#it's a broad sketch here

[shutupineedtothink]

Post Ep 6 Theory: Billy Is Casting Agatha as the Villain

Well I really have no business writing theories at this point since I’ve been wrong multiple times but like maybe I really got something this time, you know? Isn’t that the point? Can’t I be right one time?? My Capricorn stellium is raging at having all these theories disproved. And I love it at the same time. 😅

Whatever. Potential spoilers under the cut.

So I’m fully on the “Billy magicked the Road” theory, he is Wanda’s son after all and tbh there’s just too much evidence to ignore it at this point. I won’t go into all of it, House of R pod does a great breakdown in their episode 6 review, check that out if you’re interested. The basic points are: Billy created the Road probably subconsciously, Agatha knows it, she’s trying to figure out how he did it and what his goal is, and also get her power back and not die from the Seven. Cool.

My theory is an offshoot of the Billy theory, and speaks to where he and Agatha are going to end this season (aka coven two). Ready? Ok.

Soooo if we take as fact that Billy conjured the Road, because he can’t control his magick and more broadly because he has some shit to work through (again, same as Wanda) then how do we explain Agatha’s trial within that framework.

Why was the trial to “punish Agatha?” If Billy, subconsciously or not, is in control of everything that happens on the Road, why do that?

Well, subconsciously, he’s angry at Agatha. Whether he’s actually angry at her specifically or just angry about what happened with the hex, it doesn’t really matter. He has a lot of suppressed anger that needs somewhere to go. And who’s the closest available probably evil witch? Ya girl, Agatha Harkness.

Someone he saw as his friend, possibly, in the hex. Someone who fought his mom and tried to take her power. And someone who ultimately, by disrupting the status quo, led to his literal world being destroyed. By that logic, I’d want to punish her too.

Billy, in his (probably subconscious) magic-fueled rage, grief, and sadness over what happened to him, his family, and his life, took all of that and blamed it on Agatha. In his fantasy of his own hero’s journey on the Road to find his brother, to get his family back, he has (spell)casted Agatha as the villain.

So when Agatha “can’t control” her power in episode 5, siphoning Alice, it’s not because she has issues with her own control of her powers. It’s because Billy was making her do it (again, probably subconsciously). She essentially blacked out at that moment, and turned into the evil witch Agatha Harkness. And when she comes to, she seemingly has no idea what she’s done.

So when she says she couldn’t control it, she’s not lying. But it’s not because she’s never been able to control her powers. She’s probably had control of them for centuries. It’s because in that moment, Billy was writing the narrative, not her. And then he confirms it to her face — you’re lying, you want power, that’s all you’ve ever wanted. Essentially saying, you’re the villain here not me not my mom.

And then it clicks for her, what he’s doing, subconsciously or not. And she turns on the evil villain persona herself to take back the narrative from him. And we get, you’re so much like your mother. Creating the Road, creating this whole story to serve yourself and the narrative you want to believe. Making me the bad guy. Undertones of fuck you.

Okay great, so where does this leave us now and how does this play into the show as a whole? I think the question the show is asking, as it relates to Agatha’s character, is who really is Agatha Harkness? Is she the villain? Is she the hero? Is she both, or neither? Is she her reputation, as Lilia reads in ep 2, or is she more than that? Can she be more than that? Can she be good?

Now here’s where it gets real juicy y’all, because as much as Billy has made Agatha the villain in his hero's journey, he's also made her the Guide.

He goes to her to lead him down the Road. He's constantly asking her questions and trying to learn from her. On some level, maybe a more conscious level, he does idolize her. He wants to see her as a witch to look up to. He even wants her love. Just look at his crestfallen face when she says she didn't put the sigil on him in ep 4.

She's the Yoda to his Luke, the Dumbledore to his Harry, the Moiraine to his Rand. And once again, subconsciously he knows it. And he wants it.

He says in ep 6, I don't know if I ever needed you (a mouthy teen if I ever heard one), but then his power immediately fizzles out. She calls him out on it, all that power and no access without a temper tantrum. He needs her. He needs to learn. Again, in this version, she has control over her powers normally, just not in her trial. So she can provide that knowledge.

He went to her to lead him down the Road. And she's been subtly teaching him this whole time. (Once vengeance is unleashed, you can't reel it back in. It's about selflessness, Teen.)

Now for her part, I don't know if she realizes she's mentoring him. But she definitely cares about him, as we saw at the end of ep 4. Again, partly a reaction fueled by Nicky, but I think she's been at least 80% sure it was Billy this whole time. So she genuinely cares for him too.

If I had to bet, I'd say Agatha very much knows the different parts she's playing, the villain evil witch, the guide, and somewhere under even that, the real Agatha.

She's just playing along, some times more willingly than others, because she needs to see where this goes. And she doesn't necessarily want to break his baby brain in the process.

It's almost the more subtle version of her leading Wanda through her memories in WandaVision. She's guiding him along the Road, partly to see what he can do and get her powers back if possible, but also for his own good.

So prediction time, where does this leave us in the finale.

I won't speak to the remaining trials, but I'm thinking there has to be a big showdown between Agatha, Billy, and Rio.

If we're going for Agatha becoming her most true self, and Billy seeing her for who she actually is, my money is on a reversal of the Agatha stealing Alice's power scene.

Rio's going go to after Billy, and Agatha, to save him, is going to start siphoning his power. It's going to look like she's killing him, being the evil witch of her reputation. But then she's going to stop (because she's been capable of control this whole time), taking just enough power to get her purple back. He has more than enough to spare.

Also fun fact, Wanda's power (red) -> Billy's power (blue) -> Agatha's power (purple). Do I want this to happen just because the colors make sense... maybe.

Ultimately, Agatha and Billy become a team, a coven two, a master and apprentice. They both see each other for who they are, imperfect, powerful, but capable of good. Rio is fended off/bargained with somehow. Maybe Agatha offers up her own soul in his place but Rio can't do it. Idk that's all wild speculation.

Point being, this is all about self-discovery, self-actualization, and deconstructing false narratives you have around others, and in Billy's case, around his own life. Dealing with your trauma to become a more whole version of yourself.

And as with WandaVision, dealing with grief and loss, but in this case, also finding a companion, a familiar, a family you never expected beside you All Along. 👀

What do you think? Can you believe I wrote this the day before ep 7 drops?? 😂

[dinoserious]

sending my visuals off in to the aether. i think he should get to keep his rational mind ☝️ if only so he has to reckon with a new body

[femmeroi]

All robots please.. take off your clothes

[heyclickadee]

Because I’ve decided to be somewhat annoyingly optimistic about Tech coming back eventually, I kind of wanted to explain the hypothetical framework through which I’ve been looking at the all of this wiiiiiiiiiith…

…a crappy diagram. (I’m sorry about my handwriting. I usually write in cursive, so it’s usually smaller and even worse).

Now, this is simplified, there are plenty more arcs, plots, and subplots than this, but I sort of picked out the main three that we seem to be dealing with from the beginning of The Clone Wars season seven onwards.

First we’ve got Rex’s arc, where after an endless string of losses and disappointments from previous seasons, he begins putting his foot down and trying to take something back and help his fellow clones, first within the GAR when he insists on rescuing Echo, and then later on in The Bad Batch as we see him gradually form a small band of clones and other allies (people like the Martez sisters and Riyo Chuchi) with the end goal of freeing as many clones as he can. This seems to be an ongoing plot, given that Rex’s work as well as the setup with the senate continues into season three of TBB but receives neither climax nor resolution as we narrow the focus towards Omega.

And, of course, alongside the Rex arc is what I’m calling the clone agency arc, introduced (or perhaps re-introduced) via Echo and his captivity by the Techno Union in the beginning of season seven of TCW, continuing through the end of TCW and into TBB with Order 66, Crosshair’s time under the chip and with the empire (his story far has given us a great look into the life of clones subject to order 66 and imperial service), the clone retirement bill, and the CXs. It, too, reaches neither climax nor conclusion and seems to be ongoing. Furthermore, Rex’s arc seems to be dependent on the clone agency arc (though you could argue it the other way), and many of the loose threads from the end of TBB tie into it as well.

Next, at the beginning of “Aftermath,” we’ve got the clone force 99 family arc as well as the individual bad batcher arcs, none of which reach a resolution. (The bad batch characters are all introduced in the bad batch arc of season seven, but I’d argue that with a few possible exceptions, they don’t really begin their arcs until the start of TBB. They’re not the focus in season seven and are there largely to facilitate Rex’s arc, so what we get for them is a lot of set up and establishing baselines).

I’ve argued before that each of the batcher’s character development goes only so far as it needs to go in order to facilitate Omega’s arc ending by the final episode; after that, they don’t conclude, they slow down, get put on the backburner, and come with period reminders of what those arcs were doing. Hunter gets very close to resolution in his development, since he’s the most tied at the hip to Omega’s arc and most of his character arc has to do with her, but the others are all completely open-ended. The family arc likewise remains open-ended—not necessarily because Tech’s not there and they remain separated, but because the separation and brokenness of the family is never dealt with and left wanting a conclusion despite the fact there was ample opportunity to reach it if necessary.

And last, we’ve got Omega’s childhood arc and the Hunter/Omega relationship arc. These, closely tied together, are the only major arcs that conclude by the end of TBB. And here’s the interesting thing; they’re not actually the first arcs introduced in the show.

Omega is the POV character, but she’s not actually introduced until the second act, I would argue she doesn’t become the POV character until the hyperspace scene at the end of “Aftermath,” and her arc proper doesn’t really begin until “Cut and Run” when we introduce the idea of Omega choosing where she wants to be and the, “You all have a purpose—so what’s hers?” “It doesn’t matter, she’s just a kid,” exchange. Other arcs including her start earlier—I would argue that Crosshair’s arc with her starts in the brig scene, for example—but her arc doesn’t quite kick off until a little later.

Basically, the way I’m looking at this is as a series of nested arcs. A storytelling nesting doll, basically, where the major arc that was introduced the latest and has the smallest scale is also the only one to reach a resolution by the end of TBB show while the others imply a larger, ongoing story.

It’s not that the two larger major arcs stop when the Omega arc is introduced, either. They keep being told alongside, largely through Omega’s point of view with occasional zoom-outs to a wider frame, and limited to what we need to see at present either for future set up or before zooming back in and, in the case of much of the third season of TBB (last four episodes in particular) focusing in on Omega’s arc and that resolution before, hypothetically, broadening to a larger focus again. It’s also not that Omega can’t show up now that her arc is concluded, either. She can! In fact, she should, for multiple reasons. She just wouldn’t be the focus anymore and would probably show up in a more limited capacity.

And it’s not that these nested arcs are even separate. They might start and conclude at different points, but they are told alongside each other because they’re tied together. They weave in and out of each other and push each other along. They’re relevant to one another and, I think, pieces of a larger clone story that’s not quite over.

Because here’s the thing: There’s a lot of stuff in both TCW season seven and TBB that we don’t really need unless it was there for setup. The only part of season seven that was entirely necessary for closing out the clone war and that part of Ahsoka’s story was the Siege of Mandalore arc with maybe, *maybe* one additional episode to explain what she’s been doing. I love the bad batch arc, but we didn’t need it…unless the purpose was to set up arcs for the batch and also tie the batch’s and Echo’s stories to Rex’s and the clone agency arc. We don’t need the Martez sisters episodes…unless we need to introduce the Martez sisters, who also meet the batch and are also working with Rex once we get to TBB (and are presumably still working with him from time to time, since we haven’t heard otherwise). Likewise, the list of things in TBB that aren’t strictly necessary from a storytelling perspective if all we were doing the whole time was telling Omega’s story is extensive…unless the larger story with those larger nested arcs isn’t done.

[parab0mb]

Work Doodles Sketchdump!!! (2-2025) - Batch 1

First sketchdump of the year! Been a while since I did one of these, eh? I have a decent amount of doodles from one and half small notepads to post, so as usual I'll divvy up into two parts since there's quite a bit (more than Tumblr will allow in one post anyway).

(Second half)

[somekindafairy]

me trying to draw porn: draws the saddest, most tired, pathetic man in existence

[tonycries]

Hey, Venom Boy! - C.K.

Synopsis. Venom’s had enough of his host’s racing heartbeat and tíghtening pants around you. So he does what any good symbiote would do - help Choso lose his vírginíty, of course!

Pairing. Choso Kamo x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem!reader, Venom!Choso, best-friends-to-Iovers, PlNING, héats, he has tattoos and piercings, Venom in bold, first times (for Choso), PÚSSYDRÚNK CHOSO, oraI (fem. rec), spítting, ínappropríate use of the symbiote, LONG tongues, ríding, dúmbifícation, making it fit, size kínk, tummy buIges, creampíes, cúmplay, MARATHONS, matíng presses, overstím, squírting, cúmming dry, proposals, biting marks, pet names, swéaring.

Word count. 8.5k

A/N. Inspired by this ask and this post by the lovely @/screampied.

“You like her.”

“Shut up.”

“You want to fu-”

“Shut up.”

“Heh- loser.”

And Choso was genuinely contemplating smashing his head against the nearest wall, if only it would yank out that damn parasite- “Oi, I can hear you.” -he had the misfortune of picking up.

Weeks - though, it felt like years - weeks since he’d wandered into his usual hiding spot at the abandoned Lady of Saint’s Church for a moment of peace and quiet; except, he wasn’t alone that day. Too busy poring over yet another sketch of your dazzling smile to notice-

“Your pulse rate spiked- you’re thinking of her, boy. You want her.”

But it’d been weeks since he’d had peace and quiet after this…alien symbiote had forcibly attached itself to his body that day. 

And the worst part was that he wasn’t even wrong. 

“S-so what?” Choso hisses out. “She deserves better than me anyway.” Wincing at the sheer predatory amusement in Venom’s voice as he purrs— 

“I have a plan…”

.

.

.

Your best friend was acting strange.

Given, it wasn’t anything out of the ordinary for his fawn eyes to linger on you just a little more than what’s considered appropriate for a “friend”, or for him to burn with the prettiest blush whenever you caught him. 

But these days it was almost like he was avoiding you on purpose. 

Taking the longer routes after lectures, being struck pale as a ghost mid-conversation, always muttering away underneath his breath. 

Hell, one day you even had half the mind to jokingly ask him whether he was talking to someone you couldn’t see - to which Choso had sputtered and all but sprinted away from you. 

And here he was right now - towering right at your apartment doorway in just a snug undershirt and the sexiest grey sweatpants.

“Ch-Choso?” Your jaw drops slightly at his disheveled, heaving state. 

Milky skin simmered with a sheen of sweat that made his dark tank top glue to his broad chest, chestnut strands of his bangs falling out of his bun to hide his eyes from you, almost…feverish.

Frantic gaze bouncing off the beefy arm he’d kept leaned over your doorframe for support, “What happened- are you sick? Are you drunk?” A quick glance at the clock showed that it was well past 12AM, “Are you okay, Cho-”

And then he flinches.

Fuck- he flinches as if the sound of that very nickname falling from your cute lips made his entire body shudder with a thousand bolts of lightning. 

Baritone voice hot and murky once he utters, “Baby…”

Oh. 

You could feel the goosebumps starting to slither down your spine already, and you tug nervously at the paper-thin pyjama shirt you had on. Too-aware of the fact that it was the only thing you were wearing other than your thin panties- damn.

Noticing the way that every minute movement of yours seemed to make Choso’s pants grow heavier; you dare to take a step closer, and it only makes him grip onto the mahogany doorway until it splinters. 

Teeth grit. Nostrils flaring. Barely holding himself together.

Gasping, “Cho?”

“I need you.”

“Wha-” And it’s the last thing escaping your mouth before Choso surges forward like he’s being jerked, movements twitchy - desperate - he falls a few steps forward until he’s in your heated proximity. 

Your saccharine scent so sweet that he’d be on his damn knees if you hadn’t clawed a hand on one of his flexing biceps- a gruff whimper departing from Choso’s plush, pink lips. “K-kiss me.” 

Oh, fuck.

You watch with a carnal sort of desire at the way that he scorches with a breezing blush all the way from the tips of his ears, down to his collarbones. Fisting your dominant hand in the flimsy cotton of your best friend’s undershirt, just the tiniest, weakest tug makes him gulp.

Now that he started, he couldn’t stop.

“Kiss me- kiss me, p-please.” He’s finally darting his hazy peripheries up from the floor to look at you, you, and only you. Dragging in a deeeep breath of your air, his half-lidded pupils were begging- “Kiss me, baby.”

You’re humming, the curved edges of your fingertips curling ‘round Choso’s nape and pulling him in. 

He’s melting.

He’s melting and melting into the kiss - as if he’d been dreaming of this for just as long as you have. Even longer. 

Strong, sturdy hands wrapping around your waist to tug you against his hardened front, you gasp at the sweltering hot temperature he was radiating. Already feeling beads of perspiration starting to form across your forehead-

He’s sucking in a sharp breath, “Need to- need to tell you something.” 

Words huffin’ out through glides of his berry-pink lips across yours, each one wrenching out like it pained him to part from your candied mouth with each sloppy mwah! Blindly, he slams the door shut with the heeled back of his foot. “There’s- a- a thing-”

You’re grinning once his voice breaks - breaks, as soon as you’re sipping on the cold spherical piercing homed at the edge of his tongue like your favorite gummy candy. “A…thing?”

Through a slightly-cracked eyelid, your gaze sinks down between Choso’s thick, meaty thighs. Instantly feeling a wave of sap flood your mouth at the massive cylindrical bulge that tightened his sweatpants uncomfortably.

He was just too cute. 

“A ‘thing’, hm?” You’re breaking off to smirk, twisting a silky lock of his hair around your index in a way that makes the looming man in front of you shiver. Chasing and chasing your lips- he was so weak for you. 

Giving in, you’re just about getting ready to kiss your best friend silly once more - but what meets your ravenous mouth isn’t his soft, plump lips anymore. 

No, it doesn’t even feel human. 

What instead greets you is something frigid and slimy. Something that crushes you to him with a strength tenfold of what Choso had been using - almost animalistic - until you’re lurching back and gaping at the fact that your feet were now dangling almost two whole feet off of the ground.

Snapping your head to his face and- 

What…the…f-

“Don’t scream!” In a startling split-second, that black mass of goop masking Choso’s face slithers away in tiny tendrils to reveal, well, Choso. 

And honestly, you’re not sure if that wants to make you scream even more or just shuts you up completely. But whilst you ogle whatever it is in front of you, Choso keeps plowing on. 

“This- ah, this is what I meant by a…thing.” He’s stammering out nervously, dark brows crinkling with nervousness as he watches on for your reaction. “Basically- a few weeks ago- my body got infected by this alien thing- a ‘symbiote’, it said, and I-”

“Improved.”

You’re feeling that temptation to exhaust your lungs with yells once more as Choso’s swallowed up within that dark matter. 

Muscular and big. 

Except this time it was formulating a mouth - all wide and decorated in tiny, jagged canines - and slanted white eyes with not a pupil in sight. A dexterous tongue gliiiides down the crevice of its sharp mouth, glittered with strands of slobber. “We are Venom, pretty girl. And you smell…”

Venom’s voice was deep. Coarse. A rumbling bass that made the very bottom of your stomach quiver- you’re distracted only by the growling sniff he lets out. Monstrous ivory eyes locked right between your heated core-

“-delicious.”

Oh…he was reaching well near eight feet and twitching from the inside out once Choso fights to regain control. 

“A-as you can see-” Smiling sheepishly down at you - you blink, and your best friend was suddenly back. Eyes hooded, mouth snarling, looking ruined. What the fuck. “-he really seems to like your scent and it’s driving me-”

“Stop talking, boy, and mate the girl.”

“Shut up.” 

You blink almost owlishly in disbelief, and in something…else, as you feel your thighs clench together. A slight motion that Venom surely doesn’t miss, if the way that Choso’s lungs heave with more gulps of your sweet, sweet leaking pheromones was anything to go by.

And then, you’re finally piping up– “Let…let me see that tongue of Venom’s again?”

.

.

.

“A-are you sure? W-we’re best friends, and I’ve never…”

You’d be rolling your eyes at the repeated question if it wasn’t for the fact that Choso Kamo just looked so pretty when he was knelt obediently at the very foot of your bed. 

A thin sliver of sweat sliding down his temple, breaths coming out in heated gusts, slender hands balling into a fist and shivering once you smear your legs open just a fraction more. Twitching, white-knuckled like he was forcing himself to not just ruin you right then and there. 

“Mhm.” You’re nodding, and the very action is enough for him to snap his eyes down where your cotton panties were starting to dampen and swallow. “Please, handsome- don’t be coy.”

It was almost too good to be true. 

But, fuck, Choso wasn’t waiting around ‘till he wakes up from this dream.

With so much pent-up eagerness that he felt his lips twist into a sleazy grin- Choso’s crawling himself the few inches it was to stuff himself nose-deep between your pretty legs. 

“O-oh.”

First it was the tiniest tug on your restless hips, then it was a sniff- and then it was a bite of his honed, glossy pearly whites over the lacy lil’ bow homed on the hem of your underwear. A throaty groan snarling through his teeth– “Oh, baby…”

That did it-

Quick as a flash, he’s snagging his teeth on the flimsy fabric of your panties and all but tearing it off of you. Rip-rip-ripping to simply push its tatters to the side, Choso doesn’t even fully take it off before he was simply drooooling. 

Gulping and gulping the scent of your leaking hole. 

“Sweet.” He gasps out, words taking on a dark edge. And you swear the chocolate color of his irises looked as if they were almost glowing, “So sweet.”

“Hurry, the symbiote hungers.”

Sharp jaw ticking as he ignores Venom’s request, the fattened pad of his thumb spanks down on your swollen pussylips and spreads you all wide open. Cock twitching at the deafening wet squelch! that chimes once he gathers copious wads of saliva and spits. 

All over your lustrous cunt, slicking out a mess so great that it was already starting to form a puddle underneath your silken sheets. 

“And mine.”

“Tch.”

And Choso wasn’t just greedy - he was outright gluttonous. 

“You…you taste this sweet, baby?”

“Oh- ohhhh fuck–!” You’re shrilling out a syrupy moan once his chilly tongue piercing flicks at the tippy-top hood of your clit like a lollipop. Taking extra care to press down hard so that it has you thrashing-

“There? S’that good?” He’s roaming his mouth over your puffed-up lips eagerly, yearning. Not knowing what he was doing, just addicted. “You’re so wet, baby- s’this for me- r-really, really f’me?”

He just couldn’t believe it- and the only answer he’s getting is a few soft gasps of oh! and yes! Spit n’ whines overflowing your tongue with every slap of his textured tastebuds. You couldn’t help but nod your head down and admire just how drunken Choso was as he’s suckin’ away on your perky clit. 

The hollows of his cheeks sucked-in and flushed red, spit-glossed mouth wrapped snugly ‘round your sensitive nub. 

You’re whimpering, head thrown back at the grunts he muffles out between your legs. 

“M-more, Cho–” You mewl out in a tone that makes his tensed hips rut forward like an animal, immediately grinding against the firm base of your bedframe. Fuck. Snaking a hand down to intertwine with his mussed-up bangs, and tugging them free of his bun- “Wan’ more.”

“More.”

“Hear that? I wanna taste.”

His tongue’s so thirsty - throat so parched - that it lets out the most sinful sluuuuurp at the very first slobbery drag from the dewy base of your quivering pussy, openin’ up your plump folds so widely agape to lather down on the very top of your clit. 

Nodding and nodding and nodding- grinding up to tease the mushy tip of his tongue past your slippery folds just the tiniest bit. “More- please.”

And it’s not like Choso didn’t hear you - fuck, it’s that you’d broken him.

Because it happens in a singular nanosecond, it happens so fast you’re seeing cartoonish stars in your vision when he’s hauling you halfway across the bed like some glorified ragdoll. 

Thighs thrown over his shoulder, trembly hands guided through his sweaty scalp, mouth wolfish- 

“Keh. No wonder you’re a virgin, boy.”

“Sh-shut up.” He’s answering out loud, sending the most electric buzzes down your spine as he nips on the fleshy slope of your pussylips. His own ears pop! as the pointed curve of his chin hits your treacly cunt with a smack of skin-on-skin, so deep. Nose-deep till those lined tattoos on his face. 

Ready to suffocate if he has to.

“Oi- give me a taste, and I’ll give her…more.”

Upper lip glueing to your pussy, Choso’s making you scream every time the sharp ends of his fangs snag on your clit. “Shut up shut up shut up-‘

“Ch-Cho?” Fuck, it takes you every ounce of strength in your body to lift your head up from your creaky bedsprings. Glassily eyeing the way that his grip on your hips turns bruising with semi-circular claw-marks of his, “Everything hah! alright?”

And shit- he breaks off slightly from your dripping wet pussy once- twice. Thrice, each n’ every time letting off a pained grunt that forces him back to stuff himself at his favorite spot between your legs.

He couldn’t even break off to speak. To breathe.

Still murmuring his response at the outer edges of your saturated core, with so many numerous strings of slick dangling from his rovering, swollen lips. Gingerly, “It’s V-Venom, he…wants a taste too.”

“Oh.”

And shit- Choso didn’t need Venom’s superhuman abilities to notice the instant that you’re growing so much wetter. A silky torrent of sap gushing out of you to lacquer your inner thighs like a fountain, already making him lurch- and suck and suck up every pearly droplet.

“I…” You’re starting off, lip chewed underneath your teeth in a way that almost makes him jealous. The memory of his extravagant tongue still fresh in your mind, “-wouldn’t mind.”

“Oh? Well…”

“-about time.”

As Choso lets Venom take over, you can’t help but gasp.

Oh, you were never getting used to this. 

He was about two feet taller, hulking, monstrous. And the only thing more lecherous than that toothy grin he wore was his tongue - sliiiiding out all its endless inches and swaying teasingly to n’ fro in midair. Big. 

So, so big. 

“Eyes…” He’s looming over until scalding hot breath humidifies your features, tonality so gruff that it rumbles your very bones. Oh, he already knows of his effect on you - can flick his tastebuds out and taste it in the saccharine air. “Lungs…pancreas…”

The curly, reddened end of it stingingly slapping down on your thigh, Venom’s tongue is oh-so-long enough that he can lace it all over your shivering leg and wrench them further and further open–

“Pussy.”

And then it feels like you’re being split apart- just a few solid, thorough inches of Venom’s slimy tongue burrowing past your puffy folds, keeping your jolting legs pinned firmly by a few of his Stygian spirals. 

One taste. One taste is all it takes. 

You’re being rendered utterly stupid by the swashing flicks of his pointed muscle stirrin’ up your insides, wriggling in circular slurps around and around and around your gummy walls. Scarfing you down until his tongue reaches the very gooey bottom of your cunt and kisses your cervix. 

