#and instead using a word that means something else entirely

[hanniewho]

⋆˚࿔ Mommies' Good Girl 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

⋆˚࿔ Summary: A heated argument turning into rough sex when you accidentally called them mommy. Apparently, that made the situation even worst.

𝜗𝜚˚⋆ Notes: Actually, I was writing a tlou x Arcane series, but I have no idea what to write since I got ban on character ai for ideas so.. this is what I wrote instead. Also I'm working on my slasher jayce x cam girl reader and I wanna make it noncon but mid writing it I felt sick so I switch it to jayce wearing the ghostface attire while fucking you on stream yeyey:3

𐙚˙✧˖° Words: 5.8k

༘ ⋆｡ ˚ Warnings: Rough sex, Slapping, Pussy worshiping, Fingering, Cunninlingus, Choking, Degrading - Praising, Name calling, Dirty talk, Using dildo, Ass fucking, Multiple orgasm, Threesome, Mommy kink, Delaying orgasm.

⋆✦ Pairings: Vi and Caitlyn x Afab virgin reader

"You never listen to me!" Caitlyn's voice echoed through the room, her frustration palpable.

Vi's eyes flashed with anger. "What do you mean I never listen?" she shot back, her fists clenching at her sides.

Caitlyn's chest heaved as she tried to gather her thoughts. "It's like you're always in your own world, Vi. You don't care about what I have to say!"

Vi took a step closer, her own frustration rising. "That's not true," she said, her voice low and tight. "I care about you, but you're always pushing and pushing until I can't even breathe!"

You watched the exchange, feeling the tension thicken in the air. You knew they'd had their disagreements before, but this felt different—like the pressure in the room was building to a breaking point. You didn't want to interrupt, scared that you'll be the center of their anger.

Instead, you took a step back, hoping to give them space to cool down. But as you retreated, Caitlyn's gaze flickered to you, desperation and something else swirling in her eyes. Before you could react, she stalked towards you, grabbing your arm and pulling you closer.

"Is this what you want?" she growled, her breath hot on your neck. "For me to just take it?"

Vi's eyes narrowed, and you could see the fire in them, a challenge sparked. Without breaking eye contact with you, she stepped closer, until you were trapped between the two of them, their bodies mere inches apart.

"Is that what you want?" Vi murmured, her voice a mix of anger and desire. "For us to fight over you?"

You shake your head, feeling the heat of both their bodies against yours. "No," you say, your voice barely above a whisper. "That's not it at all."

But your words seem to have the opposite effect as Caitlyn's grip tightens, her nails digging into your skin. Her eyes are stormy, and you can see the challenge in them, a silent dare to prove your worth. Vi mirrors her, leaning in so close that you can feel the warmth of her breath. The scent of their combined desire is intoxicating, mixing with the faint aroma of sweat and the metallic tang of unbridled emotion.

Vi's hand reaches out, grabbing the back of your neck, her touch firm but not painful. "Then tell us what you want," she says, her voice a soft growl that sends a shiver down your spine.

You swallow hard, trying to find the right words. "I just... I just want us to be okay," you manage to get out, feeling your heart racing.

Caitlyn's expression softens a fraction, but the hunger in her eyes doesn't waver. She leans in, her full, soft lips brushing against your ear. "Is that all?" she whispers, her breath sending a shiver down your spine.

Vi's hand moves down to your hip, her fingers digging in, claiming you. "You know we can give you more than just okay," she says, her voice a seductive purr that sends a rush of heat between your legs.

You gulp, feeling the weight of their combined gazes, the intensity of their emotions. You know what they're suggesting, and part of you wants it, craves the distraction, the release. You nod, and in that moment, the room seems to shift, the tension morphing into something else entirely.

Caitlyn's eyes light up with a feral hunger as she moves in, capturing your lips in a bruising kiss, her teeth nipping at yours. You gasp into her mouth, the taste of her anger mixing with the sweetness of her desire. Vi's hand slides from your hip to the hem of your shirt, lifting it over your head, her eyes never leaving yours.

You're pinned between them now, your body responding to their touch despite the argument's aftermath still hanging in the air. Caitlyn's hand moves to the back of your neck, mimicking Vi's hold, as they both guide you towards the bedroom. The softness of the carpet under your bare feet is a stark contrast to the harshness of their grips.

The door clicks shut behind you, and the room seems to shrink as their passion envelops you. Clothes are ripped and discarded in a frenzy of movement, each piece removed with the force of their pent-up emotions. The sound of fabric tearing is almost as satisfying as the feeling of their skin against yours.

Caitlyn's teeth graze your neck, eliciting a gasp from you. Her kisses are demanding, a silent apology for her earlier anger. Vi's hands are everywhere, exploring your body with a fierce possessiveness that sends waves of desire crashing through you. You're sandwiched between them, the mattress beneath you giving way as you're pushed down onto it.

Vi's mouth finds your nipple, sucking hard, the sensation making you arch your back. Caitlyn's teeth nip at your shoulder, her hands sliding down to grip your hips firmly. You're surrounded by them, their scents mingling, their breaths hot on your skin. It's overwhelming, but in the best possible way.

Their touches are rough, almost violent, but you find yourself responding to it. Maybe it's the residual anger in the air, or the way they seem to crave each other through you, but your body is alight with need. "Oh... fuck me.." You moan, unable to hold it back, as Caitlyn's mouth moves to your other breast, her teeth grazing the sensitive flesh.

Vi's hand slides down your stomach, her fingers dancing closer and closer to the dampness between your legs. She groans into your neck as she feels how wet you are, the sound vibrating through your body. "You like this, don't you?" she murmurs, her voice filled with a dark satisfaction.

You nod, unable to form coherent words as Caitlyn's teeth move to your earlobe, tugging gently. "Say it," she demands, her voice a rough whisper. "Tell us how much you want us."

You gasp, "I...I want you both so much," your voice trembling with desire.

Their grips on you tighten, their kisses becoming more insistent. Vi's hand reaches your center, her fingers sliding through your folds, teasing your clit with a firmness that makes you whine. Caitlyn's mouth moves to your other ear, her tongue tracing the shell before whispering, "Beg for it, baby."

You do, your voice desperate. "Please, fuck me," you moan, the words tumbling from your lips. You can feel their smirks against your skin, the satisfaction of knowing you're at their mercy.

Vi's fingers plunge into you without warning, her thumb circling your clit with a roughness that sends sparks through your body. You cry out, your legs instinctively spreading wider to give her better access. Caitlyn's mouth moves to your neck, her teeth scraping along the tender skin as she kisses and sucks.

Their touches are a symphony of pain and pleasure, each stroke and bite a declaration of their need for one another. You're lost in the sensations, the argument from moments ago forgotten as you become the focus of their passion.

Vi's fingers move with a purpose inside you, her thumb relentlessly working your clit. Caitlyn's teeth graze your neck, her kisses turning into bites that leave a trail of heat along your skin. "Look at you," Vi coos, her voice a mix of satisfaction and amusement. "Moaning like a bitch in heat."

You whimper, the insult only fueling your arousal as you feel yourself getting wetter. You know they're just playing, pushing each other's buttons through you, but the words still make you squirm. Caitlyn's grip on your hip tightens, her other hand moving to cup your cheek, turning your face to look at her.

"You love it, don't you?" she says, her eyes gleaming with mischief. "You love when we're like this."

You do love it, the way they use your body to work out their issues, turning anger into something primal and sexual. You moan louder as Vi's fingers plunge deeper, the roughness of her touch pushing you closer to the edge.

Vi laughs, a dark, smoky sound that fills the room as she keeps tossing degrading words at you, her eyes gleaming with the thrill of it. "Such a good little slut, aren't you?" she says, her voice a wicked purr that makes your cheeks flush with a mix of arousal and embarrassment.

Caitlyn's eyes darken, a smirk playing on her lips as she watches Vi work you into a frenzy. She leans in, her teeth grazing your neck. "Is that all you want?" she asks, her voice a soft challenge. "To be used and degraded?"

You can't help but nod, your body betraying your thoughts. The harsh words only make you wetter, the idea of being their toy, their shared prize, turning you on in a way you never knew was possible. Vi's laugh is like a whip crack, sharp and stinging, as she keeps tossing degrading words at you, each one hitting its mark.

"Yeah, you do," she says, her eyes gleaming with a dark delight. "You're a greedy little whore, aren't you?" Her fingers are a blur between your legs, and you can feel your orgasm building, a crescendo of sensation that threatens to consume you whole.

You whimper, nodding, the words cutting through you like a hot knife through butter. The harshness of her language is a stark contrast to the gentle way Caitlyn holds your face, but it's the perfect balance of power and submission. You can feel their tension dissolving into something else, something raw and primal, as they use your body to find their own release.

Vi's fingers work you over mercilessly, her laugh turning into a series of low, guttural sounds that resonate through your core. Each insult is a stroke of genius, designed to push you closer to the edge. "You're just a cum dumpster," she murmurs, her voice thick with desire. "A fucking hole for us to fill."

Caitlyn's hand moves from your cheek to your throat, her grip firm but not tight enough to cut off your air. She watches you closely, the smirk on her face growing as your eyes glaze over. "Is that what you are?" she asks, her voice a seductive whisper. "Our little cum slut?"

You nod, your breath coming in ragged pants, the words only serving to inflame your desire. You've never felt so wanted, so desired, so... alive.

Vi's thumb presses down on your clit, and you can't help but buck your hips, the pleasure too intense to hold back. "Fuck!" you scream, your body trembling.

Caitlyn's hand tightens on your neck, a silent command to keep looking at her as Vi continues to manipulate your body. "That's it," she whispers, her eyes dark with need. "Take it."

Vi's fingers work you over, each stroke bringing you closer to the edge. You can feel the tension in the room crackling, the air charged with the electricity of their desire and the intensity of your own climax. Your hips jerk against Vi's hand, your body begging for more, and she's all too happy to give it.

Then, in the heat of the moment, a slip of the tongue. "Fuck me, Mommy," you moan, the words leaving your lips before you can stop them. Vi's hand stills, a look of shock passing over her face before it's quickly replaced with a wicked grin. "Mommy, huh?" she says, her voice dripping with amusement. "I think you might need a little more punishment for that."

Caitlyn's eyes widen, and she laughs, the sound low and dark. "Well, well," she says, her voice husky. "Looks like someone's got a naughty side." Her grip on your throat loosens, and she leans in closer, her breath hot against your cheek. "Is that what you really want, baby?"

You blush, your body trembling with need. You didn't mean to say that, but now that the words are out, you can't deny the thrill that runs through you. "I-I don't know," you stutter, your voice barely audible over the sound of your own heartbeat.

Vi's grin widens, her eyes glinting with mischief. She leans back, giving you a moment to breathe as she pulls her hand away. "Well, if that's what you want," she says, her voice a purr that sends shivers down your spine.

Caitlyn releases your neck, her thumb tracing the delicate skin as she looks at Vi, a silent question in her eyes. Vi nods, a wicked glint in her gaze. "We can definitely give you that," she says, her voice a promise that sends a thrill of excitement and a shiver of fear through your body.

They exchange a look that feels like it's searing you with its intensity. You're not sure what you've unleashed, but you know you want it. You want them to claim you, to take you apart and put you back together again in a way that only they can.

Caitlyn moves away, and for a brief moment, you feel cold without her touch. But Vi's hand is quick to replace it, her fingers sliding down your body, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. She straddles your hips, her eyes never leaving yours as she reaches for the nightstand.

"What are you doing?" you ask, breathless, your heart racing.

Vi's smile widens, and she holds up the dildo, a glossy black toy with a slight curve that you've never seen before. "It's time to introduce you to some new sensations," she says, her eyes gleaming with excitement. "I've had this little toy for a while, but it seems we never got around to using it."

You watch as she coats the dildo with lubricant, the sight of it making you squirm with anticipation. Caitlyn moves back to the bed and settle in behind you, her eyes never leaving yours as Vi lines the toy up with your entrance. The coolness of the silicone against your sensitive flesh makes you gasp, but it's quickly replaced by a burning need as Vi presses it into you, inch by inch.

You try to squirm away, the sensation new and overwhelming, but their combined strength keeps you in place. "Easy," Caitlyn murmurs, her hand sliding up your chest to cup your breast. "You can take it."

Vi's grip on your hips tightens as she begins to move the dildo in and out of you, each stroke sending waves of pleasure crashing through your body. Your feet kick the air, legs straining, as you try to find purchase, to either push away or pull closer, you're not even sure anymore. "No, please, I can't," you whine, the words a mix of protest and plea.

Their eyes meet over your body, and you can see the thrill in them, the excitement of watching you squirm and beg. Caitlyn's hand moves from your breast to your cheek, turning your face back to hers. "You can, baby," she says, her voice soothing despite the fiery need in her gaze. "You can take everything we give you."

Vi's strokes with the dildo become more deliberate, the angle changing to hit that spot inside you that makes your eyes roll back in your head. You moan, the word "Mommy" slipping out again, and this time it's Caitlyn's eyes that darken with lust. "Keep saying it," she whispers, her hand moving to your mouth to muffle your cries.

Your body feels like it's on fire, their touches and words lighting you up from the inside out. You're lost in the sensation, the sound of your own moans echoing in your ears as Vi works you over. You feel a hand slide up your thigh, and Caitlyn's fingers find your clit, adding to the overwhelming feeling of fullness.

You throw your head back into Caitlyn's shoulder, gasping for air. "I can't," you whine, the words barely coherent. "It's too much."

But Caitlyn isn't listening. She brings her hand to your lip, the scent of your arousal heavy in the air. She forces your mouth open and slides two of her fingers in, coated with your wetness. "Taste yourself," she whispers, her voice a siren's call that you can't resist.

You moan around the intrusion, the taste of your own desire almost as intoxicating as their combined scent. You suck on her fingers, the salty-sweet flavor making your toes curl. Vi watches, her eyes hooded with lust as she continues to pump the dildo into you, the rhythm relentless.

"Good girl," Caitlyn murmurs, her voice a warm caress against your ear. "Tell us how much you like it." Her hand moves from your mouth to your throat, her thumb tracing gentle circles as she squeezes slightly, reminding you who's in control.

You can't help but moan around her fingers, the pressure sending a thrill through your body. "M-Mommy," you pant, the word slipping out again, and you feel Vi's grip on your hips tighten in response.

"Look how much she loves it," Caitlyn says, her voice a low purr that vibrates through your body. "Such a good little slut for us."

Vi's strokes become faster, the dildo filling you up as she watches your reactions with a predatory gaze. You're powerless against the onslaught of sensation, your body a canvas for their pleasure. You arch your back, pushing down on the toy, silently begging for more.

Then, without warning, Vi pulls the dildo out, leaving you empty and gasping for air. You clench around nothing, your body desperately seeking the fullness it craves. "What the fuck?" you manage to get out, your voice a mix of frustration and need.

Vi just grins at you, a wicked glint in her eye. "What?" she says, her voice a taunt. "You think a dirty little wench like you gets to cum that easily?"

Caitlyn chuckles, her hand sliding down to replace the dildo with two of her own fingers, pushing inside you without warning. "We're just getting started," she says, her voice a low growl that makes you quiver with anticipation.

Vi leans over you, her hand coming down to slap your pussy, the sound echoing through the room. You yelp, the sting mixing with the pleasure of Caitlyn's fingers, making your eyes water. "What a whore," Vi says, her voice filled with amusement and a hint of admiration. "Begging for it like that."

The slap sends a jolt through your body, and you can't help but moan. Your cheeks burn with embarrassment, but the pain feels good, like it's grounding you in the moment. Vi's eyes are alight with something dark, a hunger that you've never seen before. She brings her hand back up, her fingers lingering on the spot she slapped, feeling the heat of your skin.

"Since your pussy is so tight," she says, her voice a low growl, "I wonder what else is."

With those words, Vi pulls the dildo from your pussy and presses the tip against your tight asshole. You tense up, the sensation foreign and overwhelming. But Caitlyn's hand is there, her thumb stroking your clit in a way that makes you want to scream. The conflict of pain and pleasure is almost too much to handle.

"Relax," she whispers, her voice a gentle command. You try, your body responding to her touch despite your trepidation. You feel the dildo breach you, the pressure intense as Vi works it in slowly. The burn is uncomfortable, but the way Caitlyn's eyes never leave yours, the way she watches your every reaction, makes it almost bearable.

"That's it," Caitlyn murmurs, her voice soothing despite the grip she has on your throat. "Take it for us." Her thumb moves in lazy circles on your clit, the pleasure a stark contrast to the pain as Vi's dildo stretches you open. You bite your lip, trying to hold back the cry that threatens to escape, but it's no use.

The sound of your own whimpers fills the room, a symphony of lust and need that only spurs them on. Vi's strokes become more deliberate, her hand moving the dildo in and out of your ass with a precision that speaks of experience. You can feel yourself stretching around it, your body desperately trying to adjust.

Caitlyn's thumb speeds up, the pleasure becoming a crescendo that's almost too much to handle. "You're doing so good," she whispers, her voice filled with a mix of admiration and hunger. "Such a good little slut for us."

You cry out, the word "please" leaving your lips in a desperate plea. "Let me adjust," you manage to get out between gasps. "I-I can't... Mommy, please."

Vi's eyes flash with something dark and hungry, a smirk playing on her lips. "You're so adorable when you beg," she says, her voice a purr that sends a shiver down your spine. She gives the dildo a gentle twist, the feeling making you jolt. "But we're not done yet."

Caitlyn's thumb moves in tandem with Vi's strokes, the pressure on your clit increasing as your body fights the intrusion in your ass. You can feel yourself stretching around the toy, the pain morphing into something more, something that makes your toes curl. "Mommy," you whine, the word a desperate plea for relief.

Caitlyn's grip on your neck tightens, her eyes never leaving yours. "What do you need, baby?" she asks, her voice a seductive purr that sends shivers down your spine.

You gasp, trying to form words through the haze of pleasure and pain. "More," you finally manage, your voice a breathless whisper. "Please, more."

Vi's smirk widens, and she obliges, slamming the dildo into your ass without warning. The suddenness of it makes you scream, the sound raw and primal. The shock sends you spiraling closer to the edge, your body no longer fighting the intrusion but craving it. You feel your muscles clench around the toy, trying to draw it in deeper.

Caitlyn's smile is pure wickedness as she kisses your neck, her teeth grazing your skin. She starts to move her fingers in time with Vi's strokes, the feeling of being filled from both sides driving you wild. You've never felt so full, so claimed, so... owned. The pleasure is so intense, it's almost unbearable.

Her touch is gentle but firm, her kisses a silent promise of the storm that's about to break. You can feel the muscles in your pussy clench around her fingers, desperate for more. Caitlyn's eyes never leave yours, her gaze holding you captive as she explores the depths of your desire. You're panting now, the air thick with the scent of sex and sweat.

With every stroke, Caitlyn's smile grows, feeding off your whimpers of need. Her kisses move from your neck to your collarbone, her teeth grazing your skin in a way that makes your eyes roll back. She's in no hurry, savoring the moment, drawing it out like a fine wine. Each kiss feels like a brand, a declaration of ownership that makes your toes curl.

Then, the saliva that's been pooling in your mouth overflows, and you can't help but drool. The warm wetness rolls down your chin and onto your chest, making its way down to your tits. The sight of it, the sheer abandon of the act, sends a jolt of electricity through Vi. She watches, transfixed, as it glistens on your nipples, making them even more tantalizing.

Her hand moves faster, the dildo pumping into your ass with a rhythm that matches the pounding of your heart. The pain is now a distant memory, replaced by a white-hot need that threatens to consume you. You can feel yourself getting closer, the tension in your body winding tighter with every stroke.

Caitlyn's thumb presses down harder on your clit, and you know you're about to break. "Please," you beg, the word a desperate gasp that's almost inaudible. "I need to cum."

Vi's strokes become more erratic, her breaths coming in short pants as she watches you squirm. "Do it," she says, her voice a harsh command that sends a thrill through your body. "Cum for us, slut."

Caitlyn's thumb presses harder, the pressure just shy of painful as she brings you closer to the edge. Your body feels like it's about to snap, the tension in the room thick enough to cut with a knife. "Now," she whispers, and you do, your orgasm ripping through you like a tornado, leaving nothing but destruction in its wake.

You scream, the sound echoing off the walls, as your body convulses in pleasure. Vi's dildo is still moving inside you, the sensation almost too much to handle as your pussy contracts around Caitlyn's fingers. You're so sensitive that even the slightest touch feels like a bolt of lightning.

Vi's eyes never leave yours, watching the pleasure play out on your face with a look of triumph. Caitlyn's kisses become more gentle now, her touch soothing as she rides out your orgasm with you. You feel their love and desire in every stroke, every kiss, every whispered word of praise.

And then, as the last waves of your climax subside, Vi pulls the dildo out of you with a wet pop, leaving you feeling empty and exposed. You're panting, your body trembling with the aftershocks of pleasure as she leans down, her mouth hovering just above your swollen pussy. Her breath is hot against your sensitive flesh, making you squirm.

Vi's eyes are filled with a hunger that's almost feral as she looks up at you, a smug smile playing on her lips. "Tastes like victory," she murmurs, her voice thick with desire.

With a slow, deliberate move, Vi leans down and presses her lips to your sensitive pussy, kissing you as if you're the most delicious thing she's ever tasted. You gasp at the sudden tenderness, the stark contrast to the roughness of moments before making your toes curl. Her tongue flicks out, tasting you, and you can't help but push against her, desperate for more.

Caitlyn watches with a hungry gaze, her own desire evident in the way she licks her lips. She slides her fingers out of you, bringing them up to her mouth to suck on them, her eyes never leaving yours. "Mm," she murmurs, "you taste so good."

Vi's mouth is a symphony of pleasure, her tongue working you over with a finesse that's surprising given the roughness of the encounter. You moan, your hands reaching down to tangle in her hair, urging her closer. She takes the hint, her tongue delving into your folds, lapping up the juices that are still flowing from your body.

Caitlyn's eyes never leave yours, the smirk on her face one of pure satisfaction. She watches as Vi worships your pussy, the sight of it making her own desire burn even brighter. Her hand moves down to her own clit, her thumb circling it as she watches you lose yourself in the pleasure.

"I fucking love girls with pretty pussies like you," Vi mumbles, her words muffled by the sounds of her mouth against your skin. "So tight... warm and soft. Just... fucking perfect." Her tongue slides over your clit, the flat of it pressing down firmly, making you gasp. "Like you're begging me to destroy you."

Her words are a jumble of pleasure and praise, each one sending a new wave of heat through your body. You can feel the vibrations of her voice against your sensitive flesh, and it only makes your orgasm feel more intense. She's a maelstrom of passion, her mouth a whirlwind of sensation that you can't escape from.

Caitlyn's eyes are hooded with lust as she watches Vi work her magic on you. Her own hand moves faster, her thumb rubbing in tight circles on her own clit, her breaths coming in shallow gasps. The sight of you, lost in pleasure, is almost too much for her to handle.

Your orgasm seems to go on forever, your body trembling with the force of it. You've never felt so alive, so wanted, so... used. And it's glorious. Each lick of Vi's tongue feels like a declaration of war, a promise of more pleasure to come.

Caitlyn's hand moves from your neck to your breast, squeezing and pinching your nipple in time with Vi's strokes. The pain is a sweet counterpoint to the pleasure, making you arch your back and push your chest out for more. "Good girl," she murmurs, her voice filled with pride. "Look how beautiful you are when you're being used."

Vi's mouth moves lower, her tongue sliding into your pussy, filling you up in a way that feels like it's going to break you apart. You're so sensitive that it's almost too much, but you can't bring yourself to ask her to stop. You need this, the feeling of being taken, of being theirs.

Caitlyn's hand moves to your ass, her fingers digging in as she pulls you closer to Vi's mouth. "Come for us," she whispers, her voice a dark promise in the chaos of pleasure. "Let us see how much of a mess you can make for us."

You whine, the sound a desperate mix of pleasure and pain. You don't know if you can handle anymore, but your body seems to have other ideas. With a final, vicious tug of her tongue, Vi sends you over the edge again, your pussy clenching around her mouth as you cum hard.

Vi pulls away, her mouth shiny with your juices, and grins up at you. "Looks like someone enjoyed that," she says, her voice smug and satisfied.

You can only nod, unable to form coherent words as your body still quivers with aftershocks. Your eyes are glazed over, your chest heaving with the effort of breathing. You're a mess, sprawled out on the bed, but the look in their eyes tells you that they think you're perfect.

Vi sits back on her heels, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, leaving a trail of your arousal glistening on her skin. "Look at you," she says, her voice filled with pride. "Such a good little whore for us."

Caitlyn's grip tightens around your waist as you go limp against her, your body spent and boneless. Her eyes are warm with affection as she looks down at you, a soft smile playing on her lips. "You're incredible," she whispers, kissing your neck.

You can't help but melt into her, the tenderness of her words a stark contrast to the roughness of the encounter. Her hands are gentle as they glide over your skin, her touch a comforting balm to the storm that's just passed through you. You lean into her, your breathing still ragged, your heart hammering in your chest.

Vi's smile is one of pure satisfaction as she sits back, watching the two of you with a glint in her eye. She reaches out, her thumb tracing the line of your jaw as she brings her hand up to cup your cheek. "You're ours," she says, her voice a low, sultry purr that sends a fresh wave of heat through your body.

You look up at her, your eyes heavy-lidded with pleasure, and nod. The words hang in the air, a declaration that makes your heart race. You've never felt so claimed, so completely owned by someone else's desire. It's a heady feeling, one that you never want to lose.

But even as the afterglow of your orgasm lingers, you can feel the beginnings of exhaustion. Your muscles ache, your skin is sticky with sweat, and every breath feels like it's made of molasses. "I'm... I'm tired," you admit, your voice a soft whisper that seems to echo through the room.

Caitlyn's smile doesn't waver, but her eyes soften. She brushes a strand of hair away from your face, her touch gentle. "Let us take care of you," she says, her voice a warm caress.

Vi nods, her own expression filled with something that might be tenderness. She climbs off the bed, her movements surprisingly graceful for someone so powerful. She walks over to the nightstand and grabs a bottle of water, twisting the cap off with a practiced ease. She brings it to your lips, the cool liquid slipping down your throat, soothing the fire that's been raging within you.

You take a deep, shuddering breath as the water hits your stomach, the coldness of it a stark contrast to the heat that's still pooling between your legs. Caitlyn's hand is still on your waist, her thumb stroking lazy circles that make you want to squirm. "Thank you," you murmur, your voice hoarse from screaming.

With a gentle nudge from Caitlyn, you lean back into her shoulder, closing your eyes and letting out a contented sigh. The feel of her skin against yours is a balm to your overstimulated senses, the scent of her a comforting blanket that wraps around you. Her hand slides up your stomach, her fingers tracing the line of your ribs before settling on your chest. You can feel her heart beating against your back, a steady rhythm that grounds you.

Vi sets the water bottle aside and moves closer, her eyes never leaving yours. She runs a hand through your hair, her touch featherlight. "You're so beautiful when you're like this," she murmurs, her voice filled with something that sounds suspiciously like affection.

You manage a tired smile, the muscles in your face feeling like they've been put through a workout. "Thanks," you murmur, your voice barely a whisper. "I'm... I'm just really tired."

Caitlyn nods, her grip on you tightening for a brief moment before she eases you onto your side, tucking you against her. She runs her hand down your back, her touch soothing and gentle, a stark contrast to the fiery passion that had consumed you minutes before. "Rest, baby," she whispers. "We've got you."

Vi settles in beside you, her strong arm wrapping around your waist, pulling you closer to her firm body. You can feel the heat of her skin, the steady beat of her heart beneath your ear, and it's comforting in a way you didn't know you needed. She kisses your shoulder, her breath warm and soft against your skin. "You did so good," she murmurs, her voice filled with something that feels suspiciously like pride.

You lean into her embrace, the warmth of her body enveloping you like a blanket, chasing away the chill that's started to settle in. You can't help but let out a contented sigh, your eyes drifting shut. Caitlyn's hand slides down your side, her touch gentle and reassuring. "Rest," she whispers, her breath warm against the nape of your neck. "You've earned it."

Vi's grip shifts slightly, her hand moving to rest on your hip. You can feel the callouses on her palm, a stark reminder of the power she wields. Yet here she is, her touch tender and loving, cradling you as if you were the most fragile thing in the world. It's a side of her you rarely get to see, and it makes your heart swell with love.

You snuggle closer to Caitlyn, her breasts pressing into your back, the softness of them a stark contrast to the firmness of Vi's body against your front. It's like being sandwiched between two opposites, two sides of a coin that somehow fit perfectly together. You've never felt so cherished, so... claimed. The thought sends a warm thrill through your body, and you can't help but let out a contented sigh.

Maybe being their good girl wasn't so bad at all.

[rhiannonsknife]

⋆₊❅. — have yourself a merry little christmas

angst & hurt/comfort. secret relationship. gn!reader.

you find shauna by the windowsill, the bright morning light filtering through the frost-covered glass casting soft shadows across her face. her arms are wrapped tightly around herself, her gaze distant as she stares out at the snow-covered woods that surround the cabin. the place is unusually quiet, with most of the others still asleep, their breaths mingling in the cold air.

for a moment, you hesitate. she looks so oddly small, so lost that it stirs something deep inside you: memories of the life you shared back home. you were hers once, in secret: shared kisses in the backseat of her car, fingers brushing during practice, the quiet nights when it was just the two of you. you hadn’t officially ended things when the plane went down, the wilderness had done it for you. between the secrets, the fear, and everything else this place demanded, you’d drifted apart without a word without ever talking things through.

