#i had plans to do i hate it here and I still do | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

neuary · 6 hours ago

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You're all I can think of, every drop I drink up.

MINORS DNI!! MINORS DNI!! MINORS DNI!! MINORS DNI!!

contents ⇀ Manager!Mc, AFAB reader, titsucking, fingering, handjob, B.Saja hates your guts (at first but then he starts fucking it), Lots of petnames from him and he calls you 'manager' a lot here, mentions of alcohol, lots of teasing from him, switch reader(and a lil of B.saja), I give him a name here because I refuse to call him Baby Saja the whole time.

side note — im also planning on making a whole lore about how Mc became their manager and yes im calling the reader mc bcs im a LADS fangirl and have grown used to it LOLL

Your impression of him had been sour.

He'd often express great disliking towards you because a mortal human would be handling their group. And the fact that you made a deal with Gwi-Ma for this job just made you more irritating. 'Human greed as always.' He'd say, as if his words held no hypocrisy. But you'd always try to remain professional, putting up with his mean remarks masked as 'criticism' as well as the obvious glares whenever you're in the same room.

He hated you and you did your best to work around that.

Your first proper interaction happened late at night when he found you drinking alone in the bathroom. You looked like a mess. Hair sticking out in different directions as tears stained your cheeks, the sight looked absolutely pathetic he just had to sit and watch.

You offer him a drink and he accepts because who says no to alcohol? Well not him.

He drinks with you, watching as you take in sips of the booze directly from the bottle. Nothing he hasn't seen before, human nature at its lowest point. You start to spill out your thoughts, telling him about how hard it is to be their manager, and even if he didn't care to listen you had to let it out as a drunken statement just for tonight.

He listens and may or may not have been reminded of his humanity. He still didn't like you, but you were tolerable as of now.

And from that point on, you'd both drink together late at night in the bathroom, time to time. He let it happen, maybe because the fact that you're drunk means you wouldn't be able to remember much of what he's saying. Or maybe because the company you both shared on the cold tiled floor just felt nice.

Then one night he enters the bathroom and he sees you there fully sober. "Hey." You greet him. Opposed to the usual, "Babbbyyyyyyy!" That'll leave from your lips every time you see a blur of blue hair in your drunken state.

"Not drinking tonight?" He asks, his expression blank as he sits next to you.

"No.. I'll just get a hangover and it'll make the job worse for me."

"We just ran out of booze didn't we?"

"Yeah that too I guess."

Silence falls between you two, and you soon ask him a sober question.

"What's your real name?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"Calling you 'Baby' is a little too awkward for me."

"With how many times you've said it, I'm surprised."

Your face flushes as you look down.

"I was drunk those times okay?.. But you don't have to tell me, It's not—"

"Daewon."

You look at him, surprised that he'd actually tell you. "So is it fine if I call you that now?"

"I don't really care."

Is what he said, though he didn't expect to be caring about it at all now that he has you in his bed. Underneath him, half naked, your panties pushed to the side as his fingers pushed in and out of you.

"Daewon..!" You'd say in between his thrusts, your face flushed and hidden behind your hands.

The sight thrilled him, wanting to push you further.

"I want to see you, manager." He coos, leaning down to tease you more. His free hand moves yours away from your face, you could tell how much he enjoyed your reactions with just his breathing alone. "Well aren't you pretty? Haha.. Want me to go faster?"

"Mghh..! Please! Fffuck..!! I.."

"Mm, yeah? What is it manager?"

"Yyou're.. Aaahh..! Sssuch a prick..mmm!"

"Watch it, beautiful. I'm the one knuckles deep inside this pussy, do you really think you should be speaking to me like that?"

God he's such an asshole. But really, that only turned you on. Every taunt that came out of his mouth made you writhe and whine at the palms of his hand, the very same palms that groped at your body, taking your clothes off bit by bit, unclasping your bra as he asks if he can have a taste.

It came out more teasing than asking though, the shiteating grin on his face as vexatious as ever. "Wanna taste you so bad gorgeous, you'll let me right?"

"Just do it already..mmghh.."

"Oh but it seems like you don't want me to."

"Daewon, I swear to god—Aghh..!"

You can feel the smirk that forms on his lips as he starts to suck on your chest.

"You like my name a lot?" He kisses at your collar bone, "Gonna scream it out for me?" He licks down up until your cleavage, his other hand still working on making you cum as the other holds your tit directly at his tongue. He puts it in his mouth, sucking and lapping up at your nipple, letting it go with a pop as he gives the same attention to the other. You continue to whine complaining about the pace he's going, your pussy clenching at his fingers.

The way your eyes sharply squints at his direction has every vein in his body quiver, the electrifying feeling of it pulsing up until his cock. He needed you, so bad but he still wanted to test how desperate you can get.

"You're complaining a lot but this cunt tells me otherwise.. hah.. mm, show me how bad you want it yeah?" His hands take a break from fondling your breasts, leading you to feel the bulge in his pants. "Show me.. mm..ah.. I know you want to.."

You hesitate, because you want to get him back thanks to how pent up he's made you.

But the look he gave you leaves you torn with the options you had in mind. "Is it my turn to beg?" He chuckles, "You're so cute.. hah.."

"You're sssoo.. mmghhff..ffuck.. I hate how good yyyou.. aare at thisss.. aaa...nnmmhhh.!"

"Flattery won't get you anywhere but my cock, gorgeous... Haha.. Keep going, yeah?"

He pulls your hand onto the tent in his pants, making you more feel more hotter than before. He felt big.. No, he is big. With a face like his you wouldn't expect it at all, and the way he's looking at you suggests that he's intent on making you remember that.

"Feel that? That's all you." He smiles before kissing you, his lips traveling down to your collar and chest once again. He groans at your touch, smiling against your skin as he feels you give in to his request. "Mmhh.. That's right.. Stroke my cock."

You place your hand at the base of his bulge before going at the hem of his pants, taking his cock out. You start out slow, teasing him back by grazing your fingertips onto his shaft, softly going up and down.

"Please. You can do better than that." He whispers directly at your ear, his words coming out more as a demand.

"You can beg better than that." You bite back, earning another smile from the demon. His fangs are visible as he bites at your shoulder without warning, slobbering it up after with kisses and licks.

"So it is my turn after all. 'Want it fifty-fifty, is that it?"

"Mmghh.! ..ahh" You could feel his fingers press harder into your pussy, his thumb bundling up your clit to stimulate you further, "Daewon..ahhh just..mmghh.. ffuhh.. fff..fuckk..!"

"Fffuhh..ffuuuhh?" He mocks, quickening his pace, "ffuuuckkkkk you? Haha.. mmmghh, that what you want from me, gorgeous?"

You felt even more flushed with the names he keeps throwing at you, unable to keep up but still unwilling to drown into his control.

"Yeahh ahhhggg... So what iff..I do?.. You're supposed to..mmm do what I say anyway..ahh.."

"If you're gonna be so demanding you should try not look so good while getting fingered by me, manager.. haha." His voice was a low, wicked murmur, his breath hot against your ear. Each word sent shivers down your spine, making you arch into his touch instinctively. He chuckled darkly, a sound of pure satisfaction.

"Mmm, you're so responsive, manager... I can feel you clenching.. Craving more."

You could feel the hard length of him pressing insistently into your palm, a silent promise of what was to come. He was teasing you, pushing you to the brink of desperation with his slow, sensual thrust. He just needed you to beg for it. To really beg for it. To scream your desire out to him so he can finally have you right then and there. You wanted it as bad as he did didn't you? Your pretty face says it all as he tries his hardest to hide the look on himself.

He drank in the sight. The desperate need written plainly across your features, the hunger that mirrored his own. The thought of it made him twitch, knowing he could reduce you to this state with just his touch and teasing words. His ego swelled at the realization, cock throbbing with anticipation. His lips brushes against yours in a ghost of a kiss, not quite touching but close enough to feel the heat radiating from them. He moves back onto your breasts, the slick of his drool drips down, his eyes stuck to yours. "Come on, gorgeous... mm.." He places a peck on your nipple, "Don't hold back now. I want to hear you scream my name like you mean it.." He heavily sighs, "Fuck, the way you look at me, like you need me more than your next breath... it's fucking intoxicating."

His fingers held both your tits in place, allowing him to suck and lick as he pleases as the other continued stroking and circling your clit. He could feel the slick heat of your arousal coating his fingers, and it took every ounce of control not to simply surge forward and bury himself inside you.

"Daaaewon..mmmm aghh fffuckk..!"

"Tell me how badly you want it, manager. Beg me for it." His voice was a low, dark rumble, sending vibrations through your chest. He nipped at your chest, soothing the sting with a flick of his tongue before pulling back slightly to search your eyes. "I need to hear it.." The tone of his voice almost let out a crack of neediness.

"The way your pretty face flushes, the way you tremble and moan so sweetly... it's driving me insane. So be a good girl and give me what I want, yeah?"

He punctuated his demand with a sharp thrust of his fingers, pushing deep and curling against that perfect spot inside you. His thumb rubbed tight circles on your clit, the dual stimulation pushing you to the brink of ecstasy. He was close, so fucking close to snapping, to giving in to the urge to just take you. But he needed to hear you say it.

You soon snap, having enough of his teasing.

But you didn't dare beg. Hell no.

You retaliate, squeezing at his cock so suddenly, not enough to hurt but to get a reaction from the demon. His eyes shot open, lips letting go of your breasts as he lets out a strained moan. "Aghhmm..!? What the fuck are y..! Ahhhgg..mmm.."

You rub your thumb over the tip of his dick, stroking him every few seconds as you switch between both actions. He starts to pant like a dog, too immersed from your touch to even notice that you've switched positions with him. A strangled moan tore from his throat, the sound a mix of surprise and pleasure as your hand tightened around his aching cock. His hips jerked forward, seeking more of that delicious friction, and he found himself momentarily short of words.

"Nnngghh... fuck..." He gasped out, his voice ragged and raw. The feeling of your thumb swirling around the sensitive head of his cock sent electricity up his spine, making him shudder and groan. He was so fucking hard, his dick twitching and leaking, desperate for more.

The power dynamic had shifted, and the realization sent a thrill of excitement through him. He gazed up at you, eyes glinting with a mix of annoyance and arousal. A smirk tugged at his lips, slowly spreading into a wicked grin. "Hahh.. Playing hard to get? mm.. I didn't tell you to do that..hah.." He chuckled darkly, his hands gripping your hips and pulling you down against his straining erection. He rolled his hips upwards, grinding against your slick heat and letting out a low groan.

You visibly react, shuddering at his length that's underneath your sex.

"You think you're sooo clever hm? Haha. You have no idea how dangerous it is to tease a demon like this." His voice was a low, seductive rumble, his eyes glinting with predatory intent.

"Your cock is telling me otherwise." You compose yourself, tugging at his cock sensually. He hisses, the friction making him even more aroused. "Haha.. mgh.. You're sooo cute." You mock, copying the tone of his voice.

He made no move to reclaim control, instead letting you continue. He arched into your touch, his body trembling with the effort of holding back, allowing you to set the pace. It was a small victory, but a sweet one nonetheless. You could feel your own heart racing in your chest, your breaths in each other's faces as you come closer to have a quick taste of his lips.

The air was thick with the scent of sex. He could see the hunger in your eyes as you gazed down at him, and it only fueled his own desire.

"So, what now, gorgeous?" He looks up at you, placing a hand on your lower back.

You remove his touch on you, pinning his hand onto the bed, the back of his head thumps against the headboard.

Breathless, you gaze down at him as you shift to strip your panties off "Now.. ha.. You sit there and take it."

He found it adorable. So fucking sexy how you think you could boss him around like this. And honestly he's going to let you. What a sweet little mortal 'putting him in his place' like this when she can barely glare daggers at him in her state.

"Do your worst princess."

You crumple up your undergarments, shoving the fabric into his mouth without a second more to spend. He looked very shocked, rightfully so but his cock only felt more harder in your fingertips.

You position his erection underneath you. Slowly, you sit down, feeling his size sink and throb inside you. You couldn't help but squeal, voice becoming higher in pitch as your breath gets heavy. You convulse onto him, your body fluttering, almost cumming on the spot.

You move, his cock slipping in and out of you easily because of how soaked you got from his fingers. The sudden motion startles him, his hands fly right at your hips, gripping intensely.

"Mmmgghhfff..!" The sound of his groans were drowned out by the panties gagging him shut. Your panties, fuck they tasted so good. They tasted like you and he can't wait to bury his face into them.

"You're such a prick.. mghh.. Always.. haa.. being sso difficult."

You say in between moans as you ride him, bouncing on his cock. A smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth around the fabric gagging him. The way you moved on his cock has Daewon mentally reminding himself to hold back, your slick walls gripping him like a vise, made it impossible for him to feel genuinely irritated.

"Always making..ahh hhh.. Things so difficult for me.. haa.. fuckinggmm.! ssadist.."

He bucked his hips up to meet your downward thrusts, driving himself deeper into you. It was hard not to show the visible look of pleasure across your face, but you made sure to not break, still glaring daggers at him even with the fast pace of your breathing. You muster up a handful of self control to get a handful of his hair, tugging him towards you as you bite into his lip before removing the undergarments in his mouth. The cotton white panties hangs between your teeth as you pull away from him. He lets out a deep sigh, his breathing still shaky, matching yours as well as the way you move on his cock.

"Aww..haaha.. I wanted to keep that." He grins, drool dripping from his mouth. His hands move to caress your back, a silent praise emitting from the skin ship.

You drop the panties, using both hands to grip at his shoulders.

You refuse to give him the satisfaction of a response from you, quickly shoving your tongue down his throat to shut him up. He kisses back, your sounds clash together as he devours you like a starving man. You keep going, writhing as the taste of him engulfs your mouth like fire. The flavor of sweet mintiness spreads.

He's the first to pull away, not bearing another second apart from your tits as he instantly smothers them with sloppy kisses. You tug on his hair, groaning curses and fucked out phrases that you don't even realize you were saying. His name felt so good on your tongue. "Daewon.." You'd whine.

"Daewon.."

He starts to go faster, fuckinh into you more.

"Daewon ahh.."

You match his pace, compelled to experience release.

At this point you couldn't tell who was in charge, you both gave into your own hormonal urges, ravaging each other like animals.

"Fuck...O ffuuck.. You feel so good, manager.." He whispers, still having his mouth pressed against your breasts. He just can't get enough. "I'm so close.. ahh.. hhh ha.."

"Yyyeah? mmm.." You attempt to taunt him. "Already? hahahhh..."

He laughs, pulling you closer to him, your tits flushed and pressed against his neck as he looks at you with a determined expression, grinning knowingly. "Look me in the eye and tell me.. ha.. you're not as desperate as I am to cum."

Your smug expression falters, amusing him further.

"Tell me, manager.."

"Just..ahhh... mm..kkeep fucking me."

He lets out another laugh, his smile wider as he thrusts harsher into you.

"Yes ma'am."

The pace intensifies and both your expressions drop into uncontrollable pleasure, eyes rolling back as well as squeezing shut once the orgasm in you snaps. Both of you grip on each other as if for your dear life. He felt so good, he felt so fucking good and you didn't know if you hated that he did or not. He was definitely sure however, that you felt the closest thing to heaven. Like a bottle of alcohol, he's sure he'll be getting addicted soon.

Im so sorry, I hope this was worth the wait yall <3

—neu

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fi1iat3rra3 · 3 days ago

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sum; RE2 Leon gets a blowjob shot at a bar and then gets lucky later ;p

content; hook-up, inexperienced Leon but its not his first time he's just a nerd without a social life, hand job, blow job, fingering, overstimulation, alcohol consumption (duh), praise kink, unprotected sex

wc; 6k

Leon wasn't big on bars or clubs, but his friends dragged him out to celebrate the fact that he got accepted to be a police officer in Racoon City. They wanted to take him out before he had to move, so they took him out to a bar with a higher chance of him getting laid. Leon didn't have plans to.

Now, he sat in the booth, glancing around the bar with a visibly nervous look. His friends had ordered some drinks, so he decided to keep the table occupied while they brought the drinks back. He saw them approaching, so he made some space on the table for the drinks. Behind his friends, Leon caught glimpse of you, the pretty bartender he'd been eyeing for the entire two hours they'd been here.

You followed his friends with a shot in your hand while they carried their beers. You smiled, coming up to Leon's side. His friends gave him the looks of those who had something planned that Leon would love or hate.

"How are you doin' tonight?" You asked, setting the shot down in front of him. Leon swallowed, staring up at you from his seat.

"Wonderful." He barely managed loud enough, watching you laugh a little.

"Well, your friends here informed me of your celebration tonight, and in honor of it, they've asked me to give you a special shot. Nothing dangerous, but different."

"Ah.. what do you mean?" He asked, shifting in his seat as he fiddled with the empty cup in front of him from his earlier drink.

"It's called a blowjob." You watched as his face burned bright red. "Not like that, you perv." You teased, snickering as he seemed to be losing his cool by the minute. "I'm gonna sit on the table, you're gonna tilt your head back, and I'm gonna pour the drink in your mouth."

At this point, Leon's friends had dispersed to give him a moment alone with the gorgeous girl he'd been stuck on all night. Leon barely managed a nod to give her some pathetic response.

"Feeling okay? Still on board?" You asked as you perched yourself on the table in front of him. Your feet rested on either side of his thighs, and his hands quickly pulled away from the edge of the table due to how close he'd been to accidentally ruining the moment with his fidgeting hands.

"Still on board, yeah." He cleared his throat, shifting himself to lean back to give you space. He didn't like to crowd people, even though you were supposed to in this case. You picked up the shot glass, leaning forward and cupping his chin.

Leon's eyes flickered down to your breasts, the small view of cleavage sending a rush of blood straight down south. You tilted his head back, leaning over him and pressing the glass to his lips.

"Don't forget to swallow, 'kay?" You murmured, just loud enough for him to hear as you poured the liquid down his throat. It burned, and his eyes squeezed shut as he closed his mouth and forced himself to swallow the alcohol. "There we go," you soothed lightly, using your thumb to wipe away the drop of tequila that he'd spilled. "You're a good listener." You teased lightly, and as he opened his eyes, he had to turn away to cough. He tried to avoid looking dumb, but the tequila burned like a bitch.

You laughed lightly, patting at his back as you got off the table and stood beside him.

"You okay?" You asked, watching him clear his throat and wipe his eyes. He nodded, giving you a thumbs up before he turned back to look at you.

"Yeah, I-im okay. I'm sorry, I'm not good at taking shots." He stifled one final cough, looking up at you and realizing your hand still lingered on his shoulder.

"You have a good rest of your night." You told him, letting your fingers lightly swipe over the side of his neck before you walked off. With your back turned, Leon practically heaved a sigh of relief. He'd been afraid to breathe, almost like he would turn you to dust if he breathed too hard. He felt his face burning from embarrassment.

With Leon staring at you, he didn't even see his friends coming back to the table. All three of them had managed to get a girl to come back with them. Shockingly, at least to Leon, none of the women looked drunk.

"Did you get her number?" One of the guys asked.

"What? No! I don't think she's.. interested. She was just doing her job." Leon shook his head, reaching out to grab his water to take a drink.

"Oh, you're such a wimp! Go! She's been eyeing you for a half hour!" Another friend chimed in, nudging Leon from the side. Leon hesitated, and he thought back to the way it felt to have you so close to straddling him. Maybe it wouldn't be too bad to shoot his shot, he thought. He glanced across the table, his friends urging him. So he got up and scrambled across the crowded bar.

You stood behind the bar, using your rag to wipe away any spilled alcohol or sticky spots from discarded fruit pieces that people liked to leave all over the bar. Closing out someone's tab, you handed the receipt back to them before you saw Leon approaching. You raised a brow.

As he came up, he took a seat at the bar right across from you.

"What can I get you?" You asked, leaning over the bar with a smile.

"Oh, no, I'm.. I'm not here for any more drinks. I've had enough. I.. I wanted to ask for your number. It's okay if not, i just-"

"Why don't you wait til my shift ends? If you're not too intoxicated, I'd be happy to grab a bite down at the diner on sixth." You grinned, tilting your head slightly.

Leon practically beamed at your words, nodding along.

"Yeah, that'd be great, actually. I've only had a beer or two, and that shot, but I'm not driving tonight, so.." Leon rambled lightly, unable to hide the way his lips twitched upwards with excitement.

"My shift ends in an hour. 11 o'clock. I know it'll be late, but you and your buddies don't look like you've got anywhere to rush to." You looked behind him, across the crowded bar, gesturing to his three friends who had been too busy with their hook-ups.

"I'm not in a hurry, no. I'm happy to wait." Leon shook his head, settling in more comfortably to wait in his seat.

Before you could say another word, you had a few customers to take care of. Closing out some tabs, getting rid of some used cups, wiping down the counter, checking IDs, and getting new drinks. It ate up your time, but you managed to get in some small conversations with Leon over the hour he was waiting.

After your coworker got there to take over the bar for the last few hours, you and Leon headed out. Leon said goodbye to his buddies and said he'd walk home, given the fact he was almost sober and his apartment was just a few blocks from the diner you'd chosen.

The walk to the diner was filled with corny jokes, giggles, and some conversation to get to know each other, and to Leon's surprise, it was going great. It didn't slow down or feel awkward at all, even when Leon ran out of something to talk about.

At the diner, you two talked nonstop until the food arrived. Comfortable silence stretched over you two until you both decided you'd had enough. Leon, being the gentleman he is, got up to pay and retrieve boxes from the front. Returning, he helped you box your food and stack the plates before you two headed to leave.

Unfortunately, rain had started coming down pretty heavy. While Leon busied himself with emptying his jacket for you, you spoke up nervously.

"Uh.. can I ask a favor?"

"Go for it."

"My apartment is across town, and the busses don't run consistently in the rain.. could I stay at yours? You mentioned it was nearby, so.."

Leon finished with his jacket and laid it over your shoulders, thinking for a moment. It was risky, letting a woman he'd just met come to stay at his place, but what kind of cop would he be if he turned away someone in need? Especially someone as gorgeous and kind as you.

"Absolutely. You can crash in my room, I'll take the floor."

And with that, you uttered a 'thank you' before Leon guided you out and led you through the rain to the apartment building.

After a five minute mix of running and walking, you finally got to his apartment. Leon led you inside, kicking his shoes off at the door before he led you to his room.

"Do you want a change of clothes?" Leon asked, but then shook his head. "You'll catch a cold. Here, you can wear these." He said, rummaging around and finding an old pair of sweats and a band tee from his early teens.

Without letting you argue, he stepped out and closed the door. He went down to the kitchen to put away your leftovers before he got you a bottle of water. When he heard you open the door, he came back to the room and handed it to you. Under his left arm, he carried fresh bedding.

"What are you doing?" You asked, watching him closely.

"Changing the sheets."

"Why?"

"I don't want my guest to be sleeping on my dirty sheets." He laughed a little, glancing over at you.

"Yknow, you're really good at this. I wonder how often you have girls over." You joked.

"Never." He admitted, completely stripping the bed of the dirty sheets and tossing everything into the dirty laundry hamper.

"Well.." you paused. "I guess that makes sense. You were all tense earlier when I first came over to you at the bar. Should've known you were a loser." You joked, watching his cheeks bloom with heat.

"You came over and told me you were giving me a blowjob. Any man would be tense." He countered with a small huff as he began to set the new sheets up.

"That's what it's called!" You laughed, snorting slightly.

"No, an actual blowjob is better than liquor." He huffed, fluffing up the new pillows.

"As if you'd know." You raised a brow, tilting your head.

Leon paused, knowing damn well you were right.

"Well.. I-i can assume it'd be better. Liquor is harsh and mean. Not pleasant." He cleared his throat, turning back to you now that he finished changing the bedding. You set your water aside, hands clasped together behind your back. You knew this could be a bad idea, but you stepped closer.

"I could help you figure that out." Your voice lowered to a whisper.

Leon's cheeks flushed, eyes widening as he stepped back, automatically trying to give you back your space. He swallowed, his mouth going dry.

"What do you mean?" He asked quietly.

"I could help you figure out which one you like. A blowjob, or a blowjob shot."

Leon could hardly breathe as you closed the distance. He stepped back until his knees hit the bed and he fell back, sitting at the foot of his freshly made bed. You stood between his legs.

"Do you want that?" You asked.

Leon couldn't speak. He just let out a shaky breath, trying to think.

"I need words." You said, stepping back to let him breathe.

Leon swallowed the lump in his throat, nodding softly. He uttered a whiney, 'please', his voice shaky.

You stepped forward again, leaning down to cup his face. One hand over his cheek and one hand over his jawline, you leaned in to initiate a gentle kiss.

Leon would've busted right then and there if he had no self-control. He practically felt the 'boing' sound effect in his pants as they became tighter by the second.

You pulled back, looking at him.

"You can touch me, it's okay." You soothed, noticing how his hands squeezed the comforter beneath him.

His hands stayed still for now, looking up at you with those big baby blues of his.

"You okay?" You laughed softly, shifting your hand to run your thumb along his cheek.

"I.. I just.." Leon choked up for a moment, subconsciously leaning into your touch and seeking the warmth of your palm. He lifted a hand to your wrist, pressing your palm against his lips. "Jesus, you smell amazing." He barely huffed, his nose lightly nudging against your wrist where you'd spray perfume along the pulse point, and with the perfume, he could smell the coconut lotion you'd use as well.

You remained quiet for a moment, letting him familiarize himself however he needed until you decided to lean in and kiss him again.

The kiss was longer this time, your hand shifting from his cheek to the nape of his neck to keep him still. Slowly, as he loosened up with the kiss, his lips moving smoothly against your own, you kissed down his jawline.

Lower.. lower..

And then you bit lightly against his collarbone, making him hiss with surprise as his hands shot out to grasp at your shoulders.

"You don't like the biting?" You asked, lifting your head to check on him. He looked embarrassed, shaking his head no. "Then I won't bite." You pressed another kiss to his lips and trailed down again, finding your way down his chest as you undid the buttons of his button-down dress shirt. It was slow, agonizing, and almost painful.

Leon's cock throbbed in his jeans as he watched you get closer and closer, now kneeling in between his legs. He swallowed harshly, bringing a shaky hand to the back of your head, like he wasn't sure how to touch you in this context.

"I-is this okay?" He whispered, his breath hitching.

"Mm, that's perfect. Just.. relax, okay? Let me take care of you."

He nodded slowly, watching as your hands came to undo his belt and his pants. He instinctively shifted his hips away, helping you tug his pants down. His cock made a tent in his boxers, his tip bulging against the tight fabric with a dark spot on the fabric, indicating dampness from precum.

Leon's cheeks felt like they were on fire. He looked like a total virgin right now, and he knew it. He'd had sex before, but not often. And he didn't really care for jerking off. So when he got touched like this, it was humiliating for him. Lifting your head, you caught his gaze. He looked like a kicked puppy, afraid you'd think poorly of him for being so easy to please. Instead, you gave a small grin, almost cocky. You pushed yourself up, pulling him down into a kiss.

The kiss acted as a distraction as your hand slipped down his torso, fingers trailing along that trail of hair that almost looked like an indication as to where the prize awaited. Slowly, your fingers lifted his waistband, and as your fingers slipped further, pulling his cock from its hiding place of his boxers, his hand on your head lightly pulled at your hair without realizing it. You hissed into the kiss, but you didn't stop or scold him.

"Fuck, 'm sorry, I-i didn't-" Leon tried to apologize, but his own moan interrupted him as your hand wrapped firmly around the base of his cock. His eyes fluttered shut as he let you kiss him again, letting his body melt against you.