So hard that you’re pushed up the mattress and he’s forced to wrap a few tendrils that reel you back down again. 

“Heh, finish line.”

“What- oh…oh my god-” Tears drip down in constant rivers from your heavy lids, wailing whimpers breaking off from your larynx at every smack-smack-smack he left on that spongy end. Further pushing aside your panties, retracting aaaaaalll the way back to thruuuust- “Y-your tongue is sooo big.”

“So many snacks. How good.” He’s tittering out with a thundering pant, spiked ends of his canines littering your skin with gnawing bites. “How delicious. How…”

He’s sloshing his tongue almost aggressively inside, whacking your g-spot in-between his barreling journey to fuck you with his tongue just as much as he wanted to with his cock. 

Lolling sloppily, thrusting, dragging the ridges of his tastebuds across your g-spot. 

And it takes you a few more vulgar strokes, it takes you the sound of that familiarly melodic voice for you to flap your tear-heavy lashes open and finally look once more between your legs. “-mine.”

It’s almost as if both Choso and Venom couldn’t decide on who wanted to make out with your soft, candied pussy more. 

Because it was your best friend’s pretty upper half of his face peeking out from between your splattered legs, but Venom’s mouth that was pumpin’ addictively past your rubbery entrance. Over and over. 

“N-ngh pleeease!” Comes out your repeated record of whines, every mushy gyration so good that you can’t help but rock into every second of his frenzied cadence. Creeping down one of your hands to smear your pussylips wider with a soppy slurp so that he could go even deeper, “I-it’s so good- don’t stop don’t stop.”

And the look in Choso’s dark eyes is the most raw glint of disbelief that you’ve ever seen.

Unsteady thighs clenching as he hits his v-line against the wooden board of your bed and grinds, unwilling to angrily fist his raging cock the way he ached n’ leaked to, unwilling to take his hands off of you for a mere second.

“N-no no, move that hand, baby. Lemme see her- Please.” You’ve never seen your cute best friend dare to be so rude- urgently swatting away those few fingers of yours to replace with his own knobbly, greedy ones. 

Pressin’ on your weeping, swollen clit with the flat end of his digit - you’re coating his chipped black nail polish with so many layers of goopy slick that it trickles down to his wrist. 

And oh, you’d almost forgotten just got many frigid metal rings that Choso wore on his hot fingers. Sappily nuzzling the inside of your left thigh the very moment he’s slipping his middle past your widely messy hole and curling–

 “How could I? How c-could I stop?” He’s muttering away - octaves higher than you’re used to, hitting and hitting your bruised and battered g-spot at the very same tempo that Venom was, too.

Double whack after whack that made your spine arch curvaceously off of the dampened mattress, icy edges of his rings scraping your walls. Choso just salivates at the heavenly sight of you below him, “How could you even- think- I’m-”

“-addicted.”

And Venom chooses just this precise moment to make your stupidly muddled mind remember his presence until you can’t think at all. 

Prolonging his plumply constricted tongue - using his symbiotic powers and extending it even more feet stuffed inside your tightly cozy walls, slashing the very tip to become split-ended. 

“Pretty. Pretty pussy.” He’s groaning out carnally, and your throat rips with a scream once he’s starting up a thrusting pace that flicks at your weeping cunt with those two slithering ends of his monstrous tongue. “Don’t know who’s prettier- you or…”

You’re shivering then - shivering at the windy gust of air inhaled once Venom tugs you even closer by his black coils and sniffs. Breath hot, his French kiss on your pussy hotter. “-her.”

“Fuck- fuck, you’re making such a mess, Choso.”

“Mhmmmm—”

Shifting between both his tongue and Venom’s - every transformation had you dizzy. Alternating between Venom’s hard, almost violent thrusts with his split-end tongue to Choso’s sensual tickling of his piercing into your most favorite spots. 

Glittery slick and spittle dripping down like a glazing polish, Choso’s swallowing down every sweet gumdrop like he’s a man starved. 

Like a damn dog in heat, every pant of the honeyed pheromones between your legs was driving him fucking mad. Making his hips thrust-

“Sh-she’s drooling almost as much as ngh- me, baby.” He’s fighting back that damn parasite for more more more of you- for every squelch! once he’s mazing his second, third lengthy finger inside. 

Searching for your g-spot like treasure trove - hitting and hitting, you’re so pretty and gone that Choso’s chuckling. “Ride it.” Pap-pap-pap goes his hits to your delicate, most tender spots, faster. “Ride it- yeah, ride m’f-face like it’s yours, baby- ride it.”

“S-shoooo much–” And you don’t know whether it’s the torrents of slicked saliva falling from your mouth or the sheer overstimulation that has you jumbling up your syllables - but it’s enough to make both Choso and Venom grin. “It’s so ngh- haaaa–”

“She’s close.”

“Fuh-fuck.” He’s spitting into your drooling lips, right above your pulsating nub. Ringed digits so thick that it makes your knees shake and weaken. Sloppy. “Faster. Harder. Use me, baby-”

Again and again and again.

Your brain’s fuzzily stupid by the time you finally recognize that familiar twist at the bottom of your tummy, too. Blubbering out an unsteady, “P-please! M’not gonna- ngh! last, Cho.”

“I know- I know I know I know– make a mess.” He’s spitting out once more, letting a wad of saliva stream straightly down your slit and liiicking it all up before Venom overtakes him to keep on probin’ your entrance fully. Swirling every speckled tastebud until it was like the symbiote was trying to brand you–

And with a gluttonous swipe at the fresh beads of slick homed on top of your nub, Choso wastes no time before pinching your clit- 

“Cum. Cum on my tongue, baby. Mine.”

-and making your field of vision simply shatter with tears once you’re crashing into that built-up high. 

“Shit- shiiiiit. I-it feels so good, Cho- I’m- nghhh I’m…” It was an orgasm like no other- fuck, any of your toys were paling in comparison to Choso and his…parasite. 

Fully himself now, you gawk with your mouth unlatched into a sagging oh! at the primal way that Choso’s prominent Adam’s apple bobs with each eager swallow. Thin lines of sappy slick falling from the pink, puckered corners of his lips and waterfalling all down the side of his damn throat. 

“Th-tha’s it-” His sopping wet tongue drags uuuup n’ down your open folds to trawl you through your euphoria, every lolling flick of the curled end jostling against your thoroughly-stuffed folds.

Pumping, pounding your glutinous walls until they’re sticking to his barreling digits like adhesive, the metallic band curving his fingers smooches your g-spot softly. Dimly-lit molten eyes widening at the sheer ribbons of sap you’re letting off with every white-hot bolt of pleasure.

“This- this is all f’me–?” He’s crooning out, dazed. Letting his jaw fall open with every quiver you’re instinctively clenching with your cunt, “All for me- me. More- more, baby.”

“For me, you mean.”

Choso- Venom- Choso just keeps on alternating their slobbering drags of your hips until you’re completely wrung dry. Even the tiniest spank of their rugged tastebuds making you squeal with overstimulation, tears pinpricking behind your eyes. 

“Aw, c-c’mon–” Your best friend slurs out in a tingling, pussydrunken tone - so gone that his perspired head falls n’ cuddles your thigh. Begging, “M-more…?”

“But Cho…m’sensitive.”

And he’s perking his head up like the thought didn’t even occur to him - only then do you get a final, filthy look at your best friend after so long. 

Grinning, he sucks on each of his polished, soppy fingers. Each and every one - looking right into your dilated pupils, “That was my first time.”

Fuck.

He was pretty. 

Granted, you always did know that, but right now - with Choso’s dark strands of hair hooding his half-opened gaze, what little you could see of his eyes gleaming, cheekbones burning scorched red - he was dreamy.

He’s wearing your saccharine wads of slick like a medal of honor. 

Thickly coating everywhere from the tattoo on his nose, to the lower half of his face, to bubble all down his jaw. A slippery wire of it spills from the corner of his mouth as it starts moving, an almost airy tone seeping into his voice. “I-I’m never wiping this off- hey!”

Before he knows it, Venom’s tendrils dart out to filthily lick off the remnant excess his host cherished so much.

Grinning, “Delicious.”

Fighting back his damn alien acquaintance, you stifle a giggle as Choso’s rosy lips jut out into a pout. Lifting his knee onto the bed- well, grindin’ it right between your legs so that he’s putting pressure on your throbbing slope. 

Fleshy thumb and index squeezing your cheeks together, “Spit in my mouth.”

“Wh-what?”

“Spit-” His sweaty forehead sticks against yours, humid breath clouding up your senses. And you could count every long lash, every smudge of his dark eyeliner. Hiccuping, “-in my mouth.”

And the moment you do- fuck, the moment you’re pursing your spit-glued lips to let out a saccharine web of saliva that slops right down his pinkish tongue with a splat! So loud and filthy and sinful that Choso only as the time to breath out a shallow ‘fuck!’ before he’s cumming.

Burning hot and feverish. Right then and there to create a dripping damp spot in his trousers- “Oh shit. Oh shit oh shit oh shit- you’re t-too-”

“Great going, virgin.”

“Shut up-” Choso grits through clenched teeth, desperately trying to heave his breaths back into some semblance of normalcy. Failing, once you immediately reach over and tug his sweatpants down-

He was cumming and cumming so much that you’re met with a white, streaming wet mess that gleams down both of Choso’s meaty thighs. They’re shivering with each ribbony string of seed that oozes down his long limbs, “O-oh, so pretty, Cho.”

“Oho? She’s an interesting one.”

“I-I know…”

And you’re not just talking about his orgasm.

Because when you’d imagined - on those long, lonely nights - that your best friend would be big…you didn’t expect that he’d be big. 

Damn near ten- no, maybe even eleven inches of fat, hot girth that swelled his mushroomy tip to be as cutely pink as a strawberry and just as thick. 

Your mouth waters as you follow the winding lightning patterns of his puffy veins, oh-so-prominently bloated that you swear you could count every throb-throb-throb. 

And what- what was that?

No, you weren’t imagining it. Choso Kamo had a tiny studded Prince Albert’s piercing right near the tip-top of his bulging cockhead. Cold and sparkling underneath the dim bedroom lighting. 

Mindlessly, you’re darting over to swipe one of your thumbs across a creamy bead of cum that’d started drenching his dark happy trail.

“O-oh.” Choso grunts at the look on your gorgeous face once he’s letting his chubby balls twitch n’ soak your skin with yet another splurging streak of seed. Again. Just from you touching him. “No one’s ever touched me like this- fuck!”

And you just had to find out whether he tasted as sweet as he looked.

Planting your mouth over his juice-capped head with a wet plop! you hum with utter delight at the caramel salted taste of him. Aching and pulsing underneath his piercing with just the tiniest kitten lick to his leaking orifice. 

“Do it, boy.”

“Wh-what?”

“Do it. I’m inside your mind, do it.”

And Choso really wouldn’t have considered being that rude - really. 

He really, really wanted to take his time slow n’ sultry with the one person who’s been the girl of his dreams from the moment he met you.

But fuck- Venom was jerking his body so that with the slightest rock, he’s rutting like a fucking animal deep inside the hot cavern of your mouth. Staining a milky white lipgloss around your plumpened lips, pushing his seed inside—

Venom wanted to see you choke.

“M-mmpf—!” And you can’t lie about the way the sheer force and heady musk of Choso’s v-line made your thighs squeeze.

“That’s it- cry. Cry on my cock- atta girl.”

“Fuck! I’m sorry-” He’s panicking from above as your pretty nose detaches from the curly black tuft of hair at his toned pelvis. “I’m sorry I’m sorry, baby. Are you-”

Only…for all his concerned apologies to shrivel up on Choso’s tongue when he catches the way you’re smiling. 

Cockdrunk and stinging at the back of your throat with the way that Venom had actually elongated Choso’s already-massive cock just a few more centimeters by accident. Oh, fuck…

The hazed look that’d crept into your eyes as you look up makes the towering man shiver. Striking him to his very cock, “C’mon- fuck me, Cho.”

“C’mon. Don’t wanna disappoint the pretty girl.”

Choso doesn’t even remember getting rid of his undershirt, his sweatpants, everything but his silver rings and necklace - but what he does remember is the way your eyes had widened just the slightest fraction as you took in all of him.

Shit, was he sculpted by the Greek gods or what?

You could count every one of his eight, toned washboard abs - making the broad width of his pecs look so thick. So engulfing as they tense n’ ripple once your best friend slouches sexily on top of you to pull off your cotton t-shirt.

“Oh.” He’s gasping- you’re not wearing a bra. Completely naked underneath him except for the lecherous remnants of your torn panties still hanging on. 

Ones that he keeps on - even when you try to shuffle them down with a whine - once he’s flipping the two of you over to let you straddle his slenderly sculptured hips. 

“Keh- this position.”

“Shut up and watch.”

Blushing and pretty.

Choso’s teary lashes knock against the apples of his cheeks as he blinks furiously up at you, throat scratchily raw. Gulping more of your scent, “R-ride me, baby.”

“Cho–” You’re sliding the mounds of your ass gingerly against his aching hot length, shudders skittering down your spine at the sheer size of him pressing up into you. “Y-you’re so big, though- don’t know if it’ll fit.”

“I’ll make it fit-”

“A-am I actually that big?” He’s whispering, in awe. Watching with damply bated breath as he’s spanking his cock against your right ass cheek with a wet smack! smack! smack!

Pointing that curved, bulbous tip right between your pussylips and sliiiiiding it up n’ down so that you’re coating him in all your sweet juices, Choso’s guiding his girth until your hole was quivering for something - anything. 

Him him him. 

Panting at the first squeeze of his reddened, blushing tip- “Oh, you feel like th-this?” His pitched voice wavers almost as much as his heavy eyelids, falling apart with just that first taste of your perfect cunt. “Fuh-fuuuuuck fuck fuck fuck! Baby- you feel like this?”

This was heaven.

And he’s spurting out a few stray wads of cum just from feeling your velvety walls, letting it thwack! against your goopy innards n’ stick to your trembling folds. 

“You got it- you got it.” Choso’s voicebox cracks with a lil’ whimper at that snug resistance, “You can take it- you can take it. I’ll make it fit.”

“Oh- oh my god- Choso- Cho–!”

“S’it too biiig for my girl, hmm?” Croaking out in unison with the aged bedcoils of your mattress, each and every time Choso jerks his hips off the bed and pushes. Just to fit in. “Baby-” Choso gasps as you throw your head back with a mewl at the sheer size of him.

His painfully-aching cock was so big that just the stoutest inch being bullied inside was enough to make your vision blotch with white. Rounded circumference stretching n’ stretching your slick-flooded walls stupid- “I’m sorry, baby- sorry s’big. But you’re my girl- my girl can take it- you can…you can take it.”

It’s inch by overlarge inch.

Choso’s scraping his way down your walls so sensually that you could feel your fuzzy brain sparking every time one of his prominent veins was draaaagging a zig-zagging pattern along.

Curled toes twitching with each passing second, “S-s’it almost all the way in, baby–?”

“Mhm—” And you’re just letting out the cutest cry once he finally eases himself all the way in, practically impaling you. Head throwing back, tits bouncing, cunt overspilling. 

“Hmmm…maybe this position isn’t so bad.”

Choso didn’t disagree, but it took every single shred of rationality left inside of him to push back Venom’s rasping voice and wrench out a desperate thrust. Allll the way from the globular ends of his ruby-red tip till your sensitive pussy tickled against his soaked-through happy trail.

Tenderly caressing your palm down his hardened front, “I-it’s in–?” Your hitched tone makes his eyes roll back, and yet- and yet, he’s fighting to bring them back down n’ watch your gaped bounces back into his sloppy pace. “It’s in. O-oh my god, c-can feel you all the way in hck! here.”

He’s just so big.

And you’re swearing that Choso only fattens himself even bigger, fatter, wider once you slide your hand about halfway up your tummy. Feeling for that one spot he was bruisin’ right into your spongy cervix.

Biting his lip not to cum again, “Yeah-” You’re jostled ever-so-slightly on top of him as he’s sucking in a deeeep breath, “Yeah yeah yeah- you got it. Y-you better take all of it hngh! Take every. Single. Inch.”

Every vein, every sliding ridge, every throb that was bucked into your readily-awaiting entrance- Choso wasn’t just mazing open your cunt- 

He was spearheading you with such thorough thrusts that made your back curve backwards just so.

“Tch- I’d fuck her even better.”

“No you w-wouldn’t.”

Lazily weaving tendrils start tickling your outer pussy, threatening to slip n’ slide their greedy way past your lips. “Is that a challenge? Summon Venom, if you dare.”

“What’s he saying, Cho?” You coo, tear-shimmered lashes blinking adorably down at his internal argument. And as if he could ever say no to you - hell, the response is dripping from his tongue before he even realizes it.

Grouching out, though he couldn’t deny the way his own cock was jolting at the very idea- “H-he wants a try, too…says he’ll be even better.”

A cockdrunk smile plasters itself onto your face- “Prove it.”

And you were right in your prediction - Venom didn’t just make Choso meaner, it made him bigger. 

So big, in fact, that the bawling tip gently kissin’ your g-spot was instantaneously skidding past to give your cervix a longer, harsher probe. 

So hard that you’re sure there’s now a permanent crater of his exact meaty circumference. And you’re being filled with the distinct feeling that Venom could’ve gone bigger - he just didn’t want to break you…yet. 

Draping across his oversized pectorals, you’re nothing against his over eight foot height. “Y-you…”

Those slimy raven molasses covering his half-fucked face once more to form a rude Cheshire-cat smile. “Me.” Planting an Earth-shattering, mind-numbing ram you’re feeling all the way in your lungs, his pulsing length is so widely thick that Venom has to bite down on his lips and manhandle you for his thrusts to move to and fro. “I am inside your pussy, greedy girl. Me.”

Flicking his dexterous shaft to brush your tingling g-spot, he’s using his powers so much that you could almost feel yourself bonding with the symbiote, with Choso.

“I know every inch, nerve, and spot inside of you. I can make you scream-” Coiling mass contracting to barrel your elastic walls even wider, you’re rightfully crying out at the way he molds himself deliciously into your very walls. 

“Nghhh- fuck! Fuck, y-you’re in sooo deep-”

Stealing your sweetened scent, making him heated. “Hmmm, kiss me.”

But that didn’t mean that your best friend- your…Choso was going down that easy.

In a few more brushstrokes of his ravaging cock against your softest spot - before you can kiss him - Choso’s blinking back the cobwebs of his symbiote so that his face spies out. Only the lower half of his body - his length - partially-covered–

“Keh- annoying.”

“Should’ve- should’ve done this sooner-” He hisses out through a narrowed pant, flecks of spittle flying angrily across the non-existent space between your two faces. “-done this muuuuch sooner- you h-have no idea.”

“O-oh nghhh fuck fuck fuck–” The backs of your thighs ache after every slamming pap! you’re bouncing back into his swervin’ hips. 

Pounding away like he was crazed, every jackhammer only makes Choso grow more feral. Every swab of his prolonged cock inside your silken pussy feral-

His rummaging, fat-tipped shaft was so large that you could feel the way his ridged cockhead scraped your cervix with his studded Prince Albert’s, roaming like a searchlight to spot your most favorite angles.

Eyeliner practically staining down his cheeks now, “Should’ve fuh-fucked you the moment I ngh- met you. Should’ve fucked you r-right there on the lecture table in front of everyone- sh-should’ve—” You’re squealing once his doughy, ringed fingertips dart down to toy with that pretty lil’ clit of yours. “-should’ve let her drive me hck! crazy sooner, baby.”

Oh, he was babbling. 

Cooing, you slither one of your hands through the dampened valleys of his dark hair, “Awww– d-drivin’ you crazy, Cho–?”

“Yes.” He’s seething, he’s heaving. Saturated pheromones driving him mad, he can’t help but flop his pierced tongue across your lips and suck. “S-s’not even that damn parasite anymore-”

Pace growing sloppier by the minute, barely even noticing when those same digits coddling your clit had started to twist and turn in shape. Overtaken by Venom and his meeeean tendrils that alternate between dragging on your overstimulated clit and slipping inside…

“Sh-shit– Venom?”

“Sayin’ another man’s name when I-I’m here- ngh–” Choso’s nosebridge crinkles as he teases you, watery honeypool eyes dropping down to where your glossy hole was swallowing him whole. 

Mouth falling into an ah! at the way Venom’s wisping vines were still wrapped snugly to smooch your walls wiiiide open. And fuck- fuck, the sight. The sight of you bulging with all of his staggering cock still taking in more, more, more of him.

“I see…” He’s giggling - giggling, glassy eyes boring dead-on up at you through his curtained bangs and oh- they were shaped into hearts. Baritone voice rasping as one of his veins itches your walls, snagging past your underwear. “Greedy girl.”

It’s almost as if you didn’t know whether it was Choso or Venom taking over now, only fucked dumb with every sharp jut. Both his cock- his tentacle-like strands spreading you open, targeting your g-spot over n’ over with his plummy, split-ended tip. 

Digging inside, scouring so wetly.

Spread twice as open that the squelch! squelch! squelch! of it resonating each nanosecond was quickly becoming Choso’s favorite song. 

You were damn near shattered.

“I-I’m so close-” You’re hiccuping through your salty tears, brows scrunching at the stormy wave of bliss that was surely oncoming. “-f-fuck! Choso m’gonna cum.”

“Fuck- fuck, m’not gonna last either–” His response comes out guttural, and it’s just so sexy the way that he’s forced to gnaw on the strawberry gummy texture of the inside of his cheeks to stop himself from filling you up right then and there. 

Tender, aching balls squeezing dangerously before-

“Breed her.” Venom’s voice thunders out enough for the both of you to hear, excitement spiking down your spine and straight to where your pussy was drooling. “I know you want to. I know you both want it.”

Shocked, Choso sounds as if he could still barely even believe this was all real. “I-is that true, baby?” Tentatively craning you over to drag his lips softly against yours, “Can I really…inside…my girl?”

“Mhm– please- please, I wan’ it all inside—!” 

“G-get ready.” 

The plush, cushy tip of his cock outlines a water-logged line straight down your cervix as Choso leans further into the bed. Feet planting down flatly so that he can pressurize his powerful, inhuman hips to thrust-

“She’s about t-to be full- so full.” You can feel such pangs of desire as his teeth pull back into a primal snarl, tear-glinted eyes locked permanently where his red, swollen cock was disappearing between your legs. “So full that you won’t even remember what it ngh- feels like w-without me stuffed inside this cunt.”

Squirming with a yearning for sweet, sweet release once he hovers a fingertip over to about halfway up your tummy and draws an invisible line there.

“H-here.” Deepening it with the pressure of his rude digits, Choso’s right hand still rolls over your clit with a few shapes of hearts. Once. Twice. Thrice. “Get ready here–”

Whining, “I’m- I’m gonna-”

Before Venom’s slimy tendrils pinch it once more and you’re cumming- and so is he. 

But Choso doesn’t even realize it - doesn’t even remember to breathe the very moment you’re creaming all down his pummeling cock. Such cute twitches taking over your body as you shut your eyes and riiiide it all out. 

Using his sloppily saturated shaft like a dart that was pokin’ the bullseye of your pussy again and again. Every brushing skid straight across slapping your g-spot repeatedly to drag out your high with a squeeeelch.

And Choso’s licking his lips at the glossy lathering that glued to your folds, then - and only then - catching sight of the dollops of creamy white that was frothing out of your glistening entrance. 

Thick and hot. 

Every splat! of his ribbony sap hits the back of your pussy like heavily condensed cream, swashing inside of you like a sizzling second skin. It feels so filthy to have his mess beading down your walls and forming such a soaking ring ‘round his bulky hilt. 

Your meaty folds spread to smear the puddle that was forming up his happy trail, “You- you feel so good inside.”

“O-oh-” Almost thankful as Venom’s dark strands push aside your torn, sullied panties further for his host to take a better look. Blushing all the way to the tattoos across his nosebridge, “A…a creampie.” 

He’d cum- he’d really, really cum - inside of you. Pressing down on the prettily jiggling tummy bulge he was fucking into you- and it’s enough to make you scream. “Want more.”

And you’re just tapering off from your own orgasm, eardrums nearly popped yet still managing to register those words. Clenching, “Wh-what? Will it- hngh- even fit, Choso?”

“No- nononono it will- it will.” Urgent, rapidly he’s flipping the two of you immediately over to hover on top of you and rut- like an animal. 

You’re gasping once your head plops down on the soft mattress, heels struggling to cling onto Choso’s sweat-laminated hips until he’s trekking his beefy arms underneath and hauling them over his shoulders. Bending, bending, bending into a–

Oh, a mating press. 

He had you manhandled like some lawnchair into a mating press. The sloppiest of its kind, he’s using Venom’s tendrils to lock your ankles together in just two blinks of his eye.

“I can make it fit–” Growling through the tiniest gaps of his grit pearly whites, he kisses his forehead to yours and inhales that sweet scent of yours still permeating the heady air. The chilly heard pendant of his necklace hits the front of your chin and makes you keen. Rough, rugged through punctuating rams, “I will- I will I will- it’ll fit- It will.”

Shivering and shuddering. 

He struggles to even focus his eyesight on you properly - and Choso’s heated maw droooops at the deafening squelch! your pussy pushes out once he sinks all the way back in.

A thick capping of white syrup rising all the way to the top once his massive girth once more fills out your every nook and cranny. He’s still so ravenous that the sight down there is enough to make his mouth water. 

And this position, this angle made Choso’s elongated shaft lean into your g-spot so bruisingly that with only a few more strokes you’re cumming again. 

Fleeting, and faster than you both know it.

It’s only once Choso sniffs at the air and grins that he realizes the rapidly pulsing ba-dump–! of your velveteen walls was because you’re bein’ his good girl and cumming once more. 

Heavy breeder balls striking the treacly slope of your cunt until they were raw and red - you’re sure that the both of you are bruised everywhere. His thighs on your own, your ass on his pelvis, you can’t even wriggle your ankles free because Venom’s keeping a firm grip on them.

Rendering you at the full mercy of Choso’s thrashes dragging out your high, “P-please- fuck- it just f-feels too good, Cho-!”

“S’good- s’good-” He’s flushing out in something that looks like a mix of relief and need. No sooner milking himself on your tightly clenched pussy until you’re being filled all over again.

This time with white, wispy ropes of seed that ache his sensitive shaft to spray out, still coating your gummy walls with viscid layers upon layers. So much.

“So good f’me- so good. Look how much sh-she’s ngh- suckin’ in, sooooo full and- and warm…” He was practically twitching right now, trembling. “Jus’ look at that greedy girl.”

You couldn’t even be moved without feeling all its wads splosh inside of you.

And he still wanted more. 

Yelping, your legs struggle to shut once his sloppy cadence turns even sloppier. Lazier. 

