#edge of everywhere: across the stars

[djarrex]

Hey M, bff I don’t mean to sound like I’m rushing (genuinely, take your time!) but I’m just wondering if you’re still planning on updating Across the Stars/Edge of Everywhere? I’ve been reading since the beginning, and it’s still my favourite Rex fic; I always come back to it. Love you lots!

hey there- so sorry for responding so late!

I'm very flattered you're a fan of the series!!! 🥹 I honestly don't know when I'll come back to it. I definitely want to eventually wrap up ATS because I know I can't just leave Rex in pain like that lmao. I got stuck for a while but every now and then I go back and read what I've posted and make little edits to the wips hanging out in my docs.

A couple years ago I did have ideas for what the future of EOE would look like but I'm not sure how to come back to it. If anything, I'd like to do more side stories with the characters. Drabbles and the like. One day. 😩🫣

[velarisdusk]

Something Precious

Azriel x Reader

word count: 2.1k content: [ nun crazy just reader having mega insecure thoughts lol ] summary: Azriel has always been steady, unwavering—but the way you look at him makes something shift. Small moments, fleeting words, a tension neither of you acknowledge… until it’s impossible for him to ignore. author's note: IM BACK BABEYY!!!!! this ones a bit short but i thought it'd be a good one to help get myself writing again. i really like how it turned out, just a nice, sweet lil fic nothin crazy :) also not beta'd bc i just needed to get something out NEOW. hope this is to your liking anon thank u for the req!! <3 ✦ . Masterlist . ✦

The fire crackled softly in the hearth, its golden glow casting shifting patterns across the walls of the House of Wind. The night outside was crisp and quiet, Velaris resting under a blanket of stars, but here, in this small cocoon of warmth and firelight, everything felt still. 

Azriel lay stretched out on the couch, wings spilling over the cushions in an easy sprawl. His shadows had retreated for the night, content to flicker lazily at the edges of the room, leaving nothing between you but firelight and the slow, steady rhythm of his breath. 

You lay draped across his chest, your weight a comfortable, grounding thing. His heartbeat thudded beneath your cheek, slow and sure, and the warmth of his skin seeped through the thin fabric of his shirt. One of his hands rested at the small of your back, tracing lazy circles under your sweater, while the other curled lightly around the nape of your neck, fingertips brushing idly over your skin. 

You sighed, nuzzling deeper against him, letting the scent of cedar and night-chilled wind wrap around you like a second blanket. Your fingers trailed absentmindedly over his ribs, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing, and when you finally lifted your gaze to meet his, your heart did that ridiculous little stutter it always did. 

Because Azriel was looking at you like that again—like you were something precious. Something worth holding onto. 

The firelight flickered in his hazel eyes, turning them molten, but there was something softer underneath. Something quiet and steady, tucked between the affection in his gaze and the slight curve of his mouth. You weren’t sure you’d ever get used to it. 

You exhaled, barely above a whisper, as if afraid you might shatter the fragile silence. “I can’t believe you’re here with me.”

It wasn’t meant to be a confession. Just a passing thought, one that had been lingering in the back of your mind since the moment you started whatever this was—since the moment you realized someone like him could want someone like you. 

But Azriel stilled beneath you. It was subtle, just a flicker of tension in his fingertips, a pause in the slow drag of his hand against your back. Gone in an instant. 

You wouldn’t have noticed if you hadn’t been laying on his chest, if you hadn’t felt the way his heartbeat faltered for just a second before steadying again. You didn’t call attention to it, just as Az hadn’t. Hadn’t asked what you meant. 

Instead, he shifted slightly, adjusting his wings so they wrapped around you both, pulling you deeper into the warmth of his body. His fingers resumed their slow, absentminded tracing, his thumb sweeping over the back of your neck in a way that made you shiver. 

“Where else would I be?” he murmured. 

You huffed a soft laugh, tucking your face into the crook of his neck. Anywhere. Everywhere. Someone like you doesn’t end up with someone like me.

But you didn’t say that. Just let yourself sink into his warmth, let yourself savor the way his arms tightened around you, as if holding you closer would make you understand. 

Because Azriel didn’t know—not yet. But he was starting to notice. 

And he didn’t like it. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Dinner at the River House was always an event. Not a formal one by any means—the kind where the table was too small for all the elbows knocking together where laughter wove itself between the clinking of glasses and the scrape of silverware. Where the air smelled of roasted lamb and rosemary, of spiced wine and honeyed bread, warmth curling through the candlelit room like an embrace.

Nesta and Cassian had somehow gotten into a debate over who was worse at flirting—Rhysand or Azriel—which had quickly turned into a full-blown conversation about all their past entanglements. 

“You’re all fools,” Amren said simply, swirling the deep red in her glass. “None of you were half as charming as you thought you were.”

Cassian scoffed. “I was charming.”

Nesta didn’t even look up as she speared a piece of meat. “Debatable.”

Across the table, Mor snickered. “He was charming, in the way a golden retriever puppy is charming.”

Azriel smirked into his wine glass. Cassian pointed at him accusingly. “You don’t get to laugh. You spent centuries avoiding love like the Mother herself would smite you for it.”

“That’s because he’s got high standards,” Mor shot back. “Honestly, I’m just surprised Az’s even dating.”

Feyre hummed, shifting Nyx higher against her shoulder as he dozed, his tiny fingers curled into the fabric of her sweater. “Dating? I’m surprised he’s managed to keep someone around long enough to–”

“Feyre.” His voice was soft, but the weight behind it was enough to cut her off. His expression was still easy, his lips curling at the edges, but there was something there—something firm, something protective. 

Your stomach twisted. 

The words weren’t meant to hurt. You knew that. They were lighthearted, Feyre smiling at her brother-in-law, the way siblings poked fun without malice. And Azriel had cut her off before she could finish—before she could say something that might have struck deeper.

But it was already unraveling in your head.

High standards. 

Avoiding love.

Managed to keep someone around long enough.

Because is that all this is? A fling? Something temporary? Another short-lived thing in a string of them? 

Your grip tightened subtly around your glass, the air suddenly too warm, your pulse thrumming a little too fast. And before you could stop yourself, before you could sit with the spiraling thoughts for even a second longer, you laughed. Too loud. Too sharp. A sound that cut through the warmth of the room rather than settling into it. 

“Yeah, just wait until he realizes how much of a pain I am.”

Silence, just for a beat. 

Azriel’s head snapped toward you, sharp enough that you felt it before you saw it—the weight of his gaze landing on you, the furrow in his brows, the shift in the air between you. But you didn’t look. Couldn’t. 

Rhysand chuckled, breaking the brief pause, shaking his head. “Yeah, right. You’re practically a saint for dealing with him.”

Cassian smirked, lifting his glass. “Agreed.”

Laughter rippled through the table again, and just like that, the moment passed—folded itself into the fabric of the conversation, buried beneath the easy back and forth, the scraping of plates, the pouring of wine. 

Azriel let it go. Again. 

But it lingered.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Azriel eventually pushed past that uneasy feeling. It wasn’t a big deal—not really. He figured you probably hadn’t even meant anything by it. But something about it rubbed him the wrong way, settled uneasily in his chest, and he couldn’t explain why. 

But then it happened again. 

And again. 

Little things, small enough that they would have slipped through the cracks if he hadn’t been paying attention. The way you waved off his compliments, dodging them with a laugh like they were jokes rather than truths. The way your smile sometimes faltered, like you’d caught yourself enjoying the moment a little too much. The way your fingers curled into the fabric of your sleeve when he touched you, like you were steadying yourself. 

And then there was the way you looked at him—that was what unsettled him the most. 

Because he was used to being looked at in a thousand different ways—calculating, cautious, reverent, fearful. People looked at him and saw a legend, a warning, a weapon. He’d spent a lifetime standing on the outskirts of things, watching them unfold from the shadows, knowing that no matter how close he got, he would always be separate.

But you looked at him like he was something untouchable. 

Like you didn’t quite believe he was real. 

Like you were waiting for the moment he’d come to his senses and walk away. 

And Azriel—who had spent years mastering the art of patience, of knowing when to hold back—found himself growing more and more frustrated. 

Not at you, gods, never at you. 

But at the way you’d convinced yourself that you were less. 

That he was something more. 

It all came to a head one evening in the training ring. 

You weren’t training, just sitting on one of the benches, legs tucked beneath you, book resting open in your lap. You liked being here with him, and he liked having you here, even if neither of you’d ever said it out loud. He could feel your eyes on him as he moved through his drills, the steady weight of your attention like a tether pulling him back to earth. 

When he finally finished, muscles burning, wings flexing as he rolled his shoulders, he walked over to you. You grinned up at him, eyes warm despite the sharp winter air, and handed him a cup of water without a word.

Az took a long drink before murmuring, “You staring at me again?”

You scoffed, though the way your mouth twitched told him you were fighting a smile. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He smirked, resting a hand on the bench’s backrest beside you, bracing himself as he leaned down. “Too late.”

You made a face, but the slight pink creeping up your neck gave you away. He kissed you softly, just a brush of lips, tasting warmth and wind and something undeniably you.

And then you said it.

“I still don’t know what you see in me.”

You said it casually. Offhanded. Like it wasn’t a confession. Like it wasn’t the worst thing you could’ve said.

Azriel  went still.

The words settled like a stone in his chest, heavy and suffocating. And suddenly, every little moment from the past few weeks clicked into place—the deflected compliments, the hesitations, the way you looked at him like you were waiting for him to wake up and realize you weren't enough.

The frustration that had been simmering in the back of his mind finally snapped.

His voice was quiet, but firm. “Don’t do that.”

You blinked, tilting your head slightly. “Do what?”

“That.” He straightened, looking down at you, jaw tight. “Talk about yourself like that.”

You shifted, clearly thrown off by the sudden change in his tone. “Az, I was just—”

“I mean it.” His wings flared slightly, a flicker of restrained emotion. “You say things like that all the time. Like you don’t think you belong here. Like I’m some…” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Some gift the Mother decided to bestow on you.”

You opened your mouth, but he wasn’t finished.

“You don’t think I notice, but I do,” he said, voice softer now, rough around the edges. “I can see it in the way you dodge compliments, the way you downplay yourself like you’re the lucky one—as if I’m not the one who should be grateful every damn day that you want to be with me.”

You swallowed hard, looking away. “That’s not—”

“Look at me.”

You did.

And when your eyes met, something inside Az ached.

Because you really didn’t see it.

Didn’t see what he saw every time he looked at you—the quiet strength, the unwavering kindness, the way you fit so effortlessly into the parts of him that had always felt empty.

Didn’t see how, before you, he had spent centuries standing on the outside looking in, wondering if he would ever have anything or anyone just for himself.

Didn’t see how you were already everything.

Azriel exhaled, slow and steady, forcing himself to find the words. “You are not some… temporary thing I decided to entertain myself with.” He took your hand, curling your fingers between his own. “You’re not lucky to have me.” He squeezed, firm but gentle. “I’m lucky to have you.”

Your lips parted slightly, but no words came out. You looked like you wanted to argue, to tell him he had it backwards, but there was something raw in his expression—something that made you hesitate.

Az lifted your joined hands and pressed a slow, lingering kiss to the back of yours, his lips brushing your skin as he whispered, “Stop acting like you’re less than.”

Silence stretched between you, heavy with everything unsaid.

Finally, you exhaled shakily and leaned forward, pressing your forehead against his. “I don’t know how to stop feeling like I am.”

Az closed his eyes, letting himself breathe you in. And then he whispered, “Then let me remind you.”

And he would.

As many times as it took.

[lazysoulwriter]

not in the script - pedro pascal.

requested! thank you. ♡ content: NSFW — soft possessiveness, jealousy, praise kink, marking, unprotected sex, oral [f!receiving], handsy cuddling, overstimulation but in a cozy way, established relationship, pet names, aftercare, fluff woven through the spice | Pedro Pascal x Actress!Wife!Reader

---

It all started with the trailer.

You'd warned Pedro. Briefly.

“There’s a kiss in it,” you’d said. “But it’s short.”

And to your credit — it was short.

But it didn’t feel short when he watched it. It felt like it lasted an eternity. It wasn’t even the kiss itself. It was your face. The way you leaned into it. The soft gasp. The tremble in your hands as they touched your co-star’s chest.

It was too convincing.

Too real.

He watched it again. Just once more.

Then he tossed his phone aside with a small scoff and leaned back on the couch, his jaw locked.

You padded into the room moments later, fresh from the shower, wrapped in a short robe, hair still damp.

“You okay, baby?”

“I’m fine.”

You raised a brow. “You’re pouting.”

“I’m not—” he started, but you were already crawling into his lap.

He let out a small grunt when your hips settled over his, robe parting slightly. His hands found your thighs, a reaction more than a decision.

“Pedro,” you said softly, “you know it was just acting.”

“I know.”

“It was like… six seconds.”

“Too many.”

You giggled. “Don’t be a baby.”

“I’m not,” he insisted, hands gripping your ass now, voice low and hot in your ear. “I just don’t like seeing my wife kiss someone like that and then moan.”

Your stomach flipped at his tone.

“You know what that sounded like?” he whispered, kissing the side of your jaw. “Sounded like the way you moan for me when I’ve got my tongue inside you.”

Heat bloomed between your legs instantly.

“Maybe you need a reminder,” you murmured, grinding your hips just enough to tease. “That it’s all for you.”

His fingers dug into your skin. “Take me to bed, right now.”

You didn’t even bother turning the lights on.

You let the soft natural glow pour into the bedroom from the sunset outside — skin bathed in gold, hair mussed, robe undone.

Pedro’s hands roamed everywhere. Slow. Certain.

“You look like a fucking goddess,” he whispered, kissing down your chest. “My beautiful, filthy wife.”

You whimpered as his tongue flicked across your nipple, then sucked. His hand trailed down your stomach, slipping between your legs like it belonged there.

Which it did.

He took his time.

Two fingers inside, curling exactly where you needed him. His thumb circled your clit in slow, deliberate strokes while his mouth stayed latched on your chest, switching sides, making you writhe under him.

Your head fell back against the pillows. “Pedro…”

“That’s it, baby. Let it out. But for methis time.”

Your orgasm hit like a wave, crashing through your body, thighs shaking as he whispered praises against your skin.

“Gorgeous. So fucking wet for me. No one else gets this, no one.”

You were still catching your breath when he moved above you, slipping between your thighs, his cock thick and hard, sliding through your folds.

“Let me inside, hermosa,” he groaned, voice rough. “Let me remind you who you belong to.”

When he pushed in, you both moaned.

He filled you so perfectly. Slow, deep thrusts that left you gasping, clinging to him as he buried his face in your neck, panting.

You clenched around him and he cursed. “Shit, baby. You’re gonna make me come—”

You flipped him before he could, straddling his hips with a wicked smile.

“I’ll decide when you get to come, esposo,” you whispered.

He groaned, head falling back as you rode him slow and steady, grinding deep, letting him feel every inch of you.

“You think anyone else gets to fuck me like this?” you purred. “You think anyone ever could?”

He shook his head desperately. “Never. Only me. Only me.”

You kissed him, biting his lip, still moving slow and teasing until you both hit that edge together — your moans messy, hands tangled, nails digging in, his name the only word you remembered.

When you collapsed on top of him, his arms instantly wrapped around you.

“You’re mine,” he murmured, still catching his breath. “And I’m so fucking lucky.”

You brushed sweaty curls from his forehead. “You’re also dramatic.”

He laughed, kissed your forehead, and held you tighter. “And you’re my wife. So you’re stuck with me.”

---

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

[guliexe]

—HOTEL VLOG 18+

Hamzah x Female!Reader

warnings/tags: hotel vlog, soft dom!hamzah, friends to lovers, pent up tension, making out, nipple sucking, oral (f receiving), kinda orgasm denial??, dirty talk, unprotected sex, p in v, praise, creampie, fluff, aftercare

♡ you go to a 5 star hotel with mandy, martin and hamzah for a vlog. hamzah can’t stop thinking about you and you eventually fuck!

w/c: 4.6k

It was Martin’s idea to bring everyone to this huge five-star hotel for a vlog, including you. You had become friends with Martin and Hamzah a few months ago, and they started including you in some of their videos and podcasts.

Stepping into the hotel, you, Martin, Mandy, and Hamzah checked in and made your way to your rooms. The place was even more luxurious than you had imagined—marble floors, chandeliers, and the kind of elegance that made you feel a little out of place. You and Mandy were sharing one room, while the boys had their own.Mandy grinned at you as she tossed her bag onto one of the beds. “This is gonna be so fun! Did you see the pools? they’re insane!” she exclaimed.

“Before you could respond to Mandy, a knock sounded at the door. She swung it open without hesitation, revealing Hamzah leaning lazily against the doorframe, hands in the pockets of his hoodie. "You guys settled in?" he asked, glancing between you and Mandy. "Yep! And we're already planning to hit the pool later," Mandy said, grinning. Hamzah’s gaze flickered to you. “You swimming?” You shrugged. “Maybe. What about you? Are you guys joining us?”

He scratched the back of his neck. “Uh, yeah, sure. I’ll let Martin know.” Then, shifting back into his usual laid-back demeanor, he leaned against the doorframe. “Anyway, Martin wants to start filming soon. Meet us in the lounge in twenty?” Mandy gave him a thumbs-up. "Got it." As soon as he walked off, Mandy turned to you with a knowing look. "You so like him." You scoffed. "Do not." She just grinned. "Sure, sure. And I’m the Queen of England."

After filming wrapped up, the four of you finally made your way down to the pool. The area was stunning—soft lighting, crystal-clear water, and a view of the city skyline beyond the glass walls. You emerged from the changing room in your—kinda tiny bikini—adjusting the straps as you followed Mandy toward the poolside. The water reflected the golden lights, casting rippling patterns across the tiled floor. You glanced up just in time to catch Hamzah’s reaction.

He had been mid-conversation with Martin, but the second his eyes landed on you, his words stalled. His jaw tensed, and he quickly looked away, rubbing the back of his neck like he suddenly didn’t know what to do with his hands. Mandy, of course, noticed immediately. She leaned toward you, whispering, “Oh, he so wasn’t ready for that.” You felt your face heat up but ignored her, pretending not to notice the way Hamzah’s gaze kept flickering back to you when he thought you weren’t looking. Martin and Hamzah jumped into the pool, splashing water everywhere. After a minute, you slowly dip into the pool with Mandy, the water was warm as you surfaced, running your hands over your face to wipe away the droplets clinging to your eyes. You pushed your wet hair back, blinking a few times to adjust to the pool lights.

Hamzah was talking to Martin about something, but the second you surfaced, his words completely died in his throat. His gaze flickered to you, just for a second, but it was enough to make his pulse stutter. His eyes traced the way your wet hair clung to your neck and collarbone, the way droplets of water slid down your skin, disappearing beneath the fabric of your bikini. And that damn bikini, so tight on you, wasn’t doing him any favours. It hugged your curves perfectly, molding to your body.

He leaned back against the pool’s edge, stretching an arm over the ledge like he couldn’t care less. But his fingers curled slightly, a small betrayal of the heat creeping under his skin. Mandy, ofcourse, smirked. “Hamzah, you good? You look kinda—flustered.” He exhaled through his nose, side-eyeing my Mandy. “It’s a heated pool, Mandy.” "Right," she hummed, clearly not buying it. You arched a brow at him, eyes gleaming with curiosity. "You sure?" Hamzah met your gaze evenly this time, masking any trace of his wandering thoughts. He smirked, easy and practiced. "Why? You worried about me?" You scoffed, rolling your eyes before pushing off the ledge, swimming to the other side with Mandy.

Hamzah finally let out a slow breath, tilting his head back against the pool’s edge. His body still felt warm—too warm—but his expression stayed cool, unreadable. Martin said something, but Hamzah barely registered it, nodding absentmindedly as he dragged a hand through his wet hair. You swam over to Mandy, laughing about something, completely unaware of the effect you were having on him. And maybe that was the worst part—how effortless it was for you. How you weren’t even trying, and yet, here he was, gripping the edge of the pool a little too hard just to keep his thoughts in check.

After a while, Mandy stretched her arms over her head, sighing. “Alright, I’m getting out. My fingers are all wrinkly.”You laughed, glancing down at your own pruned fingertips. “Yeah, same.” Pushing off the pool’s edge, you made your way to the steps, water cascading down your body as you stepped out. The cool air hit your skin, making you shiver slightly as you reached for a towel. His gaze followed the slow trail of water sliding down your back, the way your bikini clung to you, emphasizing everything. He swallowed, shifting his jaw like it would somehow fix the heat creeping into his chest. Martin said something beside him, but Hamzah barely heard it. “You guys coming?” Hamzah cleared his throat, forcing his expression into something neutral. “Yeah, in a bit.” You hummed in acknowledgment, following Mandy toward the lounge chairs to grab your things.

As soon as you walked off, Martin shot Hamzah a knowing look. “You’re staring, bro.” Hamzah scoffed, leaning back against the pool’s edge. “No, I’m not.” Martin smirked. “Sure.” Hamzah rolled his eyes, pushing himself up out of the water in one smooth motion. He reached for his towel, rubbing it through his wet hair before draping it around his shoulders. “We heading up?” Martin grinned. “Yeah. Before you embarrass yourself any further.”

Back in your room, the soft hum of the AC filled the air as you stood in front of the mirror, towel-drying your hair while Mandy rifled through her suitcase. “So,” she said casually, holding up two of her dresses. “Are we going cute or fancy tonight?” You glanced at her reflection in the mirror. “I don’t know, i’m not trying to impress anyone.” She wiggled her brows at you through the mirror. “It’s a fancy ass restaurant Y/N!! Plus, I wasn’t the one getting eye-fucked in the pool.” Your mouth dropped open. “Mandy!” She only laughed, pointing at the silky dress on your bed. “Wear this. You’ll shut Hamzah up real fast.” You rolled your eyes but didn’t protest, your cheeks already warm.

Hamzah sat on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, staring at the floor like it might help him get his head right. He wasn’t sure why his chest felt tight—wasn’t like this was a date. Just dinner. Just the four of them. Still, he couldn’t shake the heat sitting low in his stomach, the way his thoughts kept circling back to the pool. To you. The knock came sharp and quick. He stood a little too fast, hand already on the door handle before his thoughts could catch up. When he opened it and saw you and Mandy standing there, that tension in his chest pulled tighter. “Hey! We’re ready!” You smiled at him. “Hey…you look good” he said before he could stop himself. “Thanks, you too” your cheeks flushed at his compliment, then suddenly Martin comes at the door. “Right, so let’s go then ladies!”

The elevator ride to the rooftop was quiet. Mandy and Martin chatted about the menu, tossing out guesses on what kind of dishes the place might have. You stood beside Hamzah, close enough that your perfume reached him in waves—sweet, clean, and way too distracting. He didn’t say much, hands tucked into his pockets, jaw relaxed like he was perfectly unbothered. When the doors opened, the rooftop glowed under strings of soft lights, the city skyline glittering around the glass edges of the restaurant. A hostess led you all to a sleek corner table with plush seating and a perfect view. You slid in next to Mandy, leaving the space across from you open—and of course, Hamzah took it. He settled in with one arm draped along the back of Martin’s chair, legs stretched out just enough to brush against yours under the table. If he noticed, he didn’t show it. But he didn’t move either.

The four of you scanned the menus, the quiet clinking of silverware and soft jazz filling the rooftop air. Mandy and Martin had fallen into another back-and-forth about what they were ordering, their conversation light and easy. You chimed in here and there, but your attention kept drifting back to Hamzah, across from you. His eyes weren’t on the menu. They were on you. Only for a second. Then he looked down again, fingers tapping against the glass of water in front of him like he needed to keep them busy.

Under the table, his knee was still pressed lightly against yours. It wasn’t much—barely anything, really—but you could feel the warmth of it. Feel the way neither of you had pulled away. “So,” Mandy said suddenly, eyeing the appetizers, “are we sharing or we just get what we want?” Martin grinned. “I’m starving. I don’t care.” You laughed, glancing at the menu again. “I’m good with sharing.” “I bet you are,” Martin said to you with a smirk. “You always pretend you’re not that hungry and then steal fries.” “That’s a lie,” you said, smiling at him. “It was one fry.” “One, she says” Mandy muttered, nudging you.

While they kept going, you felt it again—that shift. Hamzah’s eyes on you. You looked up to meet them this time. “What?” you asked softly, your voice just above the ambient music.He didn’t smile. Just tilted his head a little. “Nothing.” But there was something in his tone—like whatever he wasn’t saying sat heavy behind his teeth. Your legs shifted under the table, and his knee nudged yours again. This time, it didn’t feel accidental. Your breath caught, but you played it off, busying yourself with the edge of your dress.

The evening had dragged on longer than expected, the dinner filling with casual chatter and jokes, but underneath it all, the energy between you and Hamzah never quite settled. Every stolen glance, every near touch, every time he smirked or looked at you a little too long—it was all too much, too slow, but somehow still not enough. Finally, Martin, who had been quietly sipping his drink all night, let out a loud, drawn-out laugh. “I’m feeling it... I’m definitely feeling it” he slurred, trying to hold himself steady against the back of his chair. Mandy raised an eyebrow. “You good, Martin?” she asked, though it was clear she knew the answer. He swayed slightly before nodding. “Yeah, yeah... I think I need to sleep this one off. Mandy, you’re coming, right?” Mandy rolled her eyes but nodded. “Of course. Come on.”They stood up, and Mandy helped guide a stumbling Martin toward the door. The moment they left, the room fell quieter, and you and Hamzah were left behind. It wasn’t exactly comfortable. There was a pause. The tension between you was intense.

“Well,” you said, shifting in your seat slightly, trying to play it cool. “Guess we should probably head up too.” Hamzah didn’t immediately respond, still leaning back in his chair with a lazy tilt of his head. Then, with an almost lazy smile, he pushed himself to his feet. “Yeah, I guess so. Lead the way.” When you turned to head for the elevator, he followed close behind, but the silence in the hall was thick. The distant sound of your footsteps echoed, and each step made it feel like you were both trying to outrun something you weren’t ready to face. As you reached the elevator, you hit the button. The doors slid open with a soft chime, and the two of you stepped inside. It was cramped, the kind of intimate space where you couldn’t help but be aware of every inch of the other person. The air felt charged, heavy, with neither of you speaking as the doors closed behind you.

You could feel Hamzah standing close beside you, just a few inches away, his presence unmistakable. His gaze flickered toward you briefly, and for a moment, everything seemed to pause. "So," you say, trying to break the silence, your voice coming out a little quieter than you’d meant. "Quite the night, huh?" Hamzah glances over at you, the faintest trace of a smile playing at the corner of his lips. "Yeah, more than I expected. Martin’s... interesting when he’s had a bit to drink." You let out a small laugh. "I know. He’s a handful." There’s another brief silence. You glance at him, then quickly look away, focusing on the numbers above the door as they tick upward. "You're quiet tonight" you say softly. Hamzah shifts beside you, his shoulder brushing yours. "Just thinking," he murmurs. You raise a brow. “About what?” He hesitates, then shrugs, looking back toward the elevator doors. “You.”

You try to laugh it off, but your voice comes out uneven. “What about me?” He glances at you again, slower this time. “How you looked tonight. How you always look.” You look away, heat rising to your cheeks. The air feels thicker now, harder to breathe. The elevator hums beneath your feet. You can feel how close he is—your arms nearly brushing, his warmth impossible to ignore. “You know” you say after a pause, your voice quieter, “you don’t usually say stuff like that.” Hamzah leans slightly toward you. Not touching—but so close it feels like a touch. “Doesn’t mean I don’t think it.” Your breath catches in your throat, heart thudding against your ribs like it wants out. You glance up at him again—slowly this time—and he’s already looking at you, that half-lidded gaze unreadable but intense. “Why now?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. His lips twitch slightly, but it’s not quite a smile. “Because if I don’t say something tonight, I’m gonna regret it.”Your pulse stutters. The elevator hums softly, rising toward your floor at an infuriatingly slow pace. The air between you vibrates with unspoken things, with every almost-touch that’s happened all day. Every stolen glance. Every lingering second.

“You looked… so fucking good at the pool” Hamzah says quietly, voice rougher now, lower. “And then tonight—” He shakes his head once, like the memory itself frustrates him. “It’s been driving me crazy.” You swallow hard., cheeks turning red. “I’ve been trying to play it cool,” he admits, eyes dropping briefly to your mouth before flicking back up. “But you make it hard.” The elevator dings softly as it passes another floor. Almost there. And suddenly, the knowledge that you’re running out of time crashes over you. You shift to face him more fully, your back brushing against the mirrored wall. “Show me then” you whisper. “How crazy i drive you.” Hamzah doesn’t move right away. His jaw flexes once, and then he steps in closer, slow and deliberate, until there’s barely an inch between you. His hand comes up, resting just beside your head on the wall behind you, not quite touching but close enough to make you dizzy. “I want to kiss you,” he says, voice deep, looking up at your eyes. “Can i?”

You’re not sure who moves first, but suddenly your mouths are crashing together, urgent and messy and hot. You gasp into him, and he swallows the sound, his hands finally landing on your waist, pulling you flush against him. Your fingers tangle in the front of his shirt, anchoring yourself as your back hits the cool metal of the elevator wall. His mouth moves over yours like he’s starving—deep, slow, then faster when you tug him closer. One of his hands drifts down, sliding under the hem of your dress, feeling your thigh, fingers pressing into your skin like he wants to memorize the shape of you.

You make a soft sound, and he groans into your mouth in response, the kiss turning hotter, heavier, his body pressing into yours like he can’t get close enough. Then all of a sudden-ding! The elevator doors open to your floor. You both break apart just barely, breathing hard, eyes locked. Neither of you moves right away. Hamzah’s chest is still pressed to yours, his hand resting against your thigh under your dress, like he forgot to pull away—or didn’t want to. You can feel his breath against your cheek, heavy and warm, and when he finally speaks, it’s in a voice so low it’s practically a growl. “You gonna walk” he murmurs, “or you want me to carry you?”

