#anyway....FUCK glossy paper

[bigcats-birds-and-books]

Books of 2024: WELCOME TO YOUR WORLD: How the Built Environment Shapes Our Lives by Sarah Williams Goldhagen.

[rafesangelita]

♡ telling rafe you didn’t use his credit card

warnings: use of the name ‘daddy’ (pls just scroll if that’s not your thing, you’ve been warned!!), rafe gets mad at you, fluff

rafe was already waiting for you outside the house when you and your best friends pulled into the driveway of tanneyhill, a small smile gracing his lips as he watched you step off the pink buggy with your hands full of shopping bags. “bye, love you!” you blew a kiss to the car before waving, turning around only to be met with rafe towering over you. “hey, daddy!” you pecked his cheek, allowing him to take the bags from you as you two made your way inside. rafe kicked the door shut once you plopped down on the couch, your heels still adorning your feet as you pouted up at him to join you on the sofa.

“how was your outing, bunny?” he pulled you onto his lap, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear as he stroked your thigh, his eyes trailing down that pretty face of yours before settling on your glossy lips. “it was really good,” you smiled, resting a hand against his chest, “..but i kinda ran into a little hiccup, please don’t get mad.” rafe shifted his weight on the cushion beneath him, his eyebrows pinching slightly at your words. “what happened?” he swallowed thickly, watching the way a conflicted expression passed over your features.

“so.. i think i accidentally removed your card from my apple pay a while back and i’ve been meaning to add it again but i keep forgetting, and right before i left i decided to change purses but i didn’t realize i had left your physical card in my other bag, so when it came time to pay for my stuff i didn’t—” rafe cut off your rambling with a hand in the air, your explanation coming to an unexpected stop. “don’t tell me you paid with your own money.” he glared at you, his nostrils flaring as you looked away guiltily. “fuck, y/n.” he screwed his eyes shut, his head resting on the back of the couch as he groaned.

“why would you do that?” you shrugged, nervously fiddling with the charms on your nails as you tried to reassure him. “it’s okay! money just sits in my account anyways, it’s not a big deal!” you tried to ease his worries but he wasn’t having it. “it is though, bunny. you’re my girl, and my girl is taken care of, always. you should’ve called me and i could’ve arranged something.” he scolded you, his eyes wide as you mumbled a little ‘i’m sorry!’ — he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as you shrunk in on yourself, hating the way his disapproval felt.

“how much did all of that cost?” he asked, both of you turning to inspect the white bags with various shades of pink tissue paper sticking up from the top. “uhm.. like eight hundred??” rafe cursed under his breath, his skin growing hot at the revelation. he hated it when you spent even a single dollar on your card, so hearing that you spent a lot more than that only made him more pissed off with himself. “alright, listen. i’m gonna put three times that amount back into your account—” you quickly protested, your mouth falling open in disbelief. “rafe! no, that’s ridiculous—”

he shushed you, already taking his phone out of his pocket and transferring the money. “no, it’s not ridiculous, ‘next time you run into a little ‘hiccup’ you call me and i’ll go over to wherever you’re at and pay for your shit myself if i have to. do you understand me?” you stared up at him, biting on your bottom lip before nodding, surrendering to him without a word. “i really am sorry, ray..” you whispered, allowing him to reach over you and grab your bags. “don’t be, alright? i should’ve made sure you were good before you left, okay? it’s not on you.” he pressed a kiss to your temple.

“why don’t we go upstairs and you give me one of your little hauls?” you lit up at the suggestion, nodding your head frantically as you practically shot up from his lap. “i think some of the outfits in here will make it up to you..” you smiled, flashing him a wink before the click of your heels against the stairs echoed throughout the foyer. rafe chuckled to himself, his cock stirring in his pants once he caught a glimpse of the lace material in one of the bags. it was going to be a long, long, long, night.

thank you nonnie for celebrating with me ૮꒰ ˶• ༝ •˶꒱ა ♡

[yieldtotemptation]

EASY ft. Yunjin

yunjin x male reader smut

6k words

“Oh, you’re an idiot,” Yunjin decides, stealing yet another one of your fries. “My best friend is an idiot.”

You pull the bowl out of her reach, feeling the need to defend yourself, “You're really calling me an idiot because—”

“Because you have the completely insane opinion that jerking yourself off is better than getting a blowjob. What is wrong with you?”

“They’re overrated! Number of times I’ve cum from a blowjob—zero. Number of times I’ve cum from my own hand—probably thousands!”

“Okay, first—gross, and second—you’re not just an idiot. You are a sad, sad man.”

“I’m just being honest!”                      

Yunjin reaches over, snatches yet another fry. Waves it in front of your face, judging you, before reaching some kind of consensus in her unreasonably pretty head. “You only think that because you've never had a good one.”

“I've had plenty.”

Yunjin's eyes narrow. She crunches.

You swallow hard.

“But you've never had one from me.”

—

Look, you’re pretty sure Yunjin’s full of shit. You’ve known her forever, you’re well versed in her bullshitting ways—she’s got a penchant for stretching out the truth until it’s as elastic as the underwear strap that she just loves to leave sticking out of her jeans.

So, yeah. The girl likes to exaggerate. It’s kind of her job anyway. Make things seem bigger, more dramatic than they really are. Sell the idea of heaven in a three-minute pop song. Sweet lies from lips painted to perfection.

Plump, glossy, pillowy-soft lips that you’ve seen pout and purse and get trapped between her teeth or swiped over by her tongue and—

You get the picture.

“Seriously, the bathroom?” You’re asking, and honestly, you’re trying to give her an out. Waiting for her to take it back, reveal that this is all just an extremely unfunny prank, designed to needle you, make you blush and maybe get a good story to embarrass you in front of her friends with. How she left the silly, naïve hometown boy with his pants around his ankles and his dick in his hand.

Any time now, she’ll point and laugh and make you feel like even more of a fucking idiot when she says, ‘I can’t believe your dumb ass actually followed me in here expecting a blowjob,’ and that’ll be the end of it.

Really. Any time now.

And yet.

Silence as she closes the door behind her, which you feel the need to break with, “Come on, Yunjin, you don’t have to prove anything—"

Yunjin cuts you off—“Oh, but I want to.”

She spins on her heels to face you. Presses her back flush against the door. She turns the lock.

Something in the room shifts. 

Her posture, maybe, or more specifically something in her legs. The way she’s angled herself so that your eyes are drawn to their long creamy expanse, up to the tightness of her thighs, and the way they frame the juncture in between.

Or it’s in the drop of one single shoulder; her half-zipped hoodie sliding down to reveal a sliver of smooth neck, the falling strap of her tank-top, the gentle swell of her chest.

Or maybe it’s just the tilt of her head, her lips all pouty and perfect, and oh, now she’s unzipping the jacket further down and she’s watching you find out in real time that she’s left her midriff bare and uncovered and holy shit her abs are ridiculous and your brain is blue-screening—

This isn’t the Yunjin you know.

The friend, the confidant, the embarrassingly loud chatterbox who raids your fridge and roasts your clothes and has a running commentary on every single woman that enters and very quickly leaves your orbit.

Each ticking second, each subtle movement, she’s starting to look less and less like the girl from your childhood and more and more like the idol that everyone else seems desperate to worship.

She takes a step forward.

Your mouth feels paper-dry.

You lie, “Can’t say you’re off to a great start, then.”

Yunjin raises a perfect brow, and yeah, she doesn’t buy that shit for a second. “What, were you expecting somewhere with a little more ambiance?”

“Well, you’re setting yourself up for failure here,” you retort, some defence mechanism causing you to try to keep things casual, bring it back to more familiar, banter-heavy waters. “Toilets aren’t really a turn-on for me.” 

“Didn’t take you for a romantic,” she teases, but something about her tone—light, playful, less biting than usual, sends you in a tailspin. Your mind grinds to a halt when you realise why. She’s not simply teasing. She’s flirting. And she’s taking another step.

“What can I say, I’m a love before lust kind of guy.”

Yunjin just laughs, something foreign and a little bit wicked. Forces a chill down your spine that you can’t quite explain. She makes those final steps, closing the distance, backing you up against the row of sinks, and—fuck.

She stops right in front of you. Your heart races. You think she can hear it thump.

“Am I making you nervous?” She asks, and it’s all kinds of fucked because now you’re seeing the details; the flecks of honey-brown escaping the coloured contacts that make her eyes pop, the curls at the end of her lashes, reaching out to touch the fluorescent lights overhead. “The thought of my pretty lips wrapped around you putting you on edge?”

And you really thought you knew her mouth; but now she’s jutting out her bottom lip, and it’s fuller than you remembered. As dangerously red as her hair, and Jesus Christ you catch the tremble in them when her eyes flicker down for just a brief instant—right before they return to yours.

She grins.

You aim for unaffected. You miss the mark by a wide margin. "Just don’t want to disappoint you. Putting all this effort in only to be proven wrong by me. Again.”

Yunjin gives you a pitying sigh in response, the sound all honey and smoke, and she makes you flinch when she barely has to move a muscle to place a single finger on your sternum.

She draws a lazy circle on your chest. You hate that you shiver.

“Something tells me that won't be the case,” she’s saying, whisper-quiet now. The circle she’s drawing gets wider, turns into a spiral, and now she’s massaging into your chest, a hand over your heart, and her fingers are getting higher until they’re up to your shoulder, and she’s leaning in so her breath is hot on your neck, and—“It’s going to be filthy. Sloppy. A fucking mess. You’ll never be the same. I’m going to bring you to your knees.”

“I thought the whole idea of this was for you to be kneeling in front of me,” you manage, by some miracle, to keep your voice steady. “Seems like you’re getting ahead of yourself here.”

“All in due time,” she answers, getting her body closer, and you can feel your worser impulses start to involuntarily close the gap between your waists. “I’m not like those other girls. I’m not going to just jump right on your cock and bounce up and down for two minutes. I think you’ve earned yourself a little torture.”

“Then you’re wasting your time.”

“We’ll see about that,” she chides, and her other hand starts to skate down your chest, lower and lower until it stops just short of your pants. Her thumb digs into your waistband. Tugs. Does nothing else.

And maybe there's something there. The denial. The torture. The helplessness. Coming from someone who's always been a little bossy, who you've always let get her way because, hell, she's Yunjin, and she always promised that in the end she'd make it so nice for you.

You’re not sure if you want to find out.

“Yunjin—”

“Don’t be afraid,” she giggles, breaking you out of whatever spell has kept you frozen in place this entire time. “Go ahead, you can touch me too, if you want.”

But it's just as you reach out for her that you’re caught.

Yunjin traps one of your wrists in her grasp, causing you to freeze up all over again. Brings your hand to her mouth. Let’s her eyes flit once—to your face—and again—to your thumb.

She sucks.

Slow, deep, her tongue swirling around the digit as it disappears past her lips and into the warmth of her mouth. Vibrates a ridiculously filthy moan into your knuckle, convincing you for a second that your thumb must be delicious, must be something really fucking sweet for her to be slurping on it like this.

She pulls away, just enough to let the sticky wetness left behind glisten in the light.

Her lips bless the pad. “You’re picturing it, aren’t you?”

And then the next finger; and yeah, you’re transfixed—fascination, horror, painful straining as she does the same dance with your forefinger. Deep, deeper than the thumb could reach, until your nail is scraping at the back of her throat and—

It pops out of her mouth as quick as it entered, and you feel it in your core—the sudden absence. “You’re thinking about it—thinking I might be right. Realising that if I can do this to your fingers—”

You can’t bring yourself to argue. Can’t even bring yourself to speak. You’re too busy watching her mouth, too busy watching your middle finger go all the way in, push down into her throat and holy fuck, she doesn’t even gag.

“It’d feel so much better than anything you ever had. Ever even imagined,” she says, and she’s kissing up and down your finger, staining it fire-engine red. “See, the problem wasn’t that you don’t like blowjobs. It’s that you never once gotten one from a mouth this eager for you.”

And finally, when her teeth graze the tip of your ring finger, and you’re expecting the warmth of her lips once more, she stops.

Grinds her hip into you, forcing you to stab into her abs, and it’s unavoidable now—the pressure of your cock, ready to tear itself out of your jeans and just feel her. Her touch. Her cunt. Her mouth.

She feels it too. Arches her eyebrow—‘I told you so’ on her lips prepped and ready.

You wait under the heat of her gaze, trying not to look because you really don't want to give her the satisfaction. But fuck it’s hard. Each breath feeling like it’s being siphoned out of you, replaced with the scent of her—sweet, suffocating. Intoxicating.

But your eyes turn traitor. And it’s a mistake.

Yunjin squeezes your wrist, steals your attention. Takes your ring and pinkie fingers into her mouth. Pushes them past her lips at the same goddamn time.

Your mind goes completely, utterly blank.

She sucks on them hard, drawing them deep past her lips, devouring them, like they’re the last two drops of water in the desert and she’s just been dying of thirst. Holds your eyes hostage, needing an audience to watch as she makes a show of it; moaning around them, tongue rolling over and around your digits and you’re receiving the message loud and clear—‘You have no idea what you’re in for.’

You feel your knees start to give out.

Your fingers are soaked with her saliva, and the sounds she’s making—deep, throaty, fucking obscene—your body’s being hijacked, all your blood redirected to one painfully obvious place.

It occurs to you that you should just give up now. Tell her she’s proven her point. Your heart’s racing, your chest is tightening, your breath is coming in ragged, desperate bursts. Just tell her you believe her and jump straight to the part where she does her victory dance on top of your cock

If only.

Yunjin sets your fingers free with a smack of her lips, but the heat of her mouth still clings to your skin, lingering with the wetness of her tongue, the promise of something so much better. She kisses a trail around your palm, over the back of your hand, around your wrist.

And then she’s on her toes, and she’s leaning her body into you, using your shoulder for support. Marking your neck, nose nuzzling against the stubble, and you can’t help but wrap your arms around her waist. Pull her closer, give her tongue access to your jaw, your cheek, anywhere she wants.

Her teeth line the bottom of your ear, and she sucks gently at your earlobe, and you swear to fucking God it makes your balls tingle.

She bites. “By the end of this, you’re going to be begging.”

Gets closer still, nestles herself into your embrace, presses her tits against your chest. It's divine, the feeling of her against you, in your arms. So right. A body so tight; slender and grace and so happy to have your arms wrapped around her, so delighted that you've discovered the perfect home for your fingers, because she would absolutely hate to have them anywhere else. On anyone else.

"You won't be able to resist me," she tells you, her breath hot on your skin, making it rise up in goosebumps. And you just nod along, because what could be better than the way she's touching you, the heat she's offering, the things you can already picture her lips doing?

And that’s when she lays it on you—her true endgame in all of this teasing:

“You’re going to want it so badly, you’re going to call me Mommy.”

You nearly push her right off you.

Yunjin just stares straight at you. Dead serious. Heat, intent, fucking determination set upon her awfully pretty features.

“I’m older than you, you know.” You try to laugh it off, but it comes out strained when Yunjin presses herself into you again, and her tongue starts to trace the shell of your ear, and her hand starts to work at your zipper. Touching you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like she’s done it so many times before. Like she’s going to do it so many times again.

“It’s a state of mind, baby,” and she smirks, and there’s a challenge in there. Two doors—try to prove her wrong and walk away, keep your dignity intact. Or just let go, get rid of your pride and fall into a pair of the most tempting, talented, sinful lips that have ever graced your skin.

You don't even get a second to decide.

Her hand’s already at your throat, pulling you close. You let her. Make it easy. Taste the sweetness of her breath, getting a split second to crave her tongue before finally meeting it. Her mouth crashes into yours, and you’re gone.

You kiss her back, breathe her in. Welcome her tongue past your teeth, let it stroke yours, dance in a way that’s far too right for a first time, and it's crazy how she just fits.

She feels, smells, tastes like everything good.

You settle into the reality that this might be the last—only—chance you get.

Face it, you’ve always known who she is—undeniable, goddamn gorgeous, sexy, hot, plain and simple. But this? This is different. You’ve watched it. Yunjin on stage, wearing next to nothing, hips rolling in sync with a thrumming bass, eyes fucking the hell out of the cameras. And you’ve fantasised about it. But it's always felt so fucking far-fetched. She's always felt so impossibly out of reach.

Intangible, since the day she debuted. Ascended to some place that you could never join.

But now.

She’s come back down, just for this. Just to reclaim something that's always been hers.

She moans something nice into your mouth when she feels you pushing back against her. Her hand finally dips beneath your waistband. Finds you eager. Desperate.

But then she pulls away.

Eyes widen, fucking laughs.

“Oh, you’re such an asshole.”

You blink. “What?”

She reaches back, hands careful. Like she’s defusing a bomb. Her fingers peel down the zipper of your pants, and then yank down the stretched-out cotton of your briefs, and you’re set free.

Hard. Aching. Throbbing.

Hers.

“Asshole,” she repeats.

You don’t even know what the fuck.

“Christ, it suddenly makes sense,” she says to herself, but doesn’t bother elaborating. No, instead, she just reaches back down, wraps her fingers around you and gives you a little squeeze. Tests the water. Feels the way your cock jumps under her touch.

Your knuckles turn white against the sink behind you, and Yunjin smiles again when she realises you’re going to let her do whatever she wants.

And so her hand starts moving. Slowly. Gently.

She kisses you again, for just a moment, and then lower, and lower. Stroking you as she maps her way down your body with her lips. Feather-light against your skin, touch hot on your cock, dragging it out, building the anticipation.

Stopping when she’s on her knees. Breathing on your cock.

You hiss in a breath.

Yunjin lets go. Takes off her jacket. Tightens her ponytail. Blinks up at you. And fuck. Her chin tipped just so. Her cheeks flushed. Her eyes alone making you strain.

Her lips part, and you find yourself nodding before she even says a single word.

“I’m going to take care of you now,” she whispers into your skin, kissing into your thigh. It’s warm, soft, wet. Excruciating. She’s so close to where you need her mouth to be, but so fucking far.

Her fingers trace patterns up and down your shaft, dancing over your cock. Not touching, never. Just teasing. Torment that has you squirming, and she’s basking in it, tracking every twitch, loving every desperate gasp.

“You’re mine,” Yunjin mutters, as her mouth travels up your thigh, and your muscles start to shake. You could just grab her, it’d be so easy. Just take her by the hair, force her to give you want you want. But something stops you. Afraid of breaking this moment. Anticipating what’s to come. 

Your oxygen's running low, barely breathing, can’t stop yourself from panting when her teeth scrape along your hipbone, and your cock jumps in response, nearly slapping her right in the face.

But fuck, Yunjin’s a sadist. She kisses around your waist, her tongue darting out to taste your skin, exhaling hot and steamy air against your balls. You're dripping, beading at the tip, and it’s all so, so obvious.

The wait is agony. Pure agony.

Yunjin gives you a small mercy. Her hand wraps around you again, and for an instant you’re terrified that the touch alone would be the end of it.

But thankfully, you outlast. Yunjin strokes you lightly, her grip firm but gentle. Loving. Wresting control over you, your cock. So fucking hard already, you’re surprised you haven’t torn the sink off the wall yet.

And then, oh fuck, she’s kissing closer. Your abs, your belly button. Lower, lower, breath hot on your cock, closer, closer, please.

You can’t take it anymore. You need her. You need this.

“Yunjin,” and any other time you would hate yourself for how embarrassingly needy it comes out.

“Admit you were wrong,” Yunjin says, and you’re ready to scream it, tell her you’ve never been more wrong about anything in your entire life. Anything to feel her lips. “Admit that there’s no way your hand could ever be better than this.”

“Yes,” you grit out, and it’s a fucking miracle you can form words at all. “You were right. I was wrong.”

She’s baring teeth now, and her lips are ghosting over your cock head and you just need her.

“Please.”

“Say it.”

“I can't—”

“Do it.”

“Mommy.”

And then—

Her mouth is on you.

Wet, hot, heaven. Taking you in slow, eyes paying attention to your every flinch, the agonising twists across your face. Trained on all your strained reactions. Savouring it. Reading you like a book—every page turned with a flick of her tongue, every paragraph devoured with a swirl of her cheeks.

Slow, so slow. Deliberate. Perfect suction. Just enough to make your toes curl, to have your hips buck in her mouth. Convincing you that everything before, everything you ever had, whatever you believed was a blowjob—was all a fucking lie.

No one ever felt like this.

Your fingers release the sink, find their natural place in her hair, threading through the red, letting it knot around your digits. And there's the urge again. Tug, pull, make her go faster, make her understand that she’s already won so you might as well fuck without abandon, but you don’t dare. You don’t want to ruin this. Not when she seems so satisfied.

Cheeks hollowing out with every suck, smiling around your cock, basking in some kind of pleasure you can’t even comprehend—because she’s the one doing the giving here.

And then when she sinks, finally pushes your cock to the back of her throat and further down. Presses her nose to your waist and holds you there. Stealing your breath, the air from your lungs, forcing a deep, guttural ‘Fuck’ from your gut.

You reach your conclusion. Her lips are made for this. Made to fit around your cock perfectly, to slide up and down with the fucking unapologetically sloppy noises that make the room spin. That it’s only her throat that can take you deeper than you ever thought possible, that can constrict and tighten around you so nice. That no other mouth could be this warm, hot, welcoming, fucking right.

She pulls back. A long, long draw that leaves a fucking mess. Globs of spit, drool, pre-cum hanging off your cock, from her lips.

“This poor, poor cock,” she sighs, like it’s such a great tragedy. “Never had anyone treat it right. Like the treasure it is.”

She shows you what she means, demonstrates how to properly worship your cock. Lips brushing along your shaft, pecking gentle kisses along your length, tongue snaking out to lick off her own spit.

Her hand slides under your balls, cupping them, balancing them in her palm. Holding them in place when she points your cock up so she can duck underneath. Nuzzle her nose into your waist, lap her tongue at your base, get her lips right where you’re most sensitive.

Pleasing you like she’s always wanted to. Making you believe that maybe she has. Maybe this is something she’s been thinking about all this time; every time she’s seen you, seen the way you looked at her, heard you tell stories of the other women that only ever disappointed you with their mouths.

Not knowing that she was the one that could make you fucking levitate this entire time.

“This was always going to happen,” Yunjin says. Starting to stroke you again, her grip a little tighter this time, a little more possessive. Looking up at you through her lashes, red lipstick smudged off the corner of her mouth. “One way or another, I was always going to have this.”

And her tongue is everywhere. Laving around the base of your cock, making you feel it all the way to your toes. Not done with the teasing, the unbearably slow burn that’s going to drive you insane.

Her mouth opens wide. She takes one of your balls into her mouth. Surrounds it in soft, wet heat. Sucking—not hard, not yet, just enough. Enough to make you bite down and grind your teeth. Squeeze your eyes shut—not that it even helps. You can feel her tongue rolling around, coating your balls in a warm stickiness. Soothing. Torturous. So fucking good.

She lets out a soft hum, and the vibration nearly sends you over the edge.

Yunjin lets go with a pop, and you swear you can hear your soul sigh in relief and despair. “God, this cock,” she murmurs, “Wish you had told me, shown it to me sooner.”

The way she says it—like you could even fathom what you’ve been missing out on. Years of this? Years of her mouth on you? Years of her making you feel like the only thing that matters in this fucking world is impaling your cock into the most insanely hot and wet and tight hole you’ve ever felt?

The look on Yunjin’s face answers every single question for you.

Yes. Yes to all of it.

“Could have been doing this every fucking day,” she muses, and you let out some choked gasp, and her lips are kissing into your slit again. Then her tongue, then lower, and she’s taking you deep. So deep you’re pretty sure you can feel her fucking heartbeat through her throat.

