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julietsf1 · 3 days ago

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Perfect Fit - Kenan Yıldız x Stylist!Reader

summary: Being Kenan’s stylist was supposed to be about clothes. Not lame excuses to spend time, lingering touches, and the slow realization that you might be in over your head (8.5k words)

content: slow burn, grumpy x sunshine, Stylist!Reader, inspired by the movie two weeks notice

an: guess who got dumped just days before valentines :') we move tho! something not f1 today guys (whaaaat??!!) I am watching a lot of football during break and I adore this guy!! next fics will be F1 again dw! wishing you all an amazing day <3

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The first time I meet Kenan Yıldız, he is exactly fourteen minutes late and precisely ten times cockier than necessary.

I check my watch as he strolls into the private suite at the Juventus training center, hands in his pockets, grinning like he’s just won the lottery. Which, in fairness, he kind of has—football stardom, magazine covers, and a jawline that probably has its own fan club.

Still, none of that excuses his chronic inability to tell time.

I exhale, tapping my nails against the table as he finally, finally stops in front of me. “You’re late.”

Then, he shrugs. “You’re early.”

I stare at him. “That’s literally not how time works.”

He grins, like he’s enjoying himself far too much already. “It’s how my time works.”

He flops onto the couch. Flops. Like an overgrown puppy who has never had to experience the burden of professionalism.

“You hired me for a reason,” I remind him, keeping my tone even. “Which means you show up on time, listen to my advice, and do not, under any circumstances, make my job harder than it already is.”

Kenan, to absolutely no one’s surprise, looks thoroughly unbothered.

“You say that like I don’t have incredible fashion sense.”

I stare at him. “You showed up wearing Nike slides with socks.”

“They’re comfortable.”

“You are a multi-millionaire professional footballer. You can afford comfortable shoes that do not look like you are a high school boy.”

Kenan grins, stretching out on the couch, taking up an absurd amount of space, and watching me like this is the best entertainment he’s had all week. “Hit me with it, boss.”

Boss. The word drips with teasing.

I inhale deeply. Count to three. Do not strangle the athlete.

Instead, I pull out my laptop and spin it towards him, revealing a carefully curated mood board. “We start here. You have the Ballon d’Or ceremony in two weeks, and I am legally obligated to prevent you from showing up in anything offensive to the general public.”

Kenan leans forward, eyes flicking between the images—navy suits, sleek black tuxedos, a deep burgundy number that would look absurdly good on him if he had an ounce of taste.

Then he leans back, eyebrows raised.

“No way.”

I narrow my eyes. “No way what?”

“No way I’m wearing this.” He points at the burgundy suit, horrified. “Do I look like a retired jazz musician?”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “It’s Dolce & Gabbana, Kenan.”

“It’s ridiculous.”

“You wear Juventus kits half the week.”

“That’s different.”

“It’s literally not.”

Kenan grins. “You’re very passionate about this.”

“Yes,” I deadpan. “That’s how jobs work.”

Kenan laughs, full and unbothered. “Alright, alright, keep your cool, boss. Let’s try some things on.”

…

It turns out styling Kenan Yıldız is a full-contact sport. And by that, I mean he is actively working against me.

“Oh, no, absolutely not.” I gesture at him to take the blazer off. “That’s too tight on the shoulders.”

Kenan spreads his arms dramatically. “I feel fine.”

“That’s because you have the self-awareness of a brick.”

He gasps. “Wow.”

“Take it off.”

“You just want to see me shirtless.”

I blink. “Kenan, I have dressed men for a living. If I were that easily impressed, I’d be unemployed.”

He grins, amused, but thankfully, doesn’t push it. Instead, he shrugs out of the blazer.

I am a professional. And, professionally speaking, I do not notice how broad his shoulders actually are. Definitely not.

Nope.

Instead, I grab the next suit. “Here. Try this one.”

Dark navy, sleek lapels, crisp white shirt. It’s tailored enough to emphasize sharp angles, long lines.

It works.

I tell myself that my job is to make sure my clients look good.

That’s why I’m staring. Obviously.

Kenan catches my expression in the mirror and raises an eyebrow. “That’s a very serious face. What’s the verdict?”

I keep my voice even. “This one’s better.”

“Better?” He turns slightly, inspecting himself. “Or do I look outrageously handsome, and you just don’t want to admit it?”

I give him a look. “I’ll let the press decide.”

Kenan laughs. “Fair enough. You like navy on me though, don’t you? Be honest you were staring quite a bit.”

I blink, caught of guard.

“I was just checking for tailoring issues.” I mumble, feeling a bit embarrassed.

He just snickers and turns around again, adjusting his jacket in the mirror. “So, are you this fun with all your clients?”

I glance up. “No. Usually they listen to me.”

He smirks. “And yet you seem to be having such a great time.”

I scoff, shoving fabric swatches into my bag. “Delusional.”

He tilts his head. “No, I’m just observant.”

I refuse to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. “Try not to get this suit dirty before the event, yeah?”

“I’ll do my best,” he says solemnly, then grins. “No promises, though.”

…

I am at my desk, minding my own business, deeply focused on fabric selections for the newest Juventus-Loro Piana collaboration. Something elegant. Something refined. Something that perfectly walks the line between classic and modern.

What I am not focused on is preparing for the door to slam open so violently it rattles the frame, as if the person behind it has never once encountered the concept of knocking.

Kenan strides in like he owns the place, Juventus training kit clinging to him, a towel slung casually over his shoulder, water still dripping from his hair in rivulets. He looks like he just stepped out of an expensive body wash commercial, the kind that would sell you on the idea that showering is some profound, life-altering experience.

Except Kenan isn’t selling anything.

He is, however, still wet.

Like, actively damp.

I stare at him for a second too long before recoiling in exaggerated horror. “Did you swim here?”

Kenan stops in his tracks, blinking at me like I’m the one who doesn’t make sense.

“Shower,” he says simply, as though that explains everything.

“Yes, I can see that,” I reply, narrowing my eyes at the small puddle forming beneath his slides.

Kenan just grins, completely unbothered. “Then why’d you ask?”

I exhale sharply, dragging my hand down my face. “Kenan.”

“Yeah?”

“What do you want?”

Instead of answering, he plops into the chair across from me, stretching out like this is his personal lounge. His long legs sprawl out casually, his damp towel draped haphazardly over one arm, and he’s grinning like he’s having the best day of his life.

“Need your opinion,” he says, completely unprompted.

I narrow my eyes suspiciously. “On what?”

Kenan gestures at himself with both hands, like he’s presenting a revolutionary new look. “My outfit.”

I blink.

Slowly.

Kenan, unfazed, leans back in the chair and shrugs. “Thinking of heading out later. Need to know if I should change.”

I stare at him.

I glance at his slides. At the clingy, sweat-soaked training kit. At the water dripping from his hair and pooling on my floor.

Then I stare at him again.

“Kenan,” I say finally, my tone flat.

“Yeah?”

“You are in a training kit.”

“So?”

“So unless your plans involve breaking into a 24-hour gym, yes, you should change.”

Kenan nods slowly, like I’ve just delivered some groundbreaking revelation. “Interesting. Interesting.”

I lean forward, folding my hands on the desk, fixing him with a hard stare. “Kenan?”

“Yeah?”

“Get out.”

Kenan grins, his expression one of pure mischief.

And, predictably, he doesn’t move.

Instead, he leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. “You know, you really should work on your people skills. Very unprofessional of you to kick out your favorite client.”

“You’re not my favorite client,” I deadpan.

He gasps, clutching his chest like I’ve mortally wounded him. “Wow. That’s harsh.”

I let out a long, pointed sigh, pushing my chair back and standing up. “Fine. You want help? Here’s my professional advice: go home, shower—again, because apparently one wasn’t enough—and wear literally anything that doesn’t have a Juventus logo on it.”

Kenan hums thoughtfully, as if he’s actually considering it. “What about the slides? Keep them or lose them?”

“Kenan.”

“Yeah?”

“Get. Out.”

He doesn’t.

Of course, he doesn’t.

Instead, he leans back even further, crossing one leg over the other, completely ignoring the fact that he’s dripping water all over my floor.

“You’re fun when you’re mad, you know that?”

I glare at him.

Kenan just laughs, completely unfazed.

And, annoyingly, he still doesn’t leave.

…

It’s late afternoon, and I am in the middle of an important call with a brand executive—the kind of person whose voice alone makes you sit up straighter, whose Italian accent makes everything sound elegant, even words like inventory management—when the door to my office swings open without warning.

I don’t need to look up. I already know.

I take a slow, measured breath. “Kenan, if you interrupt me right now, I swear to god—”

I do, in fact, look up.

And there he is.

Standing in my doorway like he belongs there.

Kenan is dressed in what I can only describe as his most unserious outfit yet—an oversized hoodie, the hood pulled up like he’s in witness protection, sweatpants that are definitely not his size, and a smoothie in hand.

I watch as he makes his way to my couch, sits down, stretches out like he owns the place, and waits.

I press my lips together. I will not engage.

The executive is explaining the finer details of their new suiting collection, using phrases like textural fluidity and contemporary tailoring, and I desperately want to focus.

Kenan, unfortunately, does not care about my professional aspirations.

First, he sighs. Loudly.

I ignore him.

Then, he tilts his head at me, blinking slowly, as if I’m some sort of unusual species he’s studying.

I continue nodding along to my call, even as he leans forward slightly, resting his chin on his fist, elbow perched on the armrest like he’s the star of some old painting.

But when he starts slurping his smoothy—slowly, loudly, dramatically—I finally give in.

I mute my call, turn slightly in my chair, and narrow my eyes at him.

Kenan, completely unbothered, lifts his eyebrows.

I keep my voice even. “Kenan. Why are you here?”

He clears his throat, sitting up slightly. “I have a question.”

I exhale. “A question.”

“Yeah.”

I brace myself. “And what, exactly, could not wait until after I finished a conversation with one of the most prestigious fashion houses in the world?”

Kenan gestures loosely at himself. “Hoodie. Thoughts?”

I blink. “Your thoughts… on your own hoodie?”

Kenan nods. “Yeah. Should I add a jacket?”

I stare at him.

Then, after a long pause, I lean forward slightly, resting my elbows on my desk.

“You interrupted a meeting with Loro Piana.”

Kenan nods. “Correct.”

“To ask me if you should add a jacket.”

Another nod.

I inhale. Exhale.

I fold my hands together and say, very calmly, “Kenan, get out.”

He grins, standing up. “So… no jacket?”

“Switch to jeans, there is a suede bomber on the rack in the corner over there, leave me alone now please.”

Kenan chuckles, strolling out of my office, swiftly grabbing the jacket.

…

I should have known something was up the moment Kenan knocked.

Because Kenan never knocks.

The second I look up from my laptop, the door swings open, and there he is, grinning like a man who has just thought of something ridiculous and is about to make it my problem.

“You busy?”

I don’t even bother looking up from my screen. “Extremely.”

“Perfect,” he says, stepping fully into my office. “Be ready in an hour.”

I pause. That gets my attention.

“For what?” I ask warily.

Kenan leans against my desk, arms crossed in a way that suggests he thinks he looks effortlessly cool when, in reality, he looks like he’s about to present a terrible business proposal.

“Boat day.”

I blink. “Boat day?”

“Yeah.”

“No.”

Kenan tilts his head, like my answer has personally offended him.

“No?”

“That’s correct.”

He exhales dramatically, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Alright, fine. I wasn’t gonna say anything, but I actually need you there.”

I narrow my eyes. “Why?”

Kenan straightens up slightly, looking me dead in the eye. “Fashion crisis.”

I fold my arms. “You’re lying.”

He gestures at himself. “Am I?”

“Yes.”

Kenan sighs. “I just—look, things could go terribly wrong today. What if I make a bad fashion choice? What if my trunks clash with the boat? What if someone wears the same ones as me?”

I raise a skeptical eyebrow. “That’s your concern? Not drowning?”

Kenan waves a hand. “I’m an athlete, I’ll survive.” Then, after a beat, he gives me a winning smile. “Come on, boss. I need you.”

I roll my eyes, already sensing that I am going to lose this battle.

…

It takes me approximately four minutes from the moment I step onto the yacht to realize that Kenan has played me.

This is not, as he vaguely implied, a casual little boat trip.

This is a full-scale Juventus squad takeover.

The kind where music blares so loud you feel it in your chest, where food and drinks are scattered across tables in laughably excessive amounts, and where half the team has already started throwing themselves off the side of the boat like unsupervised toddlers.

I stop at the edge of the deck, blinking at the chaos in front of me, unsure of where to even begin processing this. Then, slowly, I turn to Kenan.

Then back to the scene.

Then back to Kenan.

He grins like he’s just done something spectacularly clever.

“See? Fun.”

I adjust my sunglasses and stare at him. “Why am I here?”

Kenan tilts his head, like he’s genuinely considering the question. “Moral support.”

“Moral support for what, exactly?”

He gestures vaguely to the entire scene, his hand making a lazy arc in the air. “For me.”

I exhale sharply, crossing my arms. “You’re not in distress.”

“I could be,” he counters, deadpan.

“You’re not.”

Kenan doesn’t respond. Instead, he reaches behind his back and pulls out two pairs of swim trunks like he’s unveiling some great treasure. One red. One yellow.

I blink. “What is that?”

“My dilemma.”

I stare at him.

Kenan holds up both options, one in each hand, like he’s presenting me with the most critical decision of his life. “Red or yellow?”

“You dragged me onto a boat so I could pick your swimsuit color?”

Kenan nods solemnly.

I sigh, pressing my fingers to my temples. “Red.”

“Why?”

“Because it’ll make you look more tan.”

He squints slightly, like he’s trying to figure out if I’m messing with him. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, Kenan, I’m sure. It’s literally basic color theory. Unless you’d prefer to look pale?”

Kenan hums thoughtfully, flipping the yellow ones over his shoulder like they no longer exist and holding up the red. “You heard her. Red it is.”

I exhale, already exhausted, and mutter under my breath, “This day is going to be a lot.”

I make my first mistake when Kenan pulls his shirt over his head, preparing to jump into the water.

I look.

Not on purpose, obviously. It just… happens.

My gaze moves before I can stop it, taking in the casual ease of his movements, the way the sunlight glints off his skin, the way his back muscles shift with every motion. It’s objectively unfair. And now I am suffering.

I force myself to look at literally anything else—the horizon, the food table, the possibility of throwing myself into the ocean just to escape this sudden, deeply annoying awareness of him.

Kenan, naturally, remains completely oblivious to my internal crisis.

“You coming in?” he calls over his shoulder as he steps toward the edge of the yacht.

“I just got here,” I reply, arms crossed.

“So?”

“So, I’m taking my time.”

Kenan narrows his eyes slightly, like he’s just detected a challenge. I don’t like that look.

“I can teach you how to dive,” he offers, his voice infuriatingly casual.

“I know how to dive,” I shoot back.

He raises an eyebrow. “You sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

Kenan hums, clearly unconvinced. “Let’s see it, then.”

“I don’t perform on command,” I say, my tone firm.

“You’re scared.”

“Oh my god, I am not—”

“Prove it.”

I don’t think. I just move.

Bending my knees, I inhale sharply and push off, cutting cleanly into the water.

I surface just as Kenan jumps in after me, slicing through the water effortlessly.

That’s when I make my second mistake.

I look at him.

Really look.

Sunlight glints off the water as it drips from his hair, slicked back from his face. His jawline is sharp, his grin smug and easy, and there’s something about the way he moves—like he’s completely at home here, like he’s built for this—that makes me forget how to form coherent thoughts.

