#i know I already said that I just wanna say it again | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

heeluvv · 3 hours ago

Text

˗ˏˋPAID SESSION

pairingᝰ.ᐟ park jongseong x fem reader ft. lee heeseung

warningsᝰ.ᐟ unprotected sex, oral (f), fingering, overstimulation, etc.

natty's notesᝰ.ᐟ 3/9 completed!

──

the sky outside jay’s apartment is dull and overcast, the kind of cloudy that makes the air feel thick and unsaid things feel heavier. heeseung doesn’t knock twice—just once, knuckles dragging off the wood like he’s already exhausted by the weight of walking through the door. jay looks up from the couch when it opens, expecting the usual lazy smirk and offhand banter, but heeseung’s face doesn’t match the energy. he looks… off—not angry, not annoyed, just quiet in a way that stretches under his skin, like something inside him didn’t settle right. “you look like hell,” jay mutters, pausing his music with a flick of the remote. “didn’t think she was the type to drain you like that.” heeseung doesn’t answer. just kicks off his shoes with one foot and sinks into the couch like gravity has doubled in strength, elbows resting on his knees, head down. silence hangs in the space between them, long and stiff.

jay waits a few beats, like maybe heeseung just needs a minute. maybe he’s tired. maybe it’s nothing. but heeseung exhales—long and hollow—and when he finally speaks, it’s without looking up. “she left.” the two words come out flat, but something behind them wavers, the kind of break you can only hear if you’re really paying attention. jay’s brow twitches, arms crossing loosely over his chest. “left?” he repeats, and heeseung nods, still not lifting his head. “as soon as it ended. pulled on her hoodie and walked out like it didn’t mean anything.” jay blinks slowly. “and… did it?”

heeseung’s jaw tightens, muscles shifting beneath his skin as he finally lifts his head and leans back into the couch cushions, eyes staring at a point above jay’s shoulder like he can’t look him straight in the face. “i didn’t even talk to her before we filmed,” he says, voice quiet but full. “not really. just… hello, a few lines about consent and angles, and then—” he stops, swallowing hard. “and then we started, and everything changed.” jay studies him now, frown deepening, the smug tease he’d usually fire off noticeably absent. “what changed?” heeseung licks his lips, slow and nervous. “i didn’t wanna stop. not even when the camera shut off. i didn’t wanna let her go.” the words hang there, heavier than anything he’s said.

jay leans forward slowly, resting his elbows on his knees as he studies heeseung with a calmness that feels a little too practiced. his voice is lighter than before, careful almost, as if he knows whatever thread he’s tugging on has the potential to unravel more than either of them wants to admit. “so,” he starts, tone smooth but softened now, “who is she?” he doesn’t say it like he’s prying. not yet. it’s quieter, more curious than anything—like he’s tiptoeing into something fragile, not wanting to break it before he understands what it is. heeseung doesn’t respond immediately. his eyes stay fixed on the floor, unfocused, and his fingers twitch once against the hem of his jeans, then again, like maybe the answer is buried there in the fabric if he presses hard enough.

jay watches him, head tilting slightly. “you said she posted recently, right?” he prompts, still gentle, still casual on the surface. “just drop the name. i won’t stalk.” it’s a light joke, but it lands with a dull thud in the silence that follows. heeseung doesn’t laugh. doesn’t smile. he doesn’t even look up. he just shakes his head—small, deliberate, a tiny movement that’s almost easy to miss if you’re not looking closely. jay is looking, though. he sees it. sees how stiff heeseung’s shoulders are, how still his hands go after that single shake of the head. the shift in the air is subtle, but unmistakable.

jay leans back a little, eyebrows pulling in. “what—you don’t wanna share?” he asks, the edge of something creeping into his voice now. it’s not judgment. not annoyance. just… confusion. curiosity. maybe even a hint of something else. but again, there’s no reply. heeseung’s jaw is tense now, his gaze still fixed somewhere across the room, anywhere but on jay. his silence feels thick. weighted. like there’s something he’s protecting and doesn’t want to admit to—not to jay, not to himself.

they sit like that for a moment, the quiet stretching long between them.

and jay doesn’t need him to say it.

because they’ve all had their moments. they’ve all talked about their collabs, laughed about awkward edits, swapped notes on lighting and pacing and what works. but they’ve never dropped usernames. it’s always been an unspoken rule—don’t ask, don’t check, don’t pry. the anonymity protects everyone, keeps it from getting personal. and if it’s not personal, it can stay simple. professional. clean.

but this? this silence?

this is not simple.

and jay knows—whatever happened between heeseung and that girl?

it’s not just content.

the realization creeps in slow. jay’s brows lift, lips parting as he exhales through his nose and lets the tension stretch between them. “wait…” he says, the edge of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “no fucking way.” heeseung doesn’t budge. “dude.” silence. “you’re not giving me the name because you’re into her?” still nothing. jay leans back in disbelief, blinking at him like he’s seeing him for the first time. “bro.” heeseung’s jaw flexes. “you caught feelings?”

and that’s it. no witty comeback. no scoff. no smirk. just stillness.

heeseung goes completely still.

jay lets out a low whistle, leaning back into the cushions with his arms spread across the top of the couch like he’s trying to fill the space with anything but the silence. “that’s crazy,” he laughs, shaking his head like he’s heard something ridiculous, even though the grin on his face doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “mr. freakshow himself, down bad for a girl he doesn’t even know much of?” he tries to keep it light, playful, the kind of jab he usually throws without thought, but this one lands weird. heeseung doesn’t flinch. doesn’t argue. doesn’t roll his eyes or laugh with him. he just sits there, unmoving, like the weight of the truth is too heavy to shift around anymore. jay glances at him again, this time longer, the humor starting to fade from his mouth. “you serious right now?” he asks, quieter now, the air settling. “like… actually serious?”

heeseung doesn’t answer. doesn’t need to. his silence says everything, thick and loud and final, and jay leans forward again, elbows on his knees, the playfulness draining from his posture. “you’re really not gonna tell me who she is?” he presses, and this time there’s something different in his voice—something caught between curiosity and disbelief. heeseung shifts slightly, finally dragging a hand over his face, and mutters, “no.” jay tilts his head, trying to get a read, but it’s hard to see through it—the silence, the distance, the weird swell of something he can’t name growing in the pit of his stomach. “you think she’s the only one who made you feel something?” he jokes half-heartedly, but there’s a bitter edge beneath it now. “there’s, like, dozens of new creators every week.” heeseung glances up at him then, and the look in his eyes is so bare, so unguarded, that jay has to look away.

he shrugs like it’s nothing, standing to stretch and move toward the kitchen, even though there’s nothing waiting for him there. “you’ll move on,” he calls over his shoulder, like it’s fact. “you always do.” the words echo a little, float into the stillness like he needed to hear them aloud to believe them. heeseung doesn’t reply, and jay opens the fridge, stares inside like he’s suddenly deeply interested in the half-empty energy drink shelf. the longer the silence lasts, the heavier it feels—off, unfamiliar, like the ground has shifted just a few inches under both of them. jay grabs a can, pops the tab, and leans against the counter without turning around. “she must’ve been really good,” he says after a moment, voice quieter again, like the thought is sticking more than he expected it to. “or maybe you were just overdue.”

jay’s apartment feels too still once the door clicks shut behind heeseung, the weight of his silence lingering long after he’s gone. the couch feels cold, the echo of that final look he gave still playing in jay’s head, and for some reason, jay can’t stop pacing. he walks into the kitchen. opens the fridge. closes it again. stands by the window like the answers might be written in the clouds outside. but they’re not—so he does what he always does when something gets under his skin. he sits down, boots up his account, and scrolls through the new creators tab with idle swipes of his thumb, trying to let the algorithm distract him. names flash by, previews blur together, but one stops him cold. @babydollxo.

the profile is nothing flashy—no thirst traps, no bio full of emojis or promises—just a clean layout, a single post, and a display name that’s more suggestion than scream. it’s the thumbnail that makes him click—low lighting, soft curves, a still shot of thighs parted just enough to tease but not enough to show. he doesn’t recognize her. not even close. but something about it feels… personal. the video opens quietly, and what hits him first isn’t the visuals—it’s the sound. her breathing. her pace. the soft, near-whispered moan like she’s trying not to be heard. “fuck,” jay mutters, leaning closer, one hand braced on his jaw as the video loops back to the beginning. “who are you?”

he taps through her page, skimming the stats—no verification, barely a few thousand followers, but the engagement is insane. comments already pouring in, tips stacking, new subscribers flashing in real time. jay scrolls again, watching the preview once more before his fingers move on instinct—hitting follow, and typing out a message without even hesitating.

you’ve got good rhythm. ever thought about collabing?

it’s casual, confident, and quick—sent before he even second-guesses it. he settles back in his chair, lets the video loop again, and lingers longer this time, eyes trailing down the curves of her body. he doesn’t know her. doesn’t need to. he just knows she moves like she’s got something worth chasing.

he lets the video loop again, slower this time, volume just a bit louder, thumb hovering over the play bar like he wants to rewind and memorize every second of the way her hand moves. there’s something about her pacing—unrushed, unbothered, like she’s not performing for anyone but herself—that makes it worse. hotter. more real. she doesn’t show her face, but the shape of her mouth is visible in the soft outline of the mirror behind her, parted, pink, whispering something too faint to hear. jay’s hand slips beneath his waistband before he even realizes it, fingertips brushing over his cock already half-hard from nothing but her rhythm and the sound of her moans. “shit,” he mutters under his breath, teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he starts to stroke himself slow, eyes locked on the way her fingers dip between her thighs. he watches the tension in her body, the way her hips roll, the way her knees twitch just before the clip cuts. it’s barely 40 seconds long, and it has him already grinding into his palm like it’s been hours.

he strokes himself slow, thumb dragging over the head, using nothing but the weight of her movements to guide his pace, lazy and deliberate. he imagines her beneath him, same lighting, same breathless moans, but this time his hands are the ones between her thighs—his name the one falling off her tongue. his hips lift slightly off the chair, chasing friction, fucking into his fist in slow, tight rolls that match the rhythm she set on screen. his breath starts to fog the screen, but he doesn’t care. he leans in anyway, watching the arch of her back, the twitch of her thighs, every small tremble that gives her away. “who the fuck are you,” he whispers again, voice strained now, knuckles tightening with each stroke, precum leaking warm across his hand. he’s close, but not rushing—just breathing, just fucking into his hand like she’s watching him right back. and then it happens—just as his eyes start to flutter shut, just as his cock twitches against his grip—

buzz.

his phone lights up in the corner of the screen, and he blinks, chest still rising fast, fingers stilled mid-stroke as the name flashes clear.

────୨ৎ────

the car ride home is quiet, the soft hum of the engine the only thing keeping your mind from spinning completely out of control. you stare out the window the whole time, watching buildings blur into neighborhoods, storefronts into trees, your reflection ghosting back at you every time the light hits the glass just right. your body feels heavy in a way that isn’t just physical—like you left part of yourself back in that bed, wrapped in sheets and tangled in someone else’s breath. your thighs are still sticky, your hair still smells like his detergent, and your phone hasn’t stopped buzzing since he posted the video. you don’t check it. not yet. you know what’s waiting for you there. attention. validation. noise. and none of it feels like enough to quiet the ache still blooming beneath your ribs. you just want to be home. you just want your bed. you just want this night to stop echoing.

you thank the driver and climb out quietly, your fingers trembling as they grip the strap of your bag. the air hits different now—colder, clearer, like it’s trying to sober you up from whatever high your body’s still crashing down from. the building looms in front of you, too familiar, too grounding, and your feet feel too loud on the stairs as you climb. you don’t expect nari to still be awake. you don’t expect her to be sitting on the couch in her hoodie and shorts, blanket over her lap, hair tied up and a mug of tea forgotten on the table. her head lifts when she sees you, eyes widening, expression soft and sleepy but instantly alert. “hey,” she says gently, not like she’s prying—just like she knows. you blink once. twice. and then the tears start rising up too fast to swallow.

“i did it,” you say, voice cracking before you can catch it, dropping your bag to the floor like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. “i filmed with someone. like… all of it. everything.” your eyes sting as you move to sit beside her, pulling your legs up on the couch, hugging your knees to your chest like you’re trying to hold yourself together with your own arms. “it wasn’t supposed to feel like this,” you whisper, breath hitching as her hand comes down gently to rub your back, slow and reassuring. “it was supposed to just be money. content. like… a transaction. but then—he was…” you trail off, shaking your head. “he made me feel things i didn’t expect. he made me forget it was even being recorded.” nari doesn’t say anything yet. just keeps rubbing your back, waiting.

“he was sweet,” you continue, voice barely above a whisper now, “and careful. and so good—like, not just at the physical part, but… the way he looked at me. like he actually cared.” you laugh then, bitter and soft and full of disbelief. “and then i got dressed. and i left.” you press your palms to your face, shoulders trembling with the weight of everything crashing back down. “i told myself it was business. that’s what i kept saying in the car. it’s just business. but it didn’t feel like that. not for one second.” nari doesn’t rush you, doesn’t try to talk over your spiraling. she just pulls you in, arms wrapping around your shoulders as she rests her chin against the top of your head. “i didn’t want to admit it,” you breathe out, “but i think… i liked it too much.”

nari pulls back just enough to look at you, her brows drawn, voice soft and steady. “do you regret it?” she asks, and the question doesn’t come with judgment—just care. you pause, really thinking about it, your heart still aching, your body still buzzing from everything he touched, everything he said. you shake your head slowly, fingers tightening into the sleeves of your sweatshirt. “no,” you say. “i don’t regret it. i just don’t know what to do now.” the truth settles between you like steam—warm, fragile, lingering in the quiet space nari always creates for you. she nods once, like she understands. like she already knew. “then we figure it out,” she says. “together.”

you stay tucked into nari’s side for a while after that, the quiet between you comforting in a way that nothing else has been all night. her arm stays around your shoulders, warm and steady, thumb tracing small shapes against your arm like she’s grounding you with each pass. your breathing evens out eventually, and the ache in your chest settles—not gone, not even dulled, but wrapped in something that makes it easier to hold. the light from your phone catches your attention when it buzzes against the cushion beside you, and you glance down without thinking. the notification flashes once—

@jayafterhours replied to your message.

your stomach flips. not from nerves, not from guilt, but something sharp and new and electric. you hesitate for half a second, then pick it up and unlock the screen.

the app opens instantly, and the message lights up clean beneath your own.

@jayafterhours: depends. how good are you at following directions?

it sits there like a dare. no emojis. no filler. just those words, sharp and smooth, wrapped in heat. you read it once. then again. and then a third time, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip as something unfamiliar sparks low in your stomach. jay’s message isn’t careful or warm or soft. it’s cocky. bold. full of the kind of energy that doesn’t ask—it challenges. and it should be easy to ignore, should be nothing more than another opportunity—but after the way tonight left you exposed, this message feels like armor. like escape. like exactly what you need right now.

you’re still staring at jay’s message when your phone buzzes again—this time softer, quieter, like it knows it’s interrupting something private. nari’s still next to you, her hand resting gently on your arm, both of you folded into the silence after your confession. you don’t realize how tense your body has gotten until her thumb strokes over your sleeve, grounding you like she always does. “everything okay?” she asks softly, and you nod—too fast, too automatic. you glance down, thumb dragging over the edge of your screen, and your breath stalls when you see the name.

@heefreakshow: i’m outside

no punctuation. no lead-in. no warning. your stomach tightens. your chest tightens, breath catching hard as you blink at the message once, then twice, like it might go away if you look long enough. but it doesn’t. it just sits there—steady, waiting, pressing heavy against your ribs. “nari,” you say suddenly, voice softer now, “can you grab me that tea from earlier? i think it’s still on the counter.”

she nods easily, no questions, just kindness, slipping up from the couch and padding toward the kitchen in her socks. the second she’s out of sight, you grab your phone, the grip of it cold against your palm as you move toward the door on autopilot. your heart thuds unevenly as you reach for the handle, and for a moment, you hesitate—what are you even doing?—but your hand moves anyway. you open the door slowly, half-expecting to see no one there—to tell yourself you imagined it, that maybe the message wasn’t meant for you. but he’s there. standing just a few feet away in the hallway, hands in his jacket pockets, hood drawn halfway up like he’s trying to shrink into the shadows. his eyes meet yours instantly, and the world seems to stop moving. it’s the same face. the same mouth that kissed your shoulder, the same voice that whispered your name until you came undone. but it’s different now, too. softer. sadder. there’s something unreadable in his expression, something that pulls at you, something that says i’m not here just to see you—i’m here because i can’t stay away.

you step back without a word, letting him in with a tilt of your chin, your fingers tightening around the doorknob before you close it softly behind him. he’s still watching you—same mouth, same eyes, but something about him feels different now. more exposed. less in control. like the walls he held up on camera don’t follow him into your apartment. “i wasn’t gonna come,” he says after a second, voice quiet, husky at the edges, “but i couldn’t stop thinking about it. about you.” you freeze. not because of what he said—but how he said it. no teasing. no performative confidence. just the raw, stripped-down truth of a man standing in front of someone he wasn’t ready to lose.

“i don’t want to make this complicated,” he adds, eyes dipping away from yours for a heartbeat, “i know you’ve got your reasons. i know what this was supposed to be.” he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the envelope—thick, sealed, heavy with every cent the video made. “this is yours,” he says. “all of it.” your fingers curl instinctively, but you don’t reach for it. “i just…” he trails off, shaking his head like he hates himself for even being here. “i haven’t been able to stop thinking about how you sounded. how you felt. how you looked at me when the camera turned off.” his voice drops even lower, and when his eyes meet yours again, they’re raw. “you keep showing up in my head—and i don’t know how to turn it off.”

heeseung exhales like something inside him’s cracking open—like the silence you’re holding is slowly tearing through his chest. his fingers twitch at his side, still gripping the envelope he hasn’t let you take, like it’s the only anchor he has left. “i used to think people who said love at first sight were full of shit,” he says suddenly, voice low, almost ashamed of the words as they fall out. “like it was just something people told themselves when they were lonely. or desperate. or drunk.” his throat works around the lump sitting in it as his eyes flick back to yours, soft and vulnerable and scared. “but then i looked at you. and everything i thought i knew stopped making sense.” the envelope lowers. his hand opens. and now it’s not money between you—it’s him.

he steps forward slowly, carefully, like he’s afraid if he moves too fast you’ll vanish. you don’t breathe. don’t speak. your entire body’s frozen under the weight of what’s unfolding in front of you. his hand lifts, fingers brushing gently beneath your chin before tracing upward, knuckles grazing the line of your jaw. “you’re the most beautiful woman i’ve ever seen,” he murmurs, thumb pressing against your cheek like he’s trying to memorize the softness of your skin. “not just because of how you look. but the way you breathe. the way you speak. the way you left me speechless without even trying.” his forehead nearly touches yours now, his breath warm and unsteady between you. “i don’t want this to be about the fucking camera anymore.”

“let me in,” he whispers, and it’s so quiet, so desperate, that it barely holds itself together. “let me know you. i’m not asking for everything. i just want… something. something real.” your lips part, but no sound comes out—your chest rising hard, your pulse loud in your ears, your mind too full to form words. his eyes flick down to your mouth, then back up, searching you, waiting for permission you don’t know how to give. you could push him away. you could lie. you could tell him this is too much, too fast. but before you can speak—he leans in.

his mouth presses to yours with a softness that stuns you—nothing rushed, nothing demanding. just him. trembling, open, real. his hand cups the side of your face like he’s afraid you’ll break beneath him, his lips moving slowly against yours like he’s trying to tell you everything he doesn’t have the words for. your breath hitches. your lashes flutter. and for one suspended moment, there is no camera. no contract. no inbox. just him. and the way his mouth is kissing you like you’re the first thing that’s ever made sense

his lips move against yours with an aching kind of care, like he doesn’t want to rush it—like he wants to memorize every part of your mouth before the moment slips away. his hand tilts your chin just slightly, thumb brushing along the edge of your jaw as his other hand hovers at your waist, not pulling, not forcing—just holding, like you’re something he’s scared to lose. you lean into him before you can stop yourself, your fingers brushing lightly against his chest, catching in the fabric of his hoodie like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded. the kiss deepens naturally, your mouths molding together with more weight, more heat, until his breath is tangled with yours. he exhales shakily into the kiss, lips parting just enough to let his tongue flick against yours, soft and slow and searching. you gasp quietly, your body pressing just a little closer, like the gravity between you both is impossible to resist. his thumb traces beneath your cheekbone, slow and reverent, like he still can’t believe you’re letting him do this. everything inside you is warm and light and crumbling.

the taste of him lingers sweet on your lips, heat blooming through your body in waves as the kiss stretches out longer than you mean it to—longer than it should. his tongue slides against yours again, a little deeper this time, a little more sure, like he’s just starting to believe this is real. your fingers clutch at the edge of his hoodie, pulling him closer without thinking, your chest pressing flush to his, your breath stuttering against his lips. you hear the softest, tiniest sound from him—almost a whimper, half-swallowed, too quiet to be on purpose. and it makes your stomach twist. makes your knees feel weak. his mouth moves lower, dragging to the corner of your lips, then kissing softly along the edge of your jaw like he can’t help himself. and it’s all too much. too good. too full of feeling you’ve been trying to deny since the second you walked out of his bed.

your hand lifts to his chest to ground yourself, fingers splayed over the beat of his heart that’s racing just as hard as yours. heeseung’s breath hitches, and he pulls back just enough to look at you—his mouth swollen, eyes dark, lips still parted. “i mean it,” he says again, voice rough and wrecked and so soft. “i want to know you.” your heart stutters. your mouth opens—but before either of you can speak again—

“y/n?”

the voice comes like a slap. bright. clear. and cutting straight through the warmth like a blade.

you freeze.

your body jerks back like a switch flipped under your skin, like your name being said aloud burned straight through the fantasy. you stumble out of his grip, lips still parted, breathing hard, your fingers releasing his hoodie so fast it feels like you just realized what you were holding. your eyes go wide as your mind scrambles to catch up, to remember where you are, who you are, who is in your apartment right now. “shit,” you whisper under your breath, heart hammering like it’s trying to punch through your ribs, like your pulse forgot how to settle. heeseung straightens a little, blinking, his expression shifting fast—from warmth to confusion to that same guarded tension you saw at the door. you turn quickly toward the hallway, barely able to process what you’re supposed to do next. “just a second!” you call back to nari, your voice thin and breathless, like you’re trying not to sound like you were just kissed like someone’s favorite memory.

she doesn’t answer right away, but her footsteps pad closer from the kitchen—slow, unaware, still far enough that you can breathe but not for long. you whip around to face him, panic laced in every inch of your movement. “you have to go,” you say, too fast, too tight, the words leaving your mouth before you can soften them. heeseung’s brows pull together, the smallest flicker of hurt in his eyes before he catches himself. “y/n,” he says gently, his hand half-lifted like he wants to reach for you again, but he doesn’t. “please. don’t shut me out again.” your throat tightens, your fingers clenching at your sides. you can’t do this right now. not with your roommate three steps away. not when your lips still taste like his name.

“this was a mistake,” you say, though your voice wavers at the end of it, and you hate how easily it betrays you. heeseung flinches—not dramatically, not with words, just the subtle shift of someone trying not to react to a wound they didn’t expect. “it didn’t feel like one,” he says, barely above a whisper, but there’s weight in it, something heavy that sticks in your chest. you open your mouth, but no words come out—just air, just panic, just silence. the warmth from his touch is still clinging to your skin, but it doesn’t feel soft anymore. it feels like a question you don’t have an answer to. you step back once, then again. and he takes the hint.

“i’ll go,” he says, voice dull now, and you hate it—you hate the way he sounds when he says it, like you’re undoing something that hadn’t even started yet. he moves toward the door without another word, his shoulders square, steps quiet like he doesn’t want to make it harder than it already is. your breath catches as he opens it, just wide enough to slip out, and for a second you almost call his name. almost. but then he’s gone.

and when the door clicks shut, it’s like your whole body deflates.

you don’t move at first—not even after the door clicks shut, not even after your heartbeat starts to slow. you’re frozen there, staring at the space he left behind, like the warmth of his presence is still lingering in the air, clinging to your skin. your lips are still parted. your hands are still shaking. and your thoughts feel like they’re spinning too fast to hold onto anything solid. you press your fingers to your mouth, just once, like you’re trying to erase the kiss from your skin—but all it does is make you remember how it felt. how soft he was. how much he meant it. and how badly you wanted to believe it.

“hey,” nari’s voice calls gently from behind, her steps slow and light like she’s trying not to startle you. “who was that?” her question isn’t sharp, not suspicious—just curious, just concerned. you inhale too fast, turning toward her with a smile you have to force into place, swallowing down the lump in your throat. “no one,” you say, and the words sound brittle even to your own ears. nari tilts her head slightly, stopping just a few feet away, her gaze soft but a little puzzled. “it sounded like someone was here. you okay?” she asks, her eyes searching your face like she already knows the answer isn’t yes.

you nod too quickly. lie too easily. “yeah,” you say, waving it off like it’s nothing, like your hands aren’t trembling from the ghost of a kiss that’s still burning through you. “just… someone dropping something off.” nari hums, unconvinced but not pushing, and moves past you toward the living room again. your shoulders fall the second she turns her back, the pressure of pretending scraping down your spine like sandpaper. you follow her slowly, your feet heavy, your mind louder than it’s ever been. part of you wants to tell her everything—to let it spill out in messy pieces like you did before—but the rest of you can’t. not yet. not when it’s still sitting in your chest like it means something more than it should.

you sink back onto the couch, your hands folding in your lap, trying not to feel the way your heart’s still pulling in opposite directions. “you want me to warm your tea again?” nari asks from the kitchen, casual, kind, unaware of how badly you need something—anything—to anchor you right now. “yeah,” you manage, your voice hoarse. “please.” she hums again, and the clinking of the mug hitting the counter fills the silence while you reach for your phone like a reflex, screen lighting up again with the last message you received.

@jayafterhours: depends. how good are you at following directions?

your thumb hovers over it for a second. just long enough to wonder what would happen if you said yes.

────୨ৎ────

jay could hear your footsteps before the knock even came—soft, steady, unhurried as you walked up the steps to his door. he didn’t move right away. just stood there, watching the blur of your shadow shift beneath the crack, listening to the quiet rhythm of your shoes against the concrete. when your knuckles finally tapped against the wood—quick, confident, not too firm—it echoed straight through his chest. and for some reason, his breath caught. he hadn’t even seen you yet, but something in the way you approached already had him standing a little straighter.

he opened the door slowly, not expecting much—just a girl, a creator, someone behind a screen turned in front of a lens. but then you were there. standing in front of him like you’d always belonged in his doorway. and for a second, jay couldn’t fucking breathe. it wasn’t just the way you looked, though that was enough to throw him off—lips bare, lashes soft, skin kissed with the kind of natural glow that didn't need lighting. it was the way you carried it. cool, calm, but not cocky. like you knew he’d be staring—and you didn’t mind one bit.

he had no idea what to say at first, and that wasn’t like him. so instead, he stepped back. made room. let you walk into his space while he held the door and tried not to think about the way your hoodie rode up just enough when you passed. “glad you came,” he said finally, voice lower than intended, the heat behind it already showing. and still, you didn’t say much—just nodded, eyes flicking over his apartment like you were already deciding if you liked being here.

and jay? yeah, he was already fucked.

he invites you to sit, his tone smooth and unbothered, like this is all routine. your eyes drift over the table—neat dishes laid out already, plates warm, silverware set clean and deliberate, like he’d done this more than once in his head before you actually showed up. the chairs are tucked in, a folded napkin on each side, and it’s not fancy, not showy—just thoughtful. the kind of quiet preparation that says he was expecting you. he gestures toward the one closest to the corner, letting you choose your seat, and only after you lower yourself does he finally move to the opposite side. the room smells like something savory—spiced, warm, familiar—but you’re too focused on the way he looks across the table. like he’s already unwrapping you with his eyes and hasn’t even touched you yet.

“i wasn’t sure what you’d like,” he says, sliding one of the plates toward you, “so i made something safe.” he says it with a shrug, casual, but the corners of his mouth twitch like he knows it still matters. you glance down at the dish—pasta, something seasoned and steaming lightly, nothing too heavy but just enough to show he gave a shit. the table feels too quiet for a second, but jay fills it easily, leaning forward with one forearm against the wood like he’s settling into something easy. “before we get into the rest,” he says, tone steady, “i just wanna know a few things about you.” you blink, not expecting that—not after the texts, not after the message that brought you here.

“what should i call you?” he asks, voice low but not demanding, like he wants to give you space to answer how you want. “real name, nickname, something else?” he waits. doesn’t press. just watches you with those sharp, dark eyes like he’s already cataloging every answer for later. you tell him your name—and he nods once, storing it somewhere behind the calm set of his mouth. then he asks another. “what’s your favorite ice cream?” and when you raise a brow, he shrugs again. “everybody’s got one. mine’s pistachio. but i don’t expect you to take me seriously after saying that out loud.”

the edge of a smile touches your mouth before you can stop it, and you hate the way it catches his attention immediately—like he notices everything, even the small shifts. he asks more. not deep things. just enough to make you talk. favorite time of day. worst habit. music you only listen to when you’re alone. it’s disarming. gentle. like he’s peeling you open slowly without ever putting his hands on you. and it throws you off balance, because none of it feels like an act. he’s not trying to seduce you. he’s just trying to see you. and somehow, that’s worse.

he doesn’t look at your chest. doesn’t stare at your legs. his eyes stay on your face like he wants to memorize it before the lighting and the angles and the camera strip it down. “i like knowing things,” he says after your third answer, voice quieter now, like it’s a secret he’s only saying once. “makes what happens later feel less like performance. more like chemistry.” your breath catches slightly, the implication not subtle but not crude. and he knows it. his mouth curves slowly around his next word. “boundaries,” he says, leaning back finally, like he’s shifting gears. “let’s talk about them.”

you sit a little straighter at the word—boundaries—as if the reminder helps you find your footing again. it feels like the only thing you can control in a space where everything else is already moving faster than you expected. jay watches you with that same measured gaze, not pushing, not crowding, just waiting. and somehow, that’s what makes it harder to speak. you inhale slowly, letting the words settle in your mouth before you release them. “i’m okay with most things,” you say carefully, voice quiet but steady. “just… not my face. i don’t want it shown.” your fingers curl slightly around the edge of your seat as the words leave you, like saying them out loud solidifies them in a way that’s permanent.

jay doesn’t blink. doesn’t shift. doesn’t even flinch. he just nods once, slow and certain. “easy,” he says simply. “i’ve worked around that before.” you blink, a little surprised at how quickly he agreed. “you can stay cropped, blurred, or angled out. whatever you’re comfortable with.” his tone doesn’t falter—there’s no question in it, no teasing, no hint of disbelief. just clean acceptance. and that, somehow, makes your chest tighten. “i don’t do spit,” you add suddenly, a little sharper now, like you need to draw one more line just to see if he’ll cross it. “noted,” he replies, just as calm.

“what about contact?” he asks after a beat, fingers tapping lightly against the table, not impatient—just thoughtful. “hands? mouths? toys? giving, receiving?” it’s the first time the words sound even remotely intimate, and it sends a ripple down your spine, but you don’t let it show. you answer carefully, listing what you’re okay with, what you’d rather avoid, and he takes it all in without interrupting. not once does he smirk. not once does he turn it into something dirtier than it needs to be. he just listens. and somehow that makes your pulse pick up more than anything he could’ve said.

“do you have a safeword?” he asks next, voice low but clear, no edge to it—just importance. you hesitate for a second, your teeth pressing gently into your bottom lip as your mind flips through words that feel right. something simple. something soft. something you’ll remember even when your thoughts are a mess. “peach,” you say finally, your voice barely above a breath. “if i say peach, we stop.” you don’t expect the way his eyes soften at that, like he wasn’t just listening—he heard you. he nods once, firm and sure. “peach it is,” he replies, voice quiet but absolute. “say it once, and everything ends. no questions asked.”

he leans back, letting the quiet settle. “anything else?” he asks, tone a little lighter now, like he’s giving you space to say no. your fingers twitch against the edge of your thigh. your heart’s still racing, your head still loud. but you shake your head slowly. “not right now,” you murmur. jay gives you a long look. not unreadable—but quiet. measured. like he’s still trying to piece you together without rushing it. and when he speaks again, his voice is lower, gentler. “i don’t want you to just feel safe,” he says. “i want you to feel seen.”

jay stands from the table slowly, pushing his chair in with one hand and tilting his head toward the hallway. “come with me,” he says simply, his tone softer now—less like a command, more like an invitation. you follow without speaking, your footsteps quieter this time as you trail behind him, your body still warm from the way he looked at you. the deeper you move into his apartment, the more the quiet hum of something personal settles in. the space is open but not cold—walls painted a cool gray, dark wood floors that soften each step, and framed black-and-white prints spaced carefully along the hall. everything feels… intentional. not staged, not overly curated—just clean, calm, and lived-in, like he only keeps what matters.

there’s a faint scent lingering in the air, something earthy and expensive—maybe sandalwood, maybe cedar, something low and smooth that fits him perfectly. the hallway passes a spare room, its door cracked open just enough for you to see a neat workspace with a monitor, ring light, and perfectly wound cords—no mess, no clutter. he’s the kind of guy who wipes surfaces even if they’re already clean. who arranges things by size without realizing it. and now that you’re walking through it, it makes sense. he feels like someone who controls the chaos before it ever starts. someone who doesn’t just direct scenes, but knows how to curate them down to the last breath.

when he opens the door to his room, he doesn’t say anything—just steps inside and waits for you to follow. and you do. slow, careful, your eyes scanning the space as you enter. the room is warm in tone, dimly lit by a lamp in the corner with amber-tinted light that makes the shadows look softer. the bedding is dark navy, sheets smooth and taut, a throw blanket folded at the edge with precision. there’s a small table near the wall with a speaker, a single coaster, and a lighter next to an unused candle. everything is exactly where it should be—but not in a clinical way. more like someone who lives in silence and pays attention to what it tells him.

the tripod is already set up across the room, angled down slightly toward the bed, lens cap off but nothing recording yet. it doesn’t feel threatening. just… real. you were expecting something more dramatic. lights. backdrops. fake velvet. but this is something else. this feels personal. honest. quiet. and maybe that’s what makes your pulse start to rise in your throat again. jay walks past you slowly, crossing the room to the dresser, and opens the top drawer without saying a word. you watch him carefully, still trying to piece together what kind of man sets a camera like that and still remembers to cook you lunch.

when he turns around, he’s holding something small and black, the shimmer of silk catching the light as he walks back toward you. the bag in his hand is delicate—drawstring ribbon, gold threading, and you already know what it is before he offers it out. “for you,” he says, holding it between you like it’s something important. “to wear.” you blink up at him, but his gaze doesn’t waver, doesn’t falter. “i saw it in a shop the day after i found your profile,” he adds quietly. “wasn’t looking for anything. just… saw it. and thought it would suit you.”

you give him a slight smile before you speak, “give me a minute?” you say, voice quiet but sure. jay’s eyes meet yours again, and this time he smiles without speaking. just a small tilt of his head, an unspoken take your time. you close the bathroom door quietly behind you, the soft click echoing louder than it should in your ears. the small silk bag is still clutched in your hand, your palm warm and damp against the fabric like you’re holding something much more dangerous. the light in here is brighter—clean, warm-toned, flattering—but it only makes your nerves feel sharper. the mirror reflects back a version of yourself that looks steady, calm, composed… but your chest is tight. your skin buzzes beneath your clothes. and as you lay the bag down on the counter, you realize this moment feels familiar. too familiar.

your breath slows as your fingers reach for the hem of your hoodie, pulling it up and over your head with a slow drag, your tank top following right after. you fold them both neatly beside the sink, more out of nervous habit than care. and for a second, you’re standing there in just your underwear, heart thrumming low in your stomach, staring at your reflection like it’s someone else’s body. you’ve been here before. not in this room, not with these lights—but in the feeling. the anticipation. the tight pull in your gut. the sting of wanting to impress someone who shouldn’t mean anything.

you think of heeseung. how it felt when you changed for him. how you stood in your room, under dim lighting, slipping on something you picked while he waited for you just down the hall. how it wasn’t supposed to feel like it did. how you thought it would just be performance. and it wasn’t. it was heat. it was vulnerability. it was dangerous. and now here you are again—different place, different man, but the same twisting ache curling around your spine. why does it feel the same? why does your body keep falling into this rhythm like it wants to be seen?

you open the silk bag slowly, the lingerie soft and light in your hands as you lift it out. black lace, just like he said. a deep plunge neckline, sheer mesh sides, satin ribbon at the center. the fabric is cool against your fingertips, delicate enough to feel like it might tear if you don’t handle it carefully. it’s beautiful. subtle. nothing flashy—but undeniably seductive. you step into it slowly, one leg at a time, pulling the straps over your shoulders, adjusting the fit around your waist. and as it settles against your skin, molding to your body like it was meant for you, you feel something crack open behind your ribs.

you shouldn’t like this. not the way you do. not the way your thighs press together, not the way your breath comes shallower, not the way you want to step out there and watch jay’s face when he sees you in this. you shouldn’t want to impress him—not after how confused you still feel about the last time. about heeseung. about what it meant, and what it didn’t. but your skin burns all the same. your hands tremble slightly as you fix your hair, as you smooth the hem, as you give yourself one last look in the mirror. “just business,” you whisper to your reflection. and even you don’t believe it.

you open the door slowly, just enough to slip through, your hands brushing down your sides one last time as you step back into the low light of his bedroom. the air feels thicker out here—warmer, heavier, like it’s been waiting for you. the door clicks gently behind you, and your bare feet make the softest sound against the floor as you move forward, your breath caught somewhere between your throat and your chest. you don’t look at him right away. not yet. you don’t want to see his face until you’re standing still, until your heart isn’t racing so fast it might show on your skin. but you feel it the moment his eyes land on you.

jay goes completely still—like the sight of you knocks the air out of him. he was sitting at the edge of the bed, adjusting the tripod when the door opened, but now he’s frozen, hands resting loosely on his thighs, lips parted just slightly as his gaze drags up your body. he doesn’t speak. doesn’t smile. he just looks—like you’re something he’s only seen in his head before this. something better in person. his eyes move slowly, taking in every line of lace, every sheer inch of skin, every soft curve the lingerie hugs like it was tailored just for you. and when your gaze finally lifts to meet his, he looks like he’s trying not to say something reckless.