“shauna,” you say softly before you can overthink it, slowly stepping closer. she doesn’t flinch and her eyes flicker toward you.

you sit down beside her, careful to keep enough distance so she doesn’t feel cornered, but close enough that she knows you’re there. “it’s christmas,” you tell her gently, your breath visible in the chill of the cabin as you get straight to the point, half expecting shauna to barely acknowledge it at all.

instead, her brows knit together, a flash of confusion crossing her face. “what?”

“today,” you say again. “it’s december 25th. christmas day!”

shauna blinks, her lips parting slightly as if she’s about to say something, but no words come. “i’ve been keeping track,” you explain, pulling a small, makeshift calendar from your pocket. the paper is torn from scraps you’ve found over the months, but the marks are precise, each day carefully counted. “i didn’t want us to forget. birthdays, holidays, anything important. i just…thought maybe it would help, you know?”

for all the time you’ve spent together back home, shauna feels like a stranger now, just the ghost of the girl you fell in love with.

“you’ve been doing this the whole time?” she asks then, her voice barely above a whisper.

you nod, nervously fidgeting with the edge of the paper. “yeah. i thought it mattered. especially today.”

“christmas,” shauna repeats, the word sounding almost foreign on her tongue, like it belongs to another world entirely.

“it’s still christmas,” you tell her softly, bracing to be met with her usual rejection. “even here,”

to your surprise, shauna turns toward you, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “it doesn’t feel like it,” she admits, her voice trembling. “nothing feels like it used to…”

you heart aches at her words. you remember the way things used to be: the way she’d sneak out to meet you, the way her hand would linger on yours just a second too long when no one was watching too closely. you wonder if she ever thinks about it, or if the wilderness has swallowed those memories whole, the same way it has taken so much else from you both.

“it doesn’t,” you agree quietly, reaching out to gently touch her arm. “but maybe it can still mean something? even if it’s not the same?”

shauna looks down at your hand before she slowly intertwines her fingers with yours. her grip is hesitant at first, but it tightens after a moment.

“we used to talk about christmas,” she says after a long pause. it’s the first time she brings up the way things used to be. you could listen to her for hours if she’d speak of it more often, curl up in the warmth of her voice and the memories of what was before. “back home. what it would be like when…when we didn’t have to sneak around anymore,”

“i remember,” you say quietly. “i remember everything.”

her breath hitches, and for the first time, the walls she’s been holding up seem to crumble. without warning, she leans into you, her head resting on your shoulder, her body trembling with barely restrained sobs. instinctively, likes she’s never left your arms at all, you pull her into your embrace.

“i miss her,” shauna whispers. “i miss jackie i miss home. i miss…everything”

you don’t know what to say to that, so you just wrap your arm around her, holding her closer as her tears soak into your shirt. “i know,” you murmur, your hand gently stroking her hair. “i miss it all too.”

after a moment, shauna pulls back just enough to look up at you, her cheeks flushed and tear streaked. there’s a moment of hesitation, a question lingering, before she finally leans in and presses a trembling kiss to your lips. it’s hesitant at first, but deepens, once you fall back into the way things used to be.

when she pulls away, her forehead rests against yours, her breath warm against your skin. “thank you,” she whispers. “for remembering. for being here”

“always” you promise when shauna falls back into your arms, allowing you to hold her while the others sleep.

i wrote this while being overstimulated at the christmas function, so enjoy 🤗🤗

[smokeys-house]

I think tumblr users often need to be reminded that words generally have a meaning attached to them. You can't desexualize "monsterfucker," the action is in the name, dear

[quillkiller]

One thing i find so interesting about feminism today is it’s like you can’t even say women are victims anymore. you say women are abused by men and people scream their heads off about how men can be victims and suddenly without anyone realizing the narrative shifted and now women are not allowed to be the oppressed minority anymore bc everyone will try to explain it away. it’s all white women tears or rich women etc. so people act like you’re Insane for saying maybe we should look out for celebrity women lol

!!!!!!!! ive been saying

it’s so fucking depressing!!! it’s like the whole amber heard thing all over again. people see it trending on tiktok that now we’re all supposed to hate her so that’s what im gonna do Lol 😝😝 without even reading up on the case and forming YOUR OWN OPINION ???? like what are we DOING !!!!! and like especially with these people who came crawling back saying like wahhh i take it all back i was just following the hype / i support amber heard now 😞 IDGAF !!!!! like you actively joined a movement that literally bullied a victim to domestic abuse. all because you couldn’t take the time to read up on the whole thing and form your own opinion ?? yall were THAT ready bully and laugh and point your fingers at a woman .. yall are not seeing heaven .

and like people just. do that. and it’s the same thing with the chappel roan situation. people aren’t paying real attention to what she’s saying and then there’s a whole hive of people ganging up on her and people get on that shit without even forming their own opinion on the matter. YALL JUST HATE WOMEN !!! how do you guys not SEE THIS PATTERN !!! a woman (celebrity) is celebrated for a while until it reaches some sort of peak and then everyone is turning on her all at once ???? it happens ALWAYS??? and it is not fucking lost on me that both amber heard and chappel roan are queer women lmao. like yeah people hate on other female celebrities too but not to this fucking degree

[inkskinned]

somewhere out there someone has probably used AI to write their wedding vows. someone out there is probably loading their hinge profile with AI quippy responses. when i close my eyes i picture a man hunting through chatGPT prompts, trying to get someone else to love him. maybe she sends him back chatGPT too, and two robots fall in love.

is this our new lives, then? is love scripted? i have a dandelion heart and some part of me wants to believe that AI will not obtain self-reliance by evil but instead by discovering the single perfect shape of love - the one thing humanity (in all our time and force) could never quite nail down. maybe it will be a string of numbers. the imprint of static, the universe's thumbprint. maybe it will just be a single long mirror, and jam dripping down your hands.

i know there are "good" reasons. i was nervous! or i was unsure how to say it! but - i want your nervous words. i want your unsure words. i want you to strike entire pages of work for me. i want you to gesture vaguely, to ransack your mind for ways to instead-of-saying just show me. i want to find where your words fail you and where the summer of your longing blazes out of you, infinite, resisting the capture of definition.

and i want to do the same for you. isn't any love worth a little bit of struggle? i want to shiver with the movie-ripe sense my friends are lovely and i am so tender towards them - i want to never quite be able to explain what it means to spend my life with them. i want to draw shapes on your skin that exit the geometric and fade into the same, wordless pattern. it is still love if silent. you know - i rarely, if ever, actually tell my siblings i love them? i just show up often, and hope the action does the talking.

i know AI is "easier". of course. buttoned up and seamlessly corporate. but i do not want to love you through a film. i do not want to love you with your edges sanded down. i cannot recognize myself in you if you are unmarred and glistening. something about how, with the crystal-clear mp3 files of the present, we ache for the scratch of vinyl. the flaws are what make love worth it. i want the raw and the windbeaten and the unkempt.

something tender, then. i love you because you're real, which means that you cannot be perfect.

[becausegoodheroesdeservekidneys]

Actually, I think this does link in with a wider conversation that I have been thinking for a while Tumblr maybe needs to hear.

There's a common meme on this site now that no one here has any reading comprehension skills. The best one is, of course, the original "No offense but reading comprehension on this site is piss poor/How dare you say we piss on the poor" post, which gave rise to the nickname "pissing-on-the-poor website". There's also the "I like pancakes/How dare you say waffles are terrible" one. Both of these are great, because they're silly jokey ways to show two closely related phenomena that are probably the commonest ways to fail a reading comprehension check.

The first is someone reading certain catchphrases or buzzwords in the post, and based on their own biases or prior experiences or whatever else, their brain simply fills in what it reckons the poster is saying on the topic. Instead of reading the rest of the sentence and digesting it, the reader then just uses their assumption as the interpretation, and reacts to that.

The second is closely related, because it also uses biases and prior experiences to to interpret the post, but rather than ignoring what the OP is actually saying, it instead performs a series of gymnastic leaps to construct a whole new assertion on the OP's behalf that simply isn't there.

There's also a third, of course; that one is people being so eager to feel smug and superior over someone they perceive as Bad that they wilfully assume the OP is stupid or being serious when they're actually joking. And if the reader hadn't been so blinded by their desire to get to look down on someone, they'd have seen the very obvious tells, sometimes even including sentences like "Obviously this is a joke." (I think we have all seen examples of these. Also, in a bid to avoid as many reading comprehension fails here as possible, this does not include misunderstandings borne entirely of neurodiverse struggles to parse intentions; but, neurodiverse people are just as likely as neurotypicals to have ego play a part in their misinterpretation of others, and that is what this point is about.)

And the thing is... actually, we are all capable of any of these. I imagine a sizable chunk of people reading until this point were probably thinking "Lol, yeah, people are so stupid," but na, nage, I'm not having that. Literally everyone does these sometimes. And it becomes a particular risk when the topic under discussion is something that might brush against an issue that is a pressure point for you, like a social justice talking point that you are forever having to argue with internet strangers about, for example. Your brain holds schemas! And sometimes it likes to pattern match things before it deigns to tell you about its findings! And that can hit you right in the emotions, which if they are strong enough, really can shut down all rational thought.

But. This brings me to the real point of the post.

Because the thing is, we have all saddled up and gone to war under these conditions, or at the very least been strongly tempted to. And a vital skill that literally everyone has to learn, sooner or later, is:

Before you hit 'reply', double check the post to make sure you fucking understood it.

And that does not mean "simply re-read, confirm your bias, carry on." It means, "Is it possible to read this post from the point of view of someone who doesn't intend it the way I've taken it? If I put myself in the shoes of an innocent, could they still have written these words? Is there another interpretation for these phrases?"

And you do have to do this step. You simply do have to. Because if your desire is to 'clap back' and call someone a gargling knobskin made of garbage, fuck me sideways but you must see that it is imperative that you check if they actually deserve that kind of treatment first. You cannot spend your time claiming that we must all choose to be kind and then not bother doing your due diligence before screaming a person's various and assorted bigotries at them. If you misread it, and they were innocent - you are the raging aggressive cunt in this situation.

It does not matter that you reacted from an emotional place of normally having to defend yourself either, by the way. Sure, that makes the quality of your human soul better than that of the average Redditor who just enjoys anonymously hurting people, I guess? But it's also irrelevant. If you messaged someone and called them a misogynist because you performed several mental somersaults and landed on your own sore spot when they meant no such thing, you are the attacker. You owe them an apology. And yeah, sure, you can explain your over-reaction as the product of your normal experiences if you like, but that is only an explanation, not an excuse. You are still the asshole here. You still need to apologise and mean it.

And you could have avoided it if you'd done that due diligence, as you should have. If you're going to take a swing, make sure it's the right target. This was once described to me as donkey people - they don't think, they just kick. This is admittedly a little unkind to donkeys, who always do their due diligence, but I feel it's an apt metaphor.

TL;DR: If you feel moved to angrily reply to something, first make sure you've interpreted it right. Don't be a donkey person. And if you ask for clarification, people are innocent until proven guilty. Ask nicely. If they are a bigot, you can then smelt them for parts.

[euphorajeon]

if it's a dream (i'll come around)

— request: jeongguk + yes or no - jungkook

— pairing: jk x f. reader

— genre: fluff

— word count: 3.1k

— warnings/tags: idol!jk, college student!oc, best friend!jk, most likely inaccurate desc of new york, jk is still pining, jk orders food excessively (again), cliches (sorry)

— summary: something in the new york air makes jeongguk feel a rush: a rush to admit, a rush to tell, a rush to take a leap. he's just not sure whether you feel it too.

— author's note: it's finally here!! i'm sorry for taking so long to write this request. thank you areyousure!jeongguk for inspiring me to finish this request. hah. i hope you still enjoy!! (its unedited. maybe i'll come back someday to edit.)

a continuation of opposite of sun and light of the morning. please read the first two parts before reading this!

masterlist

Jeongguk never thought that it could be so hard to walk around New York.

There are people everywhere, going in a thousand different directions than him, and they walk so fast Jeongguk struggles to keep up even with his long legs. The shops he caught his eyes on were always full too, making him turn away from the door and look for other places that aren't so filled to the brim. Maybe he should’ve gone somewhere not as touristy as Times Square.

But above all, the hardest part of his stroll today is walking alongside you and having to feign nonchalance about it.

Jeongguk’s life as a singer doesn’t really allow him to have much free time, and even when he does, you either have work, class, or anything in between. As a result, the both of you can’t meet often. Jeongguk is so used to just seeing your face on his phone screen, talking to you via a video call connection, that seeing your form walking beside him throws him off balance.

It’s a good thing your face is mostly covered by the camera in your hands, otherwise Jeongguk would’ve spent the entire day with a blush dusting his cheeks just from holding eye contact with you.

“Do you want to go somewhere else?”

Jeongguk squints his eyes past the camera lens covering your face, searching for your eyes which are shaded by the faded black cap sitting on your head. You only respond with a shrug, gesturing towards the camera as if to remind Jeongguk of its existence. He sighs, lifting your cap with a finger so he can look at your eyes. “Bun.”

“You’re not supposed to talk to me, you know?” you huff, trying to balance the device in your hand so Jeongguk’s face is still in frame. “I’m your cameraman for today, not your best friend.”

Jeongguk chuckles. “Camerawoman,” he corrects, “and who says I’m not allowed to talk to you? Do you think I talk to myself the entire time I’m filming vlogs like this?”

“Seems like it,” you say. “Sometimes they’re funny, but most of the time they just make me think ‘what even is he saying?’”

A slow grin spreads on Jeongguk’s face, his eyes still trained on you instead of the camera. When you look away from the small screen of the device in your hand, Jeongguk feels like his smile could split his face into two, and it must look bizarre on camera, but he doesn’t care. What he does care about is—

“You watch my vlogs?”

Suddenly, Jeongguk feels like he is not a popular singer with fans all over the world who tune in to his regular vlog updates, but just Jeon Jeongguk, a boy with a crush to impress. The way you unintentionally confirmed that you watch his vlogs makes him feel all giddy inside that it slipped his mind that you already said the same thing this morning in his hotel room.

Maybe this is what people mean when they say love makes one stupid.

“Only to see what other stupid shenanigans you do this time,” you mumble, dabbing around your face with the back of your free hand. It suspiciously looks like you’re trying to hide the blush creeping up your cheeks, but Jeongguk immediately throws that thought away from his mind. It must be the New York heat that’s making your face hot like this.

“Just admit you enjoy seeing my face on your phone that much,” Jeongguk says cheekily, settling for a response that’s annoying, teasing, but familiar for the both of you. Maybe he’ll address the not-blush on the apple of your cheeks some other time.

“Where was this confidence about me watching your Times Square performance, huh?” You punch his shoulder lightly, which he’s sure makes the image of him on camera shake and blur. “Saying I ‘ghosted’ you because your performance is ‘bad’. What nonsense was that.”

“Hey, I was really worried about you, okay?” Jeongguk pouts. “Besides, I still need your opinion on my performances, whereas my vlogs are usually just me messing around. It’s different.”

Whatever response you have prepared in your mind gets interrupted by your phone ringing, which startles you so much you almost drop the camera from your hand. Good thing Jeongguk has fast reflexes, immediately enclosing his hands around yours before you could do any damage to the device. Upon checking the caller ID, your expression turns to one of worry.

Jeongguk takes the camera away from you. “Take the call,” he says. “I’ll just be here.”

While you step away to do just that, Jeongguk takes the opportunity to finally pay attention to the camera that he has been ignoring for the past few minutes, checking himself out on the small screen and running his fingers through his hair while holding eye contact with the lense. He goes on social media often enough to know that his fans will cut this specific clip from the vlog and fangirl over how good he looks while doing that.

Sometimes he wonders whether you see those clips and have the same reaction as his fans. Do you see them and scroll past them like they’re nothing? Do you scoff at his antics? Do you shake your head with a small laugh?

There’s also a possibility of you not even seeing those clips at all, but Jeongguk likes to think he’s popular enough that his clips can’t help but still end up in your feed. (Also, it hurts his little heart too much to imagine otherwise.)

You come back to him from your phone call with anxiety written all over your face. Jeongguk doesn’t even need to inquire before you squeak out your concern yourself.

“The deadline for my midterm paper has been moved. It’s now due in five hours. Jeongguk, what do I do?”

The both of you end up going back to Jeongguk’s hotel to fish out your brick-ass laptop from your gigantic backpack, the camera in his hands still recording. You’ve told him that he could continue exploring New York on his own, bringing the camera noona like the initial plan was, but Jeongguk insisted on coming with you instead. Why would he go with anyone else when you are here?

Still, though, because he doesn’t want to lose the sense of exploring a new place, he drags you to a dessert cafe near his hotel, offering to hold your laptop in his arms while you walk the short distance to the cafe. Despite your protests, Jeongguk manages to convince you to leave the camera on for the entirety of this laptop fiasco, capturing every moment from the laptop tug-of-war in Jeongguk’s hotel room to his grin in response to your sulking face when you’re both seated in the dessert cafe.

His video editor would hate him for this, but Jeongguk doesn’t care. You’re here, in New York with him, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t try his hardest to preserve any memories you make here.

“I don’t understand why you’d rather be stuck here with me than be out there exploring sunny New York in all its glory,” you huff while waiting for your laptop to turn on. It takes a while, Jeongguk notices, but your pout prevents him from saying anything about it. “What idiot has free time in New York and chooses to spend it cooped inside some random cafe?”

Jeongguk pretends to adjust the camera sitting on the table—angled in a way that it captures his face only—so he doesn’t have to look at your face when he says his next words: “Your idiot, Bun.”

You level him with a flat stare. “So you admit you’re an idiot.”

If it means being yours, sure, Jeongguk thinks. He really should stop thinking thoughts like these lest he blurt them out in front of you, on camera.

“I’m gonna order, what do you want, Bun?” Jeongguk asks as an attempt to steer the conversation away from idiots with feelings.

You look up from your (finally on) laptop screen with your head in your hands. “Anything except americano,” you mumble. “Thanks, Jeon.”

“Sure, Bun.” Jeongguk stands up from his seat, grabbing the camera to bring with him to the cashier. “You sure you don’t want anything else?”

The way you shake your head dejectedly is so uncharacteristic of you, given you’re both in a cafe filled with the smell of baked goods—something that usually brings a light of excitement into your eyes. Jeongguk can only imagine how stressful it is being a college student and having your midterm deadline be moved to hours earlier, and to experience all this while being jet lagged from a 14-hour flight prior surely doesn’t help.

Jeongguk has to physically hold himself from ducking down to engulf you in a hug, squeeze his arms around your frame until your frown is turned upside down and he can bear witness to your smile once again. For now, he can only wish that the cafe sells the type of bread you like so he can at least alleviate some of your burden with the sweet treat.

When he goes to the cashier to order, his polite smile is responded with a gasp from the cafe worker, clearly recognizing him as the popular singer. His smile turns into something more genuine—albeit a bit shy also—when the worker mentions that she’s a fan of his. After exchanging some pleasantries with her, Jeongguk proceeds to order. He just doesn’t realize how many desserts and pastries in the display case he’s pointed at until the worker asks him a question.

“Are you here with your crews?” she inquires, still tapping away at the computer screen in front of her. When Jeongguk only stares at her with wide eyes, she continues. “We can provide individual utensils for each of you if you’d like,” she offers.

Oh. Oh. Jeongguk thought she was asking for conversational purposes. “Uh, just two sets would be fine. Thank you.”

Still, it doesn’t register in his brain that he’s ordered too many pastries for two people until he’s coming back to your table with only both of your drinks on the tray in his hands. He sets your drink down next to your laptop, on which you’re typing furiously like you’re a madman chased by a tight deadline (in a way, you kind of are.)

Only when three cafe workers come back to back to your table to drop off his order of various kinds of desserts and pastries does he realize that he might have gone overboard with his order. Jeongguk can only flash a guilty smile your way when you tear your eyes away from your laptop to gape at the array of desserts in front of you.

“Are you trying to feed an entire village?” you ask incredulously.

“Hehe,” Jeongguk offers. “I was thinking about you and how you looked so stressed out because of your deadline and I just … ordered pretty much everything … for you.” He scratches his head sheepishly while setting the camera to its initial position on the corner of the table. He hopes the camera doesn’t pick up the way his cheeks blossom with heat. Or if it does, he hopes the editor cuts this part out.

Jeongguk doesn’t know if he imagines this part or not, but your eyes soften at his words and your next words are more gentle in tone. “Thank you, but there’s no way I would be able to finish all of these by myself.”

“Did you forget that you have Jeon Jeongguk for a best friend?” There’s a smug smirk on his face now, replacing the sheepish one he was sporting a few minutes ago. He likes it when you’re soft with him, vulnerable in a way only he’s allowed to see, but that’s exactly the problem: you’re both on camera, and whether or not this gets shared to the world, it’s still not as private as he would’ve liked. So he’s back on his annoying best friend persona to stop your vulnerable side from coming out.

You roll your eyes at him, but there’s a sliver of a smile on your lips.

The both of you spend the next few minutes enjoying your desserts and drinks, with Jeongguk cutting the desserts into bite-sized pieces so you can eat them with ease. He also does not forget his job as an entertainer, showing each and every one of the desserts to the camera and making sure his delightful hums are loud enough for the camera to pick up. He’s humming along to the song being played in the cafe while chewing when it suddenly plays an intro of a song he knows by heart—and judging from the way you look up from your laptop, you do too.

“Did they know you’re here?” The smile on your face is teasing.

“The cashier recognized me, said she’s a fan,” Jeongguk explains, turning his head in the direction of the cashier, trying to find the aforementioned worker. Upon making eye contact with her, Jeongguk mouths a thank you! with a smile, which she responds with a thumbs up.

“You must have made her day by coming here. Her whole week, even,” you chuckle, going back to typing on your laptop. The smile quickly drops from your face as you’re forced to go back to thinking mode for your midterm paper. Jeongguk nudges a fork full of pastry into your hand, silently asking you to eat.

“Then would you still say I’m an idiot for choosing to be here with you?”

Jeongguk said he’d leave this topic alone, revisit it later when he’s got the courage to do so, but what can he do? Your presence here with him makes him overwhelmed with feelings that sometimes it slips in between his words.

The only response he receives from you is silence. Jeongguk doesn’t know whether it’s because you didn’t want to respond or you simply just didn’t hear him. It’s most likely the latter as any attempt he makes to make you eat the desserts are useless as you’re too immersed in your paper. He ends up just feeding you bites after bites of desserts, grateful and giddy that you take them without protests as you’re typing.

As he’s cutting up more pastries for you to eat, the song changes to ‘Yes or No’, the fifth track on his latest album that he performed live two days ago at Times Square. He remembers you telling him that your friend, Yeseo, became a fan after listening to this song. Jeongguk tries to suppress a smile by biting his bottom lip as he listens to the lyrics of the song.

Are you feeling the rush?

Are we falling in love?

Say yes or no

In an interview, Jeongguk told the public that no songs from his album are based on his personal life, although he hopes he still delivered the messages of the songs well enough. What he doesn’t say, however, is that he thinks of you whenever he listens to or performs this song. It’s a song about a person in love and still wonders whether the other person is feeling the same way. Sometimes he wishes he could be honest and sing the words to you, pour out his feelings along the way, and he wishes you could feel the same way.

Jeongguk stops his activities of cutting desserts into bite-sized pieces and leans his back against his chair, staring at you. You’re still hyper-focused on your paper that you don’t notice his gaze, typing away on your laptop without a care for the love pouring out of his eyes.

Jeongguk knows you love him.

You love him enough to answer his video call at two am when you were studying. You love him enough to sacrifice sleep to watch his performance. You love him enough to book a flight to New York immediately after even though you still have a midterm paper to finish. You love him enough to walk around JFK with a heavy backpack hanging off your shoulders. You love him enough to join him exploring New York instead of resting off your jet lag.

But does that mean you love him enough to return his feelings the way he wants you to?

As he ponders the answer to that question, his hand moves on its own accord to continue feeding you the dessert he has cut up. You continue accepting the food he feeds you, and Jeongguk thinks maybe he needs to stop being selfish and just be content with whatever he has with you right now: friendship.

Although, in this moment, feeding you desserts while you do your paper, he feels like your college boyfriend he wished to be nights ago when you were a mere video on his phone. He already dresses the part—jeans and oversized hoodie—and feels the part, but that’s the thing about parts, isn’t it? That they’re not real, that they’re only there in his head.

You have cream on the corner of your lips from a particular big cut of dessert Jeongguk just fed you, and it feels like autopilot when he leans forward to swipe the cream off your lips with his thumb. He slots the thumb in between his own lips, sucking the cream clean off his skin. The innocent round of his eyes are met with the shocked round of yours, unblinking as you stare at the thumb previously on your lips, now on his.

“What?” he asks dumbly.

You shake your head. There’s an unmistakable crimson on the apple of your cheeks. “Nothing,” you say, clearing your throat. The blush on your face remains, and if Jeongguk’s sight serves him right, deepens instead. “Just, remember that you’re on camera the next time you want to do that.”

“So I can do it again if I turn off the camera?”

Jeongguk surprises himself by how steady he sounds. A tad too serious, too, and if he’s not careful, you might take it that he really wants to do it again, for real. His heart hammers in his chest as his hand inches towards the camera, fingers ready to turn the device off.

“Jeongguk,” you say slowly in a warning tone. “Namjoon will kill me if you try anything funny.”

Letting out his signature big grin, Jeongguk retracts his hand from the camera.

“Sorry, Bun. I’ll let you finish your paper in peace now.”

If you have cream on your lips again, maybe he’ll swipe it off with his lips instead. Maybe later, when he has the courage to. Maybe later, when he’s let you know how he really feels.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

a/n: thank you for reading! i still have 1 (one) more idea for this couple pair of bestfriends but not sure if i have the brain capacity to actually write it out ahaha let me know if you want to see more of them though :D

[ceilidho]

sundog

prompt: Simon comes across a girl when she's recently been evicted and takes her back to his place, despite her reservations (nsfw, 8.5k) [based on this old post] [on ao3 here]

-

The circumstances of your life change so abruptly that you lose sight of it for a moment. 

Then, you’re out on the streets with the clothes on your back and a suitcase packed so full that a sweater sleeve sticks out where the zippers meet. The locks to your apartment have already been changed. You know because you tried them anyway, desperately hoping that the eviction notice taped to your door might have been misplaced.

Evidently not. The keys don’t work. You contemplate chucking them on the walk out, but instead you keep them close like a talisman of protection, though it’s failed to live up to its purpose so far. 

You’ve got it under control for a day. If by ‘under control’, you mean experiencing a full body panic attack in the locker room of the twenty-four hour gym down the street from your old apartment. The staff gives you uncomfortable looks when you come in on the verge of tears with your suitcase rolling behind you, but they let you in because your membership is up to date. If you can count on anything in life, it’s consumerism. 

That doesn’t last long though, mainly because a locker and a wood bench won’t cut it in the long term. You sleep in the back of the local library until a stern-faced, if pitying, librarian threatens to call the cops on you. Pity isn’t sympathy, evidently. 

Gym management threatens to cut the lock on the locker you’ve been using as temporary storage space. Matter of fact, they say, you can’t be using the locker room as your quasi apartment between the hours of nine P.M. and seven A.M. just because everything else in the city is closed. Go home, they say. 

What home, you don’t say, before packing up your things and heading out on your way. 

If there’s one thing you can count on, it’s capitalism. 

You didn’t think this kind of thing could happen to someone like you. Someone like you being an ordinary person. Homelessness always felt like a far away concept. But the world is cruel and life is brutal. What you didn’t realize before was that, at any moment in time, you’ve been closer to poverty than wealth, and here you are now, sitting in the park with your suitcase between your legs, the sun rapidly setting behind you, your phone at ten percent battery, and nowhere to go because your family is, frankly, nonexistent, and your friends, for lack of a better word, have almost entirely washed their hands of you.

Sorry, they’d say, the frown emoji expressing something like pity at a distance. We don’t have a couch to spare. 

I can sleep on the floor, you’d texted back. They’d gotten cagey after that. People like to be wanted only to a certain extent.

You can feel the panic rise up in you, too big to contain. It comes out in the form of blubbering tears and snot running from your nose. Big, hiccuping sobs. It’s not pretty. Passersby avert their eyes for the most part, save for the ones that eye you with something bordering on perverse delight and that’s what finally makes you get up and speed walk away, lest they feel compelled to approach you. 

But even in the tailwinds of summer, it gets cold outside at night. Worst of all, as the evening grows dark, the streets empty out until you can’t help but feel like a beacon with your little rolling suitcase. It clatters against the sidewalk as you try to hoof it down the street, looking for any shop still open to loiter in. Most close after nine though. You’ve googled homeless shelters, but the sheer anxiety keeps you floundering around up and down the streets instead.

It feels beyond helpless. You’re in a state like you’ve never been before, crying under a streetlamp because you needed a moment just to get your bearings. 

What you know now is that this world is a house of false bottoms. You thought the circumstances of your life could never change. You were never well to do, but you were doing well. The sight of the unhoused sitting with their backs to the brick and mortar stores on your walk home or congregated in a park in the middle of the city with their tents and shopping carts used to fill you with immeasurable pity, maybe even a quiet moment’s reflection; now, you see them as kin. 

