#i want to play the second one so i'm playing the first

[lassiie]

Power Play.

sub!boss Jake x Co-worker!dom reader

CONTENT ↠ nsfw! smut, sub Jake, dom/sub dynamics, dominant reader, needy sub Jake, strong depiction of fantasies, power play, sexual tension, worship kink, consensual power exchange, denial, servitude kink, head recieving, overstimulation, degradation play, slight violence, fluff (what should i say i'm still hella romantic in a way...)

WORDCOUNT ↠ 8k~ (didn't proof read the way i wanted...)

MDNI / Before you dive, read the warnings. don’t like it, don’t read.

Yours dearly, Lassie

Jake Sim is the human equivalent of a TED Talk on professionalism — all pressed suits, smiles, and PowerPoints that make managers almost tear up. Three months since his transfer from the overseas branch and the office still hasn’t recovered. They call him golden boy in the group chat — half-joke, half-worshiping honestly. Because, fuck, he’s too perfect. Too polite. The kind of guy who probably apologizes to doors after walking into them, and makes you forget he’s your boss.

And you? Poor you…You’ve been paired with him as his second in executive, which should've felt like a promotion. But didn’t even scratch the surface of your indifference. You didn’t need to sparkle like him to command attention. You’ve earned every inch of your place with blood, sleep deprivation, and the kind of ruthless efficiency that doesn’t beg for recognition. The office knew how you were : nice but ice-edged. They knew not to interrupt when you’re typing, not to hover near your desk unless summoned, and not to try you with weak jokes or wandering hands unless they’re craved the kind of career-ending evisceration you delivered to the last manager, as you buried him six feet under and salted the earth.

But still, interns loved you. You took good care of your team, made sure everyone was at ease, comfortable and heard in any situations. which bringed respect.

And Jake? Jake saw you long before you saw him.

First time was one of those insufferable corporate mixers, drowning in stale champagne and fake smiles, where you emerged across the room, wrapped in silk, fine jewelry and sharp liner. You were flawless that first time, you were impossible to ignore. And all the others too, actually.

You didn’t glance his way more than two to three times, and that cold distance only made you more magnetic, to Jake—the kind of woman who moves through rooms like no one deserves to know her but somewhat not mean. And Jake ended up eyes on you every other gathering, everytime a step further, a bit more small talk, a glass of champagne offered, his eyes fixed on your silhouette like it was a masterpiece he’d never be worthy enough to touch, let alone own.

Then that promotion opportunity came. So he transferred because he worshiped you, because you were the kind of woman who made him want to kneel, to be the loser he always wanted to be for his woman. For the impossible humiliating chance to breathe in your orbit every day, to stand beside you in meeting rooms pretending he’s your equal. But in his mind, you're not just his colleague. And he’s not even your superior. Oh babe, you're his goddamn sovereign. And he’s never felt more alive than when, in his thoughts, he’s kneeling, mouth open, waiting for commands you’ll never actually give.

He tried to act normal, pro, detached. But every clipped instruction from your lips feels like a test of endurance, every click of your heels across the floor a reminder. He watched : How you open his water bottle at meetings without sparing him a second glance, like he was a child. How you hand him reminders post-it like you’re feeding a dog out of habit, never cruelty—but never kindness either. It devastates him. Your effortless dominance. Your divine neglect. How you were a natural.

And it only got worse.

He started to make mistakes in your presence—every misplaced file, every stammered report, every too-long pause before answering your questions or request—was laced with intent. Because he wants you to be disappointed in him. He needs you to sigh, to call him out, to scold him with that glint in your eye that says you could gut him with a sentence if you wanted to. 

In his dreams, you’re pulling him into his office by the tie, shoving him to his knees, using him like something cheap and temporary—like a thing. He imagines you telling him he’s beneath you, that he’s useful for nothing but kneeling. Most of the time, like three hours ago, he ended up beating his meat in a bathroom stall, panting and low moaning those fantasies, agreeing, sobbing, begging you to ruin him in front of the team, to make an example of him. He imagines you laughing as he licks you beneath your desk, sobbing because it’s not enough.

But none of that ever happens.

Because in reality, Jake is a coward. A gorgeous, trembling, painfully nice coward who sits quietly, worshiping you with slight glances, calling it professionalism. Hoping—foolishly—that one day, you’ll notice him not as a coworker, not as a man, but as the thing he wants to be: your property. Your toy.

So Jake found himself lucky to get to travel with you in the name of the company, even if it’s more like you got to travel with him.

You’ve always had a thing for rooftop dinners. Velvet skies, free-flowing wine, fairy lights strung above your head like some Pinterest board fever dream. You’re halfway through a glass of red you can’t pronounce, listening to a group of executives over-intellectualize Shark Tank, when you realize Jake’s gone.

Not that you noticed right away. You were too busy being charmed by some VP with a Rolex and too much cologne. But on the way to the restroom, your steps slow.

There—by the bar your ex-manager stands. The one who should’ve been fired, but instead got quietly "transferred"l. He’s hunched over a whiskey glass, already too loud for the setting, and—of course—he’s found Jake. And Jake’s just… sitting there. Letting it happen. You don’t catch the whole thing, but what you do hear lands like a slap.

“She’s cold, huh? Don’t take it personal, new guy. That bitch just needs a firm hand. Or maybe some good dick to set her straight.”

Classy.

You’re not fragile. You’ve sat through worse. But the worst part isn’t him. It’s Jake. Jake—who’s supposed to be different. Jake, who’s tilting his head like he’s actually considering it. Your heart doesn’t break. It just… 

Lowers its expectations. Because of course. Of course the one man you thought might actually get it—the one who made fumbling attempts to earn your respect instead of demanding it, and the one who seemed like he worked as hard as you did to get where he was—turns out to be made of the same recycled garbage as the rest.

You almost walk away. Almost. When Jake moves. Your ex-manager lifts his glass for a toast to misogyny, and Jake spills it all over him. Deliberately. 

No apology. No more honorifics. He just, like that, made the golden boy vanish.

“Let me tell you something, you piece of shit,” he says, voice flat.

“She’s one of the most capable, intelligent, and dedicated professionals I’ve ever met. If you think she owes you warmth just for existing in her line of sight, maybe that’s why you’re no longer her superior. Or anyone’s, really.”

And suddenly, the bar quiets a bit.

“God forbid a woman doesn't tolerate bullshit. She’s earned more than the team’s respect. She’s earned admiration. Mine. And the higher-ups’, too. So here’s some advice: next time you think about speaking her name, do us all a favor and don’t.”

Your ex-manager, predictably puffs up like a drunk peacock about to throw a punch.

That’s your cue. You stride over, grab Jake by the wrist, and step between them. Not for Jake. Not even for the ex. But for you. Because you’re done letting men discuss your worth like it’s a goddamn cocktail special.

“You’re going to shut your fucking mouth.”

It leaves your lips like a knife thrown with perfect aim—smooth, deadly, no hesitation.

“No one here wants to hear the rot that curdles in whatever’s left of your brain.”

He blinks. “You—” Stunned. Good. Let him choke on it. He always feared you a little, but now? Now that he’s been stripped of rank, status, relevance? Now that he’s nothing but a cautionary tale with a half-empty drink? He’s pathetic. And god, it suits him.

So you smile, slow and cruel, like you’re savoring it. 

Because you are.

“Your career didn’t end because women stopped smiling. It ended because you couldn’t keep your dick zipped and your mouth shut. And now look at you—bitter, balding, washed-up in a suit that screams clearance rack. Shit, I’d feel bad for your wife if I didn’t know she was already contemplating divorce papers.”

You step closer, watching his throat bob like he’s trying to swallow the truth—but it sticks.

“How about I send her your HR file?” you murmur, voice dropping low and poisonous. “Maybe she’d enjoy seeing the long list of every intern you've “mentored”. Wouldn’t your kids just love knowing daddy’s a predator with a pattern?”

He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t have to. His face curdles, and that’s enough for you.

You turn, already done with him, gripping Jake’s wrist like an afterthought—like he’s yours to take with you. And he lets you. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t question. He just follows, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, dragged up to your rooms’ floor like a kid being led to bed.

Once the elevator dings and you’re back on solid carpet, you realize: you’re still holding onto him. Tightly. Nails half-embedded into his skin.

You drop his hand like it burned you. “Shit—I didn’t mean to grip that hard. Sorry—”

And then he whimpers.

A real, breathy, aching sound that does not belong to a man sober in thought. His hand is trembling, but it’s not from the pain. No. You think that’s Jake’s flushed. His eyes are glassy; his lips parted like he’s seconds from begging; and he’s not hearing a word you’re saying.

Actually, he’s still stuck in the bar, at that moment. Still reeling from the version of you that stepped in, grabbed him strongly. The version that protected him while threatening to ruin someone else.

And fuck, he liked it.

He could fall to his knees right here, in the hallway, under the hum of those fancy hotel lights, in front of the security cameras, the staff or any stranger possibly walking by from their own room—and he wouldn’t care. He’s hard. Pulsing through his slacks. You can see it. Can you ? Fuck he hopes you can’t.

He’s too drunk… Past his limit for sure, since he never really drinks. But this isn't just alcohol.

This is you.

“Mr. Sim?” You call for him again, in his daze.

Why the hell are you so pretty tonight ? And why’re your nails so clean? Why do they gleam under the light like they were made for him to fidget with ? To leave marks on his back? On his throat?

He's a man standing on the edge of fantasy, and you—well, you’re just standing there, breathing, and it’s too much.

“Mr… Jake?”

His eyes dart.

“S-sorry, have a good night, m-miss.” He stammers it out, then bolts like he’s escaping a fire. Or running from a wet dream that got too real.

And you just stand there. Stunned. What the hell was that?

🕗

You’d showered. Paced. Changed into something softer—something that didn’t scream professional, but still whispered respectable enough to knock on your boss’s door past midnight.

And now, here you stood in front of Room 707 with a travel-sized first aid kit and a mind spiraling in loops.

You told yourself this was about the wrist. About decency. About clearing the weird air that was left behind. Not about the way Jake’s eyes had clung to you like you were divine retribution in heels. Not about the ache under your ribs every time you replayed the way he stood up for you like it meant something.

Nope. Definitely about the wrist.

You knocked—firmly, like you weren’t praying he didn’t answer. But of course, he did. 

And god help you.

Jake’s shirt : rumpled, sleeves : shoved to his elbows, no tie, no belt, just that top button undone like a tease. He looked half-finished or  half-undressed. Either way, your brain short-circuited for a half-second too long.

“Hey,” you said, lifting the kit like a peace offering. “Thought I’d fix your wrist. Since I mauled you earlier.”

He didn’t say anything, just smiled softly and nodded before stepping aside to invite you.

Inside, it felt strange—quiet, warm, domestic in a way that shouldn’t have felt intimate but absolutely did. Jake moved around like he was trying to impress you in silence: fluffing the cushions, adjusting the lights, even pouring you water like it mattered, with that cute stressed expression.

You sat. He sat closer. And you started dabbing the ointment gently on the red welts your nails left behind.

“Sorry again,” you murmured. “Didn’t mean to dig in that hard.”

Jake just hummed, with the softest voice, almost a moan. Like the pain was holy now.

Then he asked, barely louder than a breath:

“You okay?”

And somehow, that cracked it all open.

You didn’t mean to spill. But it poured out anyway. Every time your ex-manager had belittled you, laughed too loud at meetings, but still stolen your credit. Every time his eyes lingered too long. Every time you’d swallowed the rage, because you couldn’t afford to be seen as “too emotional” in a room full of mediocre men who failed upward.

Jake listened. Like, really listened. He’d heard some of it. But your version made him exhale like he couldn’t take it.

“I should’ve broken that asshole’s nose,” he muttered, low and taut.

You stilled. The words hit deeper than they should have. Not because of the violence, but because of the intent. Jake wasn’t trying to play savior. He was just... angry for you.

Your hand lingered on his wrist softer now. “Thank you. For earlier. For saying all that. I know I act like it’s whatever, but it... wasn’t.”

Jake’s eyes stayed on you like you were speaking scripture.

“You don’t have to explain yourself,” he said. “I saw the kind of woman you are from day one. You’re smart. You don’t kiss ass. Guys like him can’t handle that. Because they don’t have the vocabulary for powerful.”

Something tugged tight in your chest. And lower. Warmer.

“I really should’ve punched him,” Jake said again, more to himself now. “No man like that deserves to say your name.”

You let out a laugh—one that tasted like relief.

“Honestly? I should’ve done it. Slapped him. Right in the face. Just once. Not even for like, feminism or justice or anything—just for me, for the satisfaction.”

You were smirking before you even realized it. Jake was grinning too, loose and genuine, like this moment was undoing all the knots inside him and you. Then something flickered behind his eyes. A wild idea taking root.

“How… How about you try it.” he said.

You blinked. “What?”

“Slap me,” he said, voice light but firm. “Come on. Let it out.” He smacked his own cheek lightly, then grinned at you like a lunatic.

Your jaw dropped. “Mr. Sim—”

“You’ll feel better.”

His cheek was pink now. His eyes dared you.

And your hand... your hand actually rose, by instinct. You stopped halfway. Fist clenched, nails digging into your palm. What the fuck were the two of you doing? Was it the adrenaline? The leftover fury? The wine? The way Jake looked at you like you were both priest and punishment? Either way, your heart pounded. Your hand hovered. Very much tempted, but terrified. And Jake just sat there, unblinking. Waiting for you. No, begging for it.

Jake’s hand wraps around yours like it’s his first taste of something forbidden—gently, reverently, like he’s convinced himself your fingers are a gift he doesn’t deserve but still needs to worship. He doesn’t just hold your hand. No—he kisses it softly, unfolds it, spreads your palm. His voice, when it comes, is low, breathless, and so fucking sincere it borders on stupid.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, pressing your open hand to his cheek like some sacrificial lamb ready to be offered up. “I don’t mind. Say what you want. Slap me how you want. Curse me. Pretend I’m him—I’ll take it. I’ll be him, just this once. For you.”

And god help you—something about the way he says it, all shaky and soft-spoken, makes your jaw tighten and your thighs twitch. Because of course he’d say that. Of course Jake fucking Sim would offer himself up like a stand-in for your trauma with bedroom eyes.

You hesitate for a second, because sanity demands you to—but then your palm lifts and falls.

The first slap is light, really. Nothing to write home about. But the way Jake shivers under it? The way his breath stutters and his eyes flutter half-lidded like you just whispered something obscene directly into his bloodstream? That reaction alone makes something dangerous spark inside you.

And when you laugh—half from nerves, half from the ridiculousness of the whole thing—he laughs too, like he’s high off the sound. Like you just gave him a hit of something addictive.

“You’re a pathetic coward,” you whisper, almost shy to curse him but the words feel good leaving your mouth, like steam venting from a pressure cooker.

SLAP. 

“You ever do your own work? Or just ride other people’s backs while jerking off to the sound of your own voice?” 

SLAP. 

“Useless piece of shit—god, you couldn’t lead a fucking team of toddlers without crying.”

SLAP.

Jake’s mouth parts like he’s drowning and your voice is air. His hips twitch beneath you, subtle but undeniable, a reflex he can’t hide anymore.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, like a prayer with cracked knees. “I’m… I’m sorry.” The way he says it—shaky, shame-drenched, utterly sincere—does something awful to your insides. Your cunt clenches around nothing

“Sorry?” you echo, voice rising just enough to cut the air like silk pulled taut. “You think that’s gonna cut it, you filthy little fuck?”

SLAP.

“Yes!” Jake gasps, and his voice is so wrecked, so gone, it nearly makes you moan. “Yes—I’m sorry!”

And then suddenly—without any warning—he pulls you on top of him, like his body just knows where you belong. You straddle him instinctively, the move so fluid it feels choreographed, and now you’re above him, your dress riding up your thighs, your weight grounding him to reality like some punishing fever dream.

The couch creaks a bit under you, but neither of you care. Jake lies back like an offering, eyes half-lidded and lip trembling, hips pressing up in slow, helpless thrusts like he’s trying to fuck through his slacks and into your core without permission.

Every slap now lands with purpose, with rhythm, your palm stinging and his face pinked with marks that scream I want this. And he’s moaning for each one—hands clutching your thighs like he’s scared you’ll vanish, like he’s trying to burn your shape into his memory.

“P-please,” he whines, eyes rolling back just a little, “please, don’t stop, keep going—fuck—”

You realize then you’re grinding into him rhythmically, like your body figured out what it needed long before your brain caught up. Your panties are soaked, dress bunched above your hips, and his cock—hard, thick, fucking twitching—presses up against you in the most delicious way.

And god, the sight of him?

He’s ruined.

His hair’s a mess, his shirt wrinkled like it’s been gripped and yanked—by you—his face flushed, eyes glazed over, lips parted like he’s seconds from begging with tears in his lashes. He looks like a man hanging on by a thread, and you’re the one holding the scissors.

Your hand finds his throat. Not to squeeze—just to touch, trying to own. Your fingers brush that frantic little pulse at the base of his neck, and Jake gasps—one of those sharp, gut-punched sounds—and tilts his head back without hesitation, baring himself like he’s got no shame left. And maybe he doesn’t.

Your thighs clench around him, hips still grinding slow and firm, your smile turning downright predatory now, because fuck, this man is beautiful like this. Ruined, desperate, and utterly yours.

And the sickest part? The part that makes heat pool in your stomach and twist behind your ribs like fire licking up your spine?

He’s smiling too. Like he’s finally found where he belongs.

You're straddling the line of a terrible mistake, and you know it. Jake Sim—your boss—is now lifting you as your legs close around him, carrying you through his room, to his bed, just to kneel between your thighs like a worshipper at the altar, and somehow, you’re the one in control. Not because you should be. Because he needs you, he wants you to be.

His lips brush your ankle, soft and trembling like he’s afraid you’ll pull away. His kiss isn't a declaration—it’s a plea. And you let him. You let him, because deep down, you've always known Jake didn’t want a woman who waited for his command—he wanted one who would ruin him.

You cock your head, letting the silence stretch. “So that’s what you like, Mr. Sim?” The mockery in your tone is gentle, like silk hiding a knife. “You want to be punished? Humiliated?”

His body jerks. Visibly. Shamefully. He nods, almost moaning from the idea of it. The sound is broken, needy, and completely unfiltered. He nods—frantic. Eyes wide, pupils blown, gorgeous lips parted like he’s about to confess something filthy and forbidden.

“Undress.” you order, and the sight of this grown man stumbling on unbuttoning and getting out of his pants is the cutest shit you ever saw suddenly.

You lift your heel to his cheek when he knelt back—still tender, pink from earlier—and drag the sharp arch of it down his throat, tracing the vein pulsing beneath skin. He doesn’t recoil. He leans into it, breathless. Then, with a shift of your leg, you press the sole of your shoe directly against his chest and push. Hard.

He gasps, then groans—like he wants to beg but can’t choose between pain and praise.

“You like that?” you murmur, increasing the pressure.

“Yes—fuck, yes,” he pants, squirming under your foot. “Don’t stop. Please…”

Your gaze drops to the dark patch blooming at the front of his boxers. Pre-cum stains the cotton, making it cling to every thick vein and curve of his cock. He’s twitching—throbbing—with desperation. It’s obscene, really. You haven’t even touched him, not really, and he’s already soaked like a teenager with a forbidden crush.

"God," you exhale, voice thick with amusement. "You’re soaking through for me, aren’t you, Jake?"

He chokes on a moan. The sound is pitiful. His hips jerk against the heel of your foot like he’s hoping for just enough friction to make him cum like a dog. And when he starts to kiss your leg—soft, reverent kisses that trail from your ankle to your thigh—you freeze him with a single word.

“Stop.”

He stiffens instantly. His face—red—jerks up, guilt shining in his eyes. You don’t say anything at first. Just stare at him. Let him writhe in the silence.

“Take my shoes off. Now.”

He obeys immediately—scrambling like a man whose life depends on it. Kissing the strap, whispering apologies as he unbuckles each heel. His fingers shake the whole time. You can practically feel how hard he is without looking.

Once bare, you remove your panty, spreading those legs, letting him see exactly what he’s begging for. His eyes darken instantly. Mouth falls open. He looks ruined already—and you haven’t even let him taste.

“Eyes on me, Jake.”

Fuck keep using his name. He loves it.

He nods slowly, almost reverent, eying you and your cunt like he couldn’t choose who gave the orders. His hands ghost up your thighs—asking silently, needing permission like his life depends on your mercy. You don’t grant it, but don’t stop him either. You just watch as his fingers reach closer and closer producing that electric feeling, till he reaches your folds, his breath catches audibly. 

Fuck, You’re soaked. His eyes flutter shut, like the sight alone sends him reeling. But the second his fingertips twitch forward—

“No fingers,” you say.

He freezes. His voice is nearly a whimper. “C-can I use my mouth?”

You pause, mischievous. Tilt your head like you’re thinking about it. Like the wet heat of your pussy throbbing for him isn’t already an answer enough.

“You can try. But you stop when I say. Understood?”

“Yes. Anything.”

And then he dives in. There’s no finesse. No gentle buildup. Just hunger. Jake eats you like a man starved, no like a freaking golden retriever—face buried between your legs, licking and sucking like every inch of your pussy is holy and he’s dying for it. His moans vibrate against your clit, tongue sliding in messy, frantic circles, sloppy and chaotic like he can’t think straight.

He’s a total mess, with like, no experience. And it’s perfect.

“You’re terrible at this,” you mutter, thighs trembling and back arching despite the insult. “Is this how you always eat pussy, Jake? Like some starved dog?”

The moan he lets out is devastating. Deep, guttural. He shoves his tongue into you like he’s trying to answer with action, not words. You curse, “fuck, FUCK !” His big nose grinds against your clit with every thrust, and the heat building inside you is blistering.

Then he breaks the rhythm—again. Too desperate. Too frantic, trying to breathe a bit. And you almost came by being denied. You want him in you. Now. 

“Jake—stop.”

But he doesn’t.

He wraps his arms around your thighs, locks you in place, and devours you some more. His hips are literally fucking helplessly into nothing but thick air. His mouth chants his devotion, tongue trembling from the effort as he fucks you with it, drowning in your slick.

And your orgasm hits you like a thunderclap—sudden, violent, raw. You cry out, thighs squeezing around his head suffocating him, voice cracking on his name like a command and a curse all at once.

"Stop! Jake! Fuck!"

He doesn’t. He moans against your cunt like he’s proud of breaking you, lips and chin soaked, tongue still lapping at the mess you made for him.

You shove him back with a kick—heart still thundering. He looks up at you, dazed and smiling like a boy who just won the lottery. His face is wrecked. Hair a mess. Cock visibly leaking like he might’ve come just a little from tasting you.

You grab him by the back of his hair, yanking his head up, your lips cruel inches from his.

“You didn’t listen, Jake.”

He winces. Nods. But his cock twitches. He freaking loves this.

“I told you to stop,” you say, voice hot, “You didn’t, so…” You smile slowly and mercilessly. “You don’t get to come.”

His face crumples. “What? Please—please, I just wanted to make you feel good—”

You lean in, let your lips brush his.

“No. Good night Jake.”

Jake looks pathetic. Absolutely wrecked, lips swollen, cheeks flushed like he’s run a marathon instead of just begging to come. His hand darts out, trembling like he’s on the verge of cardiac arrest, and he wraps his finger around your wrist.

“Don’t go,” he whispers, voice shredded. “You don’t have to touch me. Just… stay. Please. I won’t ask for anything.”

Right. Because that’s worked so well for him so far.

You glance down. He’s sprawled out like a cautionary tale—cock twitching uselessly, leaking against the waistband of his briefs. His hair is damp and curling at the edges, eyes wide and wet. And, God, the way it turns you on should be illegal in at least five states.

You sigh. It’s performative, but you let it be. “Fine,” you mutter. “But I’m showering first.”

“I’ll do it,” he blurts. Too fast and desperate. “I-I’ll wash you. Please.”

You should say no. You should. But instead, you tilt your head, curious. Maybe it’s the power trip still humming in your bloodstream. Maybe you just want to see how far he’ll go. So you let him follow.

You undress—slow, deliberate, aware of every inch of skin as it’s revealed. You’re not shy, not really, but there’s something oddly fragile about it. Like this version of you—this one he sees—is a new animal altogether. Jake touches you with his desperate eyes. He watches, jaw slack, eyes like you’re the first woman he ever saw.

In the water, he’s reverent and very careful. Lathers your shoulders, your back, your gorgeous breast. His hands shake when they reach your thighs. But he never slips. Never tries. Not where you ache. Not where he’s dying to be.

It's sick, how good that makes you feel. And it pleases him like nothing else to see you like that, breathing heavily at every touch. Holding onto the bathtub when his hand slides down your thigh.

When it’s over, sadly, he helps you into a robe. Like some kind of tragic gentleman. But his cock—still hard, still untouched—presses against your ass as he wraps the fabric around you. Just for a second. Just enough.

You don’t flinch,don’t comment, cause of course you’re dying to have it in you right now. But of course, he panics.

“Fuck, I’m sorry—I didn’t mean—”

“Does it hurt?” you ask, voice flat, pretending you don’t really care. Jake nods into your shoulder like a punished schoolboy. “It’ll die anyway,” he mutters.

Spoiler alert : it did not. After shower, in his new briefs, he’s doing a poor job hiding just how painfully alive he still is. He crawls into bed next to you, still like this. He doesn’t try anything, doesn’t speak. Just folds himself against your side, forehead to your belly, arms wrapped around you like you’re some human security blanket. You card your fingers through his hair, lazy, soothing. Like he’s a dog you’re rewarding for good behavior.

“I love this,” he whispers, voice raw, earnest. “I love being under you…”

You don’t respond right away, you just keep stroking. Letting the silence stretch. Then, finally you speak : “I guess this makes us dom and sub now, huh?”

His head snaps up. Eyes huge. Like you’ve just freaking proposed to him. “Y-yes! I mean—only if you allow it. If that’s what you want.”

You look at him. Really look. This man—flushed, panting, cock caged and aching—would probably crawl across glass if you asked right now. And he always felt… Different. So…

“Yeah…” you say slowly. “But I’m not… Like… very… experienced, you know ?”

He lights up like a fucking Christmas tree. “Believe me,” he says, “you really, really are a natural.”

And that's how it started. The very next day you woke up like being a dom was a task on your to-do list. You made sure to tell Jake that nothing would happen until you were prepared. And “prepared” had its own definition for you. You documented, watched a lot of porn and blogs about it, visited shops after specialised shops to buy some accessories. For you it was serious, or at least you wanted it to prove to him you where. But three days became a week. And a week two, clueless of how pant up Jake was, waiting, observing you from so close but not even sparing him a glance. Until he booked a meeting with you. a five minute before hour. It almost made me laugh. How many grammar faults he made and how the hour was strangely badly chosen. still you clicked on “accept”, and added a comment :

Be prepared. It’s gonna be the real thing. 🕗

And that night when you enter his office, Jake is on his knees.

Literally. Hands clutching his thighs like his own body might betray him at any second, head bowed low. You pause at the door, heels clicking against polished tile, and glance behind you—because what if it wasn’t you standing there? What if some clueless intern wandered into this fever dream instead?

It’s almost tragic how far gone he is. Almost...

He hasn't even looked up. Poor baby’s probably been like this for twenty minutes, edging himself in anticipation alone. All because you told him this meeting would be the real deal. That today would be official. He must’ve short-circuited from the promise alone.

Well, time to step into your role.

You close the door gently behind you. The satisfying click echoes like a gunshot in the quiet office. Your black dress is obscene — tight enough to leave nothing to the imagination, short enough to start a scandal, and paired with the same high heels he once moaned into as he kissed each pointed toe like a prayer.

and Jake? He’s visibly hard from the sound of your footsteps alone.

You walk toward him, and his thighs tense at the sight. He doesn't dare look up. Doesn’t need to. He knows who it is. You crouch down beside him, slow, calculated, a predator humoring her prey. Your fingers thread through his hair and gently pat.

“Good boy.”

He whimpers. Actually whimpers. You smirk when you feel the full hardness beneath his slacks with your hand..

“Pathetic,” you murmur, clicking your tongue in his ear. “Getting hard just from the sound of my heels?”

“I’m sorry…”

Your voice drops. “Are you in your right mind, Mister Sim? Should we reschedule this meeting for a time when you’ve got some self-control?”

“No, no, no—I-I’ll behave, I promise,” he rushes out.

You laugh, soft and dangerous. “Come here.”

You stride to his desk—his desk—and make yourself at home in the chair he usually owns like a throne. Now, It’s yours. He stands, hesitant, and when he sees you sitting there, legs crossed, perfectly composed—his expression crumples with want. Fuck he wants to crawl to you directly under the desk to serve you, but he walks and sit in front of you.

You reach into your branded bag and produce a thin stack of papers and two small boxes.

Back to business.

“Here’s the contract,” you say, voice clipped and professional, like this is just another quarterly strategy meeting. “I marked everything I’m willing to do or try in blue. You’ll go through it, mark your interests in green, and we’ll see where we align. I’ve included safeword options, conditionals, limits... all the usual.”

He blinks at the paper like it’s his acceptance letter into heaven. He takes it, reverent, then actually starts reading — not just flipping through, but really absorbing it. You watch his mouth part slightly at the sight of all your “X”s. Fuck keep it together, you need to look cool.

Bondage:Leash and collar – X. Gag – X. Cuffs – X. Genital cage and toys– X.

Impact and Sensation Play:Biting. Hair pulling. Slapping. Sensory deprivation. Asphyxiation. All X. All yes.

And when he skims to the intimacy section, his whole posture shifts — hips twitch, breath hitches. Unprotected sex. Orgasm. Kissing. Fluids. All marked. You didn’t even flinch.

But the part that breaks him? The "I want to feel like..." and "I don’t want..." pages. You were for real. Letting him feel vulnerable out in clear, responsible terms. The aftercare checklist is long, thoughtful, even tender.

It’s the final confirmation: you didn’t do this on a whim. You mean it. You want him. Like this. His eyes shimmer slightly. Your boss. On the edge of crying from a form. Then he hesitates shyly. Circles two spots you left uncrossed.

You lift a brow as he gives back the form for you to consider.

“Golden shower and Exhibition “ you sight “I’m… not sure… But we can discuss it later.” you admit.

“That’s okay,” he replies too fast, nodding like a bobblehead on a bumpy ride. “That’s—totally fine.”

You hand him the smaller of the two boxes.

He opens it. A sleek, delicate pair of glasses. Not prescription. Just a look — something dignified, calm, an elegant reminder of his submission. “You wear those when you’re mine,” you say. opening the second box, “The collar’s only for play. But the glasses? That’s the symbol for our daily life.”

He slides the glasses on immediately — no hesitation, no second thoughts. They sit perfectly on his face, softening the sharpness in his jaw, giving him the exact look you imagined: cute, obedient, and just a little wrecked.

“So… that means I’m yours now?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper, trembling with hope. It’s the kind of question you’ve already answered a thousand times without words by now, but you nod anyway — slow, steady, deliberate.

Pride blooms in your chest when his whole body slumps in relief.

He rises to his feet with shaky hands and then—without warning—sinks again. This time not to kneel, but to wrap both arms around your leg, hugging it with childlike desperation. And maybe it's the shortness of your dress. Maybe it’s just the way he clings, forehead resting against your thigh like it’s his new religion.

But when he shifts slightly… his face buries right against your heat. And you forgot one crucial detail.

No underwear.