“fuck,” he murmurs under his breath, the word falling out like it escaped before he could hold it back. he shifts forward just slightly, elbows resting on his knees now, fingers loosely laced like he needs to stay grounded. “you really wore it.” there’s something in his voice—something tight, restrained, too controlled to be casual. his eyes keep flicking between your mouth and your hips like he can’t pick which part of you he wants to touch first. “looks better than i imagined,” he adds, and it doesn’t sound like a compliment—it sounds like a confession. low, almost reverent.

you try to stay still under the weight of his stare, but your skin feels too hot, too bare, too sensitive. his gaze alone feels like it’s dragging fingers down your sides, smoothing over the lace, sinking into places he hasn’t even touched yet. he straightens a little, breath deeper now, like he’s forcing himself to remember why you’re both here. “can i fix the straps?” he asks suddenly, voice softer now, eyes flicking toward your shoulder where the delicate black lace has slipped just slightly out of place. “just the straps.” his tone is calm, careful—asking not assuming.

you nod once, and he rises without another word, his steps slow and deliberate as he closes the space between you. he moves behind you, close enough that you can feel the heat of his body at your back but not close enough to touch—not yet. his fingers reach up gently, grazing your skin as he slides the strap higher, smoothing it back into place with practiced ease. then the other. slow. patient. like he’s putting something sacred back where it belongs. “perfect,” he murmurs once, voice brushing warm against your neck, and then he steps back, keeping his hands to himself.

you can still feel him, even after he’s gone.

“lie down for me,” he says again, a little softer this time, like he’s coaxing the words past your skin. you move slowly, climbing up onto the bed with steady breaths, the lace hugging your body shifting with every motion. the sheets are smooth and cool beneath your palms, your body sinking slightly into the mattress as you stretch out along the center. jay watches from the edge of the room, his movements calm, practiced, but not rushed. nothing about this is rushed. he moves like he has all the time in the world to break you open piece by piece.

he disappears for a second, and you hear the soft click of a switch. the lighting shifts immediately—warmer, dimmer, all shadows and low gold. intimate. like candlelight caught in motion. and then, music. something slow, rich, vibrating low through the walls. it starts with a soft hum, something sensual and aching underneath, followed by a voice thick with emotion, sliding across the beat like a secret. the melody winds around your body before he even touches you. it’s moody, seductive, dangerous. like desire in the form of a song. like something you shouldn’t be listening to unless you’re ready to fall apart.

you don’t realize you’re holding your breath until the mattress dips beside you. jay’s back now, his body lowering beside yours, his hand brushing along your forearm with quiet intention. in his hand—black leather cuffs, soft-lined and already adjusted to your size. he doesn’t speak, doesn’t explain. he just takes your wrist, gently, lifting it with the kind of care that makes your breath catch, and buckles the first strap around you. the second follows. secure. firm. not uncomfortable—just enough to remind you that your hands aren’t yours anymore.

“you good?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper. you nod again. “say it,” he murmurs, pausing just before the fabric meets your eyes. “i’m good,” you breathe. then the blindfold. satin, black, impossibly soft. he holds it above your eyes for a moment, his voice barely above the hum of the song when he speaks. “say it again,” he murmurs. “i’m good,” you whisper, lips parted, chest rising. and with that, the world goes dark. the music swells. your body buzzes.

you feel everything more sharply now—the way the sheet slides against your thighs, the soft brush of air across your stomach, the subtle shift of the mattress as he stands and steps away. the music pulses like a heartbeat, slow and full of heat, the vocals dragging out in a way that makes your lungs feel tight. and then, the faint sound of glass. a bottle being unstoppered. something being warmed. your body tenses, even as your breath grows slower, heavier. you're not afraid. but you are open. waiting.

the first drop lands just below your collarbone. warm. sharp. a sting that spreads and melts as fast as it came. your mouth parts in a silent gasp, your back arching as the sensation ripples across your chest. it’s followed by another—slower this time, deeper. your body jerks slightly against the cuffs, your breath catching as heat coils low in your stomach. and then, his voice—quiet, close, wrecked in the best way. “too much?” he asks, his breath ghosting over your shoulder. you shake your head, pulse thudding wildly beneath your skin. “good girl,” he murmurs, and the next drop comes before you’re ready.

his fingers hover just above your ribs, tracing the fresh trail of wax he’s left behind, not touching—not quite—just following the shape of the cooling heat like he’s painting with his breath. your back arches slightly, hips pressing deeper into the mattress as your bound wrists tug gently against the cuffs. the blindfold robs you of sight, but it sharpens everything else—the sound of the song still melting through the speakers, the rhythm low and slow, the singer’s voice drawn out in pure seduction. the room smells like warmth, like candle wax and skin, like want. your skin tingles in every direction, but he hasn’t even touched you where it aches the most. not once.

“you’re so sensitive,” jay says quietly, voice curved with something dark, something proud. he lets one fingertip finally graze over a spot where the wax has cooled—a slow, deliberate line that drags across your sternum, up the swell of your chest. your stomach clenches, a whimper caught in your throat as he drags it downward again, pausing just above your navel. “you feel everything, don’t you?” he murmurs, like he’s marveling, like he’s falling in love with the way your body moves beneath his. “but i haven’t even touched you.” his voice is warm honey over ice, and it makes your thighs twitch.

another pour. hotter this time. it hits just beside your hip, then crawls inward, a path of liquid fire that fades into a cruel, pulsing throb. your toes curl, breath catching hard in your throat as your back arches again, body fully open and helpless to the rhythm he’s set. “please—” you breathe, voice thin and unsure, but you don’t know what you’re asking for yet. “please what?” jay’s mouth is near your ear now, close enough that you can feel his smile. “you don’t even know what you want, baby.” he laughs, soft and low, and you swear the sound is almost worse than the heat.

his hands return—not between your legs, not to your breasts—just to your waist, where he spreads his fingers slowly along your sides like he’s claiming you inch by inch. the pads of his thumbs rub light circles into the bone beneath your skin, grounding you, teasing you, keeping you right where he wants you. “you take pain so well,” he murmurs, and then another line of wax pours across the top of your thigh—too close. too close, but not close enough. your whole body trembles, wrists straining against the cuffs as you gasp out his name. not loud. not sharp. just needy.

you feel it before you realize what it is—his breath on your inner thigh, his hands pressing your legs gently open farther, farther, like he’s worshipping the space between them. but still, he doesn’t touch. “i could make you come with just my voice,” he says, not cocky—confident. capable. and you believe him. because your body is already falling apart, already pulsing around nothing, already begging him without the words. “but i want you to ask me.” his lips brush the inside of your leg, not a kiss—just air. “i want you to beg me.”

your pride tries to hold on. it claws at your throat, tries to press your mouth shut. but your body betrays you. your hips lift without permission, your moan slipping free like it’s been waiting for this moment. “jay—please,” you gasp, voice raw now. “please, fuck, please touch me.” it’s broken. breathless. real. and it’s everything he was waiting for.

he doesn’t give you a warning. doesn’t make a show of it. he just moves—fluid and silent, settling between your thighs like he’s done it before in a dream he’s finally gotten to touch. your skin is slick with heat, glowing with wax and want, and he breathes you in like your scent alone is enough to wreck him. his hands slide beneath your thighs, palms warm, strong, tilting your hips upward just slightly so you’re perfectly open, perfectly framed, perfectly his. the first brush of his mouth is featherlight, almost nothing—just lips grazing over your inner thigh, barely touching your cunt, just enough to make you sob through gritted teeth. “so fucking pretty,” he murmurs against your skin.

his hands return to your waist without a sound, no command or question leaving his lips—just touch, warm and steady as his fingers slide over the edge of the lace that still clings to your body. you twitch slightly beneath him, the blindfold making every brush of his fingertips feel sharper, more exposed, and when his thumbs dip beneath the fabric, you realize what he’s doing—but you don’t stop him. he moves slowly, deliberately, not yanking or rushing, but peeling the lingerie off your skin like it’s something delicate, something earned. the lace folds away from your hips, dragged down inch by inch, baring more of your skin to the air, and your chest rises involuntarily when he shifts the straps off your shoulders. he eases the piece down your body, taking the time to trace every inch that’s revealed—his knuckles grazing your ribs, the curve of your waist, the crease of your thighs. when it finally slips free from your ankles, you feel more naked than you’ve ever been.

his hands return just as slowly, palms spreading up the backs of your thighs before gliding to your hips, like he’s reacquainting himself with skin he’d already claimed. he doesn’t speak. he doesn’t rush. he just takes in the sight of you—bare, breathless, bound beneath him, blind to everything but the beat of your own heart and the sound of his breathing. the song continues behind him, velvet-rich and dangerous, the lyrics curling through the shadows of the room like temptation: “bring your body, baby…” your lips part, your legs twitch, but he doesn’t move to fill the space between them—not yet. he just touches. lets the pads of his fingers skim the edges of your thighs, your stomach, the sides of your breasts, without truly settling anywhere. just to feel you.

the air is thick now, heavy with unspoken tension, and your body is buzzing, aching, completely at his mercy. you don’t know what’s coming next—his mouth, his fingers, another pour of wax—but you know that whatever it is, he’ll give it to you slowly. your skin still remembers the sting of the heat from earlier, the way your body pulsed with every drop, and now—now—without anything between you, it feels like every inch of your body is begging to be touched. your wrists flex against the cuffs, more reflex than restraint, and your breath comes out in a shaky exhale you hadn’t meant to release. his hands settle on your thighs again, fingers curling gently as he pushes them wider.

he licks a long, slow stripe through your folds that has your back arching off the bed. it’s not just the contact—it’s the way he does it, the reverence in his pace, the softness in his grip, like he’s worshipping something he thought he’d never be allowed to touch.

he doesn’t rush. he doesn’t groan. he doesn’t perform for the camera. he just devours. his tongue works in long, controlled strokes, collecting slick like it’s the only thing he needs to breathe, licking deep and purposeful like he’s trying to memorize how you taste. your head spins beneath the blindfold, your hands tugging uselessly against the cuffs as your body trembles beneath the weight of everything. you can’t see him, but you can feel the way he watches every twitch, every gasp, every time your thighs clench in his hands. he hums against you, not loud, not obnoxious—just pleased, like he’s satisfied with how quickly you’re unraveling under him. and when his lips wrap around your clit, sucking slow and tight, you cry out so loud it barely sounds like your voice.

you’re so close so fast, too fast, and he knows it. knows because he slows down again—easing the pressure, dragging his tongue in lazy circles that make your hips jerk in frustration. “not yet,” he breathes into your skin, and it doesn’t even sound like a tease. it sounds like a rule. like a command you’re meant to obey without argument. the music is still playing behind him—“just let me motherfucking love you…”—but it’s all a blur now, a background heartbeat to the way he laps you back up like he missed you between each breath. his fingers trail up your thigh slowly, slick with the wax he laid earlier, and it’s not until one dips between your folds that your breath stutters in your chest.

he slides in with ease, your body more than ready, and his tongue doesn’t stop. his mouth stays on your clit, soft and sucking, drawing it between his lips while he curls his finger just right, just enough to make your vision flash white behind the blindfold. “fuck—jay—” you gasp, thighs shaking now, unable to stay still under the rhythm of his mouth and hand. “please, I’m gonna—I need to—” your words dissolve into moans, into nonsense, because he doesn’t let up. he keeps going, steady and cruel, another finger joining the first with a wet slide that makes you whimper like a fucking prayer. he groans low when he feels you clench, not for show, but from hunger—he likes how tightly your body reacts to him. he lives for it.

you’re falling apart now. your hips are bucking, your legs twitching, your fingers digging into empty air as you gasp through another moan that cracks at the edges. “please let me—please let me cum,” you beg, your voice wrecked and wet and half-sobbing. and only then—only then—does jay lift his head. his fingers stay inside you, slow and curling, keeping you trembling just at the edge while his mouth ghosts over your thigh. “you want to cum?” he asks, voice low, ragged, almost teasing—but not cruel. “then beg louder, babydoll. i want the camera to hear how fucking desperate you are.”

his mouth returns without a word, settling between your thighs like he belongs there, like there’s nowhere else in the world he wants to be. you feel the soft exhale of his breath fan across your soaked folds, the warmth of it a cruel tease before the first drag of his tongue lands—slow, deliberate, curling through you like he’s savoring the very first taste. your entire body jolts against the cuffs, your mouth falling open in a choked moan as he licks again—longer this time, deeper. he just devours, each stroke of his tongue more intentional than the last, like he’s studying you. like he wants to memorize what makes your thighs twitch, what makes your breath skip, what makes you gasp his name with that tiny shake in your voice.

your legs are trembling already, wide open and held there by his firm grip, and when his lips wrap around your clit—sucking slow, tight, deep—you feel your whole body lurch off the bed. the blindfold only makes it worse—makes it better—because you can’t see it coming, can’t predict how fast or how gentle he’ll be, can’t do anything but feel everything all at once. “fuck—jay—” you cry, and he only hums in response, the vibration shooting straight through your core. his tongue works circles around your clit, soft and teasing, then firmer, faster, until your hips are grinding helplessly into his mouth, searching for more friction, more pressure, more anything. he pulls back just enough to slide a finger into you—then two—slow and curling, the stretch perfect, unbearable, perfect.

you’re right there. right fucking there. your walls pulsing around his fingers, your moans growing louder, messier, no longer soft or shy but wrecked, raw, real. your hips rock into him without grace, your body flushed and burning, but just as your orgasm starts to crest—he pulls away. completely. his mouth, his fingers, his heat—all gone. and you sob. a real, desperate sob that breaks out of your throat without warning, your back arching as your hands pull helplessly against the cuffs. “no—please—please,” you gasp, voice shaking. “i was so close—don’t stop—please don’t stop—”

he gives you no mercy. not yet. he returns to you slowly, his mouth brushing your clit with a soft kiss before his tongue drags over it again—firm this time, relentless. his fingers reenter you with no hesitation, curling with perfect rhythm, and now he doesn’t let up. he fucks you with his mouth like it’s what he was made to do, devouring every sound you make, every clench, every broken cry that escapes you. “you gonna cum for me now, babydoll?” he breathes against your skin. “gonna give it to me this time?” your only answer is a gasp—then a moan—then your whole body snaps, orgasm crashing over you so hard you cry out his name, thighs shaking violently, breath punching out of your lungs like it’s been ripped from your core.

he doesn’t stop. not when you cum. not when you beg. not when your voice breaks. he slows only slightly, mouth and fingers still working you through it—drawing it out, dragging wave after wave from your twitching body until it becomes too much, too sharp, too deep. tears are slipping from beneath the blindfold now, your voice hoarse as you sob through your second orgasm, overstimulated, unable to breathe without moaning. your cunt clenches around his fingers again, your cries turning into pleas as your thighs try to close, but he doesn’t let you. he holds you open. makes you take it. makes you fall apart again and again and again.

when he finally lets up, his fingers slip from you with a wet drag, and you collapse into the sheets—limp, slick, ruined. your chest rises in shaky pulls of air, your skin still twitching in places you didn’t know could feel, your wrists tugging instinctively against the cuffs even though you’re not trying to move. he doesn’t speak, not right away. you feel the bed shift beneath you as he moves, crawling up your body with a slowness that makes you ache in a different way. he’s not touching you—not yet—but his presence hovers, warm and close and overwhelming. then, you feel it. his breath against your mouth. the faintest graze of lips against yours. not a kiss. not quite.

your breath catches like a sob. you lean up the smallest amount, chasing the touch you can’t see, but his mouth barely brushes yours again and then pulls away. it’s cruel. gentle, but cruel. “please,” you whisper, voice so hoarse it barely comes out. your lips part again, desperate, trembling. “kiss me… please…” and finally, finally, he gives you what you ask for.

his lips press into yours, slow and full, his hand cradling the side of your face like you’re something breakable, like he wants to hold you still while he kisses the breath right out of you. there’s nothing rushed in it—no heat, no show. just intimacy. just need. he kisses you like he’s been thinking about it since the moment he opened the door. your legs fall open again, welcoming the weight of him, your body leaning into every inch of contact like you’ve been starving for it. his kiss deepens, tongue slipping slow and warm into your mouth, and you whimper under the blindfold, too fucked-out to hide how much you want it.

when he pulls away, you feel cold for only a second before you hear it—the low rustle of clothing, the quiet unbuckle of a belt, the unmistakable slide of denim down long, toned legs. your body tenses with anticipation, still aching in the best way, still sensitive and exposed and so ready for whatever comes next. you don’t need to see to know he’s watching you—all of you—the flush of your skin, the tremble in your thighs, the slick between your legs that’s already waiting for him. you hear the shift of fabric, then silence. and then, the weight of him between your legs again.

thick, warm, heavy against your thigh.

the mattress dips beneath his knees as he moves in closer, and your breath catches when you feel it—him, thick and heavy, dragging slowly along your inner thigh. he doesn’t push forward, doesn’t press in. just lets the head of his cock rest there, warm and slick against your oversensitive skin. the moment it brushes your folds—barely catching—you cry out, hips jolting up in instinct. but he doesn’t move. just stays right there, not giving you anything more.

he watches the way you strain beneath him, every inch of you open and ready, your wrists twitching against the cuffs like you’d reach for him if you could. your blindfold is soaked now, a tear trail drying on your cheek, your mouth parted in silent desperation. he slides the tip down slowly, catching just slightly at your entrance, then pulls back—barely there, not enough, and yet you whimper like it’s breaking you. he repeats the motion again, slower this time, teasing over your clit and down, dragging himself through your slick folds with lazy precision. and all the while? he says nothing. doesn’t praise you. doesn’t mock you. just lets you feel every aching inch without giving in.

your body bucks, hips rolling, trying to take more than he’s giving, but his hands move to your waist—firm, steady, holding you still. “please,” you gasp, voice cracked and wrecked. “please, jay, just—” but he hushes you with a kiss to your collarbone, soft and featherlight, and keeps grinding the thick head of his cock right where you want it most. never pushing in. just letting you suffer with the knowledge that he could—he just won’t.

he brings the tip back to your entrance again and pauses. and you feel it so clearly now—the pressure, the fullness that isn’t there yet but could be, the stretch you’re aching for. you try to speak, but your words come out as a sob, a moan, a broken little sound that barely qualifies as language. and then he does it again—rolls his hips just right so the head of his cock nudges your hole, teasing a shallow push that makes your breath stop entirely. your back arches, your thighs clamp instinctively around his waist, and your voice breaks. “fuck— please let me feel you. please… i want it, i want you inside—i need it so bad, jay—please.”

he hums, low and deep in his throat, like that’s the sound he’s been waiting for.

he doesn’t say anything—not when you beg, not when your hips buck up again in desperation—but his hands shift on your waist, grip tightening slightly like he’s finally giving in. you feel it in your gut first—the silence, the way the moment holds its breath, and then… the pressure. a slow, steady push, the thick head of his cock stretching your entrance open, and your breath leaves you in a single, shattered moan. he eases in with unbearable control, the kind that feels like his entire body is tense with restraint, letting you feel every inch as he sinks deeper, deeper, until your walls pulse and flutter helplessly around him. your mouth falls open. your thighs shake. your fingers flex in the cuffs above your head like you need something to hold onto—but all you have is him.

he moves slowly—so slowly it feels like time is breaking apart—his cock dragging along your inner walls in a stretch that’s equal parts bliss and pain, every inch carved into your body like it belongs there. “fuck,” he finally breathes, voice wrecked now, low and strained as he bottoms out completely, hips pressing flush against yours. “you feel—fuck—you feel unreal.” but you can’t respond. can’t speak. all you can do is feel, the thick weight of him buried inside you making it impossible to think, impossible to breathe. your body clenches tight, and he groans again, low and broken, like he’s losing himself just trying to stay still.

you’re soaked—beyond soaked, your slick coating his cock, dripping down your thighs, the sounds between you filthy and wet every time he moves. and still, he doesn’t fuck you. not yet. he holds there, deep and unmoving, letting you adjust, letting you fall apart around the stretch, like he knows this moment means something more than just release. and you feel it—god, you feel it everywhere. your chest is heaving, your toes curled, your head tossed back against the pillow even though you can’t see anything. you’re pinned, cuffed, blindfolded, full—and for the first time tonight, you feel the beginning of surrender settle into your bones.

“you still with me?” he murmurs, lips brushing your jaw, his voice a tether to reality. you nod quickly, but that’s not enough. “words,” he whispers again, kissing the corner of your mouth. “i’m with you,” you breathe, voice hoarse. “i’m so with you. please don’t stop.”

he kisses you one more time—slow, tender, like a thank-you—and then he starts to move.

he moves inside you like he’s savoring it—like you’re the first person he’s ever touched, and he doesn’t want to miss a single second of what your body feels like wrapped around him. his hips roll slow, deliberate, dragging his cock out until only the head remains before sliding back in with a pressure that makes your eyes roll beneath the blindfold. it’s not hard. it’s not fast. but it’s devastating. every thrust lands deep, slow and punishing in the best way, the kind of rhythm that makes your chest ache and your breath shake in your lungs. your wrists strain above your head, but there’s no fight in it—only the overwhelming need to hold onto something as he pushes in again, and again, and again. he doesn’t say a word. doesn’t rush. just groans softly under his breath, like you’re pulling the sounds out of him without trying. like he’s been quiet for so long he forgot what it’s like to feel this way.

his hands hold your hips like he’s afraid to let go, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh above your thighs as he thrusts into you with the kind of care that feels dangerous. his cock fills you perfectly, stretching you out slow and deep, the drag of him along your inner walls making you feel every inch, every pulse, every tremble that ripples through your core. your body sings with it—raw and sensitive, already pushed past its limit, but craving more now that he’s giving it to you like this. like you matter. like you’re not just a girl cuffed to his bed, but something more—something precious. the air between you is thick with heat and the soft sound of your moans, your slick, the soft catch of breath each time he presses deeper. the music hums in the background, nearly forgotten—but the weight of the moment sits heavy in the rhythm of his body against yours.

he leans over you as he moves, chest brushing yours, his breath warm on your cheek, and it makes you feel consumed. like he’s not just inside you, but around you. wrapped into the cuffs. buried in the heat. woven between the gasps you can’t hold in. he presses a kiss to your jaw, then your temple, his pace never faltering as he sinks in deeper, grinding at the bottom like he wants to stay inside you forever. and the worst part—the best part—is how your body welcomes it. how you open more. cling more. beg silently for all of him. you whisper his name like it’s the only word left in your mouth, like you need him to know that you’re here—ruined, wrecked, and still desperate for more.

“you’re doing so good,” he finally says, voice so low it barely registers past the haze of pleasure blooming behind your ribs. “so good for me.” and that alone almost breaks you. it’s not praise for the camera. not some performative moan. it’s real, soft and meant only for you, and it hits something raw and deep beneath your skin. you whimper, body trembling beneath him, and his hand slides up your ribs, smoothing over the side of your breast before cupping your jaw with a tenderness that feels like it could kill you. he kisses your cheek and pushes in deep—slow, grinding, perfect—and you cry out again, your orgasm building back like you never even came the first time.

you don’t know how much more you can take—but his body never stops. his hips roll in that same rhythm, slow and deliberate, dragging his cock deep with every thrust like he’s trying to press into the parts of you untouched by anything before him. you’re trembling everywhere, your thighs slick and sticky, your wrists limp in the cuffs above you. and somehow, with his chest against yours, his mouth pressed to your temple, and his cock pulsing deep inside you—you feel safe. he kisses you again. not your lips this time, but your jaw. your cheek. your neck. each one softer than the last, like he’s pouring warmth into your skin. “you’re doing so good,” he whispers again, and you feel your chest tighten with it.

he adjusts his angle slightly, and the next thrust hits something sharp, something soft—something that makes your back arch and a moan claw its way from your throat. he feels it too. you feel his groan against your neck as he holds you tighter, keeps his pace just the same, grinding deeper instead of faster. and it ruins you. your whole body clenches around him, walls fluttering with every drag of his cock, and you whimper his name again, voice barely there. “you can let go,” he murmurs, breath heavy against your ear. “come for me, baby. just like that. let me feel it.” and you do. your body gives up everything.

your orgasm rolls through you like it’s weeping—a slow, full-bodied release that shakes your legs, curls your toes, makes your chest rise in stuttering waves as heat floods your veins. you cry out, not loud, but broken—soft and wet and trembling as your cunt clenches tight around him, milking every inch with desperate pulses you can’t stop. you feel like you’re floating, your body no longer your own, every nerve lit and raw and alive. tears slip from under the blindfold again, but it’s not pain. it’s everything—the stretch, the tenderness, the way his hand slides up to cradle the back of your head as he kisses your forehead through it.

“that’s it,” he whispers, still deep inside you, his thrusts slowing but not stopping. “just like that. you’re so good for me.” and god, it shatters you. your hips twitch helplessly, aftershocks trembling through your core, and you can’t even speak anymore—you just whimper, letting him keep you full, letting him rock into you with every ounce of patience he has left. his hand strokes over your jaw, your cheek, his lips brushing over the sweat-slicked skin above your blindfold like he wants to kiss every single place he can’t see.

he pulls out slow, one last deep roll of his hips before his cock slips from your body with a slick sound that makes your whole body twitch. you whine at the sudden emptiness, at the cool air brushing over your soaked thighs, at the way your cunt clenches around nothing now. but he’s already shifting, already rising onto his knees beside you. you can’t see him—but you can feel the heat rolling off his skin, hear the way his breath shudders in his chest, how his hand wraps tight around the base of his cock with a slick grip that makes your mouth fall open on instinct. he strokes himself slow at first, his breath thick with restraint, and you can tell—he’s been holding back for so long. for you.

he leans over you slightly, one hand braced beside your shoulder while the other works himself in long, steady strokes, each movement dragging a low groan from deep in his chest. “fuck,” he hisses, voice rough now, shaking, “you’re so fucking perfect.” your cheeks are flushed, blindfold still in place, mouth parted and waiting like it’s instinct—and when he sees you like that, spread and ruined and still needing, something cracks in him. “open your mouth, baby,” he breathes. “wanna see it. wanna come all over that pretty face.” and your lips part wider, a soft whimper slipping out as you tilt your chin up in obedience, wrists still tied above you, body too wrecked to move but so ready to take more.

his rhythm speeds up—rougher now, needier, the slick sound of him pumping into his own hand echoing through the room as he kneels beside your face. his breath breaks. his hips stutter. and then—he spills. hot, thick ropes across your cheek, your jaw, your lips, groaning your name like a confession as he fucks into his fist with one last desperate pull. “fuckfuckfuck—look at you,” he gasps, watching the way your skin glows under it, the way your mouth stays open, waiting. he leans closer as the last of it drips from his tip onto your bottom lip, and his thumb catches your chin, tilts it gently. “don’t close it yet,” he murmurs, breathing heavy. “just stay like that. fuck—just like that.”

he strokes the last bit out slowly, watching his cum drip down your face, catching in the curve of your mouth, the heat of your skin, and he breathes like he’s never seen anything more beautiful. his free hand brushes down your jaw, catching some of the mess with his thumb before swiping it gently over your bottom lip. “so fucking good for me,” he whispers again, and then he leans in, presses a kiss to your forehead without hesitation, soft and reverent.

he stays above you for a moment, chest still rising fast, eyes lingering on your face with something that doesn’t quite feel like control anymore. his hand brushes your cheek, knuckles grazing your jaw, and for the first time since it started, he looks like he doesn’t know what to say. not because he’s unsure—but because he’s overwhelmed. he reaches out slowly, hitting the button on the camera without looking, the soft click of it powering down echoing through the quiet like the world’s finally breathing again. then he moves for your blindfold, untying it with careful fingers, his breath brushing your skin as he leans in close. the light hits your eyes again, warm and low, and when you blink up at him—he’s already watching. not with lust. not with pride. just something softer. something that feels like wonder.

he doesn’t speak as he undoes the cuffs, just slides your arms down gently and brings your wrists to his lips one at a time, pressing soft kisses to the reddened skin there like he’s saying thank you without the words. your hands are too weak to hold him, but you lean into the contact anyway, body limp, breath shallow, held together by the warmth of his hands alone. and when he finally speaks, his voice is quiet—almost hoarse. “you okay?” he asks, barely more than a breath. and you nod, a soft sound leaving your lips. it’s not enough. he leans in and kisses your forehead like a reflex. then your temple. then the space just beneath your eye, where your skin is still damp from tears. “i got you,” he says softly. “you did perfect.”

he doesn’t make you move. he doesn’t ask. he just gathers you—an arm beneath your knees, the other cradling your back—and lifts you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. the walk to the bathroom is silent, but not cold. just full. the steam from the shower has already started to cloud the mirrors, warm air kissing your skin as he sets you gently on the edge of the tub and turns the water on, testing it with his wrist before letting it run. he moves slow—every step deliberate, every glance careful, like he’s still in that headspace where everything is about you. when the water’s warm, he comes back to you and crouches down. he doesn’t ask. he just touches your thigh, kisses your knee, and lifts you into the shower with him.

he stands behind you, arms wrapping around your waist, your body resting against his chest as the water rushes down your skin. his breath is steady now, slower, his lips brushing your shoulder as his hands begin to move. not sexually. not even intimately. just gently. like he’s piecing you back together with soap and fingers and quiet worship. he lets the water rinse between your legs, across your stomach, down your spine, holding you still like you might float away. when you shiver, he holds you tighter. when you sigh, he presses his mouth to the side of your neck and breathes you in like he needs the scent of you to stay grounded. “thank you,” he whispers once, and it’s so soft, you almost think you imagined it.

he helps you wash. helps you rinse. helps you breathe again. and when it’s over, he wraps a towel around your body, dries your hair with gentle pats, and leads you back to the bedroom with nothing but quiet touches. the room is darker now. still warm. still full of the echoes from earlier. he brings you to the bed, lifts the sheets, and tucks you in slowly—like it means something. and then he slides in beside you, shirtless, still a little damp, his arm wrapping around your waist like he was made to fit against you. no pressure. no words. just the soft, steady rhythm of him being there, his hand rubbing slow circles into your back while your head presses into his chest.

your body melts into his without resistance, legs tangled beneath the sheets, your face pressed into the dip of his chest like that’s where it was always meant to be. he smells like clean skin and leftover warmth—something earthy and faintly sweet, something him. his arm curls tighter around your waist, his fingers dragging soft, lazy circles across your back, and it makes your whole body settle. like gravity’s gentler now. like the world outside doesn’t exist. his breaths are deep and even beneath your ear, steady like a heartbeat you didn’t realize you’d been syncing to all along. and every now and then, his lips graze your hairline, quiet and constant, like he can’t stop kissing you without saying anything out loud.

you don’t try to speak. you don’t need to. your limbs are too heavy, your throat too sore, and the silence between you feels so much better than any sound. he shifts just a little, resting his chin on top of your head, and you feel his fingers still. not because he’s stopped. but because he’s watching. you can’t see it, but you know—he’s looking at you like you’re still glowing. like the room didn’t get dark. like his eyes are only made to find you.

and then—soft. breathless. almost too quiet to catch.

“you didn’t just do something to my body.”

he says it like a secret. like a confession. like something he wasn’t supposed to let slip.

“you did something to me.”

but you’re already falling. your lashes flutter. your body goes limp. and the last thing you feel is the warmth of his chest, the press of his palm on your spine, and the faint, dizzy ache of your lips curling into a smile you don’t even remember making.

────୨ৎ────

you lie there for a second too long. eyes wide open, pulse ticking in your throat like a warning, the weight of his arm draped over your waist like a secret you’re not supposed to keep. the sun’s fully risen now, the light clearer, sharper. the room doesn’t feel like it did last night. it’s too quiet. too still. and your heart? too loud. the memory of his hands, his mouth, the way he whispered against your skin—it all presses into you at once, suffocating in its gentleness. this wasn’t supposed to happen. it was supposed to be work. a collab. content. but everything about the way he held you said otherwise.

you shift gently, slow enough not to wake him, slipping his arm off your waist and sitting up with a breath you don’t remember holding. your legs feel shaky. your body still aches in places he touched like you were something worth worshipping. and that’s the problem. you weren’t ready for that. not the way he looked at you. not the way he made it feel like more than just a shoot. your phone buzzes again on the nightstand and it’s like ice through your spine—because this is what you wanted, right? the money. the exposure. the success. not the way he kissed your forehead in the shower. not the way he whispered thank you like you gave him something he didn’t deserve.

you climb out of the bed, quiet and careful, your feet cold on the floor. his shirt is still draped over the chair. your lingerie—wrinkled and damp—folded on the dresser like he couldn’t bear to toss it aside. you ignore the lump rising in your throat as you pull your clothes on, smoothing them over your skin like armor. everything feels wrong. tight. too small. your hands are shaking when you reach for your bag. you don’t look back at him—not even once—because if you do, you’ll change your mind. and this? this was just business.

you slip out of the room like a shadow, easing the door shut behind you as if you were never there. the hallway is silent. the apartment too still. and every step you take toward the door feels heavier than the last. your phone buzzes again, and you swipe it up with trembling fingers, ignoring the unread message glowing at the top of your inbox. you don’t even let yourself breathe until you’re outside, the morning air hitting your face like clarity. like guilt. you blink up at the sky, trying to will the sting in your eyes away, whispering to yourself the only line that feels safe right now—“it’s just content. nothing more.”

and you hope that if you say it enough… you’ll believe it.

the ride home is silent. too silent. your driver doesn’t say a word, and neither do you—just sit back with your bag clutched tight to your chest, your body aching in a way that doesn’t feel physical. your thighs are still sore. your lips still tingling. your wrists marked faintly from the cuffs. but it’s not the pain that lingers—it’s the warmth. the look in jay’s eyes when he washed your face. the way he held you after. the way his heartbeat steadied yours. your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag. you don’t want to remember that. you don’t want to feel this way. so you focus on the window, on the blur of early morning light cutting through city streets. and you keep your breathing even. one scene doesn’t mean anything. not if you don’t let it.

you don’t even say thank you when the car stops. you just slip out onto the curb, into your apartment building, through your front door, and straight into your room like muscle memory. your roommate isn’t home. thank god. the silence hits you harder now. you toss your phone on the bed and fall right after it, face down in the sheets, letting the last twelve hours replay in flickers behind your eyes. his voice. his hands. his weight pressed so carefully against yours. your mouth trembles, but no sound comes out. your chest rises, then falls. and you stay like that for what feels like forever—until your phone dings again. and again. and again.

you flip it over, eyes bleary. new notifications flood your screen—tips, subscribers, messages—and they keep coming. you stare at them blankly, your thumb flicking through without reading until one catches your eye:

@jakeoncam liked your video. @jakeoncam has followed you.

your heart stutters. your gaze sharpens. and then the messages from followers come into focus.