“O-one more-” Choso’s puffing out in a clouded pant, “Keep- keep those pretty legs hck! open f’me- I beg. M’begging- take it, baby.”

Vein-covered forearms placing attractively upon either side of your head to lace right on top of your crowned scalp and push- Weaving wines of the symbiote winding down to furiously pump his cock.

To bloat himself up oh-so-thick straight after two whole orgasms, flying up and down up and down up and down to make his cherry-red divot start weeping once more. “One more- one more.”

“Nghh fuck fuck- Choso–!” Your lower lip wobbles cutely at the carnal glissade of his washboard abs down your own front, he was so strong that you could count every flex and ripple. “S-shooo sensitive-” Eyes shuttering tearfully, you can only jerk your hips up weakly. “-so much. Too much.”

“Never too much.”

Venom’s voice speaks up from somewhere, and you’re feeling the snaking, slimy journey of his tendrils twistin’ around your tits to grope. A greedy handful that teases your hardened nipples so–

“Less talking. More fucking.”

“W-woah-” Choso breathes at the sight before him. You were ruined in only ways he’d seen in his wettest dreams - and it’s not like he was doing any better. Because the way your hips were moving…“B-birthing hips- look at h-her take that big fuckin’ cock. So pretty- so pretty so pretty so pretty.”

You’re so overstimulated that even the slightest brush of his lightning bolted veins makes you gasp- tears springing up to your eyes. “F-feels so…oh.” So good, his stamina was maddening. 

“Yeah? Yeahhh? S’all for you- only for you-” Purposefully pressing up close so that your poor clit gets rubbed over by that patch of tawny brown at the base of his abs. 

And by now, even Choso’s swivellin’ cold piercing was molten hot and drawing wet slides of cum across your walls. Fervently. 

He was fucking you like he couldn’t get enough - would never possibly be able to get enough. Every thrust had him pushing you down once more after the papping recoil, gliding your feverishly sweat-slicked bodies against each other because Choso couldn’t bear to part. “Only for you only for you only for you-”

So gone that he almost doesn’t even register Venom’s deep tone muttering in his ear– “Three.”

Every heated bang of his mushroomy tip plummeting to the back of your overspilling cunt was meant to milk himself. Over and over, he’s tempting out just one more orgasm - just one more to fill you up with more cream. “Two.”

And in your rambling stupor, you’re being drilled into the mattress so spellbound that you don’t even notice the way your unfastened mouth nibbles on Choso’s sexy silver necklace. 

“One.”

Gnawing on for dear life as you squirt.

“Oh.”

Simply spraying him with a voluminous heap of your sweet, sappy juices - Choso has the mindless audacity to crane his head even further downwards and catch whatever stray remnants hit his awaiting maw.

“F-fuck…” You feel like you’ve just been put through ten thousand wringers and milked dry from your poor, tingling core. Gushing and gushing- it’s almost embarrassing how much you’re leaking around Choso’s meaty base. 

Well, embarrassing for everyone but Choso…and Venom.

He was mesmerized - he was hypnotized. A glistening few droplets of pussydrunken drool slipping from the corner of his mouth as he just watched himself get drenched in all your torrential orgasm whilst he emptied out for the third- fourth, fuck he doesn’t even know - inside you.

Raw, and messy - milking himself until he’s hitting a damn dry orgasm. 

“O-oh.” Choso doesn’t even know what to fucking say above your cutely trilling mewls, every languid pump of his flinching cock sending massive shockwaves through both of you. He blushes, “Oh.”

“That was fun. Now, make her yours or I will.” Venom grumbles, the symbiote already starting to take over Choso’s body with its blackened mass. 

And the man jolts- remembering all at once that this was you you you underneath him. Thumb absent-mindedly reaching down to write his last name over the mess spurted across your tummy. 

You, who he’s wanted all his life- 

“M-marry me, my girl.”

The smile that breaks across your face is one he’ll remember for eons. 

“I love you, too, Cho–” You’re purring, tucking one of the mahogany strands plastered onto his forehead behind his ear. 

“I love you.” He’s bursting out at once- rose-pink lips wobbly and wet against your own. He’s kissing you like he needed you to breathe, “I love you- oh, how I love you.”

“Satisfying. But we need more.” 

“Dammit.”

And Venom doesn’t care - Venom cackles to himself as he seethes in yet another gust of your honey-dipped scent and pulls out. The sensitivity startling through your body is so shocking that he’s shooting out a dark web that attaches your hips to the bed. Unmoving. 

But, of course, he takes his leisurely time to stroll near the edge of your bed. Monstrously hulking over it to sweep apart your bloated pussylips and watch the way Choso’s cum driiiiips out.

Now completely encompassing his body— “A three course meal. Yum.”

He was far from done.

You’re sobbing at the sloooooow draaaag of his glistening, large tastebuds down your weeping hole. Unapologetic and primal. “F-fuck! Your stamina…” It was truly monstrous just how pent-up that he was right now, being pushed off by your new boyfriend- fiancé? for so long now.  

Holding you tight with a few tendrils ‘round your waist to keep you from running—

“We’re going to keep this one.” His long, venomous teeth sink into your inner-thigh, not toxic to you. Not at all, but claiming; and the feeling was as good as cumming again. “You’re ours now, pretty girl.”

A/N. RAHHH I TOLD Y’ALL I’D DO IT MWAHAHAHAH-

Plagiarism not authorized.

[thydungeongal]

GMing doesn't have to be a chore and can in fact be extremely fun and rewarding but there are certain learned behaviors and attitudes that make things harder on the GM. Here are just a few tips on how to make the job easier on the GM which also may have the side effect of making the game more fun for everyone:

Everyone should make an effort to learn the rules. The rules are not there to make the game unfun and they are not a necessary evil, they are there to help carry the game so the group doesn't have to do all the work. And everyone taking part in learning the rules means the GM doesn't always have to be the one to remember how a rule works.

To that end, drop the "GM is the final word on the rules" attitude. This places the GM on a pedestal and can actually run counter to the idea of players learning the rules. If the GM has carte blanche to run over the rules it disincentivices players learning the rules because they can't actually rely on the text, and now you're right back to the GM having to carry the whole game. It is entirely okay for players to remind the GM how the rules should work and the group should agree on a method for dealing with rules disputes, and spot rulings should not rely on the GM making a unilateral decision but should rely on some kind of consensus.

Communicate your desires to the group and be willing to compromise; respect each other's prep. You may want a game that focuses on a long-form narrative but the GM wants to run an episodic series of largely unrelated singleton adventures. The GM is the one who is bringing the game, so ultimately be willing to compromise on your vision of the game and respect their prep. Ultimately, if the GM does not want to run the exact type of game you want and you can't see yourself having fun in the type of game they want to run, you will be doing everyone a favor by recusing yourself from the game.

Related to the above, communicating your desires should be an ongoing process. End each session by talking about what you want to do next and where you think the game should go. This will also make it easier for the GM to prep ahead.

This relates to learning the rules: pick a game that actually supports the type of game you want to run. Trust me, whatever time you think you will save by sticking to a game you already know you will make back by not having to fight the rules all the time and actually letting the rules take an active part in carrying the game.

You can literally just use prewritten adventures. Not every campaign or adventure needs to be custom-tailored for your specific group. Using prewritten adventures means that someone's already done a lot of the prep for you.

And finally, don't prep any more than you need to: there is this persistent myth that GMs need to have the entire campaign and world planned from the word go to begin with. While there is nothing wrong with expansive worldbuilding as such, you don't need to prep anything beyond what is strictly necessary. If you're running a wide open sandbox you can get by with a rough sketch of the world and only write things in as they become relevant. If you're running a megadungeon your players don't have to know that you've only prepared the first level for the first session, as long as you have a cohesive broad strokes plan that is perfectly fine. If you're running an episodic campaign, well, you don't need to have anything beyond the next episode prepped at a time, but of course having a rough plan can help.

Of course a lot of this is very opinionated and game specific: some games actively resist authoritative GM prep and want to involve each player equally in setting up the situation, and that's actually great, and in those types of games you should remember that the game is explicitly telling everyone to be involved in the prep. And once again, listen to what the rules have to say: they're there to tell you what the game wants you to do.

[dollyzdaydreamz]

sam winchester x fem!reader

Sammy Stamp

description: your tattoo artist friend suggests doing a 'random' henna tattoo on your lower back out of boredom. when you return to the motel, your semi-permanent tramp stamp practically turns sams brain into mush.

reader has ‘sammy’ on her lower back aaa ::>_<:: warnings: no nsfw, but slightly suggestive, fluff. spn masterlist

You and the boys were on a hunt in your hometown, so you figured you’d give your childhood friend a visit. Sam and Dean were oblivious to the fact that she knew you were a hunter. The poor girl had been caught up in one too many of your half assed lies and near death experiences when creatures had decided to hunt you back; so naturally, the secret had to get out somehow.

Her tattoo studio was tucked between a shuttered record shop and pawn store on the edge of town, its windows fogged by condensation. It was dim, but cozy in its own way. The walls were a patchwork of old band posters, ink designs pinned like sketches in your hunter journal, and a few faded Polaroids of past clients who’d braved bolder choices.

You were curled up on a faded leather couch in the front room, a chipped mug of hot chocolate cooling in your hand.

She was finishing a walk-in tattoo, leaving you to your thoughts, until your phone buzzed quietly on your thigh.

Sammy (2:43 PM)

Just checking in. You doing okay?

You smiled and gave him a call, “Hey.”

“Hey,” Sam echoed on the other end, his voice soft and familiar. There was a quiet rustle. Paper maybe, or an old book, then a sigh. “Just wanted to make sure you got there alright.”

“I did. She’s finishing up a piece. I’m just chilling here waiting,” You reply. "It was snowing a little last time I checked. You keeping warm?" He asked. “Yeah. Hot chocolate’s questionable, but it’s hot.” you chuckled softly.

He huffed a short laugh, and you could picture him, probably hunched over an old lore book, elbows on the table, sleeves rolled up.

“That’s good.” A pause. You could hear Dean faintly in the background, and the distant creak of motel floorboards. “I miss you.”

That pulled at something quiet inside you, making you smile, “I’ll be back soon.”

“Alright,” he murmured. “Call me if you need anything.”

“I will. Bye Sammy.”

You ended the call just as your friend stepped back into the room, tugging off a pair of gloves. She eyed your expression with a grin.

“Sammy? That your guy again?”

You nodded. “Just checking in.”

She grinned, amused, “He’s the moose, right?”

You lifted a brow, “Moose?”

She smirked. “Tall, broad shoulders, hair like he lives in a forest?”

You paused, “Huh, I suppose he does look like a moose.”

She plopped down in the armchair across from you. “Yeah, I've see him and his brother around town. He seems good for you.”

You exhaled slowly, “He is. He’s smart and sweet. Sometimes it’s like he’s thinking five steps ahead but never makes you feel behind.”

“Bagged yourself a fellow nerd.”

“Yeah,” You sigh dreamily, “A cute nerd.”

She chuckled before leaning back, tapping her chin, “You bored?”

You shrugged, “A little. Why?”

“Wanna let me give you a henna tattoo?”

You hesitated, then gave a faint smile. “Ah, why not?”

“Dealer’s choice?”

You nod, "Yeah. I mean I trust your artistic instinct." She perked up at that, "Let's do one on your lower back! Like a cute little tramp stamp?"

“Go ahead," You shrug. "Something small though.” 

You shifted to lie down on your stomach, pulling your blouse up just enough to give her space to work. The cool touch of henna paste startled you at first, but the process was slow and relaxing, the way she always was when she had a brush in hand.

She didn’t tell you what she was painting. Just chatted with you idly and occasionally adjusted your shirt. When it finally dried and she wiped off the excess, she handed you a mirror and let you see it.

A delicate bunny and moose, outlined with just enough detail to make them whimsical, sat in the small of your back. Above them, written in careful script: Sammy.

“You know what? This is the most wholesome tramp stamp I’ve ever seen.” You laughed quietly. “Why the rabbit?”

She grinned. “Hm, I guess you remind me of one. And like I said, that Sammy of yours is obviously a moose.”

You glanced back in the mirror, the figures sweet and strangely personal. “It’s adorable, thank you.”

“Anytime.”

By the time you two finished catching up it was getting late. 

As you gathered your things, your friend caught a peak of the tattoo and snickered,

“Something funny?” You sassed, slipping on your boots and looking back to her smug expression.

“Sammy's gonna love it,” She whispered as she pulled you into a hug. 

“Shut up,” You grumble, though you hugged her tighter anyway.

By the time you returned to the motel, the sky had dulled into twilight, the clouds washed in violet and gray. The scent of motel soap clung faintly in the air, and you could hear the bathroom fan running. Dean was probably washing up, taking advantage of the steam showers the receptionist was raving out. Sam was sat at the table, a book open in front of him, lamp light catching the edges of his hair.

He looked up as you came in. That quiet smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

“Hey. Have fun?” He asked, voice soft, eyes already on you like you’d been gone longer than just a few hours.

You nodded, toeing off your boots. “Yeah. She just wanted to catch up for a bit.”

“Mm.” His eyes lingered on you, then dipped back to the book, fingers absently turning a page. “Can you grab that old journal from the top shelf? The leather one with the green spine.”

You crossed the room, lifting your arms to reach the shelf. The hem of your shirt rose slightly with the motion.

And that’s when you heard it.

A sharp inhale. The sound of paper crinkling under a suddenly too-tight grip.

You turned, journal in hand. Sam was staring, not in the way he meant to, more like his eyes had found something and were refusing to let go. His mouth parted slightly, brows drawn like he couldn’t quite process what he’d just seen.

“Sam? You alright?” you asked, beginning to worry that he’d seen some sort of vision. 

He blinked fast, dragging his eyes up to yours like he was trying to catch up. “What? Yeah—I’m fine,” he said, voice wavering. He cleared his throat and dropped his gaze to the book like it could ground him. His leg had started bouncing.

You nodded, still unconvinced, but you didn’t wanna push it. You crossed the room to hand him that book he wanted, before getting ready for bed.

A few minutes later, you lay on his bed, facing him to get some shut eye, it was weird, but sometimes just watching work or do something quietly helped you fall asleep.

“Hey—did you...get a tattoo or somethin’?” he asked after a moment.

You glanced over your shoulder, then remembered, “Oh. Not a real one, it’s just henna,” you shrugged. “We were bored, so she gave me one.”

“Oh,” he nodded, lips pressed together like he didn’t trust them to say more. But his fingers fiddled with the corner of the page, restless.

So it was the tattoo that rattled him...

You felt a little grin tug at your lips, wanting to revel in the attention a little more. So you got up, padded toward him and lifted your sleep shirt just enough to show him the full thing, “Do you like it?”

Sam blinked, mouth opening, but nothing came out for a second. "Sammy?"

He cleared his throat when you turned back around, eyebrows quirked at his dazed expression.

“Yeah, it’s hot—or cute. If that’s—what you were going for…” He sputtered.

“Thanks,” you bit back a laugh. "So when are you gonna finish up?" You asked, sitting on his lap to push the brown locks out of his face, grinning at the way his shoulders slumped and his eyes closed, seemingly melting into your hands. "Mm, I don't know, soon," he murmured, face tilting to give your wrist a little kiss. "Could've gotten a real tattoo in all the time you've been sitting here," you chuckled. Sam's head was nearly lolling back, sleep beginning to overtake him as you continued to gently stroke his hair when you leaned into his ear to speak again, “I was never into tramp stamps but, I don't know, this one’s like my little Sammy stamp,” You whisper. His big brown eyes shot open. You could practically hear the gears grinding in his head as he tried to process what you just said. You weren’t sure if it was the nickname, the location of the tattoo, or the casualness in your voice, but something short-circuited in that big beautiful brain of his.

You leaned down, lips almost brushing his.

And then—

You pulled back with a soft yawn, blinking sleepily as you got up off his lap. “I think I’m gonna get some shut-eye.”

Sam stared up at you,

"Wha—Seriously?” his eyes narrowed in disbelief.

You stifled another yawn, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from grinning too obviously. “Yeah, it’s late and I’m tired.”

He gave you a flat, betrayed look, the corner of his mouth twitching in spite of himself. “You—” He scoffed, falling back against the chair back, “You planned that, didn’t you?” He was met with silence as you settled on the bed with your arms folded under your chin. The hem of your shirt rode up again, but you didn’t bother adjusting it, resting your cheek on your arm with a barely concealed smile and close your eyes. You let him stew in it, content in the knowledge that your little tattoo was doing exactly what your friend hoped.

Sam tried to read. Really, he did. But he kept tapping the same sentence with his pen. He felt his gaze drifting again, never quite landing, but never quite staying away either.

His thoughts were a mess.

Yeah, maybe it would fade, but it was his name. On your lower back. In a spot usually reserved for something…private.

And you looked so damn content. Like it didn’t even occur to you that it might be even the slightest bit suggestive.

…this ones like my little Sammy stamp

He groaned under his breath, before rubbing the back of his neck and staring at the page harder, “Sammy stamp...” he muttered with a huff, "Christ."

A few hours passed and Sam was finally calmed down. Dean had long since emerged and flopped onto the far bed, snoring within minutes. Sam finally shut the lore book, brain too fried to keep going.

Sam turned, and there you were. Curled into his bed, face smushed into the arm tucked under your cheek, the other draped loosely off the edge.

He moved quietly, slipping in behind you. The mattress dipped under his weight as he settled in, his body curving gently against yours. His hand brushed your back lightly, the way that usually helped you stay asleep. Then his fingers dipped to trace the soft shapes adorning the small of your back.

He hadn’t really looked at the design earlier, been too busy short-circuiting over his name. But now, in the moonlight peeking through the curtains, he saw what was etched below his name: a little rabbit, leaning up to a moose. 

Sam's fingers gently pressed on the animals. He tilted his head, it sorta reminded him of the two of you. Then he huffed in amusement as the realization hit him, of course it was you and him.

He tucked his nose into your shoulder and closed his eyes, the steady rhythm of your breathing slowly pulling him under, falling asleep behind you with a little smile on his lips.

don't be shy, lmk what you think ! `(*>﹏<*)′ justice for tramp stamps frl, if i could get a tattoo, i'd get one there. they can be so dainty and cuttte. i'm still working on the fairy!reader fics for sam and dean + some requests i've gotten :)

[jaggedamethyst]

golden boy | jayce x female reader

1.7k words

content: fawk it, jayce making a damn vibrator with hextech…and suspending my disbelief that they even knew what that was and he legit created it idc!! walk with me girl!!!

18+ minors dni, angst, pathetic! jayce, kinda mean but closed off reader, pining (?), some fluff, smut duh, vibrator used on reader…also jayce is kinda a sarcastic mf here

notes: idk what came over me guys, but I feel like this could end up being longer than just a one shot bc the angst made its way in like usual. also jayce is a smartie pants, leave him alone guys.

update: part two is up now!

series masterlist

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

He heard you before he saw you, your light saunter approaching him. Jayce had to immediately curse himself, because while he was rather smart, his reflexes were damn slow. He didn’t even think to cover his sketches before you were already close enough to crane your head over his shoulder.

A hand found his back, rubbing it encouragingly. “What ya workin on?”

Jayce was someone who loved to be affirmed. You both knew that. So before even registering the odd shapes you were looking at in his drawings, you wanted to let him know you were there and that any stress that lingered would soon dissipate. You were confused, then, when he rose quickly. He used his broad shoulders and back to block your view.

He smiled, clearly caught off guard. “Just some new stuff…you know…the mind never stops!” His cheeks soon blossomed with a rosy sheen across them. There was a sympathy in your gaze, but an even larger feeling of intrigue.

Jayce was easy to distract. As much as he loved to work on his creations and improving Hextech, he was also extremely needy. This often left him quite impressionable under your touch. Over the course of your relationship—which you would admit wasn’t actually a thing—you used this to your advantage.

You approached him slowly, an arm outstretched toward his face. He instinctively learned towards the palm of your hand. You intended to at least plant a kiss on his cheek, but he was a lost puppy these days. Just that action alone was enough for his body to relax into you. You had an opening. You slipped your hand behind him under the guise of stabilizing yourself on his workbench—grabbing a handful of the loose pages.

With a squeal you backed up, and spun around. “Wooooo what do we have here!”

“Wait-“ he turned between you and his work, “you tricked me?”

Holding the papers up toward the light to inspect them, you quirked a brow. “All in a days work, babe. Although…I don’t exactly know what I’m looking at here.”

Jayce was exasperated, how humiliating for you to have found these—even more that they weren’t even done. He was a scientist, after all. He needed time to finalize and test every possibility. He didn’t want to fight you for the papers—couldn’t really.

���Its just,” he sighed, “some stuff for you- or um, us?” He didn’t mean to sound like it was a question, a chance. It was definitive. He knew numbers and percentiles the same way he knew you. There was a desire there to be something more than just this. But he was entirely too passive to ever tell you. So he worked tirelessly at the only thing he knew you would show up and stay for. He didn’t mean for us to sound like a question, but it was.

You’d turned your back by then, the best angle of the sun shining towards your back and thus highlighting the drawings. Your intense gaze had faltered, your shoulders slumping. Like any other feeling you’d felt for Jayce in the last two years, you pushed it away—relying on humor as a shield. People are too fickle; you liked your independence and didn’t want to get hurt. Not again.

You ignored that feeling in your stomach that said to not be mean to him again, you knew he didn’t deserve it. You just couldn’t help it. Without acknowledging the weight of his statement, you continued, “what do they do?”

He senses your lack of focus, hastily snatching the pages from over your head. They quickly found their way back into a folder and cast aside.

“Well…its for,” his eyes purposely avoided yours. The ceiling was suddenly really amusing.

“Way to leave a girl hanging,” you scoffed, turning towards the door. “I just wanted to check in, but I will come back when I am wanted I guess.”

You didn’t take him seriously. That wasn’t new, but the feeling of wanting to do something about it was definitely a unique occurrence.

Before he could grasp what he wanted to say, the words flew from his lips. “Sit down.”

You stopped in your tracks, intrigued and slightly turned on by the firmness in his tone. “Scuse me?”

“You should sit…sit down. Over there.” He gestured towards a couch he’d made in his workshop. You complimented him on it once, knowing he’d made it just because he could. That was something you liked about him, undoubtedly. He had the capabilities to do so much more than he could even conceptualize and you wanted that for him. But the hopes for his future, rubs on his back, and longing gazes were too much for you.

Despite this, you were never one turn down a man like him finally standing up to you. You shrugged, “Sure, whatever…I’ll sit.”

“Good.”

The man turned quickly to retrieve one of the items he’d drawn in his sketches. This specific one was made with you in mind. It took so much dedication to perfect, but little effort to actually create, really. He’d think of your time together, the praise that would leave your lips each time he’d even breathe near your clit. The way your body would writhe against his. It was intoxicating. He figured something to make that even more special for you was due. But how could he just keep giving to someone who didn’t want to truly have him.

He wasn’t brainless. As much as he loved to hear it, being a good boy felt demeaning sometimes. He was a man, and he wanted you in a way you refused to see.

He’d show you.

“Take off your clothes.”

Jayce explained to you once that the body had red blood cells, that they carry oxygen. It confused you, now, because you were damn sure weren’t bleeding all over his chair and yet every single breath in your body was gone.

“What?”

“Clothes. Off.”

“In a I’m gonna experiment on you kind of way, or we’re gonna fuck kind of way because-“

“Both.”

You didn’t want to seem too eager, but damn you wished you had less pieces of clothing on right now. As you stripped, you were grateful then for the warmth of the forge. The sudden chill on your skin caused you to shiver. Jayce appeared suddenly, something in hand.

“I am actually not sure what to call this,” he showed you the object in the palm of his hand. It wasn’t very large, or maybe his hands made it seem smaller, you weren’t sure.

“Thats okay,” you leaned back on the couch, “show me.”

He was on you immediately, an eagerness on his lips you’d never felt from him before. You were usually the one in charge. So when he pushed you flat on your back, his clothes still on, you felt the difference. He’d swung his leg over you, now straddling you. You were too distracted by the kisses trailing over you to realize he’d reached between you two.

He made his way around your neck and toward your ear. “Let me know how this feels.”

You gasped, a vibration hitting your body unlike anything you’d felt before. Jayce was skilled in many ways but this was—wow. You met eyes with him, words struggling to form in your throat. Your brain seemed to have been empty, too.

He let the feeling pulse before slightly circling you, teasing you.

“So this, is what I have been working on.” He surveyed the way you gasped underneath him, looking into the distance. “Its not quite done yet, but I had to change some things here and there to make it better. Ya know, make it ergonomic, not too loud, stuff like that.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but all you managed was a frustrated groan. He was pissing you off. How could he be making you feel this good and talking like a fucking nerd right now.

“I also thought about sensation…what you like,” he smirked a bit. He was proud of himself. “Sometimes when you’ve had a particularly hard day, slow and deliberate does the trick, right?”

He continued to press into you, urging an answer from you. It was quite interesting how the tables seemed to turn but he didn’t complain. This is what he wanted—you helpless and confused under him while he ruined you for anyone else. He was tired of hearing how you couldn’t be tied down. Jayce Talis was no idiot, you were holding back.

“Isn’t that right sweet girl?” At the same time he questioned you, he’d raised the speed on you. A buck of your hips immediately after. “You don’t have to answer, I know.”

Sweet girl. He’d never said that before. The undertone of him trying to rile you up while simultaneously being his usual endearing self was too much. Your hands had found your face, a sudden embarrassment looming over you. That didn’t stop him.

“But, because I care about you feeling good, I added another feature.”

You felt the continuous sensation increase sporadically and then back down, chocking out a whine.

“Intuitive right?” He used a free hand to brush the hair from your collarbone, latching his lips there. He spoke into your skin, “Essentially, I used the Hextech to not only control the stimulation but to work at the users command with little effort.” He paused, wanting to see you. “So when I do this,” a surprised yelp from you, “or this, you really feel it.”

He’d never been more proud. You were often one to lead him, and he liked it. But now, with you here helpless, he couldn’t help but urge you on. He continued to ramble, speeding up to a pace he knew left you unraveling.

You couldn’t take it. It took everything in you to get the energy to yank his hair and finally speak, “Jayce-“

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

“Can do,” and with that, he sucked down on your chest. He knew you’d loved that.

The entire ordeal felt like years when in fact, it had only been a few minutes since he started in on you.

“You go ahead and finish, I’ve got you.”

It wasn’t much longer before the heat in you exploded, a series of groans clawing its way from your vocal chords.

He’d continued to coax more from you, he felt he was owed as much.

Eventually sleep overtook you, the man recognizing the familiar lull that creeped up on you.

He spoke, mostly to himself, “we’ll talk later.”

