#and the pocket watch printed on his jacket

[plethorawrites]

How the batboys would react to you labeling them as your property.

---___---___---___---___---___---___---___---___---_

Bruce: You'd been helping Alfred label things in the attic all day and at the end, you print one extra, pressing a sticker that had "Property of—" your name written on it. You stuck it on the breast pocket of his suit before an event you weren't able to go to because of other obligations, just to make sure no one else would try to flirt with him and he didn't even notice until halfway through the evening. It was the most peace and quiet he'd gotten in a while (Aside from a picture in the press with a headline that read "BRUCE WAYNE SO SMITTEN HE'S BECOMING PROPERTY".) When he got home, he gave you a small disapproving glare and pulled it off, watching you frown dramatically. A few days later he hands you a small box with the label inside of it, properly laminated and made into a little pin for him to wear to any event you couldn't be there for.

---

Dick: You bought a label maker and were OBSESSED with it, to say the least. What started as a project to organize some cabinets and spices turned into the entire apartment becoming labeled with item names or the stuff that specifically belonged to him or you. You labeled your milk, because you knew he'd finish your very specific kind without caring. You labeled your hairbrush, in hopes he'd stop getting his hair in it whenever he used yours because he couldn't find his. And you labeled him. He frowned, feeling you place something on his back and shrugged his jacket off, checking to see what it was. Your name had been printed on a label, attached to it his jacket. He smirked in amusement, watching you shrug lightly as if you had no idea why he was grinning. Then, he pulled it back on, taking the label maker from you and officially revoking your privileges as he offered to take you lunch, not bothering to pull the label off.

---

Jason: You were bored, watching from the couch as he read quietly one evening in his favorite chair. You spent all day organizing stuff around the apartment on his day off with him occasionally looking up to glance at you before turning a page. When you were finally done, he was still reading, almost at the end of the book in his hands. You fiddled with the label maker, pressing some buttons and printing out your name next to the words 'loves Jason' and then stuck it to his sleeve. He didn't even glance at it. So you printed another. And another. Until his sleeve was mostly full, so you stuck the next one on his cheek. That finally broke him and his lips tugged into a reluctant smile, having known the entire time what label you'd been attaching to him. He set the finished book down and pulled the label maker out of your hand, printing one that said he loves you in return, and sticking it on your shoulder before getting up and tackling you on the couch, his arms wrapping around your waist, tickling you as he buried his face in your neck while you laughed.

[phantomamour]

𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐧

senator!coriolanus snow x personal assistant fem!reader

cw// nothing! just some cute shorter fluff for a trope i adore

Coriolanus should start taking the amount of sticky notes you left around for him out of your paycheck. He contemplated that idea when he found another two on his desk that morning. You were often the first one into the office, a fact he was particularly proud of when other senators complained that their assistants weren’t working. You knew the way he preferred his papers sorted when he came in, and you always were sure to have his coffee sitting for ten minutes before he arrived, leaving it the perfect temperature for his first sip. Coriolanus thought about your relationship often; there was a certain domesticity to it. You knew him better than nearly anyone, and he desired to know you better despite knowing it could be inappropriate to ask the questions he wanted to. 

Your copy of yesterday’s meeting notes is being printed. A note on top of his stack of reports to read through.

Good morning, sir. A second note next to his coffee cup. Something akin to a smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he took the note into his hand, thumb rubbing over the dried ink before tucking it into a box in his desk. The box was nearly full of small notes; he’d have to get another. The coffee cup warmed his hand as he turned to look out the window, sipping in peaceful silence as the first sprinkles of spring rain set in over the Capital. The snow had cleared out early this year and had been replaced with a terrible chill and rain, but the sun returned when he turned to the sound of the door opening.

“Good morning, sir. Your meeting notes as promised. They’d have been here earlier if the new intern hadn’t tried to break the printer last night. I nearly broke my hand trying to unjam it,” you said as you set down the stack of papers precisely in the corner of his desk. He appreciated how much you respected his order of things.

“I assume your hand is intact?” 

“Yes, thank you. Your lunch with the Secretary of Communications is today, and you have a call with the Head Gamemaker at three. Besides that, I’ve tried to give you time to catch up on reports.” He nodded in response, taking in the sight of your winter clothes with a soft look in his eyes. 

“Thank you. Please ensure you get to lunch today. I would prefer not to find my assistant on the floor when she forgets to eat.” You smiled with a firm nod in return.

“Of course, sir. I’ll be outside if you need me.” A small part of him hated watching you walk away, the same part of him that he forced himself to ignore so fiercely. He noticed the color of your skirt, a deep red, and a part of him wondered if you matched his signature jacket on purpose. It wasn’t entirely unlikely; you often had something red on since your first week, and he knew it couldn’t have been a coincidence. 

When he left for lunch, he found your desk empty and a single note left atop your keyboard.

Enjoy your lunch. I’ll be here when you return. He picked up the note to tuck safely into his jacket pocket, another for his collection. He hadn’t realized how protective he’d be of your notes when you started working for him a year ago, but when he couldn’t find the heart to throw them away, it became a growing issue for the space in his desk. You’d never know, but the note you’d left him on your first day was framed and pristine in the back of one of his drawers. Maybe one day, he’d get the courage to display it on his shelf. 

As promised, you were there when he returned and greeted him with a smile that he swore lit up the room. 

“Good afternoon, sir. How was lunch?” your voice was gentle and caring, a comfort unlike anything he’d heard before.

“Productive. His assistant will be reaching out to set another next month. How was your lunch?” He did his best to ask about you even on his busiest days, and how your eyes shined when he did always made it worth it. You told him about the cafe you stopped into during your break from the office with the same smile that took the breath out of his lungs. 

“Their coffee is quite good as well. Perhaps I could bring you one tomorrow to see if you’d like it over the cafe I’ve been getting your coffee from recently.” There it was again. The care you showed him from the first day you entered the office, never once thinking of anyone else there but him. You were a shark when you wanted to be for him, ready to rearrange anyone else’s schedule for his benefit. But to him, you were nothing more than the perfect kind girl he couldn’t help but be grateful for hiring every day. He enjoyed the fire in your eyes when you’d ramble about one of the interns getting in the way of your job and when you triumphantly announced the success of a hard-to-plan meeting. He was entirely infatuated with you, frowned upon or not. 

His call with the Head Gamemaker ran later than expected, the sun setting in the background from the conference room he had stepped into with another senator to discuss plans for the following year’s games. When he came back to your desk empty, a certain melancholy settled deep in his chest. No note was left for him, an uncommon occurrence, and a slight frown pulled on his features before he stepped into his office to finish the day. He wasn’t upset at you; he had nearly forced you to leave the office on time plenty of times. But a voice in his head still begged you to be there when he was. 

A small box sat on his desk, centered perfectly amongst the papers you had clearly straightened for him before leaving. Tied together with a red bow, he sat down to inspect it closer. He imagined your hands tying it so neatly together, and his fingers brushed against the ribbon as if it could cure the ache in his chest that longed to touch your skin. Undoing the ribbon and setting it aside, he relished in the smile that washed over his face. A sticky note stared up at him from where he had taken off the top of the box.

Happy birthday, Mr. Snow. I hope you had a good day. I’ll see you tomorrow. You hadn’t spoken a word about the day. You were perfectly familiar with his disdain for celebration and refrained from the theatrics you knew would drive him crazy. But when you scouted out the new cafe at lunch, you couldn’t help purchasing one small cupcake, knowing he would never indulge in a whole slice of cake. Lightly iced and small enough for him not to deny the sweet treat, he tore off a piece of the cake and imagined your excitement in leaving the gift for him before you left. 

You didn’t have to voice how much you cared for him. It was clear as day, and it was something he swore never to take for granted.

[eclipixels]

Strawberry Sundae

Dante Sparda x Reader

Content: A simple sundae run results in you being jealous, but Dante’s knows how to get that frustration out of you

A/N: I'm back in my Dante Sparda Obsession.

Wanings: 🍋 cunnilingus

[2,192 words]

      Dante just wanted an ice cream sundae.

      That’s what he said when he walked back into the shop, cherry between his teeth and a crumpled napkin in his back pocket you didn’t know about.

      His hair was a little wind-tousled, sunglasses shoved up into his hair, leather jacket hanging lazily off one shoulder like he didn’t have a care in the world. He bit down on the stem of a maraschino cherry and smirked at you.

      “Got the goods,” he announced, flashing the container before tossing it on the counter. Usually you two went together and sat down to eat but you were busy today.

      “They were outta sprinkles, but I figured you’d live.” He handed you your cup of the fudge ice cream sundae while he sat down to eat his strawberry one.

      You were halfway through an eye-roll when you caught it. Just a glimpse. A folded piece of paper sticking out of his back pocket. You didn’t think much of it at first. Dante always had random scraps of crap stuffed in his pockets. Receipts, demon-hunting notes, candy wrappers, whatever.

      But then he tossed it.

      The paper floated out of his pocket like it had a story to tell, catching the air before it landed with a lazy flutter on top of the overflowing trash bin.

      It was a napkin. Lipstick kiss on the corner. A heart doodled in pink pen. And in the middle? A name and a phone number, scrawled with a flirtatious confidence.

      You froze. Dante didn’t even notice. He just strolled past you, cherry stem now tied in a perfect little knot between his teeth. Show-off.

      Your eyes stayed on the trash bin, like the napkin was glowing, taunting you. The lipstick print stared back at you, mocking.

      Call me sometime ;) - Nikki

      You swallowed hard, suddenly hyper-aware of the heat crawling up the back of your neck. He’d been gone all of twenty minutes. Twenty minutes for a sundae. And some random girl had flirted with him hard enough to think she had a chance?

      Did he flirt back?

      Did he smile at her the way he smiled at you?

      Did he lean over the counter with those arms that always looked so damn good rolled up past the elbow? Say something cocky that made her giggle? Maybe he even gave her that look. The one that melts your spine and makes you forget your own name.

      The jealousy was a slow burn at first, curling low in your stomach. You didn’t say anything. You just turned back to the desk, pretending to be busy with paperwork, hoping the knot in your throat would go away.

      But the silence didn’t help. The image kept looping in your head like a broken record. Dante charming some girl who wasn’t you, tossing her number away like it wasn’t worth mentioning what had happened to him at the diner.

      You clenched your jaw.

      And just like that, your mood shifted. Like a storm rolling in from nowhere.

      He didn’t see it coming. You didn’t say a word but your mood flipped like a switch. The rest of the day, you were short, cold, and snappy.

      “You’re not eating?” Dante asked, noticing your untouched ice cream.

      “Not hungry.”

      “You begged me for that damn sundae all week,” he says, giving you a squint like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. “You feeling sick or something?”

      You shake your head, but your voice comes out too neutral. “I just changed my mind.”

      He watches you for a second longer. The air’s too quiet between you.

      Then, without a word, he stands, plucks the sundae from the counter with a quiet “Don’t wanna waste it,” and strolls to the back to stick it in the fridge.

      When he comes back, he drops a soft, “Let me know when you do want it.”

      You nod without meeting his eyes. He doesn’t push, but you can feel his gaze burning into you. You felt horrible but you were just overwhelmed with these feelings and didn’t want to say or do something out of frustration.

      Later on, he lounges across the couch, legs wide, arms draped across the back. “You wanna go out later? Maybe grab some pizza, shoot something on the way back?”

      “No, I’m fine.”

      “No?” he echoes, lifting a brow. “Damn, okay. You mad I didn’t bring you extra cherries?”

      “No.”

      “Sure as hell sounds like a yes.”

      “Nope.” You gave a small smile, standing up to kiss his nose and going back to what you were doing so he didn’t think you were mad at him. You needed to do something to get rid of this frustration, because it was starting to affect him too.

      “If you say so.”Dante furrowed his brows, but all he could think in his head was ‘liar’ because he knew you. He knew you were trying to hide something. Dante picked up on it fast. He was dense sometimes, but not when it came to you.

      You’re at the front desk, clicking through the bounty board like it owes you money. Eyes on the screen, jaw tight, fingers tense against the keyboard.

      Dante walks in like he owns the damn place—because, technically, he does. You look at him, his ridiculously sexy face, and you can't help but wonder if the thoughts running through your head right now are the same ones that random girl had too. And now you were scowling all over again.

      “Damn,” he whistles low, coming up behind you. “Anyone ever tell you that you look sexy when you’re pissed?”

      You don’t even blink. No smirk. No side glance. No sarcastic comeback. Just cold silence.

      He waits a beat, tilting his head. “That’s a new record. Usually I at least get an eye-roll before the murder glare.”

      Still nothing. You click through another screen.

      “Okay, what’s up with you today?” he finally asked as you stomped around the Devil May Cry office, pretending not to care. “You’ve been throwing daggers at me with your eyes since I came back from my daily sundae run.”

      You scoffed. “Why don’t you go call your little waitress? She seemed really into giving you some extra service.”

      Dante blinked. What were you talking about? How did you even know about—

      “I saw the stupid napkin in the trash.” You huffed, reading his mind and answering his question.

      “So why are you mad at me? I threw it away for a reason.” He threw his hands up in defense.

      “Still it just—it bothers me that it even happened. I don’t like the idea that someone thought of you like that. I’m not mad at you, just mad at the situation.” You grumbled, feeling slightly embarrassed but not backing down from your stubborn attitude.

      “Didn’t even look at it, babe. I was too busy thinking about how good you’d taste with a cherry on top.”

      Your cheeks flamed, but you didn’t let it show. “I’m still upset.”

      “Oh, I know.” His eyes dropped to your body. “I can see it in the way you’re walking around here like you want to murder someone. But lucky for you…” He licked his lips. “I’ve got a better way to help you get all that aggression out.”

      He grabbed his half-melted sundae from the fridge he saved for later and walked over to you, slow and deliberate. You backed up a step, but your thighs hit the desk and he caged you in with his body.

      “I ever tell you how much I like my desserts messy?” he murmured.

      “Dante—”

      He dipped two fingers into the ice cream and slowly dragged them down your collarbone, the cold making you gasp. The ice cream trickled down the curve of your chest, the air drying it quickly and leaving a sticky, sweet sensation clinging to your skin.

      “Still mad?” his eyes darkened as they narrowed, dipping down to follow the trail of ice cream.

      “Shut up.”

      He sank to his knees in front of you, tugging your shirt up and out of the way, tracing a long stripe of ice cream from your navel down lower, so slow it made your breath hitch.

      “I’m gonna eat this off you,” he breathed, voice thick. “And then I’m gonna eat you.”

      You gasped, eyes wide, as his tongue followed the trail of cold sweetness across your skin, hot mouth melting the ice cream and leaving you trembling. His saliva replaced where the ice cream previously coated your skin.

      “Fuck,” you whispered, your hands in his hair now, tugging as he pushed your legs apart.

      “You taste better than any sundae,” he muttered between kisses, mouth moving lower, lower, lips hot and wet as he kissed right over your core through your panties. “So sweet when you’re jealous…”

      He didn’t waste time. He dragged your panties down and tossed them aside, no teasing this time. Not now, not when he was starving.

      And oh how he loved to devour you.

      That’s how he usually started, like he’s tasting something forbidden, something decadent. Like he has all the time in the world to worship you.

      Dante’s tongue makes a pass over your skin, right where the ice cream had melted, and it sends a shock through your entire body. The contrast between the cold desert and the heat of his mouth makes you shiver. He groans low in his throat, dragging his mouth down your inner thigh.

      His hands are strong but gentle as they settle on your hips, holding you steady as he trails kisses up your thigh, open-mouthed, lingering, leaving goosebumps in his wake. He takes his time, nose brushing against the soft skin, breathing you in like you’re oxygen and he’s been suffocating.

      You squirm, but he tightens his grip just a little, teasing. You can feel him smirk against your skin.

      “Uh-uh,” he tuts, lips ghosting over your skin. “You wanted my attention, baby. Now you’ve got it. All of it.”

      He finally reaches the spot you need him most, placing a feather-light kiss there over your soaked panties. You jolt, a whimper slipping from your lips.

      “Dante…”

      He hums in response, the sound vibrating through your core, before he slowly, agonizingly, slides your panties down your legs and tosses them somewhere behind him. You barely care where. Not with the way he’s looking at you now.

      Predatory. Possessive. Hungry.

      And then he’s on you again, licking a long, deliberate stripe from your entrance all the way up to your clit, like he’s savoring every molecule. Your head falls back with a soft moan, fingers digging into the edge of the desk.

      He doesn’t rush. Not yet. He laps at you lazily, kitten licks at first, then deeper, broader strokes that make your thighs tremble around his head.

      His tongue circles your clit, slow and taunting, until your hips buck forward, chasing more. He chuckles against you, that cocky bastard, and flattens his tongue, dragging it up again before wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking, enough to make your breath hitch.

      You gasp, hands threading into his hair. “God—fuh...fuck…”

      “Mmm,” he hums, pulling back just enough to speak, breath hot and ragged. “Not God, sweetheart.”

      His tongue curls and flicks right against the sensitive bundle of nerves, relentless now. One hand slips between your legs and two fingers press in slowly, filling you with delicious pressure. He groans when he feels how wet you are, pumping them slowly at first, then curling them inside you, stroking that spot that makes you cry out and tighten around him.

      “You sound so pretty.” he mutters against your core, lips still working on you.

      You moan, loud and needy, back arching off the desk. “Dante—fuck—don’t stop—”

      “Wasn’t planning to,” he growls, tongue working in tandem with his fingers, fast and unrelenting now.

      Every flick of his tongue, every stroke of his fingers is perfectly calculated, deadly in the way only Dante can be. You feel yourself spiraling, thighs shaking around his head, breath coming in ragged gasps. The tension in your body coils tighter, tighter, like a spring about to snap.

      Your hands clutch at his hair, his name falling from your lips in broken cries, over and over.

      And then—.

      Your orgasm slams into you like a wave, tearing a moan from deep in your chest as your body trembles beneath him. Sweet release. Your vision goes white, your thighs clamp tight around his head, and he doesn’t stop. He works you through every twitch and spasm, drinking in every drop like you’re the only thing that’s ever mattered.

      Only when you’re completely undone, limp and breathless, does he finally pull back. His mouth and chin glisten with you, and he looks so damn proud of himself it’s almost infuriating.

      “Next time you get jealous… just say so.” Dante stood, licking his fingers like he hadn’t just ruined you. He leans over, caging you in again with that sinful smirk on his lips.

      You glared at him, breathless. “Next time? You planning to flirt with more waitresses?”

      He grinned, teeth sharp.

      “Nope. But I am planning to get more ice cream.”

[adelliet]

Joel Miller x f!reader

NEW THERAPIST

Part 1 | Part 2

Summary: Joel’s therapist is very sick, and you’re new in town — since you’re licensed, you decided to step in as a replacement. Joel was hesitant at first, not one to open up to strangers easily, but when he finally gave it a try, he didn’t regret it.

Warnings: 18+, MDNI, age gap (Joel in his 50s, youre age is not mentioned, but it's legal!), anxiety, masturbation, verbal harassment, oral sex (m & f receiving), unprotected sex (piv), changing positions, praise kink, nicknames, strong language

A/n: Hi! I am not even trying to convince myself anymore to bealive that this isn't long asf. I really love to write a good plot yk, anyways if you have any ideas, suggestions, or anything else, feel free to text me. Also, I apologize for any grammar mistakes or phrases that might not make sense—English isn’t my first language :3 But I hope you enjoy the story! <3

Mastelist

It was late morning when Tommy stopped by Joel’s house. He knocked twice and then let himself in, as he always did — brothers didn’t need permission in Jackson. Joel was in the middle of buttoning up his flannel, looking freshly showered but not entirely awake. His hair was still damp, and he moved slowly, like every motion cost him something.

“Hey,” Tommy greeted, holding a folded piece of paper in one hand. “Got those patrol maps you wanted.”

Joel took them with a grunt, gave them a glance, then placed them on the kitchen counter without a word. He reached for his mug, sipped cold coffee, and grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair.

“I gotta go,” he mumbled, mostly to himself, slinging the jacket over his shoulder.

Tommy tilted his head. “Where you headin’?”

Joel hesitated, clearly not eager to elaborate. “…Therapy.”

That made Tommy pause. His brows lifted, confused. “Uh, you sure about that?”

Joel’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Yeah. Same time as always.”

Tommy gave him a strange look and shifted awkwardly. “Joel… She’s sick. Like, real sick. She stopped seein’ people. Some kinda respiratory thing — folks say she’s not comin’ back for a while.”

Joel froze. The keys in his hand stopped jingling. “What?”

“Yeah. Word’s goin’ around. They say at least three weeks, maybe more. I figured you heard.”

Joel shook his head slowly, frown deepening, jaw tightening. He looked like someone had pulled the ground out from under him — not that he’d ever admit that.

“I… didn’t,” he muttered, voice low and tight.

There was a long pause before Tommy scratched the back of his neck, pulling something from his pocket.

“Look, I know you don’t like this kinda thing,” Tommy said carefully, “but there’s someone new in town. Moved here a few weeks back. She’s licensed, she’s smart… young, yeah, but folks been sayin’ good things.”

Joel shot him a skeptical glance, the corners of his mouth twitching downward. “Young?”

“Not that young,” Tommy chuckled. “Just… younger than your usual shrink. But hey — she works from home, keeps things real low-key. Thought maybe it’d suit you.”

Joel didn’t respond, just stood there looking at the card Tommy handed him. A simple business card. No frills. Just a name, a soft-colored print, and an address.

Tommy caught the look in his brother’s eyes and backed off.

“Hey, just… think about it, alright? You ain’t gotta go. But don’t sit around and bottle this shit up either.”

Joel didn’t answer. He watched Tommy leave, the door clicking shut behind him, and then looked back at the card in his hand. He turned it over slowly between his fingers. Thought about throwing it away. Thought about the ache that hadn’t left his chest for months.

He sat down at the table. Stared at the wood grain. Rubbed his thumb over his temple. The silence in the house felt heavier than usual.

And he sat there. Thinking. For a long, long time.

Eventually, he ended up going.

Against his better judgment, against all the tight, thorny doubts clawing inside his mind, Joel found himself walking through Jackson’s quiet streets, shoulders hunched, head low like he was trying not to be seen. He already regretted it. Every step closer felt like one more chance to turn around and go the hell back home.

But he kept walking.

It wasn’t the idea of talking to someone that rattled him, not really. It was the idea of talking to you. Someone new. Someone who didn’t know his history, who hadn’t been there when his walls were higher than ever. He didn’t know what to expect… didn’t even know if you were going to be kind, or cold, or too damn young to understand any of what he carried.

But the worst part was how exposed he felt. Every glance from a neighbor, every quiet “hello” from someone passing by, it all made his skin crawl. Like they knew where he was headed. Like they were silently judging him for needing help. Of course, they weren’t. Nobody cared. But Joel’s anxiety didn’t exactly listen to logic.

He finally reached the address. The house looked… normal. Inviting, even. The kind of place you wouldn’t expect someone to open up their deepest, darkest shit inside. And maybe that’s what made it even harder.

Joel stared at the door for a moment, frozen mid-step. His hand hovered in the air, curled into a loose fist, just inches from knocking. But he didn’t move. He stood there like a damn statue, fighting himself all over again.

Just leave, his brain hissed. Just walk away. You’ve made it this long without this. You don’t need—

He exhaled. Loud and heavy, before he slowly, knocked.

He waited. At first, it was only a few seconds. But then those seconds stretched into something longer, heavier. Joel started to feel stupid - standing there like some lost teenager, like someone who knocked on the wrong goddamn door. Maybe you weren’t even home. Maybe this was all just a mistake. Hell, maybe you were home and just didn’t want to deal with some grumpy old bastard knocking on your door uninvited.

Joel exhaled sharply through his nose and stepped back. One foot already turned to go, hand dropping from the air like he’d imagined the whole thing.

And that’s when the door opened.

The soft click of the handle. The creak of the hinges. And then, you.

Joel stood there, rooted to the spot, eyes fixed on you like he’d forgotten how to breathe. You were smiling — that soft, sweet kind of smile that didn’t feel forced or polite, but real. You looked calm. Warm. And Joel? He was completely fucked.

His brain short-circuited. His first thought wasn’t “she looks young,” or “she looks kind.” No. His first thought was “she’s beautiful.” Not in the distant, poetic sense — no, not the kind of beauty you admire from afar and then walk away from. It was the kind of beauty that grabbed him by the throat and whispered, “You’re mine.”

His eyes flicked down for half a second, just a second, but that second was enough. The soft shape of your chest under that casual shirt. The subtle curve of your hips. The bare skin of your legs, the way your mouth moved as you said hello, lips plush and so fucking inviting it made his teeth clench.

And suddenly, his mind wasn’t where it should be. It was picturing things. Fast flashes. You underneath him. The way your voice might sound when it wasn’t professional — when it was breathless and messy and gasping his name. The way your hands might clutch at his shoulders. The way your body might arch, needy and open for him.

Jesus fucking Christ.

He blinked. Once. Twice. Forced himself to look you in the eyes. But even that wasn’t safe. There was a spark there, something intelligent, a little playful. You weren’t shy. And somehow, that was the most dangerous part.

He hadn’t said a single word. And he already knew he was in trouble.

You tilted your head a little, still holding the door open with one hand, the other tugging down the hem of your shirt instinctively. “…Sir?”

“Oh—shit, I’m sorry,” he muttered, voice low and rough like gravel. “I… I’m Joel. Joel Miller. Tommy gave me your card.”

You blinked. “Oh! Right. The therapy sessions?”

He gave a slow nod, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly a little embarrassed now. “Yeah. I wasn’t sure if I should come by but, uh… figured I’d give it a try.”

You stepped back and smiled, waving him in. “Come on in. You’re actually my first today.”

As he stepped past you into the warmth of the house, you noticed the way his gaze flicked briefly down to your outfit — an oversized t-shirt and a pair of short cotton shorts, your long warm fuzzy slippers making gentle scuffs against the floor as you moved.

It was freezing outside, but the heater was blasting and the tea was steeping, so this was your comfort zone. Still… not exactly professional.

You glanced down at yourself and laughed softly. “Sorry. I should’ve probably worn something more appropriate for a client…”

Joel looked up at you with something unreadable in his eyes — a twitch of amusement, maybe, or something darker, heavier.

“Nah,” he said simply, shaking his head. “It’s fine. Doesn’t bother me.”

You nodded and motioned toward the cozy living area just off the hallway. “You can go ahead and take a seat. Want anything to drink? Tea, coffee?”

Joel hesitated, then gave a small shrug. “Coffee’s good. If it’s not too much trouble.”

“Not at all,” you said, already padding off toward the kitchen. “Make yourself comfortable.”

He watched you disappear around the corner, the sound of the kettle starting up filling the silence behind him. As he settled onto the couch, his fingers brushing against the soft fabric of the throw pillow beside him, he let out a slow breath.

When the coffee was finally ready, you brought it over with a smile, carefully placing the pastel purple mug in front of him. “Here you go,” you said, the warmth of the mug almost making the room feel cozier. “I hope it’s to your liking.”

Joel gave a small, grateful smile, his hand brushing against yours for just a second as he took the mug. “Thanks. Smells good,” he muttered, his voice slightly raspy, as if the warmth of the coffee was just what he needed to break the cold barrier that had settled between the two of you.

You nodded and slipped into your chair, pulling your notepad and pen from your bag. The soft rustling of paper filled the air, your legs crossing comfortably as you got ready for the session. However, the moment you crossed your legs, Joel’s eyes flicked down, just for a second, but long enough for him to catch a glimpse of the soft juicy thights and-

His throat tightened a little, and before he knew it, he was coughing slightly, almost choking on the coffee he’d just taken a sip of. The damn thing went down the wrong way, and he couldn’t help but cough harshly, slamming the cup back down on the table, his face reddening with the embarrassment.

You laughed softly, leaning toward him. “Oh my god you okay?”

Joel cleared his throat, shaking his head, trying to recover his cool. “Y-Yeah, I’m fine.”

You gave him a reassueing smile, sensing his awkwardness but not letting it rattle you. “It’s alright, happens to the best of us.”

Once the tension had passed, you set your notepad in your lap and folded your hands over it, looking at him with a more professional air. “Alright, so… to start, I’m just going to ask you a few basic questions, just so I can get a better idea of where you’re coming from.”

He nodded, his gaze flicking to your face, trying to stay focused but still feeling that lingering heat from his earlier slip-up.

“Okay, so first off, tell me a little bit about yourself. I know you’re Joel… how old are you?”

“Fifty-six,” he answered, his voice low, but steady now. He had clearly gotten himself under control.

You scribbled that down, nodding. “Got it. And, uh… what about your family?”

Joel shifted uncomfortably in his seat. It was obvious that even though he was a man who’d seen more than most, talking about his family was still a sensitive subject. He hesitated before speaking, his voice dropping a little. “I have a brother… Tommy. He’s… important to me. Got a daughter too, Sarah. She’s… she’s gone now.”

You paused, noting the weight in his words. “I’m really sorry to hear that, Joel,” you said softly, your eyes meeting his in a quiet show of empathy. “That must be really hard.”

He gave a slight nod but didn’t say much more about it. You sensed he wasn’t ready to go deeper yet.

“So, what brings you to therapy today?” you asked, trying to steer the conversation gently back to the reason he was there. You hadn’t expected him to just unload everything all at once, but you hoped to start pulling out the layers, one by one.

Joel ran a hand through his hair and leaned back in his chair, his eyes darkening slightly. “Well… mostly just… I’ve been having trouble. With, uh… things. Life, y’know?” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat again. “It’s been hard. Haven’t really felt like I’ve had much control over… well, anything.”

You nodded, the silence between you feeling comfortable enough to allow him space without pressure. “That sounds difficult. But it’s good that you’re here. I know it’s not easy to take that first step.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment, just stared into his coffee, and you could feel the weight of his words hanging in the air. You made a mental note to keep the session light for now, to let him open up when he was ready. You could sense this wasn’t going to be a quick fix — that this was going to take time, patience, and a lot of trust.

The quiet moments that followed were filled with the warmth of the coffee and the soft sounds of your voice as you guided him through the session, making sure he felt heard and understood.

As you continued, you couldn’t help but feel a growing sense of connection with Joel — even if it was subtle. He wasn’t saying much, but the little gestures, the brief moments when his eyes lingered on you, the way his voice softened when he spoke about the hard things… it all made you realize that, maybe, this therapy thing was going to be a lot more complicated than you’d originally thought. And maybe, just maybe, there was something else simmering just beneath the surface.

Time had slipped by quietly, like the gentle ticking of an unseen clock. You hadn’t even realized how quickly the hour passed until there was a lull in the conversation—a natural pause that signaled the end.

Joel shifted on the couch, clearing his throat as if to bring himself back to the present. You offered him a small, warm smile as you closed your notepad and tucked your pen behind your ear. “That’ll be it for today,” you said softly. “Do you have a way to pay, or…?”

Joel looked at you for a second. And then, without a word, he reached into the pocket of his worn jacket and pulled out a small ziplock bag filled with a generous amount of dried weed. He held it out with a completely straight face, as if this was the most normal form of payment in the world.

You blinked once. Then twice. Your lips parted slightly in surprise as your brows lifted. “Seriously?” you asked, your voice somewhere between amusement and disbelief.

Joel didn’t flinch. “Well I suppose you don’t take cards,” he muttered, a hint of defensiveness laced with deadpan humor. “Figured this might do.”

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head, but your hand reached forward anyway. “You realize this isn’t exactly standard practice,” you said, taking the bag from him between two fingers, the contact brief—but still electric.

“Neither is showin’ up to therapy in fuzzy slippers and shorts,” he shot back with a slow smirk.

Touché.

You tilted your head, smirking right back, but you didn’t reply. Instead, you walked over to your bag and casually dropped the weed inside, your movements slow, deliberate. When you turned back around, Joel was already watching you with that same look in his eyes—somewhere between curiosity and hunger.

“I guess we’re even,” you said quietly, your voice a little lower now, like it belonged in a different kind of conversation.

He didn’t answer, just stood there. Big. Still. Tense.

You walked him to the door, silence trailing after you both like a second presence. As you opened it, cold air swept in from outside, brushing over your skin, raising goosebumps on your thighs.

Joel didn’t step out immediately. He lingered, turning back to face you, eyes flicking over your face like he was memorizing something. Or maybe just trying to convince himself not to do something he’d regret.

“Thanks,” he said. His voice was soft now. Almost intimate.

You nodded. “Of course.”

The air felt tight. Like something had been said without actually being spoken.

And then he left. The door clicked shut, and you exhaled.

For a long moment, you didn’t move. You just stood there, the quiet of your home closing in around you, but your thoughts loud as hell.

Joel Miller had this… presence. Something raw, heavy, carved out of scars and silence. He was clearly complicated—guarded. But under all that gruffness, there was something else. Something that made you want to crack him open and see what was underneath.

And maybe that was exactly what scared you.

