#and it's from a place of love. it's about love. it was always about love.

[harrysfolklore]

put a ring on it - cl16

summary: charles and his girlfriend have been together for ten years, everyone wonders when is he going to propose

folkie radio: hi guysss, this idea was originally posted for alex on patreon buuut i decided to turn it into a charles fic since it's been sooo long since the last time i wrote for him and i missed it. i hope you like it!

MASTERLIST | MY PATREON

liked by charles_leclerc, iamrebeccad and 209,755 others

yourinstagram just like the past nine years and ten months, I'll be cheering for charlie from the garage !! je t'aime plus que tout au monde, mon coeur. Tu es mon bonheur quotidien 🤍 [ i love you more than anything in the world, my heart. you are my daily happiness]

view all comments

username1 MY PARENTS

username2 TEN YEAR ANNIVERSARY INCOMING LET'S GO

charles_leclerc Mon amour, you are my strength and motivation. I love you infinitely

└ username1 MARRY HER ALREADY

└ username2 she's really the love of his life

lando get married already you two 😂

carmenmmundt The cutest couple in the paddock! ❤️

username3 NINE YEARS?? charles bestie it's time to propose fr fr

username4 the way he looks at her in the garage >>> everyone place your bets on when he's finally gonna propose

username5 how are they the most stable couple in f1 but still not engaged? charles wyd?

username6 living for how lando pressuring him in the comments lmaooo

username7 CHARLES JUST PUT A RING ON IT

username8 the fact that they've been together since before he even got to f1 🥺 truly growing together

iamrebeccad Cuties !! When's the wedding?

└ username2 becca asking the REAL questions

username9 almost ten years and no ring is crazy

username10 if they don’t get married i don’t think i can believe in love anymore

liked by yourinstagram, lewishamilton and 1,196,535 others

charles_leclerc Unlucky day but I’ve tried it all. Next is Monaco, thank you for all the support ❤️ And special thanks to my rock for the last 9 years @/yourinstagram for constantly reminding me that there's always another race. I love you, mon amour.

view all comments

username1 FERRARI YOU WILL PAY FOR YOUR CRIMES

username2 always including yn in his captions 🥺

pierregasly Chin up, champ

username3 we'll always be by your side supporting you no matter what

username4 FORZA CHARLES

username5 u know what would give you good luck? proposing to yn

username6 all these beautiful captions and no ring

scuderiaferrari Forza sempre ❤️

lewishamilton Having a good support system makes all better and you have the best support ever, mate. Next race will be better

username7 charles leclerc if you don't marry that woman istg

username8 yn needs to give him a huge hug from us

username9 STILL MY GOAT

yourinstagram you'll always be my champion 🤍 i love you and i'll always be here for you

username10 he's so lucky to have yn 🥺

liked by username1, username2 and 2,946 others

f1updates Charles talked about future plans regarding marriage during new podcast episode:

"I mean... laughs I don't know, we're just enjoying where we are right now. YN and I are happy, that's what matters."

view all comments

username1 CHARLES MARC HERVE PERCEVAL LECLERC ARE YOU KIDDING ME RN?? "i don't know" MY BROTHER IN CHRIST IT'S BEEN 10 YEARS 😭

username2 i know my girl yn is TIRED

username3 remember when he couldn't even admit they were dating for the first 6 months

username4 boy better have a ring hidden somewhere because what do you mean "i don't know"

username5 THIS CANT BEREAL

username6 ten years and no ring is just diabolical

username7 charles really said "commitment? in this economy?" sir it's been a DECADE

username8 he's definitely planning something because ain't no way 😭

username9 man's out here acting like they haven't been together since before half the grid even had their super license

username10 ten years and he still gets flustered talking about their relationship in public, honestly kinda cute tho

username11 the way she just KNOWS he's probably got something planned because ain't no way he's this dense after 10 years

username12 charles really said "marriage? i hardly know her" SIR THAT IS YOUR GIRLFRIEND OF 10 YEARS

liked by charles_leclerc, lilymhe and 198,760 others

yourinstagram P2 at home!!! 🇲🇨 so proud of you my love, you fought so hard today! seeing you on the podium in monaco will never get old ❤️ je suis tellement fière de toi mon amour, tu mérites le monde entier [I'm so proud of you my love, you deserve the whole world]

view all comments

username1 THESE CUTIESSS

username2 i love them so bad

charles_leclerc Merci d'être toujours là mon coeur ❤️ Coming home to celebrate with you makes every podium even more special 🤍 [thank you for always being there my heart]

└ yourinstagram I love you for ever !

lewishamilton Great drive today Charles! You two are glowing 🙌

└ username1 even lewis roots for them as he should

username3 HOME RACE PODIUM + GORGEOUS GF = PERFECT PROPOSAL OPPORTUNITY HELLO???

username4 the way she still looks at him like a proud girlfriend from his karting days 🥺 charles pls put a ring on it

carmenmmundt Cuties !!!

username5 bro got p2 at his home race with his gf of almost 10 years watching and STILL didn't propose i'm throwing hands

arthur_leclerc The only thing missing from this perfect Monaco weekend was a proposal

└ username1 ARTHUR HAS NO CHILL

└ charles_leclerc ?

└ username2 CHARLES STOP ACTING DENSE

└ yourinstagram arthur you messy minx

username6 not me refreshing their instas every 5 mins hoping to see an engagement announcement 😭

username7 the way every comment is about proposing LMAO we're all thinking it tho

username8 petition for charles to stop being a chicken and propose already, my guy you've been together longer than some marriages

username9 plot twist: he's waiting for a race win to propose 👀

username10 CHARLES JUST PROPOSE FFS

liked by yourinstagram, carlossainz55 and 1,987,937 others

charles_leclerc 10 years with you by my side. From karting to Formula 1, from teenagers to who we are today, you've been my constant. Every victory, every defeat, every moment has been better because I get to share it with you. Joyeux anniversaire mon amour ❤️ Ces dix années ne sont que le début de notre histoire. Tu es l'amour de ma vie, aujourd'hui et pour toujours [happy anniversary my love. these ten years are just the beginning of our story. you are the love of my life, today and forever]

view all comments

username1 I JUST SOBBED REALLY LOUDLY

username2 this is absolutely beautiful

leclerc_pascale Beautiful ! Love both of you

yourinstagram je t'aime plus que les mots peuvent l'exprimer ❤️ here's to forever with you my love [I love you more than words can express]

username3 bro wrote a whole love letter but still no ring? 🤔

username4 mans really said "these 10 years are just the beginning" instead of proposing

carlossainz55 You're killing us mate 😭 Beautiful words though!

maxverstappen1 Bro, come on

arthur_leclerc Beautiful words brother, however...

username5 charles writing poetry about their love but refusing to propose is my villain origin story

username6 THE FIRST PHOTO I'M CRYING they literally grew up together 🥺

username7 even max is calling him out i'm deceased 💀 charles the world is waiting!!

username8 10 YEARS AND STILL NO RING?? this man really testing our patience fr

username9 the way he could've made this the perfect proposal post... charles leclerc i'm watching you

username10 taking bets on whether he'll wait for the 15 year anniversary at this point

username11 EVERYONE IS JUST WAITING FOR HIM TO PROPOSE

username12 this man really said "just the beginning" my brother in christ it's been a DECADE

liked by charles_leclerc, kikagomes and 201,875 others

yourinstagram une décennie d'amour, de rires, et de rêves partagés avec toi 🤍 from watching you race in Formula 3 to celebrating podiums in f1, from our tiny first apartment to our home in monaco, from teenagers in love to building our life together. every moment with you has been an adventure. thank you for making these 10 years feel like a fairytale, mon amour. je t'aimerai toujours, mon charles ❤️ [a decade of love, laughter, and shared dreams with you. i will always love you, my charles]

view all comments

username1 AWEEE MY HEART

username2 i'm still sobbing

charles_leclerc Ma vie, mon tout ❤️ These 10 years have been the best gift life could give me [my life, my everything]

carmenmmundt The way you two still look at each other like teenagers in love 🥺❤️ Happy anniversary!

pierregasly Charles my friend, this is the perfect moment

username3 that first apartment photo 😭

username4 TEN YEARS OF PURE LOVE AND STILL NO RING?? charles baby what is you doing

lando may this love find me

username5 the way she's been with him through every step of his racing career. ultimate supportive gf

username6 CHARLES JUST PROPOSE

username7 the fact that even pierre is done waiting at this point lmaooo

username8 petition for charles to stop being a coward and propose to this queen already

username9 THE THIRD PHOTO IS LEGENDARY

username10 their love story is literally better than any romance movie and yet MY MAN STILL HASN'T PROPOSED

username11 the way they went from young kids in love to power couple but still look at each other the same way 🥺 charles pls propose we're begging

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

yourinstagram has added to their stories

charles_leclerc has added to their stories

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

liked by username1, username2 and 13,985 others

c16updates Charles and YN arriving to Lorenzo Leclerc's wedding in Monaco today! YN serving as one of the bridesmaids!

view all comments

username1 I LOVE THEM SO MUCH

username2 power couple

username3 not charles watching his brother get married while yn is still waiting for a ring i- 💀

username4 YN YOU BETTER CATCH THAT BOUQUET

username5 seeing yn as a bridesmaid at her bf's BROTHER'S wedding when she should've been a bride years ago... pain.

username6 the second hand embarrassment watching charles dodge marriage questions from relatives all day 🥴

username7 my girl been a bridesmaid at different weddings in the f1 paddock INCLUDING HER BF'S BROTHER now... charles baby what is you doing

username8 the fact that lorenzo met his wife AFTER charles and yn started dating... and got married first... i have no words

username9 yn's fake smile every time someone asks when it's her turn >>>> girl we know you're tired 😭

username10 yn looking absolutely gorgeous as always but imagine her in a WEDDING dress... charles you're fumbling the bag fr fr

username11 the amount of times charles probably heard "you're next!" today... boy you've been next for like 5 years now

username12 someone check on yn cause watching your man at his brother's wedding after 10 years of dating is ROUGH

username13 the way every single guest was probably staring at charles waiting for him to get inspired... we're all tired bestie

liked by yourinstagram, lewishamilton and 1,023,887 others

charles_leclerc Congratulations to my big brother Lorenzo and his beautiful bride Charlotte❤️ What a perfect day celebrating your love. Thank you for showing us all what true love looks like.

view all comments

username1 LECLERC SUPREMACY

username2 you next charlie

lorenzotl Merci petit frère! Now it's your turn... 👀 YN's been part of the family for 10 years already anyway

└ username1 DRAGGED HIM FAIR AND SQUARE

└ username2 HEEELP

└ arthur_leclerc Even I might get married before Charles at this rate 💀

└ username3 ARTHUR IS SO SAVAGE AND FOR WHAT

yourinstagram Such a beautiful day ❤️

username4 CHARLES POSTING ABOUT "TRUE LOVE" WHILE YN IS STILL WAITING FOR A RING IS WILD

username5 not arthur dragging him in the comments i'm deceased 💀

username6 the way yn just commented "beautiful day" instead of joining the roast... queen behavior

username7 charles really posted about his brother's wedding like we wouldn't all come for him in the comments

username8 YN watching both of charles' brothers make marriage jokes while she's been waiting a decade: 🧍‍♀️

username9 everyone in the comments asking "you when??" and charles is probably pretending not to see

username10 lorenzo said "yn's been part of the family for 10 years" EXACTLY SO PUT A RING ON IT

username11 how you gonna post about celebrating true love when you won't propose to YOUR true love?? make it make sense

username12 even his own brothers are tired of waiting omg 😭 charles wake up

username13 CHARLES JUST PUT A RING ON IT FFS

username14 the way yn probably had to dodge "when are you next?" questions all night... girl deserves a medal

username15 charles talking about "true love" my brother in christ YOU'VE HAD TRUE LOVE FOR 10 YEARS NOW PROPOSE

liked by charles_leclerc, lilymhe and 196,589 others

yourinstagram White is always a good idea ✨

📸: @/charles_leclerc

view all comments

username1 BEAUTIFULLLL

username2 this is the it girl

carmenmmundt If this isn't a sign I don't know what is

iamrebeccad Looking like a bride already 😍

charles_leclerc La plus belle ❤️

username3 GIRL IS LITERALLY SHOWING HIM WHAT SHE'D LOOK LIKE AS A BRIDE AND HE STILL- 😭

username4 not her having charles take the photo in a WHITE DRESS... the hints are getting less subtle bestie

username5 charles be like "wow my gorgeous girlfriend in white" and not "wow my future wife in white" OPEN YOUR EYES

username6 she's been wearing more and more white lately and this man is still absolutely CLUELESS

username7 CHARLES WAKE TF UP

username8 the way she tagged him as the photographer like YES LOOK AT HER IN WHITE YOU FOOL

username9 this woman could literally wear a wedding dress to dinner and charles would be like "nice outfit babe"

username10 even the other wags are dropping hints in the comments i'm screaming 😭

username11 charles taking pretty pics of her in white instead of proposing to her in white... we're tired

username12 your girl is serving BRIDE and you're serving photographer... charles wake up

username13 THIS IS PAINFUL TO WATCH

liked by username1, username2 and 17,038 others

f1gossip Charles Leclerc gets asked about marriage plans during #F1Premiere red carpet interview 👀

Interviewer: "Your brother just got married, any plans to follow suit soon?" Charles: "Ah you know, we're very happy as we are right now..."

view all comments

username1 NOT YN'S FACE WHEN HE SAID "HAPPY AS WE ARE" PLS 💀 girl was fighting demons on that red carpet

username2 the way she's perfected that smile while dying inside... 10 years of practice will do that to you 😭

username3 charles really said "happy as we are" my brother in christ she is NOT happy as you are

username4 everyone catching yn's eye twitch when he said that... we saw it girl

username5 the way every interviewer asks this now bc they know we're all TIRED of waiting

username6 "happy as we are" translation: i'm terrified of commitment even tho i've been committed for 10 years make it make sense

username7 JUST PUT A FCKING RING ON IT

username8 yn standing there like 🧍‍♀️ while this man fumbles for the 500th time... somebody save her

username9 charles dodging marriage questions like he dodges podiums this season

username10 not her having to hear this man say they're "happy as they are" for the 74628th time... girl blink twice if you need help

username11 the second hand embarrassment is real... even the interviewer was like bruh 😭

username12 at this point we need ferrari to add "propose to yn" to his contract requirements

username13 the way every driver in the background was just watching this trainwreck...

username14 petition for yn to start answering these questions instead cause we know she'd say what we're all thinking

liked by username1, username2 and 18,099 others

f1paddocktea🚨 SPOTTED: Charles Leclerc and YN in Lake Como, Italy for a romantic getaway during the summer break! Sources say they're staying at the ultra-exclusive Villa d'Este 👀

view all comments

username1 NOT LAKE COMO... THE MOST ROMANTIC PLACE IN ITALY... IS THIS FINALLY IT??!!

username2 my man picked the most proposal-worthy spot in europe this better not be another false alarm 😭

username3 IM GOING TO SCREAM

username4 please let this be it because if he takes her to lake como just for a regular vacation i'm throwing hands

username5 CHARLES IF THAT'S NOT A RING IN THERE I STG

username6 the way we're all invested in this proposal like it's our own

username7 manifesting engagement pics with that lake como view

username8 if this man booked villa d'este just to give her another necklace i'm calling max to fight him

username9 yn probably not even getting her hopes up anymore

username10 the girlies in the paddock about to catch a flight to como if he doesn't do it this time

username11 charles taking yn to the most romantic hotel in italy like "yes perfect spot for a casual vacation"

username12 CHARLES. JUST DO IT

username13 everyone refreshing their feeds every 2 seconds waiting for that ring pic

username14 the pressure on this man rn...

username15 JUST PUT A RING ON IT

username16 if he doesn't propose here where literally THOUSANDS of people have gotten engaged... boy needs help

username17 imagine booking the most famous proposal spot in italy and NOT proposing... charles don't you dare

liked by charles_leclerc, lilyzneimer and 201,003 others

yourinstagram perfect weekend getaway in lake como with my love ❤️ already missing these views...

view all comments

username1 she posted these WITHOUT a ring... CHARLES LECLERC I WILL FIGHT YOU

username2 NOT HIM TAKING HER TO THE MOST ROMANTIC PLACE IN ITALY AND STILL- 💀

username3 the way she probably had her nails done just in case... girl we're so sorry

lilymhe cutiesss 🤍🤍

arthur_leclerc I'm going to slap my brother...

username4 ARTHUR IS SO REAL

username5 lakeside dinners? and NO RING??? charles you're actually insane

username6 she's posting these like a normal vacation because she's used to the disappointment at this point i'm crying

username7 the most proposal-worthy location in europe and he did NOTHING... i've lost all hope

iamrebecca Pretty girl !! I would marry you

lando hey can you put charles on the phone real quick ?? just wanna talk

username8 yn is stronger than the military because how are you still posting cute captions after THIS disappointment

username9 everyone who had "lake como proposal" in their 2025 bingo card: 🤡

username10 the way she's probably immune to romantic locations now... girl's been to venice, paris, amalfi coast, santorini, and now como with NO RING

username11 charles really said "let me take her to the #1 proposal spot in italy... to take photos" BRO WHAT

username12 she's so real for not even hinting at her disappointment in the caption... we know you're tired queen

username13 at this point she could wake up to rose petals and candles and would be like "aw nice decoration" because THE TRAUMA

username14 the fact that they probably walked past 17 proposals during this trip while she's still waiting... prison for charles

charles_leclerc Mon amour ❤️

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

liked by charles_leclerc, carmenmmundt and 202,544 others

yourinstagram congratulations marco & sofia! ✨ such a beautiful day celebrating your love! and look what I caught... 😉

view all comments

username1 another wedding thats not her own i might cry

username2 CHARLES ARE YOU BLIND

charles_leclerc You looked so happy catching it ❤️

└ lorenzotl Some would say it's a sign... 👀

└ arthur_leclerc big bro you good? need someone to explain what catching the bouquet means?

└ username1 HIS BROTHERS DRAGGING HIM AGAIN AS THEY SHOULD

└ username2 THIS IS EVIL

iamrebeccad The way you DOVE for that bouquet girl 😂 We all saw that determination

lilymhe now we wait... again...

username3 CHARLES REALLY COMMENTED "you looked happy catching it" LIKE IT DOESN'T MEAN ANYTHING I'M GONNA LOSE IT

username4 not his own brothers and co worker's girlfriends dragging him in the comments 💀

username5 she caught the bouquet in front of him and this man still acting clueless... i've never seen this level of density

username6 at this point he's just playing dumb i feel for my girl yn

username7 THE WAY SHE LITERALLY HAD TO FIGHT THREE OTHER GIRLS FOR THAT BOUQUET... girl is TRYING

username8 charles watching her catch the bouquet like "wow nice flowers" BRO WAKE UP

username9 even his brothers are tired of waiting omg 😭

username10 yn collecting bouquets like infinity stones at this point but charles still not getting the hint

username11 universe is literally screaming at him

username12 someone needs to explain to charles that catching the bouquet means YOU'RE NEXT

username13 PUT. A FUCKING. RING ON IT

username14 "you looked so happy catching it" YES BECAUSE SHE WANTS TO GET MARRIED YOU FOOL

username15 his brothers in the comments trying to knock some sense into him i'm crying

username16 she's caught more bouquets than charles has won races this season... make it make sense

liked by username1, username2 and 10,985 others

f1gossip deuxmoi via stories, maybe charles will finally put a ring on it 😭

view all comment

username1 we've been here 500 times before bestie 😭 remember the van cleef "spotting" last year?

username2 deuxmoi girl we love you but this man has been "spotted" at every jewelry store in monaco since 2019 💀

username3 until i see the ring ON HER FINGER i'm not believing anything anymore

username4 "spending time in engagement ring section" yeah probably buying another necklace 🤡

username5 source: trust me bro

username6 deuxmoi posting this like we haven't had 37 "charles spotted at jewelry store" posts before

username7 wake me up when she's actually wearing the ring because...

username8 he was probably looking for a "happy 11th anniversary" gift knowing him 💀

username9 everyone rushing to yn's instagram to check her hands in latest posts... we're so traumatized

username10 this man could be filling out marriage papers and i still wouldn't believe it until the ceremony's over

username11 the way we all got excited about the cartier spotting in 2023... and 2024... never again

username12 deuxmoi bestie we've been hurt too many times... we're not falling for this again

username13 yn probably seeing this like "ah yes another necklace coming my way"

username14 girl's probably got enough jewelry to open her own store but NO RING

username15 at this point he could be down on one knee and we'd be like "probably tying his shoelace"

liked by yourinstagram, lewishamilton and 1,044,388 others

charles_leclerc Coming home to you is the best part of any race weekend, win or lose. You're my constant in this crazy life and I couldn't imagine doing any of this without you. Mon coeur ❤️

view all comments

username1 BABIESSS

username2 these are my parents

yourinstagram Always here for you ❤️ So proud of everything you do x

maxverstappen1 Mate... you know what would make coming home even better? 💍

└ username1 MAX WTFF

└ username2 i love that he can't mind his business

carlossainz55 Amigo... there's a way to make her your permanent "constant" you know... 👀

└ username3 THATS IT DRAG HIM

lewishamilton Beautiful words brother, now put them in some vows 😉

└ username2 THIS IS WAY TOO FUNNY

username4 NOT HIM POSTING ABOUT COMING HOME TO HER WHEN HE WON'T GIVE HER A HOME ADDRESS CHANGE 💀

username5 "my constant in this crazy life" BRO MAKE IT LEGAL THEN

username6 charles writing romantic novels in his captions but can't write proposal speech

username7 this man really said "couldn't imagine doing any of this without you" but won't say "will you marry me"

username8 the drivers in his comments trying to guide this man to a jewelry store

username9 carlos straight up begging his best friend to propose at this point

username10 yn probably reading this like "cool another instagram caption but still no ring"

username11 "coming home to you is the best part" THEN PUT A RING ON IT???

username12 drivers in the comments doing everything except sending him actual ring pics

username13 lewis basically saying "less posting more proposing"

username14 she's been his "constant" for 10 years maybe make her his wife???

username15 the way everyone including his competitors are tired of waiting for this proposal

username16 charles will write poetic captions about their love but won't write marriage vows make it make sense

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

liked by maxverstappen1, yourinstagram and 4,085,483 others

charles_leclerc She said yes! ❤️ (After asking me what took me so long 😅) Can't wait to spend the rest of my life with you, my love.

view all comments

username1 OH MY FUCKING GODDD

username2 IT HAPPENED

yourinstagram only took 10 years and 16 caught bouquets 😘 je t'aime forever ❤️

lorenzotl FINALLY!!! Welcome officially to the family (though you've been our sister for years anyway) ❤️

arthur_leclerc THE DENSITY IS FINALLY OVER 🎉 So happy for you both!

pierregasly About damn time mate! Kika's already planning the bachelorette party 😂

kikagomes FINALLY WE CAN START WEDDING PLANNING!!! (also yes I'm planning the wildest bachelorette)

lilymhe I'M LITERALLY CRYING!!! The group chat manifesting worked girls 😭❤️

carlossainz55 So happy for you both! (Also I told you that spot would be perfect)

lewishamilton Love wins! Congratulations you beautiful souls ❤️

username3 THE DROUGHT IS OVER. THIS IS NOT A DRILL. I REPEAT THIS IS NOT A DRILL

username4 "after asking what took me so long" GIRL SPOKE FOR ALL OF US

username5 SCREAMING, CRYING, THROWING UP IT FINALLY HAPPENED

username6 THE WAY I JUST BROKE THE SOUND BARRIER SCREAMING

username7 carlos helped plan the proposal i'm sobbing this friendship 😭

username8 THE GIRLS ALREADY PLANNING THE BACHELORETTE WE LOVE TO SEE IT

username9 "only took 11 years and 16 caught bouquets" I'M DECEASED 💀

username10 THE WAIT IS OVER. THIS IS THE GREATEST DAY OF MY LIFE

username11 all the drivers commenting like proud parents who watched their dense son finally figure it out 😭

username12 THE ENTIRE F1 COMMUNITY IS CELEBRATING LIKE WE WON A CHAMPIONSHIP

username13 watching this relationship since 2013 i feel like a proud mother 😭

username14 THE WAIT IS OVER. I WAS HERE. WITNESSING HISTORY.

username15 lily confirming the wag group chat manifestation i'm crying 😭

username16 THE LONGEST ENGAGEMENT WATCH IN F1 HISTORY IS FINALLY OVER

liked by charles_leclerc, iamrebeccad and 1,094,738 others

yourinstagram he FINALLY figured out what to do with all those jewelry store visits. from karting girlfriend to fiancée - only took 11 years, 16 bouquets, 43 wedding guest appearances, and approximately 3,947 hints but WE MADE IT 🤍

view all comments

username1 I STILL CANT BELIEVE THIS

username2 GIRL YOU DID IT

charles_leclerc To be fair, I was a bit slow on the uptake 😅❤️ Can't wait to marry you mon amour

username3 THE HINT COUNTER IN THE CAPTION 💀 Girl really kept receipts

iamrebeccad Not you counting all the weddings we went to 😭 But we did it bestie!!!

carmenmmundt The group chat can finally rest! So happy for you!!

lorenzotl "3,947 hints" and that's just the ones we counted

arthur_leclerc the most patient woman in motorsport 👏🏼

username4 “approximately 3,947 hints" girl was running STATISTICS

username5 the way she tracked every single wedding they attended together... dedication

username6 "finally figured out what to do with all those jewelry store visits" I'M SCREAMING

username7 charles admitting he was slow on the uptake YEAH WE KNOW 😭

username8 even his brothers confirming the hint count is sending me

username9 SHES GOING TO BE THE MOST BEAUTIFUL BRIDE EVER

username10 she really said "let me present my thesis on how long this took"

username11 THE DETAILED BREAKDOWN OF THE WAITING PERIOD... she's so real for this

username12 this caption is giving "i've been waiting to post this for 11 years"

username13 the most patient woman in F1 finally getting her ring

username14 HE FINALLY PUT A RING ON IT OMFG

username15 she had this caption in her drafts since 2019 i just know it

[fricks]

not once did you think that your big scary (totally human..?) boyfriend sukuna would like being overstimulated in the bedroom. ☆

you mean, he talks about drinking the blood of small animals way too much to enjoy being reduced, reused and recycled by you in bed. sometimes you wonder if he really is joking about all that 'lord of darkness' stuff or whatever. maybe your man is delusional.

"king of curses," he chides you, slapping your ass hard as you bounce one of his two disastrous lengths. "i chose the vessel for my seed unwisely."

"oh, yes. my king of curses," you coo, managing to speak pretty well despite the searing stretch of your boyfriends cock inside of you. the underside of his other one rubs up against your clit as you ride him, doubling your stimulation. "you know, i'm starting to like this roleplay stuff. maybe next time i could be the cruel dictator and you can be my... what is it you call me? your concubine?"

his many eyes roll, and two of his four hands move to your hips to guide you into a more punishing pace on his cock. "i'm not roleplaying," he growls, but you can hear that tinge of desperation in his voice. "i've slaughtered thousands. ripped flesh from bone with my teeth. you're lucky i don't make you my next meal."

"i'd love that," you shrug. truth is, despite his oddities in appearance, you find the man beneath you immensely attractive. sure, it's not every day you meet a man with four arms and two cocks and a build so large you quite literally have to climb him like a tree... but humans come in all shapes and sizes, who were you to judge him if he gave dick this good? "you know i like it when you do that cool trick with your hand."

you don't know how he does it, but your boyfriend can cup a hand over your pussy and you swear you can feel a tongue lapping you up down there. it's a neat trick, he'll have to teach you for one of those evenings he goes out late to 'hunt' and doesn't come back for a few days. he's like a cat.

"silence," sukuna grumbles, closing his eyes and fucking up into you. you're already a mess of his releases, he's cum three times inside of you now, and you can sense him starting to slow down a little. "come on, take me."

"i am," you whine, planting your hands over his hard chest and using the momentum to fuck yourself on his cock even harder. "you're so... big. god."

"that's right, i am your god. pray to me, human."

man his kinks are weird. you stifle a laugh and instead work on somehow taking your man impossibly deeper inside of you. you swear he's changed your genetic makeup by now, because a few months ago you could hardly take half of him without crying. baby steps go far, apparently.

you manage another orgasm out of him before he starts getting really sloppy with his movements. stuttering hips, balls clenching so hard that you're almost worried he'll hurt himself. is it normal for guys to insist on being fucked until they're on the verge of passing out? is there anything normal about sukuna?

you're not much better, you suppose. this is punishing, really, you know you won't be able to walk for a long while after this. at least not without sukuna's help. but god is he addicting, just his cock alone is enough to keep you hooked. huge and veiny and somehow always managing to hit the exact right spot inside of you.

this part of ryomen is what you like best, though. once you've milked him for all he's got, and he's still aching for more. to be reduced down to nothing by you. whatever big scary monster he likes to say he is turns into this: a melted man who likes biting off more than he can chew.

he's still bossy, though.

"claim every part of me," he's hardly got the strength to keep hold of your hips, but somehow he manages. the muscles in his arms bulge as he fucks you up and down on his cock so quick it must hurt his achy length. "come on, strip me for all i've got. don't stop on my account."

one of his hands rips yours from his chest and places it instead around his throat. "hard," he urges you. "overindulge. scare yourself if you must. ruin me. break your king."

as if you had the power to do him any real harm, you squeeze. his cock quite literally throbs inside of you as you do, and half of you wonders if sukuna is getting off instead on the idea of being worn thin.

"beg me," you grin, tweaking his nipple with your free hand. "come on, my lord... use your manners."

of course, he growls. puts on a show of baring his teeth and cursing weakly under his breath, but you tighten up around him just enough to hitch his breath and suddenly, your big scary boyfriend is begging you to wreck him.

it's all too much for him. both mentally and physically, being reduced down by someone so... weak. so human, who sees him as the same species. a feeble little human, albeit one with all these extra limbs. maybe its a sort of degradation kink. the simple thought of being on par with a human should fill him with rage... not lust.

"please," he bites out, and lord does it sting his throat to say. "usurp me."

"you really make no sense sometimes," you hum, and pull one of his hands to the tip of his cock that isn't inside of you. you push his palm flat over the leaky head and force the 'king of curses' to taste himself with his hand alone.

now it's all too much. the formidable, puissant ryomen sukuna is lost for all words. his eyes roll back, and his back arches up off the bed and, at the ministry of the most puzzling human he's ever met, he's stolen for all he's worth. he cums inside of you with a disgusting force, and shoots an equally virile load out of his other cock straight into the mouth that forms on his palm.

you fuck him through even this orgasm, somehow with more stamina than him, and only stop once you notice he's truly too fucked out to even make a remark about being the ruler of all things evil, or whatever.

"baby," you coo, leaning forward to kiss his tense jaw. "you look so pretty like this."

it's true. his hair is a mess, and his lips are parted, and this is one of the few times your man isn't sporting a scowl. he scowls even in his sleep.

"you dare speak of your lord in such ways?" he manages.

"mhm," you roll your eyes and settle down on top of him. "this roleplay thing is fun, babe, but no real king of curses would beg me to break him."

[rumncokebaby]

my type?

pairing: johnny storm x female reader

synopsis: when johnny storm barges into your bakery during a pr “cooling-off period,” the last thing you expect is for him to keep coming back.

requested by: @tsunchani

The bell above your bakery door chimed so sweetly that you didn’t look up at first. It was a weekday lull—post–morning rush, pre–office crowd—and the whole place smelled like butter and patience. The mixer hummed. The ovens whispered. A sheet pan of cinnamon rolls cooled on a rack like a chorus line, glossy with glaze that caught the light. You were alone, sleeves shoved to your elbows, a pale dusting of flour on your cheek that you’d forgotten about ten times already.

“Tell me you do witness protection,” a voice said, low and fast, like he’d just slid into a booth at a speakeasy.

You glanced up with a practiced smile for anyone who came in flustered. The smile faltered when you recognized him. Johnny Storm stood just inside the door in a baseball cap that fooled exactly no one, sunglasses dangling by one arm from the collar of a bomber jacket. He wasn’t out of breath so much as vibrating, the kind of kinetic too-bright energy you felt in your teeth.

“I usually just do pastries,” you said, even as your eyes flicked past him to the window. Two long-lens cameras hovered across the street by the bodega, their owners pretending to be fascinated by a rack of gum.

Johnny followed your look, winced, and offered a grin that had probably negotiated world peace more than once. “I swear I’m not here for drama. I’m here to not be drama. For once.”

“You?” Your eyebrows climbed.

“Shocking, right? Sue gave me a lecture this morning. Our PR team called it a ‘cooling-off period.’ Apparently, if I get photographed doing anything except reading to puppies for forty-eight hours, civilization collapses.” He took a step closer to the counter, lowered his voice. “So, if a journalist asks, I’m a model of restraint and baked goods.”

“So… hiding.” You made it a statement. He didn’t flinch.

“Strategically… off the grid.” He nodded toward the case. “With a cinnamon roll for cover, if you’re feeling merciful.”

You slid open the glass, lifted a still-warm roll to a plate, and set it on the counter. He didn’t reach for it yet; his attention landed on you, a yes-or-no he never said out loud. Your bakery. Your call.

“Take a seat,” you said after a beat, nodding toward the two stools near the register. “I don’t do witness protection. But I do have napkins.”

He smiled like you’d offered him a favor he could feel in his bones and sat. He pushed his sunglasses up into his hair with no ceremony, blue eyes flicking over the room like he was memorizing where you kept everything. His shoulders unspooled one notch at a time.

“This is great,” he said around his first bite, eyebrows shooting up with genuine surprise that made you want to laugh. “I’m not just saying that because I need a safe house. That frosting—wow. I didn’t know sugar could do that.”

“Sugar can do anything if you treat it right,” you said, then regretted the softness in your tone. You pivoted. “Coffee?”

“Yes, please, whatever you recommend. Unless it’s decaf. I have a personality to maintain.”

You poured two cups before you’d decided to. You didn’t ask yourself why.

He didn’t pretend not to be recognized, didn’t sign the napkin some customers tried to give him like a contract. He just ate slowly, glanced toward the window less and less, and asked you questions that weren’t small talk. Did you always know you wanted to bake? What do you listen to when the bakery’s empty? What’s the worst order you ever got. He listened. That was the part you didn’t expect. Not from Johnny Storm, human highlight reel.

You were halfway through telling him about a three-tier cake that collapsed like a bad secret when the bell chimed again. “Don’t set anything on fire,” Ben Grimm grunted as he shouldered in, then spotted Johnny and stopped short. “Aw, for cryin’ out loud.”

“Nice to see you too, Benji,” Johnny sang without turning. “Don’t blow my cover. I’m living a quiet, simple life as a pastry monk.”

Ben gave you a look that said he was sorry on the world’s behalf and then nodded at the coffee urn. “The usual.” He slid a few bills across the counter, big fingers careful not to wrinkle them. “If he gets in your way, kid, you tell me.”

“He’s paying,” you said dryly. “So for now, he can stay.”

Johnny clutched his chest. “At last. Validation.”

Ben snorted, grabbed his coffee, and lumbered out, muttering something that sounded like, “He’s gonna break your mixer.”

“I’m not going to break your mixer,” Johnny promised immediately. “I might serenade it.”

“You’re not going near my mixer at all.”

“We’ll see.”

He came back the next day. And the one after that. And the one after that.

At first, you thought it was coincidence. But no man who looked like Johnny Storm came into a hole-in-the-wall bakery five mornings in a row by accident. By the second week, you had started saving a cinnamon roll for him behind the counter. By the third, you caught him lingering long after his plate was empty, elbows on the counter, teasing you about how your apron never stayed tied properly or asking which cake flavor was your personal favorite.

One afternoon, the bell jingled and in came Sue, balancing a reusable grocery bag on one hip and wrangling a squirmy Franklin. “Franklin refuses to sleep without his dinosaur pajamas,” she explained, lifting the bag a little. She clocked Johnny leaning against your counter and smirked. “Oh. I see we’re… cooling off.”

“Don’t say it like that,” Johnny said. “I’m rebrand—ing.” The hyphen was the panic.

“Hmm,” she said, the way only a sister could. She glanced at your case, brightened. “Are those lemon bars? Reed will propose to anyone for a decent lemon bar.”

“Tell him to hold off,” Johnny said. “We have a brand to protect.”

“If you want to protect the brand,” she murmured, eyes twinkling, “stop staring at her like that in public.”

You pretended to be deeply invested in evenly spacing brownie squares while your ears burned.

“Hi!” a small voice chirped from knee-height. Franklin peered around his mom’s legs, face smeared with something that looked like chocolate. “Uncle Johnny, can I have the sprinkle donut?”

“Buddy, that’s not a—well, no, actually, we do have one in the back that is technically a sprinkle donut,” Johnny said, and you weren’t sure what was funnier: his need to be correct about pastry taxonomy or the way he lit up for a five-year-old like the paparazzi didn’t exist.

You brought out a baked not-fried “donut,” really a cake ring with icing and every rainbow sprinkle you owned. Franklin’s eyes got huge. “This looks like a birthday,” he breathed.

“It’s everyone’s birthday somewhere,” Johnny said solemnly, and you had to turn away so you didn’t laugh into your own apron.

Franklin stuck his hand straight into the sprinkles before you could stop him, came away with a sticky constellation across his cheeks, and sighed like he’d discovered divinity. “Uncle Johnny talks about this place,” he informed you gravely. “He says it smells like happiness.”

“Does he.” You didn’t look at Johnny. You didn’t need to; you could feel him—how his smile went wry at one corner, how he pretended to inspect a tip jar that already had too many of his twenties in it.

“He also says,” Franklin continued, “that you—”

“Okay!” Sue scooped him up like a vengeful crane and kissed his sugary temple. “Time to go tell Dad we found lemon bars. Say ‘thank you.’ And ‘sorry for my uncle.’”

“Thank you,” Franklin said clearly. “Sorry for my—Uncle Johnny is good.”

Johnny pressed a hand to his chest. “Finally, someone says it.”

When the door closed, you realized you were smiling at nothing. When you glanced up, Johnny was watching you watch the door, and the look he gave you was unguarded enough that you had to look away.

He asked you out the following Tuesday. It wasn’t a production. He didn’t make fireworks spell your name over the East River, didn’t arrive on a flaming motorcycle, didn’t grandstand in a way that would have made you flinch. He finished restocking napkins, rinsed his hands, wiped them on a towel, and leaned his elbows on the counter.

“Go out with me,” he said, simple as a request to pass the salt. “Somewhere with real chairs and no timer beeping every twelve minutes.”

“You’re very confident,” you said, not because it needed saying but because he was waiting for you to say something.

“I’m very… sure.” He tilted his head like he was searching for a better word. “Of this one thing.”

You arranged your face into something neutral so your traitor heart didn’t volunteer you before your brain caught up. You could say no and nothing would break. You could say no and he’d keep coming in for coffee, would keep carrying flour, would keep being the one person who laughed at your terrible playlist ironically and then unironically, and you could watch him find someone else to set on fire.

“Friday,” you said, and the way relief washed through him would have embarrassed a less shameless man. He didn’t hide it. He grinned like you’d handed him a dare.

He took the cooling-off memo seriously. No paparazzi bait, no restaurant where the point was to be seen. He showed up at your apartment door in a suit the color of midnight and a tie that had been tied three times, if the askew knot told the truth. He held flowers like he’d rehearsed not making a joke about them. He didn’t make you feel like a bit. He made you feel like something he could ruin and would rather not.

The restaurant was just nice enough to make you sit a little straighter. He pulled your chair out and didn’t make eye contact with the hostess for longer than he needed to. The first ten minutes felt like you’d known each other six weeks—exactly the number you had—and also like you’d fallen into a pocket of air outside the world’s timing, where banter synced with breath.

“Is there anything you’re actually bad at?” you asked at one point, more curious than teasing.

“Geography,” he said immediately. “And waiting.”

“Waiting?”

“For anything good.” He sipped his water like that hadn’t been naked.

You decided to ask him things you could only ask away from the clang of sheet pans. If he ever wanted to stop. If he ever got tired. He asked you if there was anything about baking you hated but did anyway because the end justified the mess.

“Inventory,” you said. “And fondant.”

“You hate fondant?” He looked genuinely betrayed. “It’s so shiny.”

“It tastes like sweet rubber.”

“Okay,” he said, “rude but fair.”

It was easy. It was dangerous, how easy. Maybe that’s why you tested the seam of it, the way you sometimes pressed your thumb into the bottom of a cake to see if it sprung back.

“What’s your type?” he asked, casual, somewhere between appetizers and pasta. He didn’t say it like a trap. He said it like a kid trailing a sound with his finger.

You considered. You could have said something diplomatic. You could have said “funny” or “kind” and meant him. Instead, you smiled—small, mean, a little curious about what happened next—and drew a line down the center of the tablecloth he’d set so carefully.

“Black curly hair,” you said. “Brown dreamy eyes. Bulky. Veiny arms.” You tilted your head. “You know. A little broody.”

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t need to. His mouth made a shape that wasn’t a smile, his eyes flicked to your mouth then back to your water glass, and he sat back like the chair had scooted a millimeter further away. The laugh he gave you was bright enough to be a weapon.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, scoffing, rolling his shoulders like he was shaking something off. “I get the picture.”

“You asked.”

“I did.” He found the corner of his napkin with his thumb and smoothed it as if the linen had personally offended him. “Broody’s a classic. Everyone loves a storm cloud. So—good for you.”