Your lips part, breath hitching as you start to respond,but you don’t get the chance. Suddenly, his arm wraps around your waist and the other around your legs, and you gasp as he lifts you like it’s nothing. Your arms instinctively loop around his neck, your dress riding up slightly as he holds you close. “Hamzah” you breathe, the sound caught somewhere between a warning and a plea. He doesn’t answer. He just starts walking, carrying you down the quiet hallway like he knows exactly where you’re going—and it’s the only place he’s been trying to get to all night.

Your heartbeat thunders in your ears as you cling to him, chest to chest, your lips brushing his jaw as you glance up. His eyes stay fixed ahead, his grip strong. When you reach your room, he pauses just outside the door. Gently, he lowers you to your feet, hands lingering at your waist, his breath still coming fast and shallow against your cheek. Fumbling slightly, you swipe the keycard. The lock clicks. And you barely wait for the door to swing open before your hand curls around his shirt, pulling him in with you.

As soon as the door shuts behind you, his mouth is on yours again—rougher this time, sloppy. Like now that he has you alone, he’s not holding anything back. The door clicks shut behind you, and then it’s like something snaps. He crowds you back against it without breaking the kiss, his hands gripping your waist, then sliding lower—down your hips, your thighs, tugging your dress up as his mouth devours yours. It’s all heat and teeth and tongue. You moan into him, fingers tangling in his shirt, tugging it up over his head. He barely breaks the kiss to yank it off, tossing it somewhere behind him before he’s on you again, mouth moving along your jaw, down your neck. His teeth graze your skin, and he sucks on the soft skin, leaving a mark.

“I’ve been thinking about this for months” he murmurs against your skin, his voice rough and low and desperate. “Thinking about you. How you sound. How you taste.” His hands find the backs of your thighs, lifting you again, only this time, he walks you straight to the bed. You cling to him, your dress hiked up, legs wrapped around his waist as he lowers you onto the mattress, his body following, pressing you down into the sheets. You look up at him, chest heaving, lips parted. “Then stop thinking,” you whisper, “and do something about it. That’s all it takes.

His hands are everywhere on your body. He quickly takes your dress off, tossing it away, the cold air of the room hardening your bare nipples. His eyes drop, and for a moment, all he does is stare. He can’t believe you’re real, laid out beneath him like this. “Fuck” he breathes, voice strained. Then he slowly lowers himself and his mouth wraps around one of your nipples. You gasp, arching into him as his tongue swirls, soft at first, then rougher, teasing. His hand cups your other breast, thumb brushing over the nipple as his lips close around the other, sucking with slow pressure that has your back lifting off the mattress.

“Hamzah,” you whisper, your voice already wrecked. “Please, want more” Hamzah lifts his head slightly, his mouth glistening from where he’d been sucking on your nipple, eyes dark with heat. “Yeah?” he murmurs, voice rough. “You want more?” His hand trails slowly down your stomach, the pads of his fingers caressing your soft skin until they disappear beneath the thin waistband of your panties. The moment his fingers dip lower, he groans under his breath. “Fuck, you’re soaked.” His touch is light at first—just two fingers sliding between your folds, collecting the slick that’s already gathered there.

You jolt slightly, breath hitching, whining softly, hips twitching up toward his hand. His other arm braces beside your head, keeping him hovered over you as his fingers begin to move, slow and teasing, rubbing lazy circles over your clit. After a minute he pulls back just enough to sit up on his knees, tugging your panties down your legs in one smooth motion. He drops them somewhere behind him without looking, gaze fixed between your thighs now spread open just for him. Hamzah leans in again, settling between your legs, hands gripping your thighs, pushing them wider.

A deep sigh leaves his mouth at the sight of you, then lowers his head, and licks a slow, deliberate stripe up your pussy. You cry out, hips jerking, but he doesn’t stop. His mouth latches onto your clit, tongue swirling, then flattening, then flicking in perfect rhythm while his hands pin you down. He eats you like he’s starving, like he’s waited too long and finally, finally gets to have you. Your hands move to his hair, gripping tight, and he groans into you at the pull, tongue working deeper, faster, until your thighs start to shake around his head. He doesn’t stop. Not when you whimper his name like that. Not even when your hips begin to roll against his mouth, desperate and mindless.

He just holds you open and keeps licking—slow, messy, relentless. You're right on the edge, the pleasure coiling tight in your core, your thighs trembling around his head “Hamzah,” you gasp, voice high and needy. “Fuck—I’m gonna—” And he stops. He pulls back suddenly, his mouth wet, lips slick with you. You make a broken sound, halfway between a moan and a protest, hips still twitching in the air like your body’s chasing the orgasm he just stole from you. He looks up at you, flushed and breathless. “Nah,” he pants, voice hoarse. “Not like that. I wanna feel you when you cum.”

He’s already pushing his sweats down, cock thick, hard and flushed, leaking at the tip as he crawls over you. Your legs part without second thought, welcoming him, and he grabs himself at the base, dragging the head slowly through your soaked folds. You whimper at the contact, hips tilting up, desperate. Hamzah hisses through his teeth. “Fuck—you’re so wet, baby.” Then he pushes in. The stretch steals the air from your lungs. He’s thick, filling you slow but deep, making you feel every inch as your walls clench around him. Your hands reach for his back, nails sinking into his skin.

He groans deep in his throat, forehead dropping to yours. “Shit—you feel so fucking good.” When he bottoms out, he pauses, buried to the hilt, letting you both feel it—how full you are, how tight, how perfect it fits. Then he starts to move. Slow at first, grinding deep, each thrust deliberate, dragging against that sensitive spot that makes your legs tremble. You gasp his name again, and that’s all it takes—he snaps his hips harder, faster, setting a rhythm that’s rough and needy and so goddamn good it knocks the thoughts from your head. Your body arches into him, mouth falling open, his lips brushing yours, his breath hot and ragged against your skin.

“Can’t believe it took us—fuck—so long to do this” his voice deep and unstable. Your body tightens beneath him, every nerve lit up like fire, and Hamzah doesn’t let up. His hips snap into you, fast and deep, filling you over and over. He’s panting against your mouth, forehead pressed to yours, like he can’t bear to be any farther than skin-to-skin “That’s it,” he groans, his voice thick and wrecked. “Taking me so fucking well,made for me.” You whimper at his words, thighs trembling around his waist, fingernails digging into his back as the pleasure builds hard in your abdomen. Every thrust knocks the breath out of you, and the way he looks at you—like you’re his, like there’s nothing else in the world but you—pushes you right to the edge. “Hamzah—fuck—I’m close—”

He drives into you even deeper, the tip of his cock hitting that perfect spot that makes you cry out. “Cum for me,” he groans against your ear. “Be a good girl and cum. Let me feel you.” And you do. Your whole body shakes, your back arching off the bed as your orgasm rips through you, wave after wave crashing so hard it makes you sob his name. Your walls flutter around him, squeezing him so tight he swears under his breath. He brings his mouth to yours, kissing you deeply and passionately, leaving both of you breathless. “Fuck—fuck, baby, I’m—please, can i fill you up?” You quickly nod, and cling onto him tighter. “Please, i need you” you whine in his ear. His rhythm stutters, hips jerking once, twice—then he’s spilling inside you, thick and hot, buried as deep as he can get. He curses again, low and breathless, holding you tight as he throbs inside you.

He doesn’t move for a long moment, just stays there, forehead pressed to yours, both of you panting, skin slick with sweat and still trembling from the high. His nose brushes yours, and for a moment, everything is quiet but the sound of your breathing and the dull thrum of your racing heartbeats. Then, slowly, gently, he kisses you again—this time softer, slower, but still desperate. Like he’s trying to say everything he doesn’t have words for. “You okay?” he murmurs, his voice rough but full of concern as he brushes a strand of hair away from your face. “Did I hurt you?”

You shake your head immediately, pulling him down for another kiss. “No,” you whisper against his lips. “I feel perfect.” He smiles at your words, so full of love that it makes your chest ache. He finally pulls out of you carefully, murmuring a quiet apology at the sensitivity, and disappears for a second to grab a towel from the bathroom. When he returns, he kneels between your legs, his touch gentle as he cleans you up, his eyes flicking to your face every few seconds to make sure you’re okay. Once he’s done, he tosses the towel aside and climbs back into bed beside you, tugging the duvet up around both your bodies.

His arm wraps around your waist, pulling you in close, tucking your head beneath his chin. His other hand finds yours under the covers, fingers lacing together like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I’ve wanted this,” he murmurs into your hair. “Wanted you. For so long.” You smile sleepily, fingers trailing over his bare chest. “You have me,” you say softly. “You’ve always had me.” He presses a kiss to your temple and holds you tighter. “Not letting you go now,” he whispers. “Not ever.” And with your legs tangled together and his heartbeat steady under your cheek, you fall asleep in his arms, warm, safe and more his than you’ve ever been.

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[sushirrrry]

AU PAIR

a harry styles x you one-shot cw: solo female masturbation, slow burn, tension!!! word count: 11,408

summary: a working single dad and his au pair start to bond over simple bedtime routines, but a steamy kiss after bath time threatens their professional boundaries tag list: @esposa-do-harry @fangirlstuffsblog @matildasatellite @dipmeinhoneyh @thepopcultureaddict @iloveharrystyles04 @theluckyleprachaun-in-stripes @this-is-tiny-mia @emmie2308

hope you all enjoy <3

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The sound of the house settles into one of those rare, aching silences — the kind that hums against your skin after a long day of toys scattered across the living room floor and tiny feet padding after you, or the sounds of the juice spilling from the table and onto the meticulously kept hardwood.

Quinn, Leo, and yourself are currently sharing one of the small toddler beds for bedtime stories, as you begin smoothing the edges of her quilt on the side of Leo that he is curled up into, the faded colors soft under your fingertips. You can hear the breathing of two worn-out toddlers coming in slow, even puffs now.

Your voice is a whisper as you finish the last page, Goodnight Moon balanced on your knee, thumb running absently over the cracked spine.

“…goodnight stars, goodnight air, goodnight noises everywhere.” Your last breath is practically silent as you recognize that the two children have fallen asleep; you knew they would fall asleep seconds after you started reading for the second time.

You close the book quietly, pressing it to your chest for a moment like a shield, before setting it aside on the little nightstand. The main mission now is to get yourself out of the bed, trying to make your way around and down to the bottom so you do not disturb them.

It is not unusual that they fall asleep in each other’s beds; the five- and three-year-old have practically slept in the same bed all along – as long as you have been here to notice it. It was more of a comfort thing, you find. Maybe it has to do with the loneliness that they feel from their parents, you are not entirely sure. All that you know is that you do not find an issue with leaving them to find comfort in each other.

As you’ve gotten off the bed, you place the children’s book on the small shelf beside the bed. For a moment, you simply sat there, watching the slow, even rise and fall of their chests, the occasional twitch of a dream beginning to form in one of their tiny limbs. It was a rare kind of peace—something delicate, something sacred. To be a child is an honor, and you feel it’s an honor to watch them.

As you make your way to the door, you’ve smoothed your palms down the front of your denim shorts, casting one last look at the sleeping children before slipping quietly from the room. You pulled the door almost shut behind you, leaving it open just a crack, just the way they liked it – just in case they ever needed to find you.

In the large home in Hampstead, it was quite hard for the little ones to manage their way around on their own.

The hallway was quiet; the light had dimmed outside in the summer heat but hadn’t completely set as it crept through the windows that lined the hall. There was a stretch of warm wood floors and framed photographs—beaches, birthday cakes, candid laughter caught mid-breath. You padded barefoot down the stairs. The house smelled faintly of cinnamon and soap, a comfortable blend that was beginning to feel familiar.

You made your way to the kitchen space, in the small breakfast nook, where your laptop sat waiting for you on the corner, an abandoned Word document still blinking impatiently on the screen as if it had been just sitting and waiting for written words to come that never would.

 There was a mug of cold coffee next to it, forgotten hours ago prior to bath and bedtime, even after Leo had demanded "one more story, pleeeease," and Quinn had chimed in with her irresistible little lisp.

You sat down with a soft sigh, pulling the computer closer, brushing a lock of hair behind your ear. There was a paper due for your Early Child Development summer course, which, on a complete ironic level you had decided to write about the role that storytelling played on a cognitive level in early childhood. However, you found yourself staring at the cursor, your thoughts wandering lazily through the evening, replaying the sound of Quinn’s giggles and Leo’s earnest questions about dragons and knights.

A sip of the cold coffee wasn’t what you needed – it was truly something stronger, but you knew that you had to get this finished before Monday. On a normal Friday, you would be trying to find a plan – something to do with some of your friends. But now, it was sitting in your boss's kitchen waiting for inspiration to hit so you could at least write the first sentence.

It was an hour later when you heard the key turn in the lock; the sound that someone had gotten home.

You glanced up just as the front door pushed open and Harry stepped inside, the heat of the summer night air following him in for a moment before he shoved the door closed with his foot. His hands held his satchel, a cup that he used for coffee in the morning, and his keys.

He looked exhausted, a bit of distress coating his face.

His dark hair was a mess, flattened on one side like he had been running his hand through it for hours. His jacket was slung over one shoulder, the fabric rumpled, and his tie hung loose and crooked around his neck. The first two buttons of his shirt were undone, revealing the hint of a tattoo curling just beneath his collarbone, something you hadn’t dared stare at for too long.

You had never seen it in full detail, but you knew that it was there.

Without a word, Harry tossed the jacket onto the back of the nearest chair and headed straight for the bar tucked into the corner of the living room, without as much as a ‘hello’ to greet you in the dimly lit kitchen space. You heard the clink of glass against glass as he selected a tumbler and set it down with a tired sort of deliberation.

“Long day?” you asked softly, unsure if you should interrupt his brooding, or if he might want to do that in the peace of the space he owned.

He glanced over his shoulder at you almost as if he didn’t see you sitting there, the corners of his mouth tugging into a crooked smile—half amusement, half pure exhaustion.

“Oh, I mean, you could say that,” he muttered, reaching for a bottle of whiskey and giving it a quick once over. The amber liquid caught the light as he poured it, generous and unbothered. “Never-ending meetings. Clients who think they know better than their attorneys – which is ironic considering we’re hired to make sure that they win, and they should keep their mouths shut. Partners breathing down my neck about quarterly numbers. You know, just another day in the office.”

He shook his head as he set the bottle back down with a muted thunk.

You closed your laptop, pushing it aside, the document forgotten for the moment. Something about the slump of Harry’s shoulders, the way he rubbed the back of his neck, made you want to offer him something—comfort, distraction, maybe just company if he needed it.

Harry came home a lot to an empty house – no one to talk to, so your presence might have been needed every once in a while. Once he got home, you would go out with friends or go to class or just get yourself out of the house since you were home with the kids all day.

He took a sip of his drink and exhaled slowly, eyes falling closed for a beat. He leaned against the kitchen counter. One at a time, he rolled his sleeves up to his elbow. When he opened his eyes again, they found you across the room, lingering, uncertain.

“Kids asleep?” he asked, his voice a low rumble that filled the cozy space between you.

You nodded in confirmation. “Out cold. Leo made me read Goodnight Moon twice. Quinn didn’t even last through the first time.”

“How many times does the moon need to be told ‘goodnight’?” Harry’s mouth quirked again, softer this time. “Must mean you tell the story in an enticing way.”

There was something in his gaze then—something heavier, quieter, something that lingered a little too long. You felt your skin prickle with awareness, a flush rising in your cheeks that you tried to ignore.

“They’re good kids, it’s the least I can do.” You said, your voice a little too bright, a little too quick. You stood, tucking your chair in, needing the motion to shake off the sudden, humming tension in the room.

“I-I, uh,” You swallowed as you looked at your laptop that was shut sitting next to you. “I should be writing a paper, actually. It’s due on Monday.”

Harry watched you then, swirling the whiskey in his glass, the ice clinking softly. The look on his face made it seem like had some thoughts in the back of his head.

Then he glanced over at you, almost shyly.

"You want a drink?" he asked, uncertainty in his voice as he didn’t look back up when you didn’t answer right away.

You blinked, surprised at his question. It wasn’t that it was unlike him to be friendly – he was one of the nicest bosses that you could have ever had. It was mostly because it was unlike him to be doing something other than putting himself in his office, shutting the door, and working until two A.M.

"I—" You glanced down at your laptop, the half-finished paper still glowing through the screen. "I probably should keep working..."

Harry’s mouth quirked, a half-smile that felt both boyish and unbearably tired.

"Come on," he said, pushing off the island. "It’s a nice night. We can sit outside. Just for a little while."

You hesitated — but the softness in his voice, the aching loneliness he didn’t even bother to hide, undid you. Something about thinking of him sitting out there alone, in the quiet garden that probably held too many memories, made you nod instead.

"Okay," you said quietly, giving him an encouraging smile.

Harry grabbed a second glass and poured you a measure of whiskey without waiting for confirmation on how much. You slipped your laptop onto the coffee table, accepting the drink he pressed into your hand when you went to receive it. His fingers brushed yours — a light, accidental touch — but it felt like something more.

The dark, tattooed circle on his ring finger always stood out to you, but you never asked.

He led the way through the French doors into the garden that sat off the living room.

The night air wrapped around you, thick and warm, rich with the smell of honeysuckle and something green and wild. Crickets sang somewhere off in the hedges as the warmth of the summer breeze had tickled your skin and left you with an ease. The fairy lights Harry had strung over the small stone patio twinkled overhead, casting everything in a soft golden glow.

He slouched into one of the old wooden chairs, sprawling with all the boneless grace of a man who didn’t know how to relax but was trying to anyway.

You settled into the chair across from him, tucking your legs up beneath you. The whiskey glass was cool against your palm as you took another sip.

For a while, neither of you spoke – you stared up into the night sky, seeing the reds and pinks that summer brought to the atmosphere. You just sat there, breathing in the humid, fragrant night, the soft clink of his glass against the chair arm the only sound between you.

Harry broke the silence first. His voice different than usual as he stared at the whiskey glass that settled on the arm of the chair.

"You’re so good with them," he said, meaning Leo and Quinn. He shook his head like he couldn’t believe it himself for admitting something he had kept to himself.

You shrugged, a little embarrassed by the compliment. "They make it easy. And it’s my job. I’m sure you’re good at your job, too."

His smile was faint at your own compliment, almost self-mocking. "Not always."

You glanced at him, catching the tightness around his mouth, the way his hands curled around the glass made your eyes want to stare, but your attentiveness made you look up.

There was a moment when you stopped and thought about your next words and if you should say them aloud. You bit on your lip as you tasted the whiskey with hints of vanilla and all-spice.

"You’re doing a good job, you know," you said. "They’re happy. They talk about you all the time.”

Harry made a soft sound — not quite a laugh. He leaned his head back against the chair, staring up at the night sky.

"Some days I feel like I’m just...trying not to screw them up too badly," he said. "Trying to be two people at once, and trying to be present, do things with them. But I’m so glad that you’re around because I feel like… I don’t know, I feel like you’re just good at what you do and you’re good with them and they love you.”

Your heart ached at the raw honesty in his voice. It felt like he had been waiting for a long time to say those things to you.

"You’re more than enough," you said, not knowing what else to say to him. You didn’t know if it was the whiskey talking, or if there had been more on his mind. You sat with your heart open to allow him to know that everything would be okay – it was just a rough day. We all had them.

He turned his head, looking at you properly. The distance between your chairs felt smaller suddenly, like the air had shifted, pulling you closer as you sat under the lights in the garden.

Harry’s home had been your home for the past six months as you tried to make your way through medical schooling; you wanted to work with children, and you need to make a bit of extra cash. This was a job that was close to your school, staying in the area you wanted, and Harry was kind enough to try to work his schedule around yours just because you were so good at what you did.

There really hadn’t been a moment when it was the two of you like this, so you treasured it, in a way. You were happy to see this adult side of him – not the lawyer, not the father.

His eyes were dark in the low light, unreadable as he blinked staring at his glass tumbler that was starting to sweat with condensation. But something flickered there — something fragile and aching.

"You're kind," he said, voice low. "I don’t know if it’s true, but...thank you."

You smiled, sipping your drink to hide the sudden rush of heat to your cheeks. Harry tipped his own glass toward you slightly, a lazy sort of toast.

"To another day," he said.

You leaned forward a bit, making sure that you could clink your glass against his. "To another one."

The whiskey burned sweetly down your throat, settling low in your stomach as you took your sip. You leaned back in your chair, letting the wood help perch you up a bit.

Harry shifted in his chair, turning slightly toward you, his knee brushing the edge of your chair. The touch was casual, almost careless — but your body betrayed you, hyperaware of the small point of contact.

"You’ve really changed our lives," he said suddenly, voice rougher now. You could tell that he was having a thoughtful moment; he didn't know how to express it correctly, you could tell by his facial expression after he said it. "Having you here."

Your breath caught.

"Harry—" you started, but the words tangled.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the glass dangling from his fingers. His tie hung loose around his neck, his shirt rumpled and open at the throat. He looked undone in a way that made your chest ache.

"I’m probably crossing a line just saying that," he said, a hint of a smile ghosting across his mouth, he pushed away the comments just as easily as he made them. "I’m just tired. Ignore me."

But you couldn’t ignore him. The words settled between you, too heavy, too important.

"You’re not," you said softly. "Crossing a line, I mean."

He watched you carefully, like he wasn’t sure he believed you. Like he was waiting for you to push him back into his safe, professional box.

Instead, you shifted a little closer, your drink cradled loosely in your lap.

"It’s nice to just...talk," you said. "To be real with someone."

Harry's mouth twisted, something tender and pained flashing across his face.

"Not many people want the real version of me anymore," he said. "Just the lawyer. Or the dad," He paused for a moment, "Or the ex-husband. The...functioning adult."

You looked at him — really looked — and saw the man beneath all the roles he wore like armor.

"I like the real you," you said before you could stop yourself. "You've been very kind to me since I've been here, and I think sometimes we all just need a break from it all."  

Biting your lip, you thought about the plans you had in the morning. You thought about how you were going to leave Harry on his own, taking the kids to the farmers market to shop for groceries for the weekend.

"Why don’t you take the kids to the farmers market in the morning? Maybe it would be good for you – just the three of you."

His eyes flew up to you, like he had been unsure of your intentions, so you interrupted his thought.

"I was going to take them because they had this tulip picking event – a bit selfish, because really the tulips were for my enjoyment," You found yourself starting to smile, "But if you want some alone time with the kids without me, don’t hesitate to ask."

You watched as he took in a breath, finally nodding at your request. "That would be really nice, actually. I probably do need that."

The air between you went very still.

Harry’s gaze dropped to your mouth for the briefest, most dizzying second — then back up to your eyes. His hand twitched, like he wanted to reach for you but thought better of it.

You stayed frozen, breath shallow, heart thudding so hard it drowned out the crickets, the soft hum of the garden lights.

He smiled then, slow and deliberate but almost shy, and leaned back in his chair, putting just enough space between you to let you breathe again.

"I should probably call it a night before I make a complete ass of myself and say something so regret," he said, voice warm and rough and fond. He downed the rest of his drink before you heard the ice clink against the glass.

You laughed softly, the tension breaking just enough to make your hands stop trembling around the glass.

"Okay,” You agreed, your voice a whisper in the warm dark.

Neither of you moved, though. Neither of you really wanted to – you weren't sure of why. There wasn’t a rush.

The air between you stayed charged, heavy and tender, even as Harry finally, reluctantly, pushed up from his chair.

He stretched his arms overhead, the hem of his shirt pulling just a little at his hips, before he dropped his arms and looked down at you, smiling in a way that made your stomach twist.

"You staying out here a little longer?" he asked.

You nodded, unable to find your voice. It had been a good idea to come out and get some warmth on your skin.

Harry hesitated like he wanted to say something more. Like maybe there was something he could say to untangle the complicated thing sparking between you — but whatever it was, he swallowed it down and shook his head, voting against it.

Instead, he simply said: "Goodnight, moon.”

Your breath hitched — not at the word itself, but the low, absent affection in it, like it had slipped out without thinking.

"Goodnight, Harry." You whispered.

He gave a small, almost pained smile — and then turned and went back inside, leaving the door cracked open behind him.

You stayed there long after his footsteps faded upstairs, the night humming gently around you, the taste of him still lingering somehow, though he hadn't even touched you.

You closed your eyes and leaned back in the chair, cradling the cooling whiskey glass in your lap, feeling the slow, aching bloom of something new — something dangerous — take root inside you.

THE NEXT DAY

The first thing you noticed when you woke was the sunlight that came in slanting through the gauzy curtains, painting the room in pale gold. That was the peaceful thing that you noticed.

The second thing was the sound of the house alive around you, along with what had been going on downstairs. Small feet pattering across hardwood floors, the clatter of shoes being found, the low rumble of Harry's voice cutting through the chaos with patient authority.

"Jacket, Quinn. No, the green one. Leo, leave the dinosaur — please, bud. We don't need to bring that with us."

You smiled into the pillow as you laid on your stomach, stretching your limbs luxuriously, savoring the rare slow start to your morning.

The front door banged open and shut with a final thunk, followed by the muffled sound of tires crunching on the driveway gravel as they made their way away from the house.

Then, there was that sound. Silence.

You turned onto your back, staring up at the ceiling. The house, usually bustling, noisy, spilling over with half-finished crafts and impromptu pillow forts, was suddenly, blissfully still.

An unexpected, precious pocket of time all to yourself. You took in a deep breath as you found a bit of a thrill as you let your hand touch the lower side of your hip. Your fingertip slowly circled round, feeling the bone of it. Slowly, you let your hand caress the edge of your panties.

Shutting your eyes, you let your hand fall deeper underneath. The touch of your clitoris confirmed your need; it was sensitive and warm to the touch, needing the affection you had time to give.

All alone.

Then, all the sudden, you hear your name said aloud. Your eyes blink up and open; it had felt so real.

But it wasn’t real. The sound of the voice coursing through your thoughts was from him. It excited you – knowing that he was on your mind. But the total encapsulation of his being had turned you on, giving you a scare as you thought about what that could mean or why it happened in the first place.

You were sitting on your elbows, then. Wondering if you should continue with the thought of him. Licking your lips, you think about the way his hand wrapped around the whiskey tumbler– fingers delicate and and poised around the cold glass. You can imagine him flicking the water off his fingers, cold and with ease.

Your fingers dance around you, guiding your thoughts dirtier. Your fingers dive into you, letting out a gasp as you think about the feeling of his cold hands on your hot skin.

You think about the way that the tattoos on his chest dance along the neckline of his shirts, the forbidden heat of it driving you insane. Curling your fingers, you lift your legs to bend to give you further access inside of yourself. Your two fingers are pushing deeply in and out, missing the feeling when you pull out.

A gasp escapes your lips as you feel your two fingers in a way that excites you – it pleasures you too well. Your swollen and warm and filled with something that is not him.

But his voice echos in your head as you let your thoughts hang above you like they're watching you please yourself at just the thought of him. You palm your clit with the thought of his head dipping between your thighs, opening you, letting his tongue work on your clit a way that feel exhausting.

Your thoughts mimic a feeling of guilt as you can practically feel the flat of his tongue, eyes darting up to see your reaction at the surge of pleasure he allows you.

"Don’t stop," Your murmur to yourself, "Fuck, Harry– please."

You echo the words, murmurs, and whimpers alike. A feeling grabs ahold of you and pulls you onto the bed, forcing you to take a moment to feel the excitement that rushes through you at once.

You're pulsating around your fingers; your orgasm holding you hostage for a moment as you feel the comedown of the high that felt so momentarily strong.

A few moments of clarity were needed as you laid on the white sheets, feeling the warm summer sun come in through the windows. Your heartbeat falling back to normal, your breathing starting to come to a normalcy.

There was so much to unpack in just the small moment for yourself. A lot of questions, a lot of solitude was needed.

Without overthinking it, you pulled away your covers, stepping out of the bed The sun outside was shining high, you could feel the heat just from the window.

You decided that it may be nice to lay by the pool for a bit, since you have some time off this morning for yourself. The paper could wait — after the conversation with Harry last night, this would be good for you.

It took a moment to find, but once you did, you pulled on your swimsuit — a simple black two-piece, practical but flattering — and layered a loose linen button-up over it. The fabric, soft and worn from washing, hung almost to your mid-thighs to give you a good cover-up.

Barefoot, you padded downstairs, grabbing your thick paperback novel that had been sitting on the coffee table and a pair of sunglasses from the hall table where you left your purses and keys.

The back door creaked gently as you pushed it open.

Outside, the garden was bathed in the early summer light, the air already warming but still edged with a faint coolness in the shade. Bees floated lazily among the wisteria vines curling over the trellis, and somewhere nearby, a lawnmower buzzed faintly, already at work.

You crossed the flagstone patio and dropped into one of the lounge chairs with a satisfied sigh, tucking your legs underneath you and flipping open your book. The sun was hot – you could feel it on your skin as you laid there in the summer bliss.

The words swallowed you whole into a captivating space where time and troubles didn’t matter.

Hours slipped by, unnoticed. You read and sipped iced water from a sweating glass, shifting positions when the sun crept higher overhead, letting the heat seep into your skin. It had taken you for surprise every moment your drifted off into a sleep; you felt so at peace.

You were so absorbed in your comfort that you barely noticed the car pulling into the driveway on the other side of the stone wall until the faint sound of car doors slamming echoed down the side yard.

You straightened up, heart giving a small, startled flutter. It was almost like in that small timeframe; this had been your paradise. It was like you had forgotten where you were, or who you were living with.

A moment later, the gate door swung open — and Harry stepped on in.

You watched from down by the pool, unseen for a moment as you realized he had been dropping some items off by the gate.

He looked rumpled in the most achingly appealing way — sunglasses shoved up onto his head, hair mussed from the breeze. A bag of fresh produce was slung over one arm; his sleeves rolled to the elbow. There was a looseness about him, a casualness you rarely saw after his long days at the firm.

His eyes lifted and found you almost instantly. For one suspended moment, everything froze. You knew that he didn’t expect to see you here, and why should he have? You weren’t one to sit by the pool, or enjoy your time off like this – you barely got time off, as it was.