He was your client. And that alone should be enough to slam every door inside you shut. But your heart didn’t seem to get the memo. Because it was still beating hard. Still remembering the way his voice dipped low when he thanked you. The way his eyes flicked down your legs. The way his hand brushed yours when he handed over the weed.

You bit your lip, suddenly aware of how warm your skin felt. No. No, no. You couldn’t let yourself feel that. Not for him. Not now.

Still… the scent of his jacket lingered in the air. And so did the strange ache in your chest.

And deep down, where you wouldn’t even let the thought fully form, you wondered: What would happen… if those lines blurred?

The next day…

You were still adjusting. To Jackson. To the cold mornings and quiet streets. To the fact that life here, while safer than the world outside the gates, still pulsed with tension. People wore their grief like layers of clothing, and every client that knocked on your door carried more than just pain—they carried stories they didn’t know how to tell.

You were getting used to that, too.

The morning had been busy. Three clients before lunch, each one with their own shadows. You were sipping lukewarm tea, organizing your notes, when there was a knock at the door. You glanced at the clock. Not your usual appointment window. You opened the door.

And there he was.

Joel.

Again.

He looked the same, rough edges, tired eyes, that same guarded posture, but something about him felt… different. Softer, maybe. Or maybe you were different, now that you’d seen the way his eyes softened when he smiled. The way his voice dipped when he said your name.

This time, you were dressed more… professionally. A soft knit sweater that hugged your waist, black jeans, cozy socks. No shorts. No slippers. But his eyes still flicked over you in that same slow, burning way.

“Hi,” you said, smiling. “Didn’t expect you back so soon.”

He shifted his weight, cleared his throat. “Hope that’s not a problem.”

“No,” you said quickly, stepping aside. “Of course not. Come in.”

He walked past you with that heavy, confident step, and for a second—just a second—you let your eyes trace the shape of his back. The way his shoulders moved beneath the fabric of his shirt. The worn denim that clung to his legs a little too well.

You closed the door and followed him into the room. He didn’t sit right away. Just stood there, looking around like he was taking in your space again. He glanced at the small candle flickering on the shelf, the books stacked on your desk, the mug of tea you hadn’t finished.

He looked at you.

“You changed the slippers,” he murmured.

You laughed. “Figured I should look like a professional, at least once a week.”

Joel’s mouth twitched into something that almost resembled a smile. Almost.

Once he was seated, you grabbed your notebook and sat across from him, legs crossed at the knee—but not as carelessly as last time. Still, his eyes caught the movement. You felt it. That flicker of awareness. That quiet hum beneath the surface.

“So,” you started, clicking your pen open, “two sessions in two days… should I be flattered?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you. “Didn’t have much else to do,” he muttered.

You raised an eyebrow. “That doesn’t sound like a glowing review of my therapeutic technique.”

His lips curved slightly. “You’re better than you think.” Your cheeks warmed, and not from the candlelight.

As the session began, it felt… different. More open. Joel still spoke in fragments, in low tones and unfinished sentences, but he let himself be a little more present. He let you ask more. He even answered a few things without looking away.

You talked about routine. About Jackson. About Ellie, vaguely. About the cold. And somewhere in there, between the casual and the careful, you realized you liked having him there. You liked the sound of his voice when it got quiet. You liked the way he sat—arms loose, legs apart, so confidently in his own skin.

And you hated how aware you were of it.

You were his therapist.

But he was… him.

A man who looked at you like he wanted to figure you out just as badly as you wanted to peel away his walls.

You didn’t let your mind wander too far. But you’d be lying if you said you didn’t notice the way his gaze lingered on your hands. On your lips when you spoke. On the curve of your neck when you leaned over to write.

He wasn’t good at hiding that kind of thing.

And when the session ended, and he stood up again, the air felt heavier. Like something had built between you. Something you were both pretending not to feel.

He said goodbye quietly. Not rushed. Like he wanted to stay. You closed the door behind him. Pressed your back to it. And breathed. This was going to be harder than you thought.

He hadn’t planned it like this. He hadn’t planned on coming every goddamn day.

At first, he told himself it was just necessity. He needed the help. Needed someone to listen. Someone who wasn’t Tommy, who wasn’t Maria, who didn’t already have a whole image of who he was supposed to be.

But deep down, he knew. It wasn’t just about talking. It was about you.

Every morning, he woke up with that same battle inside his chest. Don’t go. She’s too young. She’s too good. You’re just another broken old man.

And yet, by noon, he was knocking on your door.

You never said no. Never even hinted that he was a bother. You smiled every time, led him inside, sat across from him with that soft, warm look that made the walls around him crack just a little more each session.

And somehow, after a week, you had more in your stash of supplies than half of Jackson.

Joel didn’t always have cash, or whatever passed for it these days, but he paid you with what he could. Bottles of whiskey. Extra ammo. A damn nice winter jacket one time.

He wasn’t sure if you actually needed all of it.

But you took it. You smiled. You made him feel like he wasn’t just a burden.

Today, when he knocked, you greeted him in a cozy-looking sweater, leggings, hair tied into bun but with a few strands loose around your face. Casual. Effortless. Dangerous.

He sat down, like he always did, heavy boots thudding against the floor.

He noticed, without meaning to, that he didn’t feel as stiff anymore. His arms weren’t crossed tightly over his chest. His jaw wasn’t clenched into stone.

You smiled, scribbling something into your notebook. “You’re getting more comfortable,” you said, almost like you were thinking out loud.

Joel grunted, not trusting himself to say much more. He knew he was softening around you. He just wasn’t sure if it was a good thing.

You started the session, asking him about his week, about Ellie, about the community. And then, you noticed it, something shifted in his expression. Something dark passed through his eyes.

“You okay?” you asked gently. Joel hesitated.

“It’s stupid,” he muttered finally, shaking his head.

“Nothing’s stupid,” you said. “If it’s bothering you, it matters.”

He leaned back, rubbing his palms over his jeans, a nervous habit he didn’t even realize he had.

“It’s just… ain’t easy. Bein’ around people. Even now. After everything. I keep thinkin’ I’m just gonna fuck it all up somehow.”

You nodded, your voice soft and steady. “That’s a very real fear.”

You let that sit for a moment. And then, before you could stop yourself, you asked:

“…Can I ask you something a little more personal?”

Joel’s eyes flicked up, guarded but curious.

“Sure,” he said gruffly.

You cleared your throat. Your fingers tightened just a little around your pen.

“How… how has everything affected your, uh… intimacy? Relationships? Sex life?”

The moment the word sex left your mouth, it was like you set off a bomb in the room.

Joel’s entire body stiffened. He blinked at you like he hadn’t heard right. Like you’d just punched him in the face.

And then, the images hit him so fast he barely had time to react. You. Bent over that little couch. Your soft sweater riding up your hips. His hands all over your skin. His mouth on your neck, your thighs, your—

Shit.

His face went red. His leg started bouncing uncontrollably. He scratched the back of his neck, shifted in his seat. He couldn’t even look at you.

You, meanwhile, tried to keep your face professional, casual—but inside, your stomach was flipping over itself. You had asked questions like that a hundred times before. But never like this. Never with him.

“Sorry if that’s too personal,” you said quickly, trying to save him. “It’s a common question in therapy. It’s important.”

Joel finally managed to clear his throat.

“No, it’s… it’s fine. Just caught me off guard, is all.”

His voice was lower now. Rougher. He still couldn’t meet your eyes. You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, trying to focus. Trying not to imagine what he had imagined when you said that word.

Joel shifted again, the denim of his jeans pulling uncomfortably tight against him. Jesus Christ. He needed to get out of here.

You gave him a way out, changing the subject, making a small note in your notebook without pushing him further. But the damage was done.

When the session ended, Joel stood up a little too quickly, mumbling a goodbye. You watched him go, heart pounding for reasons you didn’t want to admit. Joel barely made it down the steps before realizing he was fucking hard.

He cursed under his breath, tugging at his jacket, willing the blood to go somewhere else. Anywhere else. All because you had said one word. One word. And now, he was ruined.

He couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. Ever since he’d left your place, he’d been a fucking mess.

The cold air bit at his skin, the crunch of snow under his boots was deafening, but none of it registered. All he could see was you.

The way you’d looked at him when you asked that question. The way your tongue had peeked out just barely to wet your bottom lip. The way your legs had crossed, that slow, lazy move that had damn near stopped his heart.

He felt sick, alive, starving. Every thought in his head was of you—and half of them were so filthy, so wrong, he should’ve been struck down on the spot. Goddamn old man, get a grip. But he couldn’t.

He got home fast, faster than usual. Slammed the door behind him like he could shut the images out.

He tossed his coat onto the nearest chair, paced the room like a caged animal.

Coffee. Maybe coffee would help.

His hands were shaking as he fumbled with the kettle. He poured himself a cup, burned his tongue on the first sip, cursed under his breath.

But the warmth did nothing to calm the fire raging in his blood. Your voice kept replaying in his head.

Sex life. He pictured you whispering it. Moaning it. Screaming it. His cock twitched painfully against the seam of his jeans.

“Fuck,” he hissed.

He tried sitting. Tried distracting himself, staring at the fire crackling in the hearth. But his mind betrayed him—again and again. He saw you across from him, not in leggings and a sweater, but naked. Skin flushed, eyes heavy, mouth parted.

He imagined his hands on you, calloused fingers sliding up your thighs, teasing the soft, sensitive skin until you begged him—

Jesus fucking Christ.

He couldn’t take it anymore. Joel stood, breathing hard, palming the heavy bulge in his jeans. There was no dignity left. No sense in fighting it.

He staggered to his bedroom, barely managing to shove his jeans down over his hips. His cock sprang free, thick and aching and already leaking at the tip. He wrapped a rough hand around himself, the touch making him groan deep in his chest.

Head tilted back, eyes fluttering shut, he started stroking. Slow at first. Long, tight pulls, just enough to ease the pressure without giving in fully.

But the images kept flashing behind his eyes. You, straddling his lap, grinding down against him. You, hands twisted in his hair, guiding his mouth wherever you wanted it. You, whimpering his name. His strokes sped up.

His thighs tensed, muscles flexing. His hips jerked up into his hand, chasing the friction. He bit down hard on his lip to keep from making noise—but a few low, broken moans still escaped.

“Fuck… baby…” he growled into the empty room, voice wrecked.

The firelight flickered across his bare chest, highlighting the taut lines of muscle, the sheen of sweat breaking out across his skin. He squeezed tighter, pumping faster, chasing that edge.

His hand was rough, almost punishing, but he didn’t care. He deserved the pain. Deserved the shame. He thought about your soft, warm cunt wrapped around him. Thought about what you’d sound like when he finally pushed inside.

That did it.

Joel’s whole body seized up, a shudder ripped through him as he came, thick ropes spilling over his fist, down his knuckles, onto the floor.

“Goddamn—fuck—” he groaned, riding it out, hips jerking uncontrollably.

He sagged back against the bed, panting, heart hammering in his chest. For a moment, he just laid there. One arm thrown over his eyes. Breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps.

The guilt crept in almost immediately. He shouldn’t have done it. Not over you. Not over someone so kind. So pure.

But even as he wiped his hand on a rag and dragged his jeans back up, one thing was terrifyingly clear: He was fucked. And not just because he couldn’t get you out of his head. But because he didn’t want to.

Joel hadn’t even planned on coming to this stupid ‘party’. Truth be told, crowds weren’t his thing anymore—too many people, too many memories.

But Tommy had dragged him out, shoved a drink in his hand, and told him to at least pretend to be part of the community. So there he was, leaning against the wall with a half-empty glass of whiskey, feeling like a damn ghost watching life happen around him.

And then you walked in. Joel’s world fucking stoppe. You were dressed… Shit, he didn’t even have words for it. It wasn’t flashy or revealing. You weren’t even trying. But you were stunning. Soft and effortless and so goddamn beautiful it made his chest ache.

Joel swallowed hard, feeling that familiar pressure start building low in his gut. You spotted them, him and Tommy, and made your way over, a warm, shy smile lighting up your face.

“Hey,” you greeted, voice a little breathless from the cold outside. “I think we’ve met,” you said, nodding toward Tommy. “You welcomed me my first day.”

Tommy grinned wide, gave a little dramatic bow. “That’s me. Jackson’s official welcome wagon.”

You laughed and then turned to Joel.

“And of course,” you added, softer now, “I know Joel. From… work.”

Your eyes flicked to his and something charged the air between you. Joel stiffened. He managed a grunt that was supposed to be a greeting but sounded more like he was choking.

After a beat, too long to be normal, you excused yourself politely, weaving back into the crowd. Joel stared after you like a man who’d just watched salvation walk away.

Tommy elbowed him hard in the ribs.

“You blind, or just stupid?”

Joel blinked. “What?”

“She was lookin’ at you like you hung the damn moon, man,” Tommy said, incredulous. “Christ, Joel. She was bitin’ her lip, twiddlin’ her damn fingers, swayin’ like she was hopin’ you’d just throw her over your shoulder right then and there.”

Joel glared at him. “You’re full of shit.”

Tommy just laughed, slapped him on the back. “Keep tellin’ yourself that, old man.”

Joel tried to shake it off. Tried to act like his heart wasn’t beating out of his chest. But now he couldn’t stop watching you.

You joined a group of women near one of the tables, smiling, laughing, tucking your hair behind your ear in that way that made his gut twist painfully. Joel sipped his whiskey, pretending not to look.

Failing miserably.

He watched you laugh at something one of the women said, your head tilting back, that smile crinkling the corners of your eyes. He wanted to be the one making you laugh like that. Wanted to be the one you looked at with that kind of light in your eyes.

And then, a man joined your group. Joel’s stomach dropped. The guy was young, maybe early thirties. Tall. Smiling too damn wide at you. Joel’s jaw clenched so hard it hurt.

Every time you laughed at something that punk said, Joel’s blood boiled hotter. He gripped his glass tighter, fingers whitening around the rim. He should’ve looked away. Should’ve had some damn self-control. But he couldn’t.

Every move you made, every glance, every soft smile, was a hook digging deeper under his skin. And then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw it.

Across the room, at the bar, Ellie and Dina were getting harassed by some drunk asshole spitting slurs, sneering like a damn fool.

He stiffened, instincts firing before his brain even caught up. Ellie stepped toward the guy, pointing at that man, eyes blazing.

“The fuck did you just say?!” she snapped, voice sharp and cutting. Joel didn’t wait.

His body moved on pure muscle memory. He crossed the floor in a heartbeat, grabbing the guy by the collar and shoving him with brutal force—so hard the bastard hit the ground with a grunt.

The man glared up at Joel from the floor, his face twisted in anger. Joel stared him down, his voice low and lethal: “Get the hell outta here.”

The room was deathly silent now.

Maria helped the guy stand up from the floor, both of them disappearing into the crowd without another word.

Joel finally looked at Ellie. She was standing frozen, blinking like she couldn’t believe what had just happened.

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” she barked, voice loud enough to carry. Joel didn’t answer.

His jaw was locked tight, muscles ticking under his skin, and his fingers flexed helplessly at his sides.

“I don’t need your fucking help, Joel!”

The words hit harder than any punch. He looked around, saw the judgment, the confusion, and then his gaze locked on you.

You were standing frozen by the table, one hand over your mouth, wide-eyed. He hated the look on your face. Hated that he’d been the cause of it.

Joel dropped his eyes, shame burning hot under his skin.

“Right,” he muttered roughly, voice almost breaking, and without another word, he pushed through the crowd and disappeared into the cold night.

You couldn’t move for a second. Couldn’t even breathe.

The way Joel had looked at you, like he was breaking apart right in front of you. You whispered a quick apology to the group you were with and slipped out into the cold night after him, heart pounding in your chest.

You didn’t know what you were going to say. Didn’t even know if you could fix it. But you had to try. Because somehow, somewhere between those stolen glances and charged silences, Joel Miller had carved out a place inside you that you couldn’t ignore.

You hurried after him, boots crunching over the snow, your breath forming shaky clouds in the freezing air.

“Joel!” you called out, but he didn’t turn.

He just kept walking, his broad shoulders tense, hands stuffed deep in his jacket pockets.

You picked up your pace, heart pounding—not just from the cold—and finally, when you were close enough, you reached out and touched his shoulder.

Joel flinched. He stopped in his tracks and turned around sharply, his face hard, eyes stormy—

But the moment his gaze landed on you, his expression softened. The anger drained from his face like melting ice.

For a few long seconds, neither of you said a word. The world around you seemed to fall away, swallowed by the soft hiss of falling snow and your own uneven breathing.

Finally, you found your voice, small and uncertain:

“Are you… okay?”

Joel exhaled a heavy breath, visible in the cold, and gave a stiff nod. That was all he could manage.

You shuffled your boots awkwardly in the snow, feeling stupid, feeling young in a way you never had before.

Like your presence was supposed to fix something—but you had no idea how.

Still… just standing there next to him, it somehow made things a little less heavy. A little warmer, despite the biting air.

Joel looked at you again, his eyes flickering with something unreadable.

“You cold?” he asked, voice rough.

You shook your head quickly. He nodded once, lips pressing into a thin line. And then he said it, low and reluctant: “I should… head home.”

He was already turning away when your voice stopped him.

“Wait—”

You shifted nervously on your feet, then blurted out before you could second-guess yourself,

“Do you… want some company?”

The moment the words left your mouth, panic bloomed in your chest. Was that weird? Was that unprofessional? Was that even allowed?

Joel froze.

You could almost see the war playing out inside him—the instinct to say no, to stay distant, battling the overwhelming pull he felt toward you.

But in the end, he couldn’t tell you no. He just jerked his head slightly, beckoning you to follow.

Joel unlocked the door and stepped inside, holding it open for you. You slipped in, your fingers already fumbling to untie the soft jacket he’d once traded for his session.

Joel silently helped you, his calloused hands brushing against your arms as he slid the heavy fabric off your shoulders.

You shivered, definitley not from the cold.

The door closed behind you with a soft click, sealing you both inside a bubble of tense, humming silence. Joel cleared his throat, glancing at you awkwardly.

“Uh… coffee or tea?”

“Coffee,” you said quickly, needing something, anything, to do with your hands, your mind, your heart hammering against your ribs.

You sat down carefully at his small, worn kitchen table, feeling absurdly out of place.

The chair creaked under you, the faint smell of coffee and old wood wrapping around you like a too-tight blanket. Joel busied himself at the counter, his broad back facing you.

You watched the way his shoulders moved under his jacket, the way his fingers fumbled slightly with the coffee canister.

He wasn’t as steady as he wanted to seem. And neither were you. For the first time in your life as a therapist, you had no idea what to say.

No idea how to reach the man standing a few feet away without falling headfirst into something neither of you would be able to undo.

Joel was in hell. Not just because of tonight—though that alone had probably shattered what little trust Ellie still had in him, and would no doubt make him a target of whispers in Jackson for weeks—

But because you were here. Sitting in his kitchen. Looking at him with those wide, worried eyes that made him want to fall to his knees.

He clutched the edge of the counter tighter, knuckles whitening. If he made one wrong move, if he let himself feel too much—

He wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to stop. And he wasn’t sure he even wanted to.

Without saying a word, he grabbed two chipped mugs and poured coffee into each, the rich aroma filling the heavy silence between you.

Once he finished, he shrugged off his jacket, hanging it carefully on the hook right next to yours — so close, almost touching.

Only then did he return, walking back over to where you sat, still quiet, still unsure.

He handed you one of the mugs, and as you reached out to take it, your fingers brushed against his.

The contact was brief, feather-light, but it sent an electric jolt through your body — and clearly through his, too.

Both of you froze for a fraction of a second, your eyes locking, breath caught between you.

It was so quick, so subtle… but so undeniably there.

Joel cleared his throat lowly, trying to brush it off, and finally sat down opposite you, his large hands curling around his mug like it was his only lifeline to reality. The steam rose between you two, swirling in the cold air that seeped through the old house’s walls.

There was a long pause — neither of you seemed to know how to start — until suddenly, both of you spoke at the same time.

You stopped. He stopped.

An awkward, soft laugh escaped you, and Joel gave a small huff of amusement through his nose, the faintest ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

“You first,” Joel said eventually, nodding toward you, his voice gruff but surprisingly gentle, always the gentleman, even now.

You shifted slightly in your seat, taking a breath.

“I just… I just want you to know,” you started carefully, your fingers nervously tracing the handle of your mug, “that what you did back there? I get it. You were just trying to protect someone you care about. And… you shouldn’t feel bad for that.” Your voice was soft, earnest.

Joel let out a rough, disbelieving chuckle, shaking his head like he couldn’t even begin to accept your kindness.

“I fucked everythin’ up,” he muttered, voice low and cracked. “Don’t even know how to fix it now.”

Then, with a defeated sigh, Joel buried his face in his hands.

The sight made your chest ache — you had to physically stop yourself from reaching out, from covering his rough, work-worn hands with your own.

Not now. Not when he was so vulnerable. You couldn’t cross that line… not yet.

Your heart was pounding painfully against your ribs when you suddenly remembered something. You had brought a little “emergency” with you to the party, just in case, and it seemed like the perfect time for it now.

Without thinking too much, you jumped up from your chair, making Joel lift his head in slight surprise.

You fumbled through the pocket of your jacket, finally pulling out a small bag of weed with a victorious grin.

Joel quirked an eyebrow at you, the corners of his mouth twitching up in faint amusement.

“Seriously?” he asked, voice half incredulous, half fond, when he saw what you were holding.

You nodded enthusiastically, the grin not leaving your face. And for the first time that night, Joel genuinely smiled.

You ended up sitting closer together on the old, battered couch, sharing a joint, letting the slow haze of warmth and laughter ease the tension that had been suffocating both of you all evening.

The conversation flowed easier now, soft jokes and even softer glances exchanged between you two. Joel’s shoulders, always so rigid, finally started to relax. His laugh, low and raspy, filled the room in small bursts.

And you felt a kind of peace you hadn’t known you were missing. For a while, in that little pocket of time, it didn’t matter what had happened at the party. It didn’t matter how badly Joel thought he had ruined everything.

It was just the two of you. Just coffee-stained mugs cooling on the table. The laughter between you faded into a lingering quiet, warm and a little awkward, as if neither of you wanted to be the one to break it.

You leaned forward slightly, reaching for your cup, your fingers brushing the ceramic as you brought it to your lips for a small sip. The coffee had cooled a little, but the warmth still felt good in your hands.

As you set the cup back down, a few loose strands of hair slipped into your face. Before you could lift your hand to brush them away, Joel moved. Quietly, instinctively.

His fingers were rough, calloused from years of work, but the way he touched you was anything but.

He tucked the loose strands gently behind your ear, his knuckles barely grazing your cheek. Your eyes met. Locked.

The air between you turned electric, heavy and trembling like a taut string ready to snap.

Joel’s gaze flickered, your lips, your eyes, your lips again, his breathing shallow, heart thundering so loudly he was sure you could hear it. You didn’t move. Neither did he.

His hand lingered, sliding almost hesitantly down, until his palm was resting at the nape of your neck. Large, warm, protective.

Holding you there like he was afraid if he let go, you’d vanish. Your breath caught in your throat.

Joel swallowed hard. His thumb moved ever so slightly, brushing against your skin, the softest, slowest motion—intimate beyond words.

Every fiber of your being screamed for him to close the distance.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, suspended in that fragile space between hesitation and surrender.

And then, Joel leaned in. Slow, deliberate. His forehead almost touched yours. His nose just grazed your cheek. His breath, ragged, fanned over your lips.

He waited, giving you the chance to pull away. But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

And when your mouth met his, it was soft at first, trembling, full of all the things that had been left unsaid for far too long. It was barely a kiss. Joel’s lips just brushed yours, the softest ghost of a touch, as if he wasn’t sure if he had the right.

The moment he felt your slight intake of breath, your stunned stillness, he immediately pulled back.

His hand left your neck in a flash, and he leaned away, guilt flashing across his features.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, voice rough, almost pained, his eyes darting away.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t’ve—”

But you smiled. A slow, mischievous, almost dangerous curve of your lips. Maybe it was the weed, or maybe it was just him—but suddenly you felt bold. Hungry.

“You know,” you said, voice dropping into a teasing murmur, “in therapy, touch is supposed to be strictly off-limits.”

Your eyes glinted, a spark of wickedness dancing there. Joel blinked at you, completely thrown off by your shift, struggling to catch up.

“And yet,” you leaned in closer, your breath brushing against his jaw, “sometimes… rules are made to be broken, aren’t they, Mr. Miller?”

Before he could say anything, before he could ruin it with another apology, you kissed him.

Properly, this time. Your mouth pressed firmly to his, tasting him, demanding him.

Joel groaned against your lips, low and guttural, like something deep inside him finally snapped free.

His hands found your waist, strong fingers digging into your sides, desperate to feel more of you.

You moved instinctively, climbing into his lap, straddling him without even thinking, your thighs bracketing his hips.

The second your body settled over him, he let out another soft, broken sound, and you could feel him, already hard against you, hot and throbbing through his jeans.

You rocked your hips just a little, testing, and his hands clamped down harder, a silent plea for you to stop torturing him.

He was kissing you now like he couldn’t get enough—slow, then deep, then messily hungry, tongues tangling, teeth grazing.

His palms were everywhere: your back, your thighs, your waist, exploring every inch of you like he needed to memorize it.

You felt his heart pounding against your chest, matching your own racing pulse.

You were both half-wild already, and yet somehow still trying to hold on, trying not to fall into it too fast. But it was no use.

His salt-and-pepper beard scraped deliciously against your mouth, rough and warm, sending little sparks of heat down your spine every time he shifted closer.

You could feel the slight burn of it on your lips, your cheeks, even your jaw, and it made you crave more. More of him, more of this brutal tenderness he gave you without even thinking.

Joel wasn’t letting you breathe. He wasn’t letting you go. His big body caged you in, his strong hands gripping you like he was terrified you might slip away. But the truth was, you didn’t want to go anywhere. You wanted to drown in him.

The coffee still hung faintly in the air, mixing with the deep scent of Joel’s skin��warm, musky, and grounding.

Outside, the snow was falling harder, the soft hiss of it against the windows making everything inside feel even hotter, even heavier.

The world had faded away, leaving only the frantic beat of your hearts crashing together.

You whimpered against his mouth when he kissed you harder, rougher, desperate.

And you were already so wet, feeling the damp heat pooling between your thighs, your soaked panties sticking uncomfortably against you—but it only made you ache for him even more.

Both of you knew this was wrong. You knew there was still time to stop—to pull away, to breathe, to talk. But neither of you even considered it.

You were already too far gone, drunk on him, on the weed, on the days of tension finally snapping like a brittle thread.

Your hands tangled in his greying hair, pulling sharply when he bit at your lower lip, and Joel groaned—a deep, guttural sound that vibrated right through your core.

He shifted his grip from your face to your hips, hauling you closer against him, grinding your body against his aching hardness.

His palms slid lower, kneading your ass, fingers digging in possessively, making you shudder and moan against him.

Between ragged kisses, he muttered against your lips, voice rough and breaking apart:

“Goddamn… been waitin’ so fuckin’ long for this…”

Another kiss, deeper, hungrier.

“Dreamt about this… ‘bout you…”

Each word hit you like a lightning bolt, setting your whole body on fire.

You answered by kissing him even harder, almost feral now, desperate to feel every inch of him, every ounce of need he poured into you.

The air around you was humid and heavy, thick with the scent of coffee, weed, sweat, and snow-melt leaking from your clothes. It was suffocating in the best way. It smelled like Joel. It smelled like home. And you couldn’t take it anymore.

Your hips started moving on their own, grinding down against the hard bulge in Joel’s jeans. The friction made your head spin, sparks of unbearable pleasure shooting through your core with every slow roll of your body.

You whimpered into his mouth, feeling the way his whole body stiffened under you—and that was it.

That was all it took to make Joel snap.

A low, dangerous growl rumbled in his chest, and in the next second, he attacked your neck with a hunger that stole the breath from your lungs.

You cried out his name, loud, raw, desperate, your fingers clawing at the fabric of his shirt, digging into the strong muscles of his back.

He didn’t stop, he licked, sucked, bit into the tender skin of your neck like he was branding you, leaving dark, possessive marks that you were going to wear for days.

Your throat, your collarbone, even the top of your chest—he left no space untouched. And all the while, your hips never stopped moving.

Your body was chasing the friction shamelessly, rolling and grinding against him as Joel buried his face in your neck, groaning, losing his fucking mind over the way you felt on top of him.

The air around you turned even thicker, hotter, electrified with raw, animalistic want. Every breath you took was shaky, every sound you made was ripped straight from your chest.

When he finally tore himself away from your neck, both of you stared at each other—wild, disheveled, drowning in need. No words were spoken. They weren’t needed.

Your hands were trembling when you reached for the hem of his shirt, and Joel didn’t even hesitate.

He grabbed the back of it and yanked it over his head, tossing it somewhere across the room. The sight of his bare chest—broad, scarred, covered in coarse dark hair—made your knees weak.

You couldn’t stop yourself from reaching out, running your hands over his warm, hard skin, feeling the raw strength hidden underneath.

Joel hissed through his teeth when your palms slid over his ribs and up to his chest—but when you brushed your thumbs over his nipples, he growled, low and dangerous, and grabbed you again, desperate and rough.

Now it was his turn.

His fingers tugged at your clothes, fumbling with the buttons, the zippers, the seams—every new inch of bare skin he uncovered made the room spin faster, made his touch rougher, needier. Your shirt fell to the floor. Then your bra.

Joel’s calloused palms immediately covered your breasts, squeezing them, kneading them, making you whimper and arch into his touch.

His eyes were dark, hungry, absolutely wrecked as he stared at you like you were something holy and forbidden all at once.

Each piece of clothing that hit the floor made the air thicken even more, made the space between your bodies buzz like a live wire.

You could feel it with every trembling breath, every desperate glance—the terrifying, undeniable truth: there was no turning back now.

Joel couldn’t keep his hands off you anymore.

He slid his rough palms down your sides, gripping your hips with a strength that made your thighs tremble.

His mouth was all over you—lips, teeth, tongue—claiming every inch he could reach.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” he rasped against your skin, his voice low and reverent.

“Could stare at you all damn day… could spend the rest of my life touchin’ you.”

You whimpered at the sound of his praise, your entire body lighting up, clenching with desperate need.

Joel’s hands slid between your thighs and with a sharp tug, he ripped your panties apart like they were made of paper.

“Joel!” you gasped, looking down at the ruined fabric in horror.

“Those were expensive!”

He just chuckled darkly, tossing the torn lace somewhere behind him without a second thought.

“I’ll get ya a whole goddamn drawer full of ‘em,” he said, voice thick with hunger.

“Right now I need you more than I need my next fuckin’ breath.”

You barely had time to recover before he dove between your legs, leaving open-mouthed kisses up the inside of your thigh, growling against your skin.

Your hands fumbled with his belt, desperate, needing to feel all of him.

Joel helped you, cursing under his breath as he shrugged out of his jeans.

What you saw made your heart stutter.

The bulge straining against his underwear was massive. You froze for a second, mouth dry, staring up at him in awe. Joel noticed, of course, and that shit-eating grin he gave you almost made you combust on the spot.

“What’s the matter, darlin’?” he teased, voice full of wicked amusement.

“Didn’t expect me to be this big?”

You opened your mouth to answer, but no sound came out—only a needy whimper. Joel just laughed, low and cocky, and slid his underwear down.

And holy fuck—you weren’t sure if it was the weed still fogging your brain or just the sheer size of him, but the moment his thick, heavy cock sprang free, your mouth watered instantly.

Without even thinking, you slid off his lap and dropped to your knees between his legs. Joel’s eyes widened slightly, his chest heaving.

“Darlin'… you don’t have to—” he started, but you cut him off with a soft, hungry smile.

“I want to,” you whispered, voice wrecked with need, locking your gaze with his.

You wrapped your hand around his thick shaft, feeling how hot and heavy he was in your palm,

and then you leaned forward, flattening your tongue against the head and swirling it teasingly.

Joel cursed violently, his hands flying to your hair.

“Fuck, baby… that’s it… just like that,” he groaned, threading his fingers into your hair but letting you set the pace.

“Such a good fuckin’ girl for me… goddamn.”

You bobbed your head slowly at first, taking him deeper inch by inch, feeling the silky skin over the steel hardness underneath.

The salty taste of precum spread across your tongue, making your core clench even harder.

Joel’s thighs tensed on either side of you, his breathing turning ragged. “That’s it, sweetheart… look so pretty with your mouth full of me…”

You hummed around him, sending vibrations up his length, and Joel’s hips jerked involuntarily, forcing a deeper thrust into your mouth.

You moaned in response, the needy, desperate sound vibrating against his cock.

Joel’s fingers tightened in your hair, but he was still careful, letting you control how deep you took him.

The whole room was filled with obscene sounds-wet, messy, desperate. The way you sucked him, the way Joel’s ragged groans filled the heavy, hazy air. It was primal. Raw.

A need that had been building for what felt like a lifetime—and now it was all crashing down in this one electric, filthy moment.

