#except on cloudy days

[androgynouscloudheart]

A unhealthy obsession is so cloudy days!marichat coded it's insane

[kristalli]

partner got me an instax mini 12 for my birthday and i finally got to scan some of the photos i took in the first week

[theflyingfeeling]

I made the cutest blueberry (or...should I say...booberry) snacks for the spooky partial lunar eclipse hangout I just had with @kraeuterhexchen on discord (really, I'm sorry for hanging up before you got to send me kisses but I guess you really just need to be quicker! 😇) and I'm making you all look at them now because I got to finally live my spooky snack dream and they turned out super nice actually

so we have the nameless ghost couple and Hilda who's just happy to be there 👻 these are such low effort snacks, all you need to do is melt some white chocolate and pour it over the blueberries so that they stick together, then let them cool in the fridge for a while and Bob's your uncle! the sugar eyes I found at the supermarket

I also had some dark chocolate, which I used to make the Thing, and the Creature, respectively:

...and then there's Mr. Poop (or, alternatively, Mr. Boob, whichever you fancy), because sometimes poop is spooky, especially if you're a cute little innocent dachshund and have done something you shouldn't have in a bedroom corner, not naming any names but... 💩

a practical tip for anyone interested in making similar snacks: if you put the blueberries on a porcelaine plate and pour the melted chocolate on them and then stick them in the fridge to cool, they WILL get stuck on the plate lol, so I suggest using e.g. a plastic cutting board or something for easier removal 🤡

a bonus picture to spook the living hell outta y'all: The Devil Wears BC Merch:

happy halloween!

[aquarri]

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[fragglerockopinions]

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[kole-cooler]

The Lake House

Part 1: All of Us Strangers

Sana x Miyeon x Male Reader

word count 22K

You pull up to the lake house in your beat-up SUV, tires crunching on the gravel driveway, and the second you step out, you’re hit with it—this place is way more stunning than the pics online. The air smells like pine and damp earth, and the lake stretches out in front of you, its surface flat and gray under a thick blanket of clouds. The house itself is this cozy, modern thing—wood and glass, with a big deck overlooking the lake. It’s got this vibe, like it’s begging you to chill out and forget the world for a while. You’re already thinking, Shit, if this week goes as good as it looks, maybe I’ll buy this place. Peace, quiet, and nature all around—perfect for your photography, which is the whole damn reason you’re here. And you’d bet your camera nobody’s around for miles—pure solitude, just how you like it—until you catch a faint wisp of smoke curling up from the chimney of that dark house across the lake, and now your solo trip’s got some unexpected company popping off.

You pop the trunk and grab your gear—camera bag slung over your shoulder, a duffel with clothes, and a cooler stuffed with groceries you snagged earlier. Your day job’s nothing special, just some remote gig doing data entry for a logistics company. It’s boring as hell—punching numbers into spreadsheets, tracking shipments, answering emails from people who can’t figure out their own schedules. Pays the bills, though, and it’s flexible enough to let you fuck off to places like this whenever you want. Photography’s where your heart’s at. You’ve been at it for years, lugging your Canon everywhere, chasing the perfect shot. Landscapes mostly—sunsets, forests, water, anything that moves you. You’re no pro, but you’re good, and you’ve got a decent following on Insta for it. This trip? It’s all about that—getting out, breathing, and nailing some killer shots.

The lake house sits on this little peninsula, surrounded by trees so thick you can barely see the dirt road you came in on. It’s isolated, yeah, but not too far out. There’s a small city—more like a big town, really—about twenty minutes back. You stopped there on the way in, hit up a grocery store for the basics: beer, burgers, some frozen pizzas, and a bag of apples ‘cause you’re trying to be healthy or whatever. They’ve got a coffee shop and a gas station too, so you’re not totally cut off. Still, out here, it’s just you, the water, and the woods. No traffic, no neighbors blasting music—pure silence, except for the occasional bird or ripple on the lake.

You haul your stuff inside, drop it on the hardwood floor, and take a sec to check the place out. Big windows everywhere, letting in that soft, cloudy light. The living room’s got a plush couch and a stone fireplace you’re already itching to use. Kitchen’s sleek, all stainless steel and granite, and the bedroom upstairs has a view that makes you wanna cry—straight across the lake. Speaking of which, you step out onto the deck, hands in your pockets, and squint through the gloom. On the far shore, maybe half a mile away, there's that other house. Two stories, painted some dark color—navy or black, hard to tell with the weather. It’s got these big windows too, glowing faintly, and there’s a car parked out front. A white sedan, nothing fancy. There's definitely someone there, you think, and it weirds you out a little. You weren’t expecting company out here, not this close. The mystery of it nags at you—who the hell are they? Vacationers? Locals? You shake it off for now, but your eyes keep drifting back to that house as you unpack.

The clouds hang low, heavy with the promise of rain, and the air’s got that cool, damp bite to it. You grab your camera—couldn’t resist—and step back outside, adjusting the lens. The lake’s like a mirror, reflecting the sky, and the trees are all moody greens and browns. You snap a few shots, playing with the exposure, already imagining how they’ll look edited. This spot’s a goldmine; you can feel it. But that house across the water—it’s still there in the corner of your frame, pulling your focus. You zoom in, just curious, but it’s too far to make out much. Still, you’ve got this itch now, this tiny spark of intrigue. Whoever’s over there, they’ve got no idea you’re watching.

You’re fiddling with your camera, trying to frame up a shot of some birds skimming the lake, when movement catches your eye. Two figures step out of that dark house across the water. Girls, both of them, and even from this distance, they stand out. One’s got silky brown hair that catches the dull light, flowing down her back like she just stepped out of a shampoo ad. The other’s got jet-black hair, shorter, framing her face. They’re dressed casual—leggings and hoodies, nothing fancy, just comfy vibes. The black-haired one’s got a phone pressed to her ear, pacing a little, while the brown-haired one hovers close, hands in her pockets. You freeze for a sec, then casually swing your camera away, pretending to focus on the lake, the trees, anything but them. Don’t be that guy, you tell yourself, heart picking up a bit. Last thing you need is them thinking some random dude’s creeping on them with a lens.

But your curiosity’s a bitch. After a minute, you sneak the camera back their way, zooming in just enough to see them better. And then—shit—they’re looking right at you. Like, right at you. Your stomach drops, and you yank the camera down, turning your head so fast you almost tweak your neck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. You can already hear the headlines: “Outsider Caught Stalking Innocent Girls With Telephoto Lens.” You’re not that guy, but try explaining that across a lake. Hoping they didn’t get a good look, you ditch the deck and hustle to your car, popping the trunk like you’ve got urgent business. You grab the cooler and a bag of groceries, hauling them inside, your pulse still thudding in your ears.

You’re not out there five minutes before you’ve gotta go back for the rest. Stepping onto the deck again, you freeze—they’re coming your way. Like, actually walking around the lake toward your side. Your brain scrambles. Bolting inside might look shady as hell, but standing here like a deer in headlights? Not much better. You opt to stay, fiddling with something in the trunk—your spare tire, maybe?—pretending you’re too busy to notice them closing in. Your palms are sweaty, and you’re half-braced for them to start yelling or waving a phone with 911 already dialed.

“Hey!” a voice calls out, bright and chill, not pissed. You glance up, and the black-haired girl’s waving at you, a little grin on her face. You wave back, tentative, still expecting the vibe to shift. “Didn’t know anyone was over here,” she says as they get closer, her tone all friendly-like. “This place was a total dump last year—falling apart, windows smashed, the works. Looks dope now, though. They fix it up?”

You nod, relaxing a bit. “Yeah, rented it for the week. Guess it got a glow-up since then.” Up close, she’s got this energy—outgoing, loud in a good way. She sticks out her hand. “I’m Miyeon. This is Sana.” She jerks her thumb at the brown-haired girl, who gives you a small smile and a nod, quieter, maybe shyer.

“Sana, hey,” you say your name as you shake Miyeon's hand, then glancing at Sana. “Yeah, I’m just crashing here for a bit. You guys local?”

“Nah,” Miyeon says, leaning against your car like she owns it. “This house over there? My parents’. Been coming here forever, usually with a crew of friends. It’s our spot.” She gestures across the lake, where that dark two-story looms.

“Friends?” you ask, glancing between them. “Where’s the rest of the squad?”

Miyeon’s face falls a little, and Sana looks down at her shoes. “Yeah, that’s the shitty part,” Miyeon says, voice dipping. “They just called me—like, right before we came over. There’s a fuckin’ landslide or something on the main road in. Rain’s been nuts, and it’s blocked off. They were driving up from a couple hours away, so they just turned back. Not worth the hassle.”

“Damn,” you say, genuinely feeling for them. “That sucks. So what’s the plan now?”

Miyeon shrugs, kicking a pebble. “Hang out, I guess. Wait for the road to clear, then head home. Not much else to do.”

Sana pipes up then, her voice softer but curious. “That camera,” she says, nodding at it slung over your shoulder. “You a photographer or something?”

“Nah, just a hobby,” you say, brushing it off. “I work some boring-ass data job—spreadsheets and shit. This is what keeps me sane. Love shooting nature, landscapes, whatever catches my eye.”

Miyeon perks up. “You got an Insta for it? Let’s see.” You hesitate, then rattle off your handle. She pulls out her phone, taps away, and Sana leans over her shoulder as they scroll. “Yo, these are good,” Miyeon says, legit impressed. “Like, really good. You’re underselling yourself, dude.”

“Yeah,” Sana adds, her shy edge melting a bit. “The lighting in this one? Wow.” She points at her screen, and you feel a dumb little rush of pride.

“Thanks,” you say, scratching the back of your neck. “I’m here to chill and snap some shots of the lake, the woods, you know. Recharge.”

“Smart move,” Miyeon says. “We were gonna swim out there—” she nods at the pier stretching into the lake—“but it’s freezing. Usually it’s warm enough this time of year, but not today.”

“Global warming’s fucking with everything,” you toss out, and they both nod like, yep, that tracks.

Then Miyeon tilts her head, grinning. “Hey, since you’re Mr. Camera Guy, how about you take a pic of us out on the pier? Something to remember this weird-ass trip by?”

You blink, caught off guard, but they’re both looking at you expectantly. “Uh, yeah, sure,” you say, slinging the camera off your shoulder. “Let’s do it.”

They lead the way to the pier, Miyeon strutting ahead like she’s on a mission, Sana trailing a step behind, sneaking little glances at you. You’re still buzzing from the fact they’re cool with you—more than cool, actually friendly. You follow the girls down to the pier, boots thudding against the weathered wooden planks. The lake stretches out around you, still as glass under the heavy, gray sky, and the air’s got that sharp, pre-rain chill. Miyeon’s practically bouncing as she strides to the end, her black hair swinging, while Sana trails a little slower, her silky brown locks catching the faint breeze. They stop at the edge, the water lapping gently below, and turn to face you. “Alright, camera guy,” Miyeon says with a grin, planting her hands on her hips. “Work your magic.”

You lift the Canon, squinting through the viewfinder, and—damn—they’re gorgeous. Like, unfairly photogenic. Miyeon’s all confidence, popping a playful pose, one leg bent, head tilted, flashing a smirk that’s equal parts goofy and charming. Sana’s quieter about it, crossing her arms and giving a shy smile, but there’s something striking in the way she stands, the way her hair frames her face. You snap a few shots—wide angles with the lake behind them, then some tighter ones, playing with the depth of field so the cloudy horizon blurs out. Miyeon keeps it lively, throwing out dumb poses—peace signs, a fake pout—while Sana giggles and follows her lead, loosening up bit by bit.

“Yo, let’s see!” Miyeon calls after a dozen clicks, jogging over with Sana in tow. You flip the camera around, scrolling through the shots on the screen, and their faces light up. “Holy shit, these are fire,” Miyeon says, leaning in so close her shoulder brushes yours. “You sure you’re not a pro?”

“They’re so good,” Sana adds, her voice softer but just as impressed. “Like, we actually look cool.” The pics are sharp, the girls popping against the moody backdrop, their colors—black hoodie, brown hair—standing out in the gloom. You nailed the focus, the composition, everything.

“Yeah, well, you guys make it easy,” you say, shrugging, though you’re secretly stoked they like them. “Wish the weather wasn’t so shitty, though. This light’s all flat and gray—makes it look like you’re in some creepy thriller flick or something.”

Miyeon’s grin falters for a sec, and she nudges you with her elbow. “Dude, don’t even joke about that. We’re already kinda freaked out being alone over there.”

You laugh, raising an eyebrow. “What, you think some axe murderer’s hiding in the woods? Any crimes around here I should know about?”

She shakes her head, smirking but with a little edge. “Not that I’ve heard of, thank God. Just… it’s quiet, you know? Too quiet sometimes.”

“Fair,” you say, glancing out at the lake, the stillness of it almost eerie now that she’s put the thought in your head. “Well, if you guys need anything—someone to fend off the boogeyman or whatever—just hit me up. I’m right across the water.”

Miyeon’s eyes spark up, and she pulls out her phone. “Bet. What’s your Insta again? I’ll follow you, and you can DM me those pics.” You give her the handle, and she taps it in, tossing you hers in return—@miyeonnotmignon, which makes you snort ‘cause it’s so her. “Send ‘em whenever,” she says. “I need these for the grid.”

Sana glances at the sky, tugging her hoodie tighter. “We should head back. Looks like rain’s coming soon.”

“Yeah, true,” Miyeon agrees, squinting up at the clouds, which are starting to clump thicker, darker. “Don’t wanna get stuck out here when it dumps.” She turns to you, flashing that big, easy grin. “Enjoy the place, dude. Don’t let the thriller vibes get to you.”

You smirk. “I’ll try. You guys stay safe over there. Don’t go summoning ghosts or anything.”

Sana giggles at that, and Miyeon just rolls her eyes, waving as they start back down the pier. “See ya, camera guy!” she calls over her shoulder. You wave back, watching them go—Miyeon’s loud laugh echoing faintly, Sana’s quieter figure beside her—until they hit the shore and start the trek around the lake. You linger a minute, camera still in hand, the pier creaking under your weight. The air’s heavier now, the first hint of rain prickling your skin. You glance at their house across the water, its dark shape fuzzing out in the haze, and that little spark of mystery flares up again. They’re cool, way cooler than you expected. And something about them—maybe Miyeon’s loud charm, maybe Sana’s shy warmth—sticks with you as you head back to your own place, the promise of rain rumbling in the distance.

—

It’s been a few hours since you got back from the pier, and the world outside’s turned into a damn monsoon. Rain’s hammering the windows like it’s pissed off, streaking down the glass in relentless sheets, and the wind’s howling through the trees, making the whole lake house groan. Inside, though, it’s cozy—borderline toasty, thanks to the heater humming away in the corner and the fireplace lit downstairs. You’re sprawled on the bed upstairs, legs kicked out, a half-empty beer sweating on the nightstand from dinner—frozen pizza and some chips, nothing fancy. The generator’s chugging along out back, but you’re keeping an eye on the lights, half-worried it’s gonna crap out from all the juice the heater’s pulling. Last thing you need is to freeze your ass off out here.

You’ve got your laptop propped on your thighs, scrolling through the shots you took earlier—the pier pics of Miyeon and Sana, plus some moody lake stuff before the sky opened up. The girls’ photos are gold, even with the flat light. Miyeon’s got this wild, carefree energy in every frame, while Sana’s softer, her shy smile sneaking through. You tweak a couple in Lightroom, bumping the contrast, and damn, they’re Instagram-worthy for sure.

Eventually, you shut the laptop and roll off the bed, stretching. You can’t help it—your eyes drift to the window. It’s pitch-black out there, the rain turning everything into a blurry void. You press your forehead to the cold glass, squinting across the lake. Their house is just a smudge in the dark, but the lights are on—warm little squares glowing through the storm. You wonder what they’re up to. Probably curled up on a couch, watching some cheesy rom-com or maybe a horror flick, given Miyeon’s half-joking about being spooked. Popcorn, blankets, the whole vibe. You picture it for a sec—Miyeon yapping over the movie, Sana giggling at her—and it’s kinda cute.

Then—blink—the lights across the lake go out. All of them, at once. You blink too, like maybe your eyes are screwing with you, but nope, it’s dark over there now. Weird as hell. Your first thought is they hit the sack, but it’s too sudden, too synchronized. No way they flipped every switch at the exact same second. A power outage? Maybe the storm fried something. You stare into the blackness, chewing your lip. Okay, maybe you’re overthinking it. You’ve been out here alone too long, and those two are the only blips of life in this wilderness. It’s not like you’re obsessed or anything—they’re just… there. Still, it bugs you. You shake it off, muttering “whatever” to yourself, and decide to crash. Bed’s calling, and the rain’s drumming hard enough to knock you out.

You’re halfway to brushing your teeth when—thump thump—a sound cuts through the storm. You freeze, toothbrush dangling, listening. Imagination, right? This place creaks all the time. But then it comes again, louder—THUMP THUMP THUMP—straight from the front door downstairs. Your heart kicks up, and you spit into the sink, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. Could be a branch or some shit blowing around in the wind, but it sounded too deliberate. You grab your phone, thumb hovering over the flashlight app, and creep to the stairs, ears straining. The rain’s deafening, but there’s something else—a muffled voice maybe?

You pad down to the first floor, barefoot on the cold wood, nerves buzzing. The knocking’s real, no doubt now, and it’s insistent. “Who the fuck—” you mutter, snagging a jacket from the couch and shrugging it on. You’re half-expecting a drenched hiker or some rando stranded in the storm, but part of you—okay, a big part—wonders if it’s them. You flip on the porch light, yank the door open, and—bam—a flashlight beam hits you square in the face, blinding you for a sec.

“Shit, sorry!” a familiar voice says, and the light drops. It’s Miyeon, soaked to the bone, her black hair plastered to her face, hoodie clinging like a second skin. Sana’s right behind her, brown hair dripping, looking like a drowned kitten in her oversized sweater. They’re both shivering, rain streaming off them, pooling on your doorstep.

“Jesus, you guys okay?” you say, stepping back to let them in. “What the hell happened?”

Miyeon’s teeth are chattering, but she’s still got that spark. “Our generator fucking died, dude. No lights, no heat, nothing. We’ve got no clue what’s wrong, and it’s creepy as shit over there. Can you—please—come take a look?”

“Yeah, of course,” you say, already zipping up your jacket. You grab your boots from the mat, shoving them on while they hover by the door, dripping and miserable. “You sure you don’t wanna dry off first? You’re gonna catch pneumonia or something.”

Sana shakes her head, hugging herself. “We just wanna get it fixed. It’s freezing, and I swear I heard something moving in the dark.”

“Probably just the wind,” Miyeon says, but she doesn’t sound convinced. “Still, let’s go. I’m not sleeping in a blackout.”

You snag a flashlight from the kitchen drawer—bigger than theirs, one of those heavy-duty ones—and flick it on. “Alright, lead the way. Let’s see if we can save your night.”

They nod, grateful, and you step out into the storm with them. The rain hits like needles, cold and relentless, soaking through your jeans in seconds. Miyeon’s ahead, power-walking around the lake, while Sana sticks closer, her flashlight beam jittering across the muddy path. You’re all hunched against the wind, shouting over the roar of the downpour—Miyeon bitching about how her parents need to upgrade their shit, Sana muttering about hating storms. It’s a slog, wet and miserable, but you can’t help feeling a little badass, trekking out here to play hero. The house looms ahead, a dark silhouette against the storm, and the second you step inside, the vibe hits you—cold, damp, and way too quiet without the hum of electronics. Miyeon flicks her flashlight around, leading the way through the living room—furniture shadowy lumps in the gloom—down a narrow hall to a back door. “Generator’s out here,” she says, shoving it open. The wind blasts in, spraying rain across your face, and you grimace as you follow them into a little shed attached to the house.

The generator sits there like a grumpy old beast, silent and useless. Sana holds her flashlight steady, the beam jittering a little from her shaky hands, while Miyeon aims hers at the control panel. “It just… stopped,” she says, kicking the base lightly. “No warning, no nothing.” You crouch down, popping the side panel open with a grunt, and peer inside. The smell of wet metal and fuel hits you, and you sweep your flashlight over the guts—wires, gauges, a fuel tank that’s still half-full. You’re no expert, but you’ve fucked around with enough random shit to spot trouble. And there it is: a busted fuel line, cracked clean through, leaking diesel into the housing. Probably shook loose from the storm’s vibration or just shitty luck. Either way, it’s toast—no quick fix tonight, not without a replacement part and better light to work in.

“Bad news,” you say, straightening up and wiping your wet hands on your jeans. “Fuel line’s fucked. It’s leaking everywhere, and I can’t patch it with what’s here. You’re outta power ‘til we get a new one.”

Miyeon’s face drops, and she lets out a loud, “Are you kidding me?!” She paces a little, flashlight beam swinging wildly. “This is some horror movie bullshit. What the hell are we supposed to do now?”

Sana’s quieter, but you can tell she’s freaked too—her arms are wrapped tight around herself, and her voice comes out small. “It’s so cold already. And dark. I don’t like this. I swear I keep hearing noises.”

You glance around the shed, the rain drumming on the tin roof like it’s trying to break in. The house beyond it looks like a black hole, swallowing every bit of light. “Yeah, no kidding,” you say, scratching your jaw. “Look, I’m not gonna leave you guys stranded out here. My place has power, heat, and light. Unfortunately there is only one room with a mattress because, well, I wasn't expecting guests. But you can crash there tonight if you don't mind sharing a bed. No point in freezing your asses off in this.”

They both freeze, turning to look at each other. Sana’s the first to speak, hesitant. “Are you sure? We don’t wanna, like, invade your space or anything.”

“Nah, it’s cool,” you say, waving it off. “I’ve got a nice couch. Beats sitting here waiting for the boogeyman to show up, right?”

Miyeon snorts, but there’s relief in it. “Okay, yeah, that sounds way better than this shitshow. Give us a sec to grab some stuff.” They dart back inside, flashlights bobbing, and you wait by the door, leaning against the frame, listening to the storm rage. You hear them rummaging around—drawers slamming, muffled chatter—before they reappear, each with a small duffel bag slung over their shoulder. Miyeon’s got a hoodie pulled tight over her head, and Sana’s clutching a blanket like it’s a lifeline, her wet hair still dripping.

“Ready,” Miyeon says, zipping her bag. “Let’s get the fuck outta here before something else breaks.”

The trek back is brutal—rain in your face, wind shoving you sideways, the girls huddled close like you’re some kinda human shield. By the time you stumble through your front door, you’re all drenched again, leaving a trail of puddles across the hardwood. You kick off your boots, shaking water out of your hair, and point down the hall. “Bathroom’s that way. Go change or whatever—I’ll grab some towels.”

“Thanks, dude,” Miyeon says, already peeling off her soaked hoodie right there in the living room, revealing a damp tee underneath. Sana scurries off, blanket dragging, and you head to the linen closet, snagging a couple of big fluffy towels. When you come back, Miyeon’s in dry sweatpants and a loose tank top, toweling her hair, while Sana emerges in an oversized hoodie and leggings, looking less like a drowned rat now.

“God, you’re a lifesaver,” Miyeon says, flopping onto your couch like she owns it. Sana nods, settling next to her, tucking her legs under. “Seriously, thank you. I was about to lose it over there.”

“No worries,” you say, tossing them the towels. “You guys warm enough? I can put more wood in the fireplace if you want.”

“It’s good,” Sana says, pulling the blanket over her lap. “This is already a million times better.”

You nod, feeling weirdly proud of your little rescue mission, and head to the kitchen. “I’ll make some tea or something. You guys just chill.” The kettle’s already half-full from earlier, so you flick it on, rummaging for some random herbal shit you bought ages ago—chamomile, maybe? Close enough. While it heats, you lean against the counter, listening to them talk on the couch. Miyeon’s voice carries, loud and animated—“I swear, if my parents don’t fix that generator, I’m never coming back”—while Sana’s softer, giggling at her rant.

When the kettle whistles, you pour three mugs, balancing them as you shuffle back. “Here,” you say, handing them over. Miyeon takes hers with a grin, Sana with a quiet “thanks,” and you plop into the armchair across from them, cradling your own. The steam curls up, warm against your face, and for a minute, it’s just the sound of rain on the roof and the three of you sipping.

Miyeon stretches out, kicking her feet up on the coffee table. “So, what’s your deal, camera guy? Are you planning to buy this house or something?”

You laugh. “Nah, just a rental for the week. Needed a break from my boring-ass data job. From the city too. Figured I’d mess around with my camera, get some shots of the lake and stay close to nature.”

“Well, you’re stuck with us now,” she says, smirking. “Hope you don’t mind the company.”

Sana glances at you, a little smile tugging at her lips. “Yeah, you’re kinda our hero tonight.”

You shrug, playing it off, but your chest puffs up a bit anyway. “Hey, beats being alone in this storm. You guys can crash as long as you need.” They nod, settling deeper into the couch, and the vibe shifts—warm, easy, like you’ve known them longer than a day. The rain keeps pounding, but in here, it’s just you, them, and the crackling of the fireplace making everything feel alright.

“So, what’s your story?” you ask, blowing on your tea to cool it. “You guys come up here a lot, huh?”

Miyeon smirks, setting her mug on the coffee table with a little clink. “Yeah, like I said, it’s my parents’ place. Been dragging people up here since I was a kid. Used to be all family trips, but now it’s more for me and my crew to fuck around—swim, drink, whatever. This time it was supposed to be a big thing, but, well, landslide screwed that.”

“That sucks,” you say, leaning back. “You two stuck it out, though. Pretty badass.”

Sana giggles, peeking over her mug. “Barely. We were freaking out before you showed up. I’m not good with storms—or, like, anything going wrong.”

“She’s a spoiled city girl,” Miyeon teases, nudging Sana with her foot. “Needs her Wi-Fi and hot showers or she starts crying.”

“Shut up,” Sana fires back, but she’s laughing, swatting Miyeon’s leg. “You’re the one who screamed when the power went out.”

Miyeon shrugs, unbothered. “Yeah, ‘cause it was creepy as fuck. Point is, we’re here now, thanks to Mr. Hero over there.” She jerks her chin at you, grinning.

You snort. “Just doing my part. So, what’s the deal with you two? You’ve known each other forever or what?” You figure they’re tight—besties or something, the way they bounce off each other.

They exchange a look, quick but loaded, and Miyeon’s grin turns a little sly. “Not forever,” she says, stretching her arms over her head, tank top riding up a bit. “We’ve been together, what, two years now?”

“Two and a half,” Sana corrects, softer, her eyes flicking to Miyeon like she’s double-checking.

“Together?” you echo, tilting your head. “Like… roommates?”

Miyeon laughs, loud and sharp, while Sana hides a smile behind her mug. “Nah, dude,” Miyeon says, sitting up a little. “Like, together together. Girlfriends. Dating. You know?”

“Oh,” you say, blinking, then catch yourself quick. “Oh, shit, that’s cool. I just assumed—uh, never mind. Awesome.”

Sana’s cheeks go pink, but she’s giggling at your stumble. “It’s fine. People assume we’re just friends all the time. We’re used to it.”

“Yeah, we don’t exactly scream ‘couple,’” Miyeon adds, smirking. “I’m too loud, she’s too sweet. Throws people off.”

You laugh, easing up. “Nah, I get it now. You balance each other out. That’s dope.” You mean it—they’ve got this vibe, like they click without even trying. Miyeon’s all fire and Sana’s the calm, but together it works.

“What about you?” Sana asks, shifting the spotlight. “You got anyone back home?”

“Me? Nah,” you say, shaking your head. “Solo mission right now. Work’s too boring to drag someone else into it, and I spend most of my free time with my camera anyway. Not exactly boyfriend material.”

“Bullshit,” Miyeon says, pointing at you with her mug. “You’re chill, you’ve got a cool hobby, and you’re not a total asshole. You’d do fine.”

“High praise,” you deadpan, grinning. “I’ll put that on my dating profile: ‘Not a total asshole, says random lake girl.’”

They both crack up, and the room feels lighter, like the storm’s just background noise now. You keep chatting—little stuff at first. You tell them about your data gig, how it’s mind-numbing but pays the bills, and how you’ve been shooting photos since you were a teenager, chasing sunsets and storms like this one. Miyeon spills about her graphic design side hustle, how she’s always doodling on her iPad, while Sana admits she’s a barista at some trendy coffee shop, secretly loving the chaos of the morning rush.

“Hold up,” you say, setting your empty mug down. “You’re telling me you’re out here pulling espresso shots all day, and you’re still this chill? Respect.”

Sana shrugs, blushing a little. “It’s not that hard. I just smile and people tip me.”

“She’s lying,” Miyeon cuts in. “She’s a pro. Makes latte art and everything. I can barely pour cereal without fucking it up.”

“Stop it,” Sana mumbles, shoving her playfully, and you can’t help but laugh at how easy they are together. It’s cute—real, not forced.

The convo drifts, and you’re all a little looser, the tea warming you up from the inside. Miyeon yawns, stretching so hard her tank top rides up again, showing a sliver of stomach. “Man, this storm’s not letting up. What’s the plan tomorrow if it’s still like this?”

You glance out the window—still a wall of rain and dark. “Dunno. If it clears, I was gonna hike around, take some shots. If not, I’ve got a deck of cards and some beer. We could kill time.”

“Beer?” Miyeon perks up, eyes glinting. “Why didn’t you say that earlier? Let’s do drinks tomorrow night, storm or not. We’ll make it a thing.”

“Deal,” you say, nodding. “I’ve got some whiskey too, if we’re feeling fancy. You guys in?”

Sana hesitates, then smiles. “Yeah, okay. Sounds fun.”

“Sweet,” Miyeon says, clapping her hands once, like it’s settled. “Something to look forward to after this shitty day.”

You all sit there a minute longer, the mugs empty now, the fire crackling mixing with the rain. Sana yawns next, covering her mouth with the blanket edge. “I’m so tired,” she mumbles. “This whole thing wiped me out.”

