#and that shirt is all I’m wearing right now

[shy9-29]

ONE NIGHT STAND ⟡ psh

professer sunghoon x collage student ୨ৎ

⟡ synopsis: You let a stranger ruin you one night — then he turned out to be your professor. Now every class feels like foreplay. ✉️ wc. 10350 ⚠️ tw smut, explicit sexual content, unprotected sex (wrap ur willies), professor/student relationship, one night stand, fingering, oral (m. receiving), spanking, dirty talk, handjob, overstimulation, spit kink, possessiveness, jealousy, public teasing, rough sex, aftercare, slight angst, emotional manipulation, implied age gap, power imbalance, strong language, alcohol use (basically just porn)

genre. smut, (mdni!) romance, drama, angst, forbidden love, slow burn, erotica, university au, power dynamics, emotional tension, secret relationship, student/professor romance

It’s your last night of summer. Tomorrow, you move into your dorm, trade your parents’ house for a tiny twin bed and a stack of syllabi. So tonight — just for tonight — you want to forget about responsibility. About expectations. About the version of yourself you’re supposed to become.

The club is loud and packed, the bass from the speakers deep enough to rattle in your chest. Lights flash red and purple overhead, casting shadows that move across the crowd like ghosts. Bella clutches your wrist, pulling you deeper into the sea of people with a giggle.

“You’re not allowed to be shy tonight,” she shouts over the music, leaning close so you can hear her. “It’s your last night of freedom. Go flirt with someone. Get drunk. Maybe get laid.”

You roll your eyes, laughing despite yourself. She’s already halfway to drunk, her glossy eyes and flushed cheeks proof of that. But she’s right. You didn’t dress like this to be a wallflower. You came out in a tight black dress that hugs your curves just right, your makeup smoky and bold, your legs aching slightly from the heels you swore you wouldn’t wear and did anyway.

You make your way to the bar to order something — anything — that’ll warm your throat and lower your inhibitions just a little. That’s when you feel it.

Eyes on you.

You turn your head slightly, pretending to scan the crowd, but you already know exactly where it’s coming from.

He’s sitting at the bar alone. A half-finished whiskey glass in front of him, one elbow resting lazily on the counter. His hair is dark and parted just enough to fall over one brow. Clean-cut, but not preppy. Dressed in all black — a simple shirt, watch glinting at his wrist, rings on two fingers. His posture is relaxed, but his gaze?

Intense.

You don’t know how long he’s been looking at you, but he doesn’t look away when your eyes meet. He doesn’t smirk, doesn’t wink. Just watches. Calm. Curious. Like he’s waiting for you to make the first move.

Your heart skips a beat.

You look away first, pretending to fidget with your phone as you wait for the bartender. But your pulse is racing, and you can still feel his gaze burning into the side of your face.

“Vodka soda,” you say when the bartender finally notices you. Your voice is slightly unsteady, and it annoys you.

You don’t look back until the drink’s in your hand — and when you do, he’s still watching. But this time, he’s moving.

Straight toward you.

You freeze. Instinctively fix your hair. Sip your drink too fast. Then he’s there, standing beside you at the bar like he’s been invited.

“First drink of the night?” he asks, voice smooth as silk, low enough that you have to lean in to hear him.

You glance up at him — and now that he’s close, you can really see him. Sharp cheekbones. Full lips. Eyes so dark you’re not sure where iris ends and pupil begins.

You try to play it cool. “Second.”

He nods once. “Good. First would’ve meant I was a little early. Second means I’m right on time.”

You raise a brow, trying not to let your smile show. “For what?”

He leans in slightly, and you catch the faintest whiff of cologne — warm, musky, expensive. “For meeting you.”

The line should be cheesy. It should make you roll your eyes. But it doesn’t. Maybe it’s the way he says it, like he actually means it. Or maybe it’s the way he’s looking at you, gaze flicking from your lips to your eyes like he’s cataloging the way your mouth moves when you smile.

You take another sip of your drink. “Do you always hit on girls at bars?”

“Not always,” he says, not missing a beat. “Only the ones who can’t stop looking back.”

Your cheeks heat instantly. He saw that?

Before you can come up with a response, he extends his hand. “Sunghoon.”

You hesitate — just a second — before slipping your hand into his. His grip is firm, but not too tight. Warm. Steady.

You tell him your name. He repeats it back to you like he’s tasting it.

And then he leans in again. “Let me buy you your third drink.”

You’re not drunk — not really — but there’s a buzz in your blood, a warmth that runs deeper than alcohol. It’s in the way Sunghoon keeps watching you, the way his eyes drop to your lips every time you speak. His voice is steady, smooth, but there’s something beneath it — a restraint. Like he’s holding himself back.

You talk. About nothing, mostly. Music, favorite cities, late-night cravings. You learn he’s a little older, but he doesn’t say exactly how much. You don’t ask. You don’t want to ruin the spell by making it real.

At some point, you end up on the dance floor. You didn’t plan to — you never really dance — but he takes your hand without asking, and suddenly you’re there, surrounded by pulsing lights and bodies and heat.

He doesn’t keep his distance. One hand finds your waist. The other drifts low, fingers brushing just beneath the hem of your dress. He moves slow, but deliberate — his chest against your back, his lips ghosting near your ear.

“You’re dangerous,” he murmurs, voice low, breath hot against your skin.

You laugh — breathless. “Why’s that?”

“Because I don’t usually do this either.”

You turn your head just enough to meet his gaze. “Do what?”

He leans in. His mouth grazes your jaw, then your cheek, then finally — your lips.

It starts soft. Testing. His hand slides around your hip, pulling you closer, and then he kisses you deeper — fuller — like he’s been waiting all night for it. You don’t even realize your fingers have curled into his shirt until he pulls back just slightly, lips still brushing yours.

“My place is five minutes from here,” he says. “Say the word.”

You hesitate for half a second. Not because you don’t want it — but because you want it too much.

“let’s go,” you whisper.

The ride to his place is a blur — fast, silent, electric. He doesn’t touch you in the car, but his knee brushes yours, and it feels more intimate than anything else so far.

His apartment is clean. Minimalist. Expensive-looking. You barely notice any of it.

Because the moment the door clicks shut behind you, he’s on you.

His hands cup your face as he kisses you again, harder this time. Hungrier. He backs you against the door, lips crashing into yours like he can’t get enough.

Your fingers slide into his hair. His hands drop to your hips, then lower — gripping the backs of your thighs and lifting you effortlessly.

You gasp against his mouth, legs wrapping around his waist. He carries you like you weigh nothing, walking you through the apartment until you’re in his bedroom.

He drops you gently onto the bed, standing over you for a second. His chest rises and falls with every breath. He’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in the room — like he’s starving and you’re the meal.

“Still okay?” he asks, voice rough.

You nod. “Please.”

He smirks — just a little. “Take off your dress for me.”

Your breath catches. But you do it — slowly, fingers slipping beneath the straps and easing it down your body.

Sunghoon watches the whole time, not blinking.

You’re left in nothing but a lacy black bra and matching panties. You start to reach behind to unhook it, but he stops you.

“Let me.”

He steps forward, kneeling onto the bed between your legs. His fingers find the clasp, and the bra falls away. His eyes darken.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, leaning down to kiss between your breasts. His hands trail up your sides, thumbs brushing over your nipples, and you arch into him.

“You’re gorgeous,” he whispers, mouth dragging lower, tongue flicking across one nipple before sucking it into his mouth.

Your back arches, a soft moan slipping past your lips.

His hand moves between your thighs, fingers tracing over your panties. You’re soaked.

“You want my fingers?” he asks, voice low, teasing.

You nod — desperate now.

“Say it,” he murmurs, lips brushing your neck. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want your fingers,” you breathe. “Please.”

And that’s all it takes.

He pushes your panties aside and runs two fingers along your slit, groaning at how wet you are. Then he slides one finger in — slow, deep — and your body trembles.

“Shit,” he breathes. “You’re tight.”

He adds another, curling them inside you, hitting that spot that makes your toes curl.

Your hips start to move with his rhythm, grinding against his hand.

“Touch yourself,” he says suddenly. “I want to see you do it.”

You hesitate, flushed, but obey — hand slipping between your legs to rub slow, needy circles over your clit while he pumps his fingers in and out of your pussy.

The sounds — wet, messy, obscene — echo in the quiet room.

You’re close. So close.

“Come for me,” he says, lips against your ear. “Show me how pretty you look when you fall apart.”

And you do.

You’re still catching your breath when Sunghoon pulls his fingers from your dripping cunt, glistening with your orgasm. He brings them to his mouth, lips curling around them without breaking eye contact.

“Taste so fucking good,” he murmurs. “Could eat you for hours. But right now…”

His voice trails off as he sits back on his heels, tugging his shirt over his head in one fluid motion. His chest is toned, lean muscle carved beneath smooth skin. His belt comes next, then his zipper—

And when he pushes his pants down, your mouth goes dry.

Holy. Shit.

He’s big. Thick. His cock hangs heavy between his legs, hard and flushed, a single bead of precum glistening at the tip.

You stare, stunned for a second, and he notices.

His mouth curves into a dark smile. “Too much?”

You shake your head, eyes locked on his length. “No. Just…” Your voice trails off, and you bite your lip. “Big.”

He groans softly, palming the base of his cock. “Come here, baby. Let me feel that pretty mouth.”

You crawl toward him, sinking to your knees at the edge of the bed. He stays standing, hand stroking his cock slowly as you settle in front of him.

“Spit on it,” he says, voice rough. “Then use your tongue.”

You obey. Spitting into your palm first, you rub the wetness over the head of his cock, then down the shaft. He hisses under his breath, hips twitching.

Then you lean forward and press a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the tip.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, hand slipping into your hair. “Such a good slut.”

You wrap your lips around him, tongue swirling over the sensitive head before sinking lower. He’s thick — you can barely fit him in your mouth — but you try, inch by inch, letting your saliva drip down to make it easier.

Sunghoon groans, fingers tightening in your hair. “Fuck, just like that. You look so fucking good on your knees.”

You moan around him, and the vibration makes his hips jerk. You bob your head slowly, using your hand to stroke what you can’t fit, drool running down your chin.

“Look at me,” he commands, voice like gravel. “Eyes on me while you suck my cock.”

You lift your gaze, lashes wet, cheeks hollowing around his length. He growls.

“God, that mouth. I could fuck your throat all night.”

He starts to guide your head, setting a rhythm — slow but deep, letting you feel every inch. Your throat tightens around him, but you don’t pull away.

“You like this?” he mutters, voice ragged. “Like choking on my cock like a desperate little slut?”

You moan again, louder this time, and he groans — head falling back for a second before he looks down at you again.

“Bet your pussy’s still dripping,” he says. “Bet you’d let me bend you over right now and fuck you until you forget your name.”

You whimper, sucking harder, desperate for his praise — for more of that filth spilling from his lips.

Then suddenly, he pulls back. His cock slips from your mouth with a wet pop, and you blink up at him, confused.

“On your hands and knees,” he says. “Now.”

You scramble onto the bed, body aching for more, cunt still pulsing from your earlier orgasm.

Sunghoon climbs behind you, running a hand down your back, then up again — slow, possessive.

Then—smack.

You gasp as his palm lands on your ass, the sting sharp and sudden.

“Too much?” he asks, even as he squeezes where he just spanked.

“No,” you whisper. “Do it again.”

He groans. “Fuck, you really are perfect.”

Smack. Again — harder this time. Then he soothes the spot with his palm, leaning down to murmur against your ear.

“I’m gonna ruin you,” he breathes. “Stretch this tight little pussy open with my cock, fuck you so good you’ll still be shaking in your dorm tomorrow.”

You moan — loud, desperate — pushing your hips back against him.

“Please, Sunghoon,” you whimper. “Need you inside me.”

His voice is a low growl. “Beg prettier than that.”

You shudder. “Please. Want you to fuck me. Want your cock, please—”

He growls again — deep, raw — and grabs your hips, lining himself up.

You feel the head of his cock slide through your folds — slow, teasing — dragging against your already-sensitive clit before he lines up at your entrance. He pauses, both hands gripping your hips.

“Deep breath, baby,” he murmurs. “I’m not small, remember?”

You barely have time to nod before he pushes in.

Your gasp is instant. He’s thick, stretching you open inch by inch, and the burn is sharp in the best way — the kind that makes your back arch, your mouth fall open, your eyes roll back. He goes slow at first, letting you feel every inch, and your body clenches tight around him, trying to adjust.

“Shit,” Sunghoon groans, voice strained. “You’re so fucking tight—trying to suck me in.”

He bottoms out with one final thrust, hips flush to your ass. You cry out, gripping the sheets.

“Too much?” he asks, voice low.

“N-no,” you stammer. “Just—so full.”

He leans over you, chest pressed to your back, mouth right by your ear. “You can take it. And you will.”

Then he pulls back — just the tip — and slams back in, hard enough to make you moan. He starts moving, hips snapping forward, fucking into you with smooth, relentless strokes. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, mixing with the filthy wet noises coming from between your legs and your own desperate moans.

Sunghoon’s grip on your hips is bruising. He fucks you like he owns you, like you’re his toy and no one else’s. He leans back just enough to admire the way your ass bounces with every thrust.

“Look at you,” he mutters. “Taking all of me like a good little slut. You were made for this cock.”

You whimper, trembling, already close again — the stretch, the pressure, the filthy words all pushing you toward the edge.

“You gonna come again?” he asks, breathless. “Already?”

You nod, too far gone to answer properly.

He slaps your ass again — smack. “Say it. I wanna hear you beg.”

“Please,” you gasp. “I’m gonna come, Sunghoon—fuck, please let me.”

He growls, pounding into you faster. “Come for me. Now.”

You break.

Your second orgasm crashes over you hard, clenching around him like a vice, and he doesn’t stop. Keeps fucking you through it, unrelenting, merciless. Your arms give out, and you collapse onto the mattress, trembling and whimpering.

But he doesn’t let up.

“Oh, we’re not done,” he pants. “Not even close.”

He pulls out suddenly, and you barely have time to catch your breath before he flips you onto your back. He grabs your legs, spreads them wide, and lines himself up again.

“Want to see your face this time,” he murmurs. “Want to watch you fall apart.”

Then he thrusts back into you, hard and deep, making you cry out. Your body is already too sensitive, your pussy still fluttering from the last orgasm, but he doesn’t care. If anything, he likes how overstimulated you are.

“You feel that?” he grits out. “How your pussy’s still squeezing me like it never wants to let go?”

You nod frantically, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. “Too much—fuck—it’s so much.”

“But you’re taking it,” he says. “Taking it so well.”

He fucks you like a man possessed, like he’s trying to carve himself into your memory. Every thrust hits deep, the angle perfect, and your legs start to shake.

“I can’t—” you choke out. “Gonna come again—”

He grabs your throat — not hard, just enough to hold you in place. His other hand finds your clit, fingers rubbing fast, merciless circles over the swollen bundle of nerves.

“Yes, you can,” he growls. “You’re gonna come again. You’re gonna soak my cock. I want to feel you milk me.”

You shatter.

The third orgasm hits you like lightning — hot, electric, impossible. Your vision blurs, body writhing beneath him, voice cracking into a broken moan as your pussy clenches around him like a vice.

But he still doesn’t stop.

Sunghoon fucks you through it, hips slamming into yours, jaw clenched like he’s holding back everything.

“Fuck, I’m close,” he groans. “Wanna come all over this tight fucking pussy. You want that, baby?”

You nod, unable to speak.

“Where?” he grits out. “Tell me.”

“Inside,” you whisper. “Please—come inside me.”

His eyes darken.

He slams into you one more time and groans deep in his chest as he spills inside you — hot, thick, and endless. You can feel it, the way he pulses inside your overstimulated cunt, and it makes you moan all over again.

He stays there for a moment, both of you panting, sweaty, trembling. Then he leans down and kisses you — slow and deep, like he’s trying to remind you that he can be gentle, too.

When he finally pulls out, your thighs are sticky, trembling. You’re completely wrecked — legs spread, sheets soaked, lips swollen, hair a mess. And Sunghoon just looks at you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“You okay?” he asks softly, brushing your hair back from your face.

You nod, exhausted. “That was… insane.”

You wake up sore.

Between your legs, mostly. Every shift of your thighs reminds you exactly what happened last night — the ache, the stretch, the way he didn’t stop even after your legs were shaking. You wince a little as you turn over.

The bed beside you is empty.

Sheets crumpled, slightly warm, but no Sunghoon.

You sit up slowly, the duvet slipping down your bare chest, blinking against the morning light that filters in through half-open blinds. The room’s unfamiliar. Sleek. A little too neat to feel lived in.

Strange. Isn’t this his place?

Your clothes are scattered across the floor, but none of his are. No signs of a toothbrush on the bathroom counter. No jackets hanging by the door. No photos. No clutter.

Airbnb, maybe. Just a place he rented for the weekend.

You frown as you rub a hand over your eyes. Your head is foggy, still wrapped in the lingering haze of alcohol and sex. You try to piece together last night — the way he looked at you at the party, the feel of his fingers, his mouth, his cock — and then… it’s all just heat and noise and black.

You don’t even remember falling asleep.

You sigh. Hard.

Your phone’s nearly dead, and the time glares back at you: 11:02 AM.

Classes start tomorrow. Perfect.

No note. No message. Not even a name.

You don’t even know his last name.

You pull your dress on — wrinkled and inside-out — and shove your heels into your bag. You call an Uber before you’ve even finished brushing your hair with your fingers.

The car is quiet. You don’t talk.

You lean your forehead against the window, eyes half-lidded, sore and still a little hungover, the ache between your legs throbbing in time with your heartbeat.

One night stand. That’s what it was. Nothing more.

Still… you can’t help thinking about him. About the way he looked at you. The way he kissed you. The way he—

You shake your head.

It was one night. You’ll never see him again.

Tomorrow, university starts. Time to focus on new things.

You have no idea what’s coming.

You’re late.

Of course you’re late.

Your phone had died overnight, and you’d barely dragged yourself out of bed in time to throw on the cleanest outfit you could find and rush across campus with half-brushed hair and your coffee still in a to-go cup. Your legs are still sore, your thighs brushing uncomfortably with every step, and you haven’t stopped thinking about last night.

Or him.

The guy you let wreck you in a stranger’s bed. The guy who disappeared before morning. The guy you’ll never see again.

Right?

You shove open the door to the lecture hall, breathless.

“Sorry, sorry,” you mumble as you slip inside, your voice echoing faintly. The place is massive — a hundred seats, maybe more — and every single one of them is already filled with someone more punctual and better-rested than you.

You find a seat near the middle, head ducked, ignoring the stares as you slide your bag off your shoulder and collapse into the chair. You’re still trying to catch your breath, sipping your lukewarm coffee, when a voice carries from the front of the room.

“Glad you could finally join us.”

Your stomach twists.

That voice—

No way.

You blink.

Then slowly — so slowly — you look up.

And your heart stops.

There he is.

At the front of the room, standing beside the projector screen with a laptop open on the podium, is him. Black button-up, sleeves rolled just enough to show his forearms. Sharp jaw. Cold eyes.

Sunghoon.

Your one-night stand.

Your mystery man.

Your professor.

You blink again, hoping you’re hallucinating. That you’re still in bed. That you’re still dreaming.

But he just stares back at you — a flicker of recognition in his eyes, so fast and so subtle that if you didn’t know, you’d miss it.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t react.

He just says, cool and calm, “As I was saying — welcome to Modern Media Theory. I’m Professor Park. This semester, I expect you to show up on time, be prepared, and keep your personal lives out of my classroom.”

You go still.

The air in your lungs vanishes. Your cheeks burn.

He didn’t just fuck you.

He’s your professor.

And he’s pretending nothing happened.

You don’t hear a single word of the lecture.

Not a single one.

Your eyes stay locked on him the whole time — on Professor Park — trying to reconcile the man in front of the class with the man who had you bent over a bed less than twenty-four hours ago.

He’s even more handsome when you’re sober. Clean lines. Sharp cheekbones. That same deep voice, now filled with authority instead of filth. It should be illegal to look that good in front of a classroom.

And the worst part? He acts like you’re no one.

Not a glance. Not a flicker of amusement or recognition. Nothing.

You spend the next ninety minutes trying not to squirm in your seat — from nerves, from heat, from the dull ache still between your thighs. His voice carries over the room in calm, measured tones, talking about frameworks and theory and authors you can’t even remember, because all you can think about is his hand gripping your throat, his cock in your mouth, his voice in your ear telling you to beg for it.

By the time class ends, you’re practically vibrating with frustration. The students file out one by one, chatting, oblivious, until finally the room is empty — except for you.

And him.

You wait until he’s closed his laptop before standing.

He doesn’t look up. “Class is dismissed.”

“Yeah,” you say, voice tight. “I got that.”

That makes him pause. Slowly, his eyes lift, meeting yours. The coolness in them is surgical. Detached.

You swallow. “So… you’re a professor.” He doesn’t react. “Looks that way.” Your heart pounds. “You didn’t think that was something worth mentioning last night?” Sunghoon tilts his head, finally closing the distance with his eyes, not his body. “You didn’t ask.”

You laugh — sharp, disbelieving. “Seriously?” He slides his laptop into his bag. Calm. Controlled. Like this is nothing to him. You take a step closer. “You just left. No note. No text. You didn’t even tell me your last name, and now I find out you’re standing at the front of my class like nothing happened?”

He sighs — not guilty, not even annoyed. Just tired.

“Look,” he says. “Last night was a mistake.”

The words hit like a slap.

“A mistake,” you repeat, voice flat.

“Yes.”

He zips up his bag and slings it over his shoulder, then finally — finally — meets your gaze with something resembling emotion. But it’s not warmth. It’s not regret. It’s caution. “You didn’t know who I was. I didn’t know who you were. But now we do. And nothing else happens. Understood?” You blink at him. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“Sunghoon—”

“Professor Park,” he corrects, firm. “From now on, in this room, on this campus — you will refer to me as Professor Park. You will not speak of last night. And you will not treat me like anything other than your professor.”

Your throat tightens. “So that’s all I was to you?” His jaw flexes. Just once. “I’m not here to discuss feelings,” he says. “I’m here to teach.” He moves to leave, but you step in his path.

“One night,” you say quietly. “That’s all it meant to you?” He pauses. Doesn’t look at you. Then—

“Yes.”

And then he walks past you, out the door, gone before you can even breathe out the response stuck in your throat.

You’re alone. In your first lecture hall. On your first day. Still sore. Still remembering. Still burning. And now you can’t stop thinking about him. Not because he touched you. But because now, he won’t.

You practically collapse into your dorm room chair.

The walk back from class did nothing to calm you down — not with your thoughts spinning and your thighs still sore. You’re halfway through Googling Is it illegal to hook up with your professor if you didn’t know he was your professor when the door swings open and Lily walks in, dropping her tote bag with a sigh.

“Please tell me you didn’t fall asleep in the middle of class like I almost did,” she groans.

You shake your head. “No. I… had Modern Media Theory.”

Lily perks up instantly, eyes wide. “Wait��wait—don’t tell me you got Professor Park?”

You freeze.

She gasps. “You got Park? Are you serious?”

You just blink at her, unsure how to answer.

Lily throws herself onto your bed dramatically. “Oh my God. Half the campus is obsessed with that man. Like, seriously. Even the guys think he’s hot.”

You say nothing. You can’t. You’re still trying to figure out if this is hilarious or humiliating.

“And people say,” she lowers her voice like she’s sharing top-tier gossip, “he’s huge.”

You sip your water slowly, hiding the way your breath catches. Yeah. You wouldn’t need rumors to confirm that. You still feel it.

You try to play it cool. “Huge how?”

Lily looks scandalized. “Y/N. Please. You know how.”

You choke on your water, coughing as Lily bursts out laughing. “Seriously! That man has big dick energy like—actual BDE. Someone in second-year swore he stretched her friend so bad she couldn’t sit for two days.”

You look down at your lap. Yep. Sounds familiar.

“Didn’t know the media department had this kind of drama,” you mutter.

Before Lily can reply, Kitty walks in with a protein shake and zero chill.

“Wait, are we talking about Professor Park?”

Lily lights up. “Y/N has him!”

Kitty gasps. “No way. The hot one?”

Y/N stays silent. Kitty throws herself into the chair across from you.

“I heard he’s really good in bed,” Kitty says casually, like she’s talking about the weather. “Like, life-changing. My cousin said her roommate slept with him at some faculty party or something—pre-semester—and she still can’t shut up about it.”

Your jaw clenches.

Yeah. He is.

Too good. Too cocky. Too unforgettable.

You cross your legs without thinking — a weak attempt to soothe the ghost of last night’s ache still pulsing between your thighs.

“Anyway,” Kitty says, oblivious, “you’re lucky. Most profs are ancient or weird. If I had Park as my first Monday lecture, I wouldn’t even be mad.”

Lily grins. “I wouldn’t even miss a class. Ever.”

You force a tight smile. “Right.”

They move on to some other topic — campus events, party rumors, who hooked up with who — but you barely hear it.

Your mind’s still stuck on his voice. His hands. The way he called you a good little slutand then looked right through you the next day like none of it mattered.

Your friends think he’s a fantasy. You know he’s a mistake. And yet, you can’t stop thinking about him. Still sore. Still remembering. Still wanting more.

“Y/N… can we talk?”

His voice is low, almost gentle. You turn around and he’s standing there — in the doorway of your dorm, hands in his pockets, eyes unreadable.

You don’t say anything.

Sunghoon steps closer, slow and careful, like he’s afraid you might run.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “For being so cold. Yesterday.”

You cross your arms over your chest. You want to be mad — you should be mad — but all you can do is stare at him. The way his jaw clenches. The way his voice dips when he talks to you, like you’re the only one in the world who can hear him.

He sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “I didn’t know what to say. I panicked.”

He’s inches away now. You can feel the heat of his body, the scent of his cologne — clean, warm, familiar. He reaches out slowly, fingertips brushing your wrist, trailing up your arm like he’s checking if he’s allowed to touch you again.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you,” he murmurs. “About that night.”

Your heart pounds. His touch burns.

“I wanted to forget,” he admits, voice rough. “But I can’t.” Your back hits the wall. He cages you in without touching you — one hand braced beside your head, the other hovering just inches from your waist. His breath fans over your skin.

