#just imagining him sweating and shifting a lot

[landologged]

Out Lapped | 1

pairing: lando x reader

genre: toxicity, shit aint sweet sorry, like 85% porn and arguing????, its hot tho, angst? i guess, monaco beinf monaco, possessive and hot lando, readers a dumb hoe (but i get it)

description: You sure as hell didn’t expect to find yourself at Lando’s door after promising your therapist you wouldn’t see him again. But your thighs remember things your brain pretends to forget, and Monaco is a dangerous place to have free time and a hell of a lot of unresolved trauma.

So, here you are, stuck in a loop you swore you’d escaped: he wins races, goes home to her, and calls you at 2AM like you’re the reward. You know it’s toxic. You know he’s lying. But every time you try to walk away, he says your name like it still means something. And every time he touches you—you forget how to leave all over again.

WC: 19k

notes: want to preface this is extremely toxic, i dont hate magui but needed her for the plot sorry, this is not a healthy relationship its just toxic n sexy im sorry i have issues, enjoy tho xx

You tell yourself it’s just a building. Just concrete and glass and overpriced furniture, just one of dozens of sleek high-rises dotting the cliff-edge of Monaco’s coastline like little temples to wealth. But that’s a lie you started telling before the plane even landed, and now—standing outside of his door, heat curling around your ankles and your jaw locked so tight you can feel the tension in your teeth—it’s all unraveling way too fucking fast. This isn’t just a building. This is a goddamn shrine. To every version of you that lost and begged and bled behind those walls. And the worst part is you let all of it happen. Over and over and over, like some stupid animal who keeps going back to the cage because it’s the only place she remembers how to breathe.

You stand there too long. Not knocking. Not leaving. Just standing like a goddamn idiot. Sweating in your blouse,  clutching your phone like it might ring if you squeeze hard enough, though no one’s called you in hours. You’d deleted his number. Blocked it. Then unblocked it. Then memorized it, like that made you the one in control. The gate code, too. You remembered that one without trying. 

Inside, you imagine he’s probably shirtless. Or worse—fresh out of the shower, towel slung low, smirking at his own reflection in the mirror like he’s still a teenage boy. Or maybe, just maybe, he’s got someone over. That girl he was seen with last week, or the one from before. Some Portuguese model with a body like a Victoria Secret angel and a face the camera loves. Long legs, soft mouth, always sun-kissed and unbothered. She’s been rumored with him for months—not that you’ve been reading, obviously. Not that you have the search saved. Not that you zoomed in on the photos where he’s walking three steps ahead and still somehow looks like he belongs to her.

She has no idea what he sounds like when he’s angry. No idea how fast his mood can turn—how one second he’s teasing, laughing, and the next his voice goes low and hard and mean. She doesn’t know what it’s like to be devoured by him, not kissed but taken, not fucked but owned. She’s never had to piece herself together in his bathroom afterward, thighs shaking, mascara wrecked, trying not to cry just because he simply didn’t stay.

There’s no breeze in the hallway, just stillness. Expensive stillness. Climate-controlled. Smells like fresh-cut flowers and clean linen and the faintest undercurrent of chlorine—like the building itself is trying to convince you nothing messy ever happens here. No broken glasses or slammed doors or whispered confessions between kisses that feel like the end of the world. 

The walls are paneled in soft blond wood, warm under the overheads, you shift your weight, and the tap of your heel against polished wood echoes too loud. Sharp. Embarrassing.

A laugh bubbles up uninvited. Quiet, bitter, barely audible, but still real. What the fuck are you doing here? You told your therapist—once—that you were past this. That you’d written it off for what it was: a phase, a crash, an experiment in self-destruction that just happened to have a face. His face. His voice. His hands. You’d said it with conviction. You’d almost believed yourself.

But that was when you hadn’t counted in the photo.

It wasn’t even new. Just some grainy tabloid resurrection of last summer—him holding your wrist outside the back of a club, the tension in your posture so clear it almost hurt to look at. And his face—god that fucking face. Golden tan, summer-slick skin that caught the flash of the camera like it knew exactly where to land. That haircut—fresh, sharp, fade carved clean down the sides, but the top left long, soft, curled just enough to look effortless. Like he’d rolled out of bed into a suit and made it look intentional. 

White shirt open at the throat, no tie. Slim-fit navy blazer that hugged his frame like he’d been sewn into the thing. And that expression—cool, calm, always calculated. He looked straight into the lens, jaw set, eyes unreadable, like he knew they were watching and didn’t give a single fuck about it. Like he knew you wouldn’t leave. Because you hadn’t. Not really. Not for long, and sure as hell, never for good.

You don’t knock. You can’t. Your hand hovers near the wood, fingers curled like a fist you don’t have the strength to make. You stare at the door like it might open on its own. Like maybe he’ll feel you on the other side and save you the choice.

So when the door finally opens—slow, quiet, just a few inches at first—it doesn’t feel like an invitation. It feels like a trap you’re already halfway inside.

Warm light spills out into the hallway, catching the edge of that honeyed wood paneling behind you, and suddenly you’re in it again. His world. The clean, curated silence of it. Not cold—just impersonal. Too white. Too perfect. A mirror near the entry catches the edge of his shoulder, and for one disorienting second, you see both versions of him at once.

He’s barefoot, of course. Hair damp and pushed back like he’s just gotten out of the shower or maybe just doesn’t give a shit anymore.  Black long-sleeve shirt, sleeves shoved up to his elbows like he’s mid-recovery from something. The fabric’s soft, lived-in, probably smells like skin and detergent. There’s a ring on his finger now—something thin and silver, catching the light as he leans one shoulder against the frame. Something that definitely wasn’t there before.

And just under his collarbone, a flash of color. Sunburn maybe. Lipstick, if you let yourself believe in worst-case scenarios. You don’t want to know. You do want to know. It burns both ways.

Behind him, the apartment stretches long and quiet. Pale floors. White cabinets. Stainless steel fridge that reflects the open-concept kitchen like a showroom. Heineken keg on the counter. DJ deck in the corner. Stacks of papers on the island that say he’s busy. Clean sink that says he’s not that busy. Trophies in the other room. Art that’s mostly just versions of himself—cars, helmets, movement frozen mid-victory.

“Well, well,” he says, mouth curling slow. “Didn’t think you’d actually show.”

You raise an eyebrow, defaulting to sarcasm like muscle memory. “You think too much of yourself.”

He leans against the frame, lets his eyes drag over you like it’s nothing. Like it's a habit. “And yet, here you are.”

You hate how calm he sounds. How unsurprised. Like he knew. Like he felt you coming before you even booked the flight. You step forward without meaning to, past the threshold, into the coolness of the apartment that smells like bergamot and money and something darker underneath. Something familiar. Like heat after sex. Like you.

“Are you gonna say why you’re here,” he says as he closes the door behind you, voice low, smooth, almost bored, “or just continue to stand there?”

You shrug. You’re already halfway to the couch. “Didn’t think I needed a reason.”

“You always had one,” he says, following at a lazy pace. “Even when you lied about it.”

You don’t sit. You don’t take your shoes off. You just stand there in the middle of all that soft lighting and polished calm like you’re something feral that wandered in off the street. Your arms cross without thought, instinctive, defensive—like maybe if you press hard enough, you can hold yourself in. He notices. He always notices. That was the problem, wasn’t it? How seen he made you feel. Not loved. Not even wanted. Just known. 

“You look tired,” he says. Not kindly.

You stare at him. Let your eyes drag over every inch of him. The tan. The jaw. The lazy posture. The fucking confidence. You try not to let it show—how familiar it all is. How foreign it feels now. Like you’ve studied it in photos more recently than in person.  “You look the same.”

He grins. “You mean perfect?”

There it is. The smirk. The bait. The comfort in knowing exactly which part of himself still gets to you. He tosses it out like a joke, but his eyes don’t leave yours. He’s watching your mouth. Your shoulders. Your tells.

And fuck—you wish it didn’t still work. And so you do what you always do, you deflect. You roll your eyes, but the sting hits anyway. He’s always been beautiful in that arrogant, accidental way—like he never had to work for it. You always had to work for everything. But he just was. That was half the danger, all of the problem. 

“You must’ve seen the article,” you say, even though you’re not here to talk about the article. Even though this whole thing has nothing to do with whatever the press dug up and everything to do with how quiet your apartment’s been. How empty your chest’s felt. How loud he still is, in every fucking corner of your mind.

“I did,” he says, shrugging. “You looked good. Even when you’re pissed off.”

You laugh once, sharp. “You looked like a fucking asshole.”

“Branding,” he replies, with that infuriating grin, the one that used to mean you’re not really mad at me and you’re not really leaving. The one you used to fall for. The one you feel yourself slipping toward again, like gravity. Like his goddamn dog. 

You inhale through your nose, slow. Careful. Like control is something you can hold in your lungs.

“Don’t get excited,” you tell him.

He steps closer. One, then two. Not touching you. Just standing there, inches away, his presence thick as smoke. “You came back,” he murmurs. “That’s all I need.”

And your heart breaks a little, just enough to make room for something worse. Because this is the part you forgot—how he looks at you. Like nothing else exists. Like you’re a secret he’s been keeping warm in his mouth this whole time. There’s something about his eyes up close. Something impossible. They make you forget all the bad endings and bruised mornings. They make you think you might want it again. That maybe the problem was never him. Maybe it was you. Maybe you were too scared to be kept.

“I shouldn’t have come,” you say, voice raw around the edges. But it’s not a real protest.

He moves like he hears it for what it is. Like he knows the thread is already pulled, and you’re unraveling in his hands. He steps closer. Close enough that his breath ghosts against your cheek. Close enough that you can feel the burn of him without needing to touch. But then he does touch—just one hand, slow and certain, curling around your hip like he’s staking a claim he never stopped believing in.

“You always say that right before you kiss me,” he says, low, like a dare he already knows you’ll take.

Your breath catches. Just a subtle hitch in your chest that betrays you more than any yes ever could. Your mouth parts like instinct, like muscle memory, like maybe it remembers how good it felt to fall apart under his mouth. His hand moves, slow. Deliberate. Thumb grazing over the front of your shirt, dragging downward. Just enough to make your skin burn under the fabric. It’s not a grope. It’s worse than a grope. It’s casual. Familiar. Possessive in the quiet way that says I’ve had you like this before, and I will again.

His touch isn’t asking. It’s remembering. You swallow. Your heart's trying to crawl up your throat. You should move. Should say something colder, sharper, final. Instead, you just breathe out—

“Don’t.”

Barely audible. Not even a command. Just a plea. God, you’re an idiot.

He tilts his head, like he wants to get a better angle on your mouth. His nose almost brushes yours. The space between you contracts until it’s only breath and tension and history.

“Don’t what?” he asks, and his voice has that low, slanted softness—curious, cruel. Like he knows exactly what you meant but wants to hear you struggle to say it. The kind of voice that used to unravel you in dark corners, in backseats, in beds that didn’t belong to either of you.

He leans in. Just a little. Enough that you feel the heat of his breath against your mouth—warm, embarrassingly warm, laced with mint and something sweeter underneath. Familiar. Him. That exact blend you used to chase in the dark like a hit you didn’t want to quit. It makes your knees weaken. Your jaw tighten. Your pride splinter.

Your eyes flick to his lips. Mistake. They’re right there. Parted. Wet. Waiting. And the space between you shrinks until it feels like a trick.

“Don’t make this something it’s not,” you manage, barely above a whisper, every word scraped from the raw edge of restraint.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just leans in further, and fuck—his mouth grazes yours. Not a kiss. Not yet. Just a ghost of one. A threat.

His voice is so rough now—like it’s been worn down by every time he’s said your name in the dark. “You mean something it is.”

You shiver, and you hate that he feels it. You want to hold out. You want to keep control. You want to say something biting, something final, something that makes him feel the way you’ve felt since he let you go. But then he exhales—slow, hot, right against your tongue. And just like that, you’ve lost.

You kiss him, hard. Desperate. Like a dam breaking. Your hands are in his hair, dragging him in, and his body collides with yours like he’s been holding back since the moment you walked in. It’s all heat, no space. His mouth opens against yours and the taste of him hits like hunger—like rage, like missing something for too long. You chase it. You give him your teeth, your tongue, your breath. He takes all of it like it’s owed.

His hands are everywhere—gripping your waist, your ass, sliding under your shirt, fingers grazing the skin he used to fall asleep on like he’s checking to make sure it’s still his. You make a sound in your throat, somewhere between shock and surrender, and he groans into it—deep, guttural—like he’s been waiting months to hear it again.

He pushes you back until your spine kisses the wall, the impact muffled by the heat rolling off him. And you—God—you don’t even think. Your legs part without hesitation, hips tilting, instinctive. You wrap them around him like that’s where they’ve always belonged, thighs locking tight as his hands slide lower. And then you feel it—how hard he already is against you, thick through his pants, straining with a pressure that feels dangerous. You gasp. His hips grind forward, slow and deliberate, dragging that heat against the softest part of you. All muscle. All him.

He’s solid everywhere, unyielding, his abs pressed tight against your stomach, his chest hot through the thin fabric of your shirt. You can barely breathe. He’s all around you, above you, inside you already without even being there yet.

“You miss me?” he growls into your mouth.

You don’t answer. Your answer’s in the way you arch into him, nails raking down his back, pulling his shirt up and over his head like you need to feel every inch. It hits the floor. He’s warm and solid and panting.

“You fucking miss me,” he says again, dragging his mouth down your throat, sucking hard enough to mark.

You nod. A tiny motion. Barely there. Then—brrzt. brrzt.

His phone. 

You freeze. Just for a second, enough for the thoughts to collect. Lando, however, keeps going. Grinding against you harder. Hand shoved between your thighs, fingers pressing through denim like he wants to rip it off with his teeth.

brrzt. brrzt.

“Your phone,” you pant.

“Fuck it,” he mutters. “Ignore it.”

It buzzes again. Long this time. He doesn’t even look. Just lifts you higher, his mouth dragging over your jaw, your cheek, back to your lips. “Come back to bed,” he whispers against you. “Let me show you how much you fucking missed me.”

Your heart stutters. The phone won’t stop. You twist your face away, breathing hard. “Answer it.”

He growls low in his throat. Frustrated. Presses his forehead to yours. “It’s nothing.”

brrzt. brrzt.

You push against his chest. Gently. Not to stop. Just enough to see his face. “Lando. Just—answer it.”

Silence stretches. He stares at you. Jaw tense. Then—without a word—he reaches into his pocket and pulls the phone out. Glances at the screen. Jaw flexes again. You see it before he hides it.

Magui? The model. He doesn’t answer right away. Just holds the phone like it’s radioactive. Then, slowly, he presses accept. Puts it on speaker and doesn’t look at you.

“Lando? Where are you?” her voice asks, soft, breathy, sweet like something that doesn’t know how sharp the blade is. “You said you’d come back.”

Your stomach drops. Something ugly twists in your chest. He looks at you. Finally. Lips parted. Chest heaving. Guilt doesn’t even register on his face.

And you—you just stand there, legs still wrapped around his hips, his hand still under your shirt, his mouth still wet from your kiss.

Listening. Like a fucking idiot. You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until it starts to burn. His name is still hanging in the air between you, but you’re not looking at him anymore—you’re staring at the phone, your body gone still in his hands, your heart pounding like it’s trying to scream over her voice.

You said you’d come back. He doesn’t say anything. Not to her. Not to you. And then she says it. Soft. So soft you almost miss it.

I love you.

Your brain doesn’t register it right away. It glitches. Like static. Like maybe it wasn’t real. Like maybe your ears are just cruel. You blink, but your face doesn’t move. Your jaw’s locked so tight it feels like your teeth might break.

And he—he just ends the call. Like that. Like nothing. No goodbye. No excuse. No tone shift, no sigh. Just a tap of his thumb and the silence is back, louder than before.

Your mouth opens. But nothing comes out. You look at him, really look, and you don’t know what the fuck you’re expecting. Remorse? A joke, maybe? Something to soften the way that name is still ricocheting around your skull like a pinball.

But he just breathes—deep, shuddering, like he’s swallowing down the instinct to pull you back in. Like it physically costs him to let go. His chest rises too fast, too hard, like he’s been running, like holding you against him took something out of him. His breath hits your cheek in short bursts, humid and sharp, laced with the taste of everything you almost let happen. It’s the kind of breathing that isn’t just from need—it’s from restraint. Barely-there control. Like his whole body is buzzing with the effort not to drag you right back against the wall and finish what you started.

You slide off of him. Feet hitting the floor like reality. You fix your shirt automatically, hands shaking, lips buzzing from where his mouth had been, skin hot and damp and stupid.

“Are you serious?” Your voice comes out raw.

He watches you, eyes dark, unreadable.

“She—she loves you,” you spit, breath catching as you take a shaky step back, heart still racing, hands still curled into fists. “She said that and you just—what the fuck was that?”

He exhales sharp through his nose, then drags a hand through his hair—fast, rough, like he’s trying to get a grip on something he can’t hold. His curls fall right back into place, but his jaw’s tight, his eyes flicking toward the floor like maybe he’s trying not to look at you. “She doesn’t mean it.”

“You don’t get to decide that.”

He exhales, sharp through his nose. “She doesn’t know me like you do.”

“That’s the problem,” you snap. “She doesn’t know what you are.”

“And you do,” he says, voice quiet. Still dangerous. “So why are you here?”

You open your mouth. Then close it. Then open it again, and this time it’s just a laugh. Ugly. Bitter. “Jesus Christ, I’m a fucking idiot.”

“Don’t,” he says.

“Don’t what? Don’t realize what this is? That I’m your dirty little relapse while your soft little girlfriend plays house and says I love you into your voicemail?”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” he barks. Too fast. Too defensive.

You stare him down, eyes narrowing. “You didn’t say that a second ago.”

He comes toward you and you stumble back.

“No,” you say. “Fuck no. You don’t get to touch me right now.”

He freezes. Stops dead, just a foot from you, close enough to feel the heat of him, too far to do anything about it. His chest rises and falls like he’s running—he’s not. He’s just feeling too much, too fast, too late.

“Look at me,” he says.

You don’t. You stare at the floor like it might save you. Like if you don’t meet his eyes, you won’t fall back into the same goddamn loop that’s already eaten you alive twice over.

He reaches out, fingers brushing your jaw. You flinch, but you don’t move away. Of course you don’t. Because part of you is still standing in the wreckage hoping he’ll lie to you sweet enough to make it okay. His touch is soft now. Thumb tracing your cheek, then dragging down your throat, slow and reverent, like he’s memorizing you again.

“She doesn’t know what I sound like when I’m inside you,” he murmurs.

Your knees almost give out.

“She doesn’t know how you taste when you come.”

Your stomach flips, hard. Heat coiling down your spine, settling between your legs.

“She doesn’t know how wet you get for me, even when you hate me.”

Your thighs clench—reflex, muscle memory, betrayal. His grin brushes your cheek without even forming. He doesn’t need to see it. He feels it. He steps closer. Just one inch. But it’s all it takes. His mouth brushes your ear, hot breath curling into your neck.

“But you do,” he whispers. “Don’t you?”

You close your eyes. Just for a second. Just to breathe. Just to pretend.

His hand slides under your shirt again. Palm flat over your stomach, fingers splayed, dragging up—slow, heavy, deliberate. Every inch he takes feels like a claim. Like he’s reminding your skin who it belongs to. He reaches your ribs. Stops there. Presses in. Just enough to make you feel the weight of it. The heat. The power.

You should pull away. You want to pull away. But your body’s already arching into it. Already melting.

“You’re not some side piece,” he says, low and rough, his mouth dragging along your jaw. “You’re not a fucking mistake. You’re the one I can’t seem to get over.”

You shake your head. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do.”

His mouth finds yours again. Softer this time. Slower. Like he’s trying to rewrite the last five minutes with his tongue. Like if he kisses you deep enough, long enough, you’ll forget her name. Forget what she said. Forget what you heard.

You moan into it. God help you.

He lifts you again. You let him. Your legs wrap around his hips like they never left. He presses you back into the wall and grinds against you, and you’re gasping again, already soaked through your jeans, shame melting into heat like sugar over flame.

“You still want me,” he says. “Even after all this.”

You nod before you can lie. Before you can save face. Because the truth is—it’s not that you want him. It’s that you need him. Like air, you want him more than anything else.  And when his hand slips down, tugging open your fly, fingers sliding beneath the fabric like a claim, you whimper.

Because this isn’t healing. This is a fucking possession, and worst of all you’re still letting him in.

His fingers are in your jeans, dragging them down with that reckless one-handed pull like he can’t wait anymore. As if he’s been fucking starved. The denim catches at your knees, then your ankles, and you almost trip trying to step out of them, but he catches you—of course he catches you—because the fall is always part of the game with him.

“You still get wet for me so fast,” he murmurs, thumb pressing into your underwear, slow circles right over where he knows you’re already soaking. “Just like that. Just like you used to. I didn’t even have to try.”

Your breath hitches. Shame and arousal flood through you in equal measure, but it’s not enough to stop you. He watches you fall apart with that cocky, ruined grin—like he’s proud of what he does to you, but not even remotely surprised.

“Bet you touch yourself thinking about this,” he adds. “About my mouth. About my cock.”

Your mouth opens to protest, but he slips a finger beneath the fabric and slides through you—wet, thick, slow—and your entire brain short-circuits. Your knees buckle and he fucking laughs, low and mean and gorgeous.

“You’re so full of shit,” you whisper, voice shaking. “You don’t mean any of this.”

His mouth finds yours again, teeth scraping your lip. “Maybe,” he says against your tongue. “But it’s working, isn’t it?”

You shove his chest, but it’s not a real push. It’s nothing. You’re already grinding against his hand, thighs trembling, cunt clenching around his fingers as he adds another. The stretch burns in the best way. Your head falls back against the wall.

“Lando—”

“I missed this pussy,” he cuts in, voice rough now, his own breathing ragged. “Fuck. I thought about it every time she opened her mouth. Had to stop myself from saying your name when I came.”

That hits like a slap. Your jaw drops, your stomach lurches, but the worst part—the most humiliating part—is how much wetter you get hearing it. You hate him. Hate yourself more. He drops to his knees before you can think. Yanks your underwear down and apart like he owns it, spreads you open with both hands and groans when he sees how wrecked you are.

“Oh, fuck, baby,” he mutters. “You’re dripping. Look at that. She’s got no fucking clue.”

Then his mouth’s on you. You cry out, hands flying to his hair, trying to push him away and pull him in all at once. His tongue is relentless—circling, flicking, sucking your clit with practiced, hungry precision—and your thighs are already shaking. His fingers pump into you hard, steady, curling just right. It’s disgusting how fast you’re close. How desperate you are. How your hips are fucking chasing his mouth like he’s the only thing you’ve ever needed.

“You gonna come for me?” he asks, voice muffled against you. “Show me how bad you still want it?”

You nod frantically, too far gone to pretend. He chuckles darkly. “Then fucking do it. Let her hear you next time she calls.”

And then he sucks, hard, and everything inside you snaps. Your legs shake, your vision whites out, your body jerks against him with a guttural, broken moan that you couldn’t stop if you tried. You’re still shaking when he stands. Licks his lips, smug. Unbuttons his jeans like it’s nothing.

“Still think I don’t mean it?” he asks, pulling his cock out, hard and leaking, dragging it against your thigh. 

You should run. But instead you grab his face and kiss him again—deep, messy, tasting yourself on his tongue—because if you’re gonna go down, you’re gonna burn on the way.

“Shut up,” you whisper against his mouth.

He grins like he’s already won. Next thing you know your panties are hanging from one ankle, forgotten. He’s panting into your mouth, hand gripping the back of your neck like he wants to fuck you with your face pressed against the wall and your spine bent backwards. His cock is hard against your thigh, leaking, twitching, so ready, and your nails are in his skin, already dragging, already marking.

Then he pulls back.

“Hold on,” he mutters, breathless, and turns away.

You blink. Chest heaving. “What the fuck are you doing?”

He doesn’t answer. Walks toward the bedroom. Opens a drawer. You don’t move, frozen in that second of hot disbelief, like maybe you didn’t just see what you saw.

Then he comes back. With a condom. And your blood boil over, you were going to fucking murder him. You stare at the plastic like it had personally slapped you. 

“Seriously?” you spit in utter disbelief. 

He shrugs, casual, tone light like it won’t explode the whole fucking moment. “What? Just being careful.”

“Careful?”

He shrugs again, tearing the foil open with his teeth, cock still hard in his hand. “I don’t know where you’ve been.”

The silence that follows doesn’t hang—it slams down between you. Sucks the oxygen out of the air. You just stare. Your mouth doesn’t work. Your chest doesn’t move. Rage rises slow in your throat, heavy and hot, turning your blood molten. It crawls up the back of your neck, behind your eyes, makes your vision pulse at the edges.

You take a step. Then another. Close enough to see your own slick glinting on his skin. And then your hand flies. The slap cracks across his face—flesh to bone, skin to heat—and his head snaps with the force of it. The sound ricochets off the walls, brutal and final.

He doesn’t stumble. Doesn’t flinch.

He just laughs. Low. Dark. That sharp, broken sound that says fuck yes. Mean. Worse, turned on.

“Oh, that’s what does it for you?” he breathes, eyes flicking back to you, wild now. “Getting offended that I don’t assume you’ve been sitting at home like a fucking nun?”

“You’re disgusting.”

“So are you,” he snaps back, grabbing your face with one hand, gripping your jaw. “But you’re the one who keeps coming back. Not her. You, princess.”

You’re both panting. Still half-dressed. Still drunk on whatever shit-show occurs whenever you two are in the same room. 

“You think I’m letting you fuck me with a condom now?” you hiss. “After all this? Go fuck yourself.”

“You’d rather I come in you just to prove a fucking point?” he growls.

“Yeah,” you snap. “I fucking would.”

He doesn’t put it on. He just lets it fall. Condom hits the floor with a whisper and then he’s on you—slamming you back against the wall with the weight of his whole body, his mouth crushing yours, tongue and teeth and spit, hands everywhere, gripping your thighs, your ass, your jaw like he can’t decide what part of you he wants first.

He’s cursing into your throat, your name half-spoken—spit out—like a threat, like worship, like an apology he doesn’t fucking mean.

And then—

He shoves into you.

Raw. Bare. Deep.

You gasp—no, scream—your legs snapping tight around his waist, head thudding back against the wall as your body stretches around him with that slick, aching slide that feels like pain, like home, like fuck, finally.

He doesn’t wait. Doesn’t check if you’re okay. Doesn’t have to. Your nails are already dragging down his back, hips tilting into his like your body’s starving. He grabs your ass and drives into you again, again, harder—grinding deep like he’s trying to split you open and crawl inside.

You bite his shoulder. He groans loud, then fucks you harder.

“This what you wanted?” he snarls. “This what you fucking needed?”

“Yes,” you moan, breath caught, body stretched and shaking. “Yes, yes—fuck, yes.”

He pulls out mid-thrust and drags you down the hall, arms still locked under your thighs. You’re dizzy, dripping down his stomach, mind gone. Then he kicks the balcony door open.

You jolt. “Are you serious—”

It’s too late. The breeze hits your sweat-slick skin. Warm air, salty from the sea, cool on your flushed face. He presses you to the glass, your chest against it, city lights glittering like stars below, and pushes back inside you in one brutal stroke.

You scream. Palm slaps the window. He fucks you like he wants Monaco to watch.

“You don’t care if anyone sees, do you?” he hisses, snapping his hips. “Fucking exhibitionist slut.”

You’re moaning into the glass, fogging it up with your breath, clawing at the railing.

“Say it,” he growls into your ear. “Say you like getting fucked in front of the world.”

You can’t even form words.

“You’re mine,” he snarls. “Say it.”

His hands grip your hips like handles, like he’s steering the whole scene, and your face is pressed to the cool glass, moaning open-mouthed against your own reflection. You can barely see the city anymore—just streaks of light and shadow and your own shame, smeared across the surface in fogged breath and desperation. Your knees are going numb. Your thighs burn. You can’t stop clenching around him.

He’s fucking brutal now. Deep. Deliberate. Each thrust hitting with the full weight of him—hips slamming into your ass, chest flush to your back, breath hot and ragged in your ear.

You shudder. Grip the railing, knuckles white, thighs shaking. And all it takes is one more thrust—one more brutal drag of his cock inside your soaked, ruined cunt—and your body fucking shatters. You come with a sob that scrapes your throat raw, clenching down on him, pulsing so hard it feels like you’re trying to pull him deeper.

“Fucking—fuck—I’m gonna cum in you,” he grits, voice torn, no space for permission, no pause for protest.

You don’t say no. You can’t.

He slams forward one last time and stays there—buried to the base, cock twitching inside you, and then he lets go.

You feel it hit. Feel him spill, thick and hot, spilling into you without hesitation, no condom, no fucking thought. Just heat. Just need. Just him.

His entire body shudders against yours, mouth open against your shoulder, groaning low and wrecked, every pulse a brand.

It’s silent for a moment after. Just heavy breathing and the muffled throb of music echoing up from the street below. You can feel him softening inside you. Feel him pulling out, slow. Lazy. Like he’s done. Your legs shake. You press your forehead to the glass, body humming, raw and wrecked.

And when you turn—he’s already walking away. Without a single word, he begins adjusting his waistband. Grabbing a towel. Scrubbing his face like he just finished a workout. Not even a glance back in your direction.

You blink. Still half-naked. Still leaking.

Still there.

“Lando,” you say. Quiet. Maybe it’s not even his name—it’s a plea. A question.  He doesn’t respond. Just walks into the kitchen. Opens the fridge. Drinks straight from a bottle of water like your body wasn’t just wrapped around him minutes ago.

That’s when it hits. The shift. The drop. On queue. You wrap your arms around your chest. The breeze brushes your thighs, sticky and exposed, and you feel it—his cum sliding out of you, running down your inner leg in a humiliating heat.

You feel empty. Not the kind that hums. Not the kind that settles sweet and fucked-out in your bones.

No. This is raw. Open. Like something vital’s been scooped out and left behind. You’re still dripping from him. Still shaking, breath catching in your throat like a secret you didn’t mean to tell. Your legs are barely holding. Your heart’s trying to pretend it’s fine.

He leans against the counter. Phone in hand. Scrolling. Laughing under his breath at something you’re not a part of.

Like he didn’t just fuck your soul out against the glass. Like you didn’t say yes to all of it.

And now—he’s done. And you’re just there. Still wanting. Waiting. 

You don’t know how long you stand there, barefoot and half-naked, the breeze licking at the mess between your thighs, spine still curved from where he bent you against the glass. The city glows on without you. Somewhere below, people are drinking champagne and laughing under golden light. The world keeps turning. You peel yourself off the railing. Limbs heavy. Walk stiffly back inside, legs aching from the way he held you open like a vice. You grab your jeans from the floor and pull them up without really thinking, fabric clinging to sweat and everything he left inside you. You’re dizzy. It doesn’t feel real. Or maybe it feels too real. Like the high’s just starting to rot from the inside out.

He’s still in the kitchen. Shirtless, scrolling. Water bottle on the counter, beads of condensation sliding down the side. He hasn’t looked at you once.

You watch him for a second, arms wrapped around yourself like you’re trying to hold your insides in. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move. Just scrolls.

You clear your throat.

“I… guess that’s it, then?”

His eyes flick up. Casual. No longer interested.

“Thought that’s what you came for,” he says. Not cruel. Not sharp. Just flat, just honest.

Dismissive. Like the fuck was the favor. Like this was a transactional itch, not a relapse that shattered something in you.

You blink. Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

He goes back to his phone.

You step forward. One bare foot against the marble tile, cold and slick beneath your toes. “So what now?”

“Now nothing.”

He says it like it’s funny. Like you’re the one being too dramatic. Like you didn’t just let him inside you. Like you’re not still stretched around the memory of him.

Your stomach tightens.

Of course. Of course. Because his is how it’s always been, isn’t it? Because he fucks you, and then he pulls away. Mentally. Physically. Spiritually. Every time. He rolls off. Goes quiet. Distracted. Picks up his phone like your body didn’t just bend around him like it remembered how. Like you didn’t give him everything—again. And on the rare nights he let you stay, he wouldn’t touch you after. Wouldn’t hold you. Wouldn’t even turn toward you in the bed. Like warmth was permission. Like kindness meant commitment. God forbid he see you after.

And still, you stayed. Every fucking time. Still hoping that one day he’d kiss you on the forehead instead of just your mouth. That he’d trace your back after instead of zipping his pants. That he’d make breakfast. That he’d ask you how you felt.

But he never did. He never wanted that part. And still—you came.

“I came here because of that photo,” you say, quietly. “Because I thought—fuck—I don’t know, I thought maybe we should talk. About what we were. About what we never really finished.”

That gets a reaction, but not the one you want. He exhales sharply, smirks at the counter. Shakes his head.

“You’re kidding, right?”

Your jaw tenses. “No. I’m not.”

He sets the phone down, finally looks at you, and the look is pure Lando—half exasperated, half smug, like he’s above it all. Like he’s already out of reach again.

“What did you think this was?” he says. “Closure? A love story?”

Your throat closes up. You swallow hard. “I didn’t—fuck, I didn’t think. Okay? I just missed you.”

The words feel pathetic in the air. He tilts his head. “Yeah, and now you don’t have to.”

And that’s it. That’s fucking it. No tenderness. No gratitude. No I-missed-you-too or it’s-complicated or even a lie to soften the blow.

Just that. He picks his phone up again. You start to say something—maybe don’t make me feel used, maybe tell me this wasn’t nothing, maybe just lie to me—but you stop.

Before you can even finish inhaling, he’s pressing the phone to his ear.

“Hey,” he says, soft.

So. Fucking. Soft.

Your heart caves. It doesn’t break. It caves. Like something imploding from the inside out. It’s not the volume of his voice—it’s the tone. The shift. Like he’s wiping you off his skin and putting on someone else’s smile.

He turns his back to you, leans against the counter. “Yeah… I know. I’m sorry, baby.”

You just stand there. Your arms still crossed, but now it’s because if you don’t hold yourself together, you’ll fucking fall apart. You feel the cum drying between your legs. You feel it leaking into your jeans. You feel like a mistake wearing your own skin.

“Yeah,” he says into the phone. “Just had to handle something real quick.”

Your breath stutters. You’re not a person. You’re not even a memory. You’re a thing he had to handle.

He glances over his shoulder. Sees you still standing there. He turns back, still murmuring sweet nothings into the phone, and you’re left standing in the middle of the room with your mouth full of dust and your thighs still slick with the lie you let back in.

You stare at the back of him, phone cradled to his ear, voice soft in that way you haven’t heard in months—not since he used to call you at 1AM, whispering like a promise. He’s murmuring something now. You catch pieces. Missed you too. No, just tired. I’ll come by tomorrow. Yeah, I will.

The words don’t even hurt as much as the tone. That casual affection. The tenderness you’ll never get again.

Your body aches. Not from pleasure, not anymore. From the aftermath. From the sharp reminder of how quickly he empties you out and walks away. You’re still sticky with him. Inside and out. You don’t say anything. No dramatic line. No last jab. That would give him too much. Let him think you still want a reaction. That you’re still clinging.

Instead, you start collecting your things. Quietly. Your shirt’s wrinkled where he tugged it. Your panties are still damp, shoved in your back pocket with shaking fingers. Your shoes by the door—you slip them on without a sound. Your bag. Your phone. What little dignity you can scrounge from the marble floor.

You glance back once, not because you want to, but because your body betrays you even now.

He doesn’t look. Still on the phone. Still laughing quietly. Still calling someone baby like it means something. Your throat burns. You swallow it down. You told yourself this wouldn’t happen again. You told yourself it was just to talk. Just to finish what never got finished. Just to say goodbye properly.

But you knew. You knew the second you saw him. This was never going to end clean. Not with him. Not with you.

You open the door. His voice fades behind you as it clicks shut. You hold your bag close to your chest as you walk down the hall, staring straight ahead, blinking fast and hard.

Because if you cry now, you’ll never stop. And he doesn’t deserve to know that he still has that power. He already knows.

You don’t even remember walking back. You must’ve called a car. Or maybe you walked half the way and then gave up. Maybe you blacked out the drive, staring out the window with your lips still swollen and your thighs still sticky with him, flinching every time a memory passed too close. Maybe you held your phone in your hand the whole time and didn’t unlock it once. You can’t remember. You don’t want to.

You’ve never felt less like a person and more like a ghost dragging her ruined body across white marble and velvet hallway carpet. Everything at the hotel is too pristince. Too quiet. No one at the front desk looks at you, but you feel like they know. You feel like you’re wearing it—like guilt is a stain bleeding through your clothes, like they can smell him on you.

You ride the elevator in silence. Your reflection stares back from the brass paneling. Eyes rimmed red. Lip a little bitten. Hair half-wrecked from where he’d fisted it. You don’t fix it. What’s the point? There’s no one left to impress. You get into the room and it feels smaller than it did this morning. Like the walls have leaned in, closing around you. You don’t turn the lights on. You just stand there for a second, letting the dark settle. Your bag slides off your shoulder and hits the floor with a dull thud. Your phone clinks against the dresser when you set it down too hard. And you’re still holding your shoes.

You sit on the edge of the bed and stare into nothing. The shame doesn’t come all at once. It creeps in. Starts as a whisper behind your ribs, an ache behind your eyes, the slow, growing awareness of what you just did. And who you did it with.

Lando.

Your heart clenches at the sound of his name in your own head. Not because it’s romantic. Because it’s sick. Because you want him still. Want more. Want his mouth, his hands, his fucking voice even now—like he didn’t just toss you aside like old gum. Like he didn’t walk away mid-mess and call her. Like he didn’t say nothing when you stood there, humiliated and half-clothed.

You drag yourself to the bathroom and flick the light on. It’s too bright. Makes everything worse. The mirror is a crime scene. Your makeup is half-gone. Mascara smudged. Lipstick faded and smeared. You can still see the mark on your collarbone where he bit you. You run cold water. Cup it in your hands. Splash your face. It does nothing. You strip slowly. Shirt. Jeans. Bra. That ruined pair of panties you shoved into your back pocket like a secret. You drop them all onto the cold tile, one by one, and stand there naked, not touching the towels. Not stepping into the shower. Just standing. Letting the air hit your skin.

You feel used. Your thighs are sticky. The inside of your cunt aches, sore in that way that used to make you feel desired, but now just makes you feel stupid. You stare at the spot on your hip where he used to kiss you, back when it meant something. Back when it felt like worship instead of a routine.

Your exes never fucked you like this. Not even the worst ones. Not even the ones who said all the right things with their mouths and none of it with their eyes. They fucked you politely. Or carelessly. Or selfishly. But never like this. Never like they needed you to feel it days later. Never like they hated you and loved you and wanted to punish you for both.

Lando does.

Lando always did.

You sink to the floor. Slowly. Your bare ass hits the tile and you curl your knees to your chest like you can somehow close yourself off from the parts of you that are still open. Your hair falls in your face. You don’t move it. You just breathe.

You told yourself this wouldn’t happen again. You said it out loud. Like a spell. Like if you repeated it enough, it would become a truth. I won’t let him do this to me again. I won’t let myself want him. I won’t go back.

But here you are. Back. Fucked. Full. Empty.

And still—wanting.

You reach for your phone. Not to call him. Just to look. Some part of you is already anticipating it. Hoping for the text. The breadcrumb. Some half-assed “You okay?” that’ll make you hate yourself more because you’ll respond to it. You always do.

You unlock the screen. Nothing. You check the signal. Perfect bars. You wait. Another minute. Five. Still nothing.

You open his contact anyway. Just stare at it. That stupid name. The photo you should’ve deleted months ago—him grinning at some party, hand in your hair, that cocky fucking smile. You remember the moment. You remember thinking this might actually work.

You close the app. Open your messages. Type something.

“You didn’t have to call her while I was still in the room.”

Delete.

“I know what this was, but you could’ve at least—”

Delete.

You lock the screen. Drop the phone next to you on the floor.

You sit there, knees tight to your chest, bare skin on cold tile, heartbeat echoing in your ears like a countdown to nothing.

You won’t cry. But the part of you that still aches for him—still wants him—knows the truth. This isn’t over. It never is. And when he calls again, you’ll answer. Because you always do.

The morning’s too bright. Not metaphorically. Not emotionally. Just literally—too fucking bright. The Mediterranean sun punches you in the face the moment you step out of the hotel, and you’re instantly sweating through your shirt. You should’ve worn black. You should’ve stayed in bed. You should’ve never come to this country in the first place.

The streets are already buzzing. Tourists, locals, teams in branded polos. You can hear the distant whine of an engine on a test run somewhere, that sharp scream of speed slicing through the heavy, salt-thick air like a knife. The city’s waking up, but not slowly—Monaco never does anything slowly. She wakes up hungry, already half-drunk, already waiting for someone to crash.

You hope it’s him. You hope he hits the wall. You hope he qualifies dead fucking last. P20. God, give him P fucking 20. It’s petty. It’s cruel. But it’s all you have left. You wrap your arms around your stomach like it’ll hold in the sour twist of jealousy and hurt and sex you still haven’t scrubbed off. He’s probably already awake. Already laughing. Already sending her good morning texts while stretching in those silk sheets you bled yourself into last night.

You duck into a small shop near the marina—overpriced bottled water, sunscreen, last-minute branded merch. A cap with his fucking number is front and center on the rack. You want to set it on fire. You want to smash the display. You want to grab it and scream at the teenage girl fawning over it, he’s not a hero, he’s a fucking coward.

You buy gum and painkillers and overpriced sunglasses you don’t need.

At the register, the clerk asks, “You here for the race?”

You smile too hard. “Yeah. Something like that.”

Your body’s sore in that deep, intimate way. Not just your thighs, not just your hips—but your core, your chest, your fucking heart. Your insides feel rearranged and not in the poetic way. Your stomach is tight. Your mouth is dry. You didn’t even eat dinner last night. Just swallowed him. Let him fill every empty space. Let him win. You keep walking. Past yachts bobbing in the harbor, past velvet ropes and security guards and women with lips like weapons. Everyone’s beautiful here. Everyone looks like they belong. 

Your phone stays cold in your pocket. No text. No call. No you okay? You imagine her posting something. A soft-boiled egg on a white plate. His wrist in the corner of the frame. His smile. Her caption: my love.

You hope the car catches fire. You hope he gets lapped. You hope he feels a tenth of what you’re swallowing with every step. 

You sit at a café just off the main street. Order espresso. Black. No sugar. Your phone’s on the table. Face up. Still nothing. You chew your gum until your jaw hurts. You glance around. Every man in the city looks like a ghost version of him. Curls and sunglasses and soft voices ordering oat milk lattes. Every laugh sounds like the one he gave her. Your legs are crossed tight. Like if you keep them that way, it’ll keep the shame in. You still feel it. Every time you shift in your seat, you feel the dull ache of him. The stretch. The emptiness. Like he’s still inside you, just in the form of silence.

It’s not that you wanted love. You just wanted to not be discarded. Not like that. Not so fast. Not so quiet.You check your phone again.

Nothing.

You sip your coffee and watch a woman walk by in a Ferrari shirt, her toddler in tow. The kid’s got a tiny McLaren cap on. Your stomach flips. You wanted to be seen. Instead, you were handled.

Just another fucking pit stop. You close your eyes. Inhale. Count backwards from ten.

But the only thing that fills your mind is his voice from last night, low and smug in your ear.

You almost don’t go.

The cab ride feels long. The restaurant feels too much. Too much candlelight, too much glass, too much silver on the table, like it’s all trying to distract you from the fact that you’re still aching in all the places he touched. Your body’s clean, but it doesn’t feel that way. The shower didn’t help. The makeup didn’t help. The dress—tight black silk, slit to your thigh, halter low enough to tempt—feels more like armor than anything else. You wore it to forget, not to remember.

The guy across from you—what’s his name again? You haven’t said it out loud since you saved it in your phone—he’s sweet. Easy laugh. Well-dressed in a way that’s intentional but not obnoxious. Confident, but not a narcissist. The kind of man who should be able to make you forget. You’re nodding along to something he’s saying about race weekend logistics, sipping cold white wine and tasting nothing.

You laugh when he laughs. You answer questions. You twirl your fork in risotto you’re not hungry for. And you look fucking good. You know you do. Hair pinned. Collarbone sharp. Lip gloss like lacquer. There’s a version of you here that could do this. Who should be doing this. Being adored. Taken out. Picked up and shown off. A version of you who isn’t still bleeding for someone who left her dripping on a balcony.

But you’re not her. Not tonight. Not when your heart’s still a clenched fist in your chest. Your phone lights up once.

You glance down.

Lando.

No message preview. Just the name. Just the knot that forms instantly in your throat—tight, familiar, awful.

You don’t react. Not outwardly. You don’t flinch. Don’t gasp. You lift your glass like nothing’s wrong, like your whole body isn’t already curling inward from the contact.

The guy across from you is still talking. Still smiling. Still thinking you’re here.

“—so I told him, mate, you can’t just buy the yacht, you actually have to learn how to drive it,” he’s saying, laughing at his own story, voice too loud, too clean. “Rich kids, man. No sense of reality.”

You nod. Smile, maybe. You’re not sure what your face is doing. Everything sounds underwater.

Your phone lights up again.

Lando.

You shift in your seat. Cross your legs tighter beneath the table.

“Anyway, so we ended up in Saint-Tropez for the weekend—crazy, right?—and I swear to god the guy tried to dock it by just, like, aiming.”

You pick up your drink just to keep your hands busy. The rim touches your lip but you don’t sip. The screen lights again.

Lando.

And again.

Lando.

“Have you ever sailed? I feel like you’d be good at it. You’ve got that… I don’t know, that calm presence. Like you’d be the only one not panicking.”

Your fingers twitch on the stem of your glass. Calm. He has no fucking idea of the whirl-wind occuring in your head this very moment.  Your phone buzzes again and this time you don’t even look. Because you don’t need to.

Lando.

Lando.

Lando.

Your hand tightens around the stem of your glass. Your lips part like you might say something. Like maybe you’ll stand up and run before this moment becomes what you know it’s about to be.

You look over your shoulder.

Not because you want to.

Because you have to.

That awful sixth sense prickling at your neck, crawling down your spine. Your body stiffens before your eyes find him. Because somewhere inside you, you already know.

And then—

There he is.

Far end of the restaurant. Slipping in through the private entrance like the front door was beneath him. Like he hasn’t made a mess of your insides. Like he didn’t fuck you breathless against his balcony railing not even twenty-four hours ago.

Tan coat. Dark trousers. Curls pushed back like he ran a hand through them on the drive over. Jaw tight, smile easy. There’s a laugh in his throat—God, that laugh—like he didn’t tear yours out with his fucking teeth. She’s with him. Magui. In the flesh. Long legs. Loose hair. White silk dress, delicate little thing hanging off her body like an afterthought. She’s laughing at something he said, hand on his arm, and your gut plummets.

He doesn’t see you yet. Or maybe he does, and he’s just pretending. Your face burns. You want to disappear. Melt into the leather of your chair, vanish into the floor. The guy across from you says something about dessert. You smile. You think you do. Maybe you grimace. He excuses himself to the bathroom, promising to be quick.

You’re already grabbing your phone the second he stands. And now you look, you read, properly. 

Lando [9:37 PM]

nice dress

Lando [9:39 PM]

trying to impress him or just make me crazy?

Lando [9:40 PM]

it’s working

Lando [9:41 PM]

you think I won’t walk over there?

Lando [9:41 PM]

you think I won’t remind you what you begged for last night?

Lando [9:42 PM]

you can’t fuck him. you won’t. i can see it on your face.

Your heart pounds so loud you can feel it in your throat. Your hands are trembling against the phone. Your thumb hovers and then you type it.

go fuck yourself

You don’t even get the full breath out before another text lights up.

Lando [9:43 PM]

already did. thinking of you the whole time

Your stomach turns. You look back across the restaurant—and now he’s looking at you. Head tilted. Smile carved into his mouth like a dare. His hand rests on Magui’s lower back as he murmurs something in her ear.

She doesn’t notice you. But he does. His eyes are locked on you like a blade. You want to stand. You want to scream. You want to slap him across the face in front of everyone, tear the candle off your table and set that fucking smile on fire.

Instead—you grab your wine and down it.

Pick up your phone and you type.

what do you want from me, Lando?

Because you know exactly what he’s going to say. And you know you’ll give it to him anyway.

You don’t send another text. You don’t need to. Because you already feel it—his eyes. Continuing to burrow into you across the room. You don’t have to look again to know he’s watching your every move, jaw tight, tongue pressed hard behind his teeth. She’s still talking to him. Smiling. Leaning close like she’s won something.

But you know better. You’ve played this game before.  He’s not listening to her. He’s watching you.

Before you know it, the bathroom door swings open and your date returns, all warm smiles and lightly cologned confidence, none the wiser. He slides into the booth beside you now instead of across. And you—oh, baby—you let him. You lean in. Just enough. Just close enough that your perfume slips into his nose and your thigh brushes his. Your knee rests against his under the table and you don’t pull away. You’re smiling now—really smiling, lip caught between your teeth, eyes bright with something vicious.

“Miss me?” you murmur, voice syrupy.

He laughs. “Was only gone a minute.”

You rest your hand on his forearm. Light at first. Then you drag your fingertips down to his wrist, slow and soft like you’re mapping out where you’ll bite later. He pauses, eyes dipping down to your hand, then back up to your mouth.

“You’re… different all of a sudden,” he says, smiling. “Something change?”

You shrug, eyes hooded. “Just realized I like this table better from this side.”

You know what you’re doing. You tilt your head, your mouth just a little too close to his neck, and you laugh at whatever he says next—something harmless. A joke. A compliment. It doesn’t matter. You laugh like Lando isn’t sitting ten tables away, burning. You laugh like you’re not already thinking about unzipping this poor man’s pants just to get revenge on the one who broke you.

You rest your chin on your hand and trace circles on the inside of his knee. You cross your legs in his direction and let your dress slip higher. You sip your wine with your lips parted, slow, tongue flicking the rim.

And then—your phone buzzes again. You check it casually, still smiling.