“Yeah, same,” Miyeon agrees, rubbing her eyes. “We should crash. You really good with us stealing your bedroom?”

“Take it,” you say, standing up to stretch. “Bed’s made, pillows and shit are in the closet if you need extra. I’ll grab the couch.”

“Are you sure we're not—” Sana starts, but you wave her off.

“Nah, it’s fine. Couch is comfy enough. You guys get the room, no biggie.” You grab the mugs, stacking them to carry to the sink, and they shuffle off the couch, gathering their bags.

“Thanks again, dude,” Miyeon says, dragging her duffel over her shoulder. “You’re, like, our storm savior.”

“Anytime,” you say, smirking. “Night, you two.”

“Night,” Sana echoes, giving you a little wave as they head down the hall. You hear the spare room door click shut, some muffled giggles and whispers filtering through before it quiets down. You rinse the mugs in the kitchen, flick off the lights, and flop onto the couch, dragging a throw blanket over yourself. The rain’s still going hard outside, but inside it’s warm and peaceful. Tomorrow’s got drinks on deck, and with Miyeon and Sana around, it’s shaping up to be a hell of a night. You close your eyes, the storm lulling you off, and crash out with a dumb little smile tugging at your lips.

—

You blink awake on the couch, the blanket tangled around your legs, sunlight sneaking through the blinds in thin, golden stripes. The house is quiet—no rain, no wind, just the soft hum of the heater ticking down, the fireplace already out. You sit up, rubbing your face, and that’s when you smell it: coffee, faint but fresh, and something sweet lingering in the air. Stumbling to your feet, you shuffle to the kitchen and spot a little spread on the counter—toast stacked on a plate, a jar of jam open next to it, and a couple strips of bacon still warm under a paper towel. There’s a note scribbled in messy handwriting: “Thanks for last night! Enjoy – M & S.” You smirk, figuring it’s the girls’ doing. They’re not around, though—place feels empty without their chatter.

You scarf down the breakfast—crisp toast slathered with strawberry jam, bacon salty and perfect—then hit the shower, letting the hot water blast away the last of the sleep haze. By the time you’re dressed—jeans, a hoodie, sneakers—it’s pushing 9 a.m. You grab your camera bag, sling it over your shoulder, and step outside. Holy shit, it’s a different world. After yesterday’s apocalyptic downpour, the sun’s out, blazing in a sky so blue it looks photoshopped. The lake sparkles, all glassy and calm, and the air’s crisp but not freezing, a perfect late-morning vibe. You’re still marveling at it when a loud whoop cuts through the silence, followed by a splash.

Your head snaps toward the pier, and there’s Miyeon, mid-air, cannonballing into the water with a scream that’s half-laugh, half-battle cry. She’s in a red swimsuit, bright against the lake, and as she surfaces, shaking wet hair out of her face, you spot Sana on the pier, waving at you in a pink bikini that hugs her curves just right. They’re both stupidly gorgeous, and for a second, you’re just standing there, camera dangling, brain short-circuiting. Miyeon’s got a little more thickness to her—medium, perky breasts filling out that swimsuit top, a round ass that’s damn near hypnotizing as she climbs back onto the pier. Sana’s slimmer, all sleek lines and subtle curves, the bikini showing off her tiny waist and long legs. You snap out of it when they call you over, Miyeon’s voice carrying: “Yo, camera guy! Get your ass down here!”

You jog over, grinning as you hit the pier’s edge. “Morning, ladies,” you say, shielding your eyes from the sun. “You two look way too chipper after last night.”

“Slept like babies,” Miyeon says, wringing water out of her hair, droplets splattering the wood. “Your place is cozy as hell. How’d you hold up on that couch?”

“Good enough,” you say, shrugging. “Woke up to breakfast, though—that was clutch. Thanks for that.”

Sana beams, sitting cross-legged on the pier, her pink bikini practically glowing in the sunlight. “I made it. Miyeon can’t cook for shit, so I took over.”

“Facts,” Miyeon says, not even arguing. “She’s a wizard in the kitchen. That bacon? Her doing. I’d burn the house down trying.”

“Shit, well, it was awesome,” you say, nodding at Sana. “Seriously, thank you. Didn’t expect the VIP treatment.”

Sana blushes a little, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “No biggie. Least we could do.”

Miyeon flops onto her back, stretching out like a cat in the sun. “Weather’s fuckin’ perfect today. Checked the forecast—sunny all day, but there’s another cold front rolling in tomorrow. Gotta soak this up while we can.” She props up on her elbows, eyeing you. “Come swim with us, dude. Water’s not even that cold.”

“Yeah, join us!” Sana chimes in, standing up and tugging at your arm. They’re both at it now, pulling you toward the edge, their wet hands slippery on your hoodie. Miyeon’s got that mischievous grin, and Sana’s giggling like she’s in on the plot.

You laugh, but it’s nervous, your feet planted. “Nah, I’ve got plans—gonna hike around, shoot some nature stuff. You know, trees, birds, all that shit.”

Miyeon sits up, crossing her arms under her chest, which—fuck, that swimsuit’s doing work. “Bro, we’re nature. Take pics of us instead. Way prettier than some random-ass tree.”

You smirk, caught off guard but not mad about it. “Can’t argue that. Alright, fine—photo shoot it is.”

Sana claps, bouncing a little. “Yes! These swimsuits are new, too. Gotta show ‘em off. Right, Miyeon?”

“Hell yeah,” Miyeon says, hopping to her feet. “Red’s my color, and pink’s hers. Perfect combo.”

You sling your camera out, adjusting the settings quick—bright sun, sharp focus. They start posing, and it’s like they were born for this. Miyeon’s all bold energy, leaning forward with a flirty smirk, then turning to show off that ass, one hand on her hip. Sana’s softer, tilting her head, letting her hair spill over her shoulder, giving you these quiet, sultry looks that hit harder than they should. Then they get together—arms around each other, laughing, pressing close like the girlfriends they are. Miyeon pulls Sana in for a playful kiss on the cheek, and Sana squeals, shoving her off, but they’re both cracking up. You’re snapping away, the shutter clicking like crazy, and every shot’s a banger—sunlight glinting off their skin, the lake shimmering behind them.

“Check these out,” you say, flipping the camera around. They crowd in, still dripping, Miyeon’s arm brushing yours as they ooh and ahh over the screen. “Holy shit, we look hot,” Miyeon says, zooming in on one where she’s tossing her hair back mid-laugh. Sana nods, pointing at another. “That one’s my favorite. The light’s perfect.”

“Glad you like ‘em,” you say, pocketing the camera. “I’ll send ‘em later with yesterday's photos.”

“Sweet,” Miyeon says, then glances at the lake. “You sure you won’t swim? Last chance before it’s all cold and shitty again.”

“Nah, I’m good,” you say, stepping back. “Gonna roam around, get some shots of the woods. Plus, I’ll swing by the city later—grab that fuel line part for your generator and fix it up.”

Sana’s eyes widen. “Wait, for real? You don’t have to do that.”

“It’s nothing,” you say, waving it off. “Hardware store’s not far, and I’ve got the tools. Beats you guys sitting in the dark again.”

Miyeon grins, big and genuine. “Dude, you’re too nice. Like, suspiciously nice. What’s your angle?”

You laugh. “No angle. Just don’t wanna see you stuck. Plus, I’m bored out here—gives me something to do.”

“Well, we owe you big time,” Sana says, hugging herself as a breeze kicks up. “Oh—can we charge our phones at your place? They’re basically dead, and we’ve got no juice over there.”

“Yeah, no problem,” you say, nodding toward your house. “Plenty of outlets. Leave ‘em as long as you need.”

“Sweet, thanks,” Miyeon says, already heading back to the pier’s edge. “We’ll catch you later then—drinks tonight, right?”

“Bet,” you say, giving them a mock salute. “Enjoy the sun, ladies.”

They wave as you head off, Miyeon shouting, “Don’t get lost in the woods, camera guy!” before cannonballing back into the water with another splash. You shake your head, smirking, and start down the path toward the trees, camera in hand. The day’s wide open, the girls are vibing, and you’ve got a solid plan—photos now, hero shit later, drinks to cap it off.

Not a bad way to spend a Saturday.

—

The sun’s dipping low now, painting the sky in lazy streaks of orange and pink as you roll back up to the lake house in your SUV. The gravel crunches under the tires, and you kill the engine, grabbing the plastic bag from the passenger seat—inside’s the new fuel line you snagged from the hardware store in town, plus a couple bags of chips, some salsa, and a pack of those sour gummy worms Miyeon seemed like she’d vibe with. You step out, the air cooler now that the afternoon’s winding down, and spot the girls on your porch, sprawled out like they’ve claimed the place.

Miyeon’s lounging in one of the wooden chairs, legs kicked up on the railing, scrolling her phone with one hand while the other toys with a strand of her damp hair—she’s still in that red swimsuit, a towel draped over her lap. Sana’s cross-legged on the floor next to her, phone plugged into an extension cord snaking through the open window, her pink bikini swapped for a loose tee and shorts. They look up as you approach, Miyeon tossing you a lazy wave while Sana gives a little smile, like they’ve been waiting for you to roll in.

“Yo, I’m back,” you say, holding up the bag. “Got the fuel line. And some snacks for later—figured we’d need something to munch on with the drinks.”

Miyeon drops her feet from the railing, sitting up with a grin. “You’re a fucking legend, dude. I’ll Venmo you later for the part—how much was it?”

“Like, twenty bucks,” you say, shrugging. “No rush.”

Sana tilts her head, brushing her hair behind her ear. “You sure you don’t need help with the generator? I’m useless with that stuff, but I can, like, hold a flashlight or something.”

“Nah, I got it,” you say, slinging your camera bag off your shoulder and setting it by the door. “Watched a couple YouTube vids earlier—think I can handle it solo. You guys just chill here.”

Miyeon laughs, leaning back in her chair. “Yeah, good call. We’d probably just fuck it up worse. I don’t even know what a fuel line is.”

“Same,” Sana adds, giggling. “You’re on your own, hero.”

“Cool,” you say, grabbing the bag with the part and heading off. “I’ll trek over there and sort it out. Be back in a bit.”

You make the short walk around the lake, the last of the sunlight glinting off the water, your boots sinking slightly into the still-damp ground. Their house looks less ominous now, just a quiet two-story sitting there in the evening glow. You head to the shed out back, popping it open with a creak, and there’s the generator—same sad, silent hunk of metal from last night. You drop to your knees, fishing the new fuel line out of the bag, and get to work.

The YouTube tutorials you skimmed earlier play back in your head—some dude with a thick accent walking through the steps like it’s no big deal. First, you kill the fuel switch, making sure no gas is leaking out, then unhook the old line—cracked and crusty, just like you thought. A little diesel dribbles onto your hands, stinking like hell, but you wipe it on your jeans and keep going. The new line’s a perfect fit, sliding into place with a satisfying click. You tighten the clamps with a screwdriver from their toolbox, double-checking everything’s snug. Then it’s just a matter of priming the fuel pump—couple quick pumps like the guy said—and flipping the switch. The generator sputters once, twice, then roars to life, a steady hum kicking in. You stand back, grinning like an idiot. Fixed. Lights flicker on in the house behind you, and you give yourself a mental high-five—DIY king shit.

You trudge back to your place, wiping your greasy hands on a rag you snagged from their shed. The girls spot you coming and perk up—Miyeon’s on her feet, Miyeon swapped her swimsuit for shorts and a tank top. Sana’s leaning forward, both of them looking hopeful. “Well?” Miyeon calls out, arms crossed.

“Done,” you say, tossing the rag onto the porch steps. “Generator’s purring like a kitten. You’ve got power again.”

Sana lets out this big, relieved sigh, clutching her phone to her chest. “Oh my God, thank you. I was legit stressed about that.”

Miyeon whoops, bounding over and throwing her arms around you in a quick, tight hug. “Dude, you’re the best! I owe you more than twenty bucks for this.”

You laugh, patting her back before she pulls away. “Nah, just keep the drinks flowing tonight, and we’re square.”

“Deal,” Sana says, standing up now, her whole vibe brighter. “Speaking of, let’s crack those beers. I’m way happier now that we’re not, like, pioneer women anymore.”

“Bet,” you say, heading inside to drop the snacks on the kitchen counter. The girls follow, Miyeon raiding your fridge for the beers while Sana digs into the chip bag already. You grab a deck of cards from a drawer, flipping it in your hand. “You guys play cards?”

Miyeon pops a beer open, foam hissing as she takes a sip. “I do. Poker, blackjack, whatever. I’m decent.”

Sana shrugs, munching a chip. “I’ve never played. Like, ever. I don’t even know the rules.”

“No shit?” you say, pulling out a chair at the table and motioning them over. “Alright, I’ll teach you. Easy stuff—let’s start with blackjack. You’ll pick it up quick.”

They settle in, Miyeon plopping down across from you with her beer, Sana sliding into the seat next to her, still clutching the chip bag like it’s a security blanket. You shuffle the deck, the cards snapping under your fingers, and deal out the first hand—two cards each. “Goal’s simple,” you say, tossing yourself a jack and a five. “Get as close to twenty-one as you can without going over. Face cards are ten, aces are one or eleven, whatever you need. You want another card, you say ‘hit.’ You’re good, you ‘stay.’ Bust, you lose.”

Sana stares at her cards—a seven and a three—furrowing her brow like it’s a math test. “Okay… hit?”

You flick her a nine, and she gasps. “Shit, that’s nineteen! I stay, right?”

“Yeah, smart call,” you say, grinning. “Miyeon?”

She’s got a queen and a four, smirking like she’s already won. “Hit.” You deal her a six—twenty. “Stay,” she says, leaning back with a cocky tilt to her head.

You flip your second card—a nine. “Dealer’s got nineteen,” you say, checking the deck. “Sana, you’re good. Miyeon wins, though—twenty’s closer.”

“Fuck yeah,” Miyeon says, fist-pumping. “Told you I’m good.”

Sana pouts, but she’s laughing. “Beginner’s luck doesn’t count, right?”

“Nope,” you say, gathering the cards. “Let’s go again. You’ll get the hang of it.”

The hours slip by like nothing, the table a mess of empty beer cans, crumpled chip bags, and a half-eaten pile of gummy worms stuck to the salsa lid. The cards are long forgotten, scattered across the table from your last sloppy round of blackjack—Sana kept busting and blaming the “stupid rules,” while Miyeon was raking in wins like she’d been hustling casinos her whole life. The drinks keep flowing, whiskey now in the mix, poured into mismatched mugs because you ran out of clean glasses. The room’s warm, a little hazy, the heater still chugging along as the night deepens outside, but there are no more stars in the sky, and you already know what's coming.

You’re slouched in your chair, one leg kicked up on the empty seat next to you, feeling the buzz settle into your bones. Across the table, Sana’s climbed into Miyeon’s lap at some point—nobody batted an eye, least of all you. They’re comfy like that, Sana’s head tucked against Miyeon’s shoulder, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on Miyeon’s arm while Miyeon’s got one hand draped around Sana’s waist, the other nursing her whiskey mug. They’re drunk, giggling messes, and you’re not far behind, the room spinning just enough to make everything funnier than it should be.

“Alright, camera guy,” Miyeon says, her voice a little slurred but still sharp, cutting through the haze. “Spill it. When’s the last time you had a girlfriend? You’re too chill to be single forever.”

You laugh, rubbing the back of your neck, the whiskey loosening your tongue. “Uh, shit, like two years ago? She was cool, but it didn’t stick. Been flying solo since then—works better that way, you know? Just me and my camera, no drama.”

Sana tilts her head, her lips curling into a teasing little smile. “Two years? Damn, you’re basically a monk.”

“Monk with a lens,” Miyeon adds, smirking. “Bet you’ve got girls tripping over you and you just don’t notice.”

“Nah,” you say, waving it off, though the compliment lands nice. “I’m good on my own. Relationships are… a lot.”

They exchange a look then—quick, sneaky, like they’re in on some secret. Sana whispers something in Miyeon’s ear, her breath tickling Miyeon’s neck, and Miyeon snickers, her eyes flicking to you. They both start giggling, sloppy and loud, and you lean forward, squinting. “What? What’s so funny?”

Miyeon shakes her head, still laughing. “Nothing, nothing. Just—we’ve got this friend, Shuhua. She’s super chill, loves hiking, nature vibes, all that shit you’re into. You’d hit it off.”

“Oh, yeah,” Sana pipes up, sitting up a little straighter on Miyeon’s lap, her cheeks flushed from the booze. “And Tzuyu too! She’s, like, gorgeous and artsy. Total your type.”

Miyeon nods like it’s settled. “Yeah, Tzuyu’s got that quiet, mysterious thing going. You’d be obsessed.”

You snort, taking a sip of your whiskey, the burn sliding down easy. “What, you two playing matchmaker now? I said I’m good.”

Miyeon’s grin turns mischievous, her eyes glinting under the dim kitchen light. “Okay, fine, but let’s be real for a sec. Between me and Sana—” she tightens her grip on Sana’s waist, making her squirm and giggle—“who’d you pick? Like, if you had to. Be honest.”

Sana’s head snaps up, her face going red. “Miyeon! Don’t ask that, oh my God!” She swats at Miyeon’s hand, but she’s laughing too, hiding her face in Miyeon’s shoulder for a sec before peeking out at you, all shy and curious.

You freeze, the mug halfway to your lips, caught off guard. “Uh… what?” Your voice comes out higher than you mean it to, and you clear your throat, trying to play it cool. “I don’t—I mean, I can’t just… pick. I don’t know.”

Miyeon’s eyebrows shoot up, and she leans forward, dragging Sana with her. “Oh, come on! You’re dodging. You totally know, you’re just too chicken to say it.”

“Am not,” you shoot back, but your face is heating up, and the whiskey’s not helping. You glance between them—Miyeon’s got that bold, flirty edge, all confidence and heat, her lips quirked like she’s daring you to say something stupid. Sana’s softer, her blush spreading, but there’s this spark in her eyes now, playful and warm, like she’s testing you too. They’re both ridiculous, and it’s doing shit to your head.

“So what I’m hearing,” Miyeon says, dragging the words out, “is you’d take both of us. Greedy bastard.”

“What—no!” you sputter, nearly choking on your drink. “That’s not what I said! You’re twisting it!”

Sana bursts out laughing, her whole body shaking against Miyeon. “Oh my God, you’re so greedy! Wanting us both, huh?”

“Fuck off, I didn’t say that,” you protest, but you’re laughing too, the absurdity of it hitting you all at once. “You two are wasted. I’m not even dignifying this.”

Miyeon grins wider, leaning closer across the table, her voice dropping low and teasing. “Oh, please. You couldn’t handle us anyway. We’re a lot, you know. High maintenance.”

Sana nods, mock-serious. “So much work. You’d be crying in a week.”

“Yeah, right,” you fire back, the whiskey buzzing through you now, making you bold. “I’d keep up. You’d be the ones begging for a break.”

Miyeon’s eyes widen, and she lets out a loud, “Ooooh!” Sana gasps, covering her mouth, but she’s smiling like crazy behind her hand. “He’s got some fight in him,” Miyeon says, leaning back and fanning herself dramatically. “Sana, you hear that? He thinks he’s tough enough for us.”

“I’m just saying,” you mutter, sinking into your chair, “you’re the ones who’d tap out first.”

Sana giggles, sliding off Miyeon’s lap to grab another beer from the fridge, her shorts riding up as she bends over. She spins back around, popping the cap with a lighter she snagged off the table. “You’re funny,” she says, pointing at you. “And shy as hell right now. Look at you.”

“Shut up,” you say, but you’re grinning, your face burning under their stares. “You’re both too drunk. This convo’s going off the rails—I’m scared of where it’s headed.”

Miyeon laughs, loud and unfiltered, tipping her mug back for the last of her whiskey. “Scared? Good. You should be. We’re trouble, camera guy. Double trouble.”

“Triple, with the drinks,” Sana adds, sliding back onto Miyeon’s lap, beer in hand. She takes a sip, then offers it to Miyeon, who leans in close, their lips brushing for a second as she drinks. It’s casual, natural for them, but it hits you like a punch—subtle, hot, and gone too fast to process.

You shake your head, trying to clear the fog. “Yeah, I’m calling it. You two are a menace. I’m having way too much fun, though.”

“Same,” Sana says, her voice softer now, her head resting on Miyeon’s shoulder again. “You’re cool, you know that?”

“Very cool,” Miyeon agrees, her hand sliding up Sana’s back, casual but possessive. “We’ll let you off the hook for now. But don’t think we’re done messing with you.”

You laugh, raising your mug in a mock toast. “Wouldn’t dream of it. Night’s still young, right?”

They clink their drinks against yours, the three of you grinning like idiots, the flirtation simmering under the surface—light, playful, but with an edge that keeps you on your toes. You take a sip of your whiskey, the burn familiar now, and figure it’s your turn to flip the script. “Alright,” you say, setting the mug down with a little thud to get their attention. “You’ve been grilling me about my love life—or lack of it. What about you two? How’d you even end up together?”

Miyeon’s head tilts back as she laughs, her black hair spilling over her shoulders. “Oh, dude, it’s a story. We met at some shitty college party—like, the kind with warm beer and a playlist that’s just Top 40 on repeat. I was trashed, trying to shotgun a can, and Sana was there, all cute and quiet, holding a red cup she wasn’t even drinking from.”

Sana nods, her cheeks already pink from the booze. “She spilled beer all over me trying to show off. I was pissed, but then she started apologizing like a maniac, and… I don’t know, she was funny about it. We just clicked.”

“Clicked, huh?” you say, smirking. “That’s cute. So, what’s the secret? Two and a half years is solid—most people can’t keep a houseplant alive that long.”

Miyeon shrugs, her hand sliding idly up Sana’s back, fingers tracing the hem of her tee. “Dunno. We just vibe. She keeps me from doing dumb shit—like, most of the time—and I make sure she doesn’t stay in her shell forever. Balance, you know?”

“Yeah,” Sana adds, leaning into Miyeon’s touch, her voice soft. “She’s loud and I’m not. Works out.”

You nod, letting the moment settle, then push a little further, keeping it chill. “Ever have any big fights? Like, the kind where you’re slamming doors or sleeping on the couch?”

Sana giggles, shaking her head. “Not really. We argue sometimes—stupid stuff, like who forgot to buy milk—but Miyeon’s too lazy to storm out, and I hate sleeping alone.”

“Facts,” Miyeon says, grinning. “I’d rather just bitch for five minutes and then make out. Way easier.”

You laugh, the image of them bickering-then-kissing too good to not picture. “Smart move. Alright, let’s level up—any exes still lurking around? Old flames trying to slide back in?”

Miyeon’s eyes narrow playfully, like she’s onto your game, but she answers anyway. “Couple of mine tried. Dudes mostly—had a few boyfriends before Sana. They’d hit me up like, ‘Oh, you’re with a girl now? That’s hot.’ Blocked them so fast. Sana’s exes are too scared of me to try anything.”

Sana snorts, nudging Miyeon’s shoulder. “You’re not that scary. They’re just… I don’t know, they’re all girls anyway. Nobody’s dumb enough to mess with us now.”

“Fair,” you say, leaning forward, resting your elbows on the table. The whiskey’s got your tongue loose, and the vibe’s right, so you nudge the questions up a notch—still smooth, but with a little heat. “So, Miyeon, you’ve dated guys before, right? Sana—you ever been with one? Like, ever?”

They glance at each other quick, a flicker of something passing between them—Sana’s blush deepens, and Miyeon’s grin turns sly. “Me? Yeah,” Miyeon says, casual as hell. “I’m bi—guys, girls, whatever. If they’re hot and fun, I’m down. Dated a couple dudes before I figured out I liked girls just as much. No big deal.”

Sana shifts on Miyeon’s lap, her fingers tightening around her beer bottle. “I… no. Never been with a guy. Always just girls for me.” Her voice is quieter, a little shy, but she doesn’t look away.

Miyeon tilts her head, resting her chin on Sana’s shoulder, her eyes locked on you now. “She’s curious, though,” she says, dropping it like a bomb, her tone teasing but deliberate. “Always has been. Right, babe?”

Sana’s face flares red, and she swats at Miyeon’s arm, flustered. “Miyeon! Shut up, oh my God!” She buries her face in her hands for a sec, then peeks out, still giggling despite herself. “I mean… yeah, okay, I’ve thought about it. Like, wondered what it’d be like. But that’s it. Closest I’ve gotten is—” She stops, biting her lip, and Miyeon finishes for her.

“The strap,” Miyeon says, smirking like she’s proud of it. “I’ve got this one that’s, uh, pretty realistic. She loves it, but it’s still not the real deal, you know?”

Sana groans, dropping her forehead onto Miyeon’s shoulder. “You’re the worst. Why do you say shit like that?”

You laugh, holding up your hands. “Hey, no judgment here. We’re all adults—shit gets spicy sometimes. Sounds like you’ve got it figured out anyway.”

Miyeon’s still watching you, her smirk softening into something sharper, more curious. Sana lifts her head, her embarrassment fading into a playful little pout as she takes a swig of her beer. “Okay, but why’re you asking?” she says, her tone turning provocative, her eyes narrowing just a bit. “You digging for details, huh? What’s your deal?”

You freeze for a sec, caught off guard, the whiskey making your brain a little slow to catch up. “What? Nah, I’m just—curious, I guess. Making conversation. That’s all.”

Miyeon’s not buying it, her head tilting like she’s sizing you up. “Bullshit. You’re interested. I can see it. All these questions—you’re fishing for something, aren’t you?”

“Fishing?” you say, leaning back, trying to play it cool but feeling the heat creeping up your neck. “Come on, I’m just chilling. Anyone stuck out here with you two would be asking the same shit. You’re the only entertainment I’ve got.”

Sana giggles, her pout turning into a grin as she leans forward, elbows on the table now, her chin in her hands. “Oh, so we’re entertainment? That’s your excuse?”

“Yeah, exactly,” you say, grinning back, the tension easing but still simmering under the surface. “Two hot girls, drunk and spilling secrets? Who wouldn’t be into that?”

Miyeon laughs, loud and bright, tipping her head back. “Fair. You’ve got a point. We are hot.” She nudges Sana, who’s still blushing but clearly loving the vibe. “He’s not wrong, babe.”

“Still,” Sana says, her voice softer but with a teasing edge, “you’re digging pretty deep. What’s next, you gonna ask our favorite positions or something?”

You choke on your whiskey, coughing into your fist as Miyeon cackles. “Jesus, no,” you manage, wiping your mouth. “I’m not that drunk. Yet.”

“Yet,” Miyeon echoes, her eyes glinting with mischief. “Give it an hour. We’ll get you there.”

The room’s buzzing now, the flirtation weaving through the air like a quiet current—nothing overt, but it’s there, subtle and growing. You take another sip, letting it burn, and lean back in your chair, meeting Miyeon’s gaze for a second longer than you should. Sana’s watching too, her smile small but knowing, like she’s in on the game.

The conversation’s still humming along, the whiskey keeping the edges soft and the laughter loud. You’re mid-sentence, riffing on some dumb story about a camping trip gone wrong years ago, when a faint patter hits the deck outside. At first, you think it’s just the wind kicking up, but then it gets louder, steadier—rain, drumming hard against the wood. The temperature drops fast, a chill sneaking through the open window, cutting through the cozy haze of the kitchen. Miyeon shivers, rubbing her bare arms, and Sana pulls her tee tighter around herself, her beer bottle clinking against the table as she sets it down.

“Shit, there it goes again,” you say, standing up to slide the window shut. The cold’s biting now, the kind that makes your breath fog indoors if you’re not careful. “The couch is calling us.”

They nod, grabbing their drinks and stumbling after you, a little wobbly from the booze. You flick on the living room lamp, its warm glow spilling over the plush couch and the throw blankets piled on the armrest. The fireplace is out, but the heater’s still doing its thing, and the room feels like a bubble against the storm outside. You flop into the corner of the couch, one leg tucked under you, the whiskey mug warm in your hands. Miyeon and Sana collapse together on the other end, a tangle of limbs and giggles—Sana’s half-draped over Miyeon, her head lolling against Miyeon’s chest as Miyeon wraps an arm around her.

“Fuck, your place is so warm,” Miyeon sighs, kicking off her flip-flops and pulling her feet up onto the cushions. “Ours would be an icebox right now with that busted generator.”

“Perks of not slacking on maintenance,” you say, smirking as you take a sip. “You’re welcome to crash anytime it shits the bed.”

Sana hums, her eyes half-closed, nestled into Miyeon like she’s ready to doze off. “Good to know. You’re spoiling us.”

The rain’s pounding now, a steady roar against the roof, and for a while, you all just sit there, letting the sound fill the silence. It’s not awkward—more like a breather, the kind where everyone’s too buzzed and content to force more chatter. But then you catch it: the way they’re looking at you. Miyeon’s got this lazy, lidded gaze, her lips parted just enough to show a hint of teeth, and Sana’s peeking up from Miyeon’s chest, her eyes brighter than they should be for how drunk she is. They’re giggling to themselves, quiet little bursts, like they’re sharing some inside joke you’re not in on yet.

You lean back, resting your head against the couch, and glance out at the deck, rain streaking the glass doors. “Getting late,” you say, casual, testing the vibe. “This storm’s not letting up anytime soon.”

Sana stretches, her tee riding up to flash a sliver of stomach, and sits up a little. “Tonight was so fun, though. Way more than we thought it’d be, stuck out here alone.”

“Yeah,” Miyeon agrees, her hand lingering on Sana’s thigh, fingers tracing absent circles. “Didn’t expect to end up with a generator-fixing, blackjack-teaching hero. You’re full of surprises.”

You laugh, shrugging it off, but the compliment sticks. “Glad I could keep you entertained. We can run it back tomorrow—more drinks, more cards, whatever. Weather’s supposed to clear up.”

