#just like… the weight of it on your tongue???

[shawtuzi]

thinkin’ about 69ing w toji!!

cw include: 69 position, pussydrunk toji, whiny reader, a smidge of overstimulation

“fuckkk yeah honey, jus’ like that.”

you whimpered around toji’s dick as he moaned shamelessly into your pussy, his tongue drawing sloppy figure eights around your clit. a mixture of your essence and his drool was dripping down his chin and right into his already sweaty chest, but he didn’t mind in the slightest.

you felt the tip of his nose nudge into your entrance, the movements from his tongue now switching to move side to side. you choked around his dick, fat tears brimming at your lash line.

“mmph, do that again honey. make that throat tighten up ‘round me,” he purred, sucking your folds into his mouth. he ran his rough hands up the backs of your thighs, grabbing a handful of your ass before giving the left cheek a sharp smack!

you opened your mouth wider taking more of his thick cock into your mouth. your tongue wagged against the underside, the the two thick veins that ran upside it throbbing against your tongue. you felt the tip of his dick nudge against the back of your throat, a semi-violent gag slipping past your drooling lips.

your hand cupped his balls, squeezing them ever so softly. toji let out a particularly loud slurp against your pussy, pulling away slightly just to spit on it. he watched the glob of spit dribble from your entrance to your clit, his tongue peeking out to swipe over his lips as he watched you clench around nothing.

“such a pretty pussy…look how wet she is,” toji murmured to himself, spreading your lips with his thumbs. you pulled off of toji’s dick with a wet gasp, your back arching when you felt the tip of his thumb push into your hole. “toji—hah!” your backside pushed against toji’s face when you felt his hand swat at your ass a second time. “be still,” he grunted, relishing in the squelching noises that your pussy made each time he pulled his thumb out.

he circled his thumb around your entrance, his nostrils flaring when you took his throbbing cock back into your mouth. you suckled on the pudgy, pink tip before kissing your way down the base. “a-ah shit,” toji grunted, his hips bucking upwards when you took one of his balls into your mouth. his cock throbbed against your cheek, the pearls of pre that dribbled from the tip smeared onto your cheek, adding further to the mess.

toji’s eyes rolled into the back of his head, his tongue lolling completely out of his mouth to allow you to fuck yourself on the wet muscle. you let out a squeak when you felt your head being shoved down followed by toji’s quick, harsh thrusts into your mouth. your jaw completely unhinged, toes curling as you let him use your mouth.

the noisy gluck! gluck! gluck! sounds you made as he fucked your throat had toji’s balls tightening, the coil in his stomach becoming more and more wound up. “babyyy fuck,” toji moaned against your pussy, the movements of his hips stuttering.

“i-i’m close daddy,” you whined, your hand wrapping around the base of his dick. you jerked him off quick, but not too quickly, your tongue circling over his slit. “n-no baby don’t do th—hat!” toji’s thighs began to tremble, his mouth dropping open as the first spurt of his cum landed on your tongue. you continued to circle your tongue over his slit, fighting back a smile at how whiny he was becoming.

with one final sloppy suck to your clit you were cumming all over toji’s tongue, your cum hitting the back of his throat in tiny gushes. you wanted more, you need more—so without warning you sat your entire weight on his face, both of your hands wrapping around his dick to milk his orgasm.

toji was hot—very hot and breathless, but that didn’t stop him from sucking your clit with fervor, the obscene slurping noises bringing heat to your already warm cheeks. he weakly tapped your thigh three times, signaling for you to get up.

“what a mess,” toji chuckled breathlessly, his fingers swiping against the wetness on his chest. he held them out to you, smirking when you started to suck on his fingers like you would his dick, your tongue swirling around the digits.

“mm let’s go again but this time i want you to nut in me,” you gave him a dopey smile, your fingers trailing down his sweaty chest. “ah, i don’t know sweet thing i might need a m-minute,” toji nearly choked on his spit when you wrapped your hand around his now soft cock, teeth biting down harshly on his tongue when you gave it a soft squeeze.

you cuddled more into his side, tilting your chin up for a kiss. toji hungrily pressed his lips against yours, his abs clenching when you started slowly stroking his cock. his mouth dropped open the tiniest bit allowing you to slip your tongue between his lips. “you’re gonna be the death of me y’know that?” he groaned against your lips, his dick now semi hard.

“i know but i’m fine with that. now get comfy m’gonna ride you till you pass out.”

[heavysighing-dreamyeyes]

Crawl Into Place

~1k words

There is an itch in his bones when he's away from you. Jason can't put it into words, at least not in a way that doesn't make him sound crazy.

His fingers always twitch towards where you are. He can be halfway across Gotham and knee deep in the sewers, tracking a lead, and he'll just– reach for you. He can't help it.

There's a part of him that's missing, when you're not there. The familiar blanket of anxiety that always seems to well up from the pit of his stomach returns. His shoulders tense, and his throat tightens, and nothing seems right and everything is wrong, and he doesn't know what to do, and then he'll finally get home.

And it all disappears. His world comes down to a single focus– a clarity that only exists in your presence. Sometimes, you'll be awake, offering him a smile and hug and a mug of hot liquid. Sometimes, you'll be asleep, curled in the center of your bed, and tucked away from the horrors that linger in the shadows.

(Either way, he finds himself frozen in awe every time, stunned by the fact that you're still there, always there– waiting for him to return)

You asked him once, if he had a preference. And honestly, he doesn't. Jason just thrives when you're there. Awake. Asleep. That floaty place somewhere in between where you know enough to reach for him but not enough to speak. It doesn't matter, as long as you're there.

He needs that– you. He feels the claws of desperation sink into his flesh when he's without you. There is no sanctuary without your arms, no rest when your steady breathing isn't filling his ears.

He's never been so attached, so solely reliant on one person until you.

At first, he hated it. He's Jason Todd, Red Hood, ex-crime boss turned vigilante, and he's what? Dependent on whether or not you're around? He's happier when you're happy?

It was an embarrassment, a weight, something indescribable and unknowable. But now he can't think of anything better. You bring peace. He doesn't know how, but you do. Now he craves the smell of your soap, the softness of your weight against his, the heat of your touch, the taste of your skin on his tongue.

So he stashes his busted gear in his safe house, showers off the grime and the dirt, and he makes the staggered trek home to you. It would be easy to collapse on the old, dusted couch, of course. But it's worth every aching step when he'll end the night in your bed– at your side.

(He'll never give you a reason to believe he doesn't want to be there over everything else)

Something in his soul just settles at your closeness. A piece of him that never fits quite right in his chest snaps into place.

It's freeing, to have somewhere where he feels like he's truly meant to be. And in finding that with you, there isn't a thing in this world or the next that would keep him from being near you.

It's a big statement. He knows it, knows it could scare you off or be too heavy. So he doesn't speak it. He just stations himself in the same room as you, follows you from task to task, curls around you when he finally crawls into bed at night.

There is never a time when he's too weary to carry himself back to you, never a mission too grand to keep him from holding you close. Not in this world or the next.

It becomes a mantra for him, of sorts. In this world, he savors every second with you. In this world, he gets impatient when he's away for too long– gone too long without feeling your warmth. In this world, he loves you. And he will in the next.

He doesn't think you realize just how much he feels for you, how much his very essence is tied to you. And maybe it's better that you don't.

It's easier to let you laugh and joke about needing a bigger bed if he always sleeps next to you. (As if he'd entertain the idea, he likes being tangled so close he can feel the very rise and fall of your chest)

It's easier to let you tease him about being clingy when he curls his fingers into yours and lifts them to press a kiss to the back of your hand. (He loves the way you go shy no matter how many times he does it)

It's easier to let you put a doormat under your window sill and tell him to wipe his feet when he comes in, because having to vacuum every morning is getting real old. (He's happy to take off his boots wherever you want. He'll clean away the filth he leaves too, as long as he gets to stay)

Learning how you take your tea is easy. Learning what blankets go in what order on your bed is simple. Learning which closet you keep your jackets is thoughtless. Learning where you like to sit and read is quick.

What isn't easy is putting it all into words. How could he explain that the fractured parts of him mend together when the air filled with your laughter? How could he tell you that every step he takes is with the intent to return to you?

He can't say it. Doesn't know how. So he kisses your temple before he leaves your room. He holds you so close under the sheets that you might as well be one, even if the sun has been up for hours and his stomach is starting to growl. He engraves every smile and every word you gift him with onto his heart.

And he loves. No matter where the mission takes him. No matter how far he strays from your side. No matter how many nights and days he has to go without you. No matter what he has to do.

He finds his way back to you. He whispers his devotion into the shadows of the night and into the curve of your throat when your mind is too clouded with sleep to really understand what he's saying. He presses kisses filled with promises to your ear and vows he'll always be around to do so.

He breathes out his confession into the dark like he's scared something will break if he says it too loud. He loves you. So much. Maybe too much. But in this world and the next, he belongs next to you.

[st4rrybl4de]

guys walk with me here. *gulps* . . . pretty boy ren who just wants to devour you whole, literally. ♡ sucking your toes, biting you . . he’s soooooo pussy drunk over his cute little girlfriend. nsfw! minors do not interact or i’ll get you! this was supposed to be a short drabble, buttttt i got carried away. oops.

