#has been enough to send some spiralling

[hillbillyoracle]

Just FYI

I am not a good candidate for your anti-men comments.

As someone who is intersex and swings trans masculine, whose closest friendships have often been with men, I'm just so sick of it.

And yes I say this as someone who's experienced sexual, physical, and psychological violence at the hands of some men.

Some folks are so far up systems theory's ass it seems like they can't conceive of people - but especially men - as individuals with unique experiences, preferences, or hardships.

Let's cut it out.

[foxcassius]

wait also my tags on that post were about people i knew in freshman and sophomore year of college specifically. i mean some of them i knew after that and most of them i knew from high school but damn some people really made everything about themselves when i was being emotionally manipulated in my freshman year

[not-neverland06]

Hey! Your writing is amazing! I’ve been checking daily for new fics lmao

I was wondering if your requests were open would you be able to write some angst with a happy ending w/ Peanut?

Perhaps a Shy!Reader who has flirty banter with Logan. They’re on a mission and Logan has to make a quick decision on who to save — Reader or Jean and he saves Jean without thinking. Reader ends up surviving with a few injuries but her and Logan’s relationship starts to deteriorate. Logan’s not good with verbal apologies so he does acts of service — bringing reader food/drinks etc. reader is stubborn and Logan starts to get frustrated. He eventually proves himself to reader.

I’m sorry if this is confusing!! I’m not creative enough to write it myself and you’re really really skilled. Love your work x

a/n: I read this request and then read them together and my brain imploded because I loved it so much, no smut in this one Summary: Logan saves Jean on a mission and it's the wake-up call you desperately needed to understand that you will never be her. You can't stand to look at him anymore and he doesn't understand why you've stopped talking to him.

“What’re you thinking of doing after this?”

You shrug, leaning back on the uncomfortable bench seats and looking over at Logan. “Not sure, got any plans?”

Logan smirks and you immediately know whatever he’s about to say is going to send you spiraling. “Yeah, whatever you’re doing, sweetheart.”

Oh. My. God!

You know you’ve got it bad when something as simple as that has you swooning. It’s so easy to fall into this routine with him, to pretend you’re more suave than you actually are. Despite your usual tendency to fade into the background, you find it nearly impossible to do with him. 

Where someone else might let you stay quiet and go ignored, he seeks you out. He makes you feel seen and heard. Some days you don’t know if you appreciate it or despise it. You laugh a little, trying to hide just how affected by him you are. “Sounds good, Lo.”

He smiles and leans back on the seat, his arm coming around the back to rest lightly over your shoulders. You can tell from the look on Storm’s face that she’s trying not to laugh at you. You can’t blame her, you’re sure your eyes have tripled in size and you look absolutely stunned. 

Flirting isn’t out of the usual for you and him. Lately, though, he’s upped the game. Touching you more than usual, spending more one-on-one time together. You can feel it all building up to something. You’re shy, not stupid, you know when a guy’s going to ask you out. 

But it feels like he’s dragging it out longer than necessary like he’s enjoying teasing you a little too much.  “Alright,” Scott stands up and moves towards the back of the jet. “We’re almost there, get ready.”

You, very reluctantly, pull away from Logan and get to your feet. He walks past you, briefly squeezing your hand before joining Scott by the ramp. You grin, flexing your hand by your side and trying to memorize the feeling. 

The ramp lowers to the ground and Scott and Logan lead the way out. You’re expecting this to be simple. Stake out the area, find some information about the people running the warehouse, and figure out what exactly it is that they’ve been doing. 

The air is bursting with moisture. It’s suffocating, how humid it is, how it makes the material of your suit cling to your skin. You know the rest of the team can feel it. That it’s irritating them just as much. 

None of you want to be out here in the peak of summer, trying to be stealthy in these ridiculous costumes. Your thighs squeak every time they rub together. It’s beyond embarrassing. You know that that’s what has you all distracted. 

You’re struggling through ankle-deep mud and sweating buckets. So none of you are paying any particular attention to the area around you. Technically, you shouldn’t have to, you’re still about a mile out from where you need to be. 

You duck, hands coming up to cover your ears as Charles’ voice screams through your mind. It’s a trap!

Even with the warning, there’s no time to prepare. The ground around you explodes, grass and dirt flying through the air. Logan grabs your arm, he shoves himself in front of you and takes the brunt of the bullets. Splatters of blood hits your cheeks and he runs you both behind a tree for cover. 

The other three have all found their own cover and they’re struggling to figure out where the shots are coming from. You spot something in the underbrush and scream, “Behind you!”

It’s more of a warning to duck than it is to move. You throw your hands up, shoving the man away from them and sending him flying into the trunk of a tree. You swear you can hear the snap of his spine as it hits the bark. 

You look to Jean and nod towards the small clearing of trees. “Don’t,” Logan warns. But you’re already slipping out of his grip and solidifying the air in front of you. It provides enough of a cover, absorbing the bullets, and giving you all time to figure out a plan of attack. 

Jean moves beside you, eyes narrowing on the perimeter of your cover. “There are too many of them, more than I can count.” 

“How did they know we were coming?” Scott snaps, keeping an eye on the area behind you. 

Your arms struggle under the weight of your power. The more bullets they shoot into your cover, the harder it is to keep up. You’re forced to absorb their energy, push it out tenfold to try and keep the blockage solidified. 

“Guys,” you snap, “we need a plan. I can’t hold it much longer.” You grit your teeth, taking a step forward to try and push against the strain. It does nothing but make your bones ache. Logan shoots you a concerned glance, coming up behind you like he wants to take the weight off your shoulders. But there’s nothing he can do. 

There’s movement behind you, a boot snapping a twig in two. You can’t risk looking back but you can hear the worry in Jean’s voice. “Ten of them-”

You can tell by the sounds of their movement that the others don’t give her much of a chance to finish. Ororo, Scott, and Logan all shoot forward to deal with the threat. Ten isn’t much to worry about. But that doesn’t change the fact that the men in front of you haven’t let up and you’re about to weep from the weight of keeping the wall up. 

Jean stays beside you, brows furrowed in concern. She places her hand on your shoulder and closes her eyes. A second later you feel something like a cool blanket laid over you. The tension in your arms and core eases just enough for you to stop clenching your jaw so hard. Some of the strain eases away and you know she’s sharing it with you. 

But just as quickly as the relief was given, it’s yanked away. Jean jumps back with a gasp, “Flux, we need to move!”

“I can’t,” you shout, fighting to be heard over the sound of bloodshed and gunshots going off in front of and behind you. The others are steadily moving through the people surrounding you, but their numbers are still overwhelming. “It’ll all come crashing down,” you tell her. 

She glances towards the bullets, finally spotting the way they’re slowly, but steadily, moving through the thickened air. The second you let go you’ll be riddled with holes. “Shit,” she hisses. “Look, we can’t stay here much longer-”

She’s cut off by a loud bang. You’re so disoriented by the noise your hands drop to your sides. At the same moment, you hear wood splintering and cracking beside you. What has to be the largest tree in the forest creaks before it begins its descent down towards you both. 

You don’t what happened, or what they used, but it doesn’t matter. The wall in front of you is fading. You have seconds to get out of the way of the bullets and the tree, you’re not sure either of you is going to make it. 

“Jean!” There’s a flash of brown hair and Jean’s being tackled to the ground, safely out of the way of the tree and bullets. You feel something stinging against your shoulder and know the first bullet’s made its way through. 

You also see the tree is almost over top of you. You’ve always been a fight response in flight or fight scenarios. But when there’s nothing to fight, when you have nothing to go up against, you freeze. It’s horrible, you know it, but there’s nothing you can do about it. 

Even as you’re desperately screaming at yourself to just fucking move, all you can do is watch as the tree topples down on top of you. “Flux, duck!” The words trigger something in your brain just soon enough to drop to the ground. 

Scott releases a red beam, blasting through the tree and knocking it off course. You don’t even register the smell of burning flesh as you lay in the mud. Your blood is rushing so fast in your veins, there’s so much adrenaline pumping through you, you can’t focus on anything except the sound of your heartbeat. 

You let out a breath of relief, slowly lifting yourself up to your knees. You don’t hear any more fighting and you figure whoever they hadn’t taken down before, the beam took care of the rest. 

You look down, checking yourself for any bullet holes or serious damage but you can’t find anything. Something warm trickles down your shoulder, it drips across your arm and down your hand. 

You look at the blood curiously, it seems to steady a flow from the simple bullet graze you’d had earlier. “Oh my god,” Jean whispers your name and you turn around with a concerned look. 

You want to ask her what’s wrong but your eyes are trained on the way Logan’s arms are bracketing her. He’s practically on top of her, only now getting up to check on you. You get it, it was a stressful situation, he acted fast. 

But that doesn’t make it any easier to swallow the lump in your throat. It doesn’t ease the burn of betrayal. He saved her, not you. He chose her even though she doesn’t want him. The anger you’re feeling only makes it harder to be aware of your surroundings. 

It’s not until Scott kneels behind you a presses a gentle hand against your back that you lurch forward with a loud cry. The pain slams down on you all at once. The wind blowing gently against your back feels like someone’s dug razor blades in your skin and ripped. 

Feet rush towards you, someone kneeling beside you and grabbing your shoulders. Logan forces you up and makes you look at him before his gaze turns to your back. “What the fuck did you do?” He practically growls, lunging towards Scott. 

He grabs him by the collar and shoves him into the dirt. Ororo and Jean leap forward, trying unsuccessfully to rip him off. You try and keep your eyes open, try and stay focused. The pain is too much, you don’t want to be awake for this anymore. Every nerve on your back feels like it’s being forcefully exposed and plucked at. 

Your brain forces a shutdown and you slump into the mud, the world going black. 

When you wake up, you’re on your stomach. You’re a little dazed, not fully remembering how you got here. You try and sit up but there’s a steady grip around your wrists stopping you. “Don’t move,” Jean warns from somewhere behind you. 

You try and look for her but you can’t move much. Your head feels like it weighs a hundred pounds, stuck to the pillow beneath you. “What happened? Why can’t I move?”

Her shoes appear in front of you and then she’s kneeling down, a slightly worried look on her face. “We needed to make sure you didn’t roll over in your sleep.” Her brows crinkle and she frowns, “You don’t remember?” You shake your head minutely. She sighs, lifting her hand to your face and pressing her chilled fingers to your temple. 

The images rush towards you. You see it all from her eyes. The way Logan had grabbed her and thrown her to the ground, checking over her and not once looking at you. How Scott had tried to stop the tree from breaking your spine. His beam had just barely grazed your back as you had ducked. But it was enough for there to be serious damage. 

Through her view, you can see the way your skin had bubbled up and blistered. How horribly damaged it was. You have limited healing abilities, but it was enough to stop the nerves from being permanently damaged. 

She lets you go and you groan, the pain slowly registering in your brain. It’s dulled and you don’t know if they’ve given you drugs or if your abilities are still working to help you. “How’s Scott?” 

She chuckles and shakes her head while she undoes the restraints around your wrist. “He feels awful. He keeps coming by to check on you.”

The thought of him sitting beside you while you were strapped down to the bed makes you feel a little bad. It wasn’t his fault, he’d helped you. It was more than Logan had done for you. 

You frown, hating yourself for being bitter. If he hadn’t helped, Jean might not be here next to you. He had saved your friend. The thought didn’t bring much comfort, though. “I’m not mad at him.”

Jean eases you onto your knees and slowly helps you sit up. It causes minimal pain, but it’s still uncomfortable enough to grit your teeth and dig your nails into your palms. “I know, but he’ll probably be coming down here a lot to check on you.”

You almost ask her if anyone else has visited. If Logan had, but you don’t think her answer would make you feel any better. “He did,” she tells you and you click your tongue in irritation. 

“Out of my head,” you warn. She releases you with a small grin. “I don’t care,” you tell her, trying to appear nonchalant. 

She tilts her head, eyes narrowing on you. “Yes, you do. And I don’t need telepathy to know.” She walks towards your IV bag, fiddling around with something on the line. “He was here whenever he could be, practically lived beside you.”

“Don’t care,” you tell her again, but there’s less conviction this time. 

Jean frowns and you hate how guilty she looks. It’s not her fault he’s desperately in love with her and not you. You can’t force someone to love you or choose you. And you don’t want to. You want someone to love you for who you are, not because they couldn’t have their first choice. 

“Don’t,” you say lowly. “Don’t apologize, it’s not your fault.”

She doesn’t get a chance to say anything before the door bursts open, both Logan and Scott sliding into your room. Scott lets out a relieved breath when he sees you. He breathes out your name and approaches with a guilty smile, “You’re awake.”

“Charles told us,” Logan informs. You offer him a brief glance before diverting your attention to Scott. 

Petty, you’re aware. But you don’t want to see Logan right now. You’d put so much effort and time into your friendship with him. It doesn’t even matter if he doesn’t feel the same way about you. You two are best friends, and he didn’t even try to help you when you needed him the most. 

So, you smile at Scott. You forgive him and you tell him you're fine. You chat with him and Jean while Logan just stares at you from the other side of your bed. You can’t make yourself face him. You don’t want to look at him, it makes you sick to your stomach.

Eventually, Scott’s guilt is slightly assuaged and he and Jean leave for the night. Logan is a heavy presence beside you, one you no longer can ignore. You shift around, pretending to fluff your pillows until he grabs your hand. 

“What’re you doing?”

You look at his hand and then at him. Whatever look is on your face is enough for him to release you and back off. “Getting comfortable,” you spit out, more venom in your voice than necessary. Something clicks for him, you can see it as it happens. 

He backs up and narrows his eyes down at you. “Right.” He frowns and sucks on his teeth, nodding his head silently. “I’ll come back when you’re feeling a little better.” You don’t miss the hidden dig underneath it all, the way he’s calling out you’re unusual behavior. 

“I think that’d be best.”

He scoffs and shakes his head, slamming the door behind him as he leaves. You jump at the noise and it makes you hiss as a twinge of pain shoots down your spine. You feel slightly guilty about the whole interaction. Then, you remember the way he’d been cradling Jean and you feel slightly vindicated. 

You’re sure he doesn’t even give a shit. He’s probably pouting in his room, wishing Jean was in bed beside him. 

What the fuck?

It’s all that’s been playing through Logan’s head since he returned from your room in the medbay. He’s waited days for you to wake up, so he can finally take a breath and let go of the anxiety that’s been plaguing him. 

He’d thought that he’d lost you in that forest. When he’d gone for Jean, he’d assumed you’d just be able to use your powers to knock the tree out of your path. Or make it melt around you. 

Honestly, he can’t put a finger on what exactly he was thinking. But he knew that you could protect yourself and that would be your priority. So he’d moved without really thinking and grabbed the person who would be collateral damage if your powers went haywire. 

And then you hadn’t saved yourself and all he could smell was your burning flesh. The smell has been stuck in his nose since you were brought back to the mansion. He can’t escape it. Everywhere he goes, he sees you burning and hears your screams. 

He’d thought that you were dead and there was a moment where he genuinely was so lost he could do nothing but watch as the others swarmed you. He couldn’t move, couldn’t help you. He could only stare at your still body and pray to anybody who could hear him that you weren’t dead. 

He didn’t know what he would do if he lost you before he ever got a chance to love you. 

He’d, irritatingly, imagined all the different ways he would finally tell you how he felt when you woke up. He’d prepared himself for every possible reaction, except this one. He hadn’t expected you to reject him before he ever got the chance to confess. 

Anger stews within him as he paces through his room. He knows that it’s unfair to be upset with you. You’d gone through something horrific and there had been doubts about your recovery. Of course, you’d act off. 

Except, you only seemed to be directing that at him. Had you been just as dismissive to Scott, the person who actually hurt you, he would have looked past it. He’s tempted to go back down and see you again, maybe try and make you see some sense. 

Instead, he decides to give you both some time to calm down. He doesn’t want to do anything he might regret while he’s pissed off. He’ll see you tomorrow and, hopefully, you’ll be back to normal. 

You’d thought Logan might have gotten the hint with how you behaved earlier. That was not the case. He’s back today and you can smell the breakfast food he’s brought you. The smell is wafting deliciously from an inconspicuous brown bag. 

But you know it’s from the restaurant that’s twenty minutes out of his way. You’re not petty enough that you can’t appreciate the forty-minute round trip he’d taken for you, but you still aren’t excited to see him. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” he smiles at you despite your clearly hostile energy. He tugs the chair towards your bed, ripping open the bag and pulling out enough food for the both of you. 

You think it should be considered a form of manipulation to call you that while you’re pissed at him. He has such a clear effect on you. You know he’s aware of it. He knows that when he calls you something sweet like that it makes your heart race and stomach flip. 

You turn your gaze towards your blanket. You pretend the thread pattern is the most interesting thing in the world so you don’t have to look at him. You’re sick of giving your all to men who couldn’t care less about you. 

You’re tired of being the second, third, fourth choice. You want someone to choose you first for once. And you genuinely thought Logan would be the man to do that. But he’d chosen Jean. You should have known. 

“Alright,” he huffs, crossing his arms and glaring at you. You’re pissed off that he’s acting like he’s the one who was hurt. “What the hell is your problem? You’ve never been this mad at me before.”

It’s his tone of voice that really grates on you. He genuinely does not understand what he’s done wrong. He doesn’t even comprehend the possibility that you might be mad he left you to die. Have you really become such a doormat?

Yes, you’re shy and generally reserved with the people you meet. But he is so different. You two met and it was an instant connection that you thought was reciprocated. You hadn't realized that you'd become so complacent in the relationship he thought he could get away with something like this with no repercussions. 

“You left me to die,” you snap at him, voice taking a pitch it never has before. You’ve never truly gotten angry at him. Pissed off sometimes when he teased you a little too much. But you’d never plainly shown anger at him. “You fucking left me behind and expect me to, what,” you scoff and shove the food back towards him. 

“You think some shitty breakfast is going to fix this?” His face contorts. It screws up into something like hurt and you worry you might have been too harsh. He doesn’t know how you feel about him. He doesn’t know that this would hurt you so bad. 

But, it doesn’t matter. You’re still his friend. You should have at least warranted a little concern. 

Just as quickly as it appeared, the hurt is washed away by his own anger. “I thought you could take care of yourself. Isn’t that what you’re always bitching at us about?”

If you weren’t so upset you might find it funny how quickly the two of you turned on each other. Clearly, there was something repressed between the two of you. Some brewing resentment that neither of you had ever acknowledged. The words are coming quickly now, without thought.

“Fuck you, Logan,” you snap back at him. “You didn’t give a shit whether I lived or died. You only cared about your precious Jean.” You spit out her name with so much venom it stings as it leaves your tongue. 

He laughs, getting out of his chair. He shakes his head and glares at you. His anger is always a physical thing. You know he’s pacing so he doesn’t do something worse, like destroy the entirety of the room. 

“That’s what this is, you’re jealous? Don’t blame your fucking incompetence on me.” You hate the way he’s speaking to you. Like you’re a little girl who's incapable of understanding even the most basic of concepts. He has such a patronizing look on his face, you want nothing more than to wipe it off. 

The tables beside you tremble, the vases of flowers rattling against the wood. “I’m your friend, Logan. You could at least pretend like you cared about me.”

He leans against the end of the bed, tilting himself forward until he’s aggressively imposing your space. You shrink back against the pillows, narrowing your eyes in disdain. “Don’t fucking pull that shit with me. I knew that your priority would be to save yourself and I acted accordingly. This wasn’t some goddamn ploy to get into Jean’s pants. Grow the fuck up, Flux!”

You flinch back at the volume of his voice. Unwillingly, tears pool in the corners of your eyes. It’s an involuntary response. Sometimes you just get so enraged that you have no other way to get rid of it than to cry. It’s infuriating to see the moment someone stops taking you seriously and starts to think you’re nothing more than a crybaby. 

Logan’s face pales and he winces, backing away from you. “I didn’t-”

“Enough,” you stop him, voice thick with unshed tears. He never calls you by your X-men name, it’s an unspoken agreement between the two of you. That’s a formality reserved for the other members. To each other, you’re nothing more than two people who care deeply for one another. 

Or, you had been. Before this one moment had blown your life and your back up. 

“I appreciate how much faith you have in my abilities, but the fact that your first instinct wasn’t even to protect me says a lot.” You take in a deep breath and shake your head. “Thanks for the breakfast, but can you please just leave?”

He looks like he doesn’t want to. You know he doesn’t want to leave. You two never fight like this. Even if there wasn’t a lot said, it’s still not normal for you. Maybe that should have been your first hint that things weren’t what you thought. 

It’s healthy to fight, to a certain extent. Sometimes it's needed. You two never have before and you know it’s just been brewing for a while, waiting to blow up. “I-”

“Get out,” you shout, and the tables beside you finally crumble under the weight of your emotions. They drip to the ground in an inorganic form of liquid wood. “Shit,” you hiss, glancing over at them. You wave your hand and they return to their normal state, but it doesn’t matter. You shouldn’t have lost control at all. 

The door slams and you look up to find the room empty. You sink back against your bed and run your hands over your face. You ignore the way the skin of your back screams in protest. 

You embrace the pain, the fiery shocks running up your nerves as the bandages chafe against the wounds. You focus on that instead of how things have ended with Logan. You always had such high hopes that he might be the one you finally man up and confess to. 

You should have known you were wrong. You should have known that it would never have ended with him picking you over her. 

You’re permitted to leave the medbay the next day. You don’t see or hear from Logan for the following week. You can’t confirm if he’s purposefully avoiding you or not but you have to believe he is. You both live in the same hall. You don’t know how it’s possible to have gone this long without even catching a slight glimpse of him. 

You force yourself to suffocate the part of you that misses him. You picture the side of yourself that longs for his presence and imagine shoving a pillow over her face. You don’t want to ache and cry over someone who doesn’t give two shits about you. 

You keep reminding yourself over and over again that when things got rough he showed you his true colors. But it’s more difficult than you imagined to just completely disregard so much history with him. 

Besides, you hadn’t realized just how little you interacted with the others until Logan was out of your daily life. It’s so difficult for you to bond with people that when you’d connected with Logan you’d latched onto him. 

It’s a little pathetic, honestly. Being grown and eating lunch alone because you only had one friend. You wonder if your feelings for him were genuine or born from a desperation not to be alone. You don’t let yourself linger on the question for long. 

It’s as your training with the students that you finally see him again. 

“Has he made much progress yet?”

Jean shakes her head and purses her lips. She watches as Billy, one of the newer students, struggles with the logs in front of him. He was a firestarter, a very inexperienced one who had only ever set his curtains on fire. 

His powers were more focused on the mental aspect of things rather than the physical. Which is why you and Jean were in charge of helping him. He couldn’t start anything on his own, he only really seemed to be able to activate the ability when he was emotionally stimulated. 

That meant whenever he was mad or sad, or anything in between, everyone in a fifty-foot radius was in danger. He was a risk to the other students and you were both trying to be gentle with him. But you’d been working with him for so long and there was so little progress. It felt like he wasn’t trying sometimes. 

He’d asked Rogue out a week ago and when she’d said no, her hair had caught on fire. You know he could have been hurt and lashed out without thought or malice behind it. But you’d seen the look in his eye. 

You’re fifty percent sure he knows exactly what he’s doing. This little act he puts on is just to get himself out of trouble. You hadn’t brought the issue to Charles yet because you’re trying to give him the benefit of the doubt. 

“Billy,” you call out. His head whips up and he sends you a vicious glare. You can’t help the sneer on your lips. “Just take a deep breath and try again. There’s nothing wrong with struggling, we all did.”

You put on your normal teacher voice, calm and collected. Assuring. But the little shit in front of you isn’t buying it for a second. He gives you a sarcastic little grin, “Right. Sorry, I forgot you’re a fuck-up just like me.”

“Billy!” Jean snaps, taking a step forward to reprimand him. She doesn’t get far before there’s a fireball shooting out of his palms and hurtling towards the both of you. 

There’s no chance to react before something slams into your side and is tossing you to the ground. Your head nearly snaps against the grass but there’s a hand underneath your skull softening the blow. 

You smell something smoking and look up to see a large scorch mark right where you’d just been. Jean’s standing over it, palm outstretched as she keeps the fire subdued. She gives you a worried look, “Are you okay?”

Surprisingly, yes. You glance up to see Logan hovering over you. He backs off when he notices you’re okay, getting to his knees and offering you a hand. Wordlessly, you slip your palm into his and let him help you into a sitting position. 

“You alright,” his hand hovers over your shoulder like he wants to pull you closer. But he resists, backing off and waiting for your answer. You nod your head, still a little dazed from the failed assassination attempt. 

He narrows his eyes, searching your face for any sign of head trauma. When he’s properly assured you’re okay he jumps to his feet. “Billy!” His voice booms across the courtyard and it’s the first time you’ve ever seen that little asshole scared. 

He’s barely on his feet before Logan is stalking towards him, jerking him forward by the scruff of his neck and dragging him towards the mansion. “We need to have a little talk,” the tone of his voice has you a little scared and you’re not even the one he’s mad at. 

Jean walks towards you and helps you to your feet. “Is your back okay?”

“Yeah,” you nod and brush your clothes off. You have to physically shake the shock of what happened off. “Yeah, I’m fine. I can’t believe he did that.”

Jean scoffs and glares towards Billy’s back. Your eyes widen in shock when you see the large scorch mark across his arm. “Jean! He got you, are you okay?”

She glances down at her shirt and frowns. “Yeah, practically a sunburn.” She gives you a reassuring smile, “I’ll be fine.”

As shitty as this sounds, you’re not concerned for her. You can only focus on the fact that she was in just as much danger as you and Logan had tackled you to the ground. You glance back towards the mansion, more fucking confused than ever. 

You’re not sure what compels you to follow Logan, but you’re running after him before Jean can stop you. He’s barely got a minute headstart on you, you’re not sure why you can’t find him. You’d gone through every inch of the first floor. 

You don’t know where he would have dragged Billy, but it’s nowhere you can find. After about ten minutes of looking for him, you give up on the hope that you’re ever going to figure out what’s happening inside his brain. 

You let out a defeated sigh, running a hand over your face and trying to shake off the funk of the day. You can’t believe that little shit tried to roast you. You’re not comfortable with the fact that he’s just roaming around inside the mansion somewhere. 

You turn out of the living room and nearly slam into someone. His hands shoot out, grabbing your shoulders and gently stopping you. “Logan,” you give him a strained smile. “I was looking for you.” You glance over his shoulder and frown. “Where’s Billy?”

Logan sighs, his hands linger on your arms for a moment before he takes a step back. “Wheels got to him before I could do anything.”

You laugh a little, the noise involuntary. “What were you planning on doing with the sixteen-year-old?”

He doesn’t find the question amusing if his expression is anything to go by. “He was really trying to hurt you.”

His words sober you up slightly and you drop the flippant attitude. “Yeah, I wanted to,” god, it feels like you could choke on the words. Just last week you were screaming at him for not helping you. Now, you could barely thank him because he had. 

“You’re always my priority.” He tells you before you can struggle any longer. Your head shoots up and you stare at him with confusion. He groans, the noise tired and resigned. “Saving Jean was a mistake. I mean it, kid, I just thought you could handle yourself.”

You open your mouth but he stops you before you can argue. “I know, that’s not the point. I should have saved you, no matter what I thought you could or couldn't handle.”

“No,” you stop him and shake your head. “No, Logan, I shouldn’t. I,” your mouth opens and he stares at you expectantly. What you were going to say gets stuck in your throat. This is a horrible idea. 