“Sweet,” Sana says, her voice soft but perky. Then Miyeon shifts, her eyes locking onto yours, and there’s something different in them now—sharper, bolder.

“Fun doesn’t have to end now, though,” she says, slow and deliberate, like she’s dropping a hint she knows you’ll catch.

You tilt your head, playing dumb but feeling the shift. “What’s that mean?”

She smirks, leaning forward just enough to close some distance, her arm sliding behind Sana on the couch. “What’re you doing later? After we’re done sitting here?”

“Uh, sleeping?” you say, half-laughing, though your pulse kicks up a notch. “That’s the plan, anyway.”

Miyeon’s grin widens, and she glances at Sana, who’s biting her lip like she’s holding back a laugh. “Yeah, well, me and Sana—we’re probably gonna fuck,” Miyeon says, blunt as hell, her tone light but her eyes steady on you. “We were supposed to last night, but, you know, generator drama killed the mood. So now we’re kinda pent up. Horny as shit, honestly.”

You choke on your whiskey, coughing into your sleeve as the words hit you like a freight train. “Jesus, warn a guy,” you mutter, wiping your mouth, your face hot. Sana’s giggling now, hiding half her face in Miyeon’s shoulder, but she’s not denying it.

“What?” Miyeon says, all fake innocence, leaning back and pulling Sana closer. “Just being real. You asked.”

“I literally didn't ask anything,” you say, but you’re laughing, the shock mixing with the buzz and turning into something else—something that’s got your stomach tightening.

Sana whispers something into Miyeon’s ear, her voice too low to catch, and Miyeon’s smirk softens into something… hungrier. She looks back at you. “It’s pouring out there,” she says, nodding toward the glass doors, where the rain’s still hammering down in sheets. “We’d get soaked going back. Mind if we crash here tonight?”

“Yeah, of course,” you say, automatic, trying to keep your cool. “The bed is yours, I'm getting used to the couch.”

Sana’s the one who pipes up now, her voice quiet but cutting through the tension. “Sleeping alone in this cold sucks, though. Don’t you think?”

You blink, caught off guard again, your brain scrambling. “Uh… yeah, I guess?”

Miyeon’s watching you close now, her hand sliding up Sana’s back again, possessive but gentle. “What if…” she starts, pausing just long enough to let it sink in, “you joined us? Like, all three of us. Together.”

Your mouth goes dry, the words landing heavy. “Wait, what—like, serious? Or are you just drunk and fucking with me?”

Miyeon doesn’t flinch. She leans forward instead, setting her mug on the table with a soft clink, then turns to Sana. Without breaking eye contact with you, she cups Sana’s face and kisses her—slow, deep, not some quick peck but a real, sensual thing. Lips parted, tongues meeting, the kind of kiss that’s got heat behind it. Sana melts into it, her hands clutching Miyeon’s tank top, and when they pull apart, breathless, they both turn to you. Sana’s flushed, her eyes glassy, and Miyeon’s got this smug, daring look.

“Does that look like we’re fucking with you?” Miyeon says, wiping the corner of her mouth with her thumb.

Sana’s quieter, her voice a little shaky but steady enough. “You’re cool. And… kinda hot, honestly. We’ve been talking about it all night.”

“Yeah,” Miyeon adds, leaning into it now, her confidence dialed up. “I wanna see you fuck Sana. Like, I’d be there too—watching, helping, whatever. She’s curious, and I think you’d be perfect for her first time with a guy.”

Your head’s spinning, the room suddenly way too small, the air thick with something you can’t shake. Your dick twitches at the thought—Sana’s soft curves under you, Miyeon’s eyes on you, directing it all. It’s a lot, fast, and your heart’s pounding against your ribs. “Fuck,” you breathe, running a hand through your hair. “You’re not kidding.”

“Nope,” Miyeon says, popping the ‘p’ again, her smirk lethal. “So? What do you say?”

Sana’s staring at you now, bottom lip caught between her teeth, nervous but wanting, and Miyeon’s got that predatory edge, like she’s already decided how this is gonna go. The tension’s a live wire, humming between you, and you’re stuck, half-panicked, half-turned on, trying to process what the hell’s happening as the rain keeps drumming outside.

“Fuck it, I’m up for it.”

Miyeon’s grin stretches wide, victorious, and she slides off the couch, her bare feet hitting the hardwood with a soft thud. “Good answer,” she says, her voice low and sultry, like she’s been waiting for this all night. “Come closer, then.” She beckons you with a curl of her finger, her eyes locked on yours, daring you to hesitate.

You don’t. You push off the couch, the whiskey buzz making your steps feel loose, and cross the small gap to where she’s standing. Up close, she’s all heat and confidence—her tank top clings to her frame, her dark hair messy from the day, and she smells faintly of sunscreen and beer. She steps in, closing the distance, and grabs the front of your hoodie, pulling you down just enough to crash her lips into yours.

It’s sudden, rough, and you’re caught off guard—your hands hover for a split second, unsure where to land, before instinct kicks in. You kiss her back, tentative at first, lips brushing hers, tasting the sharp edge of whiskey and the faintest hint of her chapstick. Then she presses closer, her tongue flicking against your bottom lip, and you’re done holding back. You dive in, deepening the kiss, your hands finding her waist, sliding up the curve of her sides under her tank. Her skin’s warm, smooth, and she lets out this little hum against your mouth that sends a jolt straight down your spine.

Sana’s still on the couch, watching, her breath hitching audibly. You can feel her eyes on you, a quiet intensity in the way she’s perched there—legs tucked under her, hands gripping the blanket like it’s an anchor. Miyeon breaks the kiss for a second, her lips hovering an inch from yours, her breath hot against your skin. She glances over her shoulder at Sana, smirking. “Your turn, babe,” she says, her voice thick with promise.

Sana hesitates, her wide eyes darting between you and Miyeon, but there’s no mistaking the want there, the curiosity flickering behind her nerves. She slides off the couch slow, her bare feet padding across the floor, and stops just in front of you. Up close, she’s smaller than Miyeon—slimmer, softer, her oversized tee swallowing her frame, her shorts barely peeking out. Her lips glisten with gloss, and when she looks up at you, all shy and flushed, makes you breathless.

You don’t wait for her to make the first move. You step in, gentle but sure, cupping her face with one hand, your thumb brushing her cheek. “You good?” you murmur, giving her an out, but she just nods, quick and eager, her breath catching. Then you lean in, and her lips meet yours—soft, plush, addictive as hell. She tastes like gloss and the faint tang of beer, sweet and heady, and it’s different from Miyeon’s fire—slower, more tentative, but just as hungry. You kiss her deeper, letting her melt into it, your free hand settling on her hip, pulling her closer. She sighs into your mouth, a tiny, needy sound that lights you up.

Miyeon’s not sitting this out. She steps in behind Sana, her hands sliding over Sana’s shoulders, then down to her waist, guiding her closer to you. She’s watching, her lips parted, eyes dark with heat. Sana’s still kissing you, lost in it, when Miyeon takes her hand—small, trembling—and moves it, pressing it against the front of your jeans. You’re already hard, straining against the denim, and the second Sana’s fingers brush over you, your breath hitches.

“Fuck,” you mutter against Sana’s lips, and Miyeon laughs, low and throaty.

“Hot, right?” Miyeon says, her voice dripping with satisfaction. She’s pressed up against Sana’s back now, her chin resting on Sana’s shoulder, watching you both like she’s directing this whole show. Sana’s hand trembles, but she doesn’t pull away—she squeezes, hesitant but curious, her warm palm cupping you through the fabric. It’s clumsy, unsure, but that only makes it hotter, the newness of it driving you wild.

“Jesus, this is insane,” you say, pulling back just enough to look at them—Sana’s blushing hard, her eyes wide and dazed, Miyeon’s grinning, all smug and turned on. Sana’s hand stays where it is, her fingers flexing slightly, like she’s testing how you feel, and it’s taking every ounce of self-control not to lose it right there.

Miyeon’s eyes flick down to where Sana’s touching you, then back up to your face. “She’s doing good, huh?” she teases, her hand sliding up Sana’s arm, encouraging her. “But fuck, I’m already soaked just watching this. Let’s take it to your room, yeah? This couch isn’t big enough for what I’ve got in mind.”

Sana finally pulls her hand back, her face half-hidden in Miyeon’s neck, embarrassed but buzzing with excitement. You nod, still half-dazed, the reality of it sinking in. “Yeah… yeah, let’s go,” you say, voice rough, your heart hammering as you lead the way.

The hallway’s a blur, your footsteps heavy, their bare feet padding behind you. You push open your bedroom door—messy bed, clothes tossed on the chair, the faint glow of a lamp in the corner—and step inside, the air cooler here but still thick with tension. You turn to face them, Miyeon moves first, her fingers hooking under the hem of her tank top. She peels it off slow, deliberate, letting it slide up her torso, exposing the smooth plane of her stomach, then the curve of her ribs, before tugging it over her head and tossing it aside. Her black bra clings to her, lacy and thin, her medium, perky breasts straining against it—she’s all confidence, hips cocked, watching your reaction.

Sana’s shyer, her hands trembling just a little as she grabs the bottom of her oversized tee. She lifts it up, inch by inch, revealing her slim waist, the faint dip of her navel, then higher until the pink bra comes into view—simple but cute, hugging her slighter, curvier frame. She hesitates for a second before pulling the shirt all the way off, her brown hair tumbling back over her shoulders, and when she drops it to the floor, she’s blushing hard but smiling, caught up in the moment.

They kick off their shorts next—Miyeon’s denim cutoffs hit the ground with a soft thud, leaving her in matching black panties that sit low on her hips, showing off the roundness of her ass. Sana’s shorts slide down her legs slower, pooling at her ankles, and she steps out, her pink panties a soft contrast to Miyeon’s darker set, clinging to her narrower hips. Standing there in just bras and panties, they’re a fucking vision—Miyeon’s thicker, all curves and bold energy, Sana’s slimmer but still lush, her skin glowing in the low light. It’s almost too much, the way they move together, like they’re perfectly in sync even now.

Miyeon steps forward, her bare feet silent on the hardwood, and nods at Sana. “You take the hoodie,” she says, her voice low and husky, thick with intent. “I’ve got the pants.”

Sana moves in, her hands tentative but eager, reaching for the hem of your hoodie. Her fingers brush your stomach as she lifts it, her touch light, almost ticklish, and you raise your arms to help her. She pulls it up and over, her breath catching as she gets a good look at your chest, her eyes flicking up to yours—nervous, excited, a little overwhelmed. The hoodie drops to the floor, and she steps back, biting her lip, like she’s sizing you up.

Miyeon’s not wasting time. She’s already at your waist, her hands deft and sure as she pops the button on your jeans. The zipper comes down with a quick, sharp sound, and she tugs them down, past your hips, letting them pool at your ankles. Her fingers hook into the waistband of your boxers next, and with one smooth pull, those are gone too, sliding down your legs until you’re bare in front of them. She’s kneeling now, right between your thighs as you sit back on the edge of the bed, her movements all purpose and hunger, no hesitation.

Sana joins her, dropping to her knees beside Miyeon, her eyes wide and fixed on your cock—hard, thick, standing up proud. It’s the first one she’s seen up close, and you can tell it’s hitting her all at once. “Holy shit,” she whispers, almost to herself, her hand hovering like she’s not sure what to do with it yet.

Miyeon’s already on it, her fingers wrapping around the base, stroking slow and light, her thumb brushing the underside. “Go on,” she says, glancing at Sana with a smirk. “Touch it.”

Sana reaches out, her small hand trembling just a bit as she lays it over Miyeon’s, following her lead. Her fingers slide up, tentative, tracing the shaft, feeling the weight of it—the heat. She runs her thumb over the tip, where a bead of precum’s already leaking out, and her breath hitches again. “It’s… big,” she says, her voice soft, awed. “And, like… really hot.”

You groan low in your throat, the sound slipping out as their hands work together—Sana’s delicate, curious grip mixing with Miyeon’s firmer, more practiced strokes. Your cock’s throbbing now, pulsing under their touch, and it’s driving you fucking insane. Sana’s fingers wander lower, brushing over the veins, then down to your balls, cupping them gently, rolling them in her palm like she’s figuring it all out. “This is wild,” she mutters, half-laughing, her eyes flicking up to yours for a second before darting back down.

“What do you think?” Miyeon asks her, her voice teasing but edged with her own arousal. She’s watching Sana explore, her own hand still moving, keeping the rhythm steady.

Sana bites her lip, her cheeks flushed deep red. “It’s… I don’t know, it’s kinda crazy how much I like it,” she admits, her fingers tightening slightly, testing the give. “Feels alive or something.”

“Fuck, you’re killing me,” you say, your voice rough, your head tipping back for a second as the sensation hits hard. Miyeon chuckles, low and dirty, and leans closer.

“Taste it,” she says, her eyes locked on Sana’s, pushing her just a little. “Go for it.”

Sana freezes, her hand stilling, but the curiosity’s there—bright and burning in her gaze. She leans in slow, hesitant, her breath warm against your skin as she presses a tiny kiss to the tip, barely grazing it. Then another, softer, her lips parting just enough to taste the salt of you. She pulls back, blinking like she’s surprised herself, then goes again—small licks this time, her tongue darting out, testing the waters. It’s clumsy, unsure, but the heat of her mouth, the wet flick of her tongue—it’s fucking electric.

Miyeon’s watching, her own breath ragged now, her hand slipping away to let Sana take over. “Good, right?” she murmurs, her voice thick. “Keep going.”

Sana gains confidence, her lips closing around the head, sucking gently—experimental, like she’s figuring out how it feels. Her tongue swirls once, twice, and you groan again, louder, your hands gripping the sheets to keep from grabbing her head and guiding her yourself. She pulls back, a thin string of spit connecting her lips to you, and looks up, dazed but grinning. “Okay, yeah,” she says, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “That’s… a lot.”

Miyeon laughs, shifting to kneel closer, her shoulder brushing Sana’s. “Told you it’s hot. You’re doing good, babe.” She glances at you, her eyes dark. “He’s loving this shit.”

You nod, breathless, the sight of them there—half-naked, on their knees, Sana’s shy exploration and Miyeon’s hungry stare—burning into your brain.

Miyeon’s got your cock in her hand, her grip firm but teasing, her fingers curling around the base as she angles it toward Sana. “Go on, babe,” she says, her voice a low purr, her eyes flicking up to meet yours—dark, horny, locked in. “He’s all yours.”

Sana’s determination’s kicking in, the shy edge melting away as she leans forward. Her lips part, soft and wet, and she takes you in again—slower this time, more deliberate. The taste’s sinking into her now, the salt and heat, and you can see it in her eyes—she’s getting hooked. Her tongue flattens against the underside, sliding up, then curling around the tip, and you groan, low and rough, your head tipping back for a split second before you snap it forward again to watch. Miyeon’s staring too, her lips parted, her breath coming faster—she’s as turned on as you are, her thighs pressing together like she’s already feeling it.

Sana pushes further, her lips stretching around you, trying to take more. She slides down, her throat tightening, and then—she gags, a little choke that jerks her back. Her eyes water, and she pulls off, coughing into her hand, a flush creeping up her neck.

“Easy, babe,” Miyeon says, her tone soft but firm, one hand rubbing Sana’s back while the other still holds you steady. “Don’t rush it. Breathe.” She brushes Sana’s hair out of her face, gentle but with that edge of control—she’s done this before, knows the game.

Sana nods, wiping her mouth with the back of her wrist, catching her breath. “Okay,” she rasps, her voice shaky but eager. “I’m good.”

Miyeon smirks, then shifts her gaze to you. “My turn,” she says, and there’s no hesitation—she’s all in, sliding down to take Sana’s place. Her mouth’s on you in a heartbeat, hot and wet, her tongue moving like she’s mapped you out already. She’s not shy, not slow—she takes you deep right off the bat, her lips sealing tight as she sucks, hard and deliberate. Her hand works what her mouth can’t reach, stroking in sync, slick and fast. You groan louder, your hips twitching, and she hums around you, the vibration hitting you like a fucking freight train.

Sana’s watching, wide-eyed, her embarrassment replaced by something else—amazement, maybe a little envy. She’s seeing a side of Miyeon she didn’t know existed, this confident, dirty edge that’s got her girlfriend deep-throating you like it’s nothing. Miyeon’s eyes flick up to yours, locked in as she bobs her head, her cheeks hollowing out, spit slicking her lips. She pulls off slow, dragging her tongue along the underside one last time, leaving you dripping—your cock’s a mess now, glistening with her spit, throbbing hard.

“Wet enough for you, babe,” Miyeon says, wiping her chin with a smirk, her voice thick with pride. She glances at Sana, who’s still staring, her breath uneven. “Ready?”

They both stand, peeling off the last of their clothes with a slow, teasing grace that’s almost cruel. Miyeon unhooks her bra first, letting it fall to the floor—her breasts bounce free, full and perky, nipples already hard in the cool air. She shimmies out of her black panties next, kicking them aside, and she’s stark naked now, all smooth skin and curves, thick in the right places. Sana follows, quieter, her fingers fumbling with her bra clasp until it snaps open—her breasts are smaller, softer, but perfect, her nipples a faint pink that matches her blush. She slides her panties down her legs, stepping out delicately, and when they’re both bare in front of you, it’s like every dirty dream you’ve ever had coming to life.

Miyeon twirls once, playful but deliberate, her ass jiggling just enough to make your mouth dry. “What do you think?” she asks, hands on her hips, her voice dripping with that cocky flirtation she’s mastered. Sana spins too, a little clumsier, her hair swinging as she laughs through her nerves.

“Fuck,” you say, the word slipping out before you can stop it. “You’re the hottest girls I’ve ever seen. No contest.”

They grin—Miyeon smug, Sana shy—and climb onto the bed. The mattress dips under their weight, the sheets rustling as Sana lies back, stretching out on her back, her head resting on the pillows. Her legs part slightly, not blatant but enough to draw your eye, her body a soft, inviting curve against the dark fabric. Miyeon slides in beside her, propping herself up on one elbow, her naked body pressed close to Sana’s—her hand rests on Sana’s stomach, casual but possessive, her fingers splaying out like she’s staking a claim.

The rain’s still hammering outside, a dull roar that only amps up the tension in here. You’re sitting at the foot of the bed, cock still hard and slick from their mouths, and the way they’re looking at you—Sana’s nervous excitement, Miyeon’s hungry confidence—it’s like they’re pulling you in without even moving.

You’re kneeling between Sana’s legs now, her thighs soft and trembling under your hands, her skin flushed pink from the booze and the buildup. She’s sprawled out beneath you, her chest rising and falling fast, her eyes locked on yours—wide, nervous, but burning with want.

You pause, reality cutting through the haze for a second, and clear your throat. “Uh, shit—girls, I don’t have a condom,” you say, voice rough, a little sheepish. “Wasn’t exactly planning on… this when I booked the lake house.”

Miyeon smirks, unfazed, her fingers tracing lazy circles on Sana’s skin. “It’s fine,” she says, her tone smooth, deliberate. “She needs to feel you—like, really feel you. No rubber bullshit. Right, babe?” She glances at Sana, squeezing her breast gently, her thumb brushing over a nipple that’s already pebbled and sensitive.

Sana bites her lip, her breath hitching, but she nods—small at first, then firmer. “Yeah… I want that,” she whispers, her voice shaky but sure, her eyes flicking down to where your cock’s resting against her thigh, hard and leaking. “I’ve never… you know. I wanna know what it’s like.”

You swallow hard, the weight of it hitting you—Sana’s first time with a guy, and it’s you, bare, with Miyeon watching, guiding. It’s a fucking rush, equal parts thrilling and insane. “Alright,” you say, voice low, steadying yourself. “I’ll go slow. Promise.”

Miyeon leans in, her lips brushing Sana’s in a kiss that’s soft but deep, all tongue and tenderness, her hand kneading Sana’s breast harder now, rolling the nipple between her fingers. Sana moans into it, her body arching slightly, and you take that as your cue. You shift, lining yourself up, the tip of your cock brushing her entrance—she’s soaked, slick from everything before, her folds glistening in the dim light. You press forward just enough to part her, the head nudging inside, and Sana gasps, her mouth breaking away from Miyeon’s, her hands clutching the sheets.

“Fuck,” she breathes, her eyes squeezing shut for a second, then fluttering open to look at you. It’s tight—hot, wet and tight as hell—and you freeze, letting her adjust, feeling her walls clench around you like they’re figuring you out.

“Slow,” Miyeon murmurs, her voice a soft command, her eyes flicking to yours. “Don’t hurt her, okay? She’s my girl.” There’s that edge of possession in her tone, but it’s laced with something romantic, something deep—she’s sharing Sana with you, but it’s all love, all care, and it’s fucking hot how she balances both.

“I got her,” you say, your hands sliding to Sana’s hips, gripping her gently, keeping her steady. “You good?” you ask, checking in, your voice tight with how bad you want to move.

Sana nods, her lips parting. “Yeah… keep going.”

You ease in, slow as fuck, inch by inch, watching her face—her brows furrow a little, her mouth opens wider, and then she sighs, a long, shaky sound that’s pure relief mixed with want. She’s so tight it’s unreal, her heat wrapping you, pulling you in, and you’re halfway there when she tenses, her thighs squeezing your hips. You stop, breathing hard, your fingers digging into her skin just enough to hold her still.

“Tell me when,” you say, your control hanging by a thread, the way Miyeon’s watching you both—eyes dark, lips wet—only making it worse.

Sana exhales, nodding again. “Now… more.”

You push deeper, careful but steady, until you’re all the way in, buried to the hilt, her walls fluttering around you like a fucking heartbeat. She’s full of you now, and you can feel it—every twitch, every pulse—and it’s driving you nuts. Sana’s head tips back, a low moan slipping out, and Miyeon’s right there, kissing her neck, whispering something soft you can’t catch, her hand still working Sana’s breast like she’s coaxing her through it.

“Goddamn,” you mutter, your voice breaking, because this—Miyeon giving her girl to you, Sana taking you raw, the love and the lust all twisted up—is some next-level shit. “You feel… fuck, unreal.”

Miyeon smirks at you, her hand sliding down Sana’s stomach now, teasing just above where you’re connected. “She’s perfect, right?” she says, then leans into Sana’s ear. “You like him inside you, babe?”

Sana whimpers, nodding fast. “Yeah… so much,” she breathes, her hips shifting like she’s testing the feel of you, and that’s all it takes—you start moving, slow pulls back, gentle thrusts in, letting her get used to it. Her moans are quiet at first, little gasps and sighs, but they build fast, her body responding, her legs spreading wider.

Miyeon’s eyes are on you now, hot and approving. “Faster,” she says, her voice cutting through the haze. “She can take it. Give it to her harder.”

You hesitate for a second, checking Sana’s face—she’s nodding, her hands reaching for your arms, pulling you closer—so you pick up the pace, thrusting deeper, the bed creaking under you. Sana’s moans turn sharp, her nails digging into your forearms, and Miyeon’s right there, kissing her through it, her hand slipping between Sana’s legs, fingers brushing her clit to push her higher.

“Fuck, yes,” Sana gasps, her voice trembling, her walls clenching tighter around you with every stroke. “Don’t stop.”

You don’t—can’t—your hips snapping harder now, the wet sound of skin on skin mixing with the rain outside, filthy and raw. Miyeon’s watching you like you’re putting on a show just for her, her lips parted, her breathing ragged, and it’s that—her gaze, Sana’s tight heat, the whole damn scene—that’s got you teetering on the edge already, every thrust pulling you deeper into the madness of it.

You’re buried deep in Sana, your hips driving into her with a steady, hard rhythm that’s got the headboard tapping the wall like a metronome. Her moans are loud now—sharp, desperate little cries that fill the room, her thin frame trembling beneath you. She’s so tight it’s unreal, her walls gripping you like a vise, slick and hot, pulling you in deeper with every thrust. You’ve got her legs spread wide, one hand hooked under her knee, holding her open, the other braced on the mattress as you lean into her.

Miyeon’s right there beside her, naked and sprawled out, her hand slipping between her own thighs. She’s touching herself, slow at first, her fingers circling her clit as she watches you fuck her girlfriend. Her eyes are half-lidded, lips parted, her breathing ragged—she’s so turned on it’s obscene, and she doesn’t hold back with the dirty talk. “Fuck, babe,” she says, her voice husky, glancing at Sana. “Is his cock better than my strap? Tell me.”

Sana’s head jerks back, a loud moan ripping from her throat as you hit a deep spot. “Yes—fuck, yes,” she gasps, her nails clawing at your arms, leaving little crescent marks. “So much better… it’s so fucking good.”

That’s like rocket fuel to you. You grin, sweat beading down your forehead, and double down, your thrusts picking up speed, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing in the room. Miyeon’s fingers move faster too, her other hand gripping the sheets as she watches, her pride flaring up. “Hear that?” she says, locking eyes with you, her voice dripping with heat. “You loving this? Fucking my girl senseless?”

“Shit, yeah,” you groan, your breath ragged, your cock throbbing inside Sana’s tight heat. “She’s so fucking tight, Miyeon. Like—Jesus, I can barely think straight.”

Miyeon smirks, smug and horny all at once, her fingers plunging into herself now, matching your pace. “Proud of her,” she purrs, her gaze flicking between your face and where you’re disappearing into Sana. “Bet you’d kill to feel that pussy all the time, huh? So hot, so tight, those sweet little moans—she’s a goddamn dream, right?”

You can’t even form words, just a low, needy moan that’s half-agreement, half-losing-your-shit. Sana’s whimpering now, her body rocking with every thrust, her skinny frame so delicate you can see the faint bulge of your cock stretching her out, pressing against her flat stomach. Miyeon’s mesmerized by it, her eyes glued to the sight, her own moans mixing with Sana’s as she fucks herself harder.

“Ruin her,” Miyeon says suddenly, her voice sharp, commanding, her fingers slick and fast. “Fucking pound that tight little pussy. She can take it.”

You go all out, pounding into Sana now, her skinny frame jolting beneath you with every thrust, her legs splayed wide—knees hooked over your arms, her pussy open and vulnerable, taking you deep. She’s a mess, her brown hair plastered to her forehead with sweat, her cheeks flushed a wild, desperate pink. Her moans are loud, unrestrained, spilling out in sharp bursts that cut through the steady slap of your hips against hers. You’ve got her pinned, driving hard, her tight little pussy gripping you like it’s trying to strangle your cock—hot, wet, and pulsing with every slam, and her walls are clenching tighter now, her breath hitching, and you can feel it—she’s teetering right on the edge, her body trembling like a live wire about to snap.

“Fuck—fuck, your cock,” Sana gasps, her voice breaking into a raw, filthy moan, her hands clawing at the sheets, ripping at them like she’s losing her goddamn mind. “It’s so fucking good—shit, I love it, I love your cock so much!” Her hips buck up to meet you, sloppy and wild, chasing the friction, her pussy soaking you, dripping down your thighs. She’s unhinged, her words tumbling out fast and dirty, no filter, just pure need. “Harder—fuck me harder, don’t stop, I need it, I fucking need it!”

You growl, the sound ripping from your chest, and give her what she wants—slamming into her with everything you’ve got, your cock stretching her out, hitting that deep, sweet spot that makes her scream. Her whole body locks up, her skinny frame arching off the bed, her tits bouncing with every brutal thrust. “Like that?” you snarl, gripping her hips so hard your fingers leave red marks, pulling her back onto you. “Fucking take it—cum all over this dick, Sana.”

Miyeon’s moaning now, her fingers plunging into her own pussy, her other hand tweaking her nipple as she watches, her voice a low, horny rasp. “Goddamn, babe—look at you,” she says, her eyes glued to where your cock’s disappearing into Sana’s dripping cunt. “You’re losing it—fucking love that cock, don’t you? So hot, so fucking slutty like this.” She’s panting, her thighs trembling as she fucks herself faster, turned on beyond reason by Sana’s unraveling. “Cum for him—fucking soak that dick, I wanna see it.”

Sana’s eyes roll back, her mouth open in a silent scream that turns into a loud, broken wail as the orgasm hits her like a goddamn freight train. “Fuck—oh fuck, I’m cumming!” she cries, her voice shattering, her pussy clamping down so hard around you it’s almost painful—spasming wildly, gushing wet heat that slicks your cock, her thighs, the sheets. She’s thrashing now, completely out of control, her skinny body jerking like she’s possessed, her hands flying to your arms, nails digging in deep enough to draw blood. “Your cock—shit, I love it, it’s so big, so fucking deep—don’t stop, don’t fucking stop!”

You don’t—can’t—your hips slamming into her harder, faster, riding her through it as her pussy milks you, her cum dripping down your balls, pooling under her ass. She’s screaming, incoherent now—just raw, animal sounds, her head thrashing side to side, her hair sticking to her face. “Yes—fuck yes, keep fucking me—love it, love your cock—fuck!” Her voice is a mess, slurring into sobs, her body shaking uncontrollably, her orgasm stretching out, relentless, like it’s tearing her apart.

Miyeon’s losing her mind watching it, her hand a blur between her legs, her moans turning sharp and desperate. “Holy shit—look at her,” she gasps, her voice thick with lust, her pussy dripping onto the sheets as she rubs herself raw. “She’s cumming so fucking hard—so goddamn sexy, babe, you’re a fucking mess on that dick.” She’s panting, her eyes flicking between Sana’s wrecked face and the bulge of your cock stretching her girlfriend’s flat stomach with every thrust. “Keep going—fuck her stupid, she loves it, look at her fucking cum!”

Sana’s still going, her pussy pulsing like a heartbeat, her moans turning into whimpers as the pleasure overloads her—sensitive, raw, but she’s still pushing back against you, greedy for more. “Please—shit, please, keep fucking me,” she begs, her voice hoarse, trembling, her hands reaching for you like she’s drowning. “Your cock’s so good—so fucking good—I can’t stop cumming!”