You watched him the way you watched the edge of caramel before it tipped into bitter. He wasn’t angry. Johnny rarely burned that way. He was… skewed. A little to the left of himself. He rolled his sleeves to his forearms like he’d just remembered he had them. He sat straighter, and when the server came to refill water, he straightened more, and when you reached for your wine, he handed it to you before you’d decided to ask.

He overcorrected. That was the thing he did. He overcorrected with style, but still.

He walked you home without saying anything sharp. He waited while you found your keys. He didn’t ask to come up; he didn’t try to erase what you’d said with his mouth. He said, “Thank you. For letting me pretend for a night that I’m extremely good at being a person,” and you said, “You’re better than you think,” and he stared at your door for a beat like you’d put something on the other side that he wanted.

He still showed up at the bakery the next morning at six. He did fifty push-ups on your forty-inch square of office floor while you did inventory on a clipboard because of course he did. He carried three sacks of flour into the back one-handed and didn’t look at you when he set them down like he hadn’t planned it at all. He wore a T-shirt with sleeves short enough to flash the rope of his forearms every time he reached for a dish towel. He flexed, for the first time, for real. Not because he was vain. Because he was trying to be a language he thought you spoke.

“Careful,” you said when he snapped the elastic hairnet at his hairline, which he insisted on wearing like a crown. “You’ll break something trying that hard.”

“Not possible,” he said, smiling like he’d swallowed a dare. He tossed the dish towel over his shoulder. “I’m excellent at everything.”

“You’re objectively bad at tempering chocolate.”

“That was one time.”

“It was yesterday.”

He grinned and burned the second batch, too. You pretended you didn’t notice him reset the thermometer to try again, jaw tight, determined to get this right for reasons he was not going to name.

It would have been cute if it hadn’t also tugged something in your chest in a way you didn’t like. You hadn’t meant to pin him to a chalk outline. You hadn’t meant for a sentence to lodge in a person that way. Your own words ricocheted off the copper bowls and back into your face: You know. The opposite of you.

You told yourself your type had always been a good joke. You told yourself you’d meant eyes that saw you when you were behind a counter and your hands wouldn’t stop moving. You told yourself you hadn’t meant to make him small.

When your oven broke during a massive order, you nearly burst into tears. You stared at it like sheer will might bring it back to life, then yanked out your phone. Ben had given you Reed’s number months ago for a bulk order, swearing, “He’s the only one who can talk you through measurements if I screw it up.”

You typed fast: Oven dead. Wedding order today. Please tell me you do miracles.

“On my way,” Reed replied almost instantly. Then: Also, please do not let Johnny fix anything.

You glanced toward the front. Johnny was gloving up to carry trays from the proofing cabinet, blissfully unaware. “Noted,” you muttered.

He noticed, of course, when the first tray of meringues went into an oven that didn’t heat. He noticed the way your face didn’t move and then moved too much all at once. He glanced at the thermostat, at your hands, at the clock. “What do we need?”

“Time,” you said, which was the same as saying Nothing realistic.

He pulled his phone out without asking. “Hey, Reed,” he said when the line picked up. “Are you already—great. We have a… situation.” He listened, hung up, and then leaned both palms on the stainless counter and met your eyes. “Okay, game plan. I’m going to call Ben for muscle. Reed’s bringing gizmos. Sue has… Sue has something in the car that will keep us invisible if we need it, but let’s pretend that’s Plan Z. You—tell me how many things can be salvaged and how many I need to call in favors for.”

“You don’t—”

“You’re not alone,” he said, so simply you didn’t know what to do with the sentence. Then he softened it with a smile. “Also, I really want to see Reed sweet-talk an oven.”

Ben arrived first with a rolling tool chest that should have been in a garage, not a bakery. He took one look at the oven, whistled low, and said, “She’s seen things.”

“She’s going to see Reed fix her,” Johnny said, pinching the bridge of his nose like he was channeling patience from another dimension. “And then she’s going to bake like she’s trying to win prom queen.”

Reed arrived like a man who had made peace with the weird. He crouched in front of the oven, murmuring to it with the same reverence he reserved for quantum anomalies, then extracted a series of warped parts like a magician pulling scarves. Sue backed through the door balancing a box and a sleepy Franklin, who immediately lit up at the sight of you like you were Saturday.

“Is it an emergency?” Franklin asked solemnly as Sue settled him with crayons at a corner table.

“It’s a little one,” you said. “But your uncle is being very useful.”

“Useful,” Johnny repeated, glaring at you like you were the moon and he’d just learned you’d been orbiting him the whole time.

“Useful is high praise,” Sue said under her breath, and then while Reed coaxed life back into the pilot light with a screwdriver and a speech about longevity, she rolled up her sleeves and started cutting butter into flour like she’d done it a hundred times. “Tell me quantities,” she said, and when you did, she didn’t blink. She just said, “Johnny, stop staring and start whisking those egg whites like they offended your honor.”

“I love it when you talk to me like I’m a stand mixer,” he said, already whisking.

By eight, the oven had a heartbeat again. By nine, meringues piped in perfect spirals lined every flat surface you owned. You and Sue fell into a wordless rhythm people only get when they’ve watched each other be brilliant in other rooms for a very long time. Ben iced lemon bars with the meticulousness of a bomb technician. Reed improvised a stabilizing bracket for your oven door out of parts you didn’t know you had and wrote you a note with maintenance tips that read like love poetry to thermal consistency.

Johnny did everything. He carried sheet pans without scorching them. He ran interference with a delivery driver who arrived an hour early and immediately needed to pee. He answered the phone and soothed a bride, promised an on-time delivery with a calm he did not feel, then biked the first tray over himself because he could sew through traffic faster than your old van. When paparazzi began to gather because the Fantastic Four were very obviously inside a small business, he stepped outside with a box of sample cookies, charmed them into staying across the street, and then did something you didn’t learn until later: he told them that if any photo of you inside doing your job ran, he’d personally blacklist the outlet from every charity event he did this year. He said it like a promise he knew how to keep.

He came back with hair mashed flat from a helmet and cheeks flushed and dove back into the kitchen as if the floor were lava and everything depended on it. He burned the heel of his hand catching a falling tray because by the time he remembered he couldn’t be burned, he’d already moved. When you reached for the burn cream, he made a big production of how he was absolutely fine, look at me, fireproof, nothing to see, do not cry about it.

You cried about it later, for thirty seconds in the bathroom, silently, with your palms pressed to your eyes.

By noon, you were ahead. You were sweaty and sugar-sticky and weirdly giddy. Reed kissed Sue’s hair and left a note taped to the oven that said, in his precise hand, “Please, for the love of god, schedule quarterly checks. —R.” Ben pretended he wasn’t proud of his perfect lemon bar grid. Franklin fell asleep in the corner with a sprinkle stuck to his eyebrow and the dinosaur pajamas slumped over his lap like a captive flag.

Johnny stood in the doorway to the kitchen, watching you pipe the last ring of meringue like it was a wedding vow, and you felt his gaze like sunshine between your shoulder blades.

“Hey,” he said when you set the piping bag down. He didn’t have a joke ready. That was how you knew he meant it. “You were… you were art.”

“So were you,” you said, which made him blink, taken apart by one sentence.

Ben made an exit with a grumbled, “I ain’t third-wheeling in a bakery,” which was nonsense because he had third-wheeled you for two hours already. Sue carried a sleeping Franklin out like contraband and blew a kiss over her shoulder that made Johnny groan. Reed, bless him, sent you an invoice for exactly zero dollars and a text that said, “Satisfied client?” with a photo of the oven’s happy flame like it was a baby’s first steps.

The bakery exhaled. The street noise lowered. You turned and found Johnny with his back to the counter, arms braced behind him, head tilted like he could hear a frequency you couldn’t. His hair was a mess. There was a streak of flour on his cheekbone he hadn’t noticed and you hadn’t told him about because you liked seeing him marked by your world.

“You should sit,” he said, nodding to a stool. “Before gravity remembers you.”

“You should stop trying to be someone else.” It slipped out as if your mouth had decided to stop letting you be a coward.

He went very still, only his eyes moving. “I’m not—”

“The sleeves,” you said, and flicked your fingers at his forearms. “The push-ups in my office. The… just the whole thing. I said something stupid. I wanted to see if I could make you flinch. And then you—”

“You wanted to see if I’d go away,” he said softly, like he’d known for days and hadn’t wanted to say it out loud. “Because if I did, it would be neat. There’d be a place for it on a shelf. ‘That was the time Johnny Storm flirted with me for a few weeks and then realized I’m not a sports car or a camera.’ You wouldn’t have to—”

“I didn’t want you to go away,” you said, which felt like such a risky thing to admit that you had to look at the floor. “I wanted to know what you’re like when you don’t win.”

He laughed once, hoarse. “Horrible. Petty. In denial.”

“Determined,” you corrected. You took a step closer. “Useful.”

He made a face like you’d said he’d been elected treasurer. “Stop. That word is going to haunt me.”

“Good.” You reached up and used your thumb to swipe the flour off his cheekbone. He went cross-eyed trying to watch your hand and then gave up and watched your mouth. You left your hand where it was because you were tired of pretending you didn’t want to. “Listen to me.”

He did. God, he did.

“I said something on that date that doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because I was filleting a fear in public and calling it taste. I don’t know what my type is. I know what my person is.” You held his eyes, didn’t let him joke his way out of it, didn’t let him dodge. “You are not my type, Johnny. You’re my person.”

His expression—there wasn’t a word for it you’d used before. It was not triumph, exactly; there was too much relief in it, too much unguarded ache. It was something like a man who’d spotted land he’d almost convinced himself he’d imagined.

“You sure?” he asked, voice rough like a fire that had burned down to coals.

“Positive,” you said, and that was the whole truth.

He didn’t lunge. He didn’t do anything dramatic. He stepped into your space like you were warm and he’d been cold for ten years and wrapped his hands loosely around your waist like he was asking you a question you already knew the answer to. When he kissed you, he did it as if he only had one kiss and he intended to spend it very wisely. You kissed him back like you were done pretending that your life hadn’t been bending toward this, very gradually, the way a plant will tilt toward a window without anyone telling it where the sun is.

He pulled back with his forehead resting against yours and laughed into your mouth, breathy and astonished. “You have no idea how badly I wanted that.”

“I have some idea,” you said.

“I’ll still do the push-ups,” he said quickly, and you laughed and shoved at his shoulder and his laugh unspooled into something that sounded like relief and the first day of vacation and a kid told he can go back and ride the roller coaster again.

He stayed. He stayed through the afternoon rush, as he always did, now shamelessly stealing a kiss when he ducked into the back with a tray because you’d both decided the bakery was Switzerland and also yours. He stayed through cleanup, where he proved magnificent at mopping if he could dance with the handle and narrate as if he were on a cooking show. He stayed when you locked the door and the lights glowed low and the mixer went quiet and you climbed up on the counter and ate the ugly lemon bars that didn’t make the cut, squeezing the wedge of time between closing and night like it owed you.

He didn’t ask for your type again. He didn’t try to be less himself. He didn’t stop rolling his sleeves because you liked his forearms; he just rolled them because he liked his sleeves rolled and you liked his forearms and everybody won.

Paparazzi came back. Of course they did. He didn’t hide from them unless there was a reason, and he never used you as one. When they lingered outside, he stepped onto the sidewalk and flashed a grin and answered three questions and gave them a picture that kept them happy enough to move on. He never let anyone take a photo from inside; that was the only rule he asked for and the only one you would have agreed to before he said it.

He took you out again, and again. Once to a rooftop garden with twinkle lights and a chef who wept over your tart crust. Once to a Knicks game where he behaved himself so hard you half expected him to explode. He got better at waiting. You didn’t ask him to be one thing or another. You let him be a man who loved cameras and also loved slipping into your bakery on a Tuesday morning because the song on the radio was one you’d told him about and he wanted to listen to it in the place where you liked it.

Ben kept coming, and pretended not to like you and then liked you because it was impossible not to. Sue brought Franklin by on purpose now, to bribe him into putting on pajamas but really because Franklin’s joy at a sprinkle donut was the exact medicine for days that felt like too much. Reed installed a thermometer that looked like it could be used to measure a star and wrote you a note on letterhead that said, “Remember: you can ask for help,” and you taped it to the inside of your cabinet where you could see it when you needed to.

One night in late summer, you closed early because you could. He came by at dusk with hair damp from a shower and a T-shirt that had obviously lost a fight with a dryer. You sat on the floor behind the counter with your backs against the cabinets and shared the last cinnamon roll, torn in your hands, eaten with the lazy greed of people who didn’t have to leave yet.

“You know,” he said, licking sugar from his thumb, “I can probably stop pretending to be good for PR now. They got busy yelling at someone else this week.”

“You were pretending?” you asked, scandalized.

He laughed. “Okay, fair. I was… shifting the ratio.” He tilted his head so he could see your profile in the warm light. “I’ll still do it when I need to. Be… photogenic in public. I like it. It’s fun. But this—” He gestured with his chin at the room. “It is not lost on me that I started sleeping through the night the week I started hiding in here.”

“Strategically off the grid,” you said.

“Exactly.”

You set your head on his shoulder. He didn’t move, didn’t jostle, didn’t make a joke to cut the quiet. He reached for your hand and threaded your fingers together, and you felt the way his palm mapped yours like he’d known it longer than he had.

If anyone asked you later, you would say that your type was a man who stayed when the oven quit and the meringues fell. A man whose jealousy was soft-edged because it came from wanting to be close, not from wanting to control. A man who believed that sugar could do anything if you treated it right, and applied that rule to people.

He would say that his type was you.

He’d grin when he said it, because he couldn’t help himself. He’d say it to a camera if someone asked, just once, in a way that made twelve PR managers faint and three more resign. He’d say it to Franklin at bedtime when he needed a story. He’d say it to Ben and roll his eyes when Ben pretended not to hear. He’d say it to Sue in a text accompanied by seventeen heart emojis until she threatened to block him. He’d say it to you in the doorway of your bakery in the morning when the sun hadn’t quite happened yet, like a prayer that sounded suspiciously like a joke.

And when you teased him about his sleeves or his push-ups or his silly attempts to be broody, he’d laugh and kiss your flour-dusted cheek and whisper, “Useful,” in your ear, like a promise that the best things didn’t have to be loud to light up a room.

taglist: @starsanarchy @iliketoeatpaint @cpnsteverogers @spideywebss @inkedeye2345

[lunarimagines]

PERSONAS

Summary: every single time you think a makeout session is leading to sex, Mingi pulls back. you know it's not you, so what is it? your boyfriend just has a little secret he's embarrassed to share...

Warnings: sexual content, oral, cursing, the works

Word Count: 6k+

A/N: them saying it's all a persona in their show gave me this idea thanks everyone cheers

────────────────────────

There was something truly amusing about watching your boyfriend run off stage and almost immediately switch personas. On stage he was grinding, grabbing, biting, smirking, winking, acting like Aphrodite herself crafted him. Maybe she had crafted Ateez’s Mingi.

But off stage, the boy could barely get into a makeout session without suddenly blushing a deep crimson and hauling you off his lap. God forbid you realize you made the poor man hard.

The first time Mingi had pulled you into a real makeout session - not just a session where he kissed you a few times, maybe pulled you closer, and then inevitably let you go - you had thought maybe you were dreaming. He had pulled you closer, bodies flush to one another, his hands low on your back. You had your arms laced around his neck, lips moving together. His lips were warm, plump, slightly wet from the exchange of saliva between the two of you. He nearly moaned into your mouth when you tugged on the hair at the nape of his neck and pulled his head to the side to angle the kiss. His hands had pulled you closer, one of his thighs unconsciously slipping between your legs. 

His tongue ran along your bottom lip and you opened your mouth for him, but he pulled back, all brazenness gone from his body. You weren’t going to let it go, too worked up to find yourself able to release him, and you pushed your tongue into his mouth roughly. He groaned, tilting you back and tangling his tongue with yours.

And just when you thought it would go further, maybe a little under-the-clothes action, he had pulled away, ears red, eyes not quite finding yours, and hands now respectfully placed higher on your waist. 

He had said something about being tired, lots of practice and everything, and you weren’t going to push it. 

That was common with Mingi, the heavy moments suddenly ending despite how he was obviously into it. You wondered, briefly, if he wasn’t sexually attracted to you, but with the way he got hard with even a little bit of kissing these days or a suggestive comment whispered in his ear, that couldn’t be it.

Which brought you to your current conclusion: Mingi was a virgin. 

Cute.

You watched from a backstage monitor as he got fans barking for him in the crowd, a shit eating grin plastered on his face as he egged them on. He looked sinful, sunglasses pushed down his nose, mouth caught between his sharp teeth lightly. His jacket had fallen off his shoulder and his shoulder muscles were shiny with sweat. His tanktop was leaving little to the imagination, chest heaving after a performance. 

You found yourself imagining what it would look like with his chest heaving as he laid over you, hips snapping forward, grown-out hair falling into his eyes. You could imagine his biceps flexing, the puffs of air.

You had to blink hard as the camera switched to Yeosang, looking around a little guiltily like maybe somebody could read your mind and had seen… all of that. Smoothing a hand over your hair, you focused back on the concert, grateful that the staff had even let you backstage to begin with. It was a privilege, the black shirt on your back that also said “Staff,” and you weren’t going to ruin it by being weird about your boyfriend in public instead of enjoying the concert he had worked hard to get you access to.

It was a good concert, always filled with incredible showmanship, and you felt pride swelling in your chest. They had worked hard. You remembered the nights Mingi had called you, voice slurring from fatigue, to tell you goodnight and that he loved you and he was sorry he had been busy all day. Tour stuff, baby, he’d always said.

It was late when you finally left the concert venue with some of the other staff members. You’d pitched in, rolling up cables and helping sweep up about a ton of confetti after the concert. A little known fact, you’d realized, was that confetti was hard as fuck to sweep up. It flew out of piles when pushed with too much effort, got heavy when it built up, and stuck to everything. You may not have spent hundreds of dollars on a seat, but you felt maybe this made up about a quarter of that price. Your body ached by the end of it.

You texted Mingi that you were on your way and he sent back a picture of him, freshly showered and hair still damp at the ends, lounging in - that little shit - your hotel room. You’d given him the extra keycard and it looked like he was taking full advantage of that, messing up your freshly-made bed before you could.

You saved the photo and sent him a classy picture of your middle finger back. All you got back was a winky-face.

Dick.

He was still waiting for you in his white t-shirt and grey sweatpants, watching a Myth Buster’s rerun on the T.V. when you keyed into your room. He slid off the bed and, yeah.

Dick.

The grey sweatpants were doing him favors. They hung low on his hips, the outline of his member pretty obvious in the thin material. The ties hanging down from his waistband were practically pointing for your eyes to look down, drawing them to the print. 

You swallowed hard, your mind focusing on the earlier fantasies from the concert. But Mingi looked just happy to see you, his smile wide and his eyes bright. 

He grabbed you around the waist and hugged you tightly, burying his face in your neck. He breathed in deeply and you hugged him back just as tightly, feeling the way his back muscles rippled as he adjusted his grip. You ran your hands over them lightly, then down his arms, pushing your hands under his t-shirt sleeves slightly to feel the warmth of his skin, how soft it was. You sighed, swaying lightly.

“Are you tired?” you whispered.

Mingi nodded into your neck, burying even more deeply into the crook. He rubbed his hands down your back then placed a kiss to your shoulder. You smiled, pulling your hands out of his shirt to pet his head lightly.

“Let me shower, then we can go to sleep, hmm?”

Reluctantly, he unwound his arms as you gathered up your pajamas and underwear to go shower. You saw Mingi peeking at the ensemble, his neck rosy as he saw the tiny panties you were wearing to bed.

You had packed them in the event that something happened, but figured you may need to give it a little push. They were going to be hell to sleep in, but maybe it was worth it by the way Mingi’s eyes got a little glassier by the second, his ears a little redder, and his dick… a little harder. You weren't going to ask him outright for sex after such a grueling performance on stage, but you wanted to let him know you were interested.

You let out a breathy laugh, leaning over to press a kiss to the corner of his lips. He swallowed hard, turning to catch your cheek with a kiss as you turned to disappear into the bathroom.

Hot shower burning your skin slightly, you really tried to get thoughts of fucking Mingi out of your mind. He was tired, and despite the fact that he was obviously turned on, maybe tonight wasn’t the night to push it.

He seemed to have other plans when you stepped out of the bathroom, throwing your clothes on your suitcase unceremoniously to pack away tomorrow. His hands were suddenly on you, slipping below the waist to cup your ass. His hands kneaded your ass roughly, his lips attached to yours and bit. You gasped into the kiss, his tongue slipping inside your mouth.

You adjusted to slip his leg between your thighs, your underwear soaked. You wondered, vaguely, if you would leave a wet spot on his sweatpants.

Then, he did something that had you moaning breathlessly, your neck and back arching. 

His lips trailed down the side of your neck, wet and open-mouthed. He reached up to pull your shirt to the side, his kisses trailing down to your shoulder, and then he bit down, hard, and sucked a deep purple hickie onto your shoulder. 

The sensation made your skin buzz, and you clawed at his back, your hips pushing forward to grind against Mingi’s thigh. Your thigh brushed his length, and he groaned deeply against your shoulder where he was leaving a smattering of hickies. 

The sensation seemed like it brought him back to your hotel room, and he was moving away swiftly, his eyes wide, his hair a mess, and his chest heaving. 

“What?” you breathed, your lips slightly tingling and swollen from kissing him so roughly. You were breathingly heavily, too, your clit was throbbing, and you wanted Mingi pressed back against you in the next few seconds.

“I, uh, I’m gonna brush my teeth so we can go to bed,” he said.

Then, he kissed your cheek lightly like he hadn’t just branded you as his, and he disappeared into the bathroom, shutting the door with a soft click behind him. You groaned, sitting down hard on the edge of the bed, and gripped your hair tightly to bring yourself back.

For once, you really hated staying in the fancy hotel. It didn’t even have a detachable shower head.

────────────────────────

Mingi was about to do something really, really embarrassing and probably a little traumatic. He was going to ask someone to have the sex talk with him. Not the one parents have about condoms and abstinence, the one about how to actually have sex and pleasure someone. 

And he kind of wanted to bash his head into the wall.

The world tour was over, they finally had some time off to relax, and he still hadn’t mustered up the courage to have sex with you. He’d gotten close on tour, the adrenaline from the concert still fueling him as he kissed you, left marks on you, and then ditched you to cool down in the bathroom. He had stood there, the tile cool against his feet, and stared at himself in the mirror feeling a little pathetic.

The truth was, he was terrified that he would do something so egregious during sex that you would break up with him. He’d never had sex before, had only seen porn in passing when his friends had showed it to him when he was younger, and he really didn’t even know where to begin. 

He had tried to watch porn for ideas once he started dating you, but even with his headphones on and the brightness all the way down, it just felt wrong. He had gotten one whole minute into a video before he turned it off, stomach clenching not with arousal but with discomfort.  

He’d read, and this he wasn’t super proud of, fanfiction, too, but it just didn’t feel right. He wasn’t really some sex god in real life, throwing women’s legs over his shoulder and dragging their underwear off with his teeth. He wasn’t grabbing boobs from behind as he pounded his dick into dripping pussies.

He felt a little pathetic and even more scared after reading that, his own inexperience crowding into the forefront of his mind. His own sex-ed in school had been abysmal, mainly telling them that they shouldn’t really be in the same room as girls, and he had learned only recently about the world of different condoms. (He had closed the Coupang tab very quickly.)

So there he was, standing in front of Yunho’s closed bedroom door, wanting to strangle himself with his hoodie strings. His second choice had been Hongjoong, that man definitely knew how to fuck, but the thought of listening to Hongjoong talk about sex made him positive he could never look the man in the eye again. With Yunho, this probably wouldn’t be the weirdest thing he asked him, and it definitely wouldn’t be the weirdest thing they’d experienced together.

He finally brought his closed fist up to knock, the knock timid. 

It took a minute, but Yunho answered, his hair smushed down on the side he’d been laying on. He had probably been watching videos when Mingi interrupted.

“Hey,” Yunho said slowly. “What’s up, man?”

Mingi blinked, the words he had carefully planned shrivelling up and dying in his throat. He scratched his arm awkwardly.

“Can I come in?” he asked instead, the thought of even asking Yunho to talk him through sex in the open so humiliating he wanted to throw up. 

Yunho seemed to sense something, his eyes filling with concern as he opened up the door wider for Mingi to slide by him to enter. 

Mingi sat down hard on Yunho’s desk chair, rolling back and forth absentmindedly as he tried to bring back the courage to ask his friend for advice. He didn’t need dirty details, just a rough outline. Yunho sat on his bed and stared at him, giving him space to think.

He was grateful to have Yunho in his life, to get to share the fame with him and the quiet moments, too. He knew Yunho would maybe - probably - rib him about the sex thing, but he would also try and help him earnestly. 

“How do you have sex?”

It came out with no finesse, his voice scratchy and deep. He stared anywhere but at Yunho’s shocked expression, his eyebrows furrowed as he willed his body to stay seated in the desk chair. 

Yunho, to his credit, tried to keep his face mostly blank after the initial shock wore off. He cleared his throat, shifted, cleared his throat again, said, “ah,” then shifted again. The rustling of his sheet was the only sound in the room, the only sound in the dorm, even. 

“Just basics,” Mingi clarified, looking down, voice coming out no louder than a mumble. 

“Well, the penis goes in the vagina, then it goes in and out, in and out-” Yunho started.

“Okay I’m leaving,” Mingi said quickly, standing up and sending the desk chair flying backwards into the wall as Yunho finally broke and began laughing, covering his mouth to muffle the sound. He reached out and grabbed Mingi’s wrist as he passed and pulled him back.

“Okay, I’m sorry,” he said, gasping. “I’ll be serious now. I think it’s nice you trust me enough to ask me. I just had to, okay? Now I’ll be serious.”

Mingi glared down at Yunho’s hand, but he moved backward and slid back into the desk chair, swiveling side to side and Yunho sat up straight and leaned back against the wall, his eyes focused on Mingi. He waited a beat before speaking again.

“What do you want to know, exactly?”

Mingi shrugged. “I know, like, how it works I guess. I know about, um, foreplay and the… penetration.” He choked. His cheeks burned.

Yunho hummed. “What are you worried about then?”

“I know about them, but I have no fucking clue how to even do any of it. What if I hurt Y/N or it’s so bad she breaks up with me? I’m serious, Yunho, it’s scary.”

The room was quiet again, not even the sounds of rustling breaking the silence. Mingi picked at his cuticle then stopped, thinking about the hell he’d get from the stylists for doing that. Instead, he focused on the sound of his breathing. 

“Well, sex shouldn’t be scary. And I don’t think Y/N would break up with you if it’s bad. Have you told her you’ve never had sex before?”

Silence.

“Dude,” Yunho deadpanned. “Come on.”

“It’s embarrassing!” Mingi whined. “Especially because I’m pretty sure she’s had sex before, and that means I have to be the best at it!”

He was pouting now, staring up at the door to Yunho’s bedroom and willing it to explore inward, killing him instantly. 

“So you hate your girlfriend is what I’m hearing.”

Mingi’s head snapped toward Yunho at that comment, his eyes wide. 

“What the fuck, man. I love her. You know that.”

“And yet you’re not telling her these fears,” Yunho countered, sitting up and staring at Mingi harshly. “You don’t need me to tell you how to have sex with your girlfriend who obviously loves you. You need to suck it up and tell you girlfriend that you’ve never had sex, you’re not sure what you’re doing, but you’re willing to learn. Then, you fucking learn, you dumbass. That’s how you get to be the best.”

Yunho leaned back again, his face smoothing out to something contemplative.

“Actually,” he said, “you have the advantage here. She teaches you what she likes, you do that, you’re doing everything she likes, you’re the best. Then you keep having sex forever, congrats.”

Mingi cleared his throat as the words hit his brain. Yunho was right, sarcasm aside. This could only really be positive for him, learning what you liked and putting it into play so you never had a bad sexual experience with him - or anyone else ever again because he wanted to be your last and final boyfriend. He bit his lip at the thought, fighting a grin.

“You do know you need condoms though, right?” Yunho said, shattering the moment. “STDs and babies are no joke man.”

Mingi flipped him off as he stood up, but he was smiling. 

“I’m built different, I’ll be fine,” he joked, face impassive as he walked out of Yunho’s room.

“I can’t tell if you’re joking or not!” Yunho cried after him, and Mingi finally let out a laugh as he closed the bedroom door behind him. 

He had a plan now, one that became fully formulated after he finally bought condoms online - ribbed for her pleasure - and he felt good. He was going to have sex with you and it was going to be the best sex of your life. Obviously it would also be the best of his life, but that was besides the point. 

────────────────────────

Step One: spend the night at your house and begin the “wine” portion of “wining and dining”.

He had picked up dinner from your favorite place on his way over, the food still hot as he knocked on your door.

You answered and he couldn’t help but bully his way in and kick the door closed to engulf you in a hug. You were warm in his arms, fitting into his chest perfectly. Your laugh rumbled against his chest and he breathed in your scent. 

“Delivery,” he said, pulling back to smile at you and wave the food in front of your face teasingly.

“I hope the delivery man stays. He’s pretty cute,” you joked, swiftly kissing his lips before stepping back to let him fully inside the apartment. 

He slid off his shoes and stepped in, setting the food on the counter and shooing you to go sit so he could serve dinner. He pulled out the wine he’d gotten - something fruity he knew you’d like - and brought over the wine glasses and food, balancing it all carefully on his forearm. 

“Date night,” he said softly, sliding to sit beside you and holding up his glass for a toast. You giggled at his silliness before clinking your glass with his. The bright sound lit up the room a little bit more, and you smiled after taking the first sip. Paired with the food, that man had an agenda, you just couldn’t figure it out yet.

Dinner was perfect, it usually was with Mingi unless he was trying to cook something. One time he had tried to help you make dinner by chopping the vegetables and he massacred the carrots so badly you’d quietly thrown away the mushy mess and said you had just needed him to prep them for a different meal. 

It was when the two of you were doing dishes that Mingi finally brought sex up.

Step Two: spill the beans.

“It’s not that I don’t find you sexy, I obviously do,” he mumbled to your wine glasses suddenly. “I just… haven’t had sex before. And it’s a little embarrassing. But I want to, have sex that is. With you. Obviously.”

You had stilled where you were drying a plate, your eyes glued to your boyfriend’s sharp side profile. He kept washing the same glass over and over, like he was trying to wash the glass clean away. He kept scrubbing diligently, his eyes never leaving the suds. 

“Okay,” you said, your voice cracking slightly. You cleared your throat. “Okay.” It came out stronger that time. 

You grabbed your boyfriend’s forearm to stop him. He tensed, finally stopped washing the glass, and glanced at you. You smiled at him, drawing lazy circles on his arm with your thumb. His skin was soft. His cheeks were pink.

“You’ll teach me?” he asked quietly, his eyes meeting yours. They were dark, deep, flickering with something you had seen before. It was more intense this time, the desire. 

“Of course,” you whispered.

His wet, soapy hands were on your waist in an instant, grabbing you so tightly you knew you’d have bruises in the shape of his fingerprints. You didn’t care about your clothes getting wet, just that your lips were on his, bruising and wet. Mingi groaned into your mouth and his hands were on your ass, reminding you of your hotel stay. Your spine tingled at the thought, and you pulled yourself closer to Mingi’s body by grabbing his hair and yanking. He groaned.

“Fuck, baby. You’re going to kill me before we can do anything.”

Unknown to you, Step Three of Mingi’s plan was to not come right away. 

You raked your fingers through his hair and started moving back, heading toward the bedroom. Mingi let you lead him blindly, panting against your mouth as he kissed you, his hands sliding up and off your ass and under your shirt. His fingers grazed your skin lightly and somehow that was sexier than his grip on your ass had been. Your skin burned where he touched you and you unlatched your lips from his to kiss down his neck.

“I won’t mark you,” you whispered by his ear, biting his earlobe lightly. He whimpered slightly, tilting his head to let you have better access to his neck.

“You can,” he said, panting. “Just has to be below the shirt, okay? I want you to mark me. Please, baby.”

You clenched your thighs at the demand, your pussy so wet it was making your underwear stick to you. It was uncomfortable but you couldn’t bring yourself to care, kissing your boyfriend’s neck while his hands wandered to your stomach lightly, then up. 

He stopped just shy of your breasts, his hands stilling against your ribs. They were so broad they took up most of the space on your torso, rough and warm. You leaned into his hands, but he remained still. 

He wasn’t really sure where to go from there. He wanted to touch your breasts, obviously, wanted to slip his hands underneath your bra and feel the soft skin, the warm nipples, make them harden under his fingers. Maybe even leave marks on the swell of your breasts to admire later, right over your heart. 

But he was nervous now. It was further than he’d ever been with you and his mind had come back online and stopped his body. Well, it had stopped his hands from moving and his mouth from forming any words, but it didn’t stop his length from hardening further. Trapped against your bodies, he knew you could feel it, especially when you pushed yourself closer to him, ground down hard against him.

At his sudden stillness, you pulled back and removed your hands. He looked wide eyed, his mouth starting to form what was probably “sorry” before you grabbed his hands and placed them squarely on your boobs. He let out an undignified squeak, but his hands began kneading the soft flesh. You let go of his hands and reached around to unhook your bra, letting it go loose. You wanted to take your shirt off, the feeling of your bra and his hands stretching it out making it uncomfortable, but you worried it would send Mingi into a panic. So you let him knead your breasts, his fingers swiping over your nipples before he began kissing down your neck. 

You’d had sex before with men who had done similar things, but with Mingi it was different. Maybe it was because you loved him or maybe it was because he was so earnest and eager to please. But he was also lost in his own pleasure, his nerves falling away to be replaced by lust. When he pulled back and looked at you, his eyes were dark, hooded, his mouth swollen and even plumper. He looked sinful, his hair falling into his eyes as he pulled his hands back, reached around to the back of his own shirt, and pulled it off in one swift movement.

You couldn’t help yourself, your eyes roaming over his torso. You’d seen him shirtless before, but in this context you looked at him with reverence. He was beautiful, toned, skin golden. You ran your hand down his chest, his stomach, stopping at his pants to dip a finger just below his waistband. He bucked his hips unconsciously into the touch. You were pleased to see that even his chest turned pink when he was embarrassed. 

He preened slightly under your touch before pulling back, shoulders drawing in slightly. You took it as a sign to strip with him, make him more comfortable.

Grabbing your shirt by the hem, you pulled it over your head swiftly, your bra catching and lifting to show under your breast. Mingi sucked in a breath, his hips stuttering as he looked at you. His eyes mapped the expanse of your torso, and as you slid your bra off your shoulders slowly you watched as his Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed roughly. His eyes were hooded, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

You didn’t have to grab his hands this time. He leaned in, massaging one breast lightly while sucking dark marks into the other. You moaned at the sensation, pushing forward into his mouth. You tested the waters, your hand sliding down the front of his pants to cup his hard length, and he bucked into your hand.

He switched to your other breast, marking a trail across your chest that would last for the days to come. It went straight south, making you throb, your thighs rubbing. Your hand rubbed up the front of his length, his breath hitching, before he pulled your hand to the button on his pants. You thumbed it, undid it quickly, and then let Mingi take the lead to take his pants off. 

He slid them off without fanfare, gripping yours and pulling them off quickly. Too quickly. Your panties slid down with them, leaving you bare. Mingi sucked in a breath.

“Oh shit, sorry. Sorry. Wait let me-” Then he was pulling his own underwear off, stepping out of it. 

Left bare in the warm light coming from a small lamp on your bedside table, you stared at your boyfriend unabashedly. He was strong, lean, and so, so handsome. His cheekbones stood out in the lighting, and you couldn’t help but reach up and graze them tenderly with your fingertips. He leaned into your touch, grabbing your wrist before you could fully pull away to kiss your fingertips.

“You’re stunning,” he whispered. 

“You’re one to talk,” you whispered back, drawing closer to press your body against his. He shivered. His hands held your waist tightly. “You are so perfect.”

“I was hoping for sexy,” he whispered, then bent down to nip at your neck lightly.

“Don’t push it,” you joked back, leaning down to leave a love bite on his peck, right by where his heart was nearly beating out of his chest. He hissed at the sensation.

“Co-condom,” he murmured, and you nodded. You had a stash in your bedside table for just this moment, and you moved to get them before he stopped you lightly, gripping your arm. He bent down and dug around to find his wallet. 

Then, he pulled out the purple wrapped condom. Ribbed for her pleasure. Ah, he’d done some research.

You pushed him in the chest lightly and he sat down hard on the bed, scooting back slightly to allow you to climb onto his lap. He handed you the condom, letting you roll it down his length. You pumped it a few times to make sure it was on. 

Satisfied, you straddled him. His eyes dropped to your breasts then further down, hands coming up to grip your hips. Fully naked, your pussy wet and dripping, you ground hard against his cock. Mingi groaned, his hands gripping and guiding your hips. You held onto his shoulders and let him pick the pace. 

Just to tease him, you let his tip slip inside of you as you drug your hips back down. The stuttering breath it pulled from him was enough to make you grin, and you buried your face in his neck as you did it again, the slow drag of your hips, the quick catch of his tip, all making him groan into your ear.

“You have to tell me what you want, okay?” you whispered. 

You had had ample time in this relationship to consider what you wanted to do the first time the two of you had sex. You wanted to blow him, to feel him try and refrain from bucking his hips up, to try and stop himself from choking you. You wanted him to guide your head lightly, sinful words about how well you were taking him in your mouth falling from his lips.

You had a strong suspicion that if you blew him tonight he would cum in a matter of seconds and you really wanted him inside of you.

Thankfully, Mingi seemed to be thinking the same thing.

“I want to be inside of you, baby, to stretch, ah, to stretch you out.”

And he would. He was thick, just the tip making you feel a light stretch. 

The next time you ground your hips down, you let more of his length dip into your pussy. Slowly, you lowered yourself down, legs shaking slightly, bobbing lightly to let yourself adjust before sinking to completely engulf his length. He let out a strangled moan, diving forward to kiss you hard and wet. 

You lifted up and dropped down on him, the curve of his length hitting just the right spot inside of you that you were both moaning at the sensation. 

Riding Mingi was something else you had imagined, but the real thing was so much better. The heat of his dick, the slight squelch of your wetness encompassing him, the way he groaned underneath you and his abs tensed at every movement, the way he dropped his head to leave more marks across your breasts, the sensation of his dick hitting your G-spot constantly. It was all so delicious. You leaned back, letting his dick repeatedly hit that perfect spot, your head falling back. His hips snapped up into you each time, the sensation jolting you.

Suddenly, Mingi was pushing your hips down hard, stilling your movements. You clenched your pussy around him, and he whimpered.

“Fuck, fuck, stop. I don’t want to cum yet,” he mumbled into your neck. 

You nodded, running a hand through his hair and pushing his bangs off his face. He was covered in a thin sheen of sweat. 

“I want,” he started, then stopped. His eyes were dark, hooded again, and his entire body was flushed. 

“You can say it,” you murmured.

“I want to fuck you from behind.”

He said it resolutely. Then, the second he saw you nod okay, he was pulling you off and flipping you over. You let out an undignified yelp at the movement. You knew Mingi was strong but holy fuck. 

Barely getting your hands underneath you, you arched your back as he pushed into you from behind. His hips snapped forward and, oh, fuck. 

“Fuck, Mingi,” you whined.

“You’re so fucking tight, baby,” he groaned from behind you, his hips picking up the pace and finding a steady rhythm. “I might… I might not…”

“It’s okay.”

His grip on your hips was bruising, a hand gripping your ass leaving red marks across the cheek. Your legs and arms were shaking, your pussy clenching around his length. He pulled your hips up, angled down, and you were seeing stars. You could feel the beginnings of an orgasm pooling low in your stomach, the way your pussy dripped more, the heat that spread. You wanted to cum, the ribs of the condom stimulating you. 

Mingi came first, his hips stuttering and a string of expletives leaving his plump lips. He stilled inside of you, falling over to rest his chest on your back. He was panting, his damp hair tickling your shoulder blades.

“How do I make you cum, baby? Tell me how to do that?” he grunted, pulling out of you. You whined at the loss of contact. It really felt like he was edging you, and you were impatient. 

“Get between my legs and make me cum with your mouth,” you commanded, your brain fuzzy with the need to cum. You rolled onto your back and gave him a pointed look.

He shivered, pulling the condom off and tying it. He looked around frantically before spotting your trash can, throwing it away before pushing you onto your back and practically diving between your legs. 

Soft kisses on your thighs had your legs spreading, and the sharp nips that came after them had your legs clenching around his head. He grinned up at you from his spot between your legs, but he looked nervous.

You ran a hand through his hair softly before gripping the hair at his crown. 

“It’s all about the licking and sucking. Your fingers… I want them inside of me too.”

Mingi nodded, drinking in your words. Then his tongue was put to good use, licking a stripe up your pussy before teasing at your entrance. The slick heat made you moan and tug his hair, and he dipped his tongue inside of you, curling up and flicking it.

The sounds you made egged him on. He really didn’t know what he was doing, but he figured if you weren’t saying “ow” or “stop that’s awful” he was doing okay. He kept his eyes on you, on the way your head was thrown back and your breasts heaved as he ate you out like a man starving. 