Outside, you could barely hear the wind howling against the windows,

but inside, the only storm was the one raging between you two.

The smell of coffee, sex, and Joel’s own rugged scent filled your lungs with every gasping breath you took.

And Joel couldn’t stop looking at you, couldn’t stop moaning your name in that broken, reverent way that made you feel like the center of his whole goddamn universe.

Your lips wrapped tighter around Joel’s cock, feeling just how massive he really was. Your jaw ached slightly from the stretch, but you didn’t dare stop, didn’t want to stop.

The thick weight of him filled your mouth obscenely, the silky skin sliding against your tongue with every slow, deliberate pull of your lips. The taste of him was salty, heavy, and completely addictive.

Your hands slid up his thighs, feeling the way his muscles were tense, locked tight like he was struggling not to move. His skin was burning hot under your palms, every tiny twitch betraying how close he already was.

Joel was breathing harshly above you, his chest rising and falling in ragged bursts. He had one hand still tangled gently but firmly in your hair, letting you take the lead, but the other hand reached down, grabbing your wrist, squeezing it tightly as if to ground himself, to stop himself from losing control.

“Fuck, baby… so good… so fuckin’ good…” he hissed between clenched teeth.

You hollowed your cheeks and took him deeper, feeling the thick, pulsing vein along the underside of his cock drag against your tongue.He was impossibly hard, but his skin was velvety soft, warm, and alive in your mouth.

The weight of him made your lips stretch wide, drool beginning to spill from the corners of your mouth, dripping down your chin.

Joel groaned—deep, guttural—and threw his head back against the couch, the muscles in his neck straining as he fought the urge to buck his hips into your mouth.

But he couldn’t hold back completely.

Every so often, his hips jerked forward sharply, driving his cock deeper into your throat, and you gagged lightly around him, tears springing to your eyes.

“Shit—sorry, I—” he panted, voice breaking with restraint.

“Can’t fuckin’ help it… you feel too damn good…”

You whimpered around him, the vibrations making him curse again.

Your thighs rubbed together desperately, because the way Joel was falling apart for you was driving you insane. The aching, throbbing need between your legs was unbearable, slick dripping onto the floor beneath you, but you stayed focused, desperate to make him fall apart.

Joel’s hand in your hair tightened just slightly, not forcing, not controlling, but anchoring himself, like he needed you to keep him tethered to this moment.

His balls were heavy, full, drawn up tight against his body.

You could feel the way they shifted as he struggled to hold himself back, his whole body shuddering under your touch. His fingers caressed your wrist, a silent worship, almost trembling with how badly he wanted you.

Joel’s breathing grew heavier, rougher, more desperate by the second.

You could feel it in the way his thighs trembled under your palms, the way his hand in your hair tightened—not rough, but pleading, as if he was begging for release.

His cock twitched against your tongue, swelling even more impossibly thick as his whole body tensed.

“Fuck… gonna—” he gasped, the words tumbling out broken and raw.

You quickened your pace slightly, swirling your tongue around the sensitive head, and that was all it took. With a deep, guttural groan that seemed to tear itself straight from his chest, Joel came.

His hips jerked up uncontrollably, and thick, hot spurts of cum filled your mouth, salty and slightly bitter, coating your tongue and the back of your throat.

You moaned softly at the taste—musky, masculine, entirely him—and swallowed instinctively, wanting to take all of him in.

Joel cursed again, a low, broken “Jesus…” escaping his lips, his voice hoarse and wrecked.

His head fell back, exposing the strong line of his throat, his chest heaving with every ragged breath. Every muscle in his body was drawn tight, trembling under the intensity of his orgasm.

He kept one shaking hand tangled in your hair, the other gripping the edge of the couch so tightly his knuckles went white. You pulled back slowly, letting his softening cock slip from your lips with a lewd, wet sound.

A little bit of his release dripped from the corner of your mouth, and you wiped it away with the back of your hand, cheeks burning with heat and pride.

Your eyes met his, Joel’s were dark, wild, overwhelmed, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. The only sound was his heavy breathing and the distant hum of the night outside.

He reached for you blindly, pulling you up onto his lap, cradling you against his chest as if you were something fragile he needed to protect.

“You’re fuckin’ incredible,” he whispered against your hair, voice still shaky.

“So damn good…”

You nuzzled into him, heart pounding, still trembling yourself, not from fear or doubt, but from the raw, electric intensity of it all. You had made him come apart at the seams. You had him falling apart for you.

And god, it made the pulsing ache between your thighs almost unbearable. Joel’s hands slid slowly up and down your back, steadying himself as much as you. But you could already feel it: the way his body was starting to react again, the slow, inevitable reignition of need simmering between you both.

He wasn’t done, and neither were you.

Still perched in Joel’s lap, your breathless laughter barely settled from what you just did, you leaned in closer, your lips brushing the shell of his ear.

And in your softest, filthiest voice, you whispered, “You know…I’ve had a lot of clients, but none of them ever came this fast before, Mr. Miller.”

The moment the words left your mouth, you felt Joel’s whole body stiffen under you, like you’d lit a fuse. A low, almost animalistic growl rumbled deep in his chest.

Without a word, Joel flipped you over in one fluid, controlled movement, so now he was the one kneeling in front of you on the couch.

You gasped, startled, but before you could even think to say anything, Joel shot you a dark, wicked smirk — the kind of look that said you were absolutely, completely fucked — and grabbed your thighs, spreading them wide apart.

You barely had time to suck in a breath before Joel ducked down and devoured you. His tongue was hot and messy and desperate, lapping at your soaked core like he’d been starving for you for years.

The first stroke of his tongue up your slit made your entire body jerk, a strangled, broken moan ripping from your throat.

He groaned against you, the vibrations making your head fall back against the couch, your fingers immediately flying into his hair, grabbing at the silver-streaked strands in pure desperation.

Joel was relentless. His mouth was everywhere—licking, sucking, teasing your clit with maddening circles before sliding lower to dip into your entrance, tasting the very core of you.

You were already dripping, wetness coating his lips, his beard glistening under the soft, golden light of the room. He didn’t care. He wanted it messy. He wanted all of you.

Your thighs trembled uncontrollably around his head, but Joel only growled and pulled you even closer, locking his arms around your hips so you couldn’t get away. As if you’d ever want to.

The texture of his tongue was perfect—slightly rough, silky, impossibly skilled as he switched between broad strokes and tight, focused flicks. Your clit was throbbing, every nerve ending on fire, your whole body arching into his mouth.

Joel muttered filthy praises against your pussy between strokes, things like, “Taste so fuckin’ sweet, darlin',” and “Could stay down here forever,” each word sending a new rush of heat through your blood.

You sobbed his name, voice high and cracked, hips grinding helplessly against his mouth as the pressure inside you coiled tighter and tighter.

Joel felt it, he knew you were close, and with a smug, satisfied hum, he slipped two thick fingers inside your fluttering hole, crooking them just right to hit that sweet, devastating spot.

The combination of his fingers stroking inside you and his mouth sucking mercilessly at your clit had you unraveling, fast.

Your body locked up, muscles spasming uncontrollably, a wild, broken cry tearing out of you as you came harder than you ever had in your life.

Joel didn’t stop, not through your shudders, not through your gasps, he licked and kissed you through every wave of your orgasm, savoring every last drop of your release.

Your wetness coated his chin, his lips, dripping messily onto the couch, onto his hands, but he didn’t fucking care.

You collapsed against the cushions, panting, utterly wrecked, your whole body still twitching from aftershocks.

He lifted his head from between your thighs, his lips glistening with you, and in his eyes burned that unbelievably dark, proud look.

He kept caressing your inner thighs for a moment longer, tracing slow, soothing circles with his fingertips to ease you through the lingering waves of pleasure.

Then he leaned closer and murmured in a rough, praising voice:

“Good girl… You did so fuckin’ good for me, sweetheart.”

Your body almost trembled at his words — but both of you knew this was far from over.

Joel gave you a moment to catch your breath, his heavy breathing matching yours in the thick, charged air between you. You were glistening with sweat, skin flushed and trembling slightly, but to him, you were the most breathtaking thing he’d ever seen. His cock, still painfully hard and throbbing, twitched at the sight of you spread out on the couch — all messy and ruined because of him.

He couldn’t wait any longer.

With a deep, desperate grunt, Joel climbed onto the couch, his strong hands sliding under you effortlessly. He shifted your body with ease, guiding you until you were lying flat beneath him. His massive frame hovered above, shadowing you completely, and for a moment, you just stared at each other.

Your glassy, tear-filled eyes met his — his were dark, wild, predatory. Like a starving wolf finally facing the meal he’d been denied for far too long. His broad chest heaved with each ragged breath, muscles taut with restraint.

Before moving further, Joel lowered his head slightly and gave you a subtle nod, silently asking for permission. And with a shy, eager little nod back, you gave it to him.

Joel lined himself up, his thick cock rubbing against your slick folds, and slowly began to push in.

The stretch was intense — he was so damn big that your walls fought to accommodate him, making you hiss sharply through your clenched teeth. Your nails instinctively dug into the hard planes of his back, leaving angry red scratches in their wake, but Joel only groaned at the feeling. He welcomed it. He wanted it. Proof of how good he was making you feel.

He paused for a moment, his forehead pressing against yours, whispering a low, gravelly:

“Breathe… I got you…”

Then, with a deep, primal growl, Joel pushed the rest of the way in, bottoming out inside you.

You whimpered at the sudden fullness, your thighs trembling against his hips, but fuck — the feeling of being completely stretched around him, the heavy weight of him deep inside you, was absolutely addictive.

Joel pressed a tender kiss to your sweaty forehead, a shaky attempt to comfort you, to ground you.

And then, he started to move.

Slow, deep thrusts at first. He wanted you to feel everything — every ridge, every pulsing vein of his thick cock dragging along your sensitive walls.

Each push knocked soft, helpless little whimpers from your throat. Each pull left you feeling devastatingly empty, only for him to fill you up again — harder, deeper, more desperate each time.

Joel kept one hand anchored firmly on your hip, the other sliding up to intertwine with your fingers above your head, pinning you down in the most delicious way.

His lips brushed your temple, whispering words between ragged breaths:

“So tight for me… made just for me, ain’t ya, sweet girl?”

Your mind was a whirlwind — your heart pounding so loudly you could barely hear anything else, your body trembling under the relentless, steady rhythm Joel set.

The sounds between you were filthy: the wet slap of skin against skin, the soft creak of the couch under your shifting bodies, and the desperate, broken moans that neither of you could hold back anymore.

Outside, the night was quiet, the cool breeze whispering against the windows — but inside, the heat between you burned hotter than anything else.

A pulsing tension coiled tighter and tighter in your belly, fueled by Joel’s low growls and the constant, overwhelming friction of him dragging against your most sensitive spots.

He noticed it, of course he did — he could feel your walls fluttering around him, trying to pull him even deeper, to keep him inside forever.

Your second orgasm hit you like a violent, breathtaking wave.

It was louder this time, messier — a raw, guttural scream of Joel’s name tearing from your throat as your body seized and spasmed uncontrollably around him.

The world tilted violently, your vision swimming with stars, a sharp ringing filling your ears.

Your entire body was on fire, but at the same time — cold shivers raced down your spine, leaving you trembling and gasping for air like you’d been dragged under a riptide.

Your nails clawed desperately at Joel’s broad shoulders, leaving red, angry marks in your wake as your orgasm wracked through you.

Joel cursed under his breath, the sound low and almost desperate, as he drove into you a few more brutal, stuttering thrusts.

Then, with a deep, broken groan torn straight from his chest, he buried himself deep inside you one last time, and came hard.

His hips jerked against yours, pushing as deep as he could go while thick, hot pulses of his cum flooded your clenching core.

He couldn’t hold back, filling you up so completely it almost hurt, his whole body trembling with the force of his release.

A strangled, guttural version of your name spilled from his lips as he collapsed forward slightly, pressing his forehead to yours, breathing heavily through his nose.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

The world around you was nothing but your heartbeats hammering violently against each other’s skin, the room spinning slightly from the exertion — and from the lingering haze of the weed you’d both smoked earlier.

Joel finally shifted, gently easing out of you, and a messy mix of both of your releases immediately began to leak from between your legs, dripping onto the couch cushions below.

He hissed softly at the oversensitivity but didn’t move far — instead, he gathered you carefully into his arms, pulling you close against his sweaty, trembling chest.

You both collapsed back onto the couch — or what was left of it — tangled together, naked, sticky, sweaty, completely and utterly exhausted.

Joel wasn’t young anymore, and after what felt like an eternity without this kind of raw, consuming sex — it was hitting him hard.

You, overwhelmed from the double orgasm and the intense intimacy, could barely keep your eyes open.

Your head spun lazily, your body still twitching slightly in the aftermath, and the only thing grounding you was the heavy, protective weight of Joel wrapped around you.

There was a slow, sticky warmth still dripping between your legs — the mixture of your own release and Joel’s seed slowly seeping out — but you were both too far gone to care.

Joel’s cock, still slightly leaking, twitched weakly against your thigh as he finally gave in to sleep. You let yourself drift off too, tucked safely in his arms, surrounded by his scent, by the overwhelming sense of safety and belonging that you hadn’t even realized you were craving this badly.

The first thing that woke you up were the warm beams of sunlight slicing through the window, landing right across your closed eyelids.

You groaned softly, stretching out your sore, heavy limbs under the covers — and that’s when you realized…

You were in a bed. Under a blanket wearing a shirt. Your fingers brushed the fabric instinctively, recognizing the slightly worn, soft cotton and — unmistakably — Joel’s scent.

Earthy, musky, with that sharp trace of woodsmoke clinging to him like a second skin. It was his shirt, no doubt. Confused and groggy, you sat up, looking around in slow, cautious movements.

How the hell had you gotten here? As you pieced the memories together, it hit you all at once — like a slap across the face. The night before.

Joel.

The sex.

The weed.

You had slept with your client. Your older, rugged client you’d only known for about a week. You had slept with a man old enough to be your father. And you had gotten high as fuck with him beforehand.

Guilt and panic churned violently inside your gut, making your hands tremble as you dropped your face into your palms, groaning miserably.

What the fuck had you done?

But after a few moments of spiraling self-hatred, you forced yourself to pull it together. You needed your clothes. You needed to leave.

You stood up carefully, the oversized shirt barely covering the tops of your thighs, and looked around the room. Your clothes were nowhere in sight.

Your heart pounded painfully against your ribs as you tiptoed toward the door. The moment you opened them, the smell hit you. The rich, bitter coffee and Joel.

You froze for a moment before cautiously moving closer to the kitchen.

Joel was there, bustling around, wearing a loose, comfortable T-shirt and jeans, sleeves pushed up, the muscles in his forearms flexing with each small movement.

When he heard the door creak, he immediately turned around, his whole face lighting up with a soft, easy smile.

“Morning,” he drawled, his voice still deliciously rough from sleep.

He gestured to the chair across from him at the small kitchen table.

“Come sit’.”

You hesitated for a split second — your mind still a chaotic mess — but eventually shuffled over and sat down awkwardly.

You were honestly stunned.

Not just because of everything that had happened… But because Joel was still here. He hadn’t run off. He hadn’t left you alone, confused, and abandoned. He stayed. He even made coffee.

The conversation started light, typical morning chatter. He asked how you slept, if you were hungry, if you wanted sugar in your coffee…No mention of last night. No mention of the sex.

Just that soft, lazy morning vibe like you were… normal.

You sipped the rich, hot coffee, smiling shyly at him across the table, and he smiled right back, warm and genuine.

Your eyes eventually flicked to the worn leather watch strapped around his wrist, noticing the bullet hole scar near the band, and then panic suddenly punched you in the gut again.

What time was it? You had work!

You shot up from your chair, mumbling frantically about needing to get dressed, about being late — but Joel just chuckled under his breath, calm as ever.

“Relax,” he said, voice low and reassuring.

“I called Tommy. Told him you’re takin’ the day off. He let all your clients know. You’re good.”

You stared at him, stunned, not quite believing it.

But the way he said it, so confident, so casually protective, eventually made you sink back down into your seat, your heart still racing but slowly beginning to calm. You sipped your coffee again, feeling his steady gaze on you.

The silence that followed was… thick. Not hostile, not cold, just full. Only the quiet clink of a coffee cup being set down or the occasional creak of the wooden chair broke through it.

You both avoided each other’s eyes for a while. It was awkward, in the worst possible way. Because you knew. You knew you couldn’t just ignore last night forever.

So eventually, as a professional, as someone who understood the weight of unspoken tension, you broke the silence. Your voice was low, careful.

“About… last night—”

Joel looked up sharply and lifted a hand, stopping you gently but firmly.

“I get it,” he said, his voice calm, steady.

“We were both high. It just sorta… happened.”

You nodded once, lips pressing into a tight, almost guilty line. He wasn’t wrong. But he wasn’t exactly right either. The quiet returned for a moment, a little softer this time. Then you cleared your throat.

“Uh… Do you happen to know where my clothes ended up?”

Joel nodded, a low breath left through his nose before he stood up.

“Yeah, I got ‘em.”

He disappeared into the hallway and returned a moment later with your neatly folded clothes. You stood up, took them slowly, your fingers brushing his as you did.

You didn’t look him in the eyes, but you felt his gaze, heavy and lingering, sliding over you like he hadn’t just seen you bare and shaking under him a few hours ago. Then he spoke again, voice softer now.

“Look… if you’re still okay with it, I’d like to keep meetin’. I mean, professionally. I think it’s… helpin’.”

You finally looked at him — really looked at him. There was something behind his words. Something uncertain. But also hopeful.

You nodded, lips curling just barely.

“Sure. We can keep meeting.”

He gave the smallest, almost imperceptible smile. Like something inside him had unclenched.

You turned and headed toward the guest room to change, feeling the heat of his gaze on your back the whole way.

And the irony wasn’t lost on you, how you now moved through this house wearing his scent, still sticky between your thighs, pretending like this was normal.

Like you hadn’t just let him tear you apart with his mouth, his hands, his— You stopped. Breathed. Got dressed.

When you finally came out, dressed, hair tied up, a little more composed, Joel was leaning against the counter, sipping his coffee. The silence between you stretched heavy, charged with everything that had happened the night before, and everything neither of you had said yet.

You cleared your throat softly and said, “Well… I guess I should probably go.”

Joel didn’t respond at first. But the way his expression shifted, just slightly, told you everything. Surprise, a flicker of disappointment… maybe even hurt. Like he’d expected you to stay, to share this morning with him. But he didn’t try to stop you. He understood. Maybe you both were still processing what the hell last night even meant.

He simply nodded and walked with you, until you reached the front door. He opened it for you, stepping aside.

You stopped in the doorway, hesitating. Then you turned your head just slightly and said with a soft, knowing smile, “Just so you know… I wasn’t that high.”

Joel froze. You didn’t wait for a response — you just walked off, the sunlight catching your hair as you disappeared down the street.

Joel stood there for a second, the echo of your words still ringing in the air like a shot. Then he let out a low chuckle, shook his head in disbelief, and muttered to himself,

“Goddamn woman…”

Hiii, thank you so much for reading!

I hope you guys enjoyed it! If you have any suggestions, don’t hesitate to let me know! I’d also be super happy for any feedback; whether it’s a reblog, comment, like, or even a follow.

Have a nice day!

LOVE YA🌸💗

[mmegwrld]

★⋆｡𖦹 FLOWER BOY + jeon jungkook

jungkook visits your flower shop one day, expecting you to be mean but you caught his eye. your softness and colorful aura, it felt like something shifted inside of him— finding himself coming back.

word count : 3.9k

genre : FLUFFFF ALL AROUND

warnings : edgy(?)jk, cussing, emotional vulnerability? MILDDD ROMANTIC TENSION!! literally so fluffy omg like it makes my stomach have butterflies help, reader is a florist, namjoon makes a guest appearance!😉, kissing, reader is the word soft girl in form, THIS IS NOT PROOFREAD!

a/n : i like this oneee! and i didn’t write the title this time because i hated the way it looked whenever i wrote it😭😭I HAD SMM FUN IN HAWAII! okay anyway, enjoy this☀️💐

masterlist

the first time you met jungkook, you were kind of nervous.

it was raining the first time he walked into your flower shop. the doorbell jingled, and you looked up from your little notebook, expecting the usual: a sweet old lady needing tulips, or a rushed boyfriend begging for a last-minute bouquet.

instead, you were met with the sound of heavy boots and the scent of rain-soaked leather. jungkook stood just inside the door, black hoodie under a worn-out leather jacket, wet hair dripping into his eyes. he looked like he belonged in a music video, not in your pastel-colored little shop with flower-printed wallpaper and gentle acoustic music playing in the background.

you blinked, “hi there… can i help you?” he stared at you for a second, like he wasn’t expecting to be greeted so gently. then he cleared his throat, “uh. yeah. i guess. i need… a flower.”

you smiled politely, “any kind in mind?” he glanced around, clearly overwhelmed by the color explosion in the room. his eyes landed on a small vase of daisies by the window.

“those,” he said, nodding. “the white ones.”

“daises?” you asked, grabbing your scissors. “good choice. they mean purity and new beginnings.”

“cool,” he muttered, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “didn’t ask, but okay.” you giggled — not offended, just amused. “i like telling people the meanings. sorry.”

he watched you for a moment while you carefully wrapped the flower in brown paper, tying it with a soft yellow ribbon. “you do this for everyone?” he asked quietly.

“mhm,” you hummed. “i like making people feel cared for.” he went quiet again.

you handed him the wrapped daisy, and your fingers brushed. his were rough and warm — calloused, probably from guitar strings or fights he didn’t want to talk about.

“that’s on the house,” you said softly. “you look like you had a rough day.” jungkook stared at you like you’d just handed him something more valuable than a daisy. “why would you do that?”

you shrugged. “sometimes people just need something kind.” he looked down at the flower, then back at you. something shifted in his expression — just a flicker, something small.

“…thanks.”

a week later. the rain had stopped but jungkook didn’t. he showed up again in a hoodie and his hair neater like he actually looked in the mirror.

you looked up from restocking some roses and smiled, “back so soon?” you tease. he nodded, “yeah… i need another flower.”

you tilted your head, “another daisy?” he hesitated, “uh… yeah sure i guess.”

you walked over to the daises with your hand on your hips and a smile, “you’re not buying these for anybody, huh?” you asked. he froze, “what?”

hou stepped closer, playful. “you don’t have anyone to give these to, do you?” he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “maybe i just like flowers.”

“you don’t even know what daises mean,” you grabbed one and wrap it up just like before. jungkook mumbled, “they mean like purity.. and new stuff or somethin…”

you laughed, and something about the sound made his heart twist weirdly in his chest.

you didn’t press him further. you just wrapped the daisy again, ribbon matching the blush that threatened to rise in his cheeks. he watched you as you worked— how careful you were with the petals, how your lips moved as you hummed something under your breath.

she’s soft, he thought. and not just in the way she dresses or talks — she is soft. kind in a way he didn’t know people still were. and it kind of messed him up.

you handed him the flower again, fingertips brushing like last time. “still on the house.”

he looked at the daisy, then at you, and said— like he couldn’t stop himself, “what if i wanna bring you something next time?” you blinked, “me?”

“yeah,” he said, rubbing his thumb over the paper-wrapped stem. “you keep giving stuff away. thought maybe you should get something back.”

you smiled, that soft, sunshine smile that made something in his chest ache. “i’d like that.”

this time, he stood outside the flower shop for a full ten minutes before going in.

his hand clenched around the small object in his pocket — warm from his palm, a little stupid, but it felt right. he hadn’t told anyone he was coming here again. not his friends, not his brother, not even himself, really.

but when he walked in and saw you behind the counter, arranging a vase of wildflowers with your hair pulled back and a little smudge of dirt on your cheek, he forgot why he was nervous in the first place.

you looked up and lit up like always. “hey, jungkook. you need another daisy?” he shook his head, stepping toward the counter. “not today.”

you raised a brow, teasing. “so you do have someone to give flowers to now?”

he didn’t answer right away. instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a tiny keychain — a small plastic bear holding a daisy, clearly won from some old claw machine. the thing was kinda ugly. definitely not your usual style. but he’d seen it the day before and thought of you instantly.

“this is for you.” your smile faltered in surprise, eyes widening. “what?”

“it’s dumb,” he said quickly. “i saw it and… i don’t know. it just reminded me of you. the flower. the bear. i don’t know,” he repeated, rubbing the back of his neck. “you don’t have to keep it.”

you stared at it like it was a diamond ring, “i love it.”

jungkook looked up, caught off guard. “really?” you nodded, clutching the keychain like it was something precious. “it’s perfect.”

he couldn’t stop the small grin tugging at his mouth, even if he tried. “yeah, well… i’m not good at, like, actual gifts. but maybe i could bring you something better next time.”

“you already brought me something perfect,” you said, setting it gently beside the register. “now it can keep me company while i work.”

he just stood there for a moment, watching you like you’d done something to him he couldn’t undo. like you’d carved your name into something he didn’t know had space for softness.

jungkook slouched on the cracked steps outside the convenience store, a bottle of soda dangling from his fingers as namjoon leaned against the wall beside him, munching on a bag of chips.

“she liked it,” jungkook muttered suddenly. namjoon raised a brow. “huh?”

“the keychain,” jungkook said, keeping his eyes on the sidewalk. “the dumb little bear with the flower.” namjoon blinked, “you gave that to someone?”

“yeah.”

“you gave a girl a keychain?” jungkook rolled his eyes. “don’t say it like that.” namjoon grinned. “no, i’m just impressed. last week you said feelings were ‘a government trap.’”

“she’s different,” jungkook said, quieter now. “she runs this flower shop. always has dirt on her hands and plays love songs that make you wanna die, but like, in a good way.”

namjoon’s grin softened. “damn. you’re gone.” jungkook ran a hand through his hair, biting the inside of his cheek. “she didn’t laugh. i gave her the thing, told her it was dumb, and she said she loved it. like… actually meant it.”

“she probably did,” namjoon said simply. “sweet girls don’t fake that stuff.” jungkook didn’t respond right away. he just sat there, swirling the soda bottle between his fingers.

“i don’t get it,” he finally muttered. “i give her this dumb plastic bear and she looks at me like i handed her the moon.”

“that’s what love looks like, man,” namjoon said, nudging him with his foot. “you just haven’t seen it like that before.”

jungkook exhaled slowly, “i think i’m in trouble.”

“good,” namjoon said with a grin. “means you’re doing it right.”

it was a quiet afternoon at the shop. the light outside was golden and soft, filtering through the windows as you rearranged a bouquet of lilacs and baby’s breath.

the bell over the door jingled, and you looked up, expecting jungkook like usual— but instead, it was someone taller, broader, with dimples and round glasses.

“hey,” he said with a smile. “you must be the florist.”

“i am,” you replied, wiping your hands on your apron. “can i help you?”

“i’m namjoon,” he said, stepping closer to the counter. “jungkook’s friend.”

you blinked, surprised. “oh— hi. nice to meet you.”

he glanced around the shop, clearly taking it all in, the soft colors, the soft music, the scent of lavender and fresh petals in the air. then he looked back at you with a small grin.

“he wasn’t kidding.” you tilted your head. “about what?”

namjoon chuckled, “you.”

you stared, “me?”

“yeah. the way he talks about you, i was expecting someone like… i don’t know. a disney character. but you’re real.” you laughed softly, heat rising to your cheeks. “he talks about me?”

namjoon gave you a look. “he told me about the keychain. about the way you smile. said you make the world feel… less heavy.” you chest tightened, the air suddenly sweeter. “he said that?”

“didn’t say it like that,” namjoon admitted with a smirk. “but i know how to translate jungkook.” you smiled, heart fluttering wildly. “he’s really soft under all that leather, huh?”

namjoon grinned. “don’t tell him i said this, but yeah. especially with you.”

just then, the door opened again and this time it was him, hoodie half-zipped, hair messy like he’d been running. he paused when he saw namjoon, eyes narrowing. “what’d you say?”

namjoon just laughed and gave you a wink on the way out. “see you around, flower girl.” jungkook frowned as the door closed behind him. “what did he say to you?”

you were still smiling, barely able to hide it. “nothing.” “did he tell you i—?” he stopped, cheeks pinking slightly. “forget it.”

“i like that you talk about me,” you whispered.

jungkook let out a breath, his voice soft against your hair. “yeah, well… you’re the only thing i want to talk about.”

the shop was closed. you’d stayed late to finish inventory, and jungkook had shown up uninvited like he always did now, claiming he was “just bored,” but refusing to leave until you did.

he was sitting on the floor behind the counter, head leaned back against the wall, knees bent. you were beside him, cross-legged, your phone playing soft music as you both picked petals off a bouquet that hadn’t sold.

“this is the weirdest thing I’ve ever done,” he mumbled, watching a petal fall into his lap. you smiled, “but you’re still here.”

“i know,” he looked over at you, and something about his gaze made the air feel heavier. “i don’t wanna leave.” you blinked, “then don’t.”

he didn’t. he just leaned his head against the wall again, staring at you like you were something delicate— something he was scared to touch too fast in case it vanished.

“i don’t get you,” he said quietly. you turned to him, “why?”

“you’re just… so good. and i’m—” he shook his head, brows furrowed like he was trying to find the right words. “i’m not used to people like you. not used to feeling like this.”

“like what?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper. he met your eyes. “like i could break and you’d still hold me.”

the silence between you thickened— heavy, warm, safe. you leaned in first, barely an inch, almost afraid to spook him. he didn’t move.

then, slowly, jungkook tilted his head forward, so close your noses brushed. his breath was shaky, and you could feel it fan across your lips as his voice dropped to a murmur.

“i’ve been wanting to do this since the first daisy.”

and then he kissed you.

soft. careful. like he wasn’t sure he was allowed but couldn’t stop himself. his hand came up to your cheek, rings cool against your skin, the other bracing on the floor like if he didn’t hold still, he might fall right through it. you kissed him back.

and then, you two pull away. you laughed softly and he exhaled, “you’re dangerous,” he whispered. you smiled, brushing your thumb against his jaw, “you’re soft.”

“don’t tell anybody.”

“promise."

your first date went exactly how you imagined it would. he pulled up at exactly seven in a black mercedes that gleamed under the streetlights, windows tinted, bass low and smooth in the background. he leaned against the car door, arms crossed.

you stepped out of the shop wearing a soft little sundress, and he straight-up forgot how to breathe. “you look…” he trailed off, exhaling. “like i should be paying to stand next to you.”

you laughed, slipping your hand into his. “too bad. you’re stuck with me.”

he drove you to the botanical gardens— not something you’d ever expect from someone who looked like he belonged in the back of a club, not the middle of a greenhouse.

but he knew. he remembered every flower you’d ever mentioned. and when you stepped into the garden and saw rows of daisies blooming in the golden hour light, your breath caught.

you turned to him, stunned. “you remembered.”

jungkook shoved his hands in his pockets, suddenly shy. “of course. first flower you ever gave me.”

when he dropped you off that night, the mercedes idled quietly at the curb, windows down just enough to let in the spring air.

he didn’t kiss you right away. just looked at you like he wanted to remember this version of you forever. “was this okay?” he asked. “for a first real date?”

you leaned closer, your voice soft. “it was perfect.”

and then you kissed him — slow, sweet, lingering — under the glow of the streetlight, the car behind you humming like it knew something magical had just happened.

he kissed you back with both hands on your waist like he didn’t ever want to let go.

a few weeks later, you stuff was everywhere.

not in a messy, overwhelming way— just in little pieces, scattered like petals across jungkook’s dark, quiet world.

his black leather mercedes still looked sleek, still smelled like his cologne and fading vanilla— but now, a flower chain you made dangled from the rearview mirror, bouncing gently with every turn. you’d tied it there without asking, just smiled at him while your fingers looped the stems.

and on his dash, a polaroid of you was out there like a trophy. sitting on the curb outside his apartment, chin in your hand, eyes squinted from laughing too hard. you looked soft, out of place in a car built for speeding and power— but somehow, you lit the space up like it had been waiting for you all along.

his apartment had changed too. it used to be all sharp corners, concrete floors, black shelves, cool-toned lighting. rhe kind of place that echoed when it was too quiet.

now? the couch had a floral cover, one you brought over “just for spring,” even though he rolled his eyes and said it didn’t match his vibe. he sat on it every day.

there were lego flowers on his shelves, between his whiskey bottles and a half-burnt candle. you brought them over one night, dropped the box in his lap with a grin, and said, “help me build these.”

he didn’t even hesitate. he built them carefully. gently. like each piece meant something. like your presence had softened the way his hands moved.

one had a tiny sticker on the stem— “this one’s yours”— in your handwriting. he stared at it more than he liked to admit.

your hoodie hung on the hook by his front door. always. like it belonged there. like you did.

sometimes, when you weren’t around, he sat on that flower-covered couch, stared at your hoodie, and thought: this is what love looks like.

bright petals in a black car. lego flowers where there used to be dust. a soft girl who didn’t just walk into his world— she bloomed in it.

and now everything smelled like you and he wouldn’t change a single thing.

he also did the same thing to you. it wasn’t obvious at first.

you’d had him over a dozen times by now— late night takeout, quiet sunday mornings, sleepy kisses on your couch. he always left with the same soft grin, hoodie tugged back on, keys twirling between his fingers, the door clicking shut behind him like a whisper.

but this time, something was different.

you didn’t notice it until hours later. you were tidying the throw pillows— the ones he always teased you for having too many of— when your fingers brushed something draped over the arm of the couch.

his gray zip-up. the one he wore almost every night. worn soft from age, sleeves just a little too long, the faintest smell of cologne and smoke clinging to the fabric.

you stared at it, heart stuttering. he never left things behind. never.

upu held it to your chest, curling your fingers into the sleeves, smiling like a fool alone in your apartment.

he didn’t forget it. you knew him too well for that. he left it on purpose.

later that night, your phone buzzed.

kookiee: left something at yours

you stared at the message. smiled. then typed back:

you: yeah. you did.

there was a pause. then another message.

kookiee: look under your pillow.

your brows lifted. you padded back to your room, pulled the blanket aside— and there it was. a bracelet.

black leather cord. woven and simple. one of his. you’d seen him fidget with it a hundred times. wrapped around the cord was a tiny silver charm shaped like a flower.

your breath caught. you slipped it onto your wrist, heart warm and aching in the best way.

he hadn’t said “i’m yours.” he didn’t need to. he’d left it where he knew you’d find it. quiet. certain. soft.

just like how he loved you.

bonus:

it was your birthday, and you told jungkook you didn’t want anything big. just him, maybe a cupcake, and a quiet night.

he acted like he forgot.

didn’t text you all morning. didn’t show up at your shop. by the time you closed for the day, you were trying really hard not to feel a little crushed.

but when you got home, your apartment was glowing. literally glowing— with soft fairy lights strung clumsily across your ceiling, as if someone had no clue what they were doing but tried anyway.

there were daisies on the table. a small cake with uneven frosting. and jungkook, standing awkwardly in the middle of it all with pink icing on his cheek and a nervous smile on his lips.

