#god I love them so much I wish I could eat them

[le-fruit-de-la-passion]

Say my Name, As if it’s Drowning in the Tide - Jayce x Reader (Chapter 2/End)

Summary: But Jayce is weak. So unbelievably weak. And the voice of temptation in the back of his mind insists you will never want him the same way he does you. It’s cowardly, and it’s spineless, and it goes against everything he’s ever been taught to value. Yet none of it seems to matter when he looks at you, bare in front of him, hair wet and sticking to your skin in heavy curls like a siren in the stormy sea. He’d sell his soul if it meant having you, and in more ways than one, he is.

Pairing: Jayce x Reader Modern AU, one-sided Viktor x Reader

Word Count: 8.2K

Warning: Explicit

Tags: Hate Sex, Emotional Roleplay, One-sided Attraction, Switch!Jayce, Rough Sex, Biting, Shower Sex, Oral Sex (Female receiving), Eating Out, Angst, First Time, Virginity, Vaginal Sex, Size Kink, Jayce Has A Big Dick, Self-Hate, Praise Kink, Body Worship, Crying

Notes: A LITTLE LATE BUT AS PROMISED, I’m publishing the ending to this fic before the end of January (and the beginning of my surprise Valentine’s Day event 👀). This one is gonna be quite the emotional ride, so better strap in, fellas (PS: I SWEAR I love Jayce with all my heart I just love toying with his heart because I’m a monster)

(Chapter 1)

“Do you want to know what Viktor likes or not? Because I haven't told you anything about what he wants in bed.”

‘Fuck you’, you wish you could spit back at Jayce. ‘What would you even know about what anyone wants in bed, you pathetic two-pump loser?’

It's extremely tempting, if only to see his face go crimson in frustration and embarrassment again, but you know his fragile little ego might not survive it. And no matter how much you'd like to deny it, he's right: you do want to know about what Viktor likes.

You want to know every single thing about Viktor so badly, it hurts.

You've fallen for him in the same way a forest fire burns: slowly, and then all at once, overwhelming, relentless, all-consuming. It's gotten almost painful to be near him in the last few months, your stomach contorting angrily whenever he gives you a witty smile or laughs at your idiotic banter. The desire for him to look at you, and only you, is searing your skin a little more each passing day; so much so that you wonder if there will be anything left of you but ashes by the time you muster the courage to confess.

And God, do you want to: the need to tell him how you feel has become a constant itch that's as painful as it’s unending. All it would take to quench these all-consuming flames are three little words, three measly syllables, a laughable eight letters.

Yet you just can’t say them.

Because underneath all the bravado you're always putting on, you're nothing more than a hypocrite, who is absolutely terrified of hearing his answer. Of seeing nothing but compassionate pity in those soothing golden eyes of his, a gentle ‘I'm sorry’ forming on his lips, and burning you alive once and for all.

So, you wait for a sign from Viktor: a word, a touch, anything that would make the risk of confessing more bearable. As a born engineer, you've always been pragmatic and logical to a fault; you simply won’t jeopardize your relationship with him based on insignificant data and hopeful speculations. Maybe it's nothing more than a spineless justification to let yourself wither away, but it's the best you, and your burning little heart, can do.

After all, something is comforting about staying in the unknown— in that state of limbo where there's no real acknowledgment of the nature of your feelings, or his. But the fire that is Viktor is relentless, ever burning, and it consumes you inch by inch, growing every minute you spend with him working side by side at the Academy.

It worsens more each time he remembers insignificant details about you: how you like a touch of extra cinnamon in your morning latte, how much you hate seeing your middle name used in the lab's paperwork, how you always fidget with your jewelry when you're stressed— little habits and quirks he somehow never misses or fails to offer a helping hand with.

You've been in love before, but never like this; and you doubt you ever will again. Viktor is the type of person you can only meet once in your life, a shooting star that graces the human eye every thousand years, just to disappear the second you look away, before you ever get the chance to tell it it's beautiful.

And then, there's Jayce.

Jayce, who looks nothing like Viktor, with his muscular frame, perfectly symmetrical smile, and sun-kissed skin.

Jayce, who is nothing like Viktor, with his annoyingly booming voice, total lack of social awareness, and oversized ego. Whose very presence signifies, at best, an incoming headache, and at worst, endless screaming matches and arguments over the most minor details.

Things hadn't always been that way with him. There had been admiration, at first, back when you had been accepted as dean Cecil B. Heimmerdinger’s newest pupil, and the fourth member of his elite team of post-graduates. He had more than his fair share of accolades for a man in his mid-twenties: many of his papers were cited in the highest calibre of academic journals, and he had a list of awards and scholarships almost as long as your arm. You had truly believed you would learn a lot from him.

It barely took a week with him for all your naive and bright-eyed delusions to come crashing down. Behind the pretty face and the accomplishments was nothing but arrogance and disregard for all the discipline you valued. It all came so maddeningly easy to him— school, work, looks—like effort was beneath him, or even worse, completely foreign to him.

He hadn’t been shy with his interest in you for a second, either. Between the corny pickup lines and the obvious stares at the meat of your thighs, Jayce hadn’t been quite subtle; but you had no endearment for men like him. A pretty boy whose grandiose romantic gestures were clearly an attempt to quickly get into your pants, only to leave you behind the moment your novelty had worn off. The type to take everything for granted, including women’s affection, and to never have heard a single ‘no’ in their life.

There was no way you were going to fall for it.

Yet the more drily you rejected his advances, the more Jayce seemed interested in you. It had to simply be the novelty of someone finally rejecting him and seeing his true nature that fascinated him. But it wasn’t love that he felt for you; it couldn't be.

People like him could love no one but themselves.

He would glance at you with desperate puppy eyes whenever he thought you weren’t looking, a shiny toy out of his reach. Every now and then, on one of his trashed design drafts, you’d find tiny pencilled sketches of your face with a surprising level of accuracy. He clearly took some pleasure in arguing with you over everything and nothing, and you'd lie if you said that you never got some enjoyment out of that dynamic.

You had let his resolve weaken you once, and only once, early into your arrival at the lab, and long before you had developed any feelings for the then much more reserved Viktor.

And it had been a mistake.

—

Those first few months had been gruelling for you: as the newest recruit, you did much more dull and tedious paperwork than any practical or creative assignments in the lab. It was hard, and the long hours of staring at nothing but the bright blue light of your computer screen made you dizzy; but you wouldn't have exchanged it for the world.

You had earned your place here by never being complacent, by refusing to see any task as below you or too difficult to accomplish. You had been a diligent student under the harshest of conditions throughout your life, and you would continue reaching higher and higher by working hard, and always proving your worth.

One day soon, you’d be standing at the very top of it all, with your wildest dreams accomplished; and it would be with the knowledge that you had made it there entirely of your own merit.

You had been surprised and apprehensive to see an email from Professor Heimerdinger that morning, requesting that you pass by his office. Heimerdinger was very much not the type to plan out discussions, preferring to randomly pop in and out of the lab to hold impromptu, casual meetings, so the atypically formal message had made you feel uneasy.

You were under the impression you had integrated into the program quite well, and that you had begun nicely bonding with your two lab partners. Although you had had strong reservations about Jayce and his attitude, and were still extremely on the fence about your opinion of him, his puppy-like charm had started to wear you out, and you had agreed to go get coffee with him during that weekend.

You had made it very clear it wasn't a romantic encounter, but a team-bonding exercise: an occasion for him to prove some of your unfavourable impressions of him wrong. Then, maybe, and only maybe, you'd consider the idea of a date with him; but he didn't need to know that yet, lest he’d let it go to his head.

For now, your focus was only on your appointment with Heimerdinger, and the anxious knot in the pit of your stomach.

You knocked on his door gently before coming in, finding the short, older man perched on top of a small ladder, nose-deep in one of the many books that lined every inch of the walls. The countless volumes adorned his office like multicoloured bricks, giving a cozy, yet slightly claustrophobic feel to the small room.

“You asked to see me, professor ?” you cleared your throat, attempting to steady your voice to appear more composed.

Heimerdinger raised his head in surprise, likely so entranced in the huge textbook that dwarfed his small frame that he hadn’t heard you come into his literary fortress—or even remembered he had scheduled a meeting with you.

“Ah, yes, dear girl, come on in and take a seat!” he exclaimed, closing the book with a loud ‘thwack’. He struggled a bit to place it back on one of the shelves as you sat to face his desk, eyeing his precarious position wearily. He, thankfully, managed to make his way down the creaking ladder without incident, landing on his feet with a slight wobble.

“The great, dangerous heights one has to reach to gain knowledge,” he mumbled pensively, a chubby hand running through his wild tuft of dusty blonde hair. “One would think that with twenty years of service here, the finance department could afford to invest in a less perilous stepping stool.”

He made his way to the other side of the desk, settling comfortably in his pillowy chair. He adjusted his thick, round glasses, his expression indecipherable behind the imposing white mustache that covered most of his lower face.

You immediately let yourself fear the worst, your firm conviction that you had been doing well since your arrival crumbling like a house of cards.

“Have I been performing… below your expectations, sir?” you asked abruptly, the anxious ball in your stomach tightening on itself.

Heimerdinger cocked his head to the side in confusion, frowning, his thick eyebrows shifting down like two fuzzy caterpillars.

“Now why would you say such a silly thing? You’ve been going above and beyond, from everything I’ve seen and heard,” he complimented with a reassuring smile. He gave you a sly wink, and you felt your shoulders relax, the tension leaving your body like a puff of smoke. “I have an eye for exceptionally talented people. I wouldn't have recruited you if I hadn’t been wholeheartedly convinced of your capacities.”

“Thank you, sir,” you exhaled, releasing a sharp breath you hadn't realized you were holding. So it was all a misunderstanding then. Everything was alright. “May I ask why you’ve requested to see me this morning, then?”

Heimerdinger only hummed as an answer, opening one of his desk's drawers and digging through a visibly messy pile of documents. “Aha!” he exclaimed, pulling out a single sheet of paper with a flourish, and handing it to you with no further explanation.

You grabbed it carefully, quickly looking it over with growing confusion: the bold title only stated your name, next to the words PROJECT TRANSFER.

“Here you go, all signed and completed,” Heimerdinger added with a casual wave of the hand. “I would have simply sent it to you by email, but protocol requires you to sign it in front of me. You know how bureaucrats get,” he rolled his eyes exaggeratedly.

The more snippets you caught of the document, the less you understood. ‘Personal request made by the student to be discharged from desk work duty for the Wyatt Project — Approved by team supervisor — Reason for request: Lack of affinity with the project and given tasks — Signatures of department head, team supervisor, and concerned student below’.

“I’m sorry, what… is this?” you asked slowly in hesitation.

The Wyatt project had been the most tiresome and dull assignment you had been given as of yet at the Academy, and although you often complained about it in your off time, you had never made any sort of official demand to be transferred from it.

“The discharge paper for the Wyatt project,” the older man explained, seemingly surprised by your lack of enthusiasm or recognition. “I was told you didn’t enjoy the busy work much and would prefer a change of pace. I’ll be putting you on the assignment corrections for the undergrads, which should be much simpler and less time-consuming.”

Your mind began racing chaotically, attempting to puzzle how a few unserious, nitpicky rants could have possibly made their way as an official demand to the dean himself. You barely registered the empathic nod he gave you as he cleared his voice, a sparkle of something akin to remorse in his eyes.

“Perhaps I was requesting a lot of you for your very first semester here, with an assignment as advanced as this. My apologies, dear girl. But do know this transfer is a rare exception, and I will require more receptiveness from you for future tasks.”

The slight pitying look he gave you made you feel like throwing up.

You'd disappointed him.

You had failed the expectations of the man who took a chance on you as his youngest pupil, and you weren't even aware of how you had done it.

“I—I mean yes, the Wyatt project is a lot of busy work, but I never—who told you I asked to be taken out?” you managed to stutter.

Who? Who could have possibly gone so out of their way to ruin the reliable and efficient reputation you were working so hard to build here? Your mind came up blank, reviewing the few people you might have said anything to, and not finding a single one who would so blatantly jeopardize your fragile new position.

“Why, Jayce,” Heimerdinger said as if it was entirely obvious. “As your team leader, he gives me monthly reports of the status of each project you're involved with. He was quite adamant about putting you off the Wyatt and onto an easier project.”

A flash of understanding crossed his face at the sight of your decomposing expression.

“Has… Jayce not discussed this with you?”

No. No, he hadn’t.

You barely remembered the walk out of Heimerdinger's office after that, fuelled only by a mixture of incomprehension and betrayal. With each step, it shifted into something much stronger, a fury burning from your core directed not only at him, but at yourself.

You slammed the door of the lab open, the plexiglass banging against the frame with a dull thud:

“How fucking dare you?!”

Jayce was thankfully alone in the lab, but even if Viktor had been here, you weren't sure you would have managed to control the outpour of anger. The man looked up from his notes in surprise:

“Woah—wait—excuse me?” Jayce stammered, visibly more confused than insulted.

“Who do you think you are to decide what I can do or not?!” you seethed, barreling rapidly towards him. “How dare you go around asking things in my name to our supervisor?”

He got up from his chair hurridly, eyes wide, raising his hands in a placating gesture as if you were a wild animal ready to attack.

"Relax, I really have no idea—" he started hastily, only to stop mid-sentence as realization dawned on him. His brows knit together in confusion. "Wait... is this about the Wyatt project?”

"What else could it possibly be about?!" you yelled, your voice slicing through the silence of the empty lab. Under different circumstances—if this wasn't about your entire career here—you might have remembered that your outburst could easily carry into the corridor, reaching the ears of other students, and even possibly teachers. But blind frustration consumed you, eclipsed only by the raw, aching sense of betrayal you felt towards him.

