#he just wants to have a bad time. and we should let him.

[lacedcompulsion]

FLATLANDS

Hotch sends you and Spencer to Iowa to conduct a death row interview with an inmate. Thing is, there's not much to do in Iowa but fuck.

pairing: spencer reid x bau!reader

tags/warnings: 18+, wc: 5.9k, whew, smut, porn w plot, piv sex, unprotected sex, drunk sex, oral sex (both receiving), fingering, soft-dom spencer ish, biting, praise kink, this is so self-indulgent muahahaha, discussions of a case, but nothing too bad it's canon typical stuff, iowa hate idgaf!!, drinking/getting drunk, i think that's it!

notes: this is likeeee. one of my first times writing longer smut. also i did in fact say i would re-upload old re-worked fics before posting anything new but alas! i am a liar! here is something brand new! i spent like. 9 straight hours on this yesterday. and it is currently almost 8 am and i just spent all night finishing it up instead of sleeping. ALSO i am in fact a philosophy major (future barista moment) and my fics get soooo. philosophy-esque. like. every single time. i'm sorry... i am who i am.

If you had to remove one state from the contiguous union, it would be Iowa. 

You’re standing in a rusty hotel room, which, according to Hotch, is the best they could do to accommodate you. And Spencer. He’s one room over. Your feet vibrate against the rug. You tell yourself it’s the thought of him, one wall over — thinking, sitting, reading, whatever he’s doing — and not some rare kind of bacteria you’re going to catch from the stink of this place.

Hotch sent you and Reid here for a death row interview. One of the inmates, having spent the past seventeen years as a self-proclaimed monk, decided he was done with silence. He answered the bureau’s request for an interview in a letter addressed to Hotch’s desk, written in red ink. It’s your first prison interview — you usually wear the bad guys down before they’re locked away forever — but Spencer has done one or two, he said. You think it might be more.

You’d never been to Iowa, never had a case here. You’re not great with time off, even worse with real vacations. You don’t look out your window for fear the corn fields have gotten closer since you last peeked through the curtains. You swear you can see twenty miles out; the flatness makes it easy to mistake the horizon for something that never, ever ends. 

You’re picking at the skin of your fingernails, toes curled as they still rest but resist against the carpet, when there’s a knock at your door. You don’t check, because you’re not really fearful. It might make you a shitty FBI agent, but you doubt anyone is tracking you down in Iowa. (Iowa. It gets worse each time you think it.)

“Hi,” Spencer says, lips pulled flat. Flat. You think of fields. Corn. Emptiness. Your stomach churns then lurches when you think of your own bed in your own home in a state that has real hills and mountains and trees. 

“Hi.” 

“Thought you might want to look over the file before tomorrow?” He frames it like a question, and you offer a soft smile at his hesitancy before opening the door to let him in. He turns his body to the left to avoid making contact with you as he accepts the invitation and walks on through.

Your bed is still made, your suitcase resting on top of it. He scrunches his nose before recovering.

“I’m not a germaphobe, like someone we both know,” you mock.

“Maybe you should be.” You laugh. You’ve been his teammate for three years now, and it still gets you when he decides he can lighten up and make a joke.

He looks around, still awkward in the yellow tint of the hotel lamp, then decides to sit in the desk chair in the corner.

“You look so ominous,” you say, shaking your head as you pull the file out of the nightstand. 

“Why is your casefile in there?”

“Where do you keep yours?”

“I never put it away.”

“Checks out,” you say, raising your eyebrows and sitting criss-crossed on the edge of your bed, facing him.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Gary Foster,” you read off the top of the page, ignoring his bait. “Killed twenty-three women in his basement. His wife never knew.”

“Or claims she didn’t know,” Spencer corrects. 

“You think she did?”

He shrugs. “It doesn’t really matter what I think.”

You glance up at him to find him staring intently at the file in his hands. He’s gripping onto it like it’s all he knows. You store your observations away in your head under a tab titled Perhaps Ask Later. 

You’ve gone over this file a dozen times. It’s virtually seared into your memory. Still, you let him tack off the rest of the information to you, compile the intensive profile Hotch gave you into a bullet point list. 

“He’s gonna focus on me,” you say once he reaches a lull in speech.

“Because you’re a woman?” he confirms. You nod. “Maybe.”

You tap the file a few times with your fingers as a yawn creeps up your throat, threatening to escape. Spencer seems to get the hint before you even let it out. 

“We’ve got a long day tomorrow,” he says before standing. He takes a step forward before turning around and tucking the chair back into the desk. You smile at the politeness. “See you tomorrow?”

“Is that a question?” you tease as you lead him to the door. “I promise I won’t jump out of the window.”

“There’s not much out there.”

“No, there isn’t.” He fumbles with the key for the door across the hall. You wait for him to open it before you start to close yours, the way you would after driving a friend at home. “Night.”

“Night,” he says, though the latter half of the word is muffled by the shut of the door. 

The room is barren again. You open the curtains now that it’s nearing total darkness outside.

It takes six more hours for you to drift off into sleep.

– 

Your hand is immediately on your temple when you awake, rubbing at the budding headache you know will consume you once you get up. This is the punishment you get for allowing yourself only three hours of sleep.

The sunlight hits your bed in fluttering intervals of perfect warmth and scorching heat. This time, when the hindmost rolls around, you force yourself up and place your feet on the ground. You hold your tongue to refrain from releasing a long string of fucks and shits and realize your hand is still refusing to move from its spot rubbing circles in your face. When you make your way to the bathroom, you realize the bed is so hard you’ve left no indent. 

The sting of the shower is pelting, boiling enough that it feels purifying. After a night spent in sheets you’re sure dozens have sweat through, it’s more than welcome. The heat is the perfect substrate for the anticipatory dread of today’s interview. Speaking to monsters as if there’s a hint of human behind the stitching has never pulled at you in the right way. 

If anything, it’s slowly pulled you apart.

The outlet in your bathroom is broken so you’re forced to dry your hair sitting on the carpet of the room, right next to that window that stares out into nowhere. You feel itchy just sitting on it. You swear the fibers are pressing into your skin, merging with your skin. 

The file is open on the floor in front of you, and you use your thumb to wipe the water falling from your damp hair. The pages already begin to curdle like the feeling in your stomach. 

You put your hair in a ponytail, then worry it’s too sexual — because you’ve absorbed the profile and you know what earns a check on this guys list —- so you take it down and let it rest on your shoulders again. Your knees crack when you stand up and your hip tenses up like it might, too, when you slip your legs into your pants. 

There’s a knock on your door and you mutter fuck as you balance your time between finishing the rest of the buttons on your blouse and stumbling to the door.

“I need a couple minutes,” you say, before you say hello. You leave the door open as you retreat farther into the room. “You can wait in here.”

You squeeze your feet into your heels — half a size too small, and in your head you call the saleslady who insisted on that being necessary for this brand a word that would make your grandmother sour — and peripherally watch him step into the room, hands stuffed in his pockets. 

“You ready?” he asks. You can feel his eyes on your unmade bed. 

“Mhm.” You glance in the square mirror facing the bed and smooth out your clothes. 

“I mean for the interview,” he says after clearing his throat.

“My answer remains.”

“Cool.” He says it in the way that feels fraudulent, but is really just the way he speaks, you’ve come to realize.

“Are you ready?” you ask back, muffled by the file placed between your teeth as you fumble around your desk for your car keys and room card. You make eye contact with him as you head for the door.

“Don’t really have much of a choice, do I?”

“Stand up straight,” you say, holding the door open for him as you both step into the hallway.

“What?” he mutters. He does it anyway.

“He’s gonna zero in on you if you seem to lack confidence.”

“Right.”

It’s silence between you two in the hallway, the elevator, the lobby, and until you’re pulling out of the parking lot. There’s overgrown wheatgrass in the field to your left and plowed corn crop to your right. The furrows stretch on until the curve of the earth swallows them up.

The sky is dull, slate-colored, and bears striking resemblance to something that could wipe you clean. Grain silos whir by every couple of minutes. These people really own a lot of fucking land. Every few miles, a new one, along with a rusting tractor or collapsing barn or crop that looks about ready to dry up and blow away. It gets predictable after mile seven. 

The prison doesn’t appear so much as it settles into your vision. It’s low to the ground, sprawling, gray. A scar pressed into the ground. 

You feel like Spencer the way you’ve completely memorized the profile. You flash your badge at the gate, sign some kind of form and drive into a parking lot that feels as far from the prison as your hotel was.

Spencer lingers in the car two seconds after you get out. He’s nervous, and he’s trying not to show it. You don’t want to mention it, but you need to be on the same page, so you don’t stop your lips from unfurling.

“You’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing?”

“The anxious math,” you say. “You’re calculating the probability of saying the wrong thing before we even walk in.”

“That’s-” He seems to think better than arguing and redirects his sentence. “That’s not entirely inaccurate.”

You give him one of those closed lip smiles. “He’ll spot it in five seconds. He feeds on nerves like that. First, he’ll comment on your hands, because you fidget when you’re trying not to.”

“You sound like Hotch.”

You scoff out a half-laugh and choose to ignore the comment otherwise. “And he’ll ask how long you’ve known me. If we’re sleeping together. He won’t say it like that, of course. He’ll be crude. He wants to gauge what version of you shows up when you’re off-balance.”

“Why would that knock me off balance?” he asks. The hesitancy has stolen his tone again.

“You fluster easily.”

“Do I?”

“Mhm. You blink three times, touch your collar, and then deflect with statistics. You did it the first time I challenged you during a case.”

He tuts then holds the door of the prison open for you. “You’re profiling me.”

“Of course I am,” you say, then turn your head over your shoulder, waiting for him to walk back up beside you again. He’s close behind you, so close you can almost feel his breath on you. It makes you feel warm. “So will he.”

You greet two more guards inside before shaking hands with the warden. He thanks you for coming with that grim look on his face that everyone in this field seems to have permanently etched into the creases of their skin. The prison is colder inside than it has any right to be, as if the concrete has learned to hold onto every winter it’s ever survived. 

“Still nervous?” you whisper to Spencer. 

He smiles, shakes his head no. 

Good, you mouth.

You pretend not to notice his eyes fixate for a beat longer than necessary on your lips. You lick them in response. When he meets your eyes again, you pretend not to notice that something undecipherable is hidden behind his lids, too. 

—

Foster smiles when you walk in. He doesn’t look at Spencer. You let Spencer pull your chair out for you, which immediately catches the guy’s attention. You think of still water, use it as a guide for being calm.

“Well,” Foster says. He hasn’t dropped the smile from his face. “They sent a good-looking one.”

“We, the FBI, are really grateful you chose to cooperate with us,” you say. “You know, in your final days.”

“Hm.” He turns to Spencer, finally. “She yours?”

You don’t look at him, and you will him to ignore him, to start asking him the standard questions. What’s your name? What year were you born? 

“She’s her own,” he says instead. It comes out even and flat. 

“You hesitated,” Foster says. His smile shows his teeth, now. “I suppose that’s not a crime.”

“No,” you agree. You open your file and lay a picture of his mugshot on the table. You can tell he was expecting photos of one of the women whose life he stole away. “But murder is.”

Spencer clears his throat and nudges your ankle with the tip of his shoe. You give him no reaction, but the next time you reach for the file, you let your fingertips brush against his wrist. 

—

“That wasn’t awful,” Spencer says when you step out, though he says it like he’s releasing one big breath born out of a collection of accumulated air trapped in his lungs. 

Foster did say something crude. You’d prefer not to repeat it, mostly because you’re not sure if Spencer was blushing or if he was just hot. 

The prison was freezing, you remind yourself. Then you shove the thought back down. 

“It wasn’t great,” you say. “I wish I’d pushed him further about—”

“Stop,” he says. His hand is on your bicep now. “Don’t overthink it, you did great.”

“Okay,” you say. “Don’t profile me, now.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The walk back to the car leaves you sticky and hot. You note, aimlessly, that Iowa gets hot enough if you let it — if you stay long enough to let it swelter.

“Our flight’s not till the morning,” you groan, slamming the car door shut.

“Not a fan of Iowa?”

“In how many languages do you know how to say fuck no?”

“Twelve," he says. His eyes flit to the ceiling. “No, fourteen.” 

“Ridiculous.” 

—

You crash as soon as you get back to your hotel room. You sleep for what feels like two hours but you know is way longer than that, and when you finally peel your eyes open you’re sweating. You’re clinging to your sheets, and you consider yourself bed-ridden as you roll over and check your phone. Hotch has sent you three messages asking for updates. Your stomach twinges with guilt for not answering, though you figure he probably moved on and texted Spencer.

Spencer.

You feel bad. You had ditched him, retreating to your hotel room the second you guys got back. You wonder what he did, if he got food, though there’s not much to do in Iowa. In fact, there’s nothing to do in Iowa. 

You slip out of your clothes and take a quick rinse-off in the shower. Your hair is still wet when you adorn yourself in a gray t-shirt and sleep shorts and creep over across the hall. Your fist raps against the door three times, then twice more for good measure. 

“Hi?”

“Hi,” you say, inviting yourself in as you push past him. It’s identical to yours, but everything’s on the opposite side. “Nice room.”

“Much nicer than yours.”

“Oh, for sure.” You clap your hands together, then flop down on the bed. “So, whatcha been up to?”

He nods his head at a book on the nightstand. You stretch over and pick it up. The History of Iowa’s Small Towns.

“Little on the nose, isn’t it, doctor?”

“It’s interesting.”

“Your mind amazes me,” you whisper, then place it back on the nightstand.

“Have you eaten?” he asks.

“I’m not really hungry,” you say. When he quirks his eyebrow, you add: “Really, I can’t eat for, like, at least two hours after I wake up.”

“You were asleep?”

You nod. “Couldn’t last night. You didn’t think I just ditched you, did you?”

He shrugs. “I wouldn’t have minded.”

You place a hand over your heart. “Well, doctor, I’m just plain offended.”

He smiles, real, genuine. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“How’d you mean it?” you ask. You move up on the bed, as if it’s your own, making space for him to sit next to you. 

He sighs, like he really doesn’t want to indulge in this conversation, but his lips pry open and you know he will. “Morgan always says I ramble too much.”

You shrug. “What’s much, anyway?”

“Well, if you’re not hungry,” he starts, lifting himself off the bed and over to the mini fridge, “are you thirsty?”

“My, my.” You smile, teeth and all. “I didn’t know you drank on the job.”

“Not technically on the job anymore, am I?” He holds up a little bottle. “It’s not exactly a martini, but it’s all I’ve got unless you want lukewarm ginger ale.”

You accept the bottle with mock ceremony and open it the second it’s in your hands. “Guess federal per diems only cover motel whiskey. Honestly, this is probably the classiest thing happening in Iowa tonight.”

He laughs softly, twisting open his own cap. “From what I’ve read, and seen, that’s a low bar.”

You raise yours. “To meeting the bar.”

He tilts his head, scrunches his nose. “To stepping over the bar with minimal effort.”

You both take a sip. It’s terrible. You make a face.

He sees it and raises an eyebrow. “Too refined for hotel whiskey?”

“Just surprised it didn’t come with a warning label,” you say, setting the bottle down on the nightstand. “Or a tetanus shot.”

“Don’t worry,” he says, taking another sip of his. “I’m sure the Iowa Department of Health is on it.”

You nod solemnly. “They’re probably just as fast as the Wi-Fi.”

That gets a small smile from him. He sits on the edge of the bed, a little closer than before, but still careful. He’s always so careful.

There’s a lull, full of quiet until the nighttime air-conditioning kicks on and you’re too tired to pretend anything really matters for a while.

“You ever drink from the mini bar before? Like, during a case?” you ask eventually.

“Only when I expect to be stranded somewhere like this.”

“Smart,” you say. 

He glances at you, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Can’t profile your way out of a cornfield without it.”

You hum in agreement. “I’m not sure if that’s depressing.”

He shrugs, taking another sip. “Probably.” His hand falls to his side, dangerously close to your thigh.

You accept another one. And then another one. You’re sure he’s going shot for shot with you, but you can’t really tell because your head is full and everything’s hazy and suddenly this bed is so, so comfortable. 

You lie back, legs still dangling off the edge, and stare up at the popcorn ceiling like it might reveal state secrets. “Did you know Iowa had one of the highest populations of covered bridges?”

Spencer blinks. “Iowa doesn’t.”

You squint. “It doesn’t?”

“No,” he says, amused. “That’s Madison County. Which is in Iowa. But it’s a specific — actually, nevermind. I’m not sure either of us are in a state for nuance.”

You wag a lazy finger at the ceiling. “I knew that.”

“Sure,” he says, and leans back beside you with a soft thud, hands crossed over his stomach. “Next you’ll tell me Iowa invented jazz.”

“It didn’t?” You cant your head to the side, a smile playing at your lips. 

“God, no.”

You sigh dramatically. “And here I thought this trip was educational.”

He turns his head just slightly toward you. His breath is hot, hotter than it was earlier, and his words are all slurred. You think you might sound the same but don’t keep yourself in line long enough to actually check. “You’ve learned a lot. For example, you’ve learned not to trust the minibar.”

“And that your idea of a good time is reading municipal histories.”

“I sensed you were captivated.”

You pull an arm over your face. “Do you always get this cocky after drinking?”

He tilts his head like he’s genuinely thinking about it. “I think I just feel safe knowing I’m not the only one embarrassing myself.”

You haul a leg up to bend into the bed with you and nudge him with your knee. “You’re not embarrassing. You’re weird. Like, in the good way.”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, but you can hear the smile in his voice when he finally says: “Thanks. You’re weird too.”

“Weird and drunk.” You repeat the word drunk a few more times, drawing out a different syllable each time. “Spencer?” 

“Hm?”

“Don’t let me fall asleep here.”

“You say that like I have any control over you,” he murmurs. Your breath catches. Neither of you move.

You peek at him from under your arm. “Are you flirting with me?”

“What?” 

“Whatever. Then don’t speak with that— that tone. Or I’ll start to think you’re flirting with me.”

“I’m not really flirting with you.”

You let the arm drop, but not to the mattress; it finds its way to the sleeve of his shirt, playing with the fabric. “Not really or not yet?”

“That depends,” he says, voice dropped low to a whisper. “Would yet be a problem?”

You roll onto your elbow, looming over him. “Guess we’ll have to find out.”

It lands like a match.

“What are you doing?” he asks. Your lips are the closest they’ve ever been.

“I don’t know.” Your eyes move to where his hand has started to creep onto your thigh. “What are you doing?”

He moves first, but only barely. His head tilts up, lips parting like he’s about to ask a question. 

He gets his answer in the shape of your lips.

Your hand finds the edge of his jaw, fingers skimming up the side of his face. He’s warm. Still flushed from the whiskey or maybe just from you.

You’re kissing, you think. You. Spencer. Kissing. It should make you pull back. You work with him. This is strictly forbidden — that should definitely make you pull back.

But then his fingers press into your hips, grounding you, and you shift, and you’re straddling him before you’ve thought it through. It’s automatic, desperate, like the tension finally cracked open and all that’s left is the pull.

“Still not on the job?” you murmur between kisses, breath brushing his lips.

He shakes his head. “Not even a little.”

He starts to kiss you deeper, like he wants to memorize it. You wonder if he is. Your hands move up under his shirt, and his breath slips, just for a second. Just long enough to make you smile into his mouth.

There’s nothing quiet about any of this. Just heat. And want. And finally.

You roll your hips once as a test. When he tightens his grip on you, you have half the mind to do it again, and again, and again. 

Suddenly, all you can think of are your clothes on the ground and him inside you. 

“Fuck,” he mutters. You release his lips from yours.

“Fuck?”

“Shh,” he hushes, trying to silence you, but you’re already laughing.

“Oh my god, Dr. Spencer Reid, esteemed supervisory special agent, holder of three PhDs, just said fuck.” You whisper the last part, hand clutching at your chest.  

“Will you please resume what we were just doing?”

“My fucking pleasure.”

“Jesus,” he squeezes out. Your hands remove themselves from where they were resting under his shirt and head to the waist of his pants. You watch his chest rise a little quicker, fall with a little more readiness. His hands release your hips and come up to grip your wrists. “I say fuck one time and I’ll never hear the end of it.” 

“Maybe we can put it in another context.” You unhook your legs from their desired place around his hips and scooch yourself down his body. Your fingers, which were just barely, ever so delicately toying with his waistband, curl into both the cotton of his pants and his boxers and tug down at once. He helps you, hips coming off the bed just enough for you to drop them both to his ankles. 

He’s already hard, and your mouth is already hollow, already anticipating something to fill a long-lasting void. You say his name, but it sounds off, because your mouth is already imagining itself wrapped around something far less innocent than words.

His hand comes up to your face, brushing your cheekbone, and the feeling is too soft to name but impossible to ignore. You feel as though all the heat in the room has gotten sucked between your legs, and it pools low, desire biting at the edges of restraint.

“You don’t have to,” he says, watching you spit in your hand. You roll your eyes before wrapping the newly wet hand around him. 

“I’m going to. Just stay like that.” 

You stroke him softly, just a few times before spitting on the tip and working it back down. He whispers your name like its wax, made to melt. You’re not thinking and your voice is velvet when you ask him how long it’s been since he’s been touched like this, the way he deserves to be. Too long, comes his response, and you vow to yourself to show him what he’s been missing.

The next time you bring your lips up to release more spit, you reach down and kiss it. Just the tip, and just ever-so-slightly. You’re not sure he noticed at first, so you do it again, this time more pronounced, and then he’s removing his hand from your face and bringing it up to your hair. His grip is firm enough to anchor, not enough to command. 

When you open your lips more, he tightens his grip. When you make your way down, syrup-slick and mouth dripping of sin, he coils his want at the nape of your neck and pulls. You moan around him, which earns you another tug. 

“That feels good,” he whispers. “So fucking good.”

You’re drunk enough that the praise feels more than trembling and temporary. You take it for more than it probably is and pick up your pace.

He lasts not a minute longer before he’s guiding you off of him, and you couch as you come up for air. 

“I don’t want to finish yet,” he mumbles.

“No?”

“No.” He pulls you up off the ground, one hand on your wrist and the other still in your hair. “Wanna take care of you too. Do you want that? Yeah? Lie down for me.”

You do as you're told, nodding along the way, agreeing fervently and with little free will. You’re drooling, enough that it slips past your lips. He brings his index finger up to your face, collecting it on the pad of his finger and pushing it back into your mouth. Instinctively, you suck. He groans, low, a noise you never would have expected to hear from him, and it makes you shut your legs, thighs rubbing together slightly as you try to fight the feeling festering around your limbs.

He kneels before you, the same way you had with him. “Is this what you want?” You nod. “No, use your words.” He pries your legs open, blows between them. 

Your back is coming up off the bed, enough for him to bring a hand up and grab your waist again. “Yes.”

He wastes little time attaching his mouth to you, tongue everywhere, while his fingers leave bruises in your side. One of your hands is gripping the sheets so hard you can feel your fingernails digging into your palm even through it. This can’t be real, you think, because nothing real feels this good. And this feels so, so good. 

You feel fucked out and he hasn’t even put anything inside of you. It’s just his tongue swiping against you, swirling around your clit, sucking your clit, kissing your clit. You can’t think. At some time you stop being aware of what he’s doing and just let him do it.

His hand leaves your hip and you feel it pulse, throbbing at the loss of harsh connection. Then, he forces your fist to open, to release the white fabric, and he locks your fingers together. It feels intimate, more intimate than his mouth on you, and if you were sober you might have shrugged him away. But you’re not. You’re drunk. Very drunk. So instead you hold his hand harder.

His free hand is trailing along your thigh, and when you glance down at him his eyes are closed, and he looks content, satisfied, and you’re not sure you ever want to unfold from this position. He uses his other hand to trail up and down your thigh before his errant fingers find their way farther up your legs. 

When he slips two inside you, both at once, no warning, you mewl.

He detaches his mouth from you, like he wants to focus solely on finger fucking you. When you glance down at him again, he gives you a perfunctory smile before focusing back at the task he’s chosen to take up. He’s practically gift-wrapping your orgasm. 

“Right there,” you choke out when his fingers curl at the exact right moment in the exact right spot. You don’t announce that you’re coming, but Spencer is a genius. You’re sure he can figure it out. Everything comes undone in waves, the way seafoam spits back into the sand before dissipating, carrying itself back out into a vaster part of the water. 

“Good job,” he says. He kisses you. You can taste your slick on his lips.

“Spencer.”

“You’ve said that already.” You’d laugh if you weren’t so unraveled. “I’m gonna fuck you now, okay?”

“Mhm.”

“What did we say about using our words?”

“To… use them?”

“You’re so smart,” he says, and you can hear him breathing in the way that means he’s trying not to laugh as he presses scattered kisses across your cheek, jaw, lips. “Can you speak up and show me how smart you are?”

“I want you to fuck me.”

“Knew you had it in you.” One of his hands is pressed into the mattress next to your head, and the other is absent from your body. When you finally open your eyes, you look down to see him lining himself up with you.