And then, worse—he looks back.

Bright eyes meet mine, amused and knowing, like he’s caught me staring. Which, to be clear, I was absolutely not doing. At all. Ever.

I clear my throat, shifting slightly, desperate for neutral territory. “You’re showing off,” I accuse, my voice sharper than I intended.

Kenan’s mouth tugs into a half-smirk. “And?”

“And it’s annoying.”

He grins wider, water dripping from his chin. “You sound jealous.”

“I sound rational,” I retort, shoving water in his direction.

Kenan laughs, tilting his head back, and then—without warning—he reaches forward.

His thumb brushes a stray drop of water from my cheek, a quick, thoughtless movement that shouldn’t mean anything.

And yet—it does.

The air shifts, subtle but impossible to ignore.

His fingers hover for just a second too long, his eyes catching mine and holding. There’s something unreadable in his expression, something curious, like he’s just noticed something for the first time.

And for a moment, I can’t breathe.

Then—just as quickly—he pulls back.

The moment disappears.

And we both pretend it didn’t happen.

…

It starts, as all bad ideas do, with Kenan appearing uninvited.

I am seated at my desk, entirely minding my own business, when a shadow falls over my workspace.

Before I can look up, Kenan drops into the chair across from me with the weight of a man who has just made a major decision and is about to make it my problem.

“Help me shop,” he declares, like we were in the middle of a conversation I have no memory of participating in.

I blink. Slowly.

Kenan does not blink back.

I cross my arms. “You? Shopping?”

He spreads his arms. “What, you think I just live off free team merch?”

“Yes,” I say, without hesitation.

Kenan grins. “Okay, fair. But I still need new stuff.”

I narrow my eyes. “New stuff?”

“For events,” he clarifies, shifting comfortably in his seat like he’s already convinced me. “You’re always telling me I should take my styling more seriously, so—” he gestures at himself—“here I am. Taking it seriously.”

I study him carefully, sensing an ulterior motive.

“So let me get this straight,” I say, resting my elbows on the desk. “You want me to drop everything and go shopping with you?”

“Yes.”

“Right now?”

Kenan nods.

I exhale, setting my tablet down slowly, deliberately. “Do you know how many emails I have left to answer today?”

“No,” he says. Then, before I can continue, he leans forward, pressing both hands together in a mock-pleading gesture. “Come on, boss. Think of it as a mission. A challenge. Your most difficult client yet.”

I raise an eyebrow. “That is not the selling point you think it is.”

Kenan tilts his head slightly, like he’s about to switch tactics.

And then, with devastating precision, he delivers the final blow:

“I’ll buy you coffee.”

My resolve shatters instantly.

I exhale. “Fine.”

Kenan lights up immediately. “That’s what I like to hear.”

…

Shopping with Kenan is like shopping with a toddler who has recently discovered his own free will.

At first, it’s fine. Normal. Civilized. He listens to my advice, nods along as I explain the importance of quality tailoring, even picks up a few decent items.

And then.

It starts.

“What about this?” he asks, holding up a horrific orange camoflage tracksuit.

I stare at it. Then at him.

“No.”

Kenan shrugs, completely unbothered. “I like it.”

I exhale slowly. “You are not wearing that in public.”

He grins. “You’re just mad because you know I’d pull it off.”

“You would not.”

“Would too.”

I rub my temples. “Put it back.”

Kenan sighs, begrudgingly returning it to the rack. But exactly two minutes later, he reverts to chaos.

First, a leopard-print jacket.

I shake my head.

Then, a graphic T-shirt that says ‘Big Dog Energy.’

I physically take it out of his hands and put it back myself.

“This is important,” I say, placing two actual, stylish options in his arms. “We need pieces that are versatile, that fit your personal aesthetic while maintaining an effortless, tailored look.”

Kenan blinks. “That’s some José Mourinho level strategizing. All of that for a pair of pants and a shirt?”

“Yes, because I actually know what I’m doing,” I say, nudging him toward the fitting room. “Now go try these on before I start dressing you like an old Italian lady.”

Kenan grins. “That’s a threat?”

“You’re seconds away from pleated skirts.”

He laughs, but goes inside anyway.

…

I believe the mission is complete.

But then—as we leave the last store, arms full of shopping bags, Kenan suddenly groans and rolls his shoulders like he’s just carried the weight of the world on his back.

“Ugh,” he says. “I need a break.”

I sigh. “Kenan, we’ve been shopping for three hours.”

“Exactly,” he says, slinging an arm around my shoulders like this has been an equal burden for both of us. “Which is why we deserve a reward.”

I eye him suspiciously. “What kind of reward?”

Kenan does not answer.

Instead, he steers me toward a side street, moving with the confidence of a man who has already decided my fate.

“Kenan,” I say, realizing too late where we’re headed.

No.

Not a spa.

A very fancy spa.

I stop walking immediately.

Kenan, noticing too late, is forced to halt as well.

I stare at him. “No.”

Kenan grins. “Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Kenan—”

He tilts his head. “You work too much. You stress too much. You never take a break.”

“I just spent the entire afternoon shopping with you,” I argue.

Kenan ignores this. “This is what you need.”

I narrow my eyes. “And your solution is to physically drag me into a spa?”

Kenan does not hesitate. “Yes.”

I exhale. “Why do I feel like you’ve planned this?”

Kenan grins wider. “Because I have.”

And then—before I can protest further—he opens the door and gently shoves me inside.

…

I don't know what kind of witchcraft these spa people are practicing, but I have fully given in to it.

There is something profoundly humiliating about the fact that Kenan Yıldız, of all people, was right.

Because I am relaxed.

Painfully, dangerously relaxed.

I sink deeper into the plush, warm surface of the massage table, the scent of lavender and eucalyptus thick in the air, the slow, expert pressure of hands kneading away every last drop of tension from my body.

It is impossibly good.

The kind of indulgence I would normally refuse, the kind of experience I would dismiss as unnecessary.

Except it is so necessary.

It’s so good that I don’t even care that Kenan is lying just inches away, stretched out on his own table, probably smug as hell about the fact that he successfully dragged me here.

I can hear him shift slightly, adjusting his arms at his sides. The sound is quiet, unremarkable.

And then—

The groan.

Deep. Low. Involuntary.

I don’t move, don’t react, but I feel it like a full-body event.

Like an alarm going off in my brain, interrupting my hard-won serenity, making my pulse hitch slightly before I force it back down.

No.

Absolutely not.

I refuse to acknowledge it, to let my mind go anywhere near the path it’s suddenly threatening to take.

I focus instead on the weight of the warm towel on my back, my grocery list, the weather forecast, the to-do list I abandoned the moment Kenan dragged me here.

But then—another groan.

Softer this time, barely more than a sigh, a quiet, unfiltered reaction to the way the masseuse’s hands dig into his shoulders.

My fingers twitch against the plush surface beneath me.

I press my cheek harder into the cushion, jaw tightening, every last bit of professionalism I possess clinging on for dear life.

This is not happening.

I am not hyperaware of him.

I am not wondering what it would sound like if—

No.

I take a slow, measured breath, force my mind onto something else, anything else.

But then—as if on cue, as if this is a test of my sanity—Kenan exhales, his voice slow and drawn out, heavy with satisfaction.

“Oh, yeah,” he murmurs lazily. “This was a great idea.”

I crack one eye open, glancing sideways at him. “You’re not supposed to talk.”

Kenan doesn’t even turn his head, just smirks faintly. “Why not?”

“Because it ruins the experience,” I mutter, shifting slightly, trying to reclaim the blissful silence I had finally achieved.

Kenan hums in agreement, but then, after a beat—

“You’re enjoying it, though.”

I don’t answer.

He turns his head slightly, grinning. “You are.”

“No, I’m not.”

Kenan tilts his head, studying me with too much amusement. “Liar.”

I close my eyes, exhaling slowly.

I am not doing this with him.

Not here.

Not while I am too blissed out to argue properly.

“Kenan.”

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

He laughs under his breath, but mercifully, he drops it.

And for the next few minutes, there is nothing but silence.

I let myself relax again, let my mind drift, surrendering to the warmth of the table, the slow, steady pressure of the massage, the weightlessness of being taken care of for once.

It is perfect.

Which is why, of course, Kenan has to ruin it.

I am still lingering in my post-massage haze when we are ushered into the next part of our spa treatment.

There is a moment of disorientation as I wrap myself in a ridiculously plush robe, knotting it at the waist, letting the softness of the fabric lull me even deeper into a state of near-delirious comfort.

Kenan, meanwhile, has fully leaned into his new life as a luxury spa enthusiast.

He is walking like a man who has just come into a great inheritance, arms swinging loosely at his sides, his robe slightly untied, his expression one of supreme satisfaction.

He glances at me as we walk down the softly lit hallway.

“You’re glowing,” he says smugly.

“I hate you,” I reply, but it’s missing any real venom.

Kenan smirks. “You love me.”

I scoff, tightening my robe for emphasis.

He bumps his shoulder into mine as we turn the corner. “Admit it,” he presses. “You liked it.”

I lift my chin. “I tolerated it.”

“Mmm.” He tilts his head as if considering. “So if I suggested we make this a weekly thing—”

“I would have you arrested.”

Kenan laughs, clearly pleased with himself.

We round the corner, stepping into the next treatment room, where trays of neatly arranged skincare products are waiting for us.

The spa attendant walks us through the benefits of the clay mask, explaining its detoxifying properties, the natural minerals, the way it will leave our skin glowing.

I nod along, listening attentively, taking this seriously.

Kenan, on the other hand, is poking at the clay like it’s some kind of foreign substance.

He leans in slightly, lowering his voice. “So, are we supposed to eat this, or…?”

I snap my head toward him. “I swear to god.”

Kenan grins, pleased that he has successfully annoyed me.

And then—before I can react—he swipes a streak of clay onto my cheek.

I gasp, scandalized.

“You did not just—”

Kenan leans back, looking entirely too proud of himself.

“Look at that,” he muses. “You’re already looking better.”

I narrow my eyes.

“Kenan.”

“Yes?”

“You have five seconds to run.”

He laughs, but it’s cut short the moment I dip my fingers into the clay and smear a thick, deliberate streak down the bridge of his nose.

He blinks.

I smirk. “Oops.”

And then—it’s war.

Kenan lunges, trying to grab my wrist, but I twist away, swiping another streak across his jaw.

He retaliates immediately, dragging a line of clay across my forehead, laughing as I gasp in horror.

“You’re gonna regret that,” I warn, dipping both hands into the mask.

Kenan dodges backward, but not fast enough.

I manage to smear clay across his entire cheek before he grabs my wrist, successfully pinning my arm down as he smears another layer across my temple.

We are laughing too loudly, bumping into the skincare table, earning scandalized looks from the spa attendants, who are clearly regretting ever letting us in.

By the time we finally call a truce, Kenan has clay all over his jawline, a streak across his eyebrow, and possibly some in his hair.

I am in no better shape.

We catch our breath, grinning like idiots.

Kenan leans back, tilting his head as he studies my face.

“You know,” he says, smirking faintly, “I think this is your best look yet.”

I scoff, wiping some of the mask off my cheek. “You mean, this is your best look yet.”

Kenan shrugs. “Well, yeah. Obviously.”

I laugh, rolling my eyes, and for a moment—just a moment—it’s too easy.

Too comfortable.

Like we aren’t just stylist and client. Like maybe, just maybe, we’re something else.

But then—the spa attendant clears her throat loudly.

Kenan and I snap back to reality.

Right. This was meant to be innocent.

…

I should be curled up under a blanket, wrapped in the soft glow of my laptop screen, watching Hugh Grant fumble his way into Julia Roberts’ heart while I eat my weight in popcorn.

Instead, I am sitting at a table at one of the most prestigious football award shows in the world, fixing Kenan Yıldız’s tie for the third time.

“Seriously?” I mutter, tugging at the silk knot as he sits there grinning, far too amused by my growing frustration. “How do you keep messing this up?”

Kenan shrugs, as casually as if he’s discussing the weather. “Maybe it’s cursed.”

“Or maybe,” I counter, tugging harder than necessary, “you have the attention span of a goldfish.”

“That’s a possibility, too.”

I inhale, forcing myself to focus on the task at hand. Not the fact that his tie is somehow always crooked, not the fact that he smells unfairly nice—woodsy and fresh, like expensive cologne and soap. Not the fact that his tux fits like it was made for him, which, technically, it was.

I tighten the knot, fingers brushing against the cool silk of his collar. Then I step back, ignoring the way his eyes follow me.

“There,” I say, smoothing down the lapels of his jacket. “That should hold.”

Kenan reaches up, tugging at the knot experimentally.

And then—he tilts his head. “It’s a little tight.”

I stare at him. Consider violence.

“Oh my god, Kenan.”

He tries not to laugh. “I think I might be suffocating.”

I exhale through my nose, stepping forward again and loosening it just a fraction. “You are a professional athlete. I think you’ll survive a slightly snug tie.”

“You’re very aggressive about this,” he muses.

“I’m aggressive about my work.”

“Hm.” He smirks. “You sure it’s not just me?”

I pull the tie one last time—just a little too tight for good measure.

Kenan coughs. “Okay. Point taken.”

I take my seat beside him, crossing my arms. “You never actually explained why you brought me here.”

Kenan leans back, stretching lazily. “Because what if I had a wardrobe malfunction? Imagine the headlines. ‘Rising Juventus Star Exposes Entire Ballon D’Or Ceremony Thanks to Fashion Mishap.’”

I give him a look. “Right, because that’s such a likely scenario.”

“You never know,” he says, completely serious. “Zippers are tricky.”

I stare at him. “Kenan, you’re wearing a bow tie and a tuxedo.”

“Still, anything could happen.”

I sigh, rubbing my temples. “You actually called me here because you thought you’d have a fashion emergency?”

Kenan tilts his head, amused, but not exactly denying it.

I exhale, shaking my head. “I canceled movie night for this.”

Kenan straightens slightly. “Movie night?”

“Yes, Kenan. That thing normal people do when they are not being dragged to last-minute award shows for ‘fashion emergencies.’”

His eyes spark with something I can’t quite place—amusement, maybe curiosity. “What movie?”

I wave him off. “Doesn’t matter.”

“It does, though.” He nudges my foot under the table, and I kick him back. “Tell me.”

I glance at him, half annoyed, half entertained. “Fine. Notting Hill.”

Kenan’s expression shifts, like I’ve just presented him with something fascinating.

“Hugh Grant?” he asks, suppressing a grin.

I sigh. “Yes, Hugh Grant.”

Kenan hums, clearly holding back laughter. “Are you a rom-com girl?”

I cross my arms. “I am a human being with emotions, Kenan. Of course, I watch rom-coms.”

“Didn’t peg you for the ‘charming British man falls in love with beautiful woman’ type.”

“I think you’re forgetting Julia Roberts is the one falling in love with him.”

Kenan nods, pretending to consider this. “So you like the whole reluctant, ‘I shouldn’t like you but I do’ thing?”

I narrow my eyes. “Why are we discussing this?”

He smirks. “Just gathering intel, boss.”

I blink at him. “For what?”

But before he can answer, a reporter materializes at the side of the table, microphone in hand, already launching into questions about Kenan’s season.

Kenan shifts gears effortlessly, offering charming but nonchalant answers, throwing in just enough personality to keep the conversation light. He’s confident, comfortable, every bit the rising star.

And then—the reporter turns to me.

“And you are his date?”

Before I can answer, Kenan speaks first.

“Best company I could ask for,” he says smoothly, flashing an easy smile.

