#i feel like i came back at the perfect time

[luv-lock]

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤROTTEN TONGUEㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Yandere Batboys x Fem Reader

☆⁠ HEADCANON : How would they react if you—their everything, the light in their lives—told them you wished they’d die.

☆⁠ CHARACTERS : Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Damian Wayne.

☆⁠ NOTES : English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

— BRUCE WAYNE ⋆

You’d never said anything like that before. You were always calm, always firm, but soft. But tonight—when he locked the doors to keep you inside, when he said he was just protecting you from the city—you snapped.

“I wish you’d die.”

Bruce doesn’t yell. He doesn't even speak at first. He just stands there, the air freezing around him. Something in his eyes dies—then lights up again, colder, sharper.

He nods slowly. “That’s fair,” he says. His voice is empty. “I’ve wished the same for myself for a long time. But I can’t die… not yet.”

You scream at him, try to claw your way past him. He lets you hit him. Blood trickles down his jaw, and he doesn’t flinch. He even looks grateful.

“Hit me again. I deserve worse.”

That night, he disappears into the cave for hours. You hear the training equipment groaning under his blows. Alfred won’t meet your eyes. You try to leave again, and suddenly Bruce is there, silent, blocking the door.

“I won’t stop you,” he whispers. “But don’t come back. I’ll pretend I never had you… to protect what’s left of me.”

When you break down crying, he doesn’t smile. He just opens his arms like a grave opening for its dead.

And you fall in.

Bruce doesn't get better. He just makes sure no one else ever hurts you—even if it's you hurting him.

— DICK GRAYSON ⋆

Dick tries so hard to be perfect for you. He bends himself backward until he breaks, just to make you smile. So when you say it—when you scream “I wish you were dead!” because he showed up at your job again, scared your coworker off, read your texts—

It’s like a punch to the throat.

He laughs. Loud. Hysterical. Like he can’t believe it.

“You—you don’t mean that. Babe, you don’t say things like that to me. You love me.”

You push him again. You scream that he’s suffocating you, that he’s obsessed. He grabs your wrists—not hard, never hard, just enough to stop you from shaking.

“But I love you so much. I wake up thinking about you. I breathe because of you. If I died—would you cry?”

You say no.

He flinches. It’s the first time you’ve ever seen him truly ugly.

That night, he vanishes. No texts. No calls. Then a day later, you find him outside your window, soaked from the rain, eyes red. “I stayed away. Like you wanted. But I think I’m dying.”

You’re horrified. You didn’t mean it like that. But Dick isn’t hearing you anymore.

“You wished I’d die. And I’m trying, okay? I haven’t eaten. I haven’t slept. What more do you want?”

You cry, and he holds you, shaking, repeating “I forgive you. I forgive you. You didn’t mean it. You love me. I forgive you.”

He never lets you say it again.

Not because you wouldn’t.

Because he’ll never give you a reason to.

— JASON TODD ⋆

Jason’s not like the others. His obsession’s dirty, raw, full of pain. He follows you because he knows what Gotham does to pretty things. You never catch him… but you feel him. In the corner of your eye. In the extra locks on your door. In the fear in your dates’ eyes.

So when he drags some guy off you—some guy you wanted—and punches him half to death, and you scream, “I WISH YOU WERE DEAD!”

The world explodes.

“You think I haven’t already?” he roars. “I did! I was in a fucking coffin and came back just to see you again!”

He throws a chair across the room. His eyes are bloodshot, his chest heaving.

“I died. I died, and I was alone, and I clawed my way out of hell—and you wanna wish me dead again?!”

You back away. He freezes. The silence is louder than the shouting.

“I’d rather die again than see you look at me like that,” he whispers.

He disappears for days. You think he’s gone—until your windows are fixed. Your groceries are stocked. The man who touched you never comes near you again.

Then one night, Jason shows up, bloody, bruised, eyes raw. He kneels.

“Kill me. If that’s what it takes for you to feel safe again.”

You cry. He holds you.

And you realize: he’d gladly die for you.

But he’ll never let anyone else have you.

— DAMIAN WAYNE ⋆

You told him to stop tracking your phone. You told him to stop threatening your friends. But he didn’t listen. He said he was protecting you. You were his. His angel. His light. His beloved. So when you scream, “I wish you were dead, Damian,”

He just stops.

It’s unnatural. He’s so still, like a porcelain doll about to crack.

“…Say it again,” he says quietly.

You do.

He walks away.

You expect a tantrum. A fight. But Damian goes quiet. Too quiet. The manor doesn’t hear from him for days. Alfred’s worried. Bruce is furious. You check your phone—nothing. Then, one night, you find a white rose on your bed. A note: “I’ve erased the people who twisted your mind. You’re safe now.”

You go outside and find blood on the porch. Damian’s waiting in the shadows.

“You said you wished I were dead. But you didn’t mean it. Not really.” His voice is like cold glass. “You were angry. And I forgive you.”

You say you meant it. That he’s suffocating you.

He blinks. Then slowly, his expression shatters.

“Don’t say that,” he breathes. “Don’t lie to me. I know your heart.”

He kneels before you like a knight. “Even if you hate me… I’ll wait. For years. Decades. Centuries. But I will never leave you.”

You try to run. He lets you. But you don’t get far.

Because the League of Assassins watches you now.

And so does he.

— MASTERLIST ☆

— © luv-lock. don't copy, use or translate any of my works here or any other websites ☆

[emisafan]

Honestly such good advice. I've been doing the same and even the worse parts of life feel a bit better now, just because I don't go adding to my issues by looking for signs of people hating me anymore, but for signs of that it's actually the opposite.

I don't know who needs to hear this. Stop assuming everyone secretly hates you. Stop pretending to *know* everyone secretly hates you. You don't. Stop thinking no one cares. Even a person following you here on tumblr might care about you more than you know and is happy to see when you post and wonder when it's been a while. You don't know what your impact on people truly is. If you're already someone who's got anxiety, depression or some other thing, then please, try to see what people do around you and really try to put in positive light. For example, being offered help isn't being made fun of. Asking for help isn't giving up or saying "I'm too dumb for it". It's simply being offered or asking for help or even getting another opportunity to learn, and you are *not* being a nuisance. And I know it's hard, I've been there and sometimes I'm even back there, bc noone's perfect and that's fine.

Once you start finding some of these things, they'll come to you easier. Much like looking for well hidden frogs in a terrarium - once you spotted one you'll see there's actually been 20 staring you in the face. Like many things in life, it's just something that needs practice. Being positive in general.

Sharing a meal, getting in a subtile way praised like @time-compass mentioned are good to look out for, but also maybe you'll notice that someone paid attention, remembered what food you like/dislike, noticed whatever your favorite colour/animal/videogame/media... - just what you faves are. And maybe they send you.... idk a picture of a horse bc they know you love them so much - memes from the fandom you're in even though maybe they aren't, but they came across it and thought of you. People that hated you wouldn't see a post and think "Oh this is for [person] I know they'll love it/ it's totally their style." I'd assume they wouldn't think of you at all. And if they really did hate you and still engage with you in some way then that is definetly their problem bc either they're in denial or wasting their time - and that should really not be something *you* need to think about.

Just as you need to remember that you aren't forcing them to be in your presence, I want you to remember that you aren't forced either. (If you are I think that's a whole different problem) Maybe you can even try and see what you do when you try to show you "secretly" like/love (not specificaly romantic) them and see of they return something similar in their own way. (Keep in mind everyone's different, and that's beautiful.)

I think that's all I wanted to say to this, it's a lot now anyway. Maybe someone will see it and think it's helpful, maybe not, but that's not for me to decide.

They should invent a method of asking for reassurance that nobody secretly hates you that doesn't make people secretly hate you.

[houseofaegon]

YOU TASTE LIKE HEAVEN ╱  BOB REYNOLDS X FEM!READER

let me make it up to you

+18 MINORS DNI 𓏲  ◟ ♡ ˖ ࣪  oral (f receiving), bob eating pussy for the first time, praise kink, begging, overstimulation.

author's note: bob eating you out for the first time. that's it that's the tweet. me next me next me next!!!!!! i know for a fact bob reynolds loves eating pussy!!!!!!!!! and i volunteer as tribute!!!

The mission was over, but your mind and your entire body were still buzzing with adrenaline. It had gone way better than you'd expected. And Bob? He did so well. After all your training, the barked orders, the sharp corrections—you’d seen every bit of it click into place out there. No hesitation. No second-guessing. Just raw, controlled power. He’d finally stopped doubting himself.

And you were so fucking proud of him.

You were about to go find him and tell him that when he came into your room, closed the door behind him and turned to look at you like he hadn't taken his eyes off you since you all go tback.

“Hey, you,” you said softly, a smile tugging at your lips.

“Hi,” he breathed, barely more than a whisper.

He stood there like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to come closer. Like he wanted to kneel but hadn’t figured out why yet.

“You okay?” you asked.

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. Just… I needed to see you.”

You crossed the room toward him, fingertips brushing his chest. “You did good today, Bob.”

His breath hitched at that.

“Really good,” you murmured. “I saw the way you moved. The way you didn’t hesitate.”

His eyes fluttered closed. “That’s ‘cause of you.”

You tilted your head. “No, that’s you finally believing in yourself.”

He opened his eyes again—and this time, they were shining. Hot. Intent.

“I can’t stop thinking about it,” he said. “What you did for me last time.”

You arched a brow, feigning innocence. “Hmm? You’ll have to be more specific, Bob.”

His cheeks flushed, but his voice stayed steady. “When you had my dick in your mouth.”

You smirked. “Ah. That.”

He swallowed, hands curling into fists at his sides. “You made me feel… like I was the only thing that mattered. Like you wanted to ruin me. And you did.”

You leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “You liked it?”

“I fucking loved it,” he whispered, shaking. “And I—I want to do that for you now. Please. I’ve never done it before, but I need to. I wanna taste you. I wanna make you feel everything I felt—and more.”

You pulled back and looked into his eyes—blown wide, glassy, starved.

“You really wanna go down on me, Bob?”

“I’ve never wanted anything more in my life.”

You smiled. “Then get on your knees, baby. And show me.”

Bob dropped like gravity pulled him down. No hesitation. No nerves now—just need. He settled between your thighs like it’s where he belongs, hands warm and a little shaky as they skim your hips, sliding your pants down slow.

When he saw you—slick and flushed and soaked—he let out this wrecked little moan, like just the sight of your pussy nearly knocked him out.

“Fuck,” he breathed, eyes locked in like he can’t look away. “You’re so—Jesus, you’re perfect.”

You laughed softly, breathless already. “You gonna just stare or are you gonna do something about it?”

“I wanna,” he said, like it’s killing him. “I’ve just never—fuck—I didn’t know it could look this pretty. I didn’t know I’d want it this bad.”

He leaned in. Breath ghosting over your skin. And then—finally—his tongue drags one slow, tentative stripe through your folds.

You gasp.

Bob groans, like he just tasted something divine. “Holy shit. Why didn’t anyone tell me—fuck—this is insane.”

Then he licks again. And again. Bolder. Firmer. He’s already messy—spit and slick all over his chin, tongue moving like he’s trying to memorize every inch of you.

“Fucking hell,” you moan, one hand flying into his hair. “Bob—shit—you’re actually good at this—”

He whimpers. “I need to be,” he mumbles against your clit. “I want you to feel everything. I wanna make you come, baby. Please—let me.”

You don’t get a chance to answer—his mouth locks onto your clit and sucks and you nearly come off the fucking bed.

“Fuck—fuck, Bob, yes! Don’t stop, right there—oh my god—”

He groans into you. Arms sliding under your thighs, pulling you closer, holding you open. His tongue works in filthy, perfect circles. He’s obsessed. Like he’s dying to make you fall apart.

“You taste so good,” he pants. “So fucking good—I could stay here forever.”

You're already trembling. Your hips can’t stay still. “Bob—fuck—don’t stop, please—just like that, yes—”

And when you come? You scream. Legs shaking, hand yanking at his hair, body writhing under the weight of it. He moans with your orgasm like it feeds him. Like he’s addicted to it.

But he doesn’t stop.

Your thighs are trembling. You can barely think. Your body’s still shuddering from the orgasm he just dragged out of you—and Bob is still down there. Still licking. Still moaning like he’s been possessed.

You try to push at his head, weakly. “B-Bob—fuck, wait—I need a second—”

But he growls. A low, desperate, hungry sound against your cunt that makes your spine arch right off the bed.

“No,” he pants. “You’re not done. I need another one. Give it to me, baby—please. I know you can.”

He sounds wild. His voice has gone wrecked and hoarse, his mouth slick with you, eyes glazed like a man who hasn’t tasted water in years.

“Let me make you come again,” he begs, voice shaking. “Let me wreck you like you wrecked me. Please—I can take it—you can take it. Just one more. Please, baby, come on—”

And then he goes right back in.

Tongue fucking you. Sucking your clit like he’s gone mad. He’s not gentle anymore—he’s starving, messy and frantic and relentless. The sounds echoing off the walls are filthy—his moans, your gasps, the slick of his mouth on your cunt like he’s drowning in it.

You’re already spiraling. Overstimulated, twitching, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.

“Bob— I—fuck—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he growls, gripping your thighs tighter. “You’re doing so good—fuck, you’re perfect. Let go for me. Wanna taste you again, wanna feel you come all over my mouth. Come on, baby—come again.”

You fall apart.

It crashes over you like a fucking wave—sharp and overwhelming. You scream, legs clamping around his head, body spasming while Bob groans and keeps going, licking you through every pulse and twitch until you’re begging, sobbing, gasping for breath.

“Please— Bob—please—stop, it’s too much—”

He finally pulls back, face flushed and soaked, pupils blown wide like he just touched god.

He looks up at you with a wrecked smile.

“You taste like heaven,” he whispers.

taglist ⊱☆⊰ @the-a-word-2214 @favestxrboy @uraesthete @abbysbenchpr @sammystarswrite @pey2618 @qardasngan @lunaoieoie @orithyia-eriphyle @amatiswayland @madzzz6958 @all-by-myself98 @dark-silhouette @ghost-ghost-13 @wyvernthekriger @gayfiretruck @watermeezer @lvmxla @novausstuff @mommymilkers0526 @natureartisian @feralgoblinbabe @misaki-evans @menrsluts (if you want to be tagged in my future works lmk! <3)

[jinjoohaa]

Room for One more?

Pairing - JJK Men x reader

CW: dubcon, somnophilia, possessiveness, overstimulation, coercion, emotional manipulation, power imbalance, group confrontation, Gojo being unhinged.

prev | next | M. list

Chapter 21

You were already half-asleep when you heard the all-too-familiar creak of your bedroom door. There was no mistaking that hushed step, the way the door barely clicked closed behind him like he didn’t want to wake anyone else—not because he was being considerate, but because he wanted you all to himself.

“Bunny…” Gojo’s voice was soft, almost a whisper, but the mischief in it made your chest tighten. “They’re all asleep. It’s just us now.”

You didn’t have the energy to move, the blanket pulled to your chin, body heavy from the long week and the longer days of Gojo’s constant, relentless affection. But that didn’t stop him. It never did.

He was already slipping under the sheets behind you, his arms winding around your waist, pulling your back flush against his chest. His lips ghosted over your neck, slow, reverent.

“Don’t listen to them,” he murmured, voice warm against your skin. “They’re just jealous. Jealous ‘cause you love me more.”

“Satoru…” your voice was groggy, almost pleading.

“You do love me, right?” His hand slid up your stomach, cupping one breast through your sleep shirt, fingers teasing around the edge of the fabric. “Right, baby? Bunny?”

You could only nod, and that was enough.

“See?” he whispered triumphantly, nuzzling into your hair. “I love you so much more than any of them ever could. I think about you all day, every second. I can't help it.”

His hand slipped down lower, inching between your thighs as he whispered, “Let me show you. Just a little, yeah? I’ll be good. I’ll be gentle. You won’t even have to move.”

And he was true to his word… at first.

You didn’t know how long it took, only that his voice was constant in your ear—syrupy sweet, filth laced into every praise and plea.

“God, you’re so perfect like this. Warm, soft—mine. Always so wet for me, huh? Even when you’re tired… your body still knows who it belongs to.”

He moved inside you slowly, carefully, barely shifting your legs apart more than necessary. Your head rested on the pillow, breath catching as his hips rocked lazily, as if savoring every second he got to be wrapped around you like this. One hand held your thigh in place while the other stroked your clit, gentle circles in sync with his thrusts.

“I bet Nanamin can’t make you feel like this. And Toji? He’s all grunts and rough fingers.” He chuckled breathily, kissing your temple. “But me? I worship you. Like you deserve. You feel so good, bunny—fuck—you always do.”

You couldn’t speak—only whimper, moan into the sheets, too exhausted to meet him but too full of him to say no.

When you finally came, shaking under his weight, he moaned softly against your neck and came right after, murmuring, “That’s my good girl… perfect little thing… my everything.”

He kissed your face, everywhere he could reach, and you thought maybe—just maybe—that would be enough for him tonight.

But Gojo wasn’t done.

You’d barely started drifting off again, barely had the chance to calm your breathing, when he turned you to face him, pulling you into his chest.

“I can’t sleep,” he said, eyes shining in the dim light from the hallway, bottom lip pushed out in a slight pout. “Still hard. Can’t stop thinking about you. Bunny…”

“Satoru…” you started, voice strained.

“You wouldn’t say no to me, right?” he murmured, sliding your leg over his waist, already lining himself up again. “You love me, right? I’m gentle… I’ll go slow. I just need you a little more.”

The second time wasn’t as slow.

Gojo was needy, feverish—kissing you deeper, whispering dirtier. “You’re mine. All mine. Fuck—you take me so good every time, like you were made for this.”

He took you with your legs wrapped around him, your fingers clutching at his back while he buried himself deeper with each thrust. His voice never stopped. He told you how much he needed you, how he couldn’t go a night without being inside you, how good you looked when you came just for him. He stroked your face as you whined and clenched around him again.

When he came again, his lips were right by your ear, whispering, “Love you… love you, love you, love you, love you so much… more than anyone ever will.”

You were barely catching your breath when he shifted again, pressing kisses down your neck and between your breasts.

He stays like that for sometime. Then he spoke up after a few minutes.

“One more, baby. Just one more, yeah? Third time’s the charm…”

“No,” you whispered, and it was the first time you had ever told him that.

Gojo paused. “What?”

“I-I’m tired,” you said, chest trembling, lips dry. “I… I love you, Satoru. I do. But it’s getting too much. I can’t keep up. If you really love me, just… please. Please give me a break. Just a little.”

His face changed—laughter fading, a flicker of guilt overtaking his usual smug confidence. “You’re serious?”

You nodded, scared you’d see disappointment or rejection in his eyes.

Instead, Gojo leaned in, kissed your forehead, and gently pulled the blanket over you. He tucked you in, stroking your cheek for a long, quiet moment.

“Okay,” he said softly. “I’m sorry, really sorry. . . didn't mean to. . .Oh god. . .I'm so sorry, bunny.”

He laid down beside you for a minute longer, arms curled around your waist, face buried in your hair.

“I didn’t mean to make you feel like this. I just love you so much it gets all tangled up sometimes. But I’ll be better. I promise.”

And for the first time in days, you were able to really sleep.

You’d barely gotten a full night’s rest. The house was still quiet, the sun not even strong enough to fully light the room, and your body still sore in all the places Gojo had kissed, touched, stretched the night before. Every muscle begged for sleep, but then—

Soft, slow pressure on your thighs.

A hand.

Your breath hitched before your eyes even opened.

“Good morning, bunny,” came that too-sweet whisper, the kind that always slid right down your spine. “Don’t open your eyes. I’ll be gentle. Promise.”

You groaned, not ready for this. Not again. Not this soon.

“Gojo…” you murmured, still half-asleep.

He was already under the covers, pushing your legs apart, mouthing soft kisses up your thigh. “Shh. They won’t know. It’s just a little good morning treat. I missed you. I dreamt about you.”

His voice had that lilt—innocent, breathy, boyish—and his fingers were already dragging your panties down with practiced ease. You barely even reacted, too tired to fight him when he nuzzled between your thighs like he belonged there.

“You’re so warm,” he whispered, already pressing soft, suckling kisses to your folds. “Like heaven… always so soft for me.”

You gasped when his tongue slid between your lips—slow and deep, his fingers slipping under your thighs to hold you steady. He was gentle, maddeningly so. Worshipful. The kind of slow, teasing pace that left your brain foggy and your body twitching.

“I haven’t even had breakfast yet,” he mumbled with his mouth full, groaning as he dipped his tongue into your still-quivering entrance. “Gotta get my calories in.”

You shivered violently. “Gojo, please…”

But he just moaned louder. “Fuck, baby, you taste better than anything I could ever cook.”

When he finally slid up your body, your panties long discarded, he was already leaking against your thigh—his cock twitching, painfully hard.

“Let me in, just once,” he begged, rubbing himself against your entrance. “You’re so wet already. It won’t even hurt. Would just slide right in.”

“You said—last night—” you gasped, hands on his chest.

He kissed your lips, then your cheek, then your neck. “I know, I know, baby, I said I’d behave. But I’m in love. And horny. And this pussy’s addictive.”

He said, groaning, his forehead dropping to yours, pressing little pecks all over your face.

You whimpered.

“Gojo… I’m tired. Please just listen to me.”

You whispered it so gently—barely louder than the rustling of sheets—but it was enough to make him freeze. His hands stilled on your hips, his lips hovering over your chest. His breath was uneven, like it physically pained him to stop. He blinked down at you, face still flushed, lips parted as if trying to argue.

And then—

Click.

The bedroom door creaked open.

“Satoru.” Geto’s voice was sharp, low, unmistakably pissed. His silhouette stood in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. “Hall. Now.”

Gojo’s whole body tensed like a scolded schoolboy caught cheating on a test. His mouth opened, closed, then muttered under his breath, “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me…”

He climbed off you slowly, like every movement physically hurt. He didn’t even bother looking at Geto as he yanked on his pants, still hard, shirtless, hair a sweaty mess. The sheet slipped from your legs as you quickly pulled it up over yourself, heart hammering.

Geto didn’t say another word. Just turned and left the door open for Gojo to follow.

Gojo muttered, “Drama queen,” as he walked behind him, bare feet slapping against the floor.

But the moment he turned the corner into the living room—

Toji was already there. Sitting back in the armchair like a storm cloud in human form, arms spread wide, jaw clenched. Nanami stood off to the side, arms crossed, suit pants still perfectly pressed even in the middle of the night. His expression unreadable. Cold.

“Oh wow,” Gojo drawled, pausing in the doorway. “All this for little ol’ me?”

“Sit,” Nanami said curtly.

“I just sat—technically I was lying down,” Gojo mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck.

Toji stood. “Satoru.”

Gojo rolled his eyes and plopped himself onto the couch, still shirtless, looking very much like a child being scolded by divorced parents.

Geto stayed by the doorway, staring daggers at him.

“So,” Gojo said with an exaggerated stretch, “What’s this about? Me loving our precious bunny too much? Is that a crime now?”

Toji’s jaw ticked.

Nanami spoke first. “We had an agreement. We all share her. But we also respect her. And the pace of her life.”

“You mean you’re jealous,” Gojo snapped. “All of you. Admit it.”

Geto scoffed. “Satoru.”

“No, no, don’t Satoru me. I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking. You’re all mad because she wants me more.”

Toji moved. Fast.

He crossed the room in a blink and grabbed Gojo by the collar, yanking him halfway up off the couch.