She holds you there. One, two, three. Letting her tongue drool down your shaft, letting it drip over your balls and splash down between her knees.

Pulls back, lets go, catches her breath.

Spits on your cock.

“Imagine,” she speaks, even though her mouth is a fucking disaster, lips swollen, just a glossy smudge of red. “Just waking up to me sucking this, getting it all nice and hard and throbbing.”

It’s not difficult at all to see it. You can feel it. Tongue flattening against the underside of your cock, the swallow as she’s taking you in, the cheeks fixing around the edges with each bob. Just so fucking messy. Soaking your cock, letting these garbled, choked, slick, filthy noises echo off the bathroom walls.

“This would ruin me, you know that don’t you? Ruin my cunt,” she tells you. “Ruin Mommy’s tight little cunt so fucking nicely.”

“Fuck you, Yunjin,” is the best you can muster, which is impressive considering your brain cells are dying off one by one from the lack of oxygen.

“Yeah, I’m sure you’d love that.”

“Of course I would,” you admit, and then continue admitting, “I’ve always fucking wanted to.”

“I know,” Yunjin admits back, and that sets her off. Her mouth goes to work again, your cock disappearing into her, her hand getting just that little bit faster, and fuck, fuck, fuck, she’s got it all wrong.

She’s the one that’s going to ruin you. Going to make you forget every other orgasm you ever had.

There'll be no room for anything in your head but just thoughts of fucking her. Raw, rough; again and again until she's completely filled up with you and even then.

“Been dreaming of it,” you groan out, as Yunjin’s pace builds, and there’s the beginning of tears lining her eyes, and she’s gagging more often than not, and it compels you to keep telling her, “Been dreaming of your tight fucking body. What I’d do to get my hands on that slutty little waist. Just dig in my fingers and pound into that cunt. God I know it would feel so good.”

Deeper and deeper, until she doesn’t even need to use her hands anymore. Just to steady your legs, to keep you still while she fucks your cock with her throat.

And it’s these images you’re drawing up in her mind. How you’d pay her back, how you’d make her scream, how’d you do the same to her and more. Wreck her with your cock until she never seeks another again. Make sure that her lips, her cunt, her body belong to only you. That’s what’s driving her now, making her eyes water, making her cheeks go red and her throat bulge.

That’s what has her hand snaking down between her thighs, forcing open the button of her shorts, stretching the waistband of her panties to their limits. Just so she can touch herself. To feed into the heat building in her cunt and the wetness leaking down her legs.

You can feel her, mouth tightening around you as she teases herself. Feel the accidental swipe of her teeth when it gets too much. She’s rubbing her clit in circles, matching the tempo of her bobbing head.

Fuck, the sight alone.

Hand disappearing into her shorts, getting down and into herself, and she’s so fucking pretty, even when her face is scrunched up in the worst of pleasures, even when she’s choking on your cock.

And you think there’s laughter around the gags, or at least a smile against your skin when you throb, jerk, fuck her mouth. She’s enjoying this. The power, the pleasure she can wrench from you. You’re getting off, sure, but it’s all for her. All to prove her point.

And she’s fucking winning.

“Tell me,” she gurgles when she’s at your head, mouth bubbling at the corners with a cocktail mix of her sloppiness and your arousal. “Tell me how good it feels.”

“Shit, Yunjin, it feels—”

“Actually, fuck that, tell me it’s better,” Yunjin decides, and she seems so fucking pleased with herself that you want to hate her. But it’s so hard to deny those big fucking eyes that anchor you to the ground, those ridiculously plump lips that suck any argument right out of your throat. “Better than your hand. Better than any other mouth. Tell me it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to your cock. Be a good boy and tell me I’m better.”

You groan, or whimper, or cry, or make some noise that makes Yunjin just so fucking ecstatic, makes her swoon and nearly come apart on her own fingers. “So much fucking better, Yunjin. Jesus, your lips. Perfect for this. Perfect, cock-sucking lips. Hot mouth. Your fucking throat taking me so nice.”

“Use it,” Yunjin opens her mouth, stretches her lips as far as they'll go, showing you, sticking out her tongue and giving you an insight into your own end. “Use it like the toy it’s always been for you. Fuck it, fuck me. Use my lips, my mouth, my throat. Make me choke until you think I can't take it and then give me even more.”

“You’re fucking insane.”

“And you’re about to make a mess.”

Yeah, you’re properly doomed.

God it’s so fucking cruel. How Yunjin doubles down, mouth swallowing you whole. So fast and deep that you don’t understand how you’re still on your feet. Just watching her throat pulse, convulse, her eyes bulge when you rut inside her and she just won’t stop.

“You’re so fucking good, Yunjin, so good, you’re a—fuck—you’re a—” Only one word comes straight to mind, "Cumslut."

Yunjin preens. Looks up, lashes fluttering. Sounding so girly that it makes everything seem even more debauched and depraved. “Aren’t I? Aren’t I so good for you?”

You grunt out, “You already fucking know.”

Yunjin’s hand returns to the fold, jerking your cock into her lips, because your own personal catastrophe’s on the horizon. It’s coiling in your balls, tightening up, a spring ready to snap.

And, oh, how Yunjin would love to be the one that snaps it.

“You’re not going to be able to go back. Never. No one else will be able to take this big fucking cock like this. No one can be as much of a cumslut for you.”

You’re fucking falling apart. Yunjin’s mouth is a vice. Hot, heavenly, sloppy vice that’s squeezing the last drops of sanity from your brain. She just keeps fucking doing it—taking you so deep until your cock’s lost down her throat, over and over again. And it’s building and getting closer and closer to disaster and every nerve ending in your body is just begging for release.

“Give in,” she slurs around your girth, barely coherent, mouth full of you. Pumping your cock faster, until it’s throbbing and aching so desperately and angrily, and her words are sounding nicer and nicer with every passing beat. “Give up. Give me that cum. All of it.  Cum for me. Make Mommy happy. Give me what I want. Give me what I need. Give me—”

“Shut the fuck up and take it—”

“Be a good boy and beg—”

“Fuck you—”

You’re straining, for the first time lifting your hips off the sink and falling into her. Hands holding onto her head—and now her hair is just a handlebar, and you're riding her mouth for dear life, fucking into it like she doesn't have a choice. Using her, making her take you, over and over, again and again, and she’s just so happy to keep fingering herself into oblivion while you lose all tempo and pace and forcefully, clumsily wreck her throat.

Until you’re just seeing red.

Red of her hair, her lips. Red smudged up and down your cock and against your waist and all over your fucking fingers.

And then—

“Fuck you—Mommy!”

You can see it in her eyes.

You can feel it in every nerve ending.

You can taste it in the air.

It’s harsh, mean, rough. Pounding into her mouth, stretching her throat, until her nails are digging into your thighs and you’re shaking, twitching, fucking—

Cumming.

You empty yourself into her. Yunjin doesn’t flinch. She takes it. Every pulse of your orgasm, every drop of your cum. Swallows it down with a greedy gulp, again and again, until she can’t swallow anymore.

It gushes out of her mouth.

A thick rope that she can’t quite keep up with that paints those gorgeous fucking lips. Her cheeks and chin. Drips down to her neck. So fucking beautiful. Covered with your cum all over her face, and now down to her shoulder, her collarbone, and oh you’ve ruined her entire slutty outfit.

“God, fuck, Yunjin—”

And she’s dropping her pussy down onto her fingers, panting around your cock, around mouthfuls of your cum. Working her clit in quick, sharp movements until it’s just your hand tangled in her hair that’s keeping her upright.

This fucking image of her.

Mouth full of you, swallowing, choking, gagging. So fucking obscene you can’t look away. Eyes rolled back into her skull, cheeks are flaming, and she’s so shiny and wet and glazed over, and just a complete fucking mess for you.

You can’t imagine anything better.

It leaves you reeling. Standing there with your cock still out. Shaking from aftershocks that you’re not sure will ever end. Trying to catch your breath, chest heaving, eyes blurring back into clarity while you watch Yunjin return to life.

“Good boy,” she breathes, but it’s hardly smug. It’s just pure victory.

She opens her mouth. Smiles so wide. Shows you her prize. Shows you the mess she’s made, shows you everything. Moans at the taste of it, as she absorbs your flavour into her tongue. Completely dazed, mouth fucked to hell, and just strung-out and drunk on your cum. She finds the energy to swipe her tongue around her teeth, cleaning the best she can. She barely makes a dent.

And you’re still hard. Still fucking throbbing.

Her eyes never leave yours. She wants you to see.

She grins, and you're already expecting it, the victory speech. Something no doubt flirty and teasing and completely fucking filthy that will make you want to throw her over the sink and punish her tight, drenched cunt until she's the one begging and calling you Daddy.

Only, that all gets tossed out when you hear someone banging on the bathroom door.

“Everything okay in there?”

The sudden intrusion brings everything back into focus, seizes you back into a reality outside of Yunjin's cum-stained lips.

You clear your throat.

“I’m sorry, it’s my,” and you look down and Yunjin’s beaming up at you. Looking so perfect, kneeling on the cold tiles. Streaks of your cum hanging off her chin. She blows you a kiss. “My girlfriend. Just needed some immediate attention.”

And Yunjin decides to up the ante, leaning back into you. Snaking her arms around your thigh. Kissing into where you’re still so ridiculously sensitive. And then licking and sucking and—

It takes an impossible amount of effort to not scream at the top of your lungs. “We’ll be out soon, just need a couple—”

Yunjin shakes her head. Shows you both hands. Flashes all fingers.

“Ten—”

Shakes her head once more. Flashes again.

“Twenty?”

Yunjin nods.

“Twenty minutes.”

There’s a pause on the other side of the door, and you realise that this is all fucking out of control and completely unbelievable.

But still.

Yunjin’s tongue is setting you on fire, and God she’s kissing up higher, rising to her feet and she's covering every inch of your skin that she has yet to leave her mark.

You whisper-shout at her, “They’re going to break this door down.”

Yunjin laughs, and there’s no way whoever is outside the bathroom doesn’t hear it.

She removes her ruined top. Lets her bra fall to the ground. Steps out of her drenched panties. She looks like perfection.

“That’s fine,” she says, and she’s taking a hold of you, kissing you, and you can taste yourself on her lips and fuck, she’s winning again—“But you’re going to break me first.”

[botanicsoul]

Don’t Meet Your Heroes

Pro Hero | Izuku Midoriya x Fangirl (Fem) Reader

-> I will NEVER stop writing menace Izuku because there is absolutely NO WAY someone that nice, that polite, that sweet is not secretly a freak. You don’t save the world with a smile and then go home and knit. No—you choke your girl out while she wears your merch and thank her for letting you. —Anyway, enjoy🥳

ི༘𑁍࿔̥̊ ི༘𑁍࿔̥̊ ི༘𑁍࿔̥̊ ི༘𑁍࿔̥̊ ི༘𑁍࿔̥̊ ི༘𑁍࿔̥̊ ི༘𑁍࿔̥̊ ི༘𑁍࿔̥̊ ི༘𑁍࿔̥̊ ི༘𑁍࿔̥̊ ི༘𑁍࿔̥̊ ི༘𑁍࿔̥̊ ི༘𑁍࿔̥̊ ི༘𑁍

You didn’t expect much when you walked up to the table—just your hero crush smiling at you for five seconds before you moved on like everyone else.

But when his eyes lifted and locked onto yours, time stretched. You offered him the homemade fanart you’d printed on glossy paper. “It’s silly, but… I wanted you to sign it.”

His freckled cheeks went pink, and he gave you that smile. “It’s not silly at all. It’s cute.”

His fingers brushed yours when he took it. “Hey… mind if I ask something kinda bold?”

You blinked. “Yeah? What’s up?”

He scribbled something in the corner of the poster and slid it back. A phone number.

“Text me. If you want to talk more. Or… I don’t know. Grab a coffee?”

Your heart practically launched out of your chest.

Of course you texted him.

Coffee turned into dinner. Dinner turned into your back hitting his apartment mattress—staring up at him, wide-eyed, wondering how the sweet, bashful hero who wore a cardigan on your little date now had your legs pinned wide open… your wrists bound above your head with his utility belt.

At first, he kissed you like you were fragile. Hands shaky. Voice soft. Whispers of “you sure?” between every breath.

But the second you moaned his name and rocked your hips into his?

A switch flipped.

And suddenly the man above you wasn’t the one who smiled for cameras. He fucked you like he’d been starving. Like he’d been good for too long and now he needed to ruin something sweet.

He rutted into you slow and deep—possessive, gritting through every thrust like he hated how much he needed it.

“You thought I’d be gentle, didn’t you?” he muttered, slamming into you hard enough to make the headboard crack.

“Thought I’d blush and stutter while I fucked you?” He leaned down, lips dragging along your jaw. “No, baby. I earn my rewards.”

Your legs shook. He was everywhere—biting your neck, sucking marks onto your chest like he wanted the world to see, you were a moaning mess while he’s choking you just enough to make you dizzy.

“You moan like you want the whole city to hear you,” he growled. “You like this? Being fucked by your favorite hero like a filthy little fan girl?”

You gasped, nails digging into your palm.

He chuckled low, voice dark. “You’re soaked. Can feel it drip down my cock every time I pull out.”

“Please—” you barely got the word out before he was on you again, teeth gritted like he was holding back something brutal.

He paused, just to thrust harder. “I’ve saved lives, baby,” he snarled into your neck, “but I’d let the city burn if it meant I got to come back to this cunt.”

Your body snapped tight, your orgasm crashing into you with no warning—and he felt it.

He growled, rough and wrecked. “Good girl. Fuck—milk it. Soak me. Show me how much this pussy loves me.”

And when you finally went limp, body shaking, eyes glassy? He leaned down and kissed you like he hadn’t just destroyed you.

Then he pulled out, slowly, watching his cum leak from your pussy onto the sheets.

He groaned. “Next time I fuck you, wear my merch.”

You blinked up at him, fucked-out and blinking.

He grinned, all teeth. “The one that says Property of Pro Hero Deku. I wanna see it when I make you cum on your knees.”

[kaisentine]

꒰ა ⠀ ⸺ 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬, 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲!

⌗ ⸺ there’s no price for a gift if you’re getting it for someone you love—he really fucking loves you. ft. michael kaiser, itoshi sae, shidou ryusei, mikage reo, oliver aiku general cw. supa dupa short, there are separate cws for each guy, not proofread . . . gn!reader ദ്ദി ( ᵔ ᗜ ᵔ ) sticky note. IM SCREAMING SAIKI SANTAAA . . . guys my deadline of march 14 is not looking too great . . . not proofread this is part of my event check it out!

𝒾 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝓀 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓀𝓃𝑜𝓌 𝓂𝑒 𝒷𝑒𝓉𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓃 𝒾 𝓀𝓃𝑜𝓌 𝓂𝓎𝓈𝑒𝓁𝒻 ♡

ᓭི ˖ ࣪ . 𝐌𝐈𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐄𝐋 𝐊𝐀𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐑 mentally beats himself up while trying to decide what to get you—the next best person to beat up over gift ideas? alexis ness.

“uhm, what about clothes . . ?” ness hesitates after being rejected for the umpteenth time while trying to give kaiser ideas. “that’s so lame, don’t you have any better ideas?” kaiser replies, pitching his nose-bridge in annoyance and stress.

“a ring?” “i’m not proposing!” “a dog!” “you’re a dog—no thanks.” “shopping trip?” “that’s half-assed.” “a letter?” “i’m not good with those.” “chocolate?” “what kind of a person do you think i am?!” “. . . roses.” “that’s too basic.”

in the end, kaiser does get you roses. “why do you look like you’re on the verge on tears?” he looks down at you while you’re hunched down over the bouquet of royal blue roses. you shake your head as if your lips aren’t quivering and as if your eyes aren’t glossy.

“they’re really pretty, thank you.” you say, bringing the collar of your shirt up to your eyes to soak up the salty water build-up. kaiser feels incredibly awkward in this situation, he swears you’re gonna make him develop a stutter one of these days. “yeah? well you . . . you should be!” he huffs triumphantly after crossing his arms.

he’ll never tell you that ness gave him the idea of getting you flowers.

cw. unintentional freak

ᓭི ˖ ࣪ . 𝐈𝐓𝐎𝐒𝐇𝐈 𝐒𝐀𝐄 is actually so bad at this, it’s diabolical but he tries his best.

“oooh! who took this photo? it’s super cute . . !” you smile while holding the polaroid sae gave you of him being effortlessly pretty—unprompted—on a random afternoon, you’d be lying if you said that you didn’t have a nagging question on your mind—why? “why’d you give me this though?” oh. guess you didn’t think before you spoke, now he has a question to answer!

lucky for you, he’s an honest guy and gives you the answer straight-up. “you said you miss me when i go away for games,” shrugs, bending over next to you to view the picture as well. “heard pictures lasted longer.” he whispers in your ear.

you pull your head away while facing him in surprise—fucking bastard.

he turns his own to face you. “dunno though. thought i’d try it out anyway.” he says as he straightens his back and walks off to wherever, leaving you with your thoughts and this stupid polaroid he gave you.

cw. i could say this is pure crack goodnight

ᓭི ˖ ࣪ . 𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐃𝐎𝐔 𝐑𝐘𝐔𝐒𝐄𝐈 . . . well—let’s just say “hyperpigmentation”!

“. . .is that me?” you ask after sneaking up behind shidou while he was busy doing something—busy meaning drawing you.

sounds romantic, right? not when it comes down to him because you could barely tell the drawing was of you. your lips draw a thin line in an attempt not to laugh but also as an attempt not try cry. “you can tell?” he grins, lifting his pen off of the very amazing sketch.

oh ok—so it is you. “yes . . ?” you’re practically on the verge of tears while answering him. “aw, that sucks. was gonna give ‘ts to you as a gift.” he sighs really loudly. as a gift? what the fuck is wrong with shidou ryusei.

“well, i’m done anyway so i can give it to you.” his smile returns as he pulls the paper hard enough to be teared apart from the little circle things ( sorry i legit dk wtf those are called ) and slaps you with it, the smell of fresh paper and ink filling your nose.

“ryu,” you call, mortified. “yeah?”

“is that hyperpigmentation?”

ᓭི ˖ ࣪ . 𝐌𝐈𝐊𝐀𝐆𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐎 unlike kaiser, he genuinely crashes out while trying to think of a gift idea! something big? he knows he’ll never hear the end of it from you. something small? guilt will eat him alive.

reo is screaming so loud into his pillow, nagi is scared that he will break his vocal cords. “why are you stressing over a gift?” the white haired asks but doesn’t look up from his nintendo. “it’s not just a gift!” “. . . then what is it?”

“it’s a declaration of my love!” he finally peels his face off of the silk pillow case and brings his hands to his eyes to cover his vision. “that’s really cringe.” nagi says. “you find everything cringe.”

so what does he do? he gets you both matching bracelets from a luxury brand but has it custom made so you don’t know.

“reo, these are so pretty!” you’re fawning over the gold bracelet he put in your hand after he told you to close your eyes. “i’m glad.” he smiles at your admiration for simple piece of jewelry—thinking to himself that he could’ve done better, but he digresses. “too pretty . . . where’d you get them?” you ask, lifting your head up to make eye contact.

you don’t fail to see the way his eyes just barely falter to meet yours. “uh . . . went online shopping with nagi.”

that didn’t answer your question but, alright! when you hug him, he feels like he just got away with a crime but there’s a gut-feeling that you know.

cw. reader indirectly accuses him of cheating but he didn’t, promise! he calls reader “doll” uh!

ᓭི ˖ ࣪ . 𝐎𝐋𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐀𝐈𝐊𝐔 break-up text despite the fact he isn’t fond of chocolates, he likes to keep his gifts meaningful but classy—yet he fails miserably.

“you said you didn’t like chocolate . . .” you deadpan at the heart-shaped chocolate box splayed out on the table. aiku is sitting on the couch when he turn his head to look at you—you don’t miss the way his face almost pales under the soft flashing glow of the television.

there’s an obscene amount of scenarios that fill up your head as to why he looks like he has seen a ghost. were these not for him? who were they for then? you puff out your cheeks as you also feel faint. “. . . i don’t.” he responds.

“so then, who are they for?” you ask, picking the box up and dangling it up in the air with one hand. it’s his turn to deadpan—while yes, he totally forgot to hide them from you, do you not realize that they’re for you?

“those chocolates are for you, doll . . .”

“oh—ohhhh,”

tags :) : @kenyuukissme @levihanmyotp @realmyth @vellichorira @pinkicyheart ( comment to be added! )

[rafessecret]

Hey might be a bit different from what you usually write but I was thinking, if you’ve ever seen the prank you’ll know but it’s where the sister is mean to her brothers girlfriend as a prank and you could do it with Sarah reader and rafe🫶🏻🫶🏻.

https://vm.tiktok.com/ZNdMkLauu/

^ what I’m talking about

⋆˚࿔ girlfriend¡ reader && rafe cameron

EVEN YOU CAN'T TALK ABOUT HER LIKE THAT.

Rafe’s never been a TikTok guy—he says it’s dumb, loud, and for kids. But when you show up in his hoodie with glossy lips, soft giggles, and a scratch behind his ear, mumbling ❝Pretty please, Rafe,❞ he folds like paper. So now he’s standing in his own living room like an idiot, jaw tight, arms crossed, while Sarah films with a shit-eating grin. You’re sitting cross-legged beside her on the couch, barefoot and dewy-eyed, trying to hide your smile behind your hand. It’s the viral “sister is mean to the girlfriend” prank, and Rafe doesn’t know it yet.

It beginsently light-hearted, teasing. A harmless kind of game, or so it seems. ❝Rafe, who’s prettier, me or her?❞ Sarah asks, her voice sugary with mischief. ❝Her, obviously,❞ Rafe answers without missing a beat, tipping his head toward you with an easy smile. His arm finds its place around your waist like it belongs there. It’s instinctive. Natural. Sarah snorts. ❝Sure… You’ve seen her without makeup, though, right? Just saying.❞

The shift is almost imperceptible. Rafe’s body tenses, barely, his eyes flicking toward you in an instant of quiet calculation. You glance down, biting your lip like you’re suddenly unsure of yourself. His gaze lingers, protective and observant. ❝What kind of question is that?❞ he says, flatly. There’s no humour left in his voice. But Sarah doesn’t stop.

❝Okay, but who has better hair?❞ she continues, her fingers twisting a lock of her own sleek blonde waves with performative nonchalance. Rafe’s brow furrows. ❝She does, obviously. Why are you—❞ ❝Mmm, I don’t know… It’s kind of frizzy today, no? Like a little flat at the roots?❞ Sarah muses, tilting her head in mock curiosity. You shift uncomfortably, instinctively smoothing your hand over your scalp. There’s a flicker of doubt in your expression. A falter. Rafe sees it. And his jaw clenches. ❝Her hair’s perfect,❞ he says, pointedly, voice low. Still, Sarah pushes. 

❝Alright, alright. Who dresses better?❞ Rafe gives her a look. Tired. Disbelieving. ❝Seriously? She always looks hot. I don’t care if she’s in pyjamas.❞ ❝If you say so,❞ Sarah mutters, like she’s humouring a delusion. ❝I mean, half her outfits are just your hoodies anyway. Kinda giving teenage rebellion.❞ You flinch at that, almost imperceptibly, and scoot just a fraction further from him on the couch. The movement is small. But Rafe feels it like a jolt.