"renny, you gotta slow down!" manicured fingers feebly attempt to slow the man's cruel pace. choked sobs fall on deaf ears, calloused hands clinging to the back of your weak knees. pressing your legs back until baby-pink painted feet hang over his broad shoulders. eren's nothing short of fucking mean as he folds and squishes you against the car door, each fluid roll of his hips reverberating your head against the door with a thump. you can feel his fat cockhead scraping against your cervix. it hurts. and his hands are gripping you so tight you feel like you might break. he forgets how heavy he is, leaning all his weight onto you as he slides into your soppy pussy.

and despite how much it stings, you love it. you love him. every thrust brings a new wave of pleasure that makes your head spin. you can barely breathe, the air punched out of you every time he pushes in. salty tears stream down your face as you cling to the man for dear life. and just when you think he can't get any rougher, eren forces you even further against the car door. "stop runnin’ ma, you can take it.” the wet squelch of his dick sliding into you almost too embarrassing. your legs shake, pussy pulsing around his thick length. painfully, you're cumming. again. you don't know how many times you've cum at this point. eren drives you through it, groaning and muttering sweet words. the way he's fucking you, you'd think he was the one who just came. nails scratch against his sweaty back, body shuddering with the effort of keeping up with his brutal pace.

he slaps a hand against the car window, pushing off you and fucking his dick as far as he can into you. you feel him in your stomach, the slight bulge in your stomach a testimony. you mewl, legs trembling as the brunette continues to abuse your cunt. you're tired. everything hurts. "i know you're sleepy baby, just a little more. i-fuck, i swear." his words are barely intelligible, a string of curses, promises, and praises falling from his lips. the way his face contorts is beautiful. his eyebrows are furrowed, eyes screwed shut, and mouth hanging open as his thrusts grow sloppy. "oh my gosh," you're whimpering as he wraps his lips around your big toe, tongue swirling around the painted nail. the sensation is odd.

but it's not enough to deter your pleasure. if anything it heightens the feeling. the warmth that spreads through your body is overwhelming. your heat squeezing his cock, the muscles spasming as you cum again. he swears he could eat your pretty ass up. gently, pecking sloppy wet kisses on your feet, giving each foot the same attention. he kisses from the top of your toes to the golden ankle bracelet adorning your leg, you smell so good. "pretty as fuck mama," he's slurring, pussy drunk as he fucks you. you know he's close, the way he's babbling and whining.

eren has never been a biter, well, until tonight. he’s sinking his teeth into your calves as he holds your bottom half up, a poor attempt to stifle his moans. they were so loud they could almost drown out your own. you had never heard him so desperate before. your hips were moving on their own accord, rolling in tight circles and pressing back against him. he was desperate, and that only egged you on more. his nails dig into the soft skin of your thigh. “shittttt, my pretty baby lettin’ me use her sooo good.” his voice now cranked an octave.

the man is cumming shortly after. the feeling of your tightening walls pulling him to the edge. hot ropes of cum fill you. he pushes in as far as he can go, cock throbbing as he empties his balls. you can't tell what the hell he's saying anymore. his words are garbled, slurred together and almost incoherent. the only word you can make out is baby. it's a chant, the brunette calling you that over and over again. eren finally stills, his cock pulsating with the last spurts of his orgasm. the compact space is silent aside from the sound of labored breathing.

it's not until a few minutes later, after your heart rate has gone back to normal and your body isn't on fire anymore that eren slowly pulls his spent cock out of your pussy. cum leaks out, the pearly substance dripping onto the car floor. you feel so empty without his fat cock inside you. gently, he sets your feet back down on the car floor. he grabs his boxers off and wipes your leaking hole. the white fabric is covered in your juices and his cum. but he doesn't give a fuck, tossing it into the darkness. promising to clean it later. he tucks himself back into his sweatpants and looks down at you, eyes raking over your body.

his heart aches at the sight. puffy red eyes. a blotchy tear-stained face. pouty lips swollen from being bitten. a sheen of sweat covers your body, his fingerprints littering your waist. you look fucking ruined, and he can't help but smirk at the damage he's done. "erennnnn," you whine, reaching your arms out to him. the burly man obliges, his large body hovering over yours. "what?" his tone is teasing, lips pulled into a smirk.

"you gotta tell me what you want baby," you huff, brows furrowing. "you already know," you're pouting, arms still stretched out towards him. eren is smiling cheekily as he leans over, lips capturing yours in a passionate kiss. his fingers brush against your cheek as he cups your face, tongue swiping along your bottom lip. you moan into his mouth, sore body arching into his touch. "didn't know you had a foot fetish renny.” you tease against his lips, eren can't stop the laughter that falls from his lips, eyes are sparkling as he looks at you. flushed cherks and a grin on his lips. he really is so handsome. you're delirious.

"i don't," he kisses his teeth, "just love your feet."

𝒮𝒯𝟦𝑅𝑅𝒴𝐵𝐿𝟦𝒟𝐸 all rights reserved. comments, reblogs and likes are highly appreciated ♡︎

[megalomaniacz]

nsfw! dubcon

ermmm toxic!sevika x inexperienced reader where she gets you high for the first time swearing it will be fun and you’re so out of it you don’t even notice your pants are on the floor and your panties are pushed aside and she’s three fingers knuckle deep in your cunt, fucking you so rough you can’t keep up.

not that you’d be able to anyway, you’re so out of it all you can think about is something yummy to eat and how good everything feels and fuck her tongue is licking harsh circles on your extraaa sensitive clit. everytime you mumble whatever your brain can pull together she just shushes you and offers you another hit. “cmon it’s good for you. you need this. don’t you feel good?”

and fuck yesss you do but you’re sort of in and out and everything feels like it’s slow motion which is confusing but soo good when she’s touching you because you swear you can feel everything times 3. her mouth on yours, lips kissing and biting and licking at your lips. moving to your neck while her hands grope your tits. she’s all over you, full body weight keeping you in her grasp so you can’t go anywhere.

but honestly who would want to?

[ghouljams]

Nasty Dog

(cw: Fae!Soap x f!reader, pre-negotiated consent but not from you, groping, public sex, exhibitionism, dub-con oral(f!receiving), dub-con fingering, fae contracts)

The look you give your boss is nothing short of absolute malice.

Price does nothing but smile, before tossing the dress onto the bar and nodding at it more pointedly.

"Change." He orders.

"I'm not wearing that." You insist.

"Should've seen what he picked out first, be glad I talked 'im down." Price tells you; it doesn't make you feel any better. You still stare down the fabric on the bar and wonder if you could even consider that a dress or something closer to a long shirt.

An incentive, Price had called it, a reward for a job well done. You understand the concept, you just don't know why this has to involve you.

"He's gonna try to fuck me over the bar," You try appealing to reason. Price is a reasonable man, mostly, surely he wouldn't want his bartender unable to pour drinks.

"I'll keep hold of 'is leash." Price assures you. Somehow it isn't comforting. Not that you find anything about the man particularly comforting. He's a decent boss but no more trustworthy than any other fae you've dealt with. Still, if he says he'll keep Soap on a tight leash then that's what he'll do.

"Fine," You relent, "but if I even see his dick I'm quitting."

The threat holds no weight, you have a contract with these assholes, and you know better than to break it. Price still raises a brow, likely thinking the same thing. You grab the skimpy dress with a grumble and go to one of the back rooms to change.

Stupid sex club. Stupid faeries. Stupid job that you stupid need to pay your stupid fucking bills.

-

It's late into the night before Soap even shows up. You're so busy mixing drinks, pouring pints, and trying to tug down the back of your skirt, that you don't even notice him slip behind the bar.

You do notice him when you turn to grab the Aperol, and your eyes immediately flick to the tent in the front of his pants. You scowl when you meet his eye.

"Keep it in your pants," You tell him, doing your best to avoid touching him as you reach around him to grab the bottle.

He doesn't give you the same courtesy, reaching down to lift your skirt as you lean.

You yelp at the sudden exposure and immediately attempt to cover yourself again. Soap's hand is firm where he's got your skirt held, and though you tug at the edges your ass remains out. Soap clicks his tongue.

"Didnae give ya the panties like Ah asked."

You give up on tugging your skirt down in favor of twisting to push at him. You shove his hands, his chest, anything you can make contact with.

"Let go," You demand, feeling something awful warm when he drops to his knees.

"Don't mind me, bonnie." Soap hums, his hands dropping your skirt to grip your thighs. Your hands follow his and you bend to try to slide his hands off of you, only to feel his teeth against the swell of your ass. You stiffen, shooting back to your full height in an instant. You glance at Price across the room, and he holds his hand up with a smile.

Bastard. You can almost hear him telling you to get back to work.

You try to move to grab a new bottle, and Soap keeps you tightly in place. The only thing you can reach is the beer taps. You shoot a quick glare Price's way.

"Pints only for a minute," You tell the patrons seated on the other side of the bar, before you turn your attention back to Soap, "because that's all you're getting, one minute."

Soap doesn't respond except to shuffle closer between your legs and make himself comfortable. You grab a glass and tug the tap's handle to pour a pint for the man that slides up to the bar. Your eyes dart over him, assessing, and you switch to a cider over the lager you'd grabbed. You'd love to give him something with raspberry, maybe muddled with gin, light but stiff, but you're stuck.

Soap's tongue drags over the sleek silk of your panties, and you nearly drop the glass in shock. It takes all your self control to finish the pour, set it on the bar, and keep your face straight. His thumbs rub over your panties, spreading your clothed folds before he licks his tongue over you again. You shudder and push at his hands again, his grip feels like iron, his fingers digging into your thighs to a near painful degree.

The man on the other side of the bar gives you a strange look before retreating to some dark corner.

Another long lick followed by a deep groan, before he's peppering kisses over your ass and dragging your panties down to your knees. There's a measure of care to the press of his lips that you choose to ignore and then forget entirely when he bites your ass hard. You yelp and snap a hand over your mouth to keep from disturbing any of the men on the other side of the bar.

A placating kiss is planted on the fresh bite, and you twist to catch Soap's eye.

"Okay, that's a minute," You tell him, uncaring whether it is or not, "that's all you get."

"Ah dinnae agree tae that." Soap tells you, "Price says Ah have ya for the night."

Your gaze jerks to Price. Then around the bar. You can't find him. Is he even here? What happened to holding the leash?

You turn back to Soap and it feels like all the air has been punched out of you. He holds your gaze with those awful electric blues, and makes you watch him burry his face back between your legs. You twist back to the bar, your back twinging at how quickly your muscles tighten at the first touch of his tongue against your skin.

You grab another pint glass as one of the patrons on the edge of the bar grabs a stool in front of you. You need a distraction from the boiling anger you feel. So you can just be traded for favors? Given out like a prize for a job well done? What's next? He'll be selling you with the girls in the back rooms?

Heat slicks its way up your spine at the twist of Soap's tongue over your clit. Warmth slides back down to melt between your legs, pooling and tingling to following the steady flow of lapping. Over your cunt, between your folds, Soap's face held firm against you even as his hands slide to spread you apart. Waves of sensation that wear like a steady beat against the rocky beach of your self control.

Your hand shakes on the tap as you pour Guinness for a man that looks like he'd prefer a sour. The stout overflows, leaking down the glass and sliding over your fingers as a new wave of pleasure sinks under your skin. You don't bother drying your hand off, or apologizing, you barely get the pint on the bartop without cracking the glass.

The man gives you a once over as he takes it, and you grip the edge of the bar to try and gather your wits about you. You swallow down a sharp noise as Soap drags his tongue in strange familiar shapes over your clit. Your breathing feels uneven, and your hips push back into his touch without your brain telling them to.