“I liked you in a way you didn’t like me and it was unfair of me to push my expectations onto you.” You wanted it to sound better, and more intelligent. Instead, it came out in one rushed breath and you’re not sure he even understood half of what you said. 

His brows furrow in confusion for a moment before a smile breaks out on his face. You’re not sure if it’s a good or bad thing that he’s smiling. You can’t tell if he’s mocking you or about to profess his undying love. 

You don’t have to wonder for long. He moves closer towards you, leaning forward until you’re practically sharing the same breaths. Unconsciously, you’re drawn into him, hands braced gently on his chest as you chase after him. 

“What are you doing?” Your whispered words brush against his lips and he gives you a small smile. His hands travel up your waist. He tugs you closer, his other hand looping around your neck and craning you up. 

“I’m gonna choose you every fucking time, kid.” His lips brush across your own and it’s like a switch is flipped in you both. Your arms twine around his neck, pulling him down until you’re practically melting into him. 

It’s everything you’ve ever wanted and so different at the same time. You always thought your first kiss would be after some cheesy first date. He would have taken you out to dinner. Something would have inevitably gone wrong, you spilled something on your dress or the waiter brought the wrong order. 

You would both worry that it was a sign that nothing would work out between you. And then, at the end of the night, he’d tug you into his arms and kiss you like you were the most precious thing he’d ever held. 

That would be nice, but this is better. He’s not holding you like you’re something fragile or something too precious for this world. He’s kissing you like you’re the very air he needs to survive. He’s greedy with his affections and demanding with his wants. 

You’re being consumed and devoured. And you never want to stop. This is all you’ve ever wanted with him, from him. 

Sadly, you do have to breathe. You’re the one that forces the stop, you’re sure he would have happily suffocated if it meant he could keep touching you like this. You pull back, the air coming in short pants between your parted lips. 

You can already feel them swelling, the slight irritation on your cheeks from his stubble. You don’t mind, you quite like the feeling. He speaks before you can, a pleased smile on his face. “Forgive me yet?”

You chuckle, a little impressed by how cheeky he is, still slightly pissed off. “Why don’t you do that again and I’ll think about it?”

He rolls his eyes but you can see the smile fighting against his firm glare. “You’re really gonna make me work for it, huh?”

You smile and nod, leaning into him again. “You’re never gonna hear the end of it,” you whisper before dipping down and kissing him again. You can’t believe you ever doubted just how much he cares for you. 

He didn’t choose Jean over you. He’s just a dumbass. 

a/n: I had to resist putting in a “pick me, choose me, love me” line in there bc that would have just been too much lol

end. — I do not own the characters or the comics/movies Wolverine/X-Men, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2024. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

General Taglist: @evasmlp

Logan Taglist:  @nonamevenus @smexy-bucky-waifu @wh1sp @peony-always @corvusmorte  

@mrs-ephemeral  @wolviesgirl ♡ 

[joeyfranchise]

cuz you know that it’s delicate

joe burrow x fem!reader

summary: what happens when joe’s teammate slips a joke about your size difference and it sends you spiraling? being in love with joe since college has been tough but what happens when he starts figuring it out and trying to unravel you more?

warnings: SMUT, 18+ ONLY, MDNI. heaaaavy size kink, joe being a smartass should be it’s own warning, language, p in v, fingering, oral (f. receiving), roughness. probably more? this one was so much fun, plzzz stick around til the end. 🤭

word count: 3.1k!

note: heyyy everyone! my first joey smut 🤭 i hope y’all love it and again MDNI!! (shoutout to my boo @slimshiesty, hate me later and that stray ball part is rotting in my brain, so i snuck a lil of it in here as an ode to you. ily bbg. 💗) (also another taylor swift title bc i fr couldn’t think of anything else plus i used it a bit.. i swear i’m not trying to steal anyones thing i love all the joey swifties)

tags: @slimshiesty @starsinthesky5 (plz message me or send an ask to be added!) part 2

sexual frustration has to be one of the worst things in the world. sexual frustration at the hands of your best friend, however, takes the cake.

it started at a party two weeks ago when you were invited out by joe, the star nfl quarterback, certified dweeb, and your very best friend all wrapped into one.

flashback

you were sitting around with joe and some of his teammates, listening in on their conversations and people watching the rest of the time. it was easiest for you to hang out with joe and ja’marr since you knew them from college, but the rest of their teammates and their teammates partners were really cool too, and all so welcoming to you.

everyone was laughing and joking, having a laid back time, picking on each other for random things. that was, until, someone mentioned how funny it was to see you standing next to joe, being that he was well over a foot taller than you.

“what? how’s it funny?” joe asked, glancing between you and his teammate. “because you make her look so tiny! like a little doll. get up and stand next to each other.”

you were reluctant to move from your seat, hating where this was leading. it was already hard enough having feelings for your best friend over the span of a few years, but this was crossing dangerous territory. kink territory.

for you, there was something about how much bigger than you joe was. he towered over you. his body was lean but built with thick muscles. he could quite literally pick you up and sling you around like a rag-doll. (and honestly if he did, you’d thank him.)

you hoped his teammate pointing out your size difference wouldn’t be turned into a big deal, but once joe pulled you out of your chair to stand next to him, it was like the gates of hell opened.

you stood side by side, your head barely even reaching his armpit. everyone around the table laughed, including joe. “damn, i guess i never really focused on how little you are, y/n.” joe laughed, and placed his forearm on top of your head like an armrest.

alarms went off in your head. ABORT MISSION. ABORT MISSION.

you cleared your throat quickly, and came to your senses, shoving joe off before getting back into your seat. “maybe i’m not small, maybe you’re just a freakishly large man.” you remark, trying to keep your voice even.

“nah,” he replied, sitting down next to you again, “you’re sooooo tiny.” he laughed, wiggling his eyebrows at you. you flipped him the finger. “fuck you big bird.” you snarked before downing the rest of your drink. god knows you need it. you hoped that your pink cheeks would be chalked up to the alcohol and that nobody else had caught on.

the next instance came a few days later, on a sunday, and it was much worse than the first. so, so much worse.

flashback to sunday

you came to the bengals’ home stadium to watch their game, and since it was early you figured you’d go down to the field to say hi to joe and some of your other friends on the team.

you made it down and waved hi to ja’marr, tee and sam before making your way to joe. he spotted you and smiled, walking in your direction to meet you halfway.

you decided on wearing one of his jerseys and a pair of jeans, something simple and comfortable. as soon as he made it to you, the first thing he did was look you up and down and then pick up the sleeve of the jersey before chuckling.

“damn, this thing is swallowing you!” he comments. you playfully smack at his arm. “shut up, joey.”

“it’s cute, though. you look nice. are you excited for the game?”

you don’t give yourself much time to process that “cute” comment. wtf does that even mean? who cares. ABORT MISSION.

“of course i’m excited! i can’t wait to watch you guys kick some ass today—“

your sentence is cut off abruptly as joe grabs you and lifts you, turning your bodies so his back is now facing the opposite direction on the field. his grip on you is so tight that your chest is pressed into his stomach. you look up at his face, his expression a mix between anger and concern. you can feel your cheeks heat up and your eyes widen in disbelief.

“um, joe, you’re bear hugging the hell out of me right now. wanna put me down and explain what happened?”

he lets you down gently, reaching up to run a hand through his hair. “stray ball was coming right at you. i didn’t want it to hit you, it would’ve hurt you pretty bad.”

you reach a hand up and pat his chest, feeling the thick muscles. “thank you!” you respond, once again monitoring your tone. “i’m gonna head up and talk to everyone, ok?” you ask, already moving to leave. “yeah, ok.” joe says, focusing his attention on the ground. you can tell he’s contemplating something, but you don’t want to ask. you want to get out of there as quickly as possible.

the final instance came a few days later when you went to joe’s house just to hang out and have dinner.

flashback to wednesday night

you park your car in joe’s garage and step out, tucking your phone and keys in your pocket before heading up the stairs. before you make it to the door, joe’s already opening it and waiting in the doorway.

“hi bub!” you call, pushing past him and stepping inside, kicking off your shoes by the door. he greets you back sweetly and the two of you go sit on barstools in the kitchen, just catching up on things that have gone on this week. you rant to joe about your job and he listens intently, offering what advice he can.

he rants back to you about things going on with the team, and frustrations he’s having on the field. you try to return the favor and offer him some advice, but you know you aren’t of too much help. joe appreciates it regardless.

soon after your food arrives, you find yourselves in the living room, sitting on the couch side by side as a movie plays. you and joe always loved just being around each other, you had so deep of a connection that oftentimes words didn’t need to be shared at all.

you both enjoyed those moments.

you felt yourself starting to doze off until joe laughed at something in the movie, the sound waking you a bit.

“oh, sorry. you can go to sleep.” he whispers, pulling you into his side and wrapping his arm around your shoulder. you appreciate his warmth and you rub your head on his shoulder as you get comfy. you hear joe chuckle.

“what’s funny?” you mumble, your eyes still closed. “it’s like i’m hyper-aware now of how small you are next to me. it’s so cute.”

you make no outward moves or sounds, but inside you are screaming. yelling. this is the worst one yet.

you don’t know it yet, but joe’s figured it out. he’s seen you get flustered three times now over these comments, and he knows something is going on in your brain when they’re said. he isn’t aware if you have feelings for him like he does for you, but he knows you liked when he picked you up so easily on the field the other day.

it was effortless to him, despite what you might think of yourself.

you sit next to him in silence, eyes still closed, trying to control your breathing. just try to fall asleep again you tell yourself, hoping that joe has no idea. if you only knew.

when you wake in the morning, you’re still snuggled on the couch with him as the soft morning light shines gold around the living room. you shake him awake.

“joey, i gotta get going. i need to go home and get ready for work and you have thursday practice.”

he pulls you in closer for a moment, hugging you bye, and then wishes you a good day at work. you bolt out the door and to your car as fast as you can, heading home to wash the previous day away in the shower.

end of flashbacks

so, this is where you are now.

it’s been almost a week since you’ve talked to joe, avoiding him because you aren’t sure what to say or do. part of you knows he has something figured out, but you don’t know what or how much.

you’re terrified to let him in on your feelings, what’s going on in your head, because you’re delicate and you don’t want to ruin something that has always been there for you.

the other part of you knows you have to tell him, you need to tell him. you love him, you lust after him. the comments that keep being made about your sizes are driving you to the point of insanity that nothing will fix it unless joe manhandles you as rough as you can take it and he fucks it out of you.

you’re pretty sure your vibrator is gonna be on its last leg soon.

alright, i gotta call him. i gotta get this over with.

you grab your phone off the kitchen counter and dial his number, listening to it ring for a few moments.

“hello?” he finally answers, sounding a bit upset.

“hey joey. sorry i haven’t been talking to you this week. i just— i think i need to talk to you about some stuff and.. would you mind coming over later?”

he says nothing for a moment, but you hear him blow out a long breath. “yeah, of course, y/n.” he finally says. “i can be over around 7?”

you check the clock on the stove, it reads 4:34pm.

“7 sounds great! see you then!” you say, hanging up quickly. now you play the waiting game.

all your chores are done, and you take a lovely everything shower to help calm your nerves, and you make sure to drink plenty of water and have a snack as you tell yourself affirmations.

it’s going to be okay, he’s my best friend. he will understand. he will still be my friend regardless, he’s always been there for me. if he rejects me, nothing will change that.

you sit on the couch and scroll your phone as you wait. there’s still just a bit over an hour before joey will arrive, so you waste time scrolling tiktok, cozy on the couch.

soon enough you hear the doorbell, and you jump off the couch to answer it, stepping aside to let joe in.

he sits on your couch, waiting for you to join him and start speaking. “joe, i, um.. i hav-“

he cuts you off. “you have feelings for me? you like it when people compare our sizes because it turns you on?” he smirks, leaning back on the couch, crossing his arms behind his head. he’s manspreading now, his thick thighs on full display. your mouth falls open for a moment.

“yeah. essentially exactly that.” you finally reply.

“so what are we gonna do about that?” he questions, pulling you into his lap. you place your hands on his chest instinctively, and before you know what’s happening he‘s pulling you in for a heated kiss.

his lips are soft against yours and he gently prods at your bottom lip, sliding his tongue past as you open it. he tastes like mint, it’s intoxicating you. one minute his large hands are splayed over your back holding you to him, the next he’s lifting you off the couch by grabbing underneath your armpits and carrying you down the hall, roughly body-slamming you on the bed.

“dude, save the UFC moves for ja’marr!” you groan, sucking in a large breath. joe jumps on the bed, caging you in by placing his knees on either side of your hips and his hands next to your head.

“no, i don’t think so.” he smirks, leaning in closer until your noses are nearly touching. you felt your cheeks heating up at his close proximity, and his eye-contact with you was starting to feel intimidating, even though you had just been sharing such a passionate kiss. you hated that you could feel your wetness soaking through your panties just from him trying to wrestle you.

he blows gently on your face and you shove at him. he laughs you off and leans even closer, pressing the tip of his nose to yours before moving away and leaning down to whisper in your ear.

“this would be a lot easier if you’d just admit that you want me to manhandle you. you want me to go rough, right?” he teases. you’ve had enough of his smugness. you grab the back of his neck and pull him in for another kiss, tugging at his hair and nipping his bottom lip. he groans into you. he stands from the bed, picking you up again, carrying you across the room before roughly slamming your body against the wall.

you let out a strangled moan, loving the feeling of him using all his strength on you.

“can i take your shorts off?” he asks, looking into your eyes.

“fuck yes, please.” you breathe out, exhilarated.

joe yanks your shorts and panties down your legs in one swift motion, kneeling down in front of you. he’s able to keep your body held up and pressed against the wall. he looks up at you with questioning eyes, making sure this is okay. you give him a soft nod in response.

he leans in and throws one of your legs over his shoulder. he starts by pressing the smallest kiss to your clit, and then licks a slow, languid stripe up your core. you hiss, your body arching off the wall at the new sensation. when you look down, you find him looking up at you, his beautiful blue eyes trained on your face.

your eyes roll back in your head as he continues his ministrations. you feel the hand that isn’t holding you against the wall rubbing circles on your inner thigh before joe slowly slips a finger into you.

you quickly approach your orgasm, your stomach tight with anticipation. joe doesn’t let up, working you there until your body feels like it’s being dunked into warm bath water, the feeling covering you from head to toe. it takes you a minute to regain your sense of self. joe pulls his fingers from your core and removes your leg from his shoulder, standing back up before lifting you so your legs are around his waist.

you waste no time pulling him in for a kiss. “holy shit, joey!” you moan, baffled at what just happened. he smirks into your kiss.

for the second time, you’re thrown onto the bed. you sit up, propped on your elbows as you watch joe stalk closer, his erection very obvious in his shorts. he pulls his shirt over his head and you do the same, unclasping your bra just after so that you’re completely bare for him.

you chalk your forwardness up to being comfortable with him, normally you wouldn’t have the confidence to act this way. neither would joe, actually, but you shrug it off.

you don’t remember seeing him strip his shorts off or climb on top of you, but you know you’re kissing him again. you can’t get over how good his lips feel. one of his hands traces your curves, he runs his fingers along your body until his large hand is cupping your breast.

he moves his kisses to your neck and you gasp, reveling in the feeling of him kissing and touching you softly and sweetly.

you look down at his throbbing cock and suddenly you feel intimidated. joe hears you gasp. he lets out a soft laugh.

“don’t talk a big game and then act scared of it, baby.” he teases, pressing light kisses to your cheeks. you swallow thickly.

joe reaches down and strokes himself, spitting on his hand to slick himself up. he looks at you once again for confirmation, and you nod to him. he helps you get comfortable beneath him, positioning your legs around his waist as he pushes his tip in. you suck in a harsh breath.

it stings, but it isn’t the worst thing. he moves against you slowly, sliding in inch by inch until he bottoms out. he looks down and you, your faces inches apart, and you giggle.

“what is it bub?” he asks, smiling softly. “they weren’t kidding calling you big dick joe.” you laugh out. joe laughs too.

after giving you a few minutes to adjust, he starts moving hips, rocking into yours slowly. you think this is what the peak of euphoria feels like.

he leans back down to kiss you, his hand finding your throat and squeezing ever so slightly. your back is arched, your chest pressed to his as your hands tangle through his hair. his hands move down, finding your hips and holding them down to the bed. you moan at the rough grip.

he starts going harder, his hips pistoning into yours as you continue kissing, both of you moaning out your pleasure.

“joey, i-i’m close.” you warn, your body covered in a sheen of sweat. you felt it again, you were so close to that warmth once again pulsing over your body.

until.

knock knock knock.

what was that? you thought. you tried to focus on joe but everything seemed to be slipping away.

then, there it was again. the knocking. and the shrill of your phone ringing.

you startled awake, sweat covering your body. you looked at your phone screen. 7:10pm. one missed call from joe.

you threw your throw blanket off, trying to gather your thoughts. what the fuck? what is happening?

you thought you’d just had the best fuck of your life, that everything would be okay with you and joe but… it was just a dream? you dozed off and you didn’t even know it.

“y/n, let me in!” you hear joe yell from the opposite side of the door. you’re panicking, your body is hot, your clothes are stuck to you. still, you get up and almost sprint to the door. you open it, taking in his appearance. just like your dream.

black shorts, black shirt. backwards cap.

“can i come in? are you okay?” he asks. you watch as he takes in your appearance. sweaty hair stuck to your neck, your eyes glazed over.

“um, yeah joe. i’m okay. come in.” you step aside, inviting him in, just like your dream. he sits down.

“so, what did you wanna talk about?” he asks. you sit down next to him, blowing out a long breath. this was gonna be a longggg conversation.

[seren1tyhaze]

Unconditional

PAIRING: jaehyun x afab reader

WORD COUNT: 1.9k

SUMMARY: dating a hot actor is great and all, until you find some texts on his phone that make you wonder if he's really the man of your dreams

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I'm back after another unplanned hiatus. Even when I'm not posting here, I'm always thinking about writing things and wanting to share more. I have written a couple things for Ao3 so those will be up there soon. As usual, Mr. Jeong Jaehyun himself has ruined me again with his new song and video to the point where I sat down and wrote this in one sitting and never looked back. More from me soon, I promise xx

WARNINGS: established relationship, domestic fluff, explicit smut, swearing

PLAYLIST: Unconditional by Jaehyun, Smoke by Jaehyun, Birthday by Ten, Honey by John Legend

--

--

“I just don’t believe you Jae! Do you think I’m stupid?”

Your cheeks are burning red and you know your chest is splotchy as your temperature rises, heart pounding. Ever since you were a kid, your skin would turn bright red the moment you started to get agitated, making you a terrible poker player and never one to even try to lie to anyone. It was one of things that endeared you to Jaehyun immediately, his bright red ears the moment someone teased him or he felt embarrassed.

“Baby, baby,” he starts, groggily reaching a large hand to you from the mountain of pillows and plush white sheets. His hair is still pushed back in that stupid plastic headband he fell asleep wearing the night before, making it hard to take him seriously in the heat of the moment.

You wipe a single tear from your eye before it can slip down your cheek and turn away from him, throwing his phone onto the covers with more strength than you thought you had in the moment.

Dating a famous actor who spends most of his time at premieres in Seoul and on movie sets around the world wasn’t easy. You had turned Jaehyun down the first few times he slid up on your Instagram stories, a mutual stylist friend having introduced you at a small birthday dinner you both were invited to.

Grabbing his phone off the nightstand instead of yours this morning had sent you into a spiral, shaking him awake in the bed to ask for an explanation about why he’s messaging someone about a “gorgeous girl named Honey” and how he “can’t wait to spoil her the way she deserves.”

“We’ve been together for a year and now you’re going to start cheating on me? Really original, Jeong.”

Your eyes roll back into your sockets and you scoop all your long, curly hair onto the top of your head, pulling running shorts and socks from the dresser near the window as you continue to grill him.

Jaehyun sits up fully, the comforter slipping off his shoulders and exposing his bare, chiselled chest. He’s still pale from having spent the whole winter filming in Canada, not having had enough trips to the nearby beach to have his adorable freckles reappear on his cheeks. His hair is bright white, platinum, and long in the back, soft in the morning light streaming in the floor to ceiling windows.

“You know I went out with Mingyu last week to that Dior party and he said if I ever wanted it to be a real date, just say the word and he would drop everything and everyone.”

“Dior? You wound me,” Jaehyun replies, mockingly rubbing his pec as he rolls his eyes. You know how much the statement had to hurt him, he always had been worried about your closeness to his friend Mingyu (and Mingyu’s long wavy hair, sparkly eyes, and massive biceps), even if he lets that go unsaid now.

“I’m going for a run and when I get back, I really hope you’ve managed to get up, shower, and figure out how you’re going to tell your PR team about this, unless they are all in on it too,” you finish, wobbling near the foot of the bed as you try to put your socks on while standing.

A firm hand is on your wrist, instantly balancing you. You look up to meet Jaehyun’s eyes, soft and glittering and sending you back to the first time you ever met.

“Who needs the candy, you look sweet enough to eat,” he had practically purred in your ear, pressing a hand between your thighs, under the silky material of your Vivienne Westwood skirt in a private booth in the back a dark room, surrounded by tall crystal jars of sweets.

Your marketing executive job had your team planning events for high end clients on a regular basis but this event had been extra special as your best friend had finally launched her own luxury cosmetics brand. The event was a mix of rich pops of red, velvety cushions and extravagant accessories, diamond necklaces draped across necks of models with artistic and bold eye looks. You had spared no expense for your friend and your assistant had the mountains of receipts to prove it.

The guest list was no exception, you had made sure every A-list name had received an invite and hundreds of attractive and trendy faces from fashion and entertainment filled the event space. That included Seoul’s hottest star, known for his striking and stoic look and deep, rich voice.

“You are not using that as an opening line on me,” you had sighed, trying to push down the moan bubbling up in your throat as long fingers toyed with lace dangerously close to slipping out of place.

“Technically, I asked you if the brownies had tree nuts because my body guard is allergic,” he quipped back, thumb brushing over you with intention.

You had bit your lip in frustration and swatted his hand away, grabbing his phone from his coat pocket and giving him your number, insisting that he had to reach out first because you were busy with a “real job”. He had laughed, sucking his now wet thumb into his mouth and letting it slide out with a loud popping noise and a simple “Yes, ma’am”.

That same phone was now in his hand a little under a year later, his fingers moving quickly against the glass screen.

“You don’t have anything to say?” you ask in shock and before you can say another word, your doorbell is chiming and he’s up from the bed and down your hallway, wearing nothing but his stupid boxers with lemons on them.

You roll your eyes and move to your large kitchen for a glass for water, almost letting it slip from your hands as he places a large Prada shopping bag on the marble island.

“A bag? A fucking purse is supposed to make me forgive you? How did you even get that this fast?”

“Baby, just look inside and it will explain everything,” he speaks calmly, sliding the bag carefully closer to you.

You untie the ribbon holding it loosely closed and you think you’re losing your mind when you see the bag move on its own. As soon as the thick paper opens, a tiny brown and curly head of fur appears. Neatly groomed ears are shaking and a tiny black Prada collar is clasped around the neck of the puppy.

“A dog?!” you exclaim in disbelief. The puppy lets out a small but high pitched bark, demanding to be let out of the bag with a fluffy paw nudging your hand.

“A chocolate French poodle puppy,” Jaehyun corrects, moving behind you and wrapping his arms around you, pressing his bare chest into your back. He lifts the puppy from the bag and places her into your waiting arms, the puppy taking no time at all to snuggle into your neck.

“Her name is Honey,” he tells you and you can practically feel his smile from the way he speaks.

“Honey…” you repeat. The dog’s eyes are wide in curiosity, head tilting to the side as she appears to recognize her name.

“Yeah, baby?” he jokes back, pressing warm lips to the short hairs at your hairline. You can tell he thinks he’s funny for that joke and you don’t need to turn to see what kind of look is in his eye. He trails his mouth to your ear, nudging the metal hoops along the shell and kissing the “14” ink at the skin behind your ear.

Your mouth is suddenly so dry that you can’t speak so you simply turn in his arms, letting Honey drop to the floor and bound excitedly on your slippery floors.

“How long had you been planning this surprise for me to just ruin it with my paranoia?” you murmur against his forehead, pressing a tender kiss to smooth skin.

“A couple months, I was just trying to find the perfect puppy for us,” he replies, fingers drawing circles on the bare skin exposed between your sports bra and shorts.

“I’m so sorry,” you reply, feeling embarrassment heat up your cheeks and sweat start to prick at your hairline.

“Don’t be,” he smiles back with his million watt smile that landed him his first commercial at eight years old, plucked from his class trip to a theme park by a talent scout.

“You know how I feel about you, nothing is going to change that. Not even if you go on 127 million dates with Kim Mingyu,” he finishes, sealing his lips over yours.

You open your lips and greedily press your tongue behind his annoyingly perfect teeth, lifting your fingers up to tug at the hair almost touching his shoulders.

“God,” Jaehyun growls in between kisses, grabbing at your ass to hoist you up on the counter, tugging roughly at your shorts to push them down to your ankles and ripping your legs open.

You’re panting, resting back on your wrists as he holds your knees open and presses wet kisses to your inner thighs. His energy is wild and chaotic, exactly as you’ve always expected from him and your mind is starting to go to that numb place it always goes when gets his tongue on you.

You arch your back in pleasure, letting moans tumble from your lips freely, trying desperately to ignore the adorable face now perched on your couch, eyes curious but also dozing off from exerting energy after running the full length of your penthouse.

You let your eyes fall to the rolling waves out the window, morning sun blinding you and forcing you to look down at the bobbing head of the blonde man between your legs. He meets your gaze with sparkling eyes and drops a kiss to his self proclaimed favorite tattoo of yours, a small rose on your hip bone. You smile softly at him before shrieking and almost crushing his head with your thighs when he takes sharp canines to the spot, almost drawing blood.

He jumps up and starts running towards your bedroom, scooping a startled Honey off the back of the couch and holding her in front of him he runs backwards.

“Jaehyun, you cannot use our child as a shield!” you yell, almost slipping in your socks as you bound after him.

When you round the corner, you slam into his bare chest, standing at the foot of the bed. Honey is curled up on the same pillow Jaehyun had tucked under his arm as he slept, already dozing again.

“Our child? I like the sound of that,” he says seriously, his voice velvety and tempting. His hands are at your waist again and you are having a hard time thinking straight.

“Calm down there, mister,” you chuckle, pushing him back to sit on the edge of the bed and dropping to your knees in between his open legs.

“Let’s see how you do with this dog first,” you mutter, hands pushing down his boxers easily to take his hardened length between experienced fingers.

He smiles with his whole face at your words, eyes crinkling up in the corners and shoulders shaking a bit as you move your mouth over smooth skin, letting his soft moans fill the room and calm your racing heart.

[girlfromflor]

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | supersoldiers!141 x f!reader

“what?” johnny is the first one to say something audible, simon made a “huh?” noise that sounded more like a grunt whilst kyle remained silent.

“yeah, well… apparently a young soldier has been showing really good results and the general decided she would be moving to our unit.” john answers, almost as incredulous as he was when he first got the information, but keeping it together in front of his men.

“she?” simon asks, calmer and softer than he initially intended, but still a bit shocked – he blamed the confusion clouding his mind. johnny backs him up instantly, furrowed brows and crossed arms as he adds, “it’s a woman?” 