Easy, isn’t it? To slip between states. To go from solid to liquid to gaseous. Easier than you ever could have expected. 

When it starts to rain, you almost close your eyes in relief. Anyone could’ve predicted this. 

You almost don’t respond to him at first, keeping your eyes trained on the sidewalk to avoid any bumps. Also, it never pays to look up at a man barking at you, especially not when he’s barking something like, Girl or Bird, turn around. 

Then he says it again, closer this time, and you’re forced to look up, if only to see who’s approaching you. Your suspicion melts away to distrust at the sight of the man stalking towards you. Distrust with a touch of trepidation—maybe outright alarm. Surely no man his size wearing a balaclava tucked into a hoodie straining around his arms would have innocent designs on you. 

He’s one of the bigger men you’ve ever come across. You look across the street to see if there’s a bar missing its bouncer, but all the shop fronts are dark like the ones on your side. 

You don’t bolt at the sight of him, but it’s a near thing. He appears from nowhere, and yet there’s nowhere for him to hide. Not with the size and breadth of him damn near taking up the whole sidewalk. His demeanour and stride evoke such a sense of authority that at first you mistake him for a plainclothes man, and wouldn’t that be just the icing on the shit cake of a week you’ve been experiencing. But something about him says otherwise. 

“Plan on catchin’ your death out here?” he asks, and you shiver. Not from the cold, but from the sound of his voice. 

You’re not used to talking to strangers. A month ago, you would’ve ignored the man lambasting you for being out in the rain; maybe crossed the street and hailed a cab instead. You don’t have those kinds of options anymore. The only thing left in your repertoire is to shout back. 

“I’ve got mace!” you yell out, your voice a hoarse rattle carved out from hours spent crying. 

“That’ll do ya fuck all out here,” he says, a touch condescendingly. “You lost or somethin’?”

“I’m not lost,” you sniff, rubbing the snot away from your nose with the end of your sleeve.

“Then get home instead of roamin’ the streets. You’re askin’ to get snatched up, bird.”

The threat of that has been lingering in your head these past few days, even stretching back to the very first moment that you noticed the sign on your door, but now it has its intended effect. You shake. 

“I can’t,” you whisper.

“Bloody hell,” he sighs. “Why the fuck not? Need someone to call you a cab?”

“I got evicted. I don’t have a home,” you say, and sniffle when your nose leaks again. Saying it outloud brings tears to your eyes again, a pressure building behind your orbital sockets and down to the tip of your nose. 

You must look like the saddest thing in the world standing there in the rain under the dim light of the streetlamp, the pole looped with graffiti and old gum. When the man berating you for being out in it takes a step forward, coming into the light, you can finally make out the bored depths of his eyes. A deep brown. Entirely unimpressed with the picture in front of him, maybe even a bit peeved. 

Your socks are wet and your shoes squelch when you take a step back. You pull the sheer sweater tighter around your frame, but it does nothing to protect you from the damp, frigid air. 

“You been out here long?” he asks, taking another step closer. Not tentatively either. His gaze sweeps over you proprietarily, taking stock; his arrogance comes as an afterthought. He’s not rubbing it in your face that he can do whatever he likes—he just does. 

You wheel your suitcase around in front of you to put something between the two of you. “…Just today. The gym kicked me out.”

You sound petulant, words chewed between your lips and teeth; begrudgingly admitting to the various pitfalls of your existence. All the bad luck. It’s shameful to admit to losing complete control of your life. 

“Haven’t ya got any family, girl? Friends? What’re they letting a girl like you stay out on the streets for?”

You could be sick on the pavement. “…That’s none of your business.”

His eyes go flat at that, unimpressed. “You always this nasty to people tryin’ to help?”

And you’re not. That’s the part that grates the most. You’re all soft underbelly; no bark, no bite. It’s inconceivable that this could’ve happened to you—inconceivable because your head is filled with false promises and mythologies. The myth of exceptionalism. This happens to other people. Not good girls that go to college and get their degrees and find a stable job. 

They’ve pulled the rug out from under you so fast that you haven’t even toppled over yet. That’s how quick it all happened. 

“What help are you?” The bite comes out of nowhere, fueled by bitter humiliation and resentment for the predicament you’ve found yourself in. “Are you gonna put me up in a hotel?”

“Think I’m made of money, bird?” he asks rhetorically. 

“You’ve probably got more than I have.” 

Now you’re weepy again at the thought. Down to your last hundred dollars and you’re in between jobs at the moment. It might’ve been easier to haul yourself out of poverty if applying for jobs didn’t require a mailing address. That’ll be your first priority once you find a place to live. But conversely, how are you meant to find housing with no proof of income? Landlords laugh in your face before slamming the door shut. The conversations are circular, but they always come to a grinding halt; that’s the only thing you’ve learned to expect. 

The worst part of this whole conversation is that it doesn’t follow any of the scripts you’ve previously memorized. When have you ever had to deal with a man interrogating you about your place of residence? It makes no sense. 

It’s inconceivable to imagine that this is happening to you, but it is. Life comes at you hard, with a razor’s edge. Sharp enough to cut, to lacerate. 

“You need a place to stay,” he states bluntly. 

“It’s fine. I’ll—I’ll find something.” 

“You could come home with me.” He says it so bluntly that for a moment all you can do is blink. Surely you misheard him. Surely a man of his size and breadth, dark mask obscuring his face, wouldn’t be daft enough to ask a woman he found on the street to come home with him.

The offer, as well-intentioned as you hope it is, puts you on edge. “No, that’s…that’s alright. I don’t want to…put you out. I was going to look up nearby shelters.”

“Shelters’ll all be full this time of night,” he says. “Never been on the streets?”

You clenched your teeth, nerves starting to get the better of you. 

“I can go to a church,” you say, voice terse now, frayed with nerves. 

He snorts. “Haven’t been to one in a long time, but pretty sure those close too, pet. It’s late.”

You sway on your feet, the suitcase at your side the only thing keeping your knees from buckling. Dead ends everywhere you turn. You’ve always thought of yourself as resourceful; that if push came to shove, you’d figure your way out of any sticky situation. That smacks of arrogance now. All your suppositions are dissolving right in front of you, your own self-image along with it. 

A heavy foot stepping into a puddle brings you back to focus. The masked man is closer now, within arm’s reach. Your heart jumps into your throat. He towers over you, monolith man; big as a sequoia, or other deadland creatures that vanish out of sight when you catch a shadow out of the corner of your eye and whirl around to look it dead on. 

“I can’t go home with a stranger.”

You know you’re not supposed to put your faith in strange men. Bad things happen to girls that go around trusting any man that offers up their help. 

The fist in your chest loosens infinitesimally when the man reaches up to pull the mask off his head. He’s every inch the brute you imagined in your head—blunt chin and crooked nose, a nasty scar running up his lip. There are scars all over his face, in fact—bisecting his left eyebrow and down his cheek. The blond hair on his head is slightly grown out, like he’s used to keeping it neat and tight but it’s been awhile since his head has seen a razor. His beard grows in a bit patchy, the burnish gold of a five o’clock shadow.

You frown. “Is that supposed to make me trust you?”

“Well, now we’re not strangers, are we?”

“That doesn’t—that doesn’t change anything! I still don’t know you.”

He shrugs. Takes a step back. “Suit yourself then. No skin off my ass.”

Your stomach roils, anxiety coming back with a vengeance. You hadn’t noticed it recede since the man started talking to you, but you notice its return. When he makes a move to turn back around, you lurch forward, your hand extending out and fisting in the side of his shirt. He pauses, then looks down at you. 

“…Where else am I supposed to go?” you whisper.

He tilts his head. “Could sleep on a bench in the park.”

You glare at him through tear-soaked eyes. “That’s not funny.”

“Wasn’t meant to be. You’re shit out of other options at this time of night.”

“So, what? Now it’s-it’s my fault or something?”  

His eyes don’t exactly soften, but they lose their hard edge. 

“I’m not gonna ask twice,” he says. Not cautioning you, just stating a fact. “You coming or not?”

Disaster seems like a given at this point. At least you could pick your poison. 

Words are beyond you though, so you just bite your lip and nod, eyes downcast now. 

What else is there for you to do but follow him after that? You trail along after him like a sad, wet cat left out in the rain. 

He finds her wandering the streets with her pretty little suitcase rolling over every bump and crack in the sidewalk and there’s no fighting the urge to drag her home. 

She doesn’t look like a runaway. Just a poor thing down on her luck. Her cheeks practically glisten with her tears when she looks up at him with her big, pathetic eyes, and it makes his cock plump up against his thigh. 

That’s not what this is about though. Simon presses his hand against his dick to rub out some of the ache while she flutters around the bedroom and reminds himself of that again. He didn’t take her home to maul her like a dog. He dragged her back to his flat because she looked wounded and scared out of her wits. 

He can be good every now and then. 

“Sit down, will ya?” he grunts, tugging her down onto the couch when she flits across the room to grab more of her shit out of her suitcase, glancing down at him apprehensively on her way by. She yelps when he sends her sprawling onto the couch. 

His flat isn’t much. A one-bedroom above a laundromat; eggshell walls and torn up baseboards because he hasn’t gotten around to fixing the place up. It’s better than sleeping on the streets though, he knows that much. 

Simon’s no stranger to that; if being in the military taught him anything, it was how to survive regardless of circumstances. In the weeks after his medical discharge—his knees beyond busted, basically bone on bone, and even these days, though he works more to have something to do than to earn a living, they still scream at him when he puts too much weight on them—he wandered aimlessly for a bit, crashing on Gaz’s couch for a bit and sleeping on benches for a spell after that before finding his footing again. 

Simon ignores the way that she yaps at him though, used to tuning people out. He flicks on the television and flips to a show that looks vaguely entertaining before getting up and ambling over to the kitchen. 

“D-do you want me to help?” she asks from the kitchen, tripping over her words in her haste to get them out. 

She reeks of the need to please. Desperate; cloying, sickly sweet like flowering dracaena. It clings to her like a perfume, silk-wrapped and packaged just for him. It could give a man like him indecent thoughts. His thoughts already tend towards the impure. 

He must eye her like a ravenous animal because she flinches suddenly under his gaze, eyes flicking away nervously before meeting his again. Good girl, Simon wants to say. Eyes on me. 

“Sit down,” he barks instead, and relishes in the way she sits back down with her hands tucked under her thighs. 

She’s really a pretty little thing. A shame that he found her out wandering in the rain, out where any man with worse intentions could have stumbled across her. The thought alone could drive him to violence. Again he stares at the back of her head and the slope of her shoulders, evaluating. His bloodlust dulls to a simmer. It pounds in his ears like a dull drum, but at least now he can hear again. 

Anyone else could have found her first, but they didn’t. He did. That tempers the homicidal impulse thrumming in his blood. She’s in his flat now, freshly showered and skin still damp. When she looks over her shoulder, it’s him she sees. 

Poor bird with her clipped wings. She’s not in danger of flying off anytime soon. The thought placates him. Tucked away in his cage, he doesn’t have to rend anyone limb from limb.

It’s been years since he traded in his fatigues for a hi vis jumpsuit, but some days he misses it so acutely that his hands shake and his vision fades in and out. This is one of those days. He toys with the idea of reaching out to Price in the morning to learn more about her, but then discards the idea. Better if it comes straight from her.

Besides, he doesn’t like asking for favours anyway.

“Name’s Simon, by the way,” he grunts, nostrils flaring when he sees her flinch at the sound of his voice. “Riley.”

“Oh,” is all she says. He waits a beat.

“Gonna give me your name, bird?”

She does, voice squeaky like it’s said under duress. That pisses him off more. 

He's not much of a cook, but he can whip up something quick, so he tosses one of his frozen meals into the microwave and sits her in front of the TV while she shivers and shakes on the couch.

They eat in silence, the TV on in the background. It’s the only noise besides the soft sound of her chewing. Simon can tell she’s gone hungry in recent days by the voracious way she eats, unable to keep herself from shovelling the food into her mouth. She seems almost embarrassed by it after swallowing her last bite, looking over at him from the corner of her eye like a guilty dog. He ignores it, keeping his eyes on the TV instead.

He can tell she wants to say something. A shit childhood and two decades in the military have left him with the ability to sniff out tension, and it comes off her in waves. After putting her plate on the coffee table, she sits back against the couch and squeezes her fists over her lap. Gnaws her lip and casts furtive glances in his direction. When the tears build up on her waterline, his cock twitches. 

“What?” he barks after the umpteenth sniffle, twisting to face her. 

“I—um—I just wanted to say thank you,” she whispers, her head still tilted downward, trying to make herself small enough to go unnoticed. 

Simon stares down at her, unblinking. He half wishes she’d cry a little more, just a few tears to soothe the beast in his chest. It’s better for her that her eyes remain dry. He doesn’t think he could hold himself back if one slipped down her cheek right now. He’d have to grab her by the nape of her neck and twist her over the side of the couch, shove down both their drawers and feed his cock into the warm, wet slot between her legs. Pummel her little cunt until his spend leaks out in thick, viscous globs, until her thighs shake so violently that only his hands on her shoulders and his shaft shoved deep in her pussy keeps her upright. 

He can almost smell it from between her legs, throbbing with gratefulness. He stares down unabashedly at the spot between her legs. Let her say something about it. 

“Don’t mention it,” he says instead, tilting his head when her tongue peeks out to wet her lips. “‘Was nothing.”

“No, it was really nice of you,” she insists, speaking more forcefully after gathering up some of her courage. “What if I…—you took a stranger into your house.”

That gets the blood pumping. “Gonna gut me while I sleep, pet?”

It’s half deranged that his cock chubs up in his jeans at the thought of his little bird with a knife in her hands, hands dripping with wet, dark blood. He shifts, readjusting himself so the metal teeth of his zipper don’t bite into his dick. 

She frowns. Endearing. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“Not really good at looking after yourself, are you?”

“I am—it’s just…” tears build up on her waterline again, “it was one thing after another. I couldn’t get it all together.”

Pity isn’t an emotion he’s accustomed to feeling. Simon’s not even sure if that’s what he’s feeling now. It’s more like the bastard child of pity. 

He lets her off to bed with a warning not to fuck with anything in his room. She skitters off quickly after that. Her cute little ass follows her into the room until she shuts the door behind her, hiding it from view. He huffs. Being good never gets him anywhere.

He lets her run away though because he can’t tarnish everything he touches. Some things deserve to stay polished. 

Instead, he brushes his teeth and washes the last of the dishes before turning in as well, getting a clean sheet out of the linen closet to drape over himself. The couch isn’t nearly long enough for him to stretch out on, not like the king sized bed in his room; there’s already a spring poking him right in the middle of his back.

Sleep won’t come easy tonight. 

Simon wakes up on the couch with a kink in his neck. He lays there for several minutes gritting his teeth until the worst of it passes. When he sits up, his back cracks and pops, joints loosening only reluctantly. His age is getting away from him again; the wear and tear on his body finally starting to catch up. There’s only so much abuse he can put himself through. 

The morning races on outside his front door and he has work to get to, but his body orients towards the closed door of his bedroom almost without his say. It creaks as it swings open. 

In the slowly dimming haze of sleep, he must have subconsciously thought he dreamt the night before because seeing the girl from yesterday curled up in his bed halts him in his tracks. Her suitcase is open on the floor beside the bed. She must have changed into her pyjamas after slinking away last night because he doesn’t recognize the little cotton shorts hugging the swell of her ass and the shirt riding up over her belly button. 

Despite the perfunctory morning jerk he gave himself just ten minutes prior, his cock twitches in his work pants, gaze locked on the underside of her ass, the flesh peeking out from beneath her sleep shorts. 

The hunger ebbs out of a deep, cavernous hole in him. A heavy, oppressive heat; lust so gnarled and twisted that he hardly recognizes it. He can see it play out in his mind—crawling over the bird’s prone form and turning her over onto her belly, his knees on either side of her legs, cloaking her. Tugging down the zipper of his pants and wrenching those slutty shorts down to mid-thigh before burying his shaft in her hole. Little bird that followed him home, sleeping in his bed. She should thank him for his help with a wet hole. 

Simon takes a step into the room and then stops. He won’t—can’t—

His teeth grind together from how hard he clenches his jaw. 

He stands in the doorway and watches her sleep in his bed for longer than he should. Only when he feels something ugly well up in his chest does he finally bark out her name, snorting softly when she jumps and nearly falls right off the side of the bed. 

“Get up,” Simon grunts. “And make yourself something to eat. I’ve gotta head out.”

He walks away before the befuddled look on her face makes him crack a smile. 

She tiptoes out a few minutes later, still in her PJs. Her wary glances tick him off. For the effort it’s taken him to keep his hands to himself, he deserves more than her shifty looks, scoring him like he split her little peach open in her sleep.  

Breakfast is an uncomfortable affair. It’s partly his fault, but he doesn’t apologize for it. They eat in tense silence until it’s time for him to head to work. 

“Don't think about leaving—any of my shit gets nicked and it's your ass.”

He leaves her with that warning, slamming the door behind him.

Your heart goes quiet at the dawning of your new life. 

Adjusting to your new reality takes a bit of effort. The first few days with Simon feel tenuous at best. You worry constantly about doing something wrong and finding yourself back out on the streets. You’re thankful to the point of pandering, apologizing for any sudden move or sound that you make. You can tell it annoys him. 

The real work is recontextualizing your perception of yourself. The world feels strange now that you’re outside of it; alien somehow. You used to think of yourself as somehow inextricably woven into the fabric of society. The thought of losing everything never even occurred to you. It never even presented itself as a possibility. You worried about homelessness the way people worry about quicksand—in some nebulous way touching on the real without being absorbed by it. 

And now you are cut from another cloth altogether; abruptly, without any warning. You used to feel like one with the rest of the world, a kind of kinship based less on parentage or ancestry and more on inner nature. Weren’t you the same as any of them? But now the drapery has been pulled down and you know—you are not the same. 

Your future used to shimmer under the surface like a bioluminescent fish, but now it’s just a ghost.

He tells you to stay put when he goes to work so you do, spending the days puttering around the apartment, watching TV, and cleaning. There’s not much else to do. It’s almost a relief, to be honest. You’ve spent so much time without a place to call home that the second someone offered you one, the outside world became anathema in your head. You couldn’t step foot out of the front door even if you wanted to. 

Tears well up at the smallest thing. You blubber over not being able to work the coffee machine in the kitchen. When the sound goes out on the TV, you cry so hard that it leaves you woozy. You’re lachrymose, downtrodden. Soul a startling verdigris; your waterlines might as well be white with encrustations of salt. 

He must notice the dark cloud following you from room to room, but he doesn’t bring it up. You’d find it tactful, but you know him a bit better than that. 

Then Simon brings home a cat after his shift one day and you don’t know what to say to that.

Thank you doesn’t seem to suffice. I love it doesn’t cut it close. The truth of the matter is that words only ever approximate the feeling; they can get close enough to give you a glimmer of what’s stashed inside, but you can’t pry them all the way open. So you take the off-white cat from him when he practically tosses the poor thing into your arms, and stare up at him wide-eyed, eyes already watering for reasons once again unbeknownst to you. 

“Thank you for taking him home,” you say, already on the verge of tears.

He stares down at you, unblinking. You’re learning to read into his silences though. 

“Don’t expect me to take care of it,” he says instead of accepting your thanks. “If you can’t handle it, it’s going back outside.” 

You hold the cat tight to your chest, staring up at him with horror until the little beast nearly scratches your eye out in an effort to squirm out of your arms. 

At first, you’re not sure what to make of it. It can’t be a peace offering because, apart from the rare occasions where you manage to get on his nerves (not wholly impossible, but you’re learning how to stay on his good side for the most part), you and Simon get along pretty well. You coexist, at least. He cooks, you clean. 

It’s likely a distraction, you finally realize, something to keep you from moping around the apartment all the time, listless and directionless. Despite the fact that you’re no longer in any immediate danger now that you have a roof over your head, misery still clings to you like a second skin. The relative safety of Simon’s flat has actually only given you a chance to really properly mourn the loss of your former life. 

Training the cat to wear a harness without tipping over (the little drama king) and taking him on his first walk outside (just a little turn around the block, though you half jump out of your skin whenever you cross paths with another person) gives you enough of a sense of purpose to propel you through the next week. 

You can tell that Simon thinks the cat is more trouble than it’s worth, especially when it decides to fixate on the one person in the flat that doesn’t pay it a lick of attention, but still it makes your heart melt to see it curled up by his side when you watch TV together at the end of the night. 

“Is this normal for you?” you ask, hands folded in your lap.

His gaze doesn’t move from the television screen. “Is what normal?”

“Taking in strays.”

He snorts, then takes a second to answer. “No.”

You wonder if he intends to sound as caustic as he comes across. The truth is self-evident though. Words only mask the real, and the real in this case is that Simon Riley is a man that feeds and takes home strays. He can grumble about it all he wants. It’s a bit demeaning to think of yourself that way, but once again, the truth is what it is. 

You study him from the corner of your eye until bedtime rolls around again. He’s become the most interesting thing in the world to you, through every fault of his own.

If he didn’t want you to fixate on him, he wouldn’t have left you home alone with nothing else to do. 

“Bird!” Simon roars from the other room. “The cat’s pissed on the floor again.”

You spring out of bed before Simon has a chance to toss it out onto the balcony. 

It feels temporary up until the first time you use Simon’s address on a job application. It stands out stark on your phone screen, black on glowing white. You’ve always preferred it to dark mode, though that preference has fluctuated in recent weeks as you’ve spent more and more time on your phone. 

This is the first time staring at the screen without blinking for a prolonged period of time that hasn’t left you with a throbbing migraine. 

He tells you to stop bothering him with stupid shit when you ask him if it’s alright to use his address. That answers that. Guilt lingers on the periphery of your mind the first time that you do, but then the application is submitted. An innocuous grey box that redefines your whole world in a way that [Thanks for applying!] doesn’t seem to encapsulate. 

Your old friends come next. They come back one by one, guilty, furtive looks aplenty. You Facetime the one who wouldn’t let you sleep on her couch while sitting on Simon’s bed. When she asks you about your living situation, all you tell her is that you found a roommate. It doesn’t feel right to give her more information than that. What has she done to deserve your honesty? 

You manage pleasantries and a half decent conversation, but truth again lingers at the back of your mind. The unspoken reality that this person—someone you trusted—could’ve been there for you in your time of need but chose to look the other way instead. Like taking you in would’ve been some big, terrible thing. 

The body forgets everything except what hurts it. The body remembers nothing except what helps it survive. 

Gratefulness lodges into your heart like an arrow shot from a castle’s ramparts intent on your demise. You could pull it out from the other side and succumb to blood loss, or you could push forward, lay siege to the man hidden inside its walls. 

And you do. You want to show him every grateful inch of you. Even when it only results in more upset. Simon comes home to the smoke alarm blaring and a small fire in the microwave before he bans you from the kitchen altogether. You only cry for an hour in the bedroom with the door shut before he drags you out to takeout on the table in the living room. It’s an improvement. 

“I’m sorry,” you sniffle into your veggie burger, on the verge of tears again when you glance into the kitchen to see most of the mess still there. 

“It’s fine.”

“I just want to—I wanted to make it up to you…for taking me in.”

“You don’t owe me shit,” he says brusquely, dismissing you. His tone tells you to drop it, but that seems as likely as you growing wings and flying away. 

“Yes, I do. You let me stay here when I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

“If you want to make it up to me, take care of the cat and stop leaving your shit all over the bathroom. Found your knickers on the floor after you showered yesterday.”

Your face goes hot at that. You have nothing else to say. 

Your attraction is a banal consequence of living under the same roof as him. There are only so many times he can come up behind you while you’re making your morning cup of coffee and swipe your mug before taking a sip from over your shoulder, barricading you against the counter. Acutely aware of the size of him with the way he’s pressed up against you. 

You lose your train of thought whenever Simon wanders into a room. He lumbers in like a beast, steel-toed boots covered in mud and dust, ignoring the way you scold him for walking around the apartment in his shoes. Just cocks an eyebrow and stares down at you knowingly, like he can see right through you, knows that you’re only squawking and flitting around to hide the way your thighs rub together. 

“It’s my fuckin’ flat,” he says instead of pointing out that your pussy’s wet because she knows there’s a man in the house that could take care of her proper. You know it too. 

“I live here too, you know,” you huff. “I can’t wash the floors every time you come home.”

“Thought I was doing you a favour letting you live here.”

His words would fill you with righteous indignation, but they don’t because his actions don’t line up. You study him like a moth under glass, enthralled by the parts of him that used to frighten you. 

It’s more than that though. He’s wedged himself into the hurt place in your heart, holding it up like Atlas. 

You really do think that there’s something so special about him that you’ll never be able to articulate. Simon is everything you didn’t know you desperately wanted. The longer you live with him, the harder it is to deny how much you need him. 

You will show your gratitude though. Every tender, aching morsel of it. 

The little peach she grinds on his thigh is wet and ripe. Simon doesn’t tell her that he doesn’t need her gratitude; if he wanted it, he would’ve taken it already. But he doesn’t shove her out of his lap either. It’s not his problem if she thinks it’s necessary or not.

Maybe it’s not solely for his benefit, he concedes when she winds both arms around his neck and pushes her supple tits into his chest, climbing over his lap until her pussy is pressed right up against the cock fattening up in his jeans. She whimpers like she’s in pain. 

Must not come a lot; he knows she at least hasn’t in recent days. Simon’s always been a light sleeper—he’s sure he would’ve heard any desperate attempts to get herself off in his bed, the springs creaking under her weight, her hushed, bitten off moans leaking out from under the doorframe. The thought riles him up more than he thought it would. 

Still, Simon doesn’t lift a hand to help the poor bird in his lap as she grinds down on his length. His arms stay stretched across the back of the couch, hips canted just enough to give her a perch and nothing more. 

She gasps every word into his ear, voice all pitched and breathy. “Ah, ah, ah—thank you, thank you, I…—can I please have it? Please, please let me, Simon, pleasepleaseplease—”

It feels like everything they’ve been through so far has been leading to this. He’d smelt it coming like blood in the water. 

All week, his bird has been sitting on her hands and trying not to give herself away. Cloaked in a nervous, frenetic energy. Anticipatory. She’d doe-eyed him the night before and begged him to sleep in the bed with her instead of wrecking his back on the couch, but he’d ignored her in favour of watching Argentina decimate Croatia in the semi-finals. It must have not sat right with her though because she’d been broody from the moment he left for work until he got home, steering him into the kitchen and practically hand feeding him before coaxing him into the living room to watch a movie while she cuddled up beside him.

That hadn’t lasted long. 

“What’s gotten into you, pet?” Simon asks, hardly dissuading her when she presses petal soft lips to his jaw and nuzzles, breathing heavily. His heart swells. Desperate little slut. 

“Took care of me,” she mumbles, almost slurring her words. “Always taking care of me, Simon.”

There’s no denying how hard it makes him to think about being her protector. The littlest things make her smile. Even the bloody cat had her trailing after him for a week straight after the fact, eternally underfoot. Always trying to curry favour. Eager to please. 

Her worship leaves him unbalanced. Unstable even. A train careening off its track, the massive weight of catastrophe right behind it. The sense that life will never be the same after this. His surface level indifference is underscored by steeled self-control. He keeps his arms on the couch because he knows the second he puts them on her, it’s over. There’ll be no holding him back anymore, no possibility of him ever letting her go back out into the real world. Lock jawed, teeth sunk into her tender underbelly. 

“Told you, you don’t owe me nothing,” Simon murmurs, curling his hands under her ass. 

“Then—then…—I don’t know, pretend it’s just for me.” It’s a joke because they both know it’s not just for her. When her eyes sparkle with amusement, his cock throbs.

He lets her ruck the shirt over his head and struggle with his belt until she manages to unbuckle it like he has no say in the matter. She’s far less considerate with her own clothes, shucking them off and nearly ripping her knickers in the process, which almost prompts him to take her by the wrists and slow her down. He likes the lace and frills. 

It’s a fight to fit his cock into her hole, as slick as she is. Coin slot tight; he almost breaks and tells her to take it easy when she reaches behind her to line his shaft up with her entrance and sits down, just barely stretching around the mushroomed head of his dick before wincing, tears springing into her eyes. 

Simon does break when she tries to sink down another inch, thighs shaking violently. “Right, get off—you ain’t ready for this.”

“I am!” she insists, face screwed up in a scowl and a bead of sweat dripping down her temple. “Just—I can do it, Simon—”

“No, you can’t. You’re rushing and hurting yourself—”

“Wait, okay, wait, I can…just give me a minute, okay?” she begs, and he doesn’t tell her that he’d give her all the time in the world. Stay on this couch until the flesh fell off his bones. He’s waited so long; what’s a little longer? 

Besides, the sight of her stretching herself out with her fingers is reward enough. She whines into his shoulder and shudders when she has to force another finger in before she’s ready. Too eager. It could give a man a complex. His blood is already scorching him from the inside out, too hot for his veins.  

He considers helping her out, but watching her writhe and struggle in his lap is far more enjoyable. 

