, blush when she kisses your cheek, hold your hand on her lower back for that extra millisecond too long, bounding over that ephemeral line and right into flagrantly inappropriate territory.

All the while, somewhere over your shoulder your ex spits out the corner of her mouth—“Typical.”)

—

“I thought I already explained?” Danielle starts, the next time she shows up uninvited, half-naked, bright and early and ready to completely fuck up your day.

Despite the number of times you’ve witnessed the same routine, it still floors you every time she sashays into your kitchen, towel draped low on her body, wrapped around her ridiculously tiny frame, water droplets clinging to her flushed skin like a layer of glitter.

Fresh from a shower. She’s always just fresh from a shower.

She’s already rolling her eyes at whatever she’s about to say. Takes a deep breath, then: “There’s a whole thing going on with my living situation at the moment. You probably don’t need to know anything other than sharing a bathroom with four other girls can be a bit of a nightmare, and your place is so conveniently close, and your water pressure is actually unbelievably good, so—”

You’re very slowly realising that she’s never imagined a reality where this would actually be a problem for you. “And so you decided that the next best option was a complete stranger’s apartment?”

Danielle drums her fingers over your kitchen counter. Your eyes follow the beat. “You’re not a complete stranger.”

“You don’t even know me,” you say, trying to play the part of the responsible adult. Danielle scoffs, because you’re failing spectacularly.

“Well, according to my sister, I have nothing to worry about when it comes to you,” she says, adding, “she told me the two of you broke up because you were gay.”

“She said what?”

She recites, “He prefers rolling around with men than with me—were her exact words.”

“M-M-A. I do MMA.”

“Hm.” Danielle’s baring teeth now, a dangerous slant to her smile. “Is that a new addition to the acronym? LGBTQI-MMA? What colours are your flag?”

“It’s fighting,” you clarify, ignoring the heat creeping up your neck. “Mixed martial arts. I’m not—not that there’s anything wrong with that, but I’m not—”

“Sure.” She pushes herself upright and rounds the counter, swinging herself around and over to you. “And here I thought you had all those muscles for show.”

“I’m very straight.”

Her laugh fills the room, makes it warmer, the air sweeter somehow. You choke on it. “Good to know.”

She closes the distance in much fewer steps than you’d like, bare feet gliding across heated flooring, until you’re forced to notice that she’s taken the liberty of using all your shower products too, and you’re starting to rationalise the perfectly normal response it's eliciting. The shortness of breath, the thumping in your chest, the stickiness of your palms.

All perfectly normal.

Stand your ground, what’s the worst that could happen? You’re taller, probably twice her weight. You could pick her up and throw her out if you had to. Or onto one of the many softer surfaces in your apartment.

Erase that thought.

“If it really helps, maybe all we need to do is get to know each other better,” she says, all honeyed-sweet and fucking hazardous, and when she’s this close, you can’t avoid looking.

You try not to, but you’re absorbing all the details—how are her lips this pink, how do they look this soft? How does her skin look so smooth, how does vanilla and coconut and sandalwood smell so much better on her?

It’s fucking troubling how much of her sister you can see in her, except it’s all skewed in directions that make your brain short-circuit. Similar eyes, same shape, but darker; less warmth, more heat. That same mouth, the curve is a mirror when she smiles, but on her its natural state is a pout or a grin over anything close to reassuring.

The dial’s been turned up, the sliders are all wrong, no one should look this good with this little effort.

“For starters, how about we just exchange numbers? So I can call ahead before I come up next time. Avoid any unnecessary surprises,” she throws out, noncommittal. “Even though that’s the best part.”

It should stun you, the smoothness of her request. So innocent in its construction. Yet she loads it heavy, suggestion stacked on suggestion.

She continues, when she catches the look on your face, “I promise I’ll only contact you in strictly emergency shower situations. Would that be okay?”

“That’s fine,” you answer, making liars of you both.

“Then it’s decided then!” She practically cheers, jumps in your arms, wraps you in a hug. Looks up at you, all smiles, all teeth; all wide eyes and hopefulness and fucking hell she’s so close.

Instinct has you leaning closer, has you maybe letting your hands rest a little too comfortably around her waist.

Panic has you recognising that you need to get out of here before she catches on to the involuntarily reactions she’s coaxing out of you. Eyes dipping down to the towel, heart bursting out of your chest, and your co—

“It goes without saying, but you can contact me too. For anything. Emergency or not.”

Yep, it’s about time to get the fuck out of here. Peeling her arms off you, bailing on this conversation before you start agreeing to even more things you know you shouldn’t. You declare, rather robotically, “I should be on my way out.”

“Guys waiting for you to roll around with?”

You sigh, “Something like that.”

“Well, I’m always available if you want someone more fun to practice with,” she says, before amending. “Or, on.”

Again, this can absolutely not happen. You’re not usually one for rules, but it goes without saying—no fucking around with your ex’s sister. It’s like the golden rule of dating, or human decency, or something.

Besides, it’s not really about you that she's into. It’s about the idea of you—the one person who won’t immediately give her what she wants.

That’s all.

She’s just a brat that’s dealing with denial for the first time. Right?

Danielle pouts when it’s clear that you’re not going to feed into any more of her flirty delusions. Twirls on her heels, the towel dancing around her waist. You’re pretty sure you could write a whole essay on the physics of it all.

“Guess there’s no point in me sticking around if you’re not going to be here.”

You avert your eyes. No need to watch her disappear into her room.

Correction—your room.

But then you hear it, and your head whips around so quick you get fucking whiplash.

Witnessing Danielle time her exit just right so the last thing you see before she rounds the corner is the sweep of her back, the drop of her towel, and the flash of her tight, bare ass that will burn itself into the back of your retinas and stay there for the rest of the day.

—

(You really should’ve seen this coming.

Or maybe you did, and the lesser angels of your nature thought it wouldn’t be so bad to let it happen.

Whatever, it’s too late to come back now because Danielle’s taken to sending you messages throughout her day. All mundane updates; what she’s doing, who she’s with, what’s she eaten for breakfast, lunch, dinner. Little things throughout the day that somehow remind her—through bizarre and barely tangential logic—of you.

You read them, pretend to ignore them.

You choose not to reply.

She chooses to start sending photos.)

—

It really, really doesn’t help that Danielle is everywhere.

She’ll be in your kitchen, your living room, your bedroom when she conveniently forgot to bring a change of clothes and the ones that she came over in are way too sweaty and sticky to put back on. Hopefully you don’t mind washing it for her?

You’ll leave your apartment thinking you’re finally free, only to find her flashing that grin on giant screens hanging off buildings, or on the side of the buses you take to the gym, or on the cover of every magazine at the convenience store where you used to dive in for a quick snack without ever even having to worry about her existence.

Her music plays in the café you get your afternoon caffeine fix; her commercials show up on every single app on your phone—she’s selling everything from headphones to sneakers to fucking bank loans. All with that same sweet, annoying, lovely voice that haunts you with unabashed innuendo and questions about where you keep your fabric softener and why your apartment is completely barren of anything that could be considered a snack.

It's a sick, sick joke the universe is playing on you. Throwing her in your face every five minutes when all you can think about is how she looked that morning when she took her time putting herself together—just lounging on your couch in nothing but a pair of glasses and a towel, kicking her legs up in the air while she laughs over some meme that's completely skipped your generation.

The legs. Can’t help but think what it would be like to run your tongue over them.

She'd probably be thrilled to let you try.

“Hey,” Danielle says, choosing the moment when you’re trying to figure out just how high her legs go to catch your attention. “Did you and my sister ever do it on this couch?”

“What?” —the fuck.

“Just asking,” Danielle sing-songs, taking the opportune moment to adjust the knot on the towel. Higher up her chest, higher up her thighs. “It’s got good cushioning, you know.”

“That’s,” and really, stop right there, because you’re not about to rehash the greatest hits with her. Not going to even get close to dipping your toes into an innocent, casual chat about ghosts long exorcised—about all the nights you had your ex spread out like a buffet, her legs around your neck, her nails digging into your back; her whispers and pleas, the sweet taste of her—and fuck, now the memory of her face is twisting and morphing and you’re seeing Danielle in those same positions and—

You shake your head, clearing the fog.

"Not going there."

Danielle feigns innocence, batting those doe-eyes. You’re already sick of that sugary-sweet giggle. "Where?"

“Anywhere. With you.”

“You never know, it could help,” she’s teasing. Possibly the most dangerous sentence you’ve ever heard. “Replace all the old memories with some new ones? A little less her, a little more," she pauses for great emphasis, and it feeds right into the mouth of the devil on your shoulder, "me?"

“Danielle—”

“You know, you can just call me Dani. All my close friends do.”

Alarm bells are blaring. Take the easy way out, just leave again. Maybe leave forever. Get out of here and don’t look back. She can have your apartment as far as you’re concerned—the backseat of your car isn’t that uncomfortable.

But before you can make a break for the door—"I just meant we could watch a movie or something.”

And again, you find yourself asking so often these days, “What?”

“You know a little bit of Netflix,” she suggests, and you’re already anticipating the grin before it spreads across her face, because she’s far too smart to play dumb, “and a bit of chill?”

“Danielle—” you try once more, then correcting before you can think better of it, “Dani.”

Danielle blinks. Adjusts herself. Pats the cushion next to her.

Her legs spread, then cross over each other. Just to give you some room.

The towel holds on for dear life.

—

It all goes to shit in a matter of days.

Truthfully, you can’t be blamed for this one, no matter how predictably it plays out.

Danielle’s fogged up your mind with thoughts you’d rather not be having, really been hard at work convincing you of just how available she is.

(Translation: Look at me, aren't I just so damn fuckable?)

Even though it’s all been common knowledge from the get-go, her cards have been on the table since she first stepped out of the steam and rented a space inside your brain, whether you want to be honest with yourself or not.

She wants you, badly.

You want her too.

It’s all you think about.

So, it’s no surprise your coach sends you home early from training after taking one too many unanswered shots to the head. Pushes you out the door and yells at you to get over or on top of whatever the fuck is going on in your personal life.

You know he’s right.

And it’s in this state, where your brain is mildly-concussed and filled with the images of Danielle—the ones of her wearing next to nothing except that fucking wry, knowing smirk of hers, like she’s just counting down the moments until you finally, inevitably give in—that you stumble into your apartment.

You don’t even have the strength to close the door properly.

You barely notice the closed blinds, the heating turned up too high, the light coming from your room, the scent of something much more sweeter; something that doesn’t belong here at all.

No, you don’t notice anything at all—until you do.

A moan from down the hall.

Louder as you approach, joined by noises of shuffling bedsheets, the unmistakable rhythmic squeaks of your mattress. The slick sounds of skin on skin, and—oh fuck.

You push open your door.

Danielle’s there to greet you, flat on your bed, fingers deep inside her cunt.

Wearing your sweatshirt and nothing else.

Crying out your name.

It’s game over.

Every filthy, lurid though, every half-imagined fantasy, everything your brain has conjured up whenever you've caught a glimpse of Danielle's bare skin, brought to life.

Fucking gorgeous, pretty, even like this. Wrecking herself so sweetly, fucking herself with her fingers so deeply and carefully, half-naked and wet and begging.

“Ah, God—” She’s sinking into herself, not even registering your presence, nor the fact that the door’s even opened.

Her face is locked into this smile, and you clock it as the same one she wears every time she catches you watching her, every time she manages to make that crack in your armour widen just a smidge. It’s a trap. A challenge. An invitation.

You hover by the door, unable to move, unable to breathe, unable to do anything but watch as she works herself over, eyes fixed shut, cheeks red, burning hot.

You shouldn’t look.

You should turn around.

You should do anything but stay.

But you don’t.

You just witness her, in your bed, chanting your name in tempo with her own fingers. Your body betrays you—you take a step forward.

Her eyes open. Unsurprised. “Hey.”

She keeps going.

One more step couldn’t hurt. Moth to her flame, fly to her sweet, sticky trap.

The sweatshirt is a crime against humanity, hiding her like that. You could reach down, rip it off her, expose all her secrets to the cold air. Finally see it all.

But instead, you keep your eyes trained, transfixed, as she arches her back, her breasts pushing up against the cotton, points of her nipples poking through. Abs—chiselled, firm, tense—revealed inch by glorious inch.

Your name on her lips, moaned into your ears.

And her pussy. So pretty. Pink, plump. Perfect.

Sopping wet and making a mess of your bedsheets. The mattress will never be the same.

“Welcome home,” she gasps out. Loving this turn of events. Spreads her legs wider, no intention to stop. Just going on and on.

She stretches out your name for good measure, fucking herself faster. Fingers plunging in and out of herself, hips rocking back and forth. Eyes locking onto yours, daring you to do something about it.

“How’s the view?” She’s grinning, aiming for seductive, nonchalant, but her voice is all broken-up and fucked up. Too turned on to be anything but earnest.

“Fucking hell,” you find your own voice much the same. Really, it’s a miracle that your lungs aren’t clogged up with the thick, heavy air that’s settled in your room. Or that your tongue isn’t a dry, useless slab of meat in your mouth.

“I’d say it’s rather—gah—” Danielle says, taking your words, twisting them into something that sounds like a whine as her eyes slowly shut, a fresh wave of pleasure washing over her. She opens them again, focuses on you. “Heavenly.”

You should have more to say. Something locked and loaded to navigate your way out of this specific situation, because face it, this was always going to happen one way or another the day you let her have free reign of your apartment, of your life, of your thoughts.

Your mouth opens, hoping something disarming and with enough wit comes out to end this whole farce, only Danielle beats you to the punch—“I bet it tastes heavenly too.”

And then the words come to you. You grit out, “Stop.”

Danielle laughs. Unconvinced. “Why should I?”

You repeat. “Stop.”

She just keeps fucking herself. “Make me.”

“Stop,” you let your voice come out deep, firm. Like it's a threat. Taking the closest ankle in your grip, lifting her leg up.

Danielle gasps. Her hand stills.

“Stop and let me.”

Danielle’s whispering now. “Then go ahead.”

You’ve never imagined yourself as that guy. You’re a romantic, you swear. Grand gestures, sweet kisses, candles, roses, the works, making love slow and soft until the sun comes up.

Nothing like this.

Like wanting to ruin something beautiful. Take the hottest girl you’ve ever met, probably ever lived. Cross lines so thick you’d typically need a buzzsaw to cut through. Make her forget about anything that isn’t you, anything that isn’t you. Make her need you in the worst way.

Make her come apart in your fucking hands.

The look on Danielle’s face gives you all the permission you need. Her words are just the cherry on top. “Please.”

You start small.

A kiss on the sole of her foot, and Danielle’s already trembling, giggling, at the light touch. More kisses, building, keen attention on the arch, the ankle, the calf, and she’s shivering. Muscles tensing under your lips, body tightening in anticipation.

She’s a ticking time bomb, was on edge when you walked in, so you don’t drag it out. Just long enough to make her whine. Get a few, “God you’re so—”, gasps and half-formed sentences that die the higher you get.

You kiss your way past her knee, and she’s properly whimpering now. Her fault that her legs are so long. A ladder of sweetness, salt on her skin, and you’re starving. She is right. It tastes heavenly. You’ll do your part by devouring it, bite by fucking bite.

“This is torture,” the words slip out of her, but it hardly sounds like a complaint. Moreso a confession. Something to say while her shoulders sink into the mattress and her fingers dig into the sheets. “Sweet torture.”

A chuckle into her inner thigh, where the skin is softest, smoothest, and her wetness has leaked down far enough to coat your cheek. Because this is the first time Danielle’s been anywhere close to a position of submissiveness to you. Let the mask, the control slip. The game, the pretences. All it took was the right use of your tongue.

“Higher, please, just eat me already,” she’s pleading now, and it sounds so lovely coming from her lips. And fuck, the scent of her, her arousal, sweet and heady. Calling for you to just dive in face-first.

But you want her to beg. Make her as desperate as she’s made you. It’s only fair.

Your nose meets the bottom of the sweatshirt. You push up, ghost your lips, the warmth of your breath higher up her thigh until her hips are practically stuttering.

Lean in, nibble the flesh just beside her pussy.

She convulses then and there. Arches off the bed, a sharp cry leaving her lips.

Only a moment to revel in it before your hair is snatched in her hands, pulling you closer, and you finally give her what she wants. Tongue darting out, tasting her.

“Right—yes—fuck!”

Her scream drowns out the groan climbing out from your throat, as your lungs are filled with the depths of her. No waiting, really, she’s fucking soaked already. Primed, prepared for your tongue. For the sucking, licking, kissing; every part of her that’s been begging for attention, waiting for you.

Her hips buck, but your palms shoot up, press down against the flat of her stomach, feel the ridged abs, the tiny waist under your fingertips. Holding her down with a firm hand. Letting her know the truth of it all. She’s yours now.

All she can do is whine, “I—I—God, I need—”

“Need me to taste you? Lick you, suck you right up, ruin you with my tongue?” The things coming out of your mouth, the aggression in your tone, it surprises you. But there's not enough time to ponder on what manner of beast she's turned you into so quickly, there's only what's next—press the flat of your tongue against her folds, give a rough, firm pressure, make her squirm.

It’s from here that you can witness it all: the bend of her neck as she throws her head back, the tightness in her stomach, the sharp inhale and heavy exhale of her chest. The tremble in her thighs against your cheek, her breath hitching and her pussy quivering over your mouth.

And it comes to you, so easily, like it was always there. Filth being composed in the back of your mind anytime she was in your presence. Everything you've ever wanted to do to this girl. Everything you've wanted to inflict upon her cunt.

“I'm gonna make you into a fucking mess all over my face, down my chin, all over my bed. Fuck this pussy, Danielle. I could get drunk off it. So fucking sweet.”

“It’s—fuck—” and you’re really enjoying this now, having her be the one that’s lost for words for once. “—whatever—all of it. Do whatever you want, please, because I’m so, so close.”

“I didn’t need your permission,” you tell her, speaking into her cunt. “But it’s appreciated anyway.”

And Danielle’s well and truly wrecked. Drenched cunt so swollen and desperate and really, truly in quite a state. So desperate for you, her body thrumming with it. Cunt pulsing like a fucking heartbeat.

You could take it slow. Could drag out the torture a little longer.

Fuck that.

Tongue goes higher, fixes upon her clit. Danielle falls apart.

“Fuck—fuck—fuck—” Her words are slurring together, choked out, gasps, whines. Barely coherent, and yet, “your mouth—tongue—please—”

The pleases you recognise, they come in staccatos as you lick her from bottom to top. Long, slow drags that make her legs shake.

“You’re going to scream for me,” you declare, a prediction more than an instruction. “Beg for me. Going to make you cum so hard. So loud. Going to make you remember it. Remember me every time you think about touching this sweet cunt.

“Sadist,” she manages, breathless, but it’s hard to detect anything from her other than pure glee. “I can see why my sister would always come home so—fuck—so worn out from seeing you.”

“Don’t,” you spit on her cunt. Take a long, gratuitous lap of your tongue against her folds. Force her hips against your face.

“I’m only wondering—” she says, and there’s an edge to her voice, and you know that whatever’s going to follow is going to make you fucking crazy— “Did she taste as good as me?”

You try your best to ignore the taunt. Just push your tongue inside her, feel the way she clenches around the muscle. Fuck her for making you even think about your ex.

“Or did she ever even get to feel like this? Did she let you? Or maybe you never gave her the honour. Because I can't imagine ever letting go of someone like you."

“Enough,” you murmur, not even sure if it’s a warning or a plea. Your teeth graze her clit. Danielle jolts. “This isn’t about her. It’s about you.”

A barely there—“Me?”

“You started this,” your voice is gravelly now, coloured with something mean, “Just had to be too pretty to ignore. Fucking cocktease.”

“Then—oh—give me what I deserve.”

“That would take hours.” The laugh that comes out of your mouth is anything but warm, and she tries to fire back with one of her usual quips—something that dances on the line of flirty and sarcastic and completely charming all at once, the full Danielle experience.

But that all dies on her lips when your finger pushes through until you’re knuckle-deep, curling up inside her.

“Ah—fuck—” That’s all she’s got, and it’s all you need.

You kiss her cunt, suction around those puffy lips. Her pussy is just so, so pretty; like the rest of her, same as every single fucking inch of her. Even now, all huffing and groaning and fucked-up on your tongue—so effortlessly beautiful.

“Baby,” comes out, all velvety and warm, and then again and again. Pitch rising, falling, voice getting louder, a crescendo dictated by your mouth.

Creamy thighs fit snug over either side of your head, but you’re not going anywhere. You need to make her cum—as hard as she can. Make sure she remembers.

You lick, kiss, suck. Danielle doesn’t require much precision, just intense passion. Showing her how much you love her cunt, love making her fall apart. Really sloppy with it, it’s the pace that matters at this point—giving her everything that’s been boiling deep inside her since she ever laid eyes on you.

Swirl your tongue around her clit, flicking it in a way that has her knees shake and bang together. Suck deep against her folds, making her fingers knot themselves in your hair. And when you moan into her cunt, vibrate your lips against her while your fingers—one, then two, now three—work her over, well—

She can’t fucking do anything but try to breathe, try to keep herself together. Be anything other than the excruciatingly cute and beautiful and fucking delicious mess you’re turning her into.

“Right—right there—right there—” Unnecessary instruction, really. Because you already have her dissolving underneath your tongue. Filling your bedroom, your apartment with noises of her cunt being properly fucked, the sighs and moans that bounce off the walls, echoing around your skull. Putting you in some heavenly torture chamber where the only way out is through her orgasm.

And it’s somewhere in her pleas for a higher power that you feel the beginnings, or the very rapidly approaching endings of it all. The tightness in her thigh, the convulsions. The waterfall dripping down your tongue, your fingers, onto the palm of your hand and pooling underneath her ass.

“This is—this is too much—"

Too much means not enough. Not enough of her, not when you’re so in love with the sound of her breaking apart. The smell of her on your nose, your chin. The feeling of her cunt colliding against your lips.

“Oh God, fuck, please, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t—"

You breathe in, take all you can from what little oxygen she’s left in the room, and bury your face in her. You don’t let up until her cries become screams, until she’s bucking against your face, until her nails are digging into your scalp.

You don’t stop until you feel the first pulse in her climax, until her cunt clenches around your fingers like a fist, until she’s painting your face with her wetness.

And that’s when you reach your other hand around her, urge your fingers underneath those tight, firm cheeks. Push a finger up into her ass, press into that puckered button, making her seize like you just sent a bolt of lightning through her.

“What the fuck, it’s so—God!”

For a moment, she’s yours. Completely and utterly yours.

Her stomach tenses, abs bunching and knitting together. Not a single muscle in her body moves, just frozen in place, locked in pleasure.

Tiny, little shakes, building and building, until it’s a full-body experience; quakes all over her skin, shaking your whole bed. And then—

“Daddy!”

There’s a right word for this—flawless, absolute, divine. Or just plain perfect.

The way she cums is so at odds with who she is. It’s not pretty, it’s not subtle. God, it’s fucking apocalyptic. Orgasms herself into an out-of-body experience onto your chin.

It’s all so fucking obvious; people in the next building over will be able to feel what she’s going through just by the timbre of her voice when she cries out for some sort of God, or spits a filthy curse, or just screams your name in a dozen different ways.

“You’re fucking—yes!”

You need both hands back on her body to fix her to the bed, make sure she doesn’t fall off the fucking edge of the world. Help her bear it, through gritted teeth and sharp hisses, that one final push into oblivion.

A whine signals the end for her; a final real, loud, teary-eyed whine. The most honest sound you’ve ever heard from her and fuck you’d do anything to hear more of it. Give up everything for just an echo of the sweet obscenities that fall from her lips when she cums.

Danielle exhales.

Tries to relax her way out of it. But the trembles haven’t left her, still bubbling underneath her skin. Her legs fall away from your head, leaving your ears ringing, and you ease back. Wipe your mouth with the back of your hand.

You massage her, run your hands up to her waist, underneath the sweatshirt. Stroke the lines on her body to coax her back down to the land of the living. Let it all slow down.

Her eyes are still hazy, glazed over, pupils all fucked-up and blown wide.

“Animal,” she says, when her lungs begin to fill again. She giggles, and there’s all the sweetness returning to her body. Radiating off her in this afterglow. Twisting herself a little beneath you to work out all the tension that you’ve just built up and wrecked her with.

“You asked for it,” you tease, hovering over her. Rightfully smug.

Danielle huffs. Looking so pretty behind all the tears. “And I will again.”

And you exhale too, because now you don’t know what the fuck you’ve gotten yourself into.

But Danielle doesn’t give you time to dwell on your thoughts. Scoots up and shifts so she’s on her elbows. Takes your chin in her fingers. Kisses you.

Inhales you deep, tongue immediately pushing past your lips, scraping around the edges. Licking up all the evidence that’s still stuck on the roof of your mouth.

You fall into her, hands rising up her body. God, you just need to feel her nipples harden beneath your palm, her body fold back into yours. Get to know every curve, every dip. You’ve tasted heaven, now you want to map it out with your fingers.

Your hips urge against her waist, pushing her legs apart, and that tells Danielle all she needs to know.

But her tongue leaves yours, escapes the chase of your own.

“Not yet,” and she’s laughing because you actually believed for a heartbeat that you were the one in control here. That you weren’t the one that was going to be left begging. Aching. Left with nothing to do but commit the taste of her to memory.

She draws her tongue across your jaw, your cheek. Licks your face clean, leaves it sticky. Smiles against your skin.

“But maybe later.” She pushes back, hand at your chest. Gets herself up and off your bed, turns away from you so you can only imagine the grin playing on her lips.

Her ass tilts. Her pussy drips onto your floor.

She looks over her shoulder, blows you a kiss, a wink. “Gotta take a shower first.”

—

(This is the part where Danielle pulls her greatest trick yet—radio silence.

A week without hearing from her—not a text, not a peep, nothing. Turning your brain inside out. Leaving you with nothing but this tangled mess of thoughts about thighs and abs and moans and questions of did whatever the fuck that was really happen?

The worst part of it all is, you know exactly what she’s doing when she’s not busy haunting the edges of your apartment, leaving her fingerprints in every room, over every surface, just waiting for you to find them.

She’s quite easy to be found. She’s still everywhere.

Everywhere except the one place you need her to be.

It’s too early in the evening to be lying in bed, staring at your phone, nothing but the background noise of heaters, TVs and air purifiers to make you seem less alone.

You should really have much better things to do then to hover your thumb over her name.

Your screen lights up with a message—immediately disappointing you when you realise it’s not her. Just your training partner, sending a cursory group invite to anyone else that fancies a night out to break up the routine of getting punched in the head on the daily.

Fuck it.

It’s as good a time to drink as any.)

—

You’re barely in one piece when you get home; which is really par for the course for the past few weeks.

Dazed, horny, tired, concussed—and now, stone-cold drunk.

Habit has you collapsing on your bed in a heap, flicking on your phone, dragging your finger over the screen and taking an embarrassing amount of attempts to unlock it. The blue glow lights up your room, the screen immediately blasting you with the most recent thing you were looking at—the last photo Danielle had sent you.

The one she took in front of your bathroom mirror, where she’s leaning over the sink. A hand perched on the counter, hip cocked to the side. Towel hanging on by a thread, dipping, just so. Tongue poking out, lips looking so shiny and soft.

Eyes right down the barrel of the camera. Knowing the reaction it’ll force out of you. The power she has to stir your cock to life with just a single image.

It’s so fucked up. How in such a short amount of time, she’s occupied every corner of your mind, every corner of your digital life. Unavoidable. Inescapable.

And there’s truth in that: you’re flying too close to the sun; you’re going to get burned but you can’t help but soar a little closer anyway. Heading headfirst into tears, heartache, or worse, a very awkward family reunion.

And you hate that you miss her.

Hate that you’re calling her.

She answers.

“Hey—” you slur, making a stellar start.

You’re picturing the smug smile on the other end of the line. “Is this a drunk dial?”

“I—yeah.” No point in lying. You’re not good at it, and she’s not that dumb.

“Well, I’m flattered,” and there’s pure amusement seeping out of the speaker and into your ear. She sounds like she’s laughing at you. But it’s warm, familiar, and for a second it’s like she’s right here, in your room, in your bed, her naked body pressed against yours. “To what do I owe the honour?”

Since you’re too inebriated to be anything other than honest, you just outright say it—“Got drunk. Can’t sleep. Missed you.”

There's hesitation on the other end. Surprise, you guess. "Then that makes two of us."

"You're drunk too?"

"Unfortunately not. Just the insomnia and the yearning on my part."

“Why aren’t you here?” comes right out your mouth, before you can even stop it.

Her breaths come through the phone. Slow. “Because I’m in a hotel. Hong Kong.”

You roll onto your back, close your eyes. Picture it. Danielle, prettier-than-perfect, curled up on some plush, extravagant bedspread. A complimentary towel getting the luxury of being around her tight figure. Her long legs stretched out in front of her, painted toes digging into the sheets.

You still remember how they felt against your lips.

“I don’t believe you,” you decide, and demand, “Turn on your camera.”

“Oh, you’re very drunk,” is Danielle’s reply, right before the chime of your phone and—

There she is. Scarily accurate to your imagination. Only now, the details are colouring in the rest of the picture—the contrast of hotel white against her dark hair. The glint of light off her sharp cheekbones. Her lips absolutely wicked.

No towel, though. A bathrobe this time.

“It’s fucked up how pretty you are,” you say, because it’s true and you can’t hold back. “Like, Christ.”

Danielle giggles, and it’s also fucked up the things the sound does to your stomach. Forcing you to realise how much you missed having it in your apartment. She leans closer to the camera, head tilting a little to the side. “Very, very drunk.”

“Don’t have to be drunk to recognise how good you look.”

“I always look good.”

“If you were here right now—or if I was there—”

“You’d what? Bury your face between my thighs? Ruin me with your tongue?” She’s smiling. Teasing. Thank God you can see her face again. “Make me call you Daddy?”

“I didn’t make you do anything. That was all you.”

“And you just happened to love it,” she says so easily. Full of confidence. “What else would you love to make me do?”

It comes to your mind immediately, the thought of it—“Your shoulder.”

Her eyebrow jumps up at that, expression settling into something curious. “My shoulder?” She angles herself, gives you a better look. Leaving it bare, the bathrobe droops, doesn’t bother to hide the line of her throat. “Nothing about my neck, my eyes, my lips?”

“I’d get to that. But I’d start with your shoulder,” you recite, letting her in on the journal entries you’ve been writing in your mind. Notes on Danielle. “You’re always just leaving it out there. Your shoulder, collarbone. I’d kiss there first.”

Your words do something to her, you can see it through your bleary eyes. She shifts on top of her bed, twists herself around to settle into a more comfortable position. Leans back into the headboard of her bed. Juts her shoulder out so the bathrobe drops further down her arm.

Has you follow the path of her camera as she angles it lower, and it doesn’t help that she’s biting on her lower lip, and you can’t see where her other hand has gone, and she’s spurring you on by asking:

“Would you kiss me lower too?” The bathrobe parts, plush cotton revealing a single line of her sternum, and then further still, the shadow of her cleavage just out of view.

You nod, swallow. A strained, “Yeah.”

“And here?” The robe slips, falls further down. Revealing the swell of one perfect breast. A nipple, stiffened from the cold. Or the thought of your lips.

Your eyes are locked onto the image of her creamy skin, the darkened areola. You don’t care that you’re groaning, that your hand is already reaching down to palm your erection through your sweatpants. You don’t care that she probably knows.

It’s what she wants.

“Yeah, I’d kiss you there. Lick it. Get it between my teeth, and—”

“Sounds like you’ve thought a lot about me,” she murmurs, but she’s only saying things that you both are keenly aware of. You are—have been—putty in her hands. A man lost at sea with only her voice as a compass. The camera moves in closer still. You can feel the heat of her skin through the screen. “What if I told you I’ve been thinking about you too?”

Her free hand returns in view. Up to her chest. Teasing her own nipple; pinching between her thumb and forefinger. She gasps, breathes heavy down the line, and you swear you can feel it too, a phantom softness at your own fingertips.

“I’ve been thinking about what you did to me with your mouth, been thinking about it—” she’s panting, and her hand’s moving. Thumb tracing lazy circles around her breast, and you’re thinking that it’s the exact path you’d take with your tongue. “Every. Single. Night.”

It’s too much and nearly not enough. No where close to satisfying the ache she’s built inside you. You want her here, in your bed, underneath you. You want to show her what you can really do to her. How you’d kiss her until she couldn’t breathe, lick her until she couldn’t think, fuck her until she’s nothing more but a shivering mess, leave her begging.

And then, as if announcing your own thoughts back to you— “I want to cum,” she sighs, barely a whisper. “But I don’t want to do it alone.”

“Show me.”

There’s a beat, two, where Danielle mulls it over. Nothing but pants heard through the speaker. Her nipple still in view.

Until she turns, phone hitting the bedside table with a gentle thump. Screen still on, camera pointing right at her face. But the angle’s off—she shifts it downward and returns to the bed.

It sobers you up, puts you on alert. Danielle. Lying on her side. The soft, pale swell of her breasts, the dip of her vanishing, practically non-existent waist. The curve of her hips down to the long, smooth legs. The robe slides down, baring her other shoulder. Her neck. The cut of her clavicle.

Fuck.

Her breathing hitches when she sees you, the look on your face. So low, so quiet, when she says, “Now, you too.”

A mirror of her actions—your phone finds a spot to lean on. Hands wobbly, vision blurs as you rush to get the angle right. Sweatpants disappear, freeing your cock. The waistband catches on your length, causing it to spring out hard.

It’s Danielle’s turn now to groan out a “Fuck.”

And for a moment, it’s just heat and silence. Hot, laboured breaths filling the space between the two of you. Her hand drifts down, skating between her abs, lower—

“Tell me,” she says, fingers crawling to the hood of her pussy, gliding over where she’s most sensitive. Her thighs part slightly, slowly, showing herself to the camera, to you. How wet she is, how delicious she looks. You want to taste it. You’d die to feel the heat of her against your tongue once more.

But you’re not there. You’re both stuck in this digital limbo. Two people desperate to fuck each other through a screen. It won’t be enough. It just can’t be. But it’s all you’ve got, so it’ll have to do.

“Tell me everything.” Her eyes close, hand starting to move with purpose. Spreading her folds. Glistening clit standing proud. “Everything you’d do to me. All of it. I know you’ve been thinking about me. Give me every little detail. Make it dirty, make it good, make it—”

“I—” you start, only to stumble, “I want to fuck you.”

