#but his softness is not without rough edges

[laceyfaeryy]

MDNI 18+

mentions of: fluff, vaginal sex, simon riley all soft

older! simon riley all soft after retirement!!

the muscles slowly turned into a softer layer of fat, his muscles still visible but more plush as the days passed by. he came more comfortable to cuddle without the hardness of his chest, his ridged abs not as prominent compared to before. your new favourite thing now included laying your head on his softer tummy whilst he gently plays with your hair, his rough calloused hands being soft and tender.

he found himself eating a lot more since he wasn’t going on missions constantly, stuffing his mouth full with your home cooked meals like a man starved. he took great pleasure in devouring every single meal, asking you to cook a specific meal for dinner even though he would eat anything. as much as you loved him he was like a little pest in the kitchen, wrapping his arms around your waist and planting a kiss on your forehead as a decoy for “taste testing” the food you were cooking.

simon was never a man who relaxed, constantly on edge especially during his missions, but now things were different. his days now consisted of lazy sex in the morning, cuddling with you until the afternoon before devouring whatever you cooked up and what was left in the fridge. occasionally he would work out, tending to whatever small labour he had but really the most exercise he got was from sex. not that he was complaining.

sex with him was slower, but with even more passion. before it felt rushed, like he tried to do every single little thing with you before he left for his mission, but now he had all the time in the world. he would leave a trial of kisses down your body, his rough calloused hands slightly softer now after his retirement. his favourite positions were missionary and prone bone, his body slightly bigger as he gained weight, feeling a lot more softer in your bare skin. “‘m luvie, need to pay yer back for those meals don’t i?” he groaned as his cock plunged into your soppy hole, your nails scratching his back.

[odileeclipse]

In the Presence of Truth {"Sage of Truth" (SMC) x Reader} PT 22

<<<Previous Next>>>

He fell quiet, the world narrowing to the rustle of turning pages and the faint scratch of his notes against parchment. There was something mesmerizing in the way he worked. In how focused he became, how his brow furrowed just slightly when he found a section that demanded more scrutiny, how his fingers moved with delicate precision as he turned each page like it held a fragment of some divine truth.

You watched him, chin propped lightly against your palm, and for once, you didn’t mind the silence. It wasn’t the awkward kind that begged to be filled, but something comfortable, reverent. It felt like being near a storm that chose not to strike. His presence so often composed and untouchable became gentler in this light. Grounded. Endearing. 

His hair shifted slightly with every small movement, catching the glow of the enchanted lamp at his desk. Starlight danced along the waves of midnight and moonlight, flowing like ink spilled across constellations.

He didn’t notice the way your gaze lingered, too focused on his task to catch the softness settling behind your eyes. There was nothing grand about this moment. Just parchment and ink and quiet, and the realization that you could spend hours like this watching him, not saying a word, and still feeling like you were part of something meaningful. His quill paused.

His gaze flicked up, meeting yours. “You’re staring.”

 Your face warmed instantly. “No, I’m… I was just-” You floundered, words tumbling like pebbles down a slope.

 A quiet smirk curved his lips. “Observational curiosity, I presume?” 

You huffed, flustered but smiling anyway. “Call it academic admiration.”

“Mm.” He returned to the pages. “Flattering. But I hope the admiration extends to your own work.” Your chest fluttered, light and inexplicably full. You weren’t sure if he meant the portfolio or something else entirely. 

Maybe both. You sat back a little, allowing yourself to bask in the quiet of it all, the way time slowed in this room and in the steady orbit you seemed to share around him. Eventually, the soft rustle of paper ceased. Shadow Milk Cookie set down the final page with a quiet deliberateness, fingers lingering on the edge of your portfolio as if giving it a final, silent blessing before speaking. He leaned back slightly in his chair, his expression unreadable but not cold. Never cold. 

You sat up straighter, nerves prickling beneath your skin. "Well?" you asked, voice carefully even. "Don’t spare me, okay? Be brutally honest. I can take it." 

He folded his hands atop the desk, gaze steady and golden, gleaming faintly like the light of truth itself. “You ask for brutal honesty,” he began, “but I will offer you something more valuable measured honesty.”

 You blinked. “That sounds… more terrifying.” 

He smiled, just slightly. “Then allow me to terrify you.”

He glanced down once more, fingers brushing lightly over the tabbed sections Chai Latte had helped label. “Your structure is solid. Cohesive. The personal statement could use refinement in tone…there are moments where your humility dilutes the clarity of your accomplishments.” 

You opened your mouth, but he raised a hand. “However,” he continued, “the content is sincere. And sincerity, when coupled with evident growth, speaks louder than polished eloquence.” 

You swallowed, nodding slowly. “So… it’s not bad?”

“It is more than not bad,” he said, voice quiet, unwavering. “It is a compelling portrait of a scholar on the cusp of becoming something greater. It is rough around the edges, yes but it breathes. And that, more than anything, is worth reading.” 

You let out a slow breath, your shoulders easing without realizing they had tensed. He leaned forward just a little, and his voice softened. “If I were reviewing this without knowing you, I would remember it.” Your heart skipped. “And because I do know you,” he added, “I am proud.”

 That stopped your breath in your throat. Proud. The word echoed through you, knocking loose something quiet and warm that had been nesting beneath your ribs for days now. You tried to speak, but all that came out was a shaky, “Oh.” Shadow Milk Cookie offered you one of his rare, gentler smiles fleeting, but enough to light every star-threaded strand of his hair. “Would you like help polishing the final sections before submission?” 

You nodded a little too quickly. “Yes. Please.”

He reached for his quill again, already turning to the feedback notes he’d jotted in the margins. But before he lowered his gaze, he said, almost as an afterthought. “I meant every word.” 

You clutched the portfolio to your chest, cheeks aching from how wide your grin had gotten. “This is such good news,” you laughed, breathless from relief. “I could kiss you.” It slipped out, soft and stunned, not something you meant literally but as soon as it left your mouth, your soul left your body. 

You froze. Across the desk, Shadow Milk Cookie paused. Very slowly, he lifted his head, gaze gliding over the rim of his monocle as if he were trying to determine whether he’d actually heard you right or if he simply wanted to hear it again. You opened your mouth likely to make it worse. “I mean-I wasn’t saying-I just meant like…like, thank you-like that! Not-” He tilted his head, and his expression was far too composed.

 “So,” he said, voice smooth as starlight, “that’s the reward system I’ve been missing out on.” 

Your brain stalled. “What?”

“A kiss,” he repeated calmly. “Apparently, all I needed to do to earn one was tell you your writing was competent.” 

“Competent?” you gasped, scandalized, flustered, mortified. He was teasing you. You knew he was. His mouth was twitching at the corners now, barely hiding a smile but his tone was so matter-of-fact, so utterly in-character, it only flustered you further. 

You groaned, pressing the binder against your face. “Please pretend I said nothing.”

“I could,” he said, tapping a finger lightly against the desk. “But then I’d have to pretend you don’t find me kissable.” 

You choked. “I never said-!”

“I’m merely finishing the logic you began,” he said, the picture of scholarly innocence. You narrowed your eyes over the edge of your binder. 

“You're impossible.” 

He offered the barest of shrugs, a curl of amusement in his voice. “And yet you keep returning.” 

You let out a dramatic, strangled sigh, dragging your hands down your face. “Why are you like this?”

 Shadow Milk Cookie looked over his notes, completely unbothered. “Because if I weren’t, you might actually follow through on your impulse,” he said softly.

 Your thoughts promptly disintegrated into cosmic dust. He didn’t look up this time. Just smiled faintly to himself and turned another page. He continued speaking. He had that thoughtful tone again, half analysis, half affection as he began, “If I were to offer formal feedback, I’d say your articulation of the second research objective could benefit from stronger-”

You kissed him. You didn’t think about it. You didn’t weigh the pros and cons. There was no grand swell of music or preamble or poetic metaphor to excuse it. You just leaned forward, hand still braced on the edge of his desk, breath uneven from the nerves coiled like vines around your ribs and kissed him, right in the middle of his sentence. It was quick. A press of your lips to his awkward and sudden, nothing rehearsed or careful.  A breathless punctuation mark in the shape of a kiss.

And then you pulled back. Fast. Like touching him had been a dare you barely managed to complete. Like the moment itself would collapse in on you if you stayed too long. Shadow Milk Cookie had gone perfectly still. His sentence, whatever it had been hung in the air, unfinished. 

You stared at him, heat roaring in your ears, lips still tingling with the realization of what you’d just done. “…Sorry,” you blurted, because what else could you say?

He blinked once. Slowly. His lips, slightly parted from where your kiss had interrupted him, closed with maddening calm. Then he tilted his head. “Should I assume,” he said, voice soft with dangerous amusement, “that your research statement is no longer the most urgent topic on your mind?”

You groaned, dragging a hand over your face. “Please forget that happened.”

“I’m afraid I couldn’t, even if I wished to.” He leaned back in his chair, gold eyes catching the light in a way that made your stomach flip. “But I don’t wish to.” 

You stared at him. “You’re unbearable.”

“However,” he murmured, his voice impossibly gentle, “you kissed me.” 

Your face burned. “I was trying to prove a point!” 

He smiled now fully, clearly, devastatingly. “Then perhaps,” he said, “you ought to clarify what the point was.” 

You sank lower in your chair. “I hate you.” But your lips betrayed you with a smile. And his eyes held something far more honest than teasing. Something that looked suspiciously like wonder. He didn’t say anything else after that. Not right away. But the air between you had shifted. And from the way his eyes kept lingering on your face, you knew he’d be replaying that kiss for a very, very long time. You practically shoved the binder back toward him, face burning, voice a little too high and far too rushed.

“Just write it down, okay? Whatever needs fixing. Please.” You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. Not after that. The kiss had been impulsive, stupid, so very you half-born from flustered panic, half-born from the desire to wipe that smug little knowing smile off his face. And now? Now you wanted to melt through the floor.

 There was a quiet pause, and then the familiar sound of his quill scratching across paper. You clutched at the edge of your seat like it would anchor you in time, praying he wouldn’t say anything not yet, not while your heart was still trying to climb out of your chest and run screaming into the sea. But of course, he couldn’t help himself. “You kissed me mid-sentence,” he said, voice maddeningly composed. “How… bold of you.”

You groaned into your hands. “Please stop talking.”

“You requested a written response,” he murmured, clearly amused. “I am merely honoring your wishes.”

“You’re enjoying this.”

“I am certainly… intrigued.”

You peeked at him from between your fingers. He was still writing, serene as ever but the corners of his mouth were twitching, and there was the faintest, faintest flush dusting his cheekbones. He wasn’t entirely unruffled. That was something.

 “You didn’t even finish your thought,” you muttered. 

“No,” he agreed, dipping his quill again, “but I find I’m rather fond of how you chose to interrupt me.” 

You dropped your forehead to the desk with a soft thunk. “I hate you.”

“That,” he said, setting the quill aside and finally looking at you, golden eye far too warm, “is objectively untrue.” 

And then he slid the notes back toward you, meticulously annotated, sectioned off with clear, neat revisions. But his hand lingered for just a moment close, not quite touching yours. “…You don’t have to rush to say anything,” he added, quieter this time. “But I’ll always listen. Whenever you're ready.” 

You nodded, throat tight, fingers curling over the marked-up pages. You weren’t ready to speak again. But he’d given you something better…time. And that, from him, was everything. You exhaled sharply, half-laugh, half-groan, as you clutched your binder to your chest like it might stop your heart from sprinting straight out of your ribcage.

“If I ever betray you one day,” you said, tilting your head with mock gravity, “it’ll be because of this. Right here. This exact moment.” 

He raised a brow, setting his quill aside, fingers lacing together over his desk in that composed, scholarly way that only made everything worse. “Oh?” he mused. “And what, precisely, have I done to earn such a fate?”

 You gestured vaguely toward him. “That. All of… this. The way you talk. The way you look at me like I’m the most fascinating equation in the world. It’s not fair.” 

His gaze shimmered like light on the rim of a teacup refined, precise, unshaken. “You find it unfair to be studied with care?”

“I find it dangerous,” you said. “You should come with a warning label. May cause emotional whiplash.” 

He huffed a quiet breath of amusement. “I could say the same about you.” You opened your mouth. Closed it again. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Turn the tables. Be infuriatingly charming. Make me forget what I was saying.” You sighed, folding your arms over the binder now. “If one day I turn on you, you’ll know why.” 

A pause. “I’ll consider it an honor,” he said, voice low, half-laced with mischief. “To be remembered at all… even in betrayal.” 

You blinked, the smile faltering for half a second. There was something there. Something just beneath the velvet edge of his words fleeting, unspoken, too sincere to call out. But he didn’t give it time to linger. With a quiet hum, he picked up your portfolio again, flipping to the next page. “In the meantime,” he said, “your transitions are strong, but your closing paragraph needs work.” You blinked again, stunned by the sudden shift. “…You’re the worst,” you muttered, cheeks warm.

“I’m thorough,” he corrected. 

You rolled your eyes and leaned forward slightly. “Same difference.” But as his eyes skimmed the page steady, patient, entirely focused on your work you couldn’t help but wonder. Would he still remember this moment, too? Even if one day… you were gone. You dragged your chair next to him and leaned on his shoulder…he didn’t seem startled by the weight of your head against his shoulder if anything, he stilled for a moment, as if to make room for it. Like this quiet leaning in was something fragile, and sacred. Then he simply adjusted, as he always did around you, and continued reading.

 “Yeah, yeah,” you mumbled, your voice softened by proximity and the quiet security of the moment. “Okay. I get it. I’m a dramatic underseller.”

“You said it, not I,” he replied, but there was a smile in his voice. A faint, amused lilt that vibrated gently where your temple rested against him. You didn’t bother to lift your head. You just watched his hand move across the page, long fingers gliding effortlessly between lines, underlining a sentence here, circling a phrase there. You could feel the minute shifts in his posture, the subtle cadence of his breath steady, quiet, certain. It was the kind of certainty you rarely felt in yourself, but always found in him.

 You’d lost count of how many times he had guided you through theories and tangled footnotes. But this? This was different. Not because of what he was saying but because of where you were. Who you were to each other now. Not just tutor and student. Not just two paths crossing by fate or chance. “I do mean it,” he said suddenly, voice low as he circled another section in your research outline.

 “This is good. Very good.” You closed your eyes for a beat, soaking in the sound of his approval like warmth beneath your skin. “Even with the metaphors?” you asked, cracking one eye open. “I know I got carried away.” 

He hummed. “You’ve always been a little excessive. But the right kind of excessive.”

You laughed quietly, your breath brushing the fabric of his robes. “Coming from you, I’ll take that as high praise.” 

He turned a page, slow and unhurried. “It was meant as such.” The silence that followed was the kind you’d grown to love with him. Thoughtful. Comfortable. A shared space where nothing had to be explained. And so, you let your eyes close again, letting the steady movement of his hands and the soft scratch of quill on parchment lull you into something calm. If the world stopped here if it never moved past this moment you thought you’d be alright. You slumped against his shoulder with a quiet breath, no more than a whisper of movement as your weight settled into his side. You hadn’t meant to fall asleep. You never did. But there was something about the way he read each word deliberate, as though even the air bent to listen that made your eyes heavy. That made time slow. 

That made it easy to let go. Shadow Milk Cookie stilled the moment he felt you yield to sleep. The pen in his hand hovered mid-mark above the parchment, its ink trembling slightly at the tip before blotting into the page, forgotten.

He looked at you. Not a glance. Not a fleeting moment of curiosity. He looked like someone who had spent centuries collecting fragments of truth, only to find something unbearably precious in the curve of your cheek, the way your lashes brushed your skin, the way your lips parted in rest. “…You shouldn’t do this,” he murmured. Not to you. To himself. His voice cracked in the quiet.

“You shouldn’t give me this,” he said, so softly the words barely escaped his chest. “Not when I will keep it long after you're gone.” He reached up, hesitating, then brushed a knuckle down your temple, slow and reverent. You didn’t stir. 

“I could name a hundred constellations,” he whispered, “but none would chart what you’ve done to me.” The words tasted like grief. Like longing not yet allowed to take root. He tilted his head back against the chair, eyes drifting upward to the ceiling as though the heavens might grant him mercy. 

They didn’t.

“I was not made for this,” he said. “Not for something fragile. Not for something fleeting.” And yet here you were, cradled against him like a promise he never dared to make. He laughed, quietly bitter and broken all at once. “I will spend lifetimes dissecting truth. Defining it. Proving it. But you...”

 His hand, still near your cheek, curled into a fist and dropped to his lap. “You make me wish I could lie.” A beat of silence. 

Then his voice lowered, “You make me wish I was mortal.” He turned his face, pressing his lips to your hair, the motion so subtle it could have been the breath of a breeze. But it wasn’t. It was desperation. It was devotion. It was the cruel truth of someone who would never forget what it was to be held by someone who could.

“You’ll forget this moment,” he whispered. “But I won’t.” 

His eyes shut. “I will never stop remembering.” Shadow Milk Cookie didn’t wake you. Even when the golden light of afternoon began to fade into the mellow hues of dusk, even when the lanterns of the Scholar’s Wing flickered to life one by one and bathed the room in quiet, scholarly warmth he simply let you sleep. You didn’t stir. Not once. Not when he shifted beneath you, not when he reached for another sheet of parchment, not even when his hand brushed past yours to pull your portfolio a little closer. It went against his better judgment. He knew that. But tonight, he allowed something else to win. Truth was not always cold and rigid. Truth, at times, could be kindness. Could be mercy.

And this was no lie. With careful fingers, he turned the pages you’d agonized over, his eyes scanning each section with a focus sharpened by years of discipline. Your notes were scribbled in the margins, questions jotted hastily and underlined twice. There were moments where you’d second-guessed yourself and tried again, and again, and again. Shadow Milk Cookie studied each line with quiet reverence, as though your ambition itself had been woven into the ink.

 You deserved the best chance. And if that meant he set aside his title for an evening not as the Sage of Truth, not even as the Fount of Knowledge but simply as Shadow Milk, then so be it. He dipped his quill. One by one, the revisions began. Not rewritten…no never rewritten. He respected you too much for that. But refined, clarified, strengthened with the kind of insight only someone who had shaped knowledge itself could offer.

He didn’t leave notes for you to fix later. He made the changes. Clean, efficient strokes of truth and logic, slipping seamlessly into the work you’d already built with trembling hands and sleepless nights. He worked until the final sentence had been trimmed to its most perfect version, until the last page was immaculate. Only then did he glance toward the tall arched window. Dinner would be soon no doubt. He looked down at you again. Your head still rested against his shoulder, your brow soft and your breathing even. You looked peaceful. He didn’t dare move. So instead, he folded his hands over the closed portfolio, now complete. A quiet smile touched his lips. Tired. Small. But real.

“This,” he whispered, barely audible, “isn’t dishonesty.” His fingers hovered above yours for a moment. “It’s devotion.” 

You stirred slowly, breath catching as your eyes blinked open to the soft gold of late afternoon filtering through the high windows. The scent of aged parchment and ink lingered in the air, as grounding as the voice that greeted you before your thoughts fully formed. “You’re awake.” Shadow Milk Cookie’s voice was soft, low, and just a touch amused. You groaned and pushed yourself up, blinking at the feel of his shoulder still beneath you. “Wait did I fall asleep on you?” you mumbled, voice thick with sleep. He glanced down at you, expression unreadable but unmistakably fond. “You did.”

You squinted, rubbing at your eyes. “How long?”

“Long enough for the sun to drift lower,” he said calmly. “Not quite dinner. Your friends will likely start wondering soon.” 

You groaned again, dragging a hand through your hair. “Great. That’s not embarrassing at all.”

“Not at all,” he said dryly. You glanced at him, catching the slight curve at the corner of his lips. 

“Did I… drool?” There was a pause, which he seemed to draw out on purpose before answering, “Only slightly.”

You gaped. “You’re joking.”

“I am.” You exhaled, clutching your chest. “You can’t do that to me, Shadow Milk. I just woke up. My soul hasn’t returned to my body yet.” 

He gave the faintest smile. “It would explain why you’ve yet to ask about your portfolio.” You blinked, only now noticing the organized stack of parchment laid neatly on the desk beside him your handwriting scattered among his. “…Wait. You revised it?” you asked, straightening. “While I was asleep?”

He nodded. “There wasn’t much left to fix, but I added the necessary polish. Your content was strong. It simply needed better flow.” You stared at him, lips parting. “You did that for me?”

“Yes.” His gaze was steady. “And I also wrote your letter of recommendation.” Your breath hitched. “You what?”

“I had the time. And the reason.” His voice lowered just slightly. “You deserved it.” 

You blinked hard, processing. “Shadow Milk,” you started, then stopped, then rubbed your face again. “I’m going to cry. That’s illegal.”

“It is not,” he said mildly. “But I understand the impulse.”

“You did all that while I was unconscious on your shoulder,” you said, mouth twitching at the sheer absurdity. “Unbelievable.”

“I did.”

“And what am I supposed to do with that level of kindness?” you asked, squinting at him.

“You could turn in your portfolio,” he replied, ever composed. “Preferably before the deadline.”

You laughed, soft and disbelieving. “You are something else.

” He tilted his head. “Is that a compliment?”

“Yes,” you sighed, standing and stretching, “and a warning. You’re making it really hard not to fall in love with you all over again.” A beat of silence.

“So I’ve made it difficult.” You blinked, caught off guard by the quiet honesty in his tone. But before you could respond, he stood as well, smoothing his robes. “I’ll walk you to the dining halls,” he said. “Your friends are likely wondering if you’ve been abducted by ancient scrolls.”

“Wouldn’t be the worst way to go,” you murmured, tucking the revised portfolio under your arm. Shadow Milk Cookie opened the door for you, his shoulder brushing yours lightly as you passed. And as you stepped into the quiet corridor, late sunlight spilling through the tall windows, you couldn’t help but smile. He had let you rest. And in the meantime, he had lifted your burdens not out of obligation, but out of care. Something about that felt more valuable than any letter.