He replaced his tongue with two fingers, lightly twisting them to see your reaction. There seemed to be a spot he should hit, and he wiggled his fingers forward until he found it. God, his fingers were perfect, thick yet graceful as they pumped inside of you. His mouth attached to your clit and sucked, lightly at first then harshly. Your back arched off the bed.

“Fuck, who taught you that? I thought you said-” you were cut off by him humming against your clit, the vibrations going straight to your core. “Don’t stop.”

He looked beautiful between your legs, strong back visible, muscles shifting as he fingered you. His eyes never left yours, sharp and watchful. He was going to make this good, he was making this good, you wanted more of him always. You couldn’t imagine not jumping his bones the next time you saw him with how good it felt, but you would find a way to restrain.

The warmth in your stomach grew, your pussy throbbed, and then everything was warm. You tensed around his fingers, bucking forward into his mouth as you came. You could barely even let out a moan with how intense the sensation was. Stars danced in front of your eyes and your entire body coiled then uncoiled. You pulled Mingi off of you and he looked at you, triumphant and smirking.

“Fuck, come here,” you whispered, and he climbed up to kiss you, wiping his mouth on the way up. It was a soft kiss, full of reassurance and love.

“I love you, Y/N,” he said once you parted. 

“I love you, too, Mingi. So much.”

He grinned, then the crook of his transformed into a shit-eating smirk. “So… how was it?”

He already knew the answer. You huffed, turning away slightly.

“It was fine,” you lied, and he knew you were lying. “Would be better if we showered together now.”

You side-eyed him.

Not even a minute later he was with you in the shower, begging you to wash his back with your nice loofah and soap. 

────────────────────────

“So…” Yunho said it casually, like he was about to ask about the weather or Mingi’s thoughts on having lunch together. “You did okay?”

Yeosang looked between the two of them, his eyes following the flush on Mingi’s neck and the way Yunho was covering his smile with his glass of water. 

Mingi cleared his throat and looked away.

“Yeah, it was good. Great. Went well.”

Yeosang eyed him as Yunho snorted, eyebrow raising. The lightbulb clicked suddenly, Yeosang’s eyes widening as he looked between the two of them.

“A threesome? Really?” he gasped, shaking his head. “Didn’t think you’d be one to share.”

Mingi let out a strangled sound while Yunho choked on his water, pounding his chest as he coughed violently. 

“NO!” Mingi spluttered. “No, oh my- how?”

“He’s not a virgin anymore,” Yunho croaked, rubbing his chest like he could massage the rest of the water out of his lungs.

Yeosang nodded knowingly, his mouth curling up at the corner. “I know. Just wanted to hear you admit you were a virgin. Wooyoung owes me.”

Mingi’s mouth dropped open and Yuho stared at him, gaze piercing. 

“There was a bet?”

“Why wasn’t I let it on this?”

Both boys started speaking at the same time.

“No way, you knew he was a virgin already,” Yeosang said dryly. “And yeah, I had 20,000 won on the table.”

“Sellout,” Yunho mumbled, turning to head back to the couch and finish the movie the group had all been watching together. 

“20,000… that’s all my sex life is worth to you?” Mingi mumbled, turning to follow Yeosang into the room. The other boy just shrugged. “What can that even buy?”

“Post-sex chicken,” Yeosang whispered, settling back into his spot.

Mingi stood, dumbfounded, until Seonghwa gently tugged his arm to make him sit back down. He barely even watched the movie. His mind was too focused on ways he could make himself spontaneously combust.

Virgin.

Not anymore.

[violetrainbow412-blog]

Moonlight [J. S.]

Johnny Storm x fem!reader

wc: 2.4k

summary: on one of his usual nightly checks of the city, Johnny takes the opportunity to say hello to his favorite dressmaker; knowing that he is completely crazy about her.

masterlist

Johnny patrolled the city almost every night.

It was a habit he had picked up since the night the Herald had appeared, as if staying awake could somehow prevent another tragedy. With Franklin learning how to walk, he wanted New York to be the safest place in the world.

Those patrols helped him clear his mind, get some fresh air, and also, every now and then, visit his favorite girl.

He only came down to say hello when the balcony lights were on and your presence was visible, because he didn’t want to bother you in any way. Luckily for him, that was the case tonight.

You were sitting in your armchair, as always, with a small table in front of you.

Even from a distance, he could see you: wearing one of those two-piece pajamas, with a formal collar and pearl buttons that gleamed under the moonlight. The stripes printed on the fabric were white and blue, exactly Johnny’s favorite shade, as if you had dressed up just to receive his visit.

He flew up to your apartment level, and the moment you noticed the glow emanating from him, you looked up. He wished your smile hadn’t affected him as much as it did.

“Isn’t it a little late to be awake?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” you replied from your spot, setting down the sketchpad you had been working on.

Johnny landed smoothly on the railing, hands in his pockets, and that half-smile you had come to recognize as so characteristic of him. He was putting all his effort into making sure you couldn’t tell just how much he liked you.

The balcony light spilled over you, sketching a soft contrast between your skin and the silk of your pajamas; it was as if every move you made was designed to catch his attention, though he knew you weren’t doing it on purpose. That only disarmed him more.

“I like to think I have a good excuse,” he said with a careless shrug. “Patrolling, making sure everything’s quiet… and making sure you are safe, too.”

You raised an eyebrow, amused.

“Is this an official visit then?”

“Half official, half…” he paused, deliberately catching your eyes, “personal.”

He wasn’t going to say it out loud, but the truth was, he couldn’t take his eyes off you. The way the breeze played with a loose strand of your hair, the calm that seemed to surround you in the middle of the city that never slept… there was something in that image that made him want to stay far longer than he should.

“I wonder how many citizens get this kind of visit from you.”

“Only the ones who make me look this good. I mean, a lot of the charm is natural, but adding custom-made shirts and pants that fit in all the right places… it’s pretty convenient.”

You laughed, like you almost always did in his presence. Johnny loved being funny, because humor and chivalry were two qualities any lady appreciated.

Or at least they had helped him build a friendship with you, after he had stumbled into your boutique by chance. At first it was the outfits in the window that drew him in, but that motivation changed completely the moment he saw you behind the counter.

It was love at first sight—or something like it.

Little by little, as your friendship with Johnny grew, he discovered more of your story.  One afternoon, between casual remarks and silences that left space for trust, you told him about your father: a wealthy widower whose greatest devotion had always been you, his only daughter. From a very young age, he had invested in your training so you could become a seamstress. Your interest had begun early, when you dressed your dolls with scraps of old fabric and ribbons you’d cut from your own dresses. He had found it sweet when you told him that.

Your father hadn’t just paid for your studies—he had financed your first shop, the materials, the mannequins… absolutely everything you needed to shape your designs.

You explained that his support had made you your own source of livelihood, protecting you from the very common idea in your social circle of marrying just to secure part of a man’s salary. He had wanted to give you more opportunities to choose your own path, or at least that was what he told himself.

But you also confessed that your father had passed away some years ago, leaving you not only with the material inheritance of his work, but with the certainty that he had done everything possible to ensure you an independent future. When you recalled it, your voice softened, and Johnny, without saying much, understood that his affection and protection were still an essential part of who you were.

That was when he realized you both shared something deeper than you imagined: the absence of your parents. He had learned to live with that emptiness in his own way, and you in yours.

Without saying it aloud, both of you recognized in each other that only those who have lost something irreplaceable can truly understand.

“It’s good to know I’m so essential to one of the planet’s protectors. It would be fatal if you were poorly dressed when danger strikes.”

Without asking, Johnny moved closer to sit beside you. You slid over a little to make room for him.

“I like your pajamas. You look cute.”

“You mean they look cute.”

“No, you look cute,” he clarified without hesitation.

Heat rushed instantly to your cheeks, and Johnny, satisfied, let a little smile slip at the sight of your blush.

“What are you working on?”

“Some new designs. A whole shipment of fabrics just came in, and I’m thinking of possible uses.”

“Can I see?”

You nodded with a smile, handing him the portfolio that was almost like a part of you. With each sketch, you had placed a small fabric swatch on the paper, a visual hint of the final result. There was soft silk in ivory and midnight blue, fresh linen in olive green, cotton patterned with floral motifs, and a light charcoal-gray wool that seemed destined for a men’s coat.

Among the designs, male and female silhouettes mingled: flowing dresses, fitted shirts, classic-cut jackets, and neatly pleated trousers. His fingers slid curiously over each swatch, feeling the textures, stretching the fibers slightly to test their drape.

He paused at a beige linen beside a shirt sketch and nodded, as if he could already imagine the result. Then he smiled when he saw the midnight blue silk next to a wide-skirted dress.

“I want this one for you.”

“For me?” you asked, surprised.

“Yes. Make this one for yourself and don’t spare any expenses. It’s on me.”

At first you thought he was joking, but his gaze was serious, almost expectant. With the tips of his fingers, he stroked the piece of silk as if he could transmit the sensation he was imagining: the flowing movement, the discreet shine, the contrast with your skin.

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he cut you off. “You’re going to look beautiful. I can’t see it on anyone else but you.”

His words lingered between you two, and for an instant, you forgot the rest of the designs. He placed the fabric on your sketch gently, as if sealing a silent agreement. Then he picked up the beige linen swatch again and held it to the light.

“And this one,” he said, pointing at the drawn shirt, “this one I want for me.”

“In linen?”

“Yes, in linen. It’s fresh, comfortable… and with those buttons you use on the elegant shirts,” he added with a charming smile. “But don’t change the cut, I like it just as it is.”

“All right. The customer gets what he asks for.”

You pretended to focus on straightening the fabric swatches on the paper, but you could feel his eyes fixed on you, as if he were trying to memorize you just like that: one hand on the fabrics, smiling without realizing it.

“Franklin’s about to turn one,” he suddenly exclaimed, changing the subject abruptly.

“I know, the news won’t stop talking about it,” you laughed, glancing sideways at him. “I’ve seen the pictures, he’s a precious baby.”

“Sue says he reminds her a lot of me. Something I’m not sure is good or bad.”

“Why?”

“Because sometimes she says it tenderly, and other times she yells it at me. Different circumstances, same phrase.”

You let out a laugh, settling more comfortably against the sofa and tilting your head to look at him. Against the moonlight, his eyes sparkled like diamonds, and the blond of his hair turned silver.

“Have you ever thought about it?” you murmured softly. “About having kids?”

“Of course. I’d love that.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I’ve always known it. The idea of having a daily, tangible reminder of the commitment to my future wife… it fascinates me.”

He sighed, probably evoking the memory of something he had thought about long before.

“Because, can you imagine it? A human being born from deep love, raised with tenderness, so tiny and beautiful… God, I must sound like a hopeless romantic.”

“You do,” you admitted with a laugh. “But it’s sweet.”

His eyes stayed locked on yours for a second longer, as if hoping that lingering gaze could help him decipher some of the mysteries spinning in his head.

“And you? Have you ever considered it?”

“I don’t have a clear answer. I think it depends a lot on the other person, you know? Being with someone and at some point thinking: I want to build a family with them. It’s only then that you truly know if having kids is for you or… not.”

Johnny looked at you in a way you couldn’t quite read. He was always so warm, always sending your temperature spiking to all the right points, cliché as that might sound coming from a pyrokinetic guy.

His reply was a brief nod, showing he understood your explanation.

Suddenly, a light breeze stirred around you, and he tried not to get distracted by your blouse or the way your skin broke out in goosebumps. Carefully, he reached out to tuck your hair back, and a yawn escaped you.

“Looks like someone’s sleepy.”

“I’m fine,” you tried to justify. “It’s just that I couldn’t get the designs out of my head, and I was having trouble falling asleep anyway, so…”

You shrugged, but betrayed your words by rubbing your eyes with your knuckles. He thought it was cute that you tried to deny something so obvious.

“Besides, if I hadn’t been awake, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“You’re right. But since we already saw each other and talked, now it’s time for you to rest. Come on, let’s go to your bed.”

Johnny stood up and offered you his hand, as if the matter couldn’t possibly be up for debate. With a gesture that was barely a smile, you reached out your own hand to take his, and in a bold move, he maneuvered until he was holding you bridal-style.

“Jonathan!” you squealed. One of his muscular arms was firm around your back, the other curved under your knees. “Put me down, please.”

“But you’re too tired to even walk,” he pouted, as if it were a proven fact. “You just said so, didn’t you?”

“I never said that.”

“Oh, then I must have imagined it! Either way, you’re here now, so why not enjoy the ride?”

An involuntary smile tugged at your lips, surprised by the familiarity with which your client suddenly treated you. But if he had dared, it was because deep down, both he and you knew that any excuse to be close to each other was valid.

But he was Johnny Storm: kind, smart, handsome, sweet, tender—literally a superhero willing to sacrifice everything to keep you safe; anyone with common sense could see what a catch he was.

And you, against all reason, feared you were falling in love with that man so admired by everyone, especially the ladies. Another big cliché.

“It’s not necessary to tuck me in, I’m not a baby.”

“But a princess like you deserves to be treated that way,” he justified, covering you with the sheets and fluffing your pillows.

When he finished, you watched him from your spot.

“When you say things like that… are they pick-up lines you use with all the girls? Or do you mean them?”

He froze, thrown off, as if your question had surprised and offended him at the same time.

“Do I seem like the kind of guy who does this with every woman I know?”

"Visit them in the middle of the night and sweet-talk them?” you joked with a little smile. Hoping you hadn’t crossed a line, you added softly: “I just ask because… sometimes I don’t know if you really like me or…”

Johnny raised an eyebrow, leaning closer with that shameless confidence so typical of him.

“Or what? That I like losing sleep just to see you smile before bed, just for fun?”

Your breath hitched a little, and he smiled with that mischievous spark in his eyes.

“Believe me, darling. If I do this, it’s because you’re different.”

You looked at him with a mix of doubt and tenderness, trying to hide how fast your heart was racing.

“Should I feel special then?” you whispered.

He didn’t look away, moving a few centimeters closer.

“No,” he smiled softly, lowering his voice. “You should know that you are.”

You swore your heart was about to burst when he gently took your chin, bringing his face closer. For an instant you thought he would steal a kiss, but his lips shifted to brush against your cheek instead, leaving a warm touch there.

“Rest now, okay? I’ll see you later.”

“Wait,” you blurted, grabbing his wrist to keep him from leaving.

It was his turn to get nervous when you cupped his cheek and pressed a kiss to the corner of his lips: too much to be friendly, too little to be openly romantic.

“Something for you to dream of me.”

Johnny smiled, tilting his head slightly.

“I don’t need to be asleep for that to happen.”

With one last conspiratorial glance, he headed for the balcony and ignited his flames, lighting up the whole room. Before taking off, he gave you a wink, as if sharing a secret only you two knew.

He soared into the night, and just when you thought he would leave without more, he drew a huge fiery heart in the dark sky. The glow lingered for a few seconds above the buildings, warm and bold; just for you.

[goldenroutledge]

everything happens to me

pairing: charles leclerc x fem!reader

word count: 6.2k

summary: in which charles’ proposal plans start to unravel. but in the end, at least you can vow to love each other for better or for worse.

warning(s): angst, suspicions of being cheated on (only happens in reader’s past), lewis being a good ass friend, HAPPY ENDING <3

a/n: inspired by the jazz song everything happens to me 🎼

masterlist 💌

You racked your brain for anything that could even slightly resemble an answer, a clue, a sign.

The paddock was always swarming with beautiful women; models and actresses that fit right into Charles’ league. Despite your presence at a number of races, and the occasional appearance on the F1 broadcast, you knew it wouldn’t stop eyes from wandering or friendly touches from lingering too long.

Jealousy was of course irrational, but unpreventable when loving someone like Charles. With those tender cerulean eyes and a warm smile that could make anybody swoon. It’s one thing to hear murmurs of insecurity in your own head, it’s another to notice your boyfriend taking secretive calls and then brushing you off when you dare to ask about them.

If this truly is your nightmare coming to life, it wouldn’t be like anything you’ve experienced before. This isn’t your college boyfriend cheating on you with a girl he met at a frat party. This is Charles Leclerc, the supposed love of your life, breaking your heart into pieces for the world to see.

And if that were the case, you wouldn’t hesitate to give Charles the same treatment you gave your ex, which resulted in you gone in the dead of night without a trace left behind. A practical Y/n-shaped hole through the door for your boyfriend to wake up to.

It wasn’t like Charles to be so engrossed in his phone from morning til night. You recall listening to an interview he gave recently, where he made a point about cutting down on his screen time, to stop and smell the roses every once in a while. Bullshit. Oh, how you wish he really meant that. If only he could see that he has someone who loves him, through both calm and chaos, and wouldn’t trade it for the world.

He’s still murmuring away in the next room when you notice that your wine glass could use a refill. Surely that’s your curiosity talking. It’s wrong to eavesdrop, but desperate times call for desperate measures. At least if he turns the corner and catches you in an awkward position, there’s a good reason for it.

Instinctively, you know exactly how to place your steps through the hallway. You weren’t about to let a creaky floorboard blow your cover.

Leaning next to the ajar bedroom door, you listen carefully. It’s hard to hear anything but your heart racing.

The first sentence you can make out from Charles’ conversation makes you want to collapse in pain. Followed by you bursting through the door and throwing your wine in his face. But there’s still a burning curiosity in your chest that outweighs the ache. For now.

“I just don’t know if I can keep this from her much longer, it’s killing me.” He mutters with an agonizing guilt to his words. A feminine voice on the other end responds to his admission, and you can barely see him through the door hanging on her every word.

Your stomach turns at the realization; Charles Leclerc is no different than anyone else you’ve loved before. And he’s not yours, maybe he never was.

“I know, I know.” Charles responds on the phone, reassuring the woman on the other end of the call. “This means too much to me, I can’t let her find out. I won’t.”

He says that like it’s the easiest promise he’s ever made. Your face feels red hot, your breathing grows heavy. You infer that she says something like ‘When can I see you again?’

Charles sighs. “I have a break coming up after the next race. Does that work?”

She must have confirmed on the other end by the way your boyfriend responds with relief.

“Great. Even if something comes up in my schedule, I’ll make time, I promise. I should probably get back to Y/n now, we don’t want her to suspect anything.”

The woman laughs on the other end, before saying something that earns a laugh from Charles too. “Don’t worry, my lips are sealed. I’ll see you soon.”

Tears cloud over your vision and fall as quickly as they welled up. You now notice Leo standing at your feet, peering up at you with confusion, as if he can sense your distress. He may not be able to communicate verbally, but the little dachshund knows you better than you think.

If it weren’t for him, you just might walk out the door tonight and never look back. You pick him up with one arm and he snuggles into you. Charles exchanges goodbyes over the phone, and you retreat back into the kitchen, sitting down where he first left you.

This time, it feels as though the world has stopped spinning on its axis. You want to scream, cry, let the world say ‘I told you so’…

But Charles interrupts your rumination, returning back to the table none the wiser. His lips are turned up ever so slightly into a smile as he saunters into the room. He squeezes your shoulder before sitting down. “Sorry about that, I guess some people at work still don’t understand the concept of time zones.”

He doesn’t make eye contact while he speaks, instead focusing on his meal. He’s still lost in thought about his phone call. Or whoever he was on the other end, and it definitely wasn’t “work”.

When Charles notices the way you’re staring a hole through your food, barely touched, his expression transforms into one of worry. “Are you feeling alright?”

“Lost my appetite.” You state plainly, taking a long sip of wine.

“Last week you said this dish was your favorite, no?” Charles digs back into his food like nothing even happened. As if a phone call like that one was simply routine.

You shrug, avoiding his eyes across the table. “I don’t remember saying that.”

You do. This is your favorite meal, now resting cold on fine china. A set passed down from your grandmother as a housewarming gift when you and Charles bought this apartment together. Before a few minutes ago, it used to mean something. It used to be a loving reminder of the life you were starting together. But now, you can’t even give him the satisfaction of admitting that you like the food he prepared.

“I’ve only made it like once a week since we’ve been together, ma chérie.”

You cringe at the familiar pet name and decide your discomfort is better off seeping out through passive aggression. “I guess there’s a lot we don’t know about each other.”

Charles moves around his food uneasily, looking for something to focus on that makes the room feel any less awkward then it does right now. With everything he has planned, he’s hyperaware to you now more than ever. He clears his throat, mustering the courage to go deeper. “What do you mean by that?”

You scoff, letting your fork hit the plate with a loud clang. The sound startles him.

“What is with you tonight? First, you can’t sit through a single meal without leaving to take a work call, and now you’re trying to read between the lines of everything I say? Not all of us are disingenuous, Charles.”

“I would ask again, what you mean by that, but I’m not sure that I’m allowed.”

“I meant it exactly how it sounds! Maybe you’d pick up on that if you listened to me every once in a while. Again, you don’t know me as well as you think you do.” You pause, lowering your voice as Leo lets out a soft whimper. “I don’t know you as well as I thought I did, either.”

Charles has a look on his face as if to say ‘What the hell are you talking about?’, wordlessly. The last thing he wants to do is fight with you. Second to that, he wants nothing more than to tell you everything he can’t. He knows he’s not a good liar. Maybe you’re starting to feel that he’s hiding something. Or maybe you’re just exhausted. From the long days and short nights, all the traveling. He wants to give you the benefit of the doubt.

You stand suddenly, wine glass in hand as you breeze past him, refusing to spare him so much as a glance. “I’m going to bed. Goodnight, Charles.”

“Goodnight.” He mutters in confusion, watching as you leave the room. Maybe his plans won’t go ahead as easily as he thought. Either way, it’s worth a shot.

–

Time flies by when you’re having fun.

In your case, it’s gone by at a snail’s pace. Each day it becomes more painful to pretend like nothing’s bothering you.

Luckily Charles’ racing schedule gave you somewhat of an out. A small break to process your feelings about what your gut tells you is betrayal. If the racing career doesn’t pan out as Charles hopes, he sure does have a future in acting. He seemed awfully disappointed when you broke the news that you wouldn’t be flying out with him to his last race, blaming it on a head cold.

It was the perfect excuse to get him off your back, just wanting to be alone for a couple days. After sleeping on it, if tossing and turning could be considered sleep, you knew that making any rash decisions over some secretive phone calls might be an extreme reaction.

If something’s going on, you need to see it for yourself. Then, that’ll be all the confirmation you’ll need. Could it be denial? Taunting you to the point of self sabotage? You know that can’t be true when his calls have been easier to ignore. Something that would’ve been unheard of in your relationship only weeks ago.

Now, you sit outside your favorite coffee shop. Staring behind your cat-eye sunglasses into the cafe across the street, observing the date Charles has had circled on his calendar for some time now. He checks his watch anxiously, clearly awaiting someone.

This is it. Once you see them together, this will be the day to change your life as you know it. One last twist of the knife.

“Y/n? Is that you?” A voice from down the road shouts, too loud for your liking.

Instinctively, your head is on a swivel, knowing it’s probably a fan of Charles’ but still a stranger. You shouldn’t get so caught up in your own thoughts that you aren’t paying attention to your surroundings.

But when you catch his eyes, you see that the voice doesn’t belong to a fan of Charles’, but his own teammate. Lewis. You sigh in relief as he approaches you closer.

“Hey, Lewis!” You smile from behind the newspaper you’re pretending to be interested in reading, waving him over to your table for two.

“I thought that was you under there! Embracing a new look?” He gestures to the Italian silk scarf tied at your chin, coupled with the dark sunglasses. Hiding in plain sight or dressed stylishly to avoid sun damage? Hopefully the fashion lover in him assumes the latter.

He sits down and you both make small talk about what a coincidence it is to run into each other here outside a coffee shop, even though Monaco is smaller than Central Park. The odds aren’t too crazy. You can barely pay attention to anything he’s saying, not without tearing your focus away from Charles, still sitting by himself in the cafe across the street.

It’s the perfect time of day where the sun positions itself just right so you can see him inside the place. His back is turned towards you enough to ease your nerves about getting caught. As if you’re the one that should be worried about that. You wonder if he’s thinking the same.

“Are you waiting for somebody?” Lewis asks, snapping you out of your trance, noticing you look around.

“No, not at all. Sorry, my mind’s just been all over the place lately.”

Lewis nods in understanding. “Where’s Leo? He’s almost always by your side, isn’t he?”

“He’s spending the day with Charles’ mom. She likes having him around from time to time.”

“Yeah, makes sense. My family is the same way with Roscoe.” Lewis reminisces before continuing. “Speaking of Charles, how’s he doing? Last race was pretty tough for both of us.”

The sound of his name sends a rush of panic through your veins, as you’re dangerously close to being caught spying on the man in question.

“Charles? He’s fine! Why? What did he tell you?” So much for keeping your cover, you thought, but the nervous ramble came out sooner than you expected.

You really hadn’t spoken to anyone about what was going on. Truthfully, you couldn’t even explain it. I suspect he’s cheating on me and I’m waiting to discover something more before I confront him about it? Doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue. And your blurting interrogation of Lewis has made it known that your subconscious wants to avoid it no longer.

“Nothing..? That’s why I asked.” Lewis laughs nervously, sensing some tension in your mood. “Is everything okay?”

You are quick to reassure Lewis with a tight-lipped smile, making sure your boyfriend stays in view. Glimpsing in his direction, you can see Charles look over his shoulder, clearly anticipating for someone to walk through that cafe door. Before Charles can spot you, you pull the newspaper above your eyes.

“Yes, I’m fine! I’ve never been better. How are you?”

Lewis turns around to look in the same direction you are. “Oh shit, is that Charles?”

“Turn around!” You shout in a hushed whisper, accepting your fate. “I don’t want him to see me. You’re gonna blow my cover!”

Lewis looks confused, but complies anyway. “And why exactly are you spying on your boyfriend in broad daylight?”

“I am NOT spying. I am simply looking out for myself, that’s all. I have way better things to do than spy on Charles.”

“I’m not following.”

You sigh, dropping your open newspaper onto the table below you, taking a gulp of your latte. “Lewis, you can’t tell a soul. I don’t give a shit about any secret teammate bro code or whatever you might have sworn to.”

“There’s no such thing, your secrets’ safe with me.” Lewis promises, pretending to zip his lips shut and throw away an imaginary key over his shoulder.

You lower your sunglasses to lock eyes with him so he knows you’re serious. “Charles is seeing another woman.”

Lewis’ expression remains blank for a few moments as he processes, before defiance sets in. “What? There’s no way!”

“Yes, way! He’s been acting strange for a while now and I heard him on the phone with her about a week ago. I’m not an idiot.”

“Of course you aren’t, but neither am I. Charles loves you! When I first came to Ferrari, you were practically all he talked about. Even before that, he’d always mention you during our chats in the driver’s parade. Y/n this, Y/n that. I know for a fact that he doesn’t even have space in his brain for someone else. You have his heart. And I swear, if there was something going on and I knew about it, I would be honest with you.”

Lewis couldn’t lie to save his life. And his tone does sound awfully convincing. You almost want to believe him. Hell, you want to believe Charles, that he would fight tooth and nail for your relationship if it came down to it.

Almost like clockwork, a blonde woman enters the cafe across the street, her heels clicking down the cobblestone street and through the doorway. Charles’ face brightens as he stands up to greet her with a kiss on each cheek and a friendly hug. Your heart sinks to your stomach.

“If only that were true.” You relent, taking off your sunglasses to make sure your eyes aren’t deceiving you. And quickly, you snap a picture before they pull apart from each other.

Lewis follows your gaze into the cafe, and before he can turn back, you’re already leaving in a hurry. Itching to get home before you lose your head in public. Around people that know Charles, in a place that’s known him his whole life. A reminder of him around every corner. “Bye, Lewis.”

Lewis wants to stop you, but hesitates. Remembering that even though he knows the truth, it’s certainly not his place to tell you. He sighs to himself, shaking his head. “What have you done, Charles?”

The Brit has always been one for minding his own business. What kind of a friend would he be if not trustworthy? On the other hand, what kind of friend would he be if he let you walk away with tears in your eyes, thinking that your relationship is over?

In some cases, curiosity can’t be resisted. His eyes pierce through the window of the cafe across the street, as he fools himself into thinking he can read their lips and understand the nature of the conversation.

Then again, this is Monaco, a small oasis but hardly a deserted island– Charles surely wouldn’t be so stupid as to have a lunch date with a woman not even 10 minutes from the home he shares with you. What would be the harm in a little spontaneous run-in? At least Lewis wouldn’t be caught in a lie when explaining what he was doing staring holes through the cafe window to begin with. Unlike you, he doesn’t have a disguise.

Walking across the street and into the place, Lewis convinces himself that what he’s about to do, will be worth it in the end. He’ll still be a good friend to both of you, no matter how awkward things might become.

“Hey! Charles? Fancy running into you here.” Lewis claps a hand on the man’s shoulder, and by the look on his face, you’d think he just saw a ghost. Charles clutches his chest with a ring clad hand.

“Lewis! I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I know man, I thought the same thing.” Lewis speaks cooly, eyes flickering over to the woman across the table. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything important. You don’t mind if I join you, do you?”

Charles barely has time to answer before the ever-so-accommodating staff brings over a chair for Lewis.

“And where are my manners?” Lewis mumbles to himself. He doesn’t extend a hand to the woman sitting across from Charles, but locks eyes with her to see if there’s any guilt or shame inside them. “I’m Lewis, Charles’ teammate.”

“I’m Natalia.” She replies, looking to Charles to further introduce her at his discretion.

“Natalia is helping me with a purchase. She’s a jewelry consultant for Harry Winston.”

Lewis feels himself exhale, but still senses a layer of nervousness between the two of them. He decides to take a different approach. “Ah, retail therapy. 6 months of Ferrari strategy calls, I understand you more than ever.” The two men laugh, but Lewis isn’t done playing Sherlock Holmes.

Before he speaks again, he turns to Natalia, making sure he has her attention before continuing. “You know who else loves to shop? Charles’ girlfriend, Y/n. How is she doing these days, Charles?” Lewis speaks with a pointed emphasis to his words.

Natalia lets out a shaken breath that mimics nervous laughter, and brushes a strand of hair behind her ear. Charles’ stare reads blank for a couple seconds before his eyes widen, darting between his invited guest and his teammate that decided to crash the party. It only occurs to him now why Lewis did so.

“Oh! This isn’t what it looks like, I promise.”

“Doesn’t it?”

Charles’ eyes dart around the cafe, making sure there are no eavesdroppers close by. The optics would look suspicious to anyone, but this secret getting out would be even worse.

“Natalia is a jewelry consultant with Harry Winston.” Charles reiterates, this time sliding him some papers.

“Yeah, I got that.” Lewis snaps quickly, before it registers. The professional navy blazer Natalia’s wearing, a portable briefcase resting on the other side of the table, the sketches of engagement rings they’ve been looking through together. They’re stunning, even in 3-D form, carefully drawn onto the pages. “Oh…. OH.”

Charles slides the book over to Lewis, who admires the drawings with a dropped jaw. He remembers Charles mentioning his big plans to pop the question, but didn’t know he was going about it in such a way.

“I designed a ring for Y/n. I’m gonna propose.”

“No kidding.” Lewis marvels. “You could see that thing from space!”

Charles smiles hopefully. “You think she’ll like it?”

Lewis gives his teammate that signature sarcastic look. “Are you kidding? She’ll love it, man. This is gorgeous.”

“Natalia’s company has been crafting it for months. We’ve been corresponding about it over the phone since my schedule doesn’t leave much time for appointments, as I’m sure you’re familiar with.” Charles twists his own ring, getting lost in the sketch once again. It symbolizes more than a generous show of his love, but your future together. The two of you basking in happily wedded bliss for as long as you both shall live.

Lewis' eyes peel away from the sketch to meet Natalia’s, who also seems to be quietly admiring the sketch. “Geez, I wasn’t expecting that. I thought there was something going on. I’m sorry if I came off a little intrusive.”

Natalia shrugs with ease, taking a sip of her coffee. “This happens more than you might think.”

“You should be more careful, what if Y/n finds out and thinks the worst? I can imagine her reaction would be worse than mine.” Lewis cautions without exposing your earlier run-in.

“That’s the problem, I have to avoid her in order to get this done.” Charles' eyes flicker down to his watch. “Speaking of which, I should probably get going. I’m supposed to be training. Don’t tell Y/n, please.”

“Of course not, you have my word. I may have to let it slip to Fred, though.” Lewis jests.

Charles rolls his eyes. “Then he’ll know you’re not in the gym either.”

“Ah, you’re right, you’re right. Don’t worry, your secrets’ safe with me.”

–

Charles can’t stop smiling on his way home, feeling the weight of the ring box in his pocket with every step. There’s no better feeling than knowing he curated this piece of jewelry for you, a ring you’ll hopefully wear forever. Not only because of its striking beauty, but because you’re proud to be his wife. Just as he’d be proud to be your husband.

Although you’ve been distant with him lately, he can’t quite figure out why. Maybe the time apart has been wearing on you. It’s been wearing on him, too. After all, there’s nothing more frustrating than longing for what you can’t have.

When he enters your apartment, it’s silent. Eerily so. Leo’s footsteps don’t pitter-patter to the door and you don’t call out his name.

“Y/n?”

Honestly, he didn’t think you were home. Not until he spots you out of the corner of his eye, looking down at your phone in misery.

“Who is she?”

“What?”

“Oh, don’t play stupid with me, Charles. My friend saw you out today on a date with someone.” You scoff, standing up to shove your phone in his hands, showing the picture you snapped of the two of them. “You must think I’m a complete fool.”

Charles’ eyes widen upon instinct, scanning the photo in disbelief, guilt, panic… He didn’t see things playing out like this. He swallows a lump in his throat, thanking his lucky stars he hasn’t eaten lunch yet.

“Some training, huh? You know, if you met someone else you could have just told me. I wouldn’t have put up a fight, I wouldn’t have begged for you to take me back. I would have left you in peace because I’ve been through this before.”

“Mon amour, please, I can explain everything.” Charles reaches for you, but you move away even further, putting as much distance between you as possible.

You ignore his pleas. He doesn’t deserve the last word. “And knowing that, you still did the same thing to me. I made the mistake of believing you were different.”

“Ma chérie-”

“Stop calling me that!”

Charles pauses, unsure of how he can fix this without blowing up his last few months of careful planning. “Y/n, I didn’t cheat. I have never and would never, I promise you. I love you!”

Charles brushes his fingers over the ring box in his pocket. He’s really considering it. Taking it out right now would put your fears to bed once and for all. But what kind of proposal would that be? You deserve more, and he intends on giving that to you.

“I wish I believed that.”

His heart aches with guilt. Your relationship is unraveling and it’s his fault, unfortunate circumstances or not. It’s not what it looks like is nothing but a worn out cliche that would only upset you more. “If you don’t believe me, ask Lewis. He was there.”

“Whatever, Charles. Lewis wouldn’t have even seen you if he didn't run into me first!”

“Run into you first?” Charles repeats.

You pause your angry pacing around the room. Why does it feel like you’re the one that just fucked up? Charles is still the one who has secrets to hide. “When did you see him? I thought your friend took that picture?”

You stay silent, letting your eyes roam the floor while you rack your brain for reasonable excuses. “Unless there was no friend. Were you spying on me?”

“Yes, okay?! I had to see it for myself that it was over between us, the paranoia was killing me. But don’t try to turn this around on me, Charles.”

“Why wouldn’t you come to me first?”

“So I could give you a better opportunity to cover your tracks? And you still don’t have much to say for yourself do you?”

Charles meets you across the room in a few paces, nearly tripping over his own feet doing so. You struggle to look at him, let alone embrace the feeling of his hands holding yours.

“All I can say right now is that I’m sorry.” Tears gloss over your eyes, taking that as an admission of guilt more than anything else. “But I promise you, Y/n, this is not what you think.”

“How would I know that? How am I supposed to believe anything you say?”

Charles brings your knuckles to his lips and kisses them sincerely, as if to seal a promise.

“Because I would never risk losing you.” His voice is oddly calm and reassuring, uncomfortably out of place for a man who was pretty much caught red-handed. “Will you give me a chance to explain? To prove it to you? Please.”

You have half a brain to shove past him and start throwing your belongings, or his for that matter, into a suitcase.

But as you look around, memories lie everywhere. A bouquet of your favorite flowers Charles had waiting for you from your recent travels; a polaroid of you two hanging on the fridge; your sweet dog gnawing at a chew toy in the corner of the room.

It’s not enough to make you forget, but it’s enough to make you stop in your tracks. If you leave now, will you always wonder what Charles had to say? Maybe the thought is too painful to ponder.

“Later, Charles. I just need to be alone right now.”

–

After drifting off to sleep, you wake up to your phone vibrating against the nightstand. It does sting a little to see there’s nothing from Charles, but maybe you should get used to that. You did tell the man to leave you alone.

‘Lewis: Could you come over for a bit? I need someone to hang with Roscoe while I go to the hospital. I think I tore something playing tennis (or at least I was trying to)’

You type a concerned response quickly, letting him know you’ll be there shortly. You debate leaving a note behind for Charles.

But after calling his name through the rooms of the apartment and being met with no response, it’s clear he found something better to do. Or maybe found someone better to be with.

You knock on Lewis’ door in a panic, worrying when you don’t hear a bark from Roscoe on the other side. The door swings open, and there’s Lewis, clutching his hurt shoulder with his spare hand.

“Hey, Y/n. Thanks for coming. Are you feeling okay?”

You shrug. “I’ve been better. How about yourself?”

“Nothing a little physical therapy can’t help, I’m sure.” Lewis leads the way through his apartment, calling out for his dog. “Roscoe! Geez, he’s gotta be here somewhere… Could you check the balcony?”

You nod. The balcony shimmers faintly behind the dark drapes of Lewis’ apartment. It could easily be mistaken for one of Roscoe’s light-up chew toys.

Just when you go to pull the door handle, Lewis mumbles over your shoulder. “Please don’t hate me.”

“Hate you for what?”

And then you see him. Charles, sitting in one of two chairs on the balcony, fidgeting with a rose petal on the table as he waits for you. The dark fabric of his sweater contrasts strongly against the white tablecloth and his features glow handsomely in the candlelight he set up.

“Charles? What are you doing here? What the hell is going on?” You question, turning around to see a cheeky grin on Lewis’ face.

“You’ll see.”

“Like I can trust you, Mr. Fake-Shoulder-Injury. What kind of a friend are you? I bet Roscoe isn’t even here, you liar!”

“Please don’t be mad at him. He was nice enough to help me with this.” Charles interjects, holding out his hand for you to join him at the table for two. You begrudgingly accept.

“With what? Luring me here under false pretenses?”

Lewis gives Charles a wink from the doorway, wishing him good luck. The door is closed before you can turn around and make a run for it.

“What is this for, Charles?” His hand rests on the small of your back and he pulls out your chair for you like usual.

“You said we could talk later, right? Well, it’s later.” Charles can feel you rolling your eyes as he takes his own seat.

“I can’t just forget what I saw. You’re not going to woo me into amnesia.”

The thought of your relationship blowing up over this misunderstanding would be devastating. Even if you think the worst of Charles right now, it couldn’t be further from the truth. In the back of his mind, he knows there’s a chance you may never see that. It’s terrifying.

Charles sighs, reigning in his composure. He’s been a nervous wreck since your fight this afternoon. “Well, I can’t let you walk away without knowing the truth.”

“I’m not having an affair with Natalia, the woman you saw me with at the cafe.”

Oh, great. The bitch has a name.

“She’s a private consultant for Harry Winston.”

The mention of your favorite jeweler does pique your interest, but keeping a poker face until Charles can give you a proper explanation is more important.

“I’ve been communicating with her for a couple of months to design something special for you.”

You can’t help the way your jaw drops slightly as Charles reaches into his pocket and pulls out a little blue box. This can’t be what you think it is. He watches carefully as you stare in disbelief, unsure of what is going through your mind.

“I tried my hardest to keep it a secret so I could surprise you, but I should have considered how suspicious it looked. I’m so sorry for making you worry, ma chérie.” Charles brushes his thumb across your hand, looking down with remorse.

“I just wanted to create something special for you, to show you how much you mean to me and how I want nothing more than to spend my life with you. And believe me, this went completely different in my head.” His eyes meet yours, still shining with hope, when he feels your hand reach for his. “I was going to take you out on the boat and hold you under the stars before I asked you to marry me. I’m sorry I let you down, mon amour.”

If this were about anyone other than Charles, you would’ve been long gone by now. But it is Charles. Your Charles. And you believe him. Tears gloss over your eyes, a mix of disappointment and shame.

Charles’ eyes beg for you to say something, anything that would tell him how to proceed. He’d like to think he knows you pretty well. Sitting across from you tonight, he’s never felt more clueless.

The silence pushes you to say something. “No!”

His eyes widen, taking your words like a knife to the chest. He would rather accept your decision than prolong his pain. “So this is it? You don’t want to marry me?”

“No!” You start, before realizing what a terrible job you’re doing of explaining yourself. “I mean, YES! Of course I do, Charles. I just can’t believe how bad I fucked this up. You spent months designing this ring for me, planning a proposal and I completely ruined it by being irrational. I jumped to conclusions, I’m the one who should be sorry!”

“Oh, ma chérie.” Charles softens, but his heart still races with panic. He leaves his seat in a rush to take you in his arms, kneeling down beside where you’re sitting. “You don’t need to apologize to me.”

“But I do.” You mumble, letting your tears fall into the crook of his neck. At least your mascara won’t stain his black sweater. “I let my stupid insecurities from the past sabotage the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” Charles runs a hand up and down your back, holding you tighter. He hates to see you cry.