There’s a pinch in your throat as you feel him ease himself inside, slowly, deliberately, like he’s scared you might crumble and break beneath him. You won’t, which you assure him by using one hand to grab onto his bicep and the other to rest on his hip, guiding him all the way inside of you. 

"I got so mad, earlier," he says. "When he was talking about you like that."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize," he whispers. "Don't fucking apologize."

The heat is back, swirling in your stomach, rushing up your chest like every vein you have has replaced blood with feverish fire. Spencer throws more gasoline on it when he slides almost all the way out, then pushes himself back in. You’re quiet, and even the air around you seems to have hushed itself. 

When he finds a rhythm, he takes advantage of it. Fucks you a little harder, just enough that you can’t close your mouth, can’t quiet yourself even when you try. You’re trying to tread carefully, but you don’t have it in you to not tip your chin up and search for a kiss. You move your other hand to wrap around his forearm, the one right next to your head, and you can’t stop yourself from digging your nails into the skin when he gives you one particularly hard thrust.

“Do that again,” you whisper.

“This?” he asks, though it’s more of a mock. He does it again, this time a little slower. You feel like crying, because you have no other outlet for what exactly it is you’re currently feeling. When he does it again you have no choice but to squeeze your eyes shut. He kisses you again, idly, like you’ve got all the time in the world. You’re not sure you have more than five minutes in you before you pass out. “You feel so good.”

“Needed you.”

“Yeah?” he says. Your words seem to have made him snap his hips against yours a little harder. 

He uses one of his hands to grab under your thigh, then pushes your leg up. You let out a broken moan you don’t even register as your own until he stretches you farther apart and you do it again. You’d be embarrassed if you weren’t clawing at an indescribable edge. You feel ripe. Nothing holy is coming for you. You arch your back like it might. 

"Mine." He says it while looking down at you. He says it with his chest. He says it like it's an absolute.

You bring your hand to the back of his neck and make him kiss you. Once for the thrill, twice just to feel the burn of it really settle in. 

Then you come. And everything else does, too. It’s unraveling. Not fingers but friction, not skin but static, not breath but flood. The room is slipping sideways, hips first, mouth second. you forget your name or maybe you give it away. There's no shape to anything, to the sting between your legs, only pulse — wet, reckless, existing in the hollows of your thighs. When he bends down and lets out a sound that sounds suspiciously like your name, your teeth catch on his shoulder like a warning. He doesn’t flinch. You bite down harder.

Nothing makes sense for a while except the sound of the air-conditioner. 

Spencer says something. Then again. Then, he taps your cheek twice, says your name until you come to.

“Hm?”

“You okay?”

“‘m okay. Are you okay?”

He laughs. It’s quiet and hoarse and still warm. “Yes ma’am.”

“Hmmmm.”

“Hmm what?’

“I like that. We’ll use that ‘nother time.” You let out a heavy sigh as he chuckles. He slips out of you and you suck in a breath that catches in the pockets of your teeth, cold and shocking against the roof of your mouth.

“Sorry.” You shake your head and hope it conveys that he has nothing to apologize for. He rolls over next to you. “You should pee.”

“Pee schmee.”

“I think I’m gonna retract my previous statements about your high level of intelligence now.” You smack him with your hand and laugh, hearty and probably too loud.

“I’m still drunk,” you say after a few more moments of silence.

“I think that’s how that whole drinking thing works, yeah.”

“Do you regret it?”

“No.” His answer comes quicker than you were expecting.

“Okay. Me neither. Just checking.” You blow hair out of your face, and when that doesn’t work you bring a palm up and use the strength of four fingers to wipe it away from the sweat gathering in satin sheets across your skin. “I hate this room.”

“Me too.”

“I don’t hate you,” you whisper.

“Well,” he whispers back. “I don’t hate you either.”

“Do you wanna maybe… I don’t know. Not be on the job tomorrow morning?”

It might just be the alcohol, but his expression is soft and lush, like when dawn’s light shudders through early morning fog. 

“I would like that.”

[witchbitchlovesdilfs]

Hurt in the Workplace

Jack Abbot x reader

status: dating

synopsis: reader gets attacked by a patient, and jack is there to help.

warnings: reader is technically gender neutral (minus one predominately feminine derogatory word), language (i love to curse), violence, slight suggestive content, drugs

words: 16.6k

note: this is my first posted story. i hope you like it!

The Pitt had been hectic since your shift started. Myrna was back hassling Robby, another ambulance got stolen, and you somehow managed to get hit by every door you passed. After seven hours on your feet without more than a sip of coffee, your scrubs felt tight as hell, and the granola bar you managed to sneak a few bites of tasted like shit. If it weren’t for your co-workers - your friends - your family, you would have snatched one of Dana’s cigarettes and gone for a smoke, never to come back. 

Jack Abbot knew you well enough by now to know when you were struggling. I mean, you’d hope so - you’ve been dating for two years. His apartment was now your apartment; your conditioner was now his. And you’ve gotta admit - his curls have never looked bouncier. So when you pass him at the nurse’s desk while grumbling about annoying patients and wishing you were in bed, he grabs you by the arm and leads you to the break room. You don’t put up a fight, not when it’s Jack. So you let him usher you into the space with little more than a sigh.

“You want some coffee?” You ask, going over to the counter to pour yourself a cup. He nods, and you start to pour a second.

“What’s wrong?”

There he is, always straight to the point.

You huff and lean your back against the counter. You hand him his cup and take a sip from your own, delaying your answer. “Nothing, just tired.”

“You did stay up late watching tv.”

A crooked grin graces your lips. “You know I love my true crime. Can’t get enough.”

At the smile on your face, Jack cracks his own - just slightly, but enough for you to notice. He shifts his feet. You notice that too.

“How’s your leg?” You ask.

He flexes at the thought of it. “Sore.”

“I’ll massage it later,” you smile, reaching into the fridge and pulling out an ice pack. You toss it his way, and he catches it effortlessly. “Be a good boy and ice it, and maybe I’ll give you a full body massage when we get home.” You wink, and Jack shakes his head at you, but he gives in. Easing his way into one of the chairs, Jack watches you put your cup down.

“I won’t pull a Shen and say the “Q” word,” he starts, “but we’re through the thick of it.” 

Despite his attempt at reassuring you, you still feel sick with anxiety. There’s a bad feeling in your gut, like something’s going to happen. Five hours left, you think.

You nod and begin to head back into the ER, patting him briefly on the shoulder. “Love you,” you call over your shoulder before the door shuts behind you. 

Three hours later, you’re chilling at the nurse’s desk when Whitaker asks for your help in one of the exam rooms. Rolling your shoulders, you say bye to Perlah and Princess and follow him down the hall. Before you reach the room, Whitaker stops you, all big eyed and anxious. This isn’t anything new, but it sets off alarms in your head. 

“He’s here for a cut on his finger. I already stitched it up, but he keeps asking for morphine.”

You catch on immediately. “You think he hurt himself so he can get drugs.”

He nods. “He’s shaking and sweating profusely. And he’s getting irritable.”

It’s your time to nod. “I’m sure he is - you just told him he can’t have his daily dose.” Moving forward, you near the exam room and push the curtain open to reveal a middle aged man nursing his finger like it’s been chopped off. 

“Hi, I’m Dr. L/N,” you say, hopping onto a sliding stool and sliding towards the patient. “Dr. Whitaker here told me you cut yourself.” You take his finger in your hand, “He did a great job.” You turn to smile at Whitaker. He smiles back, pleased. “So,” you continue, “everything looks good. We should be able to send you home in a few minutes.”

The man’s forehead scrunches at this. “Don’t you need to give me some morphine?”

Your eyebrow quirks upward. “I’m sorry?”

He shrugs, totally disregarding the shock in your expression as he picks at the stitches. “It hurts.”

I can tell by the way you’re manhandling it, you think tiredly. “Look…I’m sorry, you never told me your name?”

“It’s Andrew Smith,” Whitaker pipes up, oh-so-dutifully.

Smith, how original. You nod, not turning from the patient. “Okay. Mr.  Smith. I’m sorry, but there is no reason for us to give you morphine at this time.”

“Well, I want it. Ain’t that a good reason?”

Keep cool. Don’t explode. “Again, I’m sorry, but we can’t give anyone morphine just because they want it.” He starts to speak, probably to complain again, but you cut him off. “I’m a Senior Emergency Resident. I know when to apply morphine, but this is not the case. The best I can do is offer that you get some Advil or Tylenol.”

“Bitch,” the man grumbles, but you ignore it (visibly. Inside, you are seething). 

You can feel the anticipation radiating off of Whitaker at this exchange. You do your best to keep your cool. “Dr. Whitaker never told me how you cut your finger.”

Mr. Smith huffs like you’re interrupting his time. “I don’t know, I was cutting some carrots and the knife slipped or something.” 

“You don’t know, or the knife slipped?”

“I said I was cutting onions,” he growls. 

You raise your hands in front of yourself slowly, victorious but now on edge. “I’m sorry,” you say for the hundredth time. “No need to get hostile.”

He slumps backwards onto the pillow. “Nobody’s getting hostile.”

You turn to Whitaker, and he looks equally triumphant. You’ve caught the man lying. Now all you’ve got to do is get him the hell out of your ER.

“Well,” you say, rubbing your hands together, “like I said, there is nothing more we can do for you. Keep the cut site clean and dry for the first twenty-four hours, and then you can start cleaning with soap and water. They should be healed in about six days.” You turn again to face Whitaker when you feel it: a sharp pain between your chest and left armpit. A sharp cry escapes you as the patient yanks the stitch scissors out of your back and jumps on you from behind, throwing you to the ground. 

“Get Ahmad!” You yell to Whitaker, who’s already dashing out into the hall. Mr. Smith tries to stab you again, but you grab his hand with both of yours and use all of your strength to keep the blades away. His fist finds your face in a brutal left look, and you’re seeing stars as the scissors gain on you. Before any more damage can be done, Ahmad smashes into your assaulter’s side and sends him flying. Backing as far away from the two as you can, you try to calm your rapid breathing. 

As Ahmad gets the man into cuffs and shoves him out of the room, you move your hand to feel for the stab wound. Your fingers graze it, and you wince, cursing. Your hand comes back bloody.

Someone else runs into the room. Abbot. You could recognise that silver hair and serious face anywhere, even with a vision as blurred as yours is right now. 

“Hey,” he says softly, crouching quickly and taking your face in his big hands. “Tell me where it hurts.”

“He stabbed me,” you croak out, motioning to your back. 

Jack turns you gently to check out the wound, pulling up your scrubs. He lets out a sigh of relief. “It’s superficial.”

You visibly relax. “Good thing he found with the dullest weapon here.”

Jack nods and helps you onto the patient bed. He lifts your scrub top again, this time adjusting it so it won’t fall back down when he lets go. Plopping onto the sliding stool, Abbot moves to one of the cabinets and pulls out the necessary clean-up tools. He wipes at the spot with disinfectant, his hands falling away as he takes a fresh needle to stitch you with. “Sharp pinch,” he says before starting. You laugh, but that is quickly cut off by a curse as he begins his work.

Not long after, he’s finished and making sure the wound is all good. Gently, he moves your top back in place. You flinch at the uncomfortable, irritating burn the fabric creates. 

You turn to face him, and that’s when you notice the set of his jaw, tight - so tight you’re sure he’s grinding his teeth. His eyes are ablaze as he takes in the black eye already forming. “Did Ahmad take him?” he asks, voice cold. 

“Yeah,” you breathe.

He begins to move back, most likely to hunt the man down and pound him into the earth, but you grab his arm before he can leave. “Hey,” you say gently. “It’s handled. Don’t Hulk Out on me.”

He laughs dryly but stops trying to get away. He cradles your face to inspect the bruise. “I’ll order a CT Scan.”

“I don’t-” you start to argue, but his icy stare shuts you down. “Fine,” you huff, defeated.

Jack pats your knee. “Our shifts end in less than two hours. We’ll get your head checked out, and then you should go sit with Princess and Perlah until I can take you home. Scroll through Pinterest.” He pauses. “Scratch that, don’t strain your eyes. Just sit and gossip or something.”

You giggle. “Can we get Dunkin on the way home? I want my Strawberry Dragonfruit refresher”

He sighs. “Only if you let me try some.”

You wrinkle your nose. “Ew, cooties! Get your own, old man.”

Jack laughs, the tension melting from his shoulders. “You’re lucky I love you.”

[nogutsnogloria]

summary: jack has baby fever. that it. that’s the tweet

jack abbot x nurse reader

warnings: hospital setting, talks of injury, talks of children, jack down bad, suggestive language, milf and dilfs in training

your night hadn’t been anything special at work just the standard trying to get beds cleared up, that was until a mother walks in with her three year old and a 10 day old baby. her three year old had fallen out of his bed and bumped his head in the middle of the night. the mother looked so exhausted and there was no dad in sight.

you slide open the curtain to get a bit of history, administer some children’s tylenol and take the toddlers vitals. talking to the mom you find out the new baby was born over a video call as her husband was deployed right now and couldn’t get home, she had clearly been running on fumes, she has help usually during the day but at night is when it’s really hard for her. ellis comes in to assess and decides that a ct should be ordered just in case. the mom is clearly torn about being with her toddler and her new baby. you take a look down at the baby sleeping in the car seat and before you can even think about it your offering. “i can watch her so you can be with him?” the mom thinks about it before she’s nodding with a “sure”

you take the car seat back to the nurses station and put it down on the desk next to you, and get to work on some charting. the baby starts to squawk letting you know she’s not pleased with something so you don’t hesitate to unbuckle her from the car seat and pick her up to soothe her, she settles falling asleep on your chest so you get back to work. you don’t feel his eyes on you while you do.

ellis and walsh come up to the nurses station. “girl your exploding ovaries over here” ellis says. “yeah especially abbot’s” walsh jokes. you look up at her with a roll of your eyes “yeah, right. it’s not me it’s the baby. she’s so good for a newborn.” and give her a shake of your head. “he has not taken his eyes off of you since you took her out of her carrier” you turn around and chance a look at your husband, and annoyingly the girls were right. he’s looking at you with something extra in his eye. not even looking away while he’s talking to shen about something. you give him a little smile letting him know that you caught him staring again.

everyone leaves you to work with your little assistant still sleeping on your chest. her mom and brother should be back from radiology soon, but not before jack comes over. he’s looking down at you from where he’s standing. “that looks, insanely good on you” you blush at him. “oh yeah? scale of 1 to 10, 10 being that red dress you like so much?” you just started the discussions of having kids of your own, both deciding that the time was right, just needing the biology of it all to be in your favour. he sticks his tongue in his cheek to stop the smile he wants to give you. shaking his head with it.

you notice the toddler and his mom are being wheeled back to the exam room. “i should check if they need anything” jack stops you before you get up. “no you stay i’ve got it”

he walks in and checks in with the mom, she says they’re all good but stops him before he leaves. “who would i talk to about giving our nurse recognition? she made my life so much easier tonight, not by just taking my baby so i could be with him, but she let me vent and ramble about my life and made me feel like i mattered. even though we are in the emergency room this is the most my mind has been at ease in two weeks, and now she’s taking good care of my baby out there, i think if there is anything i can do that can get her something i want to do it.” jack looks out at where you are, now standing and bouncing with the baby. “i can make sure she’s taken care of, we have some peer recognition systems in place. if you want there are patient satisfaction surveys online at the hospital website as well” he turns back to the mom with a nod. “your results should be in soon. just ring the bell if you need anything.”

results come back in and it is just a bump on the little boys head so you’re getting discharge papers all ready and buckling the little girl back into her car seat for her mom, making sure her hat is on and the blanket is tucked around her so that she doesn’t get a chill when they step out into the brisk early morning. your heading to the room with your hands a bit full so jack stops to grab the car seat out of your hands, and you won’t lie watching him carry that is doing something for you, but you have to keep it professional so you head in with the usual “if any thing changes come back to see us” your turning to the little boy “hey buddy do you want a sticker? i have dinosaurs and trucks. he nods and chooses his sticker. “can my sister have one too?” you smile at him “of course why don’t you pick one for her and keep it safe” the mom stands and gets her crew ready to go. “thank you for taking such good care of us” she grabs your hand and gives it a little squeeze. “it is no problem at all. i hope you can get a bit of sleep tonight.” with that she’s heading out the door heading home.

jack turns to you. “you really have to stop that you know” you look at him confused. “stop what?” he looks down in your eyes. “having all that compassion, you’re making the rest of us look bad. that mom all but handed me your next recognition award when i went in to see her” you blush and grumble a bit “seriously i’m just doing my job” he tucks a strand of hair out of your eyes. “i know you are, but you’re really good at it, just like you were really good with that baby.” he couldn’t not bring it up. you smile a bit shyly at him. “jack abbot do you have baby fever?” he laughs at that. “yes, actually i do. really bad. ever since you agreed to have one it’s all i can think about, shifts over in half an hour, lets see what we can do to break the fever” you smack his chest and roll your eyes. “meet you at the desk in thirty and then you are taking me home, i’ll see what i can do about that fever.”

[criminalyapping]

due for trouble | let me know

the pitt masterlist main masterlist

pairing: jack abbot x f!reader

a/n: well obviously someone is struggling with an avoidant attachment. and listen as much as I want this to be all happy and joyful I love writing ANGST

thank u for reading kisses muah muah

warnings: unplanned pregnancy, age gap, language, fighting about money

< part 8 | part 10 >

“I’m thinking I’m going to lean into it.” you ponder towards Jack, who is sitting on your bed as you stand in front of the mirror, turned to the side and holding your stomach.

Jack is seated at the edge, his legs spread and leaning back on his palms, a lecherous grin covering his face as he gazes at you.

“I think that if I don’t, people will just think I’m gaining weight.” you say.

“Well, you are.” Jack adds. You roll your eyes.

“Yes, I am, and yes, that’s a good thing, I know that,” you gripe, “but, I don’t know,” you waffle, slightly embarrassed, “I want to show it off, now that you can tell.”

“Show it off all you want,” he drawls, “you look amazing.”

“Oh, of course you would say that.” you chide.

“Of course I would,” he agrees, “but I guarantee that almost every man that sees you is jealous of me.” he smirks.

You blush and wave him off.

“I guess that means I should tell my work, too, so I can talk about time off.” you mention off-handedly.

“Probably not a bad idea,” Jack agrees, catching your hand as you walk by towards your closet and pulling you to stand in between his legs. His hands skim up the sides of your thighs and stay there.

“How much time off do you want to take?” he asks.

“As much as they’ll give me,” you chuckle, “but unfortunately it probably won’t be much.”

“FMLA says 12 weeks.” Jack says.

“Unpaid,” you return, “I can’t not get paid for 3 months.” you gripe.

Jack sighs.

“I think we should talk more about money,” he suggests.

“No,” you say, pulling away from him and walking out of the bedroom, “everything will be fine.” you tell him, not sure if you believe it yourself.

“Money is a big deal,” he argues, trailing after you as you end up in the kitchen. “It doesn’t have to be a hard conversation,” he promises.

“Of course it’s going to be a hard conversation!” you say, voice raising. “I already feel like shit that I have to start applying to daycares if I want to get a spot for a newborn in January!”

Jack sighs, rubbing his eyes in frustration.

“Why haven’t you told me anything about this? I should be helping you with all of this!” he answers, never having heard of the worry plaguing you.

“Because, Jack,” you sigh, “it’s abundantly clear that you make a lot more than me.” you begin getting choked up as you speak, out of embarrassment, guilt, fear; who knows.

“So what!?” he yells. “We figure out how much more I make and we split things based on that!”

“No, Jack.” you disagree, tears now starting to pool in your eyes.

“Honey,” he coos, putting his hands on your shoulders and deciding to take a different approach. “in a perfect world, what would happen?” he asks gently.

“I don’t want to tell you.” you say quietly, looking into his eyes as he grasps you.

“Why not?” he asks.

You bite your lip and look past him, into the living room.

“Because you’ll want to make it happen.”

Jack chuckles, “You’re right. And what’s wrong with that, huh?” he asks, moving his head so that he’s in your line of sight again. “I thought we already had this conversation. Do I need to remind you? You’re mine. I’m yours. We’re doing this together.” he says slowly. “It doesn’t have to be your money and my money. It can be our money, and we do what’s best for us.”

“And that’s so easy for you to say.” you snap. “When you make 80% of it.”

“Who cares!?” he yells, his hands now running through his silver curls in frustration.

“I do!” you return, “I care! Because what happens to me when all this falls apart,” you say gesturing between the two of you, “and everything is on me to figure out?”

The silence that falls over the room is thick with tension. Jack falls into one of your finish chairs and puts his head in his hands.

“I get it.” he finally says. “But I have told you a hundred times that that’s not going to happen.”

“You can’t know that, Jack!” you yell.

“Well I do know that!” he yells back. “I know that you and the baby are the two most important people in my life,” he stresses, “and I am more than willing to fight with you.” he argues. “We can fight, we can disagree, and then we can choose to move forward and figure it out. I don’t know how to get you to believe that I will always choose that.” he says, defeated.

“What do I need to do?” he asks, staring up at you intensely.

Your mouth opens and closes a few times, not knowing an answer.

“Do you want to go to couples therapy, do you want to get married; what would make you believe me?” he asks.

“I don’t know.” you reply quietly.

“Please let me know when you figure it out.” Jack says, standing up from the chair and walking towards the door. “Think about it, let me know, I’ll do whatever. I know it’s hard,” he says while putting on his shoes, clearly about to leave, “but part of you just has to have some faith in me.” he says.

“Lock the door.” he instructs as he opens the door and steps out closing the door behind him.

You watch him go from your window as you start to cry in earnest.

“God, what the fuck is wrong with you,” you mutter to yourself as you watch Jack’s truck pull away.

tagging: @michasia24 @veggieburgerwrites @bruher @ahopelessromanticwritersworld @catmomstyles3 @qardasngan @fuckalrighty @rae4725 @beebeechaos @thatssomebadhat89 @cari87 @livingdeadblondequeen @wowitsafemale @neonpurplestars89-blog @starswin @celiacallsitcausal @vinceelser @glamorizethechaos @nerdgirljen @namgification

let me know if you would like a tag!!

[romanticrivalries]

WHAT ARE THEY? SINCARAZ LORE (WITH RECEIPTS)

The RG final brought in an influx of new fans. Because of my SINCARAZ x called you again edit, I received a lot of inquiries about what happened between them. Since their relationship is complicated—("he means a lot to me" / "we’re good friends" / "aren’t close friends" / they wake up in the morning and think about each other)—and goes ↗️↘️↗️↘️↗️ every other month (Hot N Cold by Katy Perry is quite befitting), I thought I should make this.

Before we join hands and plunge into the rabbit hole, I need to establish how downbad Carlos was (is?) for Jannik. 

His entire face lit up at the mere mention of Jannik:

Exhibit B. I swear, if Carlos had a tail it would start wagging aggressively at the sight of Jannik.

Carlos looking back at Jannik after they parted ways.

He looks back at Jannik a lot. Exhibit B. Exhibit C.

Tbh, his smile during Jannik’s speech in the Rome ‘25 ceremony is incriminating enough:

(Smiling so aggressively his gums are showing… Someone call an ambulance, we’ve got a man down bad.)

Now that that has been established, let’s move on. Buckle up, it’s a long ride.

They first met as teenagers (Carlos was 15, Jannik - 17) in 2019 at the JC Ferrero Challenger Open, held at the academy of Carlos’ coach, Juan Carlos Ferrero. Carlos won. Jannik is the one who approached Carlos first because he wanted to get to know him. 

“I saw the draw coming out and I said, ‘Oh, Carlos Alcaraz, I have no idea who he is!’” said the Italian. “I saw the age and I said, ‘Wow, he’s playing a challenger, it’s amazing.’ And then straight away I was impressed. “After the match, we went to the same locker room … and I was like, ‘When did you start to play tennis?’ And then we started to talk a little bit, because I wanted to get to know him because he was just an amazing talent already back in the day.”

Their first ATP match up was in 2021 at the Rolex Paris Masters. Despite losing, Jannik was the one to say to Carlos at the net: “I hope we play some more.”

And the rest is history: Carlos imprinted on Jannik and has been down bad ever since. Therefore, it can be concluded that Jannik fell first but Carlos fell harder.

Prior to 2024, Jannik and Carlos were quite consistent about referring to each other as good friends.

CARLOS (2022): “[...] and of course, we are great friends outside the court. [...] I talked to him out of the court, by phone, I mean we laughed a lot**, he’s a nice person [...]”

They went jet skiing together after their Umag final, 2022. 

JANNIK (Rolex Shanghai Masters 2023): [...] “We have a very good relationship off the court and I feel like we are good friends, but still, you know, on court there is, uh, this nervous, you know, inside you feel a little bit nervous [...]”