It's all too hot, too wet, too focused, for you to keep a thought in your head. Your hands shake against the bar, fingers flexing open and closed with the overwhelming desire to grab and pull at the head between your thighs. You squeeze your eyes shut against the shot of pleasure that zips through you, tightening in your stomach before swirling between your ribs. You bend at the waist, pressing back, aching for more. Those strange familiar tracings are driving you mad.

(Johnny)

Each little flick and roll against your clit making your body shudder and react.

(Johnny)

Your cunt feels hot, electrified with the aching need that drips from it.

(Johnny)

His nose presses against your entrance, grinds teasingly against the wet hole until your breath is shuddering and you're halfway to begging him to fill you.

(Johnny, Johnny)

He pulls back to push his wiggling tongue into your cunt, and you nearly sob in relief. Your head feels like it's stuffed full of cotton, the throbbing pain behind your eyes is starting to recede back into the recesses of your mind. You hadn't even noticed it before it was gone.

Not that you notice its absence, not when your entire being seems to be focused wholly on the way your cunt stretches around Johnny's tongue. The warm wet muscle pokes and prods, wiggling and licking at your soft inner walls when it isn't fucking in and out of you like a promise.

A whimper leaves your lips when his tongue leaves you and drags another rough stripe over your cunt. It feels dangerous, loaded, intent. Some singular goal already accomplished, a deer finally shot allowing the hunter to feed, you almost feel Johnny smile.

You lean over the counter, the cold, wet, wood seeping into the thin fabric of your dress to cling to your skin. Despite the sudden chill your mouth falls open as Johnny sucks at your clit, his tongue rolling over the sensitive bud in crashing waves of pleasure. Your lashes flutter, your eyes roll, and the customer in front of you leans back on his stool. The soft moan that drops from your lips seems to roll like iron across the bar, making every patron pick up their glass in the vein hope of not looking like they're watching you.

Johnny doesn't break from his ministrations, shaking his head as he tries to press closer to you. The stubble along his jaw scratches at your thighs, and you try to swallow down some of the spit that's collecting on your tongue as he swipes broad strokes with his own through your slick folds.

One of the patrons reaches over the bar to touch your cheek, and when you flinch away Johnny growls. He pulls his mouth from your cunt only long enough to warn the man:

"Anyone touches 'er I'll have their heid."

The threat shouldn't send prickles of heat over your skin like it does. Not for the slow way that Johnny puts his mouth on you again, a low growling hum as his lips close around your clit that rocks little jolts of heat through you. His tongue flicks tight short licks against the sensitive bud and each one seems to build a crescendo of want that coils tighter and tighter in the pit of your stomach.

Every muscle in your body pulls tight, forces the arch of your back as you push yourself desperately back into his attentions.

You drop your forehead against the bar with a pathetic whine. You feel pathetic, vulnerable in a way you've never experienced. Every patron at the bar seems to have their eyes on you, you can feel them like a brand, and that attempt to touch you... Knowing they're watching you fall apart, watching Johnny do whatever he likes to you because of a deal he made with your boss- You just hope none of them are wondering what they have to do to earn the same reward.

Johnny's head turns to press his lips to the soft skin of your inner thigh, smearing your slick across the skin, and pushes a finger into you. Your lip wobbles at the not-quite-full feeling, at the burning slide of his finger in and out of you. You can feel his eyes on you too, but where your customers' eyes rove hungrily over your body, Johnny's are focused solely on the way your cunt swallows his thick finger.

His lips mover against your thigh, silent murmurings that your ears strain for over the music of the bar. A second digit slides gently in beside the first, his fingers scissoring to watch the stretch and God it just melts through you. You feel the stretch like a slow warmth that spreads through your pelvis and dribbles down your thighs. Out and in, his fingers dive into you and pull back with just the taste of your slick on his knuckles.

It's less overwhelming than his mouth. Enough of a thought coalesces in your brain to make you lift your head off the bar.

And to feel a sharp jolt of fear burst through you at the way the patron across from you tugs at his belt.

No.

No, you can't do this. It's too much. There are too many people and they're going to think you're something more than just the bartender. They're going to try and touch you, or make you touch them.

It dowses over your heated skin like cold water, making you prickle and tense, shaking with something so close and yet so far from pleasure that your body can't seem to decide what to do with it.

You're not sure who you mean to call for help, but a name springs to your lips faster than your tongue can pick it up.

"Jo-" Johnny's hand wraps around your mouth, his body plastered against your back in a second. The rush of fear leaves you in an instant as his lips find the shell of your ear. His fingers never leave you.

The gentle thrust of his fingers into your tight cunt feels almost like a lifeline, a sensation you can hold onto that you can't confuse for anything else.

"Ahm here, hen." He murmurs, his eyes flicking from your face to the patron's hand. "Ahm nae gonna let anyone dae anythin'." More than an assurance, a promise. You sink back into the feeling. "Take it as a compliment," His lips drag over the top of your cheek, up to your temple, "look so pretty that they cannae help touchin' 'emselves."

You half expect him to leave you like this, to go back to where he'd been between your legs, but he doesn't.

Your fingers find his forearm and grip it tight, something to hold onto as his fingers pick up the pace. In and out, in and out, faster and faster, harder and harder, until you can't stop the high moans that Johnny's hand muffles. His lips press everywhere they can, peppering the side of your face and the length of your neck with something that feels almost like affection as your hips rock and your muscles spasm.

Each thrust of his fingers hits right where you want it, pushing at that wet ache that seems to radiate pleasure. You claw at Johnny's arm with both hands as your back arches to a near painful degree, and he releases his hold on your face to grab your throat.

He fixes his mouth against yours in a searing kiss right as you come, your cunt fluttering around his fingers. Wet squelching rings over the music, filling your ears, and his palm with the sound of your pleasure. His tongue sweeps against yours, and you swallow the rush of saliva the feeling brings.

Johnny looks terribly pleased when he pulls away.

Pleased and delightfully fuzzy.

Your brain is still working through all the sex hormones and the red lighting isn't helping your vision.

You think you should be... mad at him.

You do your best to scowl at him.

"I hope you're not expecting anything in return." You insist, though your knees feel weak enough to drop to the ground right there. Johnny hums.

"Already got what I wanted." He informs you.

Your eyes narrow.

Whatever the fuck that means, it probably isn't good for you.

You fend off his groping the rest of the night, and lock up with a strange(familiar and terrifying) weight on your chest.

[unconventional-lawnchair]

Could you please do a poly marauders+lily with reader having to take some time off of school due to poor mental health/stress! This could be with an eating disorder or just simple depression or something like that. Feel free to adjust this however you like! Love your writings btw💙

AN: Thank you!! 💕 This is so cute I may have gone overboard.

Loving You is Easy

Marauders + Lily x fem!Reader

Summary: Being younger than all your respective partners was never a big deal; until they graduated and you were left behind. As your mental health declined and their lives started without you, a break was needed.

WC: 5.7k

CW: Mentions of Practice kissing, reader gets babied.

The morning light filtered through the large windows of James’s bedroom, the soft warmth of the sun brushing against your skin. Normally, this room was filled with life- James’s laughter, Sirius’s sarcastic remarks, Lily’s quick wit, and Remus’s calm steadiness. But today, it was just you, cocooned in the comforting scent of them, sinking deeper into the bed that had become your refuge.  

James’s Quidditch jersey was bunched in your hands, the fabric soft from years of wear. You’d slipped it on at some point last night, the oversized garment brushing against your thighs as you curled tighter beneath the blanket. Lily’s pillow was tucked under your head, her faint floral scent surrounding you.  

You knew you should get up. But the thought of facing anything beyond these four walls was suffocating. You had already overstayed your welcome- you should be at Hogwarts. In class. The winter hadn't even ended yet and you caved in on yourself.

The door creaked open, and James peeked his head inside, his messy hair sticking up at odd angles. He was always the first to notice when something was off, his intuition as sharp as his loyalty was- unwavering. 

“Hey, love,” He said softly, stepping into the room. He sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to disturb your cocoon of blankets. “You’ve been in here all morning. Feeling stuck?”  

You nodded faintly, burying your face deeper into Lily’s pillow.  

James gave a heartbroken coo, his hand reaching out to smooth your hair. James's hand lingered in your hair, his fingers carding through the strands as if it might untangle the weight pressing down on you. He tilted his head, a soft, lopsided smile curling his lips despite the crease of worry in his brow.  

“My little brave fox,” he murmured, the nickname rolling off his tongue like a secret he was sharing just with you. “You’ve got no idea how much I love you, do you?”  

You didn’t reply, but your fingers tightened slightly on the jersey bunched in your hands. James’s eyes caught the movement, his chest aching at the sight of you clinging so tightly to anything that might bring you comfort. And it was a piece of him.

“I should really shower,” he said, his voice low, almost to himself. “I’m a right mess after that run.”  

But he made no move to get up. Instead, he leaned down closer, brushing a kiss against your temple, his lips lingering there as he exhaled. “You’re going to be the death of me, you know that?” He murmured, his voice filled with a mix of tenderness and awe.  

Finally, he forced himself to pull back, though his eyes stayed locked on you. “All right,” He said, his voice soft and coaxing. “Here’s the deal: I’ll go shower, so I don’t stink up the place, and then I’m coming right back here to hold you until you’re ready to take on the world- or until Sirius bursts in and tries to steal you away. Sound good?”  

Your nod was barely a movement, but it was enough to make his heart clench painfully.  

“Good,” He said, a grin breaking through despite the worry etched into his features. “Don’t go anywhere, yeah? Not that you’d want to. You’re in my bed, after all. Best spot in the whole manor.”  

His teasing earned him the faintest twitch of your lips, and his grin widened, his chest swelling with a bittersweet kind of pride.  

“Be right back, love,” He promised, pressing another kiss to your hair before reluctantly standing and heading for the door. He paused in the doorway, turning back for one last look at you, his hand gripping the doorframe as though he couldn’t bear to leave.  

“I mean it,” He said softly. “Bravest little fox I’ve ever known.”  

And with that, he disappeared into the en-suite bathroom.

It wasn't long before Lily came in, her soft footsteps barely audible on the carpet. She carried a steaming mug of tea, the soothing aroma of chamomile filling the air.  

Lily placed the tea on the bedside table with careful precision, as though even the smallest noise might disturb your fragile peace. Her green eyes softened as they took you in- curled up in the bed, buried under layers of blankets, clutching James’s jersey like a lifeline. She crouched down, bringing herself to your level, her voice gentle but purposeful.  