The bags slipped slightly down his arm as he instinctively jerked to a stop, muscles tightening. His gaze, dark and unreadable, swept over you in one swift, stunned pass: the bare legs folded under you, the black triangle of your bikini top peeking through the loose, open buttons of your shirt, the lazy, sun-drunk way you lounged there with a novel half-forgotten in your lap.

It lasted no more than a heartbeat. Maybe two as you drew in a breath. But you felt it like a physical touch, like static sparking in the heavy air between you.

Harry dragged his gaze away with a visible effort, dropping his eyes to the ground as if scorched by what he had seen. His jaw flexed, a faint pink rising over the stubble roughening his cheeks.

You snapped your book shut without thinking, heart hammering suddenly against your ribs.

He opened his mouth — maybe to apologize, maybe to say something normal, anything — when the kids burst through the garden-gated door behind him.

"Daddy! You have to show her!" Quinn shouted, her tiny sneakers slapping against the ground as she had followed him into the back gate.

You could tell that he hadn't planned for them to follow him, but he had lingered here too long, and they had not been caught.

Leo crashed into his thigh, clutching a brown paper bag like it was treasure.

Harry blinked, as if remembering where he was, and quickly stepped back to let them through. Quinn ran straight to you, a bundle of something crumpled and colorful clutched in her small hands.

"We got you flowers!" She said, breathless with excitement. She thrust them into your lap: reds and yellows spilled out from the paper.

You looked down: tulips, slightly battered from the ride home, their bright heads bobbing on long green stems. Your chest squeezed thinking of your conversation last night and the way he had thought of your disappointment possibly missing out on the tulip festival.

When you look up, you see Harry standing against the gate with a dimpled smile on his face as he watched his children shower you with affection.

"They're beautiful, sweetheart," You said, your voice quiet as you realized you had even really spoken to anyone yet today. You reached out and smoothed Quinn’s hair away from her forehead, smiling. "Thank you."

Leo tugged on your sleeve, brandishing his prize, a small jar of golden honey sealed with a checkered cloth lid.

"Real honey," he said proudly. "We saw the bees and everything!"

"Actual bees," Quinn emphasized, nodding gravely as if her brother could have been kidding, and she needed you to know that.

“As opposed to, you know," Harry stated afterwards, "Fake bees."

With a humorous tone, you stare at him with a smirk, both of your eyes covered by sunglasses. His hands pushed into the pockets of his shorts that came up midthigh, a hat on his head shielded him from the sun.

You laughed, scooping Leo up into your lap without thinking, tucking him against your side as you inspected the jar. His hair was warm and sun-smelling under your chin.

You felt Harry's gaze on you again but it was different this time; heavier this time, lingering.

Something about the way you sat there, barefoot, and golden in the morning sun, arms full of his children, your laugh spilling easily into the bright air… it may have given his heart a ping of something.

He cleared his throat roughly, going to grab at the gate door that had shut behind him.

"I'll, uh," he said, voice hoarse, "grab the rest of the stuff from the car." He disappeared outside before you could answer.

You watched the door swing gently in his wake, your heart still thudding unevenly against your ribs. You couldn’t deny what had passed between you — whatever invisible current had snapped taut across the sunlit garden.

And now, sitting there with the kids chattering excitedly around you, you realized two things with startling clarity: one, Harry was fighting with the idea that you loved his children. And two, you were starting to realize that sense too.

“C’mon, you two,” You say to the kids; Quinn has started to look through the novel you had sitting out but knowing that she couldn’t understand the words made you smile. “Let’s go help your daddy, hm?”

They scrambled ahead of you barefoot, little feet slapping across the hot stone that was baking under the unusually warm England sun, as they darted back into the house from the French doors. You followed at an easier pace, pausing just long enough to brush your damp hair off your neck from when you had taken a dip in the pool earlier to cool off, the thin straps of your bathing suit still just a bit dewy but practically dry. Your cover-up, a gauzy thing that barely reached mid-thigh, fluttered behind you as the breeze filtered through the door.

Harry was just pulling a crate from the boot of the car and into the house when he caught sight of you coming in through the kitchen

His hand faltered slightly on the box.

He hadn’t expected the way the sunlight would frame you like that, haloing your hair, catching the edge of your smile as the kids crowded around his legs to help. His daughter tugged at a canvas bag that he had sat inside and not fully bringing into the kitchen, insisting she was strong enough to carry it herself. Leo squealed with excitement when you bent to lift a carton of strawberries, your cover-up gaping slightly at the neckline as you moved.

Harry tore his gaze away, and grabbed at the list he didn’t really need in his pocket to make sure that he had gotten everything on it.

“Thanks,” He said when you stepped past him with a crate tucked in your arms. He caught the scent of your sunscreen—warm coconut and saltwater—and something else, something that made him dizzy for a beat too long.

“Of course,” You murmured, your voice easy, unaware—or pretending to be, at least.

In the kitchen, the kids were already unpacking the groceries with great ceremony, piling vegetables onto the kitchen counter in chaotic towers as they took one by one out. You joined them, setting down the crate and reaching for a peach to inspect, your fingers brushing the soft fuzz of it thoughtfully.

Harry brought in the last of the bags. He moved slower now, like he didn’t quite trust himself to get too close. But when he stepped up beside you and saw you standing there barefoot, tan legs bare beneath your cover-up, backlit in the window light—he knew he was in trouble.

“Do you want help with making lunch?” You asked, turning to him. Your lips curved gently, like you knew exactly how he was looking at you and weren’t afraid to let him.

He blinked, taken off guard by your question. “Yeah—uh, yeah, sure. I was thinking something easy. Sandwiches maybe?”

“That’s perfect,” You said, already reaching for the bread.

You moved around him like it was natural. You always had, he realized. Slipping past him in narrow spaces with a hand lightly grazing his back that usually felt like fire on him or brushing his forearm when you passed him the kettle, or leaning just slightly into him when the kids were being rowdy and you both needed a moment of shared silence. It was always small. Subtle.

But now… he was noticing all of it. There was no subtly, it was just happening.

He opened the fridge while you chopped tomato slices. And when you leaned over to grab a plate from the cabinet, the hem of your cover-up lifted just enough to show the curve of your upper thigh, the dark tie of your bikini bottom flashing against your skin. He made the mistake of looking.

Then you caught him; he looked practically ill.

You turned your head slightly, a knowing glint in your eye. “Is everything okay?”

His throat felt dry as he shrugged and tried to play off the behavior. “Yeah. Yeah, just… making sure I’ve got enough…” He trailed off, looking at the list, almost like he hadn’t known what to respond with.

Your heart beat faster at the way he seemed… nervous. You smirked faintly but didn’t press him, only went back to slicing vegetables with quiet focus.

He stood beside you, trying to concentrate on the sandwiches, but every time your arm brushed his, every time your hip nudged his as you both reached for the same cutting board, he felt like the floor might tilt under him. It was unbearable and addictive all at once—the domesticity of it, the small sweetness of this moment that looked, from the outside, like you’d done this a hundred times before.

He couldn’t remember what this feeling was, it had been too long since he had felt the draw of someone’s presence. Not with the same ache, the same hesitation. The need was one thing. But the softness of it? The rightness of it? That was new.

You handed him a finished plate with a horizontally cut sandwich, and your fingers touched—longer than necessary. And this time, neither of you pulled away quickly.

From the table, Leo called out, “Are you done yet? I’m starving!”

“Leo, be polite.” Harry stated back at him, acknowledging that the toddler had been a bit rude.

You smiled, breaking the tension, and pulled away to finish assembling the food.

Harry didn’t say a word. But when he caught your profile in the corner of his eye, the dip of your neck, the curve of your shoulder where your cover-up had slipped slightly off, he bit down on the inside of his cheek and looked away fast, chest tight.

Lunch was mostly a noisy affair, as it usually was with little voices bouncing off the walls. The kids sat perched around the kitchen table, chomping on peach slices and crustless sandwiches. You sat beside Leo, wiping mustard from his chin with the corner of a napkin, while Harry stood at the sink rinsing out the tomato-streaked wooden cutting board.

It had almost settled into a rhythm until Quinn suddenly piped up between bites of cheese that she had strategically picked from her sandwich.

“Daddy, when is Mummy coming this year?” The words landed with a thud in the air. Heavy and unexpected. You tried not to make a deal of it, but you had to glance at Harry to catch his reaction to her very innocent question.

Harry froze, hands still under the running water. You glanced at him instinctively and saw his shoulders tense—not a flinch, exactly, but a tightening, like he was bracing himself to give her an answer.

“She said maybe she’d come for the fireworks last time,” Quinn continued, oblivious, swinging her feet under the table. You didn’t exactly know what that meant – a promise made between her and her mother.

Leo looked up from his half-eaten sandwich, interested now. “Yeah, she missed them last year.”

You sat still, carefully quiet.

At the sink, Harry let the tap run another second too long before turning it off abruptly. The silence that followed was too sharp for the easy sunlit mood you’d all just been sitting in, and you felt a shift in the air.

He dried his hands on a dish towel slowly. Then, with a voice that was just a little too calm, he said, “We’ll see, love.”

Quinn frowned at his nonresponse. “But—”

“Let’s not worry about that today, alright?” Harry said, just a touch firmer now. He turned to face them, towel clenched in one hand. “I don’t know all the answers, but I do know you need to finish your lunch so we can continue with our day.”

The kids quieted, sensing the edge to his voice even if they didn’t understand it. Quinn looked down at her plate, nudging a slice of the fallen tomato with her thumb. Leo murmured something about the boat that they had gone on a few weeks ago with Harry’s family and went back to eating.

You felt the air shift like a tide pulling away. Harry caught your eyes across the kitchen. Just for a second. There was something there—something raw and tired and older than the man who’d been smiling moments ago. A look that said: Don’t ask. Please don’t ask.

You never did, and you weren’t going to start. But you did know that it seemed to be off limits.

Instead, you wiped Leo’s hands, gathered the empty plates, and stacked them with soft efficiency.

“I’ll take care of this,” you said gently, your voice low but light. “Why don’t you go and get their swimsuits on, and I’ll clean up here.”

“Go swimming?” The kids both perked up again at the mention of it and slid off their chairs after they had their plates removed, already halfway down the hall. Leo followed, dragging a half-eaten peach in one hand.

When they were gone, you placed the dishes in the sink beside Harry who had not made an effort to follow the kids to their rooms, careful to keep your movements quiet. You didn’t want to crowd him, but you didn’t want to leave either.

He scrubbed a hand across his jaw, exhaling roughly as if in thought. “She calls when she wants to. Sends gifts. Postcards.” He laughed, short and bitter. “And somehow they still think she might show up and make jam tarts like she used to.”

You said nothing, just rinsed the plates slowly. You knew that listening was the best you could do right now, so that’s what you did.

“It’s been nearly a year,” He added, quieter now. “But I’m still the bad guy if I say she won’t come.”

You glanced at him, turning the sink off. “You’re not the bad guy.”

He looked at you then—really looked at you—and there was something like gratitude swimming behind the guarded frustration in his face. Something tired and real.

“I didn’t- I don’t mean to get sharp with them,” He murmured. “It’s just… every time they ask, it sets me back. I think I’ve moved on. That I’ve built something steady for them. But then it all just… it builds up. I hate that their only memory of her is going to be the times she didn’t show up.”

“I get it,” you said gently. “You’re trying to hold it all together. It’s okay to be tired of the cracks, and for trying your best.”

He didn’t respond at first. Just stood there, drying his hands again even though they weren’t wet. You were close now—only a few inches of space between you. The hum of the ceiling fan, the distant seagulls outside.

“Kids hold onto the hope that things might go back to how they were.” You tell him, leaning against the counter.

He let out a humorless breath at that, shaking his head. “Yeah. Except she’s off in Provence or Cannes or wherever, living in some gated house, and sending ‘love from Mum’ in cursive on postcards from places she’s been that they’ve never even heard of before.”

You stayed quiet. Not out of awkwardness, but because it felt like he just needed to say it aloud. Needed someone to hear him for once. The way he opened to you wasn’t shocking – Harry was quiet an emotional man, you could tell that he had a lot being carried on his shoulders, but he never opened up to you the way he had been.

It was just someone to listen and to not judge him.

“She left a year and a half ago,” he said, still holding the towel in his hands. “Didn’t want this life anymore. Said she felt stuck. That she wanted to be ‘a woman again,’ not just a mother.”

Your stomach turned a little, not knowing how a mother leaves her children. You didn’t want to judge, but your impression had already soured. You crossed your arms over your chest and tilted your head as you listened.

“She married again to a – I don’t know, CEO of something somewhere. They live in luxury. Not that I didn’t try, not that I didn’t give her all of this,” Harry looked around the spectacular Hamstead home that had accommodations far greater than just the four of us that lived there. “She just didn’t want… responsibility. She wasn’t meant to be a mother, and I do feel that maybe I,” He paused, “Maybe I coaxed her into it. Like, she only did it for me.”

His voice was softer when he said, “Some days, I think I’ve forgiven her. Other days, I look at Quinn when she asks about her mum, and I just—” His jaw clenched. “I get angry.”

“She’s allowed to miss her mum,” you said gently. “But you’re allowed to feel angry, too, especially when your resentment is so high. You’ve been showing up. Every single day. That counts for something – the kids will remember that and see that. They will hold resentment too, but they will grow up understanding who was there for them.”

“Thanks,” he said finally, voice low. “For not making it a thing. With them… or me.”

You gave him a small, knowing smile as you thought of the times that Quinn would ask you questions you didn’t know answers to, so you would deflect. Harry looked at you then with something new in his eyes—soft, searching, a question he didn’t quite dare ask.

And just for a second, you let yourself imagine what it might feel like to reach up, thread your fingers through the edge of his T-shirt, and kiss him right there in the middle of the kitchen. To drop the pretense.

But you didn’t. Because the kids were down the hall, and because Harry was still trying to figure out how to let someone in again. So instead, you bumped his shoulder gently with yours and said, “Come on, let’s go make sure that peach Leo was holding doesn’t end up in a bed somewhere.”

He gave you a small, crooked smile. “Goddamn kids.”

You laughed, and it broke the tension just enough.

But the look in his eyes lingered—long after you left the kitchen, long after the kids had rallied for their towels and snacks and toys.

It clung to the warm corners of the day like something unsaid but undeniable.

Later that night, bathtime was always a bit of a circus in the house, especially when you didn’t have help. But tonight it felt even more chaotic, their sun-soaked energy bubbling over in the form of shrieks and slippery limbs.

Harry was also here – a lot of the times, he was at the office or working late, which is why you were there to help. He often came home in the middle of bathtime, getting a run down from the kids on the day and how they were doing while trying to eat his dinner as he stood in the doorway while you worked.

But tonight was different – tonight, you two worked as a team, each of you taking a kid and spending time with them. Leo had somehow managed to dump half a bottle of bubble bath into the tub before you’d even turned on the tap. Now the bathtub was just a sea of foam, the scent of orange blossom rising in the warm air.

You sat on the edge of the tub, shorts damp at the edges, scrubbing Leo’s feet gently while he chattered about how he was going to be “the biggest shark” in the pool tomorrow. Harry was toweling Quinn’s hair, his forearms flexing with the motion, tattoos slick and shining from the steam and water. You had to look away.

Or rather—you tried to, but kept noticing how they stuck out around the tight t-shirt he was sporting.

All afternoon, you’d caught flashes of him in the pool: tossing Leo effortlessly into the air as the boy shrieked with joy, letting Quinn ride on his shoulders during splash fights, his own laughter echoing off the garden walls. The sun had traced golden lines across his skin, catching on the wet curve of his neck and shoulders, the faint pink of a sunburn spreading across his back and cheeks.

And the tattoos—how they shifted and twisted with each movement. You’d noticed the faint trail of water dripping down his ribs, over the anchor inked on his wrist, and how your fingers itched to touch them. Not for the first time.

“I think the bubbles are trying to eat me!” Leo shouted, thrashing like a sea creature, and spilling water over the edge of the tub.

“They’ve claimed you,” Harry declared dramatically. “There’s nothing we can do now – you’re lost in the sauce, brother.”

Quinn dissolved into laughter again, slipping off the towel pile in her giggles as she made her way into her bedroom, Harry following.

By the time both kids were dried, lotioned, and wriggling into their pajamas, it was nearly nine. Harry read to them on Quinn’s bed—something about a traveling mouse—and you sat in the hallway, folding towels from the laundry, as you listened to him read. His voice was low, soft around the edges, full of patience and presence especially when the kids would interrupt with questions.

You heard him wrapping up with the story, both receiving a kiss goodnight; Quinn getting a forehead kiss, Leo a noisy cheek one. Harry soon made his way into the hallway and closed the door behind him softly after saying his goodnights.

You turned toward Harry. He stood just a few steps away, one hand on the back of his neck, his own hair still a little damp.

“They adore you,” You said, your voice quiet in the hush.

“I adore them,” he replied, then added, “and they adore you.”

The air shifted. Like the stillness before a thunderstorm, the pressure obliterating.

You started walking toward the kitchen, meaning to clean up the dinner dishes you’d abandoned earlier, but he followed, falling into step beside you. You had wondered if he had something else to do, to leave you to your job. Neither of you said much as you wiped down counters and stacked plastic plates. Your bodies moved in sync, brushes of skin here and there—a shared space carved out of routine.

You bent to load the dishwasher and felt his presence behind you before you turned into him. Straightening, you found him watching you again.

You didn’t know which of you moved first. Only that one second the air was thick between you, and the next, his mouth was on yours.

It was a soft kiss. Cautious, at first. Just a press, a seeking acknowledgement of being felt. Then, it deepened. Just enough that you felt the tenseness in your shoulders fall.

His hand slid to your jaw, tilting your face slightly, his thumb grazing your cheek as he kissed you like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed—but couldn’t help it anyway. You tasted the remnants of toothpaste on his lips, the faintest hint of fresh watermelon from earlier, and something else entirely—desire, long-hushed and finally slipping free.

You kissed him back, stunned by how easy it was. How right it felt as you tilted your neck to meet his lips.

Almost like a light switch had turned on, he pulled away – fast.

“Shit,” he muttered, shutting his eyes at the acknowledge; as soon as your eyes met when he pulled away, it was like you were on fire and he was touching you with bare hands. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—fuck.”

“Harry—”

“No, I know. That was… that was stupid. I crossed a line.”

You blinked, still catching your breath – he wasn’t wrong, but you didn’t want to make him feel worse. You participated; you didn’t end it – you didn’t stop him. You didn’t… want him to stop. “It wasn’t stupid.”

He ran a hand through his hair, backing a step away from you like it might undo what had just happened, or both of you might just forget it.

“It’s not fair to you,” he said. “I can’t… I shouldn’t blur things. You’re here for the kids, and I’m—Christ, I’m a mess, and I just—”

You stepped forward this time, your voice gentle but firm as you go to touch him, but he flinches at the way your fingers grace him. “Harry.”

He looked at you then, eyes filled with panic and something else—something raw and vulnerable like he feels so conflicted with how he is responding.

“I- it may have been a mistake, but,” you said. “Whatever that was… it didn’t feel like a mistake.”

He didn’t say anything right away. Just stood there, breathing hard. But when he finally nodded, slow and quiet, you saw it in his eyes: the want. The fear. The pull.

The storm had been coming for a while. That kiss was just the first crack of thunder, and you were feeling the effects of the downpour.

You watch as he threads his hands through his hair, leaning against the counter. The way that he starts to fall into an oblivion of dissociation from his thoughts, you worry that he’s going to spiral.

The kitchen was still, filled with the soft hum of the dishwasher and the sound of your breathing. You stood across from him, heart skittering from the kiss and the way he’d pulled away — not because he hadn’t wanted it, but because he had. He had wanted it so badly that he crossed the invisible line to get it.

Harry scrubbed a hand down his face, eyes darting around the room as if searching for something to ground himself.

You didn’t move. Just watched him.

“I’m – I really am sorry,” he said again, softer this time. “That was—impulsive. I didn’t plan it.”

You let out a quiet breath. “Neither did I.”

He glanced up at you, trying to fidget with whatever he can get his hands on as if you will see his hands shake with adrenaline.

“I just…” he trailed off, exhaling hard through his nose. “You make it too easy. Being around you. It’s like I forget how complicated it is.”

Your brows lifted gently, curiosity tugging at your features. “What do you mean?”

He shrugged, “I mean—this house. The routines. The mess. Bath time and sunblock and tantrums and grocery runs. It’s all supposed to be exhausting and a bit miserable in some capacity, right?” His lips curled faintly, staring down at his hands that were now wrapped up in an excess tea towel, “But when you’re here, it just… it’s better. Feels like I’m not doing it alone.”

You felt that—deep in your chest. A tight, warm pinch of something unsaid.

“I like the way things feel with you,” he continued, his voice raw now like it had been crafted by professionals, like the truth had worn down any resistance he had left. “Even the boring stuff. Especially the boring stuff. You make it—”

“Easier?” You offered quietly.

He nodded once, then a few times as if he thought of all the times that you had been there when it was hard, each one running through his mind. “Yeah.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was heavy, yes—but with something tender. Something on the verge of spilling. You crossed your arms, mirroring him, your hip leaning against the island. “And that’s what’s confusing you?”

He sighed, running a hand along his jaw in thought, resting his head in his hand now. “I don’t know what I’m allowed to want with you,” he admitted, words very clear and concise as if he was placing jigsaw pieces and not wanting to force them, “You’re here because I hired you. You take care of my children. You live in my house. I don’t want to be—” He stopped himself, shaking his head, almost in a bit of disgust.

You tilted yours, stepping closer. “You don’t want to be what?”

He looked at you then, really looked. His voice was steady, if a little hoarse. “I don’t want to be the guy who takes advantage of the girl he hired to help keep his life from falling apart – it’s,” He grimaced, “It’s not who I am, and I don’t want you to get the impression of that. Really.”

Your stomach twisted. “Harry,” you said gently. “That’s not what this is.”

He hesitated, eyes flicking to your mouth, your bare legs with the summer sun-kiss on them from sitting out in the sun all day. “I want it to be more. But I don’t know how to let it be that without blurring everything.”

Your voice was quiet but certain in how you came to this conclusion. “Lines are only useful if they’re helping. But if they’re just keeping you from something good, then… maybe they need to be redrawn.”

Harry looked at you like you’d just opened a door he didn’t know he was allowed to walk through.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he said, with all of the honesty he could. “Not carefully. Not slowly.”

A small smile tugged at your mouth. “You don’t have to know everything right now. You just have to be honest.”

You were standing directly in front of him now; leaning against the island as he leaded against the countertops. The space between you now was warm, charged again.

“I think about you,” he admitted, “When I’m rinsing Leo’s cereal bowl. When I’m folding Quinn’s pajamas. When I walk into a room and you’re already there, barefoot, humming something under your breath. It’s like—this house… doesn’t feel empty anymore.”

That one hit you deep. You swallowed; throat suddenly tight at the thought of his loneliness being the culprit. It was one thing to let his mind and body talk, but knowing that it was because he just longed for the security of a partner made you feel touched.

“And that... scares me,” he added, voice low and honest as he came to that conclusion. “Because I’m not used to things feeling good and lasting.”

You nodded slowly, trying to understand where he was coming from. “I’m not asking for forever right now, Harry. I just need truth and honesty, and maybe we just…” You trailed off, shrugging, “We take this as it comes.”

The smile that crossed his face caught you off guard, it was showing his dimples that you knew were hereditary just in the way that his smile replicated Quinn’s perfectly. There was a bit of a blush on his cheeks, “The truth is, I want to kiss you again,” he said. “But I won’t. And like you said, we’ll take it as it comes.”

Your pulse thundered in your ears. You made the first move, stepping just forward until you were close enough to hear his breath in the quiet space. His breath hitched, and for a long moment, it felt like the world was suspended in that space between intention and action.

But he didn’t kiss you again. Instead, he reached for your hand, lacing his fingers through yours.

“I’ll walk you to your room,” he said, voice barely audible.

And just like that, the moment folded back into the quiet hum of the house again. But the charge—that didn’t go anywhere.

When you both padded up the stairs, your fingers still linked, it wasn’t about pretending anymore. It was about the start of something quietly, fiercely real but in the most uncommon of instances.

Harry stopped just outside your bedroom door, still holding your hand like he didn’t quite want to let go yet. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, and you watched the corner of his mouth twitch like he was fighting a smile.

“So…” he said, eyes flicking toward the door behind you, “this is your stop.”

You blinked at him, confused for a second — until you caught the playful tilt of his voice. “Are you—are you pretending this is a first date?”

He gave a dramatic shrug, leaning a shoulder against the hallway wall. “What can I say? Feels like I should walk you to your apartment. Make sure you got in okay. Maybe kiss you on the front stoop, ask when I’ll see you again,” He bit his lip, “I want to take things slow but I have to imagine it this way rather than you just already living with me.”

A breath of laughter left your chest before you could help it. “You’re ridiculous.”

Harry’s gaze dropped to your mouth, and the moment slowed, grew heavier. When he leaned in, it was hesitant, like he was asking you to meet him halfway – he was still redrawing those lines.

And so, you did.

The kiss was soft — just the brush of lips, careful and steady, the kind of kiss that lingered long after it was over. There was no rush, no battle for control. Just quiet confirmation that whatever was happening between you had already begun.

When he pulled back, he looked almost dazed, like it had completely changed his perspective. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Harry.”

You slipped inside your room, closing the door gently behind you. But long after your head hit the pillow that night, you could still feel the ghost of his mouth on yours, and you hoped that the phantom touch would haunt you just a little longer.

THE NEXT MORNING

You woke slowly the next morning, the kind of slow that only came after a long, sun-soaked day and a night full of soft, lingering touches and unspoken truths. The sheets were warm against your skin, the pillow still holding the faintest trace of Harry’s cologne – your mind may have just been playing tricks on you. Your limbs felt heavy in the best way, as if your body had finally relaxed after weeks of holding tension.

Somewhere downstairs, you heard the faint clang of a pan, followed by the sound of laughter — light and bubbling, the kind that cracked your chest open and made you want to smile without thinking. Afterall, your job was to get the kids up, get them ready for their day.

But the past couple days, you had slept in. you had been given a break from all of that.

You slipped from bed, wrapping your robe around you loosely, bare feet padding softly over the cool wooden floor. The light filtering in through the windows was syrupy gold, lazily stretching across the hallway in slanted lines. You followed the scent first — warm butter, something sweet, something citrusy, and the unmistakable richness of coffee.

When you reached the kitchen, you stopped in the doorway. Time slowed.

Harry stood at the stove, barefoot, in purple shorts and a black t-shirt that clung to his shoulders and arms in a way you couldn’t quite ignore. His curls were a little messy — like he’d run a hand through them too many times — and he had a spatula in one hand, a steadying palm on Leo’s back with the other.

Leo had his knees on the stool as he sat in front of the stove, eyes wide and focused, tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth as he gripped his own tiny spatula like it was a sword. Quinn hovered nearby in her pajamas, as she watched them from her spot sitting on the counter.

“You see those bubbles?” Harry asked, pointing to the pan, “That means it’s almost ready. Gotta be patient. The flip’s all about timing.”

“Now?” Leo asked, eyes wide with anticipation.

Harry smiled at his son’s impatience, “Few more seconds,” He watched as the little boy struggled with keeping it together before Harry nodded at him to act, “Okay, go on.”

Leo flipped the pancake clumsily and unevenly, but it made it onto the pan — and let out a triumphant yell at he did so. Quinn squealed, clapping, and Harry laughed, tilting his head back.

It hit you, then, the vision of him there, eyes soft with pride, his children giggling around him — the warmth of domesticity seeping into every corner of the kitchen. He looked like he belonged there. Like this was his favorite version of himself.

And then… you saw them.

Tulips.

A fresh bouquet — soft pinks and whites and yellows — tucked into a simple glass vase beside the sink, where the morning light caught the edges of the petals and made them glow. Just beneath them sat two coffee mugs. Steam was curling from the tops of them as if they were freshly poured.

Harry looked up just then, catching you standing there. He stilled, biting on the inside of his cheek.

For a moment, it was just the two of you in the space between that look — his eyes raking down your robe, soft at the edges, knotted loose around your waist. Your hair falling around your shoulders. Your smile barely formed. His entire face softened at your presence. He didn’t say anything, but his mouth twitched like he might want to.

“Morning,” you finally said, voice scratchy as you just woke up.

“Morning,” he murmured, gaze still holding you like something precious.

Leo turned, squealing. “We’re making pancakes! Daddy’s teaching us how to flip them!”

“He said we’re officially his pancake assistants,” Quinn added, nodding solemnly.

You stepped further into the warmth of the room, the floor cool beneath your toes as you reached for your mug. Harry passed it to you before you could reach, already fixed the way you liked it with a caramel color indicating he added creamer. Your fingers brushed his as he passed on the mug. The touch lingered — enough to send heat curling low in your belly again, like last night hadn’t fully settled.

“Thank you,” you said softly, glancing toward the tulips.

His eyes followed yours. “We thought you might like them.”

You didn’t have words for that — for how simple it was, and yet how deeply it rooted itself under your skin.

He turned back to the stove, flipping a pancake with practiced ease, letting the kids chatter around him. You stood at the counter, sipping the warm, rich coffee, watching him — the tattoos swirling down his arm as he reached for a plate, the way he leaned down to ruffle Leo’s curls, how he facilitated when Quinn spilled a bit of batter on her pajamas.

It wasn’t just that he was handsome. It was the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention. The way his voice softened when he spoke to the kids to meet their needs, but also to navigate their feelings and help them understand the world around them. The way the kitchen had tulips and coffee and warmth and him in it.

You realized, suddenly, that you hadn’t felt this safe in years. He caught you looking again and smiled.

And you knew — just by the way his shoulders dropped, the easy way he moved toward you — that the night before hadn’t been a fluke; it was just built-up feelings that he had needed to express on how easy this life was. That something had shifted. That you weren’t imagining the way his hand had hovered near yours all morning.

That there was more coming. And it would be slow. And tender. And full of moments just like this one.

Fresh flowers, and all.

[nightingale-prompts]

Worship Me- DCxDP prompt

Yes, it's slightly horny. Sue me!

Was there anyone in this family that didn't attract crazy? Tim would like to say that it was some more than others but the track record is horrendous for each of them.