@yourbabygirl: you should collab with @jakeoncam 👀

@whoreforjake: pls do something with @jakeoncam!

@ruinmeeee: @jakeoncam x @babydollxo WHEN??

you don’t even think. your thumb taps over to his profile automatically.

and there he is.

verified. 5.5M subscribers.

that same preview still pinned at the top.

you remember him now. you remember the way he moaned, the way his hips rolled in tight, fluid motions. how he whined, “i'm gonna cum....fuck, baby...” and you remember what it did to you.

your thumb hovers over the message button. your reflection stares back at you in the dark screen. and you type without thinking:

@babydollxo: hey. wanna collab?

natty's notesᝰ.ᐟ hoped you all enjoyed!!

taglistᝰ.ᐟ @starry-eyed-bimbo @vixialuvs @justaquarium @dark-moon-light02 @deobitifull @minjeong28 @wonzzziezzzz @wonsohl @psychicyouthfox @honeyfever @strayy-kidz @bloomiize @tunafishyfishylike @jaehaki @ihearteatingxo @songbyeonkim @sol3chu @mo0neng3ne @strxwbloody @hii01mii @merwdusa @dorrissakurada @lycxee @frequentlykit @heeenha6484 @sjakewrld @stwrlightt @parkjjongswifey @haneulhee @fr34k4c1dr41n @cozyre @vwricky @nyxtwixx @nuggets4lifers @yunkiconico @mynameis-rosie1 @leeknowslefteyebrow @babygguk98 @noiiny @horijiro @nshmrarki @delulumel @brooklyninawhitemustang @baedreamverse @stvrrylove @killedbycharlize @sehyojae @mylettterstoyou @metanoianlove @shaysimpss @kiokantalope @sanriwoozzz @mniwna @l1nn13 @gongyoorit @miszes @ineedheewoninmylife @seonhwastaar @ivyleyun @ari3ll4 @ssanhwatto @negin7 @koizekomi @enhaz1 @kittympirty @slayhaechan @semi-wife @tobiosbbyghorl @hoonsdrnkdzd @shy9-29 @heeenha6484 @heeseungsbm @kristynaaah @smlbch @kirinaa08 @millis-diary @kawaiichu32 @wonislife17 @minniesverse @k1ttyjwon @luvksnn @wondash @wooalt @sweetsoobie @nyxiebabyyy @jakezzgirlz @b1tem4rks @hoonneyyzz @mimimovv @hanjiversee @ch4c0nnenh4 @sarashusbandissunghoonfyime @tnafzi @bbypink @en-hoon02 @skzenhalove @azzy02 @sanchaah @planetmarlowe @miniw0nz @daisy-doo1 @femaholicc @cherryangel-coke @hooniesfvngs @kimsvtaes @mniwna @i-am-not-dal @star-hoon @wafflelyweddedmallow @certifiedjaeyunist @devouredyou @neogotmysam @nuki-riki @heesang07 @littlofang @simj4k3 @makgeolli-jw @ksnooppy @luvksnn @starryemiko @isagistar @nickiminajleftasscheek @jeonkaijoon @doveblackboat @haestuffs @srhnyx @azzy02 @bubblemoonclouds @diana021811 @wonuziex @blubb0 @choicila @nyfwyeonjun @neo-weareone @jooniesbears-blog @byshens @arourababy

#enhypen #enha #enha smut #enha x reader #enhypen x reader #enhypen smut #heeluvv #park jongseong #jongseong x reader #jongseong smut #enhypen jongseong #enhypen jay x you #enhypen jay x reader #enhypen jay #jay smut #lee heeseung #heeseung #heeseung enhypen #enhypen heeseung

170 notes · View notes

chansdoll · 13 hours ago

Text

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ 방찬ㅤㅤ♡ㅤㅤone nightㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

★ pairing。idol!chan x fan afab!reader ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎g. ╰・ smut‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎cw。 protected sex , oral (f. receiving) , one night stand , no established relationship wc。 3.4k

lana's note! ᰍᩚ i finally posted something ! ive been wanting to write something that has been on my mind recently, and that is... fuckboy chris, ladies and gentlemen! now, in this he isn't like a stereotypical fuckboy. he's got some class, but you definitely know what ur getting from him in this one.. no strings attached.

♡ masterlist

you barely remember the ride back to the hotel.

your skin is still buzzing from the energy of the concert—flashing lights, pounding bass, and the collective scream of thousands of fans echoing in your head like a dream you don’t want to wake up from. your throat is dry, your body aching from dancing and screaming, and your cheeks still feel hot every time you think about him.

bang chan. shirt soaked with sweat. hair pushed back from his forehead. that cocky little smirk when he caught the camera mid-thrust. god.

you close your hotel door behind you with a sigh, toeing off your shoes before peeling off your sticky clothes. the hot water of the shower is heaven, and for a while, you just stand there and let it wash the night away. you shampoo slowly, your mind replaying every moment of the concert—his voice, his body, his fucking stage presence.

and then, the crash.

post-concert crash. you're starving.

wrapped in a towel, you rifle through your bag for pajamas, tug on an oversized tee and sleep shorts, and step into the hallway with your slippers on. just a quick trip to the vending machine—nothing glamorous, just chips or candy. you shuffle down the corridor, the hallway dim and quiet except for the low hum of electricity.

you reach the vending machine and start scanning the options, eyes half-lidded from exhaustion, brain still floating somewhere in the crowd you just left. you're so focused on deciding between pretzels and gummy bears that you don't hear the footsteps behind you until a voice—low, smooth, accented—cuts through the silence.

“long night?”

you freeze.

that voice.

you turn slowly, heart skipping a beat.. and there he is.

bang chan. in a black tank top and grey sweatpants, hair damp like he just showered, veins visible on his forearms as he casually crosses his arms and leans against the vending machine like he owns the whole damn hallway.

“holy shit,” you whisper before you can stop yourself.

his mouth curves into a lazy smile. “didn’t mean to scare you.”

“i—uh—no. you didn’t. i just... i didn’t expect—” you stop. bite your tongue. try not to scream. try not to melt.

he cocks his head, eyes scanning over you in a way that feels slow and deliberate. not sleazy—just... observant. appreciative. his gaze lingers on your bare legs, on the shape of your hips in those shorts, then flicks back to your face like he’s not even trying to hide that he was just undressing you with his eyes.

“you were at the show?” he asks, though he already knows. his smirk says it all.

you nod, heart hammering.

“how’d we do?”

you swallow. “killed it. you especially.”

his grin widens—cocky, but charming. he reaches into the vending machine slot, retrieving a protein bar, then holds it up with a soft chuckle. “can’t end the night without a snack.”

you don’t know if he’s talking about the bar or you, but the heat creeping into your cheeks says your brain’s made its choice.

chan steps a little closer, lowering his voice. “what’s your name?”

you tell him, and the way he repeats it—soft, like a secret—makes your thighs clench. there's something in the way he looks at you, like he’s already decided what’s coming next.

“so... you just here for the night?”

you nod again, trying not to drown in the tension.

he raises an eyebrow. “wanna come hang out for a bit?”

your breath catches.

he said it so casually—like it was no big deal. like inviting a complete stranger to his hotel room wasn’t... a thing. you blink up at him, still unsure whether this is real life or some fever dream your post-concert brain cooked up.

“i mean…” you hesitate, licking your lips nervously. “are you sure that’s okay?”

chan raises an eyebrow, his eyes dancing with amusement. “why wouldn’t it be?”

“i don’t know,” you laugh breathlessly. “i figured there’d be security or… staff? or, like, a dozen people watching you at all times.”

“they’re around,” he says with a shrug. “but they’re not glued to me twenty-four seven. we’re adults. i can invite someone to my room if i want to.”

his tone is smooth but not dismissive. he’s not brushing off your concern—he’s just making it clear that this isn’t his first rodeo. you’re still skeptical, though, heart pounding like a warning bell in your chest. you glance down the hallway, half-expecting a manager to materialize from the shadows and scold you both.

chan follows your gaze, then steps a little closer. not too close—he’s careful with your space—but enough that you can smell his cologne, clean and musky and warm from his skin.

“i get it,” he says gently. “you’re not sure if this is safe. or real. or a trap.” he grins. “it’s not.”

you look up at him again. “so you just… invite random girls to your room?”

his smile is crooked, charming, and maddening. “not random girls. just the ones i want to get to know better.”

that makes your stomach flip.

you exhale slowly, trying to play it cool. “okay. but if i go and something sketchy happens, i’m running and posting about it everywhere.”

he chuckles—really laughs, like he enjoys how you’re giving him a hard time. “fair enough,” he says. “you’ll even get a little paperwork before anything happens. standard procedure.”

your brows lift. “paperwork?”

“a nondisclosure agreement,” he says easily. “if you come up, you’ll sign it. that way, if we do anything... memorable, it stays between us.”

you pause. the way he says it—if we do anything memorable—isn’t pushy. there’s no pressure in his tone. but there’s an invitation in his eyes. a very, very tempting one.

“you’re serious?” you ask.

chan nods. “completely. you’re in control. you can leave whenever you want. no pressure. but if you’re curious...”

you are curious. so fucking curious.

you nibble your bottom lip, debating for a few seconds more, heart beating like a war drum in your chest.

“okay,” you say quietly.

chan’s eyes flicker with something dark and pleased. he steps back, gesturing down the hallway. “c’mon. i’m just a few doors down.”

you follow him, your entire body buzzing, every nerve in your body on edge. he swipes the keycard to his suite, and the lock clicks open.

and that’s when it really hits you. you’re about to step into bang chan’s hotel room. alone. at night. after a concert.

your whole body shivers with adrenaline.

the door shuts behind you with a quiet click. the room is dimly lit, clean and sleek with hotel-modern decor. his bag’s in the corner. there’s a laptop open on the desk. a speaker still glowing faintly. a half-empty water bottle on the nightstand. it’s lived-in in a way that makes your stomach twist.

chan tosses the protein bar onto the dresser and walks over to a drawer, pulling out a sleek folder and a pen.

he holds it out to you.

“nda,” he says, voice soft. “if you want to stay.”

you take it, fingers trembling slightly. the print is clean and formal. it’s not a joke. it’s real. it spells out exactly what you’re agreeing to—complete confidentiality, no sharing of details, photos, or anything about the time spent with him.

you scan it quickly, then glance up. “so… this happens often?”

he gives a small smile. “sometimes. i like… company. different people, different energy.” then, leaning in slightly, he murmurs, “but i never invite anyone i’m not genuinely interested in.”

that heat comes roaring back into your chest.

you sign the paper.

he takes it back, folds it neatly, and tucks it away.

then he looks at you—really looks at you.

and something shifts in his expression.

“now,” he says, voice dipping low. “where were we?”

you barely have time to process what’s happening before his hand is on your waist.

not rough—not yet—but confident, like he’s done this before. like he knows exactly what he’s doing. his palm slides around to the small of your back, pulling you closer until your chest brushes his. he’s warm, solid, and so much bigger up close, the tension between your bodies crackling like static.

“you sure?” he asks, voice low, almost a growl against your ear.

you nod, breath catching. “yeah.”

he doesn’t waste a second.

his mouth is on yours—hot, urgent, and claiming. there’s no hesitation in the way he kisses you, no testing the waters. he just takes, like he already knows you want to be taken. his hand fists the hem of your oversized shirt, dragging it up your body as his tongue parts your lips and makes you moan into his mouth.

“fuck,” he mutters as the shirt comes off, eyes darkening when he sees your bare chest underneath. “no bra? you came out here like this?”

you open your mouth to reply, but he cuts you off by sucking your nipple into his mouth, tongue flicking and teeth grazing until your knees damn near buckle.

“chan—”

“shhh,” he murmurs, switching to the other. “gonna take my time with you.”

except he doesn’t. he devours you.

his hands roam everywhere—squeezing, gripping, dragging your body against his like he can’t get enough. he backs you toward the bed, lips bruising against yours again, his fingers already tugging your sleep shorts down your thighs.

he doesn’t even fully undress you before he’s dropping to his knees, hands shoving your thighs apart.

“want a taste,” he mutters, voice husky with hunger. “bet this pussy’s just as pretty as the rest of you.”

your breath stutters. “wait—you don’t have to—”

he looks up with a smirk. “who said i’m doing it for you?”

and then his mouth is on you.

god.

his arms hook under your thighs and pull you closer to the edge, locking you in place like you’re not going anywhere until he decides. he leans down, licking a soft, gentle lick along your slit first, a small groan leaving his throat as he tastes you. he then sucks softly on your lips before licking your slit firmly, gathering all the arousal that accumulated and savoring it so naughtily.

you’re already a whining mess, his tongue making you squirm and blush. his tongue finally sneaks up to your clit, circling it and flicking on it slowly. this earns him a louder, breathy moan, and it’s like music to his ears. he groans even louder, focusing all his attention on your bundle of nerves, sucking and licking. his tongue is relentless—broad licks, slow circles, then sharp flicks right over your clit.

he doesn’t even stop to look up at you while he feasts on you, as if he’s too lost in how you taste.

you’re squirming, moaning, clutching the sheets as he eats you like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do—messy, wet, fucking filthy. his nose pressed into your mound, lips glistening with your nectar.. it was unreal to witness.

“wait—shit—i’m gonna—”

“good,” he growls against you. “give it to me.”

you fall apart on his tongue, legs trembling, thighs squeezing around his head. he groans like he enjoys it, like getting smothered by your pussy is the highlight of his night. when he finally pulls back, his chin’s wet, his lips swollen, and he’s got that smug look again—like he’s proud of wrecking you. he wipes his mouth off with the back of his hand as he stands up, and you can see it. you can see his heavy cock through his sweats.

“you’re so fucking hot like this,” he mutters, standing up and yanking his tank top over his head. “gonna ruin you now.”

you barely register the words before he’s flipping you onto your stomach, stripping off your shorts the rest of the way. you hear the rustle of sweatpants hitting the floor behind you, a condom packet tearing. a soft whine leaves your lips.. a mixture of exhaustion from your orgasm, and the way he’s manhandling you sends you into a mindset you can’t explain.

then you feel him—thick, heavy, hard, sliding between your folds, teasing your entrance.

“you wet enough for me?” he murmurs, one hand gripping your ass, the other sliding his cock through your slickness.

you whimper, arching your back. “yes.”

“say it.”

“i’m wet enough—fuck—please, chan—”

that’s all he needs.

he slams into you in one deep, brutal thrust, pulling a choked cry from your throat. he groans behind you, the sound feral, hands gripping your hips like he’s holding himself back from completely destroying you.

“fucking tight,” he growls. “god damn.”

he starts to move—deep, punishing thrusts that make your whole body jolt forward on the bed. his rhythm is relentless, rough and fast, the slap of skin on skin echoing off the hotel walls. you’re certain the others in the hotel rooms around you two can hear you, but the thought left your mind as fast as it came.

his cock kept dragging and grinding against your gspot so good.. so heavenly that the knot in your stomach was forming already. you could feel it heating you up, making your legs numb, your cheeks flushing.

one hand fists your hair, pulling your head back so he can lean over your body, his voice hot and heavy against your ear.

“you like being fucked like this, don’t you? bent over like a good girl.”

you nod, gasping, voice nearly gone. “yes—yes—chan, fuck—”

his hand slips between your legs, fingers finding your clit again. “come for me again.”

you’re already there—your body tightens, heat exploding in your core as he fucks you through your second orgasm, his pace never slowing. he’s panting now, close, hips slamming into you with punishing force as he chases his own release.

“take it—just like that—fuck, you feel so good—”

he groans loud, deep, when he finally spills into the condom, hips twitching as he thrusts through it, every muscle in his body flexing behind you.

for a long second, all you can hear is your combined breathing, ragged and heavy, sweat dripping from both of your bodies.

he pulls out slowly, hands lingering on your back, smoothing over your skin like he’s memorizing it.

then he stands, pads into the bathroom without a word, and returns with a towel to clean you up—surprisingly gentle after how rough he just was.

you sit up slowly, sore and dazed, your heart still thudding. he sits beside you on the edge of the bed, slipping the condom into the trash.

neither of you speaks at first. you don’t know what to say. you want to curl into his side and stay there. you want to ask what this meant. but then he speaks—softly, almost like he’s reminding himself.

“this can’t be more than tonight.”

you glance at him, trying not to let your face fall. “i figured.”

he doesn’t look away. “not because of you. i just… can’t. it wouldn’t work.”

you nod, heart heavy but understanding.

“still,” he says, that little smirk returning. “i’m glad it was you tonight.”

you smile—bittersweet, but real.

“me too.”

your legs still feel like jelly when you leave his room.

the hallway’s quiet. cool. too quiet after the chaos that just unfolded behind that door.

you walk slowly, your heartbeat loud in your ears. your lips are swollen, your thighs sticky, your whole body sore in the most delicious way. but under all of that, there’s this sharp little ache nestled somewhere between your ribs. you try to ignore it. you try.

back in your room, you shut the door behind you and lean against it, letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

it’s like the second you’re alone, everything rushes in at once.

you slept with bang chan.

bang chan.

you look down at yourself— wearing nothing but your shirt, crumpled sleep shorts and a dazed expression—and you almost laugh. there’s no way to make sense of it. no way to explain the way he touched you, looked at you, handled you like he knew exactly what you needed before you even did.

you cross the room and collapse onto the bed, letting your face bury into the pillow. you can still smell him on your skin. you can feel the weight of his hands on your hips. hear the way he said your name like he wanted to own it. own you.

you close your eyes.

and for a moment, you let yourself pretend.

pretend that he’d stayed. that he’d crawled into bed beside you and pulled you into his chest, wrapped those strong arms around you, whispered something low and sleepy against your neck.

but he didn’t.

and he wasn’t going to.

“this can’t be more than tonight.”

the words echo in your head, steady and unchanging, even as your body begs you to believe there could’ve been more.

you don’t blame him. not really. you knew what it was. he made it clear.

still… there’s this ache. a stupid, quiet ache that doesn’t care how famous he is or how impossible this all is. it just knows that someone like him made you feel something real, even if it was only for a night.

you curl onto your side, biting your lip as tears prick at the corners of your eyes—not sad, not regretful, just… overwhelmed. so much happened in so little time. you don't even know what you're supposed to do with yourself now.

so you do the only thing you can.

you fall asleep, body sore and heart fluttering, wishing you could hit rewind.

just once.

just to feel him one more time.

the lobby is already alive with the low hum of travelers—coffee in hand, suitcases in tow, the echo of wheels rolling across polished floors. you’re standing near the entrance, duffel bag slung over your shoulder, sunglasses hiding the dark circles under your eyes from a night that was anything but restful.

you're scrolling through your phone, checking your ride's eta, trying to pretend like your heart isn’t still racing every time your brain replays last night. every sound makes you twitch—every low male voice, every passing group of guests—until you feel it again.

that shift.

that sense that someone’s watching you.

you glance up.

and there he is.

bang chan.

black hoodie. backpack slung low on one shoulder. he’s walking with purpose, surrounded by a few members of the group, plus a staff member barking something about time.

but his eyes are on you.

and then—you see it. a slow smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. his eyes drop to your legs—still bare from the sleep shorts you tossed on this morning, because your suitcase was a disaster and you didn’t care enough to try.

he leans in slightly and nudges someone walking beside him.

it’s lee know.

lee know raises a brow at chan, and chan doesn’t say a word—just does this cocky little half-nod in your direction.

that’s when both of them look at you.

you freeze.

chan’s expression doesn’t change—still unreadable, but with a spark of something wicked in his eyes. lee know’s brows lift just slightly, like he’s impressed but also entirely unsurprised. he murmurs something under his breath to chan, and chan just lets out this tiny laugh through his nose as they walk toward the hotel doors.

he passes right by you, no hesitation, and as he does—without looking—he murmurs, voice low and smug:

“sleep okay?”

you swear your soul leaves your body.

you feel lee know glance at you for a split second, then shake his head with a smirk, and suddenly they’re both out the doors, the van waiting.

the rest of the team follows behind them, none the wiser.

and you?

you’re standing there, cheeks burning, stomach flipping, thighs still aching.

it hits you all at once—the heat of last night, the ridiculousness of this morning, the way chan didn’t even need to say anything but still managed to completely unravel you with just a look and a word.

you shake your head to yourself as you walk outside toward your ride.

of course he told someone. of course he wanted someone to know. he’s that type—cocky, bold, and too damn good in bed not to brag a little with his eyes alone.

but somehow… you don’t even mind.

you might never see him again. might never touch him again.

but for one night, you were the girl he picked.

and everyone could see it.

taglist: @ritsmith @bluesungology @jeonginsleftcheek @babigriin @tirena1 @geni-627 @bbokvhs @wavetohannie @hhwangsmoon

©chansdoll do not repost, translate, or copy my works in any way, shape, or form.

152 notes · View notes

honeyslutpoetry · 13 hours ago

Note

Hi!! Can I ask for dadbody Toji pls?? And idk if you can make it nsfw...if you wanna, no pressure!!

TYSMM! Love your account 🤞

to the one who asked for dadbod!toji thank you for the request🩷🩷

✧ dadbod!bf!toji x reader🎀

✧ still ruins you.

cw: age gap, dadbod toji, teasing, cock rubbing, mocking younger men, possessive behavior, unprotected sex, jealous toji, slow deep fucking, creampie, praise + degradation, body/belly worship, filthy talk.

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ⊹ ✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ⊹ ✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ⊹ ✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ⊹ ✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ⊹ ✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ⊹

it started on a lazy sunday.

the tv was on, some fight playing in the background. clean-cut fighters with tight abs and flashy footwork. you weren’t really watching. just curled up on the couch in a short little lace dress, bare legs tucked under you, sipping your drink, scrolling through your phone.

but your eyes flicked up. once. maybe twice.

long enough for toji to notice.

he was already spread out beside you—shirtless, in just his boxers, thighs wide, soft belly rising slow with his breath. he didn’t say anything at first.

just scoffed under his breath.

“mm. lil athlete punks catchin’ your eye now?”

you blinked up. “what?”

he jerked his chin at the screen. “those string bean fighters. all abs and attitude. you look like you’re fuckin’ studyin’ ‘em.”

“toji—i wasn’t even—”

“s’alright,” he said, voice rough with amusement. “i get it. they’re young. fast. trained. don’t gotta stretch before they move.”

he shifted then—his cock already half hard, tenting his boxers, the weight of his body thick beside yours.

“probably still got stamina too, huh?” he added, grinning. “you want some fresh-faced boy to break a sweat tryin’ to fuck you right?”

you opened your mouth. “stop— i wasn’t thinking that-"

but he was already pulling you into his lap.

slow. firm. like he didn’t care what you said, because he already knew better. you landed with your thighs spread over his, dress riding up around your hips, the soft press of his belly warm against your stomach.

his cock was hard underneath you. thick and heavy, twitching against the damp fabric of your panties.

“nah,” he muttered, dragging his hands down your thighs. “you don’t want them.”

his voice dropped lower—closer to your ear.

“you want an old man who knows how to touch you.”

your breath hitched.

his fingers hooked into your panties, tugging them to the side without warning, the lace clinging wet to your folds. then he freed his cock—thick, flushed, leaking—and slid it between your legs.

not in.

just dragging it through your slit.

slow.

messy.

lazy.

“you feel that?” he said, eyes dark. “you feel what you do to me, sweetheart?”

you moaned as he rubbed it against your clit, over and over, teasing your hole, soaking in your arousal without even slipping inside.

“you wanna sit there and stare at those little boys, but this old man’s cock is the one that makes you drip.”

you trembled. “toji, please—”

“what?” he asked, grinning. “please what? please fuck you like you’re too dumb to remember your own name?”

you nodded desperately. “yes—fuck—yes—”

he kissed you.

rough at first. then slow. lazy. like he was savoring the taste of you.

“you like daddy like this now?” he murmured, tongue sliding against yours. “a little softer?”

you gasped when he rolled his hips—pressing the tip of his cock against your entrance and holding it there.

“i know i’m not cut anymore,” he whispered. “don’t train like i used to. belly’s softer. thighs thicker. move slower.”

he kissed you again.

“but this dick still ruins you.”

and then he sank in.

slow.

deep. hot. heavy. your body stretched open for him, walls fluttering around every thick inch as he buried himself all the way inside—your belly pressed to his, your dress bunched at your waist.

“there you go,” he breathed. “see what this old man cock does to you?”

you whimpered, hands grabbing at his shoulders.

he started to move. not hard. not fast. slow. lazy, deep rolls of his hips that pushed his cock against every sweet spot inside you.

“those kids fuck to prove somethin’,” he muttered, kissing your throat. “but me?”

he grabbed your ass, guiding your body up and down his cock.

“i fuck ‘cause i know you’ll never forget it.”

you moaned—loud, broken, already shaking.

his voice dropped again, filthier now. “you feel me in your stomach, baby?”

“yes—yes—”

he didn’t let up. just kept dragging you over him, thick cock grinding slow, deep, possessive.

“you’re mine,” he growled. “always gonna be mine.”

and when he came?

he came deep.

gripping your hips, holding you still as he spilled inside—thick, hot ropes of cum filling your pussy, cock twitching, his belly pressed into yours while he kissed you slow, like he hadn’t just fucked the thoughts out of you.

“don’t need to be young to make you this full,” he muttered, hand sliding down to your lower belly. “just need to fuck you like i’m the last man who ever will.”

but he didn’t pull out.

he didn’t even try.

he just kept you there—pressed tight to him, still stuffed full, cock warm and heavy inside your cunt, twitching slow like he wasn’t done.

you whined, squirming just a little. “toji… it’s too deep…”

he smirked, palm rubbing over the bulge in your belly. “you feel that?”

you nodded, flushed and breathless. “it’s still in me—i can feel it in my stomach—”

his grip tightened on your hips.

“good,” he muttered, voice thick. “keep me there, baby. don’t move. don’t let a drop out.”

he kissed your cheek.

then again.

slower. softer.

“you’re not goin’ anywhere,” he murmured. “not till i say so.”

and you didn’t.

you just stayed there—tucked against his chest, cock still buried in your soaked pussy, belly warm and full, while he held you close like you belonged to him.

because you did.

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ⊹ ✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ⊹ ✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ⊹ ✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ⊹ ✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ⊹ ✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ⊹

to anyone else reading… if there’s something stuck in your head.. something you wanna feel, or see written down, i’m always open. i don’t just write for one type of pairing or kink. i write for the ache.

you’re welcome here.

85 notes · View notes

bellatrixscurls · 10 hours ago

Text

group activities

pairing : fem reader x slytherin gang x golden trio.

warnings : SMUT (in the next chapter), tom can read minds, female reader, reader is a virgin, they’re all infatuated with her, ron and draco are really touchy with each other, reader is a pureblood and a rosier, but no physical characteristics are included.

a/n : please let me know if you enjoyed this, it motivates me to write more and faster. also, i really wanted to include smut in this part, but i didn’t want to rush it and make it bad. love 🤍

────── ☾ ──────

“you don’t look too good” a deep, low voice said from behind you, and you immediately turned to see its owner. not that it was needed.

you hummed, incredulous. “nice to see you too, draco.”

he only laughed at your dismissive attitude and sat down next to you. his eyes scanned the paper you were almost ripping into, and he searched for your gaze, silently asking you to let him look at it. “what kind of idiot would even take muggle studies? it’s optional” he nodded slowly, making you feel even dumber. “you don’t have to take it.”

huffing, you took the paper back and tried your best to ignore him, as if that would make him go away.

“okay, sorry” he mumbled, scratching the tip of his pen against a plain piece of paper, his eyes avoiding yours. “i just. i would’ve never taken it. ever. and take that from someone who’s good at every subject.”

and that made you finally snap. “okay, you’re so good at everything! congrats on that, dimwit!” you spat at him, rolling your eyes as you felt your blood boil. “you think i’d actually take this class on my own accord?! think again.”

draco fell silent at that. you were right, you were a pureblood after all. and your family would go crazy if they found out about you taking this class. so that only left him one option - his eyes lit up. “you like a mudblood” he said with disgust, making a face that you were so familiar with already.

and you wanted to lie to him and tell him it’s not true, but your cheeks reddened and you tried to hide it with your hair, but it was no use. draco knew you like the back of his hand. “oh, merlin!” he stood up from the chair, mouth open wide, but instinctively curling into a scowl when madam pince shushed him.

“which one is it? is it riddle, please say no” “no, draco… why would i even take muggle studies for him? he despises muggle-borns. he doesn’t even like his own grandmother since she’s the reason he’s a halfblood.”

draco made a realisation sound, but his eyebrows furrowed. “you know an awful lot about this guy.”

“i only spend like half of my time with you lot. and mind you, the other half i’m sleeping.”

your words didn’t do anything to him, though. only made him fall deeper into thoughts. why was he comfortable enough with you so that he could be himself, yet you weren’t?

you looked up at him curiously, noticing his nails tugging at the thin skin on his knuckles, and you couldn’t help but place your hand over his, that causing draco to look up at you as well. “what?”

he was visibly more relaxed under your touch, but you could tell that he didn’t expect it. you were not too touchy, especially with him. “do you wanna go back to the common room? you look tired.”

but he shook his head, dragging his chair even closer to yours. “no. no, i’m just fine” he whispered whilst trying his best not to yawn.

you smiled to yourself. he was a cutie when he wanted to be. or when he wasn’t trying so hard to make other people feel bad. “i’ll go with you. i’m done here anyway. i think i’ll try to get help from an actual muggle-born.”

he didn’t really let it show, but he was grateful. either you did it because you were tired too, or for him, he was more than content when you took his hand and dragged him behind you back to the common room.

🤍

yet when you arrived to the common room, with draco basically glued to your side, you almost prayed that it would be quiet. it was anything but that.

loud chatter could be heard all the way down the hallway, and as you whispered the password, you could even distinguish the voices.

“oh, look who’s here!” lorenzo basically threw himself at you two, kissing your cheek and squeezing draco closer to him. yet, he only let go of you, keeping the younger boy wrapped around his body.

you took the opportunity and plopped down on the sofa next to a visibly tired theo. he shot you a lazy smile which you returned, your hands resting on the back of the sofa. “i’m fucking tired.”

“poor baby. you stayed late studying again?” blaise cooed at you and your brows shot up hearing his voice, not even aware of his presence until then.

you whined quietly, your eyes closing for a mere moment. “yeah. i think i might need hermione’s help though. i don’t think i’ll be able to do it on my own anytime soon.”

“granger’s help?” theo seemed more awake now, and your words made even tom put his book away. “what for? i’m sure it’s nothing draco couldn’t help you with.”

draco hummed softly from beside you, head resting against enzo’s chest as he looked just about three seconds away from falling asleep. “she’s taking muggle studies.”

you gave him a dirty look that you’re not sure he even caught, judging by his eyes being more than 80% closed by then.

though, around you, strings of questions followed. “oh, dolcezza, what for?” theo was the first one to ask, a gentle smile on his face.

to be fair, you weren’t sure why. you just found yourself wanting to know more about muggle-borns. you were concerned about their abilities. of course, other reasons ensued.

you sighed. “i’m just really curious. how can a muggle do magic? how can some of them be even better at it than us?” you paused, opening your eyes to look at them. “do you ever think about that?”

“i always thought that they’re not really muggle-borns. just adopted by clueless muggles” mattheo shrugged, taking a drag from his joint.

tom looked at his brother with something that you could only call disdain, before he looked at you, your eyes locking. “distant ancestors is my humble guess” his tone had a bite to it, but you knew it wasn’t directed at you.

maintaining eye contact, you felt as if he was eating you alive with just his eyes, gaze so intense that it made your knees give out. “that’s what the books say” you agreed, slightly startled when theo’s head dropped on your lap, your fingers almost instinctively going to play with his soft curls, the boy humming with appreciation.

you smiled down at him. “what do you say, teddy?”

“whatever you wanna do is fine by me, amorina” he replied a bit too quickly, his long, slender fingers rubbing at your knee.

that made you snicker, and you relax against the sofa, closing your eyes again. you didn’t hear much after that as you drifted off. but you surely remembered someone’s arms wrapping around you and carrying you to your prefect dorm.

🤍

you woke up with a headache the next day, and your owl delivered a letter - oh no. you wanted to postpone opening it, but you had no chance as it opened on its own, your mother’s high pitched, obnoxious voice ringing in your ears.

“y/n rosier! how dare you embarrass us this way??! taking muggle studies?! might as well put a knife in my heart. i don’t care about extra points, as long as you’re risking all of our lives - if the dark lord is made aware of this nonsense, he’ll have our throats! if you put another toe out of line, we’ll bring you STRAIGHT HOME!”

sighing, you ripped the parchment into pieces and threw your bag over your shoulder. you knew it was coming, you just didn’t know who told them.

walking down the stairs, you were met with a pair of curious eyes - they probably heard it all. how could they not?

“what was that about?” a confused blaise came to stand beside you, placing a hand at the small of your back as he walked with you out of the common room.

“my mother” you looked straight ahead as you walked, an unreadable expression on your face. “I have to drop muggle studies or the dark lord will have our throats.”

blaise chuckled lowly and squeezed you closer to his side, throwing an arm around your shoulders. “didn’t you expect that? i mean, we’re friends with his sons, of course they’d tell him.”

“you think so? i thought matt hated him” you said confusedly. mattheo did hate him, but his evil twin was a spitting image of his father.

your mouth opened in realisation. that bastard.

“listen… i love tom, but i don’t always trust him” he explained quietly, his face inching closer to yours as if he was afraid tom would actually hear him. “he’s a lot smarter than i think possible. and we all know that he’s always trying to please his father.”

that left you deep in thought. you had known tom for years, but you never thought he’d turn you in.

arriving to your first class of the day, potions, blaise left your side and went to sit at the table in front of you. funnily enough? tom was sitting just behind you.

“you’ll be paired up today as this is quite a difficult task and i’m not sure all of you can manage” professor slughorn eyed adrian pucey and you giggled quietly, blaise turning to you to shoot you a devilish grin.

dismissing you both with a hand waving in the air, slughorn continued. “alright, if miss rosier and mister zabini will allow me, i’ll start reading” he eyed you rather playfully and you gave a curt nod.

“mister zabini and mister pucey,” you could see blaise’s fall even from the side, as he gathered his things and went to sit with adrian, but not before shaking his head at you. “mister weasley and mister malfoy,” and your head snapped, your eyes widening when you finally heard your name, “mister riddle and miss rosier.”

you froze on the spot, unable to move as you heard shuffling from behind you, and soon after, tom was neatly placing his cauldrons on your table. “morning” his voice was soft but firm.

“morning” unlike your own, which was rather shaky. “did you hear what kind of potion we have to make? i-i wasn’t paying attention.”

he could see the blush creeping up your neck, his eyes observing every little detail - as always. “I didn’t tell father about you.”

you choked on air, tom having to pat you on the back, a foreign glint in his eyes. and once you finally relaxed, your throat rough, you asked. “how do you know that?”

“i read blaise’s mind” he shrugged as if it was nothing.

mouth agape, you stared at him like he’d grown two heads. and when you didn’t speak, he continued. “see weasley and malfoy there” he pointed to them and you nodded. “he’s thinking about screwing him. malfoy.”

“draco?!” you almost yelled and half of the class turned to look at you, which earned you a disappointing head shake from tom.

“yes, draco” he whispered nonchalantly, and his face fell. “they’re screwing more than any of us. they even do it in broom closets and if you catch draco drinking more than two butterbeers, he’ll tell you all about it.”

you nodded once, twice… and your brows furrowed. “any of you? who are you screwing?”

“our group. plus the golden trio, but i’m not big on that. it’s casual, not to them apparently” he nodded toward ron and draco again, and you sighed, still very much confused.

“why… why am i not a part of that?”

tom looked down and you could swear it was the first time he actually hesitated. “draco started all of this. i’m not… i’m not sure why.”

