#if it happens before Bank shuts down

[katfreaks-hidyhole]

Busted out Pokemon X again recently and got the urge to draw her and the crew again

[heeluvv]

˗ˏˋ 01. NEW CONTENT DROPPED

warningsᝰ.ᐟ masturbation, unprotected sex, soft praise kink, noona kink, light crying, degradation kink, etc.

natty's notesᝰ.ᐟ mdni, hate comments will be deleted.

statusᝰ.ᐟ 1/9 completed!

taglistᝰ.ᐟ @starry-eyed-bimbo @vixialuvs @justaquarium @dark-moon-light02 @deobitifull @minjeong28 @wonzzziezzzz @wonsohl @psychicyouthfox @honeyfever @strayy-kidz @bloomiize @tunafishyfishylike @jaehaki @ihearteatingxo @songbyeonkim @sol3chu @mo0neng3ne @strxwbloody @hii01mii @merwdusa @dorrissakurada @lycxee @frequentlykit @heeenha6484 @sjakewrld @stwrlightt @parkjjongswifey @haneulhee @fr34k4c1dr41n @cozyre @vwricky @nyxtwixx @nuggets4lifers @yunkiconico @mynameis-rosie1 @leeknowslefteyebrow @babygguk98 @noiiny @horijiro

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you don’t even realize you’ve stopped breathing until the number on the page blurs in front of your eyes. the red ink bleeds through the letter like it’s been branded there on purpose, like it’s taunting you. bold, underlined, and cruel: payment past due. the amount is higher than you thought. higher than last month. higher than what’s sitting in your checking account—and your savings? nonexistent. your fingers twitch around the edges of the paper, and you stare at it for a few seconds longer, as if maybe if you look hard enough, the numbers will shrink, change, disappear entirely.

but they don’t.

your hands move slowly, almost disconnected, as you place the letter down on the edge of the kitchen counter. the paper crinkles beneath your fingertips, the sound sharp in the quiet of the apartment. you rake your fingers through your hair, dragging your nails gently across your scalp, trying to ground yourself—trying not to panic. it’s not working.

you don’t have time for this. not now. not with finals looming, two shifts left this weekend, and rent due in five days.

the sound of approaching footsteps makes you flinch.

“everything okay?” nari’s voice is soft, cautious, like she already knows the answer. she probably does. she always does.

you don’t look at her. not yet. you feel her presence behind you, hovering by the counter, hesitating. she picks up the letter carefully, and you hear her breath catch as her eyes scan the contents. there’s a beat of silence before she speaks.

“it’s more than last month,” she says, barely above a whisper.

you nod, still not meeting her eyes. your throat feels dry, your heart pounding behind your ribs like it’s trying to escape. the shame tastes bitter in your mouth.

“i can’t pay it,” you finally say, voice flat. “i barely made it through last month’s bill. and now they’ve added more fees.”

it’s not new. this has been happening every few months. random charges. late penalties. service increases you never agreed to. and no matter how many hours you work or how much sleep you lose, it never seems to be enough. you thought you were managing. thought maybe you were finally getting ahead, even just a little. but here it is—proof that you’re still drowning.

nari places the letter back down and moves to stand beside you. she doesn’t speak right away. her eyes flick toward you, soft with concern. she’s been your roommate for over a year now—someone you met through a shared thread on social media venting about overpriced meal plans and the bullshit cost of dorm laundry. back then, you were both strangers trying to navigate the mess of college life with nothing but broken bank accounts and coffee-stained syllabi.

now, she feels like family.

you’ve always admired how gentle she is, how thoughtful. she worries without smothering, helps without asking, gives even when she barely has enough for herself. you hate how easily she sees through you.

“i’m so sorry, y/n,” she says gently. “let me help. i mean it. just this once.”

you squeeze your eyes shut. you’ve had this conversation before. more than once. every time the bills show up with too many zeroes or your bank app sends another low balance alert, she offers. she always offers. and you always refuse.

because this is your responsibility. your education. your choice.

you never wanted to drag her into the mess you made just trying to survive.

“nari, no. it’s fine,” you say, brushing it off the same way you always do, even though nothing about this feels fine. “i’ll figure it out. i’ll… find another job or something.”

another job. the words sound ridiculous even as they leave your mouth. you’re already balancing two. your body aches at the thought of adding a third, your schedule stretched so thin it feels like one missed alarm could unravel everything.

nari doesn’t argue. she just stands there, looking at you with wide, worried eyes that say more than her words ever could.

you turn away.

you don’t want to see that look. don’t want to see the guilt in her expression or the way her lips part like she’s about to say something she knows you won’t let her finish. instead, you press your palms flat to the cool countertop and try to slow your breathing.

you can’t keep doing this. living check to check. sacrificing sleep, time, your sanity—only to still come up short.

“let me help find you one, y/n. at least let me do that…” her voice was quiet but firm, laced with the kind of gentle urgency that made it hard to ignore. she pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and sat down beside you, her knees bumping yours softly as she reached for your hands.

her fingers curled around yours without hesitation—warm, grounding, comforting in a way that made your chest ache.

“you’ll get out of this before you know it,” she said, her thumbs brushing over your knuckles. “just hang on a little longer.”

the words should’ve felt like encouragement. to someone else, maybe they would have. but to you, they barely registered. her voice echoed distantly in your ears, dulled by the weight pressing down on your shoulders. you wanted to believe her. you really did. but there was only so much hope could do when your brain felt like it was unraveling thread by thread.

you were tired.

not just physically—though that part never seemed to go away—but mentally, emotionally, in a way that left you hollow at the edges. your thoughts were messy. loud. overwhelmed with numbers and due dates and rejection emails you didn’t have the energy to open.

you’d always wanted more for yourself. a degree. a real future. stability. success. the version of adulthood that didn’t involve counting coins at the bottom of your purse to buy groceries. being able to chase something you loved without sacrificing everything just to survive.

and yet… here you were. still stuck. still drowning.

“i’ll talk to my friends,” nari added, her voice picking up as she stood again. “i’ll ask around, see if any of their jobs are hiring. you don’t have to do this alone, okay?”

you blinked up at her, too tired to protest, too drained to offer anything back. you barely nodded.

she didn’t wait for an answer. instead, she gently tugged you to your feet and led you toward your room, her hands guiding you like muscle memory.

“just hurry,” she said over her shoulder, already halfway down the hall. “get ready before you’re late.”

you let the door close behind you, the soft click echoing in the quiet space, and leaned back against it for a second too long—breathing in slow, like maybe it would help ease the burning behind your eyes.

but it didn’t.

✦•┈��⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

you can’t hear yourself think anymore. the noise presses in from every direction—muffled conversation, the beep of the register, shoes skidding across tile, the mechanical whirring of the blender as it screams through another drink. the scent of syrup, espresso, and sweat mixes into something you’re far too familiar with by now. it clings to your clothes, seeps into your hair, follows you home every night and lingers even after you’ve scrubbed your skin raw.

your apron feels too tight around your waist. the name tag keeps flipping over, catching on your shirt. your hands ache from repetition. your back stings from bending, twisting, reaching for things without stopping. your legs burn, but you keep standing. because if you stop—just for a second—you don’t know if you’ll start again.

you’ve lost count of how many customers you’ve helped. they blur together—faces that don’t really look at you, names that repeat too often, voices that never say please. someone spilled a drink ten minutes ago and just stared at you like it was your fault. someone else snapped when you misunderstood their order and then smiled like it never happened. you’re used to it. too used to it.

the blender screams again, and you find yourself zoning out, eyes on the flashing light of the machine, ears ringing. you place a sweaty cup down on the counter just as your coworker brushes past you, muttering something, her voice barely registers.

“we’re out of cold brew, can you let the manager know?” she says, breathless.

you nod without thinking and duck into the back, weaving past crates of milk and mop buckets that haven’t been moved since your last shift. you find her—your manager—hovering near the inventory shelf, tablet in hand, expression unreadable. she looks up when she hears you but doesn’t say anything. just waits.

“we’re out of cold brew again,” you say softly.

her sigh is immediate. clipped. already annoyed. “i told the morning crew to prep more.”

“they didn’t,” you reply, just as soft.

she exhales again and gives you a glance that feels like a warning. “make a new batch. and try to keep the line moving—we’re backed up out there.”

you hesitate, shifting your weight from foot to foot, unsure if now’s a good time. but you don’t have a choice. not really.

“hey,” you begin, voice lighter than you feel, “i was wondering… if you had any extra shifts next week? i could take one. or two. anything that opens up, i’ll take it.”

you see it the moment her expression changes. not enough to be obvious, but enough that you feel it in your gut. she blinks at you once, slow. “you already have four shifts on the schedule.”

“i know,” you say quickly. “i just… if anyone drops or calls out—”

“i’ll let you know if something comes up,” she interrupts, sharper now. “but we’re fully staffed right now. you’re already lucky to have the hours you do.”

lucky.

that one stings.

you nod like it doesn’t bother you. “okay. thanks anyway.”

you turn back toward the front before she can see the heat crawl up your neck. the shame, the frustration, the quiet burn of helplessness that never seems to leave you alone. it coils tight in your chest as you slide back behind the counter, the overwhelming noise greeting you like a wave to the face.

you move through the orders on autopilot—pour, cap, swipe, pass. your body knows the motions. it always does. even when your brain doesn’t catch up. your arms are heavy. your thoughts are too loud.

your phone buzzes in your apron pocket.

technically, you’re not supposed to check it during a shift. but you do anyway, slipping your hand inside just enough to pull it out, eyes flicking to the screen beneath the counter.

nari: i have something to tell you.

you pause.

your breath catches in your throat.

the message is short. way too short. there are no emojis, no dramatics, no little additions she usually throws in to make you laugh. it’s clean. intentional. unsettling.

you type back fast.

you okay? what’s up?

your fingers hover over the screen, waiting. no immediate reply. no typing bubbles. just silence.

you slip your phone back into your apron, heart racing now—not from caffeine or exhaustion but from something else. dread, maybe. anxiety. it curls low in your stomach and spreads like smoke, slow and sickly.

the hours bleed together until they don’t feel real anymore. it’s like you blinked and suddenly the sky was dark, the register was silent, and your shift was over. you don’t even remember clocking out. your body moves on instinct as you grab your things, slinging your bag over one shoulder, feet dragging slightly with every step. you’re too tired to even complain out loud. exhaustion sits heavy on your shoulders, weighing down every bone like bricks. every joint aches. your eyes sting from the fluorescent lights. your muscles are tight, sore, stretched too far. and the worst part is knowing you’ll have to do it all again tomorrow.

the walk home is a blur. you barely register the passing cars or the hum of traffic. your legs are on autopilot, your thoughts too noisy to settle into anything coherent. by the time you reach your building, your fingers fumble with the key from how badly they’re shaking—whether from fatigue or stress, you’re not sure.

the moment the front door swings open, you’re greeted by a sudden, high-pitched sound that makes you flinch.

“oh my god, y/n!”

nari’s voice rings out before you even step fully inside. she appears from around the corner, practically bouncing on her feet as she rushes toward you with wide eyes and a wild grin.

“i think i’ve secured something for you!” she announces proudly, reaching to help you with your things without waiting for permission. your bag slides off your shoulder with her help, and she carefully sets it down on the couch before turning to face you again.

you blink at her, too tired to match her energy, voice low and worn. “how so?”

the contrast between your tone and hers is stark—hers bright and excited, yours soft, raspy, touched with exhaustion that even you can hear.

“okay, so,” she starts, already walking toward the kitchen like she’s been waiting all day to spill this. “i was talking to one of my classmates earlier—casual stuff, whatever—and she would not shut up about this app she’s using and this guy she’s obsessed with on it.”

you follow her slowly, the smell of something warm and savory pulling you forward. dinner is already set out, steam curling up from the bowls on the counter. she’s cooked again. you don’t even have the energy to thank her properly, but it sits in your chest like a quiet comfort.

“she said it’s this platform where you can post content—videos, mostly—and people follow you, tip you, subscribe to see more. apparently, it’s easy money if you know how to catch attention,” nari continues, grabbing utensils and placing them gently next to your bowl.

you lean against the counter, brows slightly furrowed as you try to keep up.

“what kind of videos?” you ask slowly.

and that’s when she pauses.

her hands still for a second, and you notice the subtle way her eyes flick to the side—toward the fridge, the floor, anywhere but you. she busies herself wiping down a clean countertop, her mouth tight, like she’s carefully choosing what not to say.

the silence stretches just a little too long.

you narrow your eyes. “nari?”

she still doesn’t look at you, her fingers now fiddling with the corner of a napkin that doesn’t need adjusting.

and that’s when you know—whatever she’s about to suggest, it’s not exactly a regular part-time job.

you don’t say anything. not at first.

you just watch her fidget—her hands smoothing the same wrinkle over and over again, her mouth parting like she wants to say something but can’t figure out where to start. her excitement from earlier has dimmed slightly, not completely gone, just… more careful now. the shift is subtle but it’s there, and you feel it tighten something in your chest.

your voice is quieter this time. gentler. “what kind of videos, nari?”

she glances up at you for a split second, then looks away again, reaching to stir a pot that isn’t even on the stove. she’s stalling.

finally, she exhales, turning back to you with both palms pressed to the counter.

“okay, so… don’t freak out.”

you stare at her.

“it’s… kind of a subscription thing,” she says, slow and cautious. “like, you post content—just whatever you’re comfortable with—and people tip you for it. sometimes a lot.”

you don’t speak. not yet. you just let her keep going.

“my classmate told me she made almost five hundred dollars in one weekend. literally just from one post. and this guy she follows? apparently he makes thousands. like, thousands. maybe even millions.”

your mouth is dry.

“what kind of content?” you repeat, even though you already know the answer.

nari bites her lip. her eyes finally meet yours. “sexy stuff,” she admits. “but it doesn’t have to be all out. it can be suggestive. artistic. faceless, even.”

you blink at her. once. twice.

the silence between you stretches until it’s not silence anymore—it’s tension. thick and heavy, sitting right in the center of the kitchen with both of you tiptoeing around it.

“it’s not as intense as it sounds,” she adds quickly. “she said she started small. built her page up over time. and no one from school found out. not even her roommates.”you sink into one of the kitchen chairs, your arms resting limply in your lap. you don’t say anything yet. you’re not even sure what you feel.

nari’s eyes soften as she watches you. “i know it sounds… out there. but i just thought—i don’t know, maybe it’s something you could look into. just to hold you over until things get better.”

you nod, but it’s slow. not agreement—just acknowledgment.

you’re too tired to argue. too drained to pretend the idea isn’t already crawling under your skin, planting itself somewhere dangerous.

because the truth is, you’ve heard of it. everyone has. whispered about in late-night dorm conversations, on private stories, in anonymous confessions posted on spam accounts. girls making rent money in a weekend. boys going viral for being faceless and filthy and addictive.

you never imagined doing it yourself.

but then again… you never imagined being this broke, either.

you stare at your untouched bowl of food, heart thudding softly in your chest.

you’re not disgusted. not even shocked.

you’re just… thinking.

and that scares you more than anything else.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

you tell yourself you’re just looking.

that’s it.

just a little more scrolling. just a few more profiles. you’re not doing anything. you haven’t made an account. you haven’t posted. you haven’t committed to anything except curiosity, and that—well, that’s harmless, right?

you open your laptop again. it’s sometime past midnight. your room is dim, the only light coming from your screen and the soft amber glow of the lamp tucked in the corner of your desk. it casts everything in that moody, late-night hue that makes the whole world feel quieter. heavier.

you pull your knees up to your chest, the blanket draped loosely over your shoulders as the homepage loads. it’s different now. you’re not looking aimlessly anymore. you know what to search for. you type top creators, and a list appears almost instantly.

you click one.

@heefreakshow. verified. 5.2 million subscribers.

his profile loads, and it’s exactly what you expect. polished, but not too polished. his display photo is somewhat dark and grainy, a half-lit frame of his bare chest, chin tilted up just enough to be teasing without giving anything away. the banner across the top reads: “i don’t just talk dirty. i make you feel it.”

his content is locked, but the previews aren’t.

you hover for a moment, your thumb pausing above one of the thumbnails before tapping it without thinking. the video opens in a small window, looped, muted at first, but it doesn’t matter—what pulls you in is the way he fills the frame. it starts with a soft hum of music, low and bassy, vibrating faintly through your speakers as the camera tilts upward from a dark-lit bed.

his chest appears first—broad, smooth, glowing faintly under the moody blue light. he’s shirtless, his skin flushed, breathing slow but deep. the camera dips, revealing his thighs spread wide and relaxed, and the hard, unmistakable bulge straining through his pants. your breath catches. the fabric looks tight—too tight—like it’s fighting to contain him. you can almost feel the pressure through the screen.

his hands trail over his torso, slow and lazy, fingers dragging along the curves of his stomach, tracing the line of muscle before resting on the waistband of his pants. his face isn’t fully visible—just the faintest shadow of his jaw, a teasing sliver of his bottom lip. the only thing clearly captured is his hair: pink, messy, soft-looking and slightly damp, like he’s just run his hands through it too many times.

and then he moves.

his fingers slip down, unbuttoning his pants with quick, practiced ease. the zipper lowers with a soft click, and he pushes the fabric down just enough for his cock to spring free, already hard, tip flushed and leaking as it rests against his abdomen. his breath stutters slightly, chest rising as he wraps his hand around himself, stroking slow—deliberate, like he’s savoring it. he tilts his hips toward the camera, giving you a better view, and you swear he’s looking straight at you even though you can’t see his eyes.

his voice comes in a beat later—low, raspy, thick with arousal.

“i couldn’t help myself, baby…”

you feel something warm twist in your stomach. the words feel too direct, too personal. his pace quickens as precum beads at the tip, slicking over his fingers as he groans, deep and breathy, like it’s pulled straight from his chest.

his other hand rises, trailing over his stomach until it reaches his chest, fingers pinching at one nipple as his hips twitch upward. the reaction is instant—a quiet moan spilling from his mouth as his head tilts back slightly, lips parted in pleasure.

“fuck…” he breathes out, barely audible between sharp inhales. “i want you here with me, baby…”

you freeze, the weight of the moment crawling down your spine, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

you scroll down to the next name on the list.

@jayafterhours. verified. 5.3 million subscribers.

his banner is simple—black background, sharp white font. his bio reads: “don’t waste my time unless you can take it.”

you don’t hesitate. you click.

the video loads instantly, and the difference between him and the last profile is immediate. there’s nothing soft about it. no slow lighting, no teasing buildup. it opens straight into a scene already mid-motion—loud moans echoing through your speakers, fast and desperate, though none of them are coming from him.

the camera is perfectly framed, clearly placed on a desk, angled to capture everything without obstruction. a woman lies flat on her front, arms outstretched as her fingers curl over the edge of the wood. her legs tremble slightly, back arched, skin damp with sweat. behind her, jay moves with sharp, brutal rhythm—his hands gripping her hips like he owns them, fingers pressing deep into the flesh as he drives into her hard enough to rock the table beneath them.

“such a fucking slut, aren’t you?” he grits out, his voice low and full of gravel, each syllable landing like a slap.

his hand comes down suddenly to grip her ass, squeezing tight before delivering a sharp slap that makes her body jolt. the sound of skin meeting skin cracks through the room. she lets out a choked moan, broken and messy.

“d-don’t stop—j-jay!” she cries, voice high, shaking as her nails drag along the desk surface for something to hold on to.

but you barely register her.

your eyes stay on him.

he doesn’t look at the camera—not directly—but the angle captures enough. his head is tilted back slightly, the veins in his neck prominent, his jaw clenched. his lips are caught between his teeth, biting down like he’s holding something back. there’s a faint flush along his collarbone, sweat trailing down the side of his throat.

he isn’t shirtless.

somehow, that makes it worse.

he’s dressed in a crisp white button-down, slightly wrinkled now, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. a black tie hangs loosely around his neck, the knot crooked like it was tugged halfway through the scene. it swings gently with the movement of his hips, adding to the rhythm, the sound, the image of him fully in control without even needing to try.

there’s something terrifyingly composed about him. like he’s done this a thousand times. like nothing surprises him anymore. like the entire scene is unfolding exactly how he planned it.

and yet, despite the chaos, the noise, the cries echoing off the walls—you can’t stop looking at him.

you don’t hesitate when your eyes land on the next name.