Don't ask him how he got here. It was a blur. Mission. Altar. Cursed Mirror.

But all that doesn't matter anymore because currently in what could only be described as an obsidian palace.

The palace floats in the void like a jagged crown. Its structure defies logic—spires twist and spiral in impossible geometries, as though grown rather than built. Every surface is carved from seamless black obsidian that drinks in the light of distant stars, causing the palace to shimmer with eerie inner reflections, like shadows trapped beneath glass.

The entrance is a colossal gate shaped like an open eye, rimmed with glowing runes that pulse with alien intent. Inside, the vast halls echo with silence too deep to be natural. The floors gleam with a mirror-sheen, reflecting not just one's image, but fragments of memories, glimpses of alternate selves, or ghostly figures passing just out of reach.

Chambers are suspended in open vacuum, tethered by bridges of crystalline light or magnetic arcs. Gravity bends strangely; a single step can carry you across entire rooms or into hidden dimensions nested within the architecture.

Tim had memorized every detail of this place in the days since he arrived. Most of the time he was allowed to go about his day staying and learning about this place. He wasn't imprisoned, he had to wait for the portal to open again in a few weeks. But Tim had caught the interest of the ruler of the palace.

Now Tim sat on the edge of the floating bed. It's heaped with a sea of plush pillows in shades of midnight blue, silver, and deep violet, each embroidered with celestial patterns.

How he got to this point—he may have...had a few conversations with who he assumed was the prince. The person who he thought was the king was actually his guardian. Tim just...flirted a little to get a bit of information on this place. Danny—the prince—had been more than receptive.

It might have gone too far but here we are.

Now he was in the bedroom of who he still assumed was the crown prince with said prince currently on his lap with his lips on Tim's neck. Tim is unable to move because he believes that if they get caught Tim might end up beheaded for putting his Richard where it does not belong. Hell, they probably already know with the all-seeing eyes everywhere and the fact that the beings in this dimension phase through walls so using the door was just a polite formality.

"Stop thinking. I can practically hear your thoughts." Danny growled nipping at Tim's neck between kisses.

"Then you can te—ll, haa. Fuck! Your hand. Too fast." Tim gasped.

Danny pulled away as he grabbed Tim by the chin and made him look into his eyes. Those hypnotizing green eyes.

"Do you want this?" Danny asked his eyes narrowed.

"...Yes," Tim couldn't lie.

"What do you want?" Danny smiled his sharp elongated incisors showing.

Tim remained silent his hand pressed against the small of the princes back.

"Good, you don't have to say a word. Focus on me. Think of me. Nothing else." His hand wrapped around Tim's throat. "Worship me as your new god."

Prince—king—these words where actually meaningless titles for Danny. He was not these petty and lowly things. He was a god and he craved worship. Even if it came in the form of a single human devoted to him. How incredibly lucky that a suitable human came here. Clockwork says it was best to let the human go back to his dimension and hopefully share his experience so that others will worship Danny. He had no interest in letting his new priest go so easily, not without a parting gift.

"I wonder how it must feel to bed your new master."

[blueberrisdove-sideblog]

paint me in your colour.

˖ ࣪ㅤㅤꪮꫀ tws : ares!mydei x aphrodite!reader. nsfw/smut, possessive reader, possessive mydei, lipstick sēx, cock warming, pūssy eating, nipple sucking, blow job, pet-names, breeding kink, squirting, creampie and sub-ish mydei.

˖ ࣪ㅤㅤꪮꫀ synopsis : your husband is covered with your lipstick. mdni.

The temple was soaked in the heavy perfume of sex, heat swirling like silk against your bare skin.

You sat astride Mydei’s hips, your slick pussy swallowing his cock inch by inch, grinding yourself down until he was buried deep in you — hot, throbbing, thick enough to stretch your walls to the edge of pain.

"My fucking war god," you moaned, nails raking down his heaving chest, leaving angry red scratches over his golden skin. "Look at you. Look at how beautiful you are like this."

Mydei bared his teeth, hands gripping your thighs so tight you knew you’d bruise. His golden armor was long abandoned, pieces scattered around like fallen stars. Sweat clung to the carved lines of his body, his muscles trembling from the effort to not slam you down and fuck up into you like a beast.

But you saw it — the wild crackle of restraint barely holding.

He wanted to ruin you.

He was a god of war after all.

But you were a goddess. His goddess.

"You think you can fuck me?" you teased, dragging your lipstick-smeared mouth down his throat, marking him, claiming him. "You think you can tame me?"

A shudder tore through him.

Your lipstick was everywhere — streaked across his sharp jaw, his flushed cheeks, his heaving chest, even smeared across his cock from where you had teased the fat head earlier, circling it with your glossy mouth and dragging sticky kisses down the thick vein.

Mydei’s hips bucked once, instinctive and rough, jostling your tits, still wet from where he had desperately sucked your nipples earlier.

"You paint me like I’m yours," he growled, voice raw and low, "but you’re the one clenching around my cock like you’ll die without it."

Your pussy fluttered around him at the filthy snarl of his voice.

"You are mine," you hissed, riding him harder now, slamming your hips down so his cock speared up into your soaking cunt, drawing broken gasps from both of you. "Every inch of you. My pretty soldier. My ruin."

Mydei grunted, sitting up in a surge of muscle and power, slamming his mouth to yours in a brutal, messy kiss. Your lipstick smeared even further, your tongues sliding wet and desperate as he thrust up into you from below, grinding the thick head of his cock against your deepest spot again and again.

You whimpered against him, feeling yourself start to unravel, your pussy squelching obscenely around him, leaking slick down his thighs.

"You want it?" he growled into your mouth, fisting your hair, dragging your head back so you had to look at him — flushed, wild-eyed, smeared in lipstick, trembling from holding back.

"You want me to fuck this tight little cunt full of my seed? Huh? Make it overflow, goddess?"

You moaned out something broken, clawing at his shoulders.

"Say it," he demanded, voice cracking with the strain, cock throbbing deep inside you.

"Breed me," you sobbed, grinding your hips wildly, desperate now, messy and hungry and owned. "Breed your goddess. Fill my pussy, Mydei. Make it yours. Ruin me."

That was it.

Mydei shoved you down flat onto the temple floor, golden curls wild, muscles rippling under you.

He slammed into you, rough and raw now, owning your pussy with every brutal thrust, cock driving so deep you saw stars behind your eyelids. Your soaked pussy swallowed him greedily, squelching with every wet, lewd slap of skin on skin.

"You’re dripping," he groaned into your ear, teeth dragging along your throat. "Dripping all over my fucking cock, goddess. You're gonna squirt for me, aren’t you?"

You could barely even nod, mind blank with pleasure, the filthy sounds of your bodies echoing off marble columns and gold. His cock pistoned into you, the thick ridge of his head battering your sweet spot until you broke — screaming his name, pussy gushing in a hot flood over his cock, soaking his balls, your thighs, the marble underneath.

"Fuck," Mydei growled, hips stuttering. "Fuck — take it — take it —"

He slammed one final thrust as he came, cock twitching violently inside you, spilling thick, endless ropes of cum straight into your spasming womb. You could feel it — hot, sticky, heavy — gushing out around the base of his cock, dripping down your ass in slow, messy trails.

He didn’t pull out.

He stayed buried in your messy cunt, cock still twitching now and then with little aftershocks, his huge body slumping over you.

You tangled your fingers through his golden hair, pulling him into your chest, smearing more lipstick into his curls, his sweaty forehead.

"You’re mine," you whispered fiercely into his ear, cradling him like a precious thing. "You’ll fill me over and over until I can’t hold it anymore. You hear me, Mydei?"

He shuddered against you, biting your collarbone gently in response, a half-broken sound escaping his throat.

"Yes, my goddess."

And deep inside, his cock thickened again — already hungry for more.

The marble was slippery beneath you, slick with your juices and his cum, but neither of you cared.

Mydei stayed buried to the hilt inside your spent, gushing pussy, panting against your chest like a starved beast, his broad shoulders shaking from restraint he barely had anymore.

His cock never softened.

If anything, he got harder, thickening inside your sloppy, overstretched cunt, greedy for more even as his first load leaked out around his base in thick, sticky mess.

"Greedy boy," you teased breathlessly, dragging your fingers through his messy golden hair, guiding his mouth to your chest. "Come on, Mydei. Suck."

He growled low, almost a snarl, before latching onto your nipple with a desperate hunger that made your whole body arch. His tongue flicked and circled, his mouth suckling sloppily, no finesse, all need. His lipstick-stained mouth left your tits wet and flushed and marked — a canvas of worship.

"That's it," you moaned, cradling his head to you, your other hand fisting the marble for support as you felt him throb inside you again. "My starving war god. Drink from me."

He groaned against your skin, cock twitching inside your slick, abused pussy. Every suck on your nipple sent fresh sparks down to where you were still stretched wide open around him.

When he finally pulled back, your nipple popped free from his mouth with a wet, obscene sound, a string of spit still connecting his lips to your breast.

His eyes were feral. Wild. Desperate.

"My turn," he rasped, voice wrecked from gasping and growling. Before you could even speak, Mydei slid out of your flooded pussy with a filthy wet squelch — and shoved your thighs open wider, manhandling you rough like the war god he was.

"Such a messy little goddess," he crooned, voice dark and sweet like poisoned honey.

Your pussy was soaked — his cum spilling from your twitching hole, glossy and dripping down your thighs in messy rivulets.

Mydei didn’t waste a second.

He dived in, mouth sealing over your sloppy cunt, eating you out like a man starved, like he needed your taste to survive.

He licked up his own cum mixed with your juices, groaning deep in his chest like it drove him insane, tongue fucking into you, drinking everything you gave him.

"Nghh — M-Mydei!" you cried, fists tangling in his blonde hair as he devoured you raw, making the wet, sloppy sounds of a man with no shame.

You were already shaking, already right there again.

He sucked your clit into his mouth — and you exploded, squirting violently, gushing against his mouth and cheeks, soaking his face.

He growled low in satisfaction, lapping it all up — his face, his lips, even his flushed chest dripping with the wetness you forced out of your ruined pussy.

When he finally pulled back, face glossy and glazed with your release, he was panting, cock standing thick and leaking between his strong thighs.

"You’re gonna suck me now," he rasped, dragging you up roughly, voice filthy and commanding but almost begging at the same time. "Get that messy little mouth around my cock. Make it even fucking messier."

You dropped to your knees before him, dizzy and shaking and soaking wet, but you obeyed, because how could you not?

He was glorious — covered in lipstick, smeared in spit and cum, chest heaving, cock twitching with desperate need.

You wrapped your hand around the fat base of his cock, your own cum leaking down your wrist, and dragged your tongue slowly up the underside — licking your own juices and his seed off him, tasting everything, savoring the obscene mess you had made together.

Mydei’s head dropped back with a brutal groan, his fists clenching at his sides as you swallowed him down, cheeks hollowing, lipstick smearing even worse all over the thick, pulsing shaft.

"You’re perfect," he gasped, voice rough and broken. "Fuck — you’re fucking perfect — my goddess, my ruin."

You sucked greedily, tongue swirling around the flushed, leaking head, tasting the salt of his cum and your sweetness mixed into one filthy, addictive flavor.

His thighs trembled under your hands. His hips bucked forward once — rough and instinctive — shoving his cock deeper down your throat until you gagged and drooled all over him.

"Take it," he growled, voice hoarse and shaking. "Take every fucking inch. That’s it — my perfect slutty goddess — mine."

You whimpered around him, sucking harder, throat working, messy and mindless.

You could feel it building again — not just for him, but for you too.

The filthy need to be filled again, to be used, to be bred.

When Mydei finally came with a brutal snarl, hips jerking, thick ropes of cum shot down your throat, hot and endless.

You swallowed around him greedily, still sucking, still milking every drop until he sagged back against a broken pillar, dazed and wrecked, cock twitching weakly against your tongue.

You pulled off with a final wet pop, mouth swollen, lips glossy with spit and seed, lipstick ruined completely.

You smiled up at him — filthy, victorious, drenched in him — and Mydei looked down at you like a man undone by worship.

"Again," he croaked, voice shaking. "Goddess, please... again."

And how could you deny your beautiful, broken war god?

“Okay…”

Mydei didn’t even give you a second to catch your breath.

He yanked you up, his strength bruising and sweet, and slammed you down onto the cracked marble, your back pressed into it, your legs bent up over his shoulders, his cock already throbbing against your ruined, dripping entrance.

He was wild now, not even pretending anymore.

The lipstick marks staining his face, his neck, his chest — even his cock — made him look feral, claimed.

"Need you," he gasped, voice cracked and raw. "Need to fill you. Need to fucking ruin you."

You barely managed a breathless "yes," before he slammed his cock back inside you, bottoming out in one brutal thrust.

Your pussy screamed around him — still puffy, still gushing, still so slick it was sinful — and he growled deep, sinking his teeth into your calf as he began fucking you in vicious, desperate thrusts.

The breeding press left you helpless — folded in half, legs pinned high, cunt stretched to the limit, every brutal, wet thrust punching pathetic gasps out of your chest.

"You take it so good," he gritted through his teeth, hips snapping against you so hard the marble cracked under your back. "My good girl. My perfect, messy goddess. Gonna stuff you full again. Gonna watch it leak out of your ruined little cunt."

"Mydei—!" you cried, tears spilling from your eyes from how deep he hit, how brutal and good and perfect he fucked you.

"That's it," he growled, dragging his thumb roughly over your clit in savage little circles. "Squirt for me again. Be a good little whore. Soak my cock, soak my balls — make a mess, baby."

You broke with a scream, gushing violently all over him, your pussy spasming around his cock, soaking both of you in a flood of slick.

Mydei snarled and jackhammered even deeper, hips slamming messily against your thighs, until with a deep, wrecked moan — he shoved himself all the way inside and exploded.

Thick, endless ropes of hot cum pumped into your spasming cunt, so much it leaked instantly around his cock, dripping in messy, thick spurts down the insides of your thighs, down to the marble.

He stayed buried to the root, panting harshly, eyes squeezed shut as he finished milking you full.

When he finally collapsed over you, his whole body trembling from overstimulation, you whimpered weakly underneath him — your pussy still twitching, stretched wide and leaking hot, sticky cum with every tiny pulse.

"My goddess," he panted brokenly against your hair. "My perfect goddess. I’m yours. All yours."

He pressed trembling kisses along your sweaty hairline, across your swollen lips, your flushed cheeks — his body a trembling, wrecked furnace over you.

Slowly — so gently it made your heart ache — he pulled out of your wrecked, messy pussy with a slow, wet squelch, thick seed spilling in wet gushes down your thighs.

"My poor baby," he whispered, voice thick with guilt and worship, his big hands tenderly stroking over your thighs, your ruined, sloppy cunt. "So full. So fucked-out. Let me clean you."

You whimpered as he lifted you carefully, cradling you like something priceless, carrying you toward a nearby marble basin where clean water shimmered in the moonlight.

He knelt, strong arms holding you against his chest as he dipped soft cloths into the water — wiping your sticky thighs, cleaning the endless mess dripping from your twitching hole, soothing your overstimulated clit with sweet, reverent kisses.

"My warrior queen," he murmured between kisses. "My messy, beautiful goddess. I’ll always take care of you. Always."

He wrapped you up in his broad arms when he finished — still bare, still sticky, still lipstick-stained and covered in your love — and rocked you gently, his heartbeat pounding steady against your ear.

And you both stayed there, in a temple ruined and reborn, messy and claimed and so fucking in love, until the stars faded into morning.

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

[1nthedarknessofthenight]

MASTERLIST stray kids

──────────────────────

ot8

﴾ out of the blue, part two (one-shot, idol au, smut)

summary: after some much needed alone time with your boyfriend on his birthday, you somehow forgot about his friends coming over…

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bangchan

﴾ michelin star (one-shot, idol au, smut)

summary: he’s been ignoring you, only leaving you to wonder what exactly you have done to make him so quiet and one night you just have enough of it as much as he had enough of trying to keep himself away from you

﴾ wild side (one-shot, mafia au, smut)

summary: one night, while you were making your way home after work, you came across something you shouldn’t have seen and even if you run away, there was no way for you to escape the man with the scar across his face

﴾ smooth operator (one-shot, office au, smut)

summary: you always get what you want, with a single look, a wave of your hand, dripping with confidence that made him tremble the first time you two met, he watched you quietly from afar, admiring the perfection that you are, but it soon turned into obsession and oh, how he hated how much you got into his head…

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lee know

﴾ haunt me (one-shot, horror au, smut)

summary: on Halloween night, you and your friends gather for a classic spirit summoning, eager to make the most of this tradition, unaware that you will be the one to face the consequences…

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changbin

﴾ lunaris (one-shot, supernatural au, smut)

summary: you are not alone — from the moment you decided to live in the small house at the edge of a lake, a dark, looming phantom, seemed to follow you wherever you go and you cannot do anything other than to wait and see, what it wants from you…

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hyunjin

﴾ i drink your blood and i eat your skin (series, vampire au)

summary: all your life, you have been searching, trying to understand your purpose, to come across a reason to stay in this world — a savior, from all of your pain and fear, was death itself. he came to you so suddenly, crawling his way into your broken heart that had never felt so full until then, biting at your flesh, whispering so sweetly, pleasing to your ears. but even being kissed by death wasn’t enough to make you unsee the thing that’s been truly haunting you…

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han

﴾ she’s my collar (one-shot, idol au, smut)

summary: while playing a game of spin the bottle, you learn some very interesting things about your friends that night, but probably the most memorable one of them is when the cute boy next to you confesses his dirtiest dream

﴾ let me blow your mind (one-shot, high school au, smut)

summary: you noticed him watching you from afar, though it never occurred to you why han jisung, the school’s bad boy, would be watching a shy, nerdy girl like you, but before you can even blink, you are thrown into a world of pleasure and right into his greedy hands

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felix

﴾ out of the blue, part one (one-shot, idol au, smut)

summary: it is you boyfriend’s birthday and you decided to let him unwrap his gift a little sooner…

﴾ rush (one-shot, university au, smut)

summary: he yearns for you, for a simple glance or a whiff of your addictive smell, he dreams of you, because in his mind that is the only way he thought he could have you, you were just a fantasy, but to you he was just someone who needed to be shown the powerful world of pleasure

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seungmin

﴾ you shook me (one-shot, university au, smut)

summary: you were captivating, you were in his mind and his soul, taking a bite of it each time you would glance his way, you shouldn’t excite him, you shouldn’t enjoy getting under his skin, it was so wrong…so wrong that it felt good

﴾ insane in the brain (one-shot, ghostface au, smut)

summary: a masked killer returns to the town, leaving you terrified, paranoia seems to follow you everywhere you go, along with two of your classmates, who seem to grow very fond of you…

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i.n

﴾ insane in the brain (one-shot, ghostface au, smut)

summary: a masked killer returns to the town, leaving you terrified, paranoia seems to follow you everywhere you go, along with two of your classmates, who seem to grow very fond of you…

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[alexanderwales]

Everyone is born into a Genre, except for those poor souls who are destined to be side characters and bystanders, or occasionally taken hostage.

You were born to parents of different Genres, which was unthinkable a generation ago but now only raises a few judgmental eyebrows. Your father was a spy and your mother was a ninja, which is one of the more acceptable Genre pairings. There's crossover there, people understood it.

But when you were four, you first put on a cowboy hat, and it just felt right. Your parents were appalled. They didn't even know where the cowboy hat had come from.

You'd think, given the struggles they had in their own marriage and the prejudice they faced from the rest of the world, that they would be more understanding, but your father yanked the lasso you made from bedsheets away from you when you were eight years old, and your mother made you do throwing star drills in the family dojo for hours. You were horrible at it, and she blamed your father. Granted, you weren't any better at dodging laser tripwires.

Eventually you settled into dressing "normal". Dad and mom could pretend that it was a disguise, and it sort of was. Dad didn't wear his tuxedo everywhere, and mom only wore her shinobi shozoku when things were getting serious.

But then when you went to college you saw her, a coed walking across the quad in boots with spurs on them. Her blonde hair was in braids that stuck out from beneath her ten gallon hat. She was wearing chaps, and you followed after her like a puppy dog, trying not to be obvious about it but in retrospect being very obvious about it.

It was a rocky start. You made an awkward introduction, then she thought you were making fun of her when you started asking all kinds of questions. Western wasn't a popular Genre. It's time had come and gone. And even when she realized that you were serious, she was skittish, worried that you were interested for the wrong reasons, a Genre seeker.

Eventually she understood where you were coming from, that you were Western too, even if you didn't look like it, even if you didn't speak the language or have the skills.

One night, a week after you'd met, you asked her some innocuous question and she gave you a playful shove and called you a greenhorn. You felt your heart soar and a frission go across your skin. "Aw shucks," she said as you wiped away a happy tear, "Weren't nothin' but the truth."

From then on it was a blur of rodeos and saloons. You bought new clothes from the one general store they had in the city. You learned how to hogtie and cattle call. You ate beans around a campfire and then went to class the next day smelling like wood smoke and yearning for the wide open plains.

Going home felt itchy. It was too difficult to ignore how the clothes didn't feel quite right, and you wore flannel and jeans, on the edge of acceptability, flirting with the line. But you carried yourself differently too, and that was harder to disguise, especially since it was hard to remember the mask you'd been wearing.

One of these days you'll tell yours parents who you are, but there's a nagging feeling that they should have known all along, that they deprived you of a childhood that could have been happier if they hadn't tried to mold you into a version of them.

But until then, you'll guide your horse through town, moseying along, eating your vittles, and maybe with a cowgirl by your side.

[i-heart-slashers]

For Our Girl

𝖕𝖆𝖎𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖌: Poly!Lost Boys x Female!Reader

𝖘𝖚𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖞: You never meant to get tangled up with the Lost Boys, but a wrong turn in the woods led you to them—four vampires with glowing eyes and dangerous smiles. Now, weeks later, you’re theirs. Surrounded by their cold skin and sharp promises, you’re not just safe—you’re wanted, desired, and maybe too far gone to care what they are.

𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖉 𝖈𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖙: 1.7k

𝖜𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘: suggestive themes. sexual tension. possessiveness.

The boardwalk hums with life, the carousel’s tinny music clashing with the roar of motorbikes and the screams from the roller coaster. You weave through the crowd, the salty ocean breeze tugging at your hair, your waitress apron still tied loosely around your waist from a double shift at the diner. Your feet ache, your head’s foggy, and all you want is to collapse into bed.

But the weight of their eyes on you, always watching, always there, makes your skin prickle with something that’s not quite fear anymore.

It started that night in the woods. A stupid shortcut after a late shift, your flashlight flickering, and then those glowing eyes. Four of them stepped out of the shadows like they owned the night. Paul, with his wild grin and a joint dangling from his lips. Marko, all sharp edges and sharper laughter. Dwayne, silent, his dark eyes pinning you in place. And David, cold and commanding, like he was sizing you up for dinner.

You should’ve screamed. Run. Done something. Instead, you snapped at David to get out of your way, or you’d make him. The words had tumbled out before you could stop them, fueled by exhaustion and defiance.

Paul had howled with laughter, Marko’s eyes had glinted with something dangerous, and even Dwayne’s stoic mask cracked into a faint smirk. David, though—he’d just stared, his lips curling into a slow, predatory smile.

“Feisty,” he’d said, voice like gravel and smoke. “I like that.”

You thought that was the end of it. A weird encounter with some punks who hung out in the wrong part of town. But then they started showing up everywhere.

Paul slipping a mixtape labeled “For Our Girl” onto your windowsill, filled with Mötley Crüe and The Cure. Marko ambushing you at the pier, dragging you to a secluded stretch of beach to watch the stars his arm brushing yours. Dwayne wordlessly showing up at your rundown apartment to fix the lock after you mentioned it was busted, his hands steady and sure, his gaze lingering too long on your throat.

And David. David, who one night draped his leather coat over your shoulders when the wind off the ocean turned sharp, his gloved fingers grazing your jaw as he tilted your face up to meet his icy blue eyes. “Anyone messes with you,” he said, voice low and deadly, “they answer to us.”

Now, weeks later, you’re unsure what you are to them. Not a victim—they’ve made that clear. Not just a friend, either. There’s a heat in the way they watch you, a hunger that’s equal parts thrilling and terrifying. You’re theirs, they say, and the word carries a weight you’re only starting to understand.

Tonight, you feel it more than ever. You’re halfway across the boardwalk when Paul’s voice cuts through the noise, lazy and teasing. “Yo, babe, where you runnin’ off to?”

You turn, and there they are, lounging against the railing like they own the place. Paul’s sprawled out, one leg kicked up, his blond hair a mess from the wind. Marko’s next to him, twirling a switchblade between his fingers, his patchwork jacket catching the neon glow. Dwayne leans back, arms crossed, his dark hair falling into his eyes as he watches you with that quiet intensity that makes your pulse race. And David—David stands at the center, his cigarette glowing red in the dark, his smirk promising trouble.

“Home,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady. “Some of us have jobs, you know.”

Paul laughs, loud and bright, hopping off the railing to sling an arm around your shoulders. “Jobs are overrated. Come hang with us. We’ve got plans.”

“Plans?” You raise an eyebrow, glancing at the others. Marko’s grin is all teeth, and Dwayne’s expression doesn’t shift, but you catch the faintest tilt of his head like he’s daring you to say yes. David just exhales a plume of smoke, watching you through half-lidded eyes.

“Something… fun,” David says, and the word drips with suggestion, his voice curling around you like a promise.

Your stomach flips. You know what they are. You’ve seen how their eyes glow in the dark, and their teeth glint a little too sharp. You’ve noticed the bloodstains on Marko’s jacket that he laughs off and the way Dwayne’s hands are always cold when they brush your skin. Vampires. The word sits heavy in your mind, but instead of running, you’re still here, caught in their orbit.

“Fun,” you repeat, crossing your arms. “Last time you said that, Marko tried to teach me to surf at three a.m. I nearly drowned.”

Marko snickers, flipping the switchblade closed. “You loved it, admit it. Looked hot in that wetsuit, too.”

“Keep dreaming,” you shoot back, but a smile tugs at your lips, and Marko’s eyes light up with mischief.

Paul tightens his arm around you, pulling you closer. “C’mon, babe. Live a little. Or, y’know… unlive a little.” He winks, and you roll your eyes, but the heat of his body against yours sends a shiver down your spine.

Dwayne finally moves, stepping forward until he’s close enough that you can smell the leather of his jacket and the faint tang of salt and iron that clings to him. “You’re tired,” he says, voice low, almost gentle. “Let us take you home.”

It’s not a question, but there’s no threat in it either. Just a quiet certainty, like he already knows you’ll say yes. You glance at David, who’s still watching you, his cigarette forgotten between his fingers. There’s something in his gaze—possessive but not cruel. Like he’s waiting to see what you’ll do.

“Fine,” you say, exhaling like you’re annoyed, but your heart’s pounding. “But I’m not riding on the back of anyone’s bike. Last time, Paul nearly crashed us into a dumpster.”

“Lies!” Paul gasps, clutching his chest dramatically. “I’m an artist on that bike.”

“An artist at chaos,” you mutter, and Marko laughs, sharp and delighted.

David flicks his cigarette away, stepping closer until he’s right in front of you, his presence overwhelming. “You’ll ride with me,” he says, and it’s not a request. His gloved hand brushes your cheek, lingering just long enough to catch your breath. “Unless you’re scared.”

You scoff, meeting his eyes. “Of you? Please.”

His smirk widens, and for a second, you think he’s going to kiss you right there in front of everyone. Instead, he steps back, jerking his head toward the bikes parked nearby. “Let’s go.”

The ride to your apartment is a blur of wind and adrenaline, David’s bike roaring beneath you as you cling to his waist, the leather of his coat cool against your cheek. The others follow their laughter and whoops cutting through the night.

When you reach your place, you expect them to drop you off and peel out, but they don’t. They follow you inside, sprawling across your tiny living room like they own it—Paul kicking off his boots, Marko raiding your fridge, Dwayne leaning against the wall, watching you with that unreadable stare.

David doesn’t sit. He prowls, circling you like a predator as you untie your apron and toss it onto the counter. “You’re tense,” he says, voice low, almost a purr. “Rough night?”

“You could say that,” you reply, leaning against the counter, trying to ignore how your skin tingles under his gaze. “Some creeps at the diner wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

The air shifts. Paul’s head snaps up from where he’s sprawled on the couch, his grin gone. Marko freezes a bottle of soda halfway to his lips. Dwayne’s jaw tightens, his eyes narrowing. David stops moving, his gaze locking onto yours, sharp and dangerous.

“Who?” David asks, and the single word is a blade.

You shrug, trying to play it off. “Just some drunk tourists. I handled it.”

“You handled it,” Marko repeats, setting the bottle down with a thud. “What’d they do?”

“Nothing worth mentioning,” you say, but your voice wavers and you curse yourself for it. “Just… got too close. Said some shit. My boss kicked them out.”

Dwayne pushes off the wall, stepping closer. “They touch you?” His voice is quiet, but there’s a lethal edge to it that makes your heart skip.

“No,” you say quickly. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“It’s not fine,” Paul growls, sitting up. “Point ‘em out next time. We’ll handle it.”

You laugh, but it’s shaky. “What, you gonna beat up every jerk who looks at me wrong?”

“Yes,” Marko says, dead serious, and the intensity in his eyes makes your stomach flip.

David’s gloved hand cups your chin, tilting your face to meet his gaze. His touch is firm but not painful, and the heat of his stare makes your breath hitch. “No one touches what’s ours,” he says, voice low and deliberate. “No one bothers you. Ever.”

The possessiveness in his words should scare you, but it doesn’t. Instead, it sends a thrill through you, dangerous and electric. You’re not sure when you stopped being afraid of them—when their sharp edges and glowing eyes started feeling like safety instead of a threat.

“I can take care of myself,” you say, but your voice is softer now, your defiance melting under the weight of their attention.

“We know,” Dwayne says, his voice a low rumble as he steps closer, his hand brushing your arm. “But you don’t have to.”

Paul’s on his feet now, crowding in, his grin back but sharper, hungrier. “You’re ours, babe. Means we’ve got your back. Always.”