You hear the shaky gasp he lets out when his lips brush against bare skin. Like the air’s been knocked out of him.

Then he’s groaning. Mouthing at you through the fabric, or lack thereof, completely unhinged, trying to kiss your cunt like a happy dog. His hands tighten on your hips. One thumb hooks the edge of your dress and tries to push it up like he has to see it—like looking might kill him but not looking is worse.

He moves back a little and what he does almost kills you from chock. He literally starts to act like a dog, tongue out, heavy breath. heavy leed begging eyes. his tongue licks your thighs, giving eyes to your cunt, sending the message.

“Let me give you pleasure mistress—” he pants like a dog, “I’ll be good.”

God, you want to. Your legs twitch with the effort to stay composed. But instead, your hand fists in his hair and tugs him back—not roughly, just enough.

“Drive me home. Now.”

The tension follows you too in the elevator. He takes your hand— this time with fingers laced with yours. As if the act alone might earn him another kind word. Halfway down, his head dips into the crook of your neck and stays there. You hear the shaky breath he takes, then another.

“You smell like... so good,” he mutters.

You scoff. “And you smell like desperation.”

He chuckles, but the sound dies in his throat when his arms wrap around you from behind— tight, possessive —and his hips press into you instinctively. Grinding a bit, even. Like he can’t help himself anymore, he wants you so bad.

“Jake,” you warn, as he jerks back. 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I... Didn’t mean— I just—”

You don’t look at him, but your smirk is visible in the elevator’s reflection. He wants it so bad.

In his car, he speeds.Of course he does. Your legs are crossed in his passenger seat, the scent of you still thick in the air, and his hands tap on the wheel like he’s one red light away from losing his mind entirely.

“I'll gag you if you keep speeding.” The words drop just to tease him for your fun. And you don’t need to look to know his cock twitches.

“You’re still speeding, Jake.”

“I—”

“Keep going and you’re going to be punished for real, just telling...”

🕗

Jake's practically vibrating out of his skin the second you walk through the door.

Eyes locked on you like a dog waiting for the bell to ring, panting through his nose, fists clenched at his sides like if he doesn’t get your hands on him in the next thirty seconds, he might combust right there in your hallway.

And maybe he would. Maybe you should let him. Instead, you toss your bag to the side and kick your heels off without ceremony, not sparing him a glance. His cock’s already hard. You can see it straining under his slacks like it's got a heartbeat of its own.

Pathetic.

“Bedroom,” you say without looking. “Now.”

He scrambles. Actually stumbles. Nearly trips over the threshold like his legs aren’t working right — and you, patient thing that you are, grab him by the tie and spin him around so hard his back ends up smacking open the door of your room.

He gasps.

You don’t give him time to recover. One hand in his hair, the other squeezing his jaw until his mouth opens like instinct, and then you're kissing him like punishment — bite, tongue, zero softness. You bite his bottom lip until he whines, and it’s only then you really look at him.

Glasses crooked. Tie wrinkled. Pupils blown out like he’s five seconds away from begging.

You smile. Good.

“You said you’d behave,” you say, dragging the tie like a leash, walking him toward the bed like you’re guiding a fucking lamb to slaughter.

“I tried,” he pants, already flushed. “I—I swear, I tried. I Didn’t touch myself once. Not since last time. Not since” you grab his hard on, “—fuck—please—”

He’s babbling.

You shove him flat on the mattress and climb on top of him in one smooth motion, thighs framing his hips, your weight pressing down on his cock. He bucks up like a reflex. Dumb move. You slap his cheek — not hard, but enough.

He gasps. Blinks. Nods.

“Good boy,” you murmur, tone razor sharp. “Keep your hands to yourself or I’ll break them.”

He doesn’t even argue. Just melts. Spreads his arms out above his head like he wants to be tied down. So you do —his belt. You grab, and tie him up. His breathing’s already shaky, cock twitching where it presses against you. You lean down, letting your tits graze his face. His tongue sticks out like instinct, trying to lick, suck, anything— but you yank back. Now he can’t move.

“No.”

He whines. Actually whines. It’s disgusting.

“You wanna touch?” you ask, voice sweet and awful. “Want it?”

“Please,” he chokes. “Please, I’ll be good. Let me—fuck—let me leave marks, I want you bruised, I want to fucking bite you—”

You laugh, throwing your head back. “You?” you mock, grinding down against his cock. “You can barely speak without begging. You think you’re gonna do anything without my permission?”

He moans. Loud. His cock twitches violently under you, and you can see the panic settle in his eyes. He’s close. Way too fucking close.

“Haven’t even fucked you yet,” you whisper, dragging your nails down his chest. “And you’re already about to cum like a virgin on prom night.”

“I—fuck, I can’t help it—please, if you slow down—just a second—”

You plant your knees on either side of his head and sit on his face. He cries out with a smile on his face— muffled, frantic — and latches on like he’s starving. His tongue is wild, sloppy, more desperation than technique, and you grind against his mouth like it’s yours — because it is.

“This is where you belong,” you groan, hips rolling. “Under me. Crying. Leaking. Useless unless I’m using you.”

He moans, so loud it vibrates through your whole body. His cock? Red and angry and twitching untouched. He thrusts into the air, desperate for friction, and you just press down harder on his face. He chokes. It’s beautiful.

You ride his tongue until he’s crying and slows down.

Then you finally slide off, and he gasps like he’s coming up for air after drowning—because he was. His face is wrecked. His glasses are somewhere on top of his head. His mouth’s slick with spit and slick and somehow pride. His chest heaves.

You grab his face with your hand, waking him from his daze.

“Focus.”

He moans like you kissed him and you untie him.

“Collar,” you demand.

He fumbles for it with shaking hands, holding it out like a fucking offering, like you’re a god he’s trying to appease. “C-can you put it on me ?”

You snap it around his throat without ceremony. He shivers.

“Good. Now lie back and don’t move.”

You climb up, pull your dress over your head, bare and wet and glowing, and he’s practically crying just from looking.

His cock leaks like it’s apologizing. You press your foot down — slow, cruel — on his cock and balls, and he howls.

“W-wait—please—don’t—if you—if you keep doing that, I’ll—I’ll cum—!”

You press harder.

“Don’t,” you whisper. “Don’t you fucking dare. Not until I tell you.”

“I’m trying—fuck—I’m trying—”

You lean in — breath warm against his ear, one hand wrapped around his throat, firm but teasing, just enough to make him shiver.

“You’re lucky I don’t blindfold you, tie you up, and edge you for a fucking week,” you whisper, slow and mean. “No cumming. No touching. Just my voice in your ear while I whip you until you cry for it.”

He whimpers. It’s not even a sound anymore — just breath and broken vowels. His eyes roll back, his cock leaking like it’s begging to be used, untouched and pulsing like it could burst if you so much as looked at it too long.

You spit in your palm, rub yourself raw until you’re soaking, then sink down in one brutal drop.

He screams.

Not a moan. A scream. The sound punches out of him like you knocked the wind from his lungs.

And then you ride.

Hard. Fast. Messy. Punishing. Like you’re trying to fuck him into the mattress. Like your orgasm is more important than his survival. His hands are useless — clawing at the sheets, at the air, at nothing — because you haven’t let him touch you, and he knows better than to break that rule now.

He’s moaning too loud. Too desperate. You slap a hand over his mouth just to muffle the chaos spilling from him. Your hips don’t stop — bouncing, rolling, dragging him to the edge with every ruthless grind. His cock’s buried so deep you can feel it in your gut, and the way he looks up at you — glassy-eyed, mouth stuffed full of your palm, pure reverence — it’s enough to send your stomach twisting.

And then it shifts. Something flips in the air. You catch yourself leaning in, just a little too close. You’re still in control — you always are — but something about the way he’s watching you now, fucked-out and worshipping, makes your rhythm falter. Just once.

Jake sees it. Of course he does.

You see the exact second he realizes: you’re falling, too.

And he fucking loves it.

He’s chasing your orgasm now like it’s the only thing that matters. Like if he gives it to you, maybe — just maybe — you’ll kiss him.

You don’t say it. Don’t ask for it. But he knows.

He flips you with shaky hands, your legs locked tight around his waist before you even land. He fucks into you like he’s losing his mind — sloppy, desperate thrusts, slamming into you like he needs you to feel it.

“I’m close— fuck— I want you to cum too—”

“Me too,” you gasp, wrecked and ragged. One hand slams against the headboard as the other claws at his back. “Harder— Jake, please—”

And he delivers.

His rhythm turns frantic, almost cruel. You’re a mess beneath him, crying out, moaning his name in broken syllables.

“C-can I stay inside?” he begs, barely able to speak. “Please— I— fuck—”

You nod, frantic. “Kiss me.”

And he does.

He dives in like he’s starving for it, lips crashing into yours, moaning into your mouth as he cums — thick, hot spurts, wave after wave, his hips stuttering through it, unable to stop. The kiss is wet, messy, all teeth and breath and desperation. His cock twitches inside you, still buried to the hilt, still pushing in shallow little thrusts that make you shake.

It’s too much. Too wet. Too hot. Too full.

And it tips you.

You cum on his cock with a strangled cry, nails digging into his arms, your mouth still on his, tasting him, gasping into him as your whole body tightens and then breaks.

But you don’t stop kissing. Not even then.

His lips stay on yours through the aftershocks. Sloppy, slow, still trembling. His head dips to your neck, mouthing at the skin, soft kisses, little groans as he licks at your pulse.

You twitch under him every time his mouth moves, still too sensitive. He hisses at the way your walls pulse around him even now.

“Was I good?” you ask, breathless.

He nods into your neck like a kid, voice hoarse, cracked. “Yes. You— You’re perfect. So fucking perfect for me.”

You grin. Can’t help it. Can’t hide it.

“So fucking perfect, huh?” you echo, teasing. And he kisses you again. And again. And again. Little kiss bombs, dotting your cheeks, your lips, your jaw — and you finally grab his face and still him.

Your smile twists into something darker.

“This is only the start,” you purr, your voice all breath and promise, panting into his mouth. “I have so many things I want to try.”

He nods — fast, frantic — like he needs it.

Like he wants to be wrecked. Used. Owned. And maybe, if he’s lucky — loved.

You’re going to give it to him. Every filthy, fucked-up fantasy.

Again. And again. And again.

Author’s Note: Finally here for the comeback, lol!! It took me so long to post this because I kept second-guessing if I really loved every part of it... But then I thought: just do it, fighting girl! 💪💗

@veilstqr — knowing you were waiting for it seriously helped me push through and finish it~ Hope I didn’t disappoint! Reblogs and thirsty little thoughts are always appreciated don’t be shy, I see everything~XOXO

© Lassiie

[moonriizing]

dear reader... | 02z (18+)

You came seeking permanence in a place known for its impermanence.  Instead, three men showed you what one unforgettable summer can teach about love, adventure, and letting go.

Genre: destination au, strangers-to-lovers, smut Pairing: ENHYPEN Jake/Sunghoon/Jay x afab!reader Warnings: mature themes, explicit sexual content (18+) MDNI, Notes: 20k words. I KNOW, WHY IS IT SO LONG? Guys, it's three men. 15k words is not gonna cover it all, lmao. Loosely based on the 2018 movie, Mamma Mia! Here We Go Again!. I was rewatching the movie (for the 9868th time) and thought it would make a great fic because it's messy and dramatic, you know what I'm saying? LMAO. I hope you like this! Disclaimer: I do not know them, nor claim they would ever in real life the way they were portrayed in this fic. If you see the same exact fic in a different blog, for NCT, that is me. I did not plagiarize myself, otherwise, lmk.

Enjoy~

Paris, 2007

At a small restaurant tucked into a corner in Paris, you sat across from a guy who hadn’t stopped talking since the wine arrived. His name was Jake. You’d met him earlier that afternoon at the hotel. Or more accurately, you’d bumped into him just as he was coming back from lunch, with his paper cup of cold coffee spilling all over your shirt.

He’d looked horrified. In accented English, he started rapid-firing: “Oh god, I’m so sorry—I didn’t see you—are you okay? Did it burn? No, wait, it’s iced. Still—fuck—hang on—”

You were still blinking the splash out of your eye when he lunged forward with a bunch of napkins, dabbing at your sleeve in a panic. That only led to a series of increasingly awkward brushes and even more frantic apologies. At one point, his hand grazed your left boob and he practically launched himself backward.

“Shit—I wasn’t trying to grope you, I swear! I’m not a strange man!”

You were flustered and maybe a little annoyed. But the whole thing was so ridiculous that you just started laughing. Jake, still a little red in the face, had let out a breathy, nervous chuckle of his own. For a few seconds, he just watched you laugh with a slight crease on his forehead and a confused but curious smile on his lips.

You’d eventually stopped laughing and started waving your hand dismissively. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh. It was just… oh my god,” you trailed off, looking away so you don’t laugh again.

“I know this is probably the worst possible timing but—would you, um—” He paused, cleared his throat, and in one breath and what you now realized was an Australian accent, blurted, “Would you like to have dinner with me?”

And now here you were. He was still rambling.

“It’s just been a mess since I got here. First, the hotel mixed up my reservation, then I couldn’t figure out the train system, and don’t even get me started on the guy at the station who yelled at me in French—I think it was French. I don’t know. I really thought this trip would be like… I don’t know, healing or something?”

He paused only to take a sip of wine, then set the glass down with a sigh.

“I’m not even the spontaneous type, you know? I plan everything. But I thought, hey, maybe I’ll go off the grid for once. Have my little adventure. And so far, it’s just been a lot of me getting lost and getting sworn at in French.”

“They were probably just saying ‘hi,’” you offered, shrugging.

“Yeah, maybe. But I probably should’ve just stayed home,” he sighed, shaking his head. “Played with my dog, or something.”

You rested your chin on your hand, half a smile tugging at your lips as you watched him go on. He talked a lot about himself, but not in a way that he was trying to impress you. He was just… nervous. A little frantic, even. But there was something about the way he talked earnestly and a bit self-deprecatingly that made you want to lean in and listen. It was kind of cute.

He was kind of cute.

Jake glanced up mid-sentence. “Sorry, I’m talking too much, aren’t I? I don’t usually talk too much, but I can’t help it. You’re just so…” he trailed off and sighed. “Is it boring? Am I boring you?” he added, looking a little apologetic.

You shook your head. “Not at all. Please, I like listening.”

He smiled, relieved, and you found yourself smiling back.

Two days ago, you’d been somewhere else entirely. Standing at the airport with your two best friends, both trying not to cry, both saying you were being dramatic, that you were running away. Maybe you were. But you liked to think of it as ‘starting over’ instead.

The moment your graduation cap hit the floor of your shared apartment, you knew your youth was over, and that perfect, cookie-cutter life waiting back home would catch up to you. You didn’t want that. So you packed your bags and chose your own path.

Corsica. An island off the coast of France, where you could be whoever you wanted and do whatever you wanted.

You hadn’t made it to Corsica yet. You hadn’t even figured out how to get there. But you weren’t in a hurry. So for now, you wandered Paris. And somehow, you’d ended up here—with a very cute stranger who couldn’t stop talking.

After dinner, you ended up walking along the Seine and Jake had stopped talking.  The silence was a little startling, like someone had hit pause on a very fast, very chaotic radio broadcast. But it wasn’t awkward. He kept close but not too close, his hands tucked into his coat pockets, his shoulders hunched slightly against the wind.

The city lights reflected on the river, making it glimmer as you basked in the quiet and the beauty around you. Paris looked like something out of a movie, and you found yourself slowing your steps just to take it all in.

“Paris is kind of magical,” you said, just to say something.

Jake nodded slowly, then said, “It’d be a lot more magical if the people were a little nicer.”

You laughed. “Still mad about that guy at the train station?”

“He called me a donkey.”

You blinked. “Wait, what?”

“Un âne,” he said, in a terrible accent, pulling out a small dictionary from his coat pocket. “I looked it up later.”

You laughed harder, and he gave a self-pitying sigh that only made it worse. “I don’t even know what I did. I think I just stood too close to him.”

You kept walking, your steps in sync without meaning to.  It seemed like Jake had finally gotten comfortable around you. He’d stopped yapping and the nervous crease on his forehead had disappeared at some point. He asked where you were from, how long you were traveling, what made you pick Paris. You answered casually, carefully. Bits and pieces. Enough to keep the conversation going without opening up too much.

But it was a good conversation, and a good walk. You enjoyed talking to him and hearing his thoughts. And from the way he looked at you when you talked, it seemed like he enjoyed it too.

When you finally made it back to the hotel, Jake lingered with you in the lobby, fidgeting with the room key in his hand. He was getting nervous again, you could tell by the way his forehead was creased, and how he couldn’t look you in the eyes.

“What?” you prompted.

Jake scratched the back of his neck. “Hey, um,” he said, voice suddenly a little hoarse, “do you… wanna go out with me tomorrow?”

You tilted your head, pretending to think. “Are you gonna spill another drink on me?”

“No,” he said quickly. Then added, “Not on purpose.”

You bit back a smile.

“I just—” he exhaled, looking a little too earnest, “Meeting you was kind of the only good accident I’ve had this whole trip. So, if you don’t have plans, how about spending the day with me?”

That sold it. You smiled and said, “I would love to, Jake.”

He looked relieved, grinning at the carpet before finally meeting your eyes again.

You didn’t bother setting an alarm. When you wandered downstairs the next morning, Jake was already waiting in the lobby, sipping a cappuccino and tapping his foot like he wasn’t sure whether he was early or late.

His eyes lit up when he saw you. “Hey,” he said, standing up a little too fast. “I wasn’t sure if you’d come.”

You raised a brow. “I said I will.”

“Yeah, I know, but sometimes people say yes and don’t mean it. And I’ve been ghosted before. Not that I thought you would. Just—anyway. Hi.”

You laughed and said hi back.

“You look good today,” he said, smiling toothily. “And yesterday too. I’m sure you look good every day.”

“Dude, stop,” you chuckled, already making a beeline for the exit. “Let’s just go.”

“Of course! Yeah!”

The plan, if there was one, was to wing it. You both agreed on no maps and no real agenda. Jake suggested museum-hopping, and it sounded good enough. He brought a little foldable tourist map “just in case,” which you teased him for.

You wandered through halls of oil paintings and marble statues, whispering observations like you were museum critics. Jake tried to guess what every sculpture was about—usually something tragic or wildly inappropriate. He made you laugh loud enough to earn a few shushes from other people.

“‘Femme Étendue avec un Chien.’ Sounds like a thriller.”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s a woman napping with her dog.”

“Still. Could be a thriller. The dog murdering its master kind of thriller.”

You got shushed by a woman in a long wool coat. Jake mimed zipping his lips but started talking again five seconds later.

After that, you ended up in Montmartre, where artists lined the cobbled square, painting everything from landscapes to caricatures. Jake insisted you both get one drawn together by a grumpy man with yellow-tinted glasses who didn’t say a word the entire time. When he finally flipped the sketch around, Jake let out a strangled noise.

“Is that my nose? I look like a pelican.”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing. “I kind of love it.”

While you were there, a man tried to sell you a tiny Eiffel Tower keychain for twenty euros and Jake got so flustered trying to say ‘non merci’ that you ended up dragging him away before he accidentally bought three.

You shared a crepe from a street vendor and walked into luxury boutiques, the kind where everything smelled expensive and the saleswomen looked allergic to budget travelers. You ran your fingers along a buttery-soft leather purse with no visible price tag.

Jake hovered behind you, blinking at the rows of gleaming handbags.

“How much do you think this is?” you asked, holding up a small purse.

“Mm… two hundred?”

You tilted the bag to find the tag. “Try two thousand.”

Jake recoiled like it burned him. “Does it read your mind? What are we paying for?”

“The aesthetic, obviously,” you said, striking a mock-model pose.

In another shop, you pointed at a pair of heels that looked like crystal. Jake pointed at a maroon scarf and said, “You’d look good in this.”

You scoffed. “If I can afford it.”

Jake tilted his head as he searched for the price tag. “Oh, I think this is the only thing we can afford from here.”

You hummed, narrowing your eyes like you were actually considering it. “Exactly how many crepes can we buy for one of those?” 

He shrugged. “Twenty, give or take?”

“Yeah, nope.”

“Big nope,” he agreed, carefully putting the box back on the shelf.

By late afternoon, your feet were starting to ache. You tried to hide it, but Jake noticed.

“I know you’re tired, but we have one more stop. We’re gonna need to take a train, but I promise it’s worth it.”

You grimaced, and for a second, Jake looked like he was about to give up, but he shook his head and put on a determined face. “You can’t come to Paris and not see the Eiffel Tower.”

That made you nod. “Yeah, okay. That makes sense.”

He took you to the Eiffel Tower. It wasn’t part of the plan—you didn’t have one, but you weren’t expecting it, not really. You’d caught glimpses of it during the day, rising above the city like a paper cutout, but standing under it at dusk felt different.

It glowed. That was the only word for it. Golden lights stretched up into the sky, and there was this hush, like the whole city had quieted just for a moment to let you take it all in.

You ended up on the lawn across the street from the Eiffel Tower, eating sandwiches from a shop you passed on the way there. The sky was turning lilac. You chewed slowly, taking it all in—lights blinking, the faint sound of a violin from somewhere down the street, the grass slightly damp beneath your coat.

“I used to think I’d work for a big hotel chain,” you said after a while. “You know, like… the Four Seasons or The Ritz.”

Jake turned his head to look at you.

“But later on, I decided I wanted one of my own,” you went on. “A little hotel. Cozy and nice. Something that feels like home for people who are far away from theirs.”

Jake hummed thoughtfully, swallowing a bite before saying, “I’d stay there.”

You turned to him. “You would?”

He nodded. “But only if there’s room service. And robes. I’m very fancy.”

You snorted. “We’re eating 2 euro sandwiches in probably the most expensive city in the world.”

“Only for now,” he replied proudly. “We’d both be doing much better and earning much more by the time you’ve built that hotel.”

You didn’t say anything to that. You just smiled at your sandwich and took another bite.

In your dimly lit hotel room, you sat on the edge of your bed, laughing at something Jake had said. You were leaning your head against the four-poster as you watched Jake in his spot on the carpeted floor, fumbling with the wine bottle and the paper cup.

He’d brought it out casually in the elevator, half-joking that he’d bought it on his first day here to take back home, but he was willing to share it with you. One thing led to another, and now here you were, drinking warm Bordeaux out of paper cups and toasting to the kind of day that felt too good to leave unfinished.

Jake finally managed to pour without spilling and handed you your paper cup.

“I wish this place at least had room service,” he sighed, shaking his head at the cup.

“You should’ve gone to a bigger, more posh hotel then,” you teased before taking a sip.

It was fruity, a little warm, and probably not very good, but in that moment, it felt perfect enough.

You talked less now. The day had wrung most of it out of you. Jake had leaned back against the bed, long legs stretched out in front of him, his head tilted toward the ceiling as he listened. He was just there—warm and a little flushed, wine-stained cup cradled in one hand.

He let out a contented sigh. “I don’t think I’ve ever walked this much in one day.”

You snorted. “You say that like you didn’t make me climb half of Montmartre.”

Jake gave you an indignant look. “I did make you climb, but it was me who almost died trying to keep up with you.”

“You’re such a baby,” you laughed, nudging his knee with your foot. He caught it in his palm.

You looked down, and so did he. Neither of you said anything.

Then his hand slid up, fingers wrapping loosely around your ankle—carefully, almost cautiously. You watched the way he tilted his head to meet your eyes, searching, communicating something you could understand clearly, oddly enough.

You could say it was the alcohol, willing you into something you usually wouldn’t do sober. But you knew that would be a lie. You weren’t drunk, not even tipsy. You knew what you were doing when you gave him the same look he was giving you.

Your heart picked up as Jake’s hand traveled up your leg, pausing at your knee. He leaned in, soft and slow, and planted a kiss on your skin.

You didn’t say anything. And to him, your silence—and the way you were looking at him—was encouragement enough to keep going.

He kissed the side of your knee again, a little firmer this time. When you still didn’t stop him, he shifted closer. His hand slid up your leg, pausing just above your knee. 

“Tell me if this is—if I’m reading this wrong,” he said softly, his voice lower than before but you could hear he was a little nervous.

“You’re not,” you said softly, offering a shy smile.

Jake gave a small, almost bashful smile, like he was relieved but still a little uncertain. Then he leaned in, placing a hand beside your hip as he kissed you. He missed your mouth the first time, catching the edge of your lip.

“Sorry,” he muttered under his breath.

You laughed a little against his mouth. “It’s fine. Come here.”

That helped. He kissed you again, properly this time, one hand cupping the back of your neck while the other propped him up on the bed. Still, even as it deepened, he wasn’t rushing. You could feel how careful he was, like he didn’t want to startle you or like he wasn’t sure this was really happening.

When you tugged his shirt up, he hesitated for a second before helping you take it off, eyes darting to yours like he was checking again.

“You sure?” he asked in a whisper.

You nodded. “Are you?”

He let out a nervous chuckle. “Yeah. Just… kind of feels unreal.”

That made your chest ache in a good way. You leaned forward, pressing your lips to his cheek, and said, “It’s real.”

He let out a breath, nodding as he touched your waist, thumbs brushing your skin like he wanted to be gentle even now. His shyness didn’t last long once you pulled him close again, his confidence creeping in the moment he saw you responding with your hands on him, and your breath hitching under his touch.

Jake took care of the rest, his hands sliding under your top with more certainty now. His palms were warm, fingertips grazing up your sides, over your ribs, until you raised your arms and let him pull the fabric over your head. His gaze flickered downward, then back up again, clearly trying not to stare but staring anyway.

You felt beautiful under his gaze, the kind of beautiful that didn’t come from lighting or lingerie or careful timing, just the way he looked at you. Like he wanted all of you, and genuinely so.

“You’re—” he started, then bit his lip, trying to compose himself. “You’re beautiful.”

You reached for him, pulling him in until your lips met again, slower this time, deeper. When you moved further up onto the bed, Jake followed, crawling up between your legs as you tugged at the waistband of his jeans. He was quiet but not passive. His hands were all over you now, exploring, touching, squeezing with a gentle firmness that made your heart skip.

As he pulled your bottoms down and tossed them aside, his gaze trailed over every inch of bare skin with eyes of adoration and amazement. He hesitated just long enough for you to notice. His fingers were brushing the top of your thigh, his lips parting like he wanted to say something but couldn’t.

You reached for him instead, undoing the button of his jeans with more confidence than you felt. “Jake,” you prompted.

“Yeah,” he murmured, forehead resting against yours. “Yeah, I’m here.”

He kissed you again, one hand traveling down from your boob to your belly, and futher down to cup your sex. He worked you up for a few moments, fingers circling your clit clumsily but with just enough pressure to make you moan.

And when he finally decided to push into you, he did it painfully slow, still being cautious. He held still, breathing hard, his hand sliding under your thigh to pull you closer. His other hand gripped the sheet near your head like he needed something to hold on to. 

You let out a soft gasp, your back arching as you adjusted around him, and he kissed your shoulder, your neck, anywhere he could reach.

“You okay?” he murmured.

You nodded again. “Yeah. You can move.”

He obliged and moved slowly at first, deeply, the kind of rhythm that made your toes curl.  He kept it up until the tension coiled tight in both your bodies, until his restraint began to slip. The room filled with breathy, lewd sounds—your moans, his whispered curse when you clenched around him, the muffled thump of the headboard as his thrusts grew more desperate.

You bit your lip, eyes shut tight as you tried not to be too loud. The hotel was cheap, and the walls were unforgivingly thin.

“Jake, please,” you whimpered, mouth parting but barely making a sound, even as he drove you to the edge.

“Please what?” he asked softly, brushing a thumb over your cheek and kissing your forehead.

You gripped his arms tighter, holding his gaze. “Harder.”

He didn’t hesitate this time. With a low grunt, he adjusted his grip on your hips and drove into you harder, the rhythm picking up, deeper now, less cautious. Your head tipped back against the pillows, a sharp moan slipping out before you could stop it. Jake buried his face in your neck to muffle his own.

Each thrust made the headboard knock just slightly louder. You barely registered it anymore. All you could think about was the heat of his skin, the stretch of him inside you, and the desperation in the way he held you like he couldn’t get close enough.

“God, you feel so—” He cut himself off with a breathy groan, hands sliding up your sides. “You okay?”

You couldn’t answer with words. You just nodded frantically and wrapped your legs tighter around his waist, drawing him in deeper. He gasped, nearly losing his rhythm.

Your hand tangled in his hair as your other clawed at his back, trying to hold yourself together as he kept hitting just the right spot. The coil in your belly wound tight. You were close. His movements turned erratic, one hand slipping down to your clit, clumsily rubbing in tight circles until your body seized around him.

Your orgasm hit like a wave, crashing over every nerve. You clung to him, gasping out his name, your entire body tensing, shaking, unraveling.

Jake didn’t last much longer. The second your walls clenched around him, he let out a strangled groan, buried as deep as he could go, and spilled into you. His whole body trembled with it, the hand near your head fisting the sheet like he needed to anchor himself to something.

For a moment, neither of you moved. Neither of you said anything and it was just the sound of your breathing, oddly too loud in the quiet room.

He pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder. Then your collarbone. Then your cheek. And finally, your lips—slow and breathless and almost shy again.

Then, quietly, Jake asked, “Did you like it?”

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. His cheeks were flushed, his hair was messy, and he looked so earnest that your heart squeezed a little.

You nodded, a smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah. I really did.”

He let out a relieved breath, then grinned bashfully, like he couldn’t quite believe this had happened.

“Good,” he said, tucking his face into the crook of your neck again. “’Cause I really liked it too.”

You chuckled. “You did well.”

He let out a soft laugh, forehead pressed to yours. “I think I just saw stars.”

He fell on the space beside you, staring at the ceiling as you both caught your breath. You curled up beside him, nuzzling against his chest that was still damp with sweat. You wanted to say something, but sleep was already catching up to you.

Jake wrapped an arm around your shoulder, pressing a kiss to your forehead. Then he let out a deep, contented breath.

“I think I’m in love with you,” he said, barely above a whisper.

You blinked, suddenly wide awake. You shifted to look at him, but his breathing was already slowing, his features softening.

He was fast asleep before you could say anything.

The wind blew at you as soon as you stepped off the bus, salty and cool and strong enough to tug at your sun hat. You held it in place and squinted up at the sky. It was bright and beautiful, the vivid blue hue decorated with scattered clouds.

You adjusted the handle of your carrier and followed the other passengers toward the ferry terminal. A seagull screamed overhead. Someone lit a cigarette beside you. Around you, people were chattering in what you could make out was French and some Italian. It was much noisier here than it was in Paris. Less posh and polished, more human and real.

The morning felt raw, a little too bright after a night like that. But you didn’t look back.  Corsica was next. That was the plan. That had always been the plan.

The port was small—just one wooden pier stretching out into the water, a few moored boats bobbing gently with the current. It was a far cry from Paris, or even the bus station you’d left this morning. Everything here moved slower, like time itself had decided not to keep up.

You walked up to the small booth, eyes darting to the analog clock above the door. 17:10.

Last Departure - 17:00Next Departure - Tomorrow, 7:10

“No, no, no,” you muttered, quickening your pace. 

You shoved past a wobbly gate that probably wasn’t meant to be opened, lugging your bag like it was a boulder. “Wait!” you screamed at the ferry, your voice cracking as you sprinted along the creaky wooden pier.

“Wait for me!” you shouted, flailing your arms like a maniac.