The reporter nods, clearly filing that information away. Then, she tilts her head.

“Well, you two make a lovely couple.”

Silence.

For exactly three seconds.

I glance at Kenan, fully expecting him to jump in—to laugh, to correct her, to make a joke.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he just… smirks. A knowing, slow, absolutely infuriating smirk.

I blink at him. Excuse me?

The reporter, seemingly satisfied, quickly thanks Kenan before shifting her attention back to the main stage, preparing for the next segment.

Kenan glances at me, clearly entertained.

“What?” he asks innocently.

“You didn’t correct her,” I say, narrowing my eyes.

He shrugs, reaching for his drink. “Didn’t seem important.”

I stare. “Oh, so that’s how we’re playing this?”

Kenan takes a sip, smiling against the rim of his glass.

And I know, with absolute certainty, that I will be thinking about this later.

…

The event wraps up hours later, and the energy that had been buzzing through the ballroom—the flashing cameras, the hum of conversation, the champagne-fueled laughter—fizzles out the second the car door shuts behind us.

It’s just me and Kenan now, wrapped in the quiet hum of the city, the streets blurred by the tinted windows.

He exhales, rolling his shoulders slightly as he settles into the seat beside me. His bow tie is undone, the silk hanging loosely around his neck, and his jacket is draped lazily over one shoulder. The perfectly put-together image from earlier is gone, replaced by something more undone.

I glance at him. “So? First big award show. Thoughts?”

Kenan stretches his legs out slightly, his head tilting against the seat as he flicks his gaze toward the window. “Not bad. Bit long, though.”

I huff a quiet laugh. “Yeah, sorry. No halftime break in real life.”

He turns his head toward me, grinning faintly, his voice lower now, softer. “Yeah, what’s up with that?”

I shake my head, looking away, watching the neon lights streak past outside. The movement of the car feels almost hypnotic, like we’re floating through the city instead of driving through it.

Another beat of silence.

Not an uncomfortable one. Just something quieter.

Kenan shifts beside me, stretching out his legs slightly, adjusting his posture in that effortless, lazy way he always does. And then—his hand settles on my knee.

Not a quick touch. Not accidental.

Just there.

Steady. Warm. Like he isn’t even thinking about it.

Like it’s completely normal.

My breath hitches—just slightly, barely noticeable—but I feel it.

I should move. He should move. One of us should acknowledge it. But neither of us do.

The space between us feels different now. Closer, somehow. Heavier.

The car hums softly beneath us, the muted sound of the tires against pavement filling the space where words should go.

And then, without thinking, I glance at him again.

And find him already looking.

It’s not like before.

Not teasing. Not playful. Something I don’t have the words for.

His gaze lingers, just for a second too long. Not in the usual way—not like when he smirks at me before making some sarcastic remark, not like when he’s enjoying winding me up.

This is different.

I feel it in the way my pulse kicks up, in the way my breath catches just slightly. It’s not dramatic. Not obvious.

But it’s there.

And I don’t know what to do with it.

So, I look away.

…

You’re coming to dinner with me.”

I glance up from where I’m sprawled dramatically across the couch in the fitting room, my limbs heavy with exhaustion after a long day of fighting Kenan’s terrible fashion instincts.

“No, I’m not.”

Kenan doesn’t even hesitate. “Yes, you are.”

I let my head fall back, groaning. “Kenan, I’ve been stuffing you into suits for six hours. I have blisters. My soul has left my body. I am going home.”

Kenan, completely unbothered, grabs my bag and slings it over his shoulder.

“No, you’re coming to dinner,” he corrects, grinning at me like this is already a settled matter. “Because we’ve been locked in here all day, and you need to eat before you start resenting me.”

I lift my head just enough to narrow my eyes at him. “I already resent you.”

Kenan just laughs. “See? I was right.”

I sigh, dragging my hands down my face. “Kenan, I look like I’ve been wrestling with a dozen overpriced jackets all day.”

“So?”

“So, I’m going home.”

“You’re coming to dinner.”

I give him a long, tired stare.

“Kenan—”

“It’s literally just food,” he interrupts, voice easy, persuasive, the way it always is when he knows he’s going to win. “Don’t overthink it.”

I exhale, already feeling myself caving.

It’s just food. It’s just dinner. That’s what I keep telling myself, over and over again, trying to push away the small, creeping realization that it doesn’t really feel like just dinner. I know what just dinner feels like, and this is not it.

We talk the entire time, without effort, without having to think about it, the conversation flowing so naturally that I don’t realize how much time is passing. He makes a comment about something, I fire back, he laughs, I roll my eyes, and somehow, we’re still going, as if we could sit here for hours and not run out of things to say.

And the way he looks at me—really looks at me—makes it even harder to pretend this is nothing. There’s no teasing smirk, no sarcastic remark waiting to be delivered. He just listens, like he actually cares about what I have to say, like he’s interested in the conversation itself, not just waiting for his turn to speak. Every time I laugh, I see it—the way his mouth tugs slightly at the corner, the way his expression softens in this way that makes something in my stomach tighten a little too much.

I tell myself I’m imagining it.

I pretend not to notice.

I am so careful not to acknowledge it.

So careful.

Until—

Kenan shifts, leaning forward slightly, resting his elbow against the table, his movements easy and unhurried. He’s still talking, still completely comfortable, still looking at me in a way that makes my skin feel warmer than it should. His hand moves as if it’s just part of the conversation, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, and suddenly, before I can even process it—his fingers brush against my skin.

He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.

I still.

It’s nothing. It should be nothing. A casual, thoughtless movement, something people do all the time without thinking. But I feel it anyway. The way his fingertips graze just barely against my skin, the way my breath catches before I can stop it, the way my pulse stumbles slightly out of rhythm.

I don’t move.

And when I finally bring myself to look at him, he’s already watching me.

There’s no teasing smile this time, no expectation that I’ll roll my eyes or tell him to stop being annoying. His gaze lingers, not in the way it usually does when he’s winding me up, but in a way that makes me acutely aware of how close we are, how low the lighting is, how long we’ve been sitting here.

And then, just as casually as anything else, like he’s just stating a fact, he says—

“You look nice tonight.”

I blink.

Kenan doesn’t laugh it off or turn it into a joke. He doesn’t make a stupid comment to lighten the mood.

He just says it.

And suddenly, I feel the shift. The weight of the moment. The way this night has felt different from the start, how I’ve been trying so hard to ignore it, to brush past it, to keep everything as normal as possible.

I clear my throat, shifting slightly in my seat, leaning back just enough to regain whatever little distance is left between us. “That’s suspiciously polite of you.”

Kenan grins, but there’s something different underneath it this time. Softer. Quieter.

“I can be polite,” he says.

I raise an eyebrow. “Since when?”

Kenan laughs, shaking his head, as if this conversation hasn’t just tipped over into something else entirely. “Shut up.”

…

I tell myself I’m imagining it.

That nothing has changed.

That Kenan has always been like this—touchy, flirty, full of too much energy and no sense of personal space.

But lately, it’s harder to believe that.

Because now, when he leans in, he doesn’t just lean in—he gets close.

Close enough that I feel the warmth of him, the barest brush of his breath against my skin when he murmurs something in my ear, his voice lower than necessary.

Close enough that I catch myself not moving away.

Like right now.

I’m adjusting the sleeve of his suit, focused, professional, completely in control, when I feel him shift.

A slow, deliberate movement.

And then—his hand finds my waist.

Not a full touch. Just fingertips grazing over the rim of my blouse, barely there, like he’s testing the waters.

My breath catches, but I don’t react.

I won’t react.

Instead, I clear my throat and step back just slightly, putting enough space between us to make it look intentional.

“Keep your arm straight,” I say, like my voice isn’t thinner than it should be, like I don’t notice the way his fingers hesitate before falling away.

Kenan hums, amused.

“You’re being very serious right now,” he murmurs.

I glance up at him. “Because I am serious. This suit costs more than your car.”

Kenan tilts his head slightly, smirking. “That’s a bold assumption.”

I arch an eyebrow. “Kenan, I know what you drive.”

He grins, unbothered. “Fair enough.”

I turn my attention back to the sleeve, carefully adjusting the buttons at the cuff. But then—he shifts again.

His hand finds my wrist this time.

His thumb, brushing just slightly against my skin. Warm. Steady. Completely unnecessary.

And then—his voice. Low. Playful. Right against my ear.

“I like when you fuss over me like this,” he murmurs.

My stomach tightens.

I exhale sharply, yanking my hand away, because this is ridiculous.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” I say, turning away before I can see his reaction.

Kenan laughs—quiet, smug, entirely too entertained.

It’s not just this moment.

It’s all the moments.

A collection of small, seemingly insignificant things that, when pieced together, paint a picture I refuse to acknowledge.

The way he stands closer than necessary. The way he touches me more now—fingers grazing my wrist when I pass him something, the press of his palm against my back when he moves past me, the way his knee stays against mine when we sit side by side.

It’s slowly driving me crazy.

…

I should have gone home.

We both should have.

It’s late, the Juventus complex is quiet except for the soft hum of the overhead light, casting a warm glow over the table where fabric swatches are still scattered from earlier. We finished hours ago, but neither of us has moved to leave. I tell myself it’s because I’m still organizing things, tidying up, making sure everything is in order, but that’s a lie. I just don’t want to be the first one to go.

Kenan is behind me, leaning against the edge of the table, watching me work like he’s waiting for something. He hasn’t said anything in a while, which is how I know he’s about to start trouble. Kenan is always at his most dangerous when he’s quiet.

Then, right on cue, his voice comes, easy and amused.

“You realize the fabric will still be there in the morning, right?”

I don’t turn around. “You realize you’re still here too, right?”

“That’s different,” he says, like that’s the most obvious thing in the world.

I finally glance at him over my shoulder. “Oh? How exactly?”

He grins. “You’re working. I’m just here for moral support.”

I roll my eyes and turn back to the table, stacking the fabric samples in an even pile. “How noble of you.”

“Right? You should really be thanking me.”

“For what, standing there and doing absolutely nothing?”

“For the company.” His tone is light, teasing, but there’s something else there too, something I don’t want to examine too closely.

I let out an exaggerated sigh. “Kenan, you do realize I spend half my life in fittings with you, right? I get more than enough of your company.”

“And yet, you’re still here.”

I pause.

It’s too small a sentence to mean anything.

Except it does.

I shake my head and focus on my work, pretending like he hasn’t just called me out in the most subtle way possible. “Well, someone has to make sure you don’t embarrass yourself in public.”

He hums, stepping closer, just enough that I feel it. “And here I thought it was because you liked dressing me.”

I scoff, ignoring the sudden warmth creeping up my neck. “I dress a lot of people.”

“Yeah, but I’m your favorite.”

The worst part is—he’s not even asking.

He says it like it’s a fact, like it’s already been decided, like he’s just been waiting for me to admit it.

I huff out a laugh, reaching for another swatch, doing everything I can to keep my voice steady. “I promise you, I don’t have favorites.”

Kenan tuts under his breath, stepping even closer, leaning just slightly toward me. “That’s funny, because I’m pretty sure I overheard you telling someone last week that navy brings out my eyes. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’ve been paying extra attention to me.”

I exhale sharply, shaking my head. “It’s literally my job to pay attention to you.”

“So you admit it.”

I freeze for half a second too long, and that’s all he needs.

Kenan laughs under his breath, like he’s caught me in something.

“That’s not what I meant,” I say quickly, but it’s useless.

He’s already too entertained.

Then, before I can even attempt to redirect the conversation, he moves.

A casual shift, nothing obvious, nothing dramatic, but suddenly his hand is resting lightly on my waist.

It’s not a tight grip, not a bold gesture—just a small, steadying touch, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

It’s not.

But I don’t move.

His fingers flex slightly, a slow press of warmth through the fabric of my blouse, and I hate the way my pulse jumps in response.

I force a dry laugh, ignoring the way the air suddenly feels heavier between us. “Don’t.”

Kenan hums thoughtfully. “You keep saying that.”

“Because it’s weird.”

“I don’t think it’s weird,” he muses, his thumb brushing absently over the fabric. “I think you’re just trying really hard not to like it.”

The absolute audacity.

I let out a sharp breath, pulling back just enough to glare up at him. “I’m not trying anything.”

His mouth tugs into a smirk, slow and knowing. “No?”

Before I can come up with a response, before I can convince myself that I actually have one, he tilts his head slightly, studying me, watching me squirm, knowing exactly what he’s doing.

His eyes flick down to my lips—barely noticeable, but I catch it.

I catch it, and my brain goes completely blank.

And I know.

I know exactly what’s about to happen, I know that I should stop this before it goes any further, before he gets any more of an ego boost than he already has, before I give him one more reason to look at me like he knows something I don’t.

But I don’t stop it.

And maybe—that’s all he was waiting for.

Because then, he kisses me.

It’s not rushed, not hesitant, just easy. Like he knew exactly how this was going to play out before I even figured it out myself. Like he’s been waiting for me to catch up.

And, somehow, before I can even stop to think about it, I’m kissing him back.

His hands move to my jaw, fingers sliding into my hair, firm but not demanding, like he’s daring me to stop him.

But I don’t.

Because I don’t want to.

Because of course this was going to happen.

Because Kenan has been pushing me toward this moment for weeks, maybe longer, and I let him, and now I don’t want to stop.

I don’t even notice that my hands have fisted into his shirt, pulling him in, until I feel him grin against my lips.

He pulls back just slightly, just enough that we’re still close, still breathing the same air, still feeling the warmth of it.

His eyes flick between mine, slow and deliberate, and when he finally speaks, his voice is quieter than before, smug but softer.

“Finally.”

I should argue.

But instead, I just kiss him again.

#kenan yıldız #kenan yildiz #kenan yildiz x reader #kenan yıldız oneshot #kenan yıldız x reader #kenan yıldız fanfic #kenan yildiz oneshot

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cjlouwho · 4 hours ago

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Truly Madly Deeply

You guys voted on this poll and chose Truly Madly Deeply as the song to be featured in my little fic. Enjoy!

tw: blood, stabbing, near death experience

If you had asked Tommy what his plans were for 9:32pm on a Thursday, he would not say, “Placing pressure on my ex-boyfriend’s stab wound,” but that’s exactly what he was doing.

The night hadn’t started so dramatically. He had gone to the bar for karaoke trivia, just like he had plenty of times before. Right as it was about to start, he glanced over to see Buck staring at him, mouth agape.

Buck hurried out of the bar after that and, before Tommy could even register what he was doing, he was following behind him.

“I didn’t think you’d b- be here,” Buck explained, the conversation irrelevant to Tommy at the moment. “You changed your schedule and I- I thought you’d be working tonight.”

“I switched with someone for a couple weeks,” Tommy replied, pressing down harder on the wound, feeling Buck’s blood under his hand.

“Oh- Ah!”

“Sorry, sorry.”

I- I thought you didn’t wanna see m- me on a call or something.”

“No, that’s… No.”

“Oh,” Buck repeated. “Okay. I- still, I just wanted t- to get out a little. I- I’ve mostly been baking. I- when I saw you I was g- gonna leave. Try to go before you- you saw me.”

“I saw you,” Tommy muttered.

“I know. Y- You followed me.” Unconsciously, his hand moved up toward the wound. Tommy gently batted it away. “Why?”

“I thought,” Tommy paused. “I don’t know, just wanted to talk to you. Didn’t know you’d be busy getting mugged.”

Even through his labored breathing, with the gash in his abdomen still oozing blood no matter how much pressure Tommy put on it, Buck looked up at Tommy eagerly. “About what?”