“When I heard you on the phone, and then when I saw you with her… I immediately thought the worst of you, even when you haven’t given me a reason not to trust you. All you ever did was love me. I’m sorry, Charles.”

He kisses your temple softly. “It’s okay, I don’t hold it against you.”

His tone is quiet yet comforting, as if he’s trying to patch up your inner wounds himself. Charles would continue trying until you can’t remember anything but his loving touch and whispers of sweet nothings.

“And who says it’s ruined? Maybe the universe has other plans for us.”

“We are still under the stars.” You muse, while Charles swipes some stray tears from your cheek. The simple gesture elicits a smile from you. And one of love, in its truest and purest form, mirrors back at you.

“We are. And if it’s alright with you, I’d like to try this again.”

You nod enthusiastically in agreement. “Me too.”

Charles takes the ring box from the table, beaming before you on bended knee. He carefully lifts the cover to show the gorgeous diamond sparkling effortlessly. If only you could take your eyes off of him.

“Y/n, mon amour, will you marry me?”

“Yes, Charles!” You lean down just barely, kissing him with unbridled passion. You both have plenty you’ve been holding onto.

He slides the ring on your finger, watching in admiration as you take in the sight. A fresh set of tears gloss over your eyes. You tilt your finger so the diamonds catch the candlelight.

“It’s beautiful.”

“You like it?”

“I love it. I love you.”

Charles kisses your knuckles with a gentle reverence. If there were a shooting star to pass through the night sky, he’d wish for this moment to last forever.

“I love you, too.”

You can’t help but pull him into a tight embrace, feeling your heart soothe as you do so. He relaxes in your arms and you relax in his. Charles Leclerc is who you’ve been waiting for. And now he’s about to be your husband.

Your eyes flutter open, looking towards the window, where you see a familiar pair of brown eyes peeking through the curtains. “Hey!”

“Not so bad of a friend now, am I?”

“You’re alright.” You jest, flashing your ring at him, to which he smiles widely. You can feel a few laughs ripple through Charles’ body, wanting to witness the interaction but never wanting to let you go.

As long as you let him, he never will.

💌: thanks for reading, i hope you enjoyed! comments & reblogs are greatly appreciated :)

taglist: @marjorieswrld @freyathehuntress @alexxavicry @pickingupmymercedes (add yourself here!)

[confessionsandcreampies]

you have a miscarriage, but they still love you more than anything with rin, bachira & shidou

rin had always believed that control meant safety. if you worked hard enough, if you didn’t let yourself slip, then nothing could blindside you. but sitting in the harsh light of the hospital room, with your trembling hand limp in his, he realized how foolish that belief was.

you were pale, your lips dry from hours of crying and rin didn’t know how to make it stop. he wanted to… god, he fucking needed to, but there wasn’t a single thing his talent or discipline could do for you now.

“it just… happened,” the doctor said, carefully clinical. “nothing you did wrong. sometimes the body just—”

rin didn’t hear the rest. his jaw was locked so tightly it ached, his eyes fixed on you. the only sound he registered was the way you tried to stifle a sob and failed. by the time the doctor left, you were curled on your side, staring at the wall. rin stayed in the chair by your bed, gripping his knees like he was anchoring himself in place. he’d spent years bottling emotions, swallowing everything until it turned to fuel. but now the bottle was cracking, and he didn’t even know where to start.

“i’m sorry,” you whispered hoarsely.

his head snapped up. “what?”

“i’m sorry i—”

“stop.” rin’s voice was sharper than he meant, but he didn’t soften it. he couldn’t. “don’t you dare apologize for this.”

you looked at him then, really looked. his eyes were red and swollen, lashes clumped from tears. he felt his chest clench so hard it hurt.

“i should’ve been here,” rin muttered, lowering his gaze. “i should’ve made sure—”

“rin.” your voice cracked, but there was steel under it. “this isn’t your fault either.”

he didn’t answer, because some stubborn, ugly part of him refused to believe that. if he had been around more, if he hadn’t been so obsessed with training, maybe… maybe things would be different.

when they discharged you that evening, rin didn’t let go of your hand once. the car ride was silent except for the sound of your uneven breathing. he drove slower than usual. not because he had to, but because he was terrified of anything else going wrong.

at home rin made you tea even though he didn’t know if you wanted any. he sat beside you on the couch, close enough that your knees touched, but said nothing. words felt cheap.

it wasn’t until midnight, when you broke down again. your face buried in his hoodie, tears soaking the fabric and rin finally let himself fall apart too.

“i don’t know how to make this better,” he whispered, raw. his arms tightened around you, desperate, like he could hold you together even if he couldn’t hold himself. “i can’t fix it. i hate that i can’t fix it.”

you only clung tighter. and that night rin didn’t move an inch. he stayed awake long after you drifted off, jaw pressed to your hair, silent tears running down his face. it wasn’t about fixing it anymore. it was about not letting you carry the weight alone. and for once in his life, rin decided that was enough.

bachira was used to emotions running wild. that was how he’d always played football with pure feeling, following instinct, letting every beat of his heart guide his feet. but this wasn’t like scoring a goal or losing a match. this wasn’t something he could chase down and fix. the sonogram monitor was dark where there should’ve been movement. he’d imagined hearing that little heartbeat for weeks, had even joked about how fast it would be (“like a hummingbird!”), but now there was only silence.

you sat on the exam table in the paper gown, staring at your lap while the doctor spoke gently, explaining things bachira couldn’t even process. miscarriage. not your fault. happens more often than people think. the words blurred into a low drone. bachira blinked hard, like maybe if he cleared his eyes he’d see a different image. a different outcome. but when you sniffled softly, he snapped out of his daze and slid closer, putting an arm around your shoulders.

“hey,” he whispered. “i’m here. you’re not alone, okay?”

you didn’t look at him, just pressed your lips together and that broke something in bachira. he wasn’t afraid to cry, never had been, but this… this was different. this was watching the brightest part of his world dim and not knowing how to turn it back on.

“i wanted to meet them too,” he said softly, his voice shaking. “i was already thinking about teaching them football. about… if they’d laugh like you do.” his throat closed up. “i wanted that so bad.”

your breath hitched and finally you turned, burying your face in his chest. bachira hugged you close, pressing his cheek to the top of your head as his own tears slid down freely. he didn’t bother hiding them. let the nurses stare, he didn’t care.

when you got home later, everything felt off. too quiet. bachira kept moving around the apartment, trying to keep busy. making tea, fluffing pillows, fetching blankets. but nothing stopped the heaviness pressing on both of you. you tried to smile at him once, a weak little curve of your lips, but it hurt worse than seeing you cry.

that night you woke to soft sniffles. bachira was sitting up beside you, knees pulled to his chest, hoodie sleeves wet where he’d wiped his face.

“meguru,” you croaked.

he startled and gave a shaky laugh. “sorry. i didn’t wanna wake you.”

“you’re crying.”

“i know.” he wiped at his eyes, then climbed back under the blanket with you. “i just… i feel so sad. and i hate it.”

you curled against him automatically and he held you like you were made of glass. “does it make me selfish if i wanted them so bad?” he asked softly. “even though it happened so early?”

“no,” you whispered, heart clenching. “it doesn’t.”

bachira exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for hours. he kissed your temple, then your damp cheeks, not to start anything, but because he needed to. needed you to feel how much he loved you even when he had no words left.

the next few days bachira stuck close. he’d braid your hair while you sat on the couch, humming softly even when you didn’t respond. he cooked weird recipes that didn’t always make sense but were made with stubborn care for you, even when you had no appetite.

sometimes he’d cry suddenly, mid-sentence, and you’d both end up in a heap on the floor, holding each other until the tears ran out. but he never once let you face any of it alone.

“hey,” he said one afternoon as his thumb traced circles on your wrist. “we’re gonna get through this. i don’t know how, but we will. because i’m not going anywhere. ever.”

and for once, bachira, who usually spoke in whims and wild laughter, sounded deadly serious.

shidou ryusei didn’t do quiet. he was a hurricane in human form, laughing too loud, playing too rough, always filling space with motion and noise. but when the doctor said the words, the world went silent in a way that made his ears ring.

miscarriage.

he stared blankly, like he hadn’t heard right. you sat beside him on the edge of the hospital bed, fingers twisted tightly together, tears already spilling over.

“wait,” shidou said oddly calm. “so… that’s it? just like that?”

the doctor’s expression softened. “i’m so sorry. it’s no one’s fault. sometimes these things—”

but shidou wasn’t listening anymore. his gaze locked on you, on the way your shoulders shook as you tried not to sob and something inside him snapped. he stood abruptly, chair clattering back against the wall and walked out without a word. you barely had time to call his name before the door swung shut.

out in the corridor, shidou hit the wall hard enough to split the skin on his knuckles. he hit it again, just to feel something other than this twisting, unfamiliar ache in his chest. he was good at pain… the physical kind. you got hit, you hit back harder. that was life. but this? this he couldn’t touch, couldn’t fight, couldn’t fix.

when he finally came back, knuckles raw and bleeding, you were sitting on the bed staring at your lap. your eyes flicked to his hand immediately. “idiot,” you whispered. “why would you do that to yourself?”

“why would i—?!” shidou barked a laugh, but it cracked halfway through. he sat down hard beside you, still breathing hard from the burst of anger. “you’re laying here hurting and i can’t do jack shit. what the hell am i supposed to do? just sit there like nothing happened?”

you reached out, hesitant, and touched his injured hand. he froze. the sight of your trembling fingers against his bloody skin hit him harder than any fist ever could.

“i wanted that kid,” he muttered suddenly, voice low and ragged. “didn’t think i did at first. i thought… y’know, babies are messy, loud… but…” he swallowed hard, looking away. “but i really wanted them.”

tears burned his eyes before he could stop them. he tried to blink them back, but when you finally whispered, “me too,” it all came pouring out. shidou buried his face in your shoulder and sobbed. loud, ugly sobs that shook his whole body. he clung to you like you might disappear next, fists tightening in the fabric of your gown.

“i’m so fucking mad,” he gasped between breaths. “i don’t even know who to be mad at. i just—i can’t stand seeing you like this. i can’t—” his voice cracked completely. “i’d do anything to take it away from you.”

later, when they sent you home, shidou didn’t leave your side for a second. he made terrible meals because he refused to leave you alone long enough to get takeout. he swore at anyone who tried to come by unannounced, snarling that you “weren’t some goddamn charity case.”

at night, he stayed awake staring at the ceiling, jaw clenched. you woke more than once to find him already watching you, protective in a way that felt almost desperate. when you started crying in the dark, he pulled you against his chest immediately.

“we’re gonna be okay, y’know,” he muttered, rough but steady. “i don’t know how yet. but i’m not letting you go through this alone. not ever.”

it wasn’t soft. it was shidou. raw, fierce, messy. but his arms around you were solid and for all his chaos, he meant every word.

I hope that brings you a little comfort. sending you love and strength

[intoblonde6ftwbbplayers]

You’re gay!

pairing; uconnpaige! x teammatereader!

synopsis; reader struggled with her sexuality in the past but finally comes to terms with the fact that she likes girls, and realizes that she likes one girl in particular. then when it seems like the whole world is screaming paige’s name at reader it perfectly aligns with ovulation week.

warnings; other than bad writing, like baby angst?? SMUT, thigh riding, fingering, light dom paige, lmk if i missed any

authors note; this is a longer one and lowk idk how i feel abt it ive end r written smut so i hope its bearable

if there’s typos idc it’s unedited!

—

Growing up you were never sure of your sexuality. The first crush you ever had was on a girl.

You were 11 she 12 and her name was Maia. It was like any crush, you’d see each other at school everyday and you sat next to each other in english.

At that point in 6th grade you were sure you liked girls, i mean obviously you were completely down bad for Maia and had never thought of a boy like that.

But then life went on and you got over Maia, in 7th grade you liked a boy named Lucas then in 8th grade a 3 year long situationship with charles started.

Now you were unsure if you liked girls, you had gone all through high school being in different stages with boys but the only girl you had ever liked was still 6th grade.

So naturally since it had been so much time and wanting to fit in, in your small town and your school of only 1,000 students you said you were straight.

Then came college. Uconn, class of 2021, your senior year had been in covid which ur still mad about, but now you were at uconn, a place where the wnba legends are made.

You wanted nothing more than to be the next great, and you were well on your way.

obviously you knew who Paige was, a year older, from hopkins minnesota, record breaker. You wanted to be her.

When you first met her you were star struck, you ended up babbling something about wanted to be just like her, she laughed— still with a genuine smile, and said something about how she was flattered.

From there your friendship grew, endless moments, from crumbl reviews to late night conversations.

You had gone through hell and back with Paige and you had both been there for each other in your lowest moments and in the highest.

You were close with everyone on the team really, you’re just an all around bubbly person always joking, smiling and laughing.

You valued you relationship with each of them and loved them all like family.

So when you all were gathered in Caroline’s dorm one night a month ago just having a normal conversation you weren’t expecting the topic of your sexuality being brought up.

You were all gathered around in front of the tv, all scattered on the couch or floor.

You were on the edges of the couch leaning on Azzi’s shoulder, who was doing homework also not paying attention, and Caroline and Ice next to her. Kk, Paige, and Jana were on the floor, between your legs, while Sarah and Allie on the kitchen stools doing whatever it is freshman do

You weren’t paying attention on to the conversation but instead just taking some time to recharge your social batteries by doom scrolling on tiktok. You had the volume all the way down and had been like this for about 5 minutes.

Whenever you would get a paige edit you would show azzi and you guys would laugh and then continue with your respective activities.

In the time you had been scrolling you had gotten 2 edits of paige, not bad considering it was usually more, and on what you decided would be your last video for the moment you got one final edit

This one though had you in a lot of the clips. It wasn’t a ship edit, (yet) just one of paige, you just happened to be in a lot of the clip selection

So you quickly turned the volume up slightly and heard the song was ‘False God’ by taylor swift.

You loved taylor swift to you quickly showed azzi with volume this time which caught the attention of Kk who was always nosy when it came to showing each other stuff on our phones.

“Whatcha lookin at?” Kk said looking up and you both with big eyes

“Just some edit of Paige to a taylor song Y/n likes” Azzi said still giggling with your phone in her hand

On instinct you turned red, like bright red. You didn’t know why exactly that had made you so embarrassed considering the girl the edit was of was currently sat between your legs.

Thankfully she seemed too locked in on fortnite to pay attention to some random edit being passed around

“Ooooh a p boogers edit?? I wanna see!!” Kk said asking Azzi for the phone

Azzi handed it over and Kk began watching. Only, Kk voiced what Azzi noticed and didn’t say to not embarrass you.

“Wow y/n you’re in a lot of these clips!… wait like a lot of these clips.” Kk said

Then you saw Kk starting to type in the comments of the post, she finished then turned the phone so you could approve it.

the comment read ‘clip selection is crazy’ you just laughed, nodded, and Kk quickly hit send

That got paige’s attention.

Paige looked up finally and asked to see the phone and saw herself on your screen… and the comment.

She didn’t say anything at first just watched the edit in full then gave your phone back to Kk.

Then she finally looked up at you from her spot between your legs that you were now suddenly very aware of.

“I knew there was something off about you, your gay!” Paige said quoting a tiktok audio that you knew all too well

”Bro what?” you said now becoming even more red than you were before

You didn’t know why those words had such an effect on you but they did.

i mean you aren’t gay… right? you’ve dated boys and liked them, you liked a girl one time but that was so long ago it doesn’t even count…

right?

“wait!… are you?” Kk asked

“wait i see it though” Ice said now joining the conversation

“Chill on me bro” you said getting more emotional by the second

“who’s gay?” azzi asked finally finishing her homework

“nobody!”

“y/n” Ice, Kk, and suddenly Sarah too all say at the same time as you

“Ohhh, so you guys saw all the edits of paige and other women she gets on her fyp?” Azzi asked

Your face reached such a level of blush and embarrassment that you could physically feel the heat radiating off you

“we only saw one edit, you mean there’s more?”

“azzi” you said extending the ending and burying your face in between her shoulder and the couch

“alright, alright, but in all seriousness. are you into girls?” asked Paige

you slowly move your head to look at her

“i—uhh-um?, i don’t…? i dont know?”

“you don’t know?” asked Caroline making you look at her

you and carol had always had a special bond and the second you looked in her eyes she saw that this wasn’t a light topic for you

“uhh..” you say not really wanting to get into the crisis of your sexuality in front of everyone right now

“alright! it’s getting late guys and I have to get up early tomorrow so if you’re staying here then it’s time to get ready for bed” Caroline said changing the subject and making everyone forget about the topic

“what no!”

“carol!”

“i’m staying here!”

“caroline!”

“nooo”

everyone said at the same time. you smiled at caroline as a thank you, but you knew she wouldn’t drop this topic as easily.

so a few days later when everyone was gathered at Kk’s dorm doing some crumbl cookie review, you found yourself in her room watching a show for a much needed break from the chaos.

“so…” you said to Carol as she sets up everything in her room to watch vampire diaries

“you wanna talk about it?” she asked

“i think so”

“so… where do you wanna start?” carol said

“i… how do i know if i like girls for real and it wasn’t just a phase or i don’t even know”

“i think if you’re asking that question you already know, you’re just too scared to admit it” caroline said completely clocking you

“i just” i let out a sigh “what does that mean for now i feel about the people in my life”

“people or paige?”

“Caroline!”

“sorry y/n, but come on i know you and i see the way you look at her” caroline says now moving to sit next you on the bed

“i like Paige…”

“yeah, you do”

“fuck. does everyone know?”

“no… i mean you are supposedly straight but me and azzi have suspected for a while, especially with your fyp being full of edits of her, or the way you get the brightest shade of red whenever you have to gaurd her at practice, or the way you seem to not like physical touch unless it’s with her”

“fuck”

That conversation was 3 weeks ago

3 weeks since you realized that you not only like girls but that you really like one girl, and she happens to be one of your closest friends and your teammate Paige fucking Bueckers,

3 weeks since you went home that night and looked her up on tiktok and watched edita of her until you fell asleep

For fyp is to the point where you can’t even open tiktok in public anymore because it’s full of her

Paige Bueckers, Lil Paigey, P Herbo, Paige Buckets, Paige Blockers, Paige Madison Bueckers

whatever she’s called herself at some point from senior year of high school till her super senior year, was haunting you.

the edits, the fucking edits, those had you weak.

it’s like world just kept screaming in your face how pretty she is, posters around school, posts on social media, and even when you were at home in your dorm, the man the myth the legend herself would text or call you every night

the calls were easier because you were able to deflect and say you were showering to not pick up and the texts you could be dry or just not respond, but in person? at practice or when you’re all together eating dinner

thats where paige got to you

“nice layup mama” from across the gym

“don’t even care you fouling me right now, just want you near me” as you guard her

“c’mere pretty” as she pulls you into her side on the couch during a group hangout

it’s like she knew exactly what to say to drive you crazy, and you really didn’t need her help for that

because on top of seeing the most thirsty edits and pictures and flirty comments from paige herself

you were ovulating.

which ment that anything and everything related to paige made you literally have to squeeze your legs together to feel any kind of relief

it ment that seeing her at practice with sweat dripping down her chest was making your pupils dilate so much that one of the trainers actually got concerned

it meant that the situation you were currently in, was actual hell

you were currently laying down of paige’s bed while she was at at the end sitting down playing fortnite

she called you over to hang out and lately you couldn’t say no to her, not that you would pass up spending time with paige, even if it was torture to not be able to do what you really wanted

so here you were waiting for paige so finish her game so you guys could watch trashy movies until you fell asleep

only the way her fingers moved on the controller was driving you crazy

the thought of what she could do—the way she could make to you feel. Then you eyes drift up her arms to her biceps, and the way her shirt clung to them. Suddenly your mouth was watering and you wanted nothing more then to kiss every inch of her skin.

what you did next caught you by surprise, you moved over to where she was sitting and just hugged her. Full on just wrapped your arms around her shoulders and buried you face in the crook of her neck and inhaled like she was your oxygen now

“you good mama?” she asked smiling

“you said one more game like 2 times already, i wanna watch tv paige” you said mumbling most of it since you didn’t lift you head from its spot

“i know im sorry, im almost done though.”

you just let out a discontent hum in reply not trusting your words with how badly you wanted her and how close you were to doing something about it

“someone’s whiny tonight” paige said laughing “c’mere mama.” motioning for you to come sit in her lap while she finish her game

in any other moment this would be fine, but considering you were pretty sure you were soaked through your sleep shorts at the moment, you hesitated

and in that one moment of hesitation paige grabbed you and pulled you right onto her lap and the second you felt your core meet her thigh, you literally had to bite your tongue to not moan

so there you sat, turned on beyond belief for the girl under you and now beginning to get uncomfortable in how you legs were positioned, so you moved around a little

then because of how aware you were of your movements and body, you shifted in paige’s lap again, and again, and again

until finally you felt a hand on your thigh push you back down into her firmly, “you gotta stop moving mama”

“what?” you could barely understand anything, at this point all you could think of was paige and how her hand was so close to where you wanted her most

how her perfect face with her perfectly pink lips were so close to yours, the way her legs would flex unconsciously under you making you almost whimper and causing you to move again

“please pretty, you can’t keep moving like that” she said in a shaky voice almost whining

and that’s when you saw it, the way she kept trying to press her thighs together but couldn’t because yours was in the way, how her eyes that are normally so blue, look almost black because of how dilated they are, the way she’s barley moving her hand on the controller anymore because she keeps looking at you instead of the game

in that moment you realized that she wanted you as much as you wanted her

so you moved yourself on final time on her lap and felt both of paige’s hands on your hips this time “please” she said almost moaning

the controller was forgotten and neither of you was paying attention to the tv anymore

“need you you so bad paige”

“fuck, mama” she said using her grip on your hips to grind you down onto her thigh

“paige” you moaned out, you were so far gone for her and she hadn’t even touched you yet, you couldn’t even keep your head upright anymore it felt to good

“c’mon pretty, use my leg, i know you’ve been wanting to”

you use all your strength to push yourself down onto her thigh again and start riding it. the pressure feels so good against your pussy it’s almost embarrassing how fast your gonna cum

“that’s it, doing so good f’me y/n” that comment only made you go faster

the pressure of her thigh and the way paige was kissing your neck and chest had you so overwhelmed you didn’t know where to focus

“can tell you’re close mama, give it to me please? wanted this for so long” she said practically begging you to cum on her

“yeah?”

“yeah, since before i even knew you were into girls, wanted to have you like this” that’s all it took to completely unravel on her, your hips now just twitching instead of moving

“fuck paige” you say breathing heavily finally looking into her eyes again then before you know what’s happening, paige quickly stands up with your legs around her waist and places you on her bed before crawling on top of you

once she’s back within your reach you kiss her, it’s sloppy and needy but you don’t care because kissing her feels like breathing

“wanna taste you” said paige before pulling your shirt over your head before pulling down your shorts and well leaving you just in underwear

she doesn’t say anything at first, her eyes scan over your entire body before zeroing in on your chest, and even though you didn’t think it was possible, her eyes dilate even more

paige put her mouth over one nipple while her hands pinched and played with the other, you moaned at the sensation

“most perfect fucking tits” she said more to herself than anything, each time she squeezed she moaned like it was being done to her instead

“mmm paige, need more” you said because as amazing as her mouth felt on your boobs, you knew it would feel better somewhere else

“yeah mama? whatchu want? tell me”

“want you to touch my pussy” you said breathy and in a voice you never heard yourself have before

“how can i say no when you ask me so nicely?” she said before making her way down your body and pulling off your panties

paige spread your knees and without warning licked one long stripe chasing you to gasp at the sensation

“please paige” you practically begged not wanting to wait any longer to have her mouth on you, and in similar sentiment paige couldn’t wait to taste you again

she dived right in licking and sucking at your clit with such passion it made you question ever sexual relation you’ve had up to know

the way her tongue skillfully worked your needy clit nipping and sucking until it was puffy making you feel like you were on cloud nine and everytime she moaned her voices send vibrations through your entire body making you shudder, you didn’t think it could get any better until she put 2 fingers in you

she was scissoring them in and out at the perfect speed, curling them hitting that spot inside you that had you seeing stars, her fingers combined with her mouth had you threatening to close your thighs around her head

“nuh uh, keep them open pretty” she said addingg another finger making the sensation even stronger

“Paige!” she was all you could think about, her lips sucking on your clit, her tongue lapping you up like it was her last meal, her long fingers going in and out curling into that same spot each time, your hand in her hair that you had been tugging on more than you’d like to admit

the heat in your stomach felt like you were going to explode soon, you were on the edge and paige knew it

“s—so close! don’t stop—p! Fuck!” all your senses where overwhelmed when paige reached her free hand up and pinched your nipples between her fingers

your vision blurred as you reached your peak, with you back arching off the bed and your thighs clamping around her head, not that paige minded, she kept her movements going until she could feel your body go limp under her

then she climbed back up and put her fingers to your mouth which you immediately opened and she placed the fingers that were inside you in your mouth causing her to moan at her actions

“so sweet thought you deserved a taste”

you just sucked her fingers clean then opened you mouth to released them with a pop

“c’mon pretty let’s go to sleep”

“what no? let me get you” you said feeling bad that all you did was receive when you were more than happy to give her anything she wanted

“next time mama, tonight was about you, and i know you’re tired” she said while pulling you into her side and pulling her blanket over you both, you didn’t realize it until then but you really were tired, it had been a long day and you were already exhausted before getting here

“goodnight paige”

“goodnight y/n”

—

part 2 where you get paige back? lmk

hope yall enjoyed!

[dollyfiles]

sending affair!rafe’s wife your sextape

cw: slight smut, angst, infidelity, toxic behavior, explicit language

your finger hovered above the send button, the screen glowing against your face. your heart was pounding but your lips were curled into a satisfied little smirk. about to finally do what he swore he would but never had the courage to.

the video of you two was paused mid-frame, frozen on the image of his cock buried deep inside of your cunt, his hand tangled tight in your hair, knuckles white, grunting your name. you made sure of it.

you had filmed it without any thought back then. not out of spite. you did it just because part of you wanted to capture how he looked when he was only yours. and when he forgot everything else.

you replayed the whole thing twice, just to catch every angle, every detail that made it undeniably him. the timestamp. the ring on his finger. his voice, rough and breathless, whispering things he swore he’d never say to anyone else.

“i’m gonna leave her,” he had promised, over and over, tracing circles into your skin like the lies came from muscle memory. he always said that between kisses, between moans, after he promised he’d turn the car around and never go back to her.

but every morning he did. so tonight, you decided for him. you were tired of his games, playing both you and his wife like fiddles. you took a deep breath. blinked. and then pressed send.

all while rafe was sitting at the dinner table, a plate of half-eaten lasagna in front of him. his wife was cleaning dishes, humming to herself, while their daughter had already been tucked into bed after her usual routine of asking her daddy to read her a story.

then his phone buzzed. he didn’t move right away though. just figured it was a work email or some of the guys messing around in the group chat. but then it buzzed again. and your name lit up the screen.

his stomach dropped immediately. he picked up the phone slowly, already knowing he shouldn’t. and the thumbnail of the video was enough to send heat rushing to his face. but his thumb pressed down anyway. he just had to be sure.

the room was filled with the unmistakable sound of him. his voice. low and hungry. intimate in a way it never should’ve been outside of that room. he looked frozen, like he was watching someone else do it. but it was him. his body. his face. his words. no denying it.

‘say it again,’ he begged on the screen. ‘i love you.’ your voice echoed, breathless. ‘i’m leaving her. i swear it.’ rafe gulped, fork still in hand. he didn’t breathe. didn’t blink. didn’t hear his wife until it was too late.

“rafe?” her voice was soft, almost confused. then the clink of a plate being placed down. all because her phone had buzzed the same time as his. because it was synced with the home account. so she had gotten it too. it only took a second or two.

she looked at him across the room, towel in one hand, phone in the other. she didn’t cry. didn’t scream. didn’t ask why. she just stood there, staring at him like he was something rotting on the floor.

“pack your shit and never come back.”

seven words. that was all it took for his world to crash down on him. he wanted to scream, to hit something, to take it back. but he couldn’t. you had sent it. and you definitely meant to.

he left the house in silence. no shoes, no coat. didn’t even realize his hands were shaking until he was gripping the steering wheel like it was the only thing keeping him sane.

rage curled up in his throat. shame followed right after. he wanted to blame you. he wanted to undo everything. but the most irritating thing was… you didn’t lie. you only followed through with what he was too afraid to do.

while rafe was having the worst night of his life, you were curled on your couch, glass of red wine in one hand, legs tucked under a fuzzy blanket, just relaxing before his message came in.

“you think this shit is fucking funny, huh?”

your grin widened. oh, how satisfying it felt. you could almost hear the panic in his voice, the crash of his carefully constructed life shattering around him like broken glass. he had always been so in control. so careful. so calculated. and now? he was unraveling.

“you always said you wanted to be with me. now you can.”

you typed out lazily. because the truth was, you didn’t feel bad. you had spent months hiding in the shadows of his choices. waiting, aching, believing the lies he told so easily. but not anymore. you were done being the secret.

rafe sat alone in a gas station parking lot, palms sweaty, breath shaky, your text burning holes into his screen. his jaw clenched as he read it over and over. it tasted like guilt, like regret. like everything he’d been running from had finally caught up to him. and the worst part?

you weren’t sorry. and you looked fucking beautiful in the video. wild. confident. smirking into the camera like you knew exactly how this would all play out. and deep down, rafe had always known that it would end like this. it had to one day.

now his wife hated him. his daughter would grow up without knowing why her dad stopped coming home. he had no one now. except you. and god, wasn’t that the most fucked up part of it all?

you were all he had left now.

tags: @applebitings @bradshawed @sugaredbambi @rafesangelita @rafessecret @inspiredangel @et6rnalsun @st6ined @acklesangel @nemesyaaa @rafekisser @littlelamy @inbred-eater @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @lacyydollette @barrysluv

[clearsaturns]

ઇ ࣪˖ Brush fire

Conrad Fisher x Fem!reader. masterlist.

summary: You and Conrad have been best friends for almost four years. When his brother’s wedding arrived, he asked you to go with him as his date, which you gladly accepted.

warnings: Je**miah Fisher. Fluff. Use of y/l/n. The summer I turned pretty season 3 spoilers (exactly from ep 7). English it’s not my first language.

Author note: Hi! So I didn’t really know what to do with this, so i’m thinking about maybe writing a part 2 of this. Also, this is me praying for my baby connie to find something better and be happy forever.

To say your friendship with Conrad Fisher was boring would be an abomination—completely impossible to understand or accept.

You met him about three years ago—through Agnes—at a small get-together with mutual friends. From that moment on, it was as if a spark of electricity had ignited between you two, and neither of you ever looked back.

As the years passed, you got to know Conrad more deeply, and he got to know you. One night on the beach, under a sky scattered with stars, a glowing full moon, and the crashing rhythm of the waves, you opened up about the pain you’d endured with your ex. Not long after, he shared everything about his past in Cousins Beach.

It wasn’t long before you convinced the brown-haired boy that maybe what you both truly needed was therapy. And to your surprise, Conrad agreed that very day.

Maybe he realized it was the best option.

Or maybe, feeling your support, he knew it was finally the right time.

But it couldn’t have been both… right?

Month by month, your friendship became the kind others envied. The laughter was effortless, the touches became second nature, and the tension in your lingering eye contact grew undeniable. But you were just friends, so all of that was normal… right?

Conrad stared nervously at the floor, scratching the back of his neck. “I need your help.”

You smiled faintly, still typing on your laptop. You’d known he had something to say the moment he walked through your apartment door with two coffees and a waffle—your favorites, of course. He always remembered.

“Tell me, Connie.” you replied, eyes still on the screen.

“You know how I told you a few days ago about the wedding…”

You nodded before he could finish. “Jeremiah and Belly. Yeah.”

Finally, he stopped pacing around the couches and sat down across from you. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and looked you straight in the eyes with a kind of quiet determination.

“I wanted to ask if you’d come with me… as my… date? Or, I mean, just as my plus-one?” He shrugged, tracing slow circles on his knee with his index finger. “If you’re busy, or you don’t want to go, or you already have plans, I totally get it. No pressure.”

“Con…” you began, but he cut you off.

“I think you mentioned something about work this week, something important. I just remembered. Sorry. I really understand if you can’t…”

His gaze dropped again, just as nervous as when he first walked in.

“Conrad!” you exclaimed, shutting your laptop and walking over to him.

Standing in front of him, you leaned down gently, placing your hands on his knees. He looked up, surprised by your sudden closeness, and his eyes met yours—nervous, hopeful, searching.

“I’d love to go with you to your brother’s wedding, Con.” you said softly, your voice warm and steady, like a secret meant only for the two of you.

His expression shifted instantly. The tension in his shoulders melted away, and for the first time in weeks, he seemed to breathe freely. A shy smile tugged at his lips—the kind he only gave when he felt truly seen.

“Really?” he murmured, as if he needed to hear it again to believe it.

“I’d go anywhere with you.” you replied, letting your fingers trace a small circle on his knee, mirroring the gesture he’d made moments earlier. “And if that means standing beside you on such an important day, then there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

Conrad let out a quiet laugh, the kind only you could decode. It wasn’t nervous or sarcastic—it was grateful. It was tender.

“Thank you.” he whispered, like the words weren’t enough to hold everything he felt.

And in that moment, with the soft glow of sunset spilling through the window and the scent of coffee still lingering in the air, you knew something had shifted between you.

The salty breeze hit you the moment you stepped out of the car, carrying with it the scent of ocean air and sun-warmed sand. The house at Cousins Beach stood just as Conrad had described—weathered in the most charming way, with its pale blue shutters and wraparound porch that seemed to hold a thousand summer memories.

Conrad lingered beside you for a moment, his gaze fixed on the house. You could tell he was somewhere between nostalgia and resolve. He took a deep breath, then turned to you with a soft smile.

“You ready?” he asked, voice low. “They can be a lot to take sometimes.”

You nodded laughing softly, and together you walked up the porch steps. The door creaked open before you could knock. Jeremiah stood there, barefoot, wearing a linen shirt and that familiar easy grin—though it faltered slightly when his eyes landed on Conrad.

“Hey, man.” Conrad said, his tone calm, almost rehearsed.

“Hey, Connie.” Jeremiah replied, with a giant smile that could almost look fake to you. “It’s been a while.”

There was a pause. Not cold, either warm, just a pause that held a lot of history.

Then a brunette girl appeared, you guessed that it was Belly. She was behind Jeremiah, her expression unreadable. Her eyes flicked to Conrad, then to you, then back to Conrad again.

“Hi.” she said, offering a small smile.

“Hi.” Conrad echoed, then stepped aside, gesturing toward you. “This is—well, you know her name. She’s the one I told you about.”

Jeremiah’s eyebrows lifted, and a slow grin spread across his face. “Ah… so she’s the one you wouldn’t shut up about.”

You laughed nervously, but Conrad didn’t flinch. He just smiled, eyes still on you. His left hand was soft on your back, and you could swear that you felt him caressing it slowly.

“I didn’t talk that much.” he muttered, trying to hide the soft pink coming to his cheeks.

Jeremiah chuckled. “You did. You really did.”

Belly’s gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, then she stepped forward. “It’s nice to meet you,” she said with her polite tone.

“Nice to meet you too.” you replied, offering a hand she gladly took.

The silence that followed was brief but heavy. Then Jeremiah clapped his hands together. “Well, come in. We’ve got drinks, snacks, and a playlist that’s stuck in 2016.”

Conrad gave you a look—half amused, half grateful—and you followed them inside.

The house was filled with echoes of summers past. Photos lined the walls, laughter drifted from the kitchen, and the sound of waves crashing just beyond the porch reminded you that this place had seen love, heartbreak, and everything in between.

But as Conrad leaned in slightly and whispered, “If it gets to much for you, and you need to take a break just tell me, okay?”

A half smile appeared in your face. “Will do.”

The house was completely charming—just as you’d imagined it after hearing Conrad talk about it. The walls were decorated with family photos, soft blue tones that matched the beachy, nostalgic vibe of the home, and the backyard was stunning, opening up to a breathtaking view of the ocean.

Now you understood why Conrad loved this place so much.

You held a picture frame in your hands, one that had been sitting on the living room table. It showed Conrad and his mom, Susannah, sitting in the sand with the house in the background. They were hugging, both of them wearing huge smiles that made you smile without even realizing it.

“I didn’t know you liked snooping,” said a very familiar voice from the living room.

You quickly placed the frame back where it belonged, feeling like a kid caught doing something mischievous.

“Sorry,” you said, biting your lip and hiding your hands behind your back.

Conrad laughed, watching your reaction. “I’m messing with you. I don’t mind.” He walked over and glanced at the photo you’d just been holding. “You can keep snooping. Pretend I’m not here.”

You smiled when you noticed the shift in his expression as he looked at the picture with his mom. You knew he missed her more with each passing day, but it comforted you to know you’d always be present for him when he needed it—just like he was for you.

“You look just like her,” you said, resting your head on his shoulder.

Physical affection between you two wasn’t constant, but when it happened, it was natural. It didn’t happen every day, only in certain moments—but it never failed to send butterflies through both of you.

“I miss her. More in days like this. Being here.” He tried to smile, but couldn’t quite manage it. “I’m glad you’re here. I don’t know what I’d do with all of them on my own.”

You both laughed, glancing out the window toward the backyard. Everyone was singing and jumping into the pool, enjoying the day far more than anyone had expected.

“We should go out there, don’t you think?” you said, raising an eyebrow as Redbird dropped his pants and flashed Jeremiah. “Or maybe not. I don’t think they care.”

You managed to ignore them for a few minutes, but eventually it became impossible. You knew Conrad didn’t always feel comfortable in big social settings, but this was his brother’s day. Deep down, he’d regret not being part of it. So after talking it through, you both decided to head out to the pool.

“Finally! The lovebirds stopped making out!” Jeremiah shouted, raising both hands—each holding a beer.

“We’re not—” Conrad stammered, flustered.

“Sure,” Steven rolled his eyes, then winked at him.

Hours passed as Conrad laughed and shared stories with his brother, Steven, and their friends. Meanwhile, Taylor pulled you into a conversation with Belly and Anika. You got to know them a little, and couldn’t help but genuinely like them.

“Hey, y/l/n!” a familiar voice called from the corner of the pool.

Conrad.

You turned your head. He was pointing to the spot beside him, clearly wanting you to come join him.

When you got to his side, he asked you. “Everything okay?” He couldn’t help but worry about how you were like always.

“Everything is more than fine. In fact they are quite nice.”

Steven interrupted the little conversation, throwing himself into the pool taking a turn in the air, which only made water fall everywhere. You laughed from where you stood near the edge, watching the chaos unfold.

“Classic Steven” he said, laughing at the girl’s reactions. “He’s been doing that since he was ten.” Then he gave you his beer for you to drink a little.

You took a sip, the cold beer being a relief against the heat. “You ever cannonball?”

Conrad smirked. “Once. Broke a pool float and got banned from Belly’s birthday party for an thirty five minutes.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Thirty five? That’s oddly specific.”

“Steven was the judge. He’s always been dramatic.”

You both laughed, and then Conrad looked at you with a funny face. He was floating lazily, arms stretched out, eyes half closed.

“So” he said, cracking one eye open. “I think it’s your turn to tell me things. What’s your most embarrassing summer story?”

You groaned. “That’s a trap.”

“Absolutely.”

You thought for a moment. “Okay. I once tried to impress a guy by pretending I knew how to surf. Got on the board, immediately wiped out, and the board hit me in the face. I had a black eye for a week.”

Conrad burst out laughing. “That’s… honestly impressive. You committed.”

“I committed to the lie. Not the sport.”

He grinned. “I once tried to serenade a girl at a bonfire. Guitar, candles, the whole thing.”

You blinked. “That sounds romantic.”

“It would’ve been, if I hadn’t forgotten the lyrics halfway through and accidentally started singing a Taylor Swift song instead of the one I wrote.”

You snorted. “Which song?”

He looked sheepish. “You Belong With Me.”

You doubled over in laughter, nearly splashing water. “That’s iconic.”

“She didn’t think so. She thought I was making fun of her.”

“Did you get the girl?”

“Nope. But I got a viral video out of it. Steven posted it.”

You floated closer, the water gently lapping between you. The distance was shrinking, but not quite gone. There was something in the way he looked at you—like he was trying to memorize the moment without saying it out loud.

“You’re different here.” you said quietly.

He turned to you, his expression softening. “Different how?”

“Lighter. Like you’re not carrying the whole world on your shoulders.”

Conrad looked away for a second, then back at you. “Maybe I’m just carrying less of the past.”

You nodded, letting the silence stretch. It wasn’t uncomfortable. It was full of things unsaid. And for some reason, you even started overthinking about it. About the two of you, about everything that has happened all this years.

“Do…”

Jeremiah called out, interrupting you without knowing “Anyone want some burgers?”

Conrad smiled. “We should go before Steven eats all of it.”

You lingered a moment longer in the water, the tension between you like a thread—pulled taut, but not snapped.

As you climbed out of the pool, Conrad offered you his towel, his fingers brushing yours just briefly.

It wasn’t like any other spark.

It felt like a burn that would stay forever marked.

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

Velvet Heat & Country Sin

Summary: In the thick Mississippi heat of the 1920s, identical twins Elijah “Smoke” Moore and Elias “Stack” Moore return home from war—ragged, restless, and searching for something steady. Promised opportunities have dried up, and the only offer worth taking comes from August Langston, a wealthy Black ranch owner and old friend of their father’s. August gives the boys work and a place to sleep on his sprawling land just outside Clarksdale.