The ferry let out a long, mournful horn and started to pull away, the wake rippling through the still water.

“Turn back!” you shrieked, weaving past a stack of plastic crates and an unimpressed fisherman. “Turn back! Damn it!”

You reached the end of the pier, panting, face red, chest burning. The ferry was already further on the horizon.

“Seriously?!” you yelled, flailing your hat in the air. “You couldn’t wait five more minutes?!”

You dropped your suitcase with a thud and bent over your knees, catching your breath. “Merde.”

“Missed your boat?” said a man from behind you.

You straightened, whipping around with a glare reserved for backhanded comments and people who cut in lines. “Wow, what gave it away?” you deadpanned. “The shouting or the visible despair?”

The man smiled smugly. His dark hair was pushed back neatly, his button-down was crisp and linen, and on his nose sat a pair of sunglasses you could swear you’d seen on display at Prada yesterday. Definitely not a local. And definitely not someone who’d taken three buses in the past ten hours.

“Both?” he said, tilting his head. “That’s too bad. The next ferry isn’t until tomorrow.”

You sighed, all the fight draining from your body at once. “Yeah. I can read.”

He clicked his tongue, stepping closer to the edge of the dock beside you. “Wouldn’t it be nice,” he said, “if someone had a boat that could take you to the island?”

You let out a dry laugh. “It sure is. But it’s a little early to start hallucinating.”

“Mm,” he hummed, eyes flicking over you with mild amusement.

Then, without another word, he turned and walked past you, toward a gleaming white yacht docked not ten feet away.

You blinked.

He stepped onto the deck like he’d done it a hundred times before, then turned back to look at you with an infuriatingly pleasant smile. You lifted your chin, brushed your hair out of your face, and stepped forward.

“Looks like someone did have a boat that could take me to the island,” you said, flashing your best smile. “If only the owner was nice enough.”

He glanced at the yacht behind him, then back at you. “Oh, this isn’t mine. I just stand here pretending it is so women will fall for me.”

You snorted. “Gross.”

“Maybe,” he said, grinning. “But it works.”

You scoffed, laughing under your breath as you waved him off and turned away. “Right. Bye, then.”

“I’m kidding,” he called out, still laughing. “Come aboard. My boat’s heading that way too, and I’ve got spare rooms.”

Your feet moved before your brain could offer a single warning, climbing onto the docked yacht without hesitation. No passport check, no credentials, no double-take at the stranger with movie-star hair and designer sunglasses. Just vibes. Your mother would’ve had a stroke.

Or, more likely, she would’ve shaken her head and muttered something about how you always liked to fuck around and find out.

The man turned just in time to help you onto the deck, his hand warm around yours. “I’m Jay, by the way.”

You told him your name and he chuckled. “Next time, you might wanna do a double-take and get to know people before getting into their boat,” he said. 

You laughed at that, though you agree he was right. “I’ll keep that in mind, thanks.”

You glanced around the yacht. Sleek, white, and clean enough to eat off of the floor. A compact galley gleamed to the left, and a staircase led to what you assumed were the sleeping quarters.

“This is Captain Luc,” Jay said, nodding to a man in a white polo who gave you a quick salute before going back to his maps. “That’s Sofia, our cook. Pierre and Manu help out with navigation and maintenance. Don’t worry, they’re all very well-paid and only mildly resent me.”

Sofia gave you a wink as she passed with a basket of fruit, and Manu barely looked up from where he was scrubbing something on the deck.

“Nice setup,” you said, setting your suitcase down with a thunk that felt very out of place on such pristine floors.

Jay smiled. “It’s not huge, but it gets the job done.”

“That’s what they all say,” you quipped, giggling.

His grin widened. “I like you already.” He turned and motioned for you to follow him below deck. “Come on, I’ll show you to your room.”

You followed him down a narrow staircase and into a hallway of sleek wood and soft lighting. He opened a door to a small but clean room with a porthole view and a surprisingly fluffy-looking bed.

“This one’s cozy,” he said. Then, casually added, “Mine’s a bit nicer though. Bigger bed. Better sheets. Better lighting, if that matters.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Bet the women loved the lighting in your room.”

Jay leaned on the doorframe, still grinning. “They loved me more, but yeah, the lighting did suit their taste too.”

“Great.” You stepped into the room, tossed your bag onto the bed, and gave him a sweet smile. “I like dim rooms like this one better.”

But Jay wasn’t backing down yet. “You’d be surprised how effective dimmers can be.”

You gave him your fakest smile and nodded to the door. “Thanks for accommodating me. Please close the door on your way out.”

Jay chuckled and pushed off the doorframe. “Let me know if you change your mind. I’ll be dimming the lights in advance.”

He disappeared down the hall, leaving the scent of some expensive cologne lingering behind him.

You looked around the room again, shook your head, and flopped back onto the bed.

The sun had set by the time you made it up to the deck. The sky was starry and cold, and the sea was calm, stretching endlessly in all directions. Dinner had been set on a small table with linen napkins, wine glasses, and even candles.

Jay looked up from the magazine he was reading, straightening up when he saw you walking in. “Good evening. How was your nap?” he asked, motioning to the seat across from him.

“Refreshing,” you replied, eyeing the setup. “First, you tried to seduce me with good lighting. Now it’s sea bass?”

He laughed. “Can’t a guy just offer dinner without an ulterior motive?”

You sat. “Sure, he can. But to me, you’re a walking ulterior motive.”

“Please,” he chuckled. “I just like to make my guests feel special.”

“How many guests have there been?”

Jay poured you a glass of wine and handed it over. “Too many. You’re my favorite, though.”

You smirked as Sofia walked over to fill your glass with wine. “You’re really going for it, huh?”

“Just enough to keep you entertained,” he replied smoothly, taking a sip of his wine. “If I go too hard, you’ll run. If I don’t try, I’m wasting this view.”

“You mean me or the sea?”

He tilted his glass toward you. “Both. Though you’re slightly more distracting.”

Dinner was actually good. The fish was cooked perfectly, and the wine was expensive and tasted like it. Every so often, a crew member drifted in and out, clearing plates or topping off wine like it was just any ordinary day. Jay, for his part, didn’t stop flirting for more than thirty seconds at a time.

“So where exactly were you running to before you missed the ferry?” he asked, leaning in like he actually wanted to hear the answer.

“Some small village in Corsica,” you said, twirling your fork. 

“Vacation?”

You shrugged. “Immigration? I’m moving there.”

His brows furrowed slightly. “Why?”

“Identity crisis?” you offered with a chuckle. “Nothing really. Just trying to figure things out. Make something for myself.”

“Ah,” he said, sipping his wine. “My favorite kind of woman.”

“I’m sure you say that about every kind of woman.”

“Not to every kind,” he replied, smirking. “Just the ones I like.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help chuckling.

“Anyway,” he said after a beat, cutting into his food, “I may not look like it, but I’m kind of figuring things out too. So… I get it.”

“Thanks,” you said. “I’m sure you’ll get there eventually.”

“I feel like we should toast to that,” he said, lifting his glass. “To starting over and making something of ourselves.”

You clinked yours gently against his. “To strange men and questionable decisions.”

After dinner, the two of you drifted toward the front of the yacht. You leaned against the rail, watching the faint outline of the horizon and the stars dotting the night sky.

Jay stood beside you, close but not touching. His wine glass dangled loosely in his fingers. “Not a bad way to spend a missed ferry, huh?” he said.

You hummed. “Could’ve been worse. I could’ve ended up on a fishing boat with no wine.”

“Or worse,” he said, “with someone boring.”

You glanced at him. “Fine. I’ll concede and say you’re not that boring.”

Jay smirked, eyes on the sea. “I can already imagine how broken my heart would be once you leave this boat tomorrow.”

You snorted. “Did that line ever work for you? Don’t tell me it did, because I know it didn’t.”

He chuckled. “Oh, you’d be surprised. It’s my best line.”

“No, it’s not,” you replied, shaking your head and taking a sip from your glass. 

“It is, though,” Jay insisted, bright grin gleaming under the light. “Although, I can see that it doesn’t work on you, and that’s just making me fall in love with you even more.”

“Stop,” you chided softly, nudging his arm with your elbow. “I won’t have sex with you.”

“Why not?”

You looked over at him, smirking. “We literally only just met.”

He bumped you back with a grin “And you’re not that kind of girl?”

“Absolutely not,” you said, then paused. “Usually,” you added, looking away.

Jay chuckled heartily, taking one step away. “Fine. But it is true that I’m falling in love with you.”

“Yeah,” you sniggered, rolling your eyes. “I'm getting that a lot these days.”

The next day arrived with the soft rock of the yacht and sunlight pouring through the porthole window. You stirred awake at noon, disoriented for a second before remembering the events of the day before—missed ferry, expensive yacht, handsome stranger with very white teeth.

By the time you made it to the deck, the coastline of Corsica was already coming into view. It was closer now and you had specifically pointed out a tiny village by the coast when the captain asked where you wanted to be delivered to.

The village was small, charming in that rustic way travel blogs loved to romanticize—whitewashed walls, terracotta roofs, little boats bobbing in a quiet harbor. It looked peaceful and safe. Like the kind of place where things might finally slow down for you.

Jay was already up, leaning casually on the rail with a coffee in hand and sunglasses perched on his nose like he hadn’t stayed up half the night trying to charm you out of your room.

“Sleep well?” he asked without looking.

You stepped beside him and inhaled the salt-thick air. “Like a sloth. Must be the ocean breeze. Or the sheer emotional exhaustion of your flirting.”

He chuckled. “You wound me. I’m not a flirt, I’m a charmer.”

“Does saying that help you sleep better at night?” you asked, stretching your arms over your head.

“Most of the time,” he said, grinning. Then he nodded toward the dock. “You’re up next. Corsica awaits.”

You glanced at the approaching land, heart flickering with something between nerves and excitement. “Oh, it’s a beauty. Are you sure you won’t stop by and explore the island before you head to Sardinia?”

“I’d love to, but I’m afraid I’m a little behind schedule.” He turned to face you fully, just for a moment. “It’s a shame, though. I was starting to enjoy your company.”

“Was?”

“Am,” he corrected, gently. “Though I suspect I’ll be enjoying the memory of you more than anything else.”

You rolled your eyes but found yourself smiling anyway. “Well, thanks for the ride. And the fish. And for not being a strange man who liked to kidnap unsuspecting tourists who missed their ferries.”

Jay laughed a little too hard, head lolling back. When he recovered, he was wiping small tears from the corners of his eyes. “We’ll see each other again, though. I’m sure of it.”

You blinked at him. “That sounded oddly ominous.”

He winked. “Then I said it right.”

The yacht bumped gently against the dock. A crew member waved you toward the exit. You gave Jay a last look, one corner of your mouth lifting in amusement.

“Take care, Playboy.”

“You too, Miss Not-That-Kind-of-Girl.”

You descended the ramp with your suitcase thumping behind you, the sun warming your shoulders and your next destination waiting just ahead.

Behind you, the yacht peeled away from the dock and disappeared around the curve of the coast. But Jay’s last words echoed anyway.

We’ll see each other again.

The village was even lovelier up close. Narrow stone streets wove between crumbling old buildings, flower boxes popping color out of every window. Locals moved slowly, like they had all the time in the world. It felt like a place untouched by urgency, like nothing truly bad could happen here.

You wandered without direction, letting your feet take you uphill, away from the port and toward the cliffs that framed the coastline. The sea stretched endlessly below, crashing in soft rhythms. For a while, you just stood there and stared at it, arms folded loosely, wind tugging at your clothes. You could already picture the postcards.

Then, further ahead, something caught your eye.

It sat like a relic from another lifetime: a grand, slightly crumbling mansion with tall shuttered windows and ivy crawling halfway up the walls. The gate stood open, a “FOR SALE” sign bolted crookedly to the wrought iron. Grass had grown wild, and the gravel path was broken and overgrown, but the bones of the place were beautiful. In your mind’s eye, you could picture the grandeur and the majesty of the place.

You hesitated for a second, then stepped through the gate. The front door wasn’t locked and inside, the air was stale but not unpleasant. The ceilings were high, the rooms wide and flooded with light from broken windows. It smelled faintly of dust and sea. You moved carefully, your footsteps echoing across tiled floors and creaking wood.

In your mind, it all changed. You saw fresh white paint, wide glass doors, airy curtains that fluttered in the breeze. You pictured soft linens and warm breakfasts, travelers coming in from the harbor with sand still on their skin. You could almost hear the clink of plates in a bright little dining room and laughter echoing through the halls.

You gasped at the sheer excitement of it all, covering your mouth as you looked around the place. Then you shrieked and started twirling around. You stopped just in time, breathless at the edge of the stairs.

“This is it,” you muttered to yourself, eyes still wide. “This is the place.”

You turned to leave, determined to find out if the place was still for sale and if your savings was enough to buy it. But just as you were stepping out of the big double doors, large drops of rain started hitting the floor and your head.

The downpour came instantly, heavy and fast, drenching the gravel path before you. You froze at the doorway, then stepped back inside. The once quiet halls were filled with the sound of raindrops battering the roof and the old windows, sheets of it cascading off the eaves. There was no point trying to make a run for it.

So you wandered a little deeper into the house, hugging your arms to yourself. 

“Just for a few minutes,” you murmured aloud, brushing a cobweb off a dusty banister. “I’m sure it’s just passing by.”

But hours passed and the rain didn’t let up.

What started as a drizzle had turned relentless, and by late afternoon, it was hard to tell whether the sky was getting darker from the storm or the approaching dusk. The old house groaned occasionally with the wind. Water pelted the windows like tiny stones.

You paced for a bit, hugged your knees for a while, then tried pacing again. The floorboards creaked. Somewhere upstairs, something thudded. It could’ve been the wind. Or ghosts. You chose not to think about it.

“I love this place,” you muttered to yourself. “I just don’t want to die here.”

With the rain still going strong and no sign of stopping, you resigned yourself to the possibility of staying the night, miserable, damp, and slightly haunted. You pulled your bag closer, rummaging for something that could function as a light source. Cellphone? Dead. Flashlight? Obviously, you didn’t have one. You were sure you had a lighter, though. It was your friend’s that you’d nicked at some point before leaving for France.

Just as you were deep into your luggage looking for the lighter, you heard footsteps. Your head jerked up. Then another footstep, then the sound of the front door creaking.

You froze. You weren’t imagining it—someone was inside!

Your mind raced. Was it the owner? Were you about to be arrested for trespassing? Was it a real estate agent with unfortunate timing? Or worse, some awful drifter who wandered into empty buildings looking for lone women to murder in cold blood?

The footsteps were getting closer. Your heart jumped into your throat.

Without thinking, you grabbed the closest thing—a splintered piece of wood from a broken table leg—and backed into the shadow of the stairwell, gripping it like a weapon.

They were coming down the main hall with steady, heavy steps. When the figure appeared in the doorway, you lunged.

Or, well, tried to.

A startled yelp came out of both of you as the man blocked your swing just in time, catching your wrists with both hands. “Whoa—whoa—hey!” he gasped. “I’m not—! I’m not here to rob you! Or—or murder you!”

You stared at him, breathless, wood still clutched in your hands. “Then what the hell are you doing here?!”

“Trying not to die of hypothermia,” he said quickly. He had a soaked jacket, a backpack slung off one shoulder, and water dripping from the ends of his hair. “And, uh—avoiding flying furniture, apparently.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m—I’m Sunghoon! Park Sunghoon!”

You didn’t relax yet. “Are you the owner?”

“No,” he said. “Are you?”

You hesitated. “…No.”

He slowly let go of your wrists. You slowly lowered your arm. The two of you stared at each other, breathing hard.

“Well,” you said after a few seconds, sighing in relief. “This is definitely not how I imagined meeting someone today.”

He blinked. Then laughed. “Yeah, me neither.”

You both stood there for a while, listening to the rain hammering the roof like it had no plans of stopping. You glanced at him. “Think it’ll let up soon?”

Sunghoon didn’t even look outside. “Nope.”

“…You sound so sure.”

He shrugged out of his wet jacket. “I just know a thing or two about weather.”

“Okay, Weatherman.” You made a face. “Fantastic. So what, we just wait it out? Sit on the floor until morning?”

“There’s probably a fireplace somewhere,” he said, tugging off his shoes and shaking out his soaked sleeves. “A place like this has to have one.”

You sighed, shuddering at the sight of him in wet clothes. You then turned to your suitcase and flung it open. You first found the lighter, turned it on, and rummaged through your clothes for a t-shirt.

You found a plain white oversized sweater and handed it to him. “Here.”

Sunghoon hesitated. “It’s okay. I’m fine.”

“You said so yourself. The rain isn’t letting up anytime soon.”

He sighed, but he looked grateful when he accepted it. “Thanks.”

You turned away as he got dressed, fixing your gaze on a hallway up ahead. “I think I saw the fireplace over there earlier.”

Walking together, with the lighter illuminating the dark halls, the two of you found it the old, soot-caked hearth in what might’ve once been a formal sitting room. Tall windows lined the walls, and you could see lightning flash beyond the horizon. The fireplace was cold and cobwebbed but intact.

“Found our survival base,” you said, voice echoing off the high ceiling.

Together, you gathered anything burnable—splintered chair legs, bits of an old table that looked way beyond repair. Sunghoon kicked apart a broken door with a little too much enthusiasm.

You raised an eyebrow. “You do this a lot?”

“Breaking and entering?” he asked, dragging a long covered couch across the room. “No. But I’m good at winging things.”

He tugged the white cloth off the couch and sent a thick cloud of dust into the air. Beneath it, the upholstery was surprisingly intact—floral velvet with only one visible tear on the side.

“Not bad,” he said, flopping down. “Way better than the hostel I stayed in last night.”

You scoffed. “I appreciate your optimism.”

You dropped your bag nearby and pulled out your meager stash of chips, two chocolate bars, and a slightly squished croissant. You held them out. “Dinner?”

He held up a hand to his chest solemnly. “It’s an honor.”

You shared the food while he coaxed the fire to life. Soon enough, warmth began to seep into the room, and a yellowish glow illuminated your faces and the walls.

“Not the worst way to spend a storm,” he said, stretching out his legs toward the fire.

You gave him a look. “You realize we’re in a haunted-looking mansion, right? With barely enough food and no cell service?”

“Yeah,” he grinned, tilting his head back against the couch. “But at least we’re warm and dry, and not dead yet.”

You laughed quietly, pulling your knees up to your chest. The fire crackled between you. Rain kept pelting the windows, but in here, it was manageable. Almost safe. You were both quiet for a while, chewing in silence, listening to the fire crackle and the storm rage outside.

Then Sunghoon spoke. “I used to be scared of thunder.”

You glanced over. “Really?”

He nodded, glancing over his shoulders out at the tall windows. “I was maybe six or seven. My mom told me it was just the clouds yelling at each other.” He smiled faintly. “So I’d yell back. Thought it made me brave.”

You grinned. “Did it work?”

“Only when she was in the room.”

The fire popped, sending sparks up the chimney. He leaned back, his gaze on the flames. “You ever have something you were embarrassed to admit you were scared of?”

You thought about it. “I’m scared of spiraling out of control.” You chuckled. “You?”

He looked over, brows lifted slightly. “Me? I don’t know,” he said, then looked away. “I think I’m scared of staying still.”

You didn’t say anything at first, waiting for him to continue. When he didn’t, you asked, “Did you… run away?”

“Not exactly,” he said quietly. “I don’t know if I’m running away or taking a break. I had this perfectly reasonable life mapped out for me. Job, partner, apartment, future. All very respectable.” He let out a dry laugh. “But none of it felt like it belonged to me.”

You nodded slowly, understanding without needing every detail.

“So I left,” he added. “Just picked a spot on the map and left.”

For a moment, neither of you said anything. Then you said, “Good for you.”

He looked at you. “Yeah?”

You smiled. “Yeah. Sometimes walking away is the braver thing.”

You took a deep breath and fixed your gaze on the fire. “I ran away, too. Everyone back home had some plan for me. What I’d study. Where I’d work. Who I’d be. And I went along with it because it was easier than fighting. Until one day I looked around and realized nothing in my life felt like mine.”

You felt your chest loosen after saying that out loud, like something unknotted inside you. A long pause followed. Then you added with a smile, “Still doesn’t explain why I walked into a random old mansion.”

“It’s a beautiful one,” he said. “Kind of poetic, really. You leave your life behind and walk straight into a ghost of someone else’s.”

You chuckled, leaning back into the couch. “Well, when you put it that way…”

The wind howled outside, but the room felt warm. Not just from the fire—something else, too. Something like understanding. You looked at him again, really looked this time. He was soaked, probably tired, and definitely not what you expected to find when you first stepped through those gates.

But somehow, running into him made perfect sense.

You woke up to sunlight pouring in from the tall windows. The high ceiling and the dust floating in the rays of morning light reminded you where you were—an abandoned mansion where you got stuck waiting out a storm.

You sat up slowly, noticing that the spot on the couch beside you was empty.

“Sunghoon?” you called out, but there was no response. 

You stood up, stretching your sore arms, and glanced around. The place was as quiet as it had been the day before. The broken furniture. The high windows. The eerie vibe.

You had almost thought Sunghoon wasn’t real. That he was just a figment of your imagination that your brain cooked up out of fear of being alone in this big house, but then your eyes landed on a dark denim jacket hanging near the fireplace, still a little damp.

You smiled a little. He was real after all.

But where was he? You had no idea. Maybe he’d left as soon as morning came and simply forgotten his jacket. Not that you were expecting him to stay, but you had assumed he would at least bid you a proper goodbye.

Well, it was no use sitting around waiting for him to come back and explain himself, so you decided to start your day. After gathering your things and running a hand through your hair, you made your way out of the mansion and back through the village path. The rain had washed the streets clean, and the morning had that fresh-after-a-storm feeling.

At the heart of the village, you found the inn. It looked like it hadn’t been updated in a decade, but it had flower pots on the window sills and a hand-painted sign out front that read Chambres.

The woman at the front desk wore a knit vest, bright lipstick, and had the energy of someone who’d wrestle a bear and win. She welcomed you like you were an old friend who’d finally come home, offered a nice room, and a hearty breakfast.

By noon, you were freshly showered, had eaten something good, and were strolling through the village looking for the real estate office. You found it near a patisserie, and the woman behind the desk raised an eyebrow when you mentioned the old mansion.

“That place?” she said. “You sure?”

You told her you were, and that you had the money ready.

She blinked, then smiled. “Well, no one else was ever interested in buying it, so it’s yours if you really want it. Paperwork will take a while, but you can go ahead and start fixing it up. No one’ll stop you.”

You were halfway through signing the first form when she added, “Funny. Someone else asked about it earlier today. Young man. Seemed curious but didn’t seem interested in buying.”

“Why was he asking about it?”

“Who knows? First-time visitors to this town are always curious about that place.”

You paused for a second, then shrugged. “As long as he’s not a potential rival buyer, I’m good,” you said with a smile.

“I assure you, Miss,” the lady said, stepping out of her desk to join you. “No one wants that place. Why do you think it’s much cheaper than it’s supposed to be?”

The real estate agent handed you note after the paperwork, tapping her nail against the words written on it.

“Since the place is gonna need to be fixed up, I suggest you talk to Jean-Luc. He’s a mason, but he has a group of carpenters working for him. He does a pretty good job, though he can be a little nosy.”

“Thanks. I was just wondering where to start looking for help,” you said, smiling as you examined the name and address on the note.

Before leaving the office, the agent told you what Jean-Luc’s daily rate was and to call out his bullshit if he ever asked for more than that. You thanked her again and turned in the direction of Jean-Luc’s shop. 

You met him at his shop, a wiry man in suspenders and a flat cap. He asked a few questions, but he seemed to know more about the place than you did.

“I’ll come by tomorrow morning to have a proper look, then we can negotiate.”

After that, he pointed you to a local supply shop, where you bought items you could use in the meantime, including some sturdy brooms, a pair of gloves, a few rags, and a bucket. You debated getting bleach but settled for lemon cleaner and optimism.

By the time you made your way back up the winding road to the mansion, your arms were aching from the weight of the supplies. But there was something satisfying about the ache, the breeze, and the faint scent of damp earth left by the storm.

You were surprised to see a motorbike parked outside the gates. The rain from the night before had washed the dust off the path, and the sun lit up the gravel as you stepped through the front doors of the mansion again.

Inside, the sound of hammering echoed faintly through the halls.

You followed it to the study, where the fireplace was. Sunghoon was crouched beside a wooden table, sleeves pushed up, hair damp at the temples. He held a hammer in one hand and was steadying a broken leg with the other, completely focused.

He looked up when he heard your footsteps. “Hey,” he said, straightening. “You’re back.”

You blinked. “You’re here?”

“So are you,” he said, setting the hammer down gently. “I thought you’d left for good.”

“I thought you left,” you replied, stepping inside.

He wiped his hands on his jeans. “Just went out to grab some food. When I came back, you weren’t here.”

You looked around. A few chairs had been repaired. One of the broken shelves stood straighter than before. He’d clearly been busy.

“You’ve been fixing things?” you asked.

He nodded. “I had time. Figured it wouldn’t hurt to help the place along a little. The woman at the real estate office said I could come by if I wanted.”

You raised a brow. “You went to the real estate office?”

“Yeah. She was friendly.” He looked sheepish, then smiled. “She said no one was ever interested in the place.”

You smiled back. “Well… someone is.”

He paused. “You?”

You nodded. He let out a short breath, like he hadn’t expected that. Then he gave a small, thoughtful smile. “Then maybe it’s good I didn’t leave.”

You tilted your head. “Why is that?”

“I’m sure you’re gonna need extra hands around here.”

You chuckled. “Yeah, no thanks. I don’t need a man bossing me around my own property.”

“No, I don’t mean it like that.” Sunghoon laughed. “I’m an architect, you see. I know my way around structures. If you’re planning to restore the place… I could help.”

You studied him. He didn’t seem to be lying. “…I don’t know how much I can pay you,” you said.

“Well, you fed and dressed me last night, so I’m basically alive because of you.”

That made you snort. “You’re exaggerating.”

“Just a little,” he replied, laughing. “But I’m serious. If you don’t mind having me around… I’m happy to help. That’s all.”

You were quiet for a moment, then reached into your bag and pulled out a broom. “Alright, then. Since you’re so eager… how about we start with the floors?”

He took the broom from you with a smile. “Sure.”

The first few days were chaotic in the most exciting way. You had dust in your lungs. Paint flakes in your hair. And the occasional clatter of tools or startled yelp when someone stepped on a loose board made the once eerily quiet place into a rowdy construction site. 

Jean-Luc’s team of local carpenters moved in and out with efficiency, restoring what could be saved and gutting what couldn’t. 

You did what you could afford. No grand hotel transformation just yet because your savings wouldn’t allow it, but enough to make the place safe, clean, and standing. You patched up what you could and left the heavy lifting to people who actually knew what they were doing. Sunghoon floated somewhere between both worlds, neither a hired worker nor idle guest.

He showed the carpenters the original layout you’d uncovered, and offered suggestions they actually listened to. You noticed the way they nodded when he spoke, how they looked to him when unsure.

One day, when the particularly exquisite wooden double doors leading to a grand ballroom broke down, everyone said your idea of putting them back in place wasn’t possible. The broken hinges had chipped a piece off one of the two doors, making it hard to put it back.

“We can repurpose the other one. Use it to replace the library door. Then maybe forgo the doors and keep the ballroom open?” Sunghoon suggested, tilting his head as he examined the doorway. He turned to you. “What do you think?”

“You’re full of solutions, aren’t you?” you said, only half-teasing.

He shrugged. “Comes with the degree.”

The architect thing came up again and again—not because he bragged, but because he made it quite useful. He knew how to brace the weakened staircase, how to check for mold behind plaster, and how to tell the difference between salvageable and unsafe. And when you asked how he knew all this labor stuff when he was supposed to be an architect, he always said, “It comes with the job.”

Together, you made progress. Slow, sweaty, stubborn progress.

You’d sweep out a room while he cleared debris. He’d rig up temporary lighting while you picked tile samples you couldn’t afford yet. Some afternoons, you’d sit together on the back steps, drinking orange juice from the orchard behind the house. 

Other times, when your arms were too tired to scrub anything else, he’d ask, “Want to get out of here for a bit?” And somehow, you always did.

You rode behind him on the motorbike, hands wrapped around his waist, wind whipping at your sleeves. The roads curved sharply along the cliffs, opening into views of the sea that looked almost too blue to be real. You dipped your toes in hidden coves, ate greasy fish sandwiches by the pier, and once spent a full hour watching an old man play the accordion in the town square.

Sometimes he pointed things out—a crumbling lighthouse, a fig tree blooming near the bend—and you found yourself asking about the island, even though you knew he was as new to the island as you were.

The nights were quieter. Sometimes you cooked, sometimes you didn’t. Once, when the electricity went out, you shared a bowl of fruit by candlelight and listened to the wind sweep through the shutters. He told you about a vineyard resort project he’d worked on in Nice. You told him how you’d found this place by accident a few years ago on a trip you were never supposed to take.

Opening up to him was oddly easy for someone like you who liked to keep to herself and not let people in. He was easy to be around. Charismatic without trying. Quiet, but never cold.

You soon noticed how he always let you talk first. How he’d fix something for you without being asked to, or wipe his shoes before stepping inside even if the floors were already filthy.

The house slowly took shape. And so did whatever this was between you.

Jean-Luc’s crew was just wrapping up for the day when you stepped out, putting on your jacket and smoothing down the skirt of your dress. You’d taken the time to pick it out, simple, soft blue, not too fancy, but it was much more sophisticated than your usual work shirts and sun-stained jeans.

Jean spotted you instantly. “Ah,” he said, wiping his hands on a rag and giving you a once-over. “That dress is new.”

You gave him a look. “I had this dress for years.”

He grinned, eyes gleaming with mischief. “You dressed up nicely for your date.”

“It’s not a date,” you said, out of habit more than conviction. “We’re just eating out because I didn’t wanna cook.”

The guys had heard Sunghoon earlier in the day when he invited you to eat at the pub in town. He did it because you complained about being too tired to make food, but Jean and his crew decided it was open to interpretation.

“Mm-hmm.” He raised a brow. “Sure. Too tired to cook, but not too tired to wear parfum, eh?” he added, glancing at his crew, who all started whistling.

You rolled your eyes, laughing under your breath. Their teasing had become a daily ritual ever since they started working in the house. You’d learned about Jean’s nosy nature from the get-go, but were surprised at first when you saw it firsthand. He’d asked you almost everything there was to know about you, from your education, your parents, and your decision to move into a foreign land and buy a haunted mansion.

Still, he didn’t pry too much and wasn’t annoying, so you took it all in stride. And as for his assumption that there was something going on between you and Sunghoon, well, you didn’t think much of it. If Sunghoon knew or was clueless that he was being shipped with you, you wouldn’t know because you never really talked about it.

“How about I hitch a ride to town?” you asked, already getting into their truck. “Would be a waste walking downhill in this dress, don’t you think?”

“It would be an honor to deliver you to your prince, mademoiselle.”

By the time you stepped out at the curb near the pub, the sun had dipped low, gleaming orange and gold across the sea. You caught your reflection briefly in the window and frowned. It was a nice dress. But why did you take the time to look pretty? You’d even put on lipstick, and for what? A casual dinner?

It’s just dinner! Right?

Or is it? You shook the thought away before you could overthink it.