He stopped paying attention awhile back, too focused on cupping her tits and running his tongue around the budded areola, sucking her pert nipple into his mouth, but she couldn’t have gotten to more than three fingers before running out of patience and lining him up again. This time, she sinks a bit deeper on the first stroke, still choking on her breath but forcing herself to take a bit more. 

“You’re alright—you’re alright,” Simon murmurs, stroking a hand up and down her back while she impales herself on his length. She’s still too tight to take him comfortably, sweats and shakes over him. He pinches her nipple to distract her from the pain and smiles when she yelps. 

She melts all over him, slick drenching his shaft and lap, her tongue lapping at the sweaty skin of his neck. Honeysuckle fragrant; the sweetest thing he’s ever known. Silken, tight. Fits like a glove around him. 

He could lose himself in her. Piston into her until the thought of where he begins and where he ends dissolves into the tight warmth between her legs.

His bird is a greedy girl. She uses him like a toy to get herself off, bouncing in his lap and mewling into his ear everytime his cockhead nudges against her cervix. Too big to fit all the way in. 

“You do this a lot, pet? Fuck every man that lends you a hand?” he pants, taunting her.

“No!” she snarls in his ear, feisty and sharp-toothed. Her nails dig into his back, scoring white lines into his skin. The shiver that wracks him is so violent that his arms tighten around her waist reflexively, making her gasp. 

It doesn’t matter whether she does this often or not; the only thing that matters is that he’s the only man that gets to fuck her from here on out. Still, winding her up is half the fun. 

“Perfect girl,” Simon chuckles, breathless. “Made for me. Got m’self a pet right off the street.”

And he did, didn’t he? Went wandering out into the night and came home with a bird fluttering her wet little wings. 

His conscience is clean. He could’ve tied her down, kept her right where he wanted her (in his bed, his flat, the yawning cavity of his chest—) but his self-control remains unparalleled. Tough as nails. Strong as steel. And now look at what he has as a reward for his patience—a fever-hot cunt around his cock and delicate fingernails scratching the base of his skull. 

A pretty bird that’s made his chest a cage. 

The world goes vertical, horizontal. Fluid; sliding away from him. Something crashes in the background, so far off in the distance that he can hardly make out the sound. 

He opens his eyes to find the ceiling staring back down at him, and then her face, hovering over him on the carpeted floor, her hands kneading the muscle of his chest. Her brows are drawn tight now, pinched. She stares down at him, past him, gaze like a transparent veil. 

“Gi’me…gi’me…” she pants, barely able to pull herself off his cock. 

He has to dig his fingers into her ass and pull her off, ignoring the way she whines and begs him to fill her back up. Ignores it because he knows what’s best for her; knows how to take care of what he owns. 

When he bucks up into her, she chokes, fingers nearly yanking his chest hair out. 

“Fuckin’ hell, that’s pretty,” he breathes. Snaps his hips up into hers again, relishing in the way she squeezes tight around him, almost to the point of pain. 

His pleasure always comes jagged though. Whether the ache of his joints or nails tearing up the skin of his back and chest. Vicious and messy—how he likes it. She gives him everything he could want and more. The hand dug into his chest right above his heart could pierce right through the flesh and tear it out.

He pulls her all the way off his cock just for the pleasure of hearing her beg him again, then pulls her up his chest and eats her out until the beast in his belly calms down. 

He yields to her whining only after a good few minutes. Soft bastard. Drags her back down until her soaked hole mouths at the head of his cock and he thrusts back up inside. Home. It’s his now, whether she likes it or not. Simon guesses he’s lucky that she wants it too; if he had to convince her, he would, but her desperation is just another gift for him to savour. 

“Squeeze me good, bird. Say thank you—” thank you for taking me home, thank you for keeping me– almost spills off his tongue, but he reigns it in. She knows what to be thankful for. 

“Nngh, Simon,” she sings, fucking herself on his cock. The sweetest sound he’s ever heard. 

Simon’s never felt bigger than under his sweet bird. Thighs spread so wide around him that he knows she’ll ache in the morning. Brutish hands groping her thighs and waist and tits, rough against the softness of her skin. Stuffed full of a big cock, not even to the root; she bites right through her bottom lip when Simon pets at the thin skin stretched around his cock, her gaze wounded, overwhelmed. 

Nearly blacks out at the thought of cramming a finger up there too. Only faint concern for her well-being tamps down the urge. 

“Come on, fuck—that good, pet?”

“R-right there, oh god, ohgodohgod—”

He lets her ride him until she comes, until he comes, until his spend is blistering hot in her cunt, drooling down the length of his cock, frothy white with her cream and his come. 

It’s a sight to look at. Gets him right in the chest. Nothing like times of yore; this is something with meaning, with feeling. When he lifts her off, his seed trickles out of her soft hole in white globs and makes his chest ache. It doesn’t matter whether it takes root or not. All that he needs is already here. 

Beautiful and rare as a sundog; haloed by light. All this time, he dared not think this could be it. 

He thinks he’ll love her with the same ferocity Icarus had on his descent.

She shivers when he traces his fingers up her spine. “N’more. M’tired.”

“Wasn’t gonna, pet.”

The bedroom then. She twitches in his arms when Simon carries her to bed and pats his chest approvingly when he slides in beside her. 

He could’ve told her that it’d end up this way. He smiles indulgently when she shifts and splays over his chest, her nose nudging his nipple. Already fast asleep. 

In the morning, you sit across from him, half a grapefruit in a bowl in front of you and a mug of coffee, black. 

“I think I want to go back to school,” you say, apropos of nothing. The spoon clinks against the inside of the bowl. 

“Yeah?” he says, only half-listening. 

“I can always get a part time job on the days when I don’t have class. I never liked my old job anyway.”

“Do whatever you want,” Simon grunts. “Not my problem.”

Under the table, your cat’s tail curls around your ankle while he waits for you to sneak him the scraps. 

You smile.

[lechrts]

For The Record. ✷ Lando Norris

Pairing: Lando Norris x Fewtrell!reader

Summary: When your brother’s best friend overhears a FaceTime call that was 100% not meant for his ears.

Word Count: 1.6k

Disclaimer/s: teasing :P & fluffy..ish

Vera’s Voice! love a good fewtrell sister x lando trope 👅 hope u enjoy ^_^

It was one of those typical weekends where Lando was over, and as usual, it was a bit mad...

He and your brother felt no remorse as they completely hijacked your evening, crashing your quiet alone time as you were hoping to relax and watch TV in the living room.

Soon, the sound of laughter filled the air as Max and Lando lounged across from each other on the floor, their attention fully consumed by an intense game of Uno in an attempt to kill time, prior to their plans later that night.

Between the competitive banter and their ridiculous snack-eating, it was impossible to focus on anything else. Every time Lando flashed one of his easy smiles, you felt that familiar flutter in your chest—a feeling that had only grown stronger as the years had passed, but one you desperately tried to ignore.

Max was on a winning streak, and after slapping down his final card for the fourth time in a row, he shot up in victory, throwing his hands in the air with a triumphant “HA!”

He grinned, pointing at Lando and laughing in his face with exaggerated glee. “You're terrible, mate,” Max snickered, clearly relishing the moment.

You couldn’t help but laugh at the sight of your brother, practically glowing with pride. He turned to you, still grinning. “Did you wanna play next round?” He kindly offered.

But before you could answer, your phone buzzed on the coffee table, cutting through the noise. You reached for it, seeing your best friend's name flash across the screen

“Hold that thought,” You said, quickly attempting to excuse yourself to take the call.

Max glanced at his watch, his usual carefree demeanor fading slightly. "Ah shit, it’s alright. We have to get going anyway." He turned his gaze to you, but there was a slight hesitation in his voice.

"We'll see you later. If you're up... gonna be out late."

“That’s fine,” You said, shrugging it off before glancing at your phone, seeing that the call had ended, meaning you’d missed it.

Great.

With a quick wave, the two bid you off to your room as they were now getting ready to leave. Max was heading toward the door when he noticed the cold air that hit him like a wall.

"Bit chilly tonight," He muttered, giving a slight shiver. He looked at Lando, who was still sat, scrolling on his phone.

"My coat is in her room, can you grab it for me? I’ll warm the car."

"Sure," Lando quickly stood up and nodded.

After a few moments, he made his way toward your room, his footsteps light and unhurried. He wasn’t entirely focused on the task at hand—he was used to Max asking him to grab things from you—but something about the evening had kept his attention on you.

Lando caught the way you’d been laughing, the subtle blush on your cheeks when you caught his eye. It wasn’t the first time he noticed you, but tonight there was something different about it.

As he approached your door, he could hear the soft hum of your voice on the other side. He paused, realizing you were probably on a call with someone.

Your voice was a little quieter now, a little more intimate. Curiosity got the better of him, and instead of knocking, he leaned in slightly, trying to catch a few words.

"Sorry, was I interrupting your time to make love eyes at Lando?"

Lando’s heart pounded in his chest as he stood there, barely able to contain his amusement. You’d just admitted—well, your friend had just teased you about making love eyes at him—and now you were going full-on panicked mode, trying to dismiss it.

He couldn’t help but grin wider, leaning in slightly to catch more of your conversation, his curiosity piqued by your words.

"Oh my god, stop!" You groaned, your voice muffled slightly by the distance but still clear enough for him to hear. "You can't keep feeding into this. I'm so sure he thinks of me as his little sister. I can't keep liking him."

Lando’s grin faltered, his pulse racing in a completely different way now. He hadn’t expected to hear that. The idea that you might think of him as a brother was enough to throw him off for a moment, even though he should have expected it. But then the thought of your little confession made him smile even more.

So, that’s how you saw it?

His hand tightened on the doorknob, and for a split second, he was tempted to just barge in and tease you about it right then and there. But instead, he made the decision to be a little more... sly about it.

After a few more moments of internal debating, he knocked softly on the door, knowing you’d probably be scrambling to turn the volume down or hang up by now.

You yelped in surprise, quickly muting the call, but Lando could hear your panicked breathing as you attempted to sound calm.

"Come in," You said, voice a little too high-pitched, and then there was the sound of frantic clicking on your laptop since you had opted to call your friend back on your computer.

Lando’s grin was almost audible, his heart thudding as he stepped into the room, casually leaning against the doorframe, trying to act like he didn't just overhear your entire conversation.

You froze a little when he walked in, immediately trying to compose yourself. “Oh. Lando.” You cleared your throat, acting nonchalant but clearly struggling to hide the flush creeping up your neck.

"Um. What’s up?"

He stepped forward, glancing around the room before walking toward the chair by your bed where he spotted Max’s jacket. He picked it up with deliberate slowness, feigning casualness.

"Max sent me to grab this," He said, holding it up. He raised an eyebrow, his gaze locking with yours, knowing full well your heart was probably pounding.

“Uh huh.. Um. Was that all?” You said nervously, unsure why he was still stood in your room after he had practically finished the task at hand.

Lando took a step closer, not able to resist anymore. He watched you squirm slightly as you tried to act like everything was fine.

Because of course, you thought it was fine. You were completely unaware of how nosy he had been a few moments ago.

“Just.. for the record…” He started, his voice dropping a little lower.

“I do not see you as a little sister.”

Your eyes widened, and for a second, you felt your heart stop. You glanced at your laptop screen with shock, causing your muted best friend to do what seemed to be screaming.

Your breath hitched in your throat, and you fumbled for a response.

"I—what?"

Lando casually shrugged, one hand holding Max’s coat, and the other shoved in his pant pocket, but there was an undeniable intensity in his eyes. “You know,” He said, voice quiet now, “I’m not really sure why you thought I did. But, I definitely don’t.”

Your face went bright red, and you stumbled over your words. “I—I didn’t—I mean, I never—oh my god, Lando.”

He laughed softly, loving the way you were scrambling, the way your embarrassment was palpable. It made the teasing all the more enjoyable. “Relax,” He said, a teasing smile tugging at his lips. "I just wanted to make sure you knew the truth."

You took a deep breath, doing your best to regain composure, but your heart was still racing from both his words and his proximity. "I’m mortified."

Lando chuckled, clearly enjoying the effect he was having on you. "I'm just being honest."

He flashed you a grin as he turned to leave, but before walking out, he paused and looked back over his shoulder. "And just so you know… I think you're pretty great. In case that wasn't obvious."

And with that, he left, leaving you sitting there, a whirlwind of emotions swirling inside of you.

Hello????

likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated! ^_^

tags! @planetpedri @halfwayhearted @wdcbox Ofc.

[h0neylevi]

Levi Month - Day 21 (Post-War: Children)

cw: canonverse/post-war, written with fem!reader in mind, suggestive sexual content, established relationship, mostly domestic fluff

word count: 857

“I found condoms in Falco’s room today.”

You peek over the top of your book to find Levi frowning in the bathroom doorway.

He had quietly retreated into the room several minutes ago for his usual nighttime routine, leaving you with the job of locking up and shutting off the lights. If relinquishing that task hadn’t been enough to clue you in that something was wrong, the familiar little scrunch of concern that is now etched between his eyebrows says everything. He’s worried.

Despite his obvious displeasure, the revelation still makes you smile. It isn’t the news necessarily–that isn’t as shocking to you as it apparently is to Levi. You’ve witnessed enough by accident of Gabi and Falco hurriedly pulling away from one another in the empty kitchen to know that something was going on.

But the second bedroom–first door on the left down the hall–is actually a guest bedroom. In the years since you and Levi have relocated and the restoration project began, a number of people have used it–Connie, Jean, Onyankopon, even you–but it seems that Levi has subconsciously deemed it Falco’s. It’s so like him to reveal his feelings in such an unintentional way. It’s cute.

You decide to tuck away that knowledge instead of antagonizing him for once and shrug.

“At least they’re being responsible,” you reply and return to your book.

Quietly, Levi crosses the room, a look of dissatisfaction still polluting his expression as he sinks onto his side of the bed.

“You’re not worried about it?” he asks.

You turn, meeting his concerned gaze with a sardonic tilt of your head. “Tell me you weren’t thinking about sex at his age.”

His lips purse slightly, and you know you’ve made your point when the tips of his ears begin to turn a faint shade of pink. “I wasn’t acting on it,” he says as if that makes any real difference.

You laugh. “Well, I think that was more because of your circumstances than anything else.”

He doesn’t say anything to refute what you say. Instead, Levi settles into his side of the bed, propped upright on the pillows next to you. With a slow sigh, his hand finds your thigh much like it does almost every night. It’s an idle touch, one that you’re not even sure he realizes he does anymore, but it still causes you to scoot closer, seeking out his warmth.

“That doesn’t mean they should be having sex. They’re kids,” he continues, seemingly still preoccupied with the topic. “Maybe we should talk to them.”

“Gabi and Falco are almost eighteen, Levi,” you point out, not looking up from your page. “I’m sure their parents have already had that kind of talk with them. Pretty soon they’ll have little ones of their own running around. And that’s what we fought for anyway, right? For people to live and fall in love. Have families, grow old.”

He doesn’t reply.

For a few minutes, you sit like this, absorbed in your book. Coaxed into comfort by the slow caress of Levi’s thumb on your skin. Some nights, Levi will read over your shoulder, and you think that’s what he’s doing again tonight, until–

“Have you ever thought about it?”

You don’t look up when you ask, “About what?”

“Having kids.”

Your eyes stutter on the page before freezing entirely. Any attempt to recall anything you just read is impossible, so you carefully bookmark your place at the end of the chapter and set the book aside.

Levi is already watching you when you turn, the expression in his one good eye now open and passive.

“I have,” you tell him slowly. “But never seriously. Never thought I’d get the chance to.”

He nods to assert he knows what you mean. It’s difficult to dream for a future when each day feels like it may be your last. It’s a feeling you’re both well accustomed to.

He keeps his gaze fixed and even in a way that makes your heart flutter. “And now?” he asks.

You swallow.

An implication sits in the air that you’re sure is intentional. You’ve been by Levi’s side as a comrade for almost a decade but as his partner for only a fraction of that time, only revealing your feelings a few months after the battle at Fort Salta. Thankfully, he had reciprocated.

And now, he’s asking if you want children with him.

Scenarios immediately flash through your mind. Ones of Levi holding a little boy with his eyes and your nose. Others of a little girl with both of her parents wrapped around her finger.

It conjures an indescribable feeling, but if you had to choose, you think joy might be the closest thing to it.

“I’d like that,” you finally say, eyes focusing on him once more. “But we’re not exactly young anymore. We’d have to start trying soon.”

There’s a small twitch of his mouth upwards–the tiniest of movements that you’ve come to recognize as the precursor to mischief. So when he reaches to pull you in for a kiss, you’re not surprised when he says, “We can start trying right now.”

[yieldtotemptation]

ANACHRONISM ft. Mina

mina x male reader smut

part one of strange currencies

14k words

Go ahead, try and pretend like any of this happened by accident.

Like you totally didn’t mean to charm some poor, pretty little thing; dazzle her with the wealth, the fame, the you of it all.

Have her spreading her legs for you, bunching her dress up over her thighs, serving herself up like she’s one of those ludicrously expensive banquets you frequent, pleading—

"God, I need you inside me, like, right this fucking second."

Because here’s the truth of it all, what you’ve come to realise about this woman who has never once in her entire life been reduced to something as pithy as poor or pretty or little; let alone anything short of extraordinary. This wildly successful, elegant to the point of being untouchable, and just really, really fucking gorgeous idol:

Nothing about Myoui Mina is accidental.

Even all this—her idea: showing up at your suite uninvited, leaning against the doorframe, panties hanging off her fingertips. Showing off how ridiculously drenched she is for you and how badly she wants you to do something about it.

If only these walls could talk.

“Hurry up,” she’s gritting out. Deadlocking the door behind her. Still not used to waiting for anything, apparently. “Come on, I need your cum. Anywhere you like. Just inside me. Now.”

You should be more surprised. Instead, you’re laughing. “Patience, darling.”

A step forward, pants hitting the floor, cock in hand. Running the tip of it across her folds, making it shiny with her slick, forcing this sigh from her lips.

You pause, just to make her whine. To make her give you what you really want to hear.

Mina bites her lip.

Squeezes her eyes shut.

She knows the deal.

"Please."

That word, that crack in the composure, the control that Mina is so used to maintaining everywhere else but here. It’s the thrill of it all—the challenge in the attempt. Taking someone like Mina, all perfect posture, sparkling teeth, effortless grace; and bringing her to her knees.

Figuratively speaking, mostly.

Only, her phone lights up.

You look down and see it, left abandoned on the floor somewhere in Mina’s rush to get to you. But now its glow is stark against the dark parquet, beaming with messages by the dozen. All different variations on the same question: where the fuck is she?

Her eyes flicker to the screen, then back up to yours. There's a silent conversation happening there—desire fighting with duty, lust with loyalty.

You make it easy for her.

A push is all it takes, really. Cunt yielding to your will, cock sliding into that ridiculous tightness.

She freezes.

Braces herself.

Whimpers.

“Priorities, Mina,” you grunt through it, breaching in deeper; assaulted by the heat of her cunt around you, choking each inch. “Remember, you asked for this.”

The phone keeps buzzing, panicked vibrations at your feet. Urgent messages becoming calls, flashing faces across the screen. You can see them one-by-one, see Mina’s reaction as they pop up—sighing when she sees her managers name, eyes widening when a rather flirty photo of Chaeyoung comes next, and then her entire body tensing, tightening around you at the next picture:

Her and her boyfriend, arms thrown around each other, both looking all beautiful and famous and so very much in love. The perfect couple; so picturesque it might as well have come right off a billboard.

“God, fuck,” Mina groans out, panting, breathless. “You’d think they’d—ah—just leave me alone for one—single—night—”

“Should we snap some photos? Add them all to a group chat, send them through? Let them see the look on your face and figure it out from there.” 

Mischief flashes across her eyes, mouth open to answer back with something that is no doubt clever and suggestive and designed to get you both into far more trouble than you’re already in—but she doesn’t get a word of it out.

You’re slamming into her.

Mina nearly comes apart then and there; eyes snapping shut, neck arching, back banging against the hard, unforgiving wood of the door behind her. Her lips round into this perfect ‘O’ of surprise, and this sweet, sweet needy whine comes slipping out from her throat.

And just like that, she’s all yours again. 

It’s not like the phone goes silent—it just stops mattering.

“Asshole,” she’s saying—grinning now, doing that Mina thing where she says one thing but means another, expecting you to read the underneath. Which this time is—touch me, pull me close, pin me and keep me fucking trapped while you fuck the air right out of my lungs.

“Now there’s an idea.” You’re kissing her, tongue past her lips, tasting the rush of the forbidden, the lines she’s crossing just so she can have you filling up her cunt.

And there’s all this noise—the sound of your cock thrusting into her, skin against skin, shaft into wetness; the buzzing of the phone, her cries of your name dying in your mouth.

Oh, you know it’s going to be brutal if anyone was to overhear, if you’re caught and all this gets out. The narratives that will be crafted, the cliché of it all, the sizzling hot headlines that will undoubtedly paint her, as they are wont to do, in a million different unfair ways.

Seductress. Gold-digger. Slut.

But even as you’re fucking her deep, lips marking up her skin, digging your fingers into the meat of her ass and making Mina cum so hard that all she can say is— “please, please, please,”

—you know the facts, no matter who’s begging who under the shine of the outrageously garish chandelier hanging overhead:

You're the one that chased her first.

—

(It’s incredibly fitting that this whole thing started with a celebration.)

—

Taking a step back, to months earlier, at a gala:

Where it’s becoming apparent to you, and seemingly, just you, that Mina’s the only one here that doesn’t look entirely out of place.

Or at least, she’s the only one that seems to fit amongst the grandeur; the imposing pillars and archways, the ornate cornices, the glint of gold and jade beneath the soft glow of paper lanterns, and the shadow of the palace itself, cast over the sprawling garden like a looming guardian.

The anachronism of it all is the concept, or so you’ve been told. The new, the future—your company—against the backdrop of the old, the traditional. A fusion event, meant to celebrate and honour the past right before yanking it to the future; and yet it all somehow feels so…

Boring.

The same faces, the same games; sharks in a sea of corporate sabotage and political machinations. They’ll smile for you, sing your praises to the highest heavens, do everything they can to make you remember their name—right up until the moment you show your back.

All this to say, it’s going to be very hard to last four hours without wanting to punch someone in the face just to make things slightly more interesting.

(Oh come, one and all. Throw yourselves at the feet of Korea’s youngest self-made billionaire, and hope that by some stroke of luck or misplaced charm, you might just catch a crumb from his table.

That’s what this whole exhausting circus feels like to you.)

So, when you’re about done with what seems like the hundredth round of fake laughs and vacuous pleasantries with yet another politician who’s trying to sell you on the importance of family, and coincidentally, his very marriageable daughter, you make your escape.

Something about needing a drink.

Ease out of the circle, let the noise of the gala swallow you up like you were never there, and navigate across the garden to the bar.

Where you find her.

Mina, something of an anachronism herself; looking more at home amongst the pagodas and the cherry blossoms than in the company of suits and ties and plastic smiles. Like she’s been painted onto the scene; rendered in living colour—stark white, midnight black, blue silk. Or cobalt. Maybe azure.

You’ll have to reserve some time later to ask her about the colour of her dress.  

What’s important is that she’s alone, which seems like a crime in and of itself, on account of, well, how fucking breathtaking she is. Add that she’s here at all, and it all amounts to some kind of serendipitous miracle.

(An idol, a celebrity, willingly spending her free time in the company of the elitist dregs of society? The world's gone mad.)

You don’t really need an excuse to join her; you know her, technically. Not intimately, but in that same way that everyone in this high society tapestry is threaded together. An award show here, a charity function there—the kind of acquaintance that lets you say hello without raising eyebrows, but not much more.

All this to say it makes some sense to slide yourself onto the barstool to her right, ignoring that the rest are completely unoccupied.

The smile that Mina gives you as you approach is a little sharper than it needs to be, a little too knowing.

“You’re not going to ask if this seat’s taken?”

You return the smile, a mirror image of hers, and lean onto the bar. You don’t even need to look at the bartender; your drink is in your hand, cold and crisp, the second you set it down. “I thought I’d risk it.”

“Neat trick,” Mina says, posting her chin on one hand, watching the sleek liquid slide down your throat. She’s got a flute of champagne in front of her, untouched.

There’s a gravity to her, you’re realising only when you’re this close. Something in the way the moonlight's kissing her skin, a blend of porcelain and peaches, glowing. Maybe that’s why she’s been left alone; the other guests were smart enough not to get swallowed up in it all. Better to appreciate at a distance than to drown in it.

She regards you for a beat, runs a finger around the rim of her glass. "Shouldn't you be off being the centre of attention somewhere? Shaking hands, kissing babies, that whole bag?”

“Nah," you’re dismissive, looking back out to the crowd milling about, lost in their own conversations and power plays. "This whole thing's more for them than it is for me."

Mina scoffs. Raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. You follow her eyes—across the banners, the placards, the giant projection cast onto the palace itself.

A brushstroke circle—the logo you designed—swirling around, stamping itself on what was once a symbol of absolute power, now reduced to just another stage for the rich and the elite and all their insignificant little games.

You feel the need to clarify. “For the company.”

Mina ripostes. “That just so happens to be named after you.”

“Just one of those funny coincidences.”

“Apparently so.”

It does occur to you that it should be somewhat startling how instantly familiar you feel around Mina. Slipping into casual conversation—light jabs, coded compliments; all soaked in insinuation. Just enough edge and implication to keep you on your toes.

There's an ease to her, to how she smiles, how she laughs, how she just sits there, all drop-dead gorgeous and oh, this? Nothing special, just how I always am.

So it’s only natural that somewhere in all this easy banter, between your third drink and her second, her hand lands on your forearm, your knee brushes against hers and you both decide to stop being so subtle.

You pick your moment, as she’s thumbing through a menu of drinks she’s already deciding she doesn’t want, to try to solve the mystery of her. Past the red of her lips, the edge of her jaw, the hollow of her throat. Along the neckline of her dress, where the silk clings like it’s afraid of letting go, and down to where it dips and angles out; the open shoulder, the collarbone, the swell underneath.

It’s the sum of it all, you’re realising. The dress, the look, the woman.

(Accentuate without revealing. Tease without giving away the prize. Show off that flawless ass and dare the world not to look. And yeah, they fucking look. They all do.

You’re just the only one that doesn’t look away when you're caught.)

But now, you could reach out and touch her; unlatch the straps of her heels, run your fingers from her ankle up, up over the smooth expanse of her calf, her knee, the bare skin of her thigh right where her dress decides to daringly split, and underneath, until your hand is filled with the heat of her and all she knows is you.

You could complete her. Or she, you, you think.

Only, there’s a slight misstep in an otherwise immaculate ensemble.

A necklace.

A ridiculous, ugly, tacky thing. Hanging off her like a misplaced jewel on a swan; more ‘costume party’ than ‘refined modern gala’. Fighting the simplicity of her gown, offensively jarring, especially against the serenity of the moonlit garden.

Mina notices you staring. “A gift.”

“Boyfriend,” you realise, doing the math in your head. A careless present, given by someone who doesn’t know (or doesn’t care to know) her. Hoping the flash, the dollars spent overshadows the unfamiliarity.

(It doesn’t.)

“Partner,” Mina confirms. There’s a slight dip at the corner of her mouth, a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it flash of something unpleasant. It disappears as soon as it comes, but you caught it. “A little too old to have a boyfriend.”

“Hm.” You click your tongue. Narrow your eyes. You’ve been told that it makes you appear disarming. “And where is this partner?”

Mina’s smile returns. She takes her first sip of champagne. “You tell me. Don’t you sign off on all the invites?”

“Just the important ones.”

“Even so, not like he would have come if he was invited.” Mina leaves you to fill in the gaps. “A tad too public. For the both of us, really.”

“I see.”

And you do. You’ve seen your fair share of these types of arrangements, participated in a few, even. At the beginning, the secret of it all, the cloak and dagger; it’s exhilarating. But that only lasts so long. Eventually, like all things, it fades. Leaving you with someone who you don’t really see, who you don’t even know, and the sinking realisation that maybe the thrill was the only thing that kept it interesting. 

“So,” you lean forward, drawing your conclusion. “You’re here. All alone. Stuck in a relationship with someone dumb enough to let you go out looking like that.”

“Careful.”

“It’s just,” you offer, your gaze lingering on her throat, “You don’t strike me as the type to settle for anything less than you deserve, Mina.”

That makes Mina pause. Almost flinch. Imperceptibly if you weren’t looking so closely at her lips. The sound of her name rolling off your tongue, like it's always been there, waiting to escape—it has her reeling.

And yet, somehow, she recovers.

“Because you know me so well.”

So, you switch up, throw a curveball. “Is it the sex?”

To her credit, Mina barely reacts to that provocation, as if she was expecting the follow up. Just takes another sip of her champagne with a grace that seems rehearsed. You’ll have to try harder.

She shrugs a bare shoulder.

"Sex is just sex. It’s not everything."

“So, no sex at all, then.”

Mina’s smile is like a knife’s edge. “Are you always this forward?”

“All I’m saying,” you keep going, somewhat emboldened by the game, by the warmth of the whiskey poisoning your kidneys. “If it was me—”

Mina’s hand slides up your forearm, ending somewhere around your triceps. You’re close. Close enough to inhale her perfume; cinnamon, smoke, darker than anticipated. You’d fill your lungs with it, if you could. “If it was you.”

You take another drink. She watches.

And it clicks into place. What this really is. What she’s really doing here.