You replied, to his surprise. “Sure thing, golden boy.”

part two

[orellazalonia]

His Soft Spot

Summary: You’re a sunshine-hearted barista in a dangerous city, all smiles and soft edges. Unaware that the quiet, brooding man at your café table is the most feared name in the local mafia. But when Bucky Barnes starts carving gentle moments into his brutal world just to be near you, even he begins to wonder if someone like you could ever love someone like him. (Mafia!Bucky Barnes x Sweetheart!reader)

Word Count: 2.1k+

A/N: Been wanting to do a mob AU with this pair for a while now. I finally got to it, and they’re so cute! (Imo lol.) Happy reading!!!

Main Masterlist | His Sweetheart Masterlist

The corner coffee shop was nothing special. Chipped counters, secondhand mugs, and a bell above the door that only worked when it wanted to. But you loved it. The soft clink of ceramic, the low hum of conversation, the smell of roasted beans.

You’d worked there for a little over a year now, always opening at 6 a.m. sharp, rain or shine. Most of your regulars were kind, or at least kind enough. Grumpy people in suits needing caffeine, half-asleep artists sketching in the window, moms with strollers and tired eyes. And then… there was him.

He wasn’t a regular in the traditional sense. He never came at the same time, never stayed too long. But you noticed him. Of course you did. Broad shoulders under expensive coats, a deep-set frown carved onto his face, and stormy blue eyes that rarely met anyone else’s. He always sat in the corner booth, never used his name, and always ordered a plain black coffee with two sugars.

You’d started calling him Quiet Guy in your head.

And he was. Quiet. Still. Intense. He didn’t smile, not once. But he tipped well, never complained, and never forgot to say thank you even if it came out in a low, quiet murmur that barely reached above the hiss of the espresso machine.

You didn’t think he noticed you much, not really. Especially not the way you always added a little extra whipped cream to his coffee, even if he didn’t ask for it. Not the way you smiled at him even when he didn’t smile back.

To you, he was like one of those paintings you stare at in a museum. Sharp, beautiful, and just a little sad.

Meanwhile, you were just the girl behind the counter. Apron stained with chocolate syrup, hair tied in a messy bun, a bandaid on your knuckle from an unfortunate knife-vs-avocado incident. Too smiley, too soft, too… naive, according to your friends.

But Quiet Guy never looked at you like you were silly. Never talked down to you and never flinched when you ended up rambling about your new cookie recipe or your dream of maybe, someday, opening a bakery with pastel tiles and big sunny windows.

If anything, he listened.

Really listened.

But it wasn’t until the third week of October that he spoke more than a sentence.

Rain was pouring that day. It was real ugly rain that soaked your shoes and stuck your hair to your face. You were closing up, locking the front door and tugging your jacket tight, when you saw him outside. No umbrella. No coat. Just standing there, rain dripping down his face, his shoulders hunched like a man carrying something heavier than water.

You hesitated. Then, without thinking, you held out your umbrella. “You’ll catch your death out here,” You said, half-joking, half-worried.

He looked down at it, then at you. For a moment, he didn’t move. Then he spoke, voice gravelly, “You always this kind to strangers?”

You smiled, sheepish and soft. “Only the ones who don’t complain about the coffee.”

A ghost of something flickered at the corner of his mouth, almost a smile as he took the umbrella, his fingers brushing yours.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” He said, eyes lingering for just a second longer than they should have.

You watched him walk away, the umbrella bright yellow against the gray street.

You didn’t know you’d just handed protection to the most dangerous man in Brooklyn. And he didn’t know he’d just started falling for someone who wore bandaids with cartoon fruit on them.

You didn’t see him for a week after the umbrella incident.

The streets were rougher than usual that week. There were more police on the corner, more closed signs on family-owned businesses, and more whispered rumors behind half-lowered blinds. You heard someone mention the O’Rourke deal and someone else murmur about a warehouse fire that wasn’t an accident. A few people joked nervously about the mob running wild lately– Who’s in charge now, anyway?

You didn’t pay too much attention to that kind of talk honestly. Not because you weren’t curious, you were. But you’d grown up in this city. Danger was background noise like sirens or subway screeches. You learned to stay in your lane, smile when it was smart to, and never ask too many questions.

Besides, you had your own problems: the espresso machine started leaking, your paycheck bounced for the second time this month, and you accidentally burned your fingers on a pan of fresh croissants.

You were wiping the counter, cursing under your breath and cradling your wrapped-up hand, when the bell above the door jingled.

He was back.

And this time, he looked different. More tired like he hadn’t slept. His coat was darker than usual, collar turned up high. There was also something stiff in the way he moved, like something hurt under the surface.

“Hey,” You said, immediately smiling despite the nerves fluttering in your stomach. “Rough week?”

He looked at your bandaged fingers first.

“What happened to you?”

You blinked. “Oh. Just being clumsy again, it was the pastry tray versus my hand. The tray won.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, like he didn’t find that answer as harmless or humorous as you did. He stepped forward, slow and quiet, placing a twenty on the counter.

“Black. Two sugars.”

“Same old?”

“Some things don’t need changing.”

You bit your lip to hide the smile that tugged at your mouth. He was… oddly comforting, even with the way he made your stomach flutter and your thoughts skip.

You turned to prep the coffee, carefully working around your bandaged hand, when he spoke again.

“This neighborhood isn’t safe lately.”

Your back stiffened slightly. “I mean… it’s never really been safe, has it?”

“Worse now,” He huffed. “Too many people trying to prove they belong at the top. They’re reckless.”

You glanced at him over your shoulder. “You sound like you know something.”

He didn’t answer that. Instead, he said, “You always walk home alone?”

“Sometimes,” You admitted. “I usually take the back route past the laundromat. It’s better lit.”

He looked genuinely displeased by that. “Don’t.”

You blinked. “Don’t… what? Walk home?”

“Don’t go through that alley again.” His voice was low and serious, like it wasn’t a suggestion. Like it was law.

You nodded slowly. “Okay. I won’t.”

You set his cup in front of him. He didn’t take it right away. He simply looked at you and for the first time, it didn’t seem as guarded as usual.

“You ever wonder why no one messes with this place?” He asked.

Your brows knit together. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, two blocks down, there’s a diner with bullet holes in the glass. There’s a liquor store that got torched. But your little coffee shop? Untouched.”

You looked around like you were noticing it for the first time and he wasn’t wrong.

“I guess we’re lucky,” You said, quieter this time.

He finally took the cup.

“Not luck,” He murmured. “Some places are off-limits.”

Your stomach did a slow flip. Before you could ask what he meant, he slid a small piece of paper across the counter. His handwriting was sharp and deliberate. There lied a number.

“If you ever feel unsafe,” He said, “Call. Don’t hesitate, just call.”

You looked up at him. “What should I save it under?”

He met your eyes, and for the first time, he smiled. Small, crooked, but real.

“James,” He said. “But you can keep calling me ‘Quiet Guy’ if you want.”

And then he was gone, the door jingling behind him, a gust of cold air in his wake.

You flushed, knowing he must’ve overheard you talking about him to your colleague. You stared down at the paper in your hand now and thought, James. Huh.

You didn’t know that name came with weight. You didn’t know that in certain circles, that name made grown men flinch. And you definitely didn’t know you’d just become the softest secret in James Buchanan Barnes’s world of blood, power, and control.

You never really called the number.

Not that day, not the next. You stared at it for a while. Once during your lunch break, once before bed, but you never dialed. You didn’t need to since nothing had happened. The streets were loud, the rumors kept circling, but your world stayed small, safe, and ordinary.

But something changed after that.

The Quiet Guy – James – started coming in more often.

Sometimes in the early morning, when the city was just beginning. Sometimes in the quiet lull between lunch and dinner. He never stayed long though, but he started talking more. Asking questions and not the kind people ask just to be polite; it was the kind that meant he was actually listening.

He’d ask about your recipes, about the books you liked, whether you preferred cats or dogs. One time he even noticed the way you hummed to yourself one of your favorite songs when you were focused, and he asked what the song was.

You told him it was nothing.

But the next day, he left a little radio on the counter when he left. It was old, scratched, but with the exact song loaded onto a USB inside.

You didn’t ask how he got it. And he didn’t ask what you thought of it. But you smiled a little bigger the next time he walked in, and that was enough.

Then, one afternoon, he came in without a coat. No shadows under his eyes. Just him. Solid, real, and standing in front of you with a calm you hadn’t seen before.

“Are you free Friday night?” He asked, like it wasn’t a question that made your heart trip over itself.

You blinked. “Me?”

“Yeah. You.”

You smiled. “I mean– yes. Yeah, I’m free.”

He nodded, like he’d already planned everything. “Wear something warm.”

You didn’t know what to expect.

He picked you up just after dark in a sleek black car you didn’t recognize the brand of. His jacket was pressed. His shirt was ironed. And when he offered his hand to help you inside, you hesitated just long enough for your cheeks to flush.

He noticed but he didn’t tease.

Instead, he said, “You look beautiful,” like it was the only truth he knew how to say.

You didn’t know that three hours earlier, he’d been standing in a warehouse near the docks, quietly threatening a man with a broken nose not to let a whisper of trouble near your neighborhood tonight. You didn’t know that Bucky had postponed a weapons shipment and moved a backroom poker game three blocks east just to clear the air around you.

All you knew was that the rooftop he brought you to had a string of soft, glowing lights, a space heater, a tiny table with mismatched chairs, and two steaming paper bowls of your favorite takeout.

You gasped when you saw it. “Is this…?”

“I remembered you said you liked the dumplings from Ling’s.”

“I didn’t think you were listening.”

“I’m always listening.”

You sat, half-nervous and half-stunned, watching as he poured you a cup of tea from a little thermos he brought himself. It was clumsy, imperfect, but somehow… it made the gesture sweeter.

“Why up here?” You asked curiously.

He shrugged. “I don’t like crowds and it’s quiet.”

“Do you always go to this much trouble for dinner?”

He hesitated. “No.”

You looked up at him and found he was already looking back.

There was something different in his eyes now though. It wasn’t cold or guarded. It was more like a storm had passed and left something warm in its wake.

You ate slowly, talking about everything and nothing: your favorite cartoons as a kid, the weirdest thing you’ve ever baked, your theory that the city pigeons are evolving to become smarter than humans.

He laughed at that one. Actually laughed. It was rough and low, a rare sound that made your chest ache in a good way.

Later, when the wind picked up, he moved closer. His arm barely brushed yours.

“Cold?” He asked.

“A little.”

He draped his jacket over your shoulders like it was instinct and maybe it was.

You glanced down at your tea, heart pounding, and asked softly, “James?”

“Yeah?”

“Why me?”

He didn’t answer right away. You thought maybe he wouldn’t but you’d asked anyways.

But then he said in voice low and almost vulnerable, “Because you're the only good thing I don’t want to ruin.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. So you reached for his hand and to your surprise, he let you hold it like he didn’t want to let go. It all felt like the beginning of something neither of you could name just yet.

[cryoculus]

— cleanup on aisle three ⟢

phainon’s late-night grocery runs are a masterclass in chaos: strange ingredients, fish-shaped lighters, and recipes that could either save the world or end it. and you, a cynical store clerk who just wants to end your shifts quietly, find yourself caught in the storm of his culinary madness.

★ featuring; phainon x gender-neutral!reader

★ word count; 8.3k words

★ tags; friends to lovers, the grand chrysos au (from the april fool's chef pv lol), fluff, idiots in love, several food mentions

★ notes; kaientai tumblr reinstation starts NYEOW! if you follow me on ao3, you've probably already seen this, but i thought it would be a nice idea to crosspost on tumblr since i have a fairly decent following here as well :")

It’s 12:17 a.m., and the store feels like it’s running on fumes.

The fluorescent lights buzz overhead like they're trying to quit. The floor's been mopped twice already, but there’s still a suspicious sticky spot near the freezer aisle. You’ve stopped caring. An hour left on your shift, and you’ve taken refuge behind the express lane counter with a pen and a long receipt roll.

You're halfway through sketching a moth in combat boots when the automatic doors sigh open.

You don’t look up. Probably just another grad student scraping together a meal from energy drinks and despair.

You finish the boots. Add spurs, just for fun.

Minutes pass. A distant freezer door thunks shut. Then: the squeak of a wobbly cart wheel approaches, slow and uneven.

You glance up as a guy pulls into your lane—not with a full cart, but a modest one that looks like it’s been curated by someone either very sleep-deprived or very emotionally unstable.

He’s tall. Broad-shouldered. Wearing a chef’s coat that’s half-unbuttoned and clinging on for dear life. There’s flour on one sleeve, something like tomato sauce on the other. A burn mark peeks out just above his wrist like a badge of honor. He looks like he’s been personally insulted by dinner service. 

You scan his face—sharp, tired features and eyes that look like they haven't closed in 36 hours. And still, for some reason, he’s kind of hot in the way that makes you instantly distrust him.

He starts unloading his haul without a word.

A 2 liter bottle of cola.

Repackaged chicken feet.

A pint of heavy cream.

A family-size bag of marshmallows.

Three lemons.

Two ramen seasoning packets (no noodles, just the seasoning, and you don't even ask).

A tray of century eggs.

A novelty fish-shaped lighter.

You look at the items. Then up at him. Then back at the items.

“Either this is the world’s saddest dinner or an extremely niche food challenge.”

He exhales—half laugh, half resignation.

“I had to abandon my souffle. My caramel turned into lava. And my artichoke casserole exploded.”

“And this is... what? Your consolation prize?”

“This is survival.” He nods solemnly at the marshmallows. “These might be dinner. Or something to keep me from spiraling into insanity.”

You arch a brow as you scan the fish lighter. “Planning to set the marshmallows on fire in the parking lot?”

“I like to leave my options open.”

He rests his elbows on the counter like the weight of the grocery cart has followed him here. The store lights catch on the flour streaking his cheekbone. You're not sure if it's endearing or if you should offer him a wet wipe.

“You know we sell lemon wedges, right?” you add, bagging his chaos with minimal judgment.

“I needed to suffer through slicing them myself. Builds character.”

You tap the touchscreen, and the receipt prints in no time. As it rolls out, you add the final detail to your sketch—the moth, now holding a sword and standing triumphantly on top of a lemon. You doodle on a fish lighter beside it like a familiar before handing it over wordlessly.

The guy takes one look and laughs.

“Do you charge extra for emotionally resonant moths?” 

“Only for customers with weird grocery lists.”

He smiles—slow, amused, like he’s filing that away.

“Then I guess I’ll be seeing you a lot.”

You don’t respond. You just slide his bag across the counter.

He picks it up, nods once, and turns toward the doors. Stops halfway. Glances back over his shoulder like he might say something else, then changes his mind.

“Thanks for not asking about the seasoning packets. Or the chicken feet.”

You manage a lopsided smile. “Was gonna assume childhood trauma.”

He grins. “Close. Culinary school.”

And with that, he’s gone—out into the night, carrying his bag of questionable dinner plans and a receipt covered in doodles.

You didn’t really expect to see him again.

Weird chef guy with the marshmallows and the seasoning packets. The one who looked like he’d been personally wronged by a stand mixer. He’d left with a fish lighter and chicken feet, and you’d filed him away in your brain under “Midnight Oddities.”

But then, a few nights later, he’s back.

Same graveyard shift. Same busted cart wheel. This time, he’s traded the tomato-stained coat for a plain sweatshirt, sleeves pushed up to the elbows. His hair’s still a mess of white—like someone threw powdered sugar into a fan—and there’s a fresh bandaid across one knuckle.

He looks just as tired as before. Maybe more.

The poor guy drops a basket on your express lane counter with a quiet thunk. Inside: two onions, a bottle of balsamic vinegar, two cylinders of butane gas, and an aggressively large chocolate bar.

“Long night?” you ask without looking up from your pen.

“The lamb reduction caught fire,” he says, with the grave seriousness of someone reporting a tragic death.

You raise a brow. “You mean, like, metaphorically?”

“I mean the fire alarm went off. Twice. It’s fine. The sauce died doing what it loved.”

You nod solemnly. “We should all be so lucky.”

He half-grins, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I considered setting the rest of the kitchen on fire just for closure.”

“You’ll need more butane for that.”

You ring up the items, fingers on autopilot. He leans on the counter, watching you, like he’s got nowhere better to be.

You don’t know why it slips out. Maybe it’s the late hour. Maybe it’s the way your feet ache in that particular flavor of minimum wage exhaustion.

“...Thinking of picking up a second job,” you mutter.

He blinks. “Because this one’s not enough of a spiritual journey?”

You snort. “Because rent exists. And degrees don’t pay for themselves.”

“Ah,” he says, nodding, like that makes perfect sense. “You could always be my emotional support line cook.”

“Tempting,” you say flatly. “Do I get benefits?”

“Free pastries and occasional exposure to open flames.”

“You really know how to sweeten a deal.”

As the receipt prints, you flip it over and start sketching without thinking—muscle memory. A tiny version of yourself appears on the paper, slumped inside a soup pot labeled “Capitalism,” one hand holding a spatula like a white flag. Little cartoon flames lick the edges.

You push it across the counter with his bag.

Mister Chef picks it up. Stares. And for a moment, the usual dead-eyed kitchen glaze in his expression breaks.

“You know, these are actually... really good.”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I mean it. You’re talented.”

You shrug, already pretending to clean the scanner. “Talent doesn’t cover health insurance.”

He’s quiet for a second. You feel him looking again, too long.

“Why don’t you do something with it?” he says softly. “Take commissions maybe? Or start some freelance work?”

You pause, then smile like it’s a joke.

“Not everyone gets to follow their dream on a full stomach.”

He doesn’t have a comeback for that.

You hand over his change, and he takes the bag, still holding the receipt in his other hand like it might burn him if he grips it too hard.

On his way out, he glances back once.

“The soup pot’s got good linework.”

You don’t answer. Just wait for the doors to sigh shut behind him, and a few beats later, you realize that you don't even know that guy's name. But then again, it's not like it matters. You probably won't see him again anyway.

Except you do.

It happens a week after, when you’re not supposed to be on break.

Technically, you're just passing through the cereal aisle on your way to the walk-in, but somehow your legs stop moving somewhere between the frosted flakes and the granola that costs more than your hourly wage.

You sink down to the linoleum, back to the shelves, legs folded, a rejection email glowing on the screen of your phone in one hand.

Your art didn’t make the cut. Again.

Apparently, “strong technique but lacks conceptual cohesion” is the new “we regret to inform you.”

You don’t cry. You just kind of... sit. Long enough for your name badge to start digging into your shoulder.

You hear footsteps approaching. Heavy ones. Paired with the soft clink of glass jars in a basket.

You don’t even look up until the familiar blur of white hair comes into view.

“Oh,” Weird Chef Guy says, blinking. “Did the Lucky Charms defeat you, or are we both having a bad night?”

You don’t answer.

He sets the basket down. Squats in front of you, arms resting on his knees. “You okay?”

You gesture vaguely at your phone. “Just failed at being talented. Again.”

He frowns, tilts his head like he’s trying to squint meaning out of your soul.

“Gallery submission,” you explain. “Rejected. They said my work didn’t have enough... something. Whatever.”

You expect a platitude. Maybe a bad joke. Instead, you get:

“That sucks.”

It’s simple. But it lands harder than it should.

You glance up—he’s in a dark denim overalls this time, smudged with olive tapenade or maybe despair. He smells like rosemary and late-night stress. Still weirdly hot. Still looks like he hasn’t slept since the lunar calendar was invented.

“I applied last minute. Used some older pieces I did before I dropped out of Okhema U.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Art school?”

You nod. “College of Arts. Illustration track. I had to take a leave when tuition got ridiculous, and I thought, you know, maybe if I made some money and kept making stuff, I’d figure it out.”

You try to laugh, but it comes out hollow. “Turns out, sketching on receipt paper in a fluorescent-lit retail hellscape isn’t exactly inspiring.”

Weird Chef Guy sits down beside you now, shoulder just barely grazing yours. His basket sits abandoned next to his knee—a couple of mason jars, chili oil, toothpaste.

“Lack of cohesion, huh?” he says, voice softer now. “They ever tried making risotto?”

You blink. “What?”

“Risotto,” he repeats. “It’s fussy. Needs constant stirring. Tastes like glue if you screw it up even a little. It's a total diva of a dish. You can do everything right and it’ll still come out wrong. But then one day—bam—it hits perfect. Creamy, savory, actual magic. Like it forgave you for your sins.”

You stare. “Are you seriously comparing my failed gallery submission to rice?”

He shrugs. “All I’m saying is, maybe your art’s just... in risotto mode. Not a failure. Just a work in progress with attitude.”

It’s stupid.

It’s really stupid.

But for some reason, your chest eases just enough to breathe again.

You would laugh, genuinely laugh at this stranger's attempt to cheer you up but then you hear the unmistakable crinkle of a snack bag somewhere down the aisle.

“Damionis?” you call, not even turning your head.

A very casual voice responds from behind the cereal shelf: “I’m on break. This aisle just happens to have the best acoustics.”

You groan. “Go bother someone in frozen foods.”

Damionis pops his head around the corner, grinning like the absolute gremlin he is. “Nah, I like this sitcom. You want me to bring popcorn next time?”

“Only if it’s expired.”

He throws you a mock salute and retreats. Probably. You don’t check.

When your nosy co-worker is out of earshot, you glance at your present company. Weird Chef Guy—because you still don’t know his real name despite this being your third meeting in total—leans his head back against the shelf and exhales.

“I’m Phainon, by the way.”

You blink. “What?”

“My name,” he says, glancing sideways, and you look at him like he might just be a mindreader. “Figured it was time you knew it, since I’ve been reading yours off your nametag like a creep.”

You glance down instinctively at the little badge on your apron. Right. 

You snort. “And here I thought you were just stalking me.”

“Only in grocery stores. And only after midnight.”

“Points for subtlety.”

“Points for not crying in the middle of Aisle Five,” he counters.

You bump his shoulder with yours. Not hard. Just enough.

He bumps back.

And in the cereal aisle, between a shelf of off-brand granola and a man with fireproof hands, something very small and very soft unspools in your chest.

You're not sure if you want to give it a name just yet.

You’re halfway through a bag of chips and a sip of flat soda when you see Phainon walking into the break room like he’s just stormed out of an interdimensional kitchen hell.

His chef’s coat’s still half-buttoned, a tiny smear of what could be mustard or burnt caramel streaking down his arm, and he’s holding a tupperware container like it contains either the cure for all your problems—or the worst food poisoning of your life.

He spots you, and the chaos continues in his wake, like some sort of culinary tornado.

“Hey,” he greets you, looking way too pleased with himself. “You free to eat something…experimental?”

You raise an eyebrow, slowly lowering the chips. “I don’t know, chef. Last time I checked, I wasn’t signing up for a cooking class. And who the hell let you in here?”

“You’re not signing up for anything,” he says, ignoring your inquiry as he drops the container on the table with a grin. “I’m just trying something out. The ‘No Food Left Behind’ policy. You’re gonna be a test subject.”

You stare at the tupperware, unsure if you should be excited or worried. The lid pops off, and you brace yourself for the smell of burnt desperation and raw ambition.

But instead, it’s surprisingly…pleasant?

“What is that?” you ask, leaning forward.

“Whatever it is,” Phainon shrugs, “it’s better than the version I made for myself this morning. I was going for ‘vibrant acidity,’ ended up with ‘distilled regret.’” He gestures to the container like it's a grand masterpiece. “So, eat up.”

You give him a skeptical look, but you’ve seen enough of his food disasters by now to know that he probably isn’t trying to kill you with poorly executed gastronomy. At least, based on what he checks out in his carts and baskets after his midnight grocery runs. Slowly, you take a forkful. And damn.

It’s good. Really good. The kind of good that leaves you almost suspicious.

The flavors somehow work together in this mess of ingredients—something salty, something tangy, something rich and comforting. It’s like he didn’t just throw things together, but created something from a place of necessity.

You blink, lowering your fork. “Wait. This...actually isn’t bad.”

He grins. “You sure you’re not just hungry?”

“I’m always hungry,” you mutter, finishing the bite. “But no, this is weirdly healing.”

Phainon sits across from you, watching you with an almost unreadable expression. For a second, you almost think he’s serious. “Not what I was going for, but glad to know it worked. Should’ve added more cheese, though.”

“More cheese?”

“Yeah. You’d be amazed at how much cheese fixes everything.” He bobs his head with a self-satisfied smile. “Next time.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s something else there—a tiny spark of warmth you weren’t expecting. The food wasn’t just filling a void; it felt like it was filling something deeper. Like you hadn’t realized how badly you needed it.

You set the tupperware down and glance up at him, suddenly feeling the weight of the last few days. “Thanks,” you murmur, voice a little quieter than you intended. “I haven’t had a proper meal in days.”

His smile softens, but only a little. “Then I guess this was the right kitchen experiment.”

You really should have known better than to run your mouth around someone like Phainon.

The first time it happens, it’s on Monday night. You’ve just clocked in, half-dazed from an over-caffeinated day, and the last thing you expect is a neatly wrapped bundle sitting in the break room fridge with your name on it.

You raise an eyebrow, curious. You slide it out of the fridge, already bracing yourself for some bizarre culinary experiment. The tupperware looks oddly familiar—like the same one Phainon showed up with last time, only this time there’s a little post-it note slapped on top.

Eat me.

You sigh, but you’re also starving, so you open it.

Inside is some kind of…stew? It’s thick and bubbling in the tupperware, with chunks of something that almost look like meat but might actually be vegetables, and a drizzle of something that looks suspiciously like a spicy aioli.

You’re not sure whether it’s the blend of spices or the odd richness, but it smells warm and inviting. He even prepared a small serving of rice to pair it with. 

You sit at the table, spoon poised, and take a tentative bite. Holy hell, it’s delicious.

You should be angry that he’s invading your break with weirdly good food, but instead, you’re just grateful you don’t have to rely on stale sandwiches anymore.

The next day, it happens again.

And the next.

It’s like a strange, unspoken agreement now. You never see him drop off the food, but there’s always something waiting in the fridge when you clock in.

By the third day, you’ve gotten used to it—the warm, spicy-sweet curry with just the right level of heat, the unexpectedly perfect homemade bao buns, and today, what looks like a bizarrely decadent bowl of ramen with ingredients that should never go together, but somehow do.

You’re standing in the break room, staring at the latest offering like it’s a strange gift you didn’t ask for, when your coworker, Damionis, leans in from behind you, peering into the fridge.

“What is this, another one of Weird Chef Guy’s meals?”

“His name’s Phainon,” you mutter, but even as you say it, you realize you haven’t actually mentioned that part to anyone.

“Right. Phainon,” Damionis mocks, grinning. “Well, whatever his name is, I don’t know whether to be jealous or concerned. You’ve been eating like royalty all week.”