You growl again, leaning over her, your chest heaving as you keep up the pace, your cock throbbing inside her, the wet, filthy sound of her pussy taking you over and over driving you wild. “You’re a fucking addict,” you mutter, your voice rough, dripping with heat. “Love this dick so much—cum again, Sana, let me feel that tight little pussy lose it.”

Miyeon’s moaning louder now, her fingers plunging deep, her hips bucking against her own hand. “She’s so fucking hot,” she says, her voice cracking, her eyes wide and wild. “Look at her—cumming like a slut on your cock. Fuck, I’m gonna cum just watching this—keep fucking her, make her scream!”

Sana’s beyond words now—just gasps and cries, her body convulsing, her pussy still spasming around you as the orgasm drags on, relentless, her cum soaking everything—your cock, your hips, the bed. She’s shaking so hard her thighs are quivering, her breath coming in short, ragged bursts, her eyes squeezed shut as she rides the last waves. “Fuck—fuck, I love it,” she whimpers, her voice barely audible, wrecked and raw. “Your cock—shit, it’s everything.”

You slow down, just enough to let her breathe, but you’re still buried deep, her pussy twitching around you, sensitive as hell. Miyeon’s panting, her hand slowing as she watches Sana come down, her own chest heaving. “Jesus Christ,” she mutters, licking her lips, her fingers still slick with her own arousal. “That was fucking insane—she’s never cum like that. You’re a goddamn beast.”

Sana’s eyes flutter open, glassy and dazed, a weak smile tugging at her lips as she looks up at you. “Fuck… that was…” She can’t finish, just shakes her head, her breath still shaky, her body limp beneath you. You pull out slow, your cock slick with her, and she whimpers at the loss, her pussy glistening, fucked-out and dripping with her cum. Miyeon’s still staring, horny and proud, her girlfriend a beautiful, shattered mess—and it’s all because of you.

Then, before you can react, Miyeon’s on you in a heartbeat, her hand wrapping around your shaft, stroking it as she leans in close. “Messy boy,” she teases, then lowers her mouth, licking you clean—long, slow swipes of her tongue that taste Sana all over you. She sucks the tip for a second, pulling a groan from your throat, before pulling back with a wet pop, her lips shiny.

You reach over, giving Miyeon’s ass a firm squeeze—round, perfect, begging for attention. “Your turn now,” you say, voice rough, still riding the high of fucking Sana senseless.

Miyeon grins, wicked and eager, and pushes you back onto the bed with a shove to your chest. You hit the mattress flat on your back, the sheets cool against your skin, your cock standing up hard and ready. “Lie down for me,” she says, climbing over you, her knees straddling your hips. She’s all curves and heat, her pussy already glistening as she hovers above you. Then she turns to Sana, who’s still catching her breath, propped up on her elbows. “Sit on his face, babe,” Miyeon says, her tone playful but firm. “He needs to taste you too—it’s fucking addictive.”

Sana hesitates for a second, still dazed, but the idea lights something in her eyes. She crawls up the bed, her slim frame moving slow, deliberate, until she’s kneeling over your head. You look up, and it’s a goddamn sight—her pussy right there, pink and wet from her orgasm, her thighs trembling just slightly as she lowers herself. “You sure?” she murmurs, glancing down at you, her voice soft but thick with want.

“Fuck yes,” you say, grabbing her hips and pulling her down. Her scent hits you first—sweet, musky, heady as hell—and then she’s on you, her folds slick against your lips. You groan into her, your tongue flicking out, tasting her—salty and tangy and so fucking good. She gasps, her hands bracing against the headboard, her body rocking slightly as you lick into her, slow and deep, savoring every inch.

Miyeon’s not waiting around. She lines herself up over your cock, her hands on your chest for balance, and sinks down—slow at first, just the tip, her pussy hot and tight around you. “Oh, fuck,” she moans, her head tipping back, her hair spilling over her shoulders as she takes you deeper, inch by inch. She’s thicker than Sana, her walls plush and soaking, and when she’s fully seated, her ass flush against your thighs, you’re gone—lost in the dual sensation of Miyeon riding you and Sana on your face.

“God, you’re big,” Miyeon says, her voice breathy, her hips rolling once, testing the stretch. “Feels so fucking good.”

Sana’s whimpering above you, her thighs clenching around your head as you suck on her clit, your tongue circling, then plunging inside her again. “Don’t stop,” she breathes, her voice trembling. “Please, don’t fucking stop.”

Miyeon starts moving, her hips lifting and dropping, slow at first, then faster, her hands digging into your chest. “Look at her,” she pants, glancing up at Sana. “She’s losing her mind up there. You like his tongue, babe?”

“Fuck—yes,” Sana chokes out, her hips grinding down now, smearing her wetness across your face. “So good… didn’t know it’d be this good.”

You groan into Sana, the vibration making her buck, and Miyeon laughs, low and dirty. “I knew,” she says, picking up the pace, her pussy slamming down on you harder now, wet and messy. “He’s a fucking natural.”

The room’s a mix of filth—Sana’s moans, Miyeon’s gasps, the slick sounds of skin and sex, all layered over the rain’s dull roar. You’re drowning in it—Sana’s taste flooding your mouth, Miyeon’s tight heat swallowing your cock, the insane push-pull of giving and taking. Your hands grip Sana’s hips harder, guiding her as you eat her out, your tongue relentless, and Miyeon’s riding you like she owns you, her nails leaving red trails on your skin.

“Fuck—don’t stop,” she gasps, then she shifts her gaze, looking up at Miyeon, and her voice turns filthy, wilder than you’ve heard all night. “God, babe, you look so fucking hot riding his cock like that. Bouncing on him—shit, it’s driving me crazy.”

Miyeon groans, her pace faltering for a second as Sana’s words hit her like a spark. She glances down, her dark hair swinging over her face, her lips curling into a horny smirk. “Yeah? You’re so fucking sexy like this, Sana—spread out, moaning on his face. Never seen you this slutty before.” Her hands slide up her own body, squeezing her tits through the motion, her nipples hard and poking against her palms.

Sana whimpers, her hips bucking against your mouth, and fires back, “You’re one to talk—look at you, fucking him like a pro. So hot, babe. Love watching you take that dick.”

The dirty talk’s like gasoline on a fire—Miyeon’s pussy clenches tighter around you, her thrusts turning sharper, more desperate, and you groan into Sana, the vibration making her jolt. “Keep sucking her,” Miyeon says, her voice rough, commanding, her eyes locked on yours through the haze. “Make her cum again. I wanna see her lose it.”

Sana’s already sensitive as hell—her last orgasm left her shaky, her clit throbbing under your tongue—but you don’t let up. You flatten your tongue against her, dragging it up slow, then circling fast, sucking hard enough to make her cry out. “Fuck—too much,” she whines, but her hips keep grinding, chasing it anyway, her body begging for more. You’re so caught up in it—Sana’s wet heat on your face, Miyeon’s tight grip riding you—that your own control’s slipping, your cock pulsing hard inside her with every filthy word they trade.

“Goddamn, you’re gonna make me cum just talking like that,” Miyeon moans, her hands gripping your thighs now, slamming down harder, her ass jiggling with every impact, her pussy’s dripping, soaking your hips. “Keep going, babe,” she tells Sana, her voice dripping with lust. “Tell me how much you love this.”

Sana’s panting, her words slurring into gasps as you push her closer. “Love it—fuck, love watching you ride him. So good… so fucking good,” she manages, her voice breaking as you suck her clit between your lips, flicking your tongue over it fast and relentless. Her thighs clamp around your head, her moans turning into sharp little screams, and you can feel it—she’s right there.

“Cum on his face,” Miyeon growls, her hips snapping down harder, her own breath hitching as she watches Sana unravel. “Fucking soak him.”

Sana loses it—her second orgasm crashes through her, her body seizing up as she cries out, high and raw. You keep your mouth on her, licking her through it, and then she’s shaking, her pussy pulsing hard against your tongue. She shifts, desperate now, and rubs herself over your face, her hand flying between her legs to work her clit faster. Then—holy shit—she squirts, little bursts of wet heat splashing across your chest, your neck, dripping down your jaw. It’s messy, wild, and you lap up what you can, groaning into her as she collapses forward, gasping for air.

“Holy fuck,” Miyeon says, slowing her ride for a second to watch, her eyes wide, her pussy clenching around you like she’s about to blow too. “That was insane. Now I need a taste.” She slides off you, your cock springing free, slick and throbbing, and you’re still catching your breath as she takes charge.

“69,” Miyeon says, decisive, pointing at the bed. “Sana, lie down—head at the edge. Let’s switch this up.”

Sana’s still dazed, her legs wobbly, but she does it—crawling onto the bed, stretching out on her back, her head hanging just off the mattress’ edge, her brown hair spilling down like a curtain. She’s panting, her skin glistening with sweat, her pussy still twitching from her release. Miyeon climbs over her, positioning herself on all fours—her knees bracketing Sana’s head, her ass sticking out toward you, round and perfect, her own pussy glistening and begging for attention.

You’re off the bed now, standing at the edge, your cock hard and slick with both of them, the room spinning with how fucking intense this is. Miyeon looks back at you over her shoulder, her eyes dark and commanding. “Fuck me,” she says, simple and raw, wiggling her ass just enough to make it clear what she wants. “And Sana’s gonna eat me out while you do it.”

Sana’s hands reach up, grabbing Miyeon’s thighs, pulling her down closer to her mouth, and you can hear the soft, wet sound of her tongue already working—Miyeon moans instantly, her body arching. You step up, gripping Miyeon’s hips, your cock brushing against her entrance, and the scene in front of you—Sana’s face buried between Miyeon’s legs, Miyeon’s ass up and waiting—is so filthy, so perfect, you can barely process it. The rain’s a distant hum, the world narrowed down to this bed, these girls, this moment.

And before you know it, you're already inside her

Your hands grab Miyeon’s cheeks, spreading them wide as you watch your cock slide in and out of her—glistening, thick, stretching her tight little hole with every thrust. Her pussy’s hypnotic, a vise of heat and wet that sucks you in deeper each time, her walls pulsing like they’re trying to milk you dry. She’s on all fours over Sana, her knees sinking into the mattress, her ass high and perfect, swaying with every pounding you give her.

Below, Sana’s lying flat, her head tilted off the edge, her slim throat exposed as she devours Miyeon’s pussy. Her tongue’s working hard, flicking over Miyeon’s clit, dipping into her folds, and you can hear the sloppy, wet noises—Sana’s eager, relentless, her mouth making these little sucking sounds that drive Miyeon wild. Miyeon’s trying to keep up, her face buried between Sana’s thighs, licking and sucking in return, but it’s a mess—she’s too fucked-out to focus, her moans vibrating against Sana’s skin every time you slam into her. Her dark hair’s plastered to her back with sweat, strands sticking to her neck, and her body’s trembling, caught between the dual assault of your cock and Sana’s tongue.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” you groan, your voice rough, hands digging into Miyeon’s flesh as you pull her back onto you, watching the way her pussy swallows your dick whole. “This shit’s unreal—look at you, taking it like a champ.”

Miyeon lifts her head just enough to gasp, her voice cracking with pleasure. “Goddamn—don’t stop, don’t you fucking dare. It’s too much—shit, I’m so close.” Her words slur together, half-muffled as she dives back into Sana’s pussy, but you can tell she’s struggling to keep it together—her tongue’s sloppy now, her focus shredded by the way you’re railing her.

Sana’s moaning too, her hips twitching up against Miyeon’s mouth, her hands clawing at Miyeon’s thighs to pull her closer. “Fuck, sweetie—your pussy’s so wet,” she whimpers, her voice high and needy, muffled against Miyeon’s clit. “He’s fucking you so good—I can taste it, babe, it’s dripping all over me.”

That sends a jolt through Miyeon—she groans into Sana, her hips bucking back against you harder, like she’s begging for more. “You like that, huh?” you say, smirking, spreading her wider, thrusting deeper until you’re hitting that spot that makes her whole body jolt. “Love hearing your girl talk dirty while I’m balls-deep in you?”

“Fuck—yes,” Miyeon chokes out, her ass jiggling with every slam, her voice shaking as Sana’s tongue flicks faster. “She’s—shit—she’s driving me insane down there. And you… you’re gonna make me fucking cum.”

“Do it,” you growl, your grip tightening, your cock throbbing inside her as the tension builds. “Cum for me, Miyeon. Let me feel that pussy lose it.”

Sana pulls back just enough to gasp, her lips shiny with Miyeon’s juices, her eyes wide and wild. “Please, babe—cum all over his dick. I wanna taste it after, wanna lick it clean.” Her words are pure filth, her voice trembling with how horny she is, and it’s like a switch flips in Miyeon.

“Fuck—okay, I’m—fuck!” Miyeon’s voice cuts off, her body locking up, and you feel it—her pussy clamping down hard around you, spasming wildly as she hits her peak. She’s loud, screaming into Sana’s thighs, her whole frame shaking as the orgasm rips through her. You keep thrusting, riding it out with her, but it’s intense—her walls fluttering, squeezing you so tight it’s almost too much.

You pull out slow, your cock slick and dripping with her, and Miyeon’s still trembling, her ass quivering like she’s not done yet. “Sana—lube him up,” you say, voice hoarse, stepping closer to where Sana’s head hangs off the bed. Sana’s quick—she cranes her neck, her mouth open and eager, and takes you in deep. Her lips wrap around you, soft and warm, her tongue swirling as she sucks you clean, tasting Miyeon all over you. She moans around your cock, her eyes fluttering shut like it’s the best thing she’s ever had, her small hands gripping your thighs to pull you closer.

“Fuck, Sana,” you mutter, your hand tangling in her hair, guiding her as she bobs her head, sloppy and wet. “You’re so good at this—you're loving the taste of her on my cock, huh?”

She pulls off with a gasp, spit trailing from her lips to your tip, nodding fast. “Yeah—fuck, she’s so sweet. I could eat her all day, but this… this is hot as hell.” Her tongue darts out, licking you one more time, and you’re rock-hard, pulsing with need.

“Back in,” Miyeon pants, her voice raw, still on her knees over Sana. “Fuck me again—harder this time. I want it.”

You don’t hesitate. You step back behind her, grabbing her hips, spreading her ass again as you line up and thrust in—one smooth, deep push that has her screaming, her voice echoing off the walls. “Fuck—yes!” she cries, her hands fisting the sheets, her pussy still sensitive but greedy, sucking you in like it can’t get enough. You go hard, pounding into her with a force that makes her whole body shake, her ass bouncing with every brutal thrust.

“Take it—fucking take it,” you growl, slapping her ass sharp, the crack of skin on skin cutting through the room. The sting makes her yelp, her pussy clenching tighter, and you feel the heat building in your gut, the pressure coiling fast. “Cum again, Miyeon—cum for us.”

Sana’s still under her, her tongue working Miyeon’s clit in frantic little circles, and she’s begging now, her voice high and desperate. “Please, babe—cum again. I need it—need to feel you lose it on him. Cum all over that fat dick.”

Miyeon’s a wreck, her head thrashing, her moans turning into sobs as the pleasure overloads her. “Fuck—Sana—you’re—shit, I can’t—” She breaks, her pussy spasming hard around you again, wet and wild, her second orgasm hitting like a storm. She screams, her ass pushing back against you, and it’s too fucking much—her tightness, Sana’s filthy pleas, the whole damn scene.

“Gonna cum,” you moan, your voice breaking, your thrusts turning erratic as the pleasure blinds you. “Fuck—Miyeon, you’re too good—gonna blow.”

Sana’s quick, her head twisting up from under Miyeon. “I want it,” she says, breathless, her eyes glinting with something feral. “Wanna taste your cum—first time, fuck, give it to me.”

Miyeon’s slutty side flares—she’s still shaking, still clenching you, but she grins through it. “Yeah—give it to her,” she pants, her voice thick with lust. “She’s begging so nice, huh? Fucking coat her with it.”

That does it. You’re at the edge, your cock throbbing, and you pull out fast, one hand stroking yourself hard, the other gripping Miyeon’s ass for balance. “Fuck—here it comes,” you groan, aiming the tip at Miyeon’s pussy—still wet, warm, pulsing from her orgasm. You rub it against her entrance, slick, red and swollen from the pounding you gave her, and then you’re there—cumming, thick and hot, spilling over Miyeon’s entrance in heavy ropes—white streaks painting her folds, dripping down her slit, pooling in the creases where her pussy meets her thighs. It’s a fucking load, more than you expected, a messy testament to how long it’s been, and it smears across her skin, glossy and obscene in the dim light.

“Sana, now,” you rasp, voice hoarse, your chest heaving as the last of it drips from your tip. “Taste it.”

Miyeon’s still in position, her ass up, her pussy hovering over Sana’s face—she shifts her hips down closer, eager, her breath hitching with a horny little whimper. “Fuck, babe, go for it,” she urges, her voice thick with lust, her fingers digging into Sana’s thighs to hold her steady. “Lick it up—his cum’s all over me. Tell me how it feels.”

Sana’s beneath her, her slim frame pinned to the bed, her head tilted back off the edge—her brown hair a wild spill, her lips parted and trembling. She’s never done this before, never tasted a guy’s cum, and you can see it in her eyes—nervous excitement, a raw curiosity burning behind the flush on her cheeks. Her tongue darts out first, tentative, a soft little flick against Miyeon’s inner thigh where a bead of your cum’s trickled down. She pauses, tasting it—salty, bitter, warm on her tongue—and her breath catches, a tiny gasp slipping out.

“More,” Miyeon coaxes, lowering herself further, her pussy brushing Sana’s lips now, your cum streaking across her mouth. “Get it all, babe. I want you to feel him.”

Sana dives in, bolder now, her tongue sweeping up Miyeon’s slit in a slow, deliberate stroke—dragging through the sticky mess of your cum, thick and creamy, mixed with Miyeon’s own slickness. She moans, low and shaky, the sound vibrating against Miyeon’s pussy, and it’s like she’s tasting something forbidden—something filthy and new that’s lighting her up inside. Her lips close around Miyeon’s folds, sucking gently, pulling your cum into her mouth, and her eyes flutter shut, lost in it. It’s raw, messy—her chin’s wet with it now, smears of white clinging to her skin, and she’s licking harder, deeper, chasing every drop.

“Fuck, yes,” Miyeon groans, her hips rocking down, grinding herself against Sana’s tongue. She’s horny as hell, her voice dripping with it—proud and turned on, watching her girlfriend taste you off her wrecked cunt. “How is it, babe? How’s his cum taste? Tell me.”

Sana pulls back just enough to speak, her voice muffled, lips glossy and dripping—a mix of your cum and Miyeon’s juices shining on her like some lewd, natural gloss. “It’s—fuck, it’s intense,” she says, her words slurring with arousal, her tongue flicking out again to lap at a thick streak sliding down Miyeon’s slit. “Salty… hot… kinda bitter, but—shit, I love it.” She dives back in, her tongue plunging deeper, scooping up more, her moans louder now, needy and unrestrained. She’s sucking Miyeon clean, her lips smacking softly, wet and sloppy, and it’s the hottest fucking thing you’ve ever seen—Sana’s first taste of cum, and she’s devouring it like it’s her new favorite drug.

Miyeon’s trembling above her, her thighs quaking, her fingers tightening on Sana’s legs as Sana’s tongue works her over. “Goddamn, babe—you’re so fucking dirty,” she pants, her eyes rolling back for a second before snapping to you, wild and gleaming. “Look at her—she’s eating your cum like she’s starving. So fucking hot.” She shifts, pressing her pussy harder against Sana’s mouth, smearing more of the mess across her lips, and Sana takes it—greedy, unashamed, her tongue swirling through it all, swallowing every bit she can get.

Sana’s hands slide up, gripping Miyeon’s ass now, pulling her down tighter, her nails digging into the soft flesh. She’s moaning into Miyeon’s pussy, the sound raw and desperate, muffled by the wet heat she’s buried in. “More,” she mumbles, barely audible, her tongue lashing across Miyeon’s clit where a last streak of your cum lingers—thick and clinging. She sucks it off, slow and deliberate, her lips closing around the sensitive bud, and Miyeon jolts, a sharp cry tearing from her throat.

“Fuck—Sana,” Miyeon gasps, her voice breaking, her body shuddering as Sana’s mouth pushes her toward overstimulation. She’s still horny, still buzzing, but this moment—it’s intimate, just them now, sharing something primal. So she moves, leaving the 69 position to sit facing Sana, because she needs to see her girlfriend's delicate and lovely face covered in pure lust, in pure pleasure, her fingers tangling in Sana’s hair, gentle but firm, holding her there. “How’s it feel? First time tasting him—tell me everything.”

Sana pulls back again, just enough to breathe, her face a wreck—chin dripping, lips swollen and shiny, your cum streaked across her mouth like war paint. She licks her lips slow, deliberate, tasting the last of you, and looks up at Miyeon with this dazed, lust-drunk grin. “It’s—so fucking good,” she whispers, her voice trembling with how much she means it. “Like… I didn’t know it’d be this thick, this warm. It’s—fuck, it’s everywhere, and I can’t stop wanting it.” She leans in, pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss to Miyeon’s pussy, her tongue darting out one last time to swipe through the mess—your cum, her spit, Miyeon’s slick—all blending together in a filthy, perfect mix.

Miyeon moans, soft and low, her body relaxing into it now, her horny edge softening into something tender. “You’re so fucking cute,” she murmurs, her hand stroking Sana’s hair, her thumb brushing her cheek where a smear of cum still clings. “My dirty girl—loving it, huh?”

Sana nods, her eyes bright, a little shy now but glowing with satisfaction. She crawls up slow, sliding off the bed to sit up, her lips still wet and glistening—your cum and Miyeon’s juices a slick sheen across her mouth and chin. Miyeon follows, shifting to kneel in front of her, their bodies close, intimate. She cups Sana’s face, her thumbs tracing the edges of her lips, smearing the mess a little more, and leans in—kissing her deep, slow, tasting you on her tongue. It’s raw, possessive, but soft too—their mouths moving together, sharing the aftermath, a quiet hum of pleasure passing between them.

You’re slumped beside them, chest still heaving, your cock twitching with the last echoes of your orgasm as you watch—mesmerized, spent, but still buzzing from the sight. Miyeon pulls back from the kiss, a thin string of spit and cum connecting their lips for a second before it snaps, and she licks it away, grinning. “Good, right?” she whispers, her eyes flicking to Sana’s.

“So good,” Sana breathes, her smile small but real, her first taste of you lingering on her tongue—intense, erotic, a memory she’s already savoring. They lean into each other again, foreheads touching, giggling softly in the afterglow.

“Glad you liked it,” you say, voice rough, still catching your breath. “Shit, that was intense.”

Miyeon turns to you, her hand resting on your thigh, casual but warm. “You liked it too, huh? We can do this again—anytime you’re up for it. You’re, like… officially our guy now.”

Sana giggles, leaning in to kiss your cheek, her lips soft and sticky. “Yeah, you’re stuck with us. Such a good friend—taking care of me like that.”

Miyeon follows, pressing a kiss to your other cheek, her touch lingering. “Thanks, dude. For real—for being so cool with Sana. Means a lot.”

You laugh, the sound tired but content, your hand running through your hair. “Anytime. Fucking honor, honestly.”

Miyeon stretches out, her body glistening with sweat, and yawns. “Okay, post-sex vibe check—we’re done fucking, right? Let’s crash here, all of us. Naked, cozy, whatever.”

“Works for me,” you say, settling back against the pillows, the mattress dipping as Sana curls up on one side, Miyeon on the other. Their skin’s warm against yours, their breaths slowing, and the rain outside lulls the room into a quiet, sated haze. You’re all wrecked, tangled, and happy as hell—ready to sleep it off, together.

—

The morning sun filters through the blinds, casting soft, golden stripes across the tangled mess of sheets and limbs on the bed. You wake up slow, your body heavy and warm, sandwiched between two soft, naked forms—Miyeon on your left, her arm draped lazily over your chest, her breath warm against your neck; Sana on your right, her legs tangled with yours, her head nestled into your shoulder. It’s a surreal fucking moment, the kind that makes you blink and wonder if last night was a dream. But the ache in your muscles, the faint sting of scratch marks on your arms, and the raw, vivid memory of their moans tell you it was real—insanely, mind-blowingly real. You shift slightly, trying to stretch without waking them, but your morning wood’s already making itself known, tenting the sheet that’s barely clinging to your hips. Damn, even after all that, your body’s still ready to go.

Miyeon stirs first, her eyes fluttering open, still heavy with sleep, a lazy smile tugging at her lips as she spots your hard-on. “Well, good morning to you too,” she mumbles, her voice low and raspy, thick with that post-sleep huskiness that’s sexy as hell. Her hand slides down your chest, slow and teasing, fingers brushing over your stomach before wrapping around your cock. She strokes you lightly, still half-asleep, her grip loose but deliberate, like she’s just playing with you for now. “Guess you’re not tapped out yet, huh?”

You groan softly, the touch sending a jolt through you, and turn your head to see Sana blinking awake too, her brown hair a messy halo around her face. She yawns, stretching her arms above her head, her small tits peeking out from under the sheet, then glances down at Miyeon’s hand on you. A sleepy grin spreads across her face. “Seriously? Already?” she says, her voice soft but amused, scooting closer to join in. Her hand slides under the sheet too, her fingers brushing against Miyeon’s as they both stroke you now—Sana’s touch gentler, curious, Miyeon’s firmer, knowing exactly what she’s doing. “You’re insatiable, you know that?”

“Blame you two,” you mutter, your voice rough, still waking up, your hips twitching involuntarily as their hands work you over. “Fucking waking up like this—who wouldn’t be hard?”

Sana giggles, her fingers tightening slightly, her thumb brushing over the tip where you’re already leaking a little. “Fair point,” she says, then sits up, the sheet falling away completely, leaving her bare and glowing in the morning light. “Come on—let’s take care of that in the shower. You, me, and Miyeon. Sound good?”

Miyeon’s already rolling out of bed, her round ass bouncing as she stands, stretching with a groan that’s half-tired, half-horny. “Hell yeah,” she says, tossing her hair back, her eyes flicking to you with a smirk. “Let’s clean up—and get dirty again.”

You don’t need convincing. The three of you stumble to the bathroom, naked and laughing, the hardwood cold under your feet. The shower’s big enough for all of you—glass walls, a rainfall head that pours hot water the second you turn it on. Steam starts fogging up the space as you step in, Miyeon right behind you, Sana trailing with a shy grin. The water hits your skin, hot and perfect, and Miyeon’s already pressing herself against your back, her tits soft and slick against you, her hands sliding around to your cock again. “Turn around,” she murmurs, her lips brushing your ear, and you do, pinning her against the tiles, the water streaming down her face as you kiss her hard, all tongue and heat.

Sana’s watching, her fingers trailing down her own stomach as she steps closer, the water soaking her hair, making it stick to her shoulders. “Fuck her first,” she says, her voice low, a little daring, her eyes locked on where Miyeon’s hand is guiding you between her legs. You don’t hesitate—lifting Miyeon’s thigh, hooking it over your hip, and sliding into her in one smooth thrust. She’s still tight, still wet from last night, and she moans loud, her head tipping back against the glass, the sound echoing in the steam.

“Goddamn, you feel so good,” you groan, thrusting slow at first, watching the way her pussy takes you, the water making everything slicker, louder. Miyeon’s hands grip your shoulders, her nails biting in, and she’s grinning through the pleasure, loving it.

Sana steps in closer, her fingers brushing Miyeon’s clit as you fuck her, making Miyeon gasp sharper. “Your turn next,” you say, glancing at Sana, and she nods, biting her lip, her hand slipping lower to touch herself as she waits. You pull out of Miyeon after a few more thrusts, spinning Sana around, bending her over so her hands brace against the wall, her ass up and perfect. You slide into her from behind, her pussy tight and dripping, and she whimpers, the sound soft but needy as you start pounding into her, the water splashing around you both.

“Fuck—yes,” Sana moans, her voice shaking, her skinny frame rocking with every thrust, her head bowing as the pleasure hits. Miyeon’s right there, kissing her neck, her hands roaming over Sana’s wet skin, squeezing her tits, making it a messy, horny tangle of bodies under the spray. You fuck Sana hard, then switch back to Miyeon, trading off until you’re all panting, the shower a blur of steam, moans, and slick, wet skin. You finish fast—pulling out, stroking yourself as they kneel under the water, mouths open, catching every drop as you cum, their tongues flicking out to taste you, giggling through it like it’s a game.

After, you’re all dripping and laughing, toweling off in a haze of post-sex glow, the bathroom mirror fogged to hell. Sana’s the first out, wrapping a towel around herself and heading to the kitchen. “I’ll make breakfast,” she calls over her shoulder, her voice chipper despite the wild morning. You and Miyeon follow slower, still naked, flopping onto the couch to catch your breath, her head lolling against your shoulder.

The smell of coffee and bacon fills the house soon, and when Sana calls you over, you find her in full domestic mode—hair tied back, still in just a towel, flipping pancakes like she’s auditioning for a cooking show. She’s good, too—golden, fluffy stacks piling up on a plate, bacon sizzling crisp on the side, scrambled eggs fluffy and perfect. You all sit around the small kitchen table, naked under loosely draped towels, digging in like it’s the most normal thing in the world. The pancakes are sweet, dripping with syrup, the bacon’s salty crunch a perfect balance, and the coffee’s strong, cutting through the morning fog. It’s quiet for a bit, just the clink of forks and the occasional hum of satisfaction, everyone still waking up, still processing the insanity of last night and this morning.

Miyeon’s the one to break the silence, grabbing her phone from the counter mid-bite, syrup glistening on her lips. “Oh, shit,” she says, scrolling quick, her eyes lighting up. “Road’s fixed—traffic’s moving again. Guess the landslide’s cleared.”