“Try me,” Toji snarled, nose to nose with him. “Say that shit again.”

“Toji,” Nanami warned.

Geto stepped in. “Toji. Not like this.”

Gojo, surprisingly, didn’t look afraid. His smile didn’t even falter. “Aw, did I hit a nerve?”

Toji shoved him back onto the couch, hard enough to make the cushions puff. “I’ll knock your teeth out if I see you hurting her again.”

“Hurting?” Gojo spat, laughing breathlessly. “She loves it. She begs for it—”

“She asked you to stop.” Nanami’s voice was low. Dangerous.

“Once!” Gojo barked. “Once! And I did! She said it sweet, like she didn’t even mean it—”

“You didn’t even let her rest,” Geto snapped. “You had her moaning last night, again this morning, and just now. She looked pale. She’s shaking, Satoru. You think that’s love?”

“She’s just a little tired—” Gojo tried.

“You’ve been treating her like your own property for a while now,” Nanami said coldly.

Toji growled, “She isn’t.”

Gojo threw up his arms. “Then why the hell is everyone only mad at me? Everyone’s used the free use card! Everyone’s taken her on a kitchen counter, or a couch, or in the shower! So why am I the bad guy now?”

“Because you don’t stop,” Geto said, voice suddenly quiet.

Gojo looked at him. For a second, something like real hurt flickered in his eyes.

“I love her,” Gojo said.

“That’s not the problem,” Nanami replied. “The problem is you don’t love her well.”

Gojo opened his mouth to argue—but Toji cut him off.

“You want examples?” Toji growled. “Fine. Last week, you pulled her under the table while we were eating dinner.”

“She said she didn’t mind!”

“You had your dick out while I was talking about rent.”

Gojo shrugged. “Not my fault your financial plans are boring.”

“Yesterday,” Nanami interrupted, “you fingered her in the elevator.”

Gojo crossed his arms. “That’s private space.”

“There was a security camera.”

“Oops.”

“Two days ago,” Geto added, “you told her to come lie face-down on the couch for a massage—and then you used her thighs to jerk off.”

Gojo blinked. “That was kind of romantic.”

“Romantic? You came on her back, Gojo.”

He opened his mouth. Then closed it. “...Okay, that one might’ve been a little excessive.”

“And just this morning,” Nanami continued, “you said ‘I’ll be quick’ and proceeded to eat her out while she was asleep.”

Gojo’s grin flickered. “She woke up. Eventually.”

Toji cracked his knuckles. “Keep talking. I’m begging you.”

“Okay, okay, okay!” Gojo finally said, holding up both hands. “I get it. I’m being a bit much.”

“No. You’re being a goddamn menace,” Geto hissed. “You’re tiring her out. She doesn’t even have the energy to say no anymore.”

Gojo’s hands dropped into his lap. For a long moment, he didn’t speak.

“She doesn’t hate it,” he mumbled.

“She loves you, idiot,” Nanami said. “That’s not the same thing.”

Gojo went quiet.

He sank into the couch like a kicked dog, bottom lip jutting slightly. “I just… I missed her. Every time she’s not with me, I feel like I’m gonna burst. I’m always thinking about her. Touching her, fucking her, kissing her—it’s the only thing that makes my head stop spinning.”

There was silence.

Geto exhaled. Toji looked away. Nanami finally dropped his arms.

But nobody spoke.

Gojo swallowed. “She doesn’t want me anymore?”

“She told you she loves you,” Nanami said softly. “And she asked you for space. That’s not rejection. That’s trust.”

Gojo looked down at his lap.

Gojo sat back, arms folded, pout deepening like a punished brat trying to act mature.

“Fiiiine,” he sighed dramatically, tossing his head back. “I’ll behave. For real. Happy now?”

Nanami didn’t look impressed. “Not until we test that claim.”

Toji adjusted his hair. “Let’s say... she’s doing laundry. Alone. Bending over to pick up socks.”

Gojo's mouth twitched. “I'd walk over, lift that little shirt, spread her legs, and—”

Toji growled. “Gojo!”

“What?!” Gojo flailed. “You asked!”

“Answer. Again,” Toji snapped. “With restraint.”

Gojo rolled his eyes like it physically hurt to behave. “Ughh—fine. I’d walk over. Kiss her cheek. Go to my room. Jerk off in silence. Think about her socks.”

Toji: “You’re learning.”

Geto stepped in, voice calm but sharp. “Okay, new scenario. She’s asleep on the couch, in just a shirt. Legs bare.”

Gojo groaned, rubbing his face. “Ughhh, I’d—tuck her in. Maybe. Touch myself behind the couch real quick, but that’s not touching her, so it doesn't counts.”

Nanami: “It does.”

Gojo: “Fine. I’d go lie down. Stare at the ceiling. Cry.”

Toji: “Better.”

Geto crossed his arms, expression unreadable. “Let’s say she accidentally brushes up against you in the kitchen. Real close. You see her nipples through her tank top.”

Gojo blinked. “That’s entrapment.”

“Answer.”

Gojo groaned. “I’d—say good morning, clench my jaw, smile like I’m normal, and then go rub one out in the pantry next to the cereal boxes.”

Geto: “Jesus Christ.”

Toji: “At least he’s not jumping her.”

Nanami: “Barely.”

Geto sighed, rubbing his temple. “Okay. Last one. She’s just out of the shower. Wrapped in a towel. Hair wet. Looks at you and says ‘hi’ with that cute sleepy voice.”

Gojo visibly clenched his fists. “...I’d bite my tongue. Say ‘hi’ back. Slam my bedroom door shut. Whisper ‘fuck’ twenty times. Then jerk off angrily with tears in my eyes.”

The room was quiet for a beat.

Toji smirked. “You’re evolving.��

Gojo threw his hands in the air. “Are we done slaughtering me now, or do you wanna do a group therapy circle jerk too? Can I go to work before I snap and fuck her plushie?”

Nanami calmly replied, “You say that like you haven’t already.”

Gojo blinked. “That was one time.”

Toji : "Are you insane, bastard?"

"It smelled like her !!" Gojo defended.

Toji exhaled through his nose and stepped aside. “Go shower. You're late.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Gojo muttered as he stormed off.

Geto snorted. Nanami shook his head. And just like that, the meeting of the Horny Crimes Tribunal adjourned—again.

Work was a blur for Gojo Satoru.

Numbers? Deadlines? Meetings?

All garbage. All background noise.

His brain was full of you.

You in that little shirt folding laundry.

You moaning his name last night.

You stuttering while asking him to slow down.

Your sleepy pout. The crease of your thighs. The soft skin under your collarbone he couldn’t stop thinking about.

You telling him you’re tired, and it actually hurting.

Gojo leaned forward at his desk, long fingers pushing through damp white strands, groaning into his hands. “Ughhhhh—why is she so cute, why is she so soft—fuck, I should’ve pulled out more. No. Wait. Never mind.”

He tried jerking off again in the damn bathroom stall after lunch—quietly, of course—but it didn’t help. The guilt stayed. The ache stayed. Your sleepy face and the nervous way you said “please I'm tired” stayed.

He was in love. Like stupidly in love.

By the time work ended, he’d left late after zoning out half the day thinking about you in every imaginable pose.

The apartment door creaked open. Gojo stumbled in, completely soaked. His long coat dripped a puddle at the door. His hair was plastered to his forehead. Arms full of bags.

Everyone else was already home.

You were curled up on the couch in an oversized tshirt and shorts, hair damp from a shower. You looked up when the door opened—and your face softened the second you saw him.

Gojo kicked off his shoes, dropped the umbrella, and made a beeline for you.

Still wet, he plopped beside you, nuzzling into your shoulder, nose cold, lips damp from the rain.

“Missed you,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “So, so much.”

You blinked at the bags. He looked sheepish and started pulling things out.

Your favorite ice cream—the exact flavor. Your favourite fried chicken from that shop across town. Your favorite chips, the spicy-sour ones. A pack of gummy bears. Then came small trinkets—two pastel scrunchies, a thin silver chain with a heart pendant, a dainty pinky ring. And then—a cute pink tank top with bunnies on it, your size.

And finally, a tiny bouquet of red roses. Fresh and dewy.

You stared, eyes wide. Gojo placed the flowers on your lap.

Then slowly—he slid down onto his knees in front of you, between your legs, damp jeans creaking. He lifted your thigh and pressed a slow, reverent kiss right above your knee.

His voice lowered, gentle and sincere.

“Hey... I know I’ve been kinda insane,” he began, resting his head against your leg. “Okay—not kinda. Like. Really.”

You giggled softly, but he looked up, expression unusually serious—clear blue eyes glimmering beneath wet lashes.

“I just… I love you so much. I really do. And when you’re near me it’s like my brain turns to soup, and all I wanna do is feel you. Be close to you. Touch you. Even when I hold back, I don’t want to. Not ‘cause I don’t respect you—I do—I swear I do—but it’s like my heart and my cock are in a tag team match and I’m losing.”

You blinked.

He took your hands in his, still kneeling. “But I don’t wanna hurt you. Or make you tired. I hate that I made you nervous to say no. That’s not love, that’s just me being a selfish dick. So... I’ll behave. For real. I’ll stop pushing. I’ll listen. I’ll pull back. I swear. No more making you do it three times a day like I’m a needy virgin. You’re my baby.”

Your cheeks flushed hard.

He kissed your thigh again. “I’ll be better. I’m gonna be better. Promise.”

You smiled and nodded, eyes softening. You threaded your fingers into his damp hair and tugged gently. “Okay.”

Just then—

Toji’s voice cut in. “Nice speech, loverboy. But it’s not enough just to buy her shit.”

Gojo let out an annoyed groan. “What now, old man?”

Nanami stepped into view, adjusting his shirt like a judge at the end of a court case. “You’re banned from touching her for a whole week.”

Gojo dramatically fell back against the floor like he’d been shot. “WHAT?!”

“You heard him,” Toji said flatly.

“A whole week?! Are you trying to kill me?! I’ll shrivel up and die—”

“You’ll live,” Nanami said.

Gojo sat up, flailing. “But why?! You saw me kneel! I bought flowers! I made a monologue!”

“You made her exhausted. One week. No touching. Not even a thigh graze,” Toji said, crossing his arms.

Gojo narrowed his eyes. “So what, are we all celibate now? Huh? Or just me?!”

Toji: “Just you.”

“Unfair,” Gojo muttered.

Geto stifled a chuckle from the doorway. “Live with it.”

Gojo turned to you with a tragic expression. “Baby. Angel. Love of my life. Tell them to stop bullying me. Please.”

You covered your mouth to hide your laugh.

Gojo sniffled dramatically. “I won’t even touch your ankle. Just let me kiss you. Just once. Just one soft kiss. Nothing else. Swear. I’ll explode otherwise.”

Toji: “No.”

Gojo snapped. “Who are you, her guardian? I’m asking her!”

He turned to you again, all big eyes and soft lips. “Bunny... can I kiss you? Just kiss. Nothing else. Not even a boob graze. Please?”

Your face flushed hot. His voice was so sweet and desperate, you couldn’t resist.

You nodded shyly.

Gojo beamed like he’d just won an Olympic gold medal, cupped your face gently, and pressed the softest, sweetest kiss to your lips—long and warm, like a promise.

Then he pulled back, whispered, “I’ll wait. Even if it kills me.”

Toji rolled his eyes. Nanami sighed. Geto smiled.

The war was temporarily over.

For now.

to be continued in the next chapter. . . .

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[rafesbimbo]

Can you write reader Riding gynecologist!rafe pls🙏🙏

warnings: dubcon elements, medical kink, size kink, creampie, light breeding talk, power imbalance, riding, dirty talk, unprotected sex, pet names, degradation/praise mix

pairing: gynecologist!rafe x reader

your thighs were still trembling when rafe helped you sit back on the edge of the exam table, gloved fingers slick and glistening as he peeled them off slow.

"mm," he hummed, lazily licking his lips like he was savoring you. "that wasn’t so hard, was it, sweetheart?"

you blinked up at him, skin warm and flushed under the too-bright fluorescent lights. you were supposed to be here for a routine check-up. supposed to.

but the way he’d knelt between your legs, methodical and calm, sliding two thick fingers into you under the pretense of checking your "pelvic floor strength"—yeah. you knew better. you should’ve said something when he curled them just right, when he muttered something low about how wet and receptive you were, but your brain had gone fuzzy, thick with arousal and disbelief.

“dr. cameron,” you whispered now, voice wobbly, shy, as he stepped in closer. “i think— i need more. still.”

he gave a low chuckle, dark and amused, and tilted your chin up. “you think so, huh? after you came all over my fingers like a desperate little dog?”

your cheeks burned.

“how about we really test how ready you are, then?” he murmured, undoing his belt with one hand. “climb up.”

you blinked. “wha—?”

he was already sitting down in the chair he'd wheeled over, cock half-hard and heavy between his legs, glistening with pre-cum.

“you said you needed more,” he reminded you, voice soft, condescending. “so come get it, sweetheart.”

you hesitated for a second, heart racing in your chest, then stood on shaky legs and straddled him, knees on either side of the leather seat.

rafe didn’t help you lower down—no, he just sat there, smug, letting you feel his thickness pressing against your folds until you were squirming and whining, grabbing at his broad shoulders.

"look at you," he said, voice thick with mock-affection. "just a cute little thing, all needy for your doctor’s cock.”

you whimpered as you sank down inch by inch, your cunt stretching and fluttering around him.

“too big?” he asked, grinning. “nah. you’ll take it. you’ve got the perfect pussy for it—tight little hole made for being bred.”

“fuck—” your hands scrambled against his chest as you tried to move, to ride him proper, but it was so much, too much.

“slow, baby,” he said, gripping your hips tight.

“don’t rush. wanna feel every fucking second of you takin’ me.”

you obeyed, bouncing shallowly at first, your slick dripping down onto his lap, making obscene little noises each time you dropped lower. rafe groaned, letting his head fall back.

“jesus,” he muttered, voice low and ragged. “knew you’d ride me like this. so goddamn greedy. bet you’ve been thinkin’ about this since your last appointment, huh?”

you couldn’t speak—you just nodded, whining, your thighs starting to shake from effort.

he sat up then, strong arms wrapping around your waist, guiding you into a faster rhythm. “good girl. keep goin’, ride your doctor just like that. fuck—gonna make me fill you up.”

your walls clenched.

"you want that, huh?" rafe growled in your ear.

"want me to come inside this pretty little cunt, mark you up real good?"

“yes,” you gasped, nails digging into his shoulders. “yes, rafe, please—please, please—”

he laughed breathlessly, fucking up into you now, hard and deep. “that’s it. beg for it. beg for your fucking check-up to end with a creampie.”

you cried out as you came, shuddering hard in his lap, and rafe followed with a low groan, holding you down on his cock as he spilled inside you.

when it was over, when you were a sweaty, trembling mess in his arms, he leaned in close and pressed a kiss to your jaw.

“we’ll call this part of your regular care,” he whispered, cock still buried deep. "see you next week, angel."

[torussoulmate]

                                        ೯⠀⁺ Mr. Perfectly Fine ᰋ

glimpse !     celebrity gojo x afab, "ordinary" reader ⟢ modern au ⟢ oneshot

warnings !     contains angst, depression, eating disorder, self-harm, and insomnia. proceed with caution, MDNI.

notes !     word count is 2.6k. i recommend listening to Mr. Perfectly Fine by Taylor Swift throughout reading the whole thing! enjoy <3

Mr. "Perfect Face" That is who your boyfriend, Gojo Satoru, is. The embodiment of perfection. Snow-white hair that shimmered under any light, sapphire eyes that gleamed like they held constellations, a nose carved by a sculptor, lips tainted baby pink and always glossy. His body: tall, lean, but muscular in a way that made even his co-models self-conscious. God, he is perfect. Too perfect.

Mr. "Here to stay" That is what he said when he asked you to be his. You, a nobody, an ordinary woman with no fame, no pedigree, were chosen by him. The golden boy of the acting and modelling world. He found you. He wanted you. He stayed with you.

Mr. "Looked me in the eye and told me you would never go away" It was not like you had history with him. You were just another fan at a crowded meet-and-greet, one face among thousands. But somehow, you caught his attention. He looked in your eyes like he already knew you. When it was your turn, he signed your postcard, writing his number and a note, 'Meet me backstage, beautiful,' along with his signature. He smiled at you like you were his secret from the start, leaving you feeling not just starstruck but chosen when you left the venue.

Everything was right, Mr. "I've been waitin' for you all my life" It started with late-night texts. Then phone calls. Then stolen moments in trailers, quiet cafés, private rooftops. He snuck away from filming his scenes and photoshoots just to see you. Then, he eventually kissed you, softly and reverently. Suddenly, you were his. His secret. His non-celebrity girlfriend the world was desperate to identify.

Mr. "Every single day until the end, I will be by your side" He said that night he proposed. You wore no makeup, had not even washed your hair, but he knelt in his penthouse (you moved into) and offered you the world. A diamond and a promise. You became his hidden fiancée, and people even went out of their way to try and identify you when the news came out.

But that was when I got to know Mr. "Change of heart" You felt the shift long before he said anything. The good morning texts stopped. The kisses faded. He always looked tired or distracted, or somewhere else entirely. Your wedding plans sat untouched. The 'I love you's' stopped, and when you would say it, he only smiled.

Mr. "Leaves me all alone," I fall apart It was a Friday night, two months before the wedding. He comes home, eyes dull, voice distant. He took back the ring. Told you it wasn't working, told you he could not see you fitting into his world. The weight of hiding you became too much. Every time he had to film a kiss scene or hold a co-model's ass, he felt smothered by your presence even in its absence. You begged him to stay, swore you would never complain again, and promised you would adapt. He said he did not want you to, and that he truly fell out of love. You fell apart.

It takes everything in me just to get up each day Sleep became impossible. Food nauseated you. The shower felt like punishment. You took a leave from work, lay in bed for days, even weeks. Socialising with anyone felt like a drag. You went back to your apartment, now that he had kicked you out of his penthouse, and it smelled like silence and rot.

But it's wonderful to see you're okay He was not crumbling. He smiled in interviews. Starred in movies. Posed on the cover of magazines. On your late-night walks, so you may rot somewhere else, you would walk by billboards of his face that is perfect and untouched, and you would have to sit down somewhere because your lungs refused to keep working.

Hello, Mr. "Perfectly fine" He chuckled in interviews when they asked about the breakup. "I've moved on," he said, like your love was a temporary scratch on his polished life.

How's your heart after breakin' mine? You wanted to scream. While he was out there picking co-stars to star with for his next movie, attires for his next photoshoot, you were picking up the pieces of a future that would never exist.

Mr. "Always at the right place at the right time," baby The universe mocked you by placing him in your path again. The coffee shop where you had your first date. You did not recognise him at first as he wore those dark, circular glasses he always wore, a mask, and a cap to hide his striking snow-hair. But his voice when he said your name was unmistakable.

Hello, Mr. "Casually cruel" You tried to ignore him and leave, but he gently caught your wrist. His voice was soft, concerned, "Have you been eating?" he asked like he had not wrecked you, "Have you been taking care of yourself?" Like he had not built and burned you in the same breath.

Mr. "Everything revolves around you" You pulled away, cold and changed. "That's none of your business," you said harsher than intended, and it struck him. You were not soft anymore, at least, not for him. You walked out before he could see the tears.

I've been Miss Misery since your goodbye You were. Everything you were disappeared the day he let you go. You did not know how to live without him.

And you're Mr. "Perfectly fine" He kept rising. Higher. Happier. Untouched.

Mr. "Never told me why," Except he did, and you wished he had not. Would that have hurt less?

Mr. "Never had to see me cry" He never saw the nights you screamed into your pillow with tears. The mornings you could not rise. The cuts you hid. The food you forced down and ended up vomiting.

Mr. "Insincere apology, so he doesn't look like the bad guy" Two weeks after that encounter at the coffee shop, he texted you from a new number since you blocked the one you remember. He sent a "I'm sorry if you're not taking yourself or eating properly because of me. Please change that," then he sent money and food. You sent it back without a word.

He goes about his day, forgets he ever even heard my name He did not text anymore after that. He went back to what was mundane for him. Acting, photoshoots, interviews, and get-togethers for celebrities. You became a ghost in his world, but he haunted every inch of yours.

Well, I thought you might be different than the rest, I guess you're all the same You believed he would be different. The way he talked to you, kissed you, spent time with you, and made love to you. It was all so different until it wasn't. Until he was just another heartbreak wrapped around a pretty face and a good start.

Because I hear he's got his arm 'round a brand new girl The co-star. The one everyone had shipped him with. Dating rumours about them spread quickly, and neither of them denied it. Just six months later, and their chemistry is undeniable. The timing? Unbearable.

I've been pickin' up my heart, he's been pickin' up her She was the girl you wished to be, the girl you wish he had dated and proposed to instead. She fit the mould, you did not, and people celebrated their pairing like you never existed.

And I never got past what you put me through Bad turned into worse, worse turned into the worst since those dating rumours spread. You lost your job because you either were not performing well or showing up. Food nauseated you always, so you developed an eating disorder. Sleep was so impossible that insomnia grew in you. Showering once every week became a miracle. You kept yourself behind your apartment's door so much that you lost your friends. The way you cut yourself had more fervour. You did not want to exist anymore.

But it's wonderful to see that it never phased you He lived,

Hello, Mr. "Perfectly fine" while you bled.

How's your heart after breakin' mine? In tack. Yours? In ashes.

Mr. "Always at the right place at the right time," baby A year and a few months later, you ran into him again. The same café. The same place of tragedy.

Hello, Mr. "Casually cruel" This time, he did not allow you to ignore, leave, or push him away, not when you looked worse than the last time he saw you. He dragged you to his car with his unyielding grip on his wrist and noticed the way you winced at it. Eventually, he saw the scars you have done on yourself, previously hidden underneath the sleeves of your hoodie. He paused, devastated.

Mr. "Everything revolves around you" You snap. "Everything must always go your way, doesn't it?" you cry and yell at him, "Can you not read the room? I don't want to see you, talk to you, or any of that shit!"

I've been Miss Misery since your goodbye Your anger dies down, but your sobs grow, "You're killing me here."

And you're Mr. "Perfectly fine" "While you're living life, it's unfair." He stayed silent, but you saw guilt carve into his flawless face.

So dignified in your well-pressed suit "I can't even get myself to shower every day, but you, you're always dressed up for something."

So strategised, all the eyes on you "I don't even talk to anyone anymore, but you, you're out there, so out there."

Sashay your way to your seat "I can't even get up and eat something."

It's the best seat in the best room "I lost my job, I'm running out of money..."

Oh, he's so smug, Mr. "Always wins" "...but you, I'm sure you just keep getting richer every day."

So far above me in every sense "How do you do it, Satoru? How are you so happy? So alive?"

So far above feelin' anything "All while I'm in an endless loop of dying and crying."

And it's really such a shame "Shame on me, that I can't forget us. While you? It's like we never existed, like I never existed to you."

It's such a shame "Shame on me for loving someone who never looked back."

'Cause I was Miss "Here to stay" You were gonna continue talking—sobbing your words out—but he finally spoke.

"That's not true. Fuck, that's not true," he says your name, his voice so tender it made your sobs pause.

"I loved you, so, so much. I loved us, so, so much. I wanted to marry you, so, so badly."

"Why didn't you?" you sniff, heartbroken all over again with his words.

"Let me finish," he says as he struggles to keep his tears in check, like this is the first time he has ever let his feelings register since he left you.