“yeah,” john sighs, taking a big breath. they all knew that women in the military were usually grouped in women-only task forces because they usually shared different tasks than men – it wasn’t like they wanted to be surrounded by entitled men anyway, so they did their own thing. so to know this soldier was getting sent to their unit said a lot about who they were as a person. “it is a woman.”

“when is she going to get her dose?” kyle mumbles, talking for the first time since he walked in the room, voice clear but enveloped in uncertainty, “we should know how much time we have, so we can get to training as soon as possible.”

and of course kyle would say that out of all of them, training as a unit before taking a dose was essential, the almost in sync rhythm had to be settled before the dose forced them into an unnatural harmony. taking a designated dose without training together was said to be bothersome and even painful in some cases. the mix of unwanted sensations eats the team up constantly because of their lack of bond – their lack of knowing how to deal with one another. the boys never got that problem, but kyle wanted to make sure that it wasn't going to happen.

“so… remember that weird, gnawing feeling from last week…?” price voices out, and the boys already understood what he meant.

simon couldn't hold himself back, barking out his words in a demanding tone. “they gave her the dose four days ago? we don't even know each other,” his exasperated tone matching the stress building on their shoulders. 

“i know, and i’m not happy either. but the only thing we can do now is try and make it work.” john says, more to himself than to calm his men. it was already a problem that they would have someone new to the team, having to share their emotions and sensations without proper preparation had to be the final straw. “if it will be bad for us, let's just think how bad it’s going to be for her taking a dose for the first time and having to deal with four new incoming sensations all at once.”

captain took his time sharing what he knew with the boys. to prevent big problems – like sending some of them into a mental spiral or something similar –, the woman was going to stay in her own place – nearby theirs – as they started training together. he said that they’ll meet at the base and that john will have full responsibility over their time together. it meant that no higher ups were going to stick their noses where they didn’t belong – which was a relief. he didn’t have much information about the soldier other than the fact that she was skilled enough to earn a spot on their team – probably something else too, because no ordinary soldier was grouped with supersoldiers with just ‘good enough skills’. 

john wasn’t stressed, and that also calmed the boys a bit. five was the limit of people within a task force and long passed the time that they were told to hire someone to fill the remaining position, but to know they were obligated to do so was excruciating. their defiant nature was just begging them to dismiss any and all possibilities of working together with the new addition. they worked as a united force, someone new coming in was only going to disturb that harmony. simon was already thinking ‘how will i see her face everyday and keep the boys at ease without making it hard for her’. he couldn’t help it, he already felt some type of empathy for the woman – he knew it was probably his captain and kyle’s fault, they had too much nurturing instincts to fight off. johnny also was thinking what could he do on his end, since he knew the experience was going to be intense already, it didn’t help that he was also and naturally an overwhelming being. he already felt how he’d have to neglect himself in order to make her feel comfortable – but then again, all of them felt that way. 

somehow, in between this new challenge and their usual work, the boys found within their group an ever stronger bond. the need for comfort to deal with the arrival of the recruit willed them to seek each other more – even if they didn’t meet her yet, it was like she was part of them in some ways, which was weird. they started acting like she was part of their routine already, leaving a spot on the table where she would sit during meals, buying more food, and cleaning the house more often – assuming that as a woman she’d like things to be tidy.

kyle started wordlessly moving to price’s room after dinner, where they’d sleep in each other's arms and somehow they seemed to dream the same fulfilling scenarios where she’d do the same. when they’d wake up, price was still with his eyes closed when he whispered “morning,” while his hand sneaked under kyle’s shirt to touch his waist. the sergeant was also with his eyes closed and he’d mumble “how’d you know i was awake?” to which the captain would just shrug. call it wild guess, they call it connection. simon and johnny were like one, literally. when simon felt like drinking water, johnny was already opening a bottle and handing it to him. when johnny felt a bit cold, simon would get up from his spot on the couch and close the window – and when john questioned why, simon simply replied with “johnny is cold,” even though he hadn’t spared johnny a single glance.

it eased their nerves, how they worked together through the uneasiness of having a new member. but then an uncomfortable, saddening feeling started creeping up their neck. simon is the first one to acknowledge it: insecurity. but it’s captain price who voices it out of their heads, “everything is going to be alright, lads, no need to worry.”

johnny only shrugs, and looks at kyle. kyle nods, answering for the both of them, “don’t think that’s us, cap.”

simon agrees, humming under his breath. he turns to price as he speaks, “think you know it too, right?”

“aye,” john answers, taking a pause. it was weird – to feel things from someone they didn’t know yet. “just wanted to make sure.”

“she seems precious,” kyle says, to which johnny lets out a laugh. “what? it’s true,” but he’s laughing as well. “think she’s shy, though.”

“aye,” is johnny who replies, his voice sounding as dreamy as kyle’s. “do ye think she can tell us apart?” then he grimaces, tilting his head as he adds, “mentally, i mean…”

simon snorts, but they know he’s thinking about it too. he looks at his captain then, and john hums in agreement, making a point of saying, “also don’t think it’s good to dwell on it, but i know… we all hope she does.”

you were always a bit of a nuisance, you thought. from a very young age you were sent to EDI which was short for “extra disciplinary institution”. it worked like an extension from school, you often got sent there for a week or two once you completed 12 years of age. it wasn’t bad, nor was it punitive. mostly, it was a place where you let out most of your pent up energy – something you had a lot growing up, and that often came out as defiance. their way of treating the kids depended on what it was that the child lacked control over the most. you invested your time in intense workout routines and logical reasoning exercises, to pass time and get distracted when you felt overwhelmed by your own thoughts – it worked for you, but a boy the same age as you who displayed the same traits spent his time painting and taking music classes.

police wasn't something that really existed anymore, neither did prisons. over the years “police” slowly morphed into SAET – security against external threats – and prisons were completely erased, along with most types of heavy crimes. SAET was only preoccupied with – obviously – external threats to civilians, they never really needed to intervene in crime within the city because that didn’t really happen anymore. robbery was still common, although the robbers were usually sent to work for the state in non-important roles where they could be attentively watched and still live life normally. kids who seem problematic or that caused too much commotion were sent to EDI for a while – never for too long, two weeks max in a row – to get enough attention and work their offenses against their lifestyle and sorts. you never caused actual problems, but you often skipped school and talked back to authoritative figures. lucky for you, you quickly found your place at EDI and by the age of 16 you started willingly going there. when you turned 18 you were recommended to work as a tutor and at 21 you were offered to be in charge of a whole class of kids sent there for the first time.

as the months passed by, you were offered a spot in SAET, but you declined. you didn’t like the idea of being stuck in your city, you wanted to be able to cross the border, study new places and see the remains of old civilizations on the wide places with empty concrete buildings and stray, wild animals. so when you got an informal visit from a general saying that he heard about your results and overall work at the institution and casually asked if you'd like to join the army, you thought ‘why not?’ and accepted.

SAET's whole purpose was to protect civilians, that's why they never moved beyond the border. but the army – huge thing that it was – worked as an active force against unknown targets beyond the city. they were the ones with the work on the field – actual action –, even though wars weren't a thing anymore. most threats came from mutation of wild animals and uncontrolled machines from failed experiments – sometimes both at once. the soldiers usually worked on search parties and rescue missions – when an injured animal was found somewhere too toxic or too hostile for it to survive. it wasn't a secret that all people who became part of the army had to be injected and experimented on. most of the time it was supposed to simply amplify their communicating skills, a way of improving their performance whenever they were inserted in their respective groups. although, a rumor that certain soldiers were kept somewhere far away from the city's edges – bordering wild life – started being more and more heard by you as you made your way through military life – two years was enough for you to come across all types of stories. they had too many years of training and became an extension of nature itself – faster, stronger and more willing to be protective towards the things they tend for. they also had a way to communicate that was unknown for human kind, it was more like when animals shared crucial information in order to survive.

you first learned that they were – in fact – real during a regular exam, when the doctor pointed an unusual response from your body to the usual procedures soldiers were subjected to – turns out you were one of the few people who “mutated” with the injections. you quickly learned that only one group of supersoldiers worked for this state at the moment, the other two task forces were working somewhere else around the world. you also learned that there was no way you could go to a normal task force because it would disturb the harmony of the group. it was best for you to work with task force 141, since it was where you’d fit in the most – it was where you belonged, naturally.

what you didn’t learn – or, better, what they didn’t tell you – was that task force 141 had bonded to a telepathic level. when you got your dose you didn’t question the fact that you had yet to train with them – to know them –, you felt different but nothing more. you thought it was mostly in your head, until you realized that you were growing closer to the day you’ll meet your team – yet to be team, actually, but you call them yours already. you couldn’t help the shadow of anxiety and insecurity that starts to drown you, and when a sudden – overwhelming – sense of confidence and tenderness washes over you, you start to pull the pieces together.

sometimes, over the first four days after you’ve taken your designated dose, you felt some things that didn’t feel quite yours – a thought would pop up out of nowhere and you’d think ‘the hell? the dose is making me think like a man’. after that, it doesn’t take too many days for the official meeting to happen. you had already moved to your new house and started what you called “dosed soldier training”, which was just an upgraded version of the training you used to do – it was the same, but adapted to your modifying body and improving skills.

it’s exactly eight days and 6 hours after you’ve taken your dose that you meet your soon-to-be teammates. when the boys see you they are nearly speechless. they are so lost, price has to slap the back of johnny’s head when he starts getting too lost in his imagination – which earned him some alone time with simon when they got home and kyle the beginning of a hard on. they watch you as you leave the car and move towards the entrance of the main building on base, where they stand completely entranced by how pretty you look – how well you already seem to fit with them. when you stand in front of them it's clear that you’re avoiding eye contact.

price clears his throat. “nice to meet you, soldier. captain john price.” he introduces himself, extending a hand. you take it in yours, shaking it a bit hesitant as you say your name. price looks to his right where a very pretty man stands, and he's quick to start talking.

“i'm sergeant kyle garrick. you can call me gaz,” his voice is calm and polite, but he doesn't put his hand out. you only nod, not having time to say anything because the man on the left side of john starts speaking as soon as kyle stops.

“john mactavish, i'm also a sergeant. most people call me soap, ye can call me johnny,” he finishes his sentence with a wink. he talks a lot, you notice, but it doesn’t bother you – if anything it eases the tense mood. different from gaz, he takes your hand in his in a small greeting and you give him a small smile as he does.

lastly, you look at the man standing beside soap – a very tall and masked man. you exchange a glance in a beat of silence before he says in a low tone, “ghost. lieutenant.”

you have to fight the urge to smile at him, unsure at how he’d receive it from you. you simply nod and turn your attention to the captain, waiting to follow them inside. john talks a bit about how the base works as you walk inside the building and into a meeting room. once inside the room, you are the first one to sit down, ghost taking a seat by your left and kyle moving to your right. you don't like it at first, but you feel less on edge when price and johnny settle on the table across from you. for most of the meeting it is price and soap who talk the most, telling you what you should know about their routine and how training will be from now on. they talk for a few minutes before the questions start, and then kyle starts to pipe in, asking a question every other moment. as you grow comfortable, you allow yourself to question a few things, settling in a nice, pleasant atmosphere – as the basic information about you is slowly being worked through. 

as most important things get sorted out and you reach the end of the two hour meeting, price stands up. “have you eaten already?”

it takes you a moment to realize he’s talking to you, swiftly nodding as you watch the others stand up too. ghost gives you a look – you couldn’t possibly think of what was going through his head – and you feel pressured to elaborate your answer. so you glance back at john, taking the chance to look at your feet as you stand – to avoid eye contact – as you speak, “i’ve, hum… i had lunch before arriving, sir.”

“good, we already had lunch too,” john answers, moving to the door where he rests a hand on the doorknob. “we can go straight home, then.”

you follow them outside, expecting to have a car to pick you up and take you to your house. imagine your surprise when kyle holds the back seat door open for you, watching as your feet halt and you stop walking, making you chuckle nervously. and at your delayed entrance, johnny pops his head out of the window from the other side of the car. his voice is a bit too strained when he calls you out, “c’mon, get in, lass. we’ll drop you at your place.”

you clean your sweaty palms on the fabric of your pants in a nervous habit, climbing inside the car with your head low. johnny gives you a smile when you settle by his side, and kyle simply mutters “put your seatbelt on,” when he takes the seat to your left, closing the door as he does.

you spend the ride towards your house hyper-aware of how both your arms brush against johnny and kyle’s, whenever simon takes a turn on a high speed and your body sways towards one or the other. johnny has half a mind to grab your thigh to keep you from being pressed against his body whilst kyle is – nearly – purposefully manspreading to squeeze your smaller frame between the two of them. john has to turn to look back at them every once in a while, regretting not making you ride shotgun. hi keeps on squirming in his seat and he’s not sure if is simon’s hurry in getting home – his thoughts kept on betraying him and bringing him back to johnny’s reverie – or if it was from johnny and kyle who were fighting for their life at being so close to you so soon.

you, on the other hand, seemed oblivious to the men’s inner dilemma. your mind was traveling towards the future as you tried to ignore the warmth radiating from the men sitting by your sides. should you invite them over? give them a tour of your house? maybe offer some tea? or should you just thank them and leave? you’ll see them in the morning alright, no need to fuss over their company—

“we’re here,” it’s price’s voice who snaps you out, and you look up from your fingers to realize that you’re already in front of your house. the lack of movement around your place is soothing – knowing it was always like that also soothed you, you kind of hated crowds.

“hum, thanks. for the ride…” your words are not as shaky as you thought they would be. you undo your seatbelt and turn to johnny’s side to leave the car. you two exchange a glance for a bit too long and kyle has to face his window in order to keep composure – johnny and simon keep on feeding into each other’s arousal, and it was making them all struggle. but, instead of being intimidated – like they thought you would – you laugh. maybe from the nervousness running through your veins, maybe because it is funny that you’re both kind of frozen.

“can you move? so i can leave…” you ask johnny, a smile still adorning your lips and johnny has to bite his cheek to refrain a – whimpered – ‘no’ to leave his lips. because no, he didn’t want you to leave just yet, but he also couldn’t stand being next to you anymore – oh, the perks of sharing deep emotions with your teammates. 

so he simply nods, brows knitting together as he whispers out an, “sorry.” he opens the door and steps out, not giving you a hand as you mimic his movements – but honestly you think nothing of it.

when you move past john’s window he calls out for you, “we live in a house ten minutes away, in that direction.”

he’s pointing towards a more remote part of the region, the beginning of the woods starting to cover the edges of the road. you make a face, questioning “ten-minute walk or drive?”

“drive,” his smile catches your attention, and you don’t even realize it brings one of your own.

“huh,” you nod, contemplating. “good to know.”

his smile increases, and suddenly he feels johnny’s urge getting at him. he mentally curses how easily they get in tune sometimes. he watches as you walk towards your front door, unlocking it and stepping inside without looking back. “i swear johnny, we ain’t gon’ last a week if ya keep this up,” he says once simon re-starts the engine.

“sorry, cap. couldnae help it,” he says sheepishly, moving to take the seat you were in just a minute ago.

“can’t blame him, luvie’s got a thing about her,” simon is still focused on driving as he speaks, his voice echoes all their inner thoughts. 

“aye. thought i’d lose it at how she smiled at johnny before the meeting,” kyle adds, his thigh brushing over johnny’s now that they’re side by side.

“fuckin’ hell,” john mumbles, a hint of amusement on his tone. “we’re fucked.”

a/n: thought it was dumb, then i realized it's a sci-fi fanfiction, i have all the rights to make it dumb. let me know what you think! | taglist: @fruitymoonbeams-blog @little-mini-me-world @bath1lda

[chleem]

Casual /extra III

One shot; college students drew x reader

Warnings: explicit language + content (read at own caution)

⋆.˚ official one shot | more

♡⸝⸝ "bragging to your friends i get off when you hit it, i hate to tell the truth..."

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

“Stop traumatizing the kid, geez,”

Drew shouts over the table at his friend, Pete, who’s deep into the ‘climaxing’ part of his story.

Drew’s already five bottles down, his words slurring just a little as he leans back in his chair, arms crossed, trying to maintain some semblance of control over the situation. 

This was just another normal hangout with his small friend group at the sports bar, except this time, they invited a first-year. 

Why? Well, Drew didn’t really care. He was just here to get wasted, not to babysit a freshman.

“No- it gets good,” Pete ignores Drew’s comment, equally as drunk. He flings an arm around the first year, pulling him in with a sloppy grin, “I snuck…a lollipop up her ass.”

He bursts into laughter, and Drew shakes his head in disbelief. But the smile tugging at his lips betrays him, revealing he’s more entertained than he’s willing to admit. 

Besides, this might be the most sane story Pete ever shares about his sex life. 

The freshman’s uncomfortable expression goes unnoticed by the others, as the friend group spirals into fits of giggles. 

“Oh wait-wait,” Pete signals them to tone it down, for him to add on, “I then popped it back in my mouth.”

Mixed reactions throughout the table; only Pete was consistently laughing.

“Dude, it probably has dew-dew on it,” one of the friends chimes in, raising an eyebrow with a smirk.

“Not the grossest thing that’s been in here,” he points to his mouth, before chuckling. 

Drew reaches across the table, intent on pouring himself another cup of beer—but then, thinking better of it, he grabs the entire bottle instead, twisting the cap off.

“Enough about me,” Pete starts again, before locking eyes with Drew as he takes a sip. “Get a load of that guy.”

The table shifts their attention to Drew, who raises an eyebrow, clearly aware of the sudden focus. His lips curl into an half-assed grin, his tongue grazing over his lower lip, “my stories aren’t interesting.”

“Bullshit!” Pete slams his hand on the table, grinning wide. He leans over at the freshman, asking him, “y’know y/n?”

Even in Drew’s wasted state, the mention of your name sends a jolt through him, his chest tightening for a moment. He straightens up slightly, a flicker of awareness cutting through the haze of alcohol. 

He watches the freshman’s reaction as his lips curl into a shy grin. The guy fidgets, scratching his head, “Y-yeah,” he stammers.

“Isn’t she hot?” Pete asks with a mischievous edge.

Drew’s jaw tightens, his grip on the bottle going white-knuckled. The grin on his lips drop, replaced with a tight frown. 

Even in the dim light of the bar, it’s clear the freshman’s face has gone red. He hesitates for a moment, but a quick scan of the eager faces around the table pushes him to respond, “Crazily hot.”

“You’re in luck! She’s single!” Pete exclaims, but as if sensing the sudden shift in Drew’s mood, the friend group holds back their laughter.

The last time anyone even hinted at something that bold… well, it never really went that far. Usually, their banter stays light—just teasing jabs about each other’s sexual experiences or partners. But this? This feels … different.

“Aw c’mon, I’m not wrong,” Pete leans over to the freshman again, poking his chest. “Drew knows what it’s like. Got him pussy-whipped.”

The freshman, whose name the group has long since forgotten, shifts uncomfortably. His eyes widen under the intensity of Drew’s glare, probably enough to set the whole bar on fire.

“Too far, man,” someone murmurs from the table, their voice quieter than before. “This—her— is a sensitive topic for him.”

Mumbled laughter follows, but it only makes Drew furrow his brow deeper. What was he doing?

His friends were right— you are single. It's only casual with you. If he felt good, he’d hang out with you, maybe get a little closer, but nothing more. 

Him getting all worked up would mean something more—and that? That’s a whole other kind of messed up.

Drew’s features soften, and he shakes his head, a faint smile creeping back onto his lips. He takes another sip—a deep one—letting the coolness of the beer settle him.

“Alright, fuck, you wanna know?” Drew chuckles, the sound low and playful, and it sets off a round of cheers and laughter around the table.

He licks his lips, his wasted mind trying to piece together memories of you. But everything blurs together. He tries to focus, but his thoughts spin, and before he knows it, random faces of other girls begin to creep in.

Shit. Was it you who he fucked in the dark theater? Or was it you that sucked him off at the back of the bus? 

Drew’s eyes briefly dart to the freshman, who’s looking at him with anticipation.

In that moment, the urge to bolster his own ego swells up inside him, almost overwhelming. 

It’s like a switch, and suddenly he wants to show off, to remind everyone in the room that he’s the one in control, not you. 

Pussy-whipped? No, no. 

“Compliment her eyes... and her pants come right off,”

The words roll off Drew’s tongue so easily, like he’s said them a thousand times before.

And for whatever reason, it’s the funniest thing anyone’s heard all night.

The freshman, wide-eyed and unsure whether to laugh along or stay quiet, looks around, clearly caught off guard by the sudden intensity of Drew’s statement.

Drew leans back, a cocky grin playing on his lips, “it gets boring sometimes- but fuck, the way she whimpers when she’s stuffed full…” he lets his sentence hang in the air, the memory of you overstimulated with his cock replaying in his mind. 

His wasted state shows no sign of guilt, and he continues to blurt out whatever pops into his mind about you. The others listen, some with smirks, others with raised eyebrows, but Drew doesn’t care. 

He’s lost in his own confidence, his ego inflated with every word.

And as the night goes on, the stories the group shares just get more unfiltered, fueled by the alcohol in their veins. 

——

The sunglasses Drew wears isn’t enough to hide how hungover he is. 

Moreover, he recalls nothing of last night, specifically after his third bottle. 

As he stumbles down the endless rows of bookshelves, he struggles to keep his eyes open, scanning the aisles in search of you.

Drew brushes off the attention he draws, too overwhelmed by the noise of the quiet library to care.

Finally, deep into the library and at the very end of the last row of shelves, he spots you. It isn’t entirely surprising; given your odd habits when it comes to reading. 

Plus, five-month casualness means knowing everything about each other, right? 

Oh, and it wasn’t just you. 

…Since when did you get a reading buddy? 

“Hey baby,” the nickname rolls of Drew’s lips effortlessly, walking over to you. 

He cuts into the conversation you’re having with the guy next to you, his presence shifting the dynamic instantly. 

Drew watches as you shift uncomfortably on your feet, nervously tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Hey you,” you force out, hands fidgeting with the book in your hands. 

Drew’s lips twitch into a smile, one that feels natural compared to the awkward one you're trying to force. He leans against the bookshelf, and nods down at your book, “what you got there?” 

He could’ve sworn it’s either his sunglasses or own brain- but he definitely saw you glare up at him.

“Drew, um, this is Mike,” you start, and that’s enough to snap Drew’s attention back to the guy beside you. “Mike, Drew.”

Unintentionally, he’s ignored the guy beside you. He just assumed the guy would leave right as Drew entered- plus, he couldn’t care less. 

Through his sunglasses, he takes in the guy- ‘Mike’. Messy hair, baggy jeans that hang too low, a sweater, and he’s got those thick black glasses. And he’s…the same height as you. 

Drew can tell right away—nothing special, and definitely not your type. 

But as he gets a closer look at Mike’s baby face, something in Drew’s mind clicks. 

“y’know y/n?”

“Y-yeah.”

“Isn’t she hot?”

“Crazily hot.”

Drew’s eyes narrow just slightly, landing at how close Mike is next to you, and then on the outfit you’re wearing, a lot more exposed than usual. 

Okay. I see what’s going on. 

It’s petty, but there’s a flicker of something possessive in him, a sudden tension he can't shake.

“You’re- Mike?” Drew asks, his voice flat as he removes his sunglasses, like it might somehow sharpen his perception.

Mike nervously scratches the back of his neck, and Drew sees the same shy grin curling up on his lips- the memories of last night slowly flooding into him.

“Yeah- um, last night was fun, thanks man.”

Drew furrows his eyebrows, and he straightens his posture again. Okay. So this definitely is the first-year from last night. 

He lets out a dry chuckle, finding it amusing all the sudden. 

Tapping the frame of his sunglasses to his chin, he then says, “does he, uh, like your eyes or something?”

The sudden statement catches both you and Mike off-guard. You glance at Mike, who's looking down at the floor, biting on his bottom lip. 

“What- what are you talking about?” Your giggle was laced with awkwardness. 

“Nothing- nothing,” Drew smirks, his voice dripping with mischief. 

He can’t help but size Mike up- his blue eyes scanning all traces of flaw on the first-year.

“I think- this is my cue to leave,” Mike mutters suddenly, clearly feeling the weight of the moment. His voice is barely above a whisper, and he looks anywhere but at Drew. 

Before you can say anything, Drew cuts in.

“Awww, don’t go,” he coos, the smirk on his face widening. 

He reaches his arm out to drape them over your shoulders, but as soon as you feel the weight of his arm, you pull away sharply. 

Drew scoffs under his breath, a quiet sound mixed with surprise and amusement. 

“I’ll see you around, Mike,” you chirp, which is a contrast to the cold attitude you give to Drew. 

"Yeah, see you, y/n," he mumbles, his legs clumsy as he scurries away. 

Oblivious to the sour presence beside you, you giggle at the cute first-years’ flustered state. Drew, however, watches your reaction, his jaw tight with frustration. 

Why are you so focused on that kid?

He leans in, planting quick kisses along your jaw, pulling your attention away from the kid. The distraction works, because you immediately drop your book, hands attempting to push him away. 

“Drew- this is a library-“

“Just missed you a lot,” he murmurs against your skin, as if this reason is enough to justify being freaky in a library. 

He gently presses you against the bookshelf, his presence enveloping you, leaving no space between your bodies. Your hands instinctively rest on his chest, rising and falling steadily. 

You look up at him, a flicker of uncertainty flashes in your eyes, but it's overtaken by the hunger, the way your gaze lingers on his lips, daring him to close the gap.

It’s that look—the perfect mix of need and invitation—that drives him wild.

And as if it was too much, Drew takes his sunglasses and places them on your face. It comes off as a playful gesture, and seeing your confused smile, he can’t help but chuckle lowly. 

You then purposely tilt the sunglasses, wearing them sideways, and the sight of it makes Drew laugh—a loud sound that ripples through the air, completely unrestrained.

Before you can react, he’s there, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck. You let out a series of soft punches on his chest, your body shaking as you try to stifle your own laughter, sending him mumbled ‘shhh’s. 

“Shit,” he mumbles, his lips brushing against your skin. His laughter dies down, and he pulls away to get another look at you. 

His hand comes up and fixes your sunglasses, before giving you a quick kiss. 

But he decides that it isn’t enough- and holds the back of your neck to perform a deeper, more intimate kiss. 

You fight back at first, but the warmth of his mouth melts you right in, your body relaxing against his. 

It’s when a soft moan leaves your mouth when you harshly push him away, Drew pulling back with a sharp breath.

His expression shifts—a mix of either surprise, need, jealousy, or something else entirely. Whatever was going on in his mind, it was loud and thundering, yet all consumed with you.

“Not here, Drew,” you say softly. 

There’s something about the way you’re staring up at him that makes his heart race. 

“Don’t push me away,” he mutters, his voice low, almost like a growl. 

“I wasn’t-“

His hand goes to wrap around your waist, which you push off too. 

“Look, you’re doing it now-“ 

“Drew-“

He closes the distance again, bracing one arm against the bookshelf you lean on. Caging you in, his face is only a few inches apart from yours. 

“God-y’know what you’re doing to me, right?” Drew asks, his words laced with impatience. 

His gaze flickers down to your lips, then back up to the sunglasses, and in the silence that follows, the world seems to hold its breath.

You look straight ahead of you- as if afraid to look up. 

Drew knows. He knows there’s something on your mind—something you're not saying.

And you wouldn’t be pulling away from his touch.

“C’mon, y/n,” he starts, his voice softer now, almost coaxing. 