Lando [9:51 PM]

what the fuck do you think you’re doing

Oh, there it is. The leash pulls tight. Instead of answering, you reach for your date’s collar and straighten it instead, gentle, intimate. He’s blinking at you now, almost stunned, not quite believing his luck.

You feel Lando watching. You can taste it. Your hand drifts down to your date’s thigh. Not obvious. But not subtle either.

“You wanna come back to mine?” you ask, quiet, like a secret.

His breath catches.

“Yeah. Definitely.”

You feel the heat in your cheeks. Not embarrassment—arousal. And rage. And something darker. You want Lando to lose his fucking mind. You want him to picture it—the way you’ll moan for someone else, even if you’re faking it the whole time. You want him sick with it. You want him to feel what he did to you.

Yo grab your bag and stand, letting your hand trail down your date’s chest as you say, “Come on, then.”

You don’t look back. But you don’t have to. You can feel Lando watching you walk away like he’s about to snap a wine glass in his fist. And for the first time all fucking day, you feel a little bit like you won. The cool air hits you the second you step outside, crisp with salt and a faint hint of fuel—Monaco always smells like money and speed. You’re holding his hand. This new guy. The sweet one. He’s talking about the afterparty, asking if you want champagne or tequila when you get there. You nod. Smile. Pretend.

But it’s all wrong. Every step you take feels heavier. Your stomach twists once. Then again. Sharp, then dull, then sharp again. It’s not the wine. It’s not the food. It’s the lie you’re living inside, stretched too tight around your ribs.

By the time you reach the curb, your throat is dry. He’s hailing a car, jacket off, offering it to your shoulders like a gentleman, still thinking this night is going somewhere good. He’s got no idea you’re two seconds away from falling apart.

You stop and pull your hand back.

“I can’t,” you say, voice too small.

He looks over. “What?”

You shake your head. Your smile’s already cracking. “I’m sorry. I just—I can’t.”

He takes a step closer, brows pulling together. “You okay? Is there something wrong?”

You press a hand to your stomach. It does hurt now. Real pain. Not from food. From grief. From self-disgust. From the way your body still remembers another mouth, another weight, another name.

“I thought I could,” you say, voice barely above a breath. “I thought I was over it. But I’m not.”

He just watches you. Confused, maybe. Definitely kind, and kind in a way that only makes it worse. You hate that he’s decent. Hate the way he listens without interruption, the way he offers space for your sadness without trying to fix it. He’s doing everything right and it still feels wrong. Because no matter how gently he holds you, how safe his hands are, your mind always drifts elsewhere. Always pulls back to something sharp. Something dangerous. Something that doesn’t even belong to you anymore.

To Lando. To the way his name still lives under your tongue like it has a right to be there. To the taste of him, the weight of his stare from across a room, the way his laugh ruins you even now. To the memory of his hands on your body while someone else wears his heart in public. It’s shameful, the way you crave what hurt you. The way your skin still prickles for him while someone good stands in front of you trying to love you without a fight. And still—he’s the ghost you reach for in the dark. Even now. Even here.

“I’m sorry,” you say again, stepping back. “You don’t deserve this.”

And before he can speak, you turn. He calls your name once. But he doesn’t follow.

You walk. Fast at first, then slower, then fast again. The city glows around you—buzzing, alive, gearing up for a weekend of victory and champagne, of golden boy headlines and photos that will never include you. The heels you wore start to hurt. You carry them, bare feet on warm pavement, heart thudding in your ears like a warning bell.

You don’t cry. You don’t scream. You don’t throw your phone or punch a wall or sink to the floor in some kind of cinematic collapse. That would require an emotion that hasn’t already been wrung out of you. What you do is walk. Barefoot. Purse in one hand, heels in the other, dress still clinging to your skin like it knows it’s part of the performance you didn’t get to finish. You walk like you’re being timed, like if you slow down even a little you’ll notice what your body’s doing—shaking, buzzing, trying not to feel anything too loudly in case someone hears it. In case he does.

You walk back to the hotel. Back to the quiet. Back to the too-cold lobby where the concierge doesn’t even glance up. Back to the elevator that moves too slow, back to the room that feels too clean. Back to the bed where you let him inside you, to the window you pressed your palms against, to the glass that still holds the outline of your spine. You walk back to where last night still breathes in the sheets, where the air remembers what your mouth sounded like when he pulled you open.

You unlock the door with shaking hands. Not trembling—shaking. That kind of shake that lives in the marrow, in the hollows between bones, the kind that doesn’t show up until the moment things go quiet. You twist the handle and step inside like the room might have changed, like maybe it’s not the same space where you peeled yourself out of his grip hours earlier, where your knees hit the carpet and you thought maybe, for a second, that he might look at you and see something. The door closes behind you with that soft hotel click, and it sounds too final. It sounds like the kind of soft that doesn’t care how heavy the silence is on the other side of it. You don’t turn the lights on. You don’t move beyond the threshold. The air feels stale even though the window’s cracked. The sheets on the bed are still half-pulled back from when you rushed to get dressed, from when your fingers fumbled over your bra strap like it mattered, like decency was something you still had access to.

And that’s when it hits you—that feeling. That pulse. That presence.

Not the man you left at the restaurant, not the one who leaned into another woman’s ear while staring straight through you across the room. Not the one who smiled like he hadn’t had his face between your thighs the night before. Not the one who let you walk out without chasing. That version of him is for the public, for the cameras, for the kind of girls who don’t know better.

The one you feel now is the one who told you, under his breath, that no one would ever fuck you the way he does. The one who kissed your throat like it was an apology, like it was a promise. The one who held your hips in both hands like he needed to brace himself against the want. The one who said I love you with a groan and meant it in the filthiest, most broken way. The one who left you full and aching and ruined and somehow still wanting more.

He isn’t here. He isn’t anywhere. But his name is still wet in your mouth, and his breath is still in your lungs, and your underwear is still sticking to you from where he finished without asking, and every part of your body still feels like it belongs to him. And maybe that’s worse. Maybe this—this absence, this phantom weight—is heavier than the act itself.

Because this is what he does. He invades. He stays. He lingers. And when he goes, he never really leaves.

The phone rings just past two a.m.

You stare at it, thumb hovering over the screen, not moving. You don’t answer right away—not because you’re trying to punish him, but because it’s a moment, and it’s yours. The quiet just before. The breath held. The anticipation curled at the bottom of your stomach like something alive. You hate how much you want this. Hate how your body remembers his name before your mouth does. Hate how none of it has dulled, not even now.

It rings again, softer somehow, though you know that’s impossible. It’s just the hour. The way silence thickens around sound this late, the way everything feels heavier when you’re alone. The way he feels heavier when you’re alone.

You press accept on the third buzz.

You stare at the ceiling while the line connects, the glow of the screen fading into the dark again as your hand drops back to the mattress. Your fingers brush the edge of the pillow but you don’t turn over. You don’t shift. You stay exactly as you were—still, flat, undone. He doesn’t say your name. He never does right away. That’s part of the performance. That moment he lets the silence settle just long enough to remind you that he holds the leash, that if you want anything—words, answers, closure—you’ll have to crawl for it.

He sighs, soft, like he’s tired, like it’s been a long day, like this is normal. “Hey.”

Just that. Just hey.

And it’s nothing. It’s nothing and it’s everything, because your chest tightens immediately, stomach flipping like you were still twenty minutes from him and not lying here in the wreckage of what he left behind. His voice sounds rough, maybe from the champagne, maybe from her, maybe from the way he always sounds when he’s just had something and still wants more. You want to hate it. You want to pretend it makes your skin crawl. But all it really does is make you ache.

“You alone?”

The question lands too gently, like he’s not really asking. Like he knows.

“Yeah.” Your voice sounds like it’s coming from someone else. Brittle. Caught in your throat.

A pause. You can hear him breathing. That quiet, familiar rhythm that used to mean something. That used to make you feel safe before it made you feel like a fucking joke.

He clears his throat, and the smirk is audible even over the line. “So? How was he?”

You flinch. You don’t know why—you should have expected it. It’s exactly the kind of thing he says when he’s trying not to ask the real question. When he’s trying to keep the power even while he’s already lost it.

You pause. Too long. “Fine.”

“Just fine?” His voice drops, dark amusement curling at the edges. “You let him fuck you, then?”

Your jaw clenches. You know what he’s doing. You know exactly where this is going. You roll onto your side, tuck the phone closer to your ear, press your thighs together without thinking.

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out at first. You swallow. Hard. “No.”

He laughs. Just once. Dry. “Didn’t think so.”

The silence stretches again, and it’s worse this time, heavier, like it’s his. Like he brought it with him and left it in your lap and now you’re the one holding it. You shift onto your side without meaning to, knees curling into your chest, hand still clutching the phone like it might anchor you to the bed.

“Hmm,” he hums, dragging the sound out like he’s picturing it. “Thought so. You always tighten up when you lie.”

You don’t respond.

“You were thinking about me the whole time, weren’t you?” His voice is softer now. Dangerous in a different way. Not sharp. Sweet. “Sitting there all pretty, playing the part, but your pussy was still sore from me.”

You swallow hard, lips parted, phone hot against your cheek. It feels heavier than it should—like it’s holding his whole mouth on the other end. Like if you press it tighter, you might feel the weight of his breath against your skin, humid and amused.

“Lando…” You don’t mean it to come out like that—weak, soft-edged, needy—but it does. It always does when he says your name first, or doesn’t say it at all. When he lets the silence settle until you have no choice but to fill it.

“I bet you didn’t even want him to touch you,” he murmurs. Not a tease. Not even mean. Just certain. Like he’s telling you something you haven’t admitted to yourself yet. “You sat through dinner, acting like a good little date, and all you could think about was my hand on your throat. My mouth on your cunt. The way you begged for it on that balcony.”

Your breath catches. The kind of catch that expands across your chest and makes your lungs feel too full too fast. You shift—barely—but the movement gives you away. Your hips tilt into nothing, like muscle memory took over. Your chest rises too quickly. You’re trying to hold it back, but your body’s already mid-confession. You make a sound, low in your throat, too soft to call language. Half protest, half surrender.

And he hears all of it.

“You touching yourself right now?”

You don’t say anything and he takes your silence as a yes.

“Do it.” He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t coax. He never has to. His instructions always sound like they’ve already happened, like you’re just catching up to the inevitable.

“Slide your hand down. Just one finger.”

You move slowly, not because you’re trying to be seductive, but because there’s shame in the familiarity. The way your body responds without hesitation. The way the sheets shift as your hand disappears beneath them. The way your fingertips graze your stomach and you pause—not out of modesty, but reverence. Like you already know what you’re going to find. You press your thighs together, the way you used to when you were trying not to let him see how bad it got, how fast. You hesitate. You want to blame him. But you’re already wet. Already ruined. Your panties cling, soaked and still warm, like your body’s been waiting for this call all night.

“Lando,” you whisper, but it’s not a plea to stop. It’s a surrender.

“Yeah, baby,” he breathes, and it lands deep in your ear, rough and syrup-slick at the edges. His voice has thickened—fuller, slower, like the sound of someone wrapping their palm around a want they’re trying not to show. “That’s right. Show me you still fucking need me.”

You hate how good it feels. Not the words. The tone. The certainty. He never doubts it. Never doubts you. Your need. Your body. He speaks to it like it’s his, and the worst part is—it still listens. God help you—you do.

Your fingers hover beneath the sheet, suspended above your stomach like they’re waiting for permission. Caught there in limbo. Not quite obedience, not quite defiance. The space between his command and your compliance is thin, delicate, the place you always seem to fall into first.

His voice lingers, curls around you like a second skin. Honey-laced gravel. That sound you’ve heard pressed to your shoulder, your mouth, the inside of your thighs. It tugs. Not gently. Not violently. Just effectively. It would be so easy. To give in. To surrender under the guise of pleasure. To let your body chase his voice and pretend—for five minutes—that this is love. That he means any of it. That wanting you is the same as keeping you. That this ache, this pull, is more than just habit wrapped in heat.

But something clenches in your chest. Sharp. A tightness just behind your sternum, hot and specific. A different kind of knowing.

You pull your hand back. “No,” you say, quiet, but not soft. A whisper, yes—but one you mean.

The line stills. His breath shifts—no longer seductive, just audible. A pause, an exhale, the kind that happens when someone wasn’t expecting a refusal.

“No?” he repeats, slower now. 

You swallow. Your throat tightens. “Not like this. I’m not—” You sit up in bed. The sheets slip down your chest like they know they’ve been dismissed. Cool air replaces the warmth of your body, and it feels like stepping outside of something. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to say that shit to me after what happened.”

You wait. Expect the smirk in his voice. The pivot. The sarcasm. The cruel, clever deflection that always comes when you try to reach for something with weight.

A beat passes. Then another. You brace yourself for the mockery, the deflection, the teeth. But instead, he sighs. Honest. A sound you’ve only heard a handful of times before. The sound he makes when his armor slips, when he thinks no one’s watching.

“I know,” he says snd it sounds like truth.

You blink.

“I just— fuck,” he mutters, voice dropping low again, but not to seduce this time. Just honest. Raw. “I keep trying to not think about you. I go to sleep next to her, and it’s you I’m dreaming about. I kiss her and it doesn’t taste like anything.”

Your breath catches.

“I thought maybe if I pissed you off enough, you’d stop being in my head. But then I saw you tonight.” He laughs under his breath. “You looked so fucking good. I hated it.”

You’re quiet. Staring at the far wall of your hotel room like it might give you answers.

“I don’t want to keep doing this,” you whisper.

He doesn’t protest. Doesn’t try to sell it as love or misunderstanding or timing or fate. He just waits, still on the line, still breathing, letting the weight of your words—and his silence—do what it always does. Fill the room with him.

“I want to stop,” you say again, but it sounds different this time. Smaller. Your voice loses its bite somewhere on the way out, like your throat already knew it was a lie.

“So stop,” he murmurs. “Block my number. Forget my name.”

You don’t answer.

“Exactly,” he says, softer now, and the smile bends downward in his tone, into something resigned, something rotted. “You won’t. You fucking can’t.”

You close your eyes, let your head fall back against the pillow. The ceiling’s too white, too still. Your chest feels hollow, carved out with something blunt, something dull and wide. Like he reached in with both hands and took, not just the good parts, but the name you say when you’re alone, the thoughts you think when you’re cold, the you that existed before him.

“I miss you,” you admit, and it guts you to say it.

He breathes in like you just unzipped his skin. Like you reached down the line and dragged his ribs apart with your teeth. “Say it again.”

You shake your head, lips parting, but no sound comes.

“Please,” he says, quieter now, the way he gets when he really means something. Like you’ve just put your hand on the door, and he’s begging without pride. “Just once.”

The silence feels like it stretches forever, like the night itself is holding its breath just to hear what you’ll say next. Your fingers tremble where they rest on your chest, tracing the curve of your collarbone like distraction could be enough. It isn’t. You should hang up. You should. But your throat is tight and your stomach’s hollow and your whole body feels like it’s still locked in the shape of his. You wish it didn’t matter anymore. You wish his voice didn’t still pull at the part of you that needs to be seen. You close your eyes and inhale through your nose, a sad attempt at trying to ground yourself in this moment. “I miss you,” you whisper, again. And it cracks something in your own voice—thin and breaking, like you hate yourself for meaning it.

You hear him groan. Deep. Loud. From the chest. The kind of sound that doesn’t start in the throat—it starts lower. Beneath the ribs. That heavy, involuntary kind of noise that escapes before it can be shaped into something cooler, something controlled. It scrapes up through him like the words pulled something raw out of him and left it there, exposed.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You don’t know what that does to me.”

You picture him—eyes closed, jaw tight, knuckles white around the phone. Picture him tilting his head back, one hand dragging over his face like he’s trying to shake it off, like the sound embarrassed even him. Like your voice still reaches places he keeps locked and your thighs clench instinctively, traitorously from the thought of it. Something inside you twists, low and hot and helpless.

“You can’t say that to me and expect me to stay quiet,” he mutters, voice ragged now. You can hear the shift in him, the sudden tension coiling under his words like a wire pulled too tight.

You bite your lip, but you don’t interrupt.

“I’ve been thinking about it since you walked away tonight,” he says, lower, slower, each syllable like a bruise dragged across your skin. “How your hips moved in that dress. How empty your hand looked without mine in it.”

Your fingers slide beneath the sheet again, slow this time, like surrender—like there’s no point pretending you won’t. Not when he’s already in your ear, in your body, in the rhythm of your breath. You barely brush your own skin, but it’s enough to light up everything he left raw. You don’t stop. You can’t. Something in you has already given way.

He exhales, sharp and sudden, like he felt it—like he knew the moment your hand moved. “Are you touching yourself now?”

Your breath catches in your throat, tight and unsteady, and you hate the pause that follows. Hate how long it takes you not to answer, but not to lie either. The silence is its own admission.

“Yeah…” he says, voice dipping. “You are.”

You swallow hard. Hard enough that it hurts.

“I can picture it,” he murmurs. “Your legs spread just a little, that pretty little cunt already soaked for me. You’re rubbing slow, aren’t you? Just like I taught you.”

Your hand obeys without permission, palm pressing down over the thin cotton of your underwear. You gasp—quiet, quick.

“God, I miss the way you taste,” he groans. “I’d fucking die right now to have you sitting on my face, one hand in my hair, grinding like you always do when you’re too far gone to be shy.”

Your hips jerk.

“I’d tongue-fuck you ‘til your legs shake,” he growls. “Wouldn’t even stop when you begged me to.”

You moan, involuntary, soft and choked.

“That’s it,” he breathes. “Don’t hold back. Let me hear you, baby.”

You slide your hand lower. Inside. Fingers sliding through slick heat. Shame and need pulsing together under your skin. You want to stop. You don’t. Because his voice is the only thing that feels real right now.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs, voice thick now, every word catching on the edge of a groan. “Nice and slow. Fuck yourself for me.”

Your fingers move without thought, caught between his breath in your ear and the ache blooming low in your stomach. The wet sounds are obscene in the quiet of your room—shameless, slick, and sinful. And he knows. You haven’t said a word in minutes, but he knows exactly what you’re doing.

“I bet your thighs are shaking,” he says. “Bet your fingers are slipping because you’re so fucking soaked. You always were, weren’t you? Always such a desperate little thing for me.”

You bite your bottom lip, hard, your free hand grabbing the sheets beside you, twisting them as your hips start to move.

“Are you gonna come for me?” he asks, voice low and reverent now, like it’s prayer instead of poison. “Yeah? You’re close, aren’t you? I can hear it. I can fucking feel it.”

You moan. Soft. Broken.

“God, I miss how you sound,” he groans, the sound raw in your ear like he’s fisting the phone. “I used to make you scream, didn’t I? When I had you bent over the edge of the bed, dripping, wrecked, begging me not to stop.”

Your back arches off the sheets.

The room is too still—dim and expensive and wrong, like every object inside it is holding its breath with you. Fingers move frantically between your thighs, slippery with sweat and want, chasing that high you swore you wouldn’t let him give you again. The bedsheets twist beneath you, cool against your calves, sticky at your back. You’ve kicked them off entirely now, one leg stretched toward the edge of the mattress like you’re bracing for impact. You are.

Outside, the faint drone of the sea whispers through a cracked window. Somewhere in the distance, a car rips down the avenue too fast, tires humming against wet asphalt. Monaco never really sleeps—just hums at a lower frequency, like even the city is in on it. Like the architecture itself is bent toward indulgence and regret. And then his voice drops again—low, measured, threading into the stillness like silk soaked in kerosene. Almost tender.

“You wanna know something?” His voice drops even lower, into something almost tender.

You make a noise. Can’t speak. Don’t trust yourself to. Your eyes are closed but you can feel him—his voice in your ear, his name still carved into the rhythm of your breath. He doesn’t wait.

The words drop like fire in your chest. They land hard. Searing. Like you swallowed something molten and now your lungs are screaming, your spine melting into the mattress. Your thighs jerk. Your fingers falter. The ceiling above you stays dark, indifferent.

“I fucking love you,” he says again, this time harsher. Desperate. “I hate how much I do. But I do.”

It’s not soft. It’s not romantic. It’s a wound splitting open in real time. A confession flung into the dark because he can’t hold it anymore. And you—you shake. You can’t breathe. You can’t stop. Your fingers stop and then start again, harder, faster, like maybe if you come it’ll drown it out. Like you can flood it out of your bloodstream, sweat it out of your skin. But it doesn’t work. It’s still there. In every heartbeat. In every gasp.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

“You’re mine,” he breathes. “Even when you’re not. Even when you walk away. I still feel you. Every fucking day. No one else even comes close.”

And your orgasm hits like a crash.

It’s violent. A wave slamming your body against itself. Your legs tense. Your stomach seizes. Your breath breaks into pieces. A sound claws its way out of your throat, and your hand flies up—reflex—trying to cover your mouth, trying to keep it in. You can’t. It’s too late. He hears it. Of course he does. He always does.

“That’s my girl,” he growls. “Fucking knew you’d give it to me.”

You don’t say anything. Can’t. The words won’t come. They’ve drowned under the weight of him—of this. The way his voice still owns the oxygen in the room. The way your body still says yes when everything else is screaming no.

The line is quiet.

You can still hear him breathing, but it’s distant now. Removed. Not soft or hungry anymore—just there. Like a metronome ticking at the end of a hallway. Background noise in a house that doesn’t feel like yours anymore.

You curl onto your side, away from the phone. Away from him. The sheets are cold on this side—untouched, undisturbed. Your arm tucks under your head, and your legs curl toward your chest on instinct, like your body’s trying to hold itself smaller. Contain the ache. The trembling hasn’t stopped yet, a slow pulse beneath your skin like something sacred was scraped out with a dull edge.

He should say something.

You should say something. But neither of you do.

The heat is already fading from your skin. It evaporates too fast, like it was never yours to keep. The chill that replaces it seeps under your ribs—quiet and surgical. It settles in your throat like a question you don’t want to ask. You blink at the wall. At the dark. At the soft glow of the city bleeding in from the window. The room’s filled with dim gold and ghostlight, shadows cast by luxury fixtures and memories you didn’t mean to resurrect.

Everything is still. And wrong, you fucking hate how familiar this feels. The after. Always the after. That hollow stretch of silence where he pulls away—not with excuses. Not even with guilt. Just absence. Just a breath you can’t sync with anymore. A distance so thick it presses against your chest like a hand. You’re alone in a room that smells like him. On sheets that remember your back arching. And now it’s quiet. And cold. And exactly like the last time.

When he finally speaks, it’s low. Measured. Like he’s collecting himself. Like the version of him that just broke you apart is already folding itself back into something clean, something that won’t ruin the rest of his night.

“You still there?”

When he finally speaks, it’s low. Measured. Like he’s collecting himself. Like the version of him that just broke you apart is already folding itself back into something clean, something that won’t ruin the rest of his night.

“Yeah,” you whisper.

You wait.

You try not to. You tell yourself not to. But you do. Of course you do. For softness. For proof. For anything that makes what he said—I love you—feel like a truth and not just a well-aimed knife disguised as comfort. You wait for the voice that said it to come back with warmth, with meaning, with something that makes the wreckage worthwhile. But all you get is silence.

And then—his voice again. Casual. Neutral. Airy, even. Like a light switch flipped somewhere between your thighs and his pride.

“You gonna be at qualifying?”

It hits like a slap. Not a sharp one. A dull one. Open-palmed and slow, the kind that comes after the fight’s already over. The kind that reminds you who’s still standing. You roll onto your back. Stare at the ceiling like it might peel away and let you float out of this. Your chest aches, hollow and wide. Your thighs are still slick and parted and ruined. Your mouth still tastes like his name. And he’s asking about fucking qualifying. Like this was a meeting. Like this wasn’t a bloodletting.

“No,” you say. Flat. Tired. Honest. Like your voice has finally given up trying to be anything else.

He doesn’t argue. Of course he doesn’t. That would require effort. Would require remembering that you just let him back inside a body that still flinches from the last time.

The pause stretches. Long. Unearned. The kind of pause that should hold regret. But doesn’t. You wonder if he’s already looking at her. If she’s asleep in his bed right now, one leg kicked out from under the covers, soft breathing and sheets still warm from her skin. If he’ll crawl back in like this was just a break. If he’ll kiss her shoulder and curl into her like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just call you from the next room and come in your ear while whispering your name like a prayer. If she’ll roll over and whisper I love you back.

“Okay,” he says, finally.

That’s it. No pause. No catch. No sorry. You don’t say goodbye, won’t allow yourself to give him the satisfaction. So instead, you just hang up. Slowly and quietly. Like if you move too fast, the grief might notice you. Like if you make a sound, whatever just died might come back and ask for more. And then you lie there. Alone. Cold. Numb in the exact places he made you feel again. The wet between your legs isn’t even arousal anymore—it’s humiliation, pooling like proof. The room feels too big. Your skin too tight. Your heart too loud for how little it’s getting back. You close your eyes. And you try—god, you try—not to remember how good it felt to believe him.

You told yourself you wouldn’t watch. Told yourself you’d go out during the race. Walk the port. Maybe take a train out of the city. Catch a ride into Italy, buy a coffee in some no-name border town where no one gives a fuck about Formula One. You told yourself if you left early enough, you wouldn’t hear the engines start.

But you did. You heard them. Sharp and brutal. Like the city itself was exhaling all at once. The engines howled to life like beasts shaking off sleep. And the streets—those narrow, glittering veins winding around the harbor like silk on bone—filled instantly. People spilled out of hotels, bars, yachts. Laughter carried down alleyways. Shoes clacked against marble and cobblestone. Horns. Screams. Sirens. The whole city vibrating in a single fevered pitch, like a heartbeat you couldn’t separate from your own.

And that was it. You felt it again.

That tug. That sick little string wound tight through your ribs. Strung there by him. Still holding. Still pulling. It didn’t matter how much distance you told yourself you needed—when the world turned toward him, you did too.So you ended up outside a bar near the track. Not the private ones. Not the ones with velvet ropes and industry passes and terrace views. Just one of the ones carved into the street-level buildings, open to the chaos, full of heat and sound. Flat screens bolted above the bar. Fans shoulder to shoulder. Bottles sweating in metal buckets. Flags tied like bandanas. Champagne already foaming across tabletops like victory was a guarantee.

You stood by the railing. Arms crossed. Sunglasses still on even though the sun was behind the buildings now. Shadows stretched across the street like tired ghosts. Your foot tapped against the base of a rusted stool, your hip leaned just barely into the edge of the counter like you weren’t really here. Like maybe you were just watching a version of yourself watch him.

The race blurred by.

It always does. Too fast, too clean, too cinematic. Like it’s not real. Like it’s something you could turn off if you found the right remote. He looked good—of course he did. He always does when there’s something on the line. Fast. Confident. Hungry. His car didn’t take corners. It swallowed them. He moved like he was dancing with the track. Like he could feel its heartbeat better than his own. You didn’t blink when he overtook on Lap 42. Didn’t flinch when the leaderboard adjusted like it had been waiting for him all along.

But when the checkered flag dropped? When the whole bar erupted—glasses raised, hands slapped to backs, phones held high and recording?

That’s whens something inside you cracked. It was clean and silent. Like glass under pressure. You watched the screen. Watched him throw his fists into the air inside the car, helmet still on, adrenaline turning his voice to something breathless and boyish through the radio.

“Fuck, man! We did it!”

And he sounded happy. Not like he’d sounded on the phone. Not like last night. Not like someone torn in two. He sounded whole. He sounded free. You stood still while the rest of the bar screamed and spilled and toasted and laughed. While confetti machines burst at the table beside you. While someone popped a bottle and poured foam into a stranger’s cup like they’d both waited their whole lives for this.

And you—still in your sunglasses, arms locked across your chest like armor—you felt like you were being erased. Not slowly. Not softly. Violently. Like the footage of him crossing that line was actively overwriting you. Like every frame of his win was bleaching your name from his mouth. Then you saw her.

Not up close. Not at the podium. Just a flicker. A flash of white on the screen behind him. Behind the fence. Her hair. Her silhouette. Her hand.

Raised in a wave. And the way he looked at her—god. You thought you’d collapse. 

You don’t know why you’re here. You already booked your ticket back to Italy. You packed your bag with one hand while brushing your teeth with the other, You checked out of the hotel like it was a fire you had to get away from. You had a plan. You were going to leave before the city woke up, before the papers hit the stands, before your own stomach could catch up to the shame curling in it.

But then you didn’t. You didn’t leave. You didn’t get in the car. You didn’t do the smart thing, or the sane thing, or even the thing you promised yourself you would. Instead, you walked. Shoes in your hand, face bare, heart kicking like it wanted out. You walked past the marina. Past the crowds still drunk off the race. Past the café where your phone first lit up with his name. You told yourself it was a loop. A muscle twitch. A final look.

You knew it was a lie and now you’re here. You ride the elevator in silence, arms crossed, your teeth sunk so deep into your lip you can taste blood. The hallway stretches out in front of you like something cinematic—floor-to-ceiling windows on one side, pale wood on the other, recessed lights humming low like they know what you’re doing. You don’t even knock. The apartment door is already cracked open.

Of course it is.

He’s inside. Shirtless. Sweaty. Champagne-drenched hair curling messily across his forehead. Still wearing his fireproofs, halfway unzipped. His chest rises with breath that’s only just started to slow. He smells like victory. Like sun-warmed metal and sweet rot and something you used to beg for. He looks good.

Of course he does. He turns when you step in. Smiles. The real kind. That one that used to mean I knew you'd come.

But it fades the second he sees your face.

“Hey,” he says, cautious now. “You okay?”

You shake your head once. Quick. Like it might stop the tears from crawling up your throat.

“I don’t know why I’m here,” you say. But that’s a lie.

He steps forward, slow, cautious, like approaching an animal he’s already wounded once and isn’t sure won’t bite again. His arms stay loose at his sides, fingers twitching like he doesn’t know what he’s allowed to reach for anymore—your waist, your wrist, your forgiveness.

“You—uh, did you see the race?” he asks, and it’s not small talk. Not really. It’s a test balloon. A toe in the water. Like maybe if you say yes without venom, maybe if your voice stays level, he can convince himself none of this is a disaster.

“Yeah,” you snap, the word scraping up your throat like it came with splinters. “You were amazing. Congratulations.”

His smile twitches back onto his face, but it doesn’t land properly. It hovers at the corners like a glitch in the system. Like he knows it’s too late to fix the part of him that doesn’t know how to be soft when it counts.

“Thanks,” he says, and it should mean something. Should carry weight. But it floats.

You step closer. Not because you want to be near him, not anymore. But because the distance feels dishonest. Like if you’re going to bleed in front of him, he should at least have to watch it happen up close. Your voice shakes when you speak, but you don’t try to hide it. You don’t care if he hears what it costs you. You want him to.

“Why wasn’t I ever good enough?”

He blinks. His head pulls back just slightly, like you slapped him. Like the words hit somewhere he wasn’t guarding. His brow creases—not out of confusion, but something worse. That dawning realization that this conversation isn’t going to end where he thought it might. That this isn’t another soft landing.

“What?” he says, but it’s not really a question. More like a deflection. A delay tactic. Something to stall the blow he knows is coming.

Your heart’s beating so hard it feels physical now—like it’s trying to break out of your chest and throw itself at his feet in one last act of desperate, humiliating honesty. Like it still wants him even as you drag yourself through the fucking wreckage of that want.

“Why have I never been enough for you to choose?” you ask, and your voice cracks on the word like it’s never been said out loud before. “Not fuck. Not sneak around with. Not call when you're lonely or bored or drunk at some goddamn afterparty. I mean choose. I mean claim. Why have I never been the one you tell people about?”

He opens his mouth, but nothing comes. His throat works around it. His eyes drop to the floor and back up again, and for a second—just a second—you think he might lie. Might try to salvage this with some half-truth about timing or image or circumstance.

“Why her?” you whisper, and this one hurts more than the rest—not because of what it means, but because of how quietly you ask it. Because it comes from the part of you that’s already accepted the answer. “Why does she get to be seen?”

He looks at you like you’ve just thrown a grenade at his feet, like he doesn’t know whether to jump on it or run. And maybe that’s always been him—too cowardly to save you, too selfish to leave you alone.

“I let you inside me,” you say, and now your voice is breaking for real, cracking down the middle like an old fault line that’s finally splitting open. “And you walked away. I let you hear me. I told you shit I’ve never said out loud before, not even to myself. I gave you everything. And I didn’t say I loved you, not because it wasn’t true, but because I knew it didn’t fucking matter. Because I knew, no matter how much I gave you—no matter how deep I let you in—I’d still just be the thing you come back to when you’re bored. Or lonely. Or drunk. Or broken. But never when it matters.”

He doesn’t speak. Not right away. Just stands there in the center of his spotless, silent apartment—an altar to success and self-control—still radiant with the remnants of the win. His chest rises in slow, shallow pulses, adrenaline still flickering beneath skin damp with sweat and victory. There’s a gleam across his collarbones, the faint shimmer of champagne that never got wiped off, dried sugar crusted along the edge of his jaw like celebration had kissed him and refused to let go. His hair’s a mess—curling, golden, clinging to his temples like he earned the chaos. And maybe he did. Maybe he earned every fucking second of it. But all you want is to ruin it. To drag your hand across his face and wipe the triumph off like it’s blood that doesn’t belong to him.

Because he looks too happy for someone who’s left you bleeding this many times. But when his eyes land on you—finally, fully—something shifts. He’s not smiling anymore. Not smirking. Not playing cool or disinterested or oblivious. He’s just looking. At you. Carefully, as if he’s cataloguing damage. Like he’s not sure if you’re about to cry or scream or throw a glass, and the fact that he doesn’t know is maybe the only honest thing he’s ever done in your presence.

You step further into the apartment. The floor is cool under your feet, too clean. Everything here is intentional—curated—like even his grief would be expensive. Your arms are still crossed tight over your chest, but it’s not a defense anymore. It’s just something to hold while the rest of you starts to come apart in slow motion. The tension in your shoulders doesn’t brace you—it betrays you. It trembles loose. Not strength. Not anymore. Just unraveling in real time.

“I shouldn’t have come,” you say, and your voice barely makes it past your teeth. It sounds like someone else said it first and handed it to you to carry. “I told myself I wouldn’t. I watched you win and I felt sick.”

He shifts his weight, opens his mouth, but you hold your hand up. You’re not finished. If you stop now, you’ll never say it.

“I’m tired of pretending I don’t care. Tired of pretending that what we had was just sex. You know it wasn’t. You know. We talked. We laughed. You let me in. You made me feel like I wasn’t crazy for needing you. And then every time I get close to believing you—really believing you—you disappear. Or worse, you show up like nothing happened and expect me to melt for you. And I do. God, I always do.”

His gaze drops. His jaw clenches. But he still doesn’t speak. And that silence—it’s not passive. It’s precise. It’s brutal in its precision. Like he’s figured out by now that anything he says will only confirm how much worse he made it. So he doesn’t say a word. Just lets the weight of what you said sit there. Lets you carry it alone, like you always have. And that silence? It hits harder than anything he’s ever said. Than every lie. Than every I miss you that came too late.

You take another breath, but it doesn’t settle. It just wobbles on the way out, shakes loose in your throat like it’s trying not to turn into a sob.

“I just want to know…” you start, and your voice is thinner now, worn down to something soft and splintered. “Why I’ve never been enough. Not once. Not for a full day. Why I’m always good enough to fuck. To call. To cry to when you’re falling apart at three in the morning. But never good enough to stand next to in daylight.”

Your hands shake, but you keep going.

“Why it’s always her when I’m the one who knows how you take your coffee. When I’m the one who told you to breathe before qualifying, when you couldn’t stop pacing. When I’m the one who stayed.”

That’s the part that undoes you a little. That last word. Stayed. You weren’t supposed to say it—not out loud. It’s too naked. Too pathetic. But it tumbles out anyway, like the truth was tired of waiting for permission. And it lands. You see it shift something in him. His eyes flick toward the floor, then back up. His fingers twitch at his sides, curling briefly into fists, then flattening again. His shoulders rise with a breath too deep to be casual—like he’s dragging something up from the part of him that doesn’t usually speak.

“I never meant for it to get this far,” he says finally, voice raw around the edges, like he’s chewing on the words even as he gives them up. “I didn’t think I’d need you like that.”

You almost laugh, but it’s not funny. It’s sharp. Bitter. It curls in your mouth like acid.

“You needed me,” you echo. “But not enough.”

He steps toward you then. Slowly. Cautiously. Like he’s approaching a live wire. Like he thinks there’s still something left to salvage in the wreckage.

“It’s not that simple,” he says.

But you shake your head before he can finish the thought. “Yes, it is.”

And this time you don’t snap it. You don’t spit it out like a weapon. You just say it flatly. Like a fact that doesn’t care how he feels about it.

“You either love someone,” you say, “or you don’t.”

“I do love you,” he replies. Just like that. Like it’s obvious. Like it’s always been true, and always been enough.

But it costs you everything to hear it. Every little ounce of composure you’ve been clinging to. Every version of yourself that held out hope. It’s not relief that hits you—it’s grief. Not longing. Not even disbelief. Just loss. Again. All over again. Because now that he’s said it, now that the words are out, you know for sure: his love was never the kind that saves you. Never the kind that holds you in the light. His love only ever lives in the dark.

You look at him, and something twists in your chest—not from happiness, but from mourning.

“Then why has it always felt like I had to beg for it?” you whisper. “Why has it never once felt like it came freely?”

He doesn’t answer.

Doesn’t lie. Doesn’t soften. Just stands there, mouth parted like he wants to say something, anything, but he knows. He knows whatever he gives you now will only make it worse. So he says nothing. And the silence between you—thick, heavy, final—says everything.

You stare at him—not the Lando the world loves, not the polished boy in champagne and fireproofs and grins for the cameras, but the one in front of you now. Quiet. Flickering. Human in the worst way. The kind that disappoints just by standing still.

Your arms drop to your sides. Not in surrender. In exhaustion. Your limbs feel too heavy to hold upright, your ribs ache from holding in this pain for too long. You’re sagging under the weight of it.

“You love me,” you repeat, hollow now. Like the words are ash in your mouth. “But you’re still with her.”

He doesn’t deny it. Just lowers his eyes, clenches his jaw, like maybe he hates himself for it. Or maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he’s just tired of pretending it’s not true. And that’s the answer. That’s the only answer you’re going to get. There’s no grand speech. No twist in the narrative. Just the sharp silence of reality pressing down on you like gravity finally remembered your name.

And somewhere behind you, the elevator dings.

[cowgiri]

ᝰ 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐒𝐈𝐍 .ᐟ

𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒. he is a man of the cloth. a man of devotion, of restraint—or at least, he tries to be. but you, with your sweet mouth and sinful words and scandalous clothes, have driven him to the edge of madness.

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓. priest!zayne, temptress!reader, blasphemy, corruption, loss of virginity, mastrubation, oral sex (f! and m! receiving), fingering, clit stim, slight voyeurism, sex in public place, sexual intercourse, no protection, cervix kissing, panty sniffing, creampie, overstimulation, slight breeding kink, lots of nasty talk in confessionals, pussy whipped zayne

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓. 6.5k

the church was a furnace, the air thick and heavy with the heat of a relentless summer day. sunlight softly spilled through the stained-glass of the church, casting hues of red, gold, and blue across the worn wooden pews and the stone floors. the air was scented with aged hymnals and beeswax from candles that flickered at the altar. the heady aroma of incense created a nearly intoxicating atmosphere.

you sat beside your grandmother, who silently recited prayers under her breath with rosary beads in hand. your mind, however, was very far from divine and holy thoughts. you had been coming to the church for a month now—don't get me wrong, you were the furthest thing from religious. matter of fact, a month ago you wouldn't have been caught dead in a church unless it was a funeral and you were the one in the casket. but for the sake of your grandmother, you decided to try and make an effort, even if that was just showing up for sunday mass.

your eyes wandered to the front of the church, where father zayne stood. his deep voice echoed through the sanctuary as he delivered the sermon, each word hanging in the air. he stood at the pulpit, his tall, commanding figure bathed in the warm, golden light streaming through the stained-glass windows.

the high white collar at his neck was pristine, but it did nothing to hide the faint sheen of sweat that glistened on his skin, catching the light as he moved. the tight black cassock he wore was perfectly tailored to his lean frame. the fabric clung to his broad shoulders and emphasized the definition of his chest. the heat had caused the fabric to stick to him in all the right places, and every shift of his body revealed just enough to make your imagination run wild.

his almost always perfect hair was slightly damp and tousled, the strands falling across his forehead in a way that was effortlessly disheveled. his skin glistened with a thin layer of sweat. a bead of sweat trailed down the side of his neck, disappearing beneath the white collar, and the sight was enough to make even the most devout parishioner's thoughts stray into dangerous territory.

when his gaze landed on you, your breath felt trapped in your lungs. it was as if he could see the sinful thoughts swirling in your mind, the way your heart raced every time he spoke, the way your skin prickled with heat that had nothing to do with the summer sun.

after the service, you lingered in the church, pretending to light a candle while your grandmother chatted with some of the other parishioners. you found yourself seated at one of the pews as your eyes followed zayne moving about the sanctuary.

even as he conversed with the other churchgoers, you could feel the weight of his gaze on you, probably due to your "inappropriate" attire for church. it was like he could tell with each visit you made that your skirts were growing shorter and your shirts were getting tighter. you noticed father zayne to be an extremely observant man.

he was a man of god, and you were the complete opposite.

he approached you, his shadow falling over your own. "you've become a regular here at saint mary's," he remarked, clearing his throat.

"my grandmother drags me here every sunday. she says that i've 'lost' my faith," you replied. he was playing right into your hands by speaking to you first. you had been plotting on him and little did he know what was to come.

"lost it?" he asked, his brows furrowing slightly. anyone could tell by the way that you were dressed in a church that you had long lost your faith. but who knew maybe he was one that didn't like to judge a book by it's cover.

"well, never really had it in the first place, i think," you shrugged indifferently.

"interesting." he nodded, taking a seat at the bench beside you. his eyes settled on the candle you'd lit, then back to you. "but you come every sunday, nonetheless. why is that?"

"i like listening to you talk, you have a nice voice," you replied shamelessly. "and you are quite easy on the eyes, father."

"i'm flattered," he laughed as his lips quirked into a slight smile. "you seem to enjoy the sermons, but you never take communion. you never participate in the service."

"that's... true," you agreed. "it's not something that i believe in."

his eyes seemed to take in the sight of you. he glanced at your breasts, which strained against the tight white fabric of your shirt. you saw the way his adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. man of the cloth or not, at the end of the day, he was still a man.

"well," he began, his voice lower than before, "do you believe in god?" he asked, his gaze flicking to the hem of your skirt. you fought the urge to fidget beneath his stare.

the way his eyes raked over your body was not that of a man of faith, but a man of flesh.

"no, i don't," you replied honestly, feeling goosebumps spread across your skin. "i think that maybe people just use the church as a crutch, a way to justify their own wrongdoings. i think that religion has the power to tear people apart."

"that's a dangerous way to think. i could have you excommunicated for such thoughts," he warned, a dark undertone creeping into his voice. it was as if he knew your words had been a way to bait him, to draw him in and tempt him to sin.

"but i'm not one of your congregation," you countered with a smile. "so i'd rather not be punished for my beliefs," you added. the sound of your voice seemed to draw his eyes to your mouth, and he stared at you with an intense hunger in his gaze.

he finally looked away, clearing his throat. "well, i should be on my way. enjoy your sunday," he murmured before turning to walk toward the back of the church.

"you as well, father," you called after him, smiling to yourself. you knew you'd see him again. maybe it was the thrill of the forbidden that challenged you, but something in you craved his attention. you wanted to know what happened to men of the cloth when they finally broke their vow of celibacy.

and you knew exactly what to do to get that reaction from him.

a month went by and your visits to the church became more frequent. you'd sit in the sanctuary praying or at least pretending to pray. zayne would sit at the front of the sanctuary, doing what priests did, sometimes occasionally checking in. but his focus seemed to waver whenever you were near. every now and then, his eyes would flicker up, catching yours with a look that was hard to decipher. it wasn't just disdain, though that was certainly part of it. there was something else simmering beneath the surface.

you could feel his gaze like a physical touch, lingering on you longer than it should. it was as if he was trying to figure you out, to understand why you kept coming back when you so openly rejected everything the church stood for.

his jaw would tighten, his fingers gripping the rosary beads in his hand a little tighter. the way he looked at you was almost accusatory, as though you were deliberately testing his patience, his resolve. almost like a devil lying in wait for a moment of weakness.

you would watch him as his eyes darkened with something that looked almost like...lust. you craved that look on him. you craved the way his breathing slowed, the way the beads in his hand clicked faster when you were near. you craved it all, every bit of reaction you could pull from him.

and so you began to make a show for him, slowly bending over in your short skirts, or adjusting your tits in front of him. your actions had gotten bolder over the weeks.

there were times when you swore you caught a glimpse of something, just a flash of something perverted and more sinful in his eyes. you wondered if he even knew he was revealing himself, showing his true nature. but it wasn't enough, he was a tougher nut to crack than you thought.

it was time to try something different.

the following sunday, you returned to the church before mass, this time alone. you slipped into the confessional and waited for him to join you. the confessional was small, cloaked in shadow, the air thick with the scent of aged wood and faint incense. you could hear the soft rustle of fabric as he shifted on the other side of the screen, his presence palpable even through the thin screen that separated you. his voice, deep and velvety, broke the silence.

"speak, my child," he said, his tone calm and soothing.

"bless me, father, for i have sinned," you began, "this is my first time in a confessional."

"what kind of sins have you committed?" the sound of his voice is huskier than you've ever heard before.

"well, father...i'm not quite sure how to put this delicately," you murmured as you fidget, your thighs pressing together. your cunt was already fluttering and all it took was hearing that voice of his. you heard the soft rustle of his cassock as he shifted, awaiting your confession.

"but there's this man," you began, your voice barely audible over the pounding of your heart in your ears. "and he's very devout. i'm sure he's very pure too," you said as your palm slid over your bare thigh. your clit was throbbing against the fabric of your panties, the ache growing with every passing second.

he remained silent but the sound of his breathing grew heavier, the click of his rosary beads against each other grew faster.

"well," you continued, your thumb slipping beneath the hem of your skirt as you trailed it higher and higher, "this man...he's very handsome. and so holy." your eyes fluttered closed as your fingers slipped between your thigh, teasing your needy clit over the cloth of you panties.

"sometimes i imagine him touching me," you whispered as you slipped your fingers into your panties and brushed your finger over your swollen pearl. your nerve endings sparked to life, his presence alone had your arousal more heighten than usual. you imagined the look on his face as he pictured it in his mind, you sitting there in the confessional touching yourself.

"what do you do, father? when a man of cloth such as yourself finds himself devoured by lust, " you whispered, the sound barely audible between your ragged breaths. you teased your finger against your entrance.

oh, the amount of money you would pay to see the look on his face right now. was his jaw clenched the way it did when you teasingly bent over in your short skirts? were his knuckles white from gripping his rosary beads the way he did when he trailed his eyes over your skimpy shirt? or even better was he leaning closer to the screen, listening to the slick sounds of your cunt.

you slipped your finger into your heat—a low whimper slipping past your lips. the sound seemed to echo through the confessional.

"do you confess them, father? do you beg forgiveness?" you taunted as you began to tease yourself, the faint sounds of your finger moving in and out of your cunt, the squelching and lewd noise filling the space between you two.

"i beg for strength," his voice was strained, and the words sounded like they had been torn from his throat against his will. you smiled to yourself as you continued to chase your orgasm, your moans growing louder.

the feeling of his gaze through the screen, the knowledge that he could hear you and knew exactly what you were doing, was enough to send your senses into overdrive.

"i don't think we should continue this conversation," his voice came out thick and heavy. you heard a slight click in his voice that betrayed his arousal. you were finally able to hear that thickening of his voice, it made you want to push him further and further, it was like music to your ears.

"why father? it's just between us."

his breathing came out harsher, almost labored. "because you're a temptress," he gritted out, the words leaving a thick, heavy tone lingering in the air.

"oh? so you don't touch yourself?" you asked. you leaned your head against the screen, your hand moving quicker against your cunt. the screen was thin and you knew he could smell your arousal, the sweet, heady scent of it.

"i don't believe that's an appropriate question to ask," he responded almost too quickly. but you noticed the way his voice cracked with his answer. just the thought of you being the first to touch him, to milk his neglected and heavy cock drove you closer to the edge.

you were so close. the air was thick in the room and you knew that he could practically taste your orgasm.

"i want to touch myself for you," you whispered. "the way you look at me...it's like you want to taste me, father. and i want you to."

your words were cut off by a sharp gasp as you tipped over the edge, your orgasm crashing over you like waves, your body shuddering beneath the pleasure. you kept your eyes shut until your breathing had returned to normal.

when you opened them again, father zayne was gone.

as you stepped out of the confessional, you glanced back to see him standing at the altar, his back to you, his head bowed as if in prayer. but you knew better. you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands clenched at his sides. he was fighting it—fighting you—and that only made the game more thrilling.

you walked out of the church, the summer heat wrapping around you like a warm embrace. this was far from over, and you knew it. zayne might have ended the session, but the look in his eyes, the tremor in his voice—it told you everything you needed to know. he was tempted.

and you were just getting started.

"father, if i didn't know any better, i'd say that you are avoiding me," you purred into his ear. your body brushed against his back as you snuck up on him. he had been avoiding you since you'd made your confession a week before. it had been long enough that you'd grown restless.

he stiffened in place, his spine straightening as he gazed straight ahead. but his voice, when he spoke, was tight with tension. "perhaps i am."

the church was empty except for the two of you. mass had ended and the sun was setting. the shadows were growing longer, stretching over the church floor, darkening everything. you had snuck in while the other parishioners had filtered out, intent on confronting the priest who had been avoiding you all week.

you wouldn't let him get away that easily, not yet.

"why?" you whispered, your lips brushing the curve of his ear. the air in the church was thick with heat and with anticipation, a heavy tension settling between the two of you.

the muscles of his throat convulsed as he swallowed. "because...i'm afraid i don't trust myself around you."

that was progress. that was an admission that meant a lot more than he probably realized. you stepped closer, your breasts pressing against his back, your thigh slipping against his. his breathing quickened as he fought against whatever temptation you'd stirred within him. you watched the muscles of his jaw clench, his hands curling into fists. he looked like a man fighting for the last bits of control that he possessed.