“But you’ve been telling me and Viktor for weeks how much you hate it,” Jayce argued, frowning, his lips reducing into a thin line. He was genuinely perplexed, like the very concept that he hadn’t done you a service wasn't registering in his mind. “You’re the one who said you wished you could do more work in the lab with us!”

“So you went over my head and told the fucking head of the department I was too lazy to complete the work he gave me?” you retorted without missing a beat. You hadn't realized how close you had gotten to him, your balled fists barely a foot away from his increasingly punchable face. You could smell the artificial scent of body spray off him, and you wrinkled your nose in disgust. “Do you have any idea how unreliable and ungrateful that makes me look as the new girl?! I haven’t even had this position for six months!”

Understanding slowly dawned across his face, and his expression softened, regret pooling in his chartreuse eyes.

"I was just trying to help, I didn't—" he began, his voice gentle and remorseful, but you weren't even close to being done with him.

“Help?” you spat, the word dripping with venom. “Help how? By making me look like I don’t want to work hard? Like I'm a spoiled brat who goes on dates with her team supervisor to get easy jobs? What, do you think I slept my way up here?”

“I’d never—I thought you felt too shy to talk to Heimerdinger, I just wanted to give you a hand as my junior! How is that a bad thing?!” he protested, frustration creeping into his voice.

“It's a bad thing because it means you don't fucking believe in me!” you shot back.

You felt tears prickling at the corners of your eyes, but you blinked them away, willing them gone and clinging to what little pride you had left.

“It means you think I'm too weak or too stupid to do the same work you and Viktor did when you started. That I'm not even enough of an adult to handle my own shit—that I need some random guy at work to baby me!”

He flinched at the harshness of your words, the hurt on his face unmistakable. His mouth opened as if to speak up again, eyes carrying the wounded look of a kicked puppy, but you didn’t let him, refusing to let his charm ever fool you again.

“I don't care if it's because I'm younger than you, or because I'm a woman, or because you think I'm attractive,” you snapped. “I'm staying on the Wyatt project until it's completed, like I signed up to. I won't let you mess up everything I've worked so hard for.”

You took a step back, your feelings too overwhelming to stand staring at him a minute longer. Your instinct about Jayce—that he was as spoiled as he was self-righteous— had been correct from the start, yet you felt no pride in that knowledge; there was only the bitter taste of disappointment.

Your voice was sharp and unforgiving when you spoke up again:

“Do me a favour. Next time you want to help, don’t.

—

And yet, here you are now, in a shitty motel in the middle of nowhere, butt naked in a cramped shower with him, the feeling of his tepid cum still lingering on your thigh.

Jayce Talis wants to help again, and you’d be an absolute fool to accept, or to give him more ground than you already have.

But things are different, this time.

You want his help. You need his help.

You know better now than to believe he feels anything resembling real affection for you. His obsession isn’t love: it’s a fixation born from entitlement, from the relentless need to possess what he’s been denied. You’re nothing more than a challenge, the one girl who refuses to fall for the Academy’s golden boy, and that only makes him want you more. But once he’s had his victory, once this game is over, the thrill will fade, and he’ll lose all interest in pretending he ever cared.

So what’s the harm in saying yes, then? It’s not like either of you will come out of this with any hurt feelings. It’s the same as back then, with him taking you for the easy fool he can be a knight in shining armour for, solving your issues like the great man he is. But at least, this time, he’s had the decency to ask you, first.

"Fine, whatever," you finally grumble, your gaze snapping back to his. A flicker of something unreadable passes through his expression, but you ignore it. It doesn't matter to you, just as you won’t matter to him. "What’s next, Talis?”

—

The issue is that Jayce really hasn't thought that far ahead.

His first and main goal was to distract you from how he had been so stupidly eager, he came without your hands ever even touching his cock. But now, he needs to come up with a next step—fast—before you see right through his bluff and realize he knows far less about Viktor’s sex life than he has so confidently let on.

To his credit, Viktor has always been intensely private about his personal life, even with his closest friends. In all their years of partnership, he had never once introduced Jayce to a girlfriend or boyfriend; never even hinted at a crush, or a stranger who might be something more. No matter how many times Jayce had prodded and teased him in their younger years, Viktor had never let anything slip.

But there is one thing, a small, passing remark, that Jayce does remember.

Back in their very first year together at the Academy, unravelling the enigma that was Viktor had been one of Jayce’s greatest challenges. The man revealed very little about himself and it seemed like science and logic were the sole foundations of his world, an unwavering structure built on nothing but reason and precision.

But every now and then, Viktor would do or say something so entirely unexpected, it shattered any understanding Jayce thought he had of him.

One of those moments had been Viktor’s quiet but undeniable fascination with the arts.

Jayce remembers a particular night, one that has somehow stayed in the back of his mind since. Sitting beside Viktor in the dim glow of the Academy’s theater, watching a play neither of them had particularly planned to see, he had expected boredom, maybe even a few sarcastic quips. Instead, Viktor had been captivated. His sharp eyes, usually so calculating while they worked in the lab, were alight with something softer, something close to wonder, as if he were seeing an entirely new world unfold before him.

"Do you not think it's nice? The music of someone's voice," Viktor had hummed afterward, his tone distant, contemplative, like he was still half-lost in the echoes of the performance.

Jayce had shrugged, stretching his legs out lazily in the cramped theatre seat. Art had never really been his thing—too abstract, too confusing. "I don’t know," he replied casually, "AI is getting pretty good at mimicking it."

Viktor had turned his head slightly, casting Jayce a look that was equal parts amused and disappointed, as if he couldn’t decide whether the comment was genuinely naive or just tragically shortsighted.

Viktor had merely tutted in disapproval, shaking his head. "The human soul, Jayce. The emotions, the passion, the sorrow—that is what a voice carries. We may build a thousand algorithms that reproduce it, down to the subtlest change in tone or pitch… but it will always be missing that.”

Jayce had gone quiet after that, letting the conversation die in the soft hum of the crowd leaving the theater. He didn’t get it then; maybe he does now.

“Voices,” Jayce blurts out, the thought snapping into place like a last-minute save. “Viktor likes hearing people’s voices. I think it’s because of how personal they are to everyone? Something about that just… makes him happy.”

He’s grasping at straws now, but it’s something, and that’s already better than staying silent with his mouth agape like an idiot.

“Maybe, um—maybe you could practice what you’d say to him? The kind of sounds you’d make?” His pulse stutters, but before he can stop himself. “I-I think he’d probably want to eat you out.”

It’s a blatant, bold-faced lie. A shot in the dark dressed up as certainty.

Because that’s not what Viktor said. That’s not even remotely what Viktor said.

It’s what Jayce wants to do.

But he’s already in too deep, tangled in his own bullshit with no way to back out. If he’s going to lie, he might as well be a little selfish about it.

You glare at him with that sharp, dissecting stare, the kind that strips away pretense and weighs his words like they’re under the lens of a microscope. Even though you’re shorter than him, there’s no mistaking who’s in control here; the balance of power tilts undeniably in your favour, and you have him fully, wholly under your thumb.

And he knows it, knows it from the tension in his own shoulders, from the way his lips uncontrollably twitch, from the slight tremor in his voice. He would do anything for this, for you, and he’s not foolish enough to think it doesn’t show. But this moment isn’t about him—not about how much he wants you, or how much he’d give to close the remaining space between your bodies.

It’s about you, and how much you want Viktor.

Jayce already knows your answer before it even leaves your lips.

“Alright. Just…”

You hesitate for just a second, as if there's something else you want to say; a glimpse of uncharacteristic doubt flashes across your face. But it vanishes just as quickly as it came, swallowed by that effortless, burning confidence. Whatever words you might have had for him go up in smoke.

"Forget it. Get on your knees."

Jayce certainly doesn’t need to be told twice.

It’s almost embarrassing how fast he drops, the wet tile beneath him offering no grace. He nearly slips twice as he contorts his broad frame awkwardly, trying to find a stable position. The cramped width of the glass panels press against his shoulders, making his movements all the more difficult.

You tsk at him, unimpressed and visibly growing impatient. The glare you send down his way is all the incentive he needs to stop fumbling and settle as best he can, even as the mosaic tiles dig uncomfortably into his knees.

One of your hands settles on his head, slightly brushing the damp strands of dark hair, and he leans into the touch; it's probably the closest thing to praise he's ever gotten from you.

"Don’t make me regret this," you warn him.

He grins, throwing you a wink with far more cockiness than he actually feels. "Regret is my middle name, baby."

Before you can shoot back a biting remark, his hands are on your hips, firm and certain, pulling you flush against his face. The heat of his breath ghosts over your skin, sending a shiver down your spine.

If this had been different, if it had been real, he would have taken his time. He would have traced every detail of your body with his hands, his lips, his tongue, committing every inch to memory like something sacred. He would have worshipped you slowly, methodically, with the kind of reverence you deserve.

But that's not the case.

Instead, he opts for savagely peppering your inner thighs with warm, rough kisses, just barely letting his teeth graze your skin. You hum in approval, the hand on his scalp petting him like a puppy. The rush of confidence that goes through his body is indescribable, and he makes the bites more insistent, leaving burn-like marks on your skin.

You tug at his hair, just enough to be insistent, but not enough to hurt. For once, he understands you immediately, without you uttering a single word. It’s a little strange —almost ironic— that conversations with you always spiral into arguments, yet here, without speaking at all, you're both in perfect sync.

He obeys the silent command and moves his mouth where you’re guiding him, never pausing the messy, open-mouth kisses against your lower body. It's no surprise that your pussy is as pretty and warm as the rest of you. The hair has been recently trimmed but has grown just enough to tickle against his face as he buries his face comfortably between your legs.

You twitch in his grip the second his tongue touches your folds, but you don't let out a sound. He’s not about to be beaten so easily, though: he gives a strong, assured lick against your clit, and this time you can't suppress a small moan:

“Ah…”

Oh, and God, it's an addictive sound, one that he yearns to hear again, immediately. He copies his movement once, twice, thrice, dizzy off the little vulnerable pants you make under your breath. He's like a starved man, lapping at the fresh water from the shower on your skin just to catch a hint of your juices.

“Hngh-” you inhale sharply when his tongue probes your hole. Your grip on his hair tightens, fingers tangling deeper as you pull him closer. It’s probably just instinct, a mechanical reaction to the rush of pleasure sparking through you; but for a split second, the pressure of your touch feels intentional. Like you want him. And that foolish, aching thought makes his poor little heart clench when you speak again:

“V-Viktor!”

A single word from you, just one name, and reality crashes back down on him like a tidal wave.

He freezes, his tongue flat against your clit, and the warmth of the moment vanishes in an instant, replaced by something sharp and unforgiving. The water hitting his exposed skin from the showerhead suddenly feels ice-cold, seeping into his bones.

This isn’t right. He knows it. And he’s certain you do, too.

But you’ve both chosen this.

You’re as guilty as he is, using him just as much as he’s using you. It’s a pathetic, hollow imitation of the intimacy he truly craves, the kind where your fingers intertwine with his without hesitation, where your voice murmurs words of love meant only for him, where your eyes remain wide open and locked into his.

But there’s no coming back from having tasted you. A single bite of the forbidden fruit, and he’s undone: his sense of judgment shattered, his pride discarded, his dignity crumbling beneath your touch. If this is all you’re willing to give him, if he’s nothing more than a placeholder for someone else—so be it.

He’ll take whatever scraps of affection you’ll offer, no matter how empty. No matter who it’s really meant for.

You let out another wonton moan when he shifts again, his teeth lightly scrapping your clit, and he lets himself wonder what you're imagining behind those closed eyes.

Granted, the who isn’t much of a mystery; that part is painfully obvious. But how?

How does it play out in your head? Is it tender and slow, filled with whispered confessions and gentle touches? Or is it something desperate, something raw, something that strips you down to nothing but need? Against his better judgment and all common sense, he can’t help speculating.

Viktor would probably not enjoy staying on his knees for very long; maybe you're picturing yourself laying in bed with him, his face nestled snuggly between the meat of your thighs. You’d have a smile on your lips, your sparkling eyes wide open, eager to take in every second of the moment. Viktor would probably chuckle at your eagerness, amused by the contrast of how firm and unyielding you are with everyone else, yet how effortlessly you melt in his presence.

“Viktor, please… please…!” you almost beg as he fucks you on his tongue, your hips rhythmically moving along to his pace, moans raw and unfiltered, forgetting about the thin walls and your likely disgruntled neighbours with how lost you are in your fantasy.

Jealousy begins to rear its ugly head in the pit of his stomach, a dangerous thing to start feeling during something that’s supposed to be pure make-believe. But no matter how hard he tries to swallow it down, it lingers, festering beneath the surface.

He can’t help it, spoiled brat that he is. He always wants more. Nothing is ever enough.

His childish ego whispers that he’s the one making you squirm under his touch, that for all your longing, for all the thoughts clouding your mind, he’s the one here. He’s the one touching you, drawing those needy sounds from your lips.

It's his name you should be saying.

He's gotten hard again, the touch of your skin blending with the smell of your body, the sharp taste of your wetness making his head spin. He's humping the air like a dog in heat, aching for any sort of relief. He wants to stay between your legs for as long as humanly possible, let you use him, but he's not sure how much longer he can handle hearing someone else’s name over, and over again.

He manages to pull away from the vice-like grip of your thighs, mouth coated with your juices. He looks up at you, standing above him like a goddess, surrounded by a halo of water from the showerhead.

"I really, really need you right now, baby," he breathes out, voice raw with desperation. He knows he should have some dignity left, some shred of self-respect; but it's all long gone. At this point, he doesn't care what you think of him anymore, not when he’s fallen this low. “Can I please fuck you right here?”