You just shrug, not sure what to say. It’s not like you asked for this. It’s just happening.

Then the weirdest part comes. The food is so consistently good that you can’t even be mad about it anymore. You don’t even ask questions. You just eat.

But then it lasts for over two weeks.

Two whole weeks of unexpected, ridiculously good meals waiting for you in the break room fridge every single shift. You didn’t even need to check the fridge anymore—you just knew there’d be something there. And as much as you’d like to complain about it, the truth is… you couldn’t.

It was all too good. He knew how to cook. Too well.

But this? This had to stop. It wasn’t that you didn’t appreciate the meals. It’s just that you couldn’t shake the nagging guilt that you were being spoiled by someone who barely even knew you. 

And the more you thought about it, the more you felt like you were becoming a passive recipient of his kindness. You weren’t some charity case, and you didn’t want to feel like one.

So, you decide to do something about it.

You arrive at the grocery store at 10 in the morning. The day shift clerk, Arielle, told you this is the time when Phainon usually dropped off his gifts. To your relief, she was more than willing to help you catch the guy red-handed while you lied in wait in the break room. 

And you did. For about twenty minutes. 

Then, almost on cue, you hear a knock on the break room door, and when you open it, there he is. Phainon. Standing in the there with his usual “I’m exhausted, but I’m fine” face.

“You—” You cut yourself off, arms crossed. “You’ve got to stop doing this.”

“Stop what?” He stares at you, genuinely confused. “The food? Is it bad? Because I can totally—”

“No!” You immediately interject, feeling the pressure of not wanting to sound ungrateful. “No, the food’s amazing. It’s just—” You run a hand through your hair, trying to figure out how to phrase this without sounding dramatic.

“I don’t want to be a burden. You keep leaving these meals for me, and I feel like I’m just taking and taking and not… giving anything in return. I can’t keep just accepting these like it’s nothing.”

Phainon blinks at you, a slow realization creeping across his face. Then he shrugs. “You’re not a burden. I’ve been doing this because I want to. You’ve been working your ass off, so you deserve to eat something decent. Besides, I like knowing that I’ve made something you’ll actually enjoy.”

You stare at him, feeling the weight of his words pressing down on you. He sounds so genuine, so nonchalant about it all. But still…

“I feel like I’m taking advantage of you,” you admit, suddenly embarrassed. “You don’t owe me anything. We don’t even—”

“—know each other, I know.” Phainon cuts you off with a soft smile, not an ounce of irritation in his voice. “But that’s the thing. We don’t have to know each other for me to want to do this. I’ve been training at a restaurant for the past few weeks, and it’s been crazy. Honestly, I barely have time to sleep, much less cook for myself. So, I just... grab what I can, throw it together, and leave it for you.”

You stare at him, processing his words. “Wait. You’ve been doing this after working at the restaurant?”

“Yeah. I’ve been coming home late, still on my feet, barely able to keep my eyes open, and I thought: ‘Hey, might as well bring something for them. They're working hard too.’” He gives a small, sheepish shrug. “I mean, it’s the least I can do.”

You’re quiet for a long moment, your mind a little overwhelmed by the layers of his thoughtfulness and how much more he’s been giving than you realized. It’s one thing to show up with a random meal once. It’s another thing entirely to be doing it on the regular, after pulling long shifts himself.

“I don’t want to be a burden,” you repeat, quieter this time.

“Then don’t,” he says with a chuckle. “Don’t make me stop. You’re eating something decent for once in your life. What’s wrong with that?”

You open your mouth to protest again, but something in the way he looks at you—like he actually believes you deserve the meals, and not just because he’s some guy who’s trying to be nice—makes you pause.

“I’m just looking out for you,” he adds. “And I’m not asking for anything in return. Just… don’t overthink it. It’s food. It’s my way of saying, ‘Hey, you’ve got a weird job, but you’re doing alright.’”

And, damn it, that hits a little harder than you were ready for. The simple sincerity of it. You want to argue, but the honesty in his eyes stops you.

“You’re impossible,” you say finally, shaking your head, but there’s a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “Fine. But only because I’m pretty sure I’ll starve without it.”

Phainon grins, clearly relieved. “Exactly. Now, I’ve got a soup in there that I think might be your new favorite.”

You can’t help but laugh at how easy he makes this all seem. You know this won’t be the last time he’ll show up unannounced, but this time, somehow, it feels a little less like a gift and a little more like the beginning of something worthwhile.

The commission work has been steady. That’s the word you keep using—steady—even though what you really mean is exhausting.

Since you started accepting paid requests, your days have been a blur of grocery store shifts and digital sketchpads. Pet portraits, custom nameplates, grocery signage with smiling cartoon vegetables—nothing too big, nothing too personal. You keep telling yourself it’s fine. It’s money. It’s more than you had before.

But it’s also not what you love. Not really. It feels like turning your art into product. Into labor. Into something with a price tag instead of purpose.

Still, beggars can’t be choosers.

You think about telling Phainon. You’ve wanted to. After all, this whole thing started because he encouraged you to “do something” with your art. But he doesn’t come around anymore—not during your shifts, anyway. He still leaves meals in the break room fridge, but it's been a while since his last grocery run. You figure he’s probably drowning in work at a restaurant he never told you the name of.

You don’t even have his number. Isn’t that ridiculous?

So you keep your head down. Draw. Clock in. Clock out. Repeat.

And then—

One Thursday night, you’re sweeping up near the produce section, trying to shake off a migraine and mentally calculating how many commissions you’ll need to finish by the weekend, when the automatic doors chime.

You don’t look up right away. It’s late, and most customers at this hour want to be left alone.

But something—some presence—makes you glance up.

And there he is.

Still in his usual chef coat, unbuttoned and a little askew, the sleeves rolled haphazardly to his elbows like always. He looks as if he came straight from the kitchen. But that’s not what catches your attention.

It’s the bruise.

Dark and ugly, blooming along his cheekbone like ink under thin paper.

“Phainon?” you blurt before you can stop yourself.

He gives a small, crooked smile. “Hey. Long time.”

You’re already striding toward him. “What the hell happened to your face?”

“Occupational hazard,” he says, waving a hand like it’s nothing. “It’s not as bad as it looks. I got in the way of a flying sheet pan.”

“Bullshit.”

His smile wobbles a little, but he doesn’t argue.

You grab his wrist—not roughly, but firmly—and drag him toward the back. He doesn’t resist.

“You’re coming with me,” you mutter.

He raises an eyebrow. “Scandalous.”

“Shut up.”

You haul him into the break room, ignoring the lingering gazes from co-workers, and make a beeline for the first-aid kit above the microwave.

He watches you in silence as you wet a paper towel with cool water and start dabbing gently at the edge of the bruise. He winces but stays still.

“You’re really bad at taking care of yourself,” you mutter.

“I could say the same about you,” he says, almost reflexively.

You glance at him, and he tilts his head. “I heard from Damionis. You’ve been doing commissions.”

Your hand stills. “...Yeah.”

“You didn’t tell me.”

“You haven’t exactly been around.”

“Touché.”

You look away, focusing on cleaning the worst of the bruising. “It’s fine. It pays. I don’t love it, but it’s something.”

There’s a beat of silence before he says quietly, “I know that feeling.”

You meet his gaze again, and he looks... tired. Really tired. Not just physically, but somewhere deeper. Like the chaos is starting to catch up to him, too.

You’re not sure who leans in first. Maybe neither of you do. But the distance feels smaller now. Quieter.

Then Phainon says, “Next time you want to vent about it, just... wait for me. I might not always show up on time, but I will. Eventually.”

You smirk, just a little. “Big words for someone with a black eye.”

“Battle scars,” he says solemnly. “The kitchen is a warzone.”

You laugh despite yourself, and the tension lifts, just a bit.

There’s still curry powder under his nails and ink smudged on your wrists. Neither of you are sleeping enough or eating right unless the other intervenes.

But in this tiny, overly lit break room, with a half-empty vending machine humming behind you and a pack of frozen peas pressed to his face, it almost feels like something is working.

Almost.

The next weird thing he does for you starts with a folded envelope tucked beneath your lunch in the break room fridge.

This time, there’s no doodle, no cheeky post-it. Just your name, written in slanted pen across thick cardstock. You open it between bites of lukewarm stir-fry, expecting another pun or maybe a strange coupon Phainon made up himself—One Free Existential Breakdown Redeemed at Aisle Four.

But it’s not that.

It’s an invitation.

A literal, printed, serif-fonted invitation on heavy cream paper that reads:

You’re cordially invited to a private tasting at The Grand Chrysos. Come hungry. Come after your shift. P.S. Don’t argue. It’s on the house. —P.

Your first reaction is laughter. Then confusion. Then panic.

The Grand Chrysos is fancy. It’s the kind of place you pass on your way to the train station and try not to breathe near, in case you accidentally lower its property value. One with five-course menus and wine pairings and waiters in black gloves. You thought Phainon was training at some well-off restaurant, but not in a place like that. 

You stare at the invitation like it’s going to burst into flames.

When your shift ends, it’s nearly 1:15 a.m., and you’ve changed into a slightly less wrinkled shirt in the back room just in case. You told yourself a hundred reasons not to go. You’re not dressed for it. You can’t afford to even look at the menu. You’ll stick out like a ketchup stain on linen.

But you go anyway.

You’re greeted at the door by someone who seems unfazed by the fact that you’re arriving well past closing. They just smile, gesture you in, and say, “Chef Phainon’s expecting you.”

The restaurant is quiet, emptied of patrons, lit only by a soft glow from the open kitchen.

Phainon lies in wait, blue eyes glittering with anticipation. Still in his chef’s coat, sleeves rolled, hair pulled back, looking exactly like the maniac who leaves elaborate noodle dishes in your fridge and somehow always knows when you’ve had a bad day. There’s a tiredness in his posture, sure—but also a kind of light. The kitchen is his domain. He belongs here.

“You’re still open at this hour?” you ask, hesitating at the edge of the dining space.

He glances up, offers that familiar half-smile. “Nope.”

You frown. “Then what—?”

“I just like to experiment until dawn,” he says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “New menu trials. Flavor pairings. Wasting perfectly good sleep in the name of soup stock.”

You stare at him, suddenly seeing the dark circles under his eyes in a new light. “Is that why you always look like a dying student during finals week?”

He snorts. “Not inaccurate.”

He gestures toward a single candlelit table near the kitchen window, already set. You sit slowly, unsure of what to expect. But he’s already sliding the first course in front of you—delicate, strange, beautiful. Some kind of cold-brewed consommé with herbs you don’t recognize and edible flowers that look like they were plucked from a dream.

“This is real,” you murmur. “You’re—you’re the one making all this?”

He shrugs like it’s no big deal, but you can see it—how much it matters to him. How proud he is, even if he’ll never say it outright.

Course after course follows. A risotto with saffron foam. A deconstructed katsu curry that tastes like every comfort food memory you’ve ever had. A dessert involving toasted meringue, freeze-dried berries, and some strange, tangy syrup he says he discovered by accident.

You’re halfway through the meal when you finally say it.

“I thought this was your job. But you don’t stop when your shift ends.”

He glances up, caught mid-plate wipe. “You don’t either.”

You open your mouth to argue, but he raises an eyebrow. “How many commissions did you say you had lined up last week?”

You go quiet.

“You’re always tired,” you murmur.

“So are you,” he says gently. “But we keep showing up anyway.”

It’s not romantic, exactly. But it is intimate. And in some ways, that’s worse. You’re sitting in a temple of haute cuisine, eating the best meal of your life, and the only thing you can think about is how tired you both are—and how neither of you will admit you want someone to say, It’s okay to stop.

But for tonight, neither of you do. For tonight, you eat.

And when dessert’s cleared away and he brings out a thermos of something he calls “chaos tea” (probably caffeinated), you smile.

Because tired as he looks, Phainon seems a little more alive with you sitting across from him.

You still glance at the break room fridge out of habit.

It’s been weeks since anything showed up with your name on it in crooked handwriting. No precariously packed curries or leftover fish terrines that somehow didn’t stink up the room. No chaotic bao buns, no weird jellied things in little jars, no “guess the ingredients” soups that left your tongue buzzing and your heart weirdly warm.

Just your stuff now. Yogurt. A banana you probably won’t eat. A sandwich that’s seen better days. Someone else's soda you’re pretty sure is off-limits.

It’s fine.

You’ve learned how to eat properly since then. You even meal-prep sometimes, if you’ve got enough brain cells left at the end of the night. Your commissions have picked up—just enough to get by, just enough to let you breathe without doing math at the register to figure out if you can afford a single bar of chocolate. And it’s not like you miss Phainon leaving food for you like some culinary cryptid Santa Claus. 

But every now and then, you’ll crack open your tupperware and realize that you still wait for the scent of saffron, or the punch of vinegar, or whatever strange spice he was experimenting with that week.

You’ll look down at your rice and scrambled eggs and sigh, not because it’s bad, but because it’s yours—and maybe, for once, you liked when it wasn’t just on you.

The last time you saw him, he’d looked like death warmed over. Like someone had dug him out from under a pile of cookbooks and deadlines. There was flour in his hair and a pen behind one ear, a band-aid around his thumb and a blister forming on the side of his neck from god-knows-what. His phone had buzzed three times while you were trying to ask him about the new cold brew in stock.

“Dissertation life,” he’d said with a lopsided smile. “You wouldn’t understand. I’m elbows-deep in food chemistry and the historical evolution of fermentation methods. Pray for me.”

You’d rolled your eyes and told him to go touch grass. He’d promised to consider it… after graduation.

That was three weeks ago.

You don’t text him often. You think about it more than you act on it. The last thing you want to be is another notification in a sea of deadlines. But sometimes you’ll send a blurry photo of a weird carrot shaped like a foot, or a doodle on receipt paper of a garlic bulb with tiny arms. Sometimes it’s just a message: Still alive. Hope you’re eating.

He always replies. Short stuff. A thumbs-up. A picture of a burnt omelette with the caption "how the mighty fall." A single “LOL” that somehow makes your day.

You know better than to take it personally—he’s drowning in work. His internship at The Grand Chrysos ended with a bang (and at least one small kitchen fire, according to a very dramatic text), and now all that’s left is the thesis he won’t shut up about.

You sit at the break table with your sandwich, scrolling back through old messages. Your shift’s half over. You’re trying not to look like you’re waiting on a ghost.

The last text from him was three days ago:

Working on my related literature. Might collapse. If I don’t survive, tell the duck confit I loved her.

You smile, even though it catches in your throat a little.

You put your phone down and stare at your sandwich. Take a bite. Chew slowly.

It’s fine. It’s good, even.

But it’s not the same.

You’re almost done with your shift when Arielle insists—insists—that you go take your break. 

“I already had mine,” you argue, arms crossed, the fluorescent lights humming far too loudly above you. You don’t even know why she’s here at this hour. She works the damn day shift. 

“Take. Your. Break,” Arielle says, giving you a look that says don’t make me drag you.

You eye her suspiciously. Damionis is nearby, not even pretending to be subtle. He’s suddenly very invested in facing the peanut butter jars, whistling off-key. Something is up.

Still, you're tired, and your feet hurt, and your brain is half mush from answering customer questions like where’s the cheese that tastes like sadness but costs twelve dollars more?

So, fine. Whatever. You head toward the break room.

When you open the door, you're hit by the scent of vanilla and something warm, like toasted sugar and citrus zest. The lights are dimmed—when did they even install a dimmer switch?—and standing awkwardly by the fridge is Phainon.

He’s holding a cake.

Scratch that—he’s holding a gorgeous cake. It’s layered and glazed, decorated with candied slices of orange, flecks of gold leaf, and delicate piping that reads Happy Birthday! in slightly wobbly cursive.

And on top: several tiny candles. Lit. Flickering.

He’s using the stupid fish lighter you remember from his very first visit.

“Surprise,” he says, voice soft. “I mean… as much as this counts as a surprise. I had help.”

“He sure did,” Arielle pipes up from behind you, suddenly crowding the entrance with Damionis, both grinning like idiots.

“We coordinated,” Damionis says smugly. “Told him your schedule. Arielle did the decorations.”

You look up. There’s a single streamer hanging half-heartedly from the cabinet above the sink. One balloon taped to the fridge. It’s so dumb. So unbelievably sweet.

You stare at the cake again. At Phainon, who’s shifting his weight from foot to foot, clearly unsure if he’s supposed to say more or not.

And then your vision blurs.

“Oh no,” you murmur, swiping at your face, furious with yourself. “Nope. We are not doing this. I am not crying over a cake.”

Phainon smiles, a little crooked, a little tired. The same smile from all those nights he showed up with tupperware and herbs you couldn’t pronounce.

“Well, it is a pretty great cake,” he says gently. “And you deserve nice things. Even if it's just once in a while.”

You sniff. Your voice comes out smaller than you’d like. “How did you even know? I don't remember telling you my birthday...”

“Mmm, Arielle might have let it slip a couple weeks ago when I bought some salami.” He points the fish lighter at the culprit herself.

Arielle just rolls her eyes and says, “Oh, please. You love it anyway, right?” 

Yes.

It’s ridiculous. It’s heartfelt. It’s everything.

You blow out the candles, blinking rapidly, and someone claps—probably Damionis, who’s always a little too eager about celebrating. Phainon cuts the cake and hands you the first slice. It’s lemon poppyseed with honey cream filling. You don’t even like lemon poppyseed.

But still, it’s perfect.

You stand in the crowd, awkward in your semi-wrinkled button-down and scuffed sneakers, feeling a little out of place among the polished shoes and proud parents. You shift from foot to foot, scanning the rows of graduates seated in the middle of Okhema University’s sprawling courtyard.

And then you spot him.

Phainon’s cap is slightly crooked—of course it is—and he’s fidgeting with his gown like it’s some kind of prison uniform. But when his name is called, he straightens up. Walks like he belongs up there. And when he takes the diploma, there’s a flicker of pride that crosses his face before he spots you in the crowd and grins like he just won the lottery.

You wave, cheeks warm, and try not to look too proud yourself. He’s beaming, radiant with accomplishment and relief and maybe just a bit of exhaustion.

Afterward, in the soft afternoon light, he finds you on the steps outside the university.

“You made it,” he says, a little breathless.

“You invited me,” you remind him, but you’re smiling. “I thought those seats were reserved for, you know. Family.”

“They’re too far away to make the trip,” he says simply. “But you were here.”

You don’t know what to say to that. So you just nod, feeling something a little too big for your chest. Pride. Gratitude. Something else you don’t want to name yet.

Before you can figure it out, a shadow falls over you both.

A tall, broad-shouldered guy—blonde, scowling by default—clears his throat.

“Mydei,” Phainon says, surprised. “Hey.”

Mydei nods, stiff. “Just wanted to say… sorry. For, uh. Punching you in the face. You know, months ago.”

Your eyes flick between them. Oh.

The bruise. The one Phainon had that night he stumbled into the break room, looking like he’d lost a bar fight with a pan. You remember treating it with frozen peas and whispered concern.

“You really clocked me,” Phainon says, rubbing the side of his jaw with a wince that’s more nostalgic than bitter.

“Yeah,” Mydei says. “You were being annoying. Still. Sorry.”

They clasp hands, awkward but genuine. You don’t ask for details. You don’t need them. Phainon gives Mydei a nod as he walks off, and then it’s just the two of you again.

“So,” he says. “Big graduation moment. I’m finally free. No more dissertation deadlines. No more chefs breathing down my neck.”

“You gonna rest now?” you ask.

“Absolutely not,” he says. “I’m thinking dinner. Celebration. Something borderline dangerous with a blowtorch involved.”

You roll your eyes, falling into step beside him as you start walking toward the city. The sun’s starting to dip, casting Okhema University’s sandstone buildings in soft gold.

“Actually,” you say, heart thudding. “I have a confession.”

Phainon slows a step, giving you a look. “What, your undying love for me?”

You freeze. “Absolutely not!”

He laughs, smug and bright and utterly unrepentant.

You huff. “I meant—I’ve saved up enough. I’m going back. To school. Art school.”

He stops walking entirely.

“You’re serious?”

You nod. “I sent in my documents last week. Just waiting for confirmation. But yeah. I’m… I’m doing it.”

His whole face lights up like a streetlamp. He lets out a whoop so loud a couple of passing students stare. Even is he's the one who just graduated, Phainon is celebrating you so much louder.

“That’s—that’s incredible.”

You shrug, trying to seem cool, like you haven’t been carrying the weight of this decision in your chest for weeks. “Figured it’s now or never.”

“Come over,” Phainon says instantly.

You blink. “What?”

“To my place. Tonight. Let me cook. You’re not getting some lazy congratulations takeout, okay? We’re talking a full meal. Dinner for two. My kitchen, my rules.”

You smile, a little stunned, a little giddy. “You sure?”

“Absolutely. It’ll be awful if you say no. I’ll be dramatic about it. Maybe cry.”

“Fine,” you say, nudging him with your elbow. “But only if you make that weird stew with the spicy aioli again.”

His eyes twinkle. “Deal.”

You keep walking, and for once, the future doesn’t feel so scary. Not when there’s something like this—like him—waiting just ahead.

Phainon’s apartment used to look like nobody actually lived there.

The walls were bare—blank, indifferent, the kind of blankness that says I won’t be here long. His place was functional, stripped down to the basics. Bed, shower, fridge, stovetop. A stack of cookbooks in one corner, post-it notes stuck in like confetti. His kitchen, when he used it, smelled like burnt sugar and ambition. But most nights, he was too tired to even boil water. He came home to sleep, maybe shower, then passed out with his apron still slung over a chair.

That was before you started coming over.

At first, it was convenience. Your new university building was closer to his apartment than your own place, and it saved you forty-five minutes of commuting if you crashed on his couch. Then it became habit. Movie nights. Shared leftovers. Sleeping in until noon on your free days. You never really asked if you could keep staying over—but he never asked you to leave.

Somewhere in between all that, his walls started to change.

He framed one of your failed lino prints first. You didn’t even like it—too messy, too smudged. But he said it “had texture,” and before you could protest, it was up near his bookshelf, angled slightly crooked like he didn’t know how to use a level. Then came a half-finished charcoal sketch of a pigeon. A gouache color study. An ink portrait of a cat you never met. One by one, the misfits from your sketchbooks began populating his walls.

You grumbled. Called it embarrassing. He didn’t care. “You spend half your time here,” he said once, standing in front of the fridge with a container of soup in hand. “Might as well look like you live here.”

It annoyed you—until it didn’t.

Now his apartment feels like something alive. Something shared. His pans still clatter too loud, and his towels are always mismatched, but the walls look warmer. Lived in. Like a space with a history unfolding inside it.

And then, one quiet Tuesday night, he swings by the grocery store again.

It’s nearly midnight, the store is half-asleep, and you’re manning the register with the radio turned low. He buys something ridiculous—a single lemon, a tin of anchovies, and a bottle of hot sauce. You roll your eyes as you ring him up.

On the back of the receipt, you doodle a sleepy cartoon fish holding a sparkler. He grins when you hand it over, folds the paper neatly, and slides it into his wallet.

You catch a glimpse of what’s already tucked inside—half a dozen of your other doodles, dog-eared and soft at the corners. A rabbit with an apron. A stick figure with flaming oven mitts. Even that old moth wearing combat boots with the spurs. All preserved like little relics.

“You keep those?” you ask, surprised.

Phainon shrugs, casual, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “They make my wallet look cool.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart’s not in it. Your chest feels weirdly full.

Because it’s not just the wallet. It’s the walls of his apartment. It’s the fact that he keeps showing up. The way he lights up when you talk about your latest project, even when you’re rambling. The meals he made for you when he barely had time to sleep. How he’s been quietly holding onto all these tiny pieces of you—and never once made you feel silly for handing them over.

You’re not stupid. You know what this might mean.

And maybe—just maybe—you might just feel the same.

It’s barely past seven when you’re stuffing your sketchbook into your bag with one hand and trying to smooth your hair with the other. You’ve got fifteen minutes to make it to your first class of the day, and somehow, despite waking up with enough time, you’re still scrambling.

In the kitchen, Phainon is moving with that easy, practiced grace he only ever has when food’s involved. There’s toast browning, eggs cooling, something wrapped in foil that smells suspiciously amazing, and a thermos of warm broth in your favorite flavor. His hair’s still damp from the shower, and his chef’s coat is half-buttoned, but he’s focused, like preparing your lunch is his actual job.

“You don’t have to do that every morning,” you mumble as you slip your shoes on.

“I know,” he says, without looking up. “But I like to.”

And maybe it’s the way he says it, like it’s a given—like of course he’d want to take care of you—that makes your fingers itch. You pull out the little folded doodle you made the night before. It’s stupid. It’s cute. It’s terrifying. Just a rough sketch of the two of you holding hands, hearts doodled above your heads, and the words i like you, idiot scrawled at the bottom.

You wait until he turns around to rinse something at the sink before you slip it into the recipe journal he keeps open on the counter, tucked between a page of messy notes about pickled egg foam and a weird diagram involving chili oil.

Your heart hammers the entire time, but you say nothing. You just sling your bag over your shoulder and shout a “See you!” before you bolt out the door.

Class is a blur. You think your Realism professor says something profound about emotional verisimilitude but you’re too busy trying not to spiral.

It’s only during your break, when you finally unwrap your lunch on a bench just outside the art building, that you find the post-it.

It’s stuck to the inside of the foil, slightly greasy but still legible, written in Phainon’s usual hurried, slanted scrawl.

I’m terrible at feelings but I think I might be in love with you lol. If you’re not horrified, meet me after class?

Your mouth drops open. For a second, you just stare at it, hands frozen around your sandwich, your brain a whir of static.

And then you laugh.

Because of course he responded like this. Of course he had to one-up your confession in the dumbest, most Phainon way possible.

You tuck the note into your coat pocket and pull out your phone, fingers hovering over your messages.

See you at 3 :>

And when 3 o’clock rolls around, Phainon’s already waiting outside your building, hair windswept, journal tucked under one arm. He looks nervous until he sees you walking toward him, and then—then he smiles like the sun finally decided to rise for real.

You grab his hand without saying anything.

He holds on like he’s never letting go.

⟢ end notes: wahoo, you made it to the end! thank you so much for reading qwq it's been a hot minute since i posted on this acc and tumblr in general (i was mostly active on the kpop side of things in 2023), so i'm kinda just posting this to feel out the vibes. if i should crosspost my other stuff here etc etc. i also just started writing for hsr about,, a month ago?? so i've no idea how the fandom is on here JSDHFJSDGFH either way!! i'm just happy to share my stuff anywhere i can :^)

[pleasantlycrazyworld]

Whaaaaaaaaaaar if you’re taking Bob requests, may I request something sweet/a little smutty about Reader helping Bob decorate his room because it looks so blank and empty and it’s been affecting his mood? 🥺 (and then maybe something like he prefers staying in reader’s room anyway in the end because he likes to be “surrounded by you” 😭)

-🐮

I may have gotten carried away with this, it does get smutty so mdni please <3

Bob Reynolds wasn’t the kind of man to complain. Not outright. But you’ve learned to read between the silences. 