"That feels good." He breathed out as you slowly brought your hand upward, stopping halfway, going back down. You repeated the motions for a few strokes before you pulled away from the kiss, eliciting a whimper from him.

"Relax. This is a blowjob, not a hand job." You grinned lightly, watching his eyes widen with realization that you were actually doing this.

He swallowed harshly, nodding slowly.

"You're still okay?" You asked, your hand pulling back.

He groaned, missing the contact, but he nodded quickly.

"I-I'm okay. I still want it." He huffed, looking down at you.

"Good."

Your hand came back up, only this time it was lower; palming his balls, he practically lurched forward, gasping at the sensation as you squeezed. You dove forward, shifting to be perfectly between his legs before your tongue darted out to lick at his tip, gathering the salty precum in the dip of your tongue before you licked down to his base. His eyes rolled back, chest heaving for air as his hands grasped at you; one on your shoulder and one in your hair.

As you licked a stripe all the way up the underside, your hand squeezed his balls as you took him into your mouth for real this time. He cried with pleasure, gasping as you eased yourself down. Your free hand came to his hip, hoping to provide a grounding touch.

You took him halfway in, feeling him twitch. You stayed still for a moment, your tongue swirling back and forth around the underside and the sides as you massaged his balls. He jolted slightly, stifling a whimper as he felt himself growing closer and closer.

"Oh, fuck, please move-" He choked out, his breath ragged and heavy. "Please, please, I need it so bad. It hurts." He gasped, brows furrowing as he tried his best not to buck his hips or push your head at all.

Willing to comply, you lifted your head back to the tip, only to go back down in one swift motion. A small gag left you, but as his cock nestled against the back of your throat, you felt him twitch and shiver.

"Shhh-shit, 'm not gonna last! I can't hold it." He whined, his hips bucking against your face. You lifted your head, beginning the proper bobbing motion at long last. Your hand pulled back from his balls, moving to his thigh to gently rub the fat of his inner thigh, hoping to ease the shaking.

His thighs trembled, his cock throbbed, balls tightened, and he couldn't shut himself up. Your hand bobbed up and down in a steady motion, not stopping or stuttering once. Light gags and hums left your lips, but they were drowned out by Leon's incoherent cries and praises.

"'S so good. Feels so good. Don't- don't stop, you can't, please!" He babbled helplessly, chest heaving as his body curled forward slightly, pushing your head down to encourage you to stay lower.

You knew he was close. His tip was damn near weeping like him. His balls had never been so ready to burst.

Before he could warn you, his hands pushed your head down, his cock burying against the back of your throat as the knot in his stomach snapped.

"Oh, fuck! Mmh!" He gasped, hips bucking as he pulled your hair and kept you still. He didn't even realize he was being so rough, but he didn't stop until he felt you pinch his hip. His cock gave a few more weak spurts, spilling down your throat before you lifted your head and swallowed. You huffed, looking up at him. He trembled, his cock softening and laying flat against his thigh as he twitched and jolted for a moment, recovering from the waves of pleasure he'd just felt.

"Better than liquor?" You asked, your voice a little hoarse from his harsh behavior. He swallowed harshly, catching his breath as he nodded. He was completely dazed.

"Better than anything I've ever done." He huffed. When he blinked away the tears of pleasure, finally coming back to reality, he saw the aftermath of his roughness. Your hair was a mess, your lipstick was more messy than it should've been, and you were still catching your breath from his little gagging moment. You pushed yourself up to your feet, straddling his hips.

"I'm.. I didn't realize.. I didn't mean to hurt you at all.." Leon breathed shakily, apologetic and flustered as his hands found your hips.

"It's okay. You felt good, right? So good that you had to hold me down and take what you wanted."

"D-dont say it like that! It sounds so bad.." he looked away, his embarrassment growing.

"Oh, don't be ashamed. I liked it." You murmured, leaning in to kiss his neck. His breath hitched, and much to his disbelief, his cock began twitching back to life.

"You liked it?" He whispered.

"Liked it so much that I want a little more." You paused, kissing up his neck until your lips came just an inch from his. "Only if you're okay to go that far." You murmured, soothing a hand over his cheek. He nodded eagerly.

"I'd.. I'd like to. Please?" If he was a dog, his tail would be slapping the bed so loud it'd sound like gunshots.

"Oh, you're so excited already." You teased, pulling back. "How do you wanna do it? You got any preferences?" You asked, wanting to play into his references as much as possible.

"Ah.. I-i don't know. Should I?" He mumbled.

"It's okay if you don't. We can keep it simple tonight." You reassured him, shaking your head as you brought your hands down to push his shirt off of his shoulders, fully exposing his upper body to you.

Leon glanced down at himself, becoming aware of how exposed he was. He hesitated for a moment, but his hands came up to your hips, shifting under your shirt to find their way to the bottom of your rib cage. You obliged without a word, taking a moment to lift your arms as permission for him to remove your shirt. He lifted the shirt up and over your head, tossing it off to the edge of the bed before he brought his shaky hands to rest just below your breasts.

You reached behind yourself, finding the clasp of your bra and undoing it. The bra lost its tension, letting your breasts relax completely. Leon could've sworn he was drooling as you removed your bra. He felt like he was in heaven, his face merely half a foot away from the nicest pair of tits he'd ever seen. He lifted his gaze to look at you, almost seeking permission.

"You don't have to ask for permission to touch me. I'll tell you if I need something different." You murmured, leaning in to lock your lips with his.

Leon quickly accepted the kiss, his hands staying at your sides as he closed his eyes and let you guide him to lie back on the pillows with you on top of him. Slowly, the kiss evolved into Leon trying to take more initiative. He kissed down your jaw, easing his way down to your neck and collarbone.

"Mm.. you smell so good. Like candy." Leon breathed lightly, letting his left hand roam upward to grasp your breast, gently pinching your nipple between his index and middle finger.

Your breath hitched, and Leon's head practically snapped to look up at you. The sound of possible pleasure made him shiver, both excited and happy to know he was doing something right. He leaned in again, soothing more kisses along your chest as his hands came to grasp and grope at both of your breasts. Your back arched into his touch, and he took a risk. He dove deeper, his head dipping to replace his fingers and wrap his lips around your nipple. He ran his tongue in a circle, and the first real moan slipped past your lips. Leon felt like he was buzzing with excitement, but you gently stopped him.

"A girl doesn't like to be kept waiting, Leon." You breathed out, cupping his cheek to guide his head back.

Leon was confused, thinking that he hadn't left you waiting. He though he'd been giving you attention. He stared, brows slightly furrowed.

"You don't like it..?" He asked, pushing himself to sit up a little bit.

"I do. I love it. I just want a little more." You explained, shaking your head and shushing him.

"Oh. Right. Okay, uhm.. do you want me on top?" He asked, letting his hands ease down your sides to hold your hips.

"Whatever you'd prefer."

He nodded, shifting slightly and gesturing for you to lie back. Once you laid down, he grabbed a pillow and gently inserted the pillow beneath your lower back. You raised a brow.

"What's that for?"

"I read somewhere that a pillow to elevate your hips is better for your back, hips, and the overall experience." Leon explained, helping you adjust yourself before he settled between your legs.

The consideration of proper angling and safe positions made you smile slightly. Leon exhaled, grounding himself properly before he leaned forward to hover over you.

"You okay?" You checked in again, watching Leon nod.

"Just... bear with me.." he pleaded softly, taking initiative to lean in and press a kiss to the valley between your breasts. His hands splayed at your sides, memorizing the feel of your ribs and the softness of your skin beneath his calloused fingertips. He kissed down, his mouth careful and soft along the flesh of your stomach, like he was worshipping you. His hands trailed down, coming to the waistband of your pants, shifting to link under the elastic of your panties. He looked up at you, seeking permission. You nodded, bringing a hand down to lay over the back of his head.

Leon steeled himself, gently tugging at the fabric before you were completely exposed to him. He crawled back up to you, connecting his lips to yours as his hands, still shaking, came to spread your legs.

"Is this okay?" He asked softly, breaking the kiss to look down at you. Your noses nudged slightly as you nodded, kissing him again.

"It's good." You reassured, letting him melt against you. "You know how to use your hands?"

"I can figure it out. Just.. tell me what feels good." He said, his hand coming down to slip between your folds. Your breath hitched, head falling back as his calloused fingertips brushed against your clit. "There?" He asked softly, bringing his free hand up to cradle your head and make you look at him.

"A little higher." You instructed gently, and his thumb shifted just right and applied some pressure to your clit. You nodded, huffing lightly. "Yeah, yeah, there." A soft moan left your lips in a shaky breath, your hips shifting slightly.

Leon's heart pounded at the confirmation that he was doing something right, especially something that gave him the luxury of hearing such intoxicating noises from such a beautiful woman.

Without asking, Leon took a risk and slipped a finger past your hole, cautious and mindful of the pressure and angle. A broken gasp echoed in the room, and Leon practically stared in awe at how easily he'd slipped a finger in. Carefully, another finger followed, and he felt his erection growing harder to ignore despite the fact that he'd already gotten to have his own fun thanks to you. Your back arched lightly, a sign that told Leon he was doing good.

"You're so pretty." He murmured, dropping his head to rest against the inside of your thigh as he slowly began to pump his fingers in and out, easing his way into a steady rhythm with the guidance of your moans, gasps, and the grasping and reaching of your hands trying to gain some kind of stability.

You looked down at him, huffing softly between moans and whines.

"Curl, Leon. Curl your fingers a little." You instructed through a stifled moan.

"Like.. like this?" He obliged, curling his fingers in a 'come here' motion, feeling the spongy spot inside of you and watching as your head fell back again, nodding your head as you gripped the sheets. "It feels good?"

"Fuck, that's perfect. Keep that up. Just like that." You exhaled sharply.

Leon didn't hesitate to listen to your demands. His fingers pumped back and forth, curling upward when he pulled them back, bathing in the pride of the pleasure he was providing for you.

Soon enough, you reached down to grasp Leon's wrist, looking down at him with your eyes dazed and lips parted to pant heavily.

"Are you ready, or do you wanna keep waiting?" You asked as he withdrew his fingers carefully. The wetness clung to his fingers, your core almost felt like it was begging him to keep going, and that feeling made Leon ready. He shook his head.

"I want to.." He paused, crawling back up to hover over you once more. He settled between your legs, nestling his cock right against your folds, feeling the warmth of skin-to-skin. "I want you." He murmured, his mouth going dry from anticipation.

"Then take what you want."

He did. With a careful hand, he spread your slick arousal along his tip, his shoulders tensing at the sensation. He guided himself closer, pressing the tip to your entrance. He looked back at you, leaning in to find your lips in a lazy, still passionate kiss. His body tensed and pressed against yours as he eased his cock into you, swallowing your moans with his desperate kisses, which he'd break momentarily for little gasps and pleas, his nose nudging yours as he dropped his head and buried his face into your neck once he bottomed out.

"F-feels so good.. 'm not gonna last." He choked out with a sound akin to a small sob.

"C'mon, you did so good for me when I was on my knees for you. You're gonna crack so easily?" You teased lightly. In reality, it didn't matter if he lasted. You were already so close from the attention he'd given you with his fingers, you wouldn't last long either.

"Mm, 'm sorry, I d-don't think I can.." He whimpered, slowly pulling his hips back and bracing himself to hold back despite his words. He trembled over you, feeling his cock throb and twitch as he let the tip sit right at the edge, only to push back in. Soft moans began to fill the room, Leon finding a steady rhythm thanks to your encouragement and the pride that swelled in his chest.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him into a deep kiss as you let your hands splay out over his back. His fingers dug into your hips, beginning to pull you back down to be in sync with his thrusts. Dropping his hands to your thighs, he pulled back from the kiss and pushed up a little, pushing your thighs to bend your legs at the hip. The position mimicked a less aggressive version of the mating press, and as he adjusted himself, he felt the difference in the angle, unable to keep quiet as he rolled his eyes back and choked on his own gasps.

"Oh, Jesus," You gasped, back arching into him and proving benefits to the angle as he sped up a little, applying more pressure with each thrust. He whimpered, his lips staying parted as he looked down where your bodies met in a sweaty dance of passion.

Leon never would have guessed that he'd actually get laid with the help of his friends, but boy, he couldn't be happier right now. He'd handle the consequences later, when he wasn't so controlled by the way your pussy tried to keep him in as deep as he could go.

Your nails dug into his shoulders, your moans becoming louder and a little higher in pitch as he brought one hand down to circle your clit with more confidence than he had before.

"You're so.. so warm 'n tight. So perfect." He panted, diving back down and pushing your thighs forward to where they practically touched your chest. He kept up consistent circles on your clit, occasionally experimenting with a pinch or a softer rub, figuring out which got the best reaction out of you.

"God, Leon, you underestimate yourself. You- mhmm!" You paused, cut off by a cry of pleasure as he sped up his thrusts and his thumb on your clit, syncing it together perfectly. "Y-you had me scared you'd be bad at this, but fuck, 'm already close." You panted, looking up at him and basking in the way he stared down at you in awe.

Leon let out a small shudder, his breath catching in his throat as he heard your words. Your reassurance made him go insane. He loved hearing your voice, loved the squeeze as he rocked his hips back and forth, trying to dig himself deeper and deeper to be closer than humanly possible.

His brows furrowed, hips tensing. "'m real close.." he whined, swallowing harshly as his fingers shifted further down your thighs to gently grasp at your ass with the hand that wasn't massaging your clit, groping the flesh and memorizing the feel.

"You.. you gonna come?" He asked, breathless. He didn't want to finish first, but he knew he wouldn't last long.

"Mhmm, just keep going. I'm.." You exhaled heavily, lips falling open as you bucked your hips against his, almost chasing the feeling of him. His fingers, his cock, the touch of his skin on yours igniting a fire that tightened the knot in your lower stomach.

"Fuck, I-I can't." He almost sobbed, throwing his head back to avoid letting you see the 'crybaby' look, is what he called it. He took his hand from your clit and brought his hands to your chest, palming your breasts firmly beneath his palms as he struggled to keep a steady pace. Your back arched into his touch, seeking the roughness of his palms and fingertips. He let one hand shift to pinch and massage your nipple, eliciting a string of gasps and whines from you.

"Come for me, please," Leon panted, leaning down to kiss you roughly. "Please, I wanna feel it. Wanna feel you squeeze the life out of me." He whined.

Seconds passed, full of moans, gasps, heavy breaths, and desperate touches shared between two strangers who just happened to be as needy as the other. Finally, his thrusts became sloppy just as the knot in your stomach unraveled with a silent squeal of pleasure. Your core squeezed around him, and he couldn't move. His hips pushed all the way inside, burying himself as deep as he could as his cock pulsed, balls tightening. With how he'd been holding back, all it took for him to come was the sensation of your pussy squeezing and gushing around him like you were milking him for all he was worth.

Bodies slowed down, hearts pounding, bodies trembling, chests rising and falling rapidly, soaking in the warmth.

Leon came to first, still dazed.

"Holy crap. That was.. amazing." He huffed, looking down at you. "A-are you okay? Do you feel okay?" He asked softly, bringing his hand to cradle your head and make you look at him.

"I don't think I've felt this good in ages." You admitted, laughing lightly at his concern. "That was, indeed, amazing."

"Oh, good. I was afraid you'd have clarity and you'd regret it." He joked, but you both knew it was a valid concern.

Leon slowly pulled his hips back, letting his soft cock slip out of you. He tried not to stare, but he caught glimpse of the mess leaking from your hole, and he could've sworn he'd get hard again if he could.

"You gonna keep staring or you wanna go get cleaned up?" You snickered. Leon blushed, looking up at you.

"Sorry. I'll go grab a rag and some wipes. And some water. Do you want your leftovers? I'm kinda hungry.." He rambled for a moment, shifting to get up from the bed.

"Food sounds good." You nodded.

"Great. I'll get those warmed up and I'll come to clean you up." He said, disappearing down the hall, leaving you to wait for him as he warmed up the food and grabbed the stuff to help you clean up.

#fem reader #resident evil #writing #fanfic #leon kennedy fanfic #leon kennedy #please interact #leon kennedy x reader #resident evil 2 remake #resident evil 2 leon

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musingsofheaven · 1 day ago

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Need more rough hate sex with Patrick and reader but very challengers coded like maybe she’s art girlfriend and can’t stand Patrick and Patrick hates her because he wants Art to himself but one day they’re at a party or somewhere, get into it and then fuck?? Maybe Art turns up to the party and is standing outside the door while Patrick’s fucking reader into the sink and whispering filth in her ears while her boyfriends outside saying could he fuck you like this, does he make you cum, like proper unhinged filth freaky shit choking, hair pulling, she could slap him, I want it ALL

Could lowkey see it being more parts because maybe Art then gets back at her and fucks the shit out of her and isn’t so submissive and she’s egging him on about Patrick because she wants to be fucked like that and he gives in? He’s acting like her talking about Patrick fucking her isn’t making Art harder and closer to cumming hehehe

SOMETHING BORROWED.

summary: Art’s your boyfriend and you’re his girl. Everyone knows that, and everyone knows Patrick is his best friend. The thing is: he hates you, and you can’t stand him either. It should have stayed that way, but there’s a party. The bathroom exists and you don’t know why you let it happen.

pairings: patrick zweig x afab!reader x art donaldson

warnings: 14.9k words. mature themes. dubious consent. unprotected p in v. creampie. oral sex. recording. voyeurism undertones. manipulation. gaslighting. cheating / infidelity. power imbalance / toxic dynamics. degradation kink / verbal humiliation. rough sex. breeding kink. overstimulation. alcohol use. read & consume responsibly.

note: hey, i really enjoyed writing this and i apologize for the slow writing especially with the requests and this is way back from may, but i hope the person who requested it is still around and will see this. <3 planning to release it last last week but got busy and sick. but here it is!

It's always been Art and Patrick.

It always has been and is always going to stay that way. Too young when they crossed each other’s paths. It got too close fast, as if something had just clicked inside. And ever since that meeting, nothing has changed because the bond is so strong. Growing up together since they’re barely teens. Maybe it’s around 12 or 13. They don't really care about the specifics and it doesn’t really matter not when they know they have each other’s backs regardless of their differences. People know Art is the quiet one. The perfectionist. The focus. The precise movements. Patrick is the opposite. The mess. The reckless swings. The egotistical maniac. Structure and chaos, but they still got paired for doubles, and they haven't changed partners ever since. Art was in control, posture perfect, and footwork clean. Patrick was reckless, grinning, never playing the same way twice. Together, they made sense- muscle and bone, strike and spark.

They roomed together and shared almost everything except their racquets: that’s too intimate to share. Both boys don’t really talk about feelings, not their stuff. But they know the technique, half-language insults, and language they only see when you live together for so long. Live together to the point he taught Art to jerk off and mutter about how he’s doing it all wrong before he talks him through it and they do it together. Art listened, of course; he came hard even, but it was something they never talked about after they did it. Every boundary crossed, every look that lasted too long. They weren’t dating, weren’t friends, something closer, something worse.

At fifteen, people already see them as a problem. Coaches hate them because they are intense. Hated how much they are in sync. Hated how dependent on each other. They can’t breathe right if the other isn’t on the court. They can’t hit the ball right without the other’s focus shining through the noise in the court. They fought like hell but never stayed mad where it mattered. It wasn’t romantic. No one else saw them like that. It was just them, just fire and ice. Just Patrick and Art.

But at some point, some moments, it nearly broke open. Something. Just something. Patrick shoved too hard, and Ary said his name too softly before someone muttered, “Jesus, just fuck already,” and neither of them flinched at that. But nothing happened, not really, because they needed each other too much. They just coexist. Patrick knew Art was always going to be a star. The biggest of them all. He knows that he’s going to self-destruct at some point. But they still keep playing. They pretend nothing would come between them because that’s how things work.

And then after the blink of an eye, there’s college. It’s still good. The first months of college were better than they should’ve been. Got closer. Still in rhythm, roommates, doubles partners, orbiting each other like nothing had shifted. Same pattern, different zip code, free- until it started to change. Of course, it will. Art didn’t just slip away instantly. No. It happened slowly. Quiet. Small lies at first. Leaving too quickly after a practice. Always have a reason like “group project” or “just tired.” Harmless lies for some people, except that Patrick knew Art’s schedule down to the hour. They share a calendar that syncs their schedules, but Art’s lies kept coming- not dramatic, just consistent, which somehow made it worse.

Then one night when Patrick was strolling around the campus, he saw something. It’s already late. The campus is already emptied out besides the people walking back wobbly with their drunkass selves and some are sneaking out of their dorms. Thank god there’s no curfew in their building. He feels the coldness on his skin as he walks near the court. The buildings were already dark except for this one court that was still shining brightly. He slipped inside because it was supposed to be closed by now. He’s walking silently until he sees you.

You were kneeling in the dark, and Art was leaning back to the door while his hand was in your hair. His mouth parted like he just won another match. Patrick can see the way he’s thrusting in your mouth. The way his hips are rolling shallow while you work him inside your mouth slowly and wet as if you like it. Art is not loud. Probably knows the risk of being caught in public. So he just whispered your name, saying please, soft like a prayer, fingers flexing like he was trying not to fuck your mouth too fast.

Patrick stood frozen, breath locked in his chest as you pulled off with a slick sound, licked the tip, then sank back down like you wanted to be caught. This is inappropriate to watch your best friend getting ahead. Sure, he already knows what Art’s cock looks like. But it’s not like he wants to watch his sex life in front of him. But he stayed too long, long enough for it to be a mistake, then left without a sound, carrying the image like something he wasn’t supposed to keep.

Patrick didn’t bring it up, waiting for Art to say something. Art didn’t. So Patrick snapped. It itched something inside of him, so it just happened after a doubles win, adrenaline buzzing when Art said he was heading out early. Patrick didn’t look at him, just said flatly, “Are you seeing someone?” Art blinked and looked at Patrick too quickly, so he asked, “What?” Patrick dropped his towel, jaw tight. “You’ve been flaking for weeks. Are you seeing someone or not?”

Art gave the weakest shrug Patrick had ever seen. “Yeah. I guess.” Patrick’s jaw twitched. “You guess? Are you going to tell me her name?” Art said your name, and that was it. The girl on her knees has a name now on his mind. Suddenly, the ghost in Art’s schedule had a face, a mouth, and a memory Patrick couldn’t scrub out since that night. Still, he didn’t say anything about the court, about the lie. He just let it sit tight.

A week later, Art brought you to the dorm. Patrick was at his desk, halfway through typing something he didn’t care about, when Art strolled in like there hadn’t been tension for weeks. “You’ve met Patrick, right? ”Art asked. You smiled softly, practiced, like nothing was wrong. Patrick didn’t smile back. “Not really,” he said, flatly. “Saw him in the courts though.” That was it, no scene, no confrontation.

But when Art turned to drop his bag, Patrick looked at you, and you looked right back, hoping for something, but no smile, just a flicker of recognition. It wasn’t kindness. Just fire and ice, the start of something neither of you could walk back from. After that, it didn’t get easier. You kept showing up, not because Patrick wanted you there. He didn’t, but because Art did, always texting, pulling you closer like he couldn’t regulate without you. He missed your perfume on his pillows, your warmth in his sheets, and your shape in his sweatshirt.

Sometimes it was just a sleepy selfie with the caption “Wish you were here,” and you came every time. Art started bringing you to practice, like you were some part of a ritual, sitting in the bleachers remembering everything Art forgot. Patrick noticed, and he had these looks. They were loud and cold. Sometimes you will just catch him eyeing you like he’s playing percentage tennis, waiting for you to fuck up. His looks are like some timer that counts the minutes you have until you leave.

You’ve been telling yourself it wasn’t personal. Art warned you that Patrick didn’t trust easily and didn’t click with people unless they proved themselves. So you tried, letting him ignore you at diners when Art dragged you both out, sitting across from him pretending his silence didn’t scrape your skin. You let him order his 10 p.m. pancakes without judgment and tried small talk about matches or the weather or whatever bullshit conversation that feels so awkward. His answers are always dismissive and laced with taunt or boredom. There was this one time you offered him the food you’re eating and ike an asshole person he is: he just looked at you like he’s disgusted at the idea of sharing before saying that he doesn't like getting food with people he doesn't know.

And after that? You didn’t try at all. But you are stubborn, so another time, you brought him coffee, not as a peace offering, just as an act of kindness. You set it on the desk, sealed, untouched. He didn’t look up. “What’d you do?” he asks, already assuming you are just here to ask something about Art. “What?” You just said before you look at him with that face you do when you're confused. “Don’t drink shit I didn’t pour myself.” Oh, so he's going the mean route again. “It’s sealed,” bored and assured even though you are so tired of it. “Then I don’t need it.” You should have just put poison in his drink when you knew he'd be like that.

What's annoying is he's always there. Always in the shadow of Art. Sometimes you will just catch him not wearing any shirt in the dorm and looking fresh out of the shower while he's pouring cereal and never saying good morning to you. It was worse because you always woke up first, Art’s arm heavy around your waist, warm against your back. You’d slide out quietly, hoping not to break the spell.

And every goddamn time, Patrick was already at the desk. Always. There. Jaw clenched, pretending not to notice you in Art’s t-shirt. You told yourself to let it go, to remember Patrick came first, that they had years, not weeks. You just have that thought in your mind that no matter how warm Art was, Patrick would always come before you. But it wore on you, the way Patrick didn’t just dislike you- he made you feel stupid for trying. And you hated that most.

And you didn't even mean to stay over that one night. You just kind of did. Something happened, and the something is Art acting so cute, so you just have to stay because he's already Art pulling a clean, warm shirt from his drawer for you to wear, looking at you like he missed you, like you hadn’t seen each other hours ago.

He just has this way of saying “stay” that will make your heart melt. You keep telling yourself it's okay because it's just Patrick. Just him. Lucky, right? If his roommate were another person, it would've been harder. You can even ignore him and not say hi or look. But this time he's already in his bed which is new because you are not used to seeing him already tucked in, and his limbs are hiding under the blanket. The room is okay and nothing has changed. You've been here many times.

Tonight it's just darker since Patrick went to bed earlier than usual and has that college-boy smell of detergent and sweat. There are twin beds, not side by side but close enough not to have any privacy. You sat on Art’s bed, pretending you belonged, telling yourself you’ll be just sleeping over. But it was after all lights are out that Art started touching you, his hand on your hip, sliding lower under the hem of his shirt on you.

His breath brushed your neck, palm flattening against your stomach, before slipping between your thighs. “Art,” you whispered, thin, hesitant, and careful. “He’s right there.” Your breath hitches when Art doesn’t stop. “And sleeping,” he murmured, pressing his body closer to you, “he’s not going to wake up, swear,” And you don't even know what that is supposed to mean right now especially his hand is already… going places. You really tried, brushing Art’s wrist like you could stop it before it got worse.

You sigh, insisting to him just to wait while he kisses your shoulder, and his hand cups your chest as he lines up behind you. “I don’t want to wait. I miss you,” he whispers. He’s quiet, but there’s seriousness and determination in his voice like the decision has been made. “Just be quiet.” Your thighs tensed, your lip caught between your teeth, and when he pushed in slowly, deep- you let him. You tried to keep your breathing shallow, tried to stay still, but it was too much, the way he rocked into you like you were something he earned. Your hand covered your mouth, head pressed into the mattress, just a few feet away from Patrick.