The halls of the Scholar’s Wing were quieter now, draped in the hush of late afternoon and streaked with the golden fingers of light filtering through stained glass. You walked beside him, your revised portfolio tucked securely beneath your arm, your shoulder brushing his every few steps just enough to remind you he was still there. 

You both said little. But the silence wasn’t uncomfortable. If anything, it felt charged with something else, something that hummed between you like a secret shared only in glances and breath. The warmth of what he’d done for you still lingered.

Not just the revisions, not just the letter. But the way he had let you rest. The way he had carried your work when you could not. That quiet, tender devotion lingered in the air between you now like static, crackling beneath your skin. You wanted to reach out for his hand. You could feel the urge in your fingertips aching, light, almost foolish.

 But your hand stayed curled at your side, brushing occasionally against the fabric of your robes. You didn’t reach for him. You couldn’t. Because the halls, though quiet, weren’t empty. And even if they had been, he wasn’t just anyone. He was the Sage of Truth. Or rather the Fount of Knowledge. His name carried weight. His presence turned heads.

To be seen touching him, reaching for him in a way that said he’s mine… It would only invite eyes, rumors, and worse. So you kept walking. Your fingers brushed his once as your steps aligned, a fleeting moment. It could’ve been an accident. Maybe it was. But he didn’t pull away. And when you glanced up at him, his expression remained composed but his gaze was softer than usual. Gentler.

“I’m glad you let me read it,” he said quietly, his voice like velvet in the quiet corridor. “Even if it meant I had to watch you sleep over your own words.” 

You rolled your eyes, but it was half-hearted at best. “You could’ve just let me nap the day away.” 

He glanced sideways, the faintest glimmer of something playful in his eyes. “I considered it. But then I remembered how particular your friends are about timely reunions.”

You snorted. “You make it sound like I have a curfew.”

“You do. It’s called Chai Latte Cookie.” That made you laugh soft, surprised, warm. The sound echoed gently against the tall stone walls. As you exited the Scholar’s Wing and the scent of parchment and candlelight gave way to the gentle aroma of roasted herbs and hearth-baked bread drifting from the dining hall, you hesitated again. 

You wanted to hold his hand. But instead, you said, “Thanks. For today. Really.” 

He looked at you, and there was something in his eyes then something unreadable, but not unkind. “You’re welcome,” he said. “For every day like it.” 

And though your hand never touched his, though your fingers never found the courage, the air between you shimmered with the closeness of almost.

And for now, almost was enough. You lingered just before the threshold of the dining hall, the warm scent of supper curling out into the corridor, mixing with the golden hush of late afternoon. The light caught in his hair as he slowed to a stop beside you, casting him in a glow so unreal it made your heart skip. You looked up at him, trying not to sound too hopeful.

“Would you… join us?” you asked, voice soft, not wanting to press. “Or do you have other matters to attend to?”

There was a beat of silence, not the heavy kind, not uncomfortable, but thoughtful. The way he always paused before answering, as if even your simplest questions deserved consideration. His gaze, when it met yours, was calm. Unreadable to most but not to you. Not anymore. Well no that was a lie…but sometimes you could decipher him. There was warmth in it, threaded carefully behind his usual composure. 

“I do have matters,” he said, his tone gentle, almost regretful. “But none so urgent they cannot wait… a little longer.” Your heart gave a small, unbidden lurch. He inclined his head slightly, as though that settled it. “If I’m invited, I will accompany you.” 

You blinked. “Of course you’re invited,” you said quickly, heat rushing to your face despite your best efforts. “I wouldn’t have asked otherwise.”

“Then lead the way.”

And just like that, you stepped into the dining hall together, the low murmur of conversation and the familiar clatter of trays washing over you. You didn’t reach for him. But you walked close enough that your sleeve brushed his once more, and this time, he didn’t just let it pass. He leaned ever so slightly toward you subtle, invisible to anyone else but it was enough. It was more than enough.

You both moved through the dining hall in tandem his presence quiet and commanding beside you, yours a quiet hum of nerves beneath your skin. You tried not to think too hard about how it looked, how close you walked, how your tray nearly clinked into his when you reached for the same serving spoon. He said nothing about it, only glanced at you briefly.

You spotted your friends before he did same table, same spot near the windows, light pooling over Chai Latte Cookie’s curls like a halo. She saw you instantly. And when she saw him walking beside you? Her entire face lit up like a lantern. You wanted to melt. But she bless her didn’t say a word. Not even a squeal. She simply adjusted in her seat, a graceful shift to make room for you both without comment. 

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie raised his brows at the two trays. Earl Grey Cookie looked over the rim of his cup, subtle as ever. But neither of them spoke. Not a single teasing remark. Not a smirk. Not a knowing glance. Not even a nudge. Just calm, measured silence as you both approached the table. It was… disarming.

You sat down beside Chai Latte, Shadow Milk taking the open space on your other side. It was a squeeze, maybe more than necessary, but no one pointed it out. Not even Chai, though you felt her energy radiating beside you like a bubbling kettle, barely restrained joy threatening to whistle through her teeth. Still, she just smiled. “Didn’t expect you both to be back so soon,” she said lightly, sipping her tea. “We were just talking about the paper due for Comparative Theory.”

“We were talking about how none of us have started it,” Hazelnut corrected, already halfway through his roll. 

Earl Grey Cookie gave a noncommittal hum. “Some of us started. Some of us intend to coast on instinct and charm.” Hazelnut biscotti flashed him a grin. “You say that like it’s not a viable strategy.” Shadow Milk said nothing, only reached for his utensils in a practiced motion perfectly composed, perfectly at ease. But his presence beside you felt like something settled, something new and deeply unspoken. And not once did your friends break their promise. You tried not to smile. Really, you did.

But when your elbow bumped gently into his by accident and he didn’t move away your grin betrayed you. Chai Latte caught it. And instead of teasing, she simply reached for the sugar jar, poured a delicate spoonful into her cup, and stirred slowly, dreamily. “I’m really glad,” she murmured under her breath. Not to him. Not to anyone in particular. Just to you. Only to you.

And you didn’t say it, but your smile told her everything she needed to know. You cleared your throat, desperate to say something, anything, before the tension could grow legs and start pacing around the table. The heat in your cheeks refused to die down, and you could feel the way Earl Grey’s eyes watched you without watching you, the way Chai Latte Cookie was frozen mid-sip, and Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie well, he was never subtle to begin with. So you did what you always did when the moment got too heavy. You leaned back, fork in hand, and said, “You know, I’ve heard a rumor.” Hazelnut’s ears perked. “Oh?” 

“Apparently,” you said, spearing a grape like it had personally offended you, “they’re going to start serving pineapple ice cream in the dining halls.” 

Chai Latte blinked. “Pineapple… ice cream?” You nodded solemnly, barely hiding your grin. “Mm-hmm. Creamy. Tart. Fruity. Forbidden.”

Earl Grey, deadpan as ever, stirred his tea. “That sounds like something they’d invent during a failed culinary alchemy lecture.”

Hazelnut biscotti lit up. “I’d try it.”

“Of course you would,” Chai muttered, elbowing him. “You once ate an entire cup of jelly made from fluorescent fungi.” 

“You dared me,” Hazelnut Biscotti pointed out proudly. You grinned. “Anyway, when pineapple ice cream does arrive, I expect full honors and the ceremonial first scoop.” 

“I’ll get you a gold spoon,” Chai Latte said with a giggle. “I’ll forge it myself,” Hazelnut biscotti added. “Please don’t,” Earl Grey said blandly. “The last time you tried to forge anything, it exploded.”

“I learned a lot from that explosion!”

“You learned how to set the bell tower on fire,” Chai said. You smiled into your cup, tension ebbing away with the laughter that followed. Across from you, the air felt light again familiar. Safe. Just you and your friends around a table like always. And beside you, you felt the smallest shift Shadow Milk Cookie’s elbow brushing yours, subtle, like a question he didn’t ask aloud. When you turned your head to look at him, he wasn’t smiling. But the warmth in his eyes was unmistakable. 

You hadn’t fixed the heaviness in his heart. Not entirely. But you’d made him laugh earlier. And maybe pineapple ice cream could do the rest. You shifted slightly in your seat, laughing at something Hazelnut muttered under his breath about pineapple sorcery and golden spoons. Your hand brushed against Shadow Milk Cookie’s beneath the table an accident at first.

Or maybe not. You didn’t look at him. You didn’t have to. You could feel the quiet hum of his presence, the way he’d gone still beside you in that careful, composed way of his as if he knew the question lingering at your fingertips before you asked it. So you asked it, in your own way.

Your fingers, slow and deliberate, found his beneath the table. You tugged, just slightly, like a secret shared in silence. And he let you. His hand shifted, threading carefully through yours, palm warm, fingers long and elegant. It was subtle. Safe. Hidden by the edge of the table and the noise of your friends. No one would notice not if you both stayed still, not if you kept smiling, not if Chai kept raving about pineapple poetry for you and Hazelnut kept threatening to steal the head chef’s spice rack.

You dared a glance his way, but he wasn’t looking at you. He was still facing forward, the picture of calm shoulders relaxed, expression unreadable save for the smallest pull of a smile at the corner of his lips.

You might’ve missed it if you didn’t know him like this. If you hadn’t spent so long watching that expression shift between lines of truth and moments of quiet. Your fingers curled around his just a little tighter. It would be fine, you told yourself. Just this. Just now.

No one had to know. You leaned back just slightly in your chair, hand still curled into Shadow Milk Cookie’s beneath the table, the soft pressure of his palm grounding you in a way none of your friends could see.

The conversation had turned chaotic again Hazelnut claiming he could create the perfect pineapple-chili gelato, Chai Latte insisting the world wasn’t ready for that kind of culinary catastrophe, and Earl Grey, ever neutral, musing aloud about the chemistry of it all like a scientist caught between philosophers.

You smiled to yourself before squeezing his hand lightly against. He turned his head slightly, and though he didn’t look directly at you, you knew he was listening. You tilted your voice lower, casual, as though it were just a passing thought. “What’s your favorite ice cream flavor?”

There was a pause. A breath. “Ice cream?” he repeated, his tone soft, almost amused. 

You nodded, trying not to grin. “Yes, ice cream. Surely even the Sage of Truth must have a weakness.” 

Hazelnut biscotti caught wind of your question and perked up. “Wait…oh, now this I gotta hear. Don’t let him dodge it…”

“He will try,” Chai chimed in, resting her chin in her hand and turning toward him expectantly. “Come on, enlighten us, Fount of Frozen Preferences.” 

Earl Grey stirred his tea calmly. “He’s going to say something obscure, like wildflower-and-moonstone swirl.”

“I think it’ll be something unexpected,” you murmured. Shadow Milk Cookie’s lips curled, just slightly. “You assume I partake often enough to have a favorite.”

“That’s not an answer,” you teased. Another quiet moment passed. “…Honey lavender.” Chai gasped. “That’s so specific.”

“And delicate,” Earl Grey added with a half-smile. “Fitting.”

“It’s floral,” you said quietly, squeezing his hand beneath the table. “Like… soft things you don’t expect from someone like you.” 

He didn’t speak, not right away. But his gaze flickered to you, and his fingers tightened just slightly around yours. “It reminds me of something,” he said, voice so low it nearly drowned beneath the sound of laughter around you.

You tilted your head. “What’s that?” He hesitated. Then, with the smallest smile, he said, “Moments like this.” You blinked, heart skipping just a bit, the noise of the dining hall suddenly distant. 

“Gods,” Hazelnut groaned, throwing his head back dramatically, “even his ice cream preferences are poetic.” 

Chai Latte nudged you with her foot under the table. “You hear that?” she whispered, voice full of amusement. “Honey lavender. That’s romantic-coded.” You bit your lip, face warming.

Shadow Milk Cookie just returned to his tea, but the faintest blush traced his cheekbones. You didn’t say anything else, only let your thumb brush over his knuckles beneath the table as you leaned into the conversation once more. 

Dinner eventually came to a close, the soft clatter of trays and the hum of conversation thinning as students filtered out into the amber-lit corridors of the Academy. You were still lingering, the last bite of dessert melting on your tongue as Chai Latte Cookie pushed her chair back with exaggerated effort.

“Ugh, I forgot we still have to finish that tactical report,” she groaned, stretching her arms above her head. “The one for the Labyrinth Tactician. The really boring one.”

Earl Grey Cookie stood more gracefully, already collecting their empty cups. “I wouldn’t call it boring. Just long. And unnecessarily philosophical.” 

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie grinned as he wiped his hands on a napkin. “We’ve procrastinated so well. I’m proud of us.” 

Chai snorted. “No pride, just panic. Come on, we’ll meet in my dorm again.” Hazelnut Biscotti blinked. “Wait, now?” 

Chai leaned down, patting your shoulder. “Mhm. Sorry, we’d drag you into it, but you’re not in that class. Be thankful.” 

Earl Grey gave you a subtle look. “We’ll see you tomorrow?” 

You nodded, trying not to feel the sudden shift in energy. “Yeah. Definitely.” 

Hazelnut Biscotti smirked as he passed by. “Don’t have too much fun without us.” 

You rolled your eyes. “You’re insufferable.”

“Only a little.”

And with that, the three of them disappeared into the evening crowd, their voices fading into the echo of footsteps and magical lantern light. You turned back to your table, suddenly very aware of the quiet. It was just you and Shadow Milk Cookie now. He hadn’t moved, still seated beside you, hands folded gently over the table’s edge. The soft golden glow above cast subtle light across his face, outlining the elegant line of his jaw, the slight shimmer in his eyes, the calm composure he wore so naturally. It should’ve felt strange being left alone like this after the warmth and chaos of dinner but it didn’t. It felt… steady.

 Like a chapter you hadn’t realized you’d been reading toward. He glanced at you, not speaking at first, and yet the silence between you felt full rather than empty. Something lived in it a kind of understanding that didn’t need words to bloom. You shifted slightly, tucking your hands into your lap to stop yourself from reaching for his again. “Guess it’s just us now.” He inclined his head. “So it seems.” A pause.

Then, quietly he asked “Would you like to take a walk?” Your heart fluttered in that quiet, fluttery way it did whenever he looked at you like that like you weren’t just another fleeting moment in his long life, but something he wanted to linger in. Even just a little longer.

“…Yeah,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’d like that.” You exhaled slowly, watching as a breeze stirred the willow leaves above. The sky had deepened into a soft lavender now, streaked with the last gold threads of sunset. Everything felt quiet here softened, like the garden knew not to intrude. Your hand found his again. Fingers sliding between his with a certainty you hadn’t known you possessed. 

“I don’t know when it started,” you said, voice quiet, almost reverent. “This feeling. Whatever this is.” You gave a shaky laugh, the kind you only ever let yourself have around him soft, uncertain, sincere. “But I think I’ve felt it longer than I realized. And I’m glad… that we’re in this together.”

You didn’t look at him. Not yet. The words still trembled in your throat. “I know it’s different for you. That time doesn’t weigh the same.” 

You turned your hand, pressing your palm to his. “But even if I’m only a blink in your story… I’d rather be that than nothing at all.” And then maybe it was foolishness, or maybe it was something braver than that you pulled him in and kissed his cheek. Not for show. Not in jest. Just a quiet, devoted press of lips to skin. 

He stilled. Not like he was caught off guard, but like the world itself had paused to listen. You drew back slowly, barely able to meet his eyes now that the moment had passed. You weren’t usually so bold. But tonight, something inside you had needed him to know. “That’s all I’ve got,” you whispered.

“A small, mortal life. But I want to live it… loving you.” His fingers curled around yours tight, trembling, anchored. And when he turned to face you, the look in his eyes wasn’t unreadable anymore.

It was everything. Shadow Milk Cookie turned toward you slowly, as if moved by some ancient tide. The light from the reflecting pool shimmered faintly across his features, the soft glow making him look almost otherworldly like something carved from the stars, long before your time, long before your world had even begun. 

But in this moment, he looked only at you. And for once, his gaze wasn’t composed, wasn’t quiet, wasn’t distant. It was bare. He lifted his free hand the one not already holding yours and rested it gently against your cheek.

His thumb brushed just below your eye, reverent. “You are,” he said, voice soft, “the one thing I did not expect.” You blinked, heart rising painfully in your throat.

“I will see centuries pass,” he continued, his words unhurried. “I will watch stars burn out, kingdoms fall, and knowledge rewrite itself again and again. I have known truths that outlive their meaning… and still” he leaned in, forehead nearly brushing yours, “I was unprepared for you.” 

You swallowed hard, suddenly breathless. His voice dropped, barely a whisper now. “You speak of a small, mortal life, as if it is not the most precious thing I have ever been entrusted with.” 

Your chest ached. And then, quieter still “If you will give it to me… I will spend eternity remembering that it was once mine to hold.” His hand trembled slightly where it rested against your skin, and it undid you completely.

You didn’t answer him with words. You just leaned in, forehead against his, eyes closed. Your fingers curled around his like a vow. The moment folded around the two of you like twilight itself was willing to stand still. If love was a language, then this, this was fluent.

And it spoke volumes. Your voice was barely a murmur, a breath carried on the quiet wind curling through the willow branches overhead. The glowing leaves stirred faintly in the hush between you. “In another life,” you said, your gaze fixed on your joined hands, “we’re both mortal.” 

He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. He was listening in that way only he could fully, silently, like the world might shift if he missed a single word. “In that life,” you went on, “we get to worry about aging together. We get to argue about who forgot what in the market, or who left the books out in the rain. We grow slower, clumsier, softer. And when the end comes, it’s not this impossible divide it’s just time.”

You paused, swallowing against the weight of your own thoughts. “I think about that sometimes. Not because I wish I didn’t meet you here, but because…” You looked up at him, eyes earnest. “Because I want a future where we both have endings. The same kind. The kind we meet side by side.” 

There was no bitterness in your voice. No regret. Just truth. A soft, grim truth. Shadow Milk Cookie turned his hand in yours, fingers intertwining more securely.

His gaze, golden and quiet, searched yours with that impossible depth that always left you a little breathless. “I have imagined every possibility,” he said at last, voice low and sure. “Every world where I never met you. Every future where I did, but you looked through me. Every fate where we missed each other by inches.”

He exhaled, like it ached to say.

“This one where you live, here, and choose me despite it all this is the one I treasure.” He leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours. “If I must outlive you, then let it be with the memory of this. Of you, choosing to love me even knowing the cost.” 

You closed your eyes, letting the moment settle like falling starlight. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t perfect. But it was real. And sometimes, real was enough. Under the soft shimmer of the Academy Gardens, where the willows whispered like secrets and the reflecting pool mirrored the stars before the sky could catch up, you stood suspended in something not quite time, not quite magic, just presence.

Just him. Just you. You didn’t know who moved first. Maybe it didn’t matter. One moment, your breath hitched at the closeness, your heart pressed wild against your ribs and then his lips were on yours, and yours on his. Gentle at first. Barely there. Like neither of you could quite believe it was happening, like the truth of it needed to be tested one more time. A slow, searching thing. Then deeper. Certain. The kind of kiss that wasn’t trying to prove anything it simply was.

You were warm all over. Dizzy. His hand cradled the side of your face so carefully it nearly broke you. You leaned into it, into him, tasting every ounce of feeling he never said aloud but always, always carried.

 Your hands curled in the fabric of his coat. His breath stuttered just a little when your nose brushed his. You both pulled back at the same time, foreheads still pressed together, eyes wide and cheeks flushed. You were both grinning. Foolishly. Breathlessly. Unapologetically. “I’m glad it’s you,” you whispered. His voice, quiet and impossibly tender, barely made it to your ears. 

“And I, you.” The stars above seemed to pause for you. And for a long, perfect moment you let yourselves stay there.

Just two souls. Not a Sage. Not a student. Not immortal. Not mortal.

Just real.

The next week passed in a blur.

Not in chaos, not in stress but in quiet resolve. The kind born from people who had each other, who wanted things enough to work for them.

You met up with Chai Latte Cookie, Earl Grey Cookie, and Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie every afternoon after classes. You studied. Reviewed. Polished. Earl Grey, as promised, brought every rubric and cross-referenced every section. Chai Latte fueled you with stolen snacks and pep talks while doodling pineapples in the margins of your drafts. Hazelnut claimed he did “nothing” but was always the first to catch small errors no one else saw.

And Shadow Milk Cookie?

He never once hovered. But his presence lingered in every footnote you revised, every theory you reshaped. He’d said what he needed to say and you carried it with you.

You submitted your portfolio with your friends that following week, the deadline having been graciously extended due to “review committee backlog” a miracle Chai Latte swore she manifested with her sheer willpower alone.

And the exam the one you thought would crush you? You passed it. An 86. Not perfect. Not a miracle. But something more honest. Something that said; you made it. Because of effort. Because of care. Because someone, no someones believed you could.

And as you stepped out of the submission hall that day, arms full of papers and hearts full of relief, you looked at your friends. And you smiled. You had made it. And this this strange, beautiful moment was only the beginning.

You sat on the stone steps just outside the Hall of Records, the warm afternoon sun casting long shadows across the courtyard. A soft breeze carried the scent of parchment and spring blossoms freshly graded exam scrolls in hand, your little group had gathered with bated breath and varying levels of smugness.

Chai Latte Cookie had been the first to announce hers. “Eighty-nine!” she beamed, practically glowing as she held her scroll high. “Okay, not bad, right? Not the highest, but I will absolutely take it.” 

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie was next, already smirking before he even unrolled his. “Ninety,” he declared, wiggling his eyebrows. “Suck it, margins.” 

Chai snorted. “Oh, come on, one point?”

“A victory is a victory.”

Earl Grey Cookie took his time, of course. Unrolling his scroll like it was the most natural thing in the world. He read it once, blinked slowly, and said with all the humility of someone born excellent, “Ninety-four.”

You looked down at your own scroll. Eighty-six. Not bad. Not bad at all. But still lower than all three of them. You tried to keep your expression neutral as you rolled it back up, tucking the paper between your fingers before anyone asked. Too late. “What’d you get?” Chai asked, already leaning toward you with a hopeful smile. 