“Obviously,” she’s smiling into the camera, and yeah, you’re realising it was a stupid way to begin things. “Please don’t make me do all the work here. Where’s the guy that said he’d make sure I remember him every time I touch this tight, little cunt?”

“Sweet cunt.”

“You would know.”

You clear your throat. Adjust yourself. Angle your cock towards her so she can see how much you mean what you’re about to say. “Danielle—”

“Dani, please.”

“Dani,” you restart, “After your shoulder, your collarbone, after I’ve left those fucking tits all marked up—I’d run my tongue back up to your neck, suck on that spot right here—” you bring your other hand up, tap it over your pulse. Danielle’s eyes shoot open. Follows your finger. “You know the one.”

Her hand falters, she chokes on a breath. She’s picturing it. Feeling it. “Yeah,” she stammers. “Yeah, I know.”

“And then—then you’d feel my fingers. Pushing in,” you continue, hand tightening around your own shaft. Pre-cum making it slick. Recalling her heat, the tightness of her cunt. The clench around your digits. “So fucking slow. Watching your face as you take them. One, two. Three. Yeah, you’d look just like that.”

Her own fingers dip, bringing your words to life. Eager to follow word for word, whispering these hushed little pleas, and then a moan, and then— “Don’t—don’t stop.”

“Slowly, Dani,” you make her whine, as if you’re right there, holding her hand, forcing her to balance on that edge. “Just like that. God, you look so pretty. You would look so pretty. Coming apart on my fingers. I don’t think I’d ever be able to stop telling you, because fuck.”

You break it down—break her down. Tell her the steps, one by one. The way you’d kiss her, taste her. How lovely it would be, lips as sweet as her cunt was. Kiss so deep that you’d steal the breath from her lungs, make sure she knows what it’s like to be consumed. The way you’d kiss her neck, her ear, make a mess on her tits. Every spot that makes her quiver.

There’s tension in her shoulders, tightening across her muscles. Eyes clenched shut, fingers dancing over her every inch that you tell her you’d explore once you’ve finally stripped her bare.

Leave her in her natural state: naked, beautiful, fucking breathtaking.

Her hand’s a blur now, thighs trembling with each pass of her fingers, and she’s chewing on her bottom lip so hard you can see the indentation. Whining, pleading, these divine little noises, intermittent—“Keep going, don’t stop, tell me more,” —pure bliss articulated, and you’ve lost track of how many times she’s asked, “and then?”

“I’d spread you wide open, Dani,” you tell her, and watch as her legs part, leaving her splayed out on her bed. Image so fucking wanton it’s biblical sin. “God, look at you. You’re so fucking wet I can hear it through the phone.”

Danielle can’t help herself, “It’s you,” she’s gasping, panting, fucking herself with her fingers so intently that the sounds of her cunt are coming through loud and clear. “It’s all because of you. So, so wet. I’ve been like this all week.”

A thought, you realise, “So that’s why you stopped messaging me.”

The tightness in her voice confirms it for you, “Yeah. Couldn’t stop thinking of you. Reaching out would’ve made it too fucking much.”

This revelation hangs in the air, thick and palpable. Pushes aside any remaining inhibitions. You stroke yourself harder, faster, matching her rhythm, her breaths. Joining the slicks of her own cunt with the sound of your skin slapping against your palm.

“But it didn’t help. So, fuck it. I needed to let you see. Let you know. How much I want you. Need you.”

“Was never much a secret.”

“Never said I was good at hiding it,” and Danielle’s grinning now, looking so beautifully lost and downright filthy and there’s really only one thing left to ask, “Tell me how you’d fuck me.”

“Hard.”

One word and she fucking loves it.

“Flip you over, from behind. Against whatever hard surface I can push you up against. Nothing sweet about it. Giving you what you fucking deserve.”

“God!”

“Leave you out of fucking breath. Just take my cock deep. You can see it can’t you? How big it is. How fucking hard it is for you. I’d make you take every inch fucking fast and rough. Make you mine. My own personal cocksleeve. Daddy’s little cocksleeve, how do you like the sound of that?”

Danielle’s back arches, chest rises and falls. Hand moving faster, fucking herself, really going for it. Head thrown back, eyes open, on you. Like she’s memorising the way you’re looking at her. Unable to do anything but look when you’re puppeteering her body across an entire ocean, words dictating every little shiver, every little pulse.

“Pin you against a wall, Dani. Make it so you can’t move. Can’t do anything but feel me. So deep inside you that you’d feel fucking empty without me.”

“Fuck, that sounds so—” Dani’s barely breathing now, and whether by some reflex or just a need to make your words feel a little more real, she rolls onto her stomach. Ass up in the air, pushing her face down into the mattress. You can see the muscles in her back ripple, the fingers disappearing between her thighs, and she’s biting down on the sheets but you’re making out the— “Just like that. Yes, yes, like that. Fuck me like that. Make me—”

It’s the view of her tight ass and it's like she's inviting you to tell her, “I’d spank you—leave you all nice and red. So you’d feel it after. Have you screaming until you can’t even speak. Make sure the last word you’ll ever say is my name.”

“You’d pull my hair too, right?”

“You wouldn’t have a choice.”

Danielle screams your name; the first time you’ve ever heard it sound like that. Somewhere between worship and pure desperation. It’s fucking heavenly. Your cock flexes in your hand, and you want to drop everything and rush over to her hotel room right now and shove it directly in her face.

But you’ll have to be content with what you’ve got.

With Danielle, an utter disaster; soaked cunt and all, splashing down onto the bed. And it’s going to be a problem, an explanation she’ll have to provide. How the perfect, idol-princess left her room stained and forever ruined with the scent of her cum-drenched sheets.

She’ll lie, of course. Spin something about a spill, or a new perfume she’s trying, or maybe she’ll fucking own it.

How some guy over the phone left her shaking with his words alone. Made her scream his name until she got noise complaints from rooms on the opposite side of the hall. Caused a fucking mess that the hotel laundry service would never be able to scrub out.

She’s so close, so fucking close. You know because you’ve been on the same tracks as her, charting it through the throbbing of your own cock, the tightening in your balls.

She’s just dying for release. For your permission.

“I’m just—I can’t—Can’t believe you’re going to make me—”

“Just fucking cum then, Dani,” you command. An order.

She follows without question.

Hand builds speed—faster, faster, faster. ‘Fuck—fuck—fuck’ spilling from her lips until it’s all just one noise buried in a mess of pleasure and bliss. Until she’s just a heartbeat in the palm of your hand.

Fucking God, she cums hard.

You do too.

You swear the camera shakes, it’s not just your vision, the head spin, the alcohol. It all vibrates around you and you can’t see straight.

Watching Danielle; her abs tense, back bow, collapsing into her bed. Eyes squeezed shut, choking on sheets as she tries and fails to muffle herself. Orgasm ringing through your phone, a chorus of sin. Your own cock is bucking, moving with her hips, and you’re fucking her, fucking her through it all, making her fall apart again and again, making her shiver, beg, cry out your name and—

It’s a fucking masterpiece.

“Cum for me please, Daddy!”

Like a gunshot, a trigger, and you’re gone too.

A mess—sticky, warm. Fucking satisfying.

And then it’s over.

You both slump down, dissolve into your own individual puddles. Needing deep, heaving breaths. Sweat sticking to your skins, to the sheets. It makes her glow.

Just laying there. Not bothering to clean up. Evidence of your lust smeared across your hands, your stomachs, your beds. The trophies earned.

The silence stretches out, and it’s weird because it’s just like she’s breathing right in your ear, coming down next to you. Warmth against your neck, hand sliding down your body. Fitting right in your arms.

Her eyes finally open. Slow movements have her hand dropping away from her pussy, sliding over the wetness to her side. A mess, and there’s a new kind of smile on her face. A little lazy, weak. Satisfied.

“Fuck.”

“Tell me about it.”

She watches you for a beat. Runs a tongue over her lips. “Can’t wait to see you again.”

“When?”

“As soon as I fucking can.”

—

(It feels good—too good—to be honest for once.

The games are still there, but now that you’re a willing participant, Danielle’s tactics shift.

It starts innocently enough—a good morning text here, a photo of her breakfast there, a meme you’d both find funny.

And then the escalation.

Here’s what I’m wearing. Here’s what’s underneath. You want to see more?

Reciprocate.

Every notification from her has you running to the bathroom, or at least somewhere with a little privacy, because it’s always a photo or a video, a little slice of heaven to get you through the day or completely ruin it just by seeing her picture.

And fuck, you do look.

And then there’s the last photo—and of course there’s a bathroom and a mirror and your sweatshirt hiked up to her chest and she’s completely bare otherwise and you’re thinking she’s laughing here because she knows you’re going to zoom in and find the tiny caption left for you to discover between her thighs.

One word.

Your cock jumps, a silent cheer.

Tomorrow.)

—

It's borderline problematic how you have to hold yourself back from sprinting down your hallway when you get home. Just because you hear the sound of running water.

Danielle's here again.

She’s fucking back.

And that’s how you find her; the door to the bathroom’s been left wide open, an invitation you don’t really need—nothing could stop you at this point.

But it doesn’t take away from the surprise of it at all, you're knocked off your feet when you meet her in the shower.

Danielle, head thrown back, letting the hot water cascade over her. Down her neck, her shoulders, her breasts. She’s soapy, skin a canvas of bubbles, your bottle of body wash in her hand, flipped upside down and dripping on her tits.

There’s a smile in the opposite mirror for you, and fuck, for a second you’re believing in love at first sight or the existence of angels or just the fact that maybe you were put on this planet to procreate.

“You’re late.”

You clear your throat, steam starting to warm it up for you. “I was at the gym.”

And she giggles, and she’s smug, and you missed her presence so much more than you anticipated. “Then it sounds like you should join me.”

She reaches out, grabs you by the wrist, and you have mere seconds to get rid of your shirt and your sweatpants and anything you don’t want to get wet because you’re falling into her. Threading your fingers through wet mattes of hair, pushing her into cold tile, and kissing the prettiest fucking girl you’ve ever met in your entire life.

“Missed you,” she murmurs into your lips, warm and steamy words that taste like mint. “Really fucking missed you.”

She’s too real now.

In your shower, beneath your fingertips, water running in rivulets over her body. Moisture evaporating off her skin, sticking to yours. Photos, videos, everything from that fabricated reality of pixels and soundwaves, could never do enough to come close to having her right in front of you.

You run your hands over her body, hers are doing the same down yours—as if needing multiple points of contact to confirm that you’re really here, that this is really happening. Her skin’s like silk under the water, slippery and smooth. You trace the outline of her waist, her ribs, the curves of her ass.

And her abs. Fucking hell. Sculpted, each ridge a testament to her dedication, to hours spent. To the sweat, the tears, the sheer fucking willpower it takes to become an idol. A map of her life’s work, and they’re begging to be touched. Appreciated.

You do.

A soft touch. Reverent. She responds with a gasp that sends a shiver down your spine. Danielle’s eyes are on yours, watching, as your thumb traces the line of here stomach.

You get the obvious out of the way. “You’re so fucking pretty, Dani.”

She arches a brow. “Just pretty?”

You smile, kiss her shoulder. Lap up the water pooling in her collarbone. Stuck between the need to take your time to worship her body like it deserves, and the primal urge to just claim her, take everything about her that’s good and soft and hot and make it yours. “It doesn’t even cover it. I don’t think any words do.”

“Then show me.”

So, you pull her closer, hands cradling her face, thumbs brushing against the soft skin of her cheeks. Kiss her until she’s melting into you, until her body’s pressing into yours so tightly that you can feel the heat of her.

A palm falls to her hip, thumb resting at that glorious spot where her waist sinks right in just before curving out to her ass. Your fingers dig into flesh, and Danielle’s moan; the sweet, sweet sound fills your mouth, vibrates down your throat.

Her hand wraps around the back of your neck, gripping tight; she’s not shy of about touching you either. About asking for more. More of everything. More of this. More of you. You kiss her harder, like you’re trying to break her apart and rebuild her in your own image. Like you’re trying to brand her with your mouth.

“This is,” she breathes between the kisses, slurring against your chest, “so much different in person.”

“How so?” You ask, and follow her eyes southward.

Her cheeks flush, and she looks up at you through wet lashes. “Bigger.”

You laugh, feeling something unlock in your chest. It’s so absurd. Like all at once, your entire destiny's been flipped on its head.

Danielle’s fingers take hold of your cock, stroking you gently. Staring at it in wonder. She’s worshipping it. This goddess, and it’s your cock that’s her idol. She squeezes at the top of your head. The glee in her eyes when you groan.

“God, it’s—” Danielle voice cracks, and she gives the words their proper weight when she says, “Taken too long.”

You can barely think anymore. Not when her hand is winding up and down you in these long, smooth strokes. Like she's somehow been practicing, rehearsing for this exact occasion, studied upon every sensitive spot and how to hit it just right.

“Could’ve had this from the start,” Danielle tells you, and you’re throbbing so hard in her hands. “Could’ve had this any time you wanted,” she says again; like it’s fact, a simple truth of the universe.

And suddenly nothing really makes sense anymore. Whatever logic you had leading up to this point—why didn’t you just reach out and take her? All the times she was right in front of you, on your couch, in your bedroom, or in this very shower, with the door unlocked.

“Could’ve had me whenever you liked,” she whispers, pushing herself closer, her pert little nipples pointed against your chest. “I’ve been so wet and desperate and ready for your cock this whole time. All you had to do was take it.”

You’ve got nothing but an uncommitted, “Couldn’t.”

To that she laughs, presses her lips into your jaw and her grip’s tightening. There’s pre-cum beading from your tip and leaking onto her palm, you both see it clearly before it gets washed away. “I know. That’s why I tried my best to be patient.”

You need a reality check, make sure she’s at all aware of the damage she’s been wreaking. “You? Patient?”

“Oh, you think this only started a few weeks ago?” Danielle taunts, and it’s with an air of ridicule. Incredulous that you could be so naïve. “You have no idea.”

But the honest truth is—you do. You’ve been aware of it—aware of her—from the start. Her sister had probably been aware of it even longer.

Probably why you chose to bury your head in the sand.

But there’s no avoiding it now. This girl—woman. This dream. A picture of youth and beauty; a masterpiece painted by time and genetics, with a touch of that special something that makes you want to frame her and hang her up on every wall in your apartment—make everyone see her the way you do.

And even then, strip that all away, and it's just those lips—the grin, the smile, the pout—and the intention behind each expression that is your true undoing.

It’s the smirk this time when she makes her point, “I’ve had the biggest crush on you since—” And that does it. That does you in. “Forever.”

“Yeah,” you tell her, falling straight into confession. “I think I have too.”

Danielle’s pace picks up, the rhythm building until it’s starting to drive you crazy. Making you lean into her, pushing into the warmth of her small hands. She’s back to kissing into your throat, your ear lobe, any part of your skin she can get her lips to when she whispers, mockingly, “Is this the part where you tell me—I want to fuck you—again?”

That’s an unfair callback.

Danielle quirks an eyebrow. Daring you to do something about it.

You push off her. Slip out of her grasp. Hand trapping her wrists above her head before she can grab you again. You're the one grinning now.

"No. This is the part where I spread you wide open. Pin you against this wall. Make you scream my name.”

Her eyes dilate, pupils blown wide. She licks her lips, “Spank me?”

“And pull your hair.”

“Then go ahead and do it.”

But you pause. Wait. Hold her wrists above her head and stare into her eyes. Give her the chance to put the magic words together herself. Your grip tightens.

Danielle’s smile widens. “Please, Daddy—”

She’s so fucking small, light, practically weightless in your hands. Easy enough to take her hips and lift and spin her around before she can even register that she’s moving. She catches herself on the tile when you set her down, bracing herself against the wall; palms flush, fingers splayed out. Legs naturally split just slightly.

All this build-up and you can’t help but rush.

She turns to look back at you. Needs to see you, needs you to see her, all of her. Giving up on all ideas of teasing, of whatever game took you to this point. Just need. Just burning desperation.

“Need it,” is everything she’s wanted to say, everything she’s tried to tell you over and over again. Everything that makes her vanilla thighs tremble, her knees all wobbly, her cunt drip onto your shower floor.

Your cock twitches, and there’s first contact, sweeping against her folds. Heat sticking to the tip and fuck, yeah, this is not going to be one of those slow, tender moments. You press into her, align yourself between her thighs. One hand at her hip, the other joining her palm against the wall because judging by the way she’s shivering, she just might slip away completely without it.

“Need it now, Daddy,” Danielle whines, so fucking cute and honest, and when you drag your cock so it’s kissing against her entrance, it turns into a demand of, “Inside—please, fuck, put that big cock inside my—”

A push of your hips, and she’s so fucking soaking wet that you slide right in.

Her moan.

You think she’s trying for ‘Daddy’ again, but it’s all fucked up and muddled. Lost in the clench of her muscles, the tension across her body, the way her face screws up and holds and makes all the noises that come out strained and whiny.

So fucking nice.

“God—fuck—finally—”

Fitting so perfectly around you; folding her body into yours. It’s partly the angle—her back arching into yours, her hips urging backwards so nicely, ass squishing against your waist. Her pussy. Hotter than hot, wetter than wet. A fucking vice, a perfect grip that makes you feel like this is where your cock was always supposed to be.

Buried deep inside Danielle’s hot, tight, fucking glorious body.

It’s all just so easy, everything about her, so easy to fuck. Not that she’s not tight—the feel is so fucking divine it’s enough to make your eyes roll back in your head—but because she moves with you, like you’re two parts of one machine, two bodies meant to be joined at the hip; or at the cock and the cunt.

She’s made for you. Tailored to each line and curve and angle of your length.

It takes several strokes—euphoric, mind-breaking, soul-shattering strokes—before Danielle gets some bearings on herself. Panting through it all, making some effort to tear off the bathroom tiles with just her nails, but she’s got enough breath to whisper over her shoulder, “Feels so good. I knew—knew it would be like this.”

A small hand leaves the wall, reaches behind her. Fingers dig into your thigh because she needs something else to hold onto. Something real.

“Knew I’d be perfect for you.”

You want to laugh, chalk it up to her doing her usual cocky little thing. But she’s got you too deep inside her, you’ve sunk all the way in so quickly your lungs are still in recovery trying to catch your breath. Got you so far up her cunt that it’s difficult to manage anything that isn’t a moan. So you just nod. Thrust harder. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“God this is exactly how I thought it’d go,” she keeps going, slowly finding her voice again. Each word like a spell, a curse. “I thought about it—what you’d be like—how you’d fuck me—”

“Danielle,” you grunt out, surprising yourself with how easily it comes out. Then again, it's always been on the tip of your tongue.

“I used to think it’d be nice and sweet—gentle—” she says, shakily, “But this—rough—fucking me like you own me—like you can’t get enough—it’s so much better than I ever imagined. So much better—”

Her words cut off into a gasp when you kiss into her throat. Her hand snakes back up to your neck, pulling you closer, nails scraping along your skin, leaving little white lines. The sting is nice. A welcome distraction from the fire burning through your veins.

Your lips drift higher, and she twists her body to draw you into this clumsy, uncoordinated kiss. Sloppy in construction, she’s kissing at the corners of your mouth, your tongue is dragging up to her cheek at one point. But it’s all communicated in the clash of lips and teeth and the way she’s panting into you, moaning down your throat, “So good, you’re so fucking good, Daddy—”

And then just—

“More,” and she’s at your mercy, and she just loves it, is so fucking earnest for her need for you to just keep going. “Harder, please, I need—”

But you already know. She needs to be fucked, handled rough and just nailed like she’s wanted you to for weeks. Months. Maybe a year at this point. She’s done watching from the sidelines while you were too stupid to realise that she was what you needed all along. Done being the outsider, the third party, watching you go by unappreciated, watching you not get what you needed.

Your name bounces off the shower walls and back into your ears. Impossibly loud; the sound hardly sweet or loving, but it’s pure music. Everything you’ve ever wanted to hear.

It’s joined by the wet smacks of skin on skin. The slick of her cunt around you. Her breaths hitching and catching every time you bottom out and rut your cock so deep in her bowels that it takes a herculean amount of effort to pull it back out again.

Her ass just bounces back against you. The perfect handful—slapping into your thighs with every push. And then, the idea thought of in tandem, two minds as one—“Didn’t you say you were going to—”

A smack ripples across Danielle’s ludicrously tight cheeks.

“Fuck!” She cries out, eyes start to moisten, but she just pushes her ass back. Ready for more.

So you give her another.

A snap; your palm against her. Making the flesh pink up, making it jiggle just right.

Her eyes squeeze shut, mouth opens. Forces out these adorable little sounds, mewls, whimpers.

And then another, and another, and her pussy tightens around you with every hit. You can hear her breath catch in her throat; and fuck she clenches even tighter down on your cock. It’s so dangerous for her because the way she’s reacting, practically thanking you with her moans and sighs and lovely tightening of her cunt around you—it’s making you so greedy.

Greedy to mark her up, to really draw a work of fucking art on her skin. Leave your handprints on something beautiful.

“Again,” she begs, and her voice is absolutely shot. Just raspy, desperate, needy. “Harder, please, Daddy. I’ve never, no one’s ever—"

You smack her again.

And again.

Leaving her cheeks red and stinging. Leaving her trembling. Just a boneless mess of beautiful sighs and blissful pleasure. You can see it, in the bumps rising on her skin, the way her toes are curling in ecstasy, her cunt gushing down your own thighs. There’s no hiding it. Without a doubt, this is what she’s always deserved.

It’s a hard thrust, a harsh smack, each following one after another in rapid succession. Fucking her apart, fucking her in two. Fucking her into oblivion.

Each spank, each perfect spasm of her abs, her cunt, it’s all a quiet mercy. Pain pushing her closer and closer to pleasure, balancing on that precipice where her pussy is strangling the fuck out of your cock so perfectly.

There’s only one word for someone who’s loving this kind of treatment, someone who’s this fucking filthy and vulgar and dying for more.

“Slut,” you bite into her ear, and the gasp that rises from her throat confirms it. The second word, “Cocksleeve," nearly shatters her completely.

You could never imagine someone like her, someone that could live in the torture if only because it brings out so much joy.

You know it, she knows it, but you still let her know, “You’re going to cum for me.”

And she whimpers and bucks against you because she sees it for what it is. A promise. And it’s all because she’s so fucking responsive, so eager for it, so fucking reactive. A pinwheel in a tornado, spinning and spinning until it’s just a blur of colour and motion and all you can do is watch in amazement.

“I will,” she promises back, and fuck you’re not far behind. “I'll cum for you. All over your beautiful fucking cock.”

It keeps you going, makes your strokes erratic, wild, just harsh, punishing thrusts into the depths of her cunt. And she keeps taking it, walls gripping around your cock with unreal pressure, like she’s trying to keep you there forever. Like she’s afraid you’ll pull out and leave her unsated.

But she’s wrong.

You let her know with your next spank. The hardest one yet.

“Fuck you’re—” and it’s your name, and curses, and filth, and begging and just “yes, yes, yes” again and again. Screaming it into your ear, crying it into your neck; she’s baring the deepest, darkest part of her soul.

Locked in place, cumming.

Unable to move, because her back’s to your chest, and she’s up against a wall so all she can really do is tremble and shiver and shake until she’s completely dissolved.

And it’s somewhere in all this that you come to terms with the fact that it’s not enough. You’ve crossed the line and you don’t even dream of settling. You’re going to make her cum again. And again. And again.

She’s spent all this time offering herself up to you, crafting herself into this toy for your amusement, a fuckdoll for you to play with; as if you were only going to take this one taste and let her go.

But you do give her a break, if only for a moment.

You massage her ass; soothe the sting with your fingertips. A little tenderness amidst the storm.

“Good girl,” you catch yourself kissing into her, and the words are like a password to some hidden part of her, something that makes her nearly collapse onto the shower floor.

Her cunt pulses, once, twice, milking you. Her muscles start to give out, and you need to wrap your hand around her body to keep upright. Fingers at her tits, squeezing, twisting her nipples because you’ve always wanted to and you know she loves it. Because she needs the sensation to keep her on her feet.

“Mine,” you grit out, and there’s no disagreement from Danielle. No, her eyes are too glassy, glazed over and not even looking at you anymore. Just feeling you, feeling what you’re doing to her.

There’s tears in her eyes too; it’s not just the water raining down overhead. She’s sobbing well and truly, because you’ve fucked her so thoroughly that it’s all she can do. It’s all her pretty eyes can show you to tell you just how fucking good it feels for her. So perfect. So much more than she ever hoped for.

Letting you see every bit of her. Every tear that falls down her face, every quiver in her legs. Every time she chokes out your name.

“Mine,” you repeat, kissing it into her shoulder.

Her response is a nod. She’s caught her breath. “Always have been.”

She’s just so soft, even as she’s still quivering. Legs somehow still holding her upright, even when the architecture's been threatening to crumble and collapse this entire time.

So you start to move again. Slower, gentler, almost apologetic.

Danielle ends all ideas of that very quickly. “Hey,” she kisses your cheek. Aiming for your lips, but misses entirely. You don’t mind much.

“Dani,” you groan, because God, even when you’re trying to take it slow, a little easy, it’s still so fucking agonising. So dangerous. Like you’re the first to ever get his hands on her. You’ve discovered fire, now you just can’t keep your hands off it.

“Don’t you dare go taking it easy on me now. Not after you just made me cum my fucking brains out,” is what Danielle rasps, “Remember, I’m yours.”

She kisses you again, gets your mouth this time, tongue pushes in. Convinces you with the sweetness of it that it’s far from over. Not until you’ve done exactly as you’ve promised to her—fucked her so hard, so deep, until she couldn’t move, until she’d feel empty without your cock inside her.

“Your slut,” she slides down you, until it’s only the tip of your cock that remains nestled at her entrance, “your cocksleeve,” her hips snap back, a rush of air exits your lungs and fuck, you’re in deep again, “and you still haven’t pulled my hair yet.”

Yeah.

Grab a fistful of chestnut silk, yank back, and she’s yours. Back to speed, fucking her open and raw, having this effect on her.

Seeing it blossom from her thighs, up her abs, her ribs, her tits, around her throat until it’s bubbling out of lips and the corner of her eyes. This girl is yours. This petite, perfect, fuckable body is yours to do as you wish—to use, to pleasure, to ruin.

You tell her to take it—she takes it. You tell her to beg for it—and she cries and pleas and makes it seem like the only thing that could settle her soul is your cock.

And when you command her to scream your name, and it's just so fucking soul-destroying—the loveliest noise from the filthiest tongue, and everything that comes with it. The ‘just like this’, the barely coherent ‘your slut, Daddy, I’m your slut’, and these encouraging quivers from her lips that take the shape of ‘give your good little girl all of your hot fucking cum and—”

“Fuck, this pussy is incredible,” you breathe into her, and your grip is tightening into a fist, tugging her back even further until she’s leaning into it, her back arched so beautifully like some mathematical wonder.

Head tipped back, throat bared, and she’s trapped. Trapped underneath your weight, trapped in your hands, trapped against the wall with nowhere to go but further down your cock.

It only seems right. After all she’s put you through; the mind games, the seduction, the fucking audacity. You’ll give it right back. Fuck her as hard as she’s been fucking with you. Roughness as penance, finding forgiveness in the soaked and messy and now red and swollen recesses of her cunt.

Fingers drift higher, two past her plump lips, into her mouth. She bites down. You don’t even care anymore. Pulling harder on her hair, fixing her body to yours, and God, even like this, wrapping her up in your body, having her as close to you as possible, being as deep as you are in her. It’s not enough.

She chokes on your digits, collapsing. “Fuck. Too good. Fuck!”

Getting wetter and wetter, messier and messier, thank God you’re already in the shower.

Telling you these things with every whimper, with every twitch of her body, every squeeze of her cunt around your cock. Find out, is what you’re getting. Find out how good she is at being a slut. Where her limits are—how much she can take. Find out how quickly she can make you cum.

“You want this, don’t you?” Danielle reads your mind. Had your number since the beginning, figured you out before you knew. “You don’t need someone nice. Someone sweet, someone good for you. You need someone who’ll—fuck—push you to the edge and then—and then—fucking kick you off. Someone who’ll let you do the same to her.”

Yeah, you’re fucked. Never had someone lay it out so bluntly. So perfectly.

“Daddy wants to cum so bad,” Danielle’s being whiny, slutty, drooling down your fingers, because there’s nothing else she can do. Just taunt and tease and be fucked senselessly. Helpless to take it—harder, deeper—faster, faster, faster. “Daddy needs to fill his slut’s cunt, doesn’t he?”

“I will,” you growl into her ear, and the quivers around your cock are nothing short of rapturous.

It’s all coming to a head—the shower’s a steamy mess around you; water’s cold now, but Danielle’s getting even hotter around you. Can’t stop moving; don’t you dare give her a moment to catch her breath. Not when she’s this close. Not when you’re this fucking close.

Her nails dig into your arms, you’re leaving bruises on her hips. You know it. You can feel them. She’s thanking you for them.

And then a glimpse, the light hits the glass walls of the shower just right and you’re seeing it. Danielle, grace and elegance in a package so tight and wet and perfect and it's all going to hell. Your hand in her hair, the water running over your fingers, splashing onto her back, hitting the gorgeous, sweet pink of her well-spanked ass.

You’re just fucking her. Like it’s all you can do. Like it’s all she’s good for.

Eyes fastened shut. Mouth—beautiful, kissable lips frozen into an even circle, letting out these wails. Danielle’s perfect. So flawless it hurts to look at her. And you’re ruining it all. Dumping a bucket of paint on a priceless work of art, watching the colours run down the canvas.

“God, just—“ Danielle tries, but it takes several attempts until she can piece together the words she really wants you to hear, loud and clear: “Just fuck your cum deep into me. Daddy, I’ve earned it, haven’t I?”

You’re not sure what noise you make as a reply. It’s very likely not something nice.

“Please, please, Daddy,” Danielle’s pouting, and there’s the brat again. The girl that gets what she wants with just the jutting of her lower lip and a voice so sweet it’s undoubtedly terrible for your blood-sugar levels. Just pleading for you to let her bring all your filthiest fantasies to life—fuck her deeper, fill her with all the cum you have, spank her, pull her hair, choke her, even. Letting you know there’s no limit to what she’ll do just to have her cunt spilling out your cum. “It’s what I need right now. It’s my reward for being such a good girl. That’s what good girls get, right? Their Daddy’s cum?”

Christ, this is going to become a problem.

You can never go back.

Not to anything less than fucking to incoherence; to cumming as gratitude. To using someone so pretty, so God-damn lovely, the embodiment of everything wholesome and good in the world; with all the angelic hopes and dreams and aspirations, and reducing it to a simple dumpster for your cum.

To destroying someone with just your cock, and being thanked for the privilege.

“Fuck you, Dani,” you spit at her, and you mean it. “You’re too fucking perfect. Too good of a slut, too needy of a cocksleeve. I’ll give you everything. Fill you with it. Every tight, needy hole, paint every inch of your body. Fuck you against every single surface in this apartment. Fuck.”

“Good,” and it’s fucked up how she blushes, only seeing the praise, the compliments in your words. Yeah, she’ll be all those things, and then some. She’ll be every pornographic fantasy you can think of and then show you even more you could never imagine. She’ll make sure to drain you dry and then drill deep inside you to get out every last drop. “All of those things. Do all of those things. But now—just—cum!”

Your hips meet, you nearly fuck her off her feet.

She cums, or you do, or you both do, it all gets lost in this noise. A wave of sound that could wake the fucking dead—you’re not sure who jumps first, no point in trying to figure it out. Just a blur of sensation and release, crashing through your veins and you’re going to tear her in half, or she’s going to swallow you whole; it’s two and one and fuck.

You try to hold on—her hands around your neck and then your thigh, yours straight to her tits; more of her, you need more of her.

But your knees are buckling. Your breaths are haggard. You’re pushing her into the wall, her cheek is squished against the tile and she’s slurring things that get lost in the water like God, fuck, this is so perfect and if you were paying more attention you might catch it when she says it’s all I’ve ever wanted.

You do hear your name.

“Thank you, thank you, it’s so fucking good, just fucking thank you—”

She’s on her tiptoes when you feel the rush down her thighs, when her cunt makes its final effort around your cock, and it’s all coming out in whispers and prayers and unholy verbal contracts to never let this end.

Her body jerks, hips slamming back into you, and the wall's cold on her face, but it's the heat from your chest that’s all she needs to soothe her shivering; her chattering teeth repeating, "Fill me, fill me, fill me, Daddy!"

Fuck, you’ve lost count how many times now, but you’re spurting inside her. Unbearable pressure, blissful release. You can’t see the end of it, but you don’t want to escape—only sink into the feeling of her cunt around your cock, the gasps of her breath in your ear, the pleas and overtures for you to keep going. And you do, because this is now your heaven, and you’re feeling more religious by the second.

Shot after shot into her, feeling it fill her up, pool inside her pussy. She tells you it’s not enough, her cunt tries to milk every single drop out. You’re okay with that. You’ll give her everything you’ve got. Just to see her stumble out of this bathroom with your cum leaking out of her. Witness her waddling down the hall, globs of it dripping down her thighs. That’s the power play right there.

And somewhere in all this obscene debauchery, she says, “I love this,” and there’s a kiss that follows.

Suddenly tender; still sloppy, and yet—gentle. Softer than any of the bruises you’ve left on her skin.

Danielle’s still holding onto your neck, your fingers are glued to her tits, but for the first time you give her the space to breathe.

Her body relaxes, the fight leaves her legs and she’s just a ragdoll in your arms. And you hold her. Just hold her there, still inside her, cum leaking out of her and running down her thighs, mixing with the shower water and going down the drain.

And you’re unwilling to let her go, you might never, because maybe if you pull out, she’ll vanish. Maybe you’re dreaming. Maybe it’s all some sick, twisted, fucked up fantasy spurred by every thought she’s filled your head with over the past month.

But when you blink your eyes, she’s still there. Real and present and just as fucked up as you are. And she’s smiling.

You lean into her, catching your breath. Danielle’s panting too, happy to let you carry her weight, and so content. Back to being so smug. Another round of fucking might fix that.

“Told you we’d be perfect together.”

“You told me a lot of things.”

Danielle's lips meet the back of your hand. Your wrist, up your forearm. Says, “I also told you that I’d have you screaming my name so loud you wouldn’t be able to speak.”

"I said that."

"And yet here I am, voice still intact."