"you may think me a temptress, father, and you may not agree with my ways but i am not a liar. i think a man such as yourself deserves to experience love and desire and everything between," you whispered in his ear and before he could respond, you slipped around to his front.

you pushed onto your toes and your lips brushed against his, softly.

"allow me to make one more confession to you, father. if you don't change your mind, i will leave you be and not return,"  you murmured. there was no way you were letting him go that easily. you'd already gotten this far, why stop now.

his eyes narrowed as he searched your face, and you could practically see the war happening within him. he knew that you were tempting him, that he was walking into a trap.

the confessional booth was dark and warm, the scent of aged wood filling the small space.

"proceed," he bit out, his voice sharp with restraint. you didn't wait any longer, diving into your confession.

"father, i have done many things i am not proud of, but my greatest sin is lust. a lust for pleasure. a lust for you," your words were barely above a whisper as you continued, the sound of the rosary beads clicking against each other the only sound between you and him. his breathing had already quickened, the beads clicking faster against each other.

"and when i think of you, father, i think of how i would touch you," you murmured, the sound of your breaths heavy in the small space between the two of you, "i imagine my hands sliding over your hard stomach. i imagine pushing up your cassock and wrapping my hand around your cock," your words left you both breathless. you could here the shuffling of his cassock over the silent buzz of the fan. 

"what i truly desire is a taste of your cock, to hear the sounds of your moans and to see the sight of you coming undone, your seed dripping down my chin. to feel the heavy weight of your body on top of mine. i desire to take your virginity, your innocence, your purity."

"are you okay, father?" you asked, "you're breathing awfully hard," you teased.

you didn't dare imagine the expression on his face. you didn't have to. you could feel his eyes on you, boring into the screen. you could practically hear his heart racing, the blood rushing to his cock. the thought of him hard for you had your clit pulsing, your cunt clenching.

you squirmed beneath the fabric of your skirt, your nipples hardening against the fabric of your bra.

"yes, i am fine," he answered, his voice gruff with restraint. the sound of cloth shifting against cloth echoed through the space between you two, his breathing was suspiciously shallow.

you rose to your feet and exited your side of the confessional. you pulled back the curtain of the confessional on his side. the faint light streaming from the sanctuary illuminated him enough for you to see the look of arousal on his face. his cheeks were flushed, his eyes heavy with lust, his lips parted with shallow breaths.

the restraint of father zayne had simmered down to the faint shade of pink on his cheeks that spread to the tips of his ears. he looked like a man on the edge of madness, his eyes wild with something unspoken. you smiled to yourself, enjoying the effect you'd had on him. for once, it was good to know that you weren't the only one being driven to madness.

the air in the confessional seemed to grow hotter, the heat emanating from him enough to set your pulse racing. your heart pounded in your ears as your eyes traveled his body. he'd removed his cassock, sitting before you in a thin white shirt that was soaked with sweat. the cotton clung to him, revealing the definition of his hard body.

the fabric was nearly translucent, revealing the hard lines of his chest and the faint outline of his abdomen. his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing the corded muscles of his forearms, and his face was flushed. you could tell it wasn't from the heat of the blazing summer—it was from arousal.

he sat on the bench, his thighs spread wide, his cock already hard and heavy, straining against the fabric of his trousers. the sight of him in such a state was enough to leave you breathless. he said nothing, merely gazing at you with a hunger in his eyes.

you didn't hesitate, stepping forward and dropping to your knees before him. he reached out to grip your wrist, pulling you closer until you were wedged between his knees. his hand cupped the back of your neck, drawing your head closer until your mouth was nearly flush with his, breathing softly against your lips. the heat radiating from him was enough to make your skin tingle with awareness. the thick scent of arousal surrounded you both, making your senses go into overdrive.

he traced the curve of your jaw, his thumb brushing over your lower lip. he seemed to be savoring every inch of you, committing your features to memory. he licked his lips before leaning in, and the first brush of his mouth against yours left you both groaning.

his hands slid beneath your shirt, sliding over the bare skin of your back as he pulled you closer. he didn't waste any time, his tongue dipping into the warmth of your mouth. the kiss was deep and hungry, filled with all the desire he'd been fighting for weeks. you clutched at the front of his shirt, twisting it in your fingers as you melted against him.

his hands roamed your body, his palms sliding over the curve of your hips, dipping lower until they were beneath your skirt. he gripped your ass, his fingers kneading the flesh as he deepened the kiss. you were panting against his lips when he finally released you. your fingers slid through his hair, keeping his head tilted up so you could press another kiss against his mouth. but then his hands moved, sliding around to the front of your thighs. his fingers trailed over your pussy, the thin fabric of your panties the only barrier between you.

he groaned into your mouth, his hips jerking forward at the contact. his cock strained against the fabric, eager to be freed. you didn't make him wait, your hands reaching for the hem of his slacks as you pushed them down, revealing his straining cock.

it was long and thick, the head swollen with arousal. you couldn't help yourself, your hand reaching out to wrap around the base of his cock. his eyes fluttered closed as you stroked him, his head tipping back. a low groan spilled from his lips as you teased the tip of his cock, smearing the fluid that had gathered over his slit.

you took your time, enjoying the sight of his pleasure. your lips trailed over his chest, sucking at his nipples until they were red and swollen. your tongue trailed lower until you were licking a path over the length of his cock. he gripped your hair, tugging your head back as he gazed at you with a wild look in his eyes.

"please," he whined as you settled between his knees, his cock at the entrance of your lips. never in his thirty years of life has he ever been this desperate. he wanted those plump lips of your to be the first and last to milk his virgin cock.

you opened your mouth and his cock slid inside, the head resting against the roof of your mouth as your lips wrapped around him. your tongue swirled over the head of his cock, your throat fluttering with a moan as he began to thrust his hips.

his hand tightened in your hair as he thrust into your mouth, a string of curses falling from his lips. he muttered a litany of curses under his breath, his hips working into a frenzy as he fucked your mouth.

you pressed a palm to his thigh, holding yourself in place as he thrust deeper into your mouth. your eyes watered but you didn't let that stop you. the sounds of his moans, the feeling of him losing control with each passing second. it was music to your ears, and it made your pussy wetter.

you hollowed your cheeks as he began to fuck your throat, the tip of his cock bumping against the back of your throat. the pressure built in his balls as he neared his release, his movements becoming erratic and wild. you moaned around his cock as he pressed deeper into your throat, your fingers digging into his thighs. the sound of you choking on his cock seemed to push him over the edge.

he moaned loudly, his cock spurting against the roof of your mouth. you swallowed down his cum, greedily drinking it all. you sucked him through his orgasm until he was spent, his cock slipping from your lips with a wet sound.

he collapsed back against the confessional, his breathing ragged and loud. you rested your head in his lap for a moment before looking up at him.

"lord, forgive me," he panted, his breathing slow but returning to normal. but the look on his face was far from asking for forgiveness, he wanted more. his hand gently cupped your cheek, his thumb trailing over your bottom lip.

"perhaps this is your first sin, father," you teased as you shifted to your feet. you stood up and removed your panties. he watched you, his gaze raking over the curves of your body.

"what do you want me to do to you?" he asked as you tossed your soaked panties on his spent cock before turning towards the exit of the confessional.

you glanced back at him, your smile devious. the sight was one to behold, his eyes were drowning with desire, his cheeks blazing with lust. his cock adorned with your lace panties and still twitching from his release. 

"oh, father, i've already gotten what i wanted from you. the rest...well, that's for another time," you winked at him before stepping out of the confessional. the darkness enveloped him once more and you slipped away, disappearing into the sanctuary. you knew that this was only just the beginning. 

the thrill of temptation had turned into the thrill of something more. you'd finally managed to tempt him into sinning. the next step would be much harder. he'd have to break his vow of celibacy with you.

the following week, you didn't return to the church. you didn't show up to mass on sunday's. you didn't come to confessionals in the early mornings. you left him alone to dwindle with his thoughts.

soon zayne found that the memory of your lips wrapped around his cock was only thing in his head. his body ached for more. the taste of your cherry lipgloss, the feel of your soft skin beneath his fingers. 

he knew it was wrong, it was unholy to think of such things. but he couldn't help himself. the memory of you had consumed him whole. he could swear that he could still smell the scent of your arousal mixed with your floral perfume. as if it was engraved in his soul and etched into his skin.

it had been too long, much too long without your touch. he needed it to breath. your absence was like a knife stabbed straight into his heart. he couldn't even look at the confessional booth without having flashbacks of you fingering yourself and sucking his cock. 

everywhere he looked, there was a lingering reminder of you. when he looked amongst the churchgoers in the pews, he would think of the way you'd inch your skirt up higher whenever his gaze landed on you. 

he couldn't sleep, and when he did sleep it was your lips he saw haunting him. his cock throbbed at the thought of you and you only. he would have to give in to you, but he would never admit it to your face. 

he'd spend his sleepless nights fisting his cock to memories of you. when that wasn't enough he drown himself in the scent of your panties and imagine that it was your hands rubbing his cock instead of his. he would remember how your cunt smelled, sweet and heady and more potent than anything he'd ever experienced.

you had won.

the temptation was no longer just a sin, but something more. a need. you had unleashed a monster on the loose, and he would not stop until you had given him everything he wanted. and he wanted all of you. he wanted your cunt, your ass, your mouth. he wanted it all, and he'd have it if it was the last thing he did.

and so he waited for your return, his body restless for the touch he'd grown accustomed to.

his eyes would be scanning the sanctuary each sunday, watching as the other people filtered in. he waited for your smile, your voice, your eyes. he would wait forever if he had to.

you were a temptation, a demon he couldn't resist. and soon he'd give in. the devil had him on a leash and you were holding the other end. and at your first command he'd kneel.

the summer days had begun to dwindle, the autumn winds rolling in over the hills. the leaves had just begun to fall from the trees, blanketing the ground in a warm shade of red, gold, and orange.

you'd returned to the church one evening and patiently laid in wait in zayne's study. you'd known that his resolve had grown weak, that his body yearned for yours.

his study was small and dim, the walls lined with bookshelves and the room lit by the flickering flame of a single candle. the heavy scent of aged books and leather clung to the air, filling your lungs as you inhaled. the shadows that danced across the walls gave the room a romantic atmosphere, but you'd never been one for romance.

the door clicked open, and father zayne stepped in, his movements quiet as he glanced around the room. he seemed to take in his surroundings before his gaze found you.

"father," you greeted, sauntering toward him. he stood, frozen in place, watching you with a look that was almost predatory. you stepped closer until you were toe to toe, and the feeling of his breath against your face made your cunt pulse.

"i've been waiting for you," he admitted, his voice a deep rasp. his hand reached out, cupping the curve of your ass. you shivered beneath his touch, the feeling of his palm against your skin enough to light a fire in you. he pulled you against him, his hips cradling yours. his cock was hard and straining against the front of his cassock.

"have you now, father?" you teased, your hands sliding over his chest. you'd missed the feel of his body against yours, had missed the heat of his skin beneath your fingertips. you pushed his cassock open, your hands sliding down his stomach until you felt the head of his cock. he groaned, his breath hot against your neck as you began to stroke his cock through his pants.

"yes," he admitted, the word barely above a whisper. his lips pressed against your neck, his mouth trailing over your skin until he was sucking at the curve of your throat. you tipped your head back, his teeth nipping at your skin and sending a jolt of arousal through you.

the way his mouth felt against your skin was like magic. you wanted that mouth on other parts of your body, parts that you'd been craving his touch against.he pulled you back by the hair, his eyes dark and hungry.

"i want to taste you," he groaned, the sound rough with arousal.you stood on shaky legs and began to undress, removing your clothing until you stood in nothing but your panties. he watched you hungrily, his hand reaching out to brush against your breasts. you smiled as you slipped your panties down your thighs, kicking them to the side. his eyes were trained on your naked body, and you could practically see the hunger growing in him.

you stepped closer, and his hands went to your hips. he plopped you down on his desk, settling your thighs on his shoulders.  you watched as he dropped to his knees, his face hovering just inches from your pussy.

the first touch of his tongue against your clit sent a jolt of electricity through your body. you arched your back, your breath catching in your throat.the thought of a man so devout being brought to his knees by your cunt was enough to send you spiraling over the edge.

he laved at your puffy clit, his tongue swirling around the small bud with hungry strokes. he seemed fascinated by it, exploring every inch until he was sure he had it memorized. the first stroke of his tongue against the slit of your cunt made your toes curl. he licked you like a man who had never tasted heaven before, but now had his chance and wouldn't let it slip away.

he pressed a palm against you, spreading you wider for his tongue. he dove in, licking you with long, hard strokes. his tongue was magic, the way he ate at your cunt like a man starved. you writhed against his tongue, your eyes fluttering closed as he worked you toward an orgasm.

your cunt clenched around the feeling of emptiness, your body searching for something to fill you. his fingers brushed against your entrance and you almost wept with relief. you wanted them inside you, wanted to feel the thick length of him.

you leaned back against his desk, watching him as he fucked you with his fingers. he began to eat at your pussy with a hunger that would leave you breathless, his tongue sliding in and out of your pussy with hard, wet strokes. your clit throbbed against his tongue and you tipped your head back and screamed as the pleasure rolled through you.

he didn't stop, he didn't even pause as he fucked you through your orgasm. the feeling of his tongue and fingers moving in and out of you sent you into overdrive. your pussy clenched around his fingers as he continued to eat at you. it was like he was in a trance, only focusing on bringing you pleasure.

you gripped at his hair, pulling him up from between your legs. his face was red and flushed, his eyes glazed over with arousal. he was breathless as he gazed up at you, his lips and chin wet from your arousal.

he rose to his feet, his cock straining against his pants. you reached down to unzip him and freed his cock, the thick head springing free. you pumped it slowly with your hand, his cock growing even harder in your hand as he watched.

"i want to be inside you," he whispered, his hands cupping your breasts. he squeezed at the flesh and you gasped, the feeling of his cock against your thigh enough to make your cunt clench. he'd been a man of god for so long, but the touch of you had brought him back to life. he was a man again, with a man's desires and needs. you had been the catalyst for his descent into sin and he had no intention of stopping.

"then take me," you answered, your lips pressing against his. he moaned into your mouth as you guided his cock toward your entrance. he paused for a moment before pushing in, the head of his cock stretching you open. you gasped, your pussy clenching around him. his face pressed against your throat, his breathing coming out in shallow, ragged breaths.

"oh god," he gasped as he pushed deeper inside you. you had never been with a virgin before and the thought that you were his first sent a thrill through your body. he stretched you wider as he pushed inside until he was seated at the hilt.

"move," you gasped as he paused. he began to move, his strokes slow and deep yet inexperienced. his hips worked against yours in slow movements. his breathing quickened as he began to move faster, the sound of your cunt sucking him in filling the room.

you clutched at him, wrapping your legs around his hips as he began to pump into you. his breathing grew quick, his thrusts becoming erratic. you gripped at him, holding onto him as he fucked into you. the sound of your breathing mingled with that of his, echoing off the walls of the study.

his fingers reached down and gently strummed your overstimulated clit. your orgasm was immediate and intense, your cunt squeezing around him as you came.

his cock felt like magic, the feeling of it rubbing against your walls making you shiver. the friction was enough to bring you back to the edge and you knew you wouldn't last much longer. his breaths came in pants as he fucked you harder, his grip on your hips tightening as he began to lose control.

"you feel so good," he groaned against your throat. his words sent shivers down your spine. "gonna fuck my cum into your pretty cunt."

he began to rut into you, his breathing coming in pants as his thrusts turned wild and erratic. the thick tip of his cock bruising your cervix at a brutal pace that hurt so deliciously. you clutched at his back, holding on as he began to come inside you.

his release set you off and your orgasm crashed over you. your pussy clenched around him, milking every drop of his cum from his cock. you rode the wave of your orgasm, your cunt pulsing with pleasure. he collapsed against you, his forehead pressing against your shoulder.

you held him in place, running your fingers through the thickness of his hair as his breathing began to return to normal. his cock slipped out of you with a lewd squelch—his eyes transfixed on the mixture of his cum and your cream that painted your cunt and his cock.

"i can't resist you," he whispered against your skin. you ran your fingers through his hair.

"who said you had to?" you murmured back, running your fingers over the curve of his jaw.

you tilted his chin up until he was gazing up at you.  the look in his eyes was one of pure adoration, and that was what had sealed your fate. you had never thought to want to keep him, but there it was, a new feeling stirring to life inside you.

he was the one man you could never resist and you had a feeling that he would always be so. you'd have to keep him, keep him locked away for yourself. because the truth of the matter was, you could never let him go. he was yours and yours alone. and you would make sure of that.

he would be your little secret.

[gojosconsort]

VIRGIN!SATORU // college au

⁀➷ content. satoru’s a nervous wreck, barely holding it together as his long-time crush—you—steps into his room. one touch, one smile, and he’s done for, desperate and clumsy, trying to fuck you right.

pairing. afab!reader x virgin!satoru (college au)

warnings. mdni. virginity loss (satoru), unprotected sex, breeding, lots of cum and satoru has a big dick. this is nasty but i regret nothing.

word count. 1,900

satoru’s losing his goddamn mind in his dorm, pacing like a caged animal, white hair a mess from running his hands through it a million times. his glasses are fogged up—fuckin’ nerves—and he wipes them on his shirt, only smearing the lenses more.

you’re coming over. you.

his crush since forever—smart as hell, gorgeous, so far outta his league it’s laughable—and he’s about to have you in his space. his dick’s already half-hard just thinking about it, and he hasn’t even seen you yet. he glances at the clock—five minutes late. is that bad? good? fuck, he’s spiraling.

a knock. his heart stops, then hammers. he stumbles to the door, nearly tripping over a pile of manga, and swings it open. there you are, smiling, “hey, satoru,” all casual in a tight-ass shirt that hugs your tits and shorts riding up your thighs, showing off those legs he’s jerked off thinking about too many times.

“uh, hey—come in,” he stammers, voice cracking like a dumbass, pushing his foggy glasses up his nose. you step inside, scanning the chaos—textbooks stacked on the desk, comics spilling off shelves, empty ramen cup. “you ever leave this cave?” you tease, flopping onto his bed, legs crossed, shorts riding higher.

he laughs, shaky as fuck, “not much,” and rubs the back of his neck, blue eyes glued to you. he’s trying not to stare, but shit, it’s impossible—your shirt’s clinging just right, and he’s imagining peeling it off. his dick twitches again, and he shifts, praying you don’t notice.

you pat the bed next to you, “sit,” voice light but commanding, and he freezes for a split second before obeying, stiff as a board. his thigh brushes yours—soft, warm, fuck—heat shooting straight to his groin. “you okay?” you ask, tilting your head, and he nods too fast, “y-yeah, just—uh—nervous.”

“why?” you lean in, close enough that your breath grazes his neck, and he’s done for—dick fully hard now, straining against his sweats. no hiding that. “’cause—fuck—you’re you,” he blurts, cheeks flaming, “been wanting this forever, and now you’re here, and i’m—shit, i don’t know what i’m doing.” his voice cracks again, and he wants to die, but you just laugh, soft and warm.

“you’re cute when you’re freaking out,” you say, and his brain short-circuits. cute? cute? he’s about to fucking die. then you shift closer, knee brushing his, and his hands twitch, itching to touch you. “so, what’s ‘this’ you’ve been wanting?” you murmur, teasing, and he swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing.

“you—fuck—just you, all of you,” he admits, raw and desperate, and your lips twitch up. “then do something about it,” you whisper and that’s it—game fuckin’ over. something snaps in him, and he grabs you, clumsy as hell, hands shaking as he pulls you onto his lap. you straddle him, thighs clamping around his hips, and he groans, feeling your heat through those tiny shorts.

he crashes his mouth into yours, sloppy, needy. lips mash, teeth clash, and he’s kissing you hard, like he’s starving for it. his glasses slip down, digging into his nose, but he doesn’t care, too lost in how you taste—sweet, hot, fuckin’ addictive. “sorry—shit—too much?” he pants, pulling back, spit stringing between your lips, but you shake your head. “keep going,” you breathe and he dives back in, tongue shoving into your mouth.

he’s groaning into you, hands fumbling up your shirt, brushing bare skin—soft, warm, fuck—and his cock throbs under you, aching to feel more. “you’re so—goddamn perfect,” he mumbles against your lips, voice thick, and he’s already a wreck, virgin nerves and all, but he’s not stopping now.

poor boy's a fucking wreck, heart slamming in his chest as you sit on his lap, your thighs squeezing his hips, and he’s trying not to lose it before anything even starts. his hands tremble, sliding under your tight shirt, fumbling like he’s forgotten how fingers work, and then he finds them—your tits, soft and warm and perfect.

“fuck.” he cups them, thumbs brushing your nipples, feeling them harden under his touch. “you’re amazing—shit, these are amazing,” he mumbles, squeezing gently, obsessed with how they fill his hands just right, like they were made for him. he’s dreamed about this—your tits, your body, you—and now it’s real, and his dick’s throbbing so hard in his sweats he’s scared he’ll fuckin’ cum right there.

you smirk, peeling your shirt off in one smooth move, tossing it aside, then shimmy out of those tiny shorts, leaving you bare. he’s staring—staring—mouth half-open, glasses slipping down his nose as he takes you in. your tits sit pretty, full and round, nipples begging to be touched, and your curves—fuck, your hips, your waist—drive him insane.

“you’re so goddamn pretty,” he chokes out, voice raw, hands hovering like he’s scared he’ll ruin you if he moves too fast. he’s dying to touch, but he’s frozen, like you’re some untouchable goddess.

“your turn,” you say, tugging at his shirt, and he snaps out of it, fumbling like an idiot—arms tangling in the sleeves, glasses nearly tumbling off his face. he yanks it over his head, revealing pale skin stretched over lean muscle, a faint trail of white hair disappearing into his sweats.

you hook your fingers in the waistband and pull ‘em down, slow, teasing, and—fuck—his cock springs free, long and thick, tip flushed red and leaking pre-cum, twitching just from your eyes on it. “satoru—you’re huge,” you mutter, half in awe, and his cheeks go scarlet. “i—uh—hope that’s okay?” he mumbles, scratching his neck. “more than okay,” you say, pushing him back onto the bed.

he flops down, propped on his elbows, staring as you climb over him, straddling his hips. your pussy brushes his cock—wet, hot, slick—and he jolts, a low “fuck” slipping out, hands flying to your hips, shaking like he’s about to explode. but then his eyes lock on your tits again, bouncing slightly as you settle, and he’s mesmerized.

“can i—shit—can i touch ‘em more?” he asks and you nod, leaning forward so they’re right in his face. he groans, loud, cupping them again, thumbs circling your nipples, and then he’s leaning up, pressing his lips to one. “so fucking perfect,” he mutters against your skin, kissing your tit soft at first, then harder, sucking the nipple into his mouth. his tongue flicks over it, sloppy and eager, and you moan, threading your fingers through his messy hair.

he’s obsessed—squeezing one while he sucks the other, lips smacking, spit shining on your skin. “been dreaming about these,” he pants, pulling back to watch them jiggle as he kneads them, “so soft, so—fuck—perfect for me.” he dives back in, biting gently, then licking like he’s starving, and your pussy clenches, dripping onto his cock below.

“satoru—c’mon,” you murmur, grinding against him, and he snaps out of his tit-trance, eyes flicking up. “wait—fuck—i’ve never—” he stammers, hands tightening on your hips, trembling harder, “don’t wanna mess up.” you lean down, kissing him deep, tongue sliding against his. “you won’t,” you whisper, pulling back to line him up, your pussy hovering over his tip.

you sink down slow—so slow—his fat head stretching you, burning in the best way, and he gasps, loud and ragged, “oh—shit—you’re tight.” his hands slide to your ass, gripping hard as you take him deeper, inch by inch, walls fluttering around his length. he’s whining now, high-pitched and wrecked, head thrown back, glasses fogging up again.

“fuck—fuck—you feel so good,” he babbles, hips twitching like he’s fighting not to thrust up. your tits bounce as you settle, fully seated, and he’s staring again, moaning, “god—you’re—fuckin’ perfect.” you start moving, up and down, slow at first, letting him feel every slick drag, and he’s a mess—panting, groaning, “you’re gonna kill me—look at you.”

“satoru,” you moan, voice shaky, and he loses it, hips bucking up—clumsy but hard—slamming deep, making you gasp. “sorry—shit—did i—” he starts, panicked, but you grind down harder, cutting him off. “no—do it again,” you beg, and he does, thrusting up with no rhythm, just need, hitting that spot inside you over and over.

your tits bounce wild, and he’s transfixed, hands roaming from your ass to your chest, squeezing again, muttering, “love these—fuckin’ love ‘em,” before pulling one back to his mouth, sucking hard as he fucks into you. “you’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” he babbles, sweat beading on his forehead, glasses slipping down his nose.

he’s nervous as hell, blue eyes darting over your body like he can’t believe you’re real, but he’s already buried inside you, and fuck—his cock’s massive. long, thick, a fat fucking cock stretching your pussy so wide it burns, veins pulsing against your walls, tip kissing deep spots you didn’t know you had. “always wanted you—fuck—dreamed of this,” he groans, hips twitching like he’s barely holding it together.

your thighs tremble from the stretch, feeling every inch of that huge dick splitting you open, tip bullying your cervix with every move. he’s clumsy, thrusts stuttering, but damn, he’s good—hitting right where you need it every fucking time, like he’s got some sixth sense for your body. “satoru—oh god,” you whimper, head tipping back, and he moans, loud, “love hearing you—say it again.”

he grabs your hips, fingers digging in, and thrusts up harder, desperate, like he’s tryna prove he’s worth it. that fat cock slams deep, stretching you ‘til you’re gasping, pussy fluttering around him, and he’s staring, sweat dripping down his pale chest.

“shit—look at you,” he pants, hands sliding up to your tits again, squeezing ‘em rough, thumbs flicking your nipples. “so fuckin’ perfect—been jerking off thinking about this forever.” your nails dig into his shoulders, heat coiling fast in your gut, and he’s watching you, eyes blown wide. “you gonna cum? please cum—wanna see it,” he begs, thrusting up harder, fat cock filling you so full.

“yeah—close—fuck,” you nod, breathless, and he groans, “so damn hot,” grabbing your hips tighter, slamming up—hard, deep and you lose it, cumming hard, pussy clamping down on him. “satoru—shit—” you gasp, shaking, walls pulsing around his massive dick, and he moans, “oh fuck—fuck—you’re perfect.” he feels you milking him, slick dripping down his balls, and his thrusts get messier.

“gonna—shit—gonna cum,” he whines, voice high and frantic, and you pant, “inside,” ‘cause fuck, you want it—you want him. his eyes widen, “you sure?—fuck—you’re too good,” and he’s losing it, hands trembling on your hips. one thrust, two—then he slams up hard, burying that fat cock balls-deep, and he’s gone.

“oh—shit—cumming,” he gasps, and it’s a fucking flood—hot, thick cum pumping into you, so much it’s spilling out around his shaft, coating your thighs, dripping onto the sheets. he’s groaning, unloading more than you thought possible, his dick pulsing with every spurt.

“fuck—there’s so much,” he mutters, dazed, watching it leak out, and he doesn’t stop—grinds up slow, pushing his cum deeper, obsessed with it. “gonna fuck it in you—shit—keep it all inside,” he says, thrusting again, sloppy and weak, like he can’t let a drop go to waste.

you’re trembling, overstuffed, feeling how heavy he is, how that fat cock sits inside you, still leaking, and he’s babbling, “you’re mine—fuck—so pretty like this.” his hands slide up, cupping your face, pulling you down into a kiss—soft, sloppy, spit-slick—gentle now.

he’s panting hard, glasses crooked, blue eyes soft but still hungry. “was that—uh—okay?” he mumbles, nervous again, like he didn’t just fuck you senseless. you laugh, breathless, “way okay—satoru, you’re good.” he smiles, shy but proud, “really? ‘cause—fuck, you’re everything,” and pulls you close, chest to chest, still hard inside you, his cock twitching like he’s ready for round two. “wanna keep going—can’t stop now,” he whispers, kissing your neck, loving you too much to let go.

[madamechrissy]

✞ Forgive me For I have Sinned ✞

✞ Pairings: Priest Gojo x Fem Reader

✞ Word count - 5.7k

✞ Content/Warnings- You keep having dreams about Father Gojo, and he decides to try to save your slutty soul <3 NSFW, sacrilegious, confessional fucking, rosaries as bondage, lots of filling you w/love and light, oral (both receiving) fingering, explicit church sex, reader is a lil bimbo and innocent fr, Gojo has a HELL of a God complex (canon tbh) overall kinky asf

A/N- Booking the tix to hell-who's coming with!? I based off this drabble of mine: Priest! Gojo (you can read it first if you want!) Reader and Gojo are in their mid 20s. Enjoy!

It was hot outside, a scorching summer day, the type that made you want to jump in an icy cool lake naked, but in the sanctuary of this pristine church which is kept rather cool, you still have a drip of sweat beading down your collarbone. You’re wearing a pretty red summer dress, your little hat right next to you in the pew, as you watch him with avid attention.

Father Satoru Gojo.

The entire church is in love with him, enamored by him, there are admiring whispers even amongst the most vigilant catholics, the ones who would judge you for coming not in your Sunday best. They hid it well enough, acting as if they only cared so much because his sermons were so powerful, because he was so young and profound already.

But you know better, and they know better deep down, that Father Gojo was just gorgeous, a face chiseled to perfection, tall and broad shouldered, swoon worthy by all accounts. His husky voice and insane presence that shines brilliantly like a million diamonds certainly helps, but his face itself is so pretty it’s angelic.

When he looks at you with those brilliant blue eyes, swirling like a moody storm, all glittery behind those snowy white lashes? Well you feel…

You’re going to hell.

Last night you’d had this insane dream of him, where he has asked you to serve him on your knees, just as he would offer that eucharist and wine to you, but instead it’s his cum you’re swallowing. And you’re a good, God fearing girl, so, you certainly should not do or think of such things! And worst of all, with your priest, Father Gojo. He has vows too, yet you’d committed much sin already.

Just last night you’d awakened throbbing, having dreamt of pleasuring him, on your knees before him, and you’d been soaking wet and dripping down your shorts, even the sheet had a wet spot. You’d rubbed your swollen little clit in circles, gasping and arching your back, feeling fevered as you committed such sins, as picturing Father Gojo had you climaxing all over your own fingers.

You’d been so ashamed this morning! You’d splashed cold water on your face, staring at yourself in your mirror, shivering as the cool water dripped down your skin, knowing you should stay home, find some new church. You are full of impure thoughts and sin, and it’s all because of him, how could you confide in him that you feel this way, think this way?

What would he do if he knew? Cast you out or…

Stop it.

But as you’re crossing your legs, shifting your hips, you see Satoru Gojo’s full, pouty lips part, his eyes directly on you. You pause then, eyes wide, you must be imagining it, your sin surely is carrying over too far… but you test it, crossing your legs once more, and sure enough, his eyes follow your legs up, between your thighs, surely seeing your panties.

That gives you a fucking thrill you can’t describe, as does him licking his thumb, going to another page as he continues his sermon, women all over are fanning themselves, enamored by him. But perhaps none so much as you, picturing what’s under that cassock, under those white robes he wears, what that long, lithe body would feel like against yours.

You imagine your dream vividly later when he’s giving you the eucharist, placing the biscuit on your tongue as you hold your mouth open on your knees, then you see it, the hunger mirrored in his eyes. You tremble when he brushes a thumb over your lower lip, and your eyes drift to his lap, where you clearly see he’s hard. You gulp it down, looking up at him and taking the wine now.

Father Gojo looks down at you, white hair falling over a brow, finding your beautiful eyes are affecting him as much as your stance on your knees, his thumb finds your chin now, imagining shoving his cock between perfect lips. Surely, you are here to tempt him, to ruin him, you are sin itself, haunting his dreams, making him hard in the middle of church, right in his own service.

You look at it then, his cock under the cassock that’s becoming too tight, before licking your lip, eyes back up to his hungrily. You look like such a good girl, but your eyes tell another story, a story of wanting to get fucked hard, to be filled by him, wanting to have his cum all over your pretty face. He imagines that as the wine drips down your lips now.

Fuck he’s going to hell if he stays around you, surely even he has rules to uphold even if he certainly is God’s chosen. But… perhaps since he is God's chosen, it’s his duty to help a little sinful girl like you. And as you rise, holding his hand, and your breasts brush against his chest, you’re far too close, he vividly pictures yanking them out of that dress, tempting him to no end.

Of course you ask for confessional, and he’s dying at the thought of being so close to you, when all he thinks of is how good you look, how good you smell, and he is left to wonder, do you taste that good? Your pretty neck, your delicate collarbone, your pussy? Surely he should not think such things, but as he looks at you through the lattice of the confessional separating you both, he cannot stop his mind.

“Father Gojo… I fear my confession is most wicked.” Comes your breathy little voice, only serving to make Father Gojo’s thick length harden, picturing what your little moans must sound like when properly fucked.

“Go on, my pr- my child, you may tell me anything.” He says, coughing a bit, because he’d rather call you a pretty little slut, and he has no clue why the devil likes to try him so hard. It’s all your fault, truly. Pretty little thing.

“Okay… but…” You take a breath. “I have dreams of someone fucking me, someone I should not.” You say nervously, and watch him shift in his seat, you can smell his cologne so much in here, making you thirst more for him.

“It’s natural to have thoughts, my child.”

“No, Father Gojo… I’m playing with myself, thinking of him. Of… sucking him, or of him laying on top of me.” You hear Father Gojo making a choking sound, and you panic. “I’m so sorry! I…”

“Ahem, no, no… continue.” Father Gojo’s cock is straining, he can already feel precum sticking to his tip, picuring you touching your pussy, he bets it’s so pretty, bet it tastes so-

Sinful girl, aren’t you?

Surely that’s all this is, not… him wanting to sin! Father Satoru Gojo certainly is perfect, he’s God’s perfect creature, so if he wants this, it must be on you. Sin in a perfect little body with a perfect little face, and a voice that drives him to utter distraction. Surely, Father Gojo must try to save you.

“Father, I cannot stop thinking of him, he’s in all my dreams. What should my penance be, how many hail marys?”

Father Gojo has to stroke himself to adjust his huge, throbbing cock now, as he watches you through the lattice, biting your full lower lip, your head falling back, hair cascading. Hair he wants to pull as he fucks you from behind, making you arch your back to take more of his cock.

“I have to ask how you’re doing it… so that I can tell you your penance, so that I may try to save you.” He says, husky now, and you whimper softly, shifting on the bench, your pussy throbbing around nothing, picturing his cock filling you.

“How I do it, Father Gojo?”

“Yes, it’s… important to confess.”

“Well, I take my fingers, and I find my pussy with them, I roll them around my clit over and over, I get so wet that they slip- Father are you okay?” Satoru can’t stand it, he’s stroking his bare cock under his robes, resting his head against the wall, struggling not to cry out as he’s pumping.

“Ahem… indeed I am. So you finger your little pussy then?” At his words you’re a blushing mess, breaths coming more rapidly, your hands gripping the bench, dying for friction as you’re soaking your panties.

“Y-yes.”

“Do you slip your fingers in?”

“I… no! Um… no.”

“And you cum?”

“I… yes. I do cum. Imagining him.” You’re watching those robes rise and fall, then you know it, Father Gojo is stroking his cock right next to you.

“I see… I think I can help alleviate some of this, perhaps give you some guidance so that you do not afflict yourself so.” You want to touch yourself now, when you hear those breathy pants, your fingers clinging to the lattice.

“Yes, father, I need your guidance.” Cock, fingers, mouth… fuck you’re a full sinner, aren’t you!?

“Then come here, let us have our first attempt at saving you.”

Now you’re standing in front of him in the itty bitty room, face to face with Satoru Gojo, your Priest, and fuck if your nipples don’t tighten up, if your tummy isn’t clenching with desire. You’re nervously fiddling with your hands as he leans back, spreading his long legs as wide as they can in the tight quarters, his glittering blue eyes dilated as he licks his lips, making them glossy.

“You must show me how, and do not fret, sweet girl, it’s through god’s will of course, through me.” Father Gojo says, your breaths come faster as you slip up your sundress, and his eyes hungrily drink the sight of your bare thighs in. He leans forward, sliding those panties down, eyeing your glistening cunt now, his breath almost hitting it, making you jerk.

“Father… I cannot show you…”

“You can, I am here to help, have no fear.” He notices you’ve drenched your panties, a wet spot formed, sticky little strands of your arousal apparent as he pulls them down, hands touching the smooth skin of your thighs.

You put your hand on your pussy now, the other nervously holding up your dress, and you run your fingers in circles on your clit, crying out softly, as he lets out a low, guttural moan. You’re getting wetter as you play, as his large, sexy hands clench, the veins popping up out of the thin skin, and you’re trembling, imagining his long fingers working you instead.

Satoru is close to cumming as he watches your pretty face, your brows drawing together, your lips parted, eyes so dilated your pupils are taking over, just a thin ring of your iris left. Your lashes are lowered, and his hand stops yours now, as it’s playing with your soppy little cunt, you tremble before him.

“I see, I must help you, guide you. To get this… affliction taken care of. Yes?” You nod eagerly, then Father Gojo pulls you to his lap, and you’re straddling him, your hands sliding up to feel his strong shoulders under his robe, and he is touching your pussy instead, making you whimper. “Need me to save you, pretty little sinner?”

“Please save me. Please. Ah!” Satoru sinks two long fingers deep inside your eager little entrance, you gasp at it as he slips into your gummy walls, drippy and so tight. He’s paused, moaning and looking right into your eyes, you drown in his blue gaze, as your cunt drools down his hand. “Father Gojo… please…”

“Begging for it, are you? So tight, it’s so… have you had anything inside this perfect little pussy?” He huffs, feeling how you’re squeezing his fingers, then he hits some spot that makes you see stars, pumping up and down over and over. You cling to him, eyes fluttering shut. “Answer me, be a good girl for once, would you?”

Good girl for once.

There’s no hope for you.

“Nothing… no one… just you, Father Gojo. Mmm!” You’re covering your mouth as he keeps pumping, and he moans, dreaming of breaking you in all the ways he could, taking your innocence for himself. It’s surely what god is wanting, and who is he but god’s disciple himself? He thrusts those fingers knuckles deep, watching you fall apart over him.

“There, you’re loving this, fingers stretching your pussy, don’t you?” You nod weakly, gushing down his hand, you can hear the squishing wetness of your pussy as he now slides a thumb, rolling it over your clit.

“F-father Gojo!”

“Sinful girl.” He huffs, as you’ve buried your face against his neck, rocking against his hand, those long fingers fucking you so good it’s painful, moaning.

“Mmm! Father Gojo, I will… be good… for you…”

“Will you?” You nod weakly, as Satoru rolls your clit expertly, and you feel the pressure building, you’re panting, ready to combust. “I feel it, you’re so close, aren’t you?”

You’re nodding, hips grinding, now you’re soaking his robes, he’s picturing sliding his cock inside you, breaking you, until your sins are cleansed, and you’re picturing him taking you, defiling you in every way your hectic mind can picture. Both of you are about to cum, you’re not even touching Satoru though, you want to, fuck you want to.

“Close, m’close… p-please…” You’re begging for release, seeing stars as he works your now sloppy cunt.

“I've got you, you can let go, you're safe with me, let me see your sins so I can cleanse them.” He urges you on, bringing you higher and higher with those long, slick fingers.

“Father, it's... I'm gonna... mmm!” You're so close, soaking the sleeve of his robe now. And he's so ready to slide into your eager cunt, looking up at you behind snowy lashes.

“Show me how you sin, let me watch you cum, so I can... help you.” He whispers, and you fall apart then, pulsing around his fingers, and he groans as he watches you, pressing up so deep. You’re gushing so much arousal, he can smell your sweet scent, as you scream out into your little hand, shaking.

Satoru is now sliding his fingers out, you whine, wanting more, especially when he is sucking your juices off his fingers, making you gasp. His cheeks hollow, his eyes fluttering shut as he tastes you, your mouth drops open, breaths making you quicken, your heart pounding in your ears as you try to come down.

Your thighs are trembling over him, entire body lit up from cumming so hard, his snowy lashes cast shadows on his cheeks, before fluttering up, looking at you, your arousal coating his lips. “Oh my God.”

More sinning.

“You’re not being a very good girl.” He admonishes, but then his lips quirk up. “But, you taste too sweet to be bad. Or perhaps you yourself are sin.” Father Gojo whispers to you now, and you’re leaning closer, rolling your hips, making him groan, his hands gripping your little waist as your heat brushes against his cock. “Has it alleviated some of your… need, my child?”

He’s smirking at you, in a way no priest should! You sigh then, shaking your head. “No, Father, it’s only made it worse! You must help me more, I’m afraid now I’m thinking of sinning even more, and who I’ve been dreaming of.” You say then, it’s a whisper, as the room is hot from your breaths, smelling like sweet arousal.

Satoru blinks then, thin white brows going together, jaw clenching. “You’re thinking of fucking your own priest? That is a sin.”

“I know! It’s a terrible affliction. Oh Father, I’m going to hell.” You whisper, blinking back tears, still reeling from the aftershocks of cumming. Satoru arches his hips now, brushing his cock against your pussy, and you nearly scream out, head falling back, exposing your throat to him, and he pictures his hand wrapping a rosary around your neck, pulling tight.

You’ve dreamt of him too!? Surely this must be a sign.

A temptation.

But does he want to fight it? Your taste is all over his mouth now, as he feels your sexy little body against him, his hands brushing against your breasts, watching your nipples perk up. You look at him with intoxicated eyes, lips parted, your tiny hands clinging to his robes as you grind again, and he shudders at how fucking good it feels, your heat on him.

“I see… Well you must come to me tomorrow, and we will have to try harder, to save your soul.” He says huskily, you nod eagerly, as he helps you off him, his cock close to cumming, already twitching, he slides your soaked, ruined panties into his robes, you surely do not need them anymore.

“What if I have another dream father!”

“Do not touch yourself, I will help you when you come in, that’s so we can try to save you, yes?” You nod then, leaning close to his lips.

“Father, is it a sin to kiss your lips?”

“Not if you feel a calling, surely God wishes you to.” He murmurs, and you peck a sweet kiss on his lips, tasting yourself on him, before forcing yourself out of the cramped quarters, body on fire, leaving Satoru to finish stroking his cock, cumming as he shoves your panties against his face.

******

You’re dreaming of him again, of Father Gojo, this time his snowy white hair is brushing against your thighs, his tongue is lapping up all the dripping wetness, his big hands pressing into the plush of your thighs. You wake up throbbing, crying out, seeing how wet you are, as the ceiling fan whirls, failing to cool your overheated flesh. Father Gojo’s fingers made it worse, your affliction!

The next day you’re painfully turned on, pussy aching for more, you followed his instructions and did not touch yourself, instead you forced yourself to go back to sleep, now you’re in the nearly empty church, knocking at the door of Father Gojo’s office. You hear his deep voice speak.

“Come in.” You nervously walk in, you are wearing a shorter blue sundress today, and no panties. You know Father Gojo will see how sinful you are, but when you see his perfect face, and him wearing a thinner, lighter white robe, your pussy is already making your thighs sticky. “My child, lock that door, so we can have privacy… we would not want your confessions judged.”

“Yes, thank you Father.” You lock the door with a click, stepping to him, your heels clicking on the wooden floor of his room. He’s sitting in his chair, fingers steepled, studying your body carefully.

“Do you have any updates on your affliction, pretty girl?”

“Pretty girl…” You’re blushing worse now.

“I feel I must call you what the lord is telling me. Is that alright with you?” You nod nervously, standing before him, the desk separating you. “So how were your dreams last night?”

“They were of you again, Father Gojo. I’m so sorry!”

You cover your face in embarrassment, hearing the soft thumps of his shoes as he comes to you, taking you by your wrists, big hands enveloping the delicate wrists entirely. Your head tilts back to look at him, he’s so tall and big… you’re drinking in the sight of him, his black rosaries hanging across his broad chest.

“You must tell me these dreams, so I may help you. Perhaps they’re some sign that we must see.”

“You… you were licking me, between my thighs.” His nostrils flare slightly, those swirling blue eyes thirsty as he studies you, your thighs shift, his hands still tight on your wrists.

“Your slutty little pussy, I was licking it?” Your pussy is clenching, tummy coiling, at his nasty, sinful words, from such a pure man. You nod then. “I see, there’s no choice, we must see what enacting your dreams does. To try to save you.”

“Y-yes, father, I think so too.” You whisper, hands sliding up and down his chest, watching his Adam's apple bob under that white collar. “Does it ever get uncomfortable, Father Gojo?”

“At times. Take it off for me.” He turns and you undo the collar, when he turns back you see it, his strong neck, the muscles corded, you bite your lower lip, earning him pulling it from your teeth. “This dream, describe it, so I can help you.”

You’re a flustered mess, especially after his fingers yesterday, and all the dreams you’ve been having. You take several breaths now. “You were licking me.”

“More descriptive.” He murmurs now, sitting you up on his desk, shocking you, then he slides up your skirt and smirks, wicked priest that he is, blue eyes darting back up to yours. “No panties, your soul is so slutty.”

“I… well… Father Gojo!” Satoru’s rubbing your clit with his thumb, watching you writhe on his desk now, as he sits back in his black chair, scooting up, his breath right against you.

“You wanted this, to be bare in front of me, didn’t you pretty little sinner?”

“Y-yes, I told you, I’m going to hell, mmm!”

He’s kissing your thighs, your hands enwrap in his silky white hair now, his breaths higher and higher, eying your perfect, glistening pussy. He’s dying to feel you dripping down his tongue, dying to drink your sweet nectar flowing when he’s opening up the lips of your pussy, and you’re making those pretty sounds, you’re so pathetic already, he thinks.

“No, I will save you, don’t you believe in me, pretty? I alone speak for God, I’m the honored one.” His words along with his eyes, those glittery blue storms that see right through you, as if they know your every sin, wreck you now. He surely must be the honored one.

“You’ll save me, I know you will.” You whisper, caressing his cheek now, and he moans softly, just urging you on more.

“That’s a good girl. Now tell me, what did I do in this dream?”

“You licked me, here.” You touch your slit, and he slides his tongue up it now, making you gasp, his tongue is so hot and wet, you’re gushing just from that. Satoru moans, kissing right over your clit before swiping his tongue again. “Father!”

“Shh, lest they hear your sinful mouth.” He whispers, and you clench your teeth, nodding as you watch him, he is placing your feet on either arm of his chair. “And you did not play with yourself?”

“I swear I did not, Father Gojo! I listened. Please…” You arch your hips up, full pussy in his face, and Satoru begins to devour you now, spreading your lips and flicking his tongue on your little swollen clit over and over. You have to slap a hand over your mouth, his rosary is cool against your inner thigh as he works your pussy, just like your dream.

Satoru’s tongue is wicked, for such a holy man you think, and it does the most wicked things to you, no dream could prepare you, even his fingers had not. He sucks your clit into his hot open mouth, moaning as your juices coat his tongue, looking up at you as you cling to his hair with one hand, the other muffling your cry as you feel yourself begin to cum.

Soon you are cumming right on Father Gojo’s face, your thighs shaking on either side of his head, pussy pulsing around nothing, and he’s drinking you up, so lewd in the quiet church office. You’re jerking now, as he leans up, half his pretty face shining with your slick, making you flush at how much there was. Your hand eases down, now just gasping for breath as you look at him.

“And now, my child, how is this affliction?” He whispers, leaning up and laying atop you, pressing you into the wooden desk. You lean up, kissing him once more, earning his moan, tasting yourself all over him, he grabs you by the throat then, long fingers wrapping as he pulls back. “How hard do I have to work to save your slutty little soul, hmm?”

“I’m sorry, Father Gojo. It was so amazing… but I just want more, I fear I’m having more lustful thoughts of you now.” Your hand slides down now, cupping him where he’s thick and hard, and he squeezes your throat harder now, his thumb on your racing pulse.

“And what else is in that little brain of yours? What lewd fantasies of your priest, hmm?”

“Sucking your cock, that’s what.” He groans now, pulling you down and putting you to your knees. You look up eagerly, now Satoru is undressing, and you finally get glimpses of his body, of hard muscles and planes as he’s taking off his robes, now opening his pants for you, revealing a huge, thick cock. You gulp as you drink in the sight of it.

“And do you know what to do, how to serve me, my child?” He asks, you shake your head. “Yet you’ve dreamt it?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Then it’s surely meant to be, hmm? First, slide down your top.” You do as he says, and he moans as he sits back in his chair, gripping your bare breasts. “My God,  you’re made to ruin me. Come here, open your mouth.”

You do as he says, and Father Gojo now guides you by your hair, hair he wraps around his fist, guiding you down on his cock. His curved pink tip is leaking white pearly substance, which you tongue out, earning his grown, his head falling back. You suck him eagerly, swirling your tongue, as his eyes watch you, lidded and dazed, tasting his saltiness and sweetness eagerly.

“You’re far too good at this, are you sure you haven’t been sucking cock, like a sinful brat?” You pull back with a pop, saliva dripping down your lips.

“No, I only want to serve you, Father.”

“Mmm, you’re so precious.” He whispers, before shoving your mouth back on him, and you’re bobbing up and down as he pulls your hair, using it to glide you up and down his length. Your eyes water, your nose starts running as his cock is choking you, your pussy throbbing even more. “Fuck…”

“Father, did you cuss?” You ask, pulling back, with a shy little grin, earning Father Gojo’s smirk.

“I’m allowed to, it’s all God’s words. Now are you finally satisfied, or do we need to go further? Do I need to break your pretty little pussy?” He murmurs, his words like a drug, running his thumb across your lower lip. You nod then, weakly, and his lips part, eyes studying you. “Then ask me, on your knees so pretty, like you’re praying.” He puts your hands in prayer position, blue eyes lighting up.

“Please, break me, Father Gojo.” He pulls you up now, kissing you deeply, tongues so unpracticed and messy, you’ve never really even kissed, but now you feel him, filling you once more with those two fingers as he bends low.