Your eyes flutter open, slow and reluctant, like it physically pains you to be pulled from whatever reverie you were lost in. For a moment, you just look at him, considering his expression, the firm grip on his head easing slightly.

“I…” you start hesitantly. There it is again, just like earlier: something uncertain in your gaze, lost, vulnerable. It’s jarring, unsettling in a way he can’t quite name. It doesn’t belong there, not in your eyes—eyes that are usually so bright, so sure and unwavering.

"Bed. Viktor wouldn't be comfortable here," you mumble under your breath, refusing to meet his eyes. "And don’t call me baby."

Jayce exhales a shaky sigh of relief. He doesn’t argue, doesn’t tease—just moves.

He scrambles to his feet so fast he nearly slips again, catching himself just in time. With a sharp nudge of his elbow, he shuts off the faucet before effortlessly scooping you up from the wet tiles. You yelp in protest, but he ignores it, already carrying you out of the bathroom, his grip firm yet careful.

The second your back hits the mattress, he’s gone, nearly tripping over himself as he rushes to his backpack; balance has never been his forte, but you’ve rendered him so unsteady his legs feel like jello. His hands fumble through the numerous pockets, almost frantic.

Socks, phone, extra boxers, sunglasses, toothbrush, toothpaste—

There!

He raises the lone condom triumphantly into the air, presenting it like a grand prize, his grin wide with victory.

You don’t look half as impressed.

"Do you seriously bring that with you everywhere you go?" you remark drily, one brow arching in clear contempt.

Ah, right. For a moment, in the heat of it all, he had almost forgotten that you really hate him.

“Can we keep the insults for after I'm done fucking you?” he groans, his arm falling in defeat. Yet, despite the frustration laced in his voice, there’s something oddly familiar about this, something comforting. The push and pull, the sharp edges of your words clashing against his: it’s a unique rhythm, a dynamic that belongs to the two of you alone; one that Viktor will never experience.

The idea makes him happier than it should.

You let out a dramatic sigh in response, waving a dismissive hand as if to say ‘whatever’.

He climbs over you, his body still sopping wet, water trailing down his skin and seeping into the sheets beneath you both. Droplets fall from his hair onto yours, cool against the lingering heat of your skin. The bed is going to be disgustingly damp later, and you will certainly complain and blame him for it, but he can’t bring himself to care about it right now.

The sight of his fully hard cock resting on your inner thigh makes his throat dry almost instantly. Jayce is more than aware he’s well endowed, and he hasn’t shied away from using it as a selling argument for flirting before; but this is so very different. His size dwarfs your cunt, like a little toy underneath him; the realization that he's going to get so deep inside of you that you'll never be able to fully get rid of him is enough to break whatever hesitation he might have still had.

He glances up at you with a cocky grin, expecting you to eye his arguably imposing member with some anticipation, only to find that you're looking away, gaze lost somewhere in the printed forest of the peeling wallpaper.

He clears his throat, and you turn back towards him, expression distant, maybe even cold.

“Want me to, um… prep you a bit?” he asks. He knows you’re soaking wet, he's made quite sure of that, but the thickness of his cock has usually required him to use a few fingers with his previous partners.

You seem disinterested, barely sparing him a look:

“I don't care. Just do it, Talis.”

The absurdity of the fact that you’re still using his last name after he’s eaten you out—and right before he screws you—would be comical if it wasn’t so deeply sad. He tears the plastic wrapper open, rolling the condom on himself without another word. He aligns his member with your entrance, just barely spreading your folds with his dick, before you interrupt him with a firm hand on his bicep.

The look you give him is full of something unspoken, heavy with meaning he can’t quite grasp—or maybe just refuses to.

"Just… be gentle,” you ask stiffly, like you doubt he’s even capable of it. “Like Viktor would."

That last part splinters something inside him, shatters a piece of his heart he thought had accepted he would never be the one you’d want.

For a second, everything blurs. The floodgate cracks open, and with it, the jealousy he thought he had under control surges forward, unrestrained and bitter.

Because Viktor. Always Viktor.

And never him.

He pushes in without replying, groaning at the resistance his tip is already facing. It takes a bit more force, but the head of his cock finally passes through the ring of muscle, and he's able to slowly and fully sheathe himself in, your wetness making the slide easier.

“Fuck- fuck, you're tight,” he sputters, the words falling out of him without his control. “You're so fucking tight, princess.”

Maybe it’s just that he hasn’t gotten laid in too long, but he doesn’t think he's ever been inside someone who feels this snug around him, like you were made for him. You’re walls are fluttering around him, squeezing him so firmly it’s as if your pussy is forbidding him from leaving. It's heavenly, and he stays still for a moment, just to carve in his memory the exact way you’re clenching around his cock.

A quick glance at your face tells him everything he needs to know: your eyes are squeezed shut, your brows furrowed deeply, likely lost in a world where he isn’t the one above you. There’s no doubt in his mind that you’re picturing him instead, rewriting reality with Viktor’s touch, Viktor’s voice, Viktor’s presence.

That’s fine. Perfectly fine.

Because by the time he’s done, by the time he gives it to you just right—hard enough, deep enough, good enough—he’ll make sure the only name you’re screaming is Jayce.

He starts pulling out before sharply shoving himself back in, and you let out an absolutely broken cry. There. As a sound that's for no one else but him.

He repeats the motion, again and again, the sharp feeling of your nails digging into his back making all thought incoherent. Your cries are driving him insane, raw and oversensitive, and he pounds into you harder with the knowledge Jayce Talis is the one tearing them out from your throat.

He looks down where your bodies meet, drunk off the idea of seeing his fat cock plunging into you, but he freezes.

There's blood.

It's not much, just a little red that has tinted some of your combined juices, but it's there, a stark contrast against your skin.

He opens and closes his mouth in incomprehension; he had been harsh, and hungry, yes, but you should have been wet enough to take him with only a slight burn, a nice feeling of fullness. How?

He looks at you in panic: your eyes are still sealed shut, but unshed tears have pooled in their corners, your lips stuck in a thin line.

You’re crying.

It’s so silent, so light, that he hadn't even heard it despite your proximity, despite him being quite literally inside of you. He’s staring at you, dumbfounded—the tightness, the blood, the tears—as the math begins to add up very unpleasantly in his head.

"Wait, are you—" he starts, voice laced with panicked disbelief.

You don’t answer.

Instead, you turn your face away, hiding it behind the crook of your arm, ever the prideful one. But he sees it anyway, the telltale tremble of your bottom lip.

And just like that, every ounce of his frustration, every drop of jealousy, vanishes in an instant. What’s left is something colder, heavier—realization.

You're a virgin.

His stomach twists. "I'm sorry, I—I had no idea—" he stammers, his mind racing to catch up. "Did I hurt you? Oh my god, yeah, I did. Do you want to stop? I’m so sorry—"

The words tumble out in a frantic rush, hands hovering over you like he doesn’t know where they should be—whether to comfort, to retreat, or to hold you close.

He moves to pull out, but you make a pained hissing sound, grabbing his arm to keep him in place.

You stay silent, breathing haggard, clinging to him like a buoy in a storm. Your fingers dig into his skin painfully, but you still refuse to meet his gaze.

Jayce swallows thickly, his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. Carefully, he slides a hand beneath your head, lifting it just enough to keep you from sinking further into yourself. With the other, he brushes away a few damp strands of hair stuck to your clammy forehead. You don’t speak, and neither does he.

There’s nothing he can say right now that wouldn’t feel meaningless.

Your eyes eventually open, and the few tears you had been holding back finally spill down your cheeks. He catches them with the pad of his finger, wiping them away as gently as he can.

You’re so still in his arms it scares him. Fragile in a way he’s never seen before. Like a doll he’s played too rough with, beautiful, limp, and oh so breakable. Not meant for the big, clumsy, uncalculated hands of someone like him, but rather, for a gentle and precise touch.

Meant for hands like Viktor’s.

The thought cuts deep, a jagged wound of self-loathing splitting open inside him. Jayce has never hated himself more than in this moment.

"I'm fine," you murmur at last, your voice steadier than he expected. "It’s not like I haven’t done anything before, I'm not a prude, just… not this."

You pause, exhaling slowly before finally admitting the words you’ve been trying to say all along. "I know it’s stupid, but I don’t want to look like a clueless idiot if Viktor ever… wants me."

Jayce’s chest aches at how small your voice sounds, at the quiet vulnerability you’re letting slip through the cracks after being so closed off to him for almost three years.

Why do you always say you’re fine when you aren’t? Why won’t you ever let me help? Why can’t you admit you’re scared?

"Viktor would never think you're an idiot," he breathes. "He’d think you’re the smartest girl in the entire world."

You hesitate: “…Yeah?”

"Yeah," he confirms without missing a beat. Then, with a faint smile, he can’t help but add, teasing, "Maybe just a little too thick-headed for your own good."

A weak but genuine laugh escapes your lips, lightening the weight between you, the tension slowly washing away, the tide receding just enough to let you both breathe.

"Big words from someone who compliments himself in the mirror, Jayce," you shoot back with a smirk, eyes glinting with a flicker of mischief. “And it’s not like you’re that big, anyway.”

He huffs out a laugh in disbelief: “Are you seriously pulling that card right now?”

You snort in reply, unable to hold your smile back.

It’s all so absurd, so fucked, tangled in emotions he doesn’t fully understand. But here you are, smiling at him—teasing, but genuine. A fragile thread of connection woven between sarcasm and chaos.

And then it hits him.

You’ve finally said his name.

Not in anger. Not in passing. Not as part of some joke.

Just his name, wrapped in laughter, soft around the edges.

It’s not exactly in the way he’s craved, not in the way that would make this his; but still, his name has left your lips with a real smile, with your eyes looking at nothing but him. Despite everything, it settles something deep inside him, filling the hollow space that’s been eating him alive.

It makes him feel whole.

"I’ll be fine," you tell him again, voice back to the one he knows and adores. "Just… a little slower, alright?"

Jayce exhales, nodding, his grip on you instinctively firming— not possessive, not demanding. Just there. An anchor for you, as much as it is for himself. He’s going to make sure you’re actually fine for once.

“Yeah. Of course,” he promises, but more than that, it carries the weight of a vow, something unspoken yet deeply solemn, something true.

If he’s water, then you are fire, never defeated, blazing brightly with something that could consume him whole. Maybe that’s why he lets himself drown in you—because it’s the only way he can hold onto something that he was never meant to touch.

You will always burn him, and he will always yield to the sound of his name on your lips.

🌸 Taglist Darlings ��: @soniiyi , @mischievous-piltovan, , @luv-urself-first, @girlidkthinkofsmth , @starflesh-moth , @raynoway , @just1cefor4ll , @apexie100

Tip a Coffee ☕: ko-fi.com/lefruitdelapassion

[itsme-theborgqueen]

I would love you with every breath in my lungs, until my power banks deteriorated into nothingness, and every star we kissed onto each others skin has burnt out…and still it would not be enough

[opens-up-4-nobody]

...

[ilovecoffeeandchemistry]

why are strawberries so expensive it's so unfair 😭😭😭

[seventh-district]

.

[dashiellqvverty]

i am soooo sick of oral allergy syndrome i want to eat my fruits and veggies…..

[zerofuntimes]

dreaming about opening up a fish shop, as if i would ever be financially or physically able to, just a dream that i will continue to think about forever <3

[fragglerockopinions]

.

[slimeylee]

why have these last years fucking sucked ass

[prythiansprincess]

What's each boys fav sex position?

— switchin' the positions for you

a slytherin boys headcanon

theo loves cowgirl. there's just something about watching you ride him that drives him insane. eye contact is a must for him. mostly because he knows how flustered you get when his dead eyes lock in on yours, drinking in every inch of your body while you rock your hips and moan his name. he can’t help but admire you as your tits bounce, his large hands cupping them softly, before taking them into his mouth, groaning as he licks and sucks and marks you up. so good bella, just like that. la mia piccola troia perfetta. theo thinks it’s hot when you lose control, smirking and chuckling to himself when your pussy clenches while he speaks dirty, filthy things to you in italian. sometimes he’ll stop midway to eat you out because it’s his nature — theodore nott is a munch through and through. he never gets tired of the taste and if you even dare say that you’re too sensitive, he’ll yank you by the ankles and pry your legs apart because you’re done when he says you’re done. countless orgasms later, he’d return you to your original position, smirking as you straddle him with shaky legs. when you’re too tired to ride, he’d hold your hips in place and fuck into you, coaxing another orgasm even though you swore you couldn’t take any more. theo knows you can. he loves pushing you to your limits. watching you fall apart and cum on his cock is his favorite thing in the world. keep those pretty eyes open, cara mia. I want to watch you cum for me.

mattheo switches between missionary and doggystyle. if you’re being good, he loves taking the lead and doesn’t mind you being a pillow princess. he’d worship and adore you, murmuring sweet nothings in your ear while he hovers over you, that endearing smile tugging at his lips in response to your giggles about his curls tickling your nose. he’d lean down and give you a sweet kiss before making you see god. if you’re being bad, then there’s no mercy in him as he bends you over a bed, a desk, a counter — it doesn’t matter where or when, mattheo will fuck that attitude right out of you and make you wish you’d never acted like such a brat in the first place. he’d spank you until you’re crying, leaving red handprints all over your ass for days to come. he’d be rough and degrading, his fingers bruising your hips as he fucks you from behind. mattheo isn’t fooled by your tears, he knows it’s not out of pain but of pleasure. he’s well aware that you purposely push his buttons to get fucked dumb, so he edges you over and over again until you’re whining and sobbing. mattheo shuts you up by hooking his arm around your neck, his bicep holding you in place as he shakes his head in feigned disappointment. not so brave now, huh princess? where did all the fire go? now you’re begging me to fuck you like the needy little slut that you are. too fucking bad. if you want to cum, you’ll have to work for it, baby.

