#and the rest were either closed or said no

[wchswift]

── 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐞

pairing! joel miller x f!reader

→ summary! after Ellie makes it clear, again, that she wants nothing to do with Joel, you follow him out of the barn and try to comfort him. → contents! post-winter dance scene, hurt/comfort, softness, emotional intimacy, established relationship. → word count! 764

Joel’s boots hit the snow hard and fast, like he could stomp out the ache in his chest if he tried hard enough. He hadn’t meant for things to go sideways. Hadn’t meant to snap. But he couldn't just stay there after Seth treated her like that. Saying that to them, thinking he was within his rights. Protect first, explain later.

Only Ellie didn’t want protection anymore. Not from him.

You watched it all. Ellie and Dina, hugging and kissing each other like the world was finally something light again. Then Seth happened—the way he looked at them, the way he treated them with poison.

The awkward shuffle of the crowd after Joel shoved the old man hard, words sharp and biting. Ellie’s face tight with that tangled mess of hurt and pride. Her words still hung in the air even now, heavy and biting—“What is wrong with you?”

You saw Joel flinch like she’d slapped him.

“I don’t need your fucking help.”

You let him walk off at first. Gave him space. But when he didn’t stop, didn’t slow, just kept disappearing into the dark like he meant to walk clear out of Jackson—you followed.

He didn’t hear you at first. Not over the wind. Not over whatever storm was raging in his head. But when you called his name, soft and sure, he paused.

“Joel.”

He didn’t turn around; he just let out a shaky breath, white in the cold air.

“Not a great party,” you offered gently, stepping closer.

He huffed, a joyless thing. “Didn’t come for the party.”

“No. I figured that.”

Silence stretched between you. Just the crunch of snow beneath your boots as you joined him, close enough to share the cold.

“She’s angry,” he said finally, voice low. “At me. Can’t blame her.”

“She’s a teenage girl,” you said quietly. “They stay angry at the people they love, Joel. It’s part of the job.”

“She don’t want me anymore.”

The words hit you hard. Not just because of the sadness in them, but because of how sure he sounded. Like it was a fact. Like he was already packing up that little piece of his heart and tucking it somewhere deep, where it wouldn’t hurt as bad.

You reached out, touched his arm, gentle.

“She does want you. She just doesn’t know how to say it when she’s mad.”

Joel’s eyes flicked to you finally. They were red-rimmed, jaw clenched so tight you could hear it grind. And beneath all that anger and shame was something raw—something splintered.

“You ever think maybe I’m just… bad at this?” he asked. “At all of it. Being here. Being with people. Keep screwin’ it up.”

You moved closer, your hand still on his arm. “Joel, if you were bad at it, you wouldn’t care this much.”

He looked down. His shoulders sank under the weight of whatever guilt he’d carried into that barn and out of it.

You reached up, brushing your fingers lightly along his jaw. He didn’t flinch—just closed his eyes like he needed that contact to breathe again.

“She needs time. But she’s not gonna stop loving you overnight. And neither am I.”

That last part slipped out like a secret, quiet but certain.

His eyes snapped open. He looked at you like you were some kind of miracle he didn’t know how to believe in.

“You love me?” he asked, like he’d never heard those words said to him like that before.

You smiled softly, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, I do.”

Joel swallowed hard. His hand came up, covering yours, rough fingers trembling just a little.

“I don’t know what to do with that,” he admitted. “Don’t wanna lose her. Don’t wanna lose you either.”

“You won’t,” you whispered. “You’re not gonna lose either of us.”

And right there in the dark, surrounded by snow and silence and the distant echo of laughter from the barn, Joel leaned forward, rested his forehead against yours. No kiss. No words. Just two people holding on in the quiet.

You stayed like that for a long moment, until his breathing calmed. Until some of the weight lifted.

Then you took his hand, laced your fingers through his.

“C’mon,” you said. “Let’s go home.”

And for the first time that night, Joel let himself follow.

𖤐 reblogs and feedback are appreciated! requests are also welcome, ty!

⛥ main masterlist.

lina's notes: After watching the first episode of season 2 and already knowing what awaits us in the next chapters I had to write this!! This is my first time writing for Joel or any of Pedro's characters. I don't know if I'll write for him again but I love him so much and I just wanted to give him a little comfort :((

[reveriebae]

Bunny in His Bed

pairing(s) : Song Mini x reader

word count : 4922

summary : You're the soft, innocent girl who only ever had one vanilla experience—with no idea what real filth could feel like. That is, until you end up rooming with your best friend’s older brother, Mingi. A pervert with a teasing mouth and no self-restraint when it comes to your cute sleep dresses and breathy little moans. He takes it slow, then ruins you completely—making you beg, cry, squirt, and ride him until you’re too dumb to think. But he still makes you breakfast after, calling you his princess in between filthy whispers.

genre : smut

warning(s) : Slight somnophilia vibes (consensual, implied history), Innocent but perverted reader, Best friend’s older brother, Roommate AU, Pussy slapping / squirting, Spanking (lots of it), Orgasm denial + overstimulation, Crying during sex (pleasure), Dirty talk / praise / teasing, Light dumbification, Reader wears cute sleep dresses, Mutual pining masked as lust, Fluffy aftercare with continued filth

A/N : This might be the last fic I uploaded this month, or maybe I'm gonna take some rest for a while😮‍💨

Minors do not interact, 21+ only!!

🪐smut under the cut🪐

It wasn’t the first night you walked into the shared kitchen in one of your tiny little sleep dresses—but this one had lace trim that swayed with every step and straps thin enough to slip off your shoulder. You weren’t even trying to be sexy. That was the worst part. You were just… comfortable.

And Mingi was already sitting at the counter, hoodie pulled halfway down his arms, curls messy from sleep. His eyes trailed up from your bare legs to the way the fabric clung to your hips. Silent. But you felt him staring.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you asked, padding across the tile barefoot, opening the fridge for a water bottle.

“Not really,” his voice came low. Rough. “You?”

You shrugged, turning around to face him, and leaned back against the fridge—completely unaware of how the thin fabric stretched across your chest. “Kinda warm tonight.”

Mingi didn’t say anything at first. He just kept looking at you, jaw ticking like he was holding something back.

It’d been two months since you moved in. Your best friend’s brother had offered the extra room when you said you needed a place. You trusted him. You knew he was older, a bit… different from the boys you’d dated before, but he never did anything to make you uncomfortable.

Until lately.

Lately, he lingered.

Watched.

“You always wear stuff like that to bed?” he finally asked, voice lower now.

You blinked. “Huh?”

“That little dress.” His eyes dropped to your thighs, where the hem rested dangerously high. “You walk around in that, knowing I’m home?”

You laughed a little. Nervous. “It’s not that short…”

Mingi stood up slowly, towering. The way he walked around the counter felt too quiet, too smooth, until he was right in front of you—so close you had to tilt your chin up just to keep eye contact.

“You’re either real clueless,” he murmured, reaching one hand to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, “or you want me to stare.”

Your breath hitched. “Mingi…”

He smiled—lazy, dark, dangerous. “You ever been fucked right?”

You froze.

Your voice dropped into a whisper. “I’ve… only been with one guy. It wasn’t like that.”

Mingi groaned. “Figures.” He leaned in close, lips brushing your ear. “Bet you’ve never had someone stretch this cute little pussy open, make you cry, huh?”

Your thighs pressed together. You didn’t answer.

“You’d let me ruin you?” he muttered, voice thick. “Make you drool all over this kitchen counter?”

That was it. That was the moment something snapped. You nodded—tiny, trembling—and whispered:

“...Please.”

Mingi didn’t wait for you to say more. The second that quiet please left your lips, his hand was on your waist, dragging you flush against him like he’d been holding back for too long. You gasped when you felt how hard he already was—thick and pressed against your stomach through his sweats.

And then he kissed you.

Hard.

It wasn’t soft or shy or sweet like your ex used to kiss. Mingi kissed like he wanted to eat every breath from your lungs. Tongue in your mouth, lips moving against yours with filthy hunger, like he needed to claim you before you could change your mind.

Your little whimper was swallowed by his mouth.

He gripped your hips, pulling you closer until your thin sleep dress rode higher up your thighs. His hands were so big—touching too much, yet not enough. One slipped down to squeeze your ass through the fabric, and he groaned into your mouth. “Fuck… you’ve been hiding this from me all this time?”

“I didn’t know you looked at me like that,” you mumbled breathlessly between kisses, hands fisting into his hoodie.

He pulled back just enough to stare down at you, pupils blown wide. “I’ve been looking at you every fucking night, bunny. You walking around in these tiny little dresses, all innocent and sweet, acting like you don’t know what the fuck you’re doing to me.”

You whimpered at the pet name—bunny—and it only made him grin darker.

“Not gonna fuck you for the first time in the kitchen,” he muttered, gripping your wrist and tugging you toward the hallway. “Not when I’ve waited this long. My room. Now.”

You followed, dizzy and needy, barely noticing how your thighs brushed together with every step.

His room smelled like him—clean laundry and something warm, masculine. It was bigger than yours by far, and the bed looked like it could swallow you whole. He didn’t even turn on the light—just kicked the door shut and pushed you gently until you fell back onto the mattress.

You sat there, wide-eyed and flushed, legs folded under you.

Mingi’s hoodie was already coming off, revealing bare skin and toned arms as he stepped closer. “Take it off,” he ordered softly, nodding at your sleep dress. “Wanna see all of you.”

Your fingers trembled a little as you reached for the straps, slowly pulling them down one by one. The fabric slid down your chest… then over your waist… pooling around your hips before you pulled it off completely.

You sat there naked, knees pressed together, heart pounding so loud you swore he could hear it.

Mingi’s gaze dragged over you—slow, heavy, drinking in everything. “Fuck, baby… you’re gonna be the death of me.”

He dropped to his knees between your legs and pushed them apart gently, licking his lips.

“You ever been eaten out, sweetheart?”

You shook your head, shy. “No…”

His grin was wicked. “Good. You’ll remember your first.”

“Lie back for me,” Mingi murmured, guiding your shoulders until you were sprawled across his sheets—legs parted, chest rising and falling in uneven little breaths.

He kissed up the inside of your thigh first. Slow. Teasing. You whimpered when his nose brushed close to where you were already wet, and he groaned low in his throat.

“Shit… you’re already dripping.”

Your hands gripped the sheets tightly as his breath ghosted over your folds. And then—his tongue. One long, slow lick up your slit that had your hips jerking off the bed.

“Oh—Mingi—!”

“Yeah, baby?” he mumbled against your pussy, voice already wrecked. “Sensitive little thing, huh? Gonna cry just from my mouth?”

You shook your head, biting your lip, but the way your thighs trembled said otherwise.

Mingi didn’t tease for long. He licked you open and flat-out devoured you—his tongue dragging through every inch of you, dipping into your hole, circling your clit until your back arched off the bed. His grip on your thighs kept you spread, even as you twisted, even when you whimpered, “Mingi, I— I think I’m gonna—!”

He didn’t stop.

He growled into you, “Give it to me, bunny. Wanna taste how cute you cum.”

Your thighs shook. Your stomach tensed. And just as you hit the edge, his tongue flattened against your clit—and then slap—

His palm smacked against your dripping pussy. Just once. Light. Experimental.

You screamed.

Not from pain. From how violently your orgasm hit. It tore through you in messy, uncontrollable waves—and then you felt it. That hot rush, the release, the wet spray that soaked his mouth and chin and dripped down your thighs.

“Oh—oh my God—!”

You were trembling, toes curled, hands gripping the sheets so hard your knuckles turned white.

Mingi pulled back just enough to see the mess—lips wet, eyes blown out with shock and arousal. “Fuck, baby… you just squirted.”

You were still catching your breath, wide-eyed and teary, lips parted. “I—I didn’t mean to—”

He laughed. Dark. Proud. “Don’t apologize.” He leaned up, licking your slick from his fingers. “I’m making you do that again.”

Still trembling from the mess he’d pulled out of you, you tried to close your legs—but Mingi’s grip was firm.

“Ah, ah. Not done yet, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice gravelly and way too calm for someone who just got squirted on. “Still so sensitive... what, already crying?” he cooed as his fingers brushed your soaked clit.

You whimpered, legs kicking at the overwhelming touch. “I-It’s too much, Mingi—!”

But he just grinned, licking his lips. “Mm… I think you can give me one more. You got another one in this pretty pussy, right?”

You were too dazed to answer, and that only made him laugh—low and dark.

Then came his fingers. Two of them, thick and slow, sliding into you while his thumb pressed on your clit. He watched you with hungry eyes as your back arched again, moaning out broken little gasps.

And when you got close—that sweet, tense twist in your belly coming back—he stopped.

Pulled his hand back entirely.

You blinked in confusion, cheeks flushed, lips parted in a soft whine. “W-Why’d you stop…”

Mingi leaned down, nose brushing yours, smirking. “You think I’m gonna let you cum that easy, bunny? After that messy little squirt? Nah. I wanna watch you fall apart first.”

You squirmed under him, legs rubbing together for friction, whining softly as he started teasing again—light flicks over your clit with the very tip of his tongue.

Then fingers. Just pressing at your entrance, not pushing in.

You were twitching, gasping. “Please, Mingi, wanna cum… I wanna—wanna feel it again…”

He let out a low hum, lips brushing your inner thigh. “Such a needy little baby. One good orgasm and now you can’t even speak right?”

“Mingi—please!”

He slapped your pussy again. Sharp. Hot. Not enough to hurt, just enough to make your whole body jolt.

“Say it better, sweetheart. Use your words. What do you want?”

You sniffled, eyes glassy. “Wanna cum… wanna feel your fingers, your tongue, anything— please, Mingi, I’ll be good—”

“Shit.” He sucked a breath through his teeth, finally sliding two fingers in again, pumping hard. “You’re too fucking cute when you beg.”

This time—he let you cum.

And you screamed, all messy and twitching, a moaning little thing with your back off the bed and your thighs trembling around his head. You sobbed through it, babbling nonsense, fingers gripping the sheets as your slick dripped down his wrist.

But Mingi didn’t stop.

He kept going.

Sloppy thrusts. No rhythm. Just filthy, greedy, overstimulating pleasure while you whimpered, “T-Too much—gonna break, Mingi—ah, ah—!”

“Oh, baby…” he groaned, tongue dragging up your soaked folds one more time. “You’re already broken.”

He’d barely given you time to catch your breath before pulling you into his lap—legs trembling, lips parted with a dazed little pout as you straddled his hips.

“C’mere, baby,” Mingi said, voice low and wrecked, “Wanna see you ride this cock. Wanna watch those pretty tits bounce while I ruin that dumb little head of yours.”

Your hands pressed against his chest for balance, thighs already shaky as you lined yourself up—his cock thick and heavy against your folds. He didn’t even help. Just laid back with that smug, perverted smirk on his face like he had all the time in the world.

“You gonna do it all by yourself, sweetheart?” he teased, thumb brushing your lip. “Show me how bad you want it.”

You whimpered, biting down on his thumb, and slowly sank down.

“Oh fuck—”

Your mouth dropped open in a silent cry as he filled you up, inch by inch, stretching you so deep it felt like you couldn’t breathe. Your eyes fluttered shut, the burn so good, the pressure perfect—and when you finally sat flush against his hips, you were already shaking.

Mingi hissed through his teeth, staring up at you with that hungry look. “Shit, baby, look at you—taking all of me like that… Tightest fucking pussy I’ve ever felt.”

You whimpered, hips rolling instinctively. “Mingi… s’too big…”

He grabbed your waist, dragging you up just enough before letting you drop back down. “Nah, baby. You’re made for this. For me. Show me how you fuck.”

So you moved.

Bounced.

Slow at first, thighs burning from the stretch, your tits jiggling with every drop. And Mingi? He looked feral. One hand behind his head, the other lazily cupping your breast, watching it bounce with a low groan.

“Fuck… fuck, look at you,” he growled, thrusting up once to meet you and make you yelp. “Look how cute you are—riding my cock like it’s the only thing that matters.”

You cried out, little sobs slipping past your lips as you bounced harder, sloppier, the sounds of your slick echoing in the room.

“Am I makin’ you dumb, bunny?” he grinned, pulling on your waist to make you slam down harder. “You’re mumblin’ again…”

“I—ahh—feels s’good, Mingi, too good—dizzy—!”

“Yeah? You gonna cum on this cock?” he grunted, thrusting up to meet you again, fast and deep. “Gonna soak me like a filthy little slut?”

You nodded frantically, sobbing now, fingers clawing at his chest. “Please—please, wanna cum, please, please—!”

“Then cum.”

He sat up, mouth sucking one of your nipples into his mouth as you shattered—screaming, spasming around him, thighs locking up as you came so hard your whole body convulsed. Mingi groaned, holding you down on his cock, watching you lose your mind on top of him.

“Shit… You’re my favorite fucking toy now.”

Your thighs were quaking, tears running down your flushed cheeks, but you didn’t stop riding him. Not even when your head dropped back and your voice cracked from all the soft, incoherent sobs spilling out of your lips.

“S-s’too much—Mingi, f-fuck—can’t—!”

“Oh, but you can, baby.” His voice was wrecked with hunger, obsessed with the way you looked losing your mind on his cock. “You’re so cute when you cry like this. Makes me wanna keep you stuffed and full forever.”

He grabbed both of your tits, squeezing them roughly as he thrusted up into you hard enough to make you scream.

You sobbed, nails digging into his chest, your thighs trembling violently as the pleasure got too sharp, too deep, but he wasn’t letting up.

“Mingi—! Gonna cum again—!”

He grinned, lazy and smug. “Yeah? Show me.”

You came with a sob, body locking up as you spasmed around him, drool slipping from the corner of your mouth as you collapsed forward on his chest.

But he wasn’t done.

Not even close.

“Turn around.”

Your hazy, tear-streaked eyes blinked at him. “H-huh?”

Mingi didn’t wait—he flipped you over onto your stomach, pulling your hips up so your ass was in the air, your face buried in the mattress. You were so sensitive, so wrecked, and you felt him line back up without missing a beat.

Then—

SMACK!

You yelped.

“God, this ass is too fucking perfect,” he groaned, giving your cheek another hard slap. “Could stare at it all day.”

“M-Mingi—!”

SMACK!

“Say thank you.”

You whined, face burning. “T-thank you…”

“That’s my girl.” He slammed into you without mercy, burying himself to the hilt in one thrust.

Your scream was muffled by the sheets, fists grabbing at the blankets as he pounded into you from behind—relentless, filthy, insatiable.

He grabbed your hair, yanking your head up. “Let me hear you beg again. C’mon, say you love this cock.”

You hiccupped on a moan, body trembling like crazy. “L-love it—love your cock, Mingi—please, more, please!”

“Fuck yes,” he groaned, thrusting faster, the sound of your skin slapping echoing in the room. “I’m gonna make you squirt again. Gonna spank you while you cry on my dick.”

SMACK!

You screamed.

SMACK!

Tears spilled down again, body burning from both pleasure and pain as you felt yourself losing it all over again.

“I—I’m gonna—!”

“Do it. Squirt for me, baby. Make a mess on my cock.”

You cried out, body convulsing as you exploded, the gush of your release soaking his cock and thighs as you collapsed forward, babbling nothing but broken moans and needy whines.

And Mingi? He kept fucking you through it, whispering filthy things in your ear while he used your soft, fucked-out body like it was his personal toy.

Your legs gave out underneath you, dropping you in a trembling, sticky heap on the bed. Your thighs glistened with slick and spit, your chest rising and falling as soft hiccupy sobs slipped from your lips. Mingi had just pulled out, thick and hard and soaked in everything you’d given him—again.

But he hadn’t finished.

Not yet.

You peeked up at him through heavy lashes, eyes glassy and lips glossy with drool, a faint little whimper catching in your throat. Your body ached, pussy twitching with need, and your brain was too fogged up to think straight—but the emptiness was too much.

“M-Mingi…” Your voice cracked.

He stood at the edge of the bed, stroking himself slowly, watching you fall apart with a low, smug chuckle. “Look at you,” he teased. “Cute little thing, still crying. Didn’t I just make you squirt all over me?”

You shook your head, sniffled, and crawled to the edge of the bed on shaky hands and knees. “I-it’s not enough…” you whimpered, blinking up at him with big watery eyes.

“Oh?” He tilted his head. “You still want more, baby?”

You nodded, sniffling again, reaching out with both hands to grab at his thighs, pressing your cheek against the base of his cock like it was the only thing keeping you grounded. “Please… please cum inside me… I w-want it so bad, Mingi, want you to ruin me…”

He groaned, grip tightening around his shaft.

“Been so good, haven’t I?” you mumbled, voice all cracked and wet and soft. “Let you use me however you wanted… I d-did everything—so please, fill me up…”

Tears ran down your flushed cheeks as your voice dropped even more—sweet and whiny and broken. “Don’t wanna be empty anymore…”

“Fuck—” He hissed through his teeth, eyes dark with lust as he looked down at you, trembling and begging and so fucking perfect.

He grabbed you, hard, lifting you up with ease and laying you on your back again, legs spread wide and shaking. “You wanna be full, baby?” he growled, lining himself up. “I’ll make sure you never feel empty again.”

You gasped when he slammed back inside you, and a sob broke out of your throat.

“Th-thank you—thank you, Mingi—!”

He groaned, wrapping your legs around his waist and pounding into you with feverish need, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other held your hip steady. “Crying while you thank me? Shit, baby, you’re gonna kill me…”

You were blabbering now, voice high and pitchy, clinging to his back as he drove you into the mattress. “Feels so good—so deep—Mingi, I’m gonna break—!”

“You’re already broken, sweetheart.” He kissed your temple, whispering like a lover even as he fucked you like a demon. “And you’re so fucking cute like this. So desperate, so messy, all mine right now…”

And when he finally came—hard, with a deep groan and his face buried in your neck—you cried out again, feeling the heat flood your core, your hands clawing at him as your body twitched through the aftershocks.

Still gasping, still trembling, still mumbling barely-there thank-yous.

And Mingi just held you, sweaty and breathless, as if he was never letting you go.

You didn’t even realize you were still leaking around him until he shifted his hips, still buried deep in your swollen, overstretched walls. Mingi’s hand rubbed soothing circles into your back, his lips brushing over your forehead in soft little kisses. You felt so warm—so full—your breath slowing, your heartbeat steadying under the weight of his body.

But his cock was still inside you.

Still thick, twitching every now and then.

And he was hardening again.

You mumbled something incoherent, more like a dreamy hum than actual words, nuzzling into his neck.

“…You awake, baby?” Mingi whispered, voice hoarse, raspy with exhaustion.

You nodded sleepily, cheeks sticky with dried tears and your thighs aching deliciously. “Mmhm… still inside…”

“Still warm,” he groaned, grinding his hips just enough to feel your pussy clench. “Fuck… you’re hugging me so tight, baby. You gonna let me use you one more time?”

A sleepy whimper slipped out, and your fingers curled into his back. “T-too much…”

“Just one more,” he murmured, voice sweet but filthy. “You’re already so full, might as well keep stuffing you, yeah?”

He rolled his hips again, deeper this time, and you gasped—tired, overstimulated, but already soaking all over again. “Mingi… I can’t—”

“You can,” he whispered, lips brushing against your temple. “You’re doing so good, baby. So pretty, even when you’re crying… my cute little roommate.”

He slowly started thrusting, every movement gentle but deep, dragging out the squelch of his cum between your legs with each slow stroke.

You whimpered, head tilting back, your legs falling open for him like instinct. “Ngh… f-feels good…”

“That’s it,” he groaned. “Just let me fuck you through it, baby. Let me feel your cute little pussy milk me dry.”

You moaned louder this time, slurred words spilling from your lips in breathy little gasps. “So deep—Mingi, y-you’re still so big, why’s it still so big…”

He chuckled softly, eyes dark as he stared down at your fucked-out face. “Because you’re too cute, baby. Can’t help myself…”

He kept going, slow and thick and messy, not even bothering to pull out as his cum dripped down between your cheeks, mixing with your slick and his spit. You blinked up at him, dazed and broken and glowing all at once.

And when he finally came again with a quiet, shuddering groan, you whimpered at the warmth flooding you for the second time.

“…Mingi…” you breathed out, nearly incoherent. “Y-you’re gonna break me…”

“You’re already broken, sweetheart,” he murmured, laying soft kisses along your collarbone as he rutted lazily into you a few more times before stilling.

“But fuck, baby… I’ve never seen anything as pretty as you falling apart.”

The sunlight was barely peeking through the blinds when you stirred, your legs twitching from the dull ache between them. You were wrapped up in warmth—Mingi's chest against your back, his heavy arm draped around your waist, and his cock still lazily nestled against your ass, soft but twitching with every slow breath.

“Mingi…” you whispered sleepily, voice hoarse and sweet.

He groaned low, nuzzling into your neck. “Morning already?”

You giggled softly, your body sore in all the right places. “My thighs hurt…”

He kissed your shoulder. “Good. That means I fucked you right.”

You turned your face toward him, cheeks hot, eyes still puffy from last night’s cute little crying fits. “Pervert.”

“Your pervert.” He smirked, biting playfully at your earlobe. “And you loved it.”

You hummed. “I did…”

There was a beat of silence, and then you sighed. “But I’m sticky. We’re gross.”

“Guess we should clean up, huh?” he whispered, voice already heavy with mischief.

Before you could protest, he rolled you both out of bed and scooped you up bridal-style, your sleep dress barely hanging on your shoulders. You squealed, arms flying around his neck.

“Mingi—!”

“I said we’re showering. Gotta make sure my baby is squeaky clean.”

He kicked the bathroom door open and sat you on the cold counter, standing between your legs with his hands on your bare thighs. He just stared at you for a second—at the messed-up lace, the little bruises, the faint red handprints he’d left behind.

And then, “You gonna let me clean you with my tongue again, baby?”

You blinked at him, lips parting.

“…You’re hopeless.”

But when you opened your legs for him again, you both knew you didn’t mean it.

Mingi turned the shower on, steam curling into the room as the water heated up. While it warmed, he leaned down and kissed you—slow and deep, his tongue lazily exploring your mouth while his big hands slid under your sleep dress, dragging it up and off your body.

“Still so cute even when you’re wrecked,” he murmured, voice low and thick with sleep and lust. “Wanna fuck you all over again.”

Your body twitched at his words, your thighs pressing together instinctively. “I’m still sore…”

“I’ll be gentle,” he said—though the glint in his eyes said otherwise.

He picked you up again and stepped into the shower with you, water cascading over both your bodies, his arms strong and steady around you. You let out a shaky breath as the warmth soothed your aching muscles, but your comfort didn’t last long.

Mingi pinned your back to the slick wall tiles, water running down his broad shoulders as he grabbed your thighs and hoisted them around his waist. His cock was already hard again, flushed and throbbing against your core.