You roll your eyes, take a slow, careful step back. Your cock slips out, accompanied by a groan and a splash of cum hitting the floor between your feet. Danielle’s laughing, still shivering in your arms, body still quaking with aftershocks. You kiss her back, her neck, her shoulder, her ear.

Anything to keep her here.

Finally, the taps are turned off, and Danielle shifts in your arms. Cheeks flushed, eyes half-open, but undoubtedly—satisfied.

You manage a weak chuckle. “What now?”

Danielle takes you by the chin, plants a kiss on your lips and yeah, this feels right, this feels like providence, and this is going to last until the universe says otherwise, and even then. “Now?” She says, and another kiss, on your chin, on your cheek, down your chest and lower and lower and, “Now, I go back to your room, and you come with me, and we do this all over until we pass out.”

—

Again, there’s the kiss.

Only you’re both on your bed, and it’s peppered down the underside of your cock. Then her tongue's dragging along your shaft, staining it in her glossy saliva. Slow and languid. More occupied with enjoying her new favourite toy than your pleasure. It’s the simple things, you guess.

And as she’s doing it, she’s talking. Planning out the rest of your day, your lives, you realise, and you’re just nodding along like you’re listening, but all you’re hearing is the wet smack of her lips around your cock, her tongue lolling and swiping around the head.

You look down at her, and she’s smiling, so goddamn happy, your heart fucking splits in half.

She’s curled up against your thigh, and she kisses into your cock, "God, I could never get tired of this."

"Really?"

Danielle pulls away, a sad pout on her lips, and you realise you may have offended her. Repeats, with emphasis, "Your slut."

And it's funny how easily that assuages you. You probably should be worried. Maybe deal with the very likely outcome that this will not end well—reality tends to have complications that the simplicity of just lying in bed with an impossibly beautiful woman cannot anticipate.

Yet, it's okay to just believe for a second that things will be alright. It's okay to lean back into the pillows and let her have her way. Let her suck you until you're seeing stars, and then climb on top of you again and fuck you until you've forgotten how to function and you can't even see past your nose, let alone whatever comes the morning after.

"Of course, I'll remember that."

"And here I am doing my best to make you never forget, Daddy."

Only, one final, stupid, silly little question—"I never asked, how did you know the code to my apartment?"

Danielle laughs, letting your cock pop out from her lips, stifling her giggles against your thigh. "My sister's birthday. Got it first try."

"Ah," you answer, and then, "Fuck. Probably should get that changed."

"Definitely should get it changed," she answers, then tacking on, "Especially if I'm going to be spending more time here."

"Even more than you already are?"

Danielle just grabs her hair in her fist, loops it around and tightens it into a makeshift ponytail. Lifts her chin and looks up at you. Defiant. "Where else would I go?"

And for now, it'll have to be enough, because really, all you can think of, as she sinks her lips back down onto your cock, takes you deep into her throat, and her eyes start to water and you're already throbbing and ready to release, is that she's claimed total victory over you, and for that alone you'll let her have it all.

To the winner, goes the spoils.

Everything she wants, everything she needs.

With a gasp, Danielle lifts her head up; pre-cum, saliva, drool falling off her lips and grins so fucking adorably that you're already thinking of rushing towards words that she’ll never let you take back.

She reads it on your face, sees it take shape on your lips and stops you. Her hand reaches up to cover your mouth, her eyes wide and gleaming.

“At least let a girl earn it first.”

And so you let it rest, because right now you’re exactly where you should be—in your bed, nearly reduced to a puddle of basic needs, with Danielle in your sweatshirt with all her otherworldly beauty and loveliness straddled right on top of you.

Her mouth full of you, your heart full of her.

“Then don’t ever stop,” you tell her, knowing full well that she never had any dreams of slowing down. Your thumb pads her cheek. She leans into your touch. “Keep going, just like this.”

#kpop smut #Danielle smut #newjeans smut #njz smut #male reader

1K notes · View notes

weirdmageddon · 5 months ago

Text

i was thinking about this since i posted earlier about us needing to address the trend of gen z men being pulled into alt-right pipelines might have contributed to the outcome of this election.

i think contrapoints is really smart, and from what i’ve seen, has been way more effective at getting people out of harmful ideological pipelines than i’ve seen from the majority of leftists online who instead berate and drive a greater wedge of antipathy (though i understand why! and it can be very hard to have empathy for the people who see you as a threat). that antipathy makes the right more radicalized because they don’t feel like they can talk about anything without the “crazy lefties” who won’t even engage with them. where did these issues come from?

what i’ve noticed, and i’m even guilty of this, is that people don’t interact with groups of people whom they refuse talk to, which makes realities more hypothetical in the minds of their opponent since they aren’t open to seeing reality from their perspective. this is true on both sides. from what i’ve observed, it seems to originate from hypothetical perception of the opponent, but when people treat those perceptions as though they are real, it becomes real with their actions, which then makes the antipathy justified to someone. again, on both sides.

what makes contrapoints so successful at breaking this down is that is that she creates these socratic dialogue skits that represent real people and ideologies, has a sense of humor, isn’t afraid to discuss these things, reframes how we see these things by introducing nuance to both sides. she’s a leftist, but she also knows how to engage without ripening division, of meeting someone halfway and being completely humble about it. she is able to soften extremes.

she is able to get into the mind of people who aren’t aligned with her views, understand the nuance and rationales from a realistic perspective, breaking down a big block of “this is all bad” into “ok, some of this makes sense…”, what this does is create a space for self-reflection that doesn’t feel ham-fisted (which could otherwise cause people to double down on their beliefs instead of opening up to other perspectives outside of their bubble). while also being entertaining and well-produced on top of it.

youtube

what she is doing is creating these scenarios and socratic discussions that SHOULD be happening in real life but aren’t in this polarized social climate.

i graduated from new college of florida this spring, the small liberal arts college that was in headlines across the country for ron desantis’s board of trustees hostile takeover and exodus of professors.

new students and student athletes from conservative walks of life were being basically incentivized to go there who were taught to fear the lgbt boogeyman growing up in their conservative communities. but once they actually interacted with lgbt students there, many of them they felt like they understood them, and they weren’t as bad as they were told they would be. new college of florida was also famous for getting derek black (child of the man who created stormfront, and godchild of the kkk grand wizard david duke) out of white nationalism. their peers at NCF called them out but also interacted with them, invited them to dinner. black wrote a book about it.

now of course some people are too far gone and you shouldn’t waste your time with them, like derek’s family for example. but i also think a lot of people who voted for trump are not informed, are operating off of emotion and knee-jerk mentality because it’s easier than thinking, and they are not seeing the discussions that need to be had to change their mind because fuckin…nobody is doing them.

and we feel this visceral disgust to people of the opposing party because of its associations. i just want to know how it happened and how we got to be like this. i think social media is partly to blame and also the algorithms that take people down dangerous pipelines and sharpen them, insulate them.

i myself understand the vitriol you might have for anyone that voted for trump. i feel so disappointed that half the people of this country voted against our collective benefit. and i’ve seen a lot of sentiment from the left today saying “every single person who voted for trump is dead to me. i disowned you”.

you can see the reality of trump’s demagoguery, and it’s so obvious, but what i want to know is: what do they see? why did they vote for him? emotion and entertainment travel faster and have more reach than reason. and it’s that’s why i think contrapoints’s videos are exemplary at tackling this ideological divide. this is something i’ve been thinking about for months before today and i thought now was a better time than ever to give my two cents on it.

#us politics #mine

1K notes · View notes

sturnioz · 26 days ago

Text

─────── ꒰ THE FRAT WEDDING SERIES ꒱ SPECIAL.

the fake frat wedding event between shy!reader and fratboy!chris, written in fratboy!chris' perspective─a peek inside his mind.

tw. mentions of cocaine.

shy!reader's perspective. ╰› ꒰ part one ꒱ ꒰ part two ꒱ ꒰ part three ꒱ ꒰ part four ꒱

chris doesn't want to wake up, but the loud voices echoing through the frat house left him no choice, pulling him out of sleep and into a sour mood. he can hear some of his frat brothers leaving their rooms, slamming doors behind them and running down the stairs, their footsteps pounding against the floorboards.

it's enough to give chris a headache and make his jaw clench.

for a moment, he considers burying his head under his pillow, hoping to smother the noise. but now that he's awake—and extremely pissed off—there's no going back.

sleep isn't an option for him anymore.

grumbling under his breath, he forces himself out of bed, his muscles aching with stiffness from a restless night, and his body feels heavy as he shuffles toward his bathroom. he runs a hand through his tangled, messy hair, and he stares at his reflection in the mirror.

dark circles hang under his empty eyes, and his grouchy expression somehow looks even worse this morning. nightmares, he thinks. fucking nightmares.

he goes through his morning routine quickly, brushing his teeth and splashing cold water on his face in a half-hearted attempt to get rid of the grogginess. he opens the cabinet above the sink and grabs an orange pill bottle from the shelf, and with ease, he pops open the lid and shakes it until a single pill falls into his palm.

the sight of the nearly empty bottle makes him scowl, and he makes a mental note to ask matt to take him to the drugstore to stock up. but for now, he tosses the pill into his mouth and leans over the sink, drinking straight from the tap to wash it down.

chris leaves the bathroom and trudges out of his room, letting out a tired yawn as he heads downstairs. he threads his fingers lazily through his hair, rubbing at his face with a groggy sigh as the sound of frat brothers snickering in the living room irks his nerves.

he ignores them, making a beeline for the kitchen, but as he steps in, he stops abruptly. his gaze lands on you, and his tired eyes narrow slightly.

"didn't know you were comin' over," he grumbles tiredly, his attention shifting to the tupperware container in front of you, filled with veggies and cubes of chicken. "what? don't have food at your place? gotta be all greedy 'n eat ours?"

you glance up at him and respond softly, "nate made it for me," there's a pause in the conversation before you ask, "what event are you hosting this weekend?"

chris furrows his brows, your sudden question catching him off guard. "nothin'—we don't have one," he replies flatly, unbothered.

without hesitation, he reaches over you to steal a piece of chicken from the tupperware, popping it into his mouth and chewing lazily. he doesn't bother to say anything else as he turns away and heads for the fridge.

opening the door, he rummages through the shelves until he spots the juice bottle he shoved in the back the night before. he unscrews the cap and takes a few gulps, the cold drink refreshing him just enough to keep him functioning for now.

as he drinks, he hears you mutter something under your breath.

"but they're planning something in there..."

chris slowly turns to look at you over the juice bottle he's currently holding near his mouth, his brows knitting together like you've just said something utterly ridiculous. which, to him, you have.

planning something? the frat isn't hosting any big event this weekend, it's just a regular party—he's positive.

"the fuck you talkin' about?" he asks, his tone flat, his eyes hard as he stares at you. before you can answer, nate bursts into the kitchen, interrupting you both as he slings an arm around chris' bare shoulder.

chris stiffens at the unwanted contact, his irritation spiking as his glare sharpens, hardly biting back a harsh remark when nate grins and starts talking, wanting him to follow.

chris doesn't move at first, his jaw tightening as he shoots nate a withering look before he reluctantly trails behind, keeping a few steps behind you. but he stops in his tracks when the three of you step into the living room, his eyes sweeping over the room.

the frat brothers are all huddled together, grinning like idiots. he notices kitty and bee are here too, but he stays quiet, his tongue prodding against the inside of his cheek as he leans against the doorframe, watching everything unfold.

nate grabs a hate from the coffee table and shakes it in front of you, ordering you to pull out a folded piece of paper. chris' brows furrow, his annoyance growing even more when nate grabs a second hat and strides toward him, shaking it in front of his face to prompt him to pick next.

chris stares blankly before refusing, "no."

nate clicks his tongue against his teeth, clearly unimpressed with him, but chris doesn't care. he doesn't move, doesn't even say another word as nate turns to bee to ask her to pick from the hat instead.

his patience is wearing thin.

what the fuck is going on?

chris stays quiet as nate starts counting down, and his eyes flick to you as you begin to unfold your slip of paper, the confused look that spreads across your face making his brows furrow in suspicion.

he tilts his head slightly, trying to read your expression, and then he sees it—your name, scrawled across the paper messily as you hold it up for everyone to see.

his confusion deepens when bee unfolds her slip next, revealing his own name written across it. chris' gaze hardens, slowly shifting between the two slips of paper.

something feels off.

"congrats, bun 'n chris..." he hears nate say, his voice dripping with amusement. "you're gettin' married."

chris tenses up as the room erupts into laughter and hollers. his jaw locks, his eyes widen, and a strange, unbearable ringing fills his ears, drowning out the noise. his chest tightens as his head snaps toward matt, who's already looking at him. matt's expression is calm, almost reassuring, subtly telling him that it's okay and to calm down.

but chris isn't okay.

he's far from calm.

his eyes dart back to nate, and his glare sharpens into something deadly, his nostrils flaring. his clammy palms ball into tight fists at his side, his body rigid. he notices your lips are moving too, but he can't hear a fucking word you say.

it's like the world around him has muted itself, leaving only the thoughts racing in his mind at a hundred miles per second.

finally, something snaps into place, and he finds his voice.

“m’not gettin’ married.” he growls, his tone low but firm as his body coils in tight, ready to snap. “you’re out of your fuckin’ mind.”

“you’re actin’ as if this is real, bro,” a frat brother pipes up, his tone light and amused, which only makes chris’ anger simmer hotter. “s’all fun ‘n games. it's a chance to get fucked up. and it’s part of the rules... if you get picked to do somethin’…. you gotta do it.”

“especially when your name got picked out of a hat,” nate chimes in next, his grin widening across his face.

chris' heart thumps wildly in his chest, his pulse pounding as his head slowly swivels to look back at nate. his nostrils flare again, and he takes a step forward, his hand outstretched and tone demanding.

"let me see the hat."

nate’s grin doesn’t falter as he quickly pulls the hat away, holding it just out of chris’ reach, and chris' scowl deepens, his frustration bubbling dangerously close to the surface as he tries to grab it again.

the sound of the frat brothers’ laughter keeps ringing in his ears, making his face grow hot with anger. chris lunges for the hat again, but nate is too fast, keeping it just out of reach, and chris can feel the overwhelming heat of embarrassment and rage crawling up his neck.

something is up, chris thinks. something is wrong.

"let me see the hat," he snaps again, his voice harsh and commanding. but nate only laughs, shaking his head, his grin never faltering.

but before chris can snap completely, another frat brother calls out his name, reminding him that he needs to prep the stash for the party. that makes chris stop, and he pulls his focus away from everything around him as he exhales through his nose.

money is important, he reminds himself, his thoughts shifting abruptly. just focus on your money. forget this bullshit.

without another word, he turns on his heel, leaving the others behind as he heads toward his room. his hands still tremble faintly, his chest still tight, but he forces himself to push it all down.

one thing at a time.

the party’s coming, and he has work to do.

whether nate is playing some stupid game or not, chris doesn’t care—at least, that’s what he tells himself.

as he climbs the stairs, the ringing in his ears fades, replaced by the single thought that keeps him moving:

forget it.

just get through the weekend.

the weekend comes faster than chris expects, and now he's just a few hours away from fake marrying you for the sake of some stupid frat tradition. he doesn't understand why you and him were picked for this, and it pisses him off even more that no one considered matt and kitty—or nate and bee—actual couples who could've done this instead.

but no. it had to be him.

it always had to be him.

standing in front of the mirror in his bathroom, chris exhales sharply, his stress and annoyance already gnawing at him as his fingers fumble with his tie and the stiff collar of his suit, the fabric feeling foreign and suffocating against his neck.

the suit is an old one—something he bought for prom back in high school but never actually wore. he thought he'd trashed it years ago as he vividly remembers the moment he shoved it into the garbage back home.

apparently his mom had other plans.

she must've fished it out, washed it thoroughly, and stashed it away in case he 'needed it someday'. he didn't think he would fucking need it for some fake, stupid wedding.

yet, here he is.

chris exhales again, this time more forcefully, as he tries—and fails—to tie the damn fucking tie. every time he loops it, pulls it, or adjusts it, it comes undone—mocking him like everything else today.

he glares at his reflection, considering to just ditch the suit altogether. a sweatshirt and jeans would do just fine, even some of the other frat brothers aren't even bothering to dress up properly... so why should he?

a few of them are in hoodies, ripped jeans, denim shorts and even crop tops, while others are wearing suits with goofy props purely for some dramatic effect.

the only reason he hasn't ripped the tie off and thrown it across the room is because of the screen on his phone, propped up against a few cologne bottles on the sink, showcasing a series of texts from justin who gives him step-by-step instructions on how to tie the tie properly

chris' eyes flick down to the latest message, and he grits his teeth, following the instructions as best as he can. his fingers are trembling too much, his patience wearing thin, and his irritation only grows stronger with every failed attempt.

justin had to do this too, chris remembers that. he remembers him talking about it years ago—the same frat, the same stupid tradition. justin had to fake marry some sorority chick he was best friends with.

chris remembers seeing the photos. he remembers laughing back then at how silly it all looked. he remembers smiling back then at how justin managed to make it fun.

but chris isn't laughing now.

he isn't even smiling now.

chris glances back at his reflection, and the tie still isn't right—the knot slightly crooked—but fuck, he doesn't even care anymore. he's done. he grabs his phone, typing a quick reply to justin as he walks into his room, tossing the phone onto his bed as he runs his fingers through his hair.

he looks ridiculous. he feels ridiculous. and the worst part is, it's not even about the suit, or the tie. it's about him. it's about the whirlwind of emotions crashing through him right now: uncomfortable, stupid, humiliated, mocked.

it's emotions he hasn't felt in a long time—emotions he doesn't know how to handle anymore, not without cutting up a line or two, letting the burn numb his throat, and sinking into that blissful silence where his mind finally shuts the fuck up.

but now? there's no escape. the tie feels like it's suffocating him, the stiff fabric digging into his neck and he tugs at it, his fingers curling around the knot as if loosening it will somehow loosen the tightness in his chest.

why is this happening? why the fuck is this happening?

chris' mind spins as he glares at his reflection in the mirror that's in his room, his jaw tightening. did someone put his name in the hat more than once? nah. surely not. they wouldn't do that to him. they couldn't do that to him.

he bites down on the inside of his cheek, his thoughts racing. maybe it's just his shitty luck. he always has shitty luck—it's nothing new. that's not a surprise. but still, this feels different.

chris exhales sharply though his nose, a low growl of frustration rumbling in his throat as his reflection stares back at him, mocking him again.

he feels like a joke.

chris yanks at his tie again, loosening it even more so it hangs around his neck. he doesn't care anymore. he doesn't even know why he's still wearing the fucking thing.

he stares at himself for another moment, his teeth gritted, his hands twitching at his sides. maybe it is the tie, he tries telling himself. maybe it is the suit... maybe it's the fact that no matter how much he tries to act like he doesn't give a fuck, he does.

too much.

and that sets him off.

his movements are sharp—almost frantic—as he pulls open his drawers and grabs a worn metal tin box covered in peeling stickers, his fingers fumbling as he thumbs it open, revealing his stash inside.

he rifles through it quickly, pocketing a few baggies for later, but his focus is locked on one thing—the white powder-filled baggie sitting at the bottom.

he pours some of the powder onto the surface of his dresser before he grabs his wallet and pulls out a credit card, the edge of the card scraping against the wood as he works quickly, cutting the powder into one precise, clean line.

without thinking, without even hesitating, he plugs one nostril and leans down, inhaling sharply.

the burn hits immediately, sharp and familiar as it shoots up his nose. chris tilts his head back with a quiet groan as the grainy sensation settles in the back of his throat. it's not pleasant—not really—but that doesn't matter. what matters it the lump that forms, sliding down his throat.

that's it. that's the deal sealed.

he stays like that for a second, his head tilted back, his chest rising and falling as the feeling starts working its way through him slowly. his pulse picks up, his mind clouds over, and the tension in his shoulders begins to release.

he's fine now.

he runs a hand down his face, exhaling a long, shaky breath. his reflection stares back at him, but this time, it feels more distant—less suffocating. the suit still looks ridiculous, the tie still hangs crooked around his neck, but it doesn’t matter because he's fine.

he keeps telling himself that as he grabs the tin box, shoving it back into the drawer and slamming it shut.

it’s fine.

everything is fine.

he’s fine.

chris doesn't know how long it's been since the event started. he's spent most of his time surrounded by familiar faces, collecting money as he sells his stash into hands of other frat brothers and partygoers.

he's joined in a few conversations here and there, humouring people with idle smirks and half-hearted chuckles. most of the time though, he's rolling his eyes at the outfits people are wearing at the party: fancy suits and dresses are mixed in with mishap clothing, and some are even wearing costumes.

at one point, he spots a frat brother waddling around the decorated garden in a hot dog costume.

and then he saw nick.

for a moment, chris thinks the coke has finally fried his brain when he sees his brother standing near in a snazzy suit and a camera draped around his neck.

nick—who practically refuses to set foot in the frat house, who's turned down every invite to events—is here. chris almost does a double take, blinking hard like nick might vanish if he looks away.

but no, it was really him.

he's spoken with both nick and matt now. they had found him earlier, hanging around the edge of the crowd and stayed long enough to exchange a few words. nick had seemed ecstatic, tossing out a couple of jokes while matt stood nearby, arms crossed, taking it all in with that quiet, observant look on his face as he watches chris.

they both pretty much told him the same thing: just enjoy the night. relax for once.

relax.

chris scoffed at the advice, and matt even tried fixing his crooked tie, but chris flicked his hand away with a sharp; "fuck off, man. m'fine." nick didn't even bother trying—just gave him one of those knowing looks before walking off to do whatever.

now they're both gone.

matt's probably off somewhere with kitty, and nick? nick's likely tracking you down. he's always had a soft spot for you, chris knows that much. but nick and matt being gone means chris is back to being surrounded by other people—people who don't really matter to him, people whose faces blur together as the night drags on.

chris hasn't spoken to you yet, though he's seen you around. he catches glimpses of you standing on the sidelines, keeping to yourself in that white babydoll dress. you look small, fragile, watching everything around you like a deer caught in headlights.

his gaze lingers on you longer than he means to, but tears it away once nate and nick have accompanied you. part of chris wonders what you're thinking, if you hate this as much as he does, if you want to leave as much as he does.

he will never ask though, he doesn't even know if he wants to.

but for now, he'll keep his distance—until the time comes.

and fuck, that time comes fast as the night drags on.

he doesn't bother excusing himself from the people he's been in conversation with for the past hour. he just pushes through the crowd, shoving his way toward you—who, of course, is now surrounded by all your shared friends and brothers.

"can we get this shit over with?" he snaps immediately asks as he stands next to you, his fingers tugging at his tie again, feeling like it's constricting his throat despite it already hanging loose.

no one responds, which doesn't surprise him. then he hears you hum something—soft and unsure—and it makes something in him snap again.

"m'serious. lets get this shit over with before i fuckin' lose it."

that seems to work, because you're nodding your head to agree with him, and the group finally starts moving. nate, of course, can't resist making a joking remark, but chris shoots him a glare so sharp it shuts him up.

the group walks toward the makeshift ceremony setup, and the others scatter to find their seats—and odd collections of mismatched chairs, bar stools, bean bags, whatever.

chris makes his way to the altar and scoffs, his lip pulling into a grimace as he sees the empty beer cans, red solo cups, and... is that toilet paper? draped across in a half-assed attempt.

he stands stiffly at the altar, refusing to look at you when two frat brothers walk you down the makeshift aisle. he doesn't look up when he catches glimpses of phones aimed at you both either, recording everything.

the sound of drunken giggling, laughter, and hushed whispers fills his ears, and it makes his skin crawl.

chris barely pays attention to the frat brother playing the role of the officiant, slurring his way through a speech filled with jokes that make the crowd howl with laughter. but chris isn't laughing. neither are you.

this is uncomfortable.

when it's time for the 'vows', chris feels his stomach twist, and his grits his teeth, already dreading what's coming as the frat brother coaxes you into speaking first.

you take it seriously. too seriously for him to handle.

you talk about being there for him, about being his friend when he needs one. you even try to sprinkle in little jokes of your own—soft, harmless ones that are meant to make the crowd laugh. and they do. they laugh again and again and again.

chris feels mocked.

his jaw tightens, his shoulders stiffening up as he stares at nick and matt in the crowd. they're giving him small smiles, subtly nods, reassuring glances, but the laughter from everyone else feels sharp, cutting through him like needles.

he hates it. he feels stupid. he feels humiliated. he feels awful.

why are you doing this? why are you talking about him like that? are you trying to make them laugh at him?

his blood boils, coke pulsing through his veins, making his thoughts race in angry erratic loops: this is on purpose, this is on purpose, this is on—

"bun," he speaks when it's his turn, his tone dripping with sarcasm as his jaw clenches tight. he has to fix this. he has to take everyone's attention away from the humiliation clawing at him. he can feel the heat rising in his chest, the anger bubbling under his skin.

relax. make it funny. disract them.

"i vow to keep uh... keep fuckin' you. keep makin' you scream my name."

the reaction is immediate.

the crowd erupts into cheers, hollering and howling with laughter so loud it drowns out every other thought in his head. the weight on his chest feels lighter now, the suffocating embarrassment replaced by a familiar rush of control.

chris doesn't stop there.

he rolls his shoulders back, loosening up as he keeps going, each word filthier and more explicit than the last. he talks about everything—every little thing that's obvious about your situationship, every detail that will make the crowd laugh harder and louder.

and it works.

it works because now they're laughing with him instead of at him.

chris finally finishes his speech, and he exhales slowly, finally able to relax—or at least pretend to—as the noise washes over him.

the frat brother officiant stumbles through some more slurred words, something chris doesn't even bother trying to comprehend. he feels the cold glass of a vodka bottle shoved into his clammy hands, nearly fumbling it, and the movement of a plastic tiara being placed on your head catches his eye.

he glances at you briefly. just for a second—and then you're moving.

you're pushing through the crowd as they stagger up to the altar. you're moving fast—too fast—you don't stop, and you don't look back. you're gone so quick that you're nothing but a blur in chris' vision.

chris doesn't focus on it too much. he doesn't let himself focus on it as he's too overwhelmed by the crowd swarming him now, their laughter and slurred congratulations for this fake bullshit.

hands reach out to pat his back, to clap him on the shoulder, to ruffle his hair... chris hates it.

the noise, the touches, the smiles—all of it. it's suffocating. he decides to shove his way through the crowd, muttering for everyone to 'get the fuck off him' as they try to stumble into his way.

he doesn't want them right now.

what he wants are his brothers.

chris' eyes scan around, searching for matt and nick. they've always been his anchor, the only ones who can ground him when he feels like this—overwhelmed, irritated, and on the verge of losing his shit.

but they're not here.

he spots them moving away, slipping through the garden in a hurry and heading toward the frat house. they don't even glance in his direction, and that makes chris falter, his steps slowing as his eyebrows knit together.

why aren't they coming to him?

it's close to the end of the event when matt and nick finally bother to show up, but chris doesn't even look at them: not when matt pulls out one of the garden chairs to sit beside him, not when nick plants himself directly in front of him, tapping his foot against the ground.

chris sits slouched in his own chair, a joint dangling between his fingers, the other hand flipping through a wad of cash from the stash he sold tonight.

they money keeps him focus, gives him something to do—or at least something to stop that feeling that's been sitting in his chest all night.

"are you serious, chris?" nick's voice cuts through the silence, unable to control himself. "like, are you fucking dumb?"

"what?" chris murmurs disinterestedly, still counting the rest of the money before rolling it up neatly and pocketing it. only then does he glance up at nick through the haze of smoke, taking a slow drag from his joint, exhaling a cloud in his brother's direction.

"think you took it too far, man," matt speaks up, his tone quieter, a sigh slipping through his words as he rolls his tongue across his teeth. "bun's really—"

"think?" nick cuts him off, his voice rising slightly. "you think he took it too far? he did take it too far. why would you even say something like that during the vows, chris? all that shit about bun—"

"dude, keep your voice down," matt hisses, nudging nick's calf with his shoe. his eyes flick toward the last partygoers that stumble across the lawn, planning to call ubers or to walk in groups back to wherever they're staying. "nick's got a point, though. that shit you said about bun—"

"what about me?"

chris' voice cuts through the air, sharp and loud enough to silence the both of them as he looks between his brothers, his shoulders stiff and squared as those familiar but disgusting wave of emotions slowly start returning.

"what.. what about me?" he repeats, his tone faltering just a little which makes him grimace, and he takes another hit of his joint, hoping to calm himself down.

matt and nick exchange glances, but neither of them say anything, and that makes chris shift uncomfortably in his seat. he hunches forward, pressing his elbows into his knees to keep him grounded.

"you don't..." he starts, but the words catch in his throat. he scowls and looks away from both of them, exhaling another cloud of smoke. "didn't even fuckin' bother earlier. just left me—didn't even fuckin' look at me."

his voice cracks slightly at the end, and it pisses him off more than anything. he clenches his jaw, grinding his teeth as he stares at the ground, refusing to meet their eyes.

matt lets out a deep sigh as he leans back in his chair, rubbing at his jaw. "it wasn't like that, kid. we weren't—"

"don't wanna wear it," chris mutters bitterly, cutting matt off mid-sentence. his leg bounces restlessly now, unable to hold it down with his elbow, but it only makes the movement more erratic, jostling up and down as if it has a mind of its own. "do... do you even know how..."

his voice falters, trailing off as he struggles to get his words out once again. his jaw tightens, and he bites down hard on the inside of his cheek. his free hand twitches, fingers curling and uncurling like he's fighting to keep control.

"i... i'm uncomfortable."

that seems to grab nick and matt's attention instantly, and they both exchange a glance, their eyes wide with surprise. neither of them expected those to be the next words coming out of his mouth—especially not out here in the open.

"okay..." matt hums softly, his tone measured and careful now, like he's trying not to spook a wild animal. "what made you feel uncomfortable?"

chris can't help but scoff, his walls slowly starting to rise again, brick by brick. he prods his tongue against the inside of his cheek, "this stupid fuckin' event. i don't... don't—fuck."

abruptly, chris shoves himself out of the chair, standing tall. he drags his fingers through his tousled hair before rubbing his face with both hands, his shoulders tense and hunched.

he doesn't even notice—or care—that his joint has slipped from his fingers, now lying forgotten in the grass beneath his shoes.

matt stays seated, his worried gaze fixed on chris like he's trying to figure out how to help like he always does. nick, on the other hand, hesitates for a moment before reaching out a hand, intending to place it on chris' shoulder.

chris steps away before nick can touch him, his movements quick, creating space between them both.

he doesn't want to be touched.

not now.

"i... i understand frat traditions, 'kay? i get it. m'not stupid," chris starts again, his voice rough, his words tumbling out as his mouth feels dry and his tongue heavy. "if you get picked, you gotta do whatever bullshit is goin' on. i know how it works. but—but this...? s'fucked up. i should've been allowed to say no—you should've said somethin'..."

his eyes dart between nick and matt, but the silence they give him only makes the air feeling heavier. chris takes a shaky breath, trying not to focus too hard on the way they're staring at him—like they're waiting for him to crack.

"but nah," he continues, his voice bitter. "i had to get picked. my—my luck had to fuck me over, right? only pull my name out of a stupid fuckin' hat."

chris doesn't notice the guilty looks that nick and matt wear, their eyes flicking toward each other like they're silently deciding who should speak first. his mind is too loud, too chaotic to really paying attention to anything as he fumbles for his pockets, his hands desperate for something to ground him again.

but when his fingers come up empty, the realisation hits him like a punch to the gut.

he's out.

he sold the last bag.

fuck.

"hey," nick finally speaks up, his voice soft but strained, like he's bracing himself for some sort of impact. he scratches the back of his neck, his discomfort clear as he shifts awkwardly on his feet. "we... we need to tell you something about the hat—"

"i don't wanna hear it," chris interrupts, cutting him off with the same words he'd thrown at them earlier. he doesn't want to talk anymore. he's done. he's already too angry, too annoyed, his emotions are haywire.

he needs to go.

without another word, chris turns on his heel and stalks off, not bothering to tell nick goodbye or to tell matt he'll see him back at the frat. he doesn't owe them that—not right now.

his hands twitch at his sides as he pushes through the cluster of frat bothers still lingering around the entrance, his eyes staying locked on the ground with his jaw clenched so tight that it physically hurts him.

some of the guys call out his name—trying to talk or whatever else—but chris doesn't care. he doesn't even look back. he just keeps walking, keeps shoving past everyone until he's inside and climbing the stairs step by step.

all he wants is to lock himself in his room, strip off his suffocating clothing and crash. he doesn't want to deal with anyone's bullshit—not tonight.

but when he opens the door to his room, he stops.

you're standing at his dresser, your back to him, pulling out a shirt like it's the most normal thing in the world. (it is, but he's too far gone from the cocaine and his emotions). you're quiet, focused, not even sparing him a glance—just like matt and nick.

and chris can't help it.

he snaps.

"what is it?" chris barks, his eyebrows furrowing as he yanks the tie around his neck as you glance at him over your shoulder. but you still don't say anything, still so quiet. "huh? what is it?"

"what are you—"

"you've been weird with me all night, kid," he cuts you off sharply, managing to get that fucking tie off his neck before he hurls it onto the unmade bed. "think i didn't notice you pullin' some runaway bride bullshit?"

"you're not funny," you mutter under your breath, voice barely audible, but he hears it, and he scoffs.

"m'not tryin' to be," he shoots back, fingers moving to unbutton his shirt, feeling his heart thud heavily in his chest beneath his fingertips. chris is still on edge, his emotions running wild from everything that's happened. "you gonna tell me what the fuck is goin' on? or you just gonna keep sulkin' all night?"

chris watches as you turn slowly to face him, and for a moment, he actually tries to read your expression, to figure out why you've been acting so off—why you ran away earlier. but all he sees is that kicked puppy look on your face when you're upset.

it makes him want to scowl.

"you really don't know?"

chris pushes back immediately. "know what?"

"forget it."

he watches in disbelief as you turn your back to him, and his heartbeat grows louder, drumming in his ears as his frustration threatens to boil over completely.

maybe it's the coke he did earlier still swimming around in his system—or maybe it's something else entirely—but chris doesn't have it in him to just let it go. not right now.

he wants to fucking know.

"nah, don't pull that shit," he says as he shakes his head, his tone a lot sharper than it was before. "if you've got a problem, just fuckin' say it."