“bullshit” you spat, turning your face away from him. it actually made you feel bad. why did they not include you?

just as tom was about to speak again, probably come up with some lame excuse, you raised your hand, feigning stomach ache. “may i please be excused, professor? i don’t feel so good.”

and obviously, crazy scared about these things, slughorn let you go, and you felt tom’s burning gaze on your back as you left.

you decided that you didn’t want to see any of them that day. maybe the next day too. and the days after that.

you felt deeply hurt. not just because of the physical things you were missing on, but because they were your friends, and you were the only one being excluded from their activities.

sitting alone on the great hall, your mind started to wander. it wandered to all those times theo would disappear right before dinner and come back disheveled, when hermione would leave your study sessions early, when enzo and mattheo would feign being sick whilst the rest of you went to hogsmeade.

and your conclusion? none of them found you attractive. not a single person. you had had problems with the way you looked, as one does, but they were never this serious.

never to the point that you could physically feel the hole in your heart.

putting an end to your thoughts, the bell rang and students started making their way to the great hall. it was already lunch time.

you contemplated leaving, as you could already hear some of your friends nearby, but instead, you sat a few seats down from your usual spot, adrian pucey claiming the sit next to you.

“i must say i didn’t expect this, but i’m not mad” he chuckled as he started cutting into his meat, eyeing you curiously.

you tried to put on a smile, as insincere as it was due to your state. “i could use a change of scenery… what about your match against gryffindor on saturday? tell me about that.”

his eyes lit up instantly, and you thanked merlin for it. he would blabber and never shut up about it, so he couldn’t ask any more questions about your unusual behaviour. “so, we’re gonna beat those dimwits up. i don’t care what it takes-”

“yeah, shut up, pucey” you were startled and pulled out of your daydreaming by mattheo’s rough voice. looking up at him, you could see his eyes turning red with anger, and he took your hand in his.

he was so gentle even though he looked about ready to jump adrian. you stood up and held him close to you. without another word, he shot adrian a dirty look and led you out of the great hall and back to the slytherin common room.

the walk there was quiet, yet you could feel how tense he was. his hand on yours, even if gentle, was stiff. his shoulders were tense and it almost looked like he refused to blink.

you didn’t dare speak a word to him as he led you inside, the common room much too crowded at this time - dinner time, more specifically.

but the people there were not just random people.

“what is this?” you asked meekly, feeling too exposed as all of their eyes were on you.

they all looked at you with different kinds of expressions. draco looked angry, whilst ron, leaning back against his chest, was more excited than ever. blaise had a stern look on his face, and theo, enzo, tom, hermione and harry just looked thrilled to be there.

when none of them answered, mattheo spoke up. “my brother here is an idiot.”

“say something new” draco scoffed and blaise elbowed him in the ribs, the blond looking down as mattheo glared at him.

he turned back to you, his thumbs rubbing your knuckles as he looked down at you. “sweetheart, we didn’t include you because…” he sighed and you gulped, not feeling ready for the refusal. “because we know that you’re a virgin.”

you gasped, trying to push him away with your hands, but he tugged you closer to him, his hands wrapping around your smaller frame. “this is bullshit, i don’t care-!”

“okay, okay!” theo interrupted you and all of you looked at him, your brows rising. “we thought that even if you agreed to it… we didn’t- fuck! we couldn’t accept that, when you had to pick one of us to be your first, the others would just have to- live with it.”

you froze for what felt like the hundredth time today - they didn’t find you unattractive. they wanted you more than you could begin to think of.

────── ☾ ──────

78 notes · View notes

sunlightbuck · 17 hours ago

Text

sometimes, when they spar/playfight/hornywrestle.. there really is a small undercurrent of real frustrationtension there..under the surface, like when eddie gets back finally…and maybe eddie finds out about tommy..and it’s fine, he literally laughed about it, but there’s something left btwn buck and eddie and its not even really anger at all bc mainly they’re just so overwhelmed to be back together, to have eddie back home but…it’s like all those emotions, everything from the last three months kind of just ….need an outlet, need a release and.. also they have an insane insatiable need to touch each other so… day three of Eddie being back and a playful game of keep away with the remote (started by Buck) has now turned into him pinned to the ground in his (their) living room, and eddies warm huge hands are around his wrists and his thighs are around bucks waist and eddie flashes one of those smile and he’s like, thought you’d been training, what happened buckley? and bucks like lol well maybe if my sparring partner didn’t move away for three months…. and that falters Eddie.. just enough for buck to get out of the hold and they roll around for a few moves until eddies got him again, pinned and says.. what, you didn’t get enough practice with tommy while i was gone? …and it’s light, it’s teasing, but eddie doesn’t mind if it stings a little, kinda wants it too… and buck huffs a laugh, wait are you..jealous? (delighted) Buck wrestles him some more, voice strained as he and eddie roll into their next position..“besides…didn’t really have time did i? too busy facetiming you from 800 miles away…” eddie pins him for the third time. “im not jealous…especially of someone who i know can’t even take you… this has been way too easy…”

“well… you’re back now right? ..and now that i finally got the real competition back- (more rustling of clothes and a few huffs of breath and now bucks on top of him. hands on eddies shoulders) -i’ll be taking you in no time..” and eddie feels something flash warm low in his gut. “now that you’re back” Buck adds. again. even tho he already said that... and eddie stills and looks up at buck and is like, yeah.. im back. and bucks like, and you’re staying so.. we have all the time in the world.. to practice… and eddie smiles and is like, yeah bud… all the time in the world… :) and buck feels soft and fluttery and eddie takes the opportunity and gets one over on him one more time “which you’re gonna need-” more rustle of clothes, more wrestling around, and eddie pins buck one last time... -if you ever wanna win” (triumphant) and grabs the remote to the side of them that had long been forgotten…but buck doesn’t even care bc eddies here. and they have all the time in the world.

#am i too late for whoop his ass Wednesday?#i know this is a long post it always makes me feel more perceived to make a long post…

113 notes · View notes

sturnsblogs · 2 days ago

Note

Idk if you’re still writing for the nerd!chris au (praying you are because it’s my fave) but if you are could you maybe do one where the reader stays up all night to study for a test to impress Chris, and when she passes she takes the test to Chris’ house to show him and she ends up just passing out asleep in his bed? Feeling a kinda fluffy vibe rn

ALL NIGHT FOR YOU

Nerd!Chris X Mean!Girl!Reader

—

10:00 PM. The glow from your desk lamp washed everything in your room in a soft, yellow haze. The pages of your math textbook were practically begging for mercy, the edges wrinkled and smudged from hours of note-taking and anxious highlighting. Chris was still on FaceTime — barely.

His face was nestled into his pillow, messy curls flopping into his eyes, eyes only half open. You’d catch glimpses of his sleepy pout every time the screen shifted.

“Mmh…” he mumbled for the fifth time that hour, clearly no longer comprehending a word you were saying.

You sat back in your chair, rubbing your temples, exhausted and maybe just a little dramatic. “Chris!”

His eyes opened slightly, lashes fluttering as he blinked at the screen. “I’m sorry, baby… I’m just—ugh, I’m so tired. We can talk tomorrow, okay?”

You whined, flopping forward into your arms with a loud groan. “But that’s not fair! It’s only 10:00 AM!”

“PM, sweetheart,” he murmured with a lazy smile. “You’ve been studying since, like… yesterday.”

“I have to pass this test,” you said stubbornly, lifting your head again. “I wanna make you proud.”

Chris smiled sleepily, all soft and sweet. “You already do, dummy…”

Then the screen went black. He’d fallen asleep mid-call. Again.

You sighed, heart fluttering despite your exhaustion. You stayed up the rest of the night, your eyes burning, your hand cramping from writing out formulas over and over, but it didn’t matter. You wanted this. For him.

The next day.

You stared at the test paper in disbelief. A giant B+ was scrawled in red ink across the top, the plus sign so dramatic it looked like it had been underlined twice.

You passed.

Not just scraped by. You actually passed.

Grinning so wide your cheeks hurt, you shoved your things into your backpack, clutched the paper in both hands, and headed straight to Chris’s place without even thinking. The campus sidewalks blurred under your sneakers, heart racing the whole way there.

You stood in front of his door, slightly out of breath, your test paper clutched in your hand like a golden ticket. When Chris finally opened the door—still in his gray hoodie and socks, hair messy from just waking up—his eyes lit up at the sight of you.

“Babe?” he said, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. “What are you—wait, aren’t you supposed to be in class?”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you held up the test, your grin so wide it practically split your cheeks. “B+. I passed, Chris.”

His brows lifted, and then his mouth slowly curved into the softest, proudest smile you’d ever seen on him. “No way…” He stepped forward, pulling you into his arms. “You did it?”

You nodded into his chest, still catching your breath. “I studied all night. For you.”

He pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes, his fingers brushing your jaw gently. “You’re seriously amazing.”

You smiled sleepily, leaning into his touch. “I wanted to make you proud.”

Chris’s eyes flickered over your face like he was memorizing you, like this exact moment was something he wanted to bottle up and keep forever. “You do make me proud. Every day. Even when you’re being bratty and mean to me in math class.”

You laughed a little as he took your hand and tugged you toward his room. Once you were both tucked under the covers, he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you against his chest so your back was to him.

His lips pressed a soft kiss to the back of your neck. “You’re the smartest person I know.”

Another kiss. “And the prettiest.”

You hummed, eyes fluttering shut as his fingers gently traced lazy patterns over your waist.

“I love seeing you try,” he whispered, voice low and genuine. “You could’ve gotten a C and I still would’ve been proud. But you didn’t. You killed it.”

You didn’t respond—your breathing was already slowing, your body sinking deeper into the warmth of his hold. Chris smiled to himself as he realized you’d already drifted off.

He kissed your shoulder one last time before whispering, “I love you, smart girl.”

And he didn’t move once the rest of the night.

—

A/N- 🥲

My beautiful babies- @blushsturns @starrii-sturns @izzylovesmatt @chrisslut04 @oopsiedaisydeer @csturnioloswifey @just-a-girl-1 @sturdyyolo @sturnslvtt @sturnbows @sturniolosrtewsexy @chriss-slutt @franticroads @thecrawlys @ribbonlovergirl l @freshlyinlovewchris @whore4chris @matts-girlfriend @ariana3lovesu @sturnl0ve @cass-sturn @sturns-mermaid @sunrisemill @fadedstvrn @ikyoudreamofme @mattsdemi @kitkatbar1275 @skelet0nsinmyycloset-deactivate @lezleeferguson-120 @bells-sturn @sturniolosymphony @kenziesturniolo54 @kikirasweatsweathoho @emely9274 @cherryystemfemme @realuvrrr @zenithsturniolo @kier-with-a-k @eeyoresturnz @elizasturn

101 notes · View notes

mostly-marvel-musings · 2 days ago

Note

Speaking of Logan... a Tony x reader x Logan fic threesome one, perhaps? 👀 Could we survive a team up like that?

Iron & Claw

A/N: Title too cheesy? Anyway. It’s HERE. Tell me your thoughts 🤭

Pairing: Tony Stark x Logan Howlett x Female Reader

Warning: 18+ threesome made of dreams. Smut.

You hadn’t meant for the night to end like this.

You were supposed to be celebrating. One successful mission, two complicated men, and a rooftop terrace in the middle of a balmy New York night. The city buzzed far below, but up here it was all heat, tension, and the kind of electricity that crackled even before Tony handed you that drink and Logan leaned in to light your cigarette, his rough fingers brushing yours.

It started with teasing. Tony was always smug, always knowing. “You’re looking at her like you wanna bite her,” he told Logan, swirling his drink.

Logan just smirked, low and dangerous. “Noticed you aren’t lookin’ much different, Stark.”

You should’ve said something. You should’ve shut it down. But the way they both looked at you—one with fire behind his eyes, the other with something raw and aching—you didn’t want to.

There was heat in the silence. Challenge in their gaze.

And when Tony brushed your shoulder as he passed you his drink, and Logan’s hand found your thigh just a moment later—you knew. This was happening.

You’re blindfolded, your wrists loosely bound, breath already hitching before they’ve even touched you properly.

Tony’s voice is cocky but laced with anticipation. “You sure this works?”

“Trust me,” Logan mutters from somewhere near your ear, his tone low and rough like gravel soaked in whiskey. “She’s already fuckin’ soaked.”

A pause. Then Tony’s voice again, teasing, curious. “Yeah?”

Logan inhales, deep and slow, a smirk playing in his voice. “Mhm. Sweet and slick. She wants it. Bad.”

Fingers ghost over your hips—Tony’s, you think—but it’s Logan who speaks. “Her heart just jumped. Do that again.”

Tony chuckles, more confident now. “I could get used to having a cheat code.”

“You don’t need one,” Logan grunts. “She’s moanin’ louder now. That thing you did with your tongue—keep that up.”

You gasp as heat coils low in your belly, the teasing unbearable, exquisite. They still haven’t taken the blindfold off, and every second of not knowing who’s going to touch you next is driving you insane.

“She’s close,” Logan says after a moment, voice deeper now, more primal. “Don’t stop.”

And then—

“Nope. Slow it down. Heart rate dropped. She didn’t like that.” He murmured, noticing the slightest of changes in your reactions, ever so sharp.

“Bossy.” Tony mutters.

“Efficient,” Logan growls.

Tony continues lapping you up like you’re his last meal, adding three fingers to your sopping cunt, stretching you out fully.

“You keep going like that, her heart’s gonna burst,” Logan added, hand splayed across your belly like he could feel every pulse from the inside out.

And Tony obeyed, mouth finding your skin, hands worshipping every inch. “Tell me when she’s close,” he murmured, lips brushing your ear.

Logan’s voice was low and reverent now. “She’s almost there. Don’t you dare stop.”

You didn’t know who was touching what anymore. Only that you were unraveling under two sets of hands, two wicked mouths, and one primal need: theirs.

This had been sitting in my inbox for too damn long. Drop by my askbox if you want more…

#tony stark x female reader #logan howlett x reader #tony stark smut #logan howlett smut #marvel fanfiction #tony stark x reader #logan howlett fanfiction #the stark squad #tony stark fanfiction #tony stark #james logan howlett #anon asks #tony stark imagine #mostly marvel musings

96 notes · View notes

ghostedgwen · 13 hours ago

Text

but I knew you | j.potter [part four]

note : THANK YOU THANK YOU FOR ALL THE ENTHUSIASM towards this fic! I can't believe I got over 400+ notes on the first three parts. This is wild! I am so grateful for u guys, pls enjoy the final part<33 p.s : my requests are open again if any of u are interested in sending anything

warning : more angst but some cute moment as well, some anxiety on your part but jsut briefly mentioned, James and his relentless firting, I swear this part is kinder, happy ending - sort of

James gets into an accident during a Quidditch game and develop amnesia - he doesn't remember the past 2 and a half years, and he currently has the mentality of fourth-year James. This doesn't bode well for you that your boyfriend of 2 years now currently thinks he's still in love with Lily.

└——————— - [ 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 : 𝚃𝚊𝚢𝚕𝚘𝚛 𝚂𝚠𝚒𝚏𝚝 - 𝙲𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚗 ]. +

You cannot believe you are here again.

Watching over his sleeping figure in the infirmary while Madam Pomfrey fuss over him.

You all decided to keep quiet about McLaggen for now, so you lot were being chastised by the matron over the "prank gone wrong" incident that landed James on her lap again.

You could feel the anger bubble in you but kept it at bay as James' well-being came first, obviously.

"Now, I have matters to discuss with Dumbledore so you four can look after Mr.Potter here." He tells you before leaving abruptly.

None of you dared to question her and only watched her leave. Once she was gone, you turn to the other three boys and they kept quiet, seeing the scary expression you had on. Peter looked like he was about to piss himself.

"____," Remus cautiously called out your name. "Are you okay? McLaggen said some vile things back there, we hope you know that we won't let him get away with this."

Sirius huffs. "The bloody fuck we won't, fucker will deserve what's comin' for him when James wakes up."

You nod slowly at them. "Could I - ask for some privacy, with James?" You ask them, watching them all get up and nod at you with sympathetic smiles. "I just, wanna think of what to say once he wakes up and I was hoping to have him all to myself for a bit when he comes about."

"No worries, we understand." Remus tells you and he pats Sirius on their way out as the other boy looked about ready to set the castle on fire. "We'll see you back at the common room."

You give them all the best smile you could muster while they piled out and it was just you left all alone to your thoughts. Your face was immediately encased in the palm of your hands as you allow your frustrations to settle in.

Having held onto it well enough to get James settled into the infirmary first, you could feel the tears build up. It's already bad enough your boyfriend couldn't remember you, but then he gets injured again - and you feel like everything is your fault.

You missed your James even more.

He would know how to hold you, what to say and just what to give. He always knew you so well that you couldn't even be mad at him for even a minute, he was always quick to melt your resolve and fix anything that is even remotely broken.

James was perfect - so much so that you almost thought the universe had created him exactly for you. All the time he spent chasing after another girl long forgotten when he treated you so well, and not once made you doubt his loyalty -

Lily was a story of a very distant past, but that past has come back to haunt you.

But despite all this, you still love him. It did not waver one bit, despite how much hurt you got from the Quidditch accident, despite the struggle of going through your memories by going around the castle - you still wanted James Potter.

With a resigned sigh, you look up at him again to see his sleeping figure and wondered just how it all went so badly wrong.

You look around the Great Hall pointedly ignoring the way people were whispering as you walked by, it has been like that ever since James Potter very oublicly announced that you werer the new subject of his latest fascination.

At least, that's what you thought.

There was no way a boy who pined for a girl for 2 whole years would just up and change his mind upon meeting you. He just probably got bored by the same familiar faces in the castle and barely met anyone outside.

You knew you were fresh, and even the other boys in your year wanted their slimy hands on you. You paid them all no mind and headed for the table cluttered with students clad in red and gold.

Almost full from the attention, you still managed to serve yourself Dinner and pointedly ignored how even the Professors barely concealed their interest in you. You barely made it into Gryffindor, almost getting sorted into Slytherin.

You wondered if Potter's demeanour would be completely different if that was the case.

You didn't get to think too deeply on it when he made his presence known, pushing aside the 2nd year boy that sat next to you in order to provide space for himself, which he eagerly took with a charming grin your way.

"Oh hey there, ____."

You ignore him. He did not seem fazed one bit as you learned that he's quite used to the treatment, how he's not dying from shame is beyond you. You continue eating until you could barely swallow anything, too uncomfortable from the way he watched you so shamelessly.

"Bloody fuck, what do you want, Potty?"

He lets out an exasperated laugh. "We're on nickname basis, eh?"

"Don't talk to me like we're close, like I like you." you tell him off but he brushed off your harsh words as if they never even left your lips.

"Alright, I'll take it though it's too out of my style -now what to call you. . ." he trailed off, then his lips stretched into a devilish grin. "Pretty girl."

You almost choked in your own spit. "What?"

"Pretty girl, that's your nickname."

"You are unbelievable."

"Thank you." he winks, taking a sip from his goblet.

"I'm going to be completely raw and honest, and I need you to answer me without any of your jokes and witty remarks," you tell him, biting the insides of your cheeks. "Please tell me it's real."

James frowned, he can see the tears building up in your eyes and it felt like a punch to his gut to see that expression on your face. He was too used to see you either scowling at him or laughing at either his fuck-ups or his jokes, though you admit to hating his audacity, you always laughed when he earned it.

This is new.

This is a new face that he wasn't sure how to process, so he asked - "What do you mean?"

You let a brief moment of silence pass as you gather all your strength to say your thoughts out loud. Nights spent questioning everything, wondering just what and why, you couldn't just come up with the answers yourself, so here you are.

"I need you to tell me it's real. All those months you chased after me, please tell me it wasn't just some game to you to get you out of your rejection streak from Evans - Merlin, please swear to me this is real so I can stop being scared."

His frown deepened, if that was even possible, and he took careful steps towards you. hesitantly grabbing your hand so he can hold it and the action urged you to meet his eyes. Although confusion pooled in them, there was also so much sincerity.

"This is real," James assures you. "This is very real and what I feel for you is not some game. You are not a prize to be won, ____. What are you scared of?"

You let out a humorless laugh as the tears finally fall. "Merlin, I think - I know - I am falling in love with you, and I needed you to tell me it's real because I needed to know it was safe to fall."

James' look of confusion slowly faded away and his pursed lips broke into a wide grin, his hold on your hand tightening as he felt the excitement bubble inside him.

"You don't have to be afraid, pretty girl," James kissed your hand without a second thought. "I will gladly catch you if you fall."

"James, you're not listening," you tell him with a roll of your eyes and he abruptly stopped whatever he was doing to focus solely on you. "Did you hear a word I said?"

James grinned his charming grin, neglecting to answer you because you both knew what he was gonna say anyway.

You groan. "I said I can't go with you to Hogsmeade, you snogging my face off every chance you get distracted me enough from my Potions essay that is due in 2 days."

James' expression soured at that. "You said it yourself, pretty girl," he smirks with a cross of his arms. "It's 2 whole days away."

"Uh huh, and my parchment is empty, not even a single drop of ink," you roll your eyes again. "Give my lips a break so my hands can get to work - don't even make a dirty joke or I will throw you out."

James let out a bark of laughter. "You can't throw me out of my own dorm room?"

"The bloody hell I will!"

As the memories replayed in your head, you can't help but sink deeper and deeper into your thoughts. The memories always seemed so sweet and innocent, but now had bitter aftertaste from your current predicament.

They did always say to treasure the present, for how quickly it can turn into a distant past - but you are only 17, you didn't think the past would be that far behind you so quickly.

James would apologize profusely for even bringing up Lily again, he knew how much it scared you to let yourself fall for him. How much you struggled with the vulnerability of being in love, and yet all of that came back to hit you.

You can already tell how dramatic he'd get. Maybe even get on his knees as a grand gesture.

James. . .what would he even say -

"Galleon for your thoughts, pretty girl?"

Your head immediately snap to the direction of the voice and you felt your tears finally fall once your eyes met his warm hazel hues. Without even asking any questions, you could already tell that he was back. Your James, he's here.

"Jamey?" You ask, hesitantly approaching him, and he flashed you his famous Potter grin.

"In the flesh," he managed to joke out with a wink. "Mind telling me why my head feels like it got assaulted by bludgers?"

You laughed, throwing your body on him to hug him. The implications could be minded later, you just wanted to celebrate the fact that he's back, you got him back and all your inhibitions melted away.

"You have a lot to make up for," you sniffled, face buried into his neck.

He hugged you back, his hold on you tight and secure as you allowed more tears to escape your eyes. Your James is finally back, and nothing else mattered for now.

Sirius throws his head back laughing, almost spilling the content of his goblet. Remus scooting away to avoid getting any of it to spill on him, making a face at Sirius who failed to see his disgusted expression.

"Fucking hell! We ought to thank McLaggen instead for hitting you," Sirius continues laughing, obviously having had too much Firewhiskey. "Thanks to his cheap ass attack, we got you back, mate!"

James laughed along though his eyes rolled halfheartedly. "Fuckin' twat still has to pay for trying it on with ____."

Remus clears his throat. "He's been hiding from us ever since, quite well, might I add."

Peter laughs from his seat on the floor, lap full of empty snack wrappers. "Least he's got his own head on straight, won't work though."

Sirius finally stopped cackling like a maniac and turned to you who sat on James' lap. "What are you thinkin', ____? Exploding zits? Broken ribs? A broken nose?"

You shake your head with a chuckle. "I am gonna sit this one out. I am just happy James is back."

James smiled at you, making Sirius let out sounds of disgust and Remus with a joking 'boo!' at the cute display of affection. Then Peter perked up from his seat as if he jsut remembered something very important.

"I reckon I've been told McLaggen is deathly afraid of spiders."

the end.

masterlist

Tags - @sweetstrawberrianne @d1lf-loverrr @hisparentsgallerryy @jaeviii @simp-for-fiction @froggiedragon @paankhaleyaaar @cumuluscranium @acad3miawhore @notmeduhh @cupcakesnviolets @msmarklee1213 @suyaaachin ! Thank you so much for following this fic 🌸

#james potter #james potter x reader #marauders x reader #james potter imagine #marauder imagine

120 notes · View notes

iwaasfairy · 10 hours ago

Note

Please please PLEASE elaborate on father figure sylus. Anything. LITERALLY anything we neeeeeeeeds it

I didn’t beta just wrote off the dome but I’m thinking of doing an actual fic for father figure sylus don’t woRRY BBY I GOT UUUUU

tw pseudo-incest, age gap, parentified sylus

“Alright, sit up straight,” he mumbles, pushing out his chest so that your head slips down further along his body and lands against his stomach, eating fabric. “Don’t fall asleep because I’m not carrying ya.”

His low voice is followed by a low chuckle at your whiny disbelief, and then a deep few breaths when you make no effort to move. He’s warm. And he’s nice to lay on. And if you don’t move, you know Sylus will give in and pick you up and carry you up anyway. His hands land back on your head to resume his lazy drawling through your hair— as your cheek moves up and down against his stomach.

After a while, he pinches your cheek. “Come up here, little princess, c’mon. Sit up.” It takes no further convincing to have him slide his hands under your arms to lift you up against his body, draping your face against his collarbone. “Tired?”

“No. You’re warm, s’all,” you mumble instead, and drag your nose against his throat until he lets out another noise. Up, until you bump up against his stubble and purposely dig your face into his skin. “And smell good.”

“Yeah?” He drags your face up by cupping your cheeks, and holds you there. “You’re touchy.”

“You’re touchy,” you chime back. There’s a moment of silence, before he snorts. His eyes glint with amusement, no matter how hard he tries to hide it. Instead of saying any more, his hands move down your body to pull you closer into his chest, until you’re nose to nose. Fingers trace your hips. Sylus smells familiar. He smells like home, and he looks it too, slightly flushed from the heat of the room and the way you’re crawling into him even more. Following his motions, you cup his face too. Angular, knowing, set sternly.

He puffs out air onto your face. “What?”

“Kieran said you wouldn’t be home today.” He also said you should play with him and Luke if you got sick of being holed up in the living room, but you decide not to tell your father that. Your eyes shift away from his to lace your fingers behind his head, and start picking at the hair there.

“Did he?” His lips press into a thin line, and his hands slip under the thin shirt you’ve put on for bed. He lowers his voice to brush his mouth over your ear. “I think Kieran has quite the little crush on you.”

Your face skews into a pinch, and you lean in to press a kiss to his mouth. “Daddy! That’s not true~” It can’t possibly be. The twins watched over you when you were still a kid, kept you from blowing their whole cover for way too many times to think of you as anything other than a snot-nosed brat. “He’s your friend. Too old.”

Sylus’ sharp brow raises, and he lets out a noise through his nose. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

He leans in until you are forced to look at him, and slides his fingers under your panties’ edge to toy there. “Really? And me? Am I too old?”

Instantly you shake your head, and pout at his look. “Course not. You’re- you’re just… daddy. You’re all mine.”

“Kieran likes you.” He says again, that protective rumble in his chest setting your hairs on end. You don’t want him to be upset. You didn’t bring it up to discuss something like that when the time you get to spend with your adoptive father is already too short.

To settle the topic, you give another kiss, and lean forward until your eyes go cross trying to look at him. Your lips are pushed against his warm mouth until he moves them back against yours, and your little tongue pushes into his. The mix of spit is swallowed down, and you press your cheek to his. “I don’t wanna talk about it.” Not now. Not when you’re in his lap and his crotch has been pushing against you all this while. You shift your hips in his lap until you get the exact pressure you want.

Sylus lifts you by your thighs to reposition you back down, and gives you a look. “Babe. We’re having a conversation.”

“No.” Your hips roll against his, until he grunts, until his cock stirs in his pants at the feeling of your body grinding on him. The next words that come out are the most honest you can be, as his vermillion eyes catch yours. “Missed daddy all day. Don’t want you to be mad.” He knows.

Fingers squeeze your skin, and he allows you to curl yourself like a cat in his lap to hike your shirt up and off. “Please, daddy?”

“Baby~” It’s not nearly as stern as he wants it to be. Pants feel tight, and your tits sit so pretty on your chest, as you’re practically presenting yourself on his lap, big doe eyes and pouty lips— and he knows his willpower is slipping as soon as you make another motion for a kiss. “What’dya want? Wanna have my fingers to sit on? My face? Tell me what you need.”

“No~” Your princess-y, bratty tone rings out loud as you push more kisses to his face and push his hands down your thighs towards your center. “Want your cock. You know what I want.” You’re softly pounding your fists on his chest like a true brat. “Hurry up. I want you inside me.” You’re so fucking spoiled. How did he get you this far? Still, his balls pull and his cock pushes further into the heat of your barely covered pussy, tenting the fabric with his swelling length.

What’s a good man to do with someone like you. You’re too eager when he pats your legs to move you back, and starts by undoing his belt— watching as your thin fingers take over to undo the zipper and you’ve got your damn tongue between your teeth, gleefully taking what’s yours.

One day he’ll be able to resist you. His cock is taken out hard and flushed, throbbing, and you make quick work of shuffling your panties down your legs and getting back in his lap. Crotch marked with a nice wet spot.

Tonight is not that day.

#tw.incest #tw.stepcest #tw.ddlg #honey mail #🍯honey.pot #lads sylus #lads sylus smut

67 notes · View notes

litomilo · 11 hours ago

Text

miss you

billie eilish x reader ⭐

context: just listen to miss you by conan gray!

warnings: angst but happy ending ig, use of y/n, not proof read, im pretty sure i didn't use any pronoun other than "you" to refer to the reader idk

a/n: i wrote this thinking about one of my college classes, one of my teachers said that hate is not the opposite of love, but rather the closest feeling to it that can be found and damn she's so right 💔

You thought you weren't made for love. You weren't made to love or be loved, and maybe you didn't even deserve it. After a few relations and situationships you started thinking that you were a difficult person to deal with. You didn't want to bother whoever ended up falling in love with you — since that was what always happened. So you just pushed them away.

You constantly thought about the strange monotony that love began to reveal in your life. Always the same, but in the end, only one thing changed: if you wasn't hurt, you were the one who hurt someone, consequently hurting yourself as well.

Hurt by unrequited love, by harsh words, maybe by abandonment, or even by the melancholy caused by remembering important memories and unfulfilled promises... Or hurt by guilt, regret, remorse, anguish and so many other feelings caused by having hurt someone, even if it was necessary or what you thought was the best thing to do.

When you meet Billie you felt it all again. You felt happy, special, loved, but then all the possible good things you felt got blurred and momentarily forgotten 'cause of the paranoid.

I'm so hard to deal with, she won't stay.

That's what you always told yourself. But if you leave first it won't hurt that much, right?

After ghosting her for about three days you had several lost calls in your call logs and texts in all the apps possible.

"y/n?"

"did i do something? why don't you answer?"

"look idk what happened but i'm sorry"

"talk to me pls"

You gave her a week, maybe two, to give up and stop texting you. That's what always happens, One day they always disappear and you move on with your life.

You were surprised, what always happened didn't happen. She insisted, kept texting you almost daily for a whole month, sometimes she even knocked on your door, you never answered. She slipped two or three letters through your door.

"hi, it's me, billie, again.

i know you don't want to see me anymore, but i wanna know why, can we PLEASE talk about it? i can't bear the thought of possible have hurt you, that's killing me.

i'm so sorry, please let's talk, just to sort things out, i promise you'll never see me again if that's what you really wants.

i love you so much, i'm missing you, y/n/n."

Fuck.

You couldn't move on. She wouldn't let you do that, or maybe you just loved her too much to let go. That's exactly why you didn't block her at all and spent nights conflicted about calling her, but you didn't want to face reality.

In that one month that passed you couldn't talk to anyone else, you wanted to prove to yourself that you had overcome it, you didn't need her, but how do you do that when no one captivates you or calls your attention, not even for a simple hookup.

"I don't know why... why don't she just fucking give up?" you ask your best friend, in tears, through the phone. they keep quiet for a few seconds, then sigh.

"Maybe it's because she loves you?" they say as if it was already obvious, and it actually was "I think it's pretty clear at this point that she's not like the others, and you still keep pushing her away... You're not only hurting yourself, you're hurting her too, y'know?" you don't say anything, just sob and sniff, then they continue "Call her, you should talk and try to explain yourself, y/n, i keep telling you that pushing people away just 'cause you're starting to get attached is not nice and, as your best friend, i need to tell you that this time you've really messed up".

You didn't want to give in, you were too proud for that, but in one of those nights you just senseless called her, and she picked up.

"Y/n??" you hear her soft voice on the other side of the line, she sounds so worried, she was so worried "Hey, love, are you there?" and that was all it takes for you to break down.

"Come over, please" that's all you could say between sobs.

"Fine, i'm on my way, okay?" you just nod, even tho she couldn't see it.

She stayed on the line all the way, trying to calm you down until she parked in front of your house. You hang up the call and gone to the front foor as soon as you heard her car. When she was about to knock on the door, you opened it, immediately hugging her.

You hear a soft gasp leave her lips, but she hugs you back, her hands finding your hair, stroking it soothingly while guiding you inside and closing the door with her foot.

"I'm sorry" you whisper with your face buried in her hoodie "I shouldn't have pushed you away, but I was so scared"

"Scared? Of what?" she asks confused, her right hand holding your chin gently to make you look up at her.

"Of loving you and I thought you were going to end up leaving me so I just left first" you say feeling her thumb wipe the tears away from your face.

"I would never leave you, i love you, y/n" Billie said kissing your forehead and sitting you on the couch with her "have you pushing me away broke my heart".

"I never meant to, I just... I didn't knew how to cope with everything I was feeling, I thought that pushing you away would be the best but I spent all these past weeks only wanting you" you say resting your head on her shoulder "I'm so sorry, I miss you" she looks at you, her heart clenching at the sigh of your teary eyes.

"Shh, it's fine... It's okay" she whispers pulling you closer against her chest "y'know i missed you too".

#Spotify #billie eilish fanfiction #billie eilish fic #billie eilish imagine #billie eilish oneshot #billie eilish x fem!reader #billie eilish x reader #billie eilish x y/n #billie eilish x you #billie eilish smut #billie eilish

74 notes · View notes

adoreispunk · 1 day ago

Text

Out of Reach (joel miller au)

…"Yeah?" His thumbs stroked just under the waistband of my underwear, barely touching skin. "Could've fooled me. You look so fuckin' pretty layin' out for me like this, babygirl."”

content warning: 18+ MDNI, fingering, car sex, dirty talk, grinding, praise, age gap, smut.

wc: 3.8K

an: my first time writing smut;) hope yall enjoy.

————————-

seven

The rest of the day flew by in a blur of sweat, sawdust, and coffee. Joel kept a steady pace, moving between tasks like he'd been doing this his whole life, and I did my best to keep up. Not that he ever made me feel like I was falling behind, I just didn't want to be a bother. We hit the second job site just after 1 and scarfed down sandwiches in the cleanest spot we could find.

Now, with the sun dipping low and the hum of the drive settling in my chest, I'm somehow more awake than I've been all day. My body's exhausted, but my brain won't shut off, not with Joel sitting right next to me, his knuckles relaxed on the wheel, his profile lit by the soft burn of sunset.

He pulls into the lot but doesn't move. Just sits there. Like me.

"You hungry?" he asks, voice low.

I hesitate. "Joel..."

"I'm grabbing dinner," he says, cutting me off gently. "Thought maybe you'd come. On me."

My heart's already kicking up, and I try to rein it in. I laugh, light and a little breathless. "You already gave me a laptop and the position. I think you've done more than enough."

He leans in slightly—not a lot, but enough that I feel the shift.

"It's not about that," he says, voice rougher now. "I just... wanna sit with you a while. That okay?"

It's that last part that does me in, the way he says it. Like he's not demanding anything, but he needs it anyway. Why wouldn't I give in.

I nod, softly. "Yeah. Okay."

He relaxes just enough to let out a breath, then starts the truck again.

The restaurant is quiet, low-lit, tucked between a string of other restaurants. Nothing special from the outside. But inside it's cozy. It's the kind of place where people sit for hours without checking the time.

We slide into a booth near the back. I can feel his hand on the small of my back when he leads me in.

He orders a whiskey, neat. I order a glass of wine. I tell myself I'm just trying too hard to look older. More composed. Not like the girl whose knees go soft when he looks at her too long.

At first, we talk about work. The site, the guys, and more about what I want to start working on the next day. But then it shifts more personal. Naturally, slowly, the way it always seems to with him.

We talk about music. About old records and what he used to listen to on long drives. I tell him how my dad always tried to get me into Springsteen, but I was a stubborn little brat who thought synth-pop was deeper.

And somewhere between my second glass of wine and the server clearing our plates, I asked about Sarah.

His eyes softened immediately.