"My sleepy girl," She murmured, her words carrying both affection and worry. “You’ve been working so hard, sweetheart. Too hard.”  

You didn’t respond, but the slight movement of your shoulders, as though trying to disappear further into the bed, told her enough.  

Without another word, Lily stood and walked to the windows. With a flick of her wand, the heavy curtains drew themselves shut, dimming the room to a soft, cozy glow. The harsh winter light was replaced by the flickering warmth of lanterns, which she conjured in the corners of the room, their golden light soothing rather than overwhelming.  

She paused, surveying the space with the critical eye of someone determined to make it perfect. Another flick of her wand, and the fireplace roared to life, its gentle crackle filling the silence.  

When she returned to your side, she adjusted the blanket around you, tucking it under your chin with the utmost care. “There we are,” She said softly. “That’s a bit better, isn’t it?”  

You nodded faintly, though your grip on the jersey didn’t loosen.  

Lily reached for the tea again, this time bringing it closer. “I made this just for you,” She said, holding the mug carefully. “Chamomile, with a touch of honey- exactly how you like it. You don’t have to drink it all right now, but just one sip, love. For me?”  

Her voice was so patient, so kind, that you found yourself leaning up slightly to take the mug. The warmth seeped into your hands, grounding you as you took a small sip.  

“There’s my girl,” Lily cooed, her smile soft and encouraging. “You’re trying, and that’s all I could ever ask of you.” 

Lily didn’t linger with physical affection- she knew you needed space today. Instead, she moved around the room, her actions deliberate and filled with purpose. She tidied the bedside table, arranging your tea and the stack of books James had haphazardly left there. She straightened the extra blanket at the foot of the bed, ensuring you had everything you might need within arm’s reach.  

“Sweetheart,” She said as she worked, her voice gentle but firm. “I need you to hear this. You are not overstaying your welcome. This is your home, just as much as it’s ours. And there’s no clock ticking down on how long you’re allowed to rest.”  

Her words hung in the air, a balm for the guilt you hadn’t been able to voice.  

“You give so much of yourself,” She continued, turning to look at you. “To your studies, to your friends, to us. It’s time to let us give something back.”  

Once the room was to her liking, Lily returned to your side, settling into the chair James kept beside the bed. She didn’t press you to talk or move, simply grabbing her abandoned knitting project and watching you with the kind of quiet determination that made it clear she wasn’t going anywhere.  

“You don’t have to face everything today,” She hummed, looking down at her project and after a while, her voice grew soft- steady. “Some days are for fighting dragons. And some days...” She gestured to the bed and the blankets enveloping you. “Are for letting us do it for you.”  

You didn’t reply, but when she reached for the tea again, you took another sip without hesitation.  

“That’s my good girl,” She whispered, her smile returning. “Just take it one sip at a time, love. I’ll be right here.”  

Sirius burst in next, his energy as uncontainable as ever, though it softened the moment he saw you curled up in the bed. He leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed.  

“Well, aren’t you a sight,” He teased lightly, though there was no bite in his tone- still earned him a glare from Lily. “What’s the excuse today? Too good for the rest of us? Or is this just another one of your ‘I’m not enough’ days?”  

The humor was sharp, but the tenderness in his voice cracked through your defenses. You peeked out from beneath the blanket, giving him the smallest of glares. 

“There she is,” He chuckled with a smirk, hands on his hips. “You’re lucky you’re adorable, you know. Otherwise, we might get offended by all this moping.”  

Sirius strode over, his smirk fading into something softer as he crouched down to your level, his dark eyes searching yours. There was mischief there, of course, but also something deeper- concern, a kind of devotion that made you feel seen in a way that was both comforting and overwhelming.  

Before addressing you again, Sirius turned to Lily, catching her hand and pressing a dramatic kiss to the back of it. “Don’t look at me like that, Evans,” He murmured, his voice low and teasing. “I’m here to help, not to make trouble. Mostly.”  

Lily arched an eyebrow, but her lips twitched with a smile. “Be good,” She warned lightly, though the fondness in her voice betrayed her.  

“Always,” Sirius replied, leaning forward to kiss her properly this time. It wasn’t quick or casual- it was intense and full of the kind of passion that made you look away instinctively, even though you were used to seeing it between them. When he pulled back, his grin had returned, brighter now.  

“Merlin,” He sighed, turning his attention back to you. “Beautiful things you are. How’d I get so lucky, hmm?”  

You blinked at him, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice. Sirius Black, the eternal flirt, wasn’t supposed to be this soft. And yet, here he was, looking at you like you were the only thing in the room that mattered.   

He settled himself on the edge of the bed, leaning back on his hands as he regarded you with a lopsided grin. “You know, you’ve really done it this time,” He chuckled, his tone light but warm. “Stolen James’s jersey, taken over his bed, and now hoarding Lily’s attention. Such a spoiled girl.”

Sirius's grin softened as he leaned down, his lips brushing over the blanket-covered curve of your shoulder. His voice dropped to a whisper, rough with affection and sincerity.  

“I bloody love it,” He murmured, his dark eyes locked on yours. “Such a pretty girl, even when she’s hiding from me.”  

Your breath hitched, though you quickly averted your gaze, burying your face further into Lily’s pillow. Sirius chuckled, the sound low and warm, as though your attempt to retreat only endeared you to him more.  

Lily cleared her throat pointedly, her knitting needles clinking together as she worked. “Sirius Black,” She said with mock severity, though the softness in her voice betrayed her. “If you’re going to flirt, at least make yourself useful.”  

Sirius raised an eyebrow at her, leaning back with that ever-present smirk. “Flirting is useful, Evans. Keeps her smiling, doesn’t it?”  

Lily rolled her eyes but didn’t argue, her gaze flicking back to you. “You’re insufferable,” She muttered, though her lips twitched with a smile.  

Sirius turned back to you, his hand brushing against the blanket as if silently asking permission to stay closer. “She’s just jealous,” He teased lightly. “She can’t stand how good I am at making you smile.”  

When you didn’t reply, his voice softened, and his grin faded into something more vulnerable. “I mean it, though,” He murmured, his tone low and sincere. “I love seeing you get what you deserve. Everything. And I don’t care if you want to hide away in this bed forever, I’ll be right here with you.”  

Lily paused her knitting, her expression softening as she glanced at Sirius. “You’re not as hopeless as you let everyone believe,” She said quietly, the hint of a smile on her lips.  

“Don’t let that get out,” Sirius replied with a wink, though his eyes remained fixed on you. He reached out, brushing a strand of hair away from your face, his touch lingering for just a moment. “It’s our secret, yeah, love?”  

Only then did you give a shy nod.

Remus entered the room quietly, his presence like the gentle warmth of a winter hearth. His amber eyes swept over the scene- Lily perched in her chair, Sirius lounging on the bed with a familiar smirk, and you cocooned in the blankets, clutching James’s jersey like a lifeline.  

He crossed to Lily first, his movements unhurried, his focus unwavering. Leaning down, he pressed a soft kiss to her temple, the simple gesture filled with quiet affection. Lily looked up at him, her lips curving into a small, knowing smile as she reached up to touch his hand briefly before returning to her knitting.  

Sirius, never one to be outdone, groaned dramatically from his spot on the bed. “Oh, come on, Moony. Where’s my kiss?”  

Remus sighed, his lips twitching in amusement as he turned toward Sirius. “You’re relentless,” He muttered, though the corners of his mouth betrayed his fondness. He leaned down and pressed a quick, chaste kiss to Sirius’s lips, earning a pleased hum from the man sprawled beside you.  

“There. Happy now?” Remus asked, his voice tinged with dry humor.  

Sirius grinned, his eyes twinkling. “Ecstatic. Don’t let it stop there, though.” 

You stayed quiet, sinking further into the blankets as you watched the interactions unfold. Remus hadn’t looked at you yet, hadn’t even acknowledged you, and the knot of guilt in your chest tightened. You couldn’t help but wonder if he was upset with you- if your inability to pull yourself out of this slump was finally wearing on his patience.  

Lily must have noticed the way your fingers tightened on the jersey because she glanced at Remus pointedly. “Moony,” She said softly, her tone a mixture of gentle affection and subtle reprimand.  

Remus’s gaze snapped to you, his amber eyes widening slightly as if realizing his mistake. “Oh, love,” he murmured, his voice dropping to that soothing tone he used when he wanted you to feel safe.

He crouched beside the bed, his hand resting lightly on the edge of the blanket. “I wasn’t ignoring you,” he said softly, his eyes searching yours for any trace of hurt. “I just didn’t want to overwhelm you.”  

Your lips parted, but no words came out. Instead, you glanced away, feeling foolish for thinking he’d been upset.  

Remus reached out, his hand hovering near yours before settling gently over it. “I could never be upset with you,” he said, as though he’d read your mind. “I promise.”  

His touch was warm, grounding, and you felt the knot in your chest begin to loosen.  

“You’ve been so strong,” he continued, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in slow, soothing circles. “But you don’t have to be. Not with us.”  

Sirius leaned back, watching the two of you with a faint smile that lacked his usual mischief. “Told you,” he said softly, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. “We’re not going anywhere.”  

Lily set her knitting aside and stood, crossing to place a hand on Remus’s shoulder. “She’s been feeling like a burden,” she said quietly, her green eyes meeting his.  

Remus’s brows furrowed, his expression pained. “Love,” He whispered, turning his full attention back to you. “You are never a burden. You’re ours, and we’re yours. That’s all that matters.”  

His words wrapped around you like a second blanket, his steady presence chasing away the lingering shadows. When you finally met his gaze, the soft smile that broke across his face was enough to bring tears to your eyes.  

“There she is,” He murmured, reaching up to brush a tear from your cheek. “That’s my girl.”  

You sniffled, your lips trembling as you whispered, “I thought you were mad at me.”  

Remus shook his head, his hand moving to cradle your cheek. “Never,” he said firmly. “Not in a million years.”  

Lily bent down to kiss your other cheek, her voice gentle. “See? You’ve got us, love. Always.”  

James emerged from the bathroom, his hair damp and unruly, wearing nothing but his Quidditch shorts that clung low on his hips. He ran a towel through his hair, a casual grin already forming as he took in the scene: Sirius sitting on the bed beside you, Remus crouched at your side, and Lily perched back in her chair with her knitting. The room was soft with warmth, but James immediately noticed the slight redness in your eyes and the protective way everyone had positioned themselves around you.