During December of 2023, Jannik and Carlos trained together at the Juan Carlos Ferrero Tennis Academy as preseason preparation. Same place where they met for the first time, btw. A ceremony took place where it was unveiled that the main court would be named after Carlos. Jannik recorded the entire thing on his phone, a video that he never shared on social media.

Many people say their relationship is one-sided, that Jannik doesn’t reciprocate, but this moment alone speaks volumes of how much he cares. Other people were capturing the event, so he didn’t need to, but he still chose to, just for himself and Carlos. It wasn’t something meant to be shared with the public. Not only that, he didn’t just take a quick snap, he recorded the entire thing. It’s characteristic of his introverted, private nature to show he cares in subtle ways like this that aren’t always visible/obvious to the public eye.

Jannik talked about it a little bit over here after the interviewer teases him for taking photos like a fan: “For me, it’s special, they grew up together [...]”

The unshared video should also serve as a reminder that there are likely many other private friendly moments shared between them that we as outsiders will never be privy to, so we shouldn’t base assumptions on the nature of their relationship from what’s said/not said on their social media.

CARLOS' UNWAVERING FAITH IN JANNIK

Carlos believed in Jannik’s potential before most people did. In 2023, he remained steadfast in his claim that Jannik is his biggest rival when people were expecting him to name Djokovic. The media kept trying to coax the Alcaraz vs. Djokovic narrative out of Carlos but he would not budge.

Note: Jannik didn’t have his meteoric breakthrough until 2024 (he was showing signs of it by the end of 2023). Before 2024, Jannik had no Grand Slams and only 1 Masters 1000 title (Canada). In comparison, by that point, Carlos had 2 Grand Slams and 4 Master 1000s. He became the youngest World Number One in ATP rankings history in 2022.

I: The rankings say it’s Novak and Carlos, Carlos and Novak, do you consider him to be your biggest rival at the moment? CARLOS, ROME ‘23: “[...] Probably, Jannik right now is my biggest opponent. We had really great matches, but at the same time really, really tough ones. [...]”

CARLOS, Post-Wimbledon, ‘23: "Having someone there, with whom you fight, with whom you have that battle, that beautiful rivalry, is important to maintain motivation for so long. Right now, I think I have it and I’m not afraid to say it: for me, it’s Sinner at the moment. That beautiful rivalry that we have, those big games that we have played, on big stages. As the years go by there will be better ones and we will fight for the big titles.”

Even Jannik didn't consider himself to be Carlos' biggest rival.

JANNIK, SHANGHAI '23: "But in the other way, I feel like that he [Carlos] has achieved many things more than I did at the moment, and me, personally, I think, at the moment, the biggest rivalry he has is Novak because of certain circumstances of points and World Number One and Grandslams throughout the last two years [...]"

I’ve observed Jannik avoids getting ahead of himself and making presumptions about the future— I’m not sure whether it’s because of superstition, his realistic perspective about the rapidly-changing brutal nature of tennis as a competitive sport or something else —which is why he doesn’t entertain talks about the future of their rivalry as easily as Carlos does.

At the time, this raised a lot of eyebrows, but Carlos predicted Jannik would become World Number One in 2024, which Jannik did. The reason behind the skepticism was that in 2023 the World Number One title had gone back-and-forth between Djokovic and Carlos until Djokovic emerged on top as the Year-end World Number One. Djokovic won all the slams apart from Wimbledon, which was won by Carlos. So, people were expecting a similar pattern in 2024.

LANGUAGE(S) THEY COMMUNICATE IN:

In 2022, Carlos said they both communicate in Spanish. On the other hand, Jannik said he speaks in Italian while Carlos speaks in Spanish.

CARLOS: [...] We speak Spanish. I don’t know how to speak Italian. At the moment, we speak Spanish. (Source) Interviewer: “His [Jannik’s] Spanish is good?” CARLOS: “Yeah, he’s good. He has to improve, but his Spanish is good.”

JANNIK: “Sometimes we talk in the locker room. He speaks in Spanish and I speak in Italian, so we talk kind of mixed. But I think we understand us very well. Off court we are friends, we are good friends. I mean, also now after his match and my match, we saw each other in the ice bath. I think we are in a good relationship which hopefully can live for many years because this is the most important.” (Source)

(A/N: Fast forward to the trophy ceremony in Rome 2025, where Carlos told Jannik to speak in Italian because he understands, while Carlos gave his speech to Jannik in English because Jannik’s Spanish isn’t that good [?])

BOTH ARE ALIKE OFF-COURT:

Because of their contrasting personalities, I’ve seen people make assumptions that they don’t mesh well off-court or wonder whether they have anything in common to talk about outside of tennis, but they’re actually quite similar off the court and get along well. In particular, they both place a lot of value on honesty, integrity, and being good people. They both keep close to their small circles. 

DARREN CAHILL (JANNIK’S COACH), 2024: “Two young, great kids, not just on the court but off the court as well. Their friendship is real. They both respect each other and like each other and you’ll see that on the court tomorrow regardless of who wins [...]”

DARREN CAHILL (JANNIK’S COACH), 2024: “I think Carlos is very similar to Jannik in both the way they play with the excitement level they bring to the game, and their personalities and their likability. Both guys are incredibly alike off the court. They both like each other.”

JANNIK: "It's easy for Carlos and me to get along. We are quite similar off the court. When we play, however, we are a bit different, but that's normal, it's our nature. Off court, I listen to him, I get the feeling he likes to be surrounded by the people closest to him, as I am. Carlos pushes me to be a better player."

JANNIK, SHANGHAI 2024: “[...] For me it’s nice that we’re rivals on the court and friends off the court [...] Off the court, we are quite similar, because we surround ourselves with our close ones, we like to stay with the team, um, you know there are many, many things, similar things I feel like [...]”

Alcaraz said of Sinner: “I always say you have to be a good person first and athletics comes after that. Jannik thinks the same thing.”

DARREN CAHILL (JANNIK’S COACH), 2025: “Now Carlos and Jannik aren’t going out to dinner together either, but they are mates. They’re in the locker room, they’re talking. I’m part of some of their conversations. I won’t repeat what they are because most of it focuses around what 23-year-olds and 21-year-olds talk about, but they have fun, and they enjoy each other’s company.”

They’re both big football fans.

So you won’t be dropping Carlitos a text if Italy beats Spain in their group-stage match? [JANNIK] No, I will never do that… [Pauses to laugh and grins]... Maybe!

ON-AND-OFF DIVORCE ERA A.K.A We’re so back / It’s so over / We’re so fucking back / it’s joeover

They forgot to sit down and define the relationship, so were on completely different pages for a good part of 2024.

Things were looking good in Indian Wells.

They were high-fiving and chatting each other up in the tunnel before their match, Carlos waited for Jannik so they could leave the court together when the match was delayed because of rain, giggling together as they left the court (bonus: carlos patting Jannik’s b—), sat together in the locker room and talked about life, also laughed about:

CARLOS, INDIAN WELLS 24: “Well, we were laughing about it with Jannik when it [match] suspended, because I had bees, had the rain.”

Things changed around Miami.

While Carlos was waxing poetic about their futures:

“Hopefully Jannik and I both have a long and beautiful future ahead of us.” (N: Oddly romantic thing to say: sounds like Carlos wants to spend the rest of their lives together.) CARLOS, MIAMI 2024

Also, Carlos saying more downbad and incriminating things like: “He means a lot to me.” (INDIAN WELLS ‘24) 

For the first time, in Miami 2024, Jannik defines their relationship as not that close as previously painted:

“[...] We have a lot of respect for each other and, obviously, off the court we don't speak that much because he has his own things and I have my things."

Some of the reactions from this reddit thread are worth a read, lol.

(Skipping a major arc: Roland Garros '24)

Things started looking good again months later during Beijing. Chatting in the gym (part 1, part 2). Carlos was looking to give Zendaya a run for her money the way he was laughing in part 1. I would say Jannik isn’t that funny, but too many people close to him have said otherwise, so maybe he is indeed just that funny.

Just look at them during the trophy ceremony. 

“I respect you a lot as a player but even more as a person” was very much needed after all the noise that had reemerged with the WADA appeal.

Jannik and Carlos greet each other’s teams.

They shared a flight together after their final:

Carlos’ interview about it. Jannik’s interview about it (his little giggle when asked about the photo was so cute).

During Shanghai, someone pulled Uno reverse, because now Jannik was talking about how they’re friends off court but Carlos was like we’re not that close.

CARLOS, SHANGHAI ‘24: "We don't talk too much when we are around. Obviously, we have a really good relationship off the court as well. I think we both respect each other a lot, as a player, as a person, but once we are on tour traveling, you know, during tournaments when we are on-site, we are with our team, on our own, so we don't speak too much. When we can, we talk a little bit besides tennis about life a little bit, but not too much. It means, we have a good relationship, but we are not close friends, you know, but I think the respect that we have, you know, put [us] in a position that we have a really good relationship."

For renowned downbad Carlos to say this, the people were certainly shocked. He managed to fight off the allegations until he lost the war by cheesin’ so hard just because Jannik grouped him as a legend during the trophy ceremony in Shanghai (the final was between Jannik and Djokovic but Carlos was there to watch).

Just look at him:

Their exhibition final, SIX KINGS SLAM ‘24 was a gift that kept on giving:

Silly confusion because the announcer got their walkout order wrong, Jannik removed confetti from Carlos’ hair, Jannik—I wake up in the morning thinking about Carlos—Sinner, Carlos refused to let go of Jannik, bench talks etc.

I: So, did you just tell us that everyday you wake up you think about him [Carlos]?

(The interviewer decided to choose violence and not let that insane statement from Jannik go by unnoticed by everyone in that stadium)

JANNIK: [Flustered pause] “Well, no, I mean… [Jannik laughs in panic while Carlos looks utterly delighted] It would be strange, no?”

(The interviewer had to intercede and save him.)

I: “In practice terms."

(Love how the interviewer said this in such a pointed way, like gay boy your mind went there by itself, I was talking about practice)

I: "He’s your biggest rival, isn’t he, over the next few years. Do you still get on as friends?”

JANNIK: “I mean, we understand each other very well. We travel a lot. We are, I would say good friends [turns to check with Carlos, who nods], you know. Not obviously the best out of the best, but y‘know, we also like to share every time when we go on the court. We try to enjoy [...]”

Carlos decided to send signals to Jannik during his press conference that he wants to be friends:

“[...] We don’t spend too much time together off the court, but I would love to.”

He WOULD LOVE TO. Jannik did that blazing signal manage to transmit through your thick curls?

I really liked this comment on their relationship:

It explains everything pretty well.

It's hard to be friends with the person who is responsible for chipping away your soul and body in a grueling battle that lasts for hours, who rips your heart into pieces by squashing your dreams and taking the one thing you wanted the most (when it was nearly within reach).

Poor Jannik has cried enough times because of Carlos 😭

“Tears of happiness? I haven’t had them yet. [I cried] after [losing to] Carlos in the US Open, also a bit at Roland Garros,” Jannik adds. “There are always moments when you feel emotions you don’t want in the locker room or sometimes when you’re in transportation or even in the hotel room alone. It means you care about the sport. It means you want to reach this level." (Source / 2024)

I liked this analysis on them.

FOR JUST CO-WORKERS, THEY’RE TOTALLY NORMAL ABOUT EACH OTHER:

They both wake up in the morning and think about each other.

Carlos [about Jannik during Roland Garros ‘24]: "...to wake up in the morning and want to improve my game to try to beat him..." [Source]

Jannik [about Carlos on two different occasions]: "...he pushes me to do better. I wake up in the morning trying to understand what I can do better trying to beat him next time, which is something nice for me as a player." [Source]

Jannik: "...we try to push ourselves to the limits, you know, I wake up in the morning trying to understand the ways how to beat him and you know this kind of rivalries and this kind of players they push us always to our 100% limit..." [Source]

CARLOS, SHANGHAI ‘23: “[...] Against him, as I said, it’s different.”

JANNIK, SHANGHAI ‘24: “[...] It’s like fire and ice, a bit [...]”

Interviewer: “Carlos was in here, and he said it really hurts to lose against you. Especially against you. Do you love to win, especially against him?” JANNIK: “[...] Obviously, both of us, we hate losing, especially against each other.”

CARLOS, INDIAN WELLS ‘24: “I mean, I hear some declarations from Tommy Paul that was funny for me, that he's [Jannik’s] absolutely naked right now. He’s playing naked, so [...]” (Source) / “I hear some words from Tommy Paul that he’s [Jannik’s] playing absolutely naked, so he’s right [...]” (Source)

Guess he liked the thought of Jannik playing absolutely naked so much that he had to mention it more than once. Alright.

CARLOS, ROLAND GARROS ‘24: “That’s when I thought, ‘Jannik, if you really want to beat me, you’re gonna have to take me out on a stretcher.’”

“Everything he does, he does it perfectly.”

CARLOS, ROME ‘25: “[...] Honestly, I’m going to say I need him in the tour [...]” / “I’m not going to get tired of saying, y’know, how amazing a person, athlete you are.”

JANNIK, ROLAND GARROS ‘25: “He’s [Carlos’] a player with charisma, with that aura. The moment he steps on court, you can feel his presence.”

CARLOS, ROME ‘25: I'm more focused when I'm playing against him, or I feel a little bit different when I'm going to face him than other players. He has that aura. When you're seeing him on the other side of the net, it's different.”

Where’s that twitter post that went along the lines of: aura is basically you calling another man attractive

CARLOS, ROLAND GARROS ‘25: “[...] It’s a privilege to share the court with you, in every tournament, making history with you.” 

Not to be cheesy and quote Red, White & Royal Blue, but: “History, huh?”

We've only scratched the surface here (their divorce 2.0 still remains unearthed), but this post has gotten too long, so I'm going to end it here. Hopefully, this proves useful to someone.

[honeyshiddendesire]

Happy Father's Day

One Piece Hotties Reacting to you saying “Happy Father's Day”

Characters: Eustass Kidd, Law, Zoro, Sanji, Shanks, Akainu, Monkey D. Garp, Whitebeard

Warnings: More Comedy with potential angst in some, suggestive in some

You smile happily and hand them a Father's Day card waiting patiently for them to open it. Hands together buzzing with excitement hoping they have the same reaction as you. But instead you get…

Eustass Kidd

“About fucking time. I've been raw dogging your pussy for weeks. It took your damn mechanics long enough.” You frown at his bland reaction reaching over to snatch the card away from him but he grabs your arm pulling you in his lap. Whispering in your ear softly, “Hope they look like you.”

Law

“R-really!? Holy shit! Bepo! Get the labs ready for an examination! Quickly let's go have an ultrasound!” Law stands so fast he knocks his desk chair back in a loud bang. His hand grabbing your wrist trying to drag you down the hall for a check up. You laugh echoing in the Polar Tang. “Law slow down~ can I at least have a hug first?” Law just huffs as he continues rushing you to the lab. “A hug? No- no time we have to check on the baby!”

Zoro

His face goes pale and you can tell by the look of him that he’s gonna faint. “A …a kid? I'm gonna be a dad…I can't be a dad! We can't be parents! We're pirates! We get attacked everyday!” He's spiraling you can tell but you just raise your hands and go next to him shushing him but he stands and starts pacing making you raise a brow.

“Zoro baby, you're the strongest swordsman I've ever seen. Our kid will be the safest baby on the planet.” Zoro stops pacing when he hears that, his shoulders visibly relaxing as he glances at you. “Yeah? Yeah. Maybe this won't be so bad.”

Sanji

Will instantly pick you up spinning you around with excitement, “Oh my love you've made me the happiest man alive. I'm so lucky you have no idea.” You laugh as he kisses you all over, his words filled with sappy praises. “Sweetheart, you have no idea how much I love you. You're gonna be an amazing mother.” You caress his cheek lovingly and with teary eyes speak softly, “And you're gonna be an awesome father.”

Shanks

“Hahaha! Darling you're kidding right? I'm too old for another one. But that's one good prank though baby. I'll tell Uta about it, she'll probably get a kick out of it.” Your smile morphs into an awkward stare and you shuffle nervously as Benn takes that as his cue to leave you two alone. Shanks eyes go wide as he opens the card to a picture of you holding a positive test. “Shit…I'm sorry darling I was just kidding this is…this is great.” You frown as you see Shanks force a smile, when he sees your face he stands quickly to pull you in his arms. “I'm sorry sweetheart, I'm just shocked. Don't worry everything will be alright.”

Akainu

“Alright. That's good news. I'll make arrangements.” He says simply, brushing you off as if you were some recruit and not his wife of 10 years. “That's it?” You say and he raises a brow. “Should I jump for joy? I'm far too old to be doing that nonsense.” He huffs and you just shake your head. “Real nice Saka, I at least wanted a hug or something.” You tell the man who finally looks at you properly. Standing with a sigh he walks towards you, towering you with ease, he pulls you into his arms and you can't help but smile at his stubbornness. “We'll celebrate tonight over dinner.” When he pulls away from the hug he slaps your ass hard with a smirk, “Now leave before you give me a headache.”

Monkey D. Garp

The man lets out a boisterous laugh at the news and you watch him intrigued. “Well wouldn't you know, I guess I'm not shooting blanks.” You can't help but join the contagious laughter, willing your eyes from years of joy. “Come here pretty girl.” You walk happily into his open wide arms, the large man pulling you in his lap, a wife from on his face. “I'll have to send Koby to Chase after the kid when they're older, I might break a hip at my age.” He jokes before kissing you on the forehead softly. “I'll have to tell Luffy later he'll get a laugh outta this…Dragon might throw up though.”

Whitebeard

To say he's shocked is an understatement but the man couldn't be happier at the news. His hand opened the card to see a picture of you holding a positive pregnancy test with a big smile. “You look beautiful darling…you're gonna look even better when that belly of yours swells up. I gotta say…making the kids was half the fun.” You gasp at his words and he just laughs. Standing tall he raises his glass and announces the news. “Well boys the day has come…My old lady is having my child!” All his sons erupt in cheers and you just laugh as Marco scoops you into a hug. “This is great ma. Can't wait to see what they look like.”

*divider*

[outtathisworld-imagines]

No fire without smoke

——☀️——☀️——☀️——☀️——☀️——

Pairing: Bob Reynolds x F!Barnes!Reader

Warning: Smut! +18 MDNI!, intercourse (F & M rec), smoking, fingering, masterbation, he loves a good girl moment, spanking, voyeurism, dirty talk, swearing, unprotected sex- pls wrap before you tap. Not proofread

A.N: As inspired by this ask ‘*slides into your inbox oh so sweetly* i looooved bad habit but now im trying to imagine how bucky would react to finding out about reader and bob’

Please let me know what else you guys would like! I do have a few other fics on the back-burner (for now!) that I'll start to post soon and just let me know if you'd liked to be tagged in further works too ✨

——☀️——☀️——☀️——☀️——☀️——

You and Bob played a dangerous game during the two months after you shared your secret with each other.

You had both been practically glued at the hip during the day and grinding against each other’s hips each night. A shared cigarette between those moments.

He had risked it a few times in the tower, sneaking a quick peck or a hand on your ass every now and then, milliseconds before anyone came into a room. It was like he knew. He was playing with fire between the twirls of smoke.

You were both currently in the bedroom of your downtown apartment, somewhere you both often snuck away to, keeping any suspicions of the team at bay by telling them you were both going to a walk to ‘clear you minds’.

When in reality you were both filling your lungs and Bob was gladly filling up you.

You had bought the apartment after the world had fell apart - yours even more so with the sudden loss of your brother. Only for him to appear five years later. You kept it as a safe space, your own place to unwind. Now it was a space you and Bob could be with each other, and most importantly, be yourselves with each other.

He had you wrapped in his arms, the pair of you easing the post-sex haze by sharing a cigarette- like you often did. You took a long drag before bringing it to his lips with your fingers still holding it as he took a deep inhale. “I don’t wanna head back.” You quietly said, your feelings getting harder to control around him. Wanting to just be together more and more often.

Bob looked down at you, staying silent but feeling the same. You turned and stubbed out the dying end of the cigarette before rolling back onto his chest again. He smiled but it was laced with sadness. Bob placed a long lingering kiss to your forehead. “We’ll have our moments. We can make moments. We’ll always have the balcony between two and three in the morning,” he half joked, a hint of seriousness peaking through. A soft grin spread over your face, you leaned down and kissed his chest. It created a feeling inside him that not even all the cigarettes and drugs in the world could match. He opened his mouth and then stoped himself. It was moments like these when he almost slipped.

He had moments over the past week in particular. He almost slipped up in the kitchen when you handed him his breakfast, almost slipped up just before you left his bedroom in the early hours of the morning, nearly slipped up after he had the chance to capture your lips with his before Alexei walked into the living room.

Each time finding just enough restraint to stop himself.

“We should get going, it’s almost four,” you went to sit up but he pulled you back by your waist.

“Five more minutes,” he frantically peppered kisses all over your face causing you to laugh hysterically.

It almost caused him to slip up again.

—•—

The next day you slipped on your shoes and eagerly jogged to meet with Bob in the hall, both of you sneaking back to your appartment or ‘going for your walk’ as you told the team.

You were stopped short seeing your brother walking towards you. “Hey Bucky!” You sent him a small smile.

“Think I’ll join you guys today. Get out of this place for a bit.” He said, grimacing at the walls he had confined himself in over the last few days.

You blinked with a blank expression “Join us?”

Bucky shrugged “Yeah on your walk?” He stated as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Like the two of you do every day.” He gestured behind your shoulder as Bob approached.

“Yes…” you drawled out, nodding your head slowly. “Walk.”

“H-hey guys!” He timidly greeted, Bucky’s presence overshadowing you both. “Bucky, what’s up?”

“He’s joining us,” you told Bob who went wide eyed and you clarified “On our walk.” His brows returned to the normal location on his forehead.

Bucky was in between both you and Bob, Central Park filled with people. The distance between you and Bob now almost immeasurable when you compared it to what you’d both be usually doing around this time. How he’d be holding your hand, the praise, the moans dripping from his mouth like molten gold, the wisps of smoke surrounding you both afterwards.

“I don’t know how you can enjoy this,” Bucky complained, breaking you away from your thoughts. “So many people. So many bugs. How can you guys actually enjoy this?”

You and Bob shared a brief glance “I enjoy it,” you replied with your hands in your pockets, nervously toying with your box of matches that your brother was blithely unaware of. “I would enjoy it more without the complaining…” you said under your breath. Bucky sighed and you rolled your eyes. “I’m getting a coffee,” you snapped “Bob? Buck?” You motioned to the little coffee cart and they nodded as you trudged over.

Your body was slowly being deprived of nicotine and your fix of Bob causing your snappish outburst. It felt like withdrawal. Your body fighting against itself for more, urging it to succumb to your cravings. You ordered three coffees, hoping the caffeine would help a little. Bob and Bucky were casually chatting away about something while your fingers went back to the matchbox and you bit on the tip of your tongue to distract you. Another bad habit of yours.

You grabbed the coffees and took them back over to them both, practically tossing yours down your throat, not even flinching at the scalding heat.

You did another round by the pond and then decided to call it a day, dismally making your way back to the watchtower. A faint “You okay?” Bob’s gentle concerned tone pulled a smile from your scowling lips, you nodded, your selfish addiction to him almost fighting you to shake your head no.

But he felt the same. It had been hours but it felt like he had gone cold turkey and been without you for decades at this point.

When 2am rolled around you made your way out to the balcony in your white nightdress, stopping just at the knees and a perfectly plunging neckline that accentuated your breasts. The cool breeze caused your nipples to almost instantly harden, you pulled the cigarette tucked from behind your ear and brought it to your lips lighting it with your trusted matches.

Then waited.

It didn’t take you too long to figure out that Bob could see the balcony and that meant you could see Bob. He was dimly illuminated by his bedside lamp as his eyes glanced up and saw you in a hazy orange glow. You smirked seeing him frantically trying to organise himself to get to your little rendezvous spot.

That’s when you decided to tease him. You took a long inhale and sharply exhaled the smoke, a new fire burning inside you as he watched you slip your hand under your nightdress. The silky white material started to bunch up from your rhythmic actions, giving Bob full view as he watched you masterbating for him from his bedroom, his body almost aching at the sight. He was experiencing the craving to end all cravings watching you pleasure yourself outside on a cool night under the stars and surrounded by smoke.

He all but flew to the balcony in order to reach you, wanting you to not get any further forward without him, without the chance for him to pleasure you too. The sight of you slapped him right in the face just as much as the sudden gust of cold wind did.

The white dress almost made you look like a puritan, but the cigarette loosely being held by your lips and your fingers knuckle deep in your own pussy told him otherwise.

“Fuck, you started without me?” He playfully pouted. Bob approached you, snatched the cigarette from your mouth and took in a mouthful of smoke before slowly exhaling it over your face and neck, it draped over your skin for a moment before disappearing. “Getting that pussy warmed up for me? Let me feel baby.” His hand joined yours and you let out a breathy moan at the sensation. Bob smirked “You’re gonna wake everyone…here,” he placed the cigarette into your mouth again. “Suck on this until it’s done and then you can suck on my cock.”