“I still remember how you sound,” he whispers. “How you taste. How your body felt under mine.” You shiver. Your eyes flutter closed, just for a second. “I should stay away,” he breathes. “But I don’t want to.” His lips are so close. His mouth hovers over yours, not touching, not yet — just letting the moment drag out, all heat and tension and want. You reach for him first.

Your fingers curl into his shirt. He groans into your mouth when you kiss him, slow and desperate, hands grabbing at each other like you’ve both been starved. His body presses against yours and you feel it immediately — hard, hot, eager. Just like before.

He lifts you easily, and your legs wrap around his waist like instinct. His mouth moves down your neck, sucking hard enough to make you gasp, and you tug his shirt up, frantic.

“I missed this,” he murmurs. “Missed you.” Your hips grind against his, and he groans again, rutting forward like he can’t help himself.

“I’m gonna take my time with you this time,” he says against your skin. “Gonna fuck you slow… make you cry for it…” He lays you down, starts kissing down your body, eyes dark with hunger. You moan his name.

“Sunghoon…”

But then—You wake up.

Your sheets are twisted around your legs, your body damp with sweat, and your hand is fisted tightly in the fabric of your tank top like you were reaching for something. Your chest rises and falls with shallow breaths. You stare at the ceiling.

He wasn’t here. He didn’t say anything. It was just a dream. And now you’re even worse off than before.

You don’t say anything the next time you walk into class.

But you don’t have to.

Your skirt is shorter than usual — just enough to ride up when you sit down — and your legs are crossed deliberately, slowly, as you ease into your seat near the front. No tights. No leggings. Just skin and confidence.

You feel his eyes on you the second you walk in.

He doesn’t look at you directly — of course not. He’s smarter than that. But you can see the way his jaw tightens. The way his fingers hesitate on the mouse before clicking to the next slide. The way his throat bobs when you shift in your seat and uncross your legs, only to cross them again.

You rest your chin in your hand, eyes locked on him like he’s the only thing worth watching.

Sunghoon keeps talking.

But now, there’s a pause between his sentences. A slight rasp in his voice. A subtle glance in your direction every few slides, never lingering too long — just enough for you to catch it.

You smile.

It’s not like you’re doing anything wrong.

You’re just a student in his class. Listening. Participating. Sitting there in a skirt that barely brushes your thighs, biting your lip every time he says something remotely commanding.

“Pay attention,” he says at one point, when a group in the back is whispering.

You straighten in your seat, lifting your eyes slowly.

“I am, Professor,” you say, soft and sweet.

His eyes flicker.

You don’t miss the way his grip on the podium tightens.

By the end of class, you can feel the tension radiating off him in waves. His sentences get shorter. His lecture speeds up. His eyes don’t meet yours again.

When the students begin to pack up, you move slower than the rest. You lean forward, elbows on the desk, letting your skirt ride up even higher as you adjust your bag. You can feel his stare this time — heavy, hot, lingering.

You don’t look at him. Not until the last of the students file out and the door swings shut behind them.

Then — and only then — you turn your head, lips curled into the faintest smirk.

“I liked today’s lecture,” you say, casual.

He exhales slowly, not moving from behind the desk.

“Did you.”

You stand, swinging your bag over your shoulder, stepping just close enough that the air between you feels like a challenge.

“I liked the way you said my name during attendance,” you murmur. “You sounded… tense.”

His eyes are sharp, unreadable. “You think this is a game?”

You shrug. “Isn’t it?”

He doesn’t move, but the heat in his stare makes your skin prickle. “You’re playing with fire.”

You take a step back toward the door, still smiling.

“Then burn me.”

And just like that — you’re gone.

Leaving him standing there, pulse racing, jaw clenched, hands braced on the desk like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

You can feel his gaze on your back the whole way down the hallway.

You don’t expect him to follow you.

You think he’ll stay behind like always — composed, in control, untouched by the things you do just to watch him flinch.

But the second you turn the corner into the empty hallway, you hear it.

Footsteps. Fast. Heavy. Determined.

Before you can fully register it, a hand wraps around your wrist and yanks you back — hard. You gasp as your back hits the wall, your bag slipping off your shoulder, your heart slamming against your ribs.

Sunghoon towers over you, eyes blazing.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

You blink up at him, playing dumb. “Walking.”

“Don’t,” he snaps. “Don’t play games with me.”

You tilt your head, letting your skirt shift just slightly higher as you shift your weight against the wall. “You’re the one who said it was nothing, remember? One night. A mistake.”

His jaw tightens. His hands are still gripping your wrists — not hard, but firm enough to make your pulse stutter. His body is so close you can feel the heat rolling off him in waves, caging you in.

“You wore that on purpose,” he mutters, eyes dropping to your legs.

“Wore what?” you ask sweetly.

He scoffs, low and dangerous. “You think I haven’t noticed? The skirts, the looks, the way you sit front row with your legs wide open like you want me to do something about it.”

You stay silent — because he’s not wrong.

Sunghoon leans in closer, voice like a growl in your ear. “You want to get fucked over a desk, is that it?”

Your breath catches.

“You want your professor to lose control,” he continues, his mouth just shy of touching your neck, “to bend you over the nearest surface and remind you exactly how good it felt to be ruined by me.”

You’re shaking now — but not from fear.

From how badly you want him to do it.

Your voice is barely a whisper. “Then do it.”

He freezes.

You swear you see the moment something in him breaks.

Sunghoon grabs your chin, tilting your face up to his, and crashes his mouth onto yours.

There’s nothing soft about it — no hesitation, no pretending this is still something he can control. It’s heat and teeth and frustration, his tongue sliding over yours with a groan like he’s been holding this in for too long.

You gasp as he lifts you, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively.

“I shouldn’t be doing this,” he mutters against your mouth.

“But you are,” you whisper, tugging his hair, grinding down on him.

And fuck, he’s already hard — painfully hard, pressing against you like he’s seconds from snapping all over again.

“I tried to forget you,” he breathes, dragging your skirt up.

“You didn’t,” you whisper. “Neither did I.”

His mouth crashes onto yours again, more desperate now — hands sliding up your thighs, pushing your panties to the side like he can’t even wait to undress you.

“You think teasing me was a good idea?” he growls. “You think I don’t know what you’re doing when you act like a little slut in my class?”

You moan. “Then teach me a lesson, Professor.”

His eyes burn.

“Oh, I will.”

Sunghoon doesn’t take you to his office.

He doesn’t even bother finding a classroom.

He kicks open the door to the nearest supply closet — small, dark, barely wide enough for the both of you — and presses you against the wall before it even shuts behind you. His mouth is back on yours, rough and hungry, hands everywhere, grabbing and pulling like he needs to feel all of you at once.

“Turn around,” he growls against your lips.

You obey, chest heaving as your hands brace against a metal shelf full of paper and printer ink. He pushes your skirt up roughly, revealing the soaked fabric clinging between your legs.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, dragging his fingers up your inner thigh. “You were dripping through this during class?”

You moan when his fingers brush your slit, teasing the soaked fabric. “I couldn’t help it.”

“You wanted me to see, didn’t you?” he says darkly, yanking your panties to the side. “Wanted me to lose it in front of everyone and fuck you over the desk.”

You whimper, pushing back against him.

“You have no idea what you’ve done to me,” he mutters, pressing two fingers inside you without warning.

You cry out, gripping the shelf tighter as he curls them deep inside you.

“So tight… shit, you’re perfect,” he groans, fucking you slow and deep with his fingers. “Still so wet for me. You missed this cock, didn’t you?”

You nod frantically. “Yes—God, yes.”

He spanks you once — hard — and you gasp, the sting sharp and delicious.

“Say it properly.”

“I missed your cock, Professor.”

He groans low in his throat. You hear the sound of his belt, the zipper, the shuffle of fabric. Then his hand returns to your waist, and the thick head of his cock presses against your entrance.

You barely get a breath in before he thrusts inside.

“Fuck—Sunghoon—!”

“God, you take me so well,” he hisses, slamming into you again, and again, until you’re gasping with every thrust. “This is what you wanted, huh? To be bent over like a bad student and filled up with my cock?”

You can’t even answer. He’s too deep. Too thick. Stretching you open so perfectly your knees almost buckle.

He grabs your hair, pulling your head back just enough to whisper in your ear.

“Not gonna stop this time. You’re gonna take it all.”

And you do.

Every thrust slams into you, the sound of skin on skin echoing in the tiny closet, filthy and raw. Your walls flutter around him with every stroke, clenching tight like your body’s desperate to keep him there.

You don’t even care that you’re in a damn supply closet — not when he’s fucking you like this, like he’s punishing you and worshiping you all at once.

“Can feel you squeezing me,” he groans. “You’re close, aren’t you?”

You nod, crying out when his hand slips between your legs and rubs circles against your clit, fast and unforgiving.

“Cum for me,” he growls. “Let me feel it.”

You break with a scream, your orgasm ripping through you like fire — legs shaking, walls spasming around him, soaking his cock as he pounds you through it.

But he doesn’t stop.

“Too much—!” you whimper.

“You can take it,” he growls. “One more. Be a good girl.”

You’re already too sensitive, your body twitching with every thrust, but the way he fucks you — like he owns you — has you falling apart again.

“Please—Sunghoon—!”

“That’s it,” he pants, thrusting even deeper. “Such a good little slut for me. Letting me fuck you where anyone could walk in…”

You cum again — hard, sudden, your moans cut off by the hand he slaps over your mouth as you scream into his palm.

His hips stutter.

“Fuck—gonna fill you up—fuck, take it—”

You feel him twitch inside you, hot and thick, and then he’s spilling into you with a deep, broken moan, his cock throbbing as he presses deep and stays there, panting against your shoulder.

You both stay like that for a moment.

Breathless. Sweaty. Soaked.

Then he pulls out slowly, and you both groan at the mess — his cum dripping down your thighs, your panties ruined, the air thick with sex.

He zips up without a word. You adjust your skirt with shaking hands.

“You’re a fucking menace,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair.

You smirk over your shoulder. “And you’re weak.”

He glares.cYou wink. And you leave him there — still flushed, still catching his breath, already addicted again.

The next morning, you walk into class like nothing happened.

Your skirt’s a little longer today. You’re not wearing lip gloss. You even show up on time, quiet and composed.

But nothing feels the same. Sunghoon doesn’t look at you once during the lecture.

Not when you raise your hand. Not when you bite your pen. Not even when you catch his eye on purpose and hold the stare. He acts like you don’t exist. But you know better.

You can feel the tension in the way he paces the front of the room. The way he rushes through the slides. The way he won’t call on you even though your hand’s been raised for five minutes. He’s avoiding you. And it’s almost funny, how obvious it is.

When class ends, you take your time packing up, but he’s already halfway out the door. He doesn’t wait. Doesn’t glance back. Doesn’t say a word.

Coward.

You don’t chase him. You don’t have to. Because two seconds after you step into the hallway, your friend Lily grabs your arm with a smirk.

“You look like you got wrecked,” she whispers, dragging you to the side. “Don’t even lie. You’re glowing.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m just tired.”

“Bullshit,” she grins. “Is this about Professor Park?”

Your heart stutters. “What?”

“You’ve been acting weird since the semester started,” she says, narrowing her eyes. “And don’t pretend you didn’t notice how he was looking at you the other day. I was two seats behind you. The man looked like he was about to explode.”

You say nothing. Your silence is enough. Lily’s eyes go wide. “No fucking way.”

“Keep your voice down.”

“You fucked him?!”

“Lily.”

“Oh my god,” she gasps. “Was it hot?” You hesitate. She laughs. “That good, huh?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it.” She ignores you. “Okay but like… is what they say true?”

You raise an eyebrow.

“I’m serious,” she whispers. “Is he… huge. Like huge. Like, wreck-your-life huge.”

You don’t respond. You don’t have to. Her eyes go wider.

“Wait. He is, isn’t he?!”

You just shrug, lips twitching.

“And really good in bed?” she adds. “Like, dangerously good. Like… ruin-you-for-everyone-else good.”

You don’t even try to hide the way your thighs press together.

“Jesus Christ,” she mutters. “No wonder you’ve been walking funny.” You slap her arm. She laughs louder. “You lucky bitch.” You groan, covering your face. “It was just a one-time thing.”

“Uh-huh. Sure.” You want to believe it.

But then you get to your next class and open your laptop, and the first thing that flashes through your mind isn’t the lecture — it’s the way Sunghoon’s hand had clamped over your mouth while you came around his cock.

And when you pass him in the hallway later — by accident, this time — he barely glances your way.

But his jaw clenches. His hand balls into a fist. And you know he remembers. You bite your lip as you keep walking, not looking back. You don’t need to. You already know he’s watching.

Class is halfway through when Sunghoon finally breaks.

You can feel it before it happens — the way he keeps glancing your way, how his words are sharper than usual, how his hand keeps flexing on the desk like he’s trying to hold himself together.

You’re sitting near the front again. Of course you are.

Legs crossed. Skirt riding just a little too high. Innocent face like you’re not begging to be noticed.

And he does.

“Y/N,” he says, voice casual. “Can you help me with something for a second?”

Heads turn. You blink up at him, playing your part perfectly.

“Sure, Professor.”

You rise slowly, adjusting your skirt with deliberate care, and walk to the front like you’re not already soaking through your panties. You can feel the stares on your back, but all you care about is his.

His jaw is tight. His eyes flick down your body once — fast, hungry, dangerous — and then he steps back, motioning toward his desk.

“Over here,” he murmurs.

You round the desk, heart pounding as he opens a drawer, pretending to rifle through it.

“I need you to grab—” he starts, but you cut him off with a look.

“Don’t lie,” you whisper, stepping closer. “You just wanted me near.”

His breath hitches. “You’re insane.”

“You asked for help,” you say sweetly. “I’m just being a good student.”

Your hand brushes over the front of his pants — and sure enough, he’s already hard.

He grabs your wrist. “We’re in the middle of class.”

You look up at him, eyes wide and innocent. “So stop me.”

He doesn’t.

Instead, he groans — low and harsh — as you sink to your knees behind the desk. The rest of the class is quiet, heads buried in their notes or staring at the projection screen. No one even notices you’re gone.

No one can see.

Your fingers undo his belt with practiced ease, and when you free his cock, you have to stifle a gasp.

You forgot how thick he is.

How heavy he feels in your hand.

How your mouth waters at the sight of it.

“You’re fucking insane,” he mutters again, voice strained now.

You pump him slowly, dragging your hand up the length of him, thumb teasing the slit at the top. He’s hot and pulsing in your grip, already leaking, and it takes everything in you not to take him in your mouth.

But you want him squirming first.

You tighten your grip slightly, stroking him slow — too slow — watching his stomach tense, his breath catch.

“You like when I touch you here, Professor?” you whisper.

“Fuck,” he mutters, gripping the edge of the desk. “Keep your voice down.”

“You like when your student gets on her knees for you in the middle of class?” you tease, twisting your wrist at the top just how he likes.

His hips twitch.

You speed up, stroking him faster now, loving how he’s biting the inside of his cheek to keep quiet. He looks down at you once — just once — and you see it in his eyes.

He’s right there.

You lean in, spit on your hand, and stroke him harder — faster — and he curses under his breath, head falling forward.

“Shit—Y/N—stop—gonna—”

You don’t stop.

You squeeze, twist, stroke him right through it, and he cums hard in your hand, biting his lip so hard you think he might bleed. His cock twitches as you milk every last drop, your hand warm and wet with him.

You look up at him, breathless.

“Still need help with anything?”

He glares down at you, chest heaving, eyes wild.

“You needy girl,” he whispers.

“And you’re obsessed,” you whisper back, standing and licking your palm clean with a slow swipe of your tongue — just because you can.

His eyes darken like he wants to drag you under the desk and fuck you right there.

But he doesn’t.

He swallows, adjusts his pants, and turns back to the class like nothing happened.

You walk back to your seat with your legs trembling — and the biggest fucking smile on your face.

He calls you to his office after class. Not right away — no, he waits a full ten minutes after the room clears, like that’ll somehow make this less obvious. You knock once, and when you step inside, he’s leaning against his desk, arms crossed, jaw tight.

“Close the door.”

You do.

“Lock it.”

You hesitate, then click it shut behind you. He exhales sharply. Doesn’t look at you.

“We can’t do this anymore,” he says, voice low. You blink. “Can’t do what?” He glares. “Don’t play dumb.”

“I’m not,” you shrug. “You’ll have to be more specific. Do you mean the part where I made you cum in the middle of a lecture? Or the part where you let me?”

His jaw clenches. “Y/N.”

You take a step closer. “Or do you mean the one-night stand? The closet? The fact that you begged me not to stop?”

“Stop.” His voice cracks on the word. You smile sweetly. “You dragged me into this. Not the other way around.”

“I’m your professor.” He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated, desperate. “This has to end before we get caught. Before I lose my job. Before—” You cut him off by sliding between his legs, standing so close your thighs brush his. His hands are still clenched at his sides, like he’s holding on to the last bit of control.

“Then why did you ask me to come here?” He says nothing.

“You could’ve ignored me. Failed me. Told me to stop. But you didn’t.” His eyes lock onto yours, burning with something darker than anger.

“Because you can’t,” you whisper. “You don’t want to.” His breathing is ragged. “That’s not the point.” You lean in, voice softer now. “So make a rule. Try.” You watch him fold, just a little. He grabs your waist and spins you — suddenly, roughly — pinning you between him and the desk.

“No more games,” he says, voice low, lips inches from yours. “No more teasing. You come to class. You do your work. You don’t speak to me unless it’s about the course. Understood?” You raise your chin, defiant. “And if I break the rules?” His grip tightens. “Then you won’t like the consequences.” You smile, slow and wicked. “I think I will.” He growls under his breath, turning away like he needs the space, like he can’t breathe when you’re that close.

You take one step toward the door. Pause. Glance over your shoulder. “Oh,” you add innocently, “I won’t be wearing panties next lecture.” He doesn’t move. But his fingers twitch. And when you finally leave the office, you know you’ve already won.

You knew he wouldn’t last.

Sunghoon made it exactly three days before he cracked.

You showed up to every lecture like the perfect little student.

Took notes, nodded along, answered questions.

Sat right in the front, of course — legs crossed, skirt a little too high, no panties underneath.

You saw the way his eyes lingered.

The way his voice faltered every time he called on you.

You didn’t even have to touch him. Just existed. And watched him unravel.

So really, you weren’t surprised when class ended and he barked your name in front of everyone.

“Y/N. Stay behind.”

You fought your smile. Nodded. Waited.

The second the last student left, he grabbed your wrist and yanked you toward his office — not saying a word, walking fast, grip tight like he was scared he might change his mind.

The door slammed shut behind you. Locked. And then he shoved you against it.

“I told you to stop,” he growled. You smirked. “But you didn’t want me to.” He kissed you before you could finish the sentence — all tongue and teeth and frustration, like he hated you for what you did to him. His hands were already under your skirt, shoving it up, confirming exactly what he’d been suspecting all week.

“No fucking panties,” he muttered against your lips. “You really are a little slut, huh?”

“Only for you,” you whispered. That’s what did it. He spun you around, bent you over the desk without warning, and shoved your legs apart with his knee. You gasped at the cold wood against your cheek, his hand pushing down between your shoulder blades to keep you there.

“No teasing this time,” he hissed. “You want to play games? Fine. But you’re not leaving this room until I’ve ruined you.” You whined when you felt his fingers glide between your folds — soaking wet, dripping for him already.

“Fucking knew it,” he growled. “You like being used, don’t you?” You nodded desperately. He spanked you, hard. “Use your words.”

“Yes, hoon, yes—!”

He groaned and unzipped his pants so fast it was like he’d been holding back for days. Probably had. You felt the thick head of his cock press against you, tease your entrance, and then— He rammed into you.

No hesitation. No warning.

Just one rough, brutal thrust that had you screaming his name against the desk.

“God—Sunghoon—”

“That’s Professor to you,” he growled, grabbing your hips and slamming into you again.

You were soaked, your body clenching around him like it couldn’t get enough — and you couldn’t. His cock stretched you so deep, so perfectly, it was like your body was made for him. He fucked you hard, fast, filthy — the desk creaking under the weight of it, your nails clawing at the wood, his name falling from your lips like a prayer.

“Thought you could tease me?” he hissed in your ear. “Sit in my class like a good girl and pretend you’re not dripping for me?” You moaned — helpless, breathless, aching for more.

“You don’t get to tease me,” he growled. “You don’t get to fucking win.” He fucked you harder, his cock slamming into your soaked cunt with punishing thrusts, the sound of your bodies echoing off the walls like it was the only thing that mattered. You could feel him everywhere — hands, hips, voice — all of him taking and taking and taking. And then his hand snaked around your front. Two fingers on your clit. Fast, rough, no mercy. You sobbed.

“Too much—!”

“Take it,” he snapped. “You wanted this.”

Your body was already on edge — too sensitive, too full, too overstimulated — and you shattered around him with a scream, legs trembling, pleasure ripping through you like lightning. He didn’t stop. He kept fucking you through it, not slowing down, not letting up, chasing his own release with the desperation of a man possessed.

“I’m gonna fill you up,” he growled. “So deep you’ll still feel me in the morning.”

You whimpered, overstimulated and aching and still somehow needing it.

“Beg for it.”

“Please—fuck—fill me up—need it, please—” That was all he needed. He cursed, shoved deep one last time, and came with a low, broken groan, spilling inside you so hard you could feel it flood your insides — hot, thick, endless.

You stayed there — bent over, legs shaking, completely ruined — as he caught his breath behind you. And then, when he pulled out, his cum dripped down your thighs and onto the floor, and you knew this was it. There was no going back now. He was yours. And you were so far from finished. 

It had only been three days. But you missed him like it’d been weeks.

He was sick — a bad fever, rough cough, too weak to teach, let alone sneak off to fuck you breathless behind his desk.

Still, you called. Every night.

At first, it was innocent. How are you feeling? Are you redtng enough? Do you need anything?

But tonight, something was different.

His voice was lower. Rough from congestion, but still laced with that dark, velvety tone that made your stomach flutter.

“I miss you,” he rasped into the phone. Your breath hitched. “I miss you too.” You were curled under your blankets, phone to your ear, nothing but a t-shirt and your own restless thoughts keeping you company.

“What are you wearing?” he asked suddenly, voice a little more awake now. Teasing. Familiar.

You bit your lip. “Just your shirt.” He groaned quietly. “Fuck.” There was silence for a beat — hot, heavy.

“Touch yourself for me.”

Your heart thudded.

“Sunghoon—”

“Please,” he whispered. “I need to hear you.”

Your hand slipped beneath the covers before you could think twice, fingers grazing your thighs, your core already warm and aching. You let out a soft sigh, just for him.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Let me hear you, baby.”

“Are you…?” you breathed.

“Yeah,” he said, voice strained. “Got my hand around my cock right now. Thinking about how wet you probably are.”

You whimpered. He knew what to say. Even sick. Even over the phone. He had you melting with nothing but his voice.

“Are you teasing yourself?” he asked. “Or are you already fucking those fingers in deep like I would?”

“Just rubbing,” you gasped. “It’s so sensitive.”

“Wish it was my mouth,” he growled. “I’d suck your clit nice and slow. Keep you spread open and messy for me.” You moaned louder now, fingers working faster, thighs shaking.

“I miss your tongue,” you whimpered. “And your cock. I miss everything.” He groaned again, breath stuttering. “I’m close. Just thinking about you falling apart for me.”

“I’m gonna come,” you panted. “Sunghoon, I—”

“Do it,” he whispered. “Come for me, baby. Let me hear it.”

And you did — hard, trembling, breath catching as your orgasm crashed over you like a wave.

You heard him gasp, a deep, raw sound on the other end. Then silence. Just heavy breathing. You clutched the phone tighter, flushed and buzzing.

“I can’t wait to fuck you when I’m better,” he said finally, voice thick and low. “Gonna make up for every night I couldn’t touch you.” You smiled, cheeks warm. “I’ll hold you to that.”

“Good,” he whispered. “Now go to sleep, baby. I’ll dream about you.”

And you did — still aching, but content. Because even when he wasn’t here, he still was.

It didn’t happen all at once. It was little things. The way his voice softened when he said your name, even when he was pissed. The way he always made sure you got home safe, even if it was just a quiet Text me when you’re in bed.

The way he kissed you when no one was watching — not hurried, not hungry. Just… like he wanted to remember it.

You didn’t mean to fall for him. You knew what this was. A mistake. A fling. A secret that could ruin both your lives. But somehow, between the stolen glances and the late-night fucks in his office, you started to feel it. That pull. That ache. It wasn’t just lust anymore. Not for you. So when he texted you at 11:42 PM — come over. need to blow off steam — your heart stupidly fluttered.

And when you showed up at his apartment, when he pulled you in without a word and kissed you like he missed you, you let yourself believe, for just a second, that maybe… maybe he felt it too. You made love that night. Not rough. Not fast. Not like every other time. His hands were gentle. His kisses slow. His body moved with yours like you were something precious — not just a girl he wasn’t supposed to touch.

And afterward, when you curled into him, bare skin against bare skin, you whispered it before you could stop yourself.

“Sunghoon.”

He hummed, half-asleep, arm draped over your waist.

“I think I’m falling for you.”

Silence. Not a breath. Not a blink. Just… nothing. You turned your head to look at him. He was wide awake now.

“Y/N,” he said carefully. Too carefully. Your chest tightened. “Say something.”

He sat up, rubbed a hand over his face. “You weren’t supposed to—” You pulled the sheet up around your chest like it could protect you from the sharpness of his words.

“Wasn’t supposed to what?” you asked quietly. “Catch feelings? Think this meant more than just… late-night texts and quick fucks between lectures?”

His jaw tightened. “You knew what this was.”

“Did I?” You blinked at him, heart splintering. “Because it didn’t feel like just sex.”

He didn’t look at you. And that told you everything. You swallowed hard, throat burning.

“You don’t feel anything for me?”

He paused. And then he shook his head once. Quick. Cold.

“I can’t.”

It hit like a slap. You nodded slowly, forcing down the sting. “Right. Of course.”

“Y/N—”

“No, I get it,” you said, getting up and grabbing your clothes. “You’re just my professor. And I’m just the dumb girl who thought maybe this was something.”

You didn’t wait for him to say anything else. You didn’t look back. Because if you did — if you saw even an ounce of regret in his eyes — you’d break. And you were already breaking. 

You didn’t go to class the next day. Or the next.

You stopped answering his texts. Left them on read. Blocked the number, even — not because you didn’t want to see them, but because you knew you would.