His other hand goes up, his fingertips brushing against your exposed collarbones. The way you catch your breath, a noticeable hitch in your chest, sends his mind spinning.

He likes the effect he has on you. Controlling you- holding you right on the edge between resistance and surrender.

It’s a power that excites him, the way you can’t seem to stop yourself from reacting, no matter how hard you try to keep your cool.

“What’s going on?” Drew asks, fingertips continuing the drawing against your skin. 

When you finally tilt your head up at him, a small smile spreads on his face. 

“Nothing- nothing,” you reply softly. 

He raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. 

But then you take his hand away from your collarbones, and drag them down the line of your stomach. 

Drew’s eyes follow the movement, his lips parted in curiosity as you guide his hand lower.

Just as you reach the top of your miniskirt, Drew lays his palm flat down against the fabric, feeling- or stopping, right there. 

You’re doing it again- distracting, seducing him to avoid the topic. 

But… why would he even care? 

His smirk says it all- he’s into it, and he’s not going to pull away. His thoughts slither away, now replaced with the lust building inside him. 

“You freaky bitch,”

He mutters, his tone teasing, not at all insulting. 

You chuckle lightly, as Drew’s hand drops lower, vanishing under your skirt. Your breath hitches when you feel him cupping your warmth over the underwear, his knee buckling to force your legs apart. 

He looks over his shoulder- as if expecting someone to walk by. 

No one does—just the quiet back of the library, tucked away from prying eyes.

“Babe,” he leans into you again, lips brushing your ear, “gotta keep it down, ‘kay?”

He nibbles down on the skin just below, his tongue moving in sloppy patterns. 

At the same time, the hand under your skirt yanks your underwear to the side, fingertips coming in contact with your clit. 

You bite down harshly on your lower lip, suppressing the moan that threatens to ripple out. He rubs soft circles on your pussy, playing with the wetness that pools. 

“Fuck,” he whimpers quietly, moving onto kissing the skin on your neck.

On purpose, he sucks harder on your sweet spots, and you immediately arch your back, arms wrapping around his shoulders to pull him closer. 

And then you feel it; two fingers entering you. 

“Oh god-“ you let out, your breaths becoming uneven. 

He starts moving at an agonizingly slow pace, each shift dragging your orgasm further away. 

Slightly frustrated, you lean back onto the bookshelf, eyes narrowing at Drew whose focused with dragging his lips further down your cleavage. 

But just as his mouth slips beneath the fabric, a sharp tug on his hair pulls him back.

The lazy gaze in his eyes meets yours- and behind the sunglasses, you’ve got a desperate plea in them. 

A smile creeps onto his lips as he can sense how impatient you are, and it builds to the dent in his own pants. 

“Faster,” you breathe out, almost like an order. 

Listening, he slips another digit into you, and thrusts in a much faster pace. 

It nearly knocks the wind out of you, your hands dropping back to his shoulders. Your nails dig into the muscles there, the grip instinctive, as your body tenses from the unexpected surge of sensation.

“Fuck,” you moan out, a bit louder than intended. 

Drew immediately lets out a throaty chuckle, his eyes glinting with amusement. He leans back beside your ear, ”tryna get us caught?”

You bite down on your lip again, trying to stifle the sounds that threaten to escape. 

With each push to your pussy, you could feel the tension boil up. 

The bookshelf behind trembles as well, the books rattling gently along with the muffled groans you and Drew both produce. 

Drew works hard with his digits, curling them inward to the irresistible spot he’s become familiar with, one that’s bound to send you over the edge. 

He knows he’s got it when another moan escapes you, grinning devilishly against the side of your neck. 

“You like that, baby?” he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin. 

And when you clench around him, both of you know you’re close, the pleasure in your lower stomach ready to burst out. 

“Drew,” you quietly call out, your hands moving up to thread through his hair. 

No matter how many times he’s heard you moan his name, it’ll always get him going, fueling him in ways you wouldn't expect.

And he tells you just that- how much he likes your voice, body, manners, everything- through his mouth to yours. 

His tongue fights with yours as it enters, a raw, passionate kiss that only Drew performs when he’s with you. 

It sends him into further frenzy when your hips buckle, the string in your stomach snapping. His pumps slow down as your cum coats his hand, the warmth of it not as strong as the one radiating from your lips. 

Drew’s got you whimpering, breath shaky as you struggle to keep up with his kiss.

He smiles against your lips, amused by how hard you’re trying. 

Then, he pulls away, along with the digits in you, the pop sound practically echoing through the quiet halls of the library. 

With Drew’s other hand that was caging you in, he reaches for your sunglasses, pushing them up, away from your eyes.

Shit. He could’ve easily nutted right there, staring at your ‘fucked-up’ gaze. 

It’s silent for a moment, both of you calming down, eyes locked, flickering with unspoken energy.

Aw, shit. You really have the most beautiful eyes. 

You let out a giggle between shallow breaths, one that pulls Drew’s focus back to who and where he is.

“These books are grilling my back,”

Your honest comment causes laughter to ripple through Drew, his chest vibrating against yours. 

“Ugh, poor thing,” he coos gently, his voice dripping with mock sympathy, which earns a light push on his shoulder. His smile only grows wider, "bring a pillow next time.”

The way your cheeks redden up makes it even more fun for Drew. 

“No- no, Starkey,” you stammer. 

He didn’t even realize his hand was still resting underneath your skirt until you brushed it off, quickly fixing your clothes. 

He watches as your eyes land on his soaked hand, the one that drips with your juice. It’s the same flustered and embarrassed look again- and he smiles cutely at your reaction. 

“Shit- I don’t have a tissue-“

Drew didn’t know why he did it- but he sticks it into his mouth, lips wrapping around his digits. 

Your eyes widen at the action, lips slightly parted. 

Oh- yeah, that’s why he did it, to get another reaction out of you. 

“Ew- Drew-“

“Nothing I haven’t done before,” he mumbles against his fingers, sucking gently. 

It’s sweet- a weird way to describe someone’s orgasm but to Drew, he likes the way you taste. 

He pulls it out, a thin string of saliva clinging to his fingers. He brings it closer to your face, and you instinctively cock your head away. “Drew! That’s disgusting-“

He laughs again, dropping his hand and wiping it against the bottom of his shirt. 

“Why would you do that?” you ask, giggling lightly. 

However, before Drew could respond, you take the sunglasses off, thrusting it into his chest. 

He catches it, his hand brushing against yours. 

“Here, your stupid sunglasses,” you insult, which sounds flirtier than intended. 

“They look better on you,” he replies, his tone softer now, a compliment that slips easily out of his mouth. 

Drew watches as you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, your eyes darting away. It’s either you’re flustered, or not buying it—he can’t quite tell, but the uncertainty only seems to make him more intrigued.

“I wanna get out of here,” you say instead. 

“Sure,” he immediately agrees, stepping away from the bookshelf. Assuming you’re heading back to his room, he adds, “my roommate’s out.”

“Oh,” your shoulders slump, “I’ve got class though.”

“No you don’t,” he retorts instantly, a teasing smirk tugging at his lips.

You chuckle, rolling your eyes, the gesture making it clear that, yes, it was an obvious lie.

But c’mon, give Drew some credit—casually together for more than five months, he knows everything about you, including when you’re full of it.

He wraps an arm around your shoulders, hugging you close as you two walk out the library. 

It’s always a sweet moment for Drew, blissfully unaware of the weight you carry inside, forever scarred by this so-called ‘casual’ thing.

——

Moments before 

“Y/n?”

You look up from your book, towards the source. 

It’s Mike, the first-year. The one you were assigned to give a campus tour to, and also the guy from your class.

“Hey,” you greet, a polite smile on your lips. 

There’s no doubt you’re wondering how he found you, especially since this is the library, and you're tucked away in the furthest section.

He quickly explains, “um, you mentioned yesterday you liked reading, so I just assumed…”

His words trail off awkwardly, and you nod, “I do like a quiet corner,” you reply, trying to ease the tension.

“Yeah, yeah, um, that’s cool,” he mumbles, the corner of his lips curling up, “but actually, there’s something I need to tell you.”

At that, your brow furrows slightly, a flicker of curiosity in your eyes. 

“Y’know Drew? The tall guy- with the blue eyes.”

You wonder where this is going, and your face reflects that uncertainty.

“I was at the bar with him last night,” Mike’s voice almost drops to a whisper, “um, he-he’s not the nicest dude, y/n.”

Oh?

Oh. 

This isn't the first time you've heard something like this. Drew's tendency to talk behind your back, to show a side of him that doesn't match what you see in private... it stings, but it also feels strangely familiar. 

A flash of disappointment crosses your face before you can mask it, and you quickly look away from him. 

“You wanna tell me something new?” you say, a teasing grin forming as you nudge him lightly with your elbow. 

It’s a lame attempt to keep things light, and it catches Mike off-guard. 

He blinks for a moment, “sorry, I didn’t mean to—uh, I just thought you should know." He scratches the back of his neck, "I didn’t mean to come off rude.”

“It’s okay,” you reply, with a casual shrug, “not like I’m dating him or anything.”

The words feel weird leaving your mouth, even though it’s clearly understood with Drew that it’s purely casual.

“Really? You’re single?”

Your eyes narrow as you study Mike’s facial expressions- “yeah.”

“Then, actually,” you watch the blush creep up on his face, “there’s something else I need to tell you- something new, that you don’t know.”

You stay quiet, your gaze steady as you wait for him to continue. 

His nervous fidgeting fills the brief silence before he finally blurts out, “I was wondering if… you want to go out sometime? Like, on a date?”

You can’t say you’re surprised- all this nervous energy Mike has around you has to be because of something, right?

You want to say yes, but in the back of your mind, Drew appears. 

The thought of him makes your chest tighten, the casual thing you’ve got with him flashing in your mind. It feels wrong, somehow, to be dating other people. 

But with his pleading eyes staring into yours, you couldn’t help it. 

You nod, a tight smile on your lips, “okay, sure, I would love to, Mike.”

His hand comes up in an attempt to wipe the smile off his lips, but it's no use; the grin only grows brighter. He clearly wasn’t expecting you to say yes. 

He stares into your eyes for a moment, his gaze softening, almost mesmerized. 

“Your eyes,” he says quietly, a genuine smile spreading across his face, “they’re incredible. Like, really beautiful.”

There’s a warmth in his voice, something more than just admiration, as if he’s truly captivated by the way they shine.

The sudden compliment feels almost too much, especially coming from him. You quickly mask the surprise with a soft giggle, shrugging it off as if it’s no big deal.

“Thanks,” you say, your voice light, though the warmth in your cheeks betrays you.

Just as Mike parts his lips to say something, a distraction occurs. 

“Hey, baby.”

Shit. 

The familiar voice makes your stomach drop, and you turn to see Drew standing beside you. He’s got sunglasses on, the kind he only wears when he's nursing a hangover.

“Hey you,” you force out, feeling uncomfortable with Mike standing right there, the weight of your promise hanging in the air.

You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, fidgeting on your feet. 

You hate it- hate this situation, Drew, and mostly yourself. 

Casual, casual, casual, you repeat like a mantra in your mind, trying to push the feelings aside.

But the more you repeat it, the less it feels like the truth. You can’t help but wonder where this is going—or if it’s already gone too far.

-------------------------------

word count: 4.5k

ִ ࣪𖤐 a/n: drew's pov....what do u think? is he in love? also, y they kinda have public sex kink...

anyway, another gut-wrenching chapter into the 'casual' situationship! aw god, words can't describe how much i love this 'series', and i love this song, so you'll probably see me writing a hundred parts to this.

hope you love it as much as i do <3

elevator | other | more casual!drew

everyone that wanted more (ily sm: @maybankslover @drewnationalgf @rafeyswifey @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account @amb3rsaurus @rafecamerons-national-anthem @milky321 @iraslore

[deadly-diminuendo]

A Fitting Reunion

a tailor (spawn) astarion x fem!tav reader fic | nsfw | ~13.7k words

(dividers by @saradika-graphics)

Summary: After a rather embarrassing experience at the reunion party, you have been nervous to see Astarion again. You manage to gather the courage to visit his tailoring shop for dress alterations—and to be a better friend to him. And maybe there is just a little part of you that still hopes for something more. But he couldn’t possibly want that—or could he?

Tags/CW: anxiety, piv sex, oral sex (both ways), post-game, fluff/smut/mutual pining

Read On AO3

Or read below...

Breathe. 

Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Again. Then again. And again.

You can do this.

He is your friend.

A friend you used to sleep with.

A friend you never stop thinking about.

Ever.

Hells.

You have not seen Astarion since Withers’ party. The one where you drunkenly suggested you would not mind taking a stroll together back into the woods where the two of you once used to go. You could still remember the way.

You might have phrased things a little less delicately at the time.

And of course he said no.

“Darling, flattered as I am, I think it’s best we get you to bed. Your own bed, to be clear.”

A more gentle rejection from him than you perhaps deserved. What must he have thought of you? Coming on to him like that when you knew a night of passion was probably the last thing on his mind? You are supposed to care about him, not treat him like a piece of meat.

Not that you ever thought of him that way—but still you worry how it seems.

Fuzzy though the details are, you remember enough to know Astarion was the one to ensure your safe journey home that night. The one to step through the portal with you, to help you up the stairs, to tuck you under the covers. And how did you repay him?

You made yourself a stranger.

You should have gone to see him sooner. Apologized. Been a real friend.

Granted the party happened only a month ago. A month is not too long a wait, is it? People live busy lives. Some of your friends you only see a few times a year.

Or maybe it has not been long enough. Maybe you are making too big a deal of this, and you will only be making an even greater fool of yourself by doing this now.

The garment bag draped over your arms feels heavier and heavier. Maybe a purely social call would have been a wiser choice than this transactional one. On the other hand, you do want to show your support for his new business venture. Any friend would do that, right?

Breathe, you remind yourself. Just breathe.

You repeat your exercises as you try to calm your rapid heartrate. A near impossible task knowing he will be able to hear it the second you walk through that door. Gods, your heart is hammering so hard that you worry he might already hear it through the walls. Curse his vampiric senses.

You can still turn back around. Come back another time. When you are ready.

Who are you kidding?

You will never be ready.

But, if the choice is between now or never—between the shame of showing your face or the pain of never seeing his again—you know what you have to do.

Swallowing your pride, you manage to free a hand enough to turn the handle, lean against the door, and push.

The bell rings.

Its shrill announcement of your arrival sends you spiralling. You think of running. Hiding. Just dropping to the ground and crying.

But there will be no escape because the second you hear that achingly familiar voice sing out the word, “Coming,” your feet are frozen to the floor.

Then comes the inevitable moment, when you see him and he sees you, and you look away, and you look back, and you try not to avert your gaze, and you try not to stare, and gods help you through this for his beauty stuns you still.

He briefly mirrors your silent stupor before you see the crinkle of his eyes and the crook of his charming smile. “Hello, darling.”

Frantically you ask yourself what this means. You sift through every detail you know about the man before you as you try to deduce the thoughts running through his mind. Whether he is truly happy to see you or if he only pretends to be. Whether this is his real face or once more the mask.

You have imagined this scene a million times, practiced every possible variation of it in your head, but when you try to think what to say your mind runs blank. You settle for a few words that are simple and true. “It is good to see you, Astarion.”

“And same to you, my friend,” he says, and you manage a small smile. Are you really worthy of being called his friend after all this time apart? Is an honest-to-goodness friendship even possible between the two of you?

You do not speak so he continues. “And might I add that you are looking more delicious than ever.”

Oh. He is flirting with you. Falling back on old habits, perhaps. Or maybe he seeks to lighten the mood, to ease you into a conversation that clearly makes you feel awkward. Nothing more. Still your heart flutters as it always used to back in those early days. 

Back when you were foolish enough to believe he might be your forever.

“I was hoping you could help me,” you tell him, trying to get yourself back on track. “I have a gown that needs alterations. I take it you have heard about the upcoming Ravengard ball?”

“Oh, yes,” he says, reaching out to take the garment bag from you, and though you are glad to be free of its weight, you are not quite sure what to do with your hands. “I have been invited myself, but honestly, I expect the whole affair to be dreadfully boring. I suppose I could always introduce a little chaos into the mix myself, but…” He shrugs. “I’ll likely just skip it.”

“You’re not going? Not even for Wyll?”

Not even for me? That third question burns in your mind but you dare not ask it.

“We were not exactly the best of friends if you’ll recall.”

That is true. You remember many a tense exchange between them—Wyll needlessly cruel at times, Astarion spitting back with an understandable but equally vicious venom—no real surprise that the unlikely alliance between a monster hunter and a vampire spawn would also be an uneasy one.

The fact that you once shared a dance with the Blade did nothing to help matters. The tenderness in his touch and the awe in his eyes told you he wanted something beyond friendship. A true love, a happily ever after, a tale straight out of the pages of a storybook—tempted though you were, you could not envision that future with Wyll. Not while you were still spending your nights tangled up with Astarion.

Even knowing now how it all turned out you would not have chosen differently.

You consider encouraging him to attend, expressing how much you would appreciate having his company there, but you let the moment pass as you follow him deeper into the shop. “It seems you have done quite well for yourself,” you comment—your words still feel more stilted than you would like, and your gaze meanders about the shop rather than meeting his—but at least you are here.

And he really has done well for himself, you think. The front of house proudly displays a tasteful array of apparel—a combination of carefully curated selections from local clothesmakers and his own elegant and inventive fashions. Perhaps you should have commissioned him to design your dress in the first place.

“I have, haven’t I?” He lets out a little hmph as he considers it. “I thought this life might be a little, uh… pedestrian, for my tastes, but… to my surprise, I like it. It suits me rather well.”

“I agree,” you say with a genuine smile as he stops you in front of a series of curtains—the dressing rooms, you assume. Sure enough he pushes one open and gestures you inside, hanging the garment bag on a hook.

“Well, darling, let’s get you out of those clothes and into that dress, hm?” Your breath hitches. You almost let your imagination run away with you, but of course he gives you your privacy. “I’ll be here whenever you’re ready.”

You peel off each layer one by one, trying not to think about the fact that your former lover is on the other side of this curtain, trying not to remember the slow and sensual ways he used to strip you bare.

But you do think about it. You do remember.

You are just friends now, you remind yourself. No more. And no less, you hope. To be without him all this time has left a hollow in your heart. You want to fill its empty spaces with his presence. You want him to be part of your life again.

So why does being here only make your heart ache harder?

And why are you still so godsdamned nervous?

You sigh and slip into your gown, admiring its A-line silhouette and its delightful shade of purple. Not quite the right fit, but that is why you are here after all. Astarion can surely fix that for you. He does work wonders with his hands.

Hands that you now realize will have to lace up the back of your dress because there is no way you’ll be able to accomplish that by yourself.

Hugging the loose garment tight against your chest, you call for help. “Astarion?”

“Yes, dear? Don’t tell me you’ve managed to fall into peril right here in my dressing room. You do seem to have a knack for finding trouble wherever you go.”

“Just… come in, please.”

He pushes through the curtain and you are instantly and acutely aware of just how snug this little space is.

“Ah, you need to be tied up, I see.”

Of course he would choose to phrase it like that. Now you are thoroughly convinced he is thoroughly enjoying your embarrassment. He always did like to make you squirm. In more ways than one, the Astarion in your head adds. Ugh. You feel a fleeting sense of relief as you spin around, but the mirror betrays you, putting your mortified expression on full display while the look on his face remains a mystery to you. The chuckle you then hear at least helps you picture his smirk.

He takes his time with you. Like he always did. Words he once said echo in your mind. A treat like you deserves to be savoured. Does it tempt him still to be so close to you? To sense your blood pumping through your veins? To see your neck so deliciously exposed? You ponder and you reminisce and you catch yourself tilting your head to one side.

It seems the tempted one is you.

You wonder if he noticed. He may be ‘tying you up’ as he so eloquently put it, but you feel more like he is undressing you. Like he is uncovering you bit by bit, inch by inch, piece by piece. Like he could reach into your mind and read your most intimate thoughts even though the tadpoles are long gone.

“There we are,” you finally hear him say, snapping you back to reality. You pause in front of the mirror together and you wonder what it isn’t telling you. What he thinks when he looks upon you. 

“A fine choice, my dear,” he says as you both step out of the dressing room. “Much better than those hideous rags and that horrid armour you wore on the road.”

You roll your eyes at him. “That horrid armour kept me alive. Forgive me for picking function over fashion.”

“Oh, come now, fashion need not be sacrificed. Yours truly had both, thank you very much.” He gives you a playful bow.

You snicker—and then a full-fledged grin spreads across your face. To have this bit of banter with him again feels right. A bit of good-natured ribbing is something you can handle. What you do not know quite how to handle is—

“Luckily for you that smile more than made up for your questionable wardrobe.”

And just like that you no longer know what to say.

Astarion guides you over to a fitting platform, circling you as he sizes up what needs to be done. And though you know this is all about your dress and not you, you begin to fidget under his intense scrutiny.

“Much too long, obviously,” he remarks. “Typical. It should be taken in at the waist, too. We must do justice to that pretty figure of yours after all.”

Another flirtatious comment from him, another internal panic for you. You are not given much time to ruminate on this one though before he asks you a question that catches you off guard.

“Did you bring your shoes?”

“My shoes…?”

“Shoes, darling,” he says, elongating the rounded vowel as he repeats the word. “You have heard of the concept, surely. They come in pairs? You wear them on your feet?”

“I know what shoes are,” you insist, glancing towards the open dressing room where your trusty boots remain on the floor.

He follows your line of sight, and you nearly laugh when you look back to witness his eyebrows raise in horror then furrow again in exasperation. “Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no. You will not be wearing those ghastly things to a ball.”

“They’re comfortable, and no one will be able to see them,” you say with a shrug and a smile, and this time you do laugh at the indignant noise he makes in response. Really, you did plan on wearing something more suitable—but you are enjoying this little opportunity to vex him.

“Absolutely not. As an upstanding citizen of this fine metropolis, I cannot stand idly by while you commit this outrageous crime against fashion.”

“Upstanding citizen, huh?”

“Of course,” he says with that mischievous smile of his. “I’m hardly the ‘help every poor unfortunate soul in sight’ type—that, my dear, is unique to you and you alone—but perhaps a smidgen of your do-gooder nature has rubbed off on me. Now,” he continues, returning to the matter at hand, “let me find you some decent shoes. We’ll need them to measure the length.”

Ah, that makes sense. You pout and you nod, playing your little game, but you do look forward to a new pair of shoes. Your adventures did leave your boots well-worn, not to mention covered with so much gore and grime that not even repeated scrubbings could remove all the stains. Your boots really did see everything.

He disappears into another part of the shop then reappears with a few options in hand—a selection of flats and modest heels you can actually picture yourself walking in—all simple but elegant. He knows just what you like.

“Sit and try these on,” he says, extending a hand out to you—an offer to help you down from the platform you presume—and you take it.

His touch is pure electric shock. Or maybe it is only the chill of undeath that leaves you shivering. And then you think on it, that pleasing tingle, the texture of his skin, the way his long, slender fingers interlock perfectly with yours, and your heart is fluttering, and he lets go all too soon, and you are lost. Empty. Incomplete.

And right now you are not ready to consider what that means.

You push your confusion out of your mind as you take a seat on the edge of the platform, refocusing on the task at hand. You pick out a pair of off-white kitten heels and try them on, and you find yourself pleasantly surprised by how comfortable they feel. To be sure, you take a few steps, you test other pairs, you return to the first—yes, these will do.

“Satisfied?” Astarion asks, and you nod. “Good. Back up you go, darling.”

You step onto the fitting stand once more—without assistance this time, which is somehow both a relief and a disappointment. Astarion sets about his work, pulling pins out of the small cushion tied to his wrist and pushing them through the hem, all while you stare into space and contemplate whether or not you should say anything.

You should say something, you decide. You did manage to catch up with him a little at the party last month before your drink got the better of you, but you are doing a poor job of it now. You’ve barely even talked. Not really. How can you call yourself his friend if you cannot even gather the courage to speak to him?

“How are you?” you blurt out. Those few trite words do little to express how much you truly care for his well-being, how every day you wonder if he is fed, if he is safe, if he is happy. Quickly you add, “With the whole ‘vampire tailor’ thing, I mean. No monster hunters at your door, I hope?”

His nature clearly isn’t a secret. The many mirrors give him away if nothing else.

“Not a one,” Astarion says, glancing up at you from where he kneels. “I am, after all, one of the great heroes of Baldur’s Gate. The fact that I also happen to be a vampire spawn is not so much a threat, but an… eccentricity. And a bit of eccentricity is right at home in this city.”

“I’m glad no one is giving you any trouble,” you say. Another question needles your mind, one you are almost afraid to know the answer to, but you ask it anyway. “And… are you feeding well?”

“I have my sources.” Oh. Good. That is good. Yes. Definitely. Not like it matters who or how. Not like the mere thought of him sinking his teeth into someone else crushes you. Not like the scene plays out in your mind no matter how much you don’t want it to. Your eyes shut. Your stomach twists. Your heart sinks.

“None quite like you,” he adds, and beneath that sultriness he so likes to tease you with, you detect a softness there. Or maybe it is only a trick of the imagination. A pretty lie you tell yourself.

And yet, when your eyes flicker open, all you can see is his boring back into yours, staring, seeking, searching.

Breathe. You must breathe.

And then the moment is gone, and he shifts out of your sight, concentrating his efforts on the back of your dress.

The minutes pass in screaming silence.

You wish he would fill your ears with little jokes, or idle chatter, or something, anything to save your mind from spiralling. Anything to save you from you.

You regret all you have done wrong and all you have failed to do right. And yet, you want, and you yearn, and you hope.

“It really has only ever been you, you know.”

His words shock you back to your senses and suddenly he is standing on the platform with you, mere inches away.

“Oh,” you say. Gods, what else can you say?

All is quiet between you. He fusses with your straps, and the fabric of your bodice, pins everything into its proper place. A hand lingers at your waist.

“You once told me that the world can be a kind place. That has been truer than I expected. But no one has been more good to me—and good for me—than you.”

What?

No. Whatever you think this is, you are wrong.

“I’m not so sure about that,” you protest, your heart pounding. “That night at the party… I wasn’t thinking, I… I know it wasn’t what you… I’m so sor—”

He stops you, shushing you softly. “Oh, no, no, love, you will not apologize for that. A little drunken fancy is nothing to be ashamed of. You were nothing but sweet. And it was sweet of you to worry. Unnecessary, but sweet.”

Your head is spinning. You were far from a good friend that night. You did him wrong. You were so sure.

But he does not seem offended in the least.

Quite the opposite, really.

“Although,” he says, and you hear the mischief in his voice as he leans in to speak into your ear. “I am rather curious about those pretty words you said when…”

The bell rings.

The two of you startle and separate.

“Oh, Astarion, dear?” a voice calls out, singsong yet sharp.

The scowl that then sullies his features tells you all you need to know. He curses under his breath before singing out an answer. “Just a moment, Lady Furrington. I am finishing up with another client.”

Astarion is all business now as he checks over his handiwork, and as he ushers you to the dressing rooms, and you cannot help but to mourn what could have been had no one else stepped foot through that door. You wonder what he would have done. What he would have said. What might have sparked between you.

You will lie awake tonight wondering and wondering and wondering.

You pause together just outside the dressing room, and he says, “My apologies for the abrupt finish, darling. Her requests are endless, but her coin purse is bottomless. Enough so that an extra charge here and there goes unnoticed.”