“Y-you said gentle,” you mumbled, flushed and wide-eyed.

“I said I’ll try,” he corrected, smirking. “But you’re too damn addicting, baby. Can’t help it.”

You whined as he rubbed his cockhead along your folds, spreading his cum and your slick from the night before. “Mingi… I—”

“You’re always so wet for me,” he groaned. “Still leaking, baby? God, look at you…”

He pushed in slow—just the tip—and your eyes fluttered shut, your lips parting in a soft moan as your head thunked back against the tile. The heat of the water, the steam, his body against yours—it was all too much and not enough.

“F-fuck, you’re tight,” he growled, gripping your thighs tighter. “Even after everything I did last night…”

You gasped as he slid in deeper, your arms locking around his neck. “M-Mingi… ah—nghh—s-still sore…”

“I know, baby,” he cooed, kissing your cheek. “But you can take it. You always do. My good girl.”

His hips began to move, slowly at first—just enough for you to feel the stretch all over again. You whimpered into his shoulder, legs trembling, but your pussy clenched around him greedily.

“Making those cute noises again…” he muttered, voice almost desperate. “Say something for me, baby.”

“F-feels good,” you managed, your voice slurred, high and breathy. “So big—s-stretching me again…”

“You’re dripping,” he whispered against your ear. “Fucking leaking around me, and I’m not even moving fast yet.”

You let out a sob, your fingers tangling in his wet hair. “Please—Mingi—feels too good—don’t stop—”

And he didn’t.

He began thrusting harder, the sound of wet skin slapping echoing in the shower, water spraying off his back while he fucked you raw against the tile. You whimpered, moaned, your head rolling as he hit that same deep, sweet spot over and over until your body was convulsing in his arms.

“Cum for me,” he grunted. “Wanna feel you fall apart again.”

And you did—your eyes rolled back, your mouth fell open in a silent cry, your whole body shaking as you came hard around him. And right after, with a strangled groan, he buried himself deep and spilled inside you again.

For the fourth time.

You both panted, clinging to each other as the water kept pouring over you. Mingi kissed your temple softly.

“I should get a gold medal for this,” he muttered playfully.

You mumbled into his shoulder, barely coherent. “Mm… just feed me breakfast…”

He grinned. “After I eat you for breakfast again.”

After the shower, your legs barely held you up, so Mingi wrapped you in a towel and carried you straight to the kitchen like you weighed nothing. You were wearing one of his oversized shirts now—still damp and clinging to your soft curves, the hem brushing your thighs with every step you took.

Mingi was shirtless, sweatpants slung low on his hips, his hair still damp and messy. And the way his eyes kept dropping to your bare legs as he cooked? That hungry look never left.

“You know,” he muttered, flipping the pancakes in the pan, “I could bend you over this counter right now. Bet your pussy’s still twitching from the shower.”

You whimpered into your glass of juice, squirming in the stool you sat on. “Mingi…”

“What? I’m just saying,” he smirked, setting the plate down in front of you. “You looked so cute, all dumb and crying on my cock. How am I supposed to not talk about it?”

You pouted, hiding your red face behind your fork. “You’re so dirty…”

“And you love it,” he whispered as he leaned down, lips brushing your ear. “You love when I talk to you like that, don’t you? Gettin’ all shy now, but you were begging me to spank your pussy five minutes ago.”

Your thighs clenched automatically, eyes fluttering. “That was… different…”

He kissed your temple and slid into the stool beside you. “Nah. You’re just my pretty little pillow princess who gets shy after being ruined.”

You shoved his arm playfully, cheeks hot. “Eat your pancake, pervert.”

But your voice was so soft, your smile too wide—because you did love it. Every filthy word, every dirty look he gave you like you were his favorite thing to ruin.

Mingi leaned on his elbow, watching you eat with that same smirk tugging at his lips.

“After this… I’m putting you back in bed,” he murmured lowly. “And you’re gonna sit on my cock nice and slow while I kiss you. Let’s see how many times I can make you cum without moving my hips.”

You choked on your juice.

He patted your back, completely unbothered. “Careful, baby. Can’t have you dying before I ruin you again.”

[nightplvmes]

birthday girl

you'd always known you had a different side of Sylus, a side no one else had because you couldn't remember a time he hadn't made you feel special. he had made your birthday special after so many years. ☆ sylus x fem!reader — fluff ! MDNI! ☆ birthday special ☆ an: hi! so it's my birthday!! and i wanted to post a special. it's not a long one shot and it's not a big deal, i thought about making it a bit more personal, mentioning that Sylus' birthday was also close but i felt like that would be tooooo self insert. anyway, save this and you can read it when your birthday is close 🫶🏻 i was planning to do something with the rest of the LIs so you all can read them on your bday too but i didn't have time, especially because of Sylus' birthday :( anyway, if anyone is interested in a special like this from another LI, you can request it <3 ��� likes and reblogs are appreciated!! :) ★ masterlist here

your birthday wasn't something you liked. you'd done your best to hide it from Sylus because didn't want to celebrate it, especially this year. you knew your efforts to hide it hadn't worked when you got home that night. you opened the door, and the lack of light made your brows furrow, but the small flicker of candles caught your attention.

Sylus was standing next to a table, his hands behind his back, and beside him was a beautifully set table. it was a dinner party, and you probably would have thought it was nothing more than a date night, if there wasn't a cake in the middle of the table. "what... what's this?" you asked, a lump beginning to form in your throat, even though you knew the answer perfectly.

"you thought you could hide your birthday, sweetie?" Your cheeks turned red. you'd suspected it; you knew he was going to find out somehow, but something inside you hoped he wouldn't.

"I... it's not important. I don't like my birthday." you shook your head. you expected something from him at home if he found out, and maybe something like a forced outing the next day as a celebration. however, you didn't expect that. you had called him an hour ago, and he had said he'd be home maybe two hours later because he still had a few things to do.

"it's important." Sylus approached you, his arms around, pulling you close to his body. "I cooked for you and this is your birthday dinner." a small smile spread across your face, and you felt... a kind of tranquility. it wasn't a lie that you had never liked your birthday, but there was something intimate about just the two of you, about this being your birthday celebration.

"when did you do this? I thought you were working." you placed a kiss on his cheek as he moved away from you enough to walk to the table where he had prepared dinner.

"when I said I had things to do, I meant dinner." a laugh escaped your lips. you didn't even know how he'd found out about your birthday; you'd kept it a secret until... a memory came back to you. yes, you could remember Luke and Kieran standing around you asking questions.

"so... you'd say your stay at Onychinus was good?" you looked at Luke with a frown and then at Kieran, who was sitting on your other side.

"I'm not even staying here. it's not a hotel."

"you're the boss' girlfriend. you sleep here all the time," Kieran said, making your eyes widen in a mixture of embarrassment and surprise. he wasn't actually lying, but it still wasn't a hotel you had come to talk about your stay there. your didn't work for Sylus either.

"yeah, my stay at Onychinus is good," you replied, giving up. the twins were too persistent, and you knew you wouldn't be able to win against them. at some point, you stopped listening to them completely; even Luke's voice sounded so distant that you only just started answering without thinking.

"how old are you?" it had been one of the casual questions Kieran had asked, even though they knew your age perfectly well.

"when is your birthday?"

"those two..." you muttered to yourself as you narrowed your eyes, remembering all of Luke and Kieran's questions. they had inundated you with questions to the point of exhaustion, so you'd answered everything without even thinking about it. Sylus chuckled as he sat down across from you, he'd realized you'd already figured it out, and that there was no evaluation for Onychinus residents—it was just him trying to find out your birthday. well, he'd done a pretty good job, you had to admit. "I can't believe you sent your two shadows to get information out of me," you muttered, annoyed.

Sylus seemed to be searching for something in his pocket, and it took him a couple of seconds to answer. "they were gathering information for an Onychinus project." you rolled your eyes, knowing it was a big lie and you were about to say something, but something stopped you suddenly.

Sylus placed a small box on the center of the table. for a second, you thought it was an engagement ring, but then you realized it was a necklace as soon as he opened it. but it wasn't just any necklace, it was obviously expensive; it was shaped like a kitten and surrounded by red diamonds. "what's this?" you asked, still open-mouthed in surprise, despite knowing the answer perfectly.

"happy birthday, kitten." that was enough to know it was his birthday present. Not only had he taken the time to research your birthday and prepare an entire dinner, he'd bought something else for you. something that was actually meaningful.

maybe you were too excited or too stunned that words came out of your mouth, but you didn't even know what you had said. when you came back from your little bubble, Sylus was behind you, helping you put the necklace on. "you didn't have to, really." you shook your head as he placed a kiss on your forehead before returning to his seat across from you.

"how could I act like your birthday didn't matter?" you narrowed your eyes at his words, knowing they were something you'd said last year after throwing him a surprise party. he'd used your own words against you.

you looked down at the necklace now on your neck and circled the tiny kitten with your fingers, gazing at it for so many seconds. you'd always known you had a different side of Sylus, a side no one else had because you couldn't remember a time he hadn't made you feel special. he had made your birthday special after so many years.

[cupofteatoyou]

what almost was

(By this request )

There’s a rhythm to the way Irene walks beside you after matches—slow, steady, with her hand resting gently at your back like a compass. She doesn’t speak much in moments like these, doesn’t need to. She just stays close, as if her presence alone is a promise.

You’ve always admired that about her. Her quiet certainty. Her ability to make you feel safe without trying.

So you don’t say anything either as the two of you step into the tunnel, the hum of Camp Nou fading behind you. Just a glance to your left. Just enough to see Alexia, a few paces ahead, surrounded by teammates and laughing at something Patri said.

She looks good. Of course she does. Ponytail high, jersey still clinging to her, skin glowing with the kind of confidence only she seems to wear like second skin. You should be used to it by now.

And yet.

Her gaze slides across the group, like she’s scanning. Like she’s looking for someone. You’re sure you imagine it—that moment where her eyes hover just a second too long before flicking away.

You tighten your grip on Irene’s hand.

“Everything alright?” she asks, low and warm, like she felt the shift in you before you could hide it.

“Yeah,” you answer. “Just tired.”

She hums softly. “You always say that after home games.”

You glance at her. “Maybe because I never get to nap with you before them.”

That earns you a smile. Irene’s are never loud, never wide—but they’re real. Quiet things you feel more than see.

“We could leave early,” she murmurs. “Skip the lounge. I know how much you love pretending to be interested in Lucy’s whiskey reviews.”

You laugh under your breath, leaning into her shoulder as you walk. “Tempting.”

“You’ve been a little off too,” she adds after a beat, not accusing—just observant. “The past few weeks. Is something wrong?”

Your throat tightens, just a little. “No. Nothing’s wrong.” another pause. Irene doesn’t press. She never does.

She just gives your hand a gentle squeeze. “You know you can tell me anything, right?” You nod, because it’s true. You can tell her anything. You just don’t. Not about Alexia.

Not about the strange way your stomach knots when you catch her eyes across a room. Or how she stopped teasing you in passing months ago—no more half-smirks, no more dry comments that made Irene roll her eyes and you stifle a laugh.

It was easier when Alexia still pretended you were friends.

Later, in the lounge, the team’s buzzing. Not wild, but light—good mood, feet kicked up, muscles sore in the way that means victory. Someone’s passing around a speaker, arguing over playlists. The pizza’s going fast. You’re half-watching Mapi challenge Cata to a handstand contest, half-curled into the couch with Irene beside you.

Her arm is behind your shoulders, fingers trailing lightly through the ends of your hair, but she’s not even really paying attention. Just instinct. Like she doesn’t have to try with you. Like it’s easy.

You take a bite of a cold slice, chewing thoughtfully. “You think Mapi’s gonna break something this time?”

Irene doesn’t even look up. “Her pride. Again.”

“She’s already tried three times.”

“She’s stubborn.”

“She’s gonna flip and land on Cata.”

“She’s done worse.”

You grin, tossing your crust into the pizza box on the floor. “You’re very chill about the idea of bodily injury.”

Irene turns to you with that dry little smile she does when she’s amused but pretending not to be. “It’s Mapi. If something breaks, it’ll be the floor.”

You laugh and nudge her knee with yours.

Mapi does, in fact, fall over a minute later. There’s a loud thud, followed by exaggerated groaning, and Patri yells, “Eso es lo que pasa cuando haces yoga una vez y crees que eres invencible!”

“You owe me five euros,” you whisper to Irene.

“I don’t remember making that bet.”

“You didn’t. But I’m trying to teach you how to be fun.”

She hums and leans closer, her voice low and warm in your ear. “And I’m trying to teach you patience. Let’s see who wins first.”

You feel yourself smiling before you can stop it. This—this is good. Comfortable. Real.

But across the room, something shifts in your peripheral vision.

Alexia, seated alone on the far couch, legs crossed, phone in one hand, water bottle in the other. She’s not really in the moment—only half-listening, not laughing like the others. Her screen lights her face with a cold blue cast, and she doesn’t seem to notice.

Then she glances up.

And it happens again.

That flicker of something—recognition, hesitation, whatever it is—when her eyes land on yours.

She doesn’t look away immediately, but she doesn’t smile either. Just watches. Quiet. Intense. Like there’s something she’s not saying.

You swallow, look back at Irene. She’s watching you now, too.

“You sure you’re okay?” she asks softly, but not without weight.

You nod. “Yeah. Just tired.”

She doesn’t call you on it. She just shifts a little, guiding your legs across her lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Her hands settle at your shin, tracing idle circles.

“You know,” she says after a moment, tone casual, “you’re unusually quiet tonight.”

“I’m not quiet.”

“You’re quiet for you.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you’re usually causing some kind of problem.”

You grin. “Maybe I’m evolving.”

Irene snorts. “God help us all.”

She leans forward and steals the last slice from the box without even breaking eye contact. You gape.

“That’s my slice.”

“You snoozed.”

“You’re a menace.”

“Yeah,” she murmurs, a little smirk tugging at her lips, “but I’m your menace.”

You should be laughing. You are laughing.

But you still feel the weight of Alexia’s stare long after she’s looked away.

Irene drives the two of you home that night, one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely on your thigh. The car hums low with the sound of the road and the muted voice of a radio host talking about some late-night football results. Barcelona glows quietly outside the window—streetlights streaking gold across the windshield, buildings blurring into shadows.

Her thumb taps softly against your leg in time with the music, a steady rhythm, like she doesn’t even notice she’s doing it. You glance at her—strong profile lit by the dash, calm like always. The kind of calm that could keep the world steady if it ever tipped sideways.

“I think Alexia’s been a little off lately,” you say, almost like you didn’t mean to speak it out loud.

Irene hums, a sound of acknowledgment more than agreement. “Yeah. Maybe she’s tired.”

You nod, turning your gaze back out the window. “Yeah. Probably.”

But tired doesn’t explain the distance.

The way Alexia barely speaks to you anymore.

The way she always seems to notice you walk into a room—and then looks away like it costs her something.

The way she doesn’t tease you in passing, doesn’t throw out nicknames or sarcastic comments the way she used to. Doesn’t sit close anymore. Doesn’t let herself linger.

And the thing is… you miss her. Or maybe you miss who she was with you.

You miss the ease. The sharp glint in her eyes when you’d surprise her with a smart comment. The way her smile used to tug at one side of her mouth first, like she was trying to hide it but never could around you.

You don’t say any of that.

You don’t say you’ve noticed her looking again—but never quite at you anymore. Always near. Always past. Like you’re something she used to believe in.

Instead, you shift in your seat and say, “You think something happened? With her?”

Irene shrugs gently. “She’s intense. Sometimes she gets like that—overthinks things. Holds it in.”

You glance at her again. “So… you’ve noticed it too?”

“She’s always been that way,” Irene replies, not quite answering the question. “But yeah. Lately it’s more… quiet.”

You nod, trying to make sense of the ache in your chest.

Maybe you shouldn’t care this much. Maybe it’s nostalgia. Maybe it’s just guilt—though for what, you can’t quite define.

Irene gives your thigh a light squeeze, pulling you back. “Don’t worry about her tonight, cariño.”

You offer a soft smile. “I’m not worried. Just—curious.”

She glances at you with a raised brow. “Curious enough to ask her?”

You shake your head, too fast. “No. I mean… it’s not really my place, is it?”

Irene’s quiet for a beat. The car slows as she turns onto a quieter street, the road lined with sleeping trees and shuttered shops.

“She used to talk to you more,” she says, like she’s just now realizing it too.

You swallow. “Yeah.”

The silence hangs, heavier now.

You want to fill it with something light. Something safe. A joke, maybe. A change of subject.

But instead, you say, “I think I miss her.”

It slips out, quiet. Honest.

Irene doesn’t say anything right away. She just keeps her hand where it is—steady, grounding—and lets the car roll forward into the night.

And somehow, that’s worse than anything she could have said.

Alexia’s POV

She tells herself it’s nothing.

The way her chest tightens every time she sees you laugh at something Irene says. The way her jaw clenches without warning when Irene leans in close, lips brushing the edge of your ear like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like that kind of closeness should belong to anyone.

She tells herself it’s stupid.

Because she had her chance. She did. Months ago, when everything between you was easier. Lighter. Before the lines were drawn.

Before she saw Irene’s arm around your waist at a team dinner.

Before she noticed the way you looked at her—like the whole world had shifted a few degrees.

And she had no right to be hurt by that. She still doesn’t.

But it didn’t stop it from happening.

Didn’t stop the pit in her stomach from forming that night and never really going away.

So now she keeps her distance. She makes excuses. She nods when you speak but doesn’t add much. She laughs with everyone else, but it never quite reaches her eyes when you're in the room.

She can feel herself unraveling in pieces. Quiet ones.

After the match, in the lounge, she spots you before you spot her. You're curled up next to Irene on the couch, your body language soft and familiar. Your hand on Irene’s thigh, Irene’s fingers brushing your wrist. It should be sweet.

But all she feels is bitterness.

Patri says something beside her, something about post-match karaoke, and Alexia nods along, but her eyes are elsewhere. Always elsewhere.

She watches the way you lean your head against Irene’s shoulder. The way Irene presses a kiss to your temple without fanfare. You smile, eyes fluttering closed for a second like you’re home.

And Alexia looks away fast enough to make her head spin.

She tries to distract herself. Grabs a bottle of water. Scrolls aimlessly through her phone. But it’s no use.

When her eyes lift again—by instinct, not intention—you’re watching her. Just for a second.

She knows her face gives nothing away. She’s practiced that for years. She’s good at control.

But your expression is soft. Hesitant. Like you’ve been trying to figure her out and still don’t have the pieces.

And then you look away.

Alexia exhales slowly and presses the heel of her palm to her forehead.

She doesn’t want this. She doesn’t want to want you.

But when she closes her eyes later that night, it’s your voice she hears in the quiet. Your laugh, echoing in the back of her mind. Your mouth, slightly parted in surprise, the night you almost kissed her.

Almost.

She still remembers it. Too clearly. It was after a match last season. You’d been teasing her about a missed shot, your tone warm and familiar. She’d tried to match it with a sarcastic reply, but then you’d both just… stopped.

Too close. Too quiet. Eyes locked. Her hand had twitched like she might reach for you.

But then someone had called your name from across the parking lot, and you’d turned away with a smile.

And by the time you looked back, her face was blank again.

A week later, you were with Irene.

Now, in her apartment, she stares at her phone. At your contact.

Thumb hovering over it like muscle memory.

She never texts you anymore. But she still knows your number by heart.

She types out

“You looked happy tonight.”

Then deletes it.

“You’re glowing lately.”

Deletes that too.

Then finally

“Don’t forget how good you are at reading people.”

She stares at it.

Then she locks her phone and sets it face down on the table.

Some things are better left unsaid.

Even when they’re killing you.

Y/N POV

There’s a knock on door.

You’re not expecting anyone. Irene is still in post-match meetings with the staff, and afterwards probably getting dinner in some new restaurant with team. The hallway is quiet when you pad over, your socks barely making a sound against the carpet.

You open the door.

It’s Alexia.

Her hair is damp from a recent shower, curling slightly at the ends, tucked into the collar of a hoodie zipped all the way up. Her arms are folded, posture loose but guarded—like she’s keeping herself in check by habit more than intention.

She doesn't look at you right away. Just a flick of her eyes to your face, then past your shoulder, as if she might pretend she’s in the wrong place.

“Hey,” she says.

Your brow pulls slightly. “Hey.”

A beat. Too long. The silence stretches.

“I—uh,” she shifts her weight, then lifts something from under her arm. “You left your sweater in the lounge.”

Your sweater. The soft, navy one Irene gave you. You remember tossing it onto the couch while celebrating with team. You hadn't even realized you'd forgotten it.

“Oh.” You blink. “I—thanks.”

She holds it out.

When you take it from her, your fingers brush. It’s nothing. It’s everything. It’s familiar and wrong and years of unfinished between you.

She doesn’t turn to go. You don’t ask her to.

“Do you wanna come in?” you hear yourself say, and it’s not casual. Not really. You say it softly, almost like a dare. Like you need to know how close she’ll let herself come.

Alexia hesitates. Then she nods. But the words won’t come. Because the truth is— You want her. You never stopped wanting her.

In few minutes She’s in your kitchen. You’re leaning against the fridge like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

Alexia’s holding a glass of water she hasn’t touched. Her fingers are curled too tightly around it, like it’s anchoring her to the moment—like if she lets go, she’ll do something she can’t undo.

The silence grows between you, big and choking. The hum of the fridge. The tick of the clock. The soft clink of her nails against the glass.

“I should go,” she says, but her voice doesn’t carry conviction.

You nod, slowly. “Yeah.”

Neither of you moves.

She sets the glass down, eyes flicking to your hands. “You always do that,” she murmurs.

“Do what?”

“Clench your fists when you’re trying not to feel something.” You hadn’t even noticed. You flex your fingers slowly, release the tension in your knuckles.

“And you always come here when you’ve already decided you won’t leave,” you say. Her breath catches, barely audible. She takes a step forward. Your chest tightens.

Alexia’s eyes search your face. “Why do you look at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re drowning.”

You let out a shaky exhale. “Maybe I am.”

“Because of me?”

You don’t answer. Not because you don’t know, but because saying yes would make it real. Her gaze drifts lower. First to your mouth. Then your neck. Then back to your eyes.

“Irene loves you,” she says, almost like a warning.

You nod again. “Yeah. She does.”

A pause. She tilts her head. “But do you love her?” Her voice is soft, measured. Almost kind.

You swallow hard. “That’s not a fair question.”

“I know,” she says, and steps closer. Now she’s just a breath away.

You can feel the warmth of her, the tension thrumming between your bodies like a current.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you whisper.

“I shouldn’t be a lot of things.” Her eyes flick again—to your lips. Her breathing changes. Slower, deeper. Like she’s bracing herself for something that might destroy her. You feel it too.

“Say something,” she whispers.

You force out, “Don’t.”

She stills. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t look at me like that. Like you’re mine.”

“I’m not,” she says quietly. “But I want to be.” The words hit you like a bruise And still, you don’t step back.

She moves closer, so slow you almost don’t notice. Inches. Then centimeters.

And when she kisses you—soft at first, unsure, like she’s waiting for you to flinch—you don’t.

You stay perfectly still. You let her kiss you.

Her lips are warm, hesitant, like she’s asking a question with her mouth and terrified of the answer.

Your hand finds her wrist. Not to stop her. Just to feel her pulse. To feel something that isn’t guilt.

And then you kiss her back. This time, she shudders. She pulls back, barely.

“I’m sorry,” she breathes.

“No, you’re not.”

“I wish I were.”

And then you lean in again, and everything else fades—the kitchen, the glass of water, the way you know this will break someone’s heart.

Clothes come off slowly. Not carefully—just methodically. She pulls your shirt over your head, drops it behind her. Your bra next. She watches as it falls, eyes dark. She doesn't say anything. Just steps in again and pushes you back until your knees hit the edge of the bed.

You lie down. She follows.

Her weight settles over you—solid, familiar, not gentle. Her mouth finds your neck. Then your collarbone. Then lower.

You gasp when her teeth scrape skin. Her hands grip your waist, hold you in place as she moves.

There’s nothing soft about it.

She doesn’t ask. She just reads you—waits for the shift in your breath, the way your hips lift. You guide her with your hands. She listens.

She’s quiet. Focused.

It builds fast. Pressure and heat and friction. You hold on—shoulders, hair, sheets.

You come with a sharp breath, back arching, one hand over your mouth.

She stays there a moment longer, lips against your hip. Then climbs up, chest to chest, eyes barely meeting yours.

You roll her over.

Take control.

You press her down and slide over her, mouth at her neck, your hand slipping between her thighs. She exhales hard, her head falling back, eyes fluttering shut.

You find the rhythm quickly. She’s warm. Wet. Ready.

She moans your name once. Not loud. Just enough to make your pulse spike.

She comes fast. Her body tenses, legs locked around your head. You hold her through it.

Then stillness.

Breathing slows.

Neither of you say anything.

You lie next to her after, bare shoulders brushing. Her hand twitches once, like she might reach for you.

She doesn’t.

And neither do you.

Later, when the room is quiet again, when your skin has cooled and the air feels thick with everything unsaid, Alexia moves.

She doesn’t say anything as she leans off the bed, picking her hoodie up from where it landed on the floor. Her movements are slow, careful, like she’s trying not to make noise in a space that’s already too loud with tension. She pulls the hoodie over her head and adjusts the sleeves, gaze fixed somewhere near the floor. Not at you.

She doesn’t meet your eyes.

And that’s when it settles in your chest.

The guilt.

It’s not sudden. It doesn’t hit like a wave. It leaks in quietly—through your ribs, into your stomach, up your throat. A dull, heavy ache that makes it hard to breathe.

You sit up. Sheets tangled around your waist. Skin still marked where her hands had been.

You don’t speak either. What would you even say?

You’d been the one to open the door. You’d been the one to let her stay. You hadn’t stopped her.

You hadn’t wanted to.

And now it’s done.

Alexia moves to the chair by the window, slips her shoes back on. Her fingers tremble slightly as she ties the laces, but she doesn’t comment on it. Doesn’t say a word.

The silence is worse than anger would’ve been.

You stare at the floor. Your heart thuds slow and sick in your chest.

The ache creeps in behind the guilt. Different. Familiar.

Because you still love Irene.

Not the kind of love that disappears under someone else’s touch. Not the kind that fades because it’s tested. It’s still there—steady, real.

And you’ve just done something unforgivable.

You press your palms to your eyes, as if that could change what happened. As if it could take it back.

Alexia stands finally, the door a few feet away. You look at her then, and she does look back—just for a second.

Her expression is unreadable. Not angry. Not cold.

Just… sad.

“I shouldn’t have come,” she says again. Quieter this time. Like she’s not sure you were ever really listening.