You take a sip of coffee, the mug warm in your hands, and nod, glancing between them. “Guess that’s my cue, huh? It was a pleasure meeting you girls. Really.”

They both freeze, forks halfway to their mouths, then look at each other—Sana’s brows shoot up, Miyeon’s lips twitch—and they burst out laughing, loud and sudden, like you’ve just said the dumbest thing imaginable. “What?” you say, caught off guard, setting the mug down. “What’s so funny?”

Miyeon leans forward, still chuckling, wiping a tear from her eye. “Dude, no way. After last night? And this morning? We’re not going anywhere.”

Sana nods, her grin wide and bright, pushing a piece of bacon around her plate. “Yeah, like—we had so much fun. Leaving now would be stupid. We wanna stay the week with you.”

You blink, stunned, the words sinking in slow. “Wait—for real? The whole week?”

“Uh-huh,” Miyeon says, leaning back in her chair, stretching so the towel slips a little, showing off the curve of her chest. “This place just got a million times better with you here. You’re a fucking gem, dude—we’re not letting that go.”

Sana’s still smiling, softer now, her eyes warm as she looks at you. “It’s already special, you know? Memorable as hell. And it’s only been, what, a day? Imagine the rest of the week.”

You laugh, shaking your head, still processing. “Shit, I mean—I’d love that. Didn’t expect you’d wanna stick around, but hell yeah, I’m in.”

“Good,” Miyeon says, pointing her fork at you, a smirk tugging at her lips. “You’re a great find—fun, chill, and you fuck like a goddamn champ. We like having you as a friend.”

Sana nods, popping a piece of pancake in her mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “Yeah, you’re open-minded—know how to roll with it, enjoy shit without being a dick about it. And you’re respectful, which is huge. I mean, last night was wild, and you never made it weird.”

You grin, leaning back, the warmth of the coffee and their words settling in your chest. “You two are fucking unreal—the coolest couple I’ve ever met, hands down. I’m stoked you crashed into my trip like this.”

Miyeon laughs, finishing her bacon with a satisfied crunch. “Settled then—no one’s leaving. This lake house just became our little sex-and-breakfast paradise, and you’re stuck with us.”

“Couldn’t ask for better company,” you say, raising your mug in a mock toast, and they clink their coffee cups against it, laughing through the syrup-sticky mess. The road’s open, sure, but fuck going anywhere—this week’s already gold, and it’s only just started.

[himbodruid]

Primal Pull

Rafayel x Reader

CW: Rafayel in rut, breeding kink, Lemurian knot, i’m purposefully embarrassing Thomas again

INTENDED FOR 18+ READERS. MINORS DNI.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:𓇼⋆.ೃ࿔*:⋆ ೃ࿔*:𓇼⋆.ೃ࿔*:⋆

Something was off. You couldn’t tell what it was, but there was something in the way that adrenaline seemed to course through you without reason, coiling tight around your chest. It was like your nervous system was certain it was being hunted for sport, except with undertones of…something that you couldn’t really pinpoint.

You took the day off as a result. Focusing on work would be impossible with the amount of distraction thrumming through you. A shiver wracked you suddenly and aggressively, and you had a passing thought that maybe you were getting sick. You cocooned yourself in your blankets, curling back in bed. It wasn’t until early evening that you fully roused yourself.

With an over exaggerated groan, you rolled over in bed and retrieved your phone. Lighting up the screen, you saw missed calls from Thomas. Listening to the series of voicemails he left, a smile alighted on your face. Something about Rafayel being a moody booty, and Thomas asking you to go to his house and deal with him so that their deadline wouldn’t be missed. The way Thomas always seemed to rely on you to make Rafayel be cooperative made you laugh. It’d basically become a game to you. Even better was the fact that you could always seem to bully Rafayel into doing what needed to be done.

With an amused huff, you dragged yourself out of bed and readied yourself. Showered and dressed, you felt better than when you first woke up, but there was still a hint of something unsettled in you. The cute new dress you wore was one you’ve wanted to wear for a while, but the weather never permitted. It was still cloudy, but the persistent rain finally ceased the night before. It was just too bad the skirt was too short to ride your motorcycle to Rafayel’s villa. Ah, well. You win some, you lose some.

The closer you got to the villa, the more it felt like something was pulling you to him. It wasn’t painful, actually the opposite. Like the distance allowed for slack in the tether, easing the tension in the rope and uncoiling it from your chest. When you reached his doorstep, you felt like you were finally able to breathe easier, and the relief was a curious sensation.

The door was unlocked, which suggested to you that Rafayel was home. However, when you entered his home and called out for him, he didn’t respond. Concern knit your brow as you pressed further into the house.

You found him easily, sitting on the couch in his studio. Sitting was a loose definition, as really he was slumped and leaning heavily into the back of the couch, an arm draped over his face where his head rested on the back of the couch. Your heart lurched painfully at the thought that he might be hurt, so you rushed forward.

“Rafayel?” You question, removing his arm from across his face, which was flushed deeply. He kept his eyes closed, scrunching up his face at the intrusion of moonlight splashing across his face. You reached out to cup his cheek, attempting to rouse him further, and noticed that his scales stood out against his skin. Heat radiated from him, as though he had a fever, and you relaxed ever so slightly. Not an injury, thankfully, but this situation felt awfully familiar.

“Cutie,” he groaned pitifully, turning his face to nuzzle into your hand. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Nonsense, you should have someone taking care of you when you’re sick,” you say, trying to gauge his temperature with your hand. He made it difficult when his face kept chasing your touch. Then he grabbed your wrist, bringing your hand back down to cup his cheek. He inhaled deeply at your wrist, and you were reminded of a night long since past. A night where he went insane over a silly perfume. Well, you definitely weren’t wearing that perfume at this moment, yet his reaction was nearly identical.

“You should leave,” he urged, his lips brushing your wrist in a feather-light touch. “While I’m still in the right frame of mind to let you go.”

“Don’t be dumb, I’m not gonna leave you like this,” you say, pinching his cheek gently. He attempted to pout, but it fell flat and he dropped his head against the back of the sofa with a breathy groan.

“You don’t understand,” he whined. You waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t. So you settled onto the couch beside him, knee knocking against his thigh.

“Okay? So, help me understand,” you press. And then a thought comes to you, your eyes following the glimmering trail of scales on his neck and dusting his cheeks. No wonder you thought it felt familiar. “Wait, is it Ebb Day again, already?”

“I wish it was that simple,” he mumbled. “That I can at least sleep through. This is way more embarrassing.”

“There’s nothing embarrassing about being sick,” you say, nudging his shoulder. He inhaled sharply when your hand made contact with his skin. And it was no wonder; it felt like an electric current coursed through you from every contact point you had with him.

He turned his head away from you, mumbling something you couldn’t quite hear. The only part you could make out was “I’m not sick”, so you poked at him until he repeated it louder. You weren’t sure how it was possible, but it seemed as though his face was somehow even more red.

“I’m going through a rut, and I’ve never experienced it before,” he grumbled.

“Oh, that’s not so bad, then. Everyone gets stuck in a rut every now and then,” you say, stroking his arm in what you hoped was a reassuring way.

Rafayel barked a laugh, the sudden sound at odds with the quiet ambiance of the room. A kind of laugh you’d never heard from him before. He rolled his face back to you, the mirth sparkling in those oceanic eyes. He reached a hand up to cup your cheek, running the pad of his thumb along the edge of your lower lip. Your breath hitched, his touch paired with the intensity of his gaze stirring something in you.

“Miss Bodyguard,” he chuckled again. “My darling.”

Your brows drew down in confusion. “What?”

The smile falling from his face was the only warning you got. He sat up abruptly, leaning into you and crushing his lips against yours.This kiss was far different than ones you’d shared previously. Gone was the soft sensuality that you were accustomed to, in its place a hunger so great that your very essence was devoured with every stroke of his tongue against yours.

When he finally broke away from you, he pressed his forehead against yours. Shaky breaths mingled between you, and you all but melted against him during the contact. Your hands rested against his neck to cup the base of his head, threading your fingers into his hair. The rough texture of his scales scraped lightly against your palm, heightening your awareness of him.

“When a Lemurian finds their mate,” he breathes, pausing to kiss you again. “We sometimes experience a full body pull to them. Like some primal instinct takes over, and…well.”

He didn’t finish his thought, instead taking your hand and dragging it down the length of his body until it landed…oh. It was your turn to flush, the moan he released sinking into you when your hand came into contact with his hardened length. You hadn’t even noticed his tented trousers when you entered the room, but everything came into sharp focus now.

“So…when you say ‘rut’…you don’t mean…artistically,” you say, feeling your face redden further with every word. Yet, you didn’t remove your hand. His palm fell on your bare knee, your knee that was pressed into his thigh. Heat blazed in his touch, and he trembled with the effort of restraint.

“Yeah,” he whined, burying his face against your neck and inhaling deeply. His breath was let out in a shaky gust, lips drifting across your skin. “Your scent…it’s everywhere.”

You gripped his cock through the fabric, earning a moan from him. He shifted his hips, pressing into your touch further. You tugged at his hair to bring his mouth back to yours, taking up his lips in the same kind of crushing kiss he started with. Tongues tangled and danced, hands roamed, and you could feel a rightness settle in you. Like this was exactly what you needed to happen when you woke up.

Rafayel’s hand moved up your thigh, dipping under the hem of your skirt. Shivers wracked your body until his advance stopped at your hip. His touch was like fire, and it ignited something deep inside you. It coiled in you, low in your belly. It was like that thread from earlier, the one pulling you to Rafayel, curled in anticipation.

You felt your bodice slacken, realizing his other hand snuck up to slowly pull the zipper down. With a small chuckle, you helped him by shrugging out of the bodice until you were bare to him from the waist up. With a heady moan, he hauled you into his lap and latched onto one of your breasts. You sucked in a breath, arching into him and gripping at his hair. His tongue swirled against you nipple, teeth scraping against your flesh every now and then. The sensations shot through you, sending a pulse to your core where it was pressed against his length.

“Rafayel,” you moaned, shifting your hips to grind on him. “I need you.”

He groaned, swinging you around so that you now lay under him. Your legs were wrapped firmly around his waist, ensuring he couldn’t leave even if he wanted to.

“Cutie,” he breathed, looking at you intently. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” you respond, firmly pulling him down atop you and taking the opportunity to unbutton his shirt. “As sure as I ever will be with anything.”

“I don’t think-“ he huffed, interrupting his own sentence with a hard kiss.

“I will be able to be gentle,” he finally finished when he came up for air. He sat back on his heels, pulling his shirt off. Then you helped him slide your dress down your legs before he settled over you once more.

“I’m not asking you to be gentle,” you say, slanting your mouth back over his again. The fabric of his trousers strained to contain him, and you reached between your bodies to flick open the button to free him. Taking him in hand, you stroked him and devoured the moans he released into your mouth. His hips jerked forward to chase your grip whenever your hand got too close to the tip of his cock, as though he were afraid you’d stop. Root to tip, you stroked him over and over, his ceaseless moans growing louder.

Distracted by the sensation of your hand wrapped around his cock, his lips hovered over yours. It allowed you to watch his expressions; how his brows drew down, how his nose scrunched adorably, how his jaw clenched while trying to hold back his moans. And the relax of those features as he gave in to the waves of pleasure.

With a guttural cry and stuttering thrusts of his hips, you felt him spill against your stomach. You kept your grip on him, feeling the pulsing throb of his cock as his climax washed over him. A feeling you couldn’t name swelled in you, a sort of satisfaction at bringing the beautiful man atop you to completion with just your touch.

“Mmh, Cutie,” he said, his voice taking on a huskier quality. “I’m just gonna apologize now if I get too rough with you, but you make it very hard to hold back.”

“So don’t hold back, give me everything you have,” you say, shimmying under him to remove your underwear. He sat back on his heels again to look at you, drinking in every curve and detail. His hand splayed on your stomach, spreading the mess he made there with an aroused huff. Then he used those fingers to dip into your slicked folds, curling them just inside. He watched your reaction to his touch with those damnable eyes that were half-lidded with unrestrained desire.

And then he…oh, fuck. He removed those fingers from you, lifting them to his mouth and tasting your arousal mixed with his release. He groaned, eyes fluttering closed as bliss spread across his face. It was a sight that would be seared into your brain, and you weren’t certain how you’d be able to face him normally ever again with that memory constantly rolling in your head.

When he opened his eyes again, you noted a faint blue glow to them. His gaze locked onto yours, and you had a feeling he wasn’t all Rafayel, but also something other. It reminded you of your brush with the Sea God, but you felt no fear. Only a contentment that settled in you, a piece of something that was missing falling into place.

He kicked out of his trousers, not even breaking eye contact. When he settled back over you, his cock lay heavy and hot against your pelvis. It wasn’t the first time you wondered how he would fit inside you, but you knew very well that he would. It always amazed you how splendidly he filled you, and you squirmed in anticipation.

Hungry. It was the best way that you could describe the way that he devoured you. His mouth easily coaxed you open, the taste of you lingering on his tongue. The way that he thrust his tongue into your mouth was indicative of how he would plunder your body, a sort of foreshadowing.

He gathered your legs, setting them against his shoulders and effectively folding you in half. True to his words, there was nothing gentle about the way he plunged into you. He filled you with one swift stroke, sinking deep into you. He didn’t offer any time for your body to get used to him, instead taking to thrusting into you over and over. Not that you needed to adjust to him, anyway. Your body was ready and more than willing to take the full length of him without pause.

He slammed into you, grinding against you with every full forward thrust. Your moans mixed with his, rising to echo through the studio. All you could do was cling to him, digging your nails into his skin as he fucked you hard into the sofa cushions beneath you. He all but crushed you beneath him, using your willing body to drive himself towards release. Fuck, the sounds of him slamming into you propelled you towards madness. You needed more, needed him to take you deeper and harder than he already was.

“R-Ra..fayel,” you moaned into his mouth, which hovered low over yours. You weren’t even sure when the kiss ended, but all concentration turned to where you were connected below. You absorbed all of his moans, groans, and growls, his pleasure working to heightening your own.

“Ngh, fuck, when you say my name like that, Cutie,” he said, his hips snapping forward more forcefully. He set a punishing pace, each stroke of his cock bringing you closer to the edge at such a rapid pace.

“Rafayel,” you moan again, voice louder. He bucked into you at a frenzied tempo, barely pulling out before slamming back into you. The pressure with each strike was enough to send you hurtling over the edge without so much as a warning. You cried out his name over and over, a breathless chant even as he continued to thrust into you.

With a cry of his own, he plunged into you as deep as he could go. Searing heat filled you, overwhelming your cunt with every pulsing twitch of his cock. It was as though liquid fire was flooding you, but fuck if it didn’t feel so damn good. Your body drank him in, every lingering flutter of your cunt milking him for his every last drop.

“Mmh, don’t….don’t move,” he whimpers when you shift under him. “I’m sorry.”

Confusion pooled in you at his apology, followed by worry as he began to tremble. He kept you in place, his cock still buried deep in you. His face was still flushed, and the shimmery blue of his scales stood out in stark contrast. His eyes were clenched closed, and each breath he took sounded labored.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, voice strained. “I can’t stop it.”

You were just about to ask what “it” was when you felt….something. You weren’t really sure how to explain it, you weren’t even sure what was happening. But it felt as though Rafayel’s cock was somehow growing larger, stretching you further than your body was ready to accommodate. He murmured apologies and encouragement in your ear, slipping into Lemurian tongue the more he went. You flinched once at the sting, but it wasn’t anything you couldn’t handle. If anything, whatever it was that now locked Rafayel to you just aroused you all the more.

“Rafayel,” you begged, needing to feel him move inside you again. He whimpered, hips jerking at the breathy quality of your voice in his ear. He buried his face in your neck, nuzzling you and inhaling deeply.

He finally began moving in you again, much shorter thrusts that were constrained by whatever that bulge at the base of his cock was. He couldn’t pull from you, only the tiniest of movement was allowed by that knot, but it was enough. The stretch of him buried in you, the way he filled you. It was all too much and you felt your body begin to tremble before you could even feel the pleasure coil in your belly. Somehow, this climax was far more explosive than the first, and you threw your head back into the cushions below you while you cried out. You felt his release searing through you again, his guttural moans muffled with his face buried in your neck.

His body continued to jerk, a seemingly never ending orgasm just pumping into you. Even when it seemed like it would be over, his hips would jerk forward and start the process over again. You clung to him, your own release being ripped from you over and over until you were a trembling mess beneath him.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he moaned against your neck. “I-I don’t know if I can stop.”

He took pity on you, releasing your legs from his hold to let you wrap them much more comfortably around his waist. The shift put new pressure on his cock, and he hissed in pleasure. It also made you much more aware of that bulged base of him, lodged tightly in place. It was just more of a reminder that Rafayel was far from human- not that it ever bothered you. Even more was that emblem blazed on his chest, a sigil that seemed to alight every time you engaged in some form of intimacy with each other.

Bathed in the light of the full moon, you lay intertwined with each other. You thought that perhaps whatever primal instinct had taken over Rafayel had abated, but you were sorely mistaken. He pumped himself into you with only the briefest of pauses between each shuttering climax. You lost count how many times his hips snapped forward, how many times your body shattered around him, how many times your voices joined each other in pleasured cries.

Dusk had long turned to night when his body finally released its vice grip on him and he was able to relax into you. The knot, or whatever it was, subsided and he collapsed on top of you. His breathing was ragged and you could feel his heart thundering. You stroked his sweat-slicked hair, working to steady your own breathing.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured again, nuzzling his head against your chest. “If I knew it was gonna be like that, I would’ve tried harder to send you away.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” you reassured, kissing the crown of his hair. It was true, this was an experience with him that you wouldn’t trade for the world. You just wished you knew what triggered such a thing, so you could be better prepared for him should it happen again. Both of you were drenched in sweat from the exertion, but it seemed that his fever from earlier had disappeared. So had most of the scales and the ominous blue glow from his eyes.

“Come,” you said, determined to get him up and into a bath, with a pitcher of ice cold water shared between you. You nudged him, but he groaned and didn’t move.

“I already did. Way too many times, I might add.”

“Oh my god,” you say with a laugh, softly punching him in the shoulder.

“Yes?” He chuckled. You hit him in the shoulder again, and he laughed playfully. He grabbed your fist, placing a kiss on your knuckles. Then a quick kiss on your lips and he was sitting up. You mourned the loss of his weight over you, but thirst became too great a need to ignore any longer.

After chugging what felt like a gallon of water between the two of you, a bath was drawn and you were tucked in front of him in the hot water. Soreness already began to seep into your muscles, but you didn’t let that deter you from exploring his body more and asking questions about hiss Lemurian anatomy. He didn’t have a lot to answer with, since that’d been the first time he’d ever experienced such an event. He couldn’t even tell you what triggered it, just that he woke up that morning and heat engulfed him, with no relief until you’d walked through his door.

So, you spent the night locked in each other’s embrace. He took you, over and over, his appetite for you seemingly never ending. This time it was the kind of lovemaking that you were accustomed to, anywhere between soft and sweet or rough and wild. You loved every second of it, even the sloppy overstimulated portions towards the end. When exhaustion finally took over, you were wrapped in his embrace, his head tucked against the back of your neck with his soft snores fanning across your skin.

You completely forgot about Thomas’s call earlier. And even more, you were entirely unaware that he’d been calling during the first moments of your tryst, and that call had connected as your dress fell to the ground.

It wouldn’t be until the next morning that you came to the mortifying realization that the poor man had accidentally heard everything.

[blood-smiles]

𝐉𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐉𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐉𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐁𝐎𝐘 (YANDERE! LAWYER.. SFW- MDNI)

That damn maid. That goddamn maid had Alejandro crazy. Who did she think she was? Trying to get close to you? Getting all friendly with you. His darling. HIS darling.

He got rid of his ex wife, not much of a hassle really. Just a little of deception and a gentle push off a balcony was needed.

Now he had you all to himself, all his now. He thought he had made it crystal clear. He would smile as he noticed people looked at him differently now, they saw a man with purpose. Fearless and willing to do anything for his purpose.

A new hire had wormed his way into his manor, you oh-so innocently insisted for him to get at least one extra set helping hand around. 

He gave into your sweet eyes and pretty pleas so easily, when you made that face.. How could he not?

But it seemed he had a new pest in his hands now. It started with her trying to get into his pants but after a small meaningless threat she had decided to back off.

But then she realized that you meant more than a lot to Alejandro. she had a natural advantage of having such a doll like face and being a woman, so she latched onto you like a flea to a dog.

He seethed  as he watched her run her hands up and down your back and arms. You didn’t think much of it, so caring and so sweet. Of course you wouldn’t, you were sure of your place in Alejandro’s heart.

But Alejandro knew how easy you could be led astray by her lingering touches and tender words. After all, he had used the same method on you, but the difference was that he loved you. He did it all in the name of love, something pure and beautiful.

But this filthy harlot didn’t have the same intentions he did though. No, this was all twisted and wrong. She wanted to get back at him for cruelly insulting and rejecting her. The man saw how the maid smirked at him when she succeeded in making you laugh or flush in embarrassment.

Enough was enough.

The purple haired man sat beside you on a cloudy day, the both of you were enjoying a savory meal he had prepared for you. He gently wiped your face when you smeared food on your cheek. 

If it was anyone else he would be appalled, a grimace on his elegant features.

But in his eyes you looked so happy and cute, of course there are exceptions for you!

Then tragedy struck, Annalise, the new maid had ‘accidentally’ spilled a pitcher of water on her uniform while bringing it to the both of you.

Water splashed over you and her, and to his disgust, she landed on you. Chest pressed against your face and arms wrapped around your shoulders for stability.

She smiled at you with feigned embarrassment, apologizing meekly as she looked down at you.

“G-GET OFF HER!” Alejandro uncharacteristically yelled, grabbing her hands, prying them off your shoulders. His own arms flying to hug you tightly against his chest this time, looking at the woman like she had just dropped poison in your tea.

Annalise looked up at him, a calculating look in her eyes. She was about to begin with those sad puppy eyes. Repulsive. It was repulsive and vile how she thought that she could manipulate you into feeling bad for her, with those crocodile tears of hers.

She turned around and ran away, hoping that you would trail after her and offer your sweet condolences to the woman.

“Alejandro! What is the matter with you? Look! You made her cry!” You exclaimed, turning to him, not anger, but disappointment in your eyes. 

You tried to pry his arms off you, he was significantly taller and stronger than you, your shoves against him feeling like the playful paws of a puppy against his chest.

He dragged you away to a room inside the large house. Closing the door behind him before grabbing you again.

Tears welled in his eyes, eerily quiet as he held onto you for dear life. He shook his head, his ruby like eyes not leaving your form.

His shoulders shook in frustration. In longing.

He suddenly lunged, arms wrapping around your own, his biceps pinning your arms to your hips, making it impossible to move.

“Don’t.. Don’t leave me! She—She is lying! That prude witch is trying to steal you from me!” 

His tone was desperate, the delicate and professional glasses on his nose bridge sliding down, the lenses becoming fogged and wetted by his salty tear drops.

“P-Please.. I’ll do anything! I’ll make her disappear if you want, do you want that? She won’t be able to take you away from me if she is gone first!” He dropped to his knees, hands gripping the flesh of your calves tightly.

“I’ll be good! I promise— I-I’m a loyal mutt for you! I will always be devoted to you! You have my leash in your hand! Don’t leave with her, I beg you!” He exclaimed, tears running down his face. Lips beginning to bleed from the force he was biting down with.

“You are mine! Only mine! And..And I swear with my life that I am yours! I will provide for you and protect you! What can that disgusting wench go for you? Nothing at all! I’m all you need, all you need is at your feet!” 

He laughed, tears still streaking his face, madness circling in his eyes in spirals. His pale hands unbuttoned his dress shirt enough to expose his chest, pressing his soft skin against your leg.

You felt the pounding of his heart against your leg, his chest red from his own nails clawing at it. As if wanting to rip his heart out in an act of love, to prove that he was willing to give up his own life for you.

He gasped out between soft sobs, the skin below his eyes and tip of his nose turning a pretty red from crying. Taking shaky breaths, waiting to see what your reaction was.

You stared down at him, not expecting this sudden outburst from him, one of the most calm and collected men you had ever met. He kept his emotions controlled to a T, never would he let anyone see vulnerability from him, he had everything puppeteered to a precise and perfect point.

It was unexpected, to have him at your feet desperate for your attention and approval. Having a meltdown and a fit of jealousy and insecurity.

He was such a pretty crier. You knew this because of the passionate love nights the two of you would have. The only difference this time was that he wasn’t crying out of pleasure, but out of envy and frustration.

You lifted an arm, gently placing it on his head, your fingers beginning to thread through his soft straight hair. Making small braids in his hair in an attempt to calm him down.

His bruising hold on your leg softened as he leaned his head against your hand. 

“You’re so strange.” You finally spoke, smiling down at him.

“I love you, Alejandro. I’m already bound to you in every way, I thought you knew this well already.” You assured, hand leaving his head and instead dragging down to his face, taking his glasses from his face and cleaning them with the hem of your shirt.

“You get jealous over such silly things.” He looked up at you with admiration, moments like this solidified his belief that you truly were the one for him. His other half. 

You gently placed his glasses back on his nose, gently pushing them up for him. 

Alejandro pushed you down to his level, embracing you in a tight hug yet again. His chin resting on the top of your head as he relished in your warmth.

He closed his eyes, relief spreading throughout his chest at the reminded that he didn’t have any competition. You, the apple of his eye weren’t going anywhere.

Perhaps it was time to put that snake-like bitch’s head on a stick, then maybe that will make a statement that you were off limits. ♥︎

[i-like-gay-books]

oh how the mighty have fallen (had to start doing the trick where you put your phone on the other side of the room so you have to leave bed to turn off the alarm)

[yameoto]

giving fuckgirl!cait (+basketball) the best head of her life (she still doesn’t know what the hell to do about it)

sub!caitlyn, blowjobs, caitlyn cums in approx 2 seconds and is then humiliated, smut n fluff, ohhh she’s definitely in love with you

fuckgirl!cait who is just a little needy. the first time you ask her she’s all wide-eyed and her mouth is dry and suddenly she’s nervous for the first time in her life. which makes zero sense because (“not to sound like a dickhead—“ “prefacing that everytime doesn’t make you any less of a dickhead, cait.”) she’s been bobbing her cock down willing girls’ throats since she hit puberty. to destress or for fun or if she felt like it. whatever. the point is; she’s well-versed in this.

so, why her palms are suddenly sweating and her cheeks are glowing she has no idea. croaks. “uhm. are you sure? because you really don’t have to—“ like she hasn’t been harassing you for the past couple months and even if she’s had countless fantasies of this moment; imagining you, and your plush, soft lips wrapped around her cock as she splatters her load against the shower wall or a tissue or her dedicated cumsock (ok, sometimes she is just a jock. sue her. she’s a busy woman! and she, admittedly, no longer has a maid waiting on her beck and call.)

you laugh, all deep and throaty and it makes caitlyn want to sink between your couch cushions and die.

“what’s with the deer in the headlights look?” you’ll never grow tired of teasing her, even if you no longer think of her as the arrogant basketball prick who pads around you like a lost puppy and instead; now, something closer to an.. acquaintance with benefits.

(caitlyn has no clue how she made it this far with you. it’s like you just randomly decided to give her a shot one day, on a whim, and she desperately doesn’t want to blow it. even if acquaintance-with-benefits is a title that disgruntles her, at the very least. hurts, at the very most. like, very very most, okay?)

“i just..” caitlyn lets out a quiet whine when your fingers curl against the hem of her basketball shorts and—ah, shit. and now she’s hard. “now look what you’ve done.” she hisses, though she’s not quite sure what she expected when you texted her for netflix and chill like it’s still the 2010s.

“there’s that pretty thing.” you completely ignore her in favour of continuing your blasted teasing, fingers snaking underneath her waistband and pulling, guiding the shorts down the sharp v-line at her crotch and eyes travelling down the fine, inky lines of her happy trail to the spring of her cock, over the edge; half-glazed and all pretty and pink.

“you really want to..?” she doesn’t know why she keeps backtracking, like she hasn’t been talking and talking about how fucking good she’d be. and now that it’s really happening she’s getting cold feet, of all things.

“it’s just a blow, cait.” you roll your eyes.

right. just a blow. like she’s done, a million times before. god. god. she doesn’t know where the fuck this performance anxiety has suddenly arose from (pun unintended). she’s (gracefully and intentionally) bruised countless girls’ throats, for fuck’s sake. twisted her hand in the hair and yanked them sharply with each forceful snap of her hips, and told them to swallow without so much as a blink.

except you—you—

“mmgh—“ caitlyn throws her had back, as she lets out an exceedingly unflattering grunt, with the gusto in which you take her into her mouth. your tongue swirls, along her tip, and—hah—her mind melts to butter. her eyes are all cloudy, head spinning. “wait—mmf—i didnt—“

caitlyn’s hips buck, heedlessly, into your mouth. fuck. she usually has more rhythm than this. more—control. but then your tongue is sliding underneath and your hand running over to curl around her base and she’s rutting upwards aimlessly, like some stupid teenage boy who doesn’t know what the fuck she’s doing. only that—shit—she’s never felt this good in her life and this is not just a blow—this is the most beautiful, nirvana-inducing, mind-shattering experience she could’ve ever—ungh.

oh.

oh, nononono. nono— no. she didn’t just—

your mouth hangs open, still, as you stare up at her with wide, surprised eyes; throat bobbing as if you were preparing to maybe do that really hot vacuum-type motion again except there’s kind of no fucking point because her dick is twitching uselessly as it slips out of your mouth and she watches in horror, as cum drizzles down your chin.

you swallow. caitlyn dreads that glimmer in your eyes, already.