You held up the scroll, just slightly. “Eighty-six.” There was a pause brief, almost imperceptible. Then Chai gasped like you’d told her something miraculous. 

“That’s amazing!” Hazelnut Biscotti grinned. “Hey, look at you! Up top!” 

You gave him a flat look. “I scored the lowest.”

“Yes,” Earl Grey agreed mildly, “but not by much.” 

Chai nodded, reaching over to nudge your shoulder. “Seriously. This is the best you’ve done in this class, right?” 

You shrugged. “Yeah, I guess.”

“No guessing.” She leaned closer, her voice softer now. “You worked your butt off. And it paid off. We’re proud of you.” 

Hazelnut biscotti offered his hand, palm up. “Come on. High five. You earned it.” 

You smacked his hand lightly, despite yourself. Earl Grey folded his scroll neatly and glanced at you. “A score is just one measure of success,” he said. “You should be pleased with your progress.” 

You looked between them, heart quietly swelling. Not one of them treated you like you’d failed. Not one comment that made you feel small. Only warmth. Only encouragement. “Thanks,” you murmured. Chai flung an arm around your shoulders, nearly knocking the scroll from your hands. “Now. Ice cream?”

“I heard pineapple ice cream might finally be on the menu,” Hazelnut added. You groaned. “If it’s not there after all this build-up, I’m never trusting the dining hall again.” Chai grinned. “Then let’s go verify.” And as the four of you walked back toward the dining halls, laughter echoing between the walls, you held your scroll a little tighter. They had all done better than you, that didn’t mean you didn’t belong. You did. 

Sure enough, there it was nestled like a golden promise in the chilled basin of the dessert station: pineapple ice cream. You froze for a moment, barely believing it, then turned slowly to your friends with wide, reverent eyes. Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie snorted. “You look like you just saw the divine.”

“I did,” you breathed, already reaching for a bowl. “This is it. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for my entire academic career.” Chai Latte Cookie laughed behind you. “It’s barely ten in the morning.”

“And yet,” you said solemnly, scooping a mountainous heap into your bowl, “this is justice.” 

Earl Grey Cookie raised a brow. “I assume this means you’ll be skipping lunch?” 

You didn’t even look up. “Lunch is dead to me.” Chai giggled. “You’re going to regret that by noon.”

“Let future me suffer. Present me is thriving.” And truly, you were. You beelined for a table, ice cream bowl balanced like a sacred artifact in your hands. It was more than anyone should reasonably eat before lunch.

Your eyes were absolutely bigger than your stomach but you didn’t care. You dug in with fervor, sighing at the first bite. Sweet. Tangy. A little too cold. Perfect. 

Hazelnut Biscotti leaned over the table, watching you with a grin. “That’s a lot of pineapple ice cream.”

“Do you want some?” you asked through a mouthful, only half-offering the bowl. 

“I value my tongue too much,” he said, waving you off even though he literally had his own bowl. What was the logic here. Earl Grey sat down with an amused shake of his head, teacup in hand as always. “You’re an enigma.”

“I contain multitudes,” you said, and took another dramatic bite. Chai reached over and plucked the spoon from your hand, stealing a taste. “Okay, okay, I admit it’s good. Still. Before lunch?”

“I’m making memories,” you mumbled. And as your friends laughed around you, as the sun filtered through the stained-glass windows in fractured gold, you smiled into your pineapple mountain. Today was a good day. A sweet one, even.

And it was only just getting started. You slumped forward in your seat, your stomach making quiet protests with every breath you dared to take. 

The bowl sat in front of you now, nearly empty, just a smear of golden cream clinging to the edges, a small spoon half-buried like a fallen flag in a battlefield of your own making. “I’m fine,” you said, with the flat tone of someone very much not fine. “This was good for me.”

Chai Latte Cookie leaned her cheek into her palm, watching you with the fond exasperation of someone who had witnessed this exact scenario at least three times before. “You are visibly suffering.”

“This is the face of fulfillment,” you replied, deadpan. Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie snorted. “This is the face of dairy betrayal.”

“I don’t regret it,” you mumbled, both hands braced against the table like you might actually fall over. “My body just doesn’t understand joy when it happens all at once.” 

Earl Grey Cookie sipped his tea, setting it down with a quiet clink. “You’ve declared victory far too early,” he said, glancing pointedly at the clock on the wall. “It’s not even lunch. There’s still a whole day left.”

“Then I’ve peaked,” you said, eyes half-lidded with the weight of your self-inflicted sugar crash. “It’s downhill from here.” Chai poked your arm gently. “You need a walk. Or a nap. Possibly both.”

“Don’t touch me. I’m fragile.”

“Do you want me to carry you?” Hazelnut offered, entirely too amused. 

You groaned. “Emotionally? Yes. Physically? I don’t think either of us would survive that.” Still, despite the fullness in your stomach and the ache blooming behind your eyes, you smiled. Warm and soft, like the pineapple ice cream hadn’t just ruined your digestive system but healed something inside you. 

“This,” you said, waving vaguely at your emptied bowl, “was absolutely good for me.” Chai rolled her eyes and reached over to flick a stray piece of napkin off your sleeve. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re enabling me.”

“And I always will.”

You leaned back in your chair with a groan, head tilting to the side to catch a glimpse of Shadow Milk Cookie across the hall, his presence unmistakable even from a distance. Quiet, composed until his eyes flicked toward yours and, just for a moment, softened. Maybe you were full. Maybe you were a little miserable. 

But you were also content. Maybe that was good for you. You waved him over with the sluggish flap of someone far too full to be moving, let alone thinking clearly. Shadow Milk Cookie noticed immediately your posture, your face, the telltale discomfort practically written in your furrowed brow.

He approached with that same measured grace, hands clasped behind his back, though his expression had just the faintest hint of concern. 

“What,” he began, eyes scanning your disheveled state, “have you done?” 

You sighed dramatically, dragging your fingers through your hair like the weight of your decisions was far too great to bear. “What am I doing out here? What are you doing out here this early?” 

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie didn’t miss a beat. “Oh, they’re suffering.” Chai Latte Cookie, never one to miss an opportunity, added cheerfully, “They ate an entire bowl of pineapple ice cream before noon.”

“Two bowls,” Earl Grey Cookie corrected, not even looking up from his tea. “And half of Hazelnut’s when he wasn’t looking.” Shadow Milk’s eyes lowered slowly to the empty bowl still clutched in your trembling grasp. “Before noon,” he repeated. “They said it was good for them,” Chai said, voice full of playful betrayal. 

“Spiritually,” you mumbled. “You appear to be in the throes of an existential dessert crisis,” Shadow Milk said, tone perfectly neutral save for the very slight twitch of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. You narrowed your eyes at your so-called companions, utterly betrayed. “I just wanted to eat in peace.”

“You made no attempt at peace,” Earl Grey murmured, sipping serenely. Shadow Milk Cookie stepped closer to the table, folding his arms as he regarded you like a scholar confronted with a case study gone mildly rogue. “And yet, you’ve survived.”

“Barely,” you said, leaning your head against the table. “This is the end of me.” 

Hazelnut Biscotti leaned in, stage-whispering to Shadow Milk, “They said that after breakfast too.” Chai Latte giggled. 

You peeked up at Shadow Milk from beneath your arms, cheeks puffed in a pout. “Are you going to scold me, too?” 

He regarded you for a long moment, his gaze slow and deliberate. “No,” he said softly. “I am simply here to observe the consequences of your freedom.” 

You groaned. “That’s worse.” But even through the dramatic misery and the shame of being called out, his presence calmed something in you. Quiet and steady like a lighthouse in your pineapple-induced storm. And when his fingers brushed lightly against your shoulder, barely there, barely noticed by anyone else… You smiled, even if you didn’t lift your head. And just like that, it didn’t feel so bad being ratted out. 

You let out a dramatic groan and buried your face in your arms again. “Okay,” you mumbled, voice muffled against the table. “I take it back. I take everything back. This was not good for me. I am suffering.”

A/N this was made partially as a thank you but also because I need everyone to be emotionally invested for future plot points <3/lh

Y'all if you ever end up in a lab make sure to wash everything with acetone and dry it...and if it still doesn't work it might not be your fault stay strong....

Anyways...

Remember to follow and reblog for more bangers 😎😎😎🔥🔥🔥🔥

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[fic-girlie]

Just a Shelf

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: In the quiet safety of Jackson, Joel helps you fix a shelf-but neither of you expect the repair to become a turning point. As the night unfolds, soft silences and shared warmth begin to bridge the distance between two people still learning how to live in peace.

Warnings: fluff, a little angst

It started with the damn shelf.

Well— technically, it started with the flour. You’d been halfway through reorganizing your pantry when your elbow accidently clipped the bag perched a little too close to the edge. It toppled forward in slow motion, knocking over two cans and a jar of pickled beets, and when you reached out to steady the shelf, the entire structure groaned and gave out. Wood cracked, nails popped, and a cloud of flour exploded over everything like snow in a blizzard.

You froze, breath caught in your chest, arms coated in white powder.

“Perfect,” you muttered, and crouched down after retrieving a rag from the kitchen to start cleaning.

The damage was manageable—no broken glass, no twisted ankles—but the shelf itself had split where one of the supports met the floor. At first you tried to fix it yourself, wedging a book under the broken leg, then another, then testing it with a light push. The thing wobbled like a drunk on a tightrope.

So, you did what seemed to be the best option. You called Joel.

You told yourself it was just because he was good with tools, and he could fix anything.

Not because you liked the sound of his voice on your porch or the way his eyes always softened when he saw you. No.

Just the shelf.

He showed up twenty minutes later, toolbox in one hand, his thick coat dusted with snow.

“You alright?” he asked first, stepping inside the house as you let him in.

“Nothing broken but my pride,” you said, managing a small smile. “Pantry put up a fight with me.”

Joel’s eyes swept over you—your flour-covered shirt, then he looked over to the pantry, the cans on the floor, the broken shelf—and he let out a soft huff. “Shelf lose?”

“Barely,” you said, motioning for him to follow you. “Come see the damage.”

He didn’t hesitate, immediately following you, snow crunching over his boots, but otherwise his movements were careful and quiet as always. Joel Miller didn’t make unnecessary noise. He moved like a man who’d spent years trying not to be noticed.

You watched him crouch beside the shelf, frown deepening as he examined the damage. His fingers slowly traced along the split wood, then pressed at the edge until it gave a little under his touch.

“Cracked clean through,” he muttered. “This leg’s about done too. Someone threw this together in an afternoon with scrap wood.”

“Well, sounds about right.”

“I can fix it.”

You smiled at his comment. “You always say that.”

Joel looked up at you from his crouching position. “That’s ‘cause I always can.”

He said it without arrogance. Just the simple truth. That’s how he was—quietly capable, never boastful. That kind of men who did what needed to be done and never expected anyone to notice his work or his actions.

But you noticed.

You noticed everything.

The way he rolled his sleeves up slowly, neatly. The way his hands moved with absolute certainty. The slight hitch in his breath when you knelt beside him, close enough for your knee to brush against his thigh. But he didn’t move away.

“I brought extra screws and some brackets,” he said, opening the toolkit. “I’ll brace the whole thing. After that it should hold better than before.”

“Hope it can survive the flour this time.”

Joel’s mouth quirked—just barely, but it was a smile, however small. You looked at him and you felt that smile as a spark in your chest.

He got to work, steady and focused. You watched him sand down the rough edge, line up a support brace, drive the screws in with slow, even pressure. It should’ve been mundane. Just a man fixing a shelf. But with Joel, everything felt… grounded. Like the world made a little more sense when he was in it. You sat cross-legged on the floor beside him, pretending to sort cans and jars while sneaking glances every few minutes.

“You don’t mind doing this kind of stuff, do you?” you asked after a while.

He didn’t look up. “Fixing shelves?”

“Helping me. With little things like this. Is it… a chore?”

Joel suddenly paused, hand resting lightly on the drill. Then he turned towards you, meeting your eyes for the first time since he walked inside your home.

“No,” he said. “Ain’t a chore.”

You tilted your head to the side. “Then what is it?”

He hesitated a little, his eyes jumping between you and the shelf. “It’s… being useful, I guess.”

“You’re always useful.”

He looked away at that, tightening a screw a little harder than necessary. “Well, not always in ways that matter.”

“Now, that’s not true.”

Joel didn’t respond. But his shoulders tensed, and something unreadable passed over his face. You could see it. He was battling inside. So, you reached out without thinking, fingers brushing against the back of his hand. “You’re more than that, Joel.”

He stilled under your touch.

“You’re steady. You make things feel safe,” you told him softly. “And the truth is, I like having you around.”

His eyes slowly lifted to yours, and for a moment, the air between you changed—thicker, warmer. There was something in his gaze that looked like disbelief. Or maybe it was longing. You were sure no one had said things like that to him in a long time. You could see it all over him.

“I like being around you,” he said, his voice almost too quiet to catch. But you did. You heard him.

Your throat tightened. “Yeah?”

Joel slowly nodded. “’S different with you.”

You swallowed hard and leaning back softly, suddenly aware of how close you were. “Well. You’re welcome here. Always. No matter the time or the excuse.”

He didn’t answer. But when he turned back to the shelf, his hand brushed yours again—deliberate this time. Just a light touch, like he wanted to remind himself that you were real, and you were sitting beside him.

When the shelf was finally fixed—braced and sanded and solid—he sat back, wiped his hands on a rag that you handed him, and glanced around like he didn’t want to leave yet.

“I could come back tomorrow,” he said, his voice steady but a little too casual. “Check the rest of the shelves. Make sure everything’s holdin’ up.”

You smiled at him. “You just want an excuse to come over again.”

Joel looked at you—really looked. And this time, he didn’t glance away. He looked straight into your eyes.

“Don’t need an excuse,” he said.

Your breath caught in your throat.

The moment held there, hanging in the warmth between you. Something had cracked open—quiet and unspoken, but it was there all the same. You reached down, picked up a can of peaches, and placed it gently on the newly fixed shelf.

“Well,” you started, smiling up at him. “Guess that means I’ll have to find a new excuse for you to stay longer next time.”

His eyes crinkled at the edges.

“I’ll be here.”

And he meant it.

Maybe it started with a shelf.

But it wasn’t about the shelf at all.

The next day the house felt too still.

You’d never minded the quiet before. In fact, you used to love it—after years of noise, danger, people shouting or crying or warning, silence had felt like a kind of luxury. It was a sign you were safe.

But today, it just made the space feel… expectant. Like the walls were holding their breath and waiting for something to happen.

You tried to act normal. Folded the laundry. Swept the porch. Rearranged a drawer that didn’t need rearranging. At one point, you even found yourself staring at the repaired shelf in your pantry, running your fingers along the fresh screws Joel had put in yesterday. It felt stronger now, more secure. Like something that would hold up, no matter what weight you put on it.

The kind of thing he was good at fixing.

And when the knock came—three soft, firm taps—you told yourself your heart didn’t skip a beat.

You opened the door and there he was: Joel Miller, standing in the cold dusk like a promise kept. His shoulders were dusted with snow, toolbox in one hand, wearing the same brown jacket and that same unreadable expression that never quite masked how much he actually felt.

“I said I’d come back,” he said, voice a low rasp.

“I know,” you said, smiling. “Didn’t doubt you.”

You stepped back to let him in. He wiped his boots on the mat, ever-polite, even now. The warmth of your house closed around him as he passed through the door. He paused just inside, eyes scanning the room the way he always did—absent, maybe even unconscious. A habit left over from years of facing danger. But you noticed it had softened. He wasn’t looking for exits anymore. No. Just… observing. Familiarizing.

“Coffee?” you offered. “Still have some leftover from this morning.”

He gave a small grunt—that Joel kind of yes—and you took that as a go-ahead. While you moved into the kitchen, you heard him set the toolbox down, shrug off his coat and hang it on the hook by the door. Like he’d done it before. Like he’d do it again.

When you handed him the mug, his fingers brushed yours. They lingered. Just for a moment. He sipped, gave a small nod of approval, and you tried not to beam like a fool.

“Which shelf are we fixing today?” you asked, your tone teasing.

“This one,” he said crouching beside the lower pantry unit. “Not broken yet, but it’s got a loose bracket. Better catch it now than later.”

You sat down beside him, cross-legged like yesterday, your knee brushing his leg. He didn’t move away. And neither did you.

He reached into the toolbox, pulled out a bracket, a handful of screws and a screwdriver. His fingers moved with that quiet precision you’d come to admire—slow, thoughtful, like he never rushed a thing unless he had to.

“Are you always this careful with your repairs?” you asked.

Joel didn’t look up. “Things done fast break faster.”

“And things done slow…?”

He paused mid-turn, then gave a low, nearly imperceptible smile. “Tend to last.”

You watched him measure the angle of the shelf, adjust the brace, then lean forward to drive the screw in with quiet force. His sleeves were pushed up again, exposing strong forearms that flexed with each movement. You found yourself watching the way his muscles shifted beneath his skin, each motion deliberate, steady. There was a quiet strength in him, in everything he did, that you admired. It was in the way he worked, the way he carried himself, the way he was always present, even when the world around him hadn’t always been.

You caught yourself for a moment, realizing how long you’d been staring at him, but he didn’t seem to mind.

“Joel?” you asked softly, breaking the silence between you two.

“Hm?”

“You could’ve said no, you know. To coming back.”

He didn’t stop working, but you saw how his jaw slightly shifted and how his lips twitched. “Didn’t wanna.”

You smiled. “Just making sure.”

He finally glanced at you, his expression softer now. “You don’t want me here, I’ll go.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Didn’t have to,” he said, voice almost a whisper. “Just… makin’ sure, too.”

You looked at him. Really looked. The tired eyes, the quiet gravity, the way he said things like he expected you to push him away.

“I like when you’re here,” you said. “It feels better.”

Joel sat back on his heels, wiping his hands on a rag. He looked down at the shelf, then back at you. “Feels different, this place. When I’m here.”

“How?”

“Warm,” he said. “Like the world stays outside, it doesn’t follow me in.”

Your breath caught.

He shifted beside you, gaze dropping to your hands—resting palm-up on your lap, open without realizing. His hand moved slowly, almost hesitantly, until his fingers brushed yours. He paused there, waiting, watching your reaction, before slipping his hand into yours properly.

Rough. Calloused. Steady.

You squeezed gently, and his thumb moved in the smallest arc across the back of your hand. Like a habit he was just allowing himself to form.

“You don’t have to keep fixing things just to come over,” you said with the softest voice.

He didn’t answer at first. Just looked down at your joined hands, brows drawn tight.

“I don’t know what else I’d do,” he admitted. “If I wasn’t helping you.”

“You could just sit on the couch. Let me make you dinner. Tell me about your day.”

Joel exhaled like the idea itself was foreign.

“I ain’t used to that,” he said. “People wantin’ me around just to be.”

“I do,” you said.

He looked up. And there was something so tender in his eyes then—something raw and hopeful, like a man halfway through thawing from winter.

“I could stay for a while,” he offered.

You nodded. “I’d like that.”

He didn’t let go of your hand. And neither did you.

[lazysoulwriter]

lovesick puppy. - rafe cameron.

---

Everyone expects Rafe to be reckless, rough around the edges — the storm that never settles. But when it comes to you? He’s all sunshine and slow Sundays. The kind of gentle that makes people double take like wait, is that RAFE CAMERON???

He’s tucking your hair behind your ear during a keg party, completely ignoring the chaos around you. He’s wrapping his hoodie around your shoulders when it gets cold, without you asking. He’s got that hand on your lower back like you’re precious — like he’s making sure the world doesn’t even breathe wrong in your direction.

And the way he talks to you? Soft. Like his voice only works at 10% volume when you’re near. “You good, baby?” “You tired? I’ll drive.” “You want me to punch him? I won’t, but I will.”

Kooks and Pogues alike are watching him help you tie your shoes, lips parted, drinks frozen mid-air. Pope literally drops his cup. JJ whispers “what the f—” under his breath.

And when he calls you “sweetheart” with that lazy grin and a kiss to your temple?

Yeah. Shots fired. No one’s recovering.

-

It’s always something with Rafe. Always some dude looking at him wrong or running his mouth, and tonight’s no different.

You're barely back from the bar with your drink when you see it — Rafe chest-to-chest with some guy, jaw tight, fists clenched, eyes wild. That Cameron switch flipped and ready to throw hands.

The music fades into a buzz as you weave through the crowd, ignoring everyone calling your name. You know that look. You know what comes next if you don’t stop it.

You slide in front of him just before it escalates, placing a hand on his chest — firm, but gentle. Warm. His eyes drop to yours immediately. Still flaring, but confused now.

“Hey,” you say, soft but clear. “That’s bad boy behavior, baby.”

His brows twitch. “He—he said some—”

You shake your head, stepping closer, fingers curling in the hem of his shirt. “Nope. I don’t care. You’re not like that anymore, remember? You’re my good boy now.”

That kills him.

You watch it in real time — the fight drain out of his shoulders, his jaw unclenching, like you flicked a switch. He looks away for a second, embarrassed almost. His hand drags down his face, and when he looks back at you, he’s already softened. Not for the guy. Not for the crowd. For you.

People around are stunned. You’re the only person in the Outer Banks who’s ever told Rafe Cameron what to do and lived. JJ’s watching from across the party with a full-on soap opera gasp. Even Topper looks impressed.

Rafe grumbles under his breath, “He was being a dick,” but his hands drop to your waist instead of someone’s jaw, and you just smirk.

“I know, baby,” you whisper, “but let’s go home instead. You can pout there in peace.”

And Rafe?

He follows. Like a lovesick puppy.

---

[neodazed]

enhypen - 🎀 - grinding/dry humping

ot7xfem!reader - grinding and dry humping

warnings: grinding, dry humping (wow the shock), clothed sex, thigh/knee-riding, hand-riding, nose-humping, abs too, mentions of doing it on objects, some might be executed slightly painful, not all humps are dry tho, lmk if i missed smth!

biggest kisses and hugs to every oral-fixation enjoyer out there 💋 can’t believe it got 600 notes ! also, i wanted to say that i’ll gladly take requests, but i’m a person who takes their time and def puts their brain-bugs first. have fun reading !