You don’t try to stop her when she opens the door.

You just sit there, naked in more ways than one, the door clicking shut behind her, and nothing left but the sound of your own breathing and the truth that now feels too loud to ignore.

You’ve broken something. And you don’t know how—or if—it can be fixed.

You wake up before Irene.

She’s curled toward you, one arm draped loosely across your stomach, face soft in sleep. Her hair’s a little messy, lips parted slightly, brows relaxed. She looks peaceful. Untouched by the storm inside you.

Like nothing’s changed.

Like you haven’t betrayed her.

You lie still.

The guilt hasn’t faded overnight—it’s settled deeper. Heavy in your chest. Tight in your throat. Your skin still remembers the way Alexia touched you. Your mouth still remembers the taste of her name. And now, in the quiet morning, with Irene’s body pressed close to yours, it all feels sharper. More wrong.

She shifts, breathes deep, and blinks herself awake. Her hand tightens slightly around your waist before she looks up at you, sleep still thick in her eyes.

“Morning,” she murmurs, voice low and scratchy and sweet.

You swallow, force your lips into something like a smile. “Hey.”

You lean down and press a kiss to her forehead. You think it’s what you’re supposed to do.

She closes her eyes for a second, soaking it in, then stretches slowly, the motion catlike and unbothered. She yawns, then shifts fully onto her side, propping herself up on one elbow so she can look at you properly.

“You okay?” she asks, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek.

“Yeah.” It comes out too fast. Reflex. A shield.

She frowns just slightly, but then leans in and kisses you, soft and unhurried. Not the kind that demands anything. Just hers. Just because she wants to.

She pulls back and smiles. “You looked like you were thinking hard.”

You laugh, too lightly. “Just trying to wake up.”

“Want me to get us coffee?” she asks, already half-rising from the bed.

You grab her wrist gently, shake your head. “No, stay. It’s early.”

She grins and flops back beside you. “Good. It’s cold out there.”

She shifts closer, burying her face in your neck. Her arm wraps around your waist again, and she lets out a small, content sigh like being here—next to you, holding you—is the safest place in the world.

“I like this,” she mumbles. “Just being here. No alarms. No one yelling about breakfast. Just you.”

Your throat tightens.

You want to cry.

She kisses your shoulder, then your jaw. Her lips linger.

“You’re warm,” she says with a sleepy smile. “Perfect heater.”

You laugh, and it sounds more real this time. But it doesn’t feel real. Not underneath.

Because Irene is all the things she’s always been—steady, patient, gentle. The kind of partner you always told yourself you didn’t deserve and somehow got anyway.

And now?

Now you really don’t deserve her.

She tangles her fingers with yours under the covers. “We should go out later,” she says. “Grab food somewhere. Just us.”

You nod. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

And you mean it. You mean it with everything in you.

But guilt clings to every inch of your skin.

And when Irene pulls you close again, burying herself against you like she could stay there forever, you close your eyes and try not to fall apart.

You ended up eat together with her teammates that evening, crammed around small tables in the small restaurant. There’s barely enough space for everyone’s plate, let alone elbows, but that doesn’t stop anyone from leaning in, laughing too loudly, or speaking over each other.

Post-game energy fills the air like static.

Patri’s in the middle of telling some chaotic story from the training trip last year—something about a lost passport, two sleeping pills, and Lucy Bronze nearly getting detained at the airport.

“She kept yelling she was British like it was a threat,” Patri says through a mouthful of food.

“You’re just mad she wouldn’t let you nap on her shoulder,” Mapi fires back from two chairs down, raising her glass in mock defense.

“I did let her nap on my shoulder,” Lucy adds flatly, eyeing Patri. “For exactly three minutes. And then she drooled on me.”

“She didn’t,” Irene says, laughing.

“She did,” Lucy insists. “She’s a menace.”

“I’m a delight,” Patri says with a dramatic bow of her head. “And I stand by that.”

You’re laughing. Everyone is. Even the staff seated a table over are chuckling into their drinks.

You sit close to Irene, her knee brushing yours under the table. Her hand rests lightly on your thigh, thumb tracing idle circles through the fabric of your jeans. Her body is warm next to yours, familiar. Anchoring.

Alexia sits across the table.

She’s not talking much. She picks at her food, eating slowly. Occasionally she forces a smile when someone addresses her directly, but she’s not really in it—not fully.

Her fork scrapes across the plate more than it lifts. Her eyes flick toward the hallway every few minutes, like she’s waiting for time to pass, like the walls are too loud.

You don’t think anyone else notices how often she checks her watch. Or how tense her shoulders are beneath her hoodie. Or how she keeps blinking too much—like her brain won’t stop spinning.

You try not to notice either.

But you do.

You pretend your skin doesn’t still remember the way hers felt against it.

You pretend your laugh isn’t a little too sharp at the edges.

“You okay, babe?” Irene asks softly near your ear, mistaking your distraction for tiredness.

“Yeah,” you say quickly, clearing your throat. “Just hungry.”

“You didn’t even touch the tortilla,” she points out with a smirk.

You grab a forkful and shove it in your mouth, making a show of it.

Patri catches you mid-chew. “Oh my god,” she says. “You looked so betrayed when you bit into that empanada earlier. Like the food personally offended you.”

“I burned my tongue,” you protest, half-laughing, half-choking.

“She made this little gasp,” Irene jumps in, beaming now. “Like a sad puppy.”

“It was pathetic,” Mapi agrees from across the way, grinning. “I thought she’d cry.”

You groan and bury your face in your hands. “You’re all so cruel.”

“True love,” Patri says with faux-seriousness, nodding toward Irene. “She still held your hand the whole time.”

“Even while you made dramatic noises and refused to finish your plate,” Mapi adds.

“I was injured,” you mumble.

Irene leans in and kisses your cheek. “You’re very brave.”

You feel your face go warm. You laugh. It’s real, for a second.

Across the table, Alexia doesn’t say anything.

You glance at her. Just a flick of the eyes. She’s pushing food around with her fork. Her lips are pressed into a thin line. Her foot bounces under the table like she’s counting down to something.

Then, too suddenly, she stands.

“M’gonna head up,” she says, collecting her things.

“Already?” Patri asks, half-pouting. “I haven’t even gotten to the good part yet.”

Alexia shrugs, her voice tight. “Long day.”

She turns to leave, but her eyes catch yours—just for a beat. Not long enough for anyone else to notice. Just long enough to land sharp in your chest.

Then she looks away. Gone. The conversation slowly picks back up without her. You sit back in your chair, the air around you still filled with laughter and warmth. And yet, everything inside you feels quiet now. Too quiet. Like something’s been taken.

You don’t know what gives you away.

It could be how you barely touch your dinner that night . Or how your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes when Irene bumps her knee against yours under the table. Or maybe it’s just something in your eyes—something you can’t hide, no matter how hard you try.

But Irene knows.

She doesn’t say anything on the ride back to home. Just rests her hand on your thigh, thumb drawing small, absent-minded circles while she stares out the window. You wonder if it’s possible to feel completely hollow when someone you love is holding your hand.

You don’t let go.

But you don’t hold on tighter either.

Back in home , the door clicks softly shut behind you. You drop your things with practiced ease—your bag by the armchair, your hoodie slung over the back. Irene sits at the foot of the bed, her movements slower than usual.

There’s a pause.

“Are you okay?”

You nod. “Just tired.”

She hums, studying you for a second too long. Then she lets it go.

Or she pretends to.

You try to go through the motions. You wash your face. Change into sweatpants. Scroll through your phone like you’re not checking it compulsively for a name that shouldn’t matter.

But she doesn’t let it slide forever.

She’s reading in bed when she finally speaks again, her voice soft, almost casual.

“You’ve been quiet today.”

You glance up, force a smile. “I’m always quiet.”

“You know what I mean.”

You set your phone down, already knowing where this is going. You feel it in your chest. Like a bruise someone’s about to press too hard on.

“I’m just tired.”

“That’s the third time you’ve said that today.”

You sigh. “Because it’s true.”

She puts the book down. Doesn’t get angry. Doesn’t raise her voice. Just turns slightly toward you, hands folded in her lap.

“I need to ask you something,” she says, and there’s something final in her voice. Not sharp. Not cold. Just real. “And I need you to tell me the truth.”

You brace.

“Is something going on with Alexia?”

The question lands like a pin dropping in a silent room.

You swallow. “What?”

“Please don’t lie to me.”

Her voice wavers slightly on the last word, and that’s what breaks you.

You look down at your hands. At your knees. Anywhere but her.

“It was one time,” you say. “Just… once.”

The silence that follows is absolute.

You hear the hum of the AC. The muted city sounds beyond the glass. The quiet ache in your chest that hasn’t stopped since Alexia left your room.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “It was—”

“Don’t.” Her voice cracks. “Don’t tell me it didn’t mean anything.”

You close your eyes. “Okay.”

Because she’s right. It meant something.

Even if you wish it didn’t.

She stands slowly and walks toward the window. She crosses her arms tightly across her chest, like she’s trying to hold herself together.

“I think I’ve always known,” she says. “Not the details, but… something.”

You sit frozen on the bed, heart in your throat.

“I see the way you look at her,” she continues. “Even when you’re with me. I just—I thought maybe it would fade.”

You shake your head. “I never meant for it to happen.”

“But it did.”

She turns to face you. Her eyes are glassy, but her voice doesn’t break. “Do you love her?”

“No,” you say quickly.

Too quickly.

She flinches, just slightly. “But you wanted her.”

“I love you,” you say again, desperate now. “I swear to god, Irene. I love you.”

She looks at you for a long, long moment.

“I believe you.”

You feel like you might cry.

“But it still hurts,” she says quietly.

You nod.

And then, the question you’ve been dreading from the moment she walked toward that window: “So… what happens now?”

You stare down at the floor.

You don’t know.

All you know is that nothing feels simple anymore. That you’ve broken something you can’t take back. That you’re still in love with the woman sitting three feet away from you—and you betrayed her anyway.

She steps forward, slowly, and sits down beside you. Her thigh presses against yours.

“I don’t want to lose you,” she says.

And it breaks you.

You don’t speak at first. You sit beside each other in quiet , backs to the headboard, the soft buzz of the outside world the only sound between you.

Your hand is still in hers.

She hasn’t let go.

And that—somehow—hurts more than if she had walked out.

You can’t look at her for long. Her expression is too calm, too composed, like she’s holding something back for your sake. Her grip is firm, her body still, but you can feel it the tremor under the surface. The kind of heartbreak that doesn’t explode—it erodes. Quiet. Constant.

“I keep thinking I should be angrier,” she says at last. “Like I should scream or throw something. But I don’t even feel that.”

You swallow. “What do you feel?”

“Like I’ve been living with a ghost,” she says. “Like you’ve been halfway gone for weeks and I didn’t want to see it.”

You blink fast. Your throat is raw. “I never wanted to leave you.”

She turns her head toward you, eyes searching. “But you did.”

It lands with a soft thud. Not a knife—just a truth.

“I don’t want to lose you,” you say, and it sounds so small. “I—I don’t know how I did this. I don’t even know who I was that day.”

Irene gives you a long look, but it isn’t cold. If anything, it’s unbearably tender. “I do. You were someone hurting. And I think… maybe I stopped asking why.”

You stay quiet. You don't deserve her grace, and you both know it.

“I’ve always known how Alexia feels about you,” she continues, voice low. “I’ve seen it. I saw it before you did.”

Your head snaps toward her.

“I didn’t say anything because I trusted you,” she says. “And I still do.”

That knocks the breath out of you.

“You still trust me?” you whisper.

“I don’t trust what happened,” she corrects, gently. “But I trust you. The you I’ve seen. The you who held my hand through injuries, who stayed up late helping me practice English, who kissed my shoulder every time I doubted myself.”

You feel like crying again. “I don’t deserve this.”

“Maybe not,” she says, finally letting go of your hand. “But love isn’t always about who deserves what.”

She shifts on the bed, facing you. Her eyes are clearer now. Tired, but clear.

“I love you,” she says. “And I don’t think I can stay here and pretend nothing happened. Pretend this place isn’t soaked in it. The team, the house, the goddamn stadium—it all feels like it’s pressing down on us.”

You nod. “I know.”

“So let’s leave,” she says simply.

You blink. “You mean—”

“Let’s go somewhere new. Clean. Quiet. I’ll talk to the club. I can take a break. I can play elsewhere. Or maybe not at all for a while.” Her mouth lifts just slightly. “Maybe I’ll finally open that café in Portugal.”

You stare at her, stunned. She’s offering a whole life.

“With me?” you ask, voice barely a whisper.

She exhales, like she’s been holding it in for weeks. “Of course with you.”

You don’t realize you’re crying until she reaches up and wipes a tear from your cheek with the back of her fingers.

“I’m not saying this fixes it,” she says softly. “I’m saying this gives us a chance to try. Away from everything.”

You nod. A shaky, broken thing. “Okay.”

“I just need one thing,” she says, and now her tone sharpens, not angry—but steel-threaded. “No more lies. Not one. Not ever.”

You meet her eyes, and for the first time in days, you feel steady. “Never again.”

She searches your face. Whatever she sees must be enough, because she leans in and presses her lips to your forehead. It’s not romantic. It’s not forgiveness.

It’s a beginning.

“I’ll make the calls tomorrow,” she says.

You lie down beside her later, the city quiet beyond the window, and she turns toward you, slipping her arm around your waist like muscle memory.

And even though you don’t deserve this love, you hold it tighter than anything.

Because this time, you’re not letting go.

It’s been a few weeks.

The kind of weeks that slip by like water—ungraspable, slow, and strangely quiet. You and Irene have built a rhythm, one that doesn’t quite hum but doesn’t stumble either. It’s the sound of trying. Of relearning.

The mornings start the same. Irene pours the coffee; you open the windows. The breeze always smells like salt, and sometimes you catch her standing there, just breathing it in, like it’s something holy.

You sit on the balcony, legs tangled under the table, mugs warm in your hands. Some mornings, she rests her chin on your shoulder. Some mornings, she doesn’t touch you at all.

You don’t ask why.

Evenings stretch longer. You cook together—nothing complicated. Pasta, roasted vegetables, soups from a recipe you pretend to follow. She makes fun of your chopping technique. You tease her about using too much garlic. It’s comfortable. It’s careful. It’s quieter than it used to be.

You’ve memorized the half-beat pause in her laughter. The way she sometimes reaches for your hand but doesn’t quite make it all the way.

The way she forgives you without ever saying the words.

Barcelona feels far away now. Like a different lifetime. Like a version of yourself you’re not sure how to return to.

So does Alexia.

You don’t say her name. Not even once. But she’s there—between bites of food that don’t taste quite right, in songs that make your throat tighten for no reason, in the reflex to check your phone even though you’ve deleted every message.

She’s there when Irene kisses you, slowly, and your eyes flutter closed like you’re trying to keep something out.

You tell yourself you miss the simplicity, not the girl. You lie to yourself so often it almost starts to sound true.

Some nights, Irene watches you.

You feel it more than you see it—her gaze brushing over your profile in bed, or across the room when you’re folding laundry, or when you laugh at something on TV and she doesn’t laugh with you.

Like she’s still taking measure of you.

Like she’s trying to figure out if what’s left between you is enough to carry forward—or if it’s just the ghost of something that used to be whole.

You pretend not to notice.

But deep down, you wonder the same thing.

Once, when you’re doing the dishes and she’s drying them beside you, you ask, “Do you think it’ll ever feel the same again?”

She doesn’t answer right away.

Just sets down the towel, leans against the counter, and looks at you like she wants to be honest but isn’t sure how much you can take.

Then, quietly “I don’t think it should.”

You swallow. Numb. “Right.”

“But,” she adds, softer now, “I think it can still be something good.”

You don’t reply.

You just nod.

And hope you’re strong enough to believe her one day.

You’re out grocery shopping when your phone buzzes.

Your hand lingers on a carton of eggs, and for a second, you think it’s Irene texting to ask what kind of bread to get.

But it’s not.

It’s a number you don’t have saved anymore.

"I’m not going to ask how you are. I just hope you’re okay. I keep telling myself not to write this. That it won’t help. That it’ll only make things worse. But today’s been loud and nothing feels right and I guess I just needed to feel like I said something. I miss you. I don’t expect anything back. Just—be well."

You read it three times.

Then once more, slower.

The fluorescent lights above you feel too bright. The hum of the freezer aisle rings in your ears like static.

You type nothing.

You don’t breathe for a while.

Then—your thumb hovers, and you press down.

Delete.

No reply. No trace.

Just the ache of what almost was. What probably never should have been.

Later that night, Irene finds you in the kitchen, wiping down a counter that’s already spotless.

You’re moving slow, almost methodical, like if you just keep your hands busy, your thoughts won’t catch up to you. But they do. They always do.

She doesn’t say anything at first—just watches you for a beat, her arms crossed loosely, face unreadable in the low kitchen light. Then, quietly, she steps closer and rests a warm hand on your back.

“You can talk to me,” she says gently. “You don’t have to hold it all in.”

You nod. A small, jerky movement. But your lips press together, and nothing comes out. You don’t know where to start. You’re not sure if she actually wants to hear it, or if saying it out loud would make it worse.

Maybe it’s enough that you stayed. That you’re here, even if your heart’s still scattered in places it shouldn’t be.

She leans in, wraps both arms around your waist from behind, and presses a soft kiss to your shoulder. Then another, just above your collarbone. You let your head fall slightly forward, closing your eyes.

“Irene,” you whisper. Like it’s an apology. Like it’s a plea.

She turns you around gently, hands on your hips, and looks at you for a long time. Her thumbs brush over the hem of your shirt, and then she leans in and kisses you. Slow, sure. Not desperate—just steady.

Like she’s trying to remind you of something. Something real.

You melt into it.

When she pulls back, her forehead rests against yours. Her voice barely above a breath.

“We’re gonna be okay.”

Your throat tightens. “Are we?”

She nods once. “We are. I love you. I don’t know how to stop. And I don’t want to learn.”

You inhale sharply, the words cracking something in you.

“I don’t deserve you,” you murmur.

“Maybe not,” she says, lips curving just slightly. “But you have me anyway.”

You blink against the sting in your eyes, and she kisses your cheek, your jaw, your mouth again—gentle, grounding. Her hands never leave your sides.

And when you finally press your face into her neck, breathing her in like safety, like forgiveness, she just holds you tighter.

No more questions. No more confessions.

Just the sound of her heartbeat, steady beneath your ear.

Just two people trying to find their way back to something that still might be worth saving.

Alexia’s POV

Six months later

She doesn’t follow you.

She tells herself that’s a boundary she won’t cross. So when you and Irene disappear—first from the training center, then the group chats—Alexia deletes your contact, mutes everything related to Irene, and tells herself it’s for the best.

But it’s impossible not to see. Not when others post. Not when a picture of the two of you pops up in someone’s story, blurry and sunlit and full of quiet happiness. You're wearing sunglasses and a soft smile. Irene’s hand rests low on your back.

Alexia stares for too long.

Then she closes the app and throws her phone across the bed.

Year later

She hears you got married.

A few of the girls go to the wedding. She doesn’t ask for details, but Mapi mentions it offhand one day—something about how beautiful the venue was, how Irene cried during her vows, how happy you looked.

Alexia just nods.

Later that night, she scrolls through tagged posts, breathing slow, controlled. You’re glowing in a simple white dress. Irene’s arm around you. The kind of love that doesn’t look performative—it looks like home.

Alexia sets her phone down, presses her palms to her eyes, and waits for the tightness in her chest to pass.

It doesn't.

Two years later

A baby.

The post doesn’t say much. Just a name, a date, a tiny hand curled around your finger. Irene kissing your temple in the hospital bed. Your smile is tired and real and full.

Alexia sees it by accident—someone reposted it to a fan page.

She doesn’t mean to click on your profile after that. But she does. Just once.

And then once a month.

She watches your family grow in square little glimpses. You in the kitchen with a toddler on your hip. Irene asleep on the couch, baby on her chest. A dog, eventually. A backyard.

All the things Alexia knows she could never give you.

She never double-taps. Never comments. She just watches. From far, far away.

Three years later

The second baby comes.

She finds out the same way—through someone else’s story, a wave of congratulations in the comments. This one looks more like you. Same eyes. Same serious little face.

There’s a video of you and Irene dancing in the living room, the older one clapping along, the newborn asleep in a sling against your chest.

Alexia watches it six times before she turns off her phone.

And cries for the first time in a years.

Four years later

She sees you in Barcelona.

It’s just a flash—she’s walking out of a shoot near the stadium when a familiar voice carries over the crowd.

She turns.

And there you are.

Holding one daughter’s hand. Carrying the other. Laughing at something Irene says as she leans in close, sunglasses on her head, looking exactly like the person who won your heart and kept it.

Alexia stands still.

She doesn’t call your name.

She just watches.

You don’t see her. But Irene does. They hold eye contact across the space. Not long. Just enough. There’s no anger there. No resentment.

Just... knowing.

Irene turns back to you, kisses the top of your head. You laugh again.

Alexia’s heart doesn’t break. It just aches in that quiet way it always has when it comes to you.

She walks away without looking back.

But that night, she posts a photo.

The caption is simple: “Gratitud.”

It’s not for you. Not really.

But a part of her hopes you see it.

Just like she’s always seen you.

Five years later

She’s not even sure why she still checks.

By now, she knows the rhythm of your life almost better than her own. The Monday park visits. The occasional photos from holidays in France or the coast. A birthday cake with lopsided frosting that your kids made. Irene’s arm always close. Your smile always tired, but real.

You glow in stillness. That’s something Alexia never gave you—stillness.

She was always a storm. Even when she didn’t mean to be.

Tonight, she lies on her back in a hotel bed, scrolling without thinking, thumb moving out of habit. She finds a new post. You’re in a bookstore, the older daughter curled against your side as you read aloud from a picture book. Irene took the photo—her name in the caption, a simple heart.

Alexia studies the photo for a long time. The angle is soft. Loving. Comfortable.

She’s not in love with you anymore.

Not in the sharp, consuming way she used to be. But there’s a part of her that still wonders—what if?

Then she closes the app. Locks her phone. Turns toward the window and lets herself fall asleep without dreaming.

Six years later

She wins another trophy.

It feels good. But not overwhelming. Just… right.

Later, after the press, after the champagne and interviews, she opens her phone and there it is—your family at the stadium. Not for her, of course. You’re there to support a friend. Your kids are wearing matching jerseys. One of them holds a homemade sign that says, Vamos Patri!

Alexia isn’t in the picture, but she knows exactly where you stood. She knows the curve of the seats, the angle of the sun. You look up in the photo, sunglasses on, a hand shielding your daughter’s head from the glare.

She thinks about walking over. Just saying hello.

But she doesn't.

Instead, she posts a photo from the locker room. The medal hanging around her neck, sweat still clinging to her skin. Her smile is wide, easy.

The caption is a lyric from a song you once played in the car, on a trip that neither of you ever talked about again:

"Hay amores que viven en silencio."

Seven years later

It’s summer in Barcelona, and the air smells like salt and orange blossoms.

Alexia runs into Irene at a café.

They nod. They smile. They don’t pretend to be friends, but they also don’t ignore the years between them. Irene asks how her recovery is going. Alexia asks how the kids are. She doesn’t say your name, but Irene does.

“She’s good,” Irene says softly. “Still burns the toast. Still forgets her keys.”

Alexia laughs, quietly.

Before they part, Irene says, “She still loves you, in her way. I think she always will.”

Alexia nods. “I know.”

But what she doesn’t say—what she can’t say—is that she loves you too.

Not in the way she used to. Not in the way that ruins or rewrites.

But in the way that lingers.

In the way that lets you go.

[captain-huggy-bear]

I miss your Jack writings so …

Jack and either “you look really good in my shirt” or “have I told you I love you today”

Tried to put both into this to challenge myself! <3 Hope you enjoy this, I know i'm more of a Keller blog these days but I miss Jack and his pretty face. Mature themes in that once again Jack is always horny but this is mostly sweet and fluffy. 1000 Followers Celly Currently ongoing 🥳🎉 (please read the rules) Big requests/full fic/big idea requests are closed at the moment but drabble and prompt requests are still open. Writing Masterlist

You're pottering about in the kitchen, Jack's shirt draped over you, no sweatpants because the nights were getting warmer, and a pair of fuzzy socks on your feet. You're the sort of person who once you're up, you're up for the day and today is no exception. You'd woken up before Jack and been unable to fall back asleep next to him, instead you decided to get up and make some pancakes for breakfast, throwing his discarded shirt on and a pair of socks.

He's not a morning person, but Jack's pretty certain he'd become one if this was the sight that greeted him every morning. You're flipping pancakes, singing under your breath as you slide a little on the spot because of your socks. Your legs are on full display to him, the curve of your ass, the birthmark on the back of your leg that he always tells you looks like a butterfly even thoughts its just a smudge. You look good, delicious, delightful. You look like his entire world.

He's quiet as he sneaks up on you, making you jump when his arms slide around your waist, bare chest against your back, face pressing into your shoulder as his hair flops against your neck tickling your skin.

“You look really good in my shirt...like so fucking good...” His hands slip under his shirt, tracing over your stomach and up until they rest just underneath your breasts...trying to resist the urge cup them when it's morning and you're innocently trying to make pancakes.

"Jack." Your voice is scolding, but you're smile is bright, finding his antics amusing. Jack never fails to make you feel attractive...here you are, bedhead, no make-up, his t-shirt thrown on and still he thinks you look good. It's hard to be in a bad mood when the first words towards you for the day are how hot you are.

"What? You're so fucking hot, angel." He tugs you back against him until your heels lift off the floor for a moment, squeezing you tight like he can't help it. Some sort of early morning cuteness aggression coming over him as he kisses from your cheek down your neck.

"Jack..." You want to hide away, giddy, nervous in a way that only Jack manages to make you. Overwhelmed by his compliments even when you really should be used to them at this point.

“Have I told you I love you today?” He murmurs it into your neck, nose nuzzling against your skin while you try to concentrate on not burning the pancake currently sat in your frying pan.

"It's 6.24am, so no, you haven't." Your laugh is bright, almost shocked out of you as you flip the pancake over and lean into him. There's a feeling of contentment that falls over the two of you, like this is how life should be always.

"Well, I fucking love you, you know that? So lucky to have you, baby."

"Mmm, I think I'm the lucky one." There's a pause, a silence that has your brow furrowing because Jack just isn't quiet. Jack is loud and brash and in your face. You haven't known a moments peace since meeting him.

"You didn't say it." His voice is sad, but not truly sad, more of a false pout, a huffy sort of complaint as he grips you tighter.

"What?"

"I said I love you and you didn't say it back!" He's huffing alright, pouting into your neck. You take the pan off the heat, placing the pancake on a plate before turning in Jack's arms with a laugh. His pout is firmly in place, strands of his hair falling into his blue eyes.