Your eyes rolled back in pleasure, his words sending you into a frenzy. His fingers taking over from your own as you gripped onto his shoulders. You took the cigarette and let him take a quick drag before he picked you up by the thighs and took you back to his room. You were giggling so much you didn’t realise the end of the smouldering cigarette fell from your fingers and hit the floor. The embers burned away as you and Bob, blissfully unaware started your own fire.

You both fucked until the early yours in the morning, your legs weak as you quietly made your way back to your room just as the sun was rising.

Little did you or anyone else know the consequences that little burnt out cigarette end would have when someone who was enjoying some solitude with a coffee out on the balcony, found it by their feet the next day.

—•—

When the next evening rolled around, Bob was about to start his second cigarette when you snaked your arms around him and discreetly kissed his shoulder “Hey,” you greeted him and he turned around with a perfect smile. A cloud of smoke surrounding you both.

“Hey there,” his voice was rough, smoke from the cigarette dancing around his vocal cords. It sent a shiver down your spine.

He went into his jean pocket and got you a cigarette, you took it happily and then, to his surprise, pulled out the lighter from his other jean pocket. “Watch this,” you flicked the trigger and it lit first time. “Are you impressed or what?” You gloated as you lit your own and puffed away.

Bob smirked, exaggerating clapping his hands. “I am impressed,” he said “But then again, I’m always impressed with how skilled your hands are…” his voice turned from rough to sultry like it was operated with a switch, he took a deep inhale and then removed his just about finished cigarette, yours fizzling out too. His eyes looked you up and down, slowly and with complete intent. The oh-so-sweet cozy, knitted jumper you had on with a skirt he could easily hike up and then have his way with you taunted him.

You mirrored his actions and then you both met in the middle, your lips perfectly syncing with one another’s and with the faintest taste of smoke from them. Bob soon succumb to his own cravings as much as you did, the cigarettes had dwindled out as they had carried on burning as you both carried on passionately kissing. Your tongue swiped his bottom lip and he opened his mouth for you. At this point the two of you were at the stage of biblical levels of gluttony.

The greed that drowned both of you, the need, the want, the craving, the smoke and ultimately the fire. It all but consumed you both.

Bob growled when you playfully bit his lip whilst pressing the palm of your hand to his hardening cock. He pulled back, his eyes blown with lust and his lips swollen. Bob quickly turned you around by your upper arms and gently pushed your back down until you were bent over the railing, bent over in front of New York.

“B-Bob?!” You yelped being taken by complete surprise, hearing the harsh noise of his zipper going down and then the shuffling of fabric down to his knees.

His hands quickly lifted your skirt, almost cumming at the sight of you not wearing any underwear. “Good girl,” he slapped your ass and you yelped again and he effortlessly slid his cock inside you, you both moaned. “I want the world to watch me fuck the prettiest girl living on it.”

Your hands tightly gripped onto the railing as your moans cascaded over the city below. “F-fuck! Yes!” Your head craned back and you could see his face contort with pleasure as he rhythmically fucked you. “You fuck me so good, Bob! So good, baby!” You groaned, your grip becoming tighter.

“Feels so fucking good, you’re so fucking perfect!” Bob cried just as loud as you. His fingers sinking into your hips as he fucked you from behind, every inch of his body filling with sheer gratification. His eyes closed, his restraint unwinding before he eventually- “God, I love you!” He slipped.

You tensed feeling him suddenly stop a few seconds after he realised what he had said. “Are you okay?” You softly asked, the words longing around your bodies like the smoke. “Bob?”

His words became lodged in his throat and he pulled out from you, causing you to groan at the sudden loss of him. You quickly turned to see him with a shocked expression on his face and he pulled up his jeans. “I didn’t mean-“

“Don’t,” you placed a hand on his chest, freezing him in place. “Don’t say you didn’t mean it because I hope you did.” You said with a smile forming on your face. His shocked expression turned to one of relief and joy.

“I did. I really, really did,” he moved closer and pressed a gentle kiss to your lips. “I do, I do love you.”

“Good because I love you too,” you grinned, wrapping your arms around the back of his neck. He had a wide smile on his face and excitably kissed you, peppering kisses all over your face and neck before picking you up, a surprised shriek and giggle escaping from your lips.

Bobs lips never left yours as he effortlessly carried you to his room, closing the door with his foot before laying you gently on his bed. “Gonna show you how much I love you,” he traced his fingertips down your bare legs. That was before he grabbed the hem of your skirt and swiftly removed it. You removed your own top, filled with giddy delight as he stripped off too and lay on top of you. “I’m so lucky…” he softly spoke against your skin as he kissed it.

You looked in his eyes, cupping his cheek “I’m the lucky one, trust me.” He kissed you as he slid himself inside you once again.

The slow rhythmic thrusting of his hips soon turned fast, Bob sitting up slightly and grabbing you by the ankles before spreading them and fucking you like his life depended on it. Quickly becoming breathless- no thanks to the smoking- beads of sweat scattered across his forehead like stars in the sky. “So, so fucking perfect, the most perfect girl,” he strained as he finally burst. He came in you with a gristly scream, a release he didn’t even know he was craving until he had it.

“Fuck!” You cried out as you came over his cock, Bob moaning at the sensation of your pussy tightening around his cock. He collapsed on top of you, his room filling with the sound of you catching your breaths. You ran your hand through his hair as you closed your eyes.

“The sun is rising,” he said in a warning tone that was laced with sadness.

You looked out the window and then to him. Your bad habit gaining you a good outcome.

“I’ll stay, if that’s alright?” You said in a quiet voice. The two of you now crossing a boundary into unknown territory, like walking through flames.

Bob looked up to you “That’s more than alright.” He told you, holding your hand, the two of you bracing for a new journey together.

—•—

The next afternoon everyone was relaxing in the living room when the stomping of Bucky’s boots brought everyone’s attention to him.

“I found this on the balcony,” he said and harshly slammed it on the coffee table. A cigarette end. “Own up.”

You gulped, your eyes glancing over to Bob who swallowed equally as hard as he tried his best to avoid your gaze. You had been expecting this day since 1935.

“It was me,” you spoke up, finally coming clean after all these years. It was like the smoke had lifted from your life.

Bucky held out his hand. “No, no it isn’t you.” He dismissed and you blinked. You knew he still saw you as the girl in her cream and pink wool dress and pigtails, the days where he’d be fighting off everyone for you, doing what he could to protect you.

“It is.” You countered back. Bob still being painfully quiet while everyone watched on.

“It’s okay Y/N, don’t take the fall for someone else.” Bucky then glared at John.

He gasped and held out both his hands “Dude! It’s not me!”

“I-it’s actually me.” Bob stood up. Bucky snorted in amusement.

“You’re just as bad as Y/N, sit down. I know it wasn’t you.” Bob slowly sat, looking at you with a perplexed look, everyone else remained silent. “Fine, no one wants to admit? Well, I took the liberty of installing cameras outside to catch whoever it was! I haven’t seen this yet so let’s all take a look shall we?” He played the video.

Your heart stopped as well as Bob’s.

It had last nights date in the bottom corner.

The same night he railed you over the railing before admitting he loved you. “Buck I already told you-“

“Ah ah ah! Look here! It’s-“ his brows tightly knitted together. “Why are you out there Bob?” A pause, you tried to get the remote from him. “Why is Y/N out there with you?” Another pause, his voice getting tighter “Why is she hugging you?”

“Jesus enough!” You were on the verge of fighting with him to get the controller. It fell to the floor and cracked into what looked like a million pieces. Everyone was engrossed with the TV while you tried to stop the footage. The video continued.

Bucky gasped. “You’re both smoking?!” He yelled “Y/N!”

“Okay! I told you! We are the culprits!” You nervously laughed “How do we get this goddamn TV off now!” Your hands tried to find a button. Bob remained frozen on the spot. “Help would be appreciated…” you said to him through gritted teeth.

A scandalous ‘ohh’ echoed through the living room. Your eyes went wide, not as wide as your brothers however, when the footage showed you and Bob locked in a kiss.

Then, as you knew fine well, the kiss escalated.

The moans got louder. The scene more and more explicit with each passing second.

Yelena groaned and covered her eyes, Ava vanished, Alexei awkwardly turned away and tried to talk about something else and John snorted before clapping his hands, intently watching the scene unfold before him.

“Way to go Bob! Didn’t realise you had it in ya buddy!”

“Walker! Avert your eyes you absolute perv!” You stood in front of the TV, trying to cover it as best as you could with your body as Bob threw a pillow at him.

“Better than paying for it from a dodgy website.”

“Walker!” You yelled. “Bucky I-we-“ your voice was trembling.

The TV turned off, you couldn’t quite breathe a sigh of relief seeing your brother’s gaze was focused on the floor, his fists balling together.

“Well Bob,” he finally spoke “The smoking hasn’t killed you, but I’m sure as hell about to.”

[greenwitchfromthewoods]

"My love for you will truly become my downfall, I just know it." Harry Castillo

Angry Confessions ❤️‍😠

bio : this story is part of the Angry Confessions series (you can still be a part of it)

requested by : @o-sacra-virgo-laudes-tibi thank you!

warnings: a little bit of angst, one perfect guy, some tears, a few bad words, fluff at the end

Life should go according to plan. Step by step, day by day. Harry operated according to a certain system, his huge apartment was tidy, and he always drank the same coffee. It wasn't that he didn't like surprises, but he preferred giving them to others rather than receiving them himself.

And then you appeared and chaos reigned in his life. Suddenly there were clothes lying on the couch, no one had cleared the breakfast plates - you were already late for work, or it turned out that you had received tickets for some play that was on that same day and you didn't see the point in asking Harry if he didn't have to work. And although he was having a great time, the latest reports and conversations with clients were constantly swirling in his head.

He had a soft spot for you. God! You were something untamed, not fitting into any pattern or plan. Harry tried, oh yes. He tried very hard to make you the way he had planned, but you couldn't adjust.

And there you were. Friday night, in front of his office door, with boxes of food in your hands and two cans of cola in your bag. The office was already empty, but you knew the people working at the front desk, so you walked in without too much trouble.

There was no knocking. The door opened and you walked in.

"Hey, handsome! Look what I found." Your cheerful voice echoed through the office. "I've got junk food and cans of cola, and then we'll watch some stupid reality show. Perfect night to..."

You froze mid-step. Right in front of Harry Castillo's desk sat three men, one with hair as white as snow. Everyone, even Harry, was looking at you like you were an alien.

"Good evening." You mumbled, nodding in confusion. "Still working?"

You saw Harry rubbing his forehead, trying to hide his sigh. "Yes. These gentlemen," he pointed to the men in front of him, "are members of the board of directors. We have our monthly meeting regarding..."

"Harry..." the man with snow-white hair raised his hand slightly, "we can finish this on Monday. I don't see a problem. And if you have other plans..."

"I don't have other plans." Harry interrupted him, not caring about the tone of his voice, "Can you leave?" he turned to you, "Go home, this will take us a long time."

You felt a lump in your throat, but you nodded, mumbling a quiet "I'm sorry" and quickly leaving the office. It was embarrassing, even more than embarrassing.

He didn't find you in his apartment, and your phone was silent. It was really late and he was tired, but he called a taxi. Harry wasn't sure what he expected when he stood in front of your apartment door. Guilt mixed with a whole bunch of other feelings. But it wasn't until he saw you, in your home clothes - comfortable and soft, with eyes puffy from crying, that he realized he had behaved badly.

"Sweetheart..." he said quietly. "Can we talk?"

You didn't answer, just moved to let him in. The interior was just like you - a little cluttered, but it was your haven, a place where you could be yourself, express yourself. Harry's gaze swept over the piles of books, a few small plants on the windowsill, decorative pillows on the couch. Even the air here smelled of you.

"I'm sorry about today." Your voice was quiet. You had to prepare what you wanted to say to him in advance. "I shouldn't have... I just thought that..."

"Sometimes you drive me crazy." He cut you off, turning to face you. In that perfectly tailored suit in the middle of your living room, Castillo looked quite scary. “This meeting was very important. You made me look like…”

“Like who?” you groaned. “I keep doing something wrong! What did I do wrong now, Harry?”

He looked at you, a little surprised and a little confused. Your demeanor had changed dramatically in a matter of moments. He cleared his throat.

“It’s not what you think.” He finally spoke. “It was an important meeting and…”

“I thought I was important too…”

There was silence. Harry swallowed, noticing the tears glistening in your eyes. But you didn’t want to stay silent any longer, you let out everything you were holding inside.

“I know I’m not perfect, Harry. I never will be. I don’t fit into your catalog apartment, with its expensive furniture and starched shirts. I know that! But I try, because I care about the man underneath that suit.” Your voice cracked slightly, but you took a deep breath to calm yourself down. “I just wanted you to have a moment to yourself, to know that someone was thinking about you and caring.”

“I was working.”

“I know! I work too! But life isn’t all about work. You can’t live by that fucking schedule all the time!”

“Sometimes you’re insufferable, you know that?” Harry shook his head.

“Does that scare you? That’s life, Harry!”

“My love for you will truly be my downfall, I know it.”

Your eyes widened, your lips parted. “You don’t really mean that…”

Suddenly, a chasm opened between you. The words that had been spoken still hung between you, and you looked at Harry as if you were seeing him for the first time in your life. You were in love with this guy, but at that moment you felt like you weren’t sure if that was enough. Harry suddenly understood what he had said, because he took a step towards you, but you took a small step back.

“I’m sorry I don’t live up to your standards,” you finally said. “I’m sorry I ruined all your plans.”

“Baby…” he groaned, but you didn’t let him speak. 

"You're so perfect, and I can't even act in a way that doesn't embarrass you! Why are you even here, huh? I try so hard, but it's still not enough..."

Suddenly, warm hands grabbed your face, directing your gaze into his warm brown eyes. "You make me feel exposed, vulnerable, and at the same time, I become the most important person to someone. Yes, many things irritate me, but you're the only person I want to do that to. You make me feel alive..."

"Bullshit," you hissed. "Then why are you telling me such things?!"

"Because I'm scared! I'm scared of what I feel, of what you make me feel. I'm scared that if I delve into this any further, you'll suddenly disappear," he sighed. "I'm sorry you felt this way today. I shouldn't have. I could have handled it differently. I know you meant well..."

"I only want the best for you, Harry." you sobbed "I love you and I can't imagine hurting you on purpose."

"I know, I know, baby. I'm sorry." he kissed your lips, tasting the salty tears on them. "I'm sorry if you ever felt like I wasn't enough. You're all I need, even if sometimes I don't realize it. I love you so much..."

Your arms wrapped around his waist as you held on to him with all your might. It was the night when Harry Castillo let all the rules fall, when he accepted the fall and realized he would rise up stronger. With you by his side.

Perfect imperfection.

[honeyncherry]

we never tell - joe burrow

summary turns out joe burrow doesn't take kindly to being treated like a stranger

content 18+, smut, angst, language, alcohol

part five

You’re getting flashbacks. Stuck in some hole-in-the-wall bar that smells like spilled beer and victory. The sort of place that's seen a thousand celebrations and will see a thousand more.

You're pressed between bodies that reek of adrenaline, trying to make yourself small in a corner booth while Dom argues with someone about LSU's defensive line. The noise is overwhelming, too many voices layered over bad music, the kind of chaos that makes your skull feel too tight.

You shouldn't be here.

Especially not when Joe keeps drifting closer to your end of the table, finding excuses to lean over Dom's shoulder, to grab napkins from the dispenser next to you, to brush past you under the pretense of squeezing through the crowded space. 

Each time, you find a reason to move: bathroom, bar, outside for air. Anything to avoid being in his orbit for too long.

"You want another drink?" Dom's voice cuts through your spiral, and you realize you've been staring at the same spot on the table for who knows how long.

"I'm fine," you lie, even though your vodka soda has been empty for twenty minutes.

He gives you that look, the one that says he's not buying it but won't push. "I'm getting one anyway."

You have to scoot out of the booth to let him pass, the awkward shuffle making you want to melt. When you slide back in Dom's absence leaves a gaping space between you and Joe. You perch on the very edge of the seat, as far from him as possible while still technically sitting down.

"I'll come help you carry," someone whose name you didn’t catch says, pushing back from the table and following him.

Dom walks towards the bar, his jersey already stained with something that could either be beer or barbecue sauce. He looks happy, loose in a way you haven't seen him in months. This is his element—celebrating with friends that weren’t his but suddenly are. Basking in reflected glory, being part of something bigger than himself.

Everyone here looks the same, drunk on victory and possibility, wearing their colors like badges of honor. You feel like an imposter in your simple black top, like everyone can see that you don't belong.

"Come on, just for a little bit," Dom had pleaded outside the Mercedes-Benz stadium, still buzzing from the win. "The guys are celebrating. It'll be fun."

You should be at dinner with your parents right now, somewhere quiet with cloth stitched napkins and muted conversations. Somewhere safe. Instead, you're trapped in this testosterone-fueled victory lap because Dom wouldn't take no for an answer.

Fun. Right.

Your mom had looked disappointed when you chose the bar over dinner, her hand lingering on your arm like she wanted to pull you back. "You sure, honey? We could all go together. Have a nice meal."

But here you are, nursing regret in liquid form, trying not to think about the last time you talked to Joe. And definitely not thinking about the last time you saw Joe face to face.

You smell his cologne and your body goes traitor, remembering what your mind has spent months trying to forget. The urge to run wars with the urge to lean closer, and both options feel like jumping off a cliff.

Your phone buzzes against your thigh, and your stomach does a familiar flip before you even check the screen.

Holy shit you saw that game?? 👀

you: sooo when were you gonna tell me you're some star qb 

You feel eyes on you and look over to catch Joe staring at your screen. His jaw is tight, and there's something unreadable in his expression as he takes in what you've written.

You tilt your phone away instinctively, but he doesn't look away. For a long moment, you're locked in this stare, heart hammering as his eyes search yours like he's trying to make sense of something. 

Then, maybe out of spite—or desperation—you adjust your grip, angling the phone just enough for him to see Jalen’s name lighting up your screen as another message comes through.

You hate that you want him to care. Hate that you’re performing for an audience of one, using someone else’s attention like a weapon. But when his mouth tenses and steel flashes behind his eyes, a sick satisfaction curls in your stomach.

From across the table, Ja’marr calls out a question to Joe and his attention reluctantly shifts. You exhale a breath you didn't realize you were holding, angling your phone away this time as another response comes through.

jalen: Ain’t noo way you saw the game

you: saw you get your ass kicked

jalen: Ouch. And here I thought you were sweet

you: you thought wrong

you: :)

You're smiling despite yourself, the first real smile you've managed all day. Something about texting Jalen feels easy, like you can be the version of yourself that doesn't carry the weight of all this drama.

you: seriously though how did you not mention you’re oklahoma’s qb 

jalen: How did you not mention you're apparently an LSU fan

Your mind drifts back to your initial message to him towards the beginning of the game. You'd been half-watching, half-scrolling through your phone, when the big screen lit up with Oklahoma's starting lineup. One by one, they announced the players, each name echoing through the Superdome as the camera followed them onto the field.

And then: "At quarterback, number one, Jalen Hurts!"

Your phone had nearly slipped from your hands.

There he was, larger than life on the jumbotron—the same honey-brown eyes, the same easy smile, but dressed in Oklahoma crimson instead of the casual clothes you'd seen him in back home. Stats flashed across the screen: 32 passing touchdowns, 20 rushing touchdowns, 3,851 passing yards. Numbers that meant he was really, really good.

Before the screen could flash on to the next player, you quickly snapped a photo and sent it to him along with a string of question marks. What you didn’t notice was how blaringly obvious the pool of purple and gold that you were swimming in looked in the picture.

You: touche

"Oh my god, no way!"

The voice is bright and excited, cutting through the noise of the bar clearly. You look up to see her weaving through the crowd, face lit up with genuine delight. Behind her, Nate follows with the kind of resigned expression that suggests this wasn't his idea.

Your stomach drops.

Dom appears at your side, fresh drinks in hand, wearing a grin that looks suspiciously planned. "Surprise!" he announces, like it's Christmas morning.

You paste on a smile, one that might’ve been genuine if not for everything that happened a year ago. "Wow," you manage, standing to greet them both. "I had no idea you were coming."

Even as you're going through the motions, your attention keeps drifting to Joe's reaction. He's gone very still, that careful mask slipping into place as Bridget gets closer.

She reaches you first, practically buzzing, her cheeks flushed with excitement and probably alcohol. She's wearing LSU colors, a purple top that brings out her eyes, gold jewelry that catches the light. She looks perfect, like she belongs. 

Part of you wants to hate her—for her posts, for being here, for the way she fits into Joe's world. But she's warm and genuine, and that makes it worse somehow. Because it would be easier if she were awful. Easier to justify the sickening jealousy that crawls about when you see her.

"I've missed you," she pulls back to look at your face. "When Dom called however many weeks ago and said he could get us here for tonight, I've been excited since."

"Weeks?" The word slips out before you can stop it, and you catch the guilty flicker in your brother's expression as he sets drinks down on the table.

"Right after we found out your family was coming to the game," Nate confirms, reaching over to dap up the other guys. "Dom said we had to be here for the game. Make it a proper reunion since no Tahoe trip for you this year."

The pieces click into place with sickening clarity. 

Your brother orchestrated this. Set you up like pieces on a chessboard, and you walked right into it. The betrayal tastes metallic, makes your hands shake as you realize how naive you've been. Does he know? About your encounters, about the phone calls, about how you've been walking around with Joe's name carved into you like scar tissue? The thought makes you want to disappear into the floor.

But Bridget doesn't seem to notice your stillness, too focused on turning her attention to Joe.

"Hey," she speaks to him. It’s almost personal the way she looks at him, not desperate or clingy, but like she has every right to be here, in this moment, celebrating his victory alongside all of you.

Joe stands from the booth to greet her properly, and you're suddenly standing beside each other, close enough that you can feel the tension radiating off him. 

Before he can react, Bridget's leaning in for a hug. It's brief but intimate, her hands resting against his shoulders. The awkward pat on her arm he gives her seems more obligatory than friendly.

When Joe pulls back, he steps away too quickly and his shoulder knocks into you, sending you stumbling back against the edge of the booth. His hand darts out instinctively, curling around your arm to steady you before you can fully lose balance. 

The contact lingers for a second longer than it should. His touch is careful, but you can feel the way his fingers flex like he doesn’t really want to let go.

His skin against yours is muscle memory, your body recognizing his touch before your brain can build its defenses. For one terrifying second, you want to melt into it. Your pulse skitters like a trapped bird, and you jerk away because staying means drowning. 

You lean away as far as the limited space allows and his face briefly twitches. You tear your gaze away from him only to lock eyes with Ja'Marr, who's been watching the two of you with barely concealed interest. 

There's recognition in his expression that makes heat crawl up your neck. You wonder what he sees, whether the careful distance you've maintained looks as desperate as it feels. Whether everyone in this space can read the story written in the space between you and Joe.

"Sorry," Joe mutters beside you. The first words he’s spoken to you since the messages stopped coming. It had been a couple days after his birthday with no reply from you, when he finally took the hint.

For what? You want to bite back.

"It's fine," you opt for instead.

You tear your gaze away from Ja'Marr and scan the faces around you. Nate is settling into conversation with one of Joe's teammates, the others are making room for everyone, and Dom is watching you.

When your eyes meet his, you raise your eyebrows slightly—that silent sibling language you've perfected over the years. What?

He shakes his head once and looks away, but not before you catch an unfamiliar edge to him. 

There's a shuffle as people start sliding into the booth, Bridget claiming the spot next to where Joe was sitting, Nate squeezing in beside her, Dom and one of the teammates on the other side. You make sure to slide in last, again perching on the very edge of the seat where you can bolt if you need to.

Joe is seated beside you, and you're hyper-aware of the space between you… or lack thereof. The booth that felt too small before now feels suffocating with everyone new crammed in.

Bridget is talking about the flight, about how excited she was to surprise everyone, and you nod along. Nate is talking about the game, how he and Bridget made friends with some random people near the student section, and you smile at his jokes. 

Your phone buzzes again, probably Jalen responding to your last message, but you don't check it. Can't, really, not with Joe sitting right there, not with the memory of his face when he saw you texting someone about being a "star QB."

More people keep filtering into the bar, LSU students still riding the high of victory, Oklahoma fans drowning their sorrows, the energy getting louder and more chaotic by the minute. 

You're ready to jump out of your own skin. The noise of the bar fades to white static as your nervous system floods with the need to escape. Anything but sitting here, drowning in the space between what you want and what you can't have, between who you're trying to be and who you become when he's near.

"—right?" Bridget's voice is directed at you, and you realize she's looking at you expectantly.

"Sorry, what?"

"I was saying how crazy it is that we're all here together. Like old times again."

"Yeah," you manage, forcing a smile. "Crazy."

But it doesn't feel like old times. It feels like wearing clothes that used to fit but now pinch in all the wrong places. Joe takes a sip of his drink, and you catch the movement in your peripheral vision, dialed into everything he does.