Inside, the pub was lively but cozy, with fairy lights strung on wooden beams, a small local band playing mellow jazz near the back. Sunghoon was already seated at a corner table, nursing a glass of something amber. He looked up when you walked in and smiled.

“Wow,” he said, standing as you approached. “You look…”

He paused, and the way he searched for a word made you feel self-conscious. You hid your nervousness behind a smirk. “Weird? Disproportionate? Wicked with a hint of witchcraft and sorcery?”

He laughed. “Beautiful. Definitely beautiful.”

You smiled, sliding into the chair opposite him. “Thanks.”

He looked good, too. He’d shaved. Maybe even styled his hair. A waitress came by, dropped off menus, and you both skimmed through them, ordering a round of food that was heavier than you needed but comforting all the same. The band was playing a soft instrumental, and you leaned back in your seat, letting the atmosphere settle.

Sunghoon had been at the house every day this past week, but it occurred to you now how little you knew about his nights. He didn’t stay there, not even once. He always left just before dusk, riding off on that old motorbike. You never asked where he went, but vaguely assumed he was probably resting in his room at the inn. You were curious, but it didn’t matter much.

Until now.

Tonight, he was different. Still warm, still easy to talk to, but something in the air felt a little off-script. The way his eyes gleamed, the way he smiled when you caught him looking. It made you nervous and giddy at the same time.

“Didn’t take you for a dress person,” he said, sipping his drink.

You raised a brow. “And what kind of person did you take me for?”

He tilted his head like he was thinking of the answer. “Sawdust. Paint stains. And boots.”

You scoffed. “So… a disaster?”

“I didn’t say that.” His smile widened. “I like disasters. They’re more fun to fix.”

You narrowed your eyes, half-laughing. “Did you just call me a fixer-upper?”

“Well, no…” he trailed off, then blinked like he’d surprised himself. “Wait, did I? Shit. Sorry. I didn’t mean to—you're actually kind of perfect.”

You laughed under your breath. “Okay, Charmer. Slow down.”

He leaned in, elbows on the table. “You’re blushing. I think you’re charmed.”

“It would take more than that to sweep me off my feet, Hoon,” you said, taking a slow sip of your drink. You smiled at him as you placed your glass back down. “But you’re on the right track.”

“Am I?” he asked, grinning, canines and dimples on full display. “Good to know. I’ll try harder then.”

He didn’t usually talk like this. You didn’t either, not with him. But neither of you stopped.

When the food came, the conversation didn’t stop either. It slipped in with the wine, with the melodic music in the background, with the occasional brush of his knee against yours beneath the table.

“You really didn’t have to dress up,” he said at one point, glancing at you over his fork.

“I didn’t,” you said. “This is me on a regular day. You should see me on a real date.”

He leaned back in his seat. “Am I not getting the real date version?”

“That depends. Is this a date?”

His brows lifted slightly, as if surprised you said it out loud. But his answer came quickly.

“I don’t know.” He smiled. “You tell me.”’

You sighed, feigning frustration. “Ugh, no. Wrong answer.”

Sunghoon winced, propped an elbow on the table, and buried his face in his hand. “Crap. Can I try again?”

“Nope,” you teased, giggling behind your glass.

The flirting stopped by dessert, and you fell into a conversation about the house and its grand architecture. Sunghoon talked about the dating of the design and the timelessness of it. At some point, you’d told him your plans of converting it into a hotel. It would take time since money was obviously a huge factor to consider, but you laid out your renovation plans, your vision, and the whole dream behind the project.

“For now, it’s just a dream,” you said, smiling as you stirred an olive in your drink. “But the first step was buying the place, and that’s a box ticked in my list.”

“That’s actually a big start.”

“Right?” you chimed, eyes gleaming. “I still have a long way to go, but it is something, right?”

“It is,” he replied, a smile gracing his lips as he watched you.

You kept talking, hands moving animatedly as you described the lounge you envisioned, the garden terrace, the way the morning sun would hit the breakfast room just right. And Sunghoon just watched you.

At first, you didn’t notice, too caught up in your own excitement. But then you glanced at him and caught the way he was looking at you—soft and focused, like he wasn’t listening at all but watching.

Your smile faltered slightly. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

He blinked, leaned back, and shrugged with a small grin. “Like what?”

“Like that,” you repeated, heat creeping to your cheeks. “I know you know what I mean.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you, eyes glinting under the dim pub lights. “No reason. I just… I’m just really proud of you.”

Your pulse raced at the way he said it. Like he meant it, and the affection in his voice wasn’t a figment of your imagination. You looked down at your drink. “Well. Thanks.”

He tilted his head. “That made you nervous.”

“No, it didn’t.”

He laughed under his breath. “You always get defensive when someone compliments you. It’s cute.”

You rolled your eyes, smiling now. “And you’re acting really out of character tonight. What’s up with you?”

“Sunghoon straightened up in his seat, taking a deep breath. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said, a little too casually

Before you could say anything, he flagged down the server, asking for a pen and paper. A few minutes later, the order sheet was in front of him, along with your full attention.

“Alright,” he said, uncapping the pen. “Show me what you see.”

“What I see?”

“For your dream hotel,” he replied, beaming. “I’ll do a free sketch for you since you came here looking all pretty tonight.”

You laughed at first, but took him up on his offer. You walked him through it—the courtyard, the check-in desk, the sunlit breakfast room. He listened closely, nodding along, his hand gliding over the paper with precision. He added soft curves where you imagined sharp lines, windows where there were none, and little alcoves you hadn’t even thought of.

“This is where I’d put the courtyard,” you said, tapping the center.

“With some trees?” he asked. “A fountain?”

“Exactly,” you said. “But not a flashy one. Just charming and pretty.”

He sketched it in. You leaned over the table to get a better look, your shoulder brushing his. He didn’t pull away. You didn’t either.

When he finished, he slid the paper toward you. “It’s rough, but… this is what I see when you talk about it.”

You stared at the sketch, warmth blooming in your chest. “It’s kind of perfect.”

“You’re kind of perfect,” he said, and this time, he didn’t soften it with a laugh or a tease. 

Your heart thudded. He was looking at you like that again—like you were the only one in the room, like it would hurt him to peel his eyes away, like he wanted to just stare at you as much as he could.

“So… what now?” you asked, one hand hugging yourself. You felt nervous under his gaze, and not in a bad way.

“I should drive you back, but…” he paused, leaning a little closer. “Do you want to take a walk before we call it a night?”

You nodded, slowly. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

Outside, the air was cool and the streets mostly empty. The band’s music faded behind you as you walked side by side, a little closer than usual, not talking much. His hand brushed yours once, then again—until he finally just reached for it and laced your fingers together.

When you turned the corner and saw his bike down the road, he looked at you once with a smile before letting go of your hand.

“Will you be alright?” he asked as he mounted his bike and handed you one of the helmets. “You’re in a dress.”

“Yeah. I can manage,” you said, letting him help you put the helmet on.

His hand lingered on your jaw even after he’d fastened the helmet in. For a second, you thought he was gonna kiss you, but he just took a deep breath and turned back to his bike.

The ride was cool and quiet. You held onto him as usual, arms wrapped around his torso, balancing yourself behind him, making sure you didn’t fall. For some reason, despite the considerable distance of the town from your mansion, the drive ended too quickly. 

You stopped in front of the gates but as you handed him his helmet back, something heavy settled in your chest. You didn’t want the night to end.

Neither did he, apparently. You could tell by the way he just sat there on his bike, staring at you and not saying anything but not moving to leave either.

“Do you want to come in?” you asked quietly after a minute.

He didn’t answer at first, just looked at you as if he was looking for any hint of doubt on your face.

Then, with a smile, he said, “I would love to if that’s alright with you.”

You didn’t say anything right away. You didn’t need to. Because all the overthinking, the second-guessing, the usual mental tug-of-war you went through whenever something felt too close and too good just stopped.

There was only the cool night air, the sound of crickets in the distance, and Sunghoon—  at you with that steady gaze of his, like he’d wait forever for your answer if he had to.

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you stepped forward and kissed him. And he kissed you back like he’d been waiting for this all night.

His hands came to your waist, holding you. One of them slid up your back, pulling you in a little closer. You felt him smile into it and that was the moment your knees nearly gave out.

Because it was soft and sweet and beautiful and just so so melting.

When you finally pulled back, breath slightly uneven, he didn’t let go of you. “Is that a ‘yes’?” he whispered teasingly.

You giggled, eyes still closed. “That’s a yes.”

He kissed you once more. Urgently this time, like he couldn’t help himself, before reaching past you to unlock the gate.

Inside, the house was quiet, the lights were dim. You didn’t bother flicking them on. His hand found yours as you kicked your shoes off by the door, and you led him through the dim hallway like it was instinct. 

You weren’t rushing, pausing every now and then at some corner to kiss and embrace each other like you couldn’t get enough.

In your room, you both paused not from hesitation, but awe. Sunghoon looked around the once lifeless space that now felt lived-in and warm. And then his gaze returned to you, and it softened, like you were the most beautiful part of the room.

“Are you nervous?” he asked quietly, holding your hands.

“A little,” you admitted, stepping close. “But not the bad kind of nervous.”

He smiled, reached up and cupped your face in both hands, drawing you in again. The kiss this time was different. Slower, surer. His hands slid around your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you could feel the way his breath hitched when your fingers brushed the back of his neck.

His touch was careful and tender, like he was asking permission with every move. You helped him out of his jacket, then reached behind yourself to pull the zipper of your dress down, but his hands stopped you gently.

“Let me,” he murmured.

You turned, and his fingers found the zipper. You felt the brush of his knuckles against your spine, the drag of fabric slipping from your shoulders. When you turned back to face him, he just stood there for a second, eyes roaming slowly over you.

“God,” he whispered. “You’re beautiful.”

He didn’t say it like he was trying to seduce you. He said it like he meant it. Like he’d never meant anything more.

You reached out, pulled him back to you, mouths meeting again as your hands slid down his stomach to the front of his jeans. He hissed when you pressed your palm to the bulge there, already hard for you. “Fuck,” he muttered against your lips. “Please don’t tease.”

“Sorry,” you whispered, grinning.

He picked you up gently and carried you to the bed. The sheets were cool beneath you, and the room warm around you. You pulled him down with you, mouths meeting again. His kisses grew deeper, needier, as he settled between your legs, grinding slow against your clothed sex.

You could feel him through the layers, thick and hard, and it made your body pulse with want. He slipped a hand down between your thighs, pressing the heel of his palm against your core. You moaned, soft and breathy, hips tilting up to meet him.

“You’re soaked,” he whispered, his lips grazing your throat. “Just from kissing me?”

“Don’t get cocky,” you mumbled, but your voice cracked on the end.

He smiled against your skin, then kissed down your body—between your breasts, your navel, lower—until he reached the edge of your panties. He looked up at you then, waiting.

You nodded.

He pulled them off slowly and settled between your thighs like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The first stroke of his tongue made your back arch off the bed.

He took his time, licking deep, sucking hard until you were gasping his name. One arm wrapped around your thigh to keep you open, the other hand slid up to lace your fingers together on the sheets. You came like that—shaking, eyes squeezed shut, hand clinging to his—his mouth still on you, working you through it.

When he kissed back up your body, you were trembling. “You good?” he asked, voice hoarse.

You nodded again. “Please.”

“Condoms?”

You shook your head. “I’m on the pill.”

He kissed you again, harder this time, and then positioned himself between your legs, his jaw tight like he was holding himself back. He slid into you languidly, lubricated by your own cum and his saliva.

He sank in slowly, with a deep, ragged breath, forehead pressed to yours. “Fuck,” he groaned. “You feel so good.”

You felt full, stretched in the best way. Your arms wrapped around his back, fingernails grazing his skin as he started to move—shallow at first, then deeper, rolling his hips in smooth, deliberate thrusts that made your toes curl.

He kept whispering your name, like he couldn’t stop himself. Kept asking if you were okay, if it felt good, if he should go slower—and every time, your only answer was to hold him closer.

It wasn’t rough. It wasn’t frantic. It was deep. Hot. And overwhelming in the most delightful way.

You kissed through it, tangled in sweat and soft moans and the sound of skin meeting skin. Your second orgasm built slowly, until he shifted your hips up just right, and you cried out, gripping his back as you came again.

He followed not long after, burying his face in your neck with a choked sound, holding you so tightly you could hardly breathe—and you didn’t want to, not if it meant letting go.

He stayed inside you for a moment after, catching his breath, lips brushing your shoulder. Then he pulled out gently and lay beside you, immediately pulling you into his arms again.

No one spoke for a while. You didn’t need to.

His fingers traced soft shapes of your back as your breathing slowed. Your cheek rested against his chest, where you could feel his heartbeat still thudding fast.

“I really like you,” he said eventually, voice low, almost shy.

You closed your eyes. “I know.” And you did. “I like you too.”

The next morning, Sunghoon made coffee while you stood barefoot in the kitchen, hair messy, wearing only his oversized shirt from the night before. He’d found the beans in your pantry, ground them by hand, and hummed under his breath while the moka pot hissed on the stove. When he handed you a cup, it was with a kiss to your temple and a sleepy smile you wanted to keep in your pocket forever.

He didn’t leave that day. And the day after that. And then again the next. It wasn’t even a conversation—it just happened. One minute, he was supposed to return to his little room at the inn. The next, his toothbrush was on your sink and his boots sat neatly next to yours by the door.

“I guess I live here now,” he said with a shrug one evening, holding up a bundle of clean clothes he’d brought over.

You tried to act unbothered, but your chest felt light and strange and full. “I guess you do,” you replied.

Days spilled into each other like honey, slow and golden.

You worked the orange orchard together, side by side under the sun. He taught you how to check the fruits for ripeness, how to prune gently, how to tell if the bees were happy. You teased him for being too serious about it. He teased you for wearing perfume to pick fruit. He stole kisses in the shade of the trees, juice sticky on your fingers, the scent of citrus clinging to your skin.

“You’ve got a bit on your mouth,” he’d say, only to lean in and lick it off with a grin that made you drop the basket you were carrying.

Sometimes you ended up lying in the grass instead of working. Talking about the past, the future. Tracing invisible lines on each other’s arms. Learning the things that didn’t come up in early conversations—how he hated raisins, how you cried watching documentaries, how neither of you had felt like this in a long, long time.

Nights were warm. He’d light a fire when it got cold and pull you into his lap while you ate dinner on the couch. The two of you would read—him with his architectural journals, you with whatever novel you’d found at the local shop. Your legs tangled. His hand on your thigh. You’d fall asleep with your cheek on his chest more often than not, waking up only when he carried you to bed.

He made love to you like he was discovering something new each time. Slow. Intentional. Always watching your face like it told him a secret he didn’t want to forget. There were times he didn’t say a word, just kissed you like he meant it, like he needed it, like he’d been waiting to do it forever.

Sometimes it was lazy. Sometimes passionate. Sometimes soft, with laughter in between. One time, he brought oranges into the shower, peeled them as water ran down both your backs, fed you slices from his fingers before pressing you up against the glass.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy,” you told him one night, your voice quiet in the dark.

He rolled over to face you, hair a mess, eyes half-lidded with sleep. “Me neither.”

You explored the island on foot and by his bike, visited hidden beaches and ate at local tavernas where he introduced you as his “partner”—not girlfriend, not roommate, just something simple and solid and true.

He drew plans for your hotel idea, left them pinned up on your fridge, updated them with sticky notes that said things like “maybe French doors here?” or “do you like this arch style?”

You found yourself setting the table for two without thinking. Buying his favorite snacks when you went into town. Pulling his shirts from the laundry and holding them to your chest like a fool.

There was a routine now. A tenderness. A life. And it felt like forever.

One day, you were sitting on the dock just past the cove, legs dangling over the edge, fishing rods in hand and an old bottle of white wine between you. Neither of you knew much about fishing, but Sunghoon said that was part of the fun.

You’d caught nothing. He’d caught seaweed. Twice.

“Okay, but it looked like a fish,” he said defensively, flicking the green tangle off his line. “For a second.”

You laughed, tipping your head back as the breeze brushed your cheeks. You couldn’t remember the last time you laughed like this with someone other than your best friends. He looked over at you, half smiling, the way he always did when he thought you weren’t paying attention.

A peaceful quiet settled between you for a minute. Then you broke it.

“I’ve pictured this place for years,” you said softly. “Not this exact dock, or this exact sunset… but the idea of it. Of being somewhere like this.”

Sunghoon didn’t respond right away. He just turned his head to listen.

“I’d imagine buying a house on some forgotten island, fixing it up myself, turning it into a little bed and breakfast or a hotel. Starting something that was just mine. A place to breathe. A place to stay.”

You swallowed, not nervous, just careful. “And I was always alone in that picture. I wasn’t lonely, I was content. I thought that’s what I wanted.” You looked at him. “And then I met you.”

His eyes stayed on you, steady. Patient.

“And now when I picture it again… I see you. Just—there. Beside me. Part of it.”

You gave a small shrug, cheeks warm. “I know it sounds crazy. We haven’t known each other long, and there’s still a lot I don’t know about you, and maybe this is too fast, but… I was wondering if you’d like to be in that picture. For real. If you’d want to try building something together.”

Sunghoon didn’t answer right away. He just set down his fishing rod, then reached for your hand, fingers lacing between yours.

“Doesn’t sound crazy to me at all,” he said quietly.

You looked at him. He looked at you. And in that silence, something deep and certain was decided between you. Llike two pieces of a puzzle finally clicking into place.

The fish still weren’t biting. But it didn’t matter. Not anymore.

That night, you lay tangled together in bed, skin still warm from the day’s sun and each other’s touch. The windows were open, and the sound of the waves slamming against the cliff below was oddly soothing despite its violence. Sunghoon’s arm lay heavy across your waist, fingers lazily stroking your bare stomach. It was quiet, the kind of silence that usually felt safe with him.

“I have to tell you something,” he said quietly.

You turned slightly to face him. “What is it?”

“I love you.”

You giggled, closing your eyes and nuzzling your nose back on his chest. “Okay, Lover Boy. I heard you.”

“And I’m engaged to someone else,” he added, making you force your eyes open.

At first, you didn’t react. The words didn’t quite register in your head. You blinked up at him, waiting for a punchline. But he just looked back at you, his eyes open and serious.

“What?”

“It’s not what it sounds like,” he said quickly, propping himself up. “It’s arranged. My family—back home—they… they set it up. I didn’t choose it. I barely know her. I’ve met her maybe three times. I don’t have feelings for her.”

Something cold seeped into your chest. You pulled away from him. “And when were you going to tell me?”

“I—I didn’t know how. I didn’t think it mattered at first. But then everything with us…” He reached for you, but you slapped his hand away. “I should’ve told you sooner. I know.”

You sat up, dragging the sheet around yourself. “You didn’t think it mattered? Are you hearing yourself?”

“I didn’t plan any of this,” he said, sitting up too. “I was just here for a little break. I didn’t plan to meet you and fall for you.”

You laughed bitterly. “Don’t you dare say that. Don’t stand there and talk about falling for me like you didn’t lie by omission every single day. You let me build a whole dream around you. Around us. And you were promised to someone else this whole time?”

“It’s not real—”

“It’s real enough,” you snapped. “I don’t care if you love her or not. I don’t care if it’s just paper. You’re someone else’s, Sunghoon.”

He looked like he’d been punched. “I don’t want it! I choose you.”

“No. You don’t get to choose! You knew this would happen and you let it happen anyway.” Your voice broke then. You didn’t mean for it to, but it came out in a tremble. “Get out.”

He froze. “Please… Don’t do this.”

“Go. Just get the fuck out! Please,” you said, turning away and moving to the corner of the room.

You buried your face in your hands and sobbed, shoulder trembling, voice breaking. You could hear the soft sounds of Sunghoon’s footsteps approaching you, then his hand on your shoulder but you swatted it away.

“Just leave, Hoon!”

He left. And he never came back.

You hadn’t slept. Not really. You’d kept your eyes closed through most of the night, but your mind never let you rest. You could still feel the ghost of his arm around your waist, the weight of his words sitting heavy on your chest.

“And I’m engaged to someone else.”

The sun had fully risen and the ocean looked far too cheerful for how you felt. You opened the door to see Amy’s familiar grin and Lea’s arms already opening for a hug. They were glowing with excitement, sunglasses in their hair, bags slung over their shoulders, and not even an ounce of awareness that your world had collapsed less than twelve hours ago.

“There she is!” Lea beamed, pulling you into a tight squeeze. “God, it smells like citrus and freedom out here. I’m never leaving.”

“You look like you haven’t slept,” Amy said with a teasing frown. “Don’t tell me you and Lover Boy were up all night doing—”

You let out a soft laugh—more exhale than amusement—and stepped aside to let them in.

The massive house felt too full suddenly. Their voices bounced off the walls, light and warm. They talked about the flight, the heat, the funny guy at customs. You listened. Smiled when appropriate. Nodded at all the right times.

It wasn’t until you’d served them fresh juice on the patio that Amy tilted her head and said, “So where is he? You were going to introduce us, right? We were ready for the whole ‘meet the boyfriend’ thing.”

You looked down at your glass, then out at the sea. “He’s not here anymore,” you said quietly. “We’re done.”

Both of them froze. “What?” Amy asked, gently.

“He’s engaged to someone else. Back home. Doesn’t matter. It’s over.”

You didn’t look at them, didn’t want to see the sympathy you knew was coming.

Lea reached across the table and touched your hand. “Do you want to talk about it?”

You sighed, unwilling to get into the details but wanted to share. “It’s really nothing. We were having a good time and I thought I’m in love with him. Now that he’s gone, I think it was just the moment, you know what I mean?”

Lea tilted her head, looking at you in confusion, but Amy beside her nodded in understanding. “Totally get it. I mean, two beautiful people together in a beautiful island? I’d think I’m in love too,” said Amy.

Lea shook her head. “No. It was serious when you told us about it on the phone. You sounded so…sure.”

“No, darling.” Amy tapped Lea’s cheek gently. “It was the weather. You have no idea how easy it is to mistake good vibes with being in love.”

They argued about it for a while, but they didn’t press. They didn’t ask for more than what you were willing to divulge. They simply shifted the conversation, as if by instinct, pulling you back into safer waters.

But even as they talked about their plans—about beach days and wine nights and helping you with the orchard—you couldn’t help but glance at the seat across from you. The one that had been his just yesterday.

It was supposed to be good day. You were gonna introduce him to Amy and Lea, your best friends, your true family. But that was a bust. And now it was just you again.

But at least you weren’t alone.

The week that followed blurred into a sun-soaked montage of tequila shots, sandy hair, and late-night laughter. With Amy and Lea around, it was impossible to sit still for too long. They pulled you out of the house, out of your head, and out of the quiet grief you hadn’t yet figured out how to deal with.

Amy dragged you away from the village and into the other side of the island where the beaches were packed with tourists, loud music, and overpriced mojitos. You danced barefoot in the sand, lip-synced into beer bottles, flirted with strangers you had no intention of remembering. You let the lights and noise and sea carry you for days—numbed and glowing all at once.

Amy flirted with every fine European men who so much as looked her way. Lea got into a tipsy argument with a street performer about astrology. You laughed so hard you nearly cried.

It didn’t make the pain disappear. But for a little while, it drowned it out.

And then, one afternoon, as you lay on a beach towel by the docks, the sand warm beneath you, skin glowing, a little drunk on Aperol spritz and good company, the sun suddenly vanished from your face.

You blinked up at the abrupt shadow.

And found a man holding an umbrella over your head like a knight with absolutely no armor, just absurd confidence and expensive taste. Linen shirt, half-buttoned. Sunglasses pushed up into dark brown hair. Smirk painted across his face like it had been there since birth.

“Hi there,” he greeted casually, his voice ringing with a familiarity that hit straight in your chest.

You pulled your own sunglasses down your nose and squinted up at him. “What are you doing here, Jay?”

He chuckled lightly. “It’s good to see you too.”

Amy and Lea looked between the two of you like they’d accidentally stepped into a scene from a movie they hadn’t seen the beginning of.

“No, seriously.” You sat up slowly, brushing sand off your legs. “What are you doing here?”

“Official business is concluded, so I’m heading home. But I figured I’d drop anchor for a bit.” He lowered the umbrella handle toward you. “And maybe see a friendly face.”

You blinked at him again, mouth parting slightly. This wasn’t just some coincidence. Jay was here. Jay, with his yacht and smirk and maddening presence, had found you again.

“I knew it was weird when you said we’d be seeing each other again,” you said, narrowing your eyes playfully.

He grinned wider. “Miss me?”

“In your dreams,” you replied, standing up. “How long has it been?”

“Oh, just thirty-three days, give or take,” he shrugged, closing the umbrella. “It’s not like I was counting the days till I see you again,” he added with a grin.

Of course. That was the Jay you knew. Shamelessly flirty, smooth about it, and tries to talk you in sleeping with him every chance he gets. You rolled your eyes and turned to your friends, both still looking clueless. “Oh, these are my girls, Amy and Lea.”

“Hi,” said Lea.

“Lovely to meet you,” said Amy, offering a hand to Jay. “I’ve heard nothing about you,” she added, glancing knowingly at you.

You gave her an apologetic scrunch of your nose.

“Ladies, I’d hate to disturb you, but,” Jay nodded toward the water, past the dock where his boat was glistening under the sun. “How would you like some cocktails on a boat?”

You chuckled at his blatant attempt at impressing your girls. Amy perked up immediately. “A boat? That boat?” she asked, pointing at Jay’s yacht.

“Yes, Ames,” you deadpanned, rolling your eyes at Jay. “Did I mention he’s got a yacht?”

Lea was already grabbing her tote. “Let’s go before he changes his mind.”

You shook your head, laughing as Jay offered you a hand up like he was inviting you to a gala. Dramatic, as always. You didn’t take it, but you did follow him, the three of you trailing after him barefoot across the sun-warmed dock.

Amy nudged your arm discreetly. “Who is he?” she whispered.

Lea leaned in on your other side. “He’s hot.”

“Hotter than the fucking sun,” Amy added.

You smirked, keeping your eyes ahead. “He’s just someone I met a while back. He helped me out when I first got stranded here.”

Amy gasped softly. “That’s the boat guy? You never said he looked like that.”

“I barely said anything,” you muttered.

“Exactly,” Lea said. “Suspicious.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the smile tugging at your lips. Jay was ahead now, glancing back to make sure you were all still following. He tossed you a wink and kept walking.

Amy nudged you again, lower this time. “Okay but for real—are we allowed to flirt with him or is that off-limits?”

You gave her a look. “Behave.”

“Not a no,” she sing-songed.

You sighed dramatically. “He’s a player. If you can handle someone like him, then go ahead.”

They both exchanged a knowing glance. Amy shook her head. “Yeah, no. It’s pretty obvious he came all the way here to see you, specifically.”

You had a small yacht party, just the four of you, plus Manu, Jay’s crew member-slash-silent bartender who somehow knew exactly when to top up a drink or disappear entirely. There were expensive bottles, platters of seafood and fruit laid out by the excellent Sofia, and music drifting softly through the deck speakers. You laughed, drank, danced barefoot under string lights, and watched the sun dip into the sea.

By the time night fell properly, Lea had passed out on one of the long couches, clutching a throw pillow like a lifeline. Amy had disappeared below deck with Manu about thirty minutes ago and hadn’t been seen since.

Which left you, barefoot at the railing, half a drink in hand, ocean breeze blowing your hair, talking to Jay.

“Today, you became Amy and Lea’s favorite person,” you teased, glancing over your shoulder at him. He was leaning beside you, one arm braced casually against the rail.

He gave a lazy shrug, that usual smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “As I should be. I did try my best. Although my main guest of honor’s a little harder to impress.”

You chuckled, but didn’t say anything.

He chuckled too, eyes glinting as he looked at you for a long moment. “You look different,” he said. “Not in a bad way. Just… different. Your eyes don’t shine like they did when we met.”

The sudden comment caught you off guard. He smiled and added, “Must’ve been hard for you after I left.”

You snorted, shaking your head as you turned back toward the dark water. “Not at all,” you said. “But… a lot’s happened since then. Been kind of a rough patch lately. Don’t really wanna talk about it. I’ll just bore you.”

He didn’t press. Just nodded, like he understood. “You don’t have to tell me,” he said. “But for what it’s worth—I know you’ll be fine. You’re the strong, independent type. You don’t need anyone.”

You smiled faintly, touched by the unexpected sincerity.

Then, with perfect Jay timing, he tilted his head and said, “How was it? Am I sweeping you off your feet? Are you considering checking out my suite now?”

You turned to him, arching a brow. “Wow. Very subtle, Jay,” you said flatly.

He grinned, shrugging with fake innocence. “Can’t be too forward. You might think I’m desperate to have sex with you.”

That made you laugh, and he watched you with a fond smile on his lips. After a beat, you handed him your empty glass and said, “Lead the way, then.”

He blinked once. Then let out a short breath of disbelief, like he was laughing at his own luck.

“Damn,” he said, cocking his head. “Didn’t think you’d actually bite.”

You raised a brow, feigning nonchalance. “So? Lead the way.”

Jay paused. The smirk was still there, but it faltered a little. He avoided your gaze, then he leaned back just slightly, voice dropping lower.

“Nah,” he said, waving a hand dismissively. “Can’t mess around with drunk girls. Bad karma.”

“I’m not drunk.”

“Still not gonna happen.”

You tilted your head. “That’s your excuse?”

He gave you a crooked grin, but he wasn’t meeting your eyes anymore. “It’s called principle, thanks. I’m being a gentleman for once, but don’t get used to it.”

You stared at him, trying not to laugh at his face. He was flustered. Jay, king of confidence, was caught off guard. He probably hadn’t expected you to actually call him on his bullshit. And now he was scrambling, all cool exterior but twitchy tells.

“Wow,” you teased, enjoying his struggle. “You’re not as smooth as I thought.”

“Well, whatever,” he deadpanned. “I’m gonna go make sure no one’s thrown themselves off the side of the boat.”

And with that, he turned and walked away. You smiled to yourself, shaking your head. Score one for you.

The next day was supposed to be a group outing. Jay had invited all three of you on his boat again, planning a full day of sightseeing, drinks, and whatever else the ocean had in store.

But that morning, when you stepped out in your swimsuit and cover-up, your hair still damp from the shower, Amy and Lea were both lounging on the patio, coffee mugs in hand and suspiciously smug looks on their faces.

“What are you guys doing? We have to go,” you said matter-of-factly.

Amy hummed as she shook her head. “You’re going alone.”

You blinked. “What?”

“You need this, girl,” Lea said simply. “He’s hot. You’re heartbroken. And we’re tired of watching you mope.”

You scoffed indignantly. “I did not mope. When did I—”

“Go,” they said in unison.

So you did.

Jay greeted you with a grin as you boarded his boat, wind tousling his hair and sunglasses perched cockily on his nose.

“No entourage today?” he asked, helping you aboard.

“They bailed,” you said.

He smiled, clearly pleased. “Smart girls.”

The day unfolded like something out of a travel magazine. The sky was endless blue, the sea even more so. He took you to hidden coves and quiet stretches of beach, pointing out rocky cliffs and ancient ruins. You swam in the clearest water you’d ever seen, laughed until your stomach hurt, shared cold drinks and warm glances.

By late afternoon, you were stretched out beside him on the deck, towel beneath you, the sun dipping lower in the sky.

Jay turned his head toward you, that lazy smirk still in place. “I would really be heartbroken once you leave my boat, but I guess it’s worth it if it’s you.”

You rolled your eyes. “Wow. Romantic.”