Like when he stood too long in doorways, his broad shoulders silhouetted by hallway light, just watching you for a moment before asking, “You need anything?” Like how his room—big, empty, bare—felt colder than the rest of the base. Or how he always ended up in your room by nightfall, sitting cross-legged on your bed with a mug in hand and a softness in his eyes he rarely let the rest of the world see.

Bob’s room was too quiet. Not just the kind of quiet that came with thick walls or soundproof tech. No—this was the empty kind of quiet. A sterile, echoey hush that made the air feel heavier, like nothing was supposed to exist there. Like even his presence was wrong in it. You noticed it the second you stepped inside. 

So one afternoon, when the team was off running drills and he lingered beside you with his fingers flexing at his sides like he didn’t know where to put them, you closed your laptop and said, “Let’s decorate your room.” Bob blinked at you. “What?”

“Your room. It’s empty. It looks like a hospital. Or a DMV office.” You stood, stretched, and looked him dead in the eye. “You need a space that feels like you. Not a blank white hole with trauma vibes.” He gave a breath of a laugh—barely there, but genuine. “You think it’s that bad?”

“Worse,” you smirked. “Now come on, giant man. We’re fixing it.”

Decorating with Bob was almost therapeutic. He didn’t have much to begin with—just the essentials. A bed. A bookshelf with a few books. A lamp he didn’t know how to dim. A cracked mug with a faded ‘Best Dad’ on it he doesn’t remember ever buying. You brought in soft blankets first. The ones you’d caught him tugging over you during movie nights. Then came the fairy lights—warm yellow, not multi-colored and definitely not blue, because he admitted once that “blue light makes everything feel…wrong.” He helped you hang things on the wall: posters of movies he liked, photographs, a sketch you’d done of the Thunderbolts where you’d drawn him with a little sun above his head.

“You gave me a sun,” he’d said, touching the picture. “Why?” You shrugged. “Because you’re warm. Even if you don’t always feel like it.” His jaw tensed, but he didn’t speak. Instead, he helped you tape it up before turning to fix the string lights into gentle curves across the ceiling.

The bed was the last thing.

“You ever think about getting a new mattress?” you asked, flopping down on it with a dramatic groan. “This thing’s like sleeping on drywall.” Bob chuckled and dropped next to you, the whole frame creaking in protest. “Didn’t think it mattered. I’m not in here much.” You rolled to your side, propped up on your elbow. “Why not?” His eyes flicked over to you, then down to the bedspread. “Don’t like it. Doesn’t feel…I don’t know, homey I guess.” A pause. “I like your room better.” Your breath caught slightly. Bob wasn’t looking at you now. He was watching the fairy lights like they might save him from saying more.“I just like being around you,” he added, quieter. “It’s… quieter… My head. When I’m with you.” You sat up slowly and reached for his hand. “Then you should stay. In my room, I mean. If it feels better.”

His fingers twitched in yours. “Would that be weird?” You shook your head. “No. Honestly, I look forward to you being in there, it’s peaceful with you.” Bob turned to you then, and there was something raw in his expression—gratitude, longing, relief. He leaned in slowly, giving you time to move if you wanted. 

You didn’t.

His lips brushed yours—soft, tentative. Like he still couldn’t believe he was allowed to have something good. You pulled him in deeper. His hand settled on your waist, large and warm, grounding you like gravity. You felt him sigh into your mouth, a slow, shuddering exhale like he’d been holding his breath for months.

Bob didn’t rush many things anymore but he especially wouldn’t rush anything to do with you. Even after that kiss—slow, exploratory, reverent—he kept his hands steady. He looked at you like you were sunlight breaking through his storm, like he didn’t want to blink and miss a thing.

“You sure?” he asked softly, his forehead brushing yours. “I’m sure,” you whispered back, breath already catching. And Bob smiled. Just a little. Then his lips were on yours again—deeper now, confident, his large hands smoothing over your hips as he gently eased you down against the mattress. His touch was careful, like he was afraid to break you. You had to tug his shirt off just to get him to stop being so careful and start feeling.

“God,” he breathed when your shirt came off too. His hands hovered at your waist. “You’re… you’re beautiful.”

He kissed down your jaw, then your neck, like he was learning you inch by inch. Every soft sound you made earned a low, content hum from him in return. His hands traced along your stomach, your ribs, your thighs, like he was trying to memorize every curve. You reached for his waistband, but Bob caught your hand, brought it to his lips, and kissed your fingers.

“Let me,” he murmured.

<><><><><><><><><><><>

You’d never been touched like this before. Not like you were a ceremony. Bob kissed his way down between your legs, settling in with the same quiet devotion he gave to brushing your hair back when you were sleepy or carrying you to bed after a long day. Like he was meant to be there. The first drag of his tongue made you arch into him, a sharp gasp leaving your lips. His big hands pinned your thighs gently, holding you open like a gift.

He moaned against you once your sweetness gathered on his tastebuds “Fuck you’re so damn sweet,” he murmured, low and awed. He licked again. And again. Long, slow strokes like he had all the time in the world, he moved deeper with precision, like a man on a mission. And then—

“Bob—!”

He sucked softly, carefully, tongue circling, and it sent heat pulsing straight through you. You tried to clamp your thighs around his head, but he just chuckled—low... warm... smug—and held you right there. “Let me take care of you,” he said against your skin, and something in your chest broke. You came for him like that—trembling under his mouth, crying out his name while he kissed you through it.

After, when you were gasping and flushed, Bob kissed up your body and wrapped his arms around you. Your heart throbbed. You tugged him closer, pressing your forehead to his. “Let me worship you Bob.” You whispered against his lips, still breathless from the man in front of you. He blushed a bright red as the two of you changed positions, he rested against you bed as your lips brushed against his chest. It started slow, your fingers tracing the lines of his stomach, lazy and warm, like you had all the time in the world. Bob was already sprawled out beneath you, golden and flushed, chest rising and falling as he blinked down at you with dazed wonder.

“Angel…” he rasped, fingers tangling gently in your hair. “You really don’t have to—” You shake your head slightly, stopping him from finishing the sentence “I want to,” you interrupted, your voice soft but sure, kissing your way down his body. “I want you to feel good too. You deserves to feel good, Bob.” You reached the waistband of his boxers, tugged gently, and he let out a breathy sound like he might die from this alone. “Okay,” he murmured, eyes wide, voice already fraying at the edges. “Just… be careful. I—uh—this–it’s been a while since…ya’know?” You just smiled up at him, impossibly fond. “I got you honey, just let me take care of you.” Bob groaned—an almost helpless, choked-off sound—as you took him in your hand and leaned down.

The moment your mouth wrapped around him, Bob’s whole body tensed like a drawn bow. His head tipped back against the pillow, his hand fisting in the sheets now instead of your hair, because he was trying to behave. Always so careful, always so gentle. You weren’t making it easy for him to behave. You licked him slow and deep, eyes locked on his face. He was trying so hard to hold back—hips twitching just a little, chest heaving with every panting breath, the faintest gold shimmer breaking across his collarbones. You were going to ruin him.

“I’m not gonna last if you keep—fuck—if you keep looking at me like that,” he gasped. You hummed around him in response. That might’ve been the breaking point. He whimpered. Whimpered. And you would’ve been smug about it if the sound hadn’t gone straight through you. He tangled his fingers in your hair again, not pushing—never pushing—but grounding himself like the world was shaking beneath him.

And then—“Bob, you in here?” The door opened. You froze. Bob didn’t.

Bob couldn’t—he was already halfway to coming apart and your mouth was still on him and oh no, that was—

“OH MY GOD,” Walker barked.

“What the fuck—”

The door slammed shut so fast it nearly fell off the hinges. There was a long, terrible silence. Bob had gone completely stiff under you. His eyes were wide. Terrified. Glowing. “I’m gonna die,” he whispered. “I’m gonna ascend into the sun and evaporate.” You blinked up at him, dazed. “I think I broke your soul.”

“You broke me,” he wheezed. “They saw. John saw. John saw my dick.” You sat up, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “Do you want me to kill him? Because I will.”

Bob looked like he was calculating the logistics.

And then— From outside the door:

“Hey, Reynolds,” Bucky called. “Good for you, man!”

“Don’t encourage him!” Walker snapped. “Did you see his face? Dude looked like he got hit by divine light!” Bob let out the most wounded noise you’d ever heard. You curled into his side and tried not to laugh. “Guess they know now.” Bob just buried his face in your shoulder and groaned. “Can I hide here for the rest of my days?”

You laughed freely at his dramatic flair, “Does that mean you’ll stay with me tonight.” He nodded against your skin, “I was gonna,” he said, like it was obvious. “You're stuck with me now.” You lay tangled together in the bed—his arm draped over your hips, your leg thrown across his. His room, was now decorated and cozy, but all he could think of was your room. “I’ll still use it,” he murmured against your skin. “Maybe. For reading. Or naps.” You smiled and ran your fingers through his curls. “You really prefer it in my room that much?” He nodded sleepily. “Mhm. ‘Cause there I’m surrounded by you.” You felt your heart twist, soft and full. You kissed the top of his head. “Then you can stay as long as you want,” you whispered. Bob hummed, already half-asleep, wrapped around you like you were home.

You fell asleep wrapped around each other, the scent of you on his lips, your touch on his skin, and his name still echoing on your breath. And in the softly lit quiet of the room, Bob Reynolds—man of light, man of chaos, man of unbearable silence—finally felt full. Finally felt surrounded by you.

Thank you so much for reading my work! As always if you like my work, please let me know! Reblogging, commenting, and liking are huge and easy ways to let me know you're enjoying my work, and it keeps me motivated to post way more!!! Requests are open <3

Tagging:

@msfirth

@my-name-is-baby

@metalarmsandmanbuns

@live-love-be-unique

@disillusioniary

@you-bloody-shank

@sarcazzzum

@itsjustisa

@qardasngan

[otaku553]

Fire (part 4)

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(Spade Pirate Sabo AU Masterpost)

We're finally here!!!!!! BABY'S FIRST FIRE FIST!!!!!

MASSIVE THANK YOU TO @where-does-the-heart-lie for writing the broad strokes of this 4 chapter arc!!!! it's been absolutely amazing having you as both a beta reader and a sounding board for comic ideas! thanks for being here since pretty much the very beginning :DDD

I've had this chapter sketched out since 2 months ago...... at long last it can see the day of light......

[cloudyluun]

The Tattoo Artist

Summary: When you walk into Harry’s tattoo studio looking for something small and hidden, you don’t expect to walk out with flushed skin, shaking legs, and the most intense connection you’ve ever felt. His touch is precise, teasing — equal parts pain and pleasure. And as the needle hums, so does the tension between you. By the end of the session, you’re marked by more than just ink.

A/N: Hi babes 💋 So I had a filthy little thought about tattoo artist Harry with rolled-up sleeves, rings glinting under the light, and a jaw so sharp it could ruin you. And then I gave him a soft voice, a teasing mouth, and the self-control of a man who definitely loses it the second you squirm. This is for my girls who love a bit of pain, a lot of tension, and handsy tattoo artists who don't play fair

Word Count: 5k

Warnings: 

Explicit smut

Tattooing / needleplay (consensual)

Pain + pleasure dynamics

Oral (fem receiving), fingering, penetrative sex

Tattoo aftercare done very intimately

Slight power imbalance (tattoo artist x client)

Praise, teasing, breath play, slight dom/sub undertone

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

You'd been staring at your phone for weeks. Late-night scrolling had become a new obsession, thumb hovering over photos of intricate designs, fine lines and dark shadows that traced skin like art. But what drew your attention even more was the artist behind them, Harry. Tattoos decorated his own body, winding around lean muscle, curling over strong wrists and broad shoulders, ink black as midnight against golden skin. You found yourself falling deeper with every picture, imagining the smooth glide of ink beneath his steady hands.

Booking the private appointment had felt impulsive, a rush of excitement tumbling in your belly as you typed in your name and contact details, clicking submit before you could second-guess yourself. Waiting for confirmation felt impossibly long, but now here you stood, heart fluttering, palms slightly clammy as you approached the tattoo studio nestled in a quiet street downtown.

You pushed open the heavy wooden door, a small bell tinkling gently above, announcing your presence. Immediately, the warmth and dim glow of the room enveloped you, soft golden lamps throwing shadows against the dark walls. Artwork hung carefully framed black and white prints, sketches of future tattoos, and faded Polaroids pinned to corkboards. Music hummed lowly in the background, a bass-heavy beat vibrating softly through your chest, matching the fluttery rhythm already there.

Harry emerged from behind a thick velvet curtain, and suddenly all your courage seemed to evaporate. Pictures had not done him justice. Standing there in a black tank top that hugged every dip of muscle, revealing just enough tattoos to draw your gaze and make your cheeks heat, he smiled warmly. His jeans sat low on his hips, a hint of ink visible just above the waistband, teasing your eyes before you forced them back to his face. Harry's smile turned playful, eyes bright with curiosity as if he’d noticed exactly where your attention had strayed.

"You're my three o'clock?" he asked, voice low and smooth, wrapping around you warmly.

You nodded quickly, stepping closer. "Yeah, that's me."

He extended his hand, rings glinting under the soft lighting, cool metal brushing your fingers as you shook it. "Harry. Good to meet you properly."

"Likewise," you managed, your voice barely above a whisper. You mentally shook yourself. You were here for a tattoo, not to melt under the gaze of an artist with dangerously captivating eyes.

"So," Harry began, gesturing you towards a comfortable-looking leather chair in the corner. "Tell me about what we're doing today."

Sinking onto the plush cushion, you reached into your pocket to pull out a folded piece of paper, smoothing it carefully before handing it over. "Just something small. Hidden, but meaningful."

Harry leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees as he studied the paper carefully, his brow furrowing slightly in concentration. "Nice," he murmured approvingly, eyes flicking back up to meet yours. "You have a placement in mind?"

You hesitated only a moment, fingers nervously picking at a loose thread on your sleeve. "Yeah. Right here, just under my breast," you said softly, fingertips gently tracing the spot over your clothes.

Harry raised one eyebrow, the corner of his mouth curling into an amused smirk. He leaned back slightly, crossing his arms over his chest, muscles flexing distractingly beneath inked skin. "Bold choice for a first tattoo."

Heat rushed to your cheeks, and you shrugged lightly, feigning confidence you didn't quite feel. "I trust your skills."

His gaze lingered on yours, playful yet intense. "You trust me?" he teased softly, green eyes glittering as they met yours, daring you to say no.

"Shouldn't I?" you shot back, matching his teasing tone even though your heart pounded rapidly in your chest.

He chuckled warmly, shaking his head slightly as he stood, offering a hand to help you up from the chair. "Good answer. Come on, let's get started."

He led you deeper into the studio, behind the curtain that revealed an even more intimate space, complete with another cushioned chair and a small rolling cart filled neatly with sterilized instruments, ink bottles, and meticulously organized supplies. Everything gleamed under the careful lighting, promising professionalism, despite the undeniable intimacy of the moment.

You hesitated slightly as Harry began to gather supplies, his movements confident and easy. "Nervous?" he asked gently, noticing your quietness.

"Maybe just a little," you admitted, voice softer than you'd intended.

He paused, turning fully towards you. "That's normal. First tattoos are special."

"Did it hurt when you got yours?" you asked, curiosity temporarily overshadowing your nervousness.

A smile softened his features. "Sure, a bit. But sometimes that's part of the appeal, isn't it?"

Your heart skipped, warmth blossoming under his gaze. "Maybe for some people," you replied quietly, unable to tear your eyes away from his steady stare.

His chuckle was deep, soft enough that you felt it more than heard it. "We'll see which type you are soon enough."

Harry tugged on a pair of gloves slowly, latex snapping softly against his wrists, and suddenly every nerve in your body sparked to life. Your throat went dry, breath catching unexpectedly as he moved closer, eyes intent on your face. "Alright, love," he murmured, voice soothing despite the electric intensity vibrating between you. "I'm going to need you to lift your top so I can mark the stencil."

Heart pounding furiously, you lifted your shirt just enough to reveal smooth skin, acutely aware of the warmth of his proximity. His eyes darkened slightly as he carefully laid the stencil against your ribs, fingers pressing gently, warm through the thin gloves, steady yet undeniably tender.

"Still trust me?" he murmured teasingly, glancing up through thick lashes as you tried not to squirm under his touch.

"Yes," you breathed, voice barely audible.

He smiled softly, thumb brushing reassuringly against your side, an innocent gesture that somehow sent shivers cascading down your spine. "Good. You're in safe hands."

Your eyes locked with his, pulse racing wildly as his gaze held yours, heavy and charged, teasing and sincere all at once. You wondered if he'd ever looked at another client like this, if anyone else had felt this instant, almost magnetic pull towards him.

"Ready?" he asked quietly, breaking your reverie with gentle authority, and you nodded, trying desperately to appear calm despite your shaking legs and racing thoughts.

As the soft buzzing hum of the tattoo gun filled the small space between you, something in the atmosphere shifted, thickening with anticipation. Watching Harry lean closer, feeling the slight pressure of his fingers steadying you, you knew one thing for certain: the tattoo wasn't the only thing marking you today. He paused, glancing up briefly, eyes warm but focused. “Deep breath in, sweetheart,” he instructed softly, voice brushing your skin like velvet.

You obeyed instinctively, inhaling slowly, trying to still the butterflies spiralling in your chest. The quiet hum of the tattoo machine filled the small space around you, buzzing gently, vibrating softly through the air and sinking deep into your bones. It was oddly soothing, a rhythmic pulse settling into a steady heartbeat between the two of you.

The moment the needle touched your skin, you winced slightly, a sharp prick of pain skittering along your ribs. Harry’s thumb moved to rest on your side, applying comforting pressure, reassuring you without a single word. His steady hand calmed your nerves, a silent promise that he wouldn’t hurt you more than necessary.

“Doing alright?” Harry murmured after a moment, eyes darting up to meet yours again, the dark green depths sparkling with genuine concern.

You nodded, feeling your heartbeat quicken as he leaned closer, his breath warm against your skin. “It’s not as bad as I expected.”

He chuckled softly, eyes crinkling at the corners as he returned his gaze to your skin. “Good. It usually isn’t, once you get used to it. Just let me know if you need a break.”

You smiled faintly, watching as his fingers held you carefully, the tips pressing softly against your ribs, drawing your attention away from the sting. Soon, the sharpness faded, replaced by an odd warmth spreading slowly from the needle’s path, radiating gently through your body, making your limbs feel strangely heavy yet comfortably numb.

“So,” Harry spoke after a comfortable pause, voice low and conversational, filling the silence effortlessly. “Why this tattoo?”

You bit your lower lip lightly, thoughtful for a moment, before responding. “I wanted something small but meaningful. Something hidden that only I know about. A little secret.”

He raised his eyebrows slightly, clearly intrigued, a playful smirk dancing across his lips. “Sounds mysterious. Are you the type who enjoys secrets?”

You laughed softly, feeling your tension ease a little more under his teasing. “Depends on who’s keeping them with me.”

Harry’s smile deepened, his eyes flicking up to meet yours again, the intensity in his gaze making your heart leap. “Interesting. Maybe I’ll earn one or two today?”

The teasing tone of his voice drew a soft laugh from your throat, warming your cheeks. “You think you’re capable of that already?”

“I’ve got good hands,” Harry quipped lightly, pausing briefly to wipe away excess ink from your skin, fingertips brushing gently across your ribs again, sending another pleasant shiver down your spine. “Trustworthy hands, I’d say.”

You hummed softly, daring to hold his gaze a little longer. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Please do,” he murmured warmly, voice softer now, a hint of something deeper lurking beneath his playful words. “Relax your shoulders for me. You’re tensing up again.”

“Sorry,” you breathed, dropping your shoulders slightly, instantly rewarded by the soft pressure of his palm soothingly rubbing your side. “Guess I’m still a bit nervous.”

Harry’s thumb traced slow, comforting circles against your ribs, the warmth of his touch distracting you entirely from the dull sting. “Nothing to apologize for,” he assured softly, voice low and gentle, easing away any lingering doubts. “You’re doing amazing, sweetheart. Nearly halfway there already.”

His constant reassurance wrapped around you like a soft blanket, easing your anxieties and replacing them with a different kind of nervousness the kind you felt low in your belly whenever his fingers brushed too close to sensitive skin. Your breathing gradually grew shallow, each inhale becoming shakier as he moved steadily upwards, nearing the delicate curve beneath your breast.

Harry must have noticed because his movements slowed slightly, eyes briefly flicking upward again. His gaze had darkened noticeably, intensity clouding the green depths, making your pulse quicken dangerously. “Still okay?” he asked quietly, voice deepening slightly, rougher now.

You nodded, swallowing hard, aware he could probably hear the erratic beat of your heart. “Yeah. It’s just... sensitive there,” you admitted shyly, feeling your cheeks flush deeper.

His lips curled knowingly, teasingly, but he remained professional, nodding once in understanding. “We’ll take it slow. Tell me if you need me to pause.”

“Okay,” you whispered, voice barely audible as his hand steadied against your skin again, thumb continuing its slow, calming circles, gently drawing your focus away from the needle’s bite.

Each careful movement of his hand felt more deliberate now, softer and infinitely more careful, as if he was intentionally drawing out the sensation. The warmth from his touch blended seamlessly with the slight pinch of the needle, creating a strange but enticing blend of sensations that left you breathless.

You dared a glance downward, watching the gentle movements of his gloved hand over your skin, each stroke precise and controlled, highlighting the careful strength behind every touch. The image was mesmerizing, deeply intimate in a way you hadn’t expected, and suddenly you were intensely aware of his proximity, the quiet intimacy of the dimly lit room, and the rapid rise and fall of your own chest.

He must have sensed your shift in mood, because when he spoke again, his voice had dropped to a huskier tone, quiet yet charged. “You know, sometimes the sensitive areas are the most rewarding.”

Your breath caught slightly, a tiny gasp escaping your lips before you could stop it. Harry’s eyes met yours sharply, noticing instantly, gaze darkening even more, jaw tightening subtly in response. The air between you thickened, tension stretching like a wire, ready to snap at the slightest touch.

“Good to know,” you managed softly, voice breathless, barely louder than a whisper.

Harry smiled slowly, warmly, thumb brushing against your skin again, lingering deliberately longer this time. “Glad you agree.”

His movements grew impossibly gentler, the needle trailing carefully along the sensitive curve, so precisely controlled you barely felt the pinch. Instead, you felt only the tender caress of his gloved fingertips, distracting you, soothing you, yet simultaneously awakening every nerve beneath your skin.

“Almost done,” he murmured softly, voice silky and reassuring, words brushing across your skin like another gentle touch. “You’re doing beautifully.”

You exhaled slowly, warmth blossoming in your chest from his praise. “Thanks. You’re making this easy.”

Harry’s gaze softened affectionately, lingering warmly on your flushed cheeks. “That’s my job, sweetheart.”

The tenderness in his tone wrapped around you comfortably, and as you settled deeper into the gentle rhythm of his touch, the humming of the needle faded gently into the background, replaced entirely by the warmth radiating from Harry’s steady hands.

Slowly, your body relaxed into the plush leather beneath you, tension easing out of your muscles with each carefully placed stroke of ink. Harry’s fingers maintained their firm yet gentle pressure, guiding your breath with every deliberate touch. The sensation had long ago crossed the boundary between discomfort and pleasure, blurring the lines until you weren't sure exactly when the needle's bite had transformed into something entirely more enticing.

Without thinking, you shifted your hips slightly, seeking comfort or perhaps seeking something else entirely. The movement brushed your thigh against his knee, and before you could fully comprehend it, a quiet, shaky moan slipped past your lips, not from pain but from a deeper, more insistent ache you hadn’t anticipated feeling.

Instantly, Harry’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing slightly as he searched your expression, his gaze burning through yours with sudden intensity. A teasing smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, though the tension clenching his jaw was unmistakable.

"That felt good?" he asked softly, voice low and gravelly, vibrating through you with an edge of something dangerous.

Heat rushed immediately to your face, yet instead of pulling back, you found yourself holding his gaze boldly. Your heart hammered so loudly in your ears you wondered briefly if he could hear it, too. Gathering every ounce of courage you had, you leaned into the charged silence, voice trembling softly as you whispered, "I want more. I want you."

Harry froze for a moment, the machine still buzzing quietly in his hand, poised inches above your skin. His gaze searched yours intently, darkening by the second, something unreadable shifting behind those intense green eyes. Carefully, deliberately, he turned off the tattoo machine, the sudden silence thickening the already tense air around you. You barely dared to breathe as he peeled the gloves from his hands slowly, eyes never leaving yours.

"Are you sure?" His voice came out husky, deeper than before, filled with restrained need. It felt like a challenge wrapped in cautious tenderness, as though he wanted nothing more than for you to say yes, yet still gave you every chance to reconsider.

Your heart raced, blood thrumming wildly beneath your skin as you met his gaze head-on. Every nerve, every cell, every instinct screamed yes, urging you forward without hesitation.

"I'm sure," you breathed softly, words coming out clear and confident despite the fluttering chaos in your stomach.

In a single fluid motion, Harry closed the small distance between you, hand gently cupping your cheek, thumb stroking softly over your heated skin. His eyes searched your face briefly, and then, without further hesitation, he captured your lips in a searing kiss rough, claiming and leaving no room for doubt. Instantly, every shred of restraint dissolved, replaced entirely by raw, burning desire.

His other hand found your waist, gripping you tightly, pulling you closer until your bodies pressed together perfectly, chest to chest, heartbeat matching frantically. You felt the heat of him, solid and reassuring, fingers curling possessively into your skin. Your lips parted eagerly beneath his, allowing him deeper, breath mingling as your kiss grew hungry and desperate, erasing any hesitation you'd both held onto.

When you broke apart for a fraction of a second, gasping for air, Harry pressed his forehead to yours, breathing heavily. His eyes were dark, wild almost, cheeks flushed, and his lips reddened from your urgent kiss.

"You've no idea how hard it was to stay professional," he murmured roughly, lips brushing teasingly against yours again. "Thought I'd lose my mind when you kept looking at me like that."

"Like what?" you asked breathlessly, voice hitching as his lips travelled down your jawline, feather-light kisses igniting sparks along your skin.

"Like you wanted this as much as I did," he whispered fiercely, hand slipping beneath your shirt again, fingers grazing softly along the sensitive edge of your fresh tattoo. "Do you know how difficult you made it?"