@jakeoncam. verified. 5.5 million subscribers.

simple bio: “i like being watched.”

your heart skips slightly as you click on the preview, already familiar with the routine by now. and yet, nothing about this feels repetitive—each creator you've looked at so far has had their own way of pulling you in, but jake’s feels… different.

the screen fades in slowly, no music, no buildup. just the soft creak of bedsheets and the low, wet sound of friction. he’s fully on display, his body stretched across a dark comforter, shirtless, skin glowing with a light sheen of sweat. the camera is placed at a low angle, perfectly capturing the curve of his back as he grinds down onto a pillow with messy, desperate rhythm.

his blonde hair sticks to his forehead in damp strands, a few pieces plastered to his cheek. his eyes are shut tight, brows drawn in deep concentration, lips parted as he pants softly into the mattress. his hips roll in tight, fluid motions, the muscles in his thighs flexing as he presses himself down harder into the cushion.

“fuck… i’m gonna cum… fuck, baby…”

his voice is breathless—higher, whinier than the others—and it hits you unexpectedly. it’s not performance. it sounds real. wrecked. like he’s been holding back for too long and is just now letting go.

he gasps softly, his pace stuttering, body tensing as the pressure builds—but the clip cuts off just before the release, leaving you blinking at your screen with your chest tight and your legs shifting.

you don’t realize how long you’ve been holding your breath until it escapes you all at once.

and you don’t stop there.

you move onto the next one almost instinctively, driven more by something primal now. not even out of curiosity anymore—need. something about each of them feels increasingly personal, like they’re not just performers, but something else. something closer.

@hoononrepeat. verified. 5.3 million subscribers. “if it’s not messy, i don’t want it.”

you click, the motion smooth and practiced now. part of you knows you’re getting too deep, that this is becoming more than just research, but you don’t stop.

his video starts mid-motion.

the frame is tight, focused completely on him—sunghoon’s hand gripping his cock, already soaked and shining with cum, sliding along the length with slow, deliberate strokes. his chest is heaving, his abs flexing with each movement. the lighting is dark, moody, barely enough to cast definition over his frame, and yet it still highlights every shift of muscle.

a silhouette appears at the bottom of the screen—a woman, faceless, mouth parted and positioned perfectly beneath him. her head bobs forward as he pushes his cock into her mouth without hesitation.

he groans, long and drawn out, his voice rough like it’s scraped from the bottom of his throat.

“fucking hell…”

his hand buries in her hair, fingers curling tight as he guides her down, hips jerking forward sharply. the wet sound of it echoes faintly, almost drowned out by his ragged breathing. she gags softly, hands pressing at his thighs, but he doesn’t let up.

he’s focused. lost. unrelenting.

“take it,” he mutters, jaw clenched. “take all of it, princess…”

the words hit hard. not because of what he says, but how he says it—low, commanding, almost personal. like he knows you’re watching. like the words aren’t meant for her at all.

you feel your pulse thud somewhere low in your stomach. your fingers curl tighter around the edge of your laptop.

you should stop.

but you don’t.

@watchmesunoo. verified. 5.4 million subscribers.

his page is simple—light pastel banner, soft text, almost misleading at first glance. but when the preview loads, there’s nothing soft about it. it starts mid-action, no intro, no setup—just raw, unfiltered need. his body fills the screen, the lighting harsh enough to highlight the tension in his muscles, the sweat slicking down his chest in messy trails.

his hand holds a small vibrator—slim, silver, and humming at a steady pace as he presses it along the length of his cock. it’s already hard, flushed dark and leaking, twitching visibly each time the buzzing toy runs over his slit. he slides it slowly, teasingly, from the base to the tip, circling it around the head before dragging it back down again. his hips jerk, his thighs tightening under the pressure.

his face is in view. fully.

his cheeks are red, tear-streaked, lips trembling with every breath. wet hair clings to his forehead in dark strands, and his eyes are glassy—shiny with desperation, the kind that makes your chest tighten just watching. he looks completely wrecked. beautiful in a way that shouldn’t feel this intimate, like you’ve caught him in something far too private.

“fuck… noona…” he whines, voice high and broken as his fingers curl tight around the bed sheets. “let me cum… please—noona…”

his hand trembles slightly as he lowers the vibrator, pressing it to the base of his cock as his other hand slides upward, two fingers dragging through the mess that’s already smeared across the head. he rubs the tip quickly, desperately, almost like he’s punishing himself for how close he is. his back arches sharply, the line of his throat exposed, jaw slack as more tears spill freely down his cheeks.

“f-fuckkk—i’m cumming!” he cries out, voice cracking as his body jerks violently, hips lifting off the mattress.

you can’t look away.

his cock twitches hard in his hand, and a thick wave of cum spills over his fingers, dripping down in messy strands that coat his palm and smear over his abdomen. his chest heaves. his thighs shake. he doesn’t stop moving until his hand is completely soaked and his voice has faded into soft, hiccuping breaths.

you’re still staring, eyes wide, mouth parted slightly. the screen is glowing in the dark of your room, and all you can do is sit there, frozen, pulse pounding behind your ribs as the clip loops quietly again.

@wonsodirty. verified. 5.2 million subscribers.

his profile surprises you even more.

the name alone already catches your eye—bold, a little cheeky, a little misleading. you expect something bratty, maybe cocky, something playful or reckless. but when the preview loads, it’s none of that.

it’s quiet. intimate.

the camera is placed at a low angle, steady, fixed on soft bedsheets that shift with every subtle movement. the lighting is warm and dim, the kind that wraps everything in a golden hue and makes skin look like silk. there’s a soft rustling in the background, the sound of him breathing, uneven and slightly hitched.

he comes into frame slowly—first his legs, then his thighs, spread slightly apart as he settles against the headboard. he’s not doing much at first. just breathing. just existing. but even that feels heavy with tension, like something just below the surface is about to break.

he’s shirtless. not in a performative way. just bare. his chest rises and falls in shallow motions, skin flushed with heat, the faintest sheen of sweat glinting under the soft light. his hand moves slowly at first, fingers wrapped tight around the base of his cock, stroking with careful precision. it’s already hard, already leaking at the tip, the kind of arousal that’s been building for far too long.

you watch as he closes his eyes, biting down on his bottom lip, his brows knitting together like he’s trying not to fall apart too quickly.

then, he whispers something—so soft you almost miss it.

“feels so good…”

his voice is high, sweet, breathy in the most fragile way. and it’s real. not loud. not dirty. just pure and cracked with something raw.

his strokes stay slow, almost too slow, like he’s punishing himself for how sensitive he is. his hips twitch every time he passes over the tip, precum smearing down the shaft and making his hand glisten as he continues.

you can’t help but watch his face—how red his ears are, how hard he’s trying to keep his composure. you notice how his legs tense, thighs flexing every time he lets out one of those quiet, needy sounds.

his strokes get faster, hips starting to lift slightly off the bed, his thighs trembling beneath him. he looks like he’s trying to hold back. like he’s afraid of what’ll happen if he lets go too soon.

“i can’t… i c-can’t hold it, please…”

he cries out as his hand jerks up once, twice, and then his entire body stutters. his back arches just slightly, his mouth dropping open in a silent gasp as ropes of cum spill over his fist, painting across his stomach in messy spurts.

his breathing turns shaky. his head tilts back against the pillow, eyes fluttering, lips parted as a tiny, breathless whimper escapes him.

the clip ends with his fingers still curled tightly around himself, his chest rising fast, his body twitching as he comes down—wrecked and glowing and silent.

you move onto the last profile.

@nikiuncensored. verified. 5.6 million subscribers.

the name alone already tells you everything you need to know. it feels reckless. raw. unapologetically bold in a way that makes your pulse skip without warning. you hesitate only for a second before clicking on the preview.

the video starts without ceremony—no soft intro, no teasing buildup. just action. the camera is low, placed somewhere near the base of the woman’s stomach. you can’t see her face, not even her chest—just the lower curve of her abdomen rising and falling with every sharp breath she takes. her thighs tremble faintly at the edges of the frame, knees slightly parted, twitching every time his mouth presses in.

but she’s the background.

your eyes go straight to him.

ni-ki comes into view slowly—his shoulders first, broad and tense, then his head, tipped slightly as his mouth lowers between her legs. his tongue flicks upward in tight, rhythmic strokes, wet and steady, circling over the clit with agonizing precision. the movement is deliberate. practiced. his lips part to suck softly, then flatten again as he switches pace, building her up in waves.

his fingers move with the same energy—two of them disappearing inside her only to pull out again, slick and glistening before they’re thrust back in with a soft squelch that echoes in the low hum of the room. the air is heavy. the lighting is dim, warm enough to cast shadows over the sharp line of his jaw, the flushed curve of his cheeks.

“fuck…” he breathes, voice strained with something between amusement and awe, “you’re so fucking wet…”

he groans as he presses in harder, his mouth practically consuming her now, lips wrapped fully around her clit as he sucks with loud, messy slurps. the sound is obscene, echoing in the quiet room—wet and desperate and hungry.

his eyes flutter shut, like he’s savoring the taste. like he could stay there all night and never come up for air. his free hand curls around the outside of her thigh, gripping tight, keeping her in place as his tongue works mercilessly. her moans are loud, cracked and high-pitched, but you barely register them. all you can hear is him—groaning, gasping, devouring.

he moves his head side to side slightly, mouth still latched to her clit, and the slurping sound becomes louder, wetter. his fingers curl up inside her and she screams, hips jerking toward his face, but he doesn’t back off. if anything, he doubles down.

he growls, low in his throat, sending vibrations straight into her core as his grip tightens.

and you’re stuck there—watching the way his mouth works, the way his muscles flex with every movement, the way he loses himself in it like it’s the only thing that matters.

the preview cuts off just as his lips part again, tongue dragging in a long, slow lick up her slit like he’s far from done.

and god—you believe it.

you’re completely breathless.

your chest rises and falls in slow, uneven waves, lungs struggling to catch up with the flood of emotions coursing through your system. your skin is warm, flushed, your fingers twitching faintly from where they rest on your thighs. everything inside you feels electric. overstimulated. wired with something you can’t quite name—but it’s there.

now, finally, you understand.

you understand why this app—the one you opened on a whim—could stir something so heavy inside you. why it’s been sitting in the back of your mind like a spark waiting for oxygen. it’s not just sex. it’s not just content. it’s control. attention. power.

you shift slightly where you sit, the damp heat between your thighs impossible to ignore. your panties are soaked, your breath shallow, and despite the way your body aches, you force yourself to sit up straighter. you push the thoughts down, shake your head, blink yourself back into focus.

you’ve battled with yourself long enough.

without giving yourself the space to overthink it, your finger moves. you press the button—create account—and watch the screen change, your heart racing with each small confirmation box that pops up in front of you.

you type quickly. no hesitation now. @babydollxo.

the name feels soft. flirty. safe.

but the next part isn’t so easy.

you hesitate when it asks for a profile photo. you scroll through your gallery—old pictures, half-deleted mirror selfies, nothing that feels right. nothing that says what you want it to say. nothing that matches the version of yourself you’re about to become.

you toss your phone onto the bed and push off the covers, the sheets falling away from your legs in soft folds as you rise to your feet. your room is still quiet, dimly lit by the lamp in the corner, casting soft golden shadows across your walls.

you move quickly.

your drawer slides open with a soft clatter as you dig through the scattered mess inside—tangled bras, folded shorts, tucked-away lace. your fingers pause when they find it: a tiny, black thong. the skimpiest one you own. barely fabric at all.

you strip out of your shirt first, letting it fall to the floor without a second thought. the cool air hits your bare chest, making your nipples pebble instantly. there’s no hesitation now. no shame. just movement.

you tug the thong on slowly, adjusting it at your hips, letting the waistband hug your curves as you step in front of the mirror.

you pose without overthinking it—back facing the mirror, head turned slightly over your shoulder, your front angled just enough to tease without revealing everything. the lighting does the rest. it casts your silhouette in soft shadows, highlighting the curve of your waist, the dip of your spine, the swell of your hips. everything else remains hidden—blurred in the low glow of the lamp.

it’s just enough to make someone want more.

you lift your phone, frame the shot, and for the first time in a long time…you feel powerful.

you set your phone carefully on the edge of your desk, adjusting the angle until it captures only what you want it to—the lower half of your body, your thighs parted slightly, your stomach rising with shallow breaths. your face is out of view. there’s no light beyond the soft glow of your desk lamp, and the shadows cast across your skin make everything look muted, quiet, secretive.

your thumb hovers over the record button, trembling slightly. you're not nervous because you don’t know what you’re doing. you’re nervous because you do.

your mind is cluttered with noise. doubt swims through you in thick waves, crashing hard against the edges of your resolve. your chest feels tight. you can feel the fear circling in your gut, whispering things like what if you regret it? what if someone finds out? what if you can't take it back?

but the fear isn't loud enough to drown out the truth.

you think of the letter on the counter, the rent due in less than a week, the account notifications warning you that your balance is low—too low. you think of the long shifts, the missed hours, the denial from your manager. you think about how you’re out of options.

and then you press the button.

the recording begins. the red icon glows faintly in the corner of your screen. it’s happening now. you’ve officially started.

your breath catches as your hands move instinctively, dragging down the curve of your stomach with a slow, deliberate rhythm. you let your fingers tease the hem of your thong, playing with the waistband, pulling it slightly before letting it snap back into place. you don’t say a word. there’s no script for this. you let the action speak for itself.

you shift in your seat, angling your body just enough for the camera to catch the soft curve of your ass, arching your back to deepen the shadow and leave the details to the imagination. it’s subtle. sensual. controlled.

then, after a pause that makes your heart pound harder, you bring your fingers to the front of your thong. with one smooth motion, you pull the fabric aside.

just enough to reveal yourself.

your folds glisten, slick already gathered between them from the buildup of watching, waiting, and wanting all night. you’d been trying to ignore it. trying to focus on the mechanics of the process. but your body never really forgot. not after what you’d seen. not after the way they sounded.

your fingers move without hesitation now, sliding between your folds and gathering the wetness. you exhale slowly, letting the feeling settle, letting the camera keep rolling. your touch is gentle at first—small, slow circles around your clit, nothing too fast. you don’t want to rush. you want it to look natural. sensual. you want it to feel good.

and it does.

your body shifts. your back arches slightly. your thighs tense. your fingers grow bolder, faster. not by much—just enough to feel it start to build. your breathing grows uneven. soft, audible. you hold back the sound in your throat, biting your lip hard enough to feel the pressure.

and then you think of them.

the teasing smirk from the one who never broke eye contact. the groans that scraped low and rough from behind clenched teeth. the soft, desperate whimpers that bled through clenched fists and sweat-slick sheets. the sharp snap of a hand against skin. the steady rhythm of fingers soaked to the knuckle.

you remember the flushed cheeks. the breathless pleas. the soaked mouth of someone who looked ruined just from giving. the thighs that trembled under the weight of restraint. the tongue that moved with unshakable precision, curling into someone’s heat like it was instinct—like it was art.

your fingers speed up.

your hips jerk slightly, your body reacting without permission. you tilt your head back, eyes fluttering shut as your clit pulses beneath your touch.

“fuck…”

the word leaves you in a low, broken whisper. it’s almost inaudible. almost too quiet to catch. but it’s there.

your chest rises with effort as you force yourself to stay quiet—to stay in control. nari is just a few feet away, asleep or scrolling in the room next door. you can’t let her hear. you can’t risk that. so you press your lips together tightly and breathe through your nose, letting your hand do the talking.

your fingers move in tighter circles. your stomach contracts. your legs pull in slightly as the pleasure curls deeper inside you, hot and electric. you don’t stop. you can’t stop. not now.

you don’t need to speak. the way your body moves is enough.

the video keeps recording, and for a second, everything else disappears—your exhaustion, your guilt, your fear. all of it fades into the rhythm of your own breathing, the slick sound of your fingers working between your thighs, and the realization that this isn’t just a performance.

it’s power.

and for the first time in a long time… it’s yours.

your fingers work faster now, soaked and steady, slipping in and out of your cunt with a rhythm that’s grown almost frantic. the sound of it—slick, wet, obscene—echoes low in the quiet room, barely masked by the rapid stutter of your breath. your body moves with instinct, hips rising to meet your hand, legs spread wide as you chase the heat that’s been coiling deep in your core since the moment the video started.

you start with two fingers, curling them up just right to press against the spot that makes your stomach tighten. your lips press into a thin, trembling line as you try to keep quiet, forcing yourself to muffle the moans that threaten to spill out with every thrust. your walls clench tightly around your fingers, greedy, hot, desperate for more.

and you give it to yourself.

you let out a ragged breath as you push in a third finger, the stretch making your thighs tremble. the pressure is overwhelming now—blinding, almost painful in the best possible way. you shift in your chair, back arching as you press your heels into the floor, legs falling open wider to give yourself more space. your body is flushed and burning, skin damp with sweat, nipples tight from the brush of cool air and lingering adrenaline.

your chest heaves as you move faster, harder, fingers curling deep into yourself as the pleasure builds fast and sharp like a scream stuck in your throat. your head tilts back, eyes fluttering shut, and for a split second, you forget about the camera. you forget about the fear. you forget about everything but the feeling—

“fuck… oh my god…”

the words tear from your throat, broken and low, muffled by the force of your own clenched jaw. your legs start to shake, your body twitching with the effort to stay upright as your orgasm rushes up and crashes through you.

“fuckkk—i’m gonna cum… shit…”

your voice is higher now, cracked at the edges, as your hips jerk forward and your muscles seize. the pressure bursts all at once, your cunt clenching around your fingers as you gush hard, soaking your hand and the inside of your thighs. the release is hot, messy, completely overwhelming—wave after wave rolling through your body until you’re panting, twitching, slumped over the desk with your mouth open in a silent gasp.

your other hand scrambles toward your phone, shaking as you fumble to tap the screen. the camera is still recording—still capturing every shudder, every twitch, the flushed glow of your skin and the shine slicked over your thighs.

you end the video with one shaky movement, chest rising and falling as you try to catch your breath.

your hand is drenched. your skin is burning. your thoughts are scrambled.

and you don’t hesitate.

you upload it raw, unfiltered, untouched.

you don’t trim the edges. you don’t add a caption. you don’t even blink before pressing the button.

you want it to speak for itself.

you want them to wonder.

you watch the screen as the upload bar slowly completes, your profile still blank, still new, still waiting to be discovered.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

the soft chirp of birds cuts through the stillness of morning, gentle and rhythmic, floating in through the cracks of your half-open window. golden sunlight pours across your sheets, casting long shadows along your floor, warm and soft against your bare legs. your body is sprawled out lazily across the mattress, limbs tangled in the fabric as your eyes flutter open slowly, blinking away the blur of sleep.

your room is quiet except for the persistent buzz of your phone vibrating on the nightstand beside you. it hums every few seconds, faint but constant, like it's trying to get your attention. you glance at it, brows furrowing slightly, but you don’t reach for it. not yet. your body still feels heavy with sleep and something else—something deeper.

you push the covers off your legs, the cotton sheets rustling as you sit up and stretch, your spine arching with a soft crack. you move slowly, stepping onto the cool floorboards and making your way toward the bathroom, your legs stiff, your joints still waking up with you.

just as you reach the door, nari’s voice floats out from the hallway, warm and familiar.

“good morning, girl,” she calls casually, emerging from her room with a yawn, her hair tied up messily and hoodie falling off one shoulder. she looks at you for barely a second before launching into what’s clearly been sitting on her mind.

“so,” she says, tone direct, “are you planning on making an account?”

you pause.

the words land heavier than you expect, and for a second, the hallway feels too quiet—like her question has taken up all the space. the thought hadn’t left your mind, not really. it was still there, tucked into the corner of your chest like something that needed to be dealt with eventually. she had brought it up before. multiple times. her voice always hopeful. her offers always kind. and you always deflected.

your throat tightens. not painfully—but just enough to make you hesitate.

you turn to look at her, your expression unreadable. the memory of last night creeps back in, vivid and electric. the video. your fingers. the way your breath had caught in your throat when you hit upload. the warmth that still lingered between your thighs. the weight of what it meant.

“i’ll look into it,” you say, voice hoarse. “but i don’t know, nari… does it really even work?”

she crosses her arms gently, leaning her shoulder against the wall. her gaze softens as she watches you.