And you were done giving in.

He didn’t love you. He didn’t even like you, not really. To him, you were just a distraction. A body. A pretty little secret to keep him entertained. You weren’t going to be that anymore.

So you went quiet. Silent.

You didn’t show up to his lectures, didn’t sit in the front row in those too-short skirts, didn’t flirt with your eyes across the room. You handed your assignments in online. You stayed invisible. And for a while, it worked.

You didn’t cry anymore. You didn’t dream about his mouth on your skin. You didn’t ache at night thinking about the way he used to look at you like he needed you.

You even let Lily drag you to a party.

He wasn’t there. Of course he wasn’t. Why would a professor hang out with freshmen? But someone else was. He was tall. Soft brown eyes. Big hands. Good Looking

Nice.

You let him kiss you. Let him press you against the wall. Let him fuck you in some stranger’s bedroom with your skirt bunched around your waist.

It wasn’t like Sunghoon. Not even close. But it was something. And for a few minutes, it helped you forget. Until the next morning — when you checked your phone, and saw his name lit up the screen.

Park Sunghoon [3 messages]

Where are you?

You missed another lecture.

Y/N, please.

You stared at the screen for a long time. And then you deleted them. Sunghoon was losing his goddamn mind.

The first day you skipped, he told himself it was nothing.

Maybe you were sick. Hungover. Avoiding him. Whatever.

By the third, he was pacing in his office, checking the attendance sheet, rereading your last assignment just to see if there was a hint — anything — in your tone.

By the fifth, he was showing up to dorm buildings and walking past study halls just to maybe catch a glimpse of you. He didn’t know what the fuck was happening to him. You’d said you were falling for him.

And he’d brushed it off. Because he was scared. Because it wasn’t supposed to happen. I mean, what was he thinking? Fucking his student relentlessly thinking she wouldn’t fall for him? But now? Now he realized he’d been lying to himself the entire time. He missed you.

More than just your body. More than the games. He missed your laugh. Your attitude. Your soft little sighs when you fell asleep against his chest.

He missed you. And when he saw you again — two weeks later, walking across campus in a low-cut top and short skirt, laughing with some guy he didn’t recognize — it hit him like a fucking truck.

You were moving on. And he was still stuck in the night you left. He waited until the guy walked off. Then followed you.

“Y/N.”

You stopped. Turned. Your expression shifted from surprised to cold in half a second.

“I’m busy.”

“Can we talk?”

“No.”

“Please—”

“You made it clear how you felt,” you said, voice sharp. “Don’t backpedal now.”

“I didn’t mean it like that—” You crossed your arms. “You meant it enough to let me walk out.” He hesitated. “You blocked my number.”

“You said it was just sex,” you snapped. “So why would I stay?” He looked at you — really looked at you — and something in his face cracked.

“I was scared,” he admitted. “That’s not an excuse. But I didn’t know what to do. I’m your professor. I could lose everything.”

You stared at him, trying not to let your heart soften.

“And now?”

He stepped closer. Slower this time. Careful, like you might run.

“Now I don’t care,” he whispered. “I’d risk everything if you’d just look at me the way you used to.”

You looked away.

Because you still wanted to.

But he’d already broken you once.

And you weren’t sure you could let him close enough to do it again.

You lay there in the dark, chest heaving, body limp from everything he’d just taken from you — and everything you’d given him.

You didn’t speak. Neither did he. His hand rested on your thigh, thumb stroking absently over your skin like he wasn’t ready to let go yet. Like if he kept touching you, maybe you wouldn’t disappear again. You should’ve pulled away. Should’ve said this doesn’t change anything. But it did. It changed everything.

And when you finally found your voice, it was quiet. Fragile.

“You can’t keep doing that.”His thumb stilled. “Doing what?”

“Acting like it’s nothing one second, then showing up the next like you’d burn the world down for me.” He turned toward you, arm curling around your waist.

“I would,” he said simply. “Burn it all down.”

Your chest tightened. “Then why did you let me go?”

He exhaled, forehead pressing gently to yours. “Because I thought I had to.”

“But you don’t now?”

“I can’t let you go again,” he whispered. “Not after that. Not after this.”

You searched his eyes.

And this time, you didn’t find silence. Didn’t find cold. You found regret. Longing.

Something that looked too close to love to ignore.

“Say it,” you breathed. “Say it wasn’t just sex.” He didn’t even hesitate.

“It never was.”

The breath you’d been holding spilled out all at once, shaky and full of every broken piece you’d been holding in since the start. You closed your eyes, voice cracking.

“Me either.” He kissed your temple, your jaw, your lips — slow and reverent, like he finally understood what he’d almost lost. And when he pulled you against him, wrapping himself around you like a shield, you knew something had shifted for good.

This wasn’t a game anymore. This wasn’t a secret. This wasn’t a one-night stand stretched into months of denial. This was real. And this time, neither of you was running.

was so horny writing this (send req)

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[paarksunghoon]

resignation (3)

SUMMARY: For the last six years, you’ve dedicated your career to ensuring Park Sunghoon never misses a day of work in his life. But you’re tired of endless days that seem to blend together, and seeing him living his fun, luxurious lifestyle makes you think about what else you might be missing out on. When Sunghoon finds your resignation letter on his desk, he does everything in his power to convince you to stay.

NOTES: this is fully unedited. sorry yall and let’s hope for no typos. I’ll make a masterlist for this series soon :)

WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER: slightest bit of sexual tension. an almost kiss.

SERIES PLAYLIST + SERIES MASTERLIST

please leave a comment/reblog and let me know what you think!

***

Ring, ring, ring.

“No. Absolutely not.” 

Ring, ring, ring.

You pick up your phone without bothering to sit upright and hold it to your ear. Your cat, Pochi, pushes her head against your shoulder when you move.

“What.” 

“Good morning to you too. I see you’re up early!” 

Sunghoon’s voice echoes from the other side of the telephone and he sounds like he’s been awake for quite some time. It’s a curse that he’s the type of person who can handle late nights and early mornings. It means you have to be on your toes to catch him when he needs you, but it’s the goddamn weekend, for crying out loud. 

“It’s seven in the morning on a Saturday. What could you possibly need me for?” 

“I thought you’d be up by now.”

“On a Saturday?” You can almost picture his nonchalant shrug. 

“Dunno. You usually get to the office before I get there.”

“That’s because I’m working. It’s my day off, Sunghoon. I’d like to sleep since I don’t get the chance to do so otherwise.” 

“Your voice does sound a little brittle.” 

You squeeze your palms into fists. “Is there a reason you’re calling me or can I hang up now?” 

“You’re my favorite assistant. You know that, right? I don’t know where I’d be without you and I’m so grateful that you have a good head on your shoulders.” 

“I’m suspicious. Get to the point and stop buttering me up.” 

He laughs. “Okay, you got me. I need you to create a last minute deck before my meeting with Jongseong at 4.”

“Sunghoon.” 

“I know, I know. I’m asking the impossible here, but Jongseong and I are trying to see if this next business opportunity is worth his time. One of our clients seems like a better fit for him and I want to argue the best case possible.” 

A beat passes. 

“I do think you’re an incredible assistant, though. I wasn’t lying about that.” 

You sigh and make sure he can hear it. “You owe me. I’m sacrificing a peaceful Saturday morning making a presentation for Jongseong.”

“You’re making it for me, actually.” 

“No, I’m making it for Jongseong. He doesn’t call me at an ungodly hour.”

“Are you saying Jongseong calls you? 

You laugh. “That’s not what I’m saying at all, but you and I both know you won’t change your mind once you’ve already thought of something.”

“Touché.” 

As you pull yourself from underneath the covers with Pochi making it known that she isn’t happy about it, you balance your phone between your cheek and shoulder. “Is this something I’m needed for, or can I send you the deck via email?” 

“Would you be mad at me if I asked you to accompany me to lunch?” 

“Yeah. I could’ve had plans.”

“But you don’t, though.” 

“Tsk. No need to rub it in that I don’t have a life.” You pull a few items from your wardrobe and attempt to put together an outfit that’s appropriate for a business meeting. Most of your work clothes are in the hamper, so you try to make do with a pair of dark brown trousers and a nice blouse. 

“No need to be super formal today, okay?” Sunghoon says. “It’s just us and Jongseong. Although, his ass is probably gonna come dressed like he came back from golfing with a polo shirt and khakis.”

“You’re no better. You’ll probably try to one-up him and wear a three piece suit,” you retort, pulling out a long skirt and a semi-casual top and putting it on top of your unmade bed. This seems appropriate enough. 

“I won’t this time. I promise.”

“How do I know you’ll keep it?” 

“Because I asked you to work early on a Saturday morning and I might never get the chance to bother you after you leave.” You nearly choke. “You okay?”

“Fine,” you tell him immediately, pretending like you didn’t hear an ounce of sincerity in his voice. “Totally fine.” 

“You don’t sound fine.” 

“What are you, my doctor?”

“No, just the guy you’ve spent nearly everyday with for the past six years. I’d like to think I know you well, even if I can’t see you.” 

“Yeah, yeah. I know you better than you know me, though.”

Sunghoon hums. “Maybe. But I know you love Japanese and good quality fish.” 

“What does that have to do with anything?” 

“When this meeting’s done, I’ll take you to Hakusi and treat you to a really nice dinner when we’re done with Jongseong.” 

“Don’t play with me, Park.”

“Getting bold with my surname, are we?” 

“You called me to make you a deck on a Saturday. Don’t test me.” 

He laughs. “I like it when you’re feisty.” You try to ignore the heat creeping onto your cheeks. 

“Hakusi is notorious for limited reservations. I don’t know how you’re going to swing that.” 

“This is the one and only time I’m ever going to use this card with you,” he says. “Don’t you know I’m Park Sunghoon?” 

“Okay, Mr. Hot Shot.” 

“Can’t be mad at the truth, love.” 

You bite your lip and close your eyes. “I supposed I can’t.”

“Don’t worry about making any reservations.”

“It’s my job to make reservations on your behalf. You know, the job you pay me for?“

“Not tonight.” 

He speaks with a certain tone you’ve heard him use when he’s certain. There’s a finality to it, ending the sentence with the clear distinction that he’s made his decision instead of leaving the door open for your opinion. It frustrates you to no end during the workweek, but an invisible weight lifts from your shoulders at the idea that Sunghoon will handle reservations for once. 

“Alright…Thanks, Sunghoon.”

He chuckles. “You sound like you don’t trust me to handle something as simple as a reservation.” 

“On the contrary. It’s kind of nice to have my boss do my job, for once.” 

“I was an assistant too, you know. Way back in the day.” 

“Do you think Jongseong will let me see pictures of you from back then?”

“I’m hanging up now.” 

You snicker when you hear the line end. Sunghoon is many things. He’s bold, intelligent, and confident. You’ve witnessed him stare down dozens of men for hours on end to get what he wants for his clients, and you’ve seen him deliver harsh truths to entrepreneurs who don’t have what it takes to be in business withPark Inc. This side of him, the one where he willingly initiates plans for you and takes on the responsibility of organizing the fine details, is not something you’re accustomed to. 

Sunghoon knows the finer things in life and isn’t bothered with pesky details you see on a day-to-day basis. He can be cunning and mischievous, but he knows when to reign it in. He’s unlike any person you’ve worked for in the past. Sunghoon trusts you and he trusts your instincts when it comes to his work. It feels nice to have that unspoken bond with him, and remembering how far you’ve come reminds you that there has always been more to life than worrying about the number of emails that are currently sitting in your inbox. 

He’s never taken the initiative to do something for you to this caliber. Like the generous boss Sunghoon is, he’s sent money to your Venmo on the occasions where he’s acknowledged the hard work you put in (closing big deals, handling ongoing projects, and when your birthday or holidays come around). He speaks highly of you when your name is mentioned in conversation, so much so that you hear about it from his colleagues and other individuals who have a more important standing in the company than you do. Sunghoon is fair and equal, and he believes in giving people a fighting chance if he thinks they deserve it. 

Part of you wonders if you rely on his validation too much. It’s nice to preen under his handsome gaze and relish in a job well done, but lately, you’ve caught yourself basking in that light much longer than before. Sunghoon’s deep, honey voice replays in your head over and over again when he says a mere “thank you.” You daydream about working alongside him for the long run and what your career might look like should you stay with him beyond this fiscal year. It’s rewarding to see things tangibly finished and your years with Sunghoon have certainly proved your capabilities, but a part of you wonders if there’s more to life than being his personal assistant. 

These thoughts follow you as you prepare for the day, brushing your teeth and taking a hot shower to relax your muscles before inevitably spending a few hours hunched over your desk. This deck isn’t going to form on its own.

Pochi sits on the edge of your bed and swishes her tail, effectively making the decision that making your bed will not be on today’s agenda. 

***

You find yourself with your work bag in tow. Sunghoon sent you the location of the hotel bar he and Jongseong would be meeting at, and you sent him a copy of the deck. He never explicitly said you needed to bring your laptop with you, but you figure there’s nothing worse than coming unprepared, even if you’re on a first name basis with Jongseong. 

The two of them are already together before you arrive. You check your watch to see that you aren’t late, and that you’re early by fifteen minutes. Jongseong has a pension for being incredibly early to everything unless stated that it’s social etiquette to be a little later than the designated start time. You figure Sunghoon wants to make a good impression to really sell this client to his friend. 

“Well, well. If it isn’t the best assistant in the entire universe.” 

“You do too much,” you mutter, bowing at the two of them before Sunghoon pulls out a chair for you. It’s a nice bar tucked away from the main lobby. It’s Sunghoon’s favorite spot for casual meetings because of how quiet it is, and the ambiance saunters somewhere between elegant and casual. 

“Thanks for coming to see me on a Saturday, and sorry for dragging you out on a weekend,” Jongseong says as he gives you a quick hug. 

“It’s not a problem.” 

Sunghoon raises his eyebrow. “Yet when I called you this morning, you made it seem like I was being banished to Hell.”

“You had the audacity to call me to work. Not Jongseong.” 

“Yeah, Hoon,” Jongseong smirks. “Get your facts straight.” 

“Great. My best friend and favorite assistant are ganging up on me.”

“I’m your only assistant?” 

“Still my favorite.” 

“Do you want anything to drink?” Jongseong asks as he gestures to the bar. “I’ll put it on my tab.”

“White wine of your choice. I trust your selections.” 

He smiles. “I’ll be right back.” 

When Jongseong walks to the bar, Sunghoon watches you pull out your laptop and turn it back on. You feel him staring at your side and he doesn’t look away when you look back at him. 

“Can I help you?” 

“No,” Sunghoon says with an easy smile. “Thanks for coming in. I, err, guess we could’ve done this last week, but it slipped my mind until the client emailed me last night and I knew Jongseong had some time today.” 

You sigh. “It’s fine. I’m already here, aren’t I?” 

“I mean it when I said I owe you a big one. You’ve done so much for me and it’s only fair that I repay you.”

“You’re my boss, Sunghoon. It’s in my job description to cater to your every need.”

He pouts. “Yeah, but when you put it like that, you make it sound like you’re my slave.” 

“Of sorts.” 

“Let me treat my favorite assistant to dinner, yeah? We can get drunk off of yummy cocktails and you don’t have to schmooze your way into people’s inboxes. I promise you’ll have a good time. No work talk until Monday.”

“No work talk, hm? Sounds like a great way to end my Saturday.” 

“The bill’s on me, too. No need to worry about how much you’re spending tonight.” 

“You sure know how to charm them,” you mutter as you open the correct file. 

“Them?”

“Women, men, everyone.” You say it absentmindedly. “Is it always that easy to get people to do what you want?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“You barely have to look in people’s direction and yet people are always drawn to you. It’s like you’re some sort of magnet, or something.” 

“I could say the same thing about you. People always know where to find you.”

“That’s because they all want to do business with you, Sunghoon. It’s never about me, really. Nobody strikes up a conversation with me because they find me interesting. It’s always small talk until they get to the bottom of why they want to talk to me, and it’s usually about you.” 

“I’m sorry about that.”

You shrug. “Don’t be. It’s my job to listen to people talk about you.” 

Jongseong walks back with a glass of wine (sauvignon blanc, just how dry you like it) and the awkward tension between you and Sunghoon disappears. It’s uncanny how well he adapts to his environment because it’s like that conversation between you two never happened at all. It feels a bit strange to open up to him like that, too. You talk about yourself and share tidbits of your life here and there, but opening up to him and sharing parts of yourself in a way that doesn’t revolve around your work is uncharted territory. 

They look over your deck and Jongseong seems impressed by Sunghoon’s pitch. He was right, it’s up Jongseong’s alley and the kind of business he’d work hard for given the right circumstances. 

“I’m impressed with how much of their personality you were able to fit into a PowerPoint presentation.” Jongseong delicately closes your laptop and hands it to you. “You sure you want to quit being an assistant? I wouldn’t mind having someone as incredible as you on my team.”

“No one gets her if I can’t,” Sunghoon says immediately. It catches you off guard but Jongseong merely laughs him off. 

“Whatever you say, Hoon.” The way Jongseong smiles reminds you of a humble, honest cartoon character, and it makes you smile too. “Thanks again for coming out here on a Saturday. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around for the next month or so, but I’m gonna miss working with you when you’re gone.” 

“You’re too kind to me.” You step forward to give him a proper hug, and Sunghoon doesn’t hide his distaste. “I’ll talk with the client and let them know you’re interested and touch base with your assistant to set up an introduction”

“What would we ever do without you?” Jongseong asks as the three of you walk towards the lobby. “What are you doing with the months you have left at Park Inc.?”

“Tie up some loose ends and find another assistant good enough for him,” you say, pointing at Sunghoon. He looks like he might as well be pouting, and you know it’s because he has no natural leeway into the conversation. It always makes you laugh, especially since his friends love indulging you over him to knock his ego down a peg. 

“You’re pretty loyal for doing all of that instead of leaving.”

“I thought about it.” You look at Sunghoon, and then quickly look away. “I respect him a lot, you know? I think my experience being an assistant is far better than some of my peers. I can’t leave him with a bunch of loose threads and someone incompetent.”

“They’ll never be as smart as her,” Sunghoon interrupts, “but I hope my new assistant will try to be.” 

“You’re impeccable at your job,” Jongseong compliments. “Any idea about what you’re going to do next?” 

“I don’t know…It’s stupid of me to quit without having anything lined up, isn’t it?” 

He shrugs. “Only if they aren’t you. I’m sure Sunghoon would write a stellar letter of recommendation if you asked him. And if he doesn’t, you can always ask me to do it.” 

“I’ll write you a letter of recommendation,” Sunghoon interrupts once more. “No need to have a co-signer that isn’t me.” 

“Aw. You guys sure know how to make an assistant feel loved.” 

“You’re an incredibly hard worker and everyone at Park Inc. sees that. It’ll be sad to know you’re walking away, but I hope this doesn’t mean I won’t hear from you.” 

“Of course not.” The valet brings Jongseong’s car to the front and you give him another quick hug. “Thanks for all you’ve done and for keeping Sunghoon in line.”

“Shouldn’t I be thanking you for that?” He winks and waves goodbye before speeding off. 

As you reach into your bag to find your valet stub, Sunghoon pulls out his wallet and hands his own to the attendant. When you produce yours, he snatches it out of your hand and pays for that too. 

“I told you I’d take care of everything, didn’t I?” 

You remain skeptical. “I thought that only extended to dinner reservations.” Sunghoon shakes his head. 

“Nope. From here on out, I’ll be taking care of that. 

“Why, because you feel like you owe me some kind of debt?” He tilts his head and smiles at you, amused. 

“Sure, if that’s how you want to put it. I know that pretty little head of yours tends to overthink, so let me handle this, yeah?”

“Okay…”

“Atta girl.” 

You turn to hide your blush. Your car arrives first and Sunghoon follows behind the attendant who opens the door for you. After thanking him, you step into the driver’s seat and see Sunghoon standing above you with his door on the handle. 

“I’ll pick you up at, say, seven?”

“You’re not giving me any choice, are you?” 

“Don’t play coy with me. I know you want to eat at Hakusi.” You hate it when he’s right. 

“Thanks, Sunghoon. I’ll…see you at seven.” 

***

What do you wear to an informal dinner with your boss? 

This is a question you struggle with every time you’re scheduled to spend time with him after working hours. You’re typically accompanied by colleagues on a night out during business trips, but this is the first time you’ll be alone with him. You try not to overthink it as you pull out yet another potential outfit, but this feels more like meeting a friend than meeting your boss. 

Sunghoon didn’t give you a dress code of any kind. Is he expecting you to wear professional attire? Should you stick to something casual? You look up the interior of the restaurant on Google and immediately put away all of your trousers. Instagram proves to be a little more helpful because you scroll through tagged posts to see what people are wearing, and you settle on a flattering dress that stops at your ankles with a pair of heels that don’t make you feel like you’re walking into the office. 

You find yourself groaning when you realize how much effort you’re putting into doing your makeup. From foundation to contour, blush to lip gloss, it feels like you might as well be getting ready for a date. You don’t put this much effort in your morning routine during the work week because there’s simply no time, so why are you going the extra mile when all you’re doing is seeing your boss?

You settle for a simple hairstyle that doesn’t make it seem like you didn’t put any effort. One look in the mirror tells you it’s been a while since you had a reason to get ready like this, and one call from Sunghoon tells you he’s downstairs and waiting for you. 

You’re expecting to see his driver’s car pull up and open the door for you. What you don’t expect is Sunghoon leaning against his own with his arms crossed over his shoulders. 

“Y-You’re here?” 

Sunghoon merely looks at you and smiles as he nods once. It’s a bit unfair how good he looks without trying. His hair isn’t slicked back like it usually is. He ditched his attire from earlier in the day to sport jeans, a leather bomber jacket, and a tight fitting shirt worn–in tennis shoes. Sunghoon looks normal. He doesn't look like the person who gives you orders on a daily basis. The way he looks makes your steps weak and you hate that he has this effect on you. 

“I told you I’d take care of everything tonight, didn’t I?” 

You’re careful when you step on the brick below you. It’s been a while since you’ve worn these pair of heels, and you’d be damned if you fell in front of Sunghoon. 

“I didn’t think that extended to car service.”

He chuckles. “I’m capable of driving the two of us.” 

Sunghoon opens the passenger door for you and assists you inside. His hand touches the back of your elbow and you feel like it might as well be burning with the sensation that follows. Once he’s sure you’re tucked inside, he closes this door gently and jogs in front of the hood to enter the car himself. 

“This feels oddly intimate,” you say as you put your seatbelt on. 

“How so?” Sunghoon starts the engine. 

“It’s just the two of us.” 

“We’ve spent time together without anybody else before. In fact, that’s how most of our days go.” 

“Yeah, but that’s different.” Sunghoon pulls off of your street and turns his indicator on before he does so. You scold yourself for praising him for such an action. 

“I don’t think so. We’re two people trying to spend time together before you inevitably quit and leave.” 

“Why now, of all times? Nothing’s going to change my mind about resigning.” Sunghoon looks at you once he’s stopped at a red light. 

“Tonight isn’t about trying to convince you to stay. I like working with you and would do anything to keep you, yes, but I can’t force you to do a job you don’t want to do. I know you better than you think I do. You're not the type of person to follow orders if you don’t think it’s the right move. The whole reason why I chose to renew your contract the first time was because you weren’t afraid to tell me your opinion, especially when it disagreed with mine.” 

Sunghoon has never been this candid with you before. 

“Oh. I didn’t know that.” He starts driving again when the light turns green and hums. 

“It occurred to me that while I’ve picked up on who you are in the years I’ve known you, I don’t know much about who you are beyond our work. You know so much about me, though, and you’ve helped me through a lot in my personal life. It’s only fair I get to know you like that, too.” 

“That’s…oddly sentimental.” 

“You seem a bit speechless and you never get like that.” 

“I’m just surprised to be hearing all of this. I know you like our working relationship and I know we work well together. I don’t think I’ve ever thought that we’d be getting dinner on a Saturday night together without the context of work.” 

“Do you want to talk about work?” 

You shake your head. “Not tonight. I have a few plans for finding a new assistant, but that’s a conversation that can wait until Monday.” 

“Turning your brain off for once, I see? Good girl.” 

Sunghoon and that damn nickname. You angle your knees slightly away from his body to focus on the environment around you instead of him. 

Hakusi is a truly beautiful restaurant. You let loose when the hostess allows you to wait by the bar while they set up your table. You take up Sunghoon’s offer to cover the entire tab and try not to feel the least bit guilty, even though you logically know this meal will barely make a dent in his finances. You settle on drinking a cocktail with tequila and grapefruit, and feel your body settle the more you sip on the alcohol. With barely anything in your stomach, you’re a bit grateful it’s already starting to get to your head because it calms down any anxiety you have about tonight. Sunghoon orders a signature cocktail from the menu and asks the hostess to provide sake once the table is set up. You glance over the meny once and choose not to double check the price of the sake he just ordered. 

The table is elegantly dressed and, for once in your life, you feel like you belong in such an establishment. You’re not here as Sunghoon’s assistant. You’re here as yourself, who happens to be having a nice meal with your boss. The back of your mind expects the night to end with emails being sent out and impromptu meetings being held, but Sunghoon looks at you like he’s here to have a good time. For his sake, you try to emulate him. 

“Have you ever been here before?” you ask him. 

“A few times. Once for the grand opening and twice when friends are in town. It’s not rated a Michelin star for nothing.” 

“I know,” you say, finishing the last of your cocktail. Sunghoon pours you a small shot of the warm sake. “It’s why I wanted to try this place out. Definitely out of my budget, but if I could visit any restaurant, it would be this one.”

“What else do you have hiding up your sleeve?” he asks as he pours himself a shot. “I feel like I know so much about you and nothing at all.”

“Are we going to play twenty-one questions like teenagers?” 

Sunghoon laughs. “Something like that. You’ve worked so hard for me and I barely know the first thing about you.”

“You say that like you’re supposed to know me on a deep level.” His eyes flicker up at you. 

“It should be that way if you’re my assistant, no?” 

The way he looks at you makes this feel like a first date. In fact, the ambient lighting, the luxurious decor, and the fact that he doesn’t look like the boss you know, makes you feel like this is a first date where he’s trying to assess whether he thinks you two will be compatible together. Or are you just overthinking?

Wait, what was the question again? 

“I’m sure you know more about me than you think you do.”

He licks his lips. “Aha! I see. You don’t like talking about yourself much, do you?”