"okay," you snap at him, and chris deadpans at you, not expecting you to sound like that. "you... you humiliated me, chris. in front of everyone, you made me look like—like some joke... i—i get it, okay? this whole thing was supposed to be stupid and fun, and i know you hated doing it, but you didn't have to say all that stuff... you didn't have to make it so public and so embarrassing for me. it wasn't funny. it just... it made me feel awful."

chris blinks, catching one word quick.

humiliated.

he hears it loud and clear at first, but the other words start to sink in too, one by one, drawing his attention instead. the things he said about the two of you hooking up... that's why you're being weird? because of something so blatantly obvious to everyone around them both?

chris wants to laugh. he genuinely wants to laugh at how ridiculous this all sounds to him, but he doesn't. he exhales through his nose instead, keeping himself steady.

"you're takin' this way too personally, kid. everyone knows the fuckin' shit we do, yeah? everyone knows we're hooking up so i dunno why you're makin' it such a big deal," he ends up saying instead, unapologetic. because it's true. "it's not that deep."

"you don't get it. i.. i know that people know. i'm not stupid. but it doesn't mean—you can't just—we—" he hears you take a big breathe in between your rambling speech. "you can't just talk about me like that in front of everyone... even if they already know, even if they assume stuff.. it's still humiliating to hear you say it in front of them."

there's that word again.

humiliating.

chris doesn't know why, but this time the word definitely sticks. it claws its way into his chest, pressing down on his ribs until it gets harder to breathe.

humiliated.

you were humiliated.

just like him.

the realisation hits him harder than he expects, and he doesn't know what the fuck to say. it's not like chris to feel guilty or hurt anymore—but the weight of that ten-letter word doesn't loosen its grip. it stays with him, pushing and pulling at his chest, making him feel so raw and exposed in a way he doesn't know how to handle.

he doesn't say anything. he just looks at you, his hands still at the half-unbuttoned shirt on his chest, the silence stretching between you both.

and for once, chris doesn't know what to do.

he takes a long moment to collect himself, his thoughts racing too fast for him to catch. he tilts his head back slightly, as if the angle might somehow help oxygen flow back into his lungs a little easier.

he doesn't want to do this.

but he has to.

he has to.

he knows how it feels.

he has to.

"i.." he starts, but the words stick in his throat, foreign and heavy. he feels nauseous, his stomach twisting into tight knots, but he forces himself to continue. "i'm... i'm sorry, 'kay?"

the apology feels clumsy and awkward on his tongue—like it doesn't belong there. he notices the silence that follows, and it makes his skin crawl as he slowly glances at you, his eyes meeting yours for just a second before flicking away again.

he feels awkward. he feels exposed.

he feels humiliated.

that fucking word—that feeling—he hates it.

"i didn't mean..." he trails off, shoulders tensing up as the words catch again. he swallows hard, the lump in his throat almost choking him. "didn't mean t'make you embarrassed, s'all."

he can't bring himself to say that other word. he can't even think it without his chest feeling tight.

and he can't even look at you either, his gaze staying locked on the wall. he feels so fucking uncomfortable, like he's crawling out of his own skin. this isn't him—this hasn't been him in a long time.

"thank you for apologising..."

your voice is soft, but he doesn't response. he can't. the idea of answering—of dragging on this moment any further, makes his chest ache and stomach twist even more. instead, a strangled noise escapes his throat, low and guttural, and he turns away from you.

his back is to you now, his trembling fingers fumbling with the buttons on his shirt. he finally gets it off, tossing the fabric carelessly onto the chair in his room. he moves to his belt next, desperate to free himself from the stuffy clothing that clings to him like second skin.

when he's stripped down to just his boxers, he slumps into his bed without another word. his body feels heavy and drained, but his mind is still plainfully active: thoughts swirling and crashing into each other.

he bures his face into the pillow, trying to block it all out and to stop that fucking nauseating feeling—he wants to forget.

humiliation.

that word claws at him, refusing to let go.

he wish it never existed.

divider credits. @issysh3ll

#©sturnioz #☆ fratboy!chris #☆ shy!reader #꒰ fratboy!chris x shy!reader prompt ꒱

517 notes · View notes

pucksandpower · 2 years ago

Note

hiii! with the chaos that was today’s career, could I request one with driver reader that she started telling her team that she wasn’t feeling good but still wanted to continue but the next moment she isn’t answering her radio because she fainted in the car and the car goes out, the marshals take her out of the car and she doesn’t wake up, maybe she has extreme dehydration and is hot to touch, etc.

How the other drivers react when they found out, her team, etc.

Thank you

Too Hot To Handle

Max Verstappen x Red Bull driver!Reader

Summary: the Qatar Grand Prix pushed every driver to the limit … and some past the limit

Warnings: heat stroke, dehydration, crash, medical conditions

The Lusail International Circuit hums with electric anticipation, its asphalt ribbon shimmering under the floodlights. The roar of the crowd fills the night but the oppressive heat weighs on everyone, creating a contrasting atmosphere of excitement and cautious apprehension.

Standing alongside your Red Bull Racing car, you wipe a bead of sweat from your brow. In only your first year with the reigning double champions, you already have a record that has quickly become the talk of the paddock. But for all the praise and whispers, there is one voice that stands out.

“Remember, liefje, it’s not just about speed tonight. Keep hydrated, alright?” Max’s voice is full of warmth and concern. His hand rests gently on your arm.

You flash him a confident smile even though you’re battling your nerves internally. “I’ve raced in heat before, Maxie. I won in Singapore. I’ll be fine.”

He pulls you into a quick embrace, the temperature doing little to dampen the spark between you. “It’s different here. This heat ... it’s like nothing I’ve ever raced in before.”

Pulling back, you raise an eyebrow teasingly. “You worried about me, Verstappen?”

He laughs but there’s a hint of steely seriousness in his blue eyes. “Always. Just ... promise me you’ll be careful out there. For both our sakes.”

You nod, touching your helmet to his. “Promise.”

The intercom in your ear crackles to life. “Drivers, to your cars!”

You both exchange a final glance. Racing is in your blood, it’s what brought you together, but it also keeps you apart, if only for the few hours you’re no longer partners in life but competitors on track.

Sliding into your car, you secure your helmet and gloves. The world outside becomes a bit muffled but your focus sharpens. The engine’s purr is a familiar comfort, but tonight, it’s edged with the unease Max’s words left behind.

Your race engineer, Hugh Bird, checks in over the radio, “Everything good, Y/N?”

You take a deep breath, “As good as it’ll ever be. Let’s light up this track.”

“Give them a show.”

Lights out and away we go.

***

The Qatar Grand Prix unfolds with its usual mix of intensity and skill, drivers navigating tight turns and overtaking with precision. But beneath the spectacle, a subtle tension mounts. The oppressive heat, the stark floodlights, and the weight of expectation — all of it seems to be building to something.

In the garage and on the pit wall, your team closely monitors the race and your performance. Hugh occasionally chimes in with updates, “You’re doing great, Y/N. Remember to hydrate whenever you need to.”

You nod even though he can’t see it, “Understood. The heat’s something else in here.”

A pause. Then, “Just keep stead. And Max told GP to tell me to tell you to remember what he said.”

A smile touches your lips, “I always do.”

***

The track is a blur as you push your car to its limits, feeling the adrenaline surge in tandem with the roar of the engines. It’s as if the heat has seeped into your very core, burning with intensity. Each lap feels slightly longer, every turn a tad sharper, as the humid air takes its toll.

“Y/N,” Hugh radioes through, sounding distant and slightly distorted by the pounding in your head, “you’re P2. Great pace. Remember to sip some water.”

A trickle of sweat runs down the side of your face, stinging your eye. Blinking rapidly, you reach for the button that activates your hydration system.

“Got it,” your voice sounds foreign even to your own ears. The water is lukewarm and tastes metallic, not as refreshing as you had hoped.

“Just keep doing what you’re doing,” he urges.

With every lap, the world outside your visor seems to grow brighter, the floodlights shimmering like mirages in a desert. The race has become a battle, not just against other drivers but against the environment and, increasingly, against yourself.

“You’re dropping pace. Is everything alright?” Hugh’s concerned voice crackles through.

A knot tightens in your stomach. “I don’t know. I ...” You trail off, the words catching in your throat as a wave of overwhelming dizziness hits.

You can hear the alarm in your engineer’s voice becoming more pronounced. “Y/N, talk to me. Do we need to pit?”

The heat wraps around you, constricting, making it difficult to breathe. Your hands, slick with sweat, struggle to grip the wheel even through your gloves. “Guys ... I don’t ... feel ...” The world spins and your words falters.

“Y/N? Y/N, talk to me!”

But before you can respond, before you can even finish your sentence, the world tilts and blurs into an incomprehensible whirlwind. The sweltering heat, the relentless pursuit of victory, and the weight of expectation converge into a maelstrom that engulfs you entirely.

Your hands, once deftly steering the RB19, now hang limply by your sides. The car veers off the track, careening towards the barriers. Panic rises in you but it’s too late. Your body refuses to act.

The deafening sound of metal against metal fills your ears, followed by the nauseating sensation of impact. The world outside your cockpit twists and spins, a kaleidoscope of colors and chaos. Then, abruptly, it all goes dark.

In the garage, your team watches in horror as the monitors show the violent crash. The radio falls silent, the connection severed. In that heartbeat, the world goes eerily quiet, punctuated only by the distant echoes of screeching tires and the blaring alarms.

Moments pass like hours and finally the static on the radio clears, replaced by your frantic race engineer, “—please respond. Y/N? Are you okay?”

But there’s no response. Your world remains shrouded in darkness as the circuit comes to a standstill, gripped by an eerie silence that drowns out even the most deafening of cheers.

The track is plunged into chaos. Red flags wave fervently, signaling danger. Marshals rush towards your wrecked car, their fluorescent jackets contrasting brightly against the night.

“Get her out! Get her out!” One of the marshals shouts as they reach your car. Your limp form is carefully extracted and they begin immediate first aid. The severity of the situation is clear — the heat, the dehydration, it’s all taken its toll.

The crowd watches, a collective gasp filling the air soon replaced by a thick, heavy silence. As your unconscious form is stretchered away, the weight of all those warnings crashes down.

Back on the pit wall, four words whispered into the radio are the first of many about to turn your boyfriend’s world upside down.

“Safety car, safety car.”

***

“Max, we’re pitting this lap. Box, box,” the calm, steady voice of Gianpiero Lambiase, Max’s race engineer, instructs over the radio.

Max’s voice is curt, his mind still on the race. “Why? Tires feel fine.”

“Non-negotiable. Safety car is out. We need you to pit now.”

The urgency in GP’s voice is not lost on Max and he immediately senses that something is wrong. “What happened? Why is there a safety car?”

Silence follows for a heartbeat too long. “There was an incident. Just focus on your race.”

An icy dread seeps into Max’s bones. The circuit is massive yet his world feels terribly small at this moment. “Who was it? Who crashed?”

His engineer hesitates, and in that pause, the weight of a thousand possibilities presses on Max.

“Who. Was. It?”

GP wavers, “It’s … Y/N.”

Max’s breathing becomes ragged. Panic and fear flood his system. “Why the hell wasn’t I told immediately?”

“It was team orders. The decision was made to keep you focused on the race.”

Max laughs but it lacks any humor. “Team orders? You’re saying Christian decided not to tell me that Y/N ... my Y/N is hurt?”

“Yes,” the reply is uncharacteristically soft, “It was believed to be in everyone’s best interest for you to be fully focused on the race.”

Max has never felt such white-hot rage. He spits into the radio, seething with fury and pain. “You tell Christian that if he ever makes a decision like that again about someone I love, I’ll cut his balls off with a rusty spoon.”

“Max, I understand you’re upset. But right now, we need you to stay focused.”

Stay focused? When the love of his life is in potential danger? The weight of what that means presses down, threatening to crush him. “I need to see her,” he finally rasps out, voice breaking.

The plea hangs in the air, met by another long silence. Finally, the radio clicks on again, softer than ever. “Y/N would want you to finish. You know that. Win this for her.”

Tears blur Max’s vision, mixing with the sweat already pooling in his helmet, but he nods, a silent assent. The roaring engine now sounds distant, the glinting lights a backdrop to the storm that rages within him. Every second is an eternity, every turn a test of his resolve to keep racing. But Max drives on, pushing his limits for you.

Every fiber of his being silently screams your name, a prayer or a promise or both, Max doesn’t know. All he knows is that the faster he crosses the finish line, the sooner he can be with you.

For the world watching, the race continues, cars whizzing by. But for Max Verstappen, each lap, each second, is a race against his own heart, torn between duty and desperate love.

***

“Her pulse is erratic! Get the defibrillator ready!” A medic shouts as the emergency team frantically works around you, the ambulance parked haphazardly nearby.

Another voice, calmer but filled with urgency, counters, “Wait, give her a moment. She might come around.”

“Come on, Y/N,” A young medic mutters, pressing an oxygen mask to your face. “Don’t do this.”

The ambulance door opens again, the head medic speaking into a radio, “We need an airlift, now. The situation’s deteriorating rapidly.”

Another voice, muffled, replies, “The helicopter’s on its way! Clear the area.”

As the medics continue to administer aid, working desperately to stabilize you, the chief medic tries to maintain order, “Every second counts. This heat stroke is severe, coupled with dehydration ... it’s a nightmare scenario.”

“We should have had more cooling stations,” the younger medic mutters. “The humidity coupled with the heat ... it’s brutal tonight. And we’re not even the ones out there driving.”

The older medic takes a deep breath. “That is on the organizations. We can’t fix there mistakes but we can focus on what happening now and do everything we can to get her through this.”

The thrum of helicopter blades soon overwhelms the noise of the circuit, growing louder as it approaches. Soon, the bright light from its landing spotlight punctuates the night. “The helicopter’s here!” Someone shouts.

“Alright, team, on three,” the chief medic commands. They work in perfect sync, lifting you carefully but quickly, your body still unresponsive.

As they approach the helicopter, the pilot shouts over the roar, “We’ve got the best onboard. She’s in good hands.”

“She’s one of our best,” the younger medic shouts back. “She has to be okay.”

The chief medic, securing you inside, murmurs more to himself than anyone else, “Come on, Y/N. The race isn’t over. Keep fighting.”

***

“You expect me to smile and stand on that podium knowing she’s been airlifted to a hospital?” Max’s voice trembles with rage as he confronts the FIA officials blocking his way.

“Mr. Verstappen, there are rules, procedures,” an official replies stiffly.

“Rules? Y/N might be fighting for her life right now and you want to talk to me about rules?” Max’s hands clench and unclench as he physically holds himself back from throwing a punch.

Another official steps forward, trying to mediate, “Max, we understand your feelings but millions of viewers are watching. The podium is an essential part of the race.”

Max’s eyes flash with anger. “You think I care about a trophy when my girlfriend is in a hospital? Do you really think that piece of metal means anything to me right now?”

“We sympathize— ” the first official begins but is cut off by Max’s heated response.

“You sympathize? Do you even know what that word means?” He’s on the verge of breaking, voice barely above a whisper as he continues, “She is everything to me. Everything. And you want me to smile and wave for the cameras?”

The air grows thick with tension. The two drivers from McLaren waiting for their cue to go to the podium are silent, their eyes darting between Max and the officials.

A new voice interjects , “Let him go.”

It’s Lewis Hamilton, who despite DNFing early in the race, made his way across the paddock after seeing the distress on his rival’s face. “There are things more important than a ceremony.”

The officials exchange glances, clearly not expecting this intervention. But before they can reply, Max levels them with a final scathing look. “Fine me if you must! Penalize me! Suspend me for all I care! But I am going to her.”

And off he goes.

***

A nurse at the desk recognizes Max immediately when he runs into the hospital. “Mr. Verstappen,” she begins hesitantly, “Miss Y/L/N is in the ICU. Room 302.”

He doesn’t need any further prompting to sprint down the hall. Reaching the room, he stops dead in his tracks. You’re there, surrounded by machines that beep and whirr, tubes running to and from you, an oxygen mask on your face. The sight of you, once so full of life, now frail and vulnerable, breaks him.

His voice, when he finally managed to finds it, is a choked whisper, “Y/N ...”

Approaching the bedside, Max gently takes your hand, feeling its clamminess. “Hey, liefje ... it’s me,” he murmurs, pressing a tender kiss to your knuckles. His tears fall freely, wetting the back of your hand.

“Come on, love,” his voice cracks as he continues, “You’ve got to pull through this. For us.”

He brushes a strand of hair from your face, tracing the familiar curves and lines he’s come to adore. “Remember that time in Monaco? When we snuck out for that secret dinner that our trainers would have killed us for? We promised each other forever that night. You can’t leave me now. Not when we’ve got so many more memories left to make.”

The room’s silence is punctuated only by the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor in a cruel reminder of the fragility of the moment.

“I love you so much,” he murmurs. “Please ... please come back to me.”

Leaning in, he rests his forehead against yours, allowing the weight of his anguish, love, and hope to flow between the two of you in the sterile room.

***

Nothing has changed. The steady beep of the heart monitor still punctuates the silence of the hospital room. Max sits vigilantly at your bedside, his hand gently clasping yours.

It’s been three days since the crash and you still have not woken up. The doctors say your condition is stable but uncertain.

Max leans in close and presses a kiss to your forehead. “Morning, liefje. I’m still here. Not going anywhere.”

He brushes a strand of hair from your face, his touch impossibly gentle as if you might break. In the stark hospital lighting, the dark circles under his eyes are visible. Sleep hasn’t come easy to him, not with you lying here.

A soft knock at the door draws Max’s attention. Hugh pokes his head in hesitantly. “Hey, Max. Any change?”

Max shakes his head, swallowing hard. “Nothing yet. But she’s fighting. I know she is.”

Your race engineer steps further into the room, his expression solemn. “I should have seen the signs earlier. Pushed her to hydrate more. Slowed her pace.” His voice catches, “It was my job to look out for her.”

“This wasn’t your fault,” Max says firmly. “Y/N is stubborn. We both know that. She wanted to prove herself.” A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “It’s what makes her brilliant.”

Hugh pulls up a chair on the opposite side of the bed. For a moment, the two men sit in pensive silence. Then your race engineer speaks again, softer this time. “Has she ... has she responded at all? Squeezed your hand or anything?”

Max clenches his jaw and stares past Hugh at the blank wall. “No. Nothing yet. But I know she can hear me. I tell her about training, the team ... I update her on everything. She’ll want to jump right back in when she wakes up.”

Footsteps approach and a nurse enters, checking the equipment and your vitals. After making some notes on a chart, she offers an encouraging smile. “No change but she seems stable. Just keep talking to her. Familiar voices help.”

After she departs, Hugh leans forward, clasping your still hand. “Hear that, Y/N? You’ve got to wake up. The team needs you. Your fans are all rooting for you. And ...” His voice cracks. “I need my driver back.”

Max looks at him gratefully. “We all need her back.” Reaching out, he gives your race engineer’s shoulder a comforting squeeze.

Another knock sounds. This time, it’s Christian. His face is etched with guilt and worry. “Max. Any improvement today?”

Max’s expression hardens. He hasn’t forgotten Christian’s decision to withhold news of your crash. But his voice remains even as he responds to the team principal. “Nothing new.”

Christian pulls up a chair next to Hugh. He chooses his next words carefully. “Max, I need to apologize. I made the wrong call that night. You deserved to know immediately about Y/N. My priorities were skewed.” His voice shakes slightly. “Seeing her like this ... I would give anything to go back and change what I did.”

Max studies him for a long moment and some of the hardness leaves his eyes. “I appreciate that. But right now, the past doesn’t matter. All that matters is her getting better.”

Christian nods. Reaching out, he gently smoothes your hair. “You hear that, Y/N? We’re all here for you. Your whole team. Now you need to come back to us.”

A heavy silence settles on the room once more. The three of them remain clustered around the bed … keeping vigil … willing you to show any small sign of recovery.

After some time passes, the ringing of Hugh’s phone snaps the three men out of their thoughts. “Sorry to interrupt,” your press officer’s voice filters through the speaker, “but the team’s on the line. They want to send their well wishes to Y/N.”

Hugh glances at Max questioningly who nods, “Patch them through. Let the whole team remind her why she needs to wake up.”

A smile tugs at your race engineer’s lips. “You got it. Go ahead, team. She can hear you.”

A chorus of voices floods the room. Your mechanics, pit crew, strategists, PR team … everyone chimes in with encouraging messages.

“Come on, Y/N! We need our star girl back on the grid.”

“You can do this, kid. You’re the toughest one out there!”

“We all believe in you. Keep fighting!”

Max grips your hand tighter, emotions threatening to spill over. Even Christian and Hugh have sheens of tears in their eyes.

“Alright,” your race engineer says after the team signs off. “You heard them. Time to wake up.”

And that’s when Max feels it. A short, weak squeeze of his hand.

Then your eyelids begin to flutter.

“Y/N?” Max leaps to his feet, leaning over you anxiously. “Can you hear me?”

Slowly, painfully, your eyes open, taking in the scene around you. Confusion clouds your expression. “M-Max?” You rasp.

A brilliant smile breaks across Max’s face. Relief floods through him so powerful that his knees nearly buckle as he chokes out, “Yes, yes it’s me! You’re back, liefje. You’re really back.”

Hugh lets out a shaky laugh, scrubbing a hand across his face. “Welcome back, superstar.”

You try to speak again but Max hushes you gently. “Save your strength. We’ve got all the time in the world to talk.”

Christian grins, looking years younger. “Oh thank god. I need to tell the team. They’ll be thrilled. Welcome back, Y/N.” He hurries from the room, phone already in hand.

Your race engineer squeezes your shoulder. “Get some rest. We’ll all be here when you wake up.”

As he and the nurse move discreetly out of the room, you gaze up at Max. “You ... you stayed.”

Max lifts your hand to his lips, blinking back tears. “Of course I stayed. I’ll always stay by your side.”

He leans down, pressing his lips against your chapped ones. All the fear, the uncertainty, the heartache of the past few days melts away.

You’re back. You’re really back. And Max knows, without a shred of doubt, that your lives from this day on will be greater and more meaningful than all your wildest dreams.

***

In the following days, drivers from across the grid make the pilgrimage to your hospital room. They come bearing gifts — flowers, balloons, even a nearly life-size plush race car. But more importantly, they come bearing a message.

“That race should never have happened,” Lewis says solemnly, handing you a get-well card covered in signatures. “The heat was dangerous. We should have acted sooner.”

Esteban grips your hand tightly. “I’m sorry, Y/N. We should have spoken up about the conditions sooner. We all suffered but you suffered most.”

“Your crash woke us all up,” Lance adds. “No trophy is worth risking drivers’ safety even more than we already do each race.”

You’re moved by their solidarity but sigh knowingly. “The FIA would never have listened to just one driver saying something. But maybe they’ll listen to all of us.”

Max’s jaw clenches, residual anger simmering beneath the surface. “They have to listen. We won’t race in unsafe conditions again.”

The other drivers nod, They know the power that you all wield together and for the first time in a long time, you are going to use it.

In a show of outspoken unity, the GPDA drafts a strongly worded letter condemning the lack of caution around extreme heat and demanding tangible changes to make sure drivers aren’t put in avoidable jeopardy.

All twenty of you threaten to strike.

To your surprise, the FIA not only apologizes for the oversight but pledges to implement the requested changes immediately.

“Your crash was a wake-up call,” the FIA president says solemnly during a visit to your hospital room. “We should have protected you better. That will never happen again.”

When he departs, you let out a long breath, leaning back against the pillows. The anger and hurt from that night haven’t disappeared entirely but you feel a sense of hope, that some good has come from the experience.

Max clasps your hand between both of his. “What you went through is unacceptable but you used that to make the sport safer for every driver out there. I’m so proud of you.”

You give him a tired smile. “We did this together. All of us.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead. “Get some rest. When you’re better, we’ve got plenty more checkered flags to take. Side by side.”

The long road to full recovery still lies ahead. But with Max by your side, and all the drivers behind you, you know everything will be okay.

The race goes on but it will be a safer race thanks to you.

5K notes · View notes

teaspacebar · 7 months ago

Text

spiced chai

part two

pairing: carmen "carmy" berzatto x reader

summary: you've been living in chicago for about a year, and you're suddenly managing the coffee shop in the well beloved bookstore, nan's. you meet carmen berzatto on a not-so-good day. you're thrust into the everchanging societal landscape that is making friends in your 20s..

word count: ~9.7k

warnings: language, depictions of mental illness, barista!reader, afab!reader (but tried to be as neutral as possible), neurodivergent!reader, they don't kiss, could be read as platonic tbh but there's crumbs in there if you look, takes place over the course of a few months, probably doesn't follow canon fully (i'm not caught up yet forgive me)

a/n: *dumps this here and runs* but actually this piece of writing appeared in my brain and i've been picking away at it for a couple of months. i feel like i've put more of myself into this fic than with anything else i've written, so this is definitely more of a self insert (pls be kind or don't read if that's not your vibe). i'm queer, non-binary, and autistic and i just wanted to insert that into this space. i feel like there's more to explore here, so i might write more for this if i feel so inclined.

Meeting Carmen Berzatto was not on your to-do list for Tuesday morning.

Not that having to run down to the nearest corner store to grab milk - since the milk fridge was on the fritz…again - at 4am was in your plans either. It always seemed like one step forward, three giant leaps back with the little shop on the corner you basically called home. It was weird, to be thrust into leadership as your manager made an abrupt exit.

The small bookstore, with an even tinier coffee shop, had been your place of work for the last year or so. You loved it. The people were great, and Nan, the shop owner, was absolutely lovely. She was getting up in her years, but the genuine care she had for the employees made all the difference. She put her trust in you to run the cafe, saying “You have the experience, and the care you have for people shows. I know this. Everyone knows this. Now you just have to see it - have confidence.”

“Confidence my ass,” you mutter, carrying five gallons of milk around the corner.

What happens next might have been considered the beginning of a rom-com, but you’re a realist, and the world is shitty.

There’s a crash, and the distinct sound of three of the five gallons of milk dropping onto the sidewalk. You stare, watching in slow motion as the milk forms into a river, dripping off the sidewalk into the gutter.

The person who ran into you curses, “Shit — fuck, sorry, I—I wasn’t looking where I was…dammit.”

You grip the other two jugs in your arms, blinking out of the haze to let out a hysterical laugh. “Great…cool cool.” Cold plastic bites into your fingers, and you take a deep breath. “Yeah, okay, what else was gonna happen?” You finally look up to see the one you collided with. The man looks extremely uncomfortable, foot tapping like he wants to bolt. Plastering on a smile you shake your head, “It’s fine. I’m the one who thought carrying five gallons of milk would be fine.” You ramble on, trying to ease his nerves, “I mean — why would I drive, like, thirty seconds. Park, get the milk, come all the way back. Seemed stupid…but now there’s milk in my socks.” You grimace, fighting the urge to chuck the remaining jugs of milk in the street so you could also hurl your milk-soaked shoes and socks after them. It makes the ache in your chest sharpen.

“Here, where are you —“

You cut him off, “No, no, it’s okay. I got it, thank you.” You gesture to the door that’s just a few feet away from you. “This is me, anyway.” You adjust your hold on the milk, brushing past the man to pull open the door. You catch it with your hip, not daring to look back as you head behind the counter. You release a sigh, setting the bane of your existence on the black speckled marble.

“Fuck,” you whisper, pressing the backs of your hands to your eyes. You shake out your arms, biting your lip. “Okay, asshole, let’s get your shit together.” You quickly put the milk into the small fridge below the bar and walk to the back. The squish of your socks curdles your stomach, and you breathe through your mouth to avoid the smell. You take off your shoes, throwing them into a plastic bag to take home. Tossing your socks into the garbage, you grab your replacement sneakers and socks from your cubby. It wasn’t the first time you’ve dropped something on your shoes, it wouldn’t be the last.

You take your time in the back. You had gotten to the shop around 4am, unable to sleep. You were messing around with recipes, seeing if there was a possibility of baking some of the food in the cafe fresh, instead of outsourcing. It was something you put on your own plate, and you didn’t want to disappoint Nan. You had shown up early, looking to try out some muffins, and noticed the fridge had been hovering at sixty degrees all night. You’ll have to grab some more milk before the day starts, but that could be a problem for 8am you.

Walking through the swinging doors, you jump as you see someone at the bar counter. Pressing a hand to your fluttering heart, you finally take in the man that had run into you earlier. A mop of curly hair on his head, white tee, very blue eyes…and standing behind eight gallons of milk.

“Um…” you look between the milk and him a few times.

“The…uh – the door was unlocked. Figured I owed you one.” He rubs the back of his neck.

“How’d you even get it all here?”

“Made two trips.” His gaze snaps back to you as you laugh, this time more genuine. “Fridge go out, or somethin’?” You’re still staring at him like he has two heads, and he rambles on, “Sorry for just…barging in. I used to go to this place…when I was kid. My sister and I would grab whatever pastries they had left for the day. And, yeah, we’d just sit, read random shit. I work at the restaurant just down the street…’s why I ran into you. Wasn’t paying attention – sorry, again.”

Suddenly, it all clicks. “You own The Bear.”

“Uh, yeah – yeah, I do.”

You feel nervous, out of the blue. Nan hadn’t stopped talking about the Berzatto’s, and Natalie had become a regular while the restaurant was being remodeled. You’re sure you’d seen other employees come in as well, for reading material. You vaguely remember talking to a very sweet man about baking, as he carried a ton of cookbooks in his arms.

You knew Carmen Berzatto, but only through the words of others – and the research you did late one night because you were nosey. To have him standing in the bookstore you worked at, for him to have gotten you milk, is sending you for a loop. Swallowing a lump in your throat, you begin to put the milk in their new home. You really need to call the refrigerator guy again.

“That’s so cool,” the words fall from your mouth, others staying in your head.

It's insane that someone like him is even speaking to you. He’s around the same age as you; He owns a restaurant and you’re barely able to run a tiny coffee bar in a bookstore. You’re an idiot who dropped milk onto the sidewalk. Why didn’t you just take the car? You should’ve just taken the car. Now Carmen fucking Berzatto has bought you milk at 5am because he feels bad for you. How pathetic. Call the fucking refrigerator guy.

“Thanks…for the milk.” You back away from the counter, gesturing behind you, “Lemme grab some money from the cash box real quick.”

“No, don’t worry about it.”

“It’s really fine, you didn’t have to go out of your way. I’ll be right back.” The itch creeps its way up your spine, and you push through the door as a shudder passes through you. You shake out the twitch, going and grabbing the cash box. You do mental math, trying to see how much you should give him. Did he even need the money? “Idiot,” you chide yourself. Today was not the day for your brain.

Snagging a twenty and a ten, you rush back out to the bar, only to find the store empty. A groan escapes through your teeth, and you clench the cash in your hands, crumpling it. You walk to the front door, peering out to see if you can spot the chef. He must’ve made a quick getaway. As you turn to get prepped for the day, you spot a brochure on the counter, far away from its home of the stand at the front of the bookstore. Eat Your Way Through Chicago!

Scribbled on the front is a phone number, and the words:

Fridge Ask for Fak Say Carm sent you

“Fucking fuck.” You whisper, a smile creeping on your face against your will, “Asshole.”

It’s later in the week when you hear the bell attached to the front door – ding! You poke your head up from where you're arranging some alternative milks under the counter, seeing a familiar blonde.

“Hey, Natalie!” You pop up, an easy grin appearing on your face. “Half-caff?”

She nods, “Please.”

“How are you?”

“Oh, you know.”

You ring her up quickly, then grab a pitcher to steam some milk for her latte. Natalie walks away from the counter to browse some books. The steam wand whirs, and you watch the vortex inside the pitcher. You touch the sides every so often, waiting for it to get to the right temperature. Making drinks is all muscle memory now, and you tamp the espresso grounds into the portafilter with precision. Wiping the excess from the lip, you lock it into the machine and press the shot button. As the shot pulls, you wipe down the steam wand with a wet cloth.

“Is this any good?” Natalie has come back over, holding up a book with a half-naked man on the front.

You laugh, “It’s a Nan recommendation, so…” The shots are poured into the paper cup, and you swirl the milk into it, doing a quick tulip design. You sprinkle a little cinnamon over the top, before placing it in front of the woman.

“Smutty then, for sure.” Natalie laughs, then does a little excited gasp when she sees the latte art. “It looks so good every time!”

“Thanks,” you reply, “Gets covered by the lid, but it’s fun to practice.”

“Too bad you don’t have for-here mugs,” she says thoughtfully.

“Ever the idea-haver! There'd be more spills to clean up – Nan would lose her mind if any books got ruined.” You point to the book still in her hand, “You want me to ring you up for that?” It was early enough in the afternoon that the only other person here was a part-timer, Jack, somewhere between the shelves stocking books. You had convinced Nan to upgrade to a different register system (which ended up saving money in the long run), so you’re able to ring up both books and café products at your register.

She shakes her head, sighing. “I barely have any time to read, these days. I was thinking about trying out audiobooks? I used to listen to them at my old job, but it’s way too loud in the kitchen for that to work out.” The latte goes to her mouth, a pleasant hum leaving her as she takes a sip. “You’re the best.”

“Thanks, Natalie.”

She squints at you, “It’s Nat, c’mon.” A big conspiratorial grin makes its way onto her face, “So, I heard that you got some help with your fridge.”

A sharp pain twists in your chest. “Oh, um…yeah.” You let out a soft chuckle, “It’s working, which is great. Neil was a big help.”

“He said you made him the best hot chocolate he’s ever had,” Natalie taps the counter with her pointer finger twice. “Said he didn’t know how you got his number, though.”

You shrug, wiping down the counter, “Nan had it. And the usual guy wasn’t calling me back.” Neil had told you the exact same thing, both about the drink and the number. Something had held you back from saying where you got the number from. Embarrassment, maybe? It felt weird, feeling like you owed anyone favors, or that things would be unbalanced. People usually never give without looking to receive.

“Frankie, right? He’s an asshole. Overcharges for everything.” Natalie doesn’t push you for answers, something you’re grateful for.

“Right! He disappeared one time and said he’d ‘be right back’ and then was gone for like, two hours! And he added that to his hourly!” The two of you giggle at the shittiness of people for a minute, when a ping causes Natalie to pull her phone from her pocket.

“I should run.” She reaches into her purse, and puts a five into your tip jar. “Thanks again!”

As she turns to go, you call out her name. “Would you - maybe - I have some extra muffins. The place we get them from gave us some of the wrong ones…or they’re a tad over baked, or something. I can’t sell them. Would you wanna take them with you?”

“That’s so sweet of you! Yeah, I’m sure they’ll get eaten up.”

You grab the box of muffins, handing them over to her, “Thanks.”