A small, breathless laugh escaped you, dissolving into a shuddering sigh as he gently kissed the skin beside your fresh ink. "You hid it pretty well."

He chuckled softly, breath warm against your skin. "Trust me, love, I didn't. You just weren't paying attention."

His mouth pressed slowly against your neck, trailing warm kisses down the sensitive line of your throat, leaving goosebumps in their wake. You tilted your head instinctively, granting him better access, completely at his mercy, welcoming every tender mark of possession he left on your skin.

"I couldn't focus on anything else," you confessed quietly, eyes fluttering shut briefly as his teeth grazed your collarbone. "Not once you touched me."

Harry pulled back slightly, lifting your chin gently with his fingertips until your eyes met again. His gaze was filled with warmth and intensity, sincerity woven into every whispered word. "Good. Because neither could I."

You smiled softly, heart swelling beneath the sincerity in his voice. "Then stop holding back."

A low, rumbling sound of appreciation escaped his throat as he kissed you again, lips urgent and possessive, exploring your mouth hungrily, tasting you deeply as though he couldn't get enough. His hands moved confidently over your body, tracing each curve, gripping your waist firmly, pulling you impossibly closer until you felt every inch of him pressed flush against you.

The room blurred around you, the tattoo chair creaking softly beneath your combined weight as the intensity between you built rapidly, fuelling every kiss and every heated touch. His fingers traced slowly upwards again, teasing along your ribcage, brushing dangerously close to the sensitive edge of your fresh tattoo, eliciting another soft, involuntary moan from your lips.

"Careful," he warned playfully, eyes gleaming mischievously as he caught your lower lip lightly between his teeth. "Wouldn't want to ruin all my hard work."

You laughed softly, breathless and dizzy from his teasing. "I think your hard work might've already ruined me."

His smile softened tenderly, gaze deepening as he brushed his thumb gently along your lower lip, tracing its soft curve carefully. "Not yet," he murmured, voice low and heavy with promise. "But give me a few more minutes."

Your breath hitched slightly at his words, anticipation coiling tighter within you. "Promises, promises," you teased lightly, arching an eyebrow playfully even as your heart hammered beneath your ribs.

Harry grinned wickedly, eyes sparkling with mischief and intent. "Trust me," he whispered, lips brushing yours again, breath warm and intoxicating. "I always keep my promises."

As he kissed you again, deeper, slower, claiming you entirely, you surrendered completely, heart racing with the knowledge that, from this moment forward, you'd forever bear his mark, not just inked on your skin, but etched permanently within your very being.

Harry’s hands gripped your hips firmly, fingers flexing like he couldn’t decide whether to hold back or drag you into him completely. You felt the slight shift of his stance as he sat back against the chair, tugging you with him until you were straddling his lap. The leather creaked beneath your knees, your thighs bracketing his hips as you settled onto him, chest flushed, lips parted, eyes locked.

“God, look at you,” he murmured, one hand trailing up your side until it brushed the underside of your breast. “You look so fucking good inked by me.”

You trembled slightly, breath catching as his fingers ghosted over your fresh tattoo, careful yet possessive. His lips followed soon after, placing the softest kiss just beside the sting of it, a reverent kind of worship in the way he touched you. He pulled back a fraction, just long enough to press his mouth lower, sucking a bruise into the tender skin beneath, claiming it, claiming you.

You whimpered, hips grinding involuntarily against the hardness pressing between you. His groan rumbled through your chest, low and filthy, and it lit something desperate inside you.

“You’ve no idea what you're doing to me,” he muttered, mouth brushing hot along your collarbone. “Touching you all day, watching you squirm, knowing you were dripping for me under that shirt.”

Your nails dug into his shoulders, and he hissed, the sound laced with approval. “Harry,” you breathed, almost a plea.

His hand slipped between your bodies, dipping under the waistband of your panties like he’d been there a hundred times before. The pads of his fingers found you easily, already slick and aching. His breath stuttered as he pressed two fingers gently inside, easing them in with practiced control, his other hand holding your hip steady.

“Fuck,” he whispered, eyes locked on yours. “You’re so wet for me. So ready.”

You bit your bottom lip, hips rocking into the slow curl of his fingers. He watched your every movement with a kind of hunger that made your skin burn.

“Ride my fingers,” he said softly, command coated in velvet. “Let me feel you lose it.”

You moved without hesitation, each roll of your hips drawing him deeper, tighter. The pressure built quickly, a fire spreading low in your belly as he crooked his fingers just right, again and again. Your forehead dropped against his as you panted, overwhelmed by sensation, nails scraping red trails across his shoulders. His jaw clenched, eyes half-lidded, watching you come undone with nothing but his hand and his words.

“Just like that,” he murmured, lips brushing yours. “You’re so perfect like this. Taking me so well. Can’t wait to feel you around my cock.”

You moaned, louder this time, and he silenced it with a kiss, swallowing the sound like he needed it to survive. Your rhythm faltered as your orgasm crept closer, each thrust of his fingers turning you inside out, heat curling tighter until you were right on the edge.

“Let go for me, sweetheart,” he whispered against your mouth. “Show me how pretty you come when you’re marked by me.”

Your body obeyed before your mind could catch up. You shattered on his hand, walls pulsing around his fingers as you gasped out his name, burying your face in his neck. He held you through it, whispering praise into your hair, rocking you gently until the trembling slowed.

Before you could recover, he was lifting you slightly, shifting you in his lap, one hand gripping your ass while the other shoved his jeans down just far enough to free himself. His cock pressed against you, thick and hard, dragging through your slick folds as he gritted out a low curse.

“Need to be inside you,” he growled. “Need to feel you for real.”

You nodded, eyes wide, mouth still slack with pleasure. He guided you down slowly, the stretch delicious and overwhelming. You moaned as he filled you, every inch pushing deeper, drawing the breath from your lungs.

Harry’s hands clenched at your hips, holding you still for a moment as he buried himself to the hilt. “So tight,” he muttered, voice strained. “So fucking good.”

You rocked your hips gently, testing the rhythm, and his eyes rolled back briefly before snapping open again. He met you thrust for thrust, deep and slow, savouring every movement like it was the last. Each stroke dragged across that sweet spot inside you, setting off sparks that hadn’t even had time to die down from before.

“You’re mine now, yeah?” he breathed, one hand sliding up your body to cup your breast, thumb brushing your nipple. “Marked you so pretty. Can’t let anyone else touch you like this.”

“Yes,” you gasped, barely able to form the word.

He pulled you down for another kiss, rougher now, almost desperate. His hips snapped up harder, and your vision blurred at the edges, the rhythm messy and consuming. His fingers slid up to your throat, holding gently, a pressure that sent your mind spinning in the best way.

“You going to come again?” he murmured, voice wrecked. “Come while I fuck you like you were made for me?”

You nodded frantically, your body already tightening, teetering on the edge again. He leaned forward, lips closing around your nipple, tongue flicking as he bit gently, and it sent you crashing.

The climax tore through you without warning, your body seizing around him, mouth falling open in a silent cry. Harry groaned against your chest, hips jerking erratically as he followed, spilling inside you with a rough, broken moan. His grip on your throat tightened slightly, grounding you as you both unraveled.

He held you through the aftershocks, one hand still cupping your breast while the other stroked your back, drawing soft shapes as you both caught your breath.

“Fuck,” he whispered eventually, forehead pressed to your shoulder. “You’ve absolutely ruined me.”

You laughed softly, too blissed out to speak, heart still racing.

“Good,” you managed after a long beat, smiling lazily. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

Harry let out a soft, satisfied sigh against your skin, his lips brushing your collarbone before he pulled back just enough to look at you. His eyes had lost that dark, hungry edge, now warm and tender, the way someone looks when they know they’ve gotten exactly what they wanted. He still hadn’t let go of you, hands resting on your hips, like he didn’t quite trust himself to stop touching you.

“You’re a bit of a dream, you know that?” he said, voice low and affectionate.

You let out a soft laugh, nudging your nose against his. “You say that to all your clients?”

He grinned, eyes sparkling. “Only the ones who moan like that.”

You rolled your eyes, though your cheeks burned warm. “Smooth.”

He kissed you again, slower this time, like he had nowhere else to be. When he finally pulled away, his hands slid gently down your waist and under your thighs, lifting you effortlessly off his lap. You shivered slightly as your feet touched the floor, the shift from heat to cool air making you more aware of the lingering ache in your muscles, the afterglow humming under your skin.

Harry turned and reached for a clean towel, wiping himself off quickly before tugging on his boxers and jeans. His focus shifted back to you immediately, all teasing gone as he gently tapped your hip.

“Lie back, love. Gotta clean you up properly.”

You climbed back into the chair with a small wince, your body still tingling from everything he'd just done to you. Harry moved with a different kind of care now. Reverent. Focused. He wet a soft cloth with antiseptic wash and started to clean around your fresh tattoo, his fingers brushing over your skin with almost no pressure at all.

The buzzing tension that had thrummed through the room earlier had dissolved completely, replaced with something quieter. Something that felt suspiciously like affection.

His eyes stayed fixed on your skin as he worked, his thumb moving in slow, featherlight circles just beside the ink. “Still doing okay?”

“More than okay,” you murmured, watching his face. “You’re being very gentle for someone who just had their fingers knuckle-deep inside me.”

His lips twitched into a smile, but he didn’t look up. “That’s because I like what I just marked. Want it to heal pretty.”

You couldn’t help it—you laughed, full and soft and surprised by how light you suddenly felt. The intimacy hadn’t faded, it had just changed shape. Softer now, easier. It didn’t feel like an accident anymore.

Harry reached for a tube of ointment and applied it delicately, his fingertips smoothing the cream across your skin with focused precision. He leaned in and pressed a slow, sweet kiss just beside the tattoo, then pulled back to meet your gaze.

“Might have to touch it up in a few weeks,” he said, voice low and teasing again. “You know, just in case you want an excuse to come back.”

You gave him a look. “As if I need an excuse.”

He didn’t reply right away. Just smiled and reached for a piece of sterile wrap, placing it carefully over your skin and securing it in place with practiced ease. When he was done, he sat back and let his eyes roam over you again, lazy and admiring.

“Stay here,” he said after a second. “I’ve got something for you.”

You watched as he walked over to the other side of the room, grabbing a worn hoodie off a hook near the curtain. He tossed it gently in your direction, and you caught it with a quiet laugh.

“Really?” you asked, already tugging it over your head. It smelled like him. Leather and ink and something warm and a little spicy.

“You’re cold,” he replied with a shrug, dropping into his chair and picking up a sketchpad from the nearby table. “Plus, it looks better on you.”

You settled back into the chair, pulling your knees up and wrapping your arms around them as you watched him work. He flipped through a few pages, pencil scratching across the surface as he started sketching something new. Every now and then he glanced up at you, eyes drifting from your face to your legs to the bare sliver of skin still visible above the waistband of your panties.

“You always draw after sex?” you asked playfully.

“Only when I’m inspired.”

“Am I your muse now?” you teased, tilting your head.

His eyes flicked up, and the smile that curved his lips was softer than you expected. “Think you might be.”

You sat there in silence for a few minutes, just watching him. The quiet was comfortable, filled with the low hum of whatever playlist still trickled through the speakers and the scratch of pencil on paper. It felt domestic in the strangest way. Like this wasn’t the first time you'd curled up in his hoodie, watching him create something beautiful.

Eventually, curiosity won. “Have you ever… done this with someone else?”

Harry didn’t pause, didn’t even blink. Just kept sketching. “You mean tattooed someone under their boob and made them come on my lap?”

You shot him a flat look, though the corners of your mouth twitched.

He finally looked up, eyes gleaming. “No. I haven’t.”

Your expression must have betrayed your disbelief because he laughed and leaned back, tossing the pencil onto the table.

“Look,” he said, gesturing toward you lazily. “You think I do this with every pretty girl that walks in here?”

“I think you probably could.”

He smiled wider, standing and walking back over to where you sat. He rested one hand on the arm of the chair, the other brushing a strand of hair from your face.

“Only the ones who look that good in lace,” he said, voice low and full of heat.

You stared at him for a second, trying not to melt right there in his hoodie.

“Shameless,” you muttered.

“Always,” he agreed.

You stood reluctantly, knowing it was probably time to leave, even though every part of you wanted to stay. Harry walked you back to the front slowly, fingers brushing yours with every step. As you slipped your shoes back on, he scribbled something on a small piece of paper, folding it twice before placing it gently in your hand.

“Call me,” he said, like it wasn’t a question at all.

You looked down at the paper, then back at him. “Was hoping you’d write it right under the tattoo.”

He smirked. “Too obvious. This way, you still get to choose.”

You leaned in, pressing one last kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I already did.”

As you stepped out into the cool night air, hoodie pulled tight around you, skin still tingling from his touch, you smiled to yourself. You left with a tattoo and the number of the man who gave it to you written right on a piece of paper in your hand.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Thank you so much for reading, you’re a total angel! Don’t forget to like, comment, and reblog if you enjoyed! It means everything to me! 💖

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[cupofteatoyou2]

balcony

(+18)

Barcelona hadn’t felt like home yet.

You were still moving around the city with the wide-eyed clumsiness of someone trying not to look lost, but always somehow ending up on the wrong metro line. Your Spanish was good enough, Catalan… barely there. Most days you kept your head down, your headphones in, and told yourself that adjusting just took time.

Your apartment, at least, was something you could make your own. It was small, but the ceilings were high and the light came in warm in the afternoons. And the balcony— it wasn’t big,but not small either —had sold you on the place the second you stepped into it. Just enough space for a chair, small coffee table, probably small couch in future and the quiet hope that maybe you'd start to feel like yourself again, even so far from what used to be familiar.

Your schedule was still awkward. Architecture classes were long and intense, all theory and pressure, with just enough free time to make you guilty for not doing more. You spent your mornings on campus, your afternoons sketching—or pretending to—and your evenings curled up on the bed, half-listening to music as you convinced yourself to work.

The first week went by like that. Quiet. Uneventful. No real contact with anyone besides classmates and your advisor. You’d seen glimpses of neighbors, sure—someone carrying a bike upstairs, an older woman with laundry baskets and bright pink slippers—but no one close enough to say hello to.

Your own balcony faced another. Separated by a thin divider, waist-high, painted in the same tired white as the rest of the complex. You’d never seen anyone out there. Maybe the apartment next to yours was empty.

So when you stepped into your living room that afternoon, barefoot, cup of tea in hand, the last thing you expected was to find a massive black cat staring at you like he’d been there the whole time.

You froze mid-step. Tea sloshed dangerously close to the rim.

He was sitting perfectly still by the sliding glass door, halfway between inside and out, tail curled neatly around his paws. The kind of black that looked almost blue in the sunlight. Broad head, golden eyes. Quiet confidence.

You stared.

“…Where the hell did you come from?”

No collar. No sound. He blinked once, like you were the one being strange.

Then, without hesitation, he stepped fully into your apartment.

You stood there, mouth slightly open, as he padded across the wooden floor like it belonged to him. No rush, no nerves. Just… calm. Like this was a routine visit.

You turned slowly to follow him with your eyes. “Okay.. Great.”

He paused near your low coffee table, sniffed your sketchbook, and then—because apparently this was his home now—curled up in the warm square of light spilling in through the window.

You blinked again.

“I didn’t even… I didn’t leave food out or anything.” You rubbed a hand over your face. “You just—broke in?”

The cat lifted his head slightly, then lowered it again with a deep, satisfied sigh. He was clearly not going anywhere.

You hesitated for a few seconds longer“Okay” you muttered, “Make yourself at home.”

After that first afternoon, you expected the cat to disappear.

Barcelona didn’t feel like the kind of city where things just showed up and stayed. Everything here moved too fast. The days bled together in a haze of heat, noise, and effort—so many things to learn, so much to adapt to. And yet, the next day, at exactly the same time, cat returned.

You’d barely noticed the sound—a soft scratch against the tile, the faint thump of paws—but there he was again, settling into the same pool of afternoon light by your bookshelf with a long, theatrical sigh.

You stared at him for a moment from behind your laptop. “You’re serious about this, huh?”

He didn’t answer. Just flicked his tail once and closed his eyes.

And so, day after day, he came back.

Sometimes earlier, sometimes later, but always after noon and always alone. You started expecting him. Started leaving the balcony door open just wide enough. Started refilling the little water bowl by the couch.

By day three, you’d caught yourself talking to him out loud. Not full conversations, but soft comments here and there as you worked through sketches and models. Your studio space was small, and quiet, and cat filled it with a presence that didn’t demand anything from you—which, weirdly, made it easier to think.

He wasn’t affectionate. Not exactly. He’d occasionally brush against your ankle or curl beside you on the couch, but mostly he existed like a shadow—steady and unbothered. You grew used to the shape of him in your space. Like a black spill of ink across the light. Like something that made your borrowed apartment feel a little more like home.

You wondered where he came from. Who he belonged to. But there hadn’t been any notes, no one knocking at your door, no complaints. Just the occasional sound from the balcony next door—faint music, the clink of a cup, a brief laugh that disappeared too quickly to hold onto.

Whoever lived there wasn’t nosy. Or maybe they just didn’t care.

Still, you caught yourself glancing over the divider more and more often.

The mystery of it made your chest itch.

On the fifth day, you came back late from a critique session and found him already waiting. He was sitting neatly just outside the door, staring in like you were the one running late. You let out a soft, surprised laugh and opened it without thinking.

“You’ve got some nerve.”

Cat walked in like he owned the place.

That night, he stayed longer than usual. You worked on your laptop while he snored softly under the window. And for the first time since you’d moved here, you didn’t feel the weight of distance as heavily as before.

On the sixth day, it rained.

You thought maybe that would break the pattern. Maybe you’d just imagined this weird ritual into something bigger than it was. But around four in the afternoon, when the skies were a dull, relentless gray and your mood was worse, you heard the faintest sound by the window.

You turned. And there he was.

Drenched. Displeased. Regal.

You hurried to open the door, and he padded in without hesitation, shaking droplets onto your floor like a dog.

“Oh my god,” you muttered, grabbing a towel. “You’re going to ruin my landlord’s precious fake wood flooring.”

He tolerated your fussing for about ten seconds, then walked off to dry himself on your throw blanket anyway.

That night, you boiled some pasta and set a small plate of plain tuna down beside your chair. You didn’t know if cats were supposed to eat tuna that often, but he was a guest. And honestly? He’d earned it.

You were stretched out on the balcony floor, cat a warm weight against your thigh, the sky above painted that deep indigo right before full night. It was finally quiet. No metro, no street shouting, just the hum of the city settling and the occasional flick of Bagheera’s tail.

You scratched gently behind his ears. “You really know how to pick a spot, huh?”

He purred like he agreed.

And then—

“Bagheera!”

A voice. From just over the divider.

Low. Rough. Confident.

You froze.

“Baaagheeera, don’t make me come get you again,” the voice added, more amused now. “I’m not in the mood to scale balconies tonight.”

You blinked. Slowly turned your head toward the divider.

Bagheera lifted his head too, alert.

Then a soft scuff—bare feet?—and a shape appeared, leaning lazily over the railing.

You stared.

She was…

God. She was something else. Messy bun, oversized hoodie, sharp jawline catching the light from her apartment behind her. Her eyes found yours instantly, like she’d been expecting you.

You said nothing. Too busy trying to remember how to function.

“Oh,” she said, a little grin curling one side of her mouth. “So you’re the one he’s been cheating on me with.”

You made a noise. Somewhere between a laugh and a choke.

She nodded toward cat, apparently named Bagheera. “He’s got a routine, you know. Leaves after lunch, comes back smelling like someone else’s couch.”

You looked down at the cat, who offered exactly zero shame.

“I… didn’t know he had an owner,” you said finally, voice embarrassingly small.

“Hmm. He does. Kind of.” She studied you for a second. “You live alone?”

You hesitated. “Yeah.”

She tilted her head, eyes flicking over you once—bare legs, oversized T-shirt, tea mug next to you—then back up, more amused now.

“Cool. Same.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. The silence buzzed between you, charged.

Then she smirked. “Guess I’ll be seeing you around, vecina.”

She turned like that was it, already stepping back.

But you were still staring. Still holding her cat. Still… breathless.

She reappeared two seconds later with a blanket and leaned on the railing again, clearly not in a rush.

“You can breathe, you know,” she said. “I don’t bite.”

You flushed. “Sorry. You just—caught me off guard.”

“Yeah?” Her grin widened. “Guess I should’ve knocked first.”

“You’re technically outside.”

“So are you.”

Touché.

She extended her hand. “I’m Mapi.”

You took it, still dazed. “I’m Y/N.”

She held your hand half a second longer than necessary, then let go and nodded to Bagheera.

“He picks good people.”

And then she took him, her fingers brushing your arm with a warmth that lingered too long. No goodbye, no explanation—just a casual glance and a crooked smile before she slipped back through the sliding door like she hadn’t just turned your entire night upside down.

You sat there on the balcony for a long time after that.

The city quiet, your tea cold, your heart kind of wrecked in the nicest way.

It had been nearly a week since you’d seen Mapi.

Not that you were counting. Well. You were. A little.

After that first late afternoon—her standing barefoot and casual, Bagheera perched smugly in her arms, you still reeling from the fact that your mystery cat belonged to a very real, very attractive woman next door—she hadn’t come out again. Or maybe she had, just not when you were looking. Which was often.

Bagheera, on the other hand, had shown up daily. Like clockwork. Stretching across your floor like he paid rent. Following you from room to room. Sleeping beside your sketchbooks, stepping directly on your laptop keyboard, watching your every move with that regal, unbothered confidence.

You didn’t mind. He was company. Soft, quiet, steady.

And lately, your tiny balcony had started to feel like your favorite place to be.

A few days ago, you’d found a secondhand couch at a weekend market. The kind that looked like it was made for coffee shops and long conversations. A little beat up, perfectly squishy, and just narrow enough to wedge against your balcony wall beneath the window. The vendor helped you carry it home in exchange for a pastry and a grateful smile.

Now it lived out there permanently—blanketed and pillowed, sun-warmed in the day, breezy at night.

Tonight, you were curled into it, wine in hand, legs tucked beneath you as Bagheera snoozed along the backrest like a lazy panther.

The city hummed low around you. A breeze tugged at your hair. Your laptop was perched on a tray beside you, the screen casting soft light against the growing dark. Blue Is the Warmest Color played quietly. A movie you’d seen before, sure, but never on a night like this. Never while pressed into a couch under stars, with red wine on your tongue and the soft weight of a cat warming your side.

You didn’t mean to get so into it. But it sucked you in. The tension, the push and pull, the way longing built in silences more than words. Your glass was half-full and forgotten. Your eyes stayed glued to the screen.

And then the scene started.

The scene.

You felt the shift before it even happened. The way they looked at each other, breath shallow, eyes dark. The room blurred. Their fingers found each other slowly, reverently.

You swallowed. Shifted. The wine hit your bloodstream just enough to make the air feel heavier.

Onscreen, their mouths met. The first touch. Hands roaming, desperate and searching. The intimacy of it—raw, unhurried—tangled something low in your stomach.

You sat forward slightly, breathing shallow. Bagheera stretched, oblivious.

And then—

“Well,” a voice said lightly from the darkness, “this got interesting fast.”

You jumped so hard you nearly kicked your wine over.

Your head snapped toward the divider.

There she was.

Mapi.

Leaning over the railing like she’d been there the whole time. Hair pulled into a messy knot, arms fully tattooed, tank top hanging loose off one shoulder. Lit faintly by the golden glow from inside her apartment. A crooked smirk curving her lips.

You froze. Completely and totally frozen.

She tilted her chin toward your screen. “Didn’t mean to interrupt. Looked like things were getting pretty… intense.”

You scrambled to pause the movie. The frozen frame was ridiculous. You slammed your laptop shut and threw your arm over it like a teen caught watching porn in a rom-com.

“I—I didn’t hear you,” you stammered, fully mortified.

Mapi grinned wider. “Clearly.”

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. “You can’t just do that,.”

“Do what?” she asked innocently. “Existing?”

“Appearing out of thin air mid-sex scene!”

She laughed then. A full, rich sound that bounced between the walls. “In my defense,” she said, “you’re the one watching lesbian cinema with the volume at emotional devastation.”

You stared at her. “That’s not a genre.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

Bagheera let out a dramatic yawn and stretched between you, like this entire conversation bored him.

Mapi leaned on the railing, still smiling. “I came out to call him, actually. Didn’t expect the free entertainment.”

You narrowed your eyes. “He’s ignoring you on purpose.”

“He’s got a type, apparently.”

You arched a brow. “Sarcastic neighbors who ruin perfectly good wine-fueled movie nights?”

She laughed again, and this time it wasn’t teasing—it was soft. A little warm.

“No,” she said, quieter now. “People who talk to him like he’s understands what they’re saying.”

You blinked at that. Your face warmed. “He can.”

Mapi smiles. “Most people treat animals like accessories. You don’t. He likes that.”

You looked down at Bagheera. He blinked slowly at you, then flopped back onto his side like he was too cool for this moment.

“So…” Mapi said after a beat, nodding toward your mostly-full wine glass. “You always drink alone on your balcony and get emotionally destroyed by French cinema?”

You gave her a dry look. “Only when I’m not being publicly humiliated by my neighbor.”

“That’s a shame,” she said, already stepping back inside. “I’ve got a bottle of rosé that could pair perfectly with your mortification.”

You blinked. “Wait—what?”

She reappeared a second later with two glasses in one hand and a bottle in the other.

Bagheera let out a little trill of approval.

“Move over,” Mapi said, gesturing to the couch as she stepped over the divider like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You stared. Then you moved.

You stared as Mapi steeped over the divider. Literally.

One leg, then the other, barefoot and all like this was normal behavior and not a moment of sheer insanity. Her wine bottle tilted dangerously as she landed lightly on your balcony floor, casual as hell, like she hadn’t just scaled your wall like a hot lesbian raccoon.

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered

“Relax,” she said with a grin, “the wall’s barely above my waist.”

“That’s not the point!”

Mapi handed you a new glass. “Then what is the point?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. You looked at her, then at the wine, then at Bagheera who was now purring and rubbing against her ankle like she hadn’t abandoned him days ago. Traitor.

“I could be a serial killer,” you finally said.

Mapi poured. “You’re watching Blue Is the Warmest Color and drinking wine out of a stemmed glass on a couch you probably named. You’re not a serial killer.”

You stared at her. “You don’t know that.”

She lifted her brows, looking around at the pillows and the carefully draped blanket, the way you’d strung up two paper lanterns that swayed lazily in the breeze.

“Okay, fair. You’re an aesthetically pleasing serial killer.”

You took the wine and muttered, “That’s better.”

Bagheera jumped onto the couch between you like he’d been waiting for her to sit down all along. He promptly flopped onto her lap. She stroked his fur like it was second nature.