“i usually—i last longer than that!” caitlyn’s cheeks are beet-red and she’s blinking up at you with those big, sad blue eyes and you’re laughing. crawling on top of her stomach as her dick presses flush and sticky against your lower torso and you’re laughing at her plight. ok, that’s it. it’s over. her reputation that she’s fought and fucked so hard for is dead and gone. she’s got to pack her bags, move countries, and start over.

she buries her face into the crook of your neck. surprisingly, you don’t push her away. “you can’t tell anyone.” she orders, petulant. she’s fucking humiliated.

“why would i tell anyone?” you snort. she whines.

“i don’t want you to think—“ caitlyn digs her short-cut nails into palms, looking frustrated; brows knit and cheeks still flushed, stray strands of hair a mess against her forehead. “i didn’t come over just for a blow.”

“i know, cait.”

caitlyn doesn’t know how much you know, frankly, because she doesn’t know how much she knows—considering she’s just had the most earth-quaking orgasm of her life in all but two seconds like some lame loser virgin and not the cool, suave playgirl that caitlyn kiramman is so known to be; but you’re sinking back into her arms and letting her keep leaking leftover dribbles into your couch as she clings and maybe, she doesn’t care. just wants to stay like this for a little while, and blink the spots out of her vision.

“i’m normally really very good.” she insists, words spilling out in an accented rush against your skin, half-slurred. “seriously.”

“caitlyn.”

“seriously!”

[illbegottenfaith]

fml (a Manchild by Sabrina Carpenter inspired fic)

you rope theo into going to a party with you and accidentally fall for his juvenile mannerisms (theo nott x ravenclaw!reader)

a/n - decided to polish this up and publish it in honour of the man's best friend announcement!! I know how controversial the title and cover art has been but i have Thoughts about it if anyone wants to hear them/discuss hehe (I rlly need to stop using this as my sabrina sideblog help) also lets pretend u can actually see shit from alllll the way up in the Ravenclaw towers and the 'decent' joke is (quite obviously) plagiarised from tumblr I think, I did not come up with that lmao

tropes/warnings - fluff, comedy, technicallyyy fake dating? but it's not the focus here

word count - 3.7k

taglist - @kandralice @justme989898 @iamheretoread1234 @allie-sturns @hzdhrtss @friedfreyfries @bushnellswife @rose-of-the-grave @thaliashifts @pariahsparadise @babene-e @fratbrochrisgf @user089167

Theo pushed his hair off his clammy forehead for the hundredth time that morning. He was long overdue for a haircut he kept forgetting about except on mornings like these, when his overly long fringe kept falling in his eyes during the laps he ran with the rest of the Quidditch team around the perimeter of the pitch. It was barely 9 am when most students were still enjoying breakfast. It was far too early for him to already be sweating buckets.

Theo slowed to a stop, pushing his hair back once again as he seriously considered ripping it from his skull. He scanned the pitch. It was barely 9 am, and he could hear the usual faint murmur of students having breakfast in the Great Hall. There was a diffused quality to the light of the cloudy day and the grass was still damp with morning dew. It was peaceful. Typical. Calm.

And yet.

Theo looked around, an uneasy feeling in his gut. Something felt...off. He gently rolled out the ankle he had strained last week, starining his ears. It felt fine. It didn't even ache from the humidity of the morning. He watched his teammates jogging along the other side of the field. The pitch was quiet, but no quieter than it usually was. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, the way they did in Quidditch games when he would sense rather than see a Bludger coming his way.

Mattheo jogged past, pausing briefly.

"Ankle?" he asked breathlessly.

Theo shook his head mutely, still thinking hard to the sound of Mattheo's panting as he caught his breath. Just as he gave up on figuring out the strange feeling, he noticed Mattheo frowning at something over his shoulder.

Theo was beginning to hear a set of quick, light footsteps distinct from the rest of the team's sluggish yet relentless footfalls. He turned and immediately got barrelled over by a blur of white and navy blue, knocked flat on his back with a tongue stuck down his throat.

Blinding sunlight rushed in as the figure pulled away. Dazed, Theo was distantly aware of Mattheo gawking at the sight while someone told him off in a waspish tone. He regained his wits just as Mattheo jogged off, sniggering under his breath. Tentatively, he turned his sight to the Ravenclaw girl peering down at him.

"If anyone asks, we were celebrating our 1-month anniversary last night."

Theo shut his eyes briefly, willing himself not to pass out. There was an awful ringing echoing in his skull. Was this what a concussion felt like? And what was that about a one-month -

His eyes popped open despite the searing pain. "Month?"

The girl gave him an impatient look. "Yes. As far as anyone is concerned, we've been dating for the past month."

Theo gaped at you. He had to be hallucinating. How much pain medication did he take last night?

"We have?"

Her lips thinned into a line.

"I can't tell if you're being purposefully dense," she muttered, sitting back on her heels. Theo propped himself up on skinned elbows.

"You, and I," her silhouette repeated, stabbing a finger between the two of you, "one month."

Theo squinted up at her through the sunlight she wasn't blocking. "W-"

"One. Month." she repeated firmly as she stood, brushing imaginary dirt off her pants. She scanned the pitch casually, appraising the rest of the team with a mildly critical look.

"That is all. Enjoy your laps."

Theo watched her walk off back to the castle, befuddled.

After feeding Madam Pomfrey some fib about running laps the wrong way, Theo had his elbows bandaged up. He was barely in time for Ancient Runes and was too restless to pay attention. By the time class finished, all Theo wanted was to tuck into a warm, comforting lunch, even if it was a little early.

He walked into the Great Hall and there you were, like a bad penny, already halfway through a bowl of soup at the Ravenclaw table.

He visibly winced. You had the gall to look cluelessly concerned.

"Merlin, what happened to your elbows?"

Theo just about had an aneurysm.

"You," he forced out through clenched teeth. "You happened."

You looked genuinely surprised.

"Don't tell me you're still upset about this morning?" When Theo remained stony-faced, you rolled your eyes, turning back to your lunch. "God, that was so three hours ago."

Theo stared at you, speechless.

"Don't you think you owe me some kind of explanation?"

You glanced at your watch impatiently. "Fine. I've got 20 minutes before Transfiguration anyway. Sit down."

He didn't. You cleared your throat anyway.

"So, I have this stupid roommate who will not get off my back about bringing someone to this 80s-themed party her cousin's hosting at Hogsmeade this weekend, because she's convinced I'm still hung up on my ex from 5 months ago."

You didn't sound like you were going to be done anytime soon. Theo reluctantly slid into the seat opposite yours.

"Are you still hung up on your - ?"

You nodded, waving a hand carelessly. "Oh, yeah, totally. The pining - it's a whole thing. Don't worry about that. Anyways, she was going at me again last night, and the only way I could get her to shut up was to say that I was bringing someone. So, obviously, she asked who, and - now this part is kind of your fault - and I looked out the window, and there you were, decked out in your Quidditch gear and whatnot, and I thought you were as good of a choice as any. So I said I was bringing you."

Theo blinked at you.

"You told your roommate you're bringing me to a party I'm only just hearing about."

"Mhm."

"And it's my fault," Theo continued tonelessly, trying to make sense of what you were saying, "for going to Quidditch practice...as part of the Quidditch team."

You shrugged. "Yeah, I 'spose. Anyway, she was like, no way, and I was like, way, and I knew she wouldn't believe me if I said we had only just started seeing each other, so I had to say it was, like, our one-month anniversary. But she was still watching me like a hawk, so I had to spend half the night outside of our room. And I think she could still tell I was lying - "

"Still? Are your lies always this elaborate?"

You looked a little embarrassed. "I might have a bit of a problem with...telling the truth, or the whole truth, sometimes." You tucked a lock of hair behind your ear.

"Anyway, I had to get to you before she did, but you both take Ancient Runes together on Thursday mornings, so I had to catch you before then, so..." you gestured vaguely. Theo raised his eyebrows.

"That's it? She's never seen the two of us in the same room, but my word is enough to convince her we've been dating?"

"Oh, please. She hardly sees me. I've got quite a bit on my plate."

Theo eyed your book bag, bursting at the seams with textbooks and parchment.

"I'll say. When do you even find the time to, er, pine after your ex?"

You shot him a withering look. "Whose side are you on, anyway?"

"Right now? The person who didn't tackle me at eight in the morning."

You rolled your eyes. "I can't believe you're still going on about that," you muttered. "It wasn't even eight."

You continued eating your food while Theo mulled over your story. His mind drifted to your face, to the sharp, strong cut of your nose and the plain, straightforward edge to your words. You had a bit of a problem with the truth, there was no denying that, but something about your story didn't seem fabricated or exaggerated. It was a largely unappealing scenario that would only be too easy to refute, which made it all the more convincing.

Theo tilted his head. Huh. Maybe it was the concussion talking, but you were starting to seem a little less insane. He shook his head, clearing his thoughts.

"Why don't you tell your stupid roommate to pi- erm, go away?"

You glared at Theo.

"Stupid Roommate is my best friend. I would kill for her."

It was like he couldn't say anything right. Theo sighed, massaging his temples.

"...okay. What's stopping me from telling her I don't know you?"

You put on a pained look.

"Babe. You can't be saying those things about your one-month girlfriend."

"You're not my - "

"Besides," you continued, finishing up your soup, "we've been holding hands for, like, the past fifteen minutes."

Theo glanced around at the students filing into the Great Hall for lunch, some of whom were eyeing your clasped hands with interest. He yanked his hand away.

"So good luck explaining that to...literally everyone here." You stood, gathering your things. Theo marvelled at the resilience of your book bag when it didn't split open as you pulled it up to your shoulder.

"I'm off for Transfiguration. See you Saturday at 6."

And when you bent to press a kiss to Theo's cheek, he didn't bother leaning away.

Theo was staring into a mirror, hair slick with gel, trying to fix this cowlick that kept falling right in the middle of his forehead. Around him, chaos ensued.

Enzo was studying a retro muggle video game for his Muggle Studies project and, naturally, Mattheo had to screw with him as much as he could. All the while, Blaise was yelling at them to take their scuffle elsewhere, telling them off for crumpling the plastic sheaves of his good binder. Somewhere in the background, there was a knocking sound. Did ankle sprains cause tinnitus?

Empty weekends like these were always rough, but they were especially so when all four of the boys were cooped up together. The air outside was heavy and sticky with the week-long drizzle that refused to let up, making the walk to Hogsmeade downright unbearable.

Theo shook his head, separating his curls. The knocking got louder. It was definitely real, presumably by someone coming to tell them to keep it down. The cowlick fell stubbornly against his forehead once again. From outside the bathroom, there was a violent crash.

That was it. After multiple warnings and 'don't make me come over there's, Theo had finally reached the end of his fuse. He stepped out of the bathroom.

"Oi! Cut it out, all of you. Mattheo, give Enzo his game back. Enzo, go sit in the corner 'til you've calmed down. Blaise, get over yourself and get a new binder."

The thudding on the door increased in volume.

"And somebody get the fucking door!"

Theo retreated back into the bathroom. The noise immediately ceased. He sighed in relief. Finally, some peace and quiet.

There was a soft knock on the bathroom door.

"Theo, someone's here for you."

Theo fiddled with his hair, only half-listening. "Tell them to go away."

"It's a girl."

"Tell her to go away."

"Are you decent?"

Theo looked up at the sound of the striking voice. He had only heard it a couple of times, and never before this week, but it had the kind of piercing quality that made it stand out in a crowd. He glanced at the clock. You were 15 minutes early.

And too impatient to wait for a reply, apparently. The door swung open to reveal you, dressed in frills and ribbons with gigantic hair, carefully shielding your eyes, next to a shit-eating-grin-wearing Mattheo.

"Is he decent?" you asked Mattheo.

"Morally? Debatable. But he has pants on if that's what you're asking."

You dropped your hand. Your eyes swept his outfit. You didn't look too pleased.

"You're not even dressed yet?"

Theo looked down and scanned the very outfit you were eyeing disapprovingly.

"This is what I'm wearing."

He looked up and caught a glimpse of your face.

"Why? What's wrong with it?"

You looked visibly aggrieved by his fashion choice.

"It's so...boring. I said '80s' and you thought black shirt, black jeans?"

"What's wrong with a black shirt, black jeans?"

"Nothing. Unless you're going to an 80s-themed party."

You stepped away from the bathroom's threshold while Theo frowned over what he had thought was a simple, perfectly acceptable outfit.

"This was the best I could come up w - yeah, sure. Go ahead. Go through my clothes. Turn my wardrobe upside down. Go right ahead. It's not like this is my room. Or my clothes. Merlin forbid I claim an inch of this space as m- "

"Are you done?" You asked, extricating yourself from the recesses of Theo's wardrobe. He couldn't tell if your hair looked more or less frizzy. You held out a frilly, powder blue suit Mattheo had bought him as a gag gift for his seventeenth birthday.

"No."

"Just try it on!"

"Absolutely not."

"Come on, please? I probably won't even like the look of it."

"Brilliant. Then what I'm wearing is perfect."

You gave him a look. "But I have to make sure that I won't like it."

Between his roommates and you, Theo's resolve was worn out. Grudgingly, he changed into the suit. If anything, his cowlick made him look even more stupid in this get-up.

"You look so much better," you chirped happily, approvingly examining the patterned insides of the jacket's pockets. "Don't you think?"

Theo narrowed his eyes at your too-innocent smile.

"I think," he said, "you're wasted in Ravenclaw."

"It's just one night, Theo," you continued, like you hadn't heard him. "I don't even have a camera or anything."

"But I do. Smile."

Theo was blinded by a flash from Mattheo's camera from behind you. He scowled at Mattheo, who was too busy pulling out the printed polaroid. He eyed it with satisfaction as it began to develop. "I always knew this day would come," he murmured.

Meanwhile, you doubled your wheedling efforts.

"Please? For me? The girl who knocked you down in front of all of your teammates and won't hesitate to do it again?"

Theo glared at you. "You're not helping your case, you know."

But you must have been doing something right, because five minutes later, he was waving goodbye to his roommates in the powder blue suit. The two of you walked up to the castle's gates into the Muggle car Theo had rented for the evening. As Theo turned the key in the ignition, adjusting his mirrors and seat, you reached over to fix his hair.

"Don't touch my - " Theo swatted your hand away, warily checking his reflection in the rearview mirror. Shockingly, his cowlick was gone. His hair was exactly how he wanted it.

"Long hair suits you. Did you know that?" you said, following his gaze into the mirror, in that assertive, know-it-all tone of yours, like it was a universally agreed-upon fact that Theo looked good with long hair. Grumbling, Theo shifted the gearstick into drive, turning down the road to Hogsmeade.

"Can I try?" you asked for the sixth time, perched on the boot of the Cadillac convertible. Theo pushed his fringe out of his eyes, feeling the back of his neck grow moist.

"I've almost got it," he replied from somewhere underneath the hood for the sixth time.

You rolled your eyes, fanning yourself with a magazine you had found in the backseat. Halfway to Hogsmeade, the car decided to sputter and choke to a stop. What Theo had initially diagnosed as a five-minute problem had grown into a twenty-minute problem and showed no sign of ending.

“I thought you said it was the carburettor,” you called out, already feeling sluggish in the heat of the setting sun.

“I said I think it’s the carburettor.”

You rolled your eyes.

There was a loud clang, a muffled curse, and an alarming hissing sound. Sighing, you abandoned your magazine and hopped off the boot. You came around the hood to see Theo shaking out his hand, like he had been burned, swearing colourfully under his breath.

While he had the sense to leave his jacket in the car, the front of his shirt was splattered with windshield wiper fluid. A rogue curl had escaped and was now sticking to his forehead. His collar had wilted in the heat, and half of his sleeves were probably crumpled beyond help from where they had been folded to his elbow.

And yet, infuriatingly, he still managed to look good. Good in that maddening, ravenous way where you couldn't decide if you wanted to ditch him on the side of the road or climb him like a tree.

Theo tapped at a knob tentatively with his wrench, dropping it when the knob sparked. You had to physically shut your eyes. He was so pathetic, so hot.

“I'm pretty sure I’ve isolated the issue,” Theo was saying, wiping his hands on a cloth. “Definitely a leak of the, erm, braking fluid.”

You fixed Theo with a look. You narrowed his eyes at him.

“You made that up just now.”

“Did not,” he replied, a little too fast.

“Did so.”

Theo frowned, squinting into the hood. “Just five more minutes,” he mumbled, picking up his wrench again.

You muttered something rude under your breath and pushed him out of the way gently, not that he resisted much. You pushed back your hair and studied the interior of the hood.

"See?" came Theo's slightly whiny voice from somewhere cooler. "There's too many fiddly things, it's impossib-"

You pulled out your wand. After a little trial and error, a few whispered spells, the engine gave a healthy sputter and purred back to life.

You stepped back and closed the hood. Theo blinked.

“Huh.”

“Huh,” you repeated mockingly.

You examined your watch and hurried back to the passenger seat. "Now let's get going before it gets too dark."

"Yes, ma'am," Theo said, climbing into the driver's seat.

You flicked his ear in response. You could see the smile biting into his cheek as he checked his mirrors, not noticing that his cowlick was back with a vengeance.

You looked out the windshield, watching the trees go by as you tried to ignore how you were half in love him.

The party was more fun than you expected. And it did feel a little less lonely having someone to drive you there and back, all the while patiently taking the brunt of your teasing. Theo took you back to the castle, walked you up to your common room with surprising stamina (he didn't run all those laps for nothing, then) and bid you goodnight.

And that was the end of that.

Only, you were realising, part of you didn't want it to end. Against your will, everywhere you looked, Theo kept catching your eye - in the corridors, on the staircases, in the Great Hall, on the pitch. It was his fault, really, taking up so much space with all that height. Taking up so much of your mind with all those lazy half-smiles and crinkled eyes.

A couple of mornings later, Theo was jogging laps on the Quidditch pitch again. His grey shirt was soaked in sweat, his fringe falling into his eyes. The early morning air had that familiar crisp edge and the rhythmic murmur of his teammate's footfalls. Theo slowed to a walk, wiping his face with his shirt, when he felt it - that same pricking at the back of his neck. That same unease. He looked in the direction of the Great Hall warily.

“Stopping so soon?” you called out suddenly, from where you had been watching him in the stands.

Theo startled so hard he almost tripped.

“Fuck - how long have you been there?”

"Long enough," you replied languidly, taking in the endearing rosy flush of his cheeks. You waved Mattheo's Potions textbook in the air as Theo walked towards you.

"You can't be doing that to people with already elevated heart rates," he scolded weakly, taking the book you were holding out to him.

You grinned. “Mattheo’s. Try not to get too much sweat on it.”

Theo nodded. "Thanks. I've been needing to level my bed with something."

You swallowed the smile that threatened to break across your face. Merlin forbid he realised you found him funny. You tried to keep your tone light, casual.

“So… what’re you reading these days? Anything interesting?”

Theo looked a little lost. “Like...books?"

You held back an eye roll. “Yeah, I guess.”

"Oh. I've been re-reading Gatsby lately."

You nodded. “Classic. You should tell me about it sometime, over coffee."

Theo’s brow furrowed.

“You've never read The Great Gatsby?"

You gave Theo a dirty look, unable to maintain your polite veneer. "Of course I've read The Great Gatsby. I just wanted to hear your take on it."

Theo stared at you some more. "You want to hear...what I think, about Gatsby?"

"Yeah, sure." It was almost insulting, really, of how disbelieving he appeared of your good, perfectly innocent intentions.

“Uh… okay?” Theo said cautiously.

You stood, partly disappointed, partly peeved. “Great," you said flatly. "Good chat, then.”

You turned away and started walking back to the Great Hall, kicking yourself. How much plainer did you have to make the invitation?

Theo watched you walk off, still a little confused. He jogged back to the pitch, resuming his laps. What was all that about? You wanted to hear what he thought about Gatsby? Not much, especially in comparison to you. He'd hardly have anything to contribute to the conversation that you didn't already know. Why, the two of you would be better off talking about literally anything else.

Theo stopped. The realisation hit him like a ton of bricks.

"WAIT - talk - coffee - yes, Y/N, YE- "

[deansbeer]

so uh

camping with dean/beau/jensen (i can't choose), and it's like really raining out and cold. the tent and sleeping bags are practically doing nothing to keep you warm, so the two have to snuggle up together for warmth… which eventually leads to smut may or may not be based on an experience i had (partially)

hi baby!! i meant to post this sooner but i got distracted with work <3

♡ ⋮ minors do not interact.

synopsis 𓏵 stuck in a freezing damp tent during a raging thunderstorm, you and dean find creative ways to stay warm together.

warnings 𓏵 smut | forced proximity (they share a tent) | semi-public sex | unprotected sex (use the rubber) | dirty talk | sharing body heat | cunnilingus | fingering | mild temperature play.

the rain hasn’t stopped for three hours now, and you’re pretty sure your teeth are going to chatter right out of your skull. this whole camping trip was dean’s idea — something about “getting back to basics” after the last hunt went sideways. you’d agreed because, well, when dean winchester flashes that crooked grin and says “come on, it’ll be fun,” you apparently lose all common sense.

except now you’re in the middle of nowhere, oregon, in what feels like a hurricane, and the tent is about as waterproof as a screen door. water’s seeping in from the corners, your sleeping bag feels like you crawled inside a wet paper towel, and you can’t feel your toes. dean’s on the other side of the tent, and you can hear him muttering curses under his breath as he tries to stop another leak with duct tape. because of course he brought duct tape camping.

“this was a terrible idea,” you announce through chattering teeth, pulling your damp sleeping bag up to your chin. it doesn’t help. if anything, the wet fabric just makes you colder. “we could’ve been in a motel right now. with heat. and walls that actually keep water out.”

“yeah, well,” dean grunts, giving up on the duct tape and tossing it aside. “the forecast said partly cloudy. how was i supposed to know partly cloudy meant biblical flood?” he’s soaked too, his flannel clinging to his shoulders in a way that would be distracting if you weren’t actively dying of hypothermia.

“maybe check more than one weather app next time?” you suggest, but there’s no real heat in it. you’re too cold to be properly angry. “dean, seriously, i can’t feel my feet. or my hands. or... anything really.”

he turns to look at you then, and even in the dim light of the camping lantern, you can see the concern flash across his face. dean winchester might play tough, but he’s got a protective streak a mile wide. “shit, sweetheart, you’re shaking like a leaf.” he moves closer, reaching out to touch your face. his fingers are cold too, but still warmer than your cheek. “fuck, you’re like ice.”

“we gotta warm you up,” he says, already moving into problem-solving mode. “body heat’s the fastest way when you’re this cold.” he starts unzipping his sleeping bag with determined movements. “come on, we’re combining these things.”

“what?” you blink at him, brain moving sluggishly from the cold. “dean, that’s...” but he’s already spreading his sleeping bag on the tent floor and motioning for you to bring yours over. the practical part of your brain knows he’s right — shared body heat is survival 101. the other part of your brain, the one that’s been harboring a crush on dean since the day you met him, is screaming.

“unless you wanna lose some toes to frostbite, get over here,” he orders, and that snaps you into motion. you crawl over with your sleeping bag, helping him zip them together into one large cocoon. the whole time, you’re hyperaware of how close he is, how his t-shirt is soaked through and clinging to his chest.

“lose the wet clothes,” he says matter-of-factly, already pulling his flannel off. “they’re just making it worse.” when you hesitate, he rolls his eyes. “come on, we’re both adults here. nothing i haven’t seen before.” which is a lie — he’s definitely never seen you in your underwear — but you’re too cold to argue.

you strip down to your underwear with numb fingers, trying not to think about the fact that dean is doing the same thing two feet away. when you finally slide into the combined sleeping bag, wearing nothing but your bra and panties, dean’s already there in just his boxers. the touch of his skin against yours is like fire and ice at the same time.

“jesus,” he hisses, when you press against him. “you’re like a frozen ice cube.” but he doesn’t pull away. instead, he wraps his arms around you, pulling you flush against his chest. “c’mere, gonna warm you up.” his body heat feels incredible, and you can’t help but burrow closer, dignity be damned.

“better?” he asks after a few minutes, and honestly? yeah. the shivers are starting to subside, replaced by a different kind of tension. because now that you’re not actively dying of cold, you’re extremely aware that you’re pressed against dean’s very naked, very warm chest. his hands are rubbing slow circles on your back, and it’s supposed to be warming, but it’s also doing other things.

“yeah,” you manage, voice coming out breathier than intended. “so much better.” your face is tucked into his neck, and he smells like rain and leather and that uniquely dean scent that’s been driving you crazy for months. his hands are large and warm on your back, and every sweep of his fingers sends little sparks through you.

“good, sweetheart,” he murmurs, and his voice is different now. deeper. “can’t have you freezing on my watch.” one of his hands slides lower, resting just above the waistband of your panties, and your breath hitches. “you know,” he continues, and you can hear the smirk in his voice, “there are other ways to generate body heat.”

you pull back enough to look at him, and his eyes are dark in the lantern light. “dean,” you breathe, but you’re not sure if it’s a warning or encouragement. probably both. “we shouldn’t...” but even as you say it, your body is pressing closer to his, seeking more contact.

“and why not?” he challenges, hand sliding up to cup your face. “been wanting to do this for months, sweetheart. and if we’re gonna be stuck in this tent all night...” he trails off, thumb brushing over your bottom lip. “might as well make the most of it.”

“months?” you repeat in slight disbelief, brain short-circuiting a little. “you’ve wanted...” but he cuts you off with a kiss, and holy shit, dean winchester is kissing you! his lips are soft but demanding, and when he nips at your bottom lip, you open for him immediately. the kiss is hot and desperate, months of tension pouring out all at once.

“fuck,” he groans when you break apart for air. “knew you’d taste sweet.” his hands are everywhere now, sliding over your sides, your hips, the curve of your ass. “been driving me crazy, you know that? walking around in those tight lil’ jeans of yours, bending over in front of me...” he punctuates each word with a kiss to your neck, and you’re practically melting.

“oh, dean,” you gasp, hands clutching at his shoulders. “please...” you’re not even sure what you’re asking for, just that you need more. he seems to understand, rolling you onto your back and hovering over you. the sleeping bag is tight quarters, but he manages it, settling between your thighs like he belongs there.

“gonna warm ya up,” he promises, voice rough with want. “gonna make you feel so good you’ll be begging me to cool you down.” his mouth trails down your neck, across your collarbone, and when he reaches the edge of your bra, he looks up at you. “this okay?”

“god, yes,” you breathe, and he grins, that cocky grin that makes your stomach flip. he unhooks your bra with practiced ease, tossing it somewhere in the tent. his mouth is on your breasts immediately, and the contrast of his hot mouth against your still-cool skin makes you arch beneath him.

“perfect, sweetheart,” he mutters against your skin. “so fucking perfect.” he lavishes attention on each breast, using his tongue and teeth until you’re squirming beneath him. when he finally starts kissing his way down your stomach, you know where he’s heading, and your whole body tenses in anticipation.

“dean, you don’t have to...” but he’s already hooking his fingers in your panties, pulling them down your legs. “oh god,” you gasp when his mouth finds you, hot and perfect and exactly what you need. he eats you out like he does everything else — with single-minded determination and skill that should be illegal.

within minutes, you’re writhing beneath him, one hand clamped over your mouth to muffle the sounds you’re making. the rain might be loud, but you’re pretty sure the whole forest doesn’t need to hear what dean winchester’s tongue is doing to you.

when you come, it’s with his name on your lips, like a prayer and your fingers tangled in his hair. he works you through it, only pulling away when you’re shaking for a completely different reason than cold. “told you i’d warm you up,” he says, looking entirely too pleased with himself as he crawls back up your body. you can taste yourself on his lips when he kisses you, and it’s filthy and perfect and you need him inside you right now.

“wait,” you breathe against his mouth, reaching between you to palm him through his boxers. he’s hard and hot and when you squeeze, he groans into your mouth. “i need you. de, please.”

“yeah, baby?” he asks, but he’s already shoving his boxers down. “you sure about this? because once i have you...” he trails off, but the intensity in his eyes finishes the sentence.

“i’m sure,”,you tell him, wrapping your legs around his waist. “been sure for months.” that seems to break his control. he lines himself up and pushes in slowly, and the stretch is perfect, exactly what you needed. when he’s fully seated, you both need a moment, panting heavily into each other’s mouths.

“holy fuck,” he breathes. “you feel incredible, baby girl. so fuckin’ tight.” he starts moving, slow at first but quickly building to a rhythm that has you seeing stars. the sleeping bag restricts movement somewhat, but it also keeps you pressed close together, every inch of skin touching. “not gonna last,” he warns, and you can feel him trembling with the effort of holding back.

“don’t,” you gasp, meeting him thrust for thrust as much as the confined space allows. “wanna feel you. want you to come inside me.” the words make him groan, hips stuttering. a few more thrusts and he feels like he’s on cloud nine, face buried in your neck as he empties himself inside you.

you lie there catching your breath, still tangled together in the sleeping bag. the rain is still pounding on the tent, but you’re warm now, flushed and satisfied. “so,” dean says eventually, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “still think camping was a terrible idea?”

“the worst idea,” you agree, but you’re cheesing hard. “we should probably do it again sometime. you know, just to make sure we’ve got the whole body heat thing down.”

he laughs, pulling you closer. “deal. but next time, i’m checking five weather apps.” you’re about to respond when he shifts inside you, still half-hard, and your words dissolve into a gasp. “actually,” he grunts, voice dropping back to that dangerous register, “storm’s not supposed to pass until morning. might need to keep generating heat all night. you know, for safety.”

“yeah, yeah. for safety,” you agree breathlessly, already rolling your hips against his. after all, you wouldn’t want to get cold again. and if dean winchester wants to spend all night keeping you warm? well, who are you to argue with survival tactics?