"I cried too. I lost my appetite too, maybe not as bad as yours, but I did. I struggled to wake up and keep going with my job every day, to keep plastering that fake smile everywhere—that fake joy. Every time I touched Suzu," Suzu is the co-star he has dating rumours with, "or another co-star, I felt like I was cheating on you."

"I want you back, us back, so badly," your breath hitched at his words, and for a moment, you stopped crying.

"But how can I go back to us when I truly don't feel our spark anymore? How can I go back to you when I can't feel that burning love for you anymore? When I can't see a future with you anymore," you begin to sob again, and he adds the cherry on top," Sure, I am a mess without you—I'm barely making it out alive with this stupid facade—but that doesn't mean I can not be a mess with you."

"You could have tried fixing that with me before you left, you know. You could have told me, communicated—" violent sobs took over you, so violent that he had to embrace you.

His embrace felt like home, but that home did not welcome you any longer. He says your name like it is glass, "I know. I'm sorry. I truly am."

Now I'm Miss "Gonna be alright someday" Months passed. That conversation left both of you on a thread, on a cliff. As if neither of you deserved closure from each other.

But healing started. Living without him for the first time started. Slowly. You fell asleep, even if it's fleeting. Food barely nauseated you, and you ate at least one meal a day. You showered two to three times a week instead of once. You applied for jobs. You started talking to people again. You thought about your cutter but avoided it.

And someday, maybe you'll miss me Six months later, you were sleeping and eating well. You showered every day and got a job. You regained your old friends and gained new ones. You threw your cutter away.

And Satoru? He seemed okay, at least on the outside. But he had been replaying every word he said, reflecting on whether they were actually true. Then, it started to feel untrue. Like his feelings all along were a scam.

But by then, you'll be Mr. "Too late" Three years later and you have managed to heal almost completely. You've managed to open your heart to a new guy.

And Satoru? He texted for the first time since that conversation, saying he wanted coffee at that coffee shop. You were strong enough—healed enough—to say yes.

He thought you were single; technically, you are since you were not officially dating the guy, so you did not correct him.

Goodbye, Mr. "Perfectly fine" So, another year later, he was devastated when he found out you were taken. Devastated that he thought by taking it slow, he was repairing everything, healing the two of you, so that in time, you two would be in a relationship again.

How's your heart after breakin' mine? His heart broke like never before when he reached out to you again, discovering you are engaged, another year later. He hoped by this time, you would have broken up with your partner, that it was his time to take you back, his time to make you his again, his time to make everything right. Was he too late?

Mr. "Always at the right place at the right time," baby Just two months before your wedding, you saw him again, at the same coffee shop. It broke him further to know that your fiancé did not cancel your wedding at this point, like he did. Still, he wanted to see you in that wedding dress, see what could have been his, see you for the last time. So, he asked to be invited to your wedding. Shocked you are, you said yes. He is, in fact, too late.

Goodbye, Mr. "Casually cruel" It was so cruel, seeing you walk down the aisle when he is not the man at the altar.

Mr. Everything revolves around you So cruel when his everything said her vows to her everything, and it was not him.

I've been Miss Misery for the last time So cruel that the tables have turned, that he is Mr. Misery and you are Ms. Perfectly fine.

And you're Mr. "Perfectly fine" You are so perfect, so fine—beautiful—even if you kissed your husband, that is not him.

You're perfectly fine You are, indeed, and he is not. Not when he left after that gut-wrenching kiss. He did not even say goodbye when he intended to because it hurt that much.

Mr. "Looked me in the eye and told me you would never go away" He should have looked you in the eye the night he left you and never gone away, no matter the mess he was. He only realised it now: that if he never left, he would fall in love with you again, feel that spark with you again, want to marry you again.

You said you'd never go away And you never did, at least not in his head and heart. But he let you go, and that is a heartbreak he will carry until his grave.

i know i'm supposed to be working on Stillness to Ripples' chapter one but i got distracted..... reblogs, likes, and comments appreciated <3

lazy write, so if there are any mistakes i apologise, but do not repost, reupload, translate, use for AI (ex, character.ai), or plagiarise in any other way.

                              ೯⠀⁺ © torussoulmate on tumblr ᰋ

[dismalflo]

summer is for lovers

Remus Lupin x fem!reader ✩ 10k words

summary: on your hunt for a new flatmate you come across Remus. Lovely, handsome Remus. Over the summer months you slowly grow closer to each other.

cw; vague smut (not detailed) but still 18+, strangers to friends to lovers, fluff, tiny bit of angst, miscommunication, both reader and remus are a little emotionally constipated.

✩ May ✩

The harsh glow of your laptop screen, paired with the dwindling list of options, is giving you a headache. The pain pulses behind tired eyes, you’re exhausted. Landlords are pricks. The notice came a few weeks ago: your tiny flat, with its damp-stained walls (despite your investment in a fancy dehumidifier), a temperamental oven, and heating that barely registers in winter, is about to cost far more than you can afford. It’s barely worth what you pay now.

It turns out that most places in your price range are even worse than this, you must've seen upwards of twenty flats. So you’ve resigned yourself to looking for someone, anyone in need of a flatmate. Something entirely out of your comfort zone. A quiet, lonely girl by nature the idea of living with a stranger is alien and uncomfortable. But what other choices do you have?

There's a listing that seems like a good fit. Close to your work in a nice area, walking distance from a Tesco and it’s seemingly a good size. The only thing that puts you off is the fact it's a man, similar in age to you, advertising for a flatmate.

You don’t love the idea. But you’re running out of time. So you grab your phone and hover over the keypad, your mind racing while your fingers tremble as they type in the number.

Each ring after you press call makes your skin crawl with second thoughts. Still, you don’t hang up. And just when you’re about to, he answers. His voice makes you jump.

“Hello?” It’s low and calm.

“Hi,” you manage, your voice thinner than you’d like. At least he sounds nice, you think. “I, um… I saw your ad for a flatmate and I was wondering if you're still looking?”

“Yes–yeah,” he replies, sounding almost relieved. “You’re welcome to come by, have a look around? See how it feels?”

“That would be great, actually,” you say, breathing out slowly. “Would this afternoon work? Or whenever suits you.”

“This afternoon is perfect.”

You confirm the address and end the call, only then realising that you don’t know his name and he doesn’t know yours. Still, something about the tone of his voice settles the panic in your chest. It’s probably foolish, but for now, it’s enough.

-

The tube ride over is a blur. You're tucked into a corner seat, fingers clenched tight around the handle of your bag, knees bouncing in spite of your best efforts to seem composed. The whole journey, you’re rehearsing what you might say. Hi, I’m here about the flat. Too stiff. Nice to meet you, thanks for having me. Weirdly formal. Please let me live here, I’m very quiet and I won’t use your milk. Pathetic.

The closer you get, the more you regret not backing out. Your stomach’s knotted, heart thudding. It doesn’t help that the sky’s overcast, a flat grey pressing down like it might rain at any moment. You find the building easily – it’s a narrow brick townhouse with peeling paint around the windows but an otherwise respectable facade. Not too posh, not too grotty.

You buzz the number he gave you. A beat, and then the door unlocks with a clunk.

You’re greeted at the top of a narrow stairwell. The man from the listing is already waiting at the threshold of the flat, leaning lightly on the doorframe.

You freeze.

He’s beautiful.

Not in a clean, shiny way like the men in ads. No, he’s something quieter, warm brown eyes, framed by tired lashes and shadows that suggest long nights. His jumper hangs loose on a tall frame, sleeves pushed up to his forearms. There’s a scar that cuts across the bridge of his nose – thin, pale, old – but it fits his face. You’re staring.

He shifts, and you realise you're just standing there like a lemon.

“Hi,” you manage. “I’m Y/N, by the way.”

He smiles. “I’m Remus.”

You nod like that’s normal, like his voice isn’t curling around you in a way that makes your breath catch. Remus. You tuck the name away for safekeeping.

He steps aside to let you in. “Come on, I’ll show you around. It’s not Buckingham Palace or anything, but it’s solid.”

The flat is surprisingly nice. Wooden floors, worn but clean, a big window in the living room that lets in more light than you’d expected. There are bookshelves and a threadbare sofa that looks deeply comfortable. The kitchen is small but tidy, and he opens a cupboard to show you what would be “your half”.

“And the bathroom’s through here–no mould, promise,” he says, glancing at you over his shoulder with a grin that’s too charming to be fair. “And I don’t take forever in the mornings.”

You follow, nodding, your voice still lodged somewhere near your collarbone. “You, um... seem very prepared.”

He chuckles, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I try my best.”

You breathe in through your nose, trying to summon enough courage to sound like a normal person. “Well,” you say, your voice higher than usual, “as long as you don’t kill me in my sleep, I think we should be fine.”

The words are barely out before you regret them. Why would you say that? You flush, gaze snapping to the floor. But then—

Remus laughs.

Not just a polite huff, either. A real, warm laugh that starts low in his chest and melts into something softer.

You blink, stunned.

“Fair enough,” he says, still smiling. “I promise not to kill you. I make a mean cup of tea, though. That help balance it out?”

You nod, trying to hide the way your mouth twitches. “Yeah. That might do it.”

-

Living with Remus is fine, better than you expected actually. You’ve found him to be a perfectly amenable flatmate and his claims were true, he doesn't take forever in the mornings and he does make lovely cups of tea. 

Still, you find yourself hiding away in your bedroom most of the time, listening for when he vacates the living room and kitchen before making some quick food to eat and retreating back. He spends a lot of his time sitting at the dining table working on his manuscript and you'd hate to disturb him.

It's no fault of his that you hide away, you dont think you’ve met a nicer, more gentle boy in your life. It’s more like, you're so worried about imposing on his space and routine, being an annoyance that you avoid him.

So, when you hear the sound of his bedroom door shutting you make a break for the kitchen, stomach rumbling.  

You rummage through the fridge, the cold light humming against your skin, illuminating a disappointingly bare shelf. Half a tub of hummus, a sad-looking cucumber, and a block of cheddar that’s luckily mould free. You sigh and close the door with your hip, already drafting a mental shopping list.

Tomorrow, definitely. You’ll go tomorrow.

For now, you settle on a sandwich – cheese and cucumber. The bread’s from the freezer, so you wedge two slices apart and drop them into the toaster, rubbing sleep from your eyes with the back of your hand while you wait. The flat is quiet, save for the low tick of the kitchen clock and the mechanical whirr of the toaster heating up. It’s peaceful like this, when it’s just you and the hum of appliances. You suppose it's always peaceful really though, Remus isn’t very loud.

You’re halfway through slicing the cucumber when you hear it: the soft creak of a door down the hall. Footsteps. Then Remus appears, yawning into the sleeve of his jumper, his hair mussed like he’d been lying down.

“Oh–I’m sorry,” you blurt, stepping back from the counter instinctively, knife still in hand. “I didn’t mean to take over the kitchen.”

He blinks, confused for a half-second before smiling. “You’re fine,” he says gently. “Just need to get in there–” he nods at the cupboard above your head.

You quickly sidestep, hugging the counter as he reaches past you. As he opens the cupboard, his fingers brush your shoulder in passing, a light, friendly touch. You flinch, just barely, but he either doesn’t notice or chooses not to mention it.

From the shelf, he pulls down a small box full of blister packets of painkillers, the label worn from use. He moves to the sink, filling a glass with water as you return to your sandwich-making, quieter now. More self-conscious.

“I, um–didn’t mean to interrupt your rest,” you offer, hoping it doesn’t sound too awkward.

Remus looks over his shoulder at you, then downs the tablets with a quick gulp. “You live here too,” he says easily, setting the glass in the sink. “You don’t have to apologise for being in the kitchen.”

You look at him, a little surprised by the softness in his voice.

“Still,” you murmur, pressing the sandwich together, “you’ve got your routines. I didn’t want to get in the way.”

“You’re not,” he says, and smiles. It's a little crooked, a little tired. “Seriously. Come in here whenever you want. Cook something that stinks. Use the last teabag. The whole kitchen is yours too.”

Your eyes lift to meet his, and there’s something about the way he says it, like he means it, that makes your throat go tight.

“Oh,” you say softly. “Okay.”

Remus excuses himself with a quiet smile and a muttered, “Back in a bit,” before padding back down the hallway.

You catch it just as he turns: a slight shift in his gait. Barely noticeable, the way his weight tips unevenly between steps, like one side of his body isn’t quite cooperating with the other. It slows him, just slightly. Enough that your brows draw together before you even realise you're staring.

You stand in the kitchen for a long moment, sandwich forgotten in your hand. It’s not like you to pry. You hate when people ask about things you haven’t offered up willingly – hate the sharp, intrusive edge of what’s wrong with you? 

You take your sandwich to the little dining table where his laptop still sits closed, charger curled beside it. The seat across from you remains warm from where he’d been earlier. You chew in silence, mind gnawing at the image of him walking away with that faint limp. He hadn’t mentioned anything. No sign of injury.

Your chest prickles with quiet unease. Maybe it’s not your place. Maybe he doesn’t want questions.

The sandwich is half-finished when he reappears, this time in fresh pyjama bottoms and a different jumper, a little looser in the sleeves. He walks slower than usual, and now that you’re looking for it, the limp is unmistakable. It’s subtle but deliberate, a kind of favouring of one leg over the other. You feel that pinch again, behind your ribs.

Remus notices your eyes on him, and he offers you a faint smile, tired but open.

“Sorry,” he says, lowering himself gently into the chair opposite you with the kind of care that makes your heart ache. “Was hoping the tablets would kick in faster.”

Your voice is quiet when you speak. “Are you okay?”

He glances up at you, blinking like he hadn’t expected the question. For a moment you think he might brush it off, toss out some polite, yeah, all good lie. But then his expression softens. Honest.

“I will be,” he says. Then he hesitates, eyes flicking down to the grain of the wooden table, fingers brushing over a faint coffee ring like it might help ground him. “It’s just a flare-up. Happens sometimes.”

You nod slowly, waiting. Letting him lead.

“My joints,” he says eventually, voice low but calm. “They’ve been wrecked for years. Doesn’t usually act up like this, but sometimes–weather, overdoing it, not sleeping right–it just hits harder.” He gestures vaguely toward his leg, then his shoulder. “Today’s one of those days.”

You don’t say anything at first. Not because you don’t know what to say, but because your first instinct, that sounds awful, I’m sorry, feels both too much and not enough. You don’t think he’d want the sympathy of it anyway.

Instead, you offer him your full attention. “Is there anything you need? I mean, anything I can do?”

Remus looks at you, properly this time, and something unreadable passes behind his eyes. Gratitude, maybe. Surprise.

“No,” he says gently. “Thanks, though. Just rest, really. Try not to be on my feet more than I have to.”

You nod. Then, quieter, “I didn’t realise you were in pain.”

“I hide it well,” he says, the corners of his mouth lifting in something that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Comes with practice.”

“I could make tea?”

He smiles, just barely. “Only if you make it as good as I do.”

✩ June ✩

Downpours in June always catch you off guard. In your mind, the month should be full of sun and warmth even though it never is. Shockingly, the rain does little to dampen your mood on the walk home, too excited with the knowledge that when you get into the flat, Remus will be there, probably writing, ready to talk to you and listen to your day. 

You found quite quickly, after you got more comfortable, that you and Remus have a lot in common. You like the same shows and takeaways, both reading copious amounts of books and both of you are quiet and calm a lot of the time. You think he might be your only real friend and maybe that's a bit pathetic but you can’t bring yourself to care. 

Your trainers squelch faintly as you step into the building, hair sticking to your forehead and the back of your neck. Still, there’s a smile tugging at your lips. You’re soaked and half-frozen, but the thought of the flat and Remus keeps your spirits high.

You shake the worst of the water from your coat before unlocking the flat door. It swings open, the familiar creak greeting you–

–and then a sound you weren’t expecting.

Laughter. Loud, overlapping voices. And not just Remus’.

Your eyes flick up as you step into the living room and stop short.

There are people in your flat.

Three strangers are sprawled across the sofas, legs thrown over armrests, half-drunk mugs of tea and empty crisp packets scattered across the coffee table.

The girl with striking red hair and green eyes is curled into the far corner of the loveseat, gesturing with a half-eaten biscuit and grinning. Next to her, a tall, dark-haired boy is half-lounging, half-sliding off the cushions, knees spread like he owns the place. His shirt is rumpled, his hair even more so, but it works on him. On the floor, sitting cross-legged and sipping from a mug, is another man, long dark hair, an open leather jacket.

And in the middle of it all, Remus.

He’s leaned forward in his usual seat, elbow braced on his knee, a lazy sort of smile tugging at his mouth. He looks comfortable. At home. The sleeves of his jumper are pushed up, and there’s a small ink smudge on his knuckle. He lifts his head at the sound of the door and lights up when he sees you.

“Oh–hey!” he says, already standing. “You’re back.”

All at once, the three others look up. At you.

You freeze in the doorway, suddenly aware of your rain-slick hair, damp jeans, the drip of water off your coat. Your bag sags heavily at your side.

“Hi,” you manage, blinking.

Remus crosses to take your bag, entirely casual. “Didn’t think you’d be back this early. I’d have warned you.”

You shrug, trying for a smile. “The rain chased me home.”

“Let me get you a towel in a sec–uh, this is Lily, Sirius, and James.” He gestures over his shoulder, and they all wave.

Lily smiles kindly. James does a salute from the couch. Sirius raises his mug.

You nod, stepping a little further into the room, wringing your hands slightly.

Of course Remus would have friends like this, you think. People who look like they stepped out of a film set or an advert or maybe an indie band that never quite went mainstream. If you didn’t know any better, you’d assume they were all built in the same beautiful factory.

Sirius leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, eyes glinting with mischief. “So you’re the one living with Moony. Brave soul.”

James chimes in, grinning. “Yeah, seriously. Does he still snore like a bear, or has he grown out of it?”

You blink, then giggle – actually giggle – which surprises even you.

“I haven’t noticed,” you say, glancing at Remus as he hands you a towel, whose ears have gone slightly pink. “He’s actually… really great to live with.”

You miss the way he straightens slightly at that, how his expression softens. You’re too busy trying to unstick a strand of wet hair from your cheek.

“I’m just gonna–” you gesture vaguely down the hall, “–shower. Before I mildew. I’ll be back.”

You duck into the hallway with a grateful glance toward Remus, clutching the towel he pressed into your hands like a lifeline. You’re still soaked through, jeans sticking to your legs, and your skin feels clammy beneath your shirt. In the bathroom, you peel out of your wet clothes, your cheeks still warm from the shock of unexpected company.

The shower helps. Hot water pounding against your back, steam curling around your face, loosening the tension in your shoulders. You scrub quickly, methodically, trying not to think too hard. You don’t know why their presence made your chest tighten like that – maybe it was the surprise, maybe it was how pretty they all were. Maybe it was the way they all seemed to belong here.

It’s not jealousy, exactly. Just a small ache, like being on the outside of a joke you’d love to be part of.

-

Back in the living room, as the sound of the bathroom door clicks shut, a shift happens.

Sirius, who had been half-sprawled on the floor with his mug, shoots a look at Remus – slow and smug. “Mate.”

Remus doesn’t look up from where he’s fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve. “Don’t.”

“Oh, I will.” Sirius grins, wolfish.

Lily lets out a snort, raising her brows at James. “Did you see the way he lit up when she walked in?”

James nudges Remus’s knee with his own. “It was sweet, actually. Like a dog seeing its favourite person.”

Remus groans, dragging a hand over his face. “You’re all insufferable.”

“Not denying it, though,” Lily singsongs.

“There’s nothing to deny,” Remus mutters, flushing down to his collarbones. “She’s just my flatmate.”

James grins. “Flatmate. Right.”

Lily’s voice softens just slightly, teasing but kind. “It’s okay, Remus. We like her. She seems sweet.. And clearly into you, even if she doesn’t know it yet.”

Remus shifts in his seat, pulling his sleeve back down like it might shield him. “She’s not. And even if she were, she deserves... more.”

Sirius tilts his head, tone quieter now. “More than what?”

Remus doesn’t answer.

The conversation lapses just in time for the soft pad of footsteps down the hallway.

-

You return with damp hair falling to your shoulders, the sleeves of your jumper pulled over your hands. The soft scent of your shampoo trails after you. You hover at the edge of the living room, unsure if you’re intruding again.

Remus looks up first, his face softening instantly. “Feel better?”

You nod, giving him a small smile. “Much.”

There’s a pause – comfortable, this time – before he gestures to the seat beside him. “Come sit?”

You do.

The sofa is warm from where he’d been sitting earlier. Close, but not too close.

“Are you hungry?” he asks, turning slightly toward you. “We’ve got crisps, biscuits. Sirius tried to eat all the digestives but I fought him off–”

“I let him win,” Sirius adds from the floor.

“–or there's your leftovers in the fridge.” He continues, ignoring his friend's input.

You shake your head. “I’m okay, thank you.”

Lily leans forward, her smile easy. “So, how’s it been living with this one?” She jerks her thumb toward Remus.

You glance at him, then back to her. “Honestly? Pretty great. He’s... very considerate.”

“She’s being polite,” Remus mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck.

“She’s being nice,” Lily corrects, then turns back to you. “It’s very commendable of you, I’m sure there's something about him that annoys you.”

“Charming, Lils.” Remus says with a fond eye roll.

Lily is wrong, you think, at this point in time you can't think of anything about remus that annoys you. He’s not a perfect person, obviously, but any little annoyances you have with him are forgotten quickly after they happen.

The conversation rolls on from there. They ask about your job, your favourite books, where you went to school. You end up laughing more than you have in weeks, tucked into the corner of the sofa beside Remus, your shoulder just barely brushing his arm.

By the time the clock on the wall nudges past ten, the living room has slipped into a comfortable sprawl of conversation and low laughter. Mugs have been refilled more than once, empty wrappers tucked under cushions, and Sirius has taken to stacking biscuit crumbs on James’s shoulder like a game of Jenga.

Eventually, one of them – Lily, predictably – checks the time and groans. “Alright, we’re off,” she says, pushing herself up with a dramatic sigh. “Some of us have to be adults in the morning.”

“Tragic,” Sirius mutters, already reaching for his jacket.

There’s a flurry of movement – shoes tugged on, bags slung over shoulders, mugs gathered into a clumsy stack for the kitchen. You stand too, a little uncertain, hanging back near the hallway door as the group bunches near the entrance.

Then, unexpectedly, Lily turns to you

“You coming to the pub quiz next week?” she asks, suddenly warm and familiar, like you’ve known each other longer than just a few hours. Her voice is bright but her eyes are kind, like she really means it.

You blink. “Oh. Um—”

“It’s good fun,” she says quickly. “Low-stakes. Mostly an excuse to drink.”

Your lips twitch despite yourself. “That sounds nice.”

“Perfect,” Lily beams. Then, before you can overthink it, she wraps you into a hug.

You freeze for a second. Her arms are confident and soft around you, her hair brushing your cheek. But after the initial surprise fades, you lean into it.

“See you there,” she murmurs as she pulls back, with a wink

The others say their goodbyes in overlapping waves. Sirius claps Remus on the shoulder with a dramatic flourish, James promises to text him about the weekend, and Lily gives Remus a kiss on the cheek.

Then they’re gone – the flat door swinging closed behind them with a satisfying click, their chatter already fading down the stairs.

You’re still standing in the living room when Remus comes back a few minutes later, having seen them out to the street. He exhales deeply as he toes off his shoes, running a hand through his hair.

You’re already moving, collecting empty mugs from the coffee table and straightening a blanket draped halfway to the floor.