“I don’t think that matters right now, Buck.”

“Why? B- Because of th- the stabbing?”

“Yes, Buck. Because of the stabbing.” In the distance, Tommy began to register the familiar tune of an older song. He thought it had been coming from the bar at first, but now he knew it wasn’t. “Why is this damn song playing again?” he asked as it started over. “And where the hell is it coming from?”

“Th- The guy dropped his phone. It st- started playing,” Buck informed him, hand shakily pointing across the alley toward the phone on the ground. “Must b- be on repeat.”

A small gush of blood seeped out between Tommy’s fingers. “I can’t reach it to turn it off.”

“I don’t mind it,” Buck assured him, wincing as a wave of pain hit. “I- It’s fitting, don’t ya think?”

“What do you mean?”

“Truly Madly Deeply,” Buck mumbled, eyebrows raised. “I- I’d stand with you on a mountain.”

Tommy sighed. “Okay.”

“Bathe with you in the sea.”

“Buck.”

“Not sure I- I wanna lay like this forever.” His words began to slur about halfway through and, as he finished the sentence, his head lolled to the side, eyes closing.

“Evan!” Tommy yelled, bringing one hand to his face to tap at his cheek. “You gotta stay awake for me, Evan!” he alerted, getting right up in Buck’s face. “Eyes open. Talk to me.”

Buck’s eyes popped back open and he opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. “Looks like y- you were wrong,” he said, swallowing down a familiar metallic taste.

“That’s nothing new,” Tommy replied. “But what about this time?”

“You… You will get t- to be my last.”

“Stop it. You- You’re not dying, Evan.” He groaned, ignoring the burning in his eyes as he looked out toward the road. “Where’s the damn ambulance?!”

“It- It’s only been a few… few minutes.”

With one hand still on Buck, Tommy checked the time on his watch. Buck was right, Tommy had only hung up the phone maybe five minutes ago. It had felt like an hour.

“You know what I- I think?” Buck asked, raising a hand to poke at Tommy’s shoulder.

“What’s that?”

“I think you- you’re scared.”

“You’re delirious,” Tommy

Buck shook his head. “No, I- I’m lirious,” he replied, then scrunched his face up in confusion. “You know what I m- mean. You’re scared, Tommy. Scared o- of being loved. Scared of c- committing to s- something r-” his words broke off as he began to cough. He could feel something wet on his chin. Was sure it wasn’t just spit. “Real,” he finished once the coughing died down. He could hear his own breathing now, wheezy and stunted. That didn’t stop him. “You- I don’t think you really w- wanted to go that night. I- I know I screwed up but w- we could have fixed it.”

“Can we stop talking about this, please?” Tommy was willing to beg, if necessary. Tonight had been about trying to forget all his failures as a human. He was not prepared to be thrown right into each and every conversation he spent most of his life running away from. Especially not when he was trying to prevent his ex from bleeding out.

“You said t- to stay awake,” Buck reminded him. “Need t- to talk to stay… stay awake.”

“Well, choose a different topic. A funner one. One that doesn’t involve me.”

Buck rolled his eyes, moaning a bit. “Eddie is l- leaving.”

“Yeah? For good or for awhile?”

“Good. Texas. Christopher.”

“That’s good,” Tommy said. “For him. Sorry for you though.”

“It’s… S’okay. He- He’s running to- towards something, ya know? Needs t- to be there.”

“I know,” Tommy agreed. “Still, sucks when a friend leaves.”

“Mm,” Buck hummed. “Sucks more when th- the person you love le- leaves.”

Tommy sighed, “Evan.”

“I n- never said I was talking about…” he voiced trailed off as he sucked in a wheezy breath, ��about you. Very pre- presumptuous." He managed a weak smirk in Tommy’s direction. “I w- was talking about, um, that guy f- from that bas- basketball team that, that you like who… he’s retiring this year, I think.”

“Sounds like you two were very close,” Tommy deadpanned. “Sorry for your loss.”

“Th- Thank you.” He blinked up at Tommy, running his tongue over his lips. They suddenly felt so dry. “Just wish- wish you would b- be honest… honest with me before,” he stopped, each breath a little harder to take than the last. “I’m gonna die, Tommy.”

“You are not dying.” The words came out like a demand. He stared into Buck’s eyes, his blood-soaked hands maintaining their pressure. “But I tell you what. After you get all fixed up, if you remember anything from tonight, we’ll talk,” Tommy promised. “I will tell you why I- why I left. Because you’re right, Evan. I’m scared. I’m terrified. You… You scare me. I’ve never felt for anyone th- the way I feel for you.”

“Love.” It wasn’t a question. “You love me.”

Tommy sucked in a shaky breath. “Yeah,” he admitted. “Yes, I do.”

A tiny smile rose on Buck’s face. “Truly madly deeply?” he whispered, voice becoming weaker by the second.

Tommy huffed out a laugh, the song repeating yet again. He nodded. “Truly madly deeply.”

Buck’s breathing slowed, eyelids drooping. “Tommy?”

“Mhm?”

“I… It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

Tommy became laser focused, pressing down even harder on Buck’s wound, “Evan, you hang on, you hear me? I hear the sirens now. They’re close, Evan!”

“I’m,” Buck’s eyes began to roll back in his head, “I’m cold,” he muttered before the whole world went dark.

*****

Buck woke up to a hospital room full of family and friends.

But all he noticed was one very important person was not there.

“Where… Where’s Tommy?” he asked Maddie with pleading eyes as she held onto his hand. His heart began to race, wondering if it was a dream, or a hallucination. Maybe Tommy had never been there at all. Maybe-

“Calm down,” Maddie instructed, rubbing her thumb over his palm. “He’d been here for three nights, Buck. We finally got him to go home for a bit. Shower, change, try to sleep. He’ll be back later.”

His eyes scanned the room. “I- I need my phone.”

“Right now?” Maddie questioned, glancing around at the other very confused visitors.

“Yes. Yes, right now.”

“Okay, okay, I’ve got it.” She picked up the bag beside her chair, digging in it briefly before pulling out Buck’s phone.

“He might not answer,” she said, handing it over to him. “He’s probably resting.”

Buck was too busy typing out a text to listen. His words were simple.

Truly Madly Deeply.

The text bubble was only on his screen for a couple of seconds before a reply came through.

I’ll be there in twenty minutes.

#bucktommy #911 #tommy kinard #evan buckley #911 abc #my eyes are blurring if you see something misspelled no you don't

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meadowfics · 1 day ago

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meet me down on polk street

cho hyun-ju x f!woc!reader

part two here - this is part three - part four here

this is a series that is based in the united states during the 1960s. after coming out as a trans woman back in south korea, hyun ju moves far away to california and has mets the girl who is the love of her life.. y/n l/n.

warnings: hookup and sexual liberation was on the rise in the late 1960s so this part is nsfw!!!! 18+. minors dni. switch!hyunju. switch!reader. pre-bottom transition hyunju. oral (r and chj receiving). fingering (r receiving). chj and reader move pretty fast but honestly as they should.

y/n's living room linked here

you unlock your apartment door and push it open, gesturing for hyun ju to step inside first.

she hesitates, just for a second, before stepping over the threshold.

the scent hits her immediately…soft, floral, like jasmine lingering in the air. it isn’t overpowering, just natural, as if it belongs to the space itself. hyun ju inhales deeply, letting it settle into her senses.

your home smells nice. warm. lived-in.

as she steps further inside, her gaze drifts downward.

a shoe stand sits neatly by the door, lined with your footwear…small details of your life.

a few pairs of heels, elegant and simple.

a sleek pair of black go-go boots that catch the dim light, making them look almost new.

a pair of red rainbows, slightly worn but still vibrant.

a navy blue pair of sneakers…hyun ju doesn’t recognize the brand, but she can tell they’re made for running. she makes a mental note to ask you about them later.

then, at the very front, a pair of pink slippers.

hyun ju watches as you step inside, reaching down to unbuckle your white heeled boots. with practiced ease, you slip them off and immediately slide your feet into the soft pink slippers, flexing your toes as if it’s second nature.

you catch her watching and raise a brow.

"i like walking around in these. something about wearing shoes in the house feels… wrong."

hyun ju chuckles softly, nodding in agreement.

she follows suit, unzipping her own black heeled boots and setting them beside yours. the woman’s white socks press against the hardwood floor, cool and grounding.

your apartment is modest, but beautiful in its own way.

she follows you through the space as you casually show her around…where the kitchen is, where she can find the bathroom, how to work the analog box tv.

there’s something about the way you’re doing this, like you aren’t just showing her a place to crash for the night.

like you want her to stay.

like you’re making space for her.

she notices the little things…the way your fingers brush over the curtains as you walk past them, the way you flick the light switch on and off in the hallway just to make sure she knows where it is.

as if this isn’t a one-time thing.

as if you want her to feel safe here.

it’s… nice.

"have a seat," you say, motioning toward your couch before heading to the kitchen.

hyun ju hesitates for only a second before settling onto the couch. it’s comfortable, soft, the kind of couch someone could sink into for hours.

as she looks around, she takes in the small details of your living room…the warm yellow light of the lamp not too far from here, the framed photos on the bookshelf, the neatly stacked trinkets on the coffee table.

the television hums to life as you turn it on, flipping through the channels.

it lands on a late-night broadcast…some old black-and-white film she doesn’t recognize, the voices tinny and distant.

its 4am at this point, so the morning broadcasts do not start until six.

you disappear into the kitchen for a moment before returning with a glass.

"drink this," you say, holding it out to her.

hyun ju looks down at it, the bright orange liquid swirling under the light.

she smirks, glancing up at you.

"vitamin c?"

"just so you don’t wake up with a headache in the morning," you tease.

hyun ju chuckles, shaking her head.

"i have woken up to worse."

you raise a brow.

"oh?"

she leans back into the couch, fingers brushing over the rim of the glass.

"special forces training," she says simply, a glint of amusement in her eyes.

"some days were… rougher than others."

you hum, crossing your arms as you watch her.

"i know," you say, voice softer now.

"but you aren’t there anymore."

she looks at you, something shifting in her expression.

"you’re here," you continue, "and deserve the best treatment from me."

you smirk.

hyun ju’s breath catches slightly, her grip tightening on the glass.

she blinks, then lets out a soft laugh, shaking her head.

"you are dangerous," she murmurs.

you grin.

"what can i say? i like taking care of beautiful women."

hyun ju freezes for a fraction of a second.

her dark eyes flicker over to you, scanning your face, as if she’s waiting for you to take the words back.

you don’t.

instead, you plop down on the couch beside her, curling your legs up slightly as you lean back.

hyun ju watches the way your curls bounce with the movement, how they frame your face naturally, soft but voluminous.

she wants to reach out.

to touch.

you do not pay attention to the television.

you are paying attention to her and admiring the way that she fidgets with her fingers, how she crosses her legs like there is not enough space on the couch.

oh how much you want her.

you scoot yourself close to hyun-ju, so you are hip to hip. usually, you are never this bold, not at all. however, hyun-ju is inviting you to her. she is doing the triangle method on your face.

left eye, your plump lips, right eye.

right eye, your plump lips, left eye.

neither of you looked away from eachother.

hyun ju swallowed, her throat bobbing slightly.

your lips parted, your chest rising with a slow inhale.

the tension snapped.

without thinking, without hesitating, you leaned in.

hyun ju met you halfway.

your lips crashed together, warm and insistent, it was like a desperate meeting of months—years—of longing neither of you had dared to voice before. even though you guys only met seven hours ago.

she tasted like orange juice and whiskey, a strange but intoxicating mix.

hyun ju’s hands hesitated for only a moment before finding their way to your waist, her grip firm but gentle, like she was afraid of holding on too tight.

you deepened the kiss, one hand sliding up her arm, tracing the curve of her shoulder before tangling in her dark hair.

she shuddered at the touch, her lips parting slightly as she let out a soft, shaky breath.

you took the opportunity to slip your tongue against hers, teasing, slow.

hyun ju exhaled sharply through her nose, her grip on your waist tightening.

the heat between you was unbearable, overwhelming.

you shifted on your green couch, pressing closer, your knee brushing against hers as you tilted your head, deepening the kiss.

hyun ju let out a soft, low sound, something between a sigh and a moan, and it sent a thrill straight down your spine.

your fingers slid down to the collar of her dress, playing with the fabric, teasing.

she broke the kiss for only a second, her forehead resting against yours, both of you breathing hard.

“you sure about this?”

she murmured, her voice husky, laced with something unsteady.

you didn’t hesitate.

“yes.”

hyun ju swallowed, her hands moving from your waist to your back, pressing you closer, until there was no space left between you.

you kissed her again, harder this time, deeper, your body melting into hers, your fingers tracing the curve of her jaw, memorizing every inch of her.

the world outside your apartment, outside this moment, didn’t exist.

there was only her.

only this.

only the slow, intoxicating burn of two people who knew what they wanted.

you feel yourself fall back onto your couch as hyun-ju climbed on top of you. the way her soft body lingered on top of yours caused you to lift your legs up slowly.

your right heel wrapped around to hyun-ju’s mid back, pulling her down lower until her chest was pressed up against hers. meanwhile, your left heel goes to her butt, massaging her right glute while one of her hands goes over to grab the other.

hyun ju whimpers at the contact, at the same time, you press your core up into hers.. making sure that she was satisfied as she moved her lips down your jawline.

a little more happens before hyun-ju is sat on your couch, with you and your knees resting on the soft living room floor of yours.

at first, hyun ju was hesitant about this. again, there was access to bottom surgery but she did not have the funds to get that done yet. luckily, she had the funds to get her top surgery, but she wonders how you’d react after pulling her dress up.

“hyun-ju, sweetie?”

you looked up, your glistening eyes taking a look at the insecure hyun-ju.

“i don’t have to do this if you do not want me to. i am okay if that is what you are worried about, i do not mind at all.” you hinted while reassuring her.

she sees the genuine honesty in her eyes, you didn’t care about her genitalia, you just wanted hyun-ju to feel good.

when she lets you continue, you pulled up hyun-ju’s dress and slid down her blue boyshort panties to reveal her aching cock. you could’ve drooled right there, the way hyun-ju whimpers at her cock being free while you took one kitten lick at her pink tip.

you look up at hyun-ju with a smirk, backing your head up for a second while you took her length in your hands, slowly pumping it up and down before giving pepper kisses and kitty licks to the pink tip again.

hyun-ju slowly wrapped your hair into a loose ponytail while you wrapped your lips around her head, trying to take her length whole. she’s so pretty, so perfect, everything about her was just so perfect and you could do this forever.

your hand wrapped around the parts that your mouth could not push down on. at this point, your clit was throbbing. you wanted to play with yourself, but maybe soon, you’d just have to suffer with the pool leaking through your red panties while you make hyun-ju feel good.

as you took her deeper in your throat, you started to notice hyun-ju spreading her legs out more. thats it. you pulled away, making out with her balls while making sure that your fingers lightly stimulate her tip still. she let out a breathy moan before grabbing you hair and moving your head back onto her shaft herself.

that’s sexy.

“you’re doing so good, m'love, fuc– that’s it…” she mumbled, gazing lovingly at your watering eyes while you look up at her.

you felt her shaft twitch inside of your throat, at the same time she released the grip on your hair, only for her to come undone all inside of your throat, the sweet substance being something that you crave even more now.

after standing up, your knees a bit sore, hyun-ju grabbed your waist and laid you down on your couch, spreading your legs to reveal the huge wet spot on your underwear.