Warnings: HARDCORE SMUT (Age gap, threesome, intense masturbation, voyeurism, exhibitionism, hyper sexuality, cheating, oral fixation, dirty talk, domination, teasing, rough sex, degradation, mirror kink, violence)

Part Two

Delphine was born in Mobile, Alabama—the youngest of seven daughters in a strict Creole family. Her mother was a laundress, her father a butcher with a heavy hand and high expectations. All her sisters married preachers, deacons, or respectable men. Delphine, though… Delphine sang. She had a voice like velvet sin and hips that moved like water. At 16, she started sneaking out to sing in juke joints under a false name: Zadie Belle

At 20, she left Mobile altogether. The whispers, the judgment—it wasn’t for her. She went to New Orleans for a time, sang in backroom clubs and high-society parlor rooms. She learned how to wear silk, how to make a man fold with a smile. She also learned how to protect herself.

By 26, she’d grown tired of running and aching. That’s when she met August Langston in Jackson. He was already a wealthy widower with land and the kind of quiet confidence that made her feel seen but not owned. He didn’t mind her past. In fact, he liked that she’d lived. He courted her gently, bought her a ring with a red garnet, and promised her peace.

He brought her to Clarksdale, and she bloomed.

In Clarksdale, she became the community darling. Her peach cobbler won the summer fair three years in a row. Her biscuits were written about in the local paper. Church women asked her for recipes and secretly prayed she’d gain weight. Their husbands tipped their hats to her and tried not to linger too long.

But Delphine had no children. No sisters nearby. August was kind, but often cold—buried in his grief, in his work. And so her days became routines. Her nights became quiet. The ache returned—but softer this time. Patient.

Until Smoke and Stack Moore showed up.

Langston Homestead Clarksdale, Mississippi 1921

Late afternoon, thunderclouds rolling

The lace curtains trembled as the wind slipped through the cracked window, carrying with it the scent of baked red clay, tobacco, and something darker—like the ghost of rain. Delphine Langston sat at her vanity, one stocking rolled up her thigh, the other still limp across her lap. Her fingers had paused on the clasp. She wasn’t really getting dressed. Not anymore.

She was just pretending to finish the ritual of womanhood. Powder. Rouge. Silk. So August wouldn’t call her lazy.

Her reflection in the glass didn’t lie. She was still beautiful—lush curves that begged to be touched, a face that softened men into yeses. Honey-gold skin with that little glow she couldn’t scrub off. The kind of woman born to sin and worship in equal breath.

But in this house, there was no breath left for her.

Behind her, the bedroom was dim—August’s Bible still open on his side of the bed, a pressed suit jacket draped over the chair, and the faint scent of pomade where his head had rested the night before. That’s all they shared now. A bed and blame.

Their marriage hadn’t always been cruel.

He used to devour her—on Sunday mornings when the church bell rang and her thighs were still warm from sleep. She used to make him beg, right there in the kitchen, flour on her wrists, his mouth on her breast, whispering how sweet she was.

But things changed after the miscarriage. After the second one.

The third broke something in him.

Delphine had tried to hold him through it—tried to love louder, touch softer, give more. But August had turned away. First from her body. Then from her mouth. Then from her name.

Now he called her Delphine like it was a burden. A punishment.

He’d stopped fucking her, but he hadn’t stopped watching.

That was the worst part.

The nights she came to bed in her silks, warm and ready—he’d lay still, eyes open, jaw clenched. If she reached for him, he’d shove her away.

“You think every ache means I owe you my hands?”

“You don’t get to be greedy and godless, Del.”

He said things like that. Preacher things.

Only behind closed doors, they had thorns.

When he caught her touching herself once, in the bath, steam rising around her like the Garden of Eden—he yanked the curtain back so hard it tore, grabbed her by the wrist and hissed:

“You ever put your hands there again and I’ll burn every mirror in this house. You hear me?”

She did.

And she ignored him.

Because if she didn’t touch herself, she’d lose her mind.

Delphine had always been too much for polite company. She liked her skirts a little tighter. Her laugh a little longer. Her hips unapologetic.

Even as a girl, men stared. Women whispered. Her mama warned her,

“Men don’t marry hunger, baby. They only taste it.”

But August had married her. Because he couldn’t help it. Because her shine blinded him, until the light soured in his mouth. Until his own hunger turned bitter.

Now, when he looked at her, it was with contempt. Like her very body was the serpent that ruined Eden.

Still, she stayed.

Because where would she go?

Because her name sounded good next to his.

Because she still had dresses that hadn’t been torn at the seams yet.

Because even in her loneliness, she could feel something crawling beneath her skin—need, ache, defiance.

Sometimes she wanted to scream. Other times, she wanted to spread her legs on the front porch just to spite him.

And most nights?

She just wanted to be touched.

Not as a warning. Not as a sin.

But like a woman.

Everybody in Clarksdale knew who Delphine Langston was, whether they’d met her or not.

She was talked about, not just spoken to.

They whispered her name like it belonged to something sweet but dangerous, like peach preserves left too long in the sun. Her house—set high on Langston Hill, white columns wrapped in wisteria vines was the kind of place people pointed at while driving slow, just to say, “That’s where she lives.”

Some said she used to sing in juke joints under a different name. Others said she’d been too wild for that city, sent away with a trunk full of silk slips and a whisper of scandal. But when she arrived in Clarksdale, she wore Sunday gloves and walked with the poise of a woman who already knew she’d be remembered.

And Lord, she was remembered.

The older women called her fast, even if she never raised her voice or her hem in public. The younger girls envied how men turned to watch her walk, even the ones who came to town just to sell feed or pick up sermons.

“She ain’t never had a bad hair day.”

“Bakes like an angel, but she talks like she’s sinnin’.”

“Too much swing in them hips for a godly woman.”

But no one could prove a damn thing.

She brought pies to the church socials. She judged the baking contests with a smile like honey melting off a spoon. She hosted teas with rose-colored punch and ribboned napkins, her garden blooming wild behind her. And every year at the Delta Sweet Tooth Jubilee, she’d float in wearing peach chiffon and leave with the silver cake platter—again. No one ever beat her, except the year she let Miss Carrie win with a lopsided lemon tart and a hopeful smile.

Delphine just clapped slow and said,

“Sweetness is better when it’s shared.”

But still, there were murmurs.

Because some things didn’t add up.

Like the way her roses grew bigger than anyone else’s. Or how the peach trees behind her house bore fruit two months early. Or how she always seemed to know which marriage was about to crack before it did.

She didn’t keep many friends—just a circle of the wise.

Josephine Clay from the hat shop, who wore gossip like perfume.

Birdie Franklin, old seamstress with secrets in her hands.

Eunice Carter, the librarian who loved romance and knew every book Delphine checked out, even the ones she read twice.

They didn’t visit often. They came in the afternoons when the light was gold and long, and left before dark like they knew better.

Because at night, Delphine’s house felt different.

Lights low. Jazz records whispering behind the windows. Smoke curling from the chimney, thick and sweet. Sometimes it smelled like woodsmoke and bourbon. Other times—something else.

A few folks claimed they caught a whiff of reefer near the garden gate. But no one dared mention it directly. That garden was sacred ground. Tended with bare hands and humming lips. Past the sugar cane and the lilac, there was a patch of green she called her wild corner. Peaches hung low. Morning glories climbed the trellis. And if you looked real close, you’d see something else winding among them—tall, leafy, and forbidden.

Delphine never admitted to smoking.

But she kept her blunts hidden like heirlooms—in the spine of a cookbook, beneath her vanity, wrapped in silk beside her pearls.

When she smoked, she did it slow.

Peach papers, honeyed tips, eyes closed like she was listening to a memory.

They said August Langston didn’t see her anymore. That he’d grown more rigid, more righteous, called her too worldly for a wife. But he still wore the shirts she pressed. Still ate the pies she baked. Still came home to her bed, even when he turned his back on her in it.

Delphine let him turn.

She had other ways of being seen.

There was a night once—storm rolling in, sky purple as bruised fruit—when Stack Moore claimed he smelled peaches on the breeze from halfway across town. He followed it like a trail, all the way up the hill, until he saw her on the back porch. Barefoot. Hair loose. A blunt resting between her fingers like it belonged there. She didn’t invite him in. She just smiled, took a slow drag, and tilted her chin like she knew what he’d come for…

Present Day — Langston Estate

The cucumbers were coming in fat this year.

Delphine crouched low, her dress riding up at the back, knees in the dirt as she reached for one thick and gleaming with dew. Her fingers curled around it slowly, and her breath caught before she could stop it.

It wasn’t the heat that flushed her cheeks.

It was memory.

The weight of that cucumber in her hand stirred something just beneath her skin—something she thought she’d buried in the sweat-soaked hush of summer nights. She bit her bottom lip and dropped it in the basket with the others. But her fingers lingered on another, longer one, still slick from the vines.

She squeezed her thighs together.

Not now. Don’t you dare.

But her mind had already slipped—back to when the house was empty, back to when August had left for a church trip and didn’t so much as kiss her goodbye. Back when she needed something to hush the ache that lived between her legs and bloomed behind her ribs.

She started having flashbacks to last summer:

Just after sunset. Her bedroom. Alone.

The cucumber was cold in her hand, smooth and thick—ridges near the base, just like she liked it. She’d chosen it deliberately. Not too short. Not too soft. A firm, greedy thing that could make her forget the sound of August’s snore across the bed. Forget how long it had been since his fingers traced her ribs like he used to. Since he kissed the inside of her thighs like he meant it.

She shut the door behind her, slipped the bolt.

Laid the cucumber on her vanity like a man laid out for offering.

Her slip dropped to the floor, and Delphine stepped out of it, bare as the day she was born except for the sweat-slicked ribbon tied around her wrist from earlier—an old habit she kept from her singing days. A little piece of red, like a sin.

She padded to the bed, slow. Delphine laid back against the pillows, spreading her legs as if she were opening the gate to a secret garden. Her fingers trailed first—slow circles, sweet teasing—until her thighs trembled and her pussy throbbed, wet and wanting.

The cucumber dragged across her lips, cool and slick with her own spit. She suckled the tip first, tongue curling around it, imagining it was something warm, alive, something that could moan for her.

“Mmm…” she hummed, low and filthy, “Lord…”

She slid it down her body, over her breast, the nipple puckering tight as she pinched one and teased the other with the cucumber’s weight. Then lower—beneath the curve of her stomach, until it nestled right where she needed it most.

She pushed the head of it in, slow at first, savoring the stretch. Her mouth dropped open.

It filled her—filled her—better than August ever bothered to. Her back arched, one hand squeezing her tit while the other worked the cucumber deeper inside, fucking herself with it in lazy, slow thrusts that grew faster, wetter, more desperate.

“S’what you get,” she whispered to no one, “Leavin’ me starvin’.”

Her legs fell wider. The candle flickered, catching the glisten between her thighs, the slick shine on that cucumber as she drove it in and out, harder now, faster.

The bed creaked. The air thickened. And Delphine—wild-eyed and flushed—let go.

Her orgasm hit like thunder. Back arched, thighs trembling, a moan so deep it sounded like prayer. She didn’t stop right away. She fucked through it, shuddering, riding the wave until her legs twitched and her hips stilled.

The cucumber slipped free with a messy sound and dropped to the sheets.

Delphine panted, bare chest heaving. She smiled, wicked and slow, dragging the cucumber up to her mouth and tasting herself on it.

“Mmm,” she sighed, licking the tip, “Maybe I’ll plant more.”

Later that week. House empty. She’s alone again.

Delphine couldn’t stop thinking about that damn cucumber.

She’d meant to toss it. Had left it beside the bed, a mess of dried slick and dirt clinging to the skin. But every time she looked at it, her thighs pressed tighter together.

And now?

Now she was on her knees.

Hands on the mattress. Ass arched high. The old mirror propped against the wall gave her just enough view to watch herself—a wicked little thrill that had her breath hitching before she even started.

She took the cucumber again—rinsed and chilled. Cold enough to make her gasp when she pressed it between her cheeks and rubbed it against her folds, dragging it slow, teasing herself till she was wet and aching.

“Fuck…” she breathed, lifting her hips higher. “C’mon, baby…”

She pushed it in.

Thick. Firm. A tight stretch that filled her just right.

She rocked against it, letting it glide in deep. Her ass jiggled with each thrust. Her toes curled. She moaned, low and deep, the sound raw as dirt.

She reached beneath her, fingers finding her clit, circling quick and mean, while the cucumber moved in and out—in and out—leaving her gasping, begging under her breath.

“Take it,” she muttered, eyes locked on her reflection, “Take all of it, girl.”

She shoved it deeper, grinding back, fucking herself from behind like she needed it to split her in two just to feel whole again.

The sound—wet, shameless. Her cheeks flushed. Her body glowing with sweat.

She came hard, hips stuttering, thighs shaking, face buried in the crook of her elbow. But she didn’t stop. Not at first. Kept it going till the aftershocks left her panting and limp, her cunt twitching around the garden-grown sin she couldn’t quit.

Afterward, she pulled it out with a sigh.

Licked it clean.

And laughed—quiet, breathless, wicked.

August could stay gone if he wanted.

She had roots that could ruin her.

And she wasn’t ashamed of one damn thing.

Delphine blinked, back in the garden, the sun pouring over her shoulders. She stood slowly, wiped her hands on her apron, and pressed her thighs tight together again.

She glanced down at the cucumber in her basket.

A long one.

A perfect one.

She smirked, but didn’t take it to her room.

Not this time.

Because there were new men coming.

And she had a feeling…

She wouldn’t be needing cucumbers much longer.

The clink of cutlery and low hum of women’s laughter danced through the sunroom like perfume. Light filtered through sheer floral curtains, dappling the wide table in shifting golden patterns. The air smelled of peaches and nutmeg, honey-drizzled biscuits still steaming in their basket, and something tart and secret in the pitcher of Delphine’s house-made hibiscus punch.

She poured refills with a slow grace, the ice clinking as it caught the light. Her dress was pale lilac cotton, sleeveless, cinched at the waist with a faded satin ribbon. Her neckline dipped just enough to stir comment but not scandal.

“I declare, Delphine,” Mrs. Clay said, fanning herself lazily from her seat near the open window, “if you made any more of these pies I’d have to roll home in a wheelbarrow.”

Delphine smiled over her shoulder as she topped off Mrs. Carter’s glass.

“Well now, I aim to keep my friends well-fed and better humored. Y’all start talkin’ cross and I’ll know I’ve skimped on the butter.”

That earned a wave of chuckles and clinks of glass, but Birdie Franklin—ever the sharper blade—glanced toward the open window and out across the side field. Her lips twitched as she caught a glimpse of sweat and movement.

“Mm,” she murmured, “That one’s Elias, ain’t he?”

Delphine didn’t look. She didn’t need to. She knew Stack’s gait now, had learned it in the back of her mind like a humming thread that tugged when he was close.

“I believe so,” she said softly, slicing into her praline loaf.

“Which one’s the quiet one again?” Mrs. Clay asked, setting down her fan and leaning forward, “Elijah?”

“Mm-hmm.” That came from Eunice, flipping a page in the small journal she carried everywhere, “Elijah’s the one barely says a word. But he watches. Quiet ones always do.”

“Mmm,” Birdie hummed knowingly, “they daddy was like that too, Lord rest his mean soul.”

Delphine paused, knife still in her hand.

“Y’all knew him?”

“Oh, honey,” Mrs. Clay laughed, “Everybody knew Isaiah Moore. Meaner than a snake in a heat wave. Used to walk around Clarksdale like he owned it, even before the war.”

“Rumor is,” Eunice added softly, “his boys the ones who finally did him in.”

That made the room go still for a breath, the quiet deep and syrup-thick.

Delphine smoothed her dress beneath the table and raised her brows just enough to be polite.

“Mm. Now that’s a story I ain’t heard.”

“Doesn’t mean it ain’t been told,” Birdie said, sipping slowly, “Some folk say they found him in a ditch. Some say he never made it back from the last time he beat their mama. Boys disappeared a few months after. Joined the war and came back men.”

Mrs. Clay leaned forward with that slow, sweet drawl that always hid a sharp edge, ““Tell me, sugar… what August think about you bein’ out here all alone while two war-weathered boys work your land shirtless in the sun?”

The room erupted in warm laughter, but the question wasn’t entirely in jest.

Delphine wiped her hands and looked down into her punch, smile soft but eyes unreadable, “August trusts me.”

“Mm. That ain’t what I asked,” Mrs. Clay teased.

Delphine only smiled, sweet and wide, like warm sugar on a pie crust, “Y’all know I’m an old married woman. I don’t go lookin’ at boys.”

But outside, as if summoned, Elijah stood with one foot on the porch step, stripping off his gloves, forearms glistening. Stack was behind him near the fence line, shirtless, gripping a shovel like it owed him money.

Delphine sipped her punch, eyes not moving from the rim of her glass, “And even if I did,” she said, voice lazy, “ain’t nothin’ wrong with admirin’ what the Lord saw fit to sculpt.”

The room erupted again, but Birdie only narrowed her eyes and leaned in. “Just don’t let the clay get too close to the fire, baby. Even sculptures melt.”

Delphine didn’t answer.

She just stood, hips rolling like a hymn, and crossed to the window. Outside, Stack glanced toward her just once, but long enough.

Long enough for her to wonder—quietly, wickedly—what it was like to be admired without restraint.

The sun had begun to lean just enough to throw the day into gold, the kind of warm where sweat felt sweet on the skin. Stack wiped his brow with the crook of his arm, muscles flexing as he tossed another bag of feed onto the cart.

The porch creaked behind him—Smoke, moving like a shadow with a job to finish. But Stack’s attention wasn’t on his brother.

It was on the house.

More specifically, the window.

The east side sunroom had the curtains drawn back just enough to let in light—and maybe let something else out. Laughter, bright and feminine, floated through the breeze like perfume. A slow trill, then a sharper cackle. That was Mrs. Clay. Then something softer, like Delphine’s voice wrapped in velvet and mischief.

He couldn’t hear the words, not all of them, but he didn’t need to.

Women’s voices carried meaning in shape and tone.

That light teasing lilt? They were talkin’ men. Stack would bet his last dime on it.

His hand lingered on the cart handle. A breeze swept through, and with it, the scent of cinnamon, sugar, and vanilla—something baked, something warm.

Something woman.

He glanced up and caught it.

Just for a second.

Delphine.

She was near the window, standing with a pitcher in her hand and her head tilted like she was half-listening, half-plotting. Her dress clung to her frame like cotton sin—light enough to hint, snug enough to tempt. She didn’t look out, but Stack felt it. Felt the shift in her hips. The swell of her backside as she turned, knowing damn well someone might be watchin’.

Smoke passed by without looking up, but Stack lingered.

“They talkin’ about us,” he muttered low, mostly to himself.

He didn’t know if it was pride or trouble sitting heavier in his gut, but it stirred something just the same.

He grabbed the next sack of feed and hoisted it over his shoulder. The weight didn’t bother him. What did was the heat curling low in his belly—the kind only a married woman with too much curve and too little shame could summon just by standin’ near sunlight.

He didn’t trust it.

But Lord help him, he wanted it.

The feed was heavy in his hands, but it moved easy. Routine. Smoke worked steady, quiet, same way he always did when his mind was full. And today, it was full of her.

Delphine.

That damn woman had a way of getting under a man’s skin without ever laying a hand. It wasn’t just her figure—though Lord knew she had one. It was the way she moved. The way she held her mouth just so, like everything she was about to say might be dipped in honey or poison depending on her mood.

Smoke didn’t say nothing when he heard the laughter.

Didn’t need to.

He just paused, back turned to the house, eyes narrowing under the brim of his hat. That sound—women giggling, gossiping, clinking glasses and cutting up like hens with too much sun—it sent a ripple through the air. The kind that told you secrets were being told over sugared fruit and drinks poured too early in the day.

Delphine’s voice rose above the others, a low, teasing drawl. Smooth. Smoky. She wasn’t laughing loud, no—hers was soft, the kind that made a man lean in to hear it. That kind of laugh could stir up trouble if you let it.

He glanced up just as Stack did. But where Stack lingered, grinning like a devil at the window, Smoke only glanced once.

Just once.

That was all he needed.

She was standing near the window, backlit by the sun like some goddamn painting. Dress clinging to her frame like steam to a kettle. Hips rounded, breasts pushing soft against the thin fabric. She had one arm resting against the sill, pitcher tilted, and her profile was sharp enough to cut a man’s breath in half.

Smoke felt it then.

That ache in his chest.

That pull.

He hadn’t touched a woman in months. Maybe longer. Not since Chicago, not since—

Doesn’t matter.

He swallowed and went back to work. Feed. Haul. Stack. Move.

But his body betrayed him. Blood stirred low, thick and wanting. He shifted, jaw tight. The way that woman moved, talked, laughed—it wasn’t just sexual. It was something deeper. Something that crept in when you weren’t paying attention and made you need.

And she was married.

Married to the man who signed his paycheck and gave him a place to sleep.

Smoke let out a slow breath, hot and shaky. He didn’t speak. He just looked at the window one more time and said in his head what he’d never say out loud.

You gon’ be a problem, woman.

And he turned back to his work, jaw tight, hands dirty, heart already unclean.

The house always got quiet in a different kind of way when August was gone.

Not just still—but open. Like it exhaled with her, finally allowed to stretch and sway and breathe without bracing for the weight of his judgment.

She moved barefoot through it, slow, deliberate. Each step padded and soft, the wood floor still warm from the sun. A silk house robe hung open over her slip — the neckline low, the hem brushing the tops of her thighs. She let it fall off one shoulder as she walked, trailing a finger along the wall just to feel something.

The light was low, coming in golden through the gauzy kitchen curtains. A pot of peach tea steamed on the stove, fragrant and sweet, filling the air with something softer than silence. She hummed a little something under her breath—an old tune from back when juke joints were her church.

She didn’t rush. Didn’t have to.

In the parlor, she poured herself a glass of her homemade cordial—something fruity, spiced, with a little kick that settled just behind the knees. She sipped slow, leaned against the doorframe, and watched the sunset fold itself across the yard.

Every now and then, her fingers would drift—brushing the tops of her thighs, teasing the hollow of her throat, tugging the sash at her waist.

Not to touch herself just yet, but to remember she could.

She caught her reflection in the hallway mirror and tilted her head, studying her own form like it was a painting. Curves still high, breasts still heavy, hips wide like a prayer chair. Age hadn’t stolen nothing from her. It had just seasoned the want.

“Mmm. Still got it,” she whispered to herself with a smile, taking another sip.

She moved from room to room like that—floating.

In the bedroom, she cracked the window just enough to let in the hum of cicadas and distant crickets. Outside, she could hear the faint echo of men still working somewhere down past the trees—Stack or Smoke maybe, lingering near the stables. She let the thought settle.

And it thrilled her.

Not their names. But the idea of being seen. Of being watched from a distance—her robe loose, her legs bare, her back turned just enough to tempt.

She sat on the edge of the bed, spread her knees slightly, and ran her palms over her thighs. The house didn’t need words. It needed movement. Heat. Her body answered.

This was her ritual when he was gone.

No lights on yet. Just dusk. Just shadows. Just her and the hush of what her life used to be.

The record crackled to life with a low hum, then the slow melt of a woman’s voice filled the room—soft, sultry, and aching. Something from a bygone jukebox. It laced the air like perfume.

Delphine moved before she even meant to.

Her hips swayed side to side, easy and slow, one hand trailing the wall as the other lifted her drink to her lips. That first sip of cordial was warm with peach and burn, and she swallowed it like a secret.

She moved through the house like molasses—barefoot, bare-legged, silk brushing her thighs. Her robe had long since slipped down her arms, hanging from her elbows now like wings. The slip beneath it clung to her in all the right places, damp in the center from heat and want.

She danced through the parlor with her head thrown back and her chest swaying, one hand trailing down between her breasts. It wasn’t for anyone but her. This was her worship.

She turned in slow circles, eyes half-lidded, dragging her fingers down her sides. The tips teased the curve of her ass before gliding up again to cup her own breast through the thin fabric.

“Mmm…that’s right, girl,” she purred to herself, “Still got these boys workin’ out in the sun, sweatin’ for somethin’ they can’t even touch.”

She laughed, breathless and drunk on herself.

The song melted into another—slower, dirtier—and she let it lead her to the front door. She opened it with a flourish and stepped out into the sticky air.

The night was still—humid and heavy like a wet mouth waiting to be kissed.

Delphine stepped out onto the porch in nothing but her pale pink slip, thin as breath, damp with heat between her thighs. No drawers. No shame. Her hips swayed with every barefoot step, and the hem caught the breeze just enough to flutter against the softness of her upper legs.

She brought her drink—peach cordial with a splash of bourbon—and sank into her porch rocker like it was a throne. The cicadas screamed and the record inside spun a sultry rhythm, low and moaning. Her glass clinked against the wooden rail as she set it down, her lips already glossy from the sweetness.

She spread her legs.

Not wide. Just enough.

Her fingers grazed the inside of one thigh, then the other, teasing herself like she hadn’t touched in months—even though she had. Even though she couldn’t seem to go a day without reaching down and finding that ache.

The moon lit her just right—her breasts pressed against silk, thighs glowing, curls stuck to her neck from the heat. She licked her lips slow.

And then she said it—

“Mmm. Goddamn, I’m wet,” she whispered to herself, fingers slipping through the slick mess already waiting at her center, “Ain’t even touched nothin’ yet.”

She circled her clit with two fingers, slow and lazy.

“You miss this, don’t you, baby?” she cooed, eyes fluttering closed, “That tongue…that dick…ain’t nobody hit it right in so long.”

She rubbed harder. Slower. Back and forth, wet fingers catching just enough air to cool, then diving back into heat. She sighed like she was sipping something rich and sinful.

“I could suck the soul out a man, make him cry on my titties…and they still don’t know how to fuck me right.”

She licked the pad of her thumb, pressed it down hard, and let out a sharp gasp.

“Ooooh, Lord…fuck. That’s it, girl. Get it just like that.”

She rolled her hips, grinding against her own hand now, the chair creaking beneath her. Her other hand squeezed her breast through the slip, dragging the fabric across her nipple till it puckered beneath her palm.

She didn’t stop whispering filth.

“Mmm. Bet they’d fall to their knees if they saw me like this. Bet them boys out there would fight to eat it first. Wouldn’t even know what hit ‘em.”

She laughed, breathy, trembling. Then moaned loud enough to stir the night.

“I’m soaked, baby…drippin’ down this seat. Just leakin’. Look at me.”

Her fingers dove deeper, middle one curling inside as she rocked. She pinched her nipple with her free hand and opened her eyes just as her climax crested—

—and that’s when she saw him.

Stack.

Standing in the darkness at the edge of the tree line, frozen mid-step. His chest rose and fell like he’d run the whole length of the pasture. Sweat glistened along his collarbone, his jaw clenched, his eyes locked to the way her fingers disappeared between her thighs.

She didn’t stop.

She moaned again—louder—riding the edge with her mouth parted and her eyes locked to his.

“You gonna watch, baby?” she purred, “Good. Watch me cum, then. Watch how I fuck myself when I can’t have you.”

And with that, she threw her head back, hips bucking, pleasure flooding her limbs. Her moan spilled into the night like a hymn turned filthy. The rocker trembled beneath her, and the slip rode up nearly to her waist.

Breathless, spent, and drenched, she licked her fingers slow like a peach pit clean of its juice—never once breaking eye contact.

He’d only come by to drop off tools.

That’s what he told himself. That’s what the box in his hand was for—some excuse to pass by and maybe catch her hummin’ in the kitchen or bent over her garden beds. Just a glimpse of her, that was all.

But what he got?

What he witnessed?

It knocked the breath outta him.

From the edge of the tree line, half-shadowed by pines, Stack froze like he’d stepped into a spell.

Delphine Langston sat on that porch like Eve herself—legs parted, slip rucked high, fingers buried in honey. He could see the shine of it. The pull of it. The pink of her mouth as she moaned and talked like no lady should.

He was hard in seconds. Stiff and thick against the seam of his trousers.

Couldn’t move. Couldn’t blink.

Every filthy word she breathed poured straight into his blood. She talked like she knew he was out there.

“Watch me cum, then.”

His jaw tensed.

He gripped the box tighter—like it could anchor him to the ground, like it could keep him from rushing that porch, dropping to his knees, and showing her just how hard he could make her come.

But he didn’t.

Because he couldn’t.

Because he was fucked.

Her body writhed in the chair, her head tossed back, and her thighs glistened in the moonlight as she spilled over the edge. She looked like ruin and redemption all at once.

Then she licked her fingers.

Slow.

Sultry.

And sauntered back inside without a care in the goddamn world—hips swaying like they were meant to start wars.

Stack didn’t move for a full minute. He just stood there, pecker straining so damn hard it throbbed with every heartbeat. He could feel the sweat roll down his spine. Could still hear her in his head.

He muttered under his breath, eyes locked on the now-empty porch.

“Goddamn woman…”

He turned and left—slow, shaky, needing to walk it off or beat it out of himself.

But her voice followed.

So did the sight of her fingers.

Back at the bunkhouse, Stack slammed the door shut behind him and leaned against it, chest rising hard.

It was dark in the bunkhouse save for a sliver of moonlight cutting across the floor. Smoke wasn’t there, probably out still working, even in the evening. He didn’t turn on the lamp. Didn’t want brightness. Didn’t need light to see her—not when her image was burned behind his eyelids.

Mrs. Delphine.

Back arched, fingers soaked, mouth open like a prayer turned wicked.

He cursed low under his breath, yanked off his belt, and dropped onto the edge of the cot that groaned beneath him.

His hand was already down his trousers before he could think twice.

“Fuck…”

He hissed the word like it burned, his palm wrapping around the aching weight of his dick. It was harder than it had any right to be. He’d been with women. Plenty. But he ain’t never seen a woman like that. Not one who put on a show just for the night. Just for the air. Just for the pleasure of it.

His strokes started slow. Deliberate. Like he was trying to match the rhythm of her hand.

“You like this, don’t you?”

Her voice echoed, thick with drawl and filth, and it made him leak onto his own fingers.

He closed his eyes.

Saw her in that rocking chair, slip hiked, breasts jiggling soft with every motion. Heard her say things that weren’t meant for no God to hear.

“Say it again,” he muttered under his breath, hips jerking up into his fist, “Talk that nasty shit again, girl.”

He stroked faster.

Rougher.

Sweat building in the hollow of his back, breath coming ragged.

He imagined her kneeling between his legs, those same slick fingers wrapped around his pecker instead. He pictured her licking the head like she did her own hand. Smiling like she knew the hold she had.

And Stack moaned. Quiet but hoarse, his voice catching in the back of his throat like a growl.

His other hand went to his chest, clenched the front of his shirt like he needed to hold on to something, anything, before he lost himself.

Then he did.

He came with his jaw clenched and her name on his tongue—deliberate, like a vow.

“Delphine…fuckkkk.”

Hot and thick all over his hand, chest heaving.

He sat there for a long time after, breathing hard, wrist sticky, staring at the wall like it might give him answers.

But all it gave him was silence.

And the ache of knowing he’d only watched.

He hadn’t even touched her yet.

Not really.

Not properly.

And Lord help him when that day came.

The door clicked shut behind her, but the night’s heat clung to her skin like a second dress.

Delphine didn’t rush. She moved slow, sensual—every step across the house a sway of hips and whispered want. Her fingers skimmed the hem of her slip, already damp with the sweetness she’d made on the porch. Her thighs still tingled. Her nipples ached with aftershock.

She walked like nothing was amiss. Like she hadn’t just rocked herself in full view of the fields.

Like she hadn’t fed the devil with her fingers.

But she wasn’t done. Not by a long shot.

Upstairs, the house was thick with the scent of warm wood and jasmine. She poured herself another sip of her drink—whiskey, a drizzle of cane syrup, and a peach slice bitten down to its core. It coated her throat like sin, smooth and slow.

“One ain’t never enough for a woman like me…” she whispered as she climbed the stairs.

She took her time drawing the bath.

Hot water hissed from the tap, steaming up the room. She added a splash of milk, some coarse salt she’d soaked with garden herbs, and just a few drops of honeysuckle oil. It bloomed through the room like temptation—sweet, floral, and thick enough to taste on the tongue. Delphine stepped in with a sigh—skin glowing, thighs parted as she sank into the water like it was a man’s lap.

The ache between her legs hadn’t eased. Not yet.

Not after the porch. Not after Stack.

She didn’t touch herself right away.

And then her hand went straight between her legs.

Her hand slid down her stomach, slow and slick. She circled her pearl with fingers already soft from soaking.

“Shit,” she gasped, finding herself still swollen. Still wet. Her pussy was pulsing again like she hadn’t already climaxed under the stars not ten minutes ago.

“That’s what happens when you don’t get touched right,” she muttered, rubbing slow, “Body don’t ever feel satisfied…”

She moaned. Louder this time.

“Greedy lil’ pussy. I spoil you too much, don’t I?”

She played with her clit in firm circles, one leg bent over the rim of the tub now, exposing herself fully to the air. Her other hand pinched a nipple, tugged it, letting the ache roll through her belly.

Steam kissed her nipples. Her thighs trembled.

“Ohh, sugar… jus’ like that. Don’t stop. Bet if one of them boys saw me like this, they’d lose they damn mind…”

She imagined it. Stack—dark-eyed, filthy-mouthed— pressed up against the glass. Or Smoke, brooding in the shadows, fist in his jeans, watching her while she moaned his name in the steam.

Delphine smiled.

“Mmm. I’d let both of ‘em watch. Maybe let one slide his fingers in while the other sucked on my tit.”

She arched again, nearly coming.

“I’m so fuckin’ nasty,” she whispered, laughing soft and breathless, “I can’t stop…I don’t wanna stop…”

Her hips rocked beneath the water, waves slapping soft against the porcelain. Her fingers plunged inside her, soaked and curling. Her palm rubbed against her clit just right.

And when she came?

She had her bottom lip tucked between her teeth, back arched beneath the waterline, thighs spreading even wider in surrender. Her moan broke the hush of the room—low, drawn-out, filthy.

She didn’t stop right away.

Even after, her fingers lingered. Teasing. Testing.

Because she wasn’t done.

She shook like a sinner caught mid-prayer—biting her lip, legs spread wide, whispering, “Fuck…fuck…there it is…just like that…”

Her breath caught. Her fingers stayed. And the heat inside her just…kept burning.

Because Delphine was hypersexual to her core—and one climax never satisfied the ache.

Not without a mouth. A fat dick. A pair of hands bigger than hers.

And she was all alone.

For now.

The water sloshed as she rose from the tub, hips swaying, slick skin catching the lamplight like glazed brown sugar.

Delphine stepped out slow, one leg at a time, graceful even in solitude. She didn’t rush to cover herself. She reached for a towel—thick, soft, white—and dragged it up her thighs, then between them, moaning softly at the sensation of terrycloth against oversensitive flesh.

“Mmm…lawd, I done wore myself out,” she murmured, not even the least bit ashamed.

She dabbed at her nipples, still pert from pleasure and the cool air, then wrapped the towel loosely around her body and padded toward the bedroom—bare feet on hardwood, wet curls clinging to her neck.

She turned on the bedside lamp with a soft click and reached for her oil.

It was her favorite: rich and golden, laced with a hint of honey, jasmine, and orange blossom. She poured a generous amount into her palms, warming it between her hands as she hummed a low, sultry melody. One of those old songs that made men want to slow drag and women want to sin.

Her hips moved in rhythm with the tune as she oiled her body—neck to shoulder, down her arms, across her breasts, slipping between them with a slow rub that made her sigh again.

“Gotta treat yourself right,” she whispered.

Her hands moved lower. Across her belly. Down the curve of her hips. She dipped into the crease between thigh and mound without pause, fingers slick with oil and memory. Her breath caught—just for a second— before she moved on, pressing oil into the backs of her thighs, then down her calves.

She stood there glowing. Glazed. Her towel had slipped open by now, but she didn’t bother fixing it. She was home. Alone. Unbothered.

Or so she thought.

Outside, across the yard, in the still of the bunkhouse…

Two men hadn’t stopped thinking about her.

Not since that porch.

Not since that moan.

Not since the curve of her thigh glistened in moonlight and she whispered filth like it was prayer.

They were hard. Restless. Wide awake.

And Delphine, back in her bedroom, oiled and humming and full of that slow burn ache again, didn’t have the faintest idea just how deeply she’d gotten under their skin.

Smoke had just finished watering the horses. His shirt clung to his chest, damp with the kind of sweat that came from both sun and silence. He wiped his neck with a rag, eyes lifting toward the house.

It wasn’t that anything looked out of place.

The porch sat quiet.

The windows glowed soft from inside.

But still—he felt it.

Like the moment right after thunder, when the hair on your arms stays raised, but the storm’s already moved on.

Something had shifted.

He cut across the yard with his usual measured stride, not in a hurry—but not dragging either. His eyes flicked toward the bunkhouse, caught the faint silhouette of Stack inside. No movement. Just a body stiff in shadow.

Smoke narrowed his eyes.

Stack was usually loud after dark—coughing, talking, playing cards alone. But now, there was nothing.

Smoke reached the steps of the bunkhouse and paused before entering. The air smelled different. Not sweat. Not horses.

Peach and honeysuckle.

He didn’t know how it got there. It was faint, but it curled into his senses like a whisper. Like sin.

He stepped inside. Stack was sitting on the cot, elbows on knees, staring at the floor like it had spoken something awful to him.

Smoke didn’t speak at first. Just watched.

“…You alright?”

Stack flinched like he’d been yanked from a dream. He rubbed his palms together, cleared his throat, and nodded—but it was all wrong.

Smoke tilted his head.

“You look like you seen a ghost.”

Stack didn’t answer. Just mumbled, “You ever want somethin’ you ain’t supposed to even look at?”

That stopped Smoke.

He let the silence hang, then said low, “All the time.”

Stack finally looked up—but whatever was in his eyes was not brotherly. It was hunger. Guilt. Obsession. A fire that had already been lit and couldn’t be undone.

Smoke didn’t press him.

But he glanced back toward the house, his jaw tight.

Whatever just happened on that porch?

He didn’t see it.

But he’d feel the ripples all night.

Smoke sat at the edge of the pond near the bunkhouses, one boot propped on a low rock, forearm draped over his knee. A cigarette burned slow between his fingers, its cherry glowing with every drag.

The air was still, thick with humidity and the quiet drone of crickets and bullfrogs. Fireflies blinked like distant sparks in the brush. Somewhere off to the left, the wind rustled through tall grass, lazy and unbothered. His sweat had dried in patches across his shirt, leaving salt lines on the fabric and a tight ache across his shoulders.

The day had been long.

August had left a list long as a preacher’s sermon before heading out of town for a few days, and Smoke had worked straight through the worst of the heat—clearing fence lines, mucking out stalls, fixing the back shed roof with nothing but a hammer and his spit. He didn’t mind work. Hell, sometimes it was the only thing that quieted the noise in his head. But it left a man hollow. Hungry.

He glanced up toward the main house, perched higher on the land like it knew its worth. The windows glowed a soft amber behind gauzy curtains, light shifting gently every so often like someone was moving from room to room.

Mrs. Delphine.

He didn’t say her name aloud, but it dripped into the front of his mind like syrup over warm bread. He hadn’t seen much of her today. Just in passing—her voice trailing down from an open window, the scent of something sweet wafting out the kitchen door. Vanilla, maybe.

Or peach.

Smoke’s stomach growled, sharp and mean. He’d barely eaten all day. Stack had grabbed a biscuit or two earlier, but Smoke? He kept his head down and got it done.

Still. A man needed something sweet after a day like that. He flicked the ash from his cigarette, watched it scatter across the grass like powdered bone, then stood up slow. He stretched, spine popping, and adjusted his waistband with one hand. His jeans were worn and heavy with dust, and the back of his neck still burned from the sun.

He gave one last glance toward the house. There was always pie on her counter. Or cobbler. Or something warm under foil that wasn’t meant for them—but she never said no when they wandered up after dark.

Besides, August wasn’t there to bark about boundaries.

Smoke started the walk toward the house, slow and steady. Boots soft against the earth, the pond behind him, and something sweeter than pie pulling him forward.

He told himself it was just a late bite.

That was all.

But his mouth was already watering.

The house was dark, hushed in that thick kind of silence the Delta kept after sundown—where every creak of the floorboard felt louder, more intimate. Only a soft amber glow came from the kerosene lamp on the kitchen counter, flickering against worn wood and glinting off glass jars of preserved peaches stacked neatly in the hutch.

Smoke stepped in slow, the screen door easing shut behind him with a muted click. He didn’t call out. Just let the warmth and scent of the kitchen guide him.

There it was.

Peach cobbler. Still warm. A golden, sticky thing in a cast-iron pan, its crust bubbling around the edges, bits of caramelized juice thick like syrup along the side. There was a knife beside it and a few forks in a crock by the breadbox. His stomach coiled in want. His mouth watered instantly.

He reached to grab one of the forks, hand hovering above the drawer—

“You fixin’ to touch my cobbler with them dirty hands?”

Smoke froze.

Her voice curled around him like molasses over hot stone—slow, thick, and edged with steel.

He turned.

Delphine stood in the threshold of the kitchen, framed by low golden light. Her robe was thin, pale cream or soft peach maybe, belted loose at the waist with one sleeve slipping halfway down her arm. And she was clearly wearing nothing beneath.