❝Sarah. Chill.❞ His voice cuts through the room. It’s the first real warning. But Sarah only grins, wide and devilish. ❝Okay, last one, I swear. Who’s funnier, me or her?❞ ❝Her,❞ Rafe says immediately, no pause, no second-guessing. The loyalty is instant, unshakeable. Sarah raises an eyebrow. ❝Really? You laugh at everything I say, though. And she just kind of… giggles.❞ Rafe’s face hardens. That protective edge sharpens like a blade. ❝I love her laugh,❞ he says. Every syllable weighted.

And then Sarah deals the final blow, smooth and casual, like she doesn’t even mean it: ❝So it’s just pity, then? You feel bad for her or something? That’s why you’re dating her?❞ The silence is instant. Your smile evaporates. It slips off your face like someone turned off a light. You go utterly still, your hands fidgeting in your lap. And Rafe watches that. Watches the joy disappear from your features like a candle snuffed out. That’s when he moves.

Slow. Controlled. He reaches for the phone and taps the screen to stop recording, the tiny click of the button louder than anything else in the room. The air shifts. It thickens. ❝I don’t give a fuck if you’re my sister,❞ Rafe says, voice tight, low, brimming with restrained fury. He’s not shouting. But that’s what makes it worse. It’s the kind of calm that trembles with heat beneath the surface, the kind that makes your chest tighten.

❝You don’t talk about my girl like that. Ever.❞ He looks at Sarah, but his hand finds yours like a reflex, lacing your fingers together. Grounding you. ❝She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. You don’t have to get it. You don’t even have to like it. But what you don’t get to do, Sarah, is come for her. Joke or not. You crossed a fucking line.❞ His words aren’t loud. They’re deliberate. Measured. Every single one lands like a gavel strike. Sarah blinks, clearly stunned. You feel your throat go tight, your heart caught somewhere between awe and ache.

Rafe turns to you then, his brows pinched with worry now that the fire’s burnt through. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his thumb brushing your cheek like he’s trying to smooth out the hurt. And just as your eyes begin to well—

Sarah explodes into laughter first—sharp, sudden, uncontrollable. You follow instantly, laughter bursting from your chest, your whole body trembling as the tension evaporates in a wave of relief. You reach for Rafe’s wrist, still breathless, tugging him down beside you on the couch. ❝It was a prank,❞ you gasp, wheezing with tears clinging to your lashes. ❝Baby, oh my god—your face!❞

Sarah’s doubled over now, practically crying, wiping at her cheeks between fits of cackling. ❝Dude, I thought you were going to throw me out. I swear you were two seconds from fully snapping!❞ Rafe just blinks. Like he’s still trying to reboot. Then his expression flattens into a glare so unimpressed it’s almost comical. ❝You two are actually fucking insane.❞ He starts to stand, scowl etched deep—but you’re faster. You climb into his lap, straddling him before he can escape, your arms looping around his neck with instinctual ease. Your lips ghost over the edge of his jaw, soft and sweet and apologetic.

❝You were so hot though,❞ you whisper, voice a little breathless. ❝All serious and protective… even when you were mad.❞ Rafe grumbles something under his breath—probably about TikTok and being tricked and how you and Sarah are a menace—but his hands settle on your waist like it’s muscle memory, like they were made to fit there. You start kissing his face—cheeks, nose, and the corners of his tight mouth—until the tension in his jaw melts. A reluctant smile breaks through, slow and crooked, and he buries his face in your neck, exhaling like that’s the only place he can breathe right now. His voice is muffled when he speaks, equal parts stubborn and helpless.

❝Not doing another fucking TikTok.❞ But his arms are locked around you, holding you close as you giggle against him, curled up in his lap like it’s your favourite place—and for him, it always will be.

── ⋆ 𝐲𝐚𝐩 : mwah, thank you angel for this request so so much !! i’ve never actually watched one of these all the way through because my attention span is that bad, but this felt really different from what i usually write. i kinda hate my writing in this one but i hope it still made you smile a little. let me know if you ever want more like this ♡

── ⋆ 𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒔 : @scne-vampire @browniepop62 @urcoolgf @folksriddle

©RAFESSECRET ⋆˚࿔ est. 2025

[warfaredoll]

𝐆𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐭𝐲 𝐏𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞

˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ warfare ⋮ Tommy x f!reader ⋮ pure smut ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖

𝐑𝐚𝐲’𝐬 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞… 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐥𝐬𝐨 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐭𝐲 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐬.

𝐆𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐭𝐲 𝐏𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟐

Tommy had tried… really tried not to think about what Ray was doing with those photos.

he tried not to think about what you looked like in them.

but curiosity, desperation and need got the best of him.

so when the moment came, and Ray was gone just long enough…

Tommy gave in.

his fingers moved as he opened the envelope.

slow. careful. like it was a crime. like he was about to do something dirty.

because he was.

the second he saw that first picture his breath caught in his throat.

fuck.

you were gorgeous.

laid out on what must’ve been your bed, dressed in nothing but soft little panties and a sheer bra that barely covered anything. your lips were glossy, your thighs parted just slightly

there were lipstick kisses all over the paper.

Tommy’s jaw clenched, his throat dry. he flipped to the next photo and it was worse. or better.

you were topless in that one, pussy on display, shyly biting your lip like you knew you shouldn’t be doing this but loved it anyway.

and God, he felt that.

his cock twitched hard in his pants.

he shouldn’t be doing this.

not to Ray. not to you.

but you had become his guilty pleasure.

Every night he closed his eyes, it was your face he saw. your voice he imagined whispering in his ear.

not Ray’s girl. his.

And now, seeing you like this?

Tommy knew he was crossing a line but it was too late.

His hand was already sliding down to unbuckle his pants, his breath picking up, eyes glued to your picture.

He imagined you sending it just for him, imagined how you’d look if you were here on your knees instead of on paper.

His voice broke into a whisper, raw and low.

“Fuck, such a pretty girl… if only you knew.”

Tommy knew he was a selfish bastard for it.

but that didn’t stop him.

He dragged his hand slowly over his cock, already leaking at the tip, rough fingers squeezing around himself tight as he stared at the photo of you like he could pull you right out of it.

His breath came heavy, ragged.

His thumb rubbed over your printed lips, your smile so sweet, like you knew you were driving him fucking insane.

and that’s when the words started slipping out.

quiet. raw. wrong.

“Shit…” Tommy whispered, forehead tipping down against the photo. his hand moved faster now, his hips grinding up into his fist.

“you don’t need some young dumb kid like Ray, do you?”

The words came easier now, falling out like they’d been there all along waiting for an excuse.

“You need a real man” he growled, desperate. “someone who knows what the fuck he’s doin’. someone who knows how to really take care of you.”

He could picture it too vividly.

you underneath him, crying his name instead of Ray’s. looking up at him with those pretty teary eyes, fucked and perfect.

Tommy’s grip tightened, fucking into his hand harder now, chasing the filthy image in his mind.

“I’d make you feel so fuckin’ good. you wouldn’t even think about him” he panted. “you’d be beggin’ for me.”

He shut his eyes tight, imagining it your voice gasping Tommy, your nails running down his back, your thighs clenching around his hips.

“you’d forget all about him” he whispered hoarsely, voice cracking.

“you’d be mine.”

He dragged his thumb across your mouth in the photo, slow and rough, and whispered filthy things he’d never say out loud.

“bet you’d take me better than him” he rasped, stroking himself again harder now.

“you’d open those pretty legs so fuckin’ easy for me, wouldn’t you?”

he could barely breathe, imagining it, feeling it your soft little body squirming under him, begging, crying out for more.

for him.

His teeth gritted

“not like that punk kid you got now. you need a man, you need someone who knows how to use you how to ruin you so fuckin’ good you can’t even remember your own name.”

He fucked into his fist like he was chasing you, hips jerking, forehead slick with sweat.

“You’d be mine” he spoke through his teeth.

“You’d fucking be mine.”

He could see it clear as day you on your knees, looking up at him with those sweet, glassy eyes, mouth open and waiting, needing him.

helpless and perfect.

He shoved his pants down further, groaning as he gripped himself harder, using the ruined panties you’d sent Ray to stroke over his leaking head.

The fabric was soft, lacy, sticky now with his mess but it made it real.

made it yours.

“You’d forget him so fuckin’ fast if you just let me touch you” Tommy gasped, losing control, hips stuttering up frantically.

“You’d love me, I know you would. you’d love me more than you ever loved him.” he said soft this time

He bit down on the edge of his hand to muffle the guttural, broken noise that came from his throat as he came hard spilling across your ruined panties and photo without a hint of shame.

He leaned back against the wall, heart hammering, hands filthy, still holding your ruined photo like it was something his.

even if it wasn’t, even if it could never be.

short and sweet 😜

𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐬, 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 - 𓊆ྀི 𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐛𝐢𝐞𓊇ྀི

[helioooss]

that one summer

synopsis: y/n recalls the summer that changed everything - the one where her and sana end up together

w/c: 4k+

warnings: none, just cute stuff. not proofread so u can call me stupid 💀

a/n: i seriously can’t write fluff. it’s like i have to be profoundly sad all the time or else i can’t think.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

“you know, you’re not bad looking,” dahyun began, halfway through her bowl of kimchi udon, voice too loud for the size of the bench table you were sharing. you didn’t even look up. you’ve known her long enough to smell incoming bullshit before it even left her mouth. “you just give off, like…really intense lesbian loser energy.”

you sighed, dramatically, for effect. “hi, nice to see you too. i’m good, thanks for asking — my weekend was relaxing.”

“relaxing,” she repeated, ignoring you. “relaxing my ass; emotionally spiralling in your room while watching slow-burn period dramas counts as relaxing, doesn’t it?”

“you know what’s funny?” you asked, stabbing a fishball with your chopstick. “i keep you in my life on purpose.”

she grinned, triumphant. “that’s why i love you.”

ryujin snorted from across the table, chin resting on her palm. “she’s not wrong though. you’ve got that sad poet vibe. all hunched shoulders and repressed sexual tension.”

“okay, first of all, my shoulders are not that hunched,” you muttered in defence.

“they kind of are,” lia added, helpfully. “it’s like you’re carrying the weight of your longing.”

“what the fuck does that even mean?”

“it means,” dahyun interrupted, leaning in conspiratorially, “your grand plan this semester is to finally seduce minatozaki sana. and you’re going to fail. again.”

you scoffed. “i am not trying to seduce her.”

“oh, i know,” she replied as a matter-of-factly, nodding. “that would require action. and unfortunately, your version of flirting is breathing the same air as her and then running in the opposite direction.”

you glared at her. “i made eye contact with her once.”

“eye contact?” ryujin repeated. “did she know?”

you were about to respond — something cutting, probably or at least mildly defensive — when dahyun’s eyes flicked up past your shoulder and lit up with the glint of someone who was about to ruin your entire life.

“speaking of the untouchable,” she whispered under her breath, barely able to contain her glee.

your fork hovered mid-air. and there she was; in the flesh. glossy hair bouncing, laugh floating on the breeze, skin glowing like she had a personal lighting rig following her around campus.

sana was walking across the quad like it was a runway she personally commissioned. she was flanked by two other girls — momo, wearing low-rise jeans and sunglasses indoors again and mina, who somehow made a plain cardigan look high fashion.

together, they looked like the promotional poster for an overpriced skincare brand. the one that whispered ‘we woke up like this’ and meant it.

you weren’t even sure what she was wearing — something expensive, probably, but it didn’t matter. she could’ve walked by wearing a paper bag and you would still feel your soul leave your body.

“don’t say anything,” you warned, eyes locked on your food.

“me?” dahyun scoffed, way too innocent. “i would never.”

“i’m serious, dahyun.”

“i know.” and then she did it, anyway. “you should just hook up with yunjin,” she spoke up a little loudly, casually, like she hadn’t just detonated a nuclear bomb in your lap.

every cell in your body stiffened.

“she’s still into you, right?” ryujin chipped in as soon as she caught on, voice higher than normal. “she called you hot in the groupchat over the break. i think she wants to —”

sana and her friends passed directly behind you and she gave you a stern look.

she didn’t say hi, didn’t wave nor glance your way. just kept walking, laughing at something momo said, the sound wrapping around you like smoke. her perfume lingered for a second longer, expensive and dizzying before disappearing altogether.

you stared down at your lunch, cheeks burning, the silence loud in your ears.

dahyun looked smug.

“you’re evil,” you muttered.

“didn’t even blink,” lia chuckled, watching sana’s back. “cold-blooded; goddess behaviour. i love her.”

you rolled your eyes, brows furrowing. “i’m going to drown you in the quad fountain.”

“after class,” dahyun bit back with a grin, checking the time. “we’ve got that feminist film unit with prof kang.”

you groaned. “don’t remind me.”

ryujin leaned back, stretching. “hey, i’m in that one too. it’s the only unit we’ve got together this term.”

“you and y/n are such an intellectual power couple,” lia mumbled, dreamily. “both of you with your annotated copies of ‘the second sex’ and your tragic lack of emotional availability.”

“shut up,” you and ryujin said in unison.

you grabbed your bag, trying not to replay that moment again — sana walking by, cool and detached, like she hadn’t spent weeks texting you over the summer.

as if she didn’t kiss you once behind the service station at 2am in a town where no one knew your name.

you shook the thought loose — you imagined that. you must’ve.

she was back and she was beautiful and she didn’t even look at you. maybe it had meant nothing to her. or perhaps it just meant everything to you.

the walk to professor kang’s lecture was longer than usual, mostly because dahyun wouldn’t stop reliving the train incident somewhere in london.

“so there i was, standing near the doors of the bakerloo line, right?” she explained, gesturing dramatically as if you needed physical markers to understand how public transport worked. “and across from me is this girl looking like she came straight out of a burberry ad. she’s got this coat, this messy bun, a fucking book in her hands, like who even reads standing up anymore —”

“you do,” you cut in.

she spent most of the summer abroad, wandering between thrift markets and dating girls who owned too many books and not enough jumpers.

“it’s london,” dahyun continued, “and i’m on the train. minding my business, listening to arctic monkeys. trying to be mysterious — and i think, wow, i’m in love.”

“you’re never mysterious,” you scoffed, not looking up from your phone. “you actively narrated your last situationship to a group chat with twelve people in it.”

“london changed me,” she solemnly swooned.

you snorted. “you were there for ten days.”

“british invasions don’t take long.”

ryujin laughed at that — and you couldn’t lie, that was a pretty fucking good joke.

you were trying to focus on the story. really. but your stomach was already twisting in anticipation. professor kang’s class meant sitting in a dark room watching emotionally repressed french cinema, which was normally your happy place — except that now, it also meant her.

she wasn’t a part of your major and definitely had no business being in a feminist film unit unless it was for chaos or the kind of emotional sabotage only someone as beautiful and unreachable as minatozaki sana could get away with.

“you think she’s gonna be there again?” ryujin asked, casually nudging you.

you shrugged like you hadn’t thought about it all morning. “dunno.”

“you’ve had a crush on her for three years and you ‘dunno’ her every move?”

“shut up.”

she ignored you. “i’m serious, you’ve been pining over her like a regency heroine. all longing stares and internal monologues. and she’s out here showing up to your classes like it’s nothing.”

your stomach flipped at the sound of her name. three years. it was absurd, really — how long someone could live in your chest without ever being fully yours. you’ve memorised the sound of her laugh from across lecture halls, stolen glances when you thought she wouldn’t notice, saved every candid group photo where she accidentally looked in your direction.

your crush on sana wasn’t even cute anymore. it was just tragic.

“she doesn’t even know i exist.”

“okay, jane austen. calm down.”

because someone like her; sharp, beautiful, untouchable — didn’t fall for someone like you.

you were the friend-of-a-friend. the girl who always hovered on the outside of every conversation while she became the centre of every room without even trying.

“i fucking hate this place,” dahyun groaned beside you, visibly coiling at the sight of a half-eaten sandwich on the floor.

the humanities building always smelled like wet carpet and ambition. a little too hot in summer, never properly heated in winter. still, it was the one place on campus where you didn’t mind showing up early.

mostly because the alternative was arriving at the same time as everyone else and fighting for a seat that wasn’t directly under the flickering overhead light.

dahyun, on the other hand, was thrilled to be late to everything. including this conversation.

you and ryujin were still listening to another one of her subway stories when you turned the corner into lecture hall 2C and you stalled mid-step.

sana was already there.

second row, centre aisle, hair pulled back into a loose plait like she hadn’t just shattered your brain into a thousand tiny pieces. she was writing something in a notebook — an actual notebook, like it was 2007 and she was the main character in a coming-of-age indie film in a white button-up shirt and thin gold hoop earrings. her lips pulled in the corner like whatever she was writing was equal parts interesting and amusing.

“what’s wrong?” dahyun asked, already two paces ahead of you.

you blinked. “she’s here.”

“who?” she turned, then followed your gaze. “oh my god. again?”

you nodded.

it wasn’t just that sana was there — it was that she was early and calm and looked like she slept for twelve hours on egyptian cotton sheets while you spent the night trying to psych yourself out of caring that she existed.

again, three years of pining over her.

and not the casual type, either. not the oh-she’s-hot kind. no. this was the ‘i wrote a poem about her once and then deleted it immediately because it made me feel insane’ kind — the one that made you irrationally nervous around women who vaguely resembled her.

you weren’t even sure when it started. probably during first year when she helped an elderly tutor carry a box of textbooks up three flights of stairs, or maybe during one of those awful welcome mixers where she complimented a stranger’s jacket and made it sound like a love song.

you tried so hard to forget it and be normal, but crushes on girls like sana didn’t just pass…they turned into atmospheres and filled rooms.

as if summoned by the chaos of your own internal spiral, she looked up and met your eyes. it was less than a second. a flicker. but it was enough to send your brain into complete meltdown.

she held your gaze, smiled small and knowing — then turned back to her notebook like she hadn’t just destabilised your entire sense of reality.

you felt it like a tiny quake inside your ribs.

“you’re blushing,” dahyun muttered, eyeing you suspiciously.

“shut up.”

“no, seriously. you’re glowing. it’s like she’s the sun and you’ve just sprouted petals.”

“please be normal.”

you slid into a seat somewhere near the middle, limbs stiff and useless. dahyun sat beside you, already pulling out her laptop, while ryujin appeared from nowhere once again and dropped into the row behind you, chewing the end of her pen like she had no idea how attractive she looked when she did that.

“what did i miss?” she asked.

“sana,” dahyun answered without looking up.

“oh,” ryujin leaned forward. “jesus, what is she wearing? is that a linen shirt?”

“white,” you confirmed, eyes locked on the powerpoint in front of you, even though your brain had stopped processing anything that wasn’t minatozaki-related. “gold hoops.”

“you’re done for,” she mumbled, chewing her pen again.

the lecture was a blur as soon as it began.

professor kang was dissecting the final act of a film none of you had understood, something about erotic distance and the use of silence as tension.

you tried to take notes. really, you did, but sana kept moving; uncrossing and re-crossing her legs, shifting slightly to the side when someone entered late, running a hand through her hair in the kind of absentminded gesture that could launch a thousand ships.

ryujin passed you a note halfway through the class: be honest. would you die for her

you scribbled back: already am dying

dahyun leaned across your desk and whispered: “you could talk to her, you know.”

“we’re not doing this right now,” you muttered sternly. that shut her up, for now.

the hallway began buzzing with end-of-period chatter. students filtered out in slow waves, some lingering to chat with kang, others off to the café or their next lecture.

you and dahyun were walking out of the class; slowly because ryujin was taking her sweet time.

“she’s probably off seducing someone with her critical theory knowledge,” dahyun complained. “last week she bagged an architecture major by talking about angles. angles, y/n.”

“we’re not seeing her until dinner,” you laughed under your breath, backpack slung lazily over one shoulder. you were about to suggest heading to the café when you saw sana standing outside…like she was waiting.

leaning against the rail, arms crossed, looking entirely too good for someone standing in front of a concrete building with flickering hallway lights.

too bad she would never know she was the reason you hadn’t breathed properly in over an hour.

“act normal you stupid idiot,” she groaned, stopping dead in her tracks.

sana looked up and waved. at you.

“hey,” she said easily, tucking her phone into her back pocket. “you were really quiet in class.”

dahyun turned to you, slowly, the look on her face somewhere between horrified and deeply impressed.

“uh,” you managed to croak out. “just tired, did lots of reading before the start of this week.”

“you didn’t hate the film, did you?” she asked, her head tilting slightly. “i thought it was better than last week’s. less…tragic, more real.”

you smiled, butterflies erupting in your stomach. “yeah, no, i liked it.”

“hmmm,” she hummed, as if considering that answer. “you’ll have to give me your notes, love. i zoned out during the part about mise en scène.”

dahyun physically turned to face you, jaw clenched like she was holding back a scream.

“of course,” you answered too quickly.

“anyways, i have rehearsalsnbut…” she paused and smiled, leaning in with her voice low. “check your phone, okay?”

you stared at her as she she was pulling away, waving at dahyun — who looked physically incapable of blinking and slipped through the crowd with that same effortless grace that made everyone else feel clumsy by comparison.

your phone buzzed. one message.

from: sana ⭐️

look at this photo mum just sent me. make it your lockscreen?

attached was a photo of you and her standing on the beach, arms wrapped around each other, both of you barefoot in the sand. your face half-turned to hers. her eyes closed, smiling like summer lived inside her and the sky was cotton pink behind you.

you locked the screen immediately.

dahyun’s jaw dropped. “what the fuck was that. and did she just call you love?”

“nothing.”

“let me see it.”

“no.”

“y/n!”

“you’ll have to kill me.”

she lunged for your phone, you held it above your head like a kid hiding a crush note. “this is insane,” she complained, pacing. “she’s messaging you. i hope it’s a sext.”

you didn’t say anything because your hands were shaking and your mouth was dry and for the first time in three years, it didn’t feel like a crush anymore.

it felt like the beginning of something you weren’t sure you deserved.

but maybe — maybe — she thought you did.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

the summer that changed everything

it was a sunday.

the kind of sunday only small aussie towns could pull off — where the air felt slightly too still ane warm, as if the whole place was holding its breath. the streets were quiet, the main road half-shuttered; church bells had rung once that morning and now the locals were scattered across verandahs with tall glasses of something cold and alcoholic, their dogs asleep under their chairs.

witchcliffe was the kind of place you drove through without realising. blink and you would miss it. it was pretty much one long road, a community noticeboard that hadn’t been updated since march 2020 and a pub that doubled as a bottle shop and tripled as the only place in town with mobile reception if you stood on the bin just behind the fire station.

it always moved at its own pace, probably slower than most — the town itself never quite let go of the past.

your nan’s shop sat at the far end of the street, half-hidden by vines that had been growing since the late 70s and still hadn’t been trimmed properly. the sign above the door read ‘witches things’ in faded gold paint, though it was more of a general suggestion than an actual business name.

it was a bookstore and a flower shop. and depending on what was in stock, an antique store too. everything inside was mismatched — sun-warped paperbacks piled between brass candle holders, bouquets of native flowers sitting beside chipped crockery, dried lavender and rosemary hung from the ceiling.

the air smelled like pressed petals and old wood — like a museum of forgotten memories.

you had been working there since the start of the summer break, visiting your nan and recovering from another semester of academic burnout and unresolved queer yearning.

it was easy work, no rush and customers unless it was a thursday market day or someone got lost looking for the bakery even though it was a street down.

as you sipped your third cup of coffee while flipping through a collection of australian poetry, the door slammed open and the bell above it shrieked.

slammed, like it had something to prove.