“Oi, what’s this?” James said, tossing his towel onto a nearby chair. He crossed the room with his usual exuberance, his hazel eyes flicking between all of you. “You’re all hogging her. My bed, my girl, my jersey- where’s my share of the attention?”

Lily raised an eyebrow, though a small smile played on her lips. “Potter, don’t start.”

James frowned, his gaze finally landing on you fully. His teasing faded the moment he saw the way you were curled into yourself, the oversized jersey swallowing your frame as you clutched it tightly. He moved to sit on the edge of the bed, leaning closer. “Hey, what’s going on?” His voice was softer now, full of concern. “You okay, love?”

Sirius leaned back, his playful smirk replaced by a rare seriousness. He exchanged a glance with Lily and Remus before turning back to James. “She’s having a rough one,” Sirius said, his voice low. “Feeling like she’s not enough.”

James’s brows shot up in shock before knitting together in confusion. “Not enough?” He turned his full attention to you, his hazel eyes wide with disbelief. “You’re kidding, right? You- ”

He cut himself off, as if the thought was too absurd to finish. Instead, he shuffled closer, placing a hand over yours where it gripped his jersey. “Why would you ever think something like that?” His voice cracked slightly, the intensity of his feelings bleeding through. “You’re- Merlin, love, you’re everything. Don’t you know that?”

Your eyes welled up again, and you averted your gaze, suddenly overwhelmed by the weight of their care. “You’re all out there, doing amazing things,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “Graduated, working, making a difference. And I’m just... stuck. Still in school, not knowing what I’m doing with my life. I feel like I’ll never catch up to any of you.”

James looked like he’d been physically struck. He opened his mouth, closed it, then looked around at the others for help. “Did you hear that?” He finally asked, addressing the room as though he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “She thinks she’s not enough. Her.” He gestured toward you, his expression almost comically outraged. “How’s that possible?”

Lily sighed, placing her knitting aside. “We’re working on it, James,” She said gently. “But maybe you could use less dramatics and more comfort?”

James blinked, then seemed to deflate. He turned back to you, his hand now cradling your cheek. “You listen to me, and you listen good,” He said, his voice uncharacteristically serious. “You are the bravest, kindest, most wonderful person I’ve ever met. You make every single one of us better just by being you. And I don’t care if you’re still in school or taking a break or deciding to be a bloody Muggle librarian- whatever you do, it’ll be brilliant, because you’re brilliant.”

You let out a soft, shaky laugh despite yourself, and James’s eyes lit up. “There’s my girl,” he said, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “No one’s allowed to make you feel like you’re not enough, love. Not even you.”

Sirius snorted, though his grin was soft. “James Potter, defender of self-esteem. Who would’ve thought?”

Remus reached out, brushing a strand of hair from your face as he gave James a knowing look. “For once, I’m not going to argue with him,” Remus said softly, his hand lingering against your cheek. “He’s right, you know. We wouldn’t be us without you.”

Lily leaned forward, her green eyes warm with affection. “And we’re not moving forward without you. You set your pace, sweetness, and we’ll match it. Always.”

James looked between them, then back at you, his grin returning. “See? We’re a package deal. You’re stuck with us, love. No escaping it.”

You couldn’t help but smile through your tears, the warmth of their unwavering love wrapping around you like a shield. For the first time in weeks, the weight on your chest felt just a little lighter.

“It's not too much?” You muttered, sinking into the sheets as James' arm wrapped around your middle. Muttering something to the others about hogging you. 

“What's that, my sweetness?” Lily furrowed her brow at you as you shied away from her look. 

“Having to.. do this. Dote on me every time even the slightest thing goes wrong.”

James froze, his arm tightening around you slightly as he processed your words. His hazel eyes widened in genuine confusion, and he blurted, “What?”

Sirius snorted, his smirk quickly turning to a full-on grin as he lounged back against the headboard. “She’s lost it,” he declared dramatically, waving a hand. “Thinks she’s a burden. Absolute nonsense.”

Remus gave him a mild look but didn’t disagree. Instead, he leaned forward slightly, his hand still resting on yours. “Love,” he said softly, his voice carrying that calming steadiness you always found comforting. “Why would you ever think that? We want to take care of you.”

You bit your lip, your fingers tightening on James’s jersey. “It just feels like too much sometimes,” You admitted hesitantly. “Every time I feel like this... every time something goes wrong, it’s like you have to put everything on hold for me. I don’t want to be that person.”

Lily set down her knitting with deliberate care, her green eyes narrowing slightly- not in anger, but in the kind of determination that made it clear she wasn’t letting this go. “Sweetheart,” She said firmly, leaning forward. “Do you remember the first time we really talked? Before all of this- before we were close?”

You blinked at her, startled by the question. “I... kind of?”

Lily smiled faintly, though there was a bittersweetness in her expression. “It was in our dorm, during fifth year. I had just gotten a letter from Petunia.”

The memory slowly surfaced, and your heart ached at the thought. You remembered that night vividly now: Lily sitting on her bed, trembling with silent tears as she clutched a crumpled piece of parchment. You’d found her there, completely undone by her sister’s cruel words.  

“She’d written to tell me how much she hated me,” Lily continued, her voice soft but steady. “How I was a freak for being at Hogwarts. That I’d ruined everything for her. And I- I believed her, just for a moment. It was awful.”

You remembered sitting down beside her, your heart breaking for her pain. “I- I stayed with you,” you said quietly, piecing the memory together. “I hugged you, I think? And we talked for hours?”

Lily nodded, her smile softening. “You did more than that, love. You made me tea- awful tea, by the way, but I drank it anyway. And you told me stories about your family, about how proud they were of you, just to remind me that I had people who cared about me. You stayed up all night with me, even though I told you to go to bed.”

“I remember,” you whispered, tears stinging your eyes again.

Lily reached over, her hand warm as it brushed against your knee. “You didn’t think it was too much then, did you? Taking care of me when I needed it?”

You shook your head. “No, of course not. You needed someone.”

“And now you do,” she said simply. “And we’re here. Just like you were for me. That’s what this is, love. It’s not about being too much. It’s about love.”

Remus’s soft chuckle broke the silence that followed Lily’s words, drawing your teary eyes toward him. He was leaning back slightly, his long fingers absently running along the edge of the blanket near your hand.

“Since we’re doing memory lane,” He began, his voice calm but with a faint note of regret, “do you remember that time in the boys’ dorm? It must’ve been third year. It was just us, and I snapped at you over- what was it? Something stupid. A book, I think?”

Your brows furrowed as you tried to place the memory. Slowly, the image came back: the two of you in the quiet of the boys’ dormitory, Remus unusually tense as he rummaged through his belongings. You’d picked up one of his books, curious, and asked an innocent question about it, only for him to lash out sharply- so unlike his usual gentle self.

“I remember,” you murmured softly. “You were really upset.”

“I was a complete prat,” He huffed, his amber eyes meeting yours with a mix of apology and gratitude. “It was a couple of days before the full moon, and I was already on edge, but you didn’t know that. Hell, none of you knew yet. And instead of being angry with me- or worse, scared- you stayed.”

You blinked at him, surprised by the rawness in his voice. “You looked like you needed someone,” you said simply, echoing Lily’s earlier words. “I could tell something was wrong.”

Remus’s lips quirked in a small smile, though his eyes shone with unshed emotion. “You didn’t just stay. You sat with me, kept asking gentle questions until I calmed down. You even brought me one of James’s chocolate frogs- though you tried to hide the wrapper like you hadn’t nicked it.”

A small laugh bubbled up from your throat, the memory vivid now. “I thought he’d notice if the stash got too low.”

“He definitely did,” Sirius interjected with a grin. “He’s still salty about it.”

Remus ignored him, his focus entirely on you. “The point is, you stayed when I didn’t deserve it. When I wasn’t kind, when I didn’t have the words to explain what was really wrong- you stayed. You always have.”

He leaned forward, his hand brushing against yours again, grounding you. “And now, it’s our turn. You don’t have to say the right thing or be the strong one. You don’t have to do anything but let us stay with you. Just like you did for me.”

Your throat tightened, and you couldn’t bring yourself to speak. Instead, you nodded, your fingers brushing against his in a quiet acknowledgment. 

Sirius let out a low whistle, cutting through the quiet moment as he stretched out on the bed beside you. His dark eyes sparkled with mischief, but there was a softness to his expression that tempered it. “You know,” he began, his voice casual but tinged with something deeper, “if we’re sharing stories of how this one”- he nudged your arm gently- “has saved our sorry hides, I’ve got a good one.”

You glanced at him, your brow furrowing in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

Sirius smirked, leaning back against the headboard. “I’m talking about how you pulled off the impossible- getting me and Regulus to talk without trying to hex each other.”

The memory came back slowly, hazy around the edges but vivid in its heart. You and Regulus had become friends in your third year, a surprising bond that Sirius had always half-envied, half-admired. Regulus had refused to speak to Sirius for years, his bitterness over his brother’s rebellion cutting deep. But on Sirius’s birthday in your fifth year, you’d orchestrated something you hadn’t even told him about until much later.

“You mean when I gave Regulus your gift?” You asked hesitantly, a flicker of guilt crossing your face. “I didn’t know if it was the right thing to do.”

“Didn’t know?” Sirius scoffed, sitting up straighter. “Love, it was brilliant. You handed him the gift and said- what was it again?” He snapped his fingers, grinning. “‘This doesn’t have to mean anything, but it might mean everything.’”

You flushed, your fingers tightening on James’s jersey. “I was just trying to make him see that you cared.”

Sirius’s grin softened, his voice dipping into something warmer, more sincere. “And he did. Merlin, he did. That was the first time we actually talked without shouting at each other. He came to me that night, you know? Told me about the gift- about you giving it to him. Said he’d been wrong about me.”

Your eyes widened. “He never told me that.”

Sirius nodded, his expression serious now. “He wouldn’t, would he? Too much like admitting he was wrong. But he did. And you- ” He leaned closer, his dark eyes locking onto yours. “You were the one who made it happen. You gave me my brother back, even if it was just for a little while.”

You felt the sting of tears again, but Sirius’s grin returned, lighting up the room like it always did. “So don’t you dare think you’re too much, yeah? You’re just enough. Always have been.”

James, still holding you close, huffed dramatically. “Honestly, at this rate, we should start writing all this down. ‘A Hundred Ways She Saved Our Sorry Arses,’ by the Marauders and Co.”

Remus chuckled, his hand still resting lightly on yours. “Might be a bestseller.”