You start thinking of excuses. Headache. Stomach ache. Parents expecting you back. Anything to get out of here, away from the weight of Joe's presence and prying eyes.

That's when you spot him.

At first, you're not sure—it’s gotten so crowded, bodies shifting and blocking your view. But there's familiarity within the figure near the main bar area, the way he carries himself. You crane your neck slightly, trying to get a better look without being obvious about it.

Oklahoma crimson. The right height. Could it be—?

One of the guys he's with notices you staring and nudges him, pointing in your direction. When Jalen turns and looks, his face breaks into a smile you remember.

Heat crawls up your neck once again tonight, embarrassed at being caught staring, but also relieved beyond measure that it's actually him instead of some stranger. You can't help the small smile that tugs at your lips in response.

Jalen raises his hand and waves you over, tilting his head toward where he's standing. You slide out of the booth during a natural lull in conversation, your heart hammering so hard you're sure everyone can hear it over the noise.

Your legs feel unsteady as you navigate through the crowd, not from alcohol but from the sheer effort of holding yourself together for so long. You can still feel the phantom heat of Joe's body next to yours, the way your skin buzzed every time he shifted in his seat, the careful choreography of making sure no part of you accidentally touched any part of him.

By the time you reach Jalen, you’re full of something that feels dangerously close to gratitude. He represents everything that booth didn't—ease, simplicity, the possibility of a conversation that doesn't require you to search every word for hidden meanings.

"Look who decided to join the losing side."

"Someone had to check on you," you say, surprised by how normal your voice sounds when everything inside you feels like it's vibrating at the wrong frequency.

He raises an eyebrow, amused. "Check on me? I'm not the one who looks like I'd rather be anywhere else."

Before you can respond, he glances over your shoulder toward the booth, his expression shifting slightly. "So," he says, taking a sip of his drink, "you know half the LSU team or something?"

Your stomach tightens, but you keep your voice light. "Family friend."

"Ah." He nods along, smiling again.

"Speaking of," you say quickly, "when exactly were you planning to mention that you're apparently some hotshot quarterback? I had to find out by seeing your face on a jumbotron."

Jalen grins, the deflection working exactly as you'd hoped. "Hey, I told you I played football at a different school. Not my fault you never bothered to ask which one."

"You said you played football! You didn't say you were..." you gesture vaguely at the TV screens around the bar, where highlights from the game are still playing on loop, "...that."

"What, good?" His grin widens. "I definitely told you I was good."

"There's good, and then there's..." You trail off, shaking your head. "Okay, fine. I should have asked more questions."

"Should've googled me," he teases. "Very first result would've told you everything you needed to know."

"Who googles people anymore?" You. You do.

"Smart people who want to know if they're texting Heisman candidates."

You laugh despite yourself, and it feels good. "Heisman candidate? Aren't you humble." His eyes are dancing with amusement, and you realize you're smiling too much, laughing too easily. You feel like you can finally breathe.

Which is, of course, exactly when everything goes to hell.

"SHOTS! SHOTS! SHOTS!"

The chanting is loud enough to cut through every other conversation in the place, and you don't need to look to know where it's coming from. Joe's voice rises above the rest, commanding and celebratory. It draws nearly every eye in the room. 

"Sounds like your crew's getting started," Jalen observes out loud.

Before you can respond, the entire group is moving like a tide toward the bar and then they're there, surrounding you and Jalen like a wave crashing over a quiet shore. The careful distance you'd put between yourself and all of this evaporates in seconds.

"There she is!" Dom shouts, throwing an arm around your shoulders. "Joe's buying everyone drinks!"

You're suddenly pressed between bodies again, the peace you'd found with Jalen shattered as LSU purple and gold invades your space. But it's not Dom you're watching, it's Joe, whose attention is fixed on Jalen with an intensity that makes you waver.

There's a moment of recognition, though the two have never met. Joe's jaw tightens subtly, and something cold flickers before the mask slides back into place.

"Well, well," Joe extends a hand toward Jalen and suddenly sports a smile that doesn’t quite touch the rest of him. "Jalen Hurts. Hell of a game tonight."

"Joe Burrow," Jalen responds, taking the offered hand. His smile genuine. "Appreciate it, man. Y'all played lights out."

The handshake lasts longer than expected, and you can feel the tension crackling between them. Two quarterbacks, two different worlds, sizing each other up with the kind of professional courtesy that barely conceals something sharper underneath.

"This is Jalen," you say quickly, turning to the others, desperate to diffuse whatever this is becoming. "Jalen, this is…" You rattle off introductions, watching as the guys exchange pleasantries, everyone playing their parts in this strange theater of sportsmanship.

But you can feel Joe watching you the entire time, tracking every interaction, every smile you give Jalen, every moment of ease between you two. There's possessiveness in the way he stalks, something that makes your skin feel too hot and too tight.

"So you two know each other?" Bridget asks, genuine curiosity in her voice as she looks between you and Jalen.

"We met back home," you say carefully, overly focused on Joe's attention. "Few months ago."

"Small world," Joe says, and there's an edge to his voice that only you seem to catch. "Amazing how people just... turn up places."

Jalen's eyes flick between you and Joe, and you see the moment he picks up on the undercurrent. His expression doesn't change, but something does in his posture, a subtle straightening that suggests he's reading the room just fine.

"Actually," you say, taking a small step toward Jalen, "we were just going to—"

"Oh no, no, no," Joe interrupts, his hand shooting out to catch your arm before you can move any farther. His grip is firm, his smile still mockingly wide and friendly. "Come on, we're just getting started here. Stay and celebrate with us."

You want to pull away, but doing so would draw attention you can't afford. Instead, you freeze, caught between the warmth of his hand and the weight of everyone's expectant gazes.

"Yeah, absolutely," Jalen says after a moment, his voice easy and accommodating. "I'm in no rush."

Joe orders another round of beers for him and the guys, shots for everyone else who wants because even he's not stupid enough to risk getting caught drinking hard liquor in public during playoff season.

The rest of the night unfolds in fragments, each moment feeling both too long and too brief.

Jalen somehow manages to secure two seats a little ways away, further from the main ruckus but still close enough to the others where it isn’t anything too intimate. You find yourself leaning into simple conversations with him, the kind that flows without effort despite everything swirling around you.

Somewhere along the way, you’d found out that when he left Alabama, Ohio State had actually been one of the schools he looked at. He spent some time there, met a few people, and now pops back whenever he gets the chance.

"So what's your New Year's looking like?" he asks, twirling his beer bottle between his hands. "Seems like I will now be free."

You laugh, "I don't know yet. Probably something lowkey. What about you?"

"Depends," he says, voice tilting just enough to make you look up. "Maybe I'll find myself back in Ohio for a bit. Check on some of those connections I mentioned."

The suggestion hangs between you, loaded with possibility. "That could be nice," you say, trying to keep your voice casual even as warmth spreads through your chest.

"Could be," he agrees, his eyes holding yours a beat longer than necessary.

Behind you, Dom tells some elaborate story about nearly getting kicked out of the Superdome for sneaking into the wrong section, complete with exaggerated reenactments that have half the group in stitches. When Jalen makes a dry comment about Dom's "criminal mastermind" skills, it makes you laugh.

And then, unmistakably, you feel Joe's shoulder pressing against your back. His presence is domineering. You freeze, once again caught between the urge to lean into it and the knowledge that you absolutely cannot.

The moment you stop laughing, he steps away as if nothing happened.

It happens again twenty minutes later when Jalen tells you about the time his teammate accidentally ordered twenty pizzas to the wrong address. Your laugh bubbles up, and there Joe is again, a wall of heat at your back, close enough to make your skin buzz with awareness.

You start to wonder if it's intentional. If he's testing something, pushing boundaries just to see what you'll do.

Later, when the conversation splits into smaller groups, you find yourself inadvertently eavesdropping on Bridget and Joe. She's gotten progressively more animated as the night has worn on, her cheeks flushed, movements a little looser.

"So what are you doing for New Year's?" she asks, leaning closer to Joe. "Please tell me you're not just going to sit at home alone."

Joe shrugs, taking a sip of his beer. "Haven't decided."

"Come on," she presses, her hand finding his arm. "We should do something fun."

"Maybe," Joe says, but his voice is flat.

You watch this exchange with a strange mix of emotions. Part of you wants to feel vindicated—see, he's not interested in her. But mostly you feel something else entirely as you observe him throughout the rest of the night.

The way he throws his head back when Justin tells a story about his rookie year. How Joe genuinely lights up talking about the game, about plays that worked, about the feeling of everything clicking into place. It’s a side of Joe that you don't get to see often anymore. And, despite everything between you, watching him happy makes something warm unfurl in your chest.

He deserves this. This joy, this success, this moment of pure celebration.

The thought surprises you with its sincerity.

As the night wears on, the bar begins to thin out. The post-game high starts to fade into exhaustion, and you realize your head is actually starting to pound—whether from the noise, the alcohol, or the emotional whiplash of the evening, you're not sure.

You're rubbing your temples when you hear one of Jalen's teammates call out, "Hurts! We're heading back. You coming?"

Jalen glances at you, then back at his friend. "Yeah, probably should."

"Actually," you say, seizing the opening, "I think I'm ready to head back too."

"Oh, well let me give you a ride," Jalen offers immediately. "Uber prices are probably insane right now, especially with the game traffic."

It's such a reasonable offer, such a normal thing to suggest, that you're already nodding when Joe's voice cuts through the conversation.

"Oh, nah man, that's good of you but we were probably heading back soon anyway—"

"No!" Bridget interrupts, her voice a little too loud for you right now. "You promised me darts last year, remember? We never got to play. Come on, just one game?"

Your face twists before you can control it, and when you look at Joe, his expression has gone completely pale. There's something almost panicked in his eyes as they dart between you and Bridget, like he's trying to figure out how to navigate this without making everything worse.

But the damage is already done. The reminder of the past year, of all the reasons you spent months learning how to forget sits among you.

"It's fine," you say quickly. "Jalen, if you don't mind..."

"Of course not," he’s already standing, eyes moving to Joe, before back to you. "Ready when you are."

You gather your things with shaking hands, say your goodbyes with a smile that feels like it might crack your face. Joe doesn't say anything as you leave, but you feel his eyes on you until the bar door swings shut behind you.

The ride back to the hotel is quiet, save for whatever music Jalen has playing and the distant sounds of nightlife filtering through the car. You lean your head against the cool glass, watching the city blur past in streaks of neon colors and shadows.

When he pulls up to the hotel, he puts the car in park but doesn't immediately say goodbye. "Hey," he says, turning to face you. "I don't know what all that was back there, but… just want to make sure you’re good."

Your throat tightens. "Yeah, I am."

"Just take care of yourself, alright? And if you ever need someone to talk to, or if you feel like letting me buy you a drink next time I’m up there…" He trails off, letting the offer hang in the air.

"Thank you," you mean it more than he probably realizes. "Who knows, might take you up on that offer." You muster up a grin, watching as a smile covers his face at the sight.

"I’ll be waiting.”

You lean over and give him a quick hug, friendly enough to remind yourself that there are still people in the world who make things easier instead of harder.

The hotel lobby is mercifully quiet when you walk in, just the soft ding of the elevator and the muted conversations of a few late-night stragglers by the bar. You'd splurged on your own room for this trip, separate from your parents and Dom, telling yourself you needed the space to decompress after finals. It was the one luxury you'd allowed yourself, and right now you're grateful for the foresight.

Your room is on the fourteenth floor with a view of the city that you barely glance at as you drop your purse on the desk and kick off your shoes. Your feet ache, your head pounds, and an exhaustion settles into your bones that goes deeper than just physical tiredness.

The shower you take is scalding, the kind of hot that turns your skin pink and makes the small bathroom fill with steam. You stand under the spray longer than necessary, letting the water wash away the smell of the bar and the remaining confusion from the entire night.

When you finally finish, you change into your pajamas. The hotel's terry cloth robe goes over your hair as you pad around the bathroom to start your nighttime routine.

You're working cleanser into your skin, the familiar motions almost meditative, when there's a knock at your door. You freeze, foam still covering your cheeks, your heart immediately jumping to your throat. It's after midnight. Your parents wouldn't come by this late, and Dom would text first.

There’s another knock, softer this time but more insistent.

You rinse your face quickly, not bothering to dry it properly before padding to the door. Through the peephole, you can make out two distinct figures.

Frowning, you unlock the door and open it to find your brother swaying slightly in the hallway, his eyes glassy and unfocused. Behind him, looking tired and more than a little tense, stands Joe.

"Dom?" You look between them, confused. "What—how are you this drunk? I just left like an hour ago." 

Your brother pushes past you into the room without invitation, nearly tripping over his own feet. "Had to—had to talk to you," he slurs, gesturing vaguely as he stumbles through.

You look back at Joe, who's still standing in the doorway, for some kind of explanation. He runs a hand through his hair, looking exhausted. "I don't know," he says with a shrug. "He just kept saying he had to talk to you. Wouldn't let it go."

Dom has somehow made it to your desk chair and is now attempting to sit down, missing it slightly before correcting himself. "Close the door," he mumbles, waving his hand. "This is important."

You reluctantly shut the door, crossing your arms over yourself. "Dom, what the hell is going on? You're completely wasted."

He looks up at you with that serious expression drunk people get when they think they're about to say the dumbest thing. "I gotta ask you something," he says, pointing an unsteady finger in your direction. "And I need... I need you to be honest with me."

Your heart drops to your stomach. This is it. Somehow, he knows. Your mouth goes dry as you wait for him to continue.

"Is there..." he pauses, swaying slightly even while sitting, "is there anything going on? Like, anything I should know about?"

The question hangs in the air, deliberately vague but loaded with its implication. You can feel the blood draining from your face as you stare at him, your mind racing. He knows. He has to know. 

But then you really look at him, seeing the way his eyelids are drooping, how he's having trouble focusing on your face, at the sloppy way he's moving about. 

He's absolutely obliterated. The kind of drunk where he probably won't remember his own name tomorrow, let alone this conversation. If you can just deny everything, play dumb, he'll wake up tomorrow with a massive hangover and no memory of whatever suspicions brought him here tonight.

"I don't know what you're talking about," you say, your voice coming out higher than normal. "Dom, I'm tired. It's been a long day and I just want to go to sleep."

But Dominic isn't deterred. He's rambling now, words tumbling over each other. "Because like... I see things, you know? And tonight was just... there was all this weird energy and I don't know what's happening but—"

"Dom." You move toward the door, desperate to end this conversation before it goes anywhere you can't come back from. "Seriously. There's nothing going on. You're drunk and you're not making sense."

You pull the door open, gesturing for him to leave. "Come on. Let's get you back to your room."

Dom looks like he wants to protest, at one point saying he’ll be back to talk more, but you're already moving toward him. Your hands are on his shoulders, guiding him up from his chair and toward the doorway. He stumbles a bit as you push him into the hall and that's when Joe steps forward, catching Dom's other arm to steady him.

"Alright, man," Joe says, his voice gentle but firm. "Let's go."

Joe gets Dom about halfway down the hall before your brother decides he needs to sit down right there on the carpet. While Joe's trying to convince him to keep moving, he keeps looking over his shoulder at you.

Joe’s eyes meet yours for the third time, and that's when you've had enough.

"What?" you snap, your voice cutting through the hallway. "Do you need something?"

His head whips back around, drawing back slightly like he wasn't expecting the bite in your tone. He stares at you, your brother momentarily forgotten at his feet, mouth slightly ajar.

You slam the door before he can say anything else, the sound echoing down the hall. Your hands shake as you turn the deadbolt, heart pounding against your chest.

So startled, you can't even finish what you were doing. The towel wrapped around your hair feels too heavy, so you yank it off and let it fall to the bathroom floor in a damp heap. Your skincare products sit abandoned on the counter as you stumble to the bed, crawling under the covers.

Your phone becomes your new best friend, something to focus on that isn't the chaos in your head. You scroll mindlessly through Instagram, TikTok, anything that might quiet the noise. The blue light burns your eyes but you keep going, thumb moving on autopilot.

Ten minutes pass. Maybe fifteen. You're deep in some random cooking video when a loud knock reverberates through the room.

Your stomach drops. Dominic. He probably got away from Joe, sobered up just enough to remember he wasn't finished interrogating you. The anger that's been simmering all night finally boils over.

You throw off the covers and storm to the door, fury making your movements sharp and reckless. "Fuck off, Dominic!" you seethe as you yank the door open. "I already told you—"

But it's not Dom.

Joe stands in the doorway, one arm braced against the frame, and his face is hard in a way that makes you take an involuntary step back. There's something dangerous in his expression that you've never seen before.

"The fuck is your problem?" he asks, his voice low and sharp.

Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. Your brain shorts out completely, every angry word you had ready for Dom evaporating in the face of Joe's presence. You try to close the door, instinct taking over, but his hand shoots out to stop it, palm flat against the wood.

"Don't," he says, and there's warning in his tone.

"Don't what?" you snap, finding your voice again. "Don't close my own door? Get your hand off it."

"Not until you tell me what the hell that was about," Joe says, pushing the door wider instead of letting go. "What was that shit in the hallway?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." You try to push the door closed again but he's stronger, and the door doesn't budge.

"Bullshit." He steps into your room, and suddenly the space feels impossibly small. "You ignore me for how long. Won't even look at me. And then tonight you're all over Jalen fucking Hurts."

Dread fills your body—embarrassment, anger, the sick realization that he doesn’t care he'd been watching you all night, just like you felt. "I wasn't all over—"

"Acting like he hung the fucking moon, jumping at the chance to leave with him, making little plans." Joe's voice is getting louder. "Real cute how you can be yourself with him but you treat me like I've got the plague."

"That's not—"

"What? That's not what happened?" He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "I watched you!"

"You don't know what you're talking about!"

"Don't I?" Joe steps closer, and you can see the hurt beneath the anger now. "Because it looked like you were having a great fucking time with Oklahoma's golden boy. Really moving on, huh?"

"So what if I am?" The words come out defensive, meaner than you intended. "So what if I'm talking to someone who actually treats me like I matter?"

Joe rears back for a second. "Someone who treats you like you matter? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

Your chest tightens. You've said too much, revealed too much of the hurt you've been carrying. "It means," you say, your voice shaking with anger, "that he doesn't sleep with other people and then act like I'm the problem."

The silence that follows is deafening. Joe stares at you, his expression shifting from anger to something that looks almost like panic.

"Is that what you think happened?" he asks quietly.

"I don't think it, Joe. I know it." Your voice breaks. "I saw you. Both of you." At the mention of it, the memory floods your mind once again like how it's haunted you for months. Bridget’s smudged makeup, fumbling with her pants. Joe’s unkempt appearance, his eyes locked with your own hopeful ones. Your stomach churns with the same sick feeling you felt that night.

"Jesus Christ." Joe runs both hands down his face. "You think I—you’re thinking about it wrong."

"What else am I supposed to think?" Tears are burning behind your eyes but you refuse to let them fall. "You had your hands all over me one minute, and the next you're fucking Bridget."

"It wasn't—" Joe stops, his jaw working like he's trying to find the right words. "That's not how it happened."

"Then how did it happen, Joe? Because from where I was standing, it looked pretty fucking clear."

He's quiet for a long moment, staring at the floor. "I was angry," he says quietly. "I was hurt and pissed off and I did something stupid."

"Stupid?" You laugh, but it comes out cracked. "Is that what you call it?"

"I call it the biggest fucking mistake," Joe says, his voice raw. "I call it something I've regretted every single day since it happened."

"Oh, well that makes it better," you say, sarcasm dripping from every word. "You regret it. Great. That totally fixes everything."

"It meant nothing," Joe says suddenly. "It was just—I was angry and hurt and I wanted to hurt you back."

His words do nothing but draw up more of the memories you’ve been trying to run from. "Don't."

"I'm serious. It felt wrong the entire time because it wasn't you. Because you're the only one I wanted and I was too fucking scared to admit it."

"Stop talking." Your voice is barely a whisper.

"You want to know the truth?" Joe's voice is getting louder again, more desperate. "The truth is I've been crazy about you since that first night together. The truth is I've spent the last year hating myself for fucking up the one thing I actually wanted to keep."

Your world tilts sideways. Every wall you've built, every reason you've given yourself for staying away from him, starts to crumble. This is what you wanted to hear for so long, but now that he's saying it, you don't know if you can believe it.

"You're lying."

"I'm not." Joe takes a step toward you, and you can see tears in his eyes now. "I'm not lying. I really fucking like you. And I fucked it up because I was scared and stupid and I didn't know how to tell you."

"I wanted to believe it didn't mean anything," you whisper, your voice cracking. "All of it. I wanted to believe you didn't care because it was easier than thinking you chose her over me."

Joe's face crumples. "I never chose her. Not for a single second. I was just—I was so fucking scared of how much I needed you that I did the one thing guaranteed to push you away."

"Why?" The word comes out broken. "Why were you scared?"

He pauses for a second, looking lost. "Because you're you. Dom's smart, gorgeous, sister who was—is too good for me. I knew that if I let myself fall for you completely, there'd be no coming back from it."

"And now?"

"Now I've spent a year trying to come back from it anyway," he admits. "And I can’t. I can't shut it off. You're in my head all the fucking time.” 

Joe sighs, "I miss it even when I know I shouldn’t." He cuts himself off before he rambles even more, but you can see it in his eyes, the same need that's been eating you alive for months. 

"Miss what?"

"You," he breathes. "All of you. Not just—not just the physical stuff. I want to wake up next to you. I want to know how your day was. I want to be the person you call when something good happens, or when something shitty happens, or when nothing happens at all."

Your breath hitches, throat closing. "Joe..."

"I know I fucked it up. I know I don’t deserve you. But if there’s any part of you that still wants to even try—" his voice breaks there, unsteady, "just give me that.”

You stare at him, at the tears on his cheeks, the way he's looking at you like you're the only thing keeping his heart beating, and suddenly, you can't remember why you've been fighting this so hard.

"I never stopped," you confess, the words tumbling out in a rush. "I tried to hate you, tried to move on, but I never stopped wanting you."

The second the words leave your mouth, something in him snaps.

Joe surges forward, hands finding your face with a desperation that makes your breath catch. His mouth is on yours before you can take another breath, tasting of months of regret and every unsaid word. You gasp into him, fingers clutching at the front of his shirt.

His lips move against yours with an urgency that feels almost painful. His hands drop from your face, skimming down your sides, gripping your waist, pulling you flush against him like he needs you closer, needs to feel you everywhere at once.

You break the kiss just long enough to whisper his name, breathless, before he’s chasing your mouth again, hands slipping beneath the hem of your shirt. His fingertips drag along your bare skin, drawing a cold shiver from you as you lean into him instinctively, craving more, needing him.

"I missed you," he repeats against your lips, voice shaking as his hands slide higher, up your ribs, thumbs brushing the curve of your breasts. "I fucking missed you."

"Then show me," you whisper back.

Joe groans and the next time he kisses you it's messier, deeper, all teeth and tongue and months of pent-up need exploding between you. He walks you backwards blindly, until your legs hit the edge of the bed and you fall back with a breathless gasp, pulling him down with you.

His hands never stop moving, like he's terrified this is all some dream he’ll wake up from. His lips trace a hot path down your throat, over your collarbone, his breath shaky against your skin as he murmurs, "need you so bad."

Your fingers thread through his hair to pull him impossibly closer. Everything else fades away—the fights, the hurt, the miscommunication. Your back arches off the bed as his mouth moves lower, and you can feel the desperation in every touch, every kiss.

His mouth finds the soft dip beneath your ribs, warm breath ghosting across your skin as he pauses. His fingers tighten around your waist, composing himself there before sliding up again, dragging your shirt with his hands.

You lift your arms wordlessly, letting him peel it over your head and toss it somewhere behind him, forgotten. The second your skin is bare, his eyes dart around like he doesn’t know where to look first.

“My god,” he exhales, face breaking into a sly grin. His thumb traces over your sternum, then up to the hollow of your throat. “Don’t even know what you do to me.”

You do. You feel it in the tremble of his hands, in the heat of his breath, in the way his pupils have blown wide, swallowing the blue. But you don’t say so, just enjoy the fact that you do.

His lips follow his hands—over your chest, down your stomach, each kiss burning hotter than the last, until he reaches the waistband of your shorts. He pauses there, breathing hard, his forehead dipping against your hip like he’s on the edge of breaking again.

“Say it’s okay,” he whispers, voice hoarse, eyes lifting to meet yours.

You can barely get the words out, “’s okay.” His fingers hook beneath the fabric, sliding it down. The cool air hits your skin, making you shudder as the last of the fabric clears your ankles, tossed aside somewhere neither of you care to look.

Joe stays knelt between your legs for a moment, eyes roaming over you. His breath is shaky as his gaze drags up the length of your bare body. You wait for his next move, but instead of leaning back in, he moves suddenly.