You slide your arms around the back of his neck, smiling up at him in a way that so soft it makes him melt further, his gaze softening until it's like melted butter.

"Jack Hughes, I love you very, very, very much."

The pout dissolves into a familiar cheeky grin, the sort that screams of trouble, but the best sort.

"Mmmm, not sure that's good enough..."

"I love you more than all of the chocolate in the world, I love you so much that I even overlook the fact you wear socks with your sandals sometimes and the fact you leave piles of clothes on the bathroom floor. I love you sooo much that-"

"Okay, okay, I get!" Jack laughs as he cuts you off, cheeks flushing red from being called out on some of his less than positive habits, "I love you more though,"

"Agree to disagree."

[lilangelbud]

Could we get something with a breeding kink with either dad x daughter or big bro x lil sis? Like maybe they think she was made for them specifically?? Hope you’re having a good day!

She sat on the edge of her bed, staring at her reflection in the dusty mirror across the room. Her father had always kept it there, a relic from some forgotten time. She wondered why he never moved it. Maybe he likes to see himself in it, she thought, though the idea made her stomach twist.

She heard his footsteps in the hallway, slow and deliberate, like he was savoring the sound of his own movement. Her heart skipped a beat, and she smoothed her hands over her thighs, trying to calm the rising tension in her chest. When the door creaked open, she didn’t turn around. She just kept staring at the mirror, watching his reflection hover in the doorway.

“You’ve been quiet today,” he said, his voice low and rough, like it was scraping against the edges of his throat.

She shrugged, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her dress. “Just thinking.”

He stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. The sound of the latch clicking into place echoed in the room like a gunshot. He walked over to the bed, his shadow falling over her as he stood behind her. She could feel the heat radiating off his body, the way it always did when he was this close. It was like he had his own frequency, something that buzzed under her skin.

“About what?” he asked, his hand coming to rest on her shoulder. His touch was firm, possessive, like he was reminding her who she belonged to.

She swallowed hard, her eyes flickering up to meet his in the mirror. “About… things.”

He chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that made her toes curl. “You’ve always been bad at lying to me. Out with it.”

She hesitated, her tongue darting out to wet her lips. “I was thinking about… what you said. The other day.”

His fingers tightened on her shoulder, and she felt him lean in closer, his breath warm against the side of her neck. “And what did I say?”

“That I was… made for you.” Her voice was barely a whisper, like she was afraid the words would shatter if she spoke them too loudly.

He hummed, the sound vibrating through her skin. “And what do you think about that?”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she turned her head slightly, catching a glimpse of his face in the mirror. His eyes were dark, intense, like he was already seeing something she couldn’t. It made her feel exposed, like he was peeling her layers back one by one.

“I don’t know,” she finally admitted, her voice trembling. “It’s a lot to think about.”

His hand slid down her arm, his fingers tracing the curve of her elbow before coming to rest on her wrist. He turned it over, his thumb brushing against the delicate skin there. “You don’t have to think about it,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You just have to accept it.”

Her breath hitched, her chest rising and falling as she tried to steady herself. “What do you mean?”

He stepped around the bed, coming to stand in front of her. He crouched down, his hands resting on her knees as he looked up at her. “You were made for me,” he said, his voice firm, like he was stating a fact. “Every part of you. Your body, your mind, your soul… it’s all mine. And I’m going to claim it.”

Her legs trembled, her thighs pressing together as a shiver ran through her. “Claim it?” she echoed, her voice barely audible.

He nodded, his hands sliding up her thighs, pushing the hem of her dress higher. “Yes. Claim it. Make sure you know, deep down, that you’re mine. That you were always meant to be mine.”

Her heart was racing now, her skin tingling where his hands touched her. She could feel the heat pooling between her legs, a familiar ache that made her squirm in her seat. “How… how are you going to do that?” she asked, her voice trembling.

He smirked, his fingers hooking into the waistband of her panties. “By making sure you can’t forget it.”

She gasped as he pulled them down, her body arching off the bed as he tossed them aside. He stood, his hands sliding up her thighs and spreading them apart. She could feel the cool air against her bare skin, the vulnerability making her cheeks burn.

“Look at you,” he said, his voice dripping with admiration. “Perfect. Every inch of you. You were made for me. To carry my seed. To bear my children.”

Her breath caught in her throat, her eyes widening as his words sunk in. “You… you want me to…” she trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.

He nodded, his fingers brushing against her wetness, making her gasp. “Yes. I want to fill you, to make you mine in every way possible. To see you round with my child.”

Her head fell back, a moan slipping past her lips as his fingers teased her clit. “Daddy…”

“That’s right,” he growled, his voice low and possessive. “Say it again.”

“Daddy…” she whimpered, her hips rolling against his hand. “Please…”

He leaned down, his lips brushing against her ear. “Please what? Tell me what you want.”

She hesitated, her body trembling as she tried to find the words. “I want… I want you to… claim me.”

His hand stilled, and she whined at the loss of contact. But then he was standing, his hands pulling her to the edge of the bed. “Then I will,” he said, his voice firm. “But remember, this is what you were made for. This is your purpose.”

She nodded, her heart pounding in her chest as she watched him undress. His body was strong, powerful, every inch of him demanding her attention. When he was finally naked, he stepped between her legs, his cock hard and throbbing against his stomach.

“Look at me,” he commanded, his hands gripping her thighs. “Look at me while I take what’s mine.”

Her eyes locked with his, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps as he lined himself up with her entrance. He pushed in slowly, his cock stretching her in a way that made her cry out. Her nails dug into the sheets, her body arching off the bed as he filled her completely.

“Mine,” he growled, his hips snapping forward as he began to move. “All mine.”

[sunasilhouette]

「a timely bet」 - s.rintarou x f!reader

✧summary:

suna pisses you off during exam season and it was only right for you to get back at him… except it backfires terribly.

or… can suna last a week without sex.

✧wc: 2.2k (part 1) | part 2

✧au: college!au, established relationship, second year!suna, second year!reader,

✧tags: explicit smut, minors dni, bratty!reader, experienced!reader, sadist!suna, dom!suna,

warnings under cut

✧warnings: fingering (f.), teasing, degradation, dirty talk, edging, voyeurism, dubcon, suna is down BAD…

deadline season: undoubtedly the worst time of the academic year. and, just like any other student, you were squinting at that laptop screen hoping the essay would write itself. after spending a little too much time doing ungodly things in bed with suna this morning, you forced yourself to the library.

suna stuck to you like a bug, of course. he behaved for a decent amount of time as he scrolled through his phone, bored out of his mind even with the music playing through his headphones keeping him company.

he rested his cheek on the desk, gaze lingering on the delicate furrow between your brows as you typed away. suna waited for your attention before speaking, his voice low and teasing.

“you know, you’ll get wrinkles if you keep frowning like that, princess,” he said, a smirk playing on his lips as he reached to brush strands of hair behind your ear. his touch was light and gentle, always a stark contrast from his usual annoying, cocky demeanor.

your side-eye turned into an eye roll. “ah, really? didn’t know,” you said, blankly and uninterested, purposefully ignoring him in an attempt to concentrate.

suna let out a quiet chuckle — he really did love when you rolled your eyes at him. but, he knew you well enough by now to recognise your tells. you need a break. plus, he wouldn’t be suna if he didn’t tease you daily. and, he kept his hands to himself for a good couple hours now.

wordlessly, he sat upright, moving his chair close enough for his leg to touch yours and placed one mischievous hand on your thigh. the sudden contact broke your concentration, making you pause. you instantly shot him a warning look but he just grinned back, his pinky skimming just under the edge of your skirt with deliberate intent. “what’s the matter? can’t focus with a little distraction?” he murmured, voice low and husky, laced with amusement.

“we’re in the library…!” you whispered back as a matter of fact-ly, nudging his leg with your own but his hand was persistent.

this time, he leaned in close, lips brushing against your ear as he whispered with a wicked grin, “no one’s here, princess. and besides, it’s nothing we haven’t done before.” suna’s hand inched higher up your thigh. “a little break won’t hurt.”

you could feel your skin flushing at his crude words, almost hating how much you actually liked the way he talked. and, he wasn’t wrong either. that tiny break out room on the 4th floor of the library had probably seen better days. your memory of it was still stupidly vivid.

the way your thighs slightly parted didn’t go unnoticed by suna and he huffs out a quiet chuckle in victory. he gives a playful squeeze to your bare thigh before lifting it over his own leg, spreading your sweet legs further under that desk.

he leans in closer, practically leaning on your shoulder and nuzzling the nape of your neck as his long fingers swirled tiny figures of eight closer and closer to the source of all of his desires and needs. “don’t worry, it’ll be quick,” he murmured, lips ghosting over your skin.

you could feel another wider smirk as he pushed your underwear aside, feeling the wetness already soaked through, spreading it all around your clit and teasing entry with one- no, two fingers. the essay was momentarily forgotten about even with the white word document lighting their faces.

with that, suna’s left hand pushed your cheek towards him, pressing his lips to yours in a gentler, sensual kiss. you were doing well making no noise— until he dove in and curled his fingers just the way you liked. you whimpered against his goddamn grinning lips.

his ministrations were continuous, moving in and out with practised ease. after half a year of hearing you whimper and moan almost nightly, he knew exactly how to touch you and make you whine and writhe. with a little nibble on your bottom lip, he added a third finger, curling at that sweet spot once more, making you gasp as his left hand moved to cup your mouth, silencing you.

“that’s it, princess,” suna whispered, kissing your neck and nibbling the shell of your ear. “gonna cum already?” he asked in that annoying almost patronising tone of his, mentally cursing him out. you bit suna’s palm in revenge, making him flinch but he just pressed down harder on your mouth. closing your eyes, you tried to focus on the mounting pleasure rather on the obscene sound of his fingers and your wetness, praying desperately that no one could hear.

his thumb drew circles around that sensitive nub as your walls began to clench, fast tracking you to the edge of release. and with a final flick of his wrist, he sent you over the edge, your legs shaking as you came with a stifled moan.

fingers still buried inside you, he let you ride out the orgasm before slowly removing them, bringing them to his lips. suna cleaned himself up savouring the salty sweet taste of you before grabbing the tissues in his bag and wiped you clean. “now you can focus,” he mused with a satisfied grin at pleasing his favourite girl.

you huffed and puffed, clutching the edge of the table to ground yourself but, still, that hot feeling remained. god — you needed more. “rin… let’s go to that bathroom.”

the bastard shrugged and leaned back on his chair saying, “sorry, no can do. as much as i’d love to bend you over and fuck your brains out, you’ve got work to submit.” he knew that if he obliged you, that essay was definitely not getting finished. so, for your sake, he wasn’t planning on touching you until that deadline was finished. what a great boyfriend.

the deadly expression you gave him made him pause and lean over to plant a kiss on your cheek, a hand coming up to pat your hair gently. “don’t worry, I’ll make it up to you later,” he promised, slotting his headphones back on to scroll through his phone.

giving him a once over, you realised his refusal was serious. and, you were beyond pissed off. fine. if he was going to play like this, then you were going to make suna’s finals week literal hell. you deadline warrior your essay, furiously typing in some kind of frustrated, horny-induced rage all to reach that word count and one final fuck before his exam week.

you submitted your essay, making sure suna heard the thud of your laptop. the look you gave him was more than obvious and the two of you drove back to your apartment. suna keeps his promise of ‘making it up to you’—more than a few times. but, the damage was already done and you already had a devious plan in the making. you were planning on depriving him of absolutely everything.

.

.

.

the next morning, suna leaves early to go back to his place after making a quick breakfast for you and dipping. that was all fine for you since his finals week officially started today. thinking about it, how much did you actually know about rin apart from the obvious. you didn’t even know what he majored in. sure, he plays for the volleyball team but you didn’t strike suna to be the type to major in sports science… well, either way, you had a chill day in celebration for finishing your final deadline.

it was peaceful until none other than suna came knocking on your door later that night after training. opening the door with a hand on your hip, you greeted him with a raised brow. “isn’t it deadline and exam week?”

he grinned as he always did whenever he sees that teasing expression on your face. suna leaned against the door frame, sharp eyes roaming your figure up and down. “‘s fine i did most of it today,” he replied with a shrug. “and, I’m not too worried about exams. besides, I need to see your pretty face once a day else I keel over and die.” he stepped forward in his dramaticized description of his fake condition, wrapping his big hands around your waist and pulling you in. “how was your day?” he asked as he leaned in for a kiss.

you let him pull you closer as the door shut behind him. unluckily for suna, you pulled back, and placed a finger on his lips, dodging his kiss. with a pleased grin, you replied, “delightfully peaceful, actually. especially since I didn’t have to babysit a clingy fox all day.”

suna’s eyes sparkled with amusement, chuckling at your review of your day. “I’m not clingy. I just know what I want,” he protested playfully. he leaned in to try and kiss you again but you leaned further back, finger still stopping his advance.

this time, he raised a brow in question almost looking like a fox denied treats, “depriving me of kisses now? what did I do to deserve that, hm?”

your fake sympathetic pout curled up into a mischievous grin, “actually, I think you deserve a lot of things but kisses aren’t any of them.” you tapped rin’s nose, turning around to walk away but suna caught your wrist, a playful glint in his eyes as he pulled you back to wrap his arms around you from behind.

”now you’ve got me curious,” he murmured into your ear, “what do I deserve then?” he nuzzled your neck, inhaling the sweet scent of your hair. “don’t keep me waiting too long,” he added with a chuckle.

“you deserve an unbothered exam week where you focus on your studies~,” you pinched the skin at his wrist, making him let go. “so, no sex from me until you finish your last exam - just like you did to me,” you sat down comfortably on the couch, crossing your legs in victory.

suna’s eyes widened at your declaration and looked with a mixture of amusement and disbelief. “no sex,” he repeated. “for the whole week? that sounds like an attack on my human rights.” the fox sat down next to you on the couch, leaning back against the armrest and crossing his arms over his chest.

with a raise of your brow at his drama, you finished with, “if you can’t handle it then I guess you’ll just have to give up your ‘human rights’ for a day of my choosing. and, by that I mean listening to any and all requests - no questions asked.”

suna raised a brow and pondered for a moment, cupping his chin before smirking, “a day of being yours to use doesn’t sound all that bad.” he leaned in closer, lowering his voice and cupping her cheek to face him, “but, just so we’re clear,” he murmured, “if I can resist temptation before my final exam, then you’ll have to put up with my commands for a day. deal?” he jokingly held out his hand for you to shake, the same sly smile on his lips.

you glanced down at his open palm and then back up to his grayish eyes, moving your hand to meet his. instead of shaking his hand, your fingers slid up the palm of his hand, up his arm, tracing his veins, teasing him all the way up until you cupped his face. “don’t you wanna lay down some ground rules before you agree to a losing bet?”

a familiar heat built in his groin as suna shuddered at the feel of your hands on his skin. he closed his eyes briefly, savoring the sensation before opening them again to meet your gaze. “ground rules? this bet’s pretty simple.” suna reached up to take your hand from his face, bringing it to his lips and peppering kisses on each finger before releasing them. “but, if you want to add some, then I’m all ears.”

“so…. I can do whatever I want?” you trace down his chest this time, feeling the toned mounds and ridges of his torso. suna’s breath hitches as you just barely teased your fingers from moving under his shirt. “I won’t bother you too much when you’re studying, since… let’s be honest, you probably won’t be able to resist at all,” you taunted, fully confident you had suna wrapped around your finger.

he watched your movements intently, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "whatever you want?" he repeated. "that could be dangerous territory for me,” suna leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur. "but it wouldn't hurt to indulge you a little. you’ll be surprised by the amount of self restraint I actually have, princess.”

he ran his hands up your sides, tracing over the curves of your hips and waist. suna’s fingers found their way under the hem of your shirt, brushing against bare skin as he leaned in close to whisper into your ear, “but, feel free to try.”

you let out a chuckle, “you talk big for a man who can’t keep his hands off me.” leaning in, you planted the tiniest peck on his cheek as you moved to straddle his lap, already feeling that familiar tent in his joggers. “alright then, since you’re indulging me, my lips are off limits too. deal?”

suna let in a sharp inhale, feeling the heat between your thighs and the pressure of your weight against him, “no kissing?” he repeated with a smirk. “you’ve just made things harder for me.” he presses a kiss just below your earlobe before pulling back slightly, “deal.”

a/n: next part… a few snippets of the days of the bet and who actually ends up winning. sorry this didn’t have that much smut - the next part will have all of it. thnx for ur patience !!

part 1 (you are here) | part 2

[ang3lmoans]

Angel watched him. Really watched him. There was something magnetic about the way Garam moved—how his confidence ebbed and flowed in this subtle, calculated way. He was always playing with the space between them, flirting on a wire stretched tight above a place neither of them had named yet. And Angel had to admit, he liked it. Loved it, even. The way Garam was testing him, trying to see how far he could push without pushing him away. The shift in Garam's expression when Angel didn’t move closer after unbuttoning the shirt hadn’t gone unnoticed. He saw the flicker of uncertainty, and for a moment, it made Angel wonder if he had misplayed his hand. He was never one to jump headfirst into anything physical without reading the room—reading the person—but maybe, just maybe, Garam was reading him just as carefully. Every look, every pause, every breath between them had its own weight. And now, Angel felt it settle in his chest like gravity. “I don't want you to be gentle with me." It was a quiet statement, but it didn’t need volume to hit its mark. Angel’s throat tightened, his breath catching as the words soaked into him. That? That wasn’t just flirting. That was surrender. That was trust. Angel almost allowed his other head to take the lead. Out of fear of going too far, he held back. He didn’t interrupt. He let the moment bloom as Garam turned away, peeled the shirt from his shoulders with a casual grace that felt anything but casual, and hung it up with delicate care. Watching the bare stretch of his back, the movement of lean muscle under his skin, Angel felt the slow burn inside him flare. Dammit, Garam is so beautiful he thought to himself. When Garam picked up the sweater, that wide neckline draped loosely in his hands, Angel let his gaze wander—unapologetic, deliberate. He was still close enough to see the blush rise across Garam’s cheekbones, delicate but telling."Are you sure I’d look good in something like this?" Angel’s eyes met Garam’s in the mirror, and he smiled—small, but soft in a way that only crept out when he really meant it.“Yeah,” he said, stepping forward slowly, his voice warm, low. “I wouldn’t have picked it if I didn’t think so.” He reached up from behind, his hands not quite touching Garam, but hovering—one beside his waist, the other close to the fabric resting on his chest as if asking permission in silence. “You underestimate how easy it is to want you, Garam. With or without the skin.” That last line was a whisper, just for him. His eyes flicked down to the sweater, then back up to the reflection of Garam’s face. The insecurity there was so different from the confident tease a moment ago, but Angel didn’t mock it—didn’t try to fix it either. He held it. These were trials they would need to work past to make this work. Both unsure of how far to push, worrying about each other. Then, Garam dropped the line about buttons. Angel laughed—soft, breathy, but with an edge of tension in it. “Dangerous again,” he murmured, lips curling against the shell of Garam’s ear without touching. “You say things like that, I might start thinking you want me to undress you” Angel placed a playful bite against his ear keeping their eye contact through the mirror. Then he whispered directly into his ear, “It’s taking everything in me not to bend you over in front of this mirror. Watch your face change as I make my baby cum…Or you could try on the sweater.” Then Angel straightened, giving Garam the space to either put on the sweater or turn around and change the conversation entirely. But his voice followed, quieter now, more honest than playful, “You don’t have to wear it if it makes you uncomfortable,” he added. “But if you’re asking me if I think you’d look good in it—yeah. I think you’d look fucking incredible.” And this time, he didn’t dare look away.

he found himself confused once again but, this time, it was on whether or not angel actually understood he was trying to stoke their fire. garam was a very willing player in this dangerous game. every shifted expression, every word he said, every movement he made was intentional. there was still a bit of hesitation, not wanting to push either to rush into something they weren't ready for but with how their morning played out, he truly didn't think he was rushing into anything. if angel wasn't interested, he would have made his boundaries clear. garam looked down to the unbuttoned shirt now draping his shoulders, brows twitching for a moment only to relax as he looked back up to angel. his expression shifted again, though, like he was asking if that was all angel was going to do. the fact that angel hadn't done anything beyond the unbuttoning of his shirt made garam question himself and what he was doing. was he pushing for more too quickly? were angel's words a warning to slow down? or was he simply reading too deep into something that wasn't even there to begin with? for all he knew, angel's reasoning could've been that somebody was aware of their being there and he didn't want that man to overhear and realize they were doing something they should not have been doing. but of course he knew better than to voice any of these concerns right now, fearing they'd only spark some sort of argument between the two of them. he still felt bad about showing his jealousy earlier with the pretzel worker checking angel out. "i don't want you to be gentle with me." at least not right now. he kept his voice low, nodding his head before turning away. he let his own shirt slide down his arms with a slight shimmy of his shoulders, using another spare hook off to the side to hang it up. garam reached over to grab the sweater angel picked out for him, his cheeks flushing a soft pink as he'd noted, once again, just how wide the neckline was. "are you sure i'd look good in something like this?" he asked, holding it up to his frame, his attention moving from his own body to look at angel through the mirror. of course he liked wearing clothes that were larger on him, specifically if they were clothes belonging to other people in his life, but they never showed as much of his body as this piece would. "it's just so much skin," his voice lowered again, as if he felt too self-conscious to believe he could pull something this revealing off. his eyes returned to his reflection in the mirror, head tilting to the side, deciding to press a little further and see how angel would react. "it'll be easier to remove, that's for sure. no pesky buttons."

[the-raindeer-king]

content warning: canon typical violence, injury, brief mention of reader's childhood, reader's callsign is Duckie. Enjoy my lovelies!

--- Simon Riley x Reader---

Things had gone sideways, as they tended to in Ghost's life. So fucking sideways, as the task force currently hunkered down in a shed, rain pounding outside. He fiddled with his gloves, as Price chewed out Gaz. Soap and you were huddled together in the opposite corner, quietly plotting something together. You let out a quiet laugh, slapping Soap's shoulder.

With a small smile, you left Soap, shuffling across the shack to wedge yourself into Ghost's side.

"What are you doing, Duckie?" He huffed, as you tapped your fingers against his hand.

"It's cold, and MacTavish said you're a furnace," you teased, glancing over at Soap, who was not discreetly taking pictures. The two of you made faces at each other for a moment, before you leaned back against Ghost.

"You know Morse code?" He asked, and the tapping stopped.

"Yeah, sorry. When Dad had outbursts, my brother and I would communicate through Morse code," you explained. 

"Never mentioned siblings."

You shrugged, picking at a loose string on your gloves. "No one asked. Figured we just didn't talk about our pasts, an unspoken rule."

"Bullshit. Soap talks about his mum all the time."

And you laughed, nodding. Ghost would kill to hear it for the rest of forever. If he could bottle it, to ride that high whenever he needed, he would. But life didn't grant him those luxuries. This high was short lived, as she began tapping again.

"Not much to tell," you sighed. "Asshole Dad. Mum wasn't around. I practically raised him." 

"Bet he's proud of ya."

You glanced up at him, frowning. Did he misinterpret your message? Or was he just being kind? Either way, your chance to ask vanished, as Price gathered their attention.

"I think I've got a decent enough plan," he sighed.

***

Well, if things had gone sideways earlier, then shit had officially hit the fan, as they hunkered down from enemy fire, Soap rigging something.

"Soap!" You shouted over the comms.

"Ten seconds," he snapped back.

"Now Soap!" Price snapped.

The next ten seconds happened slowly. You and Gaz covered Soap, as he launched the bomb. Your sharp inhale was the last thing over comms, before the building collapsed under the explosion, enemy fire ceasing. Ghost and Price stepped out from their cover, heading towards the rubble, until Soap shouted, "We need a medic!"

Both looked towards him, both letting out an expletive. You were leaning against Soap, hands pressed against your side, blood seeping out anyway. Turning pale, you joked, "Hope it wasn't important." And then you slumped over, nearly falling, if Soap hadn't caught you.

***

You woke up in the hospital, hushed voices outside. Your vision blurred for a moment, before the ceiling came into focus, the faint buzzing of lights following.Groaning softly, you sat up in the bed, ignoring the pain in your side. The world spun for a long moment, and you closed your eyes, hand against your head.

Blinking slowly, you took in your surroundings. Nothing noticeable special about the room, just a standard hospital room. If anything, the voices outside were much more important, but you couldn't make out what they were saying. With a soft sigh, you laid back down. Maybe you’d have your full bearings by the time someone stepped inside.

The door opened, closed with a soft click, and someone sighed. You sat up again, to find Ghost, staring down at you. You stare at each other for a moment, before Ghost breaks the silence.

"You're awake."

"Seems so."

And then he was gone, rushing out to get a nurse, the rest of the team lingering outside as you spoke to a doctor.

"You got lucky," he explained, flipping through your charts. "The bullet got lodged amongst your ribs, and missed anything important. Unfortunately, it did break three of your ribs. We've already removed the bullet,  but there is a chance for scar tissue. As for your ribs…" 

You drowned him out, thankful to be alive. Luckily, he was done quickly, especially under the gaze of Ghost. He informed you that you’d be staying for a few more days, to ensure nothing went wrong, before scrambling out of the room. The 141 quickly took his place inside it.

"Don't be giving Price any more heart attacks," Gaz teased, earning a slap upside the head. 

You laughed, wincing slightly from the pain that shoots through your side. "I don't plan on it." But you were smiling at them, glad everyone made it back safely. "Was… was someone yelling on our way back?" you asked, frowning. You really didn't remember much, but there were bits and pieces during your brief moments of consciousness on the way back.

Soap and Gaz glanced at Ghost, who remained silent. Price stepped forward, laying a hand on the bed. "There was a lot going on. Don't worry about it," he replied. He glanced at his watch, letting out a low whistle. "We have to go."

The other made quick goodbyes, glad you were okay. Ghost lingered in the door for a moment. He sighed, before whispering, voice hoarse with emotion, "Need anything?"

 "Maybe some company," you teased, smiling despite the situation. "Oh! And some chocolate! Preferably dark."

"Copy." And then he was gone.

By the time he returned, Soap in tow, one of the medics, a nice lady named Alice, was chatting with you.  "I don't know how you put up with them all the time! Garrick can be absolutely insufferable sometimes!" She laughed, waving her hand in the air.

"They're not bad all the time," you replied, smiling softly. You fiddled with the blanket, before softly adding, "They're good men."

Alice huffed, shaking her head. "Insufferable."

Ghost knocked on the door, altering them to the company. Alice's cheeks turned pink, and Soap pushed past Ghost , into the room, announcing, "We bought treats!" He was like a golden retriever, the way he bounded to the bed, eager to win over your affection.

