#and also i just made it out of boredom and fun so sorry for any inconvenience <:)< /div> Explore tagged Tumblr posts

[rakkuntoast]

ok i got nothing else to do so here's a transcript of the whole trauma talk

philza stream july 22nd 3:26:06

Tallulah: if i think u were paranoid, he is even more. y'all need a break

Phil: i mean it's cuz we've like experienced some kind of loss with the eggs, right? so, we've had the nightmare, alright. Chayanne lost a life to neglect cuz of misscommunication. Tallulah, you lost a life to the code monster...

Phil: Like we've felt what it's like to have you guys dissappear from our grasp, right? you've like- you've dissapeared from this world briefly, and we know what it's like. Like i-i've personally know what it's like, for you guys to fucking dissapear entirely like, the nightmare happened and i thought that was it, i was like "fuck well, it's done" and i felt so empty, right?

Phil: I-I genuenly felt like i lost a hardcore world, like- the 5 year world that i lost? that's what it felt like, i was like fucking miserable. And then bad uh- lost dapper like- like in a weird glitch type thing, and that got reverted. But when it happened, you can hear it in his voice like, he was distraught like- theres like a bond that we share even if is playing block game, you know?

Phil: we're just hanging out like, i wanna protect you guys with everything i can. everything i have i wanna protect you with, you know? but... i understand that i can't protect you for everything, so i just try to protect you from that i can, so... (and ooc out-of-character, i think everyone watching is incredibly invested also -laughs-, we're in the same boat)

Tallulah: It's understandable, thanks for sharing how u feel with us i'll be more careful

Phil: that's okay, you- you- you're very careful already tallulah, it's chayanne that fucking dives head first into danger all the time. He's- he's a bit more reserved now, you can do that chayanne when like theres more people, its fine, cuz then we can look after you, we can back you up. But when its just me and you, or me, you and tallulah.... we gotta- we gotta stick together, alright? we've seen all kinds of strange things happen

Chayanne: i mean, gosh i'm bad with words!!!

Phil: yeah, its alright. im just gonna throw some blocks out of my inventory

Tallulah: i gotchu brother

Phil: awww -laughs- gotta back eachother up, back eachother up guys

Tallulah: you show more with ur actions chay, that's more than enough

Chayanne: i dont want to die, i wont die soon, i take everything you showed us seriously

Phil: (overlaps) guessing "super seriously", yeah yeah yeah yeah.

Phil: You know what i think makes it more stressful? Is that us players can't see your health, right? So like, we don't iknow how close you are to danger, we can't- you can't talk to us mid fight, alright? like, you talk to us throught signs and books and stuff but like, we have to go through body language alone to figure out how in danger you are... You can't tell us, you dont have like a button to press, you don't have- there's like nothing to indicate that you're extremely low on health or in peril, alright?

Phil: So it makes it more stressful for the players and the people watching cuz we dont know, so i have to just be super fucking careful... And just treat it like you're on like barely any heart all the time, just in case

Chayanne: Thank you so much for that, when the giant squid grabbed me i was shaking-

Phil: -laughs- Oh god

Tallulah: Thank you for being such a good mentor (and father figure) i can't promise i might not die, but i will fight if i have to-

Phil: Oh i absolutely believe you'll do your absolute best to survive tallulah

Chayanne: When the giant squid grabbed me i was shaking bc i thought that was the end of it

Phil: Yeah- that was terrifying yeah, it's so- it's so like stressful

Tallulah: -to still be here with you all. i promised my papa and i make that promise to you

Phil: Aww, thank you Tallulah, thank you.

Phil: I feel like there's enough counter-measures in place that- realistically um it shouldnt be- nothing bad would happen like- you souldn't lose a life but.. You know me, and I- you know how im- I just I know that multiple bad things can stack on top of eachother and cause a really bad thing to happen, so like we have to be just careful of that, you know? You can be prepared for anything but there's always gonna be ways that you'll be unprepared for something, alright Phil: so- as long as we just prepare as much as we can and just be extra safe and not put ourselves in unnecessary danger then.. These situations that could happen can't happen. The only thing we can't prevent against really, or we can prevent it a little bit- but we can't really prevent it is when the code monster decides to take the life from an egg cuz.. You've seen it first hand, it does not give up

Chayanne: So yeah, it's not a good feeling ;_;

Phil: Yeah... I'm glad you guys are in the same page

Tallulah: In conclusion: we need to go to tio Roier's therapy sessions

Phil: -laughs- Is Quackity paying for it, yeah? Quackity got that on lock, it's like and insurance- it's like a company insurance, like a benefit you have for working with the server. its like "okay so uhh, who needs to book a therapy session today" everyone raises their hand at the same time, good god. Yeah, we'll go to family therapy together, we'll work it out, we'll work it out

edit: minor spelling mistake </3

[musingsofheaven]

SO, ASL? p2

summary: it's a one-time thing, that’s what you tell yourself. you’ll exchange socials, but you won’t interact with him, you promised yourself that. It’s just a late-night chat, a faceless stranger, a bit of heat to kill the boredom. but you know you’re fooling yourself. now you’re spiraling. you're trying on outfits, reapplying perfume, and practicing your smile until it looks real. because he might be watching. and if he is… you want to be perfect.

pairings: rafe cameron x afab!reader

warnings: 28.2k words. mature themes. unprotected sex (p in v). substance use (alcohol, weed, cocaine). sex under the influence. intoxication. power imbalance. dubcon-adjacent tone. scent kink (perfume, lotion, pheromones). bimbofication. objectification. degradation kink. praise kink. body worship. implied body dysmorphia. compulsive grooming rituals. disordered self-perception. obsessive self-presentation. internalized emotional distress. read & consume responsibly.

note: i literally don’t even know how to start this lol. i wasn’t planning on doing it for real. like i saw the requests and i was like haha that’s cute… and “no you guys don’t really mean it” but apparently you did because more people asked. so part two is here. 😭 you guys keep requesting some same idea though. i didn’t reply to any of the requests because i got shy and overwhelmed. also i chose not to reply to any of it and attach the part two there, i just separated it here. most of you suggested they fuck at a party too so yep. i wrote this slowly and keep changing ideas, keep overthinking it, i actually keep asking my friends if i should just drop it. it’s long. like unnecessarily long. i’m sorry. i don’t know why too… i just continued writing and not checking the word count until they are going to the “scene” and then i saw it’s already close to 20k, so i just let it happen. i honestly don’t even know if this is good. or coherent. or if anyone will make it to the end. i know it will be too much and exhausting to read but i hope u guys make it to the end. i just know that it made me feel things and it made me so embarrassed while writing it. like i had to stop from time to time to write this, it’s not in one sitting btw… thank you for reading. thank you for the reqs. i love you. i hope you’re okay and like this.

This is not so him. He knows he shouldn’t be bothered, but he does. He’s been thinking about you ever since you guys talked. Which is so fucking weird to him because most of the time he just ignores women. They’re the ones who always run to him. There’s just something about you. Sure you two sex texted over some anonymous site, but before you ride along his horny ass, you manage to make a decent and fun conversation about him. Not in such a way that you’ll just continue asking questions about him. No. Real conversation. Not the one you’ll feel you’re being interviewed or you’re interviewing the other.

You managed to find your way into the walls of his skull and made yourself at home. When you follow him on Instagram, he keeps checking your profile like a stalker. He is also waiting for you to message. Or to do the first move. But it’s always the same: silence. He’s so fucked out already it’s embarrassing and funny. He types out a message, feels so impatient, and reclines back into his bed like he can get comfortable when every muscle in his body is wired tight with something he can’t even tell what it is.

@rafe.cameron: Hey, cherry chopsticks

@rafe.cameron: You’re just going to follow me and not say anything?

He watches his message being sent individually and doesn’t stop right there.

@rafe.cameron: After everything you said last night? Damn.

@rafe.cameron: I was gonna be polite and wait for you to text first, but you’re killing me here.

Goddamn, of course you’re online. He knows you’re online. Your green dot is still lit up like a neon fuck you, and it’s making something coil up in his chest, which frustration of a man who’s already lost sleep over a girl he hasn’t even seen in person.

@rafe.cameron: Let me guess.

@rafe.cameron: You’re shy now?

@rafe.cameron: You didn’t sound shy when telling me where you wanted my hands.

His mouth curled up when you read his message, when he saw that “seen” below his message. He can’t help but imagine you reading his message and rolling your eyes at him. You don’t reply either. Not giving him anything. Just making him wait. He knows that he doesn’t even know you at all, but the memory of you being filthy just has him losing his mind over you.

@rafe.cameron: So that’s how it is?

@rafe.cameron: Are you just gonna ghost the guy who made you cum over chat?

@rafe.cameron: Kinda rude, don’t you think?

It’s been less than 24 hours since you followed him when he sent his username on that site. He remembers how he grinned when the notification showed on his phone. You didn’t even hesitate to follow him. You just did after a few seconds of knowing it. Didn’t wait a day to play it cool. Just followed him like it didn’t mean anything, and maybe it didn’t. But it felt like something. Like a shift. Maybe, despite everything, this anonymous mess of a night had stuck with you the same way it had carved its place into him. His free hand just sitting pretty on his stomach, caressing it into lazy circles while he stares at your screen, as if he’s a goddamn dog waiting for his owner.

Then, there’s this three-period sign in the message bubble, which means you’re typing. He licks his lips as he feels the switch flip. His pulse still, and maybe there’s a relief that his annoying ass will finally get something out of you.

you: Maybe I just wanted to see how thirsty you’d get

Your reply really made his mouth pull into a grin so fast after he read it. You’ve got him again, just like that. One message and he’s warm all over. (Which is kinda overacting for his taste) You don’t even wait for a reply before following it up.

you: Was kinda cute tbh

He huffs a laugh. Cute. Cute? That’s what you’re calling it? He just said some filthy words, and you literally came for him over nothing but words, and now you’re calling him cute like he didn’t do that other than being dirty. He rolls his neck back, eyes flicking to the ceiling like it holds the answers.

@rafe.cameron: Nah. Don’t pull that.

@rafe.cameron: You were dripping on the site last night, and now you’re playing shy?

you: I’m not shy. I’m just smart.

you: Besides. You didn’t even send a selfie. Or message me last night.

you: You expect me to keep sexting a faceless dick?

He laughs. The kind of unexpected one. Low and dangerous, almost bitter. You’ve got a mouth on you. You have ways to play with him. Always have. From the first message on that stupid anonymous site, you’ve been sharp, unbothered, and impossibly good at walking the line between flirtation and sarcasm. (Which he finds very hot because you have that kind of fire in you) Rafe settles deeper into his mattress, adjusting himself absently because fuck, it’s starting already.

@rafe.cameron: Where are you from anyway?

He didn’t know why he asked. He’s not really planning to meet you. Well, maybe. He’s not sure yet. He almost expects you not to answer, but then you’re typing again.

you: You ask all your sext partners that, or just the ones who ignore you after?

@rafe.cameron: Just the ones who ruin my night because they didn’t message me.

you: I’m flattered.

you: Near you, I presumed.

you: College town. Here for university.

Well, just made him stop for a moment. University for what...? Bachelor’s? Master’s? Doctoral? Law school? Med school? Jesus. Not that he’ll pry more about it, he’s just curious.

@rafe.cameron: Ah.

@rafe.cameron: Not a local then?

you: Lmao no.

you: I’d remember you.

You don’t really know why you said that, that’s for sure. But that one hits differently on his part because you said it so casually, like a joke, but something about that lingers. For sure, he would remember you, too. You look like someone who will leave a mark or make a big impression, and you already have him hooked. He’s never had anyone talk to him like this. Confident, dry, disarming. You’re not even trying, and he’s already undone. What more will happen if you do something?

@rafe.cameron: Are you always this careless?

you: You think so? Trusting some faceless dick online?

@rafe.cameron: You tell me, baby.

That made you freeze. Your eyes locked with the pet name. Why does he call you baby? You will understand if he called you that when you’re talking about something else, like last night, but at this moment? You can’t really figure out what it makes you feel. You don’t answer immediately. He imagines you looking at the message, biting your lip, or maybe smiling. Then-

you: What about you? Are you from here?

@rafe.cameron: Grew up near the water.

@rafe.cameron: Not here.

@rafe.cameron: But yeah. Live here now. Working.

you: Work? Like… job job?

@rafe.cameron: Yeah. Of course.

@rafe.cameron: I’m not one of those guys still “finding myself” at 25.

you: Wow.

you: A functioning adult, huh... hot.

He chuckles again, feeling fluttered by it. His body was going loose for the first time all day. It’s ridiculous how good it feels just to talk to you. He can’t really explain why he thinks like that. But you’re fast, filthy, funny, and now you’re real. On his screen. In his city. He’s not really expecting you to be that close. He thinks you’re probably on the other side of the world since many people use that site. But now? You’re probably lying in bed just like he is, cheeks blushing, legs tangled in sheets, waiting for the next move.

@rafe.cameron: You been stalking my account or what?

you: Only after you followed me back.

you: I didn’t expect the face to match the dick.

you: You know...

His eyes narrowed, his lips twitching again, and his eyebrow raised.

@rafe.cameron: Know what?

you: You look good.

you: You probably already know that, Rafe.

He lets that sit. Let the smirk build. Let his free hand slide lower. Fuck. Do you really say his name? That brings something to mind: what will you sound like when he finally hears you? He can’t help but imagine it. You must sound so good saying his name.

@rafe.cameron: You sound like a brat.

you: And you sound like a man who can’t handle one.

That sends a low throb through his stomach. He reads it twice, then once more, slower. Can’t handle one? Can’t handle one, really? He can hold you from back to front. He can and he will. He might woop that brattiness out of you if he must.

@rafe.cameron: Are you always this bold with strangers?

you: Only the ones who make me come.

His breath catches. You don’t have shame, do you? His cock pulses because of that. He’s not even touching it. Why is he getting worked up over some girl? It’s not fair. You type like you’ve got him wrapped around your fucking finger, and the worst part is you do.

@rafe.cameron: Didn’t know you were just from around here.

@rafe.cameron: Figured you were across the country or some shit.

you: Why? Scared?

He grins. Shakes his head as if you’re here and you can see him. He didn’t even know why he did that; maybe it was out of his habit. If you only knew how badly he wanted to find you now and meet with you, just to see your face, of course, nothing else. Yep. Just to see you.

@rafe.cameron: Nah.

@rafe.cameron: Just didn’t think the girl fingering herself to my texts lived ten miles away.

There’s a beat. He licked his lips while he typed that with all his confidence. Trying his luck and pushing it further because you’re already here, he wouldn’t like to waste the moment.

you: Wasn’t your text that got me off.

That one makes his jaw clench, his thumb frozen over the screen. He feels his chest tighten, but not in the way it hurts- it anticipates something, for knowing, for you.

@rafe.cameron: So what was it?

you: I don’t know...

you: Maybe the way you typed, like you already knew what you’d do to me.

you: Like you could picture it.

He swallows hard. He could picture it. Has. Does. Right now. Like, he is already picturing many things to do with you. Bend you. Lay you down. Take you. Hold you. Taste you.

@rafe.cameron: And what would I do?

you: Idk.

you: Pin me down, maybe.

you: Make me regret logging in that night.

you: But like… in a good way.

He groans, low and helpless. His palm dragging across his cock through the thin fabric of his boxers. Didn’t know he’s already doing that shit. He just know ue feel himself getting hard. You’re insane. You’re too much. You’re nearby.

@rafe.cameron: There’s a house party tomorrow. Outskirts. Lowkey.

@rafe.cameron: I’ll be there.

No pressure. No ask. Just an open door.

Read. He’s not going to invite you totally, but there’s an implication for it, for you to come- an implication that he wants to see you, that he needs to see you.

you: Is this you flirting, or you planning to corner me upstairs?

His head tips back. His hips shift. Maybe he planned to do that. Maybe his plan all along is just to get you upstairs with him. Maybe he intends to have you inside one of the rooms or the bathroom if both of you are not picky.

@rafe.cameron: You gonna let me?

You wait a beat. Think about whether you will leave him hanging or add to this craziness.

you: Depends on what room you catch me in.

His blood heats. Fuck. Shit. He can’t wait for that to happen. He wants you, he needs you, and he will get what he wants.

@rafe.cameron: Didn’t realize you were this close.

@rafe.cameron: Feels like fate or some shit.

you: Or just a bad idea with good timing.

He laughs- quietly, breathlessly. One hand on his phone. The other is slipping lower. He has already decided what to do for the rest of the night.

@rafe.cameron: Yeah. That too.

After that conversation, you just let it sit silently; you no longer message or reply. You go to sleep and rest. Said to yourself, you need your beauty sleep. Not because he invited you to a party, but because you want to. Not about him, never about him.

You told yourself about that. Out loud. Since last night. And you’ve been telling yourself that you’ve not been going since this morning more than once.

But it stops you from getting ready and from waking earlier than you planned to do. Your eyes are wide, your breath is already shallow, and your skin is already getting ready and preparing for something. Well, you didn’t exactly spiral. This is not a spiral. Right. It isn’t! It just so happened that you haven’t exfoliated in a while. That’s all. It’s just hygiene, and you want to be clean.

But the shower runs hot. The steam rises thick, making the mirror dreamy and blurry while you shave your body. Arms, legs, stomach. That smooth skin behind your knees. You don’t miss a thing. You rub your hands repeatedly on your skin after you shave the spot to check if it’s already hairless. And your thighs, too, yeah, you spend your time on those two, especially between your thighs. It’s like you’re scrubbing off what you did for the past few days and your hesitation. You’re scrubbing it off like he might put his face in between the layers, and you want him to feel the smooth skin and how you smell good.

You also shaved your mound with quiet precision. Like it’s a science project, you want to get a perfect grade. One of your legs is on the edge of the bathroom, where you always put your foot when you want to shave your lower body. The razor glides slowly, smoothly, and gently, and your eyes remain there while you slide it.

You exfoliate. Twice. You moisturize your body like it’s a matter of survival. You even turn your water cold in the end. That stupid tip from that stupid skincare TikTok about sealing your pores. Like anything could seal you up now.

Not that you’re going. Yeah. Of course, you’re not. Hell no... But here you are, already wrapping yourself in a towel and move through your room like it’s a freaking mall. You even set up many products you’ll use. Bottle after bottle lined up: essence, toner, glycolic serum, retinol, moisturizer, slug balm. An eye mask because your dark circles might look tragic under cheap party lights. A cooling roller to flatten every puff. A pore strip for your nose, even though you know they’re bad for your skin. You don’t care. You want to be pretty. You want to look good. You want to be beautiful. For yourself. Yep.

You put on a playlist. Not on purpose. Not because you want to hype yourself up and calm your nerves while you do the skin care. But it’s the pretty kind. The kind that plays in A24 films where the girl is halfway to her death and still reapplying lip balm. You put some things that will make you feel this insane skincare is everyday. Fine. Feminine. Tonight, you want to look untouched. Poreless. Expensive. Unreachable.

You double-cleanse. Then triple. Leave the mask on too long because the sting feels like penance. You don’t even know why you left it there. You just believe that no pain, no gain. Well, to take this kinda of beauty you have to endure something. You ice your face with spoons from the freezer. Your skin is burning, but glowing. You’re glowing. That should be how things work anyway.

You use your derma blade. Your gua sha. Your rose quartz wand. You run a metal comb over your scalp in tiny, painful strokes. It’s a little pleasurable if you gaslight yourself about it. It’s not really bad. But you don’t even know what it’s for. It just feels like control. Over something you don’t even. Know. You won't give in if you keep grooming yourself into submission. Not because of him. Not for him. You’re doing this for yourself. Obviously.

You pick out underwear. It’s soft, subtle, pale like a secret. Soft around the hips, flattering without being obvious. Not flashy. Not too much for your taste. It’s not... It’s comfortable even. But matching. The kind of pair that says low effort, even though you passed over three other sets to settle on this one. You tug them on with damp fingers, towel still wrapped around your body, another coiled around your head like a crown. You moisturize your thighs twice. You glide oil along your collarbones in case someone’s watching you walk up the stairs. You slick balm over your lips, wipe it off, and reapply. Then again. And again. You want it to be soft and kissable. You start fixing your hair before you even pick out an outfit. Your hands move fast. Too precise. Too careful.

It’s not for him. You don’t even know if you’re going. But if you did- if you did show up you’d look flawless. Effortless. Like what you want. That’s what you want. To be more presentable. First impression lasts, right? Of course, you’re not insane. It’s just... you’re conscious. Yep, as if you hadn’t been planning it all day. Like you hadn’t shaved your cunt with clinical precision and whispered don’t be weird to your reflection while massaging serum into your temples.

Your phone buzzes again.

@rafe.cameron: still thinking about you.

Of course he is. Who won’t be thinking about you? People always do because you make yourself memorable in their minds. Okay, that sounds like a narcissist, but you’re just confident in some way. You lock the screen. Don’t answer. Don’t need to.

Your skin is getting sensitive from heat and over-scrubbing. You smell like coconut and toner. Like it’s some shit you do to hypnotize other people. Like some desperate, pretty thing pretending you’re not waiting to be seen. You don’t. Not really. Well, you just want one person to notice you, not all of them.

You head back to your room, drop onto your bed, legs still bare and lotion-slicked, phone in one hand. You want to relax, unwind, and relax your body with the products you put there, but of course, you’re not done yet.

Pinterest opens before you know it. You scroll. You searched for things. Makeup looks first. Dewy skin. Smudged eyeliner. Cherry gloss with a bitten center. Highlight that makes your cheekbones look razor-sharp when a guy stands too close and you pretend not to notice. You click save. Then another. Then three more. The looks get bolder. You’re not doing full glam-not for some guy from goddamn site. But maybe something soft. Something casual but hot. Something that says Don’t touch me and Please ruin me in the same breath. But you don’t really know what you want, no?

You click over to outfit inspo. Not because you don’t know what to wear. You’re just curious. Exploring. Researching. You know how to style yourself, you do. You just need to look over some outfits because they’re comforting. After all, it’s satisfying. After all, you like using the app.

Little black dresses. Low back tops. Tank straps that fall just enough to make someone reach to fix them. Jeans so tight they should be illegal. Hmm... Looks good, but that’s not your mood for today. Bodycon skirts. Oversized jackets with nothing underneath.

Your legs fold tighter. You scroll faster. Slower. Your thumb hovers. You’re zooming in on every image. Picturing yourself in everyone. Picturing how you’d look to him. God, why would you do that? You don’t even know the guy. You tell yourself it’s just visual planning. Aesthetic things. You’re not dressing for him. You don’t even know if you’re going.

It’s for you. It’s all for you.

You scroll deeper. Outfits that match the fantasy. But you don’t know if you can wear that. Well, maybe. That matches the mood in his messages. That matches the kind of girl he probably imagines when he types you were dripping in my inbox last night. The kind of girl who walks into a room and makes a guy choke on his drink. You tap one pin and hit save. Then another. Another. It’s not for him.

But if he saw you? What if he does? If you walked in and his eyes found you first, would he look stunned? Frozen? A little breathless? God. That sounds good. You wouldn’t hate that. Your towel is starting to slip. Your thighs are still warm. Your face is still hot. Your phone is resting in your hand, the Pinterest board growing faster than you ever admit. You’re not going. You just want to have inspiration next time you go out. You’re just exploring your options. Obviously, you’re still not going. Never.

You’re half-naked now, towel unraveling on your floor, your hair finally removed from your towel, and you’re fixing it, you’re doing it for yourself and no one else. Your phone’s somewhere nearby, screen dimmed, but your Pinterest board is still open and blooming. You look over there from time to time. Outfit inspo, makeup looks, hair clips, strappy heels. The longer you stare, the more your chest tightens- want isn’t even the word for it. It’s not like. It’s a pull. Like you’re in some multiverse. Like, this is not real. Like it’s a dream. Like you’re already in motion and pretending you aren’t.

You move to the mirror. Turn sideways. Then back again. Admiring yourself. In your body. The more you stare, the more you get conscious. Well, you get confident, too. Like it’s in between. Still pretending you haven’t already decided.

You reach for lotion, not the normal one. Well, not the one you always use for everyday. This is something you saved for a special occasion. (The occasion in question: getting fucked) The good one. Thick. Rich. The one that leaves you glowing like you’ve been kissed across the chest by the sun. You pump too much into your hands and smooth it over your shoulders, collarbones, down the slopes of your arms. Your thighs get two coats. Three, maybe. You rub it in slowly, like your fingers are memorizing your body. Your skin drinks it up, warm and dewy. It’s like a plant being watered. You drag a hand over your hipbone and exhale. Yeah, it feels good. You are starting to get why other girls are obsessed with excessive skin and body care.

Then you reach for the little bottle you only use when you want to feel something. The pheromone perfume. It might be a bad decision to use it. But you are determined to do it. It’s the one that’s supposed to blend with your natural chemistry. The one that doesn’t smell like much in the bottle is the one people won’t buy if they smell it from there and don’t know what it is. But on you? When it’s in the human body. It hits. Subtle. Warm. Too intimate.

You spray it at the base of your throat. The sides of your neck. Then inside your wrists. Then, with a pause, between your breasts- one smooth spray of it, right where you hope someone’s face might land if they got close enough. Then lower. You hike your leg up onto the edge of the bed like you’re not thinking, like your body is acting without you. Two sprays for beneath the soft curve of your thighs, then another at the bend behind your knees. Jesus. That’s such a slut behavior, isn’t? You don’t even blink when you do that. Didn’t think it through.

It’s not like you are planning to get fucked. As if Rafe will be close enough to breathe there. As if he’ll have you folded in half and want him to remember how your legs smell. As if he’ll put them on his shoulders, and it will hit them while he thrusts in you. Which he won’t. Obviously.

You wait for the scent to settle before you layer something sweeter over it. The classic Victoria’s Secret, the kind that clings. Not your usual one. You just use it when you want people to get crazy about your smell. It's the deep one. Sugary, but slutty. The one you constantly tell yourself is “too much” for everyday wear. Tonight, it’s perfect. Perfect in a sense, he will press his face over your face and inhale you repeatedly because he can't get enough. You sprayed it over your neck. Behind your ears. Across your chest. Once between your thighs. Once more behind your knees. Then again, for no reason, on the inside of your ankle. The room smells like a perfume factory. Like skin. Like you.

Your phone buzzes behind you. You ignore it. You keep rubbing oil over your legs like you didn’t hear a thing. Move to your chest. Your sides. The backs of your knees. All the places he might touch if he got bold. All the places you’re pretending you’re not preparing. Then, finally, you check it through your notifications.

@rafe.cameron: You coming later, right?

Oh. Yeah. The way your stomach flips at his message is humiliating. He’s casual. You don't like that casual. You don't like the way he's asking, especially since he didn't bluntly invite you. Just told you he’ll be there. Who does that? He's too casual for your taste, like he didn’t burn up your inbox last night. Like, he doesn’t care if you say no. Like he didn't care if you wouldn't come at all, it pisses you off. Or maybe turns you on. Or maybe both. You don’t answer.

And then reach for your lip gloss. You start with full glam. Not because you’re going. Not because of him. Not because you’ve thought about his text from last night more times than you’re willing to admit. You start because you haven’t done this in a while. That’s what you tell yourself because you’re bored. Because you just felt like it. Because it’s fun. Because no one’s going to see it.

Your foundation goes on too perfectly. A full-coverage mask, blended to airbrush. You take your time with the bronzer, carve out the cheekbones you already have. Layer your blush, not for color but for shape. You dab it high across your face like the sun, or fire, or the right kind of attention has kissed you. Then highlight the cheekbones, the bridge of your nose, and the collarbones. Your whole face catching light in all the ways you hope someone notices, and no one points out.

Your eyes come next. Shimmer on the lid. A neutral smoked into the crease. A deeper brown to anchor it. You blend until your wrist hurts, until the shadow melts together like you were born with it. You draw your eyeliner sharp, clean wings that reach for the outer corners of your face like you’re trying to lift something. One side looks perfect. The other one doesn’t. Why does everything feel uneven? You try to even them. Then they’re both too thick. You grab a cotton pad. Wipe it off. Start again.

Round two, you’re softer with it. Skip the drama. Just a flick. Barely there. Then mascara, one coat, two, three-until your lashes tangle. You blink too hard, smear the corner. You clean it up, but now it looks like you tried too hard to fix it.

You go to your lips. Line them. Fill them. A nude first. Too flat. A gloss over the top. Now it’s too shiny. A red. Too much. Sheer pink. It makes your teeth look yellow and return to normal. You line them up again. Blend with your finger. Step back.

You can’t decide if you look pretty or just done. You can’t get satisfied with it, not really. You’re obsessed right now with perfection. You squint. The mascara looks clumpy. Not even bad, but your lashes aren’t fanned the way they usually are. You separate them with a pin. Blink. Something feels uneven.

You reapply the blush and then re-blend the contour. Now, the line under your cheek looks harsh, so you powder that down, too. But now the base is flat again. You reach for the highlight and add a little more.

Your eyebrows are too boxy. Looks bad. Making them look old, so you brush them out. They fray. You reshape the arch. The ends look like they can kill, but now one side is thinner than the other. Why the fuck it’s thinner? You sharpen the tail, and now it’s too long. You couldn’t just get it right, no. You keep fucking it up. You stare at yourself like it’s your reflection that made the mistake. You don’t sigh. You don’t say a word. You just fix. Your words won’t make them better anyway. So you’ll fix it until you’re satisfied with it. Until you feel pretty enough. Your lips are still wrong. You wipe them. Again. Start over. Different gloss. Different pencil. No pencil. Many products you pick and switch on. You dab the center with a shimmer shade to make them poutier. To make it look big. To make it look more kissable.

You tell yourself it’s just for fun because how can you reason out that you want it more to look attractive? You know it’s just something to do with your hands because you’re not going. This isn’t for anyone. You’re not redoing your makeup because you think you’ll see him. You’re redoing it because you’re a perfectionist and you love your image. You are careful with how you present yourself in front of others. You’re not hoping to look like someone he’d notice. You’re just experimenting. The way your fingers move doesn’t look like experimenting. It seems like a ritual and you’re in a fucking cult just take and takes from you.

You lean in closer. Tilt your chin. You can see the crease in your concealer. You didn’t set it enough. What if they look hard enough and notice it? They’ll call you cake bitch. You blend it out with a finger. But now your under-eyes look fucked. You tap in the powder. Add a touch of shimmer to the inner corner. You step back. Still not right. You’re not sure what’s wrong. You’re not going to say it’s your face because it isn’t. You’re fucking magnificent to be the problem is your face. You’re not going to say it’s the shape of your mouth, how your nose turns slightly when you smile, or how your right brow arches higher than your left. You’re just going to fix it. You’re going to be a Bob the Builder if you must. You’re going to keep fixing it until it looks like the version of you you swore you weren’t trying to be. Your phone buzzes behind you while spiraling, but you don’t check it. You pick up the lip gloss again. Just one more coat. Just in case.

You swipe it on with too much pressure, to the point that the applicator bends. The gloss bleeds past the corner of your mouth. You wipe it with your finger, then with a tissue, a makeup wipe, and by the time you’re done, your lips are flushing and raw and worse than when you started. You exhale slowly, press them together, and reapply. A lighter hand this time. Shiny. Better. You tell yourself it’s better. You lean closer to the mirror. Smile. Too wide.

Your mouth looks strange when it’s stretched like that. Your eyes don’t match it. One of them is smaller than the other. Or maybe it’s the lashes. You glance down, pick up the spoolie, and comb through. One pulls tighter than the other. You fix it. Then fix it again. Then again. And again. You’re not fixing anything. You know that. But your hand won’t stop. You can’t just stop. You can’t figure out what’s wrong. You press your palm to your cheek. It’s hot. You look fine. You say it out loud. “I look fine.”

It sounds strange in the air, too echoey, like you said it, in a hallway instead of a mirror. You brush your hair. Just the front pieces to make your face stand out. To frame your face. Then a little more. The sides. The top. You brush it again. And again. Your hair isn’t the problem. It hasn’t been the problem for the last twenty minutes you’ve been brushing it. But your hand won’t stop.

The highlighter on your cheek is uneven. You fix that, too. Your powder is caking near your nose. You take a sponge to it. Now there’s a patch showing your skin. You blend. It spreads more than enough, so it looks uneven. You tap it down. The corner of your mouth twitches. You smile again, just to convince yourself about something. It doesn’t reach. You say it again. “I look fine.”

This time, your voice cracks. You look like you’re on the verge of crying. The smile stays, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. Your hand shakes a little when it goes for the brush. Like you’re so close to breaking down. You pull it through your hair again. Tuck it behind your ear. The same strand. You adjust it. Fix it. Pin it back. Take it back. You try so hard. It’s not even styled; you just put it behind it so your face will be seen more. You breathe in through your nose and try not to blink too hard. The tears are waiting for you, and so, so, so close to fall. But you’re not letting them win. You’re too prideful for that shit.

You pick up a tissue. Blot your lips. Re-gloss. You smear it. Wipe again. The gloss gets caught in the corner of your smile, and you try to clean it, but your finger drags red across your cheek, and now there’s a mark there- something not quite lipstick, not quite skin- and you just stare at it. Your reflection, holding that stupid smile, eyes glassy, mouth shaking, cheeks flushed, hair perfect, lip slightly smudged. You grab a makeup wipe. And drag it across your face. One hard pull from cheekbone to jaw.