Marko’s behind you, closer than you realized, his breath cool against your neck as he murmurs, “And we don’t share.”

Your pulse races, the air thick with tension—sexual, dangerous, intoxicating. You’re surrounded, their bodies close enough that you can feel the unnatural chill of their skin, the promise of something more in every lingering touch. David’s thumb brushes your lower lip, and you swallow hard, caught in the pull of his gaze.

“Get some rest,” he says finally, stepping back and breaking the spell. “We’ll be around.”

They leave as silently as they came, the roar of their bikes fading into the night. But the weight of their promise lingers, heavy and warm, and as you crawl into bed, you know there’s no going back. You’re theirs—and you’re not sure you’d want it any other way.

[grandlinedreams]

“We should get married.” 

The question in and of itself is a strange one, made more so for the fact that it’s coming from Zoro of all people – and the fact that he’s asking you in the middle of a fight. Your back is pressed against his, the heat of his skin seeping into your clothes – and you wonder if he’s gotten hit in the head too many times. Or thrown through too many things – too much of something. 

“Are you seriously saying that right now?” Your tone is incredulous as you swing your weapon, scowling as you watch another enemy drop with a cry and a splatter of blood. “We’re a little busy right now, aren’t we?”

Zoro grins, expression manic with the deepened shadows of his face from his bandana, adjusting to place the hilt of Wadou Ichimonji in his mouth. “Is that a yes?”

You have the brief moment of considering knocking Zoro out for your opponent – clearly his daily naps out in the sun have baked his brain more than you previously thought. “No!”

–

The question doesn’t turn out to be borne from a brain-based injury flaring up, because Zoro doesn’t let the subject go. He bides his time, waiting about two weeks from when he first asked before he tries again.

This time, the stars are a witness to his buffoonery – now fueled by the bottles of sake he seems to have squirreled away everywhere on the Thousand Sunny. You watch as he tips the bottle to his lips, the brief shimmer of liquid that beads at his lips before it disappears as he swallows. 

“We should get married,” he says, and this time, you scoff. It isn’t one of disdain, rather of amusement as you wait for the alcohol induced flush to rise to his cheeks. “‘m serious, you know.”

“No,” you counter softly as you scoot closer to him, reaching up to wipe a drop of sake from the corner of his lips and bring it to your own for a taste. As ever, his own choices in alcohol seem to be tailored for him and him alone – sake still isn’t your thing. “You’re drunk.”

Zoro hums, eye flicking from the night sky above to you. “Is that a yes?”

You press your lips to his warm cheek. “Ask me again when you’re sober.”

–

The third time that he asks, he’s waited so long that you’ve almost forgotten that he ever asked in the first place. After all, Roronoa Zoro has never seemed like someone interested in the intimate entanglement of marriage – you have absolutely no clue what has possessed him to suddenly ask you with this kind of tenacity. 

“We should get married,” he says, and you resist the urge to sigh as you stare at him, his head pillowed against your thigh. Below the shade of Nami’s tangerine trees, you can hear Luffy’s bright laughter intermingled with Usopp and Franky’s. 

This time you aren’t in the middle of a fight, nor is he drunk. This time, you take a moment to study his face, the dapple of sunlight through waxy green leaves, the scent of citrus in the air. You love him, you’re sure of that – as sure as you’ve been of anything in your life. 

“We’re pirates,” you answer, tapping your fingers against his cheek in an echoed rhythm of one of Brooke’s songs from the night before. “Pirates don’t get married.”

“Sure they do.” He’s watching you now, with the kind of intensity he usually only reserves for battle, and you look away. “Captains can officiate marriages. I asked Robin about it.”

You blink and let your attention shift to Luffy for a minute – you love your captain, you do. But the idea of him being serious about much of anything beyond what matters to him (food, his crew’s safety, finding the One Piece – in that order) makes you giggle. You can’t imagine him officiating something like a marriage. 

“What if I want a ceremony?” Your fingers find his cropped green hair, stroking gently across his scalp. “Those are expensive.”

He shrugs. “We’d find a way. I’m sure Nami would help.”

Your lips curve in an amused smile for a moment before it dims at the edges. “It’d be dangerous,” you point out, and he answers with a short bark of laughter.

“Not any more than shit we’ve already faced.”

“Rings?”

“We don’t need that fancy stuff.” 

Your smile fades completely, hand stilling in his hair. “Why do you think we should get married?”

There must be an edge to your tone now, because Zoro refocuses on you, all signs of mirth gone. “Because we love each other, right? Sounds like the next logical step.” 

Your gaze hardens. “So you’re asking because you think we should? Or because you want to marry me?” He sits up, and you get to your feet. 

“Is that a no?” he asks, and you pause.

“Ask me again when you figure things out, Zoro.” 

–

“Marry me.” 

This time, his voice is quiet. Soft and vulnerable – for the late hour or the intimacy of his bare skin against yours, you aren’t sure. His hand drifts up and down your back, counting the bumps of your spine over and over. 

You shift against him, face nestled to rest against his chest. “Zoro–” 

“I’ve thought about it,” he cuts you off. “So just be quiet and listen, okay?” You don’t say a word, waiting for him to continue on his own. “I don’t want to marry you just because I think that I should, I want us to get married because you...you mean a lot to me. You’re important to me, and I –” He pauses, struggling. This kind of thing is not Zoro’s forte, you both know that – but after a moment, he resumes. “I don’t see myself being like this with anyone but you. I don’t want to be like this with anyone but you. Just want you.” A moment of silence, hearts beating in tandem. 

You move, adjusting enough that you can look at him properly, the gleam of moonlight against his face. And you kiss him. Slow and sweet, eyes sliding shut as you linger for as long as you can before you pull away. 

“Marry me,” he repeats. 

This time, you don’t squawk at him like he’s crazy. You don’t accuse him of being drunk, don’t deflect him for fear that he’s doing it because he thinks he should, not that he wants to. This time, you smile.

“Yes,” you answer. “I’ll marry you.”

[dragoneyelashart]

vlogger

fluff ୨ৎ influencer! r x billie a/n: here's some fluff bc i'm in the mood n i love vlogs

the soft light of the late afternoon stretches across your bedroom, filtering through the gauzy curtains in lazy golden streaks that warm everything they touch. the air smells faintly of lavender and vanilla, a quiet reminder of the candle you lit earlier to chase away the last bits of stress from the day. the dogs are nestled at the foot of your shared bed, half-asleep, their steady breathing the gentle soundtrack beneath the low hum of your laptop. you sit cross-legged, the fabric of your sweatpants soft against your skin, your fingers moving automatically over the keyboard as you trim and tweak the latest footage from your tokyo trip vlog.

the screen glows with snippets of your chaotic day, spilled matcha, street food stalls, neon lights blinking like stars come to earth. the edits are almost done, and your tired brain is already thinking about the next video, the next story you want to tell. you’re deep in that comforting zone where everything slows down to the gentle rhythm of creation, when you hear the soft click of the bathroom door opening.

your head tilts up just in time to see billie step into the room, her damp hair curling at the ends, water droplets still clinging to her skin like tiny jewels. she’s wearing one of your oversized hoodies, the sleeves swallowed past her hands, and a pair of loose shorts that make her look impossibly cozy and relaxed. the warm scent of her shampoo mingles with the vanilla candle, making your chest tighten with that familiar fluttery feeling.

“hi,” she says, voice soft and a little sleepy, the way she always sounds just after a shower, like the world is still a little blurry around the edges.

“hey,” you murmur back, lifting the headphones off one ear and setting the laptop aside. your fingers find her hair, brushing it back gently from her face. she melts into your touch, settling herself sideways on the bed and curling into your lap, her cheek resting against your thigh.

you wrap your arms around her, feeling the steady rise and fall of her breath against you, the warmth of her skin through the soft cotton of your hoodie. the dogs shift slightly but don’t move, content to be near you both. the quiet intimacy of the moment wraps around you like a blanket, familiar and comforting.

“what are you working on?” she asks, voice muffled.

“editing the tokyo vlog,” you say, smiling at the memory. “the one where i turned into a human disaster at that tiny cafe.”

she laughs, a sound like sunshine. “matcha massacre, you called it.”

“exactly,” you say, nudging her gently. “it’s almost done. want to see?”

she nods eagerly, her eyes brightening as you pick up your laptop and angle the screen so she can see. she watches the clips with a grin, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on your knee.

after a moment, she sits up, pulling her knees to her chest. her cheeks are still pink from the shower steam, and her eyes hold that spark of curiosity that always makes your heart skip. “can i ask you something?” she says softly.

“anything,” you answer without hesitation.

she hesitates, then takes a deep breath. “can you teach me how to make vlogs? like, for when i’m on tour, or traveling. i want to remember everything, but i don’t know where to start. and you’re so good at it.”

your chest warms all over. she wants to learn from you. she trusts you. you close your laptop and reach for the drawer beside the bed, pulling out your favorite camera, the one you carry everywhere, the one that’s been your companion through every adventure.

“of course,” you say, holding it out to her. “i’ll show you everything.”

billie’s eyes widen, and she scoots closer, curiosity lighting up her face. “really?”

“really.” you smile, flipping the camera on so the screen lights up between you.

“okay,” you say, “so this camera does this—”

before you can finish, billie reaches out and presses a button.

“no, billie, don’t touch that idiot—”

you freeze, heart in your throat.

“i'm sorry! did… did i break it?” she whispers, panic flaring in her eyes.

you laugh, the tension breaking. “no, you didn’t break it. but you just set it to slow motion for the next three hours.”

she hides her face against your shoulder, giggling. “i’m terrible.”

“you’re adorable,” you say, brushing your fingers through her damp hair.

you spend the next hour sitting tangled up on the bed, patiently showing her how to hold the camera, explaining the basics, framing, lighting, how to speak naturally, how to capture moments without feeling awkward. she’s a quick learner, and you love the way she watches you with rapt attention, occasionally kissing your hand or squeezing your thigh.

you teach her how to check the battery, how to review footage, how to choose songs that fit the mood. you laugh together when she tries to film herself and the dogs and accidentally ends up with a bunch of blurry nose shots. she’s clumsy and sweet and so eager, and you’re already imagining how beautiful her vlogs will be.

when she finally gets the hang of it, you help her record a little practice clip, her voice soft and a little shy, telling the camera about the day, about how excited she is to learn. you hold her hand at the end and kiss her cheek.

“you’re going to be amazing at this,” you tell her. “i’ll be your biggest fan.”

she smiles, her eyes shining. after patiently walking billie through the basics, you finally hand her the camera and settle beside her, ready to help. she grips it nervously at first, her fingers just barely steady as she holds the device in front of her face. “okay, your turn,” you say softly, smiling encouragingly.

she clears her throat, looking down at the screen and then back up with a shy grin. “um… testing.... testing,” she says into the camera, voice a little unsure but getting more confident with every word. “can you guys see my beautiful girlfriend?”

you laugh quietly, heart swelling as she glances your way, eyes sparkling.

she presses the camera closer to you and leans over to press a sweet, quick kiss on your cheek, right on camera. “there she is,” billie murmurs, her face lighting up as she leans over toward you, camera still rolling. her lips find your cheek first, a soft, sweet kiss that makes your heart do that slow, stupid flutter.

then she looks up at you, eyes shining like they hold a secret just for you. “you’re amazing,” she whispers, voice tender.

without thinking, you close the small gap between you, your lips brushing hers in a kiss that’s slow and warm, full of everything quiet and beautiful in this moment. the camera tilts slightly as she shifts closer, laughter bubbling between kisses.

“okay, okay,” she giggles, pulling back just enough to smirk. “definitely getting the hang of this.”

you grin, brushing your nose against hers. “best vlog intro ever.”

taglist: @amara-eilish @bilswifee @iamnicoke @jayjaywetforbils @bittersuitekim @bxllxebxtch @bitchesbrokenpromises @ijustlovemaths @ilovealiceosemann @bilssturns @peytonneilish @chrissv4mp @too-sapphic-to-function | send an ask or comment if you want to be added to my taglist!

[solrburst]

show me — pedro pascal x reader

request: “hi angel, maybe a pedro established relationship jealous smut where he gets jealous of ur costar at a movie premiere and fucks u in the limo back to the hotel”

summary: At a movie premiere, Pedro sees your co-star getting a little too close — and snaps. In the back of a limo, he reminds you who you belong to.

warnings: +18, unprotected sex (again and always sorry), established relationship, jealous and possessive!pedro, car sex

The limo door shut with a soft click, sealing off the chaos of the red carpet. Inside, the world was dark and quiet — except for the pounding of Pedro’s jealousy in his veins and the soft, teasing rustle of your dress as you shifted in your seat.

He didn’t speak right away. Just stared.

You were radiant — the kind of radiant that made heads turn and cameras flash. And he’d watched it all. Watched your co-star’s hand settle a little too low on your back. Watched your smile stretch a little too wide under the lights.

He moved suddenly, leaning across the seat, voice a low growl against your ear. “Did you have to let him touch you like that?”

You turned, lips parted, but he was already pulling you into his lap, your thighs straddling his tailored suit.

“It was press,” you whispered, already flushed, your hands finding the back of his neck.

He let out a soft, dangerous laugh. “Nah, cariño. That was bait.”

His mouth found your collarbone, biting, sucking — like he wanted to mark you through your designer gown. His hands were everywhere — gripping your hips, sliding up your thighs, rucking up your dress with rough purpose.

“You love this, don’t you?” he murmured against your skin. “Knowing I’m watching. Knowing how bad I wanna drag you away and show every one of them you’re mine.”

You whimpered, grinding down against the hardness pressing into your core. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Doesn’t matter. I saw the way he looked at you. And now you’re gonna sit here and let me remind you who you belong to.”

He slid your panties to the side, fingers finding you soaked. “Jesus,” he muttered, swiping through your folds. “You’re so fucking wet for me already.”

You rocked against his hand, gasping as his thumb circled your clit just enough to make your breath hitch. But when you tried to grind harder, he pulled back, smirking.

“Uh-uh,” he said, voice dark. “You’re gonna take your time. You’re gonna feel every inch of this.”

He undid his belt with one hand, the other gripping your ass as he pushed his pants low enough to free his cock. When he slid into you, the stretch burned so good your head dropped against his shoulder with a moan.

“Fuck,” he groaned, voice breaking. “You feel unreal. Every time.”

His hands grabbed your hips, helping you ride him slow, deep — the kind of pace that made your thighs tremble and your nerves sizzle with every drag inside you. The leather seat squeaked beneath you, the hum of the limo the only sound besides breathless moans and Pedro’s murmurs.

“Look at me,” he demanded. You lifted your head, dazed and aching. “There’s that smile. That one’s mine.”

You leaned in to kiss him, messy and hot, tongues tangling as your rhythm picked up. He guided your hips harder now, groaning when you clenched around him.

“That’s it,” he rasped. “Show me how much you missed this. How much you fucking love being mine.”

Every stroke hit deep, angled to claim, to possess, to prove. His hand slipped between you again, fingers teasing your clit just enough to make your thighs quake.

“Pedro—” you whimpered, teetering.

“Not yet,” he said, voice like gravel. “I want you on the edge. I want you begging.”

You did — hips grinding, body slick with sweat, eyes locked on his as he drove up into you like he wanted to brand you from the inside out.

“Please,” you gasped. “I need to—”

He crushed your mouth with his, then whispered: “Come for me, baby. Show me.”

And you did — unraveling around him in waves, every nerve alight, your cries swallowed in his kiss as he groaned and spilled inside you seconds later, holding you down as his hips stuttered and stilled.

Breathless, trembling, he wrapped his arms around you, pressing soft kisses along your jaw as the limo pulled into the hotel driveway.

“You’re mine,” he whispered again, softer now. “And I don’t fucking share.”

[mixolya]

ᓚᘏᗢ — golden hours, golden hearts : epilogue !

(can be read without reading this smau ; appreciated if you read it though <3)

wc: 7k

#001. the letter in the attic

you found the box on a quiet sunday. dust clung to the cardboard like it had been waiting for decades, tucked away behind forgotten photo albums and unused blankets. it wasn't labeled, not really, just a small handwritten note on top, yellowing at the edges.

"to the one i wait for."

you sat on the attic floor, sunlight streaming through the single round window, and called for sae.

he climbed the creaky stairs barefoot, glasses low on his nose from reading downstairs. when he saw you with the box in your lap, legs folded like a child, his brow lifted, curiosity soft in his expression.

"what is it?"

you shrugged, careful as you peeled the top open.

inside were dozens of letters, all carefully folded, some still tied with old ribbons. the paper had browned at the edges, but the words were still legible. the ink was smudged in places, perhaps tears, perhaps rain. you picked up the first one.

May 4th, 1942

My beloved,

The moon hangs low tonight. I wish you could see it. It looks like it has been carved by longing itself, suspended just barely above the trees. There's a stillness in the air that reminds me of the mornings we spent on the porch, your head on my shoulder, the world soft and slow around us.

I write to you from a place where nothing grows. The land here feels old, exhausted by the weight of war. The birds don't sing like they used to back home. I miss the way you had hum to yourself while folding laundry, or how you had always forget where you left your book and blame me. Even your bad habits have become sacred to me.

My hands are shaking as I write. Not from fear - I am used to that now - but from this ache that settles in my chest each time I think of you. I have learned that longing is not just a feeling. It is a place, a house built inside the ribs where your name is carved into every wall. You are everywhere inside me.

I do not know when I will return, or if I will be allowed to return at all. But if time forgets me, promise you will not. Carry me in your laughter, in the way you butter your toast, in the music you play when it rains. Carry me in the way you stare out the window when you think no one is watching.

You were never just my home. You were the road, the stars, the whole damn map.

If this letter finds you, know that I loved you in every way a man can. In this life and the next. In every breath I take here and every silence that follows.

Yours until the stars fall,

S.

you didn't speak for a long time. neither did sae.

there was something sacred about it. like you'd been entrusted with a secret. each letter in the box told a story, of longing, separation, and heartbreak. some were part of full conversations, written across decades. others were never sent. one letter even had a pressed wildflower between its pages.

you and sae read them on the rooftop that night, wrapped in a blanket, wine glasses untouched beside you. the sky war clear. endless. and for some reason, it felt like the universe was trying to say something, about how love finds a way to linger, even when the world changes shape a thousand times over.

you looked over at him, his profile against the moonlight, the man you had loved in a million different ways. and he was already watching you, one hand drifting toward yours without needing to ask.

"would you write me letters like that?" you asked, voice quiet.

he didn't even hesitate.

"i already do."

#002. letter, never sent

it had rained earlier that day.

not the kind of storm that ruins things, but the soft kind, warm and light, the air thick with petrichor and the scent of wet earth. the two of you had wandered into the small balinese town with no real purpose, just hand in hand, sleeves rolled up and hair damp from the drizzle. you'd stopped for fruit on the side of the road, laughed at how sae tried, and failed, to bargain in bahasa indonesia and ducked into a nearby café where the tea tasted like flowers and nostalgia.

the museum hadn't been planned. it was barely more than an old house, its walls sun-faded and cracked, a weather-worn sign hanging above the door with letters half-chipped away. sejarah kota kita - our town's history.

inside, it was quiet, dust hung in sunbeams. the rooms smelled like old wood, cloves and memory.

sae let go of your hand for a moment to study a black-and-white photograph of a rice harvest. you drifted toward the back, eyes skimming old textiles, faded postcards, a broken typewriter displayed like it had changed the world. and then, tucked between forgotten war relics and family photos, there was a letter.

just one.

tucked behind warped glass, sealed in a faded, unmarked envelope. you almost didn't notice it. but something about it pulled you in. like it was humming beneath the surface.

October 19th, 1956

To the one who will never read this,

I dreamed of you last night. Again.

You were standing at the edge of the sea, waves curling around your ankles, the wind tangling your hair just like it always used to. I called your name, and you turned, but only just. You didn’t smile. You never do in these dreams.

I woke up with your name on my lips and salt in my throat. It has been eight years since you left, and I still set an extra cup at the table out of habit. You used to complain that tea never tasted as sweet unless I stirred in the sugar for you. Funny, I still do it the same way.

Do you remember the rain that summer in Venice? The whole city smelled like stone and sky. You said it was romantic, the way the world seemed to cry just for us. I wanted to tell you that I had never loved anyone the way I loved you then. I wish I had. I wish I had said a lot of things.

I carry your scarf in my coat pocket. The blue one you knitted poorly, one thread looser than the rest. It is falling apart now, just like the memory of your voice. Sometimes I speak to the scarf, pretending it hears me. Pretending you do.

I have learned that grief is not a wave. It is not something that crashes and fades. It is a slow burn, like the quiet glow of a candle you do not know how to blow out. I live in the flickering.

If there is another life after this one, meet me at the train station. Wear that ridiculous yellow coat. You said it made you look like a duck. I said it made you look like sunshine.

Until then, I will keep writing these letters. I will keep pretending the words might find you.

Yours, always,

M.

"that's love," he murmured. "isn't it?"

you nodded. "yeah."

and then he turned to you with that quiet intensity he always carried but rarely showed. "promise me," he said, "if you ever have words you're too afraid to say... you'll write them. even if you never send them. write them anyway."

your chest ached.

"i will," you whispered. "only if you promise me too."

#003. to love you in the quiet.

the sun was just beginning to dip when he spoke.

golden light filtered through the trees like melted honey, spilling across your dress, catching in your lashes, setting fire to the warmth in your cheeks. sae stood in front of you, hair still tousled from where your fingers had been earlier. you'd picked a cliffside chapel with no walls, just wind and sky and the ocean breathing far below.

he hadn't cried all day. not once.

but when he looked at you, his voice broke a little at the start.

"i don't know how to be poetic," he began, eyes never leaving yours, "but you deserve something better than poetry anyway."

his hands were steady but his breath wavered as he continued.

"i used to think i'd never belong to anything. not a place, not a dream, not even a person. the world always felt too loud. people always wanted too much from me. and then you came into my life like you didn't need to fix it. you just sat in the quiet with me and somehow... that made all the noise disappear."

the guests were silent. even the ocean hushed itself for him.

"i love you in ways i'll probably never be able to explain. but i promise i'll spend my whole life trying. i promise to meet you in the quiet when the world is too loud. i promise to hold you when the lights go out, when the days get heavy, when we forget how to be anything but tired. i promise to be yours, not just when it's easy, or when you're ethereal and the world is clapping for us, but when it's hard, when you're afraid, when you think you're too much or not enough."

his eyes glistened, but the tears didn't fall.

"i promise to love you even when i don't understand you. especially then. because i know what it feels like to be misunderstood and i never want you to feel that way when i'm standing beside you."

then he smiled. soft. the one he reserved only for you.

"i don't need forever," he said, "but i want it if you're in it."

and then, after a beat, he added more quietly: "i choose you. every time. in every life."

and the wind blew around you, like it was trying to carry the words up to the sky.

#004. until i'm home again

author: sae itoshi written in a hotel in tokyo, folded neatly between clean shirts.

mi amor,

you'd laugh if you saw the room i'm in. too many lamps. strange pillows. not enough of your perfume in the air. i can't sleep, not really. i thought the sound of rain against the window might help, but even that reminds me of madrid, of you.

you know, i never cared much for travelling. i did it because i had to. because the world expected something of me. but ever since we moved to that quiet neighborhood near the harbor, i find myself missing home more and more. not because of the view. not even the food. it's because of you.

you in the mornings, humming songs you don't remember the words to. you in the kitchen, stealing bites of whatever i'm cooking before it's done. you in our bed, where your cold feet somehow always find mine.

and i know i'm not gone long. just a week, two at most. but even a night without your voice feels like too much. i can't call, i know you're sleeping by now, so i'm writing you a letter like i promised. i know you had that shoot today and you'll be exhausted, probably curled up in my clothes like you always are when i leave.

i wanted you to know that no matter how many stadiums i stand in, no matter how many fans chant my name, the only person i still look for in a crowd is you. always you.

you were the only thing in my life i ever chose freely. no coach, no manager, no pressure. just you.

do you remember our first night in the house? we slept on the floor because the movers were late. you kept apologizing, even though you had nothing to be sorry for and i told you "i could live with nothing as long as i had you".

that hasn't changed. it never will.

i'll be home soon. i'll bring you that silly mug you wanted from the airport shop. i'll make you tea and pretend not to judge how you drink everything in one go. i'll kiss your forehead and act like it doesn't still make me nervous after all these years. i'll fall asleep beside you and hope the bed never feels too big again.

i love you, y/n. more than i say. more than i even know how to say.

sincerely yours,

sae

#005. you never left me

author: y/n itoshi written on a paper, tucked between pages of his favorite book.

my beloved sae,

you always had a way with timing. i found your letter while you were asleep beside me, your hair still damp from the shower, your arm draped over my waist like it had always belonged there. it was early. the sky was barely blue. i should've gone back to sleep but i stayed up reading your words again and again until the sun kissed your face.

you always made it hard to believe you were real.

even after all this time.

do you remember the first time you left for a game after we moved here? i tried not to let it show but i cried after you closed the door. the house felt too big, the walls echoed. i lit a candle in every room just to feel less alone. that night, i slept in one of your old jerseys, clutching your pillow like a fool in love.

but maybe i was. maybe i still am.

there's a kind of peace in loving you now. it's quieter. maybe softer. like the tide pulling back. but it's still deep. still endless.

you've become a rhythm in my life, familiar and constant. like how i always wait for the kettle to click before pouring your tea. or how i leave your side of the bed cold until you come home to warm it again. even when you're gone, i know your love stays behind.

i think that's the thing about us. we never really leave each other.

you, with your quiet hands and steady presence. me, with my messy hair and louder heart.

some days i watch you from the balcony, your profile softened by golden light, your eyes somewhere far away. i wonder if you know how much i've loved watching you live. watching you try. watching you grow. i've been lucky enough to love you through every version of you, and i would choose you again in every version of me.

thank you for your letter.

thank you for your absence, too. but only because it makes your presence that much more beautiful.

come find this letter when you miss me again. i'm right here.

forever yours,

y/n <3

#006. the quiet after

author: y/n itoshi written late at night, left on sae's pillow under the soft lamp glow.

my beloved,

the house is finally quiet. the kids are asleep, our daughter tucked against her stuffed fox, our son somehow sideways across his bed with his foot still dangling off the edge (he's lowkey like you when he sleeps). there are crumbs on the counter from the cookies we made tonight and your jacket is still thrown over the kitchen chair. you told me you'd hang it up later. you didn't.

i'm writing this because i'm full. not of anything dramatic or poetic, really. just... full in the way you are after a warm meal and a long laugh. full in the way you feel when everything in your life has finally slowed down enough for you to look around and realize "this is it". this is the dream we didn't dare speak out loud when we were 21 and too in love and too scared and too young to think we'd get here.

and yet, here we are.

do you ever wake up and look around, wondering how we got so lucky? not just with the house or the garden or the sleepy mornings and movie nights, but with each other. because God, some days i look at you and still feel like i'm back in my early twenties, heart skipping, unsure whether to kiss you or cry from how much i want to hold your face in my hands.

you are the calm in this house, the steady, the anchor. the one who kneels to tie shoelaces and carries sleepy bodies upstairs and makes quiet breakfasts without ever needing thanks. you still don't talk too much. still raise your brow when i cry during disney movies. still steal bites of my food when you think i'm not watching (i am.).

and i know i'm loud sometimes. and perhaps messy. and sometimes i forget the laundry in the machine for too long. but i hope you know that no matter how much time passes, i will always be soft for you.

i will always kiss your hands when they're tired. i will always trace the lines near your eyes that laughter and love gave you. i will always watch you with the same wonder i did when i first realized you were mine.

we built this life together. from the bottom up. and even on the hard days, even when the baby cried and the dishes piled and our tempers snapped, especially on those days, i chose you. again and again.

there is no other version of this life i want to live. not without you. not even for a second.

come to bed soon. i'll keep your side warm.

love always,

y/n <3

#007. a promise across distance

author: sae itoshi written late one evening, found buried in the back pocket of his jeans where the day's exhaustion seemed to linger

mi amor,

i see your sneaky ways, hiding a letter in my underwear drawer, really? you thought you could get away with it but i'll have you know it took me quite a bit longer than expected to find it. guess i'm not as sharp as i used to be. but when i did find it, well... it hit me in a way i didn't expect. the truth is, there were a hundred things i could've done before coming to this, a thousand other moments that didn't need to be written, didn't need to be said aloud. but you still found a way to get through to me. you always do.

i was planning on responding right away but you know how i am. sometimes, i take my time to figure things out. i wanted to think about what you said. you have a way of making me feel everything all at once. i guess it's not just about what you've built for us. it's about everything that's come before it, too.

i've been thinking about the past a lot lately. you asked if i ever wake up and wonder how we got so lucky. and yeah, sometimes i do. but not for the reasons you think. you know that part of me, the part i never let anyone to see? it's always wondering whether i've done enough to deserve it. it thinks about the time we fought, a long time ago, over things that now seem so small.

that fight... it was stupid. i don't know what got into me. maybe it was the pressure of everything, having too many people's expectations on me, pushing me towards something that didn't feel right. i was so caught up in being the good son, the one who did everything he was supposed to. i'd tried to make everyone happy, except myself. and that led to mistakes. big ones. things i can't take back. and i should've told you about it from the start. long before they almost ruined everything God gave us both. but you forgave me. and i can't even begin to tell you how much that means to me.

there's something about how you always stay so grounded, always so sure, even when things feel like they might crumble. you're the constant in this life of mine that seems to spin so quickly. even with all the uncertainty, even with the ghosts of the past trying to creep back in, you were the one who pulled me back. and i'll never be able to repay you for that.

but i think you already know that.

i don't talk about it much but i've been thinking about rin a lot lately. i don't think i ever properly told you this. i don't know if i made the right choice when i left him when he was just a teenager. he was everything to me. we wanted to be the best strikers, us both, next to each other. but i destroyed those dreams. do you know why? it's because i wanted him to be the best striker of the world with me being the best midfielder. it seems like my dream came true. but does it really matter if i achieved mine by destroying someone else's dream? at the end of the day, he still achieved his dream, just without me. i understand why he still resents me. but i have to live with it. at least his wife is your friend.

so yes, mi amor, i wake up some mornings still unsure, still wondering how we ended up here. but then i remember, we chose each other, again and again. we've been through things that others would have never survived. but here we are, with our family, with our future. with you beside me, still the same, still as radiant as ever.

and in the end, maybe that's all that matters.

you say you keep my side warm while i'm away. just so you know, my side isn't quite as warm without you.

come back to me soon. i'll be waiting, as always.

with all my love,

sae.