“What? That’s crazy. I talk about myself all the time. You know I have a cat and live alone.”

“I know the basic, bare-boned facts about you. I don’t think there’s ever been a time where you’ve talked to me about yourself unless it’s relevant to the conversation at hand.” 

“And that makes me somebody who doesn't like to open up?” 

“You’re deflecting now,” he says with a smirk, hand gesturing like he knows he’s right. “You keep answering my questions with answers. That tells me a lot more about you than you think.”

You huff. “I’m trying not to be offended, you know. If this was a date, this would be a shitty first date.” 

Why did I say that?

“If this was a date, I’d still be asking you questions to get to know you better.”

“Fine.” You take a sip of the sake and let the remnants of its warmth slide down your throat. “You’re right. I don’t feel comfortable being the center of attention and I find it really hard to talk about myself. It’s easier to blend into the background when people don’t expect much from me.”

“You outshine everyone all the time.” 

You nearly choke on your drink. “Uh, no. That’s definitely you and your expensive suits and good cologne.” 

“I turn heads, sure. But you’re the one who’s smarter than everyone else in the room. You’re always one step ahead and people know it, too. Don’t downplay yourself.” 

“For work, maybe.”  You finish your first glass of sake and Sunghoon pours you another one. “In my personal life? I practically scream ‘invisible.’ I don’t think there’s ever been a time in my life where I’ve been front and center stage. Not that I want to be, though.”

“Why not?” 

You shrug indifferently. “Not for me. It’s hard when everyone has their eyes on me. It makes me feel like I did something wrong.” 

“Hmm.”

“Anyway, you don’t have to listen to me talk about the insecure shit. We could talk about your taxes.”

“I’m fine with the insecure shit,” Sunghoon says without a care in the world. “And I’d rather not talk about my finances.” 

“So you’d rather talk about me?” 

He nods. “I’d rather talk about you.” 

“Great. I’m gonna need to be significantly more buzzed than I am now to open up to you.” 

“I’m driving and you���re not paying anything. Get as drunk as you’d like.”

You order another cocktail. 

“I guess I’d be awful on a first date anyway, huh? I can only think about work and everything that doesn’t have to do with me.” 

“It’s probably because the only thing we ever talk about is work,” Sunghoon says before the waiter comes to the table. You allow him to order for you, which is something you would typically find annoying, but he knows this restaurant and what’s worthwhile better than you do. It’s hard for you to relax and let somebody else take charge. You know Sunghoon can tell that about you too. 

“Let yourself go and have fun,” he says, as if he’s reading your mind. “I’m not here as your employer today. There’s nothing you could say that would make me regret covering the tab.” 

“You’re not using your own money, are you?” 

“I’ll expense this meal if it makes you feel better.”

You sip on your cocktail, thinking. “No, I think I’d prefer it if you used your personal card.” 

He grins. “Wouldn’t have expensed it even if you asked me to. You deserve a good night out every once in a while. 

Goodness. His words sound so innocent and sincere, and yet you can’t help but yearn for a guy like Sunghoon. Rather, you can’t help but yearn for him when he says those kinds of things to you, but your relationship with him is strictly business. Even if you don’t necessarily think of him like that all of the time. 

“I can’t even remember the last time I went out with someone. God, it must’ve been forever ago. My younger brother tried to set me up with his friend’s cousin, but that ended badly and I think I swore off dating for the foreseeable future.”

“That bad?”

You nod. “That bad. Men are mistakes waiting to happen. Or maybe I keep forcing something out of nothing. Maybe both. My job keeps me busy enough to not think about this stuff, though. I’ve got you to worry about.” 

A few more small glasses of sake and two cocktails later, you find yourself loose enough to the point where the filter on your mouth starts to let things slip out. You’re still sentient and aware of what you’re saying and doing, of course. You don’t think there's ever been a time in your life where you’ve lowered your inhibitions to the point where you make a complete fool of yourself. After all, you’re still at dinner with your boss, even if it looks and feels like you’re on a date. 

The food is delicious and Sunghoon slowly coaxes you to open up the more you eat and drink. It feels like some kind of excuse to get you to talk, but you know that’s the part of your brain that says you don’t belong in a place like this, or to be dining across someone like Sunghoon. You’ve spent so much of your time with him for the last six years that it’s become somewhat easy to figure him out. Whether it’s because you’re drunk or because you know him, you reckon Sunghoon is being genuine when he says he wants to treat you to a night out because you deserve it. 

You’re nearly stumbling out of the restaurant by the time the check is paid, and you’ve sent many compliments to the chef by the end of the meal. Sunghoon merely smiles at you when you converse with the waiter and doesn’t tell you to stop talking. He finds that you’re quite the charmer when you have enough alcohol in you to forego any bad thought you have about yourself. It’s like you’re more affectionate than you are sober, and that’s another part of you he wants to get to know. 

Sunghoon leads you back to the car and drives you home eventually, careful not to overdo it with the speed because you’ve still got a bit of a headache. He tells you that his place is closer and you can spend the night as his given your intoxicated state, but you refuse under the guise that your cat still needs to be fed, as you didn’t plan on an impromptu sleepover. Your drunk brain can’t process the fact that Sunghoon asked you to stay the night. 

He isn’t disappointed and doesn’t mind driving the extra fifteen minutes to drop you off back at your apartment. Ever the gentleman, Sunghoon steps out of the car and helps you to the front door of the lobby and you insists that you’re fine to ride the elevator up four floors and walk to your apartment, but he tells you to lead the way anyhow. It’s no use to argue with him, especially when you aren’t sober enough to tell him off. 

You allow yourself to stumble a bit more now that you’re not in the public eye and Sunghoon immediately puts your arm in his own when you walk and search for your keys simultaneously. He chuckles when you finally stop in front of your door and when you begin to unlock it. 

“You’re something else when you’re drunk, you know that?” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you grumble. Sunghoon imagines you pouting like you have been when you insisted on walking alone. 

“You’re a bit grumpy and affectionate. Very cute.” 

“That’s an oxymoron.” 

“It’s true. You talk more about yourself without feeling insecure, which you never have to feel, by the way. I’m sure there are a shit ton of people who feel the same way you do about dating.” 

“Easy for you to say, Sunghoon. You look like a Greek God.” You open the door and Sunghoon looks away and blushes. “Thanks for tonight. I mean it.”

“You’re welcome. I mean it too when I say you deserve nice things and for people to do things for you. It’s a nice change of pace, isn’t it?” 

You turn around to face him once you’ve stepped in the door. “Yeah, I guess it is. I could get used to it.” 

“Maybe you can.” 

A beat of silence passes. It’s hard to resist looking at Sunghoon’s lips but you let your eyes glance at them for a brief moment before looking back at him, and you pray he doesn’t notice. 

“Goodnight. Get a lot of rest and have some water, yeah?” 

“Mhm. I will.” 

Sunghoon nods and then does the unthinkable. He steps forward and encircles his arms around your body, effectively caging you into a hug like you two have been longtime friends. His body is warm and sturdy, and the mental image of the few times you’ve seen him shirtless come rushing to the forefront of your brain. You do your best to reciprocate the hug as he gently tugs your body closer to him, and the hug itself lasts a moment too long for it to be friendly. 

He pulls back and smiles at you. 

“Sleep tight.” 

***

taglist: @txiwei @i58ssj @motherscrustytoenailclippings @immelissaaa @sunnyjayjays @skzenhalove @tobiosbbyghorl @babystrlla @sagegreenhairclip @doririsstuff @second-floors @sievenderz @favoritten @kiikiisblog @ynzyy @jessicaradreamer @questionsdearreader @leeymws @wonislife17 @semi-wife @synamon @letwiiparkjay @spicxbnny @bbinwrld @25dejulho @globaloppaaa @1-800-peakyblinders @heesunghooney @ambi01 @simpforskz143148 @shaysimpss @steddie-steddie @ning2lover @fairystudio @yujinxue @dearmyfavoritepeople-bts @in-somnias-world @mellowgalaxystrawberry @1ckyw1ckyyyyy @kgneptun @ithinkulikeme @kristynaaah @jessxxxfwd @lovingjongseong @intoomanyfandom-s @jeoncarla008 @just1moodz.

[lostinlittlespacesblog]

how many followers do you have? 9

when's the last time you went on a date? Never

how many posts have you made? A lot can’t count that high

What type of shoes do you wear? Nightmare before Christmas shoes

what colour are the walls of your room? Neon green

where are you right now? (not exact location. ex: at a park) in my bed

would you consider yourself good at art? Yes I use to draw all the time

who was your first kiss? Didn’t have my first kiss yet

do you still sleep with stuffed animals? YES!

what's your favourite piece of clothing you own? My nightmare before Christmas shirt

do you live in an urban, suburban, or rural area? In the country

what's your favourite store to shop at?
(online or irl) hot topic

if you had to choose one POSITIVE word to describe yourself, what would it be? Kind

do you collect anything? No

what's the last thing you ate?meatballs

if you go to therapy, do you like your therapist? Haven’t went yet

what's one thing you want to buy, but don't have the money or resources to get? A paci

Who's the first person you can think of? My grandparents who are in heaven

how old were you when you found out santa wasn't real? You’re wrong Santa is real!!!

If you could revive one tv show that has been cancelled, what show would it be? Don’t know

do you consider yourself a part of any alternative subculture? if so, which one(s)? No

who was your childhood favourite music artist? Don’t know

CDs or record players? CDs

Do you believe in any conspiracy theories? Maybe not sure what that is

would you get back together with an ex if given the opportunity? Heck no if I had a ex the answer is no !

favourite kid's show character? SpongeBob

is the person you call your best friend actually your best friend? Yes more like a sister to me

when you're sad, do you prefer to listen to music to match your mood, or listen to happy music?

what's the last outfit you wore? Um long sleeve shirt and black shorts with Garfield socks

do you have any online friends? Not yet just followers

least favourite clothing style that is currently popular? Dresses

how often do you do your laundry? When I’m out of clean socks 😂

do you prefer silver or gold jewelry? None

what's your book/movie/tv guilty pleasure? Don’t have one

if you could change your hair however you want, how would you change it? I dye it pink

do you paint your nails? Yes

what's an uncommon/specific /obscure topic you're interested in? Don’t know

what's the name of your first pet/what would you name your first pet if you had one? Rosie

what's one feature you would change on tumblr? 🤔 put up a caregiver looking place where caregivers and littles can find each other .

what's the most interesting item you own? My stuffie

would you rather go on a date at a museum or a concert?concert

what's one regret you have? Not going to prom

42 personal questions ask game

how many followers do you have?

when’s the last time you went on a date

how many posts have you made?

What type of shoes do you wear?

what colour are the walls of your room

where are you right now? (not exact location. ex: at a park)

would you consider yourself good at art?

who was your first kiss?

do you still sleep with stuffed animals?

what’s your favourite piece of clothing you own?

do you live in an urban, suburban, or rural area?

what’s your favourite store to shop at? (online or irl)

if you had to choose one POSITIVE word to describe yourself, what would it be?

do you collect anything?

what’s the last thing you ate?

if you go to therapy, do you like your therapist?

what’s one thing you want to buy, but don’t have the money or resources to get?

Who’s the first person you can think of?

how old were you when you found out santa wasn’t real?

If you could revive one tv show that has been cancelled, what show would it be?

do you consider yourself a part of any alternative subculture? if so, which one(s)?

who was your childhood favourite music artist?

CDs or record players?

Do you believe in any conspiracy theories?

would you get back together with an ex if given the opportunity?

favourite kid’s show character?

is the person you call your best friend actually your best friend?

when you’re sad, do you prefer to listen to music to match your mood, or listen to happy music?

what’s the last outfit you wore?

do you have any online friends?

least favourite clothing style that is currently popular

how often do you do your laundry?

do you prefer silver or gold jewelry?

what’s your book/movie/tv guilty pleasure?

if you could change your hair however you want, how would you change it?

do you paint your nails?

what’s an uncommon/specific /obscure topic you’re interested in?

what’s the name of your first pet/what would you name your first pet if you had one?

what’s one feature you would change on tumblr?

what’s the most interesting item you own?

would you rather go on a date at a museum or a concert?

what’s one regret you have?

[spikedfearn]

Upon the Scarlet Altar

one-shot

Remmick x fem!reader

summary: On a night when the moon hangs low and your body bleeds for him, he worships you the only way he knows how: on his knees, mouth between your thighs, feasting like you’re the last taste of warmth in a world gone dark. But in his arms—cold as the grave—you find a different kind of fire. One that never dies.

wc: 4.1k

a/n: AHHH you guys—I’m seriously losing my mind right now. Mercy Made Flesh hit 1.7K notes in 72 hours and I’m just sitting here clutching my pearls and screaming into the void like !!! thank you SO much for all the love, thirst, and pure unhinged energy you’ve poured into my fic!! this fic is lovingly (and hornily) dedicated to @oc3anbxbyxoxo who requested remmick eating reader out while on her period!! and, as always, thanks to my number #1 pookie Nat @kayharrisons for beta reading!!

warnings: vampirism, bloodplay, oral sex (f!receiving), period sex, vampire x human, worship kink, possessive undead love interest, overstimulation, blood drinking, body worship, monsterfucking (soft), southern gothic setting, mild dubcon tones (power imbalance), religious/sacrilegious language, explicit sexual content, knife-edge tenderness, unholy devotion, mutual obsession, sex as ritual, canon-typical vampire violence (implied)

likes, comments, and reblogs appreciated!! please enjoy!!

The moonlight spills across the cold stone floor like spilled cream, pale and thick, stretching all the way to the foot of Remmick’s bed. You don’t knock when you enter. You never have to.

He already knows.

He’s there, seated at the edge of the mattress like he’s been waiting all night—shirt half unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to his forearms, his hair a soft tangle from too much pacing. There’s a gleam to his eye that hadn’t been there yesterday. Something feral. Something starved.

His nose twitches before his lips curl.

“You’re bleedin’,” he drawls, voice like bourbon left too long in the sun. “C’mere, sugar.”

You close the door behind you. You should be embarrassed. You’re not wearing anything underneath the long black slip you call a nightgown. Not tonight. The silk clings to your thighs, sticking just slightly with each step.

He’s watching. Always watching. Like he’ll die if he blinks.

By the time you reach him, he’s already reached for your hips, already dragging you between his legs. His hands are cold. They always are. But they warm quickly when they cup the back of your thighs and pull you forward until you’re straddling his lap.

“Could smell you from the hallway,” he murmurs against your mouth. “You don’t know what that does to me.”

“Then show me,” you whisper.

His eyes flick up. Crimson. Blazing.

Ravenous.

And then he lays you back.

The mattress dips under your weight, the room heavy with the scent of old wood, candle smoke, and something darker now—something copper-sweet. His breathing doesn’t hitch, doesn’t falter. But it deepens. Slows. Like he’s savoring every second before he lets the hunger off its leash.

Remmick’s palms press to the inside of your thighs, spreading you open like a prayer. His voice, low and reverent, ghosts over your skin.

“Goddamn,” he breathes, thumbing the edge of your nightgown up, baring the soft heat of your core. “Ain’t nothin’ in this world tastes as good as you do when you bleed.”

The shame you thought you might feel never comes. There’s only heat, only want, only the obscene pulse in your stomach as he lowers his mouth with something like worship painted across his face.

“Y’ain’t scared, are you?” he murmurs, his lips brushing the crease of your inner thigh. “’Cause I’m real hungry, darlin’. Real fuckin’ hungry.”

You shake your head, your voice a whisper. “No.”

His grin is all teeth.

“That’s my girl.”

And then his tongue slides over you—slow, deliberate, impossibly soft. He groans like he’s been starving, the sound deep in his throat, his arms locking around your hips to hold you still as he buries his face between your legs.

You cry out.

The first lick is hot and sinful, laced with something carnal and wrong, the wet glide of his tongue tasting the blood he craves, the slick that coats you. He doesn’t tease. Doesn’t build slow. He devours—growling against your cunt like it’s the only meal he’s ever needed.

“Christ,” he moans against you, lips already wet with it, tongue circling your clit with obscene precision. “You’re sweeter’n sin like this.”

Your fingers fist in his hair. You’re trembling. The sheets are damp beneath you from your own sweat, from the way your body shudders every time he moans into you like he lives for this.

And maybe he does.

Because Remmick doesn’t stop.

Not when your legs shake. Not when your thighs try to close. Not even when you gasp his name like it’s a lifeline. He keeps going, mouth locked to your cunt, tongue sliding deeper as he feeds and worships all at once.

“Gon’ give you everythin’,” he mumbles, voice thick and slurred with lust, lips slick. “Gon’ make you cum so hard you forget your damn name.”

You already have.

Your back arches, spine bowing off the bed as the wave crests—hot, thick, electric. His name spills out of your mouth in pieces, broken syllables caught between breathless moans, and he drinks it in like it’s part of the offering.

Remmick doesn’t let up.

Even as your hips buck, even as your thighs tremble violently around his head, he holds you down, strong hands keeping you spread and helpless beneath him. His tongue flicks against your clit with punishing precision now, coaxing you past the edge and straight into ruin.

Your vision whites out.

Pleasure burns—too much, too good, a drag across nerve endings that should’ve long gone numb but haven’t, not under him. Not under the mouth of a man who’s been alive for centuries and still claims you as the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted.

He groans again, loud this time, the sound vibrating through your cunt like a sin. You don’t realize you’re crying until he pulls back slightly, lips flushed red and glossy with blood and slick. The sight should be terrifying.

It’s fucking gorgeous.

“Look at you,” he rasps, dragging his mouth up your body, a smear of crimson trailing from your inner thigh to your hip. “So damn pretty fallin’ apart like that.”

He licks his lips, slow. Lingering.

“Could stay between these thighs all night, baby. Might just do that.”

Your breath stutters when he leans in, mouth brushing the shell of your ear. His voice is thick with lust, but there’s something else now—something dark. Territorial.

“Ain’t gon’ want nobody else’s blood, y’hear me?” he whispers, one hand cupping your throat, thumb brushing your pulse. “Ain’t nothin’ sweeter than you when you bleed for me.”

You whimper, your body still trembling beneath him.

And Remmick smiles.

Because you're not scared.

You're in love. In lust. In ruin.

The room is quiet now, save for the rasp of your breath and the low hum of Remmick’s satisfaction as he lays against you, one arm heavy across your waist, his nose nuzzled into your neck like he can’t bear to be even an inch away from your pulse.

You’re boneless, ruined—your legs still trembling slightly as the aftermath rolls through you in warm, dizzy waves.

But he’s calm. Too calm.

Like a beast that’s fed and now lies curled around its prey, not because it’s lost interest—but because it’s claimed you.

His fingers trace idle circles over your belly, smearing faint streaks of blood he hasn't bothered to wipe away. He hums low in his chest, then murmurs against your throat:

“Y’don’t know what you’ve done to me, do ya?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your mouth’s parted, your tongue dry, your body still fluttering in the places he touched and tasted.

He presses a kiss just beneath your jaw, then another, lower—his lips dragging slow.

“You come to me bleedin’ like that,” he drawls, voice syrupy and warm, “an’ expect me to behave?”

You feel his smirk as he speaks against your skin.

“Darlin’, you ain’t just mine. You’re marked. Body knows it. Blood knows it. Every time you ache, every time you get that little twitch in your thighs thinkin’ ‘bout me…that’s me callin’ to you.”

You swallow hard.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, those crimson eyes soft now, almost tender—but still burning. Still dangerous.

“I ever catch somebody else smellin’ you like this…” he shakes his head slowly, almost pitying. “They won’t get the chance to learn from their mistake.”

He says it like a promise.

And then softer, almost lovingly:

“Gon’ take real good care of you. Keep you right here where it’s safe. Keep that sweet little body fed, fucked, and mine.”

You blink up at him, dazed and flushed.

He brushes a knuckle down your cheek, then presses his lips to your temple like you’re something precious. Holy, even.

“Rest now, sugar,” he murmurs, voice velvet-dark. “We got all night.”

Steam curls like spirits from the clawfoot tub as the water runs, hot and fragrant with crushed rose petals and herbs from the garden out back. The scent is earthy, grounding—lavender, rosemary, and something darker beneath it. Something that smells like Remmick.

He’s at your side, one hand steady on the small of your back as he helps you into the water like you’re made of spun glass.

“You’re shakin’,” he murmurs, voice quiet now. Slower. “Let me fix that.”

The warmth envelopes you, and you sink into it with a sigh, limbs limp, head tipping back as your body adjusts. The blood between your thighs has already begun to dilute in the bathwater, but he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away. If anything, his gaze softens.

Remmick kneels behind the tub and rolls his sleeves higher. He dips a cloth into the water and begins to wash you gently, reverently, careful around your thighs, your breasts, your throat.

Like he’s memorizing every inch of you again.

“Still can’t believe you walked into that church that night,” he says, the hint of a smile in his voice, low and fond. “All that fire in you, all that fury. Lord, you had no idea what you were walkin’ into.”

You remember.

You’d been seventeen. Hungry. Lost. Sleeping in the loft of the abandoned chapel on the edge of the forest because the shelter was full and the weather had turned. You hadn’t known the stories were true—not until you’d come face-to-face with the man who didn’t cast a shadow, who stood at the altar after midnight like he’d been waiting for you.

Remmick had looked at you the way God might’ve looked at Eve: not with shame, but with curiosity.

And then with hunger.

“I should’ve run,” you whisper.

He hums. “You did. I let you.”

You’d run through the woods, blood pumping so loud in your ears you could hear your own pulse. He hadn’t chased you—not right away. He’d let the fear bloom, let it take root, let you come back on your own.

You hadn’t been able to stay away.

Maybe it was the way he spoke. Or the way he looked at you. Or maybe it was the way the nights weren’t so cold when he was near.

“I didn’t want you to be afraid,” he says now, dipping the cloth to run it between your legs, slow and careful, like he’s cleaning a wound.

“I was,” you say. “But not of you.”

Remmick nods. He knows.

You’d been afraid of needing him.

And now look at you—body bare and pliant in his bath, flushed from orgasm and bleeding in his water, letting him touch you with those old, cold hands like they’ve got the right.

Because they do.

“You were too damn young,” he murmurs after a beat, brushing your hair back from your forehead. “But you looked me in the eye like you’d seen a thousand winters. Said you weren’t afraid of no man, no monster. Only the ones who pretend they ain’t.”

You smile faintly. “And you never pretended.”

His eyes darken.

“I told you what I was. What I needed. And you still chose to stay.”

You open your eyes, tilting your chin toward him.

“I still do.”

He leans in and kisses you then—not hungrily, not with possession, but reverence. Like you’re sacred. Like he’s praying with his mouth.

And in a way, he is.

Because Remmick never asked for salvation.

He found it anyway.

In you.

The water laps gently around you, soft and warm as skin, swirling faint pink around your hips. His kiss is slow—an ache, a promise, a tether. When he finally pulls back, your lips are damp, parted, breathless, and Remmick is just watching you.

Like he always does.

There’s something about the way he looks at you. Not just hunger. Not just obsession. It’s deeper than that—like he’s memorizing you, like the sight of you is the only thing anchoring him to this wretched earth. Like if he stopped looking, the centuries would catch up to him and pull him down to hell where he knows he belongs.

But not yet.

Not while you’re here. Not while your blood is still warm and your body still pliant and your soul still just out of reach.

He brushes the edge of the cloth over your collarbone next, then your shoulder, dragging it across your chest with trembling restraint. There’s a smear of blood on the side of your breast—his doing—and he wipes it away with the gentleness of a man afraid to break the thing he worships.

“You’re somethin’ holy to me,” he murmurs, low enough it sounds like it’s more for him than you. “Somethin’ sacred.”

You swallow, your throat tight, heart tripping over itself in your chest.

“No I’m not.”

He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Maybe not to the world. But to me? You’re a goddamn miracle.”

You can’t speak. Can’t move. All you can do is feel as he pours warm water over your shoulders, cupping the back of your head like he’s baptizing you in blood and roses.

“First time I saw you,” he says, “I thought I’d finally gone mad. Thought I was seein’ a ghost. You walked right through that broken door, moonlight at your back, lookin’ like vengeance and salvation in one breath.”

He sets the cloth aside.

“You didn’t flinch when you saw my teeth. Didn’t cry when I told you what I was. You just looked at me with those big, tired eyes and asked if I was gonna kill you.”

You remember that night. You remember the way your voice hadn’t shaken, even though your knees did. The way his eyes had gone wide—startled, not by your fear, but by your lack of it.

He laughs softly now. “And I told you, didn’t I? Told you I don’t kill what I’m fixin’ to keep.”

Your breath catches.

“Remmick…”

“I meant it,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your forehead, to your temple, to the crown of your head. “Meant it then. Mean it now. You’re mine. And I ain’t ever lettin’ you go.”

Your fingers curl in the water. His arms wrap around your shoulders, pulling you gently against his chest, the sound of his dead heart silent beneath your ear.

But it feels like it’s beating.

Only for you.

Only here.

The water’s gone tepid by the time he speaks again.

“Time to get you outta there, sugar,” he drawls, voice velvet-thick. “Before I end up joinin’ you.”

He stands, boots echoing soft on the old tiles, and leans over the tub to scoop you into his arms. It’s effortless—like you weigh nothing at all. Your wet skin presses to his chest, and the chill of him—cold, corpse-cold—sinks straight into your bones.

But you don’t flinch.

You never do.

Because even if he doesn’t have blood that pumps or a heart that beats, there’s warmth in him still. In the way his arms hold you like you’re breakable. In the way his mouth brushes your temple like a promise. In the way he carries you through this crumbling house like you’re something he’d go to war for.

You cling to him out of instinct, arms curling around his neck as your cheek rests against the hollow of his throat. It’s icy. Still. But it’s home.

“I got you,” he murmurs, “Always do.”

He steps out of the bathroom and into the dark hallway of the house you’ve come to know like a second skin—your house now, though no one but the ghosts know it. The floorboards creak beneath his slow steps, the wallpaper is peeling, the chandeliers are draped in cobwebs like mourning veils. The wind outside presses against the windows like a lonely thing begging to be let in.

But here, in his arms, even cold, you feel untouchable.

You bleed against his skin.

It’s not until you reach the bedroom—your shared bedroom, with the worn four-poster bed and the rotting wainscoting and the lace curtains yellowed with time—that he speaks on it.

You feel the pause in his chest before the low, filthy rasp leaves his lips.