“You don’t have to do that,” he says, voice gentle as he returns to the room. “It’s not your mess, love.”

You glance up at him. The endearment settles warm and light in your chest. He says it so naturally you’re not sure he even notices.

“It’ll be faster if we do it together,” you reply simply, heading into the kitchen with a stack of cups.

Remus follows, quiet but not resisting. The two of you move easily in tandem – like you’ve done this before, like you’ve lived together for years instead of just a month. He wipes down the coffee table while you rinse out mugs. You clear the sofa of stray crisp bags while he tucks the blanket back into shape.

It’s domestic, almost absurdly so. The kind of soft, mundane routine you used to dream about without realising it.

When the last mug is tucked into the drying rack and the cushions on the sofa are more or less back in their proper places, you find yourself standing in the middle of the living room, blinking in the stillness. It’s quiet again, but a good kind of quiet.

Remus glances over from where he’s just finished folding the throw blanket across the back of the sofa. “Right,” he says, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Mission accomplished.”

You nod, suddenly aware of the ache settling into your limbs – the kind of tired that follows a long day and warm company.

“C’mere,” Remus says, and without really thinking, you follow as he flops down onto the sofa, sprawling into the corner he always claims. He gestures for you to join him, and you do, curling up on the opposite end. Your knees tuck beneath you, your elbow sinking into the cushion. The warmth of the evening clings to your skin, a pleasant, weighty tiredness settling in.

You let out a breath, soft. “Your friends are really nice.”

He hums in agreement, tipping his head back against the cushion to look at the ceiling. “They are.”

Then, quieter, you add, “Sorry if I was... imposing. I didn’t mean to crash your night.”

His head tilts, gaze sliding over to meet yours, brows gently pulled together. “You’d never be imposing.”

You blink at him, something tender sparking behind your ribs.

“They liked you,” he says, like it’s the simplest, most obvious thing in the world.

You smile, small and uncertain. “That’s a relief. I’d have to start hiding away again if they didn’t.”

He huffs a soft laugh, turning more toward you, one leg tucked up beneath the other. “I don’t see how anyone wouldn’t like you.”

The room goes still for a beat.

It’s not even the words that hit you so hard, it’s the way he says them. Quietly, plainly. Like it’s not even a question. Like he believes it.

You swallow. Your fingers twist in the hem of your jumper.

“You’d be surprised,” you murmur.

Remus watches you carefully, eyes soft and steady. “No, I wouldn’t.”

You look away first, heart thudding too loud in your chest. It’s not flirtation, what he’s doing – it’s too sincere for that. It feels heavier somehow, more honest.

He shifts again, this time stretching his legs out, one foot brushing yours beneath the throw blanket. He doesn’t move it away.

You try for something lighter. “You didn’t tell me you had friends that were basically a rock band.”

He chuckles, running a hand over his jaw. “Yeah, they’re a bit much, aren’t they?”

“They’re... great,” you say, and you mean it. “I don’t think I’ve ever met people that easy to talk to.”

His smile is quiet. “They’ll love that. Especially Sirius. He lives for being charming.”

“I could tell.”

Remus’s laugh is low, and it lingers. “I’m glad you stayed. You looked like you were going to bolt.”

You flush, ducking your head. “I was.”

There’s a pause.

“I get it,” he says eventually, voice softer now. “Crowds. Strangers. It’s a lot sometimes.”

You nod. “It’s not that I didn’t want to be there. I just… didn’t think I’d belong.”

Remus’s gaze sharpens slightly, something almost fierce behind his tired eyes. “You do. You absolutely do.”

The words land between you, sure and solid. You feel them take root within you.

You glance over, meeting his eyes. “Thanks.”

He doesn’t look away. “Anytime.”

Your foot is still touching his under the blanket. You don’t move it.

The telly is dark, the flat dim except for the soft glow of the kitchen light and the little lamp in the corner. Everything feels slow. Settled. The way conversations stretch late into the evening when neither person wants to be the one to end it.

Eventually, you yawn. An embarrassingly large one that catches you off guard.

Remus smiles. “Go to bed.”

“Shouldn’t I be saying that to you?” you ask, though your limbs are already heavy.

“I’m older,” he says, mock-stern. “I get to decide.”

“You’re not that much older,” you mumble, rising reluctantly.

As you pass him, he catches your wrist gently. Not to stop you – just a brush of fingers, warm and grounding. You pause, and he looks up at you from where he’s still curled on the sofa.

“Hey,” he says, low. “I meant it, you know. About people liking you.”

You nod, throat tight again. “I know.”

He lets go. You head to bed. And long after the door closes behind you, the warmth of his touch lingers.

✩ July ✩

“Please tell me you didn’t actually do that!” you exclaim, laughing at Sirius’ expense.

“I did,” he responds, having the decency to look ashamed, “I didn’t expect him to cry though.”

“He must’ve been a sensitive soul.” 

“You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you, doll?” Sirius shoots back, grinning as he nudges you with his foot under the table.

You move to swat him, but he’s already leaning back, laughing like this is his favourite game. And maybe it is, because you’ve learned Sirius loves nothing more than winding people up, especially the ones he likes.

You can’t be sure when it happened but somewhere between meeting Remus’ friends and now, they became your friends too. The pub quiz is a weekly ritual for you all now. You have silly in jokes with them and you're almost at a point now where you speak with them as freely as you do Remus. 

You’re just about to fire back a quip when a familiar hand places a drink in front of you.

“Here,” Remus says softly.

Your eyes lift to find him standing beside you, the warm pub lighting casting a soft glow over his features. He sets down his own glass as well, then, without really thinking, slides into the booth beside you.

As he sits, his hand drifts up and settles between your shoulder blades, thumb brushing idly in a slow arc. It’s not the first time he’s touched you lately – little things, small and familiar. A hand on your lower back when guiding you through a crowd. Fingers brushing your knuckles when you pass him a cup of tea. But this, it still catches your breath a little.

“What have you done to get her attacking you already?” Remus asks, shooting Sirius a look that’s half amused, half exhausted.

Sirius throws his hands up. “I didn’t do anything. She’s just violent–where’s my drink?”

“You didn’t ask for anything,” Remus says with a small shrug, taking a sip of his own pint.

“I didn’t know I had to ask,” Sirius complains, scandalised. “I thought we had a system.”

“You thought wrong.”

You shake your head, trying to hide your smile as you pick up your glass. “Thank you,” you murmur to Remus, your voice quieter than before.

He turns his head toward you just slightly, expression softening, “Anytime.”

You take a sip. 

Sirius groans dramatically, flopping back in his seat. “This is blatant favouritism.”

“You’re just mad because she doesn’t threaten to hit me,” Remus replies, entirely deadpan.

“I’ll start,” you offer, raising your eyebrows at Remus in mock challenge.

He grins, a slow, crooked smile. “I’d like to see you try.”

Before you can respond, the door to the pub swings open and a gust of summer air follows James and Lily in. James is grinning, his hand causally linked with Lily’s as she glances around, eyes landing on your table.

James and Lily slide into the booth with the easy comfort of long familiarity – James immediately reaching to swipe a chip from Sirius’ plate, Lily pressing a quick kiss to your cheek as she squeezes in beside you.

“We’re not late, are we?” she asks, already pulling a notepad and pen from her bag.

“Perfect timing,” Remus says, glancing towards the bar where the pub quiz host is fiddling with a mic.

“Brilliant,” James says, cracking his knuckles. “Because I’ve been revising.”

“Revising?” Sirius snorts. “Is this the A-Levels again?”

“Better,” Lily says, shooting a grin across the table. “He made me quiz him on obscure geography facts while I was straightening my hair.”

James winks. “Multitasking, babe.”

You laugh into your drink, heart buoyant with the energy around the table. You’re hemmed in by Lily on one side and Remus on the other, the heat of his thigh brushing yours beneath the table. He’s not moving away, and neither are you.

The quiz kicks off not long after – a crackly voice through the speakers announcing the rules as the pub dims the lights slightly and the host launches into the first round.

It starts out strong. Lily knows every answer in the literature round. Sirius, unsurprisingly, nails the music one, especially anything classic rock or 80s synth. James and Lily dominate the sports and politics sections, passing the pen back and forth like it's a baton in a relay.

You’re good at the random ones. The weird general knowledge stuff no one expects anyone to know. But every time you offer a hesitant guess, Remus is the first to jot it down without hesitation.

“She’s right,” he murmurs after you mutter something about which planet has the longest day. “It’s Venus.”

You glance at him. “Are you sure?”

He taps his pen, smirking. “Positive.”

And he’s right.

Remus is the dark horse of the whole night. Quietly scribbling answers during the history and science rounds, barely even hesitating. Everyone starts deferring to him, especially when it gets harder.

At one point, James throws down his pen and mutters, “Where do you keep all this stuff? Is there a little librarian in your brain with a filing cabinet or something?”

Remus shrugs, barely biting back a smile. “Just... remember things. I read a lot.”

You lean over and murmur, “You know so much weird information. It must be all the books.”

He turns to look at you, eyes crinkling. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“No,” you say, grinning. “It’s kind of impressive. Annoying. But impressive.”

Remus nudges your knee with his. “Thanks, I think.”

But when the final scores are tallied, and the host calls out your team’s name as the winners, the entire table erupts.

You blink in disbelief, then burst out laughing as Sirius howls, leaping to his feet and banging on the table like a victory drum.

“We won! We actually won! We’re legends! Immortalised in pub quiz history!”

Lily rolls her eyes fondly and raises her glass. “To Remus, our walking encyclopaedia.”

They present the prize – a bottle of cheap prosecco and a £25 bar tab – and you all decide to split one more round with it. The drinks are sweeter, the laughter looser. There’s music playing now, and you find yourself talking to Lily about your favourite poetry collections while Sirius tries to convince Remus to dance.

Eventually, the evening wanes. The pub thins out, chairs scraping, the air thick with the scent of beer and summer sweat. You and Remus walk home together under a sky lit dimly by street lights and stars.

It’s warm enough now that your jacket’s slung over your arm. Your trainers scuff the pavement in easy rhythm beside his.

The walk home is slow, lazy with the warmth of the evening and the quiet hum of contentment between you. The street is dappled with soft pools of golden light. You and Remus fall into step like always, shoulder to shoulder, the occasional brush of arms sending quiet ripples through the comfortable silence.

You’re still buzzing from the night, from the win and the wine and the lingering warmth of everyone’s laughter. Every time you glance at Remus, he’s smiling, that soft, secret smile that curls at the corner of his mouth when he thinks no one’s looking.

“I still can’t believe you knew the name of the first cloned sheep,” you say, bumping your shoulder into his.

“Dolly,” he replies smugly.

“I know,” you groan. “I’m saying I can’t believe you knew that.”

Remus shrugs, casual. “It’s basic trivia.”

You huff a laugh. “It’s bizarre trivia.”

“It’s useful trivia,” he counters, giving you a sidelong glance that makes something flutter low in your belly. “Won us a bottle of cheap prosecco, didn’t it?”

You grin, and the quiet stretches between you again.

Your hands swing close again, knuckles brushing lightly. Neither of you pull away.

He shifts slightly, just enough that his fingers brush yours again, and this time, they stay. You glance down, heart in your throat, and feel his hand open, tentative but waiting.

You don’t think. You just slide your hand into his.

His fingers curl instantly around yours, warm and certain. You both keep walking, pretending it’s nothing, pretending your heart isn’t hammering so hard it hurts.

-

You step inside, the familiar hush of the flat wrapping around you both. Remus toes off his boots and hangs his jacket up, and you do the same, suddenly hyper aware of the proximity, the quiet.

He turns to you, lingering just a step closer than he needs to be. The air between you feels too full, your skin thrumming where he’s still holding your hand. His eyes flicker down to your mouth, just for a second. Barely a heartbeat.

Then he leans in.

It’s subtle at first, a shift in weight, his eyes still locked on yours. And then he’s close, close enough to kiss you.

And he almost does.

His breath ghosts over your lips, and you tilt your chin up instinctively, eyes fluttering shut—

But at the last second, he stops. Pulls back.

Just a fraction.

You blink up at him, startled and flushed and blinking hard, heart suddenly thudding in disappointment.

He opens his mouth like he wants to explain, but nothing comes out. You clear your throat, trying to save the moment, to make it feel less heavy.

“Right. Um–goodnight, then,” you murmur, stepping back and turning toward the hall.

You don’t get far.

“Wait–” he says, voice low and rough.

You freeze.

Then you feel it, his hand catching your wrist.

You turn, breath held tight in your lungs, and he’s right there again. Eyes stormy and wide, jaw tense.

“I can’t–” he starts, but the words twist out of him like they’re too slow for what he’s feeling. “I’ve wanted to–”

And then he kisses you.

It’s not gentle.

It’s urgent – a bruising, heated thing that steals the breath from your lungs and sends your hands into the fabric of his shirt, gripping tight. His mouth moves over yours like he’s been holding this back for too long, like he’s starving for it.

You gasp, just slightly, and he swallows the sound with a low groan, his hands sliding up your arms, into your hair, down your back. You’re pressed against the wall before you even realise he’s moved you, his body warm and solid against yours, his mouth insistent.

There’s no space between you anymore. Just warmth, friction, hands fumbling and mouths desperate.

You break for air only to pull back in with even more hunger, his lips on your jaw, your neck, then back to your mouth like he can’t decide what part of you he wants more.

“Remus,” you breathe against him, dizzy.

His hands settle on your waist, gripping tight like he’s anchoring himself. His forehead rests against yours for a breath, and then he murmurs, “Come with me.”

You nod.

He leads you to his room without another word, fingers still laced with yours, and when he closes the door behind you, the air changes again.

Slower, now.

More deliberate.

The urgency is still there, but it softens into something deeper, more consuming. He kisses you again, slower this time, reverent. His hands roam, mapping, remembering. Yours find the hem of his shirt, the warmth of his skin.

You don’t rush.

You undress each other like a secret being unfolded. You climb into his bed like you’ve always belonged there.

And when he finally sinks into you, it’s not rushed, not hurried.

He holds you like he’s afraid to let go. Like he’s wanted this for months and is still struggling to believe it’s real.

And when you come apart beneath him, it’s with his name on your lips and your hands in his hair, and the kind of breathless clarity that tells you nothing will be the same.

-

The first thing you feel is warmth.

From the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek, the steady heartbeat you must have drifted off to somewhere between kisses and whispered breaths.

You’re tangled up in Remus Lupin.

The duvet is twisted around your legs, one of his arms is slung heavy and loose around your waist, and his bare chest is the perfect place to rest your cheek. His skin is warm, smooth in some places, scarred in others. You trace a lazy finger over one of the faded marks near his collarbone, remembering where your mouth had been hours earlier.

He’s still asleep, face tilted slightly toward you, lips parted just enough to show the edge of a tooth. His hair’s a mess – curling against his forehead in soft, unruly waves – and he looks younger like this. Softer. The tension that he sometimes carries, that quiet weight he doesn’t talk about, has slipped away entirely in sleep.

You smile without meaning to, letting your eyes wander across his face.

How is this real?

You stay like that for a while, not quite ready to break the spell, watching the soft flutter of his lashes, the faint rise of his chest. You feel safe, grounded, like the world could wait a little longer.

And then–

Your phone buzzes.

You blink, reach for it blindly, and when the screen lights up, your stomach drops.

“8:43 AM – New Message from Manager: Hey! Just checking you’re still coming in?”

You sit bolt upright.

“Shit–shit, shit, shit.”

Remus stirs beside you, brow furrowing slightly, but doesn’t wake. You scramble out of bed, moving towards your own bedroom trying to get ready as quickly as possible.

You do a rushed version of your morning routine in the tiny bathroom – brush teeth, splash water, a swipe of mascara and a spritz of dry shampoo that does absolutely nothing. When you return to his bedroom, Remus hasn’t moved. He’s sprawled diagonally across the bed now, hair mussed, arm half-reaching toward where you’d been.

And then you’re out the door, down the stairs, and into the rush of the day.

-

The hours drag.

Your body is at work, but your mind is still back in that bed. On the way Remus had looked at you. On the way he’d touched you. You spend the day replaying it in loops, trying not to let it show on your face.

It’s hopeless. You catch your reflection in a window around lunch and see it: the too-bright eyes, the almost-smile that keeps slipping onto your face for no reason.

-

By the time you get back to the flat, you’re not sure what to expect.

Remus is in the kitchen.

He looks normal.

Hair still messy. Wearing one of his old jumpers – the navy one with sleeves that swallow his hands – and stirring something in a pot on the stove. You hover in the doorway, your bag still slung over one shoulder.

He glances over, smiles. “Hey. How was work?”

It’s his usual voice. Easy, casual. Like it’s any other day.

You blink. “Uh... fine. Busy.”

He nods, turns back to the stove. “You want dinner? I made pasta.”

Your heart sinks a little, stupidly. “I’m not super hungry right now,” you murmur. “Thanks though.”

He doesn’t push. Just shrugs and says, “Alright,” like nothing’s strange.

But it is. You can feel it. 

The thing that bloomed between you last night, heavy and breathless and real, has been tucked neatly out of sight.

Maybe he regrets it.

Maybe it was a one-time thing.

Maybe he doesn’t want it to mean what it meant to you.

Eventually, you mumble, “I’m gonna go change,” and head down the hall before he can answer.

You close the door to your room with more force than necessary, leaning back against it with your eyes squeezed shut.

You feel foolish. You’d thought...

Well. 

You’d thought it might change things.

Instead, it feels like everything’s gone backwards.

So you do what you always do.

You hide.

You crawl under your duvet and pull your knees up to your chest, pretending you’re tired. Pretending you’re not waiting for a knock on your door that never comes.

✩ August ✩

You’ve fallen back into your routine from when you first moved in. Hiding away in your room, when Remus is in the living room. Retreating into yourself, an act of self-preservation, you think. 

You’ve escaped from your room today, Remus away at the doctors. Laying out on the sofa with a glass of cold water to combat against the heat that seeps into the flat, the hottest day of the year. You stare at the tv, staring unseeingly.

You’re halfway through the world’s most pointless reality show when the front door clicks open without warning.

You flinch slightly, half-rising off the sofa, until a familiar voice echoes from the hallway.

“Don’t get up on my account, sweetheart.”

A second later, Sirius is leaning over the back of the couch, sunglasses perched on his head and a takeaway iced coffee in each hand. He pokes you in the shoulder with one long finger, smirking.

You blink up at him, disoriented. “How did you get in?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Still have the spare. You lot never changed the locks after that one time I borrowed the toaster.”

“Stole,” you correct automatically.

He walks around the sofa and flops down beside you like he owns the place, long legs kicked out, one arm draped over the backrest behind your shoulders. He hands you one of the coffees. “Drink this. You look like you’re dying.”

“Thanks,” you mutter, finally slumping back into the sofa, gaze returning to the screen, where someone’s just burst into tears over a ruined meringue.

Sirius watches you for a beat. Then he leans in again, voice pitched low.

“So… what’s going on with you and Moony?”

You blink at him, your brain stuttering.

“What?” You shake your head. “Nothing. I mean, I have no idea. We don’t really… talk.”

Sirius clicks his tongue.

“Ah. Problem found.”

You glance over. “What?”

He gives you a look that’s both amused and just this side of exasperated. “He’s mopey. Has been for like, a couple weeks.”

You try not to let your expression betray you. “I don’t think that’s about me.”

“Yeah,” Sirius says dryly, “and I’m the Pope.”

Sirius watches you steadily, the smirk slipping off his face just a little as the silence stretches. You take a long sip of the iced coffee, letting the condensation chill your fingers, and avoid his gaze.

Finally, you exhale. It’s a slow, reluctant thing. “We slept together,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “It wasn’t… nothing. I mean, it didn’t feel like nothing.”

Sirius’s eyebrows shoot up, but to his credit, he doesn’t interrupt. Just takes a slow sip from his own drink and waits.

You run a hand through your hair, the heat of the day clinging to your skin like guilt. “It was after the quiz. We were walking home and then–god, it just happened. And it was… really good. But I had to go to work the next morning. And then when I came back–he didn’t bring it up.”

You swallow. The words are harder to say than you thought they’d be.

“I figured if he wasn’t talking about it… maybe it was just one of those things. A mistake, even. So I didn’t either.”

Sirius lets out a low whistle, tossing his head back against the cushions. “Bloody hell.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah. That about sums it up.”

There’s a beat of silence. You focus on the way the ice is melting in your cup, the way your pulse hasn’t quite calmed down.

Sirius shifts beside you, his voice quieter now. “Look. Rem’s a smart bloke. But sometimes…” he trails off, shaking his head. “He forgets people can’t read his mind. Thinks if he doesn’t say it out loud, it’s safer. Like he can keep it from meaning too much.”

“And he’s got it in his head,” Sirius continues, nudging your knee with his own, “that you’re far too good and far too pretty for him.”

You snort. “What, so he thinks I pity fucked him? Are you serious?”

Sirius deadpans, “Unfortunately.”

“That’s–” You set your coffee down with a soft thud, sitting up straighter. “That’s the most idiotic thing I’ve ever heard. He’s gorgeous.”

Sirius flashes a grin, all teeth. “Preaching to the choir, babe.”

You blink at him. “Wait, you–?”

He waves a hand. “Not the point. The point is, he’s probably thinking he’s ruined everything and you’re here thinking you did. You’re both being daft.”

You sigh again, pressing your fingers to your temples.

“You think I should talk to him.”

“I think,” Sirius says, voice level now, “that you need to. Because he’s not going to. Not unless he’s sure you want him to.”

“Okay,” you say finally, softly. “Okay. I will.”

Sirius reaches over, squeezes your shoulder with surprising gentleness. “Good girl.”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t push it.”

He winks. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

-

You feel grosser and grosser as the day goes on, becoming more sweat than girl. Whether it’s because of the heat or nerves you’re not sure. An unhealthy mix of both, probably.

You’ve run through what you want to say a million times in your head.

Maybe more.

Every version sounds wrong. Too much. Too vulnerable. Not enough.

So you sit on the sofa, legs crossed, iced coffee long since gone watery, clutching a cushion to your chest like it’s armor. The fan is humming in the corner but it does nothing to move the heat pressed into the walls of the flat.

When the front door creaks open again, you sit up so fast your spine protests.

Remus walks in slowly, his posture heavy with the weight of the day. He pauses when he sees you sitting there, like he wasn’t expecting it. There’s a split second where his face flickers. He gives you a tight, polite smile. The kind you might offer a stranger you bumped into at the shops.

Then he turns wordlessly toward the hallway.

“Remus.”

You say it before you can talk yourself out of it. Your voice doesn’t shake, but it’s close.

He stops. Still facing away. One hand resting on the edge of the doorframe.

“…Yeah?”

You take a breath that doesn’t help at all. Then another.

“I did want to talk about it.”

His head tilts slightly, just enough that you see the edge of his profile. There’s a pause. Like maybe he’s hoping he misheard.

“About what?” he says finally. Neutral. Careful.

You press your palms against the cushion like it might anchor you.

“About us having sex,” you say plainly. Then, softer: “And the day after.”

He winces.

You see it even from across the room – pain flashing over his face before he schools it away again. But not fast enough. Not before it lands in your chest with a hollow thud.

“I just…” You trail off, shake your head, try again. “I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen. Because it did. And it wasn’t nothing to me.”

He turns at that, just enough to look at you properly. His arms are crossed, but not in that closed-off way you sometimes see, more like he’s holding himself together. His brows draw in, mouth set like he’s bracing.

“I know it wasn’t nothing,” he says quietly.