HEESEUNG

The first time Heeseung kisses you out of pure impatience, so rough his nose quite literally smashes onto yours, you know that’s something you will ride one day.

Obviously, you weren’t wrong.

But it’s not like you could just ask him bluntly — hey, you’re nose is so perfect, can I ride it? You didn’t have that much of a filthy mouth on you, no. You needed an ideal situation, which where you both were lost and loose enough to flew towards that direction.

So, back in the present, you’re already sitting on his face. The only fabric still “covering” you is the partially unclapped white bra, that Heeseung was too impatient to discard entirely, resulting in a annoyed huff, and just leaving it hanging off your tits, before grabbing your thighs in a harsh grip, and pulling you over his face.

Familiar it was, how your pussy enveloped mostly his chin and lips, a thing you’ve done countless times since you got together. The usual, practiced moves of his tongue licking your walls till the deepest parts he could possibly reach. His mouth closing around your clit, sucking so hard to the point you cried from both pleasure and faint pain. Sometimes, he liked to act like a jerk, and force you to stay in place, so that the joy you recieved was completely controlled and minimized by him, but truly, deep down, he was drunk. So high from how you taste, smell, and feel, all he wanted was to lay there and let you bounce on his face until he suffocates.

Totally normal about it.

Again, you’ve taken your well-deserved place. Your grip on his hair is tight and stable, as you lift your hips up and down in a repeating motion, sliding his warm muscle in and out of your pulsing hole. He groans into you, sending all the right vibrations, finger trying to rub your hard nub. When you push a little harder, paying a little less attention to wether he gets to breathe or not, you slide up enough that your clit brushes against the tip of his nose, and it’s so good you forgot everything you’ve thought out before. Your movements become intentional and directed, and his hand drops to his side by the newfound force. He waits a little, before grabbing your hips to pull away, his expression amused.

He’s smirking.

“If you like my nose so much, why don’t just sit on it all together?”

Your face reddens, realizing how obvious you have been. Is there a point of denying now though? Absolutely none. He gives a more soft, confirming nod, actually encouraging. You sit back, now in a position that allows his nose to go in between your puffy lips.

You don’t let yourself down entirely, but he doesn’t take your nice values happily, he grunts and pushes you down. Whimpers leave your mouth as you grind your clit without hesitation this time, a mantra of his name, gratitude to every god in the sky that let you have this moment. Crying out is an understatement to the noise you let out when the tip of his nose somehow manage to push past your ring. The bump rubs your insides in an unusal, yet mouth watering way. It’s Heeseung.

He’s the one slobbering over this, feeling like he’s on the edge of fucking heaven, and you’re about to send him through the gate by choking him into afterlife with your cunt.

Turns around it’s both of yours thing, afterall.

JAY

It was supposed to be a simple makeout session after dropping you off at home.

But then you started to stroke the back of his head with your cute little nails, opening your mouth wider, arching into his touch more, and before you could blink, you were in his lap.

However, he still holds back as much as he can, knowing you have to part ways eventually. He strokes your waist in a gentle manner, not pushing or pressing at all.

The problem is?

Those fucking jeans he decided to put on today. For anyone else, it looks and is like a simple pair of black denim jeans, and you are glad for that, honestly. Because thank god no one expect you stared at Jay enough to obsess over how the baggy pants got so tight in the place that mattered the most in this moment. You don’t even want to deny how you’ve been ogling at the bulge in his lap.

And that was him soft.

You must have a sixth sense, that made you wear a skirt today. As you lean onto his body, and lick into his warm mouth, it’s incredibly easy to just put your covered wetness on said bulge. He groans into the kiss, pulling back for a minute.

“We don’t have time to have sex now…” Is what he whispers, the words sounding almost painful coming from him, and you chuckle, continuing the kiss.

“We don’t have to” The short sentence is made in bits, taking a second for a sloppy kiss in between every word. He’s a tiny bit skeptical, but now so turned on he doesn’t protest.

He’s big enough to press against you in the right angle even through the tight material. It feels so big, so hot, so hard it makes a point itch somewhere deep inside of you. Your panties made of lace, and the fabric you try to so needily grind on make such an uncomfortable mix you’re not even sure how does it still feels so good.

It’s similar to a few things you did in the past, when you were single and inexperienced. Like humping a pillow, spraying cold water onto your clit on the hardest pressure, or grinding yourself back and forth on the arm of your chair.

Expect, now you’re not just dumbly chasing pleasure. It’s with Jay, who is kissing you so hard it bruises your bottom lip. With Jay, who guides you back and forth on his dick with his grip on your hips. With Jay, who pulls your soaked panties aside, and spits on your cunt you’ve rubbed raw by this point to make the slide easier, not caring if it also lands on his clothes. You already dirtied him with your slick, anyways.

It’s with Jay, who lets you explore and have your fun for a while, before getting frustrated and unbuckling his belt. The zipper he tries to pull down fastly grazes your lips, and you hiss, but immediatelly forget about it when his dick gets shoved into you the next second.

JAKE

It’s late in the evening.

The light breeze flowing in through the slightly opened window is a small sort of relief to your body, heated from the oppressive summer air and from the sight of your shirtless boyfriend laying next to you.

You are both tired - it’s obvious. Hazy eyes, short yawns, giggling about literally anything that happens in the late night glow, while you are wrapped up in each others presence.

But you can’t just go to sleep. Not like this, not when he is kissing so softly inside of the part connecting your neck and shoulders. When he reaches down to see if you’re also aroused, and it’s not just him growing needy despite the tiredness glooming over both of you.

He finds you wet, obviously. He smiles against your lips, proud of himself, and probably because he is a little out of it. Helps you kneel up just enough so that he can flatten his palm perfectly to cup your heat. He is way too spent to do his usual teasing, and the same goes for you. You make a silent agreement to just take.

His hand and forearm is strong, they don’t even budge as you begin to slowly rock yourself back and forth. You always loved them, to be honest. They’re big enough to envelope your smaller ones, his fingers are long and veiny, and it all screams perfection. He adds just the slightest pressure with one of his long digits to your clit, a motivation to go faster.

To hump the fuck out of it, basically.

But it wouldn’t be Jake if he wasn’t a whiny mess himself - he doesn’t ask for your palm, he just grabs it, and wraps it around his cock. He fucks your fist in a messy pace, no rhythm whatsover, sometimes yanking your arm so hard your own pace falters. Or the opposite, and he gets you in a position where the knuckles of his fingers press on your covered slit in a way that sends you to the edge right away.

‘S-so good, baby. Gonna come all over my hand? Gonna fuck yourself on it?’

Both of you do exactly that.

SUNGHOON

Black tank top+gray sweats+Sunghoon after his gym session?

Either have him now, or die, you think.

He’s sitting in front of you, with a towel loosely hanging around his neck.

The way his thigh strains beneath the thin fabric makes your mouth water, quite literally. All you can think about is having that taut muscle pressed between your legs, rubbing against your pussy through the fabric until it starts to ache — from both the frustration and the roughness of the material.

Then your gaze travels up to his torso, watching as the black tank top clings to his slightly sweaty muscles, outlining everything perfectly for your hungry eyes. You have to bite the inside of your cheek just to stop a moan from slipping out at the sight alone.

Of course, Sunghoon isn’t stupid — and by now, he knows you well enough to read your mind. Not that your lust-drunk expression left much to the imagination anyway. He smiles at your reaction, before pulling you into his lap.

‘Sit, pretty’ He pats his wide spread thighs for you.

He starts kissing you — hot, demanding. In contrast, his fingers are gentle as they caress your thigh, moving slowly up and down, occasionally slipping just beneath the edge of your shorts. You sigh under his touch, and your own hand sets off on a little adventure — though it’s a short one, since it only gets as far as his cock. He smiles into the kiss, grabs your wrist, and pulls your hand away. A frustrated little growl escapes your lips, making him chuckle softly.

‘What happened? The way you were staring, I thought you were planning to cum on my thigh.”

He says with a smug grin, pushing you back slightly in his lap.

You lift your hips for just a moment, letting him slide your shorts and panties down. With the layers gone, the hardness of his thigh sends even more pleasure surging through you, pressing perfectly against your pulsing wetness.

‘Damn. You’d really ride anything I give you. Are you that desperate for me, Love?’ You don’t have the energy to huff at his words, because truly, you really are that desperate.

You must be quite the shameless sight, reaching down with one hand to part your outer lips just enough to grind your clit directly against him. You can’t say it isn’t a little embarrassing — but the arousal far outweighs the discomfort. You’re wet, of course you are, and every forward motion makes everything even slicker.

Sunghoon watches your little performance with amused, mischievous eyes. He’s already rock hard beneath his sweatpants, but watching you struggle, rubbing your swollen clit against his thigh like that, was just too entertaining to stop you.

‘Mhm, that’s it, baby. Make that dirty cunt cum over my pants.’

And you do.

SUNOO

Sunoo always has nerve-wracking punishments that make you question, time and time again, why you decide to piss him off in the first place.

Of course, not enough to stop you from doing it anyway.

Yet you haven’t even done a single thing wrong — you simply showed your own little cute, polite self when you returned the male waiter’s courteous smile at the restaurant.

Apparently, you can’t smile out of pure politeness anymore — you note out loud, after Sunoo makes you strip naked in front him. Your snarky comment only makes him roll his eyes. Of course even now, you can’t fucking shut up. Your smile instantly fades when he suddenly reaches between your legs, to press his palm onto your flesh. He scoffs at your reaction.

‘I’m scolding your nasty behaviour, and you’re fucking getting off on it?’ You stumble on your feet, and quickly take a hold of his shoulder as you shrug as an answer to his question. It wasn’t meant to be answered. Sunoo pulls back, leaning against the armchair he is sitting in. He is still fully dressed, in black denim pants, and now half-way unbuttoned white shirt. His flashed collarbone and chest, combined with the angry look on his face is simply delicious to your eyes. He pats his knees for you to sit, so you comply. Your first move is to lean onto his mouth, but he grabs your jaw and stops you.

‘I didn’t say you can kiss me’ You sigh. Alright, typical. Should’ve thought so. Your next go is at his crotch, but when he also yanks you back from there, you are left dumbfounded.

‘You’re really that stupid? You don’t get to have my mouth, dick, or fingers, baby’ Oh, okay. So this is the punishment this time.

‘So…what are we doing then?’ You sigh, biting your lip. You are needy, he literally stripped you down, and you are sitting in his lap. There’s no way he just wants to sit around and make you suffer…Right?

‘I didn’t tie your hands, did I? Get yourself off somehow, but do it without my help’ And his cock, mouth and fingers, as he said. As you think about what should you do, you shift on his legs, trying to get more comfortable, and now, you don’t know if he does on purpose or purely accidental, but his knee also adjusts in the same moment, and slides right under your core. And that’s more than enough to inspire you.

You rest your paws on his thigh, to steady yourself. You pull your hips back a little, so your pussy is just right in front of his knee, then push back. The sensation is immediate, though it’s a mix of strange and good. The fabric of his jeans is rough, obviously not meant to be, well, rubbed on, but it’s not like a flicker (or some more) of pain is not something you love in the first place. With the pace you settled on, the humping movement makes you whine, bumping your clit against the bones of his knee again and again. It’s still not enough though, Sunoo can see it very clearly on your face, hear it dripping through your pathetic little sounds.

There’s no warning before he holds your hips down, and moves his knee up. You whimper rather loudly, naked chest slumping against Sunoo’s, grabbing onto his arms.

‘S-sunoo, that hurts’

‘Hurts? You don’t want me to stop though, do you?’ He smirks, knowing the answer damn well is a desperate ‘no’.

His knee spreads your pussy apart as much as possible, the hardest part continously dragging up your slit and against your clit everytime he pushes up. You let out a hiss. Your lips, your slit, the entrance of your hole, your bundle of nerves…they’re all red and swollen puffy of the harsh material rubbing against you. You are almost crying, when you release over his clothes, your liquid dirtying his expensive jeans.

‘Thought this would be a good punishment, but of course you enjoyed it.’

JUNGWON

Jungwon’s family home had ridiculously thin walls, and it didn’t help that his parents’ bedroom was just two doors down.

Knowing all that, you probably shouldn’t have made out with the poor boy like crazy the first time you stayed over — but what’s done is done.

You pulled away before things could go too far, and now the two of you lie next to each other, breathing heavily.You turn over, as if not seeing his face might somehow calm the desire burning in you — or in him.You feel him shift too, the slow, deliberate way he wraps an arm around your waist and buries his face in the curve of your neck.You let out a relieved sigh, thinking maybe, just maybe, you’ll be able to fall asleep like this — in this soft, sweet little moment.

Then his hips move.

At first, you try to tell yourself he’s just shifting to get comfortable — but by the third slow grind, it’s hard to keep up that narrative.

‘Won. What are you doing?’ You tilt your head back slightly to look him in the eyes, whispering. The boy shakes his head while a delicate blush spreads across his cheeks.

‘I c-can’t help it. I need to feel you right now’ He says in a desperate tone, now grinding with intent against your ass.

You want him too, how could you not? You haven’t been able to do much since you got together yet, but the desire and chermisty is definietly there. You feel it everytime you meet, everytime you touch, everytime you look at him. Obviously, you’re not about to have sex now. It’s not the place or time to do it, but still…

You can’t say no.

You take a shaky breath. The fingers that were resting on his hand now travel further, stroking his arm that is wrapped around your middle. Not with the most confidence, though just as eager as him, you push back. Feeling his bulge press against your backside and thighs is not that new. But the impatient, hurried pace of it pressing onto you is, and you think it must be good for him.

Good, but is it enough?

You need more. You need his growing member on a place that is pulsing for him, unsure yet open at the same time.

The only thing you’re wearing are boxers and panties, so when you suddenly decide to turn on your other side, he’s not prepared to back up even a little bit, and his cock presses forward, but now onto your pussy, covered by the very thin layer of underwear. Your hand slaps on his mouth almost right way, to stifle the loud noise you know he’s about to make.

You keep one of your hands there, even when Jungwon rolls on top of you, to rub his leaking hardness harshly. He’s obviously frustrated, the layer of his briefs being the reason, since you have gotten so wet your panties almost make no difference in the process. He grunts, and frees his dick, reassuring you when he sees the doubtful look on your face.

‘I won’t do anything else. Just want to feel you better’

It’s messy. Full of pre-cum, slick, and slight sweat, a mix of fluids making the slide so hard. If he was inside, he would he in heaven now. He’s not though, and the slippery mess you have created together only makes his annoyence grow, his grip on you tighter, and the press of his hips unhuman, both in pace and strength.

If there was unresolved sexual tension between the two of you before, now there’s a whole bomb ticking for more.

RIKI

‘I had something in mind’ Is what you whisper into Riki’s mouth when you pull away to breath for a second.

At first, his brain doesn’t really register that you said something, and instead of an answer, he kisses you again. Making out with Riki is quite similar to a fever dream, you think. Relatively slow, but the intensity doesn’t lay in the pace he sets. It’s a nerve-wrecking build up of plump lips, firm hands and wetness.

Both of you like it sloppy.

You try to gently push him away by his chest, and he listens this time.

‘Yeah? What is it?’ He did listen at first too, he was just too into it.

You are not that embarassed to say it, of course. You and him make a couple who are both got a rather high sex drive, and Riki was certainly never afraid to voice his thoughts on new things you could try. You, on the other hand, might be a bit more shy to just blurt them out. You’re not ashamed of wanting it, but your boyfriend is so good at keeping that damn eyecontact, and that cocky smirk on his lips still, that you can’t help but get flustered at times like this.

‘It might be a little weird’

You tuck your hair behind your ears. The muscles of his face are already twitching, but he suprisingly manages to stay serious.

‘Weird to me? Or to you?’ His fingers stroke from your hips to the underside of your chest repeatedly, making it kinda hard to think.

‘To you. I think’ His expression turns amused, but he doesn’t comment anything else, looking forward to hear it finally.

‘I though I could like…you know. Your abs’ You don’t say the word ‘ride’. You don’t really want to, and you already have been grinding on his clothed cock, so the idea might give itself, hopefully.

‘You gotta be more specific than that, baby.’

Asshole.

‘Like…grind on it.”

He stills for a moment, shocked that you actually said that out loud. Then he nods, and peels his shirt of fin a swift motion. The perfect pattern of his abs are revealed to your eyes, your mouth runs dry at the sight. His broad shoulders, biceps, veiny forearms and hands…the well built six pack on his stomach is a perfect match to complete the beautiful man that he is.

He lays on his back on the couch, his upper body flexing in the movement. Since there was no question and he seemed to be on board, you decide not to give him any more chance to tease you, so without another word, you quickly shimmy your undies down, and straddle him.

Biggest beige flag?

‘When his abs are so well defined you can cum by rubbing your cunt on it’.

Yes, that’s pretty random yet you love it.

You have to part your outer lips to feel him, and he is quite mesmerized by the view he is blessed with.

‘Such a pretty pussy for me, hm?’

Now you are glad he is talking, his voice sends waves of pleasure through your body, and it all comes out in the form of your wetness gathering between your legs. You try your best to have a stable grip, but you keep on slipping on his abdomen. He huffs, grabbing your hips and fixing you. He starts to guide you, pressing you down so hard the only thing you can do is moan.

‘It’s a bit funny, no? You’re so needy for me. You want to ride everything I have’ He lets out a low chuckle. Your face turns red.

“And you let me do it. That makes you just as needy, no?’

He smiles, and drags you down for a kiss.

‘Not my fault I have such a freaky girl on me.’

bae @ziiao

[blueberrisdove-sideblog]

UNTIL HE BEHAVES ⋮ 𝒻𝓉 . ℳ𝒴𝒟ℰℐℳ𝒪𝒮

𖦹 tws : nsfw/smut. fem!reader, cow-girl, cōck warming, sub!mydei, creampie (vaginal), hair pulling, bratty-ish mydei, breeding kink, biting, tit fūcking, marking (biting) and soft bdsm (tying).

𖦹 synopsis : when your boyfriend mydei been a bit too bratty so you gotta punish him.

“You’re gonna make me tie you up every time, huh?”

Your voice is sweet, dangerous. Mydei’s wrists are already bound above his head in red silk, soft but firm against the sturdy headboard. His golden eyes burn, wild and flickering with mischief, hair a messy halo around his flushed face. That familiar glow crawls across his chest in thin red lines, curse marks flaring faintly with his frustration—and arousal.

He grins. Brat.

“You love it,” he breathes, defiant and needy all at once. “Don’t pretend you don’t like it when I talk back.”

You straddle his hips, eyes narrowed. His cock is hard and leaking against his lower abdomen, flushed dark, begging for you. But you don’t move yet. You press your tits together slowly, deliberately, and slide them down his chest as you lean in.

“You’re lucky I love it,” you whisper, just before sinking your teeth into the spot below his jaw.

He jerks with a hiss, gasping as your bite lingers—deep, bruising, one of many. You pull back and admire your work: the first of many little marks you’ll leave on his golden skin.

He’s going to wear them like medals.

“You gonna be good now?” you ask, brushing your soaked folds against his cock, teasing the head without letting him in.

Mydei’s head tips back, a growl caught in his throat. “Define good.”

Wrong answer.

You grab a fistful of his hair and yank his head back, making him moan, throat bare and waiting.

“Okay,” you murmur, all mock-sweetness. “You wanna play rough, we’ll play rough.”

With that, you lower yourself down, taking him in slowly, inch by inch, until his cock is buried inside you—your walls clenching around him, hot and tight. He gasps out a curse, muscles straining as you hold still.

Cockwarming.

You clench tighter, deliberately, and he whimpers. Actually whimpers.

“Tied up, stuffed full of pussy, and still mouthing off,” you tsk, shaking your head. “You really don’t learn, do you?”

You roll your hips just a little, feeling him twitch inside. He’s throbbing. Sweating. Desperate to move.

But you don’t give it to him.

Instead, you lean forward and press your tits to his chest, dragging them up until they’re around his cock again. You pull off him just to press your soft breasts together, letting his slick, aching shaft slide between them.

“Oh, baby,” you purr as you bounce slowly, letting the head of his cock pop out from between them. “You look like you’re gonna cry.”

“Fuck—please,” he gasps, arms tense against the bindings. “Let me cum. I’ll be good, I swear.”

Your smile is wicked. “Still not begging sweet enough.”

You slip him back inside with a slow, wet grind—your cunt swallowing him again. He lets out a raw moan, almost broken, like it physically hurts to be edged like this. You ride him slow, back arched, hands on his chest, skin slapping softly as you use him just how you want.

He’s panting now, voice ragged, eyes barely staying open.

You grab his face and kiss him hard, tongue sliding deep, biting his lower lip when you pull away.

“Tell me what you want,” you whisper against his mouth.

“I wanna cum,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “Wanna fill you up—fuck, I need to—need to breed you, please—”

There it is.

You slam down hard, making him cry out, nails digging into your thighs as he tries not to cum too fast.

“That’s better,” you growl, hands gripping his hair tight as you bounce—hard, fast, chasing that high. He’s twitching inside you, so fucking close, body taut and desperate.

“Cum inside,” you order. “Do it. Breed me. Make a mess.”

He does. Mydei’s whole body arches as he cums, hard, thick pulses of hot seed filling your pussy until it’s dripping down between your thighs. He moans so sweet, so needy, all his bratty fire reduced to a fucked-out whimper as you keep grinding, fucking every last drop out of him.

But you’re not done.

You lean down, wrap your arms around his neck, and bite into his collarbone—hard enough that he gasps again, trembling.

“You’re gonna stay inside,” you whisper. “Cock warming for the rest of the night. Tied up. Marked up. Mine.”

He nods weakly, breath catching as you clench around him again.