[sunflowerwinds]

girl, so confusing | v.a

summary: your relationships are a jumbled mess all thanks to you. you try to make amends with caitlyn but she isn’t so forgiving. vi makes an appearance that has you questioning if this was all worth it.

prev. part -> lick it, spit it

pairing: fem!cheerleader!reader x soccer player!vi

contains: modern!au, angst and so much of it, rocky friendships, tw: alcohol consumption and intoxication, and useless lesbians.

word count: 3.2K

a/n: i hope y’all don’t kill me this being my first post for pride month. i love you all. HAPPY PRIDE MONTH, ANGELS!! be safe & enjoy <333

Two weeks of absolute silence from Caitlyn is what you received from that incident.

During practice, she would purposefully ignore you and talk to pretty much every member of the squad except you. After the first few days, you figured that you deserved it.

It’s fresh, you told yourself as you watched her turn her back to you to talk to a fellow cheermate while you stared at her back; facing the indignity of your actions.

But nearing week two, you were tired of being iced out from the one girl you wanted to talk to more than anything right now. The problem with all of this was that when something like this would happen you would go to… well, Caitlyn.

Every bothersome event that happened throughout your day, you would bitch about it to Caitlyn. Now, you were stuck with no one to help you fix this.

And Vi.

Fucking Violet.

You couldn’t even start on how Vi has been treating you since the event. She didn’t text you for about a day or two, giving you the space that you had asked of her but by day five, she was spamming your phone with anxious texts.

A mixture of ‘how are you feeling today?’, ‘text me when you can please’, and the most gut-wrenching one; ‘i miss you.’

Like she was blatantly unaware that what you two had ruined everything.

At that two week mark, you had 35 unread texts from Violet and it was killing you to not answer them. Every single time you saw her name, your mind flashed the memory of Caitlyn’s infuriated and betrayed face when she realized what you had been hiding from her.

It’s not like you didn’t want to talk to Vi.

The guilt of it all was what you couldn’t handle; not while Caitlyn was shunning you out of her life.

It was the week before your first big cheerleading routine for the football team and you have had enough of it. The side-eyes when you dared to be inches near her, the huffs of annoyance when she realized you had arrived to practice, the near childish behavior when Caitlyn hadn’t even given you the time of day.

Whispers of the truth amongst your cheermates.

‘I heard she fucked Caitlyn’s ex.’

‘I think she walked in on them, like, oh my god. Talk about traumatizing.’

‘Can you believe she just did that and for so long? I would’ve beat her ass.’

That’s the thing. Even though they were talking shit about you, to your face, you were still another pretty and sweet cheerleader, just like them.

Yeah, fucking right.

So, you decided that the morning before practice, you would approach her and attempt to finally explain yourself.

Coach Medarda dismisses your squad with a not-at-all disencouraging statement: “Ladies remember, this is our first routine of the football season. We cannot mess this up. You are one unit. Without one of you, it does not work. So be present. And complicit.”

You suck in a deep breath as you watch Caitlyn chugging her water bottle on the metal bleachers, alone. Her blue strands are stuck to her forehead as her head tilts up to the cloudy blue sky, eyes shut as she attempts to calm her heart rate from flying.

You’re in a similar position but, exhaustion aside, you’re focused entirely on something else. You take a few seconds to muster up the courage and open your mouth.

You speak softly, going to sit down next to her.

“Cait?”

Her eyes peek open to see you, and they roll like they have been for the past two weeks; a familiar scene. She sits up and attempts to stand and walk away, but you reach for her wrist as a silent beg for her to stay.

Her head whips towards you with an uninterested expression, but her shoulders tense, giving away how irritated she is.

“Please, Cait. Let me explain.”

Caitlyn blinks at you, eyes flickering down to yours, which causes you to release her with a muttered apology. She sucks in a long deep breath before situating herself next to you once again, but staring straight ahead.

“Okay.” She huffs.

“Okay?” You double-check to make sure you aren’t making it up.

Her head turns to you with a sharp glare, but you nod in understanding.

Don’t push it.

You suck in a deep breath, mentally preparing yourself for any reaction.

“Cait, I need you to understand I never ever meant to hurt you,” Caitlyn makes a sound similar to a scoff and a chuckle mixed into one. You ignore it for a moment as you continue. “I-I didn’t even know I was into girls until Vi and I got assigned to be partners in English Lit. It happened so quickly and one thing led to another and we were seeing each other every other day. I wanted to tell you that night about everything and come clean. It was killing me keeping that a secret from you.”

The navy haired woman turns her body to you as she questions: “Is that supposed to make me feel better? Knowing that you were doing that behind my back for weeks knowing what she did to me? That you felt guilty?”

“No. No, that’s not–” You shake your head rapidly. “That’s not what I meant–”

Caitlyn presses a palm to her damp forehead with a long sigh.

“Then what do you mean? What is the point of this… explanation?”

Your lips twitch into a frown at that, looking down at your cheer shoes.

“To try to let you know that I never wanted to keep it a secret from you. I thought it was nothing; that she wouldn’t mean anything to me but…” You trail off as you shove your face into your hand, shielding your eyes. “She does. That’s what I was going to tell you that night. That I stupidly caught feelings for her.”

Caitlyn snorts at that. “Yeah. That’s very stupid of you.”

You nod in agreement as you lean forward to look at her.

“Are we… okay?” You test.

Caitlyn sucks in a deep breath. “Why? So that you can feel better about what you did to me? Or so you can talk to me again?”

Your heart sinks at her words, and you shut your eyes, knowing you’re still not in the clear.

And your silence causes Caitlyn to shake her head with a low scoff.

“Cait—”

“I have to go so I’ll-” she stands to her feet, adjusting her ponytail. “I’ll see you around.”

Not a ‘fuck off’ or a ‘never talk to me again’, so you took that as a plus. She’s tolerating you now.

You watch her step down the metal bleachers, with that unsatisfied, hollow feeling still twisting in your chest.

Later that night, you decided to attempt to write your paper for Social Psych class but the only thing clouding your mind was a red haired figment that has been haunting you. You adjust your back, straightening it to release some tension, when you hear your phone vibrate from across the room.

You still haven’t opened your messages from Vi, refraining from giving in. But you know how easy it is for you to fold for her.

Headphones blasting the most depressing music you’ve ever heard, you type away at your keyboard with determination for any sort of distraction. You’re about halfway through when you swear you hear a thump.

Removing one headphone, you pause your movements to search for another sound. And before you put the headphone back in your ear, another thump echoes throughout the dorm.

You think for a moment that it could be Sky, so you remove both headphones and set them on the counter top. You push back on your swivel chair to leave your bedroom and make your way to the front door.

Then it hits you.

Sky’s been home for over an hour now.

You remember as she peeked into your room to ask if you wanted the leftover food from her lunch.

You're standing in front of the door when you hear another louder thump and then a groan. Curious, you lean forward to peer through the peephole.

In the warped view, you see Vi slumped against the door. One of her hands is pinching the bridge of her nose as she releases long and slow breaths.

What the fuck is she doing here?

“Vi?” You call out carefully, as you didn’t want to open the door and have her come in.

Her eyes widen as she pushes herself off of the door with a grunt.

“Hey, uh, can I come in?” Her voice is slow and has a slight slur to it.

You silently curse to yourself as it’s obvious now that Vi is intoxicated.

“How did you get here?” You ask.

Vi sighs as she shakes her head to herself. “I walked here. Got back from a party with the team.”

You blink. “It’s Monday.”

“Yeah, well, what do I have left to lose, y’know?” A weak laugh leaves her lips as she sniffles.

You shut your eyes with a long inhale before unlocking the door. You twist the knob and hesitantly tug the door open, eyes already glazed over threatening tears.

Vi stands upright to appear as sober as possible, but you aren’t blind. She’s sporting a replica of her jersey in a t-shirt form and a pair of baggy jeans.

You both just stare at each other for a moment; neither one of you is brave enough to make a move.

“Can I come in? Please?” Vi’s voice is low and a little raspy, thick with the alcohol she’s been drinking.

A beat passes. Contemplating on whether or not your choice is going to be a good idea or not.

“Yeah.”

You open the door wider and step aside, avoiding her eyes as she steps in. Her movements are lazy and careless as she looks around the space like she hasn’t been here a thousand times. Her cheeks are flushed, eyes glazed over with tears due to her intoxication.

At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

She points around the room with a soft hum. “Did you do something new with the decor or—”

“Vi, what are you doing here?” You cut off her joking manner.

You shut the door with a soft click and stare at her from a distance. Vi sucks in a sharp breath at your question, rubbing her heavy eyes with her thumb and middle finger.

“We ‘ave a project to do still, you know? You can’t-” she slurs slightly, raising her hand to your body that is keeping distance. “You can’t just ignore me out of nowhere for no reason. Ice me out and shit.”

You shut your eyes as you try to compose yourself, shaking your head.

“You know the reason, Violet.”

Vi takes a few steps forward, her pupils blown so wide you swear there’s only the thinnest ring left of that blue, that shade you would drown yourself willingly. Your arms stay wrapped around yourself, not for warmth, but to keep you from reaching out, from giving in to her touch.

“I wish I met you first.” Her voice is laced with misery, as one of her hands reaches for your face.

Your eyes prick with hot tears as you lean into her palm, giving in for a split second. You retract from her touch as if it's scorching, stepping away and walking around her, holding your hands up in defense. Vi sighs as you do so, turning her body to watch you.

“No. No. You can’t just show up to my place drunk and say that shit to me. I fucked up a friendship because of this, Vi.” You express, out of frustration.

Vi blinks and runs a hand over her face. “Because of this? W-What is this?”

You shake your head. She’s drunk and her knees are wobbling just standing in place, you tell yourself. You need to save this conversation for tomorrow.

“I can’t do this when you’re like this, Vi. Just– C’mon, let’s go to bed. You need to sleep.”

Vi takes a heavy step forward.

“I mean, you don’t miss me? Not even a little?” She questions, voice tight and vulnerable.

Your chest hasn’t felt this heavy in your entire life: facing a contradicting narrative over your life.

You sigh and shake your head. “Vi—“

“Because I do miss you. All the time.” She cuts you off, her voice cracking, exposing herself even more.

A deep cry settles in your throat, itching at the base, but you push it down. You can’t let yourself crumble from a few drunken words.

“Vi.”

She sniffles and breaths out a soft sigh, wiping over her dry mouth with one hand. Her eyes find yours as her bottom lip trembles for a second, before sucking in another deep breath.

You’re not sure what to make of the sight in front of you.

Is it real? Is it pathetic or an act of cowardice?

Maybe it’s both.

“Right. Sleep,” she smacks her lips. “I’ll jus’ sleep on the couch,” she waves you off as she attempts to stumble to the couch.

“Vi, please, just take my bed.”

“But where will you sleep?” She questions, blinking slowly at you.

The only thing you respond with is: “It’s a queen.”

Vi hums at that, before shrugging her shoulders, making her way to your bedroom and mumbling nonsense to herself. You follow behind her as you wipe the fallen tear that escaped from your tired eyes. Your eye catches Sky’s bedroom door slightly open and her head peeking out when Vi accidentally hits her hip on your door frame.

“Is that–” She begins to question.

“Yeah. She’s… drunk. I don’t want her going back home like that.”

Sky’s nods simply, seeming to hold back her true feelings about this situation.

“Okay. Just be careful.” Her curls fall a bit in front of her face as she shakes her head, sucking in a deep breath. “Night.”

You frown but nod back. “Night, Sky.”

Her bedroom door shuts with a soft click, making you sit with a bit of silence before walking over to your own bedroom. Stepping into the room, the first thing you see is Vi laying face first into your mattress.

In her outside scented clothes and shoes. Right in the middle.

You huff as you shut your door and lock it, walking over to Vi’s figure.

“Violet. I need to give you a change of clothes.” You tap her rising and falling back, ignoring the way she groans in frustration.

“Why?” She says into the mattress.

You sigh, rubbing your temple. “Because you’re getting your dirty clothes all over my comforter and I don’t want you sleeping in those.”

Vi rolls over on her back with a long grunt, smacking her lips and looking up at you.

“Like dirtier things haven’t been done on this comforter.” She snorts.

You feel your lips twitch into a smile because yeah, she got you there.

“Even so, come on. Stand up.”

Vi reaches for your arms to sit up and hoist off the bed onto her feet. You stare at her as you adjust your grip on her forearms to keep her upright.

“You okay?” You ask as you stare at her to try.

“Yeah, just… wanna lay back down.”

You blow out a laugh at that and shake your head. “Just give me a second and you can lay back down.”

You let go of her gently, turning toward your dresser to dig through the drawer where she used to leave her clothes, back when your routine was all fucking and studying, one bleeding into the other. You ignore the flashing of memories of you two clawing at each other the second you touch the clothes. You pull out one of her old band tees and a pair of joggers, clear your throat, and hold them out.

Her eyes are lazily blinking at you, in a daze like she’s trapped in her mind.

“I’ll turn around. Tell me if you need any help, okay?” You tell her softly.

Vi nods, eyes never leaving yours.

You tear yourself away from her and stand a few feet away with your back to her, wrapping your arms around yourself. A few seconds pass before the rustle of clothing being removed fills the still silence. That time period felt eerily long, Vi makes grunts of struggle but doesn’t ask for your help.

“‘M good.” Vi tells you after five minutes.

You turn to see her in the changed attire, her shoes now placed under your desk. She yawns and rubs a hand over her face.

“Okay, just give me a second. You can… go ahead and sleep, Vi.” You wave for her to lay back down.

Vi stares at you, eyes flickering over every inch of you. You suck in a deep breath at the intensity.

“You’re always beautiful, y’know?” She mutters before laying down with a grunt.

Jesus.

You refuse to acknowledge it for both of your sakes and watch her shut her eyes, relaxing into the mattress. You leave the bedroom for a second to enter the bathroom, shutting the door with a shuddering breath.

You need to recollect yourself before you face her again. You’re hoping she’ll be dead asleep by the time you come out.

Grabbing painkillers and nausea relievers, you tug the bathroom door open again to go to your bedroom again. Your eyes find Vi’s snuggled up body underneath the comforter now, her eyes shut and soft sighs leaving her lips.

A breath of relief leaves your mouth as you set the bottles on your bedside table, looking at her now relaxed figure.

Careful not to wake her, you shut off your lamp and lift the comforter and sheet to lay down next to her, your back to her. You believe she’s asleep until you hear her whisper in the dark.

“I promise ‘m not gonna throw up on you.”

You release a light chuckle at that.

“Violet, go to sleep.” You hum. “And you better not.”

Another minute of silence.

“Can I tell you somethin’? Before we go to bed?”

You hold back your irritated sigh, needing this sleep for you now.

“Yeah?”

Vi’s silent again, and you think she’s knocked out before she can get other words out. A trembling sigh leaves her lips before she mutters.

“I never liked Caitlyn,” she mutters with a long exhale. “But I like you so much… and I hate that I can’t fuckin’ say it when I’m sober.”

Neither of you move a muscle. A heavy silence falls over the moonlit room.

You open your mouth for a second before shutting it, knowing nothing you could say would make this situation any better. You purse your lips as you hear Vi shift from behind you, eyes prickling with emotional tears.

She’s quiet. She’s asleep.

You fall asleep next to her at last, your pillow damp with quiet tears. Hers is no different. Stained with guilt, softened by the weight of what neither of you can say.

TAGLIST: @korn-dawg @sawaagyapong @unear7hly @leeidk87 @childishname @ferxanda @whisperingcherub @rad-radical2 @strawb4kdior @natscloset @aliendustpee @satorix @rosieeteaa @moodient @mars4hellokitty @klallx @skzvilleshi @drunkenrosesluv @fairexy78 @angelynn-nicole @sevikas-baby @milanyas @jajsnjz @oatmatchalatte @laceyxrenee @kmhbygss @ariariarr @ghostlyvoidydragon @talyaisvalslutsoldier @miajooz @kitty-kei @jivimatcha @orchidprincesss @ilahrawr @morticeras @g4ys0n

[slutzforbueckers]

hii! I was wondering if u would write some relationship headcanons (both fluff and smut) of how Paige would be in a relationship with a stoner? idk maybe its just me but I feel like Paige would lwk have a just a little tiny kink for it. but I think their relationship outside of the bedroom would be just pure fluff. like any happy relationship except in this one Paige's gf is a stoner

baby let’s get stoned

pairing: paige bueckers x fem!reader

warnings: fluff and smut

synopsis: headcanons for paige x stoner!reader

a/n: written by a fellow stoner 😌

♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧

she lovesssss the way you smell after smoking. the mixture of your perfume and weed makes the best combo and it never fails to make her weak in the knees.

her nickname for you is “cloudy”. every time she walks into your apartment there’s clouds of smoke slowly dissipating so the name sticks like glue.

paige walked into your apartment, using her key, and was immediately hit with a cloud of smoke. she smiled as soon as she spotted you on the couch—head tilted to the side, joint tucked between your fingers—watched a true crime documentary.

“hey, cloudy.” she sank down onto the couch beside you.

“hi, baby.” you grinned wide, drawling out the end of your sentence, and climbed into her lap.

paige doesn’t smoke—and you’d never pressure her to—but she does like to sit with you while you smoke. she gets a contact high sometimes.

the way you look at her when you’re high—eyes low, red, and glossy—100% turns her on and she’s not afraid to say it.

“stop looking at me like that.” paige mumbled, flushing a shade of red as she looked away. you sat on the other end of the couch with your bottom lip pulled between your teeth. paige shifted uncomfortably, pulling at the crotch of her sweatpants as if she had something to show.

"why?"

"s'turning me on."

she absolutely knows whenever you run out of weed and haven't smoked for a few days. you had an attitude with everyone—including paige—and she found that hilarious.

"morning, babe." paige said as she looked over her shoulder when you walked in— your hair a mess and frown on your face— and took a seat at the island. "you hungry? i'm making breakfast."

"no, i'm not hungry." you mumbled, dropping your head onto the counter.

"what? you're always hungry. are you sure-"

"paige!" you called her name harshly, causing her to hold her hands up and turn back around—hiding a smile as she went back to scrambling eggs.

paige loves when you get the munchies. she says it's annoying whenever you're waking up out of her nap to tell her you want canes, but the way she smiles and gets up as soon as you ask says she finds it cute.

you hovered over paige, she was curled up on the couch sleeping. you had finished smoking about 10 minutes ago and now the munchies were starting to settle in. you bit your lip as you crouched down in front of her. the debate between waking her up or going by yourself was strong—waking her up ultimately won.

"paige." you tapped her a few times, wincing when she start to groan. you tapped her again, a little harder until she finally opened her eyes. "paige, i want cane's."

even in her half awake half asleep state, she smiled and shook her head. "go get the keys."

she loves how needy you get when you're high. she loves the way you're all over her, hands roaming up her shirt, slowly kissing her neck and jaw as you rocked your hips on her thigh.

paige's head tipped back with a low moan as you sucked a small mark on her pulse point. her hands were planted on your hips as she helped you grind on her thigh.

"shit, baby—" she moaned again, her own hips jutting up. she was undoubtedly soaked.

most importantly: she loves you either way, high or sober.

[julietsf1]

A Soft Place To Land - Lando Norris x Reader

summary: she came for the quiet—early mornings, silence, and a chance to find herself again. he came to disappear for a while, to bike through villages and forget what his name meant to other people. they weren’t looking for each other. but somehow, they kept meeting in the middle. (7.8k words)

content: slow-burn, mutual pining, found peace, simple life in a cmbyn type town off the grid <3

AN: so guess whose laptop died this weekend lmao :') nice excuse to treat myself to a MacBook finally! I feel like it makes me look extra sexy and mysterious now writing in my local cafe so bet I'm gonna be writing a lot upcoming days as I love looking sexy

---------------------------------------------------

You arrived on a Wednesday. The kind of day that couldn’t commit to a forecast—sun, then shadow, then sun again—like the sky was tired of having an opinion. You came by car, winding your way through soft green hills and sleepy lanes until the town blinked into view, all shuttered windows and ochre rooftops tucked into the countryside like it belonged there before anyone decided to name it.

The cottage was waiting—slightly crooked, painted the kind of pale yellow that looks prettier in late afternoon. Ivy curled around the doorframe like it had been choreographed. Inside, there was no television. No WiFi. A teapot that wheezed when it boiled. A single mirror with cloudy edges and the kind of honest lighting that didn’t forgive. You liked that.

You weren’t fleeing anything dramatic. No messy breakup. No scandal. Just noise—the exhausting static of always being visible but never quite seen. Your old life had grown too curated, too performative. Lately even your laughter felt like it needed approval.

You wanted to be a person again. Quietly. Without audience.

The village made that easy.

It was the kind of place where mornings came slow and honest, dusted in that early golden light that made even the postboxes look charming. You wandered. Bought plums. Forgot your phone. The locals mostly left you alone, except for one old man who kept offering you pickled eggs. You politely declined. Twice.

That’s where you found the bike shop. Not a shop, exactly—just an open garage at the end of a lane. A few rusted frames leaned against the wall like retirees. One of them had lavender handlebars and a charm to it. You reached out.

So did someone else.

There was a brush of fingers—yours and his—and you both flinched.

“Oh—” you said, blinking up.

He was wearing sunglasses too scratched to be functional and a hoodie that looked like it had lived a full life. His sleeves were shoved up to the elbows, and his forearms were tanned and freckled like he hadn’t worn SPF since March. He didn’t look like he was trying. He just... was.

“No, no,” he said quickly, backing up with his palms raised. “Go ahead. You were there first.”

You tilted your head. “You sure?”

“Absolutely.” He tucked his hands into his pockets, like the thought of arguing offended him personally. “I’ve had my eye on that one for days. But to be fair... I don’t trust the brakes anyway.”

“Ah so you’re just setting me up for an accident.”

“Small town. I could use some entertainment.”

You smiled—just a little. The kind that surprised even you.

He answered with a grin of his own. Slightly crooked. Not polished.

The handlebars were warm in your hands. Sun-soaked. Familiar, somehow.

“Thank you,” you said.

He gave a small nod. “I like the colour. Suits you better.”

You weren’t sure what to say to that, so you didn’t. You wheeled the bike out toward the road, a little unsteady but determined.

He chose a different one—red, with one working pedal and a chip in the paint that gave it character. You glanced over your shoulder once, halfway down the lane.

He was already pedaling the other way.

His hair caught the wind. He tilted his head to the sky like he was letting it carry him.

You didn’t know his name.

…

You spend your time wandering the narrow lanes, sketchbook tucked under your arm, buying odd fruit from crooked stalls, sitting in patches of sunlight like a cat. You don’t know what time it is most of the day. You don’t care.

And you see him.

Always in motion, always a little removed—like he belongs here but hasn’t quite let the place claim him. Sometimes he bikes past humming under his breath, the wire of his headphones tucked messily into his shirt. Other times, he’s walking, one hand in his pocket, the other tapping a rhythm against his thigh like he’s thinking through something he’ll never actually say.

You’ve spotted the slim outline of a scratched iPod in his back pocket. The bracelet on his wrist—faded thread, sun-softened red and blue—looks handmade and not in a curated, aesthetic way. Just... worn in. Familiar. Like it was given, not bought.

You catch each other’s eye now and then. Not deliberately. More like the way birds nod at each other from separate fences. A lift of the hand, a small smile. It becomes a rhythm. Not daily. Not planned. Just... familiar. Like heat rising off cobblestones. Or the first scent of bread in the morning.

On the third day, the weather turns.

You wake up to a sky stretched thin with heat. The shutters rattle faintly in their hinges when you close them behind you, and the gravel path crunches with the lazy sound of summer under your shoes.

You head into the village and buy a small paper bag of figs and a loaf of bread still warm enough to make your fingers curl. There’s no rush. No plan. You pause at stalls for longer than usual, breathing in lavender and dust, turning over tomatoes like they might tell you a secret.

Eventually, you duck into the café near the edge of the square just as the first fat drops begin to fall.

It’s barely more than a room. One wall all windows, curtains tied back with string. Five tables, each with a different chair. A counter lined with baskets of sugar cubes and a chalkboard that always says something vague like le soleil revient toujours.

The woman behind it—silver hair twisted into a knot, hands like poetry—gives you a slice of carrot cake without asking.

“Fresh,” she tells you. “C’est bon pour les jours tristes.”

It’s good for sad days.

You sit by the window, the cake warm and sticky with cinnamon. It tastes like something soft inside you remembers.

The bell above the door chimes.

And he’s there.

Hair damp from the rain, curls darker now. His shirt clings slightly at the collarbone, sleeves wrinkled like they’ve been rolled and unrolled all morning. He has his iPod in one hand, the headphones wrapped around it in a way that says he got distracted midway through.

He sees you.

And something about his face stills, but doesn’t change.

You smile first.

This time, he smiles back—full and quiet and entirely sincere.

He glances around—just you, the rain, the hum of a far-off radio. Then he walks over.

“Mind if I...?” he gestures to the chair across from you.

You shake your head. “Please.”

He sits like someone who’s trying not to be in the way. Like he knows how to fold himself small when needed.

The café woman appears without a word and sets down a glass of apple juice in front of him. He blinks. “Wow. Okay.”

You raise a brow. “Apple juice?”

He takes a sip, eyebrows lifting like he’s tasting something from a different era. “Sexy. Mysterious. A little bit fruity.”

You snort into your fork. “That your review or your Tinder bio?”

He grins. “Bit of both. Gave up Tinder though, I just go to tiny cafés now.”

A faint blush creeps on your cheeks and you take another bite of your cake.

“I’m Lando by the way.” He holds his hand out for you to shake.

“Nice to meet you, Lando.” You answer smiling.

The rain tickles the windows like it’s trying to join the conversation.

“So,” he says, leaning his arms on the table, “there’s like 20 people in this town, us included?”

You smirk. “Yesterday, I bought plums from someone who called me la petite perdue, the little lost one, and gave me a free one out of pity.”

“Rough.” He nods gravely. “I asked a guy where to find the best croissants and he told me to ‘go home and learn how to bake.’”

You wince. “Brutal.”

“French.”

“Did you learn how to bake, though?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

You both laugh. It’s the kind that hums in your chest, easy and bright and not at all forced.

He glances at your plate. “So? This cake—is it actually good or just charming-village good?”

You study it for a second. “It's like something an aunt makes when guests come over and she wants to pretend she isn’t trying.”

“That’s the best kind.”

You push the plate toward the middle of the table. “Go on.”

He takes a bite without hesitation. Chews. Nods. “Annoyingly comforting.”

“It’s the cinnamon.”

“It’s like crack.” He sits back, tilting his head. “You staying long?”

You lift a shoulder. “Depends.”

“On?”

“Whether I keep waking up feeling a little more like myself.”

He looks at you for a moment longer than is strictly polite.

Then: “Yeah. I get that. Same for me.”

You tilt your head. “Really? What’s your escape-from-the-world backstory?”

He lets out a theatrical sigh. “Was hoping to be reborn as a goat, but mostly I’ve just been eating bread and avoiding my Australian colleague.”

“A noble quest.”

He lifts his juice like a toast. “To secondhand bikes and rainy mornings.”

You clink your fork against his glass. “To language barriers and stale croissants.”

And just like that, the café feels warmer. The space between you looser.

When the rain finally began to slow, the world outside looked washed and reflective. You stood. So did he. The chairs scraped gently against the tile floor, and the café owner gave you both a little nod as you passed.

Your bike was still leaning against the wall, looking the same as it always had: slightly crooked, unapologetically stubborn.

“Still doesn’t brake properly?” he asked, nodding toward it.

You glanced at the frame. “Keeps me on my toes.”

He grinned, eyes a little too knowing. “I respect that.”

You swung a leg over the bike, adjusted your cardigan. He didn’t move. Just watched you like he didn’t really want to leave the frame of this scene yet.

“Well,” he said.

“Well.”

“I’ll see you around, then?”

You turned your head, meeting his gaze with something lighter in your chest than before. “You usually do.”

Then you pushed off.

The wheels hummed beneath you as you coasted down the glistening lane, droplets flicking up from the tires, the wind lifting your hair. For a moment, everything—the air, the street, even the puddles—seemed to glow.

…

You wake with the early light, when the shutters spill pale gold across the floorboards like paint from an open jar. The air smells faintly of honeysuckle and the soft charcoal tang of chimney smoke drifting from somewhere higher up the hill. You boil water, steep tea in the chipped mug you brought from home, and walk barefoot across the uneven tiles while the kettle wheezes like an old dog trying to gossip.

Then, tea in hand, you go to the bench.

It’s not much—just a wooden seat with flaking paint, half-swallowed by long grass and perched at the edge of a field where the light always seems to move slower. Like the morning itself hasn't decided what kind of day it wants to be yet. You sit there every day with your sketchbook balanced on your knees, pencil in hand, the silence soft and obliging. It doesn’t ask questions. It just keeps you company.

Sketching doesn’t demand anything. It’s a way of looking that feels gentler. Less about perfection, more about presence. It pulls you back when your thoughts drift too far forward or behind. It reminds you—you’re still here.

And almost always, he bikes past.

You’ve learned that his Airbnb is further uphill, on a narrow, winding road that loops lazily through the back of the village. He cycles into town most mornings, allegedly for fruit or pastries, but often—he’ll admit—it’s for nothing at all. 

The conversations started small. Breezy things. Half-thoughts, half-jokes. The kind of talking that fills the air without crowding it.

One morning, Lando pulled up beside the bench and asked—with complete seriousness—what your favourite film was. You said Before Sunrise. He said Fantastic Mr. Fox.

“That tracks,” you murmured, and he cracked a grin—bright and boyish and slightly crooked. You thought about that laugh for the rest of the day.

Lately, he lingers.

He slows down more, even when he doesn’t plan to stop. Sometimes, he leans his forearms against the back of your bench and watches your pencil move, offering oddly specific commentary like, “That tree looks like my mate Oscar,” or “This cloud feels like it would judge me in a job interview.”

You never look at him when he says silly things like that. But you always smile.