You sit back a little, heart thudding so loudly you’re sure it’s rattling your ribs.

“Then why didn’t you say anything?” It comes out softer than you mean it to, more hurt than accusatory. Your voice dips at the end like you’re hoping he’ll have an answer that makes it all make sense. Something that takes the last few weeks and peels the ache from them.

Remus hesitates. Then he laughs – dry, self-deprecating. Not unkind. Just tired.

“Because you didn’t say anything either.”

Your mouth opens. Closes again. You hadn’t expected that.

He rubs a hand across the back of his neck, the gesture tight with nerves. “I thought I’d messed it up. I thought–I don’t know. That maybe I crossed a line. You left so quickly that morning, and then you just–disappeared. And I thought, alright, that’s fair, it was a heat-of-the-moment thing. And I didn’t want to make it harder by pushing.”

“But I didn’t disappear,” you whisper. “Or I didn't mean to, I had to go to work. You acted like nothing happened when I got home.”

He meets your eyes then. And for the first time since that night, he looks open. Vulnerable in a way that makes your stomach twist.

“Because I thought if I let myself believe it meant what I wanted it to mean,” he says, voice low, “and I was wrong… I wouldn’t be able to look you in the eye again.”

You blink. “What did you want it to mean?”

There’s a beat of silence between you. The fan hums on, useless. The world waits.

Remus’s eyes are soft, almost pleading. “Everything.”

Your breath catches in your throat.

He exhales like he’s been holding it for hours. Days. Weeks, maybe.

“I wanted it to mean we’re not just friends who got carried away,” he continues, stepping closer, careful. “I wanted it to mean I get to look at you in the mornings and kiss you before you leave for work. I wanted it to mean you wanted me, too. Not just that night. After.”

Your heart cracks wide open.

“I do want you,” you say, voice trembling now, but sure underneath. “I never stopped. I thought I’d imagined it–that you regretted it. That it was a mistake.”

“It wasn’t,” he says, quickly. Firm. “Not even close.”

You stare at him, all those weeks of doubt pooling like ink in your chest. Slowly, you set the cushion aside, like shedding a shield.

He watches you. Doesn’t move.

“I wanted to tell you,” you say, standing slowly. “I just didn’t know how.”

“You’re telling me now,” Remus says softly. “That’s enough.”

You cross the room in four steps, barefoot and shaky and brave, and then he’s in front of you, warm and real and still yours to choose.

“I missed you,” you whisper, hands coming up to rest against his chest.

His arms come around you immediately, pulling you in like he’s been waiting this whole time. His face presses into your hair, his breath warm against your ear.

“I missed you more than I know how to say.”

You lean back enough to see his face, your hands curling in the hem of his jumper.

“Then say it like this.”

And you kiss him.

This time, it’s not urgent. Not desperate. It’s steady and soft and full of all the things you didn’t say. His lips move slowly over yours, reverent. Familiar. Like a promise.

He smiles into it. And when you pull away just enough to look at him properly, you find his eyes lit up with something you’ve only seen once before.

Hope.

“You’re not getting rid of me now, you know,” you say, resting your forehead against his.

“Good,” he murmurs. “I was hoping you’d stay.”

✩ September ✩

The days stretch a little shorter now, but summer’s warmth still clings stubbornly to the air, trailing behind in the soft buzz of bees and the golden hush of late afternoons. The flat’s windows are thrown open, letting in the scent of sun-warmed pavement and the rustle of dry leaves skittering along the street below.

Remus is barefoot in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, humming something low under his breath as he chops herbs with practiced ease. The late light catches in his hair, softens his features into something dreamlike. There’s a faint breeze lifting the curtain near the sink, and the clink of glass as he pours two drinks, glancing toward the living room where you’re curled on the sofa, legs tangled with Sirius’ across the cushions.

Lily and James arrive a few minutes later, the door swinging open with a chorus of greetings and laughter. Lily’s holding a warm loaf of bread wrapped in a tea towel; James has a bottle of wine under his arm and a grin too big for his face.

“Boo! I hate you guys being happy and in love,” Sirius announces, flinging himself into a new position across the armchair.

“You love it,” you say without looking up, one hand reaching blindly for Remus’ as he passes you a glass. He presses a kiss to the top of your head before he settles beside you, his arm slung across the back of the sofa, fingers brushing your shoulder in a quiet rhythm.

He hasn’t stopped touching you since that night.

It’s not overwhelming, not loud. Just soft, consistent reminders that he’s here, that you’re his, that he’s yours. A hand at the small of your back, knuckles brushing your thigh under the table, lips against your temple as he passes. Like he’s still learning how to believe it, but he’s trying every day.

Dinner is chaotic and loud, wine-stained and full of clattering cutlery and overlapping stories. Someone burns the garlic bread, Sirius knocks over a candle, and Lily accidentally flings a piece of tomato into James’ lap.

Later, when the plates are stacked and the last of the wine has been poured, Sirius puts a record on — something old and scratchy and perfect — and Lily pulls James up to dance. They sway messily in the living room, laughing, bumping into the furniture.

You’re half-tucked under Remus’ arm when Sirius offers you his hand.

“Come on, one dance. For your favourite.”

You shake your head, smiling. “No way. You’ll trip me up.”

“Probably,” Sirius concedes cheerfully. “But what a way to go.”

Remus chuckles beside you, warm and low, and you turn your face toward him instinctively. His gaze catches yours, steady and soft. Like everything else has blurred out.

“Go on,” he murmurs. “I’ll be here.”

You kiss him once — quick and fond — before letting Sirius spin you clumsily around the room, both of you laughing like children.

When the night winds down, James and Lily head off with matching yawns and promises to host next time, and Sirius dramatically declares he’s staying the night, already halfway through making the sofa into a makeshift bed despite your offers for him to sleep in your room that goes largely unused.

You and Remus retreat to his room, quiet and content. You curl into bed with the windows still open, letting the night breeze ghost across your skin. He wraps an arm around your waist and kisses your shoulder, murmuring something half-asleep against your skin.

It’s nothing dramatic. Just a slow, steady settling. A feeling in your chest that hums: this is it.

masterlist <3

[pawinoia]

A Different Kind Of Therapy

Relationship(s): Chance x Reader

Warnings: SMUT

Nails dug deep into their back, red streaks painting hot skin. The way you can feel every inch pulsing deep inside of you, tip kissing your cervix far more rough than how he's actually kissing you.

"You're so fucking tight," Chance mutters between each thrust, eyes trained on his cock disappearing into your cunt perfectly. Their thrusts seem so calculated, hips snapping quick enough to keep you a babbling mess of overstimulation and tears, but smooth enough so his pelvis brushes against your clit each time, and by god his moans, a perfect mix of whimpers and groans when you squeeze around him.

You're so thankful for having the luxury of separated cabins, moans reverberating so loudly you're certain anyone walking by could hear the well needed sex you and Chance were having.

Things have been hectic lately, with the addition of a new killer everyone's been raving about with paranoia. Granted, having been a liscenced therapist before being sent to this.. purgatory, if you will, You do your best to help around with keeping everyone mentally stable enough to keep pushing on.

With surivors like Two Time, your job is a little harder dealing with someone actually brainwashed. 007n7 has been taking the addition of Noli especially hard. From what you've learned from your therapy sessions with him, the two were inseparable. Naturally, this new character would only cause 007n7 to spiral once more.

While you do love your role here, it does take its own toll on your mental state too.

Overcome with empathy and worry for your team members, you've been putting aside your own feelings to help them a little more. Longer sessions, Further in-depth questioning, more engaging exercises.

Chance was very quick to notice the slow drop in your mental health. They would bring it up often, asking if there was anything he could do to help you; be it cleaning the cabin anytime you were away so you always came back to an organized space, having Elliot help him make your favorite dishes, or even giving you the space to just be you.

And though it did help, the weight of everyone else's problems applied more pressure on your mind than anything.

So, when you asked Chance for a favor, he'd drop whatever he was doing to help. Especially now.

 

"C-close," you barely manage to get the word past your lips, quickly drowned in your moans again. One of your hands on their back tangles in their hair, tugging rough enough to make Chance hiss softly, a light moan slipping past his lips.

"I got you sweetheart," He pants, knuckles turned white from how hard his hand had been gripping the headboard. Their other hand slips down your body to rub quick, heavy circles on your clit, their rhythm changed so they could angle their hips just right to hit the sweetest spot in your body.

Pulling them closer, they're quick to busy himself with sucking hickeys into your skin, sharp teeth leaving bites on your collar bones and shoulders, almost enough to break skin and make you bleed.

"You gonna make a mess fa'me, huh?" They laugh, making sure to keep a consistent pace - especially when your legs cage them in tightly.

Your moans begin to grow lighter, and Chance watches the adorable expression on your face as your head drops back into the pillows, sobbing as yet another orgasm wracks through your body, adding to the foamy white ring around Chance's cock.

He coos sweet praises into your ear, carrying you through your orgasm. "Don't stop," you murmur, repeating yourself over and over. Chance is surprised, honestly, yet obeys your wishes, readjusting himself.

"Are you sure?" He asks, just wanting to make sure that this is really what you want, slowly moving his hips.

"Yes, please," You cry, hips stuttering occasionally from the aftershocks of your orgasm. "Jus' don't stop, need you,"

Chance raises his eyebrows, listening to you beg, even if you already have him. They place a sweet kiss to your forehead, gently running a hand through your hair.

"Need you so bad."

Chance watches your desperate actions as you rock your hips just to feel him inside you again, as though he wasn't already there.

They think they're even harder than they were just a second ago.

[societyfolklore]

My skin is very sensitive (especially on my back and thighs), and whenever I get bitten hard, I can't control myself and cry. Depending on how many times I get bitten, I cry a lot. But I don't feel that much pain, my eyes react automatically and overflow like a river... Could you write something obscene with Bucky, related to this? Anyway, I love your writing (sorry for bothering me)°•.♡

Title: Cry for Me, Sweetheart

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary:  You always cry when he bites you. It’s not pain, not really. It’s too much your system overloads and Bucky can’t help himself.

Word Count: 2.1k

Warnings: /Explicit Content / 18+, Minors DNI, SMUT, Explicit sexual content. Biting kink. Crying kink. Rough PIV. Fingering. Overstimulation. Possessive behavior. Praise kink. Primal sex. Gentle aftercare. Bucky gets a little beastly…

A/N:  Thank you for this ask.. he got a little bit mean here but so worth it! Hope you enjoy @venunsgirl

You hadn’t meant to cry.

But the moment his teeth sank into the soft curve of your inner thigh, just above the bruising grip of his metal hand and it happened again. That hot, involuntary prickle behind your eyes. That tremble in your gut. You bit your lip to keep from whimpering, but it was too late—he’d already noticed.

“Aw, doll…” Bucky's voice was low, dark velvet, sticky with something dangerous. He didn’t lift his head right away, just let his teeth drag a second longer, slow and sharp, before he kissed the mark he left behind. “Still this sensitive, huh?”

You nodded, uselessly. Your breath caught, a wet hiccup threatening.

“I barely touched you.” He grinned against your skin against the shaking muscle of your thigh—and then bit again. Harder. Deeper.

You cried out, spine arching. And then the tears came, hot and unstoppable, slipping from your eyes even as your body pulsed with something that wasn’t pain. Not really.

“Oh fuck,” he breathed, sitting back on his heels, jaw tight as he watched you. “It’s like your body just gives up for me. That sweet little system can’t even tell the difference, can it?” He wiped a tear away with his thumb. Smiled, feral. “You gonna cry for every bite, sweetheart?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Your chest heaved, lips parted, and when he leaned in again, you flinched but not from fear.

He kissed the swell of your hip, the hollow of your stomach. Then dragged his teeth up.

Slowly, deliberately.

Up to your ribs. “Tell me to stop,” he whispered.

You didn’t.

So he didn’t.

He bit again just under your breast this time and the choked sob that escaped your mouth made him groan.

“That’s it. That’s my girl” His metal hand held you still as you twisted, caught between burning pleasure and something far too much. “You cry all you want, baby. I’ll make you feel so good you forget why you ever wanted me to be gentle.”

His fingers didn’t rush.

Two thick digits pushed deep, slow and deliberate, stretching you open with a slick, rhythmic curl that made your breath hitch and your thighs tremble. Every time he pressed just right, your back arched, hips grinding helplessly into his palm—and he watched. Watched your tears slip down over your cheekbones, your bottom lip wobble with every moan you tried to swallow.

"Good girl… look at you, baby," Bucky murmured, voice hoarse with pride. “Fuckin’ weeping for me, and I haven’t even put my cock in you yet.”

His flesh hand rubbed gentle circles over your knee, grounding you, while the cold vibranium of his other arm stayed braced along your thigh, fingers buried in your heat.

And then his mouth was back on you biting just above the bone of your hip, sharp and possessive. You cried out, full-throated, tears spilling faster now, and that made him groan.

"Gonna be my perfect fuckin’ girl?" He nipped higher, right where the softness met your ribs. “Your body knows who it belongs to, doesn’t it?”

You nodded, frantic, choking on another sob as his fingers worked deeper, pumping slick and steady. The wet sounds between your legs were one thing but it was the way he kissed the bites after like he owned your pain, your pleasure, all of you that left you trembling.

“You can’t help it, can you?” His metal fingers spread inside you, stretching you open while his flesh thumb slid slow circles over your clit. “Cryin’ for me already and I haven’t even made you come yet.”

You keened, overwhelmed and then he did it again. Bit the underside of your breast, hard, while his fingers pushed deep and slow and relentless. It hurt and it didn’t. It burned and it sang.

Your eyes rolled back as your orgasm broke; messy, full-bodied, your thighs shaking as your hips bucked against his hand. You trembled through it, mouth open, drool on your chin as your climax rolled through you.

“Fuck.”  he growled, withdrawing his fingers, wet and shining, only to flip you effortlessly onto your stomach. “Did so good for me… now I want you to feel me everywhere.”

You barely had time to gasp before you felt the heavy heat of his cock dragging between your folds, thick, hard, and already slick with your arousal.

He bent over you, one hand braced beside your face, the other gripping your hip as he lifted you just enough to tilt your hips up for him, aligning his cock with your entrance in a slow, claiming press, the spongy tip pushing just inside of you. 

“You gonna cry for me again, baby?” he whispered against your shoulder, before sinking his teeth in- hard.

You wailed.

And he pushed inside, slow, deep, unyielding. Burying himself in one long, devastating thrust.

Your body clenched, tears falling fast as he filled you.

“All fucking mine,” he groaned, rolling his hips in a slow grind that pressed you flat to the bed. “Feel that baby? Ya gonna ache tomorrow - right where I want you to. No one else gets these tears. Just me.”

His lips found the top of your spine, then your shoulder, leaving wet bites and open-mouthed kisses in his wake as he rocked into you, steady and slow. Each movement was a claim. Every thrust, every bite, every whispered ‘good girl’ bwas a brand on your skin.

You were shaking. Overwhelmed. Owned. The weight of him above you, the press of his body keeping you grounded, it was overwhelming, and still, somehow, not enough. Every breath you took felt shallow, caught between sobs and moans, between surrender and hunger.

And he wasn’t even close to finished. You felt it in the deliberate roll of his hips, the thick drag of his cock stroking right up against your sweet spot, in the way he breathed you in like a drug and let his teeth graze every inch of skin he could reach. His mouth found the curve of your neck again, just above the bruise he’d left earlier, and he sucked until you whimpered.

“Not done with you yet,” he growled, voice a dangerous rasp against your ear. “Gonna fuck every tear outta you, baby. Gonna take my time—make sure you feel me dripping out of you for days.”

His hands tightened on your hips, keeping you spread and still, letting him grind slow and deep. Each motion had your eyes rolling, body twitching under him. You could feel that maddening stretch dragging against soaked, sensitive flesh, the tip bumping your cervix with enough pressure to make you cry harder. And he loved it.

“Damn sweetheart,” he hissed. “So fucking wet. You hear that? That’s how bad she wants me. She’s sobbing just like you are—begging me not to stop.”

He bit your shoulder again, rougher this time, tongue flicking over the bite before pulling away, breath warm and ragged. He was pacing himself like he wanted to ruin you slowly. Like he wanted to carve this into your body and memory both. Like if he couldn’t live inside you, he’d settle for wrecking you from the inside out.

You were already close again- your body twitching around him with every slow drag of his cock, your breath breaking into high, shaky gasps. Your muscles were trembling, hypersensitive, every stroke of his body over yours like a new flame licking your nerves. Still writhing under him, still flushed from the last climax, you couldn’t even think. Could barely breathe. Every sound you made turned into something needy and raw, a pleading ache he fed off with every motion.

But Bucky didn’t let up.

Didn’t let you drift.

“Come on, babygirl,” he whispered, lips brushing the shell of your ear. His voice was thick, rough with restraint. “I feel you… already squeezing me again, aren’t you? So fuckin’ needy for it.”

You whimpered, fists curled in the sheets, nails dragging down the fabric like it might anchor you. His hand slipped beneath your body, warm palm splayed low over your belly—holding you in place, tilting you just enough so he could hit deeper. He rocked his hips again, achingly slow, dragging every thick inch out before pushing back in until his pelvis was flush to your ass.

"There it is," he groaned, voice wrecked. "Right there, baby. Like it there don’t ya?"

You did. God, you did—the deliberate curve of his cock grinding up into every swollen, overstimulated nerve ending inside you. Every thrust lit you up from the inside, pressure building tight and fast, every breath you took punched out with a moan as he rolled his hips with filthy precision.

His cock pulsed inside you, the ridged veins dragging perfectly with each withdrawal, sending sparks ricocheting through your core. It was unbearable in the best way, every nerve-ending lit—and Bucky fucking knew it. Knew exactly how to angle his body, how to push you toward the edge again, how to make you feel every single devastating inch.

"That's it, baby. Take it. So fuckin' full of me, squeezing like you're tryin' to milk every drop outta me already." Bucky crooned, voice tightening as your walls fluttered around him. “You can let go. I know it’s too much, I know, baby—but you can take it. You always take it.”

His metal fingers found your clit again, rubbing gentle, coaxing circles while his cock stayed buried deep. “Give it to me. Let me feel you fall apart. You gonna cry for me again, sweetheart?”

You sobbed—helpless, overwhelmed—and your body answered him before your voice could. You shattered. Again.

You clenched around him like a vice, thighs trembling as you screamed into the mattress. Tears spilled freely now, soaking the sheet with quiet whimpers as your climax ripped through you, harder than the first, shaking and raw and electric.

And that was when Bucky snapped.

“Fuck—” he growled, voice low and wrecked as he reared up, dragging nearly all the way out before slamming back in, hard enough to make the bedframe creak.

He grabbed your hips with both hands—one warm, one cold—and began to fuck you in earnest. Brutal. Hungry. Deep.

No more teasing.

Just need.

The sounds were primal—skin on skin, the wet slap of his hips pounding into you, your cries muffled by the sheets. Your body jolted with every thrust, pinned beneath him, caught in the rhythm of his relentless claiming. He was back over you in the next heartbeat, flattening you into the mattress as he pounded into you, growling with every slap of skin against skin.

His mouth found where your shoulder met the curve of your neck and his teeth sank in.

“Mine,” he growled, half-animal, grinding the word against your sweat-damp skin. “Fucking mine.”

You screamed.

Your third orgasm hit like lightning—violent, unbearable, your whole body locking up as you came around him again, shaking now, raw and ruined and glowing.

And still he didn’t stop.

He fucked you through it, losing rhythm as his hips stuttered. His teeth stayed locked onto your skin as he thrust one last time, hard and deep—grinding his cock against your pulsing walls as he came with a ragged, feral growl.

Hot and thick and endless.

You could feel him. Every twitch, every pulse, the way he pushed it deeper with shallow, grinding thrusts as if trying to brand you from the inside out.

When he finally collapsed over you, panting against your bitten skin, you were still weeping a little. Though you'd gone all soft now. Spent.

And Bucky didn’t move, just kissed the wet track of tears on your cheek, his voice tender, low, possessive.

“Shh, it's ok. You're alright," he murmured, pressing another kiss just below your ear. “Took it all like I knew you would. Every fuckin’ inch. Every bite. So good for me… made me lose my damn mind.”

He shifted slowly, careful not to pull out too fast, keeping his body draped over yours while one hand softly brushed your hair back. “You did so good, sweetheart. You feel me? Still here. Still with you.”

You nodded faintly, too wrung out for words. He wrapped an arm around your waist and nuzzled into your neck, soothing the bite marks with gentle kisses. “We’re gonna stay right here for a bit. I got you. Gonna clean you up in a minute, then we’ll get under the blankets, yeah?”

His voice stayed close to a whisper, slow and steady, grounding you while his hands roamed in slow, comforting strokes. “You want water? Or just me?”

Your fingers barely moved as they curled over his wrist. And Bucky smiled against your shoulder, lips ghosting over a bruise he’d left. “Just me,” he echoed, kissing it before wrapping the blanket around you both. “Always gonna be here when you fall apart, sweetheart. I’ll catch you every time.”

Tags: @ruexj283 @yesiamthatwierd @trojanaurora @hextech-bros

[cloudwisp]

✮ dragon!sylus x princess!reader

contents: fluff. first meeting + impressions. sylus is taken by your kind-hearted nature and sweet disposition. small trust exercise by taking you for a night flight 🤍

⭒ You meet dragon Sylus in the deep and unassuming forest, your curiosity has led you to venture outside the castle walls against your better judgment. You made some preparations for your exploration and along the way you stopped for a patch of wildflowers off the trail to collect and bring home. You secure the reins of your horse to a tree keeping it from wandering. Then returning your focus to the violet and indigo blooms, you follow the path and cross the threshold into the verdant and lush wilderness.

⭒ Life of a princess leaves very little for survival instincts as wild beasts circle the area listening to your sweet hums. You’re completely oblivious to your surroundings while you pick flowers, and the creatures lie in waiting for the perfect opportunity to pounce on their prey. As fate would have it, the wind carries your melody to reach a certain dragon soaring the heavens above. He descends with a soft landing after spotting you and the prowling animals, his imposing presence quickly clears the area leaving just the two of you.

⭒ He doesn’t know what to expect at first. Perhaps fear and disgust twisting your features, but you were mesmerized as he folds his wings behind him and you regard his horns and tail. The gleaming gem embedded in his chest and the markings that run along his skin fuse into dark armor in favor of his dragon bloodline. “Consider yourself lucky. Those beasts would have made an easy meal out of you.” He meets your gaze with an air of nonchalance, and he receives your warm smile that’s far too kind for someone like him. “I suppose I owe you a debt of gratitude for being my savior.”

⭒ Sylus sees your safety on the outskirts of the kingdom and warns you about the dangers that lurk in the forest. His departure back to his dragon’s keep unexpectedly came with a distraction. It was no treasure but you left a piece of yourself with him, an embroidered handkerchief tied around his hand to stop the bleeding from his previous expedition since it was the very least you could do. The scent of your perfume lingers on the fabric and he catches himself marveling over a princess who is soft-hearted and overshares too much for her own good. Your sweet voice still echoes in his mind, “Can I see you again?” and for a moment he thinks about indulging you.

⭒ Just like kindred spirits, you seek out the stars on your balcony when sleep doesn’t come easy and somewhere from a great distance Sylus approaches the castle grounds from the sky. You’re so certain it’s him that your heart skips a beat at the familiar sight of his wingspan when he draws nearer and closer, eventually standing before you as the moonlight pours over his majestic form. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten all about me.” You beam with a smile and he knows it would be impossible to forget your existence no matter how much time has passed.