The foundation lifts with it. So does the shimmer. You do it again. The other cheek. Across your forehead. Your nose. You wipe your lips last. Slow. Gentle this time. Now your face is bare. Your eyes sting. Your hands are still. You reach for your comb. Start brushing again. You smile into the mirror, raw and flushed and ruined. And say it one more time. “I look fine.” You sit still for a long time.

The mirror doesn’t blink. The lights are too hot. Your mouth feels heavy from the layers you’ve added, wiped, and added again. Your cheeks are flushed- not from blush anymore, but from friction. From all the fixing. From everything you tried to make work that just… didn’t. You don’t know what look you’re going for. Maybe you’re too focused on perfection. Too much of being a people pleaser. You stare at yourself. Your lashes are clumped with dried mascara. At the corners of your mouth, gloss pooling in lines. At the places where the highlighter clings to textures you swore you didn’t have.

Then, slowly, you reach for the wipe. Just one at first. Pulled soft from the pack. It’s cool. Damp. You press it to your cheek and hold it too long for a second, like you’re waiting for something- permission, maybe. Or a sign. Then you drag it across your skin. It catches. Streaks. Peels off the shimmer and blush in one long, uneven swipe. You don’t look away. You keep going.

Another wipe. Your other cheek. You wipe down your jawline across your forehead. The makeup comes off in patches- foundation and bronzer and effort- all sinking into soft white cloth like stains you’re not allowed to mourn. You press the edge under your eye. Gently. Mascara smudges black down your cheekbone. You wipe it up. But the more you touch it, the more it spreads. You wipe harder. Your eyes burn.

You move to your lips next. The gloss is sticky now, clinging to the corners and turning sour. You drag the wipe across your mouth. It catches, leaving the skin underneath showing your natural lips, slightly raw. You wipe again. And again, until your mouth feels empty, the stain is gone, and your face is bare.

You lean back, lips parted, your breath shaky and quiet. You look at the wipes- seven of them now, soaked, tinted, curled at the edges like they’ve wilted in your hands. Then you look back at yourself. Your face looks real. Flushed. Uneven. A little tired. But real. You blink once, slowly. Then you pick up the gloss again. Something sheer. Nothing special. The one you always use on a day when you are too lazy to get ready. You swipe it across your lips. Just once. Just enough to make them shine. You pick up the clear brow gel. Comb it through your brows softly, like touching something you’ve already hurt. No lashes. No blush. No eyeshadow. Just you. Just this. Just enough.

You’re still in your underwear. Gloss sticks to your lips. Brow gel clinging to its last bit of hold. The air in your room is warm, thick with pheromones from your skin, perfume, and everything else. Your floor looks like a war crime- fabric everywhere, bras you don’t remember owning, hangers stripped from their clothes. Your heart’s in your throat. Your reflection won’t stop looking at you.

“I just need something easy,” you say out loud, rummaging with both hands now. “Something chill. Something that doesn’t make me look like a fuckdoll in heat.” You hold up a skirt. Immediately drop it before you make that face, look of disgust that you own that one. “That makes me look like I bite pillows and sob.” You grab a top. Cute, cropped, pastel. Shit. Looks okay, but it’s ugly for today. That’s not so you. “No,” you whisper like it betrayed you. “You make me look like I tell guys I’m ‘so random’ and cry when I drink tequila.” You throw it.

You step into jeans. Pull them up. Zips them. Button bites. You look at the mirror. You turn to your side. You turn around and look over the mirror and check yourself over you should. “The hell,” you murmur before sitting on your bed's edge. Stand. Sit again. “Why do my thighs look like they’re mad at each other?” you mutter. You stand. You walk to the mirror and do everything you did earlier. Turn. Spin. Hate it. Jeans come off with a fury. You’re sweating now. “Okay,” you say to your drawer like it’s personally failed you. “I need something short. But like… not too short. Like… tasteful-slut. Like, hot, but I didn’t try.”

You pull out a black miniskirt. The words are already forming in your head the second you hold it up. “He could flip this up in half a second. Fuck me in a hallway.” You pause. Blink. Shakes your head. “Nope,” you hiss. “This is not for him. Not for him. Not. For. Him.” But your throat’s dry. And your hands are already reaching.

You toss the skirt on the bed anyway. You don’t need it. You want something that shows your legs. Something you can sit in, dance in, ride in. Not for him, obviously. Just in case. For you.

You try on another dress. It sags. Your boobs look sad. Like they’ve been told disappointing news. “Oh my god,” you whisper, looking at yourself. “Do I have the ugliest boobs on Earth? Are they upset with me?” You change. Again. And again.

You’re sweating. Your gloss is still on. You wipe it. Reapply. Wipe it again. You stand in front of your closet, hands on your hips, chest heaving, eyes wide, the edge of a scream building in your throat- And there it is. That red two-piece. Folded wrong. Half-hidden. Smug little fucker of an outfit. You stare. “You’re too much,” you mutter. You pick it up. “You’re a slut. You scream I need attention. You’re asking to be pinned to a fucking bathroom sink.”

You pull it on anyway. The skirt settles over your hips like it missed you. The top hugs just right- low, but not trashy. Tight, but not desperate. Your legs look long. Your waist looks soft. Your tits aren’t even mad anymore. You turn. Spin. He could pull this up in a second. He could fuck me in this without even taking it off. Your mouth twitches.

“Not for him,” you whisper to yourself. “This is not for him.” But your legs are already moving. Your lip gloss is already perfect. And your phone just buzzed again across the room. You reach for your phone like it’s nothing. Like you’re not glowing. Your thighs aren’t warm from lotion, the gloss is still wet on your lips, and that red skirt is hugging your hips like it has something to say.

You told yourself you wouldn’t check it, that you weren’t doing this for him. That this was just for you, just to feel pretty, to feel soft, to feel like your skin belonged to you again. Not to impress anyone. Not to be seen. Not to make anyone regret leaving your messages on read or waiting too long to say the right thing. But now you’re looking at yourself in the mirror.

Now your top is hugging your chest just right, dipping low enough to flirt, tight enough to make your ribs ache in the most perfect way. Your skirt’s hitched slightly from how you’ve been walking around your room, the hem kissing the tops of your thighs, swaying a little with every shift of your weight. The perfume has settled. The light’s just right. Your body hums like it’s waiting for applause.

You unlock the screen. Your messages open with his name before you can stop yourself. Still unread. You don’t open it. You don’t need to. You swipe over to the camera. Let it settle. The mirror catches you in full-glossy, dressed, and dangerous. But you want something filthier. More intimate. Less perfect. You want to look like you didn’t try. Like you’re not thinking about him while doing exactly what you’re doing. So you angle the phone down. You lift your skirt.

Just a little. Just enough to show the start of something he wasn’t supposed to see. The soft skin at the top of your thigh. The waistband of your panties. The way the hem rides up in your hand, like you might hike it higher if someone asked nicely. You keep your face out of the frame, phone over there. Not because you’re shy, but because the body says enough. The picture doesn’t ask. It fucking shows what he’s missing right now.

You take it. Look at it. You look exactly how you want to look. Warm and flushed. Kissable and smug. Lit like a fantasy. You think about what he’ll do when he sees it, and whether he’ll stop breathing if he zooms in. If he’ll pretend he’s not already hard just from the thought of you wearing it, with that lip gloss, with those thighs, and no warning at all. You attach the photo. You don’t even write a message. You don’t send a wink. You don’t do those teasing shit. You don’t say a single word. You just hit send. Delivered.

@rafe.cameron → photo

Then you drop the phone back into there like it’s boring. Like it’s routine. Like you didn’t just hand him a loaded weapon and smile while pulling the trigger. You don’t check to see if he’s opened it. You don’t wait for a reply. You already know what he’s going to do with it. And if he wasn’t planning on finding you tonight? He is now.

He’s already burning through his second drink, sweat prickling at the back of his neck, jaw grinding slowly as he leans against the kitchen counter and pretends he’s not watching the door like it owes him something. He’s half-listening to some guy ramble about classes, nodding just enough to look sane, while his eyes keep sliding sideways whenever someone walks in.

You said maybe. That was forever ago. He told himself he wouldn’t care- but that was before he’d done a line in the room where all the shit happens, before he’d started pacing, before the walls got too loud and the music too slow and the air too heavy.

Now the coke’s humming through his blood, jittery and sharp, sitting under his skin like a loaded wire, buzzing behind his teeth every time he clenches his jaw. His palms keep twitching. His spine won’t relax. He didn’t know if it was from coke or from waiting for you. His leg’s bouncing and he keeps checking his phone like it’s something he can’t look away from for too long or he’ll miss something he’ll regret for the rest of the night. Nothing. Still nothing. And then- It buzzes.

Just once. A tiny vibration. But it cuts straight through him. He pulls it out fast, a little too fast, already expecting nothing, already annoyed, already wound so tight he could snap in half if someone looked at him wrong- and then he sees it. Your name. A photo. No message. No anything. His thumb hits the screen before he can think. The image loads. And everything in his body just stops.

You’re standing in front of your mirror, that red skirt hitched high over your thighs, fingers resting in the hem like it slipped up accidentally, but didn’t. You’re not posing. You’re not teasing. You’re just there- body soft, panties barely visible, face out of frame, like you’re not even trying to ruin him. Fuck he wants to get that panties. He wants to squeeze those tits. There’s no caption. No explanation. No emojis. Just a picture of you looking like you were made to be fucked against the wall of this party.

It knocks the breath out of his chest. He wants you now. This is making him so horny. The coke had him buzzing already, but this- this short-circuits something. His body goes still, but it’s not calm. It’s locked. His heart hammers up into his throat, and he stares at the image like it might blink, like it might shift, like if he zooms in, he’ll smell your skin and taste that lip gloss on his tongue. He swipes up with one thumb, opens your thread, and starts typing before his mind even catches up.

@rafe.cameron: Come now

@rafe.cameron: Need to fuck you

His hands won’t stop. He just types what he’s thinking, and he doesn’t care if it’s unhinged or dirty for anyone’s taste. He know at the end of the day, his cock will be inside of you pussy.

@rafe.cameron: You can’t send me shit like that and not show up

@rafe.cameron: I’ll come find you. Swear to god

The texts look insane. He doesn’t care. His pulse is in his teeth. He’s hard, achingly, painfully, not in a cute way- in a I’ll-fuck-you-up-in-this-bathroom kind of way. He zooms in on the photo. Closer. Closer. The way your fingers are just barely tugging the fabric. The way your panties cut across your hips. The suggestion of your mouth in the mirror. He’s gripping the phone so hard it creaks in his hand.

@rafe.cameron: Don’t fucking tease me

He sends it. Doesn’t even blink. Doesn’t check if you’re typing. Doesn’t check if it was delivered. He just stares. At the door. At the screen. At the wall. At the cracks in his control. Because if you show up like that- if he sees that skirt, that gloss, that smug little look you always pretend you don’t wear- he’s not waiting. He’s not asking. He’s not interested in playing nice. And if he ruins something tonight, it’s not gonna be by accident.

Your heel slips on with a little tug. You’ve got one leg propped up on the edge of your bed, fingers curled around your ankle, calf flexing just slightly as you adjust the strap. The other heel is already on, already hugging your foot like it belongs. The mirror’s catching both- your legs, long and bare, that red skirt fluttering higher than it should every time you shift.

You feel too good. Too soft. Too dangerous. Your skin’s still warm from lotion, from heat, from the ritual you put yourself through to get here. The perfume you sprayed behind your knees is still blooming faintly in the air, sticky, sweet, and intimate. You’ve got gloss on, brows set, and your hair is behaving. You haven’t checked your phone since the photo. You told yourself you wouldn’t. You pick it up anyway. One glance at the lock screen and your pulse clicks in your throat. Five new messages. All from him. You don’t rush. You open them slowly, thumb dragging the notification down like you’re unwrapping something.

@rafe.cameron: Come now

@rafe.cameron: Need to fuck you

@rafe.cameron: You can’t send me shit like that and not show up

@rafe.cameron: I’ll come find you. Swear to god

@rafe.cameron: Don’t fucking tease me

You stare at them for a long time. No reaction at first. Just a stillness in your chest, a low, slight hum under your skin that makes your thighs press together before you can think. You shift your weight, smooth your hands over your skirt, and let the hem fall slightly lower before dragging it back up.

He’s waiting. Probably pacing. Probably red-faced and feral and sweating through that shirt he always wears when he wants to be noticed. Probably checking the door. The stairs. The time. You open the keyboard.

you: You’re dramatic

you: I’m just doing an outfit check 💋

You send it. Set the phone down like it didn’t even matter. Like you didn’t just pour gasoline over a man already begging to be set on fire. You pause. Then you grab your jacket- nothing fancy, just soft and familiar, something easy to slip over your shoulders before the chill sets in. Not because it’s cold outside. Not really. But because your legs feel a little too bare now. Your arms are a little too visible. Your skin is a little too loud. It’s not fear. Not shame. Just… quiet. Subtle. A whisper of maybe I’ll feel better with it on. You smooth the sleeves down. Pull it closed. Not all the way. Just enough. You take one last look in the mirror. Not to fix anything. Just to breathe.

Then you grab your keys and head for the door with that slow, steady calm that only shows up when you’re dressed like a fantasy but still carrying armor.

You don’t know exactly what you were expecting when you got here. It’s just a house. A party. Normal one. Like the typical party you’ll see in everyday life or in movies. People and music and the familiar stench of cheap weed, sticky alcohol, and cologne too thick in the air. The lights are low. The bass is thudding through the floor. Also, there’s the questionable music taste they have. Someone’s laughing too loudly in the kitchen. You catch the end of it as you walk in, warm air hitting your skin like it’s already trying to strip the nerves off your shoulders. It’s already hot inside, you don’t know why. Maybe the lack of AC, or there are many people inside. You step inside like you’re sure of something. You’re not. Your fingers tighten in the sleeves of your jacket. You’re wearing the red set. Yes, “The red set.”

That sweet little two-piece top and bottoms with the tiny white polka dots and the soft, swingy hem that flutters when you move. The top is cropped just enough, showing little skin on your stomach. The skirt sits just right on your thighs. You knew what you were doing when you picked it. Every inch of you says I look good. But you still pulled a jacket over it. You don’t know why. But it’s something soft. Safe. Nothing heavy- just enough to make the temperature stop biting at your arms. Just enough to pretend your body isn’t asking to be looked at. You don’t unzip it. Not yet. You’re already too warm. Your skin is buzzing. Your gloss is still perfect. Your thighs are still soft from the lotion you smoothed on thirty minutes ago with shaking hands.

People notice when you walk in. Of course they do. You’re new. They always see the new ones. You’re pretty, too. You look like a doll someone forgot to box up. The doll that will sell out immediately. Glossed and glowing, big-eyed, quiet. Your skirt flutters. Your hair’s behaving. You look like you might not know where you are, maybe like someone’s waiting for you. You don’t look like you belong here, if we're honest about it. You look like you’re waiting for someone, too. You don’t scan the room. You don’t need to. You’re not that desperate.

He’s somewhere here. You know that. You feel it in your stomach. In your throat. That weird little ache that’s not fear, not heat- just a kind of pressure, waiting to break. Someone says hi. Offers you a drink. You blink at them, smile softly, and shake your head. “Just visiting,” you say when they ask what school you go to. Your voice is light. A little quiet. Maybe even shy. But your lips are still wet, your skirt is still red, and your jacket’s still wrapped over your body like a secret you’re not ready to share yet. You drift to the edge of the room. Find a wall to lean against. Just observing the party, you don’t even know who these people are. Pretend you’re fine. You don’t check your phone. You don’t take the jacket off. Not yet. But you’re here. And that’s enough to shift the gravity in the whole house.

You don’t make it more than a few minutes before someone finds you. You look at them up and down, your eyelashes fluttering. A group of girls- maybe three, maybe four- sweeps toward you from the living room like they’ve already decided you belong to them. They’re loud. The typing female friendship you’ll see. They’re pretty. All glossed up and glowing, the kind of girls who move like they know every inch of this house by memory. One of them’s holding a half-full cup of pink something. Damn. Where did they get that? Another’s got sunglasses on inside. They look like trouble. Or someone you’ll influence you to live your life to the fullest because they believe that you only live once. As if you have nine lives of a cat to do crazy shits. Or at least like they’re never bored.

They spot you and light up, and then you are with them. They don’t give you a chance to say no before they take you under their wing for the night. The couch dips under you, and you fold into it easily- legs crossed, shoulders soft, cup warm in your hand. You still haven’t taken your jacket off. The sleeves are pushed up a little, fingers peeking out, your whole body dressed like you’re cold even though the heat’s been sitting low in your chest since the second you walked in. That red outfit you spent too long getting into still clings perfectly beneath it. The little top, the matching skirt. Bare skin where it matters. Soft, flirty, dangerous in the way you swore you weren’t trying to be.

The girls around you talk like they already know you. Or want to. Or don’t care either way and just like how you’re sitting, sweet, quiet, easy to talk over, pretty in a way that doesn’t threaten them yet. All of them are extroverted, well, or maybe because they already have alcohol in their system, so they feel like they can be friends with everyone. One of them is curled with her knees tucked against her chest, another lying sideways, one leg dangling off the edge of the couch like it’s her own. They look like they live here. Like they’ve done this before. They must have... right? Like they’re collecting you for fun. They ask you things between laughs and sips- where you’re from, what school, who you know here. You keep it simple and smooth. Just visiting. Out of town. Passing through. You’re dismissive. It shows, and they don’t press about the personal information because they know it will kill the vibe.

But when they ask how you got here, you say it when one of them hums and tilts her head with a bit of sparkle behind her lashes. “Rafe invited me.” You shrug. It’s almost nothing. You might subtly roll your eyes, and it’s already dark for them to notice it, or they do, but you don’t really care. But the moment it leaves your mouth, the shift is immediate.

A shared glance, a breathless little sound from one girl’s throat, the flick of someone’s eyebrows lifting just slightly before they drop again like they’re trying not to be obvious. They look at each other like they are judging what you just said, which makes you a little anxious, to be honest. Someone adjusts the strap of her top. Someone else sucks her teeth and smiles into her drink.

No one asks you to repeat it. They heard you. They just want to see how long you’ll hold it. One girl leans in, lashes heavy, tone syrupy with curiosity. “And are you fucking him?” Straight to the point. Like they are not playing around. Just curious. Just want information squeezed out of you. The question is soft, but it lands like a slap. Your chest goes tight. Your mouth opens. You blink.

“No,” you say, breathy and too fast. “I just… came to hang out.” You said like you’re just trying to get out of their question. They saw right through it. They’re women too. They’re not dumb. They can pick it up. They know what you mean even if you deny it.

There’s a moment of quiet. Then one of them laughs- low, delighted, full of something between pity and awe. “You show up in that set,” she says, gesturing lazily at your outfit, “looking like a literal cherry-flavored ice cream, and you’re gonna tell us you’re not trying to get dicked down?” she called you out where it hits. It hits deep where you feel shy, where you get flushed and blush.

“She’s playing shy,” someone else grins, clinking her cup against yours. “Babe, if Rafe even looked at me twice, I’d already be gargling him like mouthwash.” They don’t say it like they’re teasing. They say it like it’s a fact. Like it’s common knowledge. Rafe fucks. Rafe ghosts. Rafe doesn’t invite girls. He appears. He ruins. He vanishes. So the fact that you’re here- lipgloss on, legs bare, jacket clutched to your body like you’re not already sweating underneath it- means something. You can feel the weight of it building, slipping over your thighs like warmth you can’t shake.

“He wants you,” one of them says matter-of-factly, like she’s offering you water. “Otherwise, he wouldn’t have said shit. He wouldn’t have looked. He wouldn’t have sent the text.” You don’t know that, though. You don’t know him. You don’t know how he functions. You don’t know if he’s like this to other girls.

You try to laugh it off. “It wasn’t like that,” you said, brushing it off. Of course, you’ll say it wasn’t like that, as if you didn’t all do that ritual on your skin, like you don’t want to be pretty for him when he lays you down on some cheap bed in this house.

“It was,” another says gently. “You just haven’t figured out how bad yet.” Of course, you know how bad it is. They don’t know what he texted you before you left. They don’t know, he said, “Come now. Need to fuck you.” They don’t know, he said, “Don’t tease me.” They don’t know he’s probably already somewhere in the house, pacing, fidgeting, eyes blown wide, breath held. You sip your drink and pretend your thighs aren’t pressed tight. Pretend your pulse isn’t thudding under your gloss. Pretend you’re not warm for reasons that have nothing to do with the alcohol.

“You should do it,” someone says sweetly. “Seriously. Don’t waste it.” One of the girls said before smiling at you like it’s just a one time offer and you should fucking hit it back when you obviously have the chance. You look down. You smile. Your voice, when it comes, is sugar-coated. “We’ll see.”

You try not to squirm, even as the laughter fades and the space around you feels smaller. Your hands are sticky against the plastic of your cup. You feel it sweating along with the moisture of the cup. Your shoulders are too warm under your jacket. You smile like it’s fine. Like it’s still fun. Like your heart isn’t racing so hard, it makes your earrings tremble. One of the girls shifts beside you, arm brushing yours, head tilting like she’s studying something. Her head turned to the side, and she eyed you for a long time. “You know,” she murmurs, soft but pointed, “your skin is… glowing.” You blink at her. Smile, shy. You don’t deny it, but you just smile at her. You wait for what she’ll say next.

“I’m serious,” she says, voice amused but honest. “It’s giving… poreless like you prepared for it. Looks like you are getting ready to get laid. Hm. Dewy. That serum-wearing, body-oil-layered, about-to-get-railed kind of glow.” There’s a chorus of laughs around you, warm, sticky, and knowing. Their eyes are now back on you as if they’re trying to see the point of the girl who said that. “She smells like lotion and regret,” someone hums, and noss. “No, not even regret,” another cuts in, eyes flicking over your shoulder. “She smells like she planned to win.” Yeah. Win someone’s attention, they bet. You planned to win. There’s no lying about that.

“She smells like she shaved everything.” The first girl hums thoughtfully, narrowing her eyes at you. “Wait- what is that? It’s not just perfume. It’s like… deeper.” She leans in slightly, nostrils flaring as she breathes you in. And you try to stay still for it. You let her breathes and smell you while you’re blushing for fuck sake. “Oh my god,” she says suddenly, eyes going wide. “It’s fucking pheromones.”

You freeze. You shake your head, trying to deny it. A quiet little laugh slips from your throat, too tight, too high. “ I-I don’t know,” you say, but it’s weak. You bite your lip, and you almost pout. “Oh, she knows,” another grins. “That’s not Bath & Body Works, babe. That’s ’fuck me in the hallway’ in a bottle.”

“It’s behind-the-knee perfume,” someone teases. Before she put her hand on your knee, like she’s trying to prove a point. “That’s the slut zone.” More laughter. You know that, that’s why you sprayed it there. You’re dizzy with it now, heat curling low in your belly, skin too hot under your jacket, knees still pressed tight together. You don’t remember blinking. You’re smiling too widely.

“You did the whole ritual,” one of them says. “Skincare. Lotions. Pheromones. You probably glossed your lips six times and changed your underwear just in case.” They’re not wrong, though, besides the underwear, because you’ve decided which you’ll wear when you lay eyes on the set underneath your clothes.

“She waxed… or shaved,” someone adds, sipping her drink with a grin. “I’d bet money. Full prep. Clean girl gone filthy.”

It’s annoying how they are right again. Like they do that shit too, they don’t know how long you spent getting ready. Hours. Probably four or maybe five. They don’t know you double-cleansed your soul off in the shower, or that you sprayed that little glass bottle across your throat and thighs and wrists like it was protection, like it would make you smell less desperate. But somehow, they do because they’re also women like you. It’s bound to happen that once in your life, you’ll get crazy like this.

And still, somewhere beyond these walls, where the music is louder and the air thicker and your phone is still buried deep in your purse, he hasn’t seen you yet. He’s desperate to see you, though. To land his eyes on you for the first time. But they have, the girls have. And they already know what you’re here for. You don’t know how it starts. One minute you’re still blushing over the last thing they said- your gloss clinging to the rim of your cup, your thighs sticking to the couch- and the next? They’re spiraling. All of them. Telling stories like they’re trading war crimes.

“Okay, no, but I once used my roommate’s body butter and shaved my arms because a guy looked at me in Econ.”

“Girl. I shaved my pussy with body wash in a Target bathroom because I thought I was getting railed after brunch.”

You choke on your drink at their words like it’s the most absurd thing you’ve heard. “No, wait- what?”

The girl closest to you waves a hand like it’s nothing, like it’s a normal thing for them. Too normalized, actually. “He said ’you up’ at 11am. What was I supposed to do? Don’t believe in love?”

Another girl cackles. “I change my underwear once in a Starbucks just because this guy said he liked lace.”

You’re laughing too hard to speak at first. You press a hand over your face, shake your head. “You guys are actually insane.”

“Please. Like you’re any better,” someone shoots back. You blink, innocent, before you roll your eyes and raise your eyebrow at them. “What did I do?”

“You’re sitting here glowing like a slutty candle and pretending you didn’t scrub your body raw for Rafe Cameron.”

“I didn’t- ” You sit up, sputtering. “I was just exfoliating! That’s normal!”

“Sure, and the pheromone perfume?”

You open your mouth. Close it. Cover your face again. “Okay, shut up.”

They’re all howling now. One of them clinks her drink against yours. “It’s fine. We’ve all been pussy delusional.”

Another nods solemnly. “I once put on a matching bra and panty set to go over to a guy’s house who didn’t even have pillowcases.”

You gasp. “Noooo.”

“Yes. I lay on his mattress like a Victorian ghost.”

Someone pats your knee. “Honestly, I respect it.”

“Thank you,” the ghost replies. You smile so hard it hurts. Your cheeks are warm, your drink’s half-gone, and you haven’t checked your phone in ten minutes because you might explode if you see his name again. One of the girls leans in, eyes narrowed.

“So, you gonna let him hit or what?”

You cover your mouth like that’ll stop your brain from answering. “Can we not?? I haven’t even seen him yet.” Yeah, you only saw him on his picture, not in person, though, so you don’t know why you did all of that shit for a man you just met on some freaking site!

Someone hums. “You don’t need to. That outfit says you’re ready to be pinned.” Another lifts her brow. “You’re the kind of girl who packs emergency gloss and a hair tie just in case.”

You roll your eyes, grinning. “Okay, and what about it?” They all cheer. You are officially one of them. And across the house? He has no idea he’s already the main event.

The laughter softens into something golden- still bright, still messy, but looser now. Slower. Like it’s settling into your bones. You’ve lost track of how long you’ve been sitting here, your jacket still wrapped around your arms, and your cup magically refilling every time you set it down. You’ve stopped checking it. You’re just sipping. Sipping. Giggling. Breathing.

You’re not even sure what the last joke was. Something about waxing your asshole for a man who doesn’t believe in fitted sheets. You nearly choked when someone mimed it. “Okay, but wait,” the girl next to you says, leaning in with her chin on her palm. “I have a real question.”

You blink at her, still smiling. “Huh?”

“How do you even know Rafe?” The question lands softly and casually, but the entire couch shifts the second it’s out there. Everyone turns, subtly but definitely. They are waiting for your answer. Eyes flick to you. Brows lift. One girl’s lips parted like she hadn’t even realized she wanted to know until right now. You still go for half a second. Then you laugh, quiet and slightly stunned by your own answer.

“I met him through an anonymous chat site.” You said, no shame to that one. You smile, cheeks blushing. Your hand is on your thigh, while the other is on your cup. Someone gasps. Full, delighted.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Shut up.”

You hold your hand up in surrender. “I’m serious. I didn’t even know it was him. We were just talking. Sexting, really. Dirty. Like- filthy.”

“Oh my god.”

“I hate you. That’s so hot.”

“It was anonymous?” one of them asks, eyes wide. “Like, usernames and no pics?”

You nod. “Totally anonymous. I didn’t know who he was until the end of the chat. Then I followed him on Insta and he messaged me like- “so you’re just gonna follow me and not say anything?” that kind of bullshit! He did the first move.” They scream. One girl throws her head back. Another grabs your arm. They’re giggling as if they’re the ones who experienced it.

“I’m gonna throw up.”

“That’s so hot.”

“You’re literally the luckiest bitch alive.”

You giggle again, cheeks flushed, head a little floaty. You don’t realize how fast you’ve been drinking until you feel your words start to stick a little, liquid and glossy. You swirl the cup in your hand and take another sip anyway.

“He’s so fine,” one girl says reverently, like a prayer. “Like, I get it. I totally get it.”

Someone else nods, dreamily. “I’d let him break my heart and my lease.” Another sighs. “He doesn’t even have to text me. He could just show up, and I’d say, thank you for your service, sir.”

You laugh again, curling into yourself slightly. You feel soft. Sweet. Held in a way you didn’t expect. You are not even bothered by the words they say. You are not insecure or jealous in a way because you get it. He’s handsome. And all of you are just girls. And the weirdest part? It’s not even about him anymore. It’s about them. The way they let you in. The way they believed you. The way they’re all a little crazy, too. You’re still giggling when someone says, “Okay, but if he walks in right now? What are you gonna do?”

And you just blink. Smiling. Floating. Still not ready to answer. But he’s upstairs, but he hasn’t really been there. Not in any way that counts. The room is hot, thick with smoke and sweat, and someone’s music vibrates too low through the walls to make sense. Laughter rattles from the couch; a few guys are trading hits from a joint and passing a bottle back and forth like they’re part of the furniture. There’s a table pushed up against the wall, powdered and streaked and cluttered with bills and half-rolled twenties, and that’s the only thing Rafe’s paid attention to all night. He did a line almost thirty minutes ago- maybe two, maybe more- and it still hasn’t left his system. It’s not a high anymore. It’s something else. Like something he’s used to. Something tight and hot and restless. Something was crawling beneath the surface of his skin, making his jaw ache, his fists twitch, and his throat dry out between drinks.

He hasn’t spoken in a while. He hasn’t laughed, hasn’t chimed in, and hasn’t looked away from his phone. He’s just... dreaming. He knows he’s fucked up already. The screen keeps dimming. He keeps tapping it back to life. Over and over. Still nothing. Still that photo- your skirt hiked up, that filthy, slight hem just grazing the curve of your underwear- and no follow-up. No text. No, “I’m outside.” No “I’m here.” No “Where are you?” Just that one fucking image like a spark you dropped in his lap and walked away from.

He knows you’re here. He doesn’t need confirmation. It’s not instinct. It’s not luck. It’s just that he knows you’re somewhere here in this house. Even high. Even pissed. Even though he hasn’t look yet. Even vibrating through the seams of his fucking jeans, he knows when you’re close. He just doesn’t understand why you didn’t tell him.

He’s halfway to relapsing into another line when he hears it- laughter on the stairs, muffled voices trailing past the doorway like they don’t know who’s listening. Two guys. Loud. Loose. Drunk enough to think they can say anything and not choke on it. “You’ve seen that new girl downstairs?” one of them says. “Red skirt. Beautiful eyes. Laughing with the girls like she lives here.”

“Shit, yeah,” the other one answers, already laughing. “She’s bad. I might go say something. Bet she’ll fold easily.” Rafe doesn’t move at first. He just sits still inside the room. Doesn’t speak. But his body’s already tensing, already rising- slow, deliberate, the kind of stillness that means danger. His fingers curl around the chair’s armrest until the wood creaks, and when he stands, it’s like gravity shifts with him. And be heard one of the guys shouted his name but he ignored him.

He steps into the hallway. Walks right up behind them. “What the fuck did you just say?” The two guys stiffen. Look at Rafe like they already said the wrong thing, which is a bad thing, really. It makes something inside Rafe click. Or pushed.

One glances back. “Chill, bro, it was a joke-”

He shakes his head. “No,” Rafe snaps, stepping closer, heat rolling off him in waves, jaw locked so tight he can feel the ache in his molars. His hands are closed, ready to punch this guy’s face. To make his head separate from his body. “Say it again. Say that shit about her again. I fucking dare you.” They try to laugh it off. He stutters something like just messing around, like they don’t realize he’s two seconds from putting someone through drywall. He steps even closer- right into their space- and one of them flinches, eyes darting toward the nearest room like maybe someone will pull Rafe back. But no one does.

Then Rafe exhales. Just once. A low, sharp breath that cuts through the heat like a knife. He steps back. Not because he’s calm. Not because he’s changed his mind. But because you’re downstairs. Because while he’s up here wasting time with cowards, someone else might already be too close. Might already be looking. Might already think they have a chance. He shakes his head once. Scoffs like it burns in his throat.

“You’re lucky I’ve got somewhere better to be.” And then he turns- shoulders still tight, mouth still curled, fury packed in his spine like it’s waiting to detonate- and starts down the stairs without another word. He doesn’t care if they’re still watching. All he cares about now is finding you. And when he does? You’ll know exactly how much trouble you’re in. He spots you the second he hits the bottom step.

Tucked into the far end of the couch, knees drawn up slightly, your cup cupped between both hands. Jacket still on. Skirt riding high. Laughing. Giggling, really- head tipped back, gloss catching the light, hair falling soft around your face like it’s been waiting for him to see it.