“Good boy,” you say, licking over the bruise blooming on his skin. “You’ll behave now, won’t you?”

“…Maybe,” he mumbles.

You laugh and yank his hair again.

“Wrong answer.”

His chest is still heaving, cheeks flushed red, hair stuck to his forehead in damp, wild strand. There’s sweat beading at his temples, and his golden eyes are glassy, unfocused—wrecked. Absolutely, beautifully wrecked.

But he’s still hard.

Still twitching inside your warm, soaked pussy, cock staying snug and full from the overstimulation and the mess he just made deep inside you. You shift your hips slowly, just enough to feel his cum leak out around his base.

It makes you shiver. So full.

“You’re still hard,” you murmur, dragging your nails down his glowing chest, over the hot red markings. “Good. You’re gonna need to stay that way.”

Mydei groans—half bliss, half overwhelmed. His arms tug weakly at the bindings, wrists raw from tension.

“I can’t—” he pants, “—I already…”

“You already bred me once,” you cut him off, voice low and commanding. You sit up slowly, hands sliding down your body, tits bouncing gently as you roll your hips with slow, punishing control. “But that’s not enough.”

You slam down again, and he gasps, head thrown back.

“You don’t cum once and call it breeding. You’re not done ‘til I’m fucking knocked up, Mydei.”

He chokes on his own moan, mouth falling open as your pussy grips him tight, milking him, squeezing every last bit of him. You ride him slow, deep, drawing out every shudder, every sweet whine.

“You said you wanted to fill me up, right?” you tease, leaning down to press your lips to his ear. “Said you wanted to breed me like a needy little beast?”

He nods desperately, words gone. All that cocky attitude earlier? Gone. Just a fucked-out, tied-down mess with cum drooling out of you and onto his thighs.

You kiss his jaw, his throat, then bite into the curve of his neck again—hard—and he whimpers.

“Say it,” you growl.

“I—I wanna breed you,” he moans, voice cracking. “Wanna—fuck—wanna fill you again, wanna see you dripping, swollen with my kid—”

You clench around him at that. His hips twitch uselessly beneath you, muscles straining, bound and helpless.

“Then do it,” you whisper. “Cum again. Give me more.”

You ride him harder this time, rhythm brutal and hungry, your soaked pussy squelching as you slam down on his cock. His name slips from your lips over and over—sometimes a moan, sometimes a threat—and your tits bounce with every thrust, catching his dazed, worshipful gaze.

“Look at you,” you murmur. “Being such a good cock for me now.”

“I’ll be good,” he groans, barely coherent. “I’ll be so good—please, let me—”

You kiss him deep, filthy, tongues tangled, and that’s what breaks him. His whole body jerks, and then he’s spilling into you again, hot and desperate, thick cum pouring out while he moans against your mouth.

You don’t stop. You ride him through it, his cock twitching, overstimulated but still hard, still trapped inside your dripping cunt. The mess between you is obscene, slick and sticky, a mix of cum and slick running down his thighs and pooling beneath you.

You slow, then stop—keeping him buried inside, keeping it all in.

“Good boy,” you whisper, brushing sweaty hair from his face. “That’s two.”

Mydei groans, barely breathing.

“You’re gonna give me a third,” you promise, licking at the bruise on his throat. “Then a fourth. Then maybe—maybe—I’ll untie you.”

And his voice is just a breath, hoarse and obedient—

“Yes, ma’am…”

© 2024-2025 blueberrisdove-sideblog all rights reserved. pretty please, do not steal my dividers, translate and plagiarize any of my works, or either repost my works in any other platform without asking, thank you!

[itsnesss]

𝐦𝐚𝐱𝐢𝐦𝐮𝐦 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐞𝐝 | max verstappen × fem!reader

summary | you lose control with max in a motorhome—sweaty, breathless, and begging for more

warnings | smut without plot, explicit content, rough sex, dirty talk, dom!max, semi-public, fingering, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms

word count | 0.8 k

🖇️ more mv1 🖇️ f1 masterlist

The sound of his footsteps echoes across the empty garage. The roar of the race still lingers in the air, but the only thing making your heart race now… is him.

Max looks at you from across the room, sweaty, breathing hard, his eyes full of tension that has nothing to do with the track.

"Close the door," he says, low and rough, thick with desire.

You obey. You would even if he said nothing.

His suit slides down his torso, revealing damp skin, muscles shaped by speed and fury. Your lips part without you realizing.

"You're looking at me like you want to eat me alive," he smirks.

"Maybe I do," you whisper, already panting.

In a flash, he has you against the wall. The impact barely registers—his body is pressed to yours, hot, commanding. His mouth crashes onto yours. Bites, tongues, breathless moans.

Your nails dig into his shoulders, your breath hitching when his hands slide down, tearing away your clothes in frantic movements.

"Max…" you moan against his neck, breath shaky as his fingers slip between your legs.

"You're so wet," he growls, kissing under your ear. "Did you get like this just from watching me drive?"

Your hips roll into his hand. Your voice is no longer your own—it becomes a chain of "Ah… yes… Max… more…" that pushes him over the edge.

He lifts you effortlessly, pins you to the wall, and thrusts into you in one deep stroke that rips a scream from your lips.

"F-fuck, Max!"

"Shit… you feel unreal," he groans, buried to the hilt inside you.

He starts slow, deep, breathing heavily against your ear. Every time he pulls out and slams back in, your walls tighten, and his name tumbles from your lips in cries.

"Nghh… ahh… yes… more… Max, don’t stop…"

"Like this?" he pants, picking up the pace.

The room fills with moans and gasps, skin slapping, wet sounds and the desperate rise of your voice. One hand wraps around your throat, the other gripping your hip, controlling every thrust.

"So loud for me, huh?" he growls into your chest, licking over your skin. "You love it when I fuck you like this…"

All you can do is moan louder. Your back hits the wall again, your legs shake, your whole body burning.

"Max… I'm gonna…!"

"Do it. Come for me. Now." And when he says it, that commanding tone sends you spiraling.

You scream his name, trembling around him, your climax crashing into you like a storm. And he doesn’t stop—his hips keep driving until his own groan cuts the air, deep and rough, as he fills you.

You're both shaking, breathless.

"Want another lap?" he whispers with a wicked smirk, still inside you.

And you can only nod, out of breath… knowing this race has just begun.

The second your back hits the soft leather of his motorhome couch, he’s on you again—this time slower, deeper, more dangerous.

"You didn’t think I was done with you, did you?" Max murmurs, his voice a dark promise against your lips.

You’re still trembling from the garage, your thighs slick and sensitive, your breath uneven. But he doesn’t give you time to recover. His tongue trails down your neck, teeth grazing your collarbone, and your moans start all over again.

"Fuck… Max," you whimper, feeling him harden again between your legs.

"That’s right," he says, smirking. "You’re not done until I say so."

He grabs your knees and spreads you open like you belong to him—which, right now, you do. You gasp, hips twitching under his touch as his fingers slide back into you, slow at first, curling just right.

"So wet still… dripping for me."

The lewd squelch of his fingers working inside you fills the room, and your head falls back with a long, broken moan.

"Ahhh… Max… please…"

"You want my cock again already?" he teases, licking a stripe up your inner thigh.

You nod furiously. "Yes. Yes. I want it so bad"

Your plea’s cut off by a strangled gasp as he slams into you again, raw and fast this time, the couch rocking under you both.

The sound of skin against skin echoes off the walls. Your fingers claw at his back as he fucks you like a man obsessed, like you're the only finish line he’s ever cared about.

Each thrust hits deeper. Harder. Your breath comes in ragged, high-pitched whimpers.

"Fuck… nghhh… ahh—Max, oh my God…"

"You love being my fucktoy, don’t you?" he growls, grabbing your chin to make you look at him.

"Yes—yes, I fucking love it—"

"Good girl."

He pounds into you even faster, sweat dripping from his forehead onto your chest. Your moans turn shameless, your legs shaking uncontrollably.

Your orgasm hits again, fierce and overwhelming, and you scream, clenching around him so tight that he groans out loud.

"Shit… fuck… I’m gonna—" he growls through gritted teeth, and then you feel it—hot, thick, filling you again as he curses and groans your name into your neck.

You’re both panting, bodies tangled, soaked in sweat.

Max pulls back slightly to look at you, his thumb brushing your bottom lip.

"Still want another lap?"

And you… you just smirk, flipping him onto his back and climbing on top.

"Start your engine, Verstappen."

[mysteriousxgirls]

Luna blinked, just once, caught off guard not by his touch—but by the way it soothed her. Anchored her. Azriel’s hands gripped her hips like they had every right to, like holding her was the only way to keep the world from tipping over. And maybe it was. Maybe this closeness was the only steady thing left in a night carved with too many sharp edges. His body was a wall of heat against hers, and despite the quiet strength behind the way he pulled her in, there was something new in his gaze. Something unguarded. Soft. It made her heart stutter.

Then he said it—“It’s still late, sweetheart,”—and gods, her smile bloomed without permission. That voice of his, that rough velvet rasp? It wrapped around her ribs and squeezed. She tilted her head, teasing light in her eyes. “What? Jealous I called a five-year-old sweetheart?” Her voice was just as playful as his had been, but quieter somehow. More intimate. She didn’t look away. She never looked away from him. Her arms slid around his neck, slow and sure, fingers threading into his hair, brushing against the nape of his neck. Her body leaned into his, savoring the closeness, the way his breath ghosted across her skin. Then she leaned in, her lips brushing his ear. Her whisper was heat and promise and something far more dangerous. “I can call you other things…”

And then—her teeth grazed his earlobe, gentle but wicked, her breath warm as she whispered just beneath it, “Whatever you want.” The world outside the safehouse could’ve burned to ash and she wouldn’t have noticed. All that mattered was the way he smelled like smoke and salt and steel, the way his muscles tensed beneath her touch like he was one breath away from pulling her even closer, from breaking.

The room exhaled with a breath so imperceptible it felt more like a sigh from the bones of the earth than a shift in air. Luna’s fingers found Henry’s, her gait ethereal, a whisper of grace against the creaking floorboards as they vanished toward the adjoining room. The boy’s voice echoed in the hallway, still bright with wonder, while hers responded in quiet tones like lullabies meant only for ears that still believed in monsters and magic. Azriel watched them disappear, the small frame of the child tucked safely beside her. Then silence descended—heavy and sovereign. It pressed into the walls and poured into the crevices of the safehouse like a phantom. And in that brief solitude—those few fleeting minutes—he raked a hand through his hair, the gesture more subconscious than cathartic. Each twitch of muscle a battle waged in silence, thoughts ricocheting through him like shrapnel he dared not voice. He didn’t pace. That would’ve made the restlessness too obvious. Instead, he stood sentinel again, eyes flickering to the door she’d gone through, body still, but coiled. Waiting.

Then came the whisper of her return—the delicate scrape of footfalls, the disruption of air molecules tinged with her scent: warm like night rain on concrete, sharp like steel beneath velvet. Magnetic. Familiar. Only when no one’s looking, hm? The comment made him chuckle. In a single, fluid motion, Azriel stepped forward and anchored his palms against her hips, fingers splayed wide. He pulled her into the furnace of his body—solid, unwavering—until there was no space, no hesitation, no more pretending he didn’t need her near. His touch slightly possessive, grounding. Then, with a wry tilt of his lips and a flicker of something softer in his eyes, he murmured low against her ear, “It’s still late, sweetheart.” A rasp softened by affection. A tease dressed in silk and smoke.

[drewsdollie]

pairings: Rafe Cameron x Reader

warnings: Kissing

You’re in his lap, thighs parted over denim, the fabric rough between your legs; french tips gliding slowly down his chest. Your nails click against his skin when you press harder. He doesn’t flinch, just watches you with lustful anticipation. “Missed you today,” you say, slowly, kissing just under his jaw. “Thought I’d give you a little treat.”

His hand slides down your ass, fingers squeezing. “Is this not the treat?” You smile against his neck. “Well…this is the treat. But also…” You pull a cherry from behind your back like it’s a secret. Still glistening, the red syrup trailing down the stem, down your wrist. You pop it in your mouth, teeth closing with a soft wet click — just enough to split it. Then you kiss him, until he tastes it.

He jerks back, face tight. Spits it out — right onto the floor. “No,” he says, standing up so fast you almost fall back on your ass. “You know I hate cherries.” You blink at him, lips parted. “Rafael, are you serious?” He’s already at the sink, rinsing his mouth like you spit in it. His shoulders are tight, jaw working. You sit there on the edge of the bed, pretty, confused, sticky. “You call me cherry pie all the time,” you say, voice thinner now.

“Yeah,” he mutters, flicking the water off his hands. “Because you’re sweet and a little fake and too much, not because I wanna taste fucking cough syrup in my mouth when I’m about to fuck you.” You stare at him. He turns, leans on the counter, water dripping off his fingers. “What?” You don’t answer, just drag a finger through the cherry syrup on your thigh, licking it off with a shrug. “Was trying to be cute for you, Rafey.” He watches your tongue, muttering, “Next time, just come to bed.” His voice is flat and tense. “You’re sweeter without props.” You nod slowly, lips stained red. “Definitely noted.”

[skzophreniic]

⍣ ೋ cw: angst, emotional distress, breakup, implied sex, unspoken goodbyes, unresolved tension, heartbreak, depiction of a deteriorating relationship, quiet suffering, post-intimacy grief, crying, intense emotional vulnerability

⍣ ೋ notes: haven't written angst in a while so this was a very healing experience lmao. lmk if u guys like it or i should just stick to smut

He doesn’t knock anymore.

The door opens with a soft click and closes even softer, as if he’s afraid even the sound of his arrival might break whatever delicate thread is still holding this together. You don’t get up to meet him. You don’t need to. His footsteps are familiar now—measured, heavy in a way they never used to be.

He smells like the studio. That particular mix of metal, sweat, and burnt-out hours. The air shifts when he walks in, not because anything changes, but because he has.

So have you.

Chan doesn't say anything when he finds you curled on the couch, blanket thrown haphazardly over your legs, TV casting flickering shadows across the room that neither of you are watching. His eyes are already on you—tired, rimmed red, soaked with the kind of fatigue that sleep doesn't fix.

He drops his bag by the door and shrugs off his jacket like he's shedding a second skin. His hoodie underneath is crumpled, sleeves bunched around his elbows, faint coffee stains on the cuff. He runs a hand through his hair, the curls flattened by a beanie he must've left in the car.

You don't say anything.

And that’s the problem, isn’t it?

You used to run into his arms like gravity. You used to ask how his day was, what he ate, if he was okay. Now you just stare, waiting for something you can’t name—something you’re afraid won’t come.

He stands there for a second too long. Like he wants to say something but doesn't have the strength to lift the words to his lips. And then, without permission, he’s crawling onto the couch beside you, tucking himself into your side like he still belongs there.

You let him.

His head drops to your chest. He exhales hard. Like being near you is the only place he can breathe—but not for long.

“You didn’t text,” you murmur, your voice quiet.

“I didn’t know if I should.”

The words sit in the space between you like wet cement.

Because that’s the thing, isn’t it? He’s always not sure. Not sure if he should stay. Not sure if he should go. Not sure if he can be both Bang Chan and yours without losing himself in the split.

Your fingers brush through his hair automatically. Habit. He shudders like it’s the first gentle thing he’s felt in days.

“You could’ve called,” you say.

“I didn’t know if you’d pick up.”

You close your eyes. Because that one stings.

He shifts, turning into your touch, and for a moment—just a moment—he looks at you like he used to. Like you’re the safest place he’s ever known. Then his gaze drops to your lips, your throat, your hands. His expression changes. Cracks.

“Can I stay?” he asks, voice breaking around the edges.

He’s never asked before. That’s the worst part.

You nod anyway.

He kisses you.

It’s not soft. It’s not rough. It’s frantic. Like he’s trying to outrun something. Like if he presses hard enough, you’ll forget how long it’s been since he last said I love you without guilt in his eyes.

You kiss him back. Because he still tastes like home, even if you know it’s a house being torn down brick by brick.

His hands are on your waist, sliding under your shirt like he’s trying to feel your heartbeat, like he needs proof you’re still letting him do this. Still letting him stay. Your body arches toward him like it always does, but your chest is caving in around the space where the truth lives.

This is ending.

Not today, maybe not tomorrow.

But soon.

And both of you know it.

He pulls away, gasping like he’s surfaced from deep water. His forehead presses to yours.

“I’m trying,” he whispers, like a confession. “I swear, I’m trying.”

You nod again, but your eyes sting.

Because so are you.

And it’s still not enough.

______________________________________________________________

You end up in bed, but not to sleep.

Clothes long forgotten on the floor. Skin slick, lips swollen, breath still uneven in your chest. The sheets are tangled around your legs, damp with sweat, your body still buzzing from him—too warm, too close. Like the heat is trying to make up for everything you didn’t say.

He lies beside you, propped on an elbow, watching you with something unreadable in his eyes. Not hunger, not even longing. Just a kind of quiet desperation. Like he’s trying to memorize this—you—before he has to let go.

Not like he used to, when he looked at you like you were the future.

Now he looks like he’s already mourning it.

You watch him back.

His eyes are so bloodshot you wonder if he’s cried recently. Or if he just hasn’t blinked in a while. Either way, he looks wrecked.

And he’s never been more beautiful.

“What are we doing, Chris?” you whisper.

Your voice doesn’t shake. It’s steady in that numb way, like you’ve accepted you won’t like the answer.

He exhales slowly, eyes falling to your lips. Not to kiss. Just to look.

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.”

That makes his jaw clench. His hand twitches against the blanket, fingers curling into the sheets like he wants to hold something but can’t.

“You’re the only thing that still feels real,” he says.

You blink, hard. But it’s not enough to stop the ache building in your throat.

“Then why does it feel like you’re already gone?”

He doesn’t answer. Of course he doesn’t. Because the truth is, he is already gone. Not entirely. Not on purpose. But his body is torn in ten different directions every hour of the day, and his heart never quite comes home anymore.

Bang Chan isn’t just a name anymore. It’s a weight. A crown. A prison.

And there’s no room in it for you.

You roll onto your back, staring at the ceiling. Your voice comes out softer this time.

“I keep thinking if we can just make it to the next comeback. The next tour. The next break. That eventually, we’ll be okay again.”

Silence.

“But I don’t think we’re going to make it to anything, Chris.”

You hear him shift beside you. Feel the mattress dip as he leans closer, his breath ghosting across your cheek.

“Don’t say that.”

“Why not? You’re thinking it too.”

His hand finds yours in the dark, fingers curling against your bare waist like he’s afraid it’s the last time he’ll get to.

And then he says it.

So quietly you almost miss it.

“In another life…”

Your eyes snap shut.

“…I wouldn’t be Bang Chan.”

His voice trembles.

“I would just be yours.”

It feels like a knife. Not because it’s a lie. But because it’s so true.

You turn your face to him, tears slipping free even as you try to hold it all in. His thumb brushes your cheekbone, slow and reverent like he’s never touched you before. Or maybe like he’s already mourning it.

“Then why can’t you be mine in this one?”

It breaks something in him. You can see it in the way his face contorts, in the way his chest shudders with a breath he can’t hold in.

“Because I had to choose.”

His voice cracks. He squeezes your hand tighter.

“I had to choose.”

______________________________________________________________

You don’t sleep.

Neither does he.

You just lie there, skin to skin, heart to heart, pretending this night will stretch forever. That morning won’t come. That goodbye won’t have to be spoken out loud to be real.

Because it already is.

And when he slips out of bed just before sunrise, quietly gathering his things in the darkest hour, you pretend to still be asleep.

Even though you’re not.

Because pretending is all you have left.

You hear the zipper of his bag.

It’s the quietest sound in the room, and still—it drowns everything else out. It’s not loud. It’s not rushed. It’s careful. Like he’s trying not to wake you. Like he doesn’t know you’ve been lying there, staring at the closet door for hours.

You don’t move.

You don’t give him the closure of open eyes.

The sound of him dressing feels too familiar. Hoodie sliding over bare skin. Belt buckling. Keys placed gently on the kitchen counter so they don’t jingle. He moves through your home like a ghost, weightless in all the ways that matter, heavy only where it hurts.

Your throat burns, but you don’t cry.

Not until he’s gone.

Not until the door clicks shut again—softly, always softly, like he’s still trying to protect something you both already lost.

Then your face twists and breaks and folds into your pillow. The sob that escapes is quiet and sharp, the kind that comes from a wound too deep to scream.

You don’t know how long you lie there.

Eventually, the sun rises.

Eventually, the light touches the room in pale golds and soft grays, the way it used to when you’d wake up tangled together, when you still felt like you were building something instead of bracing for the fall.

Eventually, you get up.

Not because you want to. Just because you have to. Because the sheets are cold now, and the silence is louder still.

You pad into the kitchen, eyes gritty, heart hollow. His coffee mug is still on the counter. Washed. Dried. Turned upside down.

He always does that.

You don’t touch it.

You don’t touch anything.

There’s a post-it on the fridge. Not from today—maybe from weeks ago, maybe months. His handwriting, loopy and rushed.

 “Get more oat milk – love you ♡”

You don’t throw it away.

Instead, you sit down on the floor.

Right there, in front of the fridge, knees pulled to your chest like a child hiding from thunder.

And it’s there, in the stillness, that the truth finally settles into your bones:

This love is ending.

Not because you didn’t fight. Not because it wasn’t real. But because even the realest things can die in the wrong life.

You press your forehead to your knees.

Whisper to the space between your ribs.

“I would’ve loved you forever.”

And the silence answers back.

[lowrisemiller]

the girl next door ⋆.˚ 🧺 part 2

a joel miller one-shot | masterlist |

word count 2.2k |🥧| warnings teasing, makin out, desperate old man joel, kitchen counter to couch sex, REVERSE COWGIRL AYYE, comfort ellie n joel being happy :D

I couldn’t resist adding a pic of his home:,(

3 weeks after

THE TIMER ticked on the counter, quiet but steady, and Joel tried not to watch you too much. But it was hard not to. You looked so at home in his kitchen—hip cocked to the side, fingertips dusted with flour, hair pulled back messily. He didn’t say it out loud, but the sight of you in front of his oven, sock clad and baking like this was your place too, it did something to him. Stirred up things he thought he’d buried a long time ago.