“i can’t really speak from experience,” she says slowly, “but from what i’ve heard… it’s definitely something you should consider. especially with how much you’ve been struggling. i know it’s not what you’re used to. i know it’s different. but y/n… it’s real money. quick money. and you wouldn’t have to break your back for it.”

her voice stays gentle, but her words hit hard. your shoulders drop slightly, and her eyes flick down to your expression, reading you the way only she can.

“just think about it, okay?” she continues, her tone still light. “i’m heading out in a bit, but whatever you decide, just let me know. i can look around for other stuff too, if you don’t want to go that route.”

your chest tightens again—this time from emotion.

you don’t say anything. you just step forward and wrap your arms around her, pulling her in tight. the words rise up in your throat before you can stop them.

“thank you so much, nari,” you whisper. “what the fuck would i have done without you…”

your voice cracks on the last word. you bury your face in her shoulder and hold her a little tighter, your body warm against hers.

you don’t thank her enough.

not for the rent reminders. not for the quiet way she pretends not to notice when you come home late and fall asleep in your work clothes. not for the soft leftovers she always leaves out with a sticky note. not for the way she never once judged you when you admitted you were coming up short again.

she just showed up. over and over.

and you couldn’t be more grateful.

“i’ll always be here for you, y/n,” she murmurs, her arms wrapping tighter around your waist.

when you finally pull back, there’s a single tear running down your cheek. you wipe it away quickly, hoping she doesn’t notice—but she does. she always does. she doesn’t say anything this time, just gives you a gentle look before stepping away.

you clear your throat, trying to shake the emotion from your voice.

“you can go ahead,” you tell her softly. “i… i just have something to check really quick.”

she nods, disappearing into her room.

you stand there for a moment, your feet unmoving, the silence returning like a blanket wrapped around your shoulders. you exhale through your nose and turn around slowly, walking back into your room and closing the door behind you.

your phone is still buzzing on the nightstand.

and you’re finally ready to see what it has to say.

you close the door behind you and pause for a moment, letting your fingers linger against the wood. your room is quiet again, but it’s not the same kind of quiet as before. it’s weighted now—thicker, charged with something unspoken. your steps back to the bed feel heavier than they should. your body isn’t sore in the traditional sense, but there’s something beneath your skin that hasn’t left you since last night. like your muscles remember what you did. like your skin is still humming from the heat of it.

you sit on the edge of your bed, your blanket half-pulled down, the air cool against your bare legs. your phone is where you left it—face down on your nightstand, completely still. the buzzing that had filled the room earlier has stopped, like it’s holding its breath. waiting for you to be ready.

you reach for it slowly, with both hands, like you’re afraid you’ll drop it if you don’t steady yourself. the moment your fingertips brush across the screen, it lights up.

and everything changes.

1,462 new notifications. tips: +$1,951.76. new subscribers: +863.

you sit there, frozen, as the likes roll in by the second, stacking in waves across the screen. every few seconds, another tip comes in. ten dollars. twenty. fifty. a hundred. your balance is growing so fast it doesn’t feel real.

you open the comments, and the words hit you all at once.

“this is art. actual art.” “i’m obsessed.” “i came without even touching myself. that’s how real this felt.”

you read them with wide eyes, your thumb scrolling slowly, like dragging through honey. it’s too much to take in all at once. too many voices. too many people who’ve seen you now—really seen you—and want more.

you click over to your inbox. there are dozens of messages, all timestamped from the early hours of the morning. most of them are praises, offers, begging. a few are bold. graphic. unfiltered. and buried among them—at the very top, a verified profile—is the one that makes your entire body still.

@heefreakshow.

you’re completely taken off guard.

nothing could have prepared you for this—none of it. not the flood of attention. not the numbers still rising. and especially not him. not the quiet, effortless way one of the creators you watched last night—half in awe, half with your hand buried between your thighs—has now turned his gaze on you. messaged you. noticed you.

you stare at the notification like it might disappear. like maybe your phone glitched and it’s not really him. your thumb hovers just inches above the message, heartbeat loud in your ears, the weight of everything that’s happened pressing down on your chest.

and then—before you can overthink it—you press.

the message expands across your screen in one clean, perfect line.

god, you were so fucking hot. why don’t you let me see what more you’re capable of doing?

you go still.

your throat tightens. your lips part, but no sound comes out. your entire body feels like it’s pulsing—heat rising from your neck, crawling down your spine, settling low in your stomach. your eyes read the words once. then again. then again.

you’re speechless.

not because it’s crude—though it is. not because it’s confident—because of course it is. but because it’s him.

you sit there, phone trembling slightly in your grip, and all you can think about is how none of this would’ve happened if nari hadn’t pushed you. if she hadn’t looked you in the eyes and told you she believed in you. if she hadn’t said the words you were too afraid to say out loud.

you owe her everything.

because now? now you’re more than okay. you’re not just surviving—you’re starting. you’re in it.

and you have absolutely no plans of stopping.

natty's notesᝰ.ᐟ first episode is done! honestly i'm excited to see how this will play out because a lot more is coming, i hope you all enjoyed!

[quarterlifekitty]

Had this thought… Simon who starts dating reader but her son 14-18 (older teen) is hella protective of her. Simon sees himself in the kid and is incredibly proud of the boy, caring for his mum and being all “You have to get through me to get to her.” So Simon’s gotta win the kid over first THEN the reader? 👀

I love this idea because like

Regardless of her own shortcomings as a parent, Simon’s mom still tried. She wanted his life to be good. And he definitely saw her, on more than one occasion, bawling even though she tried so hard to never let him see. Because she wanted him to be a baby boy for just a little longer— she wasn’t ready to see the weight of the world tearing him down by the shoulders. She cried because there was never enough. Not of anything. Food to put on the table, money in the bank, his father’s patience, time to keep the house and raise her boys, the energy to do the simplest things in the world. Not enough of herself left to give away to those she always put first.

So yeah, if you badmouthed Simon’s mom when he was in school? You’d be lucky getting away with a black eye.

And if there’s anything Simon loves, it’s instinct. He likes your son. He really does like that your son sees him as a potential threat, as a point of caution. Simon probably barely got out a “Not tryna replace your da-“ before your son was like “I don’t give a fuck about that. You stay away from my mom.”

He doesn’t like that you’ve been hurt before. That you have a son that thinks he needs to protect you— that he’s had to live a life on edge because he’s seen so much happen to you. But he can relate. And he’s happy you had someone to depend on. That your son doesn’t lack the courage to stand up to people for you.

And honestly? Loyalty goes both ways. I’ve always found that trope in movies, where a parent is going to remarry someone their kid doesn’t like, to be strange. I think for most single parents, if the kid doesn’t like you, it’s a non-starter. Do you know your son is probably a little overly defensive? Yes. But you also love him before anyone else. If there’s a man he really can’t abide? That’s not gonna be the man for you.

I think Simon wins your son through the mundane. Doing things that are just plain not fun, but necessary parts of life. Just taking things off of your plate. Filling your forms, making appointments, picking up groceries, fixing things around the house— the very ordinary and unromantic parts of cohabitation and long term relationships.

It starts chipping when Simon drives to pick up your son from a friend’s house after a sleepover.

“Why’re you here?”

“So your mum could sleep in today.”

That shuts him up right quick.

He’s gone through life seeing people take from you until barely anything was left for yourself. Spoonfuls of honey taken from your soul until you were empty. So he starts to soften when there seems to be a man ready to give you some of himself without greedily taking more of you.

[rafesgreasycurtainbangs]

hiii i love your posts! can you do reader having massive baby fever and really wanting a baby and rafe/drew ( you decide ) finds her upset about it all and they talk and decide the time is right, lots and lots of fluff!! thank youuu

༄｡° baby fever - rafe cameron

Lately, you couldn’t shake it—the soft, aching pull in your chest every time you saw a stroller roll by or heard a baby’s giggle drift through the salty Outer Banks air. It started small, a quiet hum of longing when you’d scroll through Instagram and stumble on some glowing mom-to-be’s bump pics, but it had snowballed into full-blown baby fever, an all-consuming need that left you restless and teary more often than you’d admit. You’d catch yourself daydreaming—picturing a little version of you and Rafe, all chubby cheeks and ocean-blue eyes, toddling across the hardwood floors of Tanneyhill, Rafe scooping them up with that rare, unguarded laugh you loved so much. The images were so vivid they hurt, lodging a lump in your throat you couldn’t swallow down.

You tried to hide it at first, brushing it off as a phase, but it was everywhere. The grocery store aisle with tiny socks and pastel onesies. The park where kids shrieked and chased each other, their harried parents trailing behind. Even the quiet moments at home, curled up on the couch with Rafe, his arm slung around you as some dumb movie played—your mind would drift, wondering what it’d be like to have a third heartbeat in the room, a little body nestled between you. It was overwhelming, this want, and the more you thought about it, the more it twisted into something heavier—fear that it’d never happen, that the timing would never be right, that Rafe wouldn’t feel the same.

That afternoon, it hit harder than usual. You’d been babysitting a friend’s toddler for a few hours—a gig you’d taken on a whim, thinking it’d scratch the itch. Instead, it broke you open. The kid was perfect—big hazel eyes, sticky hands that tugged at your hair, a gummy smile that melted you every time she giggled. When her mom picked her up, you waved goodbye with a smile, but the second the door clicked shut, you sank onto the couch, knees pulled to your chest, and let the tears come. It wasn’t just the baby fever now—it was the ache of not having it, the quiet panic that maybe you’d wait too long, that life would keep throwing curveballs and you’d miss your chance.

That’s how Rafe found you—curled up in the living room, cheeks streaked and eyes puffy, the TV flickering silently in the background. He’d just gotten back from some errand, keys jingling in his hand, and the second he saw you, his whole demeanor shifted. The cocky smirk he usually wore dropped, replaced by a crease between his brows as he crossed the room in three long strides. “Hey—hey, what’s wrong?” His voice was low, urgent, as he dropped the keys on the coffee table and sank down beside you, his hand already reaching for yours. “You okay? What happened?”

You tried to brush it off, swiping at your face with a shaky laugh. “It’s nothing, Rafe. I’m fine—just being stupid.” But he wasn’t buying it. His fingers tightened around yours, warm and steady, and he shifted closer, his knee brushing yours as he studied your face like he could read every thought behind your red-rimmed eyes.

“Bullshit,” he said softly, not letting go. “You don’t cry over nothing. Talk to me.” His thumb traced slow circles over your knuckles, and there was something so gentle in it—so Rafe in a way most people never got to see—that the dam broke all over again. You buried your face in your hands, a sob hiccupping out before you could stop it.

“It’s so dumb,” you mumbled, voice muffled and thick. “I just—God, I want a baby, Rafe. Like, really want one. And it’s all I can think about lately, and it’s driving me crazy because I don’t even know if you— I mean, we’ve never really talked about it, and I feel like I’m losing my mind sitting here imagining something that might never happen.” The words tumbled out, messy and raw, and when you finally peeked up at him, your heart stuttered at the look on his face.

He wasn’t freaked out. He wasn’t pulling away. He just watched you, quiet for a beat, those blue eyes soft and searching. Then he exhaled, a slow, shaky breath, and ran a hand through his hair—nervous, almost, but not in a bad way. “Shit,” he murmured, a tiny smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’ve been carrying that around all by yourself?” He reached out, cupping your face with both hands, thumbs brushing away the tears clinging to your lashes. “Why didn’t you say anything, huh? You’ve got me over here thinking you’re hurt or something, and you’re just—baby fever’s got you all twisted up?”

You laughed despite yourself, a watery little sound, and he grinned wider, pulling you into his chest. His arms wrapped around you, solid and warm, and you buried your face in his shirt, breathing in the familiar scent of him—salt and cologne and something uniquely Rafe. “I didn’t want to freak you out,” you admitted, voice small against his collarbone. “It’s a big thing, you know? And we’re still figuring stuff out, and I didn’t know if you’d think I was nuts.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, hands settling on your shoulders, his expression so earnest it made your chest ache. “Freak me out? Babe, I’ve been waiting for you to bring this up. I mean—yeah, I didn’t think it’d be today, but…” He paused, swallowing, and you could see the wheels turning, the way he was choosing his words. “I want that too. With you. A kid, a family, all of it. I just didn’t know if you were ready, you know? You’re the one who keeps me grounded—I follow your lead.”

Your breath caught, hope blooming so fast it almost hurt. “You mean that?” you whispered, searching his face. “You’re not just saying it because I’m a mess right now?”

He laughed—a real, deep laugh that rumbled through him—and shook his head. “No, I’m not just saying it. I’ve thought about it, okay? More than you probably think. Picturing you with a little mini-us, running around, driving me up the wall—it’s been in my head for a while. I just didn’t want to push you into something you weren’t sure about.” His voice softened, and he leaned in, forehead resting against yours. “But if you’re ready, then yeah. I’m in. Let’s do it.”

The relief hit you like a wave, washing away the weight you’d been carrying, and you threw your arms around his neck, laughing through the tears still clinging to your lashes. “Really?” you asked, pulling back to beam at him, and he nodded, grinning like a kid himself.

“Really,” he said, then tugged you closer, his lips brushing yours in a kiss that started soft and sweet but lingered, deepening as his hands slid up your back. “You’re gonna be the best mom, you know that? Already crying over it—I’m screwed when we’ve got a real one.” He was teasing now, but his eyes were bright, crinkled with that rare, unguarded happiness you loved so much.

You swatted his chest, giggling. “Shut up. You’re gonna be the one spoiling them rotten, I can already see it—little Ralph Lauren polo shirts and golf clubs before they can even walk.”

“Damn right,” he shot back, pulling you onto his lap so you were straddling him, his hands settling on your hips. “Gotta start ‘em young. Teach ‘em how to rule the island like their old man.” His tone was playful, but the way he looked at you—soft, steady, sure—made your heart skip.

For a while, you just sat there, wrapped up in each other, trading quiet dreams about what it’d be like. You talked about names—Rafe vetoed anything “too Pogue-y” with a dramatic shudder, making you roll your eyes—and argued over whether they’d have his eyes or yours. He insisted on a boy first, “to carry on the Cameron legacy,” but melted when you said you’d want a girl who’d have him wrapped around her finger. The conversation stretched on, lazy and warm, until the sun dipped low outside, painting the room in soft pinks and golds.

Eventually, he pulled you down to lie against him on the couch, your head tucked under his chin, his fingers tracing slow patterns on your arm. “We’re really doing this, huh?” he murmured, voice quiet now, almost reverent. “Making a little us.”

“Yeah,” you whispered back, smiling against his chest. “We are.”

He kissed the top of your head, lingering there, and you felt the steady thump of his heartbeat under your cheek. “Guess we should get started then,” he added, a playful edge creeping back into his tone, and you laughed, swatting him again as he hugged you tighter. It was perfect—messy, real, and so full of love you could hardly stand it. Baby fever had brought you here, but Rafe? He was going to carry you the rest of the way.

©RAFESGREASYCURTAINBANGS ⋆˙⟡ est. 2025

[mattscoquette]

MATTSCOQUETTE AU SPECIAL ౨ৎ

reader giving perv!matt a "hand"

the tv perched on the triplet’s wall cast a cool glow in the living room, the image of a bank being broken into on the screen as the dark night played. nick suggested you two have a movie night, which somehow turned into a movie night with you and his brothers. not that you were one to complain, though, you were actually having a good night. they had gotten an array of snacks that were all over the table, and mountains of blankets piled up in the couch.

chris was laying down sprawled out at the opposite end of the couch, while you were sat in between nick and matt. as the movie continued, matt seemed to shift closer and closer towards you, until he was practically right next to you.

with the insurmountable amount of blankets that were covering you, you decided to have a bit of fun with matt, knowing neither one of his brothers would notice.

your hand creeped to the right, your nails tracing along matt’s upper thigh as he shuddered at your touch. he glanced over at you, his blue eyes filled with desperation while he awaited your next move. you smirked, before turning your attention the tv in front of you again as your hands danced up to the tent forming in his sweats.

“i’ll help you out if you stay really quiet,” you murmured, leaning in so you could speak lowly enough where nick and chris couldn’t hear you.

“please,” he practically whimpered, biting down on his lower lip to contain his sounds.

nodding your head at his words, you slowly began to palm him, his dick straining against the fabric of his sweatpants. you moved your hands in slow, repetitive movements, smiling to yourself as you watched him squirm underneath your touch.

you were hardly even paying attention to him, your eyes glued to the screen while you continued your ministrations underneath the blankets. you continued to press your hand down against his clothed dick, giving it an occasional squeeze. matts breathing grew more rapid and uneven, exhaling shaky breaths as he tried his best to not make a noise.

“you’re being so good for me,” you murmured into his ear, your lips brushing ever so slightly against the lobe, “think you deserve to cum?”

he nodded his head, he’s eyes screwed shut. at this point, he didn’t care if his brothers saw what was happening, your hand just felt too good against his cock. “so good, i’ll be so good. please, lemme cum,” he panted.

you giggled, having a little too much fun with this. “come on matty,” you said in a sultry voice, low in his ear, “cum for me, you can do it.”

matt had to bite down on his fist to stop himself from whining as his hips involuntarily bucked up against your hand, his orgasm crashing over him as he made a mess of his boxers and sweats. he looked over at you, his forehead sweaty as his hair stuck to it, his cheeks flushed.

he stood up abruptly, adjusting his sweats as he darted down the hall.

“where the fuck are you going?” chris shouted out after him.

“to go piss!” matt called back, the door slamming shut behind him. in reality, he was going to get himself off again, only this time the only thing in his head would be how your pretty little hands felt squeezing around his cock.

© mattscoquette | taglist

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬. ⋆˚꩜｡ perv!matt my fav 😛 inspired by this post from my inbox !

[poguehearted77]

rafe with pogue!reader with a mouth. she’s so sweet unless you don’t deserve it. and we all know rafe has done some things to get him in the dog house. she’s not afraid to put anyone in their place. but he finds that bending her over id the best way to shut her up.

mmfff. I love this ask.

Pairing: Sweet Girl! Reader x Rafe Cameron

a/n: answering some requests bc i'm finally back lolll

Rafe considers himself a lucky man to have a girlfriend like you--the luckiest, some would say, and he wouldn't disagree. You're sweet, kind, empathetic and probably too good for him if he's being honest.

You're the girl who bakes fresh bread and brings it to the nursing home on the weekends and volunteers her time at the local food banks whenever you have the chance.

It's a stark contrast to your stone-cold boyfriend who was rarely caught smiling in the presence of others except for his closest friends, but even they had a hard time making plans with him.

He's hard to get a hold of, and no one understands that more than you do at this moment. You're currently sitting at the elegantly set table in a reserved section of the Italian restaurant Rafe had booked just for the two of you.

Your diamond-embroidered watch which was a valentines gift from your overbearing boyfriend receives another frustrated glance from your intense stare. With precision the minute hand strikes, signifying the top of the hour and the end of your patience.

You couldn't believe Rafe had stood you up, despite your efforts to call him and the few gentle reminders you sent to his number. They were all in vain.

"Would you like more bread, ma'am?" The waiter comes back for what you guess is the fourth time in the last twenty minutes. Your cheeks rose over at the repeated question, realizing you'd have to admit that there was no one joining you any time soon.

"No, I'm alright thank you. Just the check will be fine." Your words paint a perplexed expression on the waiter's face before he visibly understands what's happened.

The waiter is sweet when he returns with the bill, "He's an idiot."

You didn't quite catch what he whispered under his breath, "Pardon?" His shoulders relax as a small smile graces his lips, "The guy's an idiot for standing you up." It's said thoughtfully, not with any ulterior motives, and you agree, feeling what was just surface-level disappointment morph into a simmering bitterness.

Rafe was going to deal with a bitch at home.

-

You found yourself stirring your freshly blended smoothie behind the kitchen island as Rafe continued his desperate attempts to get back in your good graces. "I'm so sorry, baby. The meeting went long and I couldn't get out of it." His hand tries to wrap around your waist from behind and you smack him away.

"Don't even, Rafe." The words come out through clenched teeth. He's startled but not surprised. He's seen this side of you before, though only once when a rude cashier had been insulting to your mother at the store.