His hands slide to your hips, gripping tight, and with one smooth motion, he flips both of you over, shifting his weight until his back settles against the headboard, pulling you up to straddle him.

You gasp, hands flying to his shoulders for balance as you land in his lap, the rough denim beneath you a delicious contrast to your bare core. The unexpected motion knocks a breathless laugh from your throat, and for a second, the heat between you softens.

Joe’s mouth curves into a crooked grin at the sound of your laughter, his eyes never leaving your face. “There she is,” he murmurs, eyes flickering between your mouth and your swollen lips.

His hands trace up and down your sides, over the curve of your waist, up your bare back, thumbs gliding across your skin like he’s mapping you out. The touch sends goosebumps chasing after his fingertips, your breath catching again as your body settles fully against him.

When your laughter fades and your gaze finds his, you’re both a little dazed. For a long second, neither of you say much of anything as you take each other in.

His hand drifts higher, fingers curling lightly under your jaw, tilting your face toward his as his thumb brushes along your cheekbone. Then his other hand slides into your hair, threading through gently, pulling you closer until his lips hover right over yours.

The tension between you thickens with every slow pass of his mouth. His tongue slides against yours, pulling a soft whimper from your chest as your hands fist into his shirt, clinging to him.

Your kiss deepens, messy and open, heat pooling low in your stomach as you shift in his lap, grinding down instinctively against the hard length of him still trapped beneath thick denim. The friction makes both of you groan, his grip on your hips tightening as his head falls back against the headboard for a second, eyes fluttering shut.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You’re gonna drive me insane.”

You roll your hips again, slower this time, dragging yourself over him tauntingly, loving the reaction you draw from him.

“Good,” you whisper against his mouth, lips brushing his as you speak. “Deserve it.”

Joe huffs out a breath against your mouth—something between a laugh and a groan—but his hands never leave you. His fingers adjust, digging in just a little harder.

Still breathless, you tug at the hem of his shirt, fingers curling under the fabric, desperate to get it off. “Take this off.”

He leans back just enough for you to yank it up, his hands helping as the material drags over his head and lands behind you. Your eyes drop, taking in the stretch of his bare chest, the rise and fall of it as he breathes hard beneath you.

You’re already leaning in again, mouth dragging along the sharp line of his jaw, down his throat, lips parting against the soft skin there before he gets a chance to fully settle. His head tips back instinctively, giving you more space to work. 

Joe’s breath catches as your tongue flicks just beneath his ear. “Fuck, baby.” Your hips hover as he shifts beneath you, fumbling at the waistband of his jeans. His fingers work fast as he undoes the button and drags the zipper down. You stay pressed close to him, lips never leaving his skin.

Lifting his hips, he shoves both his jeans and boxers down in one rough motion, breath hissing between his teeth as he finally frees himself. You feel the hard weight of him press up against you, hot and heavy, and it knocks a small gasp from your lips as your hips instinctively roll forward again.

The sensation makes his hands fly to your hips first, then lower, gripping handfuls of your ass as he holds you there. You rock your hips again, slower this time, dragging yourself over him to feel the slick heat of him sliding against you.

His breath punches out of him, head tipping back with a dull thud, his throat working as he swallows hard. “Jesus,” he grits, voice strangled. “You feel that?”

You nod, breath hitching and hands spreading wide across his chest, digging into the warm flex of his muscles. You can feel how hard he is, how thick, sliding perfectly against your swollen center every time you move. The friction alone is enough to make your thighs tremble, your core clenching around nothing, desperate for him.

“Joe,” you whisper, voice cracking under the weight of what’s to come, “can I?”

That does it. His hands slide down, one moving to grip the base of himself, lining up with you, while the other holds you tight, steadying you.

“C’mere, baby.” He guides you, “nice and slow.”

You hover for half a second, mind clouded with lust as you feel the blunt head of him catch at your entrance. Even after everything, the stretch makes your breath stutter when you finally start to sink down onto him.

His mouth drops open, a sharp exhale leaving him as his fingers dig into you, sure to leave bruises for the morning. “Fuck—fuck, that’s it. Just like that.”

The burn is sharp at first, that perfect edge of too much and not enough, and you brace your hands on his shoulders, panting softly as you take him inch by inch. His eyes stay locked on yours, watching every single reaction play out across your face like he can’t look away.

“Look at you,” he breathes, voice barely audible. “You’re goddamn perfect.”

When you finally bottom out, fully seated in his lap, you both pause for a moment. You’re panting and overwhelmed, completely full all at once. You swear you can feel the pulse of his heartbeat inside you, throbbing in time with your own.

His hands slide up your back again, one threading into your hair as he pulls your face back down to his, kissing you hard. The first slow roll of your hips pulls a broken groan from both of you, your nails scraping lightly over his chest as you start to move, grinding down into him.

The friction is dangerous now—your bare skin dragging over him, every tiny shift making his breath stutter against your mouth. With each drop of your hips, your clit catches against the base of him, sending sharp little sparks skittering through your stomach, dragging you closer every time you fall into him.

“Missed you so fucking much.”

At his words, you whimper into his mouth, grinding harder, chasing that spark curling low in your belly with every drag of his cock inside you. His head drops again, forehead resting against yours as you ride him, the tension building tight between you.

Every roll of your hips sends another pulse of pleasure through both of you, until neither of you can keep your breathing steady, until you feel his grip start to falter, desperate to fuck up into you.

You feel his control slowly begin to fray, his need urging to take over. His voice breaks, as he stutters your name out. “I—fuck—I need—”

In the next breath, he shifts beneath you, planting his feet flat against the bed, using the leverage to thrust up into you hard, deep, dragging a sharp cry from your throat as your body jolts.

“Oh my god.” your voice shatters on a breathless gasp, your hands scrambling at his shoulders.

“That what you needed?” His voice is mean against your ear. “That what you’ve been thinking about at night? Riding my cock just like this?”

And yes, you had. More than you wanted to admit. Some nights, no matter how hard you tried, the only thing that could pull you close enough to release was the thought of him like this, buried deep, your body moving over his just like now.

He thrusts up again, your body lifting slightly with the force of it before dropping back down onto him, fully seated. You can’t speak, your nails dig into his bare skin, head falling forward.

He kisses you again, swallowing your broken sounds, tongue sliding against yours like he can’t get enough of you—like he’s trying to breathe you in, steal every sound you make and keep it for himself

Your hips start to move with him, finding a perfect rhythm together. You grind down as he drives up into you, his cock dragging deep with every stroke, the friction catching exactly where you need it, making your head spin.

The wet slap of skin fills the air, the sound of your gasps and his low curses blending into something obscene. Your body is trembling now, the coil low in your belly tightening to the point of snapping, every roll of your hips dragging you closer, every thrust sending a sharp jolt of heat through your veins.

“Joe—” you choke out, barely breathing. “I—I’m gonna—”

“I know, baby,” he pants, his hands moving around, one threading into your hair again as he pulls your mouth back to his once more. “Let me feel you.”

And when it hits, when you finally snap—you fall apart in his lap, a sob ripping from you as you clamp down around him, the waves of it crashing hard and fast. Your whole body jerks against him, muscles locking up as your orgasm blooms through you.

“Fuck—fuck—” Joe groans, his own hips stuttering as he feels you clench around him, and with a last broken thrust, he follows, spilling into you with a sound that vibrates against your skin.

For a long moment, neither of you move, bodies locked together, his arms wrapped tight around you. Your breathing slowly evens out, the frantic desperation giving way to something softer. Joe's hand traces lazy circles on your back, his lips pressing gentle kisses to your shoulder, your neck, wherever he can reach.

The exhaustion hits you both at once—emotional and physical, everything finally catching up. You clean up quietly, moving around each other with a careful tenderness, like you're both afraid to break whatever fragile thing has reformed between you.

When you finally crawl under the hotel sheets together, you fit against him like you never left. His arm wraps around your waist, pulling you back against his chest, and for the first time in a year, the knot in your stomach finally loosens.

You fall asleep to the sound of his breathing evening out behind you, his face buried in your hair, his body solid against yours. Your mind drifts with questions you can't answer—whether this changes anything or if morning will bring back the same careful distance, whether he'll pretend this never happened, or how you even begin to navigate whatever this is when you're not hidden away anymore.

[muli-wam]

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦　⁺ 　 . ✦

Hockey Player!Choso Kamo never dated much.

He had 2 exes, one from middle school which technically doesn't count, and another from highschool (who was the same person he lost his virginity to and never contacted again out of sheer embarrassment).

He's had his fair share of hook ups, but every time he felt unsatisfied. The sex wasn't bad at all, he just sought for something more. Something raw. Something real.

Hockey Player!Choso Kamo wanted more than just sex, he wanted connection.

He was so kind, too. After every encounter he would make sure the girl was taken care of, fed, and pampered the way she should be taken care of after such activities.

He would attempt to start a conversation, to see where that relationship could go, but it never worked out, so eventually Choso gave up.

Until he met you.

Hockey Player!Choso Kamo who when you guys met crashed into each other for the first time, couldn't help but feel captivated by you. Something about you drew him in, like gravity or fate.

When he met you, he felt connected to you in a way he couldn't explain, and no it was not because of your boobs (partially).

Hockey Player!Choso Kamo who tuned out everyone after you walked away, spending the rest of his evening daydreaming of ways to text you and what your reaction would be.

He thought about how you smelled when his face was nestled in the crook of your neck, and how soft your hands were and god- it took everything in him to not stick his hand down his pants while thinking about how soft your boobs were.

How he wouldn't mind being in such a position again except the second time around he would kiss and lick and suck while hearing your cries of pleasure—okay you get the picture.

Hockey Player!Choso Kamo who knew you ruined him the moment you met him.

Hockey Player!Choso Kamo planned out how he would make you his.

First, he would text you, ask you to hang out, but not an official date.

At the not-official-offical date, he would say all the right words and give all the right compliments to get you to agree to a real date.

He would pick you up, take you to a nice dinner where you guys would eat in a decently nice restaurant at a candlelit table and lowkey fall in love.

Then, he would take you to see a movie, something awesome like human earthworm 3 (suggested by yuji). He would hold your hand the entire time while whispering in your ear completely unnecessary commentary, double points if you also loved to yap during movies.

Afterward, you two would go get ice cream, sit on a bench while watching cars whoosh! past and spend the rest of the night just getting lost in the sound of each others voices.

Unfortunately, Hockey Player!Choso Kamo didn't even make it past step one. His entire strategy? Wrecked. Totaled. Completely, and utterly demolished before it even began.

Which is why he's sitting here next to you, on a random park bench on a random Tuesday after a random and extremely tense encounter with your boyfriend- no ex boyfriend?

He didn't even know anymore.

All he knew is that he became your boyfriend after only knowing you for a few days, max.

He was expecting the worst when meeting you today, but no one wrote this down in the user manual.

"You know, this wasn't exactly how I envisioned us becoming exclusive," Choso says, his tone slightly passive aggressive.

"—I wanted to ask you out properly. I wanted to take you somewhere nice while we got to know everything about each other. Not play pretend while your maniac of an ex stalked you," He finished.

"I know, I-" you sigh, slumping in your seat, feeling defeated.

"Look, you don't have to do anything you don't want to. I get it. It was just the heat of the moment to get him off my ass for a little while," you let out a dry chuckle.

Hockey Player!Choso Kamo thought about it for a moment.

He did like you, and he thought about you way more than he should have. He'd most likely regret not pursuing this—pursuing you.

But, your situation was messy. And confusing, and complicated, and every other synonym in that genre.

And since Choso likes to do everything in his power to avoid conflict, the smart decision would be to end things with you now. I mean, come on, this entire situation screams conflict.

Yet choso can't find the will to say no.

Especially not to you.

"I should kill your ex," he concludes, the words slipping out faster than he can stop them.

so much for avoiding conflict.

Hockey Player!Choso Kamo who spends the next few days planning dates and making a pinterest board of couple-y things to do and cute couple pictures to take.

If Choso was going to do this, he was going to do this right.

But, even if things didn't end up this way he would have done the same thing. He likes to plan ahead.

He was here to prove a point, and make you his—for real, not because of your fuck ass ex.

Hockey Player!Choso Kamo made some refinements to his "multi-step plan on how to bag a baddie" (blame it on Yuji), but that's okay.

He's going to take you on those dates.

He's going show Tofu, or whatever the hell your ex's name was, that you deserved better than some brainless muscly psycho.

You deserved him.

Hockey Player!Choso Kamo doesn't regret his decisions leading up to this moment one bit.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦　⁺ 　 . ✦

A/n: srry for the toji slander I love you pookie I swear ITS FOR THE PLOT

Series Masterlist

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[cbeargyu]

just a bet for you

summary: you weren’t the prettiest, the smartest, or the kind of girl people noticed—until heeseung did. he gave you his umbrella on a rainy day, his attention when no one else cared, and eventually, his love... or so you thought. two months in, after giving him your first kiss, your first time, your whole heart—he tells you the truth: it was never real. just a bet. just you.

pairing: heeseung x fem!reader

genre: angst, slow burn, high school au, emotional hurt, heartbreak, unrequited love, coming-of-age, betrayal, dark romance.

warnings: emotional manipulation, virginity loss, deception, heartbreak, explicit sexual content, power imbalance, crying during sex, aftermath of intimacy, mentions of emotional neglect, emotionally intense scenes, toxic dynamics, vulnerability, strong language.

wc: 3,6k

notes: hiiii🫶🏻 lately i’ve been obsessed with enhypen🤭 and i really want to write so much about them 🖤 i have 3 fanfics in mind with heesung as the bad boy😈🔥 and this is the first one! i’m also thinking about making a part two for this story, but what do you guys think? should i or not? 🤔🤫 if you want to be on the taglist i’ll make for the next chapter and the upcoming heesung or enhypen fanfics in general, please comment! thank you so much and i hope you enjoy 🥹

“y/n,” he said, his tone flat. “there’s something i need to tell you.”

your heart paused.

you sat up a little, adjusting the blanket around your chest, still half-dazed, still sore. “what do you mean?”

he didn’t look at you. “this wasn’t my first time.”

you blinked. “oh… okay. i mean… i didn’t think it was. that’s fine.”

but he shook his head, slow and almost impatient. “no. you’re not getting it.”

you tilted your head, your heart picking up speed. “then explain it to me.”

his fingers laced together, elbows on his knees. he stared down at the floor like it was easier to talk to than you.

“let’s stop this,” he said suddenly. “we should end it here.”

you blinked hard, your breath catching in your throat. “what?”

he finally turned a little, just enough for you to see the side of his face. his profile was blank, almost bored.

“from the beginning, you were like a ghost,” he said. “always hovering, always watching. pretending our meetings were accidents, like you weren’t constantly following me around. like you weren’t desperate for me to see you.”

his words were sharp, colder than anything he’d ever said to you.

“i tolerated it,” he added, his tone dry. “because i was curious. i wanted to see how far you’d go.”

your eyes were wide now, and you sat up straighter, the blanket clutched tightly over your chest. “heesung… what are you talking about?”

he turned his head, finally meeting your gaze over his shoulder.

“i’m not the person you think i am.”

your heart thudded painfully in your chest.

“this was a game. a bet,” he said softly. “i wanted to see how far you’d go for me.”

you couldn’t breathe.

his eyes met yours. colder than you’d ever seen them. lifeless. cruel.

“now i know.”

it had been raining for most of the day. the kind of slow, persistent drizzle that soaked through your socks and left your skin clammy even beneath your uniform. your cheap umbrella, the one you’d had since middle school, finally gave out around lunch—one of the ribs snapped in the wind, and you watched helplessly as the fabric peeled away like skin from bone. you’d tried to make it work anyway, stubbornly clutching it on your way out of the school gates, books held close to your chest, shoes squelching against the pavement. you didn’t expect anyone to stop. no one ever did.

“hey,” a voice said, soft but clear under the rain.

you turned, blinking up at him—lee heesung. tall, dark-haired, and slightly damp around the collar, holding a black umbrella that looked way too expensive for a high school student. you recognized him from the class next door. everyone did. he was the kind of boy who didn’t need to try to be noticed. always the top of the leaderboard in physics and literature, always the first pick for any team. but he wasn’t loud. he wasn’t even particularly social. he just… existed above the rest, like a story you weren’t allowed to touch.

he stepped closer and tilted his umbrella slightly to cover you. “yours broke?”

you hesitated, stunned by the simple question. “yeah. it’s, um… useless now.”

he didn’t say anything else. just held out the umbrella handle to you.

“take it,” he said. “i’m not going far. you need it more.”

you stared at him, thinking maybe he was joking, or testing you somehow, but his face was unreadable. not smiling, not smug. just… calm.

“thank you,” you murmured, reaching out for it like it might vanish if you moved too quickly.

he gave a slight nod, and with that, he walked off into the rain, hands in his pockets, hair already sticking to his forehead. no explanation. no follow-up. just gone.

after that, you started seeing him everywhere.

in the mornings, standing by the vending machine with his headphones in. at lunch, sitting by the window, sketching in a notebook you couldn’t see. after school, waiting at the bike rack with his fingers curled loosely around the handlebars. he never looked for you, never waved, but your eyes found him anyway—like a habit. a quiet kind of orbit.

you never thought someone like him would look back.

so when he asked you out—casually, almost like a dare—you didn’t think twice.

“go out with me,” he said one afternoon as you gathered your things after the study group he’d joined last minute. his tone was flat, but his eyes met yours, unwavering.

you blinked. “what?”

“you heard me,” he replied, shoving a pen into his backpack. “i’m asking you out, y/n.”

your heart flipped painfully. “why?”

he shrugged. “why not?”

you said yes. of course you said yes.

and that’s how it started. not with roses or confessions, but a strange, slow burn of moments stitched together—he holding your books when your arms were full, walking you home in silence, waiting for you after school without saying he would. he never called you ‘babe’ or held your hand in front of others. he didn’t kiss you at your locker or brag about you to his friends. but he showed up. when you were sick, he brought medicine. when you had your period, he offered his hoodie because he noticed the way you sat curled in discomfort. when you failed a quiz, he helped you study without a word of judgment.

and slowly, you fell.

you started staying up late just to replay your conversations in your head. you started writing his name in the margins of your notes. you started hoping—stupidly, recklessly—that maybe he liked you back in that quiet, complicated way he existed.

he never said “i love you.” but he looked at you, sometimes, like you were worth noticing. like maybe you were real.

you’d never known love could be so quiet.

no fireworks, no racing heartbeat. just a gentle kind of knowing—the way heesung would always wait for you at the gate, pretending he just happened to be there. the way he never forgot your schedule, even when you did. the way he carried your bag without asking when your shoulders hurt, or opened your water bottle for you during breaks without saying a word. he never called attention to it. never asked for thanks.

but you noticed. you noticed everything.

like how, when you got caught in the rain again a week later, he didn’t offer you his umbrella this time—he just pulled you under his without hesitation, one arm around your shoulder, holding you close so you wouldn’t get wet. you walked home together like that, your cheeks burning the whole time, your heart making up songs from the rhythm of his steps.

sometimes he’d do small things—thread your charger through the desk so you wouldn’t trip over it, order your favorite bread at the convenience store before you even told him, peel tangerines during break and place one gently on your notebook without ever looking up.

he never said “i care about you.” but he didn’t need to.

one afternoon, the two of you sat at the far corner of the school library, hidden behind tall shelves and rows of dusty encyclopedias. finals were close, and he’d offered to help you review for the math test. you tried to focus, but your brain was mush and his cologne smelled warm and clean, and the way he leaned over your notebook made your breath catch.

you were mid-sentence—trying to understand the difference between permutations and combinations—when he reached over, slowly, and tucked a piece of hair behind your ear.

you froze. his fingertips brushed your cheek, barely touching, but it made your stomach flutter in a way you didn’t have words for. your lips parted to say something, but nothing came out.

he didn’t move away.

his gaze lingered on your face, eyes dark and unreadable, his hand resting now on the edge of the table between you. his thumb brushed against your pinky finger.

“you’re not dumb,” he said softly, and for a second you thought you’d imagined it.

“what?”

he gave you a look, the kind that made your heart ache—equal parts tired and amused. “you always look like you’re about to cry when you study. like the numbers are bullying you.”

you laughed under your breath, biting your lip, and that’s when it happened.

he leaned in, not suddenly, not dramatically—just a slow tilt forward, like gravity had made the decision for him. your lips met in the space between breath and thought.

your first kiss.

his lips were warm, softer than you expected, moving carefully, almost unsure, like he was figuring it out at the same time as you. your eyes fluttered shut, your hand clenched the side of your chair. the world slowed down into the taste of mint and something faintly sweet, into the way his nose brushed yours, into the tiny breath he gave against your mouth like he didn’t want to stop.

and when he pulled away, just slightly, he didn’t speak.

neither did you.

you just stared at each other, your forehead almost touching, and for once the silence wasn’t awkward—it was full. full of all the things you didn’t have to say. his thumb grazed your knuckle once more before he picked up your pencil and returned it to your hand, turning the page of the textbook like nothing had happened.

but everything had changed.

you walked out of the library with his fingers loosely tangled in yours, and no one said a word.

still, you felt them—eyes watching from across the courtyard.

jay and sunghoon stood by the vending machines, not talking, just looking. their uniforms unbuttoned at the collar, hands in their pockets, that same slight smirk on both of their faces. not friendly. not surprised. almost… entertained.

you squeezed heesung’s hand tighter, but he didn’t look at them. or at you.

just ahead.

it had been two months since you started dating heesung. one month exactly since your first kiss in the library.

you still remembered how it felt—his lips soft and warm, the way the world had gone silent around you. since then, your relationship had moved slowly, carefully. there were more kisses, most of them stolen, tucked between hallways and shadows. he'd press a kiss to your temple before leaving, or lean in suddenly when you were mid-sentence, just to shut you up. it was never rushed. never loud.

and neither was he.

heesung remained the same. quiet, composed, hard to read. at first, it made you nervous—made you wonder if he liked you as much as you liked him. but then he'd hold your hand under the desk, or show up with your favorite snack without being asked, or carry your bag without saying a word. you realized he just... wasn’t expressive the way other people were. he loved in quiet actions, not words. and you accepted him like that.

maybe that was why, one night, when your parents were away visiting your aunt, you invited him over.

you told him you just wanted to watch a movie. but that wasn’t the whole truth.

the truth was, you wanted to feel closer. to give him something no one else had. you were scared, but more than that—you were sure. sure of him. sure of the way you felt when he looked at you like you mattered. sure of the way his hand fit around yours, like it was meant to be there.

you sat beside him on the couch, movie playing in the background, but your thoughts were louder than the dialogue on screen.

you turned to him, heart in your throat.

“heesung… can i tell you something?”

he looked at you with those eyes that always made your chest ache. “of course.”

you swallowed. “i want to do it. with you.”

his brows rose slightly. “do what?”

you gave a tiny, nervous laugh. “you know what.”

his face changed then—eyes widening just enough to show surprise, lips parting. “y/n…”

“i mean it,” you said, quieter now. “i want my first time to be with you.”

he blinked, frozen, like his brain was buffering.

“are you sure?” he asked after a beat. “like... really sure?”

you nodded, cheeks burning. “yeah. i thought about it a lot.”

he hesitated again, then slowly reached for your hand, his thumb brushing gently over your knuckles.

“okay,” he whispered. “let’s go to your room.”

you stood on shaky legs, leading him down the hallway, heart pounding so hard you thought he might hear it. your hands were clammy, but his stayed steady. when you opened the door, he walked in slowly, glancing around, and then turned back to you.

“i didn’t bring anything,” he said carefully. “condoms. i didn’t think…”

your cheeks flamed. “i bought some.”

he blinked again. “you did?”

“yeah,” you said quickly. “just in case. i didn’t want us to have to stop because of that. i mean—i wasn’t sure if we would, but i thought maybe—”

“hey,” he said softly, and you stopped rambling.

his smile was small. real. “thank you.”

he stepped closer, touched your cheek with the back of his fingers, and leaned in. the kiss was slow—deeper than the others. your hands found the fabric of his hoodie, clinging gently. he tugged it off, then let you pull off yours. piece by piece, the layers fell away, until you were both under the covers, your skin buzzing with nerves and warmth.

his fingers traced your ribs, your hips, your thighs—always slow, always asking without words. he kissed your collarbone, then your chest, trailing soft kisses downward as if he were learning you by heart. you flinched when he touched between your legs, your whole body tensing. his hand paused.

“it’s okay,” he whispered. “i’ll go slow.”

you nodded, voice caught in your throat.

he kissed you again, his lips tender, grounding you. when he finally pushed in, your fingers dug into his shoulders, breath hitching with the pressure, the burn. it hurt—not sharp, but stretching, unfamiliar. you let out a shaky whimper and he stopped instantly, resting his forehead against yours.

“tell me if it’s too much,” he said.