He leaned back against the counter, arms crossed loosely over his chest, watching you with that small, fond smile he didn’t let anyone else see. The same one he wore the first time he caught you dancing to the radio while sweeping your front porch. The same one he wore the morning he gave in.

His gaze drifted down—your bare legs, the hem of your shorts, the soft swell of your thighs as you stretched on tiptoes to grab a dish towel. Joel swallowed thickly and turned his eyes away. Not because he didn’t want to look, but because he wanted to look too damn much.

You caught him, though. You always did.

You smirked, stepping into his space, nudging your way between his knees as he leaned against the counter. The distance was nothing now. Not like it used to be. “You look like you’re thinkin’ too hard, Miller.”

He tilted his head slightly, eyes softening. “Just watchin’, is all.”

You didn’t say anything at first—just reached up and brushed something off his collar, slow and delicate like you had all the time in the world. Then your hand lingered, palm settling over his chest, feeling the steady beat underneath. His breath hitched, almost imperceptible, but you felt it.

“Pie’s gonna be good,” you murmured.

Joel looked down at you. “Don’t doubt that, doll.”

And then you kissed him—sweet and slow, like you were savoring the taste. Like you had nowhere else to be. Like this was yours.

He responded instantly, large hands coming to rest on your hips, pulling you just that little bit closer. That low, familiar sound rumbled in his throat—the one he made when he was trying not to get ahead of himself. But you knew better by now. You knew the tension coiled in him, how tightly he wound himself, how much he ached to just let go.

Your fingers trailed along the edge of his jaw as you deepened the kiss, and Joel let you take the lead—just for a moment. Let himself be pulled into you, your warmth, your mouth, the quiet hum of your breath as you leaned into him.

“You gonna just kiss me all soft like that, or…?” you teased, brushing your lips over his again.

Joel huffed out a short laugh. “You in a hurry?”

“No,” you whispered, eyes half-lidded, “but you looked like you needed somethin’.”

That’s all it took.

Joel’s hands gripped your waist and he turned you easily, lifting you up onto the counter without a word. His mouth found yours again, deeper this time. Hungrier. And when he broke away, it was just to press a line of kisses down your neck, his voice rough in your ear.

“You got no idea what you do to me, sweetheart.”

You smiled, breathless. “Think I do.”

His hands slid up the back of your thighs, warm and calloused, fingertips dragging under the fabric of your shorts, slow and reverent. “How long we got before that timer goes off?” he murmured.

“30 minutes or so—”

Joel’s lips curved. “Good.”

He kissed you again, slow but sure, grounding. Like every inch of you mattered. Like you weren’t just a craving he couldn’t shake—you were something he wanted to savor. His thumbs rubbed small circles against your hips as he pressed you gently back against the cupboards. You opened your legs for him without hesitation, and he stepped between them, pressing his body close.

“Been thinkin’ about this,” he admitted softly, his voice low and thick. “Thinkin’ about you. In my house. Touchin’ me like this.”

You smiled against his mouth. “Could’ve had this sooner if you asked.”

He chuckled. “Didn’t wanna rush it.”

“But you want it now?”

Joel’s breath hitched. He kissed the side of your mouth, your jaw, your neck. “Doll, I’ve always wanted you.”

Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him tighter to you. “Then take me, Joel.”

He lifted you again, hands firm and steady, guiding you toward the couch in the next room with ease, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he’d carried you there a dozen times before.

When he sat down and you climbed into his lap, facing away from him, his breath left him all at once.

You turned your head, smirking at him over your shoulder. “This okay?”

Joel’s hands slid along your thighs, gripping your hips. “Better than okay, baby.”

And when he pushed inside you, slow and deep, you both gasped in unison.

The rhythm was slow. Steady. Intimate.

His lips brushed the back of your neck as his hands roamed under your shirt. You reached back, threading your fingers into his hair, grounding yourself as his breath stuttered against your skin. Every move was deliberate—every drag of his hips, every pass of his hand over your stomach, up to your chest.

He kissed your shoulder. Your neck. “You feel so damn good,” he rasped, voice thick with need.

You moved with him, riding the tension higher, slower, sweeter—moaning his name, clenching around him, your body burning from the inside out.

And when you came, Joel followed fast behind, arms wrapped tight around your waist, mouth pressed to your neck as he groaned into your skin.

The only sound left after was your breathing. The soft whir of the oven. The tick of the timer counting down.

Joel kept you close, one arm wrapped around your middle, the other stroking softly over your thigh. You leaned back against his chest, warm and content, and he kissed the side of your head.

“Still got time before the pie’s done,” he murmured.

You smiled, eyes closed. “Then let’s stay like this.”

Joel couldn’t help but grin.

“Yeah, doll. Let’s.”

You and Joel were still wrapped up on the couch when the timer finally went off in the kitchen—sharp and insistent, but neither of you moved right away. You were curled in his lap, face tucked against his shoulder, fingers lazily brushing over the edge of his shirt.

Joel shifted slightly, pressing a kiss to your temple. “That’s the pie, doll.”

You hummed against him. “You get it.”

He grumbled, but he was smiling. “You made it. ‘S only fair.”

But eventually, he moved. Helped you up, gave your ass a light smack on the way to the kitchen that earned him a mock gasp and a swat on the arm. You both laughed, and it was easy.

It was good. Joel’s chest felt light, his house smelling like cinnamon and sugar, your hair still messy from where his hands had been tangled in it.

He pulled the pie out, golden and perfect, and turned around to see you leaning against the wall, smiling like this was where you belonged.

“Looks good,” you said.

He set it on the counter to cool, then reached out to tug you in by the waist, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek. “You look good.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t fight the grin. “Charmer.”

Before he could answer, the front door creaked open.

“Hey!” Ellie’s voice called from the hallway. “You guys home? It smells like… oh my god, pie?”

You and Joel shared a look, both biting back a laugh as you stepped apart—just enough to pretend you hadn’t been tangled up on the couch minutes ago.

Ellie rounded the corner and stopped dead in the doorway to the kitchen, backpack still slung over one shoulder. She looked between the two of you—at your flushed cheeks, your mussed hair, Joel’s still-drowsy expression—and then at the pie on the counter.

Her mouth dropped open. “Holy shit.”

Joel raised a brow. “What?”

She narrowed her eyes, pointing between the two of you. “You. And her. And pie? This is domestic as hell. I knew it.”

You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of you, covering your face with your hands. Joel just sighed, but there was a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“We weren’t tryin’ to hide anything,” he said, glancing at you. “Not really.”

Ellie dropped her bag and walked into the kitchen, hands on her hips like a little detective. “You mean to tell me I’ve been waiting months for this to happen—months of tension and weird lingering glances—and now you’re baking pie together?”

You blushed. “In my defense, it’s really good pie.”

Joel cut a slice, handed it to her on a plate. “Here. Maybe don’t interrogate us with your mouth full.”

Ellie took a bite—and moaned dramatically. “Oh my god. Okay. Fine. You’re forgiven.”

You leaned against the counter beside Joel, bumping your hip into his. “Told you it’d win her over.”

“Damn near won me over,” Joel murmured, quiet enough for just you to hear.

Ellie flopped into a chair, watching the two of you with a big grin on her face. “You guys are gross, by the way. But, like… in a cute way. This is honestly kind of awesome.”

Joel looked at her, one arm resting behind you on the counter. “You okay with this?”

Ellie rolled her eyes. “Are you kidding? I’ve been waiting for this. Thought I was gonna have to lock you two in a pantry or something.”

You laughed. Joel grunted, but he was smiling again, soft and real.

The three of you settled into the kitchen—Joel pouring coffee, Ellie stealing more pie, your hand brushing his every time you passed him a plate or leaned against his side. It was quiet and warm, the air still sweet from the apples and spice.

And when you caught Joel looking at you across the kitchen, eyes soft and full of something that looked dangerously close to love, you didn’t look away.

This felt right.

Finally.

[so-mordor-itis]

On the Edge of Your Knife

I know I've written for Sakura a lot, but the more I read the manga the more I just wanna HUG him holy shit

Also huge shoutout to @arget-star , their fics were a huge inspiration! Check them out!

Warning, this wasn't edited that much, so apologies!

Word count: 1.3k

“You can take your time, you know.” 

A sentence Sakura hears from you too often now. That he’s allowed to take his time, to stop and smell the roses or sakura trees or something along those lines. The words are odd sounding together, as if they were a mythical creature that hadn’t been discovered yet. And while you keep telling him this, that he can, he still can’t decide if he should. Especially since every time you remind him, it’s something related to you.

He keeps trying so hard to hold your hand without his cheeks exploding into a blood red. You could be doing something so simple, so normal, and he’d feel his fingers twitch, desperate to reach out and grab your own. To knot your hands together in union. He has tried three times now.

 First time, you two had only been dating for two weeks. He was walking you home after school, the sun was low, turning the sky into a beautiful orange and purple hue. You had sighed in awe, “What a pretty color.” The glow of the sky had created a halo around your face, and he couldn’t help himself. He reached for your hand, and when you immediately folded your fingers against his own, he jumped as if something cold pressed against his skin. 

“Oh, you okay?” you gasped at his sudden movement. 

“I–uh–ah, forget it,” he grumbled, shoving his fists into his pant pockets. “It’s gettin’ late, let’s hurry.” He swiveled himself around as fast as a lightning bolt. 

“It’s okay,” he heard you say, followed by a chortle. “If you want to hold my hand, all you have to do is ask.”

“Forget about it.”

The second time he tried was when you came over to his shabby house. He doesn’t exactly remember why you had knocked on his door and then plopped yourself on one of the shitty plastic chairs he had in his tiny kitchen, but you did. You were telling him about something, a hobby of yours you enjoyed, if he squints hard enough to remember. Sakura could never forget the way your eyes lit up, how they genuinely twinkled like the stars twinkled in the night sky. You turned away to grab something out of your bag, leaving one of your hands out in the open. A perfect opportunity, or so said a voice remarkably close to Suo’s in his head. He reached forward slowly, attempting to have his fingertips touch yours. Once they made contact, he couldn’t help but notice the difference between them. How soft yours was in comparison to his rough, tattered and bruised. 

You were fast with your movement, locking your fingers against his just like before. He held his stance a tad longer, but retracted once again, blush high on his features. 

“It’s okay, you know,” you told him, a smile on your face as if he didn’t do something stupid just now. “You can take your time.” 

Sakura didn’t answer, all he could think about was how dumb he was being. Holding your hand should be so simple, yet whenever he felt the skin on skin contact, he’d retreat. He recalled the analogy Kaji had used about him, that his behavior mimicked a wounded animal, lashing out or retreating when anyone showed him any type of kindness. 

The third time he tried to hold your hand, it was right after you had paid for dinner one night and you were getting up to leave your spot. On instinct, Sakura had reached up to grab your hand, only to fail and grab your sleeve instead. As if he wasn’t already pink from being in public on a date, his face flared in his usual sunset red hue. “...Sorry.”

You gave him a confused look, “Why are you sorry? You’re fine.” You reach to grab his hand before hesitating, probably remembering the few times he’s tried and retracted. “Like I said, you can take your time. We don’t need to rush things.” 

He couldn’t remember what else happened that night, but he wouldn’t be able to forget the lingering void in his gut, and Kotoha’s look of confusion and pity. 

—

“How does it not bother you?” He asks one day, as the two of you were sitting in his shabby house once again, playing with a deck of cards you had brought over. 

“How does what not bother me?” you quickly reply, taking your eyes off your deck. “The fact you have a very bad poker face?”

“I do not!”

“You were smirking like a cat last round, that's why I easily beat you.”

“I–I just let you win is all, like a good boyfriend should.”

You snicker, “You? I doubt that.” 

“What’s that mean!”

“Nothing,” you roll your eyes, but there’s no malice or annoyance in your tone.

“Anyway, it’s not that…” his eyes trail off to the side as he starts to glance at the wall of his supposed living room. It’s cracked. Some of the fissures reach all the way to the ceiling. “How does it not bother you that…that I can’t��uh…” The words won’t leave his mouth, and suddenly his tongue feels sticky. Not to mention, his cheeks are once again on fire, buzzing almost. He gives up after a good minute of trying. “Nevermind, forget it.” 

“Can’t hold my hand?”

He sputters, immediately looking towards you with surprise. “Uh, yeah. How’d–”

“I’m not stupid, you know,” you tell him, putting down your deck. Your eyes hold this odd warmth, something he can’t recognize. It makes his heart flip, whatever it is. “You’re very hesitant with this.” You motion your hands between you two. “And that’s okay. It doesn’t bother me at all.”

“Shouldn’t I be, you know, the one making all the moves?”

“Real life can’t be like a romance novel, but it’s really cute seeing you try so hard.” 

He looks away again, grumbling under his breath. “‘m not cute.”

“I mean it, you know?” you tell him, a small smile forming on your lips. “You really can take your time with this.” 

“Won’t you get bored?” 

Your face falls, a mixture of sadness and something else. “No, never.” 

Sakura feels the void in his gut from before. The question sounds so small, the sentence of words feel so light, but why did your reaction make them feel so heavy? 

“Listen to me, okay, Sakura?” You say, scooting closer to him. “I couldn’t get bored of you, even if I wanted to. You’re loud and fun and spontaneous and so so good.” Your eyes look as if they’re shimmering, are you about to cry? “I’m dating you for a reason, and if I get bored of you, then honestly, I’d deserve to be kicked to the curb.” 

His mouth is agape as he watches tears slide down your cheeks. You sniff and quickly wipe them. “Sorry, your question just…made me feel so sad. You deserve to be loved, you know? Have you been told that?”

(No.)

“I…” The words won’t form again, and he swears he’s going to punch himself in the gut. “Sorry.”

“Wha–huh?”

“I…I made you cry.” 

Your arms wrap around him faster than he can blink. You hold him tightly, as if you have just jumped from a cliff and landed in his arms. “No, you didn’t. I promise.” 

You two sit there for a minute, with you holding his form as he stares into his cracked walls with shock before he reciprocates. His movement is as slow as molasses, but eventually he holds your form tightly in return. 

“Take your time. I promise I’m not leaving. You couldn’t get rid of me even if you tried.”

Even if he tried to get rid of you, he’d be killing himself in the process. 

It hasn’t even been five minutes before you try to let go. “Ah, sorry, I should’ve–”

“Can we just…” he interrupts you. “Can we just stay like this for a minute?”

“Yeah. Yeah we can.”

—

The next day, he knots his fingers around yours with no hesitation, no retraction. Just pure affection. 

[angelseraphines]

ೃ⁀➷ let me love you like a woman ˗ˏˋ꒰ 🦢 ꒱

╰┈➤ obi-wan kenobi x tatooine!reader imagine

a/n: i would like to give a special thank you to @lumillsie for the layout of this post and for the filter used on the header! this story takes place following the events of revenge of the sith, where obi-wan kenobi is in exile on tatooine. i hope you enjoy reading! 🤍

˚ ༘♡ the twins suns burned high, an oppressive white orb and molten star hanging in a sky bleached of all color, and the scorching sand outside your family’s shop shimmered akin to heated glass. mos espa breathed slow in the midday lull, its usual clamor hushed beneath the burden of the heat. only the fools or the desperate braved the streets now, those with credits to chase, or errands to run, or no home worth hiding in.

˚ ༘♡ you were behind the counter alone, the air inside dry but not quite suffocating, cooled just enough by the old condenser hissing gently in the corner. your mother had gone to barter for oils at the distillery two stalls down, and the shop, lined with bolts of cloth, spools of thread, sun-bleached leather satchels and imported moisture filters, rested in your care for the day.

˚ ༘♡ you wore ivory-white, the fabric was gauzy, sheer in the sleeves and hem, trimmed with pale gold thread and small mother-of-pearl beads that clicked when you moved. the heat was no match for the thin layers, and you relished the lightness, how it made you feel almost unreal, like some desert mirage wafting through your family’s simple walls. and you knew how you looked. it wasn’t vanity, it was fact. your skin gleamed in the sun, your hair loose, a sheen of sweat catching along your collarbone where it dipped into your dress. you knew what the boys in the square whispered when they saw you. you simply didn’t care.

˚ ༘♡ but him. he was different.

˚ ༘♡ you knew the shape of him before you saw it. of middling height, cloaked in rough robes that hadn’t been tailored in years, boots worn to the sole. he moved like a man who did not want to be perceived, who took no pride in posture, who walked with a quietness that only came from someone who had spent too long alone.

˚ ༘♡ the old wooden chime rattled as the door creaked open, and when you looked up from the counter, there he was. kenobi.

˚ ༘♡ you had only ever heard him addressed like that, “mr. kenobi,” when your father was being formal, or just “kenobi,” in the clipped, disinterested tones of market vendors who didn’t care much for names unless they owed you money. no one knew much about him. he lived past the edge of the dune sea, near the cliffs, in one of the carved-out stone huts that had belonged to the miners before the sands took them. he kept to himself. came down once or twice a month, sometimes less. bought little, said even less. no family, no friends, no history anyone could confirm. only a man with tired eyes and sun-leathered skin, who worked part-time at the meat station carving carcasses with a precision that never quite fit the rest of his appearance.

˚ ༘♡ “kenobi,” you said with a soft smile, brushing the wisps of your hair back and standing straighter. not too formal. not too familiar. merely enough to catch his eye.

˚ ༘♡ his gaze lifted slowly. beneath the shadow of his hood, his face was the same as always, quiet, drawn, unreadable. but something in the eyes flickered. pale blue. duller than they used to be, you imagined, but still sharp beneath the troubles within. not unkind. just… unreachable.

˚ ༘♡ “miss,” he said, voice low. dry, like gravel turned over in a hand. he nodded once in greeting, then looked to the shelves.

˚ ༘♡ you didn’t speak immediately. didn’t rush him. you’d learned, over the past year or so, when he’d happen to appear, that he hated questions. hated chatter. but he never left without a word if you were the one behind the counter. there was something in your presence, something in your voice, or your serenity, or perhaps just your curiosity, that he never quite refused.

˚ ༘♡ “looking for anything in particular?” you asked, letting the hem of your sleeve drift along the counter’s edge. the fabric glimmered softly in the light.

˚ ༘♡ he hesitated, and then, with a slight shift of his hand, pulled a list from his pocket. creased. small. you stepped forward to take it, brushing your fingers over his as you did, feigning casualness. his hand jerked slightly at the contact, not violent, but startled. like he hadn’t expected warmth.

˚ ༘♡ you pretended not to notice.

˚ ༘♡ the list was simple. thread. canisters for water storage. a replacement coil for a condenser unit. nothing lavish. nothing even remotely indulgent. all of it mundane, all of it necessary. the kind of list made by someone who spent most of his days thinking only about survival.

˚ ༘♡ you glanced at it, then back at him. “we’ve got most of this. thread’s in the back, though. i’ll have to grab it for you.”

˚ ༘♡ he nodded again. “thank you.”

˚ ༘♡ no smile. no change in his expression. but he was still watching you, and that was enough to provoke something in your heart.

˚ ༘♡ you moved through the curtains behind the counter and into the backroom, biting your lip, the heat following you like a second skin. he was handsome, even if the desert had worn him down. handsome in a way that wasn’t youthful or polished, but weary. carved from stone. a man who had suffered something he would never speak of aloud. and yet… you couldn’t help it. every time he came in, something in you stirred like a story waiting to be told.

˚ ༘♡ you returned with the thread, letting the beads on your sleeves chime faintly as you walked. “this’ll hold for repairs,” you said, setting the spool down gently before him. “strong, too. doesn’t fray.”

˚ ༘♡ he picked it up, turned it once in his hand. “that’ll do.”

˚ ༘♡ he did not compliment you. he did not flirt, or even linger. but when your eyes met his again, there was something behind them. recognition. a kind of restrained gentleness. and beneath that, you sensed it again, the weight of something vast and terrible. the sorrow of a man who had lost everything but was alive enough to feel the ache.

˚ ༘♡ “how’s the station?” you asked, more softly this time.

˚ ༘♡ “untroubled.”

˚ ༘♡ you veered your head. “you don’t like questions, do you?”

˚ ༘♡ his jaw tightened. then, after a pause, “no.”

˚ ༘♡ you smiled at that. “i’ll remember that.”

˚ ༘♡ and for the briefest moment, his gaze did not look away. it stayed on yours, searching, tired, cautious. but not cold.

˚ ༘♡ you gave him the total. he paid in imperial credits, all properly counted. he did not make excuses or offer barter, simply accepted the number as it was. and when he turned to leave, you let your voice follow him, softer than before.

˚ ༘♡ “come back sooner next time, sir. i get bored with the scorching sand and uncivilized creatures as company.”

˚ ༘♡ he paused at the door. the light framed him in gold. he did not look back.

˚ ༘♡ yet you saw it, the barest incline of his head. like acknowledgment. like thanks.

˚ ༘♡ and then he was gone.

˚ ༘♡ you waited five full minutes.

˚ ༘♡ five minutes of pretending to rearrange the baskets. five minutes of glancing at the empty street beyond the shutters. five minutes of pretending you were not already gathering your courage like folds of your sheer skirt, not already bracing yourself for something unwise. no one had come by. the heat still reigned. your mother was still at the distillery, your father still at the hangar. and kenobi, he was already disappearing into the blinding light beyond the plaza, heading out toward the low hills of sand that marked the beginning of nowhere.

˚ ༘♡ so you did something reckless.

˚ ༘♡ you flipped the “closed” sign, ducked beneath the counter, and slipped out the side door. you didn’t lock it. you didn’t leave a note. you simply went.

˚ ༘♡ sand tugged at your slippers, the wind catching at the hem of your gauzy dress, turning it into streamers of white and gold behind you. your shawl fluttered loosely over your shoulders as you picked your way through the narrow alley behind the shop and emerged into the outskirts of mos espa. no one saw. or if they did, no one cared. maybe they thought you were off to visit a friend. or chasing someone. which, in a way, was true.