“happy birthday,” he said, voice a little raspy. “sorry it’s not perfect. i don’t really do… this.” you dropped your bag and ran into his arms.

he held you tight, mumbling into your hair, “i watched, like, three youtube videos on how to bake a cake for you. i almost set your oven on fire.”

you leaned back, grinning. “you made this yourself?”

“yeah,” he muttered, cheeks pink. “it tastes like shit, probably. but it’s yours.” you kissed him for that. for the lights, the cake, the flowers, and most of all— the way his tough exterior melted every time he looked at you.

he tasted like sugar and punk rock.

and he was yours.

[whore4mattsturniolo]

IFHY2 - Dealer!Chris x Stoner!Reader

pt 1, pt 2, pt 3

"Fuck!" Chris threw his back against the headboard, breathing hard as he dug his fingertips into the hips of the girl bouncing on top of him, both of their moans loud and exaggerated. The obnoxious creaking of the bed echoed behind the slamming of the headboard with each rough thrust. "C'mon...know you can do better than that," His hips buck up to meet her slowing movements as his irritation grew. God, he couldn't wait for this to be over

"Take it. Fuckin' take it," he almost growled, his grip harsh in her skin as he chased his high. The girl suddenly throws her head back in pleasure, her legs shaking around him as a borderline pornographic moan is ripped from her throat. "Shiit...There you go..." He shudders as he spills his seed into the condom. His eyes flutter shut, slumping deeper against the soft pillows.

The girl giggles, cuddling close next to Chris, much to his dismay. He clicks his tongue, sighing heavily as she lays against his arm. "How was that?" She traces patterns along his chest, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. Normally, Chris would've immediately smacked her hand away from him. But he was just too out of it, his pupils dilated, his eyes red and dry. He could barely bring himself to turn his head to look her in the eyes.

He lets out a dry laugh, running his tongue over his straight teeth. "It was a'ight," he watches as her expression shifts from cocky to pouty, her brows furring and her lips pursing together. "Nothin' to write home about," he continues as he shifts to sit up straight.

"Alright?" She asks, her voice growing softer. She looks up at Chris with widened eyes. She was practically begging for reassurance. From Chris of all people.

"What d'you want, a fuckin' Yelp review or somethin'?" He scoffs. He pulls up his boxers and moves off the bed, the girl still following him with her eyes. He reaches to grab his jacket, discarded on her desk chair with the rest of his clothes as rummages around the pockets. Finally, he pulls out a lighter and a preroll, gripping the lighter tight in his hand. In his search, another joint fell to the ground, this one wrapped in Hello Kitty print. His heart dropped. A soft sigh escapes his lips as he shakes his head, almost in disappointment, as memories of you start to surge through his head.

"What's that?" The girl points down at his feet, barely able to see the figure of the fallen object. She starts to put her own shirt and underwear back on, still keeping a watchful eye on Chris.

Her voice breaks his thoughts, his head shooting up to look at her. "Don't fuckin' worry about it," his voice is harsh, growing defensive as he tries to get the thought of you out of his head. He shoves the joint deep in the jacket pocket, burying it and any thoughts of you into its dark depths. "Shit's not f'you. So it's nothin' for you to worry about," he runs his fingers through his hair and sits back on the bed. The girl huffs, but she knows Chris well enough to not press the issue. Until she sees the lighter in his hand.

There was a girl on it. The most beautiful girl either of them had ever seen. Not just any girl, though. It was you.

She looks down at Chris' hand, unable to take her eyes away from the image. She watches his emotionless expression, his blue eyes once so magnetic, now a dull grey. He flicks the lighter a few times until the small flame begins to illuminate his face, highlighting the stubble he had began to grow along his cheeks and jawline. The girl swallows, "Who...Who's that? On the light?" She asks gently, watching him take a puff of the joint. His slumps back down into the bed, blowing out a thick cloud into the quiet bedroom. He looks down at the lighter in his hand, rubbing his thumb over the picture over and over.

"Nobody," Chris shakes his head, throwing the lighter to the side of him, taking another hit from the joint, his eyes growing heavier with each inhale. "Don't worry about it," He says as the girl huffs in annoyance, crossing her arms. He holds the joint up to her lips, watching her take a deep breath. As she exhales, she begins to cough, immediately reaching for the can of Whiteclaw on her nightstand.

"Don't look like nobody," she retorts once she leaves her coughing fit. Her cheeks are flushed red, her eyes already bloodshot as the marijuana surges through her system, growing higher with each cough.

"Told you s'nobody. Means it's fuckin' nobody," he says flatly, his voice rough and mean. Inside, though, he was a mess. He was begging the girl to leave it alone. Leave you alone. He wished he could forget about you altogether, but he couldn't. It was impossible.

He left the girl's house as soon as they killed off the joint. She was practically knocked out on his shoulder, her arm wrapped around his chest. He had to move stealthily just to get her off of him. He threw on the rest of his clothes, turned her dim lamp off and left as quick as he had arrived.

He stood outside for a moment, the cold Boston air sending a chill down his spine and raising the goosebumps on his pale skin. He couldn't get you out of his head. No matter what or who he did, you were the only thing he could think of. How you'd laugh at his jokes like they were the funniest thing in the world. God, how he'd do anything just to hear your voice again. See you happy. He could only hear your cries of frustration echoing in his head each time he thought of you, and it made his heart ache.

Chris was never the one to care about a fling after the fact. Sure, he had girls he'd hooked up with more than once, maybe even on a regular basis. But never enough to actually care about them. He didn't know what they did for work, their favorite color, or how they liked the temperature of the car. He simply didn't care to know.

So why did he care about you?

He sucks his teeth, bitterly pressing at the buttons on his phone, his fingers hardening in the freezing air. The night is quiet. Too quiet. No chirping of crickets, no cars driving by, no dogs barking. He breathes out, the cloud of vapor escaping out his mouth as he enters his Audi. As he sits in the car, his leg starts to bounce up and down, though he wasn't sure if it was from the chill of being outside or from the sheer anxiety brewing inside him. Sighing, he finally presses the call button.

It rings, and rings, and rings, before going to voicemail. He wasn't expecting you to answer anyway. You said it yourself: you fucking hated him. He groans, debating on if he should call again, or leave a message, or give up.

At the tone, please record your message. When you are finished recording, you may hang up, or press 1 for more options

"H-hey, Angel," he says. The hum of the car engine almost drowns out his low voice as he sits in the parking lot of some run-down apartments. "S'been a minute. Um...look, kid...I know we—fuck this is so stupid—" Chris mutters to himself, but he can't stop talking. His voice is gravely and his words are slurred, effortlessly falling off his tongue. "Fuck...I know we had a...a lil' disagreement or whatever...but...I wanna see you again."

He runs his hand through his hair, twirling a strand in between his fingers and curling it. "Swear you did some witch shit on me or somethin'...been the only thing on my mind..." He lets out a breathy laugh. "Almost wanna say 'I miss you' or some shit..." His voice trails off, leaning back further against the headrest, tugging at a loose thread in his jacket. He wants to stop himself from talking, before he says something he regrets. But he can't. He needs to talk to you, even if you're not talking back. "Fuck...M'really fucked up right now, angel...mixed—mixed some shit together earlier...but don't worry...m'not gonna drive. Just gonna sit here...Sit here n'talk to you..."

Chris examines his surroundings, always alert for anything, at all times of night. But there's nothing. Not at this hour. Nothing to distract him from his vulnerability. "Mmm...M'sorry angel. M'sorry for makin' y'cry...Don't ever want y'to cry...I'll getcha the flowers...Better than the ones we knocked over on Valentine's," he laughs softly at the memory, remembering the face you made seeing them shatter on the floor. "Just hit me back when you get this, a'ight? Wanna see you...I'mma...I'mma make it right...'kay?" And with that, he hangs up, running his hands over his face after throwing his phone in the cupholder next to him.

sorry for edging, pt 3 coming soon

[baby-yongbok]

Catch The Moment - Lee Know x afab!Reader

⤷ Content warning - Themes of pregnancy ⤷ WC - 0.8k ⤷ Summary - You tell Minho something special in the perfect place to capture it. ✧ Masterlist ✧

“It's gonna eat my money.” Minho scoffs as you drag him into the photo booth in the far corner of the busy arcade. 

You smile, rolling your eyes and mulling over the selections on the screen. You choose the decorations for your photos while he watches with a pout.

“Oh will you stop it, Min. It'll be fun, come on! We did this on our first date, remember?” You look into the camera and see that he's looking over at you on the screen.

“Yeah, well, these machines are old now. They never replace them, and -” He hushes when you press the start button. 

Minho lets his argument die on his tongue with a dramatic huff and eye roll that gets you chuckling.

“It's about capturing the moment, baby.” You take his hand in yours, looking over at him with a smile that softens his core a bit.

 “And what moment are we capturing exactly?” He looks down at you with a lopsided grin, his bright brown eyes shining down at you. 

Today’s outing was your idea. A cute date at a nearby cafe and the arcade after, just like your first date. 

“Well…” You trail off, smiling way too wide for him not to find it suspicious. “I have something to tell you.” The booth starts counting down to your first photo after going on its programmed spiel about how it works. 

Minho raises his eyebrows, intrigued. 

The shutter goes off. 

“What?” He looks over at the screen of the booth then back at you. It’s preparing to take the next picture. 

“You know it's taking the pictures right?” He asks, eyebrows furrowed.

You nod and he looks at you expectantly. The booth starts counting down again and you dip your hand into your jacket pocket and present him with a blue and white pregnancy test. You hold it in your palm, smiling up at him. 

He looks confused for a second, just a second before his eyes widen at the wand in your palm. 

The shutter goes off. 

“Wait.. you're serious? Jagiya, are you serious?” You giggle at him, red at the tips of his ears with sparkling wide brown eyes. You nod and the booth prepares to take the third photo. 

“I'm pregnant.” You announce through a toothy smile. Minho takes the test from you, staring down at the positive result with a sense of wild wonder. An excitement you've never seen him wear before. 

“You're pregnant.” He parrots as the booth counts down to the next photo. He breaks out into a smile, nearly bigger than your own.

The shutter goes off.

“We're pregnant.” You mutter, tears starting to well up in your own bright eyes.

 “How long have you… when did you take this test? What are… you're pregnant.” Minho rambles, his smile fading and reappearing seconds after as he processes the news. 

He settles on giving up on his questions for now. The booth prepares to take its final picture and Minho looks up at you. He doesn't speak. He can barely breathe with the pressure of shock and excitement multiplying in his chest every couple of seconds. 

His emotions are a mess but one thing is clear to him. One thing floats to the top of everything else and pushes him closer to you in the booth. The test is in his lap, his hands cup your cheeks and the booth counts down. 

“I love you.” He smiles, leaning his forehead against yours. A tear falls from your eye as some brim at his waterline. 

He leans in and presses a kiss to your lips, soft and sweet. You both can't help but to smile into it. 

The shutter goes off. 

“I love you so much. I can't believe this.” He mutters against your lips, kissing you again, a bit longer this time to hide the fall of his own tears.

The booth prints the pictures, ejecting them into the printer slot and Minho pulls away reluctantly to retrieve them.

You look over them together, smiling at the way it captured his reaction to the news perfectly. 

“You’re a sneaky little thing.” He smiles over at you. “You planned this. This is why you wanted to go out today, isn't it?” 

“Guilty.” You chuckle, wiping your eyes. Minho looks back into his lap and picks up the test.

“Let's do it again.” He takes out another five dollar bill and pops it into the machine. “Tell me all over again.”

“What happened to it eating your money?” You tease, quickly selecting the photo customizations again.

 Minho turns to you, moving the first print of photos out of sight. “I don't care about that.” You chuckle at his change of heart. The sparkle in his eyes gleams bright in the lights of the booth. 

He cups your cheeks again, “I want to relive that. Tell me again.”

The booth starts up and you smile up at him. “Tell me.” He doesn't try to hide the tears threatening to spill over this time. He keeps his eyes on yours, a ghost of a smile on his lips. 

The booth counts down.

“I'm pregnant.” A tear falls. 

“Again” He mumbles and your own tears start to fall.

“We're gonna be parents.” You smile and he kisses you. Soft as a feather and full of love. 

The shutter goes off. 

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[the-witty-pen-name]

Little Glimpses

Igor (Anora) x F! Reader

18+ Only Blog - Minors DNI

Warnings: smoking, alcohol consumption, cursing

Word Count: 2.5k

Notes: I have not been able to stop thinking about this man since I saw Anora. I just had little parts of stories in my head so I compiled them into one thing.

Little glimpses into the reader’s relationship with Igor.

Everything on the table shakes when the train passes by. You press your hand down, gently holding onto the crystal ashtray in front of you to stop it from dancing around. Your eyes feel heavy. So you tilt your head back, and rest them for a moment until the disruption subsides. You take a drag of your cigarette and exhale in the direction of the open window next to you- letting the smoke waft outside your small studio. Once everything stills, the only sound is the comforting tick of the clock above your stove. You take one final puff before dropping your butt into the ashtray. You watch it smolder as it slowly burns out. You need to get ready for your shift.

You hate your uniform. The bright blue polo shirt and the stupid matching visor- fucking stupid. You feel like you look like a moron and you’ve always found it embarrassing. You always took off the dumb thing when your manager went home for the night. No one comes in after midnight ever- the occasional drunk but they don’t care if you’re wearing your visor or not.

On the slow nights you read, or sometimes you’ll watch trashy reality TV on your phone. With your elbows perched on the counter, you flip through your most recent romance novel as the time passes. It’s well past 1am and the bright fluorescent lights buzz above you.

“Uh- $40 pump two, please,” a polite voice breaks your concentration. It makes you jump in surprise and you apologize quickly.

“Shit- uh, fuck sorry,” you fumble, quickly placing the book down, opened to keep your page. You take the cash he hands you as he offers a subtle smile.

“No need for apology,” he expresses, and you can now hear his accent- distinctly Russian, or maybe Armenian? You aren’t sure. His voice is soft and comforting- very kind. You’re immediately more at ease. He reads your name aloud from your name tag. It’s infuriating as much as it’s endearing.

“You’re all set,” you offer, suddenly shy. You pass him the receipt after it is printed. He nods, tucking it into his jacket pocket. You watch him walk back outside, the cold air wafting in as the bell above the door rings.

As he waits by the pump, he catches you watching him through the window of the store. When he meets your eye, he’s amused when you immediately look away- trying to play off like you weren’t looking the whole time. He’s flattered, and he can’t help but smile to himself. He’s not used to any sort of attention- he tends to go by unnoticed in his daily life. He can be intimidating when he tries- out of necessity, but that’s not him.

He’s so pretty, you observe, like James McAvoy you settle on. You avert your attention away for the final time and decide to turn back to your book and do your best to ignore the headache that’s developing under the store’s harsh lights.

It’s one of those passing crushes, at first. The kind like when you fall in love temporarily with a stranger across the grocery store. You play out the whole thing in your head to inevitably never approach them, go home, and let the cycle of daydream continue another day with another stranger.

---

You’re freezing as you stand on the sidewalk in the long line that has now wrapped around the block. Your ankles hurt from the height of your heels but they’re too cute not to wear. Your outfit is far too short and shows far too much skin for the night air, but in your defense- you and your friends didn’t imagine you’d be outside this long. Your entire body is covered in goosebumps as you wrap your arms around yourself to keep warm. Your friend offers you a cigarette which you accept gratefully as she places it in your mouth for you.

“Fuck!” you exclaim frustrated, “Why aren’t they fucking letting anyone in?” You peer over to try to see the front of the line, and you notice people towards the front are trying to reason with the club’s bouncer- who you immediately hate because you resent his hoodie and puffer jacket he wears to brace the cold. You think about how the moment you can step foot in, you’re making a beeline to the bar and getting a shot to warm up.

Someone, probably a promoter or something, emerges from the inside. He says something to the bouncer, you’re too far away to hear. The bouncer nods, and the guy starts walking down the line. He looks at the groups who are waiting, and he gestures to a few groups of just girls- you and your friends included- and ushers you all inside. You’re too elated to care as he’s saying something about needing to up the ratio of men to women blah blah blah. You quickly stomp out your cigarette and all you can think about is warming up.

You link arms with two of your friends as you head towards the inside, scurrying excitedly to get out of the cold. The bouncer nods to each group as they enter, but puts up an arm to stop you and your friends. “IDs,” he says, and you swear his voice sounds so familiar.

“C’mon man, we’re cold as shit,” your friend complains, letting go of your arm to retrieve her ID from her clutch. Looking in his direction, you immediately recognize him from the other day- the customer from your overnight shift. You aren’t sure if he would recognize you, you're positive you put more thought into the whole interaction than he did. You make eye contact and you swear for a moment he wants to say something, but he just stares. Realizing you decided to go without a bag, you bite your lip and mutter a silent “shit” as you need to pull your ID from your bra to hand to him. He says nothing, just nervously licks his lips as he takes your license.

“Thanks,” he says, handing them back. Your friends huff, and drag you inside. Your eyes linger on him as they pull you and you both watch each other until you disappear from view.

A remix of Von dutch is playing so loud and the club is packed. It’s completely dark except for the raving strobe lights that are synced to the beat of the music. You can’t hear anything over the screams of Addison Rae as your friends get a round of shots. You happily accept, tilting your head back. The burn is such a welcomed sensation to your freezing body. You let the crowd dictate where your body moves, letting yourself start to let loose.

A couple of hours later, you’re more than ready to get out of there. It was fun, but your friends have mostly paired off with men and you’re anticipating that soon they’ll be roping them into wherever the group decides to go next. You aren’t in the mood for another night of splitting a cab with one of your friends and whatever guy is going back to their place. You don’t need the reminder that amongst the group, you’re never the one getting the guy, you think pessimistically. You text your friends, lying about an early shift, and let them know you’re getting an Uber.

Standing outside, you’re freezing again, and it’s almost worse now that your body has been so acclimated to the warmth inside. You lean against the brick building and cross your arms over your chest in an attempt to warm yourself up.

“Here,” you hear him say, and you look up surprised, not realizing he was there. He offers you his jacket for you to take. “You need,” he insists. You offer a thankful smile and slip it over your shoulders. It smells like woodsy cologne and cigarettes. The warmth engulfs you and you swaddle yourself into the warm fabric.

“Thank you,” you say shyly. He nods and puts his hands in the front pocket of his hoodie. He pulls out a small pack of pre-rolls, and offers one to you. You accept and hold it between your fingers as he lights it for you.

“You probably don’t fucking remember me, but like, I think you got gas the other night at the uh place I work-”

“I remember.”

“Oh, okay-”

“You were reading a book and then what’s the word ‘ogled’ me? You ‘ogled’ me when you thought I wasn’t looking,” he teased.

“I was not ogling you!” you scoff, defensive. You can feel how warm your face is from his accusation. “It’s my job to make sure dumbasses aren’t gonna blow themselves up at the pump. It was purely a safety measure,” you lie obviously, making him laugh.

“Whatever you say,” he responds with a sly smile. You see a car start to pull up. Reluctantly, you unwrap yourself from his jacket and hand it back to him.

“Uh, that’s my Uber,” you explain and you swear he looks disappointed. He nods, accepting his jacket back.

“Can I call you?” he asks as the black sedan pulls up to the curb. You nod enthusiastically. He hands you his phone and you quickly text yourself.

“Uh that’s me,” you explain dumbly, cringing because duh. He just smiles, and it’s painfully sincere. You slide into the backseat of the car, and you can feel your phone buzz with a notification before you even finish putting on your seatbelt.

My name is Igor

---

You’re sitting on your couch as you lick the rolling paper to finish off your joint. A metal tv tray rests over your lap acting as your work station. You admire your work and then pass it to Igor, who accepts it without a word. You move the tray table to the floor so you can get comfortable, and you lean into his side as he lights the joint. The two of you share it, passing it back and forth between each other as your eyes are both focused on the TV.

It’s been a few weeks and your relationship with Igor has gone on undefined. Lines have been blurred and you can’t pin point if it’s the substances that are in your systems or if it’s just that when you’re with him, time feels like it stops- a hangout stretching into a couple days without you even realizing.

You don’t know what you’d call this. It’s not friends, and it feels much like it’s much more than casual. You assume it’s exclusive- you spend so much time together; there’s hardly any opportunities for him to see someone else. But there’s been no lines drawn, no labels given- he’s slotted himself into your life seamlessly like you’ve known him forever. His grandmother treats you like her own blood, taking an immediate liking to you. It all just works.

“What is this?” You ask suddenly, looking up at him. His eyes widen in confusion. He takes the joint out from between his lips, exhaling smoke.

“Maybe Idica, I don’t know,” he muses and you sigh in frustration at your inability to be direct.

“I’m sorry,” you laugh, hiding your face in your hands. “No, not that,” you clarify. “I meant like- you and me.”

“Oh, um,” he replies, mulling things over in his head before he speaks. “Whatever you want.”

“I don’t know what I want,” you answer honestly, and he nods understandingly, but you feel him clear his throat and you can feel him straighten his posture. You worry he misunderstood your meaning. “No, no- fuck. I made it weird,” you sigh, “I just meant like, I don’t want to mess it up by changing it. But at the same time, I don’t want you doing this with someone else- and I don’t want to do this with anyone else but you- you know?”

“I know,” he replies, he’s so patient and sweet about it. He kisses your temple and just lets you process. He’s so gentle like that, all the time. “I want the same,” he states simply. “Just us,” he reiterates, taking another hit and then passes the joint back to you.

“Just us,” you smile.

“So does this mean we’re uh, boyfriend girlfriend?” He teases and he laughs at how your nose scrunches in disgust.

“Gross,” you pretend to gag. You shake your head, like your trying to shake out the memory of him saying something so fucking cheesy. It makes him smile.

—

“He’s coming runnin’ runnin’ runnin’ runnin’ runnin’ runnin’,” you sing obnoxiously as Igor’s pulls up to the curb. “He’s coming. Ridin’ round town, they gonna feel this one.” You see his cheeks turn pink as he tries to not laugh.

“What the fuck is that?” He questions, walking around to open the passenger door for you.

“Oh my fucking god, dude. It’s Tyler the Creator- it’s IGOR’S THEME. Did you now know that? I’ve been doing that bit for like two weeks and you didn’t think to fucking look it up?” You laugh a little. You buckle up, and extend out your hand. “Give me your phone, you need to listen to it.”

Without hesitation, he passes his phone to you and then he pulls away from the curb slowly. You start the album from the beginning, and you settle back into your seat. You put his phone down in the cup holder and rest your head against the seat belt. It’s a comfortable silence as you both listen. As he drives, he rests his right hand comfortably on your thigh, his thumb making circles.

Anxiety is a tricky thing. As time passes, you begin to feel insecure for monopolizing the music. You start to feel guilty about the jab you made at Igor’s expense for not knowing this album. You begin to overthink everything, and the music playing starts to make you feel overexposed. And you begin to associate his silence with resentment.

“You can change it to whatever you want,” you say apologetically. He looks at you confused from the corner of his eye, only glancing over so he can focus on the road.

“But you like this?” He asks, puzzled.

“I don’t want to force feed stuff to you,” you try to explain, “I didn’t mean to make you sit through it.”

“I think it’s great,” he offers sincerely, “it’s good.”

“You don’t have to say that, just because I like it,” you counter, feeling insecure.

“I like the music,” he reiterates, “I like it, and I like it because it’s something you wanted to share with me.”

“You don’t have to…”

“I love when you share things with me,” he interrupts you before you begin to spiral. “Do it more often,” he says, encouragingly. He stops for the red light, and leans over to kiss you. “Please.”

He turns his attention back to the road as the light turns green and you can’t help but smile as you watch him turn the dial up.

PART TWO

[chrisgetsmewetter]

His first baddie

Pairing: blackfem!influenser x soft!dom hamzah

summary: your finally in canada for your collab with hamzah and martin. but when hamzah picks you up and feelings are confessed one thing leads to another

warnings: pnv, unprotected sex (wrap it b4 u tap it!), eventual smut, just freaky, pet names (baby, mama)

word count: 2.8k

a/n: HURRY DINNERS READY!! mama cooked yall up a feast bcs i starved yall long enough. the smut is lowkey in more hamzahs pov and idk how to feel about it so give me y’all’s opinions. lastly pleaseee give me some requests please im bored out of my mind idec who its about. LOVE YALL😘

here you are four years later with over 12 million subscribers on YouTube when Hamzah dms you on Instagram.

you would be lying if you said that it you weren’t a little salty that Hamzah never contacted you after the freak show tryouts but to be fair you never reached out to him either.

You just assumed that you were both so busy and consumed with the newfound fame, and subscribers.

and when time was right, you guys would cross paths again one day. and today was that day

Hamzahthefantastic

Hey long time no see! i seen that you’ve gotten really big over the last 4 years and me and martin were wondering if you wanted to come on our channel and do a video? it’s totally fine if you don’t want to but if you do feel free to message me.

your heart dropped to your ass. so now hampshire wants to collab after not talking to you for 4 years? yea he didn’t owe you anything, but it still hurts because you thought something could’ve happened there. But you’ve never chased no boy and you weren’t gonna start now. despite you feeling like he didn’t make an effort to talk to you, at least he contacted you now, and maybe something may grow between you two. you click the message confirming that it was the real hamzah and now you know u need to lock tf in

theoginstagrambaddie

hey hamzah, i would love to collab with you guys !! just lmk the details xx

……

2 days later you’re in the toronto airport with a fresh blond lace install. you didn’t even have to pay for your flight. right after you sent the message, hamzah he sent you the digital plane ticket. first class from LA to toronto, impressed wasn’t even the word.

You step out of the airport, the heavy doors sliding open with a quiet whoosh. The air smells different here, crisp and fresh, carrying a hint of salt from the sea. Your heart beats faster, each step your closer to the moment you’ve been dreaming of for years.

The crowd rushes around you, people pushing past each other, their voices blending into a hum. You clutch the handles of your cheetah print suitcases, your fingers tightening as your eyes scan the faces. And then you see him.

Hamzah.

He stands near the railing, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket, shifting on his feet like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. His hair is cut into an outgrown blond buzzcut, curling at the ends, his face is sharper, more grown-up than the last time you saw him through a screen. and.. way more muscular and built.

But his smile , that same crooked, awkward smile that no doubt always made you smile.

You freeze, a smile creeping onto your face. It’s like time stops, and suddenly you’re seventeen again, staying up late to watch his streams and videos. Your heart beats painfully, the weight of lost years pressing against your ribs.

He starts walking toward you, slow at first, like he can’t believe you’re really here. Then faster, until he’s right in front of you, close enough that you can see the slight tremble in his hands.

“Hey,” he says, voice soft but steady. His eyes search yours, and you wonder if he feels it too the invisible force pulling you closer.

“Hey,” you breathe out, barely able to speak past the lump in your throat. You want to say so much more, to tell him how you never stopped thinking about him, how your heart used to skip every time his name popped up on your phone.

But before you can, he pulls you into a hug. You melt into him, your face pressing against his shoulder, the scent of his cologne wrapping around you like a memory you never wanted to forget. His arms tighten, holding you like he’s afraid you might disappear.

“it’s so nice to finally meet you,” he whispers, voice breaking slightly.

You close your eyes, your heart pounding so loudly you’re sure he can hear it.

“it’s amazing meeting you too” you say, melting into the hug

….

You walk out of the airport, dragging your suitcase behind you, and before you can even think about how heavy it feels, Hamzah rushes over

“Let me get that,” he says, grabbing your luggage. He lifts it like it weighs nothing, and you catch yourself staring at his biceps flexing through his sweater

He throws the suitcase into the trunk and wipes imaginary sweat from his forehead. “I’m basically a bodybuilder now,” he says, flexing his arm, which shows lowkey a lot of muscle. “I should start charging for this.”

….

The car ride is quiet at first, the kind of quiet that makes your heart race. The city blurs past the windows, and every few seconds, Hamzah taps the steering wheel like he’s trying to figure out what to say.

“So,” he finally starts, glancing at you with a crooked grin, “how is the celebrity life treating you?” you visibly cringe at the word ‘celebrity’

“well you know it has its ups and downs, but i love making money for being myself. and also im definitely not a celebrity”

hamzah scrunches his face up “boi water you talking about you literally walked on the new york fashion week runway, was on the front cover of vogue, and went to the met gala what do you mean you aren’t a celebrity”

you sit there trying to come up with a quick comeback but you can’t..

“exactly, clock that” hamzah sticks his tongue out just a little bit

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling, and your stomach flips every time he looks at you. The car smells like vanilla and maybe him, it makes your head spin.

He clears his throat “Anyway, we’re going to Martin’s for the collab. He’s already set up the lights and stuff. I told him not to make us look too ugly on camera, but, you know, he cant do nothin right”

You let out a loud laugh, and he grins, proud of himself. “i’m deadass so excited to meet martin, that’s my twin”

hamzah scrunches his face up at you again. at this point he’s acting sassier than chase.. “how is he your twin and you never even met him boi”

“i think you’re just hating.. lemme get the aux” you say going to apple music and connecting it to the car

“if your music taste is bad im taking your ass back to the airport” hamzah says as he turns the volume up, and as soon as he does Lipgloss by Charlie and Cupkkake starts bumping and yall get hype

after an hour of yall singing songs and catching up, you pull up to Martin’s house, and when Hamzah turns off the engine martin calls him. comes to find out him and mandy left to get lunch,

“shit i’m so sorry, if i would’ve known martin wasn’t here i would’ve taken you to your hotel”

“oh damn, i actually didnt even book a hotel, i meant to text you and ask you which one i should book, bcs i’ve never been here before”

“no worries i have the perfect one, ill pay for it.” hamzah said casually while typing on his phone

“you don’t have to do that hamzah you already paid for my flight here, i don’t like people spending a lot of money on me”

he puts his hand up “i’m already paying for it. you deserve to enjoy canada while you’re here. it’s the least i can do since i was stupid and didn’t contact you for four years”

Your heart starts pounding, and all you can do is look at anywhere but him and hope he doesn’t hear how loud your heart is beating.

“it didnt bother me,” you obviously lied. “we both just got caught up in fame, dont stress yourself out about it” you said while you fidgeted with you nails

“no but that’s the thing, it has been stressing me out. i guess i never reached out because i thought that you were so out of my league, and it would be weird if i confessed liking you since we only met online, and i knew nothing about you” hamzah confessed lowly

you didn’t know how to respond, so you acted out of impulse and kissed him

hamzah is caught off guard by the sudden kiss, but he quickly responds, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you closer.

"wait-" he starts to say, but cuts himself off as he deepens the kiss. He pulls back after a moment, breathing heavily. “we just met, i don’t wanna make you feel uncomfortable” you shake your head “you aren’t hamzah i want this”

"Fuck it, that’s all i needed to hear. I've wanted to do that for so long." he interrupts himself, kissing you again, this time with more passion. He moves his hand to your cheek, cradling it gently as he continues to kiss you.