But he didn't react. Just staying still like a statue. He's not coughing. He's not moving around or rolling over. But you feel him. His presence. You feel his silence. You feel he's awake because it's your senses telling you that he's just pretending he's asleep while hearing every quiet sound of your slickness, every breath that you're holding back, but it slipped when Art found that deep, slow rhythm. You wondered if he heard the creak of the mattress under your hips, if he knew how wet you were, how shameless you’d gone for Art’s praise. When Art muttered, “Fuck, baby, you feel so good,” you didn’t hush him. You just took it slow, full thrusts dragging inside of you, his grip iron on your waist. Across the room, Patrick stayed silent, but you felt the heat of his attention even in the dark.

In the morning, you smiled at Patrick and said good morning like you hadn’t let his best friend fuck you while he pretended not to exist. And Patrick looked at you like he already had plans to make you regret it. After that, it got worse. Patrick didn’t start fights in front of Art or roll his eyes when there’s other people. He waited until Art left the room every time. One minute you’d be curled into Art’s side, and the next you’d feel it, that shift, that heavy quiet. Patrick would glance at you, scrolling on his phone, before dropping, “So you actually watch his matches now, or just the ones he wins?”

It was constant, the small cuts. The annoying one. That makes you want to punch him in the face, one. Late-night takeout when Patrick muttered, “Girls who can’t finish fries are more likely to cheat.” You stared, “What?” and he bit into his sandwich like he hadn’t said it on purpose. You tried to get ahead of it, asking about his matches and joking about his shoes. He shut it down every time. “Didn’t know I needed commentary from a cheerleader,” he’d say. Once, when you teased him for being late, he shot back, “Careful. You sound like someone who thinks she’s his coach and his girlfriend.”

The worst were the subtle ones. Passing you in the hall, muttering, “She reads now? God, he’s making a person out of you.” And Art kept smiling, kept pulling you closer, kept asking Patrick what he thought of you, and Patrick would shrug, “She’s fine,” which somehow hurt more than an insult. At parties, Patrick watched your face every time Art touched you, waiting for that flicker.

The first time you stepped onto the sand in Art’s hoodie and bikini, Patrick whistled, “You sure he’s the only one who gets to see that?” You rolled your eyes. “You’re disgusting.” He smirks at your insult at him, but he doesn't back down. “It’s a compliment.” Oh yeah, a compliment. What a nice one to name it. It’s fucking annoying that everything is just a joke. Always a joke to him. He never even tries to make it feel like a joke. Just make it hurt.

Because he's Patrick Zweig. He always makes you want to shoot his head. He would say something disgusting and dirty with a wink and provoke you until you felt a sick feeling in your stomach reacting. You tried showing Art you were uncomfortable, but Patrick was too quick. “She’s looking at me like she wants to fight,” he’d say lightly, and Art would laugh, “She’s all talk.”

So you’d swallow the heat in your cheeks, forced to laugh too, because what else could you do? Patrick would lean across the table, voice low, “Do you always wear gloss that is sticky, or just for him?” and you didn’t know if he wanted you to hate him or break first. It wasn’t immediate, that slow rot of it. At first, you were just Art’s girlfriend, tagging along, fading smiles, waiting through practice.

Patrick was just the roommate, the doubles partner with a jaw that never unclenched. You thought it was shyness. It wasn’t, not when he started with those glances that are too long and a shoulder bump that wasn’t friendly. Art didn’t notice, pulling you in with a laugh, saying, “You two are getting along now, huh?” You’d smile. Patrick wouldn’t, eyes pinned on you until your skin burned, pretending to listen to Art but never looking away.

You tried matching Art’s warmth, laughing when Patrick jokes, and asking polite questions. But every time, he punished you for trying. You asked if he liked your necklace. He didn’t look, just said, “Doesn’t seem like your style,” and walked away. You offered him gum in the car, and he took it, chewed, then said, “Tastes like lip gloss.” You rolled your eyes, and he grinned like it was all a game you were already losing. Then came the touches, small and deniable.

Under the table at dinner, his foot tapped your ankle- and stayed. When you moved, he followed. When you shifted, he shifted. Once, waiting for Art to change, Patrick brushed your hip as he passed. Not an accident, not casual, just enough to make you freeze before he kept walking like nothing happened. Then he got bolder. It happened during lunch months back when Art was so late and Patrick just stared at you. He's just staring at what you're doing while you can feel his knee contact with yours.

So you glare at him, I'm but his response to you is just to tilt his head and raise an eyebrow. “Relax. Art said you were friendly.” Later, he knocked your book off the arm just to make you bend. When you muttered, he smirked, “What? You’ve bent lower.” Your face went hot, throat tight, but he didn’t blink. Every time he stopped, the second Art walked back in. Like clockwork. Like he knew you’d never say anything- and liked it that way.

Art believed it all, the performances, the way Patrick would smirk and call you “princess” like a joke. The way he’d whistle when you wore something short before turning it into a compliment about “Art’s taste.” He knew how to turn it off the second Art looked, but you felt it every time. The way he leaned close, voice low, calling you by name like it tasted good. The way his hand lingered on your waist, your arm, that live-wire space between your ribs and hip. Art never saw it, not how Patrick always found a way to be alone with you.

Even if all Patrick said was, “Wearing perfume, or is that for Art?” Or grabbing your wrist a little too tight, muttering, “You don’t smell like someone who’s taken.” You hated him. Hated how good he was at being a dick in the most protected way. Hated how your face went hot when he looked at you like he knew something you didn’t want to admit. Hated how you could never tell if he wanted to mess with you- or if he already had.

And now here you are, in a frat house that’s massive in that old money and school legacy way. Hiding deep on campus, past the tennis courts, just there, arm enough that no one who’d care would notice. Finals over, music too loud, drinks too strong, strobe lights and smoke in every room. No one’s taking photos. No one’s snitching. Art’s hand finds your back the second you walk in, calm, guiding, no words needed. He belongs here, and so does Patrick.

Inside, it's limbs and liquor, beer pong and jungle juice, rooms pulsing with bass. Patrick’s there, leaning against the stair rail in a white tee, drink in hand, eyes dragging up your legs the second you walk in, but Art doesn’t notice. You do. You saw him watching you long enough to make you not surprised. A corner of the living room is claimed, drinks scattered, ash on the rug. Art sinks into the couch; you follow, his arm around your shoulders.

People you know sprawl around, someone on the floor, another perched on the armrest with a blunt. Patrick’s across from you, legs spread, drink on his thigh, watching, mouth twitching when your laugh softens. Someone passes a joint to Art, but he waves it off, Patrick taking it instead, smoke rolling slowly like a performance. “Didn’t know you were a lightweight,” Patrick says, and someone scoffs, “He’s boring when he’s in love.” Art pulls you closer, but your eyes are on the person who dares to say that. “Can’t risk losing my girl doing all of that shit.” Laughter, clinking cups, your face warm as you smile.

Patrick’s still watching. “Cute,” he says, flatly, and smirks a little at you when he sees that subtle reaction you made. “Bet she’s the type to throw up after one shot and still ask for another.” You don’t look at him because you know he'll just insult you. “Better than crying in a hallway ‘cause you lost pong,” so yeah, you know how to talk in front of him now without caring about who he is in Art’s life. Low “oooh” across the room, Art laughing, “She’s got a bite, huh? ”Patrick smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He sips his drink like it’s the last word but never stops looking at you.

You don’t even notice how packed the place has gotten, bodies everywhere, the air thick with weed, sweat, and something sugary. You’re on the couch between Art and a girl from the women’s team, skin warm, your skirt riding up, mesh top clinging, no bra, but you feel comfortable. Every time you lean forward, you feel Patrick’s gaze drag like teeth. Of course, he saw everything: Art’s hand on your back, your gloss fresh, your laugh bright, glowing like a star. And Patrick watches like he’s solving a problem that keeps smiling back.

Drink after drink, it's already past midnight, drinks are stronger, and the room is looser. Art’s warm, soft, leaning into you with a quiet murmur that makes the girl next to you giggle. You tuck closer, but his gaze is still there, flicking from your mouth to your lap to where Art’s hand keeps creeping higher. Art’s fingers slide beneath your skirt like he doesn’t even realize it, his mouth brushing your shoulder, the couch creaking under your weight.

Someone cracks a joke, laughter bouncing, but none of it touches your space. Just Art. He is being more clingy. More affectionate. More touchy, even if this is a public space. Art hums, pulling you closer, palm flat on your stomach. “Smell good,” he mumbles, and your eyes flick to Patrick before you move closer to your boyfriend. Patrick’s already looking sharp, leaning forward before a crooked smile flashes across his face.

You shift, drink empty, Art’s knuckles ghosting under your top, Patrick’s eyes locked on you, never looking away. The room spins in that syrupy, almost-drunk way, Art’s thumb drawing circles on your thigh. You murmur, “Bathroom, just a sec,” and he barely nods, distracted, lips brushing your temple again. When you stand, you straighten your skirt, and your top is still smooth while your heels click as you walk away from the scene. You feel eyes follow you, but you just continue.

He drains the last of his drink, sets the cup down, jaw tight, shoulders loose, still in that same seat. Until now. Art glances over to him, “Where are you going? ”Patrick shrugs, chin tipping toward the stairs. “Thought I saw someone I liked.” Art laughs, oblivious about what he's about to do. “You’re shameless.” Patrick smirks, “You say that like it’s new.” That’s it. Art doesn’t think twice; why would he? It’s Patrick, always fucking around. He always has girls in his arms. He doesn’t notice the way Patrick’s eyes track you, the heat in his step. He doesn’t know you’re the only one who went upstairs at this moment. But the bastard is already halfway to the stairs. He has this smile that you don’t know if you will get annoyed or not. He’s really confident like he’s really following someone he likes.

You closed the door when you reached the bathroom and didn’t slam it, but loud enough to make a sound. You locked it and the party sounds are not that loud inside but still bang against the wall because of the loud volume. The overhead light is too bright, gloss smudged, your neck sticky where Art kissed you, slow and tipsy, leaving his hand on your thigh too long. You don’t even need to pee; you just need a breath. You need a mirror, an excuse to get away from the couch, from Art’s heat, from the weight of Patrick’s stare across the room. You can still feel it, that look, how it drags over your skin no matter how crowded it gets. You swipe gloss over your bottom lip, steady, ignoring the trembling in your fingers, refusing to look like you’re hiding.

But of course, you’re not alone for long. He wants to break your peace too quickly, like a leech. Footsteps creak on the stairs, familiar enough that your jaw tenses before the knock even comes. It’s casual, like he owns the hallway. “Are you done yet? ” he calls, rough and flat, like he’s bored already while continuing to knock. “It’s occupied.” A pause, then, “Need to piss.” You roll your eyes, like… he can pick the other bathroom, and he's here. “There’s another one downstairs.” You stated that because he's just finding an excuse now, you feel it. “Line’s long. This one’s closer.” You roll your eyes, voice cool, “Sounds like a problem.”

Another knock, slower, just rhythm, toying with you. “Jesus. Chill out. Do your makeup or whatever while I take a piss. Just don’t look.” Your laugh is sharp. He's so unbelievable. So fucked up. Such an asshole. Really. “What makes you think I want to see you piss?” You are silent after that, and then there's the smug, nasty energy before it even lands. “You weren’t that shy when you were on your knees choking on my best friend’s cock.” You go still, heat climbing your neck, not shame- anger. Your hand slides to the lock, calm, opening the door slowly, steadily, and you look at him like you're sending him to his grave.

“Get a new obsession,” you say, voice flat, and face the mirror again like this is making you so bored. “That one’s old.” He pouts while he leans against the frame. He has this fake innocent look as he watches you. “It’s just an inside joke, chill,” Your fingers curl tight because what the fuck you supposed to feel when the inside joke is you giving your boyfriend a head? “You should focus your attention on someone who cares.” His smirk just widens like he's happy at what he heard. “Nice, cool. Don't give a fuck? Said by a girl who’s desperate for my attention.”

The door clicks shut when he finally goes inside. You stay by the sink, eyes on your reflection, gloss faded, concealer patchy, ignoring him. He unzips and starts pissing like it’s a show. You keep your focus on your mouth, the shape of your lips, dragging gloss back over them, top then bottom, careful, precise. The toilet flushes- zip, shift, maybe a shake. You couldn't care less anyway, so you just open your concealer and put some more underneath your eyes. You ignore the way there's tension because there's not.

There’s no warning or playing around when you feel him behind you. He’s like pressing his body against your back. So god forbid a girl needs a warning because maybe you don’t want his lips too close to you. Imagine if you move a little then your ass is pressing to his crotch. Yeah, imagine if you bend a little too. But what makes you jumpy is when his arms are between your legs against him when he slides them to open the faucet in front of you. Oh. Oh… Okay, that's a little embarrassing because he's just going to clean his hands, right? Water runs, splashing against the basin, while his other hand braces on the counter, caging you in. He washes his hands slowly, deliberately, letting droplets flick against your wrist. You keep dabbing concealer, acting untouched.

His hips press, casual, denim brushing the hem of your skirt. His shoulders brush yours every time he moves, steady, taking space like he’s testing how much you’ll tolerate. “Didn’t peg you for the type who fixes her face before she gets fucked,” he says, low and smooth. You don’t blink. “Didn’t peg you for the type who needs a mirror to feel tall.” A quiet huff of laughter, his breath warm against your temple. “Cute.”

You uncap your powder compact, pressing it against your cheek, ignoring the way his eyes drag down your reflection. “I saw how he was touching you downstairs,” Patrick murmurs, his voice closer, almost gentle, like a knife pressed flat. “Hands on your thighs, your waist. Let me guess- he fingers you under the blanket at parties, doesn’t he? Gets off on pretending no one knows.” Your jaw tightens, but you keep patting powder, ignoring the static crawling up your spine.

When he shifts, you can feel his hips now aligning with you. You could feel the way his jeans dragged slowly to your ass. “You let him fuck you in public like that, but up here, you need a minute alone?” You close the compact, lining your gloss and concealer on the sink, acting in control. “You talk a lot for someone who pisses like a drunk frat boy.” You stated, and you heard his voice drop when he answered that statement, teeth behind every syllable. “I’m just trying to understand. Is it that you like it soft? Or is it just that he can’t give you anything else? ”

You inhale, slow, measured, nails tapping marble. “Tell me,” he adds, lower, “does he even make you come?” You slam the gloss cap angrily as you turn slowly, back pressing into the sink, chin lifted. “I’m going to tell him you pissed on your hands and got water on my concealer.” He doesn’t flinch, leaning in, breath warm by your cheek, eyes on your mouth. “You know what’s wild?” he murmurs, voice curling dark. “Out of every girl begging for him, every future he could’ve chased- he ends up with you. And suddenly he forgets how to fucking win.”

You swipe gloss over your bottom lip, refusing to give him anything. His eyes track your mouth like he can’t help himself to watch you do that, especially if you have good lips. But he's a jerk, so it will not be the reason not to piss you off more. “Kind of tragic,” he continues, soft, lazy, and cruel. “The second he starts getting regular pussy, he stops showing up. Skips lifts, misses drills, can’t string a racquet without help.” Your lip twitches; you smooth it with your finger, eyes hard. “You must be proud,” he says, leaning closer, “ruined a whole prodigy with your legs spread.”

“Bet he tells you he’s lucky,” Patrick goes on, his voice darkening, soft enough to sink under your skin. “Bet he looks at you like you’re the reason he breathes, like you didn’t drag him off court into some pathetic boyfriend fantasy.” Your fingers press into the marble, gloss trembling. “Letting him fuck you in that dorm bed like it means something,” he says, “like moaning for him while I’m a few feet away doesn’t make you a joke.” Your throat shifts, but you don’t respond.

“Jesus, he fucks you like you’re made of glass,” Patrick adds, and that one slices deep. “You don’t want to be soft. You want someone who’ll grab you by the throat and ruin you. You want someone who’ll make you cry just to see how far he can take it. You want it to mean something. Don’t pretend you don’t.” You still don’t move, but he knows he’s winning, peeling you open layer by layer, and you hate him for it. You hate what he's doing right now. You hate him saying all of this bullshit.

Then softer, meaner, pressing close: “And I don’t even think you’re fixing your makeup for him.” You freeze, air stuck in your chest as you wait for his next words. “I think you’re fixing it for me.” His breath warms your cheek, that half-smirk in your periphery. “You want me to see it,” he says, low, patient, “want me to remember how pretty your mouth looked the first time I saw it full of his cock?”

Your fingers dig into the sink, shoulders tense, gloss still trembling on the marble. “You were so into it,” Patrick adds, grin slow and ugly, “down on your knees like some trophy whore with a mission, all devoted, like blowing him in the dark made you better than me.” Your jaw locks. “You came up here to feel clean again, didn’t you? ” he murmurs, voice almost soft. “But it’s still all over you, and we both know it.” Then, quiet, final, like dragging a match across the edge: “He’s the one getting your mouth. But I'll be the one to ruin it once we're finished.”

That’s the moment. Anger got deeper, hot in your throat, and you shoved him with both hands, teeth bared, in blind rage. He stumbles half a step, laughing under his breath, like it excites him. “Fuck you,” you spit, voice shaking. You glare at him while he still has that smug look on his face. Your hand slaps him before you even realize it. Your palm touches his cheek, hard. You feel it sting, and it leaves a red reaction on his cheek. His head turns a little to the action, but he just lets it happen and doesn't say anything. He's now talking to you, and he has something dark sparking in his eyes. Then he exhales, a wrecked grin barely holding. “There she is.”

Your hand hurts. You are not used to slapping people out of anger. Yeah, no shit, it's stinging a little. You practice your breathing while you're doing many activities. Cheeks are flushed and raw. Regardless of all of it, he still looks at you like it proved something, like it confirmed what he’s always known. “I’ve tried to be nice to you,” you say, low, shaking, eyes locked on him. “I fucking have.” His head tilts like it’s funny, like he’s indulging you, silent while you unravel. “I’ve let you get away with so much,” you continue, voice rising. “Because you’re Art’s friend. Because I thought if I ignored it, you’d get over it.”

Your chest heaves, heat crawling up your neck. “I didn’t tell him about the shit you’ve said when he wasn’t around. Or the way you touched my leg when you thought he couldn’t see. Or the way you look at me.” Your voice hardens, steady and cold. “You’re lucky, Patrick. Lucky I didn’t blow it all up the first time you opened your mouth. Lucky I kept it quiet. You think I couldn’t ruin you? ” He exhales slowly, the grin that follows calm and cruel, predictable. “As if he’d believe you.”

You freeze, the dismissal hitting harder than anything else tonight. His tone is light, like it’s obvious. He leans in, breath brushing your cheek, voice low. “You really think he’d believe you?” he murmurs. “The girlfriend who flirts with me when he’s out of the room? Who makes a scene every time I look at her, like she likes being watched?” Your jaw clenches, hands shaking. “He believes me,” Patrick finishes, no smirk this time, just that cold certainty. “Always has.”

Before you can speak, he moves. He grabs your wrists without warning and pins them down on the marble. Making you feel closed and caged in there with his body crowding you without any space left. His action made you unable to catch your breath; it was sudden and shocked you. You feel his grip tightening and rough enough to show you he has the upper hand, not you. He leans in like he might whisper something gentle, but nothing about Patrick Zweig is soft. “You are delusional to think he's going to believe you, because he's not,” he said, and he's pissed. His lips are so close to the point that you can feel the hotness of his breath against your face. “He’s not going to believe a single fucking thing you say about me.”

You turn your head, catching his eyes in the mirror, but he doesn’t look at you, too busy slicing. “You think he’d take your side over mine? Some girl he’s been fucking for what- eight months? Ten? Gets to undo everything? Rewrite the years?” His grip tightens, your wrists aching. “I’ve known him since before he had a serve. Before sponsors. Before he knew what to do with himself. We’ve roomed together, fought together, and won together. I’ve bled for him. I built him.”

Your laugh is bitter, breath hot. “You’re so fucking full of shit.” His mouth twitches. “And you’re so fucking temporary.” Your eyes narrow, your voice sharp, deadly. “This isn’t about Art believing me. It’s about you not being able to believe he chose me.” His eyes flick to yours, dangerous. “That’s what’s eating you alive, isn’t it?” You continue, breath catching. “That no matter how close you stand, no matter how much history you shove down everyone’s throat, he didn’t want you the way he wanted me.”

His face hardens, jaw tight, but he doesn’t interrupt, hands still locked around your wrists, body flush to yours. “You don’t hate me,” you said, almost challenging him. “I think you hate that you're not in my place,” you snap, and you are satisfied to see the crack in his expression when you said that because it's so fast- he got affected the moment you said those words. He clenched his jaw and took a deep breath, and you can feel the silence so loud it fills the whole bathroom. He leans in again, voice lower, scraped raw, closer than before. “I don’t want to be in your place,” he mutters. “I want to fuck you out of it.”

The moment lands, heavy, and then he moves- just a slow, steady shift of his hips, rough denim grinding against you, pressing close until your breath catches like a hook in your throat. His grip on your wrist doesn’t ease, body against you, cock dragging in you like he wants to wear you down one grind at a time. You hate how fast your body betrays you, how your thighs press together, how heat pools low in your stomach, shame curling with it. He feels it, of course he does, and the quiet, smug sound he lets out brands itself into your spine. “Didn’t even have to touch you yet,” he murmurs, not mocking- worse, admiring. “And you’re already squeezing your fucking legs like it’ll help.” You force your voice sharp, trying to cut through it. “Get the fuck off me-”

But you don’t believe it, not when he lets go of one wrist only to drag that hand down your side, slow enough you feel every inch. Over your ribs, pausing at your waist, gathering your skirt in his fist like he’s done it before, like he knows exactly what’s waiting. His palm grazes your inner thigh, heavy and possessive, and then it’s up, in, cupping you over your underwear like it’s nothing, like you’re nothing. Your breath catches too fast, and he groans because your body confirms everything he’s ever suspected about you. “Jesus,” he breathes. “He has no idea what he’s got, does he? Letting you walk around like this, untouched, leaking for the first person who calls you a slut.”

Your body burns, scraping up your throat like it has claws. “I’ll tell him,” you manage, voice shaking but jaw set. His hand stills for a moment against you. “I’ll tell Art. I’ll tell him you touched me, that you said all this shit, that you came in here and tried to-” You say too quickly, and your breath catches in your throat, making you not finish your sentence. “Tried?” Patrick laughs, sharp and slow, slicing you open. “You’re going to tell him I tried?” Your stomach turns, but it doesn’t matter, because he’s already pushing your panties aside like you never spoke, fingers slipping through the mess of you, dragging through your slick, and the stunned groan he lets out.

“You’re not going to tell him shit.” His breath is warm, calm, like it’s the harsh truth. Your breath hitches when his fingers drag up again, soaking and obscene in how easy it is for him to find how wet you are. “Because then you’d have to tell him the rest,” he murmurs, curling a finger, teasing without giving anything. “You’d have to tell him you stayed still. That you let me touch you. That you fucking liked it.” He chuckles when you arch and presses his hand unintentionally because your body is reacting to it. You feel the heat burning because of the anger, shame, and humiliation he's making you feel.

“You won’t say a word,” he stated and smiled at you because he's showing that you don't have a choice; it's said gently and softly, like a slap to your face. “Because you’re a cheating little whore who let me in.” Your breath hitches at his words before you shake your head. You're not a cheater. You're not. You're not an asshole like him who wants his girlfriend. You are not cheating on Art because you don't want it. You don't… right?

You can feel his hold on your wrist tighten, and he looks at your eyes while his other hand slips one knuckle deep and presses into you. “You let me in.” His voice is quiet, terrifying in its certainty, his hand dragging through your slick like it’s his reward for being right. Your hips twitch, betrayal hot and dizzying, the bathroom too small around the sound of your breathing. You react without thinking, twisting sharply, trying to shove him off, but he only smiles, hands shifting to your hips.

Before you can slap him, he moves, lifting you like it’s nothing, setting you down hard on the counter, cold marble against your ass. His chest crowds your knees, the bathroom buzzing with heat and light. You open your mouth to say many insults and curse him out and your legs are much more comfortable now. You took your chance anyway. You kick, distracted and your foot touches his stomach before you completely lose it. You just want to feel it, especially the kick. For a second, trembling, you think it’s over. Then he laughs, low and wrecked, half pain, half pleasure. “Oh, fuck, you’re really one of those.”

“You fight when you’re turned on, huh?” He taunts you and laughs while his eyes remain on you. “Kick me while I’m touching your pussy and expect me to believe you don’t want it?” You glare, chest heaving, anger in your throat, but he steps closer, wincing, still laughing. “Because I don’t,” you spit, shoving at him, but he’s already between your legs again, body heat rolling off him, oppressive. “No?” he mocks softly, tilting his head. “Then why are you soaked through your panties?”You try to slap him, but he catches your wrist midair, calm, practiced, eyes locked on yours, dark and vicious.

“You like it when I’m disgusting,” he says, voice low, almost tender. “You like it when I talk shit about your perfect little boyfriend. You want me to treat you like trash and fuck you stupid while you lie to his face.” You feel your pulse thrumming in your throat, and it's suffocating you. You don't look away as much, you try it because he keeps squeezing you every time you do it, and making your breath hitch. “You want it to be mean,” he adds. “So I’m going to give it to you.” His grip tightens, bruising where his fingers dig in, his cock hard against your inner thigh, breath ragged, ready, filthy with want. You’re perched on the cold counter, body flushed, heart hammering, thighs trembling- not with fear. With rage. With something worse than rage.

Before you can slap him, he moves, lifting you like it’s nothing, setting you down hard on the counter, cold marble against your ass. His chest crowds your knees, the bathroom buzzing with heat and light. You open your mouth to say many insults and curse him out but your legs are much more comfortable now. You took your chance anyway. You kick, distracted and your foot touches his stomach before you completely lose it. You just want to feel it, especially the kick. For a second, full of adrenaline, you think it’s over because he got the hint. Then he laughs, low and wrecked, half pain, half pleasure. “Oh, fuck, you’re really one of those.”

“You fight when you’re turned on, huh?” He taunts you and laughs while his eyes remain on you. “Kick me while I’m touching your pussy and expect me to believe you don’t want it?” You glare, chest heaving, anger in your throat, but he steps closer, wincing, still laughing. “Because I don’t,” you spit out, shoving at him, but he’s already between your legs again, body heat rolling off him, oppressive. “No?” he mocks softly, tilting his head. “Then why are you soaked through your panties?” You try to slap him, but he catches your wrist midair, calm, practiced, eyes locked on yours, dark and vicious.

“You like it when I’m disgusting,” he says, voice low, almost tender. “You like it when I talk shit about your perfect little boyfriend. You want me to treat you like trash and fuck you stupid while you lie to his face.” You feel your pulse thrumming in your throat and it's suffocating you. You don't look away as much, you try it because he keeps squeezing you every time you do it, and making your breath hitch. “You want it to be mean,” he adds. “So I’m going to give it to you.” His grip tightens, bruising where his fingers dig in, his cock hard against your inner thigh, breath ragged, ready, filthy with want. You’re perched on the cold counter, body flushed, heart hammering, thighs trembling- not with fear. With rage. With something worse than rage.

You’ve had enough. You look him dead in the eye, voice cold and flat. “You’re just pissed he gets to fuck this pussy and you don’t.” It’s not a tease, it’s a bullet, and you see the twitch in his jaw before his smile vanishes like you punched him harder than your foot ever could. It only lasts a second before twisting into something darker, unhinged. “Oh yeah?” he says, voice rough, all threat, before grabbing your thighs, harsh and fast, shoving them open so wide the counter edge bites your legs. He steps in, crowding you completely, hands spreading you like he’s got something to prove and no patience left to do it gently.