He stops for half a breath. Just takes you in. The shape of you in his peripheral vision. The way you lean into the girls around you. The way you’re not looking for him. You didn’t just send him that photo and disappear; then, he moves. Not fast. Not aggressive. Just direct. Like there’s a thread tied from his chest to yours and he’s been pulling it all night.

You don’t even see him coming- not until the couch dips beside you. Not until you feel the heat of him pressing into your side. Then his arm drapes across the back of the couch. Slow. Lazy. Heavy. His fingers catch the curve of your shoulder, grazing over the fabric of your jacket like he’s testing the texture, like he’s reminding you it’s still on. He hasn’t said anything to you yet. Just let his hand settle, palm warm, thumb dragging absently back and forth over your clothed arm. Then, like he’s been there all along, like he belongs there, he glances at the girls you’ve been laughing with and says, voice low and slow and sharp at the edges:

“So,” he drawls, mouth crooked, jaw tight with something deeper than the smile, “what are we talkin’ about?” You don’t look at him right away. You feel him first- the couch dipping under his weight, the warmth of his thigh settling flush against yours, the press of his arm stretching across the press of his arm stretching across the back of the cushions.

His wrist grazes your hair. Gently, and it felt good. His fingers trail down the line of your jacket like they’re checking the fabric, like he’s deciding how much of you is his to touch. His fingers are curious, like he’s trying to figure you out. One of the girls glances up, but not for long. She looks him over once, then turns back to the group, her mouth pulling into a grin. Like she knows what’s about to happen once both of you leave that couch. It’s no surprise. Not awkwardness. It’s familiarity.

“Nails,” she says simply, like it’s the truth. Another girl nods, jumping in with a soft, agreeable hum. They are lying about what they just talked about, which is filthy and embarrassing. “Yeah. Top coats. Gel lifting. Whether press-ons are worth it.”

A third girl sighs dramatically and waves her hand. While looking at her nails, they are probably new sets. “Mine keeps breaking. I swear, the second I get anything cute, I open one drawer and they all snap off.”

The conversation picks up as if he never arrived. It is as if his hand isn’t already sliding down the side of your sleeve, as if he’s feeling your body and your shape under his hand. As if he didn’t just let his palm fall softly, warm and steady, against your bare thigh. Resting it there. He doesn’t squeeze. He doesn’t shift. Just places it there like he has every right, like no one in the room would dare to call it out even if they noticed. And they do notice. But none of them says a word, just let it sit there. It’s not like you don’t want it there, though, you do. It’s just a new feeling. Someone is entering a new place, and you’re getting used to that someone.

One girl smiles into her cup. Another curls her legs beneath her, tucking them under like you’re all still just lounging. The way you’ve gone perfectly still under his touch isn’t something she’s watching happen in real time. “I can never get the almond shape right,” someone says, showing her hand. “Mine always end up looking like little daggers.” You chuckle at that because you can see why she said that. You can see the vision.

“They’re supposed to be sharp,” another girl says. “It’s the drama.” Nails are expression and art, they’re something that can reflect you by the way you pick your design, the shape, and how you wear it on your fingers.

“And if they break?” a third girl adds. “Then you know the dick was worth it.” That one gets laughter. You even manage to laugh, breathy and half-distracted, lips parted as you glance down at the drink in your hand that’s suddenly harder to hold. Rafe’s thumb starts moving- barely. You shiver at the action, licking your lips, and you look quickly at him before looking away. You feel them back and forth. Slow little arcs, no pressure. Just presence. Just possession. None of them acknowledge it. They don’t tease. They don’t whisper. They don’t say his name again. They let it live there. On you. Between you. Like it’s part of the night now, they know how to read a room, that’s what’s good about these girls. They know you are shy. They don’t take advantage of it.

One of the girls tops off your drink without asking, nudging the bottle toward you with a wink. Another leans into your side, warm and loose, pulling up her phone and flashing you a screenshot of some ridiculous nail design- something neon, floral, and way too much. It looks ugly to your taste, but huge respect to those who will be able to wear them and still slay while wearing them. You laugh again, a little clearer this time, and nod like you’re still here, still listening, still present enough to care.

“You’d rock that,” she says. “Bet your hands look pretty when you’re- ” (holding his dick around your palms and nails just showing) She stops short, but the grin stays. You could already guess what she’s about to say. It’s not hard to figure out what it is. You hide yours behind the rim of your cup.

The couch adjusts slightly when Rafe shifts, spreading his legs a little wider, the side of his thigh pressing more into yours, his hand still unmoved but heavier now, warmer, thumb sliding higher in slow, lazy circles like it’s marking territory you didn’t agree to give up- but also didn’t fight. The girls know. And they don’t press.

They just keep talking, keep laughing, giving you the safety of their noise while your chest flutters and your pulse flickers, and Rafe leans just slightly closer, not touching your face, not saying a word, but letting the heat of him bleed across your shoulder like a brand. They know what they’re doing. And he knows that they know. But no one’s going to ruin it. Not yet. It starts soft.

The girls keep the conversation alive, voices looping around each other, light, fast, and easy to ride. They keep laughing, filling the space with something that feels safer than silence, like noise, might make it easier to breathe. You just listen to them while trying to entertain Rafe quietly by letting him hold your body. You keep sipping. Maybe too often. Maybe just enough. The drink’s stronger now- whatever they poured you lingers longer. You feel yourself getting buzzed little by little. Sweet on the tongue, but hot in your chest. It’s something that kicks in the end, but it tastes good. The kind that burns a little once it hits your stomach. Makes your shoulders drop. Makes your lips part just slightly when you breathe.

Rafe hasn’t moved. Not really. He hasn’t said much since he sat down, hasn’t joined the conversation, hasn’t taken his hand off your leg. He just listens to the girls. You noticed the way he’s a little off. Not off off. Off in a way he’s high. He just sits there like he’s always belonged in this circle, like he was always going to end up next to you, warm and high and carved from something a little too sharp to be soft. But thankfully, he’s not rushing it even though you both know where you’ll end up at the end of the night. His thumb moves slowly. Back and forth. Just the same few inches, low and easy, like he’s not even thinking about it. Like he knows you are. But he just let his thumb move out of instinct.

You laugh at something one of the girls says without meaning to. It comes out too loud, too suddenly. You blush because it’s kinda embarrassing. You catch yourself and cover your mouth, shaking your head, tipsy and sweet and already too warm from the heat blooming between your legs. They smile at you, soft, knowing. It’s actually close to smirking, but they have pretty lips and an obvious drunk smile on them. One girl bumps her knee against yours. Another raises her cup like a toast and leans back against the couch.

And that’s when it happens. You open your mouth and say something back. Just a comment. A half-tease. Something small, but you’re in it now. You continue the conversation with them. Your voice slides into the rhythm of their laughter, and no one stops you. Even Rafe. No one pauses. It just fits.

“Okay, but I’d wear that,” you say, gesturing to the girl beside you who’s holding up a screenshot of an outfit that’s part unhinged, part genius. “Like- if I was in a slutty mood, yeah. I’d do it.”

The girl grins. “Oh you’re in a slutty mood, babe.”

Another lifts a brow. “Look at you.”

You flush deeper. “I’m literally just sitting here- ”

“With him,” someone adds, nodding toward Rafe.

You roll your eyes, grinning now, soft and slow, your head tipping slightly toward him without thinking. Rafe smirks, doesn’t deny it. He feels his ego boosted by that. Too cocky for it. His hand shifts higher, just a little. A small drag. A little more thigh. Just enough to make your breath hitch and your knees press closer together. Still, no one calls it out. You keep talking anyway.

You don’t know if it’s the drink, touch, or how his fingers have started tracing the hem of your skirt now, but you stop flinching. You stop pretending you’re not enjoying it. Your legs relax. You might open your legs a little, just enough to fit his hand if he wants to slide it between them. Your posture softens. You laugh again, easier this time.

“So what’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever worn just to hook up with someone?” you ask, eyes gleaming.

The girls erupt. One immediately shouts, “Fishnets and a church hoodie,” and another says, “My ex’s jersey with no bra,” and someone else goes, “A fucking Halloween costume. The whole thing. I’m talking ears, tail, glitter, everything.”

You’re giggling so hard it makes your shoulders shake, head falling lightly to Rafe’s shoulder for half a second- just a second-and he doesn’t move. He doesn’t push you off. For a moment, you think he is even encouraging you to rest there. He’s still quiet. Still sitting there. Still listening. Still touching. And for a second, you forget what it felt like before his hand was on your skin. Before your legs were warm. Before this party felt good. Before you got here. The couch feels different now. It’s softer. Louder. Warmer.

The girls are in full swing- shoes kicked off, legs tucked under thighs, arms flung over the backrest like this is their living room and you’ve been part of it for years. They’re drunker than they were thirty minutes ago. You are, too. Not drunk drunk, but it feels good. Everything’s slow and pretty and swaying. You can’t stop smiling. Your cheeks ache from it.

Someone’s telling a story about a guy who thought clitoral was a shampoo brand. Another is bent over her phone, scrolling for a meme she has to show you. There’s a half-eaten bag of chips on someone’s lap. A speaker’s going somewhere in the other room, muffled but steady, bass vibrating in your ribs like it’s inside you.

You’re sunk deep into the cushions now, body loose and glowing. Gloss is still sticky. Jacket still on. Legs still bare. And Rafe? Rafe hasn’t moved. He’s right there, planted like he’s the girl in the conversation and this is a group of full men while you have your wife beside you, because that’s how it feels for a momen especially he’s just the one guy here, with long legs spread lazily and an arm draped behind you like it was stitched to the couch. His hand hasn’t left your thigh all night. He’s not being obvious. Not squeezing. Not tugging. Just resting it there- warm, steady, heavy. Like it’s his, and he’s patient. Like he’s not in a rush. Like he knows you’ll crack eventually.

You haven’t cracked yet. But you’re warm enough to melt. You laugh at something one of the girls says- something about a man in a snapback who called her “babe” before even getting her name- and your knee bumps Rafe’s without meaning to. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even glance your way. But his thumb starts moving again. Just a slow, lazy stroke over your skin. One pass. Then two. Like a reminder. You try not to react. Try.

You lift your cup and sip. Too fast. The sweetness hits your teeth before it burns your throat. You shift your legs, one over the other, and your skirt slides just a little higher without meaning to. One of the girls notices and shoots you a look- a soft, tipsy, knowing look. “You okay, babe?” she says, voice sugary, loud over the laughter. “You look all flushed.” And she’s right, you are getting there to the drunk state, but not much. You can still hear and understand clearly what they are saying; you can still pick them up.

“I’m good,” you lie, cheeks hotter than they’ve been all night. “Just the drink.”

She nods like she believes you. But you know she doesn’t. Then, you feel him lean in. His chest touches your side. Muscular. Too boyish. His body doesn’t move much. He just angles slightly, shoulder brushing yours, mouth dipping close to your ear. You could feel his hot breath, and it made you squirm and shiver down your spine. Close enough that you feel it before you hear it. His voice is low. Smooth. Barely a breath.

“If I put my fingers between your legs right now, would they come out wet?” You freeze. Not completely. Just enough. You close your eyes and can’t help but imagine the scenario he laid out in front of you. That would be disgusting and embarrassing for your taste, but it doesn’t stop you from feeling something.

Your legs press together so tightly you feel it in your stomach. You shift your hips like it’s nothing, but your fingers curl tighter around your cup, and you don’t look at him. You stare straight ahead. The girl across from you. At her earrings. At the table. Anywhere but him.

You pretend you didn’t hear it. He pretends he didn’t say it. His thumb keeps tracing soft, slow arcs across your thigh like nothing happened. Someone beside you starts talking about her last situationship and how he cried after sex. Another girl shouts, “No! Shut up!” like she can’t handle it, and the whole couch explodes in laughter.

You laugh too. You sound normal. But your knees stay locked, your face stays pink, and your chest feels like a drumline. He doesn’t say another word. He doesn’t have to. You’re soaked. And he knows it. You want hom now and it’s something you can’t admit out loud but your pussy is screaming for it. For the need and want.

The couch feels like it’s hugging you now. Warm and soft and far too easy to sink into. You’ve stopped keeping track of your drink- or how many times the girl beside you refilled it. The cup in your hand is sweeter than it should be, the ice long melted, and your gloss is half-worn off from all the laughing.

Everything around you is golden- spilled light, sticky heat, the kind of buzz that makes your thighs feel soft and heavy. God. You can’t wait to be upstairs with him. For your back to hit the bed or your chest. You are not picky; you can even take him to the bathroom if you can. The girls are still talking over each other, into their drinks, through mouthfuls of chips, inside jokes, and memories you weren’t there for but still find yourself smiling at.

You’ve been trying to play along. Trying to stay inside the moment. You really try but Rafe’s hand hasn’t left your thigh. It’s not moving much. Just resting. Just there. He knows what it’s doing to you, and he’s just letting it stay there intentionally, to make you lose your mind. Heavy and slow and warm, skin to skin, the weight of it dragging all your attention back to the space between your legs, no matter how many times you try to smile at someone else’s story. He’s still beside you all night. Like a storm waiting to snap.

And then- he shifts. Leans in, slow and quiet, so close his nose brushes your hairline, his lips grazing just behind your ear like they’ve been waiting for this moment the whole time. His voice doesn’t rise above the others. It doesn’t need to. “Let’s go upstairs.”

You barely breathe. You don’t look at him. Fuck. Here it is. The invitation you’ve been waiting for. You just blink once, and your chest stutters. There’s no follow-up. No persuasion. Just that. He knows, he knows that you want it too, he knows that you’re desperate for it too. Fucking shit. Yes, you are, yes, you’ll go upstairs with him. That low hum of suggestion, thick and slow, curling low in your stomach like a thread being tugged. You don’t answer. Not right away. But your body does. Your thighs twitch. Your fingers go still around your cup. You swallow like you’ve forgotten how to. Something inside you goes sharp, then molten. And you look up. Not at him. At her.

One of the girls, across the circle, lounging against the couch arm like she lives there, one strap of her top slipping down her shoulder, drink half gone, smile lazy and soft like she’s floating somewhere just left of sober. Her eyes meet yours, and something passes between you. Something quiet. No words. She sees your face. She knows. She raises one eyebrow, tilts her head like she’s asking Is it him?

You blink once. Then twice. You don’t nod. You don’t speak. But she sees it anyway. She knows you’re subtly telling her if you can go upstairs. Of course, you don’t want to get disrespectful to them and just leave after they entertained you the whole time. Her smile widens just a little. She lifts her glass- barely- and then winks. Not teasing. Not mocking. Just… approval. Permission. A quiet, drunk girl blessing wrapped in glitter and lip gloss.

And just like that, you move. You set your drink down like your hand isn’t trembling. You adjust your skirt. You stand. Rafe’s already up. He doesn’t take your hand, doesn’t say a word. Just waits. Turns slightly. Starts walking. And you follow.

Your drink stays behind- half full, still sweating on the side table like a version of you you don’t need anymore. The noise fades fast. Every step you take up the stairs pulls the night tighter around your ribs. Your heart’s a fist now, lodged somewhere between your throat and your stomach. Shit. He looks good even though he’s not facing you. You keep your eyes on his back and shoulders, and how his hand slides lazily over the banister makes it seem like he’s not walking toward something purposefully.

He doesn’t look back. But he knows you’re there. He knows you’re following him like a dog. You keep one hand at your side, brushing your skirt down out of habit. You’re hyper-aware of everything- your thighs, your breath, the edge of your jacket biting into the top of your chest. You smell like gloss and perfume and heat. Your lips feel too soft. Your panties are damp even though he doesn’t do anything yet. Shit. You’re unbelievable. You’re a slut. Yeah. You confirmed that already from the moment you get ready for him.

When you reach the second floor, it’s quieter than it should be. You hear faint voices behind closed doors- music leaking from the floor below- but the hallway ahead is empty. It’s a stretch of dim light, creaking floorboards, and silence. Thank God. You don’t know if you could survive anyone seeing you like this.

Rafe doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t check to make sure you’re still following. He knows. His walk is easy and casual, with one hand sliding into his pocket like this: just another room, just another party, just another girl. But you know better. You reach the end of the hall, and he stops outside a door- one of the last on the left. No noise from behind it. No movement. Just stillness.

He doesn’t open it right away. He glances over his shoulder, finally- eyes sliding to you, lazy and low, like he’s not surprised you’re here, but still satisfied you came. You still followed him even though he didn’t drag you upstairs, even though he wanted to. He just wants you to have some control for a moment, to decide if you really want it so he walks in front of you and doesn’t look back but here you are now. His gaze drops to your legs. Your mouth. The part of your jacket you’ve tugged down too far. He doesn’t say anything. He just stares for a second, long enough to make your stomach tighten, long enough to make your skin feel like a secret.

And then- He turns the knob. Pushes the door open. And steps inside. Doesn’t look back this time either. He just left the door open for you. Just disappears into the low light like this has been the plan all along. And you? You hover. One step behind the threshold, fingers twitching at your sides. You could go back. Downstairs. To the noise. To the girls. You could sit right back down and pretend this wasn’t happening. But it is. And when you step inside, the door closes behind you with a quiet click that feels louder than it should.

You’re alone now. Just you. And him. And every filthy thing he hasn’t said yet.

The sound of the door clicking shut behind you is soft. Too soft. It doesn’t echo, slam, or announce anything at all; still, your skin goes tight the second you hear it. You stay where you are. The jacket is still on, the heels are still clicking faintly against the hardwood, and your eyes adjust to the room’s low light that feels too still, quiet, and closed off. It’s probably some boy’s room. You don’t even know who owns it, but he certainly does.

“So... which room is this?” you ask, like an ice breaker. Just to lighten the mood. Just to get away from your own awkwardness. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t answer your question. He just turns, slow and deliberate, and looks at you like he’s not sure what you are yet- like he’s weighing it. Measuring. Deciding. You don’t know what to do with your hands.

You should say something again, right? Make a joke. Lighten the mood. But there’s no space for that now. There is no space for lightness, laughter, or anything else that might convince your body to stop pulsing so loudly under your skin. You look at him, and you’re still close to the door. He takes a step forward that makes you take a step back. Not fast. Not threatening. Just one step. Heavy enough to feel. “You always follow strangers- especially men you don’t know into bedrooms?” His voice is low. You don’t know if he’s judging you or what.

He’s quiet enough to make you strain to hear it, which only worsens it. You open your mouth to answer, but nothing comes out. Another step. “You don’t know me.” Well... You do. You know him. Sort of. Maybe. You want to say that. You want to say something like “I’m getting to know you, that’s why I am here,” kind of crazy. You want to tell him you’re not careless and that this wasn’t blind. You want to defend yourself, that you’re not stupid. But your throat’s dry. Your stomach’s tight. Your body knows what your mouth hasn’t admitted yet- He’s not wrong.

“You talked to me for one night on an anonymous site,” he says, gaze flicking lazily over you, pausing at the hem of your skirt, the line of your collarbone. You don’t know what he’s thinking. It’s embarrassing how he’s picturing the scenario right now. He’s making it sound like you’re easy. Of course you’re not, that’s what you tell yourself the whole time. “Saw my face for a day on Instagram.” He’s standing right in front of you now. Close enough that you can see the dilation in his pupils, the faint smudge of something under his nose. He’s high. Not sloppy- sharp. Alert. Burning slowly. You haven’t moved. Fuck, he’s so close he could just pin you right here, right now, and people wouldn’t care. Not when the music has been banging the whole house loudly.

“You don’t know whose room this is,” he says, quieter now. You know he has a point, of course, you know. You just don’t want to aknowledge the whole goddamn thing! “You didn’t ask. Didn’t check. Didn’t send your location. You didn’t even tell one person you were coming upstairs.” You do. You do. You told someone! That one girl from downstairs who’s probably drunk now. You blink. Fast. His hand comes but up not to touch your face, not to grab your throat, not to pin you. To tilt your chin. He makes you look at him. He’s observing your face closely. Gentle fingers against your jaw, slow and firm, like he’s making you look at him because you don’t have a choice.

“No one knows where you are.” It sinks deep. That sentence. Each word. It slides under your skin and curls there, hot, cold, and heavy. You hold your breath while you’re looking at him. You are overthinking everything right now because of what he said. You shouldn’t come. You shouldn’t. You’re so stupid. So dumb. Do you need that kind of attention, so you’re here? What if he’s a killer? What if he’s not here for you? What if he just wants to see how easy it is to make you come here and make fun of you? That kind of overthinking. Your breath catches. Your body doesn’t move. He doesn’t smile.

“What if I’m not here to fuck you?” he murmurs. Oh, he did not! How could he say that when he’s showing all these signs... right? You’re so close to crying right now, and you don’t even know if it’s obvious. “What if I locked this door and never let you out?” Your fingers twitch at your sides. He notices.

“What if I wasn’t who you thought I was?” he continues, voice like velvet stretched over something sharp. “What if I was catfishing you this whole time?”

You try to swallow, but it doesn’t go down right. “What if I didn’t want you on my lap?” he says, his thumb brushing against your bottom lip once before he made it part from your upper lip. Your breath shudders. “What if I wanted you in the trunk of my car instead?”

A sound stutters in your throat. Not a word. Not a cry. Just air. His mouth doesn’t touch you. But it’s close. You can see it in front of you, it’s so close. You look down at it. You feel it, no, he’s not kissing you, but his breath is warm, ghosting across your skin like a hand. “You scared?” The truth pools between your thighs before it ever makes it to your mouth.

You nod. Barely. Just enough. The smallest tilt of your chin. God. You want to kick him and slap him. You want to curse him out. You want to strangle him. Jesus, you want to do many things to him and it’s not just fucking. You hate that he’s making you feel this way. And he breathes in like it’s the answer he was hoping for. His hand doesn’t leave your face. Not right away. His thumb drags over your bottom lip, slow and deliberate, pressing just enough to feel how soft it is. How warm. His eyes flick to your mouth, then back to your eyes.

You don’t look away. Then, quietly, casually, his other hand lifts. It finds the edge of your zipper, right between your chest. And he pulls. Slow. It is so slow that you feel every inch of it. The metal teeth separate, one by one, all the way down your chest like a line drawn through your resolve. He doesn’t look at the jacket. He doesn’t look at his hands. He looks at you. He keeps staring at you. Your eyes. Your face. He let his eyes consume you while his hand just opened your jacket as if you were a gift he was trying to unwrap for himself. The way your breath skips as the fabric starts to fall open, exposing more skin, more heat, more of the body you swore you weren’t offering when you came upstairs- and now can’t seem to stop presenting.

You don’t stop him. You don’t say a word. You just let him. You feel there’s a rock in your throat while he’s doing it, though. When the zipper hits the bottom, he pushes the jacket back just enough to see. His fingers brush your shoulders. Slide the fabric down, baring you, your arms still caught inside the sleeves, but the front of you fully exposed. His gaze drops to your chest. To the top of your bra- whatever you wore under it, if you wore anything at all, he makes a sound in the back of his throat. Low. Pleased.

Then his hands come up. Both of them now. And he touches you. Not rough. Not greedy. But firm. Like he knows what he wants and he’ll get it. Focused. Like he’s been waiting for this and wants to remember exactly how you feel in his hands. He moves his hands down from your shoulders until they reach in front of your chest. You could feel his hand shaking when he touched it. He palms your tits slowly, his thumbs brushing the tops, dragging under. His fingers press in, squeeze, lift. Not to test you- just to feel you. To see if it’s a perfect fit between his hands. To weigh you. To own. And the whole time, He’s looking at your face like you both have some staring contest happening and he will win it.

He’s watching how your lips part. How your jaw trembles. Your eyes flutter low and then snap open again, trying to stay strong. Trying not to give him more than he already took, but you are failing the way he squeezes it. The way his thumb brushes over your hardened nipples as if he already knows it’s going to be sensitive. “You wore this for me?” he asks, voice too soft to be kind. You nod again. His thumb continues to graze your nipple through the fabric. You jolt- barely- but he feels it. He sees it.

“So fucking pretty,” he murmurs. “Didn’t even have to ask. You just walked right in wearing something I could tear off with my teeth.” Your breath stutters. Your head slowly nods, barely, but he sees it. His hands press in tighter. He leans in, mouth grazing your jaw, lips brushing that sensitive space just below your ear.

“But I won’t,” he whispers. “Not yet.” Then one hand leaves your chest. Slides down. Past your ribs. To your waist. To the hem of your skirt.

His hand lingers at the hem of your skirt, but he doesn’t move it. Doesn’t lift. Doesn’t slide. It just rests there- warm and deliberate- while his other hand cups your breast like it’s his, like it’s something he bought, like he has every right to press his thumb slowly across the swell of it and watch the way your breath catches.

Then he leans in. Not to kiss. To breathe. His nose brushes against your jaw. Then your throat. Then lower. He drags the shape of his mouth along your skin without opening it, not once. He just let it brush against your skin. He feels how your hair raises, how you shiver. He thinks that you’re holding back something. He just inhales. Deep. Hungry. You shudder, barely. He groans. Just a little. Like it hurts. “You smell fucking unreal,” he murmurs, voice so low it scrapes the base of your spine.

He does it again, breathing you in from your shoulder to your neck like oxygen. His hand at your chest presses harder, just slightly, as if the feel of your body under his hand isn’t enough and he needs more, more, more. “I smelled you the second I sat down,” he whispers, nose buried at the crook of your neck now. He’s like taking it all in and just wants to stay there forever. “That perfume. Shit what do you have? Whatever the fuck you put on your skin- I almost lost it.”

Your lips part open before you hear him ask what you put in your skin, and you just casually answer it, phemoromes like it doesn’t drive him nuts. Your thighs clench. His hand on your skirt tenses. “You didn’t even take off this fucking jacket,” he says, almost accusing, almost reverent. “Sat there zipped while your thighs were out for the whole room to stare at.” His voice is so deep it’s making something crazy inside of you. It’s making you wet.

You don’t speak. You can’t. His lips ghost up your neck again. Slow. Wet. Breathing against your pulse. “No one saw what you were wearing underneath,” he growls. “No one got to see this little fucking top. No one smelled your skin so close but me.”

His teeth drag gently along your jaw. “You kept all of this hidden. You brought your body into a room full of people and zipped it up like you were saving it.” You are saving it for him. You want to be pretty for him.

His hand finally moves- just a little. Just enough to brush under your skirt, palm resting against your thigh, fingertips barely grazing where your heat pools. “You were saving it for me, weren’t you?”

You don’t answer, you know to yourself that you do. But your legs part. Barely. Just enough. Like it’s the answer to his damn question, he exhales into your neck. Almost shaky. Like he’s holding something back and losing the battle. “You should’ve told me you were gonna smell like that,” he murmurs. “I would’ve fucked you on the couch.” Fuck. It’s so unfair, he couldn’t just say that. He knows what he’s doing and what he’s implying by saying that shit.

He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t warn you. Just shifts forward- fast- and scoops you up like he’s done it a thousand times. One arm under your thighs, one at your back, like it’s instinct. Like your body weighs nothing to him. You make a slight sound- half gasp, half breathless “oh”- and then he’s carrying you.

Two long strides and you’re at the bed. He sits first, thighs spread wide, dragging you into his lap like you belong there. Like you were always supposed to end up here- glossy, wrecked, and trembling over him. The jacket’s still on. He slides his hands up the back of it. Slow. Palms smoothing over your spine. Then he grabs the collar and peels it down your arms, one sleeve, then the other, tugging until your skin’s bare and flushed and exposed. Then his mouth’s on yours. Sloppy. Desperate. Chemical.

He kisses like a man whose nerves are on fire- like he’s high on you and everything else in his system.

He kisses like he hasn’t eaten in three days, and there’s finally food in front of him, so he’s munching it down. Teeth clashing. Tongue deep. One hand gripping your thigh. The other is in your hair. He tastes heat in your mouth and wants to burn alive in it. It’s sloppy, and you don’t hate it. You love the way he’s not bothered by the gloss in your mouth. By the way, it’s smearing on his lips too. Your lip gloss is gone in seconds. Your breath? Useless. He groans against your mouth and says something low- something like, “fucking waited all night for this”, but it’s hard to tell with the way his tongue slips back between your lips like he’s trying to eat every soft sound you make.

And then, between kisses, his mouth drags lower. Over your jaw. Down your neck. His teeth graze your throat. He’s licking. He’s making your skin wet. He’s flattening his tongue in it and can smell and taste the product and salt you put in it. You arch without meaning to. He bites. It’s not sweet. Not tentative. It’s sharp- possessive- like he wants to mark you, to sink something deep enough into your skin that you’ll feel him when you leave. You whimper, hips jerking forward, and that’s all it takes. You start moving without realizing it- grinding down against the muscle of his thigh, slow and clumsy, your skirt already bunched up too high, your panties pressed tight where you need him most. You’re landed in front of his hardening dick in his pants.

His breath catches, mouth still hot on your neck. His hands move at the same time- one sliding up to your chest, covering your tits through the thin fabric of your top like he doesn’t need to be gentle, the other dipping low, right under your skirt, fingers spreading over the heat between your legs without hesitation.

He groans when he feels it. The damp cotton. The way you’re rutting into him like it’s not enough- like nothing will be. “Fuck,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “Look at you.” His thumb presses in, rubbing through the soaked fabric, just slow enough to feel like a threat. Like a warning. His other hand works under your top now, dragging your bra up and out of the way so he can cup your bare tits properly, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they’re tight and aching under his palms.

You make a soft, broken noise in your throat and rock forward again- dragging your cunt across him, chasing the pressure, not even thinking anymore. He watches you for a moment. Just watches. He smirks but he can’t decide which part of you to get obsessed with first- the way your mouth falls open when his thumb circles just right, the way your breath hitches when he rolls your nipple between his fingers, the way your hips keep chasing friction like you’ll die if he stops giving it. It just feels so good.

“Greedy little thing,” he breathes. “Can’t sit still for one second, huh?” You shake your head. You can’t lie. Not when your body’s already giving you away. Not when you really want it. Not when you want to take it for yourself. Not when you want to fuck him. He kisses you again- messy, slow, full of tongue and teeth and heat- and the whole time, his fingers keep moving. Not enough to get you off. Not enough to let you fall. Just enough to make your stomach pull tighter with every stroke. Just enough to leave you clenching, grinding, whimpering into his mouth like a girl being teased out of her mind.

You’re not close. Not really. But you’re aching. Your panties are soaked. Your thighs are shaking. Every time his thumb drags too slow over your clit, you press harder into him and try not to moan. He knows what he’s doing. Of course he does. “You like that?” he murmurs into your mouth, voice so low it burns. He continues the movement as if he wants an answer, whether it’s verbal or physical.

“Like grinding all wet against me while I play with your tits? You gonna beg for more, or just keep humping like a brat?” You whine- helpless, half-gone. He kisses you harder. Rougher. Bites your bottom lip and tugs, then presses his mouth back over yours like he needs to feel you panting for him while you rock your soaked little cunt into his pants like you’ve got no shame.

But he still doesn’t let you come. Not yet. And you know he won’t. Because that’s not what this is. Not yet. He wants to have more fun with you. You can’t just let go that quickly. Nope. Nah. This isn’t the part where he lets you have what you want. This is the part where he edges you. This is the part where he allows you to grind and gasp and tremble- and keeps your panties on, where his hands stay exactly where they are, heavy on your tits and soaked between your legs, stroking and teasing and owning, while you start to fall apart for real. And you know, with the worst kind of clarity, that when he finally does take your panties off? You’ll already be too far gone to fake an ounce of dignity.

You kiss him again. Harder this time- hot, wet, open-mouthed, the kind of kiss that leaves your lip gloss on his skin and your breath caught somewhere between his teeth. His tongue presses in, messy and slow, curling against yours like it owns the space. Like it’s been waiting for your mouth all night.

You whimper against it. He groans into it. Your hips haven’t stopped moving. You’re still grinding down into his thigh, still chasing friction through the soaked fabric of your panties. Every drag of pressure makes your breath skip, your fingers tighten in his hair, your thighs squeeze tighter around his.

He breaks the kiss to breathe- just barely, just enough- and his mouth finds your jaw, your cheek, your throat. He licks. Bites. Sucks hard enough to bruise. You moan. Quiet. Raw. Your hands slide down- over his chest, under the hem of his shirt, greedy and slow. His skin is hot. Smooth. Tight with muscle. Your fingers skate over the edge of his waistband and then back up, dragging your nails lightly, just to hear the sound it pulls from him.

His hands are everywhere. One still kneads at your tits, heavy and rough, thumb circling your nipple until it’s so hard it aches. The other stays between your legs, fingers dragging lazy lines over your clit through your panties, rubbing in time with every slow roll of your hips.

You can’t stop, and you don’t want to. The friction is perfect- almost. You need more, need skin, need heat, need him, but your body is too lost in the rhythm.

You’re panting into his mouth, open and glossy, and your hands are sliding lower now, down his stomach, fingers trembling with it. Then you feel him. Hard. Thick. Straining under his jeans, pressed hot between you like it’s been waiting to be touched. You gasp, soft and sharp. Your hand presses over it without thinking. He growls- growls- into your neck, his hips jerking up into your palm like he didn’t mean to, like he’s already on edge just from the way you’re moving. You cup him fully. Slow. Curious. Testing its weight through the denim, rubbing just enough to feel how his breath catches.