"How many times do I have to say I'm sorry? The meeting ran longer than-" You don't even give him a chance to finish when you interrupt, "Oh my god, Rafe. Leave me alone!" You scoff, trying to push past him with your drink in hand but he holds you at the waist, cautiously taking the cup from you and placing it on the counter behind him.

He holds a stern gaze as he talks down to you: "Listen, I get it. You're upset, but you're not even giving me a chance to expl-" He tries to reason with you, but you don't want to hear it from him.

"Shut Up." You make dead eye contact, his towering height not intimidating you in the slightest. You're pissed off and now Rafe is too. Within the blink of an eye Rafe had you pinned down to the cool marble of the island with an arm behind your back.

"Ow~ Rafe!" You whine and he chuckles. "M'sorry baby. Am I hurting you?" He tightens the hold he has on your pinned arm, pressing his hips into the fat of your ass giving you a vivid understanding of where your attitude was taking you.

"You're such a fucking-" With his other hand he forces your head back down against the counter roughly but making sure not to hurt you. "Don't you dare." He warns from behind and you bite your tongue at the harsh tone he was using. He was not in the mood to play around.

"I'm sick of you avoiding me. I'm tryna talk to you-- tell you I'm sorry and you're not fuckin' listening." He curses as he lets your arm go, now moving its way under your dress the caress your ass.

He leaned forward, ensuring the breath of his words would tickle the shell of your ear as he spoke. "Such a shame too, you're usually such a good listener. A good girl." An icy chill runs down your spine as you feel him flip up the fabric of your dress.

There's a laugh, one of amusement.

"No panties? Thought I was supposed to be going to dinner with my girlfriend, not a whore." Your lip is tucked between your teeth when you hear the sound of his belt unbuckling. "Huh? Where's all your backtalk now, dollface?" You whine, arching your back up against your boyfriend.

"Rafe please-" He doesn't let you beg before he's sliding himself between your soaked folds, letting himself be overcome by the wet, hot sensation of your contracting walls. "Tell me you forgive me," He all but purrs in your ear. His words paired with the way his cock stretched you so good, you almost said it.

Almost.

"Fuck you."

He made you eat those words. The way he pistoned his hips into yours over and over with no remorse filled the kitchen with the lewd sounds of flesh against flesh. Your acrylics scratched against the marble tops desperately searching for something to hold on to.

"Say it." He grits and you shake your head, pathetic moans slipping with each thrust he gives you. "N-no!" He angles his hips, the head of his cock perfectly hitting the sweet spot. "Oh fuck- Rafe! I'm-"

"I won't let you finish until you say it-"

"I forgive you, fuck! I forgive you. Let me cum, please please-"

He gives you everything you need to stumble over the edge of ecstasy and more, he finishes soon after you. His weight leaning on your back, feeling his chest heave as he catches his breath.

"The waiter called you an idiot, you know." You mumble, cheek still pressed against the counter. "I am an idiot. I'm sorry, baby. Let's put this gorgeous dress to good use and let me make it up to you."

[nativegirltapes]

┊͙ ⊹ you often asked yourself how you got into situations like this, rafe was nice when you first started dating, what happened?

↝ pairing , toxic!rafe x bubbly!kook!reader warnings , angst + rafe just being a meanie

you and rafe were the definition of polar opposites, the epitome of it some could even argue. you were one of the nicest girls on figure 8, everyone adored you and wondered how you managed to be so 'perfect', if only they knew about your very imperfect relationship with rafe cameron.

everyone in the outer banks knew rafe had his issues, but you weren't one to judge him for it, you treated him like you treated everyone else, constant smiles and giggles, and maybe even extra because you always thought he was cute.

and maybe that's where you went wrong.

maybe if you had just kept your distance like everyone was telling you, you wouldn't be sitting in rafe cameron's truck at 1AM parked ouside your house arguing. what was supposed to be a much needed date night somehow turning into a fight, like it always did.

"no, i really don't think you understand." rafe huffed and furrowed his eyebrows while staring at you in the passenger seat, you looked so fragile and soft, but there he was yelling at you, getting rid of any innocence you had left.

"you're not letting me understand rafe!" you yell, fed up with his stupid argument that made no sense. "i get you have stuff going on, but you can't just shut down everytime i try to empathize with you!"

"i have no one y/n." rafe ran his fingers through his bangs, which were now greasy from how much he had been touching them. he had those crazy eyes, the ones that told you he wasn't sober and that he probably hadn't had a good nights sleep in days.

"you cant say that rafe. you can't say that you have no one." your voice was soft. you felt the tears forming, it wasn't even because you were angry or mad, but because you couldn't believe that rafe could say he had no one when he had you. did all that you've done for him mean nothing?

"see! you just don't fuckin' get it!" rafe gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white.

"i think you should just go home and get some rest, kay? we can talk in the morning." you open your door not even waiting for rafe to respond, just needing some alone time.

"seriously?"

you crawl your way out of the passenger seat, "goodnight rafe. please go home and get rest." you slammed the door. and before you could even walk away from his truck he went speeding off.

no matter how upset rafe had ever made you, all you ever wanted was the best for him, even if it meant slowly destroying yourself.

[pretty-little-mind33]

James Potter x fem!reader

Summary: Sometimes your lovely boyfriend can have a hard time with the word 'no'.

Genre: Fluff <3

Warnings: swearing, discussions of consent (nothing bad happens at all!! I promise!), implied sexual relationship

JAMES POTTER MASTERLIST

James didn't always know when too much was, well, too much. 

He had this impulsive tendency to take things way too far. Of course he always had the best of intentions, it was just that sometimes his initial excitement would cloud his judgment. Like now, when no matter how many times you insisted, he couldn't take your, "No, I don't want to swim in the freezing water," seriously. 

"Come on! Everyone's in, sweetheart!" James whines childishly. 

He isn't wrong. All your friends play happily in the water while you sit on the bank of the lake. It's an early summer morning and the air is still too chilly for you to even consider jumping in, so you've adamantly (and politely) declined all their invitations to join them.

However, your darling boyfriend can't seem to accept the no.

"James, love, I will hex you if you don't shut up." You warn with a playful smirk. Sirius uses James's distraction to splash him, which makes the latter squeal. Remus wraps his arm around James's neck, pulling him half-way into the murky water. When they emerge, they laugh breathlessly.

You adjust the strap of your bikini over your shoulder and simply lay your head on your arms as you smile at them.

"You are in your bathing suit, Y/n." Lily reasons with a small smirk and you glare at her. Traitor, you think, she's supposed to be on your side. 

"Exactly, thank you, Lily!" James jumps up and starts to waddle through the water towards you. He's dripping wet when he stands over you, bends over, and shakes his hair. You cover your head with your arms as small, practically freezing, droplets of water hit your warm skin. 

"James!" You exclaim and scramble up to move away from him.

You hear Remus, Sirius, and Lily chuckle in amusement before they turn around and mind their own business. Traitors.

Your boyfriend just sends you smirk and outsretches his arms, "Hug?" He honeys, faking a pout.

You hold out your arm, "Get away, you nutter." You say sternly.

"Please." James sounds more sincere now and moves towards you a little.

You squint at him, hiding a smile behind a look of suspicion, and ask him, "Just one?" 

James nods. 

You pick up your towel from the grass and then throw it to him. James catches it and dries his hair. He also starts to pat himself dry as you approach him wearily, "I don't bite, lovie." He laughs.

You roll your eyes, still believing him. However, the moment you're close enough to him he's wrapping the towel around your ass and pulling you into him. 

You make a small shriek as you hit his, still extremely wet, chest and his lips attach themselves to your neck as he nips at your skin. You squirm and when he looks up, an adorably stupid look on his face makes your heart leap, "I lied." He points out with another pout. 

You frown, "You're an absolute idiot."

"Probably." He admits and then, with no warning, picks you up and throws you over his shoulder. 

You hit his back, "James Potter, put me down now or I swear I’ll bloody murder you, you wanker." You cry as he turns around and you just know he's already making his way towards the lake. You kick your legs and flail your arms in protest but feel his cold, damp, hands tighten around your waist. 

"Careful, mate." Remus tries to warn him but James doesn't listen. He's already almost waist deep in the water and he lets you fall into his arms. You clutch onto his neck and squirm.

"No." You hiss and stare into his eyes. 

Again, James isn't the best at knowing when to stop. 

"Sorry, love" He whispers and proceeds to throw you a few feet away from him. Your head hits the water and instantly, the temperature shocks you as your ears start to ring from the impact. You let yourself stay underwater, a little surprised by the depth, and collect yourself. You realize James doesn't know you're a good swimmer, all he knows is he just launched his poor, unwilling girlfriend into freezing water. 

So, you stay under as long as you possibly can. Just to scare him a little.

Barely a few seconds pass by before strong arms wrap around your waist and pull you to the surface, "Y/n!" You hear James's voice as the water drains from your ears, "Are you okay?" 

You splash him, your hand hitting his cheek playfully, "I hate you." You say with a small smile. 

James's face relaxes, “You fucking scared me." He admits, half-scolding, half-relieved, and holds you close. 

You laugh and stand up in the water, "It's not that deep, idiot." You scrunch your nose when he uses both of his hands to move strands of hair from your face as he peppers kisses all over your cheeks. 

"Merlin, don't do that ever again, Y/n." He whispers. 

"Maybe don't throw me into the water when I asked you not to." You retort and push your hair back. 

James looks a little guilty, "Yeah, sorry." 

He leans in to kiss you but you turn his head around, "No." You say and James frowns. 

"No?"

"No." You fight a smile.

"Okay." James says, confused, and dunks under the water. He comes back up and pushes his hair away from his forehead.

"See, it's not that hard." You tease him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. He nuzzles his cheek into the crook of your neck,

"That's a completely different situation, love." He tries to reason but you shake your head.

"Consent is consent." You inform and James pouts like a child.

"Now you're making me sound like a dick." He whispers, embarrassed, "You don't actually think I'm bad with consent, do you, Y/n?" He sounds genuinely concerned.

"You're not a dick, Jamie." You laugh, "You are a little bad with the concept of the word no, though."

"Hey! Not when it really matters!" He defends, carefully wrapping your legs around his waist. He starts to roam around the water like it's just the two of you, alone in your little bubble.

You nod, "Of course, but it does matter all the time."

James tilts his head, "Yeah, you're right, I'm sorry, honey.” He kisses behind your ear, "How can I make it up to you?" You giggle and lean in to kiss his lips, which he accepts graciously.

"You know what you can do?" You ask in a whisper into his ear, "You can take me upstairs and I'll let you — " You make sure the rest can't be heard by your friends.

James's eyes sparkle excitedly, but then he pauses and his eyebrows furrow as he thinks, "And you consent, yeah?" You grin, endeared, "Just say no and I'll listen, baby." 

"Good boy. You learn fast."

James groans and kisses you again, "Call me a good boy again, please." He mutters as his lips trail down your neck.

You laugh. He wraps his arms around your waist and you hold onto him, "Behave, Potter."

"Tease." He says and suddenly drops you into the water. You emerge and splash him, your smile hurting your cheeks.

"Perv." You retort and James raises his brow. He grins and throws you over his shoulder again. This time, you don't protest and just wave as you walk by your friends.

"Do we even want to know why you're leaving?" Remus shouts, shaking his wet hair from next to Sirius.

"They're going to have sex, Moony. Keep up." The latter rolls his eyes.

"Gross." Lily scrunches her nose. Your friends turn their heads when they hear your amused squeal and see James dig his fingers into your side, making you laugh, as you pick up your belongings. You hit him with your towel but hold his hand anyway.

"Sometimes, I do hate how cute they are." Peter mutters to himself.

"Aww, I can give you a kiss if you want, Wormtail." Sirius jokes which earns him a splash from Remus and an eye roll from Lily. 

"Bugger off." Peter looks horrified. 

"Pucker up." Sirius cries and lunges at Peter in the water, only to be pulled away by Remus and you can hear their laughter even from far away.

You look at James. James, your lovely, sometimes stupid, boyfriend and his messy dark curls. He's all you had ever asked for, and all you could ever want. 

"I love you." You say, adoringly.

James turns his head, an obnoxiously proud look on his face, "I love you more, my love. More than you can ever imagine." He pulls you into him, his hand leaving yours to wrap around your shoulder as he reaches for your opposite hand.

You hand it to him and grin when he squeezes it. You feel like the luckiest girl in the world.

[straows]

Pheromone Spray; G.S

-In which you listen to Nanami's wife and order a pheromone spray that was supposed to make your husband go feral. Only, things didn't go exactly to plan.

A/n: This will be rewritten soon.

Pulling you hair up in a bun and sliding on your reading glasses, you sat on the floor in your guest bedroom closet as you scrolled on your laptop.

You’d gone out for coffee with Nanami’s wife yesterday. And she’d been going on and on about this perfume that had her husband, yes even the saint that was Nanami, acting like a man starved.

So of course, you were intrigued. Because for as long as you knew Nanami, he was a gentleman. So if that perfume worked that well, what would happen if she tried it on Gojo?

You’d tried a few different websites to find that specific perfume that Nanami’s wife used, but it was proving more and more difficult.

Finally, however, you’d seen it on a website buried amongst the others. And all they sold was this perfume, special lube and horny edibles. So of course you bought them all, using your own card that is. The total ended up being $263.35. Which, in hindsight, was way expensive and just about drained your account of all the money you had on there, but that was fine as long as Gojo didn’t look.

Sighing, you finally closed your laptop and took off your reading glasses before pulling yourself out of the closet.

Finally stepping out of the guest bedroom, Gojo, bless his heart, had been trying to find you for near about an hour. You’d convinced him to play hide and seek with you, and this was the perfect excuse.

“Found you!” Gojo tried to be slick as he wrapped an arm around your shoulders. “Not too good at this game are you?” Acting as if he wasn’t stress sweating from how hard he was looking.

Rolling your eyes, you just smiled. “Of course, yeah. I’m terrible at it.” Your smile turned to a shit eating grin as you looked away.

“Hey, I checked your bank funds and it says you spent about $100 on The Sims?” Gojo had a teasing grin on his lips as you immediately pulled away, cheeks flushed in embarrassment.

“Shut up,” you groaned, “I needed to get some more outfits but the patreon cost money and then I went down this rabbit hole.”

“Oh baby. Poor sweet baby. Of course you’d fall for shit like that.” Gojo sighed and pet your head, only for you to bite him. “Ow! If you wanted to fuck just say that!” He whined.

A month, a whole fucking month later, the package finally came in. And the packaging was pleasantly discrete.

You’d never yanked a package from the front porch so fast, immediately racing into your secret hideout, the guest bedroom, you locked the door, then ripped open the packaging. Smiling as you sniffed the perfume, it didn’t smell bad at all, it really smelled like your usual body mist you used.

Quickly, you spritzed it on, using probably way too much but you really wanted to see it work.

Grabbing the box, you hid it under the bed but paused when you heard the front door open and close. Shit. You’d forgotten Gojo had to go into the office.

But wait. This was perfect. You could try it out on him there. And if it did work, well, you could just giggle while Gojo struggled.

Immediately, you grabbed your keys and hopped into your car. Breaking a few traffic laws on the way there. You were just so excited. You loved watching the infamous Gojo Satoru, your finance, struggle. It just made you laugh every time. For example, you’d worn the Mean Girl’s Christmas outfit for Halloween last year, and refused to let Gojo touch you. So he was forced to rock a boner the entire way to the party, the whole party, and the way home. Of course when you got home he fucked you as hard as he possibly fucking could.

Walking into the office, you made a bee line for Gojo’s office. You didn’t notice other men at the office watching you. You had tunnel vision.

On the way there you had grabbed one of those bagels Gojo adored as an excuse to be there. Walking into his office, you smiled innocently. “Hey baby, you forgot to eat breakfast.” Setting down the little bag on his desk, you stood behind it, leaning back on it as you faced him.

Gojo smiled brightly, “Oh my god I’ll combust I love you so fucking much.” He near about moaned when he smelt the bagel. “I love you, I love you, I love you— is that a new perfume?” His eyes immediately locked onto your neck before glancing back up at you.

“Ummm, yes! Nanami’s wife gave it to me.” You laughed a little nervously, before tilting your head, “you like it?”

“Yeah you smell really good.” Gojo stood up from his chair, his hands leaning on the wood of the desk on either side of you as he pressed his face into your neck. “Really good.”

“Yeah? That good huh?” You couldn’t help but giggle, feeling his nose press against your neck like he was getting his fix or some shit.

“Fuck. Too good.” Gojo groaned, his pants growing tighter as a boner formed in his pants. His heart racing and his mouth growing dry.

One hand moved from the desk to grip your hip, bringing you flush against his body. “Shit,” he groaned into your neck, before pulling his face away and staring down at you.

About to say something, the door swung open to his office, and Nanami’s wife appeared. She paused, before smelling perfume and giggled. “You got it! Oh my god!”

Nanami appeared behind her, an amused look in his eye as he watched Gojo be in the same predicament as he was not even a week prior.

“I believe the ladies would like to go out for lunch. You have some paper work to fill out.” Nanami gave Gojo a stern look.

Gojo didn’t take his eyes off you before forcibly prying them away and looking at Nanami, “oh come on, my finance is here to see me.”

You grinned before pressing a kiss to his jaw sweetly, all while your hand teasingly trailing over his bulge.

Gojo had to muffle a groan, “y-you—“

“I love you baby, I’ll see you at home okay?” You winked at him before walking out with Nanami’s wife, giggling like school girls.

“What the fuck.” Gojo sat down with a grunt, his brows furrowed in frustration as he started down at the bulge in his pants.

“I tried to tell her it wasn’t a good idea to tell your fiancé.” Nanami sighed, about to turn around to head back to his own office before Gojo stopped him.

“Wait what do you mean? Tell her what?” Gojo eyed Nanami suspiciously.

“The pheromone perfume? My wife pulled that ridiculous prank on me last week. While I’ll admit, she did it at home so it wasn’t really a problem.” He pulled at his collar slightly as he remembered the hours he spent ‘reminding’ his wife about what he thought of her pranks. He fucked her all night and took off work the next day to use the perfume again.

“You’re joking.” Gojo stared at him, his jaw clenched. “And she’s just gonna leave me like this?”

Immediately, he pulled out his phone to look at her bank account, noticing that she only had $1.22 left and that she’d spent $263.35 on that fucking perfume. “Well shit.” Pulling out his phone, he immediately sent the text that he’d be waiting for her at home, and that’d he’d needed to come early due to ‘being sick’.

“He loved it! Loveddddd it!!!” You smiled widely as you spoke with Nanami’s wife, all giggles and smiles when you got that text. “Wait, shit. He said he’s not feeling good, do you think he’s sick from it?”

Immediately your face dropped, “can that happen?” Looking over at your friend, concern written all over it.

“It didn’t happen with me and Ken, but I don’t know. Gojo may be allergic to it?” She frowned.

“Here, I need to head home. Can I pay you back for the lunch tomorrow?”

“Nonsense. I got you into this mess. Go make sure he’s okay, I know you’re worried.” Nanami’s wife shooed you off and you were thankful as you rushed home.

Walking inside, you looked around and noticed all the lights were off. “Baby? I’m home. You said you weren’t feeling well, what’s wrong?” Turning on the light, you walk into the kitchen not noticing Gojo, who was in nothing but a pair of grey sweats. The outline of his painful looking boner showing through the fabric.

“Welcome home.” He wrapped his arms around you from behind, glaring down at you, “your little perfume prank today was not very funny.” He huffed.

“Wha-“ You paused, “wait. How did you find out about it?”

“Nanami.” Gojo pressed a kiss to your shoulder, all the way up your neck before biting down hard on your shoulder making you gasp. “Fuck you still smell so good.”

“You can’t blame me, the way she said it drive Nanami crazy… I just wanted to try it on you.” You tried to be all cute and sweet, but he was not having it.

“I can blame you. Because you left me there to deal with it all on my own.” His fingers slipped under the hem of your shirt, before roughly palming at your breast. “You’re so mean to me.”

A soft whine slipped past your lips as you let your weight lean against him. The feeling of his large hands roughly grabbing all over your body had your thighs squeezing shut.

“But this is what you wanted right? Hm baby? Wanted me to be rough and manhandle you, that it?” His voice was mocking and his tone condescending. Teeth nipping at your neck and jaw as he ground against your ass. Stuttered and breathless moans were muffled as he buried his face in your shoulder.