“I’m going to fuck it too,” he snarls. One hand yanks your panties down in one motion, dragging the soaked fabric past your knees like it offends him, like it proves every awful thing he’s ever said about you. He lets it drop to the floor and ignores it, like you never meant to keep it on. “You think letting him in first means anything to me? I’m still going to have a taste.” You glare at him because that's what you do. You always try not to react when he does something stupid. You try not to show how much he's getting under your skin and how naked you feel right now. You try not to make your thighs tremble worse than they're doing right now. You try not to feel something you refuse to name. You just hate him when he does something like this as if his breath is hot and close to your jaw, hands rough on your hips, voice low, “You let him in. Now you’re going to let me take it.”

Something in you snaps. Without even realizing it, you shoved him hard. But as expected, he barely moves an inch, he just waits for you to do more. So you just say something, “You better fuck me better than he does, or I’m telling him everything.” This is messy, you know that. You shouldn't give in, you also know that. But you are prideful and you refuse to back down from Patrick. He doesn’t laugh but he smiles, darker, breathes in like your words are the best thing he’s ever tasted. Then moves, reaching into his pocket without looking away. He flips open his phone, presses record, and points the camera at you.

“What the fuck are you-” you start, but he cuts you off. “I want you to remember this,” he says, voice low. “Have something to have in my memorabilia when you are playing good girlfriend to Art.” You watch him kneel in front of you and he opens your legs wider as he settles on the tile. His grip is not changing, it's still tight and firm, and his nails are digging. It's embarrassing actually how your panties are tangling at your ankles, and the heat of his breath is getting closer to where you want him. One hand holds the phone, the other slides up your leg, mapping out what’s his, eyes flicking up, not asking, just memorizing you.

“I want you to cum on my tongue,” he says like it's already decided and approved by you, “and then I’m going to make you watch it happen.” You just nod while you feel your breath stutter. You can’t speak because the words are dying on your tongue as his tongue drags across your inner thigh, slow and teasing like he's taunting you while making you twitch. He exhales and laughs like he feels everything building in your pulse, your shaking legs. Then, softer but dark enough to slice you open, he whispers, “Tell the camera.” You don’t move, breath caught, and shaking. “Tell him I made you forget his name.”

And with that, he buries his face between your legs like he’s been waiting forever. You’re shaking now as you watch him still filming, and you're trying to keep control like the words can keep your body in line- but it’s slipping. His mouth is too fucking good because goddamn, he's not just licking you like with what he use to other girls. You feel him learning. He's moving his tongue like he's remembering the shape and he's mapping you. He's learning every movement in your hips, every moan you are trying to swallow but fail, and he wants to own every sound you make. You don’t move at first, not when his breath ghosts over your thigh, not when his mouth hovers like he thinks he’s worshipping something.

You just reach down, fingers closing over the phone still in his hand, and when he doesn’t stop what you're doing, you snatch it. He doesn't even blink and lets you take it. You tilt the camera, angle it right, his face framed by your thighs, slick between them, nothing else. You press record. And you smile at him like there's a switch that just got turned on. “Look at you,” you murmur and mocking him. “On your knees for a girl you can’t fucking stand.” His tongue flicks over your mound and you don’t flinch.

“You talk all that shit about how I mess him up, how I made him soft, how I fucked up his game.” You tilt the phone to catch his mouth around your cunt, especially him licking your clit. “But here you are, pathetic, obsessed, tongue out like a fucking dog.” He groans when you call him that word while his mouth is open, tongue dragging up your slit like he’s trying to drown in it, like this is what he’s always wanted. You feel the heat and the mess, the way your body reacts, but you don’t let it show. Not yet. Not going to give him that satisfaction. “You pretend you hate me, but this is what you’ve been begging for.”

He grunts into your pussy, fingers digging into your thighs, tongue sloppy and eager. “God, listen to you,” you whisper, your voice hard even as your thighs tremble. “It’s embarrassing how you moan like it's the real cunt you've ever eaten.” His body shudders at that, his hips twitch like he wants to rut against the floor, like he's soaked inside his clothes and tip dripping. “You love this, don’t you?” You breathe, still filming, your grip steady. “Being on your knees, being used, being recorded like the pathetic freak you are.” His mouth closes around your clit, and your voice finally cracks, a sharp gasp tearing out as your legs shake.

But you keep going, shaking, spit-slick, and ruined. “You’ve wanted it since the first time you saw me fuck him,” you say, breath ragged, mean. “You wanted to know what I taste like when I’m thinking about someone else.” He groans, jaw working faster, tongue relentless, hitting perfectly, your body tightening and arching, moans wrecked. “You like taking people’s girlfriends,” you hiss, fisting his hair, grinding him into you. “Sick.” He whines, tongue moving like he needs it to live, humiliated and desperate.

You press the phone closer, making the angle worse for him and better for you. Through your own shaking, gasping moans, you whisper, “You better make me come so hard I forget his name.” He moves unexpectedly and his action made you jumpy because you can feel his grip tighten as he pulls your thighs even wider open to keep you in your place. Then his mouth close around your clit, and he sucks hard. Your whole body jolts like he shocked you, a sound catching in your throat before you can silence it. It spills out high, sharp, and raw- and he knows.

He groans against it which makes a vibration through the action as he does it with his tongue flicking and his lips dragging sloppy and relentlessly head to you. Like he’s giving you something no one ever gave you before. You choke on the moan, trying to keep it quiet, but it slips. “It feels- fuck- it feels good.” You freeze the second you hear yourself say it. He doesn’t. He moans into you again, louder, deeper, like it’s praise, tongue drawing slow circles, lips sucking hard, rhythm locked in, a wicked smirk pressed into your cunt like he just won the match point.

You try to yank his hair, to glare, to be mean or something, but he’s not having it. His tongue flicks faster, and you feel the orgasm building in your spine, and it’s inevitable. While he’s sucking- devouring- grinning- smug- piece of shit, because you slipped, because you admitted it felt good, and now he’s going to make sure you remember it. But instead of speeding up, instead of chasing your orgasm, he changes. Slow. Smooths out his movements like he’s changing lanes, like this isn’t just about your pleasure anymore. His tongue moves slowly, every stroke carved with intent which is to make you cum. A single line, then a curve, then a sharp flick.

You feel it in your thighs first, then your gut, your brain catching up. He’s spelling something. P…flick up, drag down across your clit. A… soft sweep, almost a shape. T… slow, pressing, obscene. Of course, you try not to give in like biting your lips but your body isn’t listening to what you want and keep bucking and your breath is like you are running in a marathon. And he keeps going. R… a drawn slowly, tongue curling to do the letter. I… just a short stroke, playful dot after. C… just a curl of his tongue from up to the left, like you’re drawing a rainbow. K… this letter is wetter, meaner, and worse than the last. You want to say his name to tell him to stop, but that’s the point. He wants it in your mouth.

He pulls back, mouth slick down to his chin, lips parted, eyes dark and shining when he says, “You feel that?” You’re panting, trembling, trying not to nod. “That’s me,” he says, smiling into your thigh before he bites it and sucks it a little. “That’s Patrick.” Then he leans in and spells it again, slow this time to taunt you as if he’s making fun of this situation because he’s making sure you’ll feel it when you sit, when you shower, when Art’s inside you and you can’t help but remember. Your hand slips, the phone drops down beside her, still recording every soaked, ruined sound echoing from the bathroom. It doesn’t matter anymore. You’re not acting for the camera, and you’re breathing but barely. Your hands clawing at the counter while Patrick’s mouth eats you down piece by piece.

He groans against your cunt, tongue dragging, jaw relentless, pulling back to speak, mouth hovering over your clit like a threat. “Jesus. You’ve got no shame,” he mutters. “This pussy’s unreal. And you waste it on him?” You try to breathe, shaking your head, but it doesn’t matter. He groans, tongue pressing flat and slow like he’s licking you clean, “He doesn’t deserve this. You let him touch you like it means something.” You whine and your legs twitch when his hold tightened and making them stay still and pinning you in place as if he knows you are getting a wobbly feeling.

“You like this, don’t you?” he asks, voice sharp, ugly but he’s smirking at the audacity of the situation. “You like cheating on him, lying to his face, then spreading your legs for me.” You kick your foot in the air but he just shuts it down by pinning it back where it was. You shake your head as his words get into you. “Shut up,” you gasp, but it’s weak, drowned out by the sound of your body soaking his mouth. “You don’t want love,” Patrick grunts, sucking your clit hard like it’s punishment. “You want this. You want to be fucked. You want to be used. You want me to fuck you while you still smell like his sheets.” You let out a broken cry, legs shaking, orgasm right there, hot and you can’t stop it.

“Say it,” he growls, licking you rougher, faster, and meaner. “Say you like cheating on him.” You can’t speak, mouth open, whimpers spilling instead of words. He pulls back just enough to say it again, meaner, louder, “Say. You like cheating on him.” Then he sucks, deep, long, and hard, and you shatter, coming with a sound that doesn’t sound like yours, body seizing, thighs clamping, voice cracking open into a moan that lives in shame. Just before it takes you under, before you lose everything, he says it, low, laughing, awful: “Fuck, listen to you. You’re coming like you were made to cheat.”

You’re shaking, hot and soaked, nerves frayed from being edged and denied, everything in you strung tight and aching. You didn’t realize how close you were until he ripped his mouth away, leaving you open, wanting, and ruined. Your thighs twitch, hips searching for contact, for anything. But he doesn’t give it. You watched him unbuckle his belt while his eyes were locked on you as you fell apart in front of him. You hear his zipper slowly slide down, metal sounds echoing and then he pulls out his cock from inside, it’s thick, flushed, already slick from watching you unravel.

You want to spit something, anything, but your mouth is dry, breath shallow, and hands braced against the counter like you’ll slide off if he touches you again. He steps forward, eyes on yours, stroking himself once, twice, dragging the head of his cock up your soaked slit. He doesn’t push in, just lets it rest there- heavy, hot, a promise. “You don’t like cheating?” he murmurs, soft enough to sound gentle but meant to make you sick. “Then what the fuck is this?” You open your mouth, but he moves before you can speak, cock rolling against you, dragging through slick that makes you both groan, your legs twitching wide.

“Say it,” he says, tongue pressed to his teeth, “Lie to me again. Tell me you don’t want this.” You can’t, not with how you’re pulsing, cunt clenching every time the head of his cock bumps your cunt, still twitching from the orgasm taken away from you. And he knows it. He presses forward- just the tip. He did it just close- enough for you to feel the first stretch, the first pulse of yes where there should be no. “You left him downstairs,” Patrick breathes, dragging the tip over your clit, slow and filthy. “Still sitting there. On that couch. Right where you told him you’d be back.”

His voice sounds jealous, and low. “He’s probably sipping that drink like a good boy, waiting, doesn’t even realize you’re up here dripping for me.” And downstairs there’s Art shifts on the couch, the party humming around him, laughter echoing off the tile. Someone bumps the couch, but barely hears it. He checks his phone. There’s nothing. No “on my way.” No “almost done.” Just silence. While upstairs, Patrick finally pushes in- not all the way but enough to make your body twitch, to watch your mouth part like it forgot how to lie.

His hand is on your hip, breath warm at your ear. “And you’re about to let me fuck the pussy he thinks is his.” You don’t reply to that but you don’t close your legs either. He takes that as a yes, sinking in with one long, thick slide until he’s buried to the base. Your back hits the mirror, your breath breaking on a moan you can’t hold back. It doesn’t matter. He starts to move, counter creaking under your hips, strokes slow, deep, and unforgiving. Your palms press back against the mirror behind you, breath catching as he fucks you. You try to stay quiet. You fail. “He’s going to find out,” you whisper, breathless. Patrick smirks, “No,” he murmurs back, “He’ll never know.” Then he fucks you harder.

The music keeps rolling somewhere below, a muffled thump under the sharp slap of skin, under the choked sounds you can’t hold back. But Art is still there. In the living room where you left him. The room is still glowing while he’s holding a cup with a drink he’s not going to drink anymore. And suddenly someone speaks, “She’ll be back,” but it doesn’t reach him, not really. His hand tightens on the cup. He’s moving before he even realizes it, stepping into the dark, following the ghost of your laughter, the shadow of your absence. Above him, Patrick continued his movements inside of you. His thrusts are heavy, cock dragging slow, pressing the guilt deeper with every stroke.

You’re shaking, trying not to say his name, but a moan slips out. Patrick groans. “If he finds out,” he says, voice sharp, fucking in harder, “it’s because you told him.” He grinds deeper, your hips jerking. “Otherwise, he’ll never fucking know.” And what both of you know is that he’s outside. He just stops in front of it after seeing the closed bathroom door with the light on. He doesn’t go to it, just stands, face changing slightly. He hears it- a thud, a breath, something wet, the sound of something.

In the bathroom, Patrick leans in, voice rough, dragging his cock deep with a thrust that makes your breath catch. “Are you going to tell him, huh?” he murmurs, teeth grazing your skin. “Are you going to walk out of here soaked in my cum and explain why you’re walking differently?” You choke on your moan, shaking your head, nails scraping the mirror. “Say it.” Your voice breaks, “Fuck- he’ll never know.” Patrick groans, hips stuttering as he slams back in, filthy and unforgiving, “That’s right.”

Art steps closer to the bathroom door. He doesn’t touch the handle, doesn’t knock, just stands there, listening. Because the sound behind it- low, steady, awful- doesn’t stop. Not when you whisper that Art might find out, not when your breath catches like it’s already too late. If anything, Patrick fucks you harder, grip tightening on your waist, jerking your hips back into every thrust like you’re nothing but leverage. Push you more over the counter, one of his hands flat palmed on the glasses while the other wraps around your hair. When he pulled, it earned a sound from your throat while your head snapped back, and your spine arched.

He leans in, his breath hot against your ear, “Think he could ever fuck you like this?” Patrick hisses, cock grinding deep, words soft enough to burn. You bite your lip, but he pulls harder, forcing your body to answer for you. “Think he could choke you the way you like?” His hand slides to your throat, wraps around it, pressing until your pulse hammers against his palm, the room going warm around the edges. “Poor Art,” he mutters, teeth scraping your jaw, “still out there thinking you’re his.” He fucks in harder, rhythm filthy enough to echo in the hall, sink creaking beneath you as you fail to swallow your moan. “He doesn’t even know how to ruin you,” Patrick snarls, hips snapping, “doesn’t even know how to keep you.”

“Go ahead. Slap me.” You do, twisting to crack your palm across his face, sharp and loud. It only makes him groan. “God,” he pants, “fucking knew you wanted this.” He thrusts in rougher, hands around your throat, not cutting off air- just making you take it. Outside, Art steps closer, frozen, head tilted, the party still happening behind him. At first, he tells himself it’s nothing- just other people. But it’s not working. He hears it all now, wet and steady, a slap, a moan that goes straight to the center of him.

His blood goes quiet, like something inside is holding its breath. His hand hovers near the knob but doesn’t move. And then he hears Patrick’s voice, low, ragged, and familiar in a way that tastes like a poison now. “Think he could ever fuck you like this?” It lands heavy, sour, and immediately. Almost like he’s saying this out of spite, but you don’t know if it’s to him or you. Then: “Doesn’t even know how to ruin you.” Art doesn’t blink, doesn’t breathe. Then he hears you- your voice, soft, cracked, gutted, trying not to sound but still sounding. His hand twitches, but he doesn’t knock. He tells himself he should demand the truth, but his body doesn’t move.

Then he notices the pressure in his jeans, realization sinking as he gets hard. Which is sick not because he wants to or it’s real. Maybe it’s the irony of it. His girlfriend. His best friend. One bathroom. Noises are so filthy. He feels sick, but he’s still standing there. Then Patrick’s voice comes again, closer, deliberate: “You gonna walk back into that party full of me and lie to his fucking face?” Art’s lips part, but nothing comes out, his cock aching so hard it hurts. Inside, Patrick’s got you pressed against the sink, stuffed full, every thrust deliberate, designed to drag the truth out of you whether you speak it or not.

“Bet he’s out there,” Patrick mutters, grinding deep as if he already knows Art is outside. Maybe he just says that out of the thrill. He groans at the thought though with a big smirk on his face, “still waiting, still thinking you’re his.” You snap, slapping his chest, but he just laughs, fucking you deeper. “Keep going,” he breathes, “fight me.” He encourages and licks his lips while his hips continue to work and still smug. “I-I hngh… h-hate you,” you moan out, hands flatten to his chest to shove him off, but his hands tighten, dragging you back onto him. “No, you don’t,” he growls, thrusting roughly, the counter making sounds beneath you. Your nails digging at his forearm, nails deep, but he groans like he likes it. “G-get off me, P-pat,” you gasp, but you don’t stop him.

“You don’t want that either.” His voice is ragged, breathless, body is hot against you. You feel how deep he is, dragging through everything slick and tense, hating how your body responds. “I don’t even like y-you-” You gasp, breath catching, throwing your hands into his ribs. It lands hard. He grunts, but it only makes him moan, teeth flashing in a grin. “Fuck, you always get like this when you’re about to come?” You scratch down his shoulder, carving lines, and he groans, cock twitching. “God,” he breathes out, voice low and pleasured, “you’re hot when you’re pissed.”

“I swear to God I’m telling him-” you bite out, but Patrick laughs at that. “No, you’re not,” he pants, teeth at your shoulder, hand on your waist, pulling you back onto him like leverage. “Because you’re going to come for me first,” he breathes, “and then you’re going to lie.” Your cunt betrays you, tightening around him. “You think he’d still want you,” Patrick growls, “if he saw you like this?” You slam your palm into his chest, but he catches your wrist, grabbing your hair, yanking your head back until your spine arches, mouth open in a gasp.

“You think he’d still want you,” he whispers again, voice poison, “if he knew I was the one who made you scream?” Your head tips back, his name slipping out, sharp and unwilling, barely a gasp. He groans against your throat like he’s won. Outside, Art stands frozen, listening to the wet slap of skin, your soft stuttered gasps. Patrick’s voice drips low, “If he knew I was the one who made you scream.” It lands like a punch, knocking air from Art’s lungs.

He stares at the floor while his hands are shaking. He could very much see the tent forming in his jeans before he pulled out his phone from his pocket. He checks his contacts and your name is already there. Click your contact and pray to saints that you’ll answer even if he knows you wouldn’t. The ringtone starts just beyond the door, too loud. You don’t move. Patrick keeps fucking with you, body hitting yours while your phone rings out, thumping on the counter. Patrick laughs low, “Answer it.” Nothing. A moan.

You feel his hands on your top before he squeezes it. “Fuck… you have great tits.” Art lowers the phone, lips parting, cock hard, so hard it makes him sick. The phone rings again, slicing sharply. Patrick doesn’t stop, driving deeper with a sharp thrust that jolts your hips. “Answer it,” he mutters, voice thick with cruelty. “Let him hear you.” Your hand reaches for the phone, but Patrick’s already there, locking around your waist, dragging you back onto him. “Or don’t,” he says, slower, “let it ring while he listens to me fuck you.” You shake your head, hating what he’s saying. “Stop,” you whisper, voice cracking, “fuck, stop- he’s-”

“He’s what?” Patrick breathes, cock slamming up into you with thick, wet sounds. “He’s out there?” Your body shakes, arms trembling, thighs clenching around him like your cunt doesn’t know this is betrayal, only that you’re full. The phone rings again, Patrick leaning closer, grinding deep, mouth hot on your neck. “Let him hear it,” he whispers, “let him hear how messy you get for me.” You try to shove him off, but your hips push back, a moan catching in your throat. The phone thumps again, your hand knocking it away. You don’t try again.

Patrick keeps moving, steady and mean, fucking you through your panic. “You think he still wants you?” he growls, cock dragging slow, “Think he still wants to come home with you? Look you in the eyes? Tell you how lucky he is?” You shake your head, breath ragged, “Patrick-” Another thrust, hard, deep. The ringtone cuts off, leaving silence thick and awful. He doesn’t stop. Patrick’s breath is damp on your ear, his voice low and awful. “He’s calling because he knows.” You choke. “And you’re still letting me in.” You try to let your head fall, but Patrick cradles your jaw, forcing you to look.

“Look,” he says, breathe hot, “look at what I’m doing to you.” He tilts your face down, your lashes dragging low, vision clearing between your legs, and you nearly choke. It’s obscene, your thighs spread over his hips, trembling, skin tacky where he holds you open. Between them, his cock buried thick, dragging slow with every thrust, so deep it feels like it’s in your ribs. You’re flushed, leaking, your slick painting him with every ruined pass of his hips. He pulls back, the light catching where you glisten, before he fucks back in, wetter, meaner. “God,” Patrick breathes, “you see how you take me?” You can’t answer, your cunt tightening in helpless waves. It’s too much, too perfect, too disgusting.

“That’s mine,” he whispers at your jaw. “This pretty pussy, dripping. Mine.” Your head falls forward, chest stuttering. He fucks deeper, grinding like he’s carving it into you. His palm presses low on your belly, to where he stretches you deepest. “Are you going to come?” he murmurs, dragging his thumb over your clit, slow and filthy. “Gonna soak me just in time for him to take you home?”You sob out something that might be a yes.

He groans, jaw tight, pace breaking. “I’m going to fill you up,” he growls, “so full you’ll feel it every time you walk.” That does it. Your body open the gates and your thighs locked on his waist while your cunt is clenching tight around his cock. You bury your face in his neck before your orgasm rolls out of your body and your breath feels like it stopped. But Patrick keeps moving, slower, desperate, hips stuttering. He’s still inside you when he comes, deep and raw, breath hitching, cock pulsing thick. You feel it fill you, slick and wrong and perfect.

Even after, quiet and spent, he doesn’t pull out. He stays, one hand curled around your thigh, the other ghosting up your spine, breath warm at your cheek. You feel it before he says it, that last whisper: “Tell me what you see.” And you do. You look down at your lap, at the mess, at where he’s still inside you, your cunt stretched and twitching, flushed and leaking. You swallow. “My pussy,” you rasp.

Patrick smiles, but it’s not soft, just sure. His hand strokes along your thigh, fingers grazing where your skin is glossy from sweat and slick. He shifts once, just enough for you to feel it- he’s still inside, still thick, still hard. “You think he’ll feel it?” Patrick says, voice low, cruelly soft. “When he fucks you later, do you think he’ll notice how loose you are?” You shake your head, too fast, too weak, and he pushes deeper. It just made your body twitch. “I think he will,” he whispers, eyes locked on yours, “I think he’ll slide in and feel the shape I left.”

Your cunt clenches, instinct and betrayal. Not liking the way you like his words is affecting you. Patrick groans, “Fuck. You like that, knowing I did this.” You go still, too still when his hand presses low on your belly, palm flat. He’s feeling the shape of his cock against it. “You think he’ll pretend not to notice?” he murmurs, “that he won’t feel you dripping on me while he fucks you later in the dark?” You close your eyes, don’t answer. But he knows you won’t clean up, not if he doesn’t make you. And he won’t. He stays a moment longer, then finally, he pulls out.

You feel it immediately- the stretch, the slide, the slow spill of his cum dripping down your thighs, pooling beneath you. It’s everywhere. You don’t move but Patrick does. He smooths your skirt back down like he didn’t just fuck the soul out of you, tucks himself away, and runs a hand through his hair like nothing happened. He doesn’t look at you when he leaves. He doesn’t have to but he manages to close the door. What an asshole. You’re still on the counter, legs open, mouth parted, full of him.

While Art managed to go downstairs before you and Patrick finished what you’ve been doing. But he hadn’t meant to stay that long or to spy, his intention was only meant to check. You’d been gone too long, your phone ringing unanswered- that was it. A concern, a quiet pull in his chest: Go see. He hadn’t meant to stay, not after the knock went unanswered, not after hearing a voice that wasn’t yours- at least, not like that. But then Patrick had said something low and possessive, and Art just went still.

Then he heard you, soft, desperate, almost broken, and he couldn’t really move. Not when the sounds got clearer, not when it became obvious, not when Patrick started saying things no man should hear about their girlfriend. He told himself he’d leave, that he hadn’t heard enough to be sure. And then Patrick asked if you were coming, and you did. The second Art heard that sound, he turned and left, no slamming, no scene. It’s not him. Not very Art Donaldson to force open the door and pick up a fight with you and Patrick.

So he just walks away. It’s like the walk when you can’t be in that place. That you heard enough. He feels every step, it’s heavy with his jaw locked just to keep himself from shouting and saying vile things. He walk straight to the kitchen as if he’s not standing in front of the bathroom door hearing his girlfriend getting dicked down by Patrick. He just leans against the counter while he’s trying to take it all in and the party still keeps going. He knows someone call his name but he doesn’t give a fuck at this moment. He stares at the floor, still hearing that soft gasp you made when Patrick is inside you. His stomach turns.

Art doesn’t know if he wants to hit Patrick or himself, doesn’t know who to blame first, and doesn’t know if he wants to see you again tonight or disappear before you come back down. But he waits. He waits like something caught in a fire- quiet, cornered, burning. He doesn’t look up when he hears Patrick on the stairs, already knowing it would be him, already tracking the minutes. No rush in Patrick’s step, like he doesn’t have something to sneak out of and he’s more satisfied than guilty or ashamed.

Patrick’s shirt is rumpled, hair messy, mouth softened into that tired smirk Art’s seen before. He heads for the drinks without a glance, pops the cap like he’s earned it. Art doesn’t speak until after Patrick takes his first sip. “How was it?” he asks, too casually, not lifting his gaze. Patrick turns halfway, brows raised. “What?”

Art keeps his tone even, almost friendly. “The hookup. You said you found someone.” He sips the drink he managed to get before he saw Patrick, then looks up, unreadable. “I assume it went well.” There’s a flicker in Patrick’s eyes. “Yeah,” he says carefully. “She was into it.” Art hums, not quite agreement, not quite disbelief. Just like his normal self he can plaster right now to pretend he’s not seething. “Of course,” he says.

Art laughs before saying, “You always have a different taste you know? Always going to the girls who should know better.” He can’t tell what Art is planning by saying that but he’s not happy hearing it and his mouth twitches.“She has a name?” Art asks, trying to sound like a curious best friend, and when Patrick doesn’t answer, he doesn’t press. He tilts his head. “She must be very pretty to have your own drink abandoned. Like it doesn’t sound like you. You were so eager to go upstairs.”

Patrick exhales dry amusement. “I wasn’t the only one interested.” Art’s eyes flick down, then back up. He sees the careless tilt of Patrick’s shoulders, the quiet arrogance. “No,” Art agrees. “But you’ve always liked being first, haven’t you? Doesn’t matter who she is, what her body is, or if she’s in a relationship.” That land, too striking, but hidden in plain sight. Patrick’s grip tightens on the bottle, and Art lets the silence stretch. “Anyway,” Art says softly, turning away, “I hope it was worth it, Pat. She doesn’t usually fake it. Then again, maybe she didn’t have to.” He knows he shouldn’t say that knowing that he doesn’t know the ‘she’ in his excuse beside he knows he won’t tell him it’s his girlfriend.

While the tension is thick downstairs, here you are, you don’t move for a while after the door clicks shut. The bathroom is still heavy. Your thighs stick, slick cooling on your skin. You breathe shallow, like anything deeper might push what’s left of him further in. Eventually, you shift. Reach for a tissue. Then another. You clean the mess between your legs with shaky hands. You are trying to erase it. Removing the shame. The guilt. The action. None of the wipes worked. Your pussy still aches, clenching over nothing and it’s pulsing.