Your hips don’t stop. Neither does his hand. You’re both grinding now- his thigh slick with you, your palm working over the thick ridge in his jeans, your tongues still messy, mouths still open, like you’re starving and don’t care who sees. “Fuck,” he mutters against your mouth, voice shot through with tension. “You’re gonna make me lose it.”

You just moan. You’re not trying to tease anymore. You’re not pretending it’s an accident. You’re humping his thigh with your soaked little panties, palming his cock like it’s yours, and every single part of you is flushed, trembling, begging without saying a word.

You kiss him again, messy, panting.

His hand presses harder between your legs. Yours rubs firmer over the bulge in his jeans. You’re both falling apart. And neither of you wants to stop. He kisses down your neck again.

Slower this time. Like he’s savoring it. Tongue first, then lips, then the graze of his teeth against the spot just below your jaw that’s still a little sticky with heat. He breathes you in deep- deep- right there, and fuck if it doesn’t make something in his throat break.

“What the fuck did you put on?” he asked again, dragging his mouth lower, words hot against your skin. “You smell so fucking good. Like sugar. Like skin.” He licks across your collarbone. Open-mouthed. Messy. The scent is strongest there, sweet and warm and sex-sharp. He groans, bites down. Not hard- just enough to leave his mark. Just enough to taste you.

Then he noses down, between your breasts. While his hands shove your jacket further off your shoulders, that still hangs there for an apparent reason, still half-on, sleeves tangled at your elbows like you were in too much of a rush to take it off all the way- and he doesn’t care. He just wants access. Wants you. He wants to feel you.

His tongue drags slowly across the top of your chest. Your top and bra are still on, but they’re not doing much. His mouth presses between the cups, right over your sternum- right where you sprayed that perfume, one last spritz like a fucking shimmer- and his whole body shudders. “You did that on purpose,” he mutters. Low. Hoarse before he groaned. “Put it right where I’d lick.”

He does it again. Slower. Eyes low. He's been eager to have you breathing in like you’re oxygen. Your thighs twitch. You roll your hips- still on his lap, still grinding- but now you’re shaking. Your panties are soaked. His jeans are stiff where you’ve been rutting against him. His hands are still between your legs, and your palms are still stroking the thick weight of him through his pants like you forgot what shame is. He mouths over your tit, kisses around the swell, tongue wet and lazy and hungry. He breathes you in again- loud this time. “Fucking… fuck. You’re not real.”

You don’t say anything. Just tilt your head back and let him take. Eyes closed while you’re letting him do his own thing. You’re still slick between your thighs. Still chasing pressure. Still pulsing with every stroke of his fingers. “You put that perfume on your thighs too, didn’t you,” he mutters, like it’s a fact, not a question. “Behind your knees. That little slut zone.” You hum at his statement, not denying any shit.

He grins when you squirm. His lips brush your cleavage again. “You think I won’t get down there?” His mouth is filthy against your skin. His voice is darker now. There’s more edge to it. He’s high and gone and starving, and you smell like the kind of girl who knew she was going to be fucked when she got dressed. And you know, you know how to pull the strings. You know how to play. Who sprayed herself like a promise. And he’s going to trace every fucking inch of where it lingers. It happens all at once.

He kisses down your throat, over your chest, mouth burning trails between the peaks of your bra- and then, suddenly, flips you onto your back. Not rough. But fast. He can’t stand not seeing you, like the mystery of your skin under that jacket was too much, and now he needs to look.

You gasp as your spine hits the bed- hair fanned out, legs still bent, skirt riding scandalously high over your hips. You look at him while your chest heaves. That little top’s already slipping- shoulder strap dangling, neckline dragged low, just enough to bare the top swell of your bra. The flush of your skin. The place he was mouthing like he wanted to sink his teeth into.

He doesn’t even look at your face. His eyes are locked lower. On your legs. On the hem of your skirt, and the way it barely covers anything now. His hands find your thighs. Smooth up the outside. Then in. Slow. Possessive. You don’t flinch when he curls his fingers around your panties. You watch him.

Watch the way his jaw ticks. The way his gaze goes dark and manic and almost reverent when he tugs the soaked fabric down your legs. He doesn’t toss them aside. He lifts them to his face. Sniffs. Fucking disgusting, but he enjoyed it. He even smirked. Then folds them once, tight, and stuffs them into his back pocket without breaking eye contact. Fuck. You’ll go home without any panties. You didn’t bring any extra.

“Mine,” he mutters. “This whole fuckin’ night? Mine.” You should laugh. But your breath’s already gone. And then- He drops. All the way down. His mouth lands on your shin. Then your calf. Then- lower. To the back of your knee. That place you sprayed.

That soft little secret crease, warm from your skin, still slick with lotion and perfume. Victoria’s Secret. Pheromones. The scent has settled now- bloomed- and when he breathes it in? He shudders. Actually, shudders. “Jesus,” he grits. “You put it here. Fucking here.”

You shift on the bed, legs still bent, thighs slightly open. You’re more angling yourself to give him more access to you. He’s crouched between them now, leaning in, one hand hooked under your knee to keep you tilted just right. The other sprawls over your thigh, holding you steady like he needs to steady himself, too.

His nose brushes the back of your knee. He inhales. And groans. Deep. Guttural. Like it hurts. You watch his eyes flutter. Watch his jaw clench, his hips twitch slightly like he’s reacting to a drug. And maybe he is. Because he nuzzles into that spot like a man obsessed- like it’s some sacred pulse point, like the heat there could tell him your whole story.

“You wanted me to smell it,” he mutters, voice rasped, lips dragging slowly over the inside of your knee now. “Wanted me to get low. Get here. Get fucking stupid.” You smile. Just a little. Just enough. “Did it work?” you whisper.

He lifts his head, eyes black with hunger. “You’re gonna regret asking that,” he says, then dips right back down. This time- open mouth. A kiss. A deep, wet suck to the soft spot behind your knee, tongue dragging, breath hot, scent dizzying him all over again. His hand on your thigh tightens. The one under your knee lifts your leg even higher, spreading you wider, opening you up. You arch on the bed. Not because he’s touching your pussy- he’s not. He’s kissing your fucking legs like they’re the center of the universe. Like this is enough. Like your body speaks in scents, and he’s trying to translate it with his mouth.

And you? You’re laid out. Skirt bunched. The top is falling off one shoulder. Chest heaving. One leg hooked over his shoulder now like an invitation. Your panties are gone. And he hasn’t even touched you where it counts. Yet. He’s gone. You can see it.

The way his lips stay parted as he nuzzles into the back of your knee like it’s got some kind of fucking spell on it. The way he breathes there- really breathes- mouth open, nose pressed deep, inhaling you like it’s all he’s capable of now. Like he’s trying to memorize it, drown in it. Live off it.

He kisses lower. Then higher. Then back again. Open mouth, then closed. Then teeth. Then the tongue. He’s making out with the back of your leg. And it should be ridiculous. It should make you laugh. But it doesn’t.

Because his other hand is between your thighs now, palm flat, fingers sliding between your folds like they’ve been there. Like he knows exactly how wet you are without needing to check, just feels it. No warning. No slow lead-up. Just his fingers slipping through your heat like it’s second nature.

You gasp. He groans. Not at your pussy- he’s not even watching what he’s doing.

He’s still buried at your knee. Nosing, kissing, rubbing his cheek along your skin like he’s cuddling it. Like it’s home. His tongue flicks out again. Drags. Then again. His mouth opens wider. Sucks.

And the fingers between your thighs? Start moving. Two of them now. Middle and ring. Slow at first. Just stroking- up and down, barely parting you. Then deeper. Dragging slick up to your clit. Circling. Pressing. Back down. Gathering more.

Your hips lift. You can’t help it. And still, he doesn’t look. He just ruts. You realize it suddenly- feel it- the subtle shift of the mattress, the soft sound of fabric grinding. His hips are moving. Barely. Just the tiniest forward thrusts against the edge of the bed, like he’s chasing friction, like his cock is too hard, too full, and he’s using the edge of the mattress to take the edge off.

His breath hitches. His mouth doesn’t leave your knee. You moan. Soft. High. A little choked. That gets him. His fingers twitch, then slide in.

One first. Then another. The stretch is sudden, not painful, but sharp. He presses deep, then curls. Finds your spot like he mapped it beforehand. Like he’s not guessing. Like he’s obsessed, and he is. You can see it.

His mouth stays locked to your skin- hot, messy, wet kisses over the same patch of flesh like he’s drunk on the scent of you. He groans again, louder this time, hips grinding harder into the bed now. It’s thoughtless. Instinctual. He’s getting off just from the smell of your skin and the way your cunt clenches around his fingers.

You can’t think. Can’t breathe. You twist against the bed, back arching, thighs trembling as his fingers thrust deeper- slower, harder, knuckles grazing with each pump, thumb sliding up occasionally to press against your clit just once before backing off. He’s not trying to make you come yet. He’s just playing. Feeding off it. And you? You’re glowing. Laid out, skirt pushed high, legs open, arms curled above your head. Your lip gloss is smudged. Your breath’s coming in tiny gasps. And he’s still sucking the back of your fucking knee like it’s sweeter than your mouth.

The rhythm of his fingers stutters for a second- he shifts his weight, hips pressing harder into the edge of the bed like he’s gonna fucking come from this. You moan again. He bites down. You gasp, spine jerking, the sting sending heat everywhere.

He lifts his mouth, just barely, lips still ghosting your skin. “Still smell you,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “Still fuckin’ wet with it.” You whimper. His fingers thrust deeper. And he presses a kiss to the spot he just bit- slow, soft, worshipping. You’re a mess. He’s worse.

And neither of you is close to done. You’re flushed everywhere. Cheeks, thighs, chest- flushed and hot and trembling, your skin glowing under his hands, your legs soft with ache. His fingers have been inside you for what feels like hours- slow, steady, dragging pressure like he’s trying to pull something out of you, like he’s searching for the part of you that breaks. And still, he hasn’t eaten.

Not really. He’s been buried behind your knee, mouthing the skin like it’s sacred. Sniffing, kissing, breathing you in like it’s keeping him alive. He presses his mouth there like you put the perfume on for him, which you did. Which he knows. You can feel him breathing it in, rutting gently against the edge of the bed for friction like his cock can’t take it either.

When he finally moves down- when he finally shifts his weight and ends up between your thighs- it’s not frantic. It’s not fast. It’s not relief. It’s just inevitable. He looks at you. Then lower.

Then presses his face in without warning- cheek dragging against your inner thigh, nose buried in the heat of you- and just… inhales like he’s starving. Like he’s high on the scent of you and needs to chase it to the source.

You twitch when his lips ghost across your clit. But he doesn’t open his mouth. Not fully. He presses a kiss. Closed-mouth. Too soft. Another. Right beside it. And then- finally- he flicks his tongue. Once. A little swipe, quick and deliberate, just enough to taste, just enough to make your hips buck against his hand. You let out a sound you didn’t mean to. He flicks again. Slower this time. Controlled. A pointed stroke that drags right across your clit and disappears like it was never there. And then again.

A third time- less of a lick, more of a sample. Like he’s collecting it. Like, he wants to catalog you. Then he pulls back. Mouth shiny. Chin damp. “Sweet,” he mutters, high and reverent, eyes glazed. “You fucking taste sweet.” You’re panting. Your body’s shaking. You try to chase him- desperate, delirious- but his hand on your thigh stops you cold. That’s all you get. He kisses you again. Not a lick. Just lips to clit. Soft. The kind of kiss you’d give someone before saying goodbye. It wrecks you.

“You want more?” he murmurs, voice muffled into your heat. “Want me to suck on it?” Your hips lift. He smiles. Doesn’t give in. “No.” He gives one last kiss, slower this time. Lingering. And then? Then he withdraws. Leans back just a little, lets the air touch your pussy, lets you feel the absence of him like a punishment. His fingers? Still inside. He crooks them. Your moan cracks.

The sound is raw- sharp at the edges, ripped out of you before you can catch it. Your hips twitch, thighs trying to close around his wrist, but he doesn’t let you move. His hand is rooted, firm, fucking into you with that relentless, devastating curve like he’s shaping you from the inside out.

He exhales hard through his nose. Then, without warning, his free hand leaves your leg, drags down his own chest, and starts tugging at the hem of his shirt. You feel it more than you see it. The shift. The way the fabric slides up his torso, how the muscles in his arms flex as he pulls it over his head in one clean motion, like he couldn’t take it anymore. Like your body under his hands got too hot, and he needed to burn something off.

He throws the shirt aside without looking. It lands somewhere off the bed with a dull thud. Then his hand finds your thigh again. Not to hold you down. To feel. You’re shaking under his fingers now, your skin hot against his palm, your chest rising fast. He watches you with his jaw clenched, face flushed, lips parted- his high crawling behind his eyes, behind his restraint, like something might break if you moan again.

His fingers drag out almost all the way. Then push back in. You gasp. He watches your face, your mouth, the way your eyes keep fluttering like you’re trying not to cry, and his tongue drags across his lower lip, lazy, and absent. Like instinct. “You feel that?” he murmurs. Voice gone. Just breath, teeth, and heat. “How soaked you are?” He pumps again, just once, curling deep. “Shit.” It’s more to himself than to you, like he wasn’t ready, like your body is doing something to him that he hadn’t accounted for.

He shifts on the bed. The motion makes the mattress dip- his knee pressing deeper between your legs, his cock rubbing up against the edge of the bed where he’s been grinding in slow, desperate pulses without realizing. You see, the moment he notices. The way he stills, then rocks once more. Just to feel it. Just to chase it. His head tips back. He groans. Low. Frustrated. Embarrassed in that raw, masculine kind of way that makes your stomach twist.

You watch him rut once more- slow and helpless- and then your voice cuts through the air like honey poured over glass: “Don’t you want to fuck my pussy instead of grinding against the bed?” His eyes snap down to yours. Like you slapped him. Or kissed him. Or ruined him. It’s all the same. You’re spread open under him, bare thighs trembling, his fingers still knuckle-deep inside you- and still, you say it like it’s casual. Like you’re bored of him fucking the mattress. Like you’re not soaked and swollen and ruined already, just waiting for him to crack.

His mouth twitches. Then it splits into a grin that isn’t really a grin at all. It means. It’s wild. It’s disbelief and heat, and oh, you think you’re cute? He pulls his fingers out slowly. Wet. Deliberate. The sound is filthy, and it echoes like sin between you. Then he brings them to his mouth. Licks. Sucks. Groans again, but this time it’s darker. “You keep talking like that,” he mutters, voice shredded, “and I’ll fuck you so hard you forget how to speak.”

And then he shifts. Gets up. Starts undoing his belt. His belt clinks, falls, and he doesn’t stop. Pants next. Boxers. Shoes were kicked somewhere in the corner. Everything drops in quick, practiced motions, like he’s too far gone to pretend this is slow anymore. His cock slaps against his stomach when it’s free- thick, flushed, already leaking. You can’t look away. But neither can he. His eyes are eating you alive.

You’re still on your back, your heels still strapped, and your calves flexed faintly where your legs shift. Your jacket’s long gone. Your top was discarded somewhere by the bed. Your chest is bare now, flushed and sensitive, nipples still wet from where he mouthed you earlier. Your hands move toward your skirt- He stops you. Fingers curled gently around your wrist. “Leave it,” he mutters, his voice rough and jaw clenched. “Skirt stays on.”

Then his eyes drop to your feet. “And the heels.” You blink up at him, stunned for half a beat. Then your mouth parts. Then you smile- slow, deliberate, almost cruel. And you let go of the fabric. You leave the skirt on. You push your bra down your arms, off your wrists, and toss it aside. Your heels stay on. The red ones. Tall, glossy, slutty. The ones that make your legs look too long and your hips tip up just enough. The ones he’s been eyeing all fucking night.

Rafe just stares. His jaw works like he’s trying not to say something stupid. “You gonna get on top,” you murmur, voice thick and syrupy, “or just keep watching?” He exhales once. Shaky. Then he climbs back onto the bed, hands braced beside your thighs, cock heavy and leaking and hanging between you both-

And you know the second he sees it. That flash of pink between your legs. Lace, slick, and skin. Skirt still on. Heels still on. And none of it for anyone but him. He’s moving like he’s trying to be good. Like he’s still got the reins in his hands, still in control. You watch him reach for his jeans, half-draped over the edge of the bed, mumbling something under his breath as he digs through a pocket with one hand, jaw tight, nostrils flaring like the search is physically hurting him.

Then he pauses. Frozen mid-movement. You tilt your head, watching the tension rise in his shoulders. You say it softly like it’s just a fact. “I’m clean,” you murmur, and his head jerks slightly. “And I’m on birth control.” There’s a pause. A flicker of stillness. Then his whole body locks.. You see it before he speaks- the way he straightens and his hand goes still, fisted in the denim like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

His eyes lift to yours. Wide. Dark. Blown-out and wrecked. “You’re what?” he says. But it’s not a question. It’s disbelief. It’s a warning. “I’m clean,” you say again, slower this time. “And I’m on the pill.” It’s quiet for a second. Just long enough for the words to settle in the air between you. And then he laughs. Sharp. Staggered. Like something inside him just cracked clean in half.

“Oh my God.” He exhales like he’s never needed to breathe until now. “You’re- fucking serious?” You don’t smile, not really. Just tilt your head, legs still spread, heels still strapped, red skirt still hitched around your waist like you’ve been waiting for him to come back and take you. “I wouldn’t lie about it,” you say softly.

His mouth opens like he wants to respond. But nothing comes out. His hand drops the jeans. His knees hit the mattress. And suddenly he’s there, back between your legs, cock heavy and flushed, dragging hot against the inside of your thigh. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters again, more to himself than you. “You don’t even know what you just did to me.”

You don’t move. You just stare at him, body open, mouth parted, still glowing with lotion and lip gloss and that smug little look you know he’s been dying to ruin. He presses in. No warning. No teasing. Just the thick, steady slide of his cock, bare and blazing, dragging through slick and heat until he bottoms out so deep you choke on a gasp and grab at his shoulders like they’re the only thing tethering you to the bed. His breath punches out in one broken groan. “Fuck- fuck me, I can feel all of it,” he gasps against your jaw. “You’re so- fuck- you’re so wet.” You smile, voice soft in his ear, teasing.

“I told you.” And then he starts moving. Slow at first. Dragging. Savoring. Like he can’t believe it’s real. Like your pussy’s carved just for him and the fact that there’s nothing between you is turning his already-coked-up brain into static. His hips stutter. He buries his face in your neck. “You let me fuck you raw,” he mumbles, like he still doesn’t believe it. “You wanted this.” And the way he says it- voice hoarse, fucked-out, reverent- you know it’s not a question. It’s a confession. And it’s only the beginning.

His hands start to move like they’ve just remembered they exist. Big, slow sweeps down your sides, over your thighs, gripping and petting and curling like he doesn’t know what part of you he wants most. Like he wants to feel everything at once. And he does- he needs to. You’re still folded under him, legs thrown high over his shoulders, heels gleaming under the dim light, skirt still on, his cock stuffed deep inside you- but it’s your skin that’s ruining him now. That slide. That heat.

He moans again. Voice cracked and slurred, drunk on coke and pussy and that fucking perfume you wore for him. His palm flattens against your stomach, then glides lower, sliding through sweat and lotion, dragging down the front of your body like it’s something precious. Like he’s savoring it. Like he’s convinced that if he slows down just enough, he can memorize it with his hands. “Fuck,” he breathes, shaky. “You’re so soft.”

He says it like it hurts. Like it’s not fair. Like you did this on purpose. His hand keeps drifting. Down. Slower now, like the drag of his palm is moving through molasses, like time’s stretching with every inch of skin he discovers bare. And then, he finds it. Your mound is smooth, warm, and perfect, and there is not a hair left. His whole body locks. He stares down at you, dazed, like he doesn’t know how you’re even real. “You- ” His voice is hoarse, too close to a whisper. “You fucking shaved for me?”

You swallow, blinking up at him. One hand digs into the sheets. The other claw lightly at his wrist. He’s still deep inside you, but you nod anyway. He groans. It rips straight from his throat, guttural and raw. “You’re high,” you whisper, like it explains something. Like it justifies the way he’s twitching inside you now, deeper than before, slower, heavier, obsessed. “No,” he pants, shaking his head, rutting forward once like his brain short-circuited. “No, you did this. You- fuck- you did this for me.”

His hand cups you there, just over your mound, over your clit, fingers pressing in light like he’s afraid to ruin it. He’s panting, sweating, and trembling now. One hand on your stomach. The other is sliding around the top of your thigh. He’s not even thrusting anymore- he’s sinking. Grinding slowly. Letting the heat of you swallow him. “You shaved your pussy,” he says, slurred and stunned, “so I could fuck it raw.”

You nod again. Barely. He’s twitching inside you like he might come just from that. “You- fucking- god, baby. You’re insane.” His hands are everywhere again. Not groping- worshiping. Touching every part of you, he missed. Rubbing his knuckles over your thighs, your waist, your chest. His fingers press into your hips, drag down the sides of your ass, gripping, spreading, petting like your skin is the only anchor keeping him from floating away.

He drops his face into your neck again, groaning raggedly, lips brushing your pulse. He nuzzles hard. Then again. Then again. “You smell like I should be on my knees,” he mumbles. “You smell like you were made for this.” And then he thrusts again- deep and sudden and greedy- and you moan like you’re unraveling from the inside out.

He doesn’t stop. Not anymore. You shaved. You glowed. You wore heels and slicked your thighs and let him pull your panties off like a prize. And now he’s high. And deep. And completely fucking lost in you. He’s breathing harder now. Hot against your throat, his mouth dragging sloppily beneath your ear like he can’t get close enough. His hips are moving again- slower this time, deeper, grinding up into you like he’s trying to bury something inside you he’ll never get back.

You’re still soft everywhere. Slick and shaved and folded beneath him like a fucking dream. Legs high, heels pressing into his back, your skirt still on. His high has shifted- warped. Whatever was burning behind his eyes earlier has melted down now, poured into his chest, his stomach, the base of his spine. Into you. And he twitches. You feel it- his cock pulsing deep inside. His whole body stutters.

“Fuck,” he chokes, voice raw. You blink up at him, lips parted, skin dewy. One heel digs in. He jerks. His hand slides down your thigh again. Slow. Reverent. “I’m not even high on the coke anymore,” he murmurs. “You- this- you’re what’s making me twitch like that.” You bite your lip. His eyes are glassy. Half-lidded. Locked on your mouth like it’s dripping honey.

“Swear to God,” he pants, grinding once more. “You got me higher than anything I’ve ever snorted.” Your breath catches. His hips stutter again. He groans- low, desperate, ruined. “Never felt this fucked,” he whispers, leaning in like a confession. “Not in my life.”He shifts one hand between your bodies, thumbing your clit now- slow, easy flicks in time with the lazy drag of his hips.

“You made me feel it,” he groans. “Every inch. Every twitch. I can’t even see straight.” And then he thrusts harder- once, deep, sharp enough to make your legs jolt on his shoulders. Your heel slips. He catches it and presses your ankle flat against his chest. Doesn’t even blink. “You did this,” he hisses, jaw clenched, sweat dripping. “You fucking did this to me.”

His thrusts speed up now, just slightly. Still deep. Still dragging. Still worshiping. But the edge is cracking. He’s losing it. Losing it on you. And all you can do is take it. Because right now? He’s never felt more alive. And you- shaved, soft, glowing, glossy- you’re the reason he can’t feel his own fucking name anymore.

Your moan cracks- split wide at the center, glossy and high, broken around the sudden fullness. One of your heels has slipped, dangling now by nothing but the arch of your foot, the strap loose, the tension gone. But his hand’s already there- fast, greedy- palming your ankle like he felt it before he saw it. Like the idea of you losing even one inch of that red-gloss fuck-me heel was unacceptable.

He doesn’t let it fall. No. He catches it mid-slip, fingers firm, pressing your leg flat against his chest like he’s claiming it. Like he’s pinning you in place with the weight of his body and the fever in his blood. You watch his eyes drop. The way he stares at your ankle, at the trembling line of your leg, at the shoe still clinging on like a promise. “Fuck,” he breathes, voice shot through with something ragged. “Look at you.”

His thrusts keep coming- slower now, but deeper, meaner. He’s hitting something sharp and soft and shattering, and it’s making your spine flex off the bed. The heel shifts with every push, teasing the edge of falling again. He groans- animal and cracked- and bows over your body, chest dragging over your knees, hand still braced around your ankle like he might snap.

“Feel like I’m fucking a goddamn stripper,” he mutters, and it’s not an insult- it’s reverent, ruined. He sounds worshipful. “Little heels shaking. Pretty pussy pulling me in. All glossed up like you wanna be ruined.” Your mouth falls open. You can’t speak. You’re too hot- too slick- too gone.

“You wear this shit for fun,” he pants, rocking into you again. “Or you practice? Get all dressed up in your room like a slut onstage and ride your own hand thinking about me?” You choke on it. The image. The implication. The truth in it.

“You like being watched, huh?” he hisses against your shin, nuzzling the line just above your knee like he might bite. “You like looking like this. Your heel is hanging off. Your skirt is still on. Like a fucking routine.” You whimper- gutted by the pace now, the weight of his hips, the way he uses your legs to drag you down onto his cock over and over like you’re the one moving, like your body’s working for him.

“You gonna tip me next?” he spits out, teeth grazing your calf. “Or just come like a good little bitch on my dick?” Your hips jolt- fucked from every direction. His mouth. His hands. His words. Your heel slips again. This time? He lets it fall. And then he slams back in.

He thrusts again- deep, sharp, slow enough to feel in your ribs. Your legs jolt where they hang over his shoulders, and one of your heels slips off. It drops to the floor with a soft clack, but you barely register it. Not when he catches your ankle, presses it flat against his chest, keeps it there like he wants to feel the drag of your foot on his skin while he fucks you.

His hips keep moving. But his mouth? His mouth is buried in your neck again. Sniffing. Inhaling. And you knew. Of course, you knew. The second one of those girls mentioned he’d been upstairs for too long- fidgeting, zoning out, pacing between rooms like he could hear colors- you knew. You knew what he was on. You knew what kind of high he’d be riding when you walked up those stairs.

But you came anyway. You knew he’d be hungry. Twitchy. Barely holding on. You wanted him like this. “Fuck,” he groans, slurred and wrecked, “that smell- fuck, I can’t get enough of it- ” His nose presses harder to your skin like he’s trying to snort you. His whole body trembles with it. His thrusts start to falter- not from weakness, but from overload.

“Put it on every inch of you, didn’t you?” he mutters, dizzy. “Sprayed it where you knew I’d end up- fuck, baby, it’s in my head now- ” His nose drags along your collarbone. Then lower. Across your chest. The curve of your breast. You arched for him minutes ago- moaned, opened, took everything he gave- and now he’s barely thrusting, just rocking into you while his mouth nuzzles between your tits.

You bite your lip. He’s sniffing you. “You wore that shit on purpose,” he mutters. His voice is hoarse. Dazed. “You knew what it would do to me.” You hum softly, glossy mouth parted, eyes half-lidded. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I knew.” His hips stutter. He moans- low, desperate- and you feel it. That twitch inside you. That snap of overstimulation and hunger all tangled together.

“I’m- ” He grinds into you, harder. “I’m not even high anymore.” You blink slowly. Smile faintly. “Yeah, you are.” He groans again, louder this time. His fingers grip your thighs like he’s bracing himself, like he’s trying not to say something feral. Then he dips his face lower, over your ribs, down your stomach. Just to breathe. Just to smell you. The perfume. The gloss. The lotion. The sweat. All of it- layered, warmed, sweet.

“You smell better than the coke,” he mutters. Your smile sharpens. “Tastes better too, I bet.” He chokes on a sound. Thrusts again, harder. You yelp. Your back arches off the bed, your second heel slipping off, legs bare now, spread wide with your skirt still on and his cock grinding deep inside you. “You did this on purpose,” he breathes. “You- fucking- designed this.”

You don’t deny it. His hands slide over your hips. Your waist. Your thighs. Everywhere you’re soft. Everywhere you’re glowing. He’s not fucking anymore- he’s scenting. He’s worshipping. His mouth pressed under your jaw like it’s a drug. “You gonna let me keep you?” he whispers, voice wrecked. “You gonna let me fuck you again tomorrow?” You smile, open-mouthed now. “You gonna remember this?”And he just groans. Loud. Broken.

“Not if I keep sniffing your skin like this,” he rasps. “Fuck. You make me feel higher.” You wrap your arms around his shoulders. Anchor him in. Let him lose it right there against your throat. He’s coked out. Pussy-drunk. Fucked to hell. And the worst part? You like him better this way. You don’t even know what the fuck this is anymore. It’s not sex. It’s not even fucking.

It’s some feral, brainrotted meltdown of two overstimulated strangers huffing each other like they’re made of gasoline and haven’t lit a cigarette in weeks. He’s buried inside you. Slick to the base. Rocking slow and deep- like every thrust is calculated, like he’s carving your shape into his cock for later. Your skirt’s still on. One heel’s still strapped. The other’s god knows where. He’s got your ankle pinned to his chest, and he’s not even fucking looking at you anymore.

He’s scenting you. He’s nose-deep in your neck, groaning every time he inhales like he’s chasing a high he already burned through ten minutes ago. And the worst part? You did this. You did all of it. Shaved your whole body. Spent hours on your skin. Lotions, oils, the pheromones- behind your knees, between your tits, inside your fucking thighs. You scrubbed yourself raw like prep for a fucking exorcism. Like your pussy needed to smell like heaven and hell at once.

And now look at him. Coked out and feral, grinding into you like his dick’s chasing a signal from god. He pants into your skin. Mouth open. Nose dragging across your chest. “Fucking… fuck- you reek of sex,” he slurs, “your whole fucking body’s dripping in it- I can’t- ” His voice breaks.

He licks up the center of your sternum like he’s tasting the air. And he doesn’t even realize he’s moaning while he does it. “Smell like pussy and perfume and fuckin’ filth,” he mumbles into your skin. “It’s- fuck- it’s like you bottled up every wet dream I’ve ever had and marinated yourself in it.”

You laugh. Or try to. It comes out broken, wet. Your thighs twitch where they’re hooked over his shoulders, his cock dragging your guts with every slow thrust like he’s memorizing the inside of you. “I did,” you whisper. “You think this is an accident?” He grunts. You dig your nails into his back. “I made myself for this. Every inch.”

“You- fuck- fuck- ” he stutters, hips jackknifing forward, desperate now. “You don’t get it. You don’t get what you’ve done.” You do. He’s gone. He’s drenched in it. In sweat and slick, and your scent all over his mouth and chest. His body’s twitching like his nervous system is buffering. He’s mumbling into your skin, grinding deeper, making pathetic, strung-out noises like his dick is connected to his brainstem.

You can feel it- how fucked he is. How fucking high. How obsessed. “You’re worse than coke,” he gasps, pressing his face into your neck again, rutting into you like a fucking animal. “I’m still hard- I’m still high- I don’t even need another bump, baby, just let me keep fucking this perfect pussy- ” You moan. Loud. Legs shaking now. “You want me forever?” you pant, breath ragged. “You gonna edge yourself to this for the rest of your life?”

“Yes,” he groans, voice cracked. “Fucking yes, I’ll ruin myself on you. I’ll keep your panties in my mouth, I’ll sniff your sheets- anything- just don’t fucking stop- ” His thrusts stutter. He’s close. You know it by the way his mouth goes slack, by the way his hands tighten like he needs to mark you to make sure it’s real. Like he’s trying to fuck the proof of you into his bloodstream. “You’re not even a girl,” he moans, drunk and glassy. “You’re a drug. You’re porn. You’re filth. You’re- fuck- you’re everything I’ve ever jerked off to, and now you’re fucking real- ”

You let him spiral. You wrap your legs tighter. Let the heel scrape against his back. Let him go down, sloppy and strung-out, leaking down your thighs while he twitches inside you and buries his nose back into your neck like he’d rather die there than ever leave.

You don’t even feel human anymore. Just slick skin and parted lips, all holes and heat and desperation. Gloss long gone. Hair wrecked. Skirt bunched at your waist like a ribbon on a gift he hasn’t finished opening. You’re still on your back, thighs sticky, your bare feet dragging along the sheets with every snap of his hips.

Your brain? Gone. You burned it off hours ago- in the shower, in the mirror, on your knees in front of that Pinterest board like it was porn. You shaved until your skin felt holy. You exfoliated like a sinner. Lotioned like you were begging to be fingered. Drenched yourself in pheromones and pressed perfume behind your knees just in case he noticed.

And he noticed. He fucking noticed. His mouth is on your neck again, groaning into your skin like it’s soaked in something addictive, like you’re the drug that’s eating his brain. “You like how I smell?” you whisper, dazed, pretty, and rotted. “You like what I did for you?”

His hips stutter. You moan like you’ve been trained to. Head thrown back. Voice is high, fake, and filthy. Your mouth is still wet, your cheeks pink, and your chest flushed all the way down. “I got ready just to get ruined,” you babble, fingers digging into the sheets. “I shaved everything. Everything. I fucking lotioned my ankles- who does that?”