"She's in school up in New York now." he said, leaning back in his chair like the words pulled some weight from his chest. "Couldn't've picked somewhere farther away if she tried."

I smiled. "That sounds like her."

"Yeah," he chuckled, running a hand through his hair. "She hasn't changed a bit. Still got that stubborn streak. But I miss her. House's too quiet without her around."

A quiet beat passed between us.

"I'd love to see her again sometime," I say gently. "Maybe when summer rolls around."

Joel looked at me then, really looked, and nodded like the thought actually meant something to him. "She'd like that. She always liked you."

I glanced down at my wine glass, swirling what was left, then looked up and caught him watching me with that quiet intensity he always wore when he wasn't saying much.

I smiled, a little unsteady. "You know, I used to be kind of scared of you."

His eyebrows lifted. "Me?"

I nodded, resting my chin on my hand. "You were always so serious. So... intense. Barely said a word." I scarf down what's left of my wine.

Joel huffed a quiet laugh. "Yeah, guess that sounds like me".

That made me laugh—really laugh. "I liked it, though. The quiet thing. You made people pay attention without trying."

He leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing in a way that made me feel like I was under a spotlight. "You drunk, Olivia?"

I blinked, caught off guard. "Tipsy." I admitted, then shrugged. "Not enough to say anything I don't mean."

His gaze held steady on me. "So what is it you're trying to say?"

I hesitated—long enough for him to notice.

"I've seen that look a thousand times today." he said softly. "You've got something sitting on the edge of your tongue and you're deciding whether to let it out"

I looked away, heart thudding, heat rising to my cheeks. "It's not a big deal."

Joel tilted his head. "Seems like it is."

There was a silence I didn't try to fill. He waited.

"I think about you more than I should," I finally said, barely louder than a whisper.

Joel went still.

"I didn't mean for it to happen," I added quickly, the words falling out now that they'd started. "Since the first time I saw you again, these last few weeks i've been at school. Now working with you, seeing how much you care, how hard you push yourself. I notice everything now. The way you talk, the way you move, the way you look at me when you think I'm not paying attention."

Joel's throat bobbed as he swallowed, but he didn't interrupt. Just watched me like I was saying something he already knew but wanted to hear for himself.

"I know it's complicated," I said. "And probably not smart. But I didn't want to keep pretending like I didn't feel anything."

Another beat. Joel leaned back slowly in his seat, like he needed the space to breathe.

"Jesus," he muttered. "You have any idea what it's been like tryin' to keep things professional with you around?"

My eyes flicked up to his, wide and surprised.

"Thought I was doin' a decent job," he added, voice low, rough. "But you walk into a room and it's like I forget what the hell I'm supposed to be doing."

I didn't know how to respond, where to go from here. Maybe it was the wine or me never thinking he would actually feel a similar way.

Then, without a word, he reached into his wallet and dropped enough cash onto the table to cover the check and a generous tip.

"Let's go," he said, standing up.

My stomach dropped. Something in his tone—firm, curt—made me freeze for a second. I stared at the bills on the table, then up at him, trying to read his expression. But it was blank.

Suddenly, I felt so stupid. How could I mess up something so bad that was literally handed to me.

"I—Mr. Miller, I'm sorry," I said quickly, rising from my seat, my voice quieter. "I said too much.

He looked at me for a long moment. Then he said it again—lower this time, slower.

"Let's go, Olivia."

And I followed, my cheeks burning.

The ride back was quiet. The kind of silence that felt thick, like it was holding its breath. I stared out the window out of embarrassment. Maybe I'd crossed a line. Maybe I'd ruined everything. The last thing I wanted was to make things weird. Worse yet, to make him uncomfortable.

The office parking lot came into view. My car was the one left, sitting under a flickering overhead light. Joel slowed the truck as we pulled in, the hum of the engine filling the space between us.

And then I felt it. His hand, steady and warm, resting gently on my thigh.

I turned to look at him, startled, heart hammering.

He was still watching the lot, one hand on the wheel, the other anchored to me like it belonged there. His thumb moved once, a slow, almost-thoughtless stroke that sent a wave of heat through my core.

"I've wanted to say something." he said quietly, his voice almost a rasp. "But I didn't know if I had the right."

I didn't say anything. I couldn't. The weight of his hand, the sound of his voice—it left no room for words.

He looked over at me then, and this time, I could read the look on his face. Want with restraint

"You sure about this?" he asked, eyes searching mine. "Because if we start this... I'm not gonna be able to pretend nothing's changed."

Joel's hand stayed on my thigh, his grip a little tighter now, like he needed the anchor.

"And your dad..." he started, then stopped, jaw clenching. "Jesus. If he ever found out..."

He exhaled hard through his nose, like it physically hurt to say it. "He'd never forgive me, Olivia. I don't think I'd be able to look him in the eye again. Hell, I don't even know what the fuck I'm doing here."

His thumb brushed against the inside of my leg, slow, grounding. "But I know I want you. I've tried not to. I've tried real hard."

That confession unraveled something tight in my chest. I'd imagined and hoped for it—but hearing it in his voice, heavy with conflict and need, it undid me.

"I need to know," he said, softer now, glancing at me again, "You're not drunk, right? I need you clearheaded when you say it. I'm not touching you if you're not sure."

I shook my head, quick almost desperate. "I'm not. I swear." I licked my lips, voice barely above a whisper. "I' want you so bad Joel."

I barely had time to register the shift in the air before Joel leaned in, hand moving from my thigh to the side of my neck, rough fingers cradling me like he didn't trust himself not to break me.

Then his mouth was on mine.

It was desperate—hungry and unfiltered and so much more than I was prepared for. His lips crashed into mine with a groan that vibrated in my chest, and I gasped against him, which only gave him more. He took it, pulled me closer across the truck's console like he couldn't stand the inches between us. His other hand slid around my waist, dragging me into him like he needed me there.

A small, involuntary moan escaped me at the feel of his body pressed against mine, and that was all it took.

"Fuck," he muttered against my lips, the sound raw, like he'd been holding it in for far too long. "Where did you come from?"

His tongue pushed past my lips, and I let him in, tasting the whiskey on his breath, the heat of him unraveling every bit of restraint I'd clung to. The kiss deepened fast. His mouth hot and searching, like he was trying to memorize me from the inside out. I kissed him back with everything I had, fingers curling into his hair.

Joel didn't stop kissing me—not even for a second.

His hands gripped my waist, firm and sure, and before I could blink, he was moving. In one smooth motion, he shoved his seat back with a grunt, the lever creaking under the force, and then he was pulling me into his lap, dragging me over the console like I weighed nothing.

I gasped into his mouth, but he didn't let up, didn't let go. He just wrapped his arms around me tighter and sealed his mouth over mine like he was starving for it.

The moment I settled on top of him, thighs straddling either side of his lap, I felt the hard press of him beneath me. He was so big.

It made my head spin.

My body moved without thinking, my hips rolling forward, slow and uncertain at first. The friction hit just right and I couldn't stop the low, breathy moan that left me. Joel groaned, deep in his throat, and his grip on my hips tightened, holding me right there as I rocked against him again, more confident now. More desperate.

"Jesus, Olivia" he breathed against my lips, voice rough and frayed. "You're gonna fuckin' kill me."

But he didn't stop me. Didn't try to pull away.

If anything, he pulled me closer.

My hands slid into his hair, tugging a little, and that only made him kiss me harder. Deeper. Tongue and teeth and heat, like he didn't care where we were or who could see like he needed this just as bad as I did.

His fingers brushed between my legs, dragging over the heat of me through my pants, and I couldn't help the soft gasp that fell from my mouth, my body jerking forward slightly into his touch.

"You sittin' here grindin' on me, thinkin' im not gonna do something 'bout it?"

He pressed his forehead to mine, lips brushing and teasing. I whimpered at the loss, but then he tilted his head and looked at me—really looked at me.

"I need to hear you say it, sweetheart," he added, voice softer now, almost reverent. "I wanna hear you cum. Been thinkin' about it all night."

"Yes," I breathed, not even hesitating. My hands gripped the front of his shirt, pulling him closer like I needed him to fuse into me. "Please, Joel. Im so wet already" Something flickered in his eyes—something primal.

I move my mouth to his jaw and neck, desperate to not let any of this moment go to waste. It feels like I was on autopilot.

"Fuck," he groaned, the word guttural, like it clawed out of him. His hand tightened on my thigh. "You don't know what you're doin' to me, baby."

"Then show me." I whispered, lips brushing his jaw. That broke him.

He swore again under his breath, something low and hoarse, before pulling away just enough to look me dead in the eye.

"Get in the back," he ordered. His voice was sharp, commanding.

I scrambled off his lap without question, my knees shaking as I pushed open the door and climbed into the back seat of the truck. The second I got in, he was already there, slamming the door shut behind him.

His hands were on me in seconds—gripping my waist, pulling me down beneath him, and all I could do was cling to him as everything we'd both been holding back came pouring out at once.

He goes back to kissing me just as desperate and hard. He starts working my shirt open with one hand as he supports my back with the other. Revealing a black lace bra I had underneath. Definitely not picked intentionally. He doesn't take my shirt off completely or my bra, he starts working kisses that will definitely leave a mark all throughout the tops of my boobs.

"Fuck Joel, just like that." I moan. Making his hand work up to my cleavage and squeezing it just right.

He starts making his way down my stomach with his mouth not bothered by the enclosed space we're in. He looks up at me with his puppy dog eyes as he starts unbuttoning my pants.

"Kick those pretty heels off and lift up your hips."

I do what he tells me and he starts taking my pants off.

His fingers trailed over the lace at my hips, his breath catching as he took in the full sight of me sprawled out for him in the backseat.

"Damn," he said, low and rough. "You really wore this just to kill me tonight, didn't you?"

I shook my head, my voice catching in my throat. "I didn't—this wasn't—" I swallowed. "I wasn't planning on any of this."

"Yeah?" His thumbs stroked just under the waistband of my underwear, barely touching skin. "Could've fooled me. You look so fuckin' pretty layin' out for me like this, babygirl."

And then his hands moved between my thighs again, slower this time, purposeful. The pad of his finger dragged across the center of me, through the lace, and I let out a shaky moan. My hips rising up like they had a mind of their own.

He murmured, voice rough and ragged. "You're soaked. I make you this wet?"

The words made my entire body jolt. There was no hiding how much I wanted him—how badly I'd been needing this. My thighs trembled as he rubbed slow, teasing circles through the damp fabric, just enough to build pressure, not enough to ease it.

"Joel," I gasped. "Please—"

He leaned in again, his lips brushing my cheek, then the shell of my ear. The weight of him, the warmth of his breath, all of it sent a shiver through me.

"You needed this, didn't you?" he whispered. "Been wound up all night, sittin' next to me like that, talkin' to me like that." All of a sudden he starts kissing my neck. Making me even weaker.

"Yes," I breathed. "God—yes."

He groaned, something guttural and wrecked, as his hand pressed firmer between my legs, his touch no longer teasing. He finally starts moving the lace over to one side as I feel his touch on my folds for the first time.

"Lay back," he said, voice thick with need, "Let me take care of you."

He slowly starts putting his 2 fingers into me. Slow and steady at first. I let out something obscene and desperate in that moment. So glad that I can finally let out this pressure.

"Jesus Christ," he groaned under his breath, like he couldn't believe it. "This pussy's so wet for me."

"Joel—" I said his name like a prayer, like a plea, and he answered it with his two fingers curling up, moving faster.

My hips jerked, the stretch making me cry out, but it was relief. It was heaven. It was him, curling his fingers just right as his thumb pressed down on my clit, working me like he already knew my body better than I did.

"That's it." he murmured, his mouth grazing my neck, his voice ragged and tight. "Wanna hear you. Tell me what you want."

"Fuck— you. All of you Joel. Don't stop—please don't stop—" I was panting now, my hands gripping, nails digging into his forearms he's supporting himself with.

He fucked me with his fingers like he couldn't help it, like he needed to get me there just to survive. The slick sound of it filled the car, obscene and perfect, and my moans only got louder with every twist of his wrist.

"You're squeezin' me so tight," he rasped. "You gonna come for me? Let me feel it?"

"Just like that —Joel—fuck—" I couldn't hold back anymore. My back arched off the seat, thighs shaking, the world narrowing to the fire spreading out from where he touched me.

And then I shattered.

The orgasm crashed over me like a wave, pulling a cry from my throat that didn't even sound like me. My vision blurred as I pulsed around his fingers, riding it out, letting him wring every last drop of pleasure from me.

Joel didn't stop. Not until I was limp beneath him, chest heaving, lips parted in shock.

He finally pulled his fingers out from me and making eye contact bringing them to his mouth, tasting me with a soft, filthy groan. Then kissing me just as desperate as before, making me taste myself on his lips.

"You've got no idea what youre gonna do to me." He says finally pulling away from me.

I just stared at him—completely fucked out, heart pounding, skin flushed. I didn't have words yet. All I could do was reach for him, still needing more. I wanted to make him feel just as good.

"I wanna take care of you too," I whispered, my fingers brushing his buldge, feeling how hard he was for me. "Let me."

His hand caught mine, firm but gentle. He looked at me like I'd just said something dangerous.

"Baby," he said softly, shaking his head with a crooked, pained smile. "You put that pretty mouth on me right now, I won't be able to stop myself."

The heat in my core flared all over again at his words, but there was something in the way he looked.

"I'll wait," he murmured, brushing his thumb across my lower lip. "You already gave me more than I fuckin' deserved."

Then he kissed me again—full and slow, all tongue and heat, like he needed to seal this moment between us. I moaned into it, wrapping my arms around his shoulders, letting him swallow every bit of me.

Eventually, he pulled away just enough to start doing up the buttons of my shirt, his touch gentle now, the intensity shifting to something quieter. Intimate.

I glanced down, cheeks flushed, still breathless, then looked around for my pants. They were crumpled on the floor of the truck. I grabbed them, laughing under my breath.

"You gonna put these on for me too?" I teased, holding them up with one hand.

Joel smirked, eyes dark but soft as they dropped to the scrap of lace still clinging to my hips.

"Sweetheart, if I touch you again right now, we're not leavin' this truck tonight."

I smiled, slipping my legs back into pants with shaking hands, still feeling the imprint of his fingers between my thighs.

He looked at me again, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. He looks down on his watch, "It's gettin' late," he said, voice low and a little rough. "You should get home, babygirl."

I gave a weak laugh, slumping back into the seat and tugging the last button of my pants closed, my body still humming from everything he'd done to me. "I don't think I can walk to my car."

Joel looked back at me, smirking—warm and lazy, but with that glint in his eyes like he was still thinking about what we'd just done. "Need me to carry you?"

"I think so" I said, trying to sound playful but my voice came out a little breathier than I meant. "Think I'm gonna need to ice my thighs or something."

That made him laugh, quiet and genuine, before he leaned over and pressed one last, slow kiss to my lips. His hand cupped the side of my face, fingers curling into my hair like he didn't want to let go just yet.

"C'mon I'll walk you out."

——————————————

an:

#dbf!joel #joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #pedro pascal #joel miller imagine #pedro pascal character #pedro pascal character fanfiction #the last of us #joel miller tlou #joel miller smut #pedro pascal smut

87 notes · View notes

moonlitsmile · 1 day ago

Text

𝐉𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭.

dbf! Joel miller x f! reader part 2 here!

꣑୧ — 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | After a fight with your drunk dad, he kicks you out. And you show up at Joels door, his close friend he had grown distant with, But the only one nearby. You planned to stay the night, but when a thunderstorm keeps you awake, you find comfort in him…and maybe something even more. (No apocalypse, Sarah is alive in here and no Ellie.)

୨୧ - age gap, reader is 18, (hes early 40s) , crying, innocent reader, inexperienced reader, slight daddy issues, kinda sad, i dragged this out, kinda implied that the reader lives alone with her father, part two is more juicy don’t worry

You didn’t mean to start anything.

You never did, when it came to him.

Most nights, you kept your head down, kept to yourself, tried not to stir the air when your dad was already drinking. You’d learned how to read his moods like the back of your hand. the too-loud television, the way he’d sit in the recliner just a little too long, how his fingers tapped the side of the glass when he was itching to pour another. You could tell when to stay quiet. When to go hide in your room.

lately your father had been acting different, he had been drinking more due to stress at work. And when he drinks it’s bad cause he’s so mean. He dosent know how to handle his alcohol and it irks you. He’s so different from before, he’s not the way he was.

And he acted like you weren’t his girl anymore.

But tonight, you were tired. Tired of walking on eggshells in a house that used to feel like home.

You were halfway down the hall, heading to your room, when you noticed the bottle on the coffee table was almost empty. Again.

“You probably shouldn’t have any more,” you said before you could stop yourself. Your voice wasn’t sharp, it wasn��t even loud. Just soft, like a suggestion. Like you were trying to take care of him.

His head turned slow, and you caught the sluggish movement in his eyes. “What did you just say?”

You hesitated, already regretting it. “Just… maybe slow down a little.”

He barked out a laugh, bitter and humorless. “Don’t start with me,. Not tonight.”

You stood there in the hallway, unsure whether to turn back or keep walking.

“I’m not starting anything. I’m just saying—”

“You’re always saying something, aren’t you?” he snapped, slamming the glass down a little too hard. “Always got your damn opinions. Can’t keep your mouth shut for one goddamn night.”

That made your throat tighten.

You looked down, fingers fidgeting at the hem of your shirt. “I’m just worried about you,” you said, voice small.

“Oh, don’t give me that,” he sneered. “Worried about me? You think you know anything about how hard I work? What I’ve been through? You sit around like some delicate little flower and judge me for needing something to take the edge off.”

“I wasn’t judging you—”

“Yes, you were. You always are.” He stood now, swaying slightly. “Walking around like you’re better than me. Like you’ve got the right to lecture me in my own damn house.”

You shrank back a step before you could help it. “That’s not fair.”

“You know what’s not fair?” he said, pointing at you, voice rising. “Me working my ass off every day just to come home to this bullshit. A mouthy little girl who doesn’t appreciate a goddamn thing.”

Your chest hurt. You didn’t know why it always cut so deep, maybe because deep down, some part of you still wanted him to see you. To talk to you like he used to, before things got… bad.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” you said quietly. “I didn’t mean—”

“Oh, you did upset me,” he snapped. “Congratulations.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, hard. “I’ll just go to my room.”

“No,” he said suddenly, voice sharp.

You paused. “What?”

“I said no. You wanna act like you don’t wanna be here? Like this house is so damn terrible?” He started toward you, clumsy and fast. “Then go. Go on, get out.”

Your stomach dropped.

“You’re drunk,” you said, trying to stay calm, your voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t mean that.”

“Don’t tell me what I mean.” His hand shot out, grabbed the front door, yanked it open. Cold air spilled into the house.

“Dad, stop—” You moved back instinctively.

“I said get out!” he yelled, and this time, there was no hesitation. He reached for your arm, not hard, but firm enough to make your breath hitch, and pushed you out into the night.

You stumbled down the steps, heart racing, bare arms wrapping around yourself in the chill.

The door slammed shut behind you.

And that was it.

No shoes. No coat. No phone charger. No chance to grab a bag. You just stood there, shivering, your eyes stinging from more than just the wind.

For a moment, you didn’t move. You waited. Half-hoped the door would open again. That he’d realize what he’d done and call you back inside. That he’d remember you were his daughter, not a stranger. Not a mistake.

But nothing came.

Just the sound of the wind picking up, and somewhere in the distance, the first low rumble of thunder. Soon to be rain probably going to come down.

As soon as you realized you had no where to go, that’s when the tears began to fall. Scared and vulnerable, in these dim streets this late at night. You were planning to just go back inside, but he had locked the door. Front and back, and the windows were always locked. You sighed shakily, letting out a soft shaky sob. Trying to stop the flowing tears. Your father had always taught you crying got you nowhere, and sometimes it did. But in this situation it clearly didn’t.

So what else was there to do, besides to just start walking?

But The street was quiet.

Too quiet.

You stood there for a long second on the front steps, staring at the closed door behind you like it might swing back open. Like this might just be one of those awful dreams where everything feels too real until you wake up gasping.

But the door stayed shut. No footsteps. No apology. Nothing.

You didn’t even realize your hands were shaking until you wrapped your arms tightly around yourself, trying to stop the chill that crept into your skin. The night air clung to you in a way that made your stomach twist, cool and damp and biting against your bare legs.

All you had on was that loose light purple shirt, soft and worn-in from too many washes, and a pair of loose black fabric shorts you only ever wore to sleep. Your white fuzzy socks were already picking up dirt as they padded over the pavement, useless against the cool sidewalk. You hadn’t even had time to put on shoes. Or grab your phone. Or anything.

You just walked.

Because what else could you do?

It was nearly 10 o’clock, and most of the neighborhood had already gone dark. Porch lights were off. Curtains were drawn. The only sounds were the soft hush of wind through the trees and the distant hum of cars on the highway a few streets over.

And then there was the thunder.

Low, deep, and far away, but creeping closer.

You looked up, squinting at the sky. Heavy clouds were dragging across the night, their edges tinged with flashes of light too faint to call lightning yet. The kind of sky that pressed down, that felt heavy on your chest even though it hadn’t fully opened up.

A few cold drops landed on your arms, soaking into the thin cotton of your shirt. It was that kind of light rain that didn’t fall, just drifted. Like the air itself had gone damp.

You didn’t know where you were going.

Your feet just carried you forward, block after block, the chill from the sidewalk slowly sinking into your bones. Every now and then, you wiped at your face, not even sure if it was rain or tears anymore. Probably both.

You tried to keep your head down. Tried to focus on the rhythm of walking. One foot, then the other. But your thoughts spun in circles, chasing themselves.

He didn’t mean it.

Yes, he did.

He was drunk.

But he meant every word.

You sniffed hard, your throat burning. The kind of ache that came from too much silence after too many years of holding back. You wanted to feel angry. You really did. But all you felt was small.

Just small and cold and tired.

The rain was picking up now. Not heavy, but enough to make your shirt cling to your shoulders. You pulled your arms tighter around yourself, socks squelching with every step as they grew heavier with water and dirt.

That’s when a familiar street sign caught your eye. You blinked up at it, heart stuttering.

You realized, Joel lived just a few blocks down.

You hadn’t even meant to come this way. Your body must’ve brought you here on its own, searching for something steady. Something that didn’t hurt.

And Joel had always been that, quiet, calm, warm in a way your father never really was. You hadn’t seen him in a while, but you still remembered the way he used to talk to you like you mattered. Like you weren’t just some kid hanging around the edges of someone else’s life.

You hesitated at the corner, your wet socks slipping slightly on the sidewalk. You could turn around. You could keep walking. Maybe find a bus stop. A bench. Some place to hide for the night.

But your body was already moving again, toward him.

Because right now, in this moment, you didn’t need pride. You didn’t need space to figure things out.

You just needed somewhere to feel safe.

Your legs ached, but you kept walking. The houses started to look more familiar now, even in the hazy streetlight and light mist that clung to everything. You knew this route. You used to ride your bike down it when you were little. Back when things were… simpler.

Back when Joel used to come by.

He was your dad’s friend long before you ever really noticed him. You remembered hearing them laugh together in the backyard, clinking beer bottles over some dumb joke or grilling whatever meat your dad had gotten on sale that week. Joel would toss your dad shit for burning the burgers, and your dad would say something like, “You think you could do better, Miller?”

You always called him Mr. Miller. Never Joel. That was something your dad was strict about, respect your elders, speak politely, don’t be annoying.

But you liked having him around. Even when you were little, maybe eight or nine, you’d find excuses to linger outside longer than you should. Sitting at the edge of the porch steps with your juice box while they talked. Pretending to read a book at the patio table so you could listen to them. He had a deep, calm voice that made the whole world seem quieter when he spoke.

Then, somewhere around thirteen, it shifted.

You couldn’t remember the exact moment it happened. You just knew one day you looked up and realized Joel was… handsome. Not like the teenage boys at school, all sharp elbows and too much cologne. He was something else. Broad, steady, sun-warmed skin and a strong jaw covered in just the right amount of stubble. He didn’t talk much, but when he did, he meant it. He listened, too. That alone set him apart.

That was when the little crush started.

You’d try to hang around more when you knew he was coming over. Sit at the edge of the conversation. Ask him about his work or how his truck was running. Nothing major, just tiny ways to get him to notice you.

Sometimes he’d smile at you, real soft. Ruffle your hair or nudge your shoulder as he passed, and your heart would flutter so hard it made you dizzy. You’d duck your head, cheeks hot, pretending it didn’t mean anything. But it did. It always did.

You remembered trying to act more mature as you got older, wearing makeup that wasn’t quite right, putting on clothes that made you feel older than you were. Not in a weird way, not to get attention exactly… you just wanted to be seen. By him. Not as your dad’s kid. Not as a tagalong.

Just… as you.

But Joel had never looked at you that way. Not once. He was always kind, but distant. Like he saw you as something sweet and harmless. A little girl with big eyes and bigger dreams, someone he probably thought was too soft for the world.

And then time passed.

He stopped coming around as much. Your dad got moodier. The cookouts got fewer and farther between. You hadn’t seen Joel in almost 3 years. Not since your 15th birthday.

You were eighteen now.

Not that it mattered. You weren’t expecting anything. You just wondered… would he still see you the same? That shy, awkward kid trailing behind her dad?

Or would he notice how much had changed?

You pulled your arms tighter around yourself, breathing out into the damp night air. Your hair stuck to your skin in places, and the light drizzle was turning into something steadier, soaking through the thin fabric of your shirt.

Up ahead, past the corner, you saw the soft yellow glow of a familiar porch light.

Your chest tightened.

You were almost there.

You slowed as his house came into full view.

There it was, same as always. The porch light was still on, casting a warm yellow glow over the wooden steps and the faded welcome mat. His truck was in the driveway. Lights off inside, except for the soft flicker of something deeper in the house, maybe the living room lamp left on, maybe the TV. You couldn’t tell from here.

Your feet stopped just short of the first step.

What if he was asleep?

What if he got annoyed you were showing up like this, soaking wet and looking pathetic? What if he didn’t even remember you the way you remembered him, just saw you as that kid who used to trail after her dad like a shadow, begging for scraps of attention?

You shifted your weight, arms still wrapped tightly around yourself as you looked down at your fuzzy socks, now nearly gray from the walk. Your legs were cold. Your shirt clung to your skin. You felt stupid.

This was stupid.

You should’ve gone anywhere else. A bus stop. A gas station. Literally anywhere but here.

But still… you lifted your hand and knocked, just once. Soft. So soft it barely made a sound.

You waited.

Nothing.

The wind rustled the trees nearby, and thunder grumbled low in the distance, like it was trying to remind you that this night wasn’t over yet. You bit your lip and knocked again, two quick taps, a little louder this time.

Still… nothing.

You sighed, shaky and small. Your shoulders slumped. Of course he wasn’t awake. It was late. And who in their right mind would want some girl showing up on their porch in the middle of the night like a stray?

You didn’t want to be a burden.

You didn’t want him to see you like this.

You sniffed quietly and stepped back, turning away from the door, heart sinking. You’d figure something else out. You always did.

But then

click.

The sound made you freeze mid-step.

The door creaked open behind you, warm yellow light spilling out into the cool night air.

“…Hey?” Joel’s voice was rough with sleep, low and a little grumpy. His brows were pulled together as he blinked at you, clearly confused. “What the hell…”

But then his eyes really focused, and he saw you. Standing there on his porch in the rain, shivering in your pajamas, hair damp and clinging to your face.

His expression shifted. Still cautious, but… softer now. Concern crept in under the fatigue.

You opened your mouth, but all that came out was a shaky, barely audible, “Hi.”

Joel stared for a second longer, his voice quieter this time. “What… what are you doing here?”

You opened your mouth again, trying to form the words, trying to explain, but they got stuck. Right there in your throat.

Your lips trembled before you could stop them.

“I—” you started, then clamped your mouth shut as your eyes filled with tears.

God. No. Not now.

You blinked quickly, trying to stop them from spilling over. You didn’t want to cry. Not in front of him. Not in front of the man who used to ruffle your hair like a kid. The man who still probably saw you as the quiet twelve-year-old sneaking glances from behind her dad’s shoulder.

You didn’t want to be her right now. You didn’t want to look soft or helpless. You wanted to seem grown, like you could handle it. Like showing up at his door in your socks and pajamas didn’t mean you were breaking apart inside.

But under Joel’s steady, quiet gaze… you just felt small again.

You looked down at your feet, voice cracking when you finally whispered, “I—I couldn’t stay there.”

That was all you could get out.

Joel didn’t say anything at first. You didn’t look up, afraid of what you’d see in his eyes, pity, maybe. Or worse, that same distant kindness from before.

But then you heard him step aside, his voice lower now, a little more gentle.

“Come on in.”

You stepped in slowly, careful not to let your soaked socks track too much water across the floor. The warmth from the house hit you all at once, soft, dry air and the faint smell of coffee and wood, but your body was still trembling from the cold that had sunk deep into your skin.

You stood there on the rug just past the doorstep , arms wrapped tight around yourself, eyes fixed on the dark hardwood that stretched out into the living room. You didn’t move.

You didn’t want to drip everywhere.

Didn’t want to make a mess.

Didn’t want to be a mess.

Your damp shirt clung to your back, and your fingers were starting to go numb. The rain had only been light, but it was enough to leave you chilled straight through. Your cheeks burned from a different kind of cold, embarrassment, standing there in nothing but your thin pajamas in front of him. Joel. Someone who used to pat your head like a niece or a neighbor kid. Someone who still looked at you like you were something breakable.

He shut the door gently behind you, turning the lock with a soft click. Then he looked at you again, brows pulled together, eyes sharp but not unkind. Still confused, but calmer now.

“Hang on,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his jaw before heading down the hall.

You stayed frozen on the rug, listening to the sound of him rustling through a closet. A moment later he came back with a towel, holding it out to you.

You took it with quiet hands, clutching the soft fabric to your chest before slowly raising it to dab at your damp cheeks, your arms, the rain-wet ends of your hair.

Joel hovered for a second, like he didn’t want to crowd you, then took a small step closer. His voice was quiet, almost like he was talking to a spooked animal.

“You gonna tell me what happened?”

You opened your mouth, but again, nothing came out.

Just that awful lump rising in your throat. Heavy and hot. The sting behind your eyes came back stronger than before.

You bit the inside of your cheek hard, trying to hold it back, but your breath caught in your chest. Your shoulders trembled, not from the cold anymore.

You were going to cry.

You hated that you were going to cry.

Joel’s expression softened again. He didn’t push. Just waited, voice still low, gentler this time.

“Hey,” he said quietly. “It’s alright. Take your time.”

You nodded, pressing the towel against your face, trying to breathe through it. But your voice, when it finally came, was still broken and barely a whisper.

You tried to speak again. The words were there, clogging your throat, pushing at the back of your tongue, but they wouldn’t come out.

Your chest rose in a shallow, shaky breath, and you pressed the towel harder to your mouth like it might hold everything in: the hurt, the tears, the everything.

Joel stood there, watching you, arms crossed loosely over his chest. You could feel the weight of his gaze, steady and quiet, not pushing. Just… waiting.

But when the silence stretched too long, he cleared his throat and spoke, soft and low, like he didn’t want to startle you.

“Well…” he said slowly. “How ‘bout you go freshen up first, alright? Take a shower. See if that helps any. We’ll talk after.”

You gave a small nod, your eyes still locked on the floor. You didn’t trust yourself to say anything, not yet.

Joel didn’t move at first.

You could sense him shifting though, like something in him was working through a thought he wasn’t quite ready to say. His stance was different, less easy than usual. Like he was standing at a strange kind of distance, unsure where the line was now.

Then came his voice again, quieter this time. Different.

“Hey,” he murmured. “Look at me, honey.”

Your breath caught.

That word.

Honey.

He used to call you that all the time when you were younger, when you’d scrape your knee in the yard or fall asleep on the couch during a cookout. Sometimes it was sweetheart, sometimes kiddo, but honey was always the one that stuck with you most. It had curled warm and safe in your chest, made you feel cared for in a way that not many people ever made you feel.

And the truth was… you never liked hearing it from anyone else.

Only Joel.

Only he could say it in that low, steady drawl, like he really meant it. Like it wasn’t just something to say, it was something he felt.

You blinked hard, your vision swimming for a second, and then, slowly, you looked up.

His eyes met yours the second you did.

And he didn’t smile.

He didn’t say anything right away either.

He just looked at you, really looked. Like he was trying to match this version of you, the quiet, trembling girl on his doorstep in too-thin clothes and wet socks, with the one who used to follow him and your dad around, tugging on the hem of his flannel and asking questions about how to grill ribs or fix a flat tire.

You could see it in his face, the shift. That faint crease between his brows. Like he didn’t know what to make of what he was seeing.

You weren’t twelve anymore.

And he knew that.

But the way he was looking at you now… it wasn’t pity. It wasn’t awkwardness. It was something else.

Something that made your skin warm, even as your clothes clung cold to your body.

You held his gaze for just a second longer than you meant to before dropping it again, clutching the towel tighter to your chest.

Joel cleared his throat again, his voice rough but careful.

“Bathroom’s down the hall. I’ll find you somethin’ dry.”

You stepped quietly down the hall, arms still wrapped around the towel like it was the only thing keeping you upright. The house was dim, quiet except for the low hum of the air vent and the soft creak of the floor under your feet. Joel didn’t follow, just let you go, giving you space.

The bathroom door opened with a soft push, and you stepped inside.

It smelled the same as you remembered, clean and faintly like cedar soap. The lights overhead buzzed to life as you flipped the switch, bathing the room in a soft, warm glow.

You stood still for a second. Just breathing.

And then the memories came in like a quiet rush.

You used to come in here when you were little. When your dad would drag you along for a night at Joel’s, usually some weekend game night or beer-and-barbecue thing. You were too young to care about football or whatever else they were watching, so you’d wander the house. Sit cross-legged on the bathroom floor playing with your toys or fiddling with little things around the sink while Sarah played with you.

You used to giggle about Joel’s aftershave, mess with the little cups stacked on the counter, open drawers you probably shouldn’t have.

It was warm then. Safe. Full of noise and life.

You pressed your palm to the edge of the sink now, staring at your reflection.

Same mirror. Same faded green tile. Same soft hand towels folded on the rack.

But everything felt different now.

You weren’t a kid sneaking off from a boring football night anymore. You weren’t playing pretend with Sarah while the dads laughed over beers in the kitchen. You were eighteen. Standing in Joel’s bathroom, damp and trembling, heart still twisted from being pushed out into the night by the only other person who was supposed to make you feel safe.

And Joel…

He wasn’t just “Mr. Miller” anymore.

You looked at your own eyes in the mirror, red-rimmed and glassy. Your skin was pale under the yellow light, hair damp and clinging to your neck. You looked lost. And you hated that you looked that way in his house, in his mirror.

You turned the shower on, letting the steam build. The heat was comforting, but it didn’t make the ache go away.

As you pulled your shirt over your head and let your damp clothes fall to the tiled floor, you wondered if he still saw you the same way he used to.

Sweet little girl. Honey.

Or if maybe, just maybe… that look he gave you earlier meant something else now.

The hot water poured over your shoulders like a blanket, soaking into your skin, easing the chill that had sunk deep into your bones. Steam curled up around you, fogging the glass, softening the world until it felt far away. You let your head fall forward under the spray, eyes closed, lips parted, breathing in the quiet warmth.

It was the first time all night you didn’t feel cold.

But your chest still ached.

Your thoughts wandered, slow and heavy, as the water moved down your back.

Where was Sarah now?

She was older than you by a few years. You remembered when she got her acceptance letter for college, how proud Joel had been, even though he tried not to make a big deal about it. You were only fourteen at the time, still in that awkward, in-between phase where you were too shy to speak around him for long, but you remembered how he lit up when he talked about her. How his eyes softened in a way that was different than usual.

Maybe that’s why the house felt so still now. Why it felt… lonelier.

Without Sarah’s laugh echoing down the hallway. Without her music blaring from her room.

You ran your hands over your arms beneath the stream, squeezing your eyes shut as more memories came.

You used to make Joel little cards around the holidays. Ones with clumsy handwriting and glitter that always fell off. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Miller” or “Happy Birthday!” with lopsided hearts and cartoon dogs you’d drawn just for him. He kept them, too, you remembered him pinning one up on the fridge one year. Told you it was his favorite thing he got that Christmas.

You smiled at that. Just barely.