"God, I've dreamed about this," he murmurs against your lips, breaking the kiss for a moment. "You're so damn beautiful." he says, his voice filled with emotion.

A low, strangled groan escaped Hamzah's throat as you climbed into his lap, straddling him in the driver's seat. He could hardly believe this was real, that you wanted him as much as he wanted you. His hands flew to your hips, gripping them tightly as he pulled you unimaginably closer to him

"Shit" he grunted, feeling your soft ass mold against him. He was already getting hard, his cock twitching and swelling in his jeans as you sat on top of him. "You can't just... fuck..." He panted softly, his eyes dark and intense as they roamed over your face.

One hand slid up your side to cup the swell of your breast through your top, giving it a gentle squeeze. He could feel how your nipple stiffened under his palm, and it made him groan again.

"Tell me you want this too,", his voice low and heavy with need. "Tell me I'm not imagining this." Because damn, he needed to hear you say it. He needed confirmation that you felt the same way. “hamzah, i need you” you whimper as you slide off your top

hamzah's eyes widen as you remove your shirt, revealing your perfect frame and cleavage. "shit" he breathes, his hands immediately going to your waist.

"You're perfect." he says, burying his face in your chest, inhaling your scent. He kisses and nuzzles your chest before lifting his head up to look at you.

"can i take this off" he begs, his voice husky with desire. “yes please” now you wouldn’t call yourself “easy” but in this case.. it’s hamzah

He reaches behind you and unclasps your bra, pulling it off and tossing it aside. "oh god" he mutters, taking in the sight of your bare, pierced boobs. "So fucking beautiful."

Without hesitation, he leaned down and wrapped his lips around the stiff peak of your nipple, sucking and swirling his tongue around the sensitive bud.

“Fuck, baby," you groaned as he licked around your nipple, his other hand gripping your ass tightly, pulling you harder against his straining boner. He was rock hard now, his cock throbbing with the need to be inside you.

But he tried to focus on worshipping your tits, determined to show you how much he adored your sexy body.

He switched to your other breast, giving it the same treatment. Sucking, licking, and lightly biting the sensitive skin as he groped and caressed every inch of your skin.

"Your tits are fucking perfect," he murmured, his voice muffled and heavy with lust. you’re a moaning mess, you never thought in a million years you would let someone do this when you “just met”

but the years of pent up attraction, and a bit of anger led you to not giving a fuck anymore. you want hamzah, and he wants you “hamzah please i need it”

Hamzah's heart raced as he heard the desperate plea in your voice, feeling you tremble with need in his lap. He knew exactly how you felt and he was just as desperate, just as turned on. The way youre grinding on his hard cock was driving him insane with lust.

"Fuck, you're killing me baby," he groaned, finally pulling his mouth away from your perfect tits reluctantly. He gazed up at you with eyes that burn with desire, his chest heaving. "Tell me what you need, baby. Tell me how to make you feel good."

His hands slid down to the hem of your short skirt, slipping underneath to grip the soft cheeks of your ass. He squeezed and slapped the it, pulling you harder against him as he rocked his hips up to meet yours.

"Is this what you need, baby? You want me to fuck you right here in the car?" he growled, his voice low and rough with lust. "I'll give you whatever you want. Just say the word."

“hamzah.. please fuck me” you plea in desperation

that’s all he needed to hear because In one swift, almost violent motion, he slid down his sweats, freeing his massive, throbbing cock. It sprang out, slapping against his abs, leaving a smear of precum on his skin.

“can i?” he begged, tugging on the side of your thong, and as soon as you nodded he yanked your panties to the side "Fuck, baby, you want this big cock inside this tight little pussy?" he snarled, gripping your hips tightly as he positioned you over his straining erection.

“are you sure you’re ready?” hamzah checks despite you saying yes the other times, and again you immediately nod your head yes

as soon as you give him permission he burys himself to the inside of your tight, velvety walls. A strangled moan tore from his throat as your slick heat engulfed him, squeezing his cock like a vice.

your eyes instantly roll to the back of your head in pleasure "Ohhh fuck, baby" he cried out, his head falling back against the headrest as he savored the feeling of finally being inside of you. "You're so fucking tight, baby. Shit, you feel amazing..."

He started to move, thrusting up into you roughly, digging into you over and over, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave bruises. The pornographic sound of skin slapping against skin filled the car as he fucked you, chased by your cries of pleasure.

"Yes, just like that Hamzah! Don't stop," you whimpered, your nails digging into his shoulders as you held on for dear life. your hips met his brutal thrusts eagerly, taking him as deep as he could go.

"Shit, your pussy is gripping me so fucking tight," he grunted, sweat beading on his brows from the speed he was going . "I'm not gonna last long if you keep squeezing me like this."

He slid a hand down between your connected bodies to rub at your clit, wanting to feel you come undone on his cock. "Come on baby, cum for me. I wanna feel this pussy cum on my dick" he demanded, his voice a low, lust-filled growl.

The car shook with the force of his thrusts, the windows fogging up from the heat of your love making. “shit h-hamzah i’m gonna cum”

"shit, yea baby, cum for me, I want to feel this pussy clench around my dick” he groaned, slamming up into you harder and faster, driven by your approaching orgasm.

one hand was rubbing furiously at your swollen clit, feeling it throb and pulse under his touch. and the other makes its way to your throat. He could tell you was right on the edge, your velvety walls starting to and tighten around his throbbing dick.

"That's it, mama. Let go for me," he encouraged you softly, his voice strained and heavy with his own building orgasm. his hand slightly tightened around your neck causing your orgasm to crash down, which made your mouth gape open and let out a long moan

hearing, and feeling your orgasm caused his cock to pulse and twitch inside you as his own climax approached rapidly. and with a long pornographic whimper Hamzah thrusts up one final time, his thick cock pulsing and throbbing as it unloaded rope after rope of his hot, sticky cum deep inside your fluttering pussy.

"shit, shit, shit" he shook, his body shuddering and jerking uncontrollably as the most intense orgasm of his life crashed through him.

As the waves of his climax began to subside, Hamzah slumped back against the driver's seat, panting harshly. He pulled you down for a sloppy, desperate kiss, all tongues and teeth and passion. "Holy shit," he finally gasped out, cupping your face in his hands. "That was... fuck. That was incredible."

He searched your eyes, searching to find any regret. "You okay? im sorry if went too hard” you shook your head instantly “no hamzah, that was amazing”

hamzah slowly lifted you off of his lap and gently sat you on the passenger seat and scurried to get some napkins. you open the ceiling mirror and see that you mostly still look good.

“i don’t want this to make things weird, i actually want us to be something more” hamzah looks at you deeply, meaning every word he said while wiping your thighs. you smile sweetly at him “i want that too hamzah”

“what do you want to eat?” he says while starting the car up again.

[dollgxtz]

His Watchful Eye Pt. 4

Word Count: 11.9k

Tags: yandere!sylus, sylus x fem!reader, noncon, dubcon, drugging, kidnapping, obedience training, forced breeding, forced pregnancy, stalking, pet names like kitten, sweetie, pretty, ownership, manipulation, attempted rape, xavier appears

Taglist: @ngh-ch-choso-ahhhh, @eliasxchocolate, @nozomiaj, @xmiisuki, @sylus-kitten, @its-regretti, @m0onlustre, @ve1vet-cake @letgobro, @starkeysslvt, @yarafic, @prince-nikko, @leiaglamela, @connorsui @iluvmewwwww75 , @biggest-geo-oogami-enjoyer @mysssticc @babygirl-panda19 @someone-somewheres-stuff, @zaynesjasmine1

AN: Bit of a late upload for you night owls and a nice surprise for my early risers! Someone tell me to stop making the chapters longer, thank you LOL. This chapter was a lot of fun to write and I hope you guys enjoy! This is on AO3 as usual! :D

"So… uh, what’s your dog’s name?" you asked, trying to keep up the conversation and maybe get him to reveal more. Your voice was casual, but inside, your nerves were on high alert. "Dog? What dog?" he said absentmindedly, his eyes still glued to the window. His response was automatic, dismissive, as if he hadn’t even registered the question. "You...said that noise earlier was your dog? Right?"

Read Pt.1, Pt.2, Pt.3 Pt.5

Xavier drummed his fingers rhythmically on the glass counter, each tap growing more impatient as the seconds stretched on. His eyes darted around the cluttered store, scanning the shelves filled with everything from worn-out sneakers to high-end dress shoes. The store clerk had disappeared into the back room several minutes ago, leaving him alone with his thoughts. Xavier wasn't entirely sure what he was hoping to find here.

He had strolled in with nothing more than a photo of a shoe print—a faint clue at best—but it felt more productive than sitting idly by, doing nothing while the answers to your disappearance slipped further out of reach. At least this was action, however uncertain.

Was this even a tangible way to find you? Was he grasping at straws, wasting precious time on a hopeless lead?

And the most haunting question of all—were you even still alive?

Xavier squeezed his eyes shut, as if closing them tightly enough could block out the flood of dark thoughts threatening to overwhelm him. He couldn’t afford to let his mind go there, not now. Pushing the fear and uncertainty away, he tried to focus on the faint glimmer of hope that had brought him here in the first place. Anything was better than surrendering to despair.

"This is all I could find on it. It's certainly a unique pair," the shop clerk continued, offering a slight smile. "I'm not as technologically advanced as most shops around here, so sorry to disappoint. But, may I ask—why come to my little shop instead of one of those fancy places downtown?"

Xavier took the pamphlet, glancing over the information quickly before shifting his gaze back to the clerk. "Well," he began, a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, "I heard you were the kind of guy who could identify a pair of shoes just by its print."

The clerk chuckled softly, his weathered face creasing with the effort. "You've been a great help, actually," Xavier added, sliding the pamphlet into his jacket pocket with a nod of appreciation.

The clerk gave an approving nod, the lines of his face softening in quiet satisfaction before he turned his back again, settling into the familiar rhythm of his work. Xavier headed toward the door, the faint creak of floorboards beneath his boots echoing through the small, dimly lit shop. His hand hovered over the door handle, but just as his fingers brushed the cool metal, a nagging thought rooted him in place. He paused, heart pounding slightly as the question formed in his mind.

He turned back, the weight of uncertainty pulling at his voice. "Say... you wouldn’t happen to know where this shoe was originally made, would you?"

The clerk stopped, mid-motion, his hands faltering over a pile of worn soles. The question seemed to hang in the air, drawing out a moment of silence as the man stared down, his brow furrowing. It was clear he hadn’t thought about it in some time. Xavier felt a flicker of hope, unsure if it would lead him anywhere, but desperately clinging to the possibility.

The clerk finally turned, his face thoughtful, his voice quieter now. "Yeah..." he said slowly, as if pulling the memory from a fog. "Last I saw of that shoe, it came from a company based in the... er, N1—no, wait..." His brow furrowed deeper as he worked to piece it together. "N109 Zone. Yeah, that’s the one."

His words hung in the air, carrying a weight Xavier couldn’t ignore. The clerk’s tone wasn’t just casual recollection—it was tinged with something more, like the memory of that particular shoe stirred something deeper. Xavier felt the knot of tension in his chest tighten.

Xavier felt his breath catch in his throat. N109 Zone. The name alone sent a chill down his spine. He had heard plenty about that place—mostly rumors, but enough to know that it was a dangerous, lawless sector. Few dared to go there unless they had no other choice, and even fewer came back with stories worth telling. It was a no-man’s-land, a forgotten corner of land where control was lost long ago. The kind of place where people disappeared without a trace.

His mind raced, piecing it together. If the shoe had come from there... Did that mean you were there too? His stomach churned at the thought. The faint hope he had clung to started to blur with the creeping dread of what fate could have fallen upon you in the N109 Zone.

"You’re sure about that?" he asked, his voice betraying the slight anxiety creeping in around the edges. The clerk glanced up from his work, noticing the shift in Xavier’s tone.

"Yeah," the clerk said, more firmly this time. "I’m sure. That shoe—rare brand—hard to forget. The company folded years ago, but they used to operate out of the N109 Zone. Only place I’ve ever seen them sold."

Xavier swallowed hard, the words sinking deep. If the shoe came from N109, it could be a clue—a dangerous one, but still the only lead he had. He felt the urgency building inside him, a gnawing sense that time was running out, but also the undeniable question of what he might find if he went there.

Could you really be in a place like that? His mind struggled to fill in the gaps, but there were too many unknowns. Were you okay?

"I...appreciate your help," Xavier muttered, his voice thick with tension. He clenched and unclenched his fist, trying to steady his breathing.

"You're not actually thinking of going there, are you?" the store clerk asked, his voice edged with disbelief as he raised an eyebrow. He leaned slightly forward over the counter, studying Xavier with a mixture of concern and amusement. "No offense, but a pretty fella like you doesn’t exactly look like the type who could survive in a place like that. Not really worth the hassle for a pair of shoes don't you think?"

Xavier paused, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He didn’t turn around immediately, letting the weight of the clerk’s words linger for a moment. Finally, he glanced back over his shoulder, his expression calm, almost casual. "I'll be fine," he said, his voice steady, though the tension in his body remained. "I've dealt with much worse."

The clerk blinked, surprised by Xavier's calm demeanor, but said nothing more.

Xavier turned to face the door once again, his hand resting on the handle as he prepared to step out into the cold streets. "Thanks again," he added, his tone carrying a finality that didn’t invite more questions.

Without waiting for a response, he pushed open the door and walked out, leaving the shop behind. His heart pounded a little harder now, not just from the looming threat of the N109 Zone, but from the resolve building inside him. There was no turning back now.

He had a tangible clue—a real, solid lead to your whereabouts. For the first time in weeks, the haze of uncertainty lifted ever so slightly. But now that he knew you were possibly in one of the most dangerous areas anyone could imagine, time was no longer on his side. Every second that ticked by felt heavier, pulling him deeper into the urgency of the situation. The N109 Zone wasn’t just dangerous; it was a place where people vanished, a place where hope died. He had no time to waste, but rushing in blindly would be suicide. He needed a plan.

Stepping into the cold evening air, Xavier pulled the pamphlet from his jacket pocket, its crinkled edges soft from being handled. His eyes scanned over the contents carefully. Make and model—simple enough, not much help now. A detailed diagram of the shoe—useful for recognition, maybe, but not a lifeline. Then his eyes caught something else—a faint address printed near the top. It was partially worn, barely legible, but there.

His heart skipped a beat. An address? Could this be where the shoe was made? Or where it was sold? Either way, it was another piece of the puzzle, and right now, it was the closest thing to a breadcrumb trail he had. He squinted at the faded letters, trying to make out every detail.

If this address was in the N109 Zone, it could lead him right into the heart of the danger. But it could also lead him to you.

His mind raced. First, he needed to confirm the location. Then he needed a plan—something better than just walking straight into the N109 Zone and hoping for the best.

Pulling out his hunter’s watch, Xavier quickly scanned the address printed on the pamphlet. The small device whirred to life, its holographic screen flickering as it worked to process the faint, worn-out text. A soft ding echoed in the quiet street as it started searching for the location. Xavier watched the screen intently, his heart pounding with a mixture of hope and apprehension.

The map on the watch blinked, the dot moving erratically across an unmarked, shadowy area. It drifted back and forth, as though even the advanced technology in his hands was confused, struggling to pin down an exact location. Xavier frowned, watching the dot jitter across the screen. His stomach tightened with frustration. Was the address too old? Was it leading him nowhere?

Just when he thought the device might give up entirely, the dot paused. The holographic screen flickered once more, and with a soft chime, it glowed green in confirmation. The hunter's watch had finally locked on to a spot. Xavier stared at it, a sinking feeling settling in his gut. The place it had marked was deep within N109 Zone, tucked away in the heart of the most dangerous, uncharted part of the city.

He exhaled slowly, his mind running through a million possibilities. The watch’s confirmation meant something tangible, something real—but what waited for him there? He couldn’t shake the thought that this could be a trap, a place where the trail might lead to nothing, or worse, to more danger than he could anticipate. But it was also the only clue he had to your whereabouts.

Xavier closed his hand around the watch, feeling its faint warmth through his fingers. He knew what he had to do, but the enormity of it settled on his shoulders. This wasn’t just a simple lead anymore—it was a beacon, calling him into the depths of the N109 Zone. And whatever waited for him there, he would face it.

Because finding you was all that mattered.

As Xavier made his way through the still, empty streets back to his apartment, the first hints of dawn began to creep over the horizon, casting a faint, orange glow across the sky. His mind was already racing, formulating a plan. Gear, weapons,—he’d need everything ready before venturing into the N109 Zone.

But just as he turned the corner, his phone rang, the sharp sound cutting through the early morning quiet. Xavier stopped, his brow furrowing as he fished the phone out of his pocket. It was a jarring sound—no one should be calling him at this early hour.

He glanced at the screen, squinting in confusion. The number was unknown, unfamiliar. His immediate thought was Captain Jenna—she was the only one who’d be up this early, possibly reaching out with new intel—but this wasn’t her number.

He hesitated, thumb hovering over the screen. Unknown number. His instincts screamed caution. In his line of work, random calls at odd hours rarely led to anything good. The number could belong to anyone—a lead, a warning, or worse, a trap.

But then again, it could be something important—something connected to you. He couldn't ignore the possibility.

Should he answer? The phone rang again, and with each buzz, the knot of uncertainty in his stomach tightened. Whoever it was, they wanted to reach him badly enough to call at this ungodly hour.

With a deep breath, Xavier made a decision and swiped to answer the call. "Hello?" His voice was guarded, careful.

For a moment, all Xavier could hear was silence, a thick void that made his pulse quicken. Then, suddenly, the sound of crackling static filled his ears, distorting the line. He frowned, his grip tightening on the phone. The static grew louder, chaotic, until it was abruptly interrupted by a voice—scared, desperate, and unmistakably familiar.

"Xavier? Is that you??"

His heart nearly stopped.

You kept running until your legs gave out, your breath ragged and chest burning, but you couldn’t stop. Not yet. An hour ago, you had been trapped, bound in your captor's suffocating bedroom, that thick invisible leash tightening around your neck with each passing day, stealing your hope, your strength. Every second felt like eternity in that room, but somehow, with some luck of a power outage of all things, you’d broken out of your cage. You’d ran—bolted into the cold night without looking back.

And now, you were almost free.

But “freedom” wasn’t what you had imagined. The streets stretched out before you, bleak and lifeless. It felt wrong. There was no joy in the air, no welcoming breeze to assure you of safety—only the gnawing sense that you had escaped one cage just to enter another. You recalled something Sylus, your captor, had mentioned in passing.

"Its always 'night' here", he'd said with a small smile, and now you truly realized he hadn’t been lying.

Darkness swallowed the entire area, a thick, unnatural veil over everything. Even though your eyes had adjusted to the lack of light, the eerie, half-flickering streetlights cast only dim pools of sickly yellow across the cracked pavement. The shadows loomed, stretching too far, hiding too much. You shivered, not just from the cold but from the haunting silence that wrapped around you.

The air itself felt thick, as if it was suffocating under the weight of secrets too dark, too dangerous to be spoken aloud. Each alley you passed felt like it was watching you, whispering silent threats from the shadows. Exhaustion clung to your limbs, and you had finally stopped, collapsing onto a broken bench under one of the few flickering streetlights that still worked. The cold metal dug into your skin, but you barely noticed. You were too busy trying to catch your breath, to steady your thoughts.

Where do you go now? You scanned your surroundings again, looking for anything that could offer direction, but the streets were as desolate as before. The same cracked pavement, the same looming shadows. No signs. No people. Just an eerie quiet.

A fleeting thought entered your mind—maybe there’s a train station nearby? The idea seemed almost laughable. Would it even take you to Linkon? And would you even make it to a station without getting caught?

You shook your head, mentally cursing yourself for the thought. Hitchhiking was another idea that crossed your mind—no way, you scolded yourself, brushing off the notion as quickly as it came. You probably couldn't trust anyone here. Not in a place like this. Here, trusting a stranger was as reckless as running blind into the dark.

But what other choice did you have? You couldn’t stay still for long; resting too much would make you an easy target. With a deep, shuddering breath, you forced yourself to stand again. Your legs trembled beneath you, but you kept moving, hoping—praying—you’d find someone who wasn’t out to harm you. Something that could help guide you out of this nightmare. Each step felt heavier than the last, the weight of fear pressing harder on your chest.

As your bare feet dragged across the cracked concrete, the desperation gnawed at you more fiercely. You were lost—physically and mentally. Each street looked the same, the darkness playing tricks on your eyes. Panic swelled in your throat. How long could you keep going like this? How much longer could you walk before your legs gave out? Before someone found you?

Your breaths came quicker, shallow with fear. You needed a way out, but the deeper you walked into the N109 Zone, the more it felt like the place was swallowing you whole. You were running out of time. Running out of hope.

And then finally, as if the cruel universe had decided to grant you another fleeting moment of mercy, you saw it—a faint glow of lights in the distance. Squinting, you could just make out a corner store, its soft, artificial light spilling onto the cracked sidewalk. A few people were loitering outside, giving the place a rare sense of life. A tired-looking woman clutched her child's hand tightly, and a man stood by, lazily smoking a cigar, his eyes scanning the street in disinterest. A couple of others hovered nearby, exchanging quiet words under the dim streetlight.

You couldn't believe your eyes. A store? Here? In the N109 Zone? It seemed almost surreal, like it had been plucked from another world and dropped into this forgotten wasteland. But it made sense in a grim way. Even in a place like this, people have to eat. Make a living.

With a rush of desperate energy, you hurried toward the store, your bare feet slapping against the cold pavement. The people outside cast looks in your direction, but don't say anything. You stopped just short of the entrance, glancing down at yourself for the first time. You must look insane. A nightgown hung loosely around your body, dirty and torn at the edges. No shoes. No socks. Your hair was tangled and wild from the running. The sight of yourself made you wince in embarrassment, but there was no time to care about that now.

Pushing the door open, you were greeted by a dimly lit but surprisingly ordinary scene. The inside of the corner store looked like any other—aisles of candy, snacks, cheap knick knacks and toys stacked high. It was a stark contrast to the dangerous, shadowy streets just outside. But one sight caught your attention above all: the food.

Your stomach growled loudly, twisting with hunger. You hadn’t eaten since the chicken dinner Sylus had provided before your “outburst.” You hadn't been able to finish it, and now the exhaustion from running had made the hunger almost unbearable. Your mouth watered at the thought of eating, but there was one major problem—you had no gold.

Your heart sank as you stared at the rows of candy bars and instant noodles. How were you going to get anything?

Anxiously, you shuffled toward the front counter, your nerves jangling with every step. When you reached it, you hesitated for a moment, staring at the small bell. With trembling fingers, you tapped it.

A disheveled-looking man, his hair sticking out in uneven tufts, glanced up from behind the counter. He had been glued to his phone, and the interruption clearly annoyed him. His eyes landed on you, and for a brief second, he just stared, taking in your disarrayed appearance before rolling his eyes in annoyance.

"Can I...help you?" he asked, dragging out the words as if the very act of speaking was a burden.

You swallowed hard, trying to find the right words, but your mind raced with too many conflicting emotions—fear, embarrassment, hunger. What could you even say?

"I've been kidnapped," you blurt out, your voice shaky and desperate. You opened your mouth to explain further, to tell him everything—how you had escaped, how you were on the run, how you needed help—but before you could get another word out, the man snorted.

"Yeah, I've heard that one before," he said dismissively, leaning back on his chair with an exaggerated sigh. "Who hasn't been kidnapped at least once around here?"

His casual tone hit you like a slap. The raw urgency in your voice was met with nothing but apathy. Your heart sank. He wasn’t going to take you seriously. You were just another story in a place like this, another desperate face with nowhere to go. You stood there, frozen, trying to comprehend how someone could be so indifferent to your situation.

You swallowed hard, fighting back the frustration welling up inside you. "Please, I'm serious. I just need—"

"Look," the man interrupted, cutting you off again, his eyes barely lifting from his phone. "You want something, buy it. Otherwise, move along. I’m not here for charity cases."

You glanced at the counter, the rows of candy, snacks, and drinks just inches away, knowing you had nothing to pay with. Desperation clawed at your insides. You were exhausted, starving, and running out of options.

"I don't have any gold... do you ha-have a phone?" you asked again, your voice trembling as you blinked back the hot tears threatening to spill. How could someone be so indifferent to the obvious suffering staring him in the face?

"Broken," he said flatly, still not bothering to look up from his phone. His disinterest was like a physical blow. "And… gold? What are you, some Linkcunt citizen?"

The venom in his words hit you like a slap, and for a moment, you were too stunned to respond. Linkcunt citizen? The insult was harsh, dripping with disdain, and it sent a sudden wave of anger rushing through you.

"Yes, I’m from Linkon," you correct, the frustration and fear bubbling over into your voice. "What’s with the attitude? What did I do to you? I'm asking for help!"

He finally looked up, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, but it wasn’t friendly. It was mocking.

"What did you do? Nothing. That’s the problem. Linkon folk come down here thinking they’re better than everyone, tossing around their fancy gold and expecting the world to hand them everything." He shook his head, his expression a mix of amusement and contempt.

"You want help? Then you’d better figure out how things work around here real fast, princess. No one's gonna hand you anything for free."

You felt your fists clench at his words, the anger mixing with a deeper sense of helplessness. You hadn’t asked to be here. You hadn’t asked for any of this. And yet, standing in this grimy corner store in the depths of the N109 Zone, it was clear that no one cared about your suffering. Not here. You weren’t in Linkon anymore.

Taking a deep breath, you forced yourself to calm down, swallowing the anger rising in your throat. Getting into a fight with this clerk wouldn’t help you, not now. But the bitterness of his words lingered, and you realized just how alone you truly were in this place.

Silently, you turned your back to the greasy man behind the counter, his words still echoing in your mind as you began to walk up and down the aisles. Every step felt heavier than the last, the weight of hunger, thirst, and sheer exhaustion pulling at you. Your stomach growled, gnawing at your insides, reminding you just how long it had been since you'd eaten.

But something else gnawed at you too—something that made your skin crawl with discomfort. You hadn't changed your pad for hours, and now the sticky, damp feeling clung uncomfortably between your legs. The sudden realization hit you, a wave of disgust washing over you as you winced.

Swallowing hard, you glanced over toward the feminine hygiene aisle. Rows of necessities lined the shelves—pads, tampons, basic supplies—just out of reach. You stared at them, your stomach twisting in knots. It wasn't just food you needed now. You couldn’t go on like this.

But you had no credit cards. No way to purchase anything. Nothing.

Your eyes flicked back toward the front of the store, where the disinterested clerk sat, still engrossed in his phone. He wasn’t paying attention to you. He didn’t care. Nobody here did.

You felt a knot tighten in your throat as the harsh reality of the situation settled in. You had to steal. There was no other choice. You hated the thought of it—hated how low it made you feel—but survival wasn’t a matter of pride. Not here. Not now.

Your fingers trembled as you looked back at the shelves. You knew what you had to do.

The clerk still wasn’t paying attention, his face lit by the glow of his phone. His indifference might be your only saving grace. You could do this—quickly, quietly, and then you’d be gone.

With shaky hands you reach for a plastic bag that had fallen on the ground. The bag felt like a shield, something to hide the weight of what you were about to do. You didn’t think twice as you moved toward the feminine hygiene aisle, knowing you couldn’t walk any further in your current state. You reached for a pack of pads, your movements slow and deliberate. Your heart pounded in your chest, loud enough that it felt like the entire store could hear it.

Next, you hurried down the snack aisle, grabbing a few protein bars, a small bag of chips, and a bottle of water, all of which disappeared into the bag as your pulse raced in your ears.

You glanced toward the counter, your body tense with anxiety. The clerk still hadn’t looked up, completely absorbed in his phone. The faint, unmistakable sound of pornography drifted from his speakers, making your stomach churn in disgust. You twisted your face, feeling a wave of revulsion wash over you, but you couldn’t afford to stop now.

He was utterly oblivious to your frantic movements, his attention locked on the screen, but that didn't ease the gnawing sensation in your gut. Every step felt like you were tiptoeing across a minefield, a ticking clock counting down to disaster. Even though he wasn’t watching, you couldn’t shake the feeling that someone—or something—was.

With the bag now heavy in your hands, you made your way toward the exit, each step carefully measured, your breath shallow as you fought to keep calm. The distance between you and the door seemed endless, as if every inch stretched into miles. But finally, your trembling hand closed around the cold metal of the handle.

Your heart raced as you crossed the threshold, bracing yourself for the inevitable—a shrill, deafening alarm that would shatter the silence and expose your crime to the world. You waited for it, your breath caught in your throat, ready to bolt at the first sound.

But nothing came.

No alarm. No piercing siren. The only thing you could hear was the frantic beating of your own heart as the door swung shut behind you with a quiet click.

For a moment, you stood there, frozen in place, not daring to move. The cool night air brushed against your skin, grounding you in the eerie quiet. The world outside the store felt impossibly still. It took a few seconds for your brain to register that you had made it out—unseen, unheard.

You swallowed hard, keeping your head down as you hurried past the few patrons lingering near the store. Their eyes followed your every step, and you could feel their gazes crawling over you, judging, curious. Did they happen to care, or did you just look that insane?

The woman with the child pulled her daughter closer as you passed, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. The man smoking his cigar gave you a long, leering stare, as if trying to figure out what your story was. The others whispered quietly among themselves, but you couldn’t make out the words, nor did you want to. You kept walking, willing yourself to be invisible, but the tension in the air made your skin prickle.

Once you were a safe distance away from the store, you ducked down an empty alley, the shadows wrapping around you like a cloak. The world outside was still bleak, the flickering streetlights casting only the faintest glow, but here in the quiet, you finally had a moment to breathe.

You found a relatively clean spot, tucked behind an old dumpster, and set the bag down beside you. Your hands shook as you reached into the bag for the pack of pads. The discomfort and itch between your legs had grown unbearable, and the relief of changing, even in such a grim place, was something you couldn't put off any longer.

Quickly, you adjusted yourself, wincing at the feeling of the old pad peeling away. You worked fast, knowing you couldn’t linger here for long. Once you were done, you felt a small sense of relief—at least one problem had been solved.

Next, you pulled out the snacks. The hunger was still clawing at you, and the sight of the protein bars and chips made your stomach ache even more. Tearing into a protein bar, you ate quickly, barely tasting the food as you devoured it, desperate to fuel your exhausted body. The bottle of water came next, and you drank it down in large, gulping swallows.

For the first time since you had escaped, you felt a flicker of calm. It wasn’t much, and it wouldn’t last, but here in this dark corner, with food in your stomach and a small bit of comfort, you allowed yourself a brief moment to breathe.

But the quiet didn’t last. You knew you couldn’t stay hidden forever. You had to get moving at some point or Sylus would find you. This place was unforgiving, and survival demanded more than just temporary refuge.

Tucking the remaining items back into the bag, you sigh in satisfaction, glancing around to make sure no one had followed you. The streets were still empty. For now, you were alone. You had survived one more step in this nightmare, but you knew it wasn’t over yet.

Some time passes and you can slowly feel yourself falling asleep against the dumpster.

As you crouched in the dim alley, trying to fight off exhaustion and gather your thoughts, the sound of footsteps broke the silence. Slow, steady, and casual, accompanied by a faint, off-key whistling. You stiffened, instinctively pulling the bag closer to your chest.

The footsteps stopped just a few feet away, and then came the voice—low, cautious, but curious.

"Hey, you okay?"

You glanced up warily, your eyes landing on the figure standing at the mouth of the alley. He was tall, maybe in his mid-thirties, with shaggy, unkempt brown hair that fell just above his eyes. His clothes were worn—faded jeans and a jacket that had seen better days—but he didn’t look like the rough types you usually imagined when you thought of the N109 Zone. His posture was relaxed, hands tucked casually into his pockets, but his sharp, dark eyes were fixed on you, a flicker of concern—or maybe something else—dancing behind them.

His face was hard to read. He had a slight stubble covering his jaw, giving him a rugged, almost tired appearance. His lips quirked in what might’ve been a faint smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. There was something unsettling about the way he looked at you—like he was curious, but also sizing you up. Not in an aggressive way, but in a way that made you wonder why he’d stopped to talk to you at all.

"Are you... lost?" he asked, stepping forward slowly, the whistling tune dying in the air. His voice was softer now, almost as if he was trying to be gentle, but his presence made the space around you feel even smaller.

"What happened to your arm?"

You swallowed hard, trying your best to keep your gaze on him. You had honestly completely forgotten about the scar on you arm. As much as you wanted to explain, every instinct screamed to stay wary. This wasn’t a place where strangers helped out of kindness, and you knew better than to trust easily. But as exhausted and desperate as you were, you weren’t sure if you could afford to push away help, even from someone who might have their own agenda.

"I—I need help," you stammered, your voice shaky, barely managing to push the words past your tightening throat. Your body trembled, a mix of nerves and exhaustion leaving you on edge. You hugged the bag tighter to your chest, every muscle in your body tense. "But... don't come any closer just yet."