“no,” you breathed. “i want to.”

he moved carefully, in and out, his breath brushing your cheek, his hands cradling your face. there were no moans. no pornographic noises. just small sounds—your sharp gasps, the way his breath caught every time your walls clenched around him. his body stayed close to yours, his chest pressed to yours, like he couldn’t bear to be apart even for a second.

it wasn’t perfect. it wasn’t easy. but it was yours.

and when it was over, he didn’t say anything. he just pulled you into his arms, brushing your hair back from your damp forehead, pressing soft kisses to your shoulder, your cheek, your temple.

and you thought, this is what it means to be loved.

you were wrong.

your body ached in a way that was unfamiliar—tender, raw, but not painful. just... used. and strangely, you didn’t hate the feeling. you were lying on your stomach, skin still flushed, the thin sheet draped over your lower half, your hair sticking slightly to the back of your neck. everything felt distant and slow, like the room had been dipped in warm honey. your breathing hadn’t completely settled yet.

outside, the sky had gone soft and gray, rain still tapping gently against the windows of your bedroom.

you heard soft footsteps from the hallway. heesung reappeared, shirtless but already in his boxers and jeans, carrying a small bowl of soup and a spoon. he didn’t say anything, just sat on the edge of the bed and gently tapped your shoulder.

“hey,” he whispered, as if the moment needed to stay quiet. “you need to eat something.”

you blinked up at him, dazed and slow. he scooped a bit of soup with the spoon and held it near your lips, waiting. your cheeks heated at the intimacy of it, but you let him feed you—small, careful bites, while he watched in silence. his hair was slightly messy, lips pink from kissing you earlier, but his expression was unreadable. calm. like always.

you smiled softly, trying to break the silence, your voice small. “i’m really glad it was with you.”

he didn’t respond.

he just placed the bowl gently on your lower back, resting it there like he couldn't bother to find another surface. the warmth seeped through the blanket, grounding you in place.

you frowned, confused, your lips parted to say something—but then he turned his body slightly, giving you his back as he sat fully on the edge of the bed. the air shifted.

“y/n,” he said, his tone flat. “there’s something i need to tell you.”

your heart paused.

you sat up a little, adjusting the blanket around your chest, still half-dazed, still sore. “what do you mean?”

he didn’t look at you. “this wasn’t my first time.”

you blinked. “oh… okay. i mean… i didn’t think it was. that’s fine.”

but he shook his head, slow and almost impatient. “no. you’re not getting it.”

you tilted your head, your heart picking up speed. “then explain it to me.”

his fingers laced together, elbows on his knees. he stared down at the floor like it was easier to talk to than you.

“let’s stop this,” he said suddenly. “we should end it here.”

you blinked hard, your breath catching in your throat. “what?”

he finally turned a little, just enough for you to see the side of his face. his profile was blank, almost bored.

“from the beginning, you were like a ghost,” he said. “always hovering, always watching. pretending our meetings were accidents, like you weren’t constantly following me around. like you weren’t desperate for me to see you.”

his words were sharp, colder than anything he’d ever said to you.

“i tolerated it,” he added, his tone dry. “because i was curious. i wanted to see how far you’d go.”

your eyes were wide now, and you sat up straighter, the blanket clutched tightly over your chest. “heesung… what are you talking about?”

he turned his head, finally meeting your gaze over his shoulder.

“i’m not the person you think i am.”

your heart thudded painfully in your chest.

“this was a game. a bet,” he said softly. “i wanted to see how far you’d go for me.”

you couldn’t breathe.

his eyes met yours. colder than you’d ever seen them. lifeless. cruel.

“now i know.”

he stood slowly, facing you fully now, his expression unreadable—but his lips curved slightly. a smirk. sharp and poisonous.

“i never liked you.”

you didn’t realize you were crying until your vision blurred. the tears were hot, sliding down your cheeks before you could stop them, before you could even understand what was happening. the pain didn’t come like a stab. it came like a flood, slow and drowning. it stole your breath.

he watched it happen.

he watched the way you crumbled, and he said nothing.

he watched you cry like it meant nothing. like you were a stranger. your tears fell silently at first, but now they were endless—hot and unstoppable, dripping down your cheeks, your chin, soaking the sheet you clung to.

he stood, grabbed his shirt from the floor, and began buttoning it slowly.

“i’ll go now,” he said, voice cool, almost bored. “don’t look for me after this.”

you blinked rapidly through the tears, vision warped. “w–what?”

he didn’t answer. he just walked toward your bedroom door, not once looking back.

panic bloomed inside your chest. your throat closed up.

“heesung,” you called out, voice cracking. “wait—please—”

you wrapped the blanket around your body in a desperate tangle, stumbling off the bed. your bare feet hit the cold floor and you tried to run after him, but your foot slipped on the rug. your body twisted and collapsed hard onto the floor, your elbow hitting first, then your hip. pain shot through your side, but it didn’t matter.

“heesung!” you screamed, half from pain, half from the chaos exploding inside your heart.

he was already halfway down the stairs.

he didn’t look back. he didn’t even flinch.

you tried to stand, but your knees buckled. the blanket slipped from your shoulders, and you dragged it back up, wrapping it tight around your trembling body as you crawled toward the top of the stairs.

you couldn’t breathe. you couldn’t think. everything was shattering too fast.

through the blur of tears, you saw his figure reaching the front door, calm and unbothered, like this wasn’t your ending.

“liar,” you whispered.

your lips trembled.

“liar…” you said again, louder now. “you’re a liar!”

your voice broke.

you’re a liar, you’re a liar, you’re a liar.

you thought about every moment. every touch. every kiss. the way he fixed your hair behind your ear in the library. the way he fed you soup with careful hands. the way he carried your bag when your shoulder was sore. the way his fingers trembled the first time he held your hand. his silence. his warmth.

he didn’t speak much... but his actions—his actions...

you curled your fingers into the blanket, knuckles white.

“you didn’t mean it...” you whispered. “you couldn’t have meant it.”

he opened the front door.

“heesung!”

your scream echoed down the stairs like something broken inside you cracked open.

he paused—just for a second. and then he stepped outside.

gone.

your knees gave out completely, body slumping on the cold wood of the hallway floor, chest heaving, face wet and burning. you felt like a child. like someone ripped the light out of you with bare hands.

“i hate you...” you sobbed.

your voice was hoarse, nearly gone.

“i hate you...” you whispered again, softer now.

but deep down, that wasn’t the truth.

not yet.

you wanted to hate him. you needed to.

but all you could do was cry.

[dragonmasterhiccup]

Immediately he shook his head, only to freeze as she prevented him from speaking. After a moment, he reached up, gently lowering her hand. "Look, I, I appreciate the offer, but I'm not letting you sleep on the floor, much less take your bed."

Gesturing to the rug beneath them, he said, "Back home I sleep on kelp over the ocean floor. I'll be fine right here."

Matching her tone, he replied, "Toothless can find me anywhere. I just...I don't want him to worry. Or scare your parents."

Looking up at Axel, Hiccup nodded, agreeing with Astrid. "Of course."

Phlegma placed her hands on her hips. "Axel and I hear all. There better be no funny business, merman." While her words were firm, her expression was soft. She had certainly warmed up to Hiccup, but she still wanted to make sure he knew not to cross the line.

"No funny business, Mrs. Hofferson. Nothing to worry about."

"Now there's blankets in the chest if you get cold. Astrid, dear, you'll get one for him, won't you?"

Hiccup bid them good night, thinking being human was already so much nicer than being a merman. Suddenly he was tackled, hitting the floor with a surprise grunt.

He laughed, trying to stay quiet, and wrapped his arms around Astrid. They hadn't been this close before, aside from her carrying him. "Much better," he breathed, agreeing.

As they talked, he noticed her hair smelled nice. He had no idea what the scent was, but he liked it.

Hiccup was as content as a clam. He would happily stay up talking with her all night, mostly because being with her seemed to energize him.

He loved her. It was crazy, given how short a time they knew each other, but he knew he absolutely loved her.

Her question took him by surprise. "Uh, well..." He sighed. No use hiding it now. "Well enough, I suppose, but...I'm not...I'm not exactly seen as a strong member of the pod. They...well, they see me as bad luck."

He began to explain. Well intentions turned into destruction, how one time he accidentally lured a herd of jellyfish in, causing everyone to get stung. He was only trying to keep sharks away. Another time he'd inadvertently caused a coral reef to collapse.

"There's three around our age that tolerate me a bit more. Fishlegs is a bit of an outcast himself, so we've stuck together for some time, but he gets nervous about the shipwrecks I go to, and won't go anywhere close to the surface. Ruffnut and Tuffnut...well, they love chaos. Granted I never intend for chaos, it just...happens."

"The pod also finds my fascination with humans and dragons to be strange, to say the least." Given what happened to his mother, it was understandable. "But how can there be peace if we don't know anything about them? What if there's another piece to all of this, one we've been completely blind to, all this time?"

"I mean, if we weren't supposed to interact with humans, why does the moon allow us to have legs? Why are we identical from the waist up? Speak the same language? I, I have so many questions, Astrid, and I'm afraid I'll never know the answers."

"But the pod, and my dad? They're stubborn, they just want things to stay the same. They think I'm reckless for trying to find out more, and therefore dangerous...but I don't want to be."

He sighed, gazing down at her. "Truth is...if I were to leave the pod, I think they're better off without me. What I'm afraid of...is that string of bad luck would spread to Berk." Glancing at his leg, he murmured, "...it already might've..."

"I...I probably should have told you all this sooner..."

After a long training session, all Astrid wanted to do was cool off on the beach. Maybe a tiny swim, even though the ocean was so cold at this time of year. She pushed through the brush and staggered down to the shore.

Only to find a boy lounging in the shallows.

“Oh!” She dropped her axe in the sand. From his bare torso, she assumed he was naked. “Sorry! I didn’t know someone else would be…here…” as the apologies flowed, she realized from the waist down, he had green scales and a pair of fins.

No wonder she hadn’t recognized him.

“No way…” she inched closer. “A real mermaid! In the flesh! Are the stories true?” She stamped down her overwhelming curiosity for a moment to give him a stern point. “Don’t try anything fishy, mermaid. I’m very capable of protecting myself, got it?”

((I saw the prompt and went feral, hope you don’t mind))

[X]

Hiccup started, the water around him splashing as he sat up straight in surprise, before he moved a little further back, his cheeks flushed.

"No, sorry, I, I shouldn't--" Ducking his head, the merman awkwardly held up a hand, "Usually no one comes here..."

But his movements only caused his tail to briefly break the surface, emerald scales glittering in the sun for a moment before dipping below the water again.

Firmly, he responded, "Merman. I am a merman. And no, don't worry, I, I wasn't going to try anything...I know you'd probably kill me if I did..."

Clearing his throat, he ran a hand through his hair, which had partially dried in his time sitting in the shallow water. "What, what stories are you referring to?"

He knew, or at least had a gut feeling about what she was asking, but he wanted to hear it from her. She appeared wary, but not fearful. Maybe these humans didn't have the same fears of his kind like the others?

[steviewashere]

Routine Hang Out

Rating: Teen and Up CW: Referenced Drinking Tags: Post-Canon, Angst, Hurt With Minor Comfort, Pre-Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, Internalized Homophobia, Drunk Eddie Munson, Steve Harrington Loves Eddie Munson, Eddie Munson Has a Crush on Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington Takes Care of Eddie Munson, Emotionally Hurt Steve Harrington, Emotionally Hurt Eddie Munson, Plot Twist, Ambiguous Ending What if we gave Eddie Munson internalized homophobia as a little treat?

💔—————💔 Steve’s two beers deep on the Munson couch. And Eddie’s next to him even more wasted; three beers, a couple shots of vodka, and the last quarter of a joint from a different time they hung out all swimming in his system. They’re watching some…some movie, it’s unclear which one it is in the slow to glaze vision he’s sporting. All he knows is this: the couch is sinking slowly under both their heavy bodies, Wayne should probably get somebody to fix the leak in the trailer’s bathroom, and Eddie’s extremely clingy when inebriated. Not that that’s a bad thing, per se, just…unexpected.

Maybe he should’ve expected Eddie to be flopping all over the place. Considering how easy it was for the guy to lean into his space in the Upside Down, quirk his dimpled grin, flash his crazy eyes, and laugh around raspy, tired breaths. Shockingly, it was easy to let him. To have Eddie in his space. To joke and poke and tease. If anything, Steve’s only continued to bring that energy to their hang-outs; though, now that they’re around each other more, he’s come to notice that Eddie doesn’t casually enter Steve’s space or joke or tease or…whatever else he fancies doing. No, Eddie would rather sit as far as possible, and snark rather than smirk.

With the alcohol, Eddie’s come right back to square one.

Currently, there’s a hand on Steve’s right cheek. Thumb working into his skin. Tracing it down the edge of his face.

Slurred, “You’ve got such a nice face,” Eddie comments.

He snorts. “Eds, you’ve already said that, like, four times.”

“It’s true!” And that’s another thing about Eddie—when he’s wasted, he gets a little too loud. Not enough to really cause a scene, but just enough to make the wall vibrate. “God, I could look at you all day.”

“Feels like you have been.” Steve gently circles his fingers around Eddie’s wrist. Sweeps his thumb in the little dip where a pulse point sits. “How about we get some food and water in your system? Maybe go to bed?”

Eddie sighs, pulling forward into Steve’s shoulder. His forehead rests. And then he groans, pushing himself back up. All the while, keeping a heavy, steady hand on Steve’s cheek. “No,” he whines. “I wanna keep looking at you…like…like so bad.” His other hand comes up, sweeping back some of Steve’s stubborn hair. Holding his bangs in place. Eddie smiles, small and adoring. “Did you know…”—hic—“…know that you are so pretty?”

Something churns in Steve’s stomach.

Sour and alive and sickly.

“Ed,” he sighs. “C’mon, man, don’t…don’t say stuff like that.” Not that he particularly wants it to stop. Just…

If he keeps hearing just how pretty he is, it’s going to get his hopes up.

It was a hard thing to conclude. How much he’s really invested and infatuated and at the ready for Eddie. All the things he’d do for him. Waive a late fee at Family Video, take him out for food, odd jobs around the trailer, be at his side during physical therapy or recovery, take a trip around the moon to gather the rocks Eddie can’t pocket, and stop the world for them to remain frozen in time—right next to each other, stitched at the sides.

He loves Eddie.

But he can’t say that right now.

“Let’s just get you to bed, Eddie,” Steve says, more pressure under the words. “Then you’ll be right back to normal in the morning. I’ll make us eggs for breakfast, you can brew some coffee, and we’ll ride on over to the video store to return the movie and VCR—alright?”

Eddie releases Steve’s bangs from the top of his head. Clumsily, he points out his right index finger, and boops the tip of Steve’s nose. Squishing it with pure determination. “I want you to stay right here,” he husks. It’s almost flirtatious. Low enough, but melancholic instead of sultry. “Don’t…don’t want this to be over yet.”

Steve frowns in confusion. “I’m not going anywhere, man. I’ll be right where I always am when I stay the night, yeah? On the couch, waiting for you to wake up in the morning.” He licks his lips, stutters his breath when Eddie follows the motion. “You’re just very drunk right now and feeling a little bad, okay? Get on up with me and we can make you feel better.”

It takes some more resistance, but Eddie finally concedes, standing heavily against Steve’s side once off the couch. One slow step at a time, they get to the back bedroom. Where, gently, he plops Eddie down onto the bed.

He takes the extra time to help Eddie lay on his side. Tuck the blanket around him. Set out a mop bucket just in case. Water on the nightstand, next to the lamp he leaves on—just as he does every night they hang out; it’s the same routine.

When he smooths his hands over the top of the blanket again, Steve slows extremely in his tracks.

Eddie’s looking at him. Wide eyed and glossy. Breathing gently. Tracking. One of his hands comes up out of the blanket, latching itself to Steve’s left forearm.

He steadies himself with a deep breath. Then, “You need something, Eds?” Steve murmurs.

The thumb on his arm sweeps.

“Can you sit with me?”

Steve, without a second thought, sits down on the edge of the bed, facing Eddie. Cautiously, he reaches up and places a hand in Eddie’s hair. Combing through it gently. “Everything alright?”

Eddie shrugs tightly. “I think so.”

“You having nightmares again? I can stay in the room tonight if you need me to.”

“No,” Eddie whispers. “I just…just feel—different.”

He doesn’t say anything to that. Because what does that mean? Of course Eddie’s different he’s…Eddie! The whole wild card character, his big eyes, every little thing he takes apart and nitpicks. How he interacts with others. How he usually accepts others. Nobody else in Hawkins lives like Eddie does—courageously, somehow even free.

“Steve?”

He hums in question.

“I think there’s something wrong with me.”

“Do you think you’re sick? I could find a thermometer around here, check your temperature? I could maybe grab some Pepto”—

Eddie groans. Long and garbled and rough. “Being around you feels…feels…impossible sometimes,” he confesses, still slurring—heavy and distraught. “One moment, you’re my friend. And the next…”

Confused once more, Steve can only furrow his eyebrows. “What are you saying”—

“I wish that you were a girl,” Eddie harshly sobs out. There are fast falling tears smearing down his cheeks. Steve didn’t even notice they were there to begin with. But they won’t stop. And Eddie’s face goes blotchy in distress. “I wish…I wish you were a girl and I could…then I could—It’s not supposed to be like this. I’m not supposed to be”—

“Ed,” Steve interrupts softly, “I think you should close your eyes and go to sleep.”

“But I”—

He shakes his head. Hates the way something dark shutters in Eddie’s gaze. “We can’t…I can’t talk about this right now, Eds. It’s not the right time.”

Eddie sniffles. Pouts. “What the fuck do you know about right time and”—

Voice croaking, “Maybe I have feelings, too,” Steve miserably admits. His throat hot and pinched with oncoming tears. “And I know they’re right for me, but I can’t walk you through this. I can’t…I can’t help you this time, Eds. I can’t tell you who you are.” Reluctantly, even though Eddie tries to grab back for him, Steve removes his hand from where it’s petting. “But if you were a certain way, Eds, it wouldn’t be wrong. It’s not wrong. I know it’s not wrong.” He folds his hands in his lap, fidgeting loosely with his fingers. And casts his stare just off of Eddie’s face. Quietly, “When you’re sober and you’ve spared some thought to it, then come find me. For now, I just want to be a friend. I want to support you. But you’re also breaking my heart.”

“I am?” Eddie chokes out. “‘M sorry, Stevie…’m so sorry.”

Even though it’s going to hurt more, Steve ends up reaching out again. Touching Eddie’s heated face. Caressing him, swiping away the tears, holding onto him. “Hey,” he coos, “hey, it’s okay.” Steve pinches the bridge of his nose with his spare hand, and lets out a quick, shuttering breath. Shakes his head, sucks on his teeth, sighs. “I’m gonna be okay, I promise. It’s just that I…I…”—be brave, he tells himself, you just gotta be brave—“…I love you so much, Eddie. It hurts right now, hearing you say stuff like that. But I know you’re just…you’re figuring stuff out for yourself. And that takes time. And I’m gonna be right here with you…for you.”

“But what if I never figure it out, Stevie? I’m…I’m broken. I…I can’t feel this way. Not a-about you.”

Steve quirks a small, sad smile. “You’re not broken,” he murmurs, “you’re different, like you said. And that’s completely okay. It’s also okay if you don’t figure anything out. I love just being your friend.” He pats his thumb along Eddie’s under-eye. Lets him tilt into the hold. “I love you, no matter what,” Steve whispers, “even if all we are to each other is just friends. I’m still gonna love you.”

Against the fresh, broken, wet sobs from Eddie’s mouth, Steve closes his eyes, turns his head down, and tries to put himself anywhere else.

In another version of himself, Steve would’ve left fifteen minutes ago. He would’ve chugged down a couple glasses of water, grabbed his keys from the coffee table, and left Eddie to sober up on his own. The front door would’ve hit his backside. Stairs creaking as he stepped upon them, drifting farther and farther away from the blood to his beating heart. Drove himself—home, he doesn’t know, aimlessly almost sounds better. And maybe he’d go and drown himself in more booze—something stronger and darker and more bitter—and choked on his bile swirled saliva, sprayed puke from his nostrils the following morning, forgotten all about the fiasco that was this night before.

But he’s not that guy.

And he’s always loved too hard.

His heart still beats even when his chest hurts. And his soul still sings even when his throat closes up. He still touches and he still feels and he still loves. That’s his problem—oh, how he loves Eddie.

The safety and warmth that comes with somebody who just gets it. With somebody in similar age, in large personality and quirks. Somebody he can riff off of, tease with his words and scoff with his eyes and still find themselves laughing with one another—rather than at one another. He hasn’t felt a connection like this since meeting Tommy Hagan in the second grade; but he doesn’t want a connection like that…especially if it means the same fate as before.

He can’t lose Eddie. And he knows how to keep to himself, how to yearn from a distance, how to bite his own clumsy tongue. Steve knows the limits he possesses, yet how to burst and cross them. He can flirt, he can bitch, he can close up and keep to himself. He can be anything Eddie needs him to be: the bumbling idiot of a best friend, the charming boyfriend who doesn’t know when to let up, the last minute reservation when all the other restaurants closed, the friend you only see at reunions and by happenstance at the bar.

Tonight, he can be the one to comfort. And, sneaky as he’s claimed to be, Steve can keep a secret.

It’ll be just like any other night they hang out.

Eddie gets too clingy, too inebriated, too clumsy. And Steve keeps an eye out, helps them to the bed, leaves out the puke bucket, serves breakfast in the morning.

By the time the sun meets them through the windows, Eddie will have forgotten the night before. Just as he does every time.

But Eddie doesn’t know that.

“I think I’m in love with you,” he had confessed to Steve four nights ago.

“Something about you just feels right,” Eddie had said around a tipsy-happy smile.

“I’d kiss you if I could,” and that was whispered just last night.

If he could change to make Eddie feel safer, Steve would do it in a heartbeat.

Even if that means not being himself. Be a woman or something, whatever that really entails. Nancy and Robin would probably tell him it’s…anti-feminist to try and fit a stereotype. But he would do it anyway.

He’d do anything for Eddie to say those words in the daytime. To touch Steve. To want him in all these carnal, late night craving sort of ways. For Eddie to wrap himself along Steve’s back as breakfast is sizzling on the stovetop. Slow dancing to Etta James records that Eddie only breaks out when he’s feeling particularly emotional while drunk; clumsy feet trying to keep pace on the carpet, in the dark, syrup stuck to each other’s souls.

Steve can keep a secret.

No matter how much it’s killing him to keep quiet.

Not even Robin knows.

Tonight, he is still quiet. With his hand warming Eddie’s cheek. Drying his tears. Soothing him to sleep.

With snores muffled under the blanket, puffs of air hitting Steve’s fingertips, he remains glued to the edge of Eddie’s bed. Right where he remains, as he has for weeks on end now, every single time he’s asked to sit down. Watching the same alcohol soaked memory sleep soundly by the amber glow of a giving out lamp and tucked securely by Steve’s own handiwork.

He should head out to the couch. Wrap himself in a scratchy throw. Move to the recliner when Wayne’s ready to get the fold-out. Just as the original plans when they first started hanging out one on one.

Instead, though, he cautiously maneuvers around Eddie. Lays himself between the rise and fall of a warm back and the cold press of a bumpy wall. Keeps his arms and hands tucked into himself. And he closes his eyes—thinking of an alternate world where Eddie feels safe to completely give himself to his truth.

Even if he never does, Steve will remain tucked against the wall.

Cold against his spine. Stomach turning with sick and want and sore hope. He’ll be the battered copy of a book people are too scared to read—in fear the pages will tear. Just the same paperback, wrinkled with signs of reading, yellowing with years of just enough love to keep the words fresh. And maybe those words will be enough to help the both of them sleep, just a little while longer, just until the bedside lightbulb burns clear out.

💔—————💔

[gothamite-rambler]

Damian (curious): Genuine question, what was it like to be a kid back in your day? I want to learn.

Damian blinked, remaining silent and ready for a genuine answer. Dick took a sip from his tea cup then cleared his throat.

Dick: Um, when I wasn't patrolling with Bruce, I’d just spend hours outside, most time until the streetlights came on.

Damian: What? Why?

Dick: I had to make it back home to be Robin. Bruce said I could stay out until the streetlights came on, at least.

Damian (shocked): What?!

Jason: Is it about that time for gen alpha to find out adults like us had unsupervised childhoods?

Tim: Yep, I've been waiting for this.

Bruce (regret in his voice): I should've read the paper in the cave. Something was telling me to and I didn't listen.

Damian: Everybody silence, except Grayson. You… you had the choice to stay out late until the street lights came on?

Dick (wistful tone): Yep, I used to drink hose water sometimes because I didn't want to pay for water at the bodega.

Damian (more shock): Father, you didn't give him a water bottle?

Bruce: To be fair... they didn't have the ones we have today. I'm sticking to that defense.

Damian: Wow. Well, Grayson, what did you do?

Dick (shrugging): Stuff.

Damian (needing to know): What kind of stuff?

Dick: Went to the store, the library. One time, I even took a bus ride around town. Bruce was so mad when I made it back late. Good times.