“Y-yeah, wanted you to be rough with- fuck, with me.” Placing your hands against the cold granite of the counter, you leaned forward so you could your ass against him completely, moaning softly when he’d grip your hips roughly before pressing into you.

“You definitely need to be punished.” Gojo nodded to himself, pupils huge and dark, his hair sticking to his forehead as a light layer of sweat coated his skin, “and you’re not getting out of it anytime soon.”

In a way, your plan worked. You got to see him squirm at work. And in the end you got what you wanted, just for a lot, lot longer than you’d imagined. Seeing as Gojo didn’t even show up to work the next day as he was far too busy fucking you in every room and on every piece of furniture in the house.

I mean from the bed, to the dress, to the floor and closet. To the shower, to the hallway and to the kitchen. And all throughout the house.

By the time Gojo was finally shooting blanks and his cock was so sensitive that he’d hiss if you were to touch it, he finally began to calm down.

And instead of punishing you more by making you sit on his face while your overstimulated, he just wraps his arms around your naked and exhausted body and refuses to let go.

Lololol I love the idea of some shitty perfume making your bf go batshit crazy for some puss.

[st4rfckerz]

i’ve been thinking about this tooo much.

MDNI 18+

The tall glass building loomed in front of you, reflecting the sunlight in a shimmering display of modern architecture. You grab Sam's hand, feeling the callouses on his fingers as you ascend the steps towards the entrance. The automatic doors slide open, revealing a sleek lobby lined with marble floors and contemporary art installations.

"So this is where your old man works, huh?" Sam glances around the lavish lobby, looking up at the high ceiling, his gaze occasionally catching sight of the impressive artwork adorning the walls. You nod, leading him towards the elevator bank. "Yeah, he’s worked here since I was a baby. They're usually pretty cool about me bringing people in. Just don't touch anything too expensive, alright?" You smirk, trying to lighten the mood before stepping into the elevator, pushing the button for the floor where your dad's office is located.

As the elevator doors slide shut behind you both, sealing you inside the small metallic box, Sam’s hand creeps up, brushing your ass gently.

“Sam, no.” you drag your words, warning Sam to not go any further. The warmth of his touch sends a shiver down your spine, and you find yourself leaning into him even more. "Come on, you scared?" he whispers softly, his thumb tracing gentle circles on your skin. The closeness between you two intensifies, making it difficult to concentrate on anything other than the rising tension. Sam tries to plant a kiss to your lips but you turn your head and push him away, laughing at his sudden neediness.

“No quit it! Not here-” You turn your head away again just to have Sam grab your jaw to make you face him again. His lips press firmly against yours, the urgency of his kiss leaving no room for doubt. As he pulls you closer, your arms instinctively wrap around his neck, holding onto him tightly. His lean body supports yours effortlessly, enveloped by the confined space of the elevator. The faint sound of the creaky gears echo in the background, reminding you of the steady ascent to your father's office, but all you can think about is the man whose tongue now caresses yours.

His hands trace down your back, finding purchase on your hips, pulling you closer still. The passion and desperation in his kiss leave you weak in the knees, making it hard to catch your breath. Sam’s hand glides down your waist, slowly making its way under the hem of your pants. His fingers finally slip beneath your underwear, feeling the damp fabric against your arousal. A satisfied smile spreads across his face, and he lets out a low growl, the vibrations of which you feel all over. "Too easy," he murmurs, his voice husky with desire. “I’ll be quick, I promise.”

Sam’s fingers slide easily inside you, his thumb rubbing your clit in circular motions, adding to the already intense sensations. “F-fuck Sam…” Your eyes flutter, reacting to his skilled touch as your body responds eagerly. The elevator inches towards your floor, but at this moment, it feels like time stands still.

"Shhh, baby, let it happen," he whispers, his breath hot against your ear. His words serve as permission, and soon enough, your body trembles as an orgasm courses through you. Sam holds you tighter, letting you ride out the most unexpected and exhilarating climax inside the elevator.

Finally, the elevator comes to a halt, the familiar ding breaking the spell of intimate pleasure. As the doors open, Sam releases you and sticks his fingers in his mouth, his face plastered with cockiness and pride knowing he just took you to new heights.

[divagrace]

Boat Day

SoftRafe x SweetPoguePrincess 

Summary: Reader finally gets a taste of the look life, now being able to boat around on her boyfriend’s giant yacht.

Warnings: none! <3

⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧ ⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧ ⛧°. ⋆༺☾

You flew right out of the doors of Tanny Hill. Skipping high and low, with your hair flowing behind your back. Rafe padded after you, used to your excitement, but still not sure why the level of it is so much higher today.

“Baby slow down, I have to open your door.” Rafe calls from behind you. You reluctantly slow your skipping, but continue to bounce on your heels from your excitement.

Rafe reaches his arm around you to open your side of his truck and makes sure you get settled before shutting it and walking over to his side.

Rafe can still see the happiness radiating off you in waves.

“Baby you’ve been on a boat before, why are you so excited?” He asks you. You sigh, because even though Rafe is very understanding about the differences between the two of you, he still doesn’t seem to fully wrap his head around everything.

You turn to him.

“Rafe, I know I’ve been on a boat before. But it was a normal, rundown, rusty boat. I’m about to go on a boat that’s almost like a freaking yacht for the first time in my whole life. This is something that I only thought I’d be able to do if I worked on one. So it’s a big deal to me.”

You can see the way Rafe’s eyes soften as you explain your excitement to him.

“Well then I’ll make sure you have the best time.” He says nodding to you. A smile lights up your face again, and your bright mood returns.

Of course there is a boat that’s roped to the dock of Tanny Hill, but Rafe just got a new one and wanted to have you guys to be the first to use it.

So Rafe drove through the bustling treats of Outer Banks until he reached the docks.

When he pointed out the boat you two would be on, you could help but let out a gasp, the boat was huge, and just beautiful.

“My goodness Rafe it’s so pretty!” You say, your voice laced with awe.

He just looks over at you with a proud smile on his face. He grabs your hand and leads you onto the boat and soon enough, you guys are sailing through the beautiful waters of OBX.

Right now you are lounging on one of the many couches spread around the boat. You have your cute pink bikini on, and your arms are stretched high above your head.

Because you insisted you needed to get tan, Rafe went onto social media and searched up the best tanning products, so now, an expensive tub of tanning gel and a bottle of sunscreen are laying on a table next to you.

Your eyes are shut, sunglasses perched on your nose, just soaking in the sun.

Rafe on the other hand, can’t keep his eyes off of you. You look magical, like you were raised by a bunch of fairies and then dropped onto earth, specially for him.

You continue to tan, switching every so often from your front to your back so you don’t fry one side completely. But eventually, you get bored.

“Rafeeee.” You whine. His head perks up from his sitting position next to you.

“Yes baby.” He says calmly.

“I’m hungry.” You pout. He chuckles at your whining. You both know that there is anassortment of food on board, you just don’t want to get it yourself.

“Me too. Come on let’s go get something.” Rafe says before standing up and grabbing your hand. He leads you down under deck to a kitchen. You open the fridge and find your favorite snack, chips and salsa.

Rafe knows it’s your favorite, so everywhere he goes he tires to keep it stocked for you.

You grab the chips from the counter and then hold those up with the salsa for Rafe, silently asking him if he wanted the same thing. He nods in approval and then leads you back upstairs.

You go to take a seat next to him at the table, but he pulls you over to sit on his lap instead.

No matter how many times that happens, a blush still rises to your cheeks.

You set the chips and salsa on the table in front of you, and start eating. After you have one, you’ll scoop up some salsa on a chip and hold it in front of Rafe’s mouth until he eat it.

He’ll never say it, but you know this type of thing makes him happy. He loves just having you in his lap with his arms wrapped around your waist. And obviously he’s getting fed, so that makes him extra happy.

Your boat day ends with the most gorgeous sunset ever. You take a ton of photos, and of course you make Rafe take photos of you on your digital camera that he gifted you.

Then you go as far to kindly ask one of the crew member to take some pictures of you and Rafe.

You pose with his hand wrapped around your waist and you rest your head on his chest.

Once you look back at the photos, you see he rarely looked at the camera, his eyes were locked on you the whole time.

But they couldn’t have turned out more cute.

“Did you have fun baby?” He asks you, but he already can guess your answer.

“It was literally the best day ever!”

[mulloey]

blood and honey

you’re the only person alive who knows his secret. he reminds you why it’s better to keep your mouth shut.

assassin!the8 x fem!reader

words: 7.7k

taglist requests

warnings: um ok, mention of death & murder obviously (non-graphic), you’re his gf, you’re not involved in his work but you are def complicit lol, mean hard dom!minghao, brat taming, punishment, degradation, objectification, you are explicitly and deliberately treated as an object, gun play, death threats, deepthroating, manhandling, restraints (belt), slaps, breeding, innocent!reader sub plot, he has a corruption kink, there’s more but these are the main ones

—

Your friends say he’s cheating on you. They’re convinced of it, in fact, and honestly? They’re right be. The signs are all there, after all—and the actual explanation is no better.

So when he leaves the house at odd hours, often gone for hours or days at a time without communication or explanation; it’s a fair assumption, and his second phone, second bank account, second ID card don’t help his case either; nor do the marks and bruises he always seems to bear but can never explain.

Everything points—should point—to the obvious; Xu Minghao is having an affair.

If fucking only. That would be a lot easier to deal with.

You’ve known the truth—the actual truth—for a while now. You found out by accident, of course, and you promised your discretion with his hand wrapped around his neck. You could tell in that moment, from his steady, practised grip, that he knew exactly where and how to choke you without actually doing damage—which meant, of course, that he could all too easily do the opposite. So agreeing was a no-brainer, really.

Honestly, it wasn’t really necessary, though—who on earth could you tell even if you wanted to? It’s not like he has any colleagues for you to meet, and when it comes to regular people you’ve found that there’s not really a good way to say my boyfriend kills people for money and I let him—so you keep your mouth shut, look the other way and pretend you don’t know.

You still remember the day you met him; how normal it seemed. You remember the tall, good looking man strolling around the Givenchy store where you worked. You remember the way his eyes found you the moment he walked in; how he beckoned you over with two fingers and you obeyed without thought; how he slipped his card into your pocket and told you to call him.

You remember three days it took you to gather the courage; and the three orgasms he ruined later to punish you for it.

The purse he gave you the second time you met is sitting on the counter when he comes home. It’s white leather, by some Chinese brand he knows you don’t remember the name of, with fluff and bows accenting it. “For my angel,” he’d said as he pulled it out at the restaurant. You’d flushed pink, smiling into your champagne glass as he raised a toast ‘to innocence.’

What a fickle thing it turned out to be; innocence. How easily he’d taken it apart before you even knew what was happening.

He calls your name softly, voice echoing around the silent apartment and he can’t help but smile to himself as he hears the pitter patter of bare feet on hardwood floor before you round the corner with a smile, rushing towards him. The thin white material of the oversized dress shirt you’re wearing catches briefly in the moonlight that pours through the window and allows him a fleeting glimpse of your silhouette. The sight of your curves makes him twitch—that they’re concealed by one his own shirts, hanging loosely off of your frame, makes him desperate.

“Hey, Hao,” you smile. He wraps his arms around you, holding you tightly as if he’s afraid someone will take you from him. He treats everything he has like that; like it could fall apart or be taken away at any moment. In his line of work, you can’t really blame him for it.

“How’s my girl?” he asks. “My pretty thing.”

“I’m good,” you smile. He sees your eyes flicker down his body; the frown on your soft lips. He rolls his eyes. “I’m not injured,” he says. “It was a clean job.”

You relax, shoulders slumping a little as tension lifts and he clicks his tongue. He both hates and loves how you fuss over him when he comes home—he loves that you care for him, of course, but he hates how breakable you seem to think he is. He protects you from harm, not the other way around. You’re the one who’s fragile and vulnerable and easy to shatter. You always have been; that’s what drew him to you in the first place.

He’s always liked weak, helpless things; precious little creatures who needed his protection. If he hadn’t found a more lucrative profession, he’d probably have been a bodyguard; the idea of shielding someone smaller and weaker than him from harm is electric to him and always has been. It’s what makes you so perfect to him. He remembers your third date, when he’d finally touched you for the first time; the nervous excitement in your eyes as he hovered over you.

“Minghao.” Your voice was soft, shaking with anxiety. You clasped a small hand around his wrist where it inched towards your pussy. “Minghao, I—I’ve never done this before.”

He already knew that. He knew it instantly, from the moment he saw you; everything about you screamed purity, innocence; delectable naivety—but to hear it from your puffy, pouting lips, still wet from where he’d kissed you passionately moments before, made his heart race. Oh, the things he was going to do to you. The things he was going to teach you. You were a blank canvas, and he was going to paint it with his colours.

“That’s okay, princess.” His lips curled into a smirk he couldn’t hide. “I’m gonna treat you so, so well.”

He sees that same look in you now as you stare up at him with a small smile, your hands grasping his waist. For all the purity he’s taken from you, it’s never left your eyes. He hopes it never does; that no matter how he corrupts you, some part of you stays that innocent fawn forever.

“Did you miss me?” He asks. You nod, tilting your head as if to say Duh, Minghao and he chuckles. “I missed you too, pet. Thought about you the whole time I was away.”

It makes you jolt a little when he talks about his work; when he makes those vague, innocuous references to what he does but never goes into detail. It’s an unspoken agreement you have to prevent the blood on his hands from seeping into yours, or into the relationship as a whole—he doesn’t talk about it, and you don’t ask. But still, it always lingers under the surface, and it takes you by surprise whenever he brings it up.

“Come on,” you whisper. “Let’s go to bed. You must be tired.”

But he can tell from the way your hips sway as you lead him down the hall by the hand that he won’t be doing all that much sleeping tonight.

—

He was right, of course. But honestly, he should have predicted this too.

Even as he ties his tie he can’t believe you pulled this off; can’t believe you managed to get him to agree to this. Managed to make him promise, even.

He should have known you had ulterior motives. You’ve long realised that if you want something you know he’ll say no to, then the moments after he’s just cum inside you and is still on the high that fucking you always provides, are the best time to ask—because when you’re fucked out and gasping for breath with his cum leaking out of your little hole, there’s not a luxury on earth he’d deny you.

Which is how he ends up with you on his arm, walking down the red carpet into some gala. The lights are bright and irritating to a man used to working in darkness, and the crowds of people make his adrenaline rush on instinct; in this line of work, he’s used to attending these events with a gun or vial of poison hidden under his jacket. He’s used to blending in in a waiter or valet’s uniform, making himself small and unnoticed until the job is done and slipping away before anyone notices what’s happened—so to be here as a guest, with his precious girlfriend on his arm smiling and greeting people as they walk by, has him on edge.

He knows he should be and is proud; they’re celebrating your achievements after all, and making the dean’s list is no small thing. But he’s not a public person; how could he be? He feels exposed and at risk for once in his life and more importantly, he feels like you’re at risk. He doesn’t realise just how much it’s affecting him until he hears you yelp, yanking your arm out from where he’d apparently been gripping it tightly enough to form a pattern of bruises across your wrist. “Minghao,” you whine. “For God’s sake.”

He hums and mumbles an apology and you roll your eyes. He ignores you, turning away with a scoff.

He turns his gaze towards the rest of the room, scanning through the crowds of people piling in and searching for anyone who might pose a problem. He’s good at discretion, has to be, but it’s possible that over the years someone has figured out who he is, and the rare occasion he’s out in public without his usual assortment of weapons on him would be an ample opportunity to finally take him out. No one jumps out at him, though—but then again, neither does he until the moment he strikes.

He can see you getting antsy now; you’d promised you’d stay at the table with him as a condition of him going, but he can tell from the way you twitch and fidget with your hands in your lap that you’re regretting that decision. You want to dance, or mingle, or something.

You catch his eye, a hopeful expression on your face and he knows exactly what you’re about to say.

“Hao, can I—”

“Nope.”

“Oh come on, you didn’t even consider it.”

“Don’t have to,” he says. “You’re staying with me, and I’m staying at the table. End of discussion.”

You huff, stomping your foot theatrically against the floor. His lips quirk with a fond smile. “You’re boring, Hao.”

“I’m careful.”

“Yeah. Boring.”

He turns back to the table, taking another sip of whiskey and leaning back in his chair. He looks thoughtful and focused but you see him tapping his foot against the floor the way he only does when something’s bothering him. His fingers are wrapped tightly around the glass, on the verge of breaking it and you grab his other hand where it lies on the table. “Relax, Hao,” you smile. “No one here is like, bad or anything. It’s a bunch of stuffy humanities students, they know more about the history of guns than how to actually fire one.”

He hums in response, squeezing your hand. “I’m perfectly relaxed,” he says. “I’m just aware of my surroundings.”

“As always,” you grumble. He quirks an eyebrow and you bite back a grin. “Can I dance, Hao, please?”

“Didn’t we just have this conversation?”

“Kind of.”

“Same answer, then.” He nods at your plate of unfinished steak, clicking his tongue. “Eat your food,” he says. “You need some muscle, baby.”

”Why?” You ask. You have that little lilt in your voice you always get when you’re pushing his buttons on purpose. “Afraid someone’s gonna come out and kill m—”

You’re lucky your table is in the corner and partially hidden by decorations; you’re not sure how you’d be able to justify to your peers the way your boyfriend grabs your neck before you can finish the sentence, yanking you towards him and pressing his forehead against yours. “Your mouth,” he breathes, “is going to get you in a lot of trouble.”

You know he sees the way your thighs clench at the low, warning timbre of his voice and the restrained anger and strength behind his touch. You wet your lips unconsciously and his eyes narrow at the way your tongue glides across the surface. Nymph.

“Maybe I want to get in trouble,” you whisper. “Did you ever consider that?”

He releases you suddenly, pushing you away from him and for a moment you almost think you’ve turned him off somehow—but the darkness in his eyes tells you everything and more. “All the fucking time,” he says.

Somehow another hour goes by without a hitch; you sit obediently at the table, scrolling on your phone until they start the speeches. Minghao claps proudly when the head of your department praises you by name and you blush deeply, shrinking into your seat in embarrassment. When she finishes talking and the chatter starts up again, you turn to him with that familiar restless glint in your eyes.

“Baby,” you purr. He rolls his eyes; you’re transparent.

“Don’t whine,” he mutters.

You stare at him for a moment, lips pursed; if he didn’t know you as well as he does, he could almost mistake your expression for one of reluctant compliance. But he does know you, and he sees the way your brows furrow ever so slightly; notices the petulance on your face.

A small, sweet, deceiving smile reaches your face before you turn away.

“Waiter!”

In a stroke of luck you manage to catch a young, fairly handsome waiter passing by your table and he stops in his tracks with a polite smile.

“Can I help you, Ma’am?”

“Hmm.” You let out a soft giggle, one Minghao is very familiar with as your ‘come to bed’ call, and your boyfriend looks up. His eyes narrow when he sees the waiter beside you and the way you’re smiling at him, leaning in closer. “I’ll have some red wine, please.”

“She’s had enough, actually,” he interjects. You manage to keep a straight face, pretending to look annoyed when you actually want to squeal at the authority in his voice.

“Gosh, Minghao,” you sing. “I’m a grown woman, I can do what I want.” You turn to the waiter, puffing your lips out in a soft pout and trying to look as sweet and innocent as possible. You can tell from the way the man flushes that he knows and likes what you’re doing. You hope Minghao can tell too. “Isn’t that right?”

Minghao scoffs, fists clenching and the waiter swallows.

“Um—yeah, I guess.” The poor guy looks a little uncomfortable now, caught in the middle of you two and his eyes search around the room for an escape. “But if this is a problem—”

“Nonsense,” you say. “My boyfriend’s just being overbearing.”

You catch the tensing of Minghao’s jaw in your peripherals and feel your stomach twist in excitement. You smile up at the waiter again and he smiles back, a little more genuine. “Tell me,” you say, “you wouldn’t tell me what to do if I were your girlfriend, would you?”

“That’s enough.”

You turn your head at your boyfriend’s sharp, irritated tone, surging with delight when you see the way he’s fighting to keep himself calm. His eyes are dark and blazing and his hand twitches as if he’s trying not to hit you.

Jackpot.

You press a generous tip into the waiter’s hand for his troubles and he scurries away, leaving you alone with Minghao; your heart is already pounding with the unique blend of fear and arousal only he can provoke in you.