The swell of her breasts shifted with her breathing. The robe clung to her hips and stuck just enough between her thighs to suggest more than it hid. One hand was propped on her hip, the other loose by her side. Barefoot. Skin still damp. Curls slightly unruly like she’d just come from water.

Her expression? Unbothered. Amused. Like she knew the effect she had and was waiting for him to admit it.

Smoke cleared his throat, low and rough, “You right,” he muttered.

She arched a brow, lips pursed like a schoolteacher catching a boy in mischief, “Mmm-hmm. Sink’s over there.”

He obeyed without another word, rolling up his sleeves and scrubbing his hands beneath the pump faucet like he was preparing to break bread in church. Delphine watched him the whole time, leaning against the counter with a slight sway in her stance, like rhythm lived in her bones.

When he was done, she stepped forward.

“I’ll cut it. You look like you been workin’ too hard to lift a knife.”

He didn’t argue. He stood there watching her — how her robe shifted with every motion, how her thighs brushed when she moved. She bent slightly over the counter, exposing the curve of her backside beneath thin fabric, and he nearly bit through his tongue.

Delphine sliced clean through the cobbler with a sure hand, sliding a piece onto a plate so full it nearly sagged. The juices oozed around the crust like gold melting in the heat.

“You like it warm, don’t you?” she said over her shoulder, coy but casual, “Ain’t nothin’ worse than cold peach…unless you like workin’ harder for the flavor.”

She turned and held out the plate, but before he could reach for it, she lifted a forkful and offered it to his lips.

“Open up, baby,” she purred, “Let’s see how well you follow directions.”

Smoke hesitated—just for a breath—before leaning forward, mouth parting slow. She fed it to him, and her fingers brushed his bottom lip as he bit down.

“Mmm,” she smiled, watching the way he chewed, the way his jaw flexed, “Told you it was juicy.”

The taste hit like sin. Sweet, rich, buttery with just the right kick of cinnamon. But Smoke barely tasted it over the ache in his jeans and the tension curling low in his belly.

He swallowed, “It’s good,” he said, voice gravel.

She licked her own fork slow, tongue curling around the edge, “I know it is.”

There was nothing accidental about her tonight.

And Smoke knew—if he stayed in that kitchen a moment longer, he might just forget why he came up there in the first place.

Smoke chewed slow, but it didn’t matter. The taste barely registered. All he could focus on was the woman standing too close, robe slipping off her shoulder like it had plans of its own, her fingers still glistening from cobbler syrup as she licked them one by one.

“Mmm,” Delphine hummed, eyes steady on his lips. “Ain’t nothin’ like peaches in the summertime. Soft… warm…real sweet when they ripen.”

She moved to the sideboard without waiting for a response, reaching for one of her hidden bottles — a syrupy brown liquor she made herself. Strong, fragrant, kissed with peaches and something darker. She poured it into a little glass with practiced ease, the amber liquid catching the low flicker of the lamplight like it was on fire.

“You want a lil’ drink to wash all that down?”

Smoke didn’t answer right away.

He was staring at the curve of her ass as she leaned. The way her robe hiked just enough to reveal the under-curve of her cheeks—round, plush, and still faintly damp from the bath. She smelled like jasmine oil and sin. And when she turned back around, her lips were wet too. From the drink. From the pie. From the way she bit them as she looked him over.

She held the glass out to him.

He took it. Fingers brushing hers. Static snapped in the space between them.

Delphine didn’t let go of the glass right away.

“You look like you need it,” she said, her voice like a warm hand wrapping around something that shouldn’t be touched, “Long day. Long week. Hot nights make everything ache worse, don’t they?”

Smoke exhaled hard through his nose.

The glass trembled in his grip—only slightly, but she noticed.

He tipped it back and drank. All of it. Burnt peach and honey hit his tongue and slid hot down his throat, pooling like molten want in his gut. He barely made a sound. Just swallowed and set the glass down slow, careful not to look directly at her now.

Delphine stepped closer.

Too close.

“You alright, baby?” she asked, feigning softness, but her eyes were sharp, amused, “You real quiet all of a sudden.”

Smoke’s jaw worked. He couldn’t find words, and he damn sure couldn’t find breath.

Her robe brushed his forearm.

His pulse thudded like hooves in his chest.

If he stayed another second—if she leaned just a little more—he might reach for her. Might grab her waist, slide that robe off her shoulders, press her back against the counter and ruin the silence with something filthy.

He stepped back.

Just one step. Enough to keep himself from burning alive.

“Thank you for the pie,” he muttered, voice taut and dry.

Delphine smiled slow. Satisfied.

“Mmm. Anytime, sugar.”

As he turned to leave, she added—casual as ever, but laced in velvet.

“Next time…maybe I’ll let you taste it straight from the pan. While it’s still hot.”

Smoke didn’t look back.

He couldn’t.

The door clicked shut behind him, and he stepped out into the night air like a man just escaping a fever dream. Only problem was, it followed him. In his veins. In his jeans. In the way her voice curled around his name without even saying it.

He didn’t stop shaking until he was halfway back to the bunkhouse.

The late afternoon sun spilled gold over the Mississippi fields, heat rippling off the earth in slow, heavy waves. Sweat slicked the backs of Smoke and Stack’s necks as they hauled the last of the feed sacks into the barn, arms flexing, shirts clinging, forearms dusted with hay.

Dust hung in the air, sweet and dry.

They were finishing the day’s work like they always did —quiet, focused, moving with the weight of men who didn’t speak unless it mattered.

Until she arrived.

Delphine’s voice floated in before her body did—soft, syrupy, intended.

“Boys…”

They turned as one.

She stood there just outside the barn doors, backlit by dying sunlight, her silhouette framed in that soft summer glow like something divine. She wore a thin housedress — light cotton, clinging in the right places, no slip beneath. Her hair was tied up, a single curl stuck to her temple with sweat. In her hands: two tall glasses of lemonade, the condensation sliding slow down the sides.

Her smile was warm, but there was a knowing curl behind it.

“Y’all been workin’ hard all day,” she said, walking closer, hips swaying under the dress like temptation wrapped in magnolia, “Figured you could use somethin’ cold.”

She handed the first glass to Smoke. Her fingers brushed his, lingered just a beat too long. His jaw flexed. His eyes dropped to the curve of her breasts before jerking back up.

She handed the second to Stack. Her eyes met his — direct, playful, dangerous. He didn’t blink.

“Dinner’ll be ready soon,” she said, fanning herself with the edge of her skirt, “I made a peach glaze for the roast. And there’s cornbread in the oven. I expect clean hands at my table.”

She stepped back.

Turned.

Walked away.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Every step an invitation. Every sway of her hips a threat.

Neither man spoke.

They just stood there, hot lemonade in hand, hearts beating hard in their chests, watching the woman disappear across the yard in the glow of evening.

She didn’t need to look back.

She knew what was coming.

The sun had just dipped below the horizon when they made their way to the main house.

Freshly washed, skin still warm from the water, shirts clean and tucked in, hair slicked back damp—but their silence said everything. No jokes. No shoulder bumps. No laughter between them.

Just the sound of boots on porch steps, and something heavy sitting in the space between their lungs.

Like they both felt it.

Like the air had changed.

They stepped inside the house and slipped off their shoes by the door, the way Delphine liked it. Her house, her rules. Hardwood cool beneath their soles, the scent of roasted meat and peach glaze wafting through the air like some holy thing. Butter and cornbread. Sweet onion. The kind of smell that made a man feel like he belonged somewhere—or like he’d stumbled into danger too pretty to run from.

The dining table had been set with quiet care: ironed linens, polished silver, a flickering oil lamp in the center, casting soft light across two heavy plates already steaming.

She was there—of course she was.

Moving with grace between kitchen and table, hips swaying in a different dress now. Darker. Thinner. The kind that clung to her waist and fluttered just enough when she turned. Her bare feet padded across the floor, the same way she’d moved across their minds all day.

“Y’all sit. Food’s hot,” she said, voice smooth as the honey butter melting on the cornbread tray.

Smoke took the seat closest to the kitchen, back straight, hands folded. Stack settled in across from him, gaze flicking once to the platter of roast, then to the woman who placed it there.

Delphine moved between them, refilling lemonade glasses, dropping extra helpings onto their plates without asking.

“Let me know if it needs salt,” she said, standing between them. Her hand brushed Smoke’s shoulder as she leaned to pour. Her hip bumped lightly against Stack’s arm as she reached for the butter dish. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t apologize.

Just smiled.

Watched.

Waited.

“So…” she said finally, folding herself into the chair at the head of the table, crossing one leg over the other, slow and deliberate, “How y’all likin’ the work on the ranch so far?”

They both looked up.

Stack cleared his throat first, “It’s good,” he said, “Honest work. Tiring. But good.”

Smoke nodded once, quiet.

Delphine smiled behind her glass, sipped slow, “Mm. And how does it feel?” she asked, voice soft now, but direct, “Being back home in Clarksdale?”

That silence stretched.

Smoke looked down at his plate. Stack shifted in his seat, the flicker of firelight catching in his eyes.

Neither answered right away.

Delphine didn’t press.

She just looked at them both—slow, steady—like she could see what they were thinking. Like she already knew.

“Well,” she said, setting her glass down gently, “I’m glad y’all are here. The place feels different with men around again.”

Her gaze lingered.

And the shift in the air settled deeper.

Unspoken.

Undeniable.

The plates were scraped clean and pushed to the center of the table, bellies full and silence thick like the glaze she’d drizzled over the roast.

Delphine stood with a satisfied hum and smoothed the front of her dress.

“Y’all save room?” she asked, already headed for the sideboard.

She didn’t wait for an answer.

From a covered dish, she revealed a cobbler still warm —bubbling peaches tucked under golden crust, the butter baked deep and dark at the edges. The scent alone made Smoke shift in his chair. She spooned generous portions into two shallow bowls, steam curling up in soft spirals.

“Go on and get into that,” she said, placing one in front of each of them, “And help yourselves to that bottle on the counter. That’s the good stuff—peaches soaked in brown sugar, cinnamon bark, and a little caramel for the throat. She’s got a kick, though. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

She winked.

Then, without ceremony, she excused herself.

“Gonna go freshen up,” she called over her shoulder, hips swaying as she moved through the kitchen arch. “Y’all enjoy yourselves.”

And just like that, she vanished up the stairs, leaving nothing but the smell of peaches, butter, and her lingering presence in the air.

They ate the cobbler slow at first, then faster—like they were ashamed of how good it was. It was obscene, the way the syrup clung to the crust, the way the peaches slid against their tongues. Neither man spoke.

When the bowls were clean, Stack grabbed the bottle from the counter and poured two fingers each into short tumblers, carrying them out onto the porch. The air outside had cooled just enough to feel good, but the fire inside them still simmered.

They sat side by side on the porch steps. No words. Just that shared quiet that only brothers could sit in.

The liquor hit warm—smooth first, then deep. Sweet with fruit, but with a burn that cut straight to the chest.

After the third sip, Stack spoke.

Low.

Rough.

“I saw her last night.”

Smoke didn’t look over. Just took another sip.

“Saw?”

“Delphine,” Stack muttered, “Out here. On this very porch.”

Smoke’s jaw ticked.

Stack leaned forward, elbows to knees, turning the glass slow in his hand.

“She was in a slip. Barely. No drawers. Sat right over there on that swing like she wanted somebody to catch her. Legs open. One hand between her thighs.” He swallowed, “Other hand holdin’ a drink. Just like this.”

Smoke exhaled hard through his nose.

“She see you?”

“Mmhm,” Stack said. “She saw me.” He looked over now, eyes a little wild, “And you know what I did?”

Smoke didn’t answer.

Stack chuckled low, shaking his head, “Nothin’. I stood right over there by the well like a fuckin’ fool and watched her make herself come. Thought I was gon’ die.”

A silence sat between them for a long beat.

Then Smoke spoke.

“She fed me cobbler that night.”

Stack looked at him.

“Yeah?”

“Mmhmm. Sat me right at the table,” Smoke said, his voice tight, “In a robe that didn’t even bother tryin’ to close. Skin still glistenin’ from the bath. Oil on her collarbone. Water in her hair.”

He shook his head slow.

“I was starin’ at her thighs while she cut me a slice. Thought I imagined it when she let the robe slip a little lower. But she didn’t fix it. Just asked if I wanted cream on it.”

Stack barked a short laugh, but there wasn’t much humor in it.

Smoke took another drink.

“She’s gonna ruin us,” he said.

Stack nodded, voice low, “Maybe that’s the whole point.”

The screen door creaked as she stepped back onto the porch.

Delphine had changed again.

A deep red robe this time—silk, loose and low, cinched at the waist with a sash that threatened to come undone if the wind so much as breathed too hard. Her skin glowed beneath the lamplight, smooth and rich, collarbone glistening, legs peeking with every step.

She held a fresh glass of that peach liquor in her hand, and the scent of it curled around her like perfume.

Smoke and Stack sat up straight, eyes lifting.

She smiled.

“Y’all comin’ in or y’all fixin’ to sleep out here like some strays?”

They didn’t answer—just stood, followed her like they didn’t remember deciding to.

The kitchen was spotless—not a dish in sight. The table cleared, the oil lamp turned down low. Delphine passed through the room without pause and led them to the sitting room at the front of the house.

The windows were cracked to let the night air in, the lace curtains stirring just slightly. She placed her drink on the mantle, then bent down at the old record player, flipping through sleeves until she found the one she wanted.

A soft scratch…

Then the room filled with slow, humming blues— something rich and low, a woman’s voice trailing smoke through every note.

She turned to them.

“Sit.”

They did.

Smoke took the chair by the window, Stack on the couch. Delphine stayed standing—backlit by the lamp, one hip cocked, robe tied loose and low.

The tension thickened like syrup in a hot pan.

“So,” she said, sipping, “I know y’all can swing a hammer and shovel shit like the best of ‘em…but what else y’all good at?”

Stack blinked, “What you mean?”

“I mean,” she said, walking slow, bare feet soft against the floor, “when you not workin’…not sweatin’…what do you do? What do you love?”

She stopped behind Smoke’s chair, leaned down, her breath brushing his ear.

“What makes you tick, Smoke?”

He didn’t answer right away.

“Fixing things,” he said finally, voice low. “Hands need to be movin’. If not, my mind gets loud.”

She hummed behind him. “Mm. Thought so.” She moved again—toward Stack now, circling slow, “And you, Stack? What makes you feel good? What gives you peace?”

He grinned, but it was tight. “Chasin’ things I ain’t supposed to have.”

Delphine laughed—soft and wicked, “Now that sounds about right.”

She stopped in front of them now, eyes flicking between them, the air charged, the music slow and steady behind her.

“What about women?” she asked, “Y’all ever share one?”

Smoke’s jaw tensed.

Stack tilted his head. “Why you askin’?”

She stepped closer.

“Just wonderin’,” she said, voice lazy, smooth as the liquor on her tongue, “You two move like a pair. Say little. Watch a lot. Thought maybe…”

She let the words hang.

Then:

“Y’all ever been in love?”

Neither spoke.

Her smile widened, “Mm. That’s the silence I wanted.”

She stepped back now, eyes glittering.

“Stand up.”

They hesitated.

“Go on,” she coaxed. “Humor me.”

They rose—tall, slow, deliberate.

Delphine tilted her head, walked a slow circle around them like she was taking stock of livestock at auction.

“Take your shirts off.”

She didn’t say please.

Stack moved first—pulling the cotton over his head in one smooth motion, baring the hard lines of his chest, the ink, the tension. Smoke followed—slower, jaw tight, skin warm from drink and heat. His chest rose deep, dark lashes low.

“Undo them belts.”

Click. Snap. Slide.

“Open your pants.”

The moonlight crawled across Delphine’s polished floorboards, silver slipping through sheer curtains that still fluttered from the open window. The liquor she’d made—that peach-infused, caramel-slick poison— hummed low in their bellies. Her cheeks were flushed, lips glossed with heat and liquor, voice low as honey over hot iron.

She sat on the edge of the velvet ottoman, legs slightly parted, robe loose, one thigh peeking out, the scent of peaches clinging to her like sin.

Smoke and Stack stood before her, shirts discarded, belts undone, pants open but hanging low. The light painted them golden and dark, sweat on their collarbones, their dicks half-swollen with tension and drink. The air buzzed between the three of them like cicadas in the dead of July.

Delphine took a sip of her drink, swirled the liquor on her tongue, and asked—just loud enough to still be a tease:

“Y’all identical everywhere…or just the face?”

Stack blinked first, mouth twitching at the corner like he wasn’t sure if she was serious. Smoke, slower to react, shifted slightly, his jaw flexing.

“What?” Stack asked, grinning like a devil.

Delphine tilted her head, brows lifted in slow delight. “I said,” she drawled, “are y’all identical down there too?”

The question clung in the room like sweat. Her eyes dropped to their open trousers. She licked the inside of her cheek, then smiled like a satisfied cat.

“Hm. Guess I oughta see for myself.”

They didn’t answer.

They didn’t have to.

Delphine stood, slow and deliberate, and dropped to her knees between them—like she was born for this place. Like their bodies had waited for her. Her hands moved with slow grace, fingers wrapping around each shaft—one in her left, one in her right.

She looked up through dark lashes, lips parted, smile wicked, “Now don’t be shy, boys. Let me play my little spot-the-difference game.”

Smoke’s dick curved up and left, thick and aching in her hand. She turned her wrist just right, teasing the tip with the pad of her thumb as she leaned toward Stack. His was long, smooth, proud—straight and heavy against her palm. Her mouth wrapped around him like she’d dreamed of it, like she’d tasted it in her sleep.

She moaned low as her lips slid down Stack’s length, the sound raw and unfiltered. Her fingers still stroked Smoke with a firm, steady rhythm—her palm dragging slick over his shaft.

When she pulled off Stack, mouth wet, tongue flicking the edge, she turned toward Smoke and angled her neck with practiced ease. Took him deep, lips parted wide, letting him feel her devotion in every stroke of her throat.

Smoke grunted, chest stuttering.

Stack hissed, “Goddamn…”

She switched again. Mouth to Stack, hand to Smoke. Filthy. Messy. Perfect. Her spit glistened down their dicks, strings of wet trailing from her lips as she moaned, switching back and forth, keeping them on the edge—denying them rhythm long enough to make their thighs tremble.

Then came the whisper—smooth and cruel:

“Mm. You taste like you been wantin’ this since the day I made y’all cobbler.”

Both men went still. Their hands hovered, unsure whether to guide her or grip the nearest wall. Smoke cursed under his breath. Stack’s abs flexed, breath caught halfway between a moan and a threat.

She owned the moment. Not a whore. Not a prize.

A queen between her chosen warriors.

And she was just gettin’ started.

Delphine didn’t move from her knees. Didn’t waver. Didn’t flinch.

Her lips were stretched around Stack again, the head of his dick kissing the back of her throat as she moaned low, the kind of moan that vibrated through him like voodoo. Her hand never stopped working Smoke— slow strokes, wrist twisting, the pad of her thumb teasing just under the ridge, slick and sure.

They were shaking.

Stack’s voice broke first.

“Fuck. You…you really doin’ this to us, huh?”

Delphine pulled off him with a pop, eyes gleaming, mouth shiny and mean.

“Mmhm. Don’t act surprised now, baby,” she panted, dragging her tongue across her bottom lip, “Ain’t this what y’all been waitin’ on since I bent over in that kitchen with no drawers on?”

Smoke groaned low. A sound from deep in his chest. He hadn’t said much—hadn’t needed to. His breathing was ragged, hand flexing open and closed at his side like he was fighting himself. His hips rolled into her palm, lazy and tight, chasing the friction.

Delphine switched again—mouth to Smoke now, lips gliding wet around his thick curve, tilting her jaw just right to take him deeper. Her hand slid to Stack, stroking him tight, fingers closing firm around his base like she knew what he liked. And she did.

“Mm…y’all don’t taste the same,” she murmured, lips dragging off Smoke slow and cruel, “One of y’all sweet. One of y’all sharp.”

She giggled—soft, filthy—and dragged her spit-covered tongue over the tip of Stack’s long, thick pecker without missing a beat.

“But I’ll make both of y’all beg the same.”

Stack hissed.

“Goddamn, Delphine. You—”

“Shhh,” she cooed, wrapping her lips around him again.

“Shiiit,” he breathed, hands hovering, not sure if he should grab her or just fall to his knees. “She’s really fuckin’ doin’ it…”

Smoke let out a growl—rough, low, like he was losing his grip. His fingers brushed her curls, hesitant at first, then curling into her scalp, not to guide her, just to ground himself. She was working him so good he couldn’t breathe right.

Delphine pulled back, lips red and glossy, chin slick with spit. She stroked both of them now, alternating tongue and hand, one then the other, never favoring too long. Never giving them peace.

“Mmm. Look at y’all. Quiet one can’t stop shakin’. Loud one can’t stop talkin’.”

Stack’s voice was ragged. “I cain’t believe this…I cain’t believe—goddamn, baby…You got both of us out here tremblin’.”

Delphine smiled, slow and cruel.

“Mmhm. And I ain’t even used both hands yet.”

Smoke’s head dropped back. His breath stuttered. He swore again, low and hoarse.

Stack’s knees buckled, “Fuck. You gon’ make me bust just like this.”

She didn’t let up. She wanted that. Wanted to ruin them slow. One moaning. One babbling. Both broken by her mouth.

She was a storm in silk and sin—and they were helpless under her spell.

Delphine’s fingers slicked down both shafts, spit and precum shining like syrup on her knuckles. She leaned back just a little on her knees, hands still wrapped around them, like she was admiring a pair of fine weapons.

Her eyes flicked up—that wicked gaze laced with liquor, mischief, and the kind of grown-woman confidence that made men into fools.

“Mm-mm. Look at this mess,” she purred, lips curled in delight, “Y’all so hard it’s disrespectful.”

She pumped both dicks slow—one stroke then the other—comparing, measuring, grinning like a devil.

“Lemme see somethin’.”

“Mmm…” she hummed, gaze wicked, “Now that’s a decision, ain’t it?”

She looked to Stack first, stroking him deliberately, letting her thumb drag along that sensitive spot just beneath the tip.

“You got a little more length, baby,” she whispered, voice like hot molasses, “Long and mean like you know how to hurt a bitch with it.”

Stack groaned, head tilting back as his hips flexed.

Then her attention slid to Smoke—the curved thickness of him twitching in her grip. She tilted her head, lips pursed in mock thought.

“But this one…” she said, stroking him slowly, her thumb brushing the underside of his curve, “This right here? This one got that hook. The kind that finds every sweet spot without even tryin’.”

She leaned in and flicked her tongue just under the tip, not taking him into her mouth yet — just teasing — tasting him with a slow, heavy lick like the first bite of something forbidden.

“That’s a spot-hitter,” she whispered against his skin.

Smoke let out a growl that wasn’t quite human.

Delphine giggled softly, mouth still open, hands still working.

“Lord,” she murmured, almost to herself, “Y’all really thought I was gon’ pick just one?”

She kissed the air between them, not letting them touch—just owning the space between like a goddess weighing the storm in each palm.

Delphine’s laugh was sinful, low and teasing, “Baby, I ain’t even unwrapped the rest of the gift yet.”

Then she bent down again, sucking Smoke in with a wet, practiced glide—the way a woman only learns from years of knowing exactly what she’s doing. Her head bobbed slow, throat clutching him just enough to make his hips twitch forward.

She pulled off with a trail of spit connecting them, her mouth a wreck of gloss and slick. She didn’t wipe it.

“Mm,” she moaned, wrapping her fingers back around Stack, squeezing gently, stroking, “Y’all ever been sucked side by side before? Ever had a woman this grown use her mouth?”

Neither answered.

She didn’t care.

“I bet all them little fast girls y’all been fuckin’ don’t even know how to breathe through they nose,” she whispered, before swallowing Stack’s dick deep enough he nearly yelped.

“Shit!” he gasped, hands gripping the edge of the wall behind him, legs unsteady, “Delphine—baby—damn—”

She moaned around him, throat flexing, then pulled off slow, dragging her tongue along the underside until he pulsed in her hand.

“Look at you,” she taunted, “All that bark but you already whinin’.”

She turned to Smoke again, stroking him while she licked Stack’s taste from her lips.

“And you—all grunts like a damn bull. Can’t even speak. Is it that good, baby?” she cooed, wrapping her lips back around his tip and swirling her tongue with a cruel little flick.

Smoke didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

She hummed low in her throat—vibrating down his shaft—then switched again, like it was sport, like she had all night and all the power.

“Mmhm,” she said, hand stroking both shafts as she looked up, “Grown woman head. Make you forget your own damn name. Y’all gon’ fuck around and cry on me.”

Stack was damn near delirious, “You gon’ kill us,” he choked, breath ragged, “You tryna ruin two men at once.”

Delphine grinned wide now, lip shining, mouth open and wet.

“Ain’t tryin’, sugar. I already am.”

And with that, she spit between them—thick and slow —letting it drip over both shafts before stroking them together again. Greedy. Nasty. In complete control.

They were hers now.

She just hadn’t decided what to do with them next.

Delphine’s hands moved in rhythm—one stroke to Stack, one to Smoke. Separate, steady, sinful. She never let them touch. Never let them fall out of line. This was her domain. Her altar. Her ritual.

She bent toward Stack again, dragging her tongue along the side of his shaft, eyes locked on his like she was daring him to look away.

“I should be wicked and make you stroke it for me,” she whispered against his length, “Make you show me how you like it.”

Stack’s mouth opened—not to speak, just to breathe. His eyes were glazed, jaw tight, fighting for composure.

She turned to Smoke, giving him a tight stroke from base to tip, letting her knuckles press firm before she circled his tip with a slick thumb.

“And you?” she purred, “You’d just stand there, gruntin’, tryin’ not to fall apart.”

She slid her lips around Smoke’s head again, slow and nasty, moaning as he filled her mouth. Her throat clenched just enough, the pull of suction dragging a curse from his chest.

“Fuuuck—” he rasped.

She pulled off, a string of spit clinging between her lips and his dick, her mouth shiny, chin wet. She grinned.

“Mmhm. Can’t even talk, huh? I like the quiet ones best. They feel harder when they suffer in silence.”

Then she looked to Stack, her grip tightening just a little around him. Her strokes grew more deliberate.

“Touch it,” she said, tone sharp enough to cut through molasses, “Go on. Show me.”

Stack hesitated, blinking like he wasn’t sure she meant it.

Delphine tilted her head, mocking sympathy, “What’s wrong, baby? You scared I’ll watch you?”

That broke him.

He wrapped his own hand around himself, big palm stroking down slow while her eyes devoured him. Her tongue peeked out, wetting her lips, gaze flicking between his movement and Smoke’s twitching shaft still in her grasp.

“Lord,” she whispered, “That’s nasty. Keep goin’. Don’t you stop unless I say.”

Smoke groaned again, hips jerking forward as she stroked him harder, lips hovering but not touching, teasing with every exhale. She turned slightly, catching Stack mid-stroke, her grin turning dangerous.

“You tryin’ to come already, baby?” she teased, “Don’t you dare spill without me.”

She returned her mouth to Smoke—deeper now, wetter—swallowing half of him before pulling off and spitting down the length, catching it in her palm and stroking harder.

“This mine,” she said, voice wrecked and low, “This whole damn room is mine. And y’all gon’ take what I give you.”

Stack’s hand slowed, but didn’t stop.

“Delphine…” he moaned, nearly shaking, “Goddamn woman—please.”

She looked up, smug and dripping.

“Mm. One of y’all gon’ cry. Other one gon’ bite somethin’.”

She wasn’t finished.

But they were close.

Delphine’s tongue dragged slow across Smoke’s tip, then down the side, catching every pulse of his thick shaft. She didn’t take him fully—not yet. Just let him throb under her mouth while her hand jerked Stack with practiced control. The rhythm was filthy, patient, mean.

“Mmm…” she hummed against Smoke’s crown, breath hot and wet, “One taste, and he tryna climb the fuckin’ wall.”

Smoke’s fingers were in her hair now, not tugging, just there—trembling slightly, like touching her was the only thing keeping him tethered.

Stack was still stroking himself, jaw locked, chest rising sharp.

“Fuck, Delphine…fuck. You gon’ make me—”

“No, I ain’t,” she cut in, turning to him, eyes gleaming, “You hold that shit. I own that nut, baby. Don’t you dare get greedy.”

She kissed his dick—one soft kiss, right on the tip—before going back to Smoke. But this time, she took him.

Slow.

Deep.

Greedy.

She moaned as her lips stretched wide, swallowing him halfway, then deeper, letting his curve hit the roof of her mouth just right. Her throat fluttered, tongue dragging him down inch by inch. Smoke bucked, groaning through clenched teeth, his hand tightening in her curls.

“Shiiiit…” he growled, voice breaking.

She pulled off with a gasp, saliva dripping from her chin, spit trailing down the length of his shaft as she jerked him wet and messy.

“Y’all ever had head like this?” she rasped, eyes flicking between them, “Didn’t think so.”

Her hand moved fast now—a slick blur on Stack—while she licked the underside of Smoke’s dick with slow cruelty, eyes never breaking from his.

“He moanin’ like a demon,” she said, jerking Stack harder. “And you…” —she turned toward Stack— “You look like you ’bout to start speakin’ in tongues.”

Stack whimpered. Whimpered. A grown-ass man on the edge of collapse.

“Delphine, I swear to God—”

“Hush,” she snapped, biting her lip. “Don’t make me stop.”

She switched dicks again—back in her mouth went Stack, deep and fast, her throat working around him like she was made for this. Smoke’s pecker in her palm, hot and twitching, dripping onto her wrist as she pumped him with furious devotion.

Stack was babbling now.

“Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck, this is…this is crazy, you tryna end us…”

She pulled off again, lips glossy and chin soaked, spit shining across both hands as she stroked them with fast, separate strokes.

“You right,” she whispered, mouth filthy, voice low and syrupy, “I am tryin’ to end y’all. Ruin you. Take all that strength and make it mine.”

She spit again—just to make it nastier. Just to watch their knees buckle.

They were swaying. Tensing. Writhing under her.

She was the storm and the siren. The queen with both dicks in her hands like weapons she forged herself.

“Don’t you dare come yet,” she growled, teeth bared in a grin, “Not till I say. Not till I feel it.”

She slowed her strokes to a cruel crawl, just enough to keep them twitching.

“I’ll tell you when you can fall apart.”

And Lord help them both…they’d beg for the privilege.

Delphine rose slow from her knees, every movement deliberate, mouth glistening, hands still stroking them both as she stood. Her robe slid off her shoulder, hanging loose at her arms. Skin warm and kissed by candlelight. Her thighs shone from the liquor’s heat and the way she’d been working. A glimmer of sweat curled at her breastbone.

She stepped back—just enough to make them ache.

“You wanna know what I like most about this?” she said, voice velvet-drenched and low, stroking them both with a slower, crueler rhythm, “Y’all don’t know who I’m about to choose.”

Stack whimpered, still fisting himself in rhythm to her hand.

Smoke growled, jaw clenched, body flexing with restraint.

“Maybe I’ll suck Stack till he cries and make you, Smoke, sit there and watch.”

Smoke’s abs jumped.

She looked him up and down, filthy and amused.

“Or maybe I’ll ride your face while he strokes his dick watchin’ me soak it. Ain’t decided yet.”

Then she spun slow, stepping back toward the ottoman. Her foot lifted, one elegant knee bending, and she climbed up like a dancer claiming her stage.

She sat at the edge, legs spread just enough to tease, robe falling further open, revealing the soft, slick heat between her thighs. Her fingers slid down—slow, indulgent—until two dipped between her folds, wet and ready.

Stack’s hand stopped. Smoke nearly buckled.

“Mmhm. Don’t touch nothin’ now,” she warned, eyes locked on them both, “You stroke without my say-so, I’ll leave y’all in here with blue balls and bruised egos.”

She moaned, fingers circling her clit in soft, wet spirals. Head falling back just slightly.

“You see this pussy?” she gasped, “This the same one had y’all dreamin’ after one fuckin’ cobbler. And I ain’t even gave it to both of y’all yet.”

She licked her lips, rubbing slow, wetter, nastier.

“Look at you,” she whispered, “Mouths open. Dicks jumpin’. Y’all so close, I can feel it. One moan away from spillin’ like some lil’ boys.”

Her eyes snapped to Smoke.

“You want me to finish you with this mouth?” she asked, tongue flicking her top lip.

Then to Stack.

“Or you want me to sit on it and make you forget your fuckin’ name?”

They didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

She sucked her fingers clean with a loud, nasty pop. Then pointed to the floor in front of her.

“Stack. Get your ass right here.”

He stumbled forward, knees hitting the rug fast. She opened her legs wider.

“Lick. Don’t stop.”

As Stack’s tongue pressed between her thighs, Delphine tilted her head back and locked eyes with Smoke. Her hand wrapped around his cock again.

“You stay right there, baby,” she said, eyes low, “’Cause while he eat…I’m gon’ drain you.”

She leaned forward, tongue out, lips parted wide.

“Now don’t you dare come till I say.”

And with that—

She devoured him.

Stack’s mouth was buried between her thighs, tongue eager, sloppy, reverent. He licked like a man who had prayed for the taste—like it would save him. His hands gripped her thighs, thumbs spreading her open as he worked tight circles over her clit, then flicked down to taste her center, again and again.

Delphine arched against his mouth, moaning without shame, hips grinding slow. Her fingers curled tighter around Smoke’s cock, pumping with that same slick, maddening rhythm.

“That’s right, baby,” she gasped, breath shaking. “Eat it like you missed a meal.”

Stack groaned into her, deeper, harder. His tongue flattened, then lapped, desperate to keep her moaning like that.

Smoke stood before her, trembling under her grip. His eyes locked on the place where Stack’s face disappeared between her thighs, where Delphine was dripping and commanding both of them like a throne.

“Mm-mm,” she said, turning her gaze up to Smoke, “Don’t you dare look away. Watch how greedy he gets.”

Her hand slid up Smoke’s length again, fingers pressing tight, dragging over every vein. He let out a strangled groan, hips twitching, but still holding on. Barely.

Delphine’s voice dropped into that wicked, syrupy register—the one that made men do stupid things.

“You feel that mouth on me?” she whispered, “You feel how wet I am from it?” She stroked faster, “That’s what I’m givin’ you. Not yet…but soon. If you can earn it.”

Stack moaned again, the vibration making Delphine cry out and grip the back of his head.

“Shit—boy, slow down—”

But he didn’t. He was lost in it.

Delphine’s eyes fluttered shut for a second—just a second—before she caught herself and opened them, locking right back on Smoke. Her grip around him faltered just enough for a warning to flash behind her smirk.

“He tryna make me come before I finish you. That’s selfish.”

She moaned again, high-pitched and ruined, hips rolling harder now. Smoke’s knees buckled.

“Ohhh, fuck—Delphine—” he growled.

She blinked at him, still stroking.

“You close, baby?”

He nodded, jaw tight.

“Good. Hold it.”

But he couldn’t.

Smoke twitched in her hand—once, twice—and with a growl and a curse through his teeth, he spilled across her wrist, hips jerking forward as his whole body tensed like a man possessed. Hot spurts of release coated her hand and thigh, his groan ragged and ashamed.

He slumped forward slightly, breathing heavy.

Stack didn’t stop.

And that?

Was the mistake.

Delphine froze. Her expression darkened—not furious, but amused in that dangerous, dominant way.

“Oh…ohhh. So that’s how it is?”

She pulled her hand away, cum trailing across her skin, and let Smoke stumble back with wide, blinking eyes.

Then she grabbed Stack by the hair, yanked him back from her soaked thighs with a sharp wet sound.

“You. Sit back.”

He obeyed, lips shiny, breath wild, eyes dazed.

She stood slowly—completely bare now, body dripping and glistening m—and pointed down at Smoke.

“You came first.”

Smoke swallowed, still trying to catch his breath. “Couldn’t—”

“Don’t speak.”

She stepped toward him, that glistening pussy inches from his face now, thighs flexing, glimmering. She looked down at his spent body, cock still twitching with aftershock.

“That was mine. You gave it up too easy.”

Then she turned—slow, deliberate—and walked right back to Stack.

“Guess that means he gets to in my mouth.”

And Smoke would watch.

Every. Damn. Stroke.

Delphine slid down off the ottoman with the grace of a woman who knew she had them both by the throat.

Stack looked up at her, still on his knees, lips wet with her taste, jaw twitching like he didn’t know whether to apologize or beg for more.

Smoke sat back on his haunches, silent, spent, chest heaving. His release still clung to her skin—her thigh, her wrist, her belly—and she hadn’t bothered to wipe a drop.

She turned toward him first.

“Don’t move,” she said, voice like a blade wrapped in silk, “You already broke. So you just sit there and watch.”

She stepped toward Stack, slow and commanding. He was hard and flushed, still stroking himself like he couldn’t help it.

Delphine stood over him, hands on her hips, eyes heavy with power and promise.

“You,” she said, low and sweet, “You did what I said. Ate like a man with purpose. Held back. Took care of me.”

Her fingers slid into his hair.

“That earns you something.”

She guided him back just a bit, making him sit fully on his heels. Then she knelt again, facing him, inches from his dick. Her breath hitched deliberately as her lips parted.

“Look at you,” she murmured, “So fuckin’ ready. Just sittin’ there, all fat and twitchin’…like you about to burst.”

Stack moaned.

“Delphine, baby—please…”

She grinned and leaned forward, lips barely brushing the tip of his dick, tongue teasing slow as her hands braced against his thighs.

“Say it right,” she whispered.

Stack’s voice cracked.

“Please, ma’am…lemme come. Let me finish in that mouth.”

Her grin widened. Her lips wrapped around him without warning.

No teasing now.

She took him.

Deep.

Her throat opened, tongue sliding beneath, mouth hot and wet and unforgiving. She moaned around him as he gasped, hands flying to her shoulders, hips trembling beneath her.

“Shit, shit, fuck—”

She bobbed her head with tight, filthy rhythm, sucking him down deeper with each stroke, her hand bracing his thigh as the other trailed down to toy with her own wetness—still hot from his tongue, still untouched by either of them.

Smoke watched from across the room, still recovering, still wrecked by her.

Delphine’s eyes locked on him.

She moaned around Stack.

That’s when Stack lost it.

“I—I’m gon’—oh fuck, Delphine—”

She didn’t stop.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t let go.

He came with a broken groan, spilling down her throat, his whole body convulsing as she swallowed every drop, her hands holding him steady like she’d just pulled the soul from his chest.

And when he was done?

She pulled back slow, licking her lips like dessert.

“Mm. Now that,” she sighed, standing tall, “is how you end a man proper.”

She turned, body still shining, still dripping.

Neither of them had touched her properly.

But both of them had paid.

And she hadn’t even gotten hers yet.

Delphine stood before them, tall and shining, glistening in sweat, spit, and authority. Her lips were still wet from Stack. Her thighs still sticky from Smoke. Her chest rose slow and easy, as if she were sipping a summer breeze instead of holding two men broken open in her palm.

She walked toward the sideboard and picked up her drink—that peach liquor she’d mixed just for this night —and took a slow, sensual sip. The crystal glass kissed her lips like it knew who it belonged to.

She turned back to them—Smoke on one side, Stack on the other. Both on their knees. Both ruined. Both waiting.

“Now…” she drawled, swirling the liquor. “I been givin’ and givin’ all night.”

She spread her legs just slightly, enough to show the mess between her thighs—wet, swollen, untouched by either of their dicks.

“But this pussy?” She took another sip, “This here’s still hungry.”

She walked back toward the ottoman and sat, legs parted, back arched ever so slightly—a vision of power and soft ache.

Then she pointed down at the floor in front of her, between her open thighs.

“Get down here. Both of you.”

They obeyed.

Of course they did.

She leaned back, drink still in hand, eyes lidded and lips curved in a wicked smile.

“Look close,” she murmured, voice sweet and sharp, “Look what y’all did to me. I’m still drippin’. And ain’t neither one of y’all been inside.”

She dragged two fingers through her folds and spread herself open—glossy, pink, glistening. Her scent filled the room. Sweet, ripe, dangerous.

Smoke groaned low.

Stack swallowed hard.

“I want it clean first,” she said, “I want y’all to taste what you missed.”

She nodded at Smoke.

“Start slow, baby. Be gentle with it. Just your tongue. Let me feel it.”

Smoke moved forward, breath shaky, and lowered his mouth to her—reverent, quiet, intent. His tongue flicked once, soft and slow, then again, deeper, pressing just enough to make her gasp.

“Mmm…that’s right,” she whispered, “Take your time, sugar. You work that tongue like you tryna earn back my forgiveness.”

Smoke groaned against her. His hands gripped her thighs, and he licked with control, pressure, worship. Every motion made her thighs tremble. Every moan fed his hunger.

She sipped again, hips rolling slightly.

“Good boy…” she purred. “Now switch.”

Stack didn’t need to be told twice.

He slid in as Smoke pulled back, replacing his mouth with a growl of his own. But he licked differently— deeper strokes, greedy, sloppy, hands pulling her open wider.

Delphine moaned now, head tilting back.

“Mmm-mm…There he go,” she gasped, “Always gotta show out.”

She grinned down at both of them, flushed and gorgeous, one hand gripping her glass, the other sliding into Smoke’s hair.

“Take turns, babies. Don’t be shy.”

Smoke returned, mouth wet, sliding between her folds while Stack kissed her inner thigh, her hip, her belly, whispering filth between each breath.