Alice took this as an opportunity to leave, only pausing to whisper to Ghost , "Keep an eye on them, please?"

He just nodded, and she was gone, waving over her shoulder that Garrick wanted to have dinner together. Ghost turned back into the room, stepping inside so the door would close. The other two had already opened several bags of candy, goofing around as they played with it. Ghost huffed, adoration in his eyes as he watched them.

The time passed fairly quickly between the three of them, conversation flowing easily. Until Soap announced he had to leave, had some work to get done before the day was over. And then it was just Ghost and you. 

"So," he looked down at her with a sly smile, never one to miss an opportunity to tease you, "Johnny says you got a crush on someone."

"Oh, it's nothing," you laughed, waving a hand in the air. "Besides, he'll never like me back."

"Oh? Well, then he's a bloody blighter," Ghost stated, crossing his arms.

"Hey, don't talk about yourself like that." It was out before you could stop yourself. Before you could realize what those words confessed.

They stared at each other for a moment, tension palpable. Heat rose to your cheeks, and you opened your mouth to apologize, to take the words back and beg for forgiveness. But the words never made it. Not when Ghost perched himself on the edge of the bed, tugging his mask down to press his mouth to yours. His hands cradled your face, thumb rubbing against your cheek as he pulled away. 

"Oh."

He laughed, a soft rumble through the room. And this time, you were the one wishing you could bottle the sound up.

[sillyteecup]

Nowhere But You

Terry Richmond x black!o.c

Warnings:

18+

Swearing/Cursing

Smut

Oral (female receiving)

The greed they talk about in the Bible😔

Word count: 4463🧍🏾‍♀️

A.N: I'm not a monster so here's a little band-aid for "Requiem For My Lover". Anyway, if you've read any of my stuff then you know that I don't write fluff. Because I don't really know how to. So I don't know if this counts as fluffy, but I'm giving Mila a break. Now, what I lack in the sweetness department, I try to make up for with filth. So sit back, relax, and enjoy some Milaverse shenanigans where there are only 3 constants: Mila, Terry, and smut.

~Tee❤️

-SoMiLa/Ring Finger.

T.R

One would think that being a Grammy award-winning artist and having a painter for a husband would make Mila some sort of a visual art connoisseur; or at least mean she at least understood it. But neither were true. In her 29 years of life, Mila had been to many an art gallery. Be it on a date or for her sister’s friend’s exhibitions, she never truly grasped the concepts of any of the works she had laid eyes on. Other than being pretty artworks, they sparked nothing but confusion in her regardless of how long she stared or how many artists and coordinators explained.

Until she met Terry. Suddenly the art began to make sense, invoking all kinds of different thoughts and feelings. And maybe it was vanity, but an artwork that centered her was the only kind that could capture and hold her attention hostage.

Although she was a household name in the music industry for her entrancing voice and soul clutching lyrics, she was shrouded in mystery. Her fans and the public had been grasping for straws for anything personal regarding the enigma that was SoMiLa. All they had to speculate over was the music and the rare interviews. Terry was no different. Critics, peers and fans alike would jest about how they could count on their fingers how many times he had made public appearances. The number would come to dwindle when he and Mila moved in together, both prioritizing a quiet and private life together over their public images. Even though they had been spotted out together a few times over the last 7 years, fans couldn’t tell if they were together or just close friends. This sparked a years-long movement of fans analyzing the rather cryptic lyrics in her love songs and his paintings that centered the same black woman who always somehow resembled Mila. The pair remained silent, not confirming or denying anything. Not out of secrecy either; they just had no desire to entertain the public.

Then came the release of her latest album, "I Rich(MoNd)". With the added bonus of the famous "T.R" signature across the originally hand-painted cover art. But the real icing on the cake? The final track being titled “T.R/Ring Finger.” The public was sent into a frenzy, but the couple paid them no mind, continuing with their lives in private while everyone fretted over the long awaited confirmation of their relationship.

“Don’t tell me you named it after-” Mila gasped as she marveled at her man’s latest creation.

“Our song? You’re my muse, I’m yours. It only felt right,” Terry said from beside her.

Terry’s newest exhibition, “RiChMoNd,” consisted of personal works that symbolized his adoration for and marriage to Mila. Thus none of the works were for sale. They were however available for public viewing at his Johannesburg museum, “Heart of Richmond.” The museum housed many artworks. Some were favorites from his mother’s collection, others were the very few that Mila remotely got and liked, and the rest were works by Terry that he refused to sell. The exhibition also served as the opening of the latest addition to the gallery, also titled. “I Rich(MoNd)”. A passion project he had been working on since he had proposed 4 years ago.

Despite standing in an entire gallery of works devoted to her and their love, the image of the semi-faceless black woman intrigued her. Aside from the boho locs, the subject’s resemblance to Mila hid in the more intricate details. From the tiny mole above the deep-thought induced dimple, to the scars that painted memories of her childhood over the cocoa skin of her arms and the single raised thigh that was visible. Glimpses of her personality appeared as the pens sticking out of her locs, the lit J tucked between her full two-toned lips and the way the white sheet draped over only a fraction of her body. Laid up in an unorganized space full stationary and opened CDs, tinted by the red hue of the sun was the exact reflection of Mila’s writing process. Complete with the song that not only perfectly encapsulates the way her husband inspired her, but also won her 5 new Grammys.

While Terry was a man of very few words, his hands always found ways to say the most endearing and intimate things for him. Their families joked about how stoic and quiet he was for an artist, but Mila knew better. Terry’s love language was only understood Mila, a canvas, and every crevice of the house he had fucked her into.

“You’ve done it again. It’s amazing. All of it is perfect,” Mila said appreciatively. 

His breath lightly brushed her skin as he leaned into her. “Not as perfect as the woman that inspired it all,” he whispered between light kisses behind her ear.

It didn’t take much for Mila to have Terry bricked like the third little pig’s house. He had been absolutely taken from the very moment he had laid eyes on her and only grew to fall in love with her and everything about her. All she had to do was open her mouth to breathe and Terry would be on his knees before her. The way she looked at the moment didn’t do his self-control any favors either. As much as he didn’t care for what the media thought of him or their relationship, he still wasn’t one to get caught up in a scandal. But damn, the way the exposed parts of her soft, mocha skin in that backless wine-colored satin gown invited him, silently goaded him into throwing all rational thought away. If the cost wasn’t a possible snapshot of him making love to his gorgeous wife in the middle of an exhibit modeled after his love for her, he probably would have ripped that dress off right there and then.

Cameras clicked behind them, reminding them that they weren’t in the safe bubble of their home where they were just Terry and Mila Richmond. Now they were SoMiLa and Terrence Richmond, music’s prodigal son and the new age Basuiat. The public’s favorite unicorns making one of those prized rare appearances before disappearing back into whatever hidden mythical realm for who knows how long. Although conscious of the attention, Terry kept his nose buried in the skin of her neck and his hands planted firmly on her waist. As far as he was concerned, their love had never been a secret: everyone had just either been too blind or dumb to see it. Not that he cared either way. 

“Fuck baby, I need you,” he rasped needy in her ear. 

Although her own arousal had begun to make itself known and was begging Terry to just drag her out of the building so he could turn her every which way all over their Bryanston home, Mila understood that he still had some work to do. And if the boner digging into her lower back wasn’t enough of an indicator, Terry’s erotic declaration was definitely a sign that she had to be the smart one. Otherwise his agent, Sandra, would have both their heads for weeks to come. Neither of them feared the cut-throat agent, they just didn’t have the energy to have her yelling down their throats for a week.

“And you can have me T, but first you have to find Sandra and then get through this opening night,” Mila replied, biting back a moan at the unrelenting kisses on her sweet spot.

His grip tightened around the satin covering his wife’s waist as he let out a disgruntled grunt. “Man fuck Sandra and all these people. Let’s get out of here so I can taste you. Make you feel good, hmm?” he hummed against her now goosebump riddled skin, a natural green light from her body that contradicted her words.

“How about you make me feel even better by keeping me by your side while we make tonight a success? Then I'll let you taste every single part of me all you want, loverboy,” Mila said, objecting to her own deep desire for the man that threatened to consume her whole.

“Promise?” Terry asked, moving his affectionate attack to the other side of her neck.

Mila raised her pinkie for Terry to interlock with his. “Pinkie promise.”

Terry texted Sandra to open the doors and have everyone gathered in the center immediately. He wanted this over with, and he wanted to do it quickly. He had a wine colored bowl of a chocolate dessert waiting on him. The kind that had a creamy center and melted on your tongue. And Terry was never one to deprive himself of his favorite treats, let alone the one next to him. 

As the guests poured in, Mila helped Terry straighten out, smoothing his jacket and wiping his glasses. She placed them back on his face, gracing him with a proud and grateful smile. Despite his lips barely moving an inch, the corners of his eyes crinkled as if he were grinning. Such little expression covering so much emotion. Emotion only Mila could read, like her own secret diary. 

Still, it was a miracle that this man could paint because he was terrible at expression of any other form (that wasn't affection for Mila). 

Having become accustomed to large crowds, Mila had grown indifferent to all the eager eyes focused on her and Terry. They stood in the center of the gallery, hand in hand, as they waited for everyone to settle down. Right behind them stood Sandra who was nursing a glass of champagne to ease the nerves and whispering animatedly with her best friend, and Mila’s manager, Sid. The couple’s mothers and teams chattered excitedly among themselves about the direction of the night.

“Good evening everybody. My name is Terrence Richmond and I wanna welcome you all to the grand opening to the latest, and dearest to my heart, vessel in the Heart of Richmond, a passion project that I’ve put my all into because a tribute to my literal heartbeat and our love deserves nothing less: “I Rich(MoNd)”,” he announced, garnering loud applause from the crowd.

He waited for the clapping to subside before continuing. “I would like thank each and everyone of you for taking time out of your busy lives to celebrate with me this ode to the love of my life, Somila Richmond.” Another round of applause sounded through the room as Mila stepped into the imaginary spotlight that was the audience’s admiration and his loving gaze. She shone them a grateful smile before stepping back to place short but yet desire filled kiss on Terry’s lips. The low growl that rumbled in the depths of his chest had her fighting the urge to deepen their kiss and have him show the room just how much he loved her. But she was the rational one, so she pulled away, but not before sneaking a light swipe of her tongue over his lip. The only reaction she had dragged out of him was a sharp inhale and his nails once again digging into her waist. She retook her place beside him while he finished his relatively short intro speech. 

He implored everybody to enjoy their evening, watching the crowd disperse into the gallery. Almost immediately the press swarmed in with their cameras, beckoning the power couple’s attention for a photo op for their websites, blogs and magazines. Terry had banned microphones from the opening, stating he would only be giving interviews starting the following week. This decision was influenced by Mila during his meeting with Sandra a month ago at their Phuket home. Her reason was that Terry would be too tired from planning and setting the gallery up, and her man’s health was a top priority. The public would wait till he was at least somewhat well rested and that was that.

“Abagqibi na aba? It’s been 10 minutes and I, personally, get tired of smiling,” Mila hissed through what was slowly becoming a strained sneer.

“Imagine how tired I am,” Terry gritted through his teeth, cracking Mila’s sneer back into a genuine grin as she bit back a chuckle.

One of her favorite things about doing press with Terry was his absolute disdain for smiling and how much of a grouch it made him during photo ops. If she was lucky, he’d start cussing like a sailor any second now.

“Alright, that’s enough!” Sandra called out, earning disappointed groans and protests from the disgruntled photographers.

“That’s a lot of complaining from people that haven’t been kicked out. You guys getting ungrateful with me now?” she demanded as she stood before them with her hands placed on her hips and an expectant glare. That seemed to silence them as they also ventured into different parts of the gallery.

Terry and Mila both instinctively relaxed as the cameras disappeared into the crowd. Terry flexed his jaw while Mila stretched her neck. Terry’s hands came to the rescue, gently grabbing and twisting at Mila’s chin and cranium till a tiny crack signaled a job well done. Mila mouthed a grateful thank you right as Terry placed gentle kisses on her cheek and forehead. Sandra approached the pair, smirking as they gathered themselves. 

“Where would you two be without me?” Sandra asked sarcastically, making Terry roll his eyes.

“Scary Terry over here would probably be in jail for massacring a gaggle of photographers because they dared to ask him to show some tooth,” Mila quipped, earning chuckles from their managers. Terry just scoffed as he absentmindedly rubbed circles on her shoulder.

“Like you weren’t complaining,” he deadpanned, his unamused glare making Mila giggle like a schoolgirl.

“You’re so cute when you’re grumpy,” Mila gushed with a playful elbow to his side.

The corner of Terry’s lip twitched into a smirk. “I’m even cuter when I’m eating you out till you cry.”

Sandra’s features scrunched up in disgust before strutted away, muttering something about finding Sid and the champagne. A flustered Mila on the other hand, smacked his bicep, only earning a wider smirk as a reaction from Terry. “Kanene wena woyikwa zintloni,” Mila sighed with a click of her tongue. 

Terry took her wrist into his hand, gently pulling her into him. His palms cupped her face, angling her upwards to meet him for yet another soft kiss. Only this time her lips felt like they were being claimed as his by his. His hands had taken refuge back on her waist, keeping her body flush against his to make her feel his growing arousal. Thank God for the long wrap-around coat his stylist, Tori, had picked out for him. Although the matching slacks were a little loose around that region, Mila doubted they would have fared well on their own. With a gentle tug of her lip, he pulled back, leaving Mila in a semi-lustful haze.

“Let's get out of here. I'm not asking this time,” his tone, although barely above a whisper, left no room for argument. Luckily for the two of them, Mila had none left in her. Especially when he had stolen her breath and common sense a mere moment ago. 

She nodded, offering a breathless “yeah” as he led her out of the building, not bothering with any formalities. Either way, his job for the night was done. He'd just text Sandra to handle the rest of the night. 

With Mila in front, and Terry trailing right behind her like a bear-sized pup, they quickly paced to the car. He hurriedly opened the passenger door to their Rolls Royce, ushering her in and making sure she was safe inside before making his way to the driver's side and starting the car. 

One hand gripping the steering wheel with purpose and the other firmly perched on Mila's thigh. Halfway through the trip, Terry had begun to regret his insistence that they drive there and back themselves. He stupidly ignored the possibility of wanting to turn his wife inside out on the way back. Now he had to give all of his attention to the road while ignoring the temptful gaze piercing threatening to veil his judgement. He was only able to spare her the occasional squeeze of her leg, resulting in a subtle clench, a light gasp, or her fingers brushing against his knuckles. 

The usual 29 minute drive was cut to 19 as Terry basically drifted into their driveway like he was Dominic Toretto. He wasted no time, moving like a man on a mission from the driver's seat to retrieve Mila from the passenger side. A quick shuffle and a fumble with the keys later, they were in their living room, locked in a tangled frenzy of wandering hands and spells against each other's lips. 

“Where?” he breathed against her. 

“Anywhere. Fuck, right here,” she moaned into him. 

He hoisted her by the backs of her thighs, placing her gently on the suade couch. He knelt before her and slid the scarlet So Kates off her French-pedicured feet, placing soft kisses up her ankle to her calf. Repeating on the next foot, his heavy lidded gaze found her needy one. 

Her chest gently rose and fell under the top of that dress. That dress that took him three steps back from God whenever he laid eyes on her that night. Her deep cherry lined lips were agape as she welcomed the last few regulated breaths for the night. All these shades of red, like the blood pumping through his veins, into his hardened cock, goading him into fulfilling every sinful thought that had crossed his mind since they had left the house. 

“Sandra…you need to-” 

“She's a grown woman, she'll be fine. I need to attend to more pressing matters,” he interrupted, as he pushed her dress up to her hips and guided her legs open to reveal the thin lace material covering the aforementioned matters. 

Red. The thong was red. 

“But T, the gallery-your work-” Mila breathlessly protested, earning a sharp smack to the back of her thigh. 

“It can wait. My princess’s pleasure on the other hand can't, and if she can't understand that then I'm going to have to gag her for the night,” Terry stated. 

“Do you want me to gag you princess? Do you want to deprive me of hearing that beautiful song of you coming undone? Are you trying to punish me Mama?” he asked, tone dripping of lustful sincerity. 

Mila's head shook frantically as she reached for the hands clamped around her calves. “No baby, I want you to hear me. Need you to touch me, please.”

Terry's head tilted to the side, feigning confusion at her request. “But I am touching you sweetheart. Is there something I'm doing wrong?” he was taunting her into specificity, and he knew she wasn't far gone enough to understand that. 

“Fuck, Terry just touch my pussy please!” she breathed out, beginning to lose her patience for his games. He had insisted they leave early so he could make her feel good. Now was the time, and teasing just simply wouldn't do. 

At her command, Terry’s fingers hooked beneath the thin waist straps of her racy underwear. Instinctively, Mila lifted her hips slightly for him to pull the only thing in the way of him feasting on her, down her legs. He tossed the thong over his shoulder as though it were a nuisance, not caring where it landed. Mila’s hand reached behind his buzzed head, angling him to meet her in a careless gathering of lips dancing against one another. 

Her tongue slid into his mouth, occasionally brushing against his own in a claim of dominance. He groaned into the kiss, the sharp tips of her acrylics grazing his nape and pushing him into a delirium that only grew his hunger for her. Like a psychic. her teeth sunk into the plump flesh of his bottom lip, daring him to consume her as she had just done to him.

The sense of duty his military father raised him with, overtook him as he reluctantly pulled away from the soft, cherry flavoured appetizer. Like a panther in the night, his bright irises zeroed in on his meal as he grabbed her legs and reeled her in for her reckoning. Mila’s shaky gasps and growing whimpers hit his ears like music. Melodies he controlled with the varied pressures of his thumbs on her clit. With every stroke and light brush, her pussy leaked with a call for Terry to devour her whole. 

His index and ring fingers joined the fleet, greedily plunging into her entrance.The curve of his digits against her walls rewarded him with a lewd cry for more, and who was Terry if not a dutiful husband. Daring to tear his gaze from his treat, the sight of Mila’s needy state cracked the stained glass window that was his self-control. Her hooded eyes burning with wanton, her cherry stained lips trembling, and the rest of her features idle from the pleasure only nurtured the unholy lust scorching him from the inside out.

“I’m the luckiest nigga on earth, no doubt about it. You’re so fucking perfect Mama,” the curl of her lips paired with the light giggle his words elicited drove Terry’s fingers even deeper into the valley of her sex. 

“Teeerryyyy!” her honeycombed voice, accompanied by the squelch of Terry working her pussy like a fiddle, cried as her head flew further into the back of their couch.

Between watching her unravel on his fingers and watching said fingers take a swim in the frothy center that awaited his taste buds, Terry was beginning to grow impatient.The fragile glass of his window was falling apart as her desperate song for more backed by the raw instrumental of her pussy being prepared just for him, dealt devastating blows. But with the way she screwed herself around his digits as her walls clenched, the light at the end of the tunnel appeared. She would cum soon, and then he would feast on her as if he were a death row inmate and she was his last meal.

“Terry I-”

“I know Mama, just let go. Let me handle the rest. Let me take care of you,” he coaxed as her juices thickened and whitened into the creamy delight that consumed his more sinful thoughts. Her eyes clenched shut, prompting a sharp smack to her thigh. “Come on Princess, I need you to look at me. Need to see those beautiful eyes process what I’m giving to you,” he cooe’d. 

And there they were; beautiful brown eyes spiraling through mindless pleasure while Terry’s words and fingers carried her through to the other side of the bridge he had built her by hand. The bridge called “mind-scrambling pleasure”. The end of it being Terry’s insatiable hunger for his Princess. The center of his being. His wife. Somila Richmond.

Feeling her come down, Terry slowly retracted each finger individually, savouring the labored gasps and strained whimpers he drew out of her. Each finger was immediately cleaned off by Terry’s tongue. A satisfied groan vibrated in his throat, eyes closing as he enjoyed his little taste test. The thought of how close he was to tasting the real thing sent a rush to his head and his dick. This woman had no idea how much of a crack fiend she had turned him into.

“Y’know Mama, if it were up to me, I wouldn’t need trivial shit like food, water or even air. You’d be all I need to survive-no. You’d be all I need to live,” his words of praise were punctuated by kisses of worship against the soft skin of her inner thighs.

“I love you…so fucking much T,” Mila declared breathlessly, making Terry’s heart flutter.

His loving gaze, carrying a predatory undertone, connected with her love-drunk one. His heaven on earth sat before him. The only woman to ever have him on his knees; not sexually, but in full submission of his heart, mind and soul. Everything he did was for her, and the moments like these? With her lost in pleasure he had hand delivered to her (although sometimes out of greed) professing her love to him? These were the moments that made life feel worth it. Because what would his be if it weren’t the one he built with her?

“I love you too Mama. More than you could ever comprehend.”

Having said his grace, Terry pressed his forearm to her hips, pinning them to the velvet seat cushions without breaking eye contact. One thing he just couldn’t have interrupting his meal, was uncontrollable squirming. His knowledge of Mila’s body was extensive enough for him to anticipate and plan for such…inconveniences.

He watched her watch him have a few quick laps at the mess he had created. The remains of her previous orgasm were always the first focus. In tandem, the thumb on his free hand began to massage her clit, coaxing her pussy to increase his supply. 

His tongue dipped into her sex, scooping through anything it could taste. The once smooth, lewd sounds sliding from her lips became indecisive erratic cries. As the tip of his tongue swirled through her entrance, the pressure of his thumb increased, as if opening a faucet. Uncontrolled grunts vibrated against her entrance as her essence kissed his taste buds and flowed down his goatee while her body writhed and shook from unbridled pleasure.  

Terry wasn’t even in the business of overstimulation, he just had a tendency of feasting on her like a madman. The way his tongue would rearrange her mind just by pressing deeper into her pussy always blossomed a few seeds of pride in his chest. His lips had begun to glisten, matching Mila’s now glowing skin from the sweat she was working up. 

He momentarily swapped his tongue and thumb, the coarse, flat pressure on Mila’s nub sending ripples through her body while his thumb worked her back to where he needed her to be. Flat pressure turned to light flicks, and Mila turned to mush as another orgasm tore through her with a guttural moan. 

More creamy froth coated Terry’s thumb, telling him to switch back. The onslaught continued as Terry relished the taste of Mila’s undoing while Mila dissolved into a body of incoherent whimpers. Like the glutton she had turned him into, he went for thirds, then fourths, cleaning her out of every orgasm he could claw onto. But alas, his jaw could only take so much, and his tongue could only flex for so long. 

Finally releasing her, Terry got off his knees and stood at full height, only then being reminded of the raging boner he had developed back at the museum. Unfortunately his greed had delivered him his comeuppance rather soon. Mila was a twitching mess of nothing but pleasure and vibes on the couch. The bun her locs was in had come undone, leaving them in a sprawled high ponytail. A clear sheen covered her face and the dark brown skin glowing iridescent under their dim orange light. The lip liner had faded but the cherry lip gloss remained, keeping her plump lips soft and smooth. 

Still absolutely perfect. 

“Fuck, I did too much didn’t I Princess?” he chuckled hoarsely, earning nothing but a mere incoherent mumble in response.

If Terry were a lesser man, he would take more than necessary. He would take the monster prowling in his slacks and fuck her till she didn’t even know who he was. But he wasn’t. He was a man of honour. One that at least accepted consequence when met with it. So he gently scooped her into his arms and carried her bridal style into their ensuite bathroom.

He would just use the hand that was complicit in his gluttony to get himself off. A small price to pay really.

[softtdaisy]

to be held / Aaron Hotchner

summary. you have an anxiety attack and all you need is the arms of your bodyguard

words count. 2 590 

what to expect. mention of anxiety, reader has an anxiety attack and these two are stupid in love

a/n. is this becoming my favorite series? maybe but i'm so obsessed i want to write more of these two so please if you have any idea you can request it 🤍

bodyguard masterlist | criminal minds masterlist | F1 masterlist | general masterlist | request

Time: 1:23 am.

Number of rolling over in the bed: around 30.

It was one of those nights. One where your anxiety was getting the upper hand on your sanity. 

The last couple of days haven’t been the easiest either. Maybe this explained why your heart kept beating faster and your breath kept getting stuck in your throat. 

Your stalker has sent you new pictures. At first, you didn’t even pay attention to them. You received them through a new email address. Since neither Hotch nor his team saw the threat, you didn’t open the message immediately, letting it sleep in your mailbox the whole day.

You had dinner with Hotch that evening. It didn’t happen as much as you wished; that man had a lot of work and often ate in his room, on his computer. Sometimes you would call a friend to give you company, sometimes you would write or compose a song, and some nights you would just stay by yourself, enjoying the silence.

But that night, Hotch stayed with you. You told him some memories from your last tour, and he listened. This was a consistent pattern of communication. You talked, and he listened. You offered to invite him to your next concert. And you ignored the heartache you got when he answered, “Sure, I’ll come.”

Having no idea when you would be able to go on tour again.

Knowing that the day you could, Hotch wouldn’t be by your side anymore.

Scared that when he would leave this place, he would leave your life too.

And so after dinner, he was smoking on your balcony, checking on his phone. You remembered laughing at your dirty thought that you wished he could use his experienced finger on you instead of his cigarette. The last moment of peace you got before finally reading your mail.

“Hope you bought the red one, love,” it said. Linked with pictures of you trying on dresses earlier that week for an event. Most of the pictures were blurry, but there were some distinctive elements. Like your naked shoulder. Or Hotch’s presence in the corner. That was the scariest part for you. Even your bodyguard couldn’t have prevented it.

The rest of the night was just…blurry. You screamed and didn’t see Hotch run back inside. Suddenly you felt his arm around you, holding you against his chest, while his other arm straightened, with his gun in front of him. Even when he realized there was no threat inside and took your phone from your hand, he didn’t let you go.

“I’m here,” he repeated multiple times in your ear. You remember, he whispered. Because his voice never sounded so soft, even with a directive tone. With your eyes closed, you could picture his voice. Imagining a whole painting from it.

It helped you fall asleep that night while he spent the next hours working on your case with his team.

It helped you fall asleep the following nights when you could still see the pictures clearly in your head anytime you closed your eyes.

But tonight, it didn’t help you.

And maybe it was because you knew Hotch wasn’t there.

It didn’t happen much, less than once a week. But some days, he would leave and not come back until hours later or the following day.

“I know you’re going to your other wife,” you told him one day in a very dramatic tone. You always made fun of him for leaving early in the morning, almost like a cheater who was indeed trying to escape discreetly. 

“What can I say?” he replied, with a shrug. “The kids are waiting for me.” He couldn’t contain his smile when you looked at him with big eyes and your mouth open, too surprised Aaron Hotchner had joked with you.

Oh, how you would do everything to hear him laugh right now.