Then the ache returned.

Because you also remembered the other times, when your dad would push you to come over even when you didn’t want to. Not to visit Joel, but to learn. Said you should stop wasting time and do something useful. Like music. Like guitar. Joel had offered to teach you, always patient, always kind… but you were stubborn then. Hated the pressure. Hated the way your dad watched every chord you missed, every note that buzzed.

You didn’t appreciate it back then.

But now?

Now, all you wanted was to sit in Joel’s living room again. To feel that careful way he guided your hands on the strings. To listen to him explain things in that slow, steady voice like nothing could ever go wrong.

You leaned back against the tile, breath trembling, arms hugging yourself under the stream.

Everything had changed so fast.

And it hurt in ways you couldn’t even name.

You tilted your head back beneath the water, eyes closed, letting the past flicker behind your lids like old home videos.

You used to get excited when you heard Joel was coming over.

It didn’t start that way, not when you were younger and thought all your dad’s friends were boring. But something shifted when you hit thirteen, maybe fourteen. When you started noticing the way Joel’s voice got even deeper when he was tired, or the way he’d lean in close to listen, really listen, when you spoke, even if it was about something silly.

You started caring more about what you wore when he came by. Not obvious stuff. Just little things, a different shirt, lip balm with a soft tint, brushing your hair twice instead of once.

You weren’t subtle. Not really.

And Joel noticed.

He’d always been good with people. Quiet, observant. He never teased you, never made you feel small. But he knew. And in his own careful way, he humored it. Just enough to make your stomach flutter.

You could still remember one summer afternoon,

the air thick and hot, your dad out back grilling while Joel leaned against the kitchen counter, sipping a beer. You were fourteen, wearing a pale sundress you didn’t even like that much except for the way it swayed when you walked.

You’d wandered into the kitchen, pretending to be after a drink, but you lingered.

“Whatcha drinkin’, Mr. Miller?” you asked, pretending not to notice how dry your mouth was.

He glanced over, already smirking just a little.

“Somethin’ you’re not old enough to ask about.”

You tried not to squirm under the way his eyes flicked down, just briefly, then right back up. Measured. Careful.

“I’m not that young,” you mumbled, reaching into the fridge for a soda.

He raised a brow. “No? When’d that happen?”

You cracked open the can and leaned on the opposite counter, heart thudding.

“I don’t know,” you shrugged, trying for casual. “Just… figured maybe you’d talk to me like a grown-up sometime.”

Joel had chuckled under his breath at that, deep and warm.

“You tryna convince me, or yourself?”

You felt your face flush but you didn’t back down. Not that day.

“You’re mean,” you said softly, but your lips curved into a shy smile.

He tilted his beer toward you just slightly, something fond in the gesture. “Nah, honey. Just honest.”

Honey.

That word again. That name.

It always made your chest flutter. And when he said it then, with a little smirk but something real behind it, you knew he wasn’t making fun of you. Just… keeping the line where it needed to be. Even if part of you always wished he’d forget it was there.

Your fingers trailed along the tile wall as the water kept falling, steam curling around you like a blanket. You were warm now, but you didn’t want to step out. You didn’t want to face whatever came next. Not just yet.

Your mind drifted again, this time, not so far back. Not to dress-up days and awkward crushes.

But to the last time you saw Joel.

It had been maybe 3 years ago. Late spring, warm outside but breezy. You’d been sitting on the porch while your dad grilled, and Joel had stopped by out of nowhere. Said he was in the area. Said he thought he’d drop something off.

You remembered how your heart jumped when you saw his truck pulling into the driveway.

You were 14 then, about to be 15. maybe just starting to shed some of that baby-faced softness. You had your legs curled up under you in an oversized tee, and you’d tucked your hair behind your ears three separate times in five minutes, hoping it looked effortless.

He joined your dad out back for a bit. They talked and laughed like always, but it didn’t feel the same.

Joel was quieter. Less at ease. Like something had shifted.

You’d waited for a chance to talk to him. Just you and him.

When it finally came,

he was grabbing a drink from the cooler and you wandered over, slow and shy.

“Hey,” you said, trying not to sound too eager.

He turned, gave you a small nod. “Hey, kid.”

That name stung more than it should’ve.

“I haven’t seen you around much lately,” you said after a pause. “You don’t come by like you used to…”

Joel didn’t look at you right away. He just twisted the cap off his beer and gave a quiet shrug.

“Been busy. Work’s been a lot lately.”

You’d nodded, but your voice was smaller when you asked, “Is it just work?”

That made him glance over at you.

Something flickered across his face then. Something unreadable.

And all he said was, “Nothin’ personal, alright? Just figured it was time I stopped hangin’ around so much.”

You hadn’t known what to say. You just stood there, feeling like maybe you’d done something wrong and didn’t know it.

That was the last time.

After that, no more random visits. No more cookouts. No more evenings where you’d catch his eye across the kitchen while your dad ranted about the game.

He disappeared, just like that.

You thought about it too often, what changed. Why he stopped coming. Why he suddenly felt so far away.

And now here you were, standing naked and dripping in his bathroom, nearly 3 years older, 3 years lonelier… and still wondering what he’d see when you stepped back out into the hallway.

Eventually, the water wasn’t enough to keep you distracted anymore. You’d washed your hair, rinsed your skin clean of the cold and the rain, but that ache in your chest still lingered. Quiet. Heavy. Lingering like steam on the mirror.

You turned the water off with a slow twist of the knob, and the bathroom was instantly quieter. The kind of silence that felt louder than sound.

The air was thick with warmth, soft clouds of steam clinging to the mirror and tiles as you stepped out, careful not to slip. You wrapped the towel around yourself tightly, tucking the edge just above your chest, and stared at your own reflection through the fogged glass.

Still you. Still that same girl underneath it all.

You padded barefoot to the door and cracked it open, a little hesitant. The hallway light was still on, casting a warm glow over the dark hardwood floor.

And there, just outside the door on a small wooden table, was a neatly folded pile of clothes.

Your heart twisted.

One of Joel’s old flannels sat on top, soft and worn, sleeves rolled halfway up like he’d just shrugged out of it. Beneath it, a pair of sweatpants, drawstring pulled loose to make them easier to slip into.

Your fingers reached out slowly, brushing the fabric. Still warm from the dryer.

He must’ve done this while you were in the shower. Quiet, thoughtful. Like always.

You swallowed thickly, lifting the clothes against your chest, holding them like they were something more than just cotton and thread.

They smelled like him. A little bit like soap, like cedarwood, like something comfortingly familiar. Something you hadn’t let yourself feel in a long time.

And somehow… that made it even harder not to cry again.

You slipped back into the bathroom with the clothes pressed to your chest, shutting the door softly behind you. The tile was still warm beneath your feet, the mirror still fogged.

You took your time drying off, trying to steady your breathing. Your hands shook a little as you tugged on the sweatpants, they were far too big, pooling at your ankles, but the drawstring helped. The flannel hung heavy and soft on your shoulders, sleeves nearly swallowing your hands. You rolled them up like he always did, and that made your stomach twist strangely.

You didn’t bother with your damp clothes. You folded them neatly and set them by the sink.

When you finally stepped out again, the hallway light was dimmer, as if Joel had turned it down for your sake.

You padded into the living room quietly, your damp hair clinging to the sides of your face, falling in soft waves down your back. Joel was sitting on the couch, a beer in one hand, the TV playing something low he clearly wasn’t paying attention to.

He looked up when he heard your soft footsteps.

And his eyes landed on you.

There was a flicker in his expression, like a pause in his chest, like something caught in his throat and he didn’t know how to swallow it.

You looked so small in his clothes.

That big flannel hanging loose over your frame. Those sweatpants dragging the floor. Your bare feet quiet against the wood.

And your face…

Still that same softness. Damp lashes, flushed cheeks, lips parted slightly like you wanted to say something but weren’t sure how. You looked young. Not like a child, but vulnerable. Open.

The kind of quiet Joel remembered from a girl who used to make him lopsided cards and ask too many questions. Who’d sit on his porch with a guitar too big for her lap and try to act like she didn’t care when she missed a chord.

Now you stood there, older, but still her.

Still you.

He cleared his throat softly, sitting up a little straighter on the couch.

“Clothes fit alright?” he asked, voice low, rough around the edges from the late hour.

You nodded, eyes dipping for a second.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “They’re warm.”

He watched you for a beat longer. You weren’t just cold anymore. You looked tired. Like you’d been holding it together all night and were starting to unravel in slow pieces.

Joel set the bottle down and motioned gently toward the couch.

“C’mere. Sit with me a minute, alright?”

You hesitated for just a second before your feet carried you forward, slow and quiet, like you were afraid you might break the moment if you moved too fast.

The couch dipped as you sat beside him, your knees curling slightly, the flannel sleeves covering half your hands. You didn’t look at him right away, eyes fixed somewhere on the floor, but you felt his presence close beside you. Solid. Safe.

Joel didn’t say anything at first. He just let the TV flicker in the background, the sound low and meaningless. He was giving you time, something he’d always been good at. Even back then, when you’d get shy around him, stumbling over your words, he never rushed you.

He always waited.

After a moment, his voice broke the quiet, low and gentle, like he was talking to a skittish animal.

“You feelin’ any better?” he asked, glancing over at you. “Shower help at all?”

You nodded, biting the inside of your cheek.

“Yeah… a little.”

He gave a soft hum, then let another pause stretch before speaking again.

“I don’t wanna push,” he said slowly. “But if you feel like talkin’… I’m listenin’. Just tell me what happened, honey.”

That word again, honey, it hit a little different this time. Not like earlier, when it caught you off guard. Now it warmed something in your chest, loosened something tight inside you.

He said it so kindly. Like he still cared. Like he still saw you.

You sat there for another long second, your throat burning, and your eyes started to sting again.

Your voice cracked before you even got the words out.

“He—” You swallowed hard. “My dad… he was drunk.”

Joel didn’t move, didn’t interrupt. His body stayed still and quiet beside you.

“He just started yelling,” you continued, wiping quickly under your eye with the edge of your sleeve. “I don’t even remember about what—stupid stuff, nothing really. I told him to stop, and he just… snapped.”

Joel’s jaw tensed slightly, but he didn’t speak.

You stared at your knees. “He told me to get out. Didn’t let me grab anything. Just… pushed me out the door.”

Your voice shook a little at the end, and you hated it, hated how small it made you feel, how young.

But Joel didn’t make you feel embarrassed. He didn’t make a face or say you were overreacting.

He just let out a low breath, like his chest had been holding onto something tight, and nodded slowly.

“I’m real sorry, sweetheart,” he murmured. “You didn’t deserve that.”

You blinked quickly, trying to stop the tears from coming again, but one slipped free, tracing down your cheek.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” you whispered.

Joel turned toward you then, one arm resting on the back of the couch, eyes fixed soft on your face.

“You did the right thing comin’ here.”

He said it so simply. Like it wasn’t even a question. Like this was home, in some quiet, strange way.

And for the first time in a long time, you started to believe that maybe it could be.

Joel stayed quiet for a moment, watching the way your fingers tugged at the edge of the flannel sleeve, twisting the fabric, nervous and uncertain. You always used to fidget like that when you were a kid, especially when you were trying not to cry.

His eyes softened.

“I know it’s hard,” he said quietly. “But can you tell me more? About what he said?”

You didn’t answer right away. The words sat heavy on your tongue.

“I just—” You paused, jaw tightening slightly. “He gets mean when he drinks. You know that. But tonight was… different.”

Joel didn’t speak, just nodded for you to keep going.

“He said I was ungrateful. That I acted like I was better than him. Like I thought I didn’t need anyone,” you said, your voice starting to tighten again. “I told him that wasn’t true. I was just trying to calm him down, but he wouldn’t listen. He shoved a chair over. Said if I thought I was so grown, then I could go be grown somewhere else.”

Your hands trembled again, and Joel felt his own fingers curl slightly where they rested on his leg.

You didn’t notice the way his jaw clenched. The quiet way his gaze sharpened, hardening under the softness as the picture of what had happened grew clearer.

“He didn’t let me grab my phone,” you said. “Or my shoes. Nothing. Just opened the door and told me to get the hell out.”

Joel’s chest rose and fell with a slow breath, controlled, but you could feel something shift in the air beside you.

You didn’t recognize it. But he did.

It was anger.

It started as a flicker in his stomach the moment you said he pushed you out. But now it was burning, low and steady. Not just anger, but something deeper. Protective. Dangerous in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time.

You’d always been his buddy’s kid. The sweet girl who made him smile without even trying. But hearing you now… sitting there beside him in his clothes, hair damp and eyes rimmed pink, trying so hard not to fall apart—it made something hard and cold settle in his chest.

He should’ve been there.

He should’ve known.

You sniffled softly, not even realizing how quiet he’d gone.

“I just kept walking,” you whispered. “Didn’t even think. I guess I just… ended up here.

Joel looked at you then, really looked at you.

And something in his expression shifted. his voice low, but laced with something sharp, bitter at the edges.

“That son of a bitch…” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head slightly.

You blinked, startled by the words, but he wasn’t done. His voice stayed quiet, but it was firmer now, heavier.

“He put his hands on you? Kicked you out in the damn rain?” His jaw worked as he sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “What the hell was he thinkin’?”

You didn’t know how to respond. You just sat there, small in his clothes, your hands tugging gently at the sleeves again.

Joel let out a slow breath, then leaned back, trying to steady himself. His voice softened again.

“I should’ve been checkin’ in more,” he added, glancing over at you. “Should’ve known somethin’ was wrong.”

You looked at him quietly, heart aching at the way he said it. Like he blamed himself. Like he cared more than you’d ever let yourself hope he still did.

But instead, You shook your head, biting your lip. You didn’t want to seem like it was his fault, it wasn’t. Was it..?

“I should’ve said somethin’ sooner,” you murmured. “I should’ve told someone.”

Joel shook his head.

“No. This ain’t on you.”

You finally looked up at him then, and for a second, the man who’d always called you sweet names and teased you gently over burnt Christmas cards was gone.

This Joel was still gentle. Still calm.

But there was steel in his eyes now. A quiet fury, buried deep, but real.

And you weren’t sure if it was meant for your dad, or for himself.

Joel leaned forward again, his forearms resting heavy on his knees, calloused hands clasped tight together. The TV still flickered on in the background, casting pale light across the living room, but neither of you were paying it any attention.

You glanced over at him, noticing the way his brow was pinched, the way his eyes didn’t move from the floor.

“I… I don’t want you to be upset,” you said quietly, hesitant. “It’s not really your fault, Mr Miller. I probably, should’ve kept my mouth shut. I made it worse.”

He turned his head slowly, eyes meeting yours.

“That ain’t true,” he said, low and rough. But you looked away again, still picking at your sleeve.

“I know how he gets,” you continued, your voice soft and tight. “I should’ve just walked away. Stayed quiet like I usually do…”

Joel’s jaw clenched, the muscle ticking. You didn’t see the way his expression twisted, how his guilt sank deeper, heavier.

Because all he could think about was how your dad hadn’t always been this way. He used to be different. Not perfect, but not… cruel. Not violent.

Back then, when you were younger, when Sarah was still around, when there were beers on the porch and a game playing low in the background, everything felt simpler. Lighter.

Joel used to come by all the time. You’d sit nearby and try to join their conversations, and he’d tease you gently, always patient with your little questions and awkward crush. And your dad… he wasn’t great, but he wasn’t this.

Then something shifted.

Your dad got meaner. Shorter tempered. Drinking more. Joel started noticing the way he’d snap at you in passing, the way he brushed you off coldly. How you’d get quiet around him, nervous, like you were walking on eggshells.

And Joel stopped coming around so much.

He told himself it was just life getting in the way. Work. Sarah getting older. But deep down, he knew the truth.

He couldn’t watch it happen. Couldn’t be around your father without wanting to knock some sense into him.

And now here you were, curled up beside him in borrowed clothes, cold and small and hurting.

And he hadn’t been there.

“If I’d stayed around… if I’d checked in”

He swallowed hard, hands still knotted together.

“You didn’t make anything worse,” he said finally, voice thick. “Don’t ever think that. That man’s lucky I wasn’t there tonight.”

You glanced at him, and for the first time, saw the fire behind his words. Not just protectiveness, but something else. That weight in his chest, years in the making.

He still saw you.

And part of him was terrified he hadn’t seen you enough.

You looked at him for a long moment, the room quiet except for the soft murmur of the TV and the faint tap of rain still clinging to the windows.

There was something different in Joel’s eyes now. Still steady. Still warm. But deeper. Like something unspoken had just cracked open between you both.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t know- I didn’t mean to wake you, Mr. Miller…”

Joel’s head turned toward you slowly, and for a second, there was the faintest curve to his mouth, small, almost wistful.

Mr. Miller.

God, you used to say it so sweetly, so earnestly. Even when you were barely tall enough to reach the countertop. He remembered the first time you called him that, probably seven years old, a little shy and serious, peeking around your dad’s leg and clutching a juice box. And every time after, no matter how many times he told you to call him Joel, it was always Mr. Miller.

He exhaled softly, something fond flickering in his eyes.

“I remember when you used to say that all the time,” he said, voice gentle now, like warm honey. “Every single visit. Hi Mr. Miller. Bye Mr. Miller. Always so polite.”

You looked down, suddenly feeling sheepish. “My dad made sure I had manners…”

Joel tilted his head just slightly.

“Yeah, well… you can drop the mister now,” he murmured. “You’re not a kid anymore. Just call me Joel.”

There was something quiet in the way he said it. Not sharp or dismissive, just honest. Like he was seeing you clearly for the first time in a long while.

You nodded slowly, still not sure if you could actually say it. It felt too strange in your mouth. Too grown.

But Joel didn’t push you. He just leaned back a little more into the couch, his posture easing, his tone softer.

“And for the record,” he added, eyes back on yours, “I’m glad you came here. You don’t gotta be sorry for that.”

Your breath caught a little, a warm swell pressing behind your ribs. You felt young again. And safe. But not like before. It was different now.

More aware.

More real.

And when Joel looked at you, really looked at you, you wondered if he felt that difference too.

You sat there in the quiet, your fingers toying gently with the hem of the sleeves that were far too big for you. The towel had warmed you up a little, and Joel’s clothes smelled like laundry and faint traces of cedar and something you couldn’t quite name, but remembered.

Your voice came out softer than you expected, barely above the low hum of the television.

“Would it… would it be okay if I stayed here tonight?”

Joel turned to look at you. His brows lifted just slightly, and there was the briefest pause, like the question caught him off guard.

Not because he didn’t want to say yes.

But because of course you should stay. After what happened, after what your father did, how could he not open his home to you? To the little girl he’s known since she was a baby.

But Still, he hesitated. Just for a second.

Not because he didn’t care. But because you weren’t that little girl anymore in a too-big T-shirt following Sarah around the backyard. You were older. Barefoot in his living room. Wrapped in his clothes. And the look in your eyes was something entirely different from the last time he saw you.

But Joel cleared his throat quietly, pushing the thought down. You needed a place to feel safe. That was all that mattered.

“‘Course you can,” he said, voice low, but certain. “Sarah’s room’s all cleaned out. She’s off at college now,” he said gently. “You can sleep in there.”

You blinked, your lips parting like you might protest. But Joel was already continuing, his tone patient.

“I’ll be just down the hall in my room, alright?.”

That quiet reassurance settled something in your chest.

You nodded, almost shyly. “Thank you…”

Joel stood, his movements slower, more careful than before. “Don’t gotta thank me, honey,” he said softly, the way he always used to. “Get settled in. I’ll grab you a blanket and some extra pillows”

And just like that, he turned toward the hallway, his broad figure disappearing into the warm, quiet house.

You sat there a moment longer, heart a little steadier now, hands still curled into the soft sleeves of his shirt.

You were really staying here.

In Sarah’s room. In Joel’s house.

And for the first time all night… you didn’t feel like you were in the way.

You stepped quietly into the bedroom, the soft creak of the old door sounding louder in the stillness of the house. It had been years since you’d stood here, years since you and Sarah sprawled across the bed laughing about nothing, painting your nails or talking about people from school like everything in the world was easy and small. You were 15 and she was 17.

Now the room felt… different. Not quite cold, but still. The air had a faint scent of old vanilla candles and laundry detergent, the comforting smell of a space that had been lived in and then carefully packed away.

The bed was made perfectly, with a smooth white comforter tucked into the corners, the kind of tidy only a parent would maintain after their kid left. The desk sat bare except for a ceramic dish holding three stretched-out hair ties and a lone bobby pin, like remnants of a girl who had left in a hurry. A dried-up pen rested in an old mug that once held makeup brushes or pencils or candy, maybe all three. The walls were mostly blank, but you could see the faint outlines where posters had once hung. Her favorite bands, probably. A couple of movie characters. A few pictures of the two of you, maybe, back when things were simple.

Your eyes drifted to the edge of the room where the carpet was slightly darker. That’s where her laundry basket used to sit, full of crumpled t-shirts and inside-out jeans. You remembered how she used to throw stuff around when she got ready, how her music would blast through the walls, loud enough to shake your bedroom when she stayed over.

But now the silence settled like a blanket, thick and a little heavy. You stood near the doorway, damp from the rain, arms folded loosely against your chest, the oversized shirt Joel gave you falling past your shorts. His scent, warm, musky, a little woody, lingered in the cotton, and you couldn’t help but close your eyes for a second and breathe it in.

You hadn’t felt safe all day.

And somehow, standing in this room with its quiet stillness and its faded memories, you started to feel it again.

Down the hall, Joel moved through the linen closet with the kind of tired hands that came from long days and long years. He pulled out a blanket, soft, thick, the one he’d always kept folded up in case Sarah got cold watching movies. Then a pillow. He paused, squeezing it once before tucking it under his arm.

His brow furrowed as he stood there, staring blankly at the shelf for a moment.

He didn’t know what the hell he was feeling.

She was just a girl. The same girl who used to trail after Sarah with stickers all over her arms, asking him questions about his truck or pretending to care about baseball stats just to be part of the conversation.

But that wasn’t who walked through his door tonight.

Tonight it was her, wet, shaking, in his clothes that hung off her frame in a way that made his stomach tighten. Not because of anything he wanted to feel. But because of everything he shouldn’t.

The softness in her face hadn’t changed, not really. But her body had. Her voice. Her presence. It rattled something in him.

“Shit…” he muttered under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck as he stepped away from the closet.

She’d grown up.

And maybe if he’d stuck around, if he hadn’t distanced himself once her father started turning bitter and mean, maybe he would’ve noticed it sooner. Maybe he could’ve been someone she called before walking the streets alone at night in the rain, wearing nothing but socks and shorts, looking like something fragile and forgotten.

Instead, she’d shown up at his door, eyes wide and wet, shoulders hunched like she expected to be turned away.

Joel clenched his jaw, adjusting the pillow under his arm and walking slowly toward the bedroom.

He didn’t know how this night would end. He didn’t even know how to look at her without feeling like the ground was shifting beneath his boots.

But he knew one thing for sure.

He wouldn’t let her feel unsafe again. Not here.

Not with him.

He nudged the door open gently with his shoulder, the quiet creak just enough to draw your attention. You sat at the edge of the bed, your legs dangling a little above the floor, back slightly hunched, hands folded in your lap. You looked so small like that. Wrapped up in his shirt, damp hair falling down your back in soft, dark strands. Your bare legs curled inward a bit, your socked feet barely brushing the edge of the carpet.

Joel hesitated in the doorway, one hand braced on the frame, the pillow and blanket tucked under his arm. His eyes swept over the room, then landed on you, and lingered.

There was a softness in his gaze now, one he didn’t quite mean to show. But he couldn’t help it. You looked up at him slowly, not quite meeting his eyes, like you weren’t sure if you were allowed to.

He swallowed, his voice a little rough when he finally spoke.

“Brought you these,” he said, stepping forward and placing the folded blanket and pillow beside you on the bed. “Should be comfortable enough for the night.”

You gave a quiet nod, your fingers gently smoothing the edge of the blanket even though it didn’t need it.

“Thanks,” you murmured, your voice still soft, still a little shaky.

Joel stood there for a beat longer than necessary. Just watching you. Noticing the way your shoulders curved inward, the way your eyes lingered on the far corner of the room like you were deep in something, something far away from here.

He didn’t want to leave you like that.

He let out a quiet breath, then crouched down slightly in front of you, not close enough to overwhelm you, but enough that you’d have to look at him if you wanted to respond.

“You alright?” he asked gently.

You nodded again. Then, after a pause, you finally looked up.

Joel’s chest tightened.

That look, it was the same one you gave him when you were younger and your dad had yelled too loud at the barbecue. Or when you’d come inside with a scraped-up knee and didn’t want Sarah to see you cry. That look of quiet embarrassment and vulnerability, like you weren’t sure if you were being a burden.

He hated it.

You opened your mouth, maybe to say something, but nothing came out. Your lips just parted, then closed again. You tried to hold eye contact, but it slipped away. You shook your head once, quietly.

Joel’s hand twitched, like he wanted to reach out, put a hand on your shoulder or gently touch your knee the way he would’ve back then, but he didn’t.

Instead, his voice softened even more.

“Alright, alright,” he murmured. “No pressure. Just… take a breath, honey. You’re safe here, okay?”

There it was again. That name. Honey.

It wrapped around your chest, squeezing.

You hadn’t heard it in so long. Not like that. He used to say it all the time when you were little, C’mon, honey, let’s get you inside, or That’s a good drawing, honey. Real good. You never liked hearing it from anyone else. Only him. From Joel, it felt like care. Like being seen.

You blinked quickly, looking down at your hands so he wouldn’t see the emotion tugging at your lashes.

“I’ll… I’ll be okay,” you whispered, more to yourself than him.

Joel stood slowly, but before he turned to leave, he paused at the doorway, glancing back at you one last time.

“I’ll be just down the hall. If you need anything, anything at all, you come get me.”

You nodded without looking up, but your lips quirked just barely.

“Okay,” you said softly.

Joel stared at you a beat longer.

Then, quieter, almost to himself, he murmured, “alright then.”

And with that, he stepped out, the door clicking softly shut behind him, leaving you with the blanket, the silence… and a heart just a little steadier than before.

The room was dark now, save for the faint glow of a streetlamp leaking in through the half-closed blinds. You laid curled on your side, Joel’s blanket pulled up to your chin, the scent of clean linen and his detergent wrapped all around you. The pillow was soft, too soft, almost. The kind that let your thoughts wander too easily.

You’d been staring at the same shadow on the ceiling for what felt like an hour.

Sleep just wouldn’t come.

Maybe it was the unfamiliar bed, maybe the echo of the day still buzzing under your skin, but more then anything it was the weather.

The rain had started as a gentle tapping against the window, barely noticeable at first. But slowly, it picked up, growing steadier, heavier, drops rolling down the glass in quick patterns. Then came the low, rumbling thunder. Distant at first, a slow growl behind the clouds.

But now it was louder. Closer. A sudden crack split the sky, followed by a deep, echoing boom that made you flinch under the covers.

You squeezed your eyes shut, your hand tightening slightly around the edge of the blanket.

You’d always hated thunderstorms.

You remembered once, when you were little, seven or maybe eight, and one rolled in while you were at Joel’s with your dad. Joel had noticed you trying to be brave, but he caught the way your shoulders jumped when the thunder hit. Without a word, he’d passed you a blanket and a glass of water and let you curl up on the couch near him and Sarah, the sound of his voice from the other room calming you more than the storm ever could.

You missed that feeling now. That safety.

Another loud boom cracked overhead, and you sucked in a breath, your eyes flicking toward the bedroom door like instinct.

Joel was just down the hall. But you didn’t want to bother him again.

Still… something inside you itched. That little part of you that still felt like a kid in a too-big world. Alone. Unsure.

Down the hall, Joel was dead asleep.

He’d barely made it into bed before he’d knocked out, body heavy with exhaustion. Work had drained him earlier, and the long hours he put in, paired with the sudden rush of concern when you’d shown up on his doorstep, had left him bone-tired.

The steady rhythm of rain outside didn’t stir him. Not yet, anyway.

But it stirred you.

You laid there, curled into a ball beneath the blanket, your knees tucked close, your face half-buried in the pillow. The thunder rolled again, deeper now, rattling the glass just faintly. You flinched, your breath catching, blinking fast.

You weren’t crying. Not really.

But your eyes burned a little.

And as you listened to the sound of the storm, your fingers curled tighter around the blanket.

He was so close. Just down the hall.

But would he mind?

Would it be too much?

You bit your lip and stared at the door, unsure if you’d ever stop feeling small in the quiet.

The clock on the wall ticked softly, its red numbers glowing faintly: 12:03 a.m.

Midnight.

You were still curled on your side, blanket wrapped tight around your legs, eyes wide open and fixed on the glowing sliver of light under the bedroom door. The storm outside had gotten worse, no longer just a gentle background hum, but a full-on downpour. The wind hissed between the trees, rattling leaves and creaking old branches.

Then, another flash of lightning. Bright enough to paint the entire room for a split second in stark, silver light.

You barely had time to brace yourself before the thunder followed, cracking through the air like it had split the sky in two. Loud and sharp, like it was right outside the house. You flinched so hard your legs kicked against the sheets.

Your breath caught, chest rising and falling too fast now. Your hand flew up to press against it, trying to calm the thumping beneath your skin. But it didn’t help.

God, you hated this. You hated storms like this, when they felt too close, too loud, too heavy. Like they could crawl under your skin and shake you apart from the inside.

You turned onto your back, blinking up at the ceiling again. The soft darkness, the quiet of Sarah’s old room, it wasn’t enough anymore. It felt too quiet compared to the chaos outside. And it only reminded you how alone you were in here.

You glanced at the door again.

Joel was just down the hall.

But would it be too much to go to him?

He’d already done so much, took you in, gave you a warm shower, his clothes, his daughter’s bed. You didn’t want to seem childish. You didn’t want to push boundaries. But…

Another flash, crack, this time even louder. Your hand gripped the blanket tightly.

That was it.

With slow, careful movements, you peeled the covers back. The air outside the blanket was cooler now, and goosebumps instantly formed on your legs. You slid your socked feet to the floor quietly, wincing slightly as one creaked against the wood.

Your hair, now dry, hung in soft strands down your back, sticking a little to your skin from the residual warmth of sleep and nerves. You gently pushed it behind your ears as you stood.

Hesitation curled in your stomach, heavy and anxious.

You stepped to the door, standing in front of it with your hand hovering over the knob.

You could go back to bed. You could wait it out. You should wait it out…

But then came another crack of thunder, louder than any before, almost shaking the glass in the window. And that was enough.

Fingers trembling slightly, you turned the knob.

And with a soft breath, you stepped out into the quiet hallway.

The hallway was dark, lit only by the pale wash of moonlight seeping in through the front window and the occasional flicker of lightning flashing through the curtains. You walked slowly, the wood floor cool beneath your socks, your fingers brushing the wall as you passed by old picture frames and familiar corners.

Joel’s door was at the end of the hall, just like you remembered. Just like he said, come to him if you need anything.

It was slightly cracked open.

You swallowed softly, your steps faltering as you reached it. For a moment, you just stood there, the soft rumble of thunder in the distance filling the silence around you. The house smelled faintly of rain and fabric softener and the faint trace of Joel’s cologne still lingering in the air.

You gently reached out, pushing the door just enough to see inside.

The room was dark, but your eyes adjusted quickly. Joel lay on his stomach, one arm tucked under his pillow, the other resting loosely beside his head. His chest rose and fell in steady, even breaths, his brow relaxed in sleep. The blankets were half pulled over him, and his face was turned slightly toward the door, catching a sliver of the lightning’s glow as it flashed outside.

He looked peaceful. Tired, but at ease.

You didn’t want to disturb that.

Your hand lingered on the doorframe, your weight shifting between your feet as you stood there in hesitation. Maybe you should go back. Maybe this was silly, maybe it was childish. The last thing you wanted was to make him think you couldn’t handle being alone in a room anymore.

But another clap of thunder cracked above the house, louder this time, and you jumped slightly, your breath catching in your throat. You felt the sting in your eyes before you could stop it.

You didn’t want to cry again.

Not in front of him. Not like this.

But you didn’t move. You stayed there in the doorway, frozen in the space between needing comfort and being afraid to ask for it.

Joel stirred slightly at the sound of the thunder, his brow twitching before his breathing evened again.

Still asleep.

You took a quiet, shaky breath, your hand slowly sliding down from the doorframe.

What if he didn’t want to be woken up?

What if he was mad?

What if you looked like the same scared little girl he used to tease gently during storms and cookouts?

But what if… he still cared?

Your voice barely made a sound as you whispered, “Mr. Miller…?”

No response.

Your lips parted to try again, quiet, unsure.

But You just stood there, just a little longer, hands curling into the sleeves of your borrowed shirt. His room felt warmer than the rest of the house, full of something familiar. Safer. But… you couldn’t do it.

He looked so peaceful. Tired. And after everything, after taking you in without hesitation, you didn’t want to seem selfish. You didn’t want him to think you were being dramatic over something as silly as thunder.

So, slowly, you stepped back.

Your heart thudded in your chest as you turned, bare feet light on the floor. You exhaled softly, already about to head down the hall in your mind. But then—

Creaaak.

A loud, sharp groan from the floorboard beneath your foot split through the quiet like a gunshot. You froze instantly, lips parting, eyes wide in horror.

Behind you, there was a shift. A rustle of blankets.

A low, gravelly voice, tired and rough from sleep.

“…What the hell…”

You slowly turned around, just enough to see Joel blink blearily in the darkness, his hand rubbing over his face before settling on his chest as he rolled on his back. His brows furrowed as his eyes adjusted, squinting through the low light.

When they landed on you, standing there like a child caught sneaking out, they softened slightly, but only just.

“…You alright?” he asked, his voice hoarse, a little rough with sleep. Then, with a grumble, “Why’re you creepin’ around like that? It’s the middle of the night.”

You opened your mouth, unsure what to say, arms instinctively crossing over your chest.

“I— I was just…” you whispered, eyes flickering down, cheeks warm with embarrassment.

Joel let out a low, tired sigh and shifted to sit up a little, propping himself up on one elbow, still trying to shake off the haze of sleep. His voice was less annoyed now, but still heavy.

“You need somethin’?” he murmured, watching you closely, his voice softer than before. “Or you just gonna haunt my doorway like a damn ghost?”

You stood frozen in the doorway, fingers tugging anxiously at the hem of the oversized shirt he gave you earlier. His shirt. Your voice was barely audible under the hum of the rain and the soft clap of distant thunder.

“I… I got scared,” you admitted, eyes cast low. “The thunder, the lightning… I know it’s dumb.”

Joel exhaled through his nose, dragging a hand across his face. He wasn’t mad at you. Not really. He just hadn’t had much sleep, between work and you showing up at his door soaked through and shaken, and now it was past midnight and your voice sounded like it used to when you were little, all soft and trembling. That’s what got to him.

He leaned up on one elbow, blinking blearily toward the door.

“Christ,” he muttered, voice gravelly. “You still get spooked by storms, huh?”

You shifted your weight, chewing your lip.

“Didn’t think I still would,” you murmured.

Joel huffed, more to himself than to you, rubbing the back of his neck as he sat up further. But the second he looked at you again, your now soft dry hair falling soft over your shoulders, that hesitant look in your eyes, it all hit him at once.

You weren’t that little girl anymore.

But in that moment, all he could think about was how many times you’d crept out during storms, curling up beside him on the couch while Sarah snored away in the other room. No words, just a quiet, innocent need for comfort. And how natural it always felt to give it.

But this, now, wasn’t so simple.

Not with the way your body filled out that shirt.

Not with the way something deep in his chest stirred just looking at you, a twinge of guilt shadowing the way his thoughts flickered dark for half a second, wondering how your warmth might feel curled beside him again. How small you’d feel in his arms now.

Joel dragged in a breath, low and tired.

“Used to be you’d sneak out to the couch,” he said gruffly, gaze lingering just a beat too long. “Tryna act like you weren’t scared. Like I wouldn’t notice you pressed up against my side like a puppy.”

You blinked, surprised he remembered. Your voice was small. “You never said anything.”

“‘Cause you looked like you’d cry if I did,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Always been soft.”

He let the words settle. Then, after a pause, his jaw worked a little and he sighed, half annoyed with himself, half too tired to care.

“You comin’ in or just gonna stand there all night?”

You hesitated a little longer, still standing in the doorway with your fingers curled in the fabric of the shirt. His shirt.