“Thank you, babe.” She leaves with a smile, and you look down to brush the flour off your apron.

“Hey, guys, I got some goodies!” Natalie sets the box of muffins on the table, where everyone is seated for family meal.

Neil immediately grabs the box, pointing to the sticker on the top, “You went to Nan’s? Man, I could use a hot chocolate right now.”

“I’m sure you can walk over there and order one, my love.” Natalie replies, waving for him to put the box back on the table.

Marcus snags two muffins, handing one to Sydney who is sitting on his right. Taking a bite, he stops chewing, eyebrows raised. “Dude,” he nudges the girl next to him.

“Dude,” Syd parrots, popping some muffin into her mouth. “Wait, woah.”

“That’s what I’m saying!”

“Nat, where did you get these?” Sydney calls to the woman now sitting at the end of the table. The muffins are passed down the rest of the table.

Marcus has started dissecting the muffin, “Macadamia nuts, sick.”

“Oh they’re from Nan’s just down the corner!” She tells them how you offered them to her since they were the wrong ones from a vendor and possibly over-baked.

Syd snorts, “Over-baked? These are perfect!”

“What’s perfect?” Carmy walks out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel.

“Bear, come eat!” Natalie waves him over, pulling him into the seat next to hers. “You’ve been at it all morning, take a minute, okay?” She gives him a look that tells him not to argue, and he huffs in response, but does as she says.

“What’s perfect?” He asks again, taking the muffin box from Sweeps as it’s passed to him. As the cinnamon crumble topping hits his taste buds, he leans back in his chair. “Shit.”

“That’s what we’re saying!”

Syd and Marcus begin talking over one another, the dull roar of family making its home in Carmy’s ears. He has another bite of muffin, thumb swiping over the sticker atop the box.

Nan’s Books & Brews

Simple lettering, surrounding a doodle of a coffee cup sitting on an open book.

“When did they,” he clears his throat as he leans closer to Nat, “when did they start doin’ stuff like this?”

Natalie purses her lips, “Not sure, honestly. They only had that small coffee machine and that plastic pastry case when we were growing up, remember? I think they added the actual coffee bar right before Covid?” Carmy nods, looking out the windows, a curdle in his stomach.

“A lot’s changed,” he murmurs.

“Yeah,” Nat sighs, a hand over her stomach, “a lot has.”

A few weeks go by, as uneventful as they can be. You try out more recipes, and the staff of Nan’s is always sent home with one treat or another. Muffins, cinnamon rolls, croissants (which were a bust), and the like. Natalie is still a regular, and Neil has shown up to save your ass more than once. The brochure with his number on it taunts you from where it’s stuck up on the corkboard in the back.

Which is what has led you to standing in front of The Bear, a joe-to-go in one hand, paper bag in the other. An envelope burns in the inner pocket of your flannel jacket. Steeling your nerves, you knock on the door. Some yells are heard from inside, nicknames getting passed around like it’s a holiday dinner. You see a man walk towards you, in a nice suit, and he opens the door.

“Can I help you?” It’s not said unkindly, but there’s a look in his eyes that’s making you nervous.

“Coffee delivery?” You say sheepishly, holding up the coffee traveler by its cardboard handle.

“Richie, who’s at the - hey!” Natalie immediately smiles when she sees you, and you sigh a breath of relief. Things were easy with her; she had this amazing way of comforting you without even trying.

“Hi,” you wiggle your fingers, still keeping hold of the objects in your hands. “Wanted to say thanks for all the help Neil’s been giving me, and when Nan found out, she insisted I bring over some coffee for the team, so…”

“You workin’ at Nan’s?” The guy - Richie - asks.

“For the past year or so, yeah.” You reply, thanking Natalie as she grabs the paper bag from you.

“Let them in, Richie, c’mon.” She presses on his chest, causing him to back up with his hands in the air. “Come in! I’ve been meaning to ask if you wanted to come by for a tour.” You follow behind her, taking in the layout of the place. It’s absolutely gorgeous, and a sense of awe falls over you. She has you set the coffee traveler on the bar, letting you take the paper bag from her hands. You pull out a cup holder with two cups in it.

“One half-caff french vanilla latte for you and…a hot chocolate for Neil.” As if by magic, Neil pops through the door to the kitchen.

“For me?!”

You chuckle as he pulls you into a hug. When he pulls away, he grabs his cup with a happy sound, rushing back into the kitchen when “Fak!” is yelled.

“The fuck Fak get a coffee for?” Richie frowns, causing you to bristle. Natalie swats at him, beginning to explain as you continue to walk around the restaurant. As you pass by a wood table, your fingers tap on it, the sound echoing in your ears. It sends a shiver through you, and a small smile appears on your lips.

Natalie calls out to you, tearing your gaze back to her. People have begun to swarm around the bar, placing food on it, and your coffee is suddenly surrounded by things that smell amazing. “Did you want to eat with us, babe?” Attention turns to you, and the itchiness in your limbs reappears with a vengeance.

A tall man, wearing a beanie, grins, “Hey, those muffins were amazing, by the way.”

You sputter, “Oh. Um—“

“Tell the chef, or baker — whoever,” he laughs at himself. “They were fire.”

Warmth rises in you, “Yeah, I’ll pass it on.”

“Babe, lunch?” Natalie says again, louder this time. More of the staff have begun digging into their meals.

“No, it’s okay!” The corner of your mouth curves up in a small smile, this one less genuine than before. You begin to back up towards the door, a gnaw of guilt in your gut as Natalie frowns.

“Cousin! Food!” Richie yells out, followed by laughter from everyone else.

“I’m coming!” A familiar figure bursts through the kitchen door, “You don’t gotta yell like an asshole.”

Carmen Berzatto stops in his tracks when he sees you; the envelope in your pocket burns hotter. You look down at your shoes, but they just remind you of the milk dripping down the sidewalk.

“Carm,” Natalie introduces you, “they work at—“

“Nan’s.” Everyone chimes in, and you have to stop yourself from flinching. You look over at Carmy, eyes meeting.

There’s a moment where you feel like you’re going to get swallowed whole. The pipes are going to burst and water will fill up the room and you’re going to drown.

You walked straight into a den of hungry beasts, and you’re just a measly rabbit.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay?” Natalie’s words are muffled in your ears, but you manage to shake your head.

“I have someone from books covering me, and they barely know how to work the espresso machine.” You force a laugh. It grates against your vocal chords. “It was nice meeting you guys, though.” With a meek wave, you turn on your feet and speed out the door. Rounding the corner, you keep walking until you’re sure they can’t see you. Veering into the alleyway behind the restaurant, you let out a shaky breath, leaning against the brick.

You press your thumb into the palm of your hand. Inhale, hold four seconds, exhale. Inhale, hold four seconds, exhale. It’s over before it starts, but your chest remains tight. A reminder, which will eventually dissipate once you're back in the shop.

The coffee bar, your shield; apron, your armor.

A door opening causes you to jump, startled. Your eyes meet blue, widening like you’ve been caught. “Sorry! I was just–” You push off the brick.

Carmen seems just as surprised as you, “No, s’fine.” He clears his throat, as the two of you settle into silence.

A fwip of a lighter. Four seconds. An exhale of smoke.

You’re unsure if you should leave, but it’s like the bottoms of your shoes are stuck to the ground. “Did you-” He starts, lifting up his hand that holds a lit cigarette.

You shake your head, “No, but - um, thanks.” Your fingers twitch, and you reach to pull the envelope from inside your jacket. Something that appears so insignificant, held out in the space between you. When he just stares, you wave it a bit, until he takes the envelope with his free hand.

“What’s this?”

“Cash, for the milk you bought.”

“You didn’t have to-“

“I did.” You bounce on your heels, “I should actually get going this time. Just wanted to give you that but…” He doesn’t respond, something you’re getting used to. You wonder where the man who rambled about reading with his sister at Nan’s went, but decide now is the best time to make your escape. As you start to walk toward the street, you turn, “The restaurant looks great, by the way. Good luck with the opening.”

“Good luck with the opening.”

Inhale. Four seconds. Exhale.

"Let it rip, Bear."

Inhale. Four seconds. Exhale.

“-a complete waste of fucking time.”

Inhale. Four seconds. Exhale.

“I’m really sorry you feel that way, Carm.”

Natalie invites you to Friends & Family.

You don’t go.

The next month flies by. Marcus, Richie, and Syd have joined your little group of regulars. Richie even brings his daughter, Eva, whenever he’s able. She’s a joy and absolutely hilarious to have around. Richie has grown on you, the rough edges of him softening after a few cortados.

One night, he had rushed into the shop, Eva in tow, all but begging you to watch her for a few hours. He was supposed to be off for the day, to spend time with his daughter, but they’re understaffed at The Bear. A few weeks in, which confused you, but questions weren’t asked. You said yes - obviously - and had Eva help you with little things around the shop, until you close. The two of you bonded over a shared love of Taylor Swift while making muffins. By the time Richie came to pick her up, Eva was tuckered out in a loveseat, patchwork blanket tucked up to her chin.

“I owe you one,” Richie had whispered, holding his daughter in his arms.

You shook your head, “You deserve to have time with her.”

He scoffed, rolling his eyes, “Yeah, bring it up with the Bear himself.”

You weren’t planning on it. The man is barely on your mind. Except for every time someone from The Bear walks in. They look drained, more and more each day. It’s a certain type of pain, to watch people – that once had so much life in them – lose the light that you felt so harshly the first time you walked into the restaurant. You hear inklings; mentions of a changing menu every night, nonnegotiables, and the like.

It worries you. It’s not your place - you’re more than aware of that. But you’ve come to care for these people. And by extension, some part of you wants to see how he’s doing. It’s an odd - biting -feeling. How strange it is, to know someone through everyone else’s eyes but your own. You have to fight back the urge to force yourself into the places you do not fit. You’re resigned to watching from afar, providing comfort behind your coffee bar. It’s what you’re good at. It might be all you're good at.

Some sick twist of fate decides to upturn it all one Friday night.

Carmy had stayed late, to nobody’s surprise. He’d been adjusting the menu, preparing it for tomorrow, when the flashes hit him. He decides to walk it off, popping another thing of nicotine gum into his mouth. He walks aimlessly, trying to push the overwhelming thoughts out of his head. The street is dark - most places being closed - but light pours onto the sidewalk, just a few feet ahead of him. Almost a reflex, he peers into the windows.

A laugh of disbelief - more a huff of air through his nose - leaves him.

You’re dancing, headphones over your ears, as you mix something in a large bowl. It’s unlike anything he’s seen - from you or otherwise. There’s a sense of freedom in your movements, so different from the few times he’d seen you before. The tightness in his chest lightens, some, at the sight of you so obviously in your element.

And you're looking right at him.

“Shit,” he mumbles. You tilt your head at him, doing a little wave. He lifts a hand in reply, and you point haphazardly at the door. Before he can respond, or walk away – anything, you’re heading around the counter. A click of the door unlocking, and you pull it open part way.

“Hey,” you say, a little loud. With a wince, you pull the headphones off to rest around your neck. Music can be heard – a muffled, upbeat song that he doesn’t recognize. “Hey,” you say again, quieter this time. Silence passes between you, and he watches your nose twitch. “…did you wanna?” You jut your thumb behind you. You’re almost unrecognizable from the first time you met, calmer, somehow.

“Yeah, sure.” The words come out, easier than he thinks, and slips through the door you hold open. You lock it behind him, turning back around to slide behind the counter.

You grab a muffin tin, beginning to fill each one with a scoop of the batter you had been mixing. You make quick work of it, pushing them into the small commercial oven, wiping your fingers on the towel that’s pulled through a loop in your jeans.

Leaning against the counter, you finally look at him, “Okay, Pick your poison.”

“What?”

“Coffee? Americano, latte, cappuccino?” It’s like you’re trying to read him, wanting to crack the spine of a book and see what’s inside.

“I don’t really do the…caffeine.”

You hum thoughtfully, tapping your fingers on the counter in some type of rhythm. “Can I make you something? Low-caffeinated, of course.” He nods. “Anything you hate?” A shake of his head.

You grab a cup and get to work. You’re singing under your breath - the song that’s playing from the headphones around your neck. With your eyes off of him, he takes a moment to actually observe the shop. Warm lighting, with dark wood bookshelves making it feel cozy without being too claustrophobic. There’s smaller tables, with different recommendations for certain genres. A sprinkling of string lights and hanging plants just adds to the homey feeling, one so different from the pristine, white kitchens he’s used to being in. So different from his own restaurant. The coffee shop portion is close to the front, dark marble countertops and a chalkboard menu - swirling letters describing monthly drink specials.

“Alright, order up,” you call out softly.

Carmy walks back up to the bar, eyeing the cup. Warmth presses into his skin as his fingers curl around it. You mention that it’s hot, to let it cool for a bit. Silence falls between the two of you - in a way he finds comforting. Your eyes flick between him and the counter you’re wiping down.

“Do you normally do this?” He asks.

“The making drinks thing, or the staying at the shop way too late thing?” You give a wry smile. “Could ask you the same.”

He scratches at his nose, “Noted.”

The minutes pass; you go about cleaning the shop, rinsing dishes and setting things up for the next day. It’s an art he’s well versed in. The muscle memory takes over for you, and Carmen becomes invisible. It feels nice, to just be in a place where nobody has anything to ask of him. He finally tries the drink. It’s good, milky, if a little sweet, but it eases the last of the sourness in his stomach away. A timer on your phone goes off, and you tug on a flowery oven mitt to pull the muffins out of the oven. Chocolate and spice invades his nostrils, soothing him even more. You grab one, hissing a bit since it’s hot, and put it on a plate, bringing it back over to him. Leaning over the bar, you reach for forks that are in a metal cup, right near Carmy. You’re close, with no care about being in his personal space. It’s only for a second, and then you’re back in your previous position.

“You can have some, as long as you promise not to be an ass about it.” You hold out a fork for him. The words cause him to cringe, but he takes the utensil from you.

He stares at the muffin, running his thumb on the underside of the fork. “How much trouble am I in?”

You shrink back a little, “W-what?”

He’s met you what - twice? Both times felt clunky, an awkwardness to the both of you. Here, it’s simpler. Under the cover of night, huh? A voice that sounds awfully like Mikey’s says in the back of his mind. His family won’t stop talking about you. Or drinking your coffee.

“The Bear,” he mutters. “They talk to you, right?”

You laugh, surprised. “Do you actually want to know?” You hold up a hand before he can reply, “Actually, no. They don’t talk to me. I see things, sure. But I’m not getting anyone in trouble with the boss.” You’re on the defensive, not even for yourself, but for his kitchen.

“They-They’re not in trouble.” One look from you and he deflates, sighing. “Okay, yeah. Just…just say something.”

“I haven’t even been to eat there.”

“You should come,” he says.

Another laugh - a scoff, more-like, “You think I could afford your place?” You bite your lip, pinching the bridge of your nose. After a moment, you continue, gently, “Do you have any fun?”

“Fun.” The word is like poison in his mouth.

“Yes, fun. I know that food service isn't the best, but it’s good to have fun, or to at least enjoy it.” You wave your hands around, “That family meal stuff you guys do? That’s so sweet, and you have a whole family unit going on in that kitchen, or whatever. If this restaurant is supposed to be the rest of your life, you should like it, at least a little bit, right?” Your torso melts into the counter, and you rest your head on your arm. “And like, maybe? Don’t change the menu every night, or something. It’s new, right? You gotta work out the kinks first before jumping in all-” you blow air out through your cheeks.

A beat of quiet, then, “The menu, huh?”

“Eleven thousand for butter?” You parrot back. At his frown, you hold up your hands, “I’m just a barista, what would I know?” You say it without heat, and yet he feels guilt crawl up his throat.

“That’s not-”

“I know, Carmen.” A sigh leaves your lips, “You asked, so I talked. Again, take everything with a grain of salt.” The words get softer, as if you’re talking more to yourself than to him, “Just remember who’s going down with you if it ends up crashing and burning.”

You stab your fork into the muffin, tearing it in half. He follows suit, lifting a bite of it to his lips. Spice floods his taste buds, and he grunts. You blink up at him, fork hanging from your mouth. He’s suddenly starving, and he eagerly gets himself another forkful. “S’good.” He mumbles through the food. Carmen watches as you process his words, pressing your lips together to hide a smile. You two finish the muffin, and there’s an ominous sense of peace that covers him like a blanket. “Thanks.”

“For yelling at you?”

Carmy lets the chuckle spill out, “If that’s what you call yelling…” He trails off, sobering, “Do you have fun?”

You hum, contemplating. “Yeah. I mean, it’s coffee, at the end of the day. It’s just nice to see people, to make their day a little better than it was. I like to try out new things, to create, to get recommendations.” You stop, seeing him staring at you, “What?”

“You’re different…from the other day, s’all.”

You’re perplexed, scrunching your nose, “Well I had a bad day, the first time. And I don’t do…well, with new people.”

“Unless you’re behind the counter.”

Your eyes widen, something flickering behind them, like he’s seen something you didn’t want him to. “Touche.” Checking your phone, you clear your throat, “Alright, we should probably get out of here if we want any semblance of sleep.” He follows your lead, as you flick off the lights, throwing you backpack over your shoulder. He waits while you lock the front door, small key dangling on a keychain. You turn, looking at him, before holding out a paper bag, “Muffin for the road?”

He grabs it, an odd feeling bubbling in his chest, “Oh - uh, thanks.”

You suddenly look sheepish, fiddling with the strap of your bag, “And if you’re out late again, feel free to stop by. If you need a break, or something.” A beat. “Oh, again, take what I said with a grain of salt, yeah? Just - maybe - try to take care of yourself a little.” You laugh nervously, and Carmy sees the truth of his earlier observation. You’re still more relaxed, but the nerves have crept in as you step outside your comfort zone. Something he knows all too well. “Anyways, have a good night - morning.” You shake your head, blowing a raspberry through your lips.

“Night. Get home safe.” He murmurs. You turn on your heel, walking down the street. He tightens his grip on the paper bag.

Take care of yourself.

At least enjoy it.

You should like it, at least a little bit, right?

Carmy doesn’t know if he truly remembers what liking cooking is like. He’s found little bits of it, in moving back home. In Marcus’ eyes as he creates something new. In Syd’s determination to make amazing food. There’s a passion there that he’s lost somewhere along the way.

He sees it in you, and it calls out to him - the tide being pushed and pulled by the moon. A curious feeling, gnawing at his stomach. A hunger for something he can’t make sense of, but he pulls the muffin out of the bag to eat on his walk home.

Carmy keeps showing up at Nan’s, usually late at night. You didn’t expect him to take you up on your offer, yet a smile graces your lips every time he does.

He was right, when he said you feel most comfortable behind the counter. You knew it, but having someone else acknowledge it felt…weird. Like you weren’t playing your part right. Yet it also felt good, to be seen.

Conversation between the two of you still feels stilted, occasionally, but you find comfort in the quiet moments. And the not-so quiet ones; with music playing at just above a reasonable level, you mouthing the words as you dance around behind the bar. The mask slowly slides off when he comes around, and it’s easier to be goofy.

You think it surprises him. He’s not quite sure what to do, when you’re cruising on the linoleum tile you call a dance floor. But he never tells you that you’re weird, or too much. You’ve maybe even seen him bite back a smile. You swear there’s dimples hiding somewhere — a fleeting thought that you let fly away before you linger on it too long.

“What do you think?” You’ve turned the music down, notepad on the counter, your favorite pen in hand. You click it a few times, sound satisfying the little itch in the back of your brain.

“Not sure if I’m a matcha fan,” Carmy murmurs. You nod, writing down his response onto the paper. It’s almost filled — you’ll have to turn to the next page soon — with different drinks you’ve had Carmy try, determined to find the right one. He’s harder to pin than others, something you’re not necessarily surprised by.

That's partially on you. You're unsure of how much to ask. How much could you poke the both metaphorical and literal Bear until it breaks? You've been enjoying your time, but you've yet to ask him how work is going. He doesn't ask you about your personal life, so why would you ask about his?

There's a curiosity there, though. To see what makes Carmen Berzatto tick. You fear the two of you might be a little too similar.

You turn to go back to cleaning your mess — the reason being a fresh tray of cookies cooling on the counter, when he says your name. “Did you get a new tattoo?”

Gaze flashing to the wrap you have on your arm, peeking out from the sleeve of your shirt, you turn bashful. “Oh,” you hum, “I did. It’s been on my list for awhile. I’m keeping it wrapped at work while it heals - god knows I spill everything all over myself.”

“Can I — What did you get?” He’s just as sheepish as you, a boyish glow about him. You’d never talked about tattoos before. His evidence is on his arms; yours are mostly concealed — easy to hide with the oversized button downs and jeans you wear.

You pull your phone from your back pocket, “Here, I’ll pull up a photo of it.” Placing your phone on the counter, Carmy grabs it, zooming in on the two-headed calf that’s found its home on your bicep. The tattoo is fresher in the photo, line work popping out against your skin. “The longest living two-headed calf lived 17 months. Her name was Gemini — a little on the nose, I think. There’s also this poem by Laura Gilpin, that just kinda struck me.” Your ramble tumbles off, a half smile pulling at your lips. “It’s sad, but the kind that makes you hurt in a nice way? If that even makes sense.” You wave a hand around, then reach to take a sip from his cup.

The matcha settles the nerves hiding under your skin, the earthy flavor dancing on your tongue. As you set the cup back on the counter, you point at his hand, “What’s that stand for?” Your own fingers twitch, fighting the urge to brush them across his own. “S.O.U?”

“Ah, sense of urgency.” He says, fiddling with your phone.

You laugh, quickly covering it with a hand, “Sorry, I — sorry, that just makes so much sense.” Before he can speak, you shake your head, “Not in a bad way, necessarily. It’s just so obvious how little work-life balance you have.”

“We’re literally at your shop in the middle of the night.” Carmen huffs exasperatedly, corner of his mouth curling up.

You hold your hands up, conceding, “Okay, I get it. Misery loves company - or whatever. God, we’re both crazy, aren’t we? We should get out more.”

He hums in response, tapping his phone twice to check the time. Anxiety swells up in your throat, and there’s something biting at your heels. The silence doesn’t feel comfortable anymore.

You said something wrong, the little voice in your head whispers. You lost the script and got too close and now he’s pulling back. How can you fix it? You have to fix it.

“What’s your favorite one?” His blue eyes glance up at you. Invisible hand squeezing your lungs, you stammer, “Tattoo. What’s the one you like most?”

His words come out softly, “A house boat. I, uh, got it before leaving Copenhagen. I stayed in one while I was over there, and put out water for an invisible cat.” Relief floods you as he talks. It’s the most he’s spoken about anything, and you see a glimmer behind his eyes.

It feels a little too close to home.

“You really loved it over there, huh?”

As if caught, he clears his throat, “It was cool…different.”

Different from Chicago, you don’t say. “I get that,” you murmur instead.

You knew what it was like, to run away. The need for escape pushing you into flight as the metaphorical dog chases the rabbit.

You wonder what Carmen’s dog was. Or is. If it’s even a dog at all.

“What about you? What’s your favorite?”

You’re pulled from your thoughts. “Oh! Um, it’s silly.” You worry at your bottom lip.

“You don’t—”

“No, hold on, it’s just,” you push yourself onto the counter with the palms of your hands. Carmen leans back as you swing your legs over the bar, letting your feet rest on the barstool next to him. You lean over, pulling up your pants leg to show the tattoo on the right side of your calf. He stares at it for a moment, confusion clear in his gaze. “See, I told you.”

“Is it a moth, or something?”

“Moth-man, Carmen. Mothman.”

“Am I supposed to know what that is?”

“He’s a cryptid. There’s literally stories of a Chicago Mothman.” He peers up at you in amusement, causing you to scrunch your face at him. “I swear on my life Carmen Berzatto, don’t be an asshole.”

“I’m not.” He laughs, and your chest loosens. You got Carmen Berzatto to laugh. “It looks good, the style is nice,” he gestures to your leg.

You smile, “Thanks.”

Nodding, he goes to sip from his cup. He makes a face, pulling it away from him, “Yeah, I don’t like this.”

He holds it out to you as you reach for it, laughter spilling from your lips, “More grass for me.” You drink, and let the cup rest on your thigh, fingers tapping on the plastic lid.

“I’m not…” Your head turns to look at him, watching as he runs a hand through his hair. “I’m not really good at this.”

“...at what?” You whisper, scared if you talk any louder you’ll scare him away.

“Talking? Not working? Who the fuck knows,” his hand leaves his hair and passes over his face.

“I’m not either, really.” You pick at your jeans, “But we’re trying, right? You come by more than I thought you would.”

“Really?”

You snort, “Dude, the first time I was surprised you even came in.” Gently, you add, “And you don’t have to be perfect at conversation to be friends with someone.” His eyes meet yours as you nudge his shoulder with your knee. “I’m weird, you’re weird, that’s okay.”

Carmen rolls his eyes good naturedly. His legs are bouncing, and you can almost see him chewing the word around before it finally leaves, “Friends?”

“Friends.” You affirm. Silence passes between you, until a growl comes from your stomach.

The man laughs, looking all the prettier for it, “You hungry?”

“Starving,” you groan.

He gets up from his seat, grabbing his denim jacket that’s hung over the chair on his left, “C’mon.”

It takes a moment, but it clicks. “Oh my god,” you gasp out, hopping off the counter. With a speed you only have during a lunch rush, you run to the back. You untie your apron, hang it up on a hook, and grab your tote bag. “Wallet, keys, phone…phone!”

“Out here!” Carmen yells. You grin, rushing back out to the front, bouncing on your heels. “You good?”

“As I’ll ever be.” You shake your keys with enthusiasm. He laughs as you both leave, and you turn to lock up. There’s excitement buzzing through you, like caffeine would if your brain weren’t wired a bit funky. A thought cuts through the haze, “Oh shit, I forgot to–”

“I got the trash.” The street lights reflect off his blue eyes.

Your heart twinges a little, “Thanks.”

“No problem.” He gestures with his head, “Now let’s go before your stomach eats itself.”

“Hey Carm?!”

The man pokes his head into the office, one hand wrapped around the door, “Yeah, what?”

Natalie raises an eyebrow, “You busy?”

Carmy scoffs, “Yeah, Sugar, I’m busy.”

It’s lunch time. Marcus has pastries, Tina’s running prep. Syd is around…avoiding him. He tries not to think about it for too long. Richie is who knows where.

Fuck, don’t be an asshole, asshole.

Deflating, he asks, “What’s up? Everything okay?”

“I’m spending my hour of alone time figuring shit out here, while Pete watches the baby.” His sister sighs, glancing down at the paperwork on the desk, “I’m managing. Anyways, that’s not what I wanted to talk about.”

He wants to ask about the baby. His niece. But Natalie barrels over the topic to say, “Were you here late the other night?” He must have made a face because Natalie sighs, exasperated. “I know you stay later than everyone else, doing god knows what, but I got a notification on my phone the other night-“

“What notification?”

She rolls her eyes, “The alarm system, dummy. I get alerts.”

“No, yeah, I get that. But I turned it off.”

It could only be from the other night, when he brought you back to the restaurant. He’s not sure why he did — he almost had a panic attack in front of you while debating what to make. It's strange, how much an environment can affect someone. Nan's feels so comfortable to him now, like nothing can happen to him when he's in those four walls. Where was the last place he felt like that?

You don’t need to impress anyone, Carmen. It’s just me, you had said.

Simple words that cut through him like a knife. You asked for comfort food, so he made you grilled cheese with tomato soup. The little dance you did every time you took a bite relit a fire inside of him that had been burnt out by years of working in kitchens.

“I know. I’m asking because the alarm was set, and then you turned it off again a few hours later.” Natalie unlocks her phone, showing him her screen that has some app pulled up with timestamps on it. “Are you sleeping? Look, I know things aren’t great right now—" Natalie cuts herself off with another sigh.

“It’s fine. Things are fine.” At her pointed look, he holds his hands up in surrender. “I’m working on it, okay? Just…are you good? Do you need anything?”

“About 48 hours of interrupted sleep would be great.” Her gripe falls off into a laugh, which he returns.

Stepping into the room further, he pulls the door closer, just a slim crack of clean white light coming through. “I’ve been a shitty brother lately.”

“No…” Natalie snorts, “Okay yeah, a bit. I love you, though.”

He mumbles the words back, tapping out a rhythm on his thigh, “Maybe I could come by, sometime. See the baby.” It’s a blessing and curse how his chest aches when he sees the way her eyes light up.

“I’d love that, Bear.”

“Yo, delivery!” Marcus yells out, pulling the attention of the Berzatto siblings.

“The fuck?” There isn't supposed to be a delivery today.

Natalie gets out of her seat, “Oh thank god.” She ushers Carmy out of the office, pushing past him into the dining room. He follows after her, confused, only to stop in his tracks.

You’re here.

You stand next to Richie, talking animatedly, albeit shy. You’re wearing clothes he doesn’t regularly see you in, the worn denim jacket catching his eye in particular. It’s clear that you aren't working, yet you hold two cups from Nan’s in your hands, a few drink carriers littering a table.

“You’re literally my savior, thank you.” Natalie pulls you into a hug, and you look at Richie with wide eyes. Carmy has to hold back a snort at your expression.

“You should expect this reaction by now, kid.” Richie takes a sip from his drink when you gape at him in exaggerated outrage.

“Shut up, Richie,” Natalie is barely paying attention, saying the words more out of habit. Grabbing a cup from a drink holder, she says, “You’re coming home with me.”

Giggles bubble from your lips, and you go to cover them with the back of your arm. There’s a pull Carmy feels, instinctual, to urge your arm away from your face and hear your genuine laughter fill the room.

Your eyes meet his, finally noticing that he’s there. The smile you give him is earnest, a gentle hello without words. He forces his feet to move, closing the distance. Carmy blatantly ignores the looks both Richie and Natalie are making. You hold out the cup in your hand - the one you weren’t drinking from - and he takes it from you.

Condensation clings to the sides, his name hastily written on the side.

⋆⁺Carmy!⁺˚⋆

There’s a heart in place of the dot at the bottom of the exclamation point, little stars doodled around his name. His stomach flips.

“Iced?” He swirls the drink in hand, mixing it up.

You shrug, “Thought I’d try something different. It’s hot outside.”

“You off?” Bringing the straw to his lips, he hums at the taste. You’re watching him eagerly, head tilted to the side as you wait for his review. “This is nice.”

Squinting at him, you huff, “Not perfect, though.” You type something into your phone — most likely to add to your notebook later. “Had to run some more syrup by the shop. Saw Natalie’s car on the street so I texted her to see if she wanted something to drink. I have errands to run after this.”

“You a regular too now, Cousin?” Richie barks, and Carmy watches as you remember where you are. Who you’re with.

A protectiveness rises up in Carmen, hating the way you recoil into yourself. “Fuck off, Richie.” He looks over at you, “Hungry?”

“Dude, we got shit to do.”

“Richie!” Natalie hisses at the older man, shoving him back toward the kitchen. She calls back to you, “Thanks for the coffee! I promise I’ll come by when I feel more like a human again.”

The customer service clicks into place behind your eyes, “Take care of yourself! Hope the baby is doing well!” Once it's just the two of you, you sigh, knocking the heels of your boots together. “I should get going.”

Carmen nods, “Can I grab you a sandwich, first?”

“Grilled cheese?” You tease, stifling a smile.

He huffs, shaking his head, “Nah, but Ebra’s got window right now. I could throw something together real quick.”

“You don’t have to do that.” He glances down; you’re pressing your thumb into the middle of your hand. It's uncanny, the semblance of himself that is mirrored in you.

“I know.” He wants to, though. “Give me five minutes?”

A moment of hesitation, then, “Okay.”

“Cool.” And he’s off.

Chaos erupts the minute he’s back in the kitchen.

“Since when did the two of you become buddy-buddy?”

“Can we please get back to work? Richie, respectfully, what are you doing back here?” Syd is working on pasta, flour covering her work service.

“I got shoved outta my space, so here I am,” Richie waves his hands around.

The overlapping voices turn into white noise, and Carmy inhales sharply, “Fak!”

“Yes, chef!” Neil appears out of nowhere. Sometimes Carmen thinks there’s a series of underground passages that makes it so easy to get ahold of him. It’s not that crazy of a notion.

“Go and say hello to them, okay? I’m gonna throw together something, give it to them, and then I’ll be right back.” The last part is meant for everyone to hear, but is pointed more toward Richie. “Seriously, just leave it, alright?”

“I’m leaving it,” Richie snarks, but nudges Fak with his elbow. “Think there’s a drink out there with your name on it anyway. Snag me another one of those apple-donut-things too, eh?”

“Fritters!” Marcus calls out from his station.

Carmy sighs deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose. He’s queasy; he’ll have to take some pepto later.

Inhale. Four seconds. Exhale.

Let it rip, Bear.

Neil barrels into you, wrapping you in a hug. He talks your ear off for the next couple minutes; you smile when you need to, laugh when you remember.

The yells from the kitchen are playing on repeat in your ears.

They’re talking about you.

The urge to flee tickles the back of your throat. You thought it would be nice to stop by and bring Natalie a coffee, but then you had felt bad about not bringing anything for everyone else, which turned into you jumping behind the bar to make ten drinks. It’s not like you were going to make Morgan, the barista on shift, make them all.

You always had a hard time not working on your days off.

“You should absolutely come!”

“Yeah, that’d be nice.” You reply, still not fully checked back into your conversation with Neil.

He smiles, “Great! I’ll send you the info!”

Before you can ask what you actually agreed to, Carmy pushes back into the room, to-go container in hand. “Hey, uh, Fak, can you go take a look at the toilet for me?” You barely notice Neil leave, focusing more on how your chest releases as Carmen walks closer to you.

He hands you the container, and you murmur a soft, “Thank you.”

“I’ll walk you out, yeah?”

The thought is nice. Glancing behind him, you see Natalie and Richie watching through the window. “It’s okay, you really don’t have to.” You take a step back just as Carmy reaches out to you. You can’t run, they’d see you. Ask questions. They probably see a caged animal.

“Hey,” he whispers your name, “it’s just me.” He’s repeating the words you said to him the night you were here. You tear your eyes away from the kitchen, looking at him. “Lemme walk you out?”

With a nod, you let him guide you out the front door. The warm summer air washes over your skin, and you take in a deep breath. You count the lines in the sidewalk as you pass them, sipping at your iced latte. “It was cool of you to come by,” Carmy says. “And your jacket’s dope.”

He’s trying to make you feel better.

“Did you just say dope?” You peek over in his direction, catching his shrug. “You’re so old.”