You didn’t realize how bad your anxiety was—or actually you knew but tried to pretend it wasn’t that bad—until you went to grab your phone and noticed your hand shaking. You quickly lit up the room, hoping it would help. But it got worse when it felt like the whole room was moving and your vision was getting blurry.

And the only thought in your mind was that you needed Hotch right now.

You didn’t know how you managed to, but you got up and walked to your living room. Your legs felt so weak that you kept a hand on the wall like it could save you from falling. You weren’t convinced about the efficacy of this, but it worked. 

“Sorry?” you said in a low voice. So low that you barely heard yourself. But Alvez, the agent there for the night, did. You could see the confusion in his eyes and the worry when he saw your condition. You lost all the color in your face and looked like you were close to breaking down. You were. “Do you know when Aaron is coming back?”

“Hotch isn’t supposed to come until the morning. Why?”

A heartache. A big one. Almost like a knife hammered right in your heart. 

“Nothing. I… I just needed… You know what? Never mind.”

Suddenly going back to your bed felt impossible. You opened the door to your room again but glided against the wall until you sat on the floor. Soon, the tears were running down your face, and your sobbings seemed so loud you didn’t hear the agent behind the door calling Hotch.

“I don’t know, she's asking for you. She doesn’t look great. No, she went back to her room.”

The ride was thirty minutes. Hotch did it in twenty.

Usually, coming back to your place was light. Not that he could forget about the case and why he was there in the first place. And if he was asked, he would deny it. But it almost felt like coming home.

But tonight, all Hotch could feel was the heaviness of the situation. Alvez was quick to tell him you hadn’t moved from your room, and he respected the instruction that nobody should enter your bedroom without your permission. You deserved intimacy, and only an emergency allowed them to open your door. 

This one was a particular situation. Hotch was the only one who could feel the emergency of the situation. 

After he put his hand on your door handle, it took him a second to open it. Your case wasn’t scaring him, even if that bastard was driving him insane. But the idea of you breaking down was awful to him. He took a big breath before finally stepping into the so-dark room. 

Hotch didn’t see you at first. You were nowhere to be seen. Not on your bed, where he expected you to be at 2 am. Not by the window, where you loved to stand when your thoughts were getting too loud.

“Hello, beautiful.”

He looked down and saw you, still standing on the floor, your back against the wall. Hotch was soon on his knees in front of you, a hand on your knee and the other on your face. He moved it slowly, looking for any sign of…well, whatever could tell him what happened while he wasn’t there. And he found it, somehow, with the stains of your tears on your cheeks. 

You followed as his eyes were scanning every millimeter of your face. You almost found it funny how you flirted with him non-stop since he started working for you, but it took an anxiety attack to get him to look at you like that.

After a moment, Hotch’s eyes landed on yours. “Do you want to tell me what happened?” he asked in a deep but calm voice. That man was bossy. You heard him giving orders to members of his team like it was the most natural thing to do. Making you wonder if he was talking like that to everybody. Everybody but you.

The sudden realization that he wasn’t asking to know; he was asking if you wanted to share it with him made you sob again. You made that man drive around the city in the middle of the night because you were anxious about his absence, and still, he wasn’t waiting for an explanation if you weren’t ready to give him one.

You needed Hotch to be safe.

But you needed Aaron to feel safe. 

The words left your mouth before you got the time to think about them. “I needed you,” you whispered in another cry.

You could have easily missed the subtle way his head moved because of your blurry vision. You could have missed the brief smile on his lips—you needed him. But you couldn’t have missed the way his arms moved slowly. Not to hold you, no. To carry you. One arm under your knee, the other on your back. “And I’m here,” he replied, still looking at you right in the eyes. Making sure his words made their way to your brain. To your heart. 

It wasn’t until he lifted you up and you could cuddle your face in the crook of his neck that you noticed his look: his messy hair, the dark circles under his glossy and tired eyes, and the little salt-and-pepper beard that he didn’t shave this morning. It was past 2 am, and he hadn't slept since last night. If you asked him, he would say it was his job, and he had no complaints to make about that. 

You still felt guilty.

“I’m sorry.”

You thought Aaron didn’t hear you. Or he pretended not to; you weren’t so sure. The darkness in the room hid the tense in his jaw when he actually heard you. 

He kept walking, from the wall to your bed, without saying a single word. He still hadn’t said anything when he laid you on the bed in the softest way. And still nothing when he sat next to you and brought his fingers to your forehead to put away the wet hair stuck on your skin.

“I don’t ever want you to be sorry for needing me.” It was almost mesmerizing how he could easily look you in the eyes all the time. “Is it clear?” That was Aaron Hotchner in all his splendor, commanding in all situations.

You simply nodded at first. Too stunned to reply anything at that man clearly asking you to need him whenever you felt like it. Too stunned by the beauty of this same man simply illuminated by the reflection of the moon afar. Too stunned by the feeling of his finger still on your face, tracing an invisible line from your forehead to your jaw. 

The last one was a necessity for Hotch. To see that his absence didn’t break you.

“I know this isn’t procedure, but…” You closed your eyes, almost ashamed of your proposition. The truth was, you thought about it a lot. The whole time alone in bed, remembering that Hotch wasn’t in the room next to yours. You told yourself that if he was there, you would have reached for him. But now that he was right next to you, his elbow next to your chest, so close you could feel the heat of his body on yours, it was harder. Harder to ask. Harder to assume. “Do you think you could stay with me? Tonight?”

Hotch stayed silent again. You could have meant so many things.

Staying around, at your apartment, and not leaving again. Even though it would have been unlikely for him to leave again after coming back.

Staying in your room, simply around to make sure you would sleep well and nothing would happen to you. 

But he knew. From the insecurity in your voice when you asked him that. You were never insecure, certainly not with him. But this time it was a question of flirting or playing around with a desire you both had for each other. 

It was about feeling safe in someone else's arms. Something you couldn’t experience anymore.

You felt his hand on your face again, and his thumb brushing your temple softly. “One minute,” he whispered. You didn’t open your eyes but felt his body leaving your bed. Making it lighter, sure, but emptier, mostly. You heard the door closing and nothing else.

You didn’t hear Hotch talk to the other agent. “Go home, I’ll stay here.” 

The benefit of being the boss was that he had no explanation to give. Not that Hotch would have been ashamed to say he would be staying in your room—something you asked for. His job was to take care of you and do what you needed to be in security.

Was it all professional, though?

When he came back to your room, you were still lying with your eyes closed. He leaned against the door, his arms crossed against his chest. That had been a hell of a night, working on a case he hated and then getting the phone call that you needed him. He imagined so many terrible scenarios. So awful that seeing you peacefully lying on your bed healed something in him he didn’t even know was bruised.

“I can feel you, Aaron Hotchner.” 

A laugh escaped his lips. “You need to sleep now,” he said, walking back to your bed. He sat against the headboard, his legs resting above your quilt. Instinctively, you turned around, your head resting against his thigh.

This was the closest you’ve ever been to Aaron, except for the moment when he put his arm around you to protect you or when you held his arm at some event. This was something different. This was intimate.

“I’m scared.” You mumbled, your voice muffled against his jeans’ material. 

Hotch brought his hand to your back, making his fingers travel all over it slowly and softly, giving you goosebumps. “Of what?” 

“Everything.” You moved your head a little, just enough so you could open your eyes and look at him. You weren’t surprised that his look was already on your face. “Of my stalker, sure. I feel like this isn’t going to end, and it’s driving me insane.”

You were met by silence. Because he knew there was more than this. 

“And at the same time, I’m scared of the day you’ll leave me.” 

Hotch’s hand stopped moving; it was fully open against your back. You didn’t know if he was the one who pushed you softly or if you moved closer to him by yourself, but soon you were cuddling harder against your bodyguard. So close you heard the breath he let go at the thought of leaving you. 

You imagined many different answers from him when the thought first came to you. That this was his job—classic. That it was meant to happen—logical. That it would mean you were safe again—reassuring. 

But he said something else. 

“We shouldn’t think about it right now.” When his hand moved again to the top of your back, his fingers slipped under your collar to caress your neck.

Not just you. We. 

The idea of losing you was something that was haunting Hotch too. 

It didn’t take you long to fall asleep with him by your side. While he stayed awake watching you and wondering

How was he going to go on with his life the day this case would be over and he would have to say goodbye to the woman that woke up feelings he had shut down years ago?

Tag List: @kiwriteswords@monzabee@raysmayhem-72 (if you want to be in it, ask me and I’ll be happy to add you x)

[seitmai]

Many thoughts

You’d heard about him. Your model friends had stories about how smooth he was, the size of his dick, and how he ghosted right after getting what he wanted. Classic. But you got it. On a cellular level. Because you weren’t looking for entanglements either. You just wanted the D.

She knows what she wants and he fits exactly that🤷🏻‍♀️

Too curated. Profiles with perfectly lit selfies, vague aspirations, and bios that tried too hard to sound both deep and detached.  He didn’t swipe often. But the truth was, Ari Levinson was lonely. Not in the sad, broken kind of way, more like he was perpetually surrounded by beautiful people who only admired his collection, complimented his taste, but never asked why he kept certain pieces or why he stared too long at sculptures that looked like loss.

Honestly would love to talk about how Ari's curating process

His encounter the other night with the newlywed Rogers made him yearn for that kind of fire, that kind of connection. But he didn’t know if that could be duplicated.

👀

He choked on his espresso. It was hilarious. And too perfect. He should’ve ignored it. Should’ve played it cool. Instead, he typed back faster than he ever had in his life.

That's a reaction I would love for any message lol

And it was the word intrigued, not “interested,” not “curious.” And he’d said, “Can’t wait to see you.” That got you. Because that meant he was already a little undone.

Devil's in the details 😌

The man was massive. Pictures didn’t do him justice and you didn’t know of the button up was tailored, all you knew is you felt the power beneath it. You also had to stop yourself from turning your head sideways to check out the package in his jeans.

Fair 🤷🏻‍♀️

“Oh. A big girl drink.” You laughed. He kind of loved it already. “Well, as you can see, I’m a big girl.” Ari’s eyes slid down your body and you weren’t mad as he did a double take at your jeans. “I see. And I like.”

Period 😌

You laughed and tilted your head. Something happened in Ari’s chest. He should have run.

Oh 👀

“I was trying to decide,” he murmured, as he took a drink, eyes locked on yours, “if I wanted to fuck you at your place or mine.” You blinked, just once, but your smile widened. “Oh, we’re skipping pretense, then?” you questioned. “Good. I hate when men waste my time. When was the last time you were tested?"

Yeah, why waste time?

“You’re starting to sound like someone who catches feelings.” “Feelings?” he echoed with a grin. “No, I just like being around wild, beautiful creatures. And I enjoy the ones that bite back even more.” You leaned in closer to him. “You think I’m wild. And you think I bite?” “I hope you are. And I hope you do.”

Their banter and chemistry is already off the charts😮‍💨

You put your hand on his thigh at that moment, moving it up to feel his thickening cock. You were excited at the potential there.

Great potential if you ask me 😌

You were straddling him on your couch when Ari realized he was in trouble. He should’ve known the second you walked into the bar, hips swaying and those curves...damn. But here, now, with your thighs around him and your body pressed so close he couldn’t tell where he ended and you began, he was so gone.

Whelp too late I guess 🤭🤷🏻‍♀️

“Fuck. You’re unreal,” he murmured. And you just smirked, leaned in, whispering, “I know.”

👏🏻👏🏻👏🏻

Oh he 100% already is

“You gonna fall in love with me, Ari?” you teased against his mouth. “I think I already am,” he said, before he could stop himself. He'd slept with beautiful women. Charming women. Women who made love like it were their last day on earth. But you? You were different.

“Take off the rest of your clothes,” he commanded and you scrambled to comply, removing your top and your bra and watching him undress at the same time. You almost groaned at the sight of his cock. You hadn’t always been a cock hungry slut, but you were a little obsessed. Ari was big and long, not the longest you’d had, but definitely the thickest. It was beautiful: veiny and flushed, with a large swollen head that leaked precum down his shaft. You knew it was going to be amazing when he stretched you out. Then you noticed his balls. They looked full and heavy. You couldn’t help but lick your lips as you imagined how much cum he’d have for you. Ari smirked down at your wide eyes on him as he pushed your shoulders until you were lying on your back.

🤤🤤🤤

He licked those red lips and if you had a heart you would have been in trouble. You’d never been this wet with anyone before. You just shook your head no, not trusting yourself to answer, lest you have him thinking, correctly, that he was the shit.

Whoops they are trouble for each other 🤭

“Do you have any condoms?” Oh no. Did you? You couldn’t think because of the pre-orgasmic haze you were in. Ari licked his finger and then brought it down to caress your clit while he waited for your answer. That didn’t help the clarity of your thinking.

That sure makes clear thinking hard

Thank god. You were about to beg him to ride you bareback if he hadn’t found any. He sheathed himself and then moved back into his previous position.

Pew, close call 🤭

“Tell you what, if you beg me to fill your pussy with cum, I’ll fuck you so hard your head spins. Deal?” “Um…” you couldn’t form your thoughts to beg, or to realize that there would be no cum filling because of the condom. “Why don’t you think about it and let me know,” Ari said casually as if he were talking to a customer browsing his gallery

Sounds like a deal 🤷🏻‍♀️

Every time you pulled your nipples, you felt a corresponding pull between your legs. And then there was the way he was looking at what you were doing, eyes half lidded and mouth open as you touched yourself. Fuck that was so erotic.

That really is so erotic 😮‍💨

Jesus fuck, it was like he didn’t really want you to be able to talk. Catching a moment of clarity, you rushed it out.

👀🤭

He went to the bathroom and disposed of the condom and then returned and pulled you up the bed to make you his little spoon. You reveled in the smell of sweat and sex, almost getting high on the scent. You laughed softly like you couldn’t believe what just happened. But he knew. He knew exactly what happened. He was ruined.

🥰🥰🥰

“Don’t worry, Muse. I’ll get out of your hair soon. Just catching my breath.” “... the fuck is Muse?...” you questioned on your way to sleep, the rhythm of his fingers on your thighs the nails in your coffin of sleep. “You are. You’re my Muse.” You didn’t quite feel the kiss on your forehead. But you smiled.

This sure is not gonna be just a one night stand lol

“You can go, you know.” That got his attention. He lifted his head, messy hair falling over his eyes, beard pressed with pillow lines. He looked like sex personified.

Because he probably is 🤭

“Damn. No coffee? No kiss on the cheek? Not even a fake number on a Post-it?” “Wasn’t trying to. Just… didn’t think you’d be in such a rush to forget me.” “I’m not,” you lied, tying your hair up with a scarf, trying to be as unattractive as possible. 

He probably can't ieven if he wanted to 🤭👀

He studied you for a long moment, then stretched like a cat, unapologetically naked and smug.

What a sight to be seen🤤

“If this is your way of making sure I don’t catch feelings... it might be too late.”

 “You always kick people out like this? Or am I just special?” You sighed. He wasn't making it easy. He was too comfortable in your space. Too charming. Too in your face.

Oh he definitely is special

🫣🫣🫣

Muse: One

Muse Preview/Masterlist

Summary: You and Ari meet on Raya. Chaos ensues.

Pairing: Art Curator! Ari Levinson x Plus sized model! Reader

Word count: 4.5 K

A/N: Muse will be a series of one shots featuring Muse and Ari, and this one will probably be the longest one. We’re gonna hear from them at least every week. 😏 Big thanks to @princessphilly who basically inspired the premise and then endured me being feral in her inbox. And yes, this is the same Ari that's in Show Off, so this AU is tangential to the Peach and Knock You Down verses. I was honestly working on another fic and this one possessed me. Here I go again. 🤷🏽‍♀️

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. SMUT! Read at your own risk; curate your own experience. Ari Levinson: art collector/curator/ fuckboi, Reader: model/ player, dating app life, drinking, casual sex, Dominant Ari, assertive reader, sex almost straight out the gate, size kink (c &b), breeding kink, but protected sex, pussy/clit slapping, praise and degradation, one night stand with zero feelings caught (lies!)

I don’t have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post!

I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

--------

You weren’t even supposed to be on Raya that night.

You’d just finished a long shoot in a downtown loft where the air was thick with hairspray, and the photographer kept yelling absurdities like: “Give me strong, but soft! Like a powerful whisper!” 

Your feet ached. Your back screamed. The only thing keeping you sane was the cold cabernet sauvignon sweating in your hand.

You weren’t looking for anything. You just wanted to see some pretty faces and feel like a hot girl with options.

Swipe.

Swipe.

No.

No.

Hell no.

Well damn. Ari Levinson.

You’d heard about him. Your model friends had stories about how smooth he was, the size of his dick, and how he ghosted right after getting what he wanted. Classic.

But you got it. On a cellular level. Because you weren’t looking for entanglements either.

You just wanted the D.

His first photo was black and white, him standing in a sunlit Parisian gallery, framed by massive abstract canvases. His hair was tousled like he either just woken up from a nap on a vintage couch or spent the morning negotiating a private sale.

He wasn’t looking at the camera, of course not.

He was looking at the art. 

Ari also looked like art, smart blue eyes and soft lips partially hidden by a beard that you thought would feel good between your thighs. You could tell that he was tall, broad shouldered, and built to last. He was dressed casually, and that’s how you knew he was rich rich.

He didn’t have to show it off.

His bio was enigmatic:

“Chasing beauty, collecting moments. Sometimes it’s oil on canvas. Sometimes it’s the silence between two songs.”

What the fuck does that even mean?

You read it twice.

You meant to swipe left.

But fate, or the wine, intervened.

It’s a Match.

You stared at it for a minute, then typed before you could change your mind.

“Picasso said 'art is a lie that makes us realize truth.” You buying lies or selling them?” Drinks?

He responded within seconds.

He suggested a bar in SoHo with intimate booths, dim lighting, and top tier mixology. 

You almost said no. You didn’t do dates. 

You did vibes, connections, and the occasional night of excellent chaos. 

But something about his response made you curious.

—--

Raya was never really Ari’s scene.

Too curated. Profiles with perfectly lit selfies, vague aspirations, and bios that tried too hard to sound both deep and detached. 

He didn’t swipe often.

But the truth was, Ari Levinson was lonely.

Not in the sad, broken kind of way, more like he was perpetually surrounded by beautiful people who only admired his collection, complimented his taste, but never asked why he kept certain pieces or why he stared too long at sculptures that looked like loss.

His encounter the other night with the newlywed Rogers made him yearn for that kind of fire, that kind of connection. But he didn’t know if that could be duplicated.

Ari was just about to close the app when your profile popped up. 

He recognized you right away. 

Not because you were just beautiful, you definitely were, but because you commanded the image. There was a magnetism in the way you moved, a joy and defiance that didn’t care for permission.

On your profile was a picture of you in oversized sunglasses and a silk robe, holding a book. And another one of you at some red-carpet event, plus-sized and absolutely radiant, laughing like you were amused at the world. 

You were absolutely stunning.

Your bio:

Model. Curvy chaos. Not here for a long time, just a good time.

Ari smiled. Finally, someone not performing a softcore version of forever.

You weren’t like the others, not looking to be wifed up with someone rich and powerful like him. That made you dangerous.

He swiped right instinctively, just to see. Just to admire. 

He didn’t expect a match.

But when the screen lit up, It’s a Match!, his chest actually tightened. 

And then came your message.

You look like you curate galleries by day and cry to phoebe bridgers by night. Drinks?

He choked on his espresso.

It was hilarious.

And too perfect.

He should’ve ignored it. Should’ve played it cool.

Instead, he typed back faster than he ever had in his life.

“I’m intrigued. 8PM. Little Branch in SoHo. Can’t wait to see you.”

Short, sharp, and confident, not overplaying his hand. 

And it was the word intrigued, not “interested,” not “curious.” And he’d said, “Can’t wait to see you.” 

That got you. Because that meant he was already a little undone.

—---

Ari was already there when you walked in. Black button-up, gold chain, leaning on the bar casually, but you could tell he saw you the second you stepped through the door. He stood, smiled, and you rocked back on your heels as if hit by a bolt of lightning. 

The man was massive. Pictures didn’t do him justice and you didn’t know of the button up was tailored, all you knew is you felt the power beneath it. You also had to stop yourself from turning your head sideways to check out the package in his jeans.

You paused, steadying yourself, and continued your approach..

“Wow,” he said when you approached and introduced yourself. 

You laughed, because no matter how many people ogled you for a living, the involuntary kind of compliments always made you flustered. You swallowed, then turned to the barback.

“Negroni. Empress Gin.”

Ari raised an eyebrow, impressed.

“Oh. A big girl drink.”

You laughed. He kind of loved it already.

“Well, as you can see, I’m a big girl.”

Ari’s eyes slid down your body and you weren’t mad as he did a double take at your jeans. 

“I see. And I like.”

The way he licked his lips made you warm. You raised your eyebrow, imagining him munching away.

“My booth is back here.”

You looked at his large hand pointing the way to the back of the small bar to an even more intimate area. Yeah. You could ride that. 

You walked ahead of him and you knew that he was watching your ass. You didn't mind. That was the point.

His booth was tucked into a corner, shadowed and intimate; it was the kind of space designed for secrets and seduction. You slid in first, and he followed, sitting close.

He signaled for another round, fingers grazing yours on the drink menu as if by accident, and when the server left, he turned back to you with that beautiful smile.

“So. Model, huh?” 

You smiled back at him.

“That’s the rumor. Print and editorial mostly. A few campaigns. But I prefer runways in Europe over the states. I travel a lot.”

“Sounds exhausting.”

You shrugged. 

“Sometimes. But I like bringing the fantasy to life.” 

You took a sip of your drink and his eyes were on your mouth.

“And you? Art dealer, right? Collector?”

“Curator,” he corrected gently. “Sometimes broker. Sometimes buyer. Mostly, I help people spend obscene amounts of money on things they don’t understand.”

You raised an eyebrow. 

“So a charming con artist with a gallery?”

He grinned. 

“Exactly. But I only sell what I believe in.”

“Nice. I sell unattainability and the occasional skincare product. We both deal in illusions.”

“Yours just have better lighting.”

You laughed and tilted your head. Something happened in Ari’s chest. He should have run.

“So, what, you sit around all day judging brushstrokes and seducing heiresses?”

“Mostly. And trying not to text back women I shouldn’t.”

“Am I one of them?”

“Too soon to tell. But you’re a strong contender.”

You let that linger in the air for a second.

“So,” you said slowly, setting your drink down with a clink, “is this where you try and charm the pants off me?”

“I was trying to decide,” he murmured, as he took a drink, eyes locked on yours, “if I wanted to fuck you at your place or mine.”

You blinked, just once, but your smile widened.

“Oh, we’re skipping pretense, then?” you questioned. “Good. I hate when men waste my time. When was the last time you were tested?"

Ari raised his brow. You cut right to the chase.

"I get tested once a quarter, last time was two weeks ago. Clean."

"Hmmmm. I tested a month ago. And I'm clean too. But I'm gonna still need you to wear protection."

Ari smiled and lowered his eyes. His hand moved slightly under the table to rest near your thigh, but not quite touching you. A tease.

"Of course. Something tells me you don’t let anything, or anyone through,” he replied.

You studied him, wondering if you were reading worship and destruction into his look or if it was actually there.

“You’re starting to sound like someone who catches feelings.”

“Feelings?” he echoed with a grin. “No, I just like being around wild, beautiful creatures. And I enjoy the ones that bite back even more.”

You leaned in closer to him. 

“You think I’m wild. And you think I bite?” 

“I hope you are. And I hope you do.”

Your leg brushed his under the table. His eyes flicked down, then back up to your face, darker now.

“I have the same hopes for you, Mr. Levinson.”

Ari’s jaw flexed, nostrils flaring. 

“I think we’re going to get along just fine.”

His fingers moved to your thigh and traced a slow line up your crotch beneath the table. 

You leaned in closer.

“You still sure about just one night?” he asked, eyes on your lips again.

You put your hand on his thigh at that moment, moving it up to feel his thickening cock. You were excited at the potential there.

“One night. That’s the deal. I don’t do second acts. So you better make it count.”

Ari grinned and your stomach flipped.

“Well, then. I need to make it unforgettable.”

—----

You were straddling him on your couch when Ari realized he was in trouble.

He should’ve known the second you walked into the bar, hips swaying and those curves...damn. But here, now, with your thighs around him and your body pressed so close he couldn’t tell where he ended and you began, he was so gone.

Ari wasn’t the type to rush. 

He was all about artful restraint and being aloof. But you shattered that. 

You kissed like you knew just how to destroy him with your lips, teeth, and tongue. Ari hadn’t experienced the feeling since he was a teenager, but damn, he was throbbing underneath you.

And when you unbuttoned his shirt, fingers dragging over his chest, rubbing his nipples under your palms, he swore under his breath.

“Fuck. You’re unreal,” he murmured.

And you just smirked, leaned in, whispering, “I know.”

God, the way you moved. Every roll of your hips was a tease, every drag of your nails down his skin was a stripe he wanted to earn. He gripped your jean-clad thighs thighs hard enough to ground himself, because he was floating somewhere between desperation and awe.

You rode him slowly at first. You wanted him to feel all of it, every breath, every tremor. And he did. 

Your pussy was buzzing with anticipation and you were impatient, but you wanted to savor this one.

You arched as his hips rolled up between your legs, anchoring your hands on his broad shoulders as he branded the shape of himself between your legs. And when he did it again, you moaned and tried to create your own rhythm, but he held you in place.

Ari had to stop you because he only had one shot tonight and he wasn’t going to throw it away and let you cum in your pants. When your orgasm hit, it would be with the slick walls of your pussy clamped around his cock.

So you did the only thing you could, which was to grind down harder on him, causing him to let out a shaky breath, finally moving you against him to get some friction.

"Fuck... let me feel you, darlin'."

Ari made a new rhythm, one he managed with his eyes locked on yours, hands roaming from your waist to your back, then tangled in your hair as you leaned in and bit his bottom lip, making him groan.

“You gonna fall in love with me, Ari?” you teased against his mouth.

“I think I already am,” he said, before he could stop himself.

You didn’t answer, thinking it was part of the game. You just smiled, leaned back, hands on his chest, and started moving faster, driving him out of his mind. 

Every sound you made wrapped around his ribs and squeezed. He didn’t know what felt better, the pressure building low in his stomach, or the way you moaned his name like it tasted sweet in your mouth. The feel of your wet, hot pussy through your jeans was just a bonus.

He'd slept with beautiful women. Charming women. Women who made love like it were their last day on earth. 

But you? You were different.

And the way you looked, curls akimbo, lips parted, eyes locked on his like you were seeing to the bottom of him, that image seared into him. 

He stood, picking you up effortlessly, grabbing you under your ass.

“I’m assuming that your bed is up here?”

You just nodded, breathless at his power as he carried you up the stairs to the loft where your king sized bed was.