⭒ One thing leads to another, and Sylus sweeps you off your feet in a bridal carry as he searches your face for any signs of hesitation. “Are you sure you want to place your trust in me?” It was your impulsive idea and desire to experience gliding through the skies, and he allows you one last chance to back out yet he’s not surprised by your strong resolve. He waits for your cue then his powerful wings beat the air and he takes flight, the kingdom below becomes a blur as you glance down. His grip tightens slightly, a subtle reassurance when he feels you clinging onto him. “There’s no need to be afraid. I won’t let you go, you’re safe with me.”

⭒ You admire the night sky stretching out like a vast canvas scattered with stars and the full moon, but your attention drifts back to the dragon himself. He exchange looks with you every now and again, taking on a softer appearance compared to his usually sharp and intense expression. You don’t feel like a princess bound by royal duties any more than he feels like an abyssal sovereign loathed by the greater population. There’s a sense of belonging like you both were meant to find each other and for centuries his life didn’t truly begin until he met you.

⭒ Since sharing a memorable night together, you have Sylus promise you to meet you again and when your eyes gleam at him in such a way he can’t bring himself to let you down. From there, he takes it upon himself to forge a safe pathway where you can freely take your horse up to his cave. And he comes to you once the kingdom falls into a deep slumber to prevent your relationship from being discovered. You always look forward to seeing him however short and fleeting your visits may be, but even Sylus cherishes every moment that you keep him company.

꒰ note ᰔ also sylus shows signs of restlessness when he longs to hold you in his arms again. maybe he doesn’t outright say that he misses you but his tail has a mind of its own and gives him away. ꒱

[flufftato]

Sincerely, who?

Haikyuu! ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ Bokuto Koutarou ❥➳·₊˚

ꕀ

〃fluff 〃pairing: Bokuto Koutarou x reader 〃wc: 983

a/n: Special guest - my love Akaashi hehe. Btw i'm so torn. Do you think bo is a "babe" or "baby" guy?

Bokuto is a needy little shit.

If you were to make a playlist for him, “needy” by Ariana Grande would be the first song.

You noticed this trait when you first met him. This loud, oddly owl-like wing spiker was in constant need of praises and encouragement from his teammates in every game.

But you still ended up falling for him.

After years of dating, it has become a habit of yours to leave a little note in Bokuto’s gym bag every day.

It’s really just a simple reminder to stay hydrated, eat his lunch properly, and a ‘I love you’ at the end. It’s a daily dose of affection to keep him going.

And it works. It keeps him going the entire day.

Sometimes when you’re in the mood, you’ll put in some extra loves for him. Maybe a short poem you saw online or a cheesy pick-up line you think he might like. Whenever you do, Bokuto swears he could spike 24/7 straight through the week.

But today just as you were trying to tuck the note into his bag, the phone rang.

You put the folded note down on the kitchen counter before heading to the living room where the phone was.

It was a windy day. Autumn had officially arrived last week, and the breeze was colder than usual.

Autumn has always been your favourite. It’s not too hot like summer, not freezing cold like winter — just cool enough to save on eletricity bills.

You really shouldn’t have opened the window that morning.

While you were still on the call, the wind picked up and fluttered across the kitchen. The note, left too close to the edge, was blown off the counter.

A few minutes later, Bokuto came bounding in, grabbed his gym bag with a quick shout of, “Gotta go, babe! Love you, bye!” and was out the door before you could even say back.

By the time you returned to the kitchen, you spotted the little folded note resting quitely on the floor near the fridge.

Crap…oh well.

You shrugged it off, thinking he would be fine without the note for just one day.

How wrong you were.

The aftermath landed right on his teammates.

Akaashi, specifically, suffered the most.

—

“Akaashiii, don’t toss to me! I don’t think I can spike without y/n’s note!”

“Okay. I’ll toss to the others.”

“Huh—”

Akaashi is so used to this. He knows Bokuto just needs a moment before bouncing back in full force.

But not today.

Bokuto eventually grows restless, so Akaashi decides it’s the perfect time to set for him — only to see the ball lands right past the line. Twice.

That’s when Akaashi knows this is serious.

Frowning at his sulking teammate slouching in the corner of the room, Akaashi sighs. It’s time to act.

He rips a page from his notebook, pulls out a pen from his pencil case, and quietly slips into the storage room.

Akaashi sits on a folded mat, pen in hand, staring down at the torn piece of paper. For a long moment, he just…thinks.

He tries his best to recall the notes Bokuto had gleefully shoved in his face over the past few months. But it’s all a blur now. And he deeply regrets never reading them properly.

So he switches tactics. What would he want to read if someone left him a loving note? What would touch his heart and give him the much needed boost?

“Just a few more hours before you can finally be at peace, honey.”

…Yeah, no. That’s not gonna work.

After what feels like five hours (but was really actually ten minutes), he finally writes something that looks passable. He even makes sure to mimic your handwriting.

“You’re the best. See you tonight”

Akaashi caps the pen with a nod. This should be good enough.

He slips back into the court and casually sneaks the note into the bottom of Bokuto’s bag.

“Bokuto-san,” Bokuto’s hair perks up slightly. “Do you have a spare kneepad? I can’t find the other one.” And the hair deflates again.

But being the sweetheart he is, Bokuto still drags himself over to fetch the extra kneepads from his bag.

When his fingertips brush against the paper, he freezes.

“What is it, Bokuto-san?” Akaashi appears right on cue behind him.

Bokuto stares at the note that he swears was not there before in utter confusion.

“It’s…a note?”

“Ah, it’s from y/n, isn’t it? That looks like her handwritting,” Akaashi says smoothly, almost too smooth.

“I don’t know…it looks kinda off. And it’s usually longer…”

“Maybe she wrote it in a rush. Still sweet of her, though. Even when she’s busy, she still makes time to write them.” Akaashi’s fingers are crossed behind his back.

Bokuto squints at it suspiciously…Well, he did saw you on the phone sounding serious this morning. Maybe you rushed off to answer the call — that would explain the hasty words and handwriting.

Just as Akaashi thinks he’s about to be caught, the little clueless owl lights up and immediately calls you.

As soon as you answer, he gasps dramatically:

“Babe! I saw the note! I thought you forgot! I love you too my little matcha mochi!”

“Wha—”

“Sorry babe, can't talk long. Break’s almost over. I'll see you at home, bye!” Beep.

You’re left standing in the living room, phone still pressed to your ear as your eyes landed on the real note resting neatly on the coffee table.

Later that evening, you receive a heartfelt text from Akaashi, thanking you for hyping Bokuto with all those notes.

And begging you to never stop. Not even for a day.

You made it up to Bokuto that night with plenty of kisses and snuggles, and you made a mental note to buy Akaashi lunch tomorrow.

Oh and burn that real note before Bokuto finds out.

© flufftato • please do not repost, edit, claim, translate without permission •

[blasphemyandbackshots]

can you do the reacting to you squirting version for jjk too

sorry, I kinda used this request to write about Mahito (I know I know), but I promise he’s the last one and can be ignored 🙂‍↕️

ღ Satoru Gojo - “Oh? Ohhhh.” His ego shoots straight through the roof and so does his obsession. It catches him off guard for a half-second, his fingers still deep inside you, jaw slack as your thighs tremble and the sheets get soaked. Then his face splits into a greedy grin. “You came like that for me?” He kisses your inner thighs like you just gave him a gift, pushes your legs open again and says, “We’re doing that again. Right now.” You’ve created a monster. From now on, he lives to overstimulate you, wanting to see that exact moment you lose control all over his hands, his mouth, or his cock. He licks that shit up, literally

ღ Suguru Geto - He’s… so calm about it. Until he isn’t. He was focused, watching your face, teasing that sweet spot inside you with slow, careful pressure. And then suddenly he’s drenched, his lap soaked and his eyes dark. For one second he freezes, then tilts his head and murmurs, “That was new.” His voice drops into something possessive. “You’re going to do that again, aren’t you?” After that it becomes a ritual. He makes you squirt only when he wants to own you for the rest of the night. Clean sheets, clean hands, slow rhythm. But he always ends up fucking you so deep after, because he needs to be the only man to ever make you fall apart like that.

ღ Kento Nanami - He was not expecting it. He’s a careful, generous lover and was just eating you out with focused devotion. And then it hit him like a wave. His shirt? Soaked. His face? Dripping. He pulls back slowly, looking up at you through his ruined glasses. “That… was incredible.” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, voice tight. “I’ll clean everything. Don’t move.” But then he kisses your trembling inner thigh and adds, “Next time… tell me if it’s going to happen. Or don’t. I think I liked the surprise.” You better believe he studies exactly how to get you there again. Nanami turns it into a quiet, deeply personal mission to master your body. And when you squirt again? He smirks. “Perfect. Just like that.”

ღ Ryomen Sukuna - He laughs, low, guttural, cocky as fuck. It hits him mid-thrust, your body pulsing around him, soaking both your stomachs, and he groans, “Fuck. That’s filthy.” Immediately obsessed. Immediately. He grabs your jaw and kisses you hard, then pulls back to look down at the mess. “You like being ruined, huh?” You just made yourself his favorite toy. From now on, he’ll keep fucking you after you squirt, just to see you cry from overstimulation. He mocks you sweetly, cooing, “Can’t believe I broke you this good.” But behind the filth is raw hunger. You gave him a reaction he didn’t even expect and now he’ll do anything to make it happen again.

ღ Toji Fushiguro - Oh, baby. He feels it first. He’s fucking you from behind, slow and deep, hands gripping your hips. And then you gush around his cock with a cry. He stills. And laughs once, low and smug. “Shit, pretty girl. Did I just make you squirt?” He’s fascinated. Immediately pulls out, fingers you hard just to watch it happen again. Grins like a devil when you collapse, shaking. “You’re a messy one, huh?” You can’t hide it anymore. He teases you endlessly but praises you just as much as he calls you his good girl when you soak the sheets again and again. Eventually? He starts betting you. “Let’s see how many times I can make you do it tonight.” And somehow, he always wins.

ღ Choso Kamo - He wasn’t trying to make it happen. He was making love to you slowly, forehead pressed to yours, murmuring how warm you felt, how perfect. His cock was deep, his hands gentle and then you gushed around him mid-orgasm. You whimpered, flustered. But Choso froze. Eyes wide. Lips parted. Blinking down between your bodies at the soaked sheets. “…That was you?” His voice was reverent. You nod, embarrassed and he melts. Kisses you with a soft growl. “Do it again.” You’ve never seen him so wild. He needs to see it again. To make you come so hard you can’t stop it. That warm mess becomes sacred to him. After that, he fingers you in the bathtub, in bed, everywhere, just to see you fall apart like that again. He thanks you every time. “You’re so good to me… can’t believe you gave me that.”

ღ Ino Takuma - This man is all smiles and filthy praise until you squirt. Then he freezes. He blinks. Mouth still open from whatever praise he was mid-whispering. You’re panting, flushed, legs trembling… and there’s a large wet spot spreading across the sheets. And he just breathes, “…Did I just make you—” You nod shyly, and he practically short-circuits. “No. No fucking way. Did I just do that?? I DID THAT???” He’s like a kid who just discovered a secret power. Beaming. Flushed. Eyes locked on you like you’re a miracle. “You’re so sexy. You’re so fucking perfect. You squirted all over me, sweetheart. Holy shit.” You unlocked something in him. He becomes obsessed. Now he’s on a mission: How many times can he make you do it? How hard? How loud? He’ll spend whole nights between your legs. Shirt off. Hair a mess. Grinning up at you with messy lips and soaked thighs. “One more, baby. Just one more. You can do it again for me, right?” He kisses the inside of your knees like he’s worshipping you. Tells you your body is magic. Holds your hand while you shake through it. Later? He’s so proud of himself. Might even journal about it. ‘Date: Absolute win. She squirted. I saw God. She is God.’

ღ Mahito - Oh, you should’ve known better. He was already being mean, smirking as he toyed with your cunt, watching you squirm and beg for release. But then it happens. Your thighs tremble. You squirt. He pauses. His expression blank for half a second. Then, “Ohhh. Oh, now we’re playing for real.” You’ve just fed the beast. Mahito loves how messy, helpless, and undone you look. He lives for it. “You didn’t even know you could do that, did you?” he purrs. “Let’s find out what else I can wring out of this sweet little body.” The moment rewires something in his brain. Now he won’t stop until you’re crying from overstimulation, dripping onto the floor, your legs useless. He wants you destroyed. He laughs while you shake. “Look at this perfect mess. All mine.” And when you try to hide your face? He grabs your chin. “Don’t you dare look away. I want you to see what I do to you.”

[demie90s]

UConn x ꜰᴇᴍ!tattooed!reader

Bleed Blue… Literally

MASTERLIST | MORE

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: Everyone knew #17 was fine. What they didn’t know—at first—was that she’s covered in ink under that uniform. And just when the team thought they’d seen it all… she shows up on game day with a fresh tramp stamp.

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:Tattoos, minor swearing, implied obsession, mild thirsting from teammates, tramp stamp behavior

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: ~0.5k

ᴠɪʙᴇ: Baddie with ball-handling and back tats. “Huskies” tramp stamp reveal mid-stretch. “You got our team name tattooed on your ass?!”

Everyone already knew I was fine. That wasn’t news. But the tattoos? That always caught people off guard. The first time the team found out, it shut practice down. I’d taken my hoodie off mid-drill and Azzi straight-up choked on her water. Full sleeve down my right arm—black and gray with roses, script, thorns curling around my wrist like they belonged there. KK literally walked into a cone. Paige? She just stared. Mouth parted. Didn’t even try to hide it.

“You’ve had that?” she blinked. “The whole time?”

“It’s winter,” I said, nonchalant. “Y’all don’t see me outta layers.”

Then came the leg. I had my shorts rolled up for taping in the training room and boom—full thigh to ankle piece. Saints and sinners. Skulls. Angels. Vines. The whole damn Sistine Chapel wrapped around my quad. One of the trainers dropped the roll of tape. I didn’t say anything. Just let them look. Geno walked by, glanced down, squinted, and went, “You ever think about playing basketball instead of starring in a graphic novel?” I just smiled.

So yeah—they were used to me causing scenes.

But today? I outdid myself.

UConn vs. Tennessee. Championship energy. Whole building packed and hot. I showed up with my warmup hoodie tied low around my waist, stretching before the game when Paige caught a flash of new ink peeking out the top of my waistband. She froze. Blinking like her brain stalled. “Pause,” she mumbled. “Is that…?”

Azzi leaned in. KK was already squinting. And then it hit.

Big, bold, clean-lined blue script. Cursive. Perfect placement.

HUSKIES. Right above my ass.

Tramp stamp.

KK yelled. Like screamed out loud. “NOOOO.”

Paige started laughing so hard she fell off the bench. Azzi looked personally offended and impressed. “Why does the font look like a lingerie ad?” she asked. I just kept stretching.

“You got our team name tatted like that?” KK gasped.

“I love us,” I said. “What better place to put it?”

Even Nika walked over, stared, shook her head, and muttered, “You’re sick. I like it.”

Geno walked in right then, took one look at the group huddled around my lower back, sighed like he’d aged five years, and said, “Don’t tell me. Just… win.”

So I did. Played my heart out. Hit everything. Stripped their point guard three times. Ran the floor like it was mine. But I knew people were watching me for other reasons. I could feel the cameras zooming, the sideline whispers. I even caught one of Tennessee’s players staring across the court during free throws, eyes locked on my waistline like it owed her answers.

But the real moment came after.

Post-game. Conference room. Cameras everywhere. We’d just won, everyone was still glowing and high off adrenaline when a reporter leaned forward, real cautious-like.

“Hey, number seventeen—question for you. During the second half, it looked like your team kind of… reacted to you a certain way. Any idea what that was about?”

I blinked. Tilted my head.

“Oh?” I said, lifting my warmup hoodie a little with a lazy smile. “This?”

The room gasped. Not exaggerated—actual gasps.

I turned just enough to show the very top of it. The “H” in Huskies peeking out above my waistband. Subtle. Clean. Just enough.

“We’re national champs now,” I said, eyes gleaming. “Thought I’d make it permanent.”

Cameras clicked like crazy. KK buried her face in her hands. Paige couldn’t stop smiling. And Geno? He rubbed his eyes and whispered something like, “She did it again.”

I shrugged and sat back.

I mean… they should’ve expected it by now.

————————————————————————————————

@draculara-vonvamp

[wettvagina]

HOW JJK MEN WOULD SEND NUDES 〔gojo,geto,toji,choso〕

₍^. .^₎⟆

warnings: sexting , cum, cum tribute, dp, masturbation, notes:fem!reader, geto is a little gross, toji can't use a phone, thank you @dontcryskxawng for the toji headcannon, 1st fanfic in a while im getting a little rusty ;P

─── GOJO SATORU

First of all, you don't have to ask Gojo for nudes, he intrepidly sends you them, at the right moments of course. He'd never send you an unsolicited dick pic– only losers do that.

Gojo, however, will wait until the precise moment where he knows your rubbing your thighs and discarding your panties behind the screen to send that raunchy image.

You've been texting back and forth from the hours of 10:00 PM to 11:00PM, an entire hour of tempting words displayed on the screen, but neither of you are bold enough to send an actual image, that'd be expeditious. But, God– were you wet, throbbing achingly against your cotton panties that were practically taunting you with the way fabric brushed against your puffy clit each time you moved.

Your phone in hand, and the other shamelessly down your panties, you laid in your bed, wearing a flimsy nightgown and desperately wishing Gojo was here. But he was across Japan, sent to fight some special-grade curse in some urban town you were too horny to remember.

Opting to use your vibrator, Gojo texted you at the perfect moment, keeping your fingers on your phone like if he had you enticed. He used the right words, texted back as soon as you replied– seems like he was just as horny as you were.

Boy, was that an understatement.

In the sumptuous hotel bathroom he was currently staying at, Gojo had discovered this gigantic mirror attached on the wall near the sink, staring at his reflection which was flawlessly illuminated by a square of white light that encompassed the mirror fully.

His first thought– this mirror would be perfect for taking nudes. And so he did. He was about 100+ texts into it, using words that could only be described as panty-wetting, talking about all the things he'd do to you, how painfully hard he was and how perfect you'd be taking him. Trust me, it didn't take long for his dick to be brushing against his boxers, and when it did, he headed straight towards the bathroom, tugging his shirt up and over his head, pulling his blindfold off and letting his pure white strands fall upon his forehead.

He had his phone in his left hand, tugging his boxers down slightly, enough to let his achingly hard cock spring free, pre-cum dripping from the pinkish-red tip. He hissed through his teeth, rubbing himself once or twice, letting his pre-cum smear along his length, now his entire cock was glistening. He held his phone up, clicking on the camera app, dick resting in the palm of his hand as he clicked record, using his back camera to capture his reflection on the gracefully lit mirror, stroking himself with his large hand, he let out a throaty groan as he smirked and picked up the pace. Downright, disgusting sounds of his hands rubbing along his shaft circled the room and entered right into the speakers of his phone, giving you a vivid, crisp sound of how he's feeling when you eventually play the video.

Gojo didn't record too much, merely 30 seconds, as soon as the video appeared in his camera roll he shared it to you. Patiently waiting for the video to send and for your response, because that's all this was about, the only thing that could make him come was you telling him how good you made him feel, he wasn't selfish, he will always put you before him. He didn't even ask you to send anything back, the simple response you texted him 'omg i just came' was all he needed to finish, shooting creamy white ropes onto the sink and counter, shamelessly moaning and groaning with his phone still in his hand.

─── GETO SUGURU

Geto Suguru is a disgusting man, you knew this. So when you had to leave for two entire weeks to take care of some sorcerer-related duties, you pondered as to what Suguru would do during the 14-day period.

Maybe watch porn? Nah, he's not that type of guy. Buy a fleshlight? You didn't think he knew what that word even meant. Contain himself for two weeks? Haha—No. Jerk off using one of your panties? Possibly.

On the first day when you arrived, he texted you, asking if you reached safe, if you were okay and getting through with everything. Typical boyfriend stuff. He managed to keep himself busy the first day, spending time with his friends, working out, cooking, blah blah blah.

The second day, yes, the second day. He felt as if he would combust, he didn't know what to do with himself. He didn't want to text you throughout the day because he knew you'd be busy, but oh boy was it tempting, he clicked on your profile picture for the thousdandth time that day, staring at the image of you, wishing you were here right now.

He tried to suppress his urges, doing something else, anything else. He cooked himself some udon, cleaned the house, did some push ups, cleaned the house again.

That's where he went wrong.

Maybe it was the pent-up release of endorphins from the workout or maybe he was just too horny, but while cleaning he found his old wallet, he dug through the sections and zippers for loose change or forgotten bills, his fingers touched something and he pulled it out, it was a folded picture of you that he took and printed early on into your relationship.

It wasn't anything bad, far from that even. It was a simple picture that he took of you and liked it so much that he printed it out and carried it with him, you found it endearing, truthfully, you liked how you looked in the picture too.

Then an idea popped into his head. It wasn't a lightbulb moment, there wasn't an audible ding! in his brain but there was a throb in his dick so he didn't think twice about it.

Unfolding the picture he held it with his hand and eventually placed in near the edge of the bed, he took his dick out of the constraints of his boxers, pulling both his pants and boxers slightly lower. His thick cock sprung out and beads of pre-cum smeared on the picture all over your face, which made Geto chuckle a little bit.

He grabbed the shaft, using his reddened tip to smear more lines of white, sticky pre-cum along the picture. He pumped his cock, throwing his head back upon the feeling, he stared down at the picture, your perfect face, how good you looked in that dress you wore that day in the picture, he even imagined how you'd be right right now, naked, wet and ready for him.

The thought only made him throb more, hands vigorously stroking his dick, occassionally his tip would smear against the photograph making him hiss at the coolness of the material. His eyes darted at his phone on the dresser, without thinking, he grabbed it, swiping left at the home screen and clicking record.

The camera was facing the picture of you, his glistening pre-cum shone all over the picture on video, as he stroked himself quick flashes of his entire dick would frequently appear. He groaned and moaned loudly, uttering occassional curses through his teeth, and when he was close, he pointed the lens directly at the picture of you, lining the tip of his cock directly onto your photographed face, spurting white ropes all over the picture, groaning relentlessly throughout it.

He came a lot, soking the picture completely, and a puddle of white, sticky cum was on your face and he still stroked himself while releasing. He didn't stop recording until he was a breathless mess, watching how his cum dripped all over the picture.

The video was a total of 1 minute and 42 seconds long. And when he showered and cleaned everything up, including the picture, he placed the now oncemore vivid photograph into his new wallet.

He heard his phone vibrate on the bed, picking it up he smiled at your notification, 'hey what did you do today without me?' he smirked and sent the video. Letting out an actual laugh when you sent a flurry of messages calling him 'disgusting' and 'a pervert'. Yet you found yourself watching the video more times than you would like to admit, hands reaching down into your panties.

─── TOJI FUSHIGURO

You don't really text Toji, unless it's for something important, other than that, the online conversations you have with him are relatively short, mostly because of him. He doesn't know what punctuation is, uses the laughing emoji too much and sends uncorrelated GIFs. Also, Toji is rarely on his phone.

But on a rare occassion when he's at home and Megumi and Tsumiki are at school, and feeling a little lonely(and horny), he pulls out his phone. Texting you a 'hey'.