“You have to do what you have to do,” you say with a shrug. You take a step into the change room, and to your surprise, he follows you inside. You shoot him a quizzical look.

“The laces?”

“Uh, yes. Right. Thank you.”

He reaches around you as he begins to pull them loose. He is close. Impossibly, maddeningly, enticingly close. His gaze falls to your lips and, gods, you can almost taste his.

“Astarion?” cries out that same shrill voice.

He steps back. Another moment lost forever.

“Come back tomorrow night?” he asks.

Sooner than you thought, but you do not question it. You simply say, “Yes.”

You leave. You start your trek home. And, as you walk, an inkling of something forgotten—something you wanted to forget—itches within your brain. What was it he mentioned about that night? Something about ‘those pretty words’ words you said?

You think, and you think, and you think, delving deep into your fragmented memories, searching for the missing pieces you need to complete the puzzle.

You stop in your tracks.

You remember.

That night, as he put you to bed, at the height of your foolishness, you told him the most mortifying thing you could have told him.

But in wine there is truth.

You felt it. You said it. You meant it.

You love him.

It was the right choice. The right choice. The right choice.

How many nights have you lain awake, desperate to believe in the truth of those words? You thought one day they would sink in and soothe you. Instead their endless echoing always felt more like a pulsing headache.

Funny that, last night, the very opposite thought is what kept you awake.

What if, all this time, you were wrong?

You were so sure back then that friendship was the right choice. A hard choice, but the right choice. Never had anyone given him anything without the expectation for more. You could be that person, right? You should be that person. You wanted to be that person. A friend was what he needed. What he deserved. That superceded any silly notions of romance you had in your head.

Your offer of friendship meant everything to him, or so it seemed. Not a friend in the world until you, he said. His sincerity and his soft words melted your heart, and when he took your hand in his, and gazed into your eyes, you knew you were hopelessly in love with him.

You fought it. You denied it. You cried and cried and cried over it.

Still your feelings stayed the same. And so you did the only thing you could do. You resolved to keep your secret hidden under lock and key.

As if anything in this world under lock and key is safe from the likes of Astarion.

You love him. You have always loved him. You still love him.

And it seems he knows it, too.

And maybe, just maybe, there exists the teeniest tiniest trace of a possibility that he might be interested in you?

No, no, no. Surely you are mistaken.

He thought about kissing you, though, didn’t he? You saw him glance at your lips, right? Or did you?

No, no, no. A figment of your wild and wishful imagination, nothing more.

He would never want you.

Still you primp and you preen before the mirror like you are prepping for a date, not a dress fitting. Still you want to impress him, enamour him, pretend you stood a chance with him. Still you wonder and you worry that, maybe, improbable as it seems, you did once stand a chance with him, denied him and deprived him, denied and deprived yourself.

“You deserve something real. I want us to be something real.”

Those words of his still echo in your memories. You thought, then, that friendship was the realest thing you could ever hope to share. But, if you let yourself try, you could have been something more, couldn’t’ve you?

Maybe he did want you, could want you, does want you.

And if he does…

No. Do not let yourself go there. Do not get your hopes up. Never get your hopes up.

You take a moment to breathe, pull yourself from the mirror and leave through the front door. You will go to this appointment and you will be normal and you will be sane and you will be the friend you promised him you would be, not some gawking idiot full of foolish desires.

Twenty minutes is what it takes to walk from your place to his. Twenty minutes of exercise? A good thing, of course. Twenty minutes of cycling through these same tired thoughts ad nauseum? A not-so-good thing. That will not help you through this.

Maybe it won’t make much of a difference. After all you are quite capable of sending yourself into a frenzy in a mere twenty seconds let alone twenty minutes.

When you finally arrive at his door your head is still swimming.

Breathe. Just breathe.

You did it yesterday. You can do it again today.

The bell rings.

The silence that follows is enough to deafen you.

Well, it would seem you underestimated yourself before. You thought it would take twenty seconds to achieve total panic? More like five.

Astarion appears in the blink of an eye, all elven grace and vampiric mystique, emerging from what feels like out of nowhere but in reality must have been somewhere back of shop.

He is somehow even more gorgeous today, if that is even possible. His hair, perfectly coiffed; his vest, exquisitely embroidered; his whole ensemble, impeccably tailored to emphasize his broad shoulders and slender waist. His sleeves are rolled up, and his shirt is a little more open than it perhaps needs to be at the chest, and gods, are you blushing?

You are here for a reason, and that reason is not to ogle him, tempting though it might be.

“Darling!” he says, greeting you with that brilliant smile you so adore. “I’m glad it is you, and not a certain patriar that so rudely interrupted us yesterday. There is only so much of that particular displeasure I can endure. My patience is thin enough as it is.”

“And yet you have managed to endure,” you remark, laughing a little at the thought of him attempting to navigate customer service. “The coin is that good, huh?”

“Oh, it is. Satisfying as it might be to deny my services to the worst offenders, a few of these annoying but harmless ones must be tolerated. Bad for business otherwise. Today, though, I made a point of keeping my schedule clear of all other distractions. My only priority now is you.”

You. The way he purrs out that one little word sends a thrill throughout your body.

But you must not read into that. You must temper yourself.

Be normal. Be sane. Be his friend.

“Alas, your gown is not quite done yet, though. I was just finishing up the hem when I heard you come in. It won’t take long. Follow me into the back, if you will?”

“Oh, uh, of course,” you say. You had expected more or less a repeat of the previous day—trying on the dress, making sure it fits correctly, changing back into your regular clothes, returning home. A nice, predictable order of events.

You like predictable. You like all its safeties and comforts. You like how it acts as a balm to all your anxieties. If you can predict, then you can prepare.

Unpredictable, though. Unpredictable is unnerving. Downright terrifying, even. And yet it is rife with possibilities.

The best things in your life have come from unpredictable. The greatest adventure you’ve ever had. The happiest memories.

The man you love more than anything.

Even if what passion you shared was fleeting. Even if this platonic connection is all that remains. Even if that glimmer of hope you cannot quite quash, no matter how unwise you think it, crushes you one day. You will still tend to and treasure your bond in any and every way you can.

So you take a deep breath and you follow him.

Astarion leads you into a room just big enough to double as a work area and a storage space. Rolls of fabric, diverse in colour, pattern and texture, fill the shelves lining the walls. What you notice most, though, are the in-progress projects draped over the mannequins. You would love to watch him at work. You suppose you will get one little taste of that now.

You also spot the base of a staircase in one corner, and that sparks an even greater curiosity within you. This lower floor is his business, but that upper floor is his home. A place entirely his own, and you hope he has filled it with anything and everything that makes him feel safe and happy and free. Maybe he will invite you up those stairs someday—you are friends after all—but for now you both seat yourselves across from each other at his work table.

“A good thing you came to me for this, darling,” he says, and you try not to stare as he licks the tip of his thread and pulls it through the eye of his needle with ease, “—else you would have been out of luck. Wait times are usually much longer than this.”

That is true, and you know you should have planned for this better. The ball is only a tenday away. “Oh, I’m sorry for the rush, you didn’t need to—”

“Hush, hush, my sweet,” he says, a gentle chiding that reminds you of yesterday. “It was not a bother. Not in the least. Although…” He pauses and smirks. “You haven’t paid me yet.”

Aghast, your mouth drops open, but he stops you before you can blurt out your hundred apologies.

“Now, I know that one so honest as you would never make such a mistake on purpose. Our time was cut short after all. Then again, not all of our gold was acquired by honest means, was it?”

“Thanks to your thievery,” you remind him. “Gods, you practically cleaned out the whole Counting House.”

“And yet I don’t recall you objecting. True that I picked many locks during our adventures, and why was that I wonder?” He makes a show of his hums and his haws and then one final aha. “Oh yes, that’s right. Because you asked me to.”

“Our mission was important,” you insist. “We needed gold, intel, resources… We did what was necessary to succeed. To survive.”

“Oh? Tell yourself that if you must, darling, but I think you just liked to watch my hands.”

That comment instantly warms your cheeks—and the realization that you actually have been watching his hands as he starts to sew absolutely scorches them. When you glance up to his face, you find him grinning at you.

And just like that you’re grinning too. You are embarrassed, yes, but you must admit there is something especially endearing about seeing Astarion like this—the skill, the passion, the care he puts into his work, the way his smile softens as he settles back into his state of calm and contented concentration—he looks happy.

It makes you happy. It makes you calm—or at least as calm as you can be under these circumstances. It makes you love him even more.

“You’re not exactly subtle, you know,” he says, shifting back in his chair, pulling the garment from the table and into his lap, pulling farther away from you. Have you been staring too much? Has he taken offense? Does he no longer want you here?

He pauses, and gives you a pensive look, and you look back, lost as to what to do or say or think. Maybe you should go. Give him some space. But, he invited you in, didn’t he? Said it wouldn’t take long? You can’t just leave.

And you don’t want to leave. You hope that he doesn’t want you to leave either.

He breaks the silence with a chuckle, resuming his stitching like nothing has changed. “You never were. Not that I mind, though. If you want to watch a master at work, then who am I to deny you?”

“I can hardly see what you are doing now, though.” You try to keep your words matter-of-fact. Try not to show just how unsure and insecure you are in this moment. In too many of your shared moments.

“A shame. I’m afraid you will have to settle for admiring the stitchwork when it’s done. And it will be well-worth the admiration, I assure you.”

You try to read him. He gives nothing away, offering up no more than a little smirk as you study him. He was always better at reading you than you were reading him.

You want to know. You need to know.

“I will,” you say, and that need to know brings out a boldness in you that was not there before, and though your inner voice scolds you and screams at you, you add, “though I would rather admire you.”

His eyes briefly flicker to yours, then back to the dress. You swallow hard.

“Then, by all means, bask in my presence and shower me with your praises.”

Good. No scrunching up his nose, no recoiling in disgust, no sign you went too far. But neither did he give you any indication that his feelings mirror yours.

Not that you truly expected that, of course.

Still you continue to examine him closely. He seems relaxed, focused, comfortable. There is a hint of fang to his smile and a gleam to his eye, and when he next glances at you, he raises an eyebrow.

Wait, does he actually want you to praise him? Should you? What can you even say? Oh, Astarion, you are clever, and funny, and talented, and gorgeous, and I am completely, absolutely, madly in love with you?

The greater your panic, the greater his amusement, until he can no longer resist clicking his tongue at you. “So shy now, darling. And yet you were not the least bit shy for me the last time I had you on your back.”

Oh. Whatever you expected, it wasn’t that.

Your wide-eyed, open-mouthed, heart-thumping shock earns a hearty laugh from him.

“Gods, you’re so adorable.”

Words fail you, and so you let out a giggle, its pitch too sharp, its volume too loud, its presence awkward, your presence awkward.

“It’s a good thing, my love,” he says softly, sincerely. “Trust me on that.”

My love. You zero in on those two words, and though your head tells you to dismiss them, your heart tells you to keep them and to cherish them.

And you are growing quite the little collection of words to thrill and fill you. Adorable, on your back, tied up, pretty figure, looking delicious, that smile, nothing but sweet, good to me, good for me. My love. You have not forgotten a single thing he said.

But you know it would be foolish to treat every flirtatious remark and sweet nothing as a romantic overture.

Even if you want to. And, oh, how you want to.

You seek distraction now, glancing at the table in front of you. It is a rather cluttered space, various tools of the trade scattered about—spools of thread, scraps of fabric, scissors and needles and pins—but what catches your eye most is a messy little pile of papers. Sketches.

“Are those your designs?” you ask, nodding towards the stack, leaning a little closer—just enough to imply a second question: “May I see them?”

“Yes,” he answers, and though he rolls his eyes, he smiles. “Go on, then. Take a look.”

Carefully you gather up the pages and begin your perusal. His sketches immediately impress. Astarion, the artist—you had never pictured it—but perhaps it should come as no surprise that a man with a skilled hand and a keen eye would take so well to pencil and paper. The time, the effort, and the creativity he poured into these—into every aspect of his work—is clear, and you are glad to see this side of him.

One by one, you look through the sketches, giving thoughtful attention to each and every one before moving on to the next. Some are still in their early stages, little more than rough outlines, while others are fully realized with intricate detail and vivid colour. The designs range from the everyday to the formal, from the simple to the elaborate, from the masculine to the feminine, and everything in between. A little something for everyone.

It eases you, this repetitive motion, this comforting quiet, this sweet glimpse into the life of the one you love.

Until you see it. Until your fingers tighten against the paper. Until you freeze.

Not because of the clothing, but because of the model. The shape of her figure. The shade of her skin. The style of her hair. The familiarity of her face.

It’s you.

He drew you. Like you are his muse. Like he could not help but to think of you. Like he is as in love with you as you are with him.

No, you try to tell yourself, this must be some coincidence. And even if it isn’t a coincidence—and really you should just admit to yourself that this cannot be a coincidence—it cannot mean what you want it to mean, right?

Maybe it is just because you are his friend. A real person he can easily visualize in his mind’s eye. Yes, that must be all this is. Yes, of course.

You quickly flip through the remaining pages. There is no Karlach, no Gale, no Shadowheart, no Wyll, no Lae’zel, no Halsin, no Jaheira, no Minsc—not that any of them got to know Astarion as well as you did, though. All you find are faceless figures, generic and unremarkable. Until, oh, there you are again. Oh, and once more. And again. And, by the gods, again.

“Did something catch your eye, darling?” Astarion asks, lips curled into a smirk, looking and sounding every bit like the cat that got the cream.

You pull that first sketch of you out of the pile and set the rest down, holding it in the air for him to see. “Is this me?”

“Ah, come to think of it, I did have you in mind when dreaming up that particular outfit, yes.” He shrugs, and the nonchalance of it all vexes you.

“And not only this one?”

“Not only that one, no. I do think of you often, you know.”

No. You don’t know. But maybe you are beginning to know. Beginning to let hope blossom in your heart, brave and beautiful and boundless.

He pauses his work, stares at you a moment, meets you eye to eye—and, gods, you feel like you are connecting heart to heart. Soul to soul. He speaks again, eventually, shifting back to a less serious, light-hearted tone. A retreat into his own comfort zone.

“What more can I say? I like to imagine you in my clothes, darling.”

And out of them, you can almost hear him say. Honestly you could go for a little body to body as well, but you know not to push him. Hells, you are not even a couple.

You never will be, says a different voice. An unwelcome voice. Your own voice, ever cruel and destructive. But maybe that voice of yours is wrong. Maybe it isn’t never. Maybe it is just not right now.

And you can live with not right now.

“Actually,” Astarion continues, “I’m not sure imagination is enough anymore.”

You blink at him.

“I’ve always thought working with a live model could spice things up a little. Someone to be my canvas, so to speak. Perhaps you might be willing to step into that role sometime? I rather like having you around.”

He wants you here more often. Does not mind being up close and personal with you. Wants to be up close and personal with you.

The very notion of it makes you giddy with an excitement you are no longer able to contain, and so when you open your mouth, what slips out is, “I like you, too.” Gods, what are you saying? “Like being around you, too.”

Embarrassing, yes, but you decide that grin upon his face and that laughter rippling out of him are worth it.

“If it is what you want, then I will be here.”

“It is what I want,” he says, and there is a conviction to it that sets your heart fluttering. You watch as he reaches for a pair of scissors. “Well, darling. It’s settled then. And I am pleased to tell you your dress”—a pause, a snip—“is complete.”

Oh. You were starting to wish this would take the whole night.

He sets down the scissors, the needle, and what remains of the thread upon the table, standing as he smooths out the gown—and that is when you realize it. That thread. It is thick and gold, not fine and colour-matched like you would have expected. Granted, you are not the expert here, but it is a curious choice—and a choice that makes you curious.

But, before your mind can wander too far down that path, Astarion’s voice startles you back to the present.

“Well, darling? You do realize you will have to try it on again?”

“Yes, of course,” you say, your chair screeching backwards as you push yourself out of it. “And thank you. For everything.”

“It is my job, after all,” he says, slathering his words with a thick coat of exasperation, but even he cannot hide the pride underlying them. “And for you? It is my pleasure.”

Always the flirt. But, for the first time in a long time, you allow yourself to believe there might be more to it than a little teasing or empty flattery.

And, small and insignificant as it seems, you are still wondering about that thread.

He leads you out of the back room and over to the dressing rooms, back to that same snug space you shared with him yesterday, pushing the curtain to one side and hanging up your gown. You step inside and pull the curtain closed.

You undress, and you think, and something he told you tickles your brain. Something about the stitchwork. “It will be well-worth the admiration, I assure you.”

Hmm. Maybe you should take the time to admire it.

You lift the hem and examine its inner edge, following that neat, flawless line in its circle, not a single speck of gold to be seen—

Until you find it. A hidden message, simple in design, yet elegant in execution. Four words. Four earth-shattering, heart-warming, life-changing words.

I love you too

You want to laugh and you want to cry and you want to sing. You want to wrap your arms around him and squish him and squeeze him until he can take no more. You want to tell him how much you love him, tell him a thousand times, then a thousand more, and gods, you want to hear him say it.

But to embroider those words so lovingly into the fabric is the sweetest confession he could have made to you.

You love him even more for it.

You can hardly wait to tell him—properly this time, not uttered out on some drunken late night like before—but, for now, you slip into your dress, and step into your shoes, trying hard to suppress the squeals begging to burst out of you.

He loves you. You spent so much time—too much time—convincing yourself that such a thing was impossible. But he loves you.

You exit that little room, and you see him, and you know it would only take seconds to close the gap between you and hug him and never let go. But, your dress is hanging open in the back, and you’re shaking, and you don’t want to ambush him with your touch if he is not yet ready for that.

The moment will come.

Or maybe it is time to take control of this. You will find that moment, and if you don’t, then you will create it, and then when you do, you will make it count.

Automatically he walks towards you, steps behind you, laces up your bodice, so close yet not close enough. You wish you could touch him, and the next thing you know, he is offering you his hand, and so you take it, and you squeeze it.

And he squeezes yours back.

He guides you onto the fitting stand. You catch a brief glimpse of yourself in the surrounding mirrors—the perfect fit of your gown, the way your smile shines—but the only thing you want to look at is Astarion.

He completes a single revolution around you, and when he stops in front of you, and you beam down at him, he stares back in admiration, in adoration, in awe. Like you are the sun itself. Like you are the centre of his whole world.

How could you not have known?

“You love me?”

His eyes grow wide as those words fall out of you. It’s all surprise, at first. But then it is openness. Vulnerability. “Ah. So you saw it already, then?”

“Yes,” you murmur, afraid to make a wrong move lest you wake up from this dream before you hear those words you want to hear more than anything. “You love me?”

Silence. You panic, and you retreat, pulling back, looking away. “Not that you need to say it out loud, of course. Not if you don’t want t—”

“I love you.”

Your eyes snap back to his. You watch him draw nearer and nearer, and you feel his hands find their place at your hips, and you breathe in that nostalgic scent of bergamot and brandy.

“I love you,” he says again, and you are so happy you could cry.

You throw your arms around him, pulling him into a hug that feels like home. You needed this. You needed him. And, when his arms wrap back around you, you know that he needed you, too. Here, both of you are snug, and you are safe, and you are loved.

And though you know he must know it by now—that he must see it in your eyes and feel it in your embrace—you say it anyway. “I love you, too.”

You both pull back, but only a little, just enough to smile at each other.

“This time on my own,” he begins, “it has given me the chance to think about what I truly want. All of this,” he says, gesturing around the shop, “I may not have expected to end up in a life this domestic, but… I’m happy. Mostly happy, anyway.”

He pauses, and you tilt your head, waiting, wondering, hoping.

“I want more. I want a partner. And who better than the woman who stood by my side through everything? Who always treated me with kindness and understanding? Who I just so happen to utterly adore? I want you.”

Tears well in your eyes, and you are smiling so hard it hurts, but you are sure this is the happiest moment of your life. “Then I am yours.”

And then he cups your face in his hands and kisses you.

You melt into him, into his softness and his sensuality, into the comfort of his embrace and the heat of his touch. This is perfect. This is right. This is where you belong. You pour all of your affection into every press of your lips, willing him to feel your devotion, your desire, your love down to his very core. But, when you part your lips to meet his tongue, he breaks away.

You fear something will break inside you—but his reassuring grin steadies you.

“Just a quick moment, darling,” he says. “There is but one little thing I need to do.”

Astarion steps off the platform and heads towards the front of the shop. At first you are confused. And then you understand.

The bell rings.

The ‘open’ sign is flipped to ‘closed.’

The lock clicks in place.

And, tonight, the bell will ring no more.

Astarion locks the door and locks eyes with you.

You remember the day you met him as if it were yesterday. Little more than a beautiful stranger to you, back then, all elegance and ice. Even as your lover he felt unreachable, with you by midnight and gone by morning, no more real than a dream.

But now, as you gaze upon him, he is warmth, and he is sweetness, and he is truly, honestly himself. Mask off for you and only you.

Unbelievable, really, how far the two of you have come. And yet, with your whole heart, you believe it.

The man before you is your best friend. Your love. Your partner.

And tonight, together, you will take your first steps towards a life intertwined. Whatever that looks like.

And, gods, what does that look like? What comes next? Will he invite you into his arms? Into his home?

Into his bed?

The mere thought of it, you all wrapped up in him, sets your mind racing and your heartrate rising. There is a familiar hunger to his pretty eyes as he draws near, and you wonder if that rapid rhythm in your chest is still, to him, the irresistible siren song it once used to be. If he longs to taste your blood, your lips, your—

Oh, but you should not get too far ahead of yourself. He might not yet want what you so evidently crave. You must not forget that.

You can be patient. You will be patient. You will give him as much time as he needs.

Not that Astarion is making this easy for you. Certainly not with the way he grins his roguish grin, nor the way he wiggles his fingers as he reaches a hand to you, coaxing you down from the platform.

Maybe patience is not so necessary after all.

But surely there are important conversations to be had, which you very much want to have, and surely a night of sweet kisses and cuddles would be a good place to start, the perfect place to start, even, no matter how much you want to—

Oh. A hard pull, an audible gasp, and you are flush against Astarion. His intense stare is holding you in place just as much as his hands on your hips are.

“What’s that look for, my dear?”

“What look?”

“That mind-going-a-hundred-miles-a-minute look. We’re not overthinking now, are we?”

“No.” It's a weak attempt at denial, and you know it. “All right, maybe a little.”

“A little, she says? Just a little? Well, even if that were true, I’m afraid even a little is simply unacceptable, sweet love. Not when I’ve got you like this. Whatever shall I do with the likes of you?”

His hands shift upwards, every bit eager as they sweep along the curve of your waist, every bit assured as they cup your face. In his eyes you see your whole world spinning, and your mind continues its endless spinning along with it.

“Well, darling. I suppose then I’ll just have to kiss”—a brush of his lips—“you”—so plush and perfect against yours—“senseless.”

There is an urgency to the way he kisses you now, to how his tongue tastes and his teeth tease, and it makes you drunk with desire you have too long denied. You match his every insistent press against your lips, the need blooming between you escalating into a feverish frenzy. Your mind is indeed rendered senseless—but your body is awash with sensation.

His mouth leaves yours, leaves you breathless and boneless, but still wanting more. And more is exactly what he gives you as he kisses a trail along your jaw. To your neck, perhaps? No, to your ear, and you giggle when he nibbles at your lobe.

He whispers, "Come upstairs with me?"

As if there were any chance you would say no to him now. "Yes."

And yet he makes no moves to whisk you away. Instead he pulls you back into the blistering heat of his kiss, his apparent haste to have you making you doubt whether you will even make it up to his quarters at all. His every impatient touch has you envisioning how he might take you—bent over his worktable, or pushed against the dressing room wall, or laid out on the floor, anywhere, everywhere—until, oh, he is tugging loose the ties at your back.

It is all suddenly a bit too much. A bit too fast. A bit too real.

Is he actually truly ready for this?

Astarion instantly senses the change in you, moving back, but keeping close. And even though he is calm and composed, and gives you a kind smile, you cannot help but feel that this precious moment is in ruins, and the reason is you. "I'm sorry, I—"

"Oh, my love. Always so full of apologies even when there is no need for them. How about we go upstairs, make ourselves comfortable—change back into your everyday clothes first if that would suit you better—and we'll sit and have a chat, hm?"

You take a deep breath to steady yourself. "That sounds wonderful. Truly."

"Good," he says, nodding towards the dressing rooms. "Off you go, then. I'll be waiting right here."

You make your way inside, glancing at your flustered face in the mirror before you slip out of your gown, your worries creeping their way back into your frazzled mind.

Where did it all go wrong?

To connect through touch is something you want desperately. And, by now, you are almost entirely sure Astarion wants to share in that with you, too. But therein lies the problem: almost isn't enough, is it?

What if he is only doing this because he thinks it will please you?

And how can you be sure when you hardly know how to be sure of anything?

Part of you still feels ashamed for lusting over him, knowing all that you know. The other part of you just feels ridiculous—here you are, pulling on layer after layer of clothing, when every indication suggests he wants to get you naked before the night is through.

You analyze every moment you've shared tonight, searching for even the slightest of signs that this is all just a performance.

Yet you find none.

Maybe the best thing to do is to just trust him. Trust him to make his own choices, to decide his own limits, to navigate all of this together with you.

After all, if you are sure of only one thing in this world, it is that Astarion loves you.

You gather the hem of your dress into your hands one last time before you leave it behind, tracing over every line and every loop of his embroidered message, committing those beautiful words to memory. It is exactly what you need to bring a smile back to your face.

And, when you finally step out of the dressing room, Astarion matches that smile the moment he sees you.

The two of you walk hand in hand into the back room and up, up, up the stairs, your anxious anticipation growing with every single step you take.

"I'd tell you I'd give you the grand tour, but I'm afraid my home is far too humble for that," he remarks, and for the first time tonight, you notice a bit of a shake to his laughter, an irregular height to its pitch.

And here you thought that the only nervous one was you.

What if that means—

No, you'd better not worry what that means.

No matter what happens, you will be here for him as he is here for you.

You give his hand a reassuring squeeze. "I'm sure it's perfect. And I'd take a nice, cozy, humble home over a palace any day."

"I might not have always agreed with that sentiment, but now?" Reaching the door at the top of the stairs, he pauses long enough to smirk at you before twisting the knob. "I find that I do."

You step inside, taking in as much of the surrounding space as you can. The only light emanates from the fireplace, its flickering flames casting a sensual glow across the room. The open layout is typical of city merchants' quarters—no walls needlessly taking up the already limited space—a sitting area on one side, a small disused kitchen on the other. A pair of strategically placed dividers offers some sense of separation, and behind them—oh, yes, that is most definitely his bed.

Best not to linger too long on that thought.

Although you do make a mental note that it is big enough for two.

Taking both your hands in his this time, Astarion pulls you towards the loveseat in front of the fire, playfully pushing you into its comfy cushions and planting a single kiss upon your lips that you hope is a promise for many more.

He does not yet take his place at your side, however, instead lighting a candle on the coffee table—and it is then you study the scene before you.

A now-lit candle. A vase home to a single blush-pink rose. Two goblets and a bottle of your favourite red wine. A spread that is romantic. Meticulous. Premeditated.

You let out a chortle.

"What?" Astarion asks, eyes narrowed, but lips curved into an unmistakable smile.

"It's just so"—a bigger, brighter laugh bursts out of you—"so obvious."