“Turn around and bend over, sweet sinner.” You turn, and now Father Gojo has slid your dress down, leaving you in just your heels, his big hands gliding down every line and curve of your bare body. “I said bend over.”

He smacks you sharply on your backside, making you gasp then whine out, as he presses your upper back between your shoulder blades, your face against his desk. He then takes your hands, putting them behind your back and wrapping them with his black beaded rosary. You whine out at the sensation, he pulls it so tightly it’s digging in, shoving the cross in your palms.

“Hold on to that cross while I fuck your innocent little pussy. Feel it against your skin as I do.” He says, whispering in your ear. You nod, feeling the sharp cool silver digging in, as the beads dig into your bound wrists. “Good girl, spread those thighs.”

You do as he says, and then his tip is in, stretching you, and you’re shivering, breaths coming faster and faster. Satoru shoves his cock inside you, tearing at your little barrier. You cry out at the pain, and he pauses for a moment, moaning, letting you adjust. “H-hurts…”

“Just a moment of pain to fill you with my light.” He murmurs, sinking deeper, and your walls are fluttering around his cock, earning his groan. “You’re so wet for me, aren’t you? Did you want me to take it, your innocence?”

“I’ve w-wanted you, so long… played with… a long ah- time.” He moans now, sliding back out and in, you’re so wet and ready the pain eases quickly, as he takes you from behind now, pulling on your neck, pressing your bound hands firmer against your back, whispering in your ear.

“You sinned so long, playing with this pussy thinking of me?” You nod weakly, hiccuping on a cry as he’s pumping now, taking you over, stretching your tight cunt out so much, your skin burns, but you crave it.

You’re going to hell, surely.

But it seems worth it to be stretched by his cock so well.

“Y-yes… a long time. S-sorry Father…”

“Just Satoru when you cum all over my cock, hmm?” You nod weakly, then he fucks you harder now, thighs smacking your skin, his pelvis smacking your now sore ass cheeks, balls smacking your clit. “Ah, and you’re close already and your first time? You were made for this, weren’t you?”

“Yes, yes, yes, Satoru!” You scream out so loud he’s palming your mouth with his huge hand, taking over your face, shoving his cock in and rolling his hips, making you climax so hard you cannot see. You weakly drool out of your lips onto his hand, as he feels your velvety walls fluttering around him.

You are made for this, for his cock, to take him. Your sweet virgin pussy is getting so filled by Father Gojo’s huge cock, but you’re already taking him so well. Father Gojo knows then that your dreams and his must be for a better purpose, to fuck you and fill you with all of his light, surely. You’re taking him more and more, cumming so hard your cunt is drooling everywhere.

He lets your face go, looking at your fucked out expression, your mouth is wide open, that drool dangling out the corner, your eyes are rolled back, lashes fluttering, your ass arching up for more. You’re such a sinful creature, but he knows your innocence was made for just him, clearly. You would not have anyone else, he would surely see to it.

It’s God's calling.

You’re pounded and stuffed by his huge cock, your breasts bouncing with each thrust, ass jiggling with the force, then Satoru pulls your chin to face him, he’s so fuzzy, you keep shutting your eyes.

“Look at me, my child, now.” He whispers, and you open your eyes, staring into his weakly as his thrusts slow.

“Y-yes, Satoru…” He moans at the use of his name from your pretty lips.

“I’m saving you, through… mmm… God’s wisdom.”

“Thank you, thank you!” You’re trembling, he’s rolling his hips and that tip is dragging on your spot, you struggle to focus on his pretty face, the sun from the blinds filtering in behind his head, and then he looks like an angel. The cross is digging in so much your hand is bleeding just a bit, but you truly couldn’t care, his cock feels too good inside you.

“Do you want me to… fill you…” He’s crying out then, grabbing you so tightly you can’t breathe. “With God’s love… and light?”

“Please, fill me Father- ah!” Satoru starts pumping faster and faster, yanking on your rosary so hard it breaks as he begins to cum, the beads flinging and clattering all over the wooden floor, the cross still digging into your broken palm.

“Going to put… so much… light in you… fill you-” He moans loudly then, and you feel hot liquid pumping inside, bringing you to cum with him, as it coats your walls, hot and sticky. “Feel it? Feel me filling you with it?”

“I do! I do… Father Gojo… feel it.” You whine out, rolling your hips to milk him for every bit of his hot white ropes.

“Oh… Mmm…” He’s pumping more cum inside you now, but you’re so wet and still convulsing, so it’s dripping down his cock with your arousal. Satoru exhales, pulling out and then wiping you up, turning you gently, gulping as he kisses you once more. “You were sent here to destroy me.”

“Father, I’m afraid… I only want to do it more.” You whisper, he groans, cupping your face, as you bring up your hand to him, where the cross has left red marks on your palm, he traces it, the perfect symbol of the cross, with little blood drops streaking. You wince in pain.

“I see, it’s a sign we must continue.” He says, and you nod eagerly, as he holds your hand in his.

“We must, Father Gojo.”

*****

The next Sunday, you’re sitting in the very front for the sermon, watching as Father Gojo is licking a thumb and turning a page, his blue eyes darting to your thighs, today you’re wearing a pink summer dress. Father Gojo has stolen a pair of your panties, he thinks you don’t notice, but you do, so you decide not to wear any again, opening your legs for a moment.

Father Gojo gets a glimpse of your bare, glistening pussy right in that church, making his cock hard in front of a room full of hundreds of his followers. Luckily the brown stand in front of him covers up such evidence, as he looks over at your face when you cross your sexy legs, you smile up at him, blinking innocently.

But you’re not innocent, not anymore, are you? No, you’re the worst sinner he’s tried to save, and he thinks he’ll have to work harder to save you. And when you’re riding his cock in the confessional later that evening, and he’s biting on your breasts, you’re riding him so well, moans muffled in the tiny room, he’s not sure he can save you truly, you’re too full of sin.

Father Gojo enjoys your slutty soul and your soaking wet pussy on him far, far too much, especially filling you with his cum light.

Serving Father Gojo is perfectly fine, it's God's will after all 🙏 Nanami and Geto drabbles coming some time too <3 Reblog if you're a sinner <3

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/60569476

[redcherrykook]

──𐙚 bad boy, good girl / highschool sweet♡s

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content: highschool sweethearts, parking lot blowjob, backshots, they r lovebirds, dirty talk, praise, big cawck JK, creampie, desperate seggs, getting chased by cops, jungkook smokes and sells weed, is tatted UP, oc is a quiet good girl nerd

note from cherry: this request is MONTHS old but i finally wanted to write smth fluffy and sexy, hope u guys like it!!

@rockstryoon 4 u <3

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the backseat of his makeshift hot box, ford taurus smelled like sweat and weed,

fogged up windows that blur the beautiful sunset behind the barrier, strangely, the best views are always on random gas stations or parking lots,

much like this back alley parking spot of a local grocery store,

"fuck angel, just like that" jungkook groans, his full sleeve tatto glistening with wet droplets that spurr from his worked up, heated body

"yeah? like this baby?" you mumble through the soft licks to his fat mushroom head, pink and swollen, leaking with his arousal,

you bat your lashes up at him, squeezing his heart in the meantime,

"so fucking good, imagine everyone knew what a slut you are f'me" clenching around nothing, you shift between his spread, muscular thighs, shoving his length into the back of your throat- fuck, he fills it out so well, hitting the very back

"you take me so well sugar" his hand combes through your long strands, slicking them away from your face while you work your hot mouth on his cock, he moans- a long, desperate moan as the grip tightens

your slick practically pools in your panties, clinging to every crevice but hidden beneath the plaid, light blue skirt

his half lidded doe eyes flicker down to your messy, half opened blouse where your tits sit perfectly, full view of the small swells that fit inside his large, rough palms, your stiff buds standing proudly, begging for his attention,

he reaches down to cup your tit as best he could, groping it, toying with the fabric that covered your nipples while he rolls his fingers over them

Jungkook was nothing like you, and that's certainly why you love him,

While you spend your weekends studying for your advanced literature classes, he drives around selling weed, getting little addtions to his sleeve tatto, skipping classes to go escape the world for a little, only to sneak into your room by your window, roughed up and with his signature leather jacket, a little scratched by the tree he needs to get on to knock down the window he knew would be open,

he loves that about you,

That you're so good.

Nothing about your sweet, innocence smile smells like danger- like a police report or a chance of rebellion,

he adores how you get shy everytime he stares too long, how he never needs to worry about having to pick you up drunk out of your mind but god- does he love how much you care,

how you sit on his lap and clean up his rough skin after a fight, how your eyebrows wrinkle in concern when he lights up yet another cigarette

"m'so fucking close angel" your boyfriend mutters, lip tucked beneath his teeth, the long, shaky digits on his hands yank your messy hair, gripping it so tightly your pussy aches for relief,

like a primal instinct, his hips start rutting into your mouth, chasing, running after the wet, squeezing sensation of your body engulfing his,

It only takes your soft, manicured hands gripping the muscles of his thigh for him to snap, stuttered hips that paint your throat with a coat of his cum,

your almond, ombre nails do it for him every time, how small your palm is compared to him, how feminine you are- smell, look, feel

"good girls swallow sugar" he winks and you roll your eyes, knowing that you loved to taste him,

slightly salty, but it tasted like adoration nonetheless, you lick it off your bottom lip as well, before meeting his exhausted, loving eyes

"c'mere" nose burried in your jumbled hair, he takes a second to inhale your scent, soft, fresh laundry with a hint of cherry that resembles your beloved shampoo,

you can feel his quickened heartbeat, body crunched up in the confined space but you need more, if you could crawl in his skin, you would, needing him everywhere

Jungkook showed you that love is sometimes unconventional, and that's the most beautiful part

"you did so good, so good at sucking dick aren't you?" jungkooks whisper lingers in your ear, husky, still out of breath from his high,

"oh god- please be quiet"

one hit to his chest, another,

"okay, okay sugar, let me make it up to you" he chuckled, catching your wrist before you could throw yet another soft punch to his toned chest,

he manuvers excellently in the small space, manhandling you like it was the easiest thing he'd ever done, until you're plump rear is pointed up, arched back perfectly on display and decorated by the bunched up skirt you decided on today,

"you're so perfect you know? So pretty" you can feel his hands round over your ass, spreading them to reveal your dripping femininity all bare to him, the thong you wore now pooling at your ankles,

"i love these little things, they make you look so sexy" refering to the white thigh high socks that squeeze your thighs, he taps them,

"gguk please" your hips wiggle tesingly beneath his hungry eyes, he can see your hands pressed on the seat and your head hung down in anticipation,

one harsh slap,

"be Patient pretty, you're a good girl right?"

onther one, your skin slowly shifting into being covered in a girlish pink hue,

"are you not hm? are you a little slut after all?"

just as he's about to deliver another harsh spank to your skin, your softened, desperate voice sounds all around him, making his lips elicit a small groan,

"no gguk, i'm a good girl"

"that's right angel, such a good girl" he breathes out and finally joins his body in with yours, his stiff, angryly throbbing length held heavy in his hand,

"feel how big i am?" he teases, watching with his mouth hung open while he guided his tip between your soppy folds, grinding between them to coat himself in your stickiness, he nudges your clit, thrusting against it to watch how you clench around nothing,

"mh.. gguk.." you whine once more, biting down on your lip to not yell in desperation,

"I know pretty, i know" as he says this, his tip aligns with your entrance, pushing all the way in with one go,

"god you're so fucking tiny" jungkook moans, gripping your hips to pull you back against his pelvis, his abs flex at the contact, stiffening once he's nestled his entire girthy cock inside of you,

you could feel everything, his raw, throbbing cock filling out every crevice inside your flush walls, veins bulging against your warmth

he's ruthless with how he fucks into you, giving you no time to adjust to his size that will remain a stretch forever, snapping into you with force as you rock yourself back on him, tumbling out whimpers from your open mouth,

"yeah.. so good, my pussy, all mine, made for my cock" his torso connects with your back, wrapping his muscular arms around your trembling form as he reaches deep into your cunt, embracing the overwhelming pleasure you can only whine, moan, and hope that he wouldn't stop now,

"fuck, fuck baby you're so sexy" its now his turn to whine, he's becoming restless with his movements, moans growing more high pitched and needy with every deep push into you, his lip ring grazed by his tongue over and over again,

it's becoming too much- too much to feel your soft, small back colliding with his half revealed, sweaty torso, feeling your walls squeeze him, sucking him in so well,

Jungkook's head is spinning when he catches a glimpse of your face, red cheeks, shut eyes and a drooly mouth that begs for him, the soft strands of your well kept hair now messily falling over your shoulders and features,

but he completely looses it when you decide to grind your hip up and down, everytime he'd thrust back in, you'd keep him there a little, only pathethically grinding into his burried cock even more,

"no fuck- sugar, if you keep doing that i'm gonna fucking burst" he whines, attempting to stop his rapid orgasm but it feels too good, way too blissed out to really try and stop you,

"gguk please, i need it" you cry out, only now he notices your shaky hand thats poorly trying to play with your clit, he replaces it quickly, drawing tight circles on it while you keep grinding your hips,

"cum for me pretty, let go, make a mess on my cock" begging, pleading with you to make it messy for him, make him feel how you fall apart on him,

and god, you do,

trembling underneath his body that fully surrounds you, your knees buckle as they dig into the fabric beneath you, you practically collapse on your forarms and tits, hips held up roughly by the manly hands that still them,

"oh fuck sugar, you're so cute" he rasps, fighting the urge to cry out of joy, he'a watching your eyes wet with overwhelming pleasure but all you can do is moan, stumble out his name and feel him, feel him coat your insides in his milky release,

he swears in that very moment that he never, ever wants to stop making you feel good

"that's it baby.. that's it.. such a good girl.." jungkook speaks against your skin, his tired hips halting inside of you but he's fully wrapped you in his arms now, kissing your delicate shoulder, stroking your hair to slowly ground the both of you,

you feel his fluttered kisses collide with your skin and the spotty vision slowly returns to a normal one, the sun has set entirely now, leaving a small glow to illuminate your boyfriends face and body,

"hi" you giggle, pecking his nose when faced with the handsome boy again,

"there she is" he smiles, pulling your lips in for a deep, slow kiss

"my little treasure" he mumbles into your lips, words getting lost in what the both of you call only call love, a stronger word not having been invented yet

"okay but, i promise you i could beat jake Paul in a fight" the laugh that rumbles deep inside your boyfriends chest brings a fond smile to your face, even though he's ridiculous, you would never tell him that

"Course you could, look at that bicep"

"Right? I knew i wasn't crazy!" Jungkook exclaimes, flexing the very muscle you're fingers attempt to curl around,

"pass me the lighter sugar"

He takes the small object from you, igniting the weak flame to light up the brown cigarette in between his fingers,

"A blunt? Now?"

Your round eyes widen, melting his poor heart,

while you knew he loved to smoke weed, he doesn't really do it often,

given that he mostly sells it to whoever asked him for it, as long as they were at least sixteen

he hums, taking the blunt to his lips before dragging a long puff of smoke out,

"never a bad time" while smile slightly, he presses a few kisses to your jaw, nuzzling his button nose against yours afterwards,

"Don't we wanna leave soon? It's cold gguk"

he contemplates for a secod, but as his mouth opens to reply, sirens start blaring, a blue, radiant light right with it

never a bad time huh?

"shit" he reacts quickly, putting the blunt out and starting up his engine,

panic sets in, your heart thumps like crazy inside your chest and you could feel the cortisol pouring from your neurotransmitters,

"gguk what-"

"shh baby, buckle up, don't be scared" as he says this, he quickly takes off from the parking lot, speeding down the empty street while the siren keeps blaring, cop car closely following behind,

Jungkook is no stranger to the police and of course, you try to grow acustom to it, but you've never been directly woven into his escapades, not like this

anxiously, your hands fumble with each other, images of your boyfriend in handcuffs flooding your head in rapid time,

"hey, relax pretty, i got you, i got you i promise" he says, almost too reassuringly while reaching for one of your hands,

the other one continues steering, his foot steep on the gas petal but the cops don't back off yet,

"This is scary" you whine, whipping your head back to see you've managed to create a safe distance,

"Well not my first, don't worry" jungkook chuckles and if it weren't for him driving you would punch him in the balls right now,

"Somtimes I forget you're crazy" you tell him in all honesty, relieved when after a good 8 minutes, the road is starting to grow quiet again

"Okay miss perfect" your boyfriend teases, sticking his tongue out childishly

But you don't mind, sticking yours right back out just when you both fall into lighthearted laughter

"I love you sugar" he says, squeezing your thigh softly,

"I love you too ggukie, by the way.."

"Hm?" he hums, licking his lips while his eyes trace the road attentively

"Where are you driving to?"

"Wendys, you need to eat and I know your precious brain must be all jumbled from our little adventure"

you smile, leaning over to kiss his cheek, biting it afterwards

he truly knew you all too well,

"Best boyfriend ever"

Jungkook laughs, nodding in agreement

"Gonna have desert in your bed though"

[sutorus]

THE GRUDGE PROFESSOR!GETO for KINKTOBER 2023!

DESCRIPTION: everybody loves professor geto, and judging by the thousands of viewers you get on every live, a lot of people love you, too. but you and professor geto hate each other. you’ve had enough of his humiliation rituals, and decide to do something about it.

PAIRING: mean professor!geto x student!reader

WC: 5.3k i am an unstoppable beast

WARNINGS: 18+ MINORS DNI. fem reader, afab reader, teacher/student dynamic! adult age gap! (reader is in college, unspecified age), sw/camgirl!reader (don’t like don’t read! no shaming 😤), strong language, dirty talk, pet names (sweetheart, baby, angel, darling), reader calling geto "sir", unprotected relations, creampie, afab reader and terms

A/N: this switches between povs a lot so i hope that’s okay or at least readable lol! also i set out to write him so much meaner but he’s just kind of a simp... enjoy?

reblogs are very much appreciated i'll uwu for u :pleading eyes emoji:

it is said that those who cannot do, teach. 

geto suguru could have done many things. he had the brains, the muscles, the features, the traits. the ambition to succeed in any field he desired. satoru says in a world ruled by the strong there is no place for humility. 

but humility is not why suguru became a teacher. neither is ineptitude. no, he’d become a teacher because it was the right thing to do. 

to use his gifts to help shape new generations, help unlock potentials long dorment and buried deep under years of a lackluster schooling system. geto suguru prided himself, above all, in being a righteous man. 

but japan’s most upstanding citizen for 28 years in a row held a shameful secret. a secret in the shape of you. 

he saw the darkest sides of himself on your face (eyebrows scrunched, eyes shut tightly, jaw slack as you—), your voice (higher in pitch with desperate moans that sound almost scared on the brink of your—), your body (taut and plump in all the right places, glistening with sweat, bouncing up and down on a—). 

when you walked into his classroom that fateful day, the world tilted on its axis. his first thought was, fuck, then, it can’t be, then, most embarrassing of all, i’ll finally find out what she smells like. 

(he did, when you went up to his desk to hand over your test. a whiff of vanilla, argon oil shampoo. too sweet, too youthful. and he’d watched you leave, tennis skirt flowing like a water lily, dick already chubby in his pants.)

it was slowly starting to consume him.

the first time you spoke in class, he knew he hadn’t been mistaken. it was really you. the cute, slutty girl he’d been milking his cock to for the better part of a year. 

god, when you finally said his name. you would never in your wildest dreams think that he’d been imagining those words coming out of your mouth, of him coming out of your mouth, dripping out of you, all over you—

he was losing it. this was not like him. this was never supposed to happen, and he has to put an end to it. 

everybody knew of geto suguru, the prodigy professor. already getting a phd despite not even being 30, handling the administrative slack for the department while managing office hours every day of the week, promoting student events, helping organize spirit weeks and charity drives. 

everything he did, he did for others. those not as capable as him — which was most people. in other words, it was really, really hard to hate him. 

but you damn well managed to. 

and to think you were excited to take his class. everybody told you to run, not walk, to sign up for his twentieth-century Japanese philosophy chair. 

“oh, professor geto is just the best,” they’d said. “he makes it sound so interesting and engaging, he gives the most life changing assignments, he really cares about us.”

bullshit. 

the first time you stepped into that classroom, suspiciously full for a philosophy class, you felt a shift in the air almost immediately. 

and sure enough, professor geto suguru was eyeing you down like he’d just seen a ghost. it made you self conscious, like he’d taken one look at you and decided right then and there you were too dumb for the class. 

it made your blood boil. sure, you stood out a little bit from the actual philosophy majors, but that doesn’t mean he gets to judge you. he literally doesn’t know you!

but fine, first impressions are tricky like that. for all you knew, you could’ve been misjudging him right there. 

however, with each passing day, you grew more and more assured in your suspicions.

you knew the man had it out for you, always calling on you to answer when he knew you weren’t paying attention, never grading your papers above a B even though you did everything right, somehow managing to fucking avoid you during his excessive office hours. 

his looks were almost the most infuriating part of it.

his beautiful face constantly set in that nonchalant look, his big veiny hands always gesticulating, his huge fucking arms straining the fabric of those dress shirts, his ear gauges and man bun contrasting the prim and proper image the rest of him conveyed. 

under different circumstances, he’d make your mouth water. under different circumstances, you’d imagine him going down on you all night long, singing praise about how good you taste and how tight you are. 

but in this timeline, you absolutely loathed him. and he loathed you too. why? you didn’t know. 

but you knew for a fact that it was personal. 

“i don’t care,” megumi said around a mouthful of meatball, cutting your monologue short. “i’m not doing it.”

you sigh, melting into your chair. “megumi. please. i am literally begging you, i just need some hard evidence so i can go report his ass.”

he eyes you curiously. “report him for what?”

“i don’t know. bullying? sexism? whatever the hell his problem is,” you pick at your food, huffing in annoyance. 

“you’re overthinking it,” megumi replies, dismissively. 

“okay, how about this,” you lean forward, putting an elbow on the table. “if you write the assignment for me, i’ll get your dog that expensive halloween costume you’ve been wanting.”

megumi lifts an eyebrow. 

“you need to get one for each,” he says simply. 

you grin. “deal.”

suguru really does give it his all to make your life with him a living hell. pulls out all the stops, years of friendship with gojo satoru paying off as he comes up with ploy after ploy to get you to drop his class. 

it feels bad, being mean to you. but for the hidden, twisted parts of him, it feels delicious. 

watching you huff and puff, all hot and bothered when he corrects your answers on the spot. watching you nibble on your pen at the increasingly difficult exams he hands out. letting himself wonder if you missed a stream this week because you were too busy cramming for a make up test. 

he knows he’s pushing you to your limit, and even if there’s some sort of sick satisfaction in seeing you so agitated at his hands when it’s usually the other way around, he doesn’t enjoy upsetting you. 

the problem is, suguru knows it’s either he gets his shit together or he continues tormenting you, and, well. 

the spirit is willing but the flesh is so, so weak. 

he knows it’s getting worse, too, because he’s not infatuated by you only when you’re undressing on his screen, or all dolled up in class. 

when you tie your hair up in a ponytail, when you suck on a hangnail, when you lick your thumb to erase a smudge on your paper… all of it drives him wild. 

he can’t teach with a permanent half chub anymore. this has to end, one way or another. 

you sit down in front of your computer, adjusting the camera before turning it on. soon, viewers start trickling in, little dings notifying you of their messages. 

you smile, waving at the screen. 

“hi everyone! i know i’m a little bit late today, i hope you can forgive me…” your eyes scan the chat, giggling at the compliments. “‘you look tired, sad face’, ah. i’m sorry. i guess i’ve been a little stressed lately.”

your robe falls over your shoulder as you readjust your position. a few donations come in, accompanied by supportive messages.

“you guys are so nice. it’s not a big deal, it’s just this dude giving me a hard time at college.” 

you absentmindedly trace your collarbones, reading what your viewers are saying. 

“you’ll kill him for me? that’s so sweet,” you joke. “nah, it’s not a student. it’s a professor. exactly, ynlover444, a grown ass man picking on me!”

you sigh deeply, allowing your body to finally unwind and relax on your chair. you prop a knee up against the armrest, giving your viewers a little peek in between your legs. you’re wearing one of your favorite sets, trying to get in the mood after the week you’ve had. 

“ugh, sometimes i wish i could just…” you suck in a breath, clenching your hand into a fist before releasing it. “sit on his face and get him to shut up, you know?”

you laugh at the countless me firsts that flood the chat, bringing a finger to your lip. 

“anyway! enough about that horrible man,” you reach beside you to grab a box your viewers know all too well by now. “let’s get to the fun stuff, shall we?”

as always, satoru is no help. 

“why don’t you just fuck her?” he asks, eyebrows arching above his sunglasses. “ya gotta just fuck her.”

suguru clears his throat before taking a drag of his cigarette. “i’m not fucking a student.”

satoru shrugs. “everybody does it. besides, you basically already do.” 

suguru wonders, not for the first time, why he ever told his friend about his situation. about your streams, that he’d stumbled upon randomly and innocently and had gotten instantly hooked, about you barging into his classroom like an angel at hell’s gates, about you you you you, everything about you. 

“that won’t fix anything.”

satoru clicks his tongue, swirling his soda inside the can.

“poor, naive suguru. did you not just tell me about what she said on her stream?" and yes, regrettably, suguru had told him. "it’ll fix everything.”

suguru doesn’t even let himself consider it, except he does.

at this point it’s no secret that he’s thought about being inside you, but now that you’re here it’s just too real and too risky and completely fucking wrong. 

it goes against the entire life he’s built for himself. 

he’s lost. he wants you so fucking bad, wants you close, wants you so far away, wants to ravage you and never have to see you again. 

it’s fight or flight. if he got you alone, it could go either way, he realizes that. 

suguru wonders what part of him will win by the end of all of this. 

your heels clack on the linoleum floor of the hallway as you approach professor geto’s classroom, megumi’s graded paper clutched tightly against your chest. 

the thing about megumi is that he's a star student. he’s never gotten anything below an A on any of his essays, makes the dean’s list every year, tutors his seniors. so the big, bright B- on the page tells you everything you need to know. 

damn right it’s personal. 

you don’t even bother knocking, slamming the door open while still trying to contain your indignation. 

geto is sitting at his desk, piles of papers sprawled on top. he has his white dress shirt rolled up to his elbows and a surprised look on his face that would be cute if you didn’t want to slap it right off. 

he says your last name like he’d been expecting you all his life.

“to what do i owe the pleasure?”

your jaw clenches as you take a few loud steps towards him. you slam megumi’s paper down on his desk, leaning over. 

“professor geto, i demand an explanation. a real one, this time.”

the man takes a deep breath, lips twisting disapprovingly. he smoothes the paper over.

“as i already explained in my notes right here, the structure is fine, but i couldn’t help but miss a more in-depth analysis of the four nodal concerns of philosophy that we talked about in class, such as—“

“no,” you interrupt. “just no. you know you’re bullshitting me and i’m sick of it. this paper deserved an A!”

“miss—“

“what’s your problem with me?” you spit out. your eyes finally meet and there’s nothing in geto’s that could answer your question. your chest is heaving, lips wobbling and hands shaking, trying to contain your anger. 

geto clears his throat, visibly uncomfortable. “like i said, your paper could’ve used a bit more—“

“no it fucking couldn’t have, because it’s not my fucking paper, it’s fushiguro’s fucking paper and the only reason you gave it a B is because i was the one who handed it in!”

he sits up, straightening his posture.

geto sounds austere when he asks, “do you realize how much trouble this could be for both of you if i reported it?”

you can’t believe this man. he’s been picking on you the entire semester and when you finally confront him about it this is what he chooses to focus on. 

“are you fucking kidding me?” that earns you a stern look from him, eyebrow raising taller than that fucking high horse he sits on. “professor geto. what did i ever do to you?”

there must be something earnest in your voice because geto sighs, getting up from his chair. 

he walks until he’s standing in front of you, leaning against his desk and crossing his feet. 

“do i bother you?” is all he says. it surprises you. 

you jut your chin out. “as a matter of fact, you do.”

the man hums. 

“i bet that’s really difficult for you,” he speaks like he’s sympathetic, like he understands. he sounds almost sheepish when he says, “i bet sometimes you wish i would just shut up.”

you blink rapidly. “no, it’s not like that. it might shock you but i genuinely do enjoy your class, it’s just that—“

“or maybe you wish you could shut me up,” he continues, ignoring you. “maybe going as far as to say that you could… sit on my face to get me to shut up.” 

your mouth goes dry.

before your brain can fully process the shift in the atmosphere or the fact that your professor is maybe possibly hitting on you, you realize where those words are coming from. 

it’s what you said. about him. on stream. right before fucking yourself on your hot pink dildo. 

you can’t speak, can barely even look in his general direction. 

you had really thought things couldn’t get any worse. had barged into his office with nothing to lose, almost hoping he would cordially invite you to remove yourself from his class permanently. 

but now? now you have no idea what’s going to happen to you. 

“i…” you start, the words dying in your throat. geto chuckles, crossing his fat fucking muscly arms across his chest. 

he says your name, low and syrupy. “is it true? you’d like to?”

you can feel your face flush hot in embarrassment, and you shift your weight from one foot to the other, wishing desperately that you’d never walked into his classroom. 

you have half the mind to apologize to him, right now.

“it’s just a figure of speech,” you try. geto clicks his tongue. 

“what a shame.”

your wide eyes shoot up and meet his. “w-what?”

he smiles sweetly. 

“it’s a peace offering. you can take it, or we can forget you ever said anything,” and isn’t he just so slimey, actually, when he’s the one who brought it up. he had said it, and now… 

now you can finally allow yourself to look at him.

those delicious, broad shoulders, the ever-present bored look, the stubborn fringe that falls out of his bun. 

you could so easily forget what you came here for. 

“so, like, a truce?” you ask, taking a daring step forward. geto nods, uncrossing his arms. “and you stop treating me like i’m fucking dumb?”

he tilts his head. “i think you’re a very smart young lady. determined. entrepreneurial…”

“geto—“

“professor geto,” he corrects you, hands reaching out to graze your hips. “you’re intelligent. i just like to push my students.”

you both know that’s a lie, but it’s okay, because now you know exactly why you got under his skin and it makes your own burn. 

you run a hand down the line of buttons on the front of his shirt, looking up at him through your eyelashes. 

“then… push me, professor.”

it’s so incredibly lame, the porn line you hit him with, but to your surprise it works, a low groan rumbling deep in geto’s chest. 

he swiftly closes the distance between the two of you, grabbing both sides of your face and crashing your lips together. 

it’s ravenous, the way geto dips his tongue inside when you gasp in surprise. you moan against his mouth, slipping a leg in between his two. 

he’s half hard already when he rubs up against your thigh. 

geto picks you up with ease and sets you down on his desk, and it’s so fucking cliché, the papers crinkling under your weight, the pens clattering to the floor. but it turns you on beyond belief. 

you share a few open mouthed kisses, an exchange of tongue and moans and hot breaths between your lips. 

if you were honest with yourself, you'd admit that you've fantasized about it before. a silly idea, at first, something you'd just blurted out mid-stream.

but that little seed had been planted, and when you got yourself off that night, you might've imagined for a moment that it was your mean professor's cock squeezed tight inside you, making you come undone.

geto slips his hands under your skirt, grabbing your ass and pulling you closer to him. you line up your crotch with his, moving your hips in tight little circles that make the both of you groan. 

his fingers are tugging your underwear down, down, the soft patch sticking to your gooey cunt. he lets the soaked fabric dangle from your ankle, grazing the back of his knuckles on your core. 

“mmm, fuck,” geto breaks the kiss, swallowing. his pretty lips are flushed and shiny, parted around his panted breaths. “you always get this wet or am i special?”

he’s smirking, the bastard, leaning back in to kiss your neck.

god, you smell so good, like lotion and perfume and sunshine and sin. 

“shouldn’t you know?” you sneak your fingers up into his bun, pushing your chest against him. he works his lips expertly on your skin, using just the right amount of teeth, of pressure.

geto hums against your neck, kissing a line up to your jaw. he snakes a hand under your skirt, thumb pressing down hard to rub on your clit, two fingers slipping inside. 

you immediately clench, a soft, drawn out mewl leaving your lips. 

the slide of his fingers against your walls send a chill down your spine, filling you up so perfectly. you feel the thin skin at your opening stretch around him, burning at the friction as his fingers plunge in and out of you. 

“god, look at that,” he rests his forehead on your shoulder and pulls the hem of your skirt up. “do you hear that, baby? so fucking wet for me.”

you whine, hands cupping his jaw so you can kiss him again. 

“please…” you mumble against his lips. “more…”

you wonder how much of what you can say he's heard before, which exact words have left your lips and sent him over the edge. it makes you self conscious, oddly, like he can see right through you.

not-so-kindly ignoring your request, geto removes his fingers, bringing them up to his mouth.

you watch as his eyelids flutter in pleasure, a hum rumbling low in his throat. 

he looks so good like this, just edible.

you pull him in for a kiss before he can, relishing in the surprised little noise he lets out. your knees are wobbling, feet dangling from your seat as you taste yourself on his tongue. 

he swallows your moan hungrily, forearms trembling with the need to hold back.

geto knows this is wrong, so wrong on so many levels, puts both your positions in jeopardy, it makes him feel perverted and primal and so fucking alive. 

he’s been watching you fuck yourself on those silly toys for god knows how long now, knows every spot that makes your hips buck, knows exactly how to make you cream like a debased slut around a cock. 

it should feel unfair, how easy it’s going to be for him to make you cum, only if it weren’t for the fact that your mere presence is enough to get him hard as fucking diamonds. 

“tastes good, huh?” he whispers, thumb caressing your chin. you nod, smiling devilishly. 

“tastes better on your tongue, prof.” 

geto groans low like a starved animal, holding your throat in his hand with a loose grip. he’s overwhelmed, that much shows, not knowing what to do with you or where to start. but there’s one thing he’s sure of. 

he presses one last kiss to your spit-slick lips before dropping to his knees. 

you can hardly believe it. sulky, big bad bully professor geto suguru on his knees for you. you prop a foot up on his desk, your sole skidding on a piece of paper. 

“scoot closer, please,” he asks, cordial even like this. you bring your ass to the edge of the desk, your dripping pussy hovering over his face. 

he looks so good under you, hair already disheveled, a delicious tent in his tailored pants. 

you tuck the hem of your skirt into the waistline so you can watch as he sucks your clit into his mouth, moaning like he’s fucking relieved. 

you throw your head back, fingers buried in his silky hair as geto’s fingers find their way back inside. 

he fucks them in and out of you lazily, pushing out strings of slick. geto slurps it all up, spreading your wetness all over your clit and sucking it back in his mouth. 

god, his cock is straining in his pants but he doesn’t dare touch it, can’t until he’s inside you. you taste like fucking heaven, like all his fantasies, like he always knew you would. 

you’re whining softly, bucking your hips into his face almost shyly, as to disrupt his pace.

you sound so much better in person, although he can’t wait to have you moaning into his ear without needing the headphones. 

“god, this perfect pussy,” geto mumbles into you, his breathing labored. he runs a thumb all over your cunt, gliding it over your soaked lips. “been dreaming about it for so long.”

“yeah?” you ask. “tell me. tell me how you stroke your cock to me every night.”

and every night might be overselling it. geto is a busy man. 

but your words do make him realize that no girl he’s had since he found your stream has satisfied him quite like you do. your flirty smile, your moans, the way they sometimes turn into uncontained giggles as you stuff your pretty cunt with a dildo. 

so he tells you, blush spreading across his cheeks. 

“fuck, i do,” he tongues your clit, tracing lazy circles. “i do. just look what you do to me.“

and there it is, that cheeky, slutty giggle, directed at something he said this time. 

he takes his fingers out, spreading your opening with both thumbs as he licks you all over. 

geto gulps, tongue dipping inside of you, sucking your clit into his mouth, sliding down to your entrance, every clench of your pussy pushing out more and more slick for him. no one's ever eaten you out as thoroughly as this.

“oh, fuck, sir,” it slips out casually, the way it would were you talking to any other professor. but given the circumstances, you revel in the deep moan geto buries into your cunt. 

you trap your lips between your teeth to keep anything else from tumbling out, but it’s useless.

“please, sir, i’m so close—so close just keep doing that, yeah just like that—“

“fuck,” he mumbles, pulling away to suck in a desperate breath. then, “fuck,” sultrier, right into your core. 

you grind against his face, finding purchase in his hair as a final few flicks of his tongue push you right into the crest of a mind-numbing orgasm.

it’s so good, so much better than when you're alone. the friction so perfect, his long, thick fingers plugging you up last minute to viciously fuck into you. 

“god…,” you breathe out, legs trembling as he runs his hands up your thighs. 

his chin is glistening, bubbles of spit and cum gathering in the corner of his mouth. he looks so good like this, like he was meant to please you and nothing else. 

geto feels like a fucking teenager, so goddamn close to busting in his pants at the sight of you. his dick hurts, balls tight and the head throbbing where it’s tucked into his underwear. 

“please, sweetheart,” he can’t hold himself back any longer, slick fingers already undoing his belt. 

you get to work on his zipper, pulling his pants down along with his underwear and damn. 

you figured he was big. he was a tall man, broad shoulders, shoes the size of a yacht, and the bulge in his trousers was a pretty good indication. but it couldn’t have prepared you for the sheer size of him. 

longer than it is thick, cleanly shaven, pretty veins and ridges and standing angry red in attention. god, you want it inside you. 

he notices you looking. 

“do you need more prep? i can—“

“no, fuck no, suguru, need it inside me now,” you wrap a hand around him and he hisses, caging you in with his arms on the desk. 

he huffs out a laugh, blowing the fringe framing his face. “what happened to sir?”

you kiss down his jaw, squeezing right below his tip. 

“sorry, sir,” you say against his ear. “are you going to punish me for my slip up?”

geto groans, pulling on your hair hard and making you face him. 

“take your shirt off for me,” he instructs, and you obey, maneuvering around his tight grip on the back of your head. 

his spirit is so unbreakable.

here you are, teasing him, coaxing him to rough you up, push you around, relieve both your frustrations properly once and for all, but he’s just so… adoring, and hungry, and just so irrevocably into you, and you find out that’s so much better. 

geto relents his hold on you to unclasp your bra, cupping your breasts and sucking a nipple into his mouth. you whine, caressing his hair. 

“so fucking perfect,” he massages your tits, looking mesmerized. 

“yeah? they haven’t gotten old to you yet?”

he laughs, so cute, and you can barely remember that just hours ago you hated the sight of him. you stroke his cock up and down, squeezing harder at the tip trying to milk all that delicious pre he’s been wasting on the inside of his boxers. 

“no, f-fuck—never gonna get old,” he pushes your boobs against each other, imagining his cock sliding in between them, his balls nestled underneath, his load blown all over your pretty face—

fuck, he’s gonna cum if he keeps going like this. 

he rips your hand away from him, ignoring your knowing smirk and pushing his tongue into your mouth. 

“i’m gonna fuck you now, okay, sweetheart?” you moan, nodding, shimmying your hips so he can have the perfect angle. 

a big hand clasps your thigh to wrap your leg around his hips as his tip pokes around your entrance.

you’re whining in anticipation, clenching around nothing, nails clawing his clothed back. 

when he slips in, it feels like coming home. you’re like warm honey around him, cunt pushing him out but clinging to him at the same time, with every stroke. it’s fucking maddening. 

“ahh, g-god, sir, ‘s too big—“ you swallow around the lump in your throat, feeling the tip of his cock in your guts. 

he’s huffing, concentrated, bullying his cock into you inch by inch with shallow thrusts until he finally bottoms out. 

“fuuuuck, angel,” he grips your waist with both hands, like he could just fuck you up and down his length if he wanted to. “took me so well, look at that.”

you do, dropping your heavy head to look at where you’re connected. you clench around him and he whines, pulling out almost all the way before slamming back in. 

the metal legs of the desk skid on the floor, papers and pens raining down to the floor as geto starts roughly plunging in and out of you. 

you let out little ah, ah, ahs in time with his strokes, the ache deep in your stomach finally starting to fade. 

“f-fuck, you’re gonna—topple us over, suguru, go easy—“

“can’t,” he chokes out, wheezing as he pushes his cock in as far as it can go. 

he gives shallow little thrusts, his length straining the fine skin at your entrance so good, hitting a spot inside you over and over that makes your head spin. 

your fingers twist into the back of his shirt, pulling him in to whine right into his ear.

he’s so big, stretching you out so thin that you feel every ridge and vein, can feel both your heartbeats inside your cunt. 

“ohhhhh fuck, fuck sir, please please touch me—“

he grabs your ass before you can even finish your sentence and presses you flush against his hips. 

geto’s tip is kissing your cervix now, his balls sticky and creamy against your ass, your clit grinding against his pubic bone as his thrusts violently shake the both of you. 

“fuck, wanna do it so fucking loud but i can’t, we can’t, what if someone walks in—“

you moan wantonly at his words, expecting to be chided, but geto seems to love it despite his worries because his cock kicks deliciously inside of you.

“look how loud you’re being, listen to yourself,” he grunts out, the belt pooled around his feet clanging with every stroke, the absolutely lewd squelches from your pussy resonating in the entire classroom. 

you two sound so good together, better than you’ve ever had, better than he could’ve ever imagined. 

“so loud, so wet on this cock,” he spits out, sweaty strands of hair sticking to his forehead. “do those toys make you feel this good? this full? answer me.” 

“hahh, n-no, no one but you,” you can’t think straight, head thrown back in pleasure and eyes squeezed shut. “only you, sir.”

geto whines like he’s aching, pounding into you mercilessly and making a mess under the two of you. 

“fuck yeah, that’s right. i’m making you feel good, baby?”

“mm-hm,” you mumble, tongue lolling out. geto's going so hard now, has you pressed up so tight against him, body caging you in, fucking every breath and thought right out of you. “close.”

“yeah?” he speeds up his effort slightly, and you’re sure he’s going to have desk-edge shaped bruises on his thighs tomorrow. “gonna cum on my cock? cream all over me?”

you let out a long, drawn out whine, tits bouncing up and down with the force of geto’s thrusts. 

“let me see your face when you cum, darling,” he cups the back of your neck, breathing hard through his nose. “keep your eyes on me. that’s right, sweetie, so good, you’re doing so good.”

you preen at the praise, feeling suddenly self conscious with the man's laser focus attention on you. 

you coo out little noises, growing in desperation, holding onto his biceps for dear life as his hips piston in and out of you. 

your pull him into you closer and rub your clit against him, grinding helplessly as your orgasm creeps closer and closer. 

the moment you open your eyes and meet his hungry ones, you’re cumming. your walls spasm around him, making the glide of his dick impossibly wetter with your release. 

geto chokes on a sound, his cock hostage of your pussy’s vice-like grip as your greedy cunt milks him for all he's got. 

“f-fuck, baby, look so pretty when you cum, always look so fucking sexy so fucking perfect that you’re gonna make me bust, i’m gonna cum for you god gonna cum inside, gonna blow my load all deep inside this pussy—“ 

it’s the most desperate he’s ever sounded, speaking through clenched teeth and a soaked mouth. you moan in return, letting him use you. 

he slams his forehead down your shoulder when he thrusts once, twice, three times and cums, his balls drawing up so tight that it hurts. he fucks it into you with shallow thrusts, panting, almost wheezing in pleasure. 

it feels like it lasts forever, his orgasm. like all of the blood in his body goes straight to his balls to push out the thickest, most satisfying nut of his life into the prettiest girl he's ever seen.

you feel it fill you up so good, hear it, too, squelching and sticking to both of you. 

geto’s body slumps against yours and you stay like that for a while, catching your breaths. there’s cum sliding out of you, down his balls, onto some poor student’s essay you have your ass on top of. 

when he pulls out of you, he takes a beat to watch it spill out of you some more, his face and chest red, his smile groggy. 

“god, this,” geto has to fight the urge to say thank you for letting him fuck your brains out. he swallows. 

“yeah,” you blink away the haze, feeling sore and fucked out. “this.”

“…is probably going to happen again, right?”

he knows it shouldn’t. he knows it will.

maybe both parts of geto can learn to coexist.  

you grin, touching the tip of your tongue to his lips. 

“well, i still haven’t made good on that promise of sitting on your face, have i?” 

the next morning, in class, the students erupt in happiness at the news that professor geto had an accident that ended up ruining most of last week’s graded papers he had in his possession. 

so he decided to give everyone an A for their troubles. 

and finally, finally, there was peace in the world.

[sweetshuga]

𝑭𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒂𝒔𝒊𝒆𝒔 𝟐 ✧ 𝑪.𝑺

𝒃𝒔𝒇.ᐟ𝒄𝒉𝒓𝒊𝒔! Giving him head after midnight. "That’s it... Jus’ like that–oh, fu—ck, you’re takin’ me so deep."

𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒂. «𝑭𝒊𝒓𝒔𝒕 𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒕» «𝑻𝒉𝒊𝒓𝒅 𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒕» «𝑭𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒕𝒉 𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒕»

𝒘𝒄. 𝟐.𝟒 𝒌

𝒂𝒏. My bad for the wait, and since there were quite a few requests for a part 2, here it is my pretty gals<333

𝒑𝒔𝒂. English is not my first language! || Every part can be read as a standalone!

The car ride back was full of laughter – as per usual, and you had switched seats with Matt since he was the one driving, but as you talked with Nick, you couldn’t help but notice how awfully quiet Chris was.

Both Nick and Matt seemed to notice that his usual outbursts of energy were gone, somehow. He was fidgety and looked like he was in agony. His expression was one of frustration, and he shifted in his seat every few minutes, avoiding eye contact.

"You okay?" Matt asked, glancing briefly at Chris before shifting his gaze back to the road.

Chris hummed, totally unenthusiastic as he replied. "Yeah, just..." He breathed out, "Jus’ a bit tired." 'Classic, chalking it up to exhaustion, great job, totally believable Chris.' He thought to himself as he shifted again, letting out a quiet annoyed groan.

Matt nodded, "We’ll be home soon," he said reassuringly. Even though he didn’t quite buy the excuse, he knew better than to ask more questions since Chris seemed genuinely frustrated so he simply decided to drop it for now and focused on driving.

𝟏𝟓 𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒖𝒕𝒆𝒔 𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒓

The moment Matt killed the car engine, Chris practically hopped out of the car and rushed inside and straight to his room, calling out to you three about needing the bathroom or something along those lines.

He immediately got inside his bedroom and locked the door for good measure and plopped on his sofa, letting out a small shaky breath.

"Fuck, what’s wrong with this thing," he mumbled to himself – referring to his rock hard dick. "Can’t fuckin’ believe this shit," he groaned before quickly pulling down his sweats until mid thigh. His hefty length sprung free, bobbing obscenely before he wrapped his long fingers around it.

Chris let a satisfied moan slip before remembering that you and his brothers are probably inside the house by now so he opted to bite his lips to suppress those needy moans.

He didn’t even need any lubricant thanks to all his precum oozing out of his tip. He slowly spread his dripping arousal all around his shaft before starting to move his hand faster.

Chris’ hand moved feverishly over his aching cock, the head already raging red from neglecting it for so long. He leaned back against the backrest as he stroked himself faster, groaning lowly and mumbling profanities.

"Fu—ck, feels s’good," he whispered to himself as he imagined your hand jerking him off instead. His eyebrows knitted together and eyes closed shut as his head fell back, thumping softly against the wall.

He brought his free hand to his cock, palming the tip as his right hand moved faster, gripping himself a bit more.

He was starting to have difficulty staying quiet.

"Oh fuc--- fuuuck," he let out a quiet chocked moan as he neared his release rather quickly. His hips jerked and thighs trembled as he worked himself closer and closer to that euphoric feeling. The band in his abdomen was taut, ready to snap any moment and one particularly hard swipe of his palm on his tip did it for him.

Oh, fuck, he was coming, and a lot at that.

Milky rope after rope of cum shot out of his tip, landing on his hand as he finally let out a moan. The sound of unadulterated pleasure and satisfaction slipping past his lips involuntarily. His hips bucked slightly with each rope, bliss etched on his features as he stroked himself slowly to prolong his high.

After a few seconds, the aftershocks finally subsided and his body slumped against the sofa. His breathing was still ragged as he reached over for the tissue box and took a few tissues before wiping his hands with it. Tossing it in the trashcan, he finally acknowledged what he just did.

Post-nut regrets.

He couldn’t believe he got rock hard, jerked off and came to fantasies of his own best friend. "What did I just do?" He mumbled to himself, putting his head in his hands as he groaned in annoyance.

This is so not helpful, not at all.

𝑨 𝒇𝒆𝒘 𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔 𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒓 – 𝟏𝟐:𝟒𝟑 𝒂𝒎 (𝟎𝟎:𝟒𝟑)

Matt and Nick both had (surprisingly) gone to bed and were already snoozing away, but Chris was still playing games on his computer. Still hung up and worrying over his newfound feelings and desires.

He sighed and slumped back against his gaming chair when his character died in the game. The screen showed a slight reflection of the uncertainty etched all over his face.

"This is bad—" "What is?" He jumped in his chair, not having heard you enter his room.

His eyes were wide and a hand on his chest, "Don’t you fucking know how to knock? You fuckin’ scared me, nearly killed me bruh." You raised your eyebrows at the defensive tone he was using, awfully worked up over the scare like he was hiding something he should be guilty of.

You chuckled and walked over to him, standing behind him as you leaned down slightly to look at what he was playing.

'Fortnite? Typical him.' You thought as you unconsciously moved closer to him, your chest almost flush against the back of his head.

Chris froze, the proximity was dangerous and he could feel himself slowly getting a boner.

Not again.

He shifted in his seat, his tongue darting out to wet his lips in an unconscious habit. He swallowed thickly, his breath hitching when you practically pushed your breasts against the back of his head when you reached for something on his desk.

"C-can you like move away? You’re too close, kid." He cursed internally at the slight stutter and overall nervousness exuding from his tone and words.

You took the half-full can of Pepsi from his desk, "Can I have a sip?" Chris nodded, "Yeah, jus’ hurry and get out and go to bed or sum’." You took your sip and put it back on his desk, brushing your breasts against the back of his head yet again.

Just as you were going to say something, your gaze dropped down to his lap. Your eyes widened like saucers when you saw the clear bulge in his shorts.