The slight tilt of her shoulder, a slip of her dress—just a fraction. A shift in her seat and suddenly, the silk has risen, too high, and there’s a stretch of skin leading up to a flash of lace that’s more moonlit than the night itself.

The suspicion sets in. Was she waiting for you?

Mina laughs.

You ask, “What’s so funny?”

“I was just thinking,” Mina says, lowly. Grinning, like she’s reading your mind. “How even you’re the same.”

“How so?”

“All you men. How you see me, how you’re looking at me right now.” She reaches up to her neck, taps the clunky stone hovering over her throat. Once. Twice. “Making it about you. You think I need saving.”

You open your mouth. Close it. Open once more to protest—

“That’s what you think.” Mina interrupts, smirks; and your eyes are on her lips, wondering if anyone would be able to pull you off them if you were so lucky enough to taste them. “What you want is to own me.”

“Mina,” you regard her, openly. Honestly. “I could never dream of owning you.”

She nods back towards your logo, emblazoned across the castle walls. “Because you’re clearly not the type of person that likes owning things.”

And there’s a realisation here, as she’s staring into your eyes—a real, actual, bone-deep revelation—that she's been doing the same thing as you this whole time. Reading you, until she's seeing through you.

The silence stretches, thick and sweet , and it’s obvious to see where this is heading. The idea that’s being sparked—lean in, kiss her right here, right now, with all these eyes on you. Kiss that smirk right off her face, steal whatever clever rebuttals she’s composing from her lips, the flirtations that she’s left hanging in the air. Replace them all with your name.

But it’s all hypothetical, for now.

“You’re not even thinking past right now, are you?” Mina asks, amused. "The rumours you've started just by sitting next to me."

"Rumours."

"The kind that ruins careers. That never leave. That would make him want to kill you if he found out."

Another sip, letting it burn down your throat. Think about it. Attack it from every angle—

(Doesn’t it just make sense; the billionaire, and his beautiful celebrity partner? Or even if there was a scandal, just a one-night fling; wouldn’t it be worth it?

You could both live off the thrill alone, it’d reignite whatever embers her boyfriend hasn’t stomped out yet.)

“Maybe I want the rumours.”

Mina’s eyes widen. It’s the first time she’s dropped her guard.

“If you were mine,” you start, and stop immediately, reining in that last word on the tip of your tongue. “If you were my girlfriend, partner, whatever label you want to put on it. I’d tell the whole damn world. Broadcast it on every channel. Make sure everyone knows exactly who I’m fucking every single morning, afternoon, night.”

You’re hitting the mark of something, you can tell, because Mina’s hand tightens around your arm, and she doesn't seem to mind when yours lands on her thigh. A flash; the thought of spreading them, of seeing her laid bare underneath you. Or flipped over in front of you, crumpling that dress around her waist, so you can take proper purchase of that ass that’s been hinted at all night long.

And all of a sudden, she doesn't seem to be as spoken for as she might have led you to believe.

She bites her lip. Keeps it there for a second, two, before letting it go.

“So, this is what you usually say to all the pretty girls you invite to these parties?”

The alcohol’s loosened your tongue enough to state truths you’re supposed to keep to yourself. “I usually don’t have to say anything at all.”

Mina challenges. “Must be nice, being this rich, cute, and charming.”

“The being rich part does a lot of the hard work.”

“So, the cuteness and the charm?”

“I’ll let you decide,” you finish, watching her smile spread, the corners of her eyes crinkle. It makes your chest tighten.

“I suppose, in your perfect world,” Mina surmises, and now she’s so close that your knee is splitting the difference between her thighs, and you’re already planning the logistics of it all—the where, the how— “this ends with you fucking my brains out behind one of these old houses.”

“I’ve got a few in mind.”

“I bet.” Mina takes one last pull of her drink, empties it, and sets it back down. “And afterwards? After you’ve made me forget my own name and made the entirety of my existence revolve around your cock—what’s your plan then? Who are we—who are you going to be?"

You finish off your own glass, setting it down with the same deliberate clink as hers. “You know, the funny thing about money is," you say, sliding your fingers up her thigh, higher, higher. "It can make you whoever you want to be. So, the real question is—who do you want me to be?"

You’re holding your breath as she answers: “Not some knight in shining armour. I don’t need a saviour. If that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Then what do you need?”

Mina inches, gets close, and now her breath’s a tickle on the shell of your ear. She bites. “Just someone to help me scratch an itch.”

There’s a moment, somewhere before Mina threads her fingers through yours, lets you lead her through the throngs of guests and into the shadows of the palace; where all of this—this want, this need, boils over. Where Mina kisses your cheek and warns:

“You don’t have the time for me.”

Now it’s your turn to grin; reaching up to her throat, slipping that necklace off her, leaving it to clatter onto the granite below never to be spoken of again.

“Maybe. But I can make every second count.”

—

This is how you end up:

Pinning Mina to some ancient wall; the moon’s spotlight spilling over the contours of her body, a hand tangled in her hair, the other pushing her dress higher up her thighs.

You weren’t lying, you did have a place in mind. Namely, by the west gate, where a house that used to be the servant’s quarters stood. It’s a part of the palace that’s been neglected in the reconstruction, and thus, ironically, the most authentic part of this whole sham.

A true hideaway for those not to be seen or heard; a building that’s seen centuries of service, of lives lived in the shadow of royalty, and now it’s going to bear witness to this, to you and Mina, undoing each other with every passing second.

Something a little sacred, a whole lot profane.

She’s smiling against your lips; a smirk, more likely. Because she’s new to this kind of thing—the almost romantic picture the two of you are painting—chaste kisses stolen in quiet corners of royal residences. The kind of thing that could fuel a dozen dramas.

But you both know better.

So, you let her start things off, let her set the pace for this evening's affairs. And Mina, to her credit, is gracious enough to tell you exactly what she wants.

(Kiss me harder, touch me here, please, please, don't let go.)

Twisting the lapels of your jacket in her hand, desperately pulling you closer, even though there's no more room left. Kissing you with longing. Making you believe that she's missed this—missed you—despite the fact that you've only just officially met. And sure, it's a lie, but it's a lie that feels so good, so right, that you’re willing to indulge her.

Indulge yourself.

Your lips veer off the corner of her mouth, ignoring the tongue and teeth that try to keep you there, the hand that kindly urges you to not stop kissing her.

Because you’ve got a ticking clock in the back of your mind, counting down the seconds before someone calls you or her away, or more problematically, catches you and her, a heap of limbs and lust and fucking in the dusty archives of history.

You break away, keep things moving, kiss your way along her neck, feel her heartbeat drum against your lips. Follow her neckline down, down; find this sweet little spot, a darkened freckle right on top of her collarbone that makes her sigh.

“Tell me something, honestly.” Mina finds her voice the same time your fingers meet the promised lace of her underwear, turning her words into these breathless moans. “How often do you do this?”

You tug the fabric pooling at her waist—once, firmly—and Mina’s dress slips from her shoulders, whispering down her arms and leaving her in nothing but flawless white and a strapless bra that matches the silk in hue. 

You smile, look up. “This?”

Mina clarifies, "Whisk some innocent girl away into a deserted corner and—"

She’s cut off by the click-clack of her bra releasing behind her back, your fingers slipping beneath the cotton, and you’re filling your hand with the swell of her breast; so soft, so perfect.

The sound when you touch her and she gasps; if only you could capture, keep it forever. You’ll just have to make sure she keeps making it—kneading gently, rolling the pebbled peak of her nipple between your thumb and forefinger, feeling it bead and tighten.

Your lips to her shoulder, you ask, “And what?”

Mina sighs, “fuck her completely, thoroughly senseless,” and you swear there’s something revelatory about how she says it—sinful ideas from saintly lips.

"Honestly?" You pause, your gaze lingering on the goosebumps rising across her skin. "You're the first."

Her laughter's a surprise; it's light, disbelieving. "First?"

"First tonight."

Mina's smile widens, her grip on your jacket tightens. "You're so full of shit," she says, but there's no malice in it. Just the thrill of the hunt. Or, being hunted.

You don’t bother to argue the point; let her think what she wants. Instead, you lean into it (into her), let your other hand snake around her thigh, over the elastic of her panties and lower, until you’re palming the curve of her ass.

Firm, taut, flawless—because of course it is; exactly like the rest of her. She’s so hot under your touch; the softness, the smoothness of it. And you know—without a doubt—you’re going to worship this ass.

A squeeze for good measure—balancing the fine line of respect and greed. Mina yelps—surprise, pleasure.

“God,” Mina shudders, does her best under the assault of your lips on her neck, fingers pinching, tugging, hand squeezing. "You're—oh, you're not so bad at this."

You press a kiss to her throat. “Flattery gets you everywhere, Miss Myoui.”

“Please, not with the government names,” Mina hisses, her cheeks flushing a soft pink that matches the glow of the lanterns outside.

“Apologies.” You chuckle, slipping your hand underneath the band of her panties, and around—down—pressing against her and sinking lower until you’ve got a proper hold of her. Soaking wet and dripping heat onto your fingertips.

A cry from her lips. A shiver. A buck of her hips.

Her hands shoot to your chest.

“Please, kiss me again.”

You oblige—how could you not, with the way she’s begging?

Her nails dig into your shirt, her breath hitches as you push your finger—your index—past her entrance and inside, and just before she can moan your name into the night air, you’re filling her mouth with your tongue, licking inside.

You kiss her like it’s your first kiss, like it’s your last. Like the only way to calm her down is with your mouth and your tongue and your teeth. She’s so wet and tight and pulsing around you, she’s trying to suck you in; and fuck, when you’re knuckle-deep she bites down on your lip so hard she nearly draws blood.

The moans that she's filling your mouth with; this symphony of want sends a jolt of pure, unfiltered desire straight to your cock. You're straining—against your trousers, against her thigh, straining against the urge to rip that dress off her and leave her bare, but you're not there yet.

It's about her, about needing her, making her beg for it. Making her so desperate that she'll do just about anything to get you inside her.

(Because there’s something about her, about Mina, that just makes you want to take your time. To learn the ins and outs of what makes her tick. The secret spots that make her moan into your mouth, the places to touch that make her shiver, the sighs and sounds that only you can coax out of her.

It’s etched into every line of her body; every curve and sharp edge—just pure heat from head to toe; And there’s a beauty so absolute in her perfection, the dash of makeup, the careful draping of her hair, it’s too good not to ruin. To not want to leave your mark on her in some way so that everyone knows she was once yours, if only for a night.)

“You’re just so needy, Mina.” You hum into her jaw, when your lips slip from hers and you struggle to resist the urge to leave these marks on her. Her cheek, her neck, her collarbone. Every part of her that she’s offered to you, every part you’re eager to claim. “Like it’s been ages since someone’s touched you like this.”

“I don’t—please—” is all Mina can manage, because the pad of your thumb is ghosting over her clit, pressing in and circling, and the way her pitch rises and she sighs your name gives you your answer:

It’s been a while.

“I don’t think—gah—” She tries agin, but you torture her with another finger, stretching inside her, sinking in and curling upwards. “I don’t think I’ve ever been touched like this.”

“Good,” you tell her, and she shivers when your voice rumbles through her, when you drop down and your lips go low again, and you take one of her stiff peaks between your teeth. “I don’t settle for second place.”

“Neither do—God—I—” Mina braces herself against the wall behind her, failing to find anything but cold brick to hold onto as you map out the rest of her with your hands and your fingers and your lips.

She’s so, so hot for you; you would’ve never predicted it, not in your wildest estimations. Never thought just how easy it would be to undo someone so poised and put-together like Mina, to render her into this puddle of need.

“So why don’t you show me then,” Mina breathes, voice trembling as much as she is. You suck deep, swirl your tongue, make her arch her back to push more of herself into you. “What all the—oh my—what all the fuss is about."

“As you wish, darling.”

And there’s part of you that’s recognising the awfulness of what you’re doing, taking something—someone—that’s not yours, and having her tell you all these things, finger fucking these words of oblivion from her lips, touch me, please I need it, kiss me harder, more, more, make me feel it, make me feel you.

But even that part of you is so, so small right now, buried deep down with everything that isn’t Mina, with everything that isn’t her pussy clenching around your hand, or the taste of tits on your tongue.

Ignore all thoughts of the after, of what happens when you’ve made her cum again and again, and you’ve wrecked yourself in the pursuit of it all. What happens when you return to the throngs of nobodies, all rumpled and flushed and red, and the whispers start flying, and the glances are no longer just knowing but shamelessly envious.

That’s a problem for future you.

Right now, you’ve nearly stripped her entirely, pressed up against a wall that’s seen more than its fair share of secrets, and your two—now three—fingers are ruining her in a way that has her dancing on that borderline.

“I’m close, so close,” Mina cries, but you already know.

Because you’re already giving it to her; everything she wants and then some. Touching her, fucking her with your fingers, pushing her higher, watching her unravel.

Making her whine against your skin, making her eyes squeeze shut like she’s afraid of what’s happening, afraid of how much she wants this.

“We’re only just getting started, Mina.”

You let her nipple pop out from your mouth, leaving it to bob in the cool night air, sensitive and dying to be back between your teeth. Hand shifts from her hip, sliding up to cradle her jaw, to tip her face back—force those deep, dark eyes to open so you can really look at her.

Panting, pupils blown wide, and the sight of her so undone sends another wave of heat straight to your cock.

“Look at me.” It comes out harsher, more of a firm command than intended. It does its job. “You're going to cum now.”

She nods, frantically, eyes locked on yours as your thumb traces over her bottom lip, feeling it plump and swollen from your kisses. Her tongue darts out, swipes over the pad, tasting herself and you; and you’re thinking about filling that mouth of hers, or maybe that cunt, or if she’s game, that tight, untouched little asshole.

But one thing at a time.

“I’m going to eat your pussy,” you’re saying everything you’ve dreamt of saying to her since you first saw her, first caught sight of that ass daring to wander past your line of sight; and suddenly, every raw, filthy thought you’ve had of her is coming to the surface. “Then I’m going to fuck you. Again and again. Your cunt, your mouth. That ass. I’m going to take it all. And you’re going to let me, aren’t you, darling?”

Mina breathes, nods, signing a verbal contract to let you do whatever the fuck you want with her, promising you all of her, every part of her you’ve so shamelessly craved.

“Good.”   

And so, you drop to your knees.

You glance up at her. She looks down at you.

Like she’s been burning for this; like she’ll combust if you make her wait a second longer.

Pushing her dress up until it's around her waist, keeping it up with your hands on her thighs, spreading her legs wider. And you’re seeing her pussy, the darkened, plump flesh—bare, wet, begging—and so, so pretty.

Fuck—what kind of guy could resist this?

(The kind that buys her jewellery without knowing the first thing about her. The kind that leaves her to sit alone at a gala like a trophy on a shelf. The kind that doesn’t get to taste her—doesn’t know how.

The kind that’s not you.

And maybe she was right—you do think you could save her.)

“What are you doing?” Mina huffs, impatient.

You smirk, unable to resist the urge to drag this out, to keep her on edge a little longer. "Just appreciating."

Mina's eyes narrow, but the smile never leaves her lips. "Well, appreciate faster."

You don’t need to be told twice.

Take her by the hips, spin her around, make her inhale—sharp. Force her to look away from you, to face the cold, indifferent wall, to brace herself.

“Wait, why—”

“Hold your dress up for me,” you mumble against her thighs.

Mina’s hands obey, holding the silk out of the way; and now she’s bent over, like a fucking present. Letting your eyes drink in her ass; unable to do anything but just stare.

How the moonlight kisses the curve, makes the shadows play against it. So perfect. So round and tight and full. Fruit so ripe you could pluck it from the tree with your teeth.

You’re leaning in, kissing the top of her thighs, right below where her cheeks spill over. Kissing up, a soft press of your lips to one cheek, the other, and fuck Mina’s trembling; barely holding it together, and you’re just getting started.

You drag your nose up, across the cotton of her panties and inhale her deep. Sweet and musky, a fine wine that’s been left to breathe, and she squirms.

Shivers under your breath.

And when Mina sighs something that sounds suspiciously like a warning—because she’s not the type to let you get away with anything like this so easily—you take the band of her underwear with your teeth, feeling the fabric stretch. Thin, delicate, begging to snap.

The panties fall away, down to her ankles. The sound of her heels tapping the ground as she lifts her legs to let it slide off, leaving her bare, vulnerable, and yours.

Mina goes still.

Hands spread her cheeks, and finally, you dive in, tongue first. Swipe along the crevice of her ass, taste the sweetness of her from bottom to top, forcing this gasp from her lips. You’re not shy about it—no room for anything close to it when your nose is pressed up against her asshole—and Mina’s thighs are trembling, muscles in her legs tightening like she’s trying to run away from what’s coming next.

But she won’t. You’ve got her pinned. You’ve got her right where she wants to be.

You flatten your tongue against her pussy, lick from cunt to asshole in one, long slow drag, make her sigh your name like it’s a prayer.

“I can’t believe—I never—no one’s ever—” She’s talking, trying to keep it together, trying to rationalise how something so filthy is making her fall apart in a million different, tremendous ways. But the words break off into moans, pure music to your ears.

“Like that?” You murmur against her skin, words disappearing into her.

“Oh my god, yes,” Mina cries out, a benediction. Her grip tightens on her dress, holding it up like a veil. A fucked-up kind of thing, marrying her cunt to your lips; arousal so potent you’re drowning it.

Because she’s a wreck, been a wreck since the moment you laid a hand on her. And now you just have to keep her there.

You let your tongue slide up and down her slit, teasing the folds, going lower, spreading her legs to lap up her clit until she’s begging for it—until she’s begging for you to push inside, to fuck her with it, to make her scream.

"Enjoy it, enjoy being so messy for me.”

"Oh—oh my God!" Mina cries out as you delve into her, and the sound echoes down empty corridors, bouncing off the walls, taking a grand tour of the palace. “I can’t believe—can’t fucking believe—"

You can't believe it either. That no one else has had the pleasure of tasting, of licking, of dining on this slice of Eden laid out before you. It's a crime against nature, really. A sin that you're more than happy to rectify.

"Fuck, you're so good," Mina voice is strained, her legs buckling under the weight of her own desire, she needs to post one hand onto the wall to not completely collapse into your mouth.

A dark chuckle escapes your lips. Feeling smug and utterly in control. "It's not rocket science, darling. Just a little bit of appreciation goes a long way."

But you're not just tonguing her ass because it’s there, because it’s what you’re into. You’re doing it because it’s driving her wild, because you know it’s a button that’s been left untouched, unexplored. And there’s something about being the first to do it that makes your cock throb, makes you want to worship not just her ass, but all of her.

Every part of her that's been neglected, overlooked, ignored.

"You have no idea," she breathes, her legs trembling harder now, "How good it feels."

You lean back, just a fraction, looking up at her, the tension coiling up her spine. "Oh, darling," you say, "I do. Believe me, I do."

A kiss into the small of her back, and you slide your finger back into her, once at first. So impossibly wet, stretching so easily for you, welcoming you right back in.

It’s all for you.

And you can’t get enough, so you add another, then another, stretching her even more, making her drench you and moan for you louder and louder.

You’ve figured it out. How to fuck her, lick her, press into her cunt just right. Finding the rhythm, that makes her breath skip and her body tense, that makes her pussy clamp down around your digits.

“Oh, God, oh, oh, oh—yes—right there—right there—” She’s panting, her hips jerking back, meeting every thrust of your fingers and your tongue.

You’re so close to making her cum—so close that you can almost taste it on the air—and she’s begging for it, so sweetly, so desperately.

“Please, please, don’t stop, I’m right there—” Mina’s hand reaches back, tangling in your hair, and she’s pulling you closer, grinding herself against your mouth.

Bury your face between her cheeks, fuck her fast with your fingers. It’s heaven down in the depths of hell; her thighs, her cheeks, her cunt, her ass. So soft, so wet, so very yours.

That whimper, that beautiful sigh that escapes Mina’s lips is her final invitation. You push your tongue inside her, opening it up, feeling the tightness, the warmth. The shock coursing through her as she surrenders to the unspeakable filth and bliss of your mouth on her asshole.

So tight, so clean, so delicious.

You lick and suck and kiss, fucking her with your fingers, pressing into her, exploring the depths of that tight little hole.

"This is, this is—” her voice strains, wonder, desperation, downright heat at what you’re doing to her. "No one’s ever done this to me. Keep eating my ass, please."

It’s her words that keeps you going, and it all becomes a blur of moans and shivers, of the way she tastes, smells, feels. But you don’t stop, you can’t, all you want to do is make that tight ring of muscle yours.

“Please let me cum. Now. Please. I need it—I need you—”

She needs you to never stop.

You take her, right there in the moonlit garden, hidden by the shadows and the foliage and the silk of her dress. You can almost feel the vibrations of her voice in your mouth, against your tongue, like it’s a part of her, like she’s speaking straight into your soul with every moan and gasp and plea.

The squelch of your fingers fucking her. Her cunt griping you, being devoured. Your tongue invading her ass. The way you’re ruining her for everyone else. Her cries.

She’s so loud.

It doesn’t matter.

The whispers of the gala seem so far away, so irrelevant. It’s all about Mina and her ass and your three fingers sawing in and out of her and she’s saying—

“God, fuck, how can you do this, how can you make me—fuck—"

The answer to her unfinished question: it’s because she’s worth it. It’s because of her, how she makes you want to prove yourself. Because of her hips and her thighs and her cunt and her ass and all of her, every single part.

And that’s your name on her breath, that’s your name when she’s close, that’s your name when she finally tips over, when her legs give way and she’s gasping it into the night.

“Oh my—”

Mina cums.

You swallow.

Drink your fill from her cunt, fill up your nose with her scent. Burn the memory of what it’s like to have your face buried in her ass and have her leaking down your chin. It’s a full body spasm that wracks through her, setting her soul on fire. She’s a star, a supernova, a fucking explosion on your tongue.

Her walls pulse around your fingers, squeezing, clenching, and you give it to her, keep fucking her through it, keep licking, because she’s still there, still hovering.

It overwhelms her—she lets it—you feel her body tighten, quiver, then release like a bowstring snapped.

“Fuck me, fuck me, please—yes, like that—right—right there—yes—yes—yes—”

A chant of yeses right before falling off a cliff and into an oh fuck, I’m cumming.

And you’re right there, knees in the dirt, smiling against her cheeks, holding onto her hips, making sure she doesn’t collapse entirely.

And fuck, she goes, and goes and goes.

Until the ground falls beneath her feet.

You’re there to catch her, to ease her down to the ground with you, hold her in your arms until her world stops spinning.

It takes a moment, two.

And she looks up at you, like she’s unsure of how she got there, in this tangle of sighs and limbs and you. But it doesn’t really matter because she pulls you closer, hand still buried in your hair, needing to kiss you just one more time.

Her taste lingers on your tongue—sweet and salty and so uniquely her. She kisses you again, a little less frantic this time. A little more like she means it.

It’s hard not to feel anything but pride.

Mina’s cheek is pressed to your chest, her eyes barely able to focus, her breaths coming in quiet, contented puffs.

And you’re coming to realise what kind of woman Mina is. Even now, when she should be an unrepairable mess—sprawled out on the cool floor with her dress in a puddle around her, her pussy still pulsing and leaking down her thighs—there’s this poise to her that’s downright intimidating.

She breathes, “You’re just a fantasy, aren’t you?” It feels like a warm hand sliding down your spine.

You lean down, kiss her forehead, tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

It’s peaceful. It’s perfect.

And then your emergency line rings.

Mina inclines her head. A spell is broken. “Well, that’s timing for you.”

You instantly regret the next words that come out of your mouth, the rational words that have never sounded more irrational. “I need to go.”

Mina’s far too polite, far too graceful to say what she wants to say, what you’re pleading her in your mind to say. But she knows the game. You both do.

She just nods, rewards herself with a peek at the tent angrily poking underneath your slacks.

“It’s fine,” she says. (It’s not). She reaches up to your lips, running a thumb over the gloss she’s stained you with. “I think I can handle it from here.”

Her other hand slips down to your thigh, gives you a courtesy squeeze as a farewell, and it’s all you can do not to jump. But you can’t, because the phone’s still ringing, because at the end of the day you’re still a billionaire with responsibilities and a reputation to uphold.

She’s kind of enough to give you an out. “You’re supposed to be giving a speech, right?”

Said responsibility and reputation has you answering, “Yeah.”

You’re stupid for it, stupid for even entertaining the idea of letting her go, or leaving her behind. But you’re not completely blameless—it’s near impossible to even think straight when all the blood in your body has gone south for the evening.  

“Are you going to be okay with,” Mina blinks down at you. “Your situation?”

It’s painful to even say it. “I guess I’ll have to be.”

Mina sits up, pulls herself off you, untangling her legs with a grace that seems almost otherworldly.  Pulls her panties back up, tucks them into place with a little shiver. Smooths her dress down, twisting it back in place.

You’re already regretting letting her leave before she’s even gone.

But the messages have piled up on your phone, and Mina can see it all, the endless frantic texts, the missed calls.

You’re late.

You’re needed.

The world’s waiting.

Mina reads your face, and you can’t tell if she’s impressed or disappointed. “Looks like you’ve got your hands full.”

You stand up, help her to her feet, because that’s what you do—you take care of your own messes. She’s still smiling at you, and you want to tell her how much you wish you could stay.

“It’s okay,” is all she says, as you tuck your shirt back in and slick your hair down.

She’s redoing her own hair, trying to fix it into something presentable. Something less ‘I’ve been fucked raw against a brick wall’ and more ‘gee, quite a strong wind tonight’.

“I knew from the jump you didn’t have the time.”

You’re blurting out, “I can make more.”

“Not even money can buy that.”

Your phone rings again.

Mina’s eyes follow the screen, the glow lighting up her face. Ethereal. Yeah, that's the word for how she looks. You've never been sure of the definition but you're certain it fits.

And when she stands on her toes to kiss your cheek, to bid you farewell, she holds onto your shoulder long enough to whisper her address in your ear. “I’ll be waiting. If you can get away.”

“Why don’t I just come with you now?”

She laughs—but it’s empty, almost a little sad. “Because, you have a job to do, and I have an appearance to keep up. And unlike you, I’m not quite sure I’m ready to broadcast to the whole world who I’m fucking. Or who I’m going to fuck. If he’s not late, that is.”

And with a quiet breath, she’s gone.

A ghost in the moonlight, slipping away like she’s been painted out of existence, leaving you with the memory of her on your mouth and the ache she’s leaving in your cock.

You turn back to the gala.

The air feels somewhat colder.

—

The rest of the evening goes far, far too slowly for your liking.

While your absence has been noted, the whispers and glances are more curious than concerned. They don't know where you've been, and one of your assistants is kind enough to fetch you a new shirt to replace the one that's smudged with lipstick and makeup and Mina, before any real juicy rumours can start.

You try, and fail, to get things moving as quickly as possible:

(A business rival pulls you aside to congratulate you on the recent product launch—You're just thinking about Mina's ass.

A board member sings your praises about last quarter’s earnings, how you're really sticking it to those idiots that forecasted a downturn—You're only thinking about sticking it between Mina's thighs.

A reporter that sneaked in wants to know if you're planning another acquisition so soon after the last one—Yes, you're going to acquire Mina; find somewhere far away from here with another wall to pin her against and make her scream and ache all over for you.)

Thankfully, your assistant is at the ready before you can really make a scene, dragging you over to the stage and pulling you out of this shit show.

‘Just stepped away for some air’ is what you had assured her when she took the shirt off your hands, but really, there's no point trying to hide it.

She's seen that look before, that glow that you can't quite wipe off.

But she's loyal, she doesn't ask questions. Just tells you that you’re on in five, and that in the meantime, she’ll make sure the driver is ready for a quick exit.

So, you force yourself to smile, address the faces that meld together into a wall of teeth.

Make a speech that’s just a rush of words that you've recited countless times before. Innovation and growth, the future of the company, the same spiel from the annual report wrapped up in a shiny new bow.

But none of it matters. You're not even hearing yourself speak. You're hearing the echoes of Mina's moans, feeling the tremble of her thighs as you devoured her, replaying her orgasm in your mind again and again.

You can't wait to get off this fucking stage.

The second the applause dies down, you're off like a shot. The podium forgotten; the spotlight cold on your back. You grab your phone and slip out of the garden, dodging the eager hands that reach out for just a second of your time.

You find your driver waiting, just as instructed; Mina's address already punched in the navigation.

Just go, drop me off. Don't stick around. I'll call you to pick me up in the morning.

—

“It was cerulean,” is Mina’s amused answer to your admittedly idiotic question.

Not your best moment, to be fair. You raced up to her apartment so quickly that you really didn’t have anything more intelligent to say than ‘what happened to your dress?’ and ‘I wanted to know what colour it was’.

But still, show you the person living or dead that could have said anything coherent when being greeted by Mina, opening the door to her apartment—so unashamedly smug, and so very naked.

So what if you just stood there and stared?

Stared at the curves and dips, the way her hair cascades over her shoulders in inky waves, damp from a shower; making it cling to her skin, drape over her collarbone, her breasts. The nipples peeking straight at you, dusky, pointed, waiting the return of your tongue. Her pussy winking between her thighs, a treasure hidden in a sea of smooth flesh.

You don’t know whether to apologise for your lack of eloquence or thank her for being so incredibly distracting.