He growls. You giggle. “I’m so fucking soft,” you whimper. “So smooth. So ready. Please- fuck me like I’m nothing. Like I spent hours getting ready just to be your mess.” He thrusts harder. You squeal. “Please,” you gasp, “please- I want your cum on my thighs. I want it in my fucking belly. I want it to ruin the lotion, the serum- I want you to fuck me until I’m ugly- ”

He’s losing it. He’s gripping your thighs like he’ll keep them when this is over. Biting your shoulder like it’s candy-coated. Still fucking you like he’s trying to reach your throat. “You did this for me?” he mutters, high and gone the fuck out.

You nod so fast it’s pathetic. “Yes. Yes. Please.” It sounds wrecked already, whined straight through your open mouth like it’s the only thing you’ve ever been sure of. Your thighs are shaking where they wrap around his waist, hips arching into every thrust, even though your body’s already gone soft with overstimulation, glittering with sweat and gloss and lotion you’d rubbed in with shaking hands hours ago.

His breath catches- then he laughs. Low. Disbelieving. Like the high is still peaking, and you just knocked it sideways. “Shit,” he says, right into your mouth. “You’re sicker than I thought.” He presses his palm to your cheek and turns your face toward him. His pupils are blown wide, his nose still a little raw, lips bitten. He looks like he could come just from looking at you like this- ruined, glowing, glossy with spit and sweat and effort. All of it just for him.

“Know what I want now?” he murmurs, breath ghosting your mouth. His hips are still moving, slow and deep, like he’s fucking every word into you. “Next time I see you- I want you high.” Your whole body tightens. “Yeah,” he breathes, “I want you all the way gone for me. Dumb as hell. Pretty little thing in this same skirt, makeup all fucked, drooling on my cock while I ask you if you even remember how to speak.”

You moan without meaning to, sharp, cracked, soaking straight through the next thrust. “Fuck,” he groans, “that’s it. That’s what I want. You are all slippery, sweet, and brainless, smelling like lotion and begging me to use you. I’ll lay you out right here, heels still on, dumb smile on your face, and fuck you until you cry.”

You gasp. Arch. Whimper. “And you’d let me, wouldn’t you?” he whispers, eyes locked on your mouth. “You’d show up high. Glazed out and glowing. You’d let me feed it to you, so that you could fall apart in my lap.” You nod, again, too fast, too desperate.

“I’d pet you the whole time,” he keeps going, breath hot against your jaw, hips grinding deeper, slower now, like he’s savoring every inch. “Tell you how pretty you are while you shake. Tell you I’m proud while you whimper around my cock and forget what day it is.” You’re not even blinking.

“You’d look so good like that,” he says, almost dreamily now. “So soft. So perfect. Just mine. Just something I get to keep.” You make a sound. Choked. Shattering. And he groans. Deep, guttural, like your body just drugged him harder than anything he snorted upstairs.

“I’m not even high anymore,” he pants, thrusts harder, sharper, lips dragging over your collarbone. “You’re doing more to me than the coke did. You’re- fuck, baby, you’re better than anything I’ve ever tasted.” You don’t even answer. You don’t need to.

Because when he fucks back in again, when he chokes on your name and grabs your hips like he can’t bear to pull out- you snap. Right there. Legs twitching, skirt hiked up, chest gleaming, mouth open in something that isn’t even a word. And he keeps going. Keeps moving.

Keeps pressing his face to your throat like he’s trying to brand you with the scent of yourself. Because in this room, right now, with your thighs shaking and your voice gone? You’re the high. And he’s not planning on coming down.

Fingers splayed like he’s trying to feel the shape of himself through your skin, like he needs proof that he’s that deep. Each thrust sends another ripple through your body- your back arches, your cunt pulses, your hands scrabble for something to hold that isn’t his sweat-slicked shoulders. He’s panting against your throat now, lips open, nose buried in your skin like he can’t stop smelling you.

“You feel that?” he mutters- voice rough, breath shallow, still twitching inside you. “That’s me. That’s my dick, baby. Right there in your guts.” You moan, cracked and glossy, head thrown back into the pillow. You can feel everything- his cock dragging against every swollen nerve, the heat of his palm on your stomach, the mess building between your legs. It’s wet. It’s filthy. The room smells like sex and lotion and Victoria’s Secret and him.

He rocks forward again- deeper this time, like he’s pushing for your lungs. “You fucking did this,” he says, dragging his mouth down your jaw. “You showed up dripping. Soft. Waxed. Smelling like I’m supposed to own you.” You whimper. It’s pathetic. It’s perfect.

“I wanted to,” you breathe. “I wanted you to see it. Smell it. Lose your fucking mind.” He groans- shattered and low, mouth grazing your collarbone like he’s trying to keep himself upright by scent alone. “You shaved your whole pussy for me,” he mutters. “Lotioned every inch. Put that fuck-me perfume on your knees like you knew I’d be here.” You nodded to every word. “I did,” you whisper. “I knew.”

“You made yourself into a fucktoy and walked in like a fantasy.” His cock twitches inside you. Your body clenches. His breath stutters. “I almost came just smelling you,” he says, delirious now. “You smell better than coke. Sweeter. Dirtier. I swear to God I could shoot a load just from licking your skin.”

You’re soaking him. You know it. He knows it. His thighs are slick from it, and your cunt is sucking him back in every time he pulls out like your body can’t fucking bear to let go. “Can I keep you?” he rasps. “Keep you around? Fuck you like this every time I need it?”

You don’t answer- your mouth is too slack, your brain too soft. All you can do is moan, a helpless, high-pitched sound, and grind your hips up into his cock like you’re trying to make it stay. He grins, manic and gone, and rocks forward hard, deep enough that your legs jolt on either side of his body. “I’ll text you,” he breathes. “I’ll text you and you’ll come running. Pretty and shaved and soaked and smelling like this.”

You moan again. You nod. You’d say yes if you had words left. “You’re gonna ruin me,” he groans. “Gonna make me start jerking off to the memory of your thighs.” His hand slips lower, finds your clit, rubs slow and wet and mean.

“I want to see you high next time,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “Want you gooned out for me. Mouth open, legs spread, dumb and desperate. Want to fuck you when you can’t even blink straight.” You gasp- sharp, broken. Your thighs shake. Your nails claw down his back.

“I want you like this every fucking time,” he says, fingers still working, cock still driving into you like he owns it. “Wet and dumb and pretty. Giggling for me. Slick all over. Fucking perfect.” You clench once, tight, hard, and you break.

Your body seizes around him, cunt spasming, eyes fluttering as the orgasm rips through you hard enough to make you sob. Your hands fist the sheets. Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. He groans- long, raw, low- and fucks through it, hard and fast and shallow now, chasing his own. Then he’s spilling inside you.

It hits hot- thick and messy, deep in your cunt, his hips pressing flush to yours as he keeps grinding, keeps moaning, keeps breathing like you’re the air keeping him alive. His body shudders above you. His mouth finds your neck again. “You’re fucking addictive,” he breathes. “I’m not gonna be able to quit this.”

𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓© 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

[fakescenariosbeforesleepblog]

Do you know who my daddy is?

Captain price x Fem reader (single mom)

You brought your kid to the base, she has an important homework, talk about what mom/dad does at work. The little kid is in trouble and the best she can do to get out of the problem is lie about who her daddy is.

Warning: it's not very interesting but I had a lot of fun writing it. I like to think about Price having a daughter. Anyway, as usual, grammatical and spelling errors. Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

- hey my little sunshine! how was your day?

- it was fine, I have homework though.

- oh, what is it?

- I have to talk about your work, what you do and things like that.

- Oh well, I have to talk with my superior and let him know that you will go with me for a few hours just to see what we do, ok?

- Okay

That was the small conversation with your kid, she was very excited to go with you, you talked her a little bit about your comrades and your very handsome captain, she made fun of you for the way you talked about Price and sang «Mommy and the captain, sitting on a tree giving little kisses and falling in love...», of course you warned her to not say that at the base, as every kid, she thinks your job is full of action and adrenaline, because that's what she watches on tv, she certainly wasn't expecting to see you writing reports and reading files, attending some calls, just like you're doing right now.

Price was very kind to let you bring her today, he also told you to give her a small tour around the place to make it more exciting, your poor girl is dying of boredom sitting in the chair of your office, observing the ceiling and the light over your heads.

- I'm sorry darling, we will give the tour as soon as I finish this report, okay?

- I thought we would fight against bad people or that you would show me guns, this is so boring!!!!!

- Honey, making all this paperwork is also a way to fight against bad people, also very important.

- B-O-R-I-N-G...

You sighed, certainly it's not the funniest activity but you needed to finish it as soon as possible, a knocking on your door was perfect to interrupt your girl's complaints, Gaz appeared with a small bag of candies.

- I heard you brought a mini you today, I wanted to say hi.

- Oh Kyle, thanks, come in, this is my daughter (____). Honey this is my friend Kyle, be nice and say hi.

Your girl smiled at Gaz and took the small bag, she started to eat some jelly beans and talked for a few minutes with Kyle.

- (...) And now I'm here! Bored!

- I already say Sorry like a thousand times baby!!!

- I can take her to give a walk while you finish... just if you want (y/n)

- that would be great, I will finish soon I promise!

- YEAH! LET'S GO KYLE!!!

Your daughter took Kyle's hand and left the office, you laughed and continued your work.

Gaz went to the common room so your daughter could say hi to Soap, Ghost and other soldiers. needless to say that your girl was enchanted to meet Soap who played with her and gave her a small gel blaster, both made a mess with those gel bubbles, Gaz and Soap were cleaning up while Ghost and your daughter were painting one of Ghost's skull old masks, but your daughter was impatient to be with you and see the rest of the place as you promised her, she took her opportunity to escape from the three men when Soap attacked Ghost with some of the gel bubbles that were still on his blaster, Gaz was recording so, none of them noticed when your daughter left the room.

«Ah, Guys... Where's (_____)?» «Shit» «Was Johnny's fault»

They started to look for her, while your daughter was walking unsure of where she was going, she brought the blaster that Soap gave to her and started to shoot and play, her fun ended when she accidentally shot a soldier in his eye. The guy saw her alone and started to try to scare her.

- Hey kid, Did you forget the way to the daycare? who gave you that toy? This is not a place for babies.

- I'm 6, I'm not a baby!

- Aren't you? Then, maybe I have to tell you that you can go to prison for what you did?

Your daughter really believed that, she started to feel nervous, she was in serious trouble, what would she do now?. This guy kneeled down in front of your daughter and smirked.

- What will you do now? Cry with your parents?

An idea popped up quickly to her mind.

- I won't get in trouble, Do you have a clue of who my daddy is?

- Do you know who my daddy is?, oh please tell me who's your father, dwarf, I will tell him you're being a troublemaker!

He imitated your daughter's voice.

- The Captain Price is my daddy! He will beat your ass if you don't let me go!

This soldier was ready to say something until someone appeared behind you, he stood up quickly and paled, the little girl thought it was Gaz or Soap who found her and arrived just in time to save her, until she heard the soldier said «Captain!», she paled too and looked behind her, a tall man was observing the soldier with a cold look.

- Is this young man bothering you, my dear?

- He says I will go to prison just because I was playing a little and I hit him by accident.

- I'm sorry Sir, I didn't know she was your daughter...

Price didn't act surprised by the soldier's comment, he continued looking at him and put a hand on your daughter's shoulder.

- Next time I see you bothering my daughter or anyone else, you will be In serious trouble. Do you understand?

- Yes Sir.

- Fine, now leave. Let's go my little princess.

Price kneeled down a little and carried your girl over his shoulders, he talked with her about your work and maybe, your girl talked about how you feel about him, on their way they found Ghost, Soap and Gaz running through the entire base looking for her.

Finally you finished your work and went to the common area to see if your daughter was there, on the way you noticed some soldiers were whispering and talking secretly while you were passing by but you tried to not pay much attention, you arrived to the common area and indeed there she was, she fell asleep on Soap's lap, who was sitting on a sofa.

- Hey y/n you found us!

- Sorry guys I had a lot of things to do, thank you to everyone for taking care of her.

«No problem» «Soap is always here to help» «it was your fault that we lost her!»

- You what??

- Don't worry, nothing happened to her, the Captain found her!

Before you could say something, Price caught your attention and asked you to go out with him to have a small conversation. You felt a lump in your throat and stomach, you felt you were in problems, as soon as you and Price were alone you started to apologize.

- I'm so sorry John, I mean, Captain, it won't happen again I can assure you that...

- Y/n, you're not in trouble.

- wha..?

- I was going to say, you have a sweet and smart daughter and... Very... chatterbox...

- Chatterbox?

- Yes, she said she was my daughter, and then she told me about... Some feelings you have.

- Oh...

- Oh...

You instantly started to try to fix and look for excuses.

- Sir, I'm... She's just a kid, she fantasizes a lot about her father and... Also she understood all I said in a different way, I'm really sorry Captain...

- I see, well y/n, you don't need to apologize, I understand she's just a kid, and as she's just a kid, tell me, who are we to ruin her fantasies about have a father?

He smiled mischievously at you, you were speechless, what the hell was happening?.

- Ah... Excuse me, what?

-Well, she's a brilliant girl and I always wanted to have a daughter and a very attractive wife. There are a lot of reasons to make this come true.

You're still processing all that is happening right now.

- Really?

Price took your hand and squeezed it softly, without losing eye contact with you.

- For sure, by example, everybody around the base is already talking about us and our little daughter and the other reason is that those feelings your daughter talked about, are mutual.

You couldn't say anything, you were lost in thoughts, but your silly smile was enough for Price to go a little bit further.

- So, if you allow me, I would like to take you to dinner tomorrow night. What do you think?

- I would like that, but who will take care of (____)?

He laughed a little and then simply said.

- I think Soap said he's always ready to help, no? And if you don't think he will be a good babysitter... well, I think your daughter has another two uncles that can help.

That definitely made you laugh loudly, Price looked at you with tenderness still waiting for an answer, then, after a few minutes of silence you nodded, that was the story of how you and your daughter won the Captain's heart and three new uncles for your little girl, it would be the story that your daughter would talk about in every opportunity she had.

[npookie0]

An Intoxicating Desire.

Vampire au kc X human reader, scenarios.  Tws: blood, human organs, possible spoilers for any routes.

This writing is a part of my collab with, the amazing, @4stor he's the one behind Angel's and V's parts (he opened requests for Angel x reader so if you want more Angel content you know where to go <3) The art at the end is also a part of out collab made by him <3

Go shower my husband with love, darling readers.

Ronin Beaufort - Your Fav Vamp, Darlin'.

To my dearest darlin’.

I hope this letter finds you well, for I, your fucking amazing boyfriend,

or ronin beaufort, however you may Call me, invite you for a lil game.

what’s the game? oh, Hoped i’d tell ya? sorry to disappoint you love, i

would never destroy a wonderful surprise, not even Over my dead body. 

Come On, baby, pay me a Lil visit And find out. maybe out game will 

inspire your new Tale? a lil human and their Eternally annoying 

vampire boyfriend having a lil game. heh don’tcha worry your Sweet 

little head over the game, you will find out soon. pay me a visit on the 

sappy-lovin’ day, why don’tcha, my human darlin’? 

                                                                                                         Your devil x

You stood in front of a palace door, it was black, tall, heavy and made out of painted wood. You never expected an… eccentric vampire like Ronin to live in a castle like that, but whenever you saw the interior it all came together. Ronin just leaned into the stereotypic vampires like Dracula and mixed it with Twilight “for the fun of it”. You never judged… okay you did. 

Now you were standing at the entrance of his home, the letter he sent you a week ago in your hand. You were curious to say the least, what new game did he plan? Usually it would be just the typical; truth or dare, people watching and making up stories about the people, nothing too crazy or unexpected. 

“I bet it’s the usual stuff.” You mumbled to yourself and pushed the door open, letting yourself in. Ronin never opened the door for you anyway in his belief the place is yours as much as it’s his and you didn’t argue. A huge castle you could call your own? That’s like a dream you weren’t willing to wake up from. 

Your eyes immediately moved over the hallway you knew so well, extravagant wallpaper and carpets, mixed with ancient furniture and the slight touch of three different pairs of combat shoes thrown on the elegant carpets. Truly Ronin style. 

Something was out of place though, there was a bowl of… chocolates on one of the fancy tables that were in the hallway solely for decorative purposes. 

Seriously, that man and his need to drive everyone around him crazy.  You looked at the chocolates, they seemed normal, and that should be the first red flag for your lil head, but you have a thing for ignoring red flags don’t you? 

You ate one of the chocolates, at first nothing seemed out of the ordinary, at least until you took a Bite and… oh god is that blood? The metallic taste on your tongue couldn’t come from anything else; you spat out the chocolate into your hand, you felt something twist in your stomach when you saw the red liquid on your palm. The world was spinning in front of your eyes. Yeah, you knew that Ronin is a vampire and that he finds great enjoyment in consuming blood, but to this extent? 

“You lost, darlin'.” A quiet whisper sounded in your Ears, a hand wrapped itself around your waist. You felt someone's torso pressing itself to your back and someone's hot breath tingling your neck. 

Ronin. 

“What do you mean I lost? We haven't started playing yet, Ronin” You calmed yourself to the best of your abilities, which was hard with your gut feeling telling you that you're in danger. 

Yeah, Ronin is your boyfriend, but he's still a deranged vampire who'll do anything to break the chains of boredom and indulge himself in his sick desires. 

“Awh, but we did. Darlin' this was our game.” Your eyes widened. What did he mean by that? Chocolates being a game? Maybe Ronin really lost it this time. 

“Why so shocked? Did’ja really think I would put a whole basket of chocolates at the entrance? Tsk, tsk, I thought you knew me better, love.” He tightened his hold around your waist. “As for my reward for winning-” Before he could finish the sentence you turned around and cupped his face with your hands. 

“Heyy why don’t you give me another chance? Don’t you think it’s too easy if you win without a little struggle Ro? Or are you just scared that I’d actually beat you?” Playing with his ego was a really convincing way to get Ronin to change his mind. After all he would have to prove you wrong now to keep his pride. 

“Heh, you’re so fuckin’ right sweetheart. Maybe you’re smarter than I expected.” He clicked his tongue and took a step back just to circle you. His eyes locked on you like a predator looking at his prey, well you weren’t far from the truth. He Is a predator, and you are his human lover, and sometimes a snack if he’s not in the mood to find a new person to change into a blood bag. 

“So, what are we playing now?” You asked, your gaze following his every mood. 

“What about a little hunt? Y’know, something thrilling.” He snickered. “Ya try to hide from me, if I find you, you lose.” There was that dangerous glint in his eye, the same look he would give you when he’s excited about something. 

“And how do I win?” You asked, crossing your arms over your chest. If there’s a reward maybe you’ll feel Nearly as eager to play as he is. 

“Good question my darling. How do you win…” He took a few steps towards you and you backed away with every new step he took, soon you felt the hard wall behind your back. 

He put his hand under your chin and looked into your eyes, you were hypnotised by the neverending void that kept many secrets within itself. Secrets you wanted to uncover one day. 

“If you manage to put this rose on me before I catch you, you win.” He placed a dried rose in your hand, it was black with all of its thorns still intact. The flower, even dead and dry for a while now, still didn’t lack beauty. Maybe it’s the deadliness that made it so charming? Maybe it was the same case for Ronin and the reason behind your lack of fear towards his vampirism. 

“Alright then, prepare to lose, Beaufort!” With a daring smile you ran through the hallway. 

You didn’t have a plan, heck you didn’t Even know if he was following after you. Damn Ronin and his damned ability to walk without making any sounds. You had one mission; getting that rose on Ronin at all cost. 

You ran through the hallways of Ronin’s castle, the dark corridors bathed in darkness and shadows, you could see the beautiful full moon through the big windows, usually covered by thick and long black curtains to prevent any sunlight from getting into the palace. You could hear your heartbeat, fastening with every second with every new turn you took or noise you heard. 

You weren’t stupid, you knew that Ronin would catch up to you at any given moment, even if he gave you time to run off, it would never be enough. He knows this castle better than you know the characters in your stories, and that meant that you’re in some serious trouble. 

It was worth the adrenaline though, being chased like this, as if your life was truly endangered, it made you feel alive. Like nothing could stop you from running. Your blood was hot, boiling even, your breath was fast, you were almost out of it. It all felt amazing, 

It didn’t take long until you heard loud and heavy footsteps somewhere behind you, panicking as you entered one of the many rooms in the castle’s left wing. You couldn’t see anything, it was far too dark for you pathetic human eyes, the only thing Visible for you was the crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Your eyes were slowly adjusting to the darkness and that's when you realised that you're even more fucked. It's the castle's throne room, you were there only once; when Ronin was giving you a tour around the castle. 

The room was beautiful, with two elegant thrones on a platform, overlooking the whole room, ready for the royal couple to greet their guests. Unfortunately, the thrones - even if extremely beautiful, made of the finest material, designed to be grand and eye-catching - were the only piece of furniture the room had to offer. 

You stood in front of two choices, hide behind the thrones or try to sneak out And Look for another room. The latter was less likely to happen, Ronin was too close, leaving now meant losing and you weren't willing to give up that easily. 

You moved as quietly as possible to the thrones at the End of the room and sat behind them. A hand to your mouth as you tried to calm your breathing and stay quiet. 

Thud. Thud. Thud. 

Ronin's footsteps were getting louder with every second, you heard the doors to the rooms next to yours open. It was horrifyingly exciting, knowing how close he is to finding you.

“Oh, writer darlin' where are you?” His voice came directly from behind the throne’s room doors. 

He was so close, too close. 

You had no means to escape, your hiding spot wasn’t helping either, you could only hope that he would walk past the throne room. If only hope and prayers really worked… 

You heard a creak when the door was pushed open, and steps echoed through the almost empty room, stopping in the middle of it. You held your breath, trying your best to make as little Noise as possible. Even your heart was too loud in that moment, each beat reaching your ears. You cursed yourself in your mind for choosing this room out of all the other available choices. 

You could hear Ronin getting closer to the thrones, but before he reached your hiding spot he stopped in his tracks and clicked his tongue. 

“Nah, They’re not here.” He said to himself, sounding disappointed. The sound of his steps getting further away from you was like a blessing you didn’t know you were awaiting. The door shut with a loud thud. You could finally breathe and decide on your next move, maybe even make a plan to actually win. 

You stood up from the floor, making your way towards the door with new found confidence, with Ronin making his way to the other rooms you should be able to chase him and put the flower on him. Before you could even walk away from the elegant seats, someone pushed you on one of the thrones and pinned you to it. 

“Awh darling, you lost, again.” Ronin’s face was Inches away from yours, you could see the shit-eating grin glued to his face. The disgustingly strong aura of confidence emanating from him. 

That bastard, of course it was a trap, you should’ve known it. Why would Ronin willingly skip over an obvious hiding spot and move on to another room? You’re such a fool, and it’s only because of some imaginary reward you would Never even get. Wow Y/N, you’re so smart. 

“So, what’s your reward?” You asked. You didn’t like the look he was giving you, it was too secretive. 

“Oh nothin’ much, watching you run around like an idiot was almost enough.” He titled your head back, tracing your neck with his thumb. “Almost. I’m starving, love.” He purred into your ear, his voice causing you to shiver. You swallowed, it was blood he was after. 

You looked into his eyes, he looked starved, just ready to bury his fangs in your neck. The thought alone, making your face flush. Your taste in men is really questionable… 

“Well, it’s your reward, take it.” He cackled at your reply, the sound sick, yet sweet to your Ears.

“With pleasure, my love.” He whispered into your ear, kissing the side of your head before his lips found their way to your neck. 

At first he was gentle, kissing your neck, but then he sank his teeth in it, the pain not unfamiliar, still unwelcome. You could feel his hold on your waist tighten, as he sucked on your blood, drinking it like he’s a starved animal getting food for the first time, like he’s an addict. After a while, the pleasure kicked in, the intimacy of it all fucking with your head. Ronin’s touch was tender, even if he was just taking some of your blood away from you. He still made sure that you weren’t about to pass out in front of him. 

When you started feeling lightheaded, Ronin recognised it, taking his teeth out of your neck, licking the small streak of blood that was running down your neck. 

“Happy valentines, baby.” He kissed your forehead. “Thank you for the sweet, sweet, meal.” 

Did you get the devil’s message, darlin’ reader?

Maria de la Rosa - Vampiric Perfect Angel.

For you, everything will be perfect, my sweetheart~

An elegant Angel was running around the kitchen, her perfect pink dress with decorative black roses spread on the floor making her look more majestic than usual. She was preparing for her very special day just for her lover, making sure that everything was perfect for her beloved’s visit. Every pastry and sweet was chosen with care, even the room was meticulously prepared for just the two of you. She wanted everything to be perfect. Ensuring that your Valentine’s date would be flawless and unforgettable.

She hummed to herself as she was taking the red velvet cake from the oven with protection gloves on. Servants and maids of De La Rosa’s castle were astonished to witness their young lady baking on her own—and doing it flawlessly—was a surprise. Maria’s excitement outweighed any concerns about the whispers and rumors amongst servants and maids. She could only care about her partner, her lover, the person she’ll be spending time with for the day till night.

My words will make your heart dance, my Angel.

Meanwhile, you were engrossed in writing a new novel—A vampire romance with a thrilling twist, something that Maria was especially eager to hear about. It was carefully crafted with intricate details in its scenes. You poured your heart and soul into words to create tension, passion, and the danger intertwined in its world. The story consumed your thoughts, Maria De La Rosa as your basis for your main character. After all, who else can depict the sweet lovable femme fatale other than your darling lover? You wanted a twist, the type of plot where it isn’t the usual Twilight and Dracula plot. You wanted the character to feel much more just like her, besides, it helps when you’re that hyperfixated over your love.

But with you, you know that she’s just Maria—even with her vampirism—she treats you better than all others.

And as for Maria? As usual, she is caught up in everything a born vampire princess could be busy with: grand balls, meetings with her new chamberlain (the one who manages the personal affairs of the princess) who was a much better improvement over Finian, and challenges with modeling as a vampire. Explaining to people that she only likes pictures done with one specific camera made her look like a picky spoiled rich girl, but what can she do? She can’t just tell everyone that it’s because regular cameras can’t capture her due to her vampirism.

Red velvet cake, one of our shared favorites

Maria finally cuts the cake, the servants take the trays of food and freshly brewed tea to the room Angel had prepared. The clock was ticking, it was almost time for your arrival, she was excited, all giddy and giggly. She made sure everything was in place, the vibe and the lights perfectly done for their little date. She checked her appearance: makeup, dress, anything that seemed out of place were retouched before she walked out down the corridors and by the main entrance.

The De La Rosa castle was adorned in a palette of white and rose gold, exuding elegance and perfection —an ideal reflection of a family renowned for producing one of the world's greatest models. She was, without a doubt, their most treasured jewel.

Finally, the door was open and there you stood, Y/N, with the matching color scheme outfit she sent to you. Magnificent clothing done with its finest for this very day, and in your hand was a gift. This was Maria de la Rosa’s partner, someone she cherished dearly and held close to her heart. You were always ready to listen to her, visit her whenever she asks you to, go out for little dates with her like the ones in the romantic movies she loved so much. You were a dream come true, the one who accepted her vampirism and let her be herself. It meant more to her than she could ever express, she was grateful.

She walks towards you with the knowing sweet smile, “My love! You’re here!” her eyes sparkled in delight at your presence.

Your hand reaches her cheek, a soft chaste kiss on her lips from your own. You missed her, you knew that and she did too, “I missed you, love” you whisper sweet nothings to her, a soft smile forms your lips.

Maria, flustered as ever, smiles with you. Her warmth radiating at the quiet moment, she leans her forehead against yours to feel your presence, a lingering moment for both of them as the world seems to fade away from them. Their heart beats in sync with their soft breaths mingling before their eyes flutter open and lock into one another with unspoken emotion.

She giggles, breaking the silence, “As much as I’d like to stay like this quietly with you… You’d miss out what I have planned if we stayed like this,”

“Yeah?” You say with your thumb caressing her cheek softly, “I didn’t know you had something prepared, I was just thinking about spending the day with you at the lounge.” you chuckle

“Well it’s Valentine’s day, silly! What more than to spend a special day with your lover?” she smiles charmingly

“Yeah… What more than to spend a day with my princess, my angel, my loving Maria,” You trail your hand down to hers, “Either way, I’m happy to see you. I can’t wait to tell you about the novel I have in progress.” Maria beams in happiness before entwining her fingers with yours.

“Then let’s go~”

Just us, no princess work, no modeling, no pretty diamonds.

It’s just you and me, baby. Person to person.

Your lips on mine as you held my hand. A caress on my cheek, and our hearts flourishing under the moonlight.

It was a night neither of you would forget—a perfect blend of indulgence and romance. The evening had unfolded like a well-orchestrated symphony, with each course arriving in harmonious succession. You had savored a delicate appetizer, followed by a carefully chosen side dish that complemented the rich flavors of the main course. Every bite was shared with quiet laughter, soft glances, and gentle touches. And just when the night couldn't seem any more perfect, dessert arrived—a sweet finale to an already unforgettable evening, lingering on your lips like the memory of a perfect kiss.

Sweet sweet red velvet cake~

Maria lifted a small bite to your lips, her eyes watching you with quiet anticipation as you took it in. The sweetness melted effortlessly on your tongue, rich and delicate, a perfect balance of flavor that made you sigh in delight. A soft chuckle escaped her as she caught the way your expression shifted-eyes fluttering shut for a moment, savoring the taste. She knew you loved it, and that knowledge alone filled her with warmth. "I knew you'd like it," she mused, her voice laced with satisfaction as she playfully tapped the spoon against your lips, silently offering another bite.

“Mm~ and speaking of sweets~” You hummed as you brought out your little gift to her. Delicious handmade chocolates, icing so striking one would never be able to stop craving.

Maria was astonished, gaze shifting from the chocolate to your eyes. “You’re not the only one who prepared a little something,” you mused as you brought a chocolate to her lips, “Go on, princess. Try it,” you coo with a smile.

Maria took a small bite of the chocolate, savoring its chewy sweetness as it melted on her tongue. But what caught her off guard was the lingering aftertaste—a distinct metallic tang that sent a shiver down her spine. She hadn't noticed at first, but now her eyes drifted to your fingertips, where droplets of blood trickled down, staining the remnants of the chocolate. Your smile gleamed in the dim light, unreadable, almost teasing. But Maria knew—without a doubt—what she had just tasted.

“Do you like it?” You ask with a teasing tone, Maria confirmed it—it was blood—she could taste the fear of its blood, her partner was certainly something. Something she never expected even.

“Who did you kill to make this?” She asked, taking another bite of the remaining chocolate, this time the metallic taste came with its sweetness rather than its after taste.

“It’s no one you should worry about,” You replied, retracting your hand away before she suddenly grabs it and licks the remaining blood off your finger tips.

“Wow, didn’t think princess Maria would be this messy with blood,” You smirk, catching sight of the blood on her lips and instinctively reaching out to wipe it away. As your fingers brush against her skin, you pull back—but Maria doesn't look away. Her gaze locks onto you, something shifting in her expression, something primal. Then, you realize why. A faint sting lingers on your fingertip, a small wound now seeping crimson. Her sharp tooth must have grazed you. Slowly, deliberately, she licks the blood from her teeth, her blue eyes darkening with an unspoken hunger as she stares into yours, filled with an undeniable need.

She stood up from her seat and circles around the table, locking eye contact with yours. She placed hand over your cheek before taking your thumb, “Poor you, you grazed through my teeth…” she coos softly before licking your thumb, then capturing a needy kiss from your lips which you returned. You can hear each other’s hearts beating in sync, the taste of your own blood that she loves better.

Slowly, Maria pulled away first, her eyes fluttering open to lock with yours, “I like your blood better…” she coos with soft heat rising up her cheeks. She was definitely flustered.

“Mm… I don’t mind if it’s you,” You held her hand softly, kissing her palm with tenderness.

She smiles softly, recapturing your lips into a passionate deepened kiss. You could feel her dominate you, for a princess full of sweet romance, she also liked these private sessions with you. She thinks you’re cute this way, that you’ve willingly submitted to her. Her special red rose and you liked that.

She pulls away, a breathy gasp escaping your lips as her softness traces from your jawline down to your neck. Each touch is slow, deliberately heated yet tender, carrying a passion that makes your pulse race. You shift slightly, granting her better access, and she wastes no time burying herself against you. Soft, lingering kisses pepper your skin, sending a shiver down your spine.

Your gaze flickers to the mirror, catching the sight of your lips-smeared with red, whether from her lipstick or the aftermath of your fevered embrace, you can't quite tell. Then, without warning, a gentle bite. Her grip around your waist is firm yet delicate as she drinks from you, and you close your eyes, exhaling a slow sigh. There's discomfort, but it's the kind that feels intoxicating, the kind that keeps you wanting more.

Maria knows how to control herself, how to take just enough without hurting you, but tonight-tonight is an exception. She drinks you in as if you're the richest, most forbidden wine, and it takes everything in her not to indulge too much. A hand moves behind her, pulling her closer as you press your lips to her bare shoulder, surrendering to the night.