You hated how domestic it looked.

“Fine,” you said after a long sip, “you can stay. But you’re not allowed to judge me.”

She raised a brow. “For what, exactly?”

You gestured vaguely at the laptop, which was now partially hidden under a blanket out of sheer embarrassment.

Mapi smirked. “For the record, I wasn’t judging. That scene’s a masterpiece.”

You blinked at her.

“Like—cinematically,” she clarified. “Lighting, pacing, tension—ten out of ten. Should be studied.”

You choked on your wine. “You’re not helping.”

“Just saying. Could’ve picked something much worse. Imagine if I’d popped in during—what’s that one? ‘Below Her Mouth’?”

You slapped a hand over your face. “Please stop talking.”

She laughed, full-bodied and delighted. “Hey, I’m just trying to help you feel less mortified.”

“It’s not working!”

“Good. You’re cute when you’re flustered.”

Your brain short-circuited.

Your entire nervous system blinked like a neon sign: Did she say that? Did she actually say that?

Mapi just sipped her wine, looking completely unbothered.

You cleared your throat, trying to act like your pulse hadn’t just gone into cardiac arrest. “So, you’re just… crashing balconies now?”

She shrugged. “Yours looked better than mine.”

“You don’t even know what mine looks like.”

“I do now,” she said, eyes scanning over the setup again. “Cozy. Thoughtful. Very queer. It’s giving…” She waved her glass around. “Main character energy.”

You gave her a look. “You’re ridiculous.”

Mapi beamed. “You like it.”

You didn’t answer. Mostly because she was right and you didn’t want to give her the satisfaction. The silence stretched for a second, the clink of her glass against yours echoing in the small space. The city below murmured on.

Then, out of nowhere “Wait,” she said suddenly, squinting at your face. “Are you the one who sings to Bagheera sometimes?”

Your whole body seized. “No.”

“You are!” she said, grinning wide. “I knew it. He comes back humming.”

“I do not—I don’t hum to him.”

“Swear to god,” she said, nodding seriously, “last week he was practically purring in tune.”

“Oh my god.”

“Don’t worry. It’s cute.”

“Stop calling me cute!”

“Can’t. It keeps being true.”

You groaned and leaned back into the cushions, covering your face. Mapi shifted beside you, stretching her legs out, her thigh brushing against yours with the easy confidence of someone who had zero awareness of personal space—or maybe just no intention of respecting it.

Bagheera purred louder.

You peeked at her through your fingers. “Do you flirt like this with everyone?”

Mapi turned her head lazily toward you. “No. Just the ones who name couches and get emotionally devastated by French girls in beanies.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it again.

“Speechless twice in one night,” she said, smirking. “I’m on fire.”

You stared at her. Warm skin, wine-stained lips, eyes like she already knew your answer to questions she hadn’t even asked yet.

The worst part? She was on fire. And you were probably about to get burned.

Three days later You’re halfway through folding laundry on the balcony couch when Mapi’s voice floats up.

“Didn’t take you for the kind of girl who folds underwear in public.”

You nearly drop your panties off the railing.

You glare over at her—barefoot, tank top, leaning on her balcony door with a popsicle in her mouth like she’s the main character in a queer fever dream.

“These are boxer briefs,” you say coolly.

Mapi licks her popsicle slowly. “Even better.”

Day after that, You’re watering your plants in your sports bra. It’s hot. You’re sweaty. You forgot your neighbor exists.

Mapi leans over the balcony ledge. “Careful, cariño. That basil’s not the only thing getting wet right now.”

You choke on air. The basil is fine. Your self-control is not.

Once,You're lying on the balcony couch in a hoodie and nothing else, trying to ignore the sound of someone doing things to someone in a nearby apartment. It's loud. Too loud. The cat’s tail twitches.

Then Mapi’s voice cuts through “Either that’s a really good time, or someone’s watching your movie again.”

You look up.

She’s holding popcorn. And a glass of rosé. And she’s already climbing over the railing.

You blink. “You can’t just climb into my apartment.”

“I brought snacks.”

You let her in.

Not long after that, You’re adjusting your top. You weren’t expecting anyone. Mapi shows up leaning backwards over the divider like she’s bored and accidentally hot.

“Wanna see my new tattoo?”

You raise a brow. “What if I say yes?”

She smirks. “Then I’ll show you the one under my shirt too.”

Bagheera knocks over your wineglass like he’s had enough.

Once,You hear a weird tapping sound. Look up. Mapi’s trying to throw pistachio shells onto your balcony.

She misses. A lot.

When she finally hits you in the forehead, she yells, “Gotcha!”

You shout back, “That’s assault.”

She grins. “You like it rough anyway.”

You do not respond. You cannot respond.

Bagheera meows. Even he’s judging you.

Another time,You’re on the couch in silk pajama shorts. You stretch without thinking. Legs out. Head back. The laptop’s on your chest.

Mapi leans over and whistles. “I don’t know what’s shinier—your laptop or your thighs.”

You stare at her.

She stares back.

Then—“I was gonna ask if you wanted to come over, but now I think I’m gonna climb down instead.”

You stop breathing. She doesn’t climb. Yet.

Rain hit your windows in a steady rhythm, soft and hypnotic. Your lights were off—only the warm glow of your laptop screen lighting up your room, flickering over the walls like some low-budget art film.

You were in bed, sprawled under a blanket with a glass of wine balanced on your stomach, your legs slightly parted and your focus absolutely glued to the screen.

Below Her Mouth.

And below your blanket… well. Let’s just say, ovulation had you in a chokehold.

You weren’t even embarrassed about it. Not until—

tap-tap.

You froze.

The sex scene was peaking. Literally.

tap-tap-tap.

You blinked, leaned to the side, and slowly turned your head toward your balcony door.

Mapi León stood outside. Soaked. Hoodie sticking to her frame. Hair dripping onto her shoulders. And worst of all—smirking.

You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t explain why there was a half-empty bottle of wine on your nightstand and a woman literally getting railed on your screen.

You didn’t even press pause.

Mapi raised her eyebrows. Then, she pointed at the laptop, mouthed, “Seriously?”, and tapped again.

You scrambled up, tripped on the blanket, slammed the laptop shut so hard it clapped like a gunshot.

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered, rushing to the door.

You unlocked it, slid it open, and hissed, “What the hell are you doing?”

Mapi, absolutely unfazed, stepped inside your room like it was hers. “It’s raining. I brought wine. And your curtains were open. What was I supposed to do—ignore the live screening of lesbian porn?”

“It’s not porn, it’s art.”

She plopped down onto the foot of your bed, kicked off her soaked socks, and wiggled her eyebrows. “Right. Art that makes you squirm and squeeze your thighs together every five minutes.”

You were going to die.

Right here. In your room. In your underwear.

She glanced at the laptop. “You didn’t even pause it.”

“I panicked.”

Mapi leaned back on her hands, cocky and dripping onto your sheets. “You always this worked up on a Tuesday, or is it just that time?”

You groaned. “Get out of my room.”

“No.” She grinned. “I brought good wine, you’ve got good taste in movies, and that scene was getting interesting.”

“You climbed between balconies in the rain to crash my alone time.”

“I was bored. And wet. And curious.” She dragged her eyes over you—your flushed cheeks, your hoodie, the exposed strip of your thigh where the blanket had fallen. “And I’m very glad I did.”

You stared at her. “You’re actually insane.”

“And you,” she said, reaching to pull your blanket back over your legs like she owned them, “are dangerously cute when you’re flustered.”

You squinted at her, lips twitching. “What’s your plan, exactly? Seduce me over wine and stolen porn?”

She handed you the bottle and shrugged. “Depends. You gonna let me stay?”

The rain kept falling. Your heart kept racing. And your laptop, halfway closed, was still playing muffled moans you both ignored.

You took a sip of wine. “Fine. But don’t touch anything.”

Mapi grinned and slid up beside you in bed, whispering, “No promises, cariño.”

You’re trying to focus on the movie. Really. You are. You’ve even repositioned yourself twice—propped up against your pillows, blanket pulled to your waist, one leg curled beneath you like that’ll help. It doesn’t. Nothing helps.

Because she’s too close.

Mapi stretches like a cat, elbow grazing yours, and doesn’t apologize when she settles again with a satisfied sigh. Her bare leg brushes against yours with each small shift, warm and smooth where your knees touch under the blanket. Every movement she makes feels exaggerated, deliberate. Even when she’s quiet, she’s loud.

You’re painfully aware of her wine-stained lips and the way her shirt clings to her shoulder, slipping just slightly lower as she leans forward to grab the bottle. She does it slowly, like she’s giving you time to look. And maybe you do—just for a second. Just to feel the sharp sting of want rise in your throat.

She pours, not into her glass, but straight into her mouth, tilting the bottle back with a grin. Some of it dribbles down her chin, and she wipes it with the back of her hand, catching you staring.

“What?” she says, voice lazy, knowing.

You blink fast, looking away. “Nothing.”

She hums, the sound low and amused. “Thought so.”

“Why do they always make lesbian sex scenes look like a perfume ad?” Mapi mutters suddenly, breaking the quiet.

You snort, grateful for the interruption and the fact that she said something. “You complaining?”

“Not at all,” she says, head turning toward you. Her hair is still damp from the rain, curling slightly at the ends, and it smells like your shampoo now. Her eyes meet yours and stay there, steady and unblinking. “I just think we could do better.”

Your stomach flips. Your mouth opens, then closes again. You pretend to sip your wine, even though your glass has been empty for a while. She watches you do it like she knows.

Mapi leans her head on her hand, propped up by her elbow. Her fingers—rings cold against her skin—start idly playing with a strand of your hair.

“You’re really into this movie, huh?”

You try to sound casual. “It’s a good one.”

“Hmm,” she hums, like she agrees. But she’s not looking at the screen. She’s watching your mouth.

Her fingers move from your hair to the side of your neck, brushing barely there touches down the line of your jaw before pulling back just enough to rest again between you, dangerously close.

“Relax,” she murmurs, voice low, warm, and threaded with amusement. “You’re tense.”

You scoff, trying not to let your body betray you. “I’m not.”

“You are,” she says, her voice dipping lower. Her hand moves again, drifting across your forearm, her nails soft against your skin. The touch is featherlight—meaningless on its own, but combined with the look in her eyes and the curve of her smirk, it short-circuits your brain.

She’s not doing anything wrong. Technically. But your whole body reacts like she is.

Her hand finds your knee under the blanket and settles there like it belongs. She doesn’t move it, doesn’t squeeze. Just rests it. Warm and solid. Like a placeholder for something more.

“Do you always watch this kind of stuff alone?” she asks, voice teasing, like she’s trying to distract you.

You glare. “Do you always break into your neighbor’s apartment to flirt in the middle of a storm?”

Mapi leans in slightly, close enough that her breath tickles your cheek. “Only when they look this good doing nothing.”

You roll your eyes, but the heat crawling up your neck betrays you.

On the screen, the tension builds between the characters—slow touches, quiet gasps, hands moving beneath clothes. Mapi doesn’t look away. But not at the movie. At you.

“You think that’s how we’d do it?” she asks softly.

You blink, trying to gather words.

“What?”

“That,” she says, nodding slightly toward the screen. “Would you let me take my time like that?”

Your pulse spikes. Her voice is silk-dipped sin. Casual, almost. But it lands hard. Heavy.

You try to keep it together. “Depends.”

“On what?”

“Whether you’re all talk.”

That gets you a slow, dangerous smile. Mapi shifts closer, until your thighs are pressed together. Her hand trails up slightly, fingers tapping once on the inside of your knee.

“You think I’m just teasing?” she whispers.

You nod, defiant. “I know you are.”

“Maybe,” she says, brushing a thumb along the seam of your shorts, just enough to make your breath catch. “But you like it.”

The characters on screen are moaning once again —soft, practiced sounds. In your room, it’s quiet except for the hum of rain against the window and the sound of your own heart pounding in your ears.

Mapi doesn’t kiss you.

She doesn’t move her hand any higher.

She just turns her attention back to the screen, like nothing’s happened, and starts sipping her wine again. But her fingers remain where they are—teasing, barely moving, still making those slow little circles on your thigh like she’s marking time.

You stay perfectly still, gripping your wineglass, pretending you’re not losing your mind.

And she sits there, smug and satisfied, like she’s got all night.

Because she does.

You’d barely restarted the next movie—a dirtier one this time, something more explicit, something neither of you pretended wasn’t intentional—when Mapi moved again.

She didn’t ask. Didn’t hesitate.

She just repositioned herself behind you, like it was the most natural thing in the world—pulling you back against her chest, wrapping you up in the blanket and her arms, her legs bracketing yours as her chin dropped to your shoulder.

You froze.

You could feel the shape of her body pressed into yours. The slow, deliberate way her hand slid across your stomach under the blanket. Her breath was warm against your neck. She said nothing—but every part of her touch said everything.

You stared at the screen, but you didn’t see anything.

Until the moans started.

On screen, the characters were tangled together—no build-up this time, just raw sex. Wet, slow, aching. No soft filters or background music. Just skin on skin, bodies grinding, the sound of breath catching and whispered, needy pleas.

And then—Mapi’s hand moved.

Her fingers slid under the hem of your shirt, just brushing your stomach. Light. Curious. Intimate.

You tensed instinctively—but she didn’t stop.

“Don’t worry,” she whispered, lips brushing your ear. “Just focus on the movie.”

Your breath caught in your throat. You didn’t dare to look at her.

You couldn’t.

She dragged her fingers lower, pausing at your waistband. Not pushing, just tracing. Her touch so light it drove you crazy.

“You’re good at that” she murmured.

You swallowed. “At what?”

Her hand dipped beneath the band of your shorts.

“Pretending you don’t want this.”

Your body twitched at the first proper touch—her fingers stroking you over your underwear, slow and unbothered, like she was just warming up.

“You’re soaked,” she whispered, tone rough now. “And I haven’t even kissed you yet.”

You gripped the blanket tighter, head falling back slightly against her shoulder.

“Still pretending?”

She didn’t wait for an answer this time.

Her hand slipped beneath your underwear, fingers gliding through slick heat, parting you with the same careful patience you’d seen her use on the pitch—measured, sure, deadly.

The moans from the movie only got louder. Dirtier. One of the characters gasped something desperate, breathless.

Mapi’s fingers slid deeper, just enough to make your breath hitch and your hips stutter forward.

She groaned low, right in your ear. “You hear that? That sound she’s making?”

You whimpered.

“She’s not even close to how good you’re gonna sound.”

Her hand on your stomach flexed slightly—possessive, steady—while the one between your legs moved with maddening control. She didn’t rush. Didn’t chase. She teased. She ruined.

“Focus on the movie,” she whispered, dragging her fingers slow and slick through your folds, circling but never giving you exactly what you needed. “Watch. Let it build.”

You tried. You really did.

But your eyes fluttered half shut, lashes brushing your cheeks as your whole body tilted toward her, open, aching.

“Don’t close your eyes,” she murmured. “You’ll miss the best part.”

You whimpered. “Mapi…”

She smirked against your neck. “You want it? Then take it. I’m right here.”

Her hand slid lower again, dipping in just the slightest bit, enough to make you twitch.

But then she stopped.

Just rested her fingers there.

“You’re gonna come for me,” she whispered. “But not yet.”

And then she pulled her hand out entirely.

You gasped in protest, hips jerking involuntarily—but she just held you tighter, lips brushing the shell of your ear as she reached for her wine again with the same lazy calm she always had.

She sipped. Settled. Pressed her mouth to your jaw.

Then

“Next scene’s coming up,” she said, tone wicked and smooth. “If you’re good, maybe I’ll let you ride my fingers when it starts.”

You didn’t trust yourself to speak.

You just nodded—barely.

And she smiled.

Like she knew.

Like she was already planning exactly how slow she’d ruin you next.

The next scene started soft—just breathy kisses and hands sliding under clothes—but you knew what was coming.

So did Mapi.

She shifted behind you again, legs snug against yours, blanket slipping slightly as she pushed your shirt up with both hands, slowly, exposing your stomach to the cool air.

You didn’t stop her.

You didn’t move at all.

“You still pretending to care about the plot?” she asked, her voice already thicker, lower.

You managed a nod.

“Liar,” she said, and her hand slid back between your legs.

This time, she didn’t waste any time teasing.

Her fingers found you fast—slick, warm, desperate—and she groaned under her breath.

“You’re dripping,” she whispered. “All over me.”

You whimpered, back arching against her.

“Shh,” she murmured, kissing the curve of your jaw. “Just stay still.”

Her hand worked you slow at first, deliberately matching the pace on screen. The characters were grinding now, panting, the kind of sex that was all friction and hunger and heat.

And Mapi let you feel every second of it.

“Ride my fingers,” she whispered. “Go on. Take what you want.”

You froze. “What?”

She didn’t repeat herself. Just slipped two fingers inside, deep and sure, her other hand sliding up to cup your chest, dragging your back harder against her.

“Fuck—Mapi—”

“Quiet.”

She didn’t mean it.

She wanted you loud. She wanted to feel every sound in your throat before you could even make it.

And you tried, you really did—but the way her fingers curled inside you, the way her palm ground against you on every slow thrust forward—you couldn’t help the way your hips started moving, chasing it, riding her hand like it was the only thing tethering you to the moment.

“That’s it,” she said, tone impossibly dark. “Just like that. You’re so fucking perfect like this.”

Her fingers moved deeper, sharper, filling you with purpose—while her lips dragged slow down your neck, biting softly, possessive.

The movie faded completely. You couldn’t see the screen anymore. You didn’t care.

Your whole body was centered on the rhythm of her—inside you, against you, around you.

You moaned, louder this time, and she just smiled, her breath hot in your ear.

“You wanna come, don’t you?”

You nodded desperately.

She slowed her hand again—just enough to make you cry out in frustration.

“Not yet,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I want you begging first.”

You almost cursed at her.

Almost.

But her fingers curled just right, and all that came out was a strangled moan.

She chuckled low, lips ghosting over your cheek. “Yeah. Just like that.”

“You wanna come, don’t you?” she whispered again, slower now—almost sweet.

You nodded. Frantic. Shamefully desperate. You couldn’t speak.

“Then ask nicely,” she said, and she stilled her hand entirely.

You gasped like the air had been stolen from your lungs. “Mapi—”

“Uh-uh,” she smirked, brushing her nose against your cheek, her breath hot and wicked. “Use your words, cariño. You were doing so well.”

Her fingers didn’t move. They stayed buried inside you, hot and still and maddening, like a threat and a promise at once. The only movement came from her other hand, the one now tracing lazy circles across your nipple through the fabric of your shirt. And the soft drag of her teeth against your neck.

“Please,” you managed, barely more than a whisper. “I need—fuck—I need it.”

She hummed, pleased. “Need what, baby?”

You could hear the smile in her voice.

“You. Your hand. I need you to—”

Mapi laughed, low and dark. “Qué guarra.” Her hand moved again. Finally.

But slower this time.

Cruel.

She rocked her fingers inside you with obscene patience, dragging against the spot that made your toes curl, but never quite fast enough—never enough to let you tip over.

You were moaning now. Quiet at first. Then louder. Whining into your empty wineglass like it might hide the sounds falling from your mouth.

And Mapi was eating it up.

“Look at you,” she muttered, her fingers pressing deeper. “Fucking dripping, shaking, grinding all over me—just from my fingers.”

Your hand shot down to grab her wrist, trying to force her to move faster. She let you. For a second.

Then she stopped again. Completely.

“Mapi,” you whined, hips moving helplessly.

Her mouth was at your ear in a second, voice all gravel and heat.

“Beg.”

Your whole body was shaking now, thighs trembling, your orgasm so close you could taste it.

“I’m begging,” you gasped. “Please, please—let me come.”

And finally—finally—her rhythm returned, harder this time, relentless, each thrust perfectly angled, her palm slick and fast against your clit now.

“Good girl,” she whispered. “That’s what I wanted.”

The movie was long forgotten. All you could hear was your own ragged breathing, the wet sounds of her fingers working you open, the filthy praise in her voice as she pushed you closer and closer.

“Come for me,” she growled, right into your skin. “Now.”

You broke.

Your whole body tensed, then shattered, collapsing back against her with a sound you didn’t even recognize as yours. The kind of orgasm that stole your voice. Stole everything.

She didn’t stop.

She worked you through it, coaxing every last twitch and whimper from your oversensitive body, until you had to physically grab her hand to make her stop.

She finally pulled her fingers from you, slow and smug, and wrapped her arms tight around your waist, kissing the back of your shoulder like nothing had just happened.

“Still your favorite genre?” she asked, voice playful.

You couldn’t speak. You could only nod.

Mapi grinned against your skin.

“Good,” she murmured. “Because I’ve got another one queued up.”

She doesn’t say anything at first. Just kisses the base of your neck, then lower, and lower—her breath dragging down your spine in lazy, warm waves. Her hands anchor you, one still pressing your thigh open, the other running possessively down your side. You’re trembling now, fully at her mercy, the movie long forgotten. There’s only her.

When her mouth reaches your waistband, she pauses. She kisses just above it, then nudges your shorts down with her nose, her hands making quick work of the rest. You lift your hips without needing to be asked. You’d let her do anything right now.

“You’re so wet for me,” she murmurs, voice low, dark with amusement, and fuck, you are. She smiles like she knows exactly what she’s doing to you. Because she does.

And then she doesn’t wait.

She buries her face between your thighs, and it’s immediate—hot and wet and intense. Her tongue moves with precision, like she’s mapped every reaction you’ve ever had and memorized the blueprint. She licks slowly at first, savoring you, dragging it out, teasing the edges before circling in.

Your back arches off the bed. You grip the sheets. You moan—helplessly, desperately—as she groans against you like she can’t get enough.

Every movement is practiced. Confident. She works you open with her tongue, flicking, pressing, sucking just enough to make you shudder. Her grip tightens on your hips, holding you down when you try to writhe away from the intensity.

“Stay still,” she growls against your skin. “Let me taste you properly.”

It’s filthy. It’s everything.

And then she pushes two fingers into you, slow but deliberate, curling just right, just enough. You choke on your breath. Her pace doesn’t falter. Mouth and fingers moving in tandem, dragging you higher and higher, building pressure like she’s tuning an instrument only she can play.

You’re not going to last. You know it. She knows it.

And she doesn’t let up.

Your thighs start to tremble. Your moans turn breathless. Her name spills from your lips like a prayer.

And Mapi?

Mapi just smirks, glancing up through her lashes like she’s still got so much more planned.

Your thighs are shaking uncontrollably now, and Mapi loves it. You can feel it in the way her mouth moves even slower, savoring every sound you make, every twitch of your hips she forces you to hold back.

She presses her tongue flat against your clit, dragging it slowly upwards, making you whimper into the dark room. Then she pulls back just enough to let her breath wash over your soaked skin — cool, teasing — before she licks into you again with a filthy groan that vibrates through your whole body.

"Fuck, you taste good," she mutters, voice wrecked, almost feral.

And then she sinks her fingers deeper, curling them deliberately, expertly, finding that spot inside you that makes you sob without shame. You clench around her and she just laughs—low and cocky—and pushes in harder, like she’s trying to ruin you on her hand alone.

Your head thuds back against the pillows. Your fingers find her hair, grabbing blindly for something to ground yourself. She lets you, lets you tug her closer, like she wants you desperate for her, wants you to lose control completely.

"You wanted to watch dirty movies," Mapi says roughly, pulling her mouth away just enough to smirk against your inner thigh. "Guess you're living one now, princesa."

You can't even form words anymore. You're too busy panting, trembling, so fucking close it hurts.

She doesn't let up. Her tongue flicks back to your clit, fast and rhythmic now, perfectly timed with the relentless thrust of her fingers inside you. Every drag of her tongue feels like lightning under your skin. Every curl of her fingers punches another gasp from your throat.

And she keeps talking, filthy and low, right against you

"Bet you wish they showed this in those movies, huh?" she murmurs. "This is how it’s supposed to be. Someone making you fucking beg."

You're already there.

Your stomach knots impossibly tight. Your whole body locks up, trembling violently. You're seconds away from falling apart, and she fucking knows it.

"Cum for me, baby," she whispers against your soaked skin. "Let go. Let me hear you."

Her fingers slam into you just right. Her mouth clamps down on your clit, sucking hard, greedy, dirty.

And you shatter.

You cry out, clenching so hard around her fingers it almost hurts, your whole body jerking helplessly as she works you through it, not stopping, not slowing down until you’re sobbing from the overstimulation.

Only then — only then — does Mapi finally pull away, licking her lips like she’s tasting something addictive, dragging her fingers out of you slow and deliberate, watching you with dark, blown pupils like you’re the most perfect thing she’s ever seen.

She crawls up your body, presses a slow, dirty kiss against your open, gasping mouth, and grins against your lips.

“Told you we could do better than the movie.”

Not long after that she whispers, lips brushing your ear. “You okay?”

You nod. “Yeah. Just… fuck.”

She chuckles quietly, pleased, but there’s no smugness in it now. Just affection. That slow, lazy sweetness that only comes out once she’s had her fill of teasing.

“Come here,” she says, and you don’t need to roll over—because she’s already shifting you herself, hands guiding you onto your side, pulling your back into her chest again. She curls around you like she was made to fit there, strong arms wrapping tightly around your waist, her thigh tucking between yours.

The storm is still going outside, rain tapping gently against the glass doors. The movie has long since faded into the background, the screen now just flickering light that dances across the messy sheets and your bare skin.

Mapi presses a kiss to your shoulder. Then your neck. Then the back of your head.

You feel her reach for something, and a second later, a warm cloth touches between your legs — slow, careful, her hand steady as she cleans you up. She doesn’t say much. Just breathes with you. Focuses on you. Every movement quiet and sure, like it’s second nature.

“I got you,” she murmurs.

And she does.

When she’s done, she tosses the cloth aside and gathers you closer, pulling the blanket up over both your bodies. You press your face into her arm, and she hooks her chin over your head, fingers drawing soft, lazy shapes into your stomach.

Neither of you talks for a while.

Just the quiet rise and fall of your breathing, the beat of the rain, the gentle weight of her touch grounding you like a heartbeat.

Then—

“That was better than the movie,” she says eventually, voice a little smug again.

You huff out a laugh. “You think?”

“Should’ve gotten an Oscar for that performance.”

You roll your eyes and elbow her gently. “You’re insufferable.”

“You love it.”

And you do.

You don’t say it out loud. Not yet. But the way your fingers lace with hers under the blanket says enough.

She kisses your shoulder again, softer this time. “I guess we both agree that Next time,” she whispers, “I’m choosing the movie.”

You snort. “As long as you don’t talk through the sex scenes again.”

She grins against your skin. “No promises.”