He chuckled. “I can be, if that’s what you’re into.”

You didn’t answer. Just looked at him, lying on his side, head propped on one hand, salt still glistening on his chest and sunglasses perched perfectly on his nose.

“I’ve been dying to be alone with you,” he said quietly.

You didn’t look away. “And now that you are?”

He gave a half-shrug, his smile softening. “Now I’m trying not to fuck it up.”

You smiled, leaned in just a little, and said, “Then don’t.”

It was all the permission he needed. With one swift motion, he hovered over you, his body blocking the sun as he looked down at you.

“Are you sure about that?”

“Are you?” you asked back, challenging him. “Or are you gonna get all flustered and adorable for me again?” you added, fingers tracing the curve of his abs.

“You’re playing a very dangerous game here, sweetheart,” he challenged.

“So what? Too hot for you?”

Jay smirked, visibly impressed. His eyes flicked to your lips then briefly back to your eyes before diving in to kiss you. It was warm, salty, sun-drenched. His hand was confident when it landed on your waist, rubbing, feeling. Yours curled into his damp hair as the boat rocked gently beneath you, the world narrowing to just the two of you.

Below deck, the second the door shut behind you, Jay had you pressed against it.

He kissed you deep, dirty, all tongue and teeth, his hands greedy as they found your waist and pulled you closer. You could feel the heat radiating off his skin, the seawater still drying in patches along his chest, the faint taste of liquor on his tongue. You reached down, tugged on the waistband of his shorts, and he laughed into your mouth.

“Impatient, are we?” he murmured, dragging your bottom lip between his teeth.

You kissed him hard, arms wrapped around his shoulders, and he groaned low in his throat as his hands slid under your thighs, lifting you to the bed like you weighed nothing. Your bare legs locked around his hips. Your thighs met the warm sheets and you gasped against his mouth when he bit your lip.

“God, I’ve been thinking about this all fucking day,” he muttered, kissing down your jaw, his hands roaming greedily over your sides. “You're so goddamn sexy when you tease me.”

You tugged at his hair. “When did I do that?”

He smirked into your neck. “You obviously had no idea, but don’t worry, I’ll make sure you feel very, very sorry about it.”

His lips were on you again before the words even registered. Kissing you deep, kissing you slow, until you were squirming beneath him. His hand slid up your thigh, pushed the fabric of your swimsuit aside, and his thumb brushed where you were already soaked.

“Wet and excited,” he muttered. “Just the way I like it.”

“Jay, stop talking and get on it,” you panted, hips chasing his hand.

Jay grinned. “Alright, since you asked nicely.”

You shot him a glare, but it melted fast when he dropped to his knees. Pulled your bottoms off with one fluid motion and threw them somewhere behind him. 

You tipped your head back the moment his mouth touched you, one hand bracing on the counter, the other tugging at his hair again. “Jay—fuck—”

He moaned into you, rough and obscene, like he wanted you to know just how much he was enjoying it. The room was filled with wet, messy sounds, your breathy gasps echoing above it all. You gripped his hair, trying to stay still, but your body had a mind of its own, hips rocking up into his face.

“I can’t—” you choked out, thighs trembling. You came embarrassingly fast, clenching hard around nothing as you gasped his name.

Jay stood and kissed you, still tasting like you, and his hands were already pushing his shorts down. You reached for him, touched him, and he hissed in approval.

“Come here,” he growled, and then you were being turned, hands braced against the mattress, his chest pressing against your back. He slid inside you with a groan so guttural it made your toes curl.

The stretch stole your breath. “Oh, fuck—Jay—”

“God, you feel unreal,” he breathed against your shoulder, one hand gripping your hip tight enough to bruise while the other slipped between your thighs again. “You gonna take it like a good girl or do you want to tell me what to do?”

You tried. You really tried. But every time you opened your mouth, he hit something inside you that made your thoughts scatter.

“Uh-huh,” he chuckled darkly. “That’s what I thought.”

The pace turned relentless. Fast and deep, the sounds of your bodies slapping together echoing off the cabin walls, your breathy moans mixing with his filthy praise. He told you how good you felt, how gorgeous you looked, how he’d been dreaming about this since the day he met you. You cursed, clutched the sheets, back arching, completely unraveling beneath him.

“Fuck, you’re gonna be the death of me,” he muttered, pulling out and flipping you around.

He hovered above you, kissed you slow again, positioning himself between your legs. “You wanna ride me?” he asked, teasing.

You nodded, lips brushing his jaw. “Yeah. I do.”

He rolled onto his back immediately, hands behind his head. “Be my guest.”

It didn’t last long. You straddled him, sank down slowly, and his eyes nearly rolled back in his head. “Jesus Christ—”

You tried to find a rhythm, something steady, but the way he felt inside you—thick, deep, rubbing every spot perfectly—made it impossible. Especially with the way he kept watching you, mouthing filth between clenched teeth, hips bucking up to meet yours.

“You’re so fucking tight—shit—look at you,” he groaned. “If you can only see yourself right now.”

His hands gripped your ass, helping you move, but then he sat up, mouth finding your collarbone, your shoulder, and suddenly he was thrusting up into you, hard and fast, stealing every ounce of composure you had left.

You clung to him, moaning shamelessly as he fucked you from below, his voice rough in your ear. “That’s it, baby. Come on.”

You did, again, harder than before—crying out as you clenched down around him, lightheaded and spiraling in euphoria.

Jay swore under his breath, then flipped you onto your back in one fluid motion. “One more,” he rasped, driving back into you, not giving you time to catch your breath. “You’ve got one more in you, don’t you?”

You didn’t even answer. Just held on tight, nails digging into his back as he slammed into you, rough, messy, perfect. He kissed you through it, swore again when he felt you start to come undone, and then with one final thrust, he spilled into you, gasping your name against your mouth.

The silence after was satisfying. Heavy with heat and broken by his occasional grunts and your panting. You stayed tangled, sweaty and half-laughing, while he buried his face in your neck and caught his breath.

“Well,” he said eventually, voice hoarse. “I’m amazing, aren’t I?”

That made you laugh. “You’re alright.”

He laughed and kissed your shoulder. “Okay, liar,” he quipped before rolling onto the bed beside you.

You said goodbye to Jay at the dock, the same spot he’d first said goodbye to you after taking you to this place. He helped your friends load their bags onto his yacht, cracked a joke about how he wasn’t running a taxi service, and kissed you once—quick and easy, no lingering promises. You smiled at him, genuine and grateful, and then he was gone, taking the laughter and chaos and comfort with him.

And just like that, you were alone.

You hadn’t truly been alone since you arrived in France. Jake had been with you in Paris on your first day, cute and shy. Sunghoon was on this island the day you got here, charming and kind, offering you help and himself. When he left, your friends arrived with wine and sunhats, and then Jay swept in like a storm, all noise and heat. But now the house was truly empty. You hadn’t expected the silence to feel so loud.

For a while, you didn’t do much. You walked around barefoot, let the days pass lazily, ate too much fruit, and stared at the ocean. You were scared, not of the house, not of the work ahead, but of the loneliness. You’d never admitted that before. But there it was, pressing into your chest like it intended to suffocate you.

Still, you carried on.

Since you didn’t have the finances to convert the mansion into a guesthouse yet, you found work in town. Mornings were spent in a café near the harbor, brewing coffee and scribbling names on cups that always got smudged. Tourists liked you, maybe because you smiled even when you were tired, or maybe because you looked like a tourist yourself if one would take away the uniform and the beret.

At night, you waited tables at corner street restaurant, where the wine was relatively pricey and the seafood never disappointed. The hours were long, but the pay was fair, and the staff became familiar. You didn’t tell them much about yourself, just that you were from a small village a few miles away and saving up for something big.

You kept working on your plans when you got home—sketching interior designs, tallying costs, researching permits and licensing. Some nights you fell asleep with your laptop still open on your stomach. Other nights you walked down to the beach alone, letting the cool sand soothe your body and mind.

It wasn’t a glamorous life. But it was good.

And slowly, you started to feel less fragile. You didn’t miss Sunghoon, not exactly. What you missed was the closeness, the feeling of someone else’s warmth in the bed beside you, the distraction from your thoughts. But you were proud of yourself too. You were building something. Even if it wasn’t a hotel yet, even if it was just a new version of yourself.

Two months passed like that.

Work, sleep, plan, repeat. The days folded into each other like pages in a worn book—some soft and golden, others heavy with fatigue. You had slipped into a routine without realizing it. Maybe that’s why you didn’t notice at first.

Your period was late.

It didn’t hit you until one morning at the café, when the espresso machine was hissing in the background and a wave of nausea hit you out of nowhere. You brushed it off, blaming the heat. But the feeling stayed until you had to leave because you couldn’t take it anymore without throwing up. 

And then came the other things. The tenderness, the fatigue, the strange aversion to the smell of coffee that made your coworkers laugh but made your stomach turn.

You tried not to spiral. Maybe it was stress. You’d read that stress could delay periods. You'd been busy and tired. But still, something gnawed at you. So you had to check. 

On afternoon, after your shift ended early, you walked into a clinic two towns over, where no one knew your name. You filled out the form with shaky hands and let the nurse lead you through the halls, your heart racing in your chest.

And then came the results that were impossible to misunderstand.

You were pregnant.

When you stepped back outside, the world was too bright, the sound of cicadas were roaring in your ears. You sat on a bench just outside the building, phone clutched in your hand but no one to call.

Because now came the real question: Who? Which one?

It wasn’t like you hadn’t thought of it. The possibility had been there, but hearing the confirmation made it real. And now your mind spiraled through the summer like a montage, playing back every moment, every night, every touch.

Jake. Sunghoon. Jay.

You weren’t reckless. It wasn’t about that. You had been careful—or at least you thought you had. But the lines blurred in your memory now, and all you were left with was the truth.

You were carrying a child, and you didn’t know who the father was.

You sat there for a long time. Just breathing. A little girl passed by holding her mother’s hand, chattering about ice cream. A breeze lifted your hair. Somewhere in the distance, someone laughed.

And you were still sitting. Still not sure what came next. But that night, you knew you needed to call Amy and Lea.

“This is why I always tell you to wrap it up,” Amy said immediately.

Neither of them knew what to say at first. You didn’t blame them. It wasn’t exactly news you could prepare them for.

“The raw way might be toe-curling, head-spinningly amazing,” Amy went on, “but it’s not worth it if it’s gonna get you knocked up out of wedlock.”

Lea scoffed audibly on the other line. “Shut up, Ames. You’re the one who always said condoms are cock-blockers and everyone should experience the ‘sheer delight’ of raw sex at least once.”

“I meant once, not—” Amy cut herself off. “Okay, never mind. We’re not talking about me.”

“You’re literally always talking about you.”

“Lea.”

“Sorry, sorry. Focus,” Lea said, clearing her throat. “So who do you think is the father?”

“Park Jay?” Amy ventured.

“Or Park Sunghoon,” Lea added. “You did say he was hot and brooding and emotionally intense, right? That sounds like potent baby-daddy energy.”

“Mm,” Amy mused. “But Jay has the boat and the abs. I’m leaning Jay.”

“Oh my god. It doesn’t matter. They’re both Parks, our baby will get the same surname regardless of who the father is,” Lea said excitedly.

You sighed. “Guys.”

“Don’t ‘guys’ us,” Amy said. “You invited us into the drama, now let us live in it.”

“Okay, but there’s someone else…”

They both went quiet. “...Don’t tell me you slept with someone else after Jay left?” Amy finally said.

You winced. “Actually, it was before. I met a guy name Jake Sim in Paris. Before coming to Corsica. Things happened.”

There was a moment of stunned silence, then both of them erupted in squeals. 

“Three guys in just one summer?” Amy shrieked.

Lea was laughing. “You are an icon. How does it feel to be the main character of an erotic French film?”

“I feel nauseous,” you muttered.

“Pregnancy symptom,” Amy deadpanned.

“I’m serious,” you said, running a hand over your face. “What if it was Jake and I was just insane this whole time? Like, genuinely hormonal and insane. What if that’s why I got so swept up with Sunghoon? I couldn’t keep my hands off him. Maybe I was already pregnant then. Maybe I wasn’t even in love—just horny and mental.”

“Hormones do make you horny,” Amy said thoughtfully. “You wouldn’t be the first woman to fall in lust under the influence of progesterone.”

“No, girl. You cried over him,” Lea reminded gently. “And you don’t really cry over guys unless it’s real.”

“Yeah, but pregnant women are crazy women. How would I know what’s real and what’s not?” you whispered. “I just thought it was love but then it wasn’t. It was just me being reckless and careless and—”

“Babe,” Amy cut in. “I know what you’re doing. You’re denying that it was real. Even if it was love and even if it wasn’t, you’re allowed to have feelings. You don’t need to justify your heartbreak to anyone. Especially not to yourself.”

You were quiet for a second. “Thanks, Ames.”

Amy added, “And I still say it’s Jay. Sunghoon probably pulls out. He sounds like a good guy. Good guys pull out.”

“Oh my god,” Lea said, cracking up. “On that note, I’m hanging up before Amy gives this baby a horoscope reading.”

“Wait, I totally should—”

Click. You stared at your phone, smiling faintly.

And then you weren’t smiling. You were just sitting again, alone in your big bedroom. A child growing inside you. A thousand things left to figure out. But at least you had friends who made you laugh along the way.

You didn’t know what to do at first. The test had been positive, the signs were there, but your thoughts had scattered into every direction at once. You considered everything—your finances, your future. Your pride.

The sheer humiliation of having to call any of the three men, let alone all of them. What would you even say? That you had a summer full of crap decisions and now needed help guessing which one was the father?

No. Just the idea made you shrink into yourself.

You kept the secret close to your chest, rolling it over and over, sleepless nights spent making pro and con lists in your head. You had reasons—dozens of them—for why you couldn’t keep the baby. And everytime you came close to making the call, to booking the appointment, something stopped you.

And then it was too late to even consider it.

You gave birth to a healthy baby girl in a cool winter night, with the help of kind women in the village who knew what to do. They guided you through labor with gentle hands and wisdom, and when you finally held your daughter in your arms, all the noise in your head quieted down.

Your daughter was perfect. Warm and pink and wailing, with one little fist curled around your finger.

You named her together. Amy and Lea had flown in as quickly as they could, flustered and crying and loud as ever, and from that moment on, the baby was theirs too. Theirs and the village’s, because it really did take a village to raise a child. The baker who always snuck pastries into her bag. Old man Jean-Luc who carved a cradle. The innkeeper who watched the baby when you picked up extra shifts.

The little girl grew into a sweet, curious child with wide eyes and smart wit. Everyone said she looked just like you. You were near-twins, people would say, shaking their heads fondly. 

“She’s your spitting image. Her dad’s genes didn’t even try!”

You raised your daughter with love. You taught her to be soft with the world but never small. To be good but not naive. To be strong but not unkind.

Meanwhile, you built the bed and breakfast from the ground up—slowly, with scraped knees and secondhand furniture, but with pride. It was small but beautiful. Cozy but polished. Tourists came, then returned, drawn by the warmth of the place and the magic of the island.

It wasn’t always easy—there were long nights, missed opportunities, tired tears—but it was yours. And you were happy.

Not the kind of happy that came with a man’s hands around your waist or whispered promises in the dark. The kind that looked like laughter over breakfast, like sun-dried sheets, like a child’s muddy footprints on a kitchen floor.

You didn’t need a man, and neither did your daughter. You had built a life of your own and it was enough.

“Mommy! Someone’s here!” your daughter called from the front door.

You had two hours left before guests would arrive for her birthday party. You were in the kitchen icing cupcakes when the doorbell rang, so you called out for her to answer it, assuming it was a parent dropping off a gift early—or Amy and Lea showing up with something too big to carry alone.

“I’ll be right out!” you called, wiping your hands on a dish towel as you jogged toward the front, hair tied up in a bun, frosting smudged on your arm. “Who is it, honey?”

You froze the moment you saw who she was staring at.

Standing on your porch were three men you hadn’t seen in years.

Jake, in a navy blue suit and tie, holding a bouquet of flowers. Jay, sunglasses perched on his head, casual as ever but visibly hesitant. And Sunghoon, his expression unreadable, eyes flicking from your face to the hand you’d unconsciously placed on your daughter’s shoulder.

You blinked. Once. Twice.

Then you let out a stunned, almost exasperated laugh.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

[the end... or is it?]

[sadiesdoll]

GRIND ‘TIL YOU CRY.

contains: sevika x virgin!reader, strap-on usage, size kink, dumbification, dacryphilia, clit play, finger sucking, cum play, praise kink, gentle dom!sevika, cockdrunk!reader, neck biting (no blood), light spanking, orgasm denial, aftercare

enjoy ♡

You were already straddling her hips when the nerves hit you.

Your palms rested lightly on Sevika's chest, her warm brown skin flushed gold in the lamp glow, the sheets under your knees soft and rumpled. 

You were naked—completely naked—for the first time in front of her, and the only thing separating you from her strap was your own hesitation.

"Hey." Her voice was rough, quiet, but steady. One hand stayed on your waist, thumb brushing lazy circles just under your ribs. "You okay?"

You nodded quickly—too quickly. "Yeah. I just... I don't usually—uh, I mean, I've never-" You laughed breathlessly, embarrassed.

"I've only ever touched myself."

Sevika sat up a little, her good arm sliding around your back to support you. Her face softened.

"You wanna stop?"

"No." Your voice cracked. "I want this. I want you. I'm just... I don't know what I'm doing."

A beat. Then her lips curled into the tiniest, cockiest smirk. "Don't worry, baby. I do."

You bit your lip as heat shot between your thighs. That voice alone could ruin you.

She leaned forward, kissing your collarbone—slow, open-mouthed, warm. Her tongue flicked against your skin. 

"We'll go slow. I'm not gonna rush you. You just move how you need to. I'll be right here."

You nodded again, this time slower, more sure. Her strap pressed up under you—thick, firm, intimidating—but god, you were wet. Soaked, actually. You could feel it dripping down your thighs already.

Sevika noticed. She always noticed.

"You're so fuckin' wet, sweetheart," she murmured, sliding her hand between your legs to guide the strap. "All that from just thinking about it, huh?"

You whimpered, barely able to meet her eyes. Her gaze pinned you down anyway.

"You been touching yourself to this? Wishing it was me?"

You nodded. "Y-Yeah. So many times."

She groaned low. "Fuck. You’re adorable."

You braced your hands on her shoulders and finally—finally—started to lower yourself down. The head of the strap nudged your entrance, and you gasped, thighs trembling.

"Easy, sweetheart. Just a little at a time." She kissed your neck, sucking gently—just enough to leave a mark. "You're so tight, baby. Feels like your pussy's never letting go."

You shuddered as you sank down, inch by inch, breathing hard. It was so much. So full.

Not painful, just overwhelming. Sevika's hands gripped your waist to steady you, grounding you with every low, patient whisper.

When you bottomed out, your nails dug into her shoulders. You were panting.

"You okay?"

"Y-Yeah," you whimpered. "It's so—mmngh—“

“None of that whimpering. Say it. Use your words, princess.”

“It’s so—full, Sev.”

"I know, baby. You're doing so good. Look at you."

You started to move. Slowly. Rocking your hips in tiny circles, easing yourself into the stretch. The friction lit something up inside you—something deeper than your fingers ever reached.

And then, without warning, your hips jerked forward a little too fast. You gasped. It hit just right. Right on that aching, swollen spot inside you.

"Oh my god—" you moaned.

Sevika chuckled darkly. "There she is."

You started moving again. A little faster. A little rougher. The way it rubbed against your clit every time you sank down made your whole body twitch.

It felt too good. Too much. You'd been so pent up, so desperate for something more than your own hands—and now you had it.

Her. This. 

The drag of her strap inside you, the warmth of her skin, her voice in your ear saying, "Fuck, look at you, baby. You're addicted already."

You were. It showed.

You were a mess—whining, grinding, moaning into her mouth. You grabbed her hand, sucked her fingers into your mouth without thinking. 

Sevika froze for a second, then let out the filthiest growl.

"God damn, you're really gone, huh?"

You drooled a little on her fingers. Couldn't help it.

She tilted her head, watching your blissed-out face with a lazy, hungry grin.

"Sweetheart... you're drooling."

You looked down, dazed, saliva slipping past your lip while your hips kept moving. You whimpered around her fingers.

"Fucking adorable," she muttered. "You're cockdrunk already, and I haven't even fucked you yet."

She kissed you hard, biting your bottom lip.

You moaned louder, needy and mindless now. You felt her reach between your legs again, rubbing slow circles on your clit while you kept grinding—grinding like your life depended on it.

"Don't cum yet," she warned. "Not yet. I wanna see you lose it first."

And you would. You were. A drooling, clenching, wet fucking mess—and Sevika wasn't done with you yet.

You didn't even realize how loud you were until Sevika growled, "You hear yourself, baby?"

Your hips were moving faster now, grinding down on her strap like it was the only thing keeping you alive. Your soaked pussy squelched with every roll of your hips, and your breathy moans came out high and broken and endless.

"I—fuck—I can't stop," you whimpered.

Sevika's fingers moved back to your clit—slow, torturously slow—and circled it while you ground down.

"You're so fucking sensitive." Her voice was wrecked, almost shaky. "Didn't know it'd feel this good, hm?"

You shook your head frantically. "No-I mean yes—I mean I can't—please-"

And then she spanked you.

It wasn't hard—just a quick, firm slap to your ass. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to make you jerk and moan and clench so tight around her strap that she had to bite back a groan.

"Yeah?" she rasped. "You like that, sweetheart?"

You nodded so fast it made your head spin.

"Yes—Sevika—I like everything—please, please-"

She hissed through her teeth. Her hand stayed on your ass, squeezing tight, grounding you. Her fingers never stopped circling your clit—slick and slow, not giving you enough, teasing you right to the edge.

Your thighs were trembling. Your belly was tight. Your breath was all over the place.

"I'm close," you whimpered. "I'm—I'm gonna—“

But Sevika stopped.

You sobbed.

"Shh." Her voice was low, gentle, but firm.

"Not yet. Not like this."

You blinked, dazed, drool still clinging to your lip. "Wha...?"

"I want your first time cumming on my strap to be perfect, baby," she murmured. "I want you to remember it. I want it to stay on your mind forever. So not yet. Not until I really give it to you."

Your pussy clenched again. Your whole body shook.

Sevika looked up at you—and something changed in her expression.

You were dazed, panting, spit-slick around the mouth, grinding down like you were in a trance. You were a fucking vision.

And the second she saw the way your lip quivered when she took her fingers off your clit, something snapped.

"Jesus fucking Christ," she growled.

She surged up and bit your neck.

"Ah—!" you gasped, the cutest, neediest little cry slipping out as your body arched.

"S-Sevika—!"

She didn't draw blood. Just sank her teeth in enough to make you feel it. Enough to make you moan and cling to her harder.

Her hands gripped your ass like she was holding herself back from flipping you over and fucking you into next week.

"You feel too good," she whined against your throat. "You're driving me fuckin' crazy, baby—You're so perfect."

You whimpered, grinding harder, your pussy slick and messy against her strap.

She kissed the spot she'd bitten—then her tongue soothed it, slow and loving.

"Still with me?" she whispered.

You nodded, tears in your eyes now.

"Mhm..."

"Good girl." She cupped your face with her good hand. "Just keep going. Ride it slow. I'll get you there. But I want you cockdrunk and shaking by the time I let you cum."

You moaned helplessly.

Her fingers slid down again, teasing your clit while you moved.

"I love how sweet you sound when you get desperate," she muttered. "You sound like you need it so bad."

"I do," you cried. "I need it so bad—please—please—“

"You drooled all over my hand," she teased.

"What, baby? My cock too good?"

You nodded, crying and grinding. "Too good. So good. I can't—I can't think—“

"You don't need to think, sweetheart." Her voice dropped low. "Just fuck yourself dumb on my strap. I'll take care of you."

You were gone.

Absolutely out of your mind—drooling, whimpering, and still rocking your hips like Sevika's strap was the only thing keeping your body alive.

Your thighs were trembling. Your hands clung to her shoulders, nails leaving faint little crescent marks in her skin. And your mouth—god, your mouth was open and leaking spit, little strings of it slipping down your chin while you babbled incoherent little moans.

"Look at you," Sevika murmured, brushing her fingers over your tear-damp cheeks.

"You're drooling and cryin' on my cock, honey."

You whimpered, a fresh wave of tears prickling your eyes, even as you kept grinding.

"Is it that good?" she asked, smiling crookedly. "So good it's makin' you cry?"

You nodded so fast it made you dizzy. "Y-Yes—I c-can't—I wanna cum—p-please-"

Your voice cracked on the last word, and the second it did, you sobbed.

Your face crumpled. Your whole body jerked like you couldn't take it anymore. And Sevika immediately pulled you down into her chest, shushing you as she cupped your pussy with her palm—warm, strong, steady.

"Hey, hey. I got you," she cooed. "You're okay. Just feelin' too much, huh?"

You nodded, sniffling. "I need it—need it s'bad..."

"Yeah, I know you do." Her thumb circled your clit so slow you almost cried harder.

"You've been so good, baby. So fuckin' perfect. I'm gonna give it to you. I promise."

"Please," you whispered, tears dripping from your chin. "I wanna cum—I need to— please, Sevika-"

And then she fucked up into you.

Her hips lifted. Her grip on your ass tightened. And her strap slammed into the deepest, most perfect spot while her fingers rubbed your clit in the exact rhythm you needed.

Your mouth fell open.

You made a choked, broken little noise.

And then—you screamed.

Your orgasm ripped through you so hard it hurt. Your body locked up, your thighs shook, your pussy gushed so much it splashed against Sevika's lap, and you collapsed forward, shaking, sobbing, whining her name over and over like a prayer.

Sevika caught every second.

"Fuuuuck," she groaned, watching you ride it out. "That's it, baby. That's how I wanted it. Just like that. Scream for me. Fuckin' soak me."

You sobbed harder, body twitching, your voice all high and shattered and full of relief.

"Y'feel that?" she murmured. "That's what a real orgasm feels like, sweetheart."

You could barely breathe. Barely think. You were slumped over her chest, drooling, twitching, tears still running down your face.

And Sevika was so sweet with you after. 

Her hand never left your pussy—just soft, gentle strokes, too slow to overstimulate. Her other hand brushed your hair, kissed your temple, held your shaking hips down when you whimpered again.

She looked down at your soaked thighs and smirked.

"Goddamn," she muttered. "You made a mess, baby."

You giggled.

And then she dragged her fingers up your slit, scooped the dripping slick from your folds, and showed it to you.

"See that?" she said softly. "That's what it looks like when I fuck you right."

You stared, eyes glazed, lips parted—and when she brought her fingers to your mouth, you didn't even hesitate.

You sucked them in with a needy little whimper.

Sevika's jaw flexed.

"Yeah," she whispered. "That’s it, sweetheart."

You were still trembling when Sevika pulled the strap out.

You whimpered, your body jolting with the aftershocks, and Sevika shushed you instantly, one arm curling tight around your waist to keep you grounded.

"Shhh, I got you, baby. It's okay. I'm right here."

Your head lolled against her shoulder. You were spent. Crying, shaking, drooling a little—and completely boneless in her arms.

And Sevika? She looked at you like she was in awe.

"You did so good," she whispered, pressing a kiss to your temple. "So fuckin' good. You were perfect, sweetheart."

You let out a soft little whimper, still not fully back yet, and Sevika cradled the back of your head like you were something precious.

"Hey," she said gently. "Can I clean you up, pretty girl?"

You nodded weakly, and she was already moving—careful, slow, so fucking tender it made your chest ache.

She laid you back on the pillows with her arm still around you, pressed one more kiss to your jaw, and then grabbed a warm, damp towel from the drawer.

It wasn't rushed. It wasn't mechanical. She cleaned you softly—like she was scared to hurt you. Every wipe was followed by a kiss. Every wince got a murmured "I'm sorry, baby." And when she finally pressed the towel between your thighs, she paused and whispered:

"You okay?"

You nodded, tears still on your cheeks.

"Mhm... just tired."

Sevika smiled.

"Yeah? That cock put you to sleep, huh?" she teased, but her voice was full of love.

She finished wiping you down, tossed the towel aside, and came right back to you-pulling you into her arms, wrapping the blanket around you both.

You buried your face in her neck. Your body was sore, aching, still tingling everywhere—but you felt safe. Warm. Loved.

"Did I do okay..?" you mumbled sleepily.

Sevika froze for a second.

Then she pulled you even closer.

"Baby," she murmured, her voice low and steady and soft, "you didn't just do okay.

You were the best thing l've ever touched."

You let out a tiny, broken breath.

She cupped your cheek, thumb brushing the dried tears from under your eyes.

"You're mine now," she whispered. "All mine. No one's ever gonna touch you like that but me."

You blinked, slow and dazed.

“…Okay," you whispered.

Sevika smiled like she'd just won the lottery. 

She kissed your lips. Kissed your forehead.

Kissed every little tear-stained inch of your face before pulling you into her chest again.

And then, as you drifted off to sleep, she murmured—

"Next time, I'm making you cum twice."

thank you so much to @anonymousgirl23456 for this amazing request <3 i hope u like it !!

[ruinix]

can you do one where reader goes to one of his games and shows up on the big screen then it switches to quinn and him smiling looking up 🙇‍♀️ i fear this would kill me

( i love all ur writes they fuel me throughout the day esp w the cannuck season over )

Hello, lovely. This is such a cute prompt for a lil fluffy thought.🥺Thank you for reading, lovely, sweetie. I am sending you lots of forehead kisses, mwamwa. Apologies for only getting to your ask. Hope you're still there! (Game photo from Pinterest.)

18+. Fluff thoughts. No warnings except it might not be realistic. (Optional) Bonus content on your POV included!⬇️⬇️⬇️

Quinn would always want you to attend his games. He knew you would sometimes prefer sitting with the crowd, sometimes the family box. Depending on your decision, he would try to get you the seats you wanted, always eager to ask whether you would be going or not, especially for home games. Except tonight, you told him that you had plans.

He was dejected. Of course, he was. He only wanted you to see the brief intermission featuring Fin—you've always loved Fin—and perhaps even get the chance to interact with Fin when the mascot roamed the crowd during the game. He would even make that happen, perhaps drop hints to the mascot wearer where you would be, but you would not be attending tonight.

However, instead of telling you that to entice you to cancel your plans, he didn't, fearing you would cancel your plans. He didn't like interfering with your plans no matter how much he craved your very presence in the arena. You were his good luck charm, but that included your presence wherever you were. As long as he had you.

Currently, Quinn was fucking thankful you weren't in the crowd. He was playing like shit. The Canucks were down a goal in a 2-1 game with no change in the score since the first. It was more than halfway through the last period. He tried to make plays but the puck was getting swiped away. It didn't help that he could feel his fatigue, his heart pumping hard, his nearly cramping.

Yet he pushed himself. He knew you would be watching, even by checking the NHL app for the score or play-by-plays. He had to do you right, especially when you gave him actual good luck kisses before he went out. He just—

A whistle was blown for a stoppage. Quinn swerved behind the other team's goal line, taking deep and regulated breaths, taking full control of himself, skating towards the bench when the coach called for timeout. He sighed, taking sips of water, listening to the strategy while he rested himself.

At that point, he was starting to get overwhelmed. From the countless plays to be done, to the slight cramped spaces next to his teammates. Until he heard the crowd cheer, he dared to look up the jumbotron, seeing Fin holding a messily done sign.