He reached the top and dropped you on the bed. You bounced a little as he reached for you and unbuttoned your jeans, dragging them down your legs along with your panties.

Shit, he wasn’t wasting any time.

He stopped and proceeded to strip off his own clothes.

“Take off the rest of your clothes,” he commanded and you scrambled to comply, removing your top and your bra and watching him undress at the same time. You almost groaned at the sight of his cock.

You hadn’t always been a cock hungry slut, but you were a little obsessed. Ari was big and long, not the longest you’d had, but definitely the thickest. It was beautiful: veiny and flushed, with a large swollen head that leaked precum down his shaft. You knew it was going to be amazing when he stretched you out.

Then you noticed his balls. They looked full and heavy. You couldn’t help but lick your lips as you imagined how much cum he’d have for you. Ari smirked down at your wide eyes on him as he pushed your shoulders until you were lying on your back.

He hooked your thighs with his hands and dragged you until your ass was at the edge of the bed and you squealed with surprise as he lifted your feet up to his shoulders. This was quite the change from your usual three positions with your one night stands: missionary, cowgirl, or doggy style.

When he rubbed the his thick tip along your soaked slit, you closed your eyes and moaned. He tapped the entrance to your pussy with his cock, holding your hip to ensure that you didn't make him slip inside you.

Yeah. Ari wasn’t like other guys.

You felt the weight of him as he dragged his cock through your slippery, swollen pussy, smearing your slick all over him and you looked down, mesmerized by the sight. This was going to be good.

Ari looked down angrily.

"Fucking soaked for me," those blue eyes snapped up to yours, freezing you in place. "You always this wet?"

He licked those red lips and if you had a heart you would have been in trouble. You’d never been this wet with anyone before. You just shook your head no, not trusting yourself to answer, lest you have him thinking, correctly, that he was the shit.

But he read you anyway. That smile was both beautiful and annoying.

"For me? You shouldn't have... might get me addicted."

You scowled at him, but then you bit your lip as he started to draw circles on your clit with his penis. You were dickmatized again, eyes riveted to the spot as you moaned.

He tapped his cock against your clit to get your attention.

“Look at me.”

You looked at him through your lashes.

“Do you have any condoms?”

Oh no. Did you? You couldn’t think because of the pre-orgasmic haze you were in. Ari licked his finger and then brought it down to caress your clit while he waited for your answer.

That didn’t help the clarity of your thinking.

“Ch-check the top drawer.”

You gestured toward your nightstand, hoping it was the right direction. 

He left you, opened legged and bereft as he went on his mission, and you breathed a sigh of relief when he said, “Found them.”

Thank god. You were about to beg him to ride you bareback if he hadn’t found any. He sheathed himself and then moved back into his previous position.

He rubbed himself over your slit again, and you moaned.

“Right about here, between these beautiful thick thighs, wouldn’t you agree?”

He was driving you crazy. Your cunt was humming on a five at the bar, but he had ramped her up to an 11. You’d never been this desperate for a cock before.

“Just fuck me, please!”

He chuckled and lined the head of his cock against your entrance, but didn’t push home. He teased you for a second, before dragging it up and down one last time, just to see the look your face.

Beautiful.

“You sure about this?”

His voice was pure sin. You opened your eyes fully and glared at him.

Gorgeous.

“Yes, Ari. I need you.”

That must have been enough because he immediately plunged in, inch by glorious fat inch, straight to your core. 

“Oh fuck!”

Ari’s meaty cock stretched you out, and your head fell back in ecstasy as your hips instinctively arched to take him in deeper. You were panting from pure pleasure as you tried to adjust to his thickness.

“You like that? Like my thick cock in this little pussy?”

“Yes, God, yes!”

You couldn’t stop yourself from bucking against him to try to get him to move. He was still as a statue and his jaw was clenched from restraint.

“Tell you what, if you beg me to fill your pussy with cum, I’ll fuck you so hard your head spins. Deal?”

“Um…” you couldn’t form your thoughts to beg, or to realize that there would be no cum filling because of the condom.

“Why don’t you think about it and let me know,” Ari said casually as if he were talking to a customer browsing his gallery.

But he started thrusting slowly into your cunt as the electric current in his dick made you crave the roughness he’d suggested.  You tried to pull yourself together, but it didn’t work.

Ari was transfixed by your breasts. They looked delicious.

“Play with your nipples,” Ari growled.

You cupped your breasts with your hands and pulled at the stiff peaks. He continued his leisurely pace, except now everything was worse. Or better.

Every time you pulled your nipples, you felt a corresponding pull between your legs. And then there was the way he was looking at what you were doing, eyes half lidded and mouth open as you touched yourself. Fuck that was so erotic.

The pressure was building, but you knew you wouldn’t cum until he fucked you harder.

Ari stopped and pulled out.

“Nooooooo!” you cried, and he chuckled at you, as if he was amused.

“I really wanna make you cum, but I think I’m distracting you too much.”

You couldn’t think, but you didn’t want him to stop. A sharp smack against your swollen pussy lips made you yelp and a blast of delight surged through you. 

Holy fuck what was this guy doing to you?

When he slapped your pussy harder, you realized how completely fucked you were.

You would do whatever he wanted.

“Okay okay. Let me think…. Shit, Uh…” you were completely in a daze.

“Are you ready to beg me to fill you with my cum?” Ari reminded you of the question at hand.

He brought a finger back to your clit and rubbed devastating circles around it.

Jesus fuck, it was like he didn’t really want you to be able to talk. Catching a moment of clarity, you rushed it out.

“Please, Ari, fuck me hard and fill me with your cum. Pretty please. I just need your cum. Promise I’ll be the best fucktoy you’ve ever had, please?”

He gave you an evil grin and caressed your clit harder. You whimpered.

“Please, Ari. Need your cum.”

He stopped rubbing and you felt his tip nudging into you, and you were almost purring from the pleasure. He pressed in until he bottomed out, waves of bliss washing over you. You started trembling preemptively.

“Good girl,” he announced as he pulled out gently, only to slam back in hard.

“Oooooo, fuck, oh my god!” you gasped out as he fucked you ruthlessly. 

The sound of your moans mixed with the squeaking of your bed, and you continued to play with your tits which only increased your pleasure.

You went from one peak to another as you quickly spiraled toward your orgasm, Ari’s grunts each time he sank into you helping to speed you along.

“Such a….good… little… breedable…. Fucktoy…..”  

He slammed into you, groaning with every word. All it took was one brush of his finger to push you over the edge.

You screamed, “Oh, god, yes!” as you came all over his cock and writhed against him as he roared that he was cuming. New waves of rapture surged between your legs, traveling throughout your entire body.

He drilled into you for a moment longer, and the intense aftershocks were almost too much to bear. When he finally pulled out, the room swirled around you and you let out a tiny giggle. 

Ari did promise to fuck you hard enough to make it spin.

He went to the bathroom and disposed of the condom and then returned and pulled you up the bed to make you his little spoon.

You reveled in the smell of sweat and sex, almost getting high on the scent. You laughed softly like you couldn’t believe what just happened. But he knew. He knew exactly what happened.

He was ruined.

But you were a one-night promise, a walking fantasy with no intentions of calling back. And still, as you lay in bed with him, catching your breath, his hands on your body, Ari knew he didn’t want this to end. 

Not anytime soon.

“You don’t have to stay if you have something in the morning…”

You meant that to sound more definitive, like you were inviting him to leave, but Ari had wrecked you so much that you didn’t have the energy to be cold. That was the reason you turned, burrowed into his chest and let your eyelids get heavy.

Ari chuckled. 

“Don’t worry, Muse. I’ll get out of your hair soon. Just catching my breath.”

“... the fuck is Muse?...” you questioned on your way to sleep, the rhythm of his fingers on your thighs the nails in your coffin of sleep.

“You are. You’re my Muse.”

You didn’t quite feel the kiss on your forehead. But you smiled.

—----

In the morning, the light in your apartment was rude.

It filtered through the curtains like it had a personal vendetta, hitting your face just as you tried to pretend the night didn’t happen the way it did. Your limbs were sore in that satisfied way, like you’d run a marathon, but only with your hips. 

You stretched. Yawned. Felt the warmth behind you.

Shit.

Ari was still there.

He was on his side, one arm slung over your waist like it belonged there. His broad chest was on your back, and his nose buried in your neck, breathing you in.

You shifted. He didn’t move. Just tightened his hold with that annoying, possessive kind of tenderness.

“Morning,” he mumbled into your skin, his gravelly morning voice threatening to do you in.

“Mhmm,” you answered, noncommittally. You carefully peeled his arm off. 

“You can go, you know.”

That got his attention. He lifted his head, messy hair falling over his eyes, beard pressed with pillow lines. 

He looked like sex personified.

“Damn. No coffee? No kiss on the cheek? Not even a fake number on a Post-it?”

“Don’t make this weird, Ari.”

You’re out of bed now, grabbing your robe from the chair, ignoring the way his eyes tracked your every move. You knew the drill. One-night stands didn’t turn into brunch plans.

He propped himself up and leaned against your headboard like it was custom-built for him.

“Wasn’t trying to. Just… didn’t think you’d be in such a rush to forget me.”

“I’m not,” you lied, tying your hair up with a scarf, trying to be as unattractive as possible. 

You had no idea that to him you looked like the most beautiful painting he'd ever seen.

“I just like to keep things clean. No open tabs.”

“Hmm.” 

He studied you for a long moment, then stretched like a cat, unapologetically naked and smug. 

“You always kick people out like this? Or am I just special?”

You sighed. He wasn't making it easy. He was too comfortable in your space. Too charming. Too in your face.

“I didn’t peg you for the lingering type.”

“I’m not. But something about your bed makes me reconsider my brand.” 

He grinned. 

“And you snore a little. It’s cute.”

You whirled around. 

“I do not snore.”

He laughed. Like it was a private joke between you. It softened you for a second. Just a second. You cleared your throat and motioned down toward the door.

“Seriously. You should go.”

He nodded slowly, slid out of your bed and grabbed his clothes, treating you to the sight of him getting leisurely getting dressed. When he caught you watching, he grinned, and you scoffed, going down the stairs so you wouldn’t be tempted stare any more.

Ari walked past you, stopped at the doorway and turned.

“If this is your way of making sure I don’t catch feelings... it might be too late.”

That caught you off guard. He shrugged.

“It’s fine. I’m not asking for a toothbrush or a drawer. But if you ever want to fuck again… or talk about art… or do both at the same time…You know where to find me, Muse.”

He winked. The mutherfucker actually winked, then walked out like he didn’t just ruin your perfectly controlled system. 

You stood there, silent, heart hammering a little harder than you would have liked. And only when the door clicked shut did you whisper: 

“...Goddamn it.”

——-

Muse: Two

So… whaddya think? 🤔

[sirxaibs]

Sunday HSR X Reader

꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ Get used to it ꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱

masterlist

a small drabble with him as a passenger of the astral express…… and march being a fangirl

˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ The Astral Express gym wasn’t exactly high tech, but it had everything you needed: open space, training mats, and just enough echo to make your footsteps sound cooler than they actually were. Sunday stood on the mat already, stretching his arms slowly. He was always composed. polished words, a little distant but never unfriendly. A recent addition to the Express, still settling in. You figured sparring would be a good way to break the ice. Or, at the very least, make him sweat a little.

“You ever sparred before?” you asked, rolling your shoulders as you stepped onto the mat across from him.

“Once or twice,” Sunday replied, giving you a look that was polite. “I assume you’ve done this more than that.”

You shrugged. “Yeah, a bit. We do it sometimes, just to stay sharp. Helps keep my mind quiet too.”

That made him pause for a moment. “I can understand that.” There was a brief stretch of silence as you both settled into your stances. You smiled.

“Alright. Light spar. First to three taps?”

“Fair enough.”

Then you moved. Sunday was careful. Precise. He didn’t rush or overstep, but you could tell he was reading you watching how you shifted your weight, how fast you reacted. You responded in kind, your movements smooth and quick, not showy like usual. This wasn’t about flair. It was about rhythm, connection, learning someone without needing words. The first tap came when you managed to slip behind him and brush his shoulder. He looked surprised. The second came quickly after his palm barely grazing your side as he dodged your next strike.

It was fun. Quietly fun.

Somewhere in the middle of the third round, things shifted. You both moved at the same time your foot angled to pivot, his shifting forward for a counter. It wasn’t anything dramatic, no wild kick or spin, just a split second misstep.

You felt your foot catch his. His arm moved quickly, instinctively reaching to steady you. Too late. Your balance tipped forward, his backward, and gravity did the rest.

The two of you landed with a dull thud on the mat. For a second, neither of you said anything. You opened your eyes to find yourself sprawled over him, chest pressing lightly against his, palms braced on either side of his shoulders. His arm was still around your waist where he’d tried to catch you.

Your faces were close. Close enough to count the tiny flecks of gold in his eyes. Close enough that his breath, warm and even, brushed against your cheek.

“Oh.” The sound escaped before you could help it. Not exactly graceful.

Sunday’s eyes didn’t move away from yours. His expression wasn’t annoyed, or embarrassed. If anything, he looked… thoughtful. Still. Like he wasn’t sure what to make of the moment either. You felt the weight of the silence more than the fall.

“I, uh” You shifted slightly, meaning to push yourself up, but your hand slipped against the mat, and you instinctively leaned closer to steady yourself. Now your nose almost touched his.

His hand, still on your back, tensed faintly just a twitch. But he didn’t move it. You laughed under your breath, a little breathless. “This probably looks worse than it is.”

“Maybe,” Sunday said, voice low, not quite smiling but not pulling away either. “But I’m not complaining.”

That made your heart skip a beat. You looked at him again, There was something softer in his face now. you realized you weren’t in a rush to get up. Not yet.

“…You okay?” you asked, quieter this time.

He nodded once. “You?”

You nodded too, eyes not leaving his. “Yeah.”

Another beat passed. You could feel the steady rhythm of his breathing under your hands. Not hurried. Just… calm. You slowly pushed yourself up and off of him, offering your hand once you were upright. He took it without hesitation. His fingers were warm.

Back on his feet, Sunday brushed some dust off his sleeve, but his eyes lingered on you longer than before. There was nothing more to say right then. So he just smiled and walked away.

“God I need a cold shower after that”

˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Turns out it wasn’t a cold shower but nevertheless, a shower. The steam from your shower still clung to your skin as you stepped into the parlor car, toweling your damp hair with one hand, dressed in your usual cozy nightwear. You’d taken your time lingering under the hot water, trying to shake off the strange feeling that had settled in your chest after the spar with Sunday.

It was the way he looked at you. Still. Quiet. And how you hadn’t wanted to move. You exhaled, trying to shove the memory aside. Maybe it was just adrenaline. Heat of the moment stuff. Totally normal when you faceplant into someone’s lap. Right?

As you rounded the corner into the parlor car, voices floated up from the seating area. You paused half curious, half wary.

“…I’m telling you,” came March’s unmistakable whisper. “They were on top of each other. Like, full on dramatic slow motion fall. And neither of them moved for a good ten seconds. It was so weirdly quiet. I thought they were gonna kiss.”

Your stomach dropped. Your face lit up like a reactor core.

“March.” That was Dan Heng. His tone had that deadpan flatness that meant you’re being ridiculous again.

“No, I’m serious!” March hissed. “It was intense. They were looking at each other like… like in one of those cheesy holo dramas. And she totally forgot I was there. I had to back out slowly like I was interrupting something.”

“Maybe you were,” Caelus muttered under his breath.

“EXACTLY,” March said. “I mean, I always thought something might happen, but not this soon. And with Sunday? He’s like… all elegant and mysterious”

“I heard that.”

Three heads whipped around at once. You stood in the doorway, arms crossed, still towel drying your hair, blinking at them like you’d just caught them stealing cookies.

March squeaked and jumped three inches off the couch. “You! When did you get there?!”

“Long enough,” you said flatly, stepping fully into the car. “Long enough to hear my public execution.”

March scrambled to explain herself, hands flailing. “No no no! It wasn’t an execution, it was it was a friendly dramatic retelling! Like bedtime gossip!”

You stared at her. Dan Heng looked like he was rethinking every decision that led him to this moment. Caelus was trying very hard not to laugh.

You pointed at March. “Next time, announce the playbill if you’re gonna perform my personal life in three acts.”

“I didn’t mean it in a bad way!” March said, now clutching a cushion to her face. “Honestly, I thought it was kind of cute!”

“March.”

“Okay! Okay! I’ll stop talking!”

You plopped down into the seat beside her, stealing the cushion from her arms to bury your face in it.

“I hate everything,” came your muffled voice.

Dan Heng finally looked up from his book. “So… did anything actually happen?”

You didn’t answer. When you pulled the pillow away, your face was still pink. You shrugged. You slumped into the seat and closed your eyes.

˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

You walked along the glowing path of the new planet’s market district, your boots clicking softly against the polished stone. Lanterns floated above the crowd, casting a warm shimmer over everything, and strange alien wind chimes tinkled softly in the breeze. It was one of the calmer stops for the Astral Express no explosions, no urgent missions. Just exploration, some research, and a little breathing room.

You sipped your drink a fizzy, spiced thing with a color that probably wasn’t natural and hummed to yourself as you trailed behind March and Caelus. They were arguing about the best souvenir to bring back for Pom–Pom.

You lingered by a street vendor selling constellation shaped pastries when a man tall, smug, and clearly very into himself sidled up beside you.

“You look like you could use some company,” he said, his tone low and confident, like he thought he was the main character in a romance drama.

You blinked, startled. “I’m uh, I’m good, thanks.”

But he didn’t get the hint. He smiled wider, stepping just a little closer. “You sure? Someone like you shouldn’t spend a night like this alone. I know a place nearby quiet, private. Just you and me, maybe some music”

“Wow,” you interrupted, trying to laugh it off. “That’s… forward.”

“Life’s short,” he replied smoothly. “Why waste time pretending?”

You took a step back, now officially uncomfortable. “Really, I’m not interested”

“She’s not.”

The voice came from behind you, calm and steady. Sunday. You turned your head just as he stepped into view, his hands in his coat pockets, expression unreadable but voice just sharp enough to cut tension.

“She’s my girlfriend,” he added casually. “She’s not into that sort of thing.”

Your eyes widened. Girlfriend? Oh.

The guy blinked, his confidence faltering. “Oh I didn’t realize…”

“Now you do,” Sunday said, still polite, still calm. “You can move along.”

The man muttered something under his breath and walked off, melting into the crowd like smoke.

You exhaled slowly. “Okay. That was…”

“Uncomfortable,” Sunday finished for you, tilting his head slightly. “He wasn’t taking the hint.”

“No kidding,” you muttered. Then, with a faint smile, “Thanks for the save.”

He looked at you, eyes softening just a little. “You looked like you needed one.”

You nodded. “I did. But also ‘girlfriend?’ Really?”

“Seemed effective,” he replied without missing a beat. “Was I wrong to assume you wouldn’t want to go home with a stranger tonight?”

You laughed, shaking your head. “No, definitely not wrong. Just… caught me off guard.”

He gave a small shrug. “You can correct the record if you want.”

You looked at him, thoughtful now. The lantern light played against the sharp lines of his face, but his gaze was gentle, open.

“Nah,” you said, voice light. “Let them think I’ve got someone.”

Sunday gave the smallest smile. And then, almost too quiet to hear. “Maybe someday they’ll be right.”

You turned to him but he was already walking ahead, hands still in his pockets, calm as ever. You blinked. Then grinned.

˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

March wasn’t trying to eavesdrop. Not really. She had just been browsing one of the cute trinket stalls on the edge of the plaza admiring some heart shaped glass charms when she heard your voice from the next row over. You sounded… awkward. Uncomfortable.

Curious, March peeked around the corner, just in time to see some local guy lean in too close to you. His tone was oily, confident in that blech kind of way that made her want to throw a glowing pebble at his head. You were clearly trying to shake him off.

“She’s my girlfriend.”

March’s soul left her body.

Sunday’s voice was smooth and even, not threatening, but with that finality that made the creepy guy instantly freeze. He stepped up beside you with this casual calm, hands in his coat pockets, expression unreadable but there was no doubt in his tone.

“She’s not into that sort of thing,” he added coolly. “You can move along.”

The guy mumbled something and slinked away. March’s brain started loding the spinny ball of death.

Girlfriend? GIRLFRIEND?!

She didn’t even mean to gasp aloud, but it happened. Thankfully, no one heard. She ducked back behind the trinket stall, crouching like she was dodging a security drone. Her heart thumped against her ribs. When she peeked again, you were talking to Sunday, flustered and blushing. He stood there like it was nothing, like he hadn’t just set the local rumor mill on fire with one casual sentence.

March didn’t wait another second. She took off sprinting.

“I’M SORRY BUT THIS IS AN EMERGENCY.”

Caelus and Dan Heng both jumped in their seats as March burst into the tea shop, nearly knocking over a decorative lantern in her haste.

Dan Heng put down his cup with a sigh. “Let me guess.”

“No no guessing. Just listen.” March bent over the table, panting dramatically. “Sunday just called her his girlfriend. To a random guy. Who was hitting on her.”

Caelus blinked. “Wait. What?”

“You heard me! He said it without hesitation., ‘She’s my girlfriend.’ Boom. IT WAS SO KNIGHT IN SHINNING ARMOUR.”

Dan Heng raised an eyebrow. “And she didn’t correct him?”

“Not at all! She blushed! She just stood there blushing!”

Caelus slowly grinned. “Huh. I thought we were still in the pining phase.”

“That’s what I thought too!” March wailed, dropping into a seat across from them. “I thought I had time to mentally prepare for the will they won’t they!”

Dan Heng leaned back. “Maybe they skipped to the good part.”

March glared. “This is a story, Dan Heng. There’s a structure.”

Caelus sipped his tea again, amused. “BUT LIKE he did that just to protect her. Im sure we would do the same thing”

“Shhhhh are either of you wanting to marry her and want to look longingly at her.”

Dan Heng muttered, “I don’t think that that matters when you’re watching out for someone”

March just pointed toward the plaza. “Mark my words. Those losers are happening .”

˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

March 7 lay curled beneath her mountain of pastel blankets, one leg sticking out, mouth slightly open, a bubble of drool forming with every breath. She looked… innocent. Unaware. Vulnerable.

Perfect. You stood at the edge of her bed, Caelus beside you, both cloaked in shadows and silence. “She sleeps like someone who hasn’t committed crimes,” you whispered.

“She sleeping like she didn’t fully diss Dan Heng and I for just existing,” Caelus murmured, smirking. “She called me a coward yesterday for not pushing you two together faster.”

You narrowed your eyes at the blissfully unaware March, a mischievous grin tugging at your lips. “Your time of reckoning is over.”

And then, like a flash of divine vengeance, the pillow came down. WHUMP. March jolted awake with a squeak, arms flailing, hair a tangled mess. “WHAT WHO”

“JUSTICE,” you declared, striking again, this time dual wielding pillows like a vengeful sleep deprived warlord. “FOR PEACEFUL EXISTENCE.”

“TRAITOR!” March screamed as another pillow hit her in the face, this one clearly Caelus’s, who was now leaning against her dresser and howling with laughter. “You were supposed to be neutral!”

“I was never neutral,” Caelus grinned, tossing another pillow into your hands like a loyal arms dealer. “I just picked the winning side.”

“You picked VIOLENCE!”

“You picked CRAZY

Pillows flew. March kicked off her covers and dove behind the mountain of backup pillows she had an arsenal you knew too well. She emerged like a pink haired general, dual wielding plushies shaped like various alien mascots.

“I DID NOTHING TO YOU CAELUS!” she shouted, flinging one at Caelus’s head. “I THOUGHT YOU SHIPPED THIS LIKE ME! AND THIS IS HOW YOU REPAY ME?!”

“I WAS trying to make it happen, March!” you cackled, blocking her throw with your arm. “but you’re crazy lady.”

“Because SOMEBODY has to!”

The room became a flurry of feathers and yells, the floor littered with fabric casualties. March screamed something about “romantic sabotage” while Caelus used a star shaped cushion as a shield and tried not to collapse from laughter. Eventually, panting and half buried beneath a pile of glittery pillows, March flopped onto her back.

“This isn’t over,” she wheezed. “You might’ve won the battle…”

You sat on the floor, leaning against her bedframe, heart light and cheeks aching from laughing too hard. March peeked at you with a sleepy, dramatic glare.

“Just admit you like him,” she muttered.

You grinned. “No comment.”

Caelus snorted. “So that’s a yes.”

˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

The corridor was quiet, save for the distant, muffled thumps echoing from March’s room. Sunday padded down the hall in soft slippers, wrapped in a navy blue pajama set that still looked oddly regal despite the sleepy looseness of it. The collar was slightly askew, and his curls had lost their typical styling, falling gently across his forehead. He wasn’t sure what had drawn him toward the commotion curiosity, perhaps. Or maybe instinct.

The door to March’s room was open just enough. And there you were. Mid laugh, caught in the middle of a pillow war that had clearly escalated. Caelus was ducked behind a wardrobe like it was a bunker, March stood on her bed like a self declared queen of feathers, and you glorious in your pyjamas were twirling a pillow like a blade of justice.

Feathers floated through the air like snowflakes. Sunday didn’t move. He leaned against the doorframe, half in shadow, just out of your view. And he watched. And he smiled. He’d grown up in rooms where laughter felt rehearsed. Where joy was reserved for ceremonies, and everything had meaning, even the silence. He had known peace, yes but the kind that was still, stagnant. Like a pond reflecting stars instead of the sky itself.

Robin had always tried to shield him. Kept him wrapped in the comfort of his ideals, gave him a dream so beautiful he forgot what real light looked like. Messy, loud, brilliant life. The way your hair stuck to your cheek with sweat, the way your eyes gleamed as you dodged March’s wild throw, the unfiltered, unashamed joy in your voice as you shouted something absurd about “pillow fueled vengeance.”

He’d never seen experienced this feeling. Sunday’s heart thudded quietly in his chest, a rhythm that didn’t belong to the Family or any script he’d ever memorized. He liked that you weren’t afraid to be ridiculous. That you laughed freely. That you made others laugh.

He liked that you didn’t seem to carry your burdens in front of him not because they didn’t exist, but because you chose, for a moment, not to let them define you. he liked that when you were with your friends like this, you looked entirely untouchable. Unreachable. He wanted to reach anyway. But he stayed still. Let the moment stay yours. A feather floated past his cheek. Sunday blinked once, then quietly turned, retreating back down the hall before anyone noticed. He didn’t need to be in that moment to be part of it.

˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Feathers still drifted in your hair. Your arms ached from swinging pillows like weapons of mass destruction. March had declared herself “the rightful queen of shipwide shipping” before collapsing in a pile of her own making, and Caelus was last seen crawling down the hallway muttering something about betrayal and glitter.