“oh baby,” hyun-ju mumbled, softly pulling your red panties down to reveal the mess that you made.

“please.”

you mumbled.

“please what?”

hyun-ju smiles lightly.

“i want you to eat my pussy, please.”

you mumbled, feeling yourself getting wetter as hyun-ju opened your legs more, your knees coming closer to being beside your face.

the korean lowers her face in-between your legs, growing impatient herself with her teasing.

"fuck! that's it." you moan when you feel hyun-ju’s plump lips make contact with your clit.

your eyes look at her with so much lust and love as she makes out with your pussy. your hand reaches into hyunju’s soft hair to keep her there, never wanting to separate her head from your wet pussy.

when hyun-ju puts two fingers inside of your vagina, suckling her clit at the same time, you squealed as you started stimulating your right nipple.

"yes, yes that! fuck fuck fuck that feels so fucking good do not stop!" your head tilting back on your green colored sofa with pleasure.

“never.”

you hear her mumble against your clit, sending a vibration which speeds up your orgasm.

she pulls back her fingers and her mouth before you can cum, and you quickly looks back down at her, your grip on her hair tightening, making hyun-ju sigh as your mess is spread across her lower face.

hyunju looks so beautiful.

“sorry.”

hyunju smirks, knowing she really is not sorry for teasing you.

she leans back down, moaning as she takes your clit into her mouth. you relax, closing your eyes so you do not cum so quickly.

"swee-heart if u keep d-do-doing that I'll cum!"

your virginia accent suddenly jumps out as your eyes start to roll back.

"oh fuck! yes yes yes fuck youre so perfect fuck just like that!"

you squeal, tightening your hand in her hair, your hips grinding against her mouth as she reaches for your release.

"i-i’m" you squeal again as you clench around herr fingers.

"you’re so perfect." you say breathlessly.

hyunju’s face is covering in your post-orgasm mess, but you did not care as she comes up to kiss you more.

you felt your taste on your tongue, all of the mixes being so sweet.

hyunju looks so pussy drunk, there is no way that this is her first time giving head but you won’t ask.

“stay.”

you mumble against her tongue.

“huh?”

hyunju gives you a curious look, your noses touching.

“please don’t leave after tonight. we can get your stuff from the hotel, an-and you can stay here with me, as long as you need, you can live here with me and we can be together.”

you plead.

hyunju nods her head rapidly, knowing she does not want to leave you.

“don’t worry i’m staying.”

she gives you a peck on the lips.

“i’m staying.”

next part will be linked here

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alittlegiraffe · 3 days ago

Text

Title: Hold On Too Tight

Warning: This is going to be a very dark side of things, including smut, codependency, deferred addiction, jealousy and emotional issues. MDNI, 18+

You loved Marshall with everything you had. You’d been through his worst and stayed, just like you promised. You’d seen him high, you’d seen him angry, you’d seen him fall apart and pull himself back together. But now, years into his sobriety, you were seeing a different side of him—one that made your heart ache in ways you hadn’t expected.

Because Marshall had always been protective, but lately, it had turned into something else.

The constant check-ins, the way he needed to know where you and the kids were every second of the day. If you didn’t answer a text fast enough, he’d call. If you were late coming home, he’d be pacing by the door, jaw tight, hands in his pockets, eyes dark with worry.

At first, you brushed it off. After everything he’d been through, maybe this was just his way of staying in control. But tonight, when you’d come home twenty minutes later than you said you would—stuck in traffic, nothing serious—he’d lost it.

"Where the hell were you?" His voice was sharp the second you walked through the door, his body tense like a live wire.

"I told you, I got caught up—"

"You should’ve called," he snapped. His eyes flickered past you to the kids, who were already heading upstairs. He lowered his voice, but the intensity was still there. "I didn’t know where you were. Anything could’ve happened, Y/N."

Your chest tightened. "Marshall, nothing happened. You’re acting like I disappeared—"

"You were supposed to be home twenty minutes ago!"

You exhaled sharply, setting your bag down on the counter. "You have to stop this."

His expression flickered, something vulnerable flashing in his eyes before he masked it with frustration. "Stop what?"

"This. The constant calls, the worrying, the way you freak out if I don’t answer my phone the second you text. I love you, but I feel like I can’t breathe."

His jaw clenched, and he turned away, running a hand down his face.

"I just—I need to know you’re safe," he muttered, voice rough.

"I am safe," you insisted, stepping closer. "And so are the kids. But, Marshall, this isn’t normal. You’re holding on so tight it’s suffocating."

Silence stretched between you, thick with unspoken words. Then he exhaled shakily, shoulders slumping.

"I just…" He swallowed hard, his voice quieter now. "I can’t lose you."

His words hit you like a gut punch. You reached out, resting a hand on his arm. "Marshall, you’re not going to lose me."

His head dropped, and when he spoke again, his voice was barely above a whisper. "That’s what I thought about Proof."

Your breath caught in your throat.

"I thought he’d always be there," he admitted, his voice breaking. "We were supposed to grow old together, still talk shit when we were sixty. And then one day, he was just gone. Just like that."

Your heart clenched. You knew how deeply Proof’s death had cut him, but he rarely talked about it—not like this.

"I was so fucked up back then," he continued, shaking his head. "I buried it. Drowned it in pills, in alcohol, in music. I didn’t deal with it. And now, after all these years, it’s like… I’m finally feeling it. And it scares the hell out of me."

Tears burned at the back of your eyes.

"Baby," you whispered, stepping closer, wrapping your arms around him. He didn’t hesitate, burying his face in your shoulder, his breath shaky against your skin.

"I know I’ve been too much," he murmured. "I just—every time you leave, there’s this voice in my head that says maybe you won’t come back."

You cupped his face, forcing him to look at you. His blue eyes were glassy, full of pain.

"I will always come back to you," you promised. "But you have to let me live, Marshall. Let us live."

He nodded slowly, exhaling as he leaned into your touch. "I’ll try."

"That’s all I ask."

You kissed him softly, and when he pulled you back into his arms, it felt different—less desperate, more grounded. Like he was finally ready to loosen his grip, just enough to let love in without fear of losing it.

---

Marshall had never been good at dealing with emotions—especially the raw, unfiltered kind that made his chest tight and his mind restless. Vulnerability had never come easy to him, and now that he had finally let himself break in front of you, something inside him felt exposed.

Normally, when he felt like this—like he was unraveling—he’d reach for a bottle, a pill, something to quiet the noise. But not anymore. That wasn’t an option.

So instead, he reached for you.

You barely had time to react before his hands were on you, gripping your waist, pulling you against him. His mouth crashed against yours, desperate, urgent, like he needed to feel something that wasn’t fear or grief.

"Marshall—" you started, but he cut you off with another kiss, his hands sliding up your back, fingers curling into your hair.

"Need you," he murmured against your lips, his voice rough, pleading. "Need to feel you."

You could feel the tension radiating from his body, the way his fingers trembled slightly as they moved over you. He wasn’t just craving sex—he was seeking refuge, something solid to hold onto when everything else felt like it might slip away.

Your heart clenched, but you didn’t hesitate. If he needed you, you’d be there.

You let him take control, let him push you back toward the bed, his breath heavy against your skin. His hands were everywhere at once—gripping your hips, sliding up under your shirt, pulling it over your head before his lips found your neck.

"You’re mine," he muttered, almost to himself, like he needed to say it out loud. "Only mine."

"Always," you breathed, threading your fingers through his hair. "I’m not going anywhere."

That was all it took. His restraint snapped, and suddenly, clothes were being stripped away in a haze of heat and desperation. He was all over you—kissing, biting, worshipping every inch of your skin like he was trying to memorize it.

By the time he finally sank into you, a shuddering breath left his lips, his forehead pressing against yours. His hands gripped your thighs, holding you close, like letting go wasn’t an option.

"Fuck," he whispered, his voice tight with emotion. "You feel so good."

You ran your hands down his back, grounding him, reminding him that you were here, that he wasn’t alone.

"I’ve got you," you murmured, wrapping your legs around him. "Let go, baby."

And he did.

He moved with raw intensity, pouring everything he couldn’t say into every thrust, every kiss, every desperate grip of your body. You took it all—his pain, his need, his love—meeting him stroke for stroke, giving him the solace he craved.

When he finally came undone, his body trembled against yours, his breath ragged, his heartbeat erratic. You held him close, running your fingers through his damp hair, pressing soft kisses to his temple.

For a while, he just lay there, his weight pressing you into the mattress, his arms wrapped around you like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

"You okay?" you finally whispered.

He nodded against your skin, exhaling slowly. "Yeah… I just—" He swallowed hard. "Thank you."

You cupped his face, making him look at you. "You don’t have to thank me for loving you."

His eyes softened, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you saw something other than fear in them.

Maybe he was still healing. Maybe the ghosts of his past would always linger. But as long as he had you, he’d never have to face them alone.

---

The room was quiet except for the sound of Marshall’s breathing—still a little uneven as he lay half on top of you, his fingers tracing idle patterns against your skin. The weight of him was grounding, his body warm against yours.

You ran your fingers through his damp hair, your nails scratching gently at his scalp. He hummed in response, shifting slightly to press his face into the crook of your neck.

"You okay?" you murmured.

He didn’t answer right away. His arms tightened around you, holding you a little closer, like he was still coming down from the emotional high of everything that had just happened.

"Yeah," he finally said, voice hoarse. "I think so."

You kissed the top of his head. "You sure?"

A slow exhale left his lips. "I just… I hate that my head does this shit." His voice was quiet, almost embarrassed. "I was fine, then suddenly, I wasn’t. And instead of dealing with it, I needed to lose myself in you."

Your hands slid down his back, rubbing slow circles. "Marshall, that’s not a bad thing. You didn’t run. You didn’t shut down. You reached for me instead of something else."

He let out a bitter chuckle. "Yeah, but I can’t keep putting all my shit on you like that. It’s not fair."

You tilted his chin up so he had no choice but to look at you. His blue eyes were heavy with exhaustion, but there was something else there, too—fear, doubt, maybe even guilt.

"You’re not putting anything on me," you said firmly. "We’re in this together. You don’t have to handle everything alone, and you sure as hell don’t have to feel bad for needing me."

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. "I just… I don’t want to be a burden."

"You’re not," you whispered, kissing him softly. "You’ve spent so long carrying the weight of everything by yourself. Let me help."

He exhaled shakily, nodding against your touch. "I’m trying," he admitted.

"I know," you said gently. "And I’m proud of you."

Something in his expression shifted—like he wasn’t used to hearing that. His fingers curled against your waist, holding on like you were the only solid thing in his world.

After a moment, he rolled onto his back, pulling you with him so you were lying against his chest. His heartbeat was steady beneath your ear, his fingers brushing lazily up and down your spine.

"You’re too good to me," he murmured.

You smiled, pressing a kiss to his skin. "Someone’s gotta be."

His chest shook with a soft laugh. It wasn’t much, but it was real, and you held onto that.

Neither of you spoke for a while. The weight of the night settled around you, but this time, it wasn’t suffocating—it was something else entirely. Something safe.

Marshall let out a long breath, like he was finally allowing himself to relax. "Stay here?"

"Always," you promised.

And for the first time in a long time, you felt like maybe—just maybe—he believed you.

---

You noticed it almost immediately.

The way Marshall started gravitating toward you more—physically, emotionally, in every possible way. It was subtle at first. A hand on your thigh when he was feeling restless. A deep, lingering kiss when stress was gnawing at him. The way he’d pull you into his lap when he seemed lost in his thoughts.

But then it became constant.

Anytime something triggered him, anytime he got overwhelmed, he found you. His need for you was insatiable—not just sexually, but in every sense. You were his anchor, the thing he clung to when the urge to numb himself became too strong.

And tonight was no different.

You were in the kitchen, cleaning up after putting the kids to bed, when you felt him before you saw him. His presence was a weight, heavy with tension, the air shifting as he came up behind you.

"Hey," you murmured, placing a dish in the sink before turning around.

His blue eyes were dark, stormy, filled with something hungry. His hands landed on your waist, gripping just a little too tight.

"Bad night?" you guessed softly.

He nodded, exhaling harshly. "Yeah."

You studied him, taking in the tight set of his jaw, the way his fingers flexed like he was trying to hold himself together. You knew that look—knew exactly what it meant.

"What do you need?" you whispered.

"You," he rasped, pressing you against the counter, his hands sliding up your sides. "Always you."

His lips crashed against yours, and you barely had time to react before he was lifting you onto the counter, stepping between your legs, molding himself against you like he needed to consume you.

It was always like this now—desperate, intense, as if you were the only thing keeping him from spiraling.

His hands slid under your shirt, rough palms ghosting over your bare skin, and you shivered.

"Marshall—" you started, but he cut you off with another searing kiss, his tongue sweeping against yours, stealing your breath.

"Please," he murmured against your lips. "Need to feel you."

You knew what this was—knew that this was how he coped now. Any time he would’ve reached for a bottle, a pill, a vice, he reached for you instead.

And you let him.

Because if he needed you, you’d be there.

You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him impossibly closer. "I’ve got you," you whispered, just like you always did.

And as he pressed his forehead against yours, as he lost himself in you the way he used to lose himself in substances, you realized something.

You were his addiction now.

And you weren’t sure if that was a good thing—or something that would break you both in the end.

---

It took longer to see your own descent into the madness.

It started slowly.

At first, you didn’t notice. You thought it was just normal, just love. The way you reached for Marshall when you felt overwhelmed, the way your body sought his when the weight of the day sat too heavy on your chest.

But then it became constant.

You found yourself craving him in ways that had nothing to do with sex—though that, too, had become its own form of solace. It was his touch, his presence, the way his hands on your body could silence the world, the way his lips against your skin could make everything else disappear.

You didn’t just want him anymore. You needed him.

And that scared you.

Because it was the same way he needed you. The same way he used to need his vices.

The realization hit you one evening as you sat curled up on the couch, staring at your phone, anxiety twisting in your stomach. It had been a long day—the kids were acting up, work had been stressful, and now, Marshall was late coming home from the studio.

Your fingers hovered over his name, already ready to call him.

You could feel it—that restless, gnawing feeling in your chest. The same feeling he got when you were late, when he couldn’t find you.

And suddenly, you understood.

You weren’t just leaning on him anymore. You were clinging.

The door opened before you could spiral any further, and your head snapped up. Marshall stepped inside, dropping his keys onto the counter, running a hand through his hair. He looked exhausted, but the second he saw your face, his expression softened.

"Hey, baby," he murmured. "You okay?"

You weren’t.

But instead of answering, you got up and walked straight into his arms.

His body stiffened for half a second before he melted into you, wrapping you up, pressing his face into your hair.

"Rough day?" he asked, his voice low, knowing.

You nodded against his chest.

He let out a deep breath, holding you tighter. "I got you," he murmured.

And God, did you believe him.

That’s what scared you the most.

Because you weren’t sure where he ended and you began anymore.

And maybe… maybe neither was he.

---

Marshall sat at the dining table, scrolling through his phone, absently picking at the breakfast you’d made. You barely noticed at first—you were too busy helping your daughter pack her school bag, making sure everything was in order before rushing out the door.

"Mommy, did you know Daddy’s leaving tomorrow?" she asked suddenly, stuffing a notebook into her backpack.

Your body went rigid.

Marshall’s head snapped up, eyes immediately locking onto yours.

"What?"

Your daughter, oblivious to the sudden tension in the room, zipped her bag and looked up at you with big, curious eyes. "Yeah! He said he’s going to LA for a whole week."

A whole week.