Chris’ gaze dropped down as well, seeing what you were seeing, and his face paled. "Fuck," he groaned aloud as he quickly put his hands over his boner.

His head shot up and he looked at you with nervous eyes, his lips slightly parted to say something, but closed as quickly, not knowing what to say.

After a few awkward seconds, he finally mustered up the courage to talk. "I can explain."

Cliché.

What could he say otherwise? That your boobs grazing his head made him act like a hormonal teenager? Or that he sooo desperately wants to bend you over his desk and—

"Should I help...?" The question hung in the air, dispersing all thoughts from his head.

Chris stared at you for a solid minute, long enough to make you regret your words and just as you were about to backpedal, he spoke again. "What?" He asked dumbly.

You fidgeted with the hem of your thin cotton sleep shorts, suddenly feeling nervous as well as you cleared your throat and spoke in a quieter voice. "I mean, I can help... should I? It looks painful..." your voice trailed off when your eyes darted down to his boner yet again, now covered by his hands.

"Actually, that– never mind, I don’t know why I just asked you that, sorry I’ll uh... I’ll get going, good night." You rapidly babbled, looking away, and turned your heel before starting to walk away.

"Wait!" Chris shouted, causing you to jolt in surprise and halt in your step.

You slowly turned around and tilted your head to the side in pure bewilderment. "Uh... Yeah? What’s got your panties in a twist?" You tried to joke, but even a toddler would be able to tell that you were extremely flustered.

"I... Uh... Just–just come here will ya?" He whispered, his voice uncharacteristically quiet as he cleared his throat and looked away. "Please?" He looked at you again, this time with clear need in his eyes that made your knees weak.

You found your body unconsciously moving towards him and before you knew it, you were standing beside him.

Chris turned his chair to face you fully and gently grasped your wrists, pulling you so you were standing in between his spread legs. He looked up at you, his pupils dilated and pink lips parted slightly as his chest heaved slowly with ragged breaths. His gaze drifted to your lips and back to your eyes a couple times.

"I don’t mind, you know... your offer to help," he whispered, his gaze was locked on your lips the whole time before finally making eye contact again. His eyes, alone, plead for you to go through with your offer.

𝟓 𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒖𝒕𝒆𝒔 𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒓

You sat on your knees on the ground, a pillow under your knees for more comfort. Your hands rested on his thighs as you looked up at him. "You ready?"

Chris nodded, lifting his hips slightly when you reached to tug down his shorts. He could feel his heart beating rapidly in anticipation and excitement. He let out a low groan when his aching dick was freed from the fabric of his clothes. Standing tall and proud at attention.

"Oh...?" you breathed out, genuinely impressed by his size as you tentatively wrapped your hand around it. "You’re huge," you mumbled, more to yourself than him, but it reached his ears nonetheless and your words only added to the desperate need for your mouth on him.

"Please, ma, please suck me off, I need to feel your warm mouth around me, please?" All dignity was gone in that moment, he didn’t even feel the slightest bit of embarrassment when he begged.

He was too far gone.

You complied, wanting to taste him as much. You leaned down and licked a stripe up the underside of his cock, flattening your tongue as you did so. When you reached the tip, you swirled your tongue around his head, eliciting muffled moans from him.

This was exactly what he needed, what he craved.

You teased him for a bit, licking and kissing his shaft, but not quite sucking him off yet.

Chris could feel his abs tighten slightly, each lick from you making him more and more needy. "Fuck, stop teasin’ me, you’re playing unfair." He groaned as he gently gripped your wrist.

You finally relented and wrapped your lips around his tip and slowly started to bob your head. Each movement eased more of his length in your mouth until you took almost all of him before pulling it out of your mouth with a wet pop, gasping softly for air as you pumped his shaft with your hand before taking him in your mouth again.

You looked up at him as you bobbed your head, seeing his face contorted in such ecstasy as he bit down on the back of his hand to muffle his needy moans made your pussy throb and your knew your panties were definitely drenched at this point.

You kept the rhythm, humming around his length encouragingly when you felt his hips buck slightly and he took it as a sign to let loose and held your head in place before starting to fuck up into your mouth.

You gagged slightly at first from the sudden depth he was reaching, but quickly relaxed your throat muscles and let him face-fuck you.

"That’s it... Jus’ like that–oh, fu—ck, you’re takin’ me so deep." Chris rasped as he pushed himself balls deep, holding you there until you slapped his thigh repeatedly. He slowly pulled his length out of your mouth, letting you cough and gasp for much needed oxygen.

"Sorry," he whispered as he wiped a small bit of saliva on the corner of your lips. He stood up from the chair, holding the base of his rock hard cock right in front of your face.

He guided the head of his cock to your lips again, nudging against it, "C’mon, ma, open those pretty lips up f’me, yeah? Take me deep like that again, wanna feel you suffocatin’ on my cock."

You obliged, parting your lips and wrapping them around his tip as he held your head with both hands, ready to fuck your face again and see those pretty eyes looking up at him with tears in them.

Oh, he could come so many times just from the image alone.

He started to thrust into your mouth again, feeling your nails dig into his thighs as he sped up his movements, but you weren’t complaining, not all. In fact, you were letting him use your mouth however he liked.

Chris’ movements slowly became more jerky as he neared his orgasm, his breathing quickened and so did his pace. His balls slapped against your chin as he fucked your mouth with reckless abandon.

With a final brutal thrust, he spilled deep down your throat, his pelvis nudging against the tip of your nose as he held you in place, making you swallow all of his spend.

You coughed when he finally pulled away, slowly slumping back down onto his gaming chair as he shuddered in aftershocks.

He sighed in contentment as he pulled up to your feet and onto his lap, nuzzling his face in your chest as he wrapped his arms around your waist. Holding you tightly against him as he caught his breath.

"Thank you..." he whispered after a while, lifting his head to look at you.

He chuckled with mirth when he saw your flushed face, "You look all hot and bothered." He joked, but you were all hot and bothered so to prove it, you took his hand and led it to your intimate area.

His breath hitched when you guided his hand down to your sleep shorts, which had a wet patch on the crotch area from your arousal. You looked away in embarrassment.

"All this f’me baby?" he tilted his head to the side to catch your eyes, "Getting so wet after suckin’ me off huh?" He chuckled, smirking as he lifted you up and walked over to his bed before gently placing you in the middle.

Chris slowly pushed you down into a laying position with your back flush against the bed. His eyes never left yours, he kept eye contact even while he pulled down your shorts and underwear.

His gaze was absolutely one of hunger as it raked over your half naked state. Settling in between your thighs, his hands gently, but firmly held your thighs in place, not letting you close them.

"Lemme make it up f’ya, let me make you feel good baby," he cooed before dropping his head down to show you heaven.

𓆩♡𓆪

© 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕𝒔𝒉𝒖𝒈𝒂

[buckyschair]

FLIRTING NEVER GOT YOU NOWHERE

Pairing: Azriel x Day Court! Reader

Summary: You’re an archivist from Day Court visiting Velaris, what happens when you visit a nightclub and things go wrong? Or do they go oh so right? AKA you flirt with Azriel in a bar and sex ensues !

read part 2 now - AFTERGLOW

A/N: I’m lowkey tired of shy insecure self insert fics so I wanted to write a piece about a bold unapologetic bitch who gets what she wants :) This is a very self indulgent fantasy based on rude things men have said to me at bars and how I wish someone had shown up for me. Like yeah I can stand for myself but also what if Azriel stepped up. I also made her bisexual because I’m gay 💅

Content Warnings: smut, cunnilingus & oral (so like m&f receiving), unprotected PIV sex (I am not going to spend my one precious life researching faerie contraceptive methods, so just imagine you’re on magic birth control or whatever. Or don’t, if you’re into that!), female reader (w nipple piercings ooo), gross liberties taken with whatever Day court has going on, unwanted advances from a guy in a bar, uhhh minor gay slur, it’s maybee more OC than self insert cause I gave her a lot of personality, shamelessly self indulgent, no use of Y/N

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. AND I MEAN IT !

Word Count: 12.4k

read on AO3

The flashing lights and lively music that had been a tonic just minutes ago now pounded through your skull, as jarring as the words you’d exchanged with some dipshit at the bar moments ago. You set your eyes back on the dance floor. Where was that group of females you’d mixed with earlier to save you now? You’d come to Rita’s to let loose a little after being cooped up in dusty corners of libraries for weeks now. You wanted to experience Velaris’ famed nightlife. Despite this place coming highly recommended, you were beginning to wonder if you shouldn’t have trusted that shy priestess’ taste in nightclubs.  

“Come on, what’s wrong with you?” The male’s whiny voice didn’t quite hit the macho tenor he was aiming for as he yelled after you. You whip back around, incredulity written on your face.

“What’s wrong with me?” you snarl. “I’m so glad you asked, buddy ,” you see his pretty boy attitude shift into a sneer at the moniker, “cause I am not the one. What the fuck is your problem?” 

Two steps and you’re back up in his space, just as he had invaded yours moments earlier when you’d rejected his advances. He didn’t seem to enjoy the treatment either, now that it was clear you wouldn’t stand for his shit. You could buy your own liquor. Especially when the other offer came from someone who thought appropriate eye contact involved breasts and an introduction equated to wandering hands. 

“What, are you one of those carpet munchers or something?” he tries to deflect. Your eyes narrow. This fucker is in for it now. You can’t blame a guy for wanting to get his dick wet. However, you can blame him for being an entitled bigot about it. 

“You son of a bitch,” you start, your face hardening into a sneer, your stance subconsciously shifting to a defensive position. At this, his eyes widen and his mouth parts but before he can speak– “You think just because someone doesn’t want you, they must be categorically repulsed by males?” You snort, eyeing him up and down. “I’m surprised you haven’t been laughed out of this bar yet. I’ve seen dog’s piss land more artfully than your attempts with females tonight. If you’ve somehow hidden some sense behind that ego, I suggest you take it with you when you leave.” 

He chokes on air, eyes wide and face taught. Okay. Weird. You know you can be ruthless, but typically your feminine stature in a mini skirt meant you had to work harder than that to make a bastard sweat in fear. 

His glassy eyes are focused over your shoulder. You turn your head, keeping the corner of your eye on the sorry male in front of you. When you catch the hulking Illyrian form behind you, you lose that focus as you take in wide shoulders and simmering rage. Rage directed at the whelp still pissing himself behind you at the bar. This new male’s face is a hard mask, his lip curling in disdain.  

“You heard the lady.” Your stomach drops at his voice, deep and resolute. “I suggest you take her advice.”

Azriel watches the slimy bastard hightail it out of the crowded club. You miss the pathetic scene of his flight, only catching how the male in front of you relaxes when his target finally makes an exit. You’re glad he’s been keeping his eyes on the other guy, cause you’ve been staring in shock. His muscled arms, toned chest, looming wings, thick thighs– okay. That you could handle. Under ordinary circumstances. But two shots deep, in your most revealing outfit, and through the swirling lights, seeing the tattoos that peak out over the top of his vest at his collarbones and pecs… you swallow, forcing your mind back to the situation at hand as his eyes shift from the figure disappearing behind you. 

His pinched brows relax as he takes you in. “Looks like you had it under control,” he says, raising one eyebrow- one glorious eyebrow, a hesitant grin making its way onto his face, as if he was impressed. 

“Not the first time I’ve had to put someone in their place,” you shrug, off balance from the abruptly ended confrontation. Before this male appeared, you’d been gearing up for a fight. Boundaries are simple for you. Cross one and you remind them where you stand. He nods, his face solemn in understanding. 

“I saw things getting heated. He looked like he was about to… grab you.” His lips twitch, like he still hasn’t decided if he should do something permanent about it. “Then you were removing yourself from him. And here we are.” 

“Here we are,” you repeat. His words, simple as they were, made your spine itch. “Thanks for having my back.” You meant it. You know you could have handled him on your own, but nonetheless, it was nice to have the cavalry arrive right on time.

He flashes you a brief tight lipped smile, the picture of courtesy, “Anytime.” He shifts, like he means to leave you to yourself now that the drama had concluded without any blood. 

“Can I buy you a drink?” you blurt out, almost in reflex at the male now in front of you. “As thanks.” 

His eyebrows raise momentarily in surprise. Curious, you think. Surely the hunk of male was used to females showering him in liquor and more. You notice the lights around him go blurry– oh shit. Those are shadows. Fuck. 

Realization hits you. No fucking way you just asked the High Lord’s inner court shadowsinger if you could buy him a drink. You kick yourself inwardly, but keep your face a mask of coy request. 

“There’s no need to thank me,” he says genuinely, slightly shaking his head, even as his cheeks flush lightly, his eyes skirting up your figure. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“Of course I don’t,” you smirk, confidence rushing through you at his reaction. “Consider it an unnecessary but kind gesture, tit for tat,” you tease, since you both know that his presence alone certainly scared off the unwanted male, even if he didn’t need to lift a finger. He cracks a grin at that, the minor barb landing exactly as you’d intended.

“Sure,” he shrugs.

A simple acceptance, so casually offered, lands you deeper than you ever could have expected to get with a high ranking member of a foreign Court. He lets you order him something neat, grunting in appreciation when he catches a whiff of the dark liquid in his glass, same as yours. 

“Cheers.” You clink your glass to his, hiding your smile with a drink. It burns down your throat, grounding you. His hand had gently hovered over your lower back as you’d taken your seat at the bar again, ready to help but also blocking anyone’s view. Even though he hadn’t touched you, the ghost of his hand may as well have scorched your skin for how you felt it.   

“What’s your name?” you ask, suddenly realizing that while you know who he is, you’d never caught his name. Was it confidential information?

“Azriel,” he replies. “Yours?” You tell him, and he hums, repeating it. Your name on his mouth makes your insides burn, but you remind yourself it’s probably just the liquor. 

“Am I allowed to say your name out loud? Or is it a court secret?” you ask, and he graces you with another grin. He looks around conspiratorially before leaning in, which sends a thrill through you. 

“My friends call me Az,” he murmurs lowly. “Just to be safe in the eyes of the law,” he adds with utter seriousness, only betrayed by the glimmer in his eyes. You laugh at that, excited apprehension making you sensitive to his every word. 

“Well, it’s very nice to meet you, Az.” You swear his shadows twitch at your words. You’re enjoying sitting here with him next to you, his body curved towards yours, knees almost touching. Your body relaxes, all the tension of the evening’s events replaced with a pleasant thrum of vitality.

“Likewise,” he says gruffly. You wonder if he feels the same intoxicating energy between you. His hazel eyes blaze even in the dim light of the quiet corner of the bar, his soft hair sticking slightly to his forehead in the heat of the packed bar. You want to brush it away, but you resist the sudden urge. You’re not sure what to say next. Ordinarily, you’re adept at conversation, but the powerful presence before you renders your mind blank.  

You’re relieved when he says, “I haven’t seen you here before.” His gaze pins you. What is he seeing? What is he looking for? You’re not sure what he finds that causes him to elaborate, “I would have noticed you.” 

“I would have noticed you, too,” you breathe.

“Doubtful,” he drawls in a playfully contrarian tone. His shadows dance along his wings over his shoulders, swirling almost in arrogance around the horns at their apex. 

“What? Do they normally keep you hidden in the shadows?” you prod, flashing your teeth. He exhales sharply from his nose, rolling his eyes at your ridiculous implication. Encouraged, you place your hand on his knee under the bar top. 

“Do they bully you?” you ask sweetly, dropping your voice quietly in mock concern. 

He coughs a little laugh at that, then schools his features into a pained expression. 

“Yes. Yes, they bully me.” You bite your lip at the image of him playing fragile, wounded. Your hand on his thigh is on fire. “Horribly,” he adds, voice wobbling.

“Let me know if you need help with that,” you tell him, with equal sobriety. “I could lend you my services, I have a certain skill in intimidation.” 

His composure breaks at that, and he laughs from his gut this time, and you join him. The sound is prettier than any music.

“My hero!” he exclaims, gasping through his laughter, grabbing the hand that you pull away from his knee. You giggle as he grasps your hand securely, bringing them to rest together at his knee. His thumb brushes your knuckles while he smiles at you. It takes all your discipline to fight the shudder that threatens your body. 

“This is my first time here,” you answer his initial prompt, gesturing around the lively bar. “I’m actually visiting from Day Court.” He quirks his head at that. He looks strangely adorable like this, curiosity cracking his typically closed off expression. 

“You’re from Day?” 

“Yeah.” Several of his shadows break away from his form to explore you, like you’ve suddenly become an irresistible object of interest to them. “I was an archivist at one of the central public libraries, and recently… I’ve been brought on to work in my Lord’s personal collection.” Azriel looks curious at that, so you continue, “Lord Helion is a generous boss.” His eyebrows shoot up at that. 

“Not like that!” you defend, blushing, aware of his reputation. “He trusts me,” you amend. 

“So I’m here for your libraries. After…” You’re remiss to mention Amarantha, despite her destruction coloring every sphere of your work. “Well. We all lost something, didn’t we? Now my role is to see what information can be recovered and preserved in my Court once more.”

Azriel listens intently, seeming to understand exactly what gave you pause. He nods as you finish. He also works in information, he tells you, although his intelligence operates in a different arena. You tell him more about your research when he prompts; the long hours in dimly lit rooms, the sweet but introverted colleagues, and, despite what an endless endeavor it was, the excitement when you discover just the right source. 

If someone had asked you that morning, you’d have been certain that an archivist’s work would bore anyone with such a high profile role as his, but he sees the heart of your contribution, the valuable work of recovery. 

His concentration on your every word would be unnerving, if it weren’t so enthralling. He maintains eye contact even as you gesture wildly with your free hand, snorts at all your jokes, and asks questions to keep you talking. It doesn’t escape you how he poses these questions just as the conversation might have naturally turned towards him. He deftly pulls information out of you with subtle cues, a question here, a curious look there. Once you’ve dazzled him with stories of your life back in Day and bored him with the details of your work, (although you did your best to pepper in your favorite stories, like the time you discovered an entire catalogue of ancient erotic court poetry), you dare to ask him about his own life here at the Night Court. 

You expected him to continue deflecting, as he’d been so fascinated by your home court, but he actually responds with some substance. Azriel pauses before pointing out his family, a group of equally breathtaking and imposing fae in a booth at the other end of the bar. He keeps it brief, but shares how he met Cassian and Rhys in a training camp and hasn’t known a moment's peace since. Despite his harsh words, you catch the tenderness even as he grumbles on about Mor and Feyre, and Amren, who isn’t here tonight, which he says you can detect by the lack of frightened screams. You’re equally shocked and delighted by the casual humor with which he treats them all. 

It’s not lost on you that he’s just told you about his family when you had asked about him. Yet between his calculated words and their meaningful tone, he’s actually sketched quite an intimate picture of his life and his values. 

You like the rhythm of his curt words, how he says a lot with a little. Occasionally, his dry humor will catch you by surprise, and he’ll grace you with a wry smile as you laugh. The spymaster can be quite unexpectedly cavalier at moments, much to your delight. He meets your playful verbal sparring with just as much fire.  

After chatting amiably for a while, a comfortable silence falls between you as you nurse your drinks. Azriel surveys the crowded room, ever on alert. You take the chance to brazenly observe him. You can’t pick what to focus on. The slope of his nose fascinates you, you wish you could reach out and trace it. The elegant planes of his face are punctuated by strong features, his brows, chin, and jaw all bold. You wonder how he’s such a successful spy when he’s built so distractingly. Especially with such expansive wings, currently tucked behind where he perches on his stool. His careful arrangement of them does little to hide their imposing glory. You suddenly wish you could see them splayed out in full spectacle. 

Over the duration of your research at Night Court, you’d come across descriptions of Illyrians, read about their culture, their physical traits. Their wings were closely guarded, sensitive parts. You were curious about flying, what it felt like, if they enjoyed it. You feel his rough hand on yours still, noticing their size and the thick veins under his scars. You force yourself to reel your mind out of the gutter, instead diverting to wonder at the marks that cross his hands. When you look back to his face, his unreasonably fashionable lashes flutter as he finally catches you observing him. You see high color in his cheeks, but he doesn’t call you out. You finish your drink, noting that his glass is also empty.

You motion your glass to the bartender, chatting briefly while he pours you two fresh ones. You can barely focus on the pleasantries you exchange, aware of Azriel’s eyes on you. His expression is soft, yet heady. Intense. His gaze traces your features in the same way you had just admired him. 

You turn back to him eventually to push his drink into his hand. His eyes reluctantly move from your exposed back and briefly over your lips before meeting your eyes. You immediately look away, scanning the bar absentmindedly as you flick your hair over your shoulder. The motion exposes your neck, testing, aware of his gaze still on you. He takes a long, slow drink, his eyes never leaving you. When you swallow, you see his eyes follow the movement of your throat.

“Is this a gay bar?” you ask abruptly.

He chokes, coughing into his arm. “What?” 

“Is this a gay bar?” you repeat, your nose scrunching in a wince at his reaction. You’ve never seen him so caught off guard, didn’t know it was possible. He catches your grimace, and quickly recovers, wiping his nose as he recovers from his coughing fit. He nods in confirmation. 

“You must think us horrible,” he says, referring to his court, compared to Day, which was much more open around sexual attraction and orientation, he guessed, if their High Lord was any indication. He thought of Helion’s history of advances to him, and Mor and Cassian for that matter. “First, that bastard talks to you like that. Then–”

“No!” you interject. “No, your people are just more… reserved. I didn’t see anything indicating it… but I noticed a few ladies sitting together like we are. So I wondered…” you flounder. It’s his turn to wince.

“Why?” he asks. “Are you looking for a lucky lady?”

“Not tonight.” You hide your grin behind a sip, as his eyes widen almost imperceptibly at your meaning, his pupils dilating. You’d enjoyed your fair share of females, males, others… Your eyes narrow on him then. “Wait, why are you here then?” 

“It’s Mor’s favorite club.” He shrugs. “And I don’t mind playing security in case any oblivious males wander in with big ideas in the wrong way.” 

“Ahh. So you don’t usually come to the gay club to pick up females?” 

He just snorts at that, shaking his head at your nonsense. You don’t miss how his shadows perk up at your choice of words. You grin, showing him your teeth as you prod further. 

“So I should feel special then?”

You hear his sharp intake of breath, the only sign he understands your implication. He sets his drink down, his eyes on yours, questioning. Your heart thuds heavily in your chest as you watch his motions, tense with anticipation. You meet his gaze, confident and steady. You’d seen how he had devoured you with his gaze moments ago. 

“What are you implying?” he grunts, voice thick. 

“I think you’re smart enough to figure it out,” you whisper, your eyes on his. 

He only hums, his hand coming to cradle your face, caressing your jaw. The touch arouses your senses, a slow flame flickering to life in your abdomen. His pupils are blown wide, like he’s found a mystical reality in your eyes. It’s his gaze flickering to your lips before finding your eyes again, imploring, that causes you to break. “Are you gonna make me say it?” 

“Yes.” He squints, unyielding. 

You whine. You whine . You’ve never whined for a male in your life. There’s a first time for everything, you suppose. After all, you were sent here for research. A new experience such as this could certainly fall within that wheelhouse. Azriel was generously helping you with your research, exploring your capacity to keen for someone in desperation. You take in his capable hands, his broad shoulders and wings, his delicate lips. The fantasies flashing in your mind force you to confront your desire. It’s been brewing all night. 

“I want you,” you speak with utter clarity. 

That’s all it takes and he’s tossing back the rest of his drink, his hand sliding down to catch your arm, unwilling to break contact. And then he’s ushering you out of your chair, ever the gentleman, and rushing you through the crowd until you hit the fresh air, your feet on the cobblestone street for the barest moment before he sweeps you up again, one hand gripping your hip, the other placed firmly on your jaw. His breath comes in short pants as his flared eyes meet yours, again questioning, allowing you control. 

In answer, you angle your head up to meet his mouth in a furious kiss. Your hands circle his neck, grasping his hair, blindly trying to find purchase as your lips connect. All your sensory experience fades save for the burn of his mouth on yours, and the feeling of his hands pressed to your body. You taste the lingering spice of the liquor you’d shared and beneath it, something earthier, the taste of him. You pour all your passion and need into the contact, and you feel the same charge from him. His ravenous kiss is a window to the tempest inside, his desperation evident in every move of his powerful jaw against yours. 

When he pulls away, he’s panting hard, a grin threatening to overtake his majestic features, his lips swollen and shining in the starlight. 

“We doing this on the street, or…?” you prompt breathlessly.

He takes in the thankfully deserted street outside the noisy club. “Good a place as any,” he shrugs. 

You scrunch your nose and tug his hair. His laughter dissolves into a groan at your actions. “Fuck. You’re killing me,” he breathes.

“I’m about to,” you say, exasperated with the delicious male entangled with you. 

“My place?” he asks. You nod quickly, in desperation for his touch as much as desire to get out of the public area. He hums again, “And here I was thinking that you Day Court fae were so much more open and shameless about these things.” 

You scoff at his words. 

“You’d better be worth the trouble,” you grumble, hiding your mirth. He flashes you the cockiest grin, and you’d smack him if you didn’t want to preserve his mouth’s function for better uses. 

“Trust me, baby, I am.” 

“Prove it.” 

His eyes flash at your taunting. “Hold on,” he growls.

You swallow a scream as his wings extend, and his legs bend briefly before leaping into flight. His arms wrap tightly around your frame, and you cling to his neck fiercely. You recall your fantasy about his wings from earlier in the evening. As you soar into the night sky, you find yourself admiring them once more, their power and his deft command of them. 

“I can’t believe you’re admiring me instead of the view.” His voice interrupts your thoughts.

“If I look at the view, we might be seeing some of that whiskey from earlier again,” you admit, your stomach dancing from so many different stimuli on your nervous system. The flying, the anticipation of sex, the sheer proximity with the stunning male who carried you now. 

“We’re not far away,” he assures. Sure enough, when you risk looking away from his elegant, aerodynamic form, you see the city below rising into the cliffside where the court’s residence was perched. 

You barely have a moment to take in the magnificent columns and lavish ornamentation of the palace balcony after he sets you down before he reconnects your lips. His blistering appetite sets your own aflame again, his hands sliding along your form, pausing briefly at your exposed midriff. 

When he first appeared behind you in the bar, he had been gallant and polite, the perfect picture of a noble courtier. As you’d flirted over your drinks, his wry humor had surfaced, and now this unbridled passion had emerged. There certainly was more to the shadowsinger than met the eye. Your insides fluttered at the intimacy of your insight into the divine male who you were currently swapping spit with. You thanked the Mother that you’d dedicated yourself to flirting all these years in good faith, without ever knowing that your dedication would be rewarded in such fine form. Against your will, your mouth began to curve into a smile against his. 

With backbreaking effort, you break away from his lips. He goes to follow your lips, but you stop him with a chaste kiss before pressing kisses along his jaw and down his throat.

“Sorry for the turbulence,” he gasps out as you continue your assault on his neck. “I needed us to get here. F-fast.” 

Your only acknowledgement of his words is the flick of your tongue over the spot under his jaw you’d just marked. How considerate of him. Even when he’s melting beneath you, he maintains his manners. The devil inside you wonders what it would take for him to abandon his civility. Between kisses, you glance down to see his leathers barely restraining him. You figure you might not need an elaborate plot to find out after all.

He growls as you notice his arousal. You look up from the crook of his neck, and his expression turns your core molten, desire written plainly across his face. His hands had wandered down to your ass, where he now taps gently, urging you up into his strong arms. Your heart leaps as he picks you up, but he doesn’t take off flying this time. He carries you further into the interior, your legs coming to wrap around his midsection, your arms secured again around his neck. He’s holding you by your thighs like your weight is nothing, causing you to burn in anticipation of how he might throw you around later.   

Fire throttles through your veins at the incessant touch of his wet lips on your neck. He’s dedicated to returning the favor of your vicious attack on him moments ago. You have no idea how he successfully navigates the hallways despite being buried under your jaw, for all you know he’s using your moans and whines to echolocate. 

It’s a short trip, but right when you were about to beg for him to just take you in the hallway, he walks you into a simply furnished room with expansive windows and another balcony that offers a sweeping view of the city. Starlight streams in, painting the room and the male carrying you in a silver glow. The breathtaking midnight ambiance does nothing to distract the soldier currently working through your meager defenses via bruising open mouthed kisses to your collarbone. His fervor makes your skin dance, it's been a while since your body has received such attentions.

“Fuck, am I glad I caused a scene with that bastard earlier. Got your attention an’ all.” You mean it as a joke, but his expression darkens with reserved aggression. 

“That was meant in jest,” you clarify. 

“He was leering at you all night,” Azriel growls, between wet kisses to your neck. “I still might tear his throat out.” 

His words go straight to your core. 

“He’s long gone,” you force yourself to say casually, despite how his words affected you. Between that and his tongue, it’s a wonder you’re still stringing together coherent syllables. “How would you even find him?” you laugh, attempting to divert the male’s intensity. 

He pulls away from your neck and gives you a pointed look. “It’s… kind of my job,” he says.

“Oh,” you say foolishly. Right. Azriel is the court’s Spymaster. He probably has his shadows tailing the bastard at this very moment to make sure he doesn’t bother anyone else. He could easily eliminate anyone he so chose. “Right.” 

He shakes his head at your antics, finally walking you over to the bed. In your research, you never came across anything about shadowsingers, so you’re not sure if his shadows had read your mind – but he throws you on the bed exactly as you’d fantasized, powerfully and precisely, your body bouncing as you gasp in shock and delight before he follows you, crawling onto the bed to hover over you. 

His wings flare slightly as his legs settle between yours, one of his knees hooking under your leg, exposing your clothed core to his every brush. 

“Do you want me to kill him for you?” he purrs into your skin. You gasp, at his words as much as the twisted thrill they send through you. You look into his eyes, and slap his shoulder at the mischief you see in his expression. He laughs at your indignation. 

“I would if you wanted me to,” he reiterates, an arrogant grin spreading across his face. “I might do it just because it seems like it would turn you on.” You gasp again at his words, face flushing in embarrassment. “No need to be embarrassed, baby.” He returns to placing lazy kisses along your neck as you moan beneath him. 

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, voice heady. You almost can’t bear it. He’s making you feel so good with just his mouth on your neck. You’re not sure how you’ll survive the night. 

Azriel must be determined to take you within an inch of your life, you think. His next dizzying move is to grab your hands from where they’d begun exploring his body to trap them above your head. To your relief, he ends his siege on your neck, instead serving slow torture as he reconnects your lips in a sensuous kiss, your body singing as you lay pinned beneath him. You feel his hard length press into your thigh. By his quiet moans, you recognize the same ardor he displayed earlier, though at an easier pace now that he has you where he wants you. That just wouldn’t do. He can’t have all that muscle mass just to keep it covered, poised tantalizingly out of sight above you. 

He’s reading your mind again, you think, as his fingers toy with the hem of your top in silent question. You sit up rapidly, his quick reflexes narrowly avoiding your head colliding with his nose. 

“Yes, please! Finally,” you nod, his laughter echoing in reply at your eagerness. “You want to help?” you ask. His face is flushed from your activities but you swear it deepens at your words. You raise your arms, allowing him to lift the silky black material from your form. He’s silent, starlight flashing on the dark expanse of his pupils, blown wide. You would be unnerved if it weren't for the way his chest is rising and falling dramatically, the hunger in his gaze, in his parted lips. You see him start to crisply fold the slim fabric before his brain kicks in and he throws it aside haphazardly. While you love a tidy male, you do prefer one with such a proper sense of priorities. 

“Good boy,” you coo absently, preoccupied with absorbing every detail of his reaction to your lace clad chest. 

“You’re fucking perfect,” he sighs finally, his eyes flickering to yours as his hands hover above your breasts. You bite your lip and grab his hands to connect them to your waiting chest.

“Touch me, Az. Don’t be shy with that mouth either,” you order as he scowls playfully, already palming your tits with zeal. You see his eyes widen as he feels them, specifically the bars in your nipples. His mouth falls open, and it's your turn to flash him a smug grin even as he has you writhing from just his rough hands playing with your chest. 

“I’m not shy,” he grumbles brattily. You allow his attitude given how he quickly follows it up by placing his mouth back to your chest, this time exploring further from your collarbones, moving to skim the tops of your bra and the valley between your breasts. 

“It’s not my fault you make me crazy,” he groans, his eyes glistening like the spit dangling deliciously between his mouth and your skin. 

You just moan in response. How are you supposed to respond to that coherently? Especially as he cruelly pulls away for a brief moment to shrug off his vest, revealing the inked expanse of his chest and the curling hair trailed low on his stomach to disappear beneath his leathers. 

“Can I taste you, baby?” Scratch that thought. How are you supposed to respond to that coherently? “Gonna let me make you feel good, huh?” Azriel begs, his voice thick with need. You nod, delirious at the mere suggestion. 

“I need to hear your words, angel,” he smiles, seeing the fog in your eyes, needing to know it's all for the right reasons.

“Yes, Az. Yes, please,” you manage. He presses a quick kiss to your lips, humming in satisfaction, before moving his touches down your body. 

He handles you like you’re the most cherished thing he’s ever beheld, but not like you’re fragile. You can’t remember the last time a male handled you with such awe and respect. You whine as he kisses your stomach, making your center melt. You’re sure you’re dripping at this point, but you can’t be bothered to feel embarrassment in the presence of the Illyrian kneeling before you in reverence, his mussed hair a dark halo, his leathers conspicuously strained at his crotch. 

He tugs you to the edge of the bed, carefully situating you with a pillow as he kneels on the floor. You feel like a boxing dummy that he’s strategically setting up just to destroy. 

“I’ve been looking forward to this all night,” he admits as he sets your knees over his shoulders, your feet kicking his wings lightly. You realize you haven’t even taken off your boots, you’re not even sure when he took his off, but as you go to mention your shoes and your skirt, he kisses the inside of your knee and the words die in your throat. 

He rubs his hands over the tops of your thighs, pulling pretty moans from you as he kisses along the inside of your legs, towards where you need him most. You’re really not sure what his plan is with your skirt and underwear– until he dives right in, licking you over your clothed center, eliciting a garbled sound you hardly recognize as yours. 

Your skirt is so short it offers no real barrier, except slightly obscuring the tip of his nose as it digs salaciously into your clit. A shadow curls around his ear, and he makes eye contact with you as he hikes your skirt up slightly, so you can see his every move. 

“Eyes on me, angel,” he commands softly, and any response you might have had chokes and dies on your lips. He deftly hooks his fingers in your undergarments, aggressively pulling them to the side. And then his mouth is back on your core, and it’s an overwhelming sensation, his warm tongue licking a stripe up your center, then relaying to repeat the motion down to your opening. You grip the sheets in a feeble attempt to ground yourself. One of his hands strokes your thigh while the other keeps your wild hips pressed firmly into the mattress. 

He pauses only to murmur soft praises as you tremble at his caresses. At this point you’re seriously concerned about your erotic future. What if this male ruins you for everyone else? What if you can never successfully pleasure yourself again? You know you’ll never be able to replicate the bliss he’s currently delivering. His mouth scorches you, he’s taken on a slow and steady rhythm, lapping and sucking, that’s unstringing your body from your soul. You’re not sure that you’ll ever recover. You’re grateful that you have no plans tomorrow because you’re not sure you’ll be able to walk. Maybe you’ll be able to roll yourself down the palace’s endless steps and to the library where one of the priestesses might take mercy on you and nurse you back to health. You could pay them by recounting this experience, surely this prime fuel for fantasy would equate to some kind of currency. With a generous exchange rate. 

Your eyes shoot open as his mouth leaves you, your moans taking on a pained note at the visceral loss. 

“Baby,” Azriel chides. “I asked you to keep your eyes on me.” 

You hadn’t even realized you’d closed your eyes as you’d been calculating the exchange rate of sexual fantasy fodder to gold. You will yourself out of the delirium, but his glistening mouth isn’t helping. 

“Stay with me, angel,” he murmurs, thumb rubbing encouraging circles on your inner thigh as you babble something rude about his upbringing while he takes the moment to slip your ruined undergarment down your legs. 

He’d given up on holding you down, so you grind into his face as he resumes his merciless consumption of your molten pussy. The vibrations of his moans on your core multiply your pleasure delectably. The whole glorious sky of the Night Court seemingly flashes across your vision as he lowers his rough fingers to add pressure to your sensitive bud, swirling pleasure explosive as shooting stars. 

“You taste so good, baby,” he praises. “This all for me?” he asks as he gathers your slick with his fingers before resuming his strokes. All you can do is moan helplessly in affirmation. 

When he finally sucks your clit into his mouth, the pressure has you gasping, gripping his hair to anchor yourself to him, to the pleasure he’s delivering straight to your weeping core. He alternates between licking and sucking your clit while he teases you with his thick digits. He looks utterly engrossed, devoted to your trembling form, working you meticulously. 

“Azriel,” you warn. Your breath quickens just before your body stills, broken noises escaping your lips, falling like a beautiful reward on his waiting ears. The release is more powerful than anything you’ve experienced in recent memory, rocking you to your teeth. 

He works you through the aftershock of your orgasm, continuing to lick and thrust until your spasms quiet, your breathing calmed from its fervent staccato as he cleans you out. 

“Hey, are you still with me?” he asks, concerned. 

You realize you haven’t said anything and he’s been sitting rubbing the tops of your thighs softly while you come down from your high. Too tired for words, you bend to guide his head up to meet yours in a luxurious kiss. It invigorates you, languid as it is, his tongue exploring the backs of your teeth as he sucks in a long breath before moaning into your mouth. 

His arms come to cup your face, dislodging one of your legs that remain thrown over his shoulder. It falls with a loud thud as your booted heel meets the floor, your limbs like lead. The sound makes him jump and pull away guiltily as he takes in your state of collapse. 

“I’ve never been better,” you confess candidly. 

He smiles at that, ruddiness in his cheeks deepening at your declaration. 

“I can’t believe they let you walk free about the lands,” you continue, egging him on, shaking your head. “You’re a goddamn menace! That mouth should be regulated! I should have gotten security clearance to have that experience.” 

He buries his head in your knee, his shoulders shaking in mirth as he hides from your praise. He kisses your knee and you curse the rubber feeling in your legs, wishing you could kick him for his insolence. Instead you pet the back of his neck, soaking in the sight of him between your legs. 

You don’t know it, but he’s soaking in your image as much as you are his. You look ethereal splayed out above him, his shadows skirting around the silver light glowing on your scalp, creating a kinetic halo fit for a queen. In your bra and hiked up skirt, catching your breath on his bed, your vitality is on full display for Azriel’s keen eyes, your pulsing life form beating and raw to his senses. Even in your state of undress, your appearance is regal, striking in command above him. He feels his shadows writhing in excitement, thrilled with your energy, matching the gravitational anomaly in his gut. 

Azriel is reminded of the gravity of battle, how for centuries he has waded through enemies time and time again in a familiar yet shapeless pattern of destruction. Despite the wrathful chaos, there’s a rhythm he’s come to anticipate. Amidst the waves of common soldiers, every division or so, he will fall into the gravity of a real threat, usually an enemy commander, an opportunity to face a real contender. Their paths of destruction will orbit briefly before colliding in gruesome ruin. He knows he’s been lucky to emerge in the land of the living after these conflicts. 

At this moment, he’s strangely reminded of that repulsive kind of attraction, of power to power, as he once again faces a real contender. It’s a total inverse, yet your magnitude presents a similarly brilliant polarity. The aftershock of your pleasure is a welcome sequence compared to the grim aftermath of such a battle. He much prefers your sacred subversion of that profane impact. As you stroke his hair, it feels like redemption. It feels like his twisted history of bloodshed could be transformed and redeemed as justice under your tender hand. 

He kisses your knee once more, blinking away the stinging in his eyes. His thoughts return to the present as you shift above him, sinking to his level on the carpet to capture his lips with a kiss once more. You hum, tasting yourself on him now that your senses have recovered from his euphoric torment. 

The impatient male lifts you up effortlessly, and you let him stand the two of you, until he moves to take you back to the bed. You twist, and Azriel allows you to spin him so that you’re backing him towards the cushions. He groans into the kiss as your fingers brush his lower abdomen, skimming the edge of his leathers. You feel the reverberation of it in your own stomach. 

“Are you going to let me return the favor?” you ask with a devilish grin. The sight of your soft tongue and sharp canines makes his wings twitch, willing his shadows to relax their riot, but they betray him. His eyes shine with need, breath hitching as you dip a finger under the waistband of his pants. 

“I need to hear your words, angel,” you mimic his earlier words. 

“Do your worst,” Azriel grunts, instantly regretting his words as he catches your wicked look. 

You push his shoulders so he throws himself dramatically against the bed, wings flared slightly in anticipation. His mouth falls open as you move away from him, but his protests die as he sees you reach behind your torso to unclasp your bra, finally revealing your chest to him fully. His throat thickens, fists clenching in the sheets as you run your hands along your form, massaging your breasts, relieved to be unconstricted at last. The moonlight glitters on the jewelry in your hard nipples, attractively ornamenting some of your favorite features. Looking at the male barely restraining himself in front of you, you almost feel bad for how riled up he is. 

Taking pity on the simmering Illyrian, you cut your strip tease short, planting a slow kiss on his lips before kneeling before him. If Azriel was concerned about your magnetism earlier, he’s certain it’s fatal now. Your fluffed hair, dislodged skirt, and bare chest all poised to drive him insane with want. When you finally slide his leathers down his thighs, he’s relying on his centuries of training to keep himself under control. The sight of his impressive length, swollen and rigid against his stomach, has your thighs clenching.    

You stroke his upper thighs, kissing along the inside of his knees. His dick twitches as you wrap your hand around its swollen girth. Your first experimental tug elicits a deep stuttering groan from the male. His expression is almost flustered, skin flushed and damp. Despite the sweat you’ve both broken, it’s not doing anything for the chafing. Dissatisfied with the dry friction, you use your brain, quickly locating the nearest source of wetness, which happens to be between your legs. Azriel’s jaw looks like it's about to break from tension, his eyes wide as he follows your hand disappearing under your skimpy skirt. When you grip his cock again, it’s to spread the slickness along his member. You look up at him innocently as you continue pumping, finding a satisfying rhythm. 

“You like that?” you ask teasingly. 

“You’re gonna kill me, angel.” He can’t contain the shudder that racks his body at the image and sensation of your firm hand pumping his dick. He’s worried about losing brain function with the lack of blood circulating anywhere else in his body. His chest heaves, and he forces himself to focus on breathing regularly as you drag your hand up and down him, squeezing occasionally at the base. When you lick flat along the underside of his length, his wings flap in a brief frenzy. 

“Just like that,” he cries. 

You grin at his reactions, his broken moans and spasms only encouraging your actions. After he just rewrote your pussy’s worldview with his tongue, you’re delighted to serve him the same experience. 

“You look so stunning on your knees for me.” 

He grasps your scalp, keeping a light hold on your hair as you bend to place shallow licks at his head. His strangled groan has you wrapping your lips fully around his neglected tip. 

“Fuck,” he exhales. 

The salty musk of him fills your mouth as you breathe through your nose to focus on his sensitive head. You use your hand to pleasure him from the shaft as you suck lightly on the end of his cock, swirling your tongue. His moans of rapture send thrills through you. You look up at him, entranced by the pleasure written on his face. You bob your head, taking him in further, causing him to curse again. You don’t bother with taking all of him, you’re not trying to choke and die even on this divine dick, and your mouth is full as it is, tears threatening your waterline. Your saliva mixes with your slick, coating him, delivering layers of pleasure through Azriel, vibrating from his spine to his toes. The wetness of your mouth and the warmth of your hand ease him stroke by stroke into his ecstasy. 

When Azriel feels his wings seize up and his toes begin to curl, he tightens his fist on the back of your neck, pulling you abruptly off of his cock. You glance back up at him, appreciating his delirious arousal, his flexing thighs. His inked chest shines, slick with exertion, his whole form sharpened into an enticing point fit just for you. 

“Sorry,” he wheezes. “I didn’t want to finish like this, I want to feel you.” 

You nod, biting your lip. 

“This isn’t over,” you promise in a whisper to his furiously hard member, placing one last tender kiss at the base of his cock. He shudders at the abrupt touch, and you laugh at your own antics. His eyes shine with humor and lust. 

“Come here,” he begs, pointlessly, since he pulls you up to his lap effortlessly, and you offer no resistance. Your bent knees rest on either side of his thighs, your cores separated by mere inches as you straddle him, your feet coming to rest against his shins. He presses kisses into your mouth, jaw, and collarbone in manic succession, your hands coming to tangle in his hair. 

“Fuck. Don’t tease now,” you chastise him as his mouth finds your nipple, flicking his tongue over the sensitive bud, your back arching instinctively into his touch. 

“What do you want from me?” he retorts, continuing his biting caresses. 

“I want you to fuck me, Azriel,” you order, emphasizing your words with a sharp tug on his dark locks. He snarls against your chest, hips bucking involuntarily. 

“I thought you liked putting in some work, baby. You sure seemed to enjoy being on your knees for me just now,” he taunts.  

“You need me to do the work, huh?” you muse, and his motions pause at your jab. “Fine by me,” you sigh, swiftly gripping his length and sliding over him before he can comment. His head whips up from your chest, fiery response dying in a whimper at the sensation. You notch him at your entrance, pausing to make sure he approves your actions. 

He catches your look, but instead of replying he takes advantage of your hesitance to grab your hips and rub himself against your folds, both of you groaning at the delicious feeling of your collision. 

“Come on, baby. If you’re so tough, have your way with me,” he coaxes, the brazen words lacking any real bite as he strains beneath you. With shaking hands, you reach between your bodies, your skirt ridden up again to fully expose your dripping core, where you finally guide him to your entrance. His head falls into your shoulder as you take him in, moaning noisily as you adjust to his size and girth. 

“Shit,” you pant, overwhelmed on all fronts between his groans nuzzling into your neck, his strong hands grabbing at your hips, and his delicious length stuffing you so completely. 

“Baby. Oh, angel,” he chokes, equally impaired with pleasure. 

You shift your hips tentatively, gasping. He throws his head back in bliss, his hands tightening on your hips. 

“You feel so good around me. You feel so good,” Azriel chants. 

His eyes squeeze shut as he rides the waves of euphoria from you swiveling in his lap. As absorbed as he is with his own pleasure, he’s still acutely aware of your body’s every response. Your breathy whines and moans, your clenching walls, your stuttering hips. You find a rhythm rocking against him, not so much thrusting as grinding, but your choking walls and the spectacle of your chest bouncing in his line of sight are doing it for him just fine. 

“That’s it. Use me, baby,” he urges, moaning filthy encouragements as you ride him.

When your hips start to falter, he coos in sympathy, seeing your frustrated need. He uses his hands to guide your hips over him, leaning back so he can angle thrusts to meet each motion. 

Your body feels like it’s fully alive, awakened by his actions. He meets your urgency with an unrelenting pace. His concentration is dead set on where your bodies join, watching his cock disappearing into you over and over. He loves this feeling, of giving himself over to you, using his body to create pleasure instead of pain. 

“Let me hear you. Is this what you needed, huh, baby?” he coaxes. 

The familiar burning sensation builds in your abdomen. When he hears your cries pitch higher, your restraint spent, he knows you’re close. It takes all your concentration to meet his blistering kiss as he fucks into you at a frenzied pace. You cry into his mouth as one of his hands comes to circle your clit, sending waves of pleasure deep into your core. There isn’t an inch of your body unaffected by his assault. You feel the pull of pleasure even in your teeth as it burns in your thighs and licks up your spine. 

The pressure in your core builds until one particularly hard thrust has you seeing stars behind your eyelids, bringing your release crashing over you. 

He fucks you through it, concentration moving to your face, to see every stage of your satisfaction play out. The severity of his gaze only heightens your sensitivity as you ride out your second orgasm of the night. You might have to give him an award or something if he keeps this up. You’re still shaking when his hands release your hips to rest on your thighs, stroking them in reassurance while you catch your breath. You feel him still hard inside you. You’re not sure what else you’re in for tonight, but you know your tenure on top is just about over, your stamina exhausted. He must see it written on your face because a lazy grin spreads over his stupidly charming face, his thriving male ego on full display.

“Don’t start,” you blush. 

“What? I didn’t say anything,” he laughs, looking at you playfully from under his eyelids. You see a shadow slipping away from his ear. The fuckers! Have they been informing him on your feelings all night, telling him exactly what will drive you crazy?

“Okay, big boy,” you drawl. “How about using that endless stamina for a good cause,” you suggest wolfishly, signalling that you’re not waving a white flag just because you got a little winded. 

“Is this arrangement contingent on the boots staying on, or…?” he searches, quirking a brow, still stroking your thighs that rest atop his. Your heart leaps, you totally had forgotten that you were still half dressed. You’re still wearing your skirt– well, you suppose wearing would be a generous description, seeing how it had scrunched into a thin band at your waist– but your boots were decidedly still on your feet. You’re surprised that your aggressive physical activities hadn’t dislodged them. 

“Yeah, sorry. Boots stay on,” you shrug, swallowing a laugh. “Why? Aren’t you into them?”

Azriel laughs at that, and the sound and its vibration remind you that he’s still very much buried inside you. You clench around him and he groans, capturing your hip with a hand as he twitches.

“I’m very much into them,” he sits up fully to murmur into your cheek, humor muted by his evident desire. “You look dead sexy. I just wonder if they might hinder our joint agility,” he begins tactfully. 

You laugh at his diplomatic words, and he chuckles along. 

“I can’t believe they didn’t come off!” you admit. 

He laughs at that, and soon the two of you are reduced to howling tears at how long you’ve managed to keep your shoes on. He wipes his eyes, shaking his head and mumbling about what an inappropriate yet compelling endorsement you could make for the responsible cobbler, sending you into another fit as he lifts you off of him, perching you on the edge of the cushions. 

He stands to pull the laces of your stomper boots, delicately slipping them from your feet, your socks following, his hands rubbing soothing patterns along your calves. His actions are innocent, yet the look in his eye is anything but. He looks ravenous, but he’s giving you a moment. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t enjoy this bit as much as what came next. Azriel just made you come twice and then belly laugh in quick succession. You know he’s fully employed too. He is turning out to be a man of many useful talents. This is dangerous territory. 