enzo is the designated big spoon. your cuddles always start off innocent enough, but it’s not long before he’s slipping a hand into your shorts, teasing your clit in tantalizing circles and smirking against your shoulder as you arch against him for more. you’re so wet that it’s almost too easy for him to slip his fingers right in, scissoring and pumping and curling them into that sweet spot that has you seeing stars. pretty soon, you’re pliant and needy, exactly how enzo wants you because it makes it that much easier to slip off your shorts and panties before rubbing himself against your folds. just the tip, honey. let me make you feel good, yeah? you nod, biting your lip. both of you know it’s never just the tip, but it gives you a sick little thrill as enzo fucks you in shallow little thrusts, edging you until you’re teary eyed and begging him to fuck you for real. enzo coos as he licks your tears away. aw, you’re so pretty when you beg, honey. how could I say no? it’s then that enzo finally sinks in, spreading your legs so he can bury himself so much deeper. you’re sobbing from relief, nothing but a blubbering mess as his skilled fingers circle around your swollen clit.

draco is a fan of the classic. missionary is his go to. he used to hate it before he met you because of how vulnerable the act is, but when he looks into your eyes, he knows that you see him for who he truly is — the good, the bad, and the ugly. you see every part of him and you love him through it all. you trust him through it all. you’re taking me so well, darling. such a good girl. he makes sure to reassure you every step of the way, communicating how much he loves and adores you with every action. draco kisses your ankles before yanking you towards him, the backs of your thighs pressed firmly against his chest as his cock kisses your cervix, both of you groaning from how deep he is inside you. his signet ring is cold against your stomach as he marvels at the size difference. can you feel me, princess? i’m so fucking deep. a choked moan is all you can manage before his ring makes it way down to your clit, vibrating against the already sensitive nub while draco worships your body.

tom is a no brainer. this man is a sucker for doggystyle. he loves bending you over and spreading your cheeks before thrusting all the way in, smirking when you gasp at how big he is. watching his cock slip in and out of your pussy as he sets a punishing pace is so satisfying to him. tom is dark and dominant, deliciously possessive as he lays his claim on you. he knows he’s the only one who can make you feel this good. tears streaming down your cheeks, profanities spilling from your lips, and fingers clutching at the sheets as he pounds into you over and over again. tom is relentless, driving you towards the brink and release just to pull you back and repeat the process until you’re so desperate that you’re outright begging. he sneers when you fuck yourself against him, eager to take as much of him as you can. your pussy suctions him in so greedily, the warmth of your walls hugging around his cock like a vice. such a needy little slut. you’re so desperate for my cock, aren’t you? look at you, all stretched out and still asking for more. you’re shameless as you rock against him, moaning when tom spanks your ass, his handprints seared into your skin. tom lets you have your fun, but at some point, he takes the reign again by yanking your hair back, his teeth sinking into your shoulder as he stills your movements. you belong to me, doll. I own you — mind, body, and soul. don't you ever fucking forget that.

regulus is a certified freak. he may not look like it, but he’s hiding a basilisk in those trousers. he doesn’t really have a preference of position. this man just loves to fuck. most of the time, the two of you do it while standing because he loves the thrill of getting caught. sex with reggie is risky. he has a huge exhibition kink and definitely gets off on the thought of someone walking in while he’s balls deep in you. there’s been countless times when you’ve ended up fucking at a common room party or at a night out in hogsmeade or even during movie nights with your friends because he just can’t keep his hands off of you. his favorite is when you’re in the restricted section with your legs wrapped around him, skirt pulled up over your waist while he thrusts, making the shelves shake behind you. reg bites his lip as you sink down slowly, his eyes nearly rolling back as he watches his cock disappear between your folds. he’s got one hand around your waist to hold you up and the other against your mouth to keep you from moaning too loud and attracting attention. he also loves dirty talking in french because he knows it gets you so much wetter for him. j'aime quand tu me regardes comme ça, mon amour. the black family heirloom ring kisses the side of your neck as regulus wraps a hand around your throat, tilting your chin as his lips meet yours in a filthy kiss. you’re mine, love. mine and only mine.

[ennabear]

loser! sev getting all whiny and pathetic when she eats you out, rutting her hips against the mattress, cumming in her pants, accidentally overstimulating you like crazy because she's just loves it so much.

accidentally overstimulating HERSELF from eating you out?????? GODDDDDDD

HEHEHEH i said i was gonna respond to these as small little thoughts but i wanna write a real blurb about this because. wow. so true and real it brought tears to my eyes. THANK U FOR THISSSS i wish i could keep it in my asks forever hehehe… 18+

your wife has had one of the worst weeks of her life. the undercity has just completely gone rogue ever since silco has passed, and every effort she’s made to have everyone band together against topside is just worthless. nobody wants to listen to her, too obsessed with their own personal drama to see the bigger picture.

to make matters worse, she’s had to keep jinx under control too. when sevika imagined silco’s death, she didn’t imagine him leaving jinx in the will. and as if the sudden addition of jinx into her life wasn’t enough to stir the pot, jinx has found her own stray now too.

she’s exhausted. sick of sleepless nights spent erasing and rewriting silco’s mistakes, the bitter frost lingering in the streets leaving everyone in a tense and irritable mood. of fucking course she’s the one who has to deal with it, nobody else wants to take a stand or set things straight.

seeing her this way breaks your heart. she barely comes home anymore, usually to be found slumped over silco’s desk with a half empty bottle of whiskey at her side. her arm thrown across the table, an empty promise of getting it fixed and reattached hanging over her head. what she really needs is a new arm, but she refuses to take smeech up on his offer.

god damn it, your wife is so fucking stubborn. it turns you on immensely. because she’s loyal. she’s offered a brand new arm with all of the bells and whistles she could ever ask for, as long as she turns in jinx. easiest job ever, and she’s never liked the blue haired kid anyways. yet, she stands her ground. instead she’s been taking insults like “a bird without wings is just a funny lookin’ rat.” and trying to navigate her life with only one half of herself.

but tonight, she’s gonna make her absence up to you. she wanders home through the dark streets and alleys of zaun, straight to your shared doorstep. one could barely call it a house, as there weren’t really any dwellings that have survived this long in the undercity without being overtaken by moss and vines or crumbled to pieces— but it certainly was a home. especially when she gets to walk in and see you looking cozy and domestic.

you stare up at her when she saunters through the door, a crease between her brows and wet, red eyes painting her face as usual. she sighs, walking over to you and joining you on the couch. in an instant, she’s in your arms again. just the way you like it. without a word, you massage her temples as she nuzzles her face deeper into your hold. your touch is magic, she can feel the month long migraine she’s had suddenly disintegrating.

before she can stop it, before she even realizes what’s happening, hot streams of tears leak out of her eyes and roll down her cheeks. you coo at her and swipe them all away, kissing the top of her head repeatedly as a reminder of your love. yeah, it’s been a day or two since you’ve seen her, and sure, it’s been even longer since you’ve been on a date or had any sort of alone time, but you know that it isn’t personal. she’s trying her best, even if that means stumbling over her words and tripping over her feet.

“bad day, huh?” you ask, another kiss to the top of her head.

“bad week, bad month, bad year…” she responds with a sniffle. “i just wanna be close to you.”

she peeks up at you though her wet eyelashes, some of her black eye makeup smudged around her eyes. you giggle at her, she’s so fucking adorable. and so sweet, so hardworking, so gentle. before you can muster out an ‘i love you’, she bolts forward and catches your lips in a sweet kiss, pinning you to the couch.

“sev, god, you’re so needy.” you pant when she finally releases your lips to catch her breath.

“i’ve missed you, shit. wanna taste you so bad.”

with that, she shoves your pants down, already eagerly sucking bruises into your neck. you groan, you’ve forgotten how good your wife’s touch feels. a big, warm hand wraps around your own, and although they’re rough and cracked, you’ve never felt anything softer. tears threaten to spill out of your own eyes with the amount of love and adrenaline pumping through your veins, but sevika grounds you by shuffling on top of you.

you think she’s about to sit her cunt on top of yours as she strips herself of her pants, but you’re mistaken, and you realize this when she whimpers out a little “hand me that” and nods toward one of the pillows behind you.

confused and turned on as you are, you do as she asks and hand her a throw pillow which instantly gets shoved between her thighs. she wastes no time in diving forward to lick up all of your arousal, her eyes growing starry as a little string of white connects itself from your clit to the tip of her nose. you almost faint. fuck, you’ve missed her face, even more what it can do to you. so you buck your hips up and slowly grind yourself against her face, sevika matching your pace with her own hips.

in an instant, she’s lost in the pleasure— more specifically the taste of you and the slow grind of her cunt against the pillow. moans vibrate through your folds as she buries her face between your spread legs, and you whimper, already embarrassingly close to the finish line.

surprisingly, sevika cums first, the pillow cradling her wet cunt as she humps against it in time with her licks and sucks. that doesn’t stop her, and she doesn’t even stop after you cum and start yanking her head away out of intense pleasure. she can’t stop, though, not now. she’s in too deep. literally. her tongue is buried inside of you and her nose runs over your clit with every thrust, her mind absolutely racing with emotional thoughts and horny feelings.

“sevika, please!” you grunt, her grip on your hips is relentless. “babe, i already came, that’s enough.” but judging by the way she completely ignores you, you wonder if she even heard you at all.

she whines when you tug on her hair or push her shoulders away with the heels of you feet, her face completely melted to your cunt. she never stops fucking her pillow, and now her clit is red and rubbed raw by the cloth. she doesn’t know how many orgasms she’s had, it could range between three and twenty. she lost count when she came for the umpteenth time after you pulled her hair and moaned her name at the same time.

tears spill from her eyes again, but this time they’re happy tears. god, she’s missed you, and she doesn’t ever wanna stop. you take her face in your hands when you notice the sobs and sniffles she’s letting out, along with more whimpers and groans. this time, she relents, slowing her own hips first and then licking up the rest of the cum and spit between your thighs.

“sev, baby, what’s wrong?” you ask, concerned that maybe you hurt her or she hurt herself.

“i just missed you…” she starts. “and i love you so much.” she crawls up your body and lays her head on your stomach while you both catch your breath, the pillow being discarded on the floor. your fingers work wonders on her scalp, and she almost falls asleep after half an hour of matching her breathing to yours.

“don’t fall asleep yet.” you warn, although you’ve been yawning more than she has. “you still need to carry me to bed and tuck me in like a gentleman.”

“you might have to be the gentleman tonight,” she giggles. “i don’t think my legs are sturdy enough to carry us to the bedroom right now.”

[pucksandpower]

Stroke of Midnight

Max Verstappen x Alonso!Reader

Summary: New Year’s Eve sees you crouched under a table, shoving grapes into your mouth as the seconds tick by in a desperate attempt to find love in 2025 … but it just so happens that love finds you a whole lot sooner than you expect

Note: Happy (almost) New Year! Wishing everyone a sweet and fulfilling 2025 ❤️

The club is too loud, too crowded, too much. Somewhere near the DJ booth, your father is probably breaking it down to the worst remix of an already bad pop song.

You don’t want to know what’s happening. You don’t even want to be here, except here is Monaco on New Year’s Eve, and it’s supposed to be magical. That’s what the internet said when you Googled it this morning. But so far, the magic feels more like sweat and regret.

And desperation. There’s no use pretending otherwise anymore.

Your legs cramp as you shift under the table, pulling your knees to your chest to avoid the sharp heel of a passing stranger. The white tablecloth is a flimsy barrier between you and the chaos outside — limbs, perfume, champagne flutes tipped at precarious angles.

You check your phone. Eleven fifty-seven.

“God,” you whisper to yourself, clutching the little plastic bag in your hand. “This is rock bottom.”

But is it? The thought stops you short. You could argue there’ve been worse moments.

There was your first boyfriend, for starters. The trust fund baby who somehow thought being wealthy made cheating excusable. “It’s not like I need you,” he had said when you caught him. Yeah, no kidding.

Then came the mechanic. Charming, sweet, and exactly what you thought you needed — until you overheard him laughing with his friends about how he only asked you out on a bet. The details are blurry now, but the humiliation is crystal clear.

And, of course, the summer of horror: introducing your third boyfriend to your dad, only to walk in on him rummaging through your father’s underwear drawer. “I just wanted to see what greatness looks like,” he had explained with a sheepish grin, clutching a pair of Fernando Alonso’s boxer briefs like they were relics from the Vatican.

Three strikes. You’re out.

“Not this year,” you mutter, shaking your head. This year, you’re taking things into your own hands.

You dig into the bag, spilling green grapes into your lap. Twelve of them. One for each second before midnight, each representing a wish for the year ahead. You glance at the clock again — eleven fifty-eight now. Two minutes to go.

Someone shifts the table above you, and you nearly choke on your gasp. The tablecloth lifts slightly, and a pair of curious eyes meet yours.

“What the hell?”

It’s a man — dark-haired, stubble-jawed, vaguely familiar, though everyone in Monaco looks like they could be a movie star. He’s crouched, trying to see past the shadows. You stare back, frozen.

“Are you hiding?” He asks, tilting his head. His accent is clipped and Dutch, which somehow makes this all worse.

“Uh — no,” you stammer, holding up a grape like it’s evidence in court. “I’m … I’m doing something. It’s a tradition.”

“Under a table?”

“Yes.”

There’s a pause. He blinks at you, then ducks his head fully under the tablecloth. “Alright, I’ll bite. What kind of tradition involves grapes and hiding under furniture?”