You turned to Marshall, your pulse kicking up. "You didn’t tell me you were leaving tomorrow."

He looked guilty, like he hadn’t meant for you to find out this way. "I—" He ran a hand down his face, exhaling. "I was gonna tell you today. I swear. I just… I didn’t wanna stress you out."

You stared at him, your chest tightening.

A week.

The room felt smaller. Tighter. The thought of him being gone that long made your stomach twist in ways you weren’t prepared for.

You swallowed hard, forcing a tight smile for your daughter’s sake. "Okay, baby, go get your shoes on."

She nodded, skipping toward the front door. The second she was out of earshot, you turned back to Marshall.

"A week, Marshall?" Your voice was barely above a whisper, but the weight of it was heavy.

He sighed, pushing his plate away. "I know. I know it’s a long time. But it’s business, baby. I can’t not go."

You crossed your arms, trying to keep your breathing steady. "I just… I wasn’t ready for this."

He pushed his chair back, standing, immediately closing the space between you. "I wasn’t, either," he admitted, resting his hands on your waist. "I’ve been dreading it."

You let out a shaky breath, fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie. "What are we supposed to do for a week?"

His jaw tightened. "We get through it. One day at a time."

You searched his face, seeing the same fear reflected in his eyes. He wasn’t just worried about leaving—you could feel it. He was scared of what would happen without you.

"You gonna be okay?" you whispered.

His hands tightened on you. "I should be asking you that."

The truth was, neither of you had an answer.

And that was the scariest part.

---

The house felt too quiet without him.

It had only been a day since Marshall left for LA, but the absence of him was suffocating. You tried to distract yourself—kept busy with the kids, cleaned rooms that didn’t need cleaning, scrolled mindlessly on your phone. But nothing helped.

Because every time you turned around, you expected him to be there.

You could still feel him—his presence woven into the walls, his scent lingering in the sheets. But it wasn’t enough.

And you weren’t the only one struggling.

Your phone buzzed for what felt like the hundredth time that night.

Marshall: What are you doing?

You sighed, curling deeper into bed, phone in hand.

You: Trying to sleep. You?

Marshall: Trying to not lose my fucking mind.

You swallowed hard, your fingers tightening around the phone.

You: It’s only been a day.

Marshall: I know.

A pause.

Then another text.

Marshall: I don’t know how to do this without you.

Your chest ached.

Because you felt the same way.

You: You don’t have to do anything, baby. Just breathe.

His reply came instantly.

Marshall: That’s the problem. Breathing is harder when you’re not here.

Tears pricked at your eyes. You wiped at them, frustrated, because damn it, you shouldn’t feel like this over one week. It wasn’t supposed to be this hard.

But it was.

Because you weren’t just missing him—you were withdrawing from him.

And the worst part?

You didn’t know how to stop.

---

By the third day, you were unraveling.

You barely slept, barely ate. Every time you closed your eyes, you imagined Marshall lying next to you, his arm draped over your waist, his steady breathing grounding you. But when you reached for him in the dark, all you found was empty sheets.

You hated this.

Hated how much you needed him.

It wasn’t just loneliness—it was physical. Like your body didn’t know how to function without him. Like every nerve ending in your skin was wired to his touch, and without it, you were short-circuiting.

And Marshall?

He was spiraling, too.

Your phone barely left your hand because every time you set it down, it buzzed.

Marshall: Baby, call me.

Marshall: I don’t care what time it is, I need to hear you.

Marshall: I feel like I’m losing my fucking mind.

Marshall: Please, baby. Just pick up.

It was 2 a.m. when you finally caved, pressing the call button.

The second he picked up, you heard it—the unsteady breathing, the barely concealed panic.

"Baby," you whispered.

"Fuck, I thought you were asleep." His voice was rough, like he hadn’t spoken in hours.

"Couldn’t sleep," you admitted. "You?"

He let out a shaky breath. "Nah. I keep thinking about you. About how I used to be fine doing shit like this, but now…" He trailed off. "Now I don’t know how to be without you."

Your chest tightened. "Me neither."

Silence stretched between you, heavy, charged. You could picture him—pacing in his hotel room, running a hand through his hair, fighting the urge to jump on a plane and come home.

"I don’t like this," he muttered.

"Neither do I."

"I keep thinking… what if something happens? What if you need me and I’m not there?"

"I do need you," you admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

That was all it took.

"You want me to come home?" he asked, dead serious. "I will. Right now."

Your heart clenched. "Marshall, you can’t."

"The fuck I can’t," he shot back. "I don’t care about this trip. If you say the word, I’m on the next flight."

Tears welled in your eyes because you wanted to say it. Wanted to beg him to come back because the ache in your chest was too much.

But you couldn’t.

"You have to stay," you whispered. "You need to do this."

He cursed under his breath. "I don’t give a fuck about this, you are what I need."

His voice cracked at the end, and that was when you knew—he wasn’t just struggling. He was breaking.

"Marshall," you breathed, gripping the phone like it was the only thing tethering you to him. "Just breathe, baby. I’m right here."

His breathing was ragged, uneven. "Talk to me."

You closed your eyes, letting the sound of his voice settle you. "Remember the last time you left for a trip? How you told me I was the first person you wanted to see when you got home?"

"Yeah," he rasped.

"I’ll be waiting, just like last time. Just like always."

His breathing slowed.

For the next hour, you stayed on the phone, whispering to each other in the dark, holding on like it was the only thing keeping you both from falling apart.

Because maybe it was.

---

By the fifth day, you weren’t sure if you could take much more.

You were barely functioning—going through the motions for the kids, pretending everything was fine when, really, you felt like you were coming apart at the seams. Every hour dragged by, the silence of the house pressing in on you like a weight you couldn’t shake.

Marshall wasn’t doing any better.

His texts had become more frantic, his voice more strained every time you spoke. You could hear it in him—the barely-contained panic, the exhaustion, the way he struggled to keep his shit together just long enough to make it through whatever bullshit meeting he was stuck in.

And tonight, he finally cracked.

Your phone rang just past midnight, and the second you answered, you knew something was wrong.

His breathing was erratic, uneven.

"Marshall?" you asked, sitting up in bed.

"I can’t fucking do this," he rasped. His voice was raw, wrecked. "I can’t—baby, I need you."

Your stomach twisted. "What happened?"

"Nothing. Everything. I don’t fucking know," he admitted, voice shaking. "I just—I feel like I’m crawling out of my fucking skin. I can’t sleep, I can’t think, I can’t breathe without you."

His confession knocked the air from your lungs.

Because you knew that feeling.

You felt it every second he was gone.

"Baby," you whispered, gripping the phone tighter. "Just talk to me, okay? I’m here."

"I’m fucking losing it," he choked out. "I feel like—like I need something to take the edge off, but it’s not even about that anymore. It’s you. You’re my fucking fix, and I—" His breath hitched. "I don’t know what to do without you."

Tears burned your eyes. "Marshall…"

"I almost left," he admitted. "I almost fucking walked out of the meeting today, booked the next flight home. I don’t care about this deal, about the money, about any of it. All I care about is you."

Your heart clenched.

Because you wanted that. God, you wanted it so bad it hurt.

But you also knew if you let him come back early, if you let this spiral control both of you, it wouldn’t stop.

He had to get through this.

And so did you.

"Baby, listen to me," you said, voice trembling. "You’re gonna get through this. We are. Just two more days, okay? That’s it. And then you’ll be home, and I’ll be in your arms, just like always."

He let out a broken sound, something between a sigh and a sob. "I don’t know how to do this without you."

"You don’t have to," you promised. "I’m right here."

Silence.

Then, finally, his breathing evened out, his body slowly coming down from the panic.

"I love you," he murmured, voice thick with exhaustion.

"I love you too, baby," you whispered. "Now try to sleep, okay? I’ll be here when you wake up."

He didn’t respond, but you knew he was still listening.

And so, you stayed on the line, listening to his breathing, grounding yourself in the sound of him.

Because even with thousands of miles between you, he was still the only thing keeping you whole.

---

The next morning, you woke up with your phone still clutched in your hand, the call with Marshall long disconnected. You blinked against the harsh light streaming through the window, heart sinking as the reality of another day without him settled in.

Two more days.

You could do two more days.

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

But as the day dragged on, the emptiness gnawed at you. You weren’t fine—not even close. You felt jittery, like something was missing, like you were constantly reaching for something that wasn’t there.

And then there was him.

His texts came constantly, short bursts of need that made your chest ache.

Marshall: I hate this.

Marshall: I don’t even remember why I agreed to this trip.

Marshall: Baby, just tell me to come home. I will. Right now.

You: Two more days.

Marshall: That’s too fucking long.

You closed your eyes, exhaling shakily.

That night, after putting the kids to bed, you curled up in your shared bed, pulling his pillow close, inhaling his lingering scent. It was the only thing keeping you grounded, the only thing making you feel like he wasn’t completely gone.

Your phone rang, and you answered before the first ring even finished.

"Hey," you breathed.

"You in bed?" His voice was low, tired, but desperate for something—anything—to hold on to.

"Yeah," you whispered. "You?"

"Not yet. Can’t stop thinking." A pause. "Can’t stop missing you."

You swallowed hard. "Me too."

The silence between you was thick, charged with everything you both wanted to say but couldn’t.

"I need to touch you," he confessed suddenly, voice rough with longing. "Need to feel you, baby."

Your breath hitched, heat crawling up your spine.

"Marshall—"

"I know," he murmured. "I just—I don’t know how to do this, baby. I don’t know how to be this far from you and not lose my fucking mind."

Tears burned your eyes. "I don’t either."

Another pause.

"I don’t want to go another night without you," he admitted. "I don’t give a fuck if I have to be up at five. Just… stay on the phone with me. Please."

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see you. "Okay."

So you stayed, whispering to each other in the dark, breathing in sync, pretending the distance between you didn’t exist.

Two more days.

You just had to survive two more days.

---

The last night without him felt like the longest one yet.

You barely made it through the day. Everything felt dull, colorless, like the world wasn’t quite right without him in it. The kids were your only distraction, but even they noticed the way you kept glancing at your phone, waiting for it to light up with his name.

And when it finally did, you answered before the first ring even finished.

"You okay?" His voice was low, strained, like he’d been holding his breath all day.

You swallowed hard. "I don’t know."

He sighed, and you could hear the exhaustion in it. "Me neither."

Neither of you spoke for a moment, just listening to each other breathe. It was the only thing keeping you both grounded, the only thing keeping the panic at bay.

"You know what’s fucked up?" he muttered finally.

"What?"

"I’ve been counting the hours. The minutes. Just waiting for this shit to be over so I can get on that fucking plane."

Your chest tightened. "Me too."

Another silence. Then—

"I don’t wanna sleep without you again." His voice was barely above a whisper, but it sent a shiver down your spine. "I don’t even wanna close my fucking eyes if you’re not here when I open them."

Tears burned your eyes. "Just one more night."

"That’s one too many."

You pressed your face into his pillow, inhaling deeply, willing it to be enough. But it wasn’t. It never was.

"Baby," he murmured, voice thick. "Can you just… talk to me? Keep me with you, even if it’s just for a little while?"

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see you. "Okay."

So you talked. About everything and nothing. About the little things—the way the kids had argued over what movie to watch, the way the house felt too big without him. He told you about the meetings, the way he kept zoning out because all he could think about was you.

And when the exhaustion finally started to pull at you both, you whispered, "I love you."

"I love you more," he murmured. "I’ll be home soon, baby. Just hold on."

You fell asleep with the phone still pressed to your ear, his quiet breathing the only thing tethering you to sanity.

Tomorrow, he’d be home.

You just had to make it until then.

---

You woke up with a sense of relief so deep it felt like you could finally breathe again. Today was the day.

Marshall was coming home.

You spent the morning moving on autopilot, trying to keep yourself busy, trying not to count the hours until his plane landed. The kids were excited, asking over and over how much longer until Daddy was home.

And then your phone buzzed.

Marshall: Baby… don’t freak out.

Your stomach dropped.

You: What happened?

It took him a minute to respond, which only made the panic creep in faster.

Marshall: My flight’s delayed. Some bullshit about weather. I don’t know how long yet.

You stared at the screen, hands shaking.

No. No, this wasn’t happening. Not when you were this close to seeing him again.

You called him instantly, pacing the kitchen as he picked up.

"Hey," he said, voice tight with frustration.

"How long?" you demanded.

"I don’t know. Could be a few hours. Could be—fuck, I don’t even wanna say it—overnight."

Your chest tightened. "Marshall…"

"I know," he said, voice thick with irritation and something deeper—something close to panic. "Baby, I swear to God, the second they clear this flight, I’m on it. I don’t give a fuck what time it is when I get there."

You sank into a chair, gripping the phone like it was the only thing keeping you steady. You had been barely holding it together as it was. You needed him home.

"I can’t do another night without you," you whispered, voice shaking.

His breath hitched. "Don’t say that."

"It’s the truth."

"I know," he admitted. "But you can. And you will. Just like I will. Because we don’t have a fucking choice."

Tears pricked at your eyes. "I don’t care about choices. I just want you here."

"You think I don’t?" His voice was rough, raw. "You think I’m not losing my fucking mind over this?"

Neither of you spoke for a moment, both too close to the edge.

Finally, he let out a heavy sigh. "Baby… I need you to breathe, okay? For me."

You forced yourself to take a shaky breath. "I don’t know how to do this."

"Yeah, you do. You’ve been doing it. We both have." A pause. "It’s just a few more hours. Maybe a night. But either way, I am coming home to you."

You nodded, wiping your eyes. "Promise?"

"Swear on my fucking life."

You exhaled slowly, gripping onto that. Onto him.

"Okay," you whispered. "I’ll wait."

"That’s my girl," he murmured. "Now stay on the phone with me. Just for a little while."

So you did.

Because it was the only thing keeping you both sane.

---

The moment Marshall stepped through the front door, everything in you screamed to run to him. To throw yourself into his arms, to press your face into his neck, to feel him, breathe him, let his touch remind you that he was finally, finally home.

But the kids got to him first.

“DADDY!”

They swarmed him, tiny bodies colliding against his legs, their excited voices overlapping. Marshall barely had time to drop his bag before he was kneeling down, pulling them in, wrapping them up in the same arms you had been aching for.

You stood back, watching, your hands clenched at your sides.

He met your eyes over their heads, and for a split second, you saw it—the same desperation, the same need, the same barely-contained urge to close the space between you.

But not yet.

“Missed you guys,” he murmured, voice thick, pressing kisses to their foreheads. “You take care of your mom while I was gone?”

They both nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah! But she missed you so much.”

Marshall’s gaze snapped to you again, something dark flickering behind his eyes.

“Oh yeah?” His voice was casual, but you knew him. You knew exactly what he was thinking.

Your face burned. “They’re exaggerating.”

“No, we’re not!” your daughter insisted. “She kept looking at her phone all day! And she barely even watched movies with us.”

Marshall smirked at that, like he was tucking that information away for later.

You crossed your arms. “Are you guys done exposing me, or—?”

They giggled, already dragging him toward the couch, talking a mile a minute about everything he had missed. He let them, letting them climb onto him, his hands and attention fully on them.

And you sat on the other side of the room, watching.

Waiting.

Holding it together.

It was agonizing.

Every part of you was screaming to touch him. To sink into his warmth, to breathe him in, to let him pull you under the way only he could. But you couldn’t. Not yet.

So you smiled, you laughed at their stories, you played the part of the normal, functioning wife and mother.

But under it all, you were burning.

And so was he.