Your voice came out quieter this time, almost unsure.

“Are you sure it’s okay if I stay? Just… just until it passes?”

Joel looked at you again, eyes bleary but steady. He could see it, how nervous you were. Not just about the storm, but about being here, in his room, asking him for comfort like you used to. But it wasn’t the same now. You weren’t seven anymore. You weren’t some little girl needing to be scooped up and soothed.

You were grown.

And your body, Jesus, your body looked nothing like the last time he’d seen you. You’d filled out in every way, but there was still that wide-eyed softness in you. That part that always looked to him like he could make the world okay again if he just said the right thing.

He shifted on the bed, patting the other side with a quiet sigh.

“Yeah, darlin’. Just ‘til it passes.”

You gave a shy little nod before walking in slowly, the rain outside soft against the windows but thunder cracking again somewhere far off. You were trembling just a little when you got to the bed, and you climbed in carefully, like you didn’t want to disturb anything. Like you were scared of waking a moment that didn’t belong to you.

Joel didn’t move.

You settled on your side, back to him at first, curled slightly beneath the covers he pulled back for you. The warmth of the bed hit you instantly, and it was hard not to sigh in relief. But it wasn’t just the heat from the sheets or the thunder outside easing off, it was him. His presence. Just knowing he was here, that he let you in.

Your heart beat a little faster as it all hit you.

You were lying next to Joel Miller. The man who used to pat your head when you showed him little drawings. The man you used to make Christmas cards for. The man you secretly loved ever since you were thirteen and realized he wasn’t just “Mr. Miller,” your dad’s friend… but someone who made you feel safe. Warm. Special.

And now, here you were, older, softer, scared again. But this time, it felt different.

He was right there. His breath slow behind you. His body warm. And you couldn’t help but wonder…

Did he feel it too?

You lay still at first, curled close to the edge of the bed like a guest who didn’t know the rules. The blankets were warm, and the pillow soft, but your body couldn’t quite settle. Your back was to him, and your fingers were knotted into the sheets like they might keep you anchored.

The storm outside was still rumbling, the thunder not as sharp now but deep and constant, like it was pacing around the house.

You weren’t even sure if Joel was awake. You thought maybe you’d imagined him shifting behind you, until his voice came, low and rough with sleep, but clearly not imagined.

“What’re you doin’ all the way over there?” he muttered, grumbling like it physically pained him to speak in the middle of the night.

You stiffened a little, eyes wide in the dark. “I—” You swallowed, heat creeping into your face. “I didn’t wanna bother you…”

There was a pause. He let out a quiet sigh, one of those Joel sighs you remembered from when he’d get tired of your dad’s nonsense during cookouts. Tired, dry, and somehow still patient.

“Jesus,” he murmured, not harsh. Just tired. “You think I told you to come in here just to let you freeze over there like a damn guest?”

Your face burned. You bit your lip, heart pounding louder than the rain.

Carefully, so slowly it felt like a small journey, you shifted under the covers. Inch by inch, you moved closer. You could feel his body heat before you were even halfway there, and by the time your shoulder was only a breath away from his, you hesitated again. But something in you wanted more than just his warmth. You needed to feel him. To be close.

So you moved the last few inches, gently laying your head near his shoulder. Not on him—at first. Just close enough to breathe easier.

And then you gave in. Your cheek pressed gently against his chest, and your arm curled in toward yourself, fingers brushing his side as you tried not to overthink it.

Joel didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

But God, the way he felt, his chest rising and falling steady beneath your cheek, the familiar scent of him wrapping around you like a second blanket. That old scent. Soap and cedar and worn cotton and Joel.

You hadn’t felt this safe in a long time.

A tiny, involuntary sound left you, a soft, relieved sigh as your body relaxed. You nuzzled in just a little more, eyes fluttering shut as his warmth finally started to melt the cold from your skin.

Joel hadn’t said anything, but you could feel the tension in his chest. Not discomfort. Just… hesitation.

You knew that too. He didn’t know what to do with you now, not like this. Not grown, not curled up in his bed wearing his shirt, looking for comfort only he could give.

He didn’t say anything right away. But his chest shifted beneath you, his breathing slowing. And then, finally, his hand came up, tentative, rough, warm, and hovered near your back. Not touching. Just close. Like he was reminding himself that you were real.

You didn’t know if he’d fall asleep again. But you knew you would.

Because this was all you needed.

Joel stared at the ceiling.

The room was dark, save for the occasional flicker of lightning behind the curtain, and the steady sound of rain tapping on the window filled the quiet space. But even with the storm softening into background noise, sleep wouldn’t come.

He could feel her beside him, soft and warm, her breath slow and even now that she’d finally calmed down. She’d melted against him like it was the most natural thing in the world. Her head resting gently on his chest, her hand tucked near her own heart, curled in the way people do when they finally feel safe.

Joel’s arm had settled around her without much thought. His hand now rested lightly at her waist, fingers lax but aware. He hadn’t meant to, at first it was just instinct, like the way he’d comforted Sarah when she was little, or even how he used to drape a blanket over her when she’d fall asleep on his couch during those late visits.

But this was different.

She wasn’t that little girl anymore.

The shape of her, the softness of her body as it pressed into his side, it was impossible not to notice. He hadn’t seen her in so long, and now here she was, grown, hurting, and laying in his bed like this was where she belonged. And Joel didn’t know what to do with that.

He swallowed hard, his jaw clenched as he tried to steady the tide of thoughts rising in his chest. It wasn’t just that she’d changed, it was the way she still made him feel responsible, like her well-being was somehow in his hands. Maybe it always had been.

And dammit, part of him wished he had stayed around. Maybe things would’ve been different. Maybe she wouldn’t have shown up at his door soaked to the skin, eyes full of tears, begging silently for someone to just see her.

He shifted slightly, just enough to look down at her.

She looked peaceful now. Fragile, even. Her damp hair lay across his shirt, and her face, still youthful, but no longer childish, was softened by sleep. He remembered that face years ago, peeking up at him from a guitar she didn’t want to learn, or from behind her dad’s leg at a cookout.

And now here she was.

Joel let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, low and quiet.

She stirred a little but didn’t wake. Just nestled in closer, chasing his warmth in her sleep. And God help him, Joel tightened his arm gently around her, just enough to hold her there, just enough to keep her safe for one more night.

“Jesus,” he murmured under his breath, barely audible. “When the hell did that happen?” Referring to you growing up. Your once small body, developing.

Sleep would come for her.

But for him… maybe not just yet.

I had to freaking make this two parts since it’s so much so part 2 is just pure smut

#joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #moonlitsmile #joel miller fic #joel miller fluff #the last of us #tlou #the last of us fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal joel miller #pedro pascal fanfiction

57 notes · View notes

squidsquidsquidsquidsquidgame · 2 days ago

Note

This one is just kinda silly and for the funsies, bit maybe squid game characters reacting to you saying, "Size doesn't matter" (I don't know I just thought it would be funny)

Okay so....I wanna do this with all 22/24 characters i write for...so hold on tight

Characters: [Cho hyun ju, Thanos, Namgyu, Gyeong-Seok, Young-il, Gi-Hun, Dae-Ho, Min-Su, Sang-Woo, Yong-sik, Salesman]

[Song mingi, Choi San]

[Gdragon, Kang Daesung, T.O.P]

[Kim Namjoon, Min Yoongi, Jhope]

[Kim Seo-Wan]

[Gong yoo, Roh jae-won, Park Sunghoon]

(Oh and I didn't know if you meant about the dick, so I did it about the dick)

Oh and both reader and the character can say size doesnt matter

Warnings: Suggestive terms, talk of sex, Use of the word Dick. MDNI

Hyun ju

(so...ee...this one will be about a Strap-on because I don't think pookie wants to use her own...)

It’s a lazy Saturday, and you and Hyun-Ju are curled up on the couch, giggling as you scroll through an online shop that’s definitely not safe for work. She’s half-hiding her face behind a throw pillow, eyes flicking between the screen and your face, clearly embarrassed but curious.

“I can’t believe we’re really doing this,” she mutters, voice muffled by the pillow.

“You suggested it,” you say, nudging her playfully. “You said you wanted to try.”

“I did,” she grumbles. “I just didn’t think I’d have to pick one. There are so many sizes. What if I mess it up?”

You snort, grinning as you turn the tablet toward her. “It’s not a test, babe. Just pick one you like.”

She peers at the screen again, then covers her eyes dramatically. “That one looks huge. What if it’s too much? What if it’s not enough? What if—”

“Hyun-Ju,” you say gently, taking her hand. “Size doesn’t matter.”

She blinks. “It doesn’t?”

“Not like you think.” You scoot closer, brushing her hair behind her ear. “You could show up with a tiny pink one with glitter and a bow on it, and I’d still be down. It’s about you, not the size.”

A laugh escapes her—nervous, but warm. “You’re such a sap.”

“And you love me.”

“I really do,” she whispers, leaning in for a kiss. “Okay, let’s pick one. But if it has glitter, you’re the one explaining it if we get stopped at customs.”

“Deal,” you say, grinning into the kiss. “But for the record, I kinda want the glitter one now.”

Thanos

It’s quiet in the room—warm, low-lit, safe. The kind of safe that only ever seems to happen with him.

Su-Bong's fingers trail hesitantly down your waist, his gaze flickering between your face and the edge of your shirt. You’re already half undressed, bare legs brushing against his clothed ones as you sit straddling his lap, hearts pounding too loud in the stillness.

You kiss his cheek. “You okay?”

He nods slowly, but you see it—that flash of doubt in his eyes.

“I just…” he starts, voice low and scratchy. “Before we go further, I wanna say something.”

You blink, cupping his jaw with both hands. “Say anything.”

His eyes avoid yours, locked on the hem of your shirt like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. “I don’t want you to be disappointed. With… me. With it.” His laugh is awkward, humorless. “I know I’m not… you know, not big. Like, porn star or whatever."

For a second, you’re quiet, processing the weight of his insecurity. Then, as he finally works up the nerve to push his boxers down—vulnerable, cheeks already flushed—you do something completely unexpected.You giggle. Not out of malice. It’s soft, unfiltered. Genuine.

He stiffens. “What—what’s funny?"

You lean forward and kiss the corner of his mouth, still laughing a little as you murmur, “Size doesn’t matter, baby.”

He blinks.

You run your fingers down his chest, resting a hand on his stomach. “Seriously. You think I’m here because I measured you first? I’m here because it’s you. The guy who watches cheesy horror movies with me and makes weird little noises in his sleep.

”Su-Bong covers his face with both hands. “Oh my god, stop…”

“I won’t,” you tease, pressing kisses to his chest, each word softer. “You’re sexy. You’re sweet. You make me feel safe. I want you. All of you. This too.”

You wrap your fingers around him—slow, tender—and he gasps, melting under your touch like he’s never been touched like this before. With care. With affection. With love that doesn’t measure.

“Baby,” he whispers, voice cracking.

You meet his eyes and smile. “Told you. Doesn’t matter.”

Namgyu

You’re lying in bed with Nam-Gyu, his shirt long discarded somewhere on the floor, and his fingers running idle patterns along your waist. There’s a softness to the moment, a pause that lingers just a little longer than usual.

Then, just as your hand starts sliding lower, he pulls back—just a bit.

"Wait," he says, suddenly awkward, reaching over to flick off the lamp beside the bed. The room dips into a warm, dusky kind of dark.You blink. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah," he says too fast. Then adds with a half-laugh, "It’s just, you know… it's hotter this way. Like... mood lighting."

You grin, amused. "You mean no lighting?"

He chuckles, but it sounds tight. “Yeah. Total darkness. Very sexy. Classic move.”

There’s a beat of silence. You can feel his hesitance under the teasing, the way his fingers have gone still on your hip.You scoot closer, brushing your nose against his. “Nam-Gyu… what’s going on?”

He sighs, and you can hear the quiet vulnerability there. “It’s stupid. Just… I’ve always been kinda self-conscious about my… size.”

Your heart softens immediately. You kiss the edge of his jaw, then his cheek.He mumbles, “I mean, it’s like… five inches. Nothing special. And I guess I thought maybe if it’s dark, I won’t see it in your eyes. That… disappointment.”

You pause only long enough to tilt his face toward yours.

“Hey. Look at me.” He does. Barely.

“I’m not with you for that,” you whisper. “You’re kind. You’re funny. You care so deeply, even when you try to play it cool. That’s what matters. And for the record? I’ve never once been disappointed. Not even close.

”His expression flickers—half grateful, half disbelieving.

“You don’t have to be a certain size to make someone feel wanted,” you continue, pressing your forehead to his. “You already do. Every time you look at me like I’m the only person in the world. Every time you make me laugh until I cry. Every time you hold me like this.”

“…You really don’t care?”

“I really don’t care,” you say firmly. “I care about you. Not numbers.”

There’s a long, quiet moment before he finally lets out a breath and pulls you into a real, full-bodied hug. He kisses you slow this time, deep, like he’s breathing again.“…Okay,” he says softly. “Lights can stay off for now. But only because I still think it’s hot.”

You smile against his mouth. “Sure, babe. Whatever helps your sexy ninja fantasy.”

Gyeong seok

You were tangled up on the couch together, the late-night movie long forgotten as Gyeong-Seok nuzzled his nose against your shoulder, murmuring something that made you giggle.

“I still can’t believe you laugh like that,” he teased, voice low and full of warmth.

“And I still can’t believe you blush this easily,” you shot back, tracing a finger across his cheek just to see him turn crimson again. He looked away bashfully, but the corner of his mouth tugged upward.

Then, after a beat, his voice dropped just a bit.

“Hey… can I ask you something kinda dumb?”

You shifted to face him more fully, cupping his face gently. “You can ask me anything.”

He hesitated, then let out a nervous chuckle. “Does… size matter to you?”

You blinked, caught off guard, but not unkindly. “You mean—?”

He nodded, clearly mortified but trying to stay cool. “Yeah. That.”

You almost laughed, but he looked so sincere, so vulnerable, it stopped you. Instead, you kissed him softly and rested your forehead against his.

“Gyeong-Seok,” you said gently, “I’ve never once been with you and thought, ‘Oh no, not big enough.’ You know what I think about?”

He looked at you, hopeful and shy. “What?”

“How you always kiss the inside of my wrist like it's sacred. How you whisper my name like you’re afraid it’ll float away. How you listen when I tell you what feels good, and then you remember.”

He was quiet, eyes flicking down, a little overwhelmed.

“I mean it,” you added. “You could have a magic wand or a baby carrot—it wouldn’t change how you love me. And that’s what gets me.

”Finally, he cracked a grin. “Baby carrot?”

You shrugged with a cheeky smile. “It’s about the technique, babe.”

He groaned and buried his face in your chest. “I’ll never be able to look at a salad the same way again.”

You both laughed, and later, when things got a little more heated and his hands found familiar places, he didn’t ask again. He didn’t need to.

You made sure of that.

Young il

SYou’re lying on your stomach, still catching your breath, face half-buried in Young-Il’s chest. His fingers play lazily with a strand of your hair, his body warm and flushed from what just happened. You’re both quiet, basking in that afterglow that makes the world feel like it’s humming.

Then he murmurs, almost like he didn’t mean for you to hear: “…Do you ever wish I was bigger?”

Your head snaps up.

“What?”

He looks embarrassed, eyes flicking away from yours, his hand pausing in your hair. “I mean, I know I’m not, like… huge. Some guys are, and I just—if it ever felt like you were missing out, I’d wanna know.”

You blink, then burst out laughing.

He groans. “See? I knew I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“No, no—baby—” You sit up, straddling his waist, cupping his face gently. “Do you know how ridiculous that sounds coming from the man who had me seeing stars ten minutes ago?”

He’s still sulking a little, but you can see the corner of his mouth twitching. “You sure?”

“Positive,” you say, leaning down to kiss him. “You fit me perfectly. Like you were designed for me. And it’s not just about size—it’s how you touch me, how you know me. That’s what makes it good. That’s what makes it you.”

He finally smiles, that beautiful, dimpled grin that always makes your heart skip.

“…Still wouldn’t mind being called ‘huge’ just once,” he mumbles.

You lean closer, lips brushing his ear.

“Fine. You’re huge.”

A pause.

“Emotionally.”

He bursts out laughing, flipping you onto your back and pinning you there with playful kisses, his confidence restored.

And just like that, he stops worrying.

GiHun

You’re curled up with Gi-Hun on your worn-out couch, half-watching a movie and half-fighting the urge to fall asleep on his chest. His fingers trace lazy circles on your arm, his other hand buried in your hair.

“You know,” he starts, sounding strangely shy for someone who’d just been spoon-feeding you popcorn a minute ago, “I used to worry about stuff like… you know. Size.”

You blink. “Size?”

He clears his throat. “My dick.”

You almost choke on laughter. “What?”

“I’m serious!” He looks genuinely embarrassed, eyes darting away. “When I was younger, I used to compare. Locker rooms, internet… all that stuff. Thought it mattered more than it actually did.”

You sit up a little so you can look at him properly. He’s blushing, ears pink, suddenly ten times more boyish than man. It’s ridiculously endearing.

“And now?” you ask softly.

He shrugs. “Sometimes I still wonder. But then you—” He pauses, smiling crookedly. “You don’t seem to care. You never made me feel like I had to be anyone else.”

You cup his face, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. “That’s because I don’t care. You think I fall asleep on you every other night because of your dick size?”

“Well, I was hoping it was because of my dazzling personality,” he jokes, but his smile softens when you kiss his temple.

“Gi-Hun. You could be the size of my pinky and I’d still love you.”

“...Really?”

“Really.”

“And I’m not that small, though. Right?” You smirk. “Do you want a full report?”

He laughs, pulling you close again. “Maybe later.”

The movie continues, forgotten in the background. He holds you tighter, more secure now, like your words stitched something quiet and old inside him back together

Dae ho

You’re curled up on Dae-Ho’s couch with him, legs tangled beneath a shared blanket, a half-eaten bowl of tteokbokki on the coffee table, and some random late-night variety show playing in the background. You’re not even watching it anymore — not really.

Dae-Ho is warm beside you, absently stroking your thigh with those long fingers of his, mind somewhere far off. He’s quiet tonight, quieter than usual, and you catch him looking away when you meet his eyes.

“You okay?” you ask, bumping his knee with yours.

He hesitates, then shrugs. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

That’s Dae-Ho for you — always internal, always trying to keep his feelings tidy and out of the way, like they’re an inconvenience. But not with you. He’s learning not to be.

You shift a little, angling your body toward him. “Thinking about what?”

His ears pinken. He scratches the back of his neck, the classic “I’m awkward but trying not to be” move. “It’s kind of dumb.”

“I’m kind of dumb too,” you joke, nudging him with your foot. “Try me.”

He exhales through his nose, then mutters, “Just… that maybe I’m not exactly… impressive. Physically.”

You blink. “Physically?”

He frowns, eyes trained on the blanket now. “You know. Down there.”

Oh.

You pause, then blink again, a slow smile creeping up your face. “Dae-Ho… are you seriously worried about the size of your dick?”

His face flushes crimson. “Okay—see—this is why I didn’t want to say anything—”

“No, no,” you laugh, catching his wrist when he tries to pull away. “Wait, I’m not teasing. Okay, maybe a little, but only because it’s you.”

He groans and drops his head onto your shoulder, hiding his face like a sulky puppy. “It’s not funny.”

“It kind of is. I mean, look at you.” You cup his cheek, guiding his gaze back to yours. “You’re tall, you’ve got the most absurdly perfect hands, you’re sweet and quiet and smart, and I’m crazy about you. Do you really think I’m lying here at midnight with you, craving your attention, because of something like that?”

He opens his mouth, then closes it.

You grin. “Let me say it clearly: size doesn’t matter. At all.”

He stares at you.

“...Except for your heart,” you add, tapping his chest. “That better stay big.”

He lets out a soft, relieved laugh, eyes crinkling just the way you love. “You’re such a brat.”

“And you’re ridiculous,” you say, climbing onto his lap and kissing the corner of his mouth. “If you’re still worried, I could demonstrate how much I like you. With... detailed examples.”

He arches an eyebrow. “You want to prove it?”

“Only for scientific purposes.”

Dae-Ho chuckles, arms sliding around your waist. “I guess I’ll allow it.”

Safe to say, he didn’t bring it up again. Not with words, anyway.

Min su

It was supposed to be a lazy Sunday morning. The kind where you wake up tangled in each other’s limbs, half-asleep kisses exchanged under warm sheets, maybe pancakes later—if you ever got out of bed.But then he’d gone quiet.

You were curled against Min-Su’s side, one leg draped over his, fingers lazily tracing the hem of his shirt. You’d noticed it—how still he went when your hand skimmed down toward his waistband. He wasn’t recoiling, exactly, but he definitely wasn’t leaning into it either.

“Hey,” you murmured, tilting your head to look at him. “You okay?”

His jaw flexed. “Yeah. Just tired.”

Lie. You could read Min-Su like an open book—he wanted to be easygoing, confident, nonchalant. But you’d seen the way he avoided locker room talk with his friends. The way he changed the subject when guys joked about size like it was some kind of scoreboard.

And now you saw that same tension flickering behind his eyes.

“You don’t have to pretend,” you said gently, sitting up just enough to face him. “Something’s on your mind.”

He let out a breath. “It’s stupid.”

“Let me decide that.”

Min-Su hesitated. Then finally, he said it, barely above a whisper: “I know I’m not… you know. Huge. Like, I’ve seen the kind of guys in those comments sections online, and it’s just—hard not to compare.”

You blinked, caught off guard by his honesty. But your heart ached a little too. Not for what he said, but that he’d been carrying that insecurity at all.

“Min-Su,” you said, sliding your hand into his and squeezing, “can I be real with you?”

He nodded, a little guarded.

“I don’t care how many inches someone has. That’s not why I love being with you. I care about how you look at me like I’m the only person in the room. How you laugh like a little kid when I poke your ribs. How you treat my body like it’s something you respect, not something to conquer.”

His shoulders slumped slightly, a sign of his walls lowering. “But don’t you ever… I dunno… wish it was different?”

You leaned down and kissed the corner of his mouth. “No. You want to know what does matter?”

“What?”

You kissed him again, deeper this time. “How safe I feel with you. How good you are with your hands. And your mouth.” A teasing smile crept in. “That is what gets me.”

A faint red climbed his cheeks, but he smiled—genuine this time. “So… you’re not just saying that?”

“Do I look like someone who fakes anything?”

Min-Su laughed softly, pulling you into him again. “You’re really something, you know that?”

You settled against his chest, satisfied as his heartbeat evened out. “Told you. No ruler needed.”

Sang woo

You were curled up on the couch with Sang-Woo, your legs tangled beneath the blanket, his arm around your shoulder. The rain tapped softly against the window, filling the quiet room with its steady rhythm. You could feel his heartbeat under your palm where your hand rested on his chest. He smelled like warm laundry and peppermint tea, freshly showered, freshly yours.

"I still don’t get why you like me," he said suddenly, voice quiet. Almost joking, but not really.

You turned your head to look at him, confused. "What do you mean?"

He hesitated, gaze fixed on the ceiling. "I’m… not the biggest guy out there. You’ve never said anything, but… I know what people expect. What guys are *supposed* to look like."

Ah. So that’s what this was.You sat up slightly, cupping his jaw so he’d look at you. "Sang-Woo. Are you seriously worried about your dick right now?"

He flushed, cheeks pink. "I didn’t say that."

"You didn’t have to," you teased gently, then leaned in closer. "First of all, size doesn’t matter. But second of all? I’ve never had a single complaint."

"You're biased," he muttered, embarrassed."

Biased because I love it," you grinned. "It’s you. I don’t want anyone else, or anything else. You really think I’d fake all those sounds I make? That mess you turn me into every single time?"

That shut him up.

You could feel the shift in the air — the way his hand slid under your shirt, slow and tentative, the way his mouth found yours, a little desperate now. When he kissed you like that — full of unspoken apologies, hunger, and need — you knew it wasn’t just about proving something.

It was about believing you.

Later, tangled in the sheets, your head resting on his shoulder, he mumbled, "You’re the one who wrecked me this time."

You smiled into his skin. "Told you. Perfect fit."

Yong Sik

It started with a stupid conversation. One of those ones that spirals after wine, too many snacks, and a little too much scrolling on TikTok together. You and Yong-Sik were curled up on the couch in matching sweatpants—his oversized hoodie swallowing you whole—watching random videos until one popped up that made your eyes widen.

“Why is every comment on this video about that guy’s... size?” you asked with a snort, tossing your phone on the table.

Yong-Sik cleared his throat. “People talk about that kind of thing too much these days. It’s not everything.

”You glanced over at him, raising an eyebrow.

He rubbed the back of his neck and added, “...Not that I’ve ever had complaints. But, you know. In theory.”

You tilted your head at him, amused by his sudden flustered state. “Yong-Sik. Are you feeling insecure?”

His ears turned red instantly. “No! I just—!” He paused. “Wait, are you saying something?”

You laughed and leaned in, kissing the corner of his mouth. “I’m saying I don’t care if you’re bigger than some TikTok thirst trap. You’re the one I come home to. You make me laugh when I want to cry, you carry my heavy bags even when I tell you not to, and you make me pancakes shaped like hearts even when they look more like deformed blobs.”

Yong-Sik blinked. “...That’s because I love you.”

“Exactly. And that is more than enough,” you whispered, fingers gently curling around the waistband of his sweatpants. “But, for the record... I have zero complaints either.”

He froze as your hand slid down slightly, and then his whole face lit up with a dopey grin. “Ah... I see. So size doesn’t matter, but—”“Shut up and kiss me.”

He did. And later, as the room filled with the sounds of soft laughter, whispered I-love-you’s, and rustling sheets, you were both reminded that connection—real, warm, messy, honest—was what mattered most.

Even if he did walk around with a little extra swagger the next day.

The Salesman

It started with a dumb joke.

You were lying across the bed on your stomach, scrolling through your phone while Gong Yoo — or “the Salesman,” as you still teasingly called him — towel-dried his hair beside you. His long legs were crossed, eyes calm as he hummed some tune under his breath.

“Did you know,” you said casually, “the average length is only like... 5.1 inches?”

He paused mid-rub, glanced at you in the mirror. “Is that so?”

“Mmhmm. I read it in an article. Very scientific.”

There was a beat of silence, then a low chuckle. “And why are you researching average dick sizes?”

You shrugged dramatically. “Just… general knowledge. Trivia night prep.”

He moved behind you and tugged your phone gently from your hand, tossing it to the side before crawling over your back like a lazy panther.

“So? Did it disappoint you?” His voice was warm in your ear. “Are you… devastated by this new information?”

You snorted. “Please. Size doesn’t matter.”

He froze.

Then you felt it — the slow smirk spreading across his face as his arms boxed you in. “Is that what people say when they’re trying to be nice?”

“Oh, don’t get sensitive on me,” you teased, rolling over beneath him. “It’s not about length. It’s about knowing what to do with it.”

He raised an eyebrow, then lowered his mouth to your neck, whispering, “Then I guess you should be grateful I’m very... skilled.”

Your breath hitched. “So confident.”

“You started it,” he murmured, kissing just below your ear. “And if you’re going to toss out scientific studies, then I feel obligated to provide… counter-research.”

You laughed into his shoulder, loving how quickly your playful banter always turned into this — warmth, tension, familiarity. It wasn’t just about sex, though you’d never complain about that. It was the way he always knew how to get under your skin, mentally and physically.

“You’re such a menace,” you mumbled.He grinned, nudging your nose with his. “Maybe. But tell me again—size doesn’t matter?”

You looped your arms around his neck, eyes sparkling. “Not when you’ve got a mouth like yours.”

He kissed you breathless after that, the kind of kiss that left no room for trivia, only heat.

Later, when you were curled against him, legs tangled and hearts steadying, he whispered, “Still think size doesn’t matter?”

You kissed his chest, right over his heartbeat. “I still think you matter most.”

And that answer shut him up for a long, long time.

Song mingi

Mingi had always been a confident man. On stage, he exuded charisma, his presence so magnetic that it was hard to look away. Off-stage, however, he was a little different. He was self-conscious, especially in moments of intimacy, a side that only you got to see.

You had been together for a few months now, and despite the closeness you shared, he never seemed entirely comfortable when it came to certain things. You’d never been the type to worry about small details, but for some reason, Mingi always seemed to care.

It all started one evening when you both were lounging around in your shared apartment. The mood was light, filled with teasing banter and soft smiles. Mingi had been particularly quiet for the past hour, seemingly lost in thought.

"Hey," you called softly, nudging him gently. "What's on your mind?"

He looked up, and his eyes held a mixture of hesitation and vulnerability. "Y/N, can I ask you something?" His voice was low, almost shy, which caught your attention immediately.

"Of course. What's up?"

Mingi shifted uncomfortably on the couch, fiddling with the hem of his shirt. "It's... kind of silly," he muttered, avoiding your gaze.You raised an eyebrow, curious but concerned. "Mingi, you know you can talk to me about anything. Nothing is too silly."

He sighed, finally turning to face you. "I’ve been... thinking about something. I know we’ve been together for a while, but... I’ve always worried about... you know." His face flushed, and he gestured vaguely toward the space between you two, not exactly saying what he meant.

It took you a moment to understand, but once the realization hit, you couldn’t help but smile softly. "Mingi," you said, reaching out to take his hand, "You don’t have to worry about that."

He looked at you, his expression still filled with doubt. "But—""Listen to me," you interjected, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. "Size doesn’t matter. It’s not about that, Mingi. It’s about how you make me feel. And you make me feel amazing."

He blinked, clearly processing your words. "Really? You’re not just saying that to make me feel better?"

You chuckled lightly, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. "Mingi, I love you for who you are. Everything about you, not just the obvious stuff. And honestly? You don’t need to worry about anything else."

His shoulders visibly relaxed at your words, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "I guess I’ve been a little insecure about it," he admitted, his voice a little lighter now.

You leaned in, kissing him softly on the cheek. "There’s no reason to be insecure with me. I love everything about you, and that’s all that matters."

Mingi’s smile grew, and he pulled you into a tight hug, his warmth wrapping around you like a comforting blanket. "I’m really lucky to have you, Y/N."

"And I’m lucky to have you," you whispered, resting your head against his chest, content in the quiet embrace.

In that moment, you both understood that it wasn’t the superficial things that made a relationship special. It was trust, love, and understanding that truly mattered. And no matter what, Mingi knew he had those things with you.

Choi san

You had said it offhandedly. Over dinner, chopsticks poised mid-air, your eyes casually scanning the TV in the background.

“Size doesn’t matter,” you said, as if you hadn’t just set off a ticking time bomb across the table.

San blinked. “Huh?”

You grinned, teasing. “You know. In general. People make too big a deal about it.”

His brow twitched. The corner of his mouth tilted, somewhere between amused and intrigued. “You sure about that?”

You shrugged, sipping your drink slowly, eyes twinkling over the rim. “Mmhm.”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table and lowering his voice. “Y/N, are you trying to start something right now?”

“What?” you asked innocently, though your foot was already sneaking up his leg under the table. “Are you offended or something?”

He gave a low laugh, the kind that hinted he wasn’t going to let this go. “No, no. Not offended. Just... curious how committed you are to that statement.”

You quirked a brow. “Why? Planning to challenge me?”

He got up without a word, casually walking around the table, fingers brushing your shoulder as he passed behind you. “Let’s test your theory then.”

---Which is how you ended up where you were now—sprawled across his bed, his shirt discarded somewhere on the floor, and San kissing a line down your collarbone with maddening patience.

“Still think size doesn’t matter?” he murmured against your skin, his voice thick with mischief, his hand trailing lower, slow, purposeful.

Your breath hitched. “I mean... it depends what we’re talking about.”

He looked up at you with a smirk. “Don’t get shy now. I’m just a humble man trying to change your mind.”

And oh—he did. He took his time proving you wrong, with hands that knew exactly how to hold you and a body that moved with confident restraint.

It wasn’t just his size. It was the way he watched your reactions like they were sacred. The way he whispered your name when you trembled beneath him. The way he laughed, low and warm, when you finally gasped something that sounded suspiciously like:

“Okay—maybe it kind of matters—”San grinned against your neck. “Say it louder.”

You tugged him closer, heart thudding, face flushed. “San.”

“Yeah?”

You gave him your sweetest, most ruined smile. “I hate you.”

He laughed again—soft, smug, entirely in love. “No, you don’t.”

namjoon

(THIS ONE IS VERY EXPLICIT AND INCLUDES EEE...SEX)

You said it like it was nothing.

"Size doesn’t matter."

Casually, while scrolling your phone, half-laughing at a meme. And Namjoon had paused—hand stilling on your thigh, eyes flicking up like he’d just missed the punchline of a joke aimed at him.

“You think so?” he asked, voice low but unreadable.

You blinked. “Well… yeah. I mean—” You trailed off, trying to read the flicker of something in his expression. “I meant it doesn’t have to. Not like it’s the only thing that matters.”

Namjoon hummed, leaning back against the couch. One arm stretched behind you, fingers brushing your shoulder.

“But it matters to you a little,” he said, tilting his head. “Doesn’t it?”

You smirked, sensing the shift. “Why? You insecure or something?”

And that’s when he laughed—deep and sharp, like a warning and a promise.

“Oh, baby,” he said, voice thick like molasses. “If only you knew how much it matters when it’s me.”

He didn’t rush.

Namjoon never did.

He undressed you slowly, like it was ritual. Worshipful. Every piece of clothing peeled off with care, with teasing glances and subtle touches that made your skin feel too tight. When you reached for him—clumsy, eager—he caught your wrists and pinned them above your head.

“Be patient,” he murmured. “You’ll get it. All of it.”

You thought he was just teasing—until he slid his pants down and your breath hitched.

“Holy shit,” you whispered, eyes wide. “Joon.”

He just looked smug. But beneath that, something softer flickered—like he was watching for your real reaction.

“I’ve scared people before,” he admitted, kneeling between your legs. “Not everyone can take it.”

You reached for him again—this time, to cup his face.

“Then they didn’t deserve it,” you said. “Or you.”

His eyes darkened. “Fuck. Say that again.”

You did. With your legs wrapped around his waist and his forehead pressed to yours, you said it again. And again. And when he started moving—slow, deep, filling you in a way that made you gasp—you weren’t thinking about size.

You were thinking about him. His hands holding you like you were breakable. His voice low and tender, asking if you were okay. The way he waited for you to adjust. The way he whispered, “You’re doing so good for me, baby.”

By the time you came, blinding and loud, the only thing that mattered was the way he held you through it—kissed your cheeks, your chest, your lips, like you were the one who’d given him something.

Later, with your head on his chest, you mumbled, “Okay. Maybe size matters a little.”

He laughed, breath puffing against your hair. “Told you.”

But he held you closer, like it didn’t matter at all.

Yoongi

It started with a stupid comment.

You were both curled up on the couch after a lazy dinner, your head in Yoongi’s lap, a soft blanket thrown over the two of you. A rerun of some variety show was playing, though neither of you was really paying attention.

“I swear,” you muttered, “if I have to hear one more guy on TV brag about how big he is like it’s a goddamn trophy—”Yoongi chuckled lowly, playing with your hair. “Well, it is a point of pride for a lot of men.”

“Yeah, but it’s so dumb. Like, I’ve dated guys who were… let’s just say, very confident about their size, and yet they couldn’t find a clue if I drew them a map.” You looked up at him with a smirk. “It’s not about size. It’s about effort, understanding… knowing how to actually connect.”

His fingers paused.

You noticed instantly. That subtle shift in Yoongi’s energy that he always tried to hide—when something hit him a little too close.

“Yoongi?”

He glanced away, eyes on the muted TV now. “…You really think size doesn’t matter?”

You sat up slightly, enough to look at him properly. “Of course not. Why?”

He shrugged, too casually. “Nothing. Just… guys hear stuff, you know?”

“Babe.” You placed your hand on his cheek, gently turning his face toward you. “You know I don’t care about that. Right?”

Yoongi bit his lip, hesitating. “I’ve always been kind of self-conscious. Especially when I was younger. The locker room talk, the comparisons… it messes with your head after a while. Even now, sometimes I wonder if…”

He trailed off, clearly embarrassed.Your chest squeezed. Not because he was insecure, but because he trusted you enough to admit it.

“Hey,” you said softly, sliding into his lap, straddling him under the blanket. His hands instinctively came to rest on your hips.