"Obvious? Obvious?" He tosses his head to one side as he scoffs. "Are you really only realizing this now? Darling, I have been obvious this entire time. You, on the other hand, have been hopelessly oblivious."

And, in retrospect, you can admit that it's true what he says. The evidence was everywhere, even if you could not, would not, thought you should not believe any of it.

But you do now.

He settles next to you on the loveseat, warmth rushing to your cheeks at his sudden nearness. His fingers, cold to the touch though they are as they interlock with yours, do nothing to cool you. No, if anything, they have quite the opposite effect; the whole of you hot and molten beside him.

"Tell me, love," he begins, the purr in his voice and the mischief in his grin telling you he intends to use every ounce of his charisma to its fullest extent. "Should I have serenaded you with song? Recited to you a sonnet? Scattered a trail of rose petals from your door straight to my bed?"

"Maybe, though it's not too late," you suggest. "If you would like to regale me with music and poetry, I won't complain."

"Oh, my dear. I wouldn't be quite so sure of that. I am a man of many talents, yes, but I'm no bard. Although, if the result is hearing you laugh again, then it might still be worth a try."

You grin. "Then try."

Astarion clears his throat dramatically, and with his back tall and straight, and his nose held high in the air, he starts to speak.

You cannot even begin to take him seriously.

"Your skin so sweet and lips divine, / your blood the most delicious wine. / Each precious bite is my delight; / so let me make you mine tonight."

"You're ridiculous," you say—but you are indeed laughing.

"Why thank you, darling," he says, lowering his head in a mock bow. "Ridiculously eloquent, I hope? Or ridiculously charming? Ridiculously good-looking, at least?"

"Just ridiculous."

He gasps. "Oh, how you wound me. And here I was, professing my profound affection."

"It sounded more like you just want to eat me."

"Maybe I do want to eat you"—he leans in enticingly close—"in every sense of the word."

There is no mistaking his meaning now, is there?

You want this—you can feel it in pounding heart, and your weakened limbs, and your aching core—you want, you want, you want.

And yet you fear. Fear falling back into the dark depths of doubt, panic dragging you deeper, deeper, deeper down until you're drowning.

But you do not fall for it is Astarion's hands that keep you safe on solid ground.

"Oh, my sweet, lovely, darling girl."

And it is not only his hands, but his voice that soothes, and his eyes that blaze with such fierce certainty that you wonder how you could have ever failed to see just how much he cherishes you.

"Let me state the obvious because it seems obvious is what you need: I love you."

How new to your ears those words still are and yet you already think the sound of them sweeter than any song. You beam at him, because of course you do, and he beams right back, because of course he does, because this, this togetherness, is what you both want, what you both need, what you both deserve.

That look, so full of adoration, beckons you forward, and so you move in slowly, kiss him softly, hold him sweetly. He does the same, at first, an arm wrapping around your back, the opposite hand snaking its way down to cup your backside. Not that you resist. Nor do you resist when, unexpectedly, he pulls you hard against him, laughter bubbling out of you from the surprise and the clumsiness of it. And yet, here you are now in his lap, and here he is guiding your legs to straddle him, and it dawns upon you just how suggestive this new position is.

Even the slightest roll of your hips might have… well, quite the arousing effect.

Oh, he knows exactly what he's doing, the sneak.

And, if this is how he wants you, then that must mean—

"And," he says before you can finish the thought, "I want to explore anything and everything that loving you means."

Anything. Everything. Never have those two words sounded so sublime, his voice like velvet, his implication indisputable. Your imagination runs rampant, unlimited and unsuppressed, your mind opening itself fully to passion and possibility.

And you hope imagination will blossom into beautiful reality.

Astarion buries his face into your neck, peppering it with little kisses—maddeningly where you know he knows it tickles—revelling in every giggle he draws out of you. Vexing though it is, yes, the levity of it amuses you, calms your nerves.

You did, back in those early days, feel most ease with him whenever you would let yourselves be silly. You remember it well. Perhaps so does he.

And then—when tension fades, when you are limp and pliable in his arms—the mood shifts. Then, he kisses you where it doesn't tickle. Then, those sounds spilling out of you are decidedly not laughter.

His mouth moves to meet yours. A heady mixture of love and lust swirls about in your mind, and you succumb to it, to him, to every brush of his tongue and graze of his teeth. Almost embarrassing how little it takes to make you squirm about in his lap—but his body answers yours just as readily, the twitch of him against you leaving no doubt to his burgeoning desire.

This is really going to happen, isn't it?

"And"—you mourn the loss of his lips—"if all of this is somehow not obvious enough"—but his husky tone has you enraptured—"then let me be clear: I will not be satisfied tonight unless and until I've fucked you thoroughly."

Oh. You stare in stunned silence, mouth agape, as you process the filth you just heard: his lust stated so exquisitely explicitly that you long to press into the hardness you know you will find there, kiss him wildly, pleasure him endlessly.

And that, you decide, is exactly what you will do.

But your affection is too soft and too shy to plunge any deeper without testing the waters first. You kiss him once, then twice, then again and again and again, tentative touches turning tender then teasing as your courage grows. Astarion welcomes it all, wants more of it all, urging you to take this further in all the ways he can: pulling you closer, holding you tighter, kissing you harder. When at last your hips begin to undulate against his, he matches your rhythm, eager for you to feel the full length of him against your wet and wanting core.

With shaking hands you unfasten the singular clasp that had been holding his vest closed. That ever anxious part of you waits a moment for his objection, expects it, dreads it—but it doesn't come. Instead he only gives you his gentle encouragement.

"Go on, love. Undress me. Touch me."

You nod and you smile. Yes, there is anxiety in your anticipation, but so is there desire that drives you, and elation that thrills you, and such deep, overwhelming love for the man before you that how could you not want to devote yourself to pampering him?

Button by button you work your way down his shirt, exposing more and more of him until every fastening is undone. You examine the hard planes of his chest, first with eyes and then with hands, delighting in the way his smooth skin and firm muscle feel beneath your palms. He purrs his approval, rocking his hips against yours with such abandon that you curse your clothes for preventing him from pushing inside you.

Your fingers trail downwards, delicate but daring as they dance towards their destination. When at last you reach to undo his trousers, your eyes dart up to his, one last search for any sign he doesn't want this—but the look he gives you, part lust, part unwavering, undying trust, tells you what deep down you already know.

And it is all the permission you need.

Your attention returns to where he wants it to be. The sight of him, his arousal straining against fabric in his desperation for you, intensifies the throbbing between your own thighs. And so, with eager hands, you set him free.

You know his body well. Studied him with all of your senses. Learned how to glide and twist him into a whimpering mess with only a hand. And yet, practiced as you are in his pleasure, you cannot help the gasp that escapes your throat when you finally set eyes on his cock. To see him so riled and ready, to know it is all because of you—it fills you with awe, and with pride, and with overwhelming desire to put all you have learned to good use.

You start with a stroke of the hand, sliding up and sliding down his shaft, pulling the sweetest of sighs from his lips. Oh, how you love it when he is needy like this, hips moving in time with your every repeated motion. You keep touching him and teasing him, hand gliding up and down and up and down, thumb sweeping across the milky bead gathered at the tip.

But what you really want is a taste.

You lean forward for a kiss—only a fleeting peck, nothing more—and, if the way he huffs and pouts is any indication, it isn't enough. But you have quite a different use for your mouth in mind, don't you? You withdraw your hand, and he opens his mouth in protest, but no words come—for by now he is wide-eyed and mesmerized as you lick your thumb clean, savouring his salty taste. You lower yourself to your knees.

"May I?" you ask, smiling slyly up at him.

"Oh, my love. There are few sights so delightful as your lips wrapped around my cock."

His lewd words bring fresh heat to your cheeks, and he laughs.

"Hmm, I must say that flustered look of yours does have its appeal, too," he says, and you try to maintain your composure as you grab one of the little couch cushions, settling it comfortably beneath your knees. "Especially when it means you're imagining me inside you."

Oh, that unabashedly wicked, aggravatingly arrogant, adorably lovable man. The advantage might be his now, but he won't be the one holding it for long.

"And," he continues, growing more smug by the second, "come to think of it, there are many, many positions that suit you just as beautifully. Like when—"

The words die in his throat as you lick a languid stripe along his length, earning from him a low, pleasured groan. The sound pleases you immensely. But what a shame it would be if he were to leave his filthiest fantasies unspoken.

If he loves to tease you so, then why should you not do the same?

You run your tongue all over him: exploring every inch, tracing every vein, flicking against the tip, but never quite taking him into your mouth. When you have him whimpering the way you like, you pause just long enough to prompt him to say what he failed to before: "Like when…?"

"When— gods—"

Oh dear, it seems language is lost to him again the very moment your lips close around him. You bask in your triumph, sucking him and swishing him with your tongue, watching the way he watches you. And though at times his eyes flutter shut and his head falls back, his gaze always finds its way back to you.

You keep working him, using your hands to pump him and play with him as your mouth performs its magic, rediscovering all the little things that drive him wild. It feels good to make him feel good. It feels even better knowing how much he truly desires this.

"You want to know what I like best of all?" he manages, eventually, his tone dark and throaty; you hum your enthusiastic assent, and the vibration of it sends a shudder through him.

But the words he says send a shudder through you.

"The sight of you lying utterly helpless beneath me."

Oh. Well. You do love this—relishing his pleasure as you bob your head along his length—but you very much love that, too. You remember well how it felt. How letting him have his way with you could awaken either of his extremes. The vampire at his most feral, or the man underneath, a secret softness reserved only for you.

When all was done between you, you used to worry those tenderest moments were only part of his act. But maybe you were wrong.

Maybe they were always real.

"I've been thinking about you"—you ache more and more for your own satisfaction now though you never stop giving him his—"fantasizing about you ever since that night at the party. Wondering what it would be like to have you in my own bed."

And you know at once his bed is soon to be your destination when he leans forward to give you a gentle nudge. You still, letting him slide out of your mouth with a wet pop.

"And, my love," he whispers into your ear, "I intend to find out. Now."

Far be it from you to deny this beautiful man anything he wants.

Astarion rises to his feet, shrugging off his open shirt and pushing off his trousers. To see him like this, so gorgeously and gloriously nude, leaves you speechless.

"Well, darling?" he says, shamelessly eyeing you up and down. "I assure you you'll have much more fun without your clothes."

Needing no further encouragement, you start to disrobe—but your pace is found wanting and Astarion is all out of patience. He steps forward, tugging and tearing at your layers, eager for you to join him in his state of undress. Sure enough you hear a button clack against the floor, fallen victim to his reckless haste.

"Careful!" you insist, but really, you're more amused than annoyed.

Not to mention aroused.

"Oh, don't you worry, my dear. I'll fix that right up for you."

"You'd better."

"Of course. I'm your personal tailor for life now."

For life. This really is it for you, isn't it? You are his, and he is yours, and for however long you both walk this realm, you will spend your days and your nights together.

You wouldn't have it any other way. And neither would he.

When at last you are beaming and bare before him, Astarion takes a step back for a better look at you.

He stares.

And then he strikes.

You are swept into his arms, into his passion, barely conscious of anything but the feel of skin against skin and lips against lips—though it is abundantly clear he is a man on a mission. He pulls you along in his mad shuffle to reach the bed, sacrificing finesse to gain speed, unable to wait a second longer than necessary to have you.

And indeed he wastes no time in lifting you onto the mattress and pushing you flat on your back beneath him.

"Finally," he growls and he grins, and you're already there bucking on the bed before he has even touched you where you need him. "Finally I have you right where I want you. Right where you belong here in my bed. Right here with me."

The thought of this one day becoming your bed—your home—thrills you almost as much as his impatient touches do.

But, as eager as he is, he still recalls exactly how to excite you. Still gives ample attention to all those places most sensitive and secret. Still treats your body like his sanctuary—a sacred thing to be revered, to be relished, to be worshipped.

And, as he settles between your thighs, you know the pleasure he'll, oh, so willingly provide will be nothing short of divine.

He starts with a single lick—one long and languid glide along your slit—and already, all at once, it's too much, and it's not enough, and it's the most wonderfully perfect sensation you have ever known. It pulls from you a shake and a cry, and in turn, a soft laugh from him as he takes pride in his ability to please you. He licks you a second time, and then a third, and again, and again, until his tongue is lapping at you with a steady fervency.

The bliss he brings you is better than you remember. Countless times you tried to relive your memories—desperate to return to him, if only in daydreams—but your fingers always paled in comparison to the way his tongue dips inside your cunt and flicks against your clit.

Although maybe it is better than ever now that you know he loves you.

You grasp for his hand and he grabs it gladly.

And he certainly knows how to work you well. You writhe about, your moans mewling and wanton, your body wanting more, more, more. The pleasure you crave is close now. You glance at your lover—mussed up curls and pink-tipped ears, his attention focused wholly upon your undoing—and to know that Astarion is the one making you feel this way intensifies the heat coiling in your centre.

A little more is all it will take. You ready yourself for it, your grip tightening, your limbs trembling, your feet bracing against his shoulders. And, when he tongues you with the quick, precise flicks you like best, you yield, wave after wave of pleasure crashing into you. Astarion does not relent, continuing to devour you until you are thoroughly sated and spent.

You lie there, panting hard, basking in the pleasant tingle that still lingers in the aftermath of your orgasm. Gods, you haven't felt this good in ages. And, from the smug smile that begins to spread across his face, it seems he knows it, too.

"Well," Astarion says, licking his lips as he sits up. "You look positively wrecked, darling. And all because of me. You want more, don't you?"

Such self-satisfied bravado. Not that it stops your core from clenching at his suggestion. Nor do you deny him when he shifts over you, cock gliding along your swollen folds, ready to push inside.

Oh, you want more very, very badly.

And so you invite him in. "Yes."

Slowly Astarion sinks into your sex until he is buried to the hilt. A perfect fit. You did always take him exceptionally well. He pulls back, and pushes in, and pulls back, and pushes in, coaxing gasps and moans out of you, ensuring you feel each and every inch of him as he makes love to you.

And it is love, this time. Love that underlies the lust in his eyes. Love that fuels the languorous rhythm of his hips. Love that urges him to lavish you with little kisses.

You return his love in every way you can: touching, holding, caressing, kissing, enjoying all that is nostalgic and all that is new. You roll your hips. You cry his name. Surely the extent of your adoration is made abundantly clear—but, if by any chance all this isn't enough, you sing it out loud: "I love you!"

He lets out a laugh, a soft and elated little sound. "I love you, too."

But, for all his sweetness, so is there carnality, frantic and feral and finally free. He thrusts harder, moves faster, pours all of his passion into every motion he makes. Of course you are more than happy to allow him this indulgence. The addictive friction, the lewd noises of bodies colliding, the delight of being filled so completely—every intoxicating detail feeds that familiar heat building within you.

Sensing your impending release, Astarion lifts his head from where it had been nestled in your neck and draws back just far enough to reach a hand between your legs, rubbing circles into your clit with his thumb. You imagine you must be quite a sight—all shivering and squirming under him as you begin your surrender to bliss—but his stare is locked only upon your eyes.

And it is then that you lose yourself to the euphoria he gives you. Then, that your walls clench around him; then, that you let out a keening cry; then, that pleasure radiates from your core to every extremity of your body. And where you go, Astarion is quick to follow, groaning as he empties himself inside of you.

He collapses on top of you, and you pull him into a tight embrace, vowing you will never, ever let him go again.

You missed him so much. Love him so much. And, to be with him like this, so close and connected, makes you feel that all is finally right in this world.

A comfortable and contented silence falls between you.

Until it breaks.

"I wasn't entirely honest with you before."

His words hang heavy in the air as panic takes hold. What if this was too much, what if this was too fast, what if he did not want any of this at all?

But then, when you feel like you might never catch your breath again, he takes your face into his hands and grins devilishly. "What I really like best of all is that I can take a single glance at you and tell just hopelessly in love with me you are."

Oh, that infuriating and wonderful man.

"Don't scare me like that!" you say, scolding him. But, despite his foolishness—maybe because of his foolishness if you're really being honest with yourself—you lunge forward for a kiss. Then another. And another.

When your lips breaks apart, and his eyes are again heavy-lidded with lust, he makes his suggestion: "Perhaps I might… find some way to make it up to you?"

You think a moment. And then you grin. "Why, yes, I do happen to have one idea in mind. About the ball… be my plus one?"

He does not roll his eyes, nor does he complain of the tedium he'd have to endure, nor does he make any attempt at denying you. He answers only with a soft smile and a single word.

"Always."

Tag List: @preciouslittlebhaalbae, @roguishcat, @zozoparsnips, @goodgirlgonebard, @amoremagnificentbastard, @hellethil, @xxnashiraxx, @vividiana, @dramatiquechipmunk (join tag list for future fics here!)

Thank you so much for reading!

Special Note: This will be a series on AO3 as well, plus all entries will be crossposted here on Tumblr!

My AO3 | My Masterlist

[moonlightwritingf1]

Masterlist

Lando Norris

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Straight to you

| 1.2k | Summary: Y/N, captivated by photos of her friend Lando Norris at a gala, sends a bold, flirtatious text that shifts their dynamic. Days later, Lando surprises her at her apartment, confessing his feelings and revealing he can't hold back anymore. 

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Snowed-In Together

| 1.3k | Summary: Y/N and Lando’s road trip to a cabin turns into a bickering match, but after a heartfelt moment, they share a kiss. By the end of the storm, their rivalry has transformed into something more.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 The fire between us

| 7.4k | +18 | Summary: Trapped in a Swiss cabin during a snowstorm, Lando and Y/N, who’ve been friends for less than a year, are left alone. As they play strip poker, hidden feelings surface, leading to a playful, intimate night where their connection deepens.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Burning desire

| 3.8k | +18 | Summary: Y/N and Lando's heated confrontation spirals into a fiery mix of anger and desire. Their argument ignites into a passionate kiss, leading to an intense moment of intimacy. Amidst the chaos, they both sense something real between them, though they're uncertain about what it means for their future.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 More than enough

| 3.3k | Summary: Y/N feels out of place in Lando’s glamorous world, but he reassures her that he loves her for who she is.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 The accidental spark

| 1.1k | Summary: During a snowy Christmas getaway, Y/N and Lando’s constant bickering hides unspoken tension. A heated argument in the snow leads to an accidental kiss, revealing deeper feelings.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 The snowfall before the storm

| 2.6k | Summary: Forced to share a bed on a Christmas trip, longtime "enemies" Y/N and Lando wake up cuddled. Lando confesses he’s always wanted her close, and Y/N admits she feels the same, turning years of fake hate into love.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 The taste of desire

| 4k | +18 | Summary: Y/N and Lando share a flirtatious, passionate moment while cooking, ending with a kiss and a mutual desire to explore their chemistry.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 The Christmas Party

| 4.6k | Summary: At a Christmas party hosted by a mutual friend, Lando overhears Y/N confessing her feelings for him to one of her friends. Amused, he teases her until she admits it directly, and to her surprise, Lando confesses that he feels the same way.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Unspoken Desires

| 3.1k | +18 | Summary: Lando and Y/N have been dating for a few weeks but haven't been intimate yet. As they're getting ready to go out one night, Lando suddenly confesses his intense desire.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 “Merry Christmas, I miss you”

| 4.9k | Summary: Y/n and Lando, who broke up two years ago, reconnect during the holiday season. Despite their past, they still have feelings for each other. They spend time together in London, rekindling their bond but agree to take things slow.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 The Snowstorm Argument

| 1.4k | Summary: Y/N and Lando go to a cabin to reconnect, but his constant phone use for work frustrates her. After a tense argument, Y/N feels ignored. After a heartfelt conversation, Lando promises to make her a priority, and they start to heal their relationship.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Holiday Movie Marathon

| 1.7k | Summary: Y/N attends a spontaneous movie night at Lando’s, where their usual banter deepens into a confession of feelings. Lando reveals he feels the same, and they share a kiss. 

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Unspoken Desires

| 2.8k | +18 | Summary: Lando and Y/N had been friends for some time, having met through mutual friends. Lando had been attracted to Y/N from the moment they met, and his admiration for her only grew over time—particularly for her breasts. He thought no one knew about his fixation, but Y/N had figured it out. Once she realized Lando's obsession, she started wearing more revealing tops whenever she knew they would be in the same place. One night, when they ended up alone, Y/N began teasing Lando with her breasts. It was then that she confessed she knew about his attraction.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 “Merry Christmas, I miss you”

| 4.9k | Summary: Y/n and Lando, who broke up two years ago, reconnect during the holiday season. Despite their past, they still have feelings for each other. They spend time together in London, rekindling their bond but agree to take things slow.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 The Snowstorm Argument

| 1.4k | Summary: Y/N and Lando go to a cabin to reconnect, but his constant phone use for work frustrates her. After a tense argument, Y/N feels ignored. After a heartfelt conversation, Lando promises to make her a priority, and they start to heal their relationship.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Holiday Movie Marathon

| 1.7k | Summary: Y/N attends a spontaneous movie night at Lando’s, where their usual banter deepens into a confession of feelings. Lando reveals he feels the same, and they share a kiss. 

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Unspoken Desires

| 2.8k | +18 | Summary: Lando and Y/N had been friends for some time, having met through mutual friends. Lando had been attracted to Y/N from the moment they met, and his admiration for her only grew over time—particularly for her breasts. He thought no one knew about his fixation, but Y/N had figured it out. Once she realized Lando's obsession, she started wearing more revealing tops whenever she knew they would be in the same place. One night, when they ended up alone, Y/N began teasing Lando with her breasts. It was then that she confessed she knew about his attraction.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 The Unwanted Wingman

| 2.1k | Summary: At a Christmas party, Y/N is encouraged to confess her feelings to Ed, but Lando interrupts, admitting that he likes her.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 The Invitation That Changed Everything

| 4.5k | +18 | Summary: When Y/N spends Christmas at Lando’s family home, a quiet night on the couch takes an unexpected turn. Playful teasing gives way to lingering touches and a kiss that blurs the line between friendship and something deeper.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 The Secret Santa Gift

| 1.8k | Summary: At a Christmas party, Y/N receives a gift from Lando, her Secret Santa. After realizing his feelings, she meets him in Hyde Park, where Lando confesses his love.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 A Christmas Crush

| 1.3k | Summary: At Lando’s holiday party, Y/N, overwhelmed by her crush on him, retreats to the kitchen. Max teases her about it, and Lando overhears, confessing that he feels the same.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Number One

| 4.1k | Summary: At a Christmas party, Y/N nervously gives Lando a Secret Santa gift with a very special meaning. 

ᯓᡣ𐭩 The Unexpected Gift

| 1.6k | Summary: Lando surprises Y/N with a very special gift, and she realizes just how much he values their relationship.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Late-Night Snowfall Kiss

| 1.4k | Summary: On a snowy evening, Y/N and Lando share a quiet moment on the balcony, where a tender kiss reveals the depth of their unspoken feelings.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Worthy of You

| 4k | Summary: Lando rented a cabin in France for Christmas but couldn’t enjoy it when Y/N suddenly left. Desperate, he flew back to England, where she admitted overhearing his doubts about being worthy of her. Lando confessed his love, and Y/N revealed she felt the same but feared rejection.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 The weight of the spotlight

| 1.5k | Summary: Lando and Y/N go public with their relationship, but media scrutiny overwhelms her. Criticized for not smiling or posing for photos, she finds comfort in Lando’s unwavering support, knowing they can face it together.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 A Bold Surprise

| 4.6k | +18 | Summary: Y/N has been dating Lando for a month, and despite their undeniable chemistry, they haven't crossed the final line. One evening, Y/N decides to surprise him with a daring gesture—wearing sexy lingerie to show a bold, more confident side of herself. 

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Christmas Morning

| 3.9k | +18 | Summary: Morning sex with Lando on Christmas morning

ᯓᡣ𐭩 The Ultimate Distraction

| 1.5k | +18 | Summary: Y/N and Lando, a new couple just a month into their relationship, are still exploring the exciting depths of their connection, both emotionally and physically. While visiting Lando’s apartment in Monaco, Y/N finds herself craving his attention late one night as he’s absorbed in a gaming session in the room next to his bedroom. Unable to resist her desire, she decides to surprise him by slipping under his desk.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Under the Stars

| 3.2k | +18 | Summary: After months of pinning after Y/N, Lando finally brings her to Monaco. He takes her on a yacht, where things escalate.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Barcelona Nights

| 3.9k | +18 | Summary: YN gets caught masturbating in the hotel room by Lando.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 The Tension Between Us

| 4.7k | +18 | Summary: Y/n, shy and reluctant, has been resisting Lando’s advances for months. After accidentally flashing him at a gathering, their tension builds, and Y/n eventually gives in to their chemistry.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 The Art of Surrender

| 3.1k | +18 | Summary: Y/N, dealing with back pain, reluctantly lets Lando, give her a massage. As his hands work through her tension, an undeniable chemistry builds between them. The massage becomes a turning point, revealing unspoken emotions and desires.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 More Than a Ride Home

| 3.1k | Summary: Y/N and Lando share a close New Year's Eve, leading to a deeper connection and the realization of their feelings.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Caught in the Act

| 2.5k | +18 | Summary: Lando catches Y/N touching herself and moaning his name

ᯓᡣ𐭩 To New Beginnings

| 6.1k | +18 | Summary: Y/n and Lando share a passionate kiss on New Year’s Eve, leading to an intimate connection. Despite her hesitations, Y/n gives in to the growing attraction between them.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Tempting Surprises

| 3.2k | +18 | Summary: Lando and Y/n have been dating for two months and are both in love but haven’t confessed. One Friday, Y/n decides to surprise Lando and finally take their relationship further. She asks him for money, buys sexy lingerie, and models it for him during dinner. As she reveals the final set, the tension between them escalates.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 The Picture That Changed Everything

| 4.5k | Summary: A drunken mistake intensifies Lando and Y/N's playful dynamic, forcing Y/N to confront her growing feelings. After a Grand Prix win, Lando returns to London, ready to prove his love.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 The Monaco Experience

| 2.9k | +18 | Summary: Y/N and Lando, newly in a relationship, and Lando finally invites Y/N to Monaco to stay at his apartment.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Lando's Obsession

| 3k | +18 | Summary: Lando has an obsession for Y/N's boobs

ᯓᡣ𐭩 The Fine Line Between Hate and Desire

| 4.1k | +18 | Summary: Y/N, a journalist covering a charity golf event, clashes with Formula 1 star Lando Norris, whose playful arrogance sparks heated banter. As the day progresses, their tension shifts into undeniable attraction, leaving Y/N torn between resisting his charm and surrendering to the unexpected connection.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 The Sweet Surprise

| 2.7k | +18 | Summary: Lando finds Y/N's sex toy

ᯓᡣ𐭩 First Time

| 5.3k | +18 | Summary: Lando finds out Y/N is a virgin.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Good Girl

| 5.4k | +18 | Summary: A quiet night in takes an unexpected turn when Y/n decides to spice things up, leading to a heated and intimate encounter that deepens her connection with Lando in ways neither of them anticipated.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Sports Car

| 3.6k | +18 | Summary: Based on Sports Car by Tate Mcrae

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Birthday Sex in Monaco

| 4.2k | +18 | Summary: Y/N's parents take her to Monaco for her birthday. On her second day there, she meets Lando Norris, an F1 driver. Things escalate quickly as the chemistry between them grows.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 The Kiss Tax

| 2.2k | +18 | Summary: Y/N doesn't like Lando's stubble.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Raw

| 2.3k | +18 | Summary: Lando and Y/N have sex without a condom for the first time. He cums inside her.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Wedding Night

| 4.6k | +18 | Summary: Lando and Y/N shared their first night as husband and wife, their love unfolding in soft, unhurried touches.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Beyond the Finish Line

| 2.6k | +18 | Summary: Lando and Y/N, a professional ski racer, celebrate her first medal victory.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 At Her Mercy

| 5.9k | +18 | Summary: For the first time in her relationship with Lando, Y/N takes charge in the bedroom, and Lando becomes submissive.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Safe with Me

| 1.3k | Summary: Lando has a nightmare and Y/N comforts him.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Lost in You

| 3.3k | +18 | Summary: Lando accidentally comes inside Y/N for the first time.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Back to You

| 6.6k | +18 | Summary: Y/N, heartbroken after Lando vanished nine months ago, sees a tabloid photo of him with another woman. Determined for answers, she flies to Monaco. Their confrontation turns heated, months of tension igniting into passion. As anger and desire blur, they realize they still want each other

ᯓᡣ𐭩 At His Mercy

| 6.5k | +18 | Summary: Lando and Y/N try handcuffs and blindfolds in the bedroom.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Between Goodbyes and Forevers

| 2.6k | +18 | Summary: Lando has to leave to prepare for the new season, and Y/N is super sad and clingy. He comforts her, and they have emotional goodbye sex.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Pillow Talk

| 2.8k | Summary: Lando and Y/N cuddle in bed after a long, tiring day.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 One of the girls

| 2.3k | +18 | Summary: Based on the song One of the girls by The Weeknd

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Eighteen Minutes

| 5.7k | +18 | Summary: Y/N is terrible at time management and is chronically late to every event or meetup. She tries to change this habit. Lando and she make a deal: for every minute she is late to an event, he gets to edge her. And he’s clearly enjoying it much more than she is.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Shattered Trust

| 7.3k | Summary: Y/N discovers that she is pregnant with Lando's child. Instead of confiding in him about the unexpected news, she decides to keep her pregnancy a secret and, overwhelmed by fear and uncertainty about the future, she chooses to have an abortion without telling him. Eventually, Lando learns about her decision.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Between Pain and Pleasure

| 2.5k | +18 | Summary: Y/N is on her period and suffering from cramps, so Lando suggests having sex to help ease the pain—she agrees.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 When Absence Speaks

| 6k | +18 | Summary: After not seeing each other for weeks, Y/N accidentally squirts during sex with Lando. He's so fascinated and turned on by her that he decides he wants to make her squirt again and again.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Three Weeks Too Long

| 3.7k | +18 | Summary: Lando returned early from the triple header. He wanted to have sex, but Y/N refused because she hadn't shaved. Lando assured her he didn't care, and she felt a bit shy at first since it was their first time having sex when she was not shaved. 