“It’s Spanish.” You’re not sure why you feel defensive, but you do. “You eat twelve grapes, one for each second before midnight, for good luck in the new year.”

“Good luck.” He glances pointedly at the table legs surrounding you. “How’s that working out?”

You scowl. “It’s not midnight yet.”

He snorts. “Fair enough. Carry on.” He starts to retreat, but something stops him. “Wait. Why under the table?”

“Because …” You hesitate, not wanting to explain that part of the superstition involves being in a confined space to focus your intentions. It sounds ridiculous out loud, even to you. “Because it’s quieter down here.”

“Right.” His tone is skeptical, but mercifully, he leaves it at that. “Good luck, grape girl.” He’s gone before you can respond.

The clock ticks closer to midnight. Eleven fifty-nine. You clutch the grapes tighter, willing yourself to focus.

“Okay,” you whisper, heart pounding. “This is it. Love. Luck. Anything but whatever the hell the last three years were.”

You pop the first grape into your mouth as the countdown begins, the music fading just enough for the crowd to yell, Twelve!

It’s sour, but you swallow it quickly, reaching for the next. Eleven!

The third grape is sweeter. Ten!

Someone bumps the table above you, but you keep going. Nine!

The fifth grape tastes like possibility. Eight!

You’re halfway through the sixth when the tablecloth lifts again.

“Sorry, but I just-” It’s him again, the Dutch guy. He ducks under the table fully this time, looking half-apologetic, half-curious. “I couldn’t help it. What happens if you don’t finish in time?”

You glare at him, cheeks puffed like a chipmunk. “Whuh ah oo doin’?”

“Trying to understand the stakes here,” he says, crouching beside you. “It’s fascinating.”

“Go ‘way!” You manage, scrambling for the eighth grape. Five!

“Is this, like, a universal Spanish thing? Or just your family?”

You shove the ninth grape in your mouth, ignoring him. Four!

“You’re really committed,” he notes, watching you chew furiously. “I respect that.”

You jab a finger toward the edge of the tablecloth, signaling him to leave.

“Alright, alright,” he says, hands up in surrender. “Good luck, truly. I hope it works.”

He disappears just as the countdown hits Three!

The eleventh grape is a struggle, but you manage. Two!

You grab the last one, cramming it in just as the crowd roars, One! Happy New Year!

It’s chaos — cheering, champagne popping, music surging back to full volume. You sit there under the table, sticky with grape juice and feeling utterly ridiculous.

“Happy New Year to me,” you mutter, wiping your hands on your dress.

Above you, the tablecloth shifts again.

“I had a feeling you’d make it,” the Dutch guy says, grinning. He’s holding two glasses of champagne. “Figured you might need this.”

You stare at him, utterly baffled. “Do you always bother strangers under tables?”

“Only the ones who look like they’re about to choke on tradition.”

You take the glass hesitantly, unsure whether to thank him or tell him to leave you alone. He raises his own in a toast.

“To luck,” he says simply, his smile oddly sincere.

You sigh, clinking your glass against his. “To luck.”

And for the first time in years, you think it might actually work.

***

The Dutch guy, whose name you still don’t know, doesn’t leave. You expect him to. After all, who bothers someone under a table, offers them champagne, and then sticks around? But here he is, leaning casually against the table, like this is his New Year’s Eve tradition too.

“So,” he says, studying you over the rim of his glass, “how do you know it worked?”

“What worked?”

“The grapes. Your luck in love.”

“It’s not instant,” you reply dryly. “I don’t think someone’s going to walk up and propose to me tonight.”

“Shame,” he says, smirking. “Would’ve been a great story.”

You roll your eyes, standing up carefully to avoid smacking your head on the table. The club is still throbbing with music, the crowd a drunken sea of sequins and suits. Your father is nowhere to be seen, probably charming half the room with drunken stories from his glory days.

The Dutch guy follows you, holding his champagne like it’s an extension of himself.

“So, do I get a name?” He asks.

“Do I get a name?” You counter.

He laughs, setting his glass on a passing waiter’s tray. “Martin. Martin Garrix.”

It clicks immediately. The Martin Garrix. You’ve seen him on magazine covers, his face plastered on Spotify playlists, his name on Coachella lineups.

“Oh,” you say, a little surprised. “You’re that Martin Garrix.”

“Depends,” he says with a grin. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

He laughs again, an easy sound that somehow cuts through the noise around you.

“And you are?”

You hesitate. The last thing you want is to be recognized as Fernando Alonso’s daughter tonight. “Just … me,” you say, shrugging.

“Alright, Just Me,” he teases. “What’s the plan now? Back to the dance floor?”

“I don’t really have a plan.” You glance toward the bar, but it’s swamped. The thought of pushing through that crowd makes your skin crawl.

Martin tilts his head, considering you. “You know,” he says after a moment, “I’ve got to play a set in a bit. But before that, I could introduce you to someone.”

Your brow furrows. “Introduce me?”

“Yeah. A friend of mine. You’ll like him.”

You cross your arms. “Why do I feel like you’re trying to get rid of me?”

“Not at all,” he says, grinning. “But if you’re looking for luck, he’s got plenty of it.”

Before you can argue, he’s already motioning for you to follow him.

Martin weaves through the crowd effortlessly, stopping just long enough to charm security guards and exchange handshakes with people who look vaguely important. You trail behind, clutching your champagne glass like a lifeline.

“VIP,” he explains over his shoulder, as if that answers anything.

“I was in VIP,” you mutter. “Then I left to crawl under a table.”

“Your loss,” he quips.

The VIP section is smaller than you remember, cordoned off with velvet ropes and guarded by men in black suits. Martin flashes a wristband, and the guard steps aside.

You’re led to a booth tucked in the farthest corner, hidden from most of the chaos. Someone is slouched in the corner seat, a drink dangling from his fingers. His head tilts up when Martin approaches, and your stomach flips.

Max Verstappen.

You stop dead in your tracks, heat rushing to your face. Of all the people — of course it’s him.

Max looks at you, then at Martin, then back at you. His brow furrows in confusion, his normally sharp blue eyes a little unfocused.

“Martin,” he says, voice thick with alcohol, “who’s this?”

Martin grins, gesturing toward you. “Stray kitten I found under a table. Thought you might want company.”

You gape at him. “I am not a stray kitten.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Martin says, completely unbothered.

Max blinks, then sets his drink on the table. “Wait. I know you.”

“Yeah,” you say quickly, “I know you too.”

It’s a terrible response, but you’re too flustered to think straight. Max Verstappen, reigning Formula 1 world champion, is sitting in front of you, looking unfairly handsome even in his clearly drunk state.

Martin claps Max on the shoulder. “I’ll leave you two to it. Don’t scare her off, mate.”

“Wait, what-” You start to protest, but Martin is already disappearing into the crowd.

You’re left standing there awkwardly, clutching your glass like it’s a shield. Max watches you, his expression softening into something unreadable.

“Sit,” he says, gesturing to the empty seat beside him.

You hesitate, then slide into the booth, leaving just enough space between you that it doesn’t feel too intimate.

“So,” he says, leaning back. “What’s this about a table?”

You sigh, rubbing your temple. “It’s a Spanish tradition. You eat twelve grapes at midnight for good luck in the new year. I was under the table to-”

“Focus your intentions,” he finishes, surprising you.

Your eyes widen. “How do you know that?”

“Carlos told me about it once back when we were teammates,” he says with a small smile. “He thought it was funny.”

You relax slightly. “Well, it’s not funny. It’s practical.”

“Under a table, though?” His smile widens.

“It’s quieter!”

He laughs, and it’s the kind of laugh that makes your heart twist in your chest. You’ve always found Max intimidating — cool, calm, untouchable. But right now, with his hair slightly messy and his guard down, he seems … human.

“You’re drunk,” you blurt out.

He nods, unabashed. “A little.”

“A lot,” you correct.

“Fair.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “But what about you? You’re here on New Year’s Night, eating grapes under tables. What’s that about?”

You hesitate, then shrug. “Bad luck. Bad … everything, really. I figured it couldn’t hurt.”

He studies you for a moment, his gaze steady despite the alcohol. “Bad everything?”

“Love life,” you admit, looking away. “It’s been a disaster.”

“Join the club,” he mutters, taking a sip of his drink.

You glance at him, surprised. “What do you mean? You’re-” You stop yourself, realizing how stupid it sounds. He’s Max Verstappen. He could have anyone.

“Exactly,” he says, reading your expression. “And that’s the problem. No one takes me seriously. They just see the driver, the fame, the money.”

You soften. “That sounds lonely.”

“It is.”

There’s a beat of silence, heavy with unspoken words.

“You know,” he says finally, his voice quieter now, “I always wondered what it’d be like to talk to you.”

Your breath catches. “What?”

“In the paddock. You’re always with your dad, or with someone else. I never knew how to …” He trails off, rubbing the back of his neck. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does,” you say quickly, surprising yourself. “I always wondered too.”

He looks at you then, really looks at you, and for a moment, the noise of the club fades into the background.

“Yeah?” He asks softly.

You nod, suddenly shy. “Yeah.”

His lips twitch into a small smile. “Maybe Martin was right.”

“About what?”

“Luck.”

You laugh, the sound light and unexpected. “Maybe.”

He leans back, the tension in his shoulders easing. “So, what now? Are you going to wait for the grapes to work, or are we going to make our own luck?”

You raise an eyebrow. “And how do we do that?”

“Well,” he says, a playful glint in his eye, “we could start by getting out of here.”

“And go where?”

“Anywhere,” he says, standing up and holding out his hand.

You stare at his hand, then take it, letting him pull you to your feet.

“Alright,” you say, your heart pounding. “Let’s see where this luck takes us.”

***

The valet pulls up with the car, and it’s … a Ferrari Monza SP2. Of course it is. Sleek, black, and absurdly expensive, it looks like something out of a Bond movie. The kind of car you don’t just drive; you wear it, command it.

Max grins at you as the valet hands him the keys, his drunken sway almost imperceptible — almost. He heads straight for the driver’s side, but you grab his arm before he can open the door.

“Are you serious?” You ask, wide-eyed.

“What?” His expression is equal parts innocence and mischief.

“You’ve been drinking.”

He glances at the keys in his hand, then back at you, shrugging like it’s no big deal. “I’ve had worse nights.”

“Max,” you say firmly, your voice cutting through the noise of passing cars and drunken revelers spilling out onto the Monaco streets. “You’re not driving.”

He raises an eyebrow, his grin widening. “So, what? You’re offering?”

You blink, caught off guard. “I-I didn’t mean-”

But he’s already opening the driver’s side door and stepping aside, holding it open for you with a dramatic flourish. “Your chariot awaits, madam.”

Your first instinct is to argue, to remind him that this is his car and you’re not exactly in the habit of taking over Ferraris from Formula 1 champions unless they’re your father. But the glint in his eye dares you to say yes.

“Fine,” you mutter, slipping past him and sliding into the driver’s seat.

The leather feels luxurious under your fingers, the steering wheel practically begging to be gripped. You know Ferraris — you grew up around them, after all — but this one feels different. It feels … alive.

Max climbs into the passenger seat with surprising agility for someone who’s had more than a few drinks. He looks entirely too pleased with himself, leaning back like he owns not just the car, but the world.

“Where to?” You ask, trying to sound nonchalant as you adjust the seat and mirrors.

He shrugs, a lazy smile on his face. “Surprise me.”

The car roars to life under your hands, the engine purring with a deep, satisfying growl. You pull out of the valet lane and into the Monaco streets, the city lights sparkling like they’ve been sprinkled with diamonds.

You have no plan, no destination in mind. So, you let the roads guide you. Past the harbor, where yachts bob gently against their moorings, and out onto the open road leading away from Monaco.

Max watches you drive, his gaze heavy but not uncomfortable. “You’re good at this,” he says, his voice cutting through the low hum of the engine.

You glance at him, one hand on the wheel. “I should be. My dad made sure I could handle cars before I could even ride a bike.”

He chuckles. “Sounds about right.”

The road begins to curve as you head toward Nice, the city’s glow fading behind you. The winding asphalt hugs the coastline, offering glimpses of the dark sea shimmering under the moonlight.

Max leans his head back against the seat, his eyes half-closed. “This is nice,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

You smile, focusing on the road. “It is.”

The stretch of beach comes out of nowhere, a small, deserted slice of sand tucked between rocky cliffs. You might have driven past it without a second thought, but Max suddenly sits up, pointing wildly.

“Stop!” He yells.

You react instinctively, slamming on the brakes. The tires screech against the pavement, and the car comes to a jarring halt.

“Jesus, Max!” You exclaim, turning to glare at him. “What is wrong with you?”

He’s already unbuckling his seatbelt, his eyes sparkling with excitement. “We’re going skinny dipping.”

“What?”

“You heard me.” He grins like a kid who just discovered a hidden jar of candy. “Come on. The water’s right there.”

You stare at him, dumbfounded. “You can’t be serious.”

“Why not?” He pushes open the door and climbs out, gesturing for you to follow. “It’s New Year’s. Perfect time to do something stupid.”

“Skinny dipping isn’t just stupid, Max. It’s-” You gesture vaguely, your cheeks heating. “It’s ridiculous.”

He leans down, resting his arms on the open car door. “Exactly. That’s the point. Live a little.”

You hesitate, glancing toward the beach. The moonlight glints off the waves, the sound of the surf mingling with the gentle rustle of wind through the grass. There’s no one else around.

“Max,” you start, your voice uncertain.

He tilts his head, his expression softening. “Hey. It’s just water. I won’t look if you don’t want me to.”

You laugh despite yourself, shaking your head. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re stalling.” He steps back, holding his arms out as if to say, what’s the worst that could happen?