Thankfully your panties are still very much alive and you get them before you put them on despite the uncomfortable feeling it makes between your legs. Your hands are hard against the fabric even though you are trying to smooth out the wrinkly part of it because it looks like it just got out of the laundry and you are pretending right. You look at yourself: hair messy, lips smudged with the lip product you put earlier, mascara fucked and your legs are shaking as you stands right now. But you start fixing it like what you were supposed to do earlier when you planned to go there. Just to retouch and get some air. You put concealer, retouch under your eyes, gloss your lips, and fix your hair. But you’re not even rushing even as you should considering how long you’ve been gone, but you’re not stalling either. Wipe, fix, adjust, and stack these steps like armor.

Now you don’t look like that girl anymore. You lean closer, studying your reflection, the flush blooming under your makeup, the raw part of your lip. You take a deep breath as you straighten how you stand, closing the compact and you exhale. The hallway is suspiciously quiet when you open the door of the bathroom and you step out of it. You are nervous as hell as you go downstairs slowly, not hurried. Each step you are doing feels another sin adding to the existing list you have. Your breath is shaky and your hands are too while you continue to swiping them on your skirt before you round the corner.

The kitchen is still the same. Still bright. Full of drinks. The place is still crowded and loud and it’s starting to get annoying. Patrick sees you first. He doesn’t move, just watches. You don’t look at him. You don’t have to. Art is already crossing the room, quick but not rushed, like he’s been waiting for you. “Hey,” he says, soft, warm, too easy now. “Where have you been?” Before you answer, his hand is on your back, guiding you like nothing’s wrong. His other hand lifts yours, brushing your knuckles, kissing your cheek, smiling like he means it.

“You okay?” he asks, low. “You look flushed.” You nod. Behind you, Patrick shifts but doesn’t speak. Art turns slightly, hand still at your hip, thumb grazing in slow, familiar circles. “Was just telling Patrick we might head out,” he says, like it’s decided. “Unless you want to stay?” You shake your head. Art leans in near your ear, smiling. “That’s what I thought.” His grip feels possessive but not hurting you, it’s soft and gentle but you can feel the decision in it as he turns to Patrick. He has this same, still his best friend still your loving boyfriend. Only his eyes look dangerous.

You don’t say goodbye. Art curls his hand around your hip, steering you toward the front door, coat over his arm, voice low like nothing’s changed. You don’t look back; just let him guide you out, down the hall, through the kitchen where Patrick stands, silent and unmoving. No one stops you. No one sees the tension in your spine, the way your fingers flex. No one notices the way Art glances over his shoulder just once- not at you, not at the party, but at Patrick. And Patrick doesn’t follow. He watches the door close with his jaw tight, hands in his pockets. Every muscle he has is locked like he’s holding himself together for something he knows he doesn’t have the right to. He will not go back to the room that night. He knows both of you will be there. Can’t stand it.

You shower quietly, water running longer than needed. You shower like you want it all to go away. You feel shit even when you finished, skin damp, wearing one of Art’s shirts, he’s already in bed, lamp on, watching. You don’t meet his eyes, but you climb in anyway. He doesn’t reach right away, just watches you pull the blanket up like it might cover anything. Then he moves. His hand slid in. You feel the soft touch on your skin. It’s slow. Gentle. Familiar. He’s grazing the softness of your stomach before it gets lower. You let him slip it between your legs and you got tense but you still continued with it. You don’t stop it. Makes you feel sick that you want it after just what happened with Patrick. “You’re always so quiet after parties,” he murmurs. His fingers press in, two at once, smooth, and you bite down on a breath. Your thighs twitch. “Still so warm,” he says. “So soft for me.”

His voice stays low. He doesn’t move his hand, just keeps it there, deep, surrounded by the evidence of what isn’t his. “I can’t tell if you’re like this because of me…” he adds, shifting, “or because someone else got to you first.” You open your mouth but say nothing. He curls his fingers, watching you flinch. Then he leans in, his breath grazing your cheek. “You let him fuck you raw?” You jerk like you might pull away, but he doesn’t let you. His other hand moves to your hip, holding you still. “That’s not a no.” He smiles, not angry, just satisfied. “That’s okay,” he whispers like it’s not fucked up. Like everything is alright. “You think Patrick left a mark?” His voice drops, darker, right at your ear. “You have no idea how long I can stay inside you.”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to. His voice stays calm, loving even- like when he teases you after class. Only now his fingers are inside you, his mouth near your ear, his thumb brushing your hip like reassurance, not control. He feels so gentle but you know that this is not gentleness, it’s his way of punishing you. “You could’ve just told me, you know,” he says softly and he kisses your shoulder. He’s peppering the skin he can touch with his lips with kisses. Soft and gentle. Forgiving even. “if you wanted to fuck my best friend.” He said like it’s decided already. His mouth grazes your jaw, exhaling your scent like a sigh, like he’s disappointed, not angry. “Next time tell me. It would’ve saved you the trouble of whoring yourself out for it.” And he pulls out his fingers from inside and just kisses your temple with all this sweet smile plastered on his face.

⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀twenty-twenty-five © addie / musingsofheaven.

⠀⠀⠀

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kxsagi · 2 days ago

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HIII HSUSHDXB I LOVE UR WRITING SO MUCH I HAVE A REQ PLS HMO.. I saw a tiktok where a girl was "getting ready" and her bf came in and asked "what are u getting ready for? " and she answered "u mean what are WE getting ready for?" and basically she was gaslighting him into believing they had a date that day😭 I RLLY RLLY RLLY wanna see this with Isagi, Bachira, Barou, Gagamaru, Chigiri Kunigami and maybe Ness😭😭 IF THEY ARE TOO MANY U CAN PICK FROM THEM PLSS and also can u write it so y/n tells them it was a prank when the guy is halfway thru getting ready??

“𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧”

a/n: i made an smau of this here, but i thought it would be funny to have headcanons of it as well + with more characters!

also hiii and thank you sm, thank you for this request and for being so patient!!!

ft. isagi yoichi, bachira meguru, barou shoei, gagamaru gin, chigiri hyoma, kunigami rensuke, ness alexis, itoshi rin, itoshi sae, kaiser michael

isagi yoichi

you’re standing in front of the mirror, doing lip balm like it’s a ritual, curling your lashes for no reason. isagi walks in holding a protein bar, squinting.

“what are you getting ready for?” you go, “what do you mean we’re getting ready for?” … and you watch his entire soul glitch like he missed a line of code.

he panics immediately because he has zero memory of making plans and now he thinks he’s in trouble.

“oh… yeah, yeah, totally. obviously. i didn’t forget. no way.” he’s wiping his mouth like he’s prepping for war.

he starts brushing his teeth at light speed. throwing on cologne. asking you casually: “wait so uh… where are we going again?” “the new italian place you said you’d book two weeks ago 😐” he goes pale. he pulls out his phone to check the date.

you finally tell him it’s a prank when he’s literally trying to iron his jeans (which he doesn’t know how to do).

“… you’re evil.”

but also he laughs so hard and clings to you like a koala. you’ve unlocked his trust issues.

bachira meguru

you’re putting on mascara and muttering to yourself about the time, going “we’re gonna be late,” just loud enough for him to hear.

bachira appears upside down on the bed. “what are we late for?” you flip your hair over your shoulder. “our thing.” “our… thing 😃?”

he does not remember any plans, but he’s so down to clown. “OH YEAH. yeah yeah yeah. that thing. the secret one. where i wear pants, right?”

he’s throwing on the loudest outfit possible and humming some song he made up called date night explosion. “do i bring snacks? do i need ID? is this a passport kind of date or a flip-flops kind of date?” bro is spiraling in giddy confusion.

you tell him it was a prank and he GENUINELY looks around like there’s hidden cameras if he looks hard enough. “wait, no, fr?? we’re not going???” five seconds later: “okay, but we should still go out because i look hot.”

barou shoei

you’re in the bathroom doing eyeliner and mumbling, “ugh, i hate being late. he better hurry up.”

barou walks in, looks you up and down, and frowns. “… what the hell are you talking about.” “our reservation? babe? it’s literally today?” he stops. blinks. doesn’t say anything. but you can see the fury building because he thinks you’re accusing him of forgetting.

he disappears and ten minutes later you hear loud rustling. he comes back… in a BLACK BUTTON-UP with his signature gold watch.

“let’s go.” he says it like a challenge. like if you don’t walk out the door right now, you’re the one who’s unprepared.

you’re CACKLING as he grabs his keys. “baby, it was a prank.” stare. another stare. “delete your tik tok account. now.” (he still looks stupid hot tho.)

gagamaru gin

you’re in the kitchen putting on lip gloss and sighing. “he’s always running late. so unprofessional.” gagamaru blinks. “who?” you look at him like he’s the idiot. “you. for our plans?? hello??” he absolutely does not remember this, but he just nods slowly like “mhmm yeah… our plans…”

he’s in the bedroom now looking at his closet like it’s a puzzle. “do i wear the good socks? or the socks with the pizza on them? … wait is this indoors?”

he literally puts on cologne, does his hair (with too much gel), and is halfway through making a sandwich “for the road” when you tell him it’s a prank.

blank stare “wait. we’re not going to that underwater zoo…?” “we were never going anywhere.” “can we still go anyway. i already made the sandwich.”

chigiri hyoma

he’s scrolling on his phone on the bed while you’re putting perfume on like you’re about to go to prom.

“what are you getting ready for?” “what do you mean what are we getting ready for?” his phone is dropped. his soul leaves his body. “WAIT. is that TODAY? YOU SAID SATURDAY, I THOUGHT YOU MEANT NEXT WEEK–” he’s tripping over his hoodie while trying to pull it off.

five seconds later he’s half-dressed, holding two different shoes and yelling, “DO I LOOK HOT OR JUST LIKE I’M TRYING TOO HARD?”

he’s genuinely stressed because if he didn’t plan properly, he’ll hate himself for a week.

you tell him it’s a prank and he just stares at you. “i just put on my lucky perfume. and shaved my legs. FOR THIS?” he flips a throw pillow at your face. “i was testing how fast you could react under pressure.” “i’m gonna test how fast you can run when i chase you with a curling iron.”

kunigami rensuke (pre-wild card)

you’re spritzing setting spray and murmuring “okay i’ll be done in 10, then we can leave.” kunigami turns around from the couch like, “leave for what?” “you’re joking, right?” his jaw drops. “NO?”

he goes into boyfriend emergency mode. you’ve never seen a man wash his face faster.

while putting on his shirt he’s like, “wait, do i need dress shoes? are we meeting your parents? are we going to a michelin place or– do i have to talk?”

the way he genuinely tries so hard to look good for you is making you feel bad halfway through.

he’s combing his hair. RE-applying deodorant. looking at himself in the mirror like “don’t mess this up.”

you go “baby… it was a prank 😭” kunigami stares at you in pure betrayal. “i mentally prepared myself to give a speech at a wedding banquet. i thought we were eloping.”

(you make it up to him with pizza and cuddles.)

ness alexis

you’re humming while doing lip liner, muttering “ugh, i knew he’d forget” under your breath. ness comes RUNNING. “WHAT DID I FORGET? DID I FORGET A HOLIDAY?” you blink at him slowly. “our date?” “oh… ohmygosh. i forgot. i’m the worst. i should jump into traffic. or get hit with a purse.”

he’s LITERALLY sprinting around the room. one sock on, shirt backwards, hair a mess.

“does this tie say ‘i’m sorry for being the worst boyfriend’ or ‘i’m emotionally available’?”

he’s typing up a formal apology note and reciting it in the mirror.

you’re CRYING laughing by the time he’s halfway through styling his hair. “love. baby. sweetheart. i was PRANKING you 😭” he freezes. like a statue in a thunderstorm. “i was going to write a haiku. for NOTHING???” (still makes you read the haiku anyway.)

itoshi rin

you’re in front of the mirror, smoothing your hair and sighing like you’re about to attend a gala. rin looks up from his phone and goes: “where are you going?” “what do you mean we’re going?” immediate emotional shutdown. you literally see him buffering. “did… did we have something planned?” you go: “you told me not to wear heels this time. you literally said that yesterday.” his soul LEAVES his body. “i did?” “yeah? we made those reservations, remember?” “OH. YEAH. OBVIOUSLY. I REMEMBER.”

he walks out of the room trying to breathe through the stress and three minutes later you hear drawers opening like a raccoon got loose.

10 minutes later: full outfit. chain. fixed his hair. sprayed cologne. then gives you the fakest cough ever: “how much time do we have left?”

you wait until he’s standing by the door to go, “hey so it was a prank.” stare. longer stare. “you know what’s a prank? us dating. block me.” (he doesn’t block you. he lays face down on the couch for two hours.)

itoshi sae

you’re in the closet picking out a dress, talking to yourself like, “ugh i swear he always forgets special occasions.” sae walks by mid-sip of coffee. “what special occasion?” “what do you mean what occasion. it’s today?”

his jaw drops slightly but his face stays neutral because he will literally DIE before he admits he forgot. “i didn’t forget. i just… wanted to surprise you later.” (no he didn’t. he’s sweating.)

you tell him, “you said dress fancy casual, remember?” “... yeah.” sae is literally googling "fancy casual outfits for men" in the bathroom.

he tries on three button-ups and squints at the mirror like “i look stupid. is this too boyfriend? too desperate?”

you walk in and go, “hey babe. funny story. there’s no date. it was a prank.” he turns his head in slow, painful silence. “... i hate you.” “you look hot tho.” “... i hate you less.” (you better make out with him immediately or he will mope for the rest of the day. and he’s so good at moping.)

kaiser michael

you’re humming while curling your lashes. kaiser comes in half-asleep, shirtless, wearing pajama pants with pineapples on them. “you look like you’re about to win a beauty pageant. what’s the occasion?” you blink at him. “you’re joking right. we’re getting ready for our date.”

he raises an eyebrow like you just challenged him. “huh. bold of me not to remember.” “you literally made the plans last week. you said it’d be a surprise.”

kaiser smirks like, “ah. of course i did.” proceeds to spin around and walk off like this is all part of his master plan.

you hear music blasting from the bedroom. this man is having a full fashion montage.

he’s trying on three chains, shirts shirts, his leather jacket. STRUTTING. posing in the mirror like a teenage girl before prom.

texts you from the next room: “how hot do you want me on a scale from 1-10 or should i just shoot for god-tier?”

you wait until he starts spraying cologne to tell him it was a prank. kaiser.exe has stopped working. “you’re joking. i already picked out my camera angles for couple pics.” “well now it’s a house date.” “this is psychological warfare and you’re winning.” (he makes you film a fake tik tok date just to use the outfit.)

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niniwritesxo · 3 days ago

Note

Can you do one where Yn comforts Nam-gyu

Basically takes place after 4th game. Nam-gyu finds out he lost the necklase with drugs and goes to the guard, asking if he can go back, after the confrontation that happened in the scene. He goes to Yn and she just basically takes care of him (comforting, hugging him, giving him her water, holding him in her sleep, helping him etc.) And ONLY IF YOU WANT TO you can add there, where she helps him in the jump rope game.

‘someone took it’

nam-gyu x fem reader

(i kinda realized midway writing this that i am not the best in writing soft nam-gyu but please bare with me 😞)

✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶ ✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶ ✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶ ✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶ ✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶

―୨୧⋆

the dorm smells like sweat and fear. people are talking, whispering about the game, but nam-gyu is pacing. again. same five steps, same frustrated hands running through his hair. over and over.

you watch him from the bunk, not saying anything yet, not until he speaks first.

“someone took it,” he mutters. “i know they did. someone bumped into me right when we got out and now it’s just gone.”

his voice is tight. not desperate, just angry. cracked around the edges.

“you sure it didn’t fall off?”

he whips around to face you. “i always check. always. it was there before the game. i checked after we won. and then someone brushed past me and now—” he gestures wildly to the empty space around his neck. “nothing.”

you shift, sitting upright on the bunk. “maybe it fell. we can check around—”

“no. no, it didn’t fall.” he shakes his head. “you think people here don’t know what’s in that necklace? you think they wouldn’t grab it if they had the chance?”

you go quiet. because you know he’s right.

he sits down on the edge of the bed, jaw clenched, knee bouncing.

“i stole that necklace off thanos before he died. he didn’t even notice, and now it’s gone because some piece of shit decided to bump into me like it was nothing.”

his hands are shaking, just barely.

you scoot closer.

“who bumped into you?” you ask.

“i don’t know,” he mutters. “it happened so fast. i didn’t get a good look. just felt the hit and kept moving. like an fucking idiot.”

you rest your hand gently on his arm. he doesn’t pull away.

“you’re not an idiot,” you say quietly. “you’re exhausted. you’ve been watching your back nonstop. anyone would’ve slipped for a second.”

he looks down at your hand on his arm. then up at you. his eyes are sharper than they were yesterday, not glazed like they were when thanos left. now they’re wide open. and pissed off.

“i hate this place,” he says suddenly. “i hate that i can’t even breathe without wondering if someone’s planning something. i hate that it got to me. that i need something just to feel okay.”

you nod. then, after a beat, you move slowly, carefully, and wrap your arms around his shoulders.

he stiffens for a moment, like he’s not used to the contact. then breathes out, and sinks into it.

“you don’t need those pills to survive this,” you whisper. “you’re smart. you see things other people don’t. that’s why you’re still here.”

his voice is low, half into your shirt. “but it helps.”

you smile a little. “yeah. i know.”

you stay like that for a while. just holding him. his breath slowly evens out. he’s still mad, that kind of sharp, quiet anger that doesn’t go away overnight but it softens around the edges when you’re this close.

eventually, when the lights go out and people start settling in, he doesn’t even ask.

he just lies down beside you, facing the wall, and lets you tuck the blanket over the both of you. your hand finds his under the sheets, and you squeeze it once.

he squeezes back.

✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶ ✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶ ✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶ ✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶ ✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶

thank you so much for the request ! i hope you liked it <3

a/n: english is not my first language, so if you see any mistakes or misspellings my apologies 🩷

#nam gyu x reader #squidgame fanfic #nam gyu headcanons #namgyu #nam gyu #roh jaewon

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xoxosierralane · 23 hours ago

Text

| ᴛʜɪs ᴡᴀsɴ’ᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘʟᴀɴ |

✎ from sierra: hii sweets, i know this is a little late lol.. but home love island they stressing me tf out (if u watch ttm!!). But anyways this is really just an opening to this little series yum still working on, if you guys like this enough i will definitely keep continuing. Also if you wanna be on the tab list just lmk and i got you !

✎ synopsis: Azzi Fudd didn’t plan to see Paige Bueckers again. She didn’t plan to feel anything either—not the nostalgia, not the anger, and definitely not the ache in her chest. But when the past walks back into the same room—wearing a ring and someone else’s name—plans don’t really stand a chance. Some people move on. Some people move home. And some people… never stop wondering what if. This wasn’t the plan. But when has anything ever gone according to plan?

✎ taglist: @asapeveryday @thaatdigitaldiary

Azzi Fudd—that’s me.

Or at least, it’s the name they put on magazine covers, Instagram tags, and those weird commercials for skincare products where I smile like there’s no tomorrow.

Nothing real. Nothing close to the truth.

Because if you’d looked harder, you’d see the silence beneath the noise.

The way I disappeared.

The half-smile that never quite made it past my lips.

Leaving? That was the easy part.

Coming back? That’s the one that really hits.

—

Airports and I have an understanding: I hate them.

They smell like fake soap and stress you can’t avoid, and this one was no exception.

Hoodie pulled halfway up, suitcase dragging behind like it owed me money. Not really rushing. At least not anymore.

Today wasn’t another gig, another brand deal, another event I was supposed to pretend I cared about.

I was just… back. Washington.

For better. Or worse.

My phone buzzed nonstop the minute I landed. I didn’t even need to look.

I knew it was Aaliyah, she’s been texting me more and more ever since I told her I would be coming back home.

lili 💕 (12:11 PM): did you land???

lili 💕 (12:12 PM): how was the flight

lili 💕 (12:13 PM): DID YOU BRING ME ANYTHING

lili 💕 (12:14 PM): azzi jazlyn mf fudd.

lili 💕 (12:14 PM): why do you hate me??

I rolled my eyes and scoffed. Some things don’t change.

(12:15 PM): oh please

(12:15 PM): the government is crazy and foul lili

(12:15 PM): also pls stop texting 4 times in 2 minutes

lili 💕 (12:16 PM): sue me???

lili 💕 (12:16 PM): i’m hungry we’re getting lunch together!

(12:16 PM): bold of you to think i haven’t eaten since yesterday

lili 💕 (12:16 PM): what’s wrong w u

(12:16 PM): next question

(12:17 PM): calling a cab, try not to rush me i WILL stay home.

Acting calm was the plan. But inside, I was losing it.

I hadn’t had something to look forward to in months. Maybe years.

Cold hit my face stepping outside like it was punching a bag labeled Azzi Fudd.

Welcome back, Washington. (kill me.)

My career? Thriving in its own weird way.

Modeling worked out better than basketball ever did.

People still recognized me. “Oh, you’re the one who hates Gatorade.”

Yeah. I hate it. Passionately. Coconut water overrules easily.

But me? I was a mess.

Emotionally? A bigger mess.

Romantically? Don’t even ask.

The divorce was quiet.

Just a handful of people knew about the year I spent undoing the damage he did—his insecurities, his control, the noise that wasn’t love.

And now? He was gone, I thank the man above.

lili 💕 (12:19): i have news IMPORTANT news which you need to hurry your ass here for :)

(12:25 PM): on my way. what’s the tea?

aaliyah (12:25 PM): not telling. but it’s good. you might even scream.

(12:26 PM): better not be no new gatorade flavor you’re excited about

aaliyah (12:27 PM): you’re dramatic

(12:30 PM): literally poison, y’all sick

I dropped my phone on my lap and leaned back.

This place wasn’t home anymore.

But at least I didn’t have to pretend today.

Soon, overpriced brunch with the one person who made me feel okay when nothing else did.

I didn’t know it yet, but this was the beginning.

Not perfect. Not easy.

But real.

The cab was quiet—the kind of quiet I liked.

Tipped the driver like I was throwing cash at my anxiety.

Brain fueled by airplane snacks and two hours of sleep.

Pulling up to my mom’s place felt like rewinding a VHS.

Same cracked driveway with the basketball court. Same faded welcome mat yelling Come in and stay awhile.

Key under the mat (because yes, mom still did that), and there she was—Katie, scrubbing dishes like I hadn’t just flown cross-country, like none of the last few years even happened.

“Az!”

Her voice was warm, like a hug you never wanted to let go of.

She hugged me tight. I hugged back harder than I meant to. Missed this. Wouldn’t say it.

“I thought you landed at three,” Mom said, studying my face. “You look tired. Hungry?”

I was about to lie.

Then Dad’s voice came from down the hall.

“Who’s that? My superstar?”

Tim grinned like he always did, like he had no clue.

I laughed. “Hi, Dad.”

“How’s LA? How’s Jackson? He with you?”

Damn it dad really?

“Dad. We’re divorced. Remember?”

His smile slipped like he was caught in a sitcom dad moment.

“Oh—right. You told us. Or—after?”

I gave him a look.

He scratched his neck. “Aaliyah said something first. Figured I’d wait for you to say it official—”

Mom smacked his arm with a towel. “You weren’t supposed to say that.”

I shook my head, heading for the door. “Y’all are unbelievable.”

“Y’know we just love you!” Mom called after me.

“Uh huh sure.”

“Where you headed?” Dad asked, disappearing into the pantry.

“Lunch.”

“Oh, you and Paige catching up already?”

I froze.

Not dramatic. Just paused. Like my brain short-circuited and rebooted.

Paige. That name. I hadn’t heard it in months. Maybe years.

I looked back slow. “Paige?”

Mom nodded, sipping coffee. “Yeah. She moved back after you left. You didn’t know?”

“Mm mm.” I shook my head.

Suddenly I didn’t know what to do with my hands. Or my brain.

Paige was back.

She was here.

Why wouldn’t the universe wait for me to be freshly divorced, scrambled, unprepared?

Mom tilted her head. “I thought you two were still close after everything. Best friends don’t just stop talking.”

I was about to say something when—

Honk.

A loud, dramatic honk from outside.

I moved to the window, already knowing what I’d see.

Aaliyah, sunglasses on, head out the window like she was about to start a protest.

“AZZI. DO YOU NOT CHECK YOUR PHONE?! LET’S GO!”

I didn’t say anything to the crazy canadian. Just looked at my parents, waved like everything was normal, and booked it out the door.

Aaliyah stared like I owed her rent once I got in the car.

“Do you have government-level Do Not Disturb or something? I’ve been waiting ten minutes. This is disrespectful.”

I laughed. “Hi to you too.”

“You’re annoying.”

“I missed you.”

“Drive.”

She did.

I didn’t say anything about Paige. Not yet.

Some things you don’t unpack in the car.

But I felt it. The knot in my stomach.

The one that only shows up with that name.

Aaliyah drives like her life depends on it, even when it doesn’t. One hand on the wheel, one scrolling Spotify, acting like she didn’t just honk up a storm.

“You want music or no?”

“Your call. But no moody playlist.”

“It’s actually good.”

“Depression.”

“You literally just got divorced.”

“Woww really?”

“I missed you. What do you want me to say?”

“Something nice?”

“Your hair looks good.”

I ran my hand through my curls, smirking. “Thanks.”

“Better than when you were with what’s-his-face.”

“Jackson.”

“Right. The walking dry erase board.”

I laughed. “You’re mean.”

“Honest.”

“He looked like he called his mom before every decision.”

“You hated him from day one.”

“You fumbled your twenties.”

I laughed again. Felt good. Like exhaling after holding your breath too long. “Enough about my tragic past. What about you and Prince Charming?”

“Don’t call him that.”

“You called him ‘God’s apology for your exes’ last time.”

“Okay, true. But now he’s into Formula 1 and thinks he’s a pro driver.”

“Real love.”

“Shut up. Anyway, this is about you. Your ‘starting over’ era.”

“Enough.”

“Girl you modeled for Vogue.”

“Digital Vogue.”

“Still Vogue.”

I stared out the window. City the same but not. Or maybe I was. My timeline never matched everyone else’s. Basketball didn’t go like Paige’s or the others’. It stings.

“I feel behind.”

“Behind what?”

“Everyone. Everything. Like I’m still figuring it out.”

“The finish line’s fake. Nobody’s really ‘there.’ They’re just pretending better.” I smiled. Sounds like something mom or Paige might’ve said before everything changed. “This got deep.”

“Restart. Tell me something dumb.”

“I still hate Gatorade. Whole chest hate.”

“You’re the only basketball player ever who says that.”

“I’m not a player anymore.”

“Still hoop in your sleep.”

“Trauma.”

“Okay Dr. Phil, relax.”

We laughed. The silence between felt like understanding. Aaliyah pulled up to the cafe more aggressively than needed.

“I’ve been holding this in for days.”

“Don’t make that face.”

“What face?”

“That face where you pretend not to care but don’t blink for three minutes.”

I threw the door open.

“No idea what you mean.”

“You’re doing it right now.”

I shrugged. “Spill.”

We sat barely ten minutes before I started bouncing my leg. “Spill. You’ve been dying to tell me since yesterday. She sipped water. “Let’s ease into it?”

“No. Sun’s out. You’re suspicious. Spill.” She groaned. “Why do you always bully me?”

“Because you have a big mouth until it matters.” She smiled nervously. “Okay. I’m engaged.”

I gasped loud. Old couple nearby flinched.

“Shut up. Lying.”

“Nope.”

“Shut up!”

“Stop yelling.”

“Will not! You’re engaged??”