Some mornings, he brings you things. Once, a bruised nectarine. Another time a wrinkled leaflet for a jazz concert that had happened last year. One day, you asked what he was listening to on his iPod and he just said, “Early One Direction. But like, the deep cuts.” before cycling off with a wink.

You learn his rhythm. The way he hums on the downhill stretch. The way he says bonjour to the same grumpy cat outside the bakery. The way his hair curls at the nape of his neck when it’s humid. The bracelet he always wears—faded thread, frayed at the edge. How he never finishes a full pastry but always offers you the last bite.

You don’t know what to call it yet. This something. This him. But you’re starting to notice how much softer the mornings feel when he’s part of them.

And how strange it is to miss someone you never planned to see at all.

Then, one morning, he surprises you.

You’re sketching the tree line again, pencil balanced between your fingers, when a shadow lands softly over your knees.

You glance up.

He’s standing beside the bench, holding something in both hands—a mug. Not new, not pristine. Blue glaze around the rim, a daisy painted off-center. It looks like it came from a kitchen where the cupboards don’t match and no one minds.

He doesn’t say anything for a second. Just offers it out, his fingers curved gently around the handle.

“I saw this at the market,” he says, casual. “Figured it looked close enough to the one you chipped.”

You blink once, then again. It’s too early for your guard to be all the way up.

“You bought me a mug?”

Lando shrugs, like it’s not a thing. “Didn’t want you drinking out of something that might slice your lip open. Don’t even know if they have a doctor in this little town.”

You take it slowly, letting your fingers brush his just slightly. It’s warm.

“You’re very committed to my safety.”

“Some might say I’m an empath,” he says, trying to keep a straight-face. “You don’t have to look so surprised.”

You crack a smile.

He sits beside you, completely uninvited. Just like that. “Brought one for myself too, if you don’t mind”

His knee knocks yours as he shifts to grab another mug and a thermos from his bag. Neither of you adjust.

The breeze moves through the field, brushing the tall grass flat for half a second before it lifts again. You raise the mug to your lips and take a slow sip.

It tastes a little better than usual.

“Do you always make that face when you’re sketching?”

You didn’t look up. “What face?”

He coasted to a slow stop in the grass and launched straight into an over-the-top impersonation—lips scrunched, brows furrowed, eyes slightly crossed.

You glanced sideways. “Is that supposed to be me?”

He kept going. “I must... channel the essence of this leaf. I must suffer... for texture.”

You snorted. “You’re such a nerd.”

He grinned. “Come on, you do have a whole look. Very funny. I respect the commitment.”

You shook your head, pencil still moving. “Right. Says the guy who bikes around looking like he’s in Call Me By Your Name.”

He leaned on the back of the bench, smug as anything. “I can’t help it if I look like a movie star, darling.”

You gave him a side-eye. “So humble.”

“I don’t hear you disagreeing with me.”

You laughed, soft and unwilling. He didn’t say anything else—just stayed close, quiet, easy in your orbit. And your pencil kept moving, but the corners of your mouth hadn’t stopped lifting since he arrived.

He leans back, his arm resting casually along the back of the bench. His bracelet slides a little on his wrist, thread faded in the center.

A few minutes pass like that—his presence quiet but close, your pencil moving in soft lines. He smells faintly of laundry powder and sunscreen.

…

You are secretly thrilled to see him that morning.

You’re at your usual bench, sketchbook open, tea warm in your hands, the sun already softening the edges of your linen trousers. The field hums. You’re halfway through the slant of a tree that never quite sits still when you hear tires crunching over the path.

You look up.

It’s him.

Same bike. Different shirt. Canvas bag slung over one shoulder, baguette sticking out the top like he’s been personally styled by a charming cliché. He squints through the light, already grinning.

“Still terrorizing that poor tree?” he calls.

You glance at your page. “It has character.”

He rolls to a stop beside you. “It’s been, what—four days?”

“It has a lot of personality,” you say, straight-faced.

“Oh, well then. If that’s what you are looking for, I’ve got loads of personality for you.” He says with a cheeky wink.

You raise an eyebrow. “You? Sit still long enough to be sketched? Please.”

He swings a leg off his bike with flair. “I could try. But I’d probably get hungry halfway through.”

He lifts the canvas bag like it’s a grand prize. “Speaking of—come with me.”

You eye the baguette. “That your sales pitch?”

“Bread and charm. I’m working with what I’ve got.”

“And where exactly are we going?”

“That wildflower field past the creek. You need new inspiration. This tree deserves a break. I need breakfast.”

“You’ve been watching me sketch long enough to have opinions now?”

“I’m observant. It’s a hidden skill. I’ve built a whole career out of reading lines and curves.”

You catch it. The quiet drop of something—easy, offhand, like he assumed you already knew.

But you don’t ask. You just stand, close your sketchbook, and tuck it under your arm.

Lando watches you with a flicker of curiosity—like he’s waiting for the question that never comes.

“And you’re getting me there how, exactly?”

He pats the cross bar of the bike. “Hop on.”

“Are you serious?”

“I’m always serious about snacks. And this blanket’s not going to carry itself.”

You hesitate, heart skipping—not with fear, but anticipation. You jump on the bar.

“Hold tight,” he says, kicking off.

“Oh my God.”

He laughs, arm instinctively sliding around your waist. “Relax. Worst case, we fall into a bush.”

“You’re not even holding the handlebars properly.”

“I’m multi-talented,” he says, steering with one hand, humming under his breath.

The path dips and curves. Wind brushes your face. And for the next five minutes, you feel like you’ve been dropped into the part of a summer film right before the music swells.

…

The wildflower field is even beautiful and bright.

He rolls the bike into the grass like it’s muscle memory, drops the bag beside it, and pulls out a folded blanket with the confidence of someone who’s done this before.

“I’m genuinely impressed you remembered a blanket,” you say, eyeing the setup.

He shrugs, casually smug. “Some of us come prepared.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You don’t strike me as a planning-ahead kind of guy.”

“Among other hidden talents,” he says, casually flicking a grape your way. “Thought you might’ve Googled me by now.”

You catch the grape, just barely. “Wild to think I find you that interesting.”

He grins. “What if I’m a fugitive criminal and that’s why I’m out here, hiding.”

You hum. “I’ll think I prefer to remain in the dark about that.”

His eyes catch yours, teasing but quieter now. “You’re not even a little bit tempted to look me up right now?”

“Even less than before. For all I care you are the crown prince of Denmark, you are still an annoying little shit.”

He grins amused and grabs another grape.

You kick off your shoes and sit beside him, brushing your hair behind your ears.

“You ever bring anyone else here?” you ask, eyeing the setup—peaches in syrup, cheese, a suspiciously artisanal jar of jam.

He hands you a napkin. “No one. Only few get to experience my special seduction peaches.”

You almost spit your tea. “You did not just say that.”

“Oh, I absolutely did. You compared me to that Timothée movie the other day—so really, this is on you.”

Before you can respond, Lando plucks a flower from the grass and tucks it behind his ear like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Then he looks at you, smug and unbothered.

“What do you think? Suits the vibe, right?”

You give him a slow once-over. “You’re pushing it.”

“Sure,” he says, adjusting it with mock precision. “I think it makes my eyes pop quite nicely though, don’t you?”

You snort. “You always fish this hard for compliments?”

He shrugs, casual as ever. “Only from you.”

You roll your eyes at him but fail to hide your smile.  

Lando unpacks slowly, casually—like this is all just something that happened to him, not something he planned. You let him talk about how he once tried to make focaccia and accidentally started a small kitchen fire. He lets you tell the story of the time you asked a Parisian barista for a boyfriend instead of a straw.

“Did he offer his number?”

“No. He laughed and said ‘bonne chance.’”

He tips his head back and laughs, a full sound that seems to ripple out into the field.

You lie back beside him, full of cheese and sunlight. The grass is soft, the breeze lazy, and for the first time in ages, you feel completely still.

Your fingers rest close but don’t touch. His eyes are closed, lashes long, expression relaxed. There’s a smudge of jam near the corner of his mouth. The bracelet on his wrist has slid halfway down his forearm.

You look at him—not because he’s objectively handsome, though he is—but because being around him doesn’t feel like something you have to manage. He doesn’t need anything from you. He just shows up. With jokes. With peaches. With warmth.

You’re not used to that. But you’re starting to think maybe you could be.

You turn your face toward the sky.

And for a second, you let the quiet hold you both.

…

You don’t sleep that night.

Not for lack of trying. You go through all the motions—face washed, teeth brushed, window cracked open just enough to let the breeze curl across the floor. You even do the thing where you flip the pillow to the cooler side, hoping your body will take the hint.

It doesn’t.

Your legs still feel sun-drunk and grass-damp. Your hands remember the weight of the baguette you both pretended not to take seriously. Your chest, somehow, still echoes with the sound of his laugh—low and delighted and very much not meant for anyone else.

And your mind won’t stop showing you that moment again.

Lando. The field. His shoulder just barely brushing yours. That ridiculous flower tucked behind his ear. The way he looked when he wasn’t talking—just… there. Loose-limbed and open. Hair a mess. Bracelet slipping halfway down his arm. Eyes closed like the sun belonged to him.

You shift under the covers. Still no good.

Eventually, you slip out of bed.

Barefoot and quiet, you cross the tiles to the kitchen. The lamp above the stove gives off a soft yellow glow. The house creaks once as if noticing you’re up.

Your sketchbook is right where you left it—on the nightstand, corner bent slightly from use. You carry it with you like muscle memory and sit at the little table with your legs tucked under, pencil already balanced between your fingers.

You don’t plan what you’re going to draw.

You just start.

It begins with his posture. Easy. Familiar now. Then the curve of his neck where the sun had kissed it pink. The line of his mouth—not posed, just relaxed. And that flower. Silly and lovely. You add it carefully, even though it makes you laugh under your breath again.

You sketch the hills in the background, the fold of the blanket, the half-bitten baguette lying next to him like a punchline.

Your hand moves without asking your permission. Your pencil seems to know the parts of him that mattered. The crinkle near his eye when he made you laugh. The line of his jaw when he leaned back and said something that made your chest buzz in that quiet, dangerous way.

You sit back when it’s done, but you don’t close the book.

You just look at him.

Something in your chest lets go a little.

And then—without really meaning to—you start flipping through the older pages.

Tree trunks. Hills. Sunlight. Quiet things. But now you’re noticing shapes that weren’t the focus at the time. A shadow leaning against a bench. The outline of a bike resting just off-frame. Coffee mugs.

You frown a little. Then smile, too.

Because he’s been showing up longer than you thought.

And now he’s here, on the page in front of you, taking up space like he always belonged there.

…

You didn’t sleep—not really.

One of those nights where you lay still for hours, heart too loud, sheets too warm, brain spinning in loops you couldn’t name. You kept thinking of the field, of the flowers brushing your ankles, of the way his laugh curled around your spine. And of his knees—close, brushing yours like it didn’t mean anything. Like it meant everything.

When morning finds you, it does so unkindly.

The light is too sharp. Your limbs are stiff with something leftover from the night before—restlessness, maybe, or the quiet ache of wanting.

You sit up slowly. The room smells like warm wood and the tea you didn’t finish yesterday.

You skip the kettle.

Too gentle. Too slow. You need caffeine. 

You pull on whatever’s nearby—a linen shirt, a pair of sandals—and grab your bag from the hook. Your sketchbook is tucked inside, the top corner of the latest page still slightly curled from where your hand lingered too long the night before. It’s warm from the sunlit table. Warm from you.

It’s quiet in the village. That early, golden hush that only comes once the birds have tired themselves out and the people haven’t started yet. Everything smells like stone and heat and thyme. You walk without much thought. First slow, then a little faster. Like maybe if you keep moving, your thoughts won’t catch up.

The café is open. It always is.

You go straight to the counter and order an espresso without looking up. Your voice is quieter than usual. Automatic. The barista nods. The machine hisses.

You shift your bag on your shoulder. Fumble in the front pocket for coins.

The sketchbook slips.

You don’t hear it.

You’re too busy remembering the shape of his grin.

You pay. Say merci. Take your espresso and go.

Behind you, the sketchbook lies open on the counter, a breeze flipping the top page like it wants someone—anyone—to look.

…

You take the long way home. Not on purpose. Not really.

Your legs just keep going—past the chapel with the wonky bell, past the grocer unloading crates of apricots that smell like sun, past the bakery with its windows fogged from the morning batch.

You sip slowly. The espresso is sharp and bitter and unkind but also everything you needed.

When you pass the bench, it’s empty. You don’t stop. You don’t even glance toward the road that loops up the hill.

But halfway home, you freeze.

That ache in your chest returns—low, pulling. Something’s off.

You reach for your bag. Dig past your wallet, the folded napkin from yesterday’s market, a spare pencil.

No sketchbook.

You stop walking.

Check again.

Slower this time. More methodical. Like maybe it’ll appear if you’re careful enough.

It doesn’t.

Your stomach drops.

You whisper to yourself, trying to backtrack. “I had it. I know I had it. I remember taking it.”

And then it hits you.

The café.

You’re already running.

…

The bell above the café door jangled sharply as you burst in. The barista looked up, startled.

“Excusez-moi,” you said, slightly out of breath.  “Vous auriez trouvé un carnet, par hasard ? Je l’ai peut-être oublié ce matin.” (Excuse me, did you happen to find a notebook? I might’ve left it here this morning.)

She blinked, then frowned slightly. “Un carnet… genre un cahier ?” (A notebook… like a journal?)

You nodded. “Oui, un carnet à dessin. Noir. Je l’ai sûrement laissé sur le comptoir.” (Yes, a sketchbook. Black. I probably left it on the counter.)

She glanced around, lifted the napkin holder, checked behind the coffee machine. “J’ai rien vu, désolée. Mais y’a eu pas mal de monde après vous.” (Didn’t see anything, sorry. But there were quite a few people after you.)

Your stomach dipped.

“D’accord… merci quand même,” you murmured. (Alright… thanks anyway.)

“Pas de souci,” she said gently, already returning to the machine. (No worries.)

Your eyes scan the tables. The chairs. Every quiet shadow. But it’s gone.

Really, truly gone.

You step outside slowly. The sun is too high now, the village too awake. The world feels like it’s pressing in from all angles.

You sit on the stone step outside the café, espresso forgotten. The cup sweats in your palm.

You don’t drink it.

You just... sit.

Your breath is shallow. Not panicked, exactly. But cracked at the edges.

You think of the pages—your pages.

Not just trees or windows or bowls of fruit. But him.

The slope of his neck. The way the sun hit the side of his face when he laughed. The soft curve of his hand resting near yours.

The flower behind his ear. That ridiculous moment he wore it like a crown and said something about giving you something to look at.

And now someone else might be looking.

You walk home in silence.

You check the house. The table. The windowsill. Your bed. You check the chair you always leave it on, like maybe—maybe—you forgot and imagined everything else.

But you didn’t.

It’s not there.

…

After the café, you try to reset.

You tell yourself it’s just a notebook. Just paper. Just lines and impressions. You’ve lost things before. It’s fine. It’s nothing. It’s not everything.

You throw on your sandals, tug your bag over your shoulder, and head for the market—not because you need anything, but because standing still might make your chest cave in. You need noise. Fruit stalls. Shouting. Old men debating over melons. Something that reminds you how to be in your body.

The sun is already high, painting your shoulders gold. The rhythm of the stalls is comforting in its own strange way—baskets rustling, paper bags crinkling, the clink of coins and easy bonjours. You watch someone tear a baguette with their teeth. You buy a peach.

It’s soft in your palm, a little too ripe. You brush your thumb over the fuzz, trying to ground yourself in something small.

That’s when you hear it.

"Didn’t think I’d see you here this early," someone says behind you, casual like he’s been here all along.

You turn.

Lando’s leaning on his bike one-handed, an apple in the other, already half-eaten. He’s in a worn navy tee, curls pushed up by his sunglasses, grinning like he’s not even trying.

You blink at him. "I could say the same. You don’t strike me as a morning person."

He shrugs, taking another bite. "Very true. Thought I’d do something different today. Blend in. Be a local."

You eye his trainers and canvas bag. "Yeah. Totally inconspicuous."

“The very British sunburn really sells it,” he says, pointing to his red cheeks.

You snort. Keep walking. He pushes the bike beside you like it’s second nature now.

"You doing the full lap?" he asks.

"Haven’t decided. Just needed to move."

"Same. Mostly I’m out here hoping something vaguely interesting happens."

"And?"

He holds up the apple. "Might’ve peaked already."

You shoot him a look, but you’re smiling. He bumps your shoulder, just barely.

The breeze catches the hem of your dress. A tomato vendor yells something in French about someone’s parking spot. Lando steals a grape off a display like he owns the place.

You’re halfway past the cheese stand when he glances at you. “So you’re not sketching today.”

Your whole body goes still.

“Lost it,” you say, like it’s no big deal. “My sketchbook. Think I left it at the café. Was gone when I went back.”

Lando stops walking.

Then, slowly, he pulls the tote around from his shoulder and fishes something out.

“It looked something like this, right?”

Your eyes land on it—your sketchbook, worn at the edges, a smudge of charcoal on the corner.

You freeze. “No way.”

He flips it once in his hands. “Way.”

You reach for it, but he takes a step back, grin deepening. “Oi, snatching? Not even a thank you first?”

“I was getting there,” you say, eyes narrowing.

“Sure you were,” he says, flipping the cover open. “Let’s see all those trees you’ve been staring at in the past week.”

“Don’t—”

“Oh, I’m already in.” His grin stretches wider as he glances down. But then it falters—just slightly. Like the air shifts.

And then he looks up at you.

The teasing’s gone now, folded away somewhere beneath the warmth in his voice. He closes the sketchbook gently, hands holding it like it might bruise if he let it fall. “I just wanted to see if you drew the wildflowers already.”

You don’t say anything. Not because you don’t want to—but because something about the way he’s looking at you makes the words wait.

Soft confusion. A hint of something quieter underneath. A flicker of disbelief, maybe.

“I can’t believe you actually drew me,” he says, like it’s only just hitting him.

You want to joke. Deflect. Say something casual and light. But your throat feels too full. Your fingers fidget near the edge of your skirt.

He reopens it and looks down at the page again, as if he was expecting it to have disappeared.

“Not just a little sketch either,” he adds, thumb brushing the edge of the paper. “You didn’t just... doodle me. You saw me.”

You finally meet his eyes.

“You’re kind of hard to miss.” You half joke, trying to lighten the thick and heavy air that had dawned between the two of you. 

He breathes out—half-laugh, half-question. “I didn’t know I looked like that.”

You tilt your head slightly.

“Like what?”

He squints down at the drawing again, shifting the sketchbook in his hands.

There’s colour on his cheeks now. His voice is softer. “You got everything. My awful posture. The weird way I hold my hands. Even the mole I always forget is there.”

He smiles faintly. “It’s kind of weird, how much that gets to me.”

You don’t reply. You don’t need to. Because it’s written in the line of your shoulders, in the way your breath catches and holds still.

He straightens a little, pressing a palm flat over the closed cover like he’s anchoring it.

“Anyway,” he says, clearing his throat like he needs a reset, “That’s enough vulnerability for one market morning.”

You raise a brow.

He nods solemnly. “Look at me, being cool and composed and absolutely not affected.”

You laugh, finally.

He grins like he’s been waiting to see that. Then he shifts his bike with one hand, the sketchbook still tucked in his other arm like it’s something he's meant to carry.

You walk slowly now, shoes scuffing along the uneven stones. Your shoulder bumps his once. Then again. Neither of you pulls away.

You look up just as he glances over, lashes low, smile lazy, that tiny smug tilt creeping back in.

But now you know what’s underneath it.

And maybe he’s glad you do.

…

The walk to his cottage that evening is quiet.

You take the long route through the trees, basket swinging at your hip. The sky is blushing, the whole village exhaling after the heat of the day. Gravel crunches beneath your shoes, louder in the hush that settles around you. The afternoon still lingers on your skin. So does the sketchbook.

His door is ajar when you reach it.

You knock once.

“Come in,” he calls, a clatter following—a pot lid, probably, hitting the floor.

You step inside.

His cottage is smaller than yours, but warm in a wonky, lived-in way. One wall leans slightly. The light is golden, catching on the edges of hanging mugs and cluttered spice jars. There’s a low hum of wordless music playing from a vintage speaker in the corner. Something soft and jazzy. Something that matches the air.

Lando appears barefoot, damp curls still tousled from a shower, grey sweatpants slung too casually low, a t-shirt faded at the seams. There’s a smear of flour near his wrist. The towel on his shoulder has a questionable stain on one corner.

“You’re exactly on time,” he says, tossing the towel at the counter. “I was just ruining dinner.”

You lift an eyebrow. “I can see that.”

He waves a wooden spoon. “Rude. I’ve done my part. Now it’s your turn to salvage things.”

You join him by the stove. There are garlic skins everywhere and one tomato that looks like it’s been crushed in a fit of rage.

“Wow,” you say. “It looks like a proper crime scene in here.”

He grins, handing you the spoon. “It’s artisanal. You wouldn’t get it.”

You fall into step beside him—chopping, stirring, nudging each other out of the way. It’s chaotic in a way that feels easy.

“Is that jam? In the pasta sauce?”

He stirs, unfazed. “Might be. Might not. Who’s to say?”

You sigh. “You’re ridiculous.”

He winks. “Ridiculously sexy, though.” 

“You would be in jail in Italy for this.”

He nudges you with his elbow. “No way. It will be super good."

You raise an eyebrow trying to contain your laughter.

"If I mess this up, you’ll have to come over again. For redemption dinner.”

You laugh under your breath. “So this is a trap?”

“Obviously,” he says, smiling like it’s already worked. 

You shake your head, fighting the grin. “I’m just here to file the incident report.”

He laughs—easy, boyish. “Sure. That’s why you’re here.”

You nudge him with your hip, but you’re smiling now, and so is he.

There’s a beat where everything feels suspended—like the world’s trying to decide whether to lean in or let go.

Dinner, somehow, becomes edible. Better than edible, actually. The kitchen smells like garlic and warmth. Or maybe just him.

You eat perched on the stools at his narrow counter, knees bumping, plates resting on mismatched placemats. The music hums low. The wine he poured earlier—without asking—sits mostly untouched between you.

You scrape the bottom of your bowl, trying not to admit how good it all is.

The conversation drifts. Then slows. The air thickens, not in a heavy way—just... heavier than before.

You run your finger along the rim of your plate.

“I like this,” you say, quieter now.

“The failed pasta?”

You shake your head. “This. The whole thing. With you.”

He leans his elbow on the counter, watching you. There’s something less cheeky in his eyes now. But not serious, not exactly. Just a different kind of focused.

“I don’t even know when everything started feeling like a performance,” you murmur. “I don’t know. It’s nice to be here and not worry if I’m being too much or not enough.”

He sets his fork down. Fingers loose, gentle. 

“I get that,” he says. “Sometimes I walk into a room and feel like half of me’s already there. The one people expect. Loud, easy, fast. And then someone says something like ‘I feel like I know you,’ and I want to ask them which version.” 

You glance at him, a smile tugging at your mouth before you finish. “It’s nice to really let go and not having to try so hard.”

His gaze doesn’t move. “You don’t have to try at all.”

You blink.

“And that’s not me being smooth,” he adds, lips curving. “Okay, mostly not me being smooth.”

You nudge his leg lightly with your knee. “Mostly?”

He shrugs, letting it sit.

“You are so wonderful. I could watch you like this for hours,” he says. “And still feel like I’m missing something.”

You finish eating slowly, forks scraping the last of the pasta as the music hums behind you, low and warm. Neither of you rushes to clear the plates—there’s something easy about sitting there, knees bumping, the last of the wine forgotten between you.

Eventually, you both get up, brushing shoulders as you move around the narrow kitchen. He rinses the dishes. You dry. There’s a rhythm to it, quiet and unspoken.

And then—he reaches for a bowl at the same time you do.

Your hands brush. Not by accident.

You look up.

He’s close now. Closer than before. The counter feels smaller suddenly. The music softer. The room warmer.

He doesn’t move.

And neither do you.

His voice is low, playful, but there's something underneath it. “That thing you do with your rings... is that a tell?”

Your brow lifts slightly. “Do what?”

“You’re fidgeting, darling,” he says. “And have been for the past couple of minutes.”

Your mouth curves despite yourself. “You’re imagining things.”

“I’m not.” His fingers skim lightly over yours, still damp from the sink. “You’re a terrible liar.”

And then—he stands straighter. Like a decision’s just been made.

He lifts a hand to your cheek, brushing a loose strand of hair back, his knuckles warm where they linger.

You don’t pull away.

You don’t want to.

His thumb moves gently, tilting your chin. “You make me a bit nervous too.” he murmurs, grinning just enough to be trouble.

“Tell me to stop.”

You breathe in. Just once.

Then, “Please don’t.”

And then he kisses you.

Soft. Slow. Like he’s not in a hurry, but also like he’s been thinking about this every night since the first time you smirked at him from that bench.

You sink into it.

His other hand finds your waist, grounding. Yours slide up his chest, fingers curling against the fabric of his shirt like you need to hold on to something solid.

His lips part slightly. So do yours. He exhales into you, and the air around you shifts again—fizzing, slow-burning, like a spark finally catching.

When you pull back just enough to breathe, he doesn’t move.

Just rests his forehead lightly against yours.

“You good?” he asks, voice somewhere between careful and cocky.

You nod. “Still think you’re terrible at pasta.”

He grins. “Fine. But undeniable at kissing.”

“Cocky,” you say, smiling against his mouth.

“Only when I’m right.”

He kisses you again—deeper this time, more sure. One hand still at your waist, the other slipping behind your neck.

And you let yourself have it. The heat of him. The weight of it. The way his body presses into yours like this is exactly where he’s meant to be.

Because maybe it is.

…

You wake in his arms.

Not in some cinematic, sun-drenched way—no birdsong, no breeze gently billowing the curtains. Just warmth. Slow and steady. The hush of his breath tucked against the back of your neck, the weight of his arm heavy across your waist, the sheets tangled somewhere near your knees. The room smells like sleep mixed with his cologne. 

You stretch slightly, and his grip tightens instinctively.

“You awake?” he mumbles, voice scratchy with sleep.

“Mm.”

You shift, slowly, until you’re facing him. His eyes open, half-lidded and soft, focus still finding its way. And then—there it is. That lazy little smile, the kind that feels more like a secret than a greeting.

“Morning,” he says, barely above a whisper.

“Hi.”

The quiet between you isn’t awkward. It’s padded. Safe.

“I think,” you say, eyelids still heavy, “your pasta disaster got redeemed.”

He lets out a sleepy huff. “Told you. Charm and chaos. Balanced recipe.”

You smile, tucking yourself closer. He shifts onto his back, pulling you with him until your head fits into the crook of his shoulder. His fingers trail lightly down your spine, just under the hem of the hoodie you’re still wearing—his hoodie, which he definitely hasn’t asked for back and is definitely not mad about seeing on you.

You stay like that a while. No talking. No rush. Just letting the morning hold you.

“I get why people never leave places like this,” he murmurs eventually.

You tilt your chin up, just slightly. “Because of the views?”

He pauses.

“Because of the mornings.”

And he doesn’t say more than that—but the quiet lingers with meaning, like maybe this is new for him too. Not just the waking up like this, but the wanting to.

Then—because of course—there’s a doorbell.

He groans into the pillow. “This place doesn’t even have a doorbell.”

You’re already pushing yourself upright, sleeves covering your hands. He swings his legs over the bed, the light catching the lines of his shoulders, his chest. It’s kind of rude, honestly.

You throw him a look. “You’re going down there like that? Just underwear?”

He shrugs, already walking. “If it’s the postman, he’s earned a little joy.”

You follow barefoot, hoodie sleeves tugged over your knuckles, hair messy, heart full of something that’s just starting to make sense.

He opens the door.

Oscar.

Holding his phone, keys dangling from his fingers, and an expression that sits somewhere between unimpressed and deeply unsurprised.

“There he is,” Oscar says flatly. “The missing child.”

Lando blinks. “Hi.”

“Hi. Zac says hi, too. You’ve gone full ghost mode for a week and a half now, and considering you’re allergic to not being online, we assumed you’d fallen down a ravine.”

Lando leans against the doorframe, completely calm. “Define fallen.”

Oscar opens his mouth—but then he spots you.

And you, still half-tucked behind Lando, offer the kind of smile that says: yes, this is awkward. No, you’re not sorry.

Oscar squints. His gaze drops to the hoodie. He exhales through his nose.

“Knew you had to be sticking around for a reason.”

Lando smirks, unapologetic. “Takes one to know one.”

Oscar sighs like he’s aged a decade in two minutes. “Anyway. Testing starts. Sim sessions are racking up. You missed three already, and if you keep slacking, I might actually beat you this year.”

Lando’s still looking at you when he says, “Any more room in the car?”

Oscar raises a brow. “For you?”

Lando doesn’t look away. “No. For us.”

There’s a pause. A flicker of something almost fond on Oscar’s face.

“God,” he mutters. “Fine.”

Lando turns to you, grin a little too confident now. “You into sketching race cars?”

You raise a brow. “That depends. Are they prettier than the trees?”

“They are,” he says, tugging you gently toward him. “Especially when I’m driving them.”

You let him. Smile blooming as your fingers curl around the fabric of his sleeve.

“Guess I’ll find out.”

[kdpartworks]

Hi! Just wanna say I absolutely LOVE your work. How did you come up with the idea of Cloudysseus and Cloudseidon? I adore them so much :)

I honestly couldn't tell what my mind thought that day. I was enjoying drawing comics with Neal's designs so much - i didn't have any design ready except Jellyseidon - and suddenly i thought that would have been interesting trying to solve Poseidon's trauma with his Brothers help.

And while I was drawing It, suddenly Cloudy came.

Improvisation Is part of my artistic process, so, that time i followed my feelings about It. And i think they were right!