Because every time you caught his gaze, his fingers flexed, like he was holding himself back from reaching for you. His jaw was tight, his shoulders tense. He was listening to the kids, responding at the right times, but his eyes—his mind—were somewhere else.

On you.

Hours stretched on like that—forced restraint, barely-contained tension.

And then, finally, finally, it was bedtime.

The kids clung to him, protesting, wanting just one more story, one more hug, one more minute. And he gave them all of it, because of course he did.

But then they were asleep.

And the second their bedroom doors clicked shut, everything snapped.

Marshall turned to you, chest rising and falling like he had just run a marathon, eyes dark, pupils blown wide with something desperate.

“Come here,” he rasped.

And before he could even finish the words, you were already in his arms.

The second you were in his arms, everything else disappeared.

Marshall’s hands were on you everywhere—gripping, pulling, claiming. His fingers dug into your hips, dragging you against him, like he couldn’t get you close enough, like he needed to feel every inch of you pressed to him to believe this was real.

His breath was ragged against your ear. “I fucking need you.”

You barely had time to let out a shaky breath before his lips were on yours, hot and desperate, swallowing down every bit of longing, every second of the past week spent apart.

Your fingers tangled in his hoodie, pulling, yanking, needing more, needing him.

“I swear to God,” he murmured against your mouth, voice rough, wrecked, “I almost lost my fucking mind without you.”

“You did,” you whispered, nails digging into his shoulders.

He huffed a breathless laugh, but his grip on you only tightened. “And you?”

Your forehead pressed to his, breaths mingling. “I don’t think I’ve breathed since you left.”

His eyes darkened, his jaw clenching. “Then let me fix that.”

And then he was picking you up, carrying you to the bedroom, his body covering yours before the door even fully shut.

For the rest of the night, he made up for every second you spent apart.

And when you finally collapsed against his chest, tangled in his arms, his lips brushed your forehead, whispering against your skin—

“Never again.”

And you believed him.

#eminem #marshall mathers #eminem x reader #marshall mathers x reader

51 notes · View notes

starrihan · 17 hours ago

Text

Resist (Taehyun Fic)

-> Pairing: toxic! Taehyun x self sabotaging!Reader

-> Plot: your self-sabotaging tendencies keep you tied to your toxic ex, but how can you resist was the sex is just so good?

-> Genre: smut, angst, mean dom! Taehyun, bratty sub! Reader, toxic! Taehyun x toxic! Reader, piv sex, no protection (wrap it up), oral (f receiving), slight public intimacy (?), reader is tipsy while Taehyun is sober, hair pulling, cursing

-> Ft.: Chaeryoung and Yeji of ITZY

-> Warnings: a little blood

-> Word Count: 4,235

-> Notes: Happy late birthday to Taehyun!!! I really wanted to post this on his actual birthday but I got so busy but this is the second part to my Sanctuary series! i hope you guys enjoy toxic! Taehyun as much as I do. semi-proofread. i have been writing this for weeks but i've just been so busy that I've been putting out shorter works that took a lot less brainpower to write.

This TikTok is perfect for this fic

༄ ༄ ༄

The constant push-and-pull of your toxic relationship with your ex boyfriend was not something that you enjoyed, but rather something you very much craved. Why couldn’t you move on and heal like a normal person? Why did you keep subjecting yourself to this torture? Why couldn’t you resist?

It’s not like he cared about you or your feelings either. If he did, you wouldn’t be in this predicament in the first place, his head between your thighs for the third night this week.

“T-taehyun, slow down…”

He was eating you out like a man starved, as if he wasn’t doing this very thing the day before, relentless as his tongue constantly lapped at your juices. He just hums against your lips, waving off your concerns and he quickly makes you approach your orgasm. Grabbing a fistful of his hair you grind up into his face, his nose hitting your clit to give you the most pleasure.

“Fuck, Taehyun,”

You say as you arch your back off the bed, orgasm coursing through you in waves. He licks up any excess juices while you catch your breath.

“Think you can handle just a little bit more?”

He says, unbuckling his belt and pulling off his jeans and boxers, dick hard and ready to pound into you.

“What am I saying? Of course you can. You always were a little slut for my cock,”

His arrogance is one thing you didn’t miss about him. He lines up his dick with your entrance, barely giving you time to recover before fully pushing into you, bottoming out as your nails dig into his toned biceps. Your mouth hangs open at the intrusion, throat failing to produce a moan.

He was right though, you always were ready for him at any point of the day. So hungry for his touch, the way he, no matter how bratty you were, always made you cum at least once before having his way with you. You would do anything to have his cock in you, and you both knew it. Even going as far as keeping him in your life despite the way he tries to control you, always demanding to know where you are or what your plans are.

He pounds your hole deliciously, letting out little grunts here and there at how tight or wet you were. You could barely even look him in the eyes with how good he was giving it to you.

“Hey. Eyes on me or I’m not moving, got it?”

You nod your head as he stills, opening your eyes to make eye contact with him and whining when he doesn’t continue even after you’ve obeyed his commands. He clenches your jaw firmly,

“What? My cock made you dumb already? Answer me, slut. Got it?”

“Yes! I got it, please move!”

You’re begging as he lets go of your jaw, bringing your legs over his shoulders and deeply thrusting into you, tip hitting your cervix at the new angle. Your moans are replaced with screams as this new angle draws you closer to your second release. He can tell by the way that you’re clenching that you’re close. He dips his head down, kissing and biting all down your neck and chest, leaving bright red marks in their wake. Your voice breaks as you cum again, this time much harder than the last. He scoffs,

“You’re pathetic, ya know that?”

He pushes into you a couple more times, releasing his load into your spent hole before pulling out, watching as a mix of both of your cum seeps out. You’re left laying in your bed, breath ragged as he cleans himself up, putting his pants on and throwing you a wet wipe to clean yourself up. You slowly wipe yourself down, wincing at the slight pain between your legs.

“I’m busy tomorrow so don’t ask me to come over.”

He says coldly before leaving you there, naked and alone.

༄ ༄ ༄

The next day, you’re set to meet up with your friend, Chaeryeong for a little study date. As you’re getting ready you check yourself out in the mirror, noticing all the hickeys he’s left on your neck from the night before. Seething at the idea that he effectively marked you up like you’re still his to claim, you calm yourself down and find something to hide all the marks. Hoping a little color corrector and concealer will do the trick, you sling your bag over your shoulders, walking into the cold winter air, shivering as you walk to the cafe to meet Chaeryeong. Upon seeing her, you find two drinks waiting at the table.

“Chaer, you're too sweet! Buying my drink for me? I love you,”

She stands up to give you a hug, laughing as you both sit down. You take off your jacket as you get comfortable, sipping at the hot latte that instantly warms you up from the inside.

“I knew you would need it after the last few days you’ve had. You still let Taehyun do a number on you, huh?”

She says, gesturing to the slightly visible bruising still found on your neck.

“Fuck, I thought I covered that up.”

You curse as you cover your neck with your hand, pulling your ear muffs over your neck to hide them.

“Why are you still hooking up with him? He treats you like shit and you two broke up months ago. Why do you keep torturing yourself?”

You sigh knowing her words are coming from a place of genuine concern for your well being. Also because you didn't have an answer yourself. You didn't know why you kept going back to him, asking him for sex or always dropping everything when he asked you for it.

“I don’t know. I’m just drawn to him. I just can’t say no.”

He always had this effect on you. Ever since you first started dating and things were still cute and sweet, whenever sex was mentioned you two were animals ready to pounce on each other. You just couldn't resist one another. Even after your breakup, your sexual chemistry was just too perfect to give up. You were afraid that you wouldn’t find anyone who could bring you feeling even half as much pleasure as Taehyun could bring you.

“You’re being self-destructive again. He’s just using you for sex but you still like him, despite the way he treated you. You have Stockholm Syndrome.”

You chuckled at her joke but you couldn’t deny her point.

“Alright, alright, can we get away from my destructive tendencies for a bit and focus on this exam we have to study for?”

She just let the topic be, knowing that you didn’t like to talk about it but she just wanted to express her concern for you.

༄ ༄ ༄

After your study session, Chaeryeong mentions a little party that her sorority is throwing, inviting you in hopes that you show up.

“A party? This weekend? I don’t know Chaer, I have a lot of work to do and we have that exam on Monday…”

“It's only Thursday and the party is Saturday night! If you lock in these next few days you should be fine! Please Y/N! I really want you to be there!”

You’re contemplating still, about to turn her down when you really think about it. A party at a sorority? Taehyun is bound to be there. You feign a perplexed look to hide the smirk trying to creep up your face.

“Oh, alright. I’ll come! But only because you bought me a latte today.”

You both laugh as you head back to your respective dorms. You felt bad about lying to her about the true reason behind your attendance, but you brush it off before you let your guilty conscience get the best of you. You decide that you need to get all your work done as soon as you can so you can actually attend the party on Saturday. You’re about to open your laptop when you get a message on your phone.

Dick Appointment😒:

coming over, leave your door unlocked

Looking at the message, you’re tempted to do as he says, thighs already rubbing together at the thought of him on top of you. But you think about Chaeryeong and all the work and exams you have to study for, deciding that your awaiting work is more important than getting dicked down.

You:

thought you were busy today?

You knew your response would only be met with bitterness, but it was fun to mess with him whenever you could. But you really didn’t need him to come over.

Dick Appointment 😒:

coming over there to fuck that nasty attitude out of you

You:

can’t, have a lot of work to get done before this saturday

Dick Appointment 😒:

why saturday?

You roll your eyes as he blatantly ignores your need to get your work done. But what did you expect from someone who barely cared about you in the first place?

You:

going out with Chaeryeong and some friends, why do you care?

He reads the message but never responds, not that you’re surprised because he always loses interest as soon as the conversation shifts away from sex. Whatever, you had work to get done and you couldn’t afford any more distractions.

༄ ༄ ༄

Saturday rolls around and you find yourself getting ready early, a reward for getting all your work done and having studied a good amount for your upcoming exam. You hadn’t gone out in a while so you took this chance to get all dolled up, partly because you wanted to look good for yourself, but mostly because you wanted Taehyun to find you irresistible, not that he didn’t already. He might act like a dick but it was you who he always came back to, right? That was the mindset you went into the night with, anyway.

Finally ready to go out, you texted Chaeryeong that you were on your way. Upon arriving at the sorority house, you were met by an excited, already drunk Chaeryeong who hugged you while jumping up and down.

“It always surprises me that you can get even more bubbly when you’re drunk.”

“You can say that again.”

You heard a familiar voice. You recognized the girl to be Yeji, one of Chaeryeong’s sorority sisters.

“Yeji! It’s so good to see you again!.”

You give each other a hug before they let you in, handing you a shot to take with them. After taking a couple shots over the span of an hour, your body had loosened up, dancing with Chaeryeong and some of her friends as the alcohol coursed through your bodies. As you were dancing, you glance at the front door, a familiar group of boys catching your attention. Taehyun eyes you immediately, heading towards you.

“We need to talk,”

His voice is stern and every bone in your body wanted to pull away from him, wanting to act out to see how he’d react. But you let him pull you away, assuring Chaeryeong, who held a confused and concerned expression on her face, that everything was alright.

He drags you to an empty corner of the house, one where the music is just barely audible so you can actually have a conversation.

“Is this what you meant by ‘going out?’ You’re at a fucking party.”

He practically hisses at you, pissed off that you didn’t tell him the whole truth about your activities.

“Well I am out. And besides, you’re not my boyfriend anymore Taehyun, why should I tell you where I am or what I’m doing? So you can try to control me again like you did before?”

You look unbothered as you scoff at him, not sure if it was the alcohol that was talking or if you were just finally fed up with him acting like he can get whatever he wants from you. He clenched his jaw in anger, an action you usually find irresistible.

“Who do you think you are talking to me like that? As if I won’t just fuck you here in front of everyone. Then they’ll know you’re mine.”

The way he’s walking up to you, essentially backing you up into the wall behind you doesn’t go unnoticed by you, but rather you see it as a challenge. His need to claim you is confusing, considering he wants nothing to do with you barring sex.

“I’m not yours. And I never will be again. Act as tough as you want but I’m not yours Kang Taehyun.”

You push back, backing him up on the wall opposite to the one he had you against. He lets you push him back before swiftly holding your waist and pinning you up against the wall instead.

“Don’t make me mark you up again, Y/N, you know I’m not afraid to do it.”

“You’re a dick you know that?”

“Oh I know, sweetheart,”

He says before harshly smashing his lips against yours. The kiss is sloppy and needy, tongues everywhere as you both try to get impossibly closer. Teeth biting your bottom lip, he breaks away to trail his kisses down your neck, creating new bruises over the ones that just barely healed from a few days prior. You try your best to bite back a moan, not allowing him the satisfaction of you giving into him.

“You’re a sadistic fuck, what’s wrong with you?”

He continues his barrage on your neck and collar, biting down especially hard at your comment, causing you to wince at the pain, feeling the tiniest bit of blood trickle down your neck.

“What the fuck did you say to me you little brat? Are you forgetting who holds the power here?”

“I’d be surprised if you thought you did.”

You’re provoking him at this point. You knew you stood no chance against him, you couldn’t beat him at his own game. But you were certainly going to make it more difficult for him, challenging his every step with your bratty comments and actions.

“Oh so you’re being a brat on purpose. You want me to go hard on you? Or maybe I should go easy, and give you the opposite of what you want?”

You’re not ready to relinquish control yet, as if you had it in the first place. But to you, this was your own personal victory. Riling up Taehyun who was normally very private about being intimate with anyone, especially you. Acting out like this in a place where anyone could catch you at any time. This was your win.

“Fuck you, Taehyun.”

“Oh, I will.”

You’re taken aback as he feels you up under your shirt, lifting it enough to expose your stomach. The cool air and his cold hands on your warm body cause you to shiver into him, hand moving up to his shoulder to ground yourself. He was roughly kneading your tits together, pinching your nipples that perked up against his cold fingers. You’re fighting every fiber in your being to hold back a moan, strained breaths taking their place. He takes this as a challenge, taking his mouth to your tits and biting down hard on the soft flesh. You reel back into the wall, arching your back and pushing your chest further into his face. He takes the chance to mark up your tits as well, taking your nipples between his teeth, sucking and biting. Coupled with the pain you’re feeling pleasure. As much as you hated feeling pain, it felt so good when Taehyun was the one giving it to you.

“Come on you little slut, make the noises you want everyone to hear. You never hold back when we’re alone, what’s different now? Didn’t you want people to catch us?”

He’s taunting you and it's working, biting your lip raw to suppress any moans. He slots his knee between your legs, letting your pussy rest against his thigh. His hands move to your waist, helping you grind yourself on his thigh, something you tried to stop yourself from doing. But your attempts to stop yourself were futile, finding your own body betraying you as the flexed muscle of his thigh along with the rough fabric of your jeans hit your clit perfectly. Slowly, some whimpers leave your throat, followed by shallow breathing. Your head was spinning, intoxicated by Taehyun, the effects of the alcohol barely present.

“You’re dumb again and I haven’t even had my way with you yet? Typical,”

You wanna bite back but your words fail you, pushing a moan past your lips instead, involuntarily agreeing to his claim.

“Fuck…”

He grabs you by the wrist, halting any pleasure to your body as he harshly pulls you into an empty bedroom. His hands are on you instantly, hands going into your jeans to cup your ass. He pulls you in close, kissing and sucking on your lips as your hands get lost in his hair. You let your moans free, not being able to hold them back any longer. You curse your weak resolve, something you’d beat yourself up over later. He has your pants off in no time, pulling his own down as he lifts you up, letting your back hit the door shut as he has you firmly pressed up against it. You’re embarrassingly wet, and it doesn’t go unnoticed by him.