You kind of want to request that she turn around.

Mina laughs at what is certainly a stupid expression colouring your face; folds her arms across her chest, crosses one leg over the other. "Waiting for me to offer you a drink?"

You blink. “Thought you already gave me one.”

She scrunches her nose, answers, “I was only being polite.”

“I think we’re well past that.”

There’s that gravity again; shifting around Mina, tilting the world towards her until she’s pulling you into her apartment and you’re kicking the door closed behind you.

“Then hurry up and take me upstairs.”

—

There’s a part of you that feels like you should warn Mina when she tells you:

“Look, you’ve kept me waiting too fucking long. I need your cock, your cum inside of me. Right now. Before it’s too late and I change my mind. So, just please, please, please—”

But those kind of thoughts are lost halfway up the staircase; when you both decide that you just can't wait anymore, and your hands are back on her hips and your tongue is pushing into her throat.

Her fault, really.

Stripping you down the hallway, leaving a trail of your clothes through her kitchen; taking you by the cock. Firm, confident pumps as she leads you through her penthouse, refusing to give you a moment to breathe.

Because she’s obsessed with it. Obsessed with how it fills her hand, how it jumps at her touch, how it throbs when she squeezes it, strokes it.

“So big for me," Mina's says—to you, to herself, to your cock. "So perfectly, impossibly, big for me."

You’re never going to make it to the top.

Pressing her up against the banister, kissing her, hard. Deep, bruising kisses, because now that you’re out of the garden you don’t give a fuck if you’re leaving marks.

You just want her to remember this night, to feel it in every pulse and every breath.

Make her think of you when she’s with him, if she can even go back to him after this. Because you’ll both know that she’s yours even when she’s not.

“You’re going to ruin me, you know that?”

You look into Mina’s eyes. You can see it all, how the rest of the night will play out. You and Mina, tangled in her apartment. You and Mina, on top of the kitchen island. You and Mina, against the shower walls, on the living room floor, maybe even on the balcony.

You and Mina, until the sun rises.

You kiss her harder. “Is that a request?”

“Of course it is.”

Because now you actually have the time to appreciate her, to let your hands wander.

They glide over her body, mapping it out again, but slower this time. You've had your fill of the frantic touches, the greedy need. This is something else. This is savouring.

You start with your thumb at her navel, tracing the line down to her hips, then back up against to the base of her ribcage. It’s the feel of the muscles in her stomach tensing and relaxing as you touch her, the inhale and the exhale. How ridiculously tiny her waist feels in your hand, how your palm fits so perfectly into the curve of her side that you swear she’s been tailored for you.

Mina chokes on her breath as she tells you, “You’re going to have to stop, or we’re not going to make it to the bedroom.”

You don’t even slow down. You just don’t care.

Your hand rises, higher, finds her breasts again; cupping it in your palm. A thumb rolls over her nipple.

You pinch. She gasps.

You smile into her neck. “So, so, sensitive.”

Mina’s so willing, so keen to give herself over to you, to your touch. You’ve proven yourself to her already, made her cum with just your fingers and tongue. Now it’s just a matter of doing it all over again—but slower, better, more thorough.

You palm her breasts, rolling and pinching them until they’ve been given the attention they deserve, until she’s panting through your teases and caresses. Kneading the soft flesh beneath your hand and making her arch into your touch.

“You’re really going to take your time, aren’t you?” Mina mewls, half-sigh, half-plead. Grinding herself into you, making a shimmering mess on your waist. “Going to torture me until I can’t breathe.”

“It is your fantasy.”

Pull her closer, take a handful of that perfect ass once again. It hasn’t really been that long since you last had it in your hands but it’s all you’ve had on your mind. What it looks like under proper lighting, what it feels like without the dress in the way. What kind of noises will she make when you grope, and she doesn’t have to worry about anyone overhearing.

Press and squeeze, dig your fingers into her flesh. Not rough, but firm. Leaving little spots of red that will be gone by the morning.

Slide your finger down, down between her cheeks, and deeper, pressing into the sweet heat of her ass.

And then you feel it.

Her asshole. Wet and slick. Prepared.

A wink. A laugh. "Not my fault you're predictable."

You can’t fucking wait anymore.

She’ll just have to settle for the staircase.

Grab her by the hips—her ass, and pull her down with you onto the steps, her legs straddling you as you sit down.

Take her in—all of her. The curve of her, the line of her spine, the fucking paradise that’s her cheeks. Unbelievable.

You kiss into her back, follow down that trail right to where it swells, feeling the heat of her skin against your lips. You’re going to ruin this ass; permanently plant your flag there, mark it as property of you and your cock until she can’t take a seat without cursing your name.

Mina's shoulders tense when you pause, and she looks back over to you. There's a flash of nerves in her eyes, a gasp of "Here?" that's so faint you almost don't catch it.

Another kiss into her skin, you murmur, “Here’s perfect, Mina,” and she sighs when your finger presses against that puckered ring, cold with lubricant, made as ready as she’s ever going to be.

It’s the preparation that gets you; the idea of her in anticipation for you, for this, making sure she’s nice and primed. Mina at the store, still wearing that dress, fresh from her orgasm, buying lube. Mina in her bathroom, stripping herself bare, toying with her asshole, making it perfect for you.

And Mina, now, eyes clenched shut, breaths heavy as your digit is pushing through, slipping into her, and she’s so fucking tight around it.

“Oh my god,” she hisses through her teeth, a quiver in her legs as you push deeper into her tight channel.

Your hands shoot to her thighs to steady her, a reassuring anchor to keep her from toppling over as your finger fills her completely, twisting and turning, slowly but surely easing her into the idea of being taken.

It’s the moans that get you, the sighs as you intrude inside her. She’s so responsive, her breaths skipping and her pussy already starting to gush, coating your finger, your thighs, the steps below.

“You doing okay?”

“Yeah—yes,” Mina stutters, her footing slips just so, but she catches herself on the banister. “It’s—it’s intense. So intense. But don’t stop, I can take it. I want—I want more. I need this. I need this now, before—before I take all of you inside of me."

“You want more?” You repeat her words, before giving her what she needs—adding a second finger, pressing them in deep, making sure she’s good and open. The lube helps, but it’s the eagerness that gets her most of the way there; it’s that trust that she has in you, her willingness to let you take her here, in this way.

“Yes, please,” Mina cries, doing everything she can to not collapse on top of you, to not come completely apart.

You’re merciless, adding a third finger, stretching her until she’s panting, until she’s crying out, making this noise, this hushed whimper that takes the shape of your name.

“Please, please, please,” Mina whispers to herself, pushing back against you, starting to rock back onto your hand, taking your fingers into her ass.

“Not yet, Mina, not yet,” you tell her, because even though she’s close, even though she’s begging, you want her to be absolutely fucking desperate for your cock when the moment comes. 

You reach around her with your other hand, finding that button, already swollen and begging for attention. Playing with it, gently at first, a soft pressure to help her let go, to allow herself to let her voice echo up the staircase and through the penthouse.

God, how is she this sensitive, reactive to every little touch, to every exploration of her cunt, her ass, her body.

It’s the ceremony of it all; this lurid, obscene ritual that you’re walking her through. Making her ass bounce on your hand in this hypnotic movement, making her stretch around your fingers, making her repeat your name over and over until she’s convinced herself that all of her belongs to you.

These perfect, near-silent sighs. This unbelievable tightness. Mina’s body, turning itself into a fucking playground for your touch; to do with it as you will. Even if it means ruining her.

And it’s when you have her creaming all over you; down her thighs, making a mess of herself with these pushes and pulls, these declarations of how ready she is for you, that her body shakes with one last, long shiver.

She cums.

Softly, soundlessly, another cry of your name dying on her lips. A hand to your wrist to stop you abruptly, panting.

Tiny, tiny shivers, twitches in her thighs, around your fingers, leaving her barely there, barely with you. Head hanging low, chest heaving, catching her breath, putting herself back together again.

Time stretches before she's cognisant again, and she turns back, looking over her shoulder and straight at you. Eyes half-lidded, hazy, dripping with lust, anticipation, burning with need.

Deep, heavy breaths. And then Mina says the most devastating thing:

“I’m ready. Fuck my ass. Now. Please.”

A gunshot in the quiet of her home, rumbling through your bones.

Your fingers leave her ass, her cunt with a wet pop, forcing a whine from her throat at the sudden emptiness. A look at her asshole, how it clenches and unclenches, beckoning for you to fill it, to claim it as your own.

“Good girl.”

Holding her by the hips, lining her ass with your cock, nudging her opening with your tip and making her shiver. You don’t go in immediately; you hover, giving her one last out, to really see if she’s absolutely certain.

Mina trembles. Nods. That’s all the invitation you need.

“God, I—”

You push in, slow and steady, eyes on her ass as she takes you. So fucking tight, so intense, you can feel every part of her squeezing, accommodating you, moulding itself around your girth and swallowing you whole.

“Take it slow, darling, take it slow,” you whisper into her skin, guiding her down, telling her how good she’s doing, how good she is for you, how much you love her tightness, her trust.

It seems impossible at first, the grip she has on you, like you’ll never get in. But inch by agonising inch, she takes you, and it’s nothing short of total heaven.

Mina, so fucking beautiful in this moment of raw vulnerability; all sharp inhales and strained quivers wrecking through her, voice shaky as she tells you, “I’ve never felt anything like this, I never thought—fuck—I never thought I could take anything like this.”

“You’re doing so good,” you kiss your words into her, wrapping your arms around her, holding her.

“I can—I can do better,” she gasps, and you believe her.

But you still go slow, so painfully slow, even though every fibre of your being is screaming at you to just dig into her hips and slam into that glorious fucking ass and never look back.

“I can take it,” Mina breathes, “Do it, I can take it. I want all of you. In my ass. I can handle it.”

Mina nods, clenches her ass, her cheeks firming up around your throbbing cock.

“I want it to hurt so good.”

No more convincing required. You push in deeper, make her back stiffen, her muscles contract, making her cry.

It’s a dance, a delicate ballet of bodies, of breath and touch, of your cock inside Mina’s ass. Lost in it, in the feel of skin on skin, the sound of wet, needy noises that she’s making, her shudders in your arms.

Until finally, with a strangled gasp, she’s fully seated. You’re buried in her tight, hot ass, basking in the warmth of her, leaving you both winded and struggling for air.

Stillness overrides the moment, because it’s too perfect, too overwhelming, and the feeling. You need to get used to the feeling.

You break the silence first. “Mina?”

“I know. I know.”

A kiss against her neck, scraping the soft skin there. A whisper in her ear, your breath hot and ragged.

“I’m going to fuck your ass now.”

You always keep your promises.

Mina answers by leaning back into you, her hand finding yours, her nails running along your fingers as if to say, “Yes, please, now.”

Moving, so slow it’s almost painful. The drag of her ass around your cock like nothing you’ve ever felt before—like you’re sliding through warm, velvet-covered steel.

“Fuck, yes, please,” with every inch you pull out, and “Too much, so good, too fucking much,” when you push back in, deeper and deeper still.

It builds and builds, this sweet agony, each pass in her ass faster, harder, turning Mina’s cries and wails into moans of pure bliss. It takes time and long, hard fucking for her body to relax into this rhythm, letting you take her, own her.

A vision above you, sweat glistening on her back, hair matted and sticking to her shoulders, and Mina’s ass, a snug ring around your cock. You watch as your cock slides out of her, the way her ass clenches around the head, holding on for just a second before pushing all the way back down.

You can’t help but groan, “Christ,” as she moves on top of you like that. So gracefully, so beautifully, so fucking obscenely on your cock.

“Thank you—God—thank you, thank you, thank you.” Mina’s moans are pure music to your ears, she’s babbling, talking through the pain, through the pleasure. “So, so good, filling me like—fuck—never been filled up like this.”

And as you push on, push further and further until your cock is melting inside her, burning her up in every way she's ever dared to dream, you can see the smile curling onto Mina’s face. It’s pride, you’re realising. Proud of herself, proud of how she can take you, how she can handle this kind of depraved ecstasy.

“It feels so deep.”

Tearing her open. Revealing the tender, delicate core beneath the glamour, the lights, the unreal beauty that is Mina. Leaving her sobbing, pleading, whining for more, more, more.

Bouncing on you now, each more assured than the last, cries of nothing but need. Opening up to accept you fully, completely, her ass a tight fucking sleeve for you, coming down and wrapping itself around you like a searing hot second skin.

You know the truth, but you still want to hear it.

“How many?”

Mina has her answer ready: “You’re the—you’re the first.”

You grin. A smug, triumphant baring of teeth that spreads from ear to ear. “I have no fucking idea how that’s possible. How nothing has ever been up this tight, perfect little asshole.”

“Oh, there's been toys,” Mina moans, strained and shaky as you pump into her, “But you’re just the first that's real.”

“Then your boyfriend is a fucking idiot,” you growl into her ear, your hand moving to her throat, gently clasping, making her gasp, making her eyes go wide with shock, with excitement. “He doesn’t know what he has.”

“Enough about my boyfriend,” Mina's quick to answer, snapping, her head thrown back, eyes screwed shut. “Even though—even if—he wouldn’t, couldn’t dream of filling me like this. Filling me up so much that it hurts, so much that—fuck, it feels so right, so fucking right—”

“You love this, don’t you, Mina?” You ask, but all Mina can do is nod vigorously, too overrun by the fucking to form words. “Underneath it all, you’re just a dirty slut for it, aren’t you? Letting me use this pretty, tight ass like this.”

“I—” she stutters, right before confessing, “I love it.”

She slams her hips down on you, the stairs groaning with each thrust, not built to withstand this kind of punishment.

“I love that it’s you, love that you’re the first. I can’t believe it—just—I need it. I need your cock in me, so deep—I need you, I need you, I need you—so please don't stop.”

“I would never dream of stopping.”

Never.

Not when she’s begging like this, her voice hoarse and her body quaking. When she sighs and shivers every time you fuck a little faster, push a little harder, testing just how much she can take.

Tits jiggling with every thrust, cunt leaking all the way down your thighs, ass puckering and loosening.

Her whole body, yours.

Yours for the taking. Mina’s divine body, in all its sharp planes and ridged muscles, squeezing and coiling at every juncture, every penetration setting her alight.

You declare it, even though it doesn't need to be said. “Made for me.”

“Yes,” she’s nodding. Or rather, letting her head fall into one. “God yes.”

“Just been waiting for me for so long, haven’t you? Been waiting for the right cock to come along and split you in half.” You’re saying these things, these stinging words that you fuck into Mina, send shooting through her like sparks. She’s a live-wire, a fucking blackout waiting to happen.

Weeping down her thighs, choking out every whine, “Yes,” she whispers, “yes, yes, yes, been needing to be ruined. Needing it, needing you. So much, so much, so—fucking—right—”

“Fucking criminal that you had to wait,” you’re saying, loving this, so enraptured by all of it. “But I’m here now.”

Mina shivers, pussy clenches, and she just can’t stop saying, “Yours, yours, yours—”

Completely, totally yours, now.

You know it. She knows it.

It’s written in the way she takes your cock, in the way she loses herself to you, loses all semblance of composure and decorum, peels back all the carefully curated layers that make her Mina, until all there is to see and touch is the raw, unfiltered need that you’ve unleashed from underneath.

"Touch me, fuck me, take me, take my ass, I need more—"

Again, your fingers find her folds, sticky and swollen and waiting.

You touch her, press down on her clit. Circling it with the same rhythm as your hips. Striking a match in a dark room, lighting up her body in this blaze.

The noises that it all makes; the slosh of your fingers at her cunt, the squelch of your cock invading her ass, so fucking explicit, so fucking filthy. 

She’s erratic, breath catching, throat pulsing against your fingers, and she somehow, impossibly, clenches even more around you, suffocating your cock with just her tight, tight ass.

You keep that same tempo. That desperate, fucking unyielding beat that’s going to make her come, going to turn this idol, this mystery, this drop-dead fucking gorgeous woman who should belong to someone else but is now screaming proudly just how much she’s yours, into nothing but a trembling mess of whimpers and whines.

“More, fuck—oh my god, oh my fucking god—it’s so fucking good—so good—so fucking good—”

She’s reaching her peak—her voice, her body, her cunt, her ass—all of her reaching that perfect crescendo of pleasure that you’ve been orchestrating, that you’ve been waiting for.

“I’ve never—no one’s ever—fuck, fuck, fuck—”

Sinking into her, making her feel like she’s being torn apart and remade with every stroke, making her feel nothing like she’s ever felt before, making her feel like nothing but your fucking whore.

So, so close, barrelling towards it now, all these tears running down her cheeks, these filthy words slipping from her lips. Coming apart in your arms, because she’s never been this filled, this complete.

“Going to—going to cum—fuck me, harder, harder—going to cum all over your cock—” Mina tells you, a warning, the last one you get before she screams, “Too good—filling me—so good—give it to me—God—I can never go back—”

She shatters. Monumentally.

Into a million tiny pieces of pleasure, each one more brilliant than the last.

Her body spasms, her ass squeezes so fucking tight around your cock that you can feel the orgasm ripping through her, up her spine, through her throat, until she’s crying out and it’s hitting your ears—

“Oh my God, I'm going to—just, say my name—please, say my name when I—”

“Mina,” you say, and she cums.

“Mina,” you repeat when her pussy floods over your hand, ass smothers your cock.

“Mina,” again when it ripples across her skin, leaves her in fits, uncontrollable quakes, consumed by pure, unfiltered joy.

You watch the whole thing—watch her scream your name, watch her shake and quiver and fall apart, right there on your cock; and you're fucking her through it all, fucking her well past it, chanting “Mina” over and over again.

You'll never forget this, never forget this sight—this woman, this star, built up and broken down just for you.

“Mine,” you bite into her ear, because now, it’s true.

Mina’s barely there, eyes glassy, hand cradling your face. But she’s able to say it, because it’s branded into every bone of her body: “Yours.”

It’s a complete disaster.

And now you're cumming.

Brand new sensations, devastation in full measure—your soul ripped from your chest, until all that’s left is this impulsive, overwhelming need to give her your all, your everything—to fill her entire existence with just you.

You drive your cock into her once more, impaling her deep, and let go.

It floods her, rushes inside her, spills and spills.

Mina can't do anything but feel it—every pulse, every spurt. She throws her head back, her mouth open in this silent plea, satisfaction painted across her face as your heat surges inside her. Her ass milks you, needy for every drop, so, so thirsty for it.

“It's—cumming inside my ass—so, so nice, keep cumming for me.”

You hold onto her, throb inside her, pump ropes into her, and there's a kiss—hot and clumsy—somewhere in the midst of it all, your mouths colliding and tongues wrapping around each other in a futile attempt to last just that little bit longer.

Getting all dizzy and spellbound, floating back down to the ground as the last waves of your climaxes start to subside, until one of you says, “Thank you,” and the other echoes it back.

You stay like that, swallowed up inside her, dripping out of her ass. Lowering one hand from her throat, rising the other from her pussy, pulling her into an embrace, keeping her as close as you can while you both try to put yourselves back together.

It’s sex that soaks the air, fills the penthouse—sweat, lube, the musk of all the evidence you're leaving behind. Intoxicating, breathing it in, setting your nerves alight, rousing your cock inside her all over again.

But Mina, she’s a stunning catastrophe, torn asunder in all the best ways. Perfection not marred, but made better. Completed. Looking up at you with wonder, with gratitude, with a smile.

You look down at her and admit it, “Perfect.”

Mina laughs out loud, “Disastrously perfect.”

“This is going to be a problem, isn’t it?”

You kiss her once more.

Mina kisses you back.

“Only if we make it one.” 

—

You think you can read her mind.

And she, yours.

It’s the only way any of this makes sense—how perfect you fit together, how well you read each other; fill each other’s needs without use of any words outside of curses and names and strangled pleas.

Printed onto your DNA, carved into your bones, these exact pathways you shape through her home and into her skin.

You do make it to the bedroom, somehow.

And then, exactly as predicted:

The shower, where Mina takes you into her mouth, gags herself around you, covers herself in your cum before letting the water wash it all away.

Then the kitchen, polishing off a bottle of wine, slurring promises into Mina’s cunt, having her rake the back of your scalp and scream the same promises back into your ears.

And finally, the living room, folding her over the couch, tumbling onto the floor with Mina, riding you so hard the neighbours below start banging on their ceiling in protest. 

It's only the balcony that goes untouched.

Maybe another time.

But that’s where it ends: sprawled across a lush rug, sticky with sweat and cum and wine, naked and bare. Ignoring the watchful eyes of the photos that line the walls and shelves—family, friends, her boyfriend. Just living in this bubble where the sun will never rise and the world outside ceases to exist.

Getting to know each other in ways few people ever do.

Tracing patterns into the small of her back, asking these questions. Is this what you always imagined you would be doing? How you thought your life would be? Does it ever actually feel enough?

Mina pokes and prods back, her nails lightly scraping against your chest, leaving half-moons in her wake. Do you think you could ever be happy? Do you ever wonder why it’s so hard for other people to keep up? Are you fucked up in all the same ways as me?

And it’s so easy to answer truthfully, to be honest, because you’re both still maintaining the façade of this just being a simple fling; a blip along the timeline of your lives.

The yours and mine of it all, all those promises you were spilling. Just callous words tossed in the throes of passion.

They didn’t mean anything real.

Because it’s not like you’re going to see each other again, not like there’s going to be a mess of emotions and consequences that will have to be dealt with in the morning after.

Eventually though, the light does slip through the curtains, the clothes come back on, and you’re kissing Mina against the doorway and thinking of a million reasons why you should stay.

"So, how long are we going to pretend that this is normal?" You broach, and it immediately feels like you’re breaking some unspoken rule. 

Mina’s keeping herself busy, hands at your shirt, buttoning it back into place, one by one. Hiding away evidence that her mouth, her lips, her teeth were ever on you.

She looks up at you. Smirks. “Fucking ‘til the break of dawn, giving each other orgasms that never quite end? Flooding each one of my holes with your cum?” 

You tilt your head. 

“I don’t know. This whole thing is… unique. Uncharted territory and all.”

“It goes without saying, but, yeah. Same for me.” You echo, “Unique.”

You reach for her, smoothing her hair back. The early morning light makes it shine like a crown of jewels. 

“Do you want it to stay that way?”

Mina considers. Leans into your hand. “You think we should make a habit out of this? I didn’t pin you for the type.”

“Neither did I, but it didn’t seem so bad when you were riding me on that couch,” you tease. “And in the shower, and on the staircase, and in the kitchen…”

She blushes, lips caught between her teeth, looking like she’s struggling to hold in a laugh. There’s this glint in her eye as her hand wanders up to your cheek, thumb hovering just shy of your mouth. For a second, you think she’s going to kiss you again.

But instead, she just looks at you.

Eyes you with something close to fascination, something that makes your heart stop. And you're reading each other’s minds again, knowing you're both going to lie, going to pretend like this was just a one-night thing. Something the two of you can easily wipe your hands with and walk away from like it never even happened.

Because this really is the first time—you’ve never done anything like this before. Sure you’ve dipped your toe in the pool of commitment, paddled around in the shallow end, but you’ve never fallen for someone proper.

Never worried about what someone's going to be doing when you’re not there, never thought about whether you’d be better off sticking around to find out. 

But you have a job. A company to run.

And Mina, a career. A boyfriend. A life.

So, you don’t make plans.

You don’t even ask for her number.

You don't need to.

Deep down inside you know you’ll find her again.

For now though, you spin your bullshit: “It’s probably for the best if we don’t, though.”

“Probably.” Mina agrees, but she can hear the same ticking clock as you.

The timer that’s already started, counting down to when she’ll inevitably be undoing the same buttons, redrawing the same patchwork of red and pink across your chest, and pulling you into her home and into her; fucking her pussy, her ass, her mouth, in all the ways she needs, until you’re spilling out of her all over again.

 “Definitely.” Mina unlocks the front door. “For the best.”

[petermorwood]

A day or so ago, @dduane reblogged a long post - a Canadian magazine article from 1966 - about the Americanisation of Winnie the Pooh.

It's an Impressive Tirade in which the writer (Sheila H. Kieran) says what she thinks about letting Walt Disney have a free hand with a foreign Children's Classic.

There's mention of the previous Adaptation Endeavour, "Mary Poppins" (1964) but it's very brief, perhaps with an eye to limited column space - or maybe because All Was Said Already in a previous review.

There is, however, rather a lot about the English characters being given American accents, and about the inclusion of a new character, an American gopher (which, the article suggests, looked vague enough to the Kieran children - its target audience - that it might as well have been a mole or a beaver).

*****

And that reminded me of another bit of American Animalisation done by Disney, in the 1949 short "The Wind and the Willows" - though in this instance it's visual since the voices are, for the most part, suitably British.

They include Basil Rathbone as narrator, and a horse who sounds like George Formby. In some scenes the horse actually looks like Formby, so this voice may not be entirely accidental.

Badger, however, sounds like a Scotsman - the worst kind of stage Scotsman at that - rather than how I used to "hear" him as a C. Aubrey Smith-voiced crusty retired colonel.

That, however, is just personal preference.

However, Disney's Badger is not a proper British (more correctly, European) badger, Meles meles. Here's one, which though not the most amiable of beasts in reality, still manages to look fairly affable ("I say, old chap, whatever are you looking at?")

Instead he's a North American badger, Taxidea taxus, which not only has a less affable expression ("Hey, bud, you. Yeah, you. You lookin' at me? You lookin' at ME?") but, more important, different stripes.

Here's Disney's version alongside mine. The correction took about five minutes of pixel-tweaking.

Disney's animators could have got it right from the outset just as easily, because I'm pretty sure the reference library which provided costume info for Rat's tweed Norfolk jacket and britches included picture-books of natural history.

Come to that, any "The Wind in the Willows" after the unillustrated first edition would have been enough, and there must have been at least one copy lying around for story adaptation and scene-description purposes.

The first illustrated edition came out in the UK in 1931, and its artist was, at author Kenneth Graham's request, the very same E.H. Shepard who had illustrated the Pooh books just a few years previously...

...while this Arthur Rackham colour plate is from an edition published in 1940 in New York.

So those books wouldn't have been impossible for Disney to get.

The problem, however, is that if a word ("badger", for instance) is well known to mean one thing here, it may be Too Much Trouble to find out if the same word means something else there, with the result that finding out can sometimes come as rather a surprise.

Check the UK / US meaning of "suspenders" to see what I mean... ;->

[whoreforsexymen]

Hidden In Plain Sight | Viktor

Pairings: Viktor x GN!Reader

Pronouns: None used for reader 🤍

Rating: NSFW, 18+, MDNI !! You WILL be blocked!

Word Count: 2.5k

Tags: Blowjob, Unknown/Unintentional Voyeurism

Summary: You aren’t going to let a conversation stop you from relieving your lover of his frustrations.

Notes: Heyyy!! So. I’m working on requests. But this idea popped into my head when I was rewatching S1 to prepare for S2!!

This is based on S1 E5, the conversation Viktor has with Sky Young. I loved the idea that, since Viktor was so clearly uninterested in her, I should make the reason for the uninterest be you. 🥵🤍 Enjoy, my loves.

I SWEAR PT. 2 of The Cuck Fic is COMING SOON!!!!

Viktor threw his hands to his sides in a sharp, exaggerated motion, his frustration bubbling beneath the surface. He leaned back in his chair, tilting his head back against the top of it as he tried to counteract the heaviness that had settled over him. The weight of his thoughts was more palpable than any tangible burden. His eyes drifted briefly to the clutter of papers scattered on the desk, but nothing held his focus for long.

Viktor’s mind drifted, momentarily pulling him away from the weight of his work. He wondered where you were, why you weren’t here with him now. In moments like this, when the pressure of it all became too much, he often needed you to hold him, to ground him in a way only you could. He could almost feel the comfort of your presence, the warmth of your touch, and it left a deep ache in him. It wasn’t just the physical relief he craved—it was the calm, the quiet reassurance that you always provided. Without you there, the room felt colder, emptier.

He exhaled sharply, a deep sigh that seemed to carry more than just exhaustion. The silence of the room hung in the air, thick and unyielding, until it was broken by a soft, almost hesitant voice from behind him.

“It’s beautiful.”

Viktor tensed up at the sudden intrusive voice.

The words felt distant, like they belonged to another world entirely, one that wasn’t caught in the weight of Viktor’s own spiraling thoughts. He didn’t need to look to know who it was—he could picture her there, standing a little too close, her voice trembling at the edges.

Sky. Always Sky.

Viktor didn’t turn. There was no need to. She had said enough with those few words. He inhaled again, slower this time, trying to keep his “irritation” from surfacing.

He sighed, the sound low and heavy.

“I can’t figure out why it’s not working…” Viktor muttered, his voice flat, as he rubbed his hands over his face, trying to maintain a simple composure. It wasn’t just “frustration”—there was something else lurking beneath it. Something quieter that gnawed at the edges of his mind.

“You will…” Sky’s voice was soft, almost soothing, as though she had said those words a thousand times before, to herself or to him, or perhaps to both. Viktor didn’t acknowledge the comment, his gaze still fixed on “nothing” as he looked down into his lap.

Sky shifted, an anxious movement that Viktor could feel even without seeing it. He imagined her wringing her hands, pushing her glasses up her nose, trying to find the right thing to say.

“Are you… headed home soon?” Her voice was tinged with hope, though it faltered as she continued, as if she already knew the answer.