“Fuck off,” he laughs, and your smile widens.

You make it to your car, a little thing that has a new problem every other week. It’s been with you for years, moved with you to five different states. More of a sentimental object, than a real mode of transportation. You mostly used CTA these days if you were able, but it was nice to have a car for when you’re running errands all around the city.

“Sorry if they bothered you,” he apologizes, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“No, no, no,” you push out the words, throat tightening, arms hugging your middle. “I thought I was going to try to be a human today. May have jumped the gun on that one.” Fiddling with your keys, you continue, “It was nice to see you. Thought you might be a vampire or something, since I only ever see you at night.”

The joke causes Carmy to roll his eyes, “Is that considered a cryptid?”

You perk up at the word, “Oh, don’t get me started.”

He smiles big enough for his dimple to appear, “Oh, yeah?”

“Unless you want me to talk for hours on end. I’ll make a power-point presentation and everything.” You might already have one in the works, but he didn’t need to know that.

“You could - I mean, it wouldn’t bother me. If you did, you know?”

You blink a few times, frozen in shock. He looks shy, almost. Like the first time you met him, but there’s something between you now. A plant that will keep growing - might even bloom - if the two of you keep watering it. He keeps pecking away at your carefully crafted walls that let people see exactly how much you want them to.

Carmen Berzatto keeps seeing you. Whoever that is.

He coughs, scratching the side of his head. “I’ll see you later?”

“You know where I’ll be.”

“Yeah.”

You walk around to the driver’s side of your car, opening the door. You slide in, turning the key to let your car sputter to life. You roll the windows down, and music starts to blare from your speakers. “Kick ass tonight!” You yell the words as you pull away from the curb. You spare a glance in your rearview, watching Carmy wave before he starts walking back to his restaurant.

When you're parked outside your apartment, it hits you. You dig into your tote bag, pushing aside old receipts, chapstick tubes, and fidget toys. You cheer to yourself as you pull your notebook out, favorite pen hooked over the cover. Flipping to the back, you stare at the list of drinks you've had Carmy try.

You think you want to keep seeing him, too. Whoever that is.

You scribble at the bottom of the page, circling it twice.

Spiced Chai ~ HOT, xtra cinn

#carmy berzatto x reader #carmen berzatto x reader #the bear fanfic #neurodivergent!reader #— moth writes #spiced chai

854 notes · View notes

writers-potion · 11 months ago

Text

Writing Weapons (1): Swords

The Thrusting Sword

Type of fight scene: entertaining, duels, non-lethal fights, non-gory deaths, swashbuckling adventure

Mostly used in: Europe, including Renaissance and Regency periods

Typical User: silm, male or female, good aerobic fitness

Main action: thrust, pierce, stab

Main motion: horizontal with the tip forward

Shape: straight, often thin, may be lightweight

Typical Injury: seeping blood, blood stains spreading

Strategy: target gaps in the armous, pierce a vital organ

Disadvantage: cannot slice through bone or armour

Examples: foil, epee, rapier, gladius

The Cleaving Sword

Type of fight scene: gritty, brutal, battles, cutting through armour

Typical user: tall brawny male with broad shulders and bulging biceps

Mostly used in: Medieval Europe

Main action: cleave, hack, chop, cut, split

Main motion: downwards

Shape: broad, straight, heavy, solid, sometime huge, sometimes need to be held in both hands, both sides sharpened

Typical Injury: severed large limbs

Strategy: hack off a leg, them decapitate; or split the skull

Disadvantage: too big to carry concealed, too heavy to carry in daily lifem too slow to draw for spontaneous action

Examples: Medieval greatsword, Scottish claymore, machete, falchion

The Slashing Sword

Type of fight scene: gritty or entertaining, executions, cavalry charge, on board a ship

Mostly used in: Asia, Middle East

Typical user: male (female is plausible), any body shape, Arab, Asian, mounted warrior, cavalryman, sailor, pirate

Main action: slash, cut, slice

Main motion: fluid, continuous, curving, eg.figure-eight

Shape: curved, often slender, extremely sharp on the outer edge

Typical Injury: severed limbs, lots of spurting blood

Strategy: first disable opponent's sword hand (cut it off or slice into tendons inside the elbow)

Disadvantage: unable to cut thorugh hard objects (e.g. metal armor)

Examples: scimitar, sabre, saif, shamshir, cutlass, katana

Blunders to Avoid:

Weapons performing what they shouldn't be able to do (e.g. a foil slashing metal armour)

Protagonists fighting with weapons for which they don't have the strength or build to handle

The hero carrying a huge sword all the time as if it's a wallet

Drawing a big sword form a sheath on the back (a physical impossiblity, unless your hero is a giant...)

Generic sword which can slash, stab, cleave, slash, block, pierce, thrust, whirl through the air, cut a few limbs, etc...as if that's plausible

adapted from <Writer's Craft> by Rayne Hall

1K notes · View notes

brokenmenswhore · 8 months ago

Note

Hiiii!! I love your writing and I have a request for Best Friend x Reader where Reader has had a crush on James for years and thought he never noticed because he was way to focused on Lily. But in reality he had been in love with her from the second they met on the train but every time je was almost caught he’d look to the closest person by you, which was usually Lily. Maybe smut too if possible. Thank you!!!!

i love this request!! james is just so 🥺🫶🏻❤️‍🩹

the closest thing | james potter

pairing: james potter x fem!reader

warnings: smut (MDNI 18+)

────── ☾ ──────

“Hey, can I sit here?”

You were eleven. The boys in the train compartment all turned their heads toward you. One boy in particular, with brown curly hair and glasses, stood and approached the door.

“Hi, I’m James,” he said, sticking his hand out for you to shake and giving you a warm smile.

You told him your name and sat down across from him.

That’s when the crush started.

Through your first few years at Hogwarts, you and James grew extremely close, and became borderline inseparable. He was your best friend in the world, and you were his. Your infatuation grew with time, watching as he grew up and came into his own, his features morphing and sharpening with age.

When you were thirteen, you met Lily. She had been sorted into Gryffindor the same year as you and James, but you never spoke until your third year. She was charming, pretty, and loved a good laugh. You and her became fast friends, and you introduced her to James.

Whenever you sat in a group for breakfast, you would steal glances at James, who would be looking at Lily next to you. During classes, when you sat between them, you could feel James’s head turn toward you, but if you looked back at him, he was staring straight across you, fixated on Lily as she tucked a piece of fiery red hair behind her ear.

For years, you watched him gawk at her, and it caused you to hold your tongue about your developing feelings for him. Your friendship was so pure, it wasn’t worth ruining with a confession, especially if it would lead nowhere. Why tell him you liked him, just for him to tell you he liked Lily?

By the time you were sixteen, James was on top of the world as captain and seeker of Gryffindor Quidditch. He, along with Sirius and Remus, knew everyone and everything happening at Hogwarts. James in particular was the top of the class, and often had to help you with assignments. He still maintained your friendship, working to make time for you, but his popularity meant one thing you hated: attention from girls.

Girls often threw themselves at him, as they did Sirius, but he mostly turned them away. Waiting on Lily, you thought.

You and James had fun, and you made a habit of jumping on his back and making him carry you around. You weren’t much different in size, but he liked showing off how strong he was, and you liked wrapping your body around him.

Girls would often approach him, and when he entertained their attention, you would complain, “James, I’m getting loopy.”

James would bend over slightly, continuing to talk to the girl in front of him as you jumped on his back. He would hook his arms underneath your legs, your arms wrapping around his neck.

“Gotta go,” James would say, dismissing himself as he stood tall, walking completely unobstructed with your weight on his back.

“You’re a child,” he laughed.

“Can’t help when I’m tired,” you would say, resting your head on his shoulder.

One afternoon, you were taking a walk on the grounds to find a quiet place in nature to study, and you saw James and Lily alone together. It would seem innocent to anyone else; they were side by side and just talking and laughing, but to you, it was so much more. James looked enamored, like he was the happiest he’d ever been, as they strolled along the path together. You desperately wanted to know what they were talking about, but you didn’t want to expose yourself for liking James, so you simply turned around and retreated back to the castle.

You were upset, but you knew you had no right to be. James wasn’t yours, and you had never told Lily of your feelings. If they liked each other, there was nothing you could do. Nothing, except, of course, pushing it down and asking Remus out.

“You’re kidding,” Remus said, shocked by your request.

“It’s just a trip to Hogsmeade, Remus, it’s really not that big of a deal.”

“You’re crazy if you think I’m saying yes.”

“Well that’s pretty rude,” you scoffed.

“No! Not like that, I just mean-“ Remus’s voice trailed off as you listened intently, “you’re James’s best friend.”

“Technically so are you,” you responded.

“But he, like— whatever. Not a date?”

“Not a date, sure,” you clarified, honestly just happy to accept the company, “just two friends hanging out. That’s a thing girls and boys can do, right?”

Remus looked at you strangely. “Yeah?”

You smiled at him, telling him you’d see him later that night before walking away. Sirius slapped his arm. “James is gonna kill you, you know,” he said.

Remus just shrugged. Of course he knew that James liked you, and always had, but this wasn’t a date, so what did it matter? He was also allowed to be friends with you.

You and Remus enjoyed the evening walking through the streets of Hogsmeade and sharing a butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks, and you fought with every cell in your being to avoid bringing up James. Every time Remus tried to, you shut him down and changed the subject. You wanted to vent about him, but admitting your feelings to someone else made them all the more real, and you weren’t ready to face true rejection quite yet.

When you returned, you entered the common room together, and saw James and Sirius draped over the couch.

“Hey,” James said, sitting up as you both approached the couch, “where were you guys?”

“Just hanging out,” you shrugged nonchalantly, dropping down onto the couch next to him.

“I didn’t know you guys hung out, like, alone,” he said, forcing a small laugh on the last words to make them seem lighthearted.

“I didn’t know you and Lily hung out alone either,” you responded, catching his gaze for a full thirty seconds before you joked, “you just upset I finally have a friend that isn’t you or her?”

James forced a chuckle in response, but there was a slight bit of tension in the air between you both.

Things stayed the same as always as time passed. You hoped your time with Remus would spark some jealousy within James, but he didn’t seem to care. Every time you looked at him, his eyes were next to you and on Lily.

The one thing that did change, however, is James started throwing around a pet name for you.

You were excused from Potions one day to grieve the loss of your grandfather, who was an extremely important part of your life. You adored him, and you had a close relationship.

James found you alone in the west tower, crying at the bottom of the curved staircase.

“I figured something was up when you didn’t show,” he spoke, sitting down next to you, “what’s wrong?”

“My grandfather passed away this morning,” you explained, “I received word from my mother just before Potions. I just couldn’t bring myself to go.”

You wiped your nose with the back of your robe sleeve, taking a deep breath to calm your crying.

“Oh, angel, I’m so sorry.”

Your heart skipped a beat. James had never called you angel before. It felt so intimate, so endearing, and so personal. He threw around terms like “doll” and “baby” to other girls, but never angel.

You rested your head against his chest and calmed your breathing.

The next day, James missed you in the common room in the morning, first seeing you for the day in Defense Against the Dark Arts. “You doing okay, angel?” he asked.

You blushed at his words, and he caught it, but assumed it was because you were upset and fighting back tears. “I’m okay,” you smiled.

A few weeks later, James was shitfaced drunk at a Ravenclaw party, sat in a large group with you and your friends. You stood to get another bottle, and James called out to you, “Hey, angel, can you get me one too?”

That was the first time he ever used the term in front of Lily, or in front of anyone, and it slightly confused you, but also thrilled you. You handed him the bottle, and he watched you sink back down to the floor, sitting cross-legged next to Lily. When you met his gaze again, he diverted his attention to Lily, and you sighed.

He then started casually calling you angel.

It was nearing the end of your term, and therefore your time at Hogwarts, and your patience was gone. You had nothing to lose. If James was weird about it, or rejected you, you could just ice him out, and without Hogwarts, you could avoid ever seeing him again. That’s not what you wanted, but it was a possible worst case scenario.

After finals were over, you asked to speak to James alone.

You pulled him into a now-empty classroom, shutting the door behind you for privacy and taking a deep breath.

“Everything ok?” he asked, leaning back against one of the desks.

“I need to talk to you,” you replied.

“Yeah, I get that,” James giggled, “what’s up?”

Both of your hearts were pounding, and both of you assumed the feeling was solitary.

“I need to tell you something,” you said, your voice small and shaky.

“Okay, you’re kinda starting to scare me, angel.”

You took a deep breath, slowly exhaling as you tried to steady yourself. “You genuinely have no idea what I’m gonna say?”

James was slightly taken aback by your question. “I don’t remember doing anything bad.”

“No, James-“ you rubbed your hands over your eyes, desperate for him to understand you without you having to be clear or coherent at all. You didn’t want to say it out loud, you just wanted him to know already.

“I have no idea what’s going on,” he said.

You sighed. You closed your eyes and bowed your head, hoping you would be able to speak the words while simultaneously pretending he wasn’t there. “I like you.”

“Aweh, thanks, I like you too,” he said.

“No, oh my god-“ you spun around and paced for a moment, sighing loudly before stopping in front of him again. “No, like, I like you.”

“Oh.”

You looked up at him. That’s it? That’s all he had to say? Oh?

“Yeah.”

“I thought you liked Remus?” James spoke, confused by your confession.

“What would make you think I like Remus?”

“I don’t know, probably the dates you keep going on with him?” James threw his hands up, as if it was obvious.

“We’re just friends, I haven’t been-“ your voice trailed off for a moment. “James?”

He looked down at you expectantly. “Yeah?”

“I know we’ve been friends forever,” you started, “and I really don’t want you to hate me or this to be ruined, but term is ending, and you should probably know that I’ve had feelings for you since we first met.”

You exhaled, letting out a heavy breath that you weren’t aware you were holding in.

“I-“

You cut him off before he could respond, “and I know you like Lily, so I’m sorry I’m telling you this, I’m just kinda tired of holding it in.”

James furrowed his brows in confusion. “What?”

“I don’t want to fuck up whatever it is you two have going on,” you said, and it was genuine, “I know you really like her.”

James tilted his head to the side. “Based on what?”

You returned his confused gaze. “What do you mean?”

“Why would you think I’m into Lily?”

“Be-because you are?”

“No I’m not,” he defended.

“James, it’s okay, you don’t have to lie to me, every single time we’re with her I can see you staring at her.”

James instantly knew what you were talking about.

“No, no, that’s not it,” he stopped you, “she’s just always the closest thing to shift my attention to when you catch me.”

You paused for a moment. “Catch you what?” you asked.

“Staring at you.”

You were so taken aback that you physically stepped backwards. “What?”

“Mhm,” he said, confident.

“But- but I’ve seen you alone with her, walking the grounds-“

“Lily is the only person on this planet I talk to about you.”

“About me?”

James reached a hand out and tucked a piece of hair behind your ear, and sighed of relief. “Angel, I’ve been in love with you since you first asked to sit with me on the train.”

You opened your mouth to speak several times, but only small noises came out. You were speechless as James wrapped an arm your waist and pulled you flush against him.

“But-“

“Get out of your own head and listen to me,” James said.

“But I-“

“Shut up,” James sighed, pressing his lips onto yours to keep you from refusing to believe him any longer. Your muscles relaxed as you melted into his touch, your hand caressing the side of his face as you kissed him back. Your lips moved in sync with his. Molded with him, you were home.

James’s hand moved down from your waist to grab the flesh of your ass, pushing your hips harder against his, causing you to whine into the kiss. James moved his hands lower and lower until they were behind your thighs, prompting you to jump. He caught your legs as they wrapped around his waist, and he spun you around, seating you on the desk, his lips never breaking from yours.

Once you were seated, his hands held the sides of your face, desperate to deepen the kiss even more. You had both waited forever for this moment, and you both wanted to savor it as much as you possibly could.

You whimpered when he pulled your hips against his again, grinding his clothed cock against your clothed core.

He pulled away and smiled at you.

“What?” you blushed.

James nearly growled, “you sound even prettier than I dreamed you would.”

You looked deep into his eyes, and could tell he was being genuine. “You’ve been dreaming about me?”

“Feels like every night,” he said, his voice low as he slowly pulled your shirt above your head, and then ran a hand up and down your side, sending shivers down your body, “I’ve dreamed about simple little things, like holding your hand, kissing you, holding you…”

A hand moved to your skirt, pushing it up to your waist and beginning to move your underwear to the side as he continued, “and I’ve dreamed about fucking you, and watching you come around my cock.”

His words sent chills down your spine, his lips connecting to your neck as you sighed in pleasure.

He ran a finger between your folds, sucking the side of your neck as you shuddered. He collected your wetness before slowly inserting a finger into you.

You threw your head back, holding onto James’s shoulders to keep yourself upright.

“This all for me?” James asked.

“Mhm,” you moaned, unable to speak.

He slowly pulled out and pushed in his finger, watching your mouth fall open.

Your fingers ran through the curls on the back of his head, holding him against you.

“J-James,” you moaned, his palm applying pressure to your clit and doubling the stimulation.

James dipped his head for a moment and released a low, guttural moan from his throat.

“You okay?” you breathed out.

James giggled, his hand never stopping. “Did you just ask me if I’m okay?”

You nodded your head yes.

“I’m literally fingering you right now,” James said.

The reality of the situation dawned on you, and you realized what you asked, and you couldn’t help but laugh. James laughed with you, continuing to fuck you with his fingers as he swallowed your noises with a kiss. You were so, so happy.

The joy and laughter of the situation brought you close to the edge, your walls squeezing around James’s finger. He felt it, and immediately pulled his finger out of you.

You gasped at the loss of contact, the cool air hitting your wet core. You looked up at James, your eyes confused and desperate.

James smirked at you. “I wanna fuck you, angel, it’s no fun if you come already.”

“Yeah, but, but I-“

“There’s more where that came from,” James said, placing a kiss onto your forehead, assuring you this was not a solitary event. “For right now, though, please just let me fuck you.”

You nodded your head up and down rapidly, as eager as ever to feel James inside of you.

James pushed his pants down and freed himself, giving his cock a few strokes as he looked down at your body. He lined himself up with your entrance, looking to you for permission.

“I’ve wanted you for so long, James, please,” you spoke.

James immediately pushed his tip inside of you, and you inhaled a sharp breath. James slowly pushed the rest of his length into you, stopping once he was fully inside of you, allowing you to adjust to his size.

“Shit, you’re big,” you moaned.

James moaned back in response, your words making him harder as he slowly pulled partially out of you.

“Can I?” he asked.

“Please, James, move,” you answered.

James pushed back into you, your wetness lubricating his cock as you laid your back down onto the desk, no longer having the strength to hold yourself up anymore.

James took the opportunity to grab your breast, watching as your body moved up and down in sync with his thrusts. Your head was almost entirely off the desk, your neck tilting slightly backward, causing each moan to come out strangled.

Laying down meant James could see your entire body as he fucked you, and he was losing control at the sight of your breasts bouncing with each hit of his hips.

He picked up his pace, harshly grabbing both of your hips in order to push you into him with each thrust.

“Fuck,” you cried out, the entire classroom echoing as the legs of the desk shifted slightly across the floor.

“You feel so fucking good,” James praised.

You whined and whimpered and moaned beneath him, unbearably turned on by the feeling of his cock finally inside of you.

James moved one of his hands to your core, rubbing circles against your clit as he fucked you.

Your body jolted upward and you grabbed at James’s shoulders, pulling yourself up and hanging off of his neck. You were eager to come around him, and you kissed him hard.

“Please, James, make me come,” you begged, hoping your pleas would help him reach his climax as well. Though the sex wasn’t too long, you were so aroused by finally having him, and you knew you couldn’t last much longer.

James began to piston his hips into you even harder, determined to bring you to your climax. He wanted to savor the sex, but it would be so fucking hot to see you come in a matter of minutes. It stroked his ego, knowing that you were so hot for him that you were going to come from just a few minutes of stimulation.

“James, I-“

“Come for me, angel.”

The use of the pet name in your current position was enough to push you over the edge. You squeezed James’s cock, your legs shaking around James’s waist as you came.

“Shit, where can I come?” James asked through shaky breaths, his thrusts becoming sloppy as he chased his own high after feeling you squeeze him.

“In me.”

“You sure?”

“I’m- yes, I w-want your come in me, please, Jamie, please-“

The nickname and the pleading had James coming inside of you with a final few sharp thrusts of his hips. He groaned as he came, settling inside of you for a few moments while he caught his breath.

He slowly pulled out of you, watching his seed spill out of your hole when he was out. He couldn’t help but lean down and lick the juices up, savoring the taste. You shuddered when his tongue touched you, you were so overstimulated.

James helped you stand, your body aching from the uncomfortableness of the wood beneath you.

“You alright?” James checked in.

“I’m alright,” you confirmed, leaning upward to place a kiss on his lips.

“You able to walk back out there?”

Your legs were shaky. You tried to take a few steps, but you nearly collapsed, and James caught a hold of you.

He smiled at you, turning his back to you and bending down.

“You serious?” you asked.

“‘F course.”

“James, I’m still wet. Won’t it get-“

“You jumping up or not?” James asked.

You hopped onto his back, holding onto him for dear life as he stood tall and swung the classroom door open.

At that very moment, of course, Sirius, Remus, Peter, and Lily walked past the room.

“Oh hey you two,” Sirius said, noticing how unkempt your hair was and how flushed James looked, “had some fun, did we?”

You reached a hand out to hit his arm as James stepped in front of him, joining the group with you wrapped around him.

“Child,” he whispered to you, referencing you being carried on his back.

“At least this time I have valid reasoning for not being able to walk.”

#james potter #james potter x y/n #james potter x reader #james potter smut #james potter fanfic #james potter imagines #marauders #marauders era #marauders era smut #marauders x reader #marauders era imagines #marauders era fanfic #harry potter #asks

1K notes · View notes

eclipixels · 3 months ago

Text

Teasing The Monster

Yoichi Isagi x Reader

Content: You love your sweet and kind boyfriend, but what about that other side of him? What are you willing to do to get the monster inside of him out to play?

Wanings: 🍋

[2,622 words]

You and Yoichi have conflicting and busy schedules so when you two finally get a day off together, you take full advantage of it. It's usually spent going on dates and quality time, but you really couldn't go out today due to the weather warnings of a blizzard.

So, you decided to stay in and watch a movie. You picked a random romance film, which turned out to be quite good. However, you didn’t expect the intimate scenes—or the way they’d leave you feeling so aroused.

You were curled up beside Yoichi, just like always when the two of you sat close. Your heart raced as the couple on screen shared their passionate moments. Even after the movie ended, the lingering frustration between your legs remained, and Yoichi’s hand resting casually on your hip didn't help.

You silently prayed that he wouldn’t figure it out. Somehow, he always seemed to know. Even before joining Blue Lock, he had a knack for reading your thoughts, but after coming back, his ability to read you had only sharpened.

You swallowed hard, feeling your boyfriend shift behind you as he stretched.

"That was a good movie, what'd ya think?" He asked, tilting his head towards you.

"Was good." You said quickly, knowing that if you spoke more than three words, your tone would give away how you were feeling.

Yoichi didn't find your response too odd, as you have often given vague answers in the past when asked about this sorta stuff.

But it was your body language that betrayed you.

"You okay?" He asked, his eyes showing concern. It made your heart melt how gentle and caring he was with you. So sweet and kind, it was the Yoichi you fell in love with your first year of High School.

"Mhm" you responded, making the incredibly stupid decision of hiding your face in his chest. You thought this would throw him off your trail. He wouldn't be able to read you anymore and would just assume you needed some cuddles.

But the flaw you didn't consider was how much worse this would make your problem.

Being this close to him made it so much harder to contain the lustful thoughts that clouded your head. You also didn't consider how shifting yourself to fit into his chest would cause his hand to fall from your hip to above your thigh. This wasn't good.

All was quiet for a moment, though. You thought you had beaten him, you felt a little proud of yourself too. All you could hear was the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

But then you heard him whisper in your ear, "I know you need me right now."

A shiver ran down your spine.

You looked up at him bewildered, a smirk playing on his lips. Before you could open your mouth to ask how, he already answered.

"Tense, thighs pressed shut, not to mention that look on your face and how fast your heart is racing. I'm a little offended you thought I wouldn't notice."

You look at his happy little grin, like he's accomplished something great. All you could do is roll your eyes, feeling extremely embarrassed and flustered.

"So?" Is all you could manage to muster.

"Wanna do something about it?" Yoichi murmurs in your ear, looking effortlessly sexy with his dark hair in his eyes and his tongue poking in his cheek.

"Hm, maybe" You tease, your shy smile becoming something more mischievous.

He can’t help but lean in and capture your lips in a soft kiss, holding you so tenderly like you'd break under his touch. So gentle. And you loved it, you loved how careful he was with you.

But right now, you didn't want gentle.

You wanted crazy, rough, and borderline feral Isagi. The one the world sees on the soccer field. There was only one way to get that Yoichi, and it was to deprive him of control.

You stop your boyfriends roaming hands, constraining them in place. You could tell it caught him off guard. He knew he was what you wanted, he couldn't have possibly assumed wrong, and you even gave in to the kiss. Why were you doing the opposite of what you want? Why weren't you letting him touch you?

"Baby, what's wrong?" He asked so innocently, baby blue eyes clouded with confusion. It almost made you feel bad. Your poor baby.

You pulled away from the kiss, staring into those eyes. There was no fire in them yet. You needed to do more to get him riled up.

You go back in for a kiss but this time on his neck. You shift a little, lifting yourself up onto his lap. You leave sloppy kisses along his jawline, neck, and collarbone while lazily grinding against him.

He opens his mouth a little, pretty little noises escaping past his soft lips. And then you just stopped. Now he was even more confused. Why were you teasing him? Was it just for fun to torture him like this?

That's when you saw it, the spark. A slight frown also began tugging at his lips. He was beginning to grow frustrated. You needed one more push to replace your sweet, kind boyfriend with the domineering, best striker in the world Yoichi Isagi.

You could tell he was giving you some grace, he wanted to believe you weren't doing it on purpose. But you needed him to realize what it was you wanted. He was always reading your mind and figuring out things you didn't want him to. Let's see if he can figure out something you do want him to.

As your final move, you completely pulled yourself off of him. You admit, it pained you to leave him all hot and bothered like that. You stood up and got ready to casually walk away, thinking of what excuse you were going to give.

"Just where do you think you're going?" He erupted, a hand landing on your waist, pulling you back towards him. You collapsed underneath him on the bed, his hands pinning you to the mattress.

"The kitchen?" You say, trying to act like you didn't know what you were doing.

"Try again." He commands. His face was mere inches away from yours again. There was no way you were going to leave him like this, with a problem only you could solve. You could see the little flames starting to appear.

You couldn't help the smug grin that broke out of your lips. "Why don't you find out, egoist?"

It's like you flipped a switch inside of him and now his mind was racing with thoughts. Thoughts of fucking you to oblivion and thoughts of what the hell you were playing at.

“what’s the matter?” you lay waiting, panting beneath him. "Can't figure it out?"

He looked at you, in the same way he gets when he’s piecing himself together during a match. It happens when you don’t let him in and he can't get what he wants.

This is where everything changes. You finally got to the little monster inside of him.

“don’t push, brat” he breathes, his voice low and daring. It enough to make you squeeze your thighs together again, trying to relieve the frustration. But your own selfishness leads to your loss as it was all that was needed for Yoichi to figure it out.

"Oh" he smirks against your lips, trailing wet kisses down your neck, mimicking your earlier actions on him. "I get it."

Your breath hitches once he gets to the sensitive part of your collarbone, his lips sucking on the skin that would leave pretty little purple marks in the morning.

"You want me when I'm mean, isn't that right, princess?" He finishes off by biting the skin there. You yelp, looking down to see your skin between his teeth.

You don't say anything, knowing it that it would annoy him more.

"Answer me." He growled against your skin. “you know how this usually ends for you.”

You don't care, you want the consequences. You instead giggle, watching Yoichi go crazy from the way your treating him. But, he loves a game. He knows he'll make you give in, he just has to devour you at your own game. Tease you back.

He has you trapped underneath him, pressing his knee in-between your legs ever so slightly, putting the smallest amount of pressure. You let out a slight noise and it was music to Yoichi's ears. He wanted more, give him more.

His kisses go down from your neck to your chest, lifting your shirt up to lazily lick the area around your breasts. He was marking you like crazy too, hickeys forming everywhere his lips have touched.

His hands go down, playing with the waistband of your panties. You know you're soaked at this point.

You feel embarrassed when Yoichi dips his hands into your underwear and immediately gets coated in your slick. The smirk he gives when he pulls his hands out to make you look.

"Look at how needy you are for me." He spoke cockily before plunging his finger inside of you. You let out a moan of relief and it sent fireworks down Yoichi's body. You feel his fingers play against your folds, starting to fuck you faster and harder.

Just when you're about to cum, he stops. You jolt, whining in frustration at the lack of release. You pout, giving him a look that conveyed what he was doing was unfair.

"Whats the matter? Isn't this what you wanted?" Yoichi grabs your hips and pulls you towards him. You feel his hardness against you as he goes on to kiss you, sucking on your lower lip.

"Ichi, need you," You whine pathetically, looking up at him through your tear-stained lashes. Your boyfriend scoffs at this, wondering how you could be so cruel to him earlier and then go on acting like you were the victim in the situation.

"What do you need from me?" he asks, already anticipating your answer, knowing it will strike just the right chords in his brain. The sweet satisfaction of hearing your desires, him being the only one in the world that could please them.

"All of you, n-need all of you in me. Wanna be stuffed full of you." You cry out, growing impatient.

"I want you to look at what I do to you, m'kay?" He makes out between breathy whispers. You nod in response, watching as he pulls back and a rush of a cold air hits from the lack of his warm body against yours.

Suddenly, you feel the soft flesh of his cock against your core and the soft slam of him entering you. You mewl into his touch, his right hand going up to hold your hip in place and the other on your breast.

It feels live heaven and earth colliding as he repeatedly fucks you into the mattress. All sorts of curses fall out your mouth as you melt like putty, your mind dissolving.

You look away, your head turning to the side as you try to take him in. Yoichi snaps, his hand grabbing your chin to face it downward, forcing you to watch how his cock slides in and out of your needy, wet cunt.

"So disobedient, when'd you become such a brat?" He growled through his teeth. "Huh? What happened to my sweet little Y/n."

"ichi, please...” you gasp with the heavy slam of his hips against yours. You let out a cry of satisfaction, loving the unhinged way he was looking at you. It was like a high you could only get when with each other.

“No,” He denies you. “why’d you gotta mess with me like that, huh?”

You start to see stars as he handles you like a rag doll, his grip sure to leave bruises. This is exactly what you wanted. This was better than the movie scenes from earlier.

"G-gonna come" You whine, feeling the heat in your stomach gather into a ball.

"Oh really?" He mocked, leaning back to angle himself deeper. "'Think you deserve to? Who said you could."

"Ichi" You pleaded, bleary eyed. Yoichi could practically die at your cuteness, which is what made it so much better when you begged.

"Teasing me just to make me mad?—fuck—could've just asked nicely. Y'know how badly you got me wrapped around your finger."

"Don't stop, please. I'm sorry, s-so sorry" you placed a hand on his chest and the other on his back, clawing your nails down.

"Oh? You're sorry?" He mocked, knowing full well the extent he'd go to mess with even the person he loved most in the world. "I don't think you are"

Without warning, Yoichi flips you over so that you're lying on your stomach. He has your face stuffed into a pillow and ass up, enjoying the way your whole body shakes each time he slams into you. He leaves harsh kisses all down your back.

With one last thrust into you, your body erupts in flames as your orgasm takes over. You swear you saw the heavens as your eyes rolled back and your nails dug into your boyfriend's skin. Obscenities fill the room as you come undone. Pain and exhaustion shoot through your legs once you're done, and you realize how much Yoichi has really worked you.

Your pretty boyfriend isn't far behind as he comes after, filling you to the brim with his milky seed. He holds your hips down onto him, giving a few sloppy last thrusts before collapsing beside you.

"Too cute," Your boyfriend coos, stars sparkling in his eyes. He laughs at how absolutely dazed you look right now, returning back to the normal sweet Yoichi Isagi you knew and loved. You just stare at him, trying to figure out how he could just do that. Was that even the same person?

"I meant it when I said you could've just asked, by the way." He smiles, wrapping a hand around your waist as he pulls you into a cuddle.

"Oh, I just was- I didn't know how to ask." You admit, feelings a little dumb. I mean, how do you ask your boyfriend you want him to go feral and man-handle you without raising some concerns?

"That's okay, I can always figure it out on my own anyway. You're my favorite book to read." He snuggles into you, placing his face into the crook of your neck. He could never get enough of you. He didn't mind reading in between the lines for you, but God did he love it when you told him what you wanted directly.

"Okay, I'll tell you next time." You breathed, leaning into his embrace, both your skins sticky with sweat.

"Next time..." He blushed, thinking about it. No, seriously, how was this the same guy? Was he actually growing flustered thinking about it right after he just fucked you dumb?

"Yes, next time, ichi." You smiled, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. It was a vanilla-ish contrast to the events of today.

"I love you so much." He whispered, adoring the way you doted on him.

"I love you more."

"But don't tease me like that again, next time I won't be so nice." He growled, and you swear you almost died on the spot.

"That just makes me more inclined to." You laugh, looking up into his cerulean eyes that glowed with a green fire.

"What am I going to do with you?" He shakes his head, fingers climbing up your ribs.

"I have some ideas..." You propose. Today was going to be a long day. And you had no interruptions to stop you.

#isagi yoichi #isagi x reader #blue lock isagi #bllk isagi #isagi x you #yoichi isagi #yoichi x reader #blue lock #smut #bllk x reader #bllk #bllk smut

362 notes · View notes

tadpole-apocalypse · 1 year ago

Text

Just some Astarion vampire headcanons and thoughts I’ve brainstormed with my partner, since dnd vampirism is a little lean on actual lore and rules.

Feeding gives him a “blush of life” effect that I’m just stealing shamelessly from vampire the requiem rules. No heartbeat, but he’ll be warmer, flushed and less corpse-like than normal. Can pass for a living person.

Needs to feed to get erections. No blood, no boner.

Being starved of blood starts shutting down his senses. Taste is always fucked up now because of the vampirism, but without blood his senses of touch, smell, as well as vision and hearing, are all heavily impacted. This was deliberate by Cazador to keep him weakened.