“I am a little sad to see them go,” he sighs, jokingly, once your shoes were finally sitting on the floor next to him.

“You know, if you want me to wear them in your bed, you could just fly me all around the city so they never get dirty,” you joke from your position laid on the cushions. He rolls his eyes, but he’s beaming at you as he comes to stand between your thighs, and you can’t help but grin back. It’s been a while since you’ve had this much fun with someone. Nor is it lost on either of you that you’d just implied you might end up in his bed again. You don’t mind the admission, even as it hangs in the air. He’s a spymaster anyways, one way or another he’d figure out what you’re thinking. 

“Noted,” is all he replies to that. “Lift your hips for me, angel.” 

You feel your breathing hitch, affected in unladylike ways by his respectful words. You lift up slightly so he can slip your skirt down from your waist. 

The simple movement dissolves the momentary limbo of your activities, and all the passion of the evening returns to you in full effect as you lay nude before him. He leans over you from where he stands, his hulking form and silhouetted wings imposing. His appetite is apparent, his massive length waiting and ready at his abdomen, angry at having been abused without satisfaction. Azriel has been fighting all night, you realize, and now he’s poised to claim his rightful glory. 

You reach out to pull him towards you. As he crawls over you, his wings flutter shut, as if he means to tuck them safely behind his form for the rest of the night. 

“Don’t you dare put those away!” you huff in frantic offense. 

“What?”

“Your wings!” you exclaim. 

“My wings?” he repeats. 

“I’d like to look at them,” you request, quite nicely, you think, as he settles between your legs. 

Azriel isn’t fooled by your innocent expression. He captures your lips in a bruising kiss, jaw working to claim every inch of fleshy territory. Without warning, his wings flare out, fanning your face with a rush. Your eyes shoot open to see your spoils, the leathery panes blocking the dim light from reaching your entwined forms. Heat rushes through you as you examine them, the thin veins and small scars whispering of stories he has yet to tell. His mouth works along your jaw as you revel in his illustrious form above you, fully claiming you into his world of shadows. He pauses by your ear, scraping his teeth along the sensitive shell before speaking lowly.

“You think wings and murder are sexy, you keep your boots on while you’re getting fucked… My girl is a freak.” Your heart soars at his words. 

“Your girl?” you question. He freezes in his next kiss, ego vanishing, as if he’s not sure if he should be bashful. “I like it,” you declare. He pulls back to see the honesty of it in your eyes, and you know your face is sporting a twin banner of blush. 

“Of course you do, you freak,” he says affectionately. 

Your resounding grin fades into a groan as he runs a scarred hand up the inside of your thigh. He looks at you expectantly, the question in his eyes.  

“I do think your wings are sexy,” you admit. He snorts, and you know that’s not the answer he was looking for. 

 “Are you planning to just lie there, perfect and naked on my bed all night, or are you going to let me fuck you properly?” he huffs out in desperation, not one to be outdone. 

His hips grind against your thigh in emphasis. He is well and done with your larking. 

“Well, gods, let me think about it, at least!” you shoot back mischievously. 

You’re just toying with him now, but in your defense, he makes it so fun. 

Azriel’s head falls to your shoulder, growling. But his gnarled hand vanishes from your thigh and his hips pause their motions. You feel a rush knowing that if you decided you were done, he would stop everything, despite his evident need. All night, he’s been so generous with his energy, from defending you back at the bar, to helping you get off as you struggled to ride him. Your pussy throbs at the power he’s offering up to your pleasure, freely and without expectation. You don’t quite know why you’re being mean, he certainly hasn’t earned it. 

He looks up at you, his cheeks ruddy, his shining eyes searching, and you find your answer. It was simply empowering to see Azriel, a male usually so meticulous in his presentation, fall entirely apart for you. Everything about him was tantalizing, but watching him wield his historic power for your pleasure was the most grievous indulgence.

“Tell me,” he urges, seeing the whirl of emotions on your face. 

“I need you inside me,” you relent. 

His growl is the only warning you get before he sheathes himself inside you in one swift movement, relieved to obey your command. Groans fall from both your lips at the feeling of him pressed into you so spectacularly. 

“Oh, oh , Az,” you revel in the feeling.

“That’s it, baby,” Azriel coaxes. 

He eases you into it with gentle thrusts, placing kisses down your chest. His pace is slow, languid, like he wants to take his time with you, tearing you apart with precision, thrust by thrust. His hands clutch your hips in an attempt to still your thrashing. 

“You’re doing so good for me,” he coos. 

Your hands are all over, his hair, his shoulders, his arms, urging him to move, move, move. He blows a hot exhale across your breasts where he’s been occupied, steadying himself mentally before looking into your face. What you see only fuels you further. In his gaze is raw desire, desire that he’s keeping carefully controlled as he gives you what he thinks you need. Even buried inside you, he reigns himself in, commanding his passion in preservation of your comfort. His mind is screaming at him to drive faster, so much so that it drowns out your sounds of agreement in his ears. His slow strokes are a torment to you both, a needless sacrifice on his end. 

Typically, you might appreciate how considerate he was being. But also, typically, you didn’t have a male buried inside you while you claw at whatever part of his largeness you can reach. What you need right now isn’t his courtesy, what you need is the full force of his passion, unchecked, to do battle with your own. You aren’t used to settling for less than what you want, so everything in you feels confident when you pull his face up to yours, noses brushing as he gasps into your open mouth.

“Az. I need more,” you state clearly. His hooded eyes flare as he finally sees the enormity of your fervor, how it matches perfectly blow for blow with his own. 

“Hold on,” he breathes, pressing a kiss to your mouth in acknowledgement. 

You don’t know if he means it literally or not, but you’re taking no chances as you cling to him. He pulls out slightly more, just enough to give him room to angle your leg up, his muscled arm holding your bent knee, allowing his hips unfettered access to your center. The shift has you whining against him, writhing as he gives you exactly what you asked for. You’ve never felt anyone so deep inside you, kindling that burn so deliciously. 

And then he’s pounding into you at full charge. 

“Come on, baby, give it to me,” he gasps. 

In the throes of your pleasure, you note how his chest heaves, though the steadily punishing pace of his hips never falters. Your legs are numb in some places where you had feeling earlier. You chase your high together in an uphill battle, both worn and equally dedicated to seeing this through to its fateful conclusion. 

“Doing so good for me, angel,” he encourages, and you mumble curses at his tender tone while he sets a brutal rhythm on your cunt. Your hot breath mingles, his forehead pressed to yours, like he needs every part of you to be connected, like when he draws out of you, he’s acutely pained for that moment it takes before he’s enveloped by you again. Watching him is intoxicating. Raw, starved agony tightens the elegant planes of his face as your leg scrapes lightly against the edge of his wing over his shoulder, and he shudders. 

The contact evidently rouses something deep within him, his shadows writhing impishly along his wings. They slip invisibly over his shoulders, under the canopy of his wings to trace infuriatingly over your torso. One ravishes your breast, phantom pleasure coursing down to meet the brimming well of your desire. Their delight at your convulsing form under their ghostly caress is only matched by Azriel’s own fixation. His stare borders on obsessed, eyes blown out. He blinks, failing to clear his carnal fixation, pressing a maddening kiss to your mouth in drunken bliss, muttering your name like a prayer. 

“That feel good, baby?” he grunts. 

“Yes, Azriel, please,” you cry, not even sure what you’re asking for. 

His pace is ruthless, and, far from quieting your own ache, it's successfully unpinning your every inhibition. It's as if his shadows are scouting every crevice of your being to shake out a thrill from any and every forgotten corner. Something shakes loose deep inside your chest as his brutal magnetism pulls pleasure from you. You set it aside to focus on the ecstasy being painstakingly, greedily delivered to your drenched core. You moan his name at the heat pulsing through you. 

Azriel looks fucked out, his brows slick with tension and his mouth gaping as he absorbs you with equal adoration. You see your own need reflected in his face, and you feel like you’ve taken a hand mirror into a reflecting pool for how endlessly your bliss echoes between you. It’s mind bending, how it drives you crazy knowing he’s crazy for how he drives you crazy– you could almost laugh at the absurdity of it if you had any remaining breath. And if it didn’t feel so riveting, the symmetry of your hunger.  

“I’m close,” you hiccup, body heavy with expectation, the smoldering heat growing to a fever pitch as he pummels you. 

“I’m with you, baby. I’m right here with you,” he gasps. 

One of his hands snakes down to encourage your clit with tight, fast circles. His attention, though, is on your face, watching the way elation plays across your features. The added sensation sends you over the edge, your third release blowing through you in scalding waves.

You cry out as your orgasm staggers you, hands blindly tugging his hair, holding him to you as you shatter. The pulsing grip of your cunt pulls him along the edge as he works you with quick thrusts. 

At the sharp scrape of your nails on his scalp, his own pleasure snaps, waves of bliss cresting over you both in lock step, smoothing twin grooves of delight in your souls. He fucks you through it, his face buried in the side of your neck, his kiss biting with teeth as he tries messily to stifle his groans. The guttural noise of his cries shakes the room, your own heartbeat barely perceptible in its wake. When the quaking stops, he slumps down over you, totally spent. 

You lay there in a daze for gods know how long, struggling for air together. He presses kisses into your shoulder until your cries quiet down and your breathing comes more easily. Azriel has definitely fucked before, so he doesn’t know why his heart is beating so wildly at this encounter, why he’s still greedily tasting your skin, why he’s so reluctant to pull out of you. When he feels like he has it under control, he peeks his head out from your neck. A grin is plastered on his gorgeous face, his hair sticking up in a stupidly charming fashion, his eyes shining with frightening levels of energy and mirth despite his limp form atop you. 

“I can’t believe I found you in a gay bar,” he states. You flick his ear, nose scrunching at his audacity. 

“You are ridiculous. Is that really all you have to say?” you accuse breathlessly, still gone soft in a delicious haze. 

Azriel chuckles, shifting over you, so that his head hovers over yours again. 

“No,” he says carefully. He slides his hand to move yours from his hair, bringing it to rest on the cushions above your head, his fingers twining with yours. Your brows furrow at the delicate gesture, you’d blush if he wasn’t literally inside you still. 

“I just thought ‘holy fuck, please marry me?’ might be a little intense to lead with,” he offers, and what you see dancing in his eyes holds too much gravity to be mistaken for pure humor.

Your insides flutter again at his words, dumbfounded. 

He means it as a joke, but there’s something in his eyes you wouldn’t mind waking up to every day for the rest of your life that feels dangerous. This was a fun, sexy adventure with a fun, oversized Illyrian, you rationalize. You’d reassess that flicker in your chest again after you were fed, rested, and bathed.  

Azriel has similar ideas it seems. He slips out of you, your body protesting at the loss. He must sense this because he places a mollifying kiss to your stomach as he gets up from the bed. He returns shortly to find you still splayed out in total content, and hands you a tall glass of cool water. You didn’t realize how parched you were until you drank half the glass in several gulps, refreshing your dry throat. Azriel appears again with some towels. 

He takes the glass when you offer it back, but instead of setting it aside he brings it to his own lips, finishing it off in one long drink. Your mouth goes dry again at the sight. You’re well and truly fucked if the sight of him finishing your water gets you excited. It’s not like you hadn’t just swapped spit with him in more exciting ways. You’re certain he notices you staring, but he doesn’t comment. 

“Can I clean you up? Or do you want to…” he gently motions with the damp towel once he’s done torturing you with his pornographic drinking. You allow him to wipe you down, his gentle motions confident and efficient. It makes your body hum in a new way, how he handles you with casual reverence, hands skimming your flesh to check for tender spots before he cleanses there. You see your own glow reflected in him, one of utter contentment. 

He crawls onto the bed with you, pulling back the blankets and cushions around you in a swaddled sort of cocoon before settling on your chest, his arms wrapping around you, wings coming to rest on either side of your form. You brush his wild hair from his forehead, and he hums as he nudges his head more firmly into your palm. He lets loose a long sigh when you brush your hands through his dark locks, eyes closing in contentment. His sore muscles loosen as he curls into you. It’s a powerful image, the hulking Illyrian sprawled lazily atop you in utter calm. 

“Bed time,” he declares, much to your amusement. His nose brushes your sternum, and he sleepily kisses your skin before cracking a yawn. His swirling shadows quiet as he drops his guard for the night. Your eyelids begin to sink, despite your determination to memorize your position tangled with him. You swear you hear a whisper in the dark, a wordless plea in your ear, stay . Not that you have much choice with his bulky form practically trapping you against his bed. 

“Good night, Azriel,” you murmur. 

Sleep must have taken you seamlessly after that because next thing you know, the cool light of dawn is streaming in his open windows, illuminating the peaceful figure still resting on your chest. You wonder what the protocol for this is, if he expects you to slip out before he awakes. On your occasional hook ups, you’d never slept over before. Usually you would have left after, or woken up in the night and skipped. This time, you didn’t have the same avoidant fear marching you out the door. 

In the night, Azriel had shifted, so now he lay with only one leg slotted between yours, his grip on your waist loosened. You try adjusting your back so that your head can lay more comfortably on his pillow– his soft and supple pillow, you note. His grip tightens on your waist at your movements, his brows furrowing in irritation in his sleep. 

A grin blooms on your lips at his unconscious gesture. You relax into his large bed, pride singing in your veins. He was certainly decisive about your spending the night, and now with the prospect of a quiet, intimate morning before you... You know it was an involuntary movement, but all the same. You’re starting to think he might be into you. And you’re definitely into his mattress, you muse, closing your eyes to submit to the allure of his plush bed. Though it’s his pleasant weight resting over you that really lulls you into sleep. 

When you wake up later in the full light of morning, you find Azriel watching you with appreciation. 

“Good morning,” you mumble, feeling your face flush. 

“Good morning,” he agrees, his voice rough with sleep, pulling you into his chest. 

Your muscles protest, still sore, but it's a pleasant sting, you decide as you relax into him. You could spend all morning like this, wrapped in his strong arms. 

“Did you sleep well?” he asks sweetly.

You nod, sleepily praising how comfortable his bed is. He’s shifted to press you against his firm chest, his hand coming to rest on your back. As you shift to nuzzle into his shoulder, you feel his half hard cock digging into your hip. His words from the night before rise to mind amid the heated memories of your shared activities. My girl , he’d called you. You figure you should act like it. If you work this right, this could be the first of many mornings spent in his bed.

You press your hips into his growing erection, and his eyes flash in warning. The sleep fades from his gaze as his hand at your back holds you in place against him. 

You begin meaningfully, “I don’t have any plans today–”

“Thank the Mother!” Azriel growls, capturing your mouth in a searing kiss. Warmth flares in your chest at his eagerness. Little do you know how Azriel is plotting similar schemes even as you lose yourselves to the magnetic bliss of your connection. You’d always been a flirt, but it had never earned you such a glorious reward. 

“Did you enjoy yourself last night?” you ask teasingly. 

“You know I did.”

“Well don’t push yourself now, I don’t expect you to be able to outdo last night,” you sigh mockingly. 

His expression unnerves you, the challenge registering on his face in a slow, wickedly sensual smile. 

“Oh, but I intend to.” 

_

A/N: THANKS FOR READING!! This is the first fic I’ve ever "published"! I really enjoyed writing Azriel, he’s fun to play with. Also yeah maybe I implied that they were soulmates cause I am a lover and casual isn’t in my vocabulary, baby! Let me know what you think, I meant it to be flirty and then smutty and then it became kinda sweet, so hopefully you enjoyed the ride :) Let me know if you want part 2 ??

[angelbarelywritesslashers]

♡ slashers scenarios | sharing a bed

♡ fandoms; The Boy, Halloween, Texas Chainsaw Massacre (original + 2006), House of Wax, Dead by Daylight, slashers (general)

♡ characters; Brahms Heelshire, Micheal Myers, Thomas Hewitt, Bubba Sawyer, Vincent Sinclair

♡ reader; gender neutral

♡ cw; very suggestive content, implied smut

♡note; swapped out billy in this one bc i can’t imagine him sharing a bed with someone and not getting literally pornographic

•┈••✦ ❤ ✦••┈•

Brahms Heelshire

> Once he decides he wants to share the bed, he finds the biggest guest room bed and brings all of the comfiest pillows and blankets he can to make it perfect

> For you more than him, but he doesn’t feel too hurt when you push half of them to the foot of the bed

> It was a lot even for a king bed

> You’re reluctant at first, not used to sharing a bed

> But you find he’s very hard to say no to once you’re in that deep

> He tries to give you space, but it’s not long before he’s wrapped around you, clinging for dear life

> And he almost immediately falls asleep like that, head tucked into your chest

> You sigh and try and relax, petting his hair

> And you fall asleep with your hand still tangled in his black locks, holding him close to you

> You wake up to him nuzzling your neck and practically whining

> “Baby…wake up…”

> You’d ask him what the problem was…if you couldn’t feel it against your leg

> You spend most of the morning still in bed, lazily fixing his predicament

Micheal Myers

> He doesn’t get why you want him to do this

> You know he doesn’t cuddle

> You know he usually gets restless and wanders at night

> But there’s no reason to say no, and even he can’t stand how sad your pout is

> You hum and stretch, tucking yourself in and look at him expectantly

> He takes off his boots and lays on top of the covers beside you, stiff as a board

> You have to coax him to even take the mask off, but he still won’t relax

> You quickly realize he’s used to high security psych ward bunks, not big comfy queen beds full of stuffed animals

> “…do you…wanna sleep on the floor?”

> He pauses.

> Shakes his head and closes his eyes.

> After you finally fall sleep, he sits up, intending on leaving

> But you look so peaceful…he can’t help to stay and watch you. Just for a little while.

> When he touches your cheek, you press into his hand. Maybe a while longer.

> When you wake up he’s still staring at you, hand long gone from your cheek

> But once you blink awake, it creeps somewhere else..

Thomas Hewitt

> He’s almost nervous of the idea

> Y’all are certainly intimate with each other - just as intimate as you would be if you were married like his mama was planning

> But what if the family noticed you were in there? He’d kill Hoyt for calling you anything nasty-

> When he sees you in skimpy PJs, he immediately forgets his worries

> He has a huge bed because he’s a huge guy, so when you curl up in it alone, it’s almost comical

> He’s staring at you as he climbs in after you, cautiously removing his mask

> His shoulders relax a little when you smile up at him, still so amazed you can stand to look at him

>“Hold me?”

> He grunts and takes no time in pulling you flush, spooning you. He’s more relaxed than he’s been in a while, sure he’ll fall asleep in no time

> Until you give a tiny sigh and shift your hips, innocently adjusting

> It doesn’t take much for you to set him off- he’s touch starved and obsessed with you.

> Along with feeling him against your ass, you can literally hear his breathing change.

> “…Tommy baby? Want me to take care of that?”

> It takes another two hours before you fall asleep, both sticky with sweat and sated, your head laying on his broad chest.

Bubba Sawyer

> He’s so happy to have a sleepover- even if you live right down the hall in the same house (I cannot imagine you dating him and being allowed to leave the farm tbh)

> He gives you an updated tour of his room- he’s very happy to show you the collection of polaroids of you he hung up.

> You were wondering where those went

> Finally he drops you on the bed, giggling quietly

> It’s old but comfy, and he has plenty of stolen pillows and blankets, and even some stuffed bears

> He strips right on down to his heart boxers, leaving his mask on for last

> He takes it off slowly, giving you that shy look he always does

> You grin and open your arms and he’s more than happy to scoop you up with a coo.

> By the time you’re settled, you’re curled around his back

> He loves being the little spoon, even if he’s a big brute

> When you wake up he’s bursting back into the room with some slightly burnt toast for breakfast

> It’s a sudden wake up call, but a welcome one

> And you repay him in tons of kisses, all over

Vincent Sinclair

> Like some of the others he’s hesitant

> But you want him to relax, he’s been working so hard- so you take him away from the studio, and into your room

> You’re not even letting him so much as sketch until he sleeps

> He tilts his head and is almost pouting, trying to guilt you - even more so once you help him remove his wax

> Until you coax him into his stomach so you can massage his back, that is

> You’re clumsy and certainly not a professional, but your hands on him is enough to melt away the stress

> He suddenly rolls over and grabs your hips as he hears you yawn

> It’s your turn to pout down at him

> But eventually you relent and let him cradle you close to his chest as he hums a nonsense lullaby

> You keep him trapped in bed the next morning as revenge, again straddling him before he can get up to leave

> But this time, you’re most certainly not yawning

[moonlightwritingf1]

Shattered Trust | LN4

𐙚 summary ━━━━━━━ Y/N discovers that she is pregnant with Lando's child. Instead of confiding in him about the unexpected news, she decides to keep her pregnancy a secret and, overwhelmed by fear and uncertainty about the future, she chooses to have an abortion without telling him. Eventually, Lando learns about her decision.

𐙚 pairing ━━━━━━━ Lando Norris x she!reader

𐙚 word count ━━━━━━━ 7.3k

𐙚 warnings ━━━━━━━ pregnancy, abortion, angst

Based on this request.

It was a Friday evening when it happened: Y/N returned to her apartment, coat still damp from the drizzle, her heart racing with a nameless dread that had been building for days. Standing in the glow of the kitchen’s overhead lights, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the black glass of the microwave door. She set down her purse and a small paper bag—an banal bag to anyone else, but to her, it held a possible turning point for her entire life. Inside were two pregnancy tests.

She had worked her usual shift that day, trying in vain to ignore the persistent knot in her stomach and the unfamiliar heaviness in her limbs. Something felt off. She made small talk with colleagues, forced a few polite laughs, and drank coffee like her life depended on it, but nothing helped chase away that apprehension. So, during her short walk home, she had ducked into a pharmacy, heart pounding, and bought the tests. The moment she walked out, she wanted to turn back and return them, to pretend none of this was happening.

But it was.

Steadying herself against the kitchen counter, Y/N drew in slow, shaky breaths. Every mental pep talk she had rehearsed on the way home slipped away like leaves in a storm. Even though she and Lando had been together for two wonderful years—two years filled with laughter, shared secrets, and stolen glances—this was not what she wanted right now. Not what she had planned. She couldn’t be pregnant. Not at this point in her career.

In the small bathroom adjacent to her bedroom, she carefully unwrapped the first test. Her hands trembled. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead, illuminating the pale tiles, her own frightened face in the mirror, sweat glistening on her brow.

She took the test, set it on the counter, and hovered over it like it might spark and burn. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she hoped she was overreacting. Perhaps her period was just late. Maybe it was stress. But the truth stared back in a painfully short amount of time: the telltale cross, positive.

It felt as though the world held its breath. She scrambled for the second test, praying the first was a fluke. But the second test told the same story: positive.

“No… oh God, no,” she whispered.

Her breath came in ragged gasps as she sank onto the cool tile floor, back pressing against the wall. The tests rolled away from her trembling hands. A wave of panic descended, bringing with it a vivid vision of an entirely different future—her career hopes overshadowed by an unplanned pregnancy. She closed her eyes, tears stinging, her mind a whirlwind of images: Lando’s laughter, Lando’s bright smile, and the way his eyes might light up at the idea of a baby. But in the next moment, her imagination shifted to her own tears, her own sense of being trapped, her career halted or derailed. She couldn’t do it. She felt certain she couldn’t.

That night, she barely moved from the bathroom floor. Eventually, she dragged herself to bed, the pregnancy tests stuffed into the little paper bag. She didn’t sleep; she just stared at the ceiling, numb, thoughts darting in every direction. When she finally drifted off, it was to restless half-dreams—nightmares of crying infants, undone deadlines, and a future she had never planned.

By Saturday morning, Y/N could think of only one way forward. She did not want this pregnancy. She wasn’t ready—not emotionally, not mentally, and certainly not in terms of her career. Lando’s always away, she reasoned. Even though he spent a lot of time in the UK, he still traveled constantly for Formula One, his life under perpetual media scrutiny. She felt certain the responsibility would fall entirely on her, and she wasn’t ready.

So, she decided: she would get an abortion, and she would never tell him. A trembling kind of finality sank into her veins as she stared at herself in the bathroom mirror that Saturday. She hoped her reflection might look resolute. Instead, she looked terrified.

She turned on the shower, letting scalding water cascade over her tense shoulders. She practiced what she might say if a coworker or friend asked about her weekend—little lines like I’m fine, just busy with some errands. A lie, but one she felt she had no choice but to tell.

The weekend dragged by in a haze of secrecy. She thought about calling her parents but dismissed the idea almost immediately; she didn’t want them to worry or, worse, to try to dissuade her. By Monday, her resolve had hardened.

During her lunch break at work, she locked herself in an empty conference room, phone in hand, voice shaking as she prayed no one was outside listening.

“Hello, yes, I’d like to book an appointment,” she whispered. The person on the other end asked for details: earliest availability, whether this was her first time. She swallowed hard at that question, her heart hammering as she confessed that yes, this was the first. They offered her a Wednesday slot.

She wrote down the clinic’s address and instructions on a sticky note, then tore the note to pieces in a wave of paranoia. She would memorize it. No evidence. She was certain Lando must never find out.

The rest of Monday passed in a blur. She forced her usual smiles, tried to gather her scattered thoughts in a marketing meeting, but her mind spun in circles around what was to come. By day’s end, she felt wrung out—physically and emotionally.

Wednesday dawned gray and drizzly, the sky mirroring Y/N’s mood. She had taken the day off, feigning sickness. It wasn’t entirely untrue; nausea churned in her stomach, her nerves coiled tighter than springs.

The clinic’s waiting room was smaller than she expected—quiet, almost too quiet. She filled out the forms with trembling hands, avoiding looking at the other women who were also waiting. Each had her own story, her own reasons, her own heartbreak.

When they called her name, she followed a nurse with shaky legs. The procedure itself was a blur of instructions, bright lights, and a suffocating mixture of relief and sudden, sharp sorrow. She told herself she was certain. She reminded herself that this was what she wanted. Still, flickers of doubt gnawed at the edges of her mind.

Afterward, the pain was more intense than she had braced for. Her lower abdomen cramped viciously. A nurse told her to rest, to avoid strenuous activity, and to call if anything seemed amiss. She forced a weak smile, nodding mechanically, all the while wanting nothing more than to disappear into her apartment.

She stumbled home, barely registering how she made it through the front door before collapsing onto her bed. The moment her body hit the mattress, a sharp, searing pain shot through her abdomen, making her curl in on herself instinctively. The cramps tore through her like knives, relentless and punishing, far worse than what the clinic had warned her about. She pressed her hands against her stomach, trying to breathe through the agony that wracked her body, waves of pain rolling over her in cruel succession.

But it wasn’t just the physical pain that consumed her. The emotional weight of it all settled heavily in her chest, raw and suffocating. Not because she regretted her decision—she didn’t. She knew with certainty that this was the right choice for her, for her future. But as she lay there, body trembling from exhaustion, the loneliness crept in like a shadow she couldn’t escape. She had done this alone. She had made this choice alone. And now, she had to suffer through the aftermath alone.

For a fleeting moment, she considered calling her mother, just to hear the soft, familiar voice that had once soothed her through scraped knees and sleepless nights. But she knew she couldn’t. She knew what her mother would say—how the disappointment would lace her tone, how she might try to convince her that she had made a mistake. And then there was Lando. She thought about what he might have done if she had told him. Would he have been angry? Hurt? Would he have begged her to reconsider? Or would he have just held her, wiped her tears away, told her that no matter what, he would be there?

But none of that mattered now. She had made her choice, and she refused to feel ashamed of it. She had been terrified that if she told anyone, they would criticize her, judge her, tell her she had done something wrong. And so she had kept it to herself. This was her burden. No one else could know. No one else should know.

Still, as she curled deeper into the blankets, pain wracking her body, she wished—just for a moment—that someone was there to hold her through it. But there was no one. So she gritted her teeth, wiped her tears, and endured the consequences.

Thursday and Friday, Y/N forced herself to return to work, ignoring the stabbing pains whenever she moved too quickly or twisted in her seat. She ran on frayed nerves and adrenaline, quietly popping painkillers to get through meetings. She told coworkers she had a lingering stomach bug, which explained her fatigue and occasional winces. Thankfully, they seemed to believe her.

All day Friday, she counted the hours until she could crawl under the covers and rest. But fate intervened. Late that afternoon, her phone chimed:

Lando: Hey, love, you busy tonight? I’m in London—surprise! I want to see you. Text me when you’re out of the office. x

Her stomach dropped. A flicker of warmth passed through her, a reminder of the comfort his presence usually brought. Then panic seized her. She didn’t know if she could hide her pain for an entire evening, and she certainly hadn’t expected him.

Still, she forced a casual tone in her reply:

Y/N: Surprise indeed. Sure, come over. We can have dinner in.

He replied with a string of heart emojis and “Can’t wait.” She took a shaky breath, promising herself she would manage.

By the time Y/N let Lando into her apartment, the sun was slipping behind the skyscrapers. He arrived with a casual jacket, jeans, and that familiar, excited glow on his face. In his hands was a plastic container that smelled richly of pesto and parmesan.

“Hey, baby,” he said gently, leaning in to press a warm kiss to her forehead. The instant his arms circled her waist, a twinge of pain shot through her abdomen, making her tense. He noticed.

“You okay?” he asked, concern evident in his voice as he pulled back to study her expression.

“Just a bit tired from work,” she answered, forcing a smile. “Long week.”

He nodded but still looked worried. “I brought dinner, so you don’t have to lift a finger. Just relax.” He held up the container. “My mum’s recipe—pasta with creamy pesto sauce. I promised you I’d learn how to make it one day, remember?”

The sincerity in his voice tugged at her heart. “That’s sweet. Thank you, Lando,” she murmured. A surge of guilt lanced through her—he had no idea that she’d had an abortion just two days before.

She led him to the small dining table near the windows. He portioned out the pasta, adding a sprinkle of grated cheese while she poured water into glasses. She tried to appear normal, but each time she shifted in her seat, her body reminded her of reality.

“You’re sure you’re all right?” Lando asked partway through the meal, setting his fork down. His concerned gaze roamed over her. “You look… stressed.”

“I’m fine. Really,” she lied, mustering another smile. “Just a lot going on at work.”

He exhaled, reaching across the table to take her hand. She flinched slightly; the brush of his thumb over her skin stirred a rush of conflicting emotions—remorse, sadness, love, and anxiety, all tangled together.

“Hey,” he said softly, “you can tell me anything, you know?”

Her throat tightened. “Of course,” she whispered, dropping her eyes to her plate. She couldn’t… not this. Not now.

They finished dinner in relative silence. When the plates were emptied, she rose to collect them, but Lando stopped her, moving them himself to the sink. “I’ll rinse off,” he insisted. “You go sit on the couch, okay? I’ll join you in a second.”

Relieved to have a moment alone, Y/N slipped onto the sofa, pressing a hand to her aching lower abdomen. She heard the sound of running water in the kitchen, the faint clink of dishes, and let her eyes drift shut.

Moments later, Lando dropped onto the cushion beside her. “Done,” he announced, a small grin lighting his features. He placed a hand on her thigh. “I missed you,” he confessed, voice low. “You’ve been distant. Hardly texted me all week.”

She offered an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry. I guess I’ve just been in my own head.”

His brow furrowed. “Right. Just promise me if something’s bothering you, you’ll tell me.” He paused, swallowing. “I love you, you know. I hate seeing you like this.”

His simple words—I love you—nearly undid her. Her eyes stung with tears, and she struggled to keep them at bay. If he only knew.

He noticed her reaction and tried to lighten the mood. “Wanna watch something in bed?” he asked. “Movie night?”

She nodded, her voice tight. “Sure.”

Hours later, having half-watched a comedy on Netflix, they decided to turn in for the night. Y/N, braced by painkillers, made her way to the bathroom first. As she washed her hands, she remembered the pregnancy tests.

A jolt of panic coursed through her. Oh, God. Where are they? She had thrown them in the bathroom trash, but had she fully disposed of them?

She left the sink running, peering into the small bin under the sink. It was mostly empty, just a tiny plastic bag and some balled-up tissues—except for that faint flash of white plastic. Damn it. She grabbed the bin, intending to quickly transfer its contents to a bigger trash bag in the kitchen, but she heard Lando’s footsteps approaching.

“Hey, babe,” he began, stepping into the doorway, “do you have any—?”

She froze, bin in hand, looking guilty. “Uh, nothing, sorry—”

He frowned, spotting the white plastic in the bin she held. In a disastrous stroke of timing, one test fell out, landing on the floor with a soft clink. Instantly, Lando recognized what it was. He bent to pick it up.

“What’s this?” he asked, curiosity turning to shock as he saw the tiny window indicating a plus sign. “Oh… Wait, is this—?”

His eyes snapped to her, excitement and confusion mingling in his expression. “You’re pregnant?” he murmured in disbelief. “Is that why you’ve been so… off all week? Why didn’t you tell me?”

She opened her mouth, but nothing emerged. He looked at her, a hundred emotions warring across his features—hope, wonder, fear. But he seemed happy, above all.

“Are we having a baby?” he asked, voice hushed.

Her mouth went dry. She could only shake her head. “No,” she managed hoarsely. “No, we’re not.”

He glanced at the test again. “But… it’s positive. I don’t understand.”

She swallowed hard. “It was positive,” she said, tears brimming in her eyes.

“It was?” His brow furrowed. “I still don’t—”

She realized there was no escape. The truth would come crashing down on them both. “Lando… I had an abortion,” she whispered, voice barely above a breath. “On Wednesday. It’s gone.”

Silence saturated the small space. Lando’s complexion went ashen, his jaw falling slack. Slowly, he set the test on the counter. His eyes, now shimmering with tears, lifted to her face.

“What?” he rasped, hardly able to form the words. “You were pregnant and… you…” He couldn’t finish. His breaths came in uneven gasps as disbelief gave way to deep, staggering hurt. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Her head dipped, shame burning in her cheeks. “I was scared,” she admitted, voice quivering. “I didn’t want it. I was terrified you’d try to force me to keep it.”

“Force you?” he repeated, stepping closer, heartbreak etched on every line of his face. “Why would you think that?”

She squeezed her eyes shut, tears rolling down her cheeks. “You love kids, Lando. You always say you can’t wait to be a dad. You get that look whenever you see children at the track. And I… I couldn’t do it. Not now. My career is just taking off, and you’re traveling so much. I felt like I had no choice.”

He let out a shaky exhale, rubbing a hand over his face. “I can’t believe you kept it from me,” he said, voice cracking. “We’ve been together two years. Did I ever make you think I’d force you to do something you didn’t want?”

She sobbed openly, tears glistening on her cheeks. “No… but I was scared. I thought you’d beg me or persuade me otherwise. And I wasn’t strong enough to say no if you did.”

The anger, heartbreak, and confusion on his face were almost tangible. He placed the test on the counter, turning back to her with tears rimming his eyes. “What was right for you…” he echoed bitterly. “So I didn’t even factor in?”

She tried to speak, but words stuck in her throat like stones. Finally, she managed to say, “That’s not fair. It’s my body, and I had to make a choice.”

He shut his eyes, tears spilling onto his cheeks. “Of course it’s your body,” he said, voice shaking. “But we’re together, aren’t we? You didn’t even give me a chance to be there for you, to help or… or just hold your hand.”

She choked out an apology. “I’m so sorry, Lando. I never wanted to hurt you. But I was so afraid of losing everything I’ve worked for. I panicked.”

He sank onto the edge of the bathtub, tears still falling freely. She had never seen him cry like this. “When did you find out?” he asked quietly.

“Last Friday,” she admitted. “I found out alone, here, after work. I called the clinic Monday and got an appointment for Wednesday. I was in so much pain afterward, and… I kept it from everyone. I didn’t want to risk anyone telling you.”

He let out a hollow breath. “Days… you spent days alone, in pain, not telling a soul.”

He buried his face in his hands, shoulders shuddering. Y/N felt her heart break at the sight. Ignoring her own discomfort, she knelt on the tiled floor and rested a trembling hand on his knee.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated, voice raw. “I didn’t want to break your heart. I… I just couldn’t handle what a baby would mean right now.”

He lowered his hands, eyes red. “Afraid… were you afraid of me?” he asked, voice thick.

“I was afraid of letting both of us down,” she answered, tears hitching in her chest. “Afraid I couldn’t stand by my decision if you pleaded with me. I know you love me, but I felt cornered.”

He let out a shaky sigh, wiping his tears with frustration. “I thought we trusted each other,” he whispered. “We’re supposed to be a team. And now…” He trailed off, voice cracking. “I can’t explain how much it hurts to know you went through something so huge, so painful, alone.”

Her hand found his, and he didn’t pull away. “I know,” she murmured. “It wasn’t about distrusting you. I just… I didn’t trust myself.”

He inhaled sharply, tears still falling. “I’m sorry you felt that way,” he said brokenly. “But God, it hurts. We could have had a baby. And now… we don’t. And you never even told me.”

A fresh wave of guilt crushed her. She inched closer, wrapping her arms around him. He froze for a moment, then sagged into her embrace, the two of them sobbing against each other. The heartbreak was palpable, a heavy weight neither knew how to handle.

Eventually, they pulled away from one another, both of their faces streaked with tears and their eyes red from crying. Lando stood first, then gently helped Y/N to her feet. His voice was rough with emotion as he said, “Come on. You need to rest. We can’t just… stay on this bathroom floor all night.”

She nodded mutely, allowing him to guide her into the bedroom. He arranged the pillows so that she could sit back comfortably, then frowned at the harsh glow of the overhead lamp. With a few quick steps, he switched on the softer bedside light instead, filling the room with a gentler warmth.

For a long moment, neither spoke. Y/N could sense the storm of emotions roiling behind Lando’s eyes: hurt, anger, sorrow. Finally, he cleared his throat, his voice still trembling. “When exactly… did you do it?”

Her breath hitched. “Wednesday,” she confessed. “I pretended to be sick at work and went in the morning. I was home by noon, just… in pain.”

He nodded almost imperceptibly, eyes shutting as anguish pinched his features. “You came back… alone?” he echoed quietly. “No one knew? No one drove you?”

She shook her head, shame creeping over her. “I took a cab. I told no one,” she whispered.

Lando grimaced, running a hand over his face in an attempt to steady his breathing. “God,” he muttered, voice raw, “the thought of you going through that all alone—” His voice cracked, and he let out a shuddering exhale. “I would have been there for you. Even if I disagreed, even if we argued… I would have been there, if you’d just told me.”

Tears slid down Y/N’s cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Truly. I wish I could change it.”

He inhaled sharply, still fighting the turmoil in his chest. “I’m devastated,” he admitted, meeting her gaze. “Not because you chose to have an abortion—I get that it’s your body, your choice. What kills me is knowing you went through all that alone, and worse, that you thought so little of me that you believed I’d try to force you to keep the baby. That you hid this from me… It hurts more than anything.”

Fresh tears welled up in her eyes as she reached for his hand. “I was terrified,” she said brokenly. “I was worried about how it might affect your career, mine… everything. I thought if you knew, you’d beg me to keep it, and I wouldn’t be strong enough to say no. I never wanted to lose you or disappoint you.”

“F1 is huge,” Lando acknowledged softly, tears escaping down his cheeks. “But it’s not bigger than you—or the family I hope we can have someday. But only when you’re ready.” His voice trembled as he continued. “I’ve pictured marrying you, Y/N. I’ve thought about us having kids… not now, but eventually. I never—” He broke off, swallowing hard. “I never wanted you to think you couldn’t come to me. I never wanted you to go through something like this alone.”

A trembling breath escaped her. She blinked, her vision blurring with tears. “I didn’t know,” she admitted, voice cracking. 

Silence settled over them as each grappled with the weight of their mutual insecurities. At last, Lando reached out and brushed a tear from her cheek. “We both messed up,” he said thickly. “But please… don’t hide something like this from me again. I would have supported you, no matter your decision. I would have carried you out of that clinic myself if that’s what you needed.”

“I won’t,” she promised, tears spilling anew. Her voice wobbled as she added, “I’m so sorry I misjudged you.”

He leaned in, pulling her carefully into his arms. Even in his own pain, he was gentle, cradling the back of her head. She felt his heartbreak in every shaky breath, but she also felt his unwavering love.

“I’m so angry and sad,” he murmured into her hair. “But I love you. I can’t just leave you over this. I just… need time to process it.”

She pressed her face to his chest, her sobs muffled against his shirt. “If you need space,” she began, voice muffled, “I understand.”

Lando shook his head, resting his cheek against the top of her head. “I don’t want space. I just want to figure out how to move forward.” He pulled back enough to meet her gaze. “Are you still in pain?”

“A bit,” she admitted, wiping her cheeks. “Cramping.”

His face twisted with concern. “Let me get you something—a hot water bottle, painkillers?”

She offered him a watery smile. “A hot water bottle would help, yeah.”

He stood up, quickly returning with the hot water bottle and placing it gently over her lower abdomen. Then he climbed onto the bed beside her. She nestled against him, tears falling quietly as he wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

“I love you,” he said again, his voice catching in his throat. “Even after all of this, even though I’m hurting. I don’t want to lose you.”

She looked up, eyes swimming with guilt and relief. “I love you too,” she whispered. “I’m sorry I broke your heart. If I could redo it… I’d tell you right away. But I still wouldn’t have kept the pregnancy,” she added, her voice trembling with a fresh wave of emotion. “I’m sorry that hurts you.”

His breath shuddered. “It does,” he admitted, “but I’d never want you forced into something you don’t want. I just wish I’d known. I wish you’d trusted me enough to let me be there for you.”

A tear rolled down her cheek, the regret so palpable she could barely speak. “Me too,” she whispered, taking his hand and squeezing it.

A lingering pause enveloped them. At last, Lando spoke, his voice quiet. “Do you still see a future for us? Maybe a family one day, when we’re both really ready for it?”

He looked at her with fragile hope, grief etched in every line of his face. Y/N felt her own tears threaten again. “I do,” she murmured. “Just… not right now.”

His shoulders slackened, a relieved breath escaping him. “Okay,” he said, voice unsteady. “That means a lot.”

They sat there, the bedside lamp casting a warm glow around them, an island of soft light in a sea of darkness. Eventually, she rested her head against his chest, listening to his heartbeat. She wondered if they could ever get back the easy laughter and carefree moments they once knew. But for now, she focused on the steady thump beneath her cheek—the sound of him staying, of him loving her through the pain.

And despite the sorrow, it was a comfort she clung to with all her heart.

Sleep was fitful for them both. The weight of everything that had been said, everything that had been revealed, settled over them like an unshakable fog. Around three in the morning, Y/N woke from a restless doze, her abdomen throbbing, cheeks still damp with tears. Lando’s arms were around her, holding her close even in sleep, though his grip occasionally tightened as if, even subconsciously, he was afraid of losing her.

She shifted slightly, wincing as another wave of pain rolled through her. The physical ache was still overwhelming, a sharp reminder of what her body had been through. But the emotional turmoil lingered too—the knowledge that she had believed, deep down, that Lando would have forced her to keep the baby if he had known.

As if sensing her discomfort, he stirred, blinking blearily before his gaze immediately found hers. He brushed a thumb across her damp cheek, voice still thick with sleep. “You okay?”

“It still hurts,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “All of it.”

He pressed a soft kiss to her temple, the gesture so heartbreakingly tender that it made her chest tighten. “I know,” he murmured. “I hate that you’re in pain. I hate that you thought you had to go through this alone. But I’m here. Let’s hold on to each other tonight.”

She nestled closer to him, craving the warmth of his presence, even as her heart ached with the realization that this—this moment of fragile vulnerability—was what she had feared. That he would love her despite it all. That he wouldn’t abandon her, no matter what.

His scent—soap, faint cologne, something unmistakably him—brought back memories of better days. Lazy weekends tangled up in his sheets. Impromptu dates that always ended in laughter. The way he would tease her, endlessly, just to see her roll her eyes and fight back with that fire he adored.

She clung to those memories, hoping they could anchor her through the storm still raging inside her.

They drifted in and out of sleep until the early light crept around the blinds. Y/N stirred, blinking up at the ceiling, only to realize Lando was already awake, watching her. His expression was unreadable, somewhere between sorrow and quiet determination.

She turned her face away, self-conscious, but he gently pulled her back, fingertips brushing her chin. “Hey,” he said softly, eyes searching hers. “I’ve got you.”

Her throat tightened. “I’m scared,” she confessed. “Scared you won’t look at me the same.”

Lando exhaled sharply, closing his eyes for a brief moment as if the thought physically hurt him. When he opened them again, they were glassy with emotion. He didn’t speak right away. Instead, he pulled her even closer, his lips pressing to her forehead in a lingering, silent reassurance.

“I won’t lie,” he admitted, voice thick with emotion. “This changes things.”

Her breath hitched.

Not because she regretted what she had done—but because of how deeply she had misjudged him. Because she had truly believed he wouldn’t stand by her. Because she had been so convinced she was alone.

Lando pulled back just enough to meet her gaze, his fingers threading through hers. “But not in the way you think,” he continued. “Not because of what you did. Not because you had an abortion.” His thumb brushed soothing circles over the back of her hand. “It changes things because now I know how much you believed I’d try to control you. That you thought I’d take away your choice.”

Tears burned at the edges of her eyes again.

He shook his head, jaw tightening. “That kills me, Y/N. But I need you to hear me when I say this—I will always support you. No matter what.”

She let out a trembling breath, the weight of his words settling into her bones.

“Together?” she whispered, clinging to that word like a lifeline.

His grip on her hand tightened. “Together,” he promised. And this time, she believed him.

That morning, Lando insisted on taking care of her. He moved cautiously, helping her to the bathroom, making sure she took her painkillers, and bringing her a warm drink. She managed a few bites of toast, and he hovered protectively until she was done.

They ended up on the couch, the morning sun spilling through the windows to illuminate the living room. The hum of traffic emphasised the tense quiet between them. Finally, Lando broke the silence, voice tentative.

“Do you think… we should talk to someone about this?” he asked. “A counselor or therapist, maybe. It feels like something too big to handle alone.”

She fiddled with the edge of a throw pillow. She had never considered counseling before, but the weight of her guilt, his grief, and their mutual pain felt overwhelming. “Maybe,” she agreed softly. “If you’re willing, we could look into it.”

He gave a small, sad smile. “I think it could help,” he said. Then he slid closer and took her hand in his. “I’m still so hurt,” he added, eyes fixed on the carpet. “I can’t pretend I’m not. But we can’t go back in time, and if we just shut down now, we’ll lose each other.”

A tear slipped down her cheek, and she smiled shakily at him. “I don’t want to lose you,” she said. “I love you so much.”

He was quiet for a long moment, then gently guided her head to rest on his shoulder. They sat like that, taking halting steps toward mending the rift. The grief lingered—a heavy companion in the room—but beneath it, there was love, fragile but steadfast.

Hours crept by in slow motion. Lando stayed nearby, drawing a bath for her, massaging her back when the cramps worsened, handing her tissues whenever tears struck without warning. She apologized again and again; he told her that he forgave her, but also that trust would take time to rebuild.

Occasionally, she caught him gazing at her with tears in his eyes, heartbreak flashing across his features at the thought of the baby he would never meet. Guilt nibbled at her each time, knowing she had kept him in the dark. And yet, he never lashed out in anger. He was gentle, if deeply wounded���proof of how deeply he cared for her. It humbled her and made her chest ache all at once.

By the time night fell again, Y/N was curled on the couch under a blanket, eyes hollow from crying. Lando had stepped away to the bathroom; when he returned, he settled next to her, exhaustion etched on his face.

“Remember when we used to talk about the future?” he asked quietly, eyes distant. “About traveling more, maybe living somewhere else, getting away from the city for a bit?”

She nodded, recalling those late-night talks and the sense of possibility they used to share—how different everything seemed now.

“I still want those things,” he said, turning toward her. “And I want them with you. But I need you to come to me with things—even if you think it’ll upset me or disappoint me.” A tremor of emotion caught in his throat. “I can’t handle being shut out again.”

Tears welled in her eyes. “I promise,” she said, voice unsteady. “I promise I won’t ever hide something like this from you again.”

He studied her face for a moment, then nodded, a flicker of relief showing. “Good,” he whispered, slipping an arm around her waist.

She let her head rest on his shoulder, fresh tears slipping onto his shirt. This time, the crying felt like a release rather than a collapse. He stroked gentle circles on her back.

They stared out the window at the glow of the skyline. The silence between them was heavy but not hostile—more like two people trying to piece themselves back together after a storm.

A few minutes passed in silence, the soft hum of traffic below filling the quiet. Then, Y/N cleared her throat, turning to look at Lando with fresh tears gathering.

“I know I keep apologizing,” she began, voice trembling, “but I need you to know something important.”

He watched her intently, his own eyes rimmed with red. “What is it?” he asked softly.

She drew in a shaky breath. “I don’t regret having the abortion,” she said, her voice steady for the first time since this began. “I truly believe it was the right decision for me… for us… for now. And I’m so sorry if that hurts to hear.”

His face flickered with pain, but he gave a small shake of his head. “It doesn’t hurt to hear it,” he said, pressing his lips together. “I promise. I’m not… I’m not upset about the decision itself. I know it’s your body, your choice.”

The relief in her eyes was immediate, though guilt still lingered. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I needed to say that out loud.” Her gaze dropped to their joined hands. “But I’m devastated that I didn’t tell you as soon as I found out. The moment I took that test, I should have… I should have told you. I just—” She paused, swallowing hard. “I was so scared.”

He nodded, his grip on her fingers tightening briefly. “That’s what hurts the most,” he admitted, voice thick. “Not that you ended the pregnancy. But that you believed I’d try to make you keep it.” He exhaled shakily, the corners of his eyes glistening again. “It feels like you thought I’d trap you or force you. That you trusted me so little.”

Hearing the crack in his voice, Y/N felt fresh tears surge. “I didn’t want to think of you that way,” she whispered, “but I… let my fear win. I convinced myself that you’d beg me to keep it, and I wouldn’t be able to stand firm.” She shifted closer, her free hand moving to rest gently on his forearm. “Seeing you like this, knowing how much I hurt you by not telling you—” She broke off, choking on a sob. “I’m sorry, Lando. I’m so, so sorry.”