#008. the letter never sent

author: y/n itoshi written late at night, tucked away in a small box, never meant to be read.

my beloved sae,

i don’t know why i’m writing this now. but tonight, as i sit here, i’m thinking about everything. about the life we’ve built, the way things have unfolded, the quiet moments where everything felt perfectly, beautifully aligned. there’s something about this age, about these years, that make me feel like i'm finally seeing things clearly. it’s almost as if i’ve lived enough to understand the beauty in the small things: the way our son still tries to sneak cookies before dinner, how our daughter insists on sitting next to me when we watch movies, or the way you always know exactly when i need to be pulled out of my head and just… live in the moment.

i’m so full, sae. full of memories. full of gratitude. full of love for you.

i don’t think i've ever told you enough how thankful i am. i used to tell myself that if i said it too often, it would lose meaning. but i don’t think that’s true. i think i just didn’t know how to say it in the right way. i guess this is me trying to get it right.

the truth is, i’m still the same girl who fell in love with you when i was too young to understand how much love i could have for someone. but i understand it now. i understand how much it hurts to love someone and how much it heals, how much it changes you. i understand that love doesn’t mean perfection. it means making mistakes and learning, it means patience and growth, and above all, it means choice. i’ve chosen you every day, sae, and i’ll keep choosing you for as long as i live.

sometimes, i look at you, just like I did back then, and i still feel the same flutter in my heart. i still feel like i’m falling in love with you all over again, even after all these years, even with everything we’ve been through. and i wonder, do you ever feel the same way? do you ever look at me and think about all the moments we’ve shared, the love we’ve fought for?

but the truth is, i’ve been thinking about the fights we’ve had too. we’re not perfect, and there have been times when our hearts were heavy, when words were spoken that shouldn’t have been. the time we argued because of the tension between us, the misunderstandings that nearly pulled us apart… i regret those moments. i regret the hurt, the silence that followed. i wish i could take back the things i said during those fights. but even then, in the hardest moments, i still chose you. i still knew that our love was bigger than those arguments.

do you ever think back to those days? the day we fought over things we should’ve just said out loud? the way i let my anger get in the way of my love for you? i hope you know that i never meant to hurt you. i just couldn’t see past my own fear, my own insecurities.

but now, looking back, i realize that even in those moments of doubt, we were still writing our story. every argument, every moment of hurt, every moment of joy, it all brought us to where we are now. and that’s a life i'm so proud of. i never imagined we’d have this, my love. i never imagined our little family, our home, this life that we’ve created together.

i think about rio, and how he’s growing into such a kind, thoughtful man. and rei, who has this fierce love for the world, so much like you, it almost makes my heart ache. i know they’ll carry what we’ve given them, the lessons we’ve taught them, even when we’re no longer here to remind them. i can see them growing into people who will make the world a better place.

but tonight, my love, as i sit here, i wish i could slow time. i wish i could hold on to this moment, this peaceful, contented moment, forever. i know time moves so fast, sometimes too fast. and in the quiet of the night, with the weight of everything on my heart, i wonder if we ever really get enough of it.

maybe that’s why I’m writing this, even though i don’t know how to put it all together. i just want you to know, sae, that i love you. i love you more than i can express. i've loved you in ways i never thought possible. and no matter how much time passes, no matter how much changes, that will never change.

and if there ever comes a time when i’m no longer here, i want you to know: i’ve never regretted a moment of this life we’ve built. i've never regretted loving you, even through all the highs and the lows.

i will always love you, sae. always.

forever yours,

y/n <3

#009. the silence that echoes

author: sae itoshi written on a quiet evening with only the hum of the clock for company.

mi amor,

i can’t say i was prepared for this quiet. the kind of silence that stretches out so long it becomes a presence of its own. it’s not the peace i thought i'd welcome. not the stillness that comes with calm. instead, it’s the kind of quiet that fills every corner of the house and reminds me of the noise i miss.

i’ve always said that i'd cherish the moments of solitude, the breaks, the time when things slow down. but now that it’s here, i realize that everything i've ever wanted, the success, the peace, the quiet nights, isn’t enough without you beside me.

i found myself standing in the kitchen today, just… standing. staring at the counter. i didn’t even notice how much time had passed, how the world outside moved on, how everything continued without us. it was strange, in a way, to be in this house without the usual hum of life around us. our grandchildren are growing fast. aiko's voice is already changing, and akira's practically outgrowing the house.

it’s funny, isn’t it? how we don’t realize how much we take for granted until it’s quiet. until the house feels empty. i always thought i’d be ready to handle this, to see the kids growing up, to move into a new phase of our lives. but i wasn’t ready for this.

i found your jacket today, thrown over the chair, the way you always leave it. it’s funny how such little things, things you never even think twice about, are the ones that remind me you’re still here. even when the kids are gone, even when the noise has died down, i feel you in those small details. i see you in the way the couch cushions are still shaped like they always are when you get up in the middle of the night for water.

i know i’ve spent too many years running after everything, making sure things are in their place, trying to keep the pace. i guess it’s true what they say, you don’t realize how fast time flies until it’s almost gone. and, honestly, sometimes i wish i’d taken more time to appreciate the simple things. to hold on to those quiet mornings when we’d share a cup of tea and just exist in the same space without saying a word. to remember how i felt when i first realized you were mine. how could i have missed that? how did we let it slip by?

but now, here i am, sitting in the quiet of this house, trying to figure out what comes next. i guess i never thought i’d need more than what we built, but there’s a part of me that’s afraid of what comes after this. i know things can’t stay the same. time moves forward, and we have to change with it. but I’m not ready to let go. not yet.

i still think about the fights, the ones we had, when we were younger, when everything felt like it was falling apart. those days when it seemed like we were so different, too many things between us. but even in those moments, when we were at our worst, i knew deep down that we were meant for something more. and look at us now. together. here. after everything. it’s a miracle, really.

maybe that’s what i'm trying to say. you’re my miracle, amor. the one thing i never thought i could have. and even though things are quieter now, even though i’m sitting here alone more than i care to admit, i’m not afraid. not of the future. not of the change. because i know i’ll never have to face it without you. and for that, i’ll always be grateful.

so, i’ll wait. i’ll wait for the noise to return, for the kids to come home, for the world to keep spinning. but more than that, i’ll wait for you. because, no matter how many quiet nights there are, no matter how much time passes, i’ll always be here. always waiting. always loving you.

you’ll find this letter where you always find them, tucked between the pages of our life, hidden in a place you wouldn’t think to look. but i know you’ll find it, because i’ll always leave something for you to hold on to.

until then,

sae.

#010. the time that passed

author: sae itoshi written in the dim light of the setting sun, the paper creased with age, ink blotting at the edges.

mi amor,

the years, i find, stretch on like the slow sinking of the sun beneath the horizon, reluctant, heavy with the weight of time, yet inevitable in its descent. i feel as though i am growing more like the evening sky, each day tinged with the colors of the past, the moments we shared, the dreams we once spoke of in hushed tones. but no matter how many years fall away, no matter how deep the shadows grow, it all circles back to you. always to you.

you know, y/n, there are mornings when i wake up and feel the soft press of your presence against me as though you were still here, as though i can hear your laugh echo through the house, the sound of your footsteps echoing on the stairs. i close my eyes, and there you are, standing in the kitchen, your back to me, humming a song, your hands moving as though you were never really gone. but when i open my eyes, i find only the silence. the space where you used to be.

and yet, i find solace in that silence. i hold on to it the way one clings to a memory that refuses to fade. it is not enough to fill the emptiness, but it is all i have left.

i never thought it would hurt this much to live without you. they warned me, in the years leading up to this, that death is a part of life. but no one ever told me how to live without you, how to breathe without the rhythm of your laughter, without the way your eyes crinkled when you smiled, the way you held my hand as though it was the most natural thing in the world.

do you remember how we used to talk about what we would do when we got older? how we imagined sitting in rocking chairs, laughing at the things we used to argue about, telling our grandkids stories about the “good old days”? i always thought we would have more time, more time to hold each other close, more time to finish our plans, more time to be in the small, quiet moments where everything made sense.

but that time, as it always does, slipped through our fingers. the days turned into years, and the years turned into memories. and now… i find myself alone, counting the moments as they pass, wishing for one more second, one more hour with you.

God, how i wish i could have given you more. more love. more time. more of me. i wish i had slowed down, been present, been with you in every moment. i wish i had held your hand a little longer when we sat together at the kitchen table, wished i had kissed you a little deeper when we said goodbye in the mornings.

but the past is a cruel thing, amor. it leaves me with nothing but this ache in my chest and the regret of things unsaid, things undone. you were my heaven on earth. when you walked into a room, the light seemed to follow you. i could not wait to get home, to hear your voice, to feel your warmth. you were the peace i never thought i could have. the love i never thought i deserved. and now, without you, i find myself lost.

i want to believe that you are out there somewhere, watching over me. maybe you’re sitting on a cloud, laughing at how i still can’t seem to get anything right without you by my side. but more than that, i want to believe that i will see you again. that, one day, we will be reunited in a place far beyond the stars, where time will no longer tear us apart.

and so i wait, mi amor. i wait for the day when my time has come. when i can leave this world behind and find my way to you. because if i’m being honest, i've had enough of this quiet life, this world without your laughter, your warmth, your presence. i am ready to return to you, to find you once again. i am ready for the end of this long, aching wait.

please know that, though i am not yet with you, my heart still beats only for you. it always will. even in the fading of my days, even when my body is no longer strong enough to keep going, i carry you with me. you are the reason i breathe. you are the reason i live. and when my time comes, i will not hesitate. i will find you. i will hold you again.

until then, i will keep writing these letters. i will keep living in the memories we created, because they are all i have left. and when i close my eyes, i will pretend, just for a moment, that you are still here, that you are still beside me.

te amo. para siempre. incluso más allá de los límites del tiempo. (i love you. forever. even beyond the bounds of time.)

always,

sae.

the evening was still, with the hum of the world outside muted by the thick glass of the living room windows. aiko sat on the couch, the old letters spread out before her, each yellowed page a fragment of the past, fragments of a love story that, despite the passing years, had never stopped breathing. her husband, victor, sat beside her, his hand resting on hers, their children sprawled at their feet, their heads tucked into pillows as they listened intently. aiko’s voice was soft but steady as she began to read aloud, her gaze drifting over the faded ink, each word a memory that had been passed down through generations.

“once upon a time,” she started, her eyes lifting to victor's for a moment, and he gave her that familiar, tender smile, the one that always made her heart flutter, just like her grandmother’s smile had done for her grandfather all those years ago.

“…there was a love that transcended time, a love that lived through the chaos, through the tears, through the quiet moments of everyday life. it was a love so deep, so unwavering, that even in death, it found its way back.”

the children, now wide-eyed, looked up at her. aiko could see the curiosity in their gazes, the unspoken questions filling the air like a palpable force. but aiko’s voice remained calm, steady, her heart wrapped in the warmth of the story that had shaped her own life.

“this letter,” she continued, “was written by my grandmother on a quiet evening just like this one, though… i never knew how it would feel to read it, not until now.”

she paused for a moment, taking in the memory of her grandmother’s handwriting, the delicate script that, despite its frailty, carried the strength of a love that had weathered every storm. she glanced at victor again, her heart squeezing just slightly. his eyes, those eyes that always understood her in a way no one else did, never left her face.

“her words,” aiko whispered softly, her voice dipping lower now, as though she were sharing a secret with the world, “are more than just love letters. they are promises, echoes of a love that never fades. even after all these years, their love lives on in us, in every moment we share. just like this.”

victor smiled, squeezing her hand gently, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. their children sat quietly, listening to their mother’s words, captivated not just by the story, but by the way the story seemed to wrap itself around their own hearts, linking them to something larger, something eternal.

“grandma and grandpa,” their daughter, yumi, spoke up with a soft curiosity, “they loved each other so much? even when they got old, they never stopped loving?”

aiko chuckled softly, the tears in her eyes sparkling as she nodded. “yes, my dear. even when they were old, even when time seemed to slip away from them, their love never faded. they didn’t need grand gestures. they showed their love in every small thing. in the way they took care of each other, in the way they made each other laugh. in the way they held on to each other, even when life wasn’t perfect.”

victor leaned in, placing a kiss on her forehead, his voice low as he whispered, “just like us, huh?”

aiko smiled softly, feeling the weight of the years fall away, replaced by the gentle presence of love, the kind that transcends every boundary. she had lived this love, this unshakable, unwavering love. and now, she passed it down.

“yes,” aiko replied, her voice thick with emotion. “just like us.”

as she finished reading the last letter, the room seemed to hold its breath for a moment. the world outside was still, the only sound the soft rustle of the papers in her hands. she closed her eyes for a brief second, imagining her grandparents together again, wherever they were, side by side, in some quiet, peaceful place, forever entwined in the love they had built.

she opened her eyes to find her children looking at her with wide, expectant eyes. “now,” aiko said, her voice filled with warmth, “this love doesn’t end here. it lives in you, in me, in all of us.”

her son, luis, who had been quiet throughout the reading, suddenly looked up, his voice soft. “mom, do you think when we’re old, we’ll still love each other like grandma and grandpa did?”

aiko’s heart swelled at the question, and she met victor's gaze once more, feeling the silent answer pass between them.

“yes,” she said, her voice steady with certainty. “yes, i think we will.”

the evening passed quietly, with the sun finally dipping below the horizon, casting the room in a soft golden hue. the letters, tucked away once more in their box, were safe, just like the love they carried. in their hearts, the love of their grandparents would live on forever. and, in time, their own children, and their children’s children, would tell their stories too.

after all, love never truly dies. it just finds new ways to be remembered.

"by the way, did you know my grandpa was the best footballer in the world?"

"of course i know."

chapter 044 > here > ...

taglist is closed ! <3

back to golden hours, golden hearts

note: thank you so much for being on this long long journey with me. i can't believe i finished this smau !! i couldn't decide if i should talk shit about lanlan and rensuke in this cute epilogue so i decided not to. but maybe in the bonus chapters!! (if u want) the ending was maybe a bit rushed and i'm sorry for that. but here's a gift for you!! this took me so long LMAO also, thank you so so much for 500 followers. i have so much love for every single one of you and i hope you enjoyed this series!! let me know if you have any wishes regarding bonus chapter(s) <3 thank you so much. - lya

taglist: @darling-dearesttt @ffleurist @yuukiririix @beepbopzlorp @luvrrin @narcjsistx @catukin @megumismyhusband @morgyyyyyyy @levihanmyotp @kaz-0e @nensi @vaelils @loverryxx @kunascutie @swagkittybear @alexiaray @kaidostwin @pookiei-bookie @syqashiee @vayahatesu @yangx2isawhore @pinkfqiry @treeguzzler @shumeow-h @modxbea @90s-belladonna @rory-cakes @sapph1r3x @yuiearyi @pctterheadd @thecallofmedusa @whisperofae @belovedfedya @anqelkoz @yukari1k @dontmindtheevie @pookalicious-hq @pan-kojiwa @spookysoowpprince @mivqko @chuuyalvover @viviinpt @h1sllvr @luvvmae @renchai @yourlocaleffy @x3nafix @saeglazer

[revelboo]

I JUST WANTED YO LET U KNOW I GOT CONFIDENT ENOUGH TO WRITE MY OWN FANFICTION BECAUSE OF YOU!! ✨✨💕

(that's all I'm sorry 🥺)

Do it! We need more writers! Spread the Transformers corruption

True Romance Pt 14

Trine x Reader

• Trying to ignore Thundercracker, Skywarp mass displaces and sprawls out alongside you in the nest Thundercracker has made for you. Hears your startled noise and grins. Tossing an arm across your middle and burying his face against your warm throat as Thundercracker vents at him. “You like me best, don’t you? I’m more fun,” he purrs, mouth against your skin. Wondering exactly how much you’ll let him get away with.

• Shivering as he vents against you, lips brushing your skin, you stare up at Thundercracker’s disapproving frown. “I like all three of you.” Which is true and probably safer than playing favorites given how mercurial Skywarp can be. Wanting all of your attention mainly whenever someone else has it. Shifting to lean over you, propping himself up on a hand, even at this size he’s much bigger than you are. That crooked grin of his all mischief as he bumps his helm against your forehead, invading your space.

• “Do you?” Thundercracker asks despite himself as you look at him. Because that’s a whole other possibility he hasn’t considered. Instead of vying for your attention, just sharing you. Star’s always taken the lead with their Trine, but he’s sure Star cares for you, too. He’s just too busy worrying over them, his duties, and now you to get to show it much. “You want to stay with us? Belong to us?” Mass shifting, he ignores when Skywarp flares his wings. “Choose us?” It’s not like sharing is completely unheard of for Trines. Rare, but it does happen.

• There’s a silken edge to Thundercracker’s words you’ve never heard before that spins you tight. Because you’re not so sure he’s talking about keeping you like a pet anymore. That this question is important and you need to understand what he’s asking before you answer. Feeling strangely strung tight with anticipation as he stretches out on your other side, propping himself up with an arm. “If I did?” You ask as he traces his servos down your arm and pulls your hand to him to press against his chassis as if he wants you to feel the thrum of his spark. Sandwiched between them, feeling their warmth, you’re aware of everywhere they’re touching you. That this is different.

• Letting himself back into his shared habsuite, Starscream hesitates until he finds his Trine. Venting when he spots them almost pinning you in a nest of blankets, leaning over you. Knows you’re not doing it on purpose, not trying to antagonize them by putting them at odds with each other. Making them compete for your affection. And you don’t understand that having you around, alternating who you rest with every night is making this harder on all of them. Your affectionate nature sending mixed messages. But his brothers aren’t rumbling at each other now. Aren’t snarling. Optics narrowing as he plants a hand on the berth and leans over the three of you, he watches Skywarp mouth your neck as your hooded eyes lock with his optics. “If I chose all three of you?” You ask, voice little more than a whisper as his wings lift with the question. Hearing the cautious invitation in your words, the submission.

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[kentogetsmewetter]

Drugs & Money

⋆｡°✩Genre: musician eren x f reader

⋆｡°✩Synopsis: You only went to the house party because your friend swore it’d be worth it celebrities, stars, maybe even some connections. You weren’t expecting much. But then you met him. Eren. He was already gone in more ways than one, but something about him pulled you in. You talked, you smoked, and one night… that’s all it was going to be

⋆｡°✩Contents: drug usage(weed), sex(p n v), unprotected sex, overstim, fingering, edging, choking/asphyxiation, dirty talk, pet names( baby, pretty, etc)

series masterlist

You were already high by the time you stepped into the house. Cute little house party your friend invited you to. Spoke about all the famous people and familiar faces you could find here. So you said fuck it, you needed this anyways.

You weren't the giggly kind of high right now you hardly ever were. You were that slow motion, colors to bright, I feel my heart in my eyelids kind of high. The kind that makes you feel like you’re watching your own life from across the room.

The music hit you first, loud, distorted, vibrating straight through your chest, shaking the floor, and making your heartbeat feel off-sync. Some remix you couldn’t name, but the bass was low and smooth. There were lights were flashing from every angle, harsh white strobes, with strips of blue and red LEDs running around the edges of the ceiling, and a rotating light in the corner that kept spinning out sharp flashes of color that made it hard to focus on anything for too long and cheap fog machine that had filled the room with a light haze

People were everywhere. Packed shoulder to shoulder. Some were dancing, their bodies grinding and swaying with drinks in their hands. Others were standing in circles, shouting over the music, holding red cups and their phones. Of course there was a couple making out hard near the staircase, and someone was passed out on the couch. You stepped over an empty bottle on the floor, the air smelled like weed and sweat, the feeling was warm, kinda gross, but never unfamiliar.

You hadn’t been here long with your friend, but it was already enough time for the room to start feeling too small, too loud, too chaotic. You weren’t exactly new to the scene, you'd been to enough parties like this to know the drill. But tonight, it was different. The air felt thicker, like everyone was trying to outdo each other with their presence.

The friend you came with was somewhere else across the room, her laugh cutting through the crowd like she owned the place. You could see her talking to some guy by the couch, her hands animated as she laughed a little too loudly at something he said. It was the same every time. She knew what she wanted and how to get it. She was the more social one out of you two, and she knew how to flirt her way into anything she wanted.

You, on the other hand? You weren't the type to stand on the wall at a party or be the center of attention. You were just here to vibe, get lost in the music, and maybe forget a few things. You took a quick look at her, giving you a thumbs up, giving you a signal she was doing fine, and mouthing something you weren't able to make out. 

You nodded back, but your mind wasn’t really on her. It was on the itch that had been growing since you first stepped into the house. The kind of buzz that made your thoughts feel like they were speeding up, but your body was stuck in slow motion.

You were already thinking about your next hit. Not because the edible you took wasn’t good, it was, but because it just wasn’t enough. Your high was starting to dull, and you needed that next wave to hit and drag you under, just a little deeper.

That floaty, warm buzz was creeping through your limbs, but your head wasn’t quite where you wanted it yet. You knew what you needed. You knew it was in your bag. You just needed a quiet enough space to roll it up.

You'd been in this house more times than you could count. It always looked the same. You knew the layout by heart, the flow of it, cause everyone was always hosting parties at this house. So, even with the chaos of the party pressing in around you, people dancing, music pulsing like a second heartbeat, you moved through it with ease.

Shoulders bumped yours. A girl spilled her drink and cursed at you, but you could care less, laughing as her friend pulled her into another room. Someone tried to talk to you, leaning in way too close, but you slipped past before they could even finish their sentence. Your mind wasn’t on people. It was on that next hit.

But as you made your way through the thick haze of perfume, weed smoke, and sweat, that feeling crept in, like someone was watching you. Not just looking, but watching. Your skin prickled beneath your clothes, heat curling up your spine in a way that had nothing to do with the room’s temperature. You didn’t look over your shoulder. Not yet. But you felt it. That heavy kind of gaze, the kind that sticks to you.

You shook it off, just enough to keep moving. It was probably nothing. A guy staring too hard. A girl being weird. The usual. But the weight of it stuck with you as you pushed through a final couple of people and stepped into the kitchen.

The shift in energy was immediate. The kitchen was quieter, calmer. The bass was muffled through the walls, and the light in here was warmer, less intense than the flashing strobes in the other rooms. Only a few people lingered here, two girls whispering near the sink, a couple of guys passing a bottle back and forth at the table, eyes glassy and not paying you any attention. No one in here mattered. No one in here was watching.

You finally exhaled, letting your shoulders drop as the tension slipped away. You walked over to the counter, the surface sticky with old spills you slid your small bag in front of you. Your fingers moved automatically to the rolling papers, the grinder, and the little can with your stash tucked inside. You found comfort in rolling up. You dumped the bud onto the counter and started breaking it down with practiced ease, fingers moving fast but precise. The smell hit you right away earthy, sweet, sharp it made your mouth water just a little.

You glanced up once, just to make sure no one was hovering. No one was. You were good. The beat of the music from the other room thudded softly through the walls. You lined your paper, flattened it out smooth. Tapped the ground bud into place, spreading it with your finger, neat and even. Licked the edge and rolled it tight, sealing it with the tip of your tongue like you’d done a thousand times before. That quick flick of your lighter, the brief spark, and you were already bringing it to your lips.

The first inhale was deep. You held it, let it burn slowly in your lungs, and exhaled through your nose. With the fog curling up and around your face, you craved this feeling. Hell, you lived in it. For the most part, you stayed high. Not out of control, but enough, enough to stop overthinking everything. But when it came to parties like this, loud, hot, too many people in your space, you smoked way more.

You brought the blunt back to your lips, fingers resting light but steady. The ember flared again, burning red for a second before fading back to black as you pulled another hit. You sucked in deep, slow, controlled, just the way you liked it. The taste hit your tongue earthy and bitter, with that faint hint of sweetness you always picked up when the wrap burned just right.

Your eyes fluttered shut for a second, just long enough to feel it settle. That buzz behind your eyes. That soft hum in your chest. That room was too loud, too bright, too much. But in this moment, with smoke in your lungs and the music thumping somewhere far off, it didn’t matter. You exhaled again, watching the smoke swirl in front of your face before disappearing into the air. And just like that, you were right where you wanted to be.

A slight movement pulled your attention to the doorway. A person was standing there, leaning against the frame like it was built just for him, shoulder slouched, posture loose, but eyes sharp and locked onto you. You clocked it instantly, he was high, and not off anything light. You’d seen that look before, and you knew it well. You were floating too, but he was somewhere deeper, somewhere darker. It showed in his face, in the way his jaw was loose but his eyes were tense. Like his body had let g,o but his mind was racing.

You’d definitely seen him before. That much you were sure of. There was something about him the way his face lingered like a memory, like a song you’ve heard in passing too many times but forgotten. He seemed so familiar and didn't at the same time.

The kitchen light cast a soft glow across his face, flickering just enough to make the whole moment feel cinematic. His eyes were bloodshot, lids heavy, and his pupils were blown wide, so wide you could barely see the green around the edges. His stare was intense, direct, and completely unbothered by being caught.

His hair hung down in soft waves, messy but not unkept. A few strands clung to his forehead from the heat in the room, the rest framing his face in a way that felt too perfect to be accidental. He didn’t blink. Didn’t look away when your eyes met his. He just watched you slowly, deliberately, like every movement you made was worth studying.

The way your fingers cradled the blunt, still warm between your fingertips. The way your lips had just wrapped around it, your exhale still thick in the air. The way your body leaned back against the counter, all relaxed, like you didn’t give a single fuck who was watching. But he was.

"You always roll up like that?" Oh, look at that, he finally speaks. You watched him push off the doorframe. His movements were slow, measured, and calm as he walked toward you with that heavy-lidded stare, red eyes glassy, lips parted like he was still tasting whatever high he was on. He had a certain pull about him. It lingered in the way he moved, the way his eyes never rushed, how he seemed like he already knew what you were going to say before you said it. 

It was the kind of pull that could drag you under if you weren’t careful. The kind that didn’t just ask you to look, it dared you to get close. And if you did? If you leaned in just a little too far? You’d fall. Not gracefully either. You’d fall hard and fast, right into his world.

One made of blurred nights, smoke-stained breath, and music that rattled your ribs. A world stitched together with chaos, where rules didn’t matter and everything was beautiful for just long enough to ruin you.

And maybe just maybe, if he played his cards right, you’d let yourself get pulled into it. You weren’t sure if that made you reckless or just curious. But either way? He was already reeling you in. 

"Like what?" you replied, casual, as if he hadn’t just been watching you roll up like it was something sacred. You planted your palms on the edge of the counter behind you and pushed yourself up with a slow, fluid motion onto the counter. Your legs swung once before crossing at the ankle. You took another hit, exhaled smoke toward the ceiling, then let the blunt dangle between your fingers. 

He was closer now. Not too close to give you any discomfort, but enough that you could see the fine cut of his jaw under the low yellow kitchen light. His hoodie hung loose off one shoulder, revealing the edge of a tattoo.

"Like you're trying to seduce the paper." His voice was thick with amusement, raspy but edged with that slow kind of charm. His gaze was locked onto you like it was second nature. And he had a smirk, lazy, crooked, even a little smug, it was already on his lips like he’d been waiting to say that line all night. 

"You always stare that hard at random people you don't know?" The smirk on his face deepened, spreading just enough to make his dimple show through the stubble lining his jaw. He stepped in even closer, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off his body. 

His hand moved toward yours, slow and deliberate, like he was giving you time to stop him, but you didn’t. His fingers brushed against yours, the touch was feather light, but still enough to send a small jolt up your arm, as he reached for the blunt in your hand. Not to hit it yet, just to tilt it, tapping the ash off to the side with the pad of his thumb, his touch light but confident. He was careful with it, like the moment was too good to rush.

"Only the ones worth staring at," he murmured then bringing it to his lips. The way he inhaled was slow, intentional. Like he knew exactly what he was doing, not just with the hit, but with you. His cheeks hollowed just slightly, his lashes lowering as the embers lit up the tip of the blunt. The orange-red glowing over his face for a second, catching in his eyes before fading again. And somehow, it was beautiful. Effortlessly so. He exhaled through his nose, the smoke curling between the two of you. 

“Real smooth,” you murmured, a quiet fake chuckle slipping past your lips. Your voice was low, but there was a little glint of amusement in your voice, like you were entertained, but not impressed yet. 

“Smooth, hmm?” he echoed. The blunt sat between his fingers, held out toward you, but not all the way. No, he didn’t stretch his arm. Didn’t offer it plainly. He kept it close to his mouth, like you’d have to lean in to take it. Like he wanted you to. The ember still softly glowing at the tip, smoke coiling off of it in lazy swirls that blurred the space between you. 

And something about the way he held it loose and confident, like he had all the time in the world, made your stomach flip just once. Like, this wasn’t just about sharing a hit. Like it was already a game and you’d just stepped into it. “You want it?” he asked, voice thick and a little raspy from the smoke. “Gonna have to come get it, pretty."

You didn’t answer right away. Just looked at him like really looked. The blunt hovered between his fingers, still close to his mouth. You stepped forward, slow, deliberate, your shoes thudding softly against the tile floor. Each movement felt heavier in the quiet space between the two of you, like the air had thickened.

He didn’t flinch. Just stood there, watching you with that lazy smirk, eyes low but locked onto yours like he already knew you were going to do it. You didn’t ask. Didn’t say a word. You leaned in, your lips brushing just barely against the blunt between his fingers. You didn’t mean to, or maybe you did, but either way, the warmth of his skin sparked something low in your gut.

You kept your eyes locked onto his as you inhaled slowly, letting the smoke fill your lungs deep, deep enough to sting a little in your chest. His head tilted just slightly, the kind of subtle movement that made him look even more relaxed even more dangerous. His eyes trailed over your face like he was memorizing it. Every blink, every twitch of your mouth, every breath. He looked ten times better like that, but then you pulled away, exhaling through your nose. 