You didn’t make it to your room. Your legs had carried you halfway down the train, and then… gave up. The Parlor Car welcomed you with soft lights and the hush of starlight outside the window. It was quiet here. Peaceful. And most importantly there was a couch.

You barely noticed the figure already sitting there. You just dropped into the opposite end of the long velvet seat with a graceless thump, curling onto your side and sighing like the soul had been knocked out of you. Your hair stuck to your forehead. Your shirt was rumpled. You didn’t even bother taking off your socks.

Sleep claimed you within seconds. Sunday, seated near the center of the couch with a book resting gently across his lap, blinked slowly. He hadn’t even heard you come in. His eyes drifted from the page, tracing over your sleeping form. The way your chest rose and fell. The faint smudge of pillow war aftermath still clinging to your cheek. One of your shoes had fallen off somewhere on the way in your foot dangled off the edge of the couch, sock half hanging.

You looked peaceful. He closed the book without a sound. He stood, quietly padded over to the small linen cabinet near the entrance of the car, and pulled out a soft, navy blue blanket. One of Himeko’s spares, likely. He unfolded it carefully, draped it over you from shoulders to toes, and adjusted it so it wouldn’t slip off during the night.

Then he knelt beside the couch, brushing a stray feather from your hair with a light, careful touch. in a voice only the walls heard, he murmured,

“Sleep well. May your dreams never be burdens.”

He lingered for a moment, hand resting just beside your shoulder. Then he moved to the nearby armchair, sat down, and tilted his head toward the stars just outside the wide train windows. His book remained unopened in his lap, forgotten. He didn’t need it. Tonight, the soft rhythm of your breathing was enough.

[strawberry-bubblef]

Hello! Could I request Silver with an S/O that's stoic and quiet with people they don't know but very sweet and talkative with people they're close to? I hope that makes sense:')

Silver x Stoic!Sweet!Reader

Most people didn’t even realize you were dating.

And honestly? Neither of you cared.

You were quiet by nature, reserved, distant, never rude, but never inviting either. Stoic was the word people used. They’d try to joke with you, tease you into conversation, but all they ever got was a calm, unbothered gaze and maybe, if they were lucky, a short reply.

Silver never minded.

He understood silence better than most.

It wasn’t that you didn’t feel. In fact, when you let people close,really close, you were bright. Not loud, not chaotic, but soft in a way that crept in like sunlight through curtains. You spoke gently, laughed in small, breathy bursts, and had this little tilt to your head when you were listening to someone you cared about, like they were the only thing that existed in the world.

And Silver… Silver got to see that version of you.

He didn’t chase your affection. Didn’t try to force your walls down. He just stayed. Consistent, present, peaceful. It started with shared walks through the gardens when words felt like too much. Sparring sessions where he always offered his hand to pull you up, even when you didn’t fall. Quiet moments in the library where his fingers would brush yours as you reached for the same book, and neither of you would pull away.

Eventually, you started sitting closer. Talking longer. Smiling more often, only for him.

You were still stoic with others. Still unreadable and distant to the rest of the world. But around Silver, your eyes softened. You fidgeted with his hair while he read. You tucked folded notes into his bag, your handwriting neat and thoughtful, things like "Don’t forget to eat," or "You did well today." You never asked for praise, but you lit up when he gave it. A brush of your hand. A whisper of his voice calling your name like it was something precious.

Sometimes, he’d wake up from a nap under a tree and find you watching him with the smallest smile,the kind no one else would believe you could make. Sometimes, you’d fall asleep on his shoulder mid-conversation, trust written in the way you leaned into him without hesitation.

You never said “I love you” out loud all that often. But you didn’t have to.

You showed it in the way you brought him snacks when he forgot meals. In the way you shielded him from questions when he looked too tired to answer. In the way you always knew when he needed silence and when he needed someone to speak.

Silver, for his part, was never impatient. He cherished the rare bursts of emotion you shared, never pushed you to be more than what you were. He read your moods without needing words. His fingers always found yours without needing to ask. And when you were overwhelmed, when the world asked too much of you and your mask began to crack, he simply pulled you close and let you rest.

There was no need for grand displays between you. No dramatic declarations.

Just quiet mornings side by side. Your voice humming softly while he tended to his sword. His hand brushing your hair out of your face as you napped in the sun. Unspoken words that filled the air between you like petals in the wind.

It wasn’t loud, but it was deep. Gentle. Lasting.

And though most people never saw it,never even suspected it ,the love you shared was something real. Something sacred. Something so profoundly yours that no one else could possibly understand.

And that was exactly how you liked it.

English is not my first language !

[wicked-barbie]

Of One Flesh

House of the Dragon: Rhaenyra Targaryen x twin!reader

Rating: Explicit (Minors DNI)

WC: 2.5 k 

Prompt: First and Last Fight for @sweetspicybingo (Beginnings Bingo Masterlist)

Tags/Warnings: Angst, hurt/comfort, jealousy, infidelity, possessive behavior, fingering, oral, scratching, Targcest

Summary: No one can vex you quite so much as your twin

You and Rhaenyra were born into this world together, bathed in blood and flesh intertwined. Your mother sobbed as she cradled both bonny babes in her arms, weeping with relief and joy. Neither of you was a son, but the perfect princesses with amethyst eyes. Rhaenyra emerged mere minutes before you, making her the elder, though as you each grew, it was always side by side and never in the other’s shadow. Each had a golden dragon; hers was Syrax, and yours was Aurelyx. You oft took the skies with your sister, silver hair whipping in the wind as the sky bathed in a golden hue.

You learned long ago of a secret passage that allowed you to slip into your twin’s room easily. You loved to curl around her, listening to the soft thrum of her heart and resting your head against her chest as it rose with every breath she took. You couldn’t imagine living in this world without her. Admittedly, you were a bit jealous of her bond with Lady Alicent, but Rhaenyra was so delightful that you could hardly blame others for wanting to be in her presence. One day, you hoped she would be queen if your mother did not bless the family with a son.

Time passed, with the Stranger claiming your mother and newborn brother, and your father took Alicent Hightower to wife. Rhaenyra’s anger burned harsher and brighter than your own, especially after Aegon’s birth; she felt betrayed, though you doubted she would have been happy with Father taking Laena as his bride either. She grew colder and harder, yet it all melted away when in your presence. It was her turn to take comfort in you, sneaking into your chambers during the late hour of the owl, snuggling against you. Her head would rest on your chest as you stroked her silver braid. It would all be fine so long as you had each other.

“Princess,” Ser Harwin Strong smiled down at you as you sat in the gardens with Helaena in your lap, as a centipede crawled over her tiny hands. He held a dazzling pink rose in one hand and offered it to you.

“Many thanks, Ser Harwin,” you smiled, feeling your cheeks warm as you lifted the sweet smelling flower under your nose.

“Have a pleasant day, Princess,” he grinned, and Helaena cooed in your lap.

“You are smitten with him,” Rhaenyra teased.

“Mayhaps,” you replied, your heart thrumming like a hummingbird in your chest.

Though you were smitten with Ser Harwin, your heart would always truly belong to Rhaenyra. If only one of you had been born a son. Dragonblood called to each other, but even you understood such a union would not be looked upon highly. You and Rhaenyra kept your kisses behind closed doors, and you would never forget the first time you brought her to a wondrous release against your fingertips, then she repaid the favor with her tongue. It put neither of your virtues at risk, and thus the dalliances continued, bodies tangled together like when you first brought forth into the world.

Her wedding to Ser Laenor approached closer with every turn of the day, and you wondered when your match would come. Lord Jason Lannister had promised you a lion cub along with all the finest trinkets his golden coin could buy. Gwayne Hightower seemed an option as well.

“You should let it slip to Father; you have more negotiating room than I do, yet he allowed me to agree with Ser Laenor,” Rhaenyra said.

You might broach the topic after Rhaenyra’s wedding; you did not wish to push so much onto your father yet. You were not in a hurry to be wed, but would accept such a match when the time arrived. Rhaenyra’s wedding proved to be bloody, and the pressure for her to produce an heir began to take its toll. One morning, your father suggested you decide between Lord Jason or Ser Gwayne, and so that evening, you tucked lemon cakes into the pockets of your robe with a torch in hand as you padded through the secret passage toward your twin’s room. Very gently, you pushed the secret passage open, careful not to make much noise. You stood frozen, the torch blazing in your grip as you took in the sight before you.

Ser Harwin lay beneath your twin as she mounted him, sweat gleaming over her naked body as silver hair cascaded down her back. His large hands cupped her bare breasts as her hips rocked. Angry tears burned your eyes, and the torch clattered to the ground before you spun around on your heels to dash away. Rhaenyra’s gasp filled the room, and your sobs did not escape until you were in the privacy of your own chambers. The saltiness from your tears gathered on your lips as you pressed your face into the golden embroidered pillow. How could she? How dare she?

You nearly jumped out of your skin when a gentle hand settled on your lower back. You twisted away, scooting onto your knees and quickly backing away. Rhaenyra came into view through your blurry, tear-stained vision. 

“Please, do not be upset with me,” she begged. A red robe was draped over her petite frame.

A lump formed in your throat as your fists furled into tight fists. “How could you?” you wailed, vexed by how pathetic you sounded, but you were wounded.

“The pressure…I…Ser Harwin has been so kind to me…”

“Get out!” you roared.

She flinched, her slippers scraping against the floor as she wrapped her arms around herself.

“I cannot bear it if you are upset with me!” she pleaded.

“You care not for the consequences of your actions, Rhaenyra! Leave me! I cannot bear to look upon your face.”

She squeaked, tears rolling down her cheeks as she fled to her chambers. You had never been so angry in your whole life, and never gone so long out of the presence of your twin. Now you understood the power of anger and betrayal. You despised seeing Ser Harwin claim her in such a way, a way that should be yours alone, as foolish as that was. She was yours, and your heart ached. On the morrow, you told your father that you would marry Lord Jason Lannister as the company of a lion club and an escape to Casterly Rock seemed preferable to remaining at court.

~~

“We cannot part when we are at odds, please, sister,” Rhaenyra pleaded when she found you in the gardens, “I am sorry for what I did, knowing your feelings for Ser Harwin.”

You sighed, stood up, and smoothed out your violet gown, leaving your book discarded by the tree. Her words seemed genuine and true, and the look on her face seemed so distraught. You did not wish to leave when there was a crack to be mended. You reached your hands toward hers, and she rushed forward to take hold of them. Her forehead pressed against yours, and her warm breath tickled your cheeks. She was your blood, and that bond ran deep.

“I must admit to being quite shocked. Apart from hurting my feelings, you put yourself at great risk,’ you whispered, stroking your thumbs across the tops of her hands.

“I know, but I must produce an heir and Laenor….”

“Shhh, I understand. You needn’t speak of it, I cannot begin to imagine the pressure you are under.”

“I cannot do it without you by my side, and now you will be leaving me,” she sniffled.

“Casterly Rock is not far on dragonback,” you smiled.

Rhaenyra laughed softly before pressing a chaste kiss to your lips.

“Though I have told Father there is no reason to rush the wedding,” you said slyly, and she gave you a playful shove, her laughter ringing brightly through the air.

“I am glad to hear it,” she smiled.

“And truth be told, I was far more jealous of him than you,” you smirked before crashing your lips against hers in a bruising kiss, and later that evening you used your tongue to bring her to pleasure over and over.

~~

“Sister,” you breathed, opening your arms toward Rhaenyra.

Tears glistened on her porcelain skin as she rushed into your embrace, burying her face against your shoulder. Motherhood had softened the hard edges that were formed years ago.

“My heart aches at the loss of Ser Laenor and Lady Laena,” you whispered, stroking her silver braided hair. Two deaths so close together were a tragedy. Lady Laena was claimed by the burden of the birthing bed and dragon fire, and the sea claimed Ser Laenor as his sorrows were drowned.

“What am I to do now that I stand alone?” she sniffled, gripping you tightly.

“You are never alone, sweet sister. I will always be by your side. My husband understands that I must be by your side at Dragonstone during these times and allows the children to accompany me,” you hummed, swaying her softly in her arms.

“He does?” Rhaenyra asked, lifting her head to meet your gaze.

“I have provided him two sons and four daughters, as well as two dragons that have hatched to bond with his heir and firstborn daughter. When I ask for something, he is usually most agreeable.”

“This news soothes my heart, sister,” she smiled as you gently pressed your thumbs to her cheeks to wipe away her tears.

“We have been apart far too long, and while I have made a comfortable home at Casterly Rock, the call of Dragonstone beckons me. We shall fly together again and our children shall laugh and play as we did as children,” you said.

You held her hand during the funeral rites, as Lady Laena’s body was returned to the sea. Ser Laenor’s already rested with the swollen waves. You patted Rhaenyra’s arm before making your rounds, comforting the twins, your Aunt, and Lord Corlys. You made way to Daemon, pausing as you noticed him exchange a sly look with Rhaenyra. You brushed it off, offering condolences before checking on your children, who stood in a sea of dark, golden, and silver tresses with their cousins. 

Jason was lost in his cups, snoring in bed as you wiggled into slippers and a robe, making your way to your sister’s chambers. The two of you wrapped together, her nose snuggled against the back of your neck as you both slumbered. The hour of bat stretched into the hour of the eel, and you woke to an empty bed and commotion brewing throughout Castle Driftmark. Your children were still asleep in their chambers with their attending maids, and you wrapped your robe tighter around your frame as you went to investigate.

Your half-brother, Prince Aemond, had lost an eye at the hand of young Prince Lucerys as the former claimed Vhagar, which caused an upset. Where in the Gods had the guards been? The maester attended to Aemond’s slashed eye while you did your best to calm Luke and looked around for Rhaenyra. Your blood went cold when you saw her come through the door with Daemon on her heels, and both looked disheveled. A dull ache began to creep around the edges of your head, and you closed your eyes as the scene unfolded around you with Alicent’s demand for Luke’s eyes and Rhaenyra’s blood dripping onto the floor.

The last thing you remembered was Rhaenyra calling out for you as you left her behind to deal with her mess.

~~

“What do you mean you return to Casterly Rock?” Rhaenyra growled as she burst through your doors as your ladies made arrangements.

“Leave us, please,” you smiled kindly at them.

“You said you would join me at Dragonstone,” she huffed, and your eyes darted to the wound stitched neatly up her wrist and forearm.

“You seem to enjoy playing me for the fool, Rhaenyra. Your husband is barely cold, yet you run straight into our Uncle’s arms. How you cry and wail at the worry of being alone,” you seethed, fingers curling into fists.

She took a step back, a wounded look on her delicate face.

“It will never be me. I always choose you, and you always choose another,” you whispered as angry tears burned your eyes.

“No….I…you are my heart. My other half, I cannot exist without you. Daemon offers another purpose, a stronger claim.”

You could not fault that. You could not provide marriage and protection, but the hurt still throbbed fresh and raw. You sank into the wooden chair, letting your face drop into your hands as the tears fell freely. Rhaenyra settled her hand on the back of your neck, her fingers curling around your flesh. It made you feel like a part of her again. She guided you to your feet, her soft lips kissing and licking your tears away, drawing you into her. You let her hands dance over your body before unlacing your gown, and you did the same to her.

Her fingers were like gossamer as they stroked your bare skin. She pressed you down until your back rested on the bed, then spread your thighs wide, gently caressing your damp, exposed flesh until you shivered.

“Mine, sister,” she breathed before slipping between your thighs and pressing her mouth against your dripping sex, tongue swirling over your.

Your ringed fingers tangled in her mussed, loose hair as you rocked against her mouth while she suckled on your swollen pearl until white stars burst behind your eyelids. Your ambrosia soaked her mouth and tongue as she greedily lapped it all up, swallowing every drop of you down. It took you a moment to recover before you pounced on her, raking your nails down her back before tenderly kissing the wound on her arm, feeling the raised flesh beneath your tongue. She groaned, twisting into the sweet blur of pain and pleasure.

She was beautiful and flushed as she writhed under your fingers, wisps of her silver hair sticking to her damp cheeks as a throaty moan spilled from her rosy mouth. The sight of her took your breath away.

“So beautiful, sister,” you purred, grazing your thumb over her swollen pearl.

She arched before spilling over your fingertips. You hovered over her, hands resting against the sides of her head before lowering to capture her in a kiss. Your teeth sank into her lower lip, her ruby blood spilling over your tongue. Rhaenyra hissed softly before splitting your lip open as well and drinking you in. One in blood, one in flesh. Two halves of a whole. Nothing could truly rip you apart from her; destiny seemed to draw you close together, no matter what the strife.

“Please come to Dragonstone, I want you by my side,” Rhaenyra begged, gathering you against her naked chest. She was choosing you.

“I can think of nowhere else I’d rather be,” you whispered against the curve of her neck, basking in the warm glow of the morning, with your and Rhaenyra’s fingers intertwined.

Two golden dragons soon filled the horizon of Dragonstone as sisters took to the sky together.

[izzih22]

Chapter 9: Ours

Note: ONE MORE…

The soft hum of the Virginia morning drifted through the open window, birdsong blending with the distant sound of a lawnmower two houses down. The air smelled of fresh grass and early spring—familiar, grounding, home.

Azzi shifted slightly under the covers, her head tucked beneath Paige’s chin, limbs tangled in the warmth between them. They hadn’t let go all night. Not even once. After their whispered “I love yous,” there had been no need for anything else. Just the comfort of presence. Of knowing. Of feeling everything finally make sense.

Paige stirred when Azzi did, a hand instinctively tightening around her waist.

“You awake?” Azzi’s voice was soft, breathy.

“Mhm,” Paige rasped, her morning voice low and scratchy in a way that made Azzi shiver. “Did you sleep okay?”

Azzi nodded. “Better than I have in… ever.”

Paige smiled, and Azzi could feel it against her hair. “Same.”

There was a pause. Comfortable. Natural. And then Azzi pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at her.

“So… that wasn’t a dream?” she asked, brows lifted slightly.

Paige chuckled and tucked a strand of Azzi’s hair behind her ear. “No, Az. Not a dream.”

Azzi’s smile was slow and real. “Good. Because I meant it.”

Paige didn’t even blink. “Me too.”

They held each other’s gaze a moment longer, the weight of their feelings stretching warm between them. Then Azzi giggled, breaking the spell. “We’re so corny.”

“Speak for yourself,” Paige teased, nuzzling her nose into Azzi’s neck. “I’m super cool.”

Azzi squealed as Paige’s arms tightened around her, rolling them so Azzi was beneath her. They were both laughing now—bright, carefree, loud enough that Katie probably heard them down the hall. But neither cared.

When the laughter died down, Paige remained above her, elbows resting on either side of Azzi’s head. Their foreheads touched. Breath mingled.

“Paige?” Azzi asked, more serious now.

“Yeah?”

“What… what do we do now?”

It was a simple question, but Paige knew what she meant. This—whatever this was between them—was no longer hidden in stolen glances or veiled touches. It was real. It had a name. And it needed a place in the world.

Paige sighed and dropped a soft kiss on Azzi’s forehead. “We don’t have to tell anyone right away. We can keep it just ours for now. If you want.”

Azzi nodded slowly. “Yeah… I think I do. Just for a little while.”

“We can go slow,” Paige said. “But I want this, Az. I want you.”

Azzi blinked rapidly, overwhelmed with how gently, fiercely Paige loved her.

“Okay,” she whispered. “I’m yours.”

Paige leaned in. “Yeah?” she murmured against Azzi’s cheek.

Azzi’s breath hitched. “Yeah.”

Then finally, finally, Paige kissed her.

It was gentle at first—soft lips brushing in a way that felt more like a promise than a kiss. But Azzi reached up, hands cradling Paige’s jaw, pulling her closer. And the promise deepened.

Paige groaned softly, lips parting, her hand slipping up to cup Azzi’s cheek. It was still new, but it didn’t feel new. It felt like years of unspoken love flooding to the surface. Like they’d been kissing each other in dreams for years and were only just now getting to taste the real thing.

They kissed like they’d been waiting their whole lives.

Azzi whimpered softly when Paige broke away for air, her eyes still closed, lips parted.

Paige smiled, brushing their noses together. “Told you I was cool.”

Azzi laughed through a tear she didn’t know had fallen. “You’re such a dork.”

But Paige didn’t miss the way her voice trembled, how her hands stayed tangled in Paige’s shirt like she was afraid to let go.

“I’ve got you,” Paige said quietly, reading her without needing her to say a word.

“I know,” Azzi whispered, eyes fluttering open. “I just… I still can’t believe this is real.”

Paige rested her forehead against hers again. “It’s real. We’re real.”

They lay there for a while, wrapped in silence and sunlight. At some point, they had to get up. Katie would call for breakfast. John and Jose would start teasing. The day would unfold like all the ones before it.

But none of it would be the same.

They were different now. Something had shifted. Not in a dramatic, fireworks kind of way—but in the quiet certainty of finding your person and knowing you never want to go back to pretending otherwise.

Eventually, Paige rolled over, pulling Azzi with her until they were side by side, fingers laced.

“Wanna hang in the backyard today?” she asked.

Azzi smiled. “With the whole Fudd crew?”

“Yeah. You, me, John trying to dunk on Jose. Katie yelling at your dad for overcooking the burgers.”

Azzi laughed. “Sounds perfect.”

“And later,” Paige added, voice soft, “when it’s just us… I wanna take you on a real date.”

Azzi raised a brow. “Here? In my backyard?”

Paige shrugged with a grin. “We’ll make it work. We always do.”

Azzi leaned over and kissed her again. Slower this time. Sweeter.

They stayed like that for a while—lost in each other, hidden away in the comfort of their shared bed, hearts finally unburdened and open.

When they finally made it downstairs, the kitchen was already alive with the weekend buzz of the Fudd family. Jose was stealing bacon off a paper towel-lined plate while Katie smacked his hand with a spatula. John had a basketball tucked under his arm and was talking smack about a rematch later in the driveway. Tim was at the stove, flipping pancakes with far more focus than necessary.

Azzi sat beside Paige at the breakfast table, close but not quite touching, as they always had. Nothing overt had changed. But it was in the glances, in the softness in Azzi’s smile, in the way Paige’s knee stayed lightly pressed to hers under the table—like a quiet anchor.

Katie caught Paige watching Azzi with that unmistakable look. That gentle, open look of someone utterly gone for another. Her eyes softened.

“You two staying in today?” Katie asked casually, sliding a plate in front of each of them.

Azzi smiled, glancing at Paige. “Yeah. Backyard hangout. Burgers. Sibling chaos.”

Tim perked up. “That sounds like a challenge. I’m firing up the grill at noon.”

“I’m dunking on jose this time,” john declared.

Jose rolled his eyes. “You wish, man.”

It was normal, easy, a Fudd family Saturday. But for Paige and Azzi, it pulsed with something new underneath. The way Paige reached for Azzi’s fork when she dropped it, brushing her fingers with a little more care. The way Azzi laughed a little brighter, shoulders loose, heart light.

They spent most of the day outside. Paige leaned against the tree by the fence while Azzi braided her hair, giggling when Paige complained about her being “too gentle” with her “rugged, warrior locks.”

“Rugged?” Azzi snorted. “Your hair’s like soft wheat. Like… romantic movie heroine soft.”

“Okay, first of all,” Paige said, trying not to laugh as Azzi tugged another strand, “I’m literally your knight in shining armor. I open your doors. I carry your bags. I keep you warm. You’re the princess here.”

Azzi turned Paige’s face toward her with both hands. “But, I’m your princess.”

Her voice dipped as she said it, a little breathless, a little teasing—but her eyes, her eyes were pure truth.

Paige couldn’t even think of a comeback.

Azzi kissed her again, there in the shade of the tree, slow and sweet and hidden from the world. They didn’t need an audience. Didn’t need to define anything beyond this—Paige’s hands gently on Azzi’s waist, Azzi melting into her like she’d been waiting her whole life.

That night, long after dinner, after the backyard games and burnt marshmallows and quiet stargazing, Paige helped Azzi clean up the kitchen while everyone else filtered upstairs. Azzi handed her a dish towel, bumping her hip against Paige’s with a small smile.

“You leave tomorrow,” she said quietly.

“Yeah.” Paige dried a plate, then stilled. “But I’ll be back. I always come back to you.”

Azzi looked up at her, eyes glossy under the kitchen light. “I know. It’s just… different now.”

“It is,” Paige said, placing the plate down and turning toward her. “But in the best way.”

Azzi nodded slowly. “Do you think we’re ready?”

Paige reached out, fingers brushing Azzi’s cheek. “I don’t think we have to be ready. I think we just have to be us.”

Azzi leaned into the touch. “I’m scared of losing this.”

“You won’t,” Paige whispered. “I won’t let you.”

A tear slipped down Azzi’s cheek, and Paige caught it with her thumb. Then, without a word, Azzi stepped into her arms, wrapping herself around Paige like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I want to tell them eventually,” Azzi murmured into Paige’s shoulder. “My family. Your family. The team. Everyone. But right now… I just want this to be ours.”

Paige held her tighter. “It’s ours, Azzi. Always.”

They stood there like that for a long time—just two girls in love in a quiet kitchen, the world outside their own little orbit fading away.

Later, in the sanctuary of Azzi’s room, Paige lay on her back, staring at the ceiling while Azzi curled into her side. Fingers traced lazy shapes against Paige’s shirt, neither of them speaking at first.

Then Azzi whispered, “We’re girlfriends now, huh?”

Paige grinned, turning to her. “Hell yeah, we are.”

Azzi giggled, face warming. “You’re so smooth.”

Paige leaned in, lips brushing her temple. “Only for you.”

Azzi’s smile faded into something softer as she looked at Paige—really looked. “Do you remember that night, after my first injury? When you flew in just to sit with me in the hospital?”

“Of course,” Paige said, fingers threading through Azzi’s. “You didn’t want to talk. You just wanted someone to be there.”

“And you were,” Azzi whispered. “You’ve always been.”

Paige didn’t speak. She didn’t have to. Instead, she turned to face Azzi fully, pressing a kiss to her forehead, then one to the tip of her nose, then—finally—another to her lips.

It deepened slowly, gently, but with a familiarity that made both of them tremble.

Paige was careful, letting Azzi lead, even as Azzi pulled her closer. And in that kiss—long, lingering, full of every quiet promise—they sealed something sacred.

They didn’t need labels shouted from rooftops or some grand reveal.

They just needed this: lips on lips, hearts in sync, the entire world shrinking down to the space between them.

Eventually, they pulled apart, breathless and smiling.

“Mine,” Paige whispered, brushing Azzi’s hair from her face.

“Yours,” Azzi whispered back. “And you’re mine.”

And with that, Paige kissed her again—slow and deep—because they weren’t pretending anymore.

They were real. They were in love.

And they were finally, finally home.