“hello?” someone called out, irritated, the word curling at the edges.

you turned and perched your head up, startled. and froze. sana. standing in the doorway; flushed; sweating; annoyed.

what the hell, you thought as your entire body stalled.

she looked exactly as out of place as you felt seeing her there. one hand on her hip, hair tied back with sunglasses perched on her head, the other hand gripping a dead phone. her shirt was designer, half-unbuttoned from the heat and her shorts looked like they hadn’t seen grass in years.

she was also beautiful; glowing; exasperated.

and suddenly in your nan’s shop?

you blinked twice, just to make sure you weren’t hallucinating.

“hi,” she repeated, dragging the word out, eyes scanning the room like she was either impressed or deeply concerned. “are you the only one working?”

you stood up too fast and almost knocked over a jug of daisies. “uh, hi, yeah.”

she huffed, clearly on the verge of losing it. “my car broke down. and my phone’s dead. and this whole street is closed. is this town, like, allergic to capitalism or something?”

you swallowed a laugh, tried to seem normal. “it’s sunday.”

“so?”

“so everyone’s either hanging around church…or drunk by the lake. those are the rules.”

she threw her head back with a groan. “oh my god. i hate small towns — so why is this open?”

you shrugged, trying to ignore the fact that your heart was beating out of your chest. “my nan doesn’t like rules.”

sana rolled her eyes. “well, thank god for your rebellious grandmother.”

she trailed off when she took a proper look at you. eyes narrowing, recognition flickering across her face like a match catching flame.

her phone was clutched in one hand; expression screaming she was not used to being inconvenienced.

“…you go to our uni, right?” she asked, stepping closer. “one of lia’s friends.”

you nodded slowly, trying not to combust. “yeah.”

“right,” she said, already half-distracted. “my phone’s really dead. do you have a charger? please tell me this town has electricity.”

you cleared your throat to hide your laugh. “yeah, we even have running water.”

she didn’t smile, but her eyes flicked over you again, this time with something less sharp. “real funny, y/n.”

the way your name rolled out of her tongue made you want the ground to swallow you whole as it sent shivers down your spine.

she had no idea the effect her existence had on you.

you motioned toward the old floral loveseat behind the counter, one of nan’s many inexplicable pieces of furniture. “you can sit, if you want.”

she followed your gesture, slipping around the end of the desk with the ease of someone used to being wherever they wanted. you handed her the cable and watched — somewhat stunned — as she plugged in and sank down onto the ancient velvet sofa tucked in the corner behind the register. it was the designated break couch, perpetually covered in old magazines and bits of potpourri.

she didn’t seem to care.

you hovered awkwardly for a moment, still not sure if this was real.

this was minatozaki sana from uni: queen of the faculty group chats, seen most recently on someone’s instagram story at a fancy rooftop bar in sydney, glowing like a movie star.

and now she was…here.

“thank you,” she breathed out, already connecting her phone. “i swear i was two minutes away from knocking on a random house and crying on their welcome mat.”

you watched her, still stunned.

she leaned back, eyes flicking across the shop. “what are you doing here? it’s so unusually out of the city.”

“visiting my nan,” you answered, still trying to wrap your head around the fact that she knew you. “she owns this place and offered me a job for the summer.”

“cute,” she smiled. “you always seemed like a book person.”

you looked down, trying not to combust as you leaned against the counter in front her. “what about you?”

“family,” she said, waving vaguely. “we have a house out near the wineries. i only come down when my parents force me to ‘reconnect with nature.’” she made air quotes. “but i got bored, took one of the cars. regretted it immediately. hence, dramatic breakdown on a rural road.”

you hummed, trying not to show how completely unprepared you were for this conversation. “witchcliffe isn’t exactly your usual scene.”

she laughed at that, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “you’re not wrong.”

you gestured toward her car outside — a matte black g-wagon that looked like it had never touched dirt until today. “you sure that thing didn’t reject the countryside on purpose?”

“i think it did,” she scoffed, crossing her legs. “and now my cousins are off wine tasting and i’m stuck with no aircon, no shade and no signal.”

“hey, at least the breeze today is nice,” you offered her a small smile.

for years, she had been something distant —untouchable and always on the other side of a crowd or an instagram story or a locked phone screen. she never noticed you, not really, not past the occasional hallway smile or tutorial nod.

and now here she was. in a dusty shop that smelled like lavender and mothballs, sitting on your nana’s secondhand loveseat; still complaining about the heat and she was looking right at you.

and you remembered, then, that you had always kind of hoped you would meet her like this. away from the noise and her orbit. just…somewhere quiet.

somewhere slow.

“you look different,” she muttered, almost thoughtful. “i don’t know what it is.”

you looked away from her gaze, nervously. “it’s the lighting.”

“no,” she admitted. “it’s…nice. i like it.”

you glanced up, startled. she was still looking at you. and this time, she smiled like she meant it.

and that was the beginning.

-

the thing about witchcliffe was that nothing really happened twice.

if someone came into the shop on a monday, odds were you wouldn’t see them again till the next week. sometimes it took a full year.

most people passed through — tourists, day-trippers, accidental wine pilgrims who took the wrong turn off caves road and ended up in town because their gps stopped working. it wasn’t a place you stayed in for long.

and it definitely wasn’t a place people like sana came back to.

so when the bell above the front door jingled and you looked up to see her there again — this time with a paper bag and two coffees in hand, you honestly thought you might’ve been hallucinating.

she was dressed more casually now, her hair down, a grey singlet tucked half-heartedly into the waistband of soft denim shorts. the morning sun caught the edge of her sunglasses as she lowered them down onto the counter.

“look who’s not dead from heatstroke,” she said cheerfully.

you blinked at her in disbelief. “you came back.”

“don’t sound so surprised,” she replied, placing the paper bag between you. “i’m bored and you’re the only entertaining person in this town. also, you gave me phone access in my time of need, which in my books makes us trauma bonded.”

you raised an eyebrow, but your lips tugged up anyway. “so this is a pity friendship?”

“no, this is a real friendship,” she corrected, opening the bag to reveal two perfectly golden pastries. “the kind built on lamingtons and sausage rolls and codependency.”

before you could speak, your nan’s soft humming drifted in from the tiny kitchenette; you weren’t sure how to explain any of this as you glanced at the back of the store.

“is she here?” sana asked, like she already knew.

“yeah,” you mumbled. “she’s usually doing inventory or sorting flowers by now.”

“can i say hi?”

you didn’t have time to answer because your nan emerged from the back, wiping her hands on her apron, eyes lighting up when she saw you finally weren’t alone.

“and who’s this lovely girl?” she asked, voice lilting with that gentle charm she never dropped, not even when yelling at the magpies outside her bedroom window.

“uh,” you said, suddenly awkward. “this is sana from uni. she’s…just visiting.”

“just visiting,” sana echoed with a sweet smile, already slipping into her most likeable self.

your nan nodded, delighted. “well, it’s good to see you finally making some friends around here, bub. you’re always cooped up behind that counter. it’s not healthy, you know.”

you felt your face burn and sana gave you a side glance, smug.

“you’ve got strong features,” she added, looking right back at sana. “like a movie star.”

“i…thank you,” sana grinned, visibly thrown off for the first time in awhile.

“sana,” nan said, eyes twinkling. “do you like gardens?”

your stomach dropped. “nan —”

“if you’re staying, you might as well help us with the garden,” she continued, peering out the window. “the lavender’s overgrown and the rosemary’s starting to look like a haunted hedge.”

you turned, alarmed. “she doesn’t have to—”

“i’d love to,” sana interrupted, smiling with the kind of fake sweetness only the rich could master under pressure. “absolutely, can’t wait.”

you stared at her, sending her a ‘what are you doing?’ look.

she smiled innocently.

“great,” your nan said, clapping her hands. “i’ll grab the shears.”

as soon as she disappeared, you turned to her — mortified. “you don’t have to do this.”

“i mean,” she said, sipping her coffee, “how hard can it be?”

ten minutes later, it turned out trimming bushes with garden shears was a lot harder when you had acrylics and barely any upper body strength. sana, to her credit, didn’t complain until she was halfway through her first attempt.

winding stone paths half-swallowed by weeds, bush roses climbing up old wooden trellises and wild chamomile growing like it was trying to take over the town. your nan had always been proud of it, even if it refused to behave.

your pop had planted most of it when they first moved in, long before you were born.

“i’m not gonna lie,” she grumbled, squinting. “this is the first time i’ve ever touched gardening tools.”

“yeah, i figured,” you chuckle, crouching beside the lavender bush. “you’re holding it like it’s a snake.”

“it feels like a snake,” she muttered now, a bit breathless and reluctantly following your lead.

you showed her how to trim from the base, how to hold the stems so they didn’t snap, how to tell which flowers were still thriving and which were already past it.

her hands were too delicate. her nails were too perfect. her top had no business being this close to dirt. and yet — she did it and listened while whispering multiple words under her breath and wiped sweat off her forehead dramatically.

“i’m literally dying,” she groaned after another minute. “this is how i go. humble death by gardening.”

“you’ve been out here for less than one podcast episode.”

“it’s been hours.”

“do you need water, princess?”

“yes. and a fan. and maybe a new personality that thrives in rural towns.”

you laughed then, a real one at that — and she looked up at you like she had been waiting for it.

she went quiet, looking down at her palms. “if you don’t mind, can i ask what happened to your pop?”

you glanced toward the end of the garden. the bench under the wisteria still had a sunhat left on it from your nan. pop used to sit there most afternoons, hands crossed over his stomach, radio playing soft old country songs. you hadn’t been able to look at it for too long since he passed.

“he died quiet early,” you answered, surprising even yourself.

she looked over at you, quieter now.

“she never really dated again,” you said, fingers skimming across the wild daisies. “still talks to his photo and makes dinner for two sometimes.”

“must be nice,” sana smiled fondly. “to love someone that long.”

you looked at her, her eyes were on the bowl in your lap. not the flowers — just the way your fingers moved.

you swallowed. “she says he loved quietly. not loudly, but always.”

she exhaled, slow. “that’s terrifying.”

“why?”

“because what if you love someone who never hears it?”

you didn’t have an answer to that.

“you come here every summer then?” she asked, changing the topic.

you nodded, trimming another stem. “like every break i get, my parents get too busy so i make up for it. she doesn’t ask for much. just wants the shop running, the garden neat. mostly wants the company, i think.”

“she’s sweet,” sana whispered, softer now. “i like her.”

you smiled, glancing sideways at her — pink-cheeked from the sun, her gloves pushed up, covered in dust and flower stems.

so out of place and absurd and unapologetically here. you realised you didn’t mind it, not at all.

“you’re not too bad yourself.”

“oh my god,” she faked a gasp. “was that a compliment?”

“don’t let it go to your head.”

“too late.”

the sun had dipped a little lower. you could smell lemon balm and fresh soil; the only sound was the snip of clippers and the breeze rustling through the trees.

you didn’t say it, but there was something strange and surreal about watching her kneeling on dirt in your nan’s backyard, sunlight filtering through the leaves, hair falling loose from her bun, trying to untangle wildflowers without snapping their stems.

it was a side of her no one on campus ever saw. not the queen bee or the perfection — just a girl, sweating in someone else’s garden, trying to do something kind.

you pulled your gloves off slowly and she looked up at you, catching you stare.

“what?” she asked, almost defensive.

you shrugged. “nothing.”

you just…hadn’t expected this, hadn’t expected her.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

the quad was almost too bright. the sun filtered through gaps in the canopy above, dappled patches of light crawling slowly across the grass like time itself had nothing better to do.

lia had claimed the shadiest spot, sitting cross-legged on her tote bag like it might save her from the horrors of concrete dust. her sandwich half-wrapped in foil was balanced beside her open textbook, long forgotten as she squinted hard at the line she had been rereading for ten minutes straight.

dahyun, sprawled beside her, was holding her phone above her face, thumb scrolling endlessly. probably hinge, again.

you were the only one reading something with actual intent; circe this time, though you zoned out twice in the same chapter. your knees were tucked up against your chest and your hoodie sleeves were pulled halfway over your hands. every now and then, a breeze passed through and you caught a whiff of the grass.

dahyun had been complaining on and off all day about not seeing the photo sana sent. you were just glad she finally shut up about it.

for now.

the said phone sat face-down beside your thigh. the photo was your lockscreen now, but you’d gotten good at hiding it, tilting your screen away from curious eyes or tucking it under your thigh like you were hoarding state secrets. in the picture, your arms were around sana’s waist with the impossible sunlit beach glow around both your faces: you looked happy and she looked like she was happiness.

you turned a page of your book, rereading the same line: ‘but in a solitary life, there are rare moments when another soul dips near yours, as stars once a year brush the earth. such a constellation was he to me.’

“hey,” dahyun’s voice interrupted your thoughts. “how does sana even have your number?”

you flinched.

the question was casual, a little lazy, but it sliced right through the quiet, shattering whatever false sense of safety you built under the weight of that sky.

lia finally looked up, suspicious. “wait…yeah. why does she?”

you glanced between them, swallowing.

“umm,” you started, blinking hard at the grass. “i…saw her this summer, just at the pub. she didn’t have a ride, so i offered. designated driver and all that.”

dahyun blinked. “you were driving someone else?” you can’t even give me a lift!”

“not the point,” you muttered, rolling your eyes.

“hang on,” lia added, pushing her sunnies up. “wait a fucking second — didn’t you spend the break in witchcliffe?”

“…why?” you asked carefully, fingers fidgeting with your bookmark.

“because someone i know spent a chunk of their break there,” she continued, already making connections you hadn’t given her permission to make. “like the entire summer, according to my head. with family, went winery-hopping, living freely. i’m ninety-nine percent sure her name was sana.”

you exhaled through your nose, eyes darting to dahyun. she was still staring at you like she was waiting for you to break into song and dance. you shrugged. “we ran into each other…that’s all.”

she tilted her head. “ran into each other where? witchcliffe’s the size of my childhood bedroom.”

“i told you, the pub,” you lied, voice too even. “she needed a designated driver so i offered.”

lia’s brow raised. “…and she just gave you her number?”

you sipped your water. “people do that sometimes.”

“you told me your summer was boring as shit,” dahyun reminded you.

“it was.”

“but you got sana’s number?”

you didn’t answer because in truth, it wasn’t going to stay a secret for long. not with how you looked at her and not with how she looked at you.

you turned your face toward the lawn, shaking your head. mingyu and his pack of sports science boys were shirtless again, as always, playing what looked like a makeshift game of footy with someone’s beach ball. they weren’t even good at it, just chaotic and loud, clearly trying to impress the group of girls nearby.

sana was among them, legs crossed, head tilted back slightly as she laughed at something mina said. she looked like the centre of a world you would never be brave enough to orbit.

and then she turned and her eyes met yours, in a way that suggested she caught you looking. your breath caught. in panic, you looked away fast, biting the inside of your cheek.

mingyu said something to her and she smiled at him.

you shouldn’t have cared.

you really shouldn’t have cared.

but your stomach twisted anyway. that ugly little thing inside you reared its head again, the one that whispered about how she used to look at you like that, in your nan’s backyard, holding your hand like it meant something.

maybe she did that to everyone.

“what was that look?” dahyun asked, catching the flash of something in your expression. “you’re jealous.”

you shook your head. “i’m not.”

“liar.”

“i’m not!” you insisted. “she can talk to whoever she wants, i don’t care.”

“so why are you glaring at mingyu like he owes you money.”

you stared at your book. “i just don’t like mingyu,”

that, at least, was true. mingyu had once told you you looked like the ‘cool girl’ in every art-house film who died at the end…whatever that meant.

“what are you gonna do if she talks to him again?” she asked once more, grin creeping.

“nothing,” you groaned. “because it’s none of my business.”

your phone buzzed once beside your leg. you flipped it, face down again.

“was that her?” lia asked.

you didn’t answer, watching the way sana sat…so effortless, so sure of her place in every space and felt something ache in your ribs. there was a softness in her you had seen, something most people missed under all that shine. you weren’t sure if it was yours to keep or just something she let you borrow.

and right now, you didn’t know which would’ve hurt more.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

the night it ended

the sun was bleeding out over the water, soft orange slipping into coral, into pink and that particular kind of blue that only shows up when a day is nearly done.

you both walked the trail in silence, sandals in one hand, the other tucked into the pocket of your hoodie. sana had insisted on the coast — even if it meant parking three streets down and sneaking past that old caravan site where a dog barked at every passing shadow. she said she needed air. real air, not the perfumed kind clinging to the flowers in your nan’s shop. and you didn’t say no. you never did when it came to her.

now, you were sitting side by side on the dry grass near the cliff’s edge, sea breeze licking the skin above your collar. sana’s arms were wrapped around your waist from behind, her chin nestled lightly against your shoulder. you could feel the slow rise and fall of her breath, anchoring and familiar — and the way her fingers played absently with the hem of your t-shirt.

“it’s stupid,” she murmured eventually, soft enough that the wind nearly carried it away. “but this might’ve been the best summer of my life.”

you didn’t know what to say to that. it made your chest ache. so instead, you tilted your head slightly until it brushed hers and hummed. just a little.

she laughed under her breath. “you and your humming…i never know what you’re actually thinking.”

good. because if she knew, if she had any idea how many times you pictured this moment, not just this summer but the past three years, the library glances and corridor silences and the way she once asked to borrow a pen and you forgot how to form words; you might’ve crumbled.

you didn’t tell her that.

instead, you said: “the sea’s loud today.”

she nodded against your shoulder. “it is, but i like it. drowns everything else out.”

you glanced down at her hands, still folded loosely around your thighs. “are you nervous to go back?”

“no,” she replied, a little too quickly, then she hesitated. “maybe. but not about uni or anything…just, you know, the noise again. pretending things matter that don’t; i think i forgot how to be that version of me.”

you closed your eyes and tried to hold still. you didn’t want to speak in case it broke whatever magic was still suspended in the salt air around you.

“what about you?” she asked, lifting her head. “are you nervous?”

you swallowed. “not really.”

lie.

you were terrified.

you didn’t know what would happen when you were back in the city. whatever this was, whatever it had been here — in the quiet rhythm of a town built on secondhand stories and wildflowers —didn’t have a name. there was no label and rules. it had just happened softly like a match that had struck and kept burning instead of dying out.

but you were realistic.

girls like her didn’t fall for girls like you. not in public and in places with mirrors.

she would forget, probably. or tuck you away as a sweet little memory from the country. something she would laugh about in five years with a glass of red in hand and someone else curled up beside her.

but you wouldn’t forget. god, you already knew that.

“thank you,” she said then, fingers tightening just slightly. “for making this place bearable.”

you smiled, even though it hurt. “you did all the work, i just handed you a phone charger.”

she nudged her nose against your neck. “still…i’m glad i found you here.”

you didn’t say anything. you couldn’t.

instead, you leaned back into her, letting the wind pass over you both and watched the sun disappear silently while also selfishly wanting to memorise everything: her warmth against your back, the way her hair tickled your cheek, how the coastline blurred at the edges like even the world couldn’t bear to let this moment end.

maybe you were just another summer to her.

but she would be something you carried. always.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

the quad had fallen into a familiar lull now, lia had finished her sandwich, but was still staring down at her open textbook like it had personally offended her. dahyun, now horizontal on the bench with one leg swinging off the side, was aimlessly still scrolling on her phone. you were halfway through circe, eyes glossing over lines you couldn’t quite absorb.

you could feel them both thinking, though. it was the kind of silence filled with suspicion, a shared current of quiet calculation. dahyun had barely spoken in the last few minutes; an act of restraint so unlike her that it made your skin crawl. chills.

lia hadn’t looked up once, but you could tell her brain was still turning over your half-baked lie from earlier. witchcliffe, sana, a phone number, the designated driver story. you weren’t sure how long the lie would hold before one of them cracked it open.

so you sank deeper into your book, telling yourself you didn’t care and that the soft unease crawling up your neck was just the sun.

you didn’t see sana until you heard her voice.

“hi, lia. dahyun,” both girls stiffened beside you at once.

you looked up slowly, instinctively, heart stalling somewhere near your throat. and there she was: wearing soft linen trousers and a butter-yellow long sleeve tucked casually at the front, as if she hadn’t just walked straight off a campaign shoot.

sana looked sun-kissed and glossy, with a pair of sunglasses perched on her head and her hair clipped back in that way that always made her look even more unfairly pretty.

she smiled at them both, warm and easy like it cost her nothing. it made something in your chest pull tight.

“you must be…reading the same sentence for the tenth time,” she grinned, voice quieter now, eyes flicking toward your open book.

you blinked. “huh?”

she smiled again. “hi.”

you nodded dumbly, your mouth felt dry. her eyes were soft, a little careful in that way you had come to recognise over summer…like she was trying not to scare you off.

then she reached into the little brown paper bag she was holding and before you could react, she was handing something to you. “babe, i made you this.”

babe.

your whole body went still. the word fell too casually off her tongue, like it belonged to a habit, not a mistake. and she was already holding out half of a croissant sandwich; cut diagonally, the way you liked it and wrapped neatly in parchment.

“tomato, pesto, bocconcini,” she added. “couldn’t find the balsamic glaze you liked though, so i skipped that one.”

you stared at the sandwich, then up at her.

you could feel it…both lia and dahyun turning to stone beside you, eyes digging straight through the side of your head like they were telepathically screaming.

sana either didn’t notice or chose not to. she just smiled at you with that glint in her eye, one only you would notice; it masked hurt behind something light…you hadn’t texted her all week, you hadn’t replied to that photo. and you knew, by the soft shift in her posture, that she felt it.

you took the sandwich slowly. “thanks, sana.”

your voice sounded too stiff.

she held your gaze for a second longer, just long enough to say something she wasn’t saying. then she pulled her sunglasses down from her head and onto her face like nothing had happened.

“see you later,” she mumbled and with one more look, this time at lia and dahyun, she walked off.

the silence didn’t last.

“what the fuck,” dahyun hissed, sitting bolt upright, phone forgotten. “what was that?”

“that was a croissant sandwich delivery from a literal goddess,” lia muttered, closing her textbook. “and she called you babe. what do you mean you were her designated driver? was it a wine tasting tour of her mouth?”

you groaned, burying your face in your hands. “can you both relax —”

“oh my god, you’re fucking dating her.”

“i’m not —”

“you participated in a summer romance!” dahyun pointed at the sandwich like it had cursed her. “you so are dating. she just called you babe in front of us and she handed you food like it was the most normal thing in the world. do you know how many people would kill to be her little sandwich recipient?”

lia leaned closer, scanning your expression like a detective trying to force a confession out with pure silence.

you shifted uncomfortably, fingers twitching around the sandwich. you didn’t know what to say because no, you weren’t dating — not exactly. whatever it was, it had never been spelled out. you hadn’t even talked about it properly since summer ended.

but that didn’t stop your cheeks from burning. or your throat from going dry. or your eyes from drifting toward where sana had disappeared even though you knew she was long gone.

you took a bite of the sandwich instead. it tasted like everything you weren’t ready to talk about.

dahyun was still staring. lia narrowed her eyes again…you sighed. this was only the beginning.

and like god had intended, the bell rang sharp through the air, cutting through the quiet chaos of whatever the hell that was. lia immediately stood, giving you one last look, part disbelief and the other impending interrogation, before muttering something about her psych lecture.

dahyun naturally lingered.

“you’re telling me everything later,” she said, not asking. her tone carried the weight of three years’ worth of inside jokes and long-winded rants and best-friend privilege. “don’t leave a single detail out or i’m making ryujin waterboard it out of you.”

you gave her a weak smile. “i’ll think about it.”

she narrowed her eyes. “tonight, loser.”

you watched her walk off, the half-eaten croissant sandwich still in your hand, the weight of your unread messages and whatever label this thing was pressing against your ribs like an unspoken secret.

what were you supposed to say? that you accidentally spent the summer falling for the girl who was supposed to be untouchable? that it started with a broken-down g-wagon and ended with your heart tangled in a situationship you couldn’t name?

you weren’t even sure if sana wanted to name it.

you turned toward your own class building, adjusting your bag higher up your shoulder, hoping to sneak through the next few hours in peace…until the sound of hurried steps behind you made your stomach sink.