Once you reply he immediately calls you, to which you decline because you were currently at work. His face twitches, 'answer' he sends, 'can't i'm at work :(' you reply. You waited nearly five minutes for a reply, watching as his typing bubble appeared and disappeared. 'wen u finished come ovr' he replies, you instantly decipher the message, growing used to Toji's texting style.

You knew what he wanted, and obviously you would go to him when your shift was over. You wanted him just as much as he wanted you, and you wanted it now. A sly smile formed on your face when an idea popped into your head. You slipped away from where you currently were, entering the 'Employees Only' washroom, finding an empty stall.

Once you found one, you entered, locking the door and pulling your phone out of your back pocket, you lifted the hem of your shirt up to your chest, exposing your bra that was too small for you, allowing your boobs to spill out. You snapped a picture, sticking out your tongue too. You send it to Toji and he immediately sees it.

Again, he takes 5 minutes to reply, text bubble appearing then disappearing, 'naught girl😂' he replies, you smile and cringe at the same time at the inappropriate use of the emoji but text back nonetheless. 'send me something back' you reply.

Toji received the text and frowned at your response. Send me something back? Oh! A picture of his dick. Duh! He chuckled with realization, but ultimately frowned. How do you do that?

His phone was small in his palm as his eyes scanned the screen. He knew the GIF symbol was for GIFs, the '🙂' symbol was for emojis, so the camera icon must be for pictures.

He rapidly clicked the camera, and his spread legs appeared on screen, he raised his eyebrows in surprise, before clicking the big circular button in the middle, ultimately taking a blurry picture of just his massive thighs. "Shit." he cursed trying to navigate back to where he originally was.

Finally, he pulled down his sweatpants, and since he wore nothing underneath, conveniently, he snapped the picture and immediately sent it to you.

'toji I can't see anything', was all you replied with because truthfully, all he sent you was a dark blurry screen. Toji huffed and tried again, discovering the flash, he put on the setting and retook the picture, similarly raising the confinement of his sweatpants and snapping the picture this time a flash of light was present.

His dick wasn't hard yet, but he sent it anyways. You received the picture and you reconsidered quitting your job to go to Toji's house, but then you'd both be broke so, you sat your ass down.

The picture displayed his thick, long dick, the tip was pink and laid limp but looked appealing nonetheless, the camera lens looked greasy or maybe that was just the quality of his phone(he has a Samsung Galaxy j2 prime).

You replied, 'omg i'm so wet 🤤', when Toji received the text his eyes widened and his dick twitched, he slipped his hand down his loose sweatpants, jerking himself off a little, enough to get him hard. He felt sticky beads of pre-cum dribble from the swollen tip, making it easier for his palm to rub up and down his fat cock.

He hissed through his teeth, thumb clicking onto the small screen of his phone, clicking to where you had sent him a picture of your boobs, he stared at the picture while jerking off, wishing he was squeezing them, maybe even fucking them.

He came hard, ruining his sweatpants with a large spot of cum. He groaned when he finished, sending you a weird GIF of a glazed donut, chuckling as he wiped his hand on the fabric of his sweatpants. 'Maybe this phone was good for something' he thought.

─── CHOSO KAMO

Choso is shy, especially when it comes to trying new things. Not to mention he's dense, so when you were extremely horny one particular night and texted him trying to coax some sort of arousing conversation out of him, he wouldn't budge.

So you realized that maybe you'd have to be more bold, or straightforward. So when you directly sent him 'send me a video of you jerking off with sound' he obviously replied with a stream of question marks.

Obviously it took some persuading, but you were compelling so he gave in anyway. Choso, on the other hand, was panicking. He had never done this before, the only time he uses his phone to record something is for taking a video of you doing something dumb or trying a new food or at a scenic place. He's never used his phone for this.

But, despite his drawbacks on the situation, he was enthralled— you really wanted to see him that badly that you requested a video of him touching himself? It nearly made his heart flutter and surely made his dick twitch.

So he laid in his bed, got lotion and shifted his wasitband down, letting his cock spring free. He was already hard, but the cold air hitting his moist cock made him even more aware, he squirted a few pumps of lotion onto his hand, grabbing his dick and rubbing the cold, white substance onto it, the lotion mixed with the glossy beads of pre-cum already dripping from his flushed tip.

He quickly grabbed his phone with his unoccupied hand, finding the camera app and clicking record, he panned the lens directly onto his hard dick. He stroked himself letting all the nasty sounds his hands made wrapped around his cock enter the phone speaker, occassional whines would also end up in the video.

Choso's hand was shaking slightly, making the video wobbly and his pants and whimpers grew louder. As his hands moved faster, up and down his lotion-lathered cock he let out loud, throaty moans, gasping loudly when he became close.

He let out a string of curses followed by a chant of your name when he finally came, shooting thick, creamy white ropes of his cum all over his thighs, that dripped down from the tip and slid down all the way down to the base of his cock, even while he came he still stroked himself, panting loudly into the speaker, letting out pathetic whines as he came down from his high.

The video was a total of three minutes, three minutes of pure filth. You had to watch the video with your headphones on, listening to every second. And to be honest you were surprised, you didn't think Choso had it in him, you promised him something back but all he wanted to know was if he did a good job.

You sent him a picture of your soaked through panties to let him be the judge.

[shellyhughes]

bambi

꒰ა quinn hughes x pregnant fem!reader ໒꒱

type : oneshot , fluff words : 1185 rating : teens and up / suggestive talk SUMMARY: a morning with a tired quinn and a seven month pregnant you.

So, the house feels good. The off-season is only just starting and Quinn is already adjusting to making breakfast for you every morning. You definitely agree that, yes - it’s honestly the least he could do. The feeling of hot, busting and glimmering sunshine on your skin is enough to make you cry. Anything these days is enough to make you cry. The little one in your tummy wakes up fully with a harsh kick to your bladder, it’s been like this for weeks. You sigh, gently sitting yourself up and making your way to the bathroom for the third time in an hour. After the business is done, you realize you won’t be getting any sleep and you step in the kitchen to find your groggy boyfriend trying to make scrambled eggs. When you catch the sight of him - eyes sluggish and tired, toast burning, eggs undercooked - you smile. A+++ for effort.

But, when he catches the sight of you, his eyes soften. Then, he realizes you’re out of bed and walks up to you quickly, pressing a gentle and real kiss to the side of your mouth, “Morning, Bambi,” he hums that nickname you always blushed at. That nickname that came from one stupid night and stuck even after almost a year, “you okay?”

“Mhm,” you nod, leaning into his kiss, “just couldn’t really sleep.”

“That punk kicking again?” he raises his eyebrows, kneeling to your tummy, eyeing it - speaking to it, “Chill out, kid, you’ll be out soon.”

The baby replies with another soft kick.

Quinn lets out a huff of laughter, “Attitude,” then, he stands up, pressing his forehead against yours, “he gets it from you.”

“Oh, wow,” you giggle, half-pretending to be offended, “I have an attitude? You literally play hockey for a living. Your whole gig is getting pissed off and pissing other people off.”

His fingers slide around, gently rubbing your tummy. And right on time - the baby kicks him, almost like in agreement with you. His jaw falls a little, exasperated, “You two are already teaming up on me. You’re outnumbering me and he’s not even out yet.”

“Should’ve thought about that before you knocked me up,” you kiss his nose playfully, pulling away from him and meticulously sitting yourself up on the counter next to the burnt toast, idly kicking your bare legs.

His eyes trail over you. You know how much he loves you like this - a little sleepy, in your comfort clothes, a pair of oversized, grey sweat shorts and a purple tank top, your sweaty hair in a bun, your bump stretching the tight shirt around you. Your eyes, on the other hand, travel the state of the home. The morning sun has now made its way into the living room, spilling through the windows onto the hardwood like freshly chilled honey. You notice the sunscreen on the table from yesterday - he had rubbed it all over your shoulders in the backyard while you rested, reading some dumb magazine.

You slowly part your knees, spreading them completely. You were practically man-spreading. He takes this as an invitation, stepping forwards, standing snug between your legs - also keeping his hands on either side of your waist. “Hey,” his lips curl into a dumb smile.

“Mn, hi,” you shift as another small kick goes for your ribs this time, “You know what it is, bubs? - he recognizes your voice. He kicks every time you talk.”

“Oh yeah?” he slides his right hand back onto the bump, his other hand resting on your back, soothing it from the pain troubles you had been having. Another kick. He looks down, “- oh shit, hey, you can hear me?”

Your eyes flutter shut as you groan at the kicks. Your fingers slide under his chin, tilting it up, “Shush. You’re making him excited, Hughes.”

He stays quiet, eyes wide and happy.

“Good,” you smirk.

During this pregnancy, you’ve felt so involved. Quinn had been perfect. Never leaving you out, never taking over or treating you like you were made of glass. And even, right now, he’s being a doll. Letting you do what you want, say what you want, order him around. “I’m hurting,” you purse your lips in stress.

He pulls in closer, as close as he can possibly get, “Where, Mama?”

“My back. All over.” You wince, pushing yourself off of the counter, leaning all of your weight on him.

“Want the heated blanket?” he asks.

“Mhm,” he guides you to the sofa.

He’s quick to come back from the closet, plugging in the heated blanket and gently sitting it on your limp body. “Kissies,” you mumble, reaching for him.

He breathes out, leaning down to pepper kisses over your lips, then down to your neck, “You don’t know what you do to me sometimes, Bambi,” he murmurs into your neck.

“Oh yeah?” You play back, nipping at his forehead, “Clue me in, then.”

He’s quiet for a moment, then he smirks, “You can’t handle it.”

“Try me.” You roll your eyes.

“Imagine…” he pretends to trail off, tapping his fingers around your collarbone, “lots of sweat… lots of begging… like when you beg for kissies only more drunk on me.”

You roll your eyes again, trying to hide what that sentence did to you. “You’re filthy.”

“You asked.” He defends himself.

You both begin to feel the blanket heat up, he pulls away, leaving you be. But, you pull back one more time, “More kissies.”

He nods, repeating, “More kissies.” he leans back down, his lips connecting with yours quickly, deep and wet. But so real. So soft.

You and him rest on the sofa for hours together. Him rubbing cream on your stiff neck every so often, intimidating the monster in your tummy causing all this pain. But truly, there’s no other place you’d rather be. This is home. To think that seven months ago, this was all kind of an accident. He wasn’t ready and neither were you. It bloomed though, as things usually do when you leave them be - bloomed into something precious. It’s not for everyone, you know this. But, the love he showed you when that second line appeared on that test - the kind of love that said ‘No matter what you choose, I’ll be next to you. This is my responsibility.’ It showed you all you needed to know about Quinn Hughes. He never cut corners. Never on the ice and never in the real world.

Quinn hums in your ear, “Whatcha thinking about?”

“I dunno. Us.” You reply.

He presses his nose to your hair, inhaling your summer shampoo. “You turned me into a man.” he whispers.

“You think?” You ask, fingers running through his dark, messy strands of hair.

He nods. “I mean, yeah. You did. I used to think being a man was being tough, territorial… whatever… you know. But, I guess… I don’t know - none of that matters if you’re not happy. Being a man is being there for someone other than yourself. Did that even make sense?”

You love it when he rambles. You’re always the one who gets him going on these tangents. “Yes, bubs. You’re there for me?”

“Always, Bambi.”

[lost-in-thoughts03]

FLATLINE || Hwang In-ho

" How could you pull the plug and leave me flatline?"

Summary: A party attended by various wealthy businessmen who are your father's business partners. He invited you because he wanted to introduce you to the son of his business partner. However, there's someone who is envious and dislikes sharing you with others.

Warnings: 🔞, MDNI, smut, au, dad's best friend, soft-dom! In-ho, older man x younger woman (legal), age gap, unprotected sex, PiV, oral (F receiving), erotic, kissing, markings, tension, possessive, slight dark, jealousy, forbidden, piano sex, riding, power dynamics

“ I just came to tell you both about a business party this weekend.”

“ I need you there, sweetheart. It’s time you meet some of the big players.”

You raised an eyebrow. “ You mean...a setup?”

Your father grinned. “ There’s a young man I want you to meet. Smart, well-connected, runs one of the biggest tech groups in the city. I think you’ll get along. Maybe more than that.”

You could feel the shift beside you.

You turned slowly.

In-ho’s expression was different now.

He wasn’t smiling.

His jaw was set.

His eyes were on fire.

You knew that look.

That was the “mine” look.

The one he used when some guy even thought about standing too close to you.

“ I didn’t know matchmaking was part of your business model.” In-ho said, voice deceptively smooth.

Your dad chuckled. “ Oh come on, you know how it is. Business and pleasure, right?”

You nearly choked on your own spit.

You glanced at In-ho.

His stare didn’t move from your father, but that possessive tension vibrated off him like a warning bell in an active warzone.

You leaned in slightly, whispering just loud enough for In-ho to hear, “ Don’t worry, I’ll be on my best behavior...for the tech guy.”

His head snapped toward you.

His eyes raked over your face, unreadable—until you saw the corner of his mouth twitch.

Dangerous.

You had just poked the beast.

Good.

...

1 week has passed…

You arrived at the venue gripping your clutch like it was the last thread of your sanity. The ballroom shimmered with chandeliers that looked more expensive than your college tuition, and everything smelled like money and polished ambition.

You hated it.

The crowd.

The flash.

The performance.

So, like a child clinging to a parent on the first day of school, you hid behind your father’s broad back as he navigated through a sea of tailored suits and designer gowns.

" Come on, sweetheart." Your father coaxed, not looking back.

" You’re not five anymore."

“ Mentally, I just regressed.” You muttered, but followed anyway, awkward and tense.

Then you heard it. That voice.

“ Ah! And this must be your lovely daughter.”

You peeked out.

And saw him.

Cho Tae-hyun.

The face card?

Never declined.

He looked like he stepped straight out of a K-drama finale—a tall, crisp black suit hugging his lean frame, eyes that sparkled with easy charm, and a smile that could probably restart your heart if it was flatlined.

You barely managed a smile before he took your hand—gently—and bowed slightly.

“ You look breathtaking. That dress should be illegal.”

Your knees quivered.

What the hell.

He was smooth.

You couldn’t stop the blush creeping up your cheeks.

And when you looked up, your dad and Tae-hyun’s dad were grinning like two middle-aged cupids who were way too proud of themselves.

“ Perfect match, don’t you think?” His father chuckled.

“ We’ve been talking about this for months.” Your dad added, nudging your side like he just handed you a gift-wrapped fiancé.

You wanted to disappear. But Tae-hyun made it bearable—fun, even.

He laughed easily, talked to you like you were the only one in the room, and when he offered his hand to dance, you actually smiled and nodded.

For once, you didn’t feel like an anxious mess in a sea of sharks.

He led you to the dance floor with surprising confidence. You let him hold your waist—too close for polite distance, but not quite scandalous.

His fingers gave you a gentle squeeze.

You blushed harder.

But you didn’t see him.

In-ho.

Across the ballroom, standing with a group of executives, holding a champagne glass that now had a hairline crack from how tight he was gripping it.

His eyes were locked on you.

On Tae-hyun.

He watched the way that bastard smiled at you.

How you laughed.

How his hand dared to explore that dangerous zone at your waist like he had the right.

The champagne glass creaked in In-ho’s grip. His jaw clenched so hard you could see the vein throbbing in his temple.

The charming smirk he usually wore in social settings was gone—replaced by an expression darker, tighter. Possessive.

He couldn't storm over here.

Not here.

Not in front of your father.

Not while the press and potential investors were milling around.

But God, he wanted to.

His eyes narrowed when Tae-hyun spun you, and you giggled—pure, radiant, happy.

You never giggle like that with him.

He took a step forward.

Stopped.

Took another sip of his drink.

Bitter.

He imagined dragging you away by the wrist. Pushing you up against the nearest wall and reminding you who you really belonged to.

He imagined wiping that smug, polite smile off Tae-hyun’s face with one punch to that sharp jawline.

But he didn't.

Because he couldn’t.

Not yet.

So he stood there, burning in silence.

His fingers twitched.

His whole body was on lockdown.

But the fire behind his eyes raged, locked and aimed like a heat-seeking missile.

He was going to let you have your little dance.

But later?

You were going to forget Tae-hyun even existed.

…

The night dragged on, but you didn’t notice the time. Tae-hyun was charming, easy to talk to, and honestly?

A distraction you didn’t know you needed.

He made you laugh.

He complimented you with a kind of sincerity that made your heart flutter.

You danced with him again, maybe twice—okay, three times—and every time his hand lingered on your waist just a little longer.

But eventually, nature—and champagne—called, and you excused yourself from the ballroom. You barely made it to the hallway when a hand closed around your wrist.

You froze.

In-ho.

He didn’t say a word.

Just yanked—gently but firmly—pulling you down the corridor like he owned the building.

You barely had time to register anything before he pushed open a heavy door and dragged you into a private lounge—dimly lit, empty, too lavish for its purpose.

The door slammed shut behind you.

" In-ho—"

“ Don’t…” He snapped, voice low, dark, and shaking with restraint.

You turned to him. “ What the hell is your problem?”

He stalked toward you.

You stepped back instinctively—but he followed, slow, controlled, like a lion circling its prey.

“ You’re my problem.” He growled.

“ Waltzing around in that dress, giggling like a goddamn schoolgirl, letting that bastard put his hands on you.”

You bristled. “ It’s a dance, not a proposal. And Tae-hyun is actually respectful—unlike some people.”

That struck a nerve.

His jaw tightened, and his eyes flashed.

He stepped in so close your backs nearly touched the wall.

You could feel the heat rolling off him like a furnace.

“ Respectful?” He whispered, voice like smoke.

“ You think I didn’t see the way he looked at you? Like he already had you unwrapped and bent over that dance floor?”

You gasped. “ You’re one to talk. You’ve had plenty of chances to say something, but instead you stand there like some emotionally constipated statue and now you’re what? Jealous?”

He leaned in, forehead almost brushing yours, his breath hot against your lips.

“ You want me to say it?”

“ Say what?”

“ That you’re mine."

Your breath caught.

“ You’ve always been mine. But you keep pushing, keep running to other men because I don’t hand you a damn declaration on a silver plate.”

You blinked, heart racing.

“ And now? After watching you smile at him like that?” His voice dipped lower.

Rougher.

Hungrier.

“ I’m done being polite.”

His hand slid to your waist, fingers digging in, pulling you against him.

You felt all of him—tension, fury, desire.

It crashed into you like a wave.

“ You’re not leaving this room until I remind you exactly who you belong to.”

Your hands gripped his jacket before you even realized it. “ You think you can just claim me like that?”

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “ No. I’m going to make you remember.”

You shivered.

There was no more room to speak.

The heat burned too loud.

The jealousy, the hunger, the months of unresolved tension—it all flooded the space between you like oxygen on an open flame.

He kissed you like it was a punishment and a promise.

And God help you, you kissed him back like you’d been starving. His mouth crashed into yours, no hesitation, no room for doubt.

It wasn’t gentle.

It wasn’t sweet.

It was possessive—hungry, primal, like he’d finally snapped and couldn’t hold back any longer.

You gasped into the kiss, and that was all the invitation In-ho needed. His hands pinned your hips against the wall, grinding against you, forcing you to feel the full weight of what he’d been holding back.

Every restrained glance.

Every unsaid word.

Every jealous thought watching you with Tae-hyun.

You moaned softly, and his grip tightened—like he was afraid you’d disappear again if he didn’t hold you there, completely.

“ You drive me insane.” He growled against your lips.

“ You think I like being the one who waits, who watches while you flutter around some polished puppy with a fake smile and shiny shoes?”

You kissed him back harder, nails digging into his back through his jacket.

“ Maybe if you said something sooner—”

He bit your lower lip gently, making you gasp.

“ I’m saying it now.”

Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer. He dipped his head to your neck, his lips and teeth blazing a trail down your skin.

You arched into him, legs weak.

“ In-ho…” You breathed, head lolling back as he mouthed over your collarbone.

His voice was hoarse, breath hot on your skin.

“ You think he can touch you like this?” His hand dragged down the curve of your waist, slipping over the bare skin your dress barely covered.

“ You think he knows how to make you fall apart?” His fingers pressed into your thigh, possessive and slow, trailing up beneath your dress as your breath hitched.

“ Tell me…” He demanded, lips brushing your jaw.

“ Tell me he makes you feel this way.”

Your mouth opened—but no words came.

You were melting.

Because no.

No one made you feel like this.

And you both knew it.

But just as his hand gripped under your thigh and lifted you slightly off the ground, just as his lips were heading south, just as you were about to beg him not to stop—

SLAM.

The door burst open.

You both froze.

You slowly turned your head—

Tae-hyun stood there.

Eyes wide.

Mouth slightly open.

He blinked. Twice. His gaze dropped to where In-ho was still holding you up, your dress pushed up just enough to kill you inside.

“ I…” He cleared his throat, backing up.

“ Sorry. Didn’t mean to—um. You left your phone at the table.”

He dropped it on the small side table and turned around like his soul was trying to escape his body.

The door slammed shut again.

...

“ Dae-ho…” You groaned into your phone as you leaned against the stone railing outside the ballroom, trying to find solace in the slightly cooler night air.

“ You’re not gonna believe what the hell just happened.”

“ You sound wrecked.” Dae-ho said.

“ Is this about the dress? Did someone wear the same thing?”

“ No. Worse. I got dragged into a secret room and kissed within an inch of my life by In-ho.”

Silence.

“ HELLO?!”

Your eardrum exploded.

“ YOU WHAT?!” Dae-ho shrieked.

“ You filthy, lucky—WHORE! TELL ME EVERYTHING—what was he wearing? Did he pin you? Was there tongue? Did he groan? Did you groan?! Wait—WAS HE SWEATY?!”

“ Shut up!” You hissed, giggling.

“ Yes to all of it. And the way he growled when he said ‘you’re mine’? Dae-ho, I swear to God my uterus blinked.”

“ OH MY—”

But you flinched mid-laugh when someone stepped into view from the corner of the balcony.

Tae-hyun.

Crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up, tux jacket nowhere in sight.

He looked effortlessly cool, cheeks slightly flushed, hair tousled like he’d just stepped off the cover of a fashion magazine.

You panicked. “ Dae-ho—I’ll call you back.”

“ NO—”

Click.

Tae-hyun smiled as he approached, hands casually in his pockets. “ Sorry to interrupt. Was that a boyfriend?”

You choked on air.

Violently.

“ No! No no no. Just my best friend. He’s loud. And dramatic. Think drag queen energy trapped in a man who runs on Red Bull.”

Tae-hyun laughed—a warm, easy laugh that immediately made you feel lighter. “ Sounds fun.”

You offered him a grin, eyes instinctively trailing down—damn.

The shirt clung to him in all the right places. His arms flexed every time he moved.

You did not mean to stare, but well, God made art for a reason.

He raised a brow. “ Are you checking me out?”

You blushed. “ I plead the fifth.”

He laughed louder. “ Don’t worry. It’s a safe space.”

The two of you leaned over the balcony edge together, the noise of the party fading behind you.

The stars above twinkled like they knew secrets, and for a moment, the world felt less overwhelming.

Until Tae-hyun’s tone dropped.

“ Hey…Can I tell you something?”

You turned to him, surprised at the sudden shift in his energy.

He inhaled deeply. “ I haven’t told anyone this. Not even my closest friends. But…I trust you.”

Your heart skipped.

“ I’m gay.” He said softly.

“ And no one knows. Not my parents. Not my dad. Especially not my dad. If he finds out…I don’t know what he’d do.”