“Yea… you seem dangerous,” he said, voice dipping lower as a small chuckle left his lips, the sound barely above the hum of the party behind him, but somehow it curled around your spine like smoke.

You tilted your head, arching a brow, a slow smirk teasing your lips. “Yea? And you seem like you like that.” The corner of his mouth twitched upward again, but he didn’t respond right away. Instead, he brought the blunt to his lips, he inhaled deeply, cheeks hollowing just enough to show off the sharp lines of his face, the strength in his jaw. His lashes dipped low as he held it, eyes fixed on you through the thickening smoke.

Then he moved, his body shifted forward, and you didn’t flinch, couldn’t. His arms came down slow, steady, hands planting firmly on either side of you on the counter you were resting against. Caging you in without touching you… Not yet. His presence was overwhelming this close, and you could feel it feel him the heat and danger and the kind of charm that wrecked people.

And you weren’t trying to run. The closer he got to you, you could smell the intoxicating mix of smoke, cologne, and something warm and musky clinging to his hoodie.

One of his hands peeled away from the counter, smooth and careful, reaching for your face. His fingers brushed your jaw first, then trailed lightly up to your chin, tilting it just slightly. His touch was gentle, almost too gentle for someone who looked like that, it was like trouble molded into something beautiful.

Your lips parted instinctively, not even realizing it until he just leaned in, so close you could count every freckle dusted across his cheeks. Then he exhaled. The smoke flowed from his lips to yours, warm and slow, curling into your mouth like it belonged there. You inhaled without breaking eye contact, the taste of him mixing with the burn of the weed. 

When you finally released it, the smoke came from your mouth, weaving through the narrow space between your faces like it had its own pulse. His thumb brushed your bottom lip light, but lingering. Just enough to send a shiver down your spine. “That mouth gonna get you in a lot of trouble,” his smile depended his voice, low and rasped around the edges like he wasn’t just talking about the words that came out of it. “Hope you can handle it.”

You blinked slowly, lips still slightly parted, the warmth of his breath ghosting across them. “Hope I can handle it?” you echoed, tilting your head slightly, the corners of your mouth twitching into a smile. “Seems like you’re the one getting caught up.” 

His eyes flicked to your lips again, hungry. But he didn’t move. Not yet. For a moment, he just stood there, gaze locked on yours like he was trying to decide something. Like if he crossed that line, there’d be no going back. His jaw tensed slightly, the muscle ticking beneath smooth skin. One of his hands curled tighter against the counter, and his thumb still rested beneath your bottom lip, unmoving.

“Maybe we both are.” The air felt heavier with every passing second, every beat of silence. And then he gave in, slowly, like gravity was pulling him forward, he leaned in. His nose brushed yours, breath mingling, lips hovering. He paused there, eyes flicking up to meet yours one last time. Almost asking. Almost warning. And then he kissed you.

Soft at first. Just a press. But it didn’t stay that way. The second you responded, leaned in, breathed him in his hand slid from your chin to the side of your neck, fingers curling just enough to make your pulse jump. His other hand moved from the counter to a harsh grip on your waist, grounding you, anchoring you in place as the kiss deepened.

You knew in that moment you were trapped. Not physically, of course. Not in the way that made you want to run. But in the way that made you want to stay,  it was the kind of trap you didn’t mind falling into because something about him the way his mouth moved with yours, his hands that felt like fire along your body and made you crave the ruin.

And ruin you, he was. You felt it in your chest. In the way your heart pounded too fast, too loud, like a warning for what's to come. In the way your breath hitched the moment your fingers slid into his hair, tangling in the dark, messy strands like you’d been waiting to touch him forever. His hair was soft, thick, and your grip tightened just enough to make him let out a sound low in his throat.

You could feel his breath, hot and uneven, ghosting over your lips. Your tongue tangled with his tongue it was slick and warm, pulling moans from your throat; you didn’t know you’d give so easily. He kissed with his whole body, leaning into you, pressing his chest to yours, the muscles in his arms flexing as he held you firm in place like you might try to run and like he wouldn’t let you.

Every slide of his mouth, every roll of his tongue against yours, felt like fire under your skin, each movement sending ripples of heat crawling down your spine. Your lips parted wider for him, inviting him in again and again, letting him taste you until you couldn’t remember where he ended and you began. It wasn't careful, it was chaotic his mouth moved like he had all the time in the world and none at all.

He tasted like smoke and sin. Earthy yet addictive. Like every warning you’d ever been given and every temptation you’d never been able to resist. And every pass of his tongue over yours made your stomach twist tighter, your thighs clench, your fingers dig harder into his hair like he was the only thing grounding you to the moment. You were drowning in it. In him. And you didn’t want to come up for air. You needed more. And shit, maybe you needed him.

His other hand found your waist without hesitation, the hand sneaking around your wasit , fingers pressing into the curve of your wasit as the kiss deepened even more, your mouths moving in sync like you’d done this a hundred times before in different life. Then he tapped at your side twice a silent cue, and you understood immediately

You jumped, instinctively he lifted you effortlessly and sat you on the counter. His body settled between your legs, heat pressing into heat, and your thighs wrapped around his waist like second nature pulling him closer until there was nothing between you to. 

Your breath was still tangled with his when he pulled back, just slightly, teasing you with the space he created. His lips hovered over yours, close enough to touch, to tempt, but not close enough to satisfy. That wicked smirk was still playing at the corners of his mouth like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

Your lips were swollen and tender, tingling with every breath you drew. The taste of him still lingering on your tongue. Your chest rose and fell at an uneven rhythm, breath catching as you tried to steady yourself. It had only been a few seconds. Just a few seconds of kissing him but it already made you so dizzy, he made you feel so dizzy.

Your fingers, still tangled in his hair, tugged hard, deliberately. Just enough to make him falter. His breath hitched it was subtle, but you felt it right against your mouth. “Pull away again,” you whispered, voice low right by his ear, “and I’ll find someone else to finish what you started.”

“I promise,” you felt a soft press of his lips against yours. But your body reacted instantly. Your breath caught, and your stomach dipped, and your skin lit up in the places where he touched you. “You won’t find someone else that'll fuck you like me,” he added, his breath brushing against your ear. You could feel the cocky smirk on his lips without even seeing it. 

“Let’s get outta here,” he said, no hesitation, no asking. “Wanna fuck you somewhere nice.” Before you could even respond, his hand wrapped around your wrist. And he was already pulling you through the crowd, weaving through bodies like they were nothing, like he had tunnel vision for you and only you.

 You stumbled a little at first, heels clicking against the floor as you followed him, half breathless and half laughing. “Real princess treatment, huh?” you muttered under your breath, sarcasm dripping from your tone, though you didn’t slow down. Didn’t want to. 

The door swung open, and the night air hit, sobering in the best way. The muffled bass from inside faded as the two of you stepped into the dim parking lot, lit only by streetlights and a flickering neon sign in the distance.

He let go of your wrist but stayed close, walking ahead just a few steps, And there it was a glossy all black BMW S1000RR, sleek, dangerous-looking his motorcycle. You paused for a second, rolling your eyes. Of course, he had a bike. He turned to look at you, catching the expression on your face. A smirk tugged at his lips again, but this time, it was softer like he was proud of your reaction.

“Come here,” he said softly, motioning with two fingers. “ You ever been on one before?” You shook your head no while he reached for the helmet hanging from one of the handlebars “Make sure your hold on tight."

He slipped the helmet gently over your head, his fingers grazed your temples, tucking strands of hair behind your ears with a tenderness that made your stomach flutter. The inside of the helmet was cool against your skin, but his touch left behind a nice warmth.

His hands didn’t drop away immediately. They hovered, lingering near your jaw as he crouched slightly to adjust the strap beneath your chin. His fingers moved slowly, deliberately, brushing against the sensitive skin just below your jawline. The pads of his thumbs ghosted over your throat, not enough to tickle, but enough to make your breath catch in your chest.

He was focused, brows furrowed like this tiny act of fastening a helmet required precision. Like you required precision. Like he was trying to get it exactly right because you were something worth protecting. “There,” he murmured, finally snapping the buckle into place. “Fits nice.”

You blinked up at him through the visor, heart thudding a little too hard. He was so close, close enough to kiss again if you tilted your head just right. But this time, there was no rush. No urgency. Just a quiet stillness that made the moment stretch, heavy with something unspoken. Then he smiled not the smug, cocky smirk you’d come to expect from him but a real smile. Soft. Gentle. One that reached his eyes. He tapped the top of the helmet with one hand, like a playful little seal of approval. “Can’t have you messing up that pretty face.” 

You rolled your eyes, but you felt your lips pulling into a reluctant grin that you couldn’t quite fight off. “So thoughtful,” you teased, the words light and airy, but your voice wavered just slightly. Maybe from the adrenaline. Maybe from how he was still looking at you.

“C’mon,” his voice low as he swung one leg over the bike and settled onto the seat with ease. The metallic clink of the kickstand echoed softly as he nudged it up with his foot. You hesitated for a second just a breath before stepping forward. The bike gleamed under the soft streetlight, and your heart was pounding harder than it should’ve been. But not from fear. 

You climbed on behind him, the leather seat cool against the backs of your thighs. Your hands found his waist first, unsure, but then slid around him fully, hugging him tighter than you meant to. But it wasn’t dramatic or obvious. Your chest pressed gently to his back as your arms locked around him, and he didn’t say a word. Didn’t tease you for it. He just shifted slightly like he was making room for you. Like he wanted you that close.

You were nervous maybe even a little scared but you’d never say it out loud. Still, something about the way he felt beneath your arms, solid and warm, made your shoulders relax just a bit. Part of you trusted him. You didn’t know why. You just did.

He reached forward and twisted the key. The engine roared to life with a deep growl that vibrated through your legs and straight into your chest. You gripped him a little tighter instinctively. “Ready?” he asked, glancing back over his shoulder with a smirk, the wind already starting to whip through his hair.

You swallowed the nervous flutter in your throat and nodded, even though he couldn’t really see it. “Ready.” And just like that, the bike surged forward, the night swallowing the both of you in its arms.

As soon as he pulled off, the world shifted beneath you. The engine growled beneath your thighs, a deep, thrilling vibration that traveled up your spine and settled somewhere in your chest. Then came the rush of wind cool and sharp hitting your body like a hard as the bike surged forward.

You felt it instantly that rush. The kind that made your heart race for reasons that had nothing to do with fear. You understood completely now, why people loved this. The speed. The freedom. The absolute high of it. It was like flying like letting go of everything and trusting the road to catch you.

Your arms tightened around his torso, more out of exhilaration than nerves now. You pressed your cheek lightly to his back, his hoodie warm beneath you, and you smiled. Really smiled.

Through the visor, the city unfolded around you like a dream. The night was alive buildings lit up in soft golds and neons, headlights streaking like fireflies past in a blur. You sped between rows of cars, through wide intersections. And with him in front of you, the handlebars steady beneath his hands, you felt… untouchable. Wild. Beautifully reckless. 

“You good?” he yelled, his voice barely cutting through the wind rushing past you both. The world was a blur of headlights and neon streaks, cool air whipping against your skin, but you could still hear the grin in his voice. 

“Yea.” You called out clutching him tighter, your arms snug around his torso. “Wouldn’t want to fall off before I get what you promised.” You joked and he let out a low rich laugh but you felt it more than you heard it, the way it rumbled through his back against your chest.

“You seem like you don’t scare easy,” he called out, his voice cutting through the wind as he slowed the bike, easing onto a quieter, dimly lit street. The city lights blurred past in streaks of gold and red, casting a warm glow over his silhouette.

He turned his head just enough to glance back at you, and for a second, your eyes met. His were sharp, gleaming like polished emeralds beneath the streetlights steady, unreadable, and yet somehow teasing. “It’s hot,” he added, the words rough around the edges, dipped in something unspoken.

You let out a low, breathy laugh, the sound muffled slightly by the helmet. “You saying I’m brave,” you teased, “or just crazy?” He smirked, eyes flicking back to the road, but not before you caught the curve of his smile, the way it tugged at his cheek like he was trying not to enjoy you so much.

“Little bit of both,” he said, voice smooth, playful. “But I’m not complaining. I like a thrill ride with pretty girl.”  The wind had died down now, but your heart still raced from the ride and from him. He pulled into a small, gravel-lined driveway beside a tucked-away apartment building. Not flashy, but private. One porch light flickered weakly overhead, casting a golden halo across the cracked steps leading up to the door. The kind of place that looked lived-in, but it suited him.

He cut the engine, and the sudden silence was almost startling. Your arms lingered around his waist for a second longer than necessary, not quite ready for the ride to be over. “This is me,” he said, voice softer now in the quiet. He kicked the stand down with a sharp metallic clink, the engine falling silent beneath you both.

For a beat, the only sound was the ticking of the cooling metal and the soft hum of city life in the distance. Then he turned toward you, eyes catching yours over his shoulder, and reached up slow and steady.

His hands brushed against your jaw as he unclasped the helmet, fingers careful and sure. The buckle clicked free, and he eased the helmet off your head like he was handling something fragile. His hands lingered for just a second longer than necessary, thumbs brushing along your temple as he took you in. “Still good?” he asked, voice lower now, quieter. “Or having second thoughts?”

You let out a soft breath smoothing your hair back into place, When you looked up, your gaze met his and the world seemed to narrow down to just that. Him. The dim glow from the porch light softened the sharpness of his features, made his green eyes gleam like secrets you weren’t sure you were ready to learn. He looked different now. More human, waiting for your answer. 

“If I wasn’t good,” you said, voice steady despite the nerves fluttering beneath your skin, “I wouldn’t be here.” His grin went wide at that a flash of teeth and dimples that made your stomach twist in the best kind of way. For a second, he just looked at you, like he was trying to memorize the way you stood there under the lights , hair kinda wild from the helmet, lips still a little swollen, eyes daring and unreadable. 

Then his hand reached out, brushing against yours. The contact was brief, feather-light but electric. Your fingers found each other naturally, slipping into place. His thumb swept gently across the back of your hand like a secret.

“C’mon,” He tugged you forward with that same quiet confidence, pulling you up the short flight of stairs. You followed close behind, heart beating fast but he heat of his palm grounding you. "I need to make good on a few promises."

Then he reached the door, he let go of your hand just long enough to get the key from his pocket. It clicked into the lock with a sense of finality, metal scraping against metal. He shoved the door open with one shoulder, the hinges creaking softly as the warm, dim light from inside spilled into the stairwell. And then just like that as soon as your foot hit the hardwood floor, it was over.

Not because you were scared. Not because you doubted anything. But because the moment the door shut behind you, everything else fell away. The air shifted, You could feel him behind you, close enough that you felt the warmth of his breath at your neck, the subtle creak of the floorboards as he stepped in after you. 

You barely had time to take a breath before his hand slid around the back of your neck. His grip wasn’t harsh, but it was firm, possessive, like he needed to feel you anchored there. Then his mouth crashed into yours. There was no build-up, just raw heat and hunger. The force of it caught you off guard, it made your balance falter as you stumbled back a step. But you didn’t pull away. You kissed him back just as hard, lips parting instinctively, tongues tangling in a clash of want.

This kiss wasn’t like the ones before. It wasn’t slow. It wasn’t teasing. It was hungry and full of need. Desperate in the way only two people who couldn’t wait anymore could be. His mouth moved against yours with need , pulling moans from your throat as your bodies pressed agasit each other. His other hand found your waist, pulling you forward, guiding you backwards with every step never once breaking the kiss. You felt the heat of him through your clothes, the tight coil of tension winding between you both like it could snap at any second.

Your back met the nearest wall with a soft thud, and still, he didn’t let up. His tongue swept into your mouth again, slow at first, then deeper, exploring you like he needed to memorize the taste. Every kiss, every glide of his mouth, was more demanding than the last. Your hands gripped at his shirt, pulling him closer, trying to match his rhythm, trying to keep up.

His teeth caught your bottom lip, tugging just enough to make you gasp and he swallowed the sound like it belonged to him. Still, he didn’t pull back. He pressed in closer, crowding your body against the wall like he couldn’t stand the space between you, like even your clothes were too much.

Your hands slid under his shirt, fingertips grazing his hot skin where his shirt had ridden up. He was solid beneath your touch lean muscle, but still felt a little tense and when your nails scratched lightly down his spine, you felt the way his breath caught, the way his hips stuttered against yours for just a second.

“Fuck,” he muttered against your lips, the words low like he wasn’t sure how you were already undoing him. He finally pulled back not far, just enough to look at you, and even that separation felt like too much. His forehead rested against yours, both of you breathing hard, lips swollen, eyes half-lidded with heat. “You’re gonna drive me insane,” he whispered, voice wrecked and raw.

You smirked, one hand still curled around the hem of his shirt. “Good.” He let out a soft laugh, low and breathless, the sound buzzing against your lips. Then he leaned in again, slower this time more controlled but it still hit you just as hard. Like he knew exactly what he was doing. Like he wanted to savor every second.

One of his hands slipped down to a doorknob behind you, fingers twisting it open without looking. You barely noticed the click of the door; all you could focus on was him his mouth brushing yours. 

His hand wrapped around the base of your throat, his grip firm with a slight squeeze—just enough to remind you of his control without taking your breath completely. The pressure sent a jolt of heat down your spine, a warning and a thrill all at once. You could still breathe, but it made every inhale feel heavier, more deliberate.

He leaned in, lips brushing your skin as he trailed soft, kisses along the side of your neck. Each one slower than the last, like he wanted to tease you as long as he could. When he reached the base of your throat, he lingered, kissing there again and again, tongue flicking lightly between kisses, leaving your skin tingling in his wake.

The heat built low in your stomach, spreading fast and your breathing quickened. Your thighs pressed together without thinking, trying to ease the ache building between them but it didn’t help. Not with the way his lips moved against your skin. Not with the soft scrape of his teeth when he got too close to your pulse point.

His grip on your throat loosened just slightly, but his thumb stayed under your jaw, keeping your head tilted just the way he wanted. Every soft breath he exhaled sent a shiver through you. And he felt it because you felt the way he smiled against your skin. 

His hands found your waist, gripping you firmly but there was something in the way he lifted you that made your breath catch. You gave a little jump, legs wrapping instinctively around his waist, clinging to him like it was second nature. You nestled your head into the crook of his neck, your breath fanning against his skin, and let out a soft, breathy laugh that made his lips curl against your temple. “Cute,” he murmured, barely audible, like the sound of you laughing was something he wanted to hear all the time.

He stepped the two of you forward with ease, then gently laid you down against the mattress, your back sinking into the silk sheets as his body followed, hovering over you. He didn’t let his full weight settle just enough for you to feel the heat radiating off him, just enough to trap you in as yours legs never left his waist. 

Then his lips were on yours again. This kiss was deeper, needier, like the tension between you was finally cracking wide open. His hands didn’t waste time, sliding down your sides, fingers curling at the hem of your skirt. You gasped softly when you felt his fingers slip underneath, the rough pads of them brushing along your thighs before pressing against your panties—already damp, already giving you away.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to see your face. And the grin he wore wasn’t kind. “All I did was kiss you,” he said, tone playful teasing you as his fingers pressed a little more firmly as he let out a low, mocking chuckle that made your stomach flip.

You turned your face to the side with a quiet whimper, trying to hide your embarrassment, but you couldn’t not when he was this close. Not when his hand was still right there, pressed between your thighs like a secret he now knew. “Guess you’re easy to read, huh?” he teased, voice low, lips brushing along your jaw now.

“Shut the fuck up,” you breathed, the words slipping out sharper than you meant, but it only made his grin widen. He didn’t say anything back. Just let his thumb drag in slow, deliberate circles over your clit through the soaked fabric, teasing but never giving you enough. The pressure was there just enough to make your thighs twitch and your breath hitch but it stayed annoyingly soft, like he wanted to keep you on edge.

"Tell me what you want." His fingers then slid lazily up and down the damp cotton, drawing out every reaction. He knew exactly what he was doing. The way your hips jerked under him, the way your chest rose and fell so quickly now it all fed the look in his eyes. "I promise i’ll give you everything.”

You sucked in a sharp breath, your hands tightening around his arm, nails pressing just a little into his skin. Your body betrayed you, rocking into the slow rhythm of his thumb even as you tried to hold back.

“Please,” you whispered, your voice softer now breathy, shaky, stripped of that earlier bite. It was barely a word, more like a plea you couldn’t swallow down. The sound of it made something flicker in his expression. He leaned in close, lips brushing the shell of your ear as his fingers kept moving.

“Much better,” he murmured, voice low and close to your ear, the smugness softened by something tender. His breath ghosted over your skin as he spoke, and it sent another wave of shivers rolling down your spine. “Sound so fucking pretty like that.”

 Then you felt it his fingers hooking into the edge of your panties, he was moving so fucking slow it was driving you slowly insane. He didn’t rush, just tugged the fabric to the side with a ease, exposing you to the cool air of the room making you suck in a quiet breath as your thighs clenched without thinking. You were soaked, there was no hiding it.

He paused and he leaned back slightly, just enough to look really look. For a moment, he didn’t even touch. Just stood there, his hand still holding the fabric aside, eyes fixed between your legs like he was hypnotized. Like he’d never seen anything so pretty in his life. Your slit glistened, glossy with arousal from everything he’d done, and everything he hadn’t. He ran his tongue slowly over his bottom lip, and the way he looked at you made you feel stripped bare in more ways than one.

“Fuck.”he whispered, more to himself than to you, like the sight alone knocked the breath out of him. He ran his tongue slowly over his bottom lip, gaze locked on your glistening slit like he was trying to memorize the sight. “Look at you…”

You felt exposed in a way that wasn’t just physical. His stare wasn’t just hungry it was awe. He wasn’t just teasing anymore. He was caught. His thumb brushed the crease of your thigh, featherlight, but still not where you needed him. 

“Could you hurry the fuck up?” you snapped, breath shaky, hips shifting restlessly beneath him. The way he was taking his time his fingers barely grazing your skin, his mouth leaving featherlight kisses that burned hotter the longer they lingered it was maddening. Every touch made your skin tingle, made your body arch up into his like it had a mind of its own. But none of it was enough. You needed more. Now.

He paused, the corners of his lips curling into that smug, knowing smile. A low chuckle rumbled from his chest, deep and amused, like your impatience was the sweetest thing he’d ever heard. “You’re real mouthy for someone about to lose her mind,” his voice teasing as his fingers slipped a little lower, still just barely brushing where you needed him most. “ It’s cute, tho. Makes me wanna take all fucking day.”

He leaned in, lips brushing your jaw as he spoke again, slower this time. “Beg a little more, and maybe I’ll pick up the pace.” Your whole body buzzed with need, your hands fisting into the sheets, every muscle tense and ready to snap.

You really didn’t want to beg. That shit was embarrassing as fuck. The word please already tasted too sweet, too vulnerable on your tongue, and he knew it. That’s what made it worse.“Fuck you,” you hissed, voice low, stubborn. Your pride still clung to whatever scraps of control you had left, even though your body was already betraying you.

You started to grind against his fingers, slow and deliberate. If he wasn’t going to give it to you, you’d take what you could get. The friction sent a jolt of heat up your spine, your lips parting with a quiet gasp. You circled your hips again, your thighs tensing as you pressed into his touch, chasing whatever relief you could carve out for yourself.

But then you felt it, His fingers slowing your breath hitched in your throat, chest rising and falling in short, frustrated pants. He was doing it on purpose. You knew he was. He wanted to see how long you could last before you snapped.“So impatient,” he murmured, voice velvet-smooth, laced with dark amusement.

“I was gonna be nice. But now?” His thumb traced lazy, taunting circles over your clit too light to satisfy, just enough to make your whole body tense again. “Now I think I wanna see how long you can keep pretending you don’t want to beg.”

You glared up at him, chest rising and falling, mouth open like you wanted to curse him out but no words came. Just shaky breaths. Every nerve in your body felt raw, overstimulated from nothing. Nothing, except the ghost of his fingers, the low hum of his voice, and the way he was looking at you like he had all the time in the world. His eyes dragged over your face like he was savoring every reaction. Your furrowed brows. Your parted lips. Your thighs twitching from the effort of staying still.

“You look so pretty when you’re frustrated,” he muttered, the pads of his fingers pressing down just enough to make your hips buck. Then he pulled away again just a little. Just enough to make you whine. You hated that sound. Hated how easily he could pull it out of you.

He leaned in closer, lips brushing your ear. “C’mon, baby,” he whispered, tone dripping with something sickeningly sweet. “You’ve been talking all night. Don’t go quiet on me now.” You bit your lip, jaw clenched, trying not to give him what he wanted. But his fingers moved again, sliding slick and slow through your folds, pressing into that spot that made your breath catch mid-sentence. Your back arched. Your hand flew up to his wrist on instinct, not to stop him, but to hold on. He chuckled darkly, “That’s it. Say it.”

You clenched your jaw, refusing to let the word fall from your lips again. Not this time. You weren’t gonna give him the power of hearing you beg not when he clearly wanted it so bad. “Fuck you,” you spat again, voice hoarse but steady. Your hands grabbed at his arms, not to push him away, but to hold on because every slow, teasing motion of his fingers was driving you insane.

He slowed them down even more, practically a whisper of pressure now, maddeningly soft. You ground your hips against his hand, trying to get any friction you could, but he only pulled back slightly, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “Mm-mm,” he teased, shaking his head like you were misbehaving. 

“Keep playing,” you warned, your voice low and thick with heat, but firm. A spark of defiance flickered in your eyes as you met his gaze.

He laughed an actual laugh, deep and amused, like he hadn’t expected you to have that edge. Then his expression shifted. Something darker, hungrier, moved across his face. “Oh, is that a challenge?” he murmured, leaning in close, his breath ghosting over your lips.

His finger slid inside, slow and deliberate, and you gasped, the sound catching in your throat. Your lips parted around a moan, one hand gripping his shoulder hard, the other fisting the sheets beneath you. He didn’t rush his movements were torturously controlled, like he wanted to see how long you’d hold out before cracking. 

You bit your lip to stifle another moan, not because you wanted to, Hell no, but because you knew he wanted to hear it. Feel it. Watch you fall apart under his touch. So you didn’t give him that satisfaction. Not yet. 

You sat up a little, shifting your weight just enough to close the space between you. Your fingers trailed down from his bicep, tracing the veins in his forearm before drifting lower over his torso, past the hem of his shirt, and finally to his waistband. It was a slow, deliberate motion. Teasing, but casual, like you were just playing around… even though both of you knew exactly what you were doing.

“You talk a lot of shit,” you murmured, voice smooth and low, the kind that skimmed over skin like velvet. Your fingers tapped lightly at his waistband before resting there. “But your fingers?” You let your words hang, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Starting to feel more like a warm up than a threat.”

His jaw tightened. You caught the change in his expression just as the fire flickered behind his eyes. Something primal and sharp passed over his face, darkening his whole demeanor. His lips parted, and for a second, it looked like he was about to say something slick, but he didn't. 

Instead he took a sharp deep breath in and asked. “What are you doing?” Your palm hovered, then settled over the front of his jeans, fingers curving around the bulge with the gentlest of pressure just enough to make him flinch. His hips flexed, almost instinctively, like his body was reacting faster than his mind could catch up. You worked the buttons of his jeans with a kind of reverent focus, your breathing shallow but steady. He made a sound—low, unsure, half-wrecked. You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

You slid your hand beneath the denim, your fingers brushing heat and skin and then there it was. You pulled it out, slow, letting the weight of him settle heavy in your palm. Your breath hitched this time, just a little.

 He was pretty. That kind of pretty that was almost mean. Thick, with a pinkish-brown head slicked with precum, the bead catching the dim light. Veins curled along the shaft like subtle outlines, and he twitched when your thumb swept across the head, smearing the glistening fluid. Your gaze flicked up to him, and the look in his eyes glass-sharp, jaw tight, chest rising and falling like he was barely holding it together made you smile, just a little. 

“I promise,” he whispered, his voice low and ragged against your skin, lips brushing the curve of your jaw, “you don’t want to go there with me. Before you could fire back, or even catch your breath, he slid another finger inside you. The stretch was sudden but smooth, making your body yield to him, and you did, clenching around his fingers with a soft, involuntary gasp that escaped before you could stop it.

He moved with a rhythm that felt almost criminal too smooth, too knowing, like his hands had done this a hundred times before, and every time was just as dangerous. His fingers slid in and out of you with a slow, practiced precision, the kind that didn’t rush, the kind that just built pressure, stroke by deliberate stroke.

You gasped when his fingers curled upward, brushing against that spot deep inside you the one that made your breath catch and your thighs twitch. The one you were silently begging for. Each curl sent sparks racing up your spine, like static lighting up your nerves, and the warmth pooling low in your belly quickly began to simmer into something hotter, heavier.

Then his palm pressed down, grounding you, holding you still while his thumb slid up grazing over your clit with the lightest pressure. The contact was maddening. Perfect. Just enough to pull a soft, broken moan from your lips before you could even think to bite it back.

“Mmh,” he exhaled, close and ragged, voice thick with satisfaction. You could hear the smugness in it, feel it in the way his pace stayed steady. “Just like that." His eyes never left your face, watching, drinking in every twitch, every sound, like he was taking inventory of every weakness you’d tried to hide. And he was using every single one of them against you.

One of your hands gripped the sheets tightly, but you held on firm, refusing to let him see you break. Not yet. You’d be damned if you gave in first. You were aching now, pulsing around him, hips betraying you as they chased every motion of his fingers. He smirked against your skin like he could feel it feel how badly you were holding on.

But you didn’t give in. Not yet. Even as your thighs trembled beneath his touch, even as the pressure built inside you with every fluid thrust of his fingers, you refused to look away. Your breath came shallow, pulse beating faster and faster, but your eyes, your eyes stayed locked on his. You wanted to see him break first. You wanted to watch that confident smirk crack, to see the composure he had fall undone in your hands. You wanted to pull him under with you and make him drown first. 