“wait.”

you turned just in time to see sana approaching, sunglasses pushed up on her head again, jaw slightly clenched. she wasn’t exactly storming toward you, but there was a determined kind of energy in her walk that said she wasn’t here for a casual chat.

“y/n,” she called out, voice lighter than her expression. people were looking now; heads turning, hushed whispers growing louder because her reputation always made her a walking headline, but now that she was clearly walking toward you, you felt the shift in attention like heat.

“can we talk?”

you looked around. “umm…now?”

“yeah,” she confirmed, already gesturing toward one of the side corners near the glass stairwell. “unless you wanna keep pretending we’re strangers.”

you followed her, trying not to trip over your own feet, aware of the curious eyes following. your pulse was too loud in your ears and once you reached the quiet stretch near the wall, she turned to face you, crossing her arms.

“you’ve been acting weird,” she began, eyes piercing yours. “like you’ve got something to hide from me. is it yunjin like your friends said earlier?”

you stared at her. “what?”

“or is it someone new? do you like someone else now?” her voice stayed level, but there was a defensive edge to it — sharp and vulnerable all at once. “am i supposed to be okay with you acting like i’m not your girlfriend and just some sort of fling you had over the summer?��

your stomach dropped as you tried to find the words to explain how someone like her was so out of reach for you.

you exhaled slowly. “sana…i just didn’t wanna assume. i thought you — i don’t know. maybe you were just bored and it was just a summer thing.”

her expression faltered.

“i didn’t want to make it weird,” you went on, voice quieter now. “you’ve got this whole world. you’re you. and i’m just…not.”

she looked at you like you just said something unspeakably stupid. the kind of look you had seen from her before when someone suggested decaf coffee or low-rise jeans.

except now, her eyes were glassy; hurt and searching for answers in yours.

“i fell in love with you,” she said it like it was the simplest truth in the world. “i am in love with you.”

your breath hitched.

and then…before you could process it and apologise or deny or say anything at all, she leaned in and pressed her lips against yours.

it felt certain, right there against the grey concrete wall, with your mouth still half open in disbelief and your hands still awkwardly at your sides. it wasn’t rushed, but it wasn’t gentle either — it felt like punctuation. a ‘there, now shut up’ type of kiss.

when she pulled away, your thoughts were nothing but white noise.

“come on,” she motioned. “you’ve got class.”

you nodded dumbly, moving beside her, your shoes scuffing the pavement as you walked in sync. or tried to, anyway. you instinctively put a bit of distance between you two, unsure of what to do with your hands or your heartbeat.

“closer,” she demanded.

you stepped in by a centimetre.

she gave you a withering look before rolling her eyes and wrapped her arm around your waist, pulling you against her side like it was the most natural thing in the world. she kissed your cheek too, soft and slow, right beneath your eye.

“i didn’t know you were gonna hard launch me today,” you muttered, cheeks burning. “i could’ve dressed better.”

“shut up,” she laughed, brushing her thumb across your wrist. “you look like you always do.”

you weren’t sure if that was a compliment, but it made your stomach flip anyway. you passed by a bench near the quad just as ryujin finally emerged from a building, mid-sentence with some poor girl, only to freeze when her eyes landed on you.

you caught the exact second her jaw dropped.

her arm fell off the girl’s shoulder.

you winced. “i have so much to tell her.”

sana hummed. “you think she’s more dramatic than dahyun?”

“definitely not.”

she kissed your cheek again. “pity.”

and you kept walking. just the two of you. like it was always meant to be this way.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

the end.

[calebrity]

good cop, bad cop

► ghost x female reader x soap

cw. smut, 2x1, dubious consent, oral, piv, angst, mc is traumatized; policemen! boys are there to ‘save’ her, a fair amount of infighting, obsessive/possessive behaviors, hinted stalking, hints and allusions of foul play, corruption, freeze response, soap is unhinged; ghost is the more ‘moral’ of the two but just as bad, p with plot, 18+ content

an. about 10k words of a fic i procrastinated on since Christmas :] anyways u can read this on ao3 if u want & reblogs/love is so so appreciated <33

The tires crunch over a gravel driveway.

There’s always the familiar face or ten in their line of work, but hers is a pretty one they find themselves wishing to both avoid and see more often.

It’s the neighbors who’ve called this time.

To be fair, the ringer usually varies between the grandmother next door or the guy and his daughter, but the little lady herself stays quiet. People care for her though, whether she’s aware of that yet or not.

Even the cats (bold: curling up to Johnny’s calf and sniffing his boot laces, Simon unable to shake them from underfoot) seem to hold some special affinity for her- because they walk the boys right up to her porch steps and purr. Must be their way of repaying her for all the cans of tuna she leaves out for them in the evenings.

It’s not the first time deputies have been dragged out this far down rural roads on behalf of the scared little thing next door, and Johnny has this nasty stirring in his gut that tells him it won’t be the last.

Domestic cases always struck a certain chord in Simon. Familiar but bitter. All that made it worser was the fact that it was near impossible to put it onto paper so long as the abuser in question walked the thin line of just plain shitty and bad-tempered and- yeah, okay, that guy definitely hits his girlfriend. It’s a liminal space that vermin like her boyfriend get to tread freely in; legally-speaking, they’ve broken no law until legally-speaking, the girl is dead. Found dumped in some ditch or crammed in the closet in a heap of bloody blankets.

And fuck if that doesn’t sound just awful.

Ghost has seen too much for one man alone, but his stomach twists at the idea all the same. He’s become a little fond of her. He hasn’t made any real attempt to deny that, and Johnny can only poke him for it until he’s accused of the same.

That bastard is a free man, as it stands, but Simon’s heard the yelling, you know. Caught the tail-ends of some verbally-scathing fight. His barbed words that leave her with unshed tears and near unresponsive when Johnny performs a wellness check while Simon pats down the fucker. Pulls him aside to tell him very politely to find some shitty motel for the night or someplace else to bum at.

That- those not so subtle warnings both men generously give to the douchebag- are not exactly permissible by the law they so rigidly uphold. But Ghost can’t really help the hostility that burns in his gut when he catches those glossy doe eyes quickly darting away from his as if he’d strike her in the face if she dared hold eye contact- and a few heavy touches during protocol pat-downs never fail to make the wanker obedient. Wards him off for a night or two.

Fuckin’ coward.

Johnny’s heard the dishes break before. They’ve never seen the bruises, though. Hard, physical evidence to tuck into a yellow file for an eternity in the metal bin. And she’s too frightened to offer him up and admit his crimes. Too scared to fess up to ‘em.

(As if being on the receiving end of his drunken fist makes you a fucking accomplice—

Oh, hardly, love. Hardly. Simon’s tried to tell you so with as much of a stoic face he can manage in brief chats before either hauling Romeo off to a 24hour holding cell or flipping the bird in the direction of the local inn. But you’ve got your head in the sand. Your heart in your mouth and your words on autopilot.)

N-No, sir, I’m fine, really. I swear. He just— We’re fine.

Trained dog.

Loyal mutt.

A good girl. Too good, maybe, for her own good.

It’s frustrating, a bit. But Simon understands, he does. Soap can’t fault her for that, either. She’s scared. It’s a traumatic response if they’ve ever seen one.

When they unload from the patrol car, Johnny tips his cap to a curious, familiar onlooker and she gives him a knowing frown. The caller, probably. She’d have to be interviewed or asked a few questions at minimum (the rudimentary stuff, like, so what’s going on tonight, why’d you call us out here?)

—But all that for later.

All that for after they ascertain she’s okay.

The absence of her boyfriend’s rusted pick-up in the gravel road is noted with a corrugated brow and an un-stuffing of Simon's hands from his pockets. The Scotsman nearly trips over one of the plastic geese stood in the lawn because he’s too busy reading his surroundings.

Bastard could’ve taken her… Maybe it finally reached the boiling point. The POS heard the familiar dial of nine one one and booked town with the poor thing in tow. Finally blew both their brains out like he’d been wanting- relayed by a very concerned Mrs. Smith from across the street with a shake of her cane.

She’d said she’d heard awful things come from the trailer home. That that young man needs Jesus. And the girl a real man to love her.

We’ll see about it, ma’am, Johnny’d said with a warm smile, the more socially gifted of the two, about gettin’ that bloke an audience with the big man upstairs.

(As for the latter part-… Well. He’ll keep it professional.)

Simon’s heart is knocking in his chest by the time he knocks on her frail door; it could blow down with a puff of cigarette smoke. It has before. It’s on its last leg, now. Has been for two months. That fucker needs to be put in a psychiatric ward if not a dungeon. If not a headlock where Simon's arm is so tight his ugly mug pops off and fucking rolls.

Any man who hits on their woman or the fairer sex warrants a response like that. Quick and efficient. Violent, very.

Johnny throws a nervous glance around the sordid trailer park and briefly contemplates scribbling down possible witness accounts- that neighbor is still on standby, after all- but the curtains rattle timidly at the window and he quickly forgets the thought.

Johnny’s antsy. Very antsy. Tonight feels different, somehow, the situation more urgent like it’s climbed steadily to its zenith. The air is balmy; early summer carries a fading warmth in its evening winds, and the salty reminder of the sweat beading on Soap’s forehead. Slicking his palms.

Many thoughts cycle through his head in that segment of time where he and Ghost crowd her tiny concrete steps, waiting for a sign of life opposite the door. Anything at all before one of them kicks it down.

They’d have reason to.

Seconds feel like hours. To hell with it— Johnny’s always been well-versed with the art of exaggeration— it feels like they wait there for decades, his heels clipping a restless tune against the cold grey, Simon’s shadowy hues fluttering with an uncommon anxiousness.

“Takin’ her time, ain’t she?”

“No tellin’ what happened, Ghost.”

“Could’ve ran with her... Taken off.”

Fuck. Yeah. That’s the shared fear, huh? Johnny begins to broil the more he’s left to his own inner dialogue. Not just because of the heat.

The brunet adjusts the shiny gold badge pinned to his muscled chest even though it’s perfectly in place, and forces a dry, harsh laugh. It lacks humor.

“That thing’s a skip on wheels… cannae have made it too far, aye? Who knows, perhaps we can intercept ‘em…”

Already assuming the worst has already happened: a learned habit integral to them both.

Ghost gives a grunt, and thus concludes their chat.

Fuck. He should’ve killed that bastard while he had the chance. To hell with not having enough proof of wrongdoing, he’ll do it now! If that bastard musters up enough stupidity to pull back up the bend, Johnny will shove a pistol to his fuckin’ head and turn off the bodycam—

He swears to that big man upstairs—

When the door finally, slowly opens, she’s hiding behind it with a shiner.

✦✦✦

Gloved hands certainly don’t deliver a cushiony touch when they help the thief into the backseat of the cruiser, but considering his brutish personality, Ghost is almost gentle.

Almost.

The suspect (although, the guy was quite literally caught with his hand in the tip jar; there’s very little speculation to be had on just what happened) isn’t their guy— their guy being the doped up asshole that split town and has yet to return to the shitty trailer park— unfortunately. But Simon, quite unexpectedly, wishes it was.

It’s fine, you know, unresolved leads and targets. It’s too common in their line of work to actually hold any real ire against. If they did, cortisol levels would be at an all-time high.

At least,… it’s usually fine. The occasional thug or do-badder will weasel out from law’s tight fist and ditch town, and then Ghost and Soap will have one less useless piece of shit to worry about until they do decide to come back.

The boys mostly take it like water off their backs. Easily. Sometimes frustrating, but what can you do?

They have a town- a familiar web of individual livelihoods- to keep safe right here, and what they won’t do is jeopardize that by embarking on some long, drawn-out journey when results aren’t even promised. For some asshole, no less, that’ll probably end up OD-ing or stabbed in some back alley by another one of his kind.

It’s cruel, but they chose that life. It’s only right they die in it. Simon thinks as much, at least. He made it out of the shithole while he still could, and he has zero regrets turning his back on his past. There’s always a choice. Always.

But this guy- the doll’s ever the romantic boyfriend—

Ghost tightens his palm unwittingly. The petty thief he’s tucking into the car winces and Ghost grunts in response, withdrawing his arm without much concern- but it does help him to refocus.

The job. Yes, that’s right. He’s on duty. Shouldn’t be thinking of her. Well, more than it’s required of him, anyway, extending from the bounds of what’s professional for a veritable enforcer of the law.

The door shuts with a clink and then Simon makes it all of five steps, wrapping around Price’s black and white-painted car, before the big guy himself stops him.

What he’s met with is a somewhat dissatisfied glare. (Not hostile by any means, no, the geezer has his cranky streak, sure, but he’s always been more lenient with him and Johnny... But dissatisfied.)

Capt’s eyes, a kind brown, wrinkle in preparation to scold him.

“Gettin’ a bit ahead of ourselves, are we?”

“Wot?”

Tan, leather-covered fingers move to adjust the cap on his head, “Held our guy a li’l snug back there, didn’t you?” And then suddenly, that singular trace of warmth in his eyes peters out into a steady, sort of paternal exasperation. “I’ve said it before, Simon. Getting rough with them will land yourself into a world of shite- last time, I was barely able to cover for your arse. D’you think Shepherd would look the other way again?”

Ghost sniffs. Blinks slowly— feels a prickling in his chest that time has made almost foreign- a prickling called shame- and kicks dirt over it. He glances from the positively pissed brunette to the cab behind him, spotting a hunched silhouette in the back of it, before looking back to Price.

“Don’t think he’d be particularly pleased.”

That earns him a curt clap on the shoulder and blunt fingers that actually manage to rattle him- but just slightly. Considering he’s creeping up on forty years old, John has done a laudable job at warding off a full-fledged dad bod (although, with his new baby boy on the way, it’s a nearer thing), but the dad strength is absolutely there. Oh, a hundred percent.

“No, he wouldn’t,” he says with a smile too tight to be fully genuine. Too curved. Simon’s observed it from a distance, and usually it only means trouble for whoever’s on the receiving end of it, but while his superior is in fact bristled over his minor transgression, it’s more an outburst of stress than anything else. Simon won’t lose his head for it.

Ghost’s acquiescence must dredge some sympathy from Price though, because he lets out a deep sigh and softens his grip on the blade of his shoulder.

“That case with the doll’s toying with you, innit?” The call-out is sudden, not foreseen.

“You’ve been reviewing the paperwork all week. Look, lad, you n’ Soap are my best men. If I get a call, I’m sending you two out first. If your head’s been screwed with- I need you to screw it back on,” His voice is calmer now, more genuine, too. It carries an affable, yet no less firm tone; the menthol whispers of cigarette smoke. Simon can hardly believe he made it a sentence without fishing one out from his pocket and lighting it, but right now isn’t the time to congratulate the old man on making it a day without falling back on his favorite vice. He used to say he’d eventually quit, but now he’s dropped the pretense entirely. He never will.

Captain’s words hit, though, in a way that’s a bit unanticipated from the blond- but he supposes it’s only natural that if he’d ever be read accurately, it’d be by his senior.

He pats Ghost on the shoulder one final time, “Don’t be chasing after shadows, alright?” If that muppet wants to run? You bloody let him. ‘Member: even if we don’t get to him right away, something else will.”

Chasing after shadows? Ah, that’s one way to put it. Actually, Ghost isn’t even so sure anymore if he wants to find the girlfriend-beating bastard: Price just got done lecturing him over poor conduct (not for the first time), but Simon knows that once he gets his hands on that slimy son of a bitch, there will be a whole lot more to mark him up for- poor conduct the least concern.

Maybe it’s for the better. Letting it go.

“Yes, sir.”

Simon delivers him a stiff nod, and then they part ways: the older one stepping for his car (if Simon cared more, he’d say a small prayer for the poor asshole in the backseat, in for a bad time if he tries to spark conversation with the grumpy driver), Ghost heading for his own vehicle with his cohort waiting inside.

The Scotsman is probably stewing in his own impatience, high as his energy levels are. Simon’s almost surprised he doesn’t approach the car and see his nose pressed to the fogged window, but—

“And Simon,” a gravelly voice calls.

He turns around.

“Relay that to Soap for me, would you?”

—Maybe it’s more than inherent, overabundant stamina that’s got his partner in cleaning up crime so wired.

…Maybe that whole case with the doll- the big blowout with her quote on quote boyfriend and his leaving after striking her in the pretty face-

Maybe it’s screwin’ with Johnny’s head, too.

✦✦✦

There came a time, after all his unfulfilled promises, vows to bettering himself- your relationship- that hope became the equivalent of stupidity. Naivety.

It’s only been two weeks since he slammed the door on your face and booked town, but you’re still reeling a little. The impact of it shook the home. Shook you. Over the course of a handful of days, you experience a strange dichotomy of tiredness and short bursts of energy that convince you you’re happy— for an hour or three, until the absence of him sinks in all over again. He left. He left you. And you’re glad for it. You’re safe for it. You’re destroyed.

How could he- How could he fucking leave you? After he made you this way?

Breathe.

The reminder comes in a bitten voice. Claws its way from the kinder recess of your brain, whatever is left of it.

Breathe.

That’s right. There’s still life left in the tank for you.

You peel the covers off you and slink to the bathroom. A girl peers back from a dirty mirror. Familiar but not. It’s a small effort to mask your shock that stares from your reflection- because for a moment, you’re stunned at just how tired you appear. You look unhealthy. Sad. Like… damaged goods.

And you miss him. You really, really think you do.

You’re much better off without him- that’s obvious. That’s never been the question, whether your general wellness would be vastly improved as soon as he sunk back into whatever hole he crept from. No, what you constantly found yourself questioning was whether or not you’d be able to recover after the whirlwind that is your boyfriend finally swept through. Would anybody else love you, was what your internal dialogue begged to know. Could anybody else love you?

What does that word mean, anyway? The girl in the mirror offers a weak chuckle. And then she releases her white knuckles from the marble counter- and she tears up the more she keeps her eyes steady on the bruised right one.

It’s a new low, even for him. His fist was too heavy, too fast, hurtling at you at a speed that left you with no time to react.

It’s a quiet affair, when you begin to cry.

Salty, bitter. Furious girl.

Truthfully, you were never quite allowed to be angry- or express any sort of emotion for that matter- so long as he shared the now empty slot of the bed beside you, but now that he’s disappeared, that wrath hugs you like a weighted blanket.

You hate him. You love him. You—

You wrap yourself in that heat. Sleep in it.

You wish you made good on all your countless, brittle promises to leave him before he up and decided to beat you to the punch- and in more ways than one. In this stupid trailer home, the lack of your (ex? does this equate to his dumping you?) boyfriend shuffling around chips away at you; the air feels stale, like there’s too much of it for you alone. Simultaneously, you can’t get in enough of it.

The world is closing in on you. Your chest hurts. Your veins heat with rage and brokenness, your pulse begins to jump sporadically and then you begin to hyperventilate every couple hours or so. Saying under your shivering breath, come back home. I’m sorry. I’ll be good- (and then, trying to recall ever not strictly minding your p’s and q’s around him-)

I’ll be better.

Ah, you’ve heard that one before.

It’s weird to hear it played back to you in your own voice, though, because it’s usually not you trying to butter him up and convince him to stay, but the other way around. You suppose the tables have sort of turned now, but still… You… You’d never hit him- not like he did you. Just the thought of it spears between your ribs and twists in like a corkscrew.

A feeling of disgust settles in its wake.

Oh, he’s left you so, so screwed, and yet the chief concern that possesses you all night is this:

Wherever your baby is, does he miss you, too?

✦✦✦

You think about leaving. Starting anew, somewhere.

Part of you has half the brain to want to plan it out, lay out a big meticulous blueprint for your life- carefully mark dots on a map and connect them with a newfound resolve. You’re young still (even if it feels you’ve seen it all, like he’s aged you). Hardly twenty two. When you were a little girl, you’d somehow come to the simple conclusion that all humans lived until the exact age of one hundred; if that’s true, you’ve got just shy of eighty years left in the tank.

You could make it.

The other piece of you doesn’t care for the destination- so long as it’s away.

In the corner of the yard, towards the side of your little home, sits a trashy RV your boyfriend bought as a scrap to remodel later. He never did. You guess he never will. Sometimes you curl up by the window and stare at it, dream of painting the rusted lines a girlish pink or refurbishing the weathered seats with neon leather.

You would be crazy and in love with life, traveling all over the country without giving so much as a rat’s ass about anything or- or him.

Your family hardly has the room in their heart for you. You’re no prodigal daughter, just a welcome absence in a bitter, hollow home. Between scars that don’t ever quite heal (because time is not an apology, as much as you may ache for it to in their stead) and a basal fear that you’ll step through the front door and turn twelve all over again, there’s no real want inside of you to go back to that place ever again. Maybe it’s why it was so easy for you to leave, to fall headlong into the pretty lies of a pretty, albeit temperamental man and decide to let him close the door of his pick-up behind you.

So… where do you go?

You don’t know.

You don’t know.

Your piece’a crap boyfriend left and took his piece’a crap truck with him. Doubt it’ll even carry him fifteen miles before it pops its tire and swerves him into oncoming traffic or a post on a street he swears wasn’t there when he blinked. There’s always the option of an uber or asking the kind old lady next door to use hers for a quick grocery trip, but without a means of transportation, you’re more or less stuck here.

You swallow a thick lump in your throat, dust your red knees off when you stand, and will yourself to pretend you don’t care about any of it. Any of it at all.

Bare feet swish over the crumb-ridden kitchen vinyl and you make a mental note to sweep it later. It’d be good to properly clean this place up, especially now that the number one mess-maker is gone (tossing his empty cans everywhere, leaving cigar butts by the kitchen sink and his thin flannel button-ups on the arm of the couch).

If you’re really trapped here, you might as well—

A knock draws you from your muddled thoughts. Just like that, the haze thins out; when you peek through the curtains and spy a familiar deputy, hands tucked under his armpits as he idly sways on your porch stoop, a clarity washes over you.

…Oh, right. Other people exist. It’s not just you in this world.

He’s whistling something. You hear it as he waits, trading energy between the balls of his feet, patience leaving in subsequent ticks on his face.

…But you’re a mess right now, no makeup, no bottoms, just a long shirt and panties, and one of your braids have unraveled in the short span you’ve spent just twirling and trudging from quiet threshold to threshold—

Another rap at the wood, piercing blue eyes catching yours as the curtains flutter shut with a surprised gasp- and you know you’ve no choice but to answer. He’s seen you. You can’t pretend he didn’t. That… would be awkward.

It’s… fine. You can just hide behind the door when you answer, like last time.

He’s a cop, anyway. You’re sure he’s seen it all.

Whatever happened with you, and your case?

It’s the usual.

✦✦✦

He’s here again.

Well, they both are. But sometimes they feel synonymous to each other- because they’re both endlessly gracious to you (in their own ways; Johnny is more open with his kindness, Simon more subtle) and have lent a hand more times than you can count. They both wear the same uniform, in any case, cloaked in the signature, police-issued garb and a thick belt to keep their gun and cuffs (and hands, when they don’t know where else to put them).

That’s mostly Johnny, though. In the past few months, you’ve learned a few things about him over impromptu housecalls and rides to the local market (because you’re literally stuck here otherwise, until you find a way to get your shit together), tucked in his passenger seat with your knees in your arms.