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Not so Innocent

| 8.4k | +18 | Summary: After Lando wins the 2025 championship, he finally gets his chance with Y/N, Oscar's younger sister. Although everyone always assumed she was the innocent one, her surprising confidence and intriguing personality reveal that there’s far more to her than meets the eye.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Tender Moments

| 1.1k | Summary: Lando loves playing with Y/N's boobs—even when they're sore.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 The Night She Finally Gave In

| 7.9k | +18 | Summary: For eight months, Y/N teased, denied, and kept Lando chasing—but he never gave up. Until one night she finally gives in. 

ᯓᡣ𐭩 What Remains of Us

| 4.8k | +18 | Summary: A week after their divorce, Y/N and Lando find themselves back in the home they once shared, haunted by the memories of their love. When Lando arrives to collect his belongings, he finds Y/N crying over their wedding photos, and the weight of their heartbreak pulls them back into each other’s arms. In the quiet intimacy of their old bedroom, emotions overflow, leading them to seek comfort in each other one last time. 

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Starved

| 6.7k | +18 | Summary: After three weeks apart, Y/N and Lando finally reunite in a frenzy of teasing, need, and uncontrollable desire. He tries to pace himself, to savor every second, but she knows exactly how to make him come—whispering filthy words, dragging her nails down his back, squeezing around him just right. Lando, breathless and wrecked, gives in completely, fucking her like he’s been starving for it, like he needs to make up for every second they’ve spent apart. 

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Prove Me Wrong

| 7k | +18 | Summary: Y/N and Lando have always hated each other—forced into the same social circle, their rivalry fueled by clashing personalities and constant bickering. But when a heated debate about men and female pleasure turns into a challenge, neither of them backs down. What starts as an argument quickly spirals into something far more dangerous, and before she knows it, Lando is proving her wrong in the filthiest way possible.

Oscar Piastri

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Until you noticed me

| 2.8k | Summary: At a rooftop party, Y/N and Oscar’s friendship takes a turn when Oscar’s protective instincts reveal his deeper feelings.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 "Can You Stop Smiling?"

| 1.3k | Summary: Y/N and her best friend, Oscar, have always had a special connection, but this holiday season, things feel different. At a party, Oscar nervously admits he wants to kiss her, and Y/N reveals she’s been waiting for him to make a move. 

ᯓᡣ𐭩 One Bold Comment

| 1.5k | +18 | Summary: Y/N has a thing for Oscar's teeth. She jokingly says she wants to ride his face—and then she does.

[twistedwonderlandimaginesblog]

do you think you could write a little scenario about how leona, azul, jamil, idia, and cater would deal with a sudden bout of cuteness aggression. like they feel that there’s just something about reader right then and there that is so unexplainably adorable that they experience the overwhelming urge to physically express it. thank you!!

Azul Ashengrotto:

Azul is the slightest bit irritated by this sudden bought of cuteness aggression, this overwhelming affection completely foreign to him. He doesn’t like that a person has this much control over him, enough to send him spiraling just from a playful smile or silly joke. He considered telling you to leave his office because you were thoroughly distracting him from his work, giving into the conversation you had started that was based on some odd hypothetical. He can’t deny how cute it is when you get excited at him indulging you, knowing he was only digging a deeper hole.

Cater Diamond:

Cater doesn’t have an issue with expressing how cute he thinks you are, even when it overwhelmed him like a slap to the face. He has an entire private album, never posted, of candid pics of you living your daily life (taken when inspiration struck, aka the cuteness aggression bug). You would dare to say most of them are boring, alluding to this being the reason he didn’t post them like he did everything else. It made him pout as you couldn’t be father from the truth! Those were his, for his eyes only to enjoy, and he couldn’t let anyone else see how cute you were when you didn’t even realize.

Idia Shroud:

Idia has to cover his face, almost curling up into a tiny ball as you look on in confusion. He couldn’t look at you a single second longer or he might explode, losing all coolness points he’s earned (if any, but he couldn’t take the chance). The tips of his hair give him away as usual but even as you question what might be wrong, he thinks how cute it is that you’re concerned with him. Perhaps he wasn’t the protagonist but one of many love interests, and you had so thoroughly maxed out his love levels that everything you did raised his affection to this unbearable point.

Jamil Viper:

Jamil does have the tendency to get swept up in emotion, and while he’s generally more reserved with showing affection, the cuteness overload always gets to him. You’re always surprised when he randomly squeezes you in a tight hug from behind, thinking his last name should’ve been considered a warning to any who knew him. You’ll never receive an answer as to why he did this, with Jamil hiding his face in your shoulder to put off meeting your curious gaze until he could think of a way to change topics.

Leona Kingscholar:

Leona moved so quickly it reminded you that he was a carnivore, a predator, ready to strike at a moment’s notice. His hands grip your face and force you to stare into his eyes, your heart jumping in your chest at the intense look on his face. His own expression remained neutral but it seemed he was looking for something, observing the small details of your face, eyes settling longest on your lips before they drifted up again to meet your gaze. When it seemed you were about to ask a question Leona crushed his lips against yours to silence you, not wanting to answer a single question about his sudden need to be close.

[celestialprincesse]

🎀💞

I just know that Simon Riley wants his face sat on🤭

nsfw below the cut 🪷 mdni

You'd always been a little shy when it came to sex, understandably so considering that your boyfriend was a real life Adonis, some kind of cruelly beautiful deity come to taunt you for your prudishness. Obviously, you and Simon had done it, you'd fucked countless times when he came back from deployments or frustrated from debriefings gone bad, but it was always, for lack of a better word, tame. You'd always assumed, given his past, that he wouldn't be down to have sex, period. The beginning of your relationship was a minefield of navigating boundaries and understanding the complexity of the beautiful man you got to share your bed with. What you foolishly failed to recognise, however, is that whist you subconsciously saw Simon as wounded, he saw your fragility as clear as day, like a ripple under the surface of clear water.

He'd aways been so impossibly gentle with you, even when you'd wanted things differently, too afraid to ask him and send Simon spiralling back into that dark place he'd only recently been pulled from.

"Want you to fuck my face." Simon's deadpan voice snaps you from your reverie, brings you back to where you lay sprawled and waiting in the centre of your shared bed.

"I'm sorry?" You barely manage to splutter, propping yourself up on your elbows to look at where he sits patiently between your knees, not even needing to look down to your panties to know that your cunt is already dripping.

"Fuck, love." The sound of his exasperated sigh makes you feel like you've done something wrong, but the almost pained crinkle of his eyes confuses you. "You need me to spell it out? I'd like you to sit on my face and let me eat you out." Simon's words make you choke, jaw hanging agape as you process the fact that not only is he willing to take such a step in your sexual relationship, but also that he's so seemingly comfortable with the idea of you essentially fucking his face. Sure, he's eaten you out before, but never in such a compromising way. "Are you -" A soft kiss being placed to the sensitive skin of your inner thigh is enough to silence you as you look down at Simon practically grovelling between your legs.

"If you don't want to, you can say no, baby." "It's not that I don't want to. I just don't want to - fuck." You huff, slumping back against the mattress with a sigh as you struggle to find the words you need to express the way you feel. "You don't want to fuck?" He smirks wickedly at you, one hand still cradling your outer thigh as he presses his cheek to the warm skin, trying to lighten the mood. Ease you up a bit. "Simon." "Tell me what you're thinking. I'll make it make sense." God he's always so unbearably patient. It almost has you in tears.

"I just - I'm not so confident with stuff like that, you know? I mean it took us six months of having sex for me to even feel comfortable enough to ride you. Now you want me to sit on your face?"

Simon's eyes soften at your reasoning, and he practically drags himself up the bed until he's face to face with you, propping himself up on his elbows to stare down at your face, so beautifully flushed and bashful.

"If you don't want to do it, that's fine, but I need you to know, that I look at you and get hard okay? You're the most beautiful thing I've seen. Ever. If I died by being suffocated between your legs? Fuckin' kill me already, yeah?"

His words have you giggling softly as you play with his hair, distracting yourself from the burning arousal in the pit of your tummy.

"Okay." You nod, slowly, meeting his eye to make sure that he sees you're serious. "You don't have to say yes if you're not sure." "I'm sure, but can we go slow?" "Of course, baby. We can do whatever you feel comfortable with."

It doesn't take long for you to be sat nervously on Simon's hips, clothes piled on the floor, discarded in order for you to sit naked atop him, bottom lip pulled nervously between your teeth. "Do I just -" You point awkwardly between the general vicinity of your cunt to Simon's face, heart fluttering when you catch the way he gazes up at you like some sort of statue, some masterpiece. "Mhm." He nods slowly, pupils blown impossibly wide, the chocolate of his gaze turning almost entirely black. You feel his massive palms take your hips, guiding you up to your knees before settling your slick cunt just over his face.

"Sit." He grunts when he doesn't immediately feel the press of you against his mouth, his nose barely touching your puffy clit. "What if I hurt you?" "I'll let you know. Now, sit." Before you know it, his fingers are digging into your hips, leaving you gasping at the suddenly overwhelming sensation of his entire lower face stuffed against your pussy.

"Holy sh-" You whine, already beginning to roll your hips in search of stimulation, all whilst Simon gives a contented hum which rumbles through you and has you clenching around nothing. His hands guide your hips in their rhythm as his tongue licks a flat stripe between your wet folds, leaving you stuttering and your eyes rolling back, all whilst you grip onto his hair like of you let go he'll disappear entirely.

He sets a languorous pace with his tongue, eating at you like you're his final meal, hands digging firmly at the meat of your ass whilst he uses the slight bump at the bridge of his nose to press up against your clit, making you dizzy. Whilst he uses both hands to guide you, you use the hand not tangled into his hair to roll a hardened nipple between your thumb and forefinger, the sensation going straight to your pussy and making you gasp. Simon, perceptive as ever, notices your want and pushes his tongue inside you to push just that little bit further - and he can tell that you're close by the way your thighs clench around his ears and the fact that you're wonderfully more vocal than usual.

Similarly, sensing your oncoming orgasm, you desperately attempt to pull yourself off of him, all of a sudden shy about cumming on his face like you haven't done it countless times before. Your wriggling is met with a small slap to your ass which has you seeing stars as the small sting snaps the elastic band stretching taut in your lower belly, and Simon laps up every bit that you'll give him.

"Didn't think that men like me got to go to heaven." Simon sighs when you both lay sprawled and happy in bed together.

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

I did not intend to write 1.1k of smut when I opened my laptop this evening but boundaries and communication are just so !! sexy !!

N e ways I'll just leave this here for y'all💕

[honeyncherry]

we never tell - joe burrow

summary should've left it alone when you had the chance, but then again, you've never been good at knowing when to walk away

content 18+, smut, drug usage (weed), language

The last thing you should be doing right now is sitting in Joe’s truck, tucked away in an empty lot with the engine off, the streetlights barely reaching the edges of the windshield.

The last thing you should be doing is watching him roll a blunt, the earthy scent rising and mingling with the warmth of your perfume, his demeanor unhurried as he works.

But you are.

You know you shouldn’t be here.

But you are.

And the strangest part? Neither of you have really said a word.

Since the second you slid into the passenger seat, the silence has stretched between you, not quite awkward, but more like something waiting to be filled. It could be the weirdness of the day still clinging to you, or maybe it’s just how nights like this always are — edges blurred by exhaustion, by the hour, by whatever unspoken thing brought you here in the first place.

Either way, you don’t say anything.

And neither does Joe.

The cracked window lets in just enough of the cold to send a chill through you, but the inside of the truck feels warm, stifling almost, with the hum of energy between you. Your fingers slip into the oversized sleeves of your sweatshirt, tucking into the fabric as you shift in your seat, eyes flicking to Joe’s lap.

A silver tin sits open against the fabric of his grey sweatpants, hinges creaking slightly as he flips it open with one hand. Everything is laid out with the kind of precision that tells you this isn’t his first time: a packed container of weed, a grinder, rolling papers, a lighter. He pinches a small nug between his fingers, twisting it slightly before dropping it into the grinder. The metal teeth scrape together with a faint crunch, and your ears tune into every detail: the sound of the weed breaking down, the steady twist of his wrist, the rhythmic motions that seem practiced, effortless.

You don’t mean to stare, but it’s hard not to when his hands move like that.

He taps the bottom of the grinder against his knee once, then unscrews the lid, tilting it so the finely ground pieces spill onto the rolling paper stretched across his thigh.

The calloused pads of his fingers press into the paper as he spreads the ground weed evenly, smoothing it out before tucking and rolling with ease. His thumb grazes the edge, pressing it down, sealing it shut. His tongue flicks out for just a second, wetting the paper, and for some reason, your breath catches.

You don’t know why.

Joe doesn’t look at you, just runs the lighter along the seam, heating it enough to tighten the paper. Then, finally, he leans back against the seat, resting an arm along the window frame as he brings the blunt to his lips.

The tip flares orange as he inhales, cheeks hollowing slightly, his jaw tightening before his head tips back. He holds it for a second, then exhales, the smoke curling from his lips in slow, lazy spirals, disappearing into the night.

You watch him.

You shouldn’t, but you do.

“You do this during the season?” The question slips out before you fully think it through.

Joe doesn’t answer right away, just takes another slow hit, his gaze flicking toward you. “They only test once a month.”

Your brows pull together slightly. “That’s it?”

A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth as he flicks the ash into the tray by the dashboard. “Gotta be smart about it.” You huff out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. Joe watches you, tilting his head slightly. “You nervous?”

You scoff, shifting in your seat, “please.”

He doesn’t believe you.

The truck creaks slightly as he shifts, extending the blunt toward you, fingers loose but expectant. You hesitate just long enough for something amused to flicker across his expression, but he doesn’t say anything. 

Your fingers graze his as you reach out and take it from him, the warmth of his skin lingering for just a second too long. You ignore the flicker of pride on his face as you bring the blunt to your lips.

The inhale is thick, warm, expanding in your lungs — a slow burn that settles deep, unraveling inside you. It doesn’t hit right away, but you feel the shift, the way it spreads through your chest, your fingertips, making the world tilt just slightly softer.

You hold the smoke for a second before turning and exhaling through the window like him, watching it curl into the air.

Joe watches carefully as you take another hit before handing it back.

The silence lingers for a second before a giggle bubbles up.

You bite down on your lip, trying to suppress it, but it’s useless. Your head is spinning just enough, not from the high of the drug, more the high of the moment.

His brows lift slightly. “What?”

You shake your head, pressing your lips together, but another quiet giggle escapes, and Joe smirks like he’s already figured it out.

“Don’t tell me you’re high already…”

“No.” You shake your head again, but another laugh betrays you.

Joe exhales a small chuckle, shaking his head. “Then what’s so funny?”

You hesitate for a moment, then shrug. “It’s like you’re corrupting me.”

His smirk lingers, but something flickers behind his eyes. Joe turns back, blowing out toward the windshield, fingers rolling the blunt absently between them. “You smoke often?”

“Depends.”

“On?”

Your eyes flick to his. “Who I’m with.”

Joe hums, his smirk deepening as his gaze drags over you. Then, with a curious tilt of his head, he asks, “You actually high yet?”

The warmth is fully in your system now, softening everything, making your limbs feel light, your thoughts a little hazy. You feel good — comfortable and at ease, but still present. You shift slightly in your seat, stretching out your fingers. “Not enough.”

He nods like he was hoping for that answer.

Bringing the blunt to his lips, he takes a slow, deep drag, holding it in. He stays like that for a second, letting it settle, his breath steady, his jaw tight. Then, without a word, he lifts his free hand, curling two fingers in a slow beckoning motion.

Your stomach tightens.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t explain any further. Just waits like he knows you’ll come to him. 

And you do.

The space between you shrinks as you shift closer, your body reacting before your mind fully catches up. The truck suddenly feels smaller, air thick with smoke, warmth, something headier. His scent wraps around you — clean, woodsy cologne, tinged with the smoke. It makes your pulse skip, your head light in a way that has nothing to do with the high.

His fingers lift, curling beneath your chin and tilting your face up. The rough drag of his skin against yours sends heat straight to your stomach.

His thumb reaches higher, grazing the edge of your bottom lip. It’s barely a touch, but it unravels something in you, something that has been simmering beneath the surface since the other night. The pad of his finger presses just slightly, coaxing your mouth open — just seeing how easily you’ll give in.

You notice the way his eyes light up, or maybe they darken. It’s hard to tell when all your hazed mind can process is the way his hands feel on you.

His lips part just slightly, his breath deep and controlled as the smoke rolls from his mouth to yours, warm, slow, wrapping around your lips before sinking into your mouth. The burn spreads through your chest, but it’s nothing compared to the way his eyes are on you.

Joe’s grip tightens, his thumb stroking over your jaw. His gaze drops again, flickering down to your mouth, lingering just a second too long before meeting your eyes again. The way he looks at you sends a sharp, dizzying pulse through your body, heat curling low in your stomach, making you press your thighs closer together before you even realize you’re doing it.

Your eyes flutter shut as you inhale, breath unsteady, pulling in the smoke, but that’s not the only thing you’re letting in. Your body is fully locked into this moment, your pulse hammering against his fingers where they still hold your face.

Joe doesn’t move immediately, holding the space between you for a second too long to be accidental. His touch lingers, thumb ghosting against your skin once more before he finally leans back, releasing you with the same kind of control he’s shown all night.

The loss of his touch leaves you untethered, breath shaky, body thrumming with something you don’t dare trying to name. You exhale the last of the smoke, trying to steady yourself as you sink back into your seat, pulse still stuttering in the space he just left.

Joe doesn’t say anything. He watches you for a moment longer than necessary before falling back into his seat. The warmth of his fingers lingers, imprinting itself in your mind, settling deep enough that you barely notice the way your lips part slightly — almost as if you’re still waiting for him to come back.

Instead, he brings the blunt to his lips one last time, taking a slow drag and holding it, letting his head tilt back against the headrest. His chest expands with it, muscles pulling tight beneath his t-shirt, but his eyes remain half-lidded as he exhales in a long, steady stream. The last bits of smoke quickly dissipate as he reaches for the ashtray.

He stubs the blunt out, pressing the end into the tray with lazy precision before leaving it there, abandoned. Then, he sinks further into his seat, arms folding over his chest as his head turns slightly toward you.

The weight of the moment sticks, thick and unspoken, wrapping around the both of you like a slow-burning fuse that neither of you are quite willing to snuff out. You don’t move. Neither does he. The only sound is the faint hum of the truck’s heater and the slow inhale-exhale of your breath, still slightly unsteady from what just happened.

Your fingers twitch against your lap, curled loosely in the fabric of your sweatshirt. The high is settling deeper now, spreading in soft, warm pulses through your body. 

His fingers drum once against his arm, then he shifts, blowing out through his nose, his voice low, almost contemplative. “So…” His head tips slightly to the side, eyes sharp despite the haze that lingers behind them. “I’m corrupting you, huh?”

Oh.

You don’t respond right away. You don’t know if you can. Joe watches you closely, the corner of his mouth twitching. His expression is unreadable, but his patience is unwavering, like he’s perfectly content sitting there, letting you squirm under his gaze, waiting to see how you handle this.

You inhale, slow, steadying yourself, but it does nothing to calm the pulse hammering in your throat. “I mean…” Your tongue flicks out over your lips, a nervous habit, but Joe’s eyes catch it immediately. 

It feels like your whole body reacts at once; skin flushing, fingers curling into the fabric of your sweatshirt, toes pressing into the soles of your shoes like grounding yourself could stop the dizzy, slow-spreading heat from taking over.

“I’m not wrong,” you manage, voice softer than before.

His tongue drags briefly across the inside of his cheek, his jaw tightening for just a second before relaxing again like he’s keeping himself in check.

“I don’t know,” he murmurs, voice lower, rougher than before. “You seemed pretty willing to give in to it.”

Heat pulses through your limbs, pooling deep in your stomach and curling low, leaving your hands restless where they settle against your lap. Your fingers jerk, then curl, then smooth over your thighs as if the simple action could erase the tension building in your body.

Joe notices.

His eyes flick down quickly, barely a glance, but you feel it. You hear the subtle inhale through his nose, see the clench of his fingers where they rest against his arms, the way the tension, already high, twists tighter.

Your body begs for an escape, urges you to shift, to move — anything to break the spiraling tension. It’s dangerous, suffocating in a way that steals your breath, hijacks your thoughts, and leaves nothing but him.

Joe doesn’t say anything; the silence is deafening. He shakes his head slightly, like he’s resetting himself, like he’s dialing something back. His smirk returns, lazier this time, but his eyes don’t quite match it.

“You make it too easy,” he mutters, voice low, almost thoughtful. Joe doesn’t move at first. He just sits there, head tipped against the seat, watching you like he already knows exactly what’s going through your head. Like he’s known for a while.

You should say something. Should laugh, deflect, break whatever this is before it turns into something you truly can’t take back this time.

But you don’t.

Because when Joe moves, lifting his head, his gaze stays locked on yours, and the space between you is already too small.

You don’t know who moves first. Maybe it’s him, maybe it’s you, maybe it doesn’t matter, because suddenly he’s there, his fingers brushing over your thigh, just a light press through the fabric of your sweats, just enough to make you forget how to breathe.

Your pulse stutters as his hand moves, fingertips skating along the waistband of your pants before hooking beneath them, tugging just enough to make your stomach flutter.

“You gonna stop me?” 

You don’t answer right away, but the second you tilt your chin up, just enough for your breath to brush against his — he pounces.

Joe’s mouth crashes against yours, all heat and restraint unraveling in the same breath. His fingers tighten where they grip you, pulling you closer, dragging you into his lap before you can process what’s happening.

The second you’re in his lap, he takes what he wants. His hands are firm against your hips, tugging you down, forcing you to feel him — all of him, right where you need it. The heat of his mouth is intoxicating, his lips parting yours easily, tongue slipping past with a deep, hungry groan that rumbles low in his chest.

You moan into him, rolling your hips instinctively, the friction sending a sharp pulse of pleasure through you. His grip tightens, blunt nails digging into your sides like he’s holding himself back.

He’s going to let you work for it.

You rock against him again, hands sliding up his chest, nails scraping lightly over the fabric of his shirt as you chase the heat building inside you. His cock is hard beneath you, thick and hot, pressing against your core in a way that makes you ache. You can feel how badly he wants this. How badly he wants you.

You break away from his lips with a gasp as you roll your hips again, grinding down harder, searching for more. Joe groans, head tipping back against the seat, fingers flexing against your waist, but he still doesn’t make any further movements.

He’s taunting you.

Letting you have what you want, but not really.

The realization makes frustration bubble up in your chest. You shift again, trying to pull his hands higher, trying to make him touch you properly, trying to get him to break.

But he just smirks. "That all you got?"

The words hit like a spark to gasoline.

Your hands move before you can think, gripping the hem of his shirt and yanking it over his head, tossing it somewhere into the darkness of the truck. You pause for a second, taking in the sight of him all over again. Your nails drag down his stomach, hot skin over tense muscle, and you swear you hear his breath stutter.

Your fingers dip beneath the waistband of his sweats, pushing them low enough to free his cock, thick and already leaking. He exhales hard through his nose, control fraying, but he still doesn’t help you.

Doesn’t move.

Doesn’t give in.

It should piss you off. It should make you frustrated, and should make you want to give up. But it only entices you further. Your thoughts swirl, about ready to push off him and climb into the backseat when Joe finally makes a move.

His hands snap to your waist, rough, impatient, gripping at the fabric of your sweats and panties pushing them down as far as they’ll go with the way you’re hovering over him. His fingers drag down the curve of your ass, knuckles brushing against your thighs.

You suck in a breath, body lighting up from the feeling of his hands on you, the quick, nearly frantic way he rids you of the last barriers between you. It’s messy, rushed, the fabric bunched around your knees, but it doesn’t matter.

Because the second he’s done, he stops.

Just sits there.

Just waits.

Joe leans back against the seat, any previous cocky expression he held wiped off his face. For a second, you hesitate, waiting for him to move first, but he doesn’t. His eyes stay locked on yours, dark and knowing, challenging you without uttering a word.

Fine.

You shift, lifting yourself just enough to line him up, your breath shaky as you sink down, slow, stretching around him, taking him in until you can’t take anymore.

Joe curses under his breath, hands twitching against your thighs like he wants to grab you, wants to slam you down the rest of the way, but he still doesn’t.

You gasp sharply, adjusting to the feeling of him throb inside you. You brace your hands on his chest, steadying yourself, and start to move.

Slow at first.

A roll of your hips.

A drag of his cock inside you that makes you both gasp.

His hands finally tighten, nails biting into your thighs as he watches you, blue eyes dark and wild, his own breath coming harder, sharper, but he still doesn’t help.

He makes you do it.