“What’s wrong, Ming Ming?” That’s an old nickname of yours, one you only use when you’re teasing or riling him up on purpose. If you were at home, you’d pinch his cheeks too just to seal the deal; but he’s shown you before that he’s not 100% above stuffing a vibrator in your panties when no one’s looking and making you sit and act normal until he decides you’re sorry; so you elect not to push him that far quite yet.

He watches you silently for a moment, staring daggers and you feel yourself shrink automatically under his gaze. He lets the silence hang, tension thick in the air until he nods curtly at you, mind made up. “Gather your things,” he says. “I’m taking you home.”

—

You remember the first time Minghao punished you. It was a few months into your relationship, a few weeks after he’d finally deflowered you for the first time. The love in his eyes coupled with the harshness of his movements as he fucked you was an unfamiliar pleasure for you; one you’d quickly become addicted to in ways even he hadn’t foreseen. He knew he would corrupt you; it was his plan and fantasy all along, after all, but he couldn’t have predicted just how desperate you’d become after he took you for the first time. He loved it; fed from it in fact, but a line had to be drawn—and that line was his work.

He had a job that night; a simple but high-paying one that would easily sustain him, and you, until the next client. Not that he really needed sustenance—his years of dirty work for the super-rich had made him a very wealthy man in his own right after all—but he took his work seriously and he was always happy to have even more cash to spend on you. You couldn’t have known the importance of this job in particular, of course; he’d simply told you he’d be going out later that night, and you’d hummed and told him to be safe like you did every time. Only when it came time to leave did you start causing problems.

“Minghao, please,” you whined. Your face was contorted in a displeasure he’d come to recognise—the displeasure of not being filled. “Don’t go. I need you.”

“I know, princess, but this is important. It won’t take long, okay? Just be a good girl and wait for me.”

His words were calm and patient like he was talking down to a child, a tone he often found himself taking with you; so perhaps he shouldn’t have been so surprised at the very childish way you responded—stomping your feet and huffing loudly before dashing towards the door and blocking it with your body.

It wasn’t a real problem, of course; your small frame was easily malleable and he’s manhandled far bigger and stronger people in his time. No, the problem was your disobedience—your direct defiance of him and, worst of all, your attempt to interfere in the one part of his life he had made very clear was his alone.

“Kitty,” he breathed, using the nickname he knew made you squirm the most. “You move away from that door or you’re not going to like what happens.”

You folded your arms, tilting a petulant brow with a stubborn smirk. “I’m not moving.”

“I have to work, pet.”

“Don’t care. Fuck your work.”

His jaw dropped; you’d never spoken to him like that, or used such foul language around him. He didn’t even know you had it in you, and he certainly didn’t like it. Clearly, you needed a long, hard lesson—and you’d get one.

The bruises he’d left when he’d returned from his job stayed with you for days. You’d never cried or screamed or pleaded like that before; nor had you ever been so fucking wet, and feeling of him fucking all the anger and violence and tension of the day into your fragile little body was a high you’ve chased ever since.

Now, as he drags you towards his car with a firm grip and hurried pace, you dare to wonder if you’re in for something similar tonight. “Get in,” he snaps.

“Hao—”

“I don't want to talk to you,” he says. “Get in the fucking car, y/n.”

Your jaw drops a little; he never uses your name—never. Not unless you’ve really fucked up.

“Do I need to count down from 10?”

“No!” You squeal when he shoves you lightly and you quickly round the car to slide in on the passenger side and take your seat. He joins you without a word, starting the car and pulling out of the garage without sparing you a glance.

There’s less than a second between the closing of your apartment door and him slamming you against it with force. His forearm presses against your neck, chest heaving with anger that flares across his face. “You,” he breathes, “are a fucking brat.”

You giggle, giddy with excitement; with the need to push him even further. “Am not.”

He lifts a brow, gaze flickering downwards to where you’re very obviously clenching your thighs together, chasing sensation, and he scoffs irritably.

“Oh, you think I’m joking, huh?” His voice is dangerously low and close now as he pushes your thighs apart with his knee, holding it there to keep them spread. “You think this is one of our little games? It’s not. You fucked up, baby doll.”

“Oh yeah?” You whisper. “What are you gonna do about it?”

He smiles briefly then pulls away from you. “Take off your dress,” he snaps. “Leave the heels.”

You blank. “But I’m not—”

“Wearing panties?” His brows are raised slightly, unimpressed and he holds back a smile. “What, you thought I wouldn’t know? You’re not as slick as you think you are.” His finger traces down the edge of your jaw, hot to the touch and his voice hardens again. “Take off your dress,” he repeats, “and leave the fucking heels. Don’t make me ask again.”

You stumble a little as you pull the dress off, unsteady on the tall heels, but you manage to keep your balance to put it down on the floor before straightening back up again; in just your bra and heels you somehow feel even more exposed than you would naked.

He looks you up and down, gaze flickering across your body; the individual curves, the tiny freckles and marks dotted across your skin. You feel small and scrutinised, like something for sale; for use. He nods. “That’ll do,” he says. “That’ll do very nicely. Walk towards me, whore. Slowly.”

His voice is level and unaffected, almost robotic as he beckons you towards him; when you’re a few inches away he raises his palm and you stop in your tracks, automatic. There’s a satisfied smile on his lips.

He grabs your head gently, cradling it in his hands, forcing eye contact. “Tell me your safeword,” he says.

Tension shifts. Arousal twists in your stomach and you swallow a whimper. “Cinnamon,” you whisper.

“Good.” Any previous hint of concern leaves his voice and he pulls back, releasing your face from his grip. “You’ll need it.”

You’ve been in this situation enough times to anticipate the blow before it comes, but still the force of his hand against your cheek knocks you to the floor. Your shins land awkwardly against the wood and you whimper pathetically. He doesn’t buy it.

“Don’t get doe-eyed now,” he sneers. “Time to act an angel was about three hours ago. Now you're my bitch and you’re gonna take everything I give you. Stand up.”

The way his eyes linger on your lips, falling down to your chest with a dark, unwavering glare, sends the first small shiver of actual fear down your spine. Minghao would never harm you—but he would hurt you, and it’s been a long time since you’ve seen him as angry as this or heard his words spit with such venom. His eyes flash briefly, darkly, and you know he sees it too; the fear etched all over your face. It’s all so overwhelming that you don’t even remember him ordering you to stand until he’s grabbing your hair and dragging you to your feet himself.

“Is that how fucking useless you are?” He hisses. “Can’t even stand up when I tell you?”

“I’m sorry,” you whimper. “I just—”

“Save it.” His chest is heaving, anger in every breath and his grip on your hair only gets tighter with each passing second, burning the skin attached to it. “You need to be fucking trained,” he snarls. “You’re going to learn to listen.”

His grip on your hair loosens and he nods in the direction of the couch. “Over there,” he orders. “Crawl.”

He doesn’t bother checking that you’re obeying before turning and walking over there himself; he knows you’ve clocked by now what a dangerous game you’re playing tonight, and he knows he’s taught you well enough to know when to stop. When you settle on your knees in front of where he’s seated there’s still that small glint of mischief in your eyes as always, but your posture and demeanour is all obedience.

He can work with that.

“Look at me, whore.”

Your gaze lifts nervously, shakily to meet his and behind the spark he sees the fear he’s cultivated so carefully and he hums approvingly. “So you do know how to be good.”

“I—”

“I didn’t tell you to talk,” he says coolly. “Keep your mouth shut until I tell you to open it.”

You nod, lips pursing a little as you try to hide your arousal. Not that you need to—you both know this is exactly what gets you off now—but it’s a valiant effort all the same.

“Now that we’re on the topic,” he continues, “let’s set some rules, hm?”

Another nod. He smiles briefly, a dash of fondness at the way you’re sinking easily into his control. “You’re not to speak unless I tell you to,” he says. “And when you speak, you address me properly. ‘Sir’ will do. Got that?”

You’re clenching your thighs without realising; arousal pulsating. “Yes sir.”

“Good girl. See, it’s not that hard to please me, is it?”

“No sir.”

“Excellent. Secondly, you’re not walking tonight. You want to act like a brain dead little bitch, expect to be treated like one. You’ll crawl, and you’ll keep the heels on while you do so. Understood?”

You’re sure your entire face and chest is a deep, burning red as you nod again, squeaking out a “yes sir” and he smiles, pleased. “What a good pet. Open your mouth for me, girl. Nice and wide.”

You obey without thought, stretching your mouth as far as it will go and he wastes no time before plunging three fingers inside, pushing them to the back of your throat. You choke, spluttering at the intrusion and he slaps your cheek. “Quiet,” he spits. “Don’t make this more difficult for yourself. This is the nicest I’m gonna be tonight.”

He pulls his fingers out and you feel the drool trickling down your chin and pooling on your chest but he ignores it, wiping his fingers against his pants.

He stands up, suddenly towering over you and you shrink away slightly. Good.

“Stay,” he orders; you follow him with your eyes as he walks over to one of the cabinets, flicking open a lock and pulling something out of one of the drawers. Somehow you know exactly what it is even before he turns around and the pistol comes into view.

He walks back and sits down without a word, twirling the gun in his hands; he looks comfortable and at ease with the weapon in his grip, flicking it back and forth like it’s a children’s toy and not a deadly weapon. Your gaze is fixed on it, unable to move; he’s never let you see one of his weapons up close before. Always said there were some things too big and heavy for your fragile little mind; things you could and should never understand.

“You like it?” He asks. “This is my favourite one. It’s very… discreet.”

You say nothing, eyes fixed on the gun and unable to look away and he beckons you closer to it. “Come on,” he says. “Have a closer look, brat. See what it is I do while you sit pretty all day.”

Your heart is beating so fast you feel sick but you force yourself forwards, shuffling across the floor and he watches with pursed lips before slowly, steadily raising the run to point it directly at your head. His hand is still; not a single tremor even as it comes to aim squarely between your wide eyes.

“You know how many people I’ve killed with this?”

Your gaze drops, suddenly unable to face it now and he clicks his tongue, voice sharp and biting. “Look at it, whore. Look at it just like they all do before I pull the trigger.”

The neutral expression on his face is what unnerves you most as you lift your eyes again. Even seeing excitement or thrill in his eyes would be better than this; than the emptiness and total detachment that greets you. It’s like none of this affects him on any level deeper than practicality and logistics. Is this really how he acts when he actually kills someone?

Your whole body is shivering, pulsating with fear; you don’t really like thinking about what Minghao does or just how dangerous he is—and now you’re face to face and staring down the barrel of it, unable to escape. Your eyes flicker up to meet his and you shake your head.

He‘s silent for a moment and you prepare yourself for another blow, but he just scoffs and lowers the gun, placing it down on the side table next to the couch. It’s almost anti-climatic, the way the tension dissipates; until his voice hardens again, unmistakably severe. “You seem to have forgotten what I’m capable of,” he says. “And more importantly, what people like me are capable of doing to you if you don’t watch your mouth. So allow me to remind you.”

He grabs your hair again, pulling you towards him until your face is level with his crotch. You swallow, fear and arousal thick in your throat and he grunts, grip tightening before he pushes your head further forward to press your face against his clothed dick. You make a noise of surprise, trying to catch your breath but his grip is iron and unwavering as he pushes you down harder.

“That’s it,” he says. “Rub your fucking face in it, whore. Show me how much you want it.”

He lifts your head, giving you a second to breathe before pushing you back down and this time you’re ready for it; your mouth opens, lips wrapping against the outline of his dick as you nuzzle against the black fabric and he groans, throwing his head back in frustration. “Fuck you’re desperate,” he mutters. “Take it out. I’m gonna fuck your throat.”

The noise you make is nothing short of pathetic and his dick pulses at the thought; the stark contrast between the vision in front of him, needy and pathetic and aware of it; and the frightened, helpless little thing you were the first time you sucked his dick.

It had taken a while to convince you—no, not convince. Give you the courage, maybe. He knew you wanted it; saw the way your gaze would linger on his bulge when it strained against his thin pyjama pants; how you’d wrap your little lips around his fingers as he fucked you, suckling at them like a hungry little kitten. You wanted it, alright. You were just scared. Needed his guiding hand, his praise and encouragement to get the job done.

He still jerks off to the memory sometimes; the image of you on your knees, hands shaking as you fumbled with his zipper; the way your eyes widened when you pulled it out; the fear and innocence in your voice as you asked “how will I fit it in, Minghao?”

“Same way you fit it in your pussy, princess,” he’d told you. “With training.”

There’s still an inkling of that same fear as you pull it out now; a stutter in your breath as your eyes flicker up and down the long, thick shaft. You’re decently throat trained now, just as he promised you, but he never really cared to get you too used to his dick in your mouth; he just doesn’t see the fun in you taking it every time without effort. Not when he could have you choking and gagging and gasping for breath instead.

“Put it in your mouth,” he grunts. “Then drop your hands.”

You make quick work of it, wrapping your wet lips around the tip and slowly sliding yourself down on it. You hold your hands behind your back, linking them together to avoid any temptation to break the position. He takes a moment to enjoy the sight in front of him; you on your knees, covered in drool with his cock held in your mouth; waiting for instruction. Waiting for permission.

It doesn’t come; instead he grabs your head and shoves you down on his cock himself, pushing it to the back of your throat and holding it there for a moment until you start to choke; then he lets you up, allowing you a moment to breathe, and repeats the process. He does a quick job of it, not caring to build too much tension or anticipation; as much as he loves your mouth, loves watching you sob and choke around his cock, anger still courses through him, pumping through his veins and building and bubbling in the background. It’s going to take more than this to sate it—no, this here is purely for his own amusement. An appetiser for the true punishment to come; decorative. Ornamental.

Your cheeks are wet now; red and flushed and streaked with tears. The force of his cock colliding with the back of your throat, over and over with little respite, is quickly sending you over the edge—but not quite. You still haven’t decided if it’s a blessing or a curse that Minghao has figured out exactly how far he can push you without crossing the line.

“Feeling sorry yet?” His voice is cool and distant; detached from the sensations rushing through your body like a live wire. When you blink away the tears still welling you see that same uncaring expression on his face, like this is merely an entertainment for him even as he pushes your head back and forth on his dick. You nod pitifully, audibly sobbing and he smiles. “Good,” he says. “That’s a good start, baby.”

Then he pulls out, forcing your head off of him without warning; you start to stumble back, unsteady without him holding you up but his hands are on you again before you can. He grabs your hair again, this time pulling forwards and manoeuvring you until you’re kneeling on the couch, bent over the back of it with your legs spread and your bare ass and glistening pussy level with his crotch.

“Give me your hands.”

It takes you a moment to register the command and your hands shake as you push them out behind you; he scoffs, grabbing your wrists firmly and holding them in one hand. The sound of his belt coming undone and sliding through the loops of his pants makes your muscles tense instinctively, anticipating a blow; he runs the leather along your ass, clicking his tongue when you flinch slightly as it trails down your thigh.

“Relax your muscles,” he says. “And don’t move, understand?”

“Yes sir,” you whisper.

He hums, stilling for a moment and your breath hitches as you await his next move. The belt runs across your ass again and you know he’s weighing up his options; deciding what to do next. He seems to choose mercy—comparative mercy, at least—because the leather loops around your wrists instead, secured firmly in place.

“Wriggle your fingers,” he says and you obey, moving them back and forth until he’s satisfied. “Any tingling?” He asks. “Numbness?”

It’s a little jarring, really, when he stops such an intense scene to check in on you like this; when he sandwiches care and concern between utter sadism and cruelty. But in another way it’s completely essential; it’s the only reason you trust him to inflict such things on you in the first place, and the only reason he trusts you to take it.

You shake your head, mumbling a “no sir.”

“What do you say if there is?”

“Apple.”

“Good,” he says; the returning coldness in his voice tells you the time for concern has passed as quickly as it came. “You’re not entirely useless, then. Stay still.”

He stands back, admiring the view; his sweet little girl, bent over, legs spread and ready to make amends. The sight of your flushed, shivering body is so appetising, so appallingly sweet considering the position you’re in, that for a moment it makes him forget all else—makes him want to stop for a while and savour it; to run his hands along your curves and ridges; to tease your pussy a little more until you’re begging him to fuck you; to pull an orgasm from you, then another and another just to watch you shake and convulse with pleasure.

He even considers it for a second, imagining how pretty you’d look coming undone for him—but then he remembers why you’re here. Remembers the way you’d toyed with him on purpose; the way you’d flirted with that waiter, slutting yourself out like a cheap whore just for some attention; how you’d looked up at a stranger with the same eyes only he was supposed to see. The way you’d run your mouth without a care.

You deserve none of his mercy tonight.

So instead he hooks an arm under your tummy, holding you up and still before slamming his dick into you without warning. You shriek, bucking against his hips and jolting forwards in shock and he lets his other hand come down once, twice, three times until your ass is a familiar shade of red. He doesn’t start slow nor waste time easing you into it; his thrusts are hard and fast from the off, angled to hit you in the deepest parts of your body. He keeps a firm grip on you, squeezing you tightly—bruisingly, probably, but he doesn’t care. With the way you’ve acted today, if you wake up tomorrow morning littered with bruises you should count yourself lucky that they didn’t come from his belt.

You writhe in his grip but the leather rubbing against your wrists means there’s little opportunity of escape or resistance and hands are firm and heavy on your waist; unyielding in his possession of you. A hard thrust against your deepest point makes you gasp, his name slipping out between sobs. “H-Hao—”

“Hao, Hao,” he repeats. His voice is high-pitched, tone mocking and cruel as his grip tightens on you, deep and painful. “Shut the hell up,” he barks. “Nothing you can say matters to me right now. Just clench your fucking hole and get me off.”

He feels you trying to obey; trying to tighten yourself around him with clenched thighs and he rewards you with a wet, biting kiss to the back of your neck. He licks at the hot skin, lapping up the sweat with his tongue; it’s a messy, filthy display that makes your stomach twist in delight and desperation and you push back against him, trying to pull him deeper. He notices, of course, and spits out a dry, mocking laugh.

“Desperate little whore,” he sneers. “You love this dick, don’t you? You’d love it even if it was tearing you in half.”

You cry out and he drops his hand harshly againt the back of your thigh, making you sob. “Say it,” he orders. “You love this dick. You fucking live for it.”

“I— ah, I love this dick!” He grunts, slapping you again and you squeal in pain. “I love it, Hao. I live for it.”

You hear the grin in his voice; see the wild, uncontrolled lust in his eyes even from behind you. “Yeah you do. Fucking cunt, you love this.”

He speeds up again briefly, altering the pace back and forth to keep you guessing; to prevent you from getting too comfortable or finding a rhythm in his thrusts that you can hang on to. Quick, rough thrusts that feel like they’re spitting you open turn to slow, deep strokes that make you wail in pleasure; back and forth, back and forth until the words coming from your mouth are more of an indecipherable babble. You’re completely undone, exactly as he wants you. He wants to see it up close.

He flips you over suddenly, pressing you forcefully back down into the cushions and slamming his lips against yours; he pins you down with a hand on your neck, just enough pressure to make you dizzy while he speeds up the pace again. He’s close enough to see the individual tears as they fall down your cheek; to see the beads of sweat shimmering on your face and neck. To see the sweetness and depravity in your eyes; innocent and perverse.

You look so fucking pretty like this.

“My baby,” he grunts. “My fucking—fuck—my fucking toy.”

“Hao,” you sob.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he coos. “Say my name, pet. Little fuckdoll, tell me who you belong to.”

“To you,” you squeak. “To you, Hao.”

“That’s right,” he says. “And you’ll take everything I give you no matter how much you scream. Understand? You can cry and beg and I won’t ever stop fucking you.”

“Yeah,” you gasp. “Y-yeah, you can.”

“Mhm,” he coos. “I’ll do whatever the hell I want to you and you’ll take it like a whore because I own you. Don’t ever forget that again, got it? You’re gonna fucking behave yourself from now on.”

He lands a harsh slap on your face, making you yelp and he rolls his eyes, tightening his grip on your neck. “You deserve a lot fucking worse than this, brat. You’re lucky I’m not fucking your ass right now.”

Lucky is certainly the word—you love when he fucks your ass, of course; it’s degrading and wrong in the most exhilarating way possible, but fuck does it hurt. It really fucking hurts, and he really fucking loves it.