Your hand moved slowly to his cock, already flushed and heavy in your palm. He was beautiful like this, veins running thick along the shaft, the head slick with precum, glistening in the low light. You ran your thumb over the swollen tip, pressing into it just slightly, watching the way his breath hitched how his jaw tensed, just for a moment. His eyes faltered just barely, but you caught it. That flicker. That crack in his cool. And still, he didn’t stop. Just barely cracked. 

His fingers kept pumping into you with maddening precision, relentless and deep, curling just right every time like he was trying to force the moan back out of you. His thumb returned to your clit with that same expert touch, dragging tiny circles that made your legs shake, made your stomach tighten but still, you held your ground.

Your grip on his cock tightened just enough to make him twitch in your hand. You dragged your fist down his length in one slow stroke, then up again, your thumb teasing the underside of the head where you knew he was most sensitive. His breath grew heavier. His jaw clenched tighter. But his fingers never stopped. And neither did yours.

He didn’t say a word in response to your teasing, didn’t acknowledge the way your hand kept working him over, the way your touch made his breath catch. No smug remark, no smirk—just action. His thumb pressed down hard on your clit, sudden and unrelenting.

The jolt of sensation hit you like a wave, it was sharp. Your breath stuttered. Your head spun. It was too much, too perfect, too overwhelming. Tingles shot up your spine and spread through your limbs, your skin buzzing like static. Without thinking, your thighs snapped closed around his hand, trying to soften the pressure, to ground yourself.

But he didn’t like that. Not one bit. His grip tightened on your thigh, fingers digging in just enough to make a point, and then he forced your legs apart again, roughly, spreading your legs wide like he owned you. “Don’t do that shit again.”His voice came out low and rough. There was no trace of playfulness left, just frustration, dominance. His eyes were locked on you, sharp and feral, like you’d crossed a line he didn’t think you would.

The way he looked at you it made your stomach flip and your breath catch again. His jaw was clenched, throat flexing as he fought to keep control of himself. But the way his fingers stayed buried deep inside you, his thumb still circling your clit now with an even firmer pressure made it clear, He wasn’t letting you off easy. Not anymore.

You could already feel yourself slipping. No matter how much you tried to keep your breathing steady, to lock your gaze on his like you still had the upper hand, your body was betraying you. Every twist of his fingers, every slow, punishing stroke of his thumb over your clit was unraveling you bit by bit. The heat was pooling in your belly, your thighs trembling as the tension built with no mercy in sight.

You were losing this battle. And he knew it. He wasn’t nearly as close as you were, not even close. You could see it in the way he now moved, calm and controlled, his breathing steady, his jaw no longer twitching like before. That composure you’d wanted so badly to break? Still intact. Worse, he looked smug now.

“Already falling apart, aren’t you?” his voice thick with quiet arrogance as he dipped his head, brushing his lips along the shell of your ear. “All that attitude, all that fucking mouth where is it now?” Your muscles tensed as he curled his fingers deeper, slower, drawing another sharp gasp from you. You could feel yourself clenching around him. It was humiliating how easily he could read you, how every movement of his hand felt designed to push you closer to the edge without letting you tip over it. 

He chuckled softly as your hips rolled helplessly toward his hand. “Look at you,” he whispered, eyes fixed on yours. “Trying so hard to hold it together. I can feel how close you are. You’re soaking my fingers, baby.” You wanted to glare at him, say something smart, but all that came out was a breathy whimper that only made his grin deepen.

“What happened to making me break first?” he taunted, pulling his fingers back just slightly, just enough to make your body cry out for more. His thumb paused, denying you that friction right when you needed it most. “You were real bold a few minutes ago.” Your hips bucked involuntarily, chasing contact, but he caught your thigh in one hand and held you down with quiet strength. 

 “You don’t get to take now. Beg.” Your head fell back against the pillow for half a second, breath ragged, thighs still trembling in his grip. You were so close it was ridiculous, every nerve ending felt frayed, oversensitive, like your body was already tipping without permission. 

“You’re so fucking annoying,” you hissed through gritted teeth, your voice shaky, raw with need and frustration. Your glare could’ve killed if your eyes weren’t already glassy with tears you refused to let fall. But your hips betrayed you. Even as you tried to hold your ground, they rocked forward, desperate for more of him, seeking out even more friction.  You hated that he could see it the need, the unraveling, the war you were losing in real time. But he didn’t gloat. Not out loud. He didn’t have to.

Instead, he let his fingers curl upward again with ruthless precision. And just like that, he hit it, that spot. The one that sent a sharp jolt straight through your spine. The one that had your whole body seizing in pleasure, your thighs trembling around his hand. Your mouth dropped open, no sound coming at first, just a breathless gasp, your mind blanking as the sensation pulsed through you in waves.

Your hands fisted the sheets at your sides, desperate for something to anchor you, to keep you from falling apart. The pressure in your belly was unbearable now, the tight coil threatening to snap at any second. You throbbed with every curl of his fingers, every agonizingly perfect drag of his thumb over your clit. You were so, so close. So close it hurt. 

“You wanna cum?” he asked, voice thick with mock sincerity, like he was genuinely curious. Like he wasn’t watching your body twitch and tremble in his hands, like he couldn’t feel how close you were. He tilted his head just slightly, eyes burning into yours with a heat that made it hard to breathe. “Beg, then.”

You tried to hold on, tried to keep the glare in your eyes, the venom in your voice, but it was getting harder by the second. Your walls fluttered around his fingers, clenching with every deep stroke, every teasing grind of his palm. Your legs quivered, threatening to close again, to trap his hand there, to make him finish it. You were right at the edge. Teetering. Just a few more seconds. Just a little more. 

Your thighs quivered, one last act of rebellion as they tried to press together, to trap his hand there, to force him to keep going. But he didn’t allow it. “You keep playing.” He pressed his palm down hard against your pelvis, pinning you in place as his fingers curled deep again, the pressure making your back arch off the bed. Then, just when you thought he’d finally give it to you, His fingers slowed. Stopping would be too easy. 

You couldn’t keep your focus. What had started as steady strokes, confident, teasing, meant to unnerve him was now nothing more than a distracted glide along the thick length of him. You were losing rhythm, losing control, your grip slacking as your mind blurred under the weight of your own pleasure.

It just rested there, curled loosely around him, fingers twitching, but your body too consumed with the way he was making you feel. You tried, tried to keep stroking, tried to keep the upper hand, but the pleasure kept spiking through you in waves, your body clenching around his fingers so tightly it was making your head spin.

His fingers dragged in and out of you with a slow agonizing pace, curling just enough to tease that tender, aching spot inside you, but never fast enough to push you over. The friction was maddening.

He got off to this. Not just the act, no, it was deeper than that. It was the way your body responded to him, the way you tried so hard to hold onto your pride even as it shattered piece by piece under his touch. It was addictive, the sight of you squirming, gasping, toes curling, your breath catching in your throat as you fought a losing battle against the wave building inside you.

He watched you with a kind of hunger that went beyond lust. He was studying you, memorizing the way your back arched when his fingers pressed just right, the way your hips jerked when he dragged his thumb over your clit with pressure. He saw the way your hands trembled, fisting the sheets one moment and reaching for him the next, torn between resistance and surrender. 

But what he loved most… was your face. The wet tears collecting in the corners of your eyes. Your lashes fluttering, mouth parted in a desperate moan, you tried and failed to silence. The raw vulnerability in your expression, mixed with rage and arousal and frustration, was almost too much for him. Almost. “Say it,” he whispered, mouth against your skin. “Tell me what you want. Beg me.”

That's when the small bit of pride you had left went down the drain. “Please… fuck… please, I wanna cum so fucking bad.” The words spilled from your lips in a broken rush. There was no more venom in your voice now, no glare, no pride, just need. Honest, aching need.

Your chest heaved with every desperate inhale, eyes half-lidded and glazed over, lips parted as your hips subtly bucked against his hand, chasing even the slightest motion. Your body was trembling, slick and swollen, wrapped so tightly around his fingers it felt like your walls were trying to keep him there, begging on your behalf.

But he only tilted his head, brows raised in mock confusion, that smirk tugging at the corner of his lips like he was delighted by how far you’d fallen. “I’m sorry, what?” he asked, voice calm like he wasn’t the reason you were breaking down right now. His tone was all arrogance, but his fingers were still deep inside you, barely moving, just enough to drive you mad.

“Please,” you whispered again, your voice cracking as your hips rolled forward, needy and shameless now. “Please, make me cum” And that was when he pulled his fingers out. Completely. The emptiness was brutal. Your cunt clenched around nothing, spasming from the loss, aching as the tension in your core twisted into something painful. The coil that had been so tight, so close to snapping, recoiled violently, your whole body flinching as the withdrawal hit you like a slap.

“Next time,” he said softly, his voice soaked in promise as he leaned in, the words brushing over your ear, “try begging before I’m bored.” Then calmly.” Turn over.” 

You lay there for a second, still breathless, chest rising and falling like you’d just sprinted a mile with no finish line. Your body was pulsing, cunt empty and aching, thighs slick with need, nerves still singing from the edge he’d pulled you off of. But your pride? That was a slow-burning fire in your chest, and it refused to die quietly.

“Was it not enough for your ego to have my pussy wrapped around your fingers? Hearing me beg?” you rasped, voice low, wrecked, each word soaked in defiance even as your chest heaved with the aftershocks of everything he’d just done to you. Your eyes locked onto his, narrowed and gleaming with a challenge you had no business throwing, but did anyway. Because that was you. Spite burned through your veins even when your body was trembling and your thighs were still slick with denial.

His brow twitched. It was quick, barely there, but you caught it. A small fracture in the control he wore. And that was all you needed. “You really are full of yourself,” you continued, voice dropping low and dangerous. “Must take a hell of a lot of effort walking around with your head shoved that far up your own ass.” His smirk faltered not fully, not yet, but it tightened at the edges, like he was holding something back, letting you think you had the upper hand for now. 

Your pulse thudded in your throat, your body still aching, your legs slick and trembling from the edge he had ruthlessly pulled you away from. But none of that mattered in the moment. You had him almost cracked, and that meant everything. So you smiled slow, wicked, showing all your teeth. A direct challenge.

“Cute fingers, though,” you murmured, tone dipping into something silkier, darker, as your eyes dropped pointedly to his hand still hovering near your thighs. Still shining with your slick. “Too bad they’ve got no stamina. Might have to find someone better next time.” That hit. You saw it. His jaw clenched, just for a second. His tongue darted across his bottom lip like he was biting back a response, like he was this close to snapping and giving you what you really wanted, but not because you begged for it. Because you provoked it.

“And I’ll turn over,” you said slowly, like the words meant nothing to you. Even though your entire body was still humming from the brutal tease of denial. You glanced at him with a look that fire in your eyes hadn't dimmed, even as your legs still trembled beneath you. “But only because I wanna see you try and make up for how disappointing that was.”

Then, with a slow roll of your hips, you started to turn shoulders shifting, spine curving as your body tilted forward. You moved with deliberate care, letting your back arch just enough to taunt, just enough to say this isn’t submission, it was more like bait. You’d give him your body, sure. But your control? That was a harder thing to steal. You had just begun to settle onto your stomach, hair spilling over your shoulders, when you heard it. 

He let out a soft, mocking laugh. The kind that sent a chill crawling down your spine because it didn’t sound amused at all. No, it was knowing, the sound of someone who’d already won and was just letting you think you had the upper hand. “Yeah,” he drawled behind you, dragging out the word like it tasted good on his tongue. “I know it was cute. Real cute.” You could practically hear the smirk in his voice.

He ran his hands slowly along the curvature of your body, fingertips dragging over the swell of your hips, the dip of your waist, tracing the curve of your spine. He wasn’t just touching you, he was claiming every inch, silently reminding you whose hands had just left you trembling.“The way your body was tensing around my fingers? Shaking?”He let out a low chuckle like the memory alone was enough to amuse him. Like he could still feel you clenching down on him, so helpless and so close.

“Don’t get cocky, sweetheart,” he added, that smirk dripping from his voice. “You would’ve cum if I’d let you.” You felt your breath catch not from the words, but from the way his hand followed the path of your spine, firm and unhurried, pressing down just enough to make your back arch in response. It was a silent command. A gentle threat. “So let’s not rewrite history just yet,” 

“Don’t get me wrong,” leaned in close so close that the warmth of his breath grazed your ear, “The little act is hot. All that mouth, all that pride…” His lips hovered just above your skin, not touching, just letting the heat of him linger

“But your pussy?” he whispered, dragging one fingertip down as slow as could be, until they reached the soaked mess between your thighs. He didn’t rush. No urgency. He dragged a single fingertip through your folds with featherlight touch, collecting the slick he’d drawn out of you earlier. His touch was almost ghostly in its gentleness, teasing the hypersensitive skin there, making your thighs twitch as your breath hitched sharply in your throat.“She’s a terrible liar,” he murmured, voice thick with smug satisfaction.

His fingers traced you again, slow, unhurried, reverent in the most mocking way, drawing out another pulse of wetness that clung to his skin like proof. Your core clenched instinctively around nothing, aching, fluttering with a need that hadn’t faded, it had only sharpened, turned desperate with every second he held back. He didn’t have to say another word. Your body was already giving you away. And he knew it.

He let the weight of his words linger, the silence that followed wasn’t empty, it with intent. You could feel it in the way his presence hovered behind you, how his gaze seemed to burn into the curve of your spine. His lips brushed against the shell of your ear, barely there, just enough to make your breath catch. You could feel the smirk on his mouth even before he spoke. “Now be a good girl.” 

“Arch that back for me.” His hand found your hip, grip firm, fingers digging into your flesh in a way that made it clear this wasn’t a request. But a command, and when you didn’t move right away, just breathed, just trembled, he chuckled low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your skin. “You wanna keep mouthing off, or are you finally ready to show me some manners?”

You held your breath for a second too long, felt your muscles twitch under the weight of his voice and that low, hungry command. The words echoed in your ears Be a good girl, arch that back and your body responded before your pride could stop it. Your hips shifted. Barely. Just a subtle tilt forward. But it was enough. He noticed, of course. How could he not?

Still, your mouth moved before your better judgment could catch up. “You’re really obsessed with hearing yourself talk, huh?” you muttered, voice low, almost breathless but still sharp. “Maybe if you actually fucked like you talk, I’d be impressed.”

Then he laughed, “Oh, you wanna talk about being impressed?” he said, voice suddenly closer, heavier, right at the base of your neck. “but the second I told you to arch, your back damn near curved itself.” His hand slipped under your belly, lifting you just slightly, angling your hips exactly where he wanted them. “Your fucking dripping,” he whispered, voice rough, almost reverent. “And you’ve got the nerve to talk shit?”

“Keep talking, tho,” he murmured, his breath fanning hot against the back of your neck. “I like hearing you pretend you’re not already mine.” You felt the shift in his weight behind you, the quiet stroke of his hand along his cock, slow and deliberate. He let the head drag against your slick folds, teasing, it was rude in how unhurried it was. He slid it up and down, letting it part you, nudge against your entrance, only to pull away again like he had all the time in the world. And to be honest you were a few seconds from putting it in yourself.

Every time the tip caught just right against your clit, your thighs twitched. Your breath stuttered. You were soaked and aching, your core pulsing with a need that had tipped from sharp to unbearable. And still he didn’t give you anything. Your hips pushed back instinctively, seeking friction, begging without words. “What the fuck are you- why the fuck are you dragging this out?” you snapped, voice rough with frustration, but he just chuckled low under his breath like he loved the sound of your unraveling.

“I mean, unless you're stalling because you’re sca—” That was it. The final push. You didn’t even get to finish the word. He snapped. Without warning, his cock slammed into you in one brutal, fluid thrust, burying himself deep inside your soaked cunt like his patience had finally shattered. “fuck~” The sound that tore out of you wasn’t pretty it was loud, raw, a ragged moan dragged straight from your core. Your whole body jolted forward from the force of it, your fingers scrambling for grip, your thighs quivering beneath him.

You clenched around him instinctively, tight, desperate, like your body had been waiting for this the entire time. He groaned against your back, low and guttural, his nails digging into the flesh of your hips hard enough to leave marks.“Still talking, huh?” he let out a heavy breath, his voice tense. “Let’s see how long that lasts.”

Each thrust hit deep and unforgiving, his hips snapping into yours with a rough, deliberate rhythm. There was no teasing anymore, just pure, punishing motion. He didn’t give you a second to adjust, to breathe, to think. Your cunt fluttered around him, struggling to keep up with how hard and fast he was fucking into you, the wet slap of skin against skin filling the room with every deep stroke.

Your breath was caught in your throat, mind going hazy as the coil inside you wound tighter and tighter, pressure building with every sharp drag of him against your walls. “You feel that?” he rasped, leaning down so his chest brushed against your back. “That’s what happens when you don’t shut that pretty fucking mouth.”

You bit down hard on your bottom lip, forcing back the moan that clawed its way up your throat. Your body was screaming for relief thighs trembling, your cunt fluttering around him with every rough stroke but you weren’t about to give him the satisfaction of hearing you beg again.

He was relentless. His pace didn’t falter for a second. Each thrust felt deeper than the last, dragging along every sensitive nerve inside of you like he was determined to fuck the attitude out of you—rip the words out of your throat if he had to. You could hear how soaked you were, the wet sound of your bodies crashing together was filthy and echoing through the space. “Y-You’re gonna have to do a lot more than that if you wanna shut me up,” you rasped, your smirk shaky but defiant as you turned to look back at him.

You felt his fingers curl harder around your waist, the bruising grip tightening as a low, dangerous laugh left his throat, half disbelief, half dark amusement. “Yea?” he breathed, leaning over you until his mouth was back at your ear, his chest hot against your back. “You’re talking real reckless for someone who’s dripping down my cock.” With that, he shifted his angle just slightly and hit that spot. Your whole body jolted, a cry catching in your throat before you could swallow it down. Your back arched without permission, your thighs quivering violently as heat surged up your spine.

He felt that reaction and chased it ruthlessly. Every thrust after was laser-focused, aiming right for the spot that made your toes curl and your mind blur. “Still holding on?” he hissed, voice breathless now, ragged around the edges. “Or you starting to realize whose pussy this is?”

But you, still biting back moans, still trembling, spat back a shaky laugh. “I-I’m just letting you borrow it,” you whispered, voice cracking under the weight of pleasure, “Don’t get twisted.”

Your breath was coming in short, sharp bursts, now your hands clutching at the sheets like they could somehow ground you while your body was threatening to give out entirely. Your thighs trembled violently with every thrust, knees slipping wider apart, and your spine curved in a perfect arch that only made it easier for him to drive deeper. He was punishing that spot inside you now, over and over, like he knew exactly where it was and what it did to you, and he liked watching you fight it.

“Just borrowing it, huh?” his cock dragging slow for one brutal second before slamming back into you hard enough to knock the breath out of your lungs. “You sure about that?” Your mouth opened like you had something to say, something slick, something sharp, but all that came out was a breathy gasp, broken and raw. Your lips trembled, eyes fluttering shut as the pleasure surged through you in blinding waves. You felt the coil in your belly tightening again, faster now, tighter than before. The tension was unbearable

“You’re shaking,” he breathed, lips dragging along your spine as he thrust into you deeper, slower, now more intentional. He felt it the way you clenched around him, like your body was losing the war your mouth kept trying to win. He let out a low groan, his pace faltering for only half a second, like the feel of you was almost too much.“Bet I could make you cum without you even realizing it.” 

His hand slid down between your legs again, and you could’ve screamed when his fingers found your clit barely brushing it, just a featherlight stroke that made your hips jerk uncontrollably. Your moan broke free this time, raw and helpless. Still, you held on. Barely. Your voice came out hoarse, cracked, but laced with the last strands of defiance. “If I cum…” You panted, “It won’t be for you.”

“Sure,” he muttered, voice low and biting, like your last shred of defiance amused him more than it should have. His hand down your back, fingers curling around your throat, not hard, but firm enough to make your breath hitch. He yanked you back into him, your body colliding with his. The sudden closeness made your back press flush to his chest, skin slick with sweat, heat radiating between your bodies. His grip tugged you upright, locking you in place, and you could feel every twitch, every breath, 

His hips rolled forward, the angle shifting just enough to make your mouth fall open, no sound escaping. His cock dragged along your walls in a relentless rhythm, deeper now, more precise like he had mapped your body and was now playing it by memory. Every stroke felt sharper, more intense, like he was trying to pull every reaction he could from you. 

His fingers flexed around your throat, the pressure gradually increasing, not enough to truly hurt, but just enough to steal the pieces of your breath, to blur the line between control and surrender. The grip was deliberate, practiced. It wasn’t just about dominance, it was making sure you felt everything. And you did.

“Keep telling yourself that, baby,” he rasped against your ear. The way your breath caught and fluttered beneath his palm made your head spin from pleasure. Every nerve in your body lit up under the weight of his touch. His cock dragged against your walls relentlessly deep, precise, and unforgiving. He moved like he had a point to prove, and each stroke seemed to go against everything you were saying, each rougher than the last. Your body betrayed you with every second, clenching down around him, chasing that pressure, craving it.

The lack of air only made everything more intense. Your senses were heightened, your body hypersensitive to every slick grind of his hips, every low growl in your ear, every pulse of heat that you felt at the base of your body. You were dizzy from the lack of air and from the overwhelming pleasure that tangled itself with pain in the most addictive way. Your legs shook. Your mind blurred. And still, he held you right there, half breathless, fully undone, right on the edge of falling apart for him.

His hand slipped lower, trailing down your stomach with intention, until the pad of his finger found your clit. The first touch was anything but gentle, he circled the swollen bundle of nerves with rough, merciless pressure, dragging tight, practiced motions that made your hips twitch and your breath catch in your throat. A soft, broken sound escaped before you could stop it, small and helpless, and he grinned behind you like he’d been waiting for it.

A soft, involuntary whimper slipped past your lips, your body betraying you faster than your mind could catch up. You were close, so close. You could feel it in the way your cunt clung to him, gripping him with every thrust like you were trying to hold him inside forever. In the way your nails dug into his skin, desperate for something to anchor you. In the way your mouth hung open, but no air came, just the heat of sensation building to a sharp, impossible peak in your abdomen.

He could feel it too. The way you squeezed around him, the twitch of your thighs, the quiet, breathless sounds you didn’t even know you were making. And it made him meaner. Harsher. More deliberate. He rubbed harder, faster, fingers merciless as his cock pounded into you with maddening precision like he knew your body better than you did and was determined to remind you of it. “ Definity shut you up now, huh?” he murmured, voice low and wrecked but still a little chuckle escaping his lips.

You didn't even have the energy to respond back as you felt your head growing lighter with every passing second. Your vision had already started to blur the world around you, narrowing into nothing but sensation. Each shallow breath you managed was precious, stolen between his relentless thrusts and the pressure of his fingers tightening just enough to keep you between consciousness and not. Each breath came shorter, shallower, more strained, your chest rising in tiny gasps that barely reached your lungs 

His hand around your throat tightened just a little more, and it sent your head reeling. The lack of oxygen was electrifying, making every nerve in your body hyperaware, your skin burning under the weight of his touch, your thoughts shattering with every thrust that dragged along your soaked walls. The coil in your core was painfully tight, hot, throbbing, and on the verge of snapping. Your body trembled, thighs shaking, heart hammering erratically as you hovered at the edge of release.

Your fingers clutched his arms, anything to ground yourself as your body betrayed you, hips pushing back into him, chasing that final spark. Your mind swam, floating somewhere between pleasure and passing out, and still he didn’t stop. His grip held you exactly where he wanted you, his cock slamming deep, hitting that perfect spot over and over he wanted you to break. Your head rolled back against his shoulder, barely there, barely holding on. “That’s it, baby. Just like that,” he grunted out

“C-close…,” you whimpered, the word barely audible, a shy whisper slipping from your mouth. You could barely recognize your own voice, fragile and pleading, stripped raw by desperation.

His hips slammed into you again, deeper and more deliberate than before, and the angle shifted ever so slightly, hitting that spot that lit your nerves on fire. And that’s when it hit. It tore through you violently that long, aching release pleasure erupting through your body in waves so intense your vision momentarily darkened, your back arched hard as a broken moan escaped your lips. Your cunt clamped around him in uncontrollable pulses, tighter than before, wetness flooding down your thighs. You saw stars behind your eyelids, white and blinding, your entire body shaking as your orgasm slammed into you with brutal force.

You were cumming and slipping at the same time drifting in the blur of not enough air, not enough thought, only the overwhelming rush of being so completely filled, so completely wrecked. 

 “You were talking all that shit earlier…” his hand finally released your throat. You collapsed forward almost instantly, your body folding into the sheets.  A desperate, ragged gasp tore from your lungs as air rushed back into your body, sharp and overwhelming. The dizziness faded just enough to remind you where you were, who had you, and what he'd just done. “Can’t even form a sentence now, huh?”

But there was no time to come down. Because he didn’t stop. He was still moving behind you, still buried deep inside, still thrusting into your overstimulated, trembling body like he hadn’t just dragged you through the most intense high of your life. Every stroke now felt like too much, too deep, hitting nerves that were already fried and sparking. "P-please."

Your legs twitched with every thrust, your cunt still fluttering and wet, clenching around him involuntarily with every drag of his cock along your swollen walls. Your breath came in shallow, uneven gasps, each one laced with a whimper as the pleasure turned from intense to unbearable.

“Y-You’re… fucking evil,” you choked out, voice hoarse, barely more than a whisper against the mattress. You didn’t even sound angry. You sounded wrecked. And you were, as your body tried and failed to recover. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, not from pain, but from the sheer intensity of it all, the way your body was still trying to catch up with what he’d just taken from you.

But he heard you. And he only fucked you harder. “You love this, don’t lie.” He was close, you could feel it. The way his cock twitched deep inside you with every punishing thrust, how his rhythm stuttered just for a breath before slamming back into you even harder. His breath had gone ragged, each exhale now a harsh sound against your skin, broken and uneven like he was fighting it, trying not to lose himself too soon. His fingers tightened where they gripped your waist, hips grinding forward with bruising force as he chased his high

And still, he didn’t let up. Not even as his cock throbbed inside you, swelling with the threat of release. Not even when he hissed through clenched teeth, his composure fracturing more with each second. His pace grew rougher, deeper, like he was trying to drag out every last second of control before it all snapped.

He buried himself to the hilt, again and again, grinding into that spot that had you whimpering and clenching around him, your body betraying you with every pulse. “Fuck…” he growled, voice low, cracked, like it burned coming out of his throat. “You feel so fucking good…”

But it didn't last long until his thrusts turned erratic, hips slamming into you with raw, desperate force. All that composure he held like was peeling away, layer by layer, until he was just as ruined as you sweat trickled along his body as his eyes locked on the way your body clenched and quivered around him.

You were gasping now, each breath barely landing, your face pressed into the mattress, lips parted and trembling as your walls fluttered around him, wet, tight, crazy sensitive. Your body was trying to recover, to breathe, but the rhythm of his hips refused to give you a break. Your legs twitched uncontrollably. Your thighs burned. Tears rolled down your face as the pleasure became unbearable, curling deep in your stomach again like your body didn’t care that you’d already come, didn’t care that you had nothing left to give.

“Can you do one more for me?”  he grunted through clenched teeth, fingers digging into your waist as his thrusts turned frantic, cock twitching inside you with the promise of release. “Cum with me. Please.” Then his hand slid down, fingers finding your clit again, rubbing hard, fast, perfect circles.

You screamed a high, cracked sound torn from your throat as your body convulsed beneath him. It hit you hard. Your cunt clamped down so tight it made him groan, deep and guttural, like it ripped straight from his chest. “Fuck, fuck, fuck yes” he growled, hips bucking one last time before he slammed into you to the hilt and stilled, his body shaking as he spilled inside you. His cum filled you completely, and the way he clutched your body to his tight, shaking, breathless made it feel like everything shattered and melted at once.

You were stuffed so full of his cum you felt the way it spilled into you, warm and slowly. He probably had never come so much in his life. You were both gasping, spent, and wrecked. Your face was buried in the sheets, his forehead pressed to your shoulder, and both of you were trembling in the aftermath as he placed small kisses along your perfect skin. the intensity; from the overstimulation; and both of you from the way it had built and burned and broken in perfect sync.“Told you,” he whispered, voice hoarse, still out of breath, “that pussy is mine.”

The room was silent now, except for the ragged sound of both your breathing, his chest still rising and falling against your back, your face buried in the sheets, damp with sweat and tears you didn’t even realize had fallen. His body was heavy over yours, but not in a crushing way. In a grounding way. His arms wrapped around your waist, holding you there, as if he let go, you might float away.

Neither of you spoke for a while. Your legs were still trembling faintly beneath him, nerves buzzing, overstimulated. Your breath came in soft gasps, each one bringing you a little more back to earth. You were sore. Soaked. Completely unraveled. But warm. Unfortunately, you felt safe, too safe. 

“My name’s Eren, by the way,” he said, his voice low and warm against your ear, still breathless but steady. “Eren Yeager.” And that’s when it clicked. Your breath caught in your throat. Your body, still curled into his, went suddenly still, even though you were limp from exhaustion, your mind surged forward, stunned awake. Eren Yeager. The name echoed in your head, over and over, dragging up pieces you should’ve put together hours ago.

The voice. The jaw. Those eyes. How had you not seen it? You blinked slowly, your gaze drifting toward the curve of his jaw, the way his damp hair clung to his temples, the lazy rise and fall of his chest. And yet now that you knew it was so obvious. The tension in his shoulders, the way he looked at you like he was always calculating something deeper. Like he knew exactly what effect he had on you from the beginning. You didn’t know how you couldn’t have noticed before.

It wasn’t just the name. It was everything about him. The energy. The weight of his presence. And now that he’d said it, now that the words had left his mouth, your brain was scrambling to figure out the man wrapped around you with the name that carried so much behind it. And he knew what was happening in your head. You could feel it in the quiet smirk tugging at the corner of his lips against your skin. The way he pulled you a little tighter, a little closer, like he was sealing it in.

“Figured it out, huh?” he murmured, his breath brushing your neck. “Knew you’d get there eventually.”

☆this will be a 6 part mini series so comment if you would like to be added to the tag list