James cleared his throat, his cheeks turning an uncharacteristic shade of pink as he glanced around the room. “Erm, well, like when she, uh, helped me with- ” He coughed awkwardly and rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding everyone’s gaze.  

Lily perked up, her eyes narrowing with amused suspicion. “Helped you with what, Potter?”  

“Nothing!” James blurted out quickly, his voice rising an octave. “Nothing at all! Definitely not learning how to- ”  

“Oh, this I’ve got to hear,” Sirius interjected with a wicked grin, sitting up straighter. “Come on, Prongs, out with it. What was it? Dancing lessons? Your terrible piano skills?”  

Remus raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued, but said nothing, letting Sirius poke and prod instead.  

James groaned, burying his face in his hands for a moment before finally peeking through his fingers to look at you. “You’re not going to let me live this down, are you?”  

You grinned softly, the smallest flicker of amusement breaking through the fog that had weighed you down all day. “Not a chance.”  

James sighed dramatically, throwing himself back against the headboard. “Fine! She- ” He paused, taking a deep breath as if bracing himself for impact. “She helped me learn how to kiss, all right?”  

There was a beat of stunned silence, followed by Sirius’s loud, delighted laughter. He doubled over, clutching his stomach as he tried to catch his breath. “You- what?” he choked out between fits of laughter. “She gave you kissing lessons? Oh, this is brilliant!”  

“Shut up, Padfoot!” James snapped, his face now a deep crimson. He turned to you, his hazel eyes pleading. “You’re not going to let him tease me forever about this, are you?”  

You bit back a laugh, the memory of that day rushing back to you like a warm breeze. “You were hopeless,” You said lightly, a teasing lilt in your voice.  

James groaned again, covering his face with both hands. “I wasn’t hopeless. I just... needed a bit of practice!”  

“Hopeless,” You repeated, grinning now as Lily let out a soft laugh.  

“What’s this about practice?” She asked, her green eyes sparkling with curiosity.  

You leaned back against the pillows, feeling lighter than you had all day. “It was fifth year. James had this huge crush on someone- ”  

“Lily,” Sirius supplied gleefully.  

“Shut it!” James hissed, his ears turning pink now.  

“- and he was panicking because he’d never kissed anyone before,” you continued, ignoring James’s protests. “So, he asked me to help.”  

Sirius looked like Christmas had come early. “And you said yes? Oh, Prongs, you’re lucky she’s nicer than me. I would’ve hexed you for asking.”  

You laughed softly, your voice growing more confident. “It was actually really sweet. He was so nervous. I had to practically drag him to the Astronomy Tower so no one would see us.”  

“I’m right here, you know,” James grumbled, though his lips twitched with a reluctant smile.  

Remus chuckled quietly, his amber eyes warm as he listened. “So, how did it go?”  

You smirked at James, enjoying his obvious discomfort. “He was a fast learner. By the end of it, I think I told him he’d do just fine.”  

“You did,” James muttered, finally lowering his hands to reveal a sheepish grin. “And then you told me to stop panicking and just talk to her like a normal person.”  

“And did you?” Lily asked, her tone both amused and affectionate.  

James grinned, turning to her. “I think it worked out, don’t you?”  

Lily rolled her eyes but leaned over to kiss his cheek, her smile softening. “I suppose it did.”  

Sirius shook his head, still grinning. “Unbelievable. I leave you alone for five minutes, and you’re out here getting kissing lessons. Prongs, you’re a menace.”  

James shrugged, his grin widening. “You're just jealous I got to her first.”

Remus leaned closer to you, his voice low enough that only you could hear. “And you didn’t charge him a single Galleon for the service? You’re too kind.”  

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “It was worth it just to see him blush this much.”  

James groaned again, but the warmth and laughter in the room were undeniable, wrapping around you like a blanket. For the first time in a while, you felt lighter- like maybe you weren’t so lost after all.

As the laughter settled, you found yourself leaning into James’s embrace, the warmth of your loves surrounding you like a safety net you hadn’t realized you needed. Maybe you didn’t have all the answers yet, but with them by your side, you knew you’d figure it out- one day, one step, one laugh at a time.

[yuutryingtowrite]

Yandere!Chef x Vampire!Reader

A/N: If you like this setting, consider reading this story too! It features another yandere employee at your castle: a maid. A male maid. And, if you wanna know more about the levels, check this post :) . Anyways, back to this himbo Warning: Not nsfw, but suggestive. MDNI. Chef calls reader "Madam"

Danger level: ★ ★ ★ ☆ ☆

Submissive level: ♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎ ♡

_______________________________

~Your First Dinner with Him~

Yandere!Chef who is really oblivious. He has been staying at your castle for a while now and yet, he still doesn’t know that you are a vampire. You did try to tell him on his first day here that food is not substantial for you, but he had politely interrupted you with a “I insist, Madam. Please go rest, the food will be ready in a moment” and even guided you to the living room, by gently pushing on your lower back with his large, rough hand. You were too flustered by the gesture to continue arguing.

Your second attempt was during dinner. You thought about striking when he would go sit down after putting both plates on the table, but, much to your dismay, after that, he remained standing beside you instead. Confused, you looked up (realllllly up. How tall was this guy??) and found him nervously watching you. You were weak to his puppy look. You took a bite: “Hm! It is really good”. A smile broke on his face, his eyes turning into tiny crescent moons. “I am glad you think so, Madam! Please let me know if you have any special requests. I want to properly take care of you”, he enthusiastically, albeit a bit sheepishly, replied. Ugh, his expressions, his demeanor…way too cute. New hobby acquired: eating human food.

~His Favorite Dinner (?) with You~

Yandere!Chef, who you rarely see with a frown, who usually wears that soft and kind smile of his, looks rather uneasy today, some would say even depressed. The truth is: he can’t stand his body. Seeing it in the mirror this morning completely killed his mood. He was not aware of it before, as the change was gradual; however, it seems like he gained weight while working here as your personal chef. A number of his big, hard-earned muscles from years of underground fighting, like his pecs, his abdomen and his butt glutes, currently have a squish to the touch. They aren’t purely solid anymore. His form strayed from bulky to a bit more beefy. 

Why is that a problem? Well, ladies don’t find this attractive. At least, the ones from his village didn’t. He had witnessed it before. Had he stayed there, he would have been the subject of their disapproving and disgusted stares. Even among the regular folks, chubbiness was written off as being lazy and unreliable. You are too kind to think or do something like that, but he doesn't want your politeness, he doesn't want your open-mindedness, he wants your love. 

Lost in thoughts of new workout routines, he doesn’t notice his cut finger until blood starts to drip onto the vegetables. Ah…if he had dog ears, they would have flopped on his head. He already ruined his body, he doesn't need to ruin your dinner too. 

Turning around, it would appear that the person on his mind is right behind him. 

“M-madam! How did you get ther-", which is a very valid question; prior to this, there were no sounds owned by your footsteps nor by the kitchen’s door opening and closing. Yet, instead of answering, you just abruptly…grab his wrist and…put his finger in your mouth? At the contact, the broad-shouldered man makes a little noise. You don’t mind him as you begin to suck the blood out of the injury. 

He is very confused, he doesn't understand why you are doing this. The feel of your tongue on his skin, how you both are standing so intimately close to each other; it doesn’t favor his thinking either. It is actually making him lightheaded. Like is this sensation akin to pleasure that keeps building up the more this situation goes on. He lets out another whimper when your hand slides under his shirt to squeeze at the small fat of his stomach. 

As this snaps him out of his haze, he begins to weakly plead instead, without real conviction, to let go of his hand; he doesn’t want you to get sick. He could easily overpower you, but he can’t get his body to stop trembling. All he can do is bring a shaky hand to his mouth to muffle the sounds that keep spilling out since the feeling from earlier is now more intense, more delightful.   

Before this could escalate, you finally release his finger with a pop. You look up and find your poor chef completely flushed, his eyes unfocused, taking heavy breaths.   

Guess you owe him an explanation, huh?  

~H̶̝̿i̸̭̓s̴͉̿ ̷͉͑b̴̒͜e̶͊ͅs̴̠͋t̶̮͆ ̵̡̀d̴̟́ĩ̷̦s̷͛ͅh̶͍͛ ̵̣̃ ~

Yandere!Chef who now feeds you proper food.

“From which animal is this blood from? It tastes exquisite! I never had something like this before”, you excitedly ask him. 

“Oh, you know Madam, just ventured deeper into the forest than usual”, he answers vaguely.

He doesn’t want to worry you by saying it actually belongs to the rude asshole who pushed you the other day. 

Isn’t that sweet?

…

Drink well, darling

[brooklynnbbg]

I can’t request from my Lu account for some reason, so I’ll just go anon but you know who I am 💚

him wanting curvy!female reader to sit on his face, but she’s apprehensive and hesitant that she might “hurt” him but she has no idea what kind of wild ride she’s in for—literally

♡ WARNINGS - Smut! Oral (fem)

♡ A/N -  I just know he loves plus-size girls. His face is just so rideable. Ugh he would love to show off how strong he is by manhandling you. He’d lift you with such ease, and he’d love your stretch marks and your body’s softness. He’d love the way your thick thighs feel wrapped around his head. Fuck I’m definitely writing more Lu with plus-size readers soon <3 

Luigi reclined against the pillows, his broad shoulders relaxed but his gaze burning with intensity. He tugged at your hand, urging you closer as you hesitated by the edge of the bed.

“C’mon, amore,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire. “I’ve been dreaming about this.”

Your cheeks flushed as you looked at him, biting your lip nervously. “Luigi, I… I’m not sure. What if… what if I hurt you?”

He let out a low chuckle, his hands gripping your hips and pulling you to stand between his legs. “Hurt me? Mi Amore, you have no idea what you’re doing to me just by standing there.” His voice dropped to a low husky murmer, sending a shiver down your spine. “Trust me. I want you on me. Now.”

Your heart pounded in your chest as he guided you onto the bed. You kneeled hesitantly, hovering above him, your hands braced on the headboard for balance. His hands slid up your thighs, squeezing and kneading the soft flesh as his eyes roamed over you with unrestrained hunger.

“Thats a good girl,” he said, his voice reverent as his hands trailed to your hips, tugging you closer. “You’re so fucking pretty”

Still uncertain, you tried to keep some of your weight off him as you positioned yourself above his face. Luigi’s hands gripped your thighs firmly, holding you in place as he tilted his head back to look up at you. His brown eyes consoled you the moment they met yours. He was smiling up at you like you were a holy object.