“Yes.”

I grabbed her hand. “Where’s the ring? How? When? Who?” She blushed. “Boat ride. Cheesy. Sweet. I cried a lot.”

I sat back clutching my chest. “This is so cute. I’m so happy for you lili.”

Then she muttered something.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Aaliyah.”

“I’m doing a double engagement party…with Paige.”

I blinked. “With who?”

“Paige. She’s engaged too. And her fiancé is kind of cool.”

My brain blue-screened. Hands dropped.

“You’re joking.”

“No.”

“To Paige Bueckers.”

“Yes.”

Jaw open. “You knew she was here? Engaged? And you dropped this mid-convo like it was nothing?”

“I thought it’d be fine.”

“Aaliyah.”

“Okay, yes, I screwed up. Don’t kill me, but you guys can’t avoid each other forever Az.” She said with her fake sappy face. “I’m not avoiding anything okay?” I said knowing damn well.

I dropped my face in my hands. “Need a drink.”

“It’s noon.”

“Exactly.”

“You were actually exciting to see.”

“I am.”

She smiled nervous. “If it makes you feel better—”

“Don’t.”

“Okay.”

“I mean—ugh. Double engagement party?”

“Not planned that way!”

I looked up at the ceiling. “Did you ask how I’d feel being in the same room as Paige Bueckers and her fiancé?”

She winced. “No.”

“Oh great. Reassuring.”

Silent clinking. My mind racing.

“She’s not supposed to be here.”

“Where?”

“In Washington.”

“She grew up here too.”

“Okay, like six years.”

“You don’t own the city.”

“I’m just saying. She left, I left. I thought—”

“You thought you could pretend she didn’t exist?”

I said nothing. Jaw clenched.

“She’s not Voldemort.”

“Shut up.”

“You gonna be okay?”

“I don’t know. Haven’t seen her, but I already feel hit by a bus.”

“It’s okay if you cancel. Don’t come.”

“Miss your party? I’m petty not heartless.”

She smiled. “That’s my girl.”

“But if she looks at me like I’m that same girl from college—”

“You’ll what?”

“Probably cry. on my fifth glass of champagne.”

She snorted. “So dramatic.”

“Says the girl who fake-passed out so a guy wouldn’t break up with her.”

“Bought me three more days.”

I laughed, tired but real. Looked out at the cloudy sky. People walking by. Couples holding hands. Dogs in sweaters. Phone-yelling men.

The world spins. Doesn’t care who’s married, heartbroken, or pretending not to be wrecked by a name no one says out loud.

“You think she’ll actually show with her?”

Aaliyah paused. “It’s her party too. But Paige is Paige.”

I nodded. True.

Silence thick. Not awkward. Just heavy. I pulled out my phone. She peeked.

“Who ya texting there?” Jeez ms nosy.

“No one.”

I lied.

Almost typed Paige’s name.

Almost sent a text.

But didn’t.

Not yet. Maybe never.

Smiled at Aaliyah. “Dessert?”

She raised an eyebrow but didn’t push. “You’re taking this better than I thought.” I shrugged. “Growth.”

But my mind spun fast—dangerously—whenever Paige Bueckers was involved. Because I’m good at hiding. Too good. Hiding cracks in my marriage. Bruises from love that wasn’t love. Late at night, I still dream in jump shots, gold medals, blonde ponytails, and what-if.

Years of practice folding feelings into sharp-edged smiles. Yeah, I looked fine. If Aaliyah could see inside, she’d cancel the party.

Instead, I speared a piece of cheesecake. Ate it like I wasn’t thinking about the last time Paige hugged me.

Smelled like spearmint and stress and something I can’t name. “Mmm. You’re paying.”

She side-eyed me. “Emotional blackmail. Toxic.”

I smiled. Dimples and all. “Learned from the best.” Outside, rain finally picked a side. Soft and quiet. The kind that makes you remember.

I didn’t look out the window again.

I didn’t have to.

The past was already here.

And oh boy was I not ready to go back.

——

Most people think heartbreak is loud.

That it kicks down the door and wrecks everything in its path. That it screams. Demands. Destroys.

But sometimes it’s quiet.

Sometimes it waits.

Lurks in the corners of your good days, and whispers on the bad ones. Like the song you swore you deleted. Like the sweatshirt you still sleep in. Like a name that still makes your chest pull in strange directions.

Paige Bueckers is in love.

That’s what she tells herself every morning, brushing her teeth in a bathroom she shares with the woman she’s going to marry.

That’s what she tells Taryn, when they hold hands across the table, planning wedding playlists and reception seating like none of it feels like choreography.

That’s what she tells Aaliyah. When she’s brave enough to ask.

And maybe she is.

Maybe this is love.

Not the kind that explodes.

But the kind that folds your laundry. Buys oat milk. Remembers your mom’s birthday.

Love with clean lines and good lighting.

But sometimes, when the world goes quiet—

She still thinks about her.

Azzi.

She’s not supposed to.

It’s been years. People move on. People grow. People change. But memory doesn’t care about growth.

Memory’s a cruel little thing.

It brings her back anyway.

And sometimes, that’s worse than forgetting.

———

The morning starts like most do.

Paige wakes up to the smell of eggs she always asks for the night before and a Spotify playlist that sounds like it’s personally attacking her sleep schedule.

Taryn’s singing. Loud. Enthusiastic. Completely off-key. It’s 8:52 a.m. and already the kitchen is full of syrup and sunshine.

And love.

Real love.

So Paige gets up. Smiles. Stretches like everything in her body and head isn’t heavy. She grabs the hoodie off the chair—Taryn’s favorite one to steal—and pads into the kitchen barefoot.

“You’re awake!” Taryn beams. She’s flipping pancakes with way too much joy for someone who worked a night shift. “You ruined the breakfast-in-bed surprise. Rude.”

Paige kisses her cheek. “M’bad. Smelled the cinnamon, had to come .”

Taryn laughs. “I gotta keep my fiancée on her toes.”

Paige smiles again. It almost reaches her eyes.

She should feel full. Loved. Settled.

But there’s a flicker.

A familiar static in the back of her head.

Azzi.

Still there.

Even now.

Even here.

Paige takes a bite of pancake. Nods like it tastes perfect. Doesn’t mention how it sticks to her throat. She pretends she doesn’t notice the ring on her finger feels tighter today.

———

Earlier today

The message comes at 9:42 a.m.

Right as Paige is rinsing out a protein shake she didn’t finish.

aaliyah (9:42 AM): btw. azzi’s in town. like. now.

also. don’t freak out

also. don’t throw up

also. don’t be weird at the party ! bye!

The phone doesn’t vibrate again. It doesn’t need to. Paige just stares. Until the screen fades to black. Then flips it face down like it burned her.

Azzi.

Back.

Here.

Now.

Washington was supposed to be safe. This city was supposed to be after. Not again.

Her hands are wet from the sink. But they’re shaking, so she blames the water. She continues her day folding laundry. Answering emails. Working out and overthinking. Halfway through, she realizes she’s folding that hoodie again.

The one Azzi used to steal.

The one Azzi wore the night they said too much and not enough. Taryn walks in, gym bag slung over her shoulder.

“You good?” she asks. Paige doesn’t flinch. Too well-practiced. “Yeah. Just… thinking.” Taryn raises an eyebrow. “Scary.”

“Shut up.”

Taryn kisses her forehead. “Love you.”

“Love you too.”

She means it. She does.

But her chest stays quiet.

The rest of the day is a blur.

Paige doesn’t cry. She doesn’t fall apart. She’s grown. She’s evolved. She makes slushies and answers calls. But her brain keeps looping back.

To Azzi’s laugh in the tunnel before games.

To the way she said Paige’s name when no one was listening.

To that fight. That ending. That almost.

She opens Instagram.

Azzi’s profile is now public after having her blocked every other month.

Paige scrolls.

Just once.

Just enough to see that smile. The effortless one that used to be hers to witness.

She closes the app. Opens it again five minutes later.

She types out a message.

Deletes it.

Types it again.

Closes her phone like it said something unforgivable.

She throws it onto the couch.

Watches it bounce.

Tells herself she’s fine.

Tells herself she’s over it.

Tells herself she’s happy.

Tells herself she’s in love.

Repeats it until it sounds like static.

———

There’s a pair of sneakers in the back of her closet.

White with gold trim.

Barely worn.

Azzi once said they were her favorite.

Paige almost donates them every year.

But they’re still there.

Still clean.

Still hers.

Like a maybe she never let go of.

Like a version of herself she keeps buried under meal prep and wedding plans. Somewhere across the city, Azzi is back. And Paige is pretending her whole body didn’t react to that message like it was a live wire.

She sits on the couch. Legs folded. Hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands.

She thinks about texting her again.

She doesn’t.

Instead, she whispers her name into an empty room like it might echo.

“Azzi.”

She says it soft. Like an apology. Like a prayer.

Like she’s still in love with a memory.

Like she doesn’t know what she’s doing anymore.

Because maybe love isn’t loud.

Maybe it’s quiet.

Maybe it’s the part of you that never really left.

Even when you swore you moved on.

Paige Bueckers is in love.

She just doesn’t know who with.

Not anymore.

#from:sierra 🌺#paige bueckers #azzi fudd #pazzi #pazzi fics #sierrasworks 🌺#uconn wbb

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dammit-tazmuir · 1 day ago

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Something I want at least all my followers to understand is that I LOVE basically every character in this series. Like, barring nameless background characters with one or two lines, and I love even some of those (Seventh lieutenant from the beginning of HtN my baby...), the worst thing I feel about ANYONE is just not having strong feelings about them, likely "yet".

I am so interested in every single OG Lyctor and disciple; the one I have the least thoughts/feelings about yet is Samael and I'm still very curious about Samael. I adore Augustine. I adore Gideon the First. Cris and Alfred make me feral.

I don't "love to hate" John Gaius as such a good villain, I just love John Gaius. So so much. This does not require me to excuse his actions. Saying "let's not exaggerate the things he did to be even worse or blame him for extra stuff he didn't do, he already sucks" isn't denying that he sucks. I just Still Love Him.

Paul isn't a tragedy and a consolation prize to me. I find them deeply comforting and am beyond excited to get to see more of them.

I don't have strong feelings about Born or Ruby or Kevin just because they get a lot less individual focus, but I care about them and the group as a whole. I love Honesty and especially Hot Sauce. I love Joli.

I love Marta. Isaac and Jeanne. Matthias. Juno. We Suffer. All the characters we had very little time to get to know.

I LOVE SILAS he is a good baby whose worst crime was being kind of a dick and trusting what the adults in his life told him. He inarguably caused his own and Colum's deaths, but also he made one really bad decision in the name of trying to enact justice against someone who very much did just kill and eat her cavalier. I also love Colum and he did not deserve such a horrific fate.

Crux is a horrible horrible person and "love" might be a push for him but his "fuck you and fuck God, my loyalty is to MY child" did earn my respect, like damn o-fucking-kay I guess!!

I love Ianthe, and I love Corona, and I think they've both horribly fucked each other up their whole lives, and I don't think there's any reason to take sides about that. You don't need to extra vilify Corona to create more sympathy for Ianthe or vice versa. It just sucks for everyone and also they're both delightful wonderful characters.

And who even cares about Babs? WELL. I DO ACTUALLY. The longer I've been here and the more I've thought about all the little things, in the Cohort Intelligence Files, in The Unwanted Guest, etc. The ways he and Gideon are such foils actually. Like, even Palamedes says it; he's an unpleasant person, but he didn't deserve this. And since when is being a stuck-up prick a deal-breaker in this fandom?? When we love Ianthe?? Ianthe who we saw frankly very little of before she was influenced by Babs via permeability of the soul?? Like. No you know what? I do like Babs. He's a grumpy arrogant little prick who absolutely deserves to be bullied a little but he's also pathetic and tragic and made his life a monument of devotion as much or more than Gideon did.

Gideon came around at the end and I am not in any way downplaying her sacrifice. I'm just saying by contrast Babs molded himself slowly his whole life; "he had to be the perfect cavalier, so he became the perfect cavalier." I honestly think if they'd told him what they were planning, he'd have been scared and pissed and tried to get away, but all it would have taken was Corona grabbing him and holding him in place to make him listen for a few minutes as they talked him down before he would have submitted willingly, as much as he did for any time Ianthe used his body for fuel. What else did he even have to live for? He was bred to be a resource nearly as much as Colum was, he just got a nicer cage and a longer leash about it.

Like I'm not kidding when I say Nona is by far the most relatable thing I've ever seen in my life. I LOVE EVERYONE. SO MUCH. And if I don't yet give me one afternoon of thinking too hard about them or one whole page more info on them when AtN drops and you can bet I'll get there.

#the locked tomb #tlt #rambling #not tagging all these characters but #naberius tern #since he got extra focus as the go-to punching bag and my queue is babs focused today heh

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hystericalend · 1 day ago

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this is extremely underdeveloped and just a random thought but imagine sieun was the one put in the coma by beomseok instead and suho is the one who has the ep8 crashout.. suho so at his limit-- BEYOND his limit, he forgets everything abt "not crossing the line" and actually fucking kills beomseok

by accident. i don't think i could see him genuinely murdering someone in cold blood but i do think suho is physically very capable of killing someone accidentally. that's what the line is for. that's what the mma training is for. it's surprisingly easy to kill someone, when you're blinded by grief. easy as beomseok's head hitting the corner of the desk and not getting up when he hits the floor.

accident or not, beomseok is dead and everything very quickly spirals out of control. maybe a beating could be covered up, but murder? murder has him put in juvenile prison.

and how fucking SAD would that be?? sieun's future on hold, suho's forever tainted by the blood on his hands. and there being this huge, gaping divide between them. suho rots in prison hating himself for not seeing the signs earlier, wondering if he could've changed things if he'd known, wishing he could've been there to protect sieun, fucking hating himself for crossing the line and killing the boy that he should've helped before it ever got to this point.

he asks his grandmother to visit sieun and keep him updated, desperate for any news about his condition. every week it's the same. still in the coma. no idea when he'll wake up.

and suho tries to be good. he needs to be on his best behaviour, show remorse, be compliant and respectful and show that he can be rehabilitated so that he can get out and be by sieun's side where he should've been before it ever got this far. but the longer he's in prison the harder it is. he gets beaten, spat on, shit-talked, abused by both the inmates and the prison guards who should be keeping order, not stoking violence for entertainment. but suho's killed someone. he deserves this company.

be good. get out. be with sieun.

"so i was talking with one of the guards," -- one of suho's cellmates. the broken ribs are from him. the bruise colouring suho's cheek is from his friend snickering at suho from across the room. "and they happened to let slip what you were in here for. murder. didn't think you had it in you!"

suho hadn't told anyone. no matter how much they beat him. the "showing remorse" part of his plan to get out as quickly as possible is easy. the guilt hurts more than anything anyone in here could do to him. he tries to keep a straight face. he can't let them get to him. not now.

"but they also told me something else," the guys laughs. "that before you killed that guy you put someone else into a coma. what was he? practice?"

be good. get out. be with sieun.

"you know i've only got a couple months left," he goes on. "you want me to give the vegetable a visit when i'm out?"

he leans in close and grips suho's jaw, forcing his eyes up to meet him.

"maybe i could finish him off for you."

suho tried so hard to be good. he really, really tried.

but people just keeping crossing the fucking line.

nobody messes with suho after he beats 2 of his cellmates so badly they're both hospitalised for several fractures and faces so fucked up they'll never look the same. it doesn't make things better. every week he gets the same news. sieun is still asleep and suho is still in prison.

alone.

#so this got more vivid than i meant it to but?? its just so intriguing to me idk #like suho fully losing control of himself and spiralling further and further into violence #i picture him being a totally different person in prison than the suho we know #cold and never speaks and fucks up anyone who tries him #bc if he's going to be alone he might as well go down fighting #ahn suho #yeon sieun #whc1 #whc2 #weak hero class #weak hero class one #weak hero class two #weak hero #suho x sieun #sieun x suho #shse

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orlaunderrated · 2 days ago

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The Edges of Us: Chapter 19

First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Will Lenney x fem reader; George Clarke x fem reader

Summary: Y/N has always been close to George—but everything changes when she catches feelings for his sharp-tongued, infuriatingly charming friend, Will. Torn between loyalty and desire, Y/N finds herself caught in a messy tangle of friendship, secrets, and unexpected love.

Word Count: 6.5k+

Note: Hello i gave YN a september birthday bc she gives virgo vibes.

also pls dont hate me for chapter 21 its coming and i fear people are going to be mad at me for it.

xxx

The week went by way too fast.

Maybe it's the fast pace of this city, or the fact that I’ve been distracted. Either way, since seeing Will at the station that day, he's sort of… drifted out of my head. Like smoke caught in the breeze. The ache that used to sit heavy in my chest has softened, faded into the background noise of everyday life. It’s barely noticeable now. I’m almost surprised.

George, though, has come back in like he never left—solid, steady, with that proper mate energy I always fall back on. It’s like he’s been here the entire time, even though it’s been a while.

I mean, just last week he showed up unannounced with a takeaway curry because I’d moaned about being too tired to cook. No big deal. No drama. Just food. And, as usual, his terrible jokes that make me laugh harder than I should. Even when I know they’re coming, I can’t help but laugh at them.

Or that one night last week, when I was stuck on a bug at work and sent him a frantic message at midnight. Without missing a beat, he stayed on the line for a full hour, alternating between half-teasing and half-moral-supporting me through it. It was as if he knew I needed both—someone to help me focus, but also someone to tell me I wasn’t as stupid as I felt in that moment. I think he made about seven different “cracked the code” jokes, all of them terrible. But still, every time, I felt a little lighter. Like I was a genius, even if I didn’t feel like one at all.

I’ve seen more of George this past week than I care to admit.

I won’t lie, a part of me loves it. He was appalled to hear my plans for my first birthday in London was to split a shitty bottle of wine with him and scroll through Netflix to find our favourite Brooklyn Nine-Nine episodes. That’s exactly what we did for my actual birthday, of course. But for the Friday after, George insisted I needed to do something real. Something different.

I ended up having a dinner out, with some of my friends from The Van plus a handful of Ruth’s mates who I could tolerate, you know, just to pad it out. George, Chris, and Arthur all solemnly declined the invite, pretending it was some big “brand event” they had to attend. And, to be fair, they did actually have one, but they spun it in such a way that it felt like they were doing me a favour by not coming. “We don’t want to steal your thunder,” they said, like I wasn’t capable of enjoying a night without their chaos.

It’s just so typical of them. But I’m not going to lie, it did make me feel a little warm inside. They care, in their own ridiculous way.

So, here I am—out on the town, dressed a little too nicely for a bar, surrounded by friends who make me feel like I actually belong. The music’s pounding, lights flashing, the crowd’s energy wrapping around me like a warm, electric current. I take a deep breath and, for the first time in what feels like forever, I’m not thinking about Will. Or the way I saw him that morning on the train platform, or how the ache had softened but still lingered in the background, like some ghost I couldn’t quite shake off.

It’s just me. Just this moment. Just my birthday celebration in this big, loud city. And for the first time in ages, I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.

The buzz of the night swirls around me—laughter, music, the clink of glasses all blending together into a warm, fuzzy haze. I’m wine-drunk from the dinner, flushed, carefree, and surrounded by friends, all of whom are easy to talk to and full of stories. Their laughter is infectious, the kind that makes you feel like everything is good, even when you’re not quite sure how you got here.

In this moment, I’m just present, no overthinking, no wondering about past conversations or lost opportunities. It’s all just right now.

And of course, Ruth keeps nudging me, grinning mischievously. “Come on, just say hi to Liam. He’s a good bloke. Deep voice, really sweet.” Liam, of course, is the mate she was trying to set me up with when Will first ghosted.

I wave her off with a laugh, spinning a loose strand of hair between my fingers. “Ruth, I’m not here to meet anyone new. I’m having a bloody good time as it is.”

She smirks but lets it go, knowing she’s not winning this one tonight. I settle into the rhythm of the room, feeling light and happy in a way I haven’t for a while.

The bar is buzzing with that familiar, chaotic energy—laughter spilling into the dim lights, the low hum of music wrapping around the crowd like a warm blanket.

I’m caught in the middle of it all when someone’s hand suddenly slips into mine. My first instinct is to pull away, startled, but then I look up, and a grin that could light up the whole place is looking back at me.

It’s George.

He’s grinning wide, like he’s been waiting for this exact moment, a little spark of mischief dancing in his eyes. Without saying a word, he yanks me back into the rhythm, spinning me around with a fluid ease that makes me laugh out loud.

For a moment, the chaos of the dancefloor blurs away. There’s no noise, no crowd. Just us—moving, smiling, perfectly in sync like we’ve done this a thousand times before.

“Had to make it,” he says, his grin never faltering as we twirl. “Can’t miss your birthday celebrations, can I?”

I raise an eyebrow, curious. “Skipped the afterparty did we?”

George shrugs, unbothered. “Yeah, the event ended early anyway. It was boring.”

He takes a sip of his drink, leans back against the bar. The music shifts, bass-heavy now, just loud enough to blur the edges of the moment.

If George is here, I’m sure Chris isn’t far behind. They went to the event together—Arthur too, obviously. The Three Musketeers of mildly chaotic YouTube fame. Wherever one goes, the others tend to materialise not long after, usually holding pints and half-finished inside jokes.

I should probably find them. Go say hi. Give them shit for missing my birthday dinner.

“I was just about to text you,” George adds, glancing over with a crooked smile, “see where you ended up.”

He pauses, letting the grin settle.

“But then I heard your laugh—” His hand makes a vague gesture toward me, “—and figured it was the universe telling me to just show up and crash the party in person.”

“Just show up, huh?” I laugh, the moment settling between us like a worn-in coat—comfortable, familiar. I’m so glad he made it tonight.

“May I have this dance, birthday girl?” he asks, mock-formal, eyes twinkling with mischief. He sweeps into an overly dramatic bow, one hand extended like we’re at a royal ball instead of a sticky-floored bar.

I shake my head, smiling at his classic George antics. “Sure, why not?”

Before I can rethink it, he grabs my hand and pulls me onto the makeshift dance floor. The lights blur. The music pulses, loud and careless, the kind that gets into your bones whether you like it or not.

Our movements are terrible—chaotic, off-beat, probably embarrassing—but none of it matters. We’re laughing, bumping shoulders, spinning like idiots. It’s not about dancing well. It’s about this: messy, loud, completely unfiltered joy.

And somehow, it feels exactly right.

That’s when I spot him, of course.

Right when I’m feeling good. Music thrumming in my chest, wine warm in my limbs, laughter still clinging to the corners of my mouth.

Will.

He’s across the room, in a booth, half-lit by the lamp on the table and the sickly blue overhead bar light, talking to someone I vaguely recognise. He looks good. A little tired maybe, but still—him. Black tee. Rings catching the light. That same disarming way he holds his drink like it’s just another prop in his performance of not caring.

And without thinking, like muscle memory, I smile.

Big. Wide. Genuine.

It’s instinct, almost. Something automatic. Like how your body remembers the way home in the dark. It doesn’t matter that I haven’t spoken him in weeks, or that the last time I did, he barely looked at me. My stupid, traitorous face still lights up.

He glances over. Meets my eyes for a second too long.

Then smiles back. Polite. Measured. The kind of smile you give someone you used to know.

And just like that, something in my chest contracts—tight and sharp and sudden.

I think I've convinced myself that I miss him more as a friend than a lover. Because what I’m feeling is nostalgia, not longing. I just want the version of us that used to make each other laugh until our ribs ached.

Not the nights. Not the kisses. Not the way he used to touch me like I was something rare.

I sip my drink. Swallow the smile. Try to focus on the music, on the friends I actually showed up with, on George’s voice somewhere behind me yelling about how he “absolutely crushed that spin move.” Because I’m okay. I am.

Mostly.

I spot Chris in the booth, laughing at something, a drink in one hand, gesturing wildly with the other. Will’s next to him, naturally. He's leaning against the counter like he owns it, that casual slouch he always falls into when he’s had just enough to drink.

I hesitate. Just for a second. Then I square my shoulders and head over.

“Oi, look who it is!” Chris beams when he sees me. He stands up and pulls me into a proper hug—tight, warm, sincere in that disarming Chris way. “You look unreal, by the way. Seriously.”

I laugh, startled by the compliment, and mutter something like “you need new glasses,” but it still catches me off guard—the ease of it. The kindness.

When he lets go, I glance at Will.

His hand is still around his glass, knuckles gone white. He hasn’t said anything yet. Hasn’t really looked at me, not properly.

“Hi,” I say, soft but even. I’m not going to shrink.

He offers a smile—thin, polite, all surface. Then he gives me another one of those side hugs, the kind that barely counts. His arm brushes my shoulder, brief and stiff. Like we’re colleagues who once had a weird office Christmas party hookup.

I step back. The cold of his skin lingers.

The silence between us says more than either of us ever could.

Chris, oblivious to the tension, launches into a story about some chaotic shoot involving three smoke machines and a minor fire hazard, and I let him pull me in, let myself laugh at the right beats. But I don’t miss the way Will stays quiet. I don’t miss the flicker in his eyes when I smile too easily at someone else.

At some point, the noise of the bar fades into background chatter. Will's looking at his phone, scrolling through something with intent, and I feel a strange compulsion to fill the silence between us.

“So,” I start, forcing my voice to sound casual, “how have you been?”

His eyes flick up at the mention of the place, and for a moment, I see a flicker of something—maybe surprise. Then it’s gone, replaced with that same cool, detached demeanour.

“Oh, uh...” He swigs from his glass, clearly not looking to dive deep. “I launched a coffee brand last month so I've been non-stop.”

I blink, caught off guard. “Right. Cool. I—uh, didn’t know that.” I totally know that. I stalked the shit out of it when it first dropped. Ruth had to stop me from going to a Sainsburys' to buy it. I don’t tell him that I recognised the logo from various papers around his flat.

I can feel the awkwardness hanging between us, thick as smoke. I don't know what I expected, but I would think he could maybe elaborate a bit more. The man can talk until the cows come home.

I glance over at Chris, who's still caught up in his own story, not paying attention to the fact that Will and I are barely engaging.

Will’s eyes flicker, just for a moment—a hint of something softer, like he’s about to say something. “You look—” His gaze shifts suddenly, moving past me, over my shoulder.

He cuts himself off mid-sentence.

I follow his line of sight, curiosity pulling me to see what has caught his attention.

And of course, it’s George.

George, grinning like a cat who’s just knocked something precious off the counter. “Oi!” He calls out, walking toward us with his trademark enthusiasm. “Why are you wasting your birthday time with these guys? Go have some fun with your mates!”

I can practically hear the relief in Will’s exhale as he shifts his attention away, the soft moment gone before it can take root.

George flashes me a grin, throwing a playful look over at Chris and Will. "You two need to stop being so serious, let her have a good night."

Chris throws up his hands, still smiling. “Fair enough, mate. Go on, buy the birthday girl a drink.”

I laugh, though it feels like a little too much, a little too forced. But George is already pulling me away, guiding me toward the my friends with a cheeky wink.

Will doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t even look back.

And for once, I don’t feel sorry for myself.

Not tonight.

I make my way back to our group, and George goes to the bar to get me another drink. I can feel how flushed my cheeks are from dancing and too much wine, and my hair is clinging to the back of my neck. Ruth’s still mid-rant about how her ex once cried because she beat him at Uno, and I let myself dissolve into the comfort of it—of noisy, lovely people who don’t know the Will of it all.