“Leakin’ all over me, sweet thing,” he mutters with a smirk, voice dipped in reverence and filth. “Leavin’ a trail like you want the whole damn forest to follow your scent home.”

You suck in a breath. The heat in your belly curls tight again.

He sets you down on the edge of the bed, your thighs parting on instinct, your slick skin sticking to his shirt, to the old quilt beneath you. The blood between your legs is thicker now, heavy. He watches it, eyes dark as pitch.

“Lord have mercy,” he whispers, dragging the back of his hand up your inner thigh just enough to catch the wet. His fingers are cool—unnaturally so—but they don’t make you recoil. They make you burn.

“You’re drippin’ for me. Bleedin’ like you want me to taste you again.”

He leans in, teeth grazing your ear.

“You know what that does to a man like me? That warm, dark sweetness runnin’ down your thighs? Ain’t nothin’ on God’s green earth tastes more like heaven than that.”

You shiver.

Not from fear.

From need.

He presses a kiss to the side of your neck, then another to your shoulder.

“Don’t you worry, baby,” he murmurs, voice so low it sinks into your skin like wine. “I’ll get you cleaned up again. Real slow. Real good. Might just make you bleed a little more while I’m at it.”

You tremble under his touch.

And Remmick smiles.

Because he knows you’re already his.

He kneels.

Doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t need to. You can feel it—what’s coming. The weight of his stare between your legs, the way his cold hands slip beneath your thighs and spread them wider, wider, until you’re completely exposed to him in the dim, flickering candlelight.

His fingers drag slow along the inner swell of your thighs, smearing blood and slick across skin like paint. His mouth parts.

“Christ almighty,” he breathes, voice reverent, his accent rougher now, more ragged. “Look at this mess. Look what you do to me, girl.”

He kisses the inside of one thigh—cold lips on burning skin—then the other. He doesn’t go for your pussy yet. He lingers. Worships. Drags his tongue along the seam of your thigh where the blood’s heaviest, groaning low and obscene as he tastes it.

He licks it up like it’s the finest thing he’s ever touched.

“Could spend hours down here,” he rasps, voice already wrecked. “Feastin’ like you’re my last goddamn meal.”

You whimper, hips twitching, your legs threatening to close—but he doesn’t let you.

“Uh-uh,” he warns, using his strength with ease to keep you open. “Don’t hide from me now. Not when you’re bleedin’ for me like this.”

His mouth finally descends on your cunt.

And this time, he takes his time.

The first pass of his tongue is so slow, so deep, it makes your eyes roll back. He licks a long, deliberate stripe from your soaked entrance to your clit, tasting everything—blood, arousal, need—and moaning like it’s divine.

His tongue flicks against your clit, again and again, featherlight but maddening. Then he shifts—mouth flattening, sucking, lapping at you with wide strokes of his tongue like he’s trying to ruin you.

And god, he is.

You fist the sheets, back arching, mouth open in a silent cry as he moans against your cunt, the vibrations shooting straight through your core. Your blood coats his mouth, his chin, his lips—but he doesn’t care. He relishes it. His hands grip your thighs tighter as he buries himself deeper, tongue fucking into you like he’s trying to crawl up inside and live there.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans between strokes, pulling back just long enough to pant against your slit. “You taste like heaven and sin all at once. Never gonna get tired of this. Never gonna stop wantin’ it.”

He slides a cold finger inside you—then another. Your body clenches hard, the contrast of his freezing hand and warm tongue almost too much to bear. But he knows your body now. Knows exactly how to curl his fingers, how to suck your clit while his tongue and hand move in tandem.

You start to shake.

Your vision blurs.

You cry out, your orgasm building harder than the last, pressure curling, snapping, about to break—

And he doesn’t stop.

Not when you start to sob his name.

Not when your thighs tremble and spasm against his shoulders.

Not even when you cum, shattering hard enough to see white behind your eyelids, your body jerking beneath his mouth like you’re being ripped open.

He keeps going.

Sucks your clit through it. Licks up every drop of blood and slick. Fingers you slower now, more gently, like he’s helping you ride it out instead of trying to end it.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, kissing your swollen cunt. “Gave it all to me, just like you’re meant to.”

You’re ruined.

Your chest is heaving, your limbs loose, soaked through and aching, and he’s still between your thighs, still worshiping, still tasting like he’ll never get enough.

And maybe he won’t.

Because you’re bleeding.

And he’s starving.

Your breath hitches—caught somewhere between a sob and a moan—as your legs twitch from the aftershocks, thighs sticky with blood and saliva. But Remmick’s still there.

Still devouring.

Still worshipping.

His tongue moves with aching tenderness now, lazy, slow—almost teasing if it weren’t so reverent. He licks through the mess he’s made, lips parting to mouth at your folds like he’s kissing your mouth, not your cunt. Like every inch of you is sacred.

And even as your hips jerk, trying to pull away—too much, too sensitive—he doesn’t let you go.

“No,” he murmurs, voice low, steady, commanding. “We’re not done yet, sweetheart.”

He pins your hips with those cold, strong hands, mouth descending again.

You cry out, thighs shaking violently, the sensitivity blooming into a new kind of agony—pleasure twisted at the edges, electric and sharp, making your toes curl and your spine bow. The room is spinning. Your pulse thunders in your ears.

But he’s soothing you as he ruins you.

“Shhh,” he breathes against you. “I got you. Just take it. Lemme taste every last drop you’re willin’ to give me.”

You feel your body trembling apart for him again, your stomach clenching, heat pooling low and impossibly fast.

Remmick’s voice is almost gentle now, slurred with arousal and reverence as his tongue drags across your clit.

“Don’t you go hidin’ from me, baby. You know I’ll chase you down.”

He kisses your cunt again, tongue flattening and lapping, nosing against your entrance where your blood is still fresh, still dripping slow. He moans deep in his throat like it’s a vintage he’s been saving for decades, like this moment—this mess between your thighs—is a gift he doesn’t deserve.

And god, the way he sounds when he speaks between strokes—

“Your blood’s hotter’n the devil’s breath tonight.”

Another lick.

“Tastes like lust. Like pain. Like home.”

Another.

“You were made for me, girl. Built to bleed for me.”

Your body coils tighter and tighter, the pleasure sharper now, no longer soft or slow—it’s demanding, relentless, fire at the base of your spine.

And he feels it.

He moans against you as you cum again—louder this time, messier, your entire body going rigid under him as you fall apart a second time, writhing as he holds you open and takes it all.

You’re crying now, softly, not from pain but from being so thoroughly undone.

From how deeply he sees you.

How completely he wants you.

When he finally pulls back, he’s soaked. Lips red, chin slick, eyes glowing like coals. He kisses your inner thigh, then your knee, then the scar on your ankle he once asked about and never brought up again.

You’re limp beneath him, panting, ruined.

And he looks so fucking proud.

“That’s my girl,” he whispers, crawling up your body. “My perfect, filthy little thing.”

He settles beside you on the bed, pulling you into his arms, curling your spent body against his cold one—and somehow, you feel warmer for it.

He presses a kiss to your temple, then your hairline, then your shoulder.

“Sleep now,” he breathes. “Ain’t no one ever gon’ touch you but me.”

And as your eyelids flutter closed, muscles aching, pulse slow and full, you realize this is what he’s given you—what no one else ever could.

Not warmth.

But safety.

Not love.

But devotion.

And in a house filled with ghosts, buried in a forest that forgot its name, you fall asleep knowing you’ll never be alone again.

Not as long as Remmick walks the earth.

Not as long as he’s hungry—and you’re his.

[bucketgetter535]

No Margin for Error: Chapter One

Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd

(Formula 1 AU)

CW: Language

WC: 3000 ish

Notes: Chapter one… Paige’s POV this time. Lmk what yall think

February 2025 - London, England

Paige adjusted the hem of her T-shirt again, for maybe the sixth time since she walked into the studio. It wasn’t even that it didn’t fit—it did, perfectly. It was just basic. Basic red. Just like her jeans. Just like her smile when the cameras started rolling and the guy with the clipboard asked her to take a seat on the little couch next to the champion of the world.

Azzi was already there, already comfortable. Elbow propped casually on the armrest, ankles crossed. She looked like she’d done this a hundred times because, well, she had. And not just media, either. Everything. Azzi Fudd had done everything.

The braids were new. Sleek, clean, symmetrical—probably done the week after the final race, maybe even the day after the championship party in The United Arab Emirates. Paige had watched the press conference replay from her hotel room that night, not because she cared (she told herself) but because it was on. Azzi had said something smooth and cool about “finishing strong” and “staying focused” and “rebuilding for next year.” It was the kind of thing people liked to hear. Paige barely heard it at all.

The producer called for quiet. Cameras rolled.

“Welcome back to a new Formula One season!” The host’s voice was all teeth and excitement, angled at the cameras and then at them. “Today we’re joined by Ferrari’s 2025 driver pairing—defending world champion Azzi Fudd, and the hottest new signing of the off-season, Paige Bueckers!”

They both smiled on cue. Paige’s smile was the kind that fit her face but didn’t go deep. Azzi’s didn’t move past her lips.

The host leaned forward, clasping her hands. “Let’s talk dynamics. Azzi, you’re heading into your fifth season, your fourth with Ferrari, and already a two-time world champ. What does it mean to welcome a young star like Paige into the garage?”

Azzi tilted her head slightly. She always tilted her head when she was being diplomatic. “It’s exciting,” she said smoothly. “Paige had an incredible rookie year. To do what she did in that car? You don’t see that often. She’s fast. Ferrari saw that. Now it’s about translating that into something bigger.”

“Which would be…?”

Azzi glanced sideways. “Winning. Obviously.”

Paige crossed her arms. Not defensive, not obviously. Just—settling in. There was something about Azzi’s voice. Not sharp. Not sweet. Just flatline calm. It made you feel like you were always reacting too much.

The host turned to her. “Paige, you were at Sauber last season. Huge contrast. What does it mean to now be wearing red? To be driving for Ferrari?”

“Means I can finally compete,” Paige said. Her voice stayed level. She was good at interviews. Always had been. “I learned a lot last year, but now I’m here to do more than survive on race day.”

“Teammates, but also rivals—”

“That’s how it is in this sport,” Azzi said, before the host could even finish. “Your teammate’s the only other person with your car. They’re your best benchmark. Your biggest challenge.”

Paige smiled again. “We’ll push each other.”

Azzi nodded once. “That’s the goal.”

There was a stretch of silence after that, one the host filled with a nervous laugh before switching gears. She asked about the new car’s handling, about winter training, about off-season habits. Paige answered cleanly. Azzi answered precisely. The two of them mirrored each other without meaning to—arms folded, then unfolded, hands on knees, then apart. At one point, Paige caught herself watching the way Azzi’s fingers tapped against her thigh. Left-right-left. Steady. Controlled.

She looked away before it could register as staring.

“You two hadn’t really crossed paths since your junior days until now,” the host said. “So I’m curious—first impressions?”

Azzi raised a brow, but let Paige go first.

“Talented,” Paige said. “Obviously. I mean, look at her resume.”

Azzi didn’t even blink.

“Looks like I’ve got some catching up to do.”

That earned her a tight smile from Azzi. “I’ve watched her race,” Azzi said. “She’s not here to just fill a seat. She’s aggressive. I like that.”

There was something in the way she said it that made Paige feel like she wasn’t sure if it was a compliment. Probably wasn’t. Or maybe it was. Hard to tell with Azzi.

The interview wrapped a few minutes later. A couple promo shots, a half-hug that didn’t make it past the shoulders, and then they were done. Off-camera, Paige found her voice again.

“Nice sweater,” she said, half to be civil.

Azzi looked down at it. Black. Cropped. The Ferrari logo sitting just above her ribs.

“Thanks,” she said. “Team issue. You’ll get yours.”

Paige nodded. She already had it. She just hadn’t worn it.

“Braids look good,” Paige added, before she could talk herself out of it. It wasn’t quite a compliment. Just… a fact.

Azzi smiled, smaller this time. Realer. “Thanks. You thinking of getting some?”

Paige snorted. “Not quite my lane.”

Azzi shrugged. “Shame.”

And then she was gone, slipping out of the studio with that champion walk—quiet, collected, barely touching the ground. Paige stayed where she was for a moment longer, fiddling with the hem of her T-shirt again, trying not to notice the way her skin felt too warm.

She was here. In red. With the world champion.

And she wasn’t here to be her friend.

—

February 2025 - Bahrain International Circuit

Pre-season testing came fast and the desert didn’t care that it was February. Bahrain pressed heat into the bones of everything: the tires, the steering wheel, the back of Paige’s neck. Her visor felt like a sealed oven door as she climbed out of the cockpit after her first full morning session.

Her race suit clung to her skin in a way that felt both grounding and too much. She tugged her fireproof top down and wiped at her jawline with a damp towel, fingers twitching once against the fabric before stilling. Her engineer—Luca—was talking in her ear, real-time debrief as they walked back toward the garage.

“You’re adjusting well,” he said in his usual even tone. Calm. Not too complimentary. “Sector one is consistent. Sector three, you’re still a bit heavy into some of the final corners. But we’ll get there.”

She nodded once. She liked Luca. He didn’t talk to her like she was a new driver or a little girl. He just talked. Facts, data, line charts, options. She could work with that.

She also wasn’t stupid. The times were up on the board. Azzi had gone out for an afternoon session and was already putting perfect sectors all over the screen, clean and ruthless. Fast lap after fast lap, making it look like a simulation. Paige stood just inside the garage, suited down to her undershirt, arms crossed, watching the monitors.

1st. Fudd. 1:30.232.

Again.

Somewhere behind her, a junior mechanic said, “She’s unreal,” and Paige didn’t turn around.

Her own best time—7th at the moment—sat in small, stable font a little farther down the screen. She’d had one good lap in the earlier run, out of nowhere, when everything clicked and the car felt like it had folded into her hands. She’d gone 3rd, briefly, before getting bumped back down by the Red Bulls and Mercedes clawing through the late afternoon. It didn’t matter much—testing was testing. Times were pointless. But still.

She was here now. And she wasn’t used to not being the best.

“She’s in year five,” Luca said, appearing beside her again with a bottle of water she hadn’t asked for but took anyway. “You’re in year two. Different programs.”

“I’m not comparing.”

Luca looked at her sidelong. “Good.”

She was lying, of course. But only to herself.

It wasn’t jealousy. She knew that. She didn’t want to be Azzi Fudd. That would be ridiculous. She didn’t even like her.

Something in her gut twisted at the thought, the lie of it so sharp she almost flinched. Azzi had barely spoken to her since the media day—just polite nods, clipped greetings, the occasional glance in the paddock. They weren’t teammates so much as two cars painted the same color. And even that felt like a stretch.

Paige hated the way Azzi looked in the car. Not because it was bad. Because it was so fucking good. Like she’d been born for it. The way she threw the Ferrari into corners, aggressive but not reckless. The way she accelerated through corners looked like it had been dialed by hand. Paige had watched one of her onboard laps during lunch break and found herself tightening her grip around her fork.

She didn’t hate Azzi. She didn’t even know Azzi. But her presence was a pressure on Paige’s chest that didn’t let up, even when she was off track.

“I want to run again in the last hour,” Paige said.

Luca nodded. “Soft tires?”

“Yeah.”

Azzi came in just before the final session. Her helmet was off by the time Paige crossed the garage, and for a half-second their eyes met. Paige gave a quick nod. Azzi didn’t smile, but she acknowledged it. Kind of.

“You’re going again?” she asked, voice casual as she towel-dried the back of her neck. Her braids were pulled back, sleek and tight, no sweat ever daring to show up on her.

“Last run,” Paige said. “Soft compound.”

Azzi’s mouth turned a little. Not quite a smirk. “Track’s quick right now.”

“I know.”

“Good luck.”

It didn’t sound sarcastic. That made it worse.

The track felt different this time. Cooler air, less crowded. The Ferrari was so quick down the straight she could barely believe it. It was like having a weapon she hadn’t earned yet.

She hit sector one almost perfect. Sector two matched her best. Sector three—she didn’t overcook turn fourteen, didn’t hesitate into the final corner.

Luca’s voice in her ear as she crossed the line: “Good. That’s a good one.”

Her name lit up on the leaderboard again. 2nd.

She exhaled, hard.

Not first. But close. And for one lap, one brief, blinding lap, she felt it: she could belong here.

By the time she returned to the garage, Azzi was gone. Probably doing data. Probably not thinking about Paige at all.

She stripped her gloves off finger by finger and pressed her palms flat against her thighs. The heat of the run was still in her chest. She didn’t smile, didn’t celebrate. She just sat down, quietly, like she didn’t feel like the floor had stopped spinning.

—

March 2025 - Albert Park Circuit (Melbourne, Australia)

Media day on Thursday before the first race in Australia was supposed to be chaotic.

Paige didn’t know what she expected when she stepped out onto the media stage in Melbourne—just that it wasn’t this.

It wasn’t a sea of little girls on their dads’ shoulders, or ten-year-olds clutching Ferrari flags. It wasn’t teen girls in red bucket hats screaming both their names like they meant it. It wasn’t glittery homemade signs that said WE LOVE YOU AZZI AND PAIGE in shaky handwriting, or girls wearing Paige’s old Sauber merch that had clearly been cut to fit them.

It wasn’t this. But it was good.

Better than good. Disarming.

Azzi came out a few minutes later, sunglasses perched low, a quiet kind of ease to her walk that Paige could never seem to fake. Her braids were tucked under her hat this time. She wore the full Ferrari kit like it had been designed just for her. The crowd lit up at the sight of her, and Paige caught herself watching—not for long, just long enough to remind herself to look away.

She hated that Azzi made it look effortless. She hated that Azzi probably wasn’t even trying.

They stood side by side, microphones clipped to their shirts, backdrops branded with every sponsor under the sun. Paige had gotten good at these things: say enough to be interesting, but not enough to go viral for the wrong reason. Smile. Deflect. Keep your words cleaner than your lap times.

Azzi was good at it too, of course. Of course.

“She’s a phenomenal driver,” Azzi said when asked about working with Paige. “I’m excited to see what she can do in the same car.”

Paige smiled, and it looked real. It almost was.

“Azzi’s set the standard,” Paige replied. “I’m here to compete. And push her. That’s what teammates do.”

Rivals, she didn’t say.

They stayed late after the interview. It wasn’t part of the schedule, but neither of them left.

The crowd had thinned a little, but the younger girls stayed. They held out notebooks and hats and scraps of paper, and Paige signed until her wrist started to cramp. She watched Azzi from the corner of her eye—her soft, practiced nods, the way she asked each kid their name before signing.

It should’ve annoyed her. Maybe it did. But it also made her stay a little longer.

—

When the cameras were off and the sun was down, the truce fell apart.

“You didn’t have to act like I’m a rookie up there,” Paige said, unzipping her racing suit halfway, letting the night air hit her collarbone.

Azzi turned. She was in a team hoodie now, sleeves pushed to her elbows. “I didn’t.”

“You said I was here to learn.”

“You are.”

Paige laughed once, bitter at the edges. “I’ve raced since I was six.”

“I know.” Azzi crossed her arms, cool and calm, like she wasn’t aware of how sharp she was when she was still. “So have I. The difference is I didn’t stall in Formula Three.”

There it was.

Paige’s mouth tightened. “Right. Because some of us didn’t get fast-tracked through the junior series.”

Azzi’s eyes flickered, something dark and knowing behind them. “Maybe some of us didn’t need to be.”

—

They both finished the race.

That was the first thought Paige had as she climbed out of the car and slid her gloves off with her teeth. Her head was hot inside the helmet, her neck damp with sweat. Her hands ached from the force of braking over and over again in the corners of Albert Park — not just physically but mentally, with the kind of edge you only got from racing wheel to wheel for an hour and a half in brutal heat.

Azzi had finished second. Paige had come home fifth.

It wasn’t a bad result. In fact, it was a solid one. Points on debut for Ferrari, overtakes made with precision, and no major errors on the pit wall or in the garage. All of it respectable. More than respectable, really.

But Paige wasn’t the one on the podium.

She leaned back against the wall behind the paddock cool-down room, already halfway out of her race suit. She had the top half tied around her waist, and her fireproof undershirt clung to her back and arms like a second skin. She could still feel the heat radiating off the asphalt. Her hair was plastered to her forehead. Her whole body buzzed like an overcharged battery.

Somewhere nearby, the crowd roared — not for her.

They called out Azzi’s name.

Paige looked over in time to catch it — the exact moment Azzi peeled off her helmet. The hair underneath was pinned and frizzed from the heat, but her braids still hung tight around her face. Her eyes were bright, unfocused, the way they always were right after a race, when the adrenaline hadn’t burned off yet. She wiped sweat from her brow with the back of her gloved hand and then with a towel someone from the team tossed her. Her skin gleamed under the sun.

Paige looked away.

It wasn’t jealousy. She was sure of that. She wasn’t sure of a lot of things when it came to Azzi, but she was sure of that.

She just didn’t like her.

That was allowed.

That was normal.

“I need a damn shower,” Paige muttered to no one, adjusting the sleeves knotted around her hips. The back of her undershirt was soaked through, sticking in all the wrong places. Her mouth tasted like heat and rubber and whatever electrolyte drink she’d choked down at the start of the race. She felt gritty, like the entire track had come home with her under her skin.

Someone handed her a bottle of water and she took it without looking, drank half in a single go, then dumped the rest down the back of her neck. It wasn’t enough. Nothing would be until she was out of this fire suit and under cold water with the door locked.

Still, as she stood there in the aftermath, she couldn’t help glancing over again.

Azzi was in her Ferrari suit still — red and black with gold sponsor patches — zipped halfway down like everyone else. She wasn’t smiling, not quite, but there was something like quiet satisfaction in the way she leaned into the team, nodding at something her engineer said, towel still slung around her neck. She looked… comfortable. Like she belonged up there. On the podium. In the middle of this chaos.

Paige rubbed a hand over her face. She didn’t want to be thinking about Azzi right now. She didn’t want to be thinking about anything except peeling this suit off and collapsing under a hotel shower head until her skin stopped buzzing.

The interviews would come soon. The press. The debrief. She still had to say the right things — “Good points for the team,” “Car felt strong in the second half,” “Great to see both Ferraris in the top five.” She’d say it all like a pro. She always did.

But for now, she let herself feel the full weight of the race. Her legs ached. Her core hurt. Her head throbbed, just a little. She had ten points in the bag, the car was fast, and her debut hadn’t been a disaster.

And Azzi?

She had eighteen points and a trophy waiting.

Paige stood there, watching the crew bustle around the podium truck, and realized something else — something subtle and sharp in the back of her throat.

Azzi always made it look so easy.

And that, more than anything, was what got under her skin.

[thevoicefromanotherworld]

"YOU'RE WELCOME, BABY"

I WROTE ANOTHER FIC WITH BUCKY

I was planning on adding smut to this fic, but it ended up being adorable and sweet in every way (I'm ovulating guys, my mood swings are crazy right now)

Hope you like it!

POV: You're in those days of the month, and Bucky doesn't hesitate to give you the support and comfort he knows you need

Bucky paced in front of you every few minutes in his black leather suit and bright, clear eyes, making your ovaries physically ache from how much you needed him.

It was that time of the month, so you were much more sensitive than usual, and him pacing around like that didn't help at all.

You were alone in Avengers Tower.

Steve knew about your condition, and since Tony asked him to go with him on a quick mission, he asked his best friend to keep an eye on you.

You didn't know if he did it on purpose or if it was just his way of moving, but when he pulled a water bottle out of the fridge and leaned against it, making the metal of his arm squeak slightly, you thought you might faint right there.

He noticed your scrutiny, and a soft smile spread across his face.

"Do you want some?" —he asked, raising the bottle. You shook your head.

“I can’t drink water that cold,” you replied. “It’s not good for my…” You blushed violently.

You had no idea why you were talking about it openly with everyone and why you were embarrassed with him.

“…ovaries,” he finished for you. “I can make you something else if you want,” he offered. “Are you hungry? Wanda taught me a couple of recipes, both without paprika.” He laughed. “I know you don’t like spices.”

The fact that he’d paid enough attention to let him know that about you made you squeal internally.

“Thanks, Bucky, but I’m fine for now,” you added. “I mean, I could be worse.”

“I’m glad you’re not.” He smiled, sitting down on the couch, leaving a little distance between you. “What do you want to do?”

“God, why does everything he says have to sound so sexual?” You thought, shaking your head and shrugging your shoulders.

"I don't know," you murmured. "What do you want to do?"

He watched you intently for a few moments. He lifted his metallic hand to trace the curve of your cheek with his index finger, making you shudder at his touch.

"I can think of a few things we could do, doll," he whispered, his voice lower than before.

His presence, his touch, his smell, that damn leather suit, and the tone he used made your ovaries ache more than before. You needed that man, you needed him NOW

"Oh yeah?" you asked playfully. "What were you thinking about?"

Bucky smiled when he saw you playing along. His hand moved to cup your cheek, his thumb running over your lower lip.

"I was thinking about how much I'd love to feel your lips around my cock," he blurted out, getting straight to the point, making you let out a stifled gasp. "I was thinking about how much I need to taste you and make you cum in my mouth." He continued, slowly slipping his hands under your shirt to rest them on the skin of your hips, making slow, tortuous circles there. "But above all else, I was thinking about how beautiful you are," he whispered, looking at you with equal parts tenderness and intensity. "God, you have no idea, do you, baby?"

Bucky, my face is covered in pimples from my period. I'm not pretty, especially right now.

"You're wrong about that," he whispered, holding your face in his hands. "You've always been beautiful, especially right now." He smiled. "I don't care about your physical appearance. If you have pimples, wear sweats, or if you suddenly have gray hair, I don't care," he listed. "What really matters is what you look like here." He placed the palm of his hand on your torso. "And here." He pointed at your head with his index finger

"Oh, Buck," you blurted out. "You're going to make me cry." You complained, feeling the tears threatening to come out.

"That's the last thing I want, honey," he replied. "I just want you to be okay, and above all, to show you how precious and special you are." He whispered, opening his arms on either side of him. "Come here, doll."

You snuggled up against his chest, and before you fell asleep, you called out to him:

"Buck?"

"Hmmm?"

"Thanks for everything you said, I…" you swallowed hard, "needed it."

"You're welcome, baby," he murmured, placing a loving kiss on top of your head, "go to sleep."

And that's what you did.

Within seconds, you fell asleep because, let's be honest, who wouldn't fall asleep in Bucky Barnes's arms?