In broad black markers, in fucking glitters, it said, "GO CANUCKS. GO QUINNY, MY LOVE!"

He nearly frowned until he saw you, jumping and cheering despite the frustrating score, wearing the signed home jersey and red-black-yellow outfit. He could read your lips, shouting "Go, Quinn! I love you!" before you spun to show off his number on your back.

Quinn laughed, earning looks from his teammates and the coaching staff, but he didn't fucking care, because you spun again, grabbing your sign from Fin and waved it in full avid fan energy. Nothing could ever bring him down, not even at the sight of his game-exhausted yet grinning face being blasted on the Jumbotron for at least a second before it flipped over to you cheering harder. So this was your plan. Fuck, he loved this. So much.

"Huggy, do you hear me?" The couch called. "You either get back to the bench or—"

"I'm rested. I'll play," he said just as the whistle was blown, signaling the end of their timeout. He nodded at his teammates on the ice. Feeling renewed, feeling the burn of your kisses earlier, wishing that you were still on the jumbotron, he adjusted his helmet one last time. "Let's do this."

˚｡⋆ ❀ ˖ Bonus: Your POV ˖ ❀ ⋆｡˚

They won. The Canucks actually won 4-2 with Quinn having the game-winning goal. Three goals on the last 5 minutes.

With glitter under your nails, on your jersey that you purchased in arena store, on your seat, on the floor, you screamed with the crowd, waving your crumpled sign. Even more when Quinn got the first star.

You were shaking all over the place from the adrenaline, zooming onto Quinn when he went back on the ice to give out his Canucks hockey stick. You felt so proud of him. He played so amazingly, so breathtaking, especially after their timeout.

Your heart did backflips when you noticed him turning to your general direction before he skated away for an interview. Then there he was again on the jumbotron, his voice raspy, his hand running through his hair to keep it away from his face yet a few wet strands fell on his temples. It should be a crime to be that handsome, no?

After Quinn disappeared, everything felt like a blur. You walked with the crowd, determined to go to a specific place in Rogers arena to wait for him.

Your phone pinged with a message, "Don't leave. Wait on our spot."

Our spot, he said. You let out a giggle, ignoring the concerned looks you received. You called him and he instantly answered.

"My Love...hi." He sounded like he was breathless.

"It's our spot now, huh, Mr. Game Winner?"

There was a pause on the other line. "What else is it then?" You could hear the smile on his voice, could see the blush blooming on his face. Quinn has always been so simple. Shy but so eager to brag in his own way.

"Our spot," you echoed, giggling so much that you heard him chuckle. "Don't take long."

"See you in fifteen."

"Make sure to shower!" You whisper-yelled.

That made him laugh. The loud and cute laugh of his. The exact laugh you wish you had heard when he was on the ice after your quick five-second-jumbotron fame. You felt so soft all over, like you were swimming on the clouds with Quinn's laugh on repeat in your had.

"Longer then? Thirty?"

"Thirty. I'll wait for you, Quinny. I love you."

"I love you more."

You both spent a whole minute just listening to each other's silence before you ended the call with a soft kissing noise which made him laugh again, leaving you so happy like you won the world when it was Quinn who won the game.

I tried my best. This was written with me who doesn't attend hockey games face-to-face (or any sports) as an avid TV watcher (i fear the crowds).

-> more thoughts? List.

[just-a-music-and-poetry-lover]

It's been more than a year since the original post. Hi! I'm still here!

In the meantime, I'd like to let everyone who might be reading this that, while I suspect that a part of the feelings I described will never go away, I'm doing much better when it comes to them.

First, last September, at my first day in a new university, I had a classmate sit next to me in class because they saw my "they/them pronouns", aro and ace pins (that let them know I was a safe person. I later found out this person is also aroace. In a class of 20 people, what are the odds? Anyway, we're friends now).

Second, I've noticed that I'm confortable with saying who I am because, inadvertedly, I've been talking about this with a handful of people irl, in varying degrees of detail.

And lastly, I've come to what is, in my opinion, the most important understanding I could get to in order to better my relationship with myself: my life won't change.

Because, I'll be honest, I thought that it would, for a while. Brief chronology ahead (I present ideas related to sex; in my case, they also apply to romance):

- I hit puberty around eight years ago, at the age of 12. This was around the time my friends and classmates at the time also did, so I got front row seats to Greek tragedies that were the romantic (and later sexual) lives of every teenager around me, without ever setting a foot onstage myself. I remember a now-funny, then-both-confusing-and-frustrating event.

I heard my best friend (we were around 14y) say that she and her boyfriend at the time had been playing with a "balloon" (literal translation of the word she used, but she meant a condom). I proceed to think "why would they need that", but not in the way that I didn't know what unprotected sex and its consequences were, but in the way that I wondered why they'd be having sex. Touching and looking at myself were sensory nightmares and dysphoria sources, so it had never occurred to me to look and touch someone else. And like the good stereotypically-undiagnosed autistic kid that I was, I assumed everyone was like this. Following this train of thought, in my head, one would only have sex if they wanted to conceive. So, not only was 14y old me questioning the usefulness of birth-control, I was also internally questioning why my best friend was having sex, since I knew she wasn't trying to have a baby.

- situations similar to this one kept happening. Fast-forward to me at 18/19y old, when I figured out I was aroace and was freaking out because, as someone in the replies said, despite never having wanted these things for myself, I assumed *everyone* got into a relationship eventually. So when I finally realized that *that* would make more miserable than I thought, I didn't know what to think/do.

Because of this, I want to leave a message here for other baby aces that might read this:

I accepted who I was much more easily when I understood that simply keeping my life as it already is was the path of least resistance.

I have never been in a relationship (romantic or sexual). Understanding myself as aroace helped me realize that it wasn't because I've irredeemably unattractive since I was 12. That was because I didn't want to, and didn't force myself into ignoring what I already knew was the best for me. This is the only reason I use the labels.

Yes, I mourned.

Yes, I still mourn.

But most importantly, I can finally say that I feel Proud of myself.

I am aromantic. I am asexual.

I wish I felt Pride in that. I can't. Not yet, at least.

It's not because there's something wrong with lacking these forms of attraction. There is not. I absolutely love and envy those that have been able to overcome their internalized bigotry towards this. I do.

It's just that me realizing this about myself is pretty recent. And I'm mourning.

Yeah. I'm mourning aspects of life that I'm never going to experience and that I never wanted in the first place. And I'm crying over it almost every day.

Again, it's not because there's something wrong with this. Aromantic and asexual people are not broken.

I've never been in a relationship, romantic or sexual. I never wanted to, not really. But it's fucking hard to have people every day saying things like "that's a sad way to live" or "you're missing out".

I'm not mourning my lack of romantic and sexual attraction to anyone because it's something that I ever inherently missed. I'm mourning it because this fucking society has drilled into my mind that I'm broken and incomplete without romance and sex. And that's fucked up.

[jakesimfromstatefarm]

──── YOU USED TO LOVE ME . ↳ one shot // also part of the no doubt series !

✎ᝰ .ᐟ aka jake's #1 hater is...his own girlfriend?

── sim jaeyun x f!reader ౨ৎ wc. 749 ⌗ fluff, crack, rom-com, yn bullies jake, jake still loves her, skinship, cuddles, slice-of-life

↳ IMPORTANT NOTE .ᐟ ── this is part of my no doubt series ─ a sequel series of short drabbles that take place after the events of my fic no doubt, and show jake & reader's relationship throughout their first year together (& how jake wins her trust & love back hehe) ── THIS CAN BE READ AS A ONE-SHOT, however, there will be some easter eggs if you've read no doubt before!

↳ addie's ✉ .ᐟ ── IM SORRY IF THE TITLE MISLED YOU into thinking this was going to be angsty...WHOOPS ! no angst here,,,just lots & lots of downbad loser!jake and annoying cuddles to remind me how single i am !!121!#!$Y@*3723 (totally not crashing out) anywhoozers the next part is the last official part everyone.....·°՞(¯□¯)՞°·. & also! happy comeback era :D

“Babe.”

“No.”

Jake blinks from his spot on your couch.

“Hey, wha—I didn’t even say anything yet.”

You don’t move from where you stand in the kitchen, arms crossed, staring at him with the look of a girlfriend who has seen some things, “Because every time you call me like that, you either ask me to do something insane. Or stupid. Or both.”

Jake feigns a gasp, holding his chest like you just eternally wounded him, “I am deeply offended. Since when have I—”

You lift a brow.

He stops. Blinks once.

“Okay, fine. But this time, I’m serious.”

You peer your eyes at your boyfriend—sprawled all across your couch, hair a tragic mess, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, his limbs haphazardly hanging off the couch.

And unfortunate for you—

You love him. Severely.

“Alright,” you exhale, abandoning the lunch you were prepping on the kitchen island and walking over. “What is it?”

Jake looks up at you from where he’s draped on the couch, then—a small smile plays on his lips.

Oh no.

He points at the floor—right next to where you stand—dramatically.

“I dropped the remote. It’s all the way over there.”

You blink at him.

You follow his gaze.

Then you blink at the remote.

Which is. Literally. Three inches away from his fingertips.

“You—” you start, then cut yourself off—because you need a second to physically restrain yourself from throwing something at him. “Jake.”

“Yes, my love?”

“I’m a second away from punting it even further across the room.”

Jake pouts.

“So mean.”

“I'm—” you take a deep breath, genuinely at a loss for words. “Why can’t you pick it up?”

“I’m so comfy,” he whines, fingers reaching out but barely grazing the remote.

“I can’t stand you.”

“Yes, you can,” he smiles sweetly, his arms now moving to reach for you instead. Then—

He grabs your wrist and yanks you right on top of him, trapping you in his arms before you can protest.

You let out a yelp, half-laughing, half-screaming, “JAKE—!”

“Shhhhhh,” he coos, his hands already patting your head as he nuzzles his face into your hair. “No more talking. Just cuddles.”

You squirm, wiggling in his grip, but the smile remains bright on your face as his arms stay locked around you, his warmth suffocating you in the best way possible.

“Sometimes I genuinely wonder if you were starved of affection as a child,” you mumble jokingly as you manage to wiggle enough to grab his cheeks in your hands. “So desperately adorable.”

He gasps again, “Wow. Bullied by my own girlfriend. Twice. In one day.”

“Oh my god.”

“You used to love me,” he sniffs, closing his eyes theatrically and turning his face away from yours. “Now…now you just berate me.”

You roll your eyes dramatically, poking his cheek before laying your head back onto his chest, “I still love you. I just…also want to throw you into the sun sometimes.”

Jake perks up instantly.

Ignores the solar threat.

“You love me?”

You blink.

“No. Jake. Not this aga—”

“YOU LOVE ME!”

His arms snake back around you as he rocks you in celebration, like he just unlocked a new life achievement.

You’re laughing again, your words of protest muffled as he shakes you back and forth joyfully within his arms.

“You never say it first, this is like—” he pauses, his eyes shining with literal gold specks in them, you confirm, “—this is life-changing. This is monumental. I’m never recovering.”

“Okay, okay, we get it,” you groan against his hoodie, lifting your head up slightly to look at him again.

He grins back at you. Smug. And stupidly gorgeous.

The kind of face you hate to love and love to hate and also just…love.

And then—

“One more time.”

You sigh.

You’re not surprised.

Jake’s lips form a slight pout.

“…Please?”

Then your chest does that thing it always does whenever you see Jake. That warm, stupid, traitorous thing that you love.

A small smile grows on your face. Then, you lean in, kiss his nose.

And whisper—

“I love you.”

And you think he lets out a literal squeak.

A squeak, a squeal, then a squeeze as he promptly rolls over, dragging you with him until you’re both buried in the couch cushions.

“Mine, mine, mine,” he mumbles, peppering kiss after kiss to your forehead, your temple, your hairline. “So, so mine.”

And you laugh endlessly—helpless, doomed, and utterly gone.

The remote never sees the light of day.

<< past || no doubt m. list || next >>

tag list! (open ! // bolded couldn't be added!)

@bluxjun @ki2rins @why-did-i-just-do-this @favoritten @lovialymisc @xylatox @vivimura @leehsngs @puma-riki @lezzleeferguson-120 @enhaprettystars @laurradoesloveu @sievenderz @somuchdard @kristynaah @hinryh @ltfirecracker @lov4hoon @taeheexx @niyzu @chunkzdeluluwife @jakeflvrz @fangirl125reader @0429jw @dreamy-carat @yuons @thestarinstarbucks @miszes @llearlert @ppeachyttae @hoomin10 @teddybeartaetae @tanisha2060 @therealmrsbahng @beomgyu-bears @ikeulove @jiyeons-closet @youngheejay @wxnderingthoughts @fuevrois @soobundle1009 @isoobie @enhypenova @zoemeltigloos @lizdevorak @deluluscenarios @bloomiize @hasuyv @ijustwannareadstuff20 @veilstqr @dreamiestay @jakeyyyjakexoxo

[geeky-politics-46]

john walker smut w hair pulling AAAA I WANNA TUG HIS HAIR SOBAAD

Harder

Smut - Explicit content - NSFW - 18+ only!

Pairing: John Walker x Reader

Summary: You discover something that makes John Walker putty in your hands in the bedroom.

Warnings: Smut (NSFW) - 18+ ONLY - vaginal sex, unprotected sex, creampie, dirty talk, pet names, language, hair pulling, sub-ish John Walker.

Send me more requests for Walker, pretty please! It's actually got my creativity going.

Sometimes sex with John was a fight for dominance. Lots of flipping back and forth over which one of you would get to be on top. Until you found a trick that would let you do whatever you wanted with him. 

Your big, strong, super soldier apparently had a soft spot for having his pretty blonde hair pulled. Like eyes rolling back in his head, practically cumming on the spot weakness for it. You abused this weakness whenever you wanted. 

The first time you discovered it, he was sitting up leaning against the headboard. With you in his lap riding him. You had taken to locking your ankles over his thighs to try and keep him from taking control when you were on top. 

Granted, with his super soldier strength, he could easily just overpower you, but he was trying to get better about relinquishing control. It was not his favorite thing to do in or out of the bedroom. It was easier to go along with when you were busy bouncing away on his cock.

On this particular day, he was starting to get a little antsy, though. You could feel him trying to adjust his position so he fuck up into you. Not too pleased with the fact that you kept changing the pace whenever you could feel him getting close to cumming. 

You warned him to try and stop his squirming. 

“Behave John. Otherwise, I'm gonna get off of you, and you can finish this by yourself.”

Leaning to press a kiss to his lips as whined. Dropping his eyes down to watch where his cock was slotted into your cunt. Your slick visible on his shaft everytime your hips lifted.

“Please honey, you know I'm gonna stay hard. Please just let me cum. Fill you up once and then you can do whatever you want with me.”

At times like this, he sounded almost pathetic. Begging for release at your hands. You felt a new rush of heat soaking you, and you knew he felt it too. He decided to play into it.

“So wet. Pussy's so perfect. I need to cum. Come on fuck me harder. Pretty please, baby? I need it.”

Suddenly, you ran your hands up his neck and into his blonde hair. Scraping your fingernails in his scalp before gripping onto his soft locks. Yanking hard and pulling his head back so his powder blue eyes were locked on yours. His mouth fell open, and a deep groan pulled from his chest at the sharp sensation. 

You could feel his cock throb inside you as you pulled his blonde strands. A devilish smirk on your face as you realized you had just found a new way to push him to the edge. You started bouncing on him with renewed force as you readjusted your grip on his hair.

“Oh you like that, huh baby? My big, strong man likes me yanking on his pretty blonde hair? I feel your cock pulsing inside me baby. I know how close you are just from that. Bet you're leaking so much pre cum too. All ready to fill my pussy full.” 

Between the filthy words falling from your lips, your hips slamming down on him, and the feeling of your fingers tugging in his hair, he knew he stood zero chance of lasting. All he could do was enjoy the sound of your cunt sucking him in and plead for you to keep going.

“Please don't stop. Ride me just like that, honey. Pull harder. Pull my hair harder. I'm so close darlin’."

The harder you pulled and the faster you rode him the louder he shouted your name. Chanting it over and over like an appeal to the gods. The desperation in his voice pulling you closer to your own orgasm. 

Only about 30 seconds more and a strained moan tore through John's throat. Loud enough, you were sure Yelena could hear it through the wall. His fingers were digging into your hips so hard they would leave bruises. 

The feeling of his warm cum flooding your insides sent you over the edge with him. Your cunt milked his cock of every last drop as you pulled his hair so hard you were worried you were gonna pull it out of his head. Not that it seemed to bother him. If anything it felt like it made his orgasm last longer.

His breath was coming in pants as he let himself slide down the headboard so his head was resting on the pillows. His eyes closed, and arms fell to the wayside as you dismounted him. His head was still spinning from the little trip to heaven you just took him on.

“That was incredible!”

You settled in next to him and placed a kiss on his chest. Smiling at the awestruck expression on his face. Biting at his pec gently before teasing him about your new discovery. 

“Didn't know you liked having your hair pulled so much, soldier.” 

His eyebrows quirked, and a soft smirk settled on his lips. Wrapping his arms around you so you could snuggle into him tighter. He wasn't done with you yet for the evening.

“Neither did I.” 

His words slightly slurred as he recovered from his orgasm. You knew he would be ready to go again in short order, but clearly pulling his hair gave John a climax on a whole other level. It was definitely something you would be using more often.

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

John Walker taglist:

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[pixiefelixie]

✧.* freckles

makeup artist!reader x felix | pure fluff, ~1.9k

you don’t believe felix fell for you at first sight. so he tells you exactly how it happened.

tour buses at night were weirdly peaceful.

somewhere in the back, the rest of the boys were half-snoring, half-breathing loud enough to be annoying but not loud enough to actually complain about.

you and felix were curled up in the front lounge, half under a shared blanket, one airpod each and a playlist quietly playing between you. he smelled a bit like sweat and a little like rubber, but you were still dangerously close to dozing off with your head on his shoulder.

he was talking about something—some soundcheck mishap involving changbin, a water bottle, and a failed attempt at a high kick. you were nodding along, lips curved in a soft smile, but your attention was drifting.

to his face. to the constellation of freckles scattered across his cheeks, glowing a little under the bus's dim yellow lights. cream blush tomorrow, definitely. skip the base—he didn’t need it. maybe a soft shimmer across the lids? something peachy. or gold. gold always looked good on him.

“you’re not listening,” felix said suddenly, glancing down at you with a grin.

your eyes shifted back up to his before whining. “i am, felix.”

he tilted his head, watching you with that lazy, knowing smile. “you’re not.”

you let out a sigh, dramatic and fond. “maybe i zoned out for like—one second.”

felix chuckled. “you were doing the thing again.”

“what thing?”

“the thing where you stare at my face like i'm an empty character and you’re about to change all my settings.”

your lips twitched, trying not to laugh. “that is not what i do.”

“it is exactly what you do,” he teased. “you get this serious look in your eyes. it’s intense. honestly? a little terrifying.”

“maybe,” you said slowly, “if your face wasn’t so customizable, i could rest.”

he gasped. “customizable? what am i to you?”

you burst out into a chuckle, eyes squinting, hand smacking lightly against his chest. felix raised an eyebrow, clearly pretending to be offended, but the corners of his mouth gave him away. he leaned down, lips brushing against yours in that slow, familiar way—gentle pressure, warm breath, just enough to make your stomach flutter.

“tell me what you were thinking,” he murmured.

your eyelids drooped, already halfway asleep against his shoulder, but you mumbled, “warm tones tomorrow. skip the base. you’ve been dry lately.”

“mmm,” he hummed with a confused look at your last sentence. “what else?”

“maybe soft shimmer on the inner corners. gold, probably. something glowy.”

he exhaled a soft laugh, pulling you closer, your cheek now pressed against his chest. “god, i’m glad we have you on the team.”

you didn’t respond right away. just curled in closer, your hand finding his hoodie sleeve and tugging it gently, the way you always did when you were about to drift off. felix kissed the top of your head.

“not just for the makeup,” he added quietly. “you know that, right?”

and though your eyes were closed and your breathing had evened out, your fingers tightened just a little on his sleeve—enough to let him know you heard.

felix leaned his head back against the seat, eyes flicking up to the ceiling of the dimly lit bus, a small smile tugging at his lips. his hand found yours under the blanket, fingers tracing idle shapes across your knuckles.

“the first time you came here,” he said softly, “i fell in love with you instantly.”

you let out a sleepy hum, not quite opening your eyes, but you shook your head against his chest. “you definitely didn’t,” you mumbled. “i was a disaster."

felix’s fingers twitched where they were laced with yours. “you were perfect.”

you gave him a lazy, teasing scoff. “lix, no one falls in love with a person who calls changbin the wrong name.”

“i did,” he said simply, no hesitation. “do you want the story?”

you opened one eye and peeked up at him. “tell me.”

he smiled, and something about it—gentle, a little nostalgic—made your chest feel warm.

“okay,” he murmured, adjusting so your head was more comfortably against him. “but don’t interrupt. you always interrupt when i say something too romantic for your liking.”

you grinned sleepily. “no promises.”

“alright,” he said, voice dipping into that low, dreamy tone he always got when he was about to tell something important. “it was a monday. i remember because we hadn’t done promotions in, like, months. i wasn’t really thinking about anything—definitely not about the new makeup artist.”

his voice faded gently, pulling you into the memory like a hand reaching back in time.

you had just finished with changbin, who—despite the intimidating reputation he carried online—was an absolute sweetheart. you had accidentally called him chan when he first sat down which made you mentally slap yourself. but within minutes of sitting in your chair, he’d made you feel at home.

“so, y/n,” changbin said mid-powder touch-up, “where’d you transfer in from?”

“i’ve been freelancing, mostly. did a couple gigs for smaller groups, some cfs. nothing this big.”

“well,” he said, voice warm, “you’re killing it.”

you smiled, maybe a little too wide. but it was nice. you hadn’t expected this kind of welcome—especially not on your first real day with a group as established as stray kids. you’d barely even introduced yourself before being assigned to work on changbin and felix’s looks for a music video shoot.

big names. big pressure.

you’d just finished dusting the last bit of setting powder over changbin’s jawline when one of the senior artists paused by your station, nodding with clear approval. “you’re quick. clean work, too.”

your chest swelled a little. you offered her a polite smile, but inside? you were silently high-fiving yourself.

and then—just as you were packing away your used puff and reaching for a fresh palette—you heard the soft clack of someone stepping into the room.

felix.

he’d just changed into his outfit for the blueprint mv. the white button-down and light blue hair suited him too well. he was adjusting a cuff when he looked up—and locked eyes with you.

he was so pretty.

he walked over quietly, with that sweet, slightly unsure smile that made your heart squeeze, and sat down in your chair like he wasn’t the most beautiful person you’d ever laid your eyes on.

“hi,” he said softly.

“hi,” you replied, voice catching a little in your throat.

and then you saw them.

the freckles.

they were scattered across his cheeks and nose like a constellation you hadn’t studied yet. delicate, glowing even under the harsh makeup lights. and for a second, you just stared, frozen, because—

no one had warned you they’d be that beautiful.

you pulled your kit closer and took a breath, trying to pretend your hands weren’t a little shaky.

“alright,” you said, more to yourself than to him. “let’s get started.”

he gave you that sweet smile again, the corners of his mouth lifting just enough to show a glimpse of the deep-set dimples he didn’t even seem to notice.

you bit back a smile, focusing instead on the concealer you were brushing carefully along his under-eyes and jawline. his skin was smooth, already radiant—barely needed any product at all. you worked in silence for a few moments, the only sound the occasional clink of a brush handle against the table.

and then you got to his cheeks.

you hesitated.

the freckles were so clear here—gentle little marks that danced across his cheekbones and curved along his nose like they belonged to someone made of sunlight. instinctively, you slowed.

“you can go over them,” he said suddenly, his voice quiet but casual, like he’d said it a hundred times before. “i’ve always had them covered.”

your hand hovered for a second longer before you met his gaze.

“they’re so pretty, though.”

he blinked, lips parting just slightly. “you think?”

you nodded, soft but sure. “they’re like… little stars. i wouldn’t want to hide them.”

felix blinked again, a bit slower this time. then, almost shyly, he looked away. “i got them from tanning too much when i was younger. the sun was brutal.”

you tilted your head, smiling a little as you dipped your flat brush back into the concealer—this time, carefully avoiding the freckles completely.

“they’re unique,” you added gently, voice low but sure. “they give your face so much character. makes you look like someone who grew up in sunlight.”

he chuckled under his breath at that. “yea, i grew up in australia.”

you smiled, pressing a small sponge into the space beside his nose with a featherlight touch. “well… you’ve got the freckles to prove it.”

he stayed quiet for a second, long lashes brushing his cheeks as he blinked slowly.

“our old makeup artist said the lights pick them up weird on camera sometimes,” he said, like he wasn’t even sure why.

you paused, setting the sponge down in your hand. “it’s up to you if you want them covered. no pressure. i can blur them out a bit if you want, or—”

he cut you off gently. “no. you know what?”

his eyes lifted to meet yours—clear, thoughtful, a little brighter now.

“i’ll keep them.”

you smiled.

“good choice.”

you stirred against his chest, smiling into the fabric of his hoodie like the memory had folded itself gently around you. felix’s hand was still holding yours beneath the blanket, thumb sweeping in slow circles over your skin.

he let out a breath, almost like a sigh.

“that was it for me,” he murmured, his voice a warm rasp in your ear. “right then. that day. you saw something i never thought anyone would notice. and i was so, so gone.”

you chuckled, eyes still closed. “you’re ridiculous.”

he shifted a little, chin resting on top of your head now. “you believe me now?”

“mmm,” you teased, dragging the hum out just enough to be annoying. “sure.”

felix pulled back just slightly, just enough to peer down at you in mock offense. “no. i need you to actually believe it!”

you cracked one eye open. “shh, lix. there are people sleeping.”

he huffed. “i don’t care. i’ll whisper it to you a hundred times.”

you nuzzled closer to him, fingers gently curling into the edge of his sleeve. “then start counting.”

and he did. right into your hair, voice barely audible, like a secret you could keep forever.

“i fell in love with you. i fell in love with you. i fell in love with you…”

one. two. three.

you groaned softly against his chest, your voice muffled and whiny. “shut up.”

he laughed under his breath, not stopping the gentle motion of his thumb over your hand. “you get so grumpy when you’re tired.”

“let me be,” you grumbled, burying your face deeper into the crook of his neck like you were trying to disappear.

he chuckled but didn’t push it. just went quiet, letting the hush of the road and the soft shuffle of blankets settle around you both. his breathing slowed. his arm curled more securely around your waist.

“i love you, lix,” you whispered, soft as a secret.

he turned his head just enough for you to press a gentle kiss to his cheek.

a beat.

“i love you too,” he mumbled before mocking your whining. “now shut up and let me be.”

you scoffed, smacking his chest and then melted into him fully, arms winding around his middle like it was the most natural thing in the world.

and it was.

[houseofaegon]

ENCHANTRESS ╱ BOB REYNOLDS SERIES

✷ ─── +18 MINORS DNI 𓏲  ◟ ♡ ˖ ࣪ trauma, vivid nightmares, grief, emotional vulnerability, tarot symbolism, magical possession, enchantress x void dynamic, heavy sexual tension (non-explicit), longing, mutual restraint, intimacy.

✷ ─── AUTHOR'S NOTE. things are escalating and i'm unwell. i love bob and arabella, their longing, their love, how they care for each other, i want that for myself and i want them so baddddd. may this love attack me ffrrrrr. i am a sucker for slow burns, so prepare to burn with me. thank you for reading, thank you for being here and cheering for this fic, and thank you for letting me be deeply unhinged and obsessed about these two broken people that i love so much. i hope you guys like this short chapter. more are coming, be ready. love always, bri.

✷ ─── ENCHANTRESS SERIES. chapter one: beauty in tragedy. chapter two: the devil you know. chapter three: the witch. chapter four: moonlit waters. chapter five: divine hunger. chapter six: to burn & be burned. chapter seven: of teeth & tenderness. chapter eight: bound by blood. chapter nine: ashes between us. chapter ten: salt in the wound. chapter eleven: blood moon. chapter twelve: whispers in the dark. chapter thirteen: the witch and the void.

Bob couldn't sleep.

Again.

He lay flat on his back, arms crossed over his chest, the room dark except for the sliver of moonlight slicing across the floor. His eyes were wide open. Staring at the ceiling. Breathing like he was afraid of making a sound. The sheets were twisted around his legs and the silence pressed in like a second skin. Something felt wrong. Too heavy. Too loud. Like static in his bloodstream. He didn’t know what he was waiting for, only that he was waiting. And then—it moved.

The Void didn’t speak often unless it wanted something. But tonight, its voice came without warning, curling through his skull like smoke and syrup, amused and hungry and knowing.

“She’s unraveling.”

Bob sat up too fast, breath caught in his throat. His hands were shaking and he didn’t know if it was his or if something inside him was pulling the strings again.

“She’s calling you. Not out loud, but it’s there. I can feel her. The pain. In her blood. In her magic. She’s having a nightmare. Go.”

He didn’t argue. He never did. He didn’t even bother with shoes—just threw on a hoodie, ran a hand through his hair, and stepped out into the hall barefoot, the air cold against his skin.

The tower was silent. No movement, no light, no sound.

Except one door.

Hers.

Closed.

But humming. Like it was holding its breath.

He didn’t knock at first. Just stood there, heart pounding, hand halfway raised, unsure of what waited on the other side. But the Void didn’t hesitate.

“She needs you. Let me see how she breaks.”

Bob ignored it. Lifted his hand.

And knocked.

Arabella was dreaming. Or maybe not. It felt too real, too vivid, too sharp at the edges, too heavy on her chest to feel anything but real.

The air was warm and golden and smelled like motor oil, machines, and fresh coffee. It smelled like home. The compound was alive—lights on, music playing low in the distance, voices floating in and out of the background. She was walking through the halls barefoot, laughing, holding a cup of tea in one hand and her boots in the other.

Steve passed her and nodded, smiling easily and real, and she felt the warmth bloom in her chest before she saw Tony—leaning against the railing, arms crossed, a crooked smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth. He said something she couldn’t quite hear, something about her not sleeping again, and she rolled her eyes and said she’d sleep when she was dead, and he laughed. Really laughed. It echoed through her ribs like a promise.

Then the light shifted.

The colors bled out of the room, everything fading to gray around the edges, and her mug slipped from her hand, shattered against the floor.

Her feet were wet.

Not with tea.

With blood.

And she looked up just in time to see the arc reactor dimming in Tony’s chest, his body crumpling forward, his mouth open like he was still trying to speak. Her hands were glowing. Her mouth full of ash. Steve turned away, his eyes cold and blank. Natasha’s laughter stopped mid-sound, and she was gone—just smoke in the doorway.

And Bucky—Bucky didn’t move at all. He stood in the hallway, staring at her like she was something he didn’t recognize. Something he didn’t want to.

She tried to move, but her legs were locked. She tried to scream, but her throat burned.

The fire caught fast, licking up the walls of the compound, eating everything she loved in waves. The floor cracked beneath her. Her hands sparked again, too bright, too hot, and the Enchantress stood behind her in the glass, smiling with a mouth full of teeth and power and blood.

Arabella reached out to stop it, to pull it all back, but her fingers burned when they touched the air, and the fire just kept going, and Tony’s voice rang out again—only this time it was twisted. Warped. He was saying her name, but it wasn’t his voice anymore.