You blinked. “ Tae-hyun…”

“ I know. I’m sorry, I just…you’re easy to talk to. You didn’t come on too strong. You’re funny. And real. And I just—needed to say it out loud.”

You were stunned—but not in the way he feared.

A moment passed.

Then you smiled.

“ Well, shit, now I have competition for best dressed and hottest guy here.”

He looked startled—then cracked up, relief washing over his features. You laughed with him, louder now, the tension breaking like a wave.

“ Seriously, I’m honored you told me. And also a little mad. Because damn it, Tae-hyun, I was this close to falling for you.”

He smirked. “ Same, bestie. That dress nearly cracked my gay defenses.”

You both high-fived like you’d known each other for years. The bond was instant. Something between soul siblings and a newly formed chaos duo.

“ And for the record…” He added, wiggling his eyebrows.

“ That steamy hallway scene you two put on earlier? Hottest thing I’ve ever witnessed in real life. I’m still fanning myself.”

You groaned and smacked his arm, laughing hysterically. “ You saw that?!”

“ I walked in! It’s burned into my brain! You moaned so loud I thought I was watching HBO!”

You were dying. Tears of laughter pricked your eyes. But neither of you noticed the man watching from the ballroom window.

In-ho.

Drink in hand, face like thunder, gaze locked on you and that bastard—laughing again.

He expected the whispers are already circulating around the room about “the hallway” and “the scandal.”

But In-ho didn’t care about the rumors.

He only cared about the way you looked with someone else.

The smile on your face.

The way you leaned into Tae-hyun.

The way you laughed like nothing happened between you and him just minutes ago.

Jealousy still crawled under his skin like a damn disease.

He didn't know Tae-hyun was gay.

He only saw you, glowing in the moonlight, and some other man standing next to you like he deserved to be there.

His grip on the glass tightened again.

He wasn’t going to sit back and watch anymore.

…

The ballroom was thinning out now. Music soft, lights dimmer, the last clinks of champagne glasses like the closing credits of a movie you didn’t ask to be in.

Your heels had officially committed a crime against your feet, your back hurt from posture-pretending, and your face was about to fall off from smiling at people whose names you couldn’t even remember.

Tae-hyun walked beside you, brushing off a mosquito that had boldly tried to become a third wheel in your friendship.

“ Gosh, it’s like those bugs were summoned by Satan himself.” He muttered, scratching his arm.

You laughed and rubbed your own, “ I’m 90% sure I’m patient zero for Dengue.”

Inside again, the air felt heavier—not from heat, but from the tension.

The minute you stepped in, you felt it.

There he was.

In-ho.

Sitting beside your father like he belonged on the cover of a Forbes magazine—one hand resting lazily on the back of the chair, the other holding a glass of amber whiskey.

He looked expensive, bored, and absolutely lethal.

And he was watching you.

Not Tae-hyun.

You.

The corner of his mouth twitched, but there was no humor in it. His jaw ticked subtly, and his eyes—God, those eyes—were fire and ice and a promise of something you absolutely weren’t ready to handle right now.

Tae-hyun, oblivious, led you over to a group of older guests and cracked some charming jokes.

He placed his hand gently on your waist—innocent, friendly.

But it was like a lit match in a room filled with gasoline. You felt the burn of In-ho’s stare the moment Tae-hyun touched you.

Your chest tightened.

You dared a glance—

Yep.

He was still staring.

That slow drag of his gaze down your body made you feel naked in your dress. Like he could see every thought you’d had tonight—every throb, every pulse, every unspoken moan.

You swallowed hard and turned back to the guests, nodding politely as you tried not to collapse under the pressure of being undressed by a single look.

Your father, finally noticing you, called you over with a warm smile. “ There you are, sweetheart. You did well tonight.”

You smiled. “ Thanks, Dad.”

The remaining guests offered parting nods and compliments, and you bowed respectfully, praying this night would end already.

Then—

“ You may head out.” Your dad said, patting your arm.

“ You must be tired. In-ho will take you home.”

Your soul flatlined.

What.

You slowly turned your head, and sure enough, In-ho stood up smoothly, placing his glass down like he had all the time in the world—and all the satisfaction of a man who just won a game no one else realized they were playing.

He adjusted his cufflink with maddening calm.

“ Shall we?”

Your lips parted, trying to find an excuse, an escape, a parachute, but your father was already waving you off and going back to his whiskey.

You could feel the impending doom pressing against your lungs. Tae-hyun squeezed your hand and whispered,

“ Good luck. He looks like he’s about to ravage a village.”

You hissed through your teeth, “ Don’t say things like that. You’re not helping.”

“ Oh, I know. I’m just living for this drama.”

With a forced smile and knees made of noodles, you followed In-ho out. The moment the doors closed behind the two of you, the air snapped.

Neither of you spoke in the elevator.

You were too busy trying not to combust, and he was standing there like a wolf who had cornered his prey in a glass cage.

His eyes didn’t leave you once.

You almost wished he’d say something—anything.

Instead, he leaned in slightly, inhaling, as if he was trying to remember what you smelled like after dancing too long and laughing with another man.

The elevator dinged.

You barely stepped inside the apartment when In-ho grabbed your wrist and pinned you against the wall, his body caging yours in.

Your breath caught. “ In-ho—”

“ You like him touching you?” He asked, voice low, dark, dangerous.

“ You like giving other men permission to touch what’s mine?”

Your mouth opened, then shut. “ We were just talking—”

“ Really?” He leaned in, his breath hot against your cheek.

“ Because from where I stood, he looked like he wanted to unwrap you like a present.”

Your chest rose and fell rapidly. “ You’re overreacting.”

“ Am I?” His thigh pushed between your legs just enough to make you feel how close he was.

“ Because you moaned for me earlier like you’d let me tear that dress off right there on the ballroom floor.”

“ You’re insane.” You whispered, pulse screaming in your neck.

“ I am, actually.” He growled, dragging his fingers up your thigh.

“ You make me insane. Watching you smile for someone else. Laugh with someone else.”

“ You were the one who didn’t say anything until—”

He cut you off with a kiss—hard, bruising, desperate.

One hand tangled in your hair, the other gripping your hip like he could break through your bones to claim you from the inside out.

You whimpered, grabbing at his shirt, your legs already buckling. And when he finally pulled away, lips swollen, pupils blown wide, he whispered into your mouth:

“ You can pray all you want. But it’s already too late, sweetheart.”

...

The door clicked shut behind you with a heavy finality. In-ho tipped the driver, barely muttering a thanks, and then followed you in like a shadow soaked in gasoline.

You walked in, still silent, nerves fluttering in your chest like moths trapped in a glass jar. Despite staying here for a while now, you always forgot how huge his apartment really was.

Modern, masculine, expensive as hell—just like him. It smelled like expensive cologne, aged whiskey, and something dangerous.

You barely took a step into the living room when—

A large hand wrapped around the back of your neck, firm but not cruel. You gasped, whirling, only to be dragged forward as his lips crashed onto yours.

It was not a kiss. It was an attack.

A claim. A consequence.

His mouth moved with a hunger that had been caged far too long.

His tongue demanded, not asked.

Your lips parted on reflex, and he took.

Took the gasp. Took the fire. Took the control.

You stumbled backward, trying to stay upright, but he was relentless. The heat between your bodies fused like molten glass.

And then—clang—your back hit cold ivory keys.

The piano.

You startled slightly at the sound, a sharp breath escaping your lips, and In-ho used that instant like a wolf who found a weak spot—he groaned, gripped your hips tight, and plundered your mouth again.

Your tongues clashed, wild and reckless.

Each kiss is deeper, wetter, messier.

You felt the low rumble in his chest vibrate through your ribs.

“ You like playing games?” He rasped against your lips, panting, pressing you harder into the piano.

“ You like teasing me, looking at other men while I’m standing right there?”

You gripped his shirt, trying to breathe, trying to think—but he was everywhere. His scent, his body, his voice dropping low like sin itself.

“ I didn’t mean—”

“ You knew exactly what you were doing.” He said, kissing down your jaw, his hands spreading across your waist, fingertips like fire.

“ Wiggling that perfect little ass in that dress. Laughing with him. Touching his arm.”

He gritted his teeth, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. His expression was furious…but also wrecked. Like he’d been holding something in for too long, and it finally exploded.

“ I watched you all night.” He growled.

“ Watched you glow for someone else. And I thought—fuck, maybe she really doesn’t care.”

“ In-ho…”

He slid a hand to your thigh, gripping it as he lifted your leg and hooked it around his waist, pulling you flush against his growing hardness.

“ But then you looked at me. Just once. And I knew.” His forehead pressed to yours, breath shallow.

“ You’re mine. Even when you’re being cruel. Even when you’re pretending not to be.”

You gasped when he shifted his hips, dragging delicious friction right where you needed to pulse the hardest. Your head fell back, hitting the piano with a dull thud. He chuckled low.

“ You’re noisy.” He whispered into your neck.

“ And I haven’t even started playing my game yet.”

“ In-ho, please—”

“ Oh no…” He cut you off with a wicked grin.

“ You started this. Teasing me. Eye-fucking me like a brat. So now—” He ghosted his lips down your collarbone, making you shiver.

“ You’re gonna sit back. Be a good girl. And play by my rules.”

You swallowed hard, heart jackhammering in your chest. “ And if I don’t?”

His smile turned feral. “ Then I’ll make sure you scream loud enough to break every damn string on this piano.”

You laughed breathlessly, unable to stop the fire that was curling in your stomach. “ You’re insane.”

He leaned close, lips brushing your ear, his voice dark and rich. “ I told you before…I’m insane for you.”

Your breath stuttered in your throat. You felt his words slide into your skin like velvet and fire, seeping into every weak spot you tried so hard to guard.

And the worst part?

You wanted to lose this game.

Your leg still wrapped around his waist, In-ho leaned in and kissed you again—slower this time, but no less intense.

His tongue explored your mouth like he had all night to memorize it. His hands roamed possessively, mapping your body like it already belonged to him.

He moved his lips to your jaw, then to your ear.

“ You think you can drive me crazy and get away with it?” His voice dripped with danger and sin.

Your fingers tangled into his hair. “ What if I do?”

He chuckled—low and feral. “ Then I’ll just have to remind you exactly who you’re dealing with.”

He pulled away just enough to look at you, eyes burning with lust and challenge. Then he spun you around in one fluid motion, pressing your stomach against the glossy surface of the piano.

You gasped—half from shock, half from the delicious anticipation that lit up your spine.

“ You think you’re clever.” He murmured against the back of your neck.

“ But you haven’t even seen what I’m capable of.”

He kissed your shoulder slowly, then trailed his lips downward along the line of your spine, lifting your dress with maddening patience.

Every inch of exposed skin felt like it was being branded by the heat of his breath.

“ You looked too good in this…” He muttered.

“ Too fucking good. I should’ve never let you walk out of the room wearing it.”

“ You didn’t let me do anything.” You bit back, breathless.

In-ho smirked. “ Exactly. And that’s your first mistake.”

One hand pinned your wrists gently to the piano lid while the other explored—teasing, deliberate, electric.

He was toying with you, but you knew this wasn’t just lust.

This was punishment.

This was claiming.

This was him saying: you can flirt, tease, laugh with other men—but no one will ever ruin you like I do.

“ You don’t get to tempt me.” He whispered hotly against your skin.

“ Then act like I’m the problem when I finally snap.”

“ And what happens.” You panted.

“ When I don’t want you to stop?”

He froze for half a second—just enough to show you that your words struck bone. Then—

“ You just gave me your consent.” He growled, pulling you back into him, mouth reclaiming yours with renewed hunger.

“ Game over. You’re mine.”

The air between you was heavy—so thick it pulsed.

Your skin flushed, the piano still humming faintly beneath you from the earlier chaos. But none of it compared to the way In-ho looked at you now.

His lips crashed against yours again, mouth hot and greedy, swallowing your moan as if he needed it to breathe.

His hands traveled to your waist with a kind of reverence and desperation all at once, fingers digging in, claiming you like he had something to prove.

You weren’t even sure who pulled away first, but your lungs begged for air.

The moment your lips parted, a thick strand of saliva stretched between you—glinting under the moonlight pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Neither of you looked away.

“ I wanted to rip him off you.” In-ho growled, his voice wrecked and raw.

“ When I saw his hand on your waist—my fucking place—I nearly lost it.” Your breath hitched, pulse thundering in your ears.

“ I wanted to drag you away. Pin you against the wall. Tell every single person in that room—including your father—that you’re mine.” He confessed, gripping your hips tighter.

“ Only mine. If anyone gets to touch you, it’s going to be me.”

You smirked, heat pooling low in your belly.

“ Sounds possessive.”

He leaned in, brushing his lips across your jaw.

“ It is.”

Your hands moved to his tux jacket, tugging it off his broad shoulders. You dropped it slowly to the floor, your fingers barely grazing the muscles underneath his dress shirt.

He didn’t stop you.

He watched you—hungry, breath shallow, pupils blown wide.

You gently pushed him back, and he obeyed, chest rising and falling as you turned your back to him and slowly began loosening the straps of your red dress.

“ Careful.” You murmured over your shoulder, voice like liquid temptation.

“ You might go completely insane tonight.”

His jaw flexed. “ I already have.”

The silk slid down your arms like water. But before it could pool at your feet, In-ho surged forward, catching you in his arms. The dress hung from your hips, forgotten, as his hands swept over your bare back.

“ You’re not just a body to me.” He said, voice quieter now, but no less intense.

“ You’re a goddamn obsession.”

He lifted you effortlessly, placing you back onto the piano bench—right on the black and white keys.

A discordant note rang out beneath you as the instrument cried softly in protest.

But you weren’t paying attention to the music anymore. His hands cradled your face. His eyes devoured you—like you were the most exquisite piece of art he’d ever laid eyes on.

“ If I’m going to make a mistake…” He whispered, brushing his thumbs along your cheekbones.

“ Then I want that mistake to be you.”

And then he kissed you again—not rough this time, but soft.

Devotional.

As if he wanted to memorize the taste of your mouth forever.

You clutched his shirt, pulled him closer, and whispered against his lips, “ Then ruin me properly, In-ho.”

A dangerous gleam lit in his eyes.

“ Oh, darling…” His smile turned slow and sinful as he unbuttoned his shirt, piece by piece.

“ Gladly.”

In-ho shrugged off the last of his white sleeves, letting the fabric fall like silk onto the hardwood floor.

The moonlight carved every sculpted line of his chest and abs into high definition—like a sculpture brought to life just for you.

His skin glistened slightly from the heat between your bodies, the contrast of soft shadows and hard muscle impossible to ignore.

Your breath caught as your fingers—driven by a hunger you no longer tried to hide—slipped across his chest.

The texture of his warm skin, the taut muscles beneath your palm, sent a shiver up your spine.

Your hand traced slowly, reverently, lower…fingertips grazing the ridges of his abs. You gasped at the feel, lips parting slightly as your thoughts turned sinful and your body followed.

He let out a sharp, guttural growl—low and full of warning. The kind of sound that wasn't meant to scare you off…but to devour your restraint.

You moved closer, pressing soft kisses across his chest.

You took your time, tasting him, marking him with your lips. With each kiss, his breath grew heavier—until a rough moan escaped him, reverberating through his ribs beneath your mouth.

You glanced up at him with a smirk, eyes glinting. You knew what you were doing.

And so did he.

But now…it was his turn.

In-ho’s hands moved with sudden purpose, large palms gripping your waist as he turned the tide without effort.

He pressed you against the edge of the piano again, his head dipping low to your neck—his breath hot, his mouth eager. You barely had time to gasp before his lips found your skin.

The first kiss was soft…but the second—God.

His teeth scraped lightly as he dragged them along your throat, then bit gently down, just hard enough to claim.

Then another.

And another.

He wasn’t just kissing you—he was branding you, leaving behind a constellation of hickeys like a secret language only he would understand.

You tilted your head back with a moan, hands gripping his shoulders like he was the only thing tethering you to this earth.

His mouth trailed downward.

Across your collarbone.

Licking. Nibbling.

Each motion deliberate, each moan he pulled from you more desperate than the last. Then, he knelt—slowly, reverently—before you, his gaze dragging up your body like a prayer spoken in the dark.

His hands slid up your thighs with a reverence that sent goosebumps cascading across your skin. When his lips reached your chest, he paused. Looked up at you. His eyes—normally so cool and composed—were glassy now.

Wide. Pleading.

As if asking: May I worship you?

And you…you just nodded.

He leaned forward, kissed your skin softly, then again—his tongue circling with maddening patience.

He groaned against you, the sound vibrating through your bones. His hands gripped your thighs, holding you steady, holding you here—right where he wanted you.

Right where you wanted to be.

Every touch, every sound, every breath between you was a crescendo building toward something unstoppable.

And through it all, the piano beneath you whispered low notes with every shift of your body—a haunting, accidental symphony to a night neither of you would ever forget.

“ Sit on the keys.” He said, eyes dark with want.

You hesitated, your legs still wrapped around him.

“ But…the piano—”

“ I don’t care.” He interrupted, already lifting you by the waist.

“ Let the whole world hear us.”

The second your bare skin touched the keys, a chaotic melody rang out—discordant, unplanned, but thrilling in its rebellion. You gasped at the sound, the intimacy of the moment heightened by the echo of keys beneath you.

He stepped back for a breath, only to let his hands slide down your thighs and grip them firmly, spreading you open like you were the answer to a question he’d been asking all his life.

The silk of your dress was tugged away in a single fluid motion and discarded without a second glance.

Now, there was nothing left between you but want.

His eyes dragged over you—hunger, awe, worship all tangled in the heat of his stare. You opened your mouth to say something, but the words never came.

He dropped to his knees like you were a deity, and he’d been starved of prayer for too long. Then his mouth was on you.

A cry escaped you—raw and instinctive—as his tongue dragged a long, deliberate stroke across your center.

His hands gripped your thighs harder as he buried himself deeper, tongue working you over with such precise desperation that your spine arched and your fingers flew into his hair, tugging, grounding, begging.

The keys clanged under you again with each jolt of pleasure, a haunting, broken symphony to the chaos of your bodies.

In-ho moaned into you, the sound vibrating through your core. His eyes flicked up to yours, wide and dark, seeking something wordless.

Permission. Trust. Surrender.

You nodded, breath trembling.

His long fingers replaced his tongue for a moment—he slid one between your folds slowly, carefully. You gasped as he entered you, the stretch sudden, and your fingers tightened in his hair.

“ You’re doing so well.” He murmured, voice rough with reverence.

Then he curled his fingers—once, twice—searching, until—

“ Fuck, In-ho!” You cried out, head thrown back as the keys beneath you clattered in violent protest.

He repeated it, again and again, curling, stroking that hidden place inside you that shattered reason. Your body trembled, your breath short and erratic.

You could feel it building—pleasure pulling tight, your whole being strung like a note about to break. And he never looked away from you.

Even as he took you to the edge, even as he licked, kissed, tasted the proof of how you unraveled beneath him—he stared up at you like you were a miracle unfolding in front of him.

You fell apart with a cry that echoed through the room, a sharp, sweet crescendo of pleasure that burst like stars behind your eyes.

The piano keys screamed your release with clashing notes, the room spinning around your breathless, shaking body.

And still, he stayed there. He didn’t stop. He tasted every last drop of you like it was something sacred. Like your pleasure was his purpose.

Only when your legs trembled around him and your fingers slid from his hair did he rise, his mouth glistening, his expression a mix of pride, awe…and something dangerously close to love.

He leaned in close, voice hoarse and reverent.

“ You’re…everything. I’d burn the world just to have this again.”

Your body trembled, legs barely steady as you tried to recover from the high he had just drawn out of you—but In-ho wasn’t done.

Not even close.

You watched as his hand reached down, the soft zip of his pants cutting through the haze in the room.

And then he freed himself.

Your eyes widened, breath catching at the sight of him—thick, flushed, and heavy against his stomach.

It pulsed with need, and the angry red hue of it made you blink, your face heating as intrusive thoughts raced into your mind.

That’s supposed to go inside me?

You stared at it, then at him, then back at it again.

“ Do you see what you’ve done to me?” In-ho growled, his voice rasping like gravel.

“ Come here.”

You bit your lip, hesitating. He caught that flicker of doubt in your eyes.

“ I…I’ve never done this.” You admitted softly, cheeks flushed.

“ No one’s ever touched me like this, In-ho. You’re the first. And you’re…you’re huge.”

A small, wicked smile curved his lips, but it faded into something softer when he saw the tremble in your hands.

“ I’ll guide you.” He whispered, reaching up to cup your face.

“ We don’t have to rush. If it hurts, stop. But if it feels good…take what you want from me.”

He sat on the edge of the piano bench, spreading his legs slightly, motioning you down.

“ Straddle me.”

You climbed down from the keys—making them clatter again—and positioned yourself over his lap, heart thundering.

He reached for your hand and wrapped it around the length of him. You inhaled sharply at the warmth and weight of him in your palm.

“ Now…” He whispered, brushing his lips against your cheek.

“ Take your time.”

You guided him to your entrance, nervousness prickling over your skin like static.

Slowly, achingly slowly, you sank down onto him.

The stretch made you whimper, and you clung to his shoulders, eyes brimming with tears.

“ In-ho…” Your voice cracked.

He kissed your jaw. “ You’re doing so well. You’re perfect. I’ve got you.”

The sensation was overwhelming, but his words kept you grounded. Inch by inch, he filled you—your breath hitching, your body trying to adjust to the fullness.

A tear slipped down your cheek, and he kissed it away.

When you finally took him fully, your bodies pressed flush, you both gasped—him from the feel of your tightness around him, you from the strange, raw sense of completeness.

“ You okay?” He whispered against your neck.

You nodded weakly. “ I…I think I can move.”

“ Then move for me, baby. Show me how you dance.”

With trembling legs, you began to roll your hips, slowly at first, testing.

The pain dulled with each pass, replaced with the warm pulse of pleasure spreading through your body like fire licking up dry leaves.

He groaned beneath you, hands anchoring you to him, guiding your rhythm. And then—he did the most ridiculous, beautiful thing. One of his hands stretched out behind you, fingers finding the piano keys.

You gasped when the notes rang out, soft and melodic—a romantic song building from nothing, while you moved on top of him.

“ You’re insane.” You laughed breathlessly.

He grinned. “ Maybe. But look at you. You’re the most beautiful melody I’ve ever played.”

The sight of him—bare, swollen with desire, playing a gentle piano piece while buried inside you—was so wildly erotic it nearly undid you. The harmony of your breathy moans and the tender melody filled the room like a fevered dream.

Your pace quickened, and he met each motion with a slow, deep thrust upward, refusing to let go of your hips. You gasped, your cries syncing with the keys under his hand.

“ Keep going.” He murmured, lips against your ear.

“ Dance for me. Show the world how good you are.”

You clung to his shoulders, your body moving in a desperate rhythm, chasing that final high.

It hit fast—sharp and blinding—your body tightening, trembling, until the world exploded in heat and noise and chaos.

In-ho growled your name, holding you still as his own climax tore through him, his arms crushing you to his chest as he buried himself deep, spilling every ounce of himself inside you.

Silence followed.

The last note of the piano echoed, then faded.

You collapsed against him, utterly spent, your forehead resting against his damp collarbone.

“ Well…” You gasped between panting breaths.

“ I guess the sun will have to wait. I can’t walk after that.”

He chuckled, wrapping his arms around you tighter.

“ Good. Let it rise. Let everyone know you’re mine.”

You smiled—exhausted, shaken, deeply full of him in every way. And in that moment, you weren’t just claimed. You were cherished.