First of all, he’s a good guy. Not like some of the sleazy cops you see on television who abuse their impunity and talk from their ass every time they wave someone over with their hand. Johnny’s got a fairly big head, you’ll give that much, but his ego is all pretty harmless. Makes you think there must be someone back at the station holding a tight ship, because otherwise he’d have cut free from his leash a long time ago. He’s a big dog. You can tell he likes to bite, yes, but only the bad guys- which is actually a comforting thought.

He’s good to you, to the elderly woman next door and her little rascal grandson who spams your doorbell until you agree to come out and look at the frog he caught. You’re thankful for Johnny’s presence in those times because he’s like a buffer between you and the things you can’t handle, a well-meaning but boisterous little kid a part of that.

The brunet sends him off with a ruffle of his hair, saying, ‘Alrigh, alrigh, leave the woman alone now, aye? Scamper off to yer gran, sure she’s worried boot where ye’ve gone,’ then he turns back to you on the porch step with a smile and takes a bite of his sandwich.

Secondly (and this falls under the first category you suppose, but this is more significant in your mind), he’s patient. Knows there’s something wrong with you- with your situation, that it’s left you a little sour and weak- but he never presses the envelope when it comes to the seedier details. I mean, the station’s already taken your formal story as well as the accounts of neighbors, so it’s not like he doesn’t know…

Even as he looks you in the eye, with his cerulean, rapt gaze that you swear doesn’t blink sometimes, you think he might be turning over the tale in his head. It’s one as old as time: girl falls in love with a fucked-up guy and pays for it.

Johnny stares hard, but he never stares like he’s judging, no…

Admiring, if nothing else. Albeit you’re not so sure what there is to admire— you’re some backroad hick with scars still fading and a sort of social clumsiness that only comes from rickety relationships and the hesitance to brush your fingers with his because they’re big and calloused and he could use ‘em to hit you. But he doesn’t. He never does. You wait for the blow and wait forever.

Ghost is like a ramrod. In all regards.

He doesn’t bounce from heel to heel all the time like his Scottish counterpart, wired with endless energy, no, he stands straight and tall and with his hands at his side. Big and unmovable. His eyes are a soft, dark brown but they’re cold. You were sure that first time you’d met him that he felt nothing- a man made of steel and the dents that misshape it. He seemed heartless.

It took a little time- and lots of careful observation, much overthinking- to realize it, but you were wrong. Simon is kind. (And you do call him that now, Simon; you’d said it on accident, but he didn’t seem to mind or shoo you off by saying something about oh no you gotta call me by my sign ‘cause i’m a big bad cop blah blah blah. He’d let out a microscopic breath and his lashes fluttered, and with a dip of his chin to acknowledge your profuse apologies, he’d muttered, s’alright. And since then he’s been Simon.)

And things have been alright, lately.

The boys drop by (sometimes alone, sometimes with the other in tow) for growingly frequent visits and sniff around your weedy little square of property like hounds, but they don’t find whatever the hell they’re looking for. Your boyfriend, probably. You think his scent’s gone cold ‘cause they haven’t found him yet.

You’ve never asked them.

Never mentioned it at all.

And again- thank God that neither of them prod for more information from you, but sometimes you see the silent question in their eyes. Aren’t you curious what’s come of him? Your boy?

But you don’t intend on spilling your heart out to these two kind-hearted, not quite strangers— not when they’ve already done so much for you.

There’s a little wriggling worm in the back of your head that begs to ask just why they’re so adamant on checking up on you at least thrice a week, but you don’t voice that either. It’s a somewhat harsh theory, but they’re probably just makin’ sure you didn’t kill yourself.

…‘Cause that’s what you are now, right? That’s how everyone’ll see you as. Pathetic and fragile like a tattered cardboard box with red tape plastered on each side.

And… It’s okay. You think you’ve come to peace with it. Ain’t nothin’ the folks around here can throw at you that’ll leave a mark; your mama and old man and ex-boyfriend did plenty a good job at that, and there’s also nothing they can say to hurt you because the voice in your head already screams it all.

That’s not to say your heart has hardened, though. No- it melts a little when Simon pulls out the barstool and mutters a soft thanks for the peanutbutter and jelly you fixed up for him. It even gives a weak little stutter when you unlatch the door and scamper off, Johnny’s eyes tracking your bare legs as you run to find shorts, his breathless chuckle ringing behind you.

Even then, in your old daisy dukes, he’s looking.

Stealing glances when you’re behind the counter pouring him lemonade; you assure yourself he isn’t.

He’s… a cop and, although he’s a whit flirtatious, he’s damn near programmed to survey every personage he comes across. With you, he’s looking for bruises and scars and- and you know what? He’s probably not even looking at all (even if you feel his eyes, that stark blue stare that harbors a hunger only men can really carry, burning into your profile long after you turn).

If somebody told you you lost it, you wouldn’t hurt for it, you’d just shrug and quietly understand.

Hey— The heat is certainly doing no favors for your mind fog: Lately, crowded on your narrow concrete porch step with Simon, you’re even deluded enough to think you feel his gaze on you, drifting along the slope of your cheek with an interest that frankly feels misplaced as you’re rambling on and on about the craziness of Honey Boo Boo.

(“Yeah, sweetheart? When you make supper tonight, put it on the telly. I’ll give it a look while I eat.”)

(“Y-You might lose your appetite. It’s not really a show you watch while eating-“

(“It’ll be fine.“)

He doesn’t tell you it’s impossible, that men like him never stop hungering. It’s hardly imaginable, anyway, to lose his appetite when you’ll be sitting there beside him, curled up on the sofa with a plate, pretty as fucking ever as he humors some shitty reality show for you.

He’s never told you, either, how gorgeous you are. Sometimes it’s all he wants to say because horrifically enough, he thinks you don’t know it, that all your self worth and awareness has been birched out of you by that asshole- but he quietly decides to leave that to Johnny.

That bastard’s always complimenting you. Even in the more private setting of their patrol car, bumping through familiar routes, the Scot’s running his mouth about how sweet you were today and how much that fucker didn’t deserve you and— fuck professionalism, can’t he just touch you? Just once-? Just. Ach, bloody hell, Ghost, I’d kill a man just to grab a fistful of her pretty hair and smell. Wannae hug her and wipe away all her fuckin’ memory of him.

Oh, he knows.

Simon will admit this much, with hands that clench the wheel and slacks that tighten a fraction at all the very vivid images his cohort paints for him of their doll: Johnny is annoying- endlessly annoying- but he’s right.

You’re perfect. Sugar sweet. Simon licks over his teeth without thinking when he’s talking to you (contentedly third-wheeling a conversation Johnny’s pulled you into) and feels his mouth water up. He wants to hold you, too, scorch away any and every idea of that shitty old boyfriend of yours, and tuck away your bangs that you let fall in your face because you’re instincively trying to hide from him.

Kindred and beaten. He wants to tell you you’re the same- but still, so much better than him.

…But all that for later.

✦✦✦

At your table, he digs into lasagna with a fork and foregoes cutting it into smaller bits with the knife. You suppose he can make anything digestible; with big enough teeth, you never have to worry. Beside him, Johnny drums his fingers- ungloved, his jacket folded with them on your sofa- on the wood and flashes you a smile when you catch his eyes.

You’ve hardly finished half your plate when you realize Johnny’s is empty. And now he’s just staring, sapphire hues remniscient of arctic plains skimming over you as you dip your chin to scoop dinner into your mouth.

It’s hard to tell what he’s thinking when he looks at you, what it is he’s seeing. You’d never admit that you feel a little unnerved by it. Even the fact that the two policemen who worked your case have become a tangible piece of your reality feels… Perturbing, almost. Four months scurry past with fast feet and leave you blinking back the dust. They weaseled into your sad little life in their own respective ways and you had nothing to say against it.

They were professional. Until they weren’t, until they were friendly.

And then they were friendly—

Johnny’s teeth, white and perfect, sharp under the buttery light of the fixture overhead, glint at you. You’re made to feel inexplicably self conscious by it. He says- with a tone that feels oddly suggestive, like there’s some hidden meaning to it- watching you with utmost interest as you eat, “Was fuckin’ delicious, hen. Ah think ah wannae second plate o’ it. Ye got some more?”

—Until they were not.

Bravely, you glance over to Simon and he’s wolfing down the last few spoonfuls. And he’s watching you, too, from the corner of his eye like some bird of prey.

Reaching over to gingerly pluck a napkin from its holder, you dot the corner of your lip (really just as a way to distract yourself as they stare) and offer a smile. “Y-Yeah, ‘course,” you nod backwards toward the stove where the tin sits, cracking a joke. “Just gotta get there before Simon does.”

It doesn’t exactly lighten the weird tension in the small space of your trailer home, but it alights Soap’s face with a dazzling grin. Johnny’s laugh is harsh, quick. Too amused. Once, it’d felt like a reward, like an audible confirmation that you were acknowledged in a pleasant, uniquely human way. It wouldn’t earn you a soft slap to the cheek (a wordless warning) or a cluck of a disapproving tongue. Johnny and Simon weren’t like that. They were good.

Two good men.

Your mouth feels dry.

Unease lodges deep in your throat. You swallow it down with some iced tea but it remains after the gulp.

So… maybe they aren’t exactly friendly anymore, or professional- like their shiny gold badges on their chest would demand of them- but they still showed up whenever they were called. Still shooed your crude, reckless boyfriend off the street when he was drunk and causing disturbances. And that day when he ran off and left you—

They were there for you.

Nobody else is there for you.

So yeah, okay, maybe this situation is a little strange, you’ll admit that much, and you vaguely wonder if their boss back at the station is even a mite aware of what his underlings get up to in the short windows their patrol trips will allow- but it’s not like you’re used to normal.

The boys are just a tiny bit weird with how they’ve been starting to forego the polite knocks and enter on their own accord, with how they hover when you’re cooking and how Johnny will absentmindedly pull you onto his lap on the couch before you squeak and alert him to reality- the reality that you’re just some stupid domestic case he handled, not his girlfriend. But you’re weird too, aren’t you? I mean, by that logic, you’re so, so far gone.

Damaged goods, a voice rings in the back of your head. You don’t thank it for its provision but it helps to steel your nerves, the reminder that you can manage these things because they’ve already struck you once before.

B-But again— I mean, your ex-boyfriend did leave you messed up… so maybe, just maybe, it’s all in your stupid head after all. You’re making these mountains out of molehills when it comes to their behavior.

Simon sets his utensil down. “Nah, go ahead, Soap. I had my fill,” he comments, and he’s right, he had a massive serving- but his gaze, umber and intense, consistently flickers back to you.

Your kitchen— no, your whole world— feels heavier with every cocksure syllable that comes out his scarred mouth. “Gotta save some room for dessert, anyway.”

You roll your suddenly dry lips to moisturize them before chiming, “d-dessert?”

You’d thought supper was it for tonight. You only have so much groceries to ration with the budget you’re losing and recipes to pull out your sleeve. In any case, the plan for this evening was to make the boys dinner (because they arrived- without prompting, per usual- and you figured it was the polite thing to do), and then send them on their merry way.

Once Johnny gets his seconds, they’re gone.

They’re supposed to be.

T-They’re staring- the both of them still. Staring hard.

Ghost snags your attention. Keeps it leveled intently, maybe a little nervously, on him. Johnny is just a blur of brown hair (his stupid mohawk he has no right to rock), sun-speckled skin and electric blue eyes beside him.

Ghost is all darkness from where you sit- pale skin broken up by colored scars, a black thermal and shadowy eyes; the only highlight in them, white and blocked, is the small portrait of yourself looking back at him. She looks healthy. But she still looks frightened.

“Dessert, pet,” he solidifies, gentle but firm. No room to argue here. He’s a cop anyway, not like you could get a good speaking point in when the threat of being cuffed will always dangle somewhere overhead.

But! They would never do that to you. Abuse their power. Abuse their manhood, hold your womanhood against you. Simon and Johnny are not like your boyfriend. Ex. Ex-boyfriend. They’re not.

“I- I don’t understand,” you laugh. “I don’t have anything to make.”

Johnny perks up, as if it’s his job to placate you, “Dinnae worry, bonnie. Ye’ll see soon enough. Me n’ Simon here got a lil’ somethin’ ta repay ya.”

“Wh- what, like a cake or something?” With a shake of your head, you pinch your brow and try to make your humor seem solid, real. But in the back of your head you know they’re trained to spot the faults, the little fractures in even the most rigid of personalities; to pin them and capitalize off them.

“I didn’t know it was my birthday.”

Soap chuckles again. There’s no doubt in your mind his mirth is genuine. “Ach. Not quite... Reckon you’ll be feeling like it, though,” he assures, unruffled as ever as your world spins. Not his world, he is fine from where he sits. “Happy li’l lass on her birthday.” It’s strange to see excitement- so audacious and stark- glimmering on a grown man’s face, but it’s there in abundance, softening weathered lines into an almost boyish look.

You’re fooled into a second of peace by it, until he shoulders the conversation- and the unspoken omen of it- over to his buddy.

“Tell her, Ghost. Lookit her- haha, she’s a curious one. Bet she’s jist as eager, aye?”

“Don’t get ahead o’ yourself, Johnny,” Simon murmurs, before his jaw flexes and he says after a thoughtful beat, regarding you quietly, “You’re scarin’ the girl.”

Are you scared?

You don’t know anymore. But if you are, you’re glad for their telling you about it. It’s hard to discern your feelings otherwise. You need the waving red stop signs and green lights to inform you of what’s happening inside of you and if it’s allowed.

It’s as pathetic as it is necessary.

As you clean up dinner, the boys circling behind you like vultures to roadkill as you helplessly busy yourself with the dishes as a last try at warding them off, you wonder where your baby is.

You wonder if he misses you there.

✦✦✦

It’s such a big stretch.

It takes your breath on the way in and when he bottoms out, you find yourself wishing for the couch to swallow you up in one of its crevices; you could disappear there and join the collection of missing pennies and dimes and go brainless for a bit. That’s a reprieve you don’t find, though, not here.

You should get those ideas of self autonomy and rest out of your pretty little head. You’ll always fall into the hands of some man- your abusive boyfriend or otherwise.

Four are roaming you, now, with all the reverence in the world but you don’t know how to respond to that touch. Soap’s fingers leave your forehead after he removes the lock glued there with a tut of his tongue, perspiring at your temple as your insides accommodate to the slow intrusion.

Simon thinks you’re something plucked from the renaissance era, your hair splayed around your head in a halo, one hand balled to your breast while the other presses into the cushion with discomfort.

The cushions are floral, a sage, ratty green patterned with what looks to be blushing carnation and their sprawling vines. It frames you perfectly: a nymphet in her garden, at home, with a distinct look of distress that’s almost painterly as he bullies his cock inside. It’s not like it’s the first time you’d laid on your back for a man- your ex- but it’s been a while, and even then it wasn’t anything this big.

Simon is monstrous and intimidating. You feel as if you’re being deflowered all over again. Startled and sweating.

“Gentle, Simon,” is all you can hope to plead for as, from your side, by the arm of the couch behind your head, a corded set of legs lumber over and stop.

Ghost lets out a grunt over you, voice strained as he stills his hips for a few moments. He’s kind enough to give you some time to adjust, but you think he needs the breathe as well. You fit him tighter than a latex glove and it’s hard to think, let alone make a reply but he manages.

“Being ‘bout as gentle as I can be, sweetheart.”

Inches from your head, Johnny bends over to ruck down his jeans and the too-tight, pesky denim, letting out a curse when he can’t peel them off fast enough. It’s been made very obvious just how eager the two were to become acquainted with you in a more physical way, but it’s Soap who takes the cake in embarrassing himself for it. Though to be fair, he doesn’t seem to mind much, kicking off his pants when they pool at his ankles, untucking himself from his briefs with urgency.

“Ach. Ye better be gentle with her. We owe her tha’, don’t we? Although…” Soap starts, a certain glint in his electric blue eyes that’s reminscient of glowing orbs between dark trees at night- the gaze of a beast- when you glance up. Your eyes are bleared when he cups your jaw under his palm and stoops over, sampling a weirdly affectionate kiss before grinning. That smile is just as predatory, even as his eyes soften into a delirious sort of fondness.

“S’pose we already did her some big favors, aye? Fixing things around her place, mowing the yard…” he drawls, “we even took oot the rubbish for our li’l babe.”

Simon stills at that. Tenebrous, heavy eyes dart across the bridge of your nose but you just moan and try to roll on your side to evade the fat cockhead that slithers through your walls, dead to all else but it. He lets out a deep breath, shifting impossibly closer on his knees and regathering your legs in his hands before giving an experimental thrust in. Testing the waters. Testing if you’re a screamer or a whimperer.

Johnny’s a whisperer— muttering filth in your ear as he awkwardly bends down again and collars you with a wet kiss to your neck. This whole arrangement feels less like a raunchy, impromptu hookup and more like two mutts pissing on a fire hydrant to mark it as theirs. Albeit, the brunet would call it your birthday, because this is a gift to you, right?

He looks like he’s got something to celebrate, anyway. Handsome face weighty with arousal as he gives his hardening length a few strokes, but his body language conveys mirth as he rocks on his heels.

“Isn’t tha’ right, pretty girl? Yeah? Ye don’t have ta nod yer head- jist go on and give Simon a nice li’l squeeze— Simon, d’ya feel her? Fuck. Yer so much better off without that—“

“Johnny,” the blond warns, and as Simon readjusts you once more for extra comfort, pulling you closer on his cock, you watch through a blurred lens as the strange fog in oceanic blues clears out, long lashes fluttering over drooping lids.

For whatever silent conversation of theirs you’re not privy to, Johnny acquiesces. Dust settles in the wake of that feral, almost victorious glint in the Scotman’s eye. He’s just a whit gentler as he straightens his spine and guides himself to your lips.

And, you know, in some parallel universe maybe you wouldn’t be sucking some good-cop-bad-cop’s cock as he feeds it to you in second-long segments. Puts you on a sort of portion control- but your belly already feels full with his buddy as he begins to set a slow pace, heeding your earlier plea, and you’ve not much appetite for it but he’s a giver anyway.

No, you’d be traveling on the road and cursing over potholes in a refurbished RV and in love with life—

“Fuuuckin’ hell,” The taste of him draws you back to real life. He’s salty, hot. Your lips wrap around him clumsily and you do your damnedest to not gag as it curves down your throat. He’s massive in his own right; thick and veiny and ready to go even if you hesitate at first.

Simon clamps his eyes shut, wanting to block the sight of his mate’s cock out, and Johnny’s crinkle with pleasure.

He hisses through perfect white teeth. “Wooh. There ye go. What a goooood fucking lass. Ye seein’ this, Simon-?”

“Tryin’ not to.”

“-Och- she feels so bloody good. Bet her pussy’s even sweeter-“

“Reckon it’d feel even better for all three o’ us if you shut your gob, Soap.” Simon snips, wetting his bottom lip as it gets hot and dry in the room and your small living space whirls with the patent smell of sex and sweat. It beads at your forehead, clumps up on the underside of your thigh that the blond keeps hitched up; trickles over the girth of his fingers and your face. When he spots it there on your jaw, he’s tempted to bow down and lick it up. Johnny’s member sliding in and out of your parted lips- swollen from all the prior kissing- wards him off well enough, though.

Head lolled on your shoulder, a calloused but bizarrely gentle hand supporting it as you hollow out your cheeks for Johnny, your eyes flit over to the coffee table. You barely catch it over the din of groans and loud vulgarity interwoven in sounds of praise- the vibration of a phone- but it’s there amidst the slapping skin and deep breaths and makes you look over.

Your phone screen lights with a message. Interest piques in you as you rapidly blink back the clouding of your tear ducts, thankful for the relief even if only mental to coax you from your present situation: the hands and fingers and eyes raking all over you.

It’s a notification of some sorts. An alert, you think, but not the atypical kind from a contact saved in your phone. It seems like it’s from an official account but you only spy the tail end of it before your screen fades to darkness.

“Lookit me, pet.”

We regret to— Identified— Something something- you’re not paying it all that much attention anymore because Simon aims a palm at your tit and gropes it, keen on the small whimper you reward him with even if it’s muffled around Soap as he cants himself past your stretched lips. Johnny likes it, too, practically preening as he tightens his clutch in your hair and croons down at you, rocking his hips into your wet, fucking divine mouth with a growing loss of self restraint.

He gets it, he has to be considerate and all— but damn it all if your tongue doesn’t feel fucking perfect as it licks up the flushed underside of him as his engorged tip squelches at the back of your throat.

You’re everything he dreamed of and then some.

Ghost’s voice, again, slithers through the barrage of noises as he seeks the wet heat between your thighs. “Sweetheart, have a look.”

You don’t really know if you want to, but you do have a look. Your eyes flit up to his before following his own to the juncture of you both, his fat cock spearing you open— the proof of it jutting in a subtle bulge along your abdomen. It’s horrifying. Something straight from an alien movie- a parasite wriggling inside you— but when you instinctively clamp down, Simon groans and looks like his breath’s been stolen when he meets your eye again. “Good girl. You’re a good girl.”

There’s a haze all around you. Sickening. Dizzying. The boys smell of the world outside and distinctly masculine; they don’t kick their boots off at the door and rather track all the mud inside- tainting you with it. This was your space. After your boyfriend left, it was supposed to be. And you were meant to be free.

Johnny lets out a long string of expletives as he nears his edge, heavy balls hitting your chin every so often when he presses the envelope on just how far he can reach down your throat before you start hurling out dinner. These two individuals were the only ones there for you when your whole world, without warning, started to cave at its middle, and you were always grateful for that, endlessly. But when the brunet comes down your trachea with a roar, holding your head in place as you gag, and tells you with a breathless grin to thank him for it-?

Fire lashes in you.

Your brow corrugates. A flash of anger, indignant and humiliated, arises from the baser part of you and the blond leans over you to slap Johnny away. “Gentle my fuckin’ arse. Don’t make her swallow that shite. Now piss off, lemme finish alone w’her.”

The gleeful look on Johnny’s face withers into a scowl. “What?! That’s no’ fair! C’mon, she knows it was just a joke. Tell the ghost, sweetie, tell him ye want me ta stick around.” He winks. “That it tastes good.”

After grudgingly swallowing it down, there’s certain moment where you just splutter, desperate to catch your breath as the cop- almost ruefully- slides his dick out from your mouth and deliberates on tucking himself back in. Then, Simon takes your face in his big paw and guides your eyes to his, his own dark caramel ones simmering with something intense, unable to be named.

“You don’t want him stickin’ his nose in our business, do ya?” He all but grumbles, “he’s had his turn-“

“With her mouth! I can go again once yer finished, Ghost,” he pops up a pointer finger, “dinnae underestimate—“

Briefly, Simon pauses, tosses him a quick look and barks, “Quiet, Johnny. You’ve had your go at her. Told you we should’ve bloody waited, she’s hardly ready for one o’ us, let alone both. Y’just couldn’t fucking wait?” (You get the inexplicable inkling that he’s making an indirect address to something else, then.) He sighs, steadies himself, refocuses on the moment and the way your cunt feels as it hotly mouths him in, lapping at his veiny sides. “Hop off it a moment, lad.”

Soap scrunches his nose. “She’s a strong woman. She can take it. Think ye should stop selling her short-“

“Both of you just stop already!” you murmur through the gap your hands make as they seal over your flushed face. You bushwhack yourself with the boldness of it all. It was long past the due time to grow a backbone but it was getting late and you were cranky and you still had to finish tidying the kitchen as soon as the boys took their leave. They’ve overstayed their welcome and as the reality of it all dawns upon you, the initial freeze response thaws into irritation.