The man's eyes narrowed slightly, his expression shifting, though he made no move forward. He stayed where he was, his hands still in his pockets, the dim streetlight casting long shadows on his face. For a moment, there was silence, the air thick with tension as he watched you.

"Okay," he said finally, his voice calm and even, though the curiosity in his eyes never wavered. He tilted his head, taking in your ragged appearance with a deeper interest. "No problem. I’m not here to scare you. Just trying to figure out what you're doing out here all alone."

You bit your lip, unsure of how to respond. You needed help, but trust was a dangerous thing in a place like this. Still, you were running out of options. Your mind raced as you tried to decide what to say next.

You hesitated, your mind racing as you weighed the risks. Could you trust him? Telling the truth might make you vulnerable, but lying wouldn’t get you far either. You had to say something—anything—to explain why you were here.

"I was kidnapped," you said, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. Your voice wavered, a tremor of fear running through you as you spoke. "I escaped… I don’t know where I am. I just need to get somewhere safe and rest so I can get home later."

The man’s expression shifted slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. He studied you, eyes narrowing as if trying to assess whether or not you were telling the truth. His silence stretched on for what felt like an eternity, making your heart pound faster in your chest.

"You’re serious?" he finally asked, his tone more subdued now, almost disbelieving but not dismissive. He took a small step back, showing that he wasn’t going to invade your space. "You really got away from someone?"

You nodded, the tension in your body still coiled tight, waiting for his reaction. You couldn't tell if he believed you, but you hoped—desperately—that he wouldn’t press too hard or turn you away.

The man stared at you for a moment longer, his eyes scanning your face, as if trying to read the truth in your expression. Finally, he let out a slow breath, his posture softening just slightly.

"Alright," he said, his voice low but firm. "If you're telling the truth... then you’ve got bigger problems than just being lost."

He glanced around, checking the street behind him as if making sure no one else was nearby, then he looked back at you, his face more serious now. "You can’t stay out here. This place— the N109 Zone—it’s not somewhere you want to be wandering around alone, especially if someone’s looking for you."

You felt a shiver run down your spine. You already knew the N109 Zone was dangerous, but hearing it from him made it feel even more real.

"Look," he continued, his voice softening. "I’m not gonna hurt you. If you need help, I can take you somewhere safer. But you’ve gotta trust me, and you’ve gotta move quick. If they’re after you, it’s only a matter of time before they find you out here."

He waited, his eyes searching yours, as if trying to see if you’d accept his offer—or run.

You hesitated for a long moment, scanning the man’s face for any sign of deceit. His expression was calm, almost unnervingly so, but something about his demeanor made you feel that, for now, you didn’t have much of a choice. If he meant harm, he could’ve acted already. Swallowing hard, you nodded.

“Okay,” you whispered, your voice barely above a breath. “I’ll come with you.”

He nodded in return, offering nothing more than a grunt of acknowledgment before turning and motioning for you to follow. "My place isn’t far. You can rest there, maybe clean up a bit. It’ll give you a few hours before you have to figure out what’s next."

You fell in step behind him, your bare feet quiet against the cracked pavement. The streets were eerily silent, save for the occasional distant hum of passing cars. You hugged the bag closer to your chest, still tense but too tired to think about running. As you walked through the dim streets, a question lingered in the back of your mind.

"I'm surprised you stopped to help me," you finally said, your voice tentative. "Most people here…they wouldn’t have even looked twice."

He glanced back at you, barely breaking stride, and shrugged. "I’ve seen worse things in this place. Trust me, a girl lost in an alley isn't the strangest thing I’ve come across." His tone was casual, almost detached, as if this was just another day in the chaotic world of the N109 Zone.

His nonchalance unnerved you. Why was he so calm? Your anxiety spiked for a moment, thoughts racing. Maybe you had made the wrong choice. Maybe he had his own agenda, like everyone else in this place. But then again, he hadn’t tried to harm you. If he wanted to, he would've done so. You weighed your options, feeling the tug of paranoia, but exhaustion and desperation had their hold. You pushed the doubt aside. For now, you decided to trust him, even if only for a few hours.

As you walked in silence, the two of you eventually came across something you hadn’t expected to see: an old, grimy phone booth, its glass cracked but still intact, standing at the edge of a corner. A relic from another time, long since forgotten by most.

Your heart skipped a beat. A phone. You might be able to call Xavier.

"Do you have any… uh, quarters?" you asked, your voice tight with desperation. You hadn’t thought about it before, but now it seemed obvious. Linkon City had long left behind the need for such old currency—everything there was digital, clean, modern. But here, in the N109 Zone, where everything felt stuck in time, of course they still used quarters. It made sense in this broken-down world.

He stopped, watching you for a moment before sighing. "Yeah, hang on." He fumbled in his pockets for a few seconds, fishing around with a slight look of annoyance. After a bit of clattering, he pulled out a few quarters, handing them over to you without a word.

Your hands trembled as you took them. This could be your chance—your lifeline. You stepped inside the booth, hoping that the old machine would still work, and stared at the dirty receiver.

You stared at the old rotary dial for a moment, panic rising in your chest. You tried to remember how it worked as you slipped the coins in the slot. It had been so long since you’d read about one of these—everything in Linkon was sleek, touch-based, connected by the web. But here, in this forgotten part of the world, you were holding a piece of the past. The process felt foreign, archaic.

Your mind raced, desperately trying to recall Xavier’s number. What was it? You racked your brain, images of his scribbled phone number from messages, fragments of conversations, all blurred together. The numbers danced in your head as you tried to piece them together.

Your heart pounded louder, matching the beat of the seconds slipping away. You were running out of time. With a trembling hand, you began dialing the numbers, trying to focus on every movement, praying you’d gotten it right.

The dial clicked as it spun back after each number, the mechanical sound unnervingly slow. The receiver crackled in your ear as the phone began to ring.

Please, Xavier... please pick up.

The ringing felt endless, each second a heavier weight pressing on your chest. You squeezed your eyes shut, gripping the receiver tight. The noise around you seemed to fade into the background as you waited, hoping, praying that on the other end of the line, he’d be there��ready to hear you, ready to help.

The phone rang again... and again.

Your breath caught in your throat, a prayer hanging on the edge of each ring.

"Hello?" A timid, cautious male voice came through the receiver, muffled by the crackling static, but it was unmistakable.

Relief crashed over you like a wave, and you nearly collapsed right there in the grimy phone booth, your knees buckling as the sound of Xavier's voice reached your ears. After everything—you finally had a connection to him. Tears welled up in your eyes, your breath shaky as you clutched the receiver tighter.

"Xavier!! Xavier, thank god!" you cried, your voice raw with desperation. "I don't even know where to start..."

But after your outburst, only silence greeted you. The line crackled, sputtering with age, the static drowning out whatever response might have come. Frustration surged through you as you gripped the receiver, shaking it in a vain attempt to clear the line. You banged the phone against the booth, biting back a sob as the interference persisted. This thing must be older than you thought. How could it fail you now?

Finally, the crackling stopped, leaving only a tense, quiet hum on the other end.

"Xavier? Is that you??" you asked, your voice trembling, barely holding back the panic. You couldn’t bear the thought of losing this fragile connection—this one thin lifeline.

The line crackled for a moment before Xavier’s voice came through, steady and calm, but with a layer of unmistakable relief.

"It’s you…," Xavier said, his voice soft but firm, as if he’d been holding onto hope for so long that hearing your voice felt like a lifeline. "I’m so glad you’re alive. Are you okay? Where are you?"

The sound of his voice sent another wave of emotion crashing over you. You sob, your body trembling with a mix of exhaustion and relief. For the first time in what felt like forever, you weren’t alone. He had been looking for you, and now, he was coming.

"Xavier…I was kidnapped," you sobbed, the words finally breaking free, the fear and terror of the last few days pouring out. "I escaped. I’m cold, hurt and scared..."

His response was immediate, his tone both calming and steady, as if he was trying to comfort you even from miles away. "I’m here now. I’ve got you. Just breathe, okay? I’m coming for you. I just need a better idea of where you are."

You took a shaky breath, trying to keep it together, but the tears threatened to spill over. "I don’t know where exactly… all I know is I’m in the N109 Zone. I found a phone booth near a corner store. Everything around here looks abandoned."

There was a brief pause on the other end as Xavier processed the information. "Alright," he said firmly. "Stay there, I'll try and track the location of the phone booth. I’m on my way. Just… hold on a little longer, okay?"

"I—" you hesitated for a moment, glancing back toward the man who had helped you. "I actually found a really nice man. He’s letting me rest at his place. He hasn’t hurt me at all, so don’t worry. He says his place isn’t far from here. I’ll come back to the phone and give you the details after I see it."

Xavier’s voice tightened slightly, the concern clear. "I don’t like the sound of that. Just… be careful. I’m coming as fast as I can. Don’t take any unnecessary risks, alright? If anything feels wrong, leave. Fight like hell if you need to."

"I will," you whispered, gripping the receiver tightly. "Just hurry, please."

"I promise I’m coming," Xavier said, his voice steady but laced with urgency. He paused, just for a second, before continuing. "One more thing though—do you remember who took you? I’ll need a name, in case…in case I don't find you when I arrive. I don’t want to lose you again."

Your heart raced as memories of your captor flashed in your mind. "Yeah! His name is S—"

"Your time is up. Please enter more quarters for an additional 3 minutes," the automated voice cut in sharply, drowning out your words.

Panic surged through you. The call had abruptly ended, the receiver in your hand now silent except for the monotonous prompt asking for more coins. You frantically searched your pockets, but you had no more quarters.

"Your time is up. Please enter more quarters for—"

You screamed, the frustration boiling over as you kicked the phone, the clanging metal reverberating through the phone booth. Your hand gripped the receiver so tightly your knuckles lost circulation, and with a final surge of anger, you thrashed against the booth, the tears you’d been holding back now streaming down your face.

"Xavier!?" you yelled into the dead line, your voice cracking with desperation. He had to hear you. He had to. But all that came through was the cold, indifferent tone of the automated voice, endlessly repeating its demand for more quarters, as if mocking your panic.

You slammed the receiver down, the booth suddenly feeling too small, too suffocating. Every second that ticked by was a second lost, a moment Xavier might not know who had taken you, might not know how to find you.

With a deep, shaky breath, you stepped out of the booth, blinking away the tears.

"Do...you have any more quarters?" you ask, more tears threatening to spill from your face at any moment now.

The man outside the phone booth shifted awkwardly and shook his head, his eyes flickering between you and the dark street. He had watched you from the moment you’d rushed into the booth, but now, as you sobbed, his discomfort was clear. He took a slow step forward, clearing his throat, but didn’t say anything at first, unsure of what to do.

"You, uh... you okay?" he asked finally, his voice soft but uneasy. He scratched the back of his neck, glancing around as if he wasn’t used to being in such an emotional situation.

You wiped at your eyes, trying to calm your breathing, but the tears kept coming. The overwhelming frustration of losing the connection with Xavier left you feeling exposed and helpless. You didn’t know what to say to the man, couldn’t find the words to explain the weight of everything crashing down on you at once.

He hesitated, then sighed, taking another step closer. "Look, uh… if it’s about the call, I’m sure your guy’s coming. Sounds like he cares. You just... you know, gotta hang in there. We’ll get to my place soon, and you can rest."

His words, though clumsy, were an attempt at comfort. But even as he tried to reassure you, his uncertainty showed in the way he avoided your gaze, as if he wasn’t quite sure how to handle someone breaking down in front of him.

You sniffed, nodding slightly, feeling drained from the outburst. "Yeah… yeah, I’ll be fine," you muttered, wiping your face with the sleeve of your nightgown, though you weren’t sure you believed it.

The two of you resumed walking, your steps slow and heavy as you sniffled, trying to hold back the tears that still threatened to spill. The man walked beside you, his hands shoved into his pockets, glancing at you now and then with an awkwardness that was hard to miss. He wasn’t saying much, just occasionally looking around as if he wished there was something more he could do, but he seemed completely out of his depth when it came to comforting anyone, let alone a woman on the verge of breaking down.

"You’ll, uh, feel better once we get there," he mumbled, his voice low and sheepish. "It’s not much, but at least you can get some sleep. Maybe eat something."

You nodded, biting your lip as you fought to compose yourself, trying not to let your emotions overwhelm you again. The air between you felt thick, filled with unspoken words and awkward tension. He kept glancing at you as if he wanted to say something more, but each time, he swallowed the words, guiding you quietly through the darkened streets.

The city around you was eerily quiet, the desolation of the N109 Zone even more pronounced in the silence. The flickering streetlights barely illuminated your path, casting long shadows that stretched across the cracked pavement. You hugged your arms close to your body, your mind still reeling from the failed call, but you focused on just putting one foot in front of the other.

The man cleared his throat, his voice hesitant. "I’m… not really good at this kind of thing, you know," he admitted, his tone awkward, almost apologetic. "But you’ll be safe. I’ll make sure of it."

You nodded again, not trusting yourself to speak. His words were clumsy, but there was a strange sincerity in them. Despite his unease, it seemed like he really was trying to help, even if he didn’t quite know how to do it.

As the silence stretched on, the weight of everything hanging between you, you glanced at him through the dim light. His awkwardness, his uncertainty—it was all so clear. But despite everything, he had helped you. He had taken you in when you had nowhere else to go. Given you the last of his quarters. You swallowed, trying to ground yourself in the moment.

"I didn’t catch your name, by the way," you said softly, your voice still a little shaky.

He blinked, as if surprised you’d asked. His steps slowed for a moment before he gave a small, awkward shrug. "Oh, uh, yeah. I guess I didn’t say." He rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes darting to the ground as he seemed to search for the right words. "It’s Reese," he finally muttered. "Not much of a name, but it’s mine."

You offered a small, tired smile, your voice soft. "Reese… thanks for helping me. I don’t know what I would’ve done if—" You stopped yourself, the weight of your situation pressing on your chest again.

He glanced at you from the corner of his eye and gave a sheepish nod. "Yeah, well… I’m no hero. Just didn’t seem right to leave you out there. Not in a place like this."

As the two of you walked in silence, Reese cleared his throat, glancing over at you with a bit more confidence than before. "So… what’s your name? Figured if we’re gonna be walking together, I should know who I’m helping."

You hesitated, your heart racing slightly. Trust wasn’t something you could afford so easily, not here, not now. Despite his awkward attempts to help, you weren’t ready to give him your real name. Better to be cautious, you reminded yourself. You forced a small smile, trying to keep your voice steady.

"It’s...Mephisto," you said, the lie rolling off your tongue before you could second-guess it. You had vaguely remembered Sylus calling out the name to someone from outside the door, to who you weren't sure. One of his men probably.

Reese nodded, seemingly taking your answer at face value, no suspicion in his expression. "Alright," he said, giving a half-smile. "Nice to meet you Miss Mephisto, despite the strange name."

You nodded back, feeling the weight of the lie settle inside you. It wasn’t much, but it gave you a small layer of protection—just in case. You still didn’t know Reese’s full intentions, and trust here could be a dangerous thing.

"Nice to meet you too, Reese," you replied softly, glancing around the darkened street.

After what felt like an eternity of walking through the dark, desolate streets of the N109 Zone, you and Reese finally reached his place. The house stood at the end of a narrow alley, tucked between two crumbling, abandoned buildings. It wasn’t much to look at—dingy, with peeling paint and windows that seemed to have long lost their clarity. The front door sagged slightly on its hinges, the wood scuffed and weathered, as if it had seen better days a long time ago.

Reese unlocked the door with a bit of effort, pushing it open with a low creak. Inside, the air was stale but warm, a stark contrast to the cold outside. The place was small, cluttered, and dimly lit by a single overhead bulb. The furnishings were old, mismatched, and worn—a threadbare couch sat in the corner, covered in a faded blanket. The walls were bare except for a few crooked picture frames, and the carpet looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in years. Still, despite its grimy appearance, there was a strange sense of comfort to the place, like someone had lived here for a long time and had made it home in their own way.

"You can sit over there if you want," Reese said, motioning to the couch. "It’s not much, but it’s better than the streets."

You nodded, stepping inside cautiously. Your eyes scanned the room, taking in the details—the scuffed coffee table with a few empty bottles on it, the stack of old magazines piled up against one wall. It didn’t scream danger, but you couldn’t shake the wary feeling settling in the pit of your stomach. Something about the whole situation made you uneasy. Maybe it was the dim lighting, the smell of old dust, or just the lingering doubt about trusting someone so easily in a place like this.

Still, exhaustion weighed heavily on your body, and the promise of rest—any rest—was too tempting to ignore. You sat down on the couch, the worn cushions sinking under you, and pulled the bag of pads closer to your chest. Reese seemed harmless enough, but you reminded yourself to stay on guard. You weren’t out of danger yet.

Reese busied himself, tossing a few items around to clear space, but the house remained eerily quiet.

As you settled into the couch, trying to make yourself as comfortable as possible, a sudden noise from the backyard broke the uneasy silence. It was faint, but distinct—a thud, followed by the faint sound of something shuffling or dragging. Your heart leapt, and you sat up a little straighter, your eyes darting toward the back of the house.

“What was that?” you asked, your voice tense as you turned to look at Reese.

He froze for a split second, the calm, awkward demeanor you’d come to expect from him faltering. His eyes widened slightly, and he gave a nervous laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "Oh, that?" he said, his voice higher than usual. "It’s just… my dog. Yeah, he’s in the shed out back. I forgot to mention him earlier."

You watched him closely, feeling the tension spike in the room. There was something off about the way he said it, the quickness in his tone as if he were scrambling to come up with an explanation.

"Your dog?" you repeated, trying to keep your voice steady, though doubt gnawed at the back of your mind.

"Yeah," he said, nodding a bit too enthusiastically. "He’s old, doesn’t like people much, so I keep him out there. No big deal."

His words didn’t do much to settle your nerves. You stared at him for a moment longer, weighing his response, trying to decide if he was telling the truth. The uneasy feeling from earlier returned, stronger this time, creeping up your spine.

"Right," you muttered, still watching him carefully, but you decided not to push further. Not yet.

"Um... coffee?" Reese blurted out suddenly, his voice still laced with that nervous edge. He offered a forced smile, clearly trying to redirect the tension hanging thick in the air. He rubbed his hands together, glancing toward the small, cluttered kitchen. "I could make us some. Might help, you know, after everything you’ve been through."

You hesitated, still on edge from the strange noise outside and his quick, jittery explanation. Something didn’t feel right, but you weren’t sure if pushing him now would help or only make things worse. You forced a smile of your own, your mind still racing with questions.

"Sure," you said quietly, your voice flat as you tried to calm your nerves. "Coffee sounds good."

Reese nodded, too eagerly, and moved toward the kitchen, fumbling with an old coffee pot. The clattering of cups and the rush of water filled the silence, but your mind was still focused on that noise outside. A dog in the shed? It seemed like a weak excuse, but you didn’t know him well enough to push it.

You leaned back into the couch, the worn fabric sinking beneath you as your eyes drifted toward the back door. You couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off, that maybe Reese wasn’t telling you everything. You forced yourself to take a deep breath, trying to keep calm. You were exhausted, but you couldn't let your guard down.

Reese finished brewing the coffee after a few moments, bringing it over to you in a green, cracked mug. You took it from him with a polite smile, setting it down on the coffee table untouched. The steam curled up from the cup, filling the small room with the faint scent of stale coffee. Reese sat across from you, sipping from his own mug, but you couldn’t help but notice how distracted he seemed.

He kept glancing toward the window, then back at his watch, over and over. Each time, his face tensed a little more, as though he were expecting something—or someone. Your wariness only grew.

What is he looking for?

The air felt thick with unspoken tension, and your mind raced, trying to piece together what was happening. You couldn’t shake the feeling that the noise in the backyard wasn’t as innocent as he’d made it sound.

"So…uh, what’s your dog’s name?" you asked, trying to keep up the conversation and maybe get him to reveal more. Your voice was casual, but inside, your nerves were on high alert.

"Dog? What dog?" Reese said absentmindedly, his eyes still glued to the window. His response was automatic, dismissive, as if he hadn’t even registered the question.

"You...said that noise earlier was your dog? Right?"

A few moments passed in uncomfortable silence, and then you saw it—realization hit him like a brick. His eyes widened as he turned to look at you, panic flickering across his face.

You sat up straighter, your heart starting to race. He’d lied. And now he knew you knew.

"Uh, I mean—" he stammered, his voice shaky, "I meant, uh, Rex. Yeah, his name’s Rex. Sorry, I’m just… distracted." He forced a weak smile, but the panic was still there, clear as day. He wasn’t fooling anyone.

You shifted uncomfortably, the tension in the room thickening with every second that passed after Reese's panicked slip. His eyes kept darting between you and the window, as if something outside demanded his attention. Your pulse quickened as the uneasy feeling deepened. Something wasn’t right, and you knew you had to get out of there.

"I should…go," you said, forcing a smile as you slowly stood up, trying to keep your voice casual. "Y'know... Xavier’s probably found the phone booth by now. I should go back and meet him."

Reese blinked, his expression tightening for a split second. The forced calm he'd been trying to maintain wavered as he set his mug down on the table a little too quickly, the clink of the ceramic against wood echoing in the silence. "Go? Already?" He scratched the back of his neck again, his voice strained. "I mean, it’s cold, and it’s not safe out there… Maybe you should wait a little longer."

You swallowed hard, feeling the anxiety rising in your chest. Every instinct told you to get out, but you had to keep your cool. "Thanks for the coffee and everything, but I don’t want Xavier to worry," you replied, taking a step toward the door. "I’ll be fine. I’ve been through worse, remember?"

Reese stood up as well, his movements stiff, like he was trying to decide whether to stop you. His gaze flickered toward the window again, and his voice dropped. "Yeah, I get it. But, uh… maybe just a few more minutes. You don’t want to be out there alone, do you?"

You glanced toward the door, your heart pounding in your chest. The unease that had been lurking beneath the surface now felt like a solid weight pressing down on you. Something was very wrong, and you needed to leave—now.

"No, I’m leaving. Thank you for everything, but I need to go," you said, your voice steady despite the panic bubbling under the surface. You tried to move past Reese, your eyes focused on the door, your heart pounding with the hope of reaching it before things got worse.

But then Reese stepped in front of you, his whole demeanor changing in an instant. "No," he said flatly, his voice suddenly devoid of the awkwardness and sheepishness he’d shown before. His tone was cold, almost emotionless, as he closed the distance between you with startling speed.

Before you could react, you felt it—the cold press of metal against your neck. Your breath caught in your throat, and your body froze as the unmistakable sensation of a gun pressed hard into your skin.

"You're not going anywhere," he hissed, his voice low and menacing. His earlier nervousness was completely gone, replaced by something dark and dangerous. "Sit back down."

Your heart raced, your mind scrambling for a way out, but all you could feel was the sharp edge of fear coursing through you. You swallowed hard, trying not to move too quickly, knowing that with one wrong step, things could spiral even further out of control.

"Reese… please," you whispered, barely able to keep your voice from shaking. "You don’t have to do this."

His eyes flickered with something—anger, desperation—but his grip on the gun didn’t waver. "Just sit down, and no one has to get hurt."

Your mind raced, searching for a way out, but for now, all you could do was comply and hope that Xavier was still coming for you.

"I promised them a girl..." Reese muttered, his voice trembling slightly, though the gun still pressed firmly against your neck as you looked up at him from the couch. He glanced away from you, his guilt briefly flickering in his eyes. "Then you just... happened to be there. Right place, wrong time, I guess. So...this is how it has to be."

His words hung in the air, cold and final.

"I’m sorry," he added, though there was no comfort in his apology—just a hollow attempt at easing his own conscience.

Your breath hitched as you tried to process his words, the full weight of the situation crushing down on you. He wasn’t just some awkward guy helping you out of kindness. He had been waiting for someone—anyone—to fill a promise. And you had walked right into it.

As you stood there, your heart pounding in your chest, the cold barrel of the gun pressed against your neck, the door creaked open. Another man stepped into the room. He was taller than Reese, with a thick, rough appearance—his face shadowed by the dim light. His eyes swept the room, landing on you, taking in the situation with a detached indifference.

"Is this the girl you promised?" the man asked, his voice low and gruff, as if he’d been through this kind of scene too many times to be surprised by it. His gaze shifted briefly to Reese, then back to you, narrowing with interest.

You felt a chill run down your spine as his question hung in the air.

Reese didn’t move the gun from your neck, but you could feel the tension in his body shift as he glanced over at the man, clearly nervous about his arrival. "Yeah, this is her," Reese replied, his voice tight. "I just… need a few more minutes to get her to cooperate."

The other man stepped closer, his boots heavy on the floor. His eyes raked over you, cold and calculating. "No time for that," he said flatly. "Get her in the basement. You know how this works, Reese."

Your pulse quickened, fear gripping you tighter as you looked from one man to the other, your mind spinning with panic. What were they planning? You needed to find a way out, and fast, before things escalated even further.

"You’re making a mistake," you said, your voice shaking despite your best efforts to stay calm. "Someone’s coming for me. If you don’t let me go, it’s going to get a lot worse for both of you."

As the weight of your words hung in the air, you weren’t even sure who you were referring to in that moment—Sylus, the man who had kidnapped you in the first place, or Xavier, the one coming to save you. Both names were tangled up in your desperation, your mind too frantic to distinguish between them. All you could do was hope that the threat would ring true, that it would be enough to make Reese think twice.

The taller man smirked, clearly unimpressed. "We’ll see about that," he muttered, turning his back toward the door to pull up the carpet, leaving you alone with Reese and the gun still pressed to your neck. You watch as a metal trap door with a handle is revealed to have been hidden under the carpet and you gasp.

Instinct kicked in, and without thinking, you twisted suddenly, using the brief distraction in Reese’s hesitation to try and break free. You shoved his arm away with everything you had, knocking the gun off balance. For a moment, you thought you had a chance, adrenaline flooding your body as you fought with all the strength you could muster.

"Let go of me!" you screamed, thrashing and kicking as hard as you could. Your elbow connected with Reese's side, and he let out a sharp grunt, but his grip tightened. His face twisted in a mixture of frustration and fear, and he fought back, grabbing your arm and wrenching you toward him.

"Stop it!" Reese growled, struggling to maintain control, but you weren’t going down without a fight. You kicked at his legs, but his hold on you only grew stronger.

The door to the basement creaked open, and before you could react, the taller man reappeared, grabbing you by the other arm. His grip was like iron, and between the two of them, they overpowered you. Your heart pounded as you screamed and clawed, your feet scraping against the floor, but the force of their combined strength was too much.

"No! Please—" you gasped, trying to twist free, but they dragged you toward the open door.

The tall man grunted with effort as they forced you toward the dark, looming stairwell. "Get her down there already," he growled, his tone sharp and impatient.

You struggled even harder, but your muscles were weakening, the adrenaline starting to fade as fear took over. They shoved you roughly down the narrow staircase, and you stumbled, catching yourself against the damp wall. The dimness of the basement swallowed you whole, the air cold and musty. You could feel the fear wrapping around you, tighter with each step they forced you to take.

The taller man was close behind, his heavy footsteps echoing in the cold, damp basement. You felt his rough hand grab the bottom of your nightgown, his fingers curling into the fabric. Panic surged through you as his cold hand snaked across your belly, the touch sending a shiver of disgust up your spine.

You screamed, thrashing wildly against his grip, but his strength overpowered you. The man leaned in, his breath hot against your ear as he whispered, "Wouldn't hurt to try her out before the boss gets here..." His voice was thick with lust, and his eyes gleamed with a hunger that turned your stomach.

His hand slid lower, his fingers beginning to snake inside your underwear. You could feel his hard on pressed against your backside. Fear and revulsion took over, and you knew you had to do something—anything—to stop him.

Thinking fast, you blurted out the first thing that came to your mind, your voice desperate and shaking. "I'm bleeding! I'm on my period!"

The words seemed to stop him in his tracks. His hand paused, the twisted hunger in his eyes faltering for a moment as confusion flickered across his face.

"You’re what?" he muttered, his brow furrowing. His grip loosened just slightly, enough for you to take a sharp breath, your heart still racing.

"I’m on my period," you repeated, your voice trembling. "It’s—it’s bad. You don’t want to do this right now."

For a brief second, his disgusted expression told you that he was weighing his options. The thought of period blood clearly repulsed him, and his hand slowly pulled away from your underwear, his lips curling in frustration.

"You’re lucky," he growled, wiping his hand on his pants, his face twisted with disdain. "But don’t think that saves you."

His hand shot up before you could react, grabbing a fistful of your hair and dragging you across the rough concrete floor toward the makeshift shower installed in the corner of the basement. Your scalp throbbed with each pull, the pain sharpening with every step, but you bit your lip, refusing to cry out.

He threw you against the cold, damp wall, the chill seeping through the thin fabric of your nightgown. You barely had time to catch your breath before he twisted the rusty shower handle. Water burst from the nozzle, freezing and unforgiving.

“So filthy,” he sneered, standing over you as the icy water soaked your clothes, plastering them to your skin. “Maybe this will help?"

The cold bit into your bones, and you hugged yourself, trembling, struggling to stay upright as the water pounded down. He stood there a moment longer, watching with twisted satisfaction, before finally turning away, leaving you shivering on the cold, wet floor of the basement.

Sobbing on the cold, unforgiving basement floor, you shiver, your body pressed against the damp concrete, each breath heavy with despair. The chill seeps into your skin, a numbing cold that echoes the hollow ache inside you. Your tears fall, silent and unnoticed, merging with the grime beneath you as exhaustion pulls you deeper into its grip. In the silence, a desperate wish slips through your mind for someone to save you—anyone, even him.

Though Sylus had stolen you away, his presence now haunts you like a ghost. In this unbearable solitude, even the memory of him feels like a twisted solace. You long for his shadow, for those red, gleaming eyes that once pierced through the darkness, and his stark white hair, a glimmer against the void.

At least he gave you warm baths.

The thought slips through your mind, shame twisting in your chest. How could you even think of Sylus now, when poor Xavier was likely out there, rushing to save you, unaware of the torment you’re enduring? Guilt coils around you, tightening with every heartbeat, yet you can’t shake the cruel comfort of that memory. Sylus, for all the wrong he had done, had never left you to freeze, never left you to shiver and break alone.

Your vision blurs as the weight of everything crushes you, and you can almost see him—an apparition of salvation in your mind. His image flickers, vivid and sharp, as your consciousness begins to fray at the edges. The world slips away, piece by piece, and the cold wraps tighter around you.

The cold water finally stops.

In this fading moment, you cling to that impossible hope, that he, with his red eyes and cold hands, might come for you—if only to save you from a fate worse than death.

[irisintheafterglow]

the long-awaited part 2 to this drabble

"can i get an extra large of the black shirt?"

"of course, give me one moment. i'll be right with you," you reply with robotic politeness over your shoulder as you shove a cardboard box of collectible hats behind the tablecloth. foot traffic has significantly slowed, allowing you to take care of some inventory tasks that were hard to complete when you were bombarded with requests for the limited-edition holographic poster boasting the olympics' host city. you stand from your crouching position, grab an extra-large from the crumpled pile, and finally turn to face your customer.

the customer wearing a surgical mask with two black moles above his eyebrow. you suspect his jacket is the same one that stopped everyone in their tracks earlier in the day, when you obliviously asked him to walk you past a creep.

men's volleyball team - sakusa kiyoomi.

"well?" sakusa asks after a long moment of awkward silence, the slightest hint of amusement in his voice at your shock. "are you gonna hand me the shirt or do i need to grab it myself?"

"you...you!" your senses come slamming back into you like a freight train and you're suddenly overcome with a mix of embarrassment and indignance. "why didn't you tell me who you were?"

"you never asked," he says with a shrug and a teasing glint in his eyes. the shirt stays tight in your grasp, if only because the feel of the fabric is the one thing reassuring you that this interaction was truly happening. "plus, you seemed a little preoccupied with other things." you nod dumbly in lieu of answering and fish a paper bag from below the table.

"my boss just about had a heart attack over your damn back," you inform him while you drop the shirt into the bag. you don't bother charging him for it, seeing as he's one of the athletes and all, and you'd prefer for him to forget you exist as quickly as possible.

"i don't know what the big deal is. it's just a jacket."

"'just a jacket,' sure," you scoff, "and you're just some guy throwing a ball around." the small printer next to the register makes a whirring noise as it attempts to dispense a receipt, only for it to jam and print incomprehensible blots of ink. you curse your shitty luck under your breath.

"everything okay?"

"apparently my brain isn't the only thing that's broken right now," you mutter, and you're surprised when he breathes a quiet laugh. "don't bask in my suffering."

"i'll bask in whatever i find funny, thanks," he shoots back and you glare in spite of your furiously warm face. "what happened?"

"the printer broke. it's been on its last legs all day," you frown. you're too busy trying to remember how to replace the paper roll to notice how he glances around before deciding to remove his mask and tuck it into his pocket. when you look up next, your face goes from warm to burning. who knew your one-time bodyguard was also the prettiest man you'd ever laid eyes upon? "you know what? you can just take the bag, i wasn't going to charge you anyway."