“Stop worrying, amore,” he said, his tone commanding yet gentle, a deep promise in his words. “I’m not fragile. Let me have all of you.”

Before you could respond, Luigi pulled you down, his lips and tongue immediately setting to work. Your gasp quickly turned into a broken moan as he devoured you with a hunger that made your head spin. His tongue traced and circled, each movement deliberate, as he expertly explored every inch of you. His grip on your thighs tightened, locking you in place as he dove deeper, his nose brushing against your sensitive clit with every deliberate stroke.

"Lu…" you whimpered, your fingers tangling in his curly hair, the rough scruff on his face brushing against your inner thighs. The sensation of it added to the heat flooding your body, the contrast of his roughness and the tenderness of his touch making you shiver. Your legs trembled, threatening to clamp around his head as he groaned against you, the vibrations sending shocks of pleasure through your entire body.

He pulled back for a brief moment, his lips glistening, a wicked smirk curling on his wet face as he looked up at you. His voice was thick with desire. “Told you I could handle it, didn’t I? You taste so fucking good, baby..”

Before you could respond, he dove back in, his movements more urgent now, more intense. His tongue swirled and flicked, his lips sucking gently, then harshly, as he worked to make you unravel. Your hips moved instinctively, pressing  into him, trying to chase the pleasure he was giving you, but Luigi held you in place. 

“You’re so fucking perfect, amore,” he muttered against you, his voice dripping with praise. “Look at you, can’t stop shaking—does it feel good? Feels good to know I’m the one who makes you feel like this, hm?”

His words only made the heat inside you intensify. Your breath came in gasps, your body rocking slightly in response to the rhythm of his tongue. He continued to feast on you, his groans muffled by your skin, sending an electric shock through you with every movement. You could feel the pressure building, your release so close, but Luigi wasn’t going to let up. He wanted to push you further, wanted to make you beg for it.

“God, you’re so fucking beautiful,” he groaned, his hands gripping your thighs so hard it almost hurt, his nails digging in as he held you still. “All fucking mine. So soft, so perfect”

Your back arched, and you gasped at the overwhelming sensation of his lips, his tongue working in ways that had your thoughts scattered, reduced to nothing but raw need. His moans vibrated against your core as he licked and sucked with relentless fervor, his grip on you tightening as though he wanted to pull you even closer.

“Tell me how much you want it,” he demanded, his voice rough and low. “Tell me you need me. Tell me you need me to make you come.”

The words sent another wave of heat flooding through your body, and your hips bucked involuntarily as the pressure in your core tightened. You couldn’t think anymore, only feel, and what you felt was him—his mouth, his hands, his entire presence consuming you.

“I—I need you, Luigi,” you gasped, your fingers pulling at his hair, urging him to keep going. “Please, don’t stop.”

He moaned into you, the sound almost animalistic, and the vibrations sent you spiraling further, your body trembling with the effort to hold onto your control. But he wasn’t about to let you keep it. With a final flick of his tongue, he pushed you over the edge. The orgasm hit you like a tidal wave, crashing over you, your body shaking uncontrollably as your cries filled the room. Luigi held you in place, his grip unyielding, never stopping, never slowing, until every tremor had passed.

When you finally came down, your body still trembling from the force of it, Luigi eased you off him, his hands gentle now, guiding you to lie beside him. His lips and chin were glistening, and he looked up at you with a satisfied grin, his eyes dark with pleasure.

“You were fucking perfect,” he whispered, breathless, his voice thick with pride. “Did you feel how hard I was for you? How much I wanted to make you come?”

You couldn’t find the words, your mind still reeling from the intensity of the experience. He chuckled softly, brushing a strand of hair from your face, his lips pressing against your forehead. His hands found your hips, pulling you closer to him. He ran his hands around your soft stomach, admiring every curve and dip. 

“You’re mine, amore. You could never hurt me,” he murmured, his voice low and rough. He gave you another slow, tender kiss, the kind that made your heart flutter even as your body still hummed with the aftereffects of what he'd just done to you.

You let out a breathless laugh, a smile tugging at your lips. “You’re crazy lu,” you whispered, your body still recovering from the bliss he'd just given you.

He grinned wickedly, the glint of mischief still dancing in his eyes. “Crazy about you,” he replied, and without warning, his hands were back on your hips, pulling you closer, his lips finding your neck as he pressed his body against yours. “And I’ll keep showing you just how much.”

[raekensluver]

lu eating you out while he’s on his knees for you and you’re standing up. he’s in the more submissive role and you find it hard to stay in control when your legs are buckling…

mmmmm yep yep yep i need lu more than anyone can ever fathom.

contains: oral (fem reciving), slight dom/sub dynamic, sub!luigi

sub!lugi mangione x fem!reader

"luigi!" you whispered, a smirk playing at the corner of your lips as you felt him move closer, his hot breath ghosting over your skin.

the room was bathed in a soft, golden light that filtered through the half-closed blinds, casting an intimate glow upon the scene unfolding before you. you leaned against the wall, legs slightly apart, as he knelt on the floor, his eyes looking up at you with a mix of adoration and hunger. his hands, so gentle yet firm, held your thighs in place, his thumbs tracing circles along the sensitive flesh, sending delicious shivers through your body.

his tongue, wet and eager, lapped at the folds of your cunt, his eyes never leaving yours. with each flick and swirl, his gaze grew more intense, as if trying to read the very thoughts racing through your mind. his subservience was palpable, a stark contrast to his usual cocky demeanor, and it sent a thrill through you that made your core tighten with desire.

your fingers found their way into his hair, gripping it gently as you guided his head closer, urging him to take more of you into his mouth. his response was immediate, his tongue delving deeper, tasting every part of you with a fervor that spoke volumes of his longing. your legs began to quiver as his ministrations grew more insistent, the muscles in his neck straining with each hungry suckle.

you couldn't help but let out a soft moan, the sound sending a shiver down his spine. "yes," you murmured, "just like that, luigi. you're doing such a good job for me." his eyes lit up with pleasure at your words, his movements growing more eager as he lapped and sucked at your clit, his cheeks hollowing with each pull. your voice grew stronger, more commanding, as you whispered filthy encouragements into the warm, quiet air of the room.

you tightened your grip on his hair, using it to control his movements, pushing and pulling as you directed the pace and pressure of his tongue. his eyes remained locked on yours, a silent promise of his complete submission to your will. despite the pleasure building within you, you found yourself fighting to stay upright, your legs threatening to give way beneath the weight of your desire.

you took a deep, shaky breath and leaned against the wall more heavily, bracing yourself. "don't stop," you breathed, the command laced with a hint of desperation. your eyes fluttered closed for a brief moment, only to snap back open as a particularly skilled flick of his tongue sent a jolt of pleasure through you. you had to maintain control, had to show him that you were the one in charge here.

but it was growing increasingly difficult as the pressure within you built, each pulse of his tongue sending you closer and closer to the edge. your moans grew louder, your thighs tightened around his head, and finally, with a strangled cry, you reached the peak. your hips bucked involuntarily, and your nails dug into his scalp as the orgasm crashed over you, leaving you trembling and gasping for air.

his tongue never faltered, continuing to worship your clit even as your legs threatened to give out completely. "luigi," you managed to murmur, your voice a shaky whisper. "enough."

with a final, lingering lick, he pulled away, looking up at you with a submissive smile. "you taste so good," he murmured, his voice thick with lust. his eyes searched yours for any sign of disapproval, but all he found was the glow of satisfaction and the pulse of your own desire reflected back at him.

[boohorns1136439]

Learning to belong ~ poly!MHA x fem!Reader (09)

Alright, merry Christmas everyone ! A bit late but still. I don’t have anything to offer to you guys. I can activate my anonymous ask if you guys want to ask me questions about the fic, I won’t say anything that’ll spoil the story but if any of you have a question. Why not ?

Warning: cursing (?)

Tags: Pack! Izuku Midoriya X Bakugo Katsuki X Shoto Todoroki X Kirishima Eijirou ; Pack! X fem!Reader ; Omega!Izuku Midoriya ; Omega!Bakugo Katsuki ; Omega!Shoto Todoroki ; Omega!Kirishima Eijirou ; technically Beta!Reader ; modern Au ; post-UA ; Reader has a quirk ; non hero!Reader ; smut eventually ; fem!Reader ; afab!Reader

08 <- 09 -> 10

Masterlist

Taglist

Izuku left his appartement troubled the day Todoroki’s "confessed" to them what really happened at the hospital. He’d spent the morning buried in his work at the agency he shared with Katsuki, hoping patrols and incident reports would quiet the uneasiness settling inside him. But it lingered, clouding his thoughts.

It wasn’t anger, not exactly. Or at least, not just anger. Frustration, maybe. A weight of uncertainty pressing on his chest, mixed with a bitter taste of jealousy he wasn’t proud to admit. He understood. He did. He knew how overwhelming a bad heat could be for an omega, how it could strip away all logic, leaving them at the mercy of your instincts. He’d been there himself, and he’d rather break every bones in his body than revisiting some of those awkward, clumsy high school’s memories. Though that knowledge didn’t make it easier to imagine Todoroki in that vulnerable, desperate state, reaching out for a stranger. The thought twisted in his chest. It wasn’t that Izuku doubted Todoroki’s love or loyalty. Absolutely not, years of shared struggles, laughters, near-death battles, and quiet mornings filled with kisses and affection had since long dispelled his old fears of being abandoned and not being enough for his pack. But imagining Todoroki like that, with someone else, left him haunted by the question: What if Kirishima hadn’t come in time? It had clung to him all morning, feeding his uneasiness. Again, It wasn’t about mistrust, he trusted Todoroki with his own life, it was about the helplessness of it all. He hated that his mate had gone through something so overwhelming and difficult, and he hadn’t been there to help.

By the time lunch rolled around, the weight of his thoughts was too much to bear. Izuku found Katsuki in the breakroom, halfway through his usual homemade lunch.

“Kacchan,” Izuku began hesitantly, sliding into the seat across from him and opening his own lunch box.

Katsuki paused mid-chew, his sharp crimson eyes narrowing recognizing the worried look in his mate green eyes . “What?”

Izuku poked at his food, his appetite nowhere to be found. “It’s about Shoto.”

That got Katsuki’s attention. He set his chopsticks down with a deliberate clink, leaning back in his chair with a sigh.

“What about him? You still hung up on the hospital thing?”

“I’m not ‘hung up,’” Izuku said quickly, though the defensiveness in his voice betrayed him. “I just… I don’t know how to feel about it. I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“You’re overthinking. As usual.”