“Sorry, Hao,” you whimper. “I— I was bad.”

He slaps you again on the other cheek. “You were a little bitch,” he snarls. “You deserve to be fucked like one. And you enjoy it, don’t you?

“Yeah, Hao, yeah, fuck.”

You’re babbling now, barely decipherable and he grins. “I’m gonna fill you up, you want that? Want my cum, doll?”

“Yeah,” you moan. “Please—”

“Good girl, good girl,” he groans. “You’re gonna get it. Gonna breed you full and you’re gonna keep it all inside, you got that?”

“Yeah, I— yeah.”

“There we go,” he whispers. “Do your job, bitch. Keep it in.”

His eyes roll back and you see the moment the last semblance of control shatters and he fucks into you with full force; full power and desperation. It doesn’t take long before you feel his hips stutter, a strangled cry leaving him as he finally unloads into you. Your legs wrap tightly around his waist, keeping him close; he smashes his lips into you with an exhausted fervour.

The first time he came in you was a little different.

The first few times he’d fucked you, you’d been too scared to let him do it; frightened of the thought of what could happen.

“N-no, Hao,” you’d cry, pushing on his tummy to nudge him away. “Not inside, please.”

“Hm?” He’d croon gently, wiping a stray hair out of your face. “What’s wrong, bunny? Don’t you want Hao to fill you up?”

“Don’t… don’t wan’ a baby, Hao. Don’t wan…”

The look in your eyes, frightened and innocent, was enough to push him over the edge the second he pulled out—which he did, of course. His precious little pet always got what she wanted.

So when you pulled his head closer to yours, pressing your foreheads together and heavy, stuttered breaths and said “cum in me, Hao. I’m ready,” there was nothing he could do but oblige.

He hooked your legs up over his shoulders, wrapping them around the back of his head; interlocked and intertwined with him; then he leaned over your precious, perfect body, pressing down on your thighs, pushing them towards your torso; relishing in the way you whined and squealed at the painful stretch.

He kissed every inch of your face, crooning praises as filthy as they were sweet, going faster and faster and faster—and then he came. He came hard.

Harder than he’d ever, ever come before. And your little pussy swallowed up every inch of it.

He hadn’t fucked anyone else since he met you, of course—but this was the moment he really, truly knew, that you were the only he ever wanted to touch again. No one else could ever taste so sweet.

You’re panting and shivering as he pulls out, as fucked out and delirious as you were the first time and his eyes flicker down your body; the littered bruises that have bloomed under the impact of his hips against your skin. He huffs out a satisfied breath and cups your head in his hands again.

“Look at me, angel,” he mumbles. You meet his eyes with a soft, still-dazed expression and he smiles. “That’s it. Listen to me, yeah? Remember what I told you tonight, understand? Remember the lesson I just taught you.”

“I will,” you whisper.

“Tell me what you did wrong.”

You flush again, squirming a little and he lets his grip tighten slightly. “No, bunny, look at me and tell me what you did.”

“Flirted,” you mumble. “With that guy. Didn’t listen all night and…”

“And?”

“Said… said dangerous stuff. Loudly.”

“Good girl,” he praises. He smiles softly, fondly as he stares you down. “My little brat, huh? Don’t make me do this again.”

“I won’t,” you promise, and he presses his lips to yours, the most gentle he’s been all evening.

Because that’s the best part; after the punishment, after you’ve misbehaved and been fucked back into place.

When you pretend you’ve learned your lesson. When you both pretend you didn’t enjoy every second of it. When you look into his eyes and tell the sweetest little lie he’s ever heard.

I’ll be good.

No, you won’t.

—

a/n: thank you for the request! honest to god i intended to give this a proper plot but it got away from me sorry.

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[emilys-bangs]

this prompt from the hydrangea list: “you should change out of those wet clothes before you catch a cold” with unit chief Emily and stubborn reader who fell into like a frozen lake or something during a case and reader makes up some sort of excuse so Emily lends her some of her own clothes which sparks something in Emily🤭

Not gonna lie, I giggled like an idiot when I read this, I'm obsessed 😭ty for participating!! Join my celebration here!

Tags: stubborn (lowkey annoying) bau!reader, reader wears emily's clothes, it's mentioned that they don't fit well but no descriptions of body type

Word count: 0.9k

Your hands shake so much you can hardly take your vest off. Emily does it for you, almost viciously, her nails ripping through velcro and separating it with loud screeches.

“I c-can—I can do it.” You pant, trying to push her away.

Emily’s eyes tell you to shut up. Her whole face does—lips tightly pressed, brows drawn and stiff. Her silence answers, as do her hands, slapping yours away and reaching for the straps under them. She rips them open, freeing you, and lugs your waterlogged vest off of your chest. You gasp, the frigid air tightening your lungs.

“Jesus, fuck.” You curse, clenching your teeth as your muscles lock.

The frown slips deeper between Emily’s brows.

“Take this off.” Her hands are shoving at your shoulders. Your windbreaker falls to the lake bank with a wet slap, joining your discarded vest. Emily sheds her own jacket; before you can blink, she’s wrapping it around you, her warm exhales puffing over your face. “C’mon. You should change out of those wet clothes before you catch a cold.”

You might as well be wearing a sheet of paper. But at least Emily’s jacket has dry pockets. You let her help you up—hell, who are you kidding, she does all of the heavy lifting—and almost fall back down when you let go, your legs trembling and numb.

Emily’s arm firmly wraps around your waist. She tugs you in the opposite direction, back to the SUVs.

“No, no, no.” You strain against her arm. “W-We’re gonna lose him.”

“I don’t think the fifteen agents on his tail are gonna let that happen.”

“Emily—”

“Keep moving.” She snaps.

The look on her face makes you comply. 

Your boots squelch wetly with every step. Water sloshes over your ankles, dipping your socks in a fresh wave of ice, and you shiver. Emily’s arm around your waist, sticking your shirt to your skin, makes it worse. 

Her grip is steel. Unnecessary and heavy and telling of her palpable anger with the way her fingers grip your side. 

“So what, now you’re mad at me for f-falling into a fucking lake?”

Her jaw ticks. She lets your question hang in the air, lets silence seal over it before speaking. 

“I’m not mad at you because you fell in the lake.” She says evenly, her voice low and composed. “I’m mad at you because you’re still a fucking idiot after falling into the lake.”

You scoff, “Oh, sorry for trying to prioritize my job—”

“Over yourself. That’s just,” she shakes her head, irritated, “that’s just stupid.” 

Bold of you to say, you almost snap back. But you hold your tongue just in time, digging your molars in and cutting off that thought.

“I’m fine,” you say instead, uselessly, because the SUV comes into view. Your numb fingers cry out in relief. “I’m just cold and dripping, not mortally wounded.”

“Thank god,” she says dryly.

For all your protests, you really are grateful when she all but throws you into the car and turns the heat on max. You’re pretty sure it’s the wrong thing to do, but you still huddle closer to the vents, directing whatever part of your body you can to the hot blow of air. It doesn’t do much—neither does Emily’s jacket—but you still shake your head when she comes around your door with clothes and a blanket in her hand.

You take the blanket. “I’ve got clothes back at the motel, I’ll just change there.”

Emily looks at you like you’re insane. “We’re going to the hospital.”

“What? We’re not.”

She holds out the clothes—a thick fleece sweater and sweatpants. “Put these on.”

“There’s no need.”

Emily pulls out her phone, eyes narrowing. “Fine, I’ll just call an ambulance.”

You snatch the clothes from her hand.

“Chief Prentiss,” you grumble, “you’re a pain in my fucking ass.”

“Ditto.” The corners of her mouth tremble, then smoothen out. Her brows raise, a thinly veiled threat. “I’ll wait out back.”

She leaves, and you look down at the clothes. Soft and warm, obviously well made and probably tailored to fit her. They’re not your size, but the hospital is at least half an hour away. 

And it’s not like you’ve got any dignity left to spare. 

You get in the back and change, teeth chattering as you pull Emily’s clothes over your body and adjust them so that they don’t look too ridiculous. Not like you care at this point; they’re warm and dry, lying thick over your bones, so you don’t complain. You get back in the front when you’re done, call Emily over, and try to warm your blue nails with the blanket she gave you.

“Thank you,” you murmur when she gets in, shame blooming in your stomach when you see the dampness along the side of her sweater.

Emily’s eyes flick over to you. They drag over your huddled form, your legs gathered on the seat—she doesn’t scold you for that, thankfully—and she blinks a few times. 

Great. Even she can see what a horrible fit her clothes are. 

A burning starts in your cheeks. You gather the sides of the blanket over your chest, crossing your arms over it. Emily turns away.

“Yeah. Yeah, sure.” 

She starts the car, her voice softer. 

“And thanks for your jacket. It’s all wet now, sorry, but I can get it dried for you. Probably dry cleaned too,” you mutter, mostly to yourself now, “it’s soaked up all that gross lake water. And your clothes—”

“It’s okay.” Emily surprises you with a laugh, clicking on her seatbelt and driving off. “Just stay warm, I don’t care about any of that stuff.”

“I am warm.” It’s not really a lie. Emily throws you a skeptical look, her eyes dipping down your chest before they get back to the road. “Really! I, uh…I don’t think the hospital’s necessary anymore.” You say timidly.

She shakes her head, the barest hint of a smile softening her cheeks. “Don’t push it.”

“Fuck.”

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[lacedwithsuguru]

severely toxic!toji who has your mind in a cockdrunk dizzy with every interaction. the two of you got entangled (literally) after you, an illegal bounty collector for an underground yakuza group, met up with him for payday.

nothing could have prepared you for the way the assassin shoved you up against the alley wall, tugging your pencil skirt right off and tearing your lace panties to shreds (maybe pocketing them without your knowledge.)

he whispered dirty nothings into your ear, your form bowing and molding perfectly against his. “such a sweet thing, couldn’t have guessed you were this dirty,” he’d growl, inching himself deeper into your syrupy walls as you desperately gasped for mercy, though you both knew you could take more.

his fingers would tangle in your hair, undoing that perfect slick back, and angling your neck so far back to shove his tongue down your throat in an attempt to shut you, and him, up. “god, you’re fucking milking me,” he’d fan across your lips, before digging his thick digits into your hips and picking up an even more ruthless pace.

your knees would wobble, nearly giving out at the overstimulation. to make things even worse, he’d wrap his massive hand around your waist and push your belly to feel that nub sliding in and out of your womb. “feel that, ma? feel how deep i am?”

the asshole didn’t even bring a condom, pushing into you raw, without a worry of a little him running around town a year from now. you didn’t let up any complaints, anyway. you were too slack jawed, cock drunk to ease any possible worries of his with the fact that you hadn’t missed a pill in years.

you braced your hands against brick wall for any semblance of support from his merciless thrusts, tears threatening to spill from your waterlines, that familiar knot coiling in your gut.

and with the way you were sucking him in every time he pulled out, he knew it, too. “let go, baby. cum for me.”

that was enough for you to snap, your orgasm crashing over you immediately as white dotted your vision. toji wrapped his hand over your mouth to allow you to scream into it, muffling your squeals.

he continued working you through your climax, sending pearly ribbons of his seed against your cervix within moments, growls leaving his gritted teeth.

that night, your first impression with toji, he’d left you with a prompt slap on your ass after tugging your skirt down. mascara smeared across your face, drool trickling down your chin and traces of the brick wall imprinted on your cheek were evidence of his dirty work.

you thought that was it. the asshole, an incredibly sexually talented one, that left you trembling in a dark alleyway, was going to be out of your sight.

and you were very very wrong.

toji fushiguro was a skilled man. and since he wanted to see you again, he could make it happen.

you’d run into the gruffy man at the store, at the bank, at the bar, and the most embarrassing spot to count was your office.

the bastard had no respect for your dignity or space. but that is because you made it incredibly easy for him to intrude into these parts of your life.

he’d show up? you’d give him exactly what he came for.

bending you over your desk and muffling you with your panties so your coworkers wouldn’t hear how he was defiling you behind that frosted glass door.

whisking you away to the bar bathroom where he’d eat you out so ravenously, you’d turn to putty in his grip.

pushing your head down his shaft in your backseat because how dare he be indecent at the grocery store?

after months of these meetings at all odd hours of the day and night, despite your sex-dazed mind for the enigma of a man that practically exuded testosterone that had your primal instincts crawling to the surface, you felt dirty.

used, unrespected, and unappreciated. you knew there was a sort of unspoken agreement between the two of you by the second time he showed up—that you were using each other for your deepest sexual desires.

it wasn’t like he wasn’t good, he sparked something lustful in you that no other person could even attempt at achieving.

and when you found yourself wanting more, more than just sex, was where it all went wrong.

because right now, he was plowing you against your kitchen table, your legs wrapped around his waist and tugging at his unruly raven tresses. his lips were kiss-bitten and you could only guess that yours matched his, when your gaze fell upon the seam of his mouth.

“h-how did you… get that?” you moaned into his mouth, feeling his tip bruising your cervix.

“what?” he asked, sweat beading around his furrowed brows.

“that scar, on your, fuck, lip.”

his pace slowed, cock stilling inside of you, as he tilted his head, scanning your near fucked out expression. “why do you ask?”

you felt your hands loosen their grip in his hair, tugging your lower lip between your teeth. this was probably the most he’s ever said to you that didn’t include his lewd language. “we, uh… we don’t know much about each other.”

the edge of his lip curled as his eyes narrowed, a scoff leaving his lips. those large hands of his, that moments ago were just kneading your bare thighs, pulled you off the counter top and spun you around harshly.

“the fuck does that matter?” he whispered against your ear, breath hot, and you could hear that shit-eating grin of his before he aligned his still-hard cock against your entrance and shoved into you, not even allowing you to adjust to his cruel rhythm. “all i need to know is this pussy.”

[lunar-years]

SOTR SPOILERS!!!//

I've already seen some complaints about how the plot was bad and the rebellion attempt didn't make sense/was far-fetched, but honestly that was one of the things I liked best about it!

Yes, the rebellion plot was an EXTREME long shot. The end goal really wasn't clear, the plan itself was shoddy at best with about a million things that could go wrong. It's honestly amazing that Haymitch and Ampert managed to carry out any part of it "successfully." And even then, they're really just the pawns of the rebel adults around them (like Katniss and Peeta in that way, except that unlike Katniss and Peeta, Haymitch's problem is being told too much, rather than being kept in the dark.)

I think it's pretty evident that this was a last minute, thrown together rebellion attempt hastily contrived of by immensely desperate people (and almost certainly prompted by Beetee's son unexpectedly being reaped.) Beetee needed his son's death to mean something. His wife was pregnant. He was probably already foreseeing losing them, too. He needed to at least try this. He was desperate enough to try it even if it was ill-thought and highly likely to fail. Wiress (Beetee's most recent mentee) and Mags (who's basically mother teresa like oh my god maggggs <3) would of course be wiling to jump in with him. Plutarch is desperate to get something, anything, stirring in way of rebellion. And finally they pull in Ampert and Haymitch to carry the thing out, the two tributes who have already been marked as direct, personal targets of the Capitol and have seemingly no chance whatsoever of coming out of the arena alive. it's easy to see why they alone were chosen, no other kids involved. After all, Haymitch has been told from President Snow directly that he is going to be killed. He's as good as dead already. He has nothing to lose.

Trouble is, no one expects Haymitch to actually emerge as Victor, lest of all Haymitch himself, but also everyone around him. The others are all adults who know and accept what could happen to them if the plot goes south. They take on the risks willingly. They are banking entirely on Ampert and Haymitch being dead anyway. And isn't it better to go out fighting back against the true enemy? The only thing Snow can do is take it out on them in the arena, which he will be doing regardless. Unfortunately, they're forgetting just how much Snow likes to play with his food before eating it. It's pretty clear with the poisoned milk picnic basket that Snow was indeed intending to kill Haymitch right up until the very end. He was merely waiting for the right time, after the right amount of humiliation, after forcing Haymitch to watch all his closest allies die horrible, targeted deaths. Only this time Snow waits too late. And then he has no choice but to pull Haymitch out alive so that the Capitol can have their victor.

I think the fact that it all fails so colossally is the biggest point of the book. As Plutarch comments at the end, when it does happen, the timing needs to the right. There needs to be an army to rally behind the rebels. Haymitch was given none of that. He was moved around on a chess board by desperate players. The rebels had hardly anyone on the inside. They didn't have the country behind them, no soldiers. They didn't yet understand their enemy well enough. He is set up to fail on all sides, the rebel side included. And they pay for it greatly.

On the other hand Katniss, when she comes, is very significantly not some grand "chosen one." She's pretty inarguably far, far less rebellious than Haymitch is at the start (in part because they have very different motivations in their games). Breaking into the arena to attempt to shut it down, working to destroy the generator, killing gamemakers in the arena, all that is about 10x more explicitly rebellious than the berry trick. The difference is not that Katniss is smarter or stronger. Imperatively, the only difference of any great significance is that Katniss manages to ensure her acts get seen. The berry trick cannot be covered up or cut out. It's the grand finale. And that's what makes it far more of a threat than all of Haymitch's crazy, reckless schemes to tear down the arena.

(interestingly, I think Haymitch would have been way more successful if he'd had the opportunity to carry out his backup plan of bombing the cornucopia during the final confrontation of the Games. The part of the plan that he came up with entirely on his own. it has to be something the Capitol's propaganda can't wash away, something that would have been impossible for them to cut out.)

Which is ultimately to say, the book is effective because it acknowledges just how complicated rebellion is. It takes far more than a few extremely rebellious, reckless people to make it happen. It takes a whole community banding together and rising up for change. On a series level, I think it also fleshes out some of Haymitch's decisions in the original trilogy, because it's easy to see why Haymitch would be so hell bent on keeping Katniss and Peeta entirely in the dark for so long. After all, look at what happened to him when he was in on all of it too soon.

[buddierealm]

ʚ MISTAKES NEVER LAST — e. diaz x reader

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 Wordcount: 4.1k Summary: Someone almost dies. You freak out. Alternatively, those accused of robbing banks together, stay together. Warnings: cheating, panic attacks, vomiting, yearning overload, idiot4idiot, they’re broken up but HR still hates them. A/N: anyone else feel like someone's gearing up to die and haunt the narrative?

13 times. Thirteen, thirteen, thirteen. You repeat the number so much in your head it doesn't even sound like a real word anymore. It's all you've done since you hung up on Bobby. It's all you can think about on the drive over. 13 times Chimney's been stabbed.

Howie Han can be annoying at times, but he's always been a loyal and kind friend. You don't understand why anyone would do such a thing.

And Maddie's been kidnapped, too.

They've seriously got to be the most cursed couple of all time.

You rush through the hospital doors, and tell the front desk your name. You're sure you look a mess. You had no time to even look in the mirror after getting that call. They ask for the patient's name and it takes you a long minute to come up with anything, cycling through Chim's endless list of nicknames in your mind.

“Howard Han. His name's Howard Han, he was...um,” you can't even bring yourself to say the words.

He was stabbed thirteen times.

The nurse at the desk's mouth drops open as she opens something up on the screen in front of her. You nod, you can tell she's just uncovered what's happened to him. Her eyes are full of pity as she directs you to the hallway adjacent to the ICU.

There, you find Athena and Bobby leaning against the wall, while Buck and Eddie sit in the corner. You walk up to Athena and she offers you a hug, before Bobby does the same.

“Anything new?” you ask Athena.

“No, he's stable for now. Last we heard they were getting him prepped for surgery,” she responds.

“Good, good,” you sigh, “What about the case? I mean, who the hell did all of this?”

“We don't know yet. There isn't much we can reveal. But before he fell unconscious, Howard mentioned a Jason Bailey. That name ring a bell?”

You think it does. You wrack your brain for a few minutes, trying to come up with anything from your conversations with Chim, but nothing comes up. As you're about to shake your head in response, though, you remember.

“Oh my god! Yes,” you yell, grabbing Eddie and Buck's attention, “This guy I met outside a bar we were all at. He asked for my number. I gave it to him.”

“He said his name was Jason Bailey.”

“Did he ever end up calling you?” Athena asks.

“Yeah, he called me a bunch after. I never responded, though,” you confess, as Buck and Eddie make their way over to the three of you.

“Would you mind giving me the number?”

You nod in agreement frantically, and pull your phone out. You read the digits out loud to her, and she logs them onto her phone. She explains that she'll try to track the phone attached to the number, and then leaves with Buck.