[fic-girlie]

Coffee and Quiet Things

Pairing: Pedro Pascal x f!reader

Summary: You spend a slow, cozy day with Pedro Pascal, your sweet boyfriend—sharing coffee, walking the dog, cooking dinner, and dancing in the kitchen. Amid soft laughter and quiet confessions, the comfort between you deepens into something lasting: love that feels like home.

Warnings: pure fluff, soft smut (but not that detailed)

You weren’t sure when Pedro’s house started to feel more like home than your own apartment. It wasn’t a dramatic moment, no sudden realization, just a quiet accumulation of little things. Like how your favourite mug had somehow migrated to his kitchen, or how your shampoo was now a permanent resident in his shower. Or the way he left the porch light on every evening, even if he wasn’t home first. Maybe it was the way that his old record player (which he got from his family for one of his birthdays) crackled in the mornings, the scent of that cedarwood candle he always forgot to blow out, earning a stern look from you every time, or how the light hit just right at sunrise in the kitchen, casting honey-coloured lines across the floorboards. It was slow, the way you settled into each other in such a short time. But it was steady. Certain.

It was Saturday morning when the warmth of the sunlight woke you, slanting in through the gauzy curtains Pedro never remembered to close all the way. The scent of fresh linen and cedarwood filled the whole bedroom—his scent, comforting and familiar. He was still asleep beside you, sprawled on his stomach with one arm under the pillow and his face buried in the crook of his elbow, hair mussed into curls from the night. You smiled at the sight of him, gently pulled up the blanket to his shoulders, and slipped out of bed as quietly as you could, trying not to wake him up.

You padded barefoot into his kitchen, the hem of his t-shirt—too big for you—brushing your thighs. The faded cotton smelled just like him—cologne, laundry softener, and something deeper you couldn’t quite place. You’d stolen it months ago, sneaking it out of his closet. He always said it was “accidental theft,” but you knew he loved seeing you in it. And you’d never admit it out loud, but it had become your favourite things to sleep in.

The whole house was quiet except for the subtle hum of the city outside and the occasional creak of wood adjusting to the warmth of the sun. You moved on instinct: kettle filled, beans ground, coffee steeping in the French press. Humming softly, you reached for your mug from his shelf—one Pedro had once said looked like a grandma’s teacup but had a chip in the handle you liked.

Behind you, you heard the gentle creak of the bedroom door.

Pedro emerged, still soft and blurry with sleep, wearing a plain black t-shirt and a pair of flannel pyjama pants that sat low on his hips. His hair stuck out at unruly angles, the kind of bedhead only he could pull off and no one else. He rubbed a hand over his face as he made his way into the kitchen, stopping only when he was close enough to nudge his nose into your neck.

“You’re up early,” he murmured, voice low and gravelly from sleep.

You tilted your head toward him, smiling as you poured his coffee. “It’s nearly noon.”

“Still too early,” he mumbled, but accepted the mug when you offered it, fingers brushing yours in a quiet good morning.

His free arm wrapped around your waist and tugged you in close until your back was flush to his chest. You leaned into him easily, the way you always did, like your body already knew the shape of his.

“I made your favourite,” you whispered, tilting your head up to look at him.

Pedro hummed, sipping from the mug. “Of course you did. Because you love me.”

You turned in his arms to face him, your fingers looping lightly through the collar of his shirt. “Obviously.”

His smile was lazy, eyes crinkling in the corners, warm and soft just for you. “What did I do to deserve this?”

You leaned up on your toes, brushing a kiss over his jaw. “I’m pretty sure you offered me your croissant that one morning on set.”

He just blinked at you with confusion. “Strange. I remember you stealing my croissant.””

“It was warm. And flaky. And I was weak.”

“And irresistible,” he smirked.

“Mr. Pascal, are we still talking about the croissant?” Pedro kissed you then—slow and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world. You melted into him easily, your hands sliding up to rest on his shoulders. The world outside faded into a quiet hum.

——

The morning drifted lazily into early afternoon. You ended up curled on the couch, legs tangled with his, Edgar, his scruffy rescue dog was snoozing on the back of the couch, curled into Pedro’s neck, occasionally twitching in his sleep. Your head rested on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart beneath soft cotton. The TV was on, something forgettable, but neither of you paid any attention to it.

His fingers traced patterns on your arm—nonsense shapes and gentle spirals. “We should take Edgar for a walk,” he said eventually, voice still wrapped in sleep.

“He seems perfectly content right where he is,” you murmured.

Pedro slowly turned his head to the side to take a glance at the dog, who was now staring with soulful, imploring eyes. “He’s playing the long game. He’ll start guilt-tripping us is three… two…”

Edgar gave a dramatic sigh, shifting with a pitiful flop of his head, hitting Pedro in the eye with his big ears.

“You see this manipulation?”

You leaned over to scratch behind Edgar’s ear, earning a satisfied sigh from him. “He knows who the real softie is.”

Pedro glanced at you with warm eyes and his mouth slowly turned up into a smile. “He likes you better than me.”

“Obviously.”

——

You hadn’t planned to spend the afternoon out, but the sky was too blue, the breeze too soft, and Pedro’s hand too warm in yours to say no when he asked, “Wanna walk with me a bit?” Edgar’s leash was already in his other hand, the pup trotting ahead with his tail high and his nose to the ground like he was on a mission.

So you wandered through sunlit streets, letting the city hum quietly around you. Pedro wore his usual weekend uniform—sunglasses, soft tee, denim jacket—and every now and then, he’d glance over at you like he still couldn’t believe this was real. Edgar stopped to sniff nearly every tree and lamppost, which Pedro narrated with over-the-top commentary.

“He’s writing his novel,” Pedro said seriously, crouching beside the dog. “Chapter seventy-four. Plot twist: the neighbour’s cat is back.”

You laughed, nudging him with your hip. “I can’t believe this is the man whose voice makes people cry in interviews.”

He stood, grinning. “I’m a man of layers.”

Eventually, you stumbled across a quiet corner café tucked behind ivy-covered brick. You'd never been there before, but it looked like something out of a movie—warm wood, soft lighting, the scent of coffee and cinnamon drifting out the door. The outdoor seating was shaded and half-empty, with little metal tables and bowls of water already set out for dogs.

Pedro looked at you, hopeful. “Coffee?”

You nodded. “Only if we let Edgar pick the table.”

Edgar sniffed three of them before flopping down beside one in the far corner, tail thumping. Decision made.

Pedro went inside to order while you sat with Edgar, gently running your hand down his back as he panted happily, head on your foot. The breeze lifted the ends of your hair, and everything felt still. Not boring—just... content.

When Pedro returned with your drinks and pastries, he sat beside you instead of across from you, thigh pressed against yours as he passed you your latte. “The barista gave Edgar a biscuit,” he said, slipping it into the pup’s mouth. “Said he was a regular.”

You raised a brow. “How often do you come here without me?”

Pedro grinned, not even pretending to be sorry. “Gotta keep some mystery alive in the relationship.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder. “You're lucky you're cute.”

He kissed the top of your head, lips lingering for just a second longer than necessary. “I know.”

The three of you stayed there for a long time—Pedro sipping his coffee, you nibbling your pastry, Edgar lying across both of your feet like a sleepy bridge. Sometimes you talked, sometimes you didn’t. It didn’t matter. The kind of silence you shared was never awkward. It felt like language without words.

At one point, Pedro reached for your hand and laced your fingers with his on the table. “I like this,” he said quietly. “You. Me. Edgar. Coffee. It’s simple. Feels like something that lasts.”

You looked at him, heart full, and gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “Feels like home.”

And maybe it was. A sun-warmed afternoon, a lazy dog at your feet, and a man who looked at you like every little moment was something worth remembering.

——

The afternoon sunlight poured through the tall windows in lazy streaks, warming the hardwood floors and casting a golden haze across the living room. The house was quiet except for the occasional creak of wood or Edgar’s soft panting from his nap spot near the balcony doors.

You were curled up on the couch, legs tucked beneath you, flipping absentmindedly through a worn book Pedro had left on the coffee table. You weren’t even sure what you were reading—something with soft edges and lyrical sentences—but the words felt like background music to the moment more than anything.

Pedro returned from the kitchen with two mugs of tea, handing you yours with a soft smile before settling beside you. He didn’t sit on the other end of the couch, though. He turned sideways, shoulder against the armrest, one knee bent up, the other leg stretched out just long enough to brush against yours.

“What are you reading?” he asked, his voice low, still a little raspy from the late morning.

You tilted the book to show him the cover. “I think this used to be yours.”

He smiled as he took a sip of tea. “Yeah, that one got me through a lonely season.”

“Feels like a book for soft days,” you said. “Like this one.”

Pedro didn’t answer right away. He just looked at you, his eyes thoughtful and full of something quiet and affectionate. Then he set his tea down and reached for a blanket draped over the back of the couch.

“Come here,” he said gently, opening his arms like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You slid toward him, your body curling into his like a puzzle piece falling into place. The blanket wrapped around both of you, warm and heavy, and you settled with your back against his chest, your head tucked under his chin. His arms looped around you easily, one hand holding the book, the other resting against your stomach, thumb brushing absent patterns into the fabric of your shirt.

“I’ll read,” he offered.

You didn’t even respond. You just nodded, eyes fluttering shut as he started reading aloud—quietly, without pretense, like it was something he did every Sunday.

His voice was a slow, soothing current, the kind of sound that you didn’t just listen to but felt—in your ribs, in your spine, in the way your breathing synced with his. Every so often, he’d pause and whisper something that wasn’t on the page.

“That part reminds me of you.”

Or, “I used to underline this line. Didn’t know why then, but I think I do now.”

Sometimes he’d get distracted and trail off mid-sentence, his lips pressing softly to the top of your head like punctuation. And when he eventually closed the book, setting it aside on the armrest, neither of you moved to fill the silence. There was no need.

You turned your head slightly, just enough to feel the stubble of his jaw against your temple. “This is nice,” you murmured.

Pedro smiled against your skin. “Yeah. It’s everything.”

And it was. Just sunlight, a shared blanket, his voice, your heartbeat. A moment so quiet it might’ve been missed—if it hadn’t felt like the whole world.

——

Evening settled inquietly, like a soft exhale after a long, beautiful day. Outside, the city began to hush, the sun casting a golden-orange glow across the skyline before dipping beneath it. In the house everything felt suspended in warmth—the kind that lingers not just in the air, but under your skin.

The kitchen glowed with soft light, the overhead bulbs dimmed and two tall candles flickering steadily on the island counter. Pedro insisted on them—not for the aesthetic, he claimed, but because he liked how everything looked softer in candlelight. You knew better. He liked you in candlelight. He said so once with a look that made your whole body buzz.

He was standing in front of the stove now, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, wearing that ridiculous apron you’d gotten him as a joke months ago—black with white script: “Kiss the Cook (He’s Sensitive).” The way he wore it, you almost forgot it was meant to be funny.

You leaned against the counter, watching him stir the pan with quiet concentration. “You’re actually kind of hot when you cook.”

“Kind of?” he asked without looking up.

You smirked. “Fine. You’re full-on domestic daddy right now.”

Pedro chuckled, shaking his head as he reached for the fresh basil. “You’re lucky I’m in love with you.”

You blinked, startled by the ease of the words—how they slipped out like he said them every day. Maybe he would, after this.

He noticed you pause and turned towards you, eyes searching. “That didn’t freak you out, did it?”

“No,” you said quickly, a small smile forming. “Just… you beat me to it.”

Pedro tilted his head, stepping closer, wiping his hands on a towel before cupping your cheek with his palm. His thumb brushed your skin as he whispered, “Say it anyway.”

You looked up at him, heart full and steady. “I love you.”

Something about the way his face softened in that exact moment—like he’d been waiting to hear those words from you without even realizing it—made your breath catch. He kissed you then. Not rushed. Not hungry. Just slow. Reverent. His lips moved against yours like a promise.

Dinner turned out better than expected—simple, fresh pasta tossed with tomatoes, garlic, olive oil, and a sprinkle of Parmesan. You sat close at the table, knees brushing, sharing bites from each other’s plates like neither of you wanted to miss a thing. The conversation was quiet, easy, full of smiles and glances that lingered a little too long to be casual.

After the dishes were cleaned and Edgar was fed, you both stayed in the kitchen. Pedro dimmed the lights until it was just candlelight and soft jazz coming from the old record player in the corner of the living room. He held out his hand towards you.

“Dance with me.”

You raised a brow at him. “Now?”

“Always.”

You slid your hand into his bigger ones and let him pull you into his arms. There, in the middle of the kitchen, surrounded by glowing light and the scent of garlic and wine and candle wax, he held you close, swaying gently to the music. One hand rested on your lower back, the other clasped your hand against his chest. You tucked your face against his shoulder, and he pressed a kiss into your hair. Neither of you spoke for a while. You didn’t need to. Everything was being said in the way your bodies moved together, in the quiet sighs and soft breaths shared between you.”

“You know,” he said after a long moment, his voice just above a whisper, “this is the part in the movies I never used to believe in.”

You pulled back just enough to see his face. “What part?”

“This. The kitchen. The dancing. The… peace. I always thought it was made up. Something people wrote into scripts because it sounded pretty.”

You brushed your thumb across his cheek. “And now?”

He smiled, eyes boring into yours. “Now I never want it to end.”

You kissed him again, arms wrapping around his neck, and he kissed you back like he meant it—like he was anchoring himself to that moment. To you.

When the record ended, you both stayed there for a beat longer. Then Pedro whispered, “Come to bed with me.”

You didn’t answer. You just took his hand and let him lead you.

——

The rain had started sometime after dinner, soft and steady against the windows, a gentle rhythm that matched the quiet between you and Pedro. The city outside had blurred into a dreamscape—streetlights glowing through raindrops, casting shifting shadows on the bedroom walls. Inside, everything was still.

You were curled up in bed, half-tangled together in the lazy sprawl that only happened after a long, good day. Pedro’s bare chest was warm beneath your cheek, his hand slow and deliberate as it traced lines along your back, trailing up beneath the hem of your shirt just to feel your skin.

“You ever think about how we ended up here?” he murmured, his voice a soft rasp, thick with affection and a hint of sleep.

You tilted your head just enough to look up at him. “Here in bed, or here in general?”

A sleepy smile tugged at his lips. “Both.”

You smiled too, resting your chin on his chest. “Yeah. Sometimes it feels like a dream.”

His hand moved to your hair, brushing it back behind your ear, then cupping your jaw. His thumb traced the line of your cheekbone like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. “You feel real to me,” he whispered. “You feel like everything.”

The words landed heavy in the most beautiful way, your heart fluttering like soft wings inside your chest. You leaned up to kiss him, slow and searching, letting yourself sink into him completely. He kissed you back with the kind of gentleness that said I love you without needing the words. His hand slid down your back, fingers skimming over the curve of your waist, until he pulled you over him, your thighs cradling his hips. You moved easily, like you belonged there—because you did.

“You sure?” he asked, voice low and a little shaky now, even though you were already pressed so close.

“I want you,” you said simply. “Like this. Slow.”

Pedro exhaled like he’d been holding his breath. He sat up just enough to help you pull your shirt over your head, then leaned in, pressing kisses across your collarbone, your shoulder, the hollow of your throat. His hands traced every inch of your skin as if he was learning you all over again, fingertips reverent, lips following like a prayer.

“You’re everything I never thought I’d have,” he murmured, voice trembling just a little. “And I don’t want to miss a second of it.”

Your fingers tangled in his curls as you kissed him again, deeper this time. You rolled your hips over his slowly, and the way he gasped into your mouth made your whole body ache with need. When he slid your underwear down and you reached for the waistband of his briefs, his hand caught yours for a moment. Not to stop you—just to look at you. Like he needed to make sure you were still there, still his.

“I love you,” he said, rough and unguarded.

You leaned in, pressing your forehead to his. “I love you too.”

He helped guide you down over him, breath hitching as he filled you—slow and steady, with a hand braced at your waist and the other holding your cheek like he couldn’t bear to let go. You settled into a rhythm together, bodies moving in a quiet, perfect sync, gasps and sighs filling the room like a song only you two could hear.

His hands never left you—stroking, grounding, worshiping.

Your name fell from his lips again and again, half-whispered, like a mantra. And when you came, you clung to him, mouth open against his shoulder, heart pounding like it might break apart from how full it was. He followed seconds later, burying his face in your neck with a broken sound, his whole body shuddering beneath you as he wrapped his arms tight around you.

Neither of you spoke for a long time.

You just stayed wrapped in each other, the rain still tapping at the window, the sheets warm around you, the world outside fading away. Eventually, he kissed your shoulder—soft and slow—and murmured, “You make everything feel quieter. Better. Like I don’t have to run anymore.”

You ran your fingers through his hair and kissed his temple. “You don’t. You’re home now.”

The room was warm. Your bodies were flushed and tired in that perfect way that came from being truly, deeply close. You were just starting to drift off when you heard the soft, familiar click of nails on hardwood.

Then a quiet huff and a very determined thump onto the foot of the bed.

You both looked down to see Edgar wiggling his way onto the mattress like it was his turn now to snuggle with you two. He turned twice in a circle, flopped with all the grace of a bowling ball in a blanket fort, and stared up at you with a grumpy little blink.

Pedro chuckled, voice still hoarse from earlier. “Jealous, buddy?”

Edgar gave one more theatrical sigh and shoved his cold nose against Pedro’s thigh—making him jump slightly—before settling down between your ankles like a stubborn child demanding attention.

You laughed, curling back into Pedro’s chest. “He just wants his spot. We messed up the routine.”

Pedro kissed your temple, pulling the blanket over all three of you. “Fine. He can have his corner. But this”—he pulled you tighter to him— “this is mine.”

You smiled sleepily as Edgar let out one last grunt and settled in with a snore.

The rain had stopped outside. And between Pedro’s arms and Edgar’s soft weight at your feet, everything felt right.

[tanghuyuj]

LEFT LOVESTRUCK!

pairing: non-idol or idol!riwoo x short-haired-fem!reader

genre: fluff, fluff, and fluff !!

synopsis: after chopping your hair off to be short, you’re unsure of how your boyfriend will react. though, there’s nothing to worry about; i mean—he is lovestruck for you.

warnings: kissing, not proofread, and i think that’s all.

wc: ~0.6k

maia’s note: 1st riwoo work what am i doing ?? for all my short hair girlies out there (me) bc i just know riwoo would be obsessed with a short haired gf >< enjoy reading! reblogs and feedback are always appreciated!! 💘

you raise your hand and run it through your hair. your newly, freshly chopped off hair.

it’s now short, and not medium length short, but short short. so short, it barely reaches to the edge of your chin.

you stand in front of you and your boyfriend’s shared apartment, needing to take a moment before you walk in and see his raw reaction. riwoo knows you were going to get your hair done, he just doesn’t know that you got it cut to a certainly short length.

read under the cut! ⬇️

you aren’t scared for how he will react, just nervous! it’s natural to be nervous in a time like this, is what you manage to convince yourself.

you inhale a deep breath before slowly moving towards the door knob.

but in a snap of a second, you watch the door open.

you freeze in place, scanning the figure that is now right in front of you. a figure that you could recognize in a crowd of thousands of people, a figure that your heart beats rapidly for—in this moment especially.

your boyfriend, lee riwoo, wears soft, light pink pajama pants with white stripes going down them and a baggy, plain white shirt with a image of his dog, daebak, on it (he got it custom made). his short and orangish brown hair sticks up messily and one of his hands holds a trash bag with several recyclable plastics inside. his eyes widen and his mouth opens wide in an ‘o’ shape.

“yn..” he starts slowly.

you mirror him, eyes widening. “riwoo! i.. i can expla—“

he cuts you off, “you look adorable.”

he drops the bag dramatically to the ground as he steps closer to you and cups your face with his hands, your hair slipping into his hold as well.

your cheeks squish together in his hands. “riwoo, what are yo—“ you say, muffled.

he states the obvious, “your hair. it’s short.” he turns your head, tilting it from left to right.

your heart starts to pound against your chest faster.

“yes..” you mutter.

a loving, happy smile grows on his face which eventually turns into a wide grin.

he exclaims, “it’s so cute! why didn’t you tell me earlier you were getting it this short?” he continues blabbering, “actually no. i’m glad it was a surprise. it looks so pretty, you look so pretty.”

your face heats up immediately. for some odd reason, this whole time you’ve been expecting the worse. that he would hate it, find it ugly maybe. you realize that you never once should have doubted your boyfriend. hearing this, seeing him respond heavily positive, is a huge relief and makes your heart grow even fonder for him (if that’s possible).

“thank you, baby,” you smile. you try to remove his hands from your face but ultimately fail. “riwoo, let’s go inside.”

his pink lips form into a pout. “no, let’s stay like this for a little.”

“riwoo—“

he interrupts you with a quick peck on the lips. the touch of his soft, balmy lips withdraw a little too fast, leaving you wanting more.

but lucky for you, you don’t have to ask.

riwoo leans in to place more sweet, fluttering kisses to your face. he tries to not miss a single spot; your forehead, temples, and the last one on the tip of your nose. all while doing so, his hands move to run his fingers through your hair. he twirls some locks, loving the feel of your hair—the feel of you.

he pulls away in a lovestruck daze, leaving you the same.

“now can we go inside?” you tease.

he giggles, “only if that means i get to make little braids in your hair.”

you roll your eyes in annoyance, but truly, you love it.

“sure baby.”

perm taglist: @bambisnc @mungbeancoups @starriniqhts @stantxtforabetterlife @chrrific bnd taglist: @uncasings @oowir net: @kstrucknet

please do not copy, repost, or translate.

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[bellfilmz]

“Out of sight, out of mind?”

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Rafe x reader

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: While studying abroad, Reader’s new friends doubt the existence of her wealthy boyfriend until Rafe Cameron makes a bold appearance to prove he’s very real.

⸻

You sipped your cappuccino as your friends argued about what country to backpack to next weekend.

“I’m telling you, Croatia is it right now. Sun, water, boats—perfect Instagram content,” Isla insisted, flipping her blonde curls over one shoulder.

Maya rolled her eyes, tapping away on her phone. “We’ve done islands for like three weekends in a row. I vote cities. Let’s do Amsterdam.”

You leaned back in your chair, amused but distracted. Your phone buzzed in your lap for the fifth time, and you didn’t even need to look. You already knew who it was.

Rafe:

“What time are you done with class? I miss your voice.”

You smiled softly, thumbs hovering over the keyboard before locking your phone and sliding it into your bag without responding.

“What about you?” Maya asked, squinting at you over the rim of her latte. “Where do you wanna go, mystery girl?”

“Huh?” You blinked, then laughed. “Oh—uh, either sounds good.”

Isla gave you a look. “You’ve been zoned out all morning. Who are you texting all the time, anyway? Still that ‘boyfriend’ of yours?”

You paused. “Yes, Rafe.”

Maya smirked. “Riiiight. Rafe, the mysterious rich boyfriend from North Carolina who we’ve heard about but never seen. You sure he’s not imaginary? Like a real-life ‘Lana Del Rey summer love’ situation?”

You blinked. “He’s real.”

“Then why haven’t we seen a photo of you two since… what, October?” Isla raised a brow. “It’s February.”

You rolled your eyes. “Because Rafe doesn’t like photos. He’s private. And I’m not going to force selfies on him for proof.”

“Doesn’t call during the day either,” Maya added. “And all these gifts he ‘sends’ you? Designer bags and clothes? We’ve never seen a single delivery.”

You sat back, a little stunned. “Are you serious? You think I’m lying?”

“I mean,” Isla said carefully, “you’re gorgeous, and you’re mysterious as hell, so yeah, it wouldn’t be shocking if you made it up to keep up the mystery.”

You narrowed your eyes. “He doesn’t want me posting him because his family’s loaded and they have, like, reputation issues back home. That’s why I’m not flaunting him. Not because he doesn’t exist.”

Maya shrugged. “If you say so.”

You didn’t say another word. Instead, you pulled out your phone, opened your camera, and snapped a quick photo of your annoyed face with the caption:

“My friends don’t believe you’re real.”

You sent it to Rafe and set the phone on the table, screen-up.

Maya and Isla were mid-rant about train routes when your phone lit up with an incoming FaceTime.

You didn’t hesitate tapping accept and turning the screen toward them.

Rafe’s face appeared, sun-kissed and smug, wearing one of his signature fitted t-shirts. His jaw was sharp, his eyes soft when they met yours.

“Hey, baby,” he said, voice deep and velvety. “Is this the part where I prove I’m real?”

Your friends went silent.

You turned the screen toward them. “Say hi, girls.”

Isla blinked. Maya leaned in, stunned. “Holy shit.”

Rafe raised a brow. “Are those the ones who think my girl’s too pretty to have a boyfriend back home?”

You grinned. “Yep. These are the ones who thought I was writing fanfiction about you in my diary.”

“Damn,” he laughed. “You know, I was gonna send you a surprise next week, but I might overnight it now just to make a point.”

Maya’s jaw dropped. “Wait, that’s Rafe?”

Rafe gave them a cocky little salute. “That’d be me.”

“I thought he’d be, like… soft rich,” Isla muttered. “Not—hot rich.”

You laughed as Rafe tilted his head. “Baby, show them the necklace I sent you.”

You reached for the dainty, glimmering diamond chain around your neck, holding it up to the camera.

“She’s wearing my initials. So If she ever takes it off tell me, I’ll fly there myself.”

The girls were stunned silent.

You winked at him. “Thanks for backing me up.”

“Always. Now, call me later, yeah? I wanna hear about your day.” He paused, gaze dropping slightly. “And maybe talk about flying you home sooner.”

Your heart fluttered.

“Deal.”

The call ended.

You leaned back with a smug grin as Maya and Isla just stared.

“Told you.”

Maya finally exhaled. “I take back everything. Can you ask if he has a cousin?”

⸻

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐝.

[bullet-prooflove]

Daywalker: John Shen x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @miraclesabound @cannonindeez @fadeinsol @nommingonfood @yousigned-upforthis

Companion piece to:

Dick Pics - You and John discuss your dating life in the ambulance bay during a rare shift break.

Brunch - John refuses to give up when you miss brunch with him.

Silly Little Boys (NSFW) - John's not like the other men you've been with.

In The Summer - You discover John's secret.

Tiger, Tiger - John reveals the truth between his engagement and his history.

Jack - John's mother opens up old wounds by giving John a copy of your DCFS file.