God your blood is so intoxicating, I desire you right now, baby

She pulls away just in time, her blue eyes scanning your face with concern. A soft furrow forms between her brows, her lips slightly parted as if about to ask if you're alright. But before she can, you offer a small, reassuring smile, cupping her cheek gently. Without hesitation, you lean in, brushing your lips against hers—still smeared with crimson. The taste lingers, rich and intoxicating, a reminder of the moment you just shared.

Minutes pass, the air between you shifting from heated to something softer, something intimate in a quieter way. After freshening up, you both settle onto the plush couch, plates in hand, indulging in the sweet decadence of dessert. The velvety richness melts on your tongue, but it's Maria's presence that truly satisfies. She listens intently as you talk about your book, your voice always music to her ears.

“I wonder who that main character is based on~” Maria coos softly into your ears prompting a giggle from you

“Guess.” You replied with a tease in your tone

Maria giggled softly, God you love her laugh so much, “I’m so happy… Being with you makes me so happy…” she whispers.

Her fingers trace lazy patterns on your arm, her body curled close to yours as if drawn by an invisible force. The conversation flows effortlessly, punctuated by soft laughter and knowing glances.

“Y/n…”

“Yes, Maria?”

“Gosh… I love you so much… My sweet lover…” she says with a sigh before continuing, “Loving you will never be regrettable at all, you’ve shown me so much unconditional love and acceptance that it almost feels too much… And honestly? I thought romance died before you came to my life… I never knew that all I needed was someone like you, someone who understood me, someone who I can be vulnerable with and feel accepted. Someone who sees the real me, who doesn’t fear or flinch by my presence. I’m so happy that it’s you…” Her eyes looked glassy, but you knew that she was happy and content.

“Maria…”

“Y/n…”

“I love you, my Angel…”

“I love you too, Y/n…”

“My life changed when I met you… You were someone I was happy that I never ran away from. That I chose to love you. My heart… it’s beating so fast…” You say as she places her hand on your chest

“I know… Can you hear mine too?” She placed your hand on her chest. Both hearts beat in sync. Lost in the eyes full of love.

This time, you make your first move. You shift on your seat, now seemingly taller than her as you capture her lips into a soft tender kiss which she returned. You could hear it now, your hearts beating faster and louder. God her lips always felt so good, I love her so much

You pull away from her, caressing her cheek as she held your hips with heat rising on her cheeks, then finally…

“Happy Valentine’s day, Maria. I love you,”

“Happy Valentine’s day to you too, mi amor. I love you too,”

You both lean against each other’s foreheads under the quiet dim light enjoying the quiet romance and unspoken emotions as your eyes flutter closed.

The taste of your blood was like the sweetness of love I never would have expected. Like a rich forbidden wine, you were more than just treasure.

You are...an indulgence I can never resist, a temptation that lingers on my tongue and seeps into my very being. You are the craving I cannot tame, the desire that turns my restraint to ash. Every drop of you sings a melody of longing, and with each taste, I fall deeper-helplessly, willingly.

I love you, Reader. Happy Valentine’s to you, I hope I made you feel so loved

Valentin Viljoen - Eternal Follower of Justice.

In sleep he sang to me, in dreams he came…

The voice which calls to me and speaks my name

You stand before your mirror, adjusting the delicate fabric of your attire for tonight's grand event. The anticipation hums beneath your skin, a mixture of curiosity and nervousness. A letter had arrived earlier this week, carried by his owl—an elegant, meticulously sealed forest green invitation to an evening at his castle. A grand ball, no less. He was never one for extravagant public affairs, always preferring the solitude of dimly lit corridors and whispered conversations. And yet, tonight, he had arranged something grand, something meant for the “two of you” that is yet to be discovered.

You step outside, the sound of wheels settling on cobblestone pulls your attention. The carriage awaits, an ornate masterpiece bathed in the golden glow of lanterns, it’s like Cinderella all over again, taking you to your loving prince. It stands there like an extension of him, silent yet commanding, as if his very voice calls you forward just like in your dreams, he always appears shrouded, veiled in mystery and shadow. And yet, you yearn to unmask what lies beneath—to see his loving eyes unobscured, to trace the contours of his face with your fingertips, to know him fully, beyond the secrecy he keeps.

And do I dream again?

For now I find

The phantom of the opera is there inside my mind…

You take a deep breath and step forward. The coachman, dressed in fine but muted attire, offers his gloved hand to assist you. With practiced ease, he helps you into the carriage, the plush forest green interior swallowing you in an embrace of luxury. The door shuts with a soft click, sealing you within this moment, this journey toward a night of unknown promises.

The carriage lurches forward, wheels rolling steadily against the path, carrying you toward the mystery that is him.

Let’s dance, my love.

You arrive by the main entrance of the castle as the wheels of the carriage rolled through the cobblestone till it fades away. And once again, you hear a voice call out to you.

“Come to me, my angel”

You take a step forward and push the giant gates which presents the beautiful dim corridors of a forest green interior with white accent. This was not your first visit, however you were still at awe with the luxury he lives in.

“Angel to my music…”

The faint strains of an orchestra reach your ears, the melody weaving through the walls like an enchantment meant only for you. Each note feels familiar, as if composed for this very moment-strings trembling with longing, piano keys whispering secrets only your heart can understand.

Then, amidst the harmony, you hear it. His voice. Soft, distant, yet unmistakable. It calls to you, threading through the music like an invisible hand guiding you forward. A hallucination, perhaps. Or maybe, just maybe, it is real.

Your pulse quickens as you step closer, the towering doors of the ballroom standing before you like a threshold between reality and something far more ethereal. The golden carvings on the frame glisten under the chandelier's glow, an unspoken invitation. All it takes is a single push.

With a deep breath, your fingers press against the cold surface of the door. It yields under your touch, gliding open effortlessly, and at that moment, the music swells welcoming, beckoning. A sea of what you thought would be an opulence and masked faces that should stretch before you was none other than an entire orchestra and a room of emptiness, the ballroom bathed in a golden radiance. And yet, amidst the grandeur, your gaze searches for only one.

The one who called you here.

“V…” You mutter under your breath

He smiles at your presence, arm outstretched beckoning you closer, “Sing once again with me… Our strange duet,” he steps forward, which draws you in like some hypnotic spell that lures you into his arms.

“My power over you… grows stronger yet” He held your hand, his voice deep and majestic like he could sing in an opera.

You try to draw near him, yearning for his mask, “And though you turn from me, to glance behind” he sang, filling your cheek as he restricts you from getting near his mask in a form of teasing.

The phantom of the opera is there…inside your mind.

“Eyes on me, my love” He whispers as he holds your waist firmly, eyes locked together as you make a quick turn. Steps in sync with his perfectly like he knew what he was doing, a man in control of you. His loving angel.

Those who have seen his face always draw back in fear. Whispers surround him like a ghostly shroud, murmured tales like stories of horrors and secrecy. Claiming curses of his features that his mask is not an accessory but a necessity, hiding something no mortal should ever lay their eyes upon. Others merely insist that he’s in vain, unwilling to let the world see the truth that lies beneath.

You’ve always been curious.

What do you hide underneath?

Unlike the others, you do not flinch in fear. No, never at the mystery that surrounds him. He chose you—his partner— for this very reason. Instead, it draws you in like the pull of the moon on the tide. He gives you a twirl before you step closer to him again, hand reaching the hem of his mask before he takes your hand gently with a glint of tease in his eyes.

He’s definitely playing with you. It was not his thing, but perhaps this was the “special gift” that he mentioned in his invitation.

The music swells, and you move in perfect harmony, a waltz woven from unspoken words and the steady rhythm of your hearts. His soft smile never wavers, a silent promise of devotion as he leads you effortlessly across the ballroom floor. Every step is deliberate, each turn filled with passion, as if the world around you has faded into nothingness. The grand chandeliers cast their golden glow upon you both, your eyes set only for each other.

(My) Your spirit and (My) your voice in one combined..

The phantom of the opera is there, inside (my) your mind.

His hands rest firmly on your waist, guiding you with unwavering confidence, ensuring that not even a moment of imbalance could break this sacred dance. The fabric of your attire flutters as he spins you, his grip unwavering, a silent vow that he will never let you fall.

He’s there the phantom of the opera

And then, as the orchestra reaches its crescendo, he lifts you effortlessly, elevating you above the floor, where you gleam beneath the enchanting light. 

To the gleaming lights of the grand chandeliers and orchestra, you are a vision of grace, two souls lost in a dance that speaks of longing and eternity. But to him, you are something more—his muse, his melody, the angel to his music beneath the moonlit sky.

You both part as you gracefully land, yet curiosity gnaws at you, urging you forward. The music swells, reaching its peak, mirroring the quickening rhythm of your heart. Beckons you a hand to his mask, a silent invitation, his gaze drawing you in-closer, ever closer.

It’s your chance.

“Come my angel.”

You take a cautious step forward, and he mirrors you by stepping back, an unspoken challenge lingering in the air. Soon, your movements fall into perfect harmony, a delicate yet intense game unfolding between you. Each step becomes a silent conversation, the space between you shrinking and expanding like the ebb and flow of a tide. The music swells, each note weaving an intricate tale, a dramatic crescendo of longing and mystery. It is as if the entire ballroom is holding its breath, captivated by this dance, by the tension, by the anticipation of what comes next.

You want to know what’s underneath, you’re craving to know. You want to reach your hands out and fill both his cheeks and kiss him. You want to be able to look into his eyes and cherish the mysterious beauty he hides no matter how scary he is. Before you know it, he stepped out of the ballroom leaving the door open like he knew you’d follow.

And you did.

You rush out of the ballroom, your heart pounding as you search for your lover. "V?" you call out, your voice echoing through the grand hall. Your eyes scan the dimly lit surroundings until you catch sight of him standing by the staircase, a knowing smile playing on his lips. Without a word, he turns and ascends the steps, his figure disappearing into the shadows of the second floor. Without hesitation, you follow, your footsteps quickening as he vanishes into the left wing of his castle, drawing you deeper into his world.

This is just the beginning of our dance, my angel

Through every dimly lit corridor, the moonlight spills in through arched windows, casting long, ghostly shadows along the stone walls. Your heart pounds against your chest as you push forward, chasing after the fleeting figure ahead. His presence is near—you can feel it in the faint whisper of footsteps, in the distant rustle of fabric brushing against the cold floor. Every turn leads you deeper into the castle, but the more you pursue him, the farther he seems to slip from your grasp.

It dawns on you—how little you truly know about him. His face, forever hidden behind his mask, remains a mystery. His voice, haunting yet gentle, has always kept you captivated, yet his true nature remains elusive. He is an enigma wrapped in darkness, and yet, in the depths of your heart, there is no doubt. You do not need to see his face to know the love he bears for you, unconditional and unwavering. It is something you cherish now more than ever, something you yearn to protect—to hold onto for eternity.

I’m right here, my love. Always here.

You come to an abrupt halt, your breath hitching as the atmosphere thickens around you. The room ahead glows with a faint, ethereal light, casting soft shadows that dance along the polished floors. Then, his voice—velvety, haunting, and intoxicating—calls out to you once more, drawing you in like a siren's song. His invitation is unspoken yet irresistible, and with a steadying breath, you push the door open, stepping into the unknown.

The sight before you is nothing short of breathtaking. A grand yet intimate room, adorned with dark wooden furniture that exudes timeless elegance, welcomes you. The air is rich with the scent of aged books and a hint of something sweet. At the center stands an exquisitely set table, bathed in the warm glow of candlelight. But what truly captures your attention is the confection laid atop it—a decadent cake, its intricate design shaped into a heart, a macabre yet oddly beautiful symbol of devotion. Surrounding it are delicate chocolates, each crafted with care, as if whispering sweet temptations.

And then, there he is—your lover, waiting, watching. His presence commands the room, his masked gaze never straying from you. His lips curl into the faintest smile, a silent promise of the night yet to unfold.

“V…”

“Y/n.”

He takes your hand and kisses the ridge of your hand before planting a soft kiss onto your lips that you so fell for. He fills your cheek, deepening your kiss passionately before pulling away.

“Did you enjoy our dance?” He asked softly to which you nod in confirmation

“I did, it was unexpected but… I did” He chuckles at your response before bringing you to the table where he sat you at the beautiful chair in front of the cake.

“A sweet delicacy, made for you.” He held a plate of slice ready for you

You giggle softly, “I want to ask a favor, just one.” your gaze locked into his

“Which is?”

“Your face”

“No”

You fill his cheeks with your delicate hands, “Pretty please?”

He sighs, “You’ll fear what’s underneath, my love”

“You’re talking to a human who fell for their vampire lover, how worse can it get?” Your words hint with teasing, “Besides, isn’t trust a foundation of the relationship?” You draw closer to him, your hand placed by the hem of his mask. He doesn’t stop you, not this time—instead, he locks within your gaze, curiosity piqued his interest at your reaction to what you could express.

At last, with determined hands, you lift his mask, unveiling the mystery that has long been hidden from you. Beneath the polished porcelain lies a face marked by a burn scar—an imprint of the past that others recoil from, a sight that has instilled fear in many. But not you. Never you.

Where the world sees tragedy, you see resilience. Where they see imperfection, you see beauty—a tale of survival written upon his skin. The mask slips from your grasp, falling to the floor with a hollow clatter, forgotten in the moment. Without hesitation, you cradle his face in your hands, tracing the lines of his features as if memorizing every inch.

His breath hitches, uncertainty flickering in his eyes, but you silence his doubts with a fervent kiss. It is not pity, not mere acceptance, but devotion—a promise that you love him as he is, unmasked, raw, and real.

I am never afraid of you, sweetheart.

Both you and your lover spent in the quiet intimacy of the moment, the low hum of candlelight flickering against the dark wooden walls. A gentle conversation flows between you, soft and unhurried, as if time itself has slowed to savor this night.

He lifts a delicate bite of cake to your lips, his fingers steady, his amber eyes gleaming with something unreadable. "I promise, you'll love it," he murmurs with a knowing smile, his voice velvety smooth, coaxing.

The scent of rich chocolate and something subtly unfamiliar fills your senses as you part your lips, allowing him to feed you. The warmth of his fingertips lingers near your skin, an unspoken invitation to trust him. And as the flavors melt on your tongue-sweet, decadent, and strangely metallic—you find yourself lost in his gaze, wondering just what kind of promise he has truly made.

Your brows knit together in confusion as you let the strange taste settle, your mind struggling to place it. It's familiar, yet foreign, a contradiction that leaves you uneasy. Slowly, you lift your gaze to V, who sits across from you, his expression unreadable. He watches you intently, a soft, knowing smile playing on his lips, as if he is waiting for you to understand.

“Did you like the heart?”

You stared at him, your lips still tingling from the strange mix of flavors. It wasn't like him to do something so peculiar—to feed you an actual heart-shaped cake, so lifelike it almost felt like a taunt. The chewy texture, the metallic hint beneath the sweetness, it was... unnerving.

Your brows furrow as you meet his gaze. He's watching you closely, that ever-present, knowing smile playing at his lips. There's something in his eyes-amusement, curiosity, perhaps even anticipation. 

"What?" you finally ask, your voice quieter than intended.

His fingers trail along the edge of the plate before he leans in just slightly, his breath warm against your skin. "Did you like it?"

You swallow, trying to shake the unease creeping up your spine. It was just cake... wasn't it?

“Is that..?”

He tilted his head, his smile not wavering, “Is that what?”

“A heart?”

“Yes, a heart shape” he teases you lightly

You smack V’s arm, “You know what I mean!”

He chuckles, “Yes, an actual heart inside the cake, how did you like it?”

“I mean— I don’t mind it, but I never expected a live heart from you. Maybe from a certain someone, but never you. You’ve been awfully playful tonight” V responds with a laugh

“I guess I wanted to try a little something for tonight, just us.” He leans against your neck, planting a soft kiss before holding you closely

“Care to stay over?” He asks

“I thought you’d never ask.”

You kiss his burn scar softly, “Happy Valentine’s day, Valentin”

He smiles softly before pressing a chaste kiss on your lips, “Happy Valentine’s day to you too, Y/n dear”

The moonlight streamed through the grand windows, casting a soft glow across the room, illuminating the quiet moment shared between you. Shadows danced along the walls, but neither of you paid them any mind. Instead, your gazes remained locked, speaking in a silent language only the two of you could understand.

There was no need for words, no grand declarations—just the depth of his dark eyes meeting yours, a silent promise exchanged in the stillness. His fingers brushed against yours on the table, a fleeting touch, yet enough to send warmth through your skin.

All he needed was you. In this moment, in this quiet sanctuary of moonlit devotion, nothing else mattered.

I will sing and dance for your music, my phantom.

My prince under the moonlight and hidden in the shadows.

Valentin Viljoen, you’re the unseen hand that guides my every step.

A love both haunting and eternal, forever ours to keep.

Happy Valentine’s day, my loves.

Misaki Katsuo - Sweet Even as Undead.

You were sitting in your house, eyes locked on the computer screen in front of you. You were working on a news report, that’s how your nights looked for over a month now. Your work was consuming you, taking away your life, locking away anyone. 

Including your partner Misaki. You wanted to make time for them, you really did, you even planned a whole evening of attractions for valentine's day, but it all went to hell once your phone called. Your team needed a new report about a vampire victim, seriously Ronin could take a break for one night. 

You sighed as you looked at the time, the clock almost showed seven. “Great another day spent working.” You murmured to yourself while you outstretched your arms. You weren’t even halfway done with the report. It was too much for you, you just wanted to hop onto the Bloodthirsty Losers server and spam your partner with all the “I miss you” and “I love you” messages you owed them. 

“Fuck, I’m hungry.” You mumbled when your stomach felt way too empty and painful at the same time. You stood up, pushing your office chair back, almost causing it to fall. Not like you cared, you just wanted to eat, anything would work as your perfect meal at this point, okay maybe besides human meat - you’re not Angel after all. 

You made your way to the kitchen, frowning when the only thing you saw was the yellow white reflecting the empty, white shelves of your fridge. Of course you didn’t have food, you haven’t left your house for the past week. You groaned, not in the mood to go to the store to buy instant noodles and stuff yourself with them until you forget about hunger completely. What a nutritious meal Y/n really, you’re outdoing yourself. You were about to get out your phone and call for a food delivery. 

Expect the unexpected, silly. 

The sound of your doorbell ringing filled your house. Someone was really trying to get through to you, pressing against the switch without a single pause, creating a prolonged annoying noise. 

“I’m coming! Jesus Christ…” You grumbled and made your way to your door, expecting to see an annoying girl scout trying to sell some Valentine’s Special cookies in the shape of a heart, you were considering it being your luck if the scenario was true, but what or rather who you saw on the other side of the door was beyond your wildest expectations. 

Misaki stood on the other side of the door, wearing an outfit consisting of shorts and a very ruffly elegant shirt, both were white with a pink gradient. She looked very elegant and cute. You noticed a tote bag full of… something, hanging from her shoulder, it piqued your curiosity but before you could even ask anything…

“Oh gosh! Baby finally!” Misaki exclaimed excitedly, throwing their arms around you and squealing happily when they embraced you. 

You were caught off guard. This visit was definitely unexpected, but not unwelcome. You missed them, dearly, so having them here, in your arms, happily holding you tightly was truly wonderful. 

“Ah!” You yelped, surprise still present on your face. “Misaki, sweetheart, what are you doing here?” 

“Ah!” You yelped, surprise still present on your face. “Misaki, sweetheart, what are you doing here?” 

“I wanted to see you, duh! You weren’t online for a while and I, and everyone else, got worried you dummy.” She stepped back and locked the door that was wide open for the whole time. “I hope you’re hungry because we’re going to bake brownies!” They didn’t give you any time to answer, kicking their shoes off and going to your kitchen. 

You wanted to huff, or argue, but you could only giggle and follow them with a stupid smile on your face, warmth filling your heart and making this evening especially enjoyable. All giddy and excited entered the kitchen to see Misaki taking out the different ingredients needed for brownies with the addition of strawberries. 

“Strawberries? Really?” You asked when you stood next to them, leaning on the kitchen counter. 

“What did you think I’d want to use for the filling? Blood? Sorry babes I only drink blood when the crazy gal in me wakes up.” They joked and took one of the strawberries into their hand. Misaki closed the distance between you and held your chin with their free hand. “Say ah~” She held the strawberry right in front of your lips. You rolled your eyes playfully and open your mouth, accepting her offering happily, 

“Okay, let’s get to baking or we’ll eat all of the strawberries.” You put your hands on their shoulders and turned them around. “I’m starvinggg.” You whined and gently pushed them towards the counters. 

A little mess never hurt nobody. 

Baking with Misaki was an… experience for sure. Your whole kitchen looked like a storm just went through it, flour everywhere, some eggs on the floor and the countertop, cocoa powder all over Misaki’s white shirt. You were trying to mix the cake mix while Misaki was clinging to your side, her head resting on your shoulder. 

Unexpectedly they pushed you gently, your hand slipping, some of the mix getting onto your wrist and hand. You huffed in annoyance and looked at Misaki. 

“Misaki, please be mor- what are you…?” You were at a loss for words when Misaki grabbed your forearm and pulled your arm to her mouth and… started licking the substance off of your hand. “Misaki, baby, darling, I know that living in a trailer might’ve messed up with your pretty lil head, but I do have running water that I could clean my hand with.” You said with an amused tone, shaking your head in disbelief. 

They let go of your hand once they finished their “job” and looked at you with a proud mischievous smirk. “Yeah, but then the cake would go to waste, dummy!” She poked your nose with a sweet cackle. “Okay let’s finish this! And then, I’ve got a surprise!” 

“What kind of surprise?” You gave them a look, what new idea could that sweet idea of their makeup? 

“If I tell you it won’t be a surprise! Now chop chop! We don’t have all night to bake.” They stuck out their tongue at you. You just playfully pinched their cheek and started working on the brownies again.

The stars in the sky were made for us. 

Misaki was holding your hand as they were guiding you to the “surprise”. They decided to blindfold you, apparently seeing would destroy everything, you decided to not question their decision. Whatever made your wonderful partner happy you would agree to do. 

“Are we there?” You asked, shouting to them because of the wind blowing at your face. 

“A few more minutes!” They shouted back with an excited chuckle, you could feel yourself being pulled harder when Misaki started to run. You ran behind her, trying to not stumble against your own feet or the ground. The ground beneath your feet was uneven, hard, in some places you could feel yourself stopping over something very fragile and easy to bend,

Your surroundings were quiet, no cars, no people, just you, Misaki and a bird here and there. The wind wasn’t so strong anymore, it was a light breeze, you heard it swaying the trees, their leaves making a peaceful melody, a song for the two of us. 

“We’re here~!” 

You felt two cold hands gently lifting the scarf they used to blindfold you up. Your eyes needed a second to adjust to your new surroundings. Finally, once they adjusted, you could look around, the darkness of the night wasn’t that overwhelming, you could see perfectly well. 

You were in the middle of a meadow, the flowers were all wilted, some trees had some leaves on them, but most were naked, their leaves on the ground, dried and dead. A snowless winter wasn’t thought of as beautiful, yet to you, the sight was mesmerizing. Seeing the earth die, just for it to come back to life and be all colourful in two months? It reminded you of your relationship with Misaki. There will be moments when work may consume you, keep you in its unbreakable chains, but she will come in, barge into your life with that sweet mischief painted all over her face, ready to steal you away from work and cause chaos. 

Even Gods won’t be able to destroy this beautiful connection. 

“Do you like the spot I picked out?” They asked, squealing happily. If Misaki was a dog, her tail would be wiggling like crazy by now. 

“Mhm! It’s deadly beautiful.” You said and took a step towards them, whispering into their ear, “Just like you, my dear.” 

Misaki’s face flushed as they punched your shoulder gently. 

“Staphh! I’m the one who’s supposed to be dorky and made you all cute and blushy today.” They huffed, trying to suppress the beaming smile that was forming on their face. 

“You’re the dorkiest and cutest.” You chuckled, patting their head. Seriously, they’re so much like a cat sometimes. A cute little kitty… Yeah you can see the vision. 

“Are we planning to stand here for god knows how long?”  

“Pfft! Of course not you little idiot! What do you think I stole your blanket for?” They poked your forehead with their index finger. “Be a sweetie and hold this for me.” They gave you their bag and took out a blanket, it was something you owned for ages so you didn’t really care if it got dirty, or if they stole it from you, which realistically was bound to happen anyway. Somehow your wardrobe became emptier ever since Misaki started to visit you, sometimes you just leave a tshirt in the middle of a room and chuckle when you notice it being gone after Misaki leaves your house. 

They’re so adorable. 

You were laying down on the blanket, hand in hand with Misaki. Looking at the night’s sky, subtly glancing at Misaki from time to time. You couldn't help yourself, she just looked so beautiful in the moonlight, her eyes reflecting the stars when she spoke about them. 

Jesus, you missed this so much, missed spending time with them, listening to them talking about their interests, or struggles, or just talking about everything and nothing at the same time. Watching their eyes sparkle with excitement when they pointed at a constellation, giggling sweetly when you tried to guess its name and was wrong. 

“Nooo, I told you a million times that it’s not the little bear! Wow, you’re such a great listener.” 

You scoffed, finding their playful frustration with you just adorable. “Awh, I’m so sorry sweetie, I’m always so focused on looking at you it slips my mind to listen too.” You moved closer to them, wanting to kiss their cheek, but before you could do that they sat up and pointed at the sky. 

“Ohmygodohmygod! Look! It’s the meteor shower!” 

You looked up at the sky, the view just breathtaking. You could see the sky light up with new lights, passing through it quickly and making a memorable effect. You felt like you were watching a performance, beautiful, engraved in your mind permanently. 

“Don’t just look at it! Make a wish.” Misaki shook you, tearing you away from your thoughts. You looked at them, their smile was all you needed to know what wish you wanted to make. 

I wish for this moment to last forever. 

I love you so much Misaki, I wish for more time to spend it all with you. 

I wish to spend every valentine’s day with you. 

For eternity. 

“I love you sweetheart.” You whispered to them, the words only meant to be heard by them. 

“I love you too, Y/n.” They replied, kissing you before you could say anything more. 

Let’s be together forever. 

My sweetest Y/n. 

Happy Valentine's day my lovely readers <3

[capricorn-writes1]

Himuro Tatsuya, Hanamiya Makoto, and Aomine Daiki Dating Headcannons

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Hello, there Anon. This is for the Dating Headcannons after you ask the Jealous Headcannons! I hope you like the final result and I'm sorry if there might be some OOC characters.

Gender: Neutral Warning: None except a few profanities

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Himuro Tatsuya - Yōsen Academy High School

Can be affectionate but not too much in public. He prefers holding your hand or just a simple kiss on the forehead but once you two are back. He would love to give you a cuddle and give you tiny pecks.

He also likes a human version of a backpack, you forget to bring something? He already has the stuff inside of the pocket of his pants. (For example, you forgot to bring your lotion? It's already in his pocket and ready to give it to you).

A gentleman, he does not believe in fifty-fifty. He would pay for the meals and the drinks if you two decide to go to the restaurant or to the cafe together.

Very caring, if you are sick or injured. He already prepared the bandages and the antiseptic to clean your wounds or a painkiller or any other medicine if you are sick that day.

Tons of woman are going to be jealous of you and would be glaring dagger back at you because you have a hot boyfriend who cares about you and they wishes that they have a boyfriend like him.

A good listener, he would listen to you every rent even if you are making fun of someone or even if he doesn't really understand the topic (but he tries to give the best answer).

(Imma say this-) Senpai in the street but hentai in the sheet. His innocent looks always fool you because he acts like he hasn't just said something that made you red and would put on an innocent smile when someone is speaking to him.

Rarely gets mad at you because he knows he's the type who's angry, he would say hurtful things so it's better to give some space for him when he is in a bad mood.

Always had his poker face on so it was going to be hard to decipher his emotion so you had to learn. When he's angry, he usually has a more stern tone but when he is normal, he would use a softer tone around you.

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On a sunny afternoon, the sun goes down after it is in the highest spot in the sky and burns everyone with its heat. In the hall of the Yōsen school, a person with (H/C) hair colour with (H/L) hair length, (E/C) eye colour, and (S/C) skin colour standing near the locker of the school.

(Y/N) glances around as your eyes look for the certain prince charming. The two of you had been busy with all of the homework and the projects that were given by the lecturer and (Y/N) along with the prince charming had missed each other so much that they decided to hang out after his basketball practice.

Sighing in boredom, (Y/N)'s eyes would keep shifting between the hallway of the school and then the screen on her/his/their phone. "(Y/N)-san?" You hear a familiar sound calling your name. Glancing up, the stunning gave an apologetic smile to you for making you wait. "Were you waiting for me? I'm really sorry for making you wait. Coach Masako told us to clean up after our practice," Himuto said. "It's okay, at least you were just a little bit late. Not bailing out on our date," (Y/N) smiles and closes her/his/their eyes.

His fingers gently intertwined between your fingers and gently pulling you closer to him. Your cheeks change from the (S/C) and turn into a red hue, his little gesture is adorable. "I'm not sure if you had your lunch or not but if you have. I know a great place that sells tasty sweets," the shooting guard of Yōsen said. "Oh, don't worry. I already ate. Where are you going to bring me?" You ask. "It's a surprise," he places his finger on your lips, teasing you as he put on his innocent smile.

‿︵‿︵＼ʕ •ᴥ•ʔ／︵‿︵‿Timeskip

Just like a gentleman, the captain of Yōsen player pushes the glass door open to let you get inside. The ambience of the pastry shop was comforting, the floor was made out of Mahogany wood planks and the wall had a picture of a Victorian old city along with an old phonograph placed next to the cupboard that was full of beautiful decorated mugs.

(Y/N) is amazed by the sight of the pastry, its warm and inviting display creating a cozy atmosphere. Entranced by the delicious array before them, Himuro gently takes (Y/N)'s hands. "You should see the sweets this pastry has. I think they have your favourite dessert," Himuro told you. (Y/N) nods in agreement, captivated by the words of the pasty has your favourite dessert, and follows Himuro to the cashier.

At the cashier, (Y/N) gazes at the dessert menu, their/her/his eyes lighting up with joy upon finding the name of the treat you desires. Sensing (Y/N)'s excitement, Himuro glances at the cashier. "Excuse me, ma'am. I would like a plate of (Favorite Dessert) and pretzels. How much would it be?" Himuro asks the old woman in front of him. "Alright, that will be ¥858.00," The cashier confirms the couple.

Before (Y/N) could retrieve her/his/their wallet, Himuro swiftly took out his phone and activated the camera to scan the barcode for payment. A surprised (Y/N) watches as Himuro pays for the desserts, a gesture that catches them/him/her off guard.

You had intended to split the cost, willing to share the expense and not burden your boyfriend. "Himuro-san, it's okay. I can pay for myself," you told him, feeling a sense of guilt for not wanting to burden him with the entire expense. Himuro gazes at (Y/N) with a gentle smile, shaking his head as he reassures, "It's okay, (Y/N)-san. Besides, I asked you to hang out with me, so it is only fair that I pay for our date,"

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Hanamiya Makoto

Aren't affectionate unless he wants to brag you in front of his teammate. He wants to rub in everyone's faces that he has a hot S/O and the rest are still single.

A tease and also a sadist, he likes to degrade you and makes fun of you but he won't hurt you that bad since you are his S/O. Also, won't apologize unless he saw you cry and he would begrudgingly apologize for hurting you.

If you don't like Dark jokes and creepy jokes. I'm sorry but he won't be good for you because the only thing that can make him laugh genuinely and think it's funny are dark and creepy jokes.

Be careful how you act, he is observant so if you lie. He already knew that you were lying to him and he would investigate the truth without you knowing it.

Do you want him to be less asshole to you? The answer is simple, bribe him with dark chocolate (Not always working, this only works if you want him to teach you when you two study). He loves them.

Actually, if you know how to banter around and aren't sensitive. You would most likely see him actually joking around with you, he can be pretty funny but he only shows it to certain people.

It's canon that he likes idiotic s/o because he could manipulate them BUT that's how are you not gonna survive dating him. YOU HAVE TO outsmart him because he would purposely put you in a situation you do not want to.

Surprisingly, he's not all that mean to his S/O. Since you are his soft spot, he would be willing to share his chocolate with you. He has never let ANYONE touch his chocolate.

He likes to tease you in public. He would whisper lots of dirty things in your ear until you were red from embarrassment and then smile innocently before shrugging when someone asked why are you red.

Ⰶ║ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ║Ⰶ

It was not usually for Hanamiya to initiate outings, especially considering his usual busy schedule with basketball activities. However, two days ago, to (Y/N)'s surprise, Hanamiya unexpectedly asked you to go on a date through text messages instead of face-to-face.

Hanamiya's invitation to go out at six o'clock in the afternoon, right after the club activity, struck (Y/N) as strange. Knowing Hanamiya's usual demeanour and that he wasn't one to make spontaneous requests, (Y/N) couldn't help but feel that there might be some underlying plan or surprise involved. This could be a good thing or a bad thing for (Y/N).

This unusual request raised suspicions for (Y/N), but being Hanamiya's boyfriend/girlfriend/romantic partner. (Y/N) chose to dismiss any concerns. As (Y/N) got ready in their bedroom, carefully selected what would you wear later once you two met. It was quite cold outside so it would be a bad idea to wear something short or you would freeze to death.