A few minutes later, George wanders over, two fresh drinks in hand and cheeks pink from the heat. One of Ruth’s friends clocks him immediately, eyes trailing over him like she’s assessing inventory. I don’t blame her. His shirt’s unbuttoned just enough, curls a little messy, grin easy. He looks like the kind of guy you flirt with just to feel alive again.

And I feel it. That flutter. The smallest shift in my chest—something I don’t want to name. It passes quickly, but it still passes.

He grins at something Ruth says, then catches my eye. I turn to face him, his brow raising slightly, a half-smile playing at the corner of his mouth. It’s like we’re already mid-conversation, even though neither of us has said a word yet. I turn back to Ruth, who is still complaining.

I'm hyper-aware of his presence next to me, and I'm not sure why but it feels… forbidden. Like I've stumbled into a situation is shouldn't be in. Then, he turns toward the bar. I turn to watch him catching up with a few people from the other side of the room, his voice rising above the crowd. His attention shifts, and he's walking and now, he's standing next to some girl in a glittery top, laughing loudly enough that it cuts through the pulse of the music.

He’s leaning in just enough to hear her, grinning that lopsided grin—the one that always makes people feel like they’re in on something. I feel it before I even register it: a flicker, low in my stomach. A little flutter.

Not jealousy, exactly. Just… awareness. Like I’ve noticed something I wasn’t supposed to.

They’re talking.

No—more than talking.

Leaning in. Faces close. That kind of proximity you only allow when the rest of the room disappears. Eyes locked in a way that makes my stomach drop through the sticky floorboards. For a moment, I forget the beat of the song. Forget the warmth of Ruth’s hand around mine. Forget how to stand.

I shouldn’t stare.

But I do.

God, I do.

“Let’s dance!” someone says (probably Naomi) and suddenly I’m being pulled back into the blur of bodies and basslines. I let it happen. I smile. I raise my arms and pretend I’m still in it, like the music hasn’t warped around the crack forming in my chest.

We move. I dance. I laugh at something Arthur says in passing and shout-sing the chorus of a song I don’t really know. But every time the hook rolls around, I glance over.

He’s still talking to her.

They’ve shifted positions slightly. George now angled toward her like he’s shielding their conversation from the world.

His smile is lopsided, eyes crinkled. That laugh, his real one, the one that starts in his chest and ends in his shoulders—

rises up over the bar.

It’s so familiar. I know that laugh like a favourite song.

And yet I have no idea what’s making her laugh like that.

They talk for ages. Longer than I expect. Longer than I can excuse away.

I keep dancing. Keep pretending. But the longer it goes on, the less I can feel my limbs. I become mechanical, going through the motions, too aware of the prickling at the back of my neck. The small, tight burn behind my ribs.

It’s not jealousy.

(Not quite.)

It’s something messier than that.

Ruth and the others break away for a round of drinks, their laughter trailing off as they slip toward the bar, and I pause—one breath, two—still swaying, still looking.

That’s when George finally pulls back.

His hand lingers a second too long on the girl’s arm.

She says something that makes him smile.

He grins, pats her on the shoulder, and slips away without so much as a glance over his shoulder. No number exchanged, no flirty goodbyes. Just the kind of quiet exit that makes me think maybe it wasn’t even about anything at all.

He rejoins us a few minutes later, sliding next to me at the bar as I'm waiting for Ruth to hurry up and pay for my drink. His eyes find mine, so I turn to face him. He's close to me. Like girl at the bar close. He makes a face that suggests that did not go well and I stifle a laugh.

The flutter’s still there. But it softens into something warmer. Something familiar. And I shake it off. Just a little.

It’s George.

“So,” I say, nudging his elbow, “how’s your new soulmate? Planning the wedding yet?”

He groans. “Don’t start.”

“She touched your arm. That’s legally binding in some countries.”

“She also talked at me for twenty minutes about her birth chart,” he mutters. “Apparently my Mercury is in retrograde, which means I need to ‘unblock my throat chakra.’”

I snort. “She’s not wrong. You do talk like someone who’s never processed a single emotion out loud.”

George shoots me a look, then takes a long sip of his drink like he’s trying to drown the sass. “Honestly? I panicked and told her I was gay.”

I nearly choke on my wine. “You didn’t.”

“I panicked!” he defends, eyes wide. “It was that or pretend I was into crystals. I chose the option with less homework.”

I laugh, I laugh so hard my belly hurts. I try to say that she's probably so confused as he approached her, but it gets lost in my giggles

I’m still laughing as he bumps my shoulder with his, alerting me to the fact that Ruth has finally purchased my drink, I wave for him to join our group. He tells me to wait a second,

George tilts his head toward me, mischief dancing in his eyes. “So… who’s your mate?”

I blink. “Huh?”

He nods subtly toward Ruth’s friend—the same one who gave him the full once-over when he walked over. She’s mid-laugh about something Ruth’s just said, holding her cocktail like it’s a prop in a rom-com. Cute. Confident. Exactly George’s type.

“I saw her eyeing me earlier,” he adds, all mock modesty. “What’s her deal?”

I short-circuit for a second. My brain scrambles like it’s looking for an escape hatch, and before I can think it through, I blurt out, “She has a boyfriend.”

George raises a brow. “Oh yeah?”

I nod too quickly. “Yep. Long-term. Serious. Big beard.”

It’s not exactly a lie. Ruth did say she had a boyfriend… at one point. Probably. Maybe. Or maybe that was a different friend. Or maybe I just said so I didn’t have to watch George flirt with another girl tonight. Either way, it’s out there now. Floating between us, ridiculous and unnecessary.

I glance at her, then back at George. “Actually… I think they broke up.” I wince. “I think.”

His looks bewildered at my change of pace. “Well which is it?”

“I don’t know!” I hiss. “I’m not a relationship counsellor, I’m just trying to make sure you don't end up making a fool of yourself again.”

George raises an eyebrow, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “A fool of myself?” he chuckles, clearly enjoying how flustered I’ve gotten. His eyes flicker, something sharper flashing for a split second beneath the teasing. “I just… don’t want to make a scene, y’know?”

I nod, though I'm not sure if I fully understand his coolness about it. He can for sure tell I just lied through my teeth. I look down at my drink, stirring it mindlessly, then glance up. Somehow, despite everything, I’ve ended up talking to George and pretty much only George tonight. He looks good—when doesn't he?—like he’s barely even trying. His messy hair, the way his jacket fits him just right, the way he always seems comfortable in his own skin.

I feel something stir in me, but before I can think much more on it, a guy sidles up to the bar, leaning a little too close for comfort.

"Hey, wanna dance?" he asks, his breath hot against my ear, lingering a little too long for comfort.

I give him a polite but firm smile, leaning back just enough to create some space. “No, thanks.”

He doesn’t back off, a smirk spreading across his face as he glances at George. "Is this your bird, mate?" he sneers, eyes scanning George like he's just waiting for a response. There's a challenge in his voice, as if he's testing the waters.

Without missing a beat, George shoots him a look that’s half amusement, half something more protective. “Yeah,” he says, like it's a statement rather than a question, the kind of casual confidence that used to make me feel safe, back when we both knew the drill. He puts his arm around me, just enough to make it clear that the guy’s not going to push any further.

The man hesitates for a second, then mutters something like "Alright, mate," and slinks off, disappearing into the crowd.

"Ugh I hate being called bird. Like do you want me to chirp at you?" I look at George, half-exasperated. “You didn’t have to do that.”

George just shrugs, his expression completely unbothered. “It’s nothing. Just old habits.”

I can't help but smile at that. We used to do this all the time back in uni—keeping unwanted attention off each other. It’s one of those little perks of having an opposite-sex best friend. We always had each other’s backs, no questions asked.

I can see the guy, looking between us, clearly trying to figure out if there’s more to it, but George doesn’t give him anything else. Instead, he casually nudges me with his shoulder, as if to say, Let’s get out of here.

Before I can protest, he’s already setting his empty cup down and pulling me toward the dance floor, a grin spreading across his face.

“Come on, Birthday Girl,” he says, practically dragging me through the sea of people, “let’s actually have some fun tonight, yeah?”

I let him pull me along, a little too easily. Despite the chaos around us, the clamour of voices and thudding bass, I find myself laughing, shaking off whatever that thing was I felt earlier.

And for a moment, it’s just us again. Just the two of us, like it used to be.

“George, no—” I protest through a laugh, but it’s already happening. We’re weaving through bodies and basslines, and he’s grinning like a man on a mission.

“It’s a foolproof plan,” he says, dragging me into the beat. “You pretend to be my girlfriend. We dance. Everyone wins.”

“That is not how foolproof plans work,” I say, but I’m already moving with him.

He spins me dramatically. I nearly trip. He catches me by the waist, laughing into my hair.

For a moment, it’s just the two of us again. Dizzy. Stupid. Easy.

I still feel a little bad about lying to him about Ruth's friend, But George isn’t pressing, isn’t thinking about it. And maybe that’s the part I’m clinging to—that he doesn’t need anything from me right now except this.

Just music, and limbs, and the dumb safety of knowing you’re someone’s favourite dance partner, even if only for one song.

After a few more songs—some iconic, some unrecognisable—we slip off the floor, breathless and flushed. George grabs his drink from where he left it and downs the last of it in one go.

“I think the lads are heading to Lucky’s,” he says, nodding toward the door where Chris is already half-waving, half-coaxing the others out. “You coming?”

I shake my head. “Nah. Ruth’s booked us a karaoke room at that grimy place on the corner. I’m morally obligated.”

He grins. “God help you.”

“She’s promised tequila and emotional support,” I say with a shrug.

George smiles, softer this time. “Text me when you’re home, yeah?”

“Always.”

There’s a moment—just a flicker—where we linger in each other’s space like maybe there’s something more to say. But there’s no goodbye hug, no drama. Just an easy pat on my shoulder and a, “Don’t sing Mr. Brightside. Again.”

“I make no promises,” I call after him.

He heads off with Chris and the rest of the boys, swallowed by the dark edge of the bar crowd, and I turn toward Ruth and our chaos-bound karaoke mission.

There’s no ache. No longing. Just… fuck… a flutter. A stupid, persistent flutter that starts low in my chest and rises like it’s got something to prove. I tell it to shut up. To get a grip. It’s just George.

It’s always been just George.

And yet… my stupid heart won’t listen.

xxx

The night’s winding down, and I've just hit an absolutely phenomenal rendition of Everybody Talks. The buzz of laughter and chatter hums through our private room like a fading song. My head is warm, the tequila and the night mixing into a comfortable fuzz. My phone buzzes in my pocket, making me jump a little.

I fish it out, squinting at the screen. It's George.

Are you still out?

I smile, fingers hovering over the keyboard. I’m still out, technically, but the bar here called last drinks 10 minutes ago, Ruth is half asleep on the couch and I’m tired. So tired that my bed sounds way more appealing than going to another bar. I don’t even question when someone says that the uber is £70.

I type back.

Yeah. We’re about to head home though.

I pause. The Uber price pops back into my mind like a punchline I can’t unhear.

Fuck, Ubers are £70. Who’s pricing London like this?

My phone buzzes again almost immediately.

Crash at mine!

That was part of our deal.

I stare at the screen, breath catching for a moment. It’s simple, casual, but somehow exactly what I needed to hear. Like a lifeline thrown over a sea of overpriced rides and fading energy.

I glance around at my friends, then back at my phone. A slow smile spreads across my face.

Maybe tonight isn’t done yet.

xxx

I step Into George’s flat, the door clicking softly behind me. I expected the usual buzz—Chris and Arthur sprawled on the couch, music thumping, the familiar chaos of a late-night kick-on.

But it’s quiet.

Too quiet.

Only George is there, sitting on the worn sofa, looking a little too casual for this time of night. No Arthur teasing him about the playlist, no Chris talking a little too loudly about something I don’t care about. Just George, and that weird flicker of something unreadable in his eyes when he sees me,

I drop my bag by the door and lean against the frame, suddenly aware of how still the room feels without the usual noise.

“Hey,” I say, trying to keep my voice light.

He shrugs, grinning that lopsided smile. “Figured I’d hold down the fort.”

I smirk, dropping onto the couch beside him. “Where’s everyone else?”

“Ghosted. Probably found a better party.”

I laugh softly, feeling this strange mix of relief and something else I can’t quite name. Just George. Just us.

We settle into the living room like it’s our own private island amid the quiet hum of the city outside. The faint clink of glasses from earlier still lingers in the air, but it’s just the two of us now. No crowds, no distractions—just George and me.

He’s sitting on the edge of the couch, and I’m perched opposite on the other side, both of us locked in that comfortable rhythm of teasing and banter.

“You owe me a rematch on FIFA,” he says, grinning like he’s already won before the game’s even started.

“Oh please,” I fire back, voice light but eyes sharp, “you’re just scared of losing again. You barely even know the controls.”

He throws his head back and laughs, that rich, easy sound that always catches me off guard—like a secret only I’m allowed to hear. “Scared? Never. I’m just letting you think you’ve got a chance. Gotta keep the game interesting, right?”

I arch an eyebrow, crossing my arms. “Is that what you call it? I’d say it’s called ‘underestimating your opponent’.”

He leans forward, that mischievous glint in his eye making my heart do that stupid little skip it’s been refusing to quit all night. “Maybe I’m just playing the long game. You know, lull you into a false sense of security before I completely wipe the floor with you.”

I bite my lip to stop myself from smiling too wide. “You keep dreaming, George. One of these days, I’m going to break your winning streak.”

His grin widens. “That day can’t come soon enough. Until then, I’ll be enjoying watching you try and fail.”

I lean in a little, lowering my voice. “Better watch out. When I win, I expect you to perform me victory dance, call it a birthday present.”

He raises his hands mock-defensively. “Deal. But be warned—I’m known for my killer dance moves.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “Yeah, I saw those earlier. Didn’t exactly strike me as ‘killer’.”

“Oh, you wound me.” He points a finger at me, feigning offense. “Maybe I’ll let you be my dance partner. Then you can judge my moves up close.”

I catch that look he throws—like he’s daring me to say yes, like he’s hoping I will.

It’s ridiculous how much I want to.

But I just grin and flick his forehead. “In your dreams, George.”

He catches my hand before I pull away, holding it a moment longer than necessary. “Dreams are where the best things happen, don’t you think?”

I glance down at our hands, then back up at him, breath catching for a second. “Maybe.”

I shift in my seat, my heart pounding louder in my ears. It’s ridiculous—I’m telling myself it’s just friendship. Nothing else. But then, almost without thinking, I lean forward and press a quick, impulsive kiss to his cheek.

Immediately, the world tilts.

George freezes, his eyes wide and unblinking, locked onto me like I’m suddenly some impossible riddle he can’t solve. My heart thuds so loud I’m sure he can hear it, and my breath catches, sharp and ragged in my chest. Panic crashes in like a tidal wave, dragging me under before I even have a chance to catch myself.

What the hell did I just do?

I’ve spent so long tiptoeing around this—around him—pretending like the last few months didn’t come with a price. Like I didn’t know exactly how fragile this all was. And now I’ve gone and thrown a grenade into the middle of it.

Did I not learn my lesson?

Every warning bell I told myself to listen to—every quiet voice in the back of my head screaming don’t do this—I ignored it. Because it felt good. Because it felt like maybe, just maybe, there was something worth risking.

But looking at him now, the way his whole body stiffens, the way his jaw tightens like he’s swallowing a storm—fuck, I’m terrified.

Because I know that look. That’s the look of someone who’s about to build a wall so high it’ll take years to climb back over.

And I’m the one who place the first brick.

I want to reach out, to explain, to tell him it didn’t mean what it always means. That I’m not trying to ruin everything. Again. But my throat tightens, words catching like stones.

I’ve broken us once before. Maybe I’m just stupid enough to do it again.

And the worst part? I don’t know how to fix it.

I swallow hard and try to steady my racing heart, but the damage feels already done—impossible to rewind.

I wanted this to be different. I wanted us to be different.

But maybe some things are just too broken to mend.

And I don’t think I'm strong enough to watch him walk away again.

I pull back even further, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Sorry,” I mumble, cheeks burning, “That was— I don’t know what that was.” I instinctually start to think about where my bag is, where my phone is, if I it worth just firming a £70 Uber after all.

My hands are shaking slightly as I lean back, instinctively searching the room for my bag. My phone. Somewhere safe, somewhere away from this mess. I’m already mentally mapping out a quick exit strategy, but grounded to the couch, trying to ignore the way my chest is still tight, still buzzing with that kiss that feels like it’s carved into my skin.

Maybe I can just throw myself into the £70 Uber, call it a night, and pretend it didn’t happen. That’s always the easy out, right? Just pull the drunk card, laugh it off. Oh, I always kiss Ruth’s cheek, sorry, I’m just sooo wasted.

He doesn’t say anything. Just reaches out, fingers brushing my arm, cautious. There’s a pause—barely a heartbeat—where his hand hovers, and I it's like he’s weighing every possible outcome behind his eyes. Then, with a quiet resolve, he takes my hand and gently pulls me off my place on the couch.

I stumble a little as I rise, and he guides me between his knees. One arm slips around my waist, the other steadies my hip, and then he's tugging me down into his lap. Our controllers drop to the floor with a soft thud, forgotten.

Now I’m straddling him, knees braced on either side of his thighs. My chest is almost flush with his, barely any space between us, and I can feel the rise and fall of his breath—shallow, nervous. His hands settle on my waist, fingers splayed, thumbs brushing circles through the fabric of my shirt.

The heat of him seeps into me. Every point where we touch feels electric, like a current passing through skin and bone. The air around us grows heavy, charged, as if the room itself is holding its breath. I am too.

My heart pounds so loudly I wonder if he can hear it. I’m terrified—but I don’t want to move.

Then his lips find mine.

It’s immediate, a shock of heat. The kiss starts slow, hesitant, like he’s feeling his way through the dark. But then, without warning, it deepens, his mouth pressing harder, demanding more, like he’s been holding back forever and can’t anymore.

There’s a desperation to it, but it’s not just hunger. It’s… something else. His lips move against mine with a kind of urgency that makes my whole body hum. Each touch, each breath, builds into something hotter, more dangerous, until I’m gasping for air, my chest burning with every shallow inhale.

My hands are in his hair, pulling him closer, desperate to feel more of him. The world around us blurs, fades into the background—there’s nothing but this, nothing but the fire between us.

And then, just when I think I can’t take it anymore, he pulls away.

I’m left there, dazed, my heart pounding in my chest, like I’ve been thrown into the ocean and can’t quite find the surface. My pulse is still racing, my breath coming in sharp gasps.

He’s looking at me, his eyes dark, impossibly intense. There’s no confusion in them, no second-guessing. Just something raw, like he knows exactly what this is and what it means. But neither of us is ready to say it out loud. Not yet.

I swallow hard, my voice shaky as I speak, barely above a whisper. “I thought I’d ruined it.”

His eyes flash—something sharp, fleeting, almost imperceptible. “Shut up.”

His voice is low, rough around the edges. Not cruel, but desperate—like he’s trying to strangle the doubt in its cradle, to silence that voice inside me that always wants to dismantle everything good before it can begin.

The space between us feels impossibly small now, strung tight like a wire. One wrong move and it could all snap. The kind of silence that teeters between breaking everything... or changing everything.

We’re frozen, breathless. Neither of us dares to move. Not yet. Not while the air is this thick with unspoken things and nearlys.

And then, before I can even fully exhale, he moves.

One hand slides up my back, firm and certain, and he pulls me in, swift and sure. His lips find mine in a kiss that doesn't ask—it claims. There’s nothing hesitant now, nothing careful. Just months, no years, of tension unravelling in a single heartbeat.

It’s not perfect. It’s messy, rushed, mouths colliding more than meeting. But it’s real. And that’s all I’ve ever wanted.

My hands fist in the fabric of his shirt as I kiss him back, everything else falling away. No fear. No doubt. Just this.

Finally.

xxx

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jeonspridee · 2 days ago

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After Monaco ♕ LN4

♛| SYNOPSIS : After a painful breakup, Y/N and Formula 1 driver Lando Norris cross paths for the first time in months at the one place they never expected: Monaco, the city where their love once burned brightest. Amidst the chaos of the race weekend, a quiet moment brings old emotions to the surface. Words left unspoken come tumbling out, forcing them to confront what was lost… and what might still be left to save.

♛| PAIRING : Lando Norris X Fem!Reader

♛| GENRE AND TROPE : Angst, exes to lovers?, pining, accidental reunion. Ex!Lando Norris X Reader, F1Driver!Lando Norris X Reader

♛| WARNINGS : Emotional breakup, tension, mild language, themes of heartbreak, regret and longing, emotional pain

♛| WORD COUNT : 0.3k

♛| AUTHORS NOTE: Sorry it took so long but hope you enjoy!! Lmk if you guys want a part 2 🩵

The paddock buzzed with the usual chaos, camera crews weaving between garages, PR teams shouting over comms, and fans screaming beyond barriers. But for you, it all moved in slow motion. You hadn’t planned to come. Not to Monaco. Not here…not where everything started.

And certainly not when you knew he’d be here.

Lando Norris. Your ex.

You hadn’t spoken since the night it ended. The one where both of you said things you didn’t mean and things you meant too much.

You weren’t here for him. That’s what you told yourself.

You stayed close to the back, sunglasses on, hair pulled low, hoping to stay invisible in a place where once you were his everything.

But fate, or bad luck never played fair with Lando Norris.

He spotted you before you could slip away.

His voice cut through the crowd, quiet but sharp like he’d been holding it in.

“…You came.”

You turned. Slowly. He looked tired. Not physically…no, he was still every inch the golden boy of McLaren…but his eyes. His eyes had your name written all over them.

“Didn’t mean to,” you said. It wasn’t a lie.

He walked closer, and you didn’t move. Couldn’t.

A breath. Then another.

“You look good,” he said, the corners of his mouth twitching like he wanted to smile but didn’t know if he was allowed to anymore.

You stared at him, blinking away whatever this feeling was rising in your throat.

“So do you. Still a menace, though.”

He let out a breath of a laugh, short and cracked. “I deserved that.”

Silence. Heavy. Familiar.

Finally, he stepped just close enough that the noise around you faded, like the world gave you both space.

“I miss you,” he said.

You hated him for saying it first. For meaning it.

Because damn it.

You missed him too.

But some wounds don’t heal just because you want them to. Some just stay tender, always.

“I don’t know if it’s enough,” you whispered.

His eyes searched yours, like he was looking for some version of you he could still hold on to. And maybe…maybe…she was still there. Just behind the hurt.

“Then let’s find out.”

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dontshootmespence · 2 days ago

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This is Real

Pairing: Non-enhanced Bob x Reader

Summary: Best friends since childhood, you can’t watch as Bob proposes to his girlfriend of 18 months. You can’t bear the thought of losing him to someone who has no idea how lucky she is to have him. The night of his intended proposal, you get drunk and burst into the engagement party to let your true feelings be known.

Author’s Note: Angst/smut in the rain. Enough said. It needed to be done.

Warning: ANGST, dialogue heavy, angry, beautiful rain-soaked Bob (it’s a warning, okay), grinding, unprotected p in v.

Word count: 2k+

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Pitch black night studded the streets ahead of him, rain hitting the windshield in sheets so thick he could barely see. Thunder clapped as the wheels turned down a familiar street, near the park. Through the haze of rain, he saw you, storming through the downpour toward the gazebo in the middle of everything.

Without a second thought, he yanked the car into the parking lot and stopped it diagonally over multiple parking spaces. “There you are,” he boomed. The lightning cracked across the sky, echoing his scream. You refused to turn around. His footfalls hit puddle after puddle, but he didn’t care. Not now. With long strides, he caught up to you and placed his hand on your shoulder, pulling you back to turn around and face him. “What the fuck?” Relief flooded his features. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” He couldn’t decide if he was relieved you were safe or just angry. “What the hell was that last night?”

You couldn’t even look at him. “What?”

“Don’t what me,” he replied, “You know exactly what. Last night, you barged into my house, drunk off your ass and announced to everyone that you were in love with me. You looked my girlfriend in the face and told her she was a selfish slut and that you could treat me better than she ever could. What the hell was that?”

For a moment, you turned your gaze from his, unable to look into his beautiful blue eyes and truly admit to his face what you’d already admitted to a room full of people you barely knew.

Without waiting for your response, Bob continued as the rain soaked his hair and fell down the planes of his face, dripping off the tip of his upturned nose. “I’ve been looking for you for hours. I was petrified that something happened to you,” his voice cracked. “I’ve been sick to my stomach.”

“Why do you care?” You asked, knowing the answer and hating yourself for letting the words spill out of your mouth.

Bob turned away for a moment, his hands combing through his hair in an attempt to ground himself into the here and now and not fly off the handle. “What the fuck do you mean why? You’re my best friend. Speaking of,” he said, taking a step closer to you, “Why would you do that? Last night of all nights.”

You crossed your arms and said nothing, still unable to set the truth free.

With no answer, he began to pace around you. “I was gonna propose!” He yelled. “I had a ring, and a speech planned, and everything. That’s when you decide to tell me that you love me, that you’re in love with me.” He placed his hands on his hips, his clothes soaked to the bone. “What am I supposed to do now? Pretend like my best friend hasn’t confessed her love for me and go on and get engaged to someone else? What do I do?” It was a genuine question, just not one he expected you to answer.

Bob stormed up to you so that you were face-to-face. “After your little vodka-induced one-woman show, she accused me of cheating on her with you. Because why else would you barge into my surprise engagement party and say what you said?”

“What did you say to her?” You asked, glancing at the ground in an attempt to hide your own tears. You didn’t regret your confession, but maybe the circumstances.

“I denied it,” he replied. “B-but she didn’t believe me.” He paced in short spurts. “I need to know…is what you said true? Or is this some kind of sick joke?”

Guilt gnawed at your stomach, ravenous. You turned to walk away but he spun you around again and forced you to look at him. Finally, you stared him dead in the eyes, his perfect dark blue eyes, and told him the truth. “I’d never joke about something like this. I’m in love with you.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?” He breathed, desperately trying not to lose his composure.

“You’re angry.”

Bob screamed over another clap of thunder. “Yes! Because I had a plan. And now she’s gone. She broke up with me. You wanna know why she broke up with me?”

You nodded. If only to hear him say what you’d known all along. That they were wrong for each other.

“Because I told her I was in love with you too.” He scoffed, kicking at a puddle.

“What?” Incredulity flooded your system. You’d never dared to dream such a thing. For years you’d harbored feelings for him, unable to say anything for fear of losing his friendship, but then she entered the picture and all your feelings spurred into overdrive. Not out of jealousy. Out of anger. That she’d never appreciated what she had.

Bob grabbed your hand and pulled you close, his face mere inches from yours. “You heard me. I’m in love with you too.”

“Really?” You sobbed, your breath catching in your throat.

He rested his forehead against yours, the rain clinging to his soaked chestnut strands. “Yes, how could I not be? I didn’t realize it until last night. Wouldn’t let myself think about it because I was in a relationship for so long. Until you went and fucked it all up,” he laughed matter of factly. “No offense.”

Wrapping your arms around him, you cried as he continued. “You’re the one I complain to about relationship problems. The one that helps me through bad breakups. The one that makes sure I’ve taken an Advil and had some water after a night out. The one that’s helped me deal with my past.” He swallowed hard against the growing lump in his throat. “I’d never thought of you as anything other than my best friend, but after last night, everything clicked. I was too blind to see it.” A few moments passed and another crack of lightning lit up the night sky. “Please say something? Anything.”

“You’re an idiot,” you chuckled.