Dick chuckled, stirring his tea. Bruce tried to sneak away, but Damian yanked him back.

Damian (furrowing his brow in anger): What, specifically, was he mad about? Please elaborate.

Dick: That I was late for patrol, but really, he was worried about my safety. There was this kidnapper in Gotham at the time. We all called him Kenny Kid Snatcher, he would snatch kids and hold them for ransom. Never killed them, that was another guy. Bruce, who was that guy?

Bruce pretended to read the lower page of the newspaper. Dick sensing the tension, looked around confused.

Dick: Did I say something wrong?

Damian (shouting, angry): That’s not fair! I have to ask permission to go out unless it’s for patrols, and I didn’t get to do anything alone in town!

Dick: To be fair, Gotham’s more dangerous nowadays.

Damian: YOU HAD A CHILD KIDNAPPER AND A CHILD KILLER! TWO DIFFERENT PEOPLE HARMING CHILDREN, AND THAT’S IGNORING THE OTHER CRIMINALS YOU DEALT WITH!

Dick: Well, no, it’s not like it was that bad for safety. Bruce always told me not to talk to strangers. That didn’t stop me sometimes. Honestly, that old lady who saved me from a crack dealer kidnapping me was really nice.

Bruce (shaking his head with his eyes closed): Stop talking. Stop talking. Stop talking. Stop talking.

Damian glared at his father, tapping his foot in frustration. He poked Bruce on the head.

Damian: This is unfair. I’m a trained former assassin, I should be allowed to go out alone! Grayson, you wouldn't let me go out and have the fun you had either! What gives? You lived it!

Dick: Yes, and I wasn't going to let you emulate me. No matter what you say the world isn't safe today. It wasn't back then, but it's less safe now.

Damian: You're lucky you speak in a way where that made sense.

Bruce: I just want to state my parents died so if anyone understands how unsafe the world is, it's me.

Damian: Father.

Bruce: I stand by that defense.

Damian (hands on his hips): What were Jason and Tim doing, huh?

Tim: My parents, may they rest in paradise, pretty much made me a latchkey kid. It wasn’t terrible.

Damian: You became Robin because you were bored, right?

Tim: Yeah, but I was an adventurous kid.

Damian: That’s… fair. I respect that. Jason, what do you have to say for this?

Jason (reminiscing): My life was hard. Stepmom was a drug addict, Dad was a criminal, and that bitch egg donor was a backstabbing rat. Catherine wasn’t a terrible mom, though, she just had a drug problem. I wouldn’t want to live that life again. Honestly, I wish I could’ve saved Cathy from it, too - Anyway, yeah, most of the time, parents like Bruce sucked at parenting.

Damian: I agree.

Dick: Yeah, it was the '80s and '90s and they were the children of suckier parents. Not that Martha and Thomas were bad people Bruce, so relax.

Bruce huffed, refusing to respond.

Tim: I’m pretty sure I was at home for two days when my parents went on a trip to see the Statue of Liberty. That was such a great weekend.

Damian shook his head and headed off to his room without another word.

Bruce: It wasn’t me - they put a warning on the TV! As long as the streetlights weren’t on, they were safe… Alfred taught me the same thing!

Alfred: I’m as old as hell, don’t drag me into this. Where I grew up, we had Jack the Ripper copycats, but we could fight back. Unlike you Americans.

Bruce: I’m Batman! That means something here!

Alfred: You weren’t bloody then! Don’t make me bring up your thumb sucking phase.

Bruce dropped his shoulders and grumbled, returning to reading his newspaper. Damian came back with his backpack filled with art supplies, his kid debit card and Nintendo switch.

Damian (making an annoucment): I’m off to the bus station! I’ll see you before the streetlights turn on tomorrow.

Damian ran off, followed by Dick and Jason, attempting to stop him. Bruce remained seated, Tim raised an eyebrow with a smirk.

Bruce: I’m on a break, and his other dads will punish him.

[ashlinxsloves]

A/N: Okay, I decided to write this on a whim, but Vergil going to the oculist with you because you need to get your eyes checked/get your glasses fixed due to the lens cracking. This is for my girlies who wear glasses/contact lenses! Also self-indulgent so bear with me lol 🤭

Warnings: none, just fluff!!

"You need to get new glasses," Vergil states, seeing the cracked lens and crooked frame of your glasses. You've been wearing contacts for the past few weeks, due to your glasses getting broken during one of your missions.

"I know, I know.. I'll get to that soon," you murmured, too busy filing the paperwork to get to deal with repairing your glasses. Rubbing your eyes gently, you sighed, feeling how dry they were getting from excessively using contact lenses.

Vergil took your hands from your eyes, he called your name softly before making you look at him, "We should go get your glasses fixed.. you're struggling to see, aren't you?"

Finally listening to Vergil's advice, you went to the optician with him to get your glasses fixed after a few days. You also decided to get a quick eye test to see if your eyesight had gotten worse and it thankfully didn't change much from your last checkup.

"You should get a new frame, Miss. The one you have right now is pretty crooked and we advise that you get a new one to make it easier for our optician to place the lens without it falling off the frame."

The sales lady recommended while you contemplated the expenses, checking your balance before Vergil placed his hand on your shoulder, catching your attention.

"I'll pay for it, don't worry," he murmured, his gaze softening a bit before going back to his usual stoic frown. "Just pick something out."

You smiled sweetly at him, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek which caught him slightly off guard, his head ducking down a bit as he tried to hide the smile that was trying to escape.

While you picked out a new frame, Vergil was just looking around at the male glasses frames, letting out a low hum when you tugged his coat sleeve.

"How do these look?" you asked, Vergil tilting your head up so he could get a better look at your face.

"Mmm.. they look nice," he murmured, nodding gently as you smiled. "You should get them."

Paying for your expenses, Vergil then took you out on a walk, the glasses were planned to be finished and ready to be picked up in a few days.

"You didn't have to pay for them, you know? I had some funds in my account left from the last mission I got paid for," you spoke up whilst kicking a loose pebble on the sidewalk, a small smile on your lips.

Vergil just grunted in response, his eyes trained on you as you walked towards an ice cream stand not too far away. "Do you want ice cream?"

You asked your boyfriend, seeing him tilt his head to the side at your antics. His stoic expression didn't change but his eyes did soften a bit as he gave you a small nod. You got your ice cream flavours, handing him his cone before paying for the dessert this time.

Vergil gave you a sidelong glance, shaking his head but not daring to argue with you as the two of you found a bench to sit on.

"You picked out dark forest berries for me," he pointed out, looking at the purple-white treat in front of him before taking a bite out of it. He blinked before taking another bite, causing you to giggle. Vergil liked the flavour even if he didn't admit it out loud.

After the ice cream, the two of you decided to go on a short walk around a park not too far from the shop's neighbourhood. Vergil was holding the Yamato in one hand while holding yours in his other.

"You know," you started, a small grin forming on your lips, "you wouldn't look so bad in glasses too."

"I have perfectly good vision, my love," he countered, shaking his head gently at your suggestion. But now that you pointed it out... maybe he did need some. For reading, anyway.

Vergil just put the thought away for later, instead focusing on the sweet moment he was having with you and your insistent rambling about the things you had planned for the day.

If you enjoyed this, likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated!!˙⋆✮

[danvazini]

don't worry 'bout no air, baby drown — daniela avanzini x meret manon

in where stepsisters manon and daniela get a little experimental during movie night — (wc) 3.6k

cunnilungus, markings, fingering, stepcest, oral (dani n manon receiving), manon literally hates daniela & vice versa, gp!manon, age gap mention, bratty!daniela, dom!manon, sub!daniela, dacryphilia, hate sex, etc? — now playing drown by véyah

—

her mother married her father, honestly they both fucking hated the idea of a step sibling. manon would always get an attitude from daniela, the lating's mother would always say it's okay because daniela was “younger" which manon quickly grew tired of.

at some point, manon started ignoring daniela and once she did, it was like daniela just stopped. they would only get along for the sake of their parents so they could believe they actually liked one another.

the plan worked until the night of the usual family movie night came, and their parents suddenly canceled on them instead of saying something sooner.

“girls, we’ll be going out tonight” — those words made manon feel a certain rage she had never felt before. “what do you mean?” she’d quickly ask, trying to understand.

“we’ll be going out on a date, so i need you both to stay home and watch the house tonight. you guys can come up with your own movie night, right?” daniela’s mother said, her eyes darting between both the swiss and latina women.

manon let out a heavy sigh, but daniela replied “sure, we can. i just thought you guys would spend some time with us tonight” she meant no malice with the comment, but this was something the girls were growing used to and then mysteriously they can’t join on for tonight.

manon’s father opened his mouth, but daniela’s mother answered quicker — “uhm, well… since you two have been getting along we thought that we could just trust you two together for one night” she said, looking at him and back to them.

manon’s jaw clenched, and looked at daniela with pure hatred before looking back at their parents, “sure, we can… coexist for a while. how long will you guys be gone?” the ghanaian woman asked, looking at her father.

“uhm, about that dear…. we’ll be returning tomorrow afternoon” her father answered, making manon roll her eyes. “what the fuck…” she whispered under her breath and daniela looked at them like they were insane.

“why so long? with her of all people.” daniela said, her tone was so rude and had malice leaking through it. — “as if i wanna be stuck with your ass” manon scoffed, and their parents looked at each other.

“girls, we need you to get slong for one night, do the movie night still, have friends over, we don’t care just… please, get along” daniela’s mom said, looking at her daughter then back to manon.

“you can do that for me, yeah babe?” daniela’s mom said, looking at her daughter, and dani sighed, nodding “yeah, we can” and manon just looked at her dad.

“honey, just for tonight” he said softly, walking over to her and daniela looked at her and scoffed “it’s not that bad, stop acting like such a bitch”

and manon looked at daniela before sighing, a smile on her face before saying “actually, you guys should take a week away. enjoy your relationship, i’ll take good care of daniela.”

manon had something in mind, and her father just smiled at her, backing away and saying his goodbyes. daniela felt like her heart stopped hearing that, “wai-“

“okay bye girls, we’ll see you tomorrow” daniela’s mom said as she closed the front door, locking manon and daniela in the same house for the next few hours.

“i fucking hate you, you know that?” daniela broke the silence after a while of just sitting there, “likewise..” manon said, which caused daniela to get up and walk upstairs.

daniela went up to her bedroom, turning on her tv to tune out whatever bullshit manon would be on, but the ghanaian woman came up the stairs and was at her threshold.

“what do you want?” the cuban woman asked, her attitude snappy with her. manon scoffed, “against my own better judgment, they wanted us to watch a movie together, so let’s get that over with then you can be in here.”

daniela rolled her eyes, “fine” and manon turned around, “and they’re watching us so the exact same way we act with them here, we have to act now”

“i know, i know” daniela had a dismissive attitude which made manon want to just lunge at her right then and there and rearrange everything on her perfect face…. wait.

manon stopped in her tracks. did she just…. no… no.. no. — “whats wrong with you?” daniela asked, it’s not like she gave a fuck but she did not want this to be a prolonged situation. one and done, that’s all that needed to happen.

the swiss woman just clenched her jaw, forcing a smile.. “nothing… nothing.” she continued walking to the living room and picked up the remote.

once daniela got inside the living room she just looked at manon, “so? what fuckass movie do you want to watch?” she asked, sitting on the couch, her attitude still evident.

manon sighed and cursed to herself, knowing this was going to be a long night. she pinched the bridge of her nose and sat down beside daniela, “you choose” and she tossed the remote on her lap.

the venezuelan woman just rolled her eyes, and picked a random horror film. manon’s eye twitched at this but she just shook it off, and got on her phone.

daniela ripped manon’s phone from her hands once she noticed, “no phones” she said sarcastically but teasingly, and put it in her own pocket.

manon sighed again, and waited a few minutes before pouncing on daniela and trying to rip her phone from the latina’s pocket.

“give me my fucking phone dani, stop playing around!” manon said, she was frustrated but daniela kept laughing at this. she fucking enjoyed this. — that was until manon pinned her against the couch.

she wasn’t applying every ounce of pressure possible, but she was applying enough that prevented daniela from moving freely. the latina’s smile dropped slightly, manon was staring at her, breathing labored as her eyes burned with anger.

the room fell dead silent, everything seemed muffled. the tv wasn’t as loud as it felt it was just a few minutes ago, the only thing the pair could hear were their own heartbeats.

it took them a while to even notice their own position, manon basically was straddling daniela. the ghanaian woman got off of her and just sat beside her. the latina slightly sat up, her expression was still just as surprised as it was confused.

manon doing that was so subtle but she… she liked it? the latina woman couldn’t think straight and focus on the movie, she continued to think about manon pinning her down like that.

daniela was sitting there thinking for a while, noticing manon was on her phone again, and she snatched it again, this time running away to her own bedroom with it.

manon ran after her, and tackled dani to her bed. pinning her down once again, sitting all of her weight on daniela’s waist. she grabbed her wrists with one hand and retrieved her phone.

daniela squirmed under her, but once manon put her phone in pocket she walked off and daniela whispered “fucking bitch..” knowing how much it’ll piss manon off.

the older woman turned around and walked towards her again, “what did you just call me?” — “what did you hear?” daniela retorted and manon nodded, “okay, i heard you call me a fucking bitch” her tone was more sharp and dani nodded.

“that’s what i said” and manon clenched her jaw before turning back around, “you aren’t even fucking worth it” she went back to the living room, and sat down. — well more so laid on the couch.

daniela followed manon out, but when she went inside the living room and saw manon laying on the couch, she sat on her lap. — the ghanaian woman could only sigh, but she ignored her.

daniela turned her position to face manon, now straddling the older woman. she noticed manon wasn’t paying her any attention, but she didn’t care, her fingers just traced lines on manon’s clothed chest.

the action pulled manon’s attention to her, “what are you doing?”, she asked, her tone was just as agitated. it fired something up inside daniela, and she could feel the tensing of manon’s body.

daniela just giggled, inching her face towards manon, “well.. i just want to bother you” she said, trying to play off the fact that she craved manon’s aggressive touch.

she started whining her hips on the older woman, knowing that she hated when she’d touch her. manon’s jaw clenched as she grabbed daniela’s waist, “stop it.” she said, her voice was so rough and aggressive. — slightly, husky even?

daniela’s eyes stayed on manon’s, her body slightly shaking when manon held her. the older woman’s gaze was filled with pure hatred, and anger.

daniela continued tracing patterns with her fingertips on manon’s chest, looking into her eyes and feeling smaller under her.

manon’s hold tightened but daniela could feel something under her slightly growing harder. manon couldn’t focus on the movie anymore, feeling cock growing harder the longer daniela sat on her.

“fuck, get…” manon said breathlessly, “get off..” she tried clearing her throat to hold her composure but failing, making the cuban woman giggle, “why? what’s wrong? don’t you like me?” she tried playing in with her …. fucking with her.

manon sighed deeply, and looked in the corner of the living room before looking at her. “they’re watching” she darted her eyes up to the camera which pulled daniela’s attention there, making the latina groan.

she got up and unplugged the camera. its not like their parents cared honestly, they only ever had it on for nights the house was empty. so manon and daniela would use it to their advantage — though, tonight was different.

daniela went back to straddling manon, her clothed cunt sitting directly on manon’s erection. the ghanaian woman sighed, trying to keep her composure while daniela kept fucking with her.

“you have a lot of patience now” daniela sighed. she was growing mad because she’s not getting the same energy from manon. — it was making her frustrated, sexually frustrated.

manon just shrugged, continuing to watch the movie, her hands resting against her chest. daniela sighed and got off manon, but she noticed her erection and gasped.

“did that turn you on?” she teased her, which made manon cover herself with a pillow, “shut the fuck up” but daniela didn’t stop. — “no, you liked it” she taunted, and continued until manon pinned her against the couch again.

daniela loved seeing the burning anger and desire mixing in her eyes, manon was irritated, breathing labored and her hold on daniela was rough, the cuban woman could feel her fingertips slightly digging into her skin, making her squirm.

manon looked at for a moment, almost contemplating something but all she said was “fuck it” — she inched her face closer to daniela’s neck, breathing in her scent before gently nipping at her skin.

daniela’s body squirmed under her, but manon continued on. her hold became firmer as she licked daniela’s neck, finding her sweet spots. the latina could only let out soft whimpers, her fingers inched inside manon’s hair and she gently grabbed at it, almost angling manon to where she should be.

the younger woman’s body arched against the older’s when she bit her, manon began kissing down daniela’s chest, her teeth grazing against dani’s soft skin.

the ghanaian woman then pulled her into a deep kiss, her hands, which were rested on daniela’s waist, began moving along her body — daniela felt like she was losing her mind, each and every touch from manon made her body feel like jello.

she helplessly moaned into the kiss, manon’s hands rested on her hips to prevent the younger from bucking them. manon broke off from the kiss to see the flushed mess beneath her, daniela was panting, her cheeks had a slight red tint, she couldn’t keep her hips still, she whined at the loss of contact, her hazel eyes looking into manon’s, pleading almost.

manon’s hands gripped her waist a little tighter, giggling at the way she looked. — “for you to be someone who loves annoying others, you sure are easy.” she’d mock her, and make daniela squirm.

“sh-shut the fuck up!” daniela tried to hold a cold front but knowing she wasn’t convincing manon at all, and the older woman just chuckled. she got off of daniela, slowly tearing away at the sweatpants the venezuelan wore.

daniela fell limp under manon’s touch, she looked in her eyes, seeing pure desire and lust in her eyes. her body twitched as she held eye contact with manon as she gently kissed up her legs, softly licking her skin with each kiss.

the latina felt so submissive under her touch, like each and every feel of manon’s lips coming in contact with her skin made her feel like something was sending electric volts through her body.

her fingers found their way in the back of manon’s head, gripping her neck as she kissed further up her thighs, and her back began to arch. “f.. fuck” she whimpered out.

manon held her thighs open while she continued to kiss, inching closer to daniela’s underwear. she helplessly bucked her hips against nothing, whimpering for more.

“please… stop teasing me..” and manon just laughed at her, sending shivers down her spine. she felt so embarrassed begging manon to touch her — it was almost degrading in a way.

manon’s fingers teased her, the ghanaian woman’s thumb tracing against her underwear. — “pl… please”, daniela breathlessly got out.

manon slowly pulled her underwear down, watching the slick that connected from her pussy to the thin fabric, giggling to herself.

once she pulled them off, she kissed up daniela’s body, starting at her waist, going up her abdomen and stopping at her chest, “remove these”, manon said, tapping the tshirt and bra.

while daniela quickly removed her shirt, manon gently pushed two of her fingers inside of daniela. making the latina’s back arch even further against her body, manon kissed on her neck while she curled her fingers.

as she picked up the pace, she could feel her dick twitching in her pants, begging to be touched.. almost making it impossible for manon to focus. daniela’s hands held on manon’s shoulders, and she tightened her grip.

manon’s other hand was on daniela’s waist, gripping her tightly, slowly moving her hips into her ministrations. manon sped up, and kissed down daniela’s body, going to her clit where she gently began eating her out.

“p-please… i’m so… so close” daniela panted out, her hands going to manon’s neck as she started grinding against her face. the ghanaian woman lifted her head, leaving daniela bucking into the air.

“n-no please” daniela begged, tears welling in her eyes as she grew needier. manon just chuckled and backed up from daniela, undoing her own pants.

she slid off the jeans she wore, her erection obvious through her boxers. “come here” manon said gently to dani, the latina woman crawled to the edge of the bed, looking up at manon, sitting on her knees.

manon held her chin, a sadistic smile on her face as she looked at daniela. “help me with this” she gestured to her boxers and daniela pulled them down, looking up at manon.

manon’s cock sprung from her boxers, her tip hitting the cuban woman’s lips. daniela pulled the boxers down to manon’s thighs, wrapping her hand around manon’s cock.

“so… so big” she murmured to herself and she continued stroking manon, making the older woman groan. “come on, you can do more than that�� the ghanaian woman said, her eyes dark with lust.

daniela put the tip in her mouth, sucking lightly, her tongue swirling around it while manon dripped precum into her mouth, “stop.. teasing” manon said, holding back a moan.

daniela takes more of manon’s cock into her mouth, struggling a bit but determined to please her. drool starts to drip down her chin as she tries to fit more.

“come on, you can fit more.” manon said, making a messy ponytail with her hands in daniela’s hair. the latina gags slightly but continues to push herself, her lips stretching around the girth. she manages to take about half before pulling back to breathe.

“mmh... it's so big…” she pants, strings of saliva connecting her lips to the ghanaian woman’s tip, making her giggle. “looks so pretty like this..” manon said, pulling daniela’s hair to make her look up at her.

daniela’s hand was subconsciously stroking manon while they held eye contact, “you can take more than half, can’t you?” she asked and daniela nodded, her determination obvious.

her cheeks flushed red with effort and arousal. she opens her mouth wider and takes another inch, her throat convulsing as she tries to suppress her gag reflex.

“fuck…” manon groaned, pushing herself deeper down faniela’s throat. daniela’s body jerked slightly, indicating that she was gagging. tears ran down her cheeks but she was determined to make manon feel good.

manon held daniela’s head against her crotch, slightly bucking her hips with each moan. daniela swallowed around her cock, breathing through her nose as manon retracted her hips to slam back inside.

the latina gagged again, and manon pulled out, her cock leaking with daniela’s saliva and drool, she looked at daniela’s puffy red lips, her eyes slightly red due to her crying.

manon only fakely cooed to the younger woman before throwing her on her back and getting on top of her, in an instant daniela’s legs wrapped around manon.

manon tapped her cock against daniela’s clit, making her twitch. “n-no please stop teasing” but manon only let out a cruel laugh at her begs, and started grinding her cock against daniela’s clit.

the latina’s nail began digging into manon’s back, her hips bucking up meeting manon’s pace — which was brutally…. brutally slow.

“p-please….” daniela sobbed out, her voice hoarse from just a few moments ago. “please what?” manon asked, speeding up a little bit, having a normal rhythm.

“need you… in me..” she begged, all of it came out as small whimpers and sobs. manon loved the effect she was having on daniela, she teased her tip inside the latina, watching her reaction.

daniela arched her back more, a sob left her throat, “please stop teasing.. i can’t take it” she said breathlessly.

manon pushed herself inside of daniela slowly, leaving her hips still while the latina desperately tried gaining friction, bucking her hips against her.

manon held her down, halting daniela’s movements, “please…” daniela sobbed out, and manon began slowly, thrusting inside of her.

daniela’s wrapped her legs around manon’s waist, pushing the ghanaian woman deeper. manon’s paced stayed insanely slowly, making daniela beg her for more.

manon sped up and daniela’s nails began digging into her back, manon’s hips touching daniela’s with each thrust, going deeper, hitting her cervix.

daniela tried her best to hold back any moans that threatened to slip but she ended up moaning manon’s name pretty loud, so loud it echoed off the bedroom walls.

manon chuckled to herself as she went fast, her hips slamming against the latina. manon leaned down, biting at her neck, small moans escaping her own mouth as dani started tightening around her.

the cuban woman started bucking into the swiss woman’s movements, her moans growing louder as she grew closer, “please i’m so close.. let me cum” — she helplessly begged but manon pulled out, flipping daniela onto her stomach.

daniela whined at the empty feeling, clenching around nothing as her face hit the mattress, she could feel manon’s cock slipping back inside of her while the ghanaian woman’s hands slid up her back, wrapping around the back of her neck as she pushed her head further into the mattress, fucking daniela aggressively.

daniela’s orgasm built up again, her begs muffled due to the mattress, but manon could feel her walls convulsing around her. she could feel daniela’s body beginning to spasm as she came, her hand coming off her neck, pulling daniela by her hair as her cock went in deeper.

the venezuelan woman’s moans were louder as manon fucked her through her orgasm, then manon spanked her, leaving a red hand print of daniela’s ass as she went faster.

manon’s hand wrapped around daniela’s throat and let her hair go as she went harder. daniela gripped the sheets, her knuckles turning white the harder she held it.

manon went even faster, wrapping her hands around daniela’s mouth as the latina arched, going faster and deeper. this pushed daniela into another orgasm, but it was all muffled while she struggled to catch her breath as manon held her mouth tighter.

the sound of their skin slapping and the bed creaking could be heard throughout the whole house, the latina’s pussy was dipping in her arousal and cum, making a squelching noise each time manon thrusted inside of her.

the ghanaian woman’s hips began to stutter as she grew closer, her hands going to daniela’s waist as she continued to piston into the woman.

daniela’s moans were breathless, her face laying against the bed, her mascara running down her cheeks and lipstick smeared with tear stains on her face, looking completely fucked out while manon came inside of her.

she could feel each rope shooting deep inside her womb, manon stayed inside her for a while, slowly thrusting her hips before she pulled out, turning daniela over to look at her with a smug look on her face.

“you got what you wanted” manon said and got off the bed to get the things to clean daniela up while her load dripped from the latina’s pussy.

—

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