It was her own.

She whispered “I’m sorry” but it didn’t matter. The world burned anyway.

She woke up choking.

Air ripped into her lungs like it had forgotten how to live there. Sweat poured down her spine, her night gown tangled around her body like a net. Her breathing was too loud. Her heart was a war drum. Her hands were shaking, and every candle in the room had burned low to its wick.

The tarot deck lay scattered in a rough half-circle around her, like it had been thrown. She didn’t remember reaching for it. Some cards were upside down. Some face up. The Tower. Death. The Lovers. The Hanged Man crossed them all like a warning.

The room buzzed. Her blood buzzed. Her magic was crawling just beneath her skin like it wanted out.

And then—

A knock.

Soft. Gentle.

Her head turned slowly toward the door. She didn’t know how long she’d been breathing like that, didn’t know how long her fingers had been curled into fists. She stood on shaking legs, stepped over the cards, barely registering the sting in her feet from the salt circle she’d broken.

She opened the door.

And there he was.

Barefoot. Hoodie half-zipped. Hair a mess like he’d woken up in a rush. Bob didn’t say anything at first, just stared at her with those wide, storm-soaked eyes like he knew. Like he felt it. Like he heard the scream still echoing in her chest.

“Are you okay?” he whispered.

She nodded. Too fast. Too practiced.

He frowned, took half a step closer. “Don’t lie to me,” he said, softer. “I felt you.”

Arabella didn’t answer. She just turned and walked back into the room. And Bob followed. Quiet. Careful.

And she let him.

The door clicked shut behind him, soft, and for a long moment he just stood there, breathing her in—sage, lavender, salt, and the lingering ache of magic.

Arabella sank to the floor without a word, folding herself down in the center of the scattered circle of tarot cards and candlelight like a girl worn thin by ghosts, like someone too used to falling apart alone.

Bob hesitated only a second before joining her, sitting across from her cross-legged, hoodie sleeves pushed up, hands resting lightly on his knees. He didn’t ask. He just watched her hands, still trembling, as she began to gather the cards slowly, gently, shuffling them with muscle memory rather than intent.

The candles hissed softly as the air shifted. Her hands moved through the deck like water—sure but quiet, slow but steady—and then she laid the cards down between them, one by one, turning them with care.

The Moon. Reversed. Fear. Illusion. Nightmares.

The Tower. Upright. Sudden collapse, breaking point.

Death. Upright. Not an end, but a transformation—one you don’t come back from the same.

The Lovers. Reversed. Desire unmet. Connection crossed. Unspoken longing, something you crave but can't touch.

And last, The Hanged Man. Surrender.

Arabella stared at the cards like they were speaking in a language only she could hear, her eyes scanning the shapes, the symbols, the meanings she already knew by heart but hated more each time they were confirmed. Her voice came quiet. “Do you ever have nightmares?”

He didn’t blink. “All the time.” Then, softer, his eyes not leaving hers, “But they’ve been quiet lately. Since you got here.”

She didn’t react, not at first, just stared at the cards like they might offer some answer she hadn’t already burned through.

“Mine never stopped,” she said eventually. “I see them all. Every night. Tony. Nat. Steve. Bucky. Sometimes alive. Sometimes bleeding. Sometimes it’s me that kills them. Sometimes I let them die. Sometimes I don’t feel anything at all.” Her voice caught, sharp and bitter, but she pushed through it. “Tonight, I was back in the compound. It was warm. Familiar. And then it started burning. Tony died again. Only this time—this time I didn’t try to stop it.”

Bob didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just listened, and in the silence between them, she kept going.

“The Enchantress was there too. In the mirror. Smiling. She didn’t do anything. She just watched.” Her hands had stopped shaking, but her eyes were wet. “It felt real. Like a warning. Like she’s getting stronger every time I pretend I’m fine.”

Bob’s voice was hoarse when it finally came. “Are you scared of her?”

Arabella’s eyes lifted to meet his. “No,” she said. Then, quieter, more honest, “I’m scared of what she’ll do to you.”

He didn’t flinch. “I’m not.”

“You should be.”

“I’ve seen monsters, Bella. I’ve been a monster. But none of them ever looked at me like she does.” His voice dropped. “None of them ever looked at me like they understood.”

Arabella reached for one of the cards, fingers dragging lightly over the face of The Lovers, still reversed, and for a second her hand trembled again. “I don’t know what to do with that,” she whispered. “I don’t know how to let someone see all of it and still want to be close to me.”

“You don’t have to know,” Bob said. “You just have to let me stay.”

She looked at him, candlelight flickering across her skin, eyes too soft, and said, “Just for tonight?”

And Bob nodded. “Just for tonight.”

They sat like that—knees almost touching, breath synced, the air charged with something too sacred to name. Bob looked at the cards again, then back to her. “Can I ask you something?”

She nodded.

“That day. In the subway. When everything fell apart... she spoke to me. The Enchantress.”

Arabella stiffened. Her breath hitched. He could feel it. Like the air got colder. Like the room was suddenly listening.

“She didn’t say anything out loud, but I heard her. In my head. Like the Void does. She told him she saw the darkness in me. Said she wanted to taste it.” Bob’s voice was steady, but quiet. “And the Void replied. And she answered. Like they were... talking. Like they knew each other.”

Arabella’s heart slammed into her ribs.

Bob’s gaze didn’t leave hers. “No one’s ever been able to hear him before. Not like that. Not in my head.”

Inside her chest, the Enchantress stirred, stretching slow and satisfied.

“He’s letting us in,” she purred. “He’s opening the door. He wants to know how far we'll go.”

And in Bob’s head, the Void trembled.

“She’s listening,” it whispered. “She feels me. She hears me. And she doesn’t run.”

Arabella blinked at him. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“I didn’t want to scare you,” Bob said. “But I think… maybe you’re the only one who wouldn’t be.”

Arabella exhaled slow, uneven. Her hand hovered over the last card still face-down, her fingertips trembling just slightly above it. She didn’t turn it over. Didn’t need to. It sat there between them like something half-alive, like a secret neither of them was ready to see. The air between them had thickened, heavy with unspoken things—fear, yes, but more than that. Longing. The kind of longing that wrapped itself around your throat and didn’t let go.

Bob stared at her fingers. At the way they trembled. At the way she never touched him, not even accidentally. He swallowed hard. “Why do you never touch me?”

Her head snapped up, startled by how quiet he’d said it—how gently. “What?”

“You never let yourself. Not even a brush. Not even by mistake.” His voice stayed low, full of something he didn’t know how to name. “Do you think she’ll hurt me? If you do?”

She looked away, down at her hands. At the cards. At the space between them that felt like a live wire, buzzing and electric and hungry. “I know she will,” she whispered. “And I don’t think I’ll be able to stop her.”

Her hands ached to touch him. To feel him. His skin

She should’ve stopped there. But the words came out anyway.

“I want to,” she said, voice breaking. “God, I want to. I want to touch you. I want to feel your hand on mine. I want to know what it’s like to be held without something inside me trying to tear it apart.”

Her throat burned. Her chest ached.

“My hands,” she whispered, looking down at them, “they’ve never just held. Not without consequence. Not without… taking something. And I don’t want to take anything from you.”

Bob didn’t respond at first, just looked at her hands like he could read the ghosts written across her skin. When he did speak, his voice was low, hushed—like he was afraid to scare her off. “But you’ve let Bucky touch you.”

It wasn’t a question, not really. She didn’t flinch. Just exhaled.

“Yes,” she said. “But that’s different. That’s Bucky. He’s… always known when to stop. When to pull back. He never reaches unless I reach first.” She paused, eyes still on her hands. “With Bucky, I let myself be small. That’s why it’s safe.”

Bob’s brow furrowed. “And with me?”

Arabella finally looked up. Her gaze locked with his, soft and bruised with exhaustion. “With you,” she said, “I want too much.”

The silence snapped taut between them.

“I want to reach out and not stop. I want to be touched like it means something. I want to feel. And that’s where it goes wrong. That’s where she starts listening.”

Bob’s breath hitched. “What if I touched you?” His words weren’t casual. They landed heavy, deliberate.

She froze.

The silence cracked. Split wide open. The Enchantress howled in her chest

"Yes. Yes. Let him. I want to feel the darkness inside him."

Arabella’s breath hitched. “Bob—”

“I mean just once,” he said. “Just your face. Just to see.”

And she couldn’t say no. Because she wanted it. So badly it hurt.

She nodded, barely.

And Bob reached out. Slow. Gentle. Like he was touching something holy. His fingers brushed the curve of her cheek—just once, soft and reverent.

The Enchantress exploded.

She purred, deep and vibrating in Arabella’s chest like thunder, sultry and electric and so awake. “He’s mine,” she moaned, hungry and hot, “I want to keep him—I want to feel everything he’s buried. I want to drink him.”

Arabella gasped. Her body jolted, eyes flying wide, light sparking at her fingertips. The magic flared so violently the last candle blew out, plunging the room into shadows that pulsed with her heartbeat.

Bob didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

He just watched her, his thumb still hovering near her cheekbone, like she hadn’t just summoned a goddess from the pit of her soul.

She pulled back—not far. Just enough.

Her voice trembled. “I told you.”

His hand dropped. But his eyes never left hers.

Inside his mind, the Void shivered.

“She’s tasting us,” it whispered, voice thick with want. “She wants inside. Let her in. I want to show her what we’ve become.”

Inside her, the Enchantress answered.

“He’s cracked open. I can see all of it. All that hurt. All that rage. And it’s beautiful. Let me keep him. Just for a night.”

Arabella looked away, trying to catch her breath, to contain the magic fizzing just beneath her skin. “You shouldn’t have done that,” she whispered, voice frayed. “You don’t know what it’s like—to feel that and have to lock it down. She’s louder now. She wants you. And I don’t know how long I can keep her caged.”

Bob’s voice was quiet. “Then don’t.”

Her head whipped toward him. “Bob—”

“Let her want me,” he said, still calm, still steady. “Let her scream. Let her reach. I won’t break.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do,” he said, leaning in just enough for her to feel it. “Because I know what it’s like. To live with something inside you that wants everything you’re afraid to ask for. I’ve been there. I am there.”

Arabella’s lips parted, but no sound came.

Bob looked down at the cards again. The Lovers. Still reversed. The Hanged Man, still crossed. “They’re always upside down,” he said. “But it doesn’t mean they’re wrong. Just… not ready.”

She swallowed hard, nodding, barely. Her voice cracked on the way out. “Thank you. For not running.”

“I’d never run from you.”

And somewhere in the space between them, thick with longing and fear and the ghosts of darkness that lived in their blood, the Enchantress smiled.

And the Void whispered.

“Next time… let us finish what we started.”

𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐄𝐎𝐅𝐀𝐄𝐆𝐎𝐍 © 2025. DO NOT STEAL, REPOST, OR COPY THIS STORY TO TUMBLR, WATTPAD, AO3, OR ANY OTHER PLATFORM. Moodboards and graphics made by @houseofaegon DO NOT repost or reuse without credit. chain divider by @cursed-carmine

♱ ˖ ࣪ . taglist: @the-a-word-2214 @favestxrboy @uraesthete @abbysbenchpr @sammystarswrite @pey2618 @qardasngan @lunaoieoie @orithyia-eriphyle @amatiswayland @madzzz6958 @all-by-myself98 @dark-silhouette @ghost-ghost-13 @wyvernthekriger @gayfiretruck @watermeezer @lvmxla @novausstuff @mommymilkers0526 @natureartisian @feralgoblinbabe @misaki-evans @uracowboylikemee @sxlsvv @stillinracooncity @deltamel @princess312 (if you would like to be added to the taglist, please let me know in the comments. love, bri.)

[yoiisa]

I love 2AM, WHO DO YOU LOVE? SO MUCHH!!!

I can not go to bed because it was so good i beg u plssssss make a pt2 or make it into a series of some sort because you have SO MUCH potential with that 💕 I LOVE U

well, if you insist . . . (⸝⸝> ᴗ•⸝⸝) this is the second part of this fic I wrote for Reo!!

Your parents were on your ass for a while afterwards, desperate to have you meet up with the Mikage heir again. Apparently, he was to be whisked off to some soccer program soon, so they had to nail this next first impression and soon, otherwise it was goodbye to everything you potentially could have.

You have to admit, boys who play soccer were hot and kinda your type, but one sport was not going to change your mind over this entire situation at all! You wanted nothing to do with this arranged marriage, but saying anything would only stoke the flames of your father's ire even more, and you could honestly do without him yelling at you again for the next three lifetimes.

So you agree to meet the heir to one of the richest families in all of Japan. It's meant to be at his house (which isn't intimidating at all), where you and him will have lunch together on the patio or something while your parents are inside talking. It truly sounds like a fun time, but you can't chase the sour taste in your mouth whenever you think of the impending weekend.

Finally, the day comes. Your mother spends all morning in your bedroom prettying you and making you look presentable. It feels a lot like that scene from Mulan where she's getting ready to meet the matchmaker. She helps you zip up a loose blue dress and you pull on white stockings underneath. You strap your Docs on and put two tiny braids in your hair that you tie with white ribbons, letting the rest flow freely around your shoulders.

The car ride over is tense, with your dad shooting practice questions at you, prepping you for any potential questions the heir or his parents might ask you. The entire time, all you can think of is jumping straight out of the window. You check your reflection again in your compact, before swiping on a fresh coat of lip gloss.

By the time you arrive at the Mikage house, you're more than certain that you're in over your head. Who in their right mind would need a house this big? On top of that, you're pretty sure the heir is an only child, so he has this entire place to himself? Oh, he's a spoiled punk for sure, no doubt in your mind about that.

A few butlers help you from the car and guide you and your parents towards the entrance. Mr Mikage and his wife are standing at the front door, welcoming smiles on their faces.

"Welcome, welcome! You must be [name]! Shame I couldn't meet you the other night, Reo was so dissapointed."

His name's Reo then. You bow and reply, "I'm so sorry I couldn't meet you then as well. Here," you extend you arms with a gift bad in your hands. Inside are expensive wines and imported fruits. "A gift, I hope you'll enjoy them."

Mrs Mikage takes them gratefully, peeking inside. "Oh! I love these!"

You smile, "I'm glad to hear that! My mother and I have a garden in our background where we grow them. They came out good this season."

"How sweet, what else do you do?" she asks, guiding you inside.

"Umm, I like to bake and crochet," you say walking next to her. "I can make my own sweaters and shirts."

"How darling, your parents are right. You are quite the talent!" Mr Mikage praises, matching you and his wife's stride.

"I'm sure Reo is also quite talented."

"Oh yes, he is. He wears many hats that boy. He plays the guitar, can sing, can draw, is good at studying, and he's quite athletic. He used to love playing basketball, but recently he's become an excellent soccer player!" Mrs Mikage brags.

"Is he going to go pro?" you ask innocently, but the shadow that briefly falls over his parents' faces gives you the answer immediately. You switch gears. "My parents told me he has a camp coming up for soccer."

They brighten up again. "Oh yes! Blue Look or something like that. I admit, I'd never heard of it before, but it's associated with the JFU, so I'm sure it's a legitimate training camp."

You nod and look around the house again, suddenly realizing that as much as you've been told about their son, you've yet to see him still. "Umm, if I may, where is Reo?"

"Oh he had a game today at a different school, but he should be on the way back by now. He'll be here shortly, no doubt about it," Mrs Mikage says. She puts a hand on your lower back and guides you down a hallway. "Here, you can wait in his room."

You balk. "Are you sure? I wouldn't want to invade his privacy!"

"No need to worry about that," Mrs Mikage says as she opens the door to his bedroom. "After all, I've liked you enough that I'd be happy to marry our son to you. If you're going to be his wife, a little peek at his room won't hurt!"

You blush, anger flickering, but left with no other option, you have to tamper it down. You sigh and step into his bedroom, but his mother doesn't accompany you.

"I'm going to go downstairs again and sit with my husband and your parents," she says, closing the door behind and leaving you alone in a stranger's house, in their son's room of all places!

You sigh and clench your fists. Fuck, you made too good of a first impression, and now, you're for sure going to be trapped in a loveless marriage with a rich, cocky imbecile who probably isn't even good at soccer, and his parents are just buying him a spot in that blue place-

As you look around his room, the thought dies in your head. Trophies. So many trophies line his room. They're on the bookshelves and the nightstands, and his desk. Most are blue ribbons, indicating just how talented he really is. You marvel at it all, reaching out to one particularly big trophy. The gold is shiny, as if all of it was just freshly polished. You can kinda see your reflection in it, and your scared to touch it as if it's an artifact in a museum.

You lower your hand and look around some more. Books lie on his desk and some have fallen over on his shelves. Aside from that, it's a pretty standard boys bedroom, not that you've been in many of those before in your life.

Finally, your eyes land on a photo on his desk and you pick it up. Mr and Mrs Mikage hold a young boy between them, who's grinning bright and his eyes glow with all the childlike innocence of someone who could have anything he wanted right at his request. You narrow your eyes as you look closer at the boy. Purple hair, purple eyes, just like-

You drop the photo back on the desk and bolt from the bedroom. You know those eyes, you recognize that smile, or a more mature version of it anyways.

Darting down the steps you see the front door is open. Your parents and his parents stand there, talking to him and your heart lurches in your chest as you see him. Him. The boy from the party. He's the one you're set to marry!

Reo. Reo Mikage.

He's smiling at your father, shaking his hand, before his gaze cuts to you, and his eyes widen. His lips part as he gasps. His breath hitches and he pushes past his parents, coming to the foot of the stairs and staring up at you like you're a ghost- no, like you're an angel.

"It's you!"

a/n: eeee, love me some fluff (she says after writing nothing but angst for a week)

[merakiui]

I saw the yandere prompts and my first thought was 2 for Leona, but since you wrote it for Azul, maybe 47 instead..? 👀 I specifically pictured nightmare suit Leona and ougghhh hes so hot <3 he can become my shadow and haunt me forever anytime. Preferably a metaphorical shadow and not literally so he can get handsy- I mean!! 🙈🙈

-🐈‍⬛ anon

NIGHTMARE SUIT LEONA!!!!!!!!!

(cw: yandere, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, gender neutral reader, leona's a demon you have a pact with, so in that sense he's a shadow, victorian era, arranged marriage, leona's basically the (literal) demon on your shoulder, he has nothing but bad (read: questionable) advice on how to deal with your husband lol, subtle jealousy)

(monstrously yandere prompts)

"Well, aren't you dressed for death? Guess white's gone out of style for weddings. Mourning black is finally in fashion."

You don't have to turn around to confirm the owner of that sardonic drawl. He's been with you ever since you called out to the darkness in your desperation all those months ago. In exchange for keeping you safe and playing the part of watchdog, the demon known as Leona would have your soul. You've since realized business with demons is foolish and dangerous, but the pact has been sealed and its proof is stamped right above your heart.

You are stuck with him until the end of your days.

And while you suppose you're grateful for his help, even if he is the laziest demon you've ever met, he is not the most pressing problem. Rather, it's your wedding.

This day has been penned in the calendars ever since you became of age, and even then you were dreading it. You're not sure what your husband thinks. He's a man led by advantage. Your social status and your family's wealth is far more important than the role you're meant to take up by his side.

Leona has given you countless options to save yourself in the years leading up to this day, most of which were rather unsavory, but today you're truly contemplating them.

"I'm not going to tell you what you should or shouldn't do. It's your life," he says, leaning casually against the wall. A single green eye tracks your movements. He watches you run your fingers along the sheer fabric of your veil. "If you'd prefer to skip all the pleasantries, I can do it in your place."

"You'd do that?" you ask around a disbelieving scoff. All he really does is work in the shadows, offering his sarcastic commentary when he's bored and wants to find entertainment in you.

"Why not? Better a demon than a human with a clean record, right?" he muses. You blink and then he's at your side, peering into the mirror alongside you. Gingerly, he takes the veil from your hands and places it atop your head. "You're already dressed for a funeral. It'd be a waste otherwise."

"You just want to sharpen your claws on the poor soul, don't you?"

A sly smirk quirks up on his lips, and he feigns surrender. "You caught me."

Perhaps I ought to run away, you think, but only for a second. There's still your pact with Leona. You're tethered, and eloping with a demon doesn't sound particularly appealing. His company would only serve as a reminder for your bad choices.

"No need to pout, little human," he adds, melting away into the dark corners of your bedroom. "The solution is staring you right in the face. If it were me, I'd take it. An opportunity for an immediate checkmate... And it's so simply acquired. Don't tell me you're tied up in a moral dilemma!" He barks out a sharp laugh. You've long since abandoned your morals, for they were swallowed up the moment you shook hands with a demon.

Worst of all, he's right. This is the best move you could possibly make. A mysterious death on the day of his wedding... Why, no one would be any wiser and you'd play the part of a grieving spouse well enough. They'd say it was the will of a higher power and then his beastly business practices would be exposed. The odds are in your favor. Leona will ensure that and you know it.

You grit your teeth, and suddenly there's a dagger lying where your brush once was. Your fingers curl around the ornate handle.

"Would I ever steer you in the wrong direction?" he asks, emerging from the dark with the face of your soon-to-be husband. "Well, human? All that stands between you and your precious freedom is one pitiful human. Are you really going to let him dictate your life?"

It's a trick question. Your soul already belongs to him, but right now...

You lunge at him and he scoops you up, pulling you into a strange, stilted waltz. The dagger is plunged in his chest.

Leona challenges you with a sharp grin. "More force next time. How else are you going to puncture his heart?"

"You are an abominable influence," you snap, scowling.

"And I am your shadow, little human." He drags you closer to him, his hand delicately caressing your cheek. "No matter where you go, you'll never escape me. So why not make a friend out of your enemy while you still can? I'll give you everything you could ever want and need, and all it costs is the heart of your husband."

You've never known Leona to willingly offer you an advantage in this never-ending game of chess he seems to delight in.

But perhaps his benevolence stems from a place of envy.

A silly thought. As sinful as envy is, you can't possibly imagine your demon harboring it.

"One condition," you tell him, taking hold of his gloved hand. This time, rather than your husband's face, you peer at him. Into that singular green eye.

He raises a brow. You imagine your demanding nature is quite impressive to him. For a human to demand things from a demon without any regard for the consequences... Fascinating.

"Do him in ruthlessly and you shall have my appreciation."

Malice sharpens his smile into something starved. "I intend to."

[mickyschumacher]

[NO, I'M NOT IN LOVE!]

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: no matter what you do, you just can't seem to get pedri out of your system. and neither can he. or in which after a year of playing cat and mouse, it all comes down to the final blow.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: fluff, angst, maybe suggestive if you squint?, avoidant reader who can't emotionally regulate herself, in theory love at first sight (but not really bc i hate the trope ngl), love confessions // proof-read-ish!

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: pedro 'pedri' gonzález x f1 driver!fem!reader

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 2.3k+

𝐀/𝐍: ugh i'm always thinking about pedri x f1 driver!fem!reader so i had to write about it! AND YES another avoidant reader bc why not?

🏎️ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 | ⚽️𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

Pedri and you were good at this.

The game of cat and mouse.

A year... that's how long you had been playing it.

A year since Pedri had laid eyes on you and instantly knew that you weren't going to be good for him.

Pedri had told everyone. He wasn't going to date. No girlfriend. No set ups. No hook-ups. Just football. That's all he wanted. But perhaps, he had spoken to soon.

You weren't particularly anyone. Only just the most coveted driver in Formula 2 heading over to the big leagues the following year.

It was Spain, round six. You were leading a championship as a rookie that had just won another in the previous rankings. You were only talking to Isack and Paul, trying to pass time before practice started.

That's when Pepe, your closest friend, had loudly greeted you a few metres down the paddock. Behind him, unbeknownst to you was some of Barça's star players. He was giving them a 'tour' since they knew so little about the sport.

You remembered turning as Pepe introduced all of you and you had met Pedri's eyes. The stare was maybe a few seconds too long. But it told you what you both needed to know.

There was a connection. One you thought was too dangerous to explore. One he knew went against everything he said he wanted to do.

You tried to ignore it. Ignore the way you and him got along so easily that it even had Isack raising a brow at you. You tried to stay clear of Pedri. You knew it'd be better to not start something at all. It saved you the pain... the distraction.

But nothing was going according your plan. You had won in Spain (that you had somewhat planned for) and hours later were having dinner with Pepe, Isack, Paul and the whole mob of footballers you had met that day. He had followed you on Instagram that night and you had fought your very being to not to do the same.

But then you stayed in Spain. It was the moment of your undoing. Exploring the unfamiliar place, having some Spanish hot chocolate in the afternoon when you felt a tap on your shoulder.

It was Pedri and an offer to give you a tour of his home country.

How could you ever say no?

And that's how it all started. The longing smiles, the brush of your hands, the good morning texts, the good luck voice messages, the lingering touch on your waist, his flushed cheeks, the evenings where you made dinner with his family, and the days where he took your mother out on a date.

But you were friends.

"Just friends."

That what you said every time someone asked. "I'm single," was your answer to every interview.

Because you were.

Because whatever you and Pedri had... it couldn't possibly go beyond it.

━━━━━━━━━━━

Every championship... you had won every championship you had come across. A part of you knew you couldn't do the same when you got to Formula One. It would be harder. Especially given the piece of shit car you had.

But a part of you was selfish. If you couldn't at least get a podium than what on earth had you worked for the past years? To those who said you couldn't do it... how were you going to prove them wrong?

It was easier said than done.

This whole thing with Pedri was beginning to terrify you. Your feelings... it was getting too much. You couldn't process when the "good luck" calls had turned into "please come out of that car and back to me." Nor when he pleaded for you to attend his matches.

He cared.

And it scared the shit out of you.

This was what you were avoiding. Feeling too much. You had been denying it for months now. But when you stood on those podiums and looked down, a part of you wished you would see his face in midst of the crowd.

You weren't good at this type of thing. The feeling... the caring... the loving. You had never been good at it. It was why you hated it so much.

But Pedri... he was as in tune with his emotions as he was with the ball. He felt everything like an open book. He was a family man down to his very core. He cherished everyone in his life and now you were part of that too.

If there was one thing you knew how to do, it was creating distance. So that when you looked at yourself one last time in your driver's room, you reminded yourself what exactly you were here for.

━━━━━━━━━━━

Pedri knew this would happen. Pepe had told him a few months into well... whatever this was.

You were avoidant. You didn't trust easily. You didn't like being vulnerable. You didn't like investing too much of yourself into something in the case you'd get hurt.

But Pedri also knew it was different when you were with him. He could see you. Really see you.

The secrets you told him, the natural smiles you gave him, when you reluctantly told him what was bothering you and could see your shoulders relax, or when you remembered all the small things about him... even when you told him you didn't have that emotional capacity, it was because you cared.

To be honest it had become so normal in the past couple of months, he had forgotten all about it.

But just when things were going great, you had withdrawn. No texts, leaving him on read, making up excuses to not see him, engaging in only small talk...

You were retreating.

And God, he hated it.

Two months. Pedri hadn't seen you in two months. The conversation between the both of you had been scarce. It even had everyone online wondering what was going on. Because for them it wasn't a matter of if you got together, it was a matter of when.

The last time you talked was a couple days ago, three weeks since the previous message. This year's football season had finished for him and you had congratulated him briefly.

You had strayed away from some of the most important moments of his life and it killed him. So Pedri decided he was going to do something about it.

When you returned from a late evening debrief to your hotel, exhausted with the pressure of potential pole in Spain, you thought you were seeing things at your door. Maybe you were dreaming. Because there was no way in hell, Pedri was leaning on your door.

Pedri blinked, immediately leaning up as he registered you in his brain. "Cariño," he breathed out, hands stuffed in the pockets of his hoodie.

You swallowed nervously, wishing you weren't aware of the shivers that had travelled down your spine. He was real.

Fuck.

Fuck.

"Pedri," you returned, cautiously walked towards him. You pursed your lips. "What are you– uh, what are you going here?"

"You're racing," he simply commented with a small shrug, noticing the flicker of surprise and guilt flashing through those pretty eyes of yours.

You stayed quiet after giving a curt nod. "And in front of my hotel room?" You asked moments later.

Pedri looked away from you momentarily, seemingly gathering up the words he needed to say. He breathed in slowly, eyes reverting back to you. His hands fell out of his hoodie, dangling at the sides, clenching because he didn't really no what else to do. "I think... I think we have to talk about this."

You weren't sure if your slightly widened eyes and the small tip of your brows made your surprise obvious. If it did, Pedri didn't show it.

"I... I'm not sure what you're talking about," you mumbled, keeping a good distance from him as you swiped your keycard on the lock. Pressing down on the door handle, you wondered if you should've made more of an effort to stop Pedri from following after you.

Pedri chewed on his lip, closing the door behind him and watching you take your shoes off before doing the same. "Come on..." he breathed, "I mean... how long are we going to do this?"

"Do what?" You queried, taking a seat on the armchair near your bed quietly.

The tick of Pedri's jaw told you enough about his frustration.

"Pretend," Pedri stated, standing before you. "Pretend that we don't feeling anything for each other. That we shouldn't be together."

You eyed his disheveled hair and his flushed cheeks he usually got from expending too much energy. He had probably just come from the gym. Training when Flick had probably given them the day off because he didn't know how to do anything else.

The feeling was familiar.

"Because we shouldn't," you simply retorted, looking at him briefly enough to catch the surprise in his eyes. "You play. I race. We don't feel anything for each other. End of story."

Pedri stayed silent for a second, processing your words before a laugh fell from his lips. His eyes narrowed. "That's such bullshit," he dispelled.

You raised a brow. "Excuse me?"

"You don't feel anything? Is that what you felt that night at the pool?" He asked, stepping closer to you.

Your eyes stilled, skin warming at the memory.

For once, you and Pedri had an off day. A rare one given by Flick that had matched your schedule. When he had offered for you to stop by and take a dip in his pool, you thought why not?

You had spent an hour or so in the water. Gliding on the surface as Pedri recited some of his favourite memories to you, telling you how much Fer, his brother, wished to see you race any time soon, or how he wanted to show you the flowers in Tegueste, where he grew up.

It didn't take too long before you initiated a water fight. And while you were competitive, Pedri was never one to lose. Before you knew it, he was barely millimetres away from you, arms hung around your waist, your back to his chest as he threatened to you throw you in the water.

"I give up, I'm sorry!" You shouted, eyes shut tight to prevent any water from coming in while you could feel Pedri's chest rumble with laughter.

Pedri grinned, turning you around to face him, hands still not letting go of you. The silence between you was enchanting. You could hear his breath while he stared at you, eyes momentarily flicking to your lips.

He took a few steps in the water, closing you towards the wall of the pool. He watched you pull your lip between your teeth as he lifted you up, resting you on the edge.

Pedri's eyes were glued to the rivets of water cascading down your body. The way your wet hair clung to you. Your skin, covered in all the right places, glowing. The uneven rhythm of your chest falling and rising.

"Joder," Pedri swore under his breath, stomach churning and head bending down as his lips skimmed past the top of your inner thigh and to your knee. Slowly, he waded back into the water, eyeing you painfully from afar.

You blinked, still feeling the tingle of his actions down your body. You breathed out slowly. "That doesn't matter."

"But it does," Pedri responded almost instantly, squatting down to look up at you. Taking your hand in his, he tilted his head. "It matters to me. And I know it matters to you. This is right. You felt it when we first met. We're meant to be together," he rasped.