Bob snorted. “You’re the one that drank a liquor store and stormed into my engagement party and made a fool of yourself.” His breath shuttered, whether from the cold or the situation he wasn’t sure. “Can I tell you a secret?”

“Yea.” Your nose touched his, your face so close you could see the tears in his eyes.

Bob turned his head slightly and pulled you tighter. “I’m so glad you did.” When his lips met yours, he swallowed your sob. As he snaked his hand around your waist, the other found its way to cup your cheek. “So glad.”

After a few moments of blissful kisses in the burgeoning rain, he grabbed your hand and ran with you toward the gazebo just a few feet away. He chuckled when you finally found dry land. “Fuck, it’s really coming down.”

“Did you really break up with her?” You asked. Your brain still couldn’t believe this was real.

He kissed your hairline. “Yes, of course. Why would I make that up?”

“I just…this doesn’t feel real yet.”

“It’s real. I swear.” Bob pulled you close again and swayed back and forth. “I had a plan. I thought I was going to be waking up with my fiancee, but now I have a useless ring in my pocket and I’m telling you how much I love you. But to be honest, there is nowhere I’d rather be than right here, underneath a broken down gazebo freezing my ass off with you.”

Wrapping your hands around his neck, you pulled him in for another kiss, tongue exploring his mouth. “I can’t believe this is happening,” you breathed.

“Your mouth tastes so good. Like strawberries,” he chuckled. “Which is weird because didn’t you use cherry chapstick? Like that Katy Perry song.”

For a moment, you lost yourselves in the other, running your hands up his shirt. But then booming thunder startled you. “It’s okay, baby,” Bob said softly, “I’ve got you. I’m here.”

You blushed and kissed his cheek. “What? What’s wrong?”

“You called me baby.”

“I did. I could default to butthead like I did when we were kids.”

Biting your lip, you snaked your hands into his hair. “No, I think I like when you call me baby.”

“Good,” he replied. Because you're my baby now.”

You could feel the blush hit the tips of your ears now.

“Doesn’t seem like this rain is gonna let up anytime soon.” It was still coming down in sheets around you, almost blanketing your surroundings in muted white. “Why don’t we sit down?”

Emboldened, you asked. “Can I sit in your lap?”

“Of course, come here.” You climbed into his lap, one thigh on either side of his. “Here, let me wrap my hoodie around you. Keep you insulated.”

Softly, you pressed your lips to his and sunk into the feeling of being with him this way. As you placed open-mouthed kisses against his collarbone, you teased. “You’re getting hard.”

“I’m making out with a pretty girl in my lap,” he replied, his smile brightening. “Of course I am.”

Sinking into this new reality was easy. You began grinding against his thigh as your hand moved between your bodies to palm at him through his soaked jeans. Bob whimpered, dropping his head to your shoulder. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re trying to get me hard.”

Chuckling, you grabbed his tip through the thick material and began rubbing him in small circles. “We’re outside,” he says unconvincingly.

“No one’s here,” you breathed, kissing the underside of his chin. “It’s really romantic, if you think about it.”

Bob swallowed against the growing lump in his throat. “I don’t have anything with me, any-any protection.” He admitted sheepishly. “Didn’t expect for this to happen.”

“I don’t care. I’m on birth control,” you said, snaking your hand into his jeans. “Need you.”

“Fuck,” he sighed, kissing you so softly it filled you with a warmth that made you forget you were rain-soaked and freezing. “Okay, um, stand up.”

You do as he said and spin yourself around to lie down on the table.

He looked at you almost reverently as his hand glides up your thigh and under your skirt, to where your panties are soaked. “All this for me?” He asks, bending down to kiss you over the fabric.

You nodded and let out a little whimper when he pulled your panties to the side. With a few quick movements, he removed himself from his jeans and placed himself at your entrance, sliding in like he was always meant to be there. “Fuck, Bob,” you cry out, grabbing his waist.

“I’ve got you,” he said with a kiss. “I love you.”

As he pumped into you, your walls clenched around him. “God, you feel incredible.” He moaned.

The two of you fall into an easy rhythm, your bodies instinctively knowing how to pull moans and groans from the other. “Harder…please.” You reached down to your clit but he’s already there, rubbing small circles with his thumb.

“I wanna see you come,” he said so softly it’s almost drowned out by the rain. “Need to see you unravel for me.”

When your orgasm started to coil in the depths of your body, you grasped his waist again and pulled him closer, needing to feel every inch of him. “Come inside me.”

“You sure?” He asked, almost choking on the question, his hips bucking into you, uncontrolled and erratic, desperate.

“Need it.”

Your orgasm hit as lightning cracked across the sky, with Bob spilling into you just seconds later. He bends down to kiss you. “I can’t believe we just did that,” he laughs.

Sitting up, you pulled your panties back into place and sighed happily as you felt his come spilling out of you. Bob rearranged himself and kissed your forehead as the rain began to subside. “I love you so much. Wanna come home with me?” He asks, gathering his hands around your waist. “Then I can clean you up before I get you all dirty again.”

#bob reynolds #bob reynolds x reader #bob reynolds x you #bob reynolds x y/n #bob reynolds angst #bob reynolds smut #bob reynolds fanfic #bob reynolds imagine #robert reynolds #robert reynolds x reader #robert reynolds x you #robert reynolds x y/n #robert reynolds angst #bob reynolds fluff #robert reynolds fanfic #robert reynolds imagine

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velvetghoul · 3 days ago

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Read Me Like You Mean It

✦ oneshot

Reader x Kento Nanami | 18+ MDNI

cw: 18+, smut, softness, teasing touch, opposites attract, morning-after scene, bookstore AU, emotional intimacy, physical affection, quiet obsession, domestic fluff, slow burn with payoff

⸻

You hated bookstores.

The musty smell, the quiet people, the way your friends spent hours comparing covers like it mattered. You weren’t a reader, never had been. So when they dragged you along to some trendy used bookstore downtown that also sold limited edition manga, you already planned to spend the whole time sulking in the corner on your phone.

That was until you saw him. He didn’t belong here. Not really.

He stood near the far aisle, adjusting books on a display table with slow, methodical movements. Tall. Broad. Hair swept back but tousled in a way that looked too good to be accidental. A cable-knit sweater strained gently across his shoulders, the sleeves pushed to his forearms to reveal strong, veiny hands that could do unspeakable things. And glasses—those glasses—rested low on the bridge of his nose as he skimmed the back of a novel, completely unaware of the world burning around him.

“Who is that?” you whispered, elbowing your friend.

“Oh—that’s the owner. Kento Nanami. Used to work in finance or something. He’s like, super quiet but nice.” She smirked. “Why, interested?”

You should’ve said no. But instead, you found yourself drifting toward the poetry section like fate was pulling you there by the hem of your shirt.

He turned slightly. His cologne hit first—earthy, expensive, subtle. Like amber and citrus and heat. Then those eyes glanced up behind the glasses—brown, calm, devastating.

“Can I help you find something?” he asked, voice smooth like velvet, but with weight behind it. Serious. Warm.

You blinked. “No, I don’t really read,” you admitted.

He quirked a brow. “But you’re in a bookstore.”

You gave a shrug. “Dragged by friends. I’d rather be anywhere else.”

He gave a small hum, then glanced at the poetry book in your hand. “Yet you’re holding Neruda.”

You looked down. You were. The cover was soft. Old. Worn like a well-loved secret.

“Maybe I just liked the color,” you muttered.

But Nanami didn’t laugh. Instead, he leaned one hand on the shelf beside you and said, low, “May I?”

You handed him the book, breath caught.

He opened it one-handed, thumb flicking through like it wasn’t the first time, then stopped on a page. Cleared his throat.

“I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.”

You stared at him, lips parted. The nerve. The delivery. The goddamn voice. Heat bloomed up your neck.

“Maybe… I like that one,” you whispered.

Nanami met your eyes. Held them. Then closed the book carefully and handed it back.

“I’ll put it on hold for you,” he said. “Just in case you change your mind.”

You came back three days later. Alone.

He didn’t mention it, but the book was still behind the counter.

You didn’t buy it.

You came again. And again. You started pretending to browse. Asking for recommendations. Sitting in the little reading nook by the window. He never flirted—but the way he moved near you, the way he leaned when explaining a passage, or handed you a mug of warm tea without asking, or fixed your scarf on windy days outside—God, it felt like foreplay.

Until the night it became one.

It was late. Your friends had bailed on movie night. You’d wandered by the shop without thinking, only to see a light still on.

You knocked. He answered. No sweater this time. Just a black fitted t-shirt and low-slung slacks. Hair mussed. Glasses gone.

“I was closing,” he said, holding the door slightly open.

“I’ll only be a minute,” you said. “Or… unless you don’t want—”

He opened the door wider. Inside, it was warm. Dim.

He watched you from behind the counter as you wandered, touching spines, trailing your fingers across the edge of the poetry shelf.

“Can I ask you something?” you said softly.

He tilted his head. You turned. Heart hammering.

“Why do you always feel like a secret I shouldn’t want to keep?”

Nanami blinked. Then something shifted in him. Quietly. Deeply.

He came toward you with a measured pace, as if calculating his restraint with every step.

“I don’t want to be a secret,” he said. “But I also don’t take things lightly.”

You stood your ground. “Neither do I.”

Then his hands were in your hair. And then his mouth was on yours.

It was slow at first. Careful. His lips pressed to yours like punctuation, deliberate and weighted. You clutched the front of his shirt and pulled—hard—until he pushed you against the nearest shelf with a groan and kissed you like you were a story he’d waited a lifetime to read.

Your fingers slipped under his shirt, dragging over abs you hadn’t even fantasized about yet, too distracted by his brain until now. He hissed through his teeth, then hooked his hands under your thighs and lifted you like you weighed nothing.

“Say you want this,” he murmured against your neck, voice low and wrecked.

“I want you,” you whispered back. “Since that first fucking quote.”

His laugh was soft. A little breathless. “So poetry wins again.”

You fucked in the back room, on top of a table covered in hardcover first editions.

Nanami was everything you’d imagined and more—controlled, intense, quiet, but not cold. He unbuttoned your pants like they were a gift. Pressed his mouth to your stomach, your thighs, your chest, reverent and slow.

When he finally slid inside, he kissed you so deeply you forgot where you were.

And when you came—twice, embarrassingly fast—he whispered your name like it was the final page of his favorite book.

Later, you lay tangled in a blanket from the armchair, the storm outside shaking the windows, his hand wrapped around yours.

“You’re not what I expected from a bookstore owner,” you said, smiling into his chest.

“And you’re not what I expected from someone who hates reading.”

You glanced up. “Still not a fan of books, honestly.”

He raised an eyebrow.

You leaned in and kissed him, slow. “But I think I’m starting to like the endings.”

Two weeks. Fourteen days. Not that you were counting. But it had been that long since you’d last seen him.

After that night—the slow burn turned wildfire on his office desk—you hadn’t gone back. He hadn’t texted. You hadn’t called. Maybe it was fear. Or maybe it was something worse: the ache of wanting something real in someone who moved like a ghost and touched like a storm.

Now, standing just outside the shop with your phone in one hand and a folded list of manga titles in the other, you realized how stupid this was.

Your best friend’s birthday was tomorrow. You needed books. The bookstore was here. That was it.

So you walked in. A bell chimed. The door creaked. And there he was.

Behind the counter. Dressed in a grey button-up, rolled sleeves, tortoiseshell glasses perched on his nose. Hair combed but not gelled. The knit vest did things to your spine.

He looked up when you entered. And his eyes—those slow-burning, unreadable eyes—landed on you like they’d never really stopped watching.

“Hi,” you said. Quiet. Controlled.

“Hey, you,” he replied, equally calm. Polite. Neutral.

But the heat? Still there. Like a room with no windows.

You wandered toward the manga section, acting like you weren’t hyper-aware of the way his voice had dropped half a register since last time. Like the memory of him pressed over you didn’t haunt every aisle.

“I need help,” you finally said, walking back over, waving the list in your hand. “My friend’s birthday. She’s obsessed with romance manga. I have no idea what I’m looking at.”

He blinked once, nodded, and stood. You followed him.

He pulled books down efficiently, explaining tropes, plotlines, things you pretended to care about.

You let yourself look.

His hands were still scarred in that oddly elegant way. The veins in his forearms twitched when he reached for the top shelves. You wanted to bite them. You wanted him to lose control the way he hadn’t that night.

He handed you three volumes at once. Your fingers touched.

Electric. Immediate.

You looked up through your lashes. He didn’t move away.

“I remember these hands,” you whispered. “They made me cry.”

Nanami’s jaw clenched ever so slightly. “That’s not very appropriate to say in public, is it?”

You smiled. “Well, it was your desk.”

He let out a slow exhale, but you caught the flicker of amusement in his gaze.

Still, he turned, walking further down the aisle, clearly trying to keep things professional.

But you weren’t in the mood for professional. You were in the mood for him.

So you followed. You waited until the aisle narrowed.

Waited until he stopped to skim a spine and you slipped in behind him.

“Nanami,” you said softly.

He turned, and you stood close. Very close.

He was so much taller. But you didn’t care.

You stepped into his space, tilted your head up, and slowly dragged your fingers along the front of his slacks.

He stilled. You palmed gently over the fabric, soft pressure, just enough to get his attention.

“I missed you,” you said, voice low and saccharine. “Did you miss me?”

His mouth twitched into a slow, dangerous grin.

“Mm. Little lady…” His voice rasped like it had been locked away too long. “You don’t know what you’re doing to yourself.”

You tilted your head, bit your nail, gaze locked on his.

“Maybe I don’t know, sir. Maybe…”

You leaned closer, lips brushing just beneath his jaw.

“…I want you more than you can imagine.”

That was it. That broke him. He looked around once—silent, careful—then took your wrist with firm gentleness and led you straight to the back room again.

The door shut behind you. The latch clicked. Your back hit the same desk as before.

“I’ve tried,” he said, voice calm but low, eyes burning into yours. “To forget that night. To stay professional. To keep you at a distance.”

You swallowed. “Why?”

“Because I don’t do casual. I don’t fuck someone just to say goodbye the next day. But you…”

His hands moved to your waist. “You tempt me like no one else ever has.”

You could barely breathe. “And now?” you asked, chest heaving.

“Now,” he said, dragging you closer with one arm, “I’m going to remind you what this desk is for.”

It was messier this time. Not frantic—but possessive.

He lifted you onto the desk with ease, pushed your thighs apart with reverence, not rushing, but not waiting either. The air was thick. Heavy with memory.

You kissed him first, hard—tongue, teeth, need—and he kissed you back like he’d been starving for two weeks straight.

Your shirt hit the floor. His mouth was on your chest. He made no noise but let out the occasional exhale when your hands tugged his belt open and your nails raked his back.

When you wrapped your legs around his waist and whispered “Please,” against his ear—he finally gave in.

He didn’t just fuck you. He claimed you.

Hands on your hips. Teeth on your neck.

Thrusts deep and controlled—measured and perfect.

You cried out once, gasping his name. He gripped your chin and looked you in the eye.

“Keep your voice down,” he warned with a smirk. “Or someone might hear how good I make you feel.”

And fuck, you loved him for that.

When it was over—when you were panting, flushed, back against a pile of books and still gripping his wrist—he kissed your knuckles, then your temple, like nothing had happened at all.

Like everything had. You stayed silent for a while. Breathing.

Then you looked up and whispered, “Do you think I might become a regular customer?”

He chuckled. Full, rare. Real. “I think I’d like that.”

The day after.

As you gathered your things that morning, something he said the night before lingered in your head like a line from a favorite page.

“Maybe just stop by tomorrow. I like my coffee black, ma’am.”

You hadn’t planned on going. You meant to play it cool. Let the fire simmer, maybe wait a few days. But by the time you left work, the sky was grey and the rain was soft and the thought of him behind that counter—with his sleeves rolled, his quiet mouth, his smell—made your chest ache in ways that felt too sweet to resist.

So you went. With two coffees in hand.

Your jacket was damp, hair sticking to your cheeks. You pushed open the bookstore door and stepped in, the warmth and woodsy scent immediately wrapping around you like something personal.

And there he was.

Behind the counter. One hand holding a pen, the other braced against a notepad. A few books scattered, the open sign still glowing behind him. He looked up as you entered.

His expression shifted.

That same Nanami look—cool, sharp, unreadable—except not quite. Tonight there was something softer in it.

Like he’d been waiting. Like seeing you just fixed something broken.

You stepped up to the counter, smiling through wet lashes.

“Hello there, mister,” you said playfully, voice sweet. You set down one of the drinks. “Your coffee is ready.”

He looked at it. Then at you.

And God—that look.

His eyes dragged down your body slowly, lingering at your damp shirt, your flushed cheeks, your hand still curled around your own cup. And when he stepped out from behind the counter, the distance disappeared in two quiet strides.

“Mmm. Coffee?” he murmured, voice low and curious. “What about you?”

And before you could answer, his hand reached behind your neck—firm but gentle—and pulled you in.

His mouth met yours, deep and slow and familiar.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t greedy. It was like coming home.

You melted instantly.

His lips moved with purpose, tongue brushing yours in a kiss that left you dizzy. He smelled like cedarwood and old pages and rain-soaked linen. His other hand slid up your side, stopping just under your ribs like he needed to feel your heartbeat.

When he pulled back, barely, his breath still on your lips, he murmured:

“I close in fifteen minutes.”

Your stomach twisted—giddy. Hot. Then he leaned in closer, mouth brushing your jaw. “Do you have plans for your Friday night… or does this little lady want to come home to me?”

You bit your lip, grinning, already gone.

“Depends,” you said, teasing, voice honey-sweet.

He cocked an eyebrow. “On what?”

You leaned up on your toes, lips ghosting his. “What you have to offer.”

That did it.

His eyes went dark, hunger and amusement flickering together as he dipped his head beside your ear.

“I can show you everything,” he whispered, voice like velvet and danger. “All night, sweetheart.”

And then—God, then—he leaned back just enough to meet your eyes with a slow, devilish grin.

“Only if you want, of course.”

You nearly moaned right there.

Fifteen minutes later, you were in his car.

Twenty minutes later, you were in his home.

And ten seconds after the door shut—you were in his arms again.

He didn’t even wait to get to the bedroom.

He kissed you against the wall of his hallway, coat still on, his palms braced on either side of your head. The rain dripped from your sleeves but his mouth was hot and demanding, like he’d been holding back for days.

You tugged open his shirt, pressing your palms flat to his bare chest. His skin was warm, taut with muscle, a few fading scars here and there like stories you wanted to read with your tongue.

“You’re so goddamn hot,” you breathed.

He chuckled—quiet, smug. “I’ve been called worse.”

He peeled your jacket off, slowly, mouth dragging down your neck.

And when he lifted you—strong arms under your thighs—he didn’t ask.

He just carried you to the bedroom.

The rest of the night passed in slow-burning chaos.

He undressed you like you were fragile but kissed you like you were his favorite sin. When he finally buried himself inside you, one arm wrapped behind your back to hold you up, the other gripping your thigh—you saw stars.

You clung to him, breathless, panting.

“You feel so good,” you whispered, nails dragging down his back.

His mouth pressed to your shoulder. “You have no idea.”

And when he made you come—hard, crying his name—you bit his neck and whispered “Fuck—Kento” for the first time.

He shuddered. And then he fucked you again.

Slow. Deep. Like he was trying to make up for every day he hadn’t touched you.

Later—much later—you lay tangled together in his sheets, skin still slick with heat, hair damp with sweat and leftover rain.

He was quiet. You were quiet too. But it wasn’t awkward. It was thick with something that scared you more than lust.

You looked at him. He looked at you. And with that soft, unreadable smile, he whispered, “Next time… don’t wait two weeks.”

You smiled back. “Next time,” you whispered, “maybe just read me poetry in bed first.”

He reached over, brushed your cheek with the back of his hand, and said— “I can do that too.”

Morning came slow.

Warm light bled in through gauzy curtains. Somewhere in the kitchen, the soft hum of the fridge buzzed under the hush of rain against the windows. But nothing felt more sacred than the heat between the two of you—limbs tangled, skin to skin, bodies lazy with the afterglow of the night before.

You were half on top of him. Bare chest pressed to his side, your leg thrown over his hip like you owned the man.

Kento Nanami—stoic, pristine, serious bookstore owner—was flat on his back in rumpled navy sheets, glasses on the nightstand, and not a single thought in his brain except you.

His hand rested gently on your thigh. Your head was tucked beneath his jaw, hair soft and wild against his skin. He didn’t want to move. Didn’t even want to breathe too hard, afraid he’d wake and find it all gone.

But then—of course—you did move.

You shifted with a slow little stretch, chest brushing his ribs, hand sliding from his stomach down—

“Mm,” you hummed against his throat, fingertips dragging across the soft trail of hair under his navel, “someone’s still warm.”

He let out a breath. Tight. Low. “You’re playing a dangerous game, sweetheart.”

You grinned.

“I thought you liked games, Mister Bookstore.”

He turned his head to look at you—and Jesus. His eyes. Still sleepy, golden in the morning light, soft around the edges but simmering underneath.

You touched his chest. Drew little shapes over his sternum. Then let your fingers wander further. Smoothing over the cut of his abs, brushing his sides, watching the way he breathed like each graze made him bite down a groan.

He didn’t stop you. Of course he didn’t.

“Your body is ridiculous,” you murmured, tracing over a scar on his rib. “How are you real? You look like you were carved out of a Greek statue and then cursed with… literacy.”

He actually laughed at that. Low and raspy.

“You’re trouble,” he said, eyes still half-lidded.

“And you,” you whispered, moving your hand lower, brushing the edge of his briefs, “are a very, very good distraction.”

Nanami caught your wrist—not hard, not sharp. Just enough to pause you.

“You keep touching me like this,” he said softly, eyes flicking down to your mouth, “and I’m going to make you late to whatever life you’re pretending you still have.”

You leaned over him, hair spilling across his chest, your hand sliding back up to his shoulder.

“Maybe I don’t care about being late,” you whispered. “Maybe I like it here. Warm bed. Pretty man. Big arms. You know… my kind of literature.”

His jaw flexed. His hand went to your waist, then your lower back, dragging you gently up over him. You were straddling him now—lazy, playful, hips settling over his growing problem.

“God,” he murmured under his breath. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

Your hands cradled his face now. Thumbs brushing his cheekbones. He looked up at you like you were something impossible—like a miracle he didn’t dare ask for, but you showed up anyway, dancing barefoot into his world with rain on your jacket and fire in your mouth.

And even as you smiled, kissed his nose, teased, touched him again— Something changed behind his eyes.

He caught your wrist again. Brought it to his lips.

And whispered, “You know… for thirty-two years, I didn’t think I was missing anything.”

You blinked.

“But now…” he continued, voice low, almost like it hurt to say, “You touch me. You smile. You talk your little shit. You wear my damn shirt and tease me like it’s your full-time job…”

His fingers skimmed your waist, curling under the hem of his t-shirt that you had absolutely stolen.

“…and I think maybe you’re the missing piece I didn’t know I was allowed to have.”

Your breath caught. He looked away, then back, like he couldn’t believe he’d said it—but wouldn’t take it back for anything.

“You’re nothing like me,” he added. “But you fit me in ways I didn’t think were possible.”

You pressed your hand over his heart. It was beating fast. For you. You bent down and kissed him. Not playful. Not teasing. Just soft. Deep. Slow.

“I’m gonna ruin you, Kento,” you whispered.

He smiled. “I think you already have.”

The rest of the morning? You kissed his neck until he groaned.

You slipped your hand inside his briefs just to hear him mutter “Fuck, sweetheart—” in that broken voice.

You made him coffee wearing nothing but his shirt.

And he didn’t stop smiling for a single second.

You ended up staying. The whole day.

After breakfast—which Nanami cooked with maddening precision and a little smirk every time you bumped into him barefoot in his kitchen—you curled up on his couch under a blanket, a mug in your hands, one of his books in your lap.

He watched you read for a while. Not with judgment. Not even amusement.

Just quiet, curious awe.

“You’re really doing it,” he said eventually, sitting down beside you.

You looked up, squinting. “Doing what?”

He gestured toward the open book. “Reading.”

You snorted. “Only because you told me this one has smut in chapter nine.”

He chuckled, warm and low. “Chapter eleven, actually.”

You gasped in mock betrayal. “You tricked me?”

“I lured you in,” he corrected smoothly. “I believe that’s the proper term.”

You rolled your eyes and tossed a pillow at him. He caught it one-handed, effortlessly.

God, he was annoying. Perfect. Smart. Hot.

And he looked at you now like he was memorizing you—your wet hair tied up, his oversized hoodie swallowing your frame, your legs tucked under you like you’d always belonged on that spot on his couch.

“You’re comfortable here,” he said after a beat. It wasn’t a question.

You glanced around, then shrugged. “Shouldn’t I be?”

He nodded. Then said, softer, “I just never thought anyone would be.”

That made your chest ache. You leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Well, I’m here now.”

His eyes closed briefly. As if that meant more than he was ready to admit.

Later, he worked on paperwork at the kitchen table while you explored his shelves.

He had everything: classics, first editions, weird out-of-print poetry, horror novels you didn’t even know existed.

“You’re a nerd,” you said, holding up a ridiculously annotated copy of Frankenstein.

“You’re in my hoodie stealing my coffee,” he replied without looking up. “You don’t have much room to talk.”

You grinned and wandered back over, sliding into the seat across from him.

“I like your world,” you said suddenly.

He looked up. Surprised.

“This quiet, cozy, leather-smelling place you live in. The books. The calm. The routine.” You paused. “It’s the opposite of mine. And maybe that’s why I like it so much.”

He tilted his head. “Tell me about your world.”

You blinked. “What?”

“I want to know.”

You chewed your lip. “It’s… messy. Loud. Unpredictable. I never know what I’m doing next. I forget appointments. I don’t cook unless toast counts. I’ve never finished a novel in my life.”

He set his pen down.

“But,” you added, “when I’m in your bed, or your kitchen, or even just beside you… it feels like I’m learning how to breathe right for the first time.”

That silenced the room. Nanami stared at you, eyes unreadable, something breaking loose behind them.

He stood. Walked around the table.

And then he knelt beside your chair—knelt, this proud, composed man—and rested his head on your thigh.

“Don’t go then,” he murmured against your skin.

You blinked fast. Your fingers curled into his hair.

“I wasn’t planning on it,” you whispered.

His hands slid along your calves. Up your thighs. One of them slipped beneath the hem of the hoodie. Not rushed. Just there.

You swallowed. “Do you want to go back to bed?” you asked, your voice smaller than it had been all day.

He looked up. His face so open now. Unhidden.

“I want you wherever I can have you,” he said. “But if we go back to bed, I’m not letting you out of it for hours.”

Your stomach twisted deliciously. You stood. Took his hand. Led him there without another word.

The second time that day, he made love to you. No teasing this time. No games.

Just soft, slow kisses and hands that roamed with reverence.

He buried his face in your neck and whispered how good you felt.

He held you like you were something rare. Something real.

Afterward, you stayed tangled up together in silence, the afternoon light creeping in golden through the curtains.

His fingers traced your spine lazily, skin to skin.

“I wasn’t joking,” he said softly. “You might really be it for me.”

You didn’t know what to say. But your heart answered for you by how hard it started to beat.

So instead, you curled in closer, kissed his collarbone, and said:

“Then don’t let me go.”

And from the way he tightened his arms around you…

He wouldn’t.

thanks for the request ⭐️

໒꒰ྀི ˶• ༝ •˶ ꒱ྀི১ hope you like it!!

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@shibataimu

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