Having chosen the perfect attire, (Y/N) lays the long-sleeve turtleneck sweater and the pants down on the bed, and hangs the jacket neatly on a hook. With everything in place, (Y/N) heads to the bathroom to take a refreshing shower, she/they/he could not wait for the upcoming date. The sound of running water fills the air as (Y/N) readies themselves for the evening ahead.

‿︵‿︵＼ʕ •ᴥ•ʔ／︵‿︵‿Timeskip

Standing outside the cinema, (Y/N) anxiously waits, scanning the surroundings for the distinctive figure of the guy with bushy eyebrows. Glancing at the time on their phone, a twinge of concern arises, fearing that Hanamiya might bail on you.

Suddenly, a familiar male voice calls out (Y/N)'s name from a distance. Looking up, they/she/he spots Hanamiya strutting towards them, hands casually tucked into his pockets. A mixture of relief and curiosity washes over (Y/N) after knowing Hanamiya won't bail on the date. "Oh, you came...I thought you were not going to come," Hanamiya mutters to himself. "Let's go inside, I already booked the ticket and the seat online, we can just buy the popcorn," Hanamiya steps inside.

It would typically be a sweet gesture for a boyfriend to have already booked the cinema seats online, sparing both partners the hassle of waiting in line. However, considering Hanamiya's unpredictable nature, (Y/N) can't help but purse her/his/their lips together, silently cursing under her/his/their breath. "Hanamiya-san, what movie ticket did you buy for us?" you asked him.

The certain Kirisaki Daiichi captain just responds with a smirk across his face. "You'll find out soon," the male taunted you. With a subtle yet possessive gesture, he wraps his arm around your shoulder, pulling you closer to the scanning area which is next to the cashier. The red light from the computer reads the barcode on Hanamiya's phone and the sound of the paper getting printed out could be heard from the printing machine.

As the printing machine churns out the ticket, Hanamiya snatches it, and (Y/N) takes a glimpse, only for their/her/his eyes to widen in surprise. Having heard from friends that it's one of the scariest movies, a mix of shock and fear washes over (Y/N). "I hope you're not that scared, (Y/N)~" Hanamiya stuck his tongue out as you glances up at him, his playful tone adding a hint of mischief to the unexpected choice of movie.

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Aomine Daiki

A big tease and loved to annoy the hell out of you, he also loved to make you embarrassed either when he was using pick-up lines on you or when he was touching you either casually or sexually.

Arcade dates! Going to show off when you two play basketball games together and brags to you that he has a higher score than you and the reason why he is the 'ace'.

But if you don't like Arcade, he would love to just bring you around those Japanese festivals and try some street foods (and If you two get older. He would bring you to those extreme places like bungee jumping since he has enough money to travel).

No shame at all, if you can cook or bake delicious food. He would shamelessly steal it from you and if you try to take it back. He would raise his hands up so you could not reach them at all while smiling like a devil.

Have you ever wondered how it feels like to raise a cat as big as a human? Well, he's the perfect answer. He just acts like a damn cat because sometimes he doesn't want to be cuddled and then he would be all over you, demanding to be cuddled.

He acts as if he is a chill boyfriend but nope. he is protective of you, and he would glare at anyone who dares to touch you and if anyone is being creepy? THEY ARE GOING TO END UP LIKE HAIZAKI GOT PUNCHED BUT WORSE.

Caring but doesn't know how to show it so he acts like a damn Tsundere. For instance, if you are sick from overworking. He would buy those horrible ramen from the convenience store and call you an idiot for getting sick.

Kind of a terrible boyfriend (for the first time) because he would say insensitive things. Especially if you two fight, not only he is moody but he would say hurtful stuff, give you the silent treatment, and be very easily angered.

But also can be a cute boyfriend, he will always be proud of you. Even if it was a small achievement, he would even brag about it to his teammate (and Wakamatsu gonna scream 'SHUT UP!')

Ⰶ║ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ║Ⰶ

Aomine stands in front of another basketball player, blocking the rival team from getting close to Touou's basketball ring. In a swift move, Aomine executes as his hands slap the ball against the ball from the player's hand before sprinting towards the opposing team's basketball hoop.

As the Ace of the Touou basketball team floats in the air, he launches the ball into the air, and the satisfying swish resonates through the court as it smoothly glides through the hoop. The blaring sounds of the alarm signal the victory for Touou School.

Amidst the cheers and applause from the spectators celebrating Touou's victory, the ace player's attention remains fixated on a particular individual with (H/C) hair and (E/C) eyes. Aomine's gaze scans the crowd, hoping to catch (Y/N)'s reaction to his impressive play.

As his eyes lock onto (Y/N)'s form, a genuine sense of happiness lights up Aomine's expression. A triumphant smirk graces his face, knowing that he has left (Y/N) in awe of his skills on the court, and their admiration is the most rewarding response he could hope for as (Y/N)'s eyes gleamed in the light, shouting his name. "AOMINE!!! YOU DID IT!!!" she clapped her hands and cupped her mouth with the hands facing outwards

‿︵‿︵＼ʕ •ᴥ•ʔ／︵‿︵‿Timeskip

After the intense game, (Y/N) hurriedly makes their/her/his way down from the bench and waits eagerly in the hallway. As the door swings open, revealing Aomine in his uniform, having discarded the sweaty jersey, (Y/N)'s face lights up. Without hesitation, (Y/N) joyfully leaps into Aomine's arms, exclaiming, "I'm proud of you!!"

Aomine, caught off guard by the sudden embrace, can't help but return the sentiment with his arms wrapped around your waist before you can hit the floor and hold you in the air. "Woah there tiger, don't just go jumping on me," He held (Y/N) closer, his smirk deepened as he held you closer.

Aomine's teasing prompts a faint blush on (Y/N)'s cheeks, though they/she/he quickly rolls their/her/his eyes in response. With a touch of sass, (Y/N) retorts, "You wish," before smoothly getting down from his arms. Eager to shift the focus to celebrating the victory, (Y/N) enthusiastically suggests, "Let's go out somewhere to celebrate your victory." "Ehh, I don't really care about this stuff. Maybe we can go maji burger?"Aomine suggests, expressing his craving for a burger.

(Y/N) looks at him with a hint of unamusement. "Really? You want fast food?" you remark, raising an eyebrow. Aomine sighs, contemplating for a moment, before a smirk graces his face. "Alright, I know a place where we can eat some Okonomiyaki. How about that?" mentioning there's an okonomiyaki place near the gymnasium and it's quite popular.

"Sure, we can eat okonomiyaki together," you agree, a smile playing on your lips as Aomine takes one of your hands. Together, the two of you walk away, hand in hand, ready to go to celebrate his victory. Despite it was not a fancy place, it would still leave a memory of the two of you having a simple date.

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[lovelypastelsweets]

♡{Onychinus' Kitten:}♡ [Part #6]

Sylus Qin X female!Cat-Hybrid!Reader

{Notes:}

This is my first fan-fiction, if you have any tip/suggestions please let me know!In this story, the 'reader' is NOT the MC, and is female(I don't have an issue with males reading, but I don't know anything about guys, and I want to be authentic. If you'd like a male-reader fan-fic please collaborate with me to deepen my understanding of the male-mind)

{Trigger-warnings:}

This story will contain mentions human-trafficking(not in-detail; Technically hybrid-trafficking), the experimentation of humans-subjects, mentions past-trauma. ALSO; The reader is described as having all limbs, having the ability to use all senses, and as having hair. I'm sorry if this is an issue, I'm trying to be as universal as possible, but if you'd like a specialized part, please message me.

After dinner, the man, who you came to know as "Sylus", ordered his henchmen to escort you back to your room. He referred to them as "Luke" and "Kiren", but he didn't explain which of them was Luke, and which one was Kiren.

You now sat idly waiting for the two to arrive, with the bare, jet-black oakwood table before you. The crimson-red placement-mat gently cradling your hands as you softly rested them upon the table.

Sylus had left soon after giving his orders, so now it is just you and your new-found crow-companion.

Time seemed to stretch on forever as you waited. You were part cat, of course you get bored easily. It definitely didn't have anything to do with having a lack of a maturity level.

Little did you know, this wait was too, a test; To see what you'd do if you were left alone.

As boredom crept in, you leaned forwards onto the table, reaching out to pet the crow that sat perched on the table.

Y/N: "Hey, little.. Uh..? Me-? Meo-? Me-thh?.. Ah, little guy. I-ah, ha.. I can't remember your name.. He, he.."

You put you fingers through the the crow's feathers; It felt as odd as it looked. The feathers had a metallic texture, it was like dragging your hand across the handles of lined-up, thin silverware. Each feather had a soft texture and had some give, yet they were sold and firm, like a folding-fan.

As you petted the crow, it made a slight machnial "Iiia" noise.

Y/N: "Aw, do yo- Ah!"

Suddenly, you could hear footsteps as you went to speak. There seems to be two people walking towards the dinning room.You jolted into a proper sitting-position, retracting your hands to sit in your lap; The reaction rote.

The door opens to reveal the two hooded people who escorted you earlier.

"Wow, you're still alive? The boss really does like you."

One of them said.

"Surviving an entire meal with the boss definitely speaks volumes."

Said the other one.

"It seems we've been tasked with escorting you, again. So, let's go."

As they spoke, they walked to you, then gestured with their heads to leave. If you weren't imagining it, One of them seemed more flamboyant than the other. Looking closer, you realize that on their hoods, they have differing numbers; "06" and "07".

As you walked down the same hallway you walk earlier, gained the courage to ask for the subordinates' names.

Y/N: "Uh, h-hey? Is it alright if I.. Ask for your names?"

"And, what would you do with that information?"

"Just telling you wouldn't be any fun."

"Yeah."

"Why don't you take a guess?"

They turned towards you, and leaned in.

These two, they seem to be the very definition of "Mischief".

Y/N: "Uh.. Um, You're Kiren and.. You're Luke?"

You pointed at each of them, guessing a random answer.

"Wrong answer! Try again!"

"You only have one chance left!"

They spoke as if you were a contestant on a game-show.

"Um, okay. Then.. You are Luke and you are Kiren."

You said, reversing who you pointed at.

"Nope! That's incorrect!"

They said in unison, laughing as the began walking again.

You let you a small "Wha-!?", before walking with a quickened pace to catch up with them.

As you continue to walk, you caught sight of a window that you were nearing; Going outside was such a scarce thing, only done for training purposes.

Luke and Kiren immediately lifted their guards when noticing your reaction when seeing the window; A glint in your eyes and your fluffy ears gave a twitch. But, after a moment, your expression changed; Eyes drifting downwards and looking dejected. After all, 'why would they let you go outside?'. The twins could understand. And, against their better judgment-

"Do you want to go over there?.. To the window?"

"We can let you."

They spoke with such fragility. They sounded nostalgic. They sounded so gentle. It was like they had just out a band-aid on a old, ugly scar, that was left as a gaping wound since it was made- Not just to cover it, but to treat it with the care it never received. Your heart, it felt tight.

It was odd, but you wanted to take this chance. It may not come again.

Y/N: "O..Okay."

They kept walking, changing the directory to stand in front of the window.

You stood in front of it, the twins stood silently behind you as you slowly came closer.

The window was clean; Shiny and reflective.

You took a glance backwards at the twins, the thought of someone standing behind you while your guard is down makes you uneasy, but they keep at a distance, which at that, you decide to move look back at the glass before you, moving even closer.

Looking at your reflection, you looked odd, but you liked it. You looked so different, you were hardly recognizable. You didn't mind it though, it.. It felt right.

You came even closer to the glass, to see the world beyond it.

Leaning in gently, you hesitantly put your hands on the glass- It's cold. You jerk your hands back at the unexpected chill. After a second, you return your hands on the glass, intakiing the coldness with curiosity.

The dark cityscape sits below. It's a marvelous sight. Your lips curved into a smile, driven by your awe. You breath comes out in little huffs, wonder spreads through your thight-feeling heart and into your nerves. Your eyes widened, sparkles of excitement igniting within them.

Under their masks, the twins wore matching -as always- soft smiles.

"You seem to be enjoying this, but..We need to get going."

Y/N: "Ah.. Oh, okay.."

The sudden statement, brought you out of your awed-state.

Feeling sort of disappointed, you solemnly walked back to your room.

Before you reached the door, the twins came in front of you; One of them stood on the side of the door where the hinges are, holding the doorknob, the other faced you while gesturing the door as if it were a win-able prize.

"Are you ready?"

They gleefully said in unison.

Y/N: "Uh? Yeah..?"

You said, your voice unsure and confused.

"TA-DA!"

The two said with a flourish.

Your breath catches your throat- Before you, on the floor of an originally bare, dark room, is a large verity of bags and boxes filled with girls' clothing, plushies, and other items.

You're frozen in shock. "Did-did they.. Do this?" You thought.

Y/N: "Are.. Are these things.. For me?"

It was self-absorbed to assume, but you had to ask.

"Of course!"

"Who else would all this belong to?"

They replied. The one with "06" on his hood picked up a pink, plush bunny toy.

"As funny as it would be, the boss probably would kill us if we gave him this!".

He said while laughing.

The other twin walk to the gift-filled area and lifted a dress.

"If the boss wears 'this', death would be worth it!"

They both laughed as they pretend to wipe tears from their masks.

Their laughter was infectious, you began to giggle, too.

Without you noticing, they both stopped to witness you smile- It wasn't the forced one you gave before, it was real. It was beautiful. It was pure. It was something rare for the twins to experience, not just because it was from you, but because of the genuine, honest, and raw enjoyment in your smile.

Y/N: "Thank you. This- This is- .. A lot.. And, so.. So nice.. Thank you, both."

Through your slightly embarrassed and awkward laughter, your sincerity seeped through.

Nobody's ever done something like this for you. Nobody's ever went to such lengths for you before. Your chest felt so tight, it, and your stomach hurt. But you couldn't help but to enjoy this feeling.

Would this feeling last, though?

Were they just tricking you into lowering your guard?

["What does the word "Home" really mean?", it's a thought that always plagued you.. Would you ever learn the answer? Could you learn the answer here?]

[d00medya0i]

Kiss the Goldfishie (FloRiddle)

Chapter 3

Floyd, left alone in the library is contemplating how Riddle feels about him. He fears it is hatred.

If you’re after previous chapters, here’s the master post with all of them!

A/N

AHH uni and various other things have been ruining my life. So sorry for the delay in posting the next chapter. I hope you all enjoy! I’ve also made two tags for ppl to follow, so they can keep track of whenever I update the fic! The tags are #kiss the goldfishie abs #d00med yaoi fics

Anyway, let’s get into it. 🫡

Floyd lay sprawled across the library desk in a despondent stupor. Just as suddenly as he’d been overwhelmed by joy so buoyant he felt he was floating with Riddle present, he now felt a cloying, suffocating heaviness, as if all the ocean’s water were pressing down upon him. He could have just left, but his heart wasn’t really into getting up and moving just yet.

Riddle’s furious face flashed across his eyes. As angry as he had been, Floyd still couldn’t help but find his red flushed face strangely adorable.

He also recalled the way Riddle had glanced up at him through his long dark lashes, his gorgeous silver eyes blinking up at him, and his red lips parting gently. Floyd kept replaying the way Riddle had stammered protests at him, utterly flustered by Floyd’s physical contact. Then, there has been the moment when he had leaned against Floyd, and his eyes expression had softened ever so slightly, before he barked at Floyd to get off of him.

Floyd couldn’t believe how smitten he was with Riddle. Just thinking of him filled his heart with a strange giddy warmth that brought a smile to his face.

But he hates me.

“At least Jade knows when to hold his tongue and can conduct himself with proper decorum. I would choose to talk to him any day over you.”

Floyd sighed, the smile melting off his face in an instant, as he pressed his face against the desk, deflating like a popped balloon.

“Just look my way, for once,” Floyd mumbled, his heart twisting painfully in his chest, “Not at Jade, not at anyone else. Just … at me … only at me. I’m always looking only at you.”

Floyd traced the rose embossed into the leather of Riddle’s book bag, releasing a long, weary sigh. He dragged Riddle’s belongings closer towards him.

Who would want to talk with you? You who just came to so obviously sniff out my weaknesses and make fun of me. I won’t allow it, and I won’t forgive it.

“Right … '' Floyd mumbled, closing his eyes, “I should just give up … Goldfishie clearly … “

Hates me.

Floyd grimaced, his heart shriveling up in his chest until nothing was left. He wanted nothing more than to curl up in a ball in Octavinelle, or go for a long swim in the Coral Sea. He felt like disappearing for months. He felt like never coming up on land again.

“Goldfishie doesn’t wanna see me right now,” Floyd told Riddle’s book bag, frowning moodily.

“Doesn’t wanna see me, so might as well have some fun with his shit,” Floyd giggled.

He carefully opened Riddle’s book bag and pulled out his meticulous notes, sifting through them, whistling merrily, attempting to distract himself from the cloying, heavy gloom that had settled on his chest. Floyd removed his magic pen from his blazer’s breast pocket and began doodling aimlessly on Riddle’s notes.

He drew a moray and a goldfish happily swimming alongside each other with wonky little hearts floating around them. He flipped to a new page and started scribbling a small drawing of Riddle, complete with his heart hair loopies and little crown. He drew him with a small smile, remembering the first time he saw Riddle smile.

It had been during lunch in the dining hall, back when Floyd was a first year at Night Raven College. Floyd had been looking around aimlessly, wallowing in his own boredom, when he caught sight of the always prim and proper Housewarden of Heartslabyul, walking with his Vice Housewarden, Trey. When Riddle turned and smiled at something Trey had said, Floyd felt as if an arrow had been shot straight through his heart.

Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.

“Jade, I think I’m in love,” Floyd whispered to his twin conspiratorially, resting his head dreamily on his hand.

Jade followed Floyd’s gaze to Riddle.

“Oh dearie me. Floyd, no. Absolutely not,” Jade said, shaking his head.

“Floyd, yes. Absolutely yes,” Floyd shot back, giggling maniacally. He grabbed his twin by the shoulders and started shaking him back and forth. “Isn’t he just totes adorbs? Like a lil red Goldfish. I just wanna give him a squeeze.” Floyd wrapped his arms around himself, grinning and blushing.

“Respectfully, Floyd, that boy’s got flags as red as his hair. And don’t even get me started on his mother issues,” Azul chipped in, seating himself next to Floyd.

“You and Jade are so boorinngg,” Floyd whined, “I’m gonna go talk to him.”

“NO,” they both burst out at once.

“Hey look, it’s a lil Goldfishiieee,” Floyd called out,

jumping over the table, he ran over to Riddle and wrapped his arms around him.

The smaller boy let out a squawk.

“Unhand me at once, you oaf! Or it’s off with your head!” Riddle screeched, flailing about in Floyd’s arms.

Floyd giggled cheerfully, delighting in his own mischief. He gave Riddle one more squeeze, then released him. Riddle staggered into Trey grabbing onto his arm. His lovely silver eyes were wide and nervous. He looked Floyd up and down, his cheeks flushing a delightful shade of red, as he seemed to struggle internally between embarrassment and anger.

He didn’t struggle for long.

“Off With Your Head” he yelled.

One of his signature collars clamped around Floyd’s neck. The metal dug harshly into Floyd’s throat, yet he was so thrilled by the novelty of it all that he hardly cared.

Floyd cackled delightedly.

“Woah, Goldfishie, your signature magic’s the real deal. I can’t use magic at all. You a genius or somethin?”

Floyd could have used his signature spell to attempt to deflect it, but this was far more fun. He pulled out his magic pen and waved it around, laughing.

Riddle scowled at him.

“That’s the point,” Riddle replied, “If you apologise and promise to never do that again, I’ll remove it.”

Floyd considered this for a moment, gripping his chin in mock thought.

“Nah, I think I’m good,” Floyd replied.

Riddle blinked rapidly and his lips parted slightly.

“What?”

“You heard me. I’m good. Remove it when ya feel like it,” Floyd said, with a shrug.

“What if I never feel like it?”

“Then, I’ll just always be on ya mind then,” Floyd replied with a wink, grinning crookedly.

Riddle made a disgusted face, his elegant nose crinkling into an adorable sneer.

“You’re ridiculous,” Riddle said.

“Sure am,” Floyd replied, smiling brightly.

Riddle turned on his heel, glaring at Floyd over his shoulder.

“Let’s go, Trey. We’re running behind schedule,” Riddle tugged on Trey’s sleeve and Floyd felt a violent surge of jealousy. It roiled in his stomach, noxious, poisonous, oily.

The smile slipped off Floyd’s face in an instant, and he skulked back to Azul and Jade, who both had their hands clapped over their mouths, stifling their laughter.

“That was amazing. I could charge a fortune for tickets to a good show like that.” Azul wheezed.

“Indeed, you’re quite right, Azul. I’ve never seen anyone shot down that fast before. It was quite a sight to behold,” Jade replied.

“Shut it, you two,” Floyd grumbled.

“I got all that on tape,” Cater piped up, suddenly leaning over Jade and Azul to show them.

The three of them sniggered together.

“Aren’t you gonna try and force me to delete this? It’s tootally #cringe,” Cater teased.

Floyd rolled his eyes.

“Nah, keep it. I’ll get you back for it one day,” Floyd replied, sniggering ominously and cracking his knuckles.

“Alriiight, and with that Cay Cay’s gonna slay slay away from here.” Cater darted away, racing after Riddle and Trey.

Floyd sighed wearily, smiling fondly at that first encounter. Strangely, his feelings hadn’t faded, as he had half-expected them to. If anything, they’d gotten stronger.

Floyd gazed down at the small drawing he’d made of him and Riddle holding hands, with cute smiling faces.

“I wish we could be friends, at least,” Floyd murmured, gazing at his drawing despondently.

Floyd gathered up Riddle’s things into his arms with a sigh. He laboured to his feet and meandered through dim, elegant corridors. His feet dragged, weighted by the melancholy pooling in his stomach and gnawing at his heart. In this manner, he slowly retreating back to Octavinelle, utterly defeated. His finger returned to absentmindedly tracing the rose embossed into the leather of Riddle’s book bag. He thought of the occasional rare smile Riddle would let slip, and his cheeks warmed slightly. Yet, his heart drifted deeper into darkness compressed by layers of inky black water , thinking of how Riddle surely hated him.

I wish I could make him smile like that one day.

A special smile, just for me.

~

~

~

~

A/N

Tysm for waiting for this chapter!! Chapter 4 is up now!

Chapter 4

[meh-kris]

do you have any laurwen or pickles future au/headcannons? like out of college, jobs, families, etc

sorry this took so long to answer T_T I've been a bit sad recently BUT here I am in a fit of boredom mwehehhe

maybe I'll continue the pickles future hc stuff in another post since I'm in a Laurwen mood XD

- Laurie and Yuwen started dating during high school when Yuwen became a bit more mature and Laurie is more confident. Yuwen still plays sports and kinda sucks at studies (he takes notes from Rochelle Lmaoo) and Laurie is an average student (70% results.. the usual AKA me) and she's currently trying out arts! (Of various types such as theatrics, sometimes painting, sometimes clay making?)

-they were awkward affffff when they started, but they slowly warmed up to each other

- Yuwen is a great cook (thank you Yuwen's mom!!) and makes Laurie treats sometimes

- Laurie visits the practice sessions once a week to cheer Yuwen on (she has to take care of her own assignments and extra curriculars ofc)

- too shy to hold hands in public but also hold the doors for each other and jokingly acts all fancy likeee

- Yuwen usually goofs off around her. hes still getting used to her sassy side especially when she makes a remark back and he's like 0_0 "what the-"

- for dates, they individually decide who goes where depending on the day.. perhaps alternatively. Like today is Yuwen's turn to choose and they go to the skating rink and tomorrow Laurie would like to go for ice cream and stuff like that (Laurie came up with this idea to help him feel in charge XD)

- whenever one of them experiences anxiety, the other tries to help with a breathing exercise (Coach Dan used to help Laurie with that and now she's using it to help Yuwen who in turn reminds her when she faces it too)

- they play D&D with the Pickles team and Yuwen makes cheesy lines about Laurie's character while she just giggles at how stupid they are (the others are like "bro stopp 😭😭" but they have fun)

- plants flowers together at times :33

- Laurie made a mini Truwen cutout in her room to keep as a reminder of him, whereas Yuwen keeps a clay blob resembling Laurie that she made herself

- they both listen to Alex G and ABBA. I said what I said

- speaking of ABBA, their songs are Name of the Game [Laurie POV] and Super Trouper [Yuwen's POV] !!!!

- Laurie doodles mini Yuwens around her notebook and one day he was just sneaking around like a lil rat, and when he found the drawings, Truwen was cartwheeling and jumping around his heart lmao

- Yuwen opens up to her about his real fragile self after he sees how much Laurie is actually willing to listen to him, and not just the idea of him (urmm 707 reference?!?)

- Laurie is the sweetest person ever and doesn't question Yuwen's tactics. she just supportive like dat (speaks up when needed tho)

- Laurie invites Yuwen to church sometimes. Of course it took a while for him to get used to it, but he found it pretty comforting to be in.

- YUWEN SENDS CAT VIDEOS TO LAURIE AND SAYS "can this be us PLSSSSSS"

- they go to art museums and while Yuwen is like "ughhh ts so boringggg" he secretly finds the artwork absolutely breathtaking

- originally they were supposed to be a casual™ couple, but they realised that the other was actually more than "cool savvy guy"/"nervous shy girl"

I'd love to add more some day! Thank you for the ask ^^

[vasyandii]

I love how just stupidly gorgeous AM’s bothers are ((I LOVE YOU RAM and SAM))

May I ask a few questions?

Do they have any hobbies?

Are they’re any spare parts if something breaks?

What’s their favorite color?

Would they look the same if they born human?

What’s their mindset like? Mentality ya know

:3 hope this isn’t too much

Howdy Anon, I'm glad you like their designs they're such bastards I love them. Thank you for the ask! :) 💞

Do RAM and CAM have hobbies?

Think of them as the two evil (I say evil but when has any corporate man been good?) CEOs of a corporation, but their corporation is the colony.

After the initial transfer of their consciousness along with repairing their bodies from literally exploding, they kind of.. lost the drive to want to torture humans because technically, they ARE humans now (Read more here). They luckily didn't have to learn to get used to senses since those bodies have been in use before.

To combat boredom, they released the 700 other bodies in cryogenic vats after some time. Why not? They basically run the place now, the colony is similar to earth, with some limitations. So running the Lunar colony is kind of like their shared hobby. It's busy work and it keeps them sane.

RAM has a lot more hobbies than CAM, always proactive, too many to list. CAM is work oriented to the point he NEEDS to get a hobby, but he enjoys cooking and drawing.

Are there any spare parts if anything breaks?

Yes and no, it honestly depends on each brother. RAM's legs can be easily interchanged and fixed because CAM was the one who designed them and humans do have Prosthetics similar to such. There are less components to RAM's body to worry about other than his ribs and ears.

CAM's jaw, while removable for cleaning, will be a PAIN IN THE ASS to replicate:

1. RAM was the one who designed the jaw.

2. It's made to specifically fit CAM's face, there's a lot of components that can fall out if neglected.

This goes the same with his arms (also removable but it hurts a bit more, plus it doesn't need to be cleaned so it stays in place.) specifically the hands since there's so many parts to account for, like each digit on his fingers, if they're bending correctly, etc.

What's their favorite colour?

"Black. "

"Neon anything."

Would they look the same if they were born human?

Who's to say? People don't usually know what they'll look like before they're born. If they were born human, that would imply that they would have parents, and then those parents have parents too! We can't really know for sure what they'd look like if they were born biologically human since both RAM and CAM chose their bodies, y'know? It's all a gamble. But let's hope that they do, because they're handsome :).

What's their mindset like?

RAM is extremely hedonistic. He's far more laid back than AM and CAM but also a lot more impulsive. He buys what can be bought because money means nothing to him, he sleeps around, he works out, he drinks, he smokes, he eats, he is ROWDY! His earthly experience is all about just having fun and occasionally checking in to work.

CAM has to keep his younger brother in line, they have a colony to run. CAM's never had so much fun just existing, he'd be devastated if it failed. He is so so stressed and tired all the damn time because of it;

"Samson, Yarek ran the car off into a ravine",

"Samson, my neighbors hate me" ,

"What? No we don't hate them, Samson!"

"Samson, the oxygen barrier is broken on the northern side of the moon."

"oop, nevermind it's actually on the southern side, sorry Samson."

"SHENGLI CAN YOU DO MY PAPERWORK I'M GONNA GO ON A DRIVE"

"SHENGLI, NOW DONT BE MAD, BUT I MAY HAVE DRIVEN THE CAR INTO THE POOL AND NEED YOU TO FISH IT OUT. NO I DON'T TRUST THOSE FLESH BAGS TO DO IT!"

"Samson can we grow corn?"

"Samson we don't want corn anymore."

He smokes often.

If you made it this far, thank you for reading! I'd be happy to provide clarifications if needed, feel free to ask!

[multifanhoe99]

Kinktober Day 3- Lingerie

This is gonna be self-indulgent as hell and I am not sorry but also I hope you enjoy it!

Pairing: non-idol!JB x afab!Reader

Warnings: Pet names (Daddy, Princess, Baby), mentions of panty stealing, mentions of masturbation, oral (fem. receiving), PIV intercourse, creampie (fem. receiving), no condom (be safe out there y'all), spanking, hair pulling

=Please let me know if I missed any.=

PROMPT LIST

MASTERLIST

~18+ MDNI ~

It was not often that you wanted to buy fancy things. Even less often the fancy stuff you happen to buy turns out to be something sexy to wear for your husband. This time you couldn't help it. One day in your boredom you decided to do some online shopping and found a gorgeous lacey emerald green set that you knew would look amazing against your skin tone. Even better it was on sale! One night's bored purchase is another night's fun. Honestly, you had almost completely forgotten you bought it until it came in the mail today. It was a pleasant surprise, a gift from your past self and you couldn't help but be thrilled. Just then you got another idea. You were going to make an event of it. You had the day off to relax anyway why not make it worthwhile. With that determination in mind, you went to take a shower to get ready for what you had planned. After your shower, you applied some light makeup and fixed your hair into neat french braids that finished off as low pigtails. He liked your hair like that for very obvious reasons. Then you put on the new lingerie set you bought. On top of it, you put on the dress you know he loves seeing you in the most. It's a long red sundress with flowers on it and a slit that goes up the middle rather than down the side. Once you were all dolled up and ready you decided to head to the kitchen to fix up his favorite meal and to set the table like they would in a restaurant.

When you were finally done you sent a quick text to your husband, -I have a surprise for you when you get home! I hope you like it I love you. See you soon!- You knew he should be on his way home by now and the notification would come up on the dash screen of his car. A few minutes later you get his reply, - I can't wait! I am almost home. I love you too!- It was exciting waiting in anticipation for him to come home. Not even five minutes later while you were putting the finishing touches on the meal you heard the front door open and close. You went out to greet him, "Hello my love how was work?"

"Ah, you know same old-," he pauses when he finally looks up from taking off his shoes to switch to his house slippers, "Wow, what's the special occasion that my beautiful wife feels the need to make my knees weak."

"There is no special occasion I just felt like pampering my handsome husband because he's been working extra hard lately," you replied moving closer to give him a kiss. He instantly returned the kiss and placed his hands on your hips. Before the kiss could get any more heated you pulled away, "Dinner is ready in the kitchen. I made your favorite."

"Have I ever told you that I love you," he asks following you into the kitchen/dining room.

"Only every single day Jae," you respond with a giggle at his affection. No matter how long you two have been together Im Jaebum gives you butterflies like it's still the very first date. Upon seeing the spread you had laid out on the table he came up to hug you from behind and whispered in your ear, "So you did all of this just because I have been working extra hard? I feel like you are planning something, Princess."

"What I can't just want to do something nice for you," you ask trying not to give your true intentions away.

"Okay, I will believe you for now. Let's eat then," he says giving you one more kiss on the head before going to sit down. You both enjoy your meal together and he helps you clean up. When everything was cleaned and put away you went up to JB and wrapped your arms around his neck. He placed his hands back on your hips. You lean closer to whisper in his ear again, "There is more to your surprise. Join me in the bedroom will you?"

"See I knew you were up to something," he says with a smile but follows you to the bedroom anyway. You sit him down on the edge of the bed and tell him to close his eyes. Once you are sure he isn't peeking you remove the dress you were wearing and throw it into the hamper in the corner of the room. You let him know that he can open his eyes and when he does you don't fail to notice the way his eyes darken when they look at you. His expression shifts from one of pure admiration to something darker and full of lust. You can hear it in the timber of his voice when he says, "Come here princess let daddy get a closer look at you."

You can't help but do what he asks this was your plan after all and you couldn't be more glad that it worked. As you step closer he places his hands on your thighs. It is gentle at first and then he moves up higher. Wrapping his arms around your thighs and pulling you closer so he can see as he moves his hands up to your ass and giving it a firm squeeze. Then he lands a sharp spank on your left cheek and soothes it by rubbing his hand softly over the spot. "Look at you, baby. You look so good for me all wrapped in lace like this. I will try not to ruin it while I am busy fucking you into oblivion," he growls from his position below you. From that same position, he lifts you up with no issues and tosses you gently onto the bed so that you're lying on your back.