You sigh, unbuckling your seatbelt. “If I freeze to death, I’m haunting you.”

“Deal.”

The sand is cool under your feet as you follow Max toward the water. He’s already pulled off his shirt and pants, tossing them carelessly onto the beach. The moonlight catches on his skin, highlighting the lean muscles of his back.

You hesitate at the water’s edge, the waves lapping at your toes.

“This is crazy,” you mutter, crossing your arms.

“That’s the point,” Max calls over his shoulder, already wading into the surf.

You bite your lip, glancing around one last time to make sure you’re alone. Then, with a deep breath, you pull off your dress, leaving it in a heap beside Max’s clothes.

The water is shockingly cold as you step in, but it’s not unbearable. You wade in deeper, the waves swirling around your waist, then your chest.

Max is already floating on his back a few meters ahead, his arms stretched out like he’s completely at peace.

“See?” He says, his voice carrying over the water. “Not so bad.”

You tread water, glaring at him. “I hate that you’re right.”

He laughs, the sound echoing across the beach. “You’ll get used to it.”

For a while, neither of you says anything. The water is calm, the world around you eerily quiet except for the soft crash of waves.

“This is nice,” you admit finally, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Told you,” he says, tilting his head to look at you. His expression is softer now, less playful. “Thanks for indulging me.”

You shrug, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Thanks for trusting me with your car.”

He grins. “I figured it was in good hands.”

The silence stretches between you again, but it’s not uncomfortable. It feels … easy. Like the two of you have always been here, floating in the moonlit water, sharing something unspoken.

“I’ve always liked you,” Max says suddenly, his voice quiet but firm.

You freeze, your heart skipping a beat. “What?”

He turns onto his side, treading water to face you. “I mean it. For years, I’ve … I don’t know. I never thought you’d feel the same, so I didn’t say anything. But tonight …” He trails off, shaking his head. “I don’t know. It felt like the right time.”

Your throat tightens, your mind racing. You’ve always thought Max was out of your league, untouchable. But here he is, confessing in the most Max way possible — honest, straightforward, no games.

“I’ve always liked you too,” you admit, your voice trembling.

His eyes widen, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He laughs, the sound full of relief and joy. “Well, I guess the grapes worked after all.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. “Don’t make me regret this.”

“Never,” he says, his voice soft.

It feels like a promise.

***

When you and Max finally stumble out of the water, shivering and laughing, you head straight to the spot where you’d left your clothes. Only, when you get there, the beach doesn’t look quite the same.

Your dress isn’t where you left it.

“Oh no,” you mutter, scanning the dark sand.

“What?” Max asks, standing next to you, his arms crossed against the cold.

“My clothes.” You point at the waterline, which has crept much closer during your impromptu swim. “The waves must’ve gotten to them.”

Max glances down and then back at you with a smirk. “You mean those clothes?”

You follow his gaze to a small, soggy heap half-buried in the sand.

“Oh, for the love of-” You dart toward them, scooping up your dress and underwear, which are completely soaked and dripping.

Max doesn’t even try to suppress his laugh. “Well, this is awkward.”

“Don’t,” you warn, glaring at him.

“I didn’t say anything!” He holds up his hands defensively, still grinning.

You groan, holding up your dress, which now feels about ten pounds heavier with seawater. “What am I supposed to do? I can’t wear this.”

Max tilts his head, considering. “Guess you’ll have to drive back naked.”

“Max!”

“Kidding, kidding!” He steps closer, tugging his own damp shirt over his head and holding it out to you. “Here. Problem solved.”

You hesitate, eyeing the shirt. “What about you?”

“I’ll live,” he says with a shrug, clearly unbothered by the chilly night air. “Take it.”

You sigh, knowing you don’t have much of a choice. “Fine. Turn around.”

Max smirks but obeys, turning his back to you.

You quickly pull the oversized shirt over your head, the fabric still warm from his body. It smells like him, too — a mix of salt, sweat, and something distinctly Max. You tug it down as far as it will go, grateful that it’s long enough to cover everything important.

“Okay,” you say.

Max turns back around, and his grin is immediate and wide. “Wow.”

“What?” You ask, crossing your arms.

“You look good in my clothes,” he says, his voice dropping slightly.

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks burn at the way he’s looking at you, his gaze lingering a little too long. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re beautiful,” he counters, his tone light but earnest.

You open your mouth to respond, but the words catch in your throat. Instead, you shake your head, muttering, “Let’s just go.”

Max doesn’t argue, but his grin lingers as the two of you make your way back to the car.

“Where are we going?” Max asks as you slide back into the driver’s seat, the leather cool against your bare thighs.

“I was going to ask you the same thing,” you say, adjusting the mirrors again.

He shrugs, leaning back in his seat. “We could go back to my place.”

You snort. “Why does that sound like the setup to a bad pickup line?”

“Hey,” he protests, mock-offended. “I’m a gentleman.”

You glance at him, raising an eyebrow. “Are you, though?”

“Sometimes,” he says, grinning. “Depends on the company.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Well, as much as I’d love to see your undoubtedly bachelor-esque apartment, I have a better idea.”

“Oh?”

“My dad’s place,” you say, pulling onto the road.

Max raises an eyebrow. “Fernando’s?”

“He’s not there,” you assure him quickly. “He’s probably still at the club, or passed out somewhere. And I happen to know he stocked the apartment with some really good champagne.”

Max hums, considering. “Fancy champagne, empty apartment … I like the sound of this.”

You smile, turning onto the highway. “I thought you might.”

The drive back to Monaco feels different this time. The adrenaline from the beach has faded, replaced by a quiet comfort. Max sits beside you, his head tilted back against the seat, humming softly to himself.

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye. “You’re not falling asleep, are you?”

He shakes his head, reaching for the radio. “Nope. Just thinking.”

“Dangerous,” you tease.

He laughs, fiddling with the dial until he lands on a station playing 80s hits. The familiar opening chords of Take On Me by A-ha fill the car, and Max immediately starts singing along.

“Talking away,” he belts out, completely off-key but fully committed.

You can’t help but laugh. “Oh my God, Max.”

“What?” He says, grinning at you. “You don’t like my singing?”

“I’m just saying, maybe stick to driving cars.”

He clutches his chest dramatically. “Ouch. That’s harsh.”

The chorus kicks in, and Max leans closer to you, practically shouting the lyrics. “I’ll be gone, in a day or twoooooo!”

You’re laughing so hard you can barely keep your hands steady on the wheel. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love it,” he says, winking.

You roll your eyes, but the truth is, you kind of do. There’s something about the way Max is so unapologetically himself, even when he’s being completely ridiculous. It’s endearing in a way you didn’t expect.

The next song comes on — Africa by Toto (not that Toto, the other one) — and Max doesn’t miss a beat, launching into another impromptu performance.

“I bless the rains down in AfricAAAA!”

“Please stop,” you beg, though your cheeks hurt from smiling.

“Never,” he says, grinning at you like this is the most fun he’s had in ages.

And as the lights of Monaco come back into view, you realize you’ve never felt more at ease with someone. Max’s off-tune singing, the salty breeze still clinging to your hair, and the warmth of his shirt against your skin — it all feels like something out of a dream.

“Hey,” Max says suddenly, his voice softer now.

“Yeah?” You glance at him, and for once, he’s not smiling. His expression is thoughtful, almost serious.

“I’m glad it was you tonight,” he says simply.

Your heart skips a beat, but you manage to keep your voice steady. “Me too.”

He turns back to the radio, cranking up the volume as another song starts. And as you drive toward the city, the two of you singing along to the music, it feels like the beginning of something you’re not quite ready to name — but it feels right all the same.

***

The apartment is just as you left it — sleek, minimalist, and undoubtedly your father’s. Clean lines, muted colors, and an expansive view of Monaco’s twinkling lights spilling in through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Max whistles low as he steps inside, running a hand through his damp hair. “Your dad has good taste.”

You scoff, kicking off your shoes by the door. “He has a good interior designer. There’s a difference.”

Max chuckles, padding after you as you head straight for the kitchen. “Where’s this fancy champagne you promised?”

You open the fridge, scanning its contents. Sure enough, five bottles of Dom Pérignon are lined up like soldiers, condensation clinging to their dark glass.

“Here,” you say, pulling one out and setting it on the marble countertop. “But don’t complain if it ruins you for whatever it is that Formula 1 uses on podiums these days.”

Max grabs two flutes from the cabinet you pointed to and shrugs. “I think I’ll survive.”

You pop the cork with a satisfying pop, pouring the sparkling liquid into the glasses he offers.

“To questionable life choices,” Max says, raising his glass.

You laugh, clinking yours against his. “To new beginnings.”

The first sip is crisp and effervescent, the kind of taste that makes you close your eyes for a second to savor it. Max seems equally impressed, letting out a low hum of approval.

“You weren’t kidding,” he says, taking another sip. “This is good.”

“Only the best for Fernando Alonso,” you say, rolling your eyes.

The two of you settle on the couch, the city lights casting a soft glow over the room. Conversation flows easily, the champagne loosening whatever walls you might have had left after the events of the night.

By the second bottle, you’re both leaning into each other, laughing at stories you’ve never told anyone else.

“So, wait,” Max says, his voice slightly slurred. “You actually punched him?”

“I didn’t punch him,” you correct, giggling. “I just … shoved him. Hard. With my fist.”

Max snorts. “That’s literally a punch.”

“Semantics.” You wave him off, taking another sip of champagne. “He deserved it.”

“Remind me never to get on your bad side,” Max says, shaking his head with a grin.

By the time you open the third bottle, everything is a blur of laughter, shared glances, and a warmth that has nothing to do with the alcohol.

You’re halfway through another story when Max interrupts, leaning closer. “You’ve got …” He gestures vaguely at your face.

“What?” You ask, frowning.

“Hold on.” He reaches out, brushing the corner of your mouth with his thumb. The touch is light, almost hesitant, but it sends a jolt of electricity through you.

“There,” he says softly, his thumb lingering a second too long before he pulls back.

The room feels suddenly smaller, quieter. Your eyes meet his, and for a moment, neither of you says anything.

Then, without thinking, you lean in.

The kiss is messy, fueled by champagne and years of unspoken tension. Max’s lips are soft but insistent, his hands finding your waist and pulling you closer.

You barely register the sound of your glass clattering onto the coffee table as you climb onto his lap, your fingers tangling in his hair.

“Is this okay?” He murmurs against your lips, his breath warm and ragged.

You nod, your hands already tugging at the waistband of his jeans. “More than okay.”

His hands slide under the shirt you’re wearing — his shirt — his palms warm against your skin. The touch makes you shiver, but you can’t tell if it’s from the cold or something else entirely.

“You look so good in this,” he whispers, his lips trailing down your neck.

“Stop talking,” you mutter, pulling him back up for another kiss.

He laughs softly but obeys, his hands roaming freely now, exploring every curve like he’s trying to memorize you.

You lose track of time, of where you end and he begins. The champagne bubbles in your veins, making everything feel hazy and light.

Somehow, you both end up half-naked on the leather sectional, your legs tangled together. Max’s hands stay under the shirt, resting against your waist like he’s anchoring himself to you.

Your hand drifts lower, brushing against the waistband of his briefs. He lets out a low groan, his head falling back against the couch.

“Careful,” he says, his voice thick with a mix of amusement and warning.

You smirk, leaning down to press a kiss to his jaw. “You’re the one who said to live a little.”

He laughs, pulling you back down into another kiss.

Eventually, exhaustion gets the better of both of you. The kisses slow, turning softer, lazier, until you’re both too tired to do anything but collapse against each other.

Max’s arms wrap around you, his body warm and solid beneath you.

“Don’t let me fall asleep like this,” you mumble, your voice muffled against his chest.

“Too late,” he replies, his voice already heavy with sleep.

And as your eyes flutter closed, you can’t help but think that this might be the best questionable life choice you’ve ever made.

***

The first hint of dawn spills into the apartment, a soft, golden hue creeping through the glass walls. The city below comes to life slowly, but up here, in the quiet sanctuary of your father’s apartment, everything feels frozen in time.

You’re vaguely aware of the early morning light as you stir, still half-asleep, tangled in the warmth of Max’s arms. His hands are still under the shirt you’re wearing — his shirt — resting against your bare waist. Your head rests on his chest, his steady heartbeat like a metronome beneath your ear.

You should feel embarrassed, maybe even regretful. Instead, you feel … safe. Content.

The sound of keys jingling outside the door doesn’t register immediately.

Then, the lock turns, and the door creaks open.

“Ah, mierda.”

The low curse comes from the entryway. The unmistakable, groggy voice of your father.

You jolt upright, your blood turning ice-cold as the realization sinks in.

Max stirs beside you, groaning softly. “What’s going on?”

You don’t have time to answer before Fernando appears in the living room doorway, his hair disheveled, his jacket slung over one shoulder, and the beginnings of a hangover etched across his face.

His gaze lands on the two of you — your bare legs, Max’s shirt haphazardly covering you, and the obvious fact that both your pants are nowhere to be seen.

There’s a long, excruciating silence.

“Papá,” you manage to squeak, your voice higher than you intended.

Fernando blinks once, twice. Then his eyes narrow. “What is this?”

Max freezes, his brain clearly struggling to catch up. “Uh …”

You scramble for words, any words, but your mind is a complete blank.

Fernando steps closer, his voice sharp. “You. Verstappen. What are you doing here?”

Max raises a hand, as though he’s trying to surrender. “I can explain-”

“Oh, you better,” Fernando interrupts, his tone dark. “Because from where I’m standing, this looks like …” He gestures vaguely at the two of you, his expression a mix of disbelief and fury. “… a very bad decision.”