“You two are both leaving right after—!”

A laugh, harsh and vigorous, cuts you off. “Ach, I don’t think so, hen. Cannae get rid o’ us that easily.”

Confusion reshapes you. Your face pinches and you look between the men anxiously as Simon resumes his pace again, clasping your hips on both sides as he drives himself home. You gasp and lie back again, fully recumbent as you cover your mouth. It makes you go numb all over again, the warmth of his body over yours stifling, his girth stretching you out deliciously as he repeatedly hits that one spot in you that points all rational thought to the door.

“But y-you have to leave—“

“Well,” Johnny cuts you off, then, and Simon doesn’t bother straightening him out this time. He lets him talk. He supposes, anyway, that for as dedicated as he is to his good cop role, he’s really no better than Johnny in this singular regard.

With you.

Blue eyes twinkle with delight. Simon’s grunting over you, his small sounds of pleasure picking up in volume and frequency, and you get the idea he’s gonna come soon.

Soap chuckles, knowing something you don’t, “Yer right, actually, hen. We are leaving. But yer comin’ with as well, aye?”

(Fuck your bastard ex-boyfriend for never fixing up that piece of shit RV in the back. Fuck him fuck him fuck him.)

✦✦✦

It doesn’t take much for Price to get Simon’s attention. A short, yet no less urgent word over his walkie is what has him in this time.

When he walks in, the chief greets him with a tight smile over the rim of his coffee mug and nods to the seat opposite his desk. “Simon, good to see you. Sit.”

So Simon does. He takes a few steps forward (it’s all it takes for his long legs to reach the center of his office), shuts the door behind him, and pulls out a chair. John’s desk is messy, though the blond knows that’s not how he prefers it— paperwork piled up in a small mountain, nearly spilling off the mahogany edges; there’s hardly even enough room for his steaming drink or the shiny little standee with his name on it, but he manages in one way or another.

Dark hues appraise the clutter for a second too long before finally returning the eye contact expected of him. He’s not used to feeling uncomfortable, Simon, but the more the clock hanging overhead the door clicks, the more Simon readjusts himself in the almost too-small leather chair and awaits his superior’s words.

They finally come. “You know why I called you in here today?” Simon’s also not used to feeling like a disobedient child called to have a chat with the school’s principal, but it crosses his mind for a moment anyway. He wets his bottom lip, and gives Price no verbal response. Better to wait it out, he thinks.

The brunet’s smile pinches as he gives a few fast blinks.

Ghost spots something, then, amidst the hodgepodge of documents and wayward pens. Under the small desk light with a crooked neck, by the phone stand, a yellow folder lay. It’s opened, unlike the other ones— and the tip of something peeks its head out, cold and black.

A videotape, he suspects- and a whole plethora of thoughts hail down on him, briefly, shadows revolving behind his brain- before returning the stare of the man in front of him.

Ghost sniffs. “…What you got there?”

Lightless, mildly curious eyes bore into warm brown ones. Searching for something.

A silent moment passes, but very slowly. Price ultimately looks down to the object in question and takes it in his big paw, untucking the rectangle-shaped item inside. He gives it a shake as he speaks, and Simon reads the diminutive wording scrawled in sharpie over a white label.

The date is a familiar one.

“This,” he starts, a sage sort of look in his eye as it widens- peers into Ghost’s soul and scours it- “is the motel a town over, one week ago.” He points his chin, with unwavering eye contact, to a crisp paper atop the stack, “and that’s the owner’s report of the body we found in one of the rooms. Any o’ this ringing a bell?”

Simon, boredly, or maybe thoughtfully, looks off to the side and offers a small, one-shouldered shrug. “You didn’t put me or my partner on that case,” he says simply, “Can’t say I’m familiar.”

He doesn’t exactly intend on it sounding like an excuse- and to Ghost’s credit, it doesn’t: his deadpan tone is too good for most of anything to slip through— but he wonders if his chief is regarding it as a truth or an alibi.

A beat passes. John smiles.

And as a reply to that, he folds his hairy hands over his desk and leans forward to emphasize his following sentiment; he speaks in a low murmur but it’s clear to the blond. Crystalline. He nods to Simon as he does, or maybe he nods to himself.

“It’s a familiar face, though, the body we pulled from the closet. A real fuckin’ mystery, innit? First thought I had was- how the fuck are we gonna break this to the poor doll? But I never got the chance to think long and hard on it. You know why?”

Another segment of quiet comes and goes. The blinds of the office are pulled, sealed shut, the event of any potential onlookers or nosy colleagues peering in precluded. It’s just him and John right now, but Simon can’t help but feel like the big man upstairs is looking too, that omniscient, godlike gaze tracking him, and he gets a feeling no different than it when he’s stood under the crosshair of another asshole’s gun.

He sniffs again, asks without much interest, “Why?”

His overling says with what seems as puzzlement but Simon knows very well is not: “Because the doll’s been reported missing yesterday by a neighbor. Said she hasn’t shown for a day and her grandson saw a car come and go.”

Ghost blinks and looses a sound that’s equally a scoff as it is a sigh. “Hell of a way to start off the week, yeah? Poor bird flew off… Can’t say I’m surprised.”

“She doesn’t have any means to, though. Fly off.” Price leans forward even more but Simon holds staunchly, perfect poker face and all. “Got any ideas, lad?”

“Called an uber, likely.”

A laugh, harsh and short. “An uber, yeah.” A deep sigh of exasperation through his nostrils- and then all semblance of cordial conversation between two officers goes out the window.

“You want to be honest with me, now? Or do I gotta drag Soap in here? M’sure he’ll have your stories tied up in one pretty bow for me, mm? All nice n’ neat? Or did you even fucking think that far ahead?!”

Johnny? That motormouth? Hell no. This situation is already fast to flee Simon’s hands, but it’ll all go to hell in a handbasket as soon as that gobshite’s involved. Mactavish can hardly maintain an inside voice (one that’s broken entirely when the doll’s brought up), and the blond knows he’ll flub with an alibi, entangle himself in a position he’d be hard-pressed to get out of. It’ll be one crazy match of twister that’s almost funny to think about but neither men laugh, rigid and sober.

Ghost swallows thickly. Wets his lip again; all his movements kept simple and slow. His heart skips just once, though. The phantom hand of guilt knocks at his heart. Simon buries it down before he opens his jaw again, “What d’ya plan to do, Captain?” Is all he says.

He has no real proposal here. It’s not his or Johnny’s first mishap, but it’s unclear whether or not he’ll be covered on this one— or if he even can be, what with the shiny black videotape inches away, hard and real.

Proof of wrongdoing.

Price maintains eye contact for another tense handful of seconds more before his gaze dips. He looks down at the tiny tape his hands dwarf, considers something. Careful and meticulous, mulling it over in his head.

Shadows pass through Simon’s.

…Better to wait this out, though.

The blond watches Price’s severe visage lessen by a fraction. He tucks the tape away. Reseals the folder and slips it beneath the mammoth stack of papers on his desk. Ghost doesn’t know all the nitty-gritty, who’s seen that tape or if it’s been duplicated, in possession of another but for what he can see here and now, it’s been buried.

“…About what, lad?”

Simon blinks. Price flashes a close-lipped smile, warm eyes just a bit too crinkled to be considered kind- not that Simon’s ever gave away his guise- and folds his hands.

The flaxen badge on his crisp uniform glints when Ghost, betraying nothing, rises from his chair- and it nearly blinds him on his way out.

He stops at the door just before leaving, though, as if his legs are bound by some inexplicable force. He looks partially over his broad shoulder, just halfway to make the clarification.

“…She’s alright, for the record. Safe.”

“I know, Simon. I know.”

Ghost hears the crisp sound of upright papers bumping against wood.

A cue to leave. He takes it.

Home is waiting for him, after all, with open arms. And knowing that Johnny’s no doubt doting all over her— okay, home is waiting for him with open legs, too.

Bastard just better not be hogging up all her attention.

[miioouu]

Ghost's New Neighbour pt2

I wasn’t planning on making a second part of this, but since you all like it and asked for it, here we go, i guess. Tw: Smut, Oral (male receiving), no gender used for reader (but a little feminine?), mean Ghost (sorry, i tried many times to write a sweet simon fic but i just can’t!!) Wc: 842 

“Come over later, 8:30 pm sharp, I don't appreciate tardiness” His words ring in your ears, distracting you from your tasks. How are you supposed to focus on putting your plates away when you can still feel the ghost of his lips against your skin? 

You know it’s a bad idea; first of all, he’s your neighbour, it’ll be awkward later on, you’ll definitely regret it, and what if the word comes out; do you really want to be known as the building’s resident slut? Second of all, he’s a stranger, you don’t know anything about him. Even the doorbell doesn’t have his name on it, paper white without even an initial or anything to give you a clue about this mysterious man. You’ll regret it, you definitely will. 

So why are you smoothing down your clothes? Rechecking your lipstick for the nth time? Why are your fingers hovering above this damn ringer, throwing all morals away?

It’s 8:30 sharp when the ding echoes in his rather empty apartment; he chuckles, part of him certain that you’d come over, the other held hope that you’d be a little wiser than this, a little more modest than this; but you weren’t, of course not, else you wouldn’t have let you touch him like he did in the elevator, wouldn’t have shivered when his words tickled your ear, wouldn’t have gotten wet at the feather-like brushing of his cock against your ass. No dignity, he thinks as he lazily makes his way over to open the door for you, internally laughing at the sight of you making yourself all pretty for him, what a nice shade of lipstick. 

He liked it so much, that pinkish tone that made you look a little more glowy, a little more flushed, not that you needed that enhanced. He liked it so much on your lips, and even more when it left a mark around his shaft. Honestly you don’t remember how you got here; one moment you were shuffling in his doorway, struggling to greet him without stuttering, the next you were in the middle of his living room, on your knees, his cock sliding in and out of your mouth languidly. His hands find your hair, guiding you back and forth around his length, setting a slow pace at first, wanting to relish in the feeling of your warm mouth, the tightness of your throat constricting as you gag whenever he pushes a little too deep. 

But Simon was never a patient man, sure he learned how to dismiss his frustration on the field, learned how to manipulate himself into being more forbearing, but he will not use those tricks now, not when he has bright, glossy eyes looking at him, begging him to use their mouth. Who was he to deny them anyway? He thought about warning you, but where’s the fun in that, right? In a swift motion, he pulls you closer until your nose nuzzles against his pelvic, his pubes tickling you but you don’t have time to adjust because he’s already pistoning his cock in and out your warm cave. He lets out a groan, his head falls back as he feels your nails dig in his thighs, holding onto him like a lifeline, creating bloody crescents on his skin, just some other scars to add to his collection. 

The once always empty, always eerily silent apartment, now feels suffocating, loud with groans and hisses from the tall man, mixed with your gagging echoing through the room. “Slut” that whispered word is what broke the chaotic symphony. Your pride is telling you to pull away, glare at him and defend your honor, but you can’t do that; not with his hands clutching at your hair and keeping you in place as he fucks your mouth, not when your thighs are pressing together, imagining, knowing, just how soaked the pretty panties you were wearing became.  

You can feel him getting closer to the edge with the way his thrusts became messier and more erratic, with the way his grip on your hair keeps tightening and getting loose over and over again, with the way his eyes are fluttering, cheeks are getting redder and his chest is heaving, letting out mumbled curses under his breath. “Fuck…come on make me cum, pretty girl” The demand alone made your thighs clench, a whimper escaped you, vibrating around him and sending goosebumps all over his body “Fuckin’ slut” he groans, accent heavy, as he finally stills, reaching deep as he releases ropes of hot, sticky liquid, painting your throat white. 

You’d think this was only the beginning, the way his hand loosens around your hair, massaging your scalp where he was pulling too hard, making you melt and whimper, heart skipping a beat at his gentleness, only to be broken the moment he pushes you back, adjusting his sweatpants properly before turning away. “Tomorrow at the same time, don’t be late. Now leave my house, it’s not the place for a desperate whore like you.”

Tag List: @blkmtllvr @curtaindiver4000 @moozinomoto

[syd-djarin]

private eyes - jack daniels x private investigator!f!reader (18+ MDNI)

You’re a PI hired to spy on Jack Daniels, by his ex-fiancé, who is believed to be a cheater. As time goes on, you don’t find any evidence of the sort, but what you do find is unexpectedly…erotic.

this is for @iamasaddie little lady kinky may challenge! congrats on 2.5k! <333 I was paired with Jack / Voyeurism.

banner by: @cafekitsune

tags: voyeurism (reader watches jack), masturbation (m & f), reader is a private investigator, gratuitous descriptions of my fav cowboy stroking his big cock, dub-con a little? reader masturbates in her car but there isn't anyone around so public but private

a/n: this is the first fic I've completed in months. it's short and to the point, idk how i feel about it but it pushed me out of my writing slump! kinda want to do a part 2 for this, what do y'all think 👀

wc: ~1.6k

smut below the cut

 “I want you to catch that son of a bitch in the act.”

The visibly scorned woman, Camilla, sitting across from you asks through tears, ones that she hasn’t allowed to escape down her cheeks; catching them right at the waterline with an overused tissue.

This isn’t the first time a disgruntled, mistreated, or betrayed lover has sought out your services — no shortage of shitty men leaving trails of destruction while they pillage and greedily chase their own interests. She’s no different, seeking closure from the broken-off engagement from her now ex-fiancée, Jack Daniels. The pair had been together for a year, engaged for three months and one day, out of the blue, Jack broke it off. According to her, he didn’t give a concrete reason, something vague about being consumed with his job and that “she deserved a better life than that”. 

Of course you get paid a pretty penny for your work, but you take great pleasure in catching a man in the act. Whether the woman needs proof for divorce settlements, custody battles, or to just have leverage. Whatever the case may be, you find a gratification you don’t get anywhere else; the upheaval of a man trying to have his cake and eat it too. 

The conventionally attractive woman you couldn’t pick out of a line-up slides her homemade dossier across the coffee shop table, tacky & sticky from previous patrons. You flip through the information presented to you, taking mental notes as you go. You can’t deny the heat that rises up your face as you study the picture of your next target. The deep sable eyes resembling a baby calf’s are staring at you through the glossy photo paper. He’s sporting a mustache reminiscent of Burt Reynolds that is calling your name. His smirk is laced with a charming cockiness. 

“He’s quite the looker, I know. Hell of a lay, too,” her words snap you out of your daydream. Her words feel hollow, his looks are the only attributes she’s mentioned during the duration of the consultation. You're not getting paid for moral judgements and you remind yourself you don’t know the whole story. 

“Which is why I want to know who he’s fucking. I know there’s another woman, or maybe even a guy… he’d answer calls in the middle of the night and step into another room and I swear I could hear a woman’s voice on the other end, he’d tell me he’s going on work trips… he works at a whiskey distillery, why the hell does he need to go on all these trips?” She explains, putting air quotes around ‘trips’ with her dainty, well-manicured hands, “he’d stay late at work a few nights a week, and then it turned into a nightly thing… Anyways, you come highly recommended, so I’m trusting you won’t let me down,” she adds. You’re not a fan of the passive aggressive, back-handed compliment she gives you, but ultimately you give her an understanding smile as you both rise from the table. 

“I’ll be in touch,” you tell her, as you exit. As cliche as that line is, you love saying it every time. 

Days of following Jack around have proven to be fruitless. The man has a simple routine: wakes up at six, traipses to the bathroom to begin his morning regimen of a showering, shaving and grooming his beloved mustache, and to conclude,  adorns his body in his tight denim jeans, a crisp button-down, a cowboy hat, and boots to match. You hate to admit it, and someone would have to waterboard this information out of you, but the hat is doing something for him. 

Or you. 

Whatever. 

He shops weekly on Wednesdays (he always puts the cart back inside the store, not the cart returns in the parking lot), takes the same route home everyday, watches Jeopardy while he eats dinner – you caught on quickly that he cooks during Wheel of Fortune, it appears he isn’t a big fan of Pat and Vanna, dishes promptly following Final Jeopardy and bed by nine. In three weeks Jack hasn’t had a single visitor, of any gender, leaves work at five like everyone else, the man isn’t adding up to be a cheating womanizer like Camilla had set him out to be. Not to say that he isn’t, but you’re not finding any evidence to support that claim. You’ve actually found yourself developing a crush on the man. He’s undoubtedly handsome, seemingly laid back despite his strict routine, and there’s something mysterious that lies beneath that you’re itching to unearth.

You’re parked discreetly across the street from his house. It’s a nice quiet street, with only two lamps to illuminate the surrounding neighborhoods, allowing you to stay shrouded in the night. 

You’re about to call it a night, exhaustion settling deep into your bones, when you notice a lamp turned on in the living room. Fortunately, the window faces the street, making your job that much easier for you. You pick up your binoculars to peer in, adjusting the focus for your prying eyes. Thank the universe he left his blinds open. 

He sits on the couch with his back facing you. It looks like he’s reaching for the remote, like maybe he’s having trouble sleeping, but when he settles back into the couch, you notice he’s butt ass naked, in all his glory. Even through the binoculars, you can see how big his cock is. Your mouth salivates at the sight, wanting to feel the stretch of him in all your holes. 

You’re not supposed to see this. Not at all. Usually in your assignments, you don’t get the full X-rated view, just the PG-13 suggestive one, and you are more than grateful for that. 

But not now.

You’re getting your own private peep show from the man you’re getting paid to spy on. You’re feeling like a grade-A pervert right about now but the sight is too glorious to look away. He spits on his hand, and languidly begins stroking his cock. He runs his other hand through his hair, his toned arms flexing with his movements, his chest heaving. 

It shouldn’t turn you on like it does. For one, it’s highly unprofessional. Secondly, he’s unaware he’s got an audience. Morally speaking, it’s definitely not your shining moment. But it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen, watching him tease and work himself up. You couldn’t pry your eyes away if you wanted to. 

Jack’s not the only one getting worked up; your clit throbs so hard you feel like it’ll go numb. Your heartbeat echoes in your ears thump-thump thump-thump. You let out a whine when Jack massages his tip, precum dribbling out like a sweet nectar you’d like to feast on. He continues his slow movements, dragging out his pleasure at a delicious and excruciating pace. Somehow, this makes the whole scene that much hotter; the display of restraint and discipline. You wonder if he does that with his lovers. Teasing, teasing, teasing, giving just enough to drive you insane before slowing almost to a stop. 

Possessed by desire, you haphazardly look for any lingering people outside before unbuttoning your pants to shove your hand to where it's needed most. You gasp at the cool air hitting your thinly clothed pussy, you can smell your own arousal seeped into your panties and it spurs you on further. You mirror Jack’s pace - teasing your lips with a featherlight touch, inching closer and closer to your needy clit, stopping just shy of it, to tease yourself more. It’s agonizing in the best way, taking your time like this. Normally, you like efficiency when making yourself come, rarely going the extra mile to turn the pleasure dial up, but this makes you question why you’re ever in a hurry. 

You reach your clit, going in gentle circles to match Jack’s unhurried pace. You wish you could hear the sounds he’s making, all the grunts and whimpers escaping his plush lips. 

He speeds up his strokes, now ravenous for his delayed release and so are you. Overtaken by the need to come, you drop the binoculars, letting them fall to the floorboard. You’re not even watching him anymore, having seen more than enough to commit to your spank bank. With your eyes closed and head pushing into the headrest, your mind is flooded with images of Jack fucking you slow, hard and deep, absolutely destroying your pussy – legs over his shoulders, hitting the spot that makes you scream and cry in euphoria. The image of him spilling into you, filling you up with his come is what tips you over the edge, your body shivers in bliss and you rock against your hand to ride out the high, feeling faint from the intensity. 

After you’ve recovered and fumbled your chance of ever seeing The Pearly Gates, you dare to look back to his house, to find all the lights back off. It’s a bit of a relief, feeling less shameful of what you’ve done now that you can’t see him at the moment. 

You button your pants backup and lean over to retrieve the forgotten binoculars from the floorboard, as your fingers grab them you hear a knock on the window. The sudden rap on the glass makes you flinch, feeling your skeleton attempt to flee from your corporeal body. Your heart drops to your stomach when you see Jack standing outside your car, leaning one forearm against the body so his face is level with yours. Fuck fuck fuck. You’ve been caught. Dizziness and nausea war within you as you roll down the window. You open your mouth to explain the situation, but words never escape your mouth. 

“You like watchin’ people don’t ya?” he asks, his tone is dark, but not angry. No, it’s something else entirely. 

“I–”

“‘S’alright. Caught onto ya pretty quick. A pretty face like yours ain’t hard to miss.”

“I– i’m sorry, um,” you scramble to find words, any words but Jack interjects again. 

“You like watchin’, but darlin’ I want to know, do ya like bein’ watched?”

[scarletlizzard]

Her Favorite Drug

Pairings: wanda x female reader

Tags Minors DNI: drug use (marijuana), smoking, smut, cunnilingus, fingering, stap on use (R receiving), fluff because I tortued yall with my last story

Summary: Your girlfriend is a stoner. One night, you decide you finally want to try some.

Masterlist

A/N: This is just smut oops. Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think. Also, the pics with the backward hats kills me every fucking time. Anyways, have fun 💚

Wandas delicate fingers expertly pack in the unfamiliar green into a brown wrapper. You watch closely, feeling her breath on the back of your neck and tickling your ear as she speaks.

"See detka? Then I'll just roll it up like this.." Her voice is soft as she speaks. You nod, eyes stuck on her fingers as they begin to roll the paper.

You were currently sitting in Wandas lap, her arms working in front of you to wrap another joint. In the year you had been dating, this was the first time you were going to join in on your girlfriends favorite recreational hobby. It was no secret that Wanda smoked weed, almost every night to be exact. You had never really been interested in smoking it, but you loved to watch her enjoy it.

Tonight was different. Tonight, you finally wanted to know how it felt. Wanda was surprised at first when you asked, but she was more than happy to pull you into her lap and show you how she does it.

"Lick along here for me," she says, drawing a line on the wrapper. You lean forward away from the warmth of Wandas chest to follow her instructions. "Perfect, baby!" Wanda praises, fiddling with the joint for only a moment before holding it out in her hand to show you the final product.

"Now it's ready?" You ask her, turning sideways on her lap. Your back rests against the arm of the couch, and your legs lay across her thighs.

Wanda nods, a grin on her face, "It's ready. I'll go first, you watch me, okay?"

You had planned on it. Wanda couldn't be more sexy when she smoked. You watch her bring the joint to rest between her lips, the other hand holding a lighter to the end of it. It catches easily, and Wanda inhales deeply before removing it from her lips and blowing out smoke. You press your thighs together tightly, Wanda always had that effect on you.

"You ready, baby?" She asks with a smirk, resting her hand to rub small circles on your leg. You nod slowly, reaching out your hand. "Just take a small one at first.." Wandas voice is husky from the smoke, only making you squeeze your legs tighter.

You begin to smell the familiar scent of the weed as smoke fills the air between the two of you. Here you go.. you take the drug between your lips as Wanda did, breathing it in. It's smoother than you thought as you inhale, but the burn in your lungs was unexpected. Wanda quickly takes the joint out of your hand as your eyes widen, and you let out the smoke with a set of coughs.

"Fuck.." You mumble out between coughs. Wanda chuckles and reaches for a water bottle, handing it to you. She watches with dark eyes as you sip the water, smoking the joint with no problem.

"Burns, huh?" She smiles and rubs your back soothingly as you nod at her, still drinking the water.