Delphine was glowing now.

Legs spread wider, drink tipping dangerously in her hand.

“I want y’all takin’ turns until I can’t remember who’s who.”

She moaned again, louder, hips bucking against their tongues.

“Good boys,” she gasped, “That’s it. That’s it. Show me how sorry you are. Make it count.”

And they did.

Together.

Mouth to pussy. Mouth to thigh. Hand to breast. Tongue to clit.

Like they’d been waiting their whole lives to taste her right.

She arched.

She cried out.

She came in waves, with her thighs trembling around their cheeks, her fingers tangled in their hair, and her drink spilling over the side of the glass like honey from a jar.

“Mmm. Now y’all can say you worship me.”

But she still hadn’t let them inside.

Not yet.

That mercy would come later.

Or not at all.

Delphine sat up slow, thighs still slick, heart still pounding, but her breath now steady like a woman who’d conquered battle and won.

Smoke and Stack knelt before her—chests heaving, lips shiny with her release, eyes dazed. Wrecked. Silent.

She took another sip of her drink, the crystal glass catching the low amber glow of the lantern light, her body warm and bare in the hush of the room.

“That,” she breathed, voice thick and satisfied, “was exactly what I needed.”

She looked at them—these two beautiful, trembling men—and smiled soft, almost tender.

“You boys did good.”

She set the glass aside and leaned forward, fingers curling gently under Stack’s chin. She kissed him slow, deep, tongue sweeping into his mouth like a reward, letting him taste the liquor still on her breath—and her still on his lips.

He groaned softly, hands resting on her thighs, unwilling to let go.

Then she turned to Smoke, cradled his face in both hands, and kissed him too—just as deep, just as filthy. Her tongue teased his, lips dragging open and wet, the kiss a binding promise of things still to come.

She pulled back just enough to whisper between them:

“Y’all wanna know the best part?”

They both stared at her, desperate and undone.

Delphine licked her lower lip slow, then smiled.

“August won’t be back for two days.”

Smoke blinked.

Stack sat up straighter.

“Mmhmm,” she went on, lazy and wicked, “Y’all can stay in the guest rooms. One on each side. Keep your distance, now…if you can.”

She rose to her feet, body bare and glowing, and waved toward the room with an elegant flick of her wrist.

“Now get your clothes. Y’all smell like sin and sweat.”

They obeyed, scrambling to collect scattered shirts and pants, buttons half-undone and suspenders twisted.

Delphine walked ahead of them, hips swaying like silk sliding over honey, leading them through the warm hush of the house toward the staircase. Her bare feet padded against the polished wood, her presence casting a spell even in silence.

At the top of the stairs, she turned right and pushed open the bathroom door—a clean, tiled space with a clawfoot tub and soft linen towels folded neatly on the shelf.

She stepped aside and handed each man a towel.

“Clean up,” she said, “Then go rest. There’s still work needs doin’ ‘round the ranch in the morning.”

They stood there, towels clutched in hand, dazed like boys who’d stumbled out of a dream.

Smoke stepped forward first, still shirtless, pants barely held up. As Delphine turned to leave, he reached for her hand, fingers brushing her wrist.

She stopped.

Turned slightly, one brow raised.

He didn’t speak—couldn’t—just stared at her with the kind of heat that said stay.

Delphine bit her lip.

Stepped in closer.

Pressed her lips to his ear.

“You got two days to fuck me every way your filthy little heart desires,” she whispered, “And when you think you’ve had enough? I’ll ride you ‘til you’re beggin’ me to stop.”

She kissed his cheek—soft, slow—then turned to Stack, who was already watching with hunger.

She stepped to him, lifted her hand, and ran her nails down the middle of his chest.

“That goes for you too, baby,” she said, smiling, “But don’t get greedy. I’ll wear you the hell out.”

He shivered.

And just like that, she turned.

Walked down the hall, hips swaying, back bare, head high.

She left them standing in the doorway—towels in hand, dicks twitching again despite their exhaustion—both knowing they weren’t gonna get a wink of real rest.

Because Delphine had just promised two days of sin.

And Lord help ‘em…

They were ready to die for it.

[struberri]

the line we crossed || jjk

‘they say i’m too young to love you, i don’t know what i need.’

she was nineteen, too young for the kind of love that burned like this. he was twenty-eight, old enough to know better, but he couldn’t stay away. what began at a birthday party spiraled into something reckless, magnetic and impossible to hide. they weren’t supposed to want each other, not with the years between them, not with everything at stake, but within weeks they were already breaking rules, crossing lines and falling into a mess neither of them knew how to escape.

pairing: jeon jungkook x reader (f)

total word count: 8k+ words

genre: forbidden love | age gap | exes with benefits? | angst | smut | emotional drama | older!jungkook x younger!reader |

rating: 18+

warnings: age gap relationship | angst | explicit sexual content | smut | unprotected sex | messy relationship | unhealthy coping | alcohol | toxic | cussing | hookup | obsession | uncertainty about the future | unresolved feelings |

playlist | timeline |

taglist | guide to struberri-verse l

note: ‘ … ’ before and after any paragraph denotes a past memory.

disclaimer: this is a work of fiction. all characters, events and scenarios are entirely fictional and is created for entertainment purposes only. this story is not meant to reflect the real personalities or lives of the idols mentioned. please read with an open mind and remember that everything here exists in a fictional universe. please do not copy or spread hate.

the sheets are twisted around us, damp with heat, smelling like his cologne and sweat. his body cages mine without crushing, the weight of him pressed into me like gravity i can’t escape.

his mouth drags over my jaw, slow and teasing in a way that makes me want to curse him and beg him all at once. “you still taste the same.” he murmurs, lips brushing my skin. “still mine.. even if we aren’t together.”

my hand fists at his shoulder, fingers tracing the ink spiraling down his arm, half from instinct, half from spite. “shut up.” i whisper, but it comes out shaky and weak.

he chuckles against my throat, low and sinful, the sound curling down my spine. “you don’t mean that.” he says, calm and certain. “every time i drive all the way here.. you let me in. you let me touch you. that doesn’t sound like shut up to me.”

my breath catches when his thumb strokes along my hipbone, slow and intentional. it’s not rough, it’s worse, like he knows every place that unravels me.

“you’re so stubborn.” he continues, voice rough with heat. “but i like that about you. makes it worth it when you finally give in.”

i bite down on my lip, trying to hold in the sound threatening to spill out. his lips curve into a smirk when he notices, his piercing glinting under the dim light.

“don’t hide it from me.” he whispers, dipping closer, eyes heavy with something more than lust. “let me hear you. i want every sound. every breath. i came here for you.”

his forehead presses to mine, his voice dropping even lower. “tell me to stop and i will. you know that, right?”

i nod, too fast, too desperate. i hate that he’s gentle even when he’s ruining me.

his hand slides down my thigh, grip firm but reverent. “good girl.” he murmurs, the words wrecking me more than anything else. “you don’t even know what you do to me.”

i choke on a laugh, bitter and broken. “you act like i’m the one begging.”

his eyes lock on mine, dark and unreadable and for a moment i see something softer there, something he’ll never admit. “you think i’d drive thirty minutes, every time, just for nothing?” his thumb brushes over my lips, lingering. “i come here because it’s you. it’s always you.”

i stare at him, at the face that’s wrecked me and remade me a hundred times and it’s the same face i saw that first night, the same pull in my chest that hasn’t let go since.

and i remember when i met him, it was so clear he was the only one for me. we both knew it, right away.

… hoseok’s house was the same as i remembered, warm but cluttered, filled with voices that overlapped in every corner. the kind of noise that wasn’t loud enough to be overwhelming.

my mom was already chatting in the living room with hoseok’s mother, their voices a mix of laughter and gossip. my dad had found a spot at the dining table with a couple of uncles, trading stories over drinks.

i hovered somewhere in between, too old to cling to my parents, too young to blend in with the adults who seemed so at ease here.

the smell of food wrapped around the house. garlic, soy, a trace of sesame oil and every so often someone passed through the hallway balancing dishes or glasses.

it felt less like a celebration and more like a rhythm, a family’s heartbeat stretched across four walls.

i had only just settled into the edge of the couch, pretending to scroll through my phone, when the front door opened. a rush of cold air, a couple of greetings tossed toward the entrance and then he walked in.

jungkook.

he wasn’t announced, wasn’t introduced. he just arrived, casual, like this was routine. like the house was already familiar to him.

the first thing i noticed wasn’t his tattoos or the lip ring, though both caught the light. it was the way he carried himself. calm and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world.

he bent slightly to greet hoseok’s mother with a polite bow and an easy smile, murmured something that made her beam. then a nod at hoseok’s dad, a clap on hoseok’s shoulder.

he moved through the house without forcing attention and yet somehow, the room felt different with him in it.

i shouldn’t have been looking. i told myself not to. but it was impossible not to feel the shift.

he disappeared into the kitchen with hoseok, laughter low between them, the sound carrying down the hallway. i tried to focus on the conversation my mom was having a few feet away, but my chest buzzed with something unfamiliar, something sharp, like being caught in a current.

time blurred. minutes passed, maybe longer, before he returned, carrying a tray of glasses with hoseok. they set it down on the table, voices mingling with the chatter around us.

it was only then that his eyes flicked to me. not long. just a second, maybe less. but enough.

i didn’t look away fast enough.

his expression didn’t change, didn’t give me anything to hold onto, but there was a weight in the way his gaze lingered, like he had registered me, filed me away. then it was gone, as if it had never happened, as if he was just another guest weaving through the house.

but i felt it. i felt it deep enough that my fingers tightened around my phone, even though i wasn’t really using it anymore.

i got up after a while, pretending i needed water, and slipped into the kitchen. the counter was lined with bowls and plates half filled with side dishes, bottles stacked against the wall. i poured a glass slowly, buying myself time, grounding myself in the quiet.

the sound of footsteps behind me made me stiffen. i turned just enough to see him standing there, pulling open the fridge for another bottle. the air shifted again, like it had in the living room.

up close, he looked sharper. not in the way of being intimidating, but in a way that made every detail stand out. the wet shine of his hair falling into his eyes, the silver ring at his lip catching light when he closed the fridge. tattoos inked deep into his skin, disappearing under the sleeve of his shirt.

he noticed me, of course. his eyes flicked to the glass in my hand, then to my face.

“you find everything okay?” his voice was smooth and low, not rushed.

i swallowed, fingers tightening around the glass. “yeah. just water.”

he nodded, unscrewing the bottle cap. the corner of his mouth twitched like he was almost amused, though i couldn’t tell why.

silence stretched, not awkward, not comfortable. just thick.

i hated how aware i was of myself, of my breathing, of the way my zipper jacket felt suddenly too warm, of the fact that i couldn’t think of a single normal thing to say.

finally, hoseok’s voice called from the other room, breaking the moment. jungkook took the bottle and walked past me, his shoulder brushing mine lightly, not intentional, not rough, just enough to leave a trace.

the kitchen felt too quiet after he left, the hum of the refrigerator was the only sound. i forced a sip of water, trying to steady my breathing, then set the glass down and followed the voices back into the living room.

the dining table was full now. platters of food lined the center. steamed fish, kimchi, bowls of rice and everyone was finding their seats.

i slipped into a chair between my mother and an empty place that would probably stay empty, relieved to anchor myself in the familiarity of my parents’ presence.

hoseok was laughing again, refilling glasses, dragging the energy of the room with him. i caught myself smiling, just a little, watching him.

and then jungkook sat down across from me. not directly across. one seat over, angled just enough that i could see him if i lifted my eyes even slightly.

hoseok had claimed the spot at the head of the table and jungkook slid easily into the chair at his side, as though this had always been his place.

i kept my gaze on my plate as dishes were passed around, my mom nudging me to take more food, my dad already joining in with the men’s conversation about the neighborhood, the city, the inevitable talk of politics.

but every time i moved, reaching for a dish, lifting my chopsticks, taking a sip of water, i was aware of him.

the way he leaned back slightly, casual but alert, his sleeve shifting just enough to reveal more of the ink on his arm. the way his lip ring caught when he bit down on a smile at something hoseok said. the way his laugh came low, effortless, rolling under the other voices but somehow louder to me than anything else.

i told myself not to notice. i tried.

but i did.

halfway through the meal, hoseok turned the conversation to me.

“y/n, how’s high school going?” he asked, grinning like the older brother he’d always been.

i felt my mother’s attention sharpen beside me. “she’s doing well.” she answered for me. “keeping her grades up, studying hard.”

i nodded, chewing carefully, forcing a smile. “yeah. it’s fine.”

“good.” hoseok said warmly. “that’s important. nineteen, right?”

i nodded again.

and then i felt it. jungkook’s gaze. steady and unreadable, resting on me for just a moment longer than polite. i didn’t look up, but i knew.

i knew.

my stomach tightened. i focused on my rice, the clink of chopsticks against plates, my mother’s voice joining the conversation again, filling the space. but beneath it all, there was the weight of that glance.

later, when the meal slowed and people leaned back with full stomachs, conversation scattered into smaller groups. hoseok’s mother brought out fruits, the table shifting into that softer rhythm families always fall into after eating together.

my dad was laughing with one of the uncles. my mom was trading recipes with hoseok’s mother. and i sat there, quiet, listening and pretending.

jungkook had rolled up his sleeve, resting his arm on the back of his chair as he leaned in to say something to hoseok. the ink on his skin stretched over lean muscle, bold and unapologetic. he looked comfortable, too comfortable, like he’d been part of this family forever. and maybe he had, in a way i hadn’t known until now.

i looked down at my lap, tracing circles against the fabric of my jeans with my fingertip, trying not to think about it. trying not to think about him.

but i couldn’t shake the feeling that this was the moment i’d remember, not the food, not the laughter, not even hoseok’s endless stories.

just this.

him across the table. his laugh threading through the night. the quiet, dangerous weight of knowing he had noticed me.

the air in the living room grew heavier, the way it always did once everyone had eaten too much. voices were softer now.

hoseok turned on some music. something light and old, the kind of tracks families always seem to play when they gather. my dad was humming along. my mom was laughing at a story hoseok’s mother was telling, her voice carrying easily over the room.

i slipped away to the couch, tucking my knees up under me. the television flickered silently, something no one was really watching. and then he came too.

jungkook didn’t sit near me, not exactly. he chose the armchair across the room, a beer in hand, body sprawled in a way that seemed both careless and deliberate. his head tilted back as he sipped, the silver ring at his lip catching the dim light.

i felt it again, the pull. like the air between us had shifted, gone taut.

it was ridiculous. there were ten other people in the room. my parents were ten feet away.

but still.

hoseok wandered over, dropping onto the couch beside me, ruffling my hair like he always did. “you’re too quiet.” he said, grinning. “don’t you miss me?”

i pushed his hand away, rolling my eyes. “you’ve been talking nonstop all night. hard to miss you.”

he laughed, leaning back. “same old y/n.”

and for a second it was easy again. i was just nineteen, just hoseok’s cousin, just a kid dragged along to family gatherings.

until i glanced up.

jungkook was watching. not smiling, not smirking, just.. watching.

i looked away fast, heat rushing to my face.

hoseok nudged me with his knee. “you’re almost done with high school, right?” he said, voice a little playful, like he was letting me in on something.

i nodded, hugging my knees. “yeah. just a couple weeks left.”

his grin widened, the kind of grin that always felt like trouble. “then we’ll finally hang out properly. i’ll take you out.”

i gave him a look. “out where?”

“clubs, obviously.” he said, laughing as he leaned back, throwing an arm over the backrest. “you’re grown up now. you can’t just sit at home forever. when i was eighteen, i snuck out to seomyeon and hit this club with my friends. it was insane. i thought i was the coolest guy in the world.”

i rolled my eyes, but he just kept going, animated as ever. “no, seriously. you should go. there’s this place by haeundae, another one near gwangalli. good music and people everywhere. i’ll show you sometime, yeah?”

his voice was bright, easy and full of warmth, the same warmth he’d always had since we were kids. the same kind of teasing that felt safe and familiar.

but i felt it again. that other presence. jungkook hadn’t moved from his chair. he was lounging still, one hand wrapped lazily around his drink, gaze half lidded and unreadable.

i tried not to look at him, tried to keep my attention on hoseok’s stories, his laugh that rang out so effortlessly. but every so often, i could feel it, that quiet, heavy awareness pressing into the edges of the room.

time blurred a little after that. conversations melting into the low hum of the television, the sound of someone’s laughter in the kitchen, the clink of another glass being set down.

eventually, my mom tugged at her scarf, murmuring about the late hour. my dad was already stretching, rising to his feet.

we gathered our things slowly. my mom pressed hoseok’s hands warmly, telling him how much he’d grown, how he should visit more often. my dad gave him a solid pat on the back, proud and affectionate all at once.

“happy birthday again.” i said, quieter, when it was my turn. hoseok grinned, pulling me into a quick hug, ruffling my hair the same way he always had.

the front door opened, the night air slipping in cool and gentle. our families exchanged more goodbyes, promises to meet again soon, voices carrying into the stairwell.

and when i glanced back, just once, before stepping out, he was there. jungkook, leaning against the wall, still silent, still watching …

the memory dissolves the second his hand tightens on my hip. present rushes back like a slap, like the sharp drag of his teeth against my throat.

“you’re drifting.” jungkook mutters, voice low and rough, almost amused. “thinking about something else while i’m inside you?”

his hips shift, deeper and i choke on the sound that escapes me.

“answer me.”

“no.” i gasp, nails digging into his back.

he smirks against my skin, that same devastating curve of his mouth that hasn’t changed since the first night i saw him. “then tell me what you’re thinking.”

i don’t. i can’t. because the truth is it’s him, always him, past, present, every breath in between.

instead i whisper, “harder.” and the look in his eyes changes, darkens.

he gives it to me. dragging it out, making me feel every inch of him until my body trembles. his hand comes up, fingers gripping my jaw, forcing me to look at him.

“you take me so well.” he breathes. “like you were made for it. you know that, right?”

and i’m staring at him, at this man i swore i’d never let touch me again and it’s dizzying how it still feels like the beginning and the end all at once.

the weight of him. the taste of him. the way he says things that shouldn’t sound like love but somehow do.

and as the years went on, things got more difficult.

… the rain had been falling for hours, soft against the thin windows of my apartment. the kind of sound that usually made me feel less alone.

tonight, it just seemed to highlight how quiet he was. jungkook sat at the edge of my bed, shoulders bent forward, tattooed arm resting heavy on his knee. his hand dangled loose, ring glinting under the dim lamp.

i sat across from him, curled into myself on the couch, the small distance between us unbearable.

half an hour he’d driven, like always, through traffic and rain, but he wasn’t here in the same way he used to be. i could feel the difference in my chest.

his silence was louder than anything.

“say something.” i whispered. my voice cracked even though i tried to keep it steady.

his tongue pressed against his cheek. he didn’t look at me right away. when he did, his eyes were unreadable, dark and endless in the way they always had been, but tonight they weren’t mine.

“this isn’t working anymore.”

the words fell heavy. a blunt knife dragged across my ribs.

i swallowed, shook my head, leaned forward. “don’t- don’t say that.”

his lips parted and for a moment i thought he’d take it back. instead, he sighed, rubbed at the back of his neck like the weight of what he was doing was too much.

“y/n, you know what this is. how it’s been. i’m tired of..” he trailed off, fingers tightening. “i’m tired of hiding. of looking over my shoulder every time i come here. of thinking hoseok or your parents will find out. i’m thirty, i shouldn’t be sneaking around like a damn kid.”

his words cut, but i understood them. i hated that i understood.

we were faced with more challenges.

i curled my knees closer to my chest, nails digging into my skin. “we can get through that. we have before. you’re just.. tired tonight, that’s all.”

he shook his head, slow and final. “it’s more than that. i can’t keep doing this.”

the air thinned, pressing down on me until i couldn’t hold it inside. i crossed the room before i even thought, kneeling in front of him, grabbing his wrist. “don’t you dare.” i said, voice breaking. “don’t you dare throw this away.”

his gaze fell to my hand on him, the tremor in my fingers.

“look at me.” i demanded. my throat hurt. “remember how it was, at the start? remember? you would drive all night just to see me and it didn’t matter if we had an hour or ten minutes- you were there. we laughed, we.. we were happy. we’re still happy.”

i begged him to stay.

my grip tightened, like i could anchor him here with me. “please, kook. i can’t- i can’t lose you.”

his jaw clenched, his body coiled with restraint. his free hand reached up, brushed my cheek, almost tender, but it felt like goodbye.

“you think i don’t remember?” his voice was low, shaking. “you think i don’t replay it all the time? the way you smiled at me like i was the only one. the way it felt so damn easy, like nothing else mattered.” he swallowed hard, pulling his hand back. “but it’s not like that anymore. every time i touch you, i’m thinking about who might find out. every kiss feels like a risk i don’t know how to take anymore.”

my chest caved. i shook my head until my vision blurred. “then stop thinking. just- just love me. that’s all i’m asking.”

tried to remember what we had at the beginning.

his eyes softened, but not in the way i needed. there was no fire in them, no ache that mirrored mine, only something muted and cruel in its gentleness and pity.

i hated it. i hated him for looking at me like that, like i was fragile glass he couldn’t afford to hold anymore.

“don’t look at me like that.” i snapped, though my voice broke halfway. my hands slid from his wrist to his thigh, gripping tight and desperate. “i’m not someone you can just.. put away when it gets too heavy for you.”

“y/n..” his tone was weary, almost pleading, but not for the same thing i was begging for.

“no.” i whispered, shaking my head, leaning closer until my forehead pressed against his knee.

my tears had already slipped, warm against my skin and i didn’t bother to wipe them. “please, jungkook. i’ll do anything. i’ll be quieter, smarter. i’ll stop asking for more. just don’t- don’t leave me.”

my words spilled out messy and humiliating. i hated myself for them, but i meant every single one.

his hand hovered above me, shaking like he wanted to touch me but couldn’t trust himself. he let it drop to his lap instead. “you don’t get it.” he muttered, voice low. “you shouldn’t have to beg me like this. it shouldn’t feel like this at all.”

i lifted my head, searched his face through the blur of tears. “but i love you.” the words tore out of me, raw. “i love you more than anything. isn’t that enough?”

he blinked hard, jaw locked and i thought for a moment it might break him, the way i knew my love always had. but then he exhaled, long and heavy and stood.

the bed dipped empty and my heart crashed with it.

i scrambled up, caught his wrist again, tighter this time. “don’t. please don’t go. not like this.”

his body stilled, but he didn’t look at me. he stood over me, head bowed, black hair falling into his eyes. “if i stay, i’ll ruin you.” he whispered.

i choked on a sob, clutching at him. “you already have. don’t make it worse by leaving.”

his hand turned, pried mine off gently, one finger at a time. the way he always handled me, gentle even when i didn’t want him to be.

“y/n.” his voice cracked, quiet. “you’re twenty-one. you have a whole life ahead of you. you don’t need to waste it on someone like me. someone who can’t even give you all of himself without fear eating it alive.”

i stared at him, broken open, unable to breathe. “but i don’t want a whole life. i just want you.”

he closed his eyes, the muscle in his jaw twitching. “and i want you too.” his voice was so raw it nearly fooled me. “god, i want you so bad it hurts.”

then he shook his head, ripped the words away. “but i can’t. not anymore.”

i watched him move to the door, every step deliberate, his broad shoulders carrying away everything i’d ever known of safety. my apartment suddenly felt smaller, suffocating, the walls pressing in.

“don’t leave me.” i whispered one last time, so quiet i wasn’t sure he even heard.

his hand lingered on the doorknob. i thought he might turn back. i prayed.

instead, he opened it and the cold hallway air rushed in, swallowing me whole.

the door clicked shut behind him, final and soft and i swear i felt the sound lodge itself into my bones.

i collapsed against the bed, body shaking, nails digging into the sheets he’d been sitting on minutes before. they still smelled like him. i pressed my face into the fabric and let myself break the way i couldn’t in front of him.

and for the first time since i’d met him, i realized love wasn’t always enough …

his hand is gripping the back of my thigh now, pulling it higher against his hip, the sheets tangled and damp under us.

i gasp into his mouth, my nails scratching at his shoulders, dragging down his skin like i’m desperate to leave proof.

his body is heavy over mine, hot, steady and relentles and still it’s not enough. it never is.

his breath brushes my jaw as he groans, low and rough, “look at you. you’ll take everything i give you, won’t you?”

i choke, my forehead pressed against his temple. “don’t stop.”

his rhythm is maddening, controlled and deep, perfectly measured to keep me on the edge but never let me fall. it’s cruel the way he knows me, the way he holds me there.

“say it again.” he demands, his voice sharper now.

“please.” i arch against him, shaking, eyes shut tight. “please, i’ll take it, i can take it, just-”

his mouth crashes into mine, swallowing my words. his tongue drags slow, possessive and i think i might die from how good it feels to drown under him like this.

i’m so close it aches, my body clenching around him, my heart racing like it’s about to split my ribs. i bury my face in his neck, teeth scraping his skin and he hisses my name.

i never learn how to breathe when i’m with him.

he was charismatic, magnetic, electric and everybody knew it.

… the music was loud, thick bass thumping so deep it seemed to rattle the floor beneath us. the crowd moved as one messy, sweaty body, arms in the air, lights flashing red, blue, purple across their faces.

i had finally agreed to go to a club with hoseok after meeting him at his birthday just a few weeks earlier and jungkook had tagged along as well.

hoseok was laughing, drunk, spinning me around. his energy wild and endless like always. i laughed too, though i wasn’t sure if it was from the alcohol flooding my veins or from the way jungkook’s gaze kept finding me even when i pretended not to notice.

he was next to us, dancing too, his movements smoother and darker, but so alive. his shirt clung to him, damp with sweat and his hair was pushed back from his forehead, a few strands falling into his eyes.

women brushed against him as they passed, smiles too wide, lips too red and he didn’t even look at them. his focus kept sliding back to me.

when he walked in every woman’s head turned, everyone stood up to talk to him.

but now, now he was here and he was only looking at me.

hoseok didn’t notice, too lost in the music, too drunk to see the way my hand brushed against jungkook’s arm when the beat jolted us together, or the way his palm pressed against the small of my back when i stumbled. it could’ve been innocent. it wasn’t.

i felt it in the way his fingers lingered too long, in the way my body reacted instantly, traitorously, leaning into his touch.

our eyes met for a second too long.

i broke it first, turning back to hoseok, forcing another laugh, but my chest was tight and my skin burned everywhere jungkook had touched me. the alcohol made it worse, loosening every boundary, making everything sharper.

i danced harder, let the music swallow me, but i could still feel him, so close, so dangerously close.

hoseok shouted something in my ear, his voice cracking with amusement, but then his phone buzzed, the light from the screen cutting across his face. he frowned, leaned back and cursed under his breath.

“shit- i gotta go.” he said. “emergency.”

i blinked, dizzy from the alcohol, the flashing lights. “what?”

he turned to jungkook, already slipping his phone into his pocket. “kook- hey, can you drop her? please. i can’t leave her here alone.”

jungkook’s eyes flicked to me, unreadable, then back to hoseok. “yeah. i’ll take her.”

just like that, hoseok was gone, swallowed by the crowd, his absence sudden and sharp. the air felt heavier without him.

the music was still loud, but i heard nothing but the silence between us, thick and loaded. i was too aware of him now, of his eyes, his hands, the way he was standing too close.

“you good?” he asked, voice low, soft enough that it curled right into me.

i nodded quickly, though my heart was racing, my face hot. “yeah.”

he didn’t push, didn’t step back. instead, he reached for me, slow and deliberate, pulling me back into the sway of the music.

and i let him.

we moved together, closer than before, our bodies brushing with every beat, every shift. his hand slid down my arm, stopping just above my wrist, his thumb stroking the skin there. i shivered, couldn’t stop myself.

his breath brushed my ear when he leaned in, low and rough, almost drowned by the bass. “you feel that?”

i froze, though my body kept moving with the rhythm, pulled along by his. “what?”

“this.��� his lips barely moved, but i felt every syllable against my skin. “you trying to pretend you don’t want it.”

my chest tightened, heat crawling up my neck. “i’m drunk.” i muttered, the excuse sounding weak even to me.

“so am i.” his mouth curved, but it wasn’t a smile, it was darker than that, knowing. “but doesn’t change a damn thing.”

the words settled heavy between us, heavier than the music, heavier than the crowd pressing all around. every brush of his body against mine felt deliberate now, every glance a test i was failing.

i should’ve stepped back. i didn’t.

instead, i let him pull me closer until there was no space left, until the beat wasn’t what i was moving to anymore, it was him. the pressure of his hand on my hip, the slow drag of his thumb against the bare skin of my arm, the heat of his chest against mine.

reckless and dangerous. and i couldn’t stop.

when we finally pushed through the crowd to leave, he held my hand the whole time. firm and steady, his palm burning into mine, claiming me without a word.

he didn’t let go until we stepped into the cooler night air, the music fading behind us, the silence suddenly louder than anything.

-

his car smelled of his faint cologne and lingering smoke. i had my phone open, gps casting a pale blue glow across my fingers and i tried to focus on the map instead of him.

he kept glancing at me, every few seconds, the corner of his eyes catching mine just long enough to make my chest tighten. his lips parted slightly and i could see the glint of his silver lip ring as his tongue dragged over it, slow and deliberate.

my stomach knotted, a rush of heat crawling through me that made it hard to breathe.

“don’t do that.” i whispered, voice trembling, barely audible over the soft hum of the engine. my hand curled in my lap, fidgeting with the hem of my dress.

“do what?” he asked, glancing at me briefly, and the corner of his mouth twitched, the faintest hint of a smirk.

“that.” i said again, voice quieter this time, almost pleading. “that thing with your mouth.”

he chuckled softly, low and dangerous, leaning just a fraction closer, the scent of his cologne washing over me in waves. “i can’t help it.” he murmured. “you’re.. intoxicating.”

i swallowed hard, fingers gripping the seat, stomach twisting in ways that made me dizzy. “this.. this is wrong..” i whispered.

his gaze locked on mine, heavy, knowing and unrelenting. the car moved steadily under us, headlights cutting through the night, tires humming over the asphalt, but everything outside the windshield might as well have been a different world.

it was just us, caught in the tight coil of tension that had grown over the weeks we hadn’t seen each other.

his hand brushed my thigh, just grazing, not pressing, enough to make me shiver violently. i tried to move, to pull away, but something about the way he was looking at me made my body betray me, leaning closer despite my own protests.

he shifted, slowing the car until it rolled to a gentle stop on the side of a quiet street, far from the city lights, the world outside suddenly silent.

he didn’t take his eyes off me. “i’ve wanted you.” he said, voice low, almost a growl, “ever since hoseok’s birthday. the first time i saw you, your laugh, the way you moved, that little spark in your eyes.. i couldn’t get you out of my head. god, y/n, i’ve wanted this, wanted you, for so long.”

i froze, my chest hammering, unable to speak, unable to deny the pull i felt.

he leaned closer, fingertips tracing the curve of my jaw, tilting my head up just enough to meet his lips. i barely had time to breathe before he kissed me. slow, claiming and relentless. it wasn’t gentle. it wasn’t kind. it was magnetic, dangerous and my body responded before my mind could catch up.

“jungkook..” i breathed against his lips, my fingers pressing into his chest. “we shouldn’t-”

“i know.” he murmured between kisses, teeth grazing my bottom lip, tongue nudging against mine.

i shook my head, my breath shaky, my heart pounding against my ribs. “you’re older… i’m- this feels..” the words tangled on my tongue, heavy with doubt.

his hands didn’t tighten, didn’t push, just rested at my jaw, steady, warm and anchoring me in the chaos of it all. his gaze burned into mine, desperate but gentle, like he was asking and begging at the same time.

“i know.” he whispered, voice rough but careful, as if he might break me if he spoke too loud. “and if you don’t want this, tell me to stop. i will.”

i swallowed hard, my fingers brushing over his chest before curling in the fabric of his shirt, unable to pull away. “it’s not that i don’t want to..” my voice trembled, the truth spilling out like a secret i couldn’t hold anymore.

his jaw flexed, restraint written in every line of his body, though his eyes shone with a hunger he couldn’t mask. “then don’t fight it.” he said softly, almost pleading. “let me have you, only if you want me too.”

the air between us felt fragile, like glass. i leaned in just an inch, my forehead brushing his and whispered, “i want you. i’m just.. scared.”

his thumb stroked gently over my hip, grounding me, steadying me. “then we’ll go slow.” he murmured, breath hitching, reverence in every word. “whatever you give me, i’ll take it like it’s everything.”

i trembled in the passenger seat, the pull between us unbearable. he leaned across the console, lips crashing against mine and still it felt like we were hovering on the edge, caught between desperation and restraint.

my body angled toward him, his hand gripping my jaw like it was the only thing keeping him steady and yet the space of the car pressed in around us, reminding us how wrong it all was, even as neither of us could pull away.

“get on my lap.” he breathed, voice rough, shaking with need. “i can’t- i can’t kiss you like this.”

i hesitated, swallowed, then slowly moved, straddling him. my dress rode up slightly, hips brushing his, hands clutching his shoulders as if holding on could keep the world at bay.

he kissed me again, teeth and tongue and lips melding with mine and every time i tried to pull back, tried to remind myself how wrong this was, how dangerous, how impossible, he pulled me closer and i couldn’t resist.

“you feel that?” he murmured against my mouth, voice hoarse. “the way we fit together..”

i pressed back, whispering against his lips, “you don’t even know me.”

he captured my mouth again, silencing me, teeth grazing my jaw, tongue exploring, hands holding my waist like he would never let go. “doesn’t stop me from wanting to.” he said, voice rough, trembling almost.

we kissed again, slower this time, drawn out, desperate, the tension between us a living thing, pulsing with every heartbeat. every inch of skin pressed together, every breath shared, every whispered protest we couldn’t heed only made the pull stronger, more urgent.

i was nineteen. nineteen and kissing a man nine years older, a man i had only seen once before at hoseok’s birthday, someone i shouldn’t have been thinking about, shouldn’t have been craving. and yet, here i was, on his lap, his hands gripping my waist like he needed me more than air.

it felt dangerous and forbidden, like a secret i shouldn’t hold. but god, it thrilled me.

every brush of his lip ring against my mouth made my chest ache, every sweep of his tongue tangled me deeper into him. my body was alive in a way i didn’t recognize, a raw hunger clawing its way up my throat.

his hand slid beneath the hem of my dress, fingers splaying against the bare skin of my thigh, warm and steady but trembling faintly, like he was just as undone as me.

“this is wrong.” i whispered again, but the words were drowned by the sound of my own heartbeat hammering in my ears.

“then stop me.” he rasped, eyes heavy, lips swollen, forehead pressed to mine.

but i didn’t. i couldn’t.

instead i kissed him harder, let myself sink into the fire of him, the thrill of knowing he wanted me just as badly as i wanted him.

it was too much. too soon. but it was him …

and then it was him again, two years later, the same desperation but sharper, heavier and older now, carved into every touch, every gasp.

his mouth was still on mine, still taking, still giving, but now it was skin against skin, my body bare beneath his, the sheets twisted around my legs.

his hand gripped my thigh, spreading me open wider for him and i cried out into his mouth when he pushed in deeper, filling me so completely i swore i could feel him everywhere.

“fuck-” the curse tore from his throat, low and guttural, his lips brushing my jaw. “you feel- so fucking good-”

my nails scraped down his back, my head tipping back into the pillows, a broken moan spilling out as he moved, slow at first, torturously slow, every drag of him inside me pulling a sound i didn’t know i could make.

“jungkook-” his name fell from my lips like it had that night in the car, breathless and desperate, only now it was tangled with a sob of pleasure, my body arching up to meet his.

he groaned, deep and rough and kissed me hard, swallowing my cries as his hips pressed deeper, harder, finding a rhythm that made my stomach twist tight with every thrust.

the room was hot, thick with sweat and breath and the sound of skin meeting skin, the sheets damp beneath us.

“y/n-” he panted against my mouth, forehead pressing to mine. “you drive me fucking insane.”

his words shattered something inside me, sent a rush of heat shooting straight through me.

i clung to him, legs wrapping tighter around his waist, pulling him closer, deeper. “don’t stop.” i gasped, voice breaking, “please don’t stop-”

his hand found mine, fingers lacing, squeezing tight as if anchoring himself. “never.” he groaned and his thrusts grew rougher and faster, each one hitting deeper, pulling me closer to the edge i was desperate to fall from.

my body was trembling, vision blurring, every nerve screaming with need.

“look at me.” he growled, voice strained, eyes dark and wild. “cum for me, baby- let me see you-”

i met his gaze and it was too much. the heat, the hunger, the way he was looking at me like i was the only thing that mattered.

my back arched, a broken cry spilling from my lips as the knot snapped, my body convulsing around him. i gasped his name, moaned it, clung to him like i’d never let go as wave after wave crashed through me.

he cursed, loud and rough, his body shaking as he buried himself deep one last time, his release hitting hard, spilling into me, his grip on my hand tightening until it almost hurt.

we both collapsed, breathless, bodies tangled, hearts pounding against each other’s skin.

his body still pressed to mine, heavy and hot, his chest damp with sweat against my skin.

he hadn’t pulled out yet, his cock still inside me, twitching faintly, the last remnants of him deep where i ached most. every slow pulse of him made me shiver, sensitive, raw and stretched in a way that left me trembling.

he didn’t move. not yet. instead, his weight settled into me and i let my legs stay wrapped around his waist, holding him there as if i could keep the moment from ending.

his forehead rested against my shoulder, his breath ragged, damp strands of hair sticking to his temple.

i closed my eyes, chest rising and falling too fast, my body still clinging to the aftershocks.

it felt like time had stopped. like we were caught in some suspended space where nothing else existed but the ache between us, the heat, the way his heart hammered against mine.

slowly, he shifted, bracing himself on his elbows, lifting his weight just enough to look at me. his eyes found mine, dark and unreadable, pupils blown wide. i felt bare under his gaze, more naked than i already was.

his hand lifted, fingers brushing back damp strands of hair from my forehead. gentle, almost hesitant. i leaned into the touch, desperate for it, needing him to give me something, anything.

my lips parted before i could stop myself. the words slipped out like a confession i’d been holding too long. “i love you.”

the silence stretched and he stilled.

his thumb lingered at my temple, tracing down to the line of my jaw. his eyes searched mine, so deep i thought i might drown in them.

and then, he leaned in, kissed me. not hurried. not desperate. a soft, lingering press of his mouth against mine.

but when he pulled back, he didn’t say it. not then.

only later, when i wasn’t expecting it, when it wouldn’t feel so raw, so dangerous.

and i knew it. i felt it in the way his gaze flickered, in the way his throat bobbed when he swallowed, like the words burned in him but he couldn’t let them out.

so i let it go. let the kiss be enough. because jungkook had always been like that.

he was like this hybrid, this mix of a man who couldn’t contain himself.

… we had been sitting in his apartment, the space dim and cluttered, smelling faintly of his cologne and the cigerettes he always smoked. i was curled up on his couch, legs tucked beneath me, watching him pace as he tried to explain something i couldn’t fully understand.

six months had passed since that night in the car, the night everything between us shifted and somehow we had been together ever since. half a year of stolen moments, quiet touches and a thousand unspoken questions that still lingered between us.

his hands moved as he spoke, gestures sharp and restless, his voice low and tight like he was fighting himself more than me.

“you don’t get it.” he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair, frustration bleeding into every movement.

“then make me get it.” i whispered, my fingers knotting together in my lap.

he turned to me then, eyes burning, jaw clenched and for a moment i thought he’d snap. but he didn’t. instead, he sank down in front of me, kneeling between my knees, his palms pressing against my thighs with a force that made me gasp.

“you make me lose control.” he admitted, voice raw. “and i can’t- fuck, i can’t hold it together around you.”

my breath caught.

his hands slid higher, gripping harder and i felt the tremor running through him. like he was on the edge of breaking, of unraveling completely.

“jungkook-”

“don’t you see?” he cut me off, leaning closer, his forehead pressing to my knee. “i’m supposed to be better than this. older. smarter. but when it’s you-” his laugh was hollow, pained. “when it’s you, i can’t fucking contain myself.”

my chest ached.

i reached down, touched his face, made him look at me. and when his eyes lifted, when that storm of guilt and hunger and helplessness stared back, i knew.

i knew exactly what he meant.

because i felt it too, the chaos of it, the way being with him shook me to my core, tore apart everything i thought i knew about love and rules and right and wrong.

i always got the sense that he became torn between being a good person and missing out on all of the opportunities that life could offer a man as magnificent as him.

because he could’ve had anyone. women who matched his years, women who understood the heaviness of his responsibilities, women who wouldn’t make him doubt himself each time he reached for them. women who wouldn’t have made him feel guilty for wanting.

but he chose me.

he chose a girl younger, inexperienced and reckless in a way he had already grown out of. he chose the girl who should’ve been untouchable to him. and still, despite everything stacked against us, despite how it must’ve gnawed at him in the quiet hours, he loved me.

and in that way, i understood him.

because i knew what it was to want something that felt wrong and right at the same time. i knew what it was to feel the ache of holding back, the sting of denying myself, the hunger that never quieted even when i tried to bury it.

and so when he touched me, when he chose me, i knew it wasn’t because he didn’t have other choices. it was because, despite everything, he couldn’t stop himself. neither could i.

and i loved him.

i loved him in the way you love something you know you shouldn’t touch, but can’t stop reaching for.

i loved him in the way that made my chest ache when i thought of him with anyone else, in the way that made me reckless with my own heart, in the way that made me ready to endure whatever consequences came, just for one more moment of him.

i loved him, in the quiet hours, in the loud ones, in the spaces between his words when he stayed silent because he didn’t know what to say.

i loved him, even when it hurt. even when i thought i shouldn’t.

i loved him.

i loved him,

i loved him …

the sheets clung to my skin, damp with sweat, tangled around my legs as i shifted closer to him. his body was still warm against mine, the weight of him half draped over me, his breath uneven at the crown of my head.

we hadn’t moved much since, hadn’t bothered to pull the blanket fully over us. his arm stayed around me, heavy and grounding, fingers occasionally flexing like he wasn’t even conscious of holding me tighter.

my cheek rested against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart.

i didn’t know what this meant, what we were, what future we could possibly have. i didn’t know if this was still temporary, still fragile, something we’d break apart just by naming it too loudly.

but right then, wrapped in his arms, my body still humming from the way he had claimed me.

i still love him.

i love him.

if you’ve realized it by now , then yes , i’ve used lana del rey’s national anthem monologue in the story hehe

taglist: @niconiconi-30 @bammbi-jeon127 @nikkinikj @mar-lo-pap @mimi1097 @bbtsficrecs @daisiesarepretty7

[getinthecar-elizabeth]

Second Option (one)

Summary: You are totally smitten with Clark, but he's too busy hung up on Lois to notice.