“I thought we could walk together…”

Her words hung there, like a delicate thread pulling at the edge of his attention. But Viktor wasn’t interested. He didn’t hate her, but his mind was somewhere else—too far away to grasp her meaning.

He almost rolled his eyes, but he stifled it. Instead, he answered with an aloofness that was more instinct than deliberate cruelty.

“I’m, uh… probably going to sleep here tonight,” he said, his voice distant, distracted. The words were a gentle deflection, but the disinterest was clear. His fingers tapped absently on the desk, the motion more automatic than purposeful.

Sky’s voice softened, like a fading echo.

“Again? You know there’s always tomorrow, right?” The words stung, though she tried to mask it with a forced cheer. Viktor didn’t respond right away, but he knew what she was trying to do.

“Goodnight, Miss Young,” he said, his tone a little more clipped now, though he didn’t intend for it to sound harsh. He didn’t need to look at her to know she was still there, standing in the doorway, hoping for something—anything—that would make him look at her the way she looked at him. But he didn’t.

She hesitated for a moment, her presence lingering in the room like a shadow, before she stepped back. The silence stretched on in her absence, but Viktor remained frozen in place, his thoughts elsewhere, far away from the quiet, expectant gaze he knew she had been offering.

With a soft exhale, Sky left. And the room was quiet once more.

As the door clicked shut behind her, replacing the silence, Viktor let out a long breath, as though he had been holding every one of the previous ones far too long.

The room fell into an uneasy stillness, broken only by the mechanical hum of surrounding equipment, his own steady breathing, and the faint sound of wet, sloppy, suckling.

He looks down into his lap once more, where you were, your head bobbing between his legs like a buoy in water.

Viktor felt his stomach churn at the sight of it, a wave of pleasure pooling inside him. A low, involuntary groan slipped from his lips, the sound escaping after he’d spent too long stifling it.

It was deep, slow, and rich, a reflex of the sensation that tightened in his chest and spread through his body. His breath hitched slightly as the pleasure took control, a warmth spreading through him as he fought to stay composed in case anyone else were to pop into the room.

Your lips were wrapped tightly around his needy cock, maintaining a seal around it as you sucked and licked at it.

Viktor, truthfully, hadn’t been frustrated at all during his exchange with his assistant.

In fact, he had been struggling to conceal the pleasure slowly building within him—pleasure he had worked hard to keep hidden from Sky.

Earlier, you had offered to help ease his tensions, but Viktor had turned you down, citing the risk of someone walking by at any moment. You couldn’t deny he had a point—-which felt ironic, now. But you weren’t one to be easily deterred.

You couldn’t help but pity Viktor, watching him struggle with the frustration that clung to him like a second skin. The weight of his work seemed to suffocate him—trying to stabilize and control the intricate combinations of runes for the new version of Hextech he and Jayce had launched. The constant pressure, the endless tinkering and problem-solving, had a way of wearing him down.

No matter how often you reminded him how brilliant, how capable, how wonderful he was, it never seemed to quiet that relentless inner voice of doubt. He always carried that burden, that self-imposed expectation of perfection, even when he had already accomplished so much.

You knew there was only one real way to relieve his aggravation apart from the simpler comforts you’d provide.

And so, as Viktor bent over his work, eyes fixed on the sprawling notes before him, you slipped under his desk. He didn’t notice at first, too lost in his thoughts, as you moved quietly and carefully, prowling and crawling to him like a tiger stalking a gazelle.

What you didn’t realize, though, was that Sky had arrived and was now looming behind Viktor in the annoyingly often way she did. The chair Viktor occupied, wide and heavy, combined with you on your knees, faithfully hid you from her eyes. Leaving Sky unaware of your proximity, just as Viktor remained blissfully unaware of her presence.

Your hands were beyond eager as they worked to unbutton his clothes, the fabric of his pants slipping easily beneath your fingers. You could feel him tense, stiff as a statue as you pulled his cock out right after she had said her first sentence.

You knew Viktor was stunned, and it amused you to imagine the expression on his face as he tried to conceal what was happening outside of Sky’s awareness.

You only had to wait, feeling the tension in him shift, his body responding to your touch in ways he was trying hard to ignore, while also trying desperately hard to maintain an unsuspecting tone as he talked.

You had begun lapping, sucking, and hollowing out your cheeks to accommodate his size and length. You greedily slid down until his cock reached the back of your throat, almost laughing at the sound of the sharp inhale that garnered from him.

A part of you almost wished Sky could see you—see how easily you could reduce this man to a babbling mess, unlike anyone else. It wasn’t as if you and he were some secret, hidden item, but maybe if she knew, really knew, what you often did to him, and how he crumbled, she’d finally back off.

Maybe then, and only then, would she relinquish her pathetic attempts to encroach on what was yours. The thought of her realizing that she’d never compare, never measure up to the desire Viktor had for you, gave you a twisted air of satisfaction.

You heavily considered the idea.

Your amusement remained bold, even as Viktor’s attention finally drifted down to where you were hidden beneath his desk. It was almost as if he had sensed your devious train of thought.

He shot you a look, one that said more than words ever could. There was a trace of minor disappointment in the way his brow furrowed, confusion flickering in his eyes as he tried to reconcile what was happening beneath the table with the ongoing conversation. But beneath it all, you saw the unmistakably familiar glimmer of pleasure, one he couldn’t quite suppress, despite his attempt to maintain control.

It was a mix of surprise and something deeper, something he didn’t always allow himself to acknowledge. His eyes lingered just long enough for you to sense it, the tension between his desire to focus on his work and the undeniable pull of the moment.

Several painstakingly long moments passed before Viktor finally managed to rid the room of the unwanted third presence. As Sky exited, Viktor released a deep, almost aching sigh—one that resonated with a relief so intense, it sent a shiver of arousal down your spine. The tension that had been weighing on him seemed to melt away in an instant, and the air between you thickened with the shift in his attitude.

Without hesitation, his hand slipped into your hair, fingers tangling in the soft strands as he gently tugged you closer. His gaze met yours, dark and heavy, as though he had been waiting for this moment, for the silence to settle between you both. The way he looked at you now was unmistakable, that mix of pleasure and need, the kind of intensity that made your pulse quicken.

“You really need to learn patience, my love.” He breathes, his other hand coming up to caress your cheek as he uses his grip on your hair to help guide your movement.

He hisses as he pushes your head down far enough to lightly rut his cock into the very back of your throat.

“What if she had seen you?” He asks, not really expecting a reply considering your current state.

You hum lightly as he slowly but surely flicks his hips up into your mouth, gagging around him as he did so. Viktor’s string of moans in response to your gags were filthy, needy, and whiny. You always drove him crazy, and this was no exception.

“Mmf…” he groans, biting his lip as a last ditch effort to keep himself from moaning too loud—-quickening the pace with which he began bobbing your head to meet his tiny thrusts.

“Mmm.. like that, my love.” He instructs softly—reassuring that the new way you had started licking up and down the length of his cock was simply divine.

Viktor was cursing himself inside due to the speed at which his orgasm was approaching. You’d barely been down there six minutes when he recognized the familiar tightening in his stomach nearing the edge of snapping.

“My love, I— I’m going to—“ he tried to warn you before his hot cum began spewing onto the inner walls of your mouth. It shot directly into the back of your throat, splattering off the tissues and trickling down your esophagus. The tepid, viscous substance slid further and further down as you swallowed around his twitching cock.

Viktor had cum with the unholiest of moans leaping out of his throat to invade your ears. It sent an unforgiving wave of arousal through you, singeing your skin and shocking your bones. He had gripped your face with an automatic force, pushing you down as far as you could possibly go, his eyes clamping shut as the thick strings of cum practically drowned you on land.

You gagged against the mindless way he jerked his hips into your mouth as he chased his orgasm seemingly halfway to your stomach.

Viktor practically whimpered at the sensation of you mercilessly swallowing around him—-now sensitive beyond measure from the sheer might of his climax. You had been correct—-he really needed that—arguably more than anything else.

When the pressure in your throat became unbearable, you squeezed his leg, silently pleading for him to loosen his grip.

Viktor’s eyes snapped open, the clarity that followed his release allowing him to regain his focus. He immediately uncoupled his hands from your head.

“I—I’m sorry, my love… I guess I got carried away,” he muttered, his voice tinged with sheepish regret.

You gasped as you pulled away, strands of saliva trailing down your chin in a delicate cascade—-like a miniature waterfall against your skin.

You hum softly in response to his apology, the hum dancing along the edge of a gentle laugh.

“Guess I did, too,” you murmur, wiping your mouth clean as you meet his gaze with silent affection.

Viktor gently cups your face once more, his thumb sweeping over the apple of your cheek as a soft smile tugs at his lips.

“Thank you…” he whispers, his voice rich with adoration, gratitude, and love for you. He tilts his head, aligning it with yours as his intent becomes clear.

He presses his lips to yours in a tender, silent show of his affection. Viktor shudders as a result of tasting himself all over your lips and tongue. The fact that you had eagerly swallowed every last drop sent a jolt through him, making his hair stand on end—-as it always did. He was downright obsessed with your greedy thirst for his cock and his seed.

The passion and tenderness with which Viktor kisses you never fail to set your heart racing, the gentle yet intense pressure of his lips stirring a swarm of butterflies in your stomach.

After several tender, passionate moments, your lips still lingering in a dance of their own, Viktor pulls away, his mind swirling with the renewed flames of longing sparked by what just transpired.

“My love… Why don’t we move… on top of the table?” he suggests, a playful gleam lighting up his eyes as he gazes into yours once more.

At his suggestion, you feel the butterflies in your stomach morph into something far more intense—fighter jets soaring through the cavern of your core. You meet his playful gaze with one of eager anticipation.

You nod, shifting to rise from your knees.

“I’ll lock the door,” you mutter softly.

[nadvs]

the act of unravelling (part four)

pairing rafe cameron x pogue! female reader

rating mature 18+

summary you never expected you’d get tangled up with a kook, least of all, rafe cameron. one night, you make a life-altering decision to get revenge on someone you both despise. after you vow to keep what happened a secret, your relationship begins to twist into something more.

tags very dark! violence, homicide, drug and alcohol use, parental neglect, mental illness, s/a, trauma. no smut.

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You sit in your manager’s office, facing the bay window that overlooks the vast golf course. Your fingers are interlaced in an effort to hide the way your hands are trembling.

When Detective Brading asked for the space as you meekly followed him into the office, your boss shot you an unsettled glance, then agreed and left the room.

It throws you into a chilling realization. Everyone will give you that same condemning look when they find out the truth. You can’t imagine why else a cop unexpectedly came to your workplace and dragged you away – he must know what you’ve done.

The confidence you had last night that you’d get away with this crumbles when the door slams shut, making you flinch. Detective Brading expels a deep sigh. Why doesn’t he just arrest you and get it over with?

“Every second in a missing person’s case is precious,” the detective tells you. He sits on the edge of the desk instead of in the chair behind it, staring down at you. If he’s trying to scare you, it’s working.

Missing. At least that means they haven’t found Porter’s body.

“I hate to disrupt you like this at work.” His words mismatch his tone. “But I think you can help us.”

“How?” you ask.

“You said you were with Rafe for a couple hours the night Porter went missing,” he says. “Do you know where he went after he dropped you off?”

“Home,” you answer quickly.

“And you’re sure about that?”

“I’m…” You can’t be too defensive. It’ll raise red flags. “Pretty sure.”

The detective sighs again, as if you’re disappointing him with every word you say.

You glance at the framed photos of your boss and his family on the wall. He lives such a comfortable, normal life. You lost your chance at normalcy the second you told Rafe to pull the trigger.

“I’m sure it’s hard to hear this about a friend of yours, but we think he played a role in Porter’s disappearance,” he says. “And we need to ask you to talk to him about that night.”

“Me?”

“Yes. We’d have you wearing a wire.”

“What?” you say, floored. “Why me? We haven’t been hanging out that long. I don’t think he’d trust me enough to tell me anything.”

You hope you didn’t just discredit yourself or Rafe. But if they try to get one of Rafe’s other friends to trick him into a confession, you know for a fact that he wouldn't admit a thing. But you? You’re the only person he’d openly talk to about what really happened.

Your body is tight with anxiety. Maybe that’s why they’re asking you to do it. They think you know something and Rafe slipping up in a conversation with you is their meticulous way of proving it.

“I shouldn’t share this, but his other friends don’t believe that he’s entirely innocent,” Brading says. “You’re the only one we spoke to who does. And I think Rafe knows that you’re in his corner. I can tell you’re a good kid. Do the right thing and help us find Porter.”

You don’t buy it. You can’t ignore the instinct telling you that Brading is suspicious of you, too. He’s manipulating you. And for once, it feels good to be underestimated.

If you refuse to help, it could work against you. But if you agree, and you find a way to warn Rafe that you’re being listened to, that’d help your case. And his.

“I’d have eyes on you the entire time,” the detective explains. “He’s out on the golf course now. He came alone. Act like it’s just another day at work. Strike up conversation. See if he can open up about what he did after he dropped you off that night.”

“You want me to do this now?” you stutter.

“Like I said, every second is precious,” he says. “I know you’re caught off guard, but he’ll be, too. It’ll work to our advantage. I’d be in your ear, telling you what to say. You can handle this.”

This is a trick. It has to be. He cornered you because he suspects you, and now, he’s trying to outsmart you.

You mentally run through the possibilities. You can’t contact Rafe to warn him. But you could type a note out on your phone and find a way to flash it to him inconspicuously.

You’ll figure it out. And if you can’t, you’ll back out and say you couldn’t handle the pressure.

“Okay,” you agree. “I can do it.”

“Good.”

“I just need a second. Can I go to the restroom?”

“Yes. I have to ask you to leave your phone. We can’t take any risks.”

He assumes you’ll give Rafe a head’s up. Now you’re sure you’re a suspect, too. You try to look understanding as you hand him your phone.

·········

You’re seconds away from a panic attack as you pace around the private restroom, trying to figure out how the hell you can tip Rafe off. Maybe you should just back out.

Then, it comes to you.

The logbook tucked in your backpocket. The one Rafe teased you about and called your diary just last week. It’s your way out.

You uncap the pen hooked onto the book, open to an empty page, and write: wearing a wire. act innocent.

·········

Rafe lines up his club behind the white ball, his shoulders tight. He can’t shake off what happened last night.

You’re afraid of him. You pulled him in and pressed your lips against his, but then you shoved him away when he tried to hold you. And after you promised you wouldn’t screw him over, you left abruptly and took away the warmth he’s spent his whole life craving.

You’re supposed to have each other’s backs. He owes you and he wants to protect you, but you act like he’s a wild animal you can’t trust won’t bite you. He doesn’t know how to prove that you don’t need to be scared of him.

And it’s not just you expecting the worst of him. The way his own friends have been acting around him, shifty and tense, is pissing him off. He is guilty, but the fact that they have no faith in him digs a hole into his already overwhelming loneliness.

He’s out here on his own because he desperately needs to clear his head. He desperately needs to see you.

You drive the cart over the paved pathway to where Brading told you Rafe is. Your heart is racing, terrified this will go terribly wrong.

“You can still hear me clearly?” Brading says in your ear.

“Yes,” you say quietly. The earpiece he gave you is tiny and unnoticeable. The logbook you placed beside you after you drove off is the only chance you have of warning Rafe.

“Remember, act natural. Bring up Porter when it feels right,” Brading says. “Looks like he spotted you.”

You pull up to Rafe as he places a club in the bag hanging off the back of his cart. You remind yourself over and over that you have to speak about Porter in the present tense.

You can’t believe you’re here. Life twisted and turned and things you never imagined possible are your reality now.

There’s a genuinity in Rafe’s smile when your eyes meet his, the complete opposite of the pompous smirk you’ve seen over the years you’ve known him. If your heart wasn’t already pounding from adrenaline, it would be from the way he’s looking at you.

“Finally,” he says. “I was getting thirsty.”

“Don’t tell me you want a beer this early in the morning,” you sigh tensely, staying seated as you look over your shoulder to the cooler packed in the back. Brading is yards away, parked in a cart and posing as a golfer taking a break. Your breath is shaky.

“I’m kidding,” Rafe says, a little softer. He steps forward, hand on the roof of your cart, leaning closer to you. His eyes search your face. You’ve been aching to see him again. You wonder if he feels the same. “You mad at me or something?”

“Ask him why he’s alone,” the detective instructs you, jerking you out of your small moment of joy.

“I’m always mad at you,” you joke. “How come you’re alone out here? You’re always with your friends.”

“They’ve been pissing me off lately,” he mutters.

“Why?” Brading says. You plead with your eyes that Rafe just look down at your note, but he speaks before you can repeat the detective’s word.

“Why’d you run out last night?” His gaze trails down to your lips, his voice low. “Thought we were having a good time.”

It’s embarrassing to know you’re being listened to. And nerve-wracking that now the detective knows you’re more than just friends. Anyone could tell from Rafe’s suggestive tone that something happened.

You did suddenly leave the closet you’d led him to last night. Kissing him got to be overwhelming. But you can see in his gaze that it wasn’t just an impulsive, passion-filled makeout at a party. It meant something to him. And it’s a relief, because it meant something to you, too.

The chemistry you felt with him was always returned. It was just contained. Watered down. And now, whatever this is could end before it even begins. He could say one thing and get you both into trouble.

You regret agreeing to this. You need to get Rafe’s attention on the open book beside you before it’s too late.

“We were. I had to get back to my friends,” you say. “Why are yours pissing you off?”

“You know,” he says, glancing to the side. “They’re always lookin’ at me like I’m guilty.”

You can hear your pulse. You keep your eyes on Rafe, discreetly tapping on the page. He doesn’t notice. He doesn't follow your silent instructions.

“Are you?” Brading says. You repeat the two words, your throat dry.

Rafe’s brows furrow in confusion. He looks at you again. A tense silence blankets you.

“I wouldn’t tell anyone,” you say. “Not even my diary.”

Your heart lifts in all-consuming relief when Rafe catches your meaning. He looks down at the logbook and realization washes over his face.

You’re safe. The man in your ear isn’t going to discover a thing.

“What, you agree with them?” Rafe asks. His tone is casual, but his Adam’s apple bobs with a nervous swallow. Your eyes are locked knowingly, enveloped in the comfort that he knows to play along now.

“Tell him no,” Brading says.

“No,” you half-laugh. “I’m just saying, if there is something about that night that you didn’t tell me, you can trust that it’ll stay between us.”

“I was with you.”

“Ask him what he did after,” Brading instructs.

“Not all night,” you reply, cocking your head. “Where’d you go after you dropped me off?”

“Home. You know that,” he replies. “Even you’re doubting me now? Come on.”

“No,” you repeat. You reach for his hand, eyes trained on him. “I’m sorry. I just meant to say… if something happened, I wouldn’t judge you for it. You trust me, right?”

Rafe’s body buzzes at your touch. He does. He completely trusts you and it’s such a new, comforting feeling and he wishes you felt it for him, too.

“I do,” he says.

“You’d tell me?”

“I would.”

You nod reassuringly.

“I don’t know where Porter is,” Rafe says. “And I wish people would stop looking at me like I did something to him. I’m so sick of everyone expecting the worst of me.”

You’re not sure where his lie ends and the truth begins, but his fixed gaze is heavy with sincerity.

“We’re not getting anywhere with him,” Brading mutters. “End the conversation and meet me back at the office.”

“I don’t expect the worst of you,” you tell him.

His shoulders relax and you can tell your words did something to him. You nod again, a small, relieved smile pulling on your lips.

“I should get back to work,” you say. “You sure you don’t want anything to drink?”

“You’re just fishing for a tip now,” Rafe replies, smirking.

“Guilty.”

You both share a soft chuckle, the twisted joke behind your word choice not lost on either of you.

·········

The detective is tense when you see him again, a minor crack in his confident demeanor. It’s clear he thought he was going to catch you – both of you – today.

You thought you’d clear your and Rafe’s name through the monitored conversation, but Brading just looks angry now.

“You didn’t mention your relationship is more than friendly,” he says, arms crossed as he stands across from you in your boss’s office. He didn’t even care to sit down this time.

“Sorry. I didn’t know you needed to know that.”

“I need to know everything. You were withholding information,” he tells you. “And there’s something else you’re not telling me.”

The facade he was putting on has faded. He’s on edge and direct about the fact that he doesn’t trust a word out of your mouth.

“There isn’t,” you reply.

“Listen,” Brading says, his voice heavy and terse. “Porter’s family brought me into this because I’ve had a long, successful career of putting away scumbags like your boyfriend. I know your type. I know you’re covering for him. And you’re just making it worse for yourself by not telling me what you know.”

You don’t respond, staring at him blankly, your heart drumming in fear.

“I could make things easier for you if you just admit it,” he says. “A judge is likely to be lenient when someone helps with an investigation. I’d vouch for you.”

He’s intimidating. But you won’t give in. You never will.

“I don’t know anything,” you state.

His lips close into a firm line as he steps past you.

“I’ll see you soon,” Brading threatens before he opens the door.

·········

The lip of the sun still clings onto the ocean horizon as Rafe drives south. He was relieved when you texted him to come over tonight. He needs to see you. And he needs to talk about what happened this morning.

You answer your front door and Rafe takes in your gentle gaze and he swears that the pull he always felt towards you is a thousand times stronger because for once, you actually seem glad to see him.

“We can go to my room,” you say. You’ve been anxious to meet with him. You can’t control your impulse and you don’t see any reason to.

You press your cheek against his chest and wrap your arms around him the moment your bedroom door shuts behind you. His heart is thudding against your ear, his body hard and warm.

Rafe hesitantly cups your arms, not sure if you’ll push him away like you did last night.

“He just showed up at my work,” you say in a nervous rush, “and I thought if he heard you say you didn’t do anything, he’d back off, but then he said he knows I’m hiding something. He’s onto us. I don’t think we should talk to him without a lawyer. I can’t afford one. You have to help me pay for one.”

Rafe realizes you’re trembling beneath him. He doesn’t give a fuck that the man who scared you like this is a cop; if he was in front of him right now, he’d punch him.

“I will,” he says. “That was smart. The note.”

“I was so worried you wouldn’t see it.” You pull back, craning your neck to meet his eyes. “I know it was risky. You did a good job.”

He nods, gazing down at you. He’s not used to people telling him he did something right.

It’s unreal to be here, standing in your bedroom, past the guard you’ve forced him to stay behind for so long. It’s intimate seeing where you live, where you sleep, where you exist.

“He told me a judge would go easy on me if I helped with the case,” you admit, “but I have your back. And I don’t expect the worst of you, okay? I know you have my back, too.”

“You trust me?” Rafe asks, a hint of surprise in his deep voice. His hands drag down your arms, stopping at your wrists.

You wriggle against him, a subconscious test that you’re not trapped. He immediately releases you.

It makes his chest ache to know you expect him to harm you.

“I won’t hurt you,” he says.

Your body betrays you. Tears surface, hot and fast. The fresh wound lodges against your heart.

“It’s not…” You step back, knees wobbling. Your legs are suddenly desperate to rest and can’t hold you up any longer. “It’s not personal.”

You step away, sitting at the edge of your bed, head in your hands. You’ve barely been keeping it together, trying to outrun the shadow of pain that’s been haunting you. There’s no limit to what you’d give to forget what happened.

You brush your hands off your face when you hear the floorboards creak. Rafe leans in front of you, crouched at your feet. You watch his hands ghost over your calves.

It throws you for a loop, seeing him on your floor like this. For so long, all you assumed about him was that he thought he was above you. Now, he’s on his knees for you.

“Hey.” He says it in the same way he did after the gun went off. He doesn’t have to tell you to look at him. You know that’s what he wants.

You meet his eyes, and when you see the genuine concern swimming in the deep blue, all the strings hardly keeping you together unravel.

“It wasn’t about money,” you utter tearfully.

“What?”

“It wasn’t ever about money. He didn’t rip me off.” Your sobs start to come out as gasps. “He hurt me.”

Rafe’s veins turn to ice. He frantically searches your face for an explanation because no, it can’t be what he’s thinking.

“I passed out while he…” You shake your head, tears rolling over your cheeks as you shut your eyes. “It’s like my mind couldn’t take what he was doing to my body and I passed out. And then you came in…”

His breaths grow shallow. That’s why you were as angry as you were. Why you cried as hard as you did. Why you tense up and shove him away when he holds you.

When Rafe pushed Porter in that room, he never would have expected you’d be there, bearing the pain of something that fractured you. He’s furious, disgusted, in disbelief.

He sees now that you meant when you said you don’t regret killing him. The empty look on your face was never guilt. It was fear. Trauma.

“I know I shouldn’t have gone upstairs alone,” you whisper, eyes still closed. “I didn’t think–”

“Stop,” he says softly. His hands rest on your face, palms gently cupping your wet cheeks. Of all the things you thought you knew about him, you would’ve never expected him to be so tender. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

It settles your coiled heart hearing him dismiss the nauseating, intrusive thoughts you’ve had blaming yourself for what happened. You finally open your eyes to look at him again.

His eyes are glossy. He knows now and he’s looking at you with so much sympathy that your chest stutters with your gasps, stomach somehow twisting in both pain and relief.

For once, Rafe doesn’t say the first thing that pops into his head – that if he knew what Porter had done, he would have made him suffer, he would have tortured him, instead of shooting a single, life-ending bullet. Because there’s no point. You saved his life that night and he wishes he could’ve saved yours, but all he can do right now is tell you what he will do instead of what he would have done.

“I’m never going to let anyone hurt you again,” he murmurs. “I swear on my life. You’ll always be safe with me.”

He’s hesitant to startle you with his touch, but thankfully, you lean over and wrap your arms atop his shoulders and it’s so gratifying to know you’re using him to ground yourself.

Rafe holds you like he can’t get close enough. Because he can’t. Nothing he does now can take back what happened to you but everything he does moving forward will be to make sure you never experience a horror like that again.

His life is no longer a cycle of numbing thrills. He has a real reason to keep going now.

You inhale the comforting smell of his neck, your cheek pressed against his. You curl into him as you shake through your sobs.

“Nobody else knows,” you admit, voice muffled against his skin. “I didn’t think I’d tell.”

Even after what you’d done together, a bond that didn’t exist between you before digs its roots into you both. He’s holding you with softness you didn’t know he was capable of, after making a promise so sincere that you felt it in your core.

“You’re safe,” he whispers. And for the first time since that terrifying night, you feel it.

·········

It’s been five days since Brading accosted you at work. Even though he hasn’t bothered you since, and there haven’t been any public updates on the investigation, you’re on edge knowing that you and Rafe are suspects.

Since then, when you’re not working or hanging out with your friends, you’re with Rafe.

You still haven’t told the guys. You don’t know how you could possibly prove to them how good of a man Rafe actually is when you can’t tell them a single detail of what’s happened between you. You’d rather not have to explain yourself to them. Not yet.

Rafe doesn’t pester you about being your secret. As long as he’s something to you.

It’s dusk and you’re sitting on the quiet beach with him, cocooned in comfort and curled up on the sand, the setting sun playing across his handsome face.

Since your conversation in your bedroom, you haven’t spoken about the night that tied you two together.

But you have been speaking to each other like never before, holding onto the playfulness that always existed beneath your banter, allowing yourselves to talk and joke and kiss with no inhibitions. Except he doesn’t dare hold you without asking if he can first.

Tonight, as you sit side-by-side in the clouded orange and pink glow, Rafe feels a smile on his face, a real one, after not smiling for so many years. Being with you is the first time in a long time that he feels vaguely normal.

“It’s too bad,” you say, gazing at his dimples.

“What is?” Rafe rasps.

“That you’ve been keeping this smile from me for so long,” you say with a glint in your eyes. “Why were you so dedicated to hating me?”

“You hated me,” he scoffs with a smirk.

“You started it. All that Pogue/Kook crap.” You meant it as a joke, but Rafe’s smile fades. He looks ahead at the crashing waves. You hit a nerve.

“What?” you ask softly.

Rafe is consumed by his own emotions. He’s a victim to how demanding and overwhelming they can be. He’s been like that for most of his life.

Being with you has cleared some of the fog in his head. He knows now that he was desperate for some form of connection and that’s why he bought into the idea that being part of a group meant something.

If he had nothing of substance to him, nothing lovable, at least he had wealth in common with a social circle he always felt disjointed from. It was a ridiculous substitute for a sense of belonging.

“I was jealous,” he finally admits.

“Jealous?” you echo.

His jaw tenses. He can’t look at you.

“You’ve seen it yourself,” Rafe mutters. “When shit hit the fan, nobody backed me up. Nobody checks up on me. Nobody gives a damn. I don’t have any real friends. And you called your friends family. I don’t have that. I don’t have anybody. It’s why I sell coke. It’s pathetic, but at least I have something worth…”

He doesn’t finish his sentence. The man who you thought had everything never did. He was in pain, lonely, selling drugs because at least it gave people something to like about him.

“Rafe,” you say quietly. He meets your gaze. You wish you could unsee the hurt in his eyes. “You have me. I care about you so much.”

You look at him in all the ways he’d always secretly hoped you would. The years of longing for you – the girl who always has a retort, who always keeps him on his toes, who always looks so frustratingly beautiful – all those daydreams don’t come close to how it actually feels to have you like this.

He wonders if you have any idea of all the ways you can break him.