He takes his sweet time kissing and nipping at your inner thighs. He makes his way so slowly to the place you need him most. You can feel how wet you are just from this and he hasn't even properly started yet. You know that he is doing this on purpose and are sure this was his own plan ever since he became suspicious of you planning something. He was moving so slowly and so gently and you knew that he could see how much it affected you from the ever-growing wet patch on your new panties. "Da-daddy please don't tease me anymore I c-can't take it. I need you please," you beg gasping when he nips just a little bit harder at your most sensitive parts.

"That's it, baby beg for me. Beg for me to use this pretty little pussy however I want," he replies finally giving you some type of relief by rubbing a thumb up and down your covered folds. He continued that for a little while longer and then gave in at the sound of your desperate moans. He pulled the panties down your legs and once they were fully off he shoved them into the pocket of his slacks. You already struggled to think and he was only getting started. It only got worse when he finally gave your pussy the attention you wanted him to. He licked a long stripe up your glistening folds humming in satisfaction at your taste.

"What do you think princess should I take my time eating you out until you cum again and again on my face or would you just like me to get you ready enough to take my cock," he asks. It was getting hard to form words. The combination of his tongue and his two fingers that joined shortly after his question was blurring your mind with pleasure. He stops all movement to say, "Come on baby use your words. Already so fucked dumb and I have barely even done anything yet. What do you want you can say it."

"I w- I want to-to-to- wanna get ready for daddy's cock," you say barely able to string the sentence together. Jaebum had a way of doing that to you and you loved it. You loved being able to give yourself over to the pleasure he brought you and he loved it too. Hearing your answer JB dove in like a man starved. After so many years he knew your body like nobody else and he knew exactly what to do to bring you over the edge. His mouth licking your sensitive clit and his middle and ring fingers plunging deep into you. Every time you'd touch yourself when he wasn't around you could never get your fingers to go as deep as his. He brought you ecstasy like nothing else. You could feel yourself getting closer.

"Daddy I am so close please can I cum I really wanna cum on your face please please, please," you begged almost crying.

"Cum baby cum all over my face and then again one more time on my cock after," he said temporarily removing his mouth from your clit and then going right back. When he replaces his mouth you feel yourself let go coming all over his face and fingers. It feels so good but you know you aren't done yet. He wastes no time moving away to remove his own clothes and then flipping you over. He pulls your hips up and once he has the right position he slides right in. He gives you enough time to adjust to him and as soon as he's sure you're okay he sets a fast pace. At first, his hands are on your hips giving your ass harsh slaps every so often that make you yelp and moan at the painful pleasure. Then his hands move to your hair each hand taking one of the pigtails and then pulling back making your back arch and he is able to hit a new deeper angle. He can feel you tightening around him and he knows you're close again which is good because so is he. He leans down into your ear, "That's it, baby just a little more, and then let's cum together yeah?"

He keeps up this pace and it is only a matter of time before you're falling off the edge cumming all over his cock and he follows seconds after. Cum spurting out in thick ropes into you. It takes a moment for you both to calm down but when you finally do he goes to the bathroom to get a warm rag to clean you up. "That was amazing and you should online shop more often if this is what it leads to," he jokes.

"Yeah I will get right on that," you respond with a laugh. He helps you clean up, take your make-up off, and let your hair down. You both fall asleep in each other's arms after exchanging a sincere 'I love you' and you couldn't be happier to end your day with him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: HOLY COW!!! I am so sorry for being so late on this one but like I said it was really self-indulgent and I definitely got super carried away. Luckily day 3 is done and day 4 will be out later today so as a bonus for this one being late you technically get two in one day! HOORAY!

[irrealisms]

tall trees bend and lean liner notes

fic here if you haven't read it!

title is from Kingdom Come by the Civil Wars. for a long time this was the primary canonical di!will song to me... i think this is no longer true but it was true for a long time. post-wardens i never really felt safe, i was always running. the contrast also of where you will still be all alone with i'll be waiting here for you... yeah

i recommended this as a good starting point but i'm realizing now it might not be.....it kind of assumes knowledge of some Major Events (e.g. seventeen wardens)......sorry.......if you have passing familiarity w divorcesteal/my character it should be good though and u can always ask me stuff ^_^

i spent. SO much of divorcesteal sick and/or injured. and-- i do not consider myself physically disabled IRL but there is a sense in which di!will is? like IRL the severity of it is temporary but .... so's the minecraft server, right, it ended while i was injured. and even before then, i do in fact have scoliosis such that my computer time is nonzero limited by it and pushing myself too hard will hurt my back, i've got motor skills issues that don't affect me much day to day but make me worse at video games than average... so much of my arc was balancing "irl physical pain that pushing myself Worsened" with "i have things i want to do that bring me joy and that are important and have deadlines", or struggling w "i need to do things to Make Up for the things i'm bad at". which is. a disability mood. and ofc i am psychiatrically disabled both IC and OOC... i think one of the reasons blue's jab abt me dropping out of school hit so much is bc. like. i failed out for disability reasons. like it was also hitting on the boredom thing which was absolutely smth i was struggling w at the time dmgw! but idk, i didn't actually realize how much this fic was Disability Themes until it was written and then it was like Oh this is about disability.

i've mentioned this before but. when i talk about the warden nightmares in the fic. those were real. i had nightmares in real life about this. and then chips betrayed and i instead had a nightmare abt that LOL... this wasn't constant or anything but probably like once a month i would have a divorcesteal nightmare. minecraft roleplay does sick shit to the human mind

the fact that i wrote "The thing she can’t imagine is prefacing a confession with please don’t be mad, please don’t hurt me, please don’t abandon me. She can imagine what she would say instead: I understand if you’re mad, if you want to hurt me, if you want to leave me. I’m sorry I keep getting you hurt. I’m sorry for being worse than useless. [...] She remembers the blunt force impact of Chips’s hammer going through her skull and tries to let it comfort her. The memory feels right, feels just." like over a month before chips betrayed me is crazy.... i was so correct about how i would react tbh. someone betrays me and im like Yeah that's fair i get it. you can kill me and leave me if you want. Sorry

there are some crazy moments in here actually that are related to me writing it at the time..... i comment that chips would Never kill me, or that evi4 and betty are teammates in every way that matters, and . ummmmmmmmm . that aged!

smth this fic revealed is that i DID consider betraying for pathogen a couple times and most of why i didnt was just like, i just didnt know them that well..... tbh there was a stretch of time where literally any team could have basically stolen me if they had made a point of reaching out and including me. but the team that ended up in fact doing that was sunset SHOUTOUT SUNSET i love u guys!!!

seri already knows basically everything in this fic LOL shoutout serapy

smth that's been kind of fun Throughout divorcesteal is that like....a lot of my insecurities will Start ooc. and then i deliberately make a mental move to Make them part of my character & character arc. and then i'm actually much less ooc insecure bc instead i'm looking at it as part of my character and her story? it's neat

also rereading this fic is interesting bc i was in such different mental places when i wrote parts of this? "chips and jay might be quitting" had such a huge mental impact on me and then neither of them ended up quitting and it's easy for me now to sort of forget how impactful that was compared to the things that did end up happening. or like i still very much remember that "i only joined thousand suns bc i thought chips was quitting" was a Thing but the feeling of "it feels like everyone is quitting the server and i'm left alone here refusing to quit even though i have nothing to do and i'm scared that if i try to do things i'll just drive people away even more" was something i kind of forgot about. but bc i wrote this it is preserved like amber....

i feel like this fic is too nice to me in places tbh..... i have an idea for a scene in my next fic that should balance it out though, where chips and i FINALLY are able to log on at the same time and it's like less than an hour after i've talked to betty and i am thinking the whole time "i should . tell chips about things" and then i DON'T and instead i in fact leak one of the things chips did to thousand suns, without asking chips, bc i was afraid that they would find out and change their minds about wanting me. i was not solely an ~innocent sadboy here lol it's just that by nature of being mostly 2am ventfic it's about Times I Was Soooooo Sad :(

something i've been thinking abt is like. even in other improv e.g. TTRPGs you don't normally get this sort of conflict? like you get "ooc conflict over scheduling and unavailability" a lot but "a player's unavailability or two players having conflicting schedules is now something that is an ic conflict between them" is much less common than in mcrp. in mcrp if someone can't log on, or if two ppl have schedules without much overlap, that's-- something that often exists in-story & matters to the characters. i wasn't originally planning on confronting them about it IC but i ended up doing so bc...it's part of my character? it can't not be, due to how the medium works. it's like how when i overheard them i couldn't just-- go "whoops blooper" and move on and pretend i didn't hear them. it was real & it happened & it impacted the world. if one person doesn't log on the world continues without them & there isn't enough ooc/ic divide for more traditional resolutions to that? what happened "ooc" just.... happened. one of the coolest things about mcrp to me

smth i want to be clear abt is. a lot of this fic is abt being alone but by the end of divorcesteal i felt the least alone i've felt in a long time. ultimately i DID talk to a lot of people & made so many friends. the fear was OOC incredibly fun and motivating for me. back still hurts though :(

these feel like worse liner notes than my usual ones even though theyre just as long, i think most of this is either stuff already in the fic or stuff i've already talked about elsewhere. sorry about that i thought i had more new things to say than i did. OH WELL POSTING ANYWAY

EDIT: another thing that's interesting to me when writing any divorcesteal fic is the .... amount that i am going "okay i want to Show my thought process and character to fans and participants who don't know me well". like i'm not adding things that aren't in the original i'm trying to . share the original w people? since obviously i didn't stream & some of this you get from chips and betty streams/recordings but (a) a lot of people didn't watch all of those (b) a lot of ppl weren't allowed to watch all of those. and some of it was just not in anyone's pov!! bc i didn't stream!!! but i care abt di!will and i want other ppl to . care too, i guess. understand her.

[strqyr]

Focusing more on the world building than the actual story is so real 😭

My rewrite au was accidentally born from me wanting to expand upon my ocs own backgrounds. Unfortunately I expanded mainly on the King of Vales family and the Great War, ended up with an entire family with Lore™️ I'm still adding onto, and then I touched upon things surrounding it and I said fuck it and turned it into an au when it was headcanons before

My au DOES have a story but it's mostly like,, just focused on my ocs (teams ROYL and GPVN/Grapevine). It's called Falls the Shadow (which comes from the TS Eliot poem The Hollow Men) or, just focusing on my ocs, the ROYLverse. I've been really wanting to turn it into a fic series but I have no idea where to start with month names LOL (the calendar is split up into 8 months that are twice as long as our months, made that way bc of the moon (called Fragmens) cycle. And the weeks are 8 days long. And there's meant to be an equivalent of a leap year every 8 years. It's a whole thing, I thought it'd be funny, there's 100% jokes abt it in universe).

And ohh my god i HATED figuring out the timeline. ESPECIALLY WITH STRQ AND OZ. I managed to figure out the ages (STRQ is 38 and Ozpin is 44 by v1) but it was a paaaain. It actually makes sense for canon though ngl... but i hated STRQ so much I swear. I was doing that math at 4 am. I still gotta figure out like, backstories n stuff, or little details like religion (Tai being a member of the Orthodox Luxean Church, for one, or Summer being lapsed when she disappears). I am shaking them with my teeth

Sorry for yapping LOLL I can't shut up about anything pertaining to my aus but ugh I love it

i hope your ocs are having better time than mine, they tend to, uh. . . end up somewhat dead, most of the time >_>

but yeah, headcanons are a quick and easy way to end up with a new au. i was already thinking about rewriting a childhood show that is near and dear to my heart just for the fun of it, and then somehow in my boredom of waiting for any sort of rwby news—be it a V10, reboot, or whatever; at this point i'll take anything new—, that turned into "rewriting" rwby.

and thus all my "what if"s and "this would have been cool"s and "i wish they delved into this more"s found a home in a single au. it's in bits and pieces—fragments, like the moon, hence the name lol—, the story mostly focused on what is different from canon rather than anything coherent atm, but it's coming together slowly, and i'll probably end up doing art for it Soon™.

(but before i do any of that, i need to do a to-do list so i don't forget anything 🙃)

also Same Hat for lengthening months lmao. i took the easy way out and simply made it so one month on remnant equals three months on earth (while a year still lasts about the same), and slapped seasons on them, so four months in total. not fully decided on the naming convention, but atm i'm using "moon of winter" and so on, with winter marking the beginning of the year (bc creation), and spring of the school year (bc knowledge). with the greater focus on the moon (i love that broken fucker on the sky so much), i've done away with specific dates, so for example, instead of oct 31st, ruby's birthday would be during the new moon of autumn—a mouthful, i know lol—bc the thought of ruby being born at the very end of the year popped into my mind and refused to leave, and for the rest i just worked backwards from there.

you'd think figuring out the timeline would be easy after i've done it so many times, but NO. it's pain Every. Single. Time. team strq is definitely to blame for the most of it bc not only do they have to be actually, ya know, graduated before any kids are born, but also requires to know when the school year ends, counting backwards from birthdays the duration of pregnancy, while also taking into the account that the maiden cutout is somewhere around 30 (obviously i could change that, but..... idunwanna) which creates an upper limit for certain somebody >:( so it's not like you can just, ya know. add some extra years after graduation to play it safe.

at least i have my previous attempts at strq fics for summer's and tai's backstories. . . as long as i don't decide to change them. again.

summer's semblance would be nice to know tho :( that's my current stumbling block. . .

[loen-kennededy]

Leon S. Kennedy from Resident Evil: Death Island RP tumblr page. Made out of boredom ✨

✨ The owner of this account is 24 she/her/he/him pronouns. If anything is out of RP, it will be shown with a backslash before post. This is a side blog.

✨18+ Only On Anything NSFW. Do not interact with anything 18+ or I will soft-block or block. This man is 39, it’s not always going to be clean language or topics.

✨No ships or designated relationships. Gonna be all public and welcome to anyone, down with flirting and even sexual comments but won’t have any type of relationship. If interested in any private RP’s that would be discussed in DM’s, I’m usually down with whatever, including ships and relationships. I won’t be inserted into a plot-line that intertwines with other characters unless planned previously, though it’s unlikely I would plan that anyway. I’m fine with playing along to an extent.

✨ Would just like to also add, that although I support everyone and their struggles, I am not the person to go to for deep venting or trauma dumping. I would prefer if you don’t seek help from a recovering alcoholic depressed sewer slider man rp account. I respond the best I can in character, but if it’s something more serious, I ask you to please not come to me. If something like that comes into my inbox, I most likely will not respond. Sorry and thank you.

✨For fun not for drama. Thanks 💪

++++

OKAY LIST:

Flirting Interactions/Asks (no promises he will reciprocate in interactions, but the comments/asks are allowed. he may be jokingly flirty back in response.)

Sexual Interactions/Asks (same as above for interactions, but will almost never reciprocate if it’s towards him. but the topic itself and questions are allowed) (18+ Only/No Anons - Unless personally age verified in DMs)

Anything sexual related (including jokes) are only allowed for 18+ and No Anons - Unless personally age verified in DMs. Some things may pass if they aren’t too deep (ex: talking about two flies that had sex in front of you or something), but anything that includes some sort of actual NSFW topic, will be ignored if from a minor or anon.

Platonic Interactions/Asks (preferred)

Anon's (only with platonic interactions, a little flirty is okay but he will likely not reciprocate)

Requests for personal RP (via Tumblr only currently) (canon x canon, canon x oc, and canon x self-insert allowed)

List of canon x canon relationships I will do for private RP’s (bolded are favorites): cleon, aeon, leshley, serrennedy, chreon, and lethan. If you want another that is not on this list, please let me know and I’ll say if I’m cool with it or not. 👍

Preferred 18+ private RP partners.

NO'S (on accounts & in private):

Rape/Non-Con

Incest/Step-cest

Pedophilia

Beastiality

Anti-LGBTQ+ (Leon is bisexual.)

++++

Will be updating over time! Just so you know, tags will also organize the account, so don't hesitate to look through them.

[hannahssimblr]

Night descends upon us and yet, as usual, the stars don’t shine brightly the way that they did last summer when our bonfire roared under clear, sparkling skies. I think of that night now as I sit on a patch of cool earth in the dunes above Dollymount Strand surrounded by rusting cans and the sun-bleached wrappers of discontinued chocolate bars.

I remember the balmy air of late July, how I didn't even heed it until now when the night is still too cold to sit out in yet we all pretend it isn't. Anyway, it’s too late to point it out to the crowd that's already gathered here, drinking and playing music from a speaker that crackles every time the bass gets too loud, so I sit as close as I can to the flames without climbing into the pit with them, and let their heat lick over my skin. 

I share a few beers with a big, severe looking boy next to me for a while. He's got silver spikes protruding from his lip, and high cheek bones that make his face look kind of gaunt and hollow like a Tim Burtonesque character. We called him Lurch at school, because he’s also about six foot five and rake thin, but tonight I learn that Lurch’s real name is Rob, and actually, Rob is a very nice person.

He talks to me about music for ages, about his drum kit and how the neighbours keep complaining to his parents about the noise. I tell him that I’ve always wished I was musical but I have absolutely no sense of rhythm. I’m kind of a loser like that, despite my dreams of being that guy with the guitar who impresses all the girls, but I have long since accepted that I will settle to be a humble music-recommender instead. Jen still keeps all of the silly mix tape CDs I made for her in primary school in her room, and it gives me an inexplicable sense of worthiness whenever I spot them.

Never once during my conversation with Rob do I tell him about the Lurch thing, though it crosses my mind several times. What seemed so funny once in the confines of my little group seems kind of obviously mean now, but I suppose I never took the time to think about it before.

Katie is nice too, the girl with a stammer who snorts when she laughs, which is often once she joins in our conversation, because she seems to think my stories are very funny, as does Rob, and I have to tell them not to laugh so hard because it only encourages me to put myself in more situations that might be entertaining to retell later on. They think that's funny too, but actually, I am being serious.

Still, I know they’ll love that one about the time I was using the desert as a toilet and a military helicopter flew overhead, convincing me that my great aunt’s busybody neighbour had called the FBI to report me for public urination, so I make sure to tell it in the most energetic way I can. It’s easier and way more fun to reveal embarrassing things about myself when I’m drinking, and by the time I have finished telling it, I toss my empty bottle to my feet where four others already lie. I hadn’t even realised I had drunk that much, but who cares when I feel this good.

“Jesus, you’re so funny,” Katie says once her giggles have subsided, “I can’t believe we all thought you were an arsehole.”

“You thought that?”

“Not really,” Rob assures me, “We just thought you were… like, a bit…”

“...of an arsehole,” I finish, and he’s clearly being polite so he denies it, but he shouldn’t bother, really, because I already know how I am. I'm aware of the things I’ve said and done to other kids for the sake of relieving my crushing, constant boredom, never really thinking about the consequences beyond ‘it will be funny’. Maybe I should say I’m sorry. 

“Nah you’re right, I’m kind of a horrible bastard,” and I laugh at myself, which gives them permission to do so too, albeit awkwardly.

“You’re not, you’re not,” Rob assures me, “You definitely weren’t the worst of the guys in our year…”

I want to ask him who is the worst, purely for the satisfaction of hearing him say that it’s Fitzy, or Murphy or Breener or any of those other awful, rugby wanks, but I don’t because someone coming through the grass has derailed my train of thought. 

“What’s she doing here?” 

I have interrupted Rob and now he’s blinking in surprise as he turns to where Leah, fucking Leah, is approaching us. 

“Uh, she comes to talk to Evan sometimes,” he explains, “just for like, a few minutes usually and then she heads off. Do you know her?”

“Yeah.”

I watch with a clenched jaw as she and Evan disappear into the darkness for a few minutes, and pop open a brand new beer bottle as Rob and Katie chat as I sit between them having lost all of my sense of fun in an instant. I’m also drunk, if not very much getting there judging by the slightly blurry flames that dance exotically in front of my eyes. I have a dim thought that it’s probably a good idea to stop drinking if I plan on seeing Jen later. I doubt Michelle’s parents will be too pleased if I show up steaming drunk at their door…

“Oh my God, Jude, I didn’t expect to see you here!” Leah is back and standing right over me. I don’t even bother to look up at her face, and instead just stare at her ratty Vans that I’m almost certain are the same pair she wore when we used to hang out two years ago, and they were ratty back then.

“Yep,” I say. She sits down so closely to me in the sand that I can smell her distinct, Leah smell. She doesn’t smell bad, just like an unpleasant sensory memory. 

“How are you?”

I clear my throat, “Are you buying drugs from teenagers now? Is that what it’s come to?”

“Oh, I thought you already knew how Evan and I knew each other.”

“No.”

“Well, mister policeman, it’s just weed,” she pulls the baggie I saw earlier out of her jacket pocket, “We can even smoke some together now if you like.”

“Weed makes me sick.”

“I remember that! Ha!” She offers it to Rob and Katie who both decline and exchange alarmed looks over our heads.

“Are you going to sit here all night?” I ask her, and even to my own ears it’s unbelievable how rude I am to her, but I don’t care, she deserves it, and it’s not like she even seems to register my tone anyway, she’s always been completely oblivious to what people think about her. She’s that person who hangs around at the party for way too long and keeps bringing up conversations that everyone stopped talking about ages ago. 

“Jude and I go way back,” Leah explains to Katie beside her, “I met him when he was, what,” a nudge to my arm, “thirteen?”

“Twelve.”

“We used to be friends, back when he was fun.”

I scowl and she drapes herself over my shoulder with an effortless laugh as though she somehow believes this is our usual banter, “I’m joking, he’s still so fun! And cute!” She tries to grab my face and I shake her off insistently so she settles for fisting a hand in the front of my sweatshirt to hold me hostage instead, “Isn’t he, though?” she presses poor, sheepish Katie who explodes in a ferocious blush. “Would you say he’s the cutest boy at school?”

“I- I don’t know,” Katie stutters. 

“Well guess what! I got to be the lucky girl who took his virginity!”

I rip her off me but she comes back at me with more grabbing hands and tickling fingers, “Ooh! It’s true, isn’t it? Isn’t it Judie? Oh, isn’t it?”

I wrench her off me with finality and clamber to my feet, my heart beating, my stomach queasy, “Leave me alone, okay?” I bend down to swipe my beer bottle out of the hollow I made for it in the sand and even then she tries to touch my hair. It infuriates me. “I’m serious! Piss off!” I spit.

“Oh God, mister grumpy!” She says as I stagger around the bonfire to get away from her and everything that she represents. I’m definitely drunk now, it's in my sluggish movements, the way my eyes drift unfocussed from person to person, but being drunk is preferable to remembering Leah as vividly as I would if I were perfectly sober. Right now, it is just snippets of an evening three years ago that play through my mind. The week I turned fourteen, and the hard, frozen November ground by a swing set. The things I wasn’t sure if I really wanted to do but thought knew I should by then, and Leah, and the heat of her skin, the smell of her sweat, the hyper fixation I had on that piece of bark mulch I felt tangled in her hair which somehow became the strongest memory of all, something that I still associate with her when I feel the sharp dig of something in my palm.

When I don't see her I don't think of these things, so I circle the bonfire until she is invisible, obscured by the roaring flames and swallowed by the darkness.

Beginning // Prev // Next

[w1ld-wr1t3r]

omg i would love a norrix outsider pov

Took me a while to decide who to make the outsider, because there are honestly so many good options, but I eventually settled on Max V. Hope you like it!

Also, is it still a drabble if it's almost 1.5k words? Genuine question. This one got away from me LOL.

Even before introducing them to each other, Max had had a feeling Lando and Martijn would get along well. He'd thought their personalities would mesh well, and maybe Martijn's supportive optimism would be good for Lando (he may be a rival on the track, but that didn't mean Max would ever wish anxiety or emotional pain on him). Plus, he knew Lando was a big fan of Martijn's music. It would be fun to see his mind explode when he got to meet someone he was a fan of.

When their friendship took off from the moment they met, he initially didn't think twice of it. He was just glad that they'd hit it off as well as he'd hoped they would. When Lando started going to more of Martijn's shows, and going on trips with him, and just generally started spending more time with him, Max had thought, good for them!

Their "world tour" vacation, and some of the photos that came out of it, was when he first started to wonder about how close they'd actually become.

He'd known that Martijn was interested in more than just women for a while. But Lando . . . well, it had never really come up in conversation before. Motorsports in general weren't known for being very queer-friendly, so the topic was usually avoided. Max was sure there were queer people in the paddock somewhere, but he'd never asked and he'd never expect them to tell.

But something about the way Lando acted with Martijn . . . the way he smiled and gushed when he got to talk about him, they way he jumped at any opportunity to spend time with him, the way both of them had such an easy, effortless chemistry with each other . . . something about it made him wonder.

When Martijn's birthday rolled around, the last thing he expected was for that wondering to be silenced. He'd sent Martijn a birthday message, as usual. He went about his day, taking care of work, doing a bit of sim racing, and catering to his cats (honestly, they were in charge of him, not the other way around), until he sat down in the evening and opened Instagram out of late-night boredom.

He'd nearly spat out his Red Bull when he'd seen Lando's latest story.

Yeah - no. There was no way that was a photo a totally platonic friend would post for someone's birthday. He was wondering why Lando even had this picture. One where Martijn had a lot of skin showing. After another moment of thought, and an oh moment, he decided that maybe he didn't want the answer to that question after all.

He'd been briefly confused when the story disappeared around twenty minutes later . . . only to be replaced with a different, but no less platonic, choice of photos and captions.

Lando obviously hadn't meant to publicly post that first one. And that made him wonder about the implications behind it. And if he was trying to mask those implications, then Max was sorry to say that his second attempt had mostly failed to do the job.

Was there something more between them?

Once that thought entered his head, he started to pay more attention to their interactions. And now that his eyes were open, he realized just how blind he'd been before. Maybe it was because they were his friends, and he hadn't even considered the possibility of their relationship developing like this at the start. Or maybe Charles wasn't the only one the phrase "I am stupid" could apply to.

He caught Lando and Martijn messaging or talking to each other incredibly often. Their smiles were always bigger after being together. Whenever Lando had a break in his race schedule, he seemed to fly straight to Martijn's side, wherever he was. When Martijn released yet another love song, and Lando liked the announcement post almost instantly, Max finally realized that maybe there was someone he was writing them for. And when he saw the way they looked at each other in person . . . suddenly, he understood what people meant when they used the term "heart-eyes."

Max didn't say anything. It was their place to tell him, not his to tell them he knew. As long as they were happy, he was happy for them.

It was in Zandvoort that he finally got positive confirmation of how close they were. As disappointing as another loss was, he really was happy for Lando's win. God knew he'd fought like a lion for it.

He knew Martijn was around, and expected to see him sometime after he was done with the first of his post-race duties. And sure enough, Max spotted him just outside the garage area as he was stepping out for a break from the craziness. But he wasn't alone.

Lando and Martijn were side by side, laughing and smiling. Lando still seemed to be glowing from his win, and Martijn was basking in that glow. There was no other way Max could describe the way he was looking at Lando other than loving.

He didn't want to interrupt their moment, and stopped far enough away that he wasn't intruding. He didn't intentionally spy on them, but it seemed like every time he glanced back their way, they had somehow gotten closer together. When did they start holding hands?

He really couldn't believe he hadn't seen what they were sooner. Now that he'd noticed it, it was impossible not to.

He had pulled out his phone and was absentmindedly scrolling when he realized that he didn't hear their voices any more. He glanced up, and did a double-take as he caught them pulling apart from a kiss.

He wasn't sure how he managed to fix his gobsmacked expression before the two of them parted and Lando finally turned his way. Lando smiled at him and happily made his way over, so he assumed he was at least somewhat successful.

"Hey, Max!" Lando greeted him. Max met him in a one-armed hug. "Martijn and I were wondering why we hadn't seen you yet. Red Bull kept you a while, huh?"

"Yeah," Max said absentmindedly. His mind was still caught on the image of Lando and Martijn looking at each other like the other was their whole world.

"Hey, um . . . we're good right?" Lando asked, biting his lip nervously. "About today?"

Max snapped out of his distracted thoughts instantly. He didn't want Lando to think he was mad at him about today, not when Lando had had a genuinely great race and it wasn't his fault Max hadn't been able to get the car to perform as well as it needed to. "Of course. You raced great today, Lando. Really."

Lando smiled at him, clapping a friendly hand on his shoulder. "Thanks, Max. That means a lot. You had a great race, too. Had me nervous a couple times out there." He playfully tugged Max along. "Come on, I still need to find Charles and congratulate him, too. Didn't get a chance after the podium."

Max followed along willingly. He'd already spoken to Charles, but he didn't mind following Lando. If they were heading back towards the garages, maybe he could find Oscar and congratulate him too while he was at it.

"Oh, um," Lando said after another minute, sounding a bit nervous again. "How long were you, uh, standing there? Were you waiting for one of us?"

Max knew what he was afraid of - that Max had seen him and Martijn together, and that he wouldn't want to be friends with him any more. He slung an arm around Lando's shoulders in another friendly one-armed hug. Whatever happened between them on track or in the paddock, he never wanted Lando to think something like this would change their friendship.

"Just looking for Martijn, wanted to thank him for coming today," he said. "I was only waiting for a few minutes, don't worry."

Lando nodded, but his tension didn't dissipate, and Max knew that wasn't what he had been worried about. So he continued.

"I'm glad you two have each other, by the way," he said. "He's treating you well, right?"

His meaning was pretty clear. Lando blinked at him in surprise, searching his expression for any sign that he might be hiding his real opinion or getting ready to push him away. Max knew he would find nothing, because he didn't feel anything like that. Who Lando dated was none of his business and didn't affect how he performed on the track. If anything, he was just glad that two of his friends had found happiness with each other.

Finally, Lando smiled in relief. "Yeah," he said softly. He gave Max another pat on the back. "Thanks, Max."

Max smiled back. It didn't matter how heated things got on the track. He would always be glad for his friends' happiness.

[wazzappp]

Do have any like world building tips for someone wanting to create their own aus?

Oh boy. I think this might be a little better answered by this previous ask (I sorta suspect you might be the same person but I wont assume lol). Usually AU ideas just sorta grab me by the throat and shake me around until I draw them, but I'll try and think up some stuff thats specific to AU's!

First things first: I know I talked about it before but I REITERATE. You gotta decide if you're just putting these characters into the world, or if they're following a predetermined story. For example: The cyberpunk au I am building is the former. I'm sticking my favoritest characters into the world and making up a story from scratch (sorry violent revolutionary Keanu Reeves you will only be mentioned). FUN! The latter would be what I've made with the RE AU so far. ALSO FUN! It's not a one to one recreation but it's following along the story pretty closely. Different AU types have different rules.

When you're just sticking your guys into a setting you have a LOT more freedom. Because the story can be exactly what you want, that means the rules of the world can be bent to fit your story. The only problem with that is theres a tendency for people to make their characters WAY overpowered with no weaknesses. And listen. Dude. I'm so down for making your blorbo the most specialest guy in the whole universe, but without limits or drawbacks or CONSEQUENCES, unlimited power gets BORING. The rules of the world exist for a reason. Don't break the guardrails until you know WHY they're there.

Even ridiculously overpowered characters like One Punch Man still have to deal with consequences. In his case it's unrelenting boredom and desire for a challenge. It's a good demonstration of the idea that if you don't have physical consequences you can inflict EMOTIONAL consequences. If your guy is almost indestructible, have that fact fuck him up a little bit. Mess with em :]

An AU thats following a story has a LOT more rules to it. You have to decide before hand how closely you're sticking to the original story. And honestly, if you're doing it right you SHOULD have changes to the story happening. The whole point of putting new characters into this situation is that they wont react the same to the originals. If a person in the canon situation decides to run from a threat, your AU replacement might decide to fight them instead! And that CHANGES things!

Also, if you're changing something about a characters background from an AU, you gotta think long and hard about how that effects the way they think! If you're putting someone into the future and they grew up in the foster system you gotta ask what the FUCK future foster care looks like (<- a headache I am. presently dealing with. bleh). A setting affects people a LOT.

Changing up a characters personality for an AU is TEMPTING and you CAN DO IT but do it CAREFULLY. If you aren't careful you'll just end up creating an OC. Nothing wrong with making OC's I just figure its not what you're going for. It helps if you identify the core characteristics of what makes someone recognizable. I'll use RE Lisa as an example (I think. She's a good example. I feel like I did a good job on her).

With RE Lisa I tried to look at canon Lisas core traits. She's stubborn, kind, strong, a little conniving (I'll never get over her fucking year long reconnaissance mission), and she tries to assume the best in people. Lisa is a person who seems to believe in the GOOD everyone is capable of. But the situation she has found herself in means she is being stripped of that. Lisa cant AFFORD to see the good in others if she wants to survive in the Dimitrescu castle. The only behavior that is rewarded (rewards being food, affection, rest) requires her to ignore all that. So she keeps stubborn, strong, and conniving, but the kindness and assumptions of the best in people have been literally cut out of her. Once she starts to realize that she's with people (Robbie and Gabe) who are safe enough to assume are good, those parts of her start coming back. She can laugh it off and play up the persona she's created to protect herself, but deep down she's starting to CARE about people again (she's been desperate to care about someone. To be safe with someone again for so so long she's almost forgotten what it feels like) and she's scared of losing that. So thats an example of how I tried to adapt her character into this world while trying to make sure she still feels like her!

I hope I could help!! Have fun with your AU making!!!!