Bare (NSFW) - John and you commit to each other in a special way.

The Shirt - Jack realises that you're wearing a boyfriend shirt.

Tradition - Mrs Shen makes a decision regarding the wedding.

Thanksgiving in The Pitt is batshit fucking crazy.

Bust ups, burns, accidently amputated appendages, the list goes on. The waiting room heaves to capacity, the ambulance bay is an endless stream of drop offs. Each doctor is turning over five patients an hour, getting them situated in the halls because food poisoning is the leading cause of illness during this holiday and the majority of them need drips due to dangerous levels of dehydration.

Throughout the chaos John catches glimpses of your presence, a flash of that neat bun, the sound of your voice carrying across the room, your signature on some of his intake paperwork. They’re the only signs of your existence during the nightmare shift.

It’s 4am when he finally gets a break, he takes a leak before heading out to the ambulance bay in his scrubs, sucking in a deep breath of cool, refreshing as soon as he steps onto the concrete.

You’re already waiting for him at your usual spot by the wall, there’s a brown paper bag alongside you with two plastic cups of cold brew coffee. Your rig is parked just to the right, the sounds of you partner’s snoring from the back echoing through the lot.

“I gotta warn you now.” You say as he approaches. “No hugs, I stink of vomit and other indescribable substances.”

“You think I care about that?” John asks placing his hands on his hips and tipping his head towards the E.D. “It’s like Saint Patrick’s Day all over again in there, I’m completely desensitised at this point.”

You roll your eyes to the heavens, stepping towards him. “Well played, you know I’m a goner for that slutty little hip thing you do.”

His arms wrap around you, drawing you into the shelter of his form. You fit against him perfectly, like two pieces of a shattered vase being reacquainted. His lips brush over your temple and he can feel the tension ebb out of your body as he cradles you close.

You’ve been away over the last few days in Seattle at the Paramedic Professional Development Conference. This is the first time he’s laid eyes on you since you’d gotten back into town because the day shift had gotten overwhelmed and he’d had to come in early.

“I’ve missed you.” He mumbles into your hair. “None of the other paramedics are nearly as much fun.”

Your chest vibrates with laugher against his and he can’t help but smile at the sensation as you tilt your head up to meet his gaze.

“You mean none of the others bring you coffee and turkey subs at four in the morning.” You point out and he shrugs his shoulders in response.

“They aren’t as cute either.”

“Yea, I know.” You say, taking his hand and leading him towards the wall. The two of you take a seat before unwrapping your sandwiches. “Trust me Chicago Fire has given the public some very unrealistic expectations in that department. You won’t believe how many people have been disappointed by the lack of hot firemen pulling up tonight.”

“Same here with Grey’s Anatomy. Although Abbot did get called McSteamy and Grumpy Daddy tonight so that was very entertaining.” He takes a bite from the sub and moans. “Christ have I told you how much I adore you recently?”

“Not nearly enough.” You tease, nudging his shoulder. “You’ll have to worship me when we get off shift, remind me why I keep coming around.”

“The videos I sent when you were away weren’t enough?” He counters, balling up the packaging between his hands and tossing it into the brown paper bag. “Me fucking the panties you left on my pillow?”

Your cheeks flush as you bite your lower lip and it’s just the sweetest damn thing.

“Did you give anymore thought to the other thing we were talking about?” He asks you, picking up his cold brew and sipping through the straw. “The Field Training Officer position?”

“Hm.” You respond noncommittedly. “Had a conversation with Anderson before I left Seattle about the program. It would mean changing my shift for a few months so I could fit the course in during the evening time and I’m not sure how much I’d like being a day walker.”

A day walker, it’s what the night shift people call those that make the transition back to regular office hours. It can be a jarring adjustment after you’ve spent so long in the darkness.

John doesn’t think that’s the real issue though. He suspects you’re concerned about how your life is going to change compared to that of the people around you.  Abbot, Faye, him, all work the nightshift and altering the routine will throw you out of sync with the support network you’ve build up over the years. You fear becoming isolated again, that they won’t be able to find time for you.

“Cici.” He says softly, his fingers threading through yours. “My feelings won’t change because you’re working the day shift, we can still do breakfast or dinner, find the sweet spot when we’re not working weekends. Our relationship will adapt, the same way it will with Abbot and Faye, nobody’s going to abandon you because you’re trying something new.”

“It’s just… it’s a big change.” You say quietly, poking at the ice in your drink with the straw.

“Change can be good even if it is a little scary.” He reassures you, his thumb tracing soothing circles along the back of your hand. “I know you’re going to rock this and I promise I will be here to support you. Quizzing you, feeding you, helping you to ‘destress’.”

The edges of your mouth tip up into a smile before you tilt your head towards hm.

“You really think I can do it?” You ask him and John’s palm comes to cradle your face, his thumb ghosting over that tiny scar just at the edge of your right eye.

“Cici.” He says firmly. “I think you can do anything you god damn want to.”

Love John? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Before you join the taglist make sure to read the rules here as you otherwise you won’t be added.

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[reidyourpalms]

switching sides

summary -> you wear jj's jersey to the charity match and george isn't happy about it | geroge clarke x reader

wc -> 1.2k

WARNINGS -> tbf i don't think there are any, maybe a bit of jealousy

masterlist | main masterlist

you were supposed to be there to support your best friend. keyword: supposed to.

george clarke had been buzzing about the sidemen charity match for weeks. he trained like it was the world cup, talked your ear off about tactics (which mostly involved chaos), and even tried to bribe you into designing a ridiculous banner for him. you declined, kindly reminding him you weren’t his personal hype squad. well—not officially.

but the morning of the match, you decided to do something cheeky. jj’s jersey. no. 10. bright, bold, and a tiny bit evil considering you knew exactly who it would get under the skin of.

you definitely wore it on purpose.

and when George saw you before kickoff, his reaction was immediate: a stare, a head tilt, and then the slowest blink of betrayal you’d ever seen. “you’re joking,” he said flatly.

“what?” you asked innocently, tugging at the collar of the shirt. “can’t a girl support one of the greatest players on the pitch?”

george’s jaw ticked. “i’m literally better.” you grinned. "so that means you don’t need the extra support.”

he glared. “unreal.”

before you could respond, one of the coaches called him over and he jogged off, still shaking his head and shooting you dirty looks over his shoulder. you tried not to laugh.

but during the match? oh, you pushed it.

every time jj got the ball, you cheered louder than necessary. when he made a pass, you gasped dramatically. and when he scored, you actually stood up and clapped.

george? he noticed. every. single. time.

you caught him throwing you glares mid-game, muttering to teammates, and once—once!—he even kicked the ball a little too hard into the sidelines near where you were standing. coincidence? doubtful.

then came the chaos. midway through the second half, play paused. someone was down at the far end of the pitch, and the medics ran in. the crowd buzzed, people grabbed snacks, and players stretched.

and then george stormed over.

like, actually stormed—jogging straight toward you with fire in his eyes and sweat clinging to his neck. you barely had time to process what was happening before he was standing right in front of you at the barrier, chest heaving.

“take. it. off.”

you blinked, “excuse me?”

he pointed to your jj top like it had personally offended him, “i’m not playing another second with you wearing that.” you grinned, tilting your head. “you jealous, clarke?”

he didn’t answer. just yanked his own shirt off in one ridiculously smooth motion and tossed it over the barrier at you. “put it on,” he said, completely serious.

you stared. “are you actually doing this right now?”

“dead serious. you’re my best friend. you don’t wear his kit. you wear mine.”

the crowd around you went mental—cheering, laughing, someone even yelled, “ooohh he's in love!”

you hesitated for only a second before peeling jj’s shirt off over your head (to the sound of more screams), and pulling George’s on. his kit was still warm, smelled like him, and was a bit too big. it hung perfectly.

george’s expression softened. just slightly. “that’s better,” he muttered.

you raised an eyebrow. “you good now?” he leaned in a little, “just needed to remind you who you came here for.”

then he jogged back onto the pitch like he hadn’t just had a whole main-character moment in front of thousands of people.

you stood there in disbelief, george’s name on your back, his scent in your nose, and your heart hammering against your ribs like maybe - just maybe - he hadn’t been joking at all.

the game ended in a blur of sweaty hugs, pitch invasions, and screaming fans. george found you in the chaos, his hair plastered to his forehead, cheeks flushed. you were still in his shirt.

“you alright?” he asked, catching your arm and steering you toward the tunnel, away from the crowd.

“i’m fine. are you?” you teased. “you caused an entire scene just because i wore a jj top.” he made a face. “you know i don’t care about jj.”

you narrowed your eyes, “sure didn’t look that way.” he looked at you for a second—really looked at you. then: “i care about you.”

Oh.

Oh.

you swallowed. “george—”

“i know we’ve always been…” he scratched the back of his neck, suddenly bashful, “you know. just mates. but when i saw you wearing someone else’s name on your back, i just- ”

“you got territorial.”

he gave a sheepish grin. “a bit, yeah.”

you stared at him, heart thumping. this wasn’t new. you’d danced around each other for years. late-night calls. inside jokes. glances that lingered a second too long. maybe you’d just never said it out loud.

you reached for the collar of his shirt and tugged it lightly.

“well,” you said softly, “guess i’m yours now.”

his eyes searched yours for any sign of hesitation. when he didn’t find one, he grinned—wide, boyish, and victorious.

“bet.”

INSTAGRAM

liked by georgeclarke, chrismd and others

@/yourusername it’s about damn time 🤍

userone: oh my godd this is so cute

georgeclarke: looked amazing with my name on your back 😉

usertwo: did anyone see them at the match??? it was so funny

chrismd: i see football isn’t the only game he had 👏

first time including anything smau in a story eek.

feel free to request anything!

[jinjooha69]

STEPDAD TOJI X READER !

Pairing - Toji fushiguro x reader (stepdad!AU)

A Man in My House

--------------------------------------------------------------

content warning : Age gap, Stepdad!AU ,Power imbalance, Sexual tension and manipulation, Explicit NSFW content - Dry humping, Oral (f receiving & m receiving), Overstimulation, Teasing and edging, Semi-public scenes, Virgin!reader, Possessive and dominant behavior, Emotional distress / angst, Toxic relationship dynamics, Infidelity, Dubious morality, Family drama

prev chapter | next chapter --------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter 9

You stood at the counter pouring juice, still a little sore in the best way, wearing one of his shirts and nothing underneath. The day had been quiet—Toji left early to run some errand, and the house had felt calm for the first time in days.

But when the front door slammed, you knew that peace was short-lived.

“Toji?” you called out.

His voice was sharp. “Where were you today?”

You blinked. “What?”

He strode into the kitchen, eyes dark and stormy. “At school. You weren’t answering your phone.”

“I left it in my bag,” you said, setting the glass down. “Why are you mad?”

“Because you weren’t where you said you’d be. And then I hear from Megumi—of all people—that you were seen walking home with one of your classmates.”

Your stomach dropped.

“Wait—Megumi?”

“He came home early. Guess what he saw?” Toji’s jaw clenched. “You and some punk laughing together outside the school gates. He didn’t know what to make of it, but I did.”

You crossed your arms, feeling heat rise in your face—not from guilt, but from the accusation.

“He’s my classmate. We were just talking.”

“Too close for just talking.”

Your fingers tightened. “You don’t get to act like this. You’re not my boyfriend.”

He stalked forward, crowding into your space like he always did when angry. “No. I’m worse. I’m the man who’s had you writhing under him for the last week. That makes me more than a boyfriend.”

You tried to look away, but he caught your chin between his fingers, forcing your gaze up to his.

“You want to play innocent now?” he said, voice like a growl. “After everything you let me do to you?”

Tears threatened to sting your eyes—not because you were scared of him, but because it hurt. You didn’t want to feel like a possession. You wanted to feel wanted.

You stormed up the stairs and slammed your bedroom door shut, heart racing with too many emotions at once—anger, confusion, fear, longing. You hated how fast he could get under your skin. How he knew what buttons to press and what tone of voice made your knees shake even when you were furious at him.

The door creaked open behind you.

“I didn’t say you could come in,” you snapped without turning.

Toji’s voice was low. “Didn’t ask.”

You whirled around. “You don’t get to control me, Toji.”

He raised an eyebrow, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. “You think that’s what this is?”

“You acted like I cheated on you just because I was walking home with someone! You’re not my—” You stopped yourself. “You’re not anything to me. And you know why?”

He stayed quiet.

You pushed forward. “Because you married my mom. Because we can’t make this anything real. Because if anyone ever found out—”

“I’d be done for,” he cut in, voice edged with steel. “You think I don’t know that? You think I’m not already risking everything every time I even look at you like this?”

You faltered.

“I’m not some kid playing house,” he continued, stepping forward. “I know what I want. And I know it’s not safe. But I can’t stop.”

You looked away. “That doesn’t make it right.”

“No,” he agreed, softer now. “It doesn’t.”

He came closer, standing in front of you. You didn’t move. His hand came up, brushing your cheek. You hated how your body responded—how even his gentlest touch could undo you.

“I thought maybe,” he murmured, “just maybe, you’d want to say it out loud. That I was yours.”

“I do,” you whispered. “But I can’t.”

The silence between you cracked open into something heavier.

You looked up at him, eyes stinging. “If Megumi finds out, he’ll hate me. If Mom finds out, she’ll leave you. And me. And everything will fall apart.”

Toji exhaled slowly, thumb tracing the edge of your jaw.

“I didn’t think I’d care,” he said, voice rougher. “Didn’t think I’d ever want more than a few stolen nights. But then you started crawling under my skin.”

You blinked fast. “You don’t love her, do you?”

“No.”

“Do you love me?”

A beat.

His gaze locked with yours. “Getting there.”

You leaned into his chest before you could stop yourself, forehead pressing into him like it was the only place you felt steady.

He wrapped his arms around you and held you tightly—possessive but not cruel. Fierce but not selfish. Just there.

“I hate this,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“I want to be with you.”

“I am,” he murmured against your hair. “Even if no one knows.”

You nodded against him, your fists clutching his shirt. “So we keep it quiet?”

His voice was a soft promise. “Just for now.”

---

Later That Night.

The house was still. Your mom hadn’t come home, and Megumi was away for the week. It was just you and Toji again—but something felt different tonight. The air between you had softened after that fight.

He sat on the edge of your bed, shirt half-unbuttoned, hair still damp from a shower. You stood near the door, hugging yourself, eyes locked on him like you were afraid one of you might vanish if you blinked.

“C’mere,” he said gently, patting the space beside him.

You hesitated.

“I’m not gonna push tonight,” he added, more serious now. “Just want to hold you. If that’s okay.”

You nodded slowly and walked over. When you sat down, he pulled you in without a word—arms wrapping around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder. The warmth of him, the quiet of the room… it made your chest ache.

“It’s weird,” you murmured.

“What is?”

“How I feel safer with you than anyone. Even though I probably shouldn’t.”

Toji let out a quiet hum. “I feel the same.”

His hand slid up and down your arm in slow, steady strokes. “You have any idea what it’s like for me?” he murmured. “Sitting across the dinner table pretending you’re just my stepdaughter? Watching you walk around in those tiny shorts, calling me dad in front of your mom…”

You buried your face in his chest, embarrassed and flustered all at once.

“I can’t stop wanting you,” he said. “But this—” he pressed a kiss to your temple, “—this is what I want just as much. You, right here. Letting me hold you.”

You shifted and laid back, pulling him down with you. He didn’t resist. You fit under him perfectly, legs tangled, arms around his neck. He didn’t kiss you hard tonight. Just soft touches, lingering lips against your throat, your collarbone, your cheek. Almost like he was memorizing the shape of you.

At some point, his shirt was gone and yours was riding up, but nothing more happened. Not tonight.

Instead, you found yourself tracing his scars with your fingertips, whispering questions in the dark about each one. And he answered honestly, voice low and rough—sometimes joking, sometimes quiet with pain he didn’t say out loud.

“I used to think no one would want all this,” he said, eyes closed. “The mess. The past. The broken stuff.”

You kissed the scar just under his ribs.

“I do,” you whispered.

You fell asleep curled against his chest, heart full of all the things you couldn’t say in the daylight.

next chapter

.

taglist - @crybabysiri

[mothandpidgeon]

Well Worn (Joel Miller x gn!reader)

Moth's Masterlist // follow @mothandpidgeon-updates and turn on notifications to stay updated with my fics!

Rating: M

Summary: You grapple with Joel’s death amongst his things. 

wc: 1k

Contents: grief, loss, Joel is dead, reader is (was) in an established relationship with Joel, Joel is sir not appearing in this film, sad Ellie, reader is not described but fits in Joel’s clothes 

notes: How are we all doing, folks? Bad? Me too. I used this tiny fic to just be as melodramatic as I needed because I’ve spent the past 24 hours totally wrecked. I began writing this before episode 2 but I saw in the teaser for episode 3 we’re getting Ellie in Joel’s closet so I guess I’m just working with cliches here. 

Joel screenshot in the moodboard by @iamasaddie Thanks @moonlitbirdie for reading this before I yeeted it out sorry I made you cry. 

--

The clock in tbe hall ticks so loudly, you can feel it echo off the inside of your skull. If it weren’t for the fact that Joel restored the little wooden figurines around its face, you’d rip it down right now and smash the dianty birds and berries to smithereens. Each movement of the second hand is another reminder, another moment gone by without him. 

You sit on the floor of the bedroom the two of you shared. The dresser drawers hang open like empty gaping mouths, their contents strewn about over  the quilt. All clothes waiting to be sorted. His clothes. 

You make two piles. One for things that need mending— shirts missing buttons, jeans with worn knees. The other for things that are ready to wear. It’s all done with as much detachment as you can muster, fighting the memories that bubble up as you fold each piece.

You’re not sure what inspired you to tackle this project today, still so deep in your grief. It’s something to do that isn’t just listening to the minutes move by. Maria would tell you to take as long as you need but everyone in Jackson’s grieving now and they’re busy mending the gate and replacing windows. Soon there will be newcomers with only the shirts on their backs and they’ll need something to wear. 

You used to tell Joel that very thing. 

“If you’re not going to wear a hat then give it to somebody else,” you’d say. 

“Fine. Get rid of it,” he told you, calling your bluff. 

“Just wear the damn thing!”

You empty pockets of all the things Joel left forgotten. Mostly screws and stubby pencils ground down almost to the eraser. A folded up scrap of paper with some diagram from one of the building projects, dimensions scribbled in his messy hand. It’s all rather ordinary and somehow that makes it worse. 

Tears come as the piles grow but you push on. You’re used to that by now. For the past few days you’ve done all sorts of things with hot, wet cheeks, it’s not even worth wiping them away. 

You remind yourself for the thousandth time that you ought to be grateful. The few years you’ve had with Joel were a miracle after all. What were the chances you’d both survive? Both find Jackson, find each other? You had something most people never get. And Joel wasn’t the only one that died that day. There are fresh graves for men much younger than him. Still, it doesn’t feel fair to lump your loss in with the rest. They died fighting. Joel was murdered. 

You throw shirts down onto the rug, the sleeves of Joel’s chambray button down fluttering into the heap as your vision blurs with yet another wave of anguish. Dutifully you strip each hanger and stack them away, working snaps and buttons open and then closed again. 

It’s not long before you find it– his favorite flannel shirt– and the ache in your chest ebbs again, heart straining against your ribs. The sensation is so familiar now, sometimes catching you unexpectedly, but always at a moment when you miss him most. 

You slide your arms carefully into one sleeve then the other. It hangs loose on your frame, warm as if it had just come off of his shoulders. The fabric is soft, a reminder of what life felt like— pressing your face against his broad back as you wrapped your arms around his middle. You try it now, lifting its front to your wet face one last time.

It smells like him. Musk and wood shavings, and something distinctly Joel that you can’t put your finger on. Behind your eyelids, you do your best to picture Joel as you breathe him in. The way he was, not wrapped up in a snow-soaked sheet. 

There are footsteps on the stairs and you recognize their rhythm immediately as Ellie’s. You wipe the snot from your nose on the shirt before she appears in the doorway. She takes in the scene around you but her eyes land on her shoes, red rimmed but refusing to well up again.

“What’re you doing?” she asks. Her voice has been much lower, not quite a whisper more a growl.

You want to scream at her, throw one of Joel’s work boots in her direction and shriek. Blame her, punish her for taking him away from you. Maybe not in the end but for all of those moments when his gaze clouded over as he quietly frowned out the back window towards the garage. 

But there’s another part of you that wants to hold her, to cradle Ellie in your arms and tell her that none of this is her fault, that you know your pain is nothing compared to hers. 

You’re too exhausted for either so you just sit there and stare up at her.

“I don’t know,” you say. 

It’s as honest an answer as any. You don’t have the heart to tell her that one day soon, someone else in the dining hall will be wearing Joel’s navy sweater with the patch on the elbow. You’re not even sure you have it in you to part with any of this. Not when you can still remember the way his body felt through  all of this fabric.

“I came to tell you I’m leaving,” Ellie says after a beat. “I’m going after them.”

You sigh. Tired, defeated. Oddly proud.

There’s no talking her out of it. It’s not like she’s ever been persuaded of anything in her life. But there’s a dull voice somewhere deep in the back of your brain that demands you say all of those grown up, level headed things. All those words Joel would want you to say. That it’s dangerous. That it won’t bring him back. That you don’t want to lose her too. 

You look down at the pile of clothes Joel used to fill. Socks you picked up off the floor with a sigh, t-shirts once damp with his sweat, pants you’d guide down his hips to the floor. All limp as his dead body. 

You scoop up one of Joel’s bulky sweaters and toss it to Ellie. She’s going to need it where she’s going.

“Bundle up.”

--

Thanks for reading and sorry.

Reblogs, comments, dms, and asks always welcome.

[fabbyf1]

Well, besties...

I had originally planned on Beyoncé dropping this on AO3 without giving you any warning, but... where the hell is the fun in that? 🤠

The haters (me) said this series was dead, but @papayastri said "🔫 i refuse." and you know what? She was right. (She's always right.)

You heard it here first, chat.

Warming 7 is coming very soon.

Snippet under the cut!

CONTEXT: After a bad race in Jeddah, Charles crawled into Max's lap to comfort him.

“It is what it is,” Max said, shrugging again. “We don’t have to talk about it right now.” 

“Okay, chéri,” Charles said, smiling softly at him. He had figured he wouldn’t want to talk about it tonight, which is why he had planned a different activity. Charles slowly leaned down and kissed him, enjoying the way it made Max’s hands tighten around his waist. “Do you want to go to sleep?” 

“Mmm.” Max hummed against his mouth, kissing him again. 

“That wasn’t an answer, sleepy boy,” Charles whispered, smirking at him as he pulled back. 

“I don’t want to move yet,” Max said, sliding his hands back to his thighs. He looked down at them, and a small smile appeared on his face when he realized the sweatpants Charles was wearing belonged to him. “You’re a little thief, aren’t you?” Max teased, his hands large enough to wrap around the width of his thighs. 

Which still turned him on, even after all this time. 

“I believe this shirt is yours, too,” Charles pointed out, fluffing the collar of his white t-shirt. 

Max breathed in deeply, a satisfied smile appearing on his lips. “It looks better on you.”  

Charles leaned forward, nosing at the side of his jaw until his lips pressed against his ear. “I love having you wrapped around me,” he whispered, not-so-subtly grinding down against his lap. Max groaned at the contact, tightening his hold on his thighs and pressing up against him. 

He was playing right into Charles’ hands. 

“Baby,” Max breathed, hands sliding up the back of his shirt again. 

“Will you let me take care of you tonight?” Charles asked, leaning back to meet his eyes. 

“I’d let you do anything to me,” Max easily admitted, and Charles knew it was the truth. “What did you have in mind?” 

“I thought maybe I could sit on your cock for a little bit,” Charles said, smiling softly at him. “We can cuddle, or talk, or... whatever else you wanna do.” 

“Fuck, baby,” Max groaned, wrapping his strong arms around him. “That sounds perfect.” 

“Yeah?” Charles asked, beaming at him. “I was also thinking that...” 

“Go on,” Max urged, grinding against him again. 

“Well, if you were up for it...” Charles trailed off, still finding it hard to say the words out loud, especially when he was hard, and Max was staring at him so intently.

Max was so... mind-numbingly hot that it made Charles a bit stupid sometimes.

It made him forget all the languages in his head.

“I’m listening,” Max egged him on, grinning up at him and making Charles blush under the attention. 

They both knew what he was thinking, but Max wanted to hear him say it.

[vinnyvamppp]

Runway Walk

"Let me see your runway walk, make your heels click, make the runway talk, c'mon."

A/N: The way... I got carried away with this word count. Can ya'll tell I've been holding back when it comes to Dick Grayson? Thanks to a fellow creator here for helping my creative flow with scrumptious fan art. You know who you are.

Warnings: Door-Knocking Time Pressure Smut™, Canon Violence Mentioned, Porn WITH a Plot, Fingering, Clothing Kink (Suit & Costume Removal), Desk Sex, Switchy Energy, Slight Powerplay, Emotional Tension, Dick Grayson Being Hot, Reader Being Sarcastic, Past History, Smut, Etc.

Synopsis: With twenty minutes to curtain call, a locked dressing room door, and a desk sturdy enough to ruin, you're about to discover there's nothing more dangerous than a man in a suit… especially when you designed it to come off.

Dick Grayson x Fem!Stylist!Reader

WC: 2.7k

The auction was hidden beneath the illusion of extravagance. Above ground, it was a high-profile Gotham fashion event, glittering with elite influencers, foreign investors, and too many champagne flutes balanced on too-thin fingers.

But below the stage — behind mirrored walls and beneath silken drapes — was the truth: a rotating selection of stolen tech, rare weapons, smuggled magic, and “exclusive clientele” too powerful to touch. And right in the middle of it all?

You and Dick Grayson.

And the walk that would undo everything. The first time you saw Dick Grayson again — after months of silence — he was ten minutes late, annoyingly calm, and wearing the wrong pants.

"Let me guess," you said, not even glancing up from the rack of hand-stitched blazers. "You stopped to rescue a cat from a burning building. Or flirt with a barista. Or maybe both?"

He laughed. That low, familiar sound that used to rattle your self-control. “You forgot ‘stop a black-market weapons deal in the Diamond District,’” he said, easing into the dressing area with the kind of grace that should’ve been illegal. “But yeah, the cat was cuter.”

You finally turned to look at him. Mistake number one.