˚ ༘♡ kenobi was far ahead by then, a lone figure drifting over the dunes, headed away from the town like a ghost returning to its tomb. he moved steadily, not fast, not slow, just with the practiced gait of someone who had made this journey too many times to count. he didn’t notice you.

˚ ༘♡ you followed at a distance, heart loud in your chest, half expecting him to turn around at any moment and catch you in the act. but he never did. he just kept walking. farther and farther from civilization, from stalls and shouting and spice-sellers and moisture farmers, from everything that tied you to the world you knew.

˚ ༘♡ you had always wondered what he did out here. the hermit beyond the dune sea, they called him. stay away, your parents had said. men like that don’t come to town unless they need something. and you don’t want to know what they’ve done to end up that way.

˚ ༘♡ but you had wanted to know. desperately.

˚ ༘♡ the ground rose gently beneath your feet as you climbed the low ridge where he had gone. by now, the market was a distant haze. here, the world was empty and gold, a vast stretch of sand and sky. the atmosphere was thick. only the wind moved.

˚ ༘♡ and then you saw him.

˚ ༘♡ he was just the crest, sitting beside a cluster of jagged rock formations, his cloak drawn around him, not to guard from cold, but perhaps to guard from memory. his shoulders were hunched forward slightly, his hands clasped. his face was turned away from the sun, but you could see the line of his jaw, the vague downward curve of his mouth. and for the first time, you saw not just mystery, not merely enigmatic allure or rugged charm.

˚ ༘♡ you saw sorrow.

˚ ༘♡ not simple grief. devastation. the kind of sadness that hollowed out the soul. that silenced men. that turned warriors into wraiths.

˚ ༘♡ he didn’t cry. he didn’t move. but the look on his face…

˚ ༘♡ something ached in you.

˚ ༘♡ he looked like he was listening to something no one else could hear. like he was waiting for a voice that would never come. the wind stirred the edges of his cloak and rustled his uncut, auburn hair, but he remained still. so still, you almost believed he was made of stone.

˚ ༘♡ you didn’t step closer. you stayed hidden behind the rocks, breath caught in your throat, unsure what you had expected but knowing it hadn’t been this.

˚ ༘♡ you thought you’d find answers.

˚ ༘♡ you found a man grieving something far too large to speak aloud.

˚ ༘♡ and it made your heart twist, not out of pity, but something else. the same thing you’d felt when he touched your hand in the shop. the same thing you felt whenever his eyes flicked over your face, too quickly to be anything but deliberate.

˚ ༘♡ you whispered, barely loud enough for the wind to carry.

˚ ༘♡ “…what happened to you?”

˚ ༘♡ but he didn’t hear. or maybe he did, and he just had nothing left to say.

˚ ༘♡ you stayed there, beneath the twin suns, watching the man the galaxy had long since forgotten.

˚ ༘♡ and for the first time, you understood why he lived alone. why he spoke so little. why your parents had warned you away.

˚ ༘♡ not because he was dangerous.

˚ ༘♡ but because he was broken. and maybe he was beyond repair, too far gone in desolation to be saved.

˚ ༘♡ and yet, even now, especially now, something in you ached to try.

˚ ༘♡ you weren’t even trying to get closer. not really. you only meant to shift your footing, to find a better place to crouch, to watch without being seen, to satisfy the reckless ache in your chest without pushing your luck.

˚ ༘♡ but the sand beneath the ridge was loose. your slipper grated against the coarse sand. your ankle contorted. and before you could catch yourself, the ground rushed up fast and sharp beneath you.

˚ ༘♡ you landed hard on the side of your knee, right against an outcrop of jagged rock hidden beneath the dune’s surface. pain seared red-hot through your leg, a tearing, ugly kind of pain that wasn’t just a scrape, it dug in, sharp enough to punch the breath from your lungs and make your vision bloom black around the edges.

˚ ༘♡ you gasped, and then you cried out. it wasn’t a scream, a sound ripped straight from your throat, raw and involuntary and sharp with pain.

˚ ༘♡ you clutched your leg, hand stained crimson against blood already seeping through the fabric. the gash was deep, slashing through the muscle in a way that made your stomach churn. the kind of wound that wasn’t going to clot on its own.

˚ ༘♡ and before you could even attempt to rise, before you could hide the stupid, childish mistake you’d just made, you heard it.

˚ ༘♡ footsteps. brisk. precise. heavy against the sand.

˚ ༘♡ you looked up, expecting fury. expecting a storm.

˚ ༘♡ you found him.

˚ ༘♡ kenobi stood over you, robes whipping in the wind, cerulean eyes fixed on yours with something unreadable in their pale depths. not anger. not exactly. something taut. something pulled tight between alarm and discretion.

˚ ༘♡ you opened your mouth to explain, to apologize, to say anything.

˚ ༘♡ but then he knelt.

˚ ༘♡ “let me see it,” he said, already pulling a fold of his outer robe free, already reaching for your injured leg.

˚ ༘♡ you blinked, stunned.

˚ ༘♡ “what…?”

˚ ༘♡ “you’re bleeding,” he said flatly. not unkindly. focused. “deeply.”

˚ ༘♡ “i didn’t mean to… i was only trying to…” you winced, teeth clenched as his fingers found the edge of the torn fabric. “i’m sorry. i know i shouldn’t have followed you, i wanted…”

˚ ༘♡ “stop talking.” it wasn’t cruel. it was the voice of a man who had seen worse than this. much worse. his hands were steady, rough-palmed but gentle, and his brow furrowed with concentration as he pressed the fabric to the wound. “you’re going into shock. breathe slowly.”

˚ ༘♡ you did. because something about the way he said it left no room for refusal.

˚ ༘♡ the blood was soaking fast, and you saw the frown that flickered across his face. you weren’t imagining the tension in his shoulders, the way he exhaled through his nose, as if trying to smother the heat beneath his skin.

˚ ༘♡ “does it hurt here?” he asked, fingers trailing just above the torn edge. your leg jerked involuntarily.

˚ ༘♡ “yes,” you hissed. “sorry… yes.”

˚ ༘♡ “don’t apologize.” his voice was soothing now. almost soft. “try and relax.”

˚ ༘♡ he tore another strip of cloth from his robe. his fingers worked fast, binding it tight with an efficiency that betrayed a history you didn’t know, of medpacs and battlefield wounds and makeshift triage in places far from here. he tied it off. it wasn’t pretty. but it was secure.

˚ ༘♡ you watched him as he leaned back, hands braced beside your leg, his head angled only narrowly.

˚ ༘♡ his hair was tangled with sweat. his jaw unshaven. and yet there was something beautiful about the way he looked at you in that instance, not as a burden. not as a foolish girl who trespassed where she didn’t belong. but as a person. as someone in pain. as someone he wanted to help.

˚ ༘♡ “…you’re not angry?” you asked, your voice barely above the wind.

˚ ༘♡ he blinked. the corners of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile. more like surprise.

˚ ༘♡ “no,” he said, finally. “but you shouldn’t have followed me.”

˚ ༘♡ “i know.”

˚ ༘♡ “this isn’t a place for…”

“for what?” your eyes held his. “for stupid girls who ask too many questions?”

˚ ༘♡ his jaw flexed.

˚ ༘♡ “for people who haven’t seen war,” he said, after a long pause. “for people who still think the world is kind.”

˚ ༘♡ the words landed more forceful than you expected. but you didn’t look away.

˚ ༘♡ “i don’t think the world is kind,” you said.

˚ ༘♡ his gaze dipped. to your wound. to the vermillion blood leaking between the translucent fabric. to your dress, white and gilded, stained now with desert dust and red.

˚ ༘♡ “…you should go home,” he said. “once you can walk.”

˚ ༘♡ but he didn’t move. neither did you.

˚ ༘♡ you were too close now. his hands hovered near your leg. his knee brushed yours through the fabric. and the wind had grown quieter, the sun slanting low, washing him in the rays of the sun akin to the ruins of a statue no one had dared to bury.

˚ ༘♡ you swallowed, heart suddenly loud.

˚ ༘♡ “you live out here all alone,” you said, barely a whisper. “why?”

˚ ༘♡ his eyes didn’t meet yours. not yet. but the silence between you bent beneath the weight of the question.

˚ ༘♡ and for the first time, you saw it again, the sorrow. raw and endless. buried beneath a mask of duty. something sacred that had been shattered and never remade.

˚ ༘♡ “because i have to,” he said.

˚ ༘♡ and you understood, even if you didn’t know why.

˚ ༘♡ nonetheless, you said delicately, “you don’t have to be alone forever.”

˚ ༘♡ and this time, when his eyes locked onto yours, they stayed.

˚ ༘♡ you sat beneath the long shadow of the ridge, your leg bound in rough cloth and streaked with red, the sting of it slowly dulling into something hot and deep. the pain was real, but it had altered, muted by the ache that now pierced somewhere else entirely. somewhere beneath your ribs.

˚ ༘♡ kenobi hadn’t spoken again. not after he’d wrapped your leg. not after he’d said you should go. he had simply sat beside you, silent and distant, the wind tousling his hair as if to remind you how far from home you’d come. his body was still, posture controlled, but his thoughts, his thoughts were clearly elsewhere. you could feel it, heavy in the air between you. he was somewhere else entirely. somewhere you couldn’t reach.

˚ ༘♡ and yet, you tried.

˚ ༘♡ “you don’t have to be so distant,” you murmured finally, the words fragile in the vast quiet of the desert. “i know you didn’t ask me to follow you. i know it was stupid. but i’m not sorry.”

˚ ༘♡ he didn’t turn to face you. but his hands, those steady, calloused hands, curled somewhat in his lap.

˚ ༘♡ you looked down at your leg, at the blood soaking through his robe’s fabric. “i just wanted to know why you always look so… so sad. why you never talk to anyone. why you disappear.”

˚ ༘♡ kenobi gave no answer.

˚ ༘♡ “but now i see it’s more than that,” you said, your voice straining with emotion you didn’t fully understand. “you look like someone who’s been through something no one else could survive.”

˚ ༘♡ his shoulders grew rigid.

˚ ༘♡ and finally, he turned. not quickly. not sharply. but slowly, as though it pained him to meet your gaze.

˚ ༘♡ when he did, you almost wished he hadn’t. because the misery in his expression was unbearable. not cruel. not angry. but filled with something older than grief. remorse. resolve. restraint. something carved into the marrow of a man who had once been something else, someone else, and had buried that self in the sand years ago.

˚ ༘♡ “you shouldn’t be here,” he whispered. “you don’t understand what you’re walking into.”

˚ ༘♡ “then help me understand,” you said. “i’m not afraid of you.”

˚ ༘♡ “you should be.”

˚ ༘♡ “why?” your voice cracked. “you’re not like the others. not like the ones who leer at me in the market, or spit at the sand because i won’t smile for them. they scare me. but you…”

˚ ༘♡ he cut you off, gently. “i am not what you think i am.”

˚ ༘♡ “you’re kind. and you didn’t have to be. not to me.”

˚ ༘♡ “that doesn’t make me good.”

˚ ༘♡ “then tell me what does.” your voice caught as your fingers clutched your gown, crumpling the sheer fabric where it pooled around your knee. “tell me why you live out here like a ghost. why everyone calls you the hermit. why you look at the horizon like you’re waiting to die.”

˚ ༘♡ he flinched. it was slight. but it was there.

˚ ༘♡ you softened then. not out of pity. out of wanting. wanting to be let in. wanting him to let himself speak. just once.

˚ ༘♡ but instead, he exhaled, long and slow, and stood. his shadow fell over you. he looked taller when he did. broader. older.

˚ ༘♡ more like a myth than a man.

˚ ༘♡ “you’re young,” he said, not unkindly. “you see what you want to see. you believe that there’s good in everyone. you think… because i helped you, that it means something.”

˚ ༘♡ you looked up at him, chin lifted, defiant even through the pain.

˚ ༘♡ “it does mean something.”

˚ ༘♡ his expression ebbed scarcely. not from anger. from something closer to sorrow.

˚ ༘♡ “i can’t give you the answers you’re looking for,” he said. “there are things i’ve done, things i’ve seen, that no one should have to carry. i’ve buried people i loved. failed people who depended on me. i’ve lived through the fall of something that once stood for peace, and watched it crumble into war and ruin. and every day since then, i’ve woken up alone. because that is what i deserve.”

˚ ༘♡ the solemnity that followed was deafening.

˚ ༘♡ you blinked hard, your throat tightening.

˚ ༘♡ “that’s not true.”

˚ ༘♡ “you don’t know me.”

˚ ༘♡ “i see you.”

˚ ༘♡ “no,” he said, quieter now. “you see a man who held your hand when you were bleeding. you see someone who speaks warmly because he’s forgotten how to shout. but that doesn’t make me righteous. it makes me tired.”

˚ ༘♡ you swallowed, heart stinging in a way your knee didn’t.

˚ ༘♡ “i still trust you, kenobi.”

˚ ༘♡ he closed his eyes.

˚ ༘♡ the wind moved between you again. the sand danced in lazy spirals around his boots. and when he opened them, he looked at you, not as a stranger, not as a young girl , but as someone he wished had never stepped into his life. not because he didn’t want you there.

˚ ༘♡ but because he couldn’t bear it.

˚ ༘♡ “i’ll take you back,” he said. “when your leg stops bleeding.”

˚ ༘♡ you started to nod, but he kept speaking.

˚ ༘♡ and then,” he said, voice stripped of everything but control, “you’ll forget me.”

˚ ༘♡ your breath caught.

˚ ༘♡ “kenobi…”

˚ ༘♡ “you’ll go home. you’ll tell your mother you slipped on a rock. you’ll forget my face. you’ll forget this place. and the next time someone says my name in town, you won’t look up.”

˚ ༘♡ you shook your head slowly, eyes glassy.

˚ ༘♡ “i can’t…”

˚ ༘♡ “you must.” his voice didn’t rise, but it grew sharper. not callous, never callous, but firm, like he was building a wall between you and him brick by brick, and hating himself for every one. “you deserve to be happy. to care for someone who isn’t carrying the end of the galaxy in his guilt and shame.”

˚ ༘♡ you didn’t respond. couldn’t. not with words.

˚ ༘♡ so you just looked at him, body trembling, pain blooming somewhere far deeper than the wound in your knee.

˚ ༘♡ and he looked at you, too.

˚ ༘♡ as though he wanted to remember you.

˚ ༘♡ just once.

˚ ༘♡ before he had to let you go.

a/n: this is my official trial to be the kenobi fanfiction writer for tumblr!! please let me know if you have anymore requests for obi-wan kenobi, he is definitely my favorite star wars character!!! 🤍

[wordsofwhimsy]

【Ｏｐｐｏｓｉｔｅｓ　

Ａｔｔｒａｃｔ】 - Part Seventeen

Pairing: Mohawk!Mark Grayson x f!Reader

Warnings: Some long awaited smuttt between our two lovers – f & m receiving oral

Tags: Fluff, smut, reader’s first time being intimate with anyone, Mark’s on his kneeees

Word Count: 4,665

Chapter Synopsis: There’s a first time for everything and Mark is more than eager to be apart of yours.

a/n: hope y’all brought a bib – it’s about to go downnnn

Part Sixteen

Mark moved before you could blink—mouth on yours, arms around your waist, guiding you backward with slow, determined steps. His lips were softer this time, but no less hungry.

Your knees hit the edge of the bed, and you let yourself fall back, pulling him down with you. The mattress creaked under the sudden weight of him, all heat and pressure and muscle as he settled between your legs—but not fully. Never fully. He was bracing himself, holding back like his self-control was hanging by a thread.

One of his hands cupped your jaw again, the other pressed flat against the mattress beside your head as he kissed you deeper. He tasted like winter air and the last bit of self-restraint. You arched into him without thinking, a soft whimper escaping your lips before you could stop it.

Mark groaned—deep in his chest—and broke the kiss, forehead pressing to yours. “You’re gonna fucking kill me,” he murmured.

You slid your hands up his torso, palms circling to drag over the hard lines of his back. “Awe, we can’t have that…”

That made him laugh, breathless and low and almost distraught.

Then he was kissing down your neck, your collarbone, your stomach, taking his time. Your tank top bunched up inch by inch under his hands, each kiss lower than the last, until you were trembling beneath him.

“Mark—” you breathed, voice thin and shaking.

“I’ve thought about this,” he whispered, lips ghosting across the soft curve of your waist. “Every fucking night. Just… getting to see you like this. Touch you like this. You have no idea...”

Your shorts slid down under his hands, slow and deliberate, tugged just past your hips and down your thighs until they dropped off the bed. He stilled for a moment when he saw you—wearing soft, simple cotton underwear, sweet and unassuming, like you hadn’t even thought twice about it—and exhaled like he’d been punched. No lace, no silk, no effort to be seductive. Just you. Innocent, untouched by all the noise of trying to be sexy—like you didn’t even realize how devastating that made you. It wrecked him.

“Jesus Christ...” His eyes flicked up to yours, dark and full of so much want it nearly hurt. His hands were steady on your legs, but his voice cracked—barely holding on. “Tell me to stop,” he nearly pleaded, like he needed you to save him from himself.

You bit down on your lip, your whole body flushed, trembling under the weight of his gaze. Your chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, but your voice—when it came—was quiet. Sure. Yours.

“Don’t stop,” you whispered, eyes locked on his. “Please… keep going.”

Something broke in him.

His breath hitched like he’d been punched in the gut, and his grip on your thighs tightened just slightly—not rough, but needing. Needing you. Needing this. That look in his eyes shifted, went deeper, darker, like he was past the point of return now.

He dipped his head and kissed the inside of your thigh—soft and lingering. His hands smoothed over your hips, your legs, your skin, like he was memorizing every inch. He didn’t rush. Didn’t tear. He worshipped.

When his mouth pressed gently between your legs—still over your underwear—you gasped, hips twitching. “Fuck,” he breathed against you, trembling.

Then he eased the last layer down, watching you the entire time. Watching your breath hitch. Watching your legs tense and part just a little wider. Mark thought he could cry from the sight. Not just because you were beautiful—though you were, achingly so—but because it was you. Letting him see you like this. Letting him touch something so vulnerable. So sacred.

When he finally leaned in and kissed your core—bare, exposed, soft and already slick with need—it was slow, warm, intentional. His mouth pressed into you like a confession, like he needed it to breathe, like you were the only thing in the world that mattered. You whimpered, hips jolting, the sound spilling out of you before you could stop it. Your hand flew up to your mouth on instinct, desperate to muffle it—but Mark caught your wrist midair. His grip was gentle, firm, anchoring.

“Don’t,” he murmured, voice low and undone as he looked up at you. “I need to hear you.”

He didn’t give you a chance to respond—not with words, at least. Instead, he dipped his head again, tongue sliding through your folds with maddening slowness, savoring every inch of you like he was trying to memorize it. Every flick, every swirl of his tongue was careful, almost reverent. But the sound he made against you—a low, guttural groan—was pure, unfiltered need.

You were already shaking. One of your hands tangled in the sheets, the other still caught in his grip as he kept it pinned beside you, refusing to let you hide any part of yourself. It was overwhelming—how exposed you were, how seen you felt. Like he wasn’t just touching your body but reading it, learning every reaction, and falling harder with every one.

When his tongue circled your clit, slow and featherlight, your hips jerked, back arching off the mattress with a sound you didn’t recognize—high, needy, desperate. Your thighs tried to close in around his head, instinctive and overstimulated, but his hand slid to your hip, steady and grounding, keeping you open for him.

“Fuck,” he breathed, breaking away for just a second. His lips were wet, flushed, swollen from you. “You taste so fucking good.”

He could feel it—your body begging, trembling under him, the way your hips rolled helplessly toward his mouth, searching for more. And fuck, he gave it to you. His grip tightened on your thigh as he buried his face between your legs like he was starving—tongue working in slow, greedy strokes that made your toes curl and your thoughts scatter.

Every time he flattened his tongue against your clit, every time he sucked it into his mouth with just the right pressure, you swore you could see stars. Your legs started to shake harder, and he loved it—fucking lived for it. He moaned into you, deep and desperate, and the vibration of it sent a pulse of heat straight through your spine.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he groaned, barely pulling back long enough to speak. His voice was shot—low, hoarse, addicted. “I could stay here all night.”

And it wasn’t just talk. He meant it. He’d sink into you, over and over, until he had your taste carved into the back of his throat. He was already soaked in you—his lips, his chin, his soul—but it still wasn’t enough. He needed more. You. All of you.

He slipped a single finger down—gently circling your entrance before easing in. And the second he pushed past that first bit of resistance, he froze.

“Oh my goddd,” he groaned, pained. His brows drew together, jaw strained, like the feeling of you was too much. “You are so fucking tight.”

His voice cracked on the words. His finger was only halfway in, and it already felt like you were gripping him for everything he was worth. He swallowed hard, chest rising and falling like he was trying to hold himself together.

“It’s just one finger…” he muttered, almost to himself, like he couldn’t believe it.

He didn’t move, not right away. He just let you feel it—let you adjust, let your body melt around him. His thumb brushed soft, tracing circles on your thigh while his other hand anchored him against the sheets, knuckles white.

“God, you feel like heaven,” he said, finally easing his finger in deeper. “So warm, so soft… so so perfect.”

He began moving—just a little, just enough—fingering you in slow, careful motions while his mouth returned to your clit. The combination was devastating. His tongue was all focus, all devotion, lapping at you like you were the only thing that existed.

You cried out, a helpless, overwhelmed sound, and Mark groaned in response—deep and low, like your pleasure hit him right in the chest.

His tongue was slow, teasing, precise. He licked and kissed like he had something to prove—and God, he did. You moaned, hips stuttering up into his mouth, and he just held you tighter, arm wrapped under your thigh.

He found your rhythm like he’d been waiting for this moment his whole life—like it was second nature. You were falling apart within minutes, panting his name like a prayer, hands tangled in his thick strip of dark hair, tugging as pleasure coiled hot and heavy in your core.