“You’re never gonna escape me. Only I can make you so wet like this by barely giving you anything.”

You hate yourself for constantly going back to him, but the way he acts, even if it's stuck up and you hate it– always has you coming back for more. He was right, no one could make you feel as good as he can.

He thrusts into you, breaking you out of your thoughts and coaxing a long and drawn out whimper from you. Your head hits the back of the door pretty hard, but you don’t feel the pain as Taehyun drilling into you completely relieves you from it. His thrusts are sharp and rough, skin slapping loud as he puts more and more force into fucking you, releasing all the pent up anger and frustration you just put in him. Your grip is everywhere, in his hair, on his shoulders, running up and down his arms, anything to try and stabilize yourself as you feel your legs start to wobble.

Of course he knew when you were close, harshly pulling out of you.

“FUCK YOU!”

It's almost like you can’t control your emotions as he rips your orgasm away from you. You wanted to cry at the ache and frustration, so used to getting what you want from him. He rarely ever edged you, finding too much pride at making you cum quickly with a couple thrusts, it actually hurt him a little to not finish you off. But you had to be punished for acting out. You smack at his shoulders as he puts you down, only to spin you around, leaning you over the bed. In front of the bed is a large vanity mirror, one that gives you a perfect view of the entire room, and the menacing look on Taehyun’s face. He yanks you by the hair, holding your head up as he walks up between your legs.

“Watch yourself get ruined by my cock. Watch yourself fall apart as you realize you can’t live without me or my dick. Want to cum? Don’t close your fucking eyes you dirty slut.”

His words are venomous, but you can't get enough as you’re backing your hips into him, asking for it like you’re in heat. He delivers a particularly hard and loud slap to your ass, grinning as he watches it bounce. There's something about the way that he just looks down at you like you're nothing but a sleeve for him to drown his dick in that gets you going.

“Hurry up”

Another hard slap to your ass and yank of your hair keep you at bay, holding your tongue back at the pain.

“Shut up! I’ll give it to you when I think you deserve it.”

He pulls your head back almost completely, using his hand to hold your jaw open as he spits into your mouth. You try your best to seductively swallow his spit, hoping that he’ll ease up on you and finally give you what you want. He runs his hands up and down your body, rubbing his tip over your cunt to tease you. He can’t wait to be in you again, sliding in and bottoming out immediately.

You’re trying your best to keep your hips still, no longer being able to keep up your front, worried he’ll stop his movements if you push back onto him. He can sense your obedience, and brings a hand over your stomach and down to your clit, toying with it, thrusts nothing short of unforgiving. Your mouth is hung open from the pleasure, moans non-existent as your throat is too dry to produce them. You’re clenching over him, orgasm quickly approaching.

“See how you get rewarded when you’re being good for me? Finally you fucking learn”

But something in you always has to challenge him. It’s like second nature, even when you don’t want to respond back to him, you do, out of spite. Out of the growing hatred you have for the man who you can’t seem to detach yourself from.

“If I don’t get it from you I’ll get it from someone else”

Silence. No moans, no thrusts, no sounds of your slick rubbing against your folds. It’s almost like you broke him.

“If you can get it from someone else, then I should just stop here, right? You can finish from someone else using you like this?”

He slides out of you, delivering yet another harsh slap to your ass, this time much harder than the last and leaving a bright red hand print. The tears that were brimming your eyes many times during the night are finally at their limits, pushing past your eyes and falling down your face.

“Taehyun I… I’m so sorry I didn’t mean any of that please, please help me I’m sorry!”

You knew better than to grovel. If anything, this would make your attachment to him worse. But you were nothing short of a nymphomaniac, only caring about the need to cum and the feelings surrounding it later, once you’ve gotten your fill— literally.

“I can’t stand you”

He flips you over, slamming back into you again as you scream, this time his name flows out of your mouth. You’re so grateful that begging worked, but you’re just as annoyed at yourself for repeating the cycle over and over again. This time you’re face to face with him, never breaking eye contact as his previous rule still stood. ‘Watch yourself get ruined’ but instead you’d watch him, ruining you physically and emotionally.

All the mental barriers you put up around him, all the back talk telling him to stop asking about your plans and what you’ll be doing, all the attempts at trying to be better than him and meaner than him, all severing at the promise of what? The possibility that you’ll get to cum? You couldn’t stand yourself either.

His hands were tight around your waist, bruising the supple skin as he hammered into you for the nth time. He was driving you up the wall, your release crashing over you in mere seconds. Writhing under him, you’re panting like a dog, not being able to handle the immediate over sensitivity that you’re feeling. You always were a sucker for the way his eyes peered into your soul every time you guys had sex, like he still cared, like he still wished you were his.

But part of you wondered about his actions just now.

Why did he care so much about the comments that you made, knowing they were false threats because you always went back to him? Was it just a pride thing? Was he so committed to the bit of claiming you that he just got a little too intense? Or did he still harbor secret feelings for you?

You’re pulled out of your thoughts at the feeling of him filling you up to the brim, but not yet pulling out.

“If you really want whatever this is between us to end, just say so. I can’t play these games if you’re gonna threaten to get fucked by someone else.”

Did he really still have feelings for you? Or was this just another one of his attempts to control you, manipulate you into staying with him indirectly?

“You fuck me like no one else can. I have to keep you on your toes though, right?”

The smirk that forms on his face at your words is the first time in a while you’ve seen his face relax. Like you made the right choice and he was so pleased with your words.

“You just love making things difficult, don’t you?”

You chuckle at his words, confirming them.

You had the perfect opportunity for an out, but of course you didn't take it. Because why not subject yourself to more emotional pain and damage when you can have the best fuck of your life whenever you wanted it, right?

#starrihan #txt #txt smut #tomorrow by together #tomorrow x together #tomorrow by together smut #tomorrow x together smut #taehyun #kang taehyun #taehyun smut #kang taehyun smut #toxic!taehyun #taehyun x reader #txt x reader

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xmads-omensx · 3 days ago

Text

PART 6 TO CALL ME LOVER

Word Count: 1,964

Pairing: Noah Sebastian X Reader

Content Warnings: mentions of smut and allusions to smut, angst, swearing, mentions of alcohol

Tags: @shayeanna-ashlie @alwaysfightforwhoyouare @supersquirrel1996 @dontwantthemoney @tosoundlessdarkistare @collisionofyourkissmakesitsohard @klutzy-kay24 @heyyoplayer @lacy1986 @collidewiththesav @kenjipepsi1 @follow-me-down-to-wonderland @chey-h @thisbicc @fadingangelwisp @heyyoplayer @dsireland86 @missduffsblog @overmydeadbodysblog @dominuslunae @littlebear423 @blade-dressed-in-red @rumoured-whispers @kait16xo @eclipseeetop @xxkittenkissesxx @theanarchymuse95 @blackveilomens @lilgarbitch @lil-garbitch @concretejunglefm

He often found himself reminiscing on the old days.

Looking back to simpler times.

This night in particular, he had stumbled across an old sweater. It was a dark green colour with white embroidery on the front, identifying the fact that this sweater belonged to a member of a college volleyball team.

It was hers.

Her scent still lingered on the fabric.

He pulled it up to his nose, inhaling deeply.

Part of his felt that this was a weird thing to be doing, but he didn’t care. It was the last scrap of her that he still possessed besides the stuffed lamb.

The sweater had fit her perfectly. It sat slightly oversized on her frame, which he had loved.

The last time he had seen it was when it lay over the back of the desk chair that sat in her college dorm.

She was one of the most intelligent people he knew, so it was no wonder that she had been the only person out of the group that they used to hang around with to go to college.

The sweater rarely ever made its way back to the hanger that sat empty in her wardrobe.

He remembered laying on her bed waiting for her whilst she got ready for the party they were going to be attending.

It was a social event to celebrate the volleyball team’s latest win so Y/N was invited, and insisted on Noah driving over to go with her.

She had wanted him there to celebrate with her in her special moment as she had for him when Bad Omens released their first single.

On this particular night as Noah lay on her bed, she seemed more anxious than normal.

Her hands were more expressive when she talked and she kept getting frustrated by her makeup not looking how she wanted it to.

She looked perfect in his eyes.

She always did.

But tonight felt different.

Their was something about her that wasn’t quite the Y/N he knew and loved.

“Are you okay?” He asked with a laugh as she threw her eyelash curler down for the fourth time.

She sighed, her head falling into her hands.

“Yeah I’m fine.” She muttered.

Noah was sceptical but didn’t push her because he knew that would only frustrate her further.

Soft and slow acoustic music flowed from the small speaker on her desk.

It belonged to her dorm-mate but since Y/N was going to a party, Anna, her dorm-mate had kindly gone to stay at her girlfriend’s dorm that night instead.

That had also confused Noah, since Y/N never got drunk enough to warrant that. She also never brought anyone back to her dorm so it wouldn’t matter anyway.

Then it hit Noah.

She had plans to bring someone home later on in the night.

“Where’s Anna?” Noah asked.

“I already told you.” Y/N replied, not looking away from her mirror, “She’s at Evie’s.”

“How come?” He asked.

“Because she wanted to? I don’t know, Noah. You can take the bed if that’s what you’re getting at.” Y/N responded.

Noah laughed.

“You know I’m more than happy to just share yours like I usually do.” He said.

She smiled.

“I know.” She murmured.

“You’re planning on bringing someone home tonight aren’t you? That’s why you’re so nervous.” Noah said in a confident voice.

Y/N looked at her lap, an embarrassed blush rising to her cheeks.

She nodded.

“Who?” Noah asked.

“Brady.” Y/N murmured in reply.

Noah was stunned into silence.

Brady had a reputation for being a fuck boy.

He moved on from one girl to the next, he didn’t care how they felt, not one bit.

Part of Noah’s heart started to break when he realised that you wanted somebody else in your bed that night, not him.

“But I’m scared.” She whispered.

“Don’t go through with it if you’re scared.” Noah suggested, hoping she would change her mind.

He patted the space beside him on the bed, gesturing for her to come and sit beside him.

She obliged, resting her head on his shoulder, to which he responded by kissing the top of her head, wrapping his arm around her and pulling her in closer.

“I’ve never done anything like that before.” She admitted softly.

“Done what?” He asked, searching for clarity.

“I don’t usually do this kind of thing.” She said a little bit louder. “One night stands.”

“Oh.” He said in response. “You’ve never slept with anyone?”

“I’ve never even kissed somebody.” She said with a dry laugh. “Does it change the way you think of me?” She looked up at him. “Of course it doesn’t.” He assured her, placing a kiss onto her forehead.

They sat like that for a while.

Entwined in one another.

Noah clutched the stuffed lamb to his chest as he remembered the moment when he sat on the precipice of having everything that he ever dreamed of having, but let it slip right through his fingers.

Back then, he was a nervous wreck.

He couldn’t find the words to express what he wanted to, so instead placed his hand on the side of her face ever so gently, and pulled it closer to his own until their lips met.

The kiss itself was nothing special.

It barely lasted a few seconds.

But Noah felt electric.

His body erupted in fireworks as he finally got to hold her face in his hands.

Their lips interlocked in the softest of kisses, making his lips tingle.

He felt like he was on fire.

When the kiss ended, their foreheads pressed against eachother.

Fireworks still burst in Noah’s chest as he looked into her sparkling eyes.

“I can be your first.” He whispered.

Noah knew that his proposition was a gamble, but he was willing to risk it, just to be that close to her, even if it was only once.

“You mean that?” She asked, looking up at him through her eyelashes.

“Yes.” He whispered. “I want you to be with someone you trust, not some fuckboy at a party.”

“I would really like that.” She replied after a beat.

Noah instantly pulled her back in for another kiss.

The electricity between them soared as Noah pulled her onto his lap, not breaking the kiss, even for a moment.

The music from earlier continued, offering a blissful soundtrack to their intimacy as they grew closer and closer to together.

Noah delicately took off her clothes.

Nervous and tentative fingers explored her as she sat above him, looking down at him with curious eyes.

“I don’t know what to do.” She whispered, red rising to her cheeks as he looked into his brown eyes.

“That’s okay.” He whispered, hands caressing her sides gently. “That’s what I’m here for. I’m going to help you.”

She leant down and kissed him, muttering a soft “thank you” as she pulled away.

The moments that followed were quite possibly the most magical moments in Noah’s life as he held her close, treasuring every inch of her being.

She trusted him completely.

Soft touches and kisses was all that Noah could focus on as he took her.

This wasn’t just fucking to him. He wanted to make love to her.

She deserved it.

Before either of them knew it, Noah was holding her naked form close to his own as they breathed heavily.

Her phone rang suddenly, breaking them out of the bubble they had created for the two of them.

Y/N broke free from Noah’s hold, his arm falling off of her hip and lay limp of the bed beside her as she sat up, answering the call.

“Oh shit.” Y/N spoke to whoever was on the other end of the line. “Yeah we’re on our way now, we lost track of time.”

She jumped off of the bed, and started pulling her clothes back on hurriedly, tossing Noah his own clothes.

Of course she still wanted to go to the party.

The car ride over was silent as they hummed along to the demo of the new Bad Omens song that Noah had been working on.

The Foutain.

Noah would never tell Y/N that he had written the song for her.

Part of him wished that he had.

But he never did.

“I guess I was right when I wrote that.” Noah spoke to the lamb that he clutched in his hands as he reminisced on that night.

They both exited the car and walked towards the house.

Loud music boomed from inside, multicoloured lights burst through the windows.

“Thank you.” She said as they reached the front door. “I’m glad it was you.”

He smiled at her softly, also glad that he was the one to do that for her instead of Brady.

They entered the house.

Blue Monday by New Order blaring from the speakers as they meandered through the partygoers.

They paid no mind to Noah, instead congratulating Y/N on the volleyball team’s win.

He liked watching her succeed like this.

Their hands were still interlocked as they navigated their way to the kitchen in search of a drink.

Noah grabbed the both of them a beer, opening them before handing one to her.

She took a swig almost immediately, making Noah laugh.

Suddenly, her eyes lit up, as if she had caught glimpse of a rare jewel.

“It’s him.” She hurriedly gushed. “Wish me luck.”

Noah barely had enough time to process what had happened before she vanished back into the crowd.

Then he realised where she had gone.

In the middle of the living room stood Brady.

He was tall with short, dark hair.

He was the complete opposite of Noah.

Brady was the captain of the college hockey team. Popular. Strong. Good looking. All the girls fawned over him like he was Justin Bieber.

It was no wonder Y/N was attracted to him.

He leant down to whisper in her ear, making her giggle.

The sight made Noah sick.

It should be him that he was giggling at not Brady.

He had no choice to watch as she flirted with another man right in front of him.

Flashbacks of what had happened in her dorm room merely a few hours ago replayed in his mind. He had been certain that doing that would have been enough for him to convey how he felt to her.

It wasn’t.

And as he watched her leave with Brady that night, he felt the fissure in his heart widen.

He knew it in that moment that he had lost her.

It didn’t matter what he did for her, he would never be enough.

Never be worthy.

They never did talk about what had happened in her dorm room that night.

There was no romance between Y/N and Brady.

In fact, Noah wasn’t sure their fling ever progressed past that night.

He recalled holding her in his arms as she sobbed having been ghosted less than a week later.

Sometimes Noah closed his eyes and saw her, pretending that it was him that she went home with that night.

He had slept alone in her single bed where they made love.

The sheets were now cold.