His shirt was half-unbuttoned, probably on purpose, and his smile had that particular tilt to it: a mix of charm and apology. And those eyes. Ocean-blue and too damn knowing. They flicked to your hands, your mouth, your outfit — absorbing everything like he always did.

“What?” you snapped, folding your arms. “Forget what I look like when I’m not yelling at you?”

“No,” he said, stepping closer. “That’s actually my favorite version.” You held his stare for two seconds longer than you meant to. Then you turned back to the rack. “You’re here to play runway model, not walk memory lane. Get your ass into the fitted pants before I change my mind.”

He whistled low. “Still mad I ghosted, huh?”

“I’m not mad,” you said sweetly. “I just find it fascinating how a grown man can leap across rooftops, dodge bullets, and still somehow be deathly allergic to returning a text.” He winced — slightly. Not enough to satisfy you, but enough to keep the fire burning.

"Look, I didn’t want to drag you into the mess," he said, softer now. "There were things I couldn’t explain, and I figured it was safer—" You cut him off with a wave. “Don’t care. Don’t want to hear it. You walked away, remember? Just like you always do.”

His smile faltered, then faded entirely.

“…You always watch me leave,” he said, almost under his breath.

You hated that it hit you. Right where he knew it would.

And then he smirked again — pivoting, as always, from vulnerability back to charm. “So what do you think?” he asked, striking a pose in his current pants — the wrong pants, mind you. “Do I pull these off?”

“Not even a little,” you said flatly, snatching the correct pair from the hanger. “Put these on. And try not to break Gotham’s collective brain when you hit that runway.” He took the pants, brushed your fingers on purpose, and leaned just a little closer.

“If I do,” he murmured, “you’ll take the credit, right? Since you’re the one dressing me to kill.”

You pretended not to shiver.

Twenty minutes later,

You stood at the edge of the bustling prep area, clipboard in hand, headset buzzing with last-minute changes. But none of it mattered. Because when Dick Grayson stepped onto that runway — tailored midnight-blue suit hugging every line, eyes cutting through the crowd like headlights — the world paused.

He moved like he owned the moment. Like the spotlight was just another streetlight to dance under.Nothing in your training prepared you for the sight of him. Every step, fluid and lethal and smooth as silk. He wasn’t a model. He was a weapon. And he was wearing your design.

You swallowed hard. Goddamn him..

It a slow burn of motion and magnetism, his body sculpted by shadow and spotlight. The suit — your suit — fits like sin itself. Dark navy with obsidian threading, subtle enough for the naked eye but glimmering under flash. Cut low at the chest, hugging the lines of his torso, a whisper of rebellion against traditional formality.

And he’s looking at you.

Not the crowd. Not the buyers. Not the high rollers holding hidden paddles for illegal bids.

You.

As he walks — no, prowls — down the runway, his gaze never strays. A slow, deliberate tether between you and him. Every step a conversation: Do you see me now? Did you miss this? Are you still pretending you don’t want it?

Your breath catches. Your heart races. The world blurs around the edges. And then — chaos. Just as he reaches the end of the walk, the lights flicker once. A coded signal. You know it immediately. The auction is beginning.

“You didn’t tell me they were selling an energy core designed by WayneTech,” you hiss, dragging him into a side hallway behind a curtain of velvet. His back hits the wall. You’re close — too close — but you don’t back off.

He exhales, lips twitching. “Was gonna tell you after the encore.”

“Dick.”

“Hey,” he says, voice lowering. “It’s not like I planned for them to use a fashion show as a front. But now that I’m here… we improvise.” You glare. He doesn’t flinch. His eyes flick to your lips. “I saw you watching me,” he says softly. You scoff, but your voice wavers. “You were strutting like a damn peacock.”

“And you liked it.”

“…Shut up.”

His smile turns devilish. “You always get like this when you’re turned on and mad at me.” You shove his chest, not hard, but enough to let him know you're not playing. Except your hands don’t leave his suit. And his don’t leave your waist. For a moment, everything stills. Then he leans in, mouth brushing your ear.

“I only have a few minutes before I have to intercept a buyer in the west wing,” he murmurs. “But if you don’t want to wait anymore…”

You inhale sharply. "Don't tease me," you whisper. "Not unless you mean it." His voice drops. The flirty edge disappears — and what replaces it? Longing. Raw, unfiltered heat. “I’ve always meant it,” he says. “You just never let me prove it.”

His hands slide around your waist, slow, reverent, until your back hits the wall too. There’s no air between you now. Only breath. Only heat. Only months of missed calls and words unspoken. You want to kiss him. You want to take his damn suit off piece by piece — you designed it, after all.

He leans in again, mouth brushing yours, and stops.

“Say the word,” he murmurs. “And I’ll forget the mission for one night. Just one.”

Your hands fist in his lapels. You hate him. You need him.

And then—

BZZZZZT.

His earpiece crackles. Oracle’s voice, cutting in sharp. “Nightwing, buyer’s on the move. You have sixty seconds.” His forehead drops to yours. Frustrated. Desperate. “Damn it,” he breathes.

You close your eyes. Try to calm the fire in your blood. “…Go,” you whisper. “But you better come back.” His fingers skim your cheek. “Always,” he promises. And just like always — he walks away. But this time? You follow him with your eyes. And when he turns back, just before vanishing into the dark… He’s still watching you. There are exactly twenty minutes until you're supposed to walk onstage and take your bow as the head designer. Which makes this — him — the worst idea. But when Dick Grayson slams the dressing room door behind him and shoves his earpiece deep into his jacket pocket, you know the decision's already been made.

He’s out of breath. Cheeks flushed. Hair tousled. “That’s it,” he pants. “I’m done pretending I can focus on anything else tonight.”

“You intercepted the buyer?” you ask, stepping back. Just slightly. Heart thudding.

“Yeah,” he nods. “Swapped the intel. Knocked out two guards. Didn’t get shot. High score.”

“And your reward is barging into my dressing room?”

His smirk goes crooked. “No. My reward is you looking at me like you’re two seconds from tearing this suit off with your teeth.” You blink. Then scoff. “You’re delusional.” He closes the space between you in three long strides. “Then make me hallucinate harder.”

Its fast. Hands in hair. Mouths crashing together. The heat between you like fabric and friction and fire. His suit jacket — your suit jacket — rustles under your fingers, the tailored lines warping as you grab him and pull. “You're wrinkling my masterpiece,” you mutter against his mouth. “Good,” he growls. “Maybe you'll have to make me another one.”

His hands are everywhere. Gliding under your shirt, gripping your waist, then up to your throat, not choking, just holding — possessive, reverent, lost. When he backs you into the mirror, you gasp, and he drinks in the sound like oxygen. But the moment he reaches behind his neck and tugs hard at something hidden under the collar, you pull back.

And immediately burst into laughter. Because under the elegant suit? The Nightwing suit… Still on. “Tactical layering?” you snort, breathless. “Seriously?” He groans. “I didn’t have time to take it off.”

“You never have time, Dick. Not to call, not to stay, and apparently not to remove your ridiculous birdsuit.”

“Hey,” he says, mock-offended, breath still shallow. “This is iconic.”

“It’s clingy.”

“So are you.”

“Oh shut up.”

You hook your fingers under the utility belt and drag it down, peeling the skintight suit from underneath the runway outfit — an awkward, tangled mess of kevlar, spandex, and silk lining. “God, there are too many zippers,” you mutter, shoving one sleeve down.

“Bet you say that to all the vigilantes.”

“Only the hot ones.”

He huffs a laugh and then you're both quiet, staring at each other, the tension thick with want and everything unspoken. His voice drops. “You don’t have to pretend this is just a quickie, y'know.”

“Then stop acting like it has to be.”

He kisses you again — slower, this time. Deeper. His fingers trail up your sides, under your shirt, sliding fabric away from skin. “I want all of you,” he whispers against your jaw. “Not just this. Not just tonight.”

“Then prove it,” you breathe, undoing his suit pants. “Right now. Before they call my name.” He pauses — just a flicker — and then grins. “Oh. So this is what it's like to date a designer.”

“I’m not dating you.”

“You’re definitely about to fuck me.”

“Semantics.”

The next five minutes are a blur of kisses too hot to be gentle, fingers fumbling with fabric, and you swearing every time a perfectly placed seam rips. His mouth is everywhere — throat, collarbone, behind your ear, whispering things that should not be this tender when he's pressed between your thighs like a man possessed.

You pull his shirt off — the silk one you picked — and for a second, it hits you: “I knew this suit was dangerous,” you pant, rolling your hips against him.

“You designed a weapon,” he groans, breath catching. “I’m just… following instructions.”

The desk creaks. A light flickers. Your hair is a mess. His gloves are somewhere on the floor. And through it all, the two of you move together like this has been coming for years. Because it has. This isn’t just release. It’s reclaiming. It's: You left. It's: I still waited. It's: This isn’t over when the zipper comes up. The desk beneath you is shaking.

"How fast can you come?" he mutters, breath hot against your collarbone, as he hikes your leg up onto his hip. You arch toward him. “You offering to set a record?” He grins — sharp, teasing — but there’s heat in his eyes. Real heat. Not just lust, but aching. And you realize — suddenly, startlingly — that this isn’t just about sex for him.

It’s about this.

His hands slide over your thighs, palms rough from training but gentle now. Your panties are pushed aside, and he exhales sharply as his fingers stroke over your puffy, slick folds — slow, reverent, almost shocked. “Fuck,” he mutters. “You’re soaked.”

"You're late," you hiss. He kisses you — hard. Teeth click. Tongues tangle. He slides two fingers inside you without warning, and your breath stutters against his mouth. You can feel the desperation in his touch, the urgency in his movements. His fingers slide inside you, curling to hit that spot deep within that makes you see stars. You moan, your hips bucking against his hand. His hand almost going numb as it basked in the silken warmth of your cunt. Sweet nectar dripping from your sex and drizzling into his palm.

"You gonna let me fuck you on this desk?" he says, voice thick. "Or should I put you on your knees first?" You bite his lower lip. “I’ll decide,” you whisper, pulling him in by the lapels.

He’s thick and hot in your hand when you reach for him — his cock heavy, flushed, already leaking at the tip. He groans low when you stroke him, your thumb circling his head, dragging down the length. His hips twitch against your touch.He chuckles, almost instinctively as his nerves short circuit, his eyes twitching. “Bossy,” he murmurs. “Always had a thing for your hands.”

“You're not exactly subtle yourself,” you smirk, squeezing a little harder. He sucks in a breath. His hand tightens around your thigh. His thumb circles your clit, his fingers pumping in and out of you in a rhythm that’s driving you wild. You can feel the orgasm building, the pressure coiling tight in your belly. Shivers scale your spine, head slamming back against the mirror as hushed, yet pornographic moans crawl from your lips. He’s almost infatuated, hung on every sound.

"You gonna sit up here and look pretty, then?" he rasps, stepping between your legs, lining himself up against your entrance. The head of his cock teases at your slick, not yet pushing in — just pressing, waiting. You glance at the clock. Seven minutes ‘til curtain. “Better fuck me before they call my name,” you breathe.

His eyes blaze.

“You don’t tell me twice.”

He thrusts into you with one slow, claiming push — thick and deep, stretching you full. You both groan at once. Your hands scramble for purchase — the edge of the desk, the lapels of his suit jacket — and he buries himself to the hilt. Makeup products clutter loudly to the floor, yet fall silent between the labored gasps you share. The fullness knocks the air from your lungs.

“Oh my god—” you gasp. He stills, cock pulsing inside you. “Too much?” he murmurs, voice hoarse, lips brushing your cheek. “No,” you breathe, digging your nails into his back. “Move.” He obeys. The pace starts rough — frantic, almost, the kind of thrusts born from months of unresolved tension. The desk rattles beneath you, your back arching with each push. His hands grip your hips, then your waist, then one rises to cradle the back of your head as he leans in to kiss you through it.

“You feel so fucking good,” he growls against your mouth. You moan, dragging your nails down his spine. “Bet you say that to all your stylists.”

“Only the ones who fuck me like they own me.” You clench around him — hard — and he gasps. “Shit. Don’t do that or I’ll—”

“Already close?” you tease, sweat beading at your temples. “Grayson, I expected better.”

He pulls out almost completely, then slams back in, hard enough to jolt a moan from your throat. “Keep talking,” he pants, “and I’ll bend you over the chair next.” His thrusts slow. Deepen. Suddenly, it’s not just fast and filthy. It’s hungry. His lips find your throat. Your pulse. Your chest. One hand cups your breast, mouth latching to a nipple as he rolls his hips against you, every movement precise, built to ruin. You whimper, clinging to one another. “Say it,” he whispers. “Tell me you still want me.”

“Fuck, Dick—”

“Say it.”

You kiss him instead — all teeth and tongue and breathless confession. “I wanted this every night you left.”

His forehead drops to yours. “Never again.” You’re so close. He knows it — can feel it, the way you tighten, the way your body arches into him like instinct. The way your velvety ridges contract around his cock. The way your pussy kisses every vein, caressing him like he never left. His jaw tightened, truly trying his best to remain quiet. He wanted to be vocal, to tease, to show you just how good you made him feel. His efforts were cut short, a hushed and sing-songy groan sighing from his chest.

And then, just as your orgasm builds, burns — he reaches between you, rubbing your clit in tight, expert circles. “Come for me,” he breathes. “I want to feel you lose it. Right here. Right now.” His tone almost pleading, but still commanding enough to lock your legs.

You snap. Heat floods through you, sharp and unstoppable. Your cry muffled by his shoulder as you cling to him, pulsing around his cock. He follows with a broken sound — thrusts stuttering, hips jerking as he spills into you, thick and deep. One last kiss, messy and gasping, seals it.

Now, its just silence. Just breathe. Sweat. Eyes boring deeply into one another. You slide your fingers through his hair, still trying to come down. “…You ruined my underwear,” you whisper. He smiles against your skin. “You ruined me.”

A knock. “Designer to stage in three minutes!”

You groan. He groans. Dick's head drops against your shoulder, and you bite back a laugh. “I have to go,” you whisper. He pulls back just far enough to meet your eyes. “Can I see you after?”

“Not this time.” He presses one more kiss — softer than all the rest — to the corner of your mouth. “Break a leg,” he murmurs.

You adjust your shirt. He zips up. You toss him his wrinkled suit jacket. He catches it midair, grinning. And then he helps you fix your clothes — surprisingly gentle — pressing soft kisses to your jaw as he zips you up and tucks himself back into the damn suit.

You both look wrecked. Perfect. And as he slips out the back door, one last look over his shoulder, he says: “You're still the best thing I’ve ever worn.” You smile, smitten, before calling out to him. "I know you'll be watching, and you better stay close. Because next time? I'm on top."

A/N: Feel free to leave comments and suggestions! This is my first DC related post.... woooo Dick Grayson the man you are.

MasterList ོ༘₊⁺☀︎₊⁺⋆.˚

[lewismcqueen]

could've been. 1/2

lh44 x black!reader

summary: you and Lewis meet again for the first time since 2008, and his presence leaves you reminiscing on what could have been. cw: this will be smutty all the way through. story involves infidelity, so feel free to pass on this one if that distresses you. a/n: this was gonna be a one-shot but I could feel deep in my spirit that it was gonna be longgg asf so...two parter! (not a series lol). I know folks don't love Lewis' pre-braids era but just go with it this one time for the plot 😁 I tried to cosplay as a British writer for a second it might be inaccurate pls don't jump me 🙏🏾

“Don’t look so down, honey. Walk around, grab a couple drinks!” 

Your husband, Joshua Lee, flashed you that ‘party host’ smile that was more for everyone else than for you. He raised his flute of champagne in the air jovially before turning away. He had an audience to entertain.

He thinks he’s in the fucking Great Gatsby, you thought to yourself with a sigh. 

You touched a manicured hand to the white cashmere sweater tied around your shoulders overtop a navy blue blouse. It was starting to create unnecessary bulk, and you considered removing it and just tying it around your waist the way you used to. Too hot out to just put it on. 

Freshly-cut grass occasionally brushed the sides of your feet as you wandered around what was the third garden party that your husband had decided to throw on a whim within the past couple of months. It’s considerably more crowded today, which meant that he’d likely invited a few of his buddies from Formula One, and you now had twice as many folks to smile and wave at if you couldn’t weave around them. Some had even begun to recognize you; he liked to take you to races and paddock walks to ‘show you off’. Brag about how he’d married you before any of the actual racers could as soon as you graduated.

You were just ending a conversation with one of the drivers’ wives about where you got your sandals from when a man’s voice that was not your husband’s called out your name. It took a second to place it, but the pang of familiarity was unmistakable. Eyes widening, you turned around. 

“Lewis?”

-

“What?” Lewis’ brows furrowed. 

Now, this Lewis hasn’t grown his hair out yet, keeping it closely cropped so that none of the other racers or the media had anything to comment on. He hasn’t pierced his ears just yet either. He’s wearing a black polo shirt—you swear he has a million of those—over loose blue jeans on which he wipes sweaty palms. Lewis is trying to look irritated and pragmatic, but it doesn’t quite reach his dark brown eyes. They always gave him away, revealing that he cared more than he would like to admit. 

This is the Lewis you knew.

“What do you mean ‘what’?” you snapped. You began counting off on your fingers, “You walk right past me after races, you miss my birthday, you’ve not returned any of my calls, or my mum’s calls! Do you know how crazy it is to let my mum go to voicemail?”

Lewis’ expression softened, and he suddenly looked very tired. “Look, I’m sorry, alright? I’ve got back-to-back training sessions with my dad, then it’s straight back home for me. I’m hanging out with you now, though, right?”

“Sure, I guess.” 

“You don’t accept my apology?”

You pretended to check your nails. The glittery blue polish had finally begun to chip. 

“I don’t know.”

Soft, quiet laughter came from the other side of your bed. “What the hell is your problem?”

He called your name one, two, then three times, but you continued sulking with your head turned in the other direction. Finally, you felt his finger beneath your chin, turning your face towards his. You stuck out your bottom lip with a pout.

Lewis tilted his head with a grin. He liked to do that whenever he was trying to make you forget whatever he’d just done to annoy you at that moment, sometimes batting his long lashes and narrowing his eyes for full effect. It was almost coquettish. And it always worked. 

“Are you mad at me?”

“Maybe.”

“Well don’t be, ‘cuz I got you something. That's the main reason I came here.”

Lewis bent down and reached into his backpack, which he had laid beside your bed when he came in. From it he produced a small white satin pouch with drawstrings. Gently, he placed it into your palm and closed your hand.

“Open it.”

You pried open the soft material and gasped softly as you pulled out a gold necklace. The warm light of your bedside lamp reflected off of a nameplate hanging from the chain. Your name, in stylish, curling letters. It was going to be extra hard to stay mad now.

You held the nameplate between your fingers. “How…how did you know?”

He snorted. “Overheard you begging your poor mum to buy you one. Put it on, then.”

You undid the clasp and wrapped the chain delicately around your neck, finding the hole it was supposed to go through with your fingers with practiced ease. Letting it fall at your collarbone, you brushed back iron-pressed hair and turned to Lewis. “How do I look?”

“Beautiful,” he answered with an earnestness that caught you off-guard. “I’m really gonna miss you.”

You were half-expecting him to be a smart Alec and say something like, “The same, but with a necklace” or something. But he was staring at you the way he stared at the sunset when you two would watch it together while sitting on the hood of his dad’s car. 

Staring, and getting much, much closer. 

His lips pressed against yours before you could even react. When he pulled away, he suddenly looked mortified. Heart drumming in your ears, you noticed the residue of some of your lip gloss creating a sheen on his lips. It was a lucky thing you were wearing your favorite tank top today, because the heat simmering beneath your skin would’ve made you break into sweats.

Lewis held his hands out defensively like you were going to hit him.  “I’m so sorry—”

“Shut up.”

Impulsively, you grabbed the collar of his shirt and pulled him into another kiss. You had watched him make out with other girls enough times in sixth form to get the general idea of how it ought to be done. Now, fresh out of your first year of university, you were basically an expert. Sort of.

“Wow,” Lewis exhaled with his lips still nearly brushing yours. He smirked. “You’re a terrible kisser.”

You rolled your eyes. “Then show me how, idiot. Since you’re apparently so good at snogging.”

“Let go of my shirt, and I will.”

Despite your casual remarks, you were very sure that your steadily rising heart rate and heavy breathing was the loudest thing in the room. Lewis gently held your chin again.

“Alright, so you’ve gotta tilt your head.”

“Like this?”

“No,” he laughed. “Other way.”

You followed his lead before leaning in with your lips slightly parted this time. He guided your hand up to his face, where you rested it on his cheek as you went in for a much surer kiss. 

Save for the occasional awkward clicking of teeth, you eventually fell into a rhythm. Lewis’ hand came to rest on your waist. He seemed to approach making out like he did racing; the moment he felt you relax, he pushed further, deepening the kiss with more hunger than before. Your breathing had just begun to even out again when he made the bold move of planting a soft, experimental kiss on your neck, making you tense up. He pulled away, looking hesitant.

“Do you want me to stop? I’ll stop if you ask me to.”

You bit your lip, considering. A week from now, he’d be back to racing, unlikely to ever bring this up again, knowing him. You’d be going back to school to study engineering in a couple of months. The bedroom door was locked. Might as well make the most of it.

“No,” you finally answered, voice so low you were nearly whispering. “Keep going.”

Slowly, Lewis lowered his head to where it was before. You placed a hand on the back of his neck as he made contact with hot skin, more sucking now than kissing. As your mouth fell open with the added pressure, you thought about how this felt way better than how it looked in those R-rated movies you sometimes snuck off to watch together. 

Just as the tender spot above your necklace began to feel sore, he broke contact. His eyelids were low as he looked at you, lips just slightly pinker than they were before. He was staring downwards, where the nameplate rested just above the swell of your breasts. Lewis looked up.

“It’s, uh, better lying down. Can you…?”

He didn’t have to finish the question for you to get the message. Lewis got up as you swung your legs and scooted forward so that you were lying flat on your back. He climbed onto the cramped twin-sized bed with you, carefully settling right between your legs. Suddenly, you were very aware of how high up your thighs your shorts cut off, how your hair was going to be a flattened mess after you got up, and how you might look from above while gazing up at him through thick red prescription glasses. This rapid line of thought was soon cut off when his lips crashed into yours again.

You pointed at your spectacles as he hovered over you. “Should I take these off?”

He shook his head, “I like when you keep them on.”

Huh, you think. Must have a thing for glasses.

“You know, if they get crooked, it’s not gonna look very—”

“I like when they’re crooked.”

A mischievous smile spread across his face; The statement seemed to shut you up.

Lewis had been right. It was easier lying down. Your hands roamed up and down his back as you gave him full access to your neck. You felt him tug at the hem of your shirt.

“Can I?” he asks against your skin.

“M-hm.”

You actually weren’t sure what you expected him to do until you felt his hand slide underneath your tank top and begin kneading your breast through your sports bra. This was now completely uncharted territory, but heat was building between your thighs and you wanted him to explore all of you until he knew it like the back of his hand. 

An unexpected, quiet moan escaped you when his thumb swiped over your nipple. You’d never moaned before, not even by yourself when your dorm was empty.

This seemed to signal something to Lewis, who momentarily sat up on his knees to bring his shirt up over his head, revealing an expanse of bronze skin with lean muscle that wasn’t there before. He discarded it onto the fluffy pink rug you had on the floor.

You lie there gaping for a moment, before realizing that you were supposed to do the same or it would be weird. You were about to wriggle out of your top when he stopped you.

“I can do it, it’s fine.”

Raising your arms, you let him briefly remove your glasses and hoist the turquoise fabric over your head. He looked so focused as he carefully placed the glasses back on your face that he could’ve been doing surgery. Lewis had never looked this methodical in your presence before. 

Now that you were more or less topless, there was no bit of skin that went untouched by his lips or tongue. He was kissing your navel when you finally stated the obvious.

“I didn’t realize you were into me like that.”

Lewis stopped and looked up at you quizzically. Then he smiled. “Me neither.”

-

This new, less familiar Lewis wore a white tank top that showed off extensively-tattooed arms, earrings that glittered in the sunlight, and hair that was braided into neat square sections with faded edges because he had won too many championships to be worried about what the media would say about it. He had a hand shoved into the pocket of some fashionably-baggy cargo pants while the other hand carefully held a champagne glass.

That sharp, gap-toothed smile was the same, though. And the way he said your name again, softer this time.

“Hey,” he regarded you warmly. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

Still reeling from his sudden appearance, you stuttered. 

“Y-yes, it…certainly has been. A while, I mean.”

“I know what you mean. How have you been?”

You thought you’d gotten used to seeing him, given his face was everywhere now. But the intensity of those eyes couldn’t be captured on camera. Suddenly you were back in first year again, moaning beneath him in your old bedroom. 

“I’ve been…good,” you nodded.

“Oh, don’t give me that. It’s been so long that you’ve gone and got married!” His hand left his pocket to gesture animatedly. “Tell me something. I mean, how’s married life? What do you do these days?” 

You had forgotten that Lewis could chat up a tree if he wanted to. “It’s been alright,” you say unconvincingly with a practiced smile. “Joshua’s been great, he takes me to races once in a while. I even get to tour the garage sometimes, though I’m not as involved as I’d planned to be. It’s like I never left.”

“You were studying engineering, right? I’d love to see you working around the paddock, if you’re ever interested. I’ll vouch for you.”

You didn’t have the heart to tell him that you’d given that up—all of it—because you thought you were in love. Now your degree was nothing more than a notch in your belt. A mere decoration collecting dust on your nightstand. 

“I’ll be sure to call you if I ever think of joining the team. We’re always rooting for Mercedes,” Gesturing towards Joshua’s figure in the distance, you started to move past Lewis. “I will see you—”

“Wait,” 

You felt Lewis’ hand lightly touch your elbow. You stopped, only turning halfway.

He looked like he was still figuring out what to say afterwards, as if he had stopped you on impulse. His free hand awkwardly scratched the back of his neck. “I, um, don’t have your number.”

You nodded slowly. 

“Right, um,” you reached into the back pocket of your white capris and pulled out your phone. 

Once you added a new contact labeled with his name, he typed in his number.

“Well, there you go.” You gave him a strained, polite smile. 

Lewis looked like he wanted to say something, but you turned to leave before he could. You told yourself it was better this way. I’m married, you repeated like a mantra in your head.

I’m married, I’m married, I’m married.