Pairing: Clark Kent X f!reader

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Clark started working at the Daily Planet, you were taken with him almost immediately. Despite his enormous size, he was as gentle as they come. He was kind, sweet, and polite. And a bit dorky sometimes.

You, on the other hand, were reserved. And you thought perhaps that was one of the reasons he never noticed you the way you noticed him.

Also, Clark had a huge crush on Lois. You could see it in the way his eyes lit up whenever she entered the room. How he seemed to hang on to her every word. Or how majority of the time his eyes would be on her in group settings. Although it seemed that Lois didn't share the same sentiments, you had no chance. Lois was beautiful, confident, and strong willed. You and her were polar opposites. You couldn't blame Clark for falling for her.

Nevertheless, your heart broke as you watched the man you love fall head over heels for another woman. So you buried yourself in your work to distract yourself from the aching feeling in your heart. Regardless, you couldn't help but notice him. His sheer size made it almost impossible. You found yourself noticing a lot of things about him. His favorite coffee, his favorite snacks, even his birthday.

One morning on your way to work, you had some time to kill, so you decided to visit your favorite candy store to stock up on your gummy bears' stash at work, which you somehow found yourself sharing with Jimmy. As you browsed the aisles, you came across a chocolate bar. For some weird reason, you remembered Clark talking about how his parents used to buy it for him on his birthday. And coincidentally, it was his birthday. Your hand hovered over the chocolate bar as you wondered if you should get it for him. But you decided against it, not wanting to invest yourself emotionally more than you already have. So you decided to leave the chocolate bar behind and go on your way.

A lot of coincidences seemed to follow you that day as you ran into Clark at the door of your workplace. You exchanged greetings as you walked together towards the elevator. You couldn't help but be nervous around him and he seemed to have noticed.

"Are you okay?" He voiced out his concern.

"Yeah, I'm fine." You answered, but there was a hint of uncertainty in your voice, even though you tried to keep it steady. Clark didn't seem like he fully believed you as his eyebrows remained high. So you decided to muster up whatever little courage you had left and speak up. "I just wanted to say..."

But a feminine voice interrupted you. "Hold the lift." Clark quickly stopped the elevator doors from closing, allowing Lois to get in.

Whatever courage you had at that moment dissipated. Clark, on the other hand, seemed to be very happy to see Lois, as always. He forgot all about you and struck up a conversation with Lois.

And, like usual, you blended into the background, quiet and forgotten. You walked behind Clark and Lois when you got off the elevator. You placed your bag on your desk when you reached it, and the jar of gummy bears you had bought, immediately catching Jimmy's attention, who rolled his chair over to your desk at the sight of the colourful sweet treats.

"Hiya," a huge grin on his face, and you rolled your eyes.

"No, Jimmy, you always finish my gummy bears. I told you to get your own. This is my secret stash."

"But I don't know where to buy them," he fake pouted.

You and him started bickering, and for a moment, you forgot all about Clark.

But at the end of the work day, you noticed Clark's countenance was a bit crestfallen as he got into the elevator with you. You figured it was because Lois had been away most of the day and she hadn't wished him a happy birthday. It was sad, considering how he went all out on her birthday a few months ago, buying her flowers and a gift. But somehow, she forgot his.

As the elevator descended you pulled out a chocolate bar from your bag and handed it to him.

"What's this?" he asked.

"Happy birthday," you said. And for the first time since morning, you saw Clark's face light up.

"Thank you," he took the chocolate and examined it with a nostalgic smile, "how did you know this was my favourite?" His forehead crinkled in curiosity.

"You and the boys are kind of loud. I overheard when you were sharing childhood stories one time," you looked at your feet a bit embarrassed that you were eavesdropping.

"Well, thank you," the dimple on his cheek was prominent.

"You're welcome," you swung from side to side, still unable to look him in the eyes, and just when you thought you couldn't embarrass yourself further, your stomach decided to demonstrate the cry of a lion cub.

You quickly grabbed it in hopes of silencing it but it was too late. Turning to Clark, he had an amused look on his face, his eyebrows raised and a lopsided smirk.

"I'm sorry," you huffed apologetically.

"Don't be," you could hear the chuckle in his voice, "would you like to grab something to eat?" He offered.

"I can't really say no now can I?"

"Not after the announcement made by your stomach," he grinned.

So you found yourself grabbing food from a truck a few blocks away from your office. You sat down at one of the tables and ate. You actually had a lot of fun as you talked and laughed. The chemistry between you was great.

Afterwards, Clark walked you home because it was already dark. When you were safely inside your apartment bulding, he went on his way.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[ifyouweremine]

Four Blue Eyes | Clark Kent

PAIRING: Clark Kent x Fem!Reader

SUMMARY: After so many years of loving Clark Kent's blue eyes, you find another pair that you could get lost in.

WARNINGS: Childbirth, reader gives birth, screaming, yelling, all the rough bits of pregnancy (not explicit but heavily alluded to)

W/C: 1.4k

You loved the Fortress of Solitude. Clark had shown it to you a few years after your wedding, introducing you to the robots that resided there and the last trace of his home world left in existence. He had let you into the most private part of his life and you had never once breathed a word of its existence to anybody. This was Clark's place and if he showed it to you, it was because he trusted you with looking after it. The quiet was something you always loved about the Fortress.

Until today.

"Ahhhhh!"

Your scream bounced back to you a dozen times over and Clark gave your hand another gentle squeeze. The echoes in this place were enough to set his nerves on edge, especially when it was the sound of your pain being repeated over and over. His eyes were wide and he looked absolutely terrified despite his best efforts to hide it.

"Oh my God!" you cried, teeth gritted as you forced yourself to take a couple of deep breaths.

"That's it," Clark said. "Deep breaths, like we practiced."

"You practiced!" you growled. "I called you an idiot."

"Oh, yeah? Now who's the idiot?" Clark asked.

"Don't try and be funny with me right now!"

As much as his heart ached for you, Clark knew that it would all be worth the hardships. Your feet were braced on a set of stirrups while you laid back against the bed in the middle of the Fortress. Not that you could see your feet; your belly blocked the view.

Your waters had broken that morning. Your baby was coming.

It had been a few hours now and you were still no closer to having your child in your arms, though. All you knew was pain and rage, interchangeable depending on the timing of your contractions.

"I want this to be over," you cried.

"I know, I know, sweetheart," Clark soothed. "It'll be over soon."

"I want him here," you sobbed. "I can't do this, Clark. I can't- I can't do this. I can't- Oh my God-"

"Breathe," Clark said, his tone firm. "Breathe for me, sweetheart. Nice and slow, big deep breaths."

"I can't!"

"Yes you can," Clark insisted. "Come on, sweetheart. You got this."

Did you?

Nine months ago, you had been feeling queasy for a few days and then missed your period. A pregnancy test (seven tests, to be specific) confirmed what you had been fearing, those two little lines glaring at you like some cosmic joke.

In any other circumstances, you would have been over the moon at the thought of starting a family with Clark, but there was an uncertainty in your mind that overshadowed your joy. Clark was a Kryptonian. His genes were far superior to your own. Come on, the man could fly and shoot lasers from his eyes and you were growing a half-Kryptonian foetus in your womb.

That was terrifying.

Clark had immediately gone into panic-mode when you told him you were pregnant. He had disappeared for hours and come back a lot calmer. Turns out, he'd flown straight to the Fortress and asked his robot friends what the likelihood of this pregnancy coming to term were, not only for fear of losing the child, but from the fear of losing you. He had no idea what sort of havoc his genetics would wreak on your body or the child's, so he had gone to the only source he knew that might have some answers.

Sadly, they didn’t know.

Throughout your pregnancy, you spent every other weekend at the Fortress. Clark had made a strong argument for every week, but you drove a hard bargain and he was a sucker when your bottom lip pulled that adorable little pout. He settled for a fortnightly checkup, where the technology was far superior.

Normal doctors never found anything abnormal in your scans, but Clark was still terrified. Mr Terrific was crucial in easing some of Clark’s worries, running tests that normal doctors wouldn’t have thought of. Your baby was normal; a healthy little boy who was growing nice and sound in his mother’s womb, waiting for the day he would come roaring into the world.

If only you knew how much noise you’d be making, you might’ve asked for a set of headphones.

“Okay, Mrs Kent,” Four said to you. “It looks like he’s ready to come out now.”

“Thank God,” you groaned.

“You’re doing so well, sweetheart,” Clark said.

“Are you patronising me?”

“I would never.” That was true. Clark liked his head not bitten off.

“Because- AHHHH!”

You screamed again and clutched Clark’s hand so tight that it was a relief knowing that he was superhuman. His body was built to withstand pretty much anything, so a few broken fingers from the death-grip you had on his hand were very unlikely.

“You did this to me!” you cried, pointing an accusing finger at Clark. “You and your goddamn charming smile did this to me!”

“It took both of us-“

“I am never letting you near me again!”

Clark almost laughed but judging from the look in your eyes, that would almost guarantee him sleeping on the couch for the rest of forever. Instead, he brushed his hand over your cheek, kissing your forehead. “You’ve got this, sweetheart. Only a little longer.”

“It hurts,” you whimpered.

“A few more pushes and we’ll have him,” Clark said. “Come on, sweetheart. You can do this.”

You closed your eyes, braced yourself and let loose a scream that rattled the very walls of the Fortress.

You loved Clark's eyes. They were the most beautiful shade of blue and seemed to contain an infinite depth that you could spend forever getting lost in. Sometimes you would lay there, a silence blanketed over the both of you, tucked away in your little corner of the world where nothing else mattered besides the two of you. In those moments, you took the time to truly look at him.

Clark was a beautiful man. His heart of gold and endless desire to do the right thing had blessed him with the physical form to match the good he held in his heart. You always said his eyes were your favourite part of who he was and that nothing would ever compare.

Until you held your son in your arms and he opened his eyes.

Now, instead of two blue eyes to get lost in, there were four. Eyes like the brightest ice crystals stared back at you from the swaddle in your arms, taking in the world for the first time and committing your face to his tiny memory. Everything this little boy was seeing was new, so despite the lingering pain from giving birth, you faced him with a smile.

It was the easiest smile you'd ever given somebody.

Clark's eyes kept flitting between the two of you. When the boy was born, Four lifted him onto your chest, letting him wail against your skin as your trembling arms reached up to cradle him. Clark hadn't looked away from you even in that moment, ensuring that you were okay before giving anything else a thought.

Then your son's wails finally reached him through the fog of concern and he realised that he was here. Your son - the living, breathing proof that yours and Clark's love transcended every hurdle you'd faced, was here in your arms.

And Clark loved him from the moment he laid eyes on him.

"He has your eyes," you told Clark.

"But he's got your nose," Clark said.

You smiled up at him. "Poor thing."

"Hey, I love your nose," Clark assured you, kissing the tip of it just to prove his point. You giggled. "And I love his, too."

"We made this, Clark," you breathed, thumb brushing back and forth over your son's tiny fist as he looked up at you with wide, curious eyes. "We made this."

"Heck yeah we did," Clark said. "And he's perfect."

"Ten fingers, ten toes," you said. "I'm so glad he's got your eyes."

The fact that the universe recognised how much you loved Clark's eyes and transferred them to your son was a blessing, because now you not only got to love Clark's, but you could spend the rest of your life getting lost in your son's. You would get to watch those tiny blue eyes see the world for the first time and guide him through his life.

At last, you knew what the agony had been for; to bring this life into the world and fall in love in a new way. This boy was half of you and half of Clark, the perfect way to entwine your souls forever.

"I love you," Clark said softly. "I love you more than anything in the world."

"I love you," you replied. "And I love this family we've made."

Clark smiled at you. "Me too. It's perfect."

[seonghrtz]

EXCLUSiVE.

𝒮 YNOPS𝑖S,ㅤㅤclark kent has a talent for getting exclusive interviews.

❪ 𝗦𝗨𝗣𝗘𝗥𝗠𝗔𝗡 ❫ ᡴꪫ clark kent & wayne!reader 4,3k fluff    ｡    cw. not-proofread.

The Wayne family was hard to miss.

This was not only due to the sensationalist newspaper headlines about the family, but also because of their wealth and influence, which had been built up over generations. And of course, because of their tragedies too.

Even so, despite your fame because of your surname, you, Bruce Wayne's younger sister, certainly weren't one for being in the spotlight. You only appeared in public at Wayne Enterprises meetings and charity gala balls. In fact, you were even more reclusive than your brother.

But Bruce had his reasons. Every night, he would leave the mansion in his vigilante costume to fight crime and try to make Gotham a safer place. Your motives weren't as heroic as your brother's, though. The truth is that you always felt uncomfortable in the public eye, and you actually preferred your solitude. There was something about being alone and not having to perform for others all the time. It was peaceful. So you made sure that you didn't have to leave your comfort zone by focusing on your work at Wayne Enterprises and your hobbies far away from the spotlight.

And life is not a bed of roses. And unfortunately, you couldn't always escape the spotlight.

“Thank you for coming with me today,” said Bruce, who was sitting next to you in the back seat of the car. “I know you're not usually interested in events like this.”

Saying that you weren't interested was the mildest thing that could be said about your view of events like that. If it was a charity gala, for example, you'd have no problem going — after all, it was an event with a purpose, and a good purpose. But a millionaire's birthday party where you didn't even know what his face looked like? Those were events you didn't even make an effort to attend.

The problem was that Bruce had practically begged you to go with him, and as usual, you couldn't bring yourself to say no to your brother. After all, he was already having a hard time as a masked vigilante. You couldn't let him almost die of boredom at that boring event.

Not to mention that you didn't travel often. Much as you liked staying at the mansion, Gotham sometimes seemed to suffocate you, and escaping was the best option.

Metropolis always caught your eye. Not because of the alien attacks or Superman (the symbol of peace and hope) but because, despite the chaos, it seemed like a calm place where you could walk the streets without cameras pointing in your direction and recording your every move. In a sense, it was liberating.

Also because, deep down, you wanted to spend more time with your brother without talking about the company or his Batman business.

“It's all right. As Alfie says, sometimes I need to go out and see the sunlight.”

“It's good to see you out of the house.”

“Just don't get used to it,” you said, giving a sideways smile that made Bruce laugh.

It didn't take long to arrive at the party venue. As soon as the driver parked in front of the entrance, you and Bruce were met by a sea of flashlights. There were photographers and onlookers everywhere, and you soon realised that not all of them were there on business. You noticed a few fan signs indicating that the birthday boy had invited a lot of famous people.

The hall was decorated in white and gold with a minimalist aesthetic, which felt very predictable. There was also a huge screen showing various photos of the birthday boy — he certainly had a lot of self-love!

You and Bruce greeted the birthday boy, who you discovered was called Robert. It didn't take long for others to greet him too, which gave you and your brother the cue to wander around the room. There were people you knew, as well as people you had never seen before. Some greeted your brother and walked straight past you, for which you were grateful, while others noticed your presence and recognised you. Some even mistook you for Bruce's girlfriend, which made the atmosphere unpleasant when your brother had to explain that you were actually siblings.

You were sitting next to Bruce in a conversation circle, but the subject was work — just what you didn't want to talk about at that moment. You remained silent, only speaking when addressed. But your mind was elsewhere. You wondered whether it was too early to leave, what would be served at the buffet and how much better it would be to be in your hotel room, watching the city. There were so many things you'd rather be doing than being there.

When the presence of the people around you became unbearable, you left Bruce's side without saying a word, looking for some fresh air. You didn't need to warn your brother to where you were going, after all. He knew you well enough to know where you might be (not to mention he was a great detective).

After wandering around for a while, you noticed a small garden at the back. In the centre was a round, two-storey fountain with water gushing out of the top. It was surrounded by a circular area of well-kept grass and gray bricks. There were wooden benches and peony bushes surrounding it as well.

You were so focused on the flowers that you barely realised there was anyone else in the garden. It was only when your body collided with a stranger's that you came back to reality.

“Forgive me,” you said. “I was distracted.”

“It's OK.” He smiled awkwardly and adjusted his suit, which was slightly too big for him. “I wasn't paying attention either.”

“Are you a journalist?” you asked, noticing the man's ID badge around his neck. There was a photo of him smiling, along with the name Clark Kent.

“Yes!” he said, smiling and extending his hand towards you. You slowly shook his hand, feeling a shock run through your body at the contact. “I’m Clark Kent, a journalist for the Daily Planet.”

“I've heard of you,” you said, letting go of his hand.

“You heard about me?” Clark looked at you in surprise, the tips of his ears reddening slightly.

“Yes, you're the journalist who always manages to interview Superman.”

Although it wasn't in your nature to read newspapers or articles unrelated to the business affairs, you still found it hard to resist the occasional superhero headline, such as those about Superman and Batman. Well, it was also important to stay informed about global events.

“Well, I'd say it's just luck being in the right place at the right time,” Clark said, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. “And what's your name?”

When you said your name, Kent just stared at you in silence, his eyes wide, as if you had said the most shocking and surprising thing in the world. After a few seconds, he opened and closed his mouth as if he didn't know what to say. Finally, he broke the awkward silence.

“Wayne... Like Bruce Wayne's sister?’

“Yes, is there a problem with that?” You asked, walking over to one of the wooden benches and sitting down.

“Problem?” He looked at you, dumbfounded. “No! No! Why would I have a problem with that?” He sighed and adjusted the glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. “It's just… I never imagined I'd meet you like this.”

You nodded with your head to indicate that you understood what he meant. After all, it wasn't every day that the reclusive billionaire heiress, who rarely left Gotham, attended a birthday party in Metropolis. Clark was certainly always in the right place at the right time.

“Ah... Uh... Wow,” Clark repeated your name, as if he was still trying to take in what was happening. The journalist then sat down at the other end of the wooden bench, fixing his gaze on the water fountain. “Wow, this is incredible...” Clark muttered to himself, but you heard him.

“What?” You turned to him, curiosity piqued.

“That just sounds like a dream.” Kent laughed and turned towards you, smiling broadly. “How has your stay in Metropolis been? Are you enjoying the city?”

You were taken by surprise by his question. You had expected him to ask you about your family, the company or your future work and investment plans. You never thought that the first question the journalist Clark Kent from the Daily Planet would ask you would be how you feel about being in the city. He was certainly something different from this world.

“Well, there haven't been any alien attacks so far, so I guess everything's going well.” You said this jokingly, which made Kent chuckle.

“I’m sure that if something like that happened, Superman would turn up.”

“You sound like a fan.”

“Well...” Clark swallowed at your statement. “He seems like a nice guy.”

“He seems to be from your interviews.” You commented, looking away from him. “And I don't doubt that you are too. After all, you're the only person he gives interviews to, so I suppose you're similar. Morally, I mean.”

“I'm just trying my best.” Clark smiled, his cheeks reddening.

“That sounds like enough to me.”

Then, a silence fell between them. It wasn't an awkward silence, though. It was quite the opposite. There was a certain comfort in it. While you enjoyed it, Clark's mind was a whirlwind of questions. He wanted to ask you everything, from your favourite colour to the charities you support. But he didn't have the courage. He didn't want to ruin the moment. You seemed so serene and relaxed that it would have been a sin to interrupt.

“I have to go.” you said, finally breaking the silence that had lasted for a few minutes. You got up from the bench and Clark followed your lead, albeit a little awkwardly.

The journalist followed your gaze and spotted a man standing at the entrance to the garden. He realised that it was indeed Bruce Wayne. Without further ado, Kent gently grabbed your wrist, drawing your attention back to him. Clark felt a shiver run down his spine when your eyes met.

It was now or never!

“Would you mind giving me the opportunity to interview you?” Clark asked, slowly releasing your wrist.

“An interview?” you asked in surprise.

“Yes, I’d really like to ask you a few questions, especially about your charity work.”

“Well, you can call me and I'll think about the interview.” You then said goodbye to Clark and set off to see your brother.

The rest of the night passed in a blur. You enjoyed dinner and dessert while Mr Smith, the host, gave a long speech of thanks and talked about his future work that you really didn't bother listening to. Once you finally returned to the hotel and changed out of your heels and long dress, you threw yourself onto the bed and stared at the white ceiling of the dark room.

You finally felt free. In that hotel room, at least, you could breathe easily, safe in the knowledge that no one was looking at you funny or expecting anything from you.

You were simply yourself.

Suddenly, however, the peace disappeared when memories of your eyes meeting Clark's flashed through your mind like a film reel. Even when you closed your eyes tightly and tried to think of nothing, the image of his unruly curls, bent glasses and adorable dimples came back to haunt you.

Clark Kent's oddly charming demeanor had made quite an impression.

When you returned, Gotham was still the same. It felt like the complete opposite of Metropolis, and for a moment, you missed its warmth and welcoming atmosphere. Nevertheless, you always found something comforting about Gotham's bad weather; it felt familiar even if it was sad.

You sighed as you looked out of the window of your office at Wayne Enterprises. It was a cloudy, grey day. People were hurrying down the street and cars were honking their horns non-stop. At the company, employees were busy with their job responsibilities. The world kept turning, yet ever since you returned from Metropolis, you had felt like you were stagnating. You started to miss something you had never even had.

Suddenly, the landline phone on your desk rang.

“Yes?” you said as soon as you put the object to your ear.

“Miss Wayne,” said Cerise, your secretary. “There's a journalist from the Daily Planet who wants to speak to you.”

A journalist from the Daily Planet…

Clark Kent.

You met the young journalist at the birthday party of a millionaire whose name you couldn't remember. The most memorable part of the evening had perhaps been your encounter with the awkward man who looked like he'd stepped out of a book. Sometimes, in the dead of night, when you looked at Gotham through your brother's technological contact lenses — especially when you couldn't sleep — you found yourself wondering if you had invented Clark Kent. After all, he was too perfect and too kind to be human. But that phone call was proof that the night had indeed happened.

You were surprised for a moment. You hadn't expected him to contact you so soon after returning to Gotham. In fact, you hadn't thought he would have the courage to do so, or even remember what you had told him.

Well, you can call me and I'll think about the interview.

The truth was that you were trying not to think about the interview or seeing Clark again. However, your mind betrayed you, making your thoughts turn to the man's curly, messy hair and adorable dimples.

Apparently, he was determined to secure the interview. Sometimes it didn't seem like such a bad idea. After all, Kent didn't seem like a sensationalist journalist intent on twisting your words to fit a media-fuelled narrative. He seemed decent.

“Tell him to come to Wayne Manor at four o'clock this Friday afternoon.” You said, hoping that you wouldn't regret this crazy idea.

“Is there anything else, Miss Wayne?”

“Just that. Thank you, Cerise.”

Friday came around sooner than you had hoped, and with every passing hour, you could feel your anxiety slowly eating away at you. It was as if it were savoring your desperation.

Although Bruce took a neutral stance when you warned him about your appointment with the journalist, you couldn't help but notice a file in the Batcave with Clark's name printed on the front. You had to stop yourself from looking at it. On the other hand, Alfred had been responsible for reassuring you. He always said that this was a big step you had taken and that he would be there if you needed him. And, of course, he made it clear that he was proud to see you stepping out of your comfort zone.

But still, nothing could stop you from freaking out a little. You changed your clothes every two minutes, unsure of which outfit would be best for the situation. You had already walked around the entire mansion, trying to clear your head and drink a couple of cups of camomile tea, but to no avail. You could still feel the lingering regret. However, when the doorbell rang, you realised that there was no turning back. You couldn't back down in front of Clark, especially since he had made the effort to travel all the way to your house just for an interview. You couldn't back down when he had been nothing but polite and kind to you. After all, you could have refused the interview, but you didn't. And Clark was just doing his job.

You were sitting in an armchair in the living room of the mansion when Clark entered, followed by Alfred. He stood with a slightly shy posture, as if embarrassed to be there, but his eyes still wandered to every corner of the room. He seemed enchanted by the building's gothic, medieval, and colonial style, with modern touches. The Wayne Manor never failed to impress its guests.

“Madam, your guest has arrived.” Alfred said before leaving the room.

“Miss Wayne!” Clark exclaimed excitedly when your eyes met.

“Mr Kent.” You greeted him with the same formality.

“Oh, please, you can just call me Clark," he said, dismissing the formality, though you noticed the tip of his ears turning pink.

“Alright, Clark,” you said, emphasising his name. You pointed to the spot on the sofa in front of you, inviting the journalist to sit down.

He looked the same as when you last saw him. He wore a slightly oversized suit, and it looked like Clark had tried to tame his curls, but they were still messy and fell over his forehead in an angelic way. His eyes were still the same beautiful shade of blue, framed by his glasses.

“So...” Clark looked at you and you could have sworn you saw a hint of curiosity in his eyes. His body language suggested that he was excited, even though he seemed slightly embarrassed to be standing there in front of you. “How are you doing?”

“I'm doing fine.” You said vaguely, not wanting to admit that you were extremely nervous about what was about to happen. “You?”

“I’m great.” Kent smiled slightly. “Thank you so much for accepting my invitation! It’s an honour to be the first journalist to interview you!”

“And how do you usually do that?” you asked, trying to sound calm.

“Before we begin, I want to say that if you feel uncomfortable or want to end the interview at any point, I won't mind,” said Clark. Always so attentive. “I don't want you to feel pressured to do this.”

“It's OK. I agreed to this interview,” you said, trying to convince both your guest and yourself.

“Would you mind if I recorded the interview?” Clark asked, pulling a notepad and a recorder from his briefcase.

“What?” You asked, confused by his request.

“Well, since this is your first interview, I thought you might feel more comfortable if we had more of a conversation. And I would like to record the conversation so that I don't forget your answers.”

“Is that how you do it when you interview Superman?”

“Ah... yes!” Clark replied, blushing.

“Okay then, you can record it.”

“I promise I'll only use it to transcribe the interview, and then I'll delete it.”

You nodded, and the journalist quickly started recording.

“So, Miss Wayne,” said Clark, glancing briefly at his notepad before beginning the interview. “What motivates you to get personally involved in Wayne Enterprises’ social projects, when you’re not someone who’s always in the spotlight?”

“I don't particularly understand what one thing has to do with the other.” You sighed. “Wayne Enterprises' social projects are extremely important to my brother and me. They're our way of helping the city we grew up in and trying to make it a better place, even though it's taken important things away from us. Honestly, I just want people to have the chance of a decent life, and to avoid going through what my brother and I went through as children. These projects aren't for me; they're for Gotham's citizens and children, so I don't see why I should be in the spotlight.”

Clark looked at you with what seemed to be a compassionate expression, and you felt a weight lift from your heart. You had only told Alfred about it, and for a moment you felt good knowing that you had been heard.

“What are the biggest challenges you face in balancing your personal life with your work at Wayne Enterprises?” After scratching his throat, the journalist returned to his question.

“My personal life isn't very hectic, if that's what you mean. I spend most of my time working because it's the only way I know to keep busy.”

“You only work?” Clark asked in a worried tone.

“What? No! I have my hobbies and things I like to do when I'm not working. I just don't like going out to crowded places and things like that.”

“Well, the mansion's pretty big. You should have plenty to do here,” Clark said with a closed smile.

“Well, you haven't seen the library yet.” You replied, adjusting your posture in the armchair. This moment was becoming increasingly comfortable.

“You have a library?” The man in front of you asked in astonishment.

“I can show you after we’ve finished the interview,” you said indifferently, but your heart fluttered at Clark’s excitement about the library — something so simple.

“I'd love to!”

And so you returned to the interview.

“Gotham is often seen as a chaotic and dangerous city. What makes you want to stay here instead of moving somewhere safer?”

“My parents did everything they could to help this city. Bruce and I are their legacy. I can't just abandon Gotham, it's become too familiar to me. When I was younger, I promised myself that I would do everything I could to make Gotham a safer place. A place where people feel at home and aren't afraid for their lives. I know it's a long way off, but I won't give up.”

“You're really different from how the media portrays you.”

“Well, it's just speculation. They do not know me” You gave a small smile.

“While we're on the subject of security, what do you think about Batman? Is he a threat or an ally to Gotham?”

You knew that question would come at some point. Even though it was Clark conducting the interview, you knew he wouldn't miss the chance to ask about Batman. Everyone was curious about the city's vigilante. Sometimes, at social events, people would ask you about him and usually, you would simply ignore the questions. After all, you knew who Batman was, and you were well aware of the motivations behind the mask. You knew that Bruce was Gotham's greatest ally, and that you both shared the dream of making Gotham a better place. You just used different methods to achieve your goals.

“Batman is not a threat to the city. He's just someone who has been victimised by the system and is trying to help Gotham thrive and stop these 'villains' from making crime worse.”

“You sound like a fan.” Clark's words took you by surprise. It was the same thing you had said to him when he had complimented Superman at your first meeting. You thought it was just a coincidence, but the smile on Clark's face suggested otherwise.

“Maybe. After all, he's the hero of my city, just like Superman is of yours.” You said, smiling slightly.

“So you like him?”

“I never said that.” You replied quickly, suppressing a laugh.

“So... Superman or Batman?” Clark squeezed his eyes shut and bit his lip, eager to hear your opinion.

“Are you serious?” You looked at him in surprise.

“That's the most serious question I've asked so far!”

“The truth is,” you said, biting your lip thoughtfully, “I think they're both great, and they'd make a great pair of allies. I don't see any reason for the two of them to be rivals when they're on the same side.”

“Wow,” said Clark, looking at you with his lips parted. “So you have no preference among the heroes?”

“No,” you replied with a smile.

Clark asked you more questions, and as time went on, the interview gradually became more like a conversation between two friends than something that would end up on the front page of the Metropolis newspaper. The atmosphere in the room was relaxed, and you felt that you were enjoying each other's company. You both smiled easily. You chatted about mundane matters, your likes and interests, and the things you didn't like. You also shared embarrassing stories that made you laugh for minutes on end.

Clark always seemed to have something interesting to share. He wasn't being snobbish or making it about himself; quite the opposite. He shared things because he thought they were interesting stories that might make you smile. And your interest in the journalist only grew.

When you offered to show Kent the library, he almost jumped for joy, which made you laugh. As you watched him talking about the books he had seen there — the ones he had already read and the ones he wanted to read — you realised that accepting the interview had not been a bad idea, and that if you were to give any other interview, it would definitely be to him, without a shadow of a doubt.

As night approached and the sky began to darken, Clark told you that he had to leave; after all, he lived in Metropolis and had an article (about you) to write. Of course, though, you made him stay for a few minutes to enjoy the biscuits Alfred had made with you while you drank tea.

“See you soon, Clark,” you said, smiling slightly as you said goodbye to the journalist.

“See you soon?” He turned around so quickly that you thought he might break his neck. He looked in your direction, his eyes sparkling behind his glasses and a toothy grin spreading across his face, revealing his dimples.

“Yeah...” you said, feigning disinterest. “If you don't get too excited.”

In a matter of seconds, he straightened his posture and tried to look serious, as if he wasn't excited at all about seeing you again. However, he still found it hard to hide the smile and the excitement in his voice.

“Well, see you soon, Miss Wayne,” he said, surrendering and smiling openly in your direction.

You couldn't help but smile discreetly in return.

Yeah, Clark Kent really did have a talent for getting exclusive interviews.

a/n.: clark spent a long time writing the interview because he kept listening to the recording repeatedly just to hear your voice and laughter.

© seonghrtz, 2025. all rights reserved, please do not copy / steal / translate / modify any of my works!

[sunflowersteves]

Clark Kent x blunt introvert reader

ok this is basically just four clark moments with an introvert reader and i hope you enjoy! as an introvert, ik clark would literally save the day on ordering food or mundane tasks that feel too much :( I love him sm

warnings || fluff, confessions, reader is introverted

masterlist

You squinted your eyes at the big, broad man from across the bullpen. The man who tends to drop papers and bump into desks almost naturally. The man whose hair was usually a mess of curls, like he’d combed it in a rush and then run his hands through one too many times. 

It was infuriating. He was infuriating. 

He was so kind and thoughtful, always casting his attention onto you with a pink blush to his cheeks. You, on the other hand, tend to keep to yourself. You never did it out of shyness exactly, but because you value your energy and choose where to spend it carefully. Crowds and constant chatter drain you. The quiet, solace-filled place of your room is where you like to spend your time. 

If something needs saying, you say it—clean, direct, and without sugar-coating. Clark was sugar-coating. He was the definition of warm edges and gentle phrasing. He could wrap even bad news in kindness, like it might soften the blow. It’s not that you’re unkind, but you see little use in dressing up the truth just to make it more palatable. But Clark, he’s just—well—he’s just that kind. 

It didn’t take long for you to discover that he was someone you could be around without recharging. He would incessantly talk to you, and you’d listen, humming on occasion. He would sit with you in quiet stillness, just being there for your company. It was painful, to be honest, especially for Lois. She’d been griping at you for months to ask Clark on a date. You would just brush it off with a huff and get back to work. 

“Can I sit?”

Your thoughts immediately halt—one minute ago, you were staring at him, trying to figure him out—and the next, he’s in front of you. You were enjoying your lunch in solitude, as you usually do, when his tall frame blocked the sun from the window in the break room. 

“As long as you don’t talk much, Kent, the seat’s yours.”

He grinned—dimple poking out and eyes shining bright against the yellow sun. 

“Okay.”

You expected him to ask about your day. You expected him to open his mouth and incessantly chatter, but he didn’t. He unpacked his lunch, a Superman lunchbox—courtesy of his ma, as he says—and ate with you in the quiet solace of the break room. 

You couldn’t help but smile. It was bright—so radiant and warm that Clark almost fell out of his seat. His cheeks turned pink once more, but his smile was just as wide as yours was.  

That instance—the lunch—became the day when you were inseparable. 

“Gosh,” Clark breathes out. He was really close to finishing this one article, but he was stuck. Usually, he’d ask Lois and Jimmy for some help, but they were off on some assignment Perry sent them on. He almost wanted to ask you, he usually does, but he didn’t want to be a bother. 

He watched as your pen tapped on the notepad, eyes staring at the words in front of you, hoping they would make sense. You just looked so ethereal in concentration that his ears turned pink. 

You peeked over at him from your desk, curiosity getting the best of you. His hair was a mess, there were dark circles under his eyes, and he bit his lip in a type of frustrated concentration that you know all too well. 

He was stuck. He was in a writing rut. Before you know it, and before your mind could catch up to what was happening, your legs start to move on their own in the direction of his desk. 

“You’re overthinking it.”

His body goes rigid as he is just now realizing that you’re leaning over his shoulder. His heart pounds against his ears, already feeling the heat creep up his neck. He just watched as you scanned over each word that his large fingers typed. 

You were wearing black slacks today, ones that he always thought looked good on you. It complemented your hips, the curve and shape of them. His legs always felt like jelly when you walked into a room, his heart palpitating just slightly. Your voice brings him back to reality—in his distraction, he let out a cough. 

You point to one sentence and say, “Focus on that one.” You didn’t realize it, but you pointed out one of the sentences he was stuck on. He thought it was cheesy—too much for an article on hope. His eyes widened in surprise. “But–”

“It’s good. It’s great—it’s you. It makes the reader feel like they’re vulnerable with you.” 

He blinks. The heat he felt was now ablaze against his cheeks and neck. “I—That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me—to anyone.”

You give a small roll of your eyes, “Don’t get used to it, Kent.” But there’s a smile on your lips. It’s a big, warm smile, and he can’t help but feel giddy that he was the one who made you smile like that.  

There was a big gala for the Daily Planet. 

There was an opening of a new branch, and everyone in the office had to go, which meant that you had to go. 

It wasn’t that you despised getting all dressed up and hanging out with friends. It was just things like this—a gala full of strangers that talked incessantly about stocks and capitalism and blah blah blah. 

It’s been three hours of constant small talk, and you weren’t sure how much more you could handle. A woman and her husband were talking to you. About what, you had no idea. You just laughed, attempting to put a smile on your face. 

It was a weak one, though. Clark spotted it almost immediately from across the room. The sparkle didn’t shine in your eyes, and the creases near your mouth didn’t quite soften like they usually do. You were drained. It was the way your shoulders slumped over and the way your eyes altogether avoided those around you.

Clark, in the middle of another conversation, politely bid them goodbye. He made up some excuse before rushing over to you in your hour of need. He ever so slightly drifts over to you, pretending like he just happened to end up there. It wasn’t very convincing, but it worked nonetheless. 

You knew better than others, though, when your eyes locked with his. “Hi, I’m Clark.” He dazzingly smiles. Something in you felt lighter, like the weight on your chest shifted just enough for you to breathe easier. Your heart elevated slightly, but not from the chatter. It was from Clark.

He talks easily with women and her husband, his voice warm, smooth—pulling the attention to himself so you don’t have to be at the center of it anymore. You stand there, letting the noise of the room dull behind the steadiness of his presence. 

He noticed. He noticed the way your shoulders were back to normal, the way you picked at your nails less, and how some of the sparkle had returned to your eyes. It made him elated. He reached over, very subtly, and grabbed your hand. 

If you weren’t desperately thinking of the same thing, you might have jumped. But you didn’t. You just squeezed his hand back—as a thanks. You knew you could count on Clark—Always. 

The bullpen was mostly empty, and the sun was starting to fade against the horizon. The quiet hum of the overhead lights exacerbated the headache of your writing slump even further. You’d been staring at the same paragraph for ten minutes. Then, a shadow fell over your desk.

“You’ve been here since lunch,” Clark said softly, setting a mug of coffee down beside your mouse pad. He had made it in the break room, grabbing your mug and picking out your favorite coffee. It was small and completely mundane, but he loved doing the little things for you. 

You didn’t even look up, eyes tracing the words in front of you. “And?”

“And,” he continued, a patient smile in his voice, “you should probably take a break before you start typing nonsense.”

He hovered behind you, watching your fingers type faster on the computer—if that was even possible. “I already do that on a good day, Kent.” You kept your eyes on the screen, but the corner of your mouth twitched when you heard him chuckle.

Instead of leaving, he slid into the chair beside your desk—your chair, the one meant for visitors who didn’t linger. Well, it wasn’t like you really minded.

“I’m fine, Clark,” you said finally, fingers finally falling still so that you could turn to him. “You don’t have be here. You can go.”

“I know.” He leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees, watching you like he had all the time in the world. “I just like being here.”

You huffed, finally completely turning to him. “You’re ridiculous.” That made him smile even more. It was breathtaking—and so were you, as you stared right back into his eyes.

“Probably.” His voice was warm and quiet, the kind that made your body loosen in its intensity and your heart fall into a puddle. “But you’re drinking that coffee before it gets cold.”

You sighed, really looking at him this time—tie loosened, hair a little mussed, that smile tugging at the edges of his mouth. He looked like he’d been through his own long day, but still somehow made space to worry about you. 

You picked up the cup, muttering, “Fine.”

“Good,” he said, sitting back with a little smile of victory. His knee still pressed lightly against yours under the desk. The close contact almost made you shudder. 

“I like being here,” he repeated, and this time his voice dipped, almost hesitant. “With you.” The last words were quiet—like a confession—like he wasn’t sure he was supposed to say it.

The words hung between you, heavier now, charged, as though the whole office had gone still just to listen—even though no one was there. But you could feel it this time. His hand twitched where it rested on his knee, like he wanted to reach for yours but wasn’t sure he had the right. His glasses caught the glow of the desk lamp, his eyes impossibly earnest behind them, waiting—hoping—for you to say something back.

Your throat felt tight, and for once, you couldn’t summon the blunt retort waiting on your tongue. The sarcasm, the snark that you usually give to everyone. It all evaporated under that gaze. You just stared at him, heart pounding so hard you thought he might hear it.

Clark’s breath hitched almost out of fear, like he was bracing himself for rejection. That tiny crack in his confidence—Clark Kent, Superman, who could face anything, who always smiled—nearly undid by you.

But then you leaned back in your chair, letting your lips curve into something soft, something real. It made his eyes widen.

“I like being with you, too, Kent.”

The smallest laugh slipped out of him, shaky with relief, and his shoulders dropped as if he’d been carrying the weight of those words for months. He ducked his head, the tips of his ears flushing red, but when he looked back up at you, that smile—God, that smile—was brighter than anything the sun could cast upon it.