You hastily pull a throw pillow over your lap, trying to muster some semblance of dignity. “It’s not what it looks like.”

Fernando arches a brow. “It looks like I came home to find my daughter and Max Verstappen half-naked on my couch.”

“Okay, so maybe it’s a little what it looks like,” you admit, cringing.

Max finally seems to snap out of his stupor. He sits up, running a hand through his already messy hair. “Listen, Fernando, I-”

“You don’t get to call me Fernando,” your father snaps. “Not right now.”

“Okay,” Max backtracks quickly, holding up his hands. “Look, this isn’t her fault. It’s on me.”

You turn to him, frowning. “Max-”

“No, it’s true,” he continues, his voice steady despite the situation. “I shouldn’t have let things get … out of hand.”

Fernando crosses his arms, his eyes narrowing further. “Out of hand?”

“I mean-” Max stumbles over his words, clearly realizing he’s digging himself deeper. “It’s not like we planned for this to happen.”

Fernando’s gaze flicks to you, his expression unreadable. “Is that true?”

You open your mouth, then close it, your cheeks burning. “Well … yes. Kind of.”

“Kind of?”

“It’s complicated!” You blurt out, throwing your hands up in frustration.

Fernando pinches the bridge of his nose, muttering something under his breath that you’re pretty sure isn’t complimentary.

“I don’t even know where to start,” he says after a moment, his voice tight. “You-” He points at Max. “Why are you even here?”

“We were … celebrating,” Max says hesitantly.

“Celebrating,” Fernando repeats flatly. “By taking your pants off on my couch?”

“Okay, that part was-” Max starts, but you cut him off.

“Can we not talk about pants right now?” You plead, your face hot enough to fry an egg.

Fernando gives you a look that could melt steel. “No, we’re absolutely going to talk about it. What were you thinking?”

“Maybe we weren’t thinking,” you admit quietly, avoiding his gaze.

“That much is obvious,” he mutters.

“Papá, please,” you say, your voice softening. “It’s not like we meant to disrespect you or your home.”

Fernando sighs, the anger in his expression giving way to something else — disappointment. It stings more than you care to admit.

Max shifts uncomfortably beside you, breaking the silence. “I know this looks bad-”

“It is bad,” Fernando interrupts. “Do you have any idea what this could do to your reputation? To hers?”

Max frowns, his jaw tightening. “With all due respect, I care more about her than my reputation.”

Your breath catches at his words, but Fernando doesn’t seem impressed.

“Convenient to say that now,” he mutters, crossing his arms again.

Max’s expression hardens. “It’s the truth.”

The tension in the room is suffocating, the silence stretching out until you can’t take it anymore.

“Can we just … take a minute?” You say, looking between them. “Please?”

Fernando stares at you for a long moment, his expression softening just a fraction. “Fine. One minute.”

He turns on his heel, muttering something under his breath yet again as he storms toward the kitchen.

As soon as he’s out of earshot, you let out a shaky breath, turning to Max.

“This is a disaster,” you whisper.

Max reaches for your hand, his touch grounding. “We’ll figure it out.”

“How?” You ask, your voice tinged with panic.

He squeezes your hand gently. “Together.”

Despite everything, his confidence is reassuring. You take another deep breath, trying to steady yourself.

“Okay,” you say quietly. “Together.”

Fernando’s voice cuts through the moment from the kitchen. “You better be decent when I come back.”

Max lets out a low chuckle, and you can’t help but smile despite the situation.

“Let’s just survive the next five minutes,” you murmur, standing to pull on your still-damp jeans.

Max grins up at you, his eyes warm. “I like our odds.”

You glance toward the kitchen, where your father is undoubtedly fuming, and pray he’s right.

***

The tension in the room is suffocating as your father storms back from the kitchen, a cup of coffee in his hand and a sharp glare aimed squarely at Max. You sit on the edge of the couch, trying to make yourself as small as possible. Max, to his credit, doesn’t flinch under the weight of Fernando’s gaze, though his posture is tense, shoulders squared like he’s bracing for impact.

Fernando takes a long sip of his coffee before setting the cup down on the counter with a decisive clink. “Alright,” he says, folding his arms across his chest. “Let’s talk.”

Max leans forward, his elbows on his knees. “I-”

Fernando holds up a hand, cutting him off. “No. I’ll talk first. You’ll listen.”

Max glances at you briefly, then nods. “Okay.”

Your father steps closer, his eyes narrowing. “So. Verstappen. Tell me — were you trying to sleep with my daughter under my own roof?”

The bluntness of the question makes you choke on air. “Papá!”

“Stay out of this,” Fernando says sharply, not even sparing you a glance. His eyes are locked on Max, who blinks in surprise before straightening in his seat.

“No!” Max says quickly, his voice firm. “Of course not.”

Fernando tilts his head, his lips twitching as though he’s fighting back a smirk. “Oh, so she’s not attractive enough for you to want to sleep with?”

“What?” You gasp, standing up. “What is wrong with you?”

“Sit down,” Fernando says over his shoulder, though there’s an unmistakable gleam of amusement in his eyes.

Max looks like he’s been thrown into the deep end of a pool without warning. “That’s not — what? No!”

Fernando raises an eyebrow. “No, she’s not attractive, or no, you weren’t trying to sleep with her?”

Max glares at him, his jaw tightening. “You’re twisting my words.”

“Am I?” Fernando says, taking another slow sip of his coffee.

“Yes!” Max snaps, then seems to catch himself. He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I wasn’t trying to disrespect you or your home. I swear.”

Fernando steps closer, looming over Max. “You swear, huh?”

“Yes,” Max says firmly.

“And yet,” Fernando says, gesturing at the couch with a dramatic wave of his hand, “I walked in on this. My daughter, half-naked, tangled up with you.”

You groan, burying your face in your hands. “Oh my god, stop.”

Fernando ignores you. “Explain that, Verstappen.”

Max meets his gaze, unflinching. “I care about her. That’s the truth.”

Fernando’s eyebrows lift slightly, but he doesn’t respond immediately. He paces a few steps, tapping his fingers against his coffee cup as though mulling over his next move.

Finally, he stops, turning back to Max. “You care about her,” he repeats, his tone skeptical.

“Yes,” Max says, his voice unwavering.

Fernando tilts his head again, studying Max like he’s a puzzle he’s trying to solve. “Alright. Let’s test that.”

Max frowns. “Test what?”

“Your commitment,” Fernando says simply.

You groan again, standing up. “Papá, this isn’t some kind of-”

“Sit,” Fernando says, pointing at the couch.

“Stop telling me to sit!” You snap, but you drop back down anyway, crossing your arms over your chest.

Fernando turns back to Max, a small, mischievous smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “So. Verstappen. If you care about her, you won’t mind answering a few questions.”

Max hesitates but nods. “Alright.”

Fernando sets his coffee cup down again, cracking his knuckles for dramatic effect. “First question. Do you even know her middle name?”

Max’s eyes flick to you, then back to Fernando. “Of course I do. It’s-” He pauses, frowning. “Wait. Do you have one?”

Fernando lets out a bark of laughter. “Strike one.”

You roll your eyes. “Max, I don’t have a middle name. Don’t listen to him.”

Max glares at Fernando. “That’s not fair.”

“Life isn’t fair,” Fernando says with a shrug. “Next question. What’s her favorite color?”

Max’s frown deepens. “Pink?”

Fernando shakes his head. “Wrong.”

“Wrong?” Max turns to you. “It’s not pink?”

“It’s not pink,” you confirm, biting back a smile.

Fernando smirks. “Strike two.”

Max leans back, exhaling slowly. “Alright. What is it, then?”

Fernando opens his mouth, but you cut him off. “It’s burgundy.”

“Burgundy,” Max repeats, nodding to himself. “Got it.”

“Too late,” Fernando says, waving him off. “You’re already failing.”

“Papá,” you say, your tone a warning.

Fernando raises his hands in mock surrender. “Fine, fine. One last question.”

Max leans forward again, his expression determined. “Go ahead.”

Fernando’s smirk returns. “What are your intentions with my daughter?”

The question hangs in the air like a loaded gun.

Max doesn’t flinch. He meets Fernando’s gaze head-on and says, “I don’t know yet.”

You blink in surprise, as does your father.

Max continues, his voice steady. “But I know I want to figure it out. I care about her, and I want to spend more time with her. That’s all I can say right now.”

Fernando studies him for a long moment, his expression unreadable.

Then, to your astonishment, he nods. “Fair enough.”

“Fair enough?” You echo, staring at him in disbelief.

Fernando shrugs, picking up his coffee cup again. “At least he’s honest.”

Max lets out a breath he probably didn’t realize he was holding, and you shake your head, still trying to process what just happened.

“Just one thing,” Fernando adds, turning back to Max with a pointed look.

“What’s that?” Max asks cautiously.

Fernando leans in slightly, his voice low but firm. “If you hurt her, I’ll make sure you regret it.”

Max doesn’t hesitate. “Understood.”

Fernando nods once, then steps back, his demeanor relaxing slightly. “Good. Now, get dressed. Both of you.”

You groan, covering your face with your hands again. “This is the worst day of my life.”

“Could’ve been worse,” Max says, nudging you gently.

You glare at him, but there’s a small smile tugging at your lips despite everything.

Fernando smirks, heading toward his bedroom. “You’ve got ten minutes before I come back with more questions.”

“Papá!” You call after him, but he’s already gone.

Max chuckles softly, leaning back on the couch. “That went well, all things considered.”

You stare at him, incredulous. “You think that went well?”

He grins, shrugging. “I’m still alive, aren’t I?”

You can’t help but laugh, shaking your head. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you like me anyway,” he says, his grin widening.

You roll your eyes, but you don’t argue.

***

One Year Later

The club is just as loud and chaotic as it was a year ago, but it feels different this time. Maybe it’s the crowd, maybe it’s the glow of the New Year’s lights, or maybe it’s the fact that Max’s hand hasn’t left yours all night.

You’re back where it all started, tucked into the VIP section of the Monaco club where you had once crouched under a table eating grapes in a last-ditch attempt to find love. That night had been nothing short of chaotic, but looking back, it had been the beginning of something you wouldn’t trade for the world.

“Is it how you remembered it?” Max asks, leaning in close to be heard over the music.

You glance around at the glittering lights and pulsing crowd, then back at him. “It’s definitely less embarrassing this time around.”

Max grins, brushing a thumb over your knuckles. “I don’t know. You were pretty cute in your desperation.”

You groan, nudging him with your shoulder. “Are you ever going to let me live that down?”

“Not a chance,” he says, laughing. “It’s one of my favorite stories to tell.”

“Great. Glad my suffering is so entertaining for you,” you tease, though you can’t help but smile.

Max tugs you closer, his voice softer now. “You know, I’m really glad you ate those grapes.”

You look up at him, your heart fluttering at the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles. “Me too.”

The DJ announces that it’s nearly midnight, and the crowd buzzes with excitement. Max pulls you to your feet, his hands resting lightly on your waist.

“Ready to count down?” He asks, his voice warm and low.

“With you? Always,” you say, grinning.

The countdown begins, and the energy in the room spikes. You can feel the excitement in the air, the anticipation of a new year, a fresh start.

“Ten!” The crowd shouts.

Max’s hands tighten slightly on your waist, and you lean into him, your pulse racing.

“Nine!”

You look up at him, your eyes locking.

“Eight!”

His gaze softens, his smile turning gentle.

“Seven!”

You bite your lip, butterflies fluttering in your stomach.

“Six!”

Max leans down, his forehead brushing against yours.

“Five!”

Your breath catches as the noise of the crowd fades into the background.

“Four!”

“Three!”

“Two!”

You close your eyes, tilting your head up.

“One!”

Midnight strikes, and Max’s lips meet yours, soft and certain. The room erupts in cheers and confetti, but all you can focus on is the way he’s holding you, like you’re the only person in the world.

The kiss deepens, his hands sliding to your back, pulling you closer. You smile against his lips, your heart full and light-

Only to be rudely interrupted by someone literally wedging themselves between you.

“Alright, break it up!”

You stumble back a step, blinking in surprise. Max looks just as stunned, his hands still midair where they’d been resting on your waist.

Fernando stands between you, his arms crossed and a deeply unimpressed look on his face. “Leave room for Jesus.”

You gape at him, your cheeks burning. “Papá! What the hell are you doing?”

“I think the better question,” he says, looking pointedly at Max, “is what you two were doing.”

Max stares at him, then throws his hands up. “We were kissing. It’s New Year’s!”

Fernando raises an eyebrow. “And you couldn’t do that with a little more … decorum?”

“You’re not even religious!” You protest, exasperated.

Fernando smirks, clearly enjoying himself. “And that’s why, by Jesus, I mean me.”

Max blinks. “You mean … you?”

You stare at your father, your frustration warring with the urge to laugh. “Are you serious right now?”

“Completely,” Fernando says, deadpan. “Now, why don’t we all take a nice step back, breathe, and reflect on the fact that I’m allowing this relationship to exist at all.”

“Allowing?” Max echoes, crossing his arms. “With all due respect, I don’t think you get to allow anything anymore.”

Fernando turns to him, one eyebrow raised. “Oh, is that so?”

“Yes,” Max says firmly. “We’re adults. And we’re together. Whether you approve or not.”

Fernando looks at him for a long moment, then lets out a low chuckle. “Well, at least you’ve got guts.”

“More than that,” you interject, stepping between them. “He’s good to me. Better than anyone else ever has been. And I love him.”

Fernando’s smirk fades, replaced by something softer. He looks at you, his expression unreadable, then nods slowly. “I know.”

“You know?” You ask, surprised.

He shrugs. “Of course I know. I’m your father.”