“Yeah?” is all he can mumble, his throat tight.

You nod, finding his hand and pulling it to your chest. He’s not sure if you meant to press him up against where he can feel your pulse, but he feels the rhythmic thudding coming from beneath your skin, and God, is it insane that he feels like he lives for your heartbeat?

He thought he was fine living an empty life. But he’s gotten a taste of being wrapped up in you and he doesn’t want to lose it. Ever.

“You keep me safe,” you say softly. “Let me do the same for you in my own way, alright?”

He nods, blinking away tears. Your heart breaks and you lean forward, losing yourself in his kiss. His lips are soft and gentle, pushing against yours with a soft fragility.

“Are you okay?” you whisper against his cheek. He hasn’t been okay in so long. But this is the closest to it he’s ever gotten. He doesn’t want to hide you. He wants everyone to see you chose him.

“Do you want to go to that bonfire tonight?” he asks.

There’s a party at the beach you spoke at a couple of weeks ago, back when Rafe stopped you after you bought a joint from Porter.

“Together?” you ask. He nods, uncertainty pinching his face. You can tell he’s expecting you to say no. As if you’re ashamed of him.

You’re almost sure your friends won’t be there. They asked you to hang out at Pope’s tonight and you declined and said you’d stay home. They probably won’t be at the bonfire.

Either way, you’re willing to take the risk. Rafe is worth it.

·········

Gossip spreads like weeds. You can tell by how people stare at you when you arrive with Rafe that his name has been in everyone’s mouths, whispering conspiracies about what he did to Porter. You know your name will start to come up in those conversations, too.

“So, it’s true,” one of his buddies says when he sees you cupping Rafe’s bicep as you join the group, the bonfire crackling. “You’re really messing with a Pogue.”

“That’ll be the last time you call her that, got it?” Rafe says sharply. His friend scoffs a laugh, putting his hands up in feigned surrender, his beer bottle sloshing.

Rafe leans to mumble in your ear, “Do you want a drink?”

“Yeah,” you say, eager to take the edge off.

You swallow the bitterness of the drink Rafe picks up for you, staring ahead at the ocean, thinking about how somewhere in the vast expanse, Porter’s body is lying at the bottom.

“Man, it’s weird just… continuing to live life, isn’t it?”

You look up to see a man standing beside you. He’s a friend of the person you killed. You recognize him from the day at the club when Porter called you over. You still get shivers remembering his smile.

“What do you mean?” you mumble.

“Porter. He’s just gone,” he continues. There’s a slur in his words. He’s drunk. “He’s gotta be… you know. There’s no other explanation.”

You tighten your grip on Rafe’s arm, but he doesn’t notice, lost in conversation with one of his buddies.

“Yeah,” you offer. “It’s sad.”

“He told me he liked you,” he says with a raised brow. “He had a huge crush on you.”

You can taste bile on your tongue. You look up at Rafe, whose attention is on your conversation now. His stare is hard, his nostrils flared in anger.

“I didn’t know,” you say simply.

“Really?” he laughs. “He said you were playing hard to get.”

His vile words make your breath hitch.

The flame in Rafe rises so fast that within two seconds, he swings a punch. And suddenly, he’s leaning over, knuckles ramming into the idiot’s face as he lies on the sand, unleashing the rage of what happened to you and the urge to take your pain away.

He could kill him.

Rafe feels hands at the crooks of his shoulders pulling him back. He struggles to get on his feet, his friends’ words overlapping as they try to calm him down. He’s breathless, looking up to meet your eyes, taking in how completely lost and anguished you look.

He roughly pushes his friends off as he stumbles towards you, his shaking hands resting on your shoulders.

“Let’s go,” he says to you, looking at you like you’re the only one here.

“You’re such an asshole!” the guy on the ground shouts.

Rafe ignores him, his hand on the small of your back as he leads you away from the crowd. You’re trembling, thrown back to that night, thrown back to being called a tease, thrown back to being held down.

You reach the parking lot, not nearly far enough from the loud crowd, still hearing the crackling of the fire, when your knees buckle.

Your heart is pounding so hard that you’re afraid it’s going to give out. But Rafe holds you up as you stand between parked cars, looking at you with desperation.

“Baby, it’s okay,” he whispers. “You’re okay.”

You find strength as you pull your arms up around his shoulders. He holds you tightly, firm and still against your shaking body.

You’re slowly finding peace.

Then you hear JJ’s voice mutter, “What the hell?”

You pull back, spotting him a few feet away with Pope and John B getting out of the car, looking at you with an expression you can only describe as appalled. You don’t have words. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

Blistering sirens reverberate through you. They get so loud so fast that you don’t realize you’ve lost contact with Rafe until a police car jolts to a stop a few feet away from you.

This has to be a nightmare.

Detective Brading swings open the door, followed by another cop, rushing towards you and Rafe. He’s carrying handcuffs. You might lose consciousness.

“Knew this day was coming, didn’t you?” Brading says before he grips Rafe’s wrist, pushing him up against the nearest car.

Rafe struggles, but Brading slams him against the hood of the car so hard that you hear the thud of his skull against the metal.

“Stop! You can’t hurt him like that!” you cry. The other police officer steps in front of you, pushing you back. You expect him to handcuff you, too. He doesn’t.

You look around you in terrified desperation as if someone can help. The crowd has quickly come closer, watching in awe, as if you and Rafe’s lives aren’t being pulled apart for everyone to see.

You meet Rafe’s frightened gaze as the side of his face presses against the car. Brading flatly recites his rights, handcuffing him, ignoring you as you beg that he tell you why he’s being arrested, that he stop hurting him.

Rafe doesn’t say a word until you whimper in pain and plead to the officer keeping you back to stop holding so tight. He tries to charge forward, demanding he take his hands off of you, earning him another rough push against the car.

Brading hauls him away and you try to follow, but the other officer keeps you back, gripping you so hard that it reminds you of Porter all over again.

“You want to get arrested, too?” he mutters. Your muscles give in, losing tension. You still don’t understand why Rafe’s being arrested and you’re not.

“No. Sorry. I’ll stop,” you say weakly. “Where’s he being taken?”

The officer doesn’t believe you at first, but eventually, he loosens his grip.

“The county jail,” he says, looking past your shoulder as the car door shuts.

Then, they leave, and you’re in front of the crowd, in front of your friends, frozen and speechless.

·········

Your mouth is dry as you wait in the lobby of the quiet jail. They won’t give you any information. Nothing about what the charge is, how long Rafe will be here, if he’ll be given bail. It’s been an hour.

You hold JJ’s car keys in your shaking hands. You were frantic when you begged him to lend you his car, promising you’d take care of it.

He confusedly agreed and you left immediately, not exchanging any other words, following the police car just in case the officer lied to you about where they were going.

Your phone is dead and your connection to the outside world is dead with it.

Your stomach drops when you spot Brading exit through a door behind the processing desk.

“What’s happening?” you ask. “Where is he? Is he okay?”

He stiffly cuts through the lobby, pushing open the front door, letting it swing behind him. You grunt as the door hits your palms.

“I suggest you go home,” Brading mutters as you trail him into the dark parking lot. “I can charge you for assault against a police officer if you don’t stop harassing me.”

“Please. I just want to know,” you plead. “Nobody will tell me anything.”

You’re sure he’s getting a power trip out of this. You didn’t tell him what he wanted to know. Now, he won’t tell you.

“Please,” you repeat, feeling utterly powerless. The detective stops abruptly, facing you, his face in a scowl.

“I’m ordering you to go home,” he says sharply.

“Brading?” someone calls behind him.

Within a matter of seconds, you hear something you never thought you’d hear again. The single and unmistakable blow of a gunshot.

·········

You’re in disbelief, staring ahead at the stranger sitting in your living room as her gaze travels between you and your parents. The woman introduced herself as an agent, flashing a shiny badge before she came inside.

Last night, you gave the cops a statement about what had happened in the parking lot. A man was out there, agitated and waiting for Brading. He shot him and looked you dead in the eyes before another man shouted for him to get down on the ground.

He drove away, tires screeching, as the officer who’d rushed out of the jail shot at the car. You remember dropping to the cold concrete, being interrogated by a detective, and eventually being ordered to go home and not tell a soul what you’d seen.

You’re still terrified, unable to accept what your life has become and how the domino effect you’ve been thrust into could be so vicious.

“Detective Brading is in critical condition,” the woman says, “but he was able to identify the man who shot him.”

“What about Rafe?” you ask. “Is he okay?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know who that is.”

You sniffle your tears, shaking your head in disbelief. You still haven’t been given any updates on him.

“I’m here because the man from last night,” she continues, “is part of a family that has dangerous affiliations. Brading has a history of putting away high-profile criminals, and he arrested the shooter’s brother. His brother recently passed away in prison and… he tracked Brading down to make him pay. He’s still at large. According to your statement, he saw you, is that right?”

You nod anxiously, waiting for her to get to her point. By now, you have enough trauma to last you ten lifetimes.

Then, she tells you that for you and your parents’ safety, you’ll need to be put into witness protection and that you’ll be relocated and given new identities immediately.

When you ask what you’re supposed to say to the people you’re leaving behind, she’s eerily calm as she tells you, “Nothing. I’m sorry, but there’s no way you can contact anyone you know. Everyone will be under the impression that you’ve died.”

·········

You consumed Rafe’s thoughts as he sat in the county jail cell. He didn’t focus on how suffocating the room was, or how badly his wrists burned from the handcuffs, or what his future was going to look like.

He thought about you, how completely and deliberately you were in his corner, how all the embarrassment of being arrested in front of all those people was erased when you yelled in his defense.

The only voice in the crowd standing up for him, while everyone else watched, was yours. He has never cared about someone more than himself. You changed that.

That’s why when he receives the news that you passed away in an accident, he snaps.

next >

note sorry for the drama… now i can finally share that this inspired this part of the story 🤭

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[worldlxvlys]

Can you write a fic based on Wednesdays video and we notice he not wearing underwear and it’s visible -don’t know how to explain it well🫣

distracted

chris sturniolo x reader

warnings: smutttt, p in v, cream pie, unprotected sex, fantasizing, choking, oral (male receiving), handjob, degradation

a/n: @sophssturn also requested something very similar but my dumbass accidentally deleted the request 😭

hope you enjoy !!

i swear i wasn’t looking on purpose.

ok, that’s a straight lie.

but it’s almost as though he wanted me to look, he knew exactly what he was doing.

he wore those grey sweats, which he knew made me go crazy.

and to top it off, he decided not to wear any underwear ? what a slut.

he knew good and damn well that he was too big to be walking around without any boxers on.

and to do it while he was filming ? when he knew there was nothing i could say or do about it ? yeah, he knew exactly what he was doing.

i was sitting behind the camera, watching as he cooked burgers for everyone.

every time he moved just a little too quickly, his dick would press against his light-colored sweatpants, the outline of his bulge showing.

of course i was aware of how big he was, but that didn’t mean the entire internet need to know too.

as i continued to stare at him, my eyes scanned over his entire body, imagining him in a completely different scenario.

instead of his wrists flicking with every flip of a burger, they were straining against a restraint, and i was watching him squirm desperately under me.

his pretty mouth was being suffocated under the weight of my body, while my aching heat was shoved in his face.

instead of the oil from the cooked meat dripping down his hands, it was a layer of my arousal decorating his long fingers.

when he threw his head back, moaning at the taste of the hamburger, i imagined him moaning my name while i bounced on his-

“helloooo? did you hear me?” chris asked, pulling me back to reality.

“oh, sorry. i was distracted” i answered, now realizing that everything was cleaned up, and matt and nick had already went off to do whatever.

in front of me sat a hamburger, placed perfectly between two buns on a plate.

“distracted by what?” he asked as he watched me take a bite of the food.

i took a minute to finish chewing before answering, “what do you think?” i deadpanned, watching as he looked at me in confusion.

“you seriously don’t know?” i asked, continuing to eat the burger.

when i finished, he pointed to my mouth, “you have a little..” he trailed off as he collected a bit of juice that dribbled down my lips from the meat.

before he could do anything else, i grabbed his finger, looking up at him as i licked the small bit of liquid from his finger.

he stared at me with his mouth hanging open slightly, before i let go of his hand.

“ tastes good” i spoke to him, making him whine in response.

i reached forward, palming him through his sweats, making him moan out in surprise.

“tell me, what did you think was gonna happen?” i asked as my hand made its way into his sweatpants.

“i- fuck, i don’t know” his head fell back as he whispered, hands gripping my waist.

“yes, you do chris. you did it for a reason, what is it ?” i asked as i left a light kiss to the shell of his ear.

i didn’t get an answer as i began to stroke his length.

i squeezed his base lightly, making him groan in response.

“answer me or i’ll make you cum in your pants out here like the dirty slut you are”

“shit” he breathed out raggedly, attempting to compose himself, “i wanted you to fuck me”

“you could’ve just asked baby”

“but i-“ he shuddered the feeling of my hands continuously squeezing him, “i need it rougher”

at those words, i pulled my hand from his pants, “say fucking less” i spoke as i grabbed his hand, pulling him to his room.

when we got there, i closed and locked the door behind us, before pushing him into it roughly.

“talk to me chris. tell me what you want” i spoke.

“ i told you already, i-” i brought my hand to his throat, squeezing it slightly.

“excuse me?” i asked him, eyebrows raised.

his eyes widened slightly, his gaze dropping to my lips. “try that again” i told him.

“i need you to fuck me” he whispered. “louder” i spoke.

“need you to fuck me” he spoke, his voice slightly raised.

“louder”

“they’re gonna hear-” he started before i cut him off, “i don’t really give a fuck. you wanna act like a little bitch in heat ? i’ll treat you like one, say it louder”

“please, please fuck me. need you to fuck me so bad” he spoke up, whining desperately.

“was that so hard?” i asked, tilting my head to the side.

i slid my hand up to grab his jaw, pulling his face toward mine into a heated kiss.

my hands wove into his hair, harshly tugging on his brown locks while his found their way around my waist.

i swallowed his moans as my lips danced along his greedily.

i ran my hands down his clothed chest, letting my fingertips toy with the hem of his shirt.

he took the hint, pulling away for a second to pull his shirt off, before his lips found their way back to mine.

my hands explored the new skin, running along his chest before stopping at his waistband.

i teasingly rubbed his stomach, fingers brushing the waistband but never moving past it.

he pulled away to speak, his mouth slightly open, “don’t tease”

i raised my eyebrows at him, grabbing him by his arm and guiding him to sit on the bed.

“maybe if you weren’t walking around without any underwear on, i’d listen to you” i spoke as i sunk down to my knees in front of him.

his eyes widened slightly as i left a kiss to his clothed dick.

he looked down at me with hooded eyes, watching as i slowly pulled his sweatpants down.

his hard dick slapped his stomach, pre-cum dripping onto his abs.

chris’s breathing sped up in anticipation, his hands clutching the sheets underneath him.

i placed my hands on his thighs, keeping them pulled apart while i leaned forward, collecting his arousal with my tongue.

i started at his stomach, licking at the small beads of arousal, before swirling my tongue around his tip.

“fuck” he breathed out, his head instantly flying back.

“talk to me, baby. you feeling good ?” i asked him.

CHRIS’S POV

“yes, feels so good” i whispered, brows furrowing as she teased me.

she brought the palm of her hand to my tip, rubbing me in quick, circular motions.

my hips jerked up at the feeling, my mind growing fuzzy at the amount of pleasure that coursed through me.

“you think you deserve to cum ?” she asked, looking up at me through her lashes.

she pulled her hand off of me suddenly, deciding to tease me more.

my mouth hung open, but i was unable to form any words as my mind was consumed with her.

her hands, running up my thighs, but always stopping just before her fingers could graze my dick.

her face, glaring up at me with that look in her eyes that told me i was going to be gone by the end of tonight.

her lips, so plump, curved to fit around my dick perfectly.

“please, i need your mouth” i whined as she moved her face closer to me, her breath tickling my painfully hard cock.

“yeah? well i need you to learn how to listen” she spoke, moving away from me.

if there was one thing she loved to do, it was tease me. she wanted to push me to my limits until i lost it.

and she knew exactly how to get me there.

“ok, ok, i’m sorry. please, please, i need your mouth so bad”

ignoring my pleas, she pulled her shirt over her head.

“you never answered my question earlier, chris” she spoke.

her words went in one ear and out the other, however, when i saw what she was wearing underneath her clothes.

“fuck” i groaned out at the site of the black lace that adorned her skin.

the bra had a low cut, her tits sitting perfectly in the cups.

the bottom left little to the imagination, the lips of her pussy hugging the small string of fabric that barely covered it.

“do you deserve to cum?” she repeated her question from earlier, tilting her head at me.

“yes” i spoke quickly, desperate to have her in any way i could.

“i don’t know, you didn’t answer me the first time” she spoke, moving to straddle my waist.

“guess i’ll take that as a no” she spoke as my hands found their was to her hips.

“cum before i tell you and i swear to god i’ll edge you until you start crying” she spoke firmly as she lined herself up with my dick.

“f-fuck” i groaned at the feeling of her pussy sucking up my sensitive tip.

i held her close to me while she continued to take me inch by inch, until her hips met mine.

when i bottomed out, we both let out moans of content.

she began to roll her hips into mine slowly, before bouncing on my cock.

i watched as her covered tits bounced in my face with every one of her harsh movements on top of me.

i squeezed her hips tightly, needing something to grab onto as she found her rhythm.

her tight pussy continued to squeeze me, each pull of her hips pushing me deeper and deeper into a euphoric state.

“g-god, feels so good” i groaned out, watching her eyes light up at the praise.

“yeah?” she asked, grabbing my jaw to pull my face closer to hers.

“fuck yes, you’re so good to me baby” i spoke against her lips.

she ground her hips down against mine as she pressed a fervent kiss to my lips, her fingers finding their way back to my hair.

when i pulled away, i left kisses on her neck, making my way down to her boobs.

“so beautiful” i whispered up to her.

“hmm, so sweet to me” she spoke, “but i’m still not letting you cum” she pushed my chest, making me fall back onto the bed.

she laid her hands on my chest, using it as leverage to increase her speed on top of me.

“you look so good on top of me like this” i groaned out.

i was barely holding it together, something about the way she took control made me lose my mind.

“i’m so close” i whined as the sounds of our skin slapping against each other’s filled the room.

“well that sucks for you then, huh ?” she asked as she brought her hand to my throat, lightly choking me.

my eyes rolled into the back of my head at the action, my fingers digging into her thighs.

“i- please, i need it, need it so bad” i struggled to form a logical sentence as she leaned back, placing her hands on my thighs.

“oh my g-god” i moaned, desperately trying to hold back my orgasm.

“wait until i tell you” she spoke, moving my head to look at her.

i glanced down to where our bodies met, getting lost in the way her glistening pussy engulfed my dick.

i could’ve came from the sight alone.

“please, please, please” i repeated the word like it was a chant, knowing i wouldn’t be able to hold off for much longer.

“i’m almost there, baby. so close, just hold on a little bit longer for me”

my head flew back when she clenched around me, eliciting a loud moan from me.

“fuck, let go for me chris. let it all out” she moaned as she continued to clench around me.

i sat up to close the distance between us, wrapping my arms around her waist to hold her close to me.

my legs began to shake, my abdominal muscles tightening as i was hit with a shockwave of pleasure.

my hips bucked up into her, making her moan while i shot my load into her weeping hole.

“fuck chris, right there ! right there” she cried out as i unintentionally thrusted into her, my cock buried as deep as it could go inside of her.

she let out one last moan as i felt her release all over me, my dick coated in her pleasure.

my body went limp underneath her, letting her take control as she worked us through our highs.

once we both calmed down, she lifted herself off of me slowly, before making her way to my bathroom.

when she returned, she held two towels in either hand; one wet and one dry.

she gently rubbed the wet towel against my skin, cleaning up the sticky substance that resided from our previous orgasms.

“are you ok my love? did i hurt you?” she asked me while she continued to clean me up.

she took the second towel, drying my wet skin while i answered, “no baby. i’m ok” i smiled lightly at her.

“good” she answered before finishing up, and doing the same for herself.

she discarded the towels in the hamper before coming back over to me.

“wanna take a shower?” she asked as her hands found their way to my waist, rubbing light circles into it.

“yeah” i spoke as i went to stand up, immediately halting my movements when it felt like my legs were going to give out.

“what’s wrong?” she asked, noticing the way i quickly sat back down.

“my legs are…” i trailed off, searching for a word that wouldn’t make the effect she had on me so obvious.

i didn’t need to feed her ego any more than i already had.

it was no use, though, as she picked up on what was happening.

“you can’t walk ?” she asked, a smug grin growing on her face.

“shut up” i spoke, shaking my head at her.

“awww, it’s ok baby, i’ll take care of you” she spoke, pressing a kiss to my forehead.

she went to help me up before pausing, “want me to pick you up?” she teased.

🦢🦢🦢🦢

masterlist

tag list: @lustfulslxt @flowerxbunnie @sturnssx @mattslolita @its-jennarose @bernardsleftbootycheek @queen161718 @cupidsword @imwetforyourmom @nickmillersn1gf @mattsneezing @chrisstankyleg @sturniolobltch @bethsturn @bernardenjoyer @mbbsgf @rac00ns-are-c00l4 @ssturniolo @blueeyedbesson @sturniolowhore @readerakayourname @defnotayonna @urmom2bitch @rootbeerworshiper @starsturniolo @hearts4chriss @theyluv-meee @carolinalikesthings @chrisstopherfilmed @sstvrnioloo @littlebookworm803 @nicksdrpepper @chrisloyalgf @robins-scoop @fandomhopped @chr1sgirl4life @bbglmfao @55sturn @sturniolololover @meg-sturniolo @vanteguccir @ineedchriscock @junnniiieee07 @breeloveschris @evieolo @riasturns @sturnssmuts @nicksmainbitch @luverboychris

[miley1442111]

heyy, i love your writing! I was thinking a rafe x fem reader, where Rafe says they don’t have anything, she was just a hook up etc when he was actually just scared of having feelings for a girl for the first time in his life. she gets with JJ to make him jealous and it works, but instead of being that mad Rafe Cameron he just open his heart and his fears to her (even end up crying a bit)

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

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

mistakes and misjudgements

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a/n: hi! thank you so much for requesting! I love this idea!

pairing: rafe cameron x fem! reader

summary: i suggest you look at the request

warnings: kissing, toxic relationship, rafe is confused, cursing, drinking, suggestive mentions, mentions of rafe's addictions (i think that's it?)

not entirely proofread

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

Rafe walked past the bar, his eyes searching for yours. You, the pogue bartender at the club, had caught the Rafe Cameron’s eye, and he wasn’t about to let you go. 

He was met with Jj. His smile dropped, while Jj’s smirk rose. 

“What can I get you, Cameron? A vodka cranberry? I can mix it with the blood of the people you’ve murdered?-”

Jj stopped talking when Rafe leaned in closer. 

“Just a water, thanks.” 

Jj nodded and walked to the fridge to grab him a bottle, and then you walked up, and he watched as Rafe’s demeanour changed. He was softer, sweeter, and funnier. Jj almost laughed out loud at the way Rafe pushed some hair back from your face, that sickly sweet smile on his face. 

Jj moved you over, his hands on your waist and handed Rafe his water. “Water for the gentleman.”

Rafe’s smile dropped. “Thanks man.”

“Oh, Jj, this is my boyfriend, Rafe,” you smiled, introducing the two.

Bile rose in Rafe's stomach. Were you two dating? But that came with so much more than just the fun dates you two were indulging in. That would mean he’d have to be vulnerable with you. And the fact that you hated his drug use, something he’d been struggling to stop for a while now. And he knew you were too good for him, it was only a matter of time before you figured it out yourself and-

His mouth moved before his brain could stop it. “Woah,” Rafe deflected. “I’m not her boyfriend, we’re just… casual,” he shrugged. 

Your face fell and Rafe had never felt so bad. “Right, casual.”

You hated that word. You hated how he used it. You hated how you thought, even just for a second, that you would settle for that.

Jj’s smile widened. “Well, there’s your water. See you ‘round Kook,” and with that, Jj turned his back on Rafe and turned to you. “You alright?”

You nodded, more annoyed than anything else. “He’s such an asshole.”

“I hate to say ‘I told you so’, but I did warn you-” before he could finish you hit him with a towel, which ended up in a towel fight in the bar, neither of you aware of the searing eyes of Rafe Cameron. 

Maybe he’d fucked up. Maybe he did want to be your boyfriend. 

Maybe. 

Jj was appalled at what Rafe had done. Casual? What was wrong with him? He had the prettiest, kindest, most amazing girl on the island, if not the world, and he was throwing it away, for what? To fuck other people? That didn’t make any sense. So you two made a plan.  

He was going to ask you out. Now, Jj liked you, yes, but as a friend. You liked Jj, yes, but again, as a friend. So you two could ‘go out’ with each other and make Rafe jealous. For the simple reason of principal, you had to make Rafe pay, it was only fair. 

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

When you walked into the party, you immediately found Jj and clung to him for the whole night. Everyone was talking about you two, especially since most people thought you were dating Rafe. 

You two danced, drank, and even made out, and by the end of the night, you knew you’d sent a message Rafe’s way by the amount of texts you’d received.  

Rafe: Wtf are you doing with him?

Rafe: Text me back.

Rafe: Stop being so close to him. Come talk to me 

Rafe: Please Y/n.

Rafe: I got the fucking message now stop it.

Rafe: You have my attention, you always do. Get off of him.

Rafe: Please come talk to me.

Rafe: Y/n stop.

Rafe: Please. 

Rafe: I know I fucked up, come on. This isn’t fair.

Rafe: I made a mistake Y/n, I’m sorry.

Rafe: Fuck this, I’ll be at Tanneyhill when you’re ready to talk to me like an adult. 

Rafe: Please talk to me. Please.

You chuckled as you read through the messages, Sarah by your side. 

“Oh my god! That’s why he was so upset leaving the party!” she laughed. 

Your stomach dropped. Rafe shouldn't have been upset, he didn't care about you, right? You were just another girl he was talking to and planning on fucking, right? “What do you mean?”

“Oh yeah, Kelce was telling me he was super worked up and upset all night so he left. He didn’t even do anything but he was pacing the entire night. Top though he’d had a panic attack.”

“Shit,” you cursed under your breath. “Hey, I think I might call it a night,” you turned to the group. 

“Aww come on! The night’s just started,” Kiara pleaded, you chuckled and shook your head. 

“I’m tired!” you lied. “And I have work tomorrow.”

You needed to talk to Rafe right now. 

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

The walk from the beach to Tanneyhill was quick but full of quiet and anxious scenarios. You didn’t mean to make him upset, you just wanted to show him what he was missing. He embarrassed you earlier, and you wanted to get him back. You never meant to cause harm. 

You knocked on the door, hoping he was ok, and internally hoping it would be him to open the door, considering you were wearing a very short dress that you knew Rose would turn her nose up at. 

The door swung open to reveal… Rafe. 

But he looked… upset? His eyes were red-rimmed and his nose was sniffly, he’d been crying. You’d made him cry. 

“Hi,” he sniffled, and your heart just broke. Your Rafe had been crying over you.  

You cupped his cheeks and pulled him closer. “I’m sorry,” you whispered and he shook his head, trying to hold back more tears. 

“It’s fine,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and tired. 

“It’s not. I’m so sorry Rafe,” you pressed a kiss to his cheek and that was all it took, the floodgates opened and he wrapped his arms around you, allowing him to be held by you. You sank down to the steps and let him cry into your neck for a few minutes. You softly brushed through his hair with your fingers and whispered hushed apologies and promises of everything being ok. After a few minutes he was coherent enough to speak. He pulled back, wiping his eyes with his hand as you sat beside him, confused and feeling awful. 

“I got so… jealous for a while, seeing you and Jj at work. I have no idea why. A-and then at the party, I saw you two just laughing a-and ha-having fun,” he hiccuped. “And I realised that I-I’m not like that. I’m not f-funny. I don’t make you laugh. I’m not ve-very fun to b-be around.” 

Your heart broke as you saw the little known insecure side of Rafe Cameron. Obviously, Jj and Rafe were different people, but you enjoyed Rafe’s dad jokes, just as much as you enjoyed Jj’s dry sarcasm. You and Jj had known each other practically since birth, so obviously you were more relaxed around him than with Rafe. Especially with Rafe, at the beginning you were so tense on every date, always worried that you were going to say the wrong thing, since this was your first real relationship. 

“I love being around you,” you cooed, cupping his cheek. “I think you’re funny. You make me laugh all the time.”

He nodded. “B-but I’m not like that, I’m… different. I’m not e-easy to be with, with the d-drinking and the baggage, and the drugs. I know that, a-and I promise I’m trying to change, t-to be better f-for you, it’s just h–hard. A-and I’m so scared that I’m going to lose you i-if I do the wrong thing.” 

“You’re not going to lose me,” you promised. “I swear.”

“But you and Jj-?”

“I was… trying to make you jealous,” you admitted, slightly embarrassed. 

“Oh,” he sighed. “That’s g-good. ‘Cause I really like you. And I want you to be my girlfriend.” 

You smiled. “I’m all yours Rafe, and we’ll work through it all together. I’m here for you, always.”

You took his hand in your and smiled. 

His other hand came up to cup your cheek, and he pressed his lips to yours in a soft kiss.

You'd get through it all, together.

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