After a few moments and the burning resides, you take another hit. You feel your tensions disappear. Another one, and you feel an overwhelming rush to your head, not in a bad way. Then another, and so on until you and Wanda are finished with the joint. Your senses feel heightened.

You finish off the water as Wanda sets what remains of the joint in an ash tray. She smiles at you with red, squinting eyes, "Come here, baby." She chuckles and maneuvers you, so you're straddling her lap. "How do you feel?" She whispers, staring into your red and glossy eyes.

You giggle at her sentence, for some reason finding it funny. The lighting in the room was dark. Only a few string lights lit above the wall shone brightly against the side of Wandas face. There was a cloudy haze above the couch and in your mind. You felt...

"Like I'm floating," you giggle more, causing Wanda to chuckle. Her fingertips run along the hem of your shirt, sneaking under the back of it. They make their way slowly up and down your spine, the feeling practically euphoric in the state you were in.

"Feels good, huh detka?" Wanda mumbles as she plants soft kisses on your neck. So, so soft.. is all you could think. Your eyes close at the sensations. You nod, and you know it's too slow. Wanda lifts her head to look at you, and you take advantage by holding her face in your hands.

"So good, Wands.." Your thumbs rub over her cheeks as your eyes take in her features. You swallow hard, looking at her red lips and thinking of the way they kiss you softly. Your eyes travel down to her sharp jaw, your fingers tracing each feature you spot. "You're so pretty," you whisper with a giggle.

She laughs.

God, her laugh..

Your thoughts are slow as you look down to a freckle on her neck. Christ, you want to kiss it.

So you do. You lean forward and press your lips to her neck, feeling how warm her skin is under your kiss. Wanda lets out a low hum in response, so you kiss it again. Her nails scratch softly down your back, so you bite down on the skin and suck gently.

"Detka..." Her head lulls to the side, giving you more space. The thick accent in her voice only makes the ache for her stronger. "Baby," Wanda groans as your lips work their way down her neck. Her hands move down to your waist, "Move against me," she moans out, gripping your hips.

You rock back and forth in her lap, letting out a moan at the pleasure of the small amount of friction. As soon as your lips leave Wandas neck she's pulling off your shirt, along with her own. Among the haze you feel her breasts press against yours, and she leans forward to kiss you.

The kiss is unlike any you had before with her. It truly felt magical. You still felt like you were floating, and you could feel every inch of her skin on yours. "Need you.." You whimper in between kisses, still grinding yourself down against her lap. Wanda only moans in response. She continues to kiss you as she stands, still holding you. Your legs wrap around her waist.

The walk to her bedroom is short, and you don't even realize it until she's lying you down on the edge of the bed. The only thing you can think of is the way her lips fit perfectly against yours. You whine when she pulls away, frowning as you see her red and puffy lips that you still wanted to be touching your own.

"Now, now, detka.." She says, sliding down your pants. Bare for her to see, Wanda shakes her head as she gets down on her knees in front of the bed. "Fuck.. you're always so pretty for me." She mumbles in between wet kisses on your inner thighs. Your head was spinning between the lust and the weed, your body was begging for her touch.

Her hands move to hold your thighs open, gripping down tightly on the soft skin. "God, I can't wait to taste you," Wanda groans. You feel her lips attach to you clit, kissing it gently. Looking down you see green eyes peering up at you, a wicked grin on her face as she takes one long lick up your slit.

"Wanda, please.." You moan out, bucking your hips towards her. Your hands grip the sheets, and she can no longer hold back. Wandas mouth attaches to your wet pussy, her experienced tongue sending you into a frenzy.

"Mmm.." She moans against you, sending vibrations onto your clit. "You taste so good baby, just like always.." Wanda moans again, sucking softly on your clit. "Always so fucking good.."

"Ohh god, Wands.." You moan out, barely able to watch as she continues to move her tongue sinfully. Suddenly, you feel two slender fingers at your entrance, pushing in easily with how turned on you were. "Oh, fuck!" You whine out as she begins to pump her fingers inside of you, her lips sucking on your clit. Wanda can't help her own moans as you call out her name.

"That's it, babygirl.. just like that.." Her lips smack as she removes them from your clit, glistening in the dim lighting with your juices. You stare at her with red eyes as she kisses her way up your body.

"Baby I'm gonna cum, please," you moan.

"Cum for me then, detka." Wanda coaxes you, watching with dark eyes. She could get off right now at just the sight of your body beneath her, the way every one of her touches raised goosebumps on your skin. Wanda feels you tighten around her fingers, wet walls pulling them in. She smirks down at you. "That's it.. just like that, fuck.." She mutters.

You repeat her name as pleasure flows through your body, your climax crashing over you like waves. You knew being stoned would be different, but you hadn't expected to feel this euphoric. Your eyes open to see Wanda staring down at you with stars in her green eyes.

"Wanda, that.."

"I know, detka," Wanda chuckles.

You take her face in your hands and kiss her passionately. The way her tongue swipes across your lip and the fact that you can taste yourself has your body heating up all over again. You feel a familiar fire burning in your lower stomach as Wandas naked body rubs against yours.

So, so soft...

So, so warm...

You don't know how long it is, with no sense of time, that you had been kissing Wanda. But she parts with swollen lips to walk across the room. You feel yourself throbbing as you know what she's getting, what she's about to do. Wanda walks over to you, her strap now attached to her.

"Sit up, baby," Wanda says gently and helps you sit up. She moves to sit at the head of the bed, her back sitting against the headboard. "Come here." She smiles at you, helping you straddling her lap. "Such a pretty girl, for me, aren't you?" You nod in response. "Then ride my cock like the good girl you are." Her voice is stern, but soft.

Wanda practically lifts you up before you settle yourself down onto the faux cock. Your mouth parts and your eyes squeeze shut at the feeling of her deep inside you. Any pain quickly turns to pleasure as she guides you with hands on your hips to begin moving.

All you could grasp was the feeling of Wandas hips snapping up to meet yours, the way she moans your name, and how soft the skin under your hands was. Your hands traveled from her shoulders, to her neck, to her jaw. You couldn't pick one to settle on. You had to keep touching her.

Wanda could feel, with every thrust of her hips and every bounce of your body, the strap rubbing her in all the right places. She could feel her skin burning against yours.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," She moans along with you, sinful sounds filling the room. "You're doing so good detka, fucking bouncing on my cock like that." You only manage a whimper out, legs shaking as they were about to give out underneath you.

Wanda suddenly grabs ahold of you, lifting both of you up and lying you onto your back. She pounds relentlessly into you, and you know at this angle you're not going to last long.

"Oh god, Wanda! Feels so good!" You cry out, feeling her breasts press against yours. The muscles in her arms flexed as she held herself above you.

"I know, baby, I know.." Wanda praises. Your hands hold onto her back, leaving scratches down her back as she continues to thrust into you with no mercy. She grunts at the feeling, loving the way you held onto her.

Wanda is met with more resistance as she thrusts, your walls tightening once again around her. "Are you gonna cum again for me baby? Fuck, fuck.." She can't help the low moan that escapes from the back of her throat. This time you can only nod, mouth unable to form actual words. "Fuck Y/N I'm gonna cum!" Her hips waver, that steady rhythm she had finally faltering. "Cum with me, detka. Cum for me," Wanda pants out, hot breath hitting your sticky skin.

That's all it takes for you to repeat her name again, over and over like worship. Another orgasm crashes over just like before, waves hitting you over and over.

You don't know how long you'd been laying like this, but you were loving every moment of it. Wanda held you close under the covers, at the wrong side of the bed. You felt the soft fabric of your pillowcase tickle your toes. The two different highs you experienced tonight slowly fading away.

"I guess I could probably do that again," you say with a giggle, your finger tracing imaginary letters on Wandas chest. She hums in response, kissing your forehead. You could feel the smile plastered on her face.

"We're definitely getting you stoned again," Wanda laughs and moves herself on top of you again, settling herself between your legs. Her green eyes were just that, no sign of bloodshot anywhere.

Wandas' regular usage had her craving more already.

So she kisses you again, her favorite drug of choice.

[theshitpostcalligrapher]

once again canon comes to bite me in the ass

I haven't changed the printing settings at all, this is SUPPOSED to be a photo printer, meaning it SHOULD be able to print on glossy sticker paper without problem, and when I first got the thing, it DID

but NOW

for some BIZARRE REASON

If the stickers have anything in pure black ink, the ink just. rubs off.

WHAT????

I've been able to fix this by hitting the stickers with a light painting-setting spray before I cut them out but honestly the sticker thing might be way more trouble than its worth, especially since I'm using the printer to do a handful of prints in-house now, so it's not like I'll be losing the use of a stupid expensive printer

I got a sticker cutter a while ago but I stopped using it once I realized that a) even going through silhouette's app the registration markers have to be oddly specific in order to cut ANYTHING accurately, and sometimes they don't work anyways and b) the sticky mat leaves really wretched residue on the backs of the stickers

so I've been cutting all these stickers by hand, making it even LESS appealing to keep them on the shop

for now the setting spray method seems to work so once I'm out of sticker paper I'll not be ordering more

for reference these are the stickers sold on the shop, we have

the shit post calligapher (misc)

the canadian deep cuts

and the fucked up daikon radishes

[cherryredstars]

omg hi cherry!!! yay yay yay I'm so excited requests are open! I love your writings ❤❤❤

Mkay so I was wondering if you would be into writing something more fluffy (I mean you can put smut if you want, lord knows I'm not gonna complain 🤭). I was thinking maybe reader is a teacher, and Gabriella is in her class at school, so she meets Miguel that way. And like over time he just keeps making excuses to see her, even though Gabriella's grades are actually totally fine— he's just so down bad lmao

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x fem!reder

Warnings: Fluff, Last Line is Suggestive

A/N: Hi, lovie! Thank you!!!

Unedited

You're fucking stunning.

Standing there in a pretty little dress, skin glowy from summer vacation. Got one hell of a smile on you, too. It has Miguel antsy as he waits in line to drop Gabi off for her first day, his hands tightening around his daughter's book bag as his eyes study every little move you make. Eyes zeroing in on how the wind plasters the back of your dress to your legs, your hands catching the front of it to prevent the fabric from flying too high up. He's nothing but a lovesick puppy by the time he reaches you, nodding dumbly to your introduction as he marvels over the softness of your hand in his, and eyes dropping to the glossy tint of your lips. He has to stop myself from making a noise when you bend down to talk to Gabi, complementing her outfit and gushing about how excited you are to be her teacher this year. The sight is so fucking domestic and he has to stop the fantasies popping up in his head. He takes it as a god-given sign that you're meant to be his when you start to get up, only to grab onto Miguel's shoulder as two little kids come running and bumping into you from behind. He'd be one hell of a lousy man if he didn't jump at the opportunity to grab at your waist and pull you closer to him to 'help steady you'.

Any day that Gabi comes homes with a little paper asking for parent help at a school event for her class is one hell of a lucky day for Miguel. Instantly jumping at the opportunity, signing up the seconds he reads it. Can't miss out on a single opportunity to see how you treat Gabi like she's your own kid or be close to you. Fucking loves how flustered you are every time he takes something off your hands, encouraging you to leave all the heavy duty labor to him so you can focus on the kids. He's always offering to do something for you. Something in the classroom is broken and the school's maintenance is taking too long to fix it? Oh cariño, why didn't you say something sooner to him or Gabi? He'll come in during your lunch break to fix it up while the kids are at recess. Sweet little thing needs help putting up decorations around the classroom? Oh baby, what do you think big, large men are meant for? He'll stay after school Friday and put everything up, just sit and be pretty as you help Gabi with her math homework. Sad that you need to buy new supplies for the classroom but they don't fit into your budget and you feel bad having to ask the parents to donate supplies again? Oh doll, send him a list of anything and everything you want and it's yours, pretty ladies like you don't deserve to worry about things like that. He'll even give you his number so he can buy you lunch.

And when you blink up at him with your sparkly doe eyes and ask, "What can I do to repay you, Mr. O'Hara?"

Fuck.

If you aren't careful, he might just have to buy you a pretty little ring. And, by next school year, you'll be introducing yourself as Mrs. O'Hara.

Maybe he'll even give you a kid of your own while he's at it; Gabi's been bothering him about a baby brother, anyways.

[iliketangerines]

Hi! How are you? Anyways I was wondering if maybe I could get a blurb of an afab reader sending her nudes to Tomas to tease him while he’s gone?

This man has me in a chokehold I need to gnaw on his arms.

worth it

a/n: i'm doing okay, and i agree, his arms are just so yummy

pairing: tomas vrbada x gn!reader

warnings: nsfw (MDNI), masturbation, publix sex (he's in a tree)

Tomas presses the palm of his glove to his nose, breathing in the scent of the laundry detergent you had used to wash his uniform

he was on a mission away from the Shirai Ryu, and you had insisted on washing his uniform before he left, eyes practically lighting up at the opportunity

and he was glad that you did because your scent was all over the cloth, and it was a reminder of you until he could go back home

settling back down into the tree, Tomas watches as the moon starts to rise in the sky and tries to get comfortable to rest for the night before he continued on his journey

shoving his hands into his pockets, he lets out a confused sound when there’s the unfamiliar crinkle and feel of papers in his pants

Tomas grabs onto the unfamiliar objects and pulls it out, and his eyes slightly widen at the sight of them in his hand

the glossy laminated photos of a polaroid glinted in the moonlight, but it only highlighted your curves and body in the first photo

it was you, dressed in lingerie, in your favorite color, and you have your ass high in the air, back perfectly arched and your hair frames your face as you stare into the camera with a coy smile

he flips to the next photo, this time your face isn’t in the photo, but the sight of your hands cupping your chest toward the camera and your stomach on display had his cock twitching in his pants

his hand squeezes the photo, and he rubs at the corner of the photo with his thumb, trying to control himself and take in a deep breath

there’s only one more photo left in the stack, and Tomas flips to it

you’re completely naked, on your knees, legs drawn far apart, your hands are reaching up and your back is arched, pushing your chest toward the camera

you look at the camera with a sultry gaze and dark lipstick, and Tomas groans and shoves his free hand down his pants, gripping onto his cock and squeezing it

it was embarrassing how hard he got from just looking at the photos, but you truly were gorgeous

he wonders how long it had taken you to get these photos, when you had the time to take them in between all the training sessions

Tomas almost wishes he was there to take them for you, to trace his fingers over your skin and watch the goosebumps rise

he wants to take the pictures of your ruined face when he fucks you, all glossy-eyed and lips swollen, moaning and gasping for air every time he thrusts into you

the assassin adjusts himself on the tree, just enough so that he had enough slack in his pants to pump himself and swipe the thumb over the tip and use his pre-cum as lube for his hand

you fill his mind, the scent of your laundry, the photos of you in his hand, and he can already hear you in his ears, the sweet whines and desperate begs for him to let you cum

biting his lip, he suppresses a grunt as he cums into his pants, stroking himself through the pleasure and trying to stay as quiet as possible

as he blinks and exhales, pocketing the pictures to keep for later, he wrinkles his nose in disgust, remembering he only had one pair of pants for the mission

it was still worth it

[jacksabbotts]

dbf!jake seresin x artist!reader tw .' slight sexual innuendos , condoms

main masterlist | series masterlist | join the taglist | dividers by @cafekitsune

imagine running into jake at the grocery store

three days. that's how long it had been since the dinner. jake had replayed it more times than he cared to admit. the way you'd laughed soft under her breath when your dad told some corny story about jake's flight sim mishap. the way your pajama-clad knee kept brushing his under the table like it wasn't trying to kill him.

and then, the shift. you had come out of that kitchen, hand full of pie and you'd changed into a completely different person. you came back guarded and quiet. like someone had pulled the plug on you.

he hadn't seen you since. not once, not even in the background. no hey jake in passing, no sarcastic commentary while he helped your dad in the barn. you'd quite literally disappeared. body and mind.

he told himself to let it go. that you just needed space. that maybe he'd crossed a line when he decided to defend you, a woman he barely knew, to your parents of all people.

but still. he found himself aimlessly drifting the aisles of the tiny corner grocery store after his last teaching simulation at the navy camp—not because he needed anything, not really. just gatorade. and maybe . . . hope. Which might have been pathetic, but here he was anyway.

he crouched to lift the case of gatorade—bottom shelf, of course—and caught the edge of his reflection in the glossy linoleum floor. sweat-worn henley, cuffed boots and a cowboy hat that was half a disguise, half a crutch. maybe if he looked like his old self, he’d feel like his old self. the version who didn’t get rattled by the shape of a girl’s smile.

the plastic creaked faintly beneath his fingers, and then the sound of flip-flops filled his ears. heard them before he saw you. squeaky, awkward, the kind of sound that didn’t belong in a place this quiet. and then just—you.

you stopped like you’d been yanked back on a leash, sketchbook clutched to her chest, hoodie half-swallowed your face, joggers limp at the hem like you hadn’t cared enough to pull youself together.

still the most beautiful fucking thing he’d seen in three days.

he stood slow—so you wouldn’t spook. and when your eyes met his, he smiled. not cocky. not smug but careful.

‘hey,’ he said, voice lower than intended.

you blinked at him like you didn’t quite believe it was him. your grip on the sketchbook tightened, like you might bolt and you couldn’t bare to leave it behind ( it didn’t matter that the one you currently held was empty. it was the principle of it ). ‘jake,’ you managed. ‘hi.’

god, her voice, he thought. that slight rasp. it made something in him go still. ‘didn’t mean to sneak up on you,’ he added, gesturing vaguely at himself. ‘i didn’t think i’d see you in the wild like this. after the other night… well, uh, you’ve been avoiding me. i just figured you needed some space.’

your eyes flared. 'no,' you said quickly. 'jake, i— i wasn’t. i’m not avoiding you. it wasn’t about you.'

his brow furrowed, unbidden. 'kinda felt like it. reel like i’m at your house more than my own. your dad… he likes to hang out, you know how he is.'

something flickered behind your eyes—like guilt, or shame.

'you barely looked at me,' he said gently. 'and i—' he exhaled. 'i didn’t mean to make things uncomfortable for you. i don’t know if i said something i shouldn’t’ve or… if i crossed a line during dinner.'

'no,' you said, firmer. 'you didn’t do anything wrong.'

he wanted to believe that. but the look on your face—drawn, exhausted, like you hadn’t slept in days—didn’t match the words.

he glanced down, noticed the sketchbook again.

'what’s that?' he asked, a little desperate to shift gears. make you smile again. loosen whatever was wrapped so tight around your ribs.

you hugged it tighter. 'nothing. it’s nothing.'

jake raised a brow. 'didn’t know nothin’ came spiral-bound.'

'it’s just paper,' you said too fast. too defensive.

he squinted, playful. 'paper?'

'yes.'

'didn't know we had an art store in town.'

'we dont,' you started, 'this is from the school supplies aisle. right next to the discount printer ink and lisa frank folders. it obviously not high quality but it'll work for what i need.”

his mouth curved. 'so it’s serious.'

'what?' you blinked.

'the drawing,' he said, nodding toward the sketchbook again. 'you don’t strike me as the type to go out of your way for subpar drawing paper. unless it were imperative.'

the way your entire body stiffened—it nearly floored him. red crept up the back of your neck. your knuckles whitened.

he smiled—soft, curious. 'you fill the last one already?'

'yeah,' you croaked.

'must’ve been inspired.'

'guess so.'

jake nodded, trying to hide the surge of heat in his own chest. god, she was cute when she got flustered. he wanted to tease you, just a little. just enough to make you smile again.

'what was it this time?' he asked, still light. 'still life? portraits?'

you didn’t answer.

you looked . . . nervous. and then—stepped back and knocked into the shelf behind you. hard. something tumbled from the shelf and hit the floor with a thud.

'you okay?'

'yeah,' you mumbled. she crouched, grabbed it—froze.

his brows knit. you stood up too fast and shoved the box back onto the shelf like it had burned you. 'what was that?'

'nothing,' you said. 'nothing at all. just a—uh—poorly stocked shelf. jake leaned to the side. squinted.

oh.

oh.

condoms. on a shelf with party cups and streamers. his mouth twitched ( and maybe something else too ). hard.

'party essentials, huh?'

'no,' you said instantly.

he couldn’t help it. he reached past her and picked it up. turned it over in his hand like he didn’t already know the brand. 'nice brand,' he mused. 'not the one i prefer, but nice. does the job, i guess.'

you shook her head like she might die on the spot. 'who the fuck—who puts condoms next to glitter glue and paper plates?'

he pressed a knuckle to his lips. 'that’s a hell of a party.'

'jake—'

'i mean, i’ve seen some bachelor parties, but damn. that’s efficient.'

'i actually hate you.'

'you sure?' he grinned. 'you were lookin’ real serious about the selection.'

you made a strangled sound and shoved the sketchbook into his chest. 'shut up.'

he caught it. let the weight settle. let himself watch you squirm.

god, she was beautiful.

'you alright, darlin’?' he asked softly.

you adjusted the sketchbook in her arms. 'yeah.'

'sure?'

you hesitated.

and in that pause—jake saw it. all of it.

the fear. the loneliness. the mother’s words she hadn’t repeated. the way you'd looked at him like you were breaking apart under the weight of something you didn’t know how to share.

you swallowed. 'yeah.' then turned to go.

'i’m going to find a checkout line and then i’m going to go home and pretend this never happened.”

he smirked. couldn’t help himself. "shame,' he called after you. 'i was gonna ask if you wanted to split the glitter glue and a couple of party hats.'

you turned so fast your hoodie swished behind you, the sketchbook tight in your arms like a shield—and fake just stood there. frozen. watching.

dazed, even.

he let out a slow exhale, his tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek, trying not to smile like a goddamn idiot. but it didn’t work. the smirk slipped anyway.

you was halfway down the aisle now. flip-flops slapping. shoulders hunched like the universe had given you just a little too much embarrassment to carry in one go.

he wanted to follow you.

not in a creepy way. just . . . walk behind you. push your cart. ask what else you needed for your top-secret, glitter-glue-condom-themed art project. carry your sketchbook. hell—buy you every sketchbook in the state if it meant you'd look at him like you did that night at dinner.

jake dragged a hand down his face, chuckling quietly as he let the box of condoms fall back onto the shelf.

his heart was still thumping. stupid and warm and loose in his chest like he’d run a mile barefoot. his skin tingled, his stomach flipped, and he couldn’t remember the last time just talking to someone had made him feel like he might explode from under his own skin.

'must’ve been inspired,' he murmured to himself, echoing the line he’d tossed out just minutes before.

because you had been. he could see it in your eyes. youd drawn something—someone—with enough fire to finish a whole sketchbook in three days. and for some reason, the thought of it being him?

that knocked the wind out of him.

jake looked down at his hands. big, calloused. not exactly the kind of thing you expect to show up in someone’s sketchbook. but the way you’d hugged it like it held the ark of the covenant? the way your face flushed, throat fluttered, pupils blew wide?

it did things to him. dangerous things.

he ran his thumb over the edge of the plastic basket handle, brain full of your blush and your panic and the memory of your voice catching when yo said 'it wasn’t about you.'

bullshit. but okay.

he wasn’t stupid. you'd been hurt. not by him, maybe—but by something close enough to stick. he wanted to fix it. he would fix it. he sighed again, watching the last of you disappear toward the checkout lines, head down, sketchbook clutched like a lifeline.

he knew then—right there between the solo cups and a damn box of misplaced condoms—that you weren't just a crush. you weren't just pretty or clever or tempting in that way he only ever joked about.

you mattered.

and he was officially, irrevocably, and probably foolishly in it.

for you.

god fucking help him, he was done for.