He moaned when you pulled—actually moaned—and the vibration made your back arch off the bed.

“Mark—oh my God—Mark, I—” You were unraveling.

Every flick of his tongue, every twitch of his finger, every growl of your name between his teeth was taking you higher—way higher than you’d ever been before. Your hips rolled helplessly, breath hitching, hands in his hair, thighs trembling around his head as Mark devoured you like it was the only thing he’d ever wanted.

You felt it creeping in—tight and hot and too much—coiling in your stomach, low and sharp and dizzying. Your hands clenched the sheets. Your thighs tried to close, but his arms held you steady, spreading you wider.

Then the pressure shifted.

Something about the way his mouth moved—lower, firmer, deeper—made that pressure drop into a place that was suddenly too intense. And it hit you all at once: “W-wait—Mark—wait!”

He froze instantly. Pulled back just enough to look up, mouth soaked, face caught between worry and restraint. “What? What’s wrong?”

“I—” You squirmed, trying to sit up. Your voice cracked. “I think I’m—I might—I think I’m gonna pee—” You looked mortified. Absolutely horrified. Mark blinked. Then—he laughed.

Not mean. Not teasing. Just this warm, breathless, relieved little laugh, like he couldn’t believe how cute you were. “Oh, baby,” he said, crawling up your body and kissing your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. “You’re not gonna pee.”

“I swear to God I—Mark, I’ve never—” You were red-faced, shaking, trying to hide your face in your hands. “I’ve never felt anything like that, I thought—I don’t know what’s happening—”

“Hey,” he said gently, framing your face with both hands, pressing his forehead to yours. “I promise you. You’re not gonna pee. That’s just—you’re close. Really close. That’s what it feels like.”

Your breath hitched. “Are you sure?”

“Baby.” His voice dropped, low and reverent. “I’ve dreamed about making you feel this good since the first time I saw you again in high school. I know exactly what your body’s trying to do.” He kissed the tip of your nose. “You’re safe. I’ve got you. Just let go.”

You stared at him—still panicked, but unraveling in a different way now. The way he was looking at you—like you were the sun and the stars and the air in his lungs—it made you feel braver.

So you nodded. Just a little.

And his mouth was back on you—hungry, patient, perfect. This time, when the pressure returned—hot and sharp and overwhelming—you didn’t fight it.

Your body tensed. And then it broke.

You cried out, hands fisting the sheets, thighs shaking around his shoulders as the wave crashed through you, harder than anything you'd ever felt. It wasn’t like touching yourself. It wasn’t like anything.

It was like being torn apart and put back together in the span of a heartbeat.

Mark moaned against you, holding you through it, working you through every aftershock until your body finally gave out—soft and limp and trembling in his arms. He kissed your thighs, your hipbones, your stomach—then crawled up to wrap you in his arms.

“You okay?” he whispered, brushing hair from your damp forehead. His cheeks were flushed, lips swollen, but his eyes were so soft it nearly broke you all over again.

“I…” You blinked up at him, dazed. “I think I just… exploded.”

He grinned. “You did. It was beautiful.”

You buried your face in his chest, body still twitching with aftershocks. “Oh my God, I’m so embarrassed.”

“Don’t be.” He kissed the top of your head. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life.” A pause. “…Can we do it again?”

You hit him with a pillow. Weakly. He caught it, laughing, and pulled you closer.

You were still reeling from the experience—overwhelmed, but in a way that made you feel light, like you were floating. Mark held you close, your bodies pressed together as you lay tangled in the sheets, his chest rising and falling with each breath.

You wanted him. More than you’d ever wanted anything before. And you wanted to make him feel as good as he made you feel.

After all, you couldn’t just let him give you everything without showing him just how much you cared. You didn’t know exactly how to do it, but you needed to try.

You shifted, face hot with a new kind of nervousness. Mark was still holding you, his arms wrapped loosely around your body, but when you moved he breathed just a bit harder, looking down at you with that soft, questioning expression.

“What are you doing?” he whispered, his voice still low and rough from earlier.

You bit your lip, heart racing. You were so nervous, but at the same time, the heat in your veins was telling you to just go for it.

“I want to return the favor,” you murmured, voice small but full of determination.

Mark blinked—then immediately his face softened, letting out a single, breathy laugh. “Oh, babe…”

His hands went to your shoulders, his thumbs brushing the skin there, like he was trying to pull you closer, but there was this hesitation in his eyes. “Are you sure? You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” you said, a little more firmly this time. “Please let me.”

And that was it. You could see the shift in him, the way his face flushed with something between surprise and overwhelming affection. His voice cracked slightly as he said for the second time that night, “God, you’re gonna kill me…”

You hesitated for a moment, nerves bubbling up, but you pushed through them. You didn’t want him to think you didn’t care. Slowly, you crawled down the bed, your eyes never leaving his face. He watched you with a mix of awe and disbelief, and just the sight of that—the way he looked at you—made your stomach flutter.

You reached down to his hips, fingers gently grazing the tight fabric of his one-piece suit. You tugged at it, trying to maneuver it down, but it was so snug, there was no easy way to get it off without making things way more complicated than they needed to be.

A slight frown pulled at your lips as you realized you were stuck. You glanced up at him, frustration and confusion mixing in your gaze. “Uh… I don’t think I can get this off of you,” you muttered, looking helpless for a split second.

Mark just stared at you with heavy eyes as he slowly started peeling off the suit, the muscles in his arms flexing as he pulled it down, inch by inch. The way he worked at it was so distractingly sexy that you could barely breathe. You watched as the fabric slipped down over his chest, past his abs, and all the way to his ankles. He stepped out of it with a fluid motion, leaving the superhero gear crumpled in a heap on the floor.

Your eyes immediately dropped lower, unable to help yourself. His toned abs, the way his thighs were shaped and strong, everything about him seemed to be carved out of some perfect vision of masculinity. But it wasn’t just that.

No—what made you freeze in place was what you saw between his legs.

You blinked, your breath catching in your throat. For a moment, you couldn’t look away. Holy shit.

Mark was… well endowed—way more than you were prepared for. Your heart pounded loudly in your chest, your mind racing to process what you were seeing. You swallowed, feeling heat rush to your face, your cheeks turning crimson. The thought crossed your mind before you even realized it, your heart thundering in your ears as you tried to breathe normally.

What do I do with that?

You had to blink again, trying to steady yourself. You could feel the heat building between your legs—an ache you couldn’t ignore. But at the same time, your mind was still struggling to catch up.

Mark’s voice cut through your spiraling thoughts.

“Hey, you okay?” His words were soft, genuine, but there was something intense about the way he was looking at you. He wasn’t sure if you were okay with everything or if you needed more time, but he could see the stunned look on your face and the slight uncertainty in your eyes.

You didn’t even realize you’d been holding your breath until you exhaled sharply, your fingers instinctively gripping the sheets as you took in the scene before you.

You nodded, but your voice caught in your throat when you tried to speak. You wanted to tell him everything you were feeling, but it was so overwhelming. Your eyes slid back down to his length, still very much in the forefront of your mind. You swallowed thickly before whispering, “I—I didn’t think...” you swallowed, tried to regain a semblance of composure. “I’ve never... seen a man like this before.”

His expression shifted—an almost possessive, protective gleam flashing across his face. It was subtle, but you felt it. He was ready. He was so ready for you, and he wasn’t going to let you back out now.

“You don’t have to be shy, babe,” he said, his voice deepening with that same hunger from before. “You can touch me. Feel me.” His hands gently cupped your chin, tilting your head back so you couldn’t look away from him. “Let me teach you.”

You couldn’t help the shy, overwhelmed feeling that crawled over you, but there was something about his look—the way he was watching you like you were the center of his universe—that made you want to push past it. He was being so patient, so still, like if he moved too fast he might scare you off or break the moment.

“Sit,” you whispered.

He obeyed without hesitation, backing up until the backs of his legs hit the mattress and lowering himself down. He leaned back slightly on his hands, eyes never leaving yours, muscles still taut with restraint. Naked, flushed, and aching—he looked almost too beautiful to be real. Every line of his body was tense with need, but he wasn’t rushing you.

Not even a little.

You moved to kneel between his legs, and for a second, your confidence faltered. You paused, eyes wide, hands trembling just slightly in your lap. This was… a lot. You’d imagined doing this before—fantasized about it late at night, alone under the covers, biting your lip to keep quiet—but the reality of it was so much more intense. Mark, your Mark, was here, waiting, watching you like he’d never wanted anything more.

Your eyes drifted down again. You bit your lip hard.

He was already thick, flushed, and so, so hard. It felt like your breath had been stolen from your chest just looking at him. You had no real idea what you were doing. You only knew you wanted to try. Wanted to please him.

Mark saw the hesitation in your face and sat up slightly, cupping your cheek with one warm hand.

“Hey,” he said, voice low and tender, “you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” you said quickly, surprising even yourself with how certain you sounded. You looked up at him through your lashes. “I just… don’t really know how.”

Mark’s breath left him in a shaky exhale. “Baby,” he said, and it sounded like a prayer, “I promise, anything you do will blow my fucking mind.”

That made you smile a little. You leaned in slowly, your hands sliding up his thighs, nervous but steady, feeling the twitch of muscle beneath your fingers. His breath was already getting ragged as he let his head fall back for just a second, jaw clenched as he tried to stay calm.

You kissed his stomach first—soft and tentative—just below his bellybutton. He shivered under you.

Then lower.

Your lips hovered, breath ghosting over his skin, and he made a sound that went straight to your core—low, needy, barely restrained. Your fingers wrapped around him, tentative at first, adjusting to his weight and warmth, and the way he twitched in your hand nearly made you jump.

“Oh my god,” he groaned, voice tight, one hand fisting in the sheets. You looked up again, unsure, but he was watching you like he was in actual pain.  “You’re killing me. Please don’t stop,” he pleaded, desperate.

So you didn’t.

Every little move—every brush of your lips, every stroke of your hand—was slow, careful, reverent. You were learning him in real time, watching how his body reacted, how his abs clenched and his hips twitched and his breath stuttered. The way he said your name like it was the only word he knew.

And when you finally, finally took him into your mouth, just the tip, he choked on a sound—half curse, half moan, full of disbelief—and tangled his hand gently in your hair, not pulling, just holding, like he needed something to anchor him.

You moved slow, careful, nervous but eager, and he was unraveling right there in front of you.

“Fuck,” he growled. “You’re—Jesus, baby, you’re doing so good, you’re so—sweet, so fucking perfect.”

You felt your skin flush all over. You were messy, inexperienced, completely unsure of yourself, and he was looking at you like you were angelic.

He let his head fall forward, eyes locked on you, lips parted like he was about to lose it. You were learning fast. And you didn’t want to stop.

His hand was still in your hair, not tugging, not pushing—just resting there, stabilizing himself, like he couldn’t believe this was happening. Like if he let go, he’d fall apart entirely.

“Baby…” he whispered, his voice almost cracking. He wasn’t even moving anymore, just staring down at you with wide, overwhelmed eyes. “You’re doing so so good.”

The praise made your chest feel too small for your heart. His eyes were glassy and dark with want. “You have no idea what you look like right now. What this feels like. I can’t—fuck, I can’t believe this is real.”

The honesty in his voice made your stomach twist in the most electric way. You leaned back in. Slower this time. Mark was whispering your name under his breath now, over and over like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality. His legs were spread wider, muscles twitching under your touch, and his whole body was tight with the effort of not bucking forward, of not losing control.

“God,” he groaned, his voice thick and strained. “You’re gonna make me—baby, please—I don’t wanna finish yet, I wanna—” His breath hitched, sharp and sudden, as your fingers traced the inside of his thigh.

You blinked up at him, lips still touching him, cheeks flushed, utterly lost in the moment.

And in that second—knees on the floor, your touch so tentative and his body trembling under it—Mark looked like he could come undone right then. Not from the pleasure alone, but from the way you were giving yourself to him so fully, so sweetly. Like this wasn’t just physical. Like it meant something. Like it meant everything.

He cupped your face gently, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth, reverent and shaky and tender as hell.

“I love you,” he said, low and struck.

His words seemed to overshadow any nervousness left in your body—folding it into something else. Something deeper. Something needier. Every shaky breath from Mark, every stuttered groan and whispered praise spilling from his lips, made it easier to keep going. To let your hands move with a little more confidence. To lean into his body and feel the way it trembled under you.

Mark looked like he was in pain—in the best possible way.

His head had fallen back, neck stretched, Adam’s apple bobbing with every hitched breath. One hand stayed buried in your hair, not guiding or pushing, just gripping, like he was afraid if he let go, he’d lose himself completely. His other arm was braced behind him, muscles flexed, barely holding him up. His abs were clenching hard under every breath. His thighs twitched under your palms.

And when you finally took him deeper—just a little more, just enough—he made a sound that was devastated.

“F-fuck, baby,” he choked out, the sound torn from his chest like it pained him. “I’m—oh my God, I’m not gonna last.”

You kept your rhythm slow, careful, keeping your hands on his thighs. Mark was falling apart—bit by bit. Every breath came out ragged. His voice was starting to break.

And then it hit him. That edge. Fast and hard.

His whole body tensed beneath you like a drawn bow, and his fingers clenched into the sheets behind him. His hand in your hair twitched, like he wanted to hold on, like it was the only thing anchoring him.

“Wait—baby, wait,” he gasped, voice hoarse. “I—I’m gonna fuckin’ bust, I can’t—fuck, can I? Please, can I—?”

You looked up again, lips still warm around him, and gave the tiniest nod.

And that was all it took.

Mark’s whole body snapped. His mouth dropped open in a strangled moan, and his hips jerked once before he forced himself to stay still, practically vibrating with the effort. His hand covered his mouth like he didn’t trust what would come out—like if he really let himself make the sounds he wanted to, it’d echo through the whole damn dorm building.

He came hard, chest heaving. He was shaking—shaking—with the force of it, the release ripping through him like he’d been holding it back for months.

Because he had.

And when he finally started to come back to earth, his whole body sagged forward. He looked dazed. Flushed. Wrecked. His hand slipped from your hair to your cheek, his thumb brushing your skin like he needed to center himself. You blinked up at him, cheeks pink, breath shaky, lips swollen and a little unsure.

“Was that… okay?” you whispered.

Mark looked like he was going to cry.

He exhaled a laugh, soft and stunned, and pulled you up into his lap without a word. His arms wrapped around your waist, holding you so tightly you could barely breathe—but you didn’t want to pull away. You settled against his chest, your legs straddling his, your face tucked under his jaw.

“Okay?” he murmured, kissing your temple. “That was… life changing.” You giggled shyly, hiding your burning face in his neck. “I love you,” he murmured, voice low and serious against your ear. “So much. I don’t think you even know how much.”

Your heart thudded, swelling in your chest. You didn’t say anything right away. You just held him. But in your mind, all you could think was: I love you too.

———————

Taglist! @maddyb-rapps | @sweet-3-whispers | @moradogreen | @rayaaa4444 | @luvvcharxo | @byteme05 | @rivalriotrenegade | @1abi | @onlybatsyy | @heiankyonoeiyuukun | @dillybuggg | @am-3-thyst | @mikevi | @sadest-bookshelf | @rayaaaaalt1 | @topshotdivaa

[revelboo]

Possible spoilers for earthspark season 3

Ok ok hear me out- yk the episode with the hate virus right after prowl was introduced I think, and how before they all turn into zombies it’s just Bumblebee who’s like really angry for literally no reason? Can I request something spicy with him using reader to try and calm himself down and it doesn’t work? I had an idea idk if it’s a good one tho lmao

Sure! It’s a good one 🤣

🔞 Mass displaced mech 🌶️

Aggression

ES Bumblebee x Reader

• What’s wrong with him, everything hazed and tinged with an impatient sort of anger. Every little thing putting him on edge until he’s snapping at everyone, servos trembling. Wanting to hurt someone, anyone. And you’re laying a soft hand on his leg, distracting him from snarling at the Terrans. “Come on,” you say, chin tipped up and you’re the only thing that isn’t setting him off. Familiar and grounding amid the fury roiling through him, heat and need twisting through him as he focuses on you. “Let’s get some air and talk.”

• Have no idea what’s wrong with him, but he looked like he was about to shove Jawbreaker’s head through a wall and you’re not having it. This isn’t like him and his engine is softly revving as he follows you outside into the tree line and away from the house. When you round on him to ask him what his problem is, his big palm smacks against the trunk of a tree. Making you realize he’s mass shifted and he’s caging you with his body.

• “I need,” he growls, struggling for the words as that angry haze digs in deeper. Need you to distract him so he doesn’t lose it. Hurt someone. Wants to hurt someone. Something’s wrong with him and he’s on edge. “Need,” he rasps again, leaning into your space when you back up, coming up against the tree. Those violent impulses keep him from reaching for you. Afraid of hurting you without meaning to even as his spike stirs.

• “Tell me what you need,” you whisper, and his optics flicker, bleeding red for a beat. What was that? He’s growling softly, engine revving nonstop now and the only thing you’re sure of? That he’s not going to hurt you, but he’s definitely a threat to everyone else in this state. And you can’t let him go near them. “You need me?”

• They’re back there. Enemies. Plotting to take you, hurt you. Unless he hurts them first. Turning toward the barn and house with a snarl, he hesitates when you cup his face, pulling him back to you. “Don’t worry about them. I need you.” And your mouth covers his. That chaos in his processor jangling through him. Hating them, but grounded by you.

• And he’s focused completely on you, servos a little rough as he tries to figure out your clothes and just ends up tearing them. Growling softly as his mouth finds your neck, kissing and then biting gently. Big hands gripping your waist and lifting you and his spike brushes against your inner thigh. Slides against you before he’s stretching you and you arch in his grip. Clinging to him as he moves against you and your body softens for him. Can feel the rough bark digging into you as he pins you, hips pumping urgently. Almost too rough as his servos dig in to your hips, probably leaving bruises on you.

• He’s less out of control buried deep inside you, the familiar scent and feel of you keeping him barely in check. Working out the anger with the feel of you wrapped so tight around his spike and your gasping cries. Feels your heels digging into him as he ruts against you, spike stroking deep and he claims your mouth again, muffling your cry when you fist his spike. Managing a handful of deep drives of his hips before he’s shuddering with his overload to fill you. Head brushing yours, that rage is banked for the moment, but it’s still there. And he’s still so hard and aching for you.

[woozinhos]

joshua and strength kink😫 he's been on my mind like crazy these days

Work out much?|| Hong Joshua

Notes: guys I’m scared for when concert tickets drops I gotta find a way to make money 😭

Joshua enters the bedroom, sweaty and shirtless from his workout. His muscles glisten with perspiration, his arms and chest defined from lifting weights. He sees you lounging on the bed and a smirk spreads across his face. "Looks like I interrupted your relaxation," he says, approaching you with predatory intent.

Before you can respond, he pounces on you, pinning your wrists above your head with one hand while his other roams your body. "You're mine now," he growls, his strength surprising you. His grip is firm but not painful, holding you in place as he kisses you deeply. You can feel his hard muscles pressing against you, the result of his rigorous training.

"I've been wanting to do this all day," he says between kisses, moving down to nip at your neck. "You have no idea how hard it was to focus in the gym." Joshua continues to kiss and bite his way down your body, using his free hand to pull off your clothes. "You're going to feel every inch of my strength," he promises, his voice husky with desire.

Once you're completely naked beneath him, he positions himself between your legs, holding you open with ease. "Such a pretty sight," he says, licking his lips. He lines himself up with your entrance, his cock already hard and ready. Without warning, he thrusts into you deeply, using his strength to hold you down as he starts moving.

"God, you feel so good," he groans, setting a rough pace that has you gasping for air. His muscles flex and tense with each thrust, showing off his newfound power. You can't help but stare at Joshua's muscles as he moves above you, your eyes tracing the lines of his defined abs and biceps. His body looks like it's been sculpted by the gods themselves.

"Like what you see?" he teases, noticing your intense gaze. He flexes his muscles deliberately, showing off for you. The sight makes you even more aroused, your walls clenching around him as he thrusts deeper. "You're so strong now," you moan, running your hands over his chest and arms.

Joshua grins at your reaction, enjoying the effect he's having on you. "All that work has paid off," he says, his pace growing faster. "And now I can pin you down and take what I want." Joshua's grip on your wrists tightens as he speeds up his thrusts, his powerful body driving you into the mattress. "I could hold you like this all night," he pants, his muscles flexing with each movement.

You can feel his strength surrounding you, making you feel completely helpless yet incredibly turned on. The contrast between his gentleness and strength is intoxicating. He adjusts the angle of his hips, hitting that sweet spot inside you that makes you cry out. "You're getting close, aren't you?" he asks, his voice strained with effort.

You nod frantically, your body trembling beneath him as your orgasm builds. Joshua watches you intently, his eyes dark with desire as he pushes you closer to the edge. As you approach your climax, Joshua's abs tense and release with each thrust, his muscles rippling beneath his skin. The sight is almost hypnotic, and you can't look away.

"Cum for me," he commands, his voice low and commanding. "Let me feel you squeeze around my cock." His words send you over the edge, your body arching up against his as you come hard. Joshua doesn't stop moving, holding you through your orgasm as he chases his own release.

He lets out a guttural moan, his body tensing as he cums deep inside you. His muscles contract and release as he rides out his high, holding you close to him as he spills every drop. Joshua's sweat glistens on his skin like dew on a morning leaf, making him look even more divine as he collapses on top of you. His breathing is heavy and ragged, his chest heaving against yours.

"That was... incredible," he says between breaths, pressing soft kisses to your forehead and temple. "You always know how to push me to my limits." You run your fingers through his damp hair, still in awe of his beauty and strength. "You're the one who did all the work," you say, tracing the lines of his muscles with your fingertips.

Joshua chuckles softly, nuzzling your neck. "I just like showing off for you," he admits, his voice tender despite his earlier dominance. "And I think I've made a good impression."