"why would i do that? you're not doing your job very well if you just let me steal a shirt." oh, so he thinks he's funny. from what you'd watched in brief clips of his interviews, sakusa seemed too stoic to have any ounce of humor in his body; yet, here you were, getting teased by a god-tier athlete about breaking the register at your summer job.

"it's not stealing, it's...gifting," you correct slowly. "i made you a promise, remember? you made sure i didn't get kidnapped in broad daylight, and i give you a shirt in return. simple."

"but i need a receipt," he retorts dryly.

"why? just take the bag, please," you say a little forcefully, expecting him to take the hint and leave. your first mistake, however, was challenging an olympic volleyball player to a competition of wits and patience.

"no, i don't think i will," he replies, pushing the bag back across the table to you. "a receipt, one more thing, and i'll go."

"well, you're gonna be here for a little bit because i don't know how i'm supposed to get you a receipt when the printer is broken," you surrender with no idea what he was trying to do. "i won't apologize, though, because you could just take the bag and go."

"allowing me to steal and refusing to apologize. gold star customer service." his sarcasm pulls a sudden, ugly bark of laughter that seems to increase the temperature of your face even more. "hmm. cute."

"what?"

"nothing. no receipt, then?"

"like i said, unless you wanna wait until my manager comes down from the balcony level merch stand and fixes the printer, you can just take the shirt and go. i appreciate you walking me earlier, really, so it's no hassle for me if one measly shirt goes missing."

sakusa opens his mouth like he's about to say something, but suddenly snaps his head to the side in the direction of a bright camera flash. one flash turns to four, and he hastily pulls his mask back over his face, cursing under his breath. you watch, perplexed, as his cocky bravado retreats just in time for a half-dozen journalists to cut around the nearest security guard and surround him. in a blink, microphones and cameras are forced into his face and questions in six different languages are hurriedly spewed at him. if you weren't already reaching across to put some distance between him and the tabloid writers, you wouldn't hear him mutter---

please get them away.

"alright, we're done here," you announce to no one in particular. your voice is more commanding than you expected it to be, enough to make the reporters pause and give you an opening to grab the crook of sakusa's elbow, beelining for the staff-only door. the guard posted there is quick to open the door for you and shut it, effectively cutting off the growing horde of journalists. "are you okay?" you ask as you continue to lead him toward what you remember as the nearest quiet break room. you don't have time to think about the flex of his arm under your hand or how he follows you with absolute trust.

"yeah," he answers curtly, his irritation obvious but seeming to diminish the longer you're holding his arm. you reach the empty linoleum-lined room and unlatch your fingers from him to shut the door, feeling a void-like sensation that you can't figure out. "sorry about that," he says to fill the tense silence after you're no longer shoulder-to-shoulder.

"don't worry about it. we're even now," you reassure him and that makes his shoulders relax a little bit. "you need water? a snack? day-old coffee that could probably burn through metal?"

"no, just some peace," he sighs, exasperatedly collapsing into the nearest uncomfortable chair.

"i see." you blink and suddenly feel like you're intruding on his space, fitting in like an elephant in a shoebox. "uh, i'll leave you here and make sure no one else comes--"

"i'd prefer if you stayed," he cuts in and you pause, your hand hovering above the door handle. "if you're able."

"are you sure?"

"only if you can," he says too quickly to be normal, avoiding your eyes. "you don't need to if you don't want to." you want to laugh at your situation, being stuck in an empty room with the hottest man you've ever laid eyes upon, and your nerves are more heightened than a deer in headlights. (you don't know that he's ridiculously embarrassed that the one time he talks to someone he's interested in, it's interrupted by cameras)

"i can stay, yeah," you manage and he's visibly relieved at your answer, at ease enough to again peel off his mask. his annoyance seemed to dissipate in the course of your short conversation, and an odd expression of contentment is its replacement. "you'll have to explain to my manager why i had to take off early, though."

"breaking the printer, refusing to apologize, and abandoning your shift. you cause a lot of problems, evidently," he teases when you settle into a metal chair beside him.

"only around you, evidently," you quip and are rewarded by the tiniest pull at the corner of his mouth. "i'm sorry i wasn't able to get you that shirt, though...and your precious receipt." he shrugs.

"don't really need either anymore."

"how so?"

"hunting down the shirt was just a way to talk to you again," he declares like he didn't even notice how his statement made your face heat once more. he notices, just like he noticed how you stuttered every time he started a conversation with you, how you smile and laugh like an idiot when he says something that catches you off guard, how your fingers felt electric at every point where you held his elbow. "and the receipt was to ask you to write your number, but i guess i can just ask now if you wanna grab dinner."

when you say yes, he hopes you can't tell just how much he already likes you.

[swizzlemynizzle]

Underneath the Noise - George Clarke

———————————————

Masterlist

Chapter Ten: Off the Grid

———————————————

ATV cornered her in the kitchen with a packet of Jaffa Cakes and a suspiciously innocent grin.

“Okay,” he said, “hear me out before you say no.”

Y/N blinked over her cup of tea. “Already nervous.”

“Bach and I want you on the podcast.”

She nearly choked. “What?”

“Just as a guest! Nothing terrifying. We’ll talk about gaming, the football video, maybe the fountain thing if you let us—” He cut off at her expression. “Okay, no fountain thing.”

Y/N tried to play it cool, but her heart dropped straight to her stomach.

“It’s low pressure,” he added quickly. “Just us chatting. You’re one of us now—it makes sense.”

She forced a smile. “I’ll think about it.”

“Take your time,” ATV said, all casual as he opened the Jaffa Cakes like he hadn’t just detonated a minor panic attack in her brain. “But we’d love to have you.”

—

That night, the spiral came quietly.

She hadn’t meant to look. But one scroll led to another, and suddenly she was two Reddit threads deep and knee-deep in comment sections under the football video.

“She’s so desperate to be one of them it’s actually painful.”


“I’d watch George’s streams more if she wasn’t always there.”


“Only reason they keep her around is for views. And maybe the ‘George tension.’ Pathetic.”


“Chris needs to stop inviting every girl he meets.”

The words blurred together. It didn’t matter if some were upvoted and some weren’t. The tone was all the same.

You don’t belong.

She closed the laptop. Then turned off her phone. Then didn’t turn it back on.

—

No one saw her for three days.

Chris messaged. ATV checked in. George sent three increasingly worried voice notes, the last of which ended with, “Just… let us know you’re okay, yeah?”

She didn’t answer. Not because she didn’t care.

But because answering meant existing again, and she wasn’t sure she had it in her yet.

—-

Arthur Hill’s gig was already halfway through by the time Y/N showed up.

She slipped into the back of the venue unnoticed, hood up, hands stuffed deep into her jacket pockets. The air inside buzzed with bass and sweat and euphoria, lights flickering off the high ceiling like heat lightning. Bodies moved like a tide to Arthur’s voice—raw, steady, alive.

She hovered by the wall, letting the sound seep in through her skin.

It had been three days since she’d last replied to anyone. Since the spiral.

ATV’s podcast invite had been kind—excited, even. But somewhere between accepting it and actually prepping for it, she’d made the mistake of opening the comments under Chris’s football video. Then Reddit. Then Twitter. Then her own notifications.

And it all just hit—too much, too loud. One comment louder than the others:

“Why is she even there?”

That was the tipping point. She’d shut off her phone and gone radio silent. No streams. No Discord. No messages.

And yet here she was. Drawn in by Hilly’s name in bold print on the venue marquee. Pulled by something softer than guilt but heavier than loneliness.

When the set ended, she slipped backstage, nerves jangled from too much overthinking. The greenroom was dimly lit, half full, everyone buzzing from the show.

It was George who spotted her first.

He blinked, like he wasn’t sure she was real. Then, without a word, he crossed the room and wrapped her in a hug.

“You’re here,” he said, low and steady into her hair.

She couldn’t speak—just nodded, clinging to the warmth of his hoodie and the quiet understanding in his arms.

“Thought I was gonna have to call a search party,” he murmured, not letting go.

“Sorry,” she whispered.

“Don’t be. Just…” He finally pulled back, eyes searching hers. “Next time, let someone know you’re breathing, yeah?”

She managed a wobbly smile. “I’m breathing.”

He nodded, relief flickering across his face.

—

Later, they all spilled into a club down the street—Arthur’s post-show ritual.

The place was packed, the music decent, the lighting soft enough to hide in. Bach ordered tequila for everyone. ATV dragged her into a group photo. Chris yelled something about a dance battle. And for the first time in days, she didn’t feel like she was watching herself from far away.

George stayed close. Always nearby, always within reach.

They danced—not pressed together, but orbiting the same space. Her hand brushed his. His fingers grazed her lower back when someone jostled too close. Once, in a flash of bass and laughter, their eyes met, and the world seemed to hold its breath.

That was when the stranger appeared.

He was older. Sharp suit. Confident in a way that felt manufactured.

“Didn’t know angels came to clubs,” he said, voice syrupy, fingers ghosting over the small of her back.

Before she could recoil, George was there. Tense. Focused.

“Mate,” he said, voice flat. “Back off.”

The man turned, eyeing him with a smirk. “Relax. Just being friendly.”

Bach stepped in, arms folded. “Try being friendly over there.”

ATV leaned against the wall, smiling too brightly. “I’ve been politely waiting to get kicked out. Give me a reason.”

The guy held his hands up and backed off, muttering something about “fragile egos” before disappearing into the crowd.

Y/N let out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding.

“Thanks,” she said, voice barely audible.

George didn’t answer—just looked at her, gaze intense.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get some air.”

—

Outside, the night was cooler than expected. The street was quieter, save for the occasional passing car. She leaned against the wall beside him, head tipped back toward the sky.

“I shouldn’t have disappeared,” she said softly.

George shook his head. “You don’t owe anyone anything. But I wish you’d let someone in.”

“I thought space would help. But it just… spiraled. The comments. The silence. It all got so loud.”

His shoulder brushed hers, grounding. “I get it. I really do.”

She turned to look at him. “Do you?”

He nodded, something unspoken in the tilt of his head. “Yeah. And if you ever feel like that again—like it’s too much—I don’t care if it’s 3AM. Call me. You don’t even have to say anything. I’ll just come sit with you in the dark.”

Her heart caught on the words. On the way his voice dipped, honest and careful. Like he was afraid she might break again.

She reached for his hand. “You already do more than you know.”

The tension between them shifted—deeper, quieter.

She stepped closer. He didn’t move.

Under the streetlight, his face was cast in soft gold. His eyes flicked to her mouth, then back up.

“George…”

His free hand came up, hesitant at first, then firmer—fingertips brushing her jaw. When he leaned in, there was no fanfare, no hesitation left.

Just warmth.

His mouth on hers—gentle, grounding, real.

She kissed him back like she’d been waiting for this to happen since the first night they met. Like something fragile had just been rewired.

When they broke apart, his forehead rested lightly against hers.

“Okay,” she whispered. “That was definitely not an almost.”

He chuckled, breathless. “Finally.”

From down the road, Chris’s voice shattered the quiet.

“Oi! We’re getting chips! You in or what?”

George groaned. “Perfect timing, as always.”

Y/N laughed, cheeks warm. “Let’s go before ATV actually punches someone for no reason.”

George laced their fingers together, thumb brushing hers.

“Only if we walk slow,” he said. “Don’t really feel like letting go yet.”

She didn’t argue.

And as they wandered back toward the chaos and the chips and the boys who had quietly become her family—Y/N felt like maybe, just maybe, she could start trusting the quiet again.

Because someone had come to sit with her in the dark.

And now, she wasn’t alone.

——

Taglist:

@madforgeorge

@wherethezoes-at

@sundarksposts

@clarkey4life

@edgyficuselastica

@whistlef0rthechoir

@kneelforloki

@yeahnahalrightfairenough

—-

Finally!!! Sorry to spoil but smut warning for the next chapter :P please skip or message me for alternate clean version of the scene xx

[norrisradio]

SPEED TRAP

⚡︎ PAIRING: lando norris x drag racer! reader | ⚡︎ WC: 6.6K ⚡︎ GENRE: suggestive, messy feelings, not exactly a happy ending (pt.3 incoming) ⚡︎ RECOMMENDED LISTENING: talk, omar rudberg ● no i’m not in love, tate mcrae ●  2 hands, tate mcrae ● bad liar, selena gomez ● pillowtalk, zayn ● tell me, karan aujla, onerepublic, ikky ● i saw something, weston estate ● comedown, tony hobart ● arguments, benjaminrich ⚡︎ INCOMING RADIO: welcome to redline part 2! I was originally going to make this a 2 part fic but have decided these two deserve a better ending, so…. part 3 is in the works!

read REDLINE first!

⚡︎ SUMMARY:  “Come to my race,” he finally murmurs, the words low and thick in the space between you. His voice is different now, softer. Not a challenge, not a dare. A plea, almost, buried under layers of pride. "Just one."

Lando doesn’t even try to pretend he’s not coming back.

Not when the taste of your kiss still lingers on his tongue a month later. Not when the memory of your fingers in his hair keeps him up at night. Not when he’s been driving circuits on instinct alone, hands gripping the wheel too tight, replaying every second of that damn race, the way you beat him—twice.

So when Max barely gets out a “Race night, you in?” Lando’s already shrugging on his jacket.

This time, he doesn’t come empty-handed.

You spot him the second he steps into the lot, all cocky confidence and sharp eyes scanning the crowd like he’s searching for something. For you.

It doesn’t take long.

He’s barely leaned against his car when you appear, stepping into his space like you belong there—because at this point, you might as well.

“Took you long enough, pretty boy.”

Lando smirks, but it’s lazier this time, heavier. Like he already knows how this ends. “Miss me?”

You hum, dragging a finger along the collar of his jacket, tugging him just a little closer. “Not even a little.”

Liar.

The tension simmers, thick and electric. The streetlights cast a warm glow over your skin, and Lando swears you’re more dangerous than anything on the track. Your hand slips down, just brushing the chain at his neck, and his restraint is hanging on by a fucking thread.

“Saw you watching last time,” you murmur, voice like smoke curling around him. “Bet you loved seeing me win.”

Lando exhales sharply, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “You talk a big game,” he murmurs, tilting his head, letting your lips hover just over his own. “But I think you like having me here.”

Your grin is all wicked intent. “Maybe.”

The word barely leaves your mouth before he’s had enough.

He crashes into you, hands finding your waist, lips catching yours in a kiss that’s all teeth and fire and weeks of pent-up frustration. You meet him just as fiercely, fingers tangling in his curls, dragging him in deeper, pulling, pushing—both of you trying to win something neither of you understand yet.

Somehow, between kisses, between the way your teeth scrape over his bottom lip and his hands grip your hips like you might disappear again, he remembers.

He pulls back just enough to see the way your lips are swollen, the way your chest rises and falls too fast, and he reaches into his pocket.

“Here,” he breathes, pressing something warm and smooth into your palm.

You glance down, brows furrowing, until your fingers close around the lanyard. Until the light catches on the glossy print of a paddock pass.

Your lips part slightly. Lando watches your expression shift, sees the moment it clicks.

“What,” you murmur, turning the pass between your fingers, voice quieter now, “is this?”

His thumb brushes your hip. “Figured it’s only fair,” he says, voice low, rough. “You watch me race.”

Your gaze snaps back to his, something unreadable flickering in your eyes.

Lando swallows. “If you want.”

The corner of your mouth lifts, slow and knowing.

Then, before he can blink, you grab his chain and pull him back in, whispering against his lips—

“Earn it.”

The night stretches on, electric and thick with tension. Lando doesn’t stand a chance of keeping his hands to himself, not when every time you rev your engine, every time you slam into the turns, every time you outdrive the next contender, he’s watching you with that same, predatory gaze. It’s no longer just a race for him; it’s an obsession. A challenge.

And God, it’s intoxicating.

Lando’s not even trying to be subtle anymore. Every time you win, every time you walk past him—sweat-slick, triumphant, untouchable—he finds himself pressing just a little bit closer. A hand on your lower back when you lean against his car, a thumb dragging across your hip as he grins that shit-eating grin. You’ve won, again. The crowd’s buzzing, but you’re the only thing he can focus on.

“You’ve got the pass,” he says again, voice low as you both circle each other like predators, only half-laughing. “Just say yes. I want you there.” His hand hovers near your hip, like he’s afraid if he reaches too quickly, he’ll break whatever spell you’ve cast over him.

You glance at him, lips curling in that same slow, dangerous way. “Maybe I don’t feel like being part of your little game tonight.”

Lando’s brows furrow. “What do you mean ‘game’?”

“Exactly that,” you reply, tilting your head, voice lilting with amusement. “A game. You want me there because you think I’ll cheer for you, right? Or maybe you want me to see you win. To see you in control.”

Lando watches the way your lips move, the curve of your mouth, and a low burn starts in his gut. “You’ve got me all figured out, don’t you?” he mutters, the air between you thick with something he can’t quite define.

You look him over, unbothered, as if he’s not an F1 driver but just some guy who’s getting under your skin. “I don’t need to figure you out, pretty boy. I’m already bored with that.”

The casual dismissal makes his blood run hot. He reaches for you again, hands finding the curve of your waist, pulling you in close, close enough to feel the heat between you. “You know I’m not just ‘some guy,’” he murmurs, leaning in like he’s about to kiss you again, but stops, just barely.

You tilt your chin upward, and the challenge is so clear in your eyes that it makes him ache. He can’t help himself. “I know exactly who you are,” you whisper, voice lowering, almost taunting, “and I’m not the kind of girl who just gets swept off her feet by a pretty face and a paddock pass.”

Lando’s breath catches, fingers flexing at your side. “I’m not asking you to.” His lips brush against your ear as he says it, and his voice, for the first time tonight, is quieter—earnest. “I’m asking you to come with me, because I want you there. Not because I think I can impress you.”

“You don’t earn anything with that attitude,” you tease, but there’s a flicker of something in your eyes. A spark that makes Lando lean in closer, his body warm against yours. He lets the disappointment simmer when you pull away for the next race. His eyes are dark and hungry, his hand brushing yours when you move past him, lingering just enough to make you feel it—a touch, a spark, a reminder that he’s here.

Max notices too. He's smug, leaning against the hood of his car, watching the way Lando hovers, the way his eyes track your every move. He raises an eyebrow at Lando's intensity, but says nothing.

"You've got a thing for her, huh?" Max grins, his tone teasing but genuine.

Lando doesn’t respond, just presses his lips together and glances at you, still watching you circle your next opponent. You’re perfect out there. Confident, graceful, untouchable.

You win again.

This time, as you walk back to where he stands by his car, you can feel the tension between you tighten, wrapping around you both like a noose. His chest rises and falls with a breath that’s too heavy to be casual. You stop just a breath away from him, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him, but not quite enough to touch.

“Come to my race,” he finally murmurs, the words low and thick in the space between you. His voice is different now, softer. Not a challenge, not a dare. A plea, almost, buried under layers of pride. "Just one."

Your eyes flicker, something there—a spark of curiosity, maybe a little surprise at the desperation in his tone—but you’re quick to hide it behind that confident smirk. “Why?”

Lando swallows, trying to keep his voice steady. He’s not used to this, to being the one who’s not in control of the situation, and damn it if that doesn't turn him on even more. “I thought you might like it. You’d get to see what I do when I’m not on a track, maybe get a taste of how I handle pressure in the pit.”

You hum thoughtfully, like you’re weighing his words. “You think I’d be impressed?” The question is playful, but the edge in your voice suggests it’s more than that.

Lando’s mind races, words slipping out before he can stop them. “I think I could impress you if you gave me the chance.”

You turn your head slightly, almost like you're ignoring him, but Lando doesn’t miss the way your eyes dart back to his. "You think I'm some kind of prize you can win over?"

Lando grins, leaning in closer, his voice lowering even more, a quiet rasp. "I don't think of you as a prize. You're not something to be won." He presses his lips to your ear, feeling the heat of your skin. “You’re something I want. And I’m not used to hearing ‘no.’”

You feel it then—his heat, his words, the way he pulls you close, the way he wants you, all but demands it without saying a word. And the control you’ve had over him starts to slip—just a little. You press your hand to his chest, just enough to feel the steady thump of his heartbeat under your palm. You stand there, for a long moment, letting the tension build.

“Keep talking,” you say, voice quiet, but the way your fingers brush his chain tells him exactly what you want.

Lando grins, his confidence back, but it’s a dangerous kind of cocky. “You’d like it. I know you would.”

He takes in a sharp breath when you grab the chain around his neck, pulling him to you. You lean in, lips barely brushing his, sending a shiver through him that makes his hands itch to pull you closer, deeper.

The kiss you press against his lips is soft, slow, lingering—but it’s just a taste. Just a hint. It drives him wild. He can’t help the groan that rumbles deep in his chest when your lips move, tracing down his jaw, to his neck, each kiss lingering, marking him, claiming him.

He closes his eyes, fighting to stay still, fighting to keep control. But it’s hard, god, it’s so hard when your lips find that sensitive spot at the base of his neck, your breath hot against his skin. Every nerve in his body comes alive, and the friction between you and him makes him dizzy.

You pull back just enough to look him in the eye. And he’s lost in you. You’ve got him tangled in your web, every thread leading back to you.

Lando swallows, heart hammering. "You're killing me, you know that?"

You only grin, sharp and sly, before you reach out, plucking the paddock pass from his hand with a single, fluid motion.

He watches, almost dazed, as you twirl the lanyard around your finger, your gaze locked on his.

"We’ll see, pretty boy," you whisper, voice sweet. Your eyes glint with something dangerous.

His heart stutters in his chest. You give him a wink and turn away, leaving him standing there, breathless, watching as you melt into the crowd again, moving with that same confident stride, your movements leaving a trail of heat in the air around you.

Lando’s hands tremble, the space where you were still burning him, making him ache for something he can’t quite name yet.

"Goddamn it," he mutters, eyes glued to the spot where you disappeared. He doesn't know whether to follow, to call after you, or to let you slip away again.

Lando’s convinced you won’t come.

He tells himself that a hundred times over, like if he repeats it enough, it won’t sting as much.

You were teasing him, winding him up, leaving him hanging because you could. Because you knew he’d be thinking about you. Because you liked the game. And yeah, maybe that should piss him off, maybe it should make him want to forget about you entirely.

But it doesn’t.

He spent the last few days telling himself he didn’t care, that he wasn’t thinking about you, that it didn’t matter whether you came or not. But every time he glanced at the crowd, every time a flash of movement in the distance caught his eye, his pulse skipped before the realization hit: not you.

By the time qualifying day rolls around, he’s over it. He has to be.

The air in Silverstone is thick with the hum of engines and the buzz of anticipation, but Lando barely registers any of it. His helmet hangs loosely in his hands, fingers tapping restless patterns against the carbon fiber. Mechanics rush past, engineers rattle off last-minute adjustments, but his head is somewhere else, even if he refuses to admit it.

Then, out of the corner of his eye—

A figure moves through the paddock with the kind of confidence that doesn’t need to be announced.

He feels it before he sees it. The shift in the air. The ripple of attention that follows in your wake.

And then—

His heart almost drops out of his ass.

You weave through the crowd like you belong there, and maybe you do. The lanyard hangs loose around your neck, the paddock pass dangling at your chest like it was made for you. Your gaze flickers around, taking in the chaos, the machines, the controlled storm of the paddock—unfazed, unimpressed. But when your eyes finally land on him—

Fuck.

For a second, Lando forgets how to breathe.

He barely manages to school his expression, but it’s too late. The flicker of surprise, the momentary lapse in control—it’s already passed through him, and you caught it.

Because of course you did.

Your lips curl, slow and knowing, and when you start walking toward him, he can’t fucking move.

His grip tightens around his helmet. His jaw locks. His whole body hums with something sharp, something dangerous, something that feels way too much like anticipation.

You stop just close enough for him to catch the faintest hint of your perfume—something warm, something expensive, something that makes his stomach tighten in a way he doesn’t like to think about too much.

“Miss me?”

Your voice is sweet, syrupy, but there’s something sharp underneath it. You tilt your head, watching him like you’re waiting for him to slip up.

Lando exhales through his nose, forces himself to smirk, even though his heart is still hammering against his ribs. “Oh, did you go somewhere?”

You click your tongue, feigning disappointment. “That’s a shame. I was hoping for a warmer welcome.”

His throat is dry. His suit feels too hot, clinging to his skin, or maybe that’s just you—standing too close, eyes flickering over him like you’re still deciding whether he’s worth your time.

But then—

You reach out, fingers catching the edge of his race suit near the collar, tugging just slightly. Not enough to pull him forward, not enough to demand anything—just enough to remind him that you can.

“Cute uniform,” you say as he tries to remember what oxygen feels like, voice light, teasing. “Bet the fans love it.”

Lando swallows hard. You’re too good at this. Too good at making his brain short-circuit. “Thought you weren’t coming.”

You shrug, shifting on your feet, looking unbothered—but your eyes, sharp and watching, tell a different story. “Changed my mind.”

Lando lets out a slow breath, his jaw ticking. “Yeah?”

You hum, nails grazing the fabric as you let go.  “Figured I should see for myself if you can back up all that talk.”

The way you’re looking at him—evaluating him, almost—makes heat curl in his stomach.

And, god, he wants to say something sharp, something cocky, but all that comes out is a rough, “And?”

Your lips twitch like you’re holding back a laugh. “Haven’t decided yet.”

Lando shifts, rolling his shoulders, trying so fucking hard not to let you see how much you’re getting to him. “Better pay attention, then.”

You hum, gaze flicking over him once before you step in closer—just barely invading his space. Just enough to make his breath hitch.

“Don’t worry, pretty boy,” you murmur, voice low, almost a purr. “I wouldn’t dream of looking away.”

Then you’re gone, slipping past him like you didn’t just flip his entire fucking world on its head.

Lando stares after you, lips parting slightly, pulse hammering.

He is so, so fucked.

Lando tightens his grip on the wheel.

His tires hum against the track, the engine roaring beneath him, and in his ear, Will’s voice crackles through the radio—something about sector times, about staying focused, about nailing the exit out of Copse.

He hears it. Absorbs it. Executes it.

But beneath all that, beneath the precision and the instinct and the muscle memory, there’s you.

Sitting in the garage right now.

Watching.

He knows exactly where you are without having to look. Knows that if he did look—if he let his eyes flicker to the monitors or let himself think for even a second too long—you’d be there, perched in one of the sleek McLaren chairs, expression unreadable, half-bored, half-amused, like you aren’t even sure if all this—if he—is worth your attention.

And he’s not trying to impress you.

He’s not.

The thought becomes a mantra, looping in his head as he flies through Q1, putting in a time that has the pit wall murmuring in approval.

He’s not trying to impress you.

As he storms through Q2, purple sector after purple sector lighting up the timing sheets, his car slicing through the air like it was made for this—like he was made for this.

He’s not trying to impress you.

As he locks in fastest lap after fastest lap, threading the car through Maggots and Becketts with almost surgical precision, his pulse syncing with the rush of speed, the grip of the tires, the smoothness of his downshifts.

He’s not trying to impress you.

And yet—

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, a traitorous part of him wonders if you’re still watching.

If you’re leaning forward in your seat. If you’re biting your lip, just a little. If, for even one split second, you think he looks good out here.

But it doesn’t matter.

It can’t matter.

Not when Q3 is coming up.

Not when he still has a job to finish.

Lando blows out a breath as he crosses the line, finishing Q2 at the top of the timing sheets.

The radio crackles to life—Will’s voice steady, even. “Nice work, mate. Let’s keep this up.”

Lando exhales, rolls out his shoulders, resets.

He’s not trying to impress you.

He just hopes you’re still watching.

The roar of the crowd is deafening as Lando crosses the line. P1.

Fucking pole.

He barely hears the ecstatic crackle of Will's voice in his ear, barely registers the claps on the back from his engineers as he rolls back into the garage, hands still tight on the wheel, body thrumming with the high of it. The adrenaline is a livewire under his skin, sharp and electric, sparking at his fingertips, at the base of his spine. He yanks his gloves off, shoves his helmet back, and—

There you are.

Exactly where he knew you’d be, leaning against the garage wall, arms crossed, expression cool and unreadable, but he catches it—the flicker. The tiny crack in your mask, the way your mouth almost twitches when you meet his gaze.

He should play it cool. Should take a breath, shake hands, debrief with the team—

Instead, he makes a beeline straight to you.

Still slick with sweat, hair a mess, race suit unzipped to his waist, clinging to the heat of his body, the fireproofs damp against his skin. He’s grinning before he even reaches you, that same shit-eating, cocky grin that’s been driving you up the wall for weeks.

“Enjoy the show?” he asks, voice rough, low, carrying just enough bite to let you know exactly what he means.

You tilt your head, pretend to consider. “Mm. It was alright.”

“Alright?” Lando scoffs, stepping in closer, the scent of fuel and sweat and adrenaline rolling off him in waves. His body still hums with speed, with the way he owned that track, carved his name into the tarmac with every apex, every perfect sector. And yeah, maybe he’s still riding that high, still feeling invincible, because he leans in just a little more, just enough to watch your breath catch, your fingers twitch. “Come on, love. You can admit it. You liked it.”

You arch a brow, but there’s no missing the way your eyes flicker down—to his mouth, to the way his fireproofs cling to the sharp lines of his chest, to the little drop of sweat that traces a slow, lazy path down his neck.

Lando sees it.

And fuck, he feels good.

You recover quick, though. “What I like,” you say smoothly, “is that this means I get to see you choke in the race tomorrow.”

Lando barks out a laugh, shaking his head. “That’s rich, coming from someone who nearly choked on air when I stepped out of the car.”

Your jaw tightens. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you are staring.”

Your lips press into a flat line, but there’s color creeping up your neck now, just barely, just enough for Lando to know.

He grins, steps even closer, lets his fingers brush against yours—just a featherlight touch, barely there, but enough to send a little shiver up your spine.

“Don’t worry, love,” he murmurs, voice dropping, heat curling into every syllable. “There’s plenty more where that came from.”

He winks, then turns on his heel, walking away before you can fire back, before you can wipe that stunned look off your face.

And fuck, that feels just as good as pole.

Race Day. Silverstone.

The air is thick with the scent of burnt rubber and petrol, the distant roar of engines vibrating through the asphalt. Lando grips the wheel, fingers flexing against the handles, heart jackhammering in his chest. P1. His race to lose.

The formation lap is a blur of routine—brakes hot, tires weaving, pulse spiking with every turn. He steals a glance toward the pit wall as he lines up on the grid, and—fuck—there you are. Arms crossed, sunglasses perched on your nose, the same cool, unreadable expression you’d had yesterday. But he knows you. Knows the set of your shoulders, the way your lips almost curve, the way you’re watching him like you’re trying not to.

It sends something sharp through his veins. Something dangerous.

Five red lights.

Hold.

Hold.

Lights out.

He launches.

The world is a blur—cars diving into Turn 1, his tires screaming, the perfect balance of aggression and control threading through his body like muscle memory. He’s ahead, but it’s tight. Max is in his mirrors, a hungry shadow, waiting for the smallest crack to wedge himself into. Lando locks his jaw, plants his foot, car dancing on the edge of grip.

Lap after lap, he fights. Hard. Defends like his life depends on it, his knuckles white around the wheel. Every muscle burns, sweat slicks his fireproofs to his skin, and through it all—through every pit stop, every near-miss, every second where it feels like the race could slip away—his mind keeps circling back to you.

You're watching.

He knows it.

Somewhere between Lap 39 and 45, Will tells him to manage tires. He ignores it.

Final lap. His heartbeat is a thunderstorm in his ears, breath shallow, grip firm. Every turn is instinct, every flick of the wheel precise, perfect. The crowd is a deafening wall of sound, but all he hears is the whine of the engine, the rush of air, the final sector screaming toward him—

Checkered flag.

P1.

Lando exhales, a ragged, disbelieving sound, chest heaving as he punches the air. The radio erupts—shouts of yes! and fucking incredible! But he barely hears it, barely processes anything beyond the visceral fucking thrill of it.

By the time he’s back in parc fermé, his body is still buzzing—adrenaline singing through every nerve, jaw tight from grinning so fucking wide. The helmet comes off, sweat damp in his curls, fireproofs half-zipped, clinging to his torso. He clambers out of the car, hands shaking, skin flushed with heat.

And then—

There you are.

Standing just beyond the barriers, arms still crossed, that same unreadable look, except this time—this time, there’s no hiding the way your eyes burn into him. The way your fingers twitch at your sides.

He swipes a hand through his hair, makes a split-second decision—fuck the interviews, fuck the cameras, fuck everything—

And walks straight to you.

"Still just alright?" he asks, voice rough, teasing, low enough that only you can hear.

Your breath catches—he sees it, feels it in the way the space between you crackles.

"You got lucky," you counter, but it’s weaker now. Less sharp. Your eyes flicker down—to his mouth, to the sweat-damp skin of his collarbone, to the way his chest rises and falls.