“I’m going to say this once, and I need you to really hear it, okay?” you whispered, brushing your lips against his. “You are the best I’ve ever had. Not because of some stupid number or what porn says is ideal. Because you care. You listen. You know what I like. You take your time. You make me feel wanted. Safe. Desired. Worshipped.”

He blinked slowly. “Worshipped, huh?”

“Mm-hmm.” You kissed his jaw, then his neck, letting your lips linger just to feel him shiver. “No one’s ever made me feel like you do. So yeah—size doesn’t matter. You matter.”

Yoongi exhaled shakily, tension slowly melting from his shoulders. His eyes softened, that quiet smile forming—the one reserved just for you.

“…You always know what to say,” he murmured, resting his forehead against yours.

“That’s because I mean it.”

Silence settled over you again, but this time, it was warm and full and safe. He pulled you closer, arms around your waist, blanket cocooning you both in that bubble you always loved.

After a few minutes, he spoke again—voice low and teasing this time. “Still, just for the record…”

“Hm?”

“…I may not be the biggest. But I am the best.”

You burst out laughing, smacking his chest playfully. “Cocky little shit.”

He grinned. “Only when it counts.”

Jhope

You had barely finished your sentence when Hoseok froze.

“I mean, I saw it online,” you rambled, cheeks burning. “That guys worry about… size. And it just made me wonder if—if you ever felt that way.”

Hoseok raised an eyebrow as he set his glass of water down on the nightstand. The soft rustle of sheets between you made the silence louder.

“Wait,” he said, slowly. “Are you asking if I worry about my size?”

You buried your face in your hands. “Forget I said anything.”

But he reached over, gently prying your fingers away with a grin. “No, baby. I just wanna understand. You mean, like... my dick?”

You groaned. “Yes. That.”

He laughed—an easy, warm laugh that somehow made the tension crack like a bubble. “Ah, jagi,” he said, shifting closer, “you know what I think?”

You gave him a side-eye.

“I think size doesn’t matter,” he said confidently, sliding a hand under the hem of your shirt. “What matters is how I use it.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were already giggling as he leaned down and kissed your stomach, slow and teasing.

“You never once complained,” he said between kisses, moving lower. “In fact, you usually can’t walk straight after.”

“Cocky much?”

“I have to be cocky,” he said with a wink. “It’s not about being the biggest. It’s about knowing your body—what you like. What makes you fall apart.”

His voice dropped, thick with intent. “And I know you. Every soft sound you make. Every way your body clenches around me. That little breath you take when I hit that spot—yeah.. That one.”

You gasped when he demonstrated exactly what he meant with his fingers.

“Hoseok,” you whispered, squirming.

“You think I need to be any bigger than I am when I already make you cry like this?”

Your answer was a moan.

And later, when you were curled against his chest, skin still tingling, he murmured, “For the record, you’re perfect too. Fit me like you were made for me.”

Gdragon

You said it with a straight face, arms crossed and eyebrows raised. “Size doesn’t matter.”

Ji-Yong paused mid-buttoning his shirt, head tilting just slightly. “That so?”

“Yep,” you said, plopping onto the edge of his bed, tossing your phone beside you. “It’s all about connection. Technique. Effort. Vibe.”

He slowly walked toward you, a little amused glint in his eyes. “So if I had, like… a very average—maybe even below average—”

You held up a hand. “Ji, babe. I wouldn’t care.”

He blinked. “Even if it was, say… shockingly big?” He was clearly trying not to smile.

“That’s literally the opposite of what we were talking about.”

He leaned down, bracing his hands on either side of you. “But what if I told you… it’s not average. Or small. At all.”

You gave him a skeptical look, fingers resting lightly on his chest. “You gonna brag now?”

“I’m just saying,” he murmured, voice lowering, “you act all calm and wise until you're face-to-face with it.”Your brows furrowed. “Face-to-face with—oh my god, Ji-Yong.”

He grinned, shameless. “Hey, you brought it up.”

“You were halfway into a TED Talk about your di—”He cut you off with a kiss. Hot. Slow. Just enough to make your thoughts scatter.

You exhaled against his lips. “Okay. Maybe size doesn’t matter. But if it did…”He raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

You smirked. “You’d still be cocky.”

He laughed, tipping his forehead to yours. “Touché.”

Daesung

You’re sprawled across Daesung’s couch, half-watching a movie, half-scrolling through your phone when the conversation takes a weird turn.

“No, seriously,” you say, laughing, “I don’t get the obsession. Size doesn’t matter.”

Daesung, who had just taken a sip of his drink, chokes—coughing and spluttering like you just punched him with words.

You blink. “What?”

He clears his throat, trying very hard to stay cool. “Nothing. Just… interesting opinion.”

You raise an eyebrow. “It is an interesting opinion. Because it’s true. No guy wants to admit it, but come on, it’s about skill. Not size.”

Daesung smiles, all too knowingly. “You sure about that?”

“You sound like someone with something to prove.”

He leans forward, voice low. “Would you like a demonstration?”

You freeze. Because here’s the thing: Daesung is quiet confidence. Polite. Charming. Never brags.

But your brain short-circuits back to that night you first slept together—how he had taken his time, how you remembered feeling full in every sense of the word, and how you had to sit down slowly the next day.

“...You bastard,” you whisper.

He shrugs, smug but soft. “You’re the one who said it doesn’t matter.”

You toss a pillow at him, flustered. “I didn’t mean you! You’re an exception.”

“Oh, so now it matters.”

You groan and cover your face, laughing. “Shut up.”

He tugs your hand away, eyes gentle now. “Wanna remind you anyway.”

You don’t argue when he pulls you onto his lap. You let him kiss your throat, take his time, whisper things that turn your cheeks hot.

And somewhere between your moans and his deep voice rasping your name, you realize you were right: size doesn’t matter.

But when it’s Daesung?

It absolutely doesn't hurt.

T.O.P

You weren’t expecting him to get all quiet.One minute, Seung-Hyun was pushing you gently down onto your shared bed, his lips grazing your collarbone, voice velvet-low with want—and the next, he froze. A pause. A sharp breath. And then he sat back on his heels, running a hand through his already-messy hair.

“Wait,” he murmured. “I need to say something first.”

You propped yourself up on your elbows, blinking through your haze. “…Okay?”

He hesitated. His eyes—usually full of cocky spark or lazy affection—looked nervous. Raw.

“It’s just…” He scratched the back of his neck. “Some people have had… expectations, and I guess I just want to say it now so you’re not… disappointed or whatever. Like—” he huffed, then muttered, “size doesn’t matter, right?”

You blinked. Then blinked again. And then—something in your chest melted.

“Wait. Seung-Hyun, are you seriously worried I’m gonna judge your dick?”

He looked almost offended. “People do judge. I’m not saying you would. Just—some have.”

You sat up, cupping his face gently. “Babe. First of all, whoever said anything like that to you was an idiot. Second of all, are you really going to make me write a thesis right now about how your confidence, the way you touch me, the sound of your voice, the fact that you care—all of that turns me on a thousand times more than any size measurement ever could?”

He exhaled—half laugh, half relief. “…A thesis?”

“I’ll footnote it, too.” You smirked, pulling him in closer. “Chapter One: Seung-Hyun Is Hot As Hell and Knows Exactly What to Do With His Hands.”

His grin came back, slow and crooked. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Mmhm. And you’re mine. Now shut up and kiss me before I start writing that thesis on your back.”

He laughed again, this time deeper—freer. And when he kissed you, it was with all that nervous energy turned into something else: realness. Connection. Need.

And when things finally heated up again, you made sure to show him—thoroughly—that nothing about him could ever fall short.

Kim seo wan

You’re lying in bed with Seo Wan, legs tangled, a soft blanket pulled up to your chest as you listen to the quiet hum of the heater. It’s one of those rare calm evenings—no spiraling thoughts for either of you, no restless pacing or storm clouds hanging heavy overhead. Just the two of you and the warmth of shared space.

He’s tracing small shapes on your shoulder, quiet.

“Can I ask you something dumb?” he says eventually, almost whispering.

You blink and tilt your head. “You’ve seen me ugly cry while eating cake with my bare hands. Go for it.”

He laughs softly, but there’s hesitation in his voice. “Do you ever... wish I was, I don’t know. Bigger?”

You frown, confused for a second—until you catch where his eyes flicker. Downward. Oh.You blink again. Then laugh—not mocking, just surprised.

“Seo Wan,” you say gently, reaching over to cup his cheek. “You know that’s not even remotely a problem, right?”

He shrugs a little, but the way he chews his bottom lip gives him away. “It’s just... I know some people care about that stuff.”

“Well, I care more about the fact that you hold me like I’m something precious even when I feel like a wreck,” you murmur. “I care that you listen, that you breathe slow so I can match you when I panic, that you check in even on the good days.”

He swallows hard, eyes shining a little in the dim light.

“And besides,” you add with a sly little grin, “you’re perfect for me. More than enough. Literally and figuratively.”

He lets out a soft laugh, burying his face in your neck, warm and flustered. “God, I love you.”

“I know,” you tease, nuzzling back. “Now stop worrying about the size of your dick and kiss me, you beautiful overthinking nerd.”

And he does.

Roh jae won

You know,” you murmured, stretching lazily across his sheets, completely bare and flushed from the heat of his mouth alone, “size doesn’t matter.”

Jae-Won raised an eyebrow from where he sat at the edge of the bed, shirtless, jeans open, cock pressing obscenely against the fabric. That smirk—you’d come to fear and crave it. “Is that so?” he asked, voice all gravel and challenge.

You nodded, teasing. “It’s all about… connection. Emotion. Technique.”

He chuckled darkly, tugging his zipper down all the way. “Right. Noted.”

And then he pulled it out.

Your mouth parted slightly, all that sass vanishing in a blink. His cock was—there was no polite word—ridiculous. Long, thick, veiny, heavy. He wrapped a large hand around the base, and there was still plenty left untouched. You blinked, swallowing.

He noticed. “Something wrong?” His voice was velvet now, smug as hell.

“I just… didn’t realize you were hiding a damn third leg.”

He crawled over you slowly, muscles rippling with each shift of his hips until he hovered over you, cock resting against your stomach—and reaching past your navel. Your thighs squeezed together on instinct.

Jae-Won leaned in, kissing along your jaw as he whispered, “Still think size doesn’t matter?”

You gasped when he rubbed the thick head between your folds, teasing, soaking himself in how ready you already were. “I—I didn’t say it didn’t help,” you whispered, arching into him.

“Hmm. That’s what I thought.” One thrust, slow and shallow, just enough for you to feel the stretch—and your breath caught like he’d punched the air from your lungs. “You feel that?” he whispered against your ear.

You nodded fast, eyes glassy. “God—yes."

“Good,” he growled. “Because I’m not even halfway in.”

The rest of the night was a blur of him stretching you open, coaxing moans and curses from your lips, praising how good you took him—even when it had you trembling, legs shaking around his waist. He made you come before he even bottomed out.

And when he finally did?

You couldn’t speak.

Could barely breathe.

Later, your body wrecked and mind floating somewhere in orbit, he tucked you against his chest with a kiss to your temple and murmured:

“Size doesn’t matter, huh?”

You whined into his skin. “Shut up.”

He grinned. “Nah. I think you like it when I ruin your little theories.”

Gong Yoo/Gong Ji-Cheol

You weren’t trying to start anything when you said it.

The two of you were curled up on the couch after dinner, his long arm resting lazily across your shoulders, and some mildly terrible rom-com droning in the background. You’d been scrolling through your feed, laughing at some ridiculous thread about men and their egos, and offhandedly commented, “I mean, size doesn’t matter anyway.”

Ji-cheol tilted his head down toward you with a slow, wolfish smile. “Oh?” he said. “Is that so?”

You didn’t look up, still amused by the argument going on in the comments. “Yeah. I mean—if you know what you’re doing, you don’t need to have… you know. A monster.”

Silence.

You finally glanced up—and the look in his eyes? Dark. Amused. Dangerous. “Interesting,” he said slowly, voice dropping an octave. “You’ve never complained.”

And he stood up, just like that, offering a hand. “Bedroom. Now.”

“Wha—wait, I wasn’t—Ji-cheol—” But his fingers wrapped around your wrist, firm and unyielding, and you followed him. A little nervous. Very turned on.

Once inside, he didn’t rush. No—he took his time undressing you, brushing his mouth over your neck, your collarbone, between your thighs. It wasn’t until you were already trembling that he stood back, gaze heavy-lidded, and stripped himself bare.

And there it was.

You knew he was big. You knew it. But sometimes you forgot how big. Every time it made your stomach tighten with something between lust and fear.

You whispered, “Jesus Christ…”

He raised an eyebrow. “Size doesn’t matter, right?”

You licked your lips. “That was before I remembered what you're packing.”

He stepped forward, pressing you flat onto the bed, his voice a low murmur in your ear. “Let’s test your theory.”

The stretch was maddening.

He didn’t slam into you all at once—he knew better. No, Ji-cheol took his time, teasing you open, inch by inch, whispering things that made your toes curl.

“Still think it doesn’t matter?” he asked when you moaned, legs shaking. “Because I feel how tight you are around me, baby. Like you were made for this.”

You tried to answer—failed. Your body was too busy begging, clenching, gasping for more.He bottomed out and groaned, hips stuttering. “Fuck, look at you. Taking all of me like this… Your body loves how big I am.”Your pride was a distant memory.

All you could do was hold on.

And when he started moving, deep and slow, making sure you felt every thick inch, your mind went white-hot.

Over and over, he pushed you to the edge—then pulled you back, whispering filth in your ear, lips brushing your jaw:

“Say it.”

“Say you were wrong.”

“Say you love how big I am.”

You said it. You screamed it.And when he finally let go—when he finished inside you, hips grinding in, voice guttural—you couldn’t move for minutes. Maybe hours. Your legs didn’t work. Your brain was a puddle.

Later, curled up against his chest, you muttered, “Okay. Maybe… it matters a little.”

Ji-cheol just laughed, smug and satisfied. “Told you.”

Park sunghoon

You’ve never understood the obsession with size.

Sure, people talk. Whisper. Tease. It’s locker room nonsense, really—because none of that matters when Sung-Hoon has you laid out like this: spine arched, thighs trembling, skin hot enough to melt steel.

And he knows it. Knows it in the way he moves between your legs, slow and deliberate. Knows it in the way he licks his fingers clean after pulling them out of you, smirking like a man who’s got nothing to prove and still proves everything.

“You’re thinking too much again,” you pant, watching the way his eyes flick up at you from between your legs.“

I know what people say,” he murmurs, kissing along your inner thigh, voice smooth but quiet. “That I’m not… big. That it wouldn’t be enough for someone like you.”

You sit up a little, threading your fingers into his hair. “And yet,” you whisper, tugging him closer, “I still can’t walk straight after you’re done.”

His breath hitches. Just a bit. Confidence isn’t his mask—it’s who he is. But your words? They hit somewhere deeper.

He kisses up your body, hand sliding over your stomach, up to cup your breast. “You’re not faking that?”

You scoff, guiding him between your legs again. “Do I look like I’m faking anything right now?”

His cock is hard against your thigh—small, yes, but eager, twitching, flushed. You palm him gently, making his hips buck. His whole body reacts to your touch, and it turns you on even more than the size ever could.

He slides in slow, his lips parting as your walls take him in. You feel everything. Every shallow thrust, every roll of his hips, every moan he tries to muffle against your skin.

“See?” you whisper into his ear, breathless now. “Doesn’t matter how big you are when you know how to use it.”

And oh, he does.

He grips your hips tighter, snaps into you with short, precise thrusts that hit all the right spots. It’s messy, intimate, loud. Sweat-slicked skin and tangled limbs. You swear you black out for a second when he angles just right.

He pulls back to look at you, lips red, hair wild, the kind of expression that belongs in an 18+ scene and nowhere else.

“You’re perfect,” you whisper, after. “Exactly the way you are.”

Sung-Hoon kisses you like he believes it.

And then does it all over again—twice—just to prove that size really, really doesn’t matter.

77 notes · View notes

peakyswritings · 3 days ago

Text

Heart, Body and Soul || Act Two

Tommy Shelby x Nina Ferrante Shelby (OC)

Where The Shadow Is Cast

CHAPTER 1 ~ Secrets

Summary: Tommy’s secretive behaviour puts Nina on edge.

Warnings: arranged marriage, age-gap (Tommy’s in his early 30s, Nina is in her early 20s), talks of past sexual harassment, English is not my first language.

A/N: The second act takes place during season 2*. You can read it even if you haven’t read the previous one, although you might miss some information here and there. What you need to know for context, is that Nina Ferrante is Tommy’s Sicilian wife, and their marriage put an end to the war between the two families. They join forces against Sabini. *This specific chapter takes place a few months before season 2.

ACT ONE MASTERLIST || ACT TWO MASTERLIST

SERIES MASTERLIST

Nina watched Tommy sleeping next to her, his lips slightly parted, eyebrows lowered in a subtle frown.

She didn’t have the heart to wake him.

The previous night had been horrible for him. He had woken up again and again, covered in sweat, shaking, slurring incoherent words she could not understand. Then he held on to her, arms wrapped tightly around her waist as she tried her best to ground him, only for it to start all over again. It took him hours to finally fall into a somewhat peaceful sleep.

It wasn’t the first time it happened. She had learned about his nightmares a few days after moving into their new house, on Watery Lane. Although Tommy had warned her about them, she’d be lying if she said it hadn’t unsettled her to see him so scared. To get a glimpse of the monsters that lived inside his head. Monsters she couldn’t protect him from.

The awareness she couldn’t take his pain away was crushing. Even when he seemed happy, even on the rare times a laugh escaped his lips, the heavy veil of sadness was always there, draped over his shoulders like a coat, weighing him down. She wished there was a way to take a bit of that burden upon herself and carry it with him, if only to bring him some semblance of relief.

“You’re staring.”

Tommy’s raspy voice broke the silence, pulling her from her thoughts. Warmth flushed to her face, and she was thankful he still had his eyes closed. Two months into their marriage, and she still blushed like a schoolgirl when he caught her looking at him. Pushing back the embarrassment, she took on a playful tone. “Does it bother you?” she taunted, quirking an eyebrow.

Tommy’s lips curved upwards. “No.”

His eyelids fluttered opened, sleepy blue eyes looking back at her. “Good morning, love.”

“Morning.” She reached out her hand to smooth a stray lock of hair off his forehead. Her fingers travelled down to his cheek, knuckles tenderly brushing against his freckled skin.

Taking ahold of her hand, Tommy brought it to his lips, placing a sweet kiss on it. “I’m sorry for last night,” he murmured, his gaze filling with regret.

“You have nothing to be sorry about.”

“I told you already, I can sleep on the sofa-”

“No,” she interrupted him, unwilling to listen to the umpteenth attempt on his part to convince her that it would be better for her if they slept separately.

“Nina-”

“Not a chance,” she said firmly. “You will not keep me away.”

Tommy pursed his lips, and for a moment he seemed about to say something. Then resignation flashed across his eyes, and no word left his mouth. He knew better than her he had already lost that battle.

With a soft grunt, he wrapped an arm around her and pulled her close to him, nuzzling his face into her neck. “I wanna stay in bed with you.”

“Then do it.”

“I can’t,” he mumbled, a hint of frustration in his voice. “There’s things I need to get done.”

“They can wait.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

Oh, tempting you is my precise intention.

It had been so long since they had spent a day together, just the two of them. She knew he had business to attend to, but she missed him. And she could tell his habit of overworking himself was taking a toll on him.

She inhaled deeply, pondering her words. “You can take a day off. It’s not like you have to answer to anyone.”

“This time I do,” he shook his head. “I’m going to London to meet your uncle.”

Oh.

Uncle Antonio would not be pleased if Tommy didn’t show up to the meeting. And with the circumstances of their marriage still being a sore spot for everyone, it was better to be careful. Although Antonio and his sons were not involved with what had happened back in Italy, word had traveled, and he had found himself in the painful position to take a side in the quarrel between his two brothers. Vincenzo’s side, to be exact. For the sake of peace. It wouldn’t be wise to inconvenience him further.

“Do you want me to come with you?”

“No,” he said, a bit too quickly for her taste. Then, as if reading the suspicion on her face, he added, “It’s business as usual, nothing to worry about.”

Nina furrowed her brows, studying his face. There was something in his expression that told her he wasn’t being completely truthful. That there was something he wasn’t telling her.

She decided to leave it, at least for the moment. The truth would come out anyway.

“If you say so.”

As she washed the breakfast dishes, Nina looked onto the grey streets, muddy from the rain. Autumn had arisen in all its might, bringing storm and a pungent cold she wasn’t sure she had ever known. It was probably still sunny, back home. In Sicily summer was always reluctant to leave.

Home. She wondered what her family was doing, if they missed her, or if some part of them was secretly relieved she wasn’t a nuisance anymore. What she had done to all of them was not something that could be easily forgotten, or forgiven. The shame she had brought upon them was a stain that could never be washed away. She wouldn’t blame them if they still harboured resentment towards her.

As for Agnese, Nina wasn’t so foolish to think she could ever have her forgiveness, nor her uncle and aunt’s. In their eyes, she had viciously stabbed her cousin in the back, and robbed her of a suitable marriage out of sheer selfishness. She just hoped uncle Mario would forgive her father for acting behind his back. It was for the best, anyway. Had it been up to her uncle, their peace with the Shelbys would’ve gone up in smoke, and they would’ve been alone in the war against Sabini. Instead, since the two families had joined their forces, Sabini’s attacks at the Ferrante’s restaurants had ceased.

However, it wasn’t her parents’ resentment she should’ve been scared of, nor her brothers’ anger, and not even her uncle’s fury. They were no actual danger to her. What she should fear was the wrath of someone far more vengeful. Someone she had scorned. Because there was nothing more dangerous than a humiliated man.

A chill ran down her spine. She thought leaving Sicily would mean leaving Stefano behind. That what he had done to her would pass, that the mark he had left on her would fade, that his nasty gaze wouldn’t burn her anymore. She couldn’t have been more wrong. He was always lurking in the shadows, watching her every step. He was everywhere, because she was carrying him inside herself. She’d have to learn how to carve him out.

A loud meow put an end to her musings. Curled up on a chair, Winston was staring at her with his yellow eyes, impatiently waiting for her to acknowledge him. He had been seeking her attention more, since they had left. The big change had bewildered him, too. There were no gardens in Small Heath, no tree branches upon which he could climb, no sunny spots to sleep in. She felt guilty, for taking him away from that. But no one in her family would take care of him, not like she did.

He’d get used to it in time. Hopefully, she would too.

She never thought she would miss home. It was rather funny. She had spent her whole life wishing she could escape from that place, and now that she had, she was searching for it in every corner.

A sense of uneasiness began to grow in her chest. A feeling she was all too familiar with, one she thought she’d left behind once she had stepped on the boat for England.

No…

No. She shook her head, snapping herself out of the spiral she was on the verge of falling in. She couldn’t let it happen. She wouldn’t let it happen. She wouldn’t let her restless mind ruin what she was trying to build.

But as she scrubbed the plate with more energy, she could have sworn she saw her mother’s face in the reflection in the window.

The betting shop was still deserted when Nina walked in. It looked so different in the early morning, without the hustle and bustle of the men at work, and the rowdy gamblers cramming in to place their bets. That was why she preferred to arrive early, and plan the day before the shouting and the smoke made it too difficult for her to fully concentrate.

She’d be lying if she said she didn’t quite like the betting shop, though. It was different from anything she had ever known. A small world of its own, made of bets, numbers, and strategies. It was stimulating, to say the least. In that chaotic place, she could escape the stillness she had despised all her life.

She sat at one of the desks, then proceeded to set out the things she’d need. The betting book, the agenda Tommy had left her, her notebook, and a small calendar. Tommy would be away for a week, at least, and if she had to cover his work as well, she’d have to make a schedule. She took in a deep breath, staring to parcel out the tasks to be done in the next few days.

Ten minutes or so into her work, she was distracted by the sound of heels clicking across the wooden floor. The figure of a woman walked in front of her with quick steps, leaving a trail of cigarette smoke as she passed.

There she was. Polly Gray.

Nina knew immediately she was in for a long, long day.

Ever since the matriarch had laid her watchful gaze on Nina for the first time, she had been nothing but stern to her. She observed her, studied her. She cut her into tiny pieces to figure out what she was made of. It was unnerving, sometimes.

Polly dropped her bag on one of the desks on the opposite side of the room. “Tommy went to London,” she said, finally turning to acknowledge Nina’s presence.

Good morning to you, too.

“Yes. He said something about a meeting with my uncle.”

“Did he say anything else?”

“Is there anything else to know?”

Polly sighed, stomping her cigarette before taking a seat. “I was hoping you could tell me.”

God, it was serious, if even his aunt knew nothing about it.

Nina shook her head. “He’s been acting strange, lately.”

“Sounds like Tommy.”

“More than usual,” she clarified. “He says he’s just worried about business, but I can tell there’s more to it.”

Polly’s head shot up to look at her. She visibly pondered her words, until something clicked behind her dark eyes. A look of realisation flashed across her expression. “You have no idea, do you?”

Her statement left Nina confused. “Of what?”

The shadow of a smirk grew on Polly’s face. She pursed her lips in an attempt to hide it, but Nina didn’t miss the mixture of smugness and amusement filtering through her features. “It’s not my place to tell you, love. Tommy entrusted me with this information long ago.”

What information?

Nina clenched her jaw, careful not to show how much Polly’s demeanour was actually getting to her. The condescending note in her voice was what made her blood boil the most.

It wasn’t the first time she needled her with the implication that her husband kept secrets from her, and it surely wouldn’t be the last. Polly made no secret of her determination to maintain her primacy as Tommy’s most loyal confidant. But Nina knew it was also her way of assessing her, of knowing just how much she could pull before the string snapped.

She’d have to pull, and pull. And even then, she’d end up disappointed. Nina was way too good at letting certain things roll off her back.

Polly Gray’s little jabs were nothing compared to her aunts’ and cousins’ nasty jokes and judgmental glances. If she thought a few subtle taunts would be enough to make her step back, she couldn’t be more wrong. And truth be told, Nina drew a bit of satisfaction from the knowledge her presence made the older woman feel threatened.

Before either of them could say anything else, the double doors that separated the kitchen from the shop swung open, and Arthur’s boisterous voice resounded in the room. Nina didn’t understand a single word that left his mouth, but from the look on Polly’s face, it was safe to say it was for the best. His accent was so thick it often took her a while to pick up on what he said. Sometimes she got the impression he accentuated it on purpose, when he spoke to her.

Another way of Tommy’s family of reminding her she was a stranger. The daughter of a foreign enemy.

“Nina, do me a favour and check me addin’ up, eh.” Arthur dropped a heavy book on her desk.

“This is the Garrison’s book,” she frowned.

“Yeah, I brought it ‘ere so ye could take a look at it.”

“I already checked it two days ago.”

His heavy hand came to pat her on the shoulder, nearly knocking her over. “Money’s flowing in, sister.”

“And flowing out, I see,” she noted, scanning through one of the most recent pages. She squinted her eyes, pursing her lips as her a specific figure caught her attention. “There’s something wrong here.”

“That’s why I came to ya’, luv,” he brushed her off.

Of course.

She couldn’t understand why the Shelbys kept on relying on Arthur for keeping the pub’s book. It wasn’t like they couldn’t afford to pay someone to do that for him. He didn’t even try. And she was the one who ended up fixing his mess.

Arthur’s steps echoed in the almost empty shop as he started to walk towards the door, making her snap her head in his direction. She leaned back in her chair, calling after him. “What’s the magic word, Arthur?”

He stopped in his tracks, keeping his back turned. “I ain’t got no time for this,” he said gruffly.

She raised her eyebrows, crossing her arms over her chest. “You can check your numbers on your own, then.”

Arthur’s fists clenched by his side. His shoulders raised as he inhaled deeply, visibly pondering his next move. When he turned to her, his lips were pressed together in a fake smile. “Please,” he stressed, exaggerating a deferential gesture with his hand.

Nina tilted her head, unable to hold back a satisfied grin. “See? It wasn’t that hard.”

A snarling sound was the only answer her provocation received before Arthur left, slamming the door behind him. It seemed like his mood had been ruined by their little altercation.

Serves him right, she thought. She wasn’t going to tolerate disrespect.

Out of the corner of her eye, Nina saw Polly’s piercing gaze looking up and down at her, and she could swear she was trying to hide the hint of a grin.

Shaking off that impression, she began to examine the book in front of her. If she wanted to get it done by the end of the morning, she’d have to start right away.

“More like ‘do the adding up all over again’,” she murmured to herself, flipping through the pages.

That was going to be a long day, indeed.

Sitting on the sofa, Nina tried to concentrate on the novel in front of her, but her brain apparently had no intention of cooperating. Polly’s words were still haunting her.

You have no idea, do you?

She was right, at last. Tommy kept secrets from her. Two days had passed since he had come back from London, and still no word had left his mouth about what business he was taking care of, exactly. All she could get out of him were half-truths and non-answers.

The whole situation was beginning to get on her nerves. She had been patient, she had waited for him to be ready to open up to her, but nothing had come out of it. Absolutely nothing. And as if being kept in the dark wasn’t enough, she had to deal with Polly’s habit of adding insult to injury.

She was living in a country she didn’t know, speaking a language that wasn’t hers, surrounded by people who never missed the chance to remind her she didn’t belong there, and she didn’t even have her husband on her side. She couldn’t trust him to tell her the truth. She felt completely, utterly alone.

She was so deep in thought she almost jumped when the front door opened and shut. “Love?” Tommy called from the entrance.

A wave of irritation surged through her. The unspoken words that had been plaguing her mind had made her anger bigger, heavier, and she wasn’t sure she could pretend everything was fine for another night. When he walked into the living room, she didn’t even raise her head from the page in front of her.

“Hi, love,” he greeted her, leaning in to kiss her, only to be left hanging when she turned her head the other way.

“Dinner’s in the oven,” she said coldly.

Tommy froze in his place, his mind working behind his orbs as he processed her reaction. “What’s wrong?” he asked, jerking his chin. When she refused to even look at him, he rested his hand on the back of the sofa, caging her with his body. “Eh?” He raised his eyebrows.

Nina gritted her teeth. “Why don’t you tell me?”

A flare of awareness cracked through Tommy’s imperturbable façade, but went away as quickly as it came. He stood straight, taking a step back. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Hell no.

Nina slammed the book shut, finally raising her gaze on him. “Don’t give me that shit,” she snapped, getting up from the sofa. “Don’t fucking give me that shit,” she approached him with a long stride, pointing her finger at him. “I’ve given you time, and space, and plenty of chances to tell me what you’ve been up to. And now I’m tired.” Her voice trembled, but she didn’t waver, pinning him with her fierce stare. “So what is it?”

Tommy’s eyes traveled over her face, his mask cracking once again. His throat bobbed as he swallowed harshly, searching for his next words. “I’m planning an expansion,” he said carefully, testing the waters.

“Where?”

“London.”

It didn’t take long for Nina to understand what he was implying. But if her immediate instinct was to shake him and ask him if he had gone mad, the last shreds of patience she had left prevented her from possibly making him close up again. “Go on.”

“It was one of the reasons why I came to Sicily,” he admitted, his shoulders slumping slightly. “The deal was, I helped your family against Sabini, and in turn your family would help me take him over.”

She stayed silent, digesting the information. She wasn’t stupid, she knew Tommy had his own interests besides simple survival when he proposed to join the families. But he had kept it from her for months. It had been his plan all along, and he never told her. “And the thought of telling me never crossed your mind?”

He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “It’s… it’s complicated, Nina.”

“It always is,” she scoffed, shaking her head.

Tommy tentatively placed his hands on her shoulders. “Listen, I knew you wouldn’t like it-”

“Of course I don’t like it!” She furiously shrugged his hands off, her voice raising again.

Tommy raised his hands in surrender, backing away as his own frustration became evident.

“There’s no need to start another war, Tommy!”

He cursed under his breath, pacing a few steps. “For fuck’s sake,” his voice rose. “Your family’s already at war with Sabini.”

“He has stopped his attacks.”

“For now. But what happens next, eh?”

Nina had no reply to that question. As much as she hated to admit it, Tommy right. There was no way of telling whether Sabini had surrendered or simply taken a step back before striking again. It was a standoff situation which had everyone holding their breath.

A heavy sigh left Tommy’s lips. “It’s decided, love,” he said lowly, regaining his composure. “It’s just a matter of time.”

“When?”

“In February.”

February.

So everything was ready. Mapped out. And she was finding out about it just now.

She felt so stupid.

She nodded, feeling all energy drain out of her. “Alright,” she murmured.

Her sudden lack of resistance caught Tommy off guard. He blinked in confusion. “Alright?”

“Yeah. Alright.”

She didn’t want to fight anymore; there was no point in it. And she was tired. Turning her back on him, she headed toward the hallway. “I’m going to bed.”

“Nina, wait…”

Tommy’s words fell on deaf ears. Without sparing him another glance, Nina left the room.

The mattress sank under Tommy’s weight as he slid into bed. Nina stared at the wall in front of her, a faint sense of relief filling her at the realisation he’d be home, that night. When his strong arm wrapped around her from behind, she was tempted to move away, to remind him once again of how much he had messed up. But even the most stubborn part of her couldn’t help but surrender to him.

Tommy’s chest vibrated against her back when he spoke. “Still angry?”

“No,” she shook her head.

It was true. She was upset, and disappointed. But she wasn’t angry anymore. As good as she was at holding a grudge, she could never stay angry at him for too long. And she needed him more than she needed her anger, in that moment. Her hand found Tommy’s, and she intertwined their fingers together. She felt him relax behind her at her gesture. His arm flexed as he held her tighter, pressing his lips on the top of her head.

“Tommy?” she called him after a while.

“What?”

“No more secrets.”

“Yeah.”

She spun around to face him, the warm light of the bedside lamp allowing her to look him in the eyes. “I’m serious, Tommy.”

“I know-”

“I don’t need you to know, I need you to understand.” She took his face in her hands, thumbs rubbing up and down his skin. “I have no one but you here. If you can’t be honest with me, then I have nothing.”

Tommy’s ice-cold features softened, and something quite similar to guilt made its way on his face. His knuckles reached to delicately stroke her cheek. “I’m sorry, love,” he whispered, a deep sincerity seeping out of his words.

Nina closed her eyes, fighting against the tears threatening to spill out. “Don’t keep me away.” She couldn’t help the pleading note in her shaking voice. She hated to feel so vulnerable, so weak. And she hated to make him see her like that. But she couldn’t hold it in anymore.

“Hey, c’mere,” Tommy pulled her closer, cradling the back of her head with his hand. “C’mere.”

Nina buried her face in his chest, the last one of her defences crumbling at his show of affection.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, gently threading his fingers through her hair.

She snuggled closer to him, letting his reassuring smell comfort her, and the regular beating of his heart lull her.

It was going to be alright. They were going to be alright.

“No more secrets. I promise.”

Heart, Body and Sould tag list

@zablife @queenofshinigamis @raincoffeeandfandoms / @justrainandcoffee @call-sign-shark

@kmc1989 @babayaga67 @kmhappybunny240 @diorrfairy @mariaelizabeth21-blog1

@gaslysainz @brummiereader @loverhymeswith @fairypitou @prettywhenicry4

@mysticalbouquetwolf-posts @woofgocows @girlwith-thepearlearring @goblinjnr @outlanderuniverse

@citylights31 @neonpurplestars89-blog @outlanderuniverse @red-riding-wood @evita-shelby

@look-at-the-soul @gathania93 @wonderlanddreamer @thelastemzy @meadows5

@littlepeakydevil @seedlings-stuff @misslittlegetou @strangeobsessed

General Tag list: @iamngoclinh08 @lilywinchesterlove @fandom-puff @capitanostella @caelys @lucillethings @peakyxtommy @queenofkings1212 @lyarr24 @kmc1989 @call-sign-shark @jomarch-wannabe @ce1iat @areyenotfondofmelobster @red-riding-wood @optimisticsandwichgladiator @lunarubra @rangerelik

Tommy Shelby tag list: @50svibes @bellabarnes1378 @jbrownta

If you want to be removed from the taglist, feel free to let me know!

#peaky blinders imagine #peaky blinders fics #peaky blinder imagine #tommy shelby fic #tommy shelby x oc #heart body and soul #nina ferrante #nina x tommy #where the shadow is cast

55 notes · View notes