Max exchanges a glance with you, clearly just as confused. “So … what’s with all the drama, then?”

Fernando grins, stepping back. “Because it’s fun.”

You groan, burying your face in your hands again. “I can’t believe this.”

Max laughs, pulling you into his side. “I can.”

Fernando claps Max on the shoulder, his grin widening. “Happy New Year, Verstappen. Don’t screw it up.”

Max meets his gaze, his expression serious. “I won’t.”

Fernando nods, then turns to you. “And you — try to keep him out of trouble, will you?”

You smile, leaning into Max. “I’ll do my best.”

Fernando waves you off, disappearing back into the crowd with a casual, “Don’t make me come back over here.”

Max watches him go, then turns to you, shaking his head. “Your dad’s insane.”

“Welcome to my world,” you say, laughing.

He grins, leaning down to kiss you again. This time, no one interrupts.

[celestiamour]

MEOW MEOW MEOW SE-MI SMUT X F!READER PLL,ZZPLZLZZ IM ON MY KNEES PLZ

ft. se-mi x f! reader — squid game

╰₊✧ an examination of piercings turns into something more┊0.8k words

contains: smut!! dom se-mi & sub reader┊tongue piercing, receiving oral, one mention of needles, innocent reader, se-mi is older & called “unnie”

➤ author's note: glad to see the girls getting just as much love as the boys in my inbox

“did they hurt?” you asked, gently holding your friend’s face in your hands and admiring her like a newly discovered painting from the renaissance era. it was mesmerizing how the light shone off the metal, and you couldn’t stop staring, even going as far as to run your finger over the little star of her nose piercing in awe without thinking. it was so damn cute how fascinated you seemed to be by these decisions she made nearly a decade ago in her teenage years.

normally, se-mi wouldn’t have let anyone put their hands on her and would probably punch them if they went anywhere near her face. yet here she sat in her bed allowing herself to be adored by you. she wondered if this was how cats felt when being coddled by their owners, the spoiled white persian kinds you see in movies with diamond collars and more toys than what they know to do with. “no, it was just like a pinch.”

“i couldn’t imagine that— having a needle pierce my skin, i mean,” you shivered. “my ears were pierced when i was a baby, but even then, they’re a little crooked because i wouldn’t stop crying.”

she giggled at the thought of it. “it’s not the needle that’s painful, it’s the healing process. the days after i got my tongue pierced were the worst, i couldn’t eat for days.”

“you have a tongue piercing?”

humming to confirm, she cheekily stuck out her tongue to show off the metal pierced through the muscle, even flexing it to flaunt the jewelry. it was extremely amusing to see how flustered you were becoming even though you tried not to show it.

“why did you get it pierced when it’s not even visible all the time?”

“cause it feels good for…”

“feels good for what?” you asked innocently, tilting your head in a way that made her want to eat you alive.

“well… it’s kinda hard to explain, but i could show you if you like…”

you didn’t have the foggiest idea what she was talking about at first until you found yourself flipped on your back with your shorts dragged to your ankles along with your panties and her head in between your shaking thighs, sliding her hot tongue between your folds and savoring the taste collecting on her palette. this wasn’t something best friends did, but you made no attempt to push her away and allowed her to do as she pleased.

“s-se-mi unnie…” you whined out, fingers finding and tangling with her dark locks yet also doing the contradictory action of wiggling your hips away. you’ve never felt this way before, knots twisting in your stomach and fire spreading under your skin as you try to wiggle away from the foreign sensation that felt too good to be real.

“ah, ah, ah, don’t run from me, you taste so fucking sweet.” her grip on your legs tightened as she pulled you closer to her, swirling the cold pierced metal across your throbbing clit and enjoying your moans like music. “i wish we had done this sooner, don’t you? god, i don’t think i could ever get enough now that i’m here.”

you couldn’t even verbalize a proper answer with nothing but pathetic whimpers falling from your mouth, eyes flickering between her and the ceiling as they rolled back with tears threatening to drip down the waterline. did things like this always feel so good, or was se-mi simply an expert who knew your body better than you did yourself with age and experience? silly little questions you would ponder if you weren’t getting your brains fucked out by just her tongue, making her wonder in return how you would handle taking her strap when you were already going crazy like this. (you have no idea how long she’s been fantasizing about having you like this, sitting in this very bed thinking about your soft skin and lips against hers with her hand crammed in her pants.)

“fucckk, ‘m gonna- ngh!!” god, you didn’t know the word to match your oncoming orgasm, you just knew a peak was about to be reached thanks to her talented tongue.

“you’re gonna cum baby,” she chuckled. “don’t be scared, just let yourself go for me.”

suddenly her plush lips wrapped around your delicate pearl and sucked hard, and like activating a button, you cried out in pleasure and unraveled all over her face, back arched and hands tugging on her hair. she gladly licked up the messy remnants with a smirk, proud to have made you climax in less than five minutes.

“you did soooo good for me baby,” she drawled and pressed a few sloppy kisses on your twitching cunt as a reward, “think you can give me one more?”

[reignpage]

College student!Sukuna

2:35am: late night cravings

you couldn’t sleep. 

there was an itch you were desperate to scratch, it made your mouth water, nails digging into your palms as you shuffled in bed, chewing on your bottom lip. you desperately wanted chinese takeaway. realising you hadn’t had it in a while, it was all you could think about. 

there was one near campus, a ten-minute drive away, that was open all night, much to the delight of all the students coming back from late night outs or pulling all-nighters, thank the university gods. 

of course, you could quell your urge by going out to get some chow mein and dim sum on your own, but if sukuna woke up to you out of bed and in the streets in the middle of night by yourself, again, he would actually kill you. 

and you couldn’t possibly wake your boyfriend up; sukuna was sleeping so soundly beside you, snoring by your ear in a way you took comfort in – it had become white noise for you. his arm is thrown over your waist, the weight pinning you to the bed. scared to wake him, you tried your best to stay still.

apparently, not well enough. 

“what’s wrong with you, you brat?”

his voice was groggy, crackled with sleep. despite the irritation in his words, you took no offence, after all, you had learnt very quickly after first meeting him that that was just simply how he spoke. always annoyed, so impatient, a barely constrained anger at the world that seemed to stem from nowhere. and you loved it so much. 

with a sheepish giggle, you traced the tattoos on his arm almost as an apology, soothing the sparks of ire within him. “sorry, kuna. just hungry.”

the moonlight beaming through the small gap in his curtains illuminated the space, helping your eyesight adjust to the darkness as you watched your boyfriend’s face crumple in complaint over being awoken. 

“yeah? well, go eat something then.”

you pouted, reaching your hand to brush a lock of hair out of his still-shut eyes, fingertips trailing on his forehead, smoothing out that furrow between his brows he always had. he never listened when you told him off about getting premature wrinkles, not now as his long-time girlfriend and certainly not as the friend he had pined for for months. 

“but kunaaaa, i want chinese. i’m gonna die if i don’t eat it.”

his fingers were drumming against your ribs as he huffed in amusement. he didn’t think he’d ever get used to your theatrics, and he’d definitely never tell you he loved them, it would just encourage you. 

“that’s unfortunate, but a sacrifice i’m willing to make.”

your gasp came without missing a beat and so did the slap against his back he had been expecting. it made the corner of his lips twitch before he rolled over, the warmth of his body disappearing as he stretched, back muscles rippling with the movement in that delectable way you wished you could capture and bury inside you. 

“alright, you spoiled brat. let’s fucking go.”

you squealed. “oh my god, really?”

he had stepped into the corner of his room that the moon’s reach didn’t graze, rustling through drawers to find a hoodie to throw over his bare torso. without needing to see his face you knew he was rolling his eyes; it was followed with that tsk noise he was known for. 

“yeah, well, unfortunately for me, my girl’s got a big appetite. if i don’t feed her, she might just eat me.”

[zombienarc]

-

[parfaitblogs]

persimmon ❀ s. reid x reader

in which you wake up to your first morning on your honeymoon. 

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader genre: smut (18+ mdni) tags: oral (f receiving). praise. he loves you you love him!!! newlyweds. word count: 1.2k a/n: couldn't tell you where the fuck this came from tbh. very short + very simple little thing i wrote instead of doing assignments after seeing a tweet about persimmons :)

You were beautiful. Maddeningly. Iridescent, as sunlight reflects off your skin and golds the room in which you lay with him. Gentle breaths that lift and deflate your chest evenly, bringing you closer to him, ripping you away soon after. He ached to hold you closer. To the point of your chest never cutting contact with his own. He knew better; knew to let you sleep.

The things he feels for you seem too demanding for a human being. Too overwhelming. How can one man hold so much adoration for another person? His heart was always so full when he woke up like this; before you did.

Things were more beautiful today, though. The ring around your finger, for you had refused to take it off despite his efforts, sparkled amongst crinkled white sheets. Legs entangled with his own, skin resting against skin, warm enough to provide an enormous amount of comfort. 

Never one to curse unnecessarily, Spencer Reid was. Yet, all his thoughts were consumed with, fuck you were beautiful. 

It seemed too inconsequential of a word to describe you. Every word did. A thousand adjectives and he would still believe he's not loving you as much as you deserve. 

You stir, and his entire bloodstream burns. He couldn't count on his hands how many times he had watched you wake up in the morning, but this morning was so special, and before you had even fully fluttered your eyes open, he was kissing you. Gently, for he wanted to take his time with you. 

You're smiling. He can feel your lips stretch against his, and he's proud to have enough self restraint to pull away from you so he could see it. He's sure the sun could develop a rivalry with you when you were this happy. 

"Good morning," you murmur, a little breathless from the half asleep kiss you were still trying to recover from, "husband."

He relishes in the way the word leaves your lips, and it takes a considerable amount of strength to not kiss you once more. Though, he wants to. Desperately. 

Then again, he wishes to do a lot of things this morning. So many different activities he yearns for (many of them not very appropriate, if he's honest), and he is quite content to cancel the schedule you had developed for today to complete them. 

He knows better than to do that unprompted. So, he asks, "How much time in bed do we have?"

Perhaps it was the way he looks at you while he's above you, hair falling down and gently tickling your face from how close he was. Perhaps it was your own personal desires seeping into your strong willed mind. Whatever it was, you were probably on the same wavelength as him, and you were discarding whatever else you wanted to do that day. 

"As much as we want," you reply, and it's a shit-eating grin on his face that promises you a good morning. 

"Thank God."

Never one to be religious, you know he's wanton if he's thanking a figure he doesn't believe in. You bite down a remark about it. 

Amongst all the doctorates he had attached to his name, you were sure worshipping your body had to be one of them. For the way he kisses down your body is practised, and it is a trail of flames he leaves on your skin. Benign kisses on every patch of skin he can find, paying extra attention to the pulse point on your neck that drags whimpers from your lips. 

Fingers find your thighs to push them apart, hands sliding up and down the skin and encouraging goosebumps to lift. He is breathless as he laughs at you, but then he is pressing kisses into your hip bones, and you truly forget how to argue with him. 

"I love you," he says, lifting his gaze up to you, breath warm against your skin, all whilst his head lowers further down your body. He presses a kiss to each thigh, repeating the adoring phrase in between. 

Wasting no time to put his lips on you, he's teasing with his tongue licking a stripe up the centre of your folds, before he's attaching them to your clit. 

He probably mumbles something about how good you taste, as he usually does, but you're too overwhelmed already to actually register the words. For you had been inside the cabin David Rossi had gotten the two of you less than twelve hours, and he had drawn four orgasms from you already. Something about spending your honeymoon loving you in every way he can. 

You're writhing beneath him already, and he's sure if he focusses any more on that, he'd lose his mind. His tongue flicking over your clit elicits more moans from you, and the broken sound of your voice. 

"Spenc—er—oh," your head digs into the pillow beneath it, back arching. "Please."

Usually, he would force your hips back to the mattress, and he would concern himself with keeping you still. Then again, usually, you aren't this sensitive. He lets you lift yourself off the mattress, though he moves with you, and you're provided no respite from his mouth.

He's never once eaten you out with this much tranquility; he likes to devour you like you are his first meal in months. But today, he is taking his time, and he is dragging out every quiet moan and cry from your throat that he possibly can. 

Persimmons can sometimes be so incredibly tender they split themselves open. The osmotic pressure that is built up by the sugar tends to cause the skin to burst. When he touches you like this, you consider whether or not you are but a tender persimmon, splitting under the duress of how good he feels. 

"My beautiful girl," he breathes out against you, and God if you believe nothing else in this world, let it be how much this man loves you. 

His hand reaches up to find your left hand, interlacing your fingers with his own and bringing them both down to your stomach, where he finally pushes you back down onto the mattress. 

You are too tired to even warn him, but your moaning becomes incessant, and your fingers are digging into the knuckles of his hand within your own. You're sure you don't need to say anything.

He coaxes you through your orgasm, obscene praise leaving his lips every chance he gets, his eyes so fixated on your face you can feel it, even through your now closed eyelids. 

He's pulling away and kissing his way back up your body, each kiss more drawn out than the last, until he's got his lips back on your own, and he's swallowing the gentle moan that leaves your lips. 

"I love you," you finally murmur, and he pulls back to bury his face into the crook of your neck, kissing the skin there so delicately you wonder if you could fall apart all over again, for an entirely different reason. 

"I love you," he punctuates his words with his hand squeezing your own, which he still had interlaced with his. 

"Can I cut our bed time short for a shower?" you ask him, quietly. 

"Mm," he considers it, or pretends to, hair tickling your jawline. "No, I'm not done with you here yet."

"You're insatiable."

You squirm when he nips at your neck. "You married me."

He pulls back to look at you, eyes sparkling, and you breathe out a quiet huff of amused laughter. 

"Yeah, I did."

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