He swallowed, blinking against his own tears. “I’m hurt because it’s us. We’ve been together for two years, and I thought… I thought you knew me better than that. I would never have wanted to force you into anything, and I would have respected your decision from the start.” His voice wavered. “I would have been there in that clinic, waiting, holding your hand, driving you home. All of it. If only you’d told me.”

That last sentence sent a wave of guilt crashing over her. She leaned in, pressing her forehead against his shoulder as she cried silently. His arm came around her, holding her close.

When she finally lifted her head, her eyes were red, but there was a fierceness in her gaze. “I know,” she said, voice raw. “And I hate myself for letting fear overshadow everything else. For making you feel like I didn’t trust you.”

Lando eased back against the cushions, tugging her gently with him so that she rested against his side. “I understand why you were scared,” he murmured, staring at the city lights through the glass windows. “But it doesn’t make the hurt vanish. It’s going to take time.”

She nodded, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand. “I know,” she whispered. “I’m prepared for that. I’ll do whatever it takes. I just want you to know I’m not… I’m not sitting here wishing I could go back and keep the pregnancy. I’m wishing I could go back and trust you enough to tell you from the start.”

His gaze slid toward her, sad and searching. “Thank you,” he said softly. “I need to hear that.”

She exhaled unsteadily, dropping her head against his shoulder. “You’re so hurt,” she murmured. “And every time I see it in your eyes… It breaks me. Because I’m the one who caused it.”

He pressed a tentative kiss to the top of her head. “I’ll heal,” he said. “We both will. But you have to promise me, from now on, you’ll come to me. Even if you think I’ll be angry, or disappointed, or anything else. Just… don’t shut me out.”

Her voice cracked when she answered, “I won’t. I swear. I’ve learned my lesson the hardest way possible.”

They stayed like that for several beats of silence, the city’s ambient glow lending a soft halo around them through the windows. After a while, Y/N shifted to look at him directly.

“Do you want anything?” she asked quietly. “Tea? Water? Another blanket?”

He half-smiled, a worn expression. “I think I could use some water, yeah.”

She gave his hand a gentle squeeze before standing. Her steps were ginger; she was still sore, but the pain was easier to bear now that the guilt wasn’t crushing her every breath. In the kitchen, she filled a glass with water. She grabbed one for herself as well.

When she returned, Lando accepted it gratefully, taking a few careful sips. She settled back beside him, drawing a throw blanket over both of their laps.

“I promise,” she said suddenly, “I’ll never lie to you like this again, never keep something so big a secret.” Her voice trembled, but her eyes shone with conviction. “I know it won’t erase what I’ve done, but I need you to know that.”

He nodded, setting his half-finished glass on the coffee table. “I believe you,” he said, “but it’ll take time for that trust to feel… complete again.” He glanced at her worriedly, as though fearing his honesty might wound her further. “Are you okay hearing that?”

She swallowed, tears threatening once more. “Yes,” she said, forcing herself not to look away. “It’s what I deserve. I hurt you, and I can’t expect that to vanish overnight.” She paused, taking a ragged breath. “But I’ll do whatever it takes to show you I do trust you… that you are the most important person in my life.”

He gave a short, pained laugh. “Funny how we both felt we were doing what was best for each other—me wanting to be supportive no matter what, you wanting to protect my career and your own.” He shook his head. “But we ended up hurting each other more.”

She rested a hand against his cheek, wiping away the tears on his lashes with her thumb. “I’m done letting fear guide me,” she said. “I want us to heal, Lando.”

Silence fell again, broken only by the quiet city hum and their unsteady breathing. Finally, Lando sighed, releasing some of the tension in his shoulders. “Let’s talk about something—anything else—just for a minute,” he suggested, voice still laced with sadness but carrying a faint glimmer of hope. “Not to pretend this didn’t happen, but… I feel like I can’t breathe if we keep circling the same pain.”

She nodded, understanding. “Okay.”

They sat there for a moment, and she found herself hesitating. Then she mustered a small smile. “I had an idea for a holiday, before all this. Nothing extravagant—maybe just a road trip through the English countryside, or a quick hop somewhere in Europe for a weekend. To get away from the city stress.”

His expression softened. “I remember you mentioning wanting to see the Lake District again.”

She nodded, shoulders relaxing a fraction. “Yeah. Maybe we could go there. It’s calm… quiet. Might give us space to just be.”

He reached for her hand again, a gentler hold this time. “That actually sounds… perfect,” he admitted. “No pressure, no big crowds. Just us.”

They exchanged a tentative smile, the first real glimmer of something lighter passing between them since the revelation.

After a pause, Y/N brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “Thank you,” she said softly. “For listening. For not walking away. For understanding that… I don’t regret the abortion. Only how I handled it with you.”

Lando studied her face for a moment, then lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a gentle kiss there. “I love you,” he said, his voice still heavy with emotion. “I wish this had never happened the way it did, but I’m still here. And I still want you… just you.”

She blinked back fresh tears, nodding. “I love you, too,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry I ever made you feel like I didn’t trust you. You’re the only person I’ve ever truly loved, and I hate that I made you doubt it.”

He squeezed her hand. “We’ll work through it,” he said quietly. “One day at a time. As long as we’re both honest from now on.”

She breathed out, her shoulders slumping in a mixture of exhaustion and relief. “Yes,” she agreed, letting her head fall onto his shoulder. “One day at a time.”

Outside the apartment windows, the city moved on as always—lights pulsing, cars streaming, life going on. But for the two of them, everything felt changed. They hadn’t escaped the storm entirely, but they had survived its fiercest gusts.

Wrapped in each other’s arms on that couch, they found a fragile peace—not because they had forgotten the pain, but because they had acknowledged it, felt it fully, and decided to keep moving forward together.

[justwonder113]

Han drunkenly confessing to you

Inspired by this ask

Summary: When Chan calls you at 2 am to pick up drunk han because he is asking for you the last thing you expect is for Han to confess his love for you. warnings: CHAOS! Idiots to lovers, (Both reader and Han(mostly Han) are idiots.) Reader is gender neutral. Cursing to no one's surprise. Kissing. Han being somewhat drunk. Teensy tiny amount of angst. Reader almost having a mental breakdown from all the chaos. Somewhat proofread. let me know if I missed anything A/N- Happy new year lovelies! I wish you all the best! Please take care of yourselves and drink lot's of water. Thank you all for all the love and support you have given me, it really means a lot to me. Word count- 2.4 k

Masterlist

If you like my work you can buy me coffee🩷

You know how people put most bizarre things in their resumes? Like stuff they only did once and they wrote it down like they had some kind of PhD in that field? Well next time you if you decided to change jobs or just apply to a new one you would write down that you had an experience and could deal with being friends with Han Fucking Jisung! That is if he survived this day. Because what do you mean you were heading out to get his drunk ass home because this grown ass man was actually crying and asking for you in the damn club at two fucking am! You were so beating his ass once he got sober.

You were seeing such a great dream too. You and Han were actually together and didn’t have this weird ass relationship you two had right now where there were no literal boundaries and you didn’t have to question every day If he was returning the feelings or if you were delusional and he was just extra friendly and overall simply comfortable with you. He was quite touchy and flirty with boys too after all. So you could imagine how much headache this could bring in.

 Anyway, to stop with your let’s just say unfortunate love life and get to the point you were pissed. You really were looking forward after a shitty week sleeping in and actually resting. That’s why you didn’t go to the club with the boys in the first place. How much did he actually drink to be actually crying and asking for you? What was he, a toddler asking for his mommy? Or better yet what was up with you being actually in love with this man?

The club was quite crowded for 2 am. The neon lights of reds blues and greens kept flashing rhythmically. The shouts of laughter and the hum of conversation mixed with the music creating a bit of chaos but well it was a normal atmosphere for a club. As soon as you walked in the smell of cocktails mixed with perfume and sweat of the crowd immediately hit you. It was a bit headache inducing but it was tolerable, as long as you left soon. You started searching for your friends with your eyes which was quite hard at first the crowd really kept shifting and mingling with each other. People really looked like they were having time of their life and you, with the, I just woke up and I’m mad as hell face, surely sticked out like a sore thumb.

Thankfully you found the boys quickly. It wasn’t hard giving they were loudest in the whole establishment as always. They were by the entrance and thankfully everyone looking ready to leave.

As for the man child who was the main reason you were here in the first place, he was clinging to Minho yapping about something. He wasn’t crying now but his eyes really looked puffy and red. Honestly how much did he drink? Others looked normal. Well tired like they were already hungover but still normal. Minho really looked like he was seconds away from smacking him. Yes smacking him, he even managed to rile Minho up. God, what a lightweight.

Han must have noticed you because one second you were looking at his face light up and him call you baby on top of his lungs and the next second he was basically on top of you. He literally hugged you witch such force it was a miracle you were standing on your feet and didn’t fall over.

“Han be careful!” You hear Chan warn him, he sounded tired.

“I’m fine.” You mustered to croak out once Han let go a bit to check if you were fine, he still returned to hugging you but at least you could breathe now. He really must have missed you. God you really wanted to kiss him. All your anger and grumpiness immediately flew out the window. Good for him he was so cute or else you would have smacked his head for bringing you here. “How are you Hannie? A little birdie told me you were asking for me.”

Han looked at you with his wide boba eyes, his lips jutted out in the cutest pout ever. “Better now that you’re here. They are literally so mean baby, I’m glad you’re here. You’re my favorite.”- Han whined out and hugged you again. You looked at others who looked so done, only Minho looked bemused, he held his phone up and recorded Han whine to you. You looked at him with raised eyebrow as you patted Han’s back to calm him down.

Minho only shrugged, “I’m showing this to him when he asks me for something. You’re in charge now since you’re his favorite.”

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes. “Babe we both know that your softie ass is immediately going to cave in and do what he wants anyway.”

Minho glared at you, unamused by your comment but you didn’t really pay any mind to it, you had your attention to Han who stopped hugging you and went to Felix instead. He looked like he was about to start crying again any second now.

“Hannie baby what’s wrong?”

“You hate me!” His bold statement was followed by the most dramatic sob and collective sighs of being done from his friends.

“Why would you think that?” You were genuinely so confused. You had no idea what you did wrong.

Han glared at you for a second and returned to hugging Felix who was barely holding his laughter in. Not much to your surprise he quickly gave in. “You called Minho babe. You’re basically replacing me, you really must hate me.”

What now? You couldn’t help but blink in confusion because what the fuck was up with that logic. You really looked at him with a deadpan expression before the realization of what he said really dawned on you.

You tried, you really tried to hold your face together and not just burst out laughing, but you’re only just a human after all.

With the most teasing voice and biggest smile ever you used the chance to tease him, because let’s be real, pouty and sulky Han is the cutest Han. “Are you jealous baby?”

Han gasped and let go of Felix, he actually looked at you like he was mad now. Mad and maybe seconds away from crying which harshly puled on your heartstrings.

“I am! I’ve been in love with you for years and you’re calling Minho babe here!” He yelled and stormed off outside the club leaving you there shocked not knowing what to do. The boys also looked like they didn’t know what to do, only Minho was laughing his ass off and Hyunjin also looked like he was barely holding in his laughter in.

So he was jealous.

Oh.

Oh.

He said he loved you.

Han Jisung said he loved you.

The Han Jisung loved you.

He returned your feelings.

The boy you had been in love with for ages loved you back.

“HAN JISUNG GET YOUR ASS HERE!” You yelled as you chased after him. All seven of the boys cheering after you and encouraging you to get him. You would get to them later.

Thankfully he hadn’t gotten far, it might have taken you a second or two to let everything sink in. Han was closeby sitting on the sidewalk, pretty tears running down his rosy cheeks, what a silly boy, he even forgot to bring his jacket. You sat close to him thinking for a second of what to say to him, while also trying to warm him with your body head. He looked cold.

“If you want to tease me please go inside. I already feel like shit.” His voice was so raw and he looked so pained. It really hurt to see him like this. He sighed. “I need a minute okay? I will be fine I’m not that drunk anymore.” He took a pause. “I mean how can I be after the shit I said, God I am stupid!” You watched a tear run down his face. Before you could even realize what you were doing you reached and gently brushed away the tear. Han looked at you with tearful eyes.

“Maybe but who am I to judge? I mean, I didn’t even realize that my best friend, the man I had been in love with for god knows how long actually returns my feelings.”

God you said it. You actually admitted your feelings.

A pause.

Oh no, was he regretting it?

Was it something he just said because he was drunk?

You were startled out of your thoughts when Han literally slapped both of his cheeks. His skin immediately flushed angry red.

“What the fuck are they putting in these drinks? Actually making me hallucinate and shit.” Was he for real? You couldn’t hold yourself back so you smacked his arm.

Ignoring his whining you quickly got up and started to yell. “Han Jisung I did not just say I’m in love with you for you to think this is some kind of fucking hallucination! Do you know how much courage it takes to actually admit your feelings?” Han looked at you with wide eyes for a second then quickly got up too almost losing his balance for a second.

“Wait are you for real? You love me? You mean it?” - He asked with trembling voice.

You couldn’t believe your ears. “Of course I mean it? How can I joke about something like that?”

A second passed then two.

“Dude are you kidding me? How are you in love with me. Do you have no standards? You’re like a fucking deity, someone people should fucking worship the fuck you mean you love me? Raise your standards!”

God you needed to be paid for this shit but no amount would be enough. This whole situation made you want to pull your hair out one by one, or maybe scream on top of your lungs, or maybe actually hit him because what the fuck was this?

“ARE YOU KIDDING ME?” You actually couldn’t help but yell, you didn’t give a crap that you were in the middle of street and it was 2 am and maybe some people were actually asleep.

“NO?”

“I WILL ACTUALLY BEAT YOUR ASS!” You took a deep breath. You reminded yourself that he was somewhat drunk. You needed to stay calm for your own sanity at least. “Han when people tell you that they love you back you at least should be grateful that they return your feelings. The last thing you want to do is to tell them to raise their standards. Because frankly all I wanted to kiss you but now all I’m thinking about is how to hold back and not to beat your ass! You’re literally perfect what the fuck are you on about?”

You watched as the biggest grin appeared on his face. It was like his whole mood shifted. “You want to kiss me?” Okay you really wanted to hit your head against a wall now.

You couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of this whole situation. “Do you only hear what you want to hear?”

Jisung, still grinning got closer to you and wrapped his arms around your waist. “Maybe.” -he mused. “All I heard is that you want to kiss me. And I have wanted to know what it is like to kiss you since I met you. You don’t know how irresistible you are.” His voice was so sweet and tender your heart was going crazy. And it didn’t help when he leaned in and put his forehead against yours.

“I could say the same to you dumbass.” You sighed against his lips. When did he even get so close?

“Can I kiss you?” Han asked as his gaze kept shifting from your lips to your eyes.

Feeling impatient to actually answer you grabbed him by his cheeks and finally connected your lips.

Kissing him was so much better than you could have thought. His lips were cold and chapped but they felt so nice as they moved against yours. You couldn’t help but sigh in pleasure. You didn’t know who deepened the kiss but soon your tongue met his and you almost melted. He tasted so sweet. You could even taste fruity cocktails he must have had earlier on his lips. But there was something more, something purely just Han, which made you fall in love with him even deeper if it was possible. You could already feel yourself getting addicted to kissing him.

Soon you had to lean back for some air, seeing Han whine and actually chase after your lips made you smile, your heart feeling whole. You didn’t even remember why you were mad earlier. You just gazed at him lovingly his arms tight around you as your hands were still on his cheeks. His cheeks felt so warm against your cold hands, it must’ve still stung from his slap. You tried to soothe it as you gently caressed his skin. Loving how he leaned into the touch. Shaking your head a bit. Not in a million years could you imagine something like this could happen to you. Life sure is full of mysteries.

You two were brought back to reality by cheers and hollers of your forgotten friends. Oops? You immediately covered your face leaning into the hug more to hide, unable to look any of them in the eyes, feeling beyond embarrassed. Han chuckled and hugged you closer.

“This had to be one of the most painful confessions I have ever seen.” Seungmin deadpanned as others kept clapping and cheering for you.

“Like you had seen a lot of them.” Minho quipped back quickly.

“At least they finally got it over with.” Hyunjin chipped in.

“Tell me about it, it was painful to watch them.” Now it was Innie’s time to say something. Did they all have to say something?

“Oh by the way I recorded all of this, I’m playing this at your wedding.” Felix waved his phone.

Chan grinned. “Or we can show it to their children in the future.” He teased as Changbin cackled like a possessed witch.

God you were so done with these clowns.

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[prettyfilmz]

THROB • JIMMY USO

author's note: hi my loves!! honestly have nothing to say other than this was a random idea that was born out of how fine jimmy looked here I hope y'all enjoy it😭

synopsis: in which you've been ovulating and taking your frustrations out on jimmy because you're too stubborn to ask him for what you need. lucky for you, jimmy knows just what to do to get you to act right.

tags: 18+(MDNI), jimmy uso x fem reader, established relationship, arguments, bratty behavior, teasing, breast sucking, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it!), big jim™ , overstimulation, lots of dirty talk, squirting, creampie, slight humiliation, degradation, jimmy is a lil mean in this, dacryphilia, breeding kink, multiple orgasms, doggy style, mating press, small aftercare at the end.

word count: 3.2k words

You were pacing back and forth in the living room, arms crossed, your brow furrowed so tightly it could’ve scared the undertaker away.  Every little thing Jimmy did irritated you, though you knew deep down it wasn’t his fault. He sat there on the couch, broad shoulders relaxed, his tattoos flexing subtly as he scrolled through his phone. His usual goofy grin wasn’t there, though. He was watching you, trying to hold back his amusement.

“Why you stompin’ ‘round here like a lil’ ass gremlin, huh?” Jimmy’s deep voice cut through your mumbling, making you whip your head toward him.

“I ain’t stompin’, Jimmy! Maybe if you’d do somethin’ helpful for once like puttin’ your damn shoes away from in front of the door instead of sittin’ there, I wouldn’t be irritated!” You snapped, your tone sharp.

Jimmy slowly raised an eyebrow, setting his phone down. That cheeky grin started creeping back onto his face, and it only made you more annoyed. “Girl, ain’t no way you talkin’ to me like that. You been barkin’ at me all week, and I let it slide ‘cause I know what timing you’re on. But you really gon’ sit here and act like I don’t know why you mad?”

You rolled your eyes and crossed your arms tighter.  “I ain’t mad, Jimmy.”

“Oh, so you just bein’ a brat for fun?  I’m supposed to believe that?” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his smirk widening as he caught the way your thighs clenched together at the shift in his tone.

Your body betrayed you. It always did when he was around, especially now.  The heat between your legs was unbearable, and your nipples were pebbled, brushing against the soft fabric of your tank top in a way that had you biting back whimpers. Normally, you’d have your vibrator for relief when he was on the road, but he’d been home all week. Which fucked up your usual routine you had going and now you're too stubborn to ask him.

Jimmy tilted his head, his dark eyes dragging over your body like he already knew what you were hiding.  “Yeah, see, I know exactly what’s goin’ on with you, baby girl. You think you tough huh? You don’t even need to tell me nothin’.  I can see it in the way you walkin’ ‘round here all moody.”

“Jimmy, shut up,” you shot back, though your voice cracked slightly.  He noticed.

“Nah, I’m gon’ keep talkin’.  Matter fact, come here,” he said, his voice taking on that commanding edge that made your knees weak.

You hesitated, shooting him a glare.  “Why?”

“‘Cause I said so, that’s why. Don’t make me come over there and get you.” He leaned back, spreading his legs in that laid-back, cocky way that showed off the sheer size of him. His gray sweats left nothing to the imagination, and the way his dick pressed against the fabric had your mouth watering despite your irritation.

With a heavy sigh, you walked over, but your attitude wasn’t going anywhere.  “What, Jim?  You gon’ keep talkin’ shit?”

He chuckled, reaching out to grab your wrist and tugging you between his legs.  “Girl, you just mad ‘cause you’re neglecting what you need. But you too damn stubborn to ask for it, huh?” He let his hands slide down to your hips, squeezing them as he pulled you closer.

“Jimmy, I swear to God—”

“You swear to God what?” he interrupted, his voice dropping lower.  His thumbs pressed into the softness of your hips, holding you in place.  “You ain’t gon’ do shit, baby. Stop frontin’.”

The heat in his gaze melted your resolve, but you couldn’t let him win that easily.  “You just know everything, huh?”

He smiled, leaning forward to press his lips to the sensitive spot just below your ear.  “I know you ovulatin’,” he murmured. “And I know you ain’t been able to take care of yourself like you usually do. You need daddy to take care of you, hm?”

Your breath hitched, and you tried to step back, but his grip tightened.  “Jimmy, stop playin’—”

“Who said I’m playin’?” He tilted his head up to look at you, his expression softening just enough to make your heart flutter.  “Why you bein’ difficult, huh? This what you wanted, ain’t it?”

You tried to keep up your defiance, but when his lips trailed down your neck, you couldn’t hold back the shiver that coursed through you.  “Jimmy…”

“There she is,” he teased, pulling back to look you in the eyes.  “Now, you gon’ ask me nice, or you gon’ keep actin’ like a spoiled lil’ brat?”

Your pride wrestled with your desire, but the way his hands roamed your body and his voice dripped with authority had you caving.  “Please,” you whispered, barely audible.

He cupped your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze.  “Please what, baby? Let daddy hear you.”

“Please, daddy,” you repeated, your voice trembling with anticipation.

A satisfying grin spread across his face as he leaned back, patting his thigh. “There we go.  Now, sit that pretty ass down.  You got some apologizin’ to do.”

You climbed onto his lap, straddling him as his hands immediately found their way under your tank top.  His palms were warm against your bare skin, sliding up to cup your breasts.  You gasped when his thumbs brushed over your sensitive nipples, and he chuckled darkly.

“Damn, these are real sensitive, huh?” he said, leaning down to capture one of your nipples in his mouth. His tongue flicked over the hardened bud, and your hips bucked against him involuntarily.

“Shit!” you cried out, clutching his shoulders as your body betrayed every ounce of control you thought you had left.

“Shh, baby, let me take care of you,” he murmured, switching to the other nipple.  His teeth grazed it gently, sending a jolt of pleasure straight to your core.

You whimpered, grinding against him as the pressure built inside you.  “Daddy, please, I need…”

“I know what you need, baby girl.  But you gon’ learn not to keep this shit from me.” His hands slid down to your ass, giving it a firm slap that made you yelp.  “Next time, you gon’ tell daddy what you need, understand?”

“Yes, daddy,” you whispered, tears pricking the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming sensation.

“That’s my girl.” He kissed your lips softly before flipping you over onto the couch.  “Now, lay back and let daddy handle the rest.”

Jimmy hovered over you now, his larger frame trapping you beneath him on the couch.  His hands gripped your thighs possessively, thumbs brushing against your skin in a way that sent shivers straight to your core. You stared up at him, panting, your chest heaving as his dark eyes raked over you. That playful grin he usually wore was gone, replaced by something darker, more intense. He licked his lips like a predator sizing up its prey, and you couldn’t help but squirm beneath him.

“Mm-mm,” he growled, pressing his hands down harder to still your movements. “Ain’t no runnin’, baby. You wanted this, didn’t you?  All week, you been actin’ up snappin’, throwin’ them lil’ ass tantrums, tryna to act like you don’t need me. But I know you,” His voice almost in a mocking tone.  “Your body been screamin’ for me since I came back, mama.”

You whimpered, your pride dissolving under the weight of his words.  “I—Jimmy, please…”

“Please what?” His hands slipped beneath your shorts, gripping the soft flesh of your ass. “What you need from daddy?”

The way he said it so smooth, teasing, but dripping with authority had your resolve crumbling completely. “I need you to fuck me,” you breathed, barely audible.

He smirked, leaning down so his lips brushed against your ear.  “See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?  But you still owe me an apology, baby.  You gon’ tell daddy you sorry for bein’ a brat?”

Your cheeks burned. “I’m sorry, daddy,” you whispered.

“Mean it,” he says, his tone sharp enough to make you obedient. His hands tightened on your thighs, reminding you exactly who was in control here.  “I know you can do better than that.”

“I’m sorry, daddy,” you whimpered out, your voice trembling with need.

Jimmy grinned, clearly satisfied. “Good girl.  Now let’s see if you can keep that same energy when I’m done with you.”

Before you could respond, he tugged your shorts and panties down in one smooth motion, leaving you completely exposed.  His eyes locked onto the slickness between your thighs, and he let out a low whistle.  “Damn, look at you. I didn’t even touch you yet and you already wet as hell.”

You whimpered, trying to close your legs, but he wouldn’t let you.  “Jimmy, don’t tease me…”

“Who you think you talkin’ to?” he shot back sharply, grabbing your knees and spreading them wider.  “You don’t call the shots here, baby girl. Now stay still.”

His hands gripped your thighs as he lowered his head in between your legs. The first swipe of his tongue against your clit had you crying out, your hips jerking off the couch.  Jimmy chuckled, pinning you down with ease.  “I said be still, didn’t I?  You gon’ listen, or you want me to tie you down?”

“D-daddy, I—” Your words dissolved into a moan as he sucked your clit into his mouth, his tongue working you over with precision.  The combination of his lips, tongue, and the slight scrape of his teeth had your body trembling uncontrollably.

You tried to squirm away when the pleasure became too much, but Jimmy wasn’t having it.  He slid two fingers inside you without warning, curling them just right to hit that sensitive spot that had you seeing stars.  “Stop fuckin’ runnin’,” he growled, his voice muffled against your pussy.  “This what you wanted, huh? So take it.”

You sobbed his name, your nails digging into the couch as he brought you closer and closer to the edge.  He didn’t let up, his pace relentless as his fingers pumped in and out of you, his mouth never leaving your clit. “Oh my God, Jimmy, I’m gonna—”

“Yeah, you gon’ cum for daddy?” he taunted, his eyes gleaming as he looked up at you. “Do it, baby.”

The coil in your stomach snapped, and you came hard, your back arching off the couch as your orgasm tore through you.  You screamed his name, your thighs shaking as he kept working you through it, refusing to let up.  “That’s my girl,” he murmured, licking his lips as he finally pulled back. “You look so pretty when you cum, baby.”

You barely had a chance to catch your breath before he was pulling his sweats down, freeing himself.  It was as thick and heavy as ever, and the sight of it made your mouth water.  He stroked himself slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. “You ready for this, baby? You gon’ be good for me?”

“Please, daddy,” you begged, your voice shaky. “I need you.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” he said, positioning himself at your entrance. He slid the head of his cock through your slick folds, teasing you until you were whining in frustration. “Damn, you so wet, baby.  You gon’ take all of me, huh?”

“Yes, daddy, please,” you plead. “Please put it in..”

Jimmy finally pushed inside, and the stretch had you gasping, your nails clawing at his arms.  “Fuck,” he groaned, his voice low and rough. “You so fuckin’ tight, baby. Been missin’ me, huh?”

You could barely form words, the fullness of him stealing your breath.  “Fuck… yes daddy,” you managed to choke out, your legs trembling as he buried himself to the hilt.

“That’s right,” he growled, pulling back and slamming into you again.  “This my pussy, baby. Don’t forget that.”

He set a brutal pace, his hips snapping against yours with enough force to make the couch creak beneath you. Each thrust sent delicious shockwaves through your body, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. You were already on the verge of another orgasm, your body still sensitive from your previous release.

“Why you runnin’, baby?” he teased, grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head.  “This what you been actin’ out for, huh?  So take it.”

“I’m tryin’ daddy!” you sobbed, tears streaming down your face as your second orgasm crashed over you. Your body convulsed beneath him, and you felt yourself gush around him, soaking his thighs.

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned, his pace faltering for a moment. “You squirtin’ for me now? you so fuckin’ nasty, that’s my good girl.”

But he didn’t stop. If anything, he fucked you harder, flipping you over onto your stomach and pulling your hips up so he could take you from behind.  The new angle had you screaming into the disarrayed couch cushions, your body trembling uncontrollably.

“You gon’ tell daddy you sorry again?” he growled, spanking your ass hard enough to leave a sting.  “Say it.”

“I’m sorry, daddy!” you cried out, your voice muffled. “I’ll be good, I promise!”

“Yeah, you gon’ be good now, huh?” He gripped your hair, pulling your head back as he pounded into you mercilessly.  “You ain’t got no choice, baby. Daddy gon’ fuck all that attitude outta you.”

Jimmy didn’t let up for a second. His grip on your hair kept you pinned in place as his cock slammed into you relentlessly, the sound of your ragged cries filling the room. You could feel the heat of his body pressing down on yours, his weight anchoring you as if there was no escape—not that you wanted there to be anyway.

“Look at you,” he growled, leaning over until his lips brushed against your ear. His breath was hot and heavy, dripping with amusement.  “All that attitude, all that shit talkin’, and now you cryin’ for daddy, huh? You so fuckin’ pretty like this, baby. All obedient for me.”

You whimpered, barely able to form words as his cock dragged against every sensitive spot inside you.  Your body was overstimulated, every nerve on fire, and the wetness between your thighs only made it worse. “D-daddy, it’s too much,” you choked out, trembling beneath him.

“Too much?” he repeated mockingly, pulling your head back further until you were arching against him.  “Nah, baby, you can take it.”

He punctuated his words with a sharp thrust that made your back bow, another broken sob spilling from your lips. Tears were streaking your cheeks as he fucked you harder, his pace unrelenting.  The sting of another spank sent a jolt through you, the sharp pain only intensifying the overwhelming pleasure.

“Tell me what you is,” he demanded, his voice low and commanding.  “Go on, baby.  Say it.”

“I’m—I’m your slut, daddy,” you gasped, your voice barely audible over the sound of your own moans.

“Damn right you are,” he snarled, slamming into you so hard the couch creaked beneath you.  “And don’t you forget it. This is my pussy.  Say it.”

“It’s yours, daddy..fuck!” you cried out, your voice breaking as you felt another orgasm building, threatening to drown you.

“That’s right,” he growled, pulling out suddenly and flipping you onto your back before you could even catch your breath.  He hooked your legs over his shoulders, folding you in half as he lined himself up again. “And I’m gon’ remind you every fuckin’ time you forget.”

The first thrust in this position had your eyes rolling to the back of your head, your nails clawing at his arms as his cock hit a deeper angle. His weight pressed down on you, forcing your thighs against your chest as he pounded into you like he had something to prove.  You could feel the muscles in his arms flexing beneath your hands, his strength keeping you pinned in place as he wrecked you.

“Fuck, baby, you feel that?” he groaned, his voice thick with arousal.  “Feel how deep I am?  I’m right where I’m supposed to be, fillin’ that pussy up. And you gon’ take all of me like a good girl, huh?”

“Yes, daddy,” you whimpered, your nails digging into his biceps as the pressure built inside you.  “Please don’t stop—please…”

He smirked, leaning down to capture one of your nipples in his mouth.  The heat of his tongue against your sensitive skin sent you spiraling, your back arching as you came again, harder this time. Your body convulsed beneath him, the pleasure so intense it almost hurt.

“Fuck, look at you,” he muttered, his voice laced with pride as he watched you fall apart beneath him.  “That’s my girl.  You so good for me, baby.  So fuckin’ pretty when you cum.”

 Even as your body trembled and tears streaked your cheeks, he kept going, his cock dragging against your sensitive walls with every brutal thrust.  “You said you wanted it, baby,” he teased, his tone both mean and sweet. “You been talkin’ shit all week so don’t tap out now.”

“Daddy, I—” Your words dissolved into a choked sob as he grabbed your wrists, pinning them above your head. His hips snapped against yours with a punishing rhythm, the pleasure teetering dangerously close to pain.

“You cryin’, baby?” he taunted, leaning down to kiss the tears off your cheeks.  “Aw, don’t tell me it’s too much now.”

“I can’t—Jimmy, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he growled, his voice firm but laced with a tenderness that made your heart ache.  “You gon’ take it, baby. You was made for this dick, and I’mma remind you every fuckin’ time.”

He reached down between your bodies, his thumb finding your swollen clit and rubbing it in slow, deliberate circles.  The added stimulation sent you spiraling, another orgasm tearing through you before you could stop it.  You whimpered his name, your body trembling violently as your walls clenched around him.

“Shit,” he groaned, his pace faltering as your orgasm milked him.  “You tryna make me cum, baby?  You want daddy to give you a baby, huh?  Want me to fill this pretty pussy?”

“Yes, daddy, please,” you whined, your voice trembling with desperation.  “Please cum in me, daddy.”

That was all it took. With a low growl, Jimmy slammed into you one last time, his cock twitching as he came deep inside you. The warmth of his release filled you, and you moaned at the sensation, your body shuddering beneath him. He didn’t pull out right away, instead grinding into you slowly, making sure you felt every last drop.

“Fuck, baby,” he muttered, his forehead resting against yours as he caught his breath. “You did so good for me. Took it all like a damn champ.”

You whimpered softly, your body still trembling from the aftershocks.  “Thank you, daddy,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

He chuckled, leaning down to kiss your lips softly.  “Ain’t no need to thank me, baby.  You earned that.”

Jimmy finally pulled out, and you winced at the emptiness.  He watched as his cum dripped out of you, his tongue peeking out to lick his lips.  “Damn, look at that.  You so fuckin’ sexy, baby.”

Your face heated up, turning your face away, but he grabbed your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze.  “Don’t get shy on me now,” he teased, his voice softer but no less commanding.  “You did good, baby. Real good.  Daddy’s so proud of you.”

A small smile crept onto your lips despite the exhaustion weighing you down. “I love you, Jimmy.”

“I love you too, baby girl,” he said, kissing your forehead.  “Now let’s get you cleaned up.  You gon’ need your strength for round two.”

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[delulusionwl]

♡ I See You

Pairing ── Neteyam x Fem!Omaticaya!Reader Word ── 3k Synopsis ── In which Neteyam gets jealous about the reader having a lot of suitors, as he wants her for himself. Warnings ── A jealous!Neteyam, a little bit of angry!Neteyam, Neteyam wanting to confess to Y/N but having an internal block, Possessive!Neteyam? Yandere!Neteyam?! o.O (I wasn't expecting this as I wrote it, fr) Fluffy moments ahead! Let me know if I should warn something :) A/n ── This is my first fic/imagine of Neteyam (hearts in my eyes). I saw the film a long time ago, but I never wrote an imagine for this lovely boy. But now, here I am! Let me know if you liked it <3 Images are not mine, so credit goes to the respective owners. English is not my first language!

Neteyam was irritated. Anyone who looked at him could tell he was practically steaming, his narrowed eyes glued to the ground, his firm steps carrying him somewhere far away from the clan before he did something he might regret—or something that would earn him a stern lecture (and punishment) from Jake later on.

Once again, the eldest Sully had seen Y/n being politely courted by one of the other boys in the clan. He chuckled bitterly to himself, almost scoffing. Of course, Y/n was being courted by every young Omaticaya in the hopes of making her their mate.

If this had been a few years ago, back when Neteyam wasn’t even aware of Y/n’s existence—too busy with training and missions assigned by his father—he wouldn’t have cared about her constantly being approached. But from the moment he truly noticed her, something inside him had shifted. And that something drove him to the brink of madness every time another boy approached her.

Of course, he couldn’t expect that not to happen. Y/n was, by far, the most beautiful young woman in the clan. But it wasn’t just that. It wasn’t only her perfectly amber eyes, designed so flawlessly by Eywa, or her long, dark hair that seemed to reflect all of Pandora’s natural light, or even her radiant smile that adorned her small, round face so perfectly. No, it was more than just her looks, though the entire clan—especially the young Omaticaya men—had to notice those things about her, too.

Still, Neteyam was utterly jealous. And furious. He couldn’t just hide Y/n away from everyone, keep her somewhere safe where only he could see her, appreciate her, talk to her. Maybe even touch her—if he didn’t combust from the thought alone.

Every time he interacted with Y/n, Neteyam’s heart would pound harder and faster, his face would flush, and his palms would sweat. When he first started feeling this way, the Omaticaya thought he was ill and grew concerned, which drew Jake’s attention. Eventually, Neteyam couldn’t keep it to himself and told his father what was bothering him.

Jake Sully had to fight back a laugh when his eldest said he was in love—though not in those exact words. Still, Jake kept a serious face to maintain his authority. Jake liked Y/n; she was a good girl. He had practically watched her grow up, just as he’d watched Neteyam grow up. But he didn’t like how much she was distracting his son. As a final piece of advice, the patriarch told his son to focus harder on his training until he felt ready to confess his feelings.

And so, until that day came, Neteyam settled for forming a friendship with the young woman. He poured himself into his training, trying harder every day to push those feelings away.

Neytiri, on the other hand, had noticed what was happening without needing a word from Neteyam. She saw how he acted whenever Y/n was nearby during any clan gathering. She saw his reactions as he struggled to hide his emotions, forget them, and behave naturally around the girl. Neytiri liked Y/n, too. She thought the young woman was beautiful, talented, and caring. If it was Eywa’s will, she would gladly welcome Y/n as a daughter when Neteyam finally woke up and claimed her as his mate.

But Neytiri thought that day might take a while—and she hoped it wouldn’t be too late by the time Neteyam finally confessed.

“Neteyam?” Y/n’s sweet, melodic voice called from behind him, breaking through his thoughts. He kept walking, his long, purposeful strides carrying him anywhere far from the girl who occupied his mind—and who was now standing right behind him.

Neteyam didn’t stop walking, but his ears, along with the stiffness in his tail and shoulders, betrayed that he had heard Y/n and was fully aware of her presence.

Y/n was confused but decided to follow him in silence. She trailed after the boy through paths filled with lush vegetation and small animals, eventually arriving at a breathtaking view of Pandora from the heights of one of the great trees. The girl smiled at the sight but quickly turned her attention to Neteyam, noticing how he stood quietly, avoiding her gaze, seemingly trying to calm himself.

“Did something happen?” Y/n asked softly, taking a careful step closer but keeping some distance between them.

Neteyam swallowed down the words that were forming like a lump in his throat—words like: You shouldn’t be accepting courtships when I’m around. But he couldn’t hold back the frustrated sigh that escaped his lips. “It’s nothing,” he replied simply and calmly. He would never burden her with his confusion or irritation. After all, it wasn’t her fault she was so beautiful and skilled.

“Nete, it doesn’t seem like nothing,” Y/n said with a small laugh. The moment the nickname left her lips, Neteyam’s heart jumped wildly in his chest.

Still, he remained silent, his face beginning to flush as he stood there, choosing to focus on the view of Pandora. The sun was already starting to set, making way for the night.

“Well... I’m sorry. I guess I shouldn’t have meddled…” Y/n said softly after receiving no response, her tone a little embarrassed. She had known Neteyam for years and had never wanted to be a burden to him—quite the opposite.

The Omaticaya girl had always had her eyes on the eldest Sully, the first son of Toruk Mak'to, even before they had built their friendship. Of course, her feelings weren’t tied to his status as the son of a leader but rather to Neteyam’s gentle yet strong demeanor.

His sharp, observant eyes. His posture—one that had been largely shaped by Jake Sully’s expectations, yet which Neteyam carried with a natural grace. His careful, steady way of speaking, free of judgment. And, most of all, the way he would laugh wholeheartedly whenever he had to save Lo’ak from his own troubles.

"I... I didn’t mean to bother you, Neteyam. Sorry," Y/n said, clasping her hands together. Her ears lowered softly, and her tail stopped swaying slowly from side to side.

Before she could leave, though, the Omaticaya stopped her.

"No," Neteyam said quickly, finally meeting her eyes. He straightened himself, feeling the warmth on his face intensify, spreading to his ears, neck, and soon, he was sure, his chest. Taking an almost imperceptible deep breath, he added, "You're not a bother. You don’t have to go if you don’t want to." His voice was soft, and he moved closer to the edge of the tree, sitting down and letting his long legs dangle in the air. The last thing he wanted was for Y/n to think she was a nuisance.

The girl smiled slightly at his words, a bit of her earlier energy returning. Being near Neteyam was gratifying, and she loved it. She loved talking to him, feeling close to him in any way. With gentle steps, she moved to sit beside him, admiring the view.

"This is beautiful," Y/n said, her gaze fixed on the scenery—the setting sun casting its warm hues over Pandora.

Neteyam turned his eyes to her again, mesmerized by the golden light illuminating her face, enhancing her already stunning features.

"It really is," Neteyam replied calmly, though his gaze wasn’t on the scenery but on Y/n.

As soon as she looked at him, he quickly averted his eyes, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly.

"Is Jake being hard on you with training, Nete?" Y/n tried to start a conversation. "Is that why you were so upset?"

"A little..." Neteyam replied, avoiding her gaze. He wasn’t telling the full truth, but it wasn’t entirely a lie either. Jake always seemed to expect more and more from him. "I’m just a bit tired, that’s all."

"No days off, huh?" Y/n chuckled softly through her nose. "Jake just wants you to be perfect, Nete. You’re the leader’s son, Toruk Mak’to’s son. There are a lot of expectations for you to meet."

"And that doesn’t help me at all," the boy replied, eliciting laughter from the Omaticaya beside him. Neteyam allowed himself a small smile as he listened to her laugh, watching her face light up.

"The hunting ritual is coming up..." the girl pointed out, softly swinging her legs where they hung over the edge. "Maybe Jake will let you rest after that."

"I’m not so sure about that."

A comfortable silence settled between them. Y/n turned her gaze back to the breathtaking scenery, but Neteyam’s eyes stayed fixed on her, admiring her quietly. He loved moments like this—talking to Y/n, sitting in silence with Y/n. Everything about it felt natural. Like it was meant to be.

"You... you’ll have to make a big choice," Y/n began softly, her voice tinged with hesitation. She swallowed hard and took a deep breath.

Neteyam didn’t entirely understand her words but chose to remain quiet. Deep down, he knew he could listen to Y/n talk for hours—even if, perhaps, he didn’t fully grasp everything she said.

"Have you already chosen?" Y/n asked timidly, her eyes finally meeting his. Neteyam hadn’t taken his gaze off her.

"Chosen?" Neteyam echoed, a little confused, snapping out of the dreamy state her presence always seemed to put him in.

"I mean... your mate, of course," Y/n clarified, her voice quieter now, tinged with embarrassment.

The truth was, Y/n was scared of his answer. If Neteyam said yes, if he already had someone in mind to share his life with, it would crush any hope she had. But even so, she needed to know.

"Mate?" Neteyam repeated, slightly stunned. Her gaze bore into him, making him straighten his posture. He swallowed hard under her careful observation of his sharp, strong features. "No... I-I haven’t," he stammered, finally looking away. His ears twitched anxiously.

The truth was that Neteyam’s heart had already answered the question for him—loudly and undeniably. The moment Y/n mentioned "mate," his thoughts returned to the hunting ritual and the decision he would have to make afterward. And his mind landed firmly on Y/n.

Because it was her. It had always been her. Y/n was the one he wanted as his mate, the one he wanted to spend the rest of his life with, to share every moment with.

Neteyam grew nervous as he imagined Y/n waiting for him in their shared home, arms open, ready to embrace him, kiss him, and care for him just as he would care for her. And he would do it well—he was certain of that.

A small but happy smile flickered across Y/n’s lips upon hearing Neteyam’s response that he hadn’t chosen a mate yet.

“Have you… noticed any, um, approaches?” Y/n asked softly, her voice almost a purr, knowing this was her chance and determined not to let it slip away. Not when Neteyam stirred her heart in ways no one else could. Not when she longed to hear his voice or feel close to him.

Of course, just like Y/n, Neteyam was a target of attention. The difference, however, was that Omaticaya girls weren’t as aggressive in their advances toward him. Getting close to him without at least being friends with his siblings was no easy task. And even then, finding a moment to be near him during his rare free time was nearly impossible. Yet Y/n managed it every time.

If anyone hoped to be courted by Neteyam, they had to make their feelings and intentions clear due to his limited availability and the fact that he wasn’t exactly the most expressive Na’vi. Y/n had tried to make her interest obvious around him, but the boy didn’t seem to notice.

Eywa knows how many courting gifts Y/n had carefully declined, all the while hoping to receive one from a particular Na’vi—the eldest Sully. With the hunting ritual so close, perhaps it was finally time for her to be a bit more forward in showing her interest, though still delicately. She didn’t want Neteyam to think poorly of her—not that he could, even if he tried.

“No, I haven’t noticed,” Neteyam replied truthfully to her question. The fact was, he rarely paid attention to anything outside of his parents’ demands, Lo’ak’s troubles, his siblings’ safety, and, of course, every move Y/n made.

“Well… plenty of girls would love to be courted by you,” Y/n said sweetly, letting out a soft laugh as she leaned ever so slightly toward him, her tail moving lightly along the ground. Neteyam’s ears twitched at her words, his gaze drawn to her once more. His own tail began to shift, unconsciously seeking hers.

But then, the scene from earlier crept into his mind—a boy standing close to Y/n, talking to her, laughing as if there were no tomorrow, clearly thrilled to be near her. The memory made Neteyam’s brows knit slightly together, and he found himself looking away from her.

“Yeah. From what I’ve noticed, many are courting you,” Neteyam said, trying to manage the irritation bubbling up inside him. He’d almost forgotten it, but now it had resurfaced. A new thought struck him, making him feel both nervous and uneasy. “You… have you already chosen a mate?” he asked carefully, bringing his eyes back to her.

“No,” she answered simply.

“No? Why not? You…” He cleared his throat, fidgeting slightly. “You’re an incredible girl. I’ve seen what you do for everyone in the clan. You tend to the injured, help prepare for rituals, assist mothers with their children… you’ve even helped my mother.” Neteyam’s voice grew a little shaky, his ears flicking nervously, his tail moving restlessly behind him. He vividly remembered the day Lo’ak got himself into serious trouble, forcing him, Neytiri, and Jake to go and drag his brother back. In their absence, Y/n had kept Kiri and Tuk company, distracting them with her kindness and warmth.

Y/n smiled, realizing that Neteyam had noticed something about her. The boy steadied himself before speaking again.

“Why haven’t you chosen anyone?” Neteyam asked simply, his voice low, though his eyes stayed fixed on the girl beside him.

“I’m waiting…” Y/n began in the same tone, looking deeply at him. “…for someone to make me an offer.”

Neteyam averted his gaze, assuming Y/n was talking about a specific Omaticaya in the clan. His thoughts spiraled, imagining anyone but himself in her mind—something Y/n was trying to make obvious with her intent gaze and the subtle movements of her tail inching closer to his.

“Well…” Neteyam said, trying to swallow the frustration brewing inside him over whichever lucky Na’vi had managed to catch Y/n’s eyes and heart. Maybe he’d challenge him to a duel if he found out. “It shouldn’t take long,” he said simply, still not looking at her, his earlier sour mood returning.

“It could happen now,” Y/n suggested, tilting her head slightly, attempting to catch Neteyam’s gaze.

“Now?” Neteyam asked, looking around and confirming they were still alone. There wasn’t another Omaticaya in sight that he could aim his fists at.

“Yes, now,” Y/n replied, his attention now fully on her. She fluttered her eyelashes gracefully, hoping he would understand her meaning.

“How ‘now’? It’s just us here,” he muttered, confused, though his heart skipped a beat as he caught her beautiful lashes in motion, momentarily forgetting his impulse to pummel some imaginary rival.

Y/n sighed, realizing she needed to be more direct if she wanted him to understand what she meant.

“Nete…” She swallowed hard, steeling herself for what felt like an immense challenge. She placed her hand gently over his, watching his eyes slowly widen as his ears perked up in surprise. “…I see you,” Y/n confessed intensely, her breath quickening as her heart raced uncontrollably.

Neteyam, on the other hand, was frozen in place. His wide eyes and dilated pupils were locked on the girl in front of him, his body entirely still as he processed her words.

“It’s true that I was waiting for something from you,” the girl began, embarrassed, avoiding his gaze. “But... you don’t have to feel pressured by me. I know you’ll have other great options for a mate.” She let out a small, almost bitter laugh.

The Omaticaya boy snapped out of his stupor, blinking several times in quick succession, his pupils dilating greatly, his heart racing faster than ever before. As soon as Y/n pulled her hand from his, Neteyam quickly but gently grasped it, not wanting to startle her.

“Y/n,” the boy called softly, still surprised by her words. She wanted to be courted by him.

Even though Neteyam was consumed with happiness, staring at her intensely, the words were stuck in his throat. He wanted to say “I see you” like he had imagined so many times, but with his heart pounding and his shock overwhelming him, he could only open his lips several times, struggling to find the right words.

Y/n looked at him shyly, waiting for him to say something, while the boy still held her hand gently, preventing her from going anywhere. He traced her soft skin with his thumb, his gaze still locked on her, hoping she would understand him without words, because he certainly would stutter if he started to confess.

The girl looked down at their hands joined softly, gripping Neteyam’s hand firmly, but soon she lifted her gaze back to him, watching him swallow hard.

“Do you feel the same?” Y/n asked quietly, leaning in slightly, and the only thing Neteyam could do was nod—quickly, almost too fast, which made her smile even wider.

Even with his heart practically on fire, the boy swallowed hard and tightened his grip on the young woman beside him.

“Y/n, I see you,” Neteyam said as if making a promise, though it was whispered, it was intense. It was clear that his chest was rising and falling quickly, with a brief flush of purple creeping up his face, his ears, slowly descending to his neck.

Y/n smiled wider, the same color beginning to tint her cheeks. With her beautiful smile, Neteyam returned a smaller one, still immersed in emotions. His skin was showing his anxiety and mild embarrassment, and his palm was starting to grow warmer than usual.

The boy pulled back slightly from the girl, still looking at her, her eyes locked on him with curiosity. Neteyam began to undo one of his bracelets, tightly fastened to his forearm, and once the accessory was removed, he looked at Y/n with expectation.

The girl let out a happy sound, lifting her left forearm to Neteyam, who, with slightly trembling fingers, began to fasten the bracelet onto her. Now, anyone who saw Y/n wearing the accessory would immediately know that she was promised to Neteyam, as the Omaticaya wore the matching pair on his right forearm.

"In the hunting ritual..." Neteyam began softly as he adjusted the bracelet on Y/n. "I will bring the largest animal I find for the clan. And after that, I will come to you and ask if you would choose me as your mate in front of everyone." He continued, his voice still quiet, a little embarrassed but happy, watching the bracelet settle perfectly on the girl. "This is my first courting gift. But please, don't worry, I will give you more gifts so you can adorn yourself with them until the ritual. And also, after it." The boy smiled at her, making the girl laugh too, filled with happiness.