When he says most of his lovers/victims couldn’t even provide him temporary bliss, it’s because (unknown to him) his sense of touch is extremely dulled while starved. Rat blood makes him functional but it barely allows him to feel any stimulation.

The blood of thinking creatures is akin to ambrosia. It’s not just the temporary satiation of his unending hunger, but being able to feel things again. The wind on his skin, the damp chill of a rainy night, the heat from the grymforge…even being able to sweat again. It’s all brand new to him.

His senses on thinking creature’s blood are not only restored but sharpened. More so after the tadpole is removed and his full spawn power is unlocked again.

Can smell your blood while it’s still in your veins; moving thru your body. Can sense an emotional (or sexual 🥴) response this way. His heightened hearing can easily tell when your heart rate quickens.

That’s all I got! I’d love to hear more, if anyone has their own vampirism headcanons to share 👀

#bg3 #astarion #dnd vampirism

2K notes · View notes

lipglossanon · 2 months ago

Text

Until the End

Real son!Leon S. Kennedy x real mom!reader (one shot)

Warnings: incest, dead dove, mom/son, simp Leon, cnc (reader’s “not” into it at first 😉), kissing, dirty talk, teasing, oral (f receiving), just the tip 😩, unprotected sex, creampie, mommy kink to the extreme

not proofread ✍️ it’s been a while since I’ve worked on anything so hopefully this doesn’t suck lmao the ending is just kinda meh

shoutout to the discord; I posted some of this WIP and they gave me the inspo to finish 🤭

title from the Breaking Benjamin song

It’s a quiet affair when you sign the divorce papers. Your husband—of twenty four years—deciding that he’d rather live overseas with his secretary instead of sticking it out; it’s not something you would have foreseen, but as they say hindsight’s always 20/20. It upset you at first but once the indignation died down, you realize you feel more relief than anything. Things have been strained for years and then in the last five, he’s barely been home long enough to chat about your days.

The one who took it the hardest out of anyone is Leon. Your husband offered him a place to stay, but he chose to live with you (being a mama’s boy through and through). After his father left, Leon angrily refused to speak with him anymore and instead focused on his work and trying to pick up any slack around the house. Not that you hadn’t already been doing that for years, but it’s sweet of him to want to take care of you.

He dotes on you now, making sure you’re eating and drinking and taking care of yourself. His friends tease him about it or rib him about having a milf (which you had the unfortunate chance to overhear as you walked into the living room). Meeting Leon’s mortified gaze, you smile tightly and walk through to the kitchen. He kicks them out and apologizes profusely to you, face buried in the crook of your neck, lips brushing your skin as he murmurs how sorry he is and promises it won’t happen again.

Things go back to normal for a while. The absence of your husband is something you don’t even notice anymore. Leon is more than capable of moving out and living on his own, but he says it’s closer to work and easier to keep an eye on you if he lives at home. Besides, he told you with a serious face, he doesn’t have a girlfriend to make things awkward so for now you just need to chill out and let him take care of things.

He gets a promotion at work, no longer relegated to being just a traffic cop, and you couldn’t be more proud! Your offer to take him out to a nice dinner gets turned down; in its place is an evening of take out and drinking. Since it’s the weekend, neither of you are worried about being hungover the next day, so you both end up drinking more than you usually would.

Later, Leon walks with you from the dining room to the living room, each of you laughing at some silly joke that you can’t even remember.

Settling together on the couch, he tucks into your side, face nuzzling against your neck like he used to do as a little boy. You giggle and run your hand through his hair.

“You’re so sweet, Leon,” you murmur, “but aren’t you a little too old to be cuddling your mom?”

“Uh uh,” he whines, making you laugh harder, “always need you, mama.”

“Okay, okay,” you pat his head, slumping further into the couch, the alcohol buzzing through your veins, “my little boy’s all grown up.”

Feeling maudlin now at remembering that the passage of time waits for no one, you sniffle and it draws Leon’s attention.

“What’s a’matter?” He mumbles, hazy blue eyes sharpening to see your tears, “mom?”

You smile and cup his cheek. Neither of you have shied away from physical affection; however, you remember on more than one occasion you thought Leon went overboard with cuddling and snuggling with you. Now that seems like a silly thought, he just missed you during his long hours on duty.

“Nothing, just so proud of you,” you smile, dropping your hand to rub his shoulder.

He kisses your cheek and you coo softly. Moving closer, he lands another soft kiss to the corner of your lips. Blaming it on the alcohol, a warm thrum of heat sings through your stomach.

“Mama,” he whimpers, lips clumsily landing on yours.

You freeze, body heavy and thoughts slow. Leon presses his mouth more firmly against yours and you gasp, lips parting under his and he eagerly kisses you harder. Whining, you try to tug your head away but he follows you, kisses becoming rougher while pressing you deeper against the couch.

Your hands come up and tangle in his hair, but instead of pulling him back they scrape against his scalp, making him groan deliciously. He shifts, pulling away to tilt his head at a better angle before pressing another hot kiss against your lips. You sink into it, clit pulsing in arousal, mouth tingling from each sloppy kiss from your son.

Finally, you twist away, panting heavily while Leon rests his forehead against your jaw.

“Mama, why’d you stop?” He presses a soft kiss under your ear, making you shiver.

“Leon, this—this isn’t right,” you plead, eyelashes fluttering as he nips and sucks your neck.

“Just this once,” he murmurs, lips dragging against your skin and sending chills down your body. “Let me show you how much I appreciate you, mommy.”

His words and actions are muddling your mind… and you’ve been lonely for so long. Swallowing, you breath out a shaky breath, mind made up.

“O-okay,” your body feels hot, muttering that out loud.

Moaning, he bites your jaw then kisses your cheek. “Thank you.”

He shows his appreciation by kissing the breath from your lungs; your son’s excitement ramps up your own, cunt pulsing with need as slick fills your panties. Wet, drugging kisses pass between you until you completely lose yourself to the feeling, making out with Leon until your lips are swollen.

You jump, feeling his fingers trail along your thigh, slipping under your skirt and brushing against your panties.

“God, you’re so wet. Wanna bury my face in your pussy.”

You moan, and he teases your cunt through the soppy fabric.

“You can’t,” your hips grind down into his hand.

“Okay, promise I’ll behave,” he chuckles.

Without another word, he flips your skirt up and slips your panties down your legs to bunch at your ankles.

“Oh mommy,” he moans, fingers tracing your slit up and down before circling your clit, “your pussy’s so soft. Fuck me.”

Your hips buck and he bites his bottom lip, fingers rubbing up and down your pussy lips.

“So, so soft,” he whispers, eyes glued to where his fingers are touching, “my stubble’s gonna feel so rough when I kiss her, mama.”

You whine high and reedy but shake your head, “No, no, this is all I’m allowing, Leon. You promised.”

“Just a kiss or two,” he murmurs, voice low and smoky, “she needs it, look how soft and sweet she is, just begging for my mouth. C’mon, mama, just let me have a couple of kisses.”

Your resolve cracks at his pleading.

“Just a couple, then we stop,” you try to sound firm but your voice comes out breathier than you’d like.

“Mmhmm, thank you, mama,” he kisses the side of your cheek then the corner of your lips.

You feel a little disappointed that he stops to kneel between your legs. He brings his hands up to spread apart your cunt, slick dripping from your hole as his mouth hovers over your mound.

“Oh fuck, mom,” Leon whines, tongue lapping at your clit, “so fucking wet. Am I making you this wet? God, your pussy’s so fucking sexy.”

Another groan and he’s fluttering his tongue across your pudgy bud before sucking it gently into his mouth. He pulls back and kisses the hood of your clit. You moan softly and cant your hips up.

“W-we shouldn’t, baby,” you plead, fingers tangling in his hair again, but not pushing him away.

“Been wanting to do this forever, dreaming about how I wanna lick your pretty pussy til you cream all over my face,” he pants, dilated eyes watching your face, “gonna make you cum over and over tonight.”

“Fuck,” you gasp as he thrusts his tongue into your pussy, walls clamping around the slippery muscle, “Leon!

He hums and grinds his nose against your clit as his tongue fucks in and out of your hole, spit dripping down your ass onto the couch cushions. Your eyes flutter as your orgasm winds tight in your abdomen.

“Need to eat you out everyday, mama,” he pulls back, slick shining across his lips and chin, “treat this pussy like she deserves. Don’t you wanna feel good?”

He sucks your clit back into his mouth, hot tongue flicking against the sensitive bud. It only takes a few more teasing licks before your climax breaks over your body like a tidal wave. Toes curling, your hands tug on his hair making him moan, tonguing at your fluttering cunt until he finally pulls away with one last sucking kiss.

He crowds you on the couch, thick forearms hooking under your knees to keep you spread open. He nods down to his jeans; your eyes flit from his face to the bulge pressing obscenely against his zipper.

“Pull it out,” he murmurs, blue eyes nearly black. “Take my cock out so I can stuff your cunt, mommy.”

Shaking your head, your voice cracks, “No, baby. That’s going too far.”

He whines, “But it hurts, mama. You’re being so mean. At least jerk me off.”

Biting your lip, his pouty mouth has you reaching forward, undoing his pants and tugging them down his thighs. You gently ease his dick from his briefs, uncut head sticky with precum. You both moan when you grip his stiff cock, the blood hot skin against your palm turning you on more than you ever thought. Thumb pressing against the slit, you smear the pearlescent sheen across his tip until he’s whimpering.

“Mommy,” his hips thrust forward, “it’s sensitive.”

He sags forward, and your legs slide up his arms until your calves press against his biceps. This new position has his dick grinding against your swollen cunt, the head grazing across your pudgy clit. Your fingers loosely circle the base of his cock, the backs of your knuckles brushing against his balls.

“So good, fuck,” he chokes out, humping your pussy. “Just let me cum like this, let me mark you up, mama. Yeah, just coat this sexy fucking pussy with my cum.”

Keening, you let go of his cock to feather your fingers against his heavy balls. “You can, you can cum all over me.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” he chants, pink lips parted and eyebrows furrowed as he watches his cock slip between your pussy lips to rub against your hole. “Mommy, just let me put the tip in, please? Promise it’ll just be the tip. Please.”

You know you should say no, but then again you should’ve put a stop to this before it even started. Just the tip wouldn’t be so bad, you think, eyes greedily taking in his fat, drippy tip. It wouldn’t hurt to let him try it out.

“Just the tip, Leon,” you murmur, flicking up to meet his blown out gaze. “But only this once.”

“Thank you,” he groans, “love you so much, mama.”

Moving one hand from his hold on your leg, he grips his cock and guides the head to your clenching hole. His thumb presses down on the head as he rocks forward, slipping the tip into your wet cunt. You suck in a deep breath at the same time he grunts. The other hand gripping your thigh tightens, fingertips tightly digging into the soft skin.

Leon blows out a breath, tongue darting out to wet his lower lip. “You feel so good.”

He ruts the head of his cock in and out of your pussy, the wet schlick loud in the otherwise quiet living room. Your hands move over your head to drape over the back of the couch, fingers grasping at the cushions.

“Can I—,” he cuts himself off, eyes squeezing shut. “Can I go a little deeper, mommy?”

Your slick hole clenches down on him and he whimpers.

“H-how much deeper?” You hear yourself say, mouth running away from you.

“Just an inch or two,” he gasps, feeling overwhelmed by the heat of your cunt. “Pretty please, mommy.”

You nod, eyes unable to look away from where he’s splitting you open, dick driving deeper and deeper—going so much farther than a few inches—into your pussy until he’s completely buried in your pulsing walls.

“Leon!” You cry out, head falling back as your cunt stretches around the fat girth of his cock.

“Sorry, mama,” he practically slurs, pussy drunk already. “Didn’t mean to, it just slipped.”

You whimper at the pleasure pain of his tip kissing your cervix as he grinds himself against your cunt. Clit rubbing against his pelvis makes you squeeze and clench around his dick, in turn making him groan from deep in his chest. He barely pulls out before fucking back into your sopping wet hole.

“So perfect,” his face pinches in pleasure. “God, mom, your pussy—gonna make me cum so fast.”

You dig your hands into the couch and roll your hips down into his thrusts, “You need to pull out, baby. It’s bad to cum inside. You’ve gotta pull out of mommy’s cunt.”

He makes a broken sound from the back of his throat and drives his cock into you with harsh, pounding thrusts.

“No, I’m gonna cum in you, make you nice and full,” he bites out, sweat dripping from the straight line of his nose onto you. “Stuff you so full, mama.”

You can’t hide how his words make your pussy clamp down on his cock, his own hips stuttering as your cunt tries to milk his cock.

“Yeah, mommy, squeezing me so good, so fucking good,” he pants. “Fuck, ‘m gonna cum.”

He reaches down, hot palm a brand across your mound as his thumb teases your clit. You thrash against him, but it’s no use as he strums your swollen bud in rough little circles that makes your thighs tremble.

“Leon,” you moan, a second orgasm quickly building in your core. “Oh god, I’m so close.”

He doesn’t stop the frantic pumping of his hips, fucking his cock into your squelching heat while he rubs your clit—his blue eyes jumping between your face and your pussy. Mouth dropping open, he groans, mumbling praises and promises under his breath. Pinching your clit between the knuckles of his first and middle finger, he gives pulsing squeezes to the sensitive bundle of nerves until you’re cumming loudly.

Your back bows, fireworks going off in your brain, dimly realizing that Leon’s gripping your hips as he wildly fucks your cunt.

“Fuck, fuck, mom,” he chokes on the word, burying himself balls deep in your soft, wet walls and spilling his thick cum as deep as possible.

You whimper, squeezing down on him as the hot splash of his spend fills your cunt. He eventually stills, hips still snugly pressed against you as close as possible. Slick and jizz begin to slowly leak out from around his softening cock. He hisses when he pulls out, then immediately whimpers, fingers playing with his cum dripping from your hole.

“Leon, stop, it’s sensitive,” you gasp, eyes slipping closed when his fingers slide up to rub across your fat clit.

“Sorry, mama,” he pulls back only to drop to his knees, eyes dark, mouth hovering tantalizingly close to your sloppy cunt. “Let me kiss it better.”

#real son!leon s kennedy #mom!reader #leon s kennedy #leon s kennedy smut #leon kennedy smut #leon s kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy x you #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #resident evil smut #mind the tags

308 notes · View notes

zorostitties · 2 months ago

Text

Aurora, 4 (m)

⤕ Your existence had been an endless night, where shadows whispered long forgotten secrets. Trapped in a golden cage, your fragile mind and shattered memories were chains that kept you from dreaming of freedom. Then, he appeared with the first light of dawn, like a gentle sun warming your cold skin. In his gaze, the promise of a new beginning; in his presence, the sunrise your soul had longed for.

In which Alucard saves you from Erzsebet.

pairing: alucard (castlevania) x (f) reader

genre: angst, romance, slow burn, eventual smut

warnings: violence/blood, explicit language, mental health issues, grief, physical abuse.

rating: 18+

word count: 6k

A/N: God!!! I can't believe I finished this chapter so fast!!!! I really wanted to post it before monday. Hope this makes your sunday night a bit less depressing!! Thank you for all the comments past chapter 💞💞 they really motivate me to keep writing! Without further ado, please enjoy <3

⤕ Masterlist ⤕ Also on AO3 ⤕ Playlist

Dracula.

Your reflection on the lake’s surface was distorted – the perfect materialization of your troubled mind.

Dracula.

An acrid taste had been in your tongue for the past hours, making you wonder if you’d actually picked a poisonous mushroom by mistake. No… that probably wasn’t the reason. Your back was as straight as iron, your hands politely over your knees, as you strongly avoided even glancing at the half vampire in front of you while he and Richter rowed the boat.

Dracula was considered by many the Vampire King for a long time. He was extremely powerful.

Richter’s words had been replaying in your head nonstop. You thought about that entire conversation again, and again, and again, trying to put your finger on what exactly triggered that… memory. If you could call it a memory, that is.

It was more of a feeling.

Dracula.

The mention of that name made a shiver run down your spine. Made your reflexes sharpen as if, suddenly, you were in the presence of a hungry wolf ready to launch at you. Not a face awakened in your mind – but a sense of danger that, somehow, felt extremely familiar. As if “Dracula” wasn’t the name of a man, but of a natural disaster, like an erupting volcano.

Where have you heard of that name before?

Perhaps Erzsebet or Drolta had mentioned it around you? After all, Richter said he used to be the Vampire King, and Erzsebet considered herself the Vampire Queen – goddess –; it might’ve made sense for her to talk about him at some point. But why did that name evoked such fear in your gut? Richter also said that this Dracula had been killed hundreds of years ago. You couldn’t have actually met him. Although your sense of time was distorted, there’s no way you’d been alive for that long. You were not a vampire.

And yet… you healed like one.

The more you thought about it, the larger the question mark grew in your thoughts.

Why did you heal?

It wasn’t exactly an ability – you hadn’t learned it, your body just did it. You had no control over it. If you had, you wouldn’t have bothered staying alive for so long under Erzebet’s imprisonment. It was more of a… condition. No matter to what extremes Drolta went with her punishments or Erzsebet’s with her hobby of hurting you when she was bored, your body always mended itself back together.

In fact…

It was more than just “mending” itself back together. It could regrow if necessary.

Vampires could heal from injuries that were fatal for humans. But you’d seen vampires die a lot, too – by Erzsebet’s hands, by Alucard’s hands, by Richter and Annette’s hands. You’d never seen a vampire regrow entire limbs if they were cut using magic or sanctified weapons.

You didn’t heal like a vampire, as Alucard stated back then.

You healed better than one.

It was a bit baffling on your part to have never questioned this condition of yours. Now that you were experiencing the real world, you understood just how truly odd you were. This thing couldn’t be normal and you had no idea why. You were beginning to hate this word – why, why, why. Your existence was surrounded by whys, but your stupid head couldn’t say no becauses, it could only bring forward more whys–

Annette woke up with a loud gasp that made you gasp and flinch away from her.

The girl had been sleeping for the past hour, laying in front of you in a position that couldn’t be comfortable. She jumped to a sitting position, aiming her blade to… nothing, in such a sudden move that yanked you out of your own head and made the two man stop rowing the boat.

She was trembling. The three of you stared at her in shock for some seconds.

“...Annette,” Richter said quietly, as if afraid to scare her. “It’s okay. It was just a dream.”

The girl in yellow didn’t look at him, though, keeping her scared sight glued ahead.

“Are those dreams, too?”

Finally, you looked at where she was pointing with her blade.

It took a while to understand what was between the trees under the moonlight. You narrowed your eyes… and when you understood what you were seeing, you couldn’t help but gasp.

Corpses.

Countless corpses hanging from the trees on the river bank.

“This is Erzsebet’s doing,” Alucard said in a somber tone.

“But we’re miles from Machecoul,” Richter was in disbelief.

Alucard closed his eyes for a moment – a subtle and solemn act of respect, perhaps. “She has followers. Everywhere.”

But then, the wind brought voices to your ears. Groans. Screams. Cries.

There were still people there.

And yet – Alucard would go on to say the thing that would shock you the most.

“Keep rowing.”

The three of you looked at him in disbelief.

That’s… not what you were expecting of him. At all.

Perhaps the fact that, up until now, Alucard had been kind to you in ways that no other person ever were made you get a wrong image of him. A… softer image. You thought he wouldn’t refuse help to anyone, ever. You… didn’t expect his heart could be cold like that.

“Are you just going to leave them behind?” You blurted out before you could control yourself – and immediately regretted it.

Alucard didn’t look exactly angry; his face had the nonchalant expression you were getting used to. Yet, the way he slightly furrowed his brows made you shiver. I should’ve stayed shut, you reprimanded yourself. What right do I have to ask him to put himself in danger for anyone when I myself am pretty useless? What if Alucard gets angry at me? What if he starts hating me from now on?

“We don’t have time for distractions,” he replied, still rowing, still in that same controlled voice.

“But there are people in that village,” Annette argued. She looked angry at Alucard. “They’ll get killed if we don’t help them!” Richter looked from her to the hung bodies back to the vampire, not moving his oar.

“They’re right. We can’t just pass them by,” the blue eyed boy agreed.

The furrow in Alucard’s face deepened.

“If we rush to rescue every distressed villager, Erzsebet will rule the whole country before we have half a chance to stop her.” For the first time, Alucard’s tone showed a bit of emotion – annoyance. But the Belmont started to row towards the margin anyway. “Richter.”

If the white-haired vampire called you using that warning tone, you would’ve stopped whatever you were doing. But Richter wasn’t scared like you. He didn’t care about Alucard’s reprimand and instead kept rowing. Alucard could’ve stopped him, could’ve argued more – but, surprising you once again, he just let out a tired sigh.

Annette and Richter got out of the boat in a jump before it even touched the margin, not caring to wet their boots, and ran into the forest.

You were frozen. Heavens, what have you started? Well, you couldn’t assume that the other two wouldn’t act even if you stayed shut, but you were the first to speak up anyway. What if Alucard was angry at you? You wouldn’t be helpful anyway, so why did you even open your mouth?

Being alone with him for those brief seconds was like torture. You avoided his gaze, already feeling sweat forming on your temples, waiting for some sort of punishment.

But Alucard let out another tired sigh.

When he got up, you had no choice but to look at him. Indeed, he didn’t look angry. Just tired.

“Let’s get this over with, then.” He murmured more to himself than to you.

It was so quick that your brain didn’t properly register what was happening.

His arm got around your waist, forcing you to get up in a firm grip, gluing your back on his torso as if you didn’t weigh more than a watermelon. Then, you saw a red glow spread from his body to yours–

And you didn’t see anything anymore.

For a split second, you thought you got blind.

No, it wasn’t that–

Alucard was moving so fast that your eyes couldn’t distinguish what the hell they were seeing.

Everything became a blur. You heard the shuffle of leaves, wind howling on your ears– and then, you weren’t on the boat anymore, but deep within the forest – surrounded by vampires.

Your stomach dropped. The world spun around. Alucard carried you under his arm like someone carries a dog, your feet weren’t even touching the ground anymore.

The vampires looked as shocked as you, at least.

All of them launched at Alucard at the same moment he unsheathed his long sword.

Instinctively, you covered your head with your hands (as if it’d do much) while the white-haired vampire swung his sword around – and then everything became an incomprehensible cacophony of steel against steel, flesh being slashed and pierced, groans of effort and pain. Alucard was ridiculously superior to any of them; they were less of a threat than the guards at Erzebet’s chateau.

When the clearing had nothing but mutilated corpses, he did that thing again – red glow, wind swooshing, vision getting dark – and rushed to another clearing after a new group of vampires. You felt the taste of mushrooms on your tongue, but forced yourself to swallow it back, covering your mouth with both hands.

This is how a potato sack must feel, a stupid voice whispered in your head. You tried to focus your sight on anything, but Alucard moved so fast that it was impossible; sometimes he made his long cape fall over your body to confuse any attacks aimed at you, making it even more impossible to understand what was happening.

Two last enemies remained. One of them was running away. Alucard let go of his sword and the weapon flew on a beeline towards him; it impaled the vampire on a tree.

The other enemy launched itself at you, screaming in a last desperate attempt. Alucard raised you up with a single arm to get you out of danger’s line, his hand on your back as if you were quite literally a tray, and kicked the vampire on the stomach with such force that you were sure that you heard his spine breaking apart; the man shocked against one, two, three trees, destroying them on his way, before Alucard’s obedient flying sword landed the finishing blow.

And you were alone.

Only then Alucard put you on the floor.

“I think that was all,” he said – once again to himself, not to you – and held his sword. He didn’t show a sign of fatigue or… anything. Not even his hair was disheveled, as if it was magical like his sword and each strand could simply go back to its place. “Let’s see if the others finished–“

He interrupted himself when he saw your position – bent over, one hand on your stomach and the other covering your mouth.

“...Are you oka–“ He was about to ask – showing the most emotion up until then – but you lifted your finger at him.

“J-Just give me a–“ don’t vomit don’t vomit don’t vomit don’t vomit– “A second. Please.”

Surprisingly, Alucard obeyed.

You breathed slowly, in and out, focusing every fiber of your being into not throwing up. We don’t have time for that, you repeated like a mantra. When you felt the nausea fading away, you straightened your back and brushed the dust off your skirt, turning to him.

“Please, the next time you do that,” you said in a weak, breathless voice, as if you were the one relentlessly fighting vampires a second ago, “I’d like to know first.”

Alucard looked speechless at first, then you saw the ghost of a smile on his lips – oh, of course he finds my state quite funny, as if it wasn’t humiliating enough. He opened his mouth to say something–

A sharp pain on the left side of your face.

You stumbled back in pure shock.

You hadn’t noticed the trap in front of you – a deep hole on the ground covered by a carpet of leaves, some sort of trap for wolves, perhaps. From said hole, a vampire jumped up, launching himself in the air, his nails sharper than any knife and now covered with your blood.

The world moved in slow motion for maybe three seconds. You saw the man’s devious smile – he was probably so proud of himself for fooling both of you; his hiss made your skin crawl. You were his target. His landing trajectory was you, and his nails were once again ready to hurt you.

He never had the time.

The world was still moving in slow motion when Alucard sliced him in half. You watched in grotesque precision as the sharp blade cut through the skin of his stomach, his flesh, his guts, his spine. The cocky smile never faded away. The vampire didn’t even have time to realize he was dying.

Everything went back to its normal speed. You didn’t want to look at the body hitting the ground.

You stumbled two more steps back, instinctively touching your left cheek with your fingertips and wincing in pain. Hell. These weren’t just cuts – felt more like gashes. You realized that you couldn’t open your left eye anymore. Blood dripped down your face.

Wounds like that weren’t anything out of the ordinary. They hurt, yes – but you felt, at most, annoyed. How did you let yourself get hurt like that, even after all of Alucard’s efforts in keeping you safe?

And yet – your mind was silenced when you felt the gentle touch of a gloved hand.

With his left hand, Alucard lifted your chin; with his right hand and the utmost care, he pressed a handkerchief over your wounds.

“This looks bad.” His quiet, husky voice dripped with worry. His forehead was tense, his jaw was tightened. He made you turn your head slightly to get a better vision of the gashes before pressing the soft fabric over them once again. With the corner of your good eye, you noticed that he hadn’t sheathed the sword back in; now it floated near your body like a watchdog.

Maybe it was the embarrassment of getting hurt in front of him, or the fact that he was standing so close and holding your face with such care, or his unwavering gaze – or it was a mix of everything that made heat creep from your neck to your cheeks.

“I’m sorry. I should’ve been more careful.” You held your breath; his tone was still quiet and gentle, yet you noticed the hint of anger in his voice; such anger wasn’t directed at you, however.

You couldn’t process that situation very well.

Alucard said I’m sorry. Not many people had said I’m sorry to you, as far as you remembered. And he sounded sorry.

You pressed your lips together. Why was he even sorry? Didn’t he already know that no injury was serious enough to you?

“It’s okay, Alucard,” you said sheepishly. If you had the courage, you’d have rested your hand over his wrist, but you gripped the fabric of the skirt instead. “I’ll heal.” And fast, as you already felt the familiar tingling sensation spread around the entire left side of your face.

“I know,” was all he said. He kept patting your wounds slowly, absorbing the blood with the handkerchief.

You didn’t know how much longer you could hold his piercing gaze. You gulped. “I-I guess the bleeding already stopped,” you stuttered, desperate for him to step back – and not because you didn’t like his touch, but because it was too overwhelming and you didn’t know how to physically deal with it.

Alucard distanced the fabric from your face. He hummed, analyzing the gashes once again, coming to the conclusion that the bleeding had stopped indeed. However, instead of distancing himself or letting go of your chin, he turned the handkerchief to the side that still wasn’t soaked; you held your breath when you felt his hand press on your jaw, on your chin, then on your neck – cleaning the blood that had dripped.

That heat spread to every corner of your body. You felt about to explode.

Only after he finished did he step away – not before making you still hold the handkerchief over your left cheek.

He looked so, so sorry.

It was the first time Alucard showed an expression that wasn’t subtle.

And for some reason, it made it hard to breathe.

You won’t get hurt, he told you back at the chateau. I mean it, he reinforced in the woods.

Oh… you got it.

Alucard probably felt like he broke his promise to you – even though that wasn’t exactly a promise.

“It’ll be healed in no time,” you repeated, hating how high pitched your voice sounded. You wanted him to stop worrying so much at that moment; you needed to avert his attention elsewhere. “We… we should go after the others.”

The white-haired vampire still hesitated, his gaze lingering on you for a while longer before nodding. “Let’s go.” When he said this, you almost sighed in relief.

He walked very close to you this time, his hand behind your back without exactly touching, acting more as a guide. The long sword still floated closer to you than to him.

The warmth of his touch, even through the leather gloves, was comforting; his movements much slower now compared to how they were minutes ago as he ruthlessly slashed vampires without struggle. It was even impressive how he could switch like that. Now, he moved around with the care of someone holding a scared kitten.

You didn’t know how to feel.

On one side, you liked it. Heavens, how could you not? When was the last time anyone had touched you with such care? You’d always associated vampires with violence and brute force… yes, Alucard could fight ruthlessly, and imagining him as your foe was frightening. But at the same time, he could be considerate, his touch as light as a feather, his hunting tiger eyes changing to worried ones in the blink of an eye. How could you not be… flattered by that?

On the other side, you wanted to dig a hole on the ground and hide there forever. You were beyond embarrassed – embarrassed because you got hurt in front of him, embarrassed that he was paying so much attention to you, embarrassed because Alucard was in a hurry (understandably) and he shouldn’t waste his time caring about the injury of someone that couldn’t take care of herself… and embarrassed because you liked the attention, even though you shouldn’t.

The pain of your wounds was nothing compared to your confused feelings.

When you found the other two after a short walk, your left eye had already reopened, although your vision was still blurry.

Annette held blades on both hands. She had a focused expression, but when she saw you, her eyes widened and she was about to run towards you. Richter also looked worried. Immediately, you lifted your hand; just Alucard was enough, you didn’t need anyone else focusing on you.

“Don’t worry! It’s nothing.” You tried your best to sound somewhat cheerful. See? It’s not so bad. It doesn’t even hurt. Don’t worry about me, please, don’t worry about me.

The amount of blood on the handkerchief – previously white, now completely red – made it hard to believe, even though you were hiding the wounds very well. Alucard looked at you with the corner of his eye, letting a glimpse of his worry pass through, before falling into the usual nonchalance.

“I think I killed all of them,” he stated. “None left to report back to Erzsebet.”

Any worries Richter might’ve had for you disappeared in a second. His shoulders fell down, his eyes dropped – and you immediately remembered what happened yesterday. Oh no. Tension bubbled up within your stomach. Annette sent a worried gaze from the Belmont boy to the vampire.

Unfortunately, Alucard noticed. “What?”

Richter sighed, realizing there was no way out of this. He turned to Alucard. “Yesterday, when we were fighting vampires…”

The white-haired man frowned. That simple action was enough to send shivers down your spine.

“...I might’ve given our destination away.” Richter confessed – embarrassed, hesitant. He closed his eyes for a second, as if he couldn’t bear to look at Alucard. “I was just–“

“Showing off. As usual.”

Another freezing cold shiver.

Alucard’s voice wasn’t loud – much the opposite. Low, raspy, similar to a hiss. It was the second time that day that you’d seen him show an emotion that wasn’t subtle.

“I’m sorry. It was stupid, I wasn’t thinking.” The Belmont boy very clearly felt the weight of embarrassment get heavier over his shoulders.

“No, you weren’t. You don’t.” Heavens – Alucard wasn’t even talking to you, yet you almost had the reflex of flinching away from him. It was the first time he used that tone. It was the first time he showed genuine, unclouded anger.

And it scared you.

Maybe not because it was him, but because your past captors taught you that anger meant punishment – and it was burned in your soul in a way that not even your healing condition could deal with.

“What’s done is done, Alucard,” Annette intervened in a defensive manner, perhaps because she thought that it could evolve into something worse. “Let’s just get moving.”

Obviously, Alucard knew she was right. You saw something in him – something that he surely kept very well hidden most of the time – that made you think that, perhaps, he was a stubborn person. Perhaps he was someone that didn’t like to back down when he felt he was right.

But then his eyes quickly paused on you. Maybe you were seeing too much, wanting to be more important than you actually were, and the other two definitely didn’t notice it. But you saw the way his eyes traveled from the bloody handkerchief pressed against your wound, or maybe he saw your expression – and that made him… give up.

Alucard simply let an irritated groan escape, sheathed his sword and walked towards the margin, not far from where you were.

You almost sighed in relief. A fight was the thing you needed the least right now.

While you watched Alucard’s tall figure distance himself, Richter expressed a little “thank you” towards Annette. She smiled, shrugging, before approaching you and resting her hand over your shoulder.

“Are you really okay?” she asked. It seemed that she wanted to take a look at your wounds, but you refused uncover them.

“Yes. It was just an accident.” Again, you faked a somewhat cheerful tone. “It’s already healing, so don’t worry. Really.”

Annette still looked hesitant, but ended up nodding anyway, making her way towards the boat.

Richter didn’t move at all. His fists were tightened, his eyes were down. Again, you couldn’t help but notice how his muscular body made such a contrast with his child-like features. He… looked like a boy. His round blue eyes were clouded by regret, embarrassment and a hint of sadness.

It brought forward a feeling you didn’t know you had. An… instinct.

“Don’t dwell too much on it,” you didn’t know where the courage to speak came from, but there you were anyway, your voice quiet in a tone you didn’t recognize. “He’s angry. It’ll pass.”

Even Richter seemed surprised at your words. He massaged the back of his neck and somehow managed to open a small smile before nodding.

“Let’s… get going,” it seemed he didn’t know what to reply. As you started to walk side by side, Richter eyed the left side of your face. “...You have a pretty high pain tolerance. I’m a bit jealous.”

You couldn’t help but let a light chuckle pass your lips.

And yet, your sudden reaction lingered in your mind for a while. The way you hated to see that boy looking even remotely sad. The way you found the words to try to comfort him, even though you usually struggled to speak most of the time.

...Could that be a memory, too?

You were used to feeling small.

It had nothing to do with height. Your captors made you feel small, minuscule, insignificant, for as long as you could remember. That wasn’t news. That was, in fact, ingrained in your brain in complicated ways.

And yet, Paris made you feel even smaller.

Not because you were being harassed this time, but because it was so big and there were so many buildings and there were so many people that you felt the size of a grain of salt.

You weren’t used to that.

You abandoned the boat a few hours before dawn. Two more hours of walking and finally, the first buildings peeked in the distance. The city was just waking up with the first rays of sunlight, and yet it was already flooding with people.