Your eyes shook. Your throat hurt. You pursed your lips, slipping your hand out of his grasp. A part of you wished he stopped talking. You stood from the chair, exhaling nervously. "Pedri... I... I think you should leave."

Pedri sighed, standing up. He stayed, grabbing your arm gently. "I mean I don't get it. What is it? Are you–are you afraid you can't show me your love? Or that you care enough? I... I don't really understand but I promise I see it. I feel it. I feel your care."

Your eyes widened in shock. Taking a step back, you swallowed hard. He had hit the nail on it's head. How? How had he done that? How did he just see you?

"I've had enough of these games," Pedri murmured, tugging you closer. "Because I can't pretend that you don't affect me. I thought I could. But I should've known when I saw your eyes that day," he chuckled softly.

"I like you," he continued, "I'm probably way past that. But I see my future. I look at it all the time and there is not one without you. Whatever you feel, we'll work through it together. But I can't let you go on and pretend that you don't. Because it'll destroy you as much as it'll destroy me."

You weren't sure when the first tear fell. Somewhere around the third or fourth, Pedri had collected it with his thumb. Your cheeks flushed with annoyance and embarrassment. "I'm sorry," you murmured quietly. "I've been an asshole."

Pedri only smiled, holding your face, rubbing away any remaining tears. "Did you know it's been a year since we met?"

"You're not making me feel any better here," you mumbled, gently caressing his arm as you leaned into his touch.

Pedri chuckled slightly, hoping you didn't hear his small sniffle. Pressing a kiss to your forehead, he looked at you and smiled. "Te quiero. Para siempre," he confessed. I love you. Forever.

You could feel the tension in your shoulders slowly disappear. You breathed slowly, taking in Pedri's face and committing this moment to your memory. You whispered, barely a centimetre away from his lips. "I love you too. Always."

© 𝐌𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐘𝐒𝐂𝐇𝐔𝐌𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐑

[lovejongseob]

Jongseob's firsts

All sfw except for the very last paragraph. Soul version here !!

First love:

Jongseob is shy, and he wouldn't approach you first. Watches you from afar, but with a heavy heart. He's analyzing everything you do, and falling deeper and deeper in love with every detail. Unfortunately, he lets his mind run until he finds things to be anxious about, and reasons you couldn't like him back.

First date:

A good example of Jongseob getting nervous over small things, you would have to take the initiative and ask him out. He spent way too long figuring out what to wear, what to say, how to act, he ended up a little awkward at first. He's comfortable by the end of the night though, and wishes he had just calmed down from the beginning.

First relationship:

You're going to see a lot of you taking the lead here, especially at first. Even if it's your first as well, it's like his mind just goes numb around you, and he can't think of what to do. Jongseob is flustered easily and nervous often, but he warms up and gets closer to you as time goes on.

First touch of affection:

I'm thinking of holding hands, playing with the other's hair, or fleeting kisses to the hands or cheek. These are the build ups to further things, but he holds them dear in his heart and remembers all the times you first did it. Jongseob would always ask before doing anything. He would only surprise you with physical touch after dating for a while and telling him on your own that it was okay. Besides light hitting while laughing, in which his arms just move on their own.

First kiss:

Jongseob's first kiss would be gentle, soft, slow to go in, fast to pull apart. You both asked each other so many times before doing it, yet both of you looked shocked the other actually did it. He wasn't the first to ask, but after you kissed once, he was the one to ask for a second. He trembles a bit before and after kissing you, but he feels serene for the few seconds his lips are on yours. It's innocent, but laced with a little desperation with how long you've both been waiting to do this.

First night sleeping together:

He doesn't know how, but in the morning, Jongseob woke up tangled in your arms and legs. Your head was laying on his chest, and he would just barely breathe to keep you from waking. When he tuned everything else out, he swore felt your heartbeat against him. That night, he respectfully decided to sleep on the other side from you to keep you from being uncomfortable. You assumed he wasn't ready to be that close yet, so you let him keep his distance near the edge. In the middle of the night, it's him crawling over to you.

First shower together:

Facing away from you, closing his eyes when he needs to turn over. He would feel guilty about being a 'creep', so hes really careful to not sneak any glances.. but accidentally.. He really doesn't mean to ! But when you asked for help washing your hair or back, his eyes just did what eyes do. Jongseob is stuttering a little bit or just goes quiet, and you can clearly feel the energy in the room shift. He can handle a little teasing, but he really appreciates reassurance and telling him it's okay.

First time:

Hes as excited as he is nervous. Hes really wanted to for a while, but waited until you wanted to just as bad. He doesn't mean to possibly tease you, but he needs to know you want this. Has you on top because he doesn't want to hurt you or make you uncomfortable, which is true, but he didn't mention it's also a huge turn on for him. Slow, soft, but it's passionate. Loves taking what you give him, but can't help lifting his hips into yours when he's close. It's something he does unconsciously. A lot of whining, sucking in his breath. Definitely have to quiet him down when he comes.

I'm going to write the nail date request soon !! it will be out hopefully tomorrow / later today, but within two-three days at the most. thank you for reading !! sorry if one paragraph of smut isnt the best find in the smut tags, im mainly using it for people who want to block it.

[kcandyliciouss]

Make his day, buy a bouquet!

Synopsis:

Florist!Izuku x reader

You tell Izuku that you plan to confess to your crush with a bouquet. He tries to keep it together but can't help but wonder who the lucky guy is. Later, when he finds you sitting alone on a bench in the pouring rain, tears streaming down your face, he's ready to throw hands.

Cw: gn!reader, hurt/comfort, friends to lovers, jealousy, Izuku is oblivious, reader kinda plays with his feelings(?), incredibly cheesy

Wc: 1.8k

Not beta read!!

The sun shone through the sheer panels while Izuku was cutting the stems of the fresh dahlias he had ordered the day before. He glanced at the clock: he still had a few minutes more before he had to open the shop. Once he was done, he set the pink beauties aside and flipped over the “closed” sign to “open”.

It was only nine in the morning so Izuku wasn’t expecting any customers. Most of the time people came by in the evening, ordering an arrangement for the next day or buying a quick bouquet of roses for a dinner date and whatnot. With that in mind he allowed himself to sink into this chair behind the counter; a mug of green tea in one hand and a pencil in the other. He might as well just work on a new arrangement design while he’s waiting for customers.

Just as his pencil starts grazing the paper, the bell above the door lets out a soft chime as a head pokes through the door.

Izuku's eyes met yours, his eyebrows raised. His surprised expression was replaced with a big smile in an instant.

“Why hello, my favourite customer,” He stood up and leaned on the counter with a grin stretching across his face.

His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer than necessary, a faint blush creeping onto his cheeks.

“So…what brings you here so early? I just opened the shop a few minutes ago.”

He supposed he shouldn’t really be surprised considering you’d been coming by pretty often since you’d first met.

Although you had met only a few months ago, you and Izuku had become close friends. You had stumbled upon his flower shop when it had just opened and happened to be his first ever customer. You were really sweet, listening to him ramble while he was preparing your bouquet, even offering to help when the shop was understaffed. The way you smiled at him sweetly and shook your head whenever he apologized for talking too much, or the way you’d prop your chin up against the palm of your hand and asked about the meaning of the flowers he was putting together— it just made him feel all gushy and flustered.

Despite working with flowers every day, Izuku had discovered that you were even more pleasing to look at than any of the flowers that were sitting pretty on the shelves.

He had never met anyone who was so attentive towards him, so patient with him. He found himself smiling every time you came by, eagerly waiting for the next time he’d get to chat with you.

You snort at the nickname and place your hands on the counter, leaning in a bit. “Today will be a great day, ‘Zuku. Today I'm going to confess to the guy I like!”

Izuku’s smile falters for a second and you don’t miss the way the light in his eyes dims.

“Oh.”

He quickly clears his throat and tries to maintain the cheerful demeanor he had just a second ago.

“Right! Right, uh..Of course. And I’m guessing you want to get him a bouquet? That’s really nice..I uh..Yeah, I can do that.”

He looks at the small smile plastered across your face— you seemed happy, you’d been his friend for a while so he should be happy for you, should be excited.

He clears his throat again, “So…Who’s the lucky guy? I don’t remember you mentioning anybody to me,” he asked, trying his best not to sound upset.

“Oh well, I met him a few months ago. He’s really sweet, and hella smart too,” you giggled, a faint blush on your cheeks.

Izuku felt his heart sink even further.

He gave a small nod and a forced smile, he was happy for you, really he was…

“ooh…he sounds nice.”

He looked up from the flowers he had already started picking out to meet your eyes again and quickly looked back down.

“Okay well, for the arrangement I think we start off with some white carnations, they uh..they are often associated with pure love and devotion.” he cleared his throat for what seemed like the fifth time. “Do you perhaps know what his favourite flower is?”

You perk up slightly, “lisianthuses” you cherp immediately.

Another pang of jealousy shot through him as he grabbed the requested flowers. Of course you knew the guy's favourite flowers off the top of your head.

“Lisianthuses…gratitude, appreciation, and lasting bonds. Also considered a symbol of rising above challenges,” he mutters, turning to the shelf behind him.

“Well, he has good taste. I like those too.”

He can’t help the bitter smile that forms on his face as you happily talk about your soon-to-be boyfriend.

“And they’ll fit nicely into the arrangement.” He adds, not daring to look up from the flowers he was working on.

You look through all the flower options before suggesting “I was thinking you could add some baby’s breath too. They represent innocence and purity, right?”

Izuku turned around to look at you with surprise,

“...You remember?”

“‘Course I remember. You think I don’t listen when you talk?” You tilted your head with a small smile.

He chuckled a bit, a smile of his own forming on his face, he shook his head, “I mean, you’re a great listener, but I tend to go on so much about the flowers that I didn’t know if you’d remember,” He grabbed a small handful of the white, bell shaped flowers, adding them into the arrangement carefully, setting them in the middle of the carnations, “but yeah, you’re right they symbolize purity and innocence…”

He finally looked up to meet your eyes.

“You’ll have to tell me how it goes…okay?” He tried his best to keep a cheerful tone.

You quickly nodded with a cheeky smile, “Trust me, you’ll be the first to know.”

Forcing another smile, he looked back at the bouquet, “Good.”

He set the vase down on the counter in front of you before he began wrapping it up in thin white crepe paper, trying his best to ignore the small ache in his heart knowing it was a gift for some other guy, “You know,” he said quietly, “whoever he is, he’s really lucky to have you” he looked you in the eyes and for a moment everything went still.

“There…all done.” He tied the ends of the paper with a pink ribbon before setting it down in front of you.

A small wave of heat passed over your face at his words, your lips curving into a small smile as you looked down at the finished bouquet of flowers, “I’m the lucky one…he’s incredible.” you said, not braking eye contact.

With a quiet huff, Izuku looked away to check you out.

It was now four in the afternoon, and there was rain coming down in relentless sheets. Luckily, Izuku had grabbed his umbrella on the way out.

His shift was over, and all he wanted was to go home, crawl into bed, and maybe cry himself to sleep. Was he being overly dramatic? Perhaps. But he’d been holding back tears from the moment you ordered that bouquet.

As he made his way through the park on his way home, he noticed a figure sitting hunched over on a bench. No umbrella, no raincoat. They were clutching what looked like a bouquet in their hands. The rain dripped from their hair and shoulders, yet they seemed lost in their own quiet world.

Could it be?

Izuku’s eyes widened as he quickened his pace, rushing toward the figure on the bench. And sure enough, it was you. As he drew closer, he caught the faint sound of quiet sniffles. He called your name softly twice before you slowly turned to face him.

“Izuku…?”

Your voice barely above a whisper.

His heart clenched at the look in your eyes—so miserable. It hurt him to see you like this, sitting there in the rain, tears shimmering on your cheeks.

“Hey now,” Izuku said softly, kneeling down in front of you and offering a gentle, reassuring smile. He held the umbrella above both of you, shielding you from the pouring rain as he looked into your eyes with concern. “What happened? Talk to me.”

“It’s just— it was supposed to be a surprise! It was meant to be romantic!” You sniffled again, voice trembling. “Once I had the bouquet, I wanted to get tickets for the flower show, but they were all sold out. And then it started pouring… the flowers got ruined, my clothes are soaked…and I just…everything’s a mess.”

Izuku’s eyebrows furrowed in sympathy. “Shh, it’s okay,” he murmured softly. “If he rejected you just because everything wasn't perfect then he's an idiot and doesn't deserve you. You’re doing all this for him, you put in all this effort.”

Your eyes met his, and for a moment, you hesitated before speaking again, “It’s for you. You’re the guy.” You took a shaky breath. “I planned this to ask you out. I was going to surprise you after your shift… but now everything’s ruined. I— I’m sorry.” You look down at your lap, avoiding eye contact.

Izuku’s eyes widened, and for a moment, he just stared at you, processing your words.He reached out gently, taking your trembling hands into his. You raised your gaze to him as you felt his warm fingers cup your cheek. Without another word, Izuku leaned in closer and pressed his lips softly to yours in a gentle, heartfelt kiss. The rain continued to fall around you both, but that didn’t upset you anymore.

He pulled away and a small, shy smile tugged at his lips as he squeezed your hands gently. “You don’t need a fancy plan or perfect timing, I already think you’re ama-” you cut him off by pulling him into another kiss. You could feel him smile against your lips.

“You’re gonna have to pay for what you put me through, though,” he teased softly, a playful glint in his eyes. “I can’t believe you had me make my own bouquet and then made me think it was for another guy!”

You giggled at his teasing, pressing another quick peck to his lips. “I know. That was cruel. But I was going to make it up to you with the flower show tickets!”

Izuku chuckled softly, his expression softening. “Whatever, I’m happy anyway.” He paused, then gently brushed a damp strand of hair from your face. “Now let’s get you home and dry you off, yeah?”

A/n: not my best work, feel like I definitely could've written this better. Also this was heavily inspired by this.

Please do not repost or translate my work. Reblogs and comments are appreciated though!

Deviders are by @thecutestgrotto !!

[livlocus]

HoO Boys x Heavy Music Lover!Reader

Characters: Percy Jackson, Jason Grace, Leo Valdez, Frank Zhang

Summary: How the HoO boys would react to their partners liking heavy music!

Warnings: the use of y/n, my grammatical ability, MENTIONS OF WEEZER

Word Count: 2.7k

Liv Yaps: hey so this came from the depths of my brain and i put this all together at like 5 am after no sleep so idk how in character this is, tbh it's all based off of vibes... personally, i think that all of the hoo boys have gone through a weezer phase (it was never a phase for jason sorry not sorry) but yeah... also if it seems like i'm making fun of any bands i am not all of the artists mentioned in this are ones that i thouroughly enjoy! i may or may not have gone a little overboard with jason but hey what else is new i guess... and i'm also tagging @jjsblueberry for your daily does of leo haha

ALSO ALSO ALSO my requests are open so pls pls pls send some in !!

Percy Jackson

In the books, Percy is a big fan of like '80s rock because that’s what Sally plays, and those are the CDs that she has around, so I don’t think that it would be too far-fetched for him to end up liking heavier rock music

Odds are, when he starts to get like angsty in the later books, he starts listening to heavier rock music anyway 

So when you get the aux on the drive to camp half-blood and you start playing Sleeping with Sirens, he’s all “oh wait I know thi—”

Doesn’t even finish his sentence before he blows out everyone’s eardrums because he needs to be singing along off-key and with a strained voice, and he is not sorry at all

But anything heavier than bands like Sleeping with Sirens/Pierce the Veil/Bad Omens (I'm so sorry I'm writing this at 4 am, I can't think of any other bands, but you get the idea) he isn’t very familiar with

He 100% has a superiority complex when it comes to music, cause his mom introduced him to the music he likes now, so of course, 80s rock music is in fact the best music… but whatever it is that you listen to is a close second 

“Y/N, I think that Pierce the Veil is great, but Led Zeppelin is so much better, I’m putting them on after this.” “Can’t we just listen to one album all the way through?” “… no.” Cue his evil smirk as he changes the music.

Percy WILL go to concerts with you because odds are he also wants to go with you

already have a vision in my head of Percy moshing at a rock festival somewhere in the middle of nowhere, upstate New York, that you managed to find tickets for

He literally grew up in nyc, he would totally be down for basement shows or ones in dive bars 

The lock screen of his phone is a 0.5 selfie that he took of you guys in a super crowded show at a random dive bar in Brooklyn 

As long as you were there with him and enjoying yourself, he probably wouldn’t even care if he didn’t know the bands or didn’t like the music itself

He would be so fun to go to concerts with, like yeah, he would carry all your stuff too

Percy would let you have aux in the car even when he drives because he likes the music you play

My man would love Tyrants by Pierce the Veil (currently listening to this song as I write these lmao)

If you’re more into grunge, he would scoff at first (cause he’s convinced that 80s rock is superior to literally everything) but then quickly eat up Alice in Chains and Silverchair

He cried when you told him that, like almost all of the lead singers of the big grunge band from the 90s that you showed him are dead

“What do you mean that Layne Staley is dead, Y/N? Couldn’t you have told me that before I started listening to them?!"

Driving from the city all the way out to Long Island together would go so hard, it’s just you guys going back and forth from 80s/70s rock music, and then 90s grunge, and then early 2000s rock music.

By the time you two get back to CHB, you'll both have lost your voice ‘cause you were scream-singing for five hours driving from Manhattan all the way down to Long Island

Percy is literally so in love with you the entire time, trying to drive and watch you sing at the same time is not a good combo for him, he almost swerves into the divider like three times before he decides to lock in 

Jason Grace

This poor, poor man 

In my head, the only music that Jason puts on with his own free will is like smooth jazz and soft rock so when you offer to drive him somewhere he needs to go and you hook up your phone to the car and a Korn song starts playing Jason goes into fight or flight and quite literally flies out of your car

He panicked and flew right out through the sunroof like 

“What the hell was that noise?” “That was music, Jason.” “That sounded like someone was banging metal pipes together and growling, Y/N, growling.���

I am fully convinced that the heaviest song that Jason will listen to voluntarily is song 2 by Blur

He is the complete opposite of Thalia, he cannot handle the sound of a double kick drum

Like, mostly because when he isn’t actively fighting, why would he want to listen to something so aggressive?

Which is like fair, but if you showed him Linkin Park after showing him something like Knocked Loose, you could be like “wow, this is so much lighter”

The only heavier music that you can get him to willingly like is Linkin Park, but that’s because he’s hella sad and listens to the lyrics instead of just vibing

You’re all “I TRIED SO HARD AND SO FAR BUT IN THE END IT DOESN’T EVEN MATTER !!!” 🗣️🗣️🗣️ But Jason is like “I tried so hard… and got so far… but in the end… it doesn’t even matter…” 😔😔😔

Like that’s lowkey it though, I do not think that he would enjoy listening to any other sort of metal/hard rock music, but he would soldier through for you

You show him Radiohead, starting with the softer stuff and when he’s like “yes, now this is music,” you know that he’s hooked on the pathetic sadness that is Thom Yorke and you show him other Radiohead songs that are more adventurous for him and THAT is like toeing the line for him

THAT BEING SAID 

You do manage to drag him to concerts and festivals by showing him videos of what the pit looks like during the song you’re looking forward to 

“What do you mean you want to be fighting for your life while trying to enjoy the music?” “It’s fun!” “You can’t be serious—“ “Bet your bottom dollar.” “… then I’m coming with you.”

He tries so hard to have fun for you, but man is stressed the entire time (he does carry all of your stuff though, cause in my head he wears cargo shorts and he uses those pockets)

Begs you not to go into the pit because then he would have to go in with you

You go anyway, of course he follows, and then realizes that he’s taller than everyone there and can see the tops of everyone's heads, and suddenly maybe he was being a bit dramatic / over-protective

Jason has a decent time waiting in line, getting merch, etc., until the band starts actually playing music

HE WILL BE SHIELDING YOU FROM PEOPLE IN THE PIT WITH HIS BODY

Like standing behind you, arms wrapped around you, head on a swivel

He sleeps for ten hours after the concert

You have a selfie of the two of you, and it’s you having the time of your life while Jason looks like he’s trying so hard not to sweep the entire band away with a particularly strong gust of wind (he doesn’t)

You absolutely gang up with Thalia to bring Jason to as many shows and festivals as possible to get him acclimated, like people do when they get a puppy and the trainer tells you to take them to as many different places as possible so that they get used to it

You and Thalia drag Jason to a Green Day concert, and he doesn’t hate it, but that’s probably because he’s with you and his sister, and your good mood rubs off on him too (and bc Green Day is not that heavy, it’s a good introduction for him)

You show Jason Deftones, but songs like Sextape (“y/n, that’s kind of a crude name for a song, no?”), No Ordinary Love, Diamond Eyes, Passenger, Rosemary, and he actually doesn’t mind it

That’s how you get him to a Deftones concert, and you convert him just enough to where you have found a middle ground, and it’s all of the less hectic Deftones songs

You don’t get pit tickets for the show cause they’re hella expensive, and he actually has the time of his life because he isn’t trying to keep both of you from getting trampled

It’s definitely like how dads will say that they don’t want to watch a movie, but then end up standing behind the couch for twenty minutes looking at the TV until they sit down and lock in

Jason does that at the concert and is like “I mean it’s better than the other one, I like these seats much more… oh that’s kinda cool… they sound much nicer live…” and then he’s standing up with you out of the seats and bobbing his head a little bit, mouthing the words that he knows (he is having a phenomenal time)

He has a picture of him kissing you while they played Mascara, and it’s in his wallet now

I don’t mean to make him sound so boring because I love metal and all that, and Jason is literally my husband, but heavier music is just not his scene, I think

Jason seems like he’s the kind of guy to listens to music to calm down, so listening to heavier rock music isn’t something that he would have done on his own

But ultimately, if you like it and have fun listening to it, he’ll get used to it and think of it as a thing that he does when he’s with his partner 

So, of course, he would get Pavlov-ed into thinking of you whenever he was listening to the radio, and a heavier song would come on

“Hey, this song is playing, thinking of you,” texts from him when he’s walking around and hears a kid walking by with the music leaking out of their headphones

Leo Valdez

HE LOVES LIMP BIZKIT FIGHT ME

Leo absolutely has enough angst and pent up feelings to be a Limp Bizkit enjoyer and so when he finds out that you like heavier music—forget it

“Y/N, have you heard this one? It’s much more fun than listening to whatever snooze-fest Jason is listening to right now.” *Leo starts blasting Rollin’ with an insidious smirk*

He can do an amazing Fred Durst impression no one can convince me otherwise

Leo’s karaoke song is Limp Bizkit’s cover of Faith by George Michael because I can hear him singing “~well I guess it would be nice, if I could touch your body, I know not everybody, has gotta body like me~” in a voice that sounds more like Goofy than Fred Durst because he is quite literally screaming at the top of his lungs

You walk in on him singing My Way to himself in Bunker 9 to hype himself up before he has to go do something important

“Uh— oh, hey Y/N, didn’t see you there—uhm…” *starts doing an interpretive dance to the beat of My Way because he doesn’t know what to do*

You two went to a Limp Bizkit concert and he absolutely dressed up like Fred Durst, long khaki shorts, baggy white shirt, and a backwards red cap (he made you match with him)

You guys listen to the wackiest songs together when you’re with him in Bunker 9 while Leo is working on something

I feel like Leo would like them because of how funky the band is, so I don’t think that he would like other heavier bands

If you play any other kind of heavy music in front of him, he thinks it’s funny, especially if the lyrics are kind of extra.

You get aux in Bunker 9 one afternoon and play Werewolf by Motionless in White, and he laughs at the song

“What—what is this?” Leo is actively trying not to roll on the floor laughing when he hears the electronic voice say “werewolf” in the background of the song “It’s a song?” “Is it though?”

Leo, similarly to Percy, has a superiority complex when it comes to music

He truly believes that his music is simply so much better, but he will listen to what you put on… he just won’t be quiet about it

THAT BEING SAID

… Leo listens to Weezer and then has the audacity to tell you that you shouldn’t play Motionless In White or The Plot in You because it’s cringy

“Leo, you’re literally listening to a song called Pork and Beans ???” “Mhm, and you’re listening to a song called Broadcasting from Beyond the Grave: Death Inc., what’s you’re point?”

You two learn to love each other’s cringey-ness more and more, and suddenly you know the words to all of the Pinkerton album, and he knows a lot more Motionless In White than he would ever admit to anyone who isn’t you

Equal trade

Leo would so be down to go to a concert or a festival with you, even if he didn’t like the band(s), he just likes to spend time with you, and he likes that kind of atmosphere

If you do like a whole makeup look for the concert, Leo is invested

“This is so different from what you usually do… It’s really cool.” “Well, we’re going to a Motionless In White concert, I do have to look cool, Leo.”

He watches you do your makeup like he’s in a literal trance

Leo becomes your assistant too, handing you whatever you need, he’s just happy to be sitting next to you and being able to look at your face tbh

Frank Zhang

Frank doesn’t even know that there is music heavier than whatever is on the top 50 hits radio station

Whenever you’re in the car with Frank, he always lets you pick the music, even if he’s the one who’s driving

So one day, Frank is driving you somewhere, and you just have to listen to the new Spiritbox album that just came out

Frank hears the first few seconds of the song and ascends

I’m lowkey pretty sure that in like the first pjo book, it’s canon that the ares kids like hard rock/heavier music (I may or may not have just made that up, sue me, I guess), so I’d like to think that the same thing applies to the mars kids

But regardless, Frank most definitely has enough feelings to thoroughly enjoy heavy music

Anyway, back to business

He actually loves the entire song 

“Y/N, I need to hear more—who was that?” “That was Spiritbox, pretty good right?” “It-it was, that was really cool—“

Frank insists on you showing him more, and it speaks to his soul

Frank was meant to be a bit of a metalhead, sorry not sorry

Like this dude had anger issues that he had to work very hard on to get under control and is a bit pessimistic, but is overall a pretty nice dude who tries his best to be chill, yeah, he was meant to blow off some steam headbanging to some Knocked Loose

You are his guide into metal music, and it’s such a fun thing that you guys do together

You make him little playlists for each band or for a specific vibe, and this man listens and takes notes 

“So, I really liked it at 2:54 when the guy did that thing with the guitar—very cool, very cool.”

You get him into Spiritbox, Kittie, and Poppy 

He absolutely gets a shirt that says “Spiritbox is my favorite male-backed band” 

(It’s a play on how people would say, like “oh yeah, this is my favorite female-led band” instead of just calling it their favorite band)

Frank likes the women artists better than the bands who are just dudes, sorry that’s just a Frank FactTM

He will absolutely go to shows with you and will happily go into the pit because he’s a huge guy, so literally what would there be to worry about? 

Frank does enjoy the shows better if you guys are in the stands as opposed to the pit, because he can’t help but feel like he would hurt someone if he were there

He never does, but sitting in the stands just makes him feel a bit more comfortable 

You guys make a list of bands you both want to see live and assuming you both are still in New Rome, you get to see most of them pretty quickly (i swear to god all of these bands are always touring in cali)

Frank absolutely goes and finds the tickets himself and will just suprise you with them

"Hey, I found these... the show's in three weeks..."

You and Frank shop for vinyls together all the time since you two like the same music

It turns into a shared collection between the two of you !!!

But if anyone asked Frank who’s vinyls they are he says that they’re all yours cause he’s whipped sorry

[theshipsong]

crocodile x f!reader, established polyamorous relationship. reader is cross guild's navigator, formerly of the hawkins pirates. flirty fluff.

⸺

Crocodile was so clean-shaven that you'd never felt even the whisper of stubble on him the rare times you could manage a kiss, so you were surprised to notice one evening that his hair was looking long. Well over his shirt collar, brushing his shoulders. You'd been with him long enough to know he cut it himself, so it struck you as damn near negligence within his otherwise careful self-maintenance.

"Sir."

He grunted.

You were sitting with your calves over his lap in the loveseat of your tent on Karai Bari, giving you an optimal view of his profile. His large hand was curled on your knee, occasionally leaving to arrange the sheets of newsprint he'd speared with his hook, and his brow was furrowed in either amusement or annoyance, depending on what he read.

"You know, I haven't smothered you in your sleep," you started.

"Yet."

You ignored that. "If you want to risk me cutting your hair for you, you can ask."

He was quiet for so long you wondered if he heard you at all. Just as you were about to repeat the offer, he finally said, "You don't like it?"

"…Do you like it? I thought you'd be warm, with your cravats and all."

Crocodile was totally still, and you could feel how tense he was. Oh no. He was a proud, not in any way that made you afraid of rages, but sensitive like a boy. You considered it for a second before you raised your hand, slowly and obviously, to brush one pomade-combed lock behind his ear. "I like it, but I know you like your routine."

He flexed his hand, petting up your thigh with no real intentions, more of a habit. He looked somewhere to the right of you, unseeingly, as he said, "You also like Buggy, and that Ghost Girl."

You blinked. "I like Mihawk, too? And Sabo…" you said, catching a glimpse of the Flame Emperor on the back of the sheaf of newspaper he held.

"…and your Magician," he added, a near snarl.

Oh.

You decided your course of action in the moment.

"I haven't told you about my first crush," you said.

Crocodile huffed. "Haven't you? It's him."

"No. But he introduced me." You played with the ends of hair nearest to you. "It was a minor villain in Sora, Warrior of the Sea. I never read it closely enough to know what his deal was," you said. Hawkins was so unlike any boy except when it came to that damn comic. "But he had a bit of scruff, kind of a goatee, and very handsome crow's feet."

Crocodile gave you a withering look. "You were an odd girl."

"And he had dark hair that barely brushed his shoulders, but he always wore it slicked back. Usually under a hat. But he lost it when Sora defeated him and…" You rested your head on the back of the loveseat, studying his profile. "I liked seeing his temples and his forehead. How carefully he must have styled it every day, how a few strands fell in his face when he was fighting."

"I'm having a hard time believing such a villain existed. What was his name?"

You shrugged. "I don't remember. It started with a K, though."

"Convenient."

"You can check the WEJ archives!" you defended. "When I was a kid, 20 years ago. I swear."

"I was your age then," he said plainly.

You rolled your eyes, but moved to straddle his lap, carefully excising the World Economic Journal from his hook as your knees bracketed his hips. You stared up at him seriously, daring him to look away with your hands on his chest. "You're very handsome. The handsomest. Pretty is nice, too," you conceded, thinking of the silky hair he apparently envied. The idea of Crocodile growing his hair to Buggy's length was so strange you could have laughed, but not while he let you hold his ego in your palm like this. "Short is no good, either. At least Sabo's looks grabbable."

Crocodile wrapped his arms around your waist. "This little crush of yours is such a surprise."

"Wouldn't be my first blond." His lip curled at that. "Of course you can wear your hair longer. I'll like you the same either way. Though I have to wonder," you said teasingly. "Is there anything about me that's very… your type?"

It shifted the mood just as you intended. Crocodile looked away, and you knew under his many layers there must be color high on his chest.

"Sir…" you drew out.

"Can't I just say tits and be done?"

"Sir," you scolded.

To your surprise, he gathered both your hands in his. "Your hands. Your fingers, I suppose."

"Interesting. Fan of handjobs, I see."

"Don't be crass. I mean…" He rubbed the back of his neck with the curve of his hook. "I like watching you write. Draw charts. Knit."

Your heart constricted with fondness. You always thought your hands were disproportionate to your body, a bit mannish, if slender, but that was of no consequence to your generally large lovers. Women like Perona appreciated the length of your fingers, of course, but Crocodile's reasons were so… so…

You pressed a kiss to his knuckles.