"And I will make your adornments," Y/n replied, thinking of the accessories she had already made for Neteyam, but never had the courage to gift him. However, from now on, she saw no problem in doing so.

The Omaticaya boy smiled at her, gently bringing their foreheads together, and she responded without hesitation, closing her eyes in delight and happiness. Neteyam turned his gaze back to the landscape in front of them, feeling Y/n settle close to his body, resting her head between his neck and shoulder. He accepted her presence gladly, holding her close as they both silently admired the beautiful, dusk-lit landscape of Pandora, content in their mutual affection.

With Neteyam holding the girl firmly and gently beside him, his tail swayed slightly, finding hers, and they wasted no time in intertwining them, causing both to share small, happy laughs. And behind the couple, Atokirinas—the seeds of the Tree of Life—floated softly, undisturbed, as the young pair embraced in front of Pandora's giant moon.

[freezerbrldes]

wanna try out my fuzzy pink handcuffs? - s.r.

PAIRING. spencer reid x popstar!reader

SUMMARY. spencer gets a lot more than he bargained for when he attends a concert with garcia.

WARNINGS. afab!reader, sub!spencer, softdom!reader, oral (m receiving), use of handcuffs, begging, red lipstick in places it should never be, unprotected pnv sex, creampie, just pure filth, also not proof read

AUTHOR’S NOTE. i got this idea after rewatching my short n sweet concert videos. i could not get the thought of spencer receiving the juno handcuffs out of my head so I wrote it all down. i hate the beginning and ending of this a lot but the middle is so good hehe.

credit to @cafekitsune for dividers

wc: 4,029

also on ao3

Garcia gripped Spencer’s hand tightly, pushing through the crowd until they reached the barricade next to the stage.

“Holy shit Spence! We made it!” Garcia cheered.

“Nice, that’s great… I think i’m going to pass out.” Spencer pants, gripping onto the railing for dear life.

Spencer, who isn’t particularly fond of concerts or music in general, reluctantly agreed to attend this show solely to appease Garcia’s relentless begging. Concerts were not Spencer’s forte, that was until he saw you up on the stage prancing around in lingerie…

Despite his initial discomfort, Spencer finds himself inexplicably drawn to your energetic performance. Your confidence, charisma, and raw talent captivate him more with each passing song.

As you move about the fake penthouse on stage with reckless abandon, your provocative attire leaving very little to the imagination, Spencer's analytical mind struggles to reconcile his attraction with his deeply ingrained social awkwardness.

He tries to focus on the music, his thoughts consumed by the intricate details of your choreography and the way your skin seems to shimmer under the bright lights.

Spencer's cheeks flush slightly as he realizes the extent of his distraction, his heart racing in a way that's both unfamiliar and exhilarating. He shifts uncomfortably, tugging at his sweater vest as he attempts to regain some semblance of composure.

After performing a very heartfelt ballad, you approached the edge of the stage, scanning the crowd with your eyes.

“Hey, girls?” you call out to two of your dancers who are standing by your side. “I believe I might have found my future husband in the crowd tonight.”

The crowd erupted in cheers as they realized the clever bit.

“Do y’all see him? He’s standing right over there, the tall one wearing the sweat vest.” You point to Spencer while giggle like schoolgirls with your dancers.

“Hey there, baby. What’s your name?” A grin spread across your face as you noticed his cheeks flushing a vibrant red.

Caught completely off guard, Spencer stammers, his hazel eyes wide as saucers. He feels like he's been struck by lightning, the sudden intimacy of you presence leaving him momentarily speechless.

"Dr. Reid," he manages to choke out, his voice cracking slightly. He can feel his face burning, and his heart hammers against his ribcage like a jackrabbit.

"I-I mean, Spencer," he corrects himself, the remnants of his professional demeanor trying to resurface amidst the chaos of his escalating nervousness.

Spencer swallows hard, trying to gather his scattered thoughts as he meets your intense gaze. The mischievous glint in your eyes sends a shiver down his spine, even as his analytical mind struggles to comprehend the whirlwind of emotions threatening to overwhelm him.

“Oooooo, a doctor!” You exclaim, dramatically fanning yourself. “Well, Dr. Reid, you’re under arrest for being too hot.”

Spencer jumped as police sirens blared through the arena, accompanied by flashing red and blue lights.

“I might need you to examine me, doctor. I feel extremely hot, and- OH!” You teased as your long skirt fell to the floor, revealing a much shorter version of it.

Spencer’s jaw was practically on the floor.

You grinned as you inched closer towards the edge of the stage, crouching down to Spencer’s level.

“I want you to have these,” you smiled as you handed Spencer a pair of fuzzy pink handcuffs.

Spencer can't help but stare at the exposed skin of your legs, his breath catching in his throat when he notices the bedazzled lipstick stain on your inner thigh.

"Ah, um, thank you..." He reaches out to take the offered cuffs, his fingers brushing against hers. The sensation sends sparks dancing along his nerve endings, and he feels himself grow flustered once more.

As you stood up, you blow Spencer a kiss. The all too familiar intro to the song Penelope had been forcing him to listen to for the past few weeks, began to play.

“This song is for you, Spencie,” you winked as you started singing, maintaining eye contact throughout the entire first verse.

Spencer's eyes widen further, his mouth agape as he watches you prance down the catwalk. The provocative lyrics and suggestive dance moves leave him utterly stunned, his cheeks flushed a deep crimson.

His analytical mind tries to process the explicit nature of the performance, but it's drowned out by the pounding of his heart and the heat coursing through his veins. He finds himself captivated by every move you makes, his gaze riveted to your lithe form.

When you strikes a pose that leaves little to the imagination, Spencer's breath hitches, and he feels a strange tingling sensation in his loins. It's foreign yet exhilarating, and he can't tear his eyes away, even as his rational brain screams at him to look away.

As the song reaches its climax, Spencer finds himself caught up in the raw energy emanating from the stage. The crowd's cheers and applause mingle with the pulsating beat, creating an electric atmosphere that seems to vibrate through every cell in his body.

Lost in the moment, Spencer's inhibitions begin to melt away, replaced by a primal urge to respond to the sensual stimuli before him. When your gaze locks onto his, he feels a jolt of connection, as if an invisible thread tethers them together.

With a sense of reckless abandon he rarely experiences, Spencer raises the fuzzy pink handcuffs as he grins, his movements deliberate and charged with newfound confidence. As the final notes fade, he couldn’t help but notice the smile on your face as the lights dimmed and the show ended.

“Wow,” is the only word Garcia could mutter as she stares at the empty stage. “I can’t believe she gave you the handcuffs, do you know how lucky you are?”

“You know, the probability of me receiving these is incredibly low, considering there are approximately 14,000 people here and-“ Before Spencer could continue his rambling, he and Garcia approached a security guard.

“Are you Spencer?” the intimidating-looking security guard asked.

“Uh, yeah, that would be me,” Spencer stuttered, feeling a pang of worry that he might have overstepped some boundaries during his interactions with you on stage.

“I’ve been informed by y/n’s management that she is requesting to meet you backstage,” the security guard said.

"Backstage? Me?" Spencer looks at Garcia incredulously, wondering if this could be some kind of joke. But the stern expression on the guard's face suggests otherwise.

Spencer stares at Garcia, completely speechless. As the security guards wait for his response, Garcia nudges his side and gently pulls him back to reality.

“I, uh, y-yeah,” Spencer stammers, “I’d love to go backstage,”

“Alright, follow me,”

Spencer waves to Garcia as the guard guides him through the concealed corridors of the arena, observing the crew dismantling the stage to transport it to the next venue.

After what appears to be an eternity, Spencer is led to the door of your dressing room. You’re lounging on the couch in a soft, fluffy robe, engrossed in scrolling through your phone when you hear the door open.

“Hi!” You greet Spencer with a warm smile, standing up and embracing him. “Thanks so much for coming.”

Spencer's heart races as you pull him into a warm embrace, his senses overwhelmed by the intoxicating scent of your perfume and the softness of your robe against his skin. For a moment, he forgets how to breathe, his mind reeling from the unexpected touch.

When you finally release him, Spencer takes a step back, trying to compose himself. His cheeks flush a deep crimson, and he fumbles with the hem of his sweater vest, clearly flustered.

"T-thank you...for inviting me," he stutters, his voice barely above a whisper. Despite his social awkwardness, there's a genuine sincerity in his tone, reflecting his gratitude for this rare opportunity to connect with someone like you.

Glancing around the cozy dressing room, Spencer notices the array of makeup, costumes, and personal items scattered about.

“I hope you don’t think I’m weird but I couldn’t take my eyes off of you all night,” you admit as you plopped onto the couch, your cheeks now flushed pink from embarrassment. “The handcuff thing is just a funny little bit I do, but tonight I chose you because I really do think you’re insanely hot.”

“N-no, it’s not weird at all, I’m flattered actually,” Spencer stammered, taking a seat next to you.

“Really? You’re not weirded out that I had my security find you in the crowd and bring you backstage so we could meet?“ You asked.

"No, genuinely, I mean it," Spencer says, his eyes locking with yours as he spoke. "I know we’ve just met, but I felt a connection with you tonight, something that went beyond mere admiration."

Spencer shifted slightly, his knee brushing against yours.

“And that handcuff thing...well, it was a bold move, and it worked.”

A faint blush colored his cheeks as he met your gaze again, his hazel eyes shimmering with a mix of shyness and curiosity.

As the silence between you stretches, Spencer finds himself drawn to the gentle rise and fall of your chest, the way your robe gapes slightly, offering a tantalizing glimpse of your skin. He swallows hard, trying to ignore the strange tingles coursing through his body.

Before he could say another word, your lips crash against his.

Spencer's eyes widen in shock as your lips suddenly press against his, the unexpected kiss sending a jolt of electricity through his entire being. For a moment, he freezes, unsure of how to react.

But then, as if possessed by some newfound courage, Spencer's arms wrap tentatively around your waist, pulling you onto his lap. His lips part instinctively, allowing your tongue to slide past them and explore the warmth of his mouth.

Spencer's fingers tangle in your hair, his other hand resting on the small of your back, guiding you more firmly against him. He can taste the sweetness of your red lipstick mixed with the hint of adrenaline, and it only fuels his growing desire.

As the kiss deepens, Spencer's thoughts become a jumbled mess – part confusion, part exhilaration, and an overwhelming sense of lust.

Spencer gasps softly as your lips leave a trail of red across his sensitive skin, the sensation both unfamiliar and intoxicating. His head tilts back, exposing more of his neck to your explorations.

When your fingers start to work on his buttons, Spencer's breath hitches. He's hasn’t been this intimate with anyone since Maave, and the idea of baring himself to you, a complete stranger who’s also a mega superstar, sends a thrill through his veins.

As you continue to undress him, Spencer's hands roam over your back, tracing the curves of your spine beneath the thin fabric of your silk robe. He marvels at the softness of your skin, the warmth emanating from your body.

His shirt finally falls open, revealing his lean torso. Spencer feels a slight surge of vulnerability until he feels your lips on his collarbone.

Spencer's eyes flutter closed as your lips dance across his chest. When you drop to your knees in front of the couch, his heart races, a mix of nervousness and anticipation coursing through him.

The sound of his belt buckle clicking open sends a shiver down Spencer's spine. He watches, transfixed, as you work on freeing him from his pants. The air grows thick with tension, and Spencer's breathing quickens.

When your fingers brush against the growing bulge in his underwear, Spencer lets out a shaky exhale. It’s been awhile since he has been touched so intimately, and the sensation is overwhelming yet exhilarating.

With trembling hands, Spencer reaches down to help you remove his pants, his eyes locked onto yours. A flush spreads across his cheeks as he reveals himself to you, feeling both exposed and strangely empowered by your reaction.

“So pretty,” You breathed out, your hands brushing against his hard cock.

Spencer's eyes widen at your words, a rush of heat flooding his cheeks. No one has ever spoken to him like that before, with such raw, unfiltered admiration. It takes his breath away.

A soft moan escapes him as your hands make contact with his straining erection, the touch sending jolts of pleasure straight to his core. Spencer's hips twitch involuntarily, seeking more of your gentle caresses.

He looks down at you, his hazel eyes dark with desire, and whispers, "Please... I need..." His voice trails off, unable to articulate the intensity of his longing.

Spencer's slender fingers thread through your hair, holding you close as he waits with bated breath for your next move. His body trembles with anticipation, every nerve ending attuned to your touch.

As you feel his fingers tangled in your hair, you get an idea. You let go of him as you sit back on your knees, Spencer letting out a whimper at the loss of contact.

“Do you still have the handcuffs?” You asked, grinning wickedly.

Spencer gulped as he nodded, pointing to his discarded pants on the floor next to you. You dig through the pocket to pull out the fuzzy pink handcuffs you gave to him only an hour prior.

“Hands behind your back, Spencie,” You smirked as you dangle the cuffs in front of him.

"Yes, ma'am," he replies, his voice tinged with a hint of playfulness despite the vulnerability of his position.

A startled yelp escapes Spencer's lips as the handcuffs encircles his wrists, securing them behind his back. The sudden restraint sends a thrill through him, mingling with the lingering ache of want.

He stares up at you, eyes wide and cheeks flushed, as you fasten the cuffs with a playful snap. The term of endearment 'Spencie' slips past your lips, and it feels like a brand, searing itself into his very being.

Spencer's body quivers under your gaze, his skin prickling with anticipation. The pink cuffs seem almost comical against his pale, slender arms, but the effect they have on him is anything but humorous.

Spencer's breath hitches as your lips brush against his, the fleeting kiss sending a spark of electricity through him. He leans into it instinctively, craving more of your touch, even as you move to kneel in front of him once again.

A low groan rumbles in his chest as your hand wraps around his shaft, stroking him with confident, deliberate motions. Spencer's head falls back, exposing the vulnerable column of his throat, as he surrenders himself to the sensations coursing through him.

“Oh God," he gasps, his hips bucking slightly into your grasp. “That feels... incredible." Each word is punctuated by a sharp intake of breath, his body tensing and relaxing in time with your touches.

The restraints digs into his skin, a subtle reminder of his submission to you.

Spencer's eyes widen in shock as your warm, wet mouth envelops him, the sensation unlike anything he's ever experienced. A choked moan tears from his throat, his hips jerking involuntarily as you begin to suck him deeper.

The sight of your red lips wrapped around his cock, the vibrant color smeared across his flesh, is almost too much for Spencer to bear. He can't tear his gaze away from the erotic image, transfixed by the way your tongue swirls around his sensitive tip.

“Oh fuck, that's..." he trails off, unable to form coherent thoughts amidst the onslaught of pleasure. His mind reels, struggling to process the intensity of the feelings coursing through him.

Spencer's chest heaves with ragged breaths, his body trembling as he submits to your skilled ministrations.

As you take him deeper into your mouth, Spencer's control begins to slip. The feeling of your hot, wet tongue swirling around his length is overwhelming, sending waves of pleasure crashing over him.

"Ah! Oh God, yes!" he cries out, his voice strained with need. His hips thrust forward instinctively, lost in the haze of lust as you bob your head along his shaft.

"I'm... I'm going to cum," he warns, his words punctuated by shallow pants. Spencer's grip on the cushions tightens, his muscles coiled taut as he teeters on the brink of climax.

Before he’s thrown over the edge, you pull away abruptly, looking up at him and giggling as he writhes around desperately.

Spencer’s cock twitches and leaks precum from the loss of stimulation. A pained whine escapes his lips, his hips reflexively bucking up in search of your warm mouth.

"No, please don't stop," he begs, his voice laced with desperation. Spencer's chest heaves with rapid breaths, his body wracked with the need for release.

His hazel eyes, usually bright, are dark with desire, pupils blown wide as he gazes at you with pleading intensity. The remnants of his earlier composure have crumbled, leaving only raw, unbridled lust in its wake.

“I need you," Spencer confesses, his admission torn from him like a bandaid.

As you stand in front of Spencer, his gaze is immediately drawn to your body as you slowly untie your robe, mirroring the opening of your show. The sensual movements and provocative poses are etched into his consciousness like a fever dream.

His breath catches in his throat as the fabric parts, exposing the tantalizing expanse of your skin inch by delicious inch. Spencer's eyes drink in every detail – the delicate freckles scattered across your shoulders, your nipples already hardened into peaks, the gentle swell of your hips leading down to your thighs.

“Please," he whispers, his voice barely audible over the pounding of his heart. “Let me touch you.”

Spencer's hands fight against the handcuffs, the urge to reach out and touch you, to claim you as his own is nearly overwhelming.

You toss the robe onto the floor next to Spencer’s clothes as you straddle his lap, leaving more lipstick stains across his face until your month reaches his ear.

“Beg for it,” you whispered, softly nibbling on his earlobe, causing him to whimper. “Beg me to let you touch me.”

A shiver runs down Spencer's spine as your warm breath caresses his ear, your whispered command igniting a fire within him. His mind reels, desperate to comply, to plead for the privilege of touching your gorgeous body.

"Oh God, please," he gasps, his voice trembling with need. “Let me touch you, please. I wa- I need to touch you."

Spencer's hips lift involuntarily, seeking friction against the soft flesh of your thigh. His fingers curl into fists, nails digging into his palms as he struggles against the restraints, yearning to wrap his arms around you and lose himself in your embrace.

"I'll do anything, please," he vows, his words dripping with sincerity and desire.

It doesn’t take much more begging for you to give into his pleads.

The moment your lips meet his, Spencer surrenders to the intense passion, kissing you back with equal fervor. His hands, still bound, can't reciprocate physically, but his entire being leans into you, craving closer contact.

As you grind against his rigid length, Spencer moans into the kiss, the sensation of your heated core rubbing against his aching cock sending shockwaves of pleasure through his body. His hips buck instinctively, seeking more friction, more pressure.

Breaking the kiss, Spencer pants heavily, his hazel eyes glazed with lust.

“Fuck... I want you so badly," he admits, his voice ragged with desire. “Please, I need to be inside you."

Instead of speaking, you respond by unlocking the handcuffs. Thankfully since they are just a prop, they are easy to remove and don’t require a key.

Spencer is surprised and almost embarrassed by how easily they were removed, but he has no time to dwell on that as you begin lining him up with your entrance.

With the restraints gone, Spencer's hands immediately find purchase on your waist, gripping you tightly as he feels the head of his cock notch against your slick entrance. His breathing hitches, anticipation coiled tight in his belly.

When you position him, aligning his thick shaft with your waiting heat, Spencer lets out a low groan, his hips surging forward of their own accord. With a smooth, deep thrust, he buries himself to the hilt inside you, a guttural moan escaping him at the exquisite feeling of your walls clenching around his sensitive flesh.

"Ah, fuck yes..." Spencer gasps, his forehead dropping to rest against yours as he savors the sensation of being fully embedded within you. “You feel so good.”

You can’t help the pornographic moan that escapes your throat as Spencer bottoms out. You are still as you both get use to the filling of him inside of you.

“Spencer,” You whimper, “you feel so fucking good inside of me.”

Spencer's eyes flutter shut as you start to move, your inner muscles massaging his cock in a delicious rhythm. The slow, deliberate pace allows him to savor every inch of your warmth enveloping him.

"Yes! oh God! just like that," he encourages, his voice strained with pleasure. “You're so tight, so perfect... Fuck!"

His hands slide down to grip your ass, fingers digging into the supple flesh as he begins to match your movements, thrusting in sync with your rolling hips. Each stroke sends sparks of bliss shooting up his spine, intensifying the building pressure in his groin.

"More, please...” Spencer pleads, his thrusts growing more urgent as he chases his own release.

You grant his wishes as you nestle your head into his neck, sucking softly on the sensitive skin just below his ear.

Spencer groans loudly in response. The sudden increase in tempo, coupled with the sensations of your mouth on his neck, sends him hurtling towards the edge. His breath comes in short, sharp gasps as he pistons in and out of your throbbing heat, driven by nothing but primal urges.

"Oh, shit... right there, just like that!" he grunts, his hand moving from your ass to rub rough circles over your clit. "I'm going to... Oh fuck!”

With a final, powerful thrust, Spencer hits his peak, his cock pulsating as it spills hot cum deep inside you. Wave after wave of pleasure crashes over him, his vision blurring as he rides out his orgasm.

It doesn’t take long for you to finish, your body tenses above Spencer as he sloppily thrusts into you, riding out the remainder of your orgasms.

As the last tremors of your orgasms subside, You both collapse onto the couch, panting heavily as you try and catch your breath, your sweat-dampened skin pressing intimately against one another.

"That was… incredible," he manages to say, his voice hoarse from exertion. "You're amazing."

You carefully remove his softening member from your spent body. He pulls you close, wrapping his arms around you as he nuzzles into your hair.

"I never want this night to end," he confesses, his tone sincere and vulnerable. "But I know we should probably get cleaned up and back to reality soon.”

“Yeah, I need to be on the bus heading to New York in a few hours,” you replied, your voice laced with a hint of disappointment at the thought of possibly never seeing Spencer again.

A pang of disappointment and longing shoots through Spencer at the mention of your impending departure. He knows their whirlwind encounter can't possibly lead to anything long-term, given the vast differences in their lives, but that doesn't diminish the strong connection he feels.

"I understand," he says quietly, reluctantly loosening his hold on you. "Well, um, if you’re ever back in town, I’d love to maybe get coffee together.”

Spencer's eyes search yours, hoping to find some glimmer of agreement, even as he anticipates the likely rejection. It's a fragile thread, but it's all he has to cling to as he faces the prospect of saying goodbye.

“I’d love too,” you smiled, brushing some of the hair that had gotten stuck to his sweaty forehead.

Spencer returned your smile as he got dressed and headed for the door.

“Wait!” You shouted, causing Spencer’s head to whip back around.

“You almost forgot these,” you say, handing him the fuzzy pink handcuffs. He chuckles and tucks them into his pocket before disappearing out the door.

[intaktuah]

Sweat For Me

Genre: Smut, 18+ mdni

WC: 4.3k

Pairing: Dom!Intak x sub!m-reader

CW: Begging, breeding, teasing, overstimulation, body worship (armpits & abs), riding, Intak likes to be called 'sir', sex on the floor,

You rarely visited the gym at night. After work you barely even had enough energy to drive home, but you were pissed tonight. Being a receptionist was a pain in the ass, especially when the customers are being so inconsiderate. For example today an elderly man who knew perfectly our schedule showed up 15 minutes before closing. He seemed to have enjoyed taking his sweet time looking around while you just stared waiting for him to leave.

To top it all off, your car’s engine light had turned on on your way back home. “I guess this day could in fact get worse.” You mumbled curses to yourself wanting to just crawl into a hole and forget everything. You were so angry at the world for seemingly putting every obstacle in your path. The only way to get over this was to blow off some steam. At the next stop light you made a sharp return making sure no cars were nearby and headed directly towards your local gym.

Something told you that a late night gym session would bring you some much needed relaxation, it would soon ease the tension you were feeling all over.

When you arrived at the almost empty gym parking lot you grabbed your extra set of clothes from the backseat and your headphones. With the shut down of your car you locked the doors and made your way inside.

Most of the machines were not being used and everyone seemed to be in their own jam they wouldn't even have noticed that you walked in.

You walked to the back of the gym where the locker rooms were located and spotted an empty bench where you could change into your workout clothes. As you slipped off your shirt over your head you couldn't help but feel a pair of eyes staring at you. To your surprise, you turned to see a man around 5’11 wearing a black tank top with a matching set of black shorts. Dang that top was doing him favors in all the right places. His bulging muscles looked big like he had just finished his workout and his forehead was red with sweat. He stared directly into your eyes for a few seconds before making a small smirk with his lips and walking away.

“Was he checking me out?” The question lingered in your head as you slipped on your workout shirt and headed back out to the main floor.

At first your workout routine went as normal, some weights mixed in with some core workouts, eventually you decided to end the night with some cardio. You were walking towards the treadmill and checked the time on your phone, 10:45pm. The gym had almost no one anymore beside the people who come to workout before their night shifts or the ones destressing after a long day.

When you stepped onto the treadmill you felt a sense of turning back. And there he was again.

His presence felt different this time, more intimidating. From afar you could see his platinum blonde hair face onto his face, it was wet you could assume he had just gotten out of the showers. The other clear sign he had just gotten out of the shower was his bare skin exposed. His figure had to have been sculpted by the greatest artists of time. His glistening abs flexed on their own and his chest was firm; you could imagine having them within your grasps.

What is happening? Why would you be thinking these thoughts about a guy you don't even know?

Your consciousness returned and you turned all over to see if anyone else was looking at the sight in front of you. Everyone was so occupied they didn't even bother to turn around. When you stopped being paranoid you turned back to where the mysterious man was standing, but he was gone. Was it a hallucination?

Your brain was telling you to just shrug it off and finish your workout, but your heart and body wanted something else. They wanted to find out who this man was, and if he was real.

Your movements got the best of you and you couldn't think twice before you were heading straight for the locker rooms still looking around paranoid to see if maybe someone was aware of what was about to happen. The locker room was empty as far as your eyes could see. All of the showers were off and not a single soul was sitting at the benches. Maybe you had imagined him.

As you were about to head out a sound from deep down the hall made you freeze. Chills ran over your body when you realized you had forgotten to check the gym’s sauna at the end of the hall.

You made your way over to the entrance of the sauna with caution as if you were trying to avoid waking a bear from its nap. With a small creak you opened up the door just a smidge to find him sitting there playing with the towel wrapped around his waist. He hadn't seen you looking at him and you backed away from the door just in time to go unnoticed.

“What am I doing? Spying on him is crazy!” You couldn't help but try and whisper some sense to yourself. Just as you tried to peek through the hole again a face emerged from the sauna entrance. You would have yelped from the jumpscare if a hand had not come up and covered your mouth.

The blonde man brought up his right hand to his face making a gesture for you to “Shh”. “You don't want to cause a scene do you?”

His tone was condescending, making you feel stupid for almost screaming in a public space. But still you were shaken to your core. Who was he to have his hand covering your mouth? You questioned as you came to your senses and slapped his hand away. “Don’t touch me! Why have you been following me?” You tried your best to sound demanding but it only caused a smile from the man.

“Why don’t you get more appropriate for a sauna, and then we can talk.” He leaned in to whisper his words even though no one was around. It causes electricity to be sent down your body. Were you turned on?

The blonde man seemed to notice because he just looked you up and down and went back into the sauna.

You were frozen in place. You couldn’t possibly fall for this, what even is this guy’s catch? You seemed to stay stuck for what felt like forever before you finally started to move away from the sauna.

You walked over to your duffel bag where your original work clothes laid out. If you went home now all that would be is sleep and another tiring day of work tomorrow. Why waste an opportunity for something new tonight, right?

Your curiosity seemed to get the best of you because by the time you realized you had stripped your shirt and shorts off only remaining in your tight boxers that pressed nicely across your ass. Your semi visible bulge peeking out in front.

If you were going to do this you were going to play your cards right. So before heading to the sauna you slid off your boxers and placed them with the rest of your clothes. Your length was now hanging free, but you didn’t want anyone else to see you like this so you quickly grabbed one of the sauna towels from outside the entrance and made your way inside.

As you entered the sauna with the towel wrapped at your waist you turned to see your gym stalker sitting with his back against the wall, legs up on one of the sauna benches. He smiled and patted the empty space next to him. However you weren't as trusting as you seemed so you decided to sit across from him mocking his position with your legs up on the bench.

The sauna was pretty spacious for being part of a gym. In the middle sat a pit filled with those dark hot rocks seen in movies, and on either side sat spare towels you could only assume for other members.

You didn't dare make eye contact with the mysterious man who had been drilling into you with his eyes. You figured that instead a sauna was exactly what you needed to relax and take your mind off of all the stresses in your life. With your eyes closed you took in deep breaths trying to focus only on your breathing. But your meditating state lasted only mere minutes before another sound of breathing pulled your attention away from your own.

You tried to push it away but it only seemed to get louder. You slowly opened your eyes and slowly turned your head in the direction of where he was sitting. Your eyes seemed to widen when you saw what he was doing because a slight smirk spread on the side of his face.

Is he jerking off? You took note of how the man was moving his hand in an up and down motion underneath his towel. His breathing had become more staggered causing his mouth to hang open. His forehead drenched in sweat from his movements, and his hair fell so beautifully in front of him. His hips would occasionally jerk upwards causing him to halt his movements, but when he came back down he would just start over. But this wasn't the most insane part of it all. He was staring directly at you.

You were hypnotized, mesmerized on the way his chest heaved up and down with each one of his fast paced movements you were sure he would be finishing any minute now. His words took you out of the trance, “I can stop if you want, I’d rather save this load for you.” He smiled fully now even letting out a small chuckle. Did he think you were a prostitute? Why would he have brought you in?

You clapped back almost immediately, “Who are you? What do you think this is? Because I am not someone who sells themselves.” Your body finally made the correct decision to get up off the bench and exit the same way you came in. However, the man was faster than you thought. He got up off the bench and ran to block the door, turning a lock you hadn't noticed before.

“My name is Intak, my father owns this gym, which answers your question about there being a lock on the door.” Intak placed his hand on your chest and seemingly pushed you back until you fell onto a bench. His built frame was towering over you and if you stared forward you would come in contact with his hard length. So you just kept your eyes locked with him that was until he crouched down so he was now in between your legs.

“You caught my eye when I first saw you in the locker room. Sometimes guys come this late at night only looking for one thing. I figured that was you, but now I'm thinking I was mistaken.” He was wrong about what you had originally come for but now that you were here you felt a hot feeling all around you. You weren't sure if it was the sauna’s steam or maybe.

Intak caught onto the shift in your eyes, “Or maybe I wasn’t.” Suddenly he grasped onto the bench you were sitting on and pulled himself up now looking at you face to face. There were only mere inches between your lips. Intak would look at your lips and then look back up at your eyes. You couldn't control your shivers but they weren't out of fear. You needed Intak, whatever spell he had casted on you worked because in an instant you broke the space between you two.

Intak must've been caught off guard because he let go on the bench and instead shifted his position to standing on his knees, all the while keeping his lips in touch with yours. Your kisses were rough and urgent like you had been poisoned and the cure was all over Intak’s lips. Lucky for you he was able to keep up with your fast pace. You could feel his smile while kissing him, he enjoyed the rush you were giving him and the way the steam from the sauna was driving you both over the edge.

He placed a few more kisses on your mouth before pulling away to catch his breath. You hadn't even realized how out of breath you were too. “Fuck your lips taste amazing.” Intak rubbed your hand as he moved his hands over to the towel that still wrapped around your waist. But you stopped him.

“I have another idea.” You brought Intak up to sit beside you on the bench but then immediately pushed his body down so he was on his back. You removed your own towel to show Intak your own hardening dick that had been gathering some precum from the makeout sesh. Intak was in awe he gulped down the knot that had formed in his throat and all he was able to mutter out was a small “wow”

You straddled Intak’s lap slightly rubbing your ass on his dick making him close his eyes and let out a small groan. Before he could have opened his eyes again you brought your mouth down to meet him again as you mashed lips together. You could feel Intak slide his tongue down your mouth exploring every inch of you. Your hands were climbing his head grabbing at pieces of his hair and pulling them back. The tug made Intak lift his head.

“You're pretty kinky aren't you.” He found your dirty actions fascinating. He took his own hands and reached down for your ass smacking down onto them and moving them so they would rub against his pelvis.

You had been kissing his neck and jaw while he did this but you stopped to look into his eyes. “Oh you have no idea.” But Intak wanted to test you. He slightly pushed you off of him, making you give him a confused look. He then slid on the bench bringing the upper half of his body up onto a wall in the corner while the other half still laid on the bench.

You were about to mount him again when he stopped you. He lifted his left arm and placed it behind his head with his right hand. He grabbed the back of your head and jerked you roughly towards his armpit. You could have swore he couldn't drive you anymore crazy but here you were taking in his masculine scent. “Well don't just sniff it” Intak sounded annoyed by the lack of actions, “Get yourself a taste.” The suggestion itself would have made you nut right then and there. You hesitated but knew that your horniness was too much to stop. You started from the bottom of his pit and placed your tongue on his fairly tanned skin. Tastes of sweat and salt attacked your senses as you explored Intak’s pit. Above you Intak was enjoying the sight of you being a mess for his armpit; he couldn't help but let out tiny moans.

“Fuck yeah keep doing that. Your tongue feels amazing.” You couldn't believe how horned up he was and you hadn't even sucked his dick yet. Intak eventually grabbed your head and moved you to his other armpit where you would repeat the same process of licking his hair free armpit. You wish it could have stayed like that forever but Intak brought you up to catch your breath. “I cant believe I’ve been so horny for you this whole time I don't even know your name.” He chuckled to himself sitting up letting you find a seat on the warm floor. “It's y/n. But you can call me anything you want.” You wanted to tease him.

“Huh, y/n. I like it. I'll be sure to use it later.” Intak slid over to have your face in between his legs. This time you were sure to make eye contact with his hard cock that was filled with his precum from jerking off earlier. He didn't need to say anything you knew what he wanted, and so did you.

You made your way over on your knees and slowly grabbed him from the base of his dick, Intak looked down at you with hunger in his eyes. He wanted to use you in every way he possibly could. He wasn't alone however, You wanted to feel every inch of Intak inside of you. So you started by slowly licking the tip of his cock making him squirm underneath you. You smiled knowing you had at least some power over Intak even if it was just for a moment.

“Enough with the teasing y/n, start sucking my dick before I make you regret coming in here.” His words shouldn't have turned you on as much as they did but he was right. You wrapped your lips around his uncircumcised tip and made your way down the 7 inch length. “Oh fuck y/n yeah just like that, you sure know you to swallow a cock.” Intak struggled to get his words out as your head bobbed up and down. You were going halfway while using your right hand to jerk the other half. Your left hand was rather occupied trying to touch yourself. Intak noticed you were trying to please yourself and grabbed your hair roughly making you spit out his cock.

He brought his face down making sure he was close to you. “Did I say you could touch yourself? It looks like you haven't understood who's the one in charge here.” Intak looked pissed like he was a spoiled child who was just told they were getting their way.

“Im sorry, Intak I won't do it anymore.” Bur Intak just looked at you before saying something that caught you off guard. “Call me Sir.” You looked at him with innocent eyes making sure you had heard what he said correctly. “Did you hear me? Because I really hate repeating myself.” Intak still had you in his grasp so you had no choice but to respond. “Yes sir.”

“That's more like it.” Intak did not allow you to process what had just happened before he brought you down to his dick once again but this time he didn't let you use your hands to jerk him or yourself off. Intak was more aggressive, making you go up and down on his cock. He brought you down forcing yourself to take all seven inches. You were gagging and you could feel tears swell up in your eyes from the pressure.

“Don't cry, you can take cant you y/n. You're my good little boy making sure I'm getting my pleasure first.” Intak had now let you go completely, you came off his cock coughing and grabbing your neck. “Next time you think of touching yourself without my consent you're going to see just how aggressive I can be.” Intak threatened you but you didnt care you wanted to feel it again.

He was somewhat shocked when you crawled back to his cock and immediately went to work again. He breath hitched and he rolled his eyes in pleasure as he felt your tongue swirling around the tip. Then you tried deepthroating his cock once again, your face turned bright red and you gagged at the pressure but it was worth it. Intak was a mess. “Oh y/n stop stop stop I’m gonna cum I don't want to cum yet.” He pushed you off his dick and stood up from the bench. He threw you completely down onto the floor “Woah Intak what’re you doing?” You barely managed to ask your question before Intak turned you over so your stomach was now flat on the floor. You couldn't see what was happening behind you until a short warning came from Intak. “Don't worry about it my boy, you're going to love what I am going to do with you.

Suddenly the sharpest of pains blazed in your tight hole as you slightly turned your head to see Intak sticking his tip into your entrance. His jaw hung open and he was filled with sweat all over his body. “Ngh~ Intak I think maybe you should have prepared me before.” You tried to reason but he wouldn't budge. Instead he laughed, “Oh y/n a little slut like you doesn't need prep, besides my cock is all lubed up from your spit. Trust me it is better this way.” So there he went with no condom, no lube, no preparation. Intak started to slowly thrust into you trying to keep himself up. Soon enough his thrusts started to pick up pace. “Intak please, it's so big, I don't think I can take it.”

You whined but it seemed Intak was tired of hearing you complain because he started to go faster making you moan and scream instead of talking. You could feel the way his uncut cock curved slightly to the left and how he was filling up your hole with his hard length. The sounds of skin slapping echoed through the sauna. You were surprised that nobody had heard all the sounds coming from inside. Intak had been fucking you so hard you felt weak and limp. You didn't even have the energy to try and pleasure yourself the size of his cock was pleasure enough inside of you.

Intak meanwhile was having the greatest sex of his life, he had now lifted up on his knees to get a better angle at digging into you. One of his hands was placed on your ass where he would occasionally give some smacks to make you nudge even a little. His right hand had traveled up to place your head down into the ground. You felt his immense body weight pressed onto you, his biceps flexing and twitching trying to maintain your head down but the pleasure was making you moan so much your head was moving around.

“Intak please~” You were feeling too much pleasure all around, Intak had you in the palm of his hands. But still there was something you wanted that you were sure he would love. “Intak. I~ I want to ride your dick.” The dominant man above you slowed his pace, thinking about your suggestion. “How bad do you want my sweet boy?” Oh so now he was teasing.

“Bad, I need it Intak please give it to me sir.”

Your pleads were enough for Intak’s hunger. He slowly pulled out of you and laid on the sauna floor; his hands motioned for you to come over. Crawling with the little strength you had left you climbed onto Intak. His eyes themselves were fucking you, examining every tired inch of your muscled body. You could tell he wanted this more than you did, so you positioned yourself facing directly at Intak wanting to keep fucking him with your eyes as well. “Are you ready?” You shot a smile at Intak making him smile back in anticipation as his smile turned into a big ‘O’ when you sank down onto him.

Riding Intak’s 7 inch cock was more pleasing than you ever could have predicted. His hips thrusted up into giving him the slight satisfaction that he was still the one in control, but you knew deep down that you had the power. Intak was going to lift half his body up to you but you pushed him back down. Instead you leaned down to place your lips to Intak’s chest. You placed soft kisses to his bare sweaty chest, licking his hard nipples. Both of the feelings of satisfaction were driving intak over the edge. “Y/n please I can’t do it, I want to fill you up.” You smiled at his words and continued your work even taking your hands to his abs grappling at them, leaving your mark on them.

“Fuck y/n I think I’m getting close.” Intak said as he fucked up harder into you making you moan in pleasure. “Cum in me, Intak.” He opened his eyes in shock, but you gave him a nod confirming where you wanted him to finish. Intak didn't hesitate for much longer, he started getting sloppy and with one final thrust he finished inside you. “Y/n~ fuck.”

The feeling of his seed inside of you filling every inch of you drove you insane as well. “Intak I’m cumming to!” You shouted as you kept bouncing on him, you dug your nails into his sharp abdomen. You stopped bouncing on him and felt as your load exploded out of your dick and all over your abdomen and Intak’s, some of it even reaching his face.

After coming off of your high you felt yourself fall down onto Intak’s body. You could feel him leak out of your hole and it was one of your favorite feelings. Intak grabbed some cum off his abs, “You wanna taste yourself babe?” You looked directly into his eyes as you sucked on his fingers, having the sweet taste of your own cum in your mouth.

“Y/n you are insane, I mean cumming without even touching yourself!” You chuckle at his words “I would love to do this again sometime.” Your suggestion made Intak’s eyes light up like he was a puppy who had just been offered to play. “Well I mean this sauna is technically mine, so it wouldn't be a problem having you in here.” With his sentence you both smiled at each other before having your lips meet together again still being able to feel the intense heat between the two of you.

Author's Note: Hi guys! I hope you enjoyed my fic this is my first time writing smut. I wrote this as a request for a friend of mine so I hope they enjoyed this to. Also I am not really familiar with tumblr so please bare with me, but i would love to receive and requests from anyone!

[partoffantasy]

Tension and Takedowns (Part 1) - Garrick Tavis

⸻ image credits to scribe.jesinia ⸻

summary: when her friends suggest she find someone to release her tension, reader finds herself watching Garrick spar, and her friends waste no time teasing her about it. But when she’s forced to face Garrick in the ring, the heat between them intensifies.

pairing: garrick tavis x fem!reader warnings: tension, sparring word count: 1.9k

Part 2: Click here

⸻⸻⸻✦ ♡ ✦⸻⸻⸻

The air in the training gym was thick with the scent of sweat and the sound of bodies colliding. The grunts of effort and the sharp cracks of fists meeting flesh filled the space, the sound barely dampened by the padded floors. Cadets sparred all around, all of them desperately preparing for the upcoming challenges. After all, it was common knowledge that few would live to see graduation. Why hold back when tomorrow wasn’t guaranteed?

Y/N wasn’t holding back, but she was distracted. Liam’s fist shot out, and she barely dodged in time, feeling the breeze of it against her cheek. “Seriously?” he huffed, stepping back to reset. “You’re usually quicker than that.” “Yeah, well, I have a lot on my mind,” Y/N muttered, wiping sweat from her brow before falling back into a fighting stance.

Nearby, Violet was locked in a match with Rhiannon, their movements fast and fluid. Rhi had Violet pinned for a moment before Vi twisted, using her smaller frame to slip out of the hold and retaliate with a swift jab to Rhi’s ribs. The two grinned at each other, neither gaining the upper hand for long. Sawyer, Ridoc, and the rest of their group stood at the edge of the mat, taking a break from their own sparring sessions. It didn’t take long for the teasing to start.

“I swear, the two of you are wound tighter than a crossbow,” Ridoc said, nodding at Y/N and Violet. “You know, there’s a simple solution to all that tension.” Sawyer laughed. “Yeah, it’s called getting laid.” Y/N rolled her eyes, shifting to block Liam’s next strike. “Oh, really? Is that all it takes?” Violet snorted but didn’t look away from her match. “They’re just mad we have standards.”

“You’re acting like you have options.” Ridoc ducked as Y/N threw a training dagger in his direction, barely missing his shoulder. “Woah, woah! I’m just saying, it’s a war college! You’re supposed to—” “Supposed to what?” Y/N cut in, leveling him with a glare. “Hook up with some guy who probably won’t be alive next week? Great plan, Ridoc.”

Liam chuckled, shaking his head. “You could at least have some fun before you die.” Violet sighed, finally pinning Rhiannon to the mat. “Right, because random, meaningless sex is going to solve all our problems.” “Maybe not all of them,” Rhi admitted, breathless, “but it’d definitely help with some.” Before Y/N could retort, movement on the far side of the gym caught her attention. She wasn’t the only one who noticed.

Xaden and Garrick had stepped onto the training mat, their shirts already discarded, muscles flexing under the glow of the lights. The conversation died instantly. Violet, still sitting on Rhi, tilted her head. “Well. That’s distracting.” Y/N swallowed hard, suddenly very aware of the heat pooling low in her stomach. Rhi, looking equally entranced, muttered, “Think they’d let us join?”

Liam and Ridoc exchanged glances before smirking. “You know, Garrick doesn’t have a girl,” Liam pointed out. “Maybe you should try your luck, Y/N.” Y/N barely heard him. Her eyes were locked on Garrick, her mouth suddenly dry. His body was carved muscle, broad shoulders tapering down to a firm waist, his tanned skin glistening under the training room lights. The sharp angles of his jawline were softened slightly by a hint of stubble, and when he moved, the powerful ripple of his back made her stomach tighten. He wasn’t just attractive—he was devastatingly, unfairly gorgeous.

Her pulse quickened as her mind wandered, imagining the feel of those rough, calloused hands gripping her waist, the press of his body against hers. She clenched her fists, forcing herself to look away, but it was useless. Ridoc let out a low whistle. "Damn, Y/N, if you stare any harder, you might set him on fire." "Or melt into a puddle right where you stand," Sawyer added with a smirk. "Honestly, at this point, I don’t even know why you’re fighting it."

Rhi, still sprawled on the mat beneath Violet, raised a brow. "Yeah, Y/N, you’re always talking about high standards, but Garrick? That’s about as high as they come." Liam snickered. "You should probably stop pretending you’re not interested before we all start taking bets on how long it’ll take you to crack." Y/N scowled, though the heat in her cheeks betrayed her. "You’re all insufferable." "We’re just speaking the truth," Ridoc shot back, grinning. "Now go shoot your shot before someone else does." Maybe she should.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

A few days had passed since the gym incident, but Y/N still hadn’t quite shaken the way Garrick looked when he fought—or how her friends wouldn’t shut up about it. Unfortunately for her, things were about to get a lot worse. Xaden stood before their squad, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. “You all fight like reckless children,” he said flatly, scanning the group. “It’s a miracle you’ve survived this long.”

“We’re first-years,” Ridoc muttered under his breath. Xaden’s sharp glare cut his protest short. “No excuse. You’re in Flame Section, and you’re flying with us, which means you need to be better. Garrick is going to make sure of that, since he is the best fighter in the quadrant.” At his name, Garrick stepped forward, arms loose at his sides, but his presence was impossible to ignore. Y/N kept her expression neutral even as her stomach twisted.

He let his gaze sweep over them before speaking. “I don’t care if you think you can fight. You’re going to be better by the time I’m done with you.” A collective groan rose from the squad, but Y/N barely heard it. She was too busy cursing whatever gods had decided to play with her fate.

Training started immediately. Garrick moved through them, correcting form, adjusting stances, and calling out weaknesses with brutal honesty. He was a firm but fair instructor, and his reputation as the best fighter was evident in the way he carried himself. Y/N had done her best to avoid being singled out—until the moment she felt his eyes on her. “You’re up,” Garrick said, his voice smooth but commanding.

Y/N swallowed hard and stepped onto the mat. “Against who?” A slow smirk spread across his lips. “Me.” She barely had time to register those words before he moved. Y/N dodged the first strike by instinct, stepping back quickly, but Garrick was relentless. He pushed forward, his movements fluid and controlled, forcing her to defend rather than attack. Every shift of his body was measured, precise, like he already knew how she would respond before she did.

“Come on, Y/N,” he murmured, circling her. “You’re faster than this.” Heat curled in her stomach at the way he said her name—low, teasing, confident. She grit her teeth and refocused, lashing out with a calculated strike. He blocked it effortlessly, catching her wrist in a firm grip and twisting just enough to throw her off balance. She stumbled, and before she could recover, he used her own momentum to spin her. The next thing she knew, her back was against his chest, his arms locked around her in an unbreakable hold.

Her breath caught. The air between them felt thick. He wasn’t holding her tightly—just enough that she could feel the solid muscle against her back, the heat radiating from his skin. Her pulse pounded in her ears, and she knew he could feel it. “Getting distracted?” he murmured, his breath warm against her ear. Y/N clenched her jaw, trying to shove down the shiver that ran through her. “Not in the slightest.”

His chuckle was dark and knowing. “Liar.” She twisted sharply, trying to break free, but he anticipated it, spinning her again until she was pinned beneath him on the mat. His weight was braced above her, close enough that she could see every detail of his face—the way his hazel eyes burned with challenge, the smirk that played at the corner of his lips.

Neither of them moved. The world around them faded, the sounds of sparring and training dulling into the background. It was just them, breathing in the same heated space, locked in a fight that had nothing to do with physical strength anymore. Garrick’s gaze flickered to her lips before meeting her eyes again. “You going to surrender?” Y/N’s heart pounded. She knew he was talking about the fight. Knew he was waiting for her to say she gave up.

But there was something else in his eyes, something that made her wonder if he wasn’t asking about something much bigger. Her fingers curled against the mat. “Not a chance,” she whispered. Garrick’s smirk widened, his eyes gleaming with something almost wicked. He left her on the ground. Instead of stepping away, he shifted his stance again, rolling his shoulders like he was getting comfortable.

“Good,” he drawled. “Because I’m not done with you yet.” Before she could react, he lunged. Y/N barely dodged, twisting away from his reach, her pulse hammering as she forced herself to move, to focus. He was fast—too fast—but she refused to make it easy for him. She countered with a sharp kick, but he caught her ankle effortlessly, twisting just enough to send her staggering back.

She caught herself, breathing hard. “Cocky bastard.” He grinned. “You’re just now figuring that out?” Y/N growled and went on the attack again, throwing a series of strikes that he blocked with frustrating ease. He was toying with her, letting her get close before slipping just out of reach, every movement done to frustrate her.

“Come on, Y/N,” he taunted, dodging another punch. “You’re holding back.” “I’m trying not to break your nose.” “How considerate,” he mused, sidestepping her next strike and catching her wrist. “But I can take it.” She yanked free, heart pounding, but before she could fully regain her stance, he moved again. A well-placed sweep sent her sprawling, and in a blink, he was on her again, pinning her wrists to the mat, his weight caging her in. After a moment of silence and heavy breathing, Garrick pushed off of Y/N and held her hand towards her.

Y/N took a breath, forcing herself to ignore the lingering heat between them as she took it. His grip was strong, steady, and as he pulled her to her feet, he leaned in just slightly, his voice barely above a murmur. “Good.” She barely had time to process that before he shifted into a fighting stance again. Y/N’s eyes narrowed. “We’re going again?” His smirk was all challenge. “Unless you’re ready to admit I’ve won.”

Like hell. She launched at him without warning, but Garrick was ready. He dodged her strike smoothly, grabbing her wrist and twisting just enough to send her off balance again. This time, she caught herself before he could take her down completely. They circled each other, breaths quick, movements sharper now, the tension between them only growing with each strike and counter. Every time she tried to gain the upper hand, he turned it back on her, forcing her to push harder, fight smarter.

The fight dragged on, sweat dampening her skin, her muscles burning—but she refused to stop, refused to let him have the satisfaction of winning so easily. Then, in one fluid motion, he caught her again, spinning her so her back was against his chest just like before. His lips brushed close to her ear. “Still pretending you’re not interested?”

Y/N froze. Her stomach flipped violently as realization slammed into her. He knew. He had known all along—about the gym, about the things she and her friends had said. Heat crawled up her neck, but before she could recover, he was already stepping away, leaving her standing there, breathless and exposed.

Part 2: Click here