Too many people.

You didn’t know a city could have so many people. You didn’t know buildings could be that tall. You didn’t know a place could be so noisy. There were kids running around and carriages passing by and stray dogs barking at you (you almost peed yourself) and people selling bread and fruits on the sidewalks and there was a mother running after her son and a group of old ladies chatted very loud and there was a man wearing a monk cloak preaching something with a book in his hand and oh- the boy that was running from his mother almost got run over by a horse but the rider stopped it in time and cursed him using very bad names and the mother cursed the rider back using very bad names and the boy started crying–

A hand rested on top of yours. You gasped. It was Annette.

“I was asking if you were hungry,” she said, but by the look on her face you realized that you were doing it again, you were spiraling again in an embarrassing way – and worst, in front of all these people. You gulped and hid your shaking hands behind your back.

“N-No.” You were, in fact, hungry, but you didn’t know what you were saying at that point.

No one was convinced.

“Shouldn’t we rush to find the mummy?” Richter said – but after he finished that sentence, his stomach audibly growled. The Belmont boy blushed. Annette giggled. The white-haired vampire sighed.

“I suppose we should rest for a while. We made our way without any breaks, after all,” he said and put his hand in the inside pocket of his jacket, taking a small brown pouch from there. It tinkled with coins. He placed the pouch on Annette’s hand. “You two, get us something to eat. I’ll be waiting with Ruby at the square.”

Annette still asked if you wanted to eat something specific, to which you once again replied mumbling some nonsense. Richter looked visibly relieved to be away from Alucard, at least for a while. They made their way towards a fair around the corner.

Alucard touched your back softly. You instinctively flinched.

“It’s over there,” he pointed ahead with his chin. Indeed, you could see a great square at the end of the crowded street. You nodded.

Alucard walked in a calm stride, and you tried to match his pace, even though your heart pounded violently. Your nerves wanted you to run. Everything was so loud and chaotic. Even the pigeons were noisy. You tried your best to not cross eyes with anyone – especially with the many men wearing red, blue and white uniforms, holding bayonets over their shoulders.

You felt that you stood out in the middle of the crowd. Your deep blue gown apparently was not a very fitting attire to wear on the streets, even though it wasn’t as puffy or long as it used to be. Women wore much simpler dresses. You felt their gazes over you and it made you want to disappear. If you had a vampire’s ability to turn into a tiny bat, hell, you’d use that ability right now to fly away from all these people.

A hand rested on your arm.

You gasped a bit when you realized Alucard was gently pulling you close to him before a man could bump into you. Your shoulder pressed against his body.

The stranger seemed about to say something mean, but then he looked from you to Alucard’s frown and gulped. “My apologies, ma’am,” he stuttered with an awkward smile, but Alucard kept guiding you ahead instead.

Oh.

His sudden proximity to you cut the cacophony of the street for some moments.

Finally, the street opened to a large square with a big fountain in the center and multiple wooden benches scattered around it. As it had more space, it appeared less crowded. Groups of pigeons flew away as you approached one of the only empty benches closer to the fountain. You sat down, Alucard at your left side.

The sound of the water gushing in the fountain muffled the other noises, helping you calm down a bit, but not nearly enough. You nervously gripped the fabric of the skirt and shook your leg nonstop, the heel tapping on the stone pavement audibly. There were still too many people. Still too many noises. Still too much attention–

“Look. There’s a rainbow.”

You eyed Alucard, finding his sudden observation strange. He sat with crossed legs and hands resting over his lap in a tranquil position that matched his expression. He pointed forward towards the fountain, clearly not wanting you to look at him at that moment.

And so you did.

The fountain was probably three meters tall, with four sculptures of women holding jars from where the water fell towards a pool. Indeed, as sun rays hit the water, a small colorful rainbow was reflected on the small droplets around it.

“Y-Yes,” you stuttered.

Alucard hummed. His voice was even calmer than usual. “Now, close your eyes. Listen to the water.”

You still found it strange, but did it anyway. With no more visual stimuli, you could focus on the sound of the flowing water. It flowed, nonstop, a sound familiar and somehow comforting; after a while, it muffled all the other sounds, the voices and conversations and steps. It enveloped you in a bubble of… peace.

Your leg wasn’t shaking anymore.

Finally, you opened your eyes again, your breathing back to normal.

Alucard now had his arms crossed. He looked at nothing in particular. “All these people are too absorbed in their own lives,” his husky voice was as soft as velvet. “They don’t care about you, so don’t worry about them.”

You nodded.

In that moment… Alucard was like a cold spot next to you. But not in a bad way. Everything else was too hot, too uncomfortable; he was like the cold breeze you needed to refresh.

Sheepishly, you looked down at your hands resting over your lap. “I’ve… never been in such a crowded place.”

Alucard nodded. “You get used to it after a while.”

Silence lingered between you. It wasn’t uncomfortable now, though.

“Oh! I’m sorry about your handkerchief,” you extended the apology you didn’t want to say in front of the others. “I tried to wash it, but… it didn’t work.”

The white-haired vampire chuckled softly. “It’s alright. Blood stains aren’t easily cleaned… you don’t have to apologize at all.” His small smile immediately dropped. “I should be the one to apologize again for what happened.”

You turned your body in his direction slightly, lifting your palms in an appeasing gesture. “I-It was just an accident! You don’t need to apologize again.”

“Yes, I do. You’re under my responsibility and I failed you.” Alucard turned to look at you for the first time. “What if you didn’t have this healing ability? You would’ve lost one eye. I think you don’t understand how serious that wound was.”

You looked down to your lap again, fiddling with your fingers nervously. “...Let’s just be glad that my body works like this, then.”

Alucard was still watching you. It made that familiar heat spread from your neck to your face all over again. He turned his body slightly on your direction, resting his arm over the back on the bench.

“How does it work? Your healing.” His voice had a new hint of interest. He pointed towards your left cheek with a subtle movement of his finger.

Instinctively, you turned your body a bit towards him as well, still avoiding his gaze.

“It… depends.” You started, frowning a little. “If it’s a light injury, it heals in seconds. If it’s more serious, it might take longer. Though… with more serious injuries, I can’t tell exactly how long it takes. I’d usually pass out and wake up the next day with everything healed.”

Oh. You didn’t want to let that last part slip.

Alucard pressed his lips for a moment. They were… glossy. Plump and delicate almost the way you’d expect to see on a woman. In fact, Alucard was a perfect balance between masculine and feminine; his features could be soft and delicate – like his lips, his long eyelashes, shiny wavy hair – but he could also be extremely masculine with his broad shoulders, muscular physique, his height, his deep voice. He was very elegant. And it wasn’t an inherently “vampiric” feature, as you hadn’t seen other vampires act like that, even the ones that claimed to be ��royalty”. It was something specifically his.

The warmth in your cheeks got worse. You had to look away from him.

You inhaled, building up courage to ask what had been sitting in your mind for days. “Alucard, have you… have you ever met anyone else like me? A human that could heal?”

He looked into the distance, thoughtful. “Not exactly.” He paused for a moment, as if hesitating if he should tell you or not. “...I met a black magician once, many years ago. He sacrificed children, absorbing their youth, to keep himself alive for longer than a human should live.”

You couldn’t help but gasp. A bad feeling settled in your gut. “Did he heal like me?”

“Healing required the sacrifice of another life. An equivalent exchange. So, no.”

“...What happened to him?”

“I killed him.”

You widened your eyes. “Well, I-I don’t remember ever sacrificing children before, so…”

Alucard closed his eyes and let a light chuckle. “We can assume that’s not your case.”

Once again, you fiddled with the fabric of the dress. “Do you… have any idea of what might be my case?”

The man hummed. A soft breeze played with the locks of his hair. A few loose strands glimmered under the sun. Heavens, it was so hard to keep eye contact with him… when he was looking at you, you felt about to explode. When he wasn’t, you felt like you could stare at him for hours. And you weren’t the only one; you noticed some women walking on the square, taking quick glances at him, giggling and blushing. He was wrong in his theory that people were “too absorbed” in their lives – at least, that was not the case when it was about him.

“I can’t be sure of anything.” Alucard started, holding his chin. “There are a few theories I thought of. You might’ve made a pact with a demon to keep you alive in exchange of something it wanted you to do. You might be channeling your life force from someone else, like the black magician did. You might even be like me… a dhampir, how scholars call my kind. Half-human, half-vampire. Yet, that might most definitely not be the case, as you lack all vampiric features or needs.”

You gulped. All of his suppositions sounded equally bad.

“Are there other dhampirs?” You decided to avert his attention from you for a minute.

Alucard shook his head slowly. “No.” He narrowed his eyes only slightly. “And I am almost certain that there can’t be others like me. I was only conceived because my father was especially powerful… and he had the means to keep my mother alive throughout pregnancy.” He frowned in a subtle disgusted expression. “...I have seen others trying to replicate my existence with human women. It… never ends well to them or the babies.”

Although his last sentence was horrifying, you felt a little bit excited; Alucard barely ever talked about himself… and he just talked about his father, Dracula. The strange name that seemed to evoke something familiar in you.

Hell. You wanted to ask him. You didn’t even know exactly what to ask, and you didn’t even know if Alucard would want to talk about his father. As Richter said, Dracula was the man that almost wiped out mankind, and Alucard had to stop him… had to kill him. That couldn’t be an easy topic to talk about. How do you even approach this conversation?!

But at the same time, “Dracula” seemed to be the most important memory you had retrieved up until now. It could provide answers.

“We could also scratch the ‘channeling life force from another source’, too, if we consider that you feel tired when healing from serious injuries,” Alucard kept on talking, unaware of your internal struggle. “If you feel tired, it means you’re utilizing your own force.”

And then, you were shaking your leg again. “So… pact with a demon it is. Sounds lovely,” you didn’t want to sound that nervous, but you couldn’t help it.

Alucard chuckled. It was… nice to see him like that. Not so aloof. Smiles, even tiny ones, looked great on him.

“As I said, they’re only theories. Don’t dwell too much on suppositions. We’ll find out the truth, sooner or later.”

A moment of silence lingered.

“What if… I am actually someone evil?” You wondered quietly. “I have no idea of who I was before her. So… that’s a possibility.”

Alucard took a while to answer.

“I have lived for long enough to understand that good and evil are not simple concepts.” He was using that tone again – the quiet, reassuring one. A tone that meant comfort, but in that moment, it also meant wisdom, perhaps wisdom beyond your comprehension. “No one is entirely evil. No one is entirely good. Even vampires. Sometimes, evil and good are completely intertwined. One might do evil deeds for a good cause or the opposite. It is… very broad and subjective.”

Finally, you lifted your gaze to look at him.

“And what do you think is my case?”

Once again, Alucard took some seconds to answer.

The arm that rested over the back of the bench approached your face, which caused your heartbeat to increase; he moved slowly like he did before – moving around a scared kitten. His fingers came close to your head; his touch, almost unnoticeable. He took a little leaf that was hidden between your strands with his fingertips.

Why such a mundane action made all of your insides twirl around like that?

“I’m not sure of your past,” he admitted quietly. “But I am sure of what I see right now; and in this moment, you’re not someone capable of evil. And this, to me, is enough.”

You… couldn’t really breathe.

Couldn’t really look away.

Suddenly, he was also inside your little bubble of peace. There were only the sounds of the fountain, the sunlight… and his golden eyes. Nothing else existed. His presence emanated tranquility, certainty, solace… and something else that you didn’t know how to name. The same thing that made warmth spread through your body anytime he was kind, anytime he smiled, anytime he took care of you somehow.

It felt like you had fallen into a spell. A sweet one. It had an ambrosial smell, a honeyed taste. You didn’t want to break away from it. Not this time.

You opened your mouth, thinking of what to say – anything, any word, but nothing came; you were frozen, breathless, speechless–

“We brought croissants!”

The bubble popped.

You snapped your head to the side. Annette held a basket with bread and Richter held a bottle.

“They’re fresh off the oven,” Annette said with a satisfied smile.

“And I got apple juice. It wasn’t easy to get, so please, appreciate it,” Richter boasted before sitting between you and Alucard unceremoniously.

Annette sat by your right side, handing you a croissant and frowning at him. “He fought an elder man to buy it. It wasn’t very gentleman-ly of you.”

“What? He skipped the queue! I was right. Besides, we need it more than he does,” Richter defended himself with a pout.

The other two kept humorously arguing, but you weren’t really listening to them, trying to calm your heart instead.

You looked at Alucard with the corner of your eye.

For the first time ever since you met, he averted his gaze from you… and it made another question mark pop in your head; this question mark, however, wasn’t as dark as the others.

...Could it be that Alucard felt the spell, too?

A/N: someone sent me an ask on tumblr that put a question mark in my head. They weren't sure if the fic was a self-insert or if Ruby was a separate character from "reader". If anybody else is confused, yess, this is a self-insert, I am calling you RUBY and this will be your new LEGAL NAME from now on, don't argue with me. (jokes aside - I thought this was pretty clear :( hope no one else is confused, and I hope that this detail doesn't make the fic unreadable to you!) As usual, feedback is MUCH MUCH MUCHHH APPRECIATED!!!! This girl put out 4 chapters, 20k words in like ten days. cough cough I do feel like I deserve it 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️ 💞💞💞

#alucard x reader #castlevania #castlevania alucard #castlevania nocturne #adrian tepes #adrian fahrenheit tepes #alucard tepes #castlevania x reader #alucard x you #STOP SHADOWBANNING MY POSTS AAAAAA #WHAT HAVE I DONE TO YOU TUMBLR WHY DO YOU HATE ME #:(((((((((

382 notes · View notes

strawberryhotlips · 3 months ago

Text

༆THE LAST WOMAN ON EARTH ☢︎︎- ➪enhypen ot7 x fem reader

SYNOPSIS: Moving to South Korea at just 20 years old to study medicine was something that made you extremely proud. You had so many plans for the future, but it seems that fate doesn't want the same for you. Overnight, a virus that affects only women spreads throughout the world, causing all the women in the world to die in a matter of weeks. You were the only one left standing, the problem? Nobody knew, only you. As time passed, you managed to survive this post-apocalyptic world, where you had to hide from men because if someone knew that a woman still existed, everything would go to hell for you. You didn't expect seven strangers to break into your house in the middle of the night and you didn't expect what was going to happen next either.

Word count: 4360

Pairing: enhypen! x fem!reader

Genre: Suspense, death, dystopian, post-apocalyptic world, angst, too much drama, slow burn, smut as the chapters go by (mdni), fluff, Possessiveness, jealousy, fights, toxicity, lots of love (I know, it sounds contradictory) enhypen are complete losers for the reader in the best way, strangers to lovers and other things that may happen later

Warnings!⚠️: Death, loss of loved ones, use of weapons, depression and anxiety problems, mentions of suicide, survival, vulgar and sometimes offensive language, graphic descriptions of traumatic events. If you are sensitive, don't read it for your own good. Rader is a little mean to the boys in this chap, but she's just defending herself! everyone is of legal age!! Heeseung is 26, Jay, Jake and Sunghoon are 25, Sunoo is 23, Jungwon is 22 and Ni-ki is 21.

Status: ongoing (16-01-2025 -)

Disclaimer: This is a work of pure fiction, everything came out of my head, the personality of the characters are not real and do not represent them in real life in any way, any resemblance to reality is purely coincidental. Everyone is of legal age in this universe. English is not my first language so you will probably find spelling mistakes.

Hii beautiful people!! I'm finally back with the second chap of this story! It took me longer than the first one, sorry for the delay! hope you enjoy it a lot! You would help me a lot by liking, reblogging and commenting! Without further ado, thank you very much and enjoy!

CHAPTER I: "Disaster"

CHAPTER II: "Loneliness"

more under the cut ☟︎︎︎

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck... that sound definitely wasn't the rain....

Your senses were sharpened to the maximum again, your hand gripping your weapon tightly and securing it close to your body. Your heart and breathing seemed to be in a race to see which one was faster, but you could be sure that your heart was the winner, as you could literally feel it pounding in your ears. Your throat suddenly felt tight and dry, nerves and anxiety on edge, you tried to swallow to moisten it, but your attempts were futile. You could feel tears stinging your eyes from the desperation you felt.

"Holy shit..." your voice was barely a whisper as you tried to process what was happening. You tried to calm yourself and sharpen your hearing so you knew how many men you were up against. Your room suddenly seemed suffocating and tiny, you felt the bubbling of a panic attack in your chest, you felt like you were going to die, your mind kept telling you that your minutes were numbered. You started to shake as one shudder after another went through your body like lightning, it was desperate and terrifying. You quietly climbed down from your bed and approached the door of your room on tiptoe. You wanted to listen better, because despite your fear, dying was not an option, not after surviving for so long. Breathing shakily, you leaned your ear against the door of your room, trying to catch a sound. Fuck, you had no idea what to do, fear made your legs shake slightly.

Meanwhile, on the second floor, the intruders were breathing heavily and panting, a sign that they had been running. Their clothes were soaked from the heavy storm outside, so the floor was filled with small puddles of water and some mud "Fuck, that was close..." one of them said, trying to catch his breath, putting a hand on his chest, feeling the strong beating of his heart as he leaned against the front door, holding it shut.

How stupid you were. In the midst of crying for your mother, you'd forgotten the most important thing: securing the fucking front door of your house.

"It was all Jake and Ni-ki's fault, we almost got caught by the police!" another voice shouted, pointing at the named ones who looked at him with a mixture of indignation and disbelief, while the first boy who had spoken looked at him with wide eyes, signaling him to shut up.

"Excuse me? no no, no way, it's not our fault, no one forced you to come with us Jay..." another of the voices said with a distinctive accent, his words tinged with contempt "And try not to scream, the police might still be around.." Jay frowned and approached this one with indignant steps "Don't be an idiot Jake, we can't let you go off alone in the middle of the night, you know crime has risen too much in the last few years, there's a reason the government declared a curfew after midnight, fuck..." his voice sounded frustrated as he looked at him seriously. "'You're a grown man, you should have a little more conscience, you both could have been killed..." he said this time with more seriousness and concern, scolding him firmly in a whisper. The weight of his words hung in the air.

Definitely none of them wanted to die, let alone go to jail, Jay was right, they couldn't just leave in the middle of the night and put themselves in danger and worry the rest of the group. It was a miracle they had found this house, a few more minutes and the police would have caught them.

"Well, sorry, it was my idea Jay Hyung..." another deeper voice said as he scratched his neck a little embarrassed and looked at the elder "Anyway, we're all fine," he said this time with a little cheeky but guilty smile trying to break the tense moment.

A sigh was heard, followed by another clear voice. "It's okay Ni-ki, make sure you don't do it again please..." he asked firmly but at the same time calmly as he looked at the one named and also at Jake who nodded silently, feeling a little guilty, he had quite a bit of leadership in his voice. Ni-ki nodded, "Okay, Jungwon Hyung..." Ni-ki's deep voice hung in the cold air of the house as Jungwon sighed again.

The house was silent for a few seconds as the boys looked around and surveyed the place, ignoring the fact that they were freezing to death from the water that had fallen on them in the middle of winter. And it had occurred to Ni-ki that it would be fun to leave (escape) from where they lived at three in the morning, Jake saw him trying to leave and joined him on the pretext that he "couldn't let him go alone because it was too dangerous", which brought them all here.

Ni-ki was the youngest of the group, which of course made him the most rebellious, and someone like that always needed an accomplice, which was Jake most of the time, which led to both of them getting into trouble quite often.

"It's a nice house...strange that it's abandoned..." another voice, different from the others, a little softer, broke the silence, praising the architecture of the place, your place. And it was true, it was a huge house, with a modern vintage style. Another of the boys nodded in agreement as he shook his head a little, trying to get the water out of his hair, "Yeah, Sunoo's right...it's pretty nice for being abandoned..." The words hung heavy in the air as the boys looked at each other, seemingly searching for answers, there seemed to be an immediate understanding between them as the named one nodded and the seven began to explore the living room, their steps cautious in the new suspicion that someone already lived in the house. Even though it seemed empty, they had to make sure they were out of danger.

On the second floor, you had managed to identify seven voices from your room, where you were still trying to calm down. So they were being chased by the police for breaking the curfew, tsk...men. Your breathing was still fast, but as you listened to their conversations, you managed to calm down a bit, knowing that because of their actions, it wouldn't be very difficult to deal with them.......

or so you thought

You could hear them walking around your living room and decided that you needed to listen more closely, their voices were a little muffled by the distance. You were about to open your bedroom door slightly, but what sounded like something falling to the floor startled you slightly as your free hand instinctively grabbed the doorknob, as if holding on to it would somehow protect you from them.

"Shit..." cursed the voice of one of the guys whose name you hadn't heard yet, furrowing his brow slightly "Pfff...what an idiot, Heeseung Hyung..." Ni-ki said, letting out a laugh as he sneered at the older one, watching as he crashed into a nearby shelf, causing a ceramic jug to fall and shatter into several pieces on the floor.

Heeseung turned his head to look at Ni-ki with narrowed eyes, "Aish...hey, what a brat...i can't see..." mild annoyance ran through his dramatic voice as he defended himself and pointed at Ni-ki who was still laughing. The other five boys chuckled a little at the amusing situation between the oldest and the youngest of the group. They got along so well, you could hear a certain camaraderie in their voices, as if they had known each other forever "I mean, ....Ni-ki isn't wrong..." the other boy, whose name you didn't know yet, remarked with a slight sideways smile that showed his fangs a little longer than usual, a cute, not-so-usual attraction.

Heeseung looked at him without any amusement on his face, judging him with his eyes. They had this habit of teasing him, not that he really minded, but he was tired, hungry and soaking wet, not in a good mood "Really, Sunghoon, you too?" he shook his head in disapproval as Sunghoon shrugged his shoulders without saying anything else and let out a small chuckle. He was really stressed out too and fuck, the current situation had affected him a lot, he hadn't had pussy in over four fucking years and he fucked so often that he was really going crazy.

Not that he was a pervert (or maybe yes), but he excused himself by saying that "fucking relieved his stress and made him perform better in his daily life"

But he had never experienced falling in love, only one-night stands, just like the other guys. The hope that he could have pussy faded deeper and deeper in the back of his mind, and he resigned himself to settling for his own hand. But he refused to accept that idea, he still had some hope. He didn't just want to fuck, he wanted a woman he could love and who would love him, he wanted to be a good love and he also had a dream of being a father, something that obviously seemed unattainable for Heeseung, in fact it seemed unattainable for the seven men.

They really wanted to fall in love...

In fact, they were all stressed about the lack of pussy.... Even Jungwon and Ni-ki, who were still virgins and had never been able to bury their sad cocks in real pussy, were sexually frustrated. But for Heeseung, Jay, Jake, Sunghoon and Sunoo, the feeling of being trapped inside a pussy was like nothing else in the world and now they could only remember and even imagine because fuck, four years without sex, it was like being a virgin all over again.

But come on, their hearts needed to be stimulated as much as their cocks.

Jungwon cautiously approached the now non-existent jar on the ground, bowing slightly and examining it, "If someone was here, they would have heard us by now..." he mused with a calm expression. He straightened as he turned to look at the other boys, they were like his family, he had known them for many years and loved them like his brothers.

The only thing that illuminated the living room at the moment was the light from the occasional thunder light that came through the window like a horror movie. It was a huge place, enough for everyone to be comfortable "I think we can either spend the night here or keep the place, after all, the one we had was getting too small for the seven of us..." he looked at them, waiting for a sign of denial, but they all seemed to agree.

It wasn't a bad idea, after all. They were in the middle of the forest, far away from the city, where there was more crime by the way, and the place seemed quite cozy. Besides, if Jungwon said so, it was because it had to be. He always made sure that everyone felt comfortable, even though they often fought like siblings, which was sometimes funny, Jungwon always prioritized everyone's well-being.

"Well, we should look for the bathroom, clothes and blankets, I'm freezing...we could take a bath..." Sunoo spoke for the second time, articulating each of his words with his hands. The boys nodded. A hot shower sounded great after running through the forest in the rain, so much that their legs felt tired.

"Good idea, we should split up, go through the rest of the house and look for the things we need..." fuck no, if they went through the rest of the house they would definitely find you and that couldn't happen, they couldn't find you, so you had no choice but to find them before it was too late.

Sunghoon's voice was full of determination as he explained his idea to the others, who immediately agreed. But before they could take action, you beat them to it for your own good.

"I wouldn't do that if i were you..." Your voice finally echoed through the living room with newfound certainty, causing a sudden hush to fall over the place. Your gun was pressed against the large back of one of the seven boys, who was now undeniably tense, you could tell by the way the muscles in his back were contracting under his clothes. He was tall, blond, and seemed to have well-defined biceps.....

"No, idiot, this is not the time to think about biceps, concentrate" You mentally scolded yourself.

Instinctively, he raised both hands to let you know that he was not going to attack you. His hands were shaking slightly and he was completely stiff as he felt the cold metal of your gun against his back, which, in addition to your distinctly feminine voice, sent shivers down his spine.

From your vantage point, you could see the faces of the other six boys, pale and still as if they had seen a ghost. And no wonder, they must be more confused and shocked than ever. The torrential rain that pounded against the windows and roof was the only thing that filled the deadly silence. It was the first time you had seen people in years, your heart was beating fast in your chest and you couldn't tell if it was from fear or excitement...

or perhaps a mixture of both.

After what seemed like an eternity, one of them tried to move forward, his hair was a deep red, but quickly there was an instant click in your head as you pulled the safety off your gun, making him flinch in place, your survival instinct was at its peak "Take another fucking step and I'll blow your friend's head off..." your voice was cold as was the expression on your face, your breathing rapid, matching that of the guys in front of you who seemed more nervous than you.

Your eyes were still slightly red from crying earlier, and even though you were scared shitless inside, you didn't want to let it show, you didn't want them to notice your weakness. This time you leaned your gun against the back of the blond boy's neck, indicating that you meant business.

Fuck, they couldn't let something go unnoticed, something they thought didn't exist anymore and that they would never see again in their lives, suddenly the reality they lived in took a 180 degree turn when you appeared, you were a woman, fuck, you clearly were, and you stood in front of them and threatened to blow Sunghoon's head off with one shot. It all seemed like a lie, the last four years of their lives began to have an unbearable weight on their backs when they saw you. They began to think they were hallucinating and had to blink several times to process the information. Even so, their throats felt dry and their eyes couldn't take their eyes off you. Sunghoon began to feel impatient, yes, he was scared, but he also wanted to see you, so he gathered all his courage to speak

"M-Miss...we don't want to hurt you..." you idiot, he mentally cursed himself for stuttering slightly and scrunched up his face in an expression that clearly said 'I screwed up', he who never hesitated in front of any woman had just done it with you, which left his ego a little bruised, but he didn't care.

You clenched your jaw as you heard him speak, pressing the gun harder against his head, making him tense up even more, if that was possible, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry...really, we don't mean any har-..."

Pathetic, he begged pathetically, but a mixture of fear and emotion controlled him at that moment, he couldn't control it.

"Shut up...you talk too much for someone who is being targeted..." your voice was cutting and harsh, making it clear that there was no room for discussion in your words, making Sunghoon shut up immediately as he nodded slowly, almost imperceptibly.

You had to find a way to control the situation, no matter what. You grabbed the boy's soaked shirt from behind and pushed him down, "Get on your knees..." you ordered firmly and he obeyed immediately, kneeling on the ground, you don't have many options when you have a gun pointed at you, making it so that everyone could see you better now. You didn't mean to be so rude, but you couldn't trust them, not yet, "You too, idiots, what are you waiting for?"

Yes, maybe you were too harsh, but you had to guarantee your survival first and foremost.

With the seven men now kneeling on the floor in front of you, you sighed and thought about what to do next. You weren't going to kill them, you weren't that kind of person, even if it gave them a free hand to hurt you, you just weren't that kind of person. But letting them go wasn't an option either, what were you going to do, stay with them? you didn't know them, the most you knew was their names and from the way they looked, they were all around your age.

"Are you really a woman?" the voice of one of them broke through your cloud of thoughts. Oh God, you didn't think they were that stupid, he really just asked you that?

You raised your eyes to look at the boy who had spoken, your brow was clearly furrowed, he had some blue strands in his black hair "Jay, shut up for God's sake," Heeseung spoke softly, clearly scolding him, really, he couldn't believe his friend had asked that. But he didn't blame him, he was just as or even more stunned than Jay by your presence, which made him move slightly in his place, not wanting to alert you, he really couldn't believe his eyes either, actually none of them could.

While you thought intently without saying a word, your gun still rested on Sunghoon's head. You bit your lower lip, trying to think of a quick solution, but damn, this was clearly going to take a long time. A sigh left your lips, you were sleepy, your body was aching and your head was going a mile a second, which made your mental situation difficult as well as putting your thoughts in order. In addition, you couldn't see much because there was no light and everyone's eyes were on you, which inevitably made you a little nervous.

Meanwhile, the boys' minds were no better off than yours, still trying to process that you actually exist and are not a figment of their imagination.

Hell, they even wanted, no, they had to be in Sunghoon's place. Just knowing that you were a woman got them going, but what about your assertive dominance? The way you had brought Sunghoon, who was probably one of the strongest in the group, to his knees with a simple command from your lips was fucking attractive.

The tension in the air was thick, not only because they were threatened at gunpoint, but also because there was an undeniable sexual attraction and tension between you and them. It was impossible to control, something instantaneous that left them with their breath caught in their throats and their cocks already half hardened in their pants, including Sunghoon himself. They didn't want to look like dogs in heat or perverts, they didn't want to scare you and make you think badly of them, but it was something that was simply out of their hands.

The cold they had felt from being soaked earlier vanished at a ridiculous speed and was replaced by warmth. Their faces were slightly flushed and now that they knew you were real, they couldn't help but imagine a lot of situations in their twisted minds, but damn, besides being hard, you were beautiful, a temptation at a glance that made them clench their thighs as their erections went wild.

Sunghoon, who was closest to you, was the most affected, he could even smell your scent, so soft and delicate, the scent of a woman. He stopped himself from inhaling your precious scent with all his might, forgetting that the tip of a gun was pressed against his head.

Jungwon cleared his throat, trying to find his voice in your presence, which was quite strong, "Miss, please..don't hurt us... we can just go and..." a dry laugh came out of your throat as you looked at him with narrowed eyes, cutting off his words, "Sure, I'll let you go so you can shout that you found a woman all over Seoul..." Your words were clearly sarcastic, rejecting his suggestion outright, making Jungwon quickly shake his head in an attempt to contradict you, but your gaze was enough to make him stop trying.

"Then you'll have to let us stay here..." the rational sense of Heeseung had left his head when he dared to say those words with a tone of boldness and obviousness as he looked at you with slightly half-closed eyelids, the ghost of a smirk on his lips.

It infuriated you, how could he be so arrogant when you could literally kill him at any moment? You looked at him as you let go of Sunghoon and approached him with quickened steps. You grabbed his jaw with one of your hands and roughly lifted his face to look into his eyes while resting your gun on his forehead. Your eyes betrayed your anger, but he seemed too relaxed for his own good, "You better shut the fuck up, because if you don't..." the asshole didn't let you finish as he blatantly interrupted you, "If I don't, what?..." he dared you, not only with his voice, but also with his eyes.

How fucking dare he?

"You're not going to kill us..." he said, his fucking grin getting bigger and bigger, "if you wanted to, we'd all be dead by now from the moment you walked into this room, precious..."

Oh fuck, he couldn't be that fucking arrogant, but he was right, you wouldn't kill them and you hated that he could read you so easily without even knowing you.

You clenched your jaw, wanting to break his ridiculously attractive face, because that was one little detail you hadn't been able to overlook, they were all fucking attractive, but you couldn't afford to think about that when your top priority had to be keeping yourself safe.

You clenched his jaw with your hand, your fingers digging lightly into his skin, causing a small sigh to leave his lips, "You're right, i may not want to kill you...but I'll blow your fucking balls off if you keep spitting shit..." this time he didn't dare interrupt you, instead he seemed to be lost in limbo. His gaze was fixed on your lips as you spoke each word with furious determination....

Fuck, you had fire in you

The formula was simple: danger equals adrenaline, adrenaline equals thrill, and thrill equals arousal. There was no other way to explain why they enjoyed danger so much.

The others were waiting for the scene to unfold in front of them.

So you weren't going to kill them. A relief settled in their chests when they realized that you weren't a bad person, you were just defensive, which was completely normal when seven intruders enter your house in the middle of the night. Jungwon had quickly understood and realized that Heeseung had been the first to notice, that's why he dared to talk to you like that. Now the group was less tense, they trusted their oldest member, they knew that Heeseung wouldn't risk doing something he wasn't completely sure about.

"All right, no need for anyone to get hurt, miss..." Jungwon interrupted what seemed to be a dueling stare between Heeseung and you, his words a little more confident now that Heeseung had taken it upon himself to break through the layer of harsher tension, but still he was being cautious.

Your eyes didn't leave Heeseung's and you didn't take the gun away from his head either, but his words echoed in your head and honestly, you didn't have much of a choice. Curiosity bubbled in your chest, you wondered what to do, you had been alone too long, you remembered nights when you couldn't sleep because you were so scared. Maybe letting them stay was your best option, you knew you were the last woman on earth, you were sure that if you asked them to do something, they would do it without hesitation and maybe they could protect you. Bring you out of your state of loneliness, which seemed to grow with time.

The boys' knees were starting to hurt from kneeling for so long, but the tense situation in the living room was too tense for any of them to try to make a move. Everyone was waiting to see what would happen, including you.

A sigh escaped your lips when you realized that you would have no choice but to let them stay here, but if that was going to happen, it would be under your own rules. You didn't want to be alone anymore, which didn't mean that you were going to blindly trust them overnight, because trust was a luxury you could pay dearly for if you decided to put all your cards on the table.

You let go of Heeseung's face and slowly lowered your gun, your gaze, still quite hard, shifting from him to the other guys as you took your time to study their expressions.

"Alright..I'll let you all stay..." you finally declared and your words were an immediate comfort to the seven men in front of you, but before any of them could say anything you continued "But..." you fell silent for a few seconds, letting the anticipation fill the air "if any of you do anything stupid, i swear...

i will kill you..."

CHAPTER III: "Trust Issues"

taglist 🫶🏻: @strxwbloody @ch4c0nnenh4 @aussie-boys-wife @deobitifull @engeneheree @suhwife @elairah @merwdusa @d-dilemma @liafterhours @btxtenha @wonenonly @cara9065 @otterluver05 @imnotsaika @immelissaaa

246 notes · View notes