Lando grins.

"Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart."

And then—because he’s feeling reckless, because he’s still high off the win, because he fucking can—

He hooks a finger under your chin, tilts your face up, just enough to watch you melt.

Just enough to make sure you know—

This race wasn’t the only thing he just won.

The team party is loud. The kind of loud that rattles Lando’s ribs, the bass-heavy music pulsing through the floor, through his bones, through the half-full glass of whatever drink he hasn’t actually taken a sip of yet. The kind of loud that makes it easy to forget anything beyond the neon glow of the bar, the sea of McLaren orange, the arms thrown around his shoulders, the relentless high of a home race win.

Lando’s half-drunk off it—off the adrenaline still spiking through his system, the way his team is celebrating him like he’s just conquered the fucking world. He’s got a stupid grin on his face, a gold-rimmed shot glass in one hand, Oscar yelling something in his ear about how he’s still a fucking menace on Lap 1, and then—

Then his phone vibrates in his pocket.

He almost ignores it. Almost tosses it on the table next to the rest of the clutter—half-empty bottles, someone’s abandoned bucket hat, a phone with a dick pic drawn in spilled beer on the screen (definitely not his problem). But something stops him.

Two texts. Unknown number. The first: 

From: +44 **** ******* Got your number from Max.

The second is just as simple: 

From: +44 **** ******* 36 Shaftesbury Avenue London W1D 7EP United Kingdom

He exhales, sharp. Feels the familiar clench in his stomach, the curl of something smug and knowing and so fucking irresistible settling into his chest. His fingers tighten around the glass for a fraction of a second, then—without a word—he downs the shot, sets it down, and pushes off the bar.

He brushes past Oscar with a quick, “See you later,” already moving before his teammate can even turn to question it. Out the door, into the street, hailing the first cab he sees.

The ride across the city is a blur of headlights and shadows, neon streaking past the window. He leans back against the worn leather seat, drags a hand through his hair, taps his fingers against his knee. The address leads to a bar he’s never been to, not the kind of place he’s used to. No VIP section, no overpriced cocktails, no crowd that gives a shit about the Monaco tax bracket or how many podiums he’s racked up this season.

It’s dingy. Low ceilings, dim lights, the scent of stale beer and something smokier clinging to the air. The kind of place where nobody knows his name, and nobody cares.

The bass rattles through the floorboards, a steady, visceral thrum that sinks into his ribcage as Lando steps inside. The air is thick—sweat, liquor, the electric haze of too many bodies pressed close. It’s a far cry from the champagne-soaked elegance of the team party, but that’s the point, isn’t it?

And then—

Then he sees you.

The dancefloor is a mess of heat and movement, but you cut through it like a blade, all slow, languid confidence. Lights flash, catching the sheen on your skin, the way your lips part just slightly as you move. And maybe it’s the post-race adrenaline still pumping through him, maybe it’s the way you knew he’d come, but something in his stomach tightens at the sight of you.

You don’t notice him at first—or maybe you do, and you just want him to wait. He watches the way your body moves to the music, the way your fingers trail absentmindedly down your own arm, the way someone brushes too close and you barely spare them a glance. It’s intoxicating. Maddening.

So he moves.

Cuts through the crowd, slides in behind you, close enough that the heat of him bleeds into your skin. He doesn’t touch—just lets the weight of his presence settle.

You shift. Just a little. Just enough that your shoulder grazes his chest, like a question.

Lando exhales, leans in, lets his mouth ghost over the shell of your ear.

“Could’ve just asked me out, you know.”

Your lips curve. Not a smile—something sharper.

“And miss the thrill of the chase?” you murmur, voice low, teasing. “Not a chance.”

Lando hums, lets his hands find your waist—light, barely there, enough to feel the way your breath hitches.

“You like making me work for it, huh?”

You turn then, finally facing him, and fuck. It should be illegal, the way you look at him—lazy, like you’ve already won, like you knew this was exactly where he’d end up tonight.

“Where’s the fun in making it easy?”

His grip tightens. Just a fraction. Just enough.

The music pulses. The air is thick. And Lando—Lando isn’t sure who moves first.

All he knows is the moment your mouth brushes his, the world outside this dancefloor ceases to exist.

The kiss is fleeting—just enough to tease, to taunt, to set his nerves alight—but when you pull back, it’s with that same goddamn smirk, the one that’s been driving him out of his mind since you walked into the paddock yesterday. Lando exhales sharply, fingertips digging just a little harder into the bare skin at your waist, like maybe that’ll keep you from slipping away again.

The music pounds around you, but all he can hear is the blood rushing in his ears, the way you hum—satisfied, amused, something wicked curling at the edge of your lips.

“What?” he asks, voice rough.

You tilt your head, dragging a single finger down the center of his chest, slow enough that it burns right through the thin fabric of his shirt. “I was just thinking…” You tap his sternum once, a mock-considerate gesture, before your palm flattens there, feeling the way his heartbeat stutters. “That win was kinda hot.”

Lando huffs out a laugh, a little breathless, a little cocky. “Kinda?”

You shrug, feigning indifference. “Dunno. Haven’t decided if I’m actually impressed yet.”

It’s bullshit. He knows it’s bullshit. He saw the way you watched him earlier, the way your eyes followed every move he made on track, the way your lip caught between your teeth when he pulled into parc fermé P1. But still—it’s the game, isn’t it? The push and pull, the chase.

And fuck, does he love the chase.

He shifts closer, hands sliding up the curve of your ribs, thumbs brushing just under the swell of your chest—not quite touching, not really, but enough to make you inhale sharply. He leans in, lips grazing just below your ear.

“Pole position and a win, and you’re still playing hard to get?” His voice is low, teasing, laced with something darker. “Harsh.”

Your breath hitches, but you recover fast—tilting your chin up, challenging, as your fingers trace up his forearm, over the tendons, the veins, slow and deliberate.

“Well,” you murmur, tapping lightly at his wrist, where his gloves would normally be, “you do have very talented hands.”

Lando stills for half a second. Then he laughs, breath warm against your skin, and it’s unfair, the way it rumbles through you.

“Oh yeah?” His hands slide lower, skimming the hem of your top, fingertips teasing against your skin. “That what you brought me all the way out here to find out?”

Your lips part, but instead of answering, you hook a finger into the chain around his neck, tugging him just a little closer—close enough that your noses brush, close enough that you can feel the way his breath hitches.

“You tell me,” you murmur, tilting your head just enough that your lips barely graze his.

It’s maddening. You’re maddening.

And Lando—Lando has never been one to back down from a challenge.

The cab ride is a blur—touches that start hesitant but grow bolder, fingers tracing over denim and leather, the ghost of your breath against his jaw when you lean in close, like you’re testing just how far he’ll let you push him. (Spoiler: far.) By the time you stumble through the front door of your apartment, Lando barely has a chance to take in the dimly lit space before your hands are on him again, fingers curled into his collar, dragging him down into a kiss that’s all teeth and heat and desperation.

His hands find your hips, grip firm, tugging you flush against him as he walks you backward until your spine meets the door with a thud. You don’t seem to mind, though, tilting your head to the side, baring your throat like an invitation.

And fuck, he’s never been one to turn down an invitation.

His lips find the underside of your jaw first, warm and insistent, tracing down the column of your neck. You sigh—a pretty, breathy thing that shoots straight down his spine—and Lando’s hands tighten on your hips, thumbs dipping under the hem of your shirt, fingers splaying over bare skin, finally.

All he can feel is the way your lips taste on his—everywhere—how your hands tug at his shirt, skin slick with sweat, fingers hungry as they trail down the hard lines of his chest.

His breath hitches when you push him back, your palms firm against his chest, chest heaving, eyes dark with something sharp, something dangerous.

“I don’t do relationships,” you murmur, voice husky, almost like a warning.

Lando’s lips curl into a smirk, but the only sound that follows is the frantic rush of his pulse, the desire curling in his gut, threatening to consume him whole. His hands grip your wrists, pulling them away from his shirt, his own breath ragged as his lips trail down the column of your throat, marking you with heat.

“I don’t care,” he grunts, a pulse of urgency flooding through him as he presses you back against the door. He feels the tremble in your chest as you exhale, the heat that radiates off your skin, the way your body moves against his like you’ve been waiting for this—waiting for him.

Your hands bunch at the fabric of his shirt, the rush of energy between you crackling like a storm, before you rip it off him with a frustrated tug. “Good,” you whisper, your lips grazing the sensitive skin under his jaw. “Because I’m not offering anything more.”

The words hang between you, a challenge, a taunt—but Lando doesn’t care. His fingers slip under your shirt, running up your back as he presses you tighter against the door, lips brushing over your ear, down your neck, feeling the thrum of your heartbeat against his lips.

He can’t—won’t—stop now.

His lips latch to the sensitive spot beneath your ear, tongue tracing the outline of your pulse, and he hears the way your breath catches. A shudder ripples through you, your body soft but taut in his arms. He shifts, just enough to drag his knee between your legs, pressing against you in a way that has your breath quickening, chest rising and falling.

“Say it again,” he murmurs, low, as he nips at your collarbone, his hands moving to push your shirt up, lips finding the soft skin of your shoulder. “Say you don’t want more.”

You don’t answer with words. Instead, your fingers curl into his hair, yanking him back to you for a kiss that’s deeper, harder, like it’s the only thing either of you can think of—like the world outside doesn’t exist, like it never will again.

The air around you thickens with the scent of your perfume, the heat of your skin, the way his hands slide down your back, mapping out the soft curve of your spine. His chest tightens, and for a moment, it’s like time has stopped, leaving nothing but the two of you—locked in this beautiful, dangerous game.

His hands trail lower, grazing your skin with the kind of slow intent that makes your pulse race. But it’s not enough. It’ll never be enough. He wants more. He needs more.

The bedroom door creaks open, but neither of you notice. Clothes fall to the floor, discarded, forgotten, nothing but an afterthought. Every inch of space between you vanishes as Lando guides you to the bed, lips never leaving your skin, every movement frantic and desperate, like the urgency will somehow quell the fire burning between you.

But then, for a split second, he pauses. His breath catches in his throat, his fingertips lingering on the curve of your waist. It’s just enough for him to register the feeling—the hollow ache in his chest that refuses to go away. It’s a fleeting thing, a moment of clarity, and it leaves a cold weight on his lungs.

But he doesn’t stop. His hands are already moving again, pulling you in, claiming you, because he doesn’t know what else to do. He’ll take whatever you offer, whatever pieces of you he can have, even if they’re just fragments, even if it’s just tonight. Because at this moment, Lando doesn’t need anything more than this—than the sensation of your body under his, your breath catching with each kiss.

And yet, as he presses closer, there’s something about you—something about the way you kiss him back, the way your eyes lock, like you’re both holding back just a little too much, that makes his chest tighten, the air harder to breathe.

But that’s a thought for later. Right now, he’s lost in the way your lips taste, in the fire that burns between you, in the heat that won’t die down, no matter how much he wants it to.

[fishfooddude]

That Poster Trend

With Carmy's 30th birthday fast approaching, you were struggling to figure out the perfect gift for him... at least until you're reminded of that TikTok beer poster trend...

The Bear MasterList

Directory

“Do you think Carmy would like this?” you asked, flashing your phone toward your friend Olivia. You watched her face scrunch as she shook her head in disapproval. You sighed. Carmy was hard to shop for, but with his 30th birthday coming up at the end of the month, you were stressed trying to figure out what to do for him. He never made a big deal of his birthday, but this was a milestone birthday, and you wanted to do something special for him. 

“I don’t know what to do, Liv. What did you do for Miles?” you watched your friend blush and bite her lip behind her wine glass. “Somethin’ a lil sexy that Carmy wouldn’t be into.” she giggled. 

“What was it? I’m desperate here.” you pleaded, “So, I saw it on TikTok. This girl made her boyfriend a beer poster, so I copied it with Miles’s brand. I wore this adorable bikini, sat in his truck, poured beer into my cleavage- he calls it his favorite porn.” she explained as she blushed harder. You leaned back on the couch, “Well, Carmy doesn’t drink…” you started, “But he smokes…”

Olivia raised her eyebrows at you, “What’s his brand?” 

~

“Yo baby, I’m home,” Carmy called as he set his backpack down on the ground. As he stepped into the living room, he noticed your absence. “Baby?” he called again as he walked toward the short hallway that led to the bedroom. He pushed the door open absent-mindedly while thinking about what to make for dinner. You weren’t in the bedroom or bathroom, Carmy pulled his phone from his pocket to check the time. It was almost 9 PM; you should be home from work by now. 

Carmy was chopping onions when he heard the door open, “Carmy?” he heard you call. He set his knife down and walked out of the kitchen to see you standing by the door, wiggling out of your jacket.

“Hey there, gorgeous. Where you been?” Carmy asked, looking you up and down, taking in your appearance. You were by no means dressed up, but he noticed your usual toned-down eye makeup replaced with colorful glitter eyeliner and a pair of fake eyelashes. Your hair was tied in a messy bun, but Carmy could tell you’d styled it earlier.

“Went to work, ran a couple of errands. Nothin’ crazy,” you answered, hoping he wouldn’t see through your bluff. You hugged Carmy and kissed his cheek before trying to duck into the bathroom. “Yo, if you’re gonna be late, at least give me an actual kiss.” Carmy chuckled, trying to disguise his concern and uneasiness about you being late for playful banter. You giggled and felt one of his strong tattooed arms wrap around your waist, pulling you back into his chest. He nudged your chin to kiss your lips softly with his free hand.

~

“Th-that’ll be uh... $18.32.” The teenage boy managed to get out as he refused to make eye contact with you. You were cutting it close. Tomorrow was Carmy’s 30th birthday, and printing his poster was more complicated than you’d thought. You grinned as you swiped your card, “Were you the one who had to print my poster?” you asked as you entered your PIN into the credit card machine. The boy sheepishly nodded, a bright red blush covering his face as he continued to avoid eye contact. You slipped your card back into your wallet and threw it back into your bag as he handed you the package and receipt, “It’s for my boyfriend. Do you think he’ll like it?” there was something sickly satisfying about torturing this random teenage boy. He furiously nodded before muttering something about him being a lucky guy. 

You walked through the aisle of your local Target, picking up the final goodies you needed for Carmy’s birthday. Hopefully, you’d get home first so you could wrap and hide his present. You were giddy at the thought of Carmy’s reaction to his present. He didn’t see this one coming.

“Hey, baby.” Carmy greeted you from the couch when you walked into the apartment that night. “You’re home early,” you commented, hiding the shopping bags behind you as you walked into the living room. Carmy shrugged, “Richie was pissing me off. One of our line cooks bailed. Natalie was pestering me about tomorrow, decided to come home early to spend time with my girl.” he grinned as he looked up at you. You smiled back at him and came up behind the couch to kiss his nose, “Tomorrow is a big one, Carm. I need to finish a little work, but then we can cuddle.” 

Carmy watched you go back into the bedroom and contemplated following you before returning his attention to the TV. You’d been acting weird the past couple of weeks; he aimlessly stared at the TV, wondering if you were planning on breaking up with him or telling him you were pregnant.

He wasn’t sure how long you’d been in the bedroom when you finally plopped down on the couch next to him. “You good?” Carmy asked as he put an arm around your shoulders. You nodded and cuddled into his side. “I’m good, Carm.”

~

Carmy groaned softly as you peppered his face with kisses the next morning. “Wake up birthday boy! It’s your birthday!” you happily cheered as you swung your leg over his hips to straddle him. You watched his eyes flutter open, “Thank you love.” he responded as he lazily put his hands on your hips. His grip was light as he slowly woke up, “Before we go to your Nat’s I want to give you your birthday present.” you excitedly explained. Carmy shook his head and moved his hands to your waist before pulling you down to lay on his chest. You nuzzled your face into the crook of his neck and giggled as Carmy tightly squeezed your waist, “You didn’t have to get me anything.” Carmy whispered into your hair.

“Okay, I can’t return it so if you hate it keep it to yourself, my love,” you said as you watched Carmy sit up and rub his eyes with the heels of his hands. He nodded and you handed him the wrapped poster. “I could never hate anything you give me baby.” Carmy grinned as he started unwrapping his gift. You were gnawing at the inside of your cheek, Carmy had seen you naked a million times but something about this felt different. 

“Holy shit…” Carmy’s eyes went wide as he stared at the poster before him. You were lying on a bed with the upper half of your body hanging off the mattress, a sultry look on your face. Carmy swallowed when he noticed you were wearing his favorite pair of panties and a tight white shirt. A pack of American Spirits was lying next to you, but Carmy couldn’t look away from your eyes. He ran his tongue across his top row of teeth as he looked up at you, you blushed as he hungrily stared at you. “Holy shit.” he laughed as he put the frame on the floor before wrestling you down onto the mattress. You erupted into a fit of giggles as Carmy held your wrists in his hands above your head, “That’s the hottest picture I’ve ever seen.” he whispered in your ear before nipping at your earlobe. “You like it?” you innocently asked as Carmy started to kiss down your neck, “I love it, baby,” he whispered against your skin. 

[sergeantbarnessdoll]

Naughty Girl » Bucky Barnes/Winter Soldier

Pairings: Boyfriend!Bucky Barnes x Girlfriend!Reader

Summary: Bucky punishes you for sending him dirty texts while he’s at work.

Warnings: Smut (18+), language, dirty texts, dirty talk, kissing, hickeys, fingering, male masturbation, unprotected sex, rough sex, daddy kink, praise kink, breeding kink, choking, degrading, handcuffs, sex toys, Bucky’s dog tags, name calling (slut, whore), aftercare, use of pet names

Written on my phone. I’m sorry for any kind of mistakes.

Header made by @buckys-wintersoldier

GIF IS NOT MINE! Credit goes to the creators. I found this one on Pinterest.

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!🔞

Bucky pulled his phone out of his pocket when it vibrated. He smiles widely when he sees a text from you.

Doll🩷: I want you

Bucky: I’m in a meeting, doll

Bucky shut his phone off and continued to listen to the rest of the meeting. His phone vibrated again. He opened the message to see a picture of you completely naked with your legs spread in front of a full body mirror the two of you just bought, making his eyes go wide. Bucky shifted in his seat, feeling his cock get hard. He completely forgot he was in a meeting. His mind wandered elsewhere. Like how he was going to punish you when he gets home from work.

“You ok, Buck?” Steve asks.

“Uh huh, yea.” Bucky says, clearing his throat.

Bucky shut his phone off and put it back in his pocket. When the meeting was over, Bucky left the Avengers Compound and raced home, zooming through traffic on his motorcycle. Bucky slammed the door to yours and his apartment, walking straight to yours and his shared bedroom in search of you. He found you lying on the bed completely naked.

“Care to explain why you sent me a naked picture of yourself while I was in a meeting, babydoll?” Bucky asks, taking his jacket off and threw it somewhere in the bedroom.

“I was horny, daddy.” You answered. “I still am.” You say.

“Tell me, babydoll…” He approaches the bed. “Did you touch yourself?” He asks.

“Mhmm yes.” You hummed.

“How many times did you cum?” He asks.

“Two times.” You tell him.

Bucky licks his lips and sat down on the bed. He practically manhandled you to get you to lay across his lap.

“Since you decided to act like a slut when I wasn’t home, I’m going to treat you like one.” Bucky says.

His right hand rubbed across your ass cheeks before he landed a harsh smack on it, making you moan. He landed another smack on your ass that was harsher than the first one. Bucky spanked you eighteen more times. Your pussy was dripping by the time he was done spanking you. Your ass was red as a cherry with his hand print on it.

“Lay on your back.” He orders.

You listened and laid down on the bed, hissing when the sheets came in contact with your stinging skin on your ass. You watched as Bucky went in the closet and came out with a box. Your eyes widen. You know that box. It’s the box you and Bucky keep sex toys in. Bucky put the box on the nightstand and pulled a pair of handcuffs out of it.

“Arms above your head.” He instructs.

You put your arms above your head and Bucky handcuffed them to the bed frame. He tied your legs to the bed frame with silk ties. Bucky’s right hand disappeared between your legs, his fingers rubbing your pussy and spreading your wetness around. Your breath hitched in your throat when you seen him pick up a vibrator from the box. It’s the one that can make you cum in seconds. Bucky rubbed it in between your folds, covering it in your wetness before turning it on a low level and held it against your clit, making you squeak.

“Ah fuck, daddy!” You moaned.

Bucky loves watching you fall apart with the vibrator. You begging for him to fuck you with his fingers, tongue, or cock is like music to his ears. He watched intensely as your chest rose and fell, pants and moans of his name leaving your lips. His metal hand went to your breasts, giving one of them a squeeze before pinching your nipple. Bucky repeated the same actions on your other breast. Your pussy clenched around at the feeling. He turned the vibrator up to a higher setting causing you to moan loudly. His metal hand caressed your cheek, his metal thumb rubbing across your bottom lip. You parted your lips just enough for him to slide his thumb in your mouth. You wrapped your lips around his thumb and sucked on it, your tongue swirling around it like it were his cock while holding eye contact with him. A growl left Bucky’s lips as he watched you. Bucky put the vibrator on the highest setting. You arched your back and threw your head back against the pillow in pleasure. Your orgasm was building up quickly. You were right on the edge. It felt like a tidal wave was about to come crashing down on you.

“Oh fuck…” You whimpered. “Can I- ah fuck! Can I please cum daddy?” You asked desperately.

“Cum.” Is all he says.

A loud moan left your lips as you came hard, soaking the sheets beneath you and the vibrator. Bucky nearly came in his pants at the sight of you squirting. He shut the vibrator off and put it on the nightstand, making you whine. That earned you a smack on your thigh.

“Quit your fucking whining or I’ll give you something to whine about.” Bucky says.

You watched with hungry eyes as Bucky stripped off his clothes. Your eyes immediately looked down at his cock, hard and leaking with precum.

“My eyes are up here, doll.” He says, snapping his fingers in your face.

Bucky got on the bed in between your spread legs. You looked at him as he wrapped his right hand around his cock. He thumb swiped over his tip, using his precum as a lubricant. You watched with hungry eyes as he began pumping his cock. You licked your lips, wanting nothing more than to suck his cock. You whined and tugged on the restraints, making Bucky chuckle.

“You did this to yourself, babydoll.” Bucky tells you. “You shouldn’t have been acting like a little whore. Now you have to watch daddy play with his cock.” He says.

“But daddy…” You whined.

“What did I say about whining?” He asks.

“Quit whining or you’ll give me something to whine about.” You answered.

Your eyes stayed glued to his cock as he began jerking himself off. Tingles went through your body when moans fell from his lips.

“You could be putting that pretty little mouth of yours to good use, but it’s too bad you can’t.” He says tauntingly.

Your breathing hitched in your throat as his hand moved faster. Your pussy was wet with slick as you watched his hand move up and down on his cock. Precum leaked down his cock. He used it as a lubricant. You were so focused on his cock that you didn’t even realize that you were drooling.

“Hungry for daddy’s cock, doll face?” Bucky asks.

“I’m always hungry for your fat cock, daddy.” You say.

“Too bad you’re not getting it yet.” He chuckles, making you pout.

You desperately wanted to rub your thighs together for some kind of relief, but you couldn’t, due to the restraints. Bucky looks so incredibly hot. His muscles flexed as pleasure took over his body.

“You look so hot, daddy.” You say, bitting your bottom lip.

“Yea?” He rasps, moving his hand faster.

“Mmm.” You hummed. “So fucking hot.” You say more in a moan.

“I know what you’re doing, doll and it’s not going to work.” He says.

You huffed and pouted as you continued to watch him jerk off. His hand lost rhyme due to his orgasm building up, but regained it.

“You want daddy’s cum, babydoll?” Bucky asks, panting.

“Yes please! Give me your cum, daddy!” You say a little too desperately.

Bucky chuckles at your desperateness. He moved closer to you. His hand moved faster on his cock. Soon enough, his cum landed on your stomach and chest. You moaned at the warm feeling of it. Bucky sat back on his knees to catch his breath for a moment.

“Can you uncuff and untie me now?” You asked, tugging on the restraints.

“No.” Bucky says.

“But I’ve been a good girl for you daddy.” You say with a pout.

“That’s true, but I’m not done with you yet, babydoll.” He says.

Bucky rubbed his hands on your inner thighs, dangerously close to your pussy. He rubbed his cock in between your wet folds, covering it in your slick before tapping his tip on your clit a few minutes, making your hips jolt up at the sensation. He lined his cock at your tight entrance and slid it inside of you in one hard thrust, making you gasp.

“God damn, you’re fucking tight.” Bucky groans, tilting his back a little.

He pulled almost all the way out, only leaving his tip inside of you before thrusting back inside of you hard. You tugged on the handcuffs and threw your head back in pleasure. Bucky’s hands grasped your hips tightly as he fucked into you. Loud moans and screams left your lips. It was like music to Bucky’s ears. Bucky’s eyes wandered your body, stopping at your breast and watched as they bounced every time he thrusted into you.

“Tell me again, babydoll…” Bucky starts. “Why did you send me that naughty picture of you while I was in a meeting?” He asks.

“I wanted you so fucking bad, daddy.” You say more in a whine.

“You’re getting me now, doll face.” He says, his voice a little deeper than normal.

His vibranium hand left your hip, placing it on the headboard above your head. His dog tags dangled in your face. You desperately wanted to grab the chain of his dog tags and give him a filthy kiss. Your eyes wandered further down his perfectly sculpted body, watching as his abs flexed every time he thrusted into you. The perfectly trimmed hair at the base of his cock rubbed against your clit, stimulating it.

“Checking out daddy?” Bucky smirks.

“Mmm.” You moaned.

Your lips parted, a loud moan leaving them when his cock hit your sweet spot. You arched your back in pleasure, tugging on the handcuffs and pressing your chest upwards towards his face. Bucky took the opportunity to mark up your breasts with hickeys. His mouth was occupied on your left breast while his right hand found its place on your left one, squeezing it and pinching your nipple. A gasp left your lips when his teeth grazed your nipple. A tingling sensation shot through your body and your cunt squeezed around his cock at the feeling. He repeated his actions on your other breast, getting the same reaction from you.

Bucky stopped thrusting and pulled out momentarily to untie your ankles from the bed frame. A squeak left your lips when he flipped you over onto your stomach, the chain of the handcuffs twisting. He lifted your hips, angling your ass towards him. He placed his metal hand on the top of your back and pushed the top of your body down against the bed, making you stick your ass out more. He nudged his thigh between yours to spread your legs apart. You moaned when his thigh came in contact with your wet cunt.

“You look so much better in this position.” Bucky says, his hands rubbing your red and sore ass cheeks and gave them a squeeze, the coolness of his vibranium hand soothed the stinging of your ass.

“But I want to look at you while you’re fucking me, daddy.” You say with a pout, looking over your shoulder to look at him.

“You shouldn’t have a naughty girl and sent me a dirty picture of yourself while I was at work.” He says.

Bucky lined his cock at your tight entrance. He circled his tip around your entrance to tease you, making you whine which earned you a smack on your ass.

“How many times do I have to tell you quit fucking whine?” Bucky asks.

“Sorry, daddy.” You mumbled.

Bucky thrusted his cock inside of you in a harsh thrust, making you gasp. His thrusts were more harder and faster than when you were in the first position. His hands have a bruising grip on your hips.

“You look so breedable like this.” He says, taking in the sight in front of him.

“Breed me, daddy.” You blurted out in a moan.

Him hearing those words come out of your mouth made him go feral. The image of you pregnant with his child is the only thing in his mind at the moment.

“I’ll fucking breed you real good, babydoll.” His voice lower than normal. “Everyone will know who you belong to when they see you pregnant with my child.” He says, almost a growl.

His thrust sped up. The sound of skin slapping and the smell of sex filled the bedroom. His cock hitting your sweet spot perfectly with each thrust. Your legs began trembling as your orgasm started to build up. It felt like a tidal wave was about to come crashing down on you.

“Can I- fuck! Can I please cum, daddy?” You asked, begging. “I’ve been a good girl.” You say.

“Cum for me, doll.” He says.

Bucky’s vibranium hand left your hip and reached around your front, blindly finding your clit and began rubbing it in fast circles. A loud moan left your lips as you came hard, your cum soaking your thighs and his cock. Bucky gave your clit a particularly rough run before focusing on his own orgasm which was coming fast. His thrust became sloppy before he regained his pace. A moan left Bucky’s lips as he came inside of you, painting your walls. His thrusts came to a slow stop. He slowly pulled out and sat back on his knees to catch his breath. His eyes watched as his cum dripped out of your pussy. His fingers on his right hand scoop it up and pushed it back inside of you. You moaned and squirmed at the feeling.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, doll face.” Bucky says, uncuffing your wrists that are now red.

“Don’t wanna move.” You mumbled with a pout.

“I’ll carry you.” He says softly.

Bucky picked you up bridal style and carried you to the bathroom. He ran you a warm bath and helped clean you up before cleaning himself up. When you two were done in the bath, he dried you off and carried you back to the bedroom and laid you down on the bed after giving you one of his shirts to wear to bed. He got in bed next to you and wrapped his arms around you protectively, pulling you closer to him.

“I love you, doll.” Bucky says softly, kissing the top of your head.

“I love you too, Bucky.” You say sleepily before falling asleep with your head on his chest.

🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵

-Bucky’s Doll

[kusakabesimp]

Kusakabe and Nanami - Suits and Ties

Did anyone suggest I analyze suits and ties for two of our JJK DILFs? No. But will I go into extensive detail about Kusakabe and Nanami's suits? Yes, I will.

TIE SELECTIONS AND KNOTS Kusakabe - Half-Windsor

The Half-Windsor is a practical, classic knot, perfect for someone like Kusakabe, who is adaptable and efficient. Professional without being overdone, the knot size fits well with a medium-sized collar (which is logical for his build) and pairs effortlessly with virtually any suit fabric. The look stays polished and put together, whether with the suit or the trenchcoat.

The color is a conscious choice. The darker shade of green follows traditional suiting conventions, where a bold accent piece complements a simple foundation like his white shirt and black suit. It allows Kusakabe to keep a professional look while adding a subtle touch of individuality.

Even the mechanics of the knot make sense for Kusakabe. It uses less length than a Full Windsor, and is ideal for a taller and broader body shape. For Kusakabe, this means he can comfortably wear a standard tie length (57–58 inches) instead of buying a bespoke or specialty tie (67–71 inches).

Nanami - Full Windsor

The Full Windsor is symmetrical and more formal than the Half-Windsor, which aligns with Nanami's structured, meticulous personality. While it's traditionally paired with wide collars, the fuller shape also works well with medium-sized collars (again, the best choice for a broad build). It pairs best with a heavier suit fabric like worsted wool, which is expensive but surprisingly durable.

Gege did the research -- this knot works best with patterned ties featuring a larger, spaced-out print. And men's suiting conventions actually recommend a golden yellow to complement a tan suit and blue shirt combination. Nanami is perfectly fine dropping $200 - $300 on a custom tie. This is the man out there fucking up curses while wearing a $5,000 Tag Heuer watch.

Since Nanami wraps a lot of fabric around his hand, the Full Windsor’s need for extra material makes perfect sense; it works best with longer ties. In terms of mechanics, the Full Windsor is also the easiest knot to undo, making it a practical choice in a fighting situation for Nanami, who doesn't waste time on anything.

JACKETS AND LAPELS Kusakabe - Black Jacket and Notched Lapels

The mid-notched lapel is a staple of classic suiting. (I'm including pictures of his trenchcoat as it has similar notching.) Though it’s not always visible in the manga, it is reasonable to assume that his single-breasted black suit includes a left chest pocket and boutonniere buttonhole — little details Kusakabe wouldn't overlook. His choice of a black suit is practical as always: stain-resistant (keeping the cursed spirit dry-cleaning bill in check) and low maintenance.

The mid-notched lapel is easily dressed up or down, mirroring Kusakabe’s ability to adapt without losing his sense of self. Every detail shows that he’s grounded in tradition but always prepared for the realities of the present.

Nanami - Tan Jacket and Peak Lapels

Nanami’s suit features sharp, angled peak lapels, which give it a more formal edge compared to the standard notch lapels. Like Kusakabe, he opts for a single-breasted design but with three buttons instead of two (we know he loves symmetry). This choice aligns with his look in the 2022 JJK Dolce & Gabbana collab, showing that the peaked collar is a style he favors, reflecting his appreciation for both luxury and craftsmanship.

His clothing, functional yet carefully selected, serves as an investment in both quality and precision. For Nanami, a polished image goes beyond appearance. It’s about the thoughtful, intentional choices he makes both professionally and personally.

Ultimately, Kusakabe and Nanami’s suits capture their personalities in different ways. Kusakabe’s style is about practicality and ease, with just enough polish to stay professional. On the other hand, Nanami goes for something sharp and more structured, with a high attention to detail. Each piece of their suits speak to the thoughtfulness behind their choices, reflecting the balance of simplicity and sophistication they each bring to their lives.

I DO NOT authorize use of this meta for other writing!