You work for it, lifting yourself up, sinking back down, faster now, harder, needing more, chasing it. The pleasure coils tighter and tighter in your stomach, your moans breathy and desperate, your thighs already burning, but you don’t stop.

You can’t.

Not when he’s looking at you like he knows exactly how this is going to end.

And fuck — he’s right.

Because the moment your rhythm falters, the moment your body starts to tremble, Joe moves. His hands snap up to your waist, grip tightening, and then he takes over. He slams you down onto him, meeting you halfway with sharp thrusts that punch the air from your lungs, that leave you falling apart.

"You tried, baby," he breathes, voice strained. "Really did. But you need me, don't you?"

You can’t speak. You can’t do anything except nod, except whimper as he keeps fucking into you at a brutally relentless pace. His lips drag along your jaw, biting, sucking, making you dizzy. "That was cute."

You shudder, nails digging into his shoulders, pleasure crashing over you in waves so intense you think you might black out.

Joe feels it the second you do, the second you tighten around him, the second your moan turns into a desperate little sob.

And he fucking loves it.

His pace stutters, a low groan tearing from his throat as he buries himself deep, holding you there, filling you up, claiming you. Your body melts against his, boneless, your face pressing into the curve of his neck as you try to catch your breath.

His lips brush your ear, voice raspy, still ruined from how hard he just came. "See how easy that was?"

A weak sound escapes you, something between a breathy laugh and a sigh, because you don’t have it in you to argue. Not when your body still feels like it’s floating, not when your pulse still hasn’t figured out how to slow down.

For a while, neither of you move.

Joe’s fingers drag lazily up and down your spine, his breathing still uneven, his body still pressed against yours. He doesn’t move to pull out, doesn’t shift away from you, just keeps you there.

Your head stays tucked against his neck, skin damp, mind trying to recollect from what just happened. You’re not sure how much time passes — seconds? Minutes? It’s quiet, the air thick with something that feels like more than just sex.

Joe’s hand stills.

“You gonna leave again?” His voice is lower now, less teasing, more weighted. The way he says it, it’s not a throwaway comment. It’s not smug, not cocky, not just some post-orgasm power trip. 

You swallow, pulling back just enough to meet his gaze. His expression is unreadable, “do you want me to?” Joe exhales through his nose, a short, quiet huff, his lips quivering like he’s about to say something but doesn’t quite get there.

“No.” His eyes flicker over your face, searching for something, waiting for something, like he expects you to say otherwise.

You should.

You should pull away, put space between you before this turns into something bigger than it already feels. Because this wasn’t supposed to happen. Not once, and definitely not twice.

You swallow, pulling back just enough to really look at him, like maybe you’ll find the answer in his face. 

But, you don’t. So you shake your head, “no.”

Joe exhales through his nose, a quiet sound — something like relief, something like satisfaction. His fingers flex against your skin like he’s taking his time with this moment. And then, just as easily he states, “Give me your number.”

A slow heat spreads through you. You tip your head slightly, searching his face, as if you don’t already know exactly where this is going. “Why?”

Joe huffs a quiet laugh, his smirk deepening, stretching into something so certain. His fingers tighten against your waist in a knowing way — like he’s already thought about this, already decided how this goes.

“Well,” his eyes drag down between you before flicking back up like he’s taking his time with it.

Like he’s already picturing it.

“I don’t know if I can wait until Christmas to see you again…”

His grip shifts, his thumb sweeping lower, dragging slowly along the curve of your pelvis. His voice turns downright sinful, his breath warm against your lips as he murmurs—

“Might need something to hold me over.”

[spookyji]

more pervy bf jisung plss🙏🏻 I live for that

store policy. p.js

(nsfw + mdni) pervy bf and a changing room? yes please. not proofread btw

it’s been five minutes, and jisung’s not quite sure if his waistband tuck is going to do it for him anymore. like, raging boner kind of boner. and it’s really not his fault. sort of. but as he wipes his sweaty palms down his pants, he knows it deep down. he’s such a pervert. and it’s becoming a problem every time you’re around.

it’s everything about you that drives him mad, so insanely lustful his face blushes cherry red, blood rushing south as his hands sweat trying to hold back his own desires. and he got here five minutes ago, cluelessly following your text instructions to meet up at some trendy clothing store, feeling so out of place as he wandered to the back where the changing rooms were. he sat down for five minutes, and now, jisung’s fucked.

“ji, what do you think?” you ask, biting your lip in thought, twisting around to get a better look at the rather minuscule skirt, unknowingly giving your poor boyfriend a more than generous view of your panties, flimsy fabric tight against the curve of your cute ass, and just for a moment, jisung swears he can see the outline of your intimate skin, sending him down a mental spiral as he tries to avoid looking too closely,, dirty mind already out of his control.

imagining the way he could rip those flimsy, useless panties away, tie the torn fabric around your wrists… his hands filled with the plush of your thighs, whimpering his name, “ji, ji, ji—!”and then the illusion breaks, and he’s blankly staring at a wall as you tap his shoulder. “are you paying attention?” you pout, as jisung fumbles for a coherent thought. “oh— um, yeah, it’s nice—“ he nods, the dirty feeling of shame already washing over him as he silently swears at himself, keep it together—! you haven’t been dating long enough that he’d like to admit… to being a huge pervert.

well, if he says so, you’re pleased. and so it continues, a try on and your boyfriend seemingly zoning out, only to pop back into reality with a tap to the shoulder, flustered reply, and an awkward cough. he’s blushing rather red. maybe because he’s the only boy in the store? you glance around, but the store has mostly cleared out from the afternoon rush, with workers staring at the clock as it nears closing. “one more, then we can check out?” you ask, and jisung gives an absent minded nod, looking shyer than ever, his long legs uncomfortably crossed as he plays with a loose string on the bench cushion.

god, he’s going to lose it. his lower lip chewed raw, long legs really trying to cover up his unbearably obvious bulge, at this rate, jisung’s not even sure if he can drive you home without at least an emergency jerk off. and while he knows you’d probably want to help him, it would just be so embarrassing, a boner just from clothes? what a loser.

“jisung, can you help me? hurry!” you call, causing his heart to rapidly race several beats too fast. just… don’t be a pervert about it—! “i– okay, baby.” tugging the changing room curtain aside, his tall frame vanishing behind it for a moment before you’ve teasingly trapped him against the wall, dress half zipped up in the back, enticingly hanging off your back as your fingers reach down, tracing the rather prominent bulge in his pants. “i— it’s not what it looks lik— you didn’t want to tell me?” you giggle, your tall, broad shouldered boyfriend completely wrapped around your finger as jisung blushes, his ears flushed as he stifles a moan, the slow, quiet drag of his zipper gliding down as you tug the zip, painfully stiff cock barely held by his boxers, a wet stain darkening a spot of fabric. “ji, if you wanted to fuck me, you can always say so,” you whisper, grasping the collar of his shirt to tug him lower, “i want you, too.”

your fingers slipping down, wrapping around the width of his cock, thumb pressed against a prominent vein as you slowly pump his length, his pretty lips parting as pants slip out, almost begging for a kiss as his hazy eyes meet yours. languid, sloppy kisses, his hips rutting into your hand, his tall frame awkwardly leaned over yours as jisung relaxes with your touch, so pent up it barely takes anything for his whimpering pants to morph into his pretty, needy moans, sticky cum spurting over your fingers and on the hem of the dress, creamy white ropes of seed making such a mess…

“not gonna give me any?” you whine, licking your fingers, god, he’s so weak to everything, jisung’s needy hands clumsily pushing you into the wall, bent over at a perfect angle for him, his words almost slurred in his lusty daze, “please,,,?” and who are you to say no… he’s so pretty like this, his shirt sticking to his skin, pants unzipped and his heavy, pale cock flushed pink at the tip, seeping cum, face flushed like a drunk man (well…) parted lips and chest heaving with breaths, god, he’s so— “fuck me please, sungie.”

muffled cries barely audible through his hand, wrapped ‘round your lips, lewd, slaps of skin on skin, clothes rustling in such obvious noise, jisung’s face buried in the crook of your neck as his free hand grasps at every inch of you, your waist, hips, trying to keep a coherent hold on reality, heated pants hot on your skin, burning through your collarbones as your pulse races beneath his lips, god, what a mess, scent of sex so heavy in the air…

but neither of you could care less, what, so full of cock you can’t think, jisung so pussy drunk he can barely manage coherent words, like a crushed butterfly, makeup and hair all ruined as his rough pace messily slams into your pussy, sticky with smeared cum and arousal, so dirty, aren’t you? ‘s only until he’s stuffed you full, whimpering mindlessly as hot cream fills you up, jisung becomes even clingier, every inch of his body pressed to yours, breath hitching, feels so good to be milked of his cum, hmm? oh, it’s such a mess… all you can manage to say is his name,, about to until an untimely knock comes against the side.

“excuse me… i’m afraid we will have to ask you to leave for… violating store policy.”

[solxamber]

Match Made in Madness - Floyd Leech x reader

Soulmates get updates of each other's lives through an overly enthusiastic dream narrator. What's worse is that your soulmate seems to be completely unhinged.

It all starts on another one of those nights—the weird dream where your soulmate’s day is narrated to you in the most ridiculous fashion imaginable. No names, no faces, just an over-the-top, enthusiastic narrator who acts like they’re introducing a daytime soap.

"Good evening, soulmate! Ready for another wild day? Well, buckle up, because your beloved got into a fight with a vending machine!"

You groan in your sleep, already bracing for what’s next. The narrator continues with gleeful energy:

"After losing said battle, your soulmate kicked the machine and declared, ‘I’ll have the last laugh, metal box!’ Later in the day, they spent 45 minutes trying to convince a bird to become their personal spy. Spoiler alert: the bird didn’t agree, but they’re not giving up anytime soon!"

When you wake up, you rub your eyes and mutter, "What the hell is my soulmate doing?" Clearly, the universe decided to match you with an absolute madman, and you’re starting to wonder if you’ll even survive meeting them.

The dreams continue for weeks, and the updates get progressively weirder. Whoever this person is, they have the chaotic energy of a tornado in a convenience store. One night, you get this gem:

"Exciting news! Today, your soulmate tried to see if they could juggle three eels at once. Spoiler: they couldn’t, but they did manage to send one flying into a professor’s lunch. Next on the agenda, they challenged the ocean to a race. The ocean won."

You’re so used to these bizarre updates by now that you don’t even flinch. Instead, you’re beginning to wonder why the universe thinks it’s funny to torture you with someone who clearly doesn’t have a firm grasp on reality.

And then one night, the narrator drops a bombshell:

"Your soulmate spent the entire afternoon wondering if there’s any way they could convince their twin brother to switch places with them on a date— Oh wait, forget I said that! That one’s classified!*"

What? Now, you’re officially on edge. Not only do they have a twin, but they’ve been thinking about dating? This is spiraling out of control.

You’re sitting at the Mostro Lounge, thinking about the increasingly unhinged dreams when you spot Floyd Leech across the room. Normally, you’d ignore him because, well, Floyd has a reputation, and it’s not exactly “outstanding member of society.”

But today, something feels off. You’ve heard a few things—people say he’s chaotic, unpredictable, and obsessed with “playing” with his victims. And suddenly, you can’t stop thinking about the dream where your soulmate tried to juggle eels.

Floyd catches your eye, and before you can look away, he’s making a beeline for your table. Oh no. Please no.

“Hey, Shrimpy,” he says with his usual, lazy grin, flopping down in the seat next to you like he owns the place. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Close enough.

You swallow hard. “Uh… just thinking.”

“Thinking, huh?” Floyd leans in, uncomfortably close. “What about?”

How are you supposed to say, I think you’re my soulmate, but I’m also convinced you’re a lunatic? Instead, you nervously laugh. “Oh, nothing. Just… dreams.”

“Dreams, huh?” Floyd’s eyes narrow, but he looks more interested than suspicious. “Like… those ones where some random guy is juggling eels?”

Your blood runs cold.

“Wait—how did you know about the eels?”

Floyd’s grin widens. “Oh? So it is you! I knew it!” He laughs, leaning back with a satisfied look, like he’s just solved the greatest mystery of his life. “Shrimpy, you’re hilarious! I’ve been having those dreams about you, too. You’re always doing weird stuff, like… rescuing ducks or tripping over your own feet.”

Your heart races. “Wait, so—you're my soulmate?”

“Duh,” Floyd says, rolling his eyes like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “The universe has a sense of humor, doesn’t it?”

At first, you’re convinced this is a prank, a cruel joke. But the more you talk to Floyd, the more everything starts to click into place. He’s chaotic, sure. Completely unpredictable? Absolutely. But he’s also the same person who, according to your dreams, once wondered if seaweed could be used as a fashion statement. He’s also the guy who—oh right—challenged the ocean to a race.

And now that you’ve met him, you realize one important detail: he’s perfect.

Well, perfect in the most unhinged way possible.

A week later, you find yourself in an increasingly ridiculous situation—Floyd has somehow convinced you to help him “steal” a giant fish from the campus pond.

“Why are we doing this again?” you ask, holding the bucket as he dives headfirst into the water.

“Because,” Floyd says between splashes, “the fish looks like he’s having a bad day, so we’re gonna give him a makeover.”

You stare blankly at the pond. “You want to makeover a fish.”

Floyd pops back up, water dripping from his hair, with a grin that could melt glaciers. “Yeah! Why not?”

You don’t have a good answer for that, so you just shrug. This is my life now.

That night, you’re lying in bed, starting to doze off, when the dream narrator pops up again:

"Good evening, soulmate! Today, your other half tried to give a fish a new look. It didn’t work, but they still had fun! Also, they’ve been thinking about holding your hand."

You wake up with a groan, rubbing your face in disbelief. Of course, Floyd would think about something like that in the middle of a fish-stealing escapade. But there’s something undeniably sweet about it, too.

The next day, Floyd grabs your hand without warning as you’re walking through campus. “I had a dream about this,” he says casually, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

You smile, squeezing his hand back. “So did I.”

Maybe the universe isn’t such a prankster after all.

Masterlist

[verstappenverse]

can you do a fic based on the Live event? can it be a charles fic?

Five Minutes Off-Schedule

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Reader

Summary: At the F175 live event there’s no room for distractions. The collision is unplanned, the attraction immediate, and the interruption entirely unwelcome. Five minutes with Ferrari’s golden boy might just be enough to derail your night.

Author's Note: First Charles request hope you enjoy 🫶🏼

1.9k words / Masterlist

You’ve been on your feet for hours. Between checking stage setups, coordinating media schedules, and making sure nothing spontaneously combusts, the F175 live event is running as smoothly as one can hope. Every moving piece of the event relies on your ability to juggle a dozen different tasks at once, and there’s no room for distractions. Not when a single oversight could send the entire schedule into chaos.

Your phone is practically an extension of your hand, vibrating with new emails, last-minute schedule adjustments, and frantic messages from colleagues trying to keep the event from spiralling into disaster. Every few steps someone stops you with a question, a problem, or an urgent request, and you barely have time to breathe, let alone pause and take in the spectacle around you.

Which is probably why you don’t see the heavy-duty equipment case in your path, at least not until you walk straight into it. And because the universe has a twisted sense of humour, it’s spectacularly unsurprising that the one and only Charles Leclerc appears in front of you at the exact moment you do.

Your clipboard clatters to the ground, papers scattering in disarray.

“Shit—” You exhale sharply, steadying yourself with one hand on the case, the other instinctively reaching for your phone before it slips from your grasp. Your heart pounds in irritation, but the moment you lift your gaze, your breath catches in your throat.

A pair of familiar green eyes meet yours.

Strong hands steady you before you can fully wipe out, and suddenly, you’re looking up at a familiar face. Charles stands before you, brows slightly raised, hands lifted in a half-hearted attempt to prevent the collision. His black suit blazer is unbuttoned over a fitted white shirt, the sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal the sinewy strength in his forearms. His expression wavers between concern and amusement, his lips twitching like he’s holding back a laugh.

"Ah, merde," he mutters, a hint of a smirk curling at the edges of his lips. "That was dramatic. Are you okay?"

Your brain short-circuits for a second. The adrenaline from the near-fall mixes with something undeniably mortifying as you take a quick step back, putting a safe distance between the two of you.

“I—uh, yeah.” You clear your throat, willing the heat creeping up your neck to disappear. “Sorry, I didn’t see—” You gesture vaguely at the offending equipment case, even though it was very much in plain sight, as if that excuses your complete lack of spatial awareness.

“You were walking like you had somewhere to be,” he counters, his tone light, but his eyes assessing.

“Because I do,” you reply, a little too quickly.

He watches you with interest, one hand slipping into his pocket, the other resting casually on his hip. “So serious,” he muses.

You huff out a breath, more focused on straightening the disheveled papers than on the amused man in front of you. “Some of us are working.”

He crouches at the same time as you, and in the process your fingers brush his. The contact is brief but enough to make your stomach do something ridiculous. You snatch the clipboard quickly, standing up before you make more of a fool of yourself.

“Sorry, I don’t have time for whatever this is,” you say firmly.

“'Whatever this is'?” He tilts his head, his smirk deepening. “I think this was just an unfortunate accident.”

You roll your eyes, stepping to the side to move past him. “Great, then let’s not make a habit of it.”

“Tsk,” he clicks his tongue. “So cold. You’re sure you didn’t plan this? Walking straight into me?”

You let out an incredulous laugh. “Oh, absolutely. I rearranged the entire event schedule just so I could trip into you.”

But before you get too far, his voice follows you. “Ah, but now I’m intrigued. Maybe I should be the one rearranging my schedule.”

You don’t bother looking back. “I wouldn’t recommend it.”

An hour later you spot him again, leaning against the bar in the hospitality suite sipping something dark in a lowball glass. The dim lighting casts a golden glow over the polished wood, the soft murmur of conversation filling the space. You’ve just finished dealing with a minor crisis when your eyes meet across the room.

He smirks.

You turn away, determined to pretend the moment never happened.

It should end there.

But then he’s suddenly beside you, his presence felt before he even speaks. The faint scent of expensive cologne lingers in the air between you, mingling with the sharp tang of whiskey from his glass. He moves like someone who belongs here, at ease in a way you envy.

“Are you avoiding me?” His voice is smooth, threaded with quiet amusement.

You sigh, tilting your head slightly as you glance at him. “Avoiding implies I was thinking about you.”

That earns a low chuckle, rich and genuine. “You wound me.”

“Unlikely.”

He doesn’t move, doesn’t look away. Instead, he tilts his head, studying you with an infuriating sort of patience. “So you’re working here, for the event?”

“Yeah, sort of. More like ‘thrown into the fire and hoping not to get burned.” You shift the clipboard in your grip, forcing yourself to focus. “Making sure everything runs smoothly. Not doing a great job of it apparently.”

“I think you’re doing great,” he says easily, glancing around the room with practiced observation. “Everything looks very…well-organised.”

You let out a dry laugh, rubbing your temple. “You say that because you can’t see the chaos behind the scenes.”

“Ah, but that’s the point, no?” His smile is warm, a little too knowing. “If it looks perfect to the outside world, then you’ve done your job.”

You blink. He’s right, obviously, but you didn’t expect him to say something like that, insightful and understanding.

“Maybe,” you admit. “Or maybe it’s just good PR.”

His lips quirk, like he’s fighting back another smirk. “That bad, really?”

You sigh, shifting the clipboard in your arms. “Let’s just say I’ve spent most of the night convincing your fellow drivers not to wander off five minutes before they’re supposed to be on stage.”

He laughs, the sound low and unrestrained, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Sounds about right.” He leans in slightly, lowering his voice like he’s about to share a secret. “So who’s been the worst?”

You huff a laugh, shaking your head. “I’m legally not allowed to disclose that information.”

“Oh come on.” He nudges your elbow lightly with his own. “Give me a hint. Just a small one.”

You narrow your eyes. “Absolutely not.”

His grin deepens, like he enjoys the challenge. “Fine. I’ll just have to guess.” He taps his chin, feigning deep thought. “Lando?”

You press your lips together, refusing to give anything away.

“Aha,” he says triumphantly. “That’s a yes.”

You groan, rolling your shoulders. “I swear, keeping drivers in one place is like herding—”

“Children?”

You snort, unable to help it. “Your words, not mine.”

Charles grins, pleased with himself, and takes a slow sip from his glass. His gaze remains on you, curiosity flickering behind the teasing. You wonder, briefly, if this is how he always is, charming, easygoing, entirely too confident for his own good.

And, annoyingly, it’s working.

“I suppose I should let you get back to preventing disasters,” he muses after a beat, though he makes no actual move to leave.

“You suppose correctly.”

He hums, setting his empty glass down with an exaggerated sigh. “A shame.”

You arch a brow. “Why?”

“Because I think it'd be much more fun if you took a break.” His voice drops just slightly, a thread of something almost challenging woven through it.

You exhale, shaking your head. “I don’t have time for breaks.”

His smile is slow, deliberate. “Maybe you should make time.”

And then, just as easily as he appeared, he turns and disappears into the crowd, leaving you standing there, pulse annoyingly uneven.

You think that’s the last of it. But Charles seems determined to prove you wrong.

You see him again near the backstage producers area, where he absolutely doesn’t need to be. The space is a flurry of activity, you’re mid-discussion with a sound tech, trying to sort out an audio issue that could derail the entire segment, when you feel a familiar presence.

He walks by, clearly in no rush, hands in his pockets, he catches your eye, smiles, and keeps going, like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Then again when you’re near the dressing rooms, balancing a stack of equipment, you sense him before you see him. This time he doesn’t just walk by, he stops, standing directly in your path, one hand outstretched.

“Need help?”

You narrow your eyes, shifting the weight of the equipment in your arms slightly. “Are you even supposed to be here?”

He shrugs, entirely unbothered. “Probably not.”

“Charles.”

“What?”

You exhale, shaking your head. “I don’t have time to babysit you.”

He places a hand over his heart mockingly, eyes twinkling with mischief. “So harsh. And here I was, just trying to be helpful.”

“Shouldn’t you be doing Ferrari things?” you ask, arching a brow.

His lips twitch. “Ferrari things?”

“You know. Smiling for cameras, charming sponsors, pretending you’re not dying for the event to be over.”

He tilts his head, smirk deepening. "Who says I’m pretending?"

You scoff. "So you are over it."

"Not everything." His gaze lingers just a beat too long. "Present company excluded."

That gives you pause. He studies you for a moment, then gestures to your clipboard. “Five minutes. I promise not to steal your precious clipboard.”

You arch a brow. “Bold of you to assume I’d let it out of my sight.”

His laughs. “I figured. But if I have to compete for your attention, I’d at least like a fair shot.”

You hesitate, glancing around at the chaos still unfolding around you but then again, Charles Leclerc is standing in front of you, eyes locked onto yours like he has nowhere else he would rather be.

“…Five minutes,” you relent.

His smile is triumphant. “That’s all I need.” He waits until you set your clipboard down, watching with an amused tilt of his head.

“I have a million things to do,” you counter.

“Then what’s five minutes?” He leans against the wall, entirely at ease.

You cross your arms. “And what exactly do you plan to do in these precious five minutes?”

His grin widens. “Well, I was thinking of just standing here and watching you stress, but that feels a little cruel.”

You huff, unimpressed. “Glad to know you’re self-aware.”

“I try,” he muses. “But I was actually going to ask if you wanted to grab a drink. Or at the very least, breathe.”

You glance around, half-expecting someone to swoop in and drag him away to something important. But no one does. He stands there, patiently waiting, like the answer genuinely matters to him.

“You’re persistent, you know that?”

“I’ve been told.” His expression softens, just slightly. “Look, I know how these events go. Nonstop. Overwhelming. Sometimes you need someone to remind you to take a second for yourself.”

You hesitate, just a beat too long, and Charles seizes the opportunity.

“I’ll even let you complain about my fellow drivers,” he offers. “No names needed. Just a little vent session.”

You press your lips together, fighting a smile. “Tempting.”

“Isn’t it?” He steps a fraction closer, lowering his voice. “So? What’ll it be?”

You roll your eyes, but you’re already reaching for your phone to set it aside. “Fine. Five minutes.”

Charles grins and his eyes sparkle like he’s just won a race.

And as he leads you toward a quieter area of the venue, you can’t help but think that maybe five minutes isn’t such a bad idea.

[r3starttt]

Young reader x Caitlyn where reader is an influencer on TikTok / YouTuber and post a lot of soft lunch of Caitlyn ( we never see her face , like js their dates , Caitlyn’s Hand or her back )

And her fans quickly recognize Caitlyn ( how ? Idk crazy fans and the signature colour of Caitlyn’s hair )

The fans are going absolutely CRAZYYY over it.

Imagine this: you start off small, just making fun TikToks here and there. What begins as a casual hobby spirals into something bigger—you’re on YouTube, Instagram, Twitter, maybe even Twitch. Before long, you’re gaining traction, invited onto podcasts, and suddenly, every chance you get, you’re talking about Caitlyn. She’s the actress of the moment, starring in countless queer films, and you’re just like everyone else, hopelessly captivated by her.

It escalates. People tag you in edits of her, and you lean into it, making videos gushing over her because, let’s be real, there’s no way she’ll ever see them. After all, she has social media, but it’s handled by her team. She’s older, more private, and has never publicly talked about being into women. Meanwhile, you’re just a silly influencer with a crush on the unattainable. Or so you think.

One day, you’re invited to the premiere of her latest movie - your dream come true. You get to interview her. When it’s your turn, she surprises you, leaning in with a knowing look you know: “You’re the one who makes those videos, right?” She catches you off guard, and you’re stumbling over apologies. But then she replies again, casually, “I like your content. I’ve been following you for a while."

The internet erupts. Everyone’s talking about how Caitlyn actually knows who you are, how she seemed genuinely charmed by you during the interview. It’s the kind of thing people dream about. But for Caitlyn, it’s more calculated. She’s smart, too smart to let a relationship—especially her first public one—be exposed so easily. Later that night, she sends someone from her team to bring you to the afterparty. It’s discreet, casual, but enough.

It starts with Instagram messages, small conversations that grow into something more. Despite the walls she’s built around her life, you’re charming enough to break through. She’s giggling at your jokes, brushing her hair behind her ear as if she’s not one of the most sought-after actresses in the world. Eventually, she can’t resist, and she asks you out—not for a flashy date, but something quiet and thoughtful, just the two of you.

Caitlyn is not one to flaunt her wealth, but she’s meticulous, researching your likes and interests, piecing together the perfect date. Over time, the connection deepens. Phone calls turn into late-night visits at each other’s homes, and one night, under the soft hum of background music, she leans in, her hands cupping your face as she kisses you. It’s natural.

As the relationship blossoms, you respect her desire for privacy. You post subtle hints on social media—coffee cups at her favorite spot, a new brand of makeup you both love, glimpses of the places you go together. Caitlyn plays along, occasionally posting from the same locations, but always with enough time and space to keep people guessing.

The fans start noticing the small details: her dogs in the background of your Instagram stories, your sweater draped over her shoulders, matching jewelry. It’s a slow burn, a puzzle people piece together over months until the connection is undeniable.

And then, at one of her premieres, it becomes official. You’re by her side, her arm around you, a soft kiss shared in front of the cameras. The world explodes—some people are thrilled, calling it a dream come true. Others doubt it’ll work, citing the differences in your careers and lives. But you don’t care. Caitlyn starts mentioning you in interviews, and every time she does, the audience melts at how deeply she seems to care for you.

#needthat