Shortly after, Bobby follows them. You're left standing there with Eddie, too stunned to speak. You can feel your throat closing up and a large pit forming in your stomach.

You move to sit down at the chair where Buck sat just minutes ago. You put your head between your knees and try to even out your breathing. Your mind is flooding with all of the different possible ways this could've gone. Repositioning your head fails miserably, when you start remembering all of the bad memories from the past month.

You've felt so lonely lately, the breakup with Eddie hitting you hard. You wonder, if it had been you, how long would it have taken anyone to find you?

You shoot out of your seat and make your way into the nearest storage closet you can find, slamming the door shut. If you're about to break down, it might as well be private. You can hear Eddie call after you, but you pay him no mind. You slide down the floor and sit in a crouched position, letting the cold floor cool you down.

Your face is running hot, you can barely hear your own heavy breathing with your mind running at 100 miles per hour, and it feels like someone's stabbed you in the stomach. You close your eyes tightly, trying to zero in on anything positive, but nothing comes up. And then Eddie walks in.

He closes the door behind him gently, and you're too busy wigging out to tell him to leave you the fuck alone, please. He grabs something off of a shelf above you and bends down to sit beside you.

“Hey,” he whispers, and your eyes turn to look at him. You're still freaking out but his voice is making this a little easier.

It could've been you. You instead of Chim. Maybe it should've been. You could've saved him. Maybe you would've been able to tell this guy was bad news. Why hadn't you responded to Jason's calls? If you had, it might've been you kidnapped right now. It might've been Eddie stabbed and left to die. Or you. You aren't too sure what this psycho's end goal is exactly.

“Take this, okay? Breathe into it for me,” he hands you a paper bag. You grab it desperately, and put it over your mouth.

You focus on filling the bag up with air, and breathing it back in. Eddie whispers praises into the dark, with a steady hand on your shoulder.

“You’re okay, cariño. You’re okay,” he tells you, “You’re doing so well.”

Your breathing's still irregular, though, and two breaths later you can feel the contents of your stomach come back up. You're immensely grateful for the bag, which Eddie grabs and throws into a trash can nearby. He makes his way back to your side immediately, placing his open palm on the middle of your back.

The worst of it is over, the endorphins from throwing up carrying you over. You feel a lot better almost instantly. Your breathing's gone back to normal, and you feel a little dizzy but it's a lot better than whatever the fuck that was. You rest your head against the shelf behind you as Eddie does the same. He sighs in relief, like he was the one who's just had a panic attack. Somehow, you can see it's affected him just as much as you.

“You okay, now?” he checks.

“Mhm. Much better,” you respond.

He rubs your back gently in circles. A few moments after you've both calmed down, you walk out of the storage closet. He leads you to a bathroom to get cleaned up, and waits outside.

Neither of you talks for the rest of the night. He takes care of you silently; he brings you food and coffee, holds your hand when Chimney goes into surgery, and consistently reassures you everything's going to be fine with just his eyes.

The morning after feels a little like dying inside. Chim's still in surgery, you haven't spoken to Eddie yet, and you're all going around sharing anecdotes about Howie like he's about to die.

When you feel like you're about to start panicking again, you put your head between your legs and claim it's just because you're tired. You can feel Eddie look for any signs of distress you might be exhibiting whenever you do this anyway.

The moment Michael and Harry turn up with drinks and baked goods, Eddie goes to grab you both a cup of the fancy coffee they brought by. You take the cup from his hand and thank him with a smile.

“We don't have to talk about last night if you don't want to,” he blurts out, as he takes a seat again.

You frown, “It's not that I don't want to. There's nothing to talk about. I freaked out. Chimney's my friend. I was worried.”

“It wasn't just that,” he accuses. “C'mon, we were both there. That wasn't just worry or sadness. It was guilt.”

You roll your eyes, “What the hell do I have to feel guilty for?”

He leans back, “You should ask yourself.”

He glances around to make sure no one's looking and puts a reassuring hand on your back, “None of this is your fault. It doesn't matter that this guy was trying to harass you first. It's not your fault, okay?”

His tone has a finality to it that almost makes you believe him. You nod anyway, and it's more of a promise that you'll try, than an affirmation. It's good enough for him.

You sip on your coffee slowly, and his hand never leaves your back.

There's still a smooth rhythm to your conversation. The quick-witted quips and jokes you shared during your time together still flow between you like you've never been apart. You're listening intently to Eddie talk about something that happened on a call the other week when his attention is pulled by something else.

“I happen to think...” he pauses, his eyes are now trained on someone behind you.

“Shannon?” he says, getting up.

You turn around to look. Yep, definitely Shannon.

He walks a few steps closer to lean down and hug Christopher. You smile at the sight, and get up to greet Shannon.

“Hey,” you say, introducing yourself.

She introduces herself as well, and you nod. Like you'd ever forget her. When Christopher hears your voice, he walks over to hug you. You pick him up into your arms, as Eddie grabs his walking sticks.

“Hey, buddy. How's it going?” you ask excitedly.

“Great,” he says, “Missed you.”

“Yeah?” you grin.

“Yeah,” Shannon responds, “He's mentioned you a lot.”

You nod at her, trying not to look visibly uncomfortable, and then ask Chris if he'd like to go see Chim. He's very enthusiastic for a kid that has to spend his Saturday at a hospital, but you entertain him anyway. You both walk further into the hospital, as his parents talk for a moment, before Eddie joins you and Shannon leaves.

It seems you have an insanely useless and incredibly inconvenient talent: it's crossing paths with Shannon Diaz. It's almost like the universe is punishing you by putting her in your life every time you have the gall to try forgetting about her.

And the curse doesn't stop at the hospital, it follows you all the way back to the station. Eddie's been out on a call for an hour and fifty-two minutes. Not just Eddie, everyone else too, but his shift had ended within those two hours, as had your own. You were just sticking behind in case anyone needed anything, definitely not to keep tabs on him.

Besides, no one ever said you couldn't keep tabs on your ex in your mind, even if he does have a wife. It's completely innocent. No one's getting hurt, and you find a little bit of solace in making sure he's fine after every call.

So, when you look over the railing to see if it's the team that's just stepped into the station and you catch sight of Shannon Diaz instead, you feel a little caught. It's almost like that woman has a sixth sense when it comes to you and Eddie.

She catches you staring at her from upstairs and waves her arm at you. She makes her way up with Christopher, and you greet them both, bending down to give Chris a hug.

“Hey, uh, Eddie's on his last call right now,” you inform Shannon.

She nods, and for some reason, you invite her to sit at the couch and decide take a seat with them. Christopher goes out of his way to sit next to you.

You entertain them with stories about rescuing people from the most inconvenient emergencies, but you keep out all of the graphic details for Chris' sake.

“Y'know, when I was with your dad, responding to an emergency once,” you narrate, looking at Christopher.

“There was a fire we had to put out. At the very last minute, I had to pull him away before he got caught in it. I practically saved his life. You should make sure he never forgets that,” you joke.

He laughs and nods like he’s actually going to remind his dad every 5 minutes. You can tell Shannon’s getting a little bored with all of the story-telling.

“Good thinking,” she comments, like she's praising a child for a cute drawing.

Chris almost immediately decides he wants a drink of water. He insists on going to the fridge for it alone. You watch him anyway, worried about the uneven flooring of the station. You finally look away when you realize one of your co-workers helping him out at the kitchenette.

“He's so independent for a kid. Wants to do everything himself,” you admire.

“Yeah, I know,” she responds, but she sounds like something else is on her mind.

“It is you, isn’t it?” she blurts out.

“Um,” you look around and repeat your own name back to her, nodding.

“You know what I mean,” she says, her voice heavy with accusation.

It’s clear she knows exactly what transpired between you and Eddie, before she decided to turn back up. If not, then she has a pretty damn good idea. You're too stunned to respond. You make sure to frown at her tone, though.

“What...” you begin, but you're thankfully interrupted by Eddie running up the stairs.

He hugs Shannon with one arm from behind the couch, and goes to say hi to Chris. When they both come back, Shannon looks positively furious. You feel like she might get up and kill you. Then, she does the most unexpected thing ever.

“Why don't you join us for dinner tonight? I'll make something nice.”

Is she seriously fucking inviting you to dinner?

Your eyes go so wide you might pop an eyeball. You turn to Eddie for a moment and then back to her.

“I kind of have plans. A date,” you lie.

That catches Eddie’s attention. You try your hardest to ignore his eyes boring into the side of your head, on account of his wife, who's literally sitting five feet away. There’s a palpable tension in the air. It makes you want to find the nearest sink and drown yourself in it.

“Maybe some other time,” you lie again.

You bid Christopher goodbye, and run to get dressed and leave.

A day later, it's Chimney's survived-a-brutal-stabbing party. Eddie and Buck hold up the party banner that reads, 'Chimney: 2, Death: 0.' Buck argues with Hen about respecting Chim's wishes, but she's having none of it. And, just on time, Athena brings the cake she picked up for the party being held at the station.

Hen announces that Chim's ten minutes away.

Perfect, you think, that's just enough time.

You walk up to Eddie as discreetly as possible and tell him to follow you into the bathroom. You go inside, and a few seconds later he's in there too.

“What?” he asks, a little concerned.

“Did you tell your wife about us?” you ask abruptly.

“Excuse me?” he whisper-shouts. “What I do and don’t tell my wife is none of your business,” he adds.

“Oh, don’t give me that. Just answer the damn question.”

He sighs in defeat, “Fine. Yes, I did. Of course I did. Happy now?”

“No, actually,” you respond, with snark.

“So what does she want now? For all of us to be friends?” you question, talking about how she so casually tried to invite you to dinner.

“I have no idea, okay?” he admits, "All I know is that I wouldn’t mind it.”

He waits for you to respond, expectantly. It's clear he's waiting for you to say the same.

You won't. You can't. The implications of it would be so fucked up. Especially after what happened at the hospital, which you're 100 percent sure Shannon doesn't know about.

“What do you want me to say? That I miss you? That it doesn’t kill me every time I see you with her and I remember what we had, and just how easily you let it all go?

“No. I won’t say any of that. Because it’s pathetic. And I’m not going to say anything to ease your guilty conscience. You should feel guilty.

“And I hate you for what you did.”

He's staring so intently into your eyes, you think he might be looking for any indication that what you're saying isn't true. Then, what you've just said dawns on you.

You've just admitted every single feeling you have for him in double negatives. And it's all true.

He grabs both sides of your face and pulls you into a hard kiss. He walks forward and pushes you into the tiled wall behind you.

It takes you a moment to slip your eyes shut, and delight in the feeling of his lips on yours. Just one word flashes through your brain, and it makes you pull back immediately like he's just burned you.

Wrong. This is all so, so wrong.

Looking into his eyes at this moment is the biggest mistake of your life. It instantly makes you forget everything. Your morals, your past, and his wife, it all fades away into the background.

You do remember the way he's made you feel, though. How sad, and dejected, and lonely he rendered you the day you realized he'd been lying to you. Your brows furrow at him, like looking into his eyes is causing you physical, palpable pain.

You slap him.

And before he can react, you pull him in for a kiss again.

His fingers are wrapped up in your hair in an instant. He pulls you impossibly closer, smushing your mouths together in desperation. You whine into his mouth at the feeling, but it reaches your ears as nothing more than a muffled, barely audible noise.

Your hands are cradling his face, but they just serve as leverage to keep him close. To make sure he receives everything you're pouring into this kiss.

You endlessly pour every single emotion he's made you feel since that night at the bar into the gesture. You hope he can feel the result, which just feels like a mess of love, and lust, and misery, and guilt.

So, so much guilt. So much guilt you're choking on it. When you almost can't breathe anymore, you pull back quickly. It makes you remember why you feel so guilty.

“No, no. Oh my god,” you exclaim, pulling his hands away and stepping back, all the way to the other side of the bathroom.

“You're married. Still married,” you think out loud, and it makes you feel a thousand times worse.

You shake your head firmly, “I'm not going to be some kind of mistress.”

You walk towards the bathroom door to leave, needing as much space between you and him as possible.

Since it's all out in the open now, so you feel the need to call him out on his bullshit once and for all.

“I won't tell you how to live your life. But if you keep playing house with someone you don't love, it'll do a lot more harm than good. To you and to Christopher.”

You had no idea a call could end so badly. You'd spent 12 hours locked up in a vault, unconscious and drugged. And now you're being interrogated. After having had to wait for everyone else in the 118 to be interrogated, naturally.

As you wait in an interrogation room in the LA police station ten minutes away from the 118, you tap your foot impatiently. You're so tired you could fall sleep right here on the metal table you're leaning against. You're also so angry you could annoy the idiots who brought you in here for hours. You probably will.

Two detectives step into the room, and take a seat in front of you. It's a man and a woman. They look familiar, and you already hope you never have to see them again after today.

The way they walk to their chairs, smiling at you, and look at each other plays out like a very badly written act they're trying to perform.

“Hello, firefighter…um,”

The woman checks your name and then says it out loud, tapping the piece of paper in front of her.

“I’m Detective Mercer,” she says, and then points at her partner, “And this is Detective Wash. We just have a few questions for you.”

You nod, because it’s the only reaction you can manage without completely freaking out at them. Your nerves are fried. Not only have you just gotten accused of being involved in a bank robbery, you had to wait four hours for these idiots to be done interrogating everyone else to bring you in.

“Look, we know you’re probably not involved in any of this,” Detective Mercer says.

You shoot her an expression you hope conveys, ‘Really? Then, why’d you bring me in here, idiot?’

“Yes,” she says with certainty at your disbelieving glare.

“I mean, you were already a Fire Cadet, who was qualified for Ride-Alongs by 17. Recognized by the Board of Fire Commission for your dedication. You graduated top of your class at the academy. The top graduate for three years after too, if I recall correctly,” Detective Wash notes, reading off of the file that rests in front of him. His partner just nods. 

“Your record’s completely clean. You’ve had no financial problems. Hell, your credit score’s better than either of us,” Mercer says, pointing at herself and her partner.

They both laugh, but you aren’t laughing with them. You know they don’t believe in all of the bullshit they’re spewing.

It’s all real, of course, but it doesn’t absolve you from looking guilty in their eyes. They’re just trying to pull you in by making you feel so holier-than-thou that you rat the 118 out, which you wouldn’t do in a million years. So, it seems there’s a few things they don’t know.

“So, where are the questions?” you ask, clearly too tired for this demeaning attempt at manipulation. 

Detective Wash sighs, and then looks at his partner like they’re gearing up to reveal a big secret to you. 

He then leans in, across the table, and almost whispers, “We heard, uh, somewhere, that there’s been some involvement between yourself and Probationary Firefighter Diaz. We also heard he hurt you pretty badly.”

Detective Mercer nods again, “Lord knows I wouldn't forgive an ex for lying to me that easily, either.”

You cock your head to the side.

What the actual hell...

You wish you could just run away. Or hide in the corner, or something. You were aware everyone in the station knew what was going on, but it being spoken back to you like this makes you want to pull your own hair out.

You haven't spoken to him since the kiss, but hearing his name still leaves you embarrassed and a little hurt.

“What are you trying to say?” you ask, annoyed.

Wash sits back like they've just caught you red-handed.

They haven't. It's why they're resorting to all of these cheap tactics, you tell yourself.

"What we're trying to say is..." Mercer sighs, feigning disappointment, “You don't have to go down for this with him.”

You roll your eyes, slamming your hands down on the table as gently as you can manage right now. They're bigger idiots than you previously thought if they genuinely think they can manipulate you into saying anything.

“Of course,” you laugh.

“Look, I didn't do anything. Diaz didn't do anything. The 118 didn't do anything. I was unconscious with my friend in a vault for almost 12 hours that day, but I can tell you with utmost certainty: you're barking up the wrong tree.”

You sit back in your seat. They look shocked at how plainly you speak. You hope they didn't realize the fury in your eyes when they suggested you might rat Eddie out. Of all people. He's the last person you'd betray.

They ask you a million other questions. They even try to insinuate you might've cooked this up to help Eddie out with his finances, which you had no idea he was even having problems with.

It's all irrelevant. Everything else sounds irrelevant to your ears after they've asked about your fight with Eddie. Your answers are clipped, enough to be cooperative, but not enough to give them any false hope that they might be right.

The investigation fizzles out, and you're all found innocent, obviously. But they've taken Captain Nash away from you. It tips the carefully curated balance you've all got going on when Chim assumes the role of Interim Captain Han.

It's the most entertaining thing to have happened at the station, since Buck got fired. You have no idea why everyone hates it so much. You loved having Bobby Nash as your captain, but you wouldn't mind if he stayed on the bench a little longer.

To be fair, Howard Han is pretty much completely afraid of you.

He wouldn't be able to boss you around if he tried. And he has, many times. When you first joined the 118 as a probie, he tried to act as a guiding hand. It seemed more like he was just trying to get you to do everything he tells you to do, constantly.

So, when you got tired of it, you put him in his place. Very loudly. For thirty minutes. And he hasn't tried to order you to do anything since.

It's just the dynamic you two have. Him becoming a temporary replacement for Captain Nash will never change that.

That being said, you still miss having Cap around, so you decide to visit him.

You're sure you might be the unluckiest person alive, though, because it isn't Bobby who opens the door for you. It's the very last person you want to see. And he looks as stunned to see you as you are.

As you walk into Bobby's apartment, and set down the cookies you've brought over, you realize he has the same stunned look on his face as you and Eddie.

“What? You guys look like I've just caught you sharing dirty secrets,” you joke.

“Oh,” you realize.

They were probably talking about Shannon, or Christopher. Or anything else you have no business butting into. Maybe Bobby even knows about the kiss. God, you hope he doesn't.

“Never mind,” you counter.

You sit down beside Bobby. The awkward silence becomes a little too much to bear, so you decide to ignore Eddie's presence completely.

“Bobby, I have to tell you, I'm so incredibly entertained by Chimney playing captain,” you gush.

“Really?” Bobby questions, “Everyone's been saying the exact opposite.”

“Yeah, well. Howie's too afraid of me to try any of his weird power-play stuff on me,” you explain, popping open the Tupperware you brought to grab a cookie. You urge them to do the same.

“I've got free passes out of all of the boring stuff he's having everyone else do."

“How'd you do that?” Eddie asks, smiling into a bite of a cookie.

You're a little disoriented for a moment. It's the first time he's directly spoken to you since the... well, the thing. And it was completely by accident. You can tell by the way his eyes went wide right after.

Now, you're stuck between a rock and a hard place. You could respond, and lose your credibility in this ongoing contest to see who's going to initiate friendship first. Or you could ignore him and make this entire visit a hundred times more awkward.

You respond, for Bobby's sake, “It's a long story. Maybe later.”

You start talking about all of the interesting calls you've had since Bobby left, and Eddie listens intently, despite having already been there for most of them. He laughs at every joke and grins at every other word.

Sooner rather than later, you check your phone and notice you're about to be late to brunch with Hen.

Eddie watches your every movement, like he's been doing for the past hour.

He must think he's subtle, but he really isn't.

“I have to leave in ten, Cap,” you announce, “I'm sorry.”

“It's alright,” he says, “I'm booked and busy.”

“Yeah, uh, me too,” Eddie seems to realize, “I'm already twenty minutes late to lunch with the family.”

The family? You're sure Christopher has a physical therapy session right now, like he does every week.

Maybe he means Shannon? Why not say her name? Is he trying to spare you all the feeling of awkwardness when he mentions her in your presence? Or does he remember the things you told him the last time you...spoke. If you can even call it that.

He gets up to grab his coat, and hugs Cap goodbye. He spares you a long glance, too.

Before he can leave, Bobby speaks up.

“Hey, Eddie,” Bobby calls out to him, “I think you'll find the answer to your question within. You need to figure out how you feel.”

It sounds so cryptic, you're sure the question's related to his marriage somehow. It's the only reason Bobby wouldn't speak plainly.

So, you do your best to busy yourself getting your stuff together. Eddie does no such thing, though. He lets his eyes drift to you for a long moment, before nodding at Bobby.

“Wow. That's some Yoda shit. Has staying at home already made you wise beyond your many years, Bobby?” you joke.

Eddie laughs out loud as he closes the front door behind him.

A/N: if u remember what eddie asked bobby in 2.17 u get 10 points!