“Kacchan, I’m serious. Please.”

Katsuki studied him for a moment, his sharp gaze softening just slightly. “Are you mad at him? You know he wouldn’t have done that if his brain wasn’t heat-fried, right?”

“No, I’m not mad at him. Maybe a little,” Izuku admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “But I’m more mad at myself. This whole thing is just so… weird. And maybe if I’d noticed he was going into an early heat, none of this would’ve happened.”

Katsuki clicked his tongue, leaning forward. “You’re not a damn mind reader. The half-and-half bastard didn’t even know what was going on with himself. Yeah, it sucks, and I don’t like it too, but you can’t stop every little thing from going wrong before it happens.”

Izuku frowned, concern flickering across his face. “I know, but I’m still really worried about him. Didn’t he still look… off this morning? I can’t shake the feeling that he’s not okay.”

“Of course, he’s not okay,” Katsuki snapped, though there was no real bite in his voice. “But that’s why we, you’ve gotta talk to him instead of sitting here stewing in your own damn head like a dumbass. You wanna fix this? Go home and deal with it. No point in worrying all day about it, focus on what you can do now and do it.”

Izuku nodded in response.

“You’re right. I just—thank you, Kacchan. Really.”

Katsuki rolled his eyes but didn’t pull his hand away when Izuku reached out to give it a quick squeeze. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t get all sappy on me.”

He held Izuku’s hand for a moment before pulling free, grabbing his chopsticks again.

“Now shut up and eat,” Katsuki added. “I didn’t bust my ass making lunch just for you to waste it.”

Izuku smiled, the tension in his chest easing just a little.

.

.

.

By the time Izuku got home that evening, the weight in his chest had eased, thanks to Katsuki’s words lingering in his mind. Tonight, it would just be him and Todoroki—Kirishima and Bakugo were out on night patrol so they wouldn’t be back before later in the night.

The apartment was quiet, save for the soft hum of the heater. As Izuku stepped into the living room, he spotted Todoroki on the couch, sitting cross-legged with a bowl of peach slices perched on the armrest beside him. He looked up briefly when Izuku entered, his lips twitching into a faint smile. But it didn’t reach his eyes—just polite, and anything but genuine.

“Hey,” Izuku greeted gently, as he studied Todoroki’s face. The jealousy and frustration that had gnawed at him earlier felt distant now, the only thing left from his emotional turmoil was concern for his mate.

“Long day?” he asked, moving closer.

Todoroki shrugged, picking up a peach slice from the bowl.

“Not really. Just tired.”

“Tired how?” Izuku pressed, sitting beside him. “Post-heat tired, or… something else?”

There was a pause, just long enough for Izuku to notice the way Todoroki’s fingers tightened around the edge of the bowl.

“Post-heat tired,” he replied, but his voice was clipped and dismissive.

“You went to the hospital to apologize, right? Did you see her?”

Todoroki stilled at the mention of the hospital. His whole body froze, and his gaze dropped to the floor. The air between them grew heavy, and the silence that followed was thick and uncomfortable, making Izuku regret his words almost instantly.

“I went,” Todoroki murmured eventually, his voice so low Izuku almost didn’t catch it. “But she wasn’t there.”

“Well… that’s okay,” Izuku said carefully. “You can try another time. Or maybe write her a letter to the director’s hospital directly so he can arrange a meeting?”

Todoroki didn’t respond, his posture unusually stiff. Normally, Todoroki’s silences were comfortable, but this one made Izuku worry even more as his green eyes flicked to the bowl of peaches, then back to his mate.

“Peaches ?” he said, trying poorly to lighten the mood.

“I bought them after going to the hospital,” Todoroki replied flatly, popping another slice into his mouth without meeting Izuku’s gaze.

Everything felt off. Even Todoroki’s scent was wrong. The usual freshness and sweetness of frozen berries and honey was tainted with something sharp and sour, a bitterness that made his nose itchy and worried his omega. His omega instincts screamed at him to do something, to reach out, to comfort his mate.

“Shoto,” Izuku said softly. “If something’s bothering you, you can tell me. You don’t have to deal with it alone.”

Todoroki’s gaze flickered toward the window, his expression unreadable.

“I’m fine,” he said, but the words lacked conviction.

“You’re not fine,” Izuku said, his voice steady but gentle. He gave Todoroki’s knee a light squeeze. “But I’m here, we are all here so whatever it is, we’ll figure it out.”

Todoroki’s breath hitched, his shoulders stiffening. But for the first time tonight, his blue and grey eyes met Izuku’s.

“I just… what I did was wrong. It wasn’t just the heat. I couldn’t think straight and someone got hurt because of me.”

“Shoto…” Izuku’s chest tightened.

“It doesn’t matter if I wasn’t myself,” Todoroki said bitterly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I still did it. I should’ve been stronger. I don’t even understand how I could just lose control like that. It’s never happened before.”

“You’re not immune to your instincts, no matter how much control over them you think you have.”

Todoroki’s jaw tightened, his gaze shifting to the floor.

”I hurt someone, Izuku. That’s not something I can just excuse because I was in heat.”

As he faced Todoroki, Izuku remembered Katsuki’s words from earlier that day, and found himself offering a similar piece of advice to his mate. The green and orange pair unknowingly working together to support their mate.

“I’m not saying it excuses anything. What you did was wrong, and you know that. But beating yourself up over it won’t fix anything. What will make a difference is taking action—doing what you're already trying to do: owning up to it and making it right. ”

Slowly, Todoroki leaned forward, letting his forehead rest against Izuku’s shoulder, as if the weight of it all had finally pushed him down. Izuku didn’t hesitate, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him even closer. Todoroki felt tense under his touch, and something told Izuku there was more than just guilt. Something deeper, but for now, he didn’t push. He held him tighter, letting his mate feel the steady warmth of his presence.

“Can I have some peaches?” Izuku murmured after a moment, his second attempt at lightening the mood that night, but, as always, he never gave up.

Todoroki huffed softly, the sound almost like a laugh. “No.”

Izuku smiled at the sound and tried to grab a slice of peach anyway, but Todoroki moved the bowl out of reach.

“Wait, seriously?”

“I’m eating them all,” he said matter-of-factly, though the corners of his lips twitched upward, hinting at a playful smile.

“I didn’t know you liked it so much.”

Todoroki shrugged. “I never cared for peach, but I’ve been craving them lately.”

Hey guys, I didn’t update on Sunday like I planned, and I don’t think I’ll manage a second update today either (sorry about that 😭). In my defense, I did try, but I can be lazy sometimes and I didn’t like the first version of this chapter. This chapter ended up shorter than I wanted, and I struggled writing it. I’d love your thoughts on it, in fact I need it for this chapter (Izuku, the dialogue, characterization...). I am not happy about it but I don’t think I can improve it anymore. I won’t make any promises I can’t keep, but let’s hope the next chapter is longer. After the holidays, I should be free, so Chapter 10 will be out next week!

As always, criticisms are welcomed

Big thank you to @cafekitsune who made the beautiful dividers

08 <- 09 -> 10

Taglist: @too-much-gacha ; @electronicexpertshark ; @poopopp ; @cjdjfhfhfufjfdj ; @kimi01985 ; @icycoldbeanieweanies ; @ghostlyworld ; @marsbars09 ; @queenondeezmatatas ; @imnotherw ; @bedheadloser ; @chrisbiniesluvrr ; @fsocs-blog ; @jadeddangel ; @qardasngan ; @omgeyeless-blog ; @goldenglow149 ; @andysteve1311 ; @pinkmelodies ; @hopefulb1ue ; @redkarmakai ; @zukusluvr ; @navezepol221 ; @candiiee ; @aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaq ; @mniya ; @randomhuman112 ; @mintvender r ; @deadendgrim ; @captainswanarcher ; @figbaby ; @midnight-nightmare ; @bluepatrolbear ; @talilosha ; @bawlangya ; @optimisticprime3 ; @purplescorpi0 ; @astrolovedy ; @desiree-lee ; @okaysxx ; @the-faceless-bride ; @thelameone101 ; @gethexxed ; @lowkeyhottho ; @bvirrious ; @heespretty ; @roxy776699 ; @kamy-thee-egg ; @talia-the-gemini ; @pikachuzhc ; @itsnotjustmyself-blog ; @roxy776699 ; @mystic60 ; @reallysparklychaos ; @sixxze ; @blurryperrtymoonlight ; @1poison-cat1 ; @allyfoxglove ; @mindsbloody ; @jkvolgs ; @haruaikawa ; @k3nmakyan ; @my-anime-garden ; @fto6 ; @hanniesroom ; @readeryn68 ; @queenofsimps001 ; @mai1em ; @demonzgutzz ; @sleepy-x-snake ; @xxang3|zz ; @decadentcrusadefun ; @shhhstar ; @n3ptOnee ; @nxcx|Ixsevens

[auxmodi]

after the chaos

my masterlist

summary: after a battle, there's blood everywhere, chaos all around. you and sandor somehow end up fucking behind a half-destroyed wall. it’s rough, fast, and messy, exactly what you need.

warnings: rough sex, battlefield setting, breeding kink kind of, aggressive/possessive behaviour, public sex, throat grabbing, fuckbuddies, swearing, dom!sandor, kinda cold (no romance).

word count: 1.8k

the battlefield stank of blood and sweat, the clamor of steel on steel fading as the last cries of the fallen were drowned by silence. you staggered back, the weight of exhaustion settling into your limbs.

your vision blurred for a moment, and you swiped a grimy hand across your face, smearing dirt and grime across your cheeks. somewhere behind you, the crows were already gathering, their harsh caws echoing in the eerie quiet that followed the carnage.

you barely had time to register the sound of boots crunching over the battlefield debris before a large, calloused hand clamped around your arm. “what the hell—?” you managed, your voice hoarse and weak.

sandor.

his grip was iron, dragging you behind the crumbling remnants of a stone wall before you could protest. “quiet,” he snapped, the command in his voice brooking no argument.

this wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last. you weren’t lovers or friends. you were just two people, fucking when the need became too much to ignore. no promises, no softness, just brutal, uncomplicated release.

you yanked your arm free, glaring up at him. his face, streaked with dirt and blood, closer than you’d expected. his eyes, wild and sharp as a wolf’s, burned into yours, still alight with the fire of the fight.

“sandor, what are you doing?” you hissed, trying to keep your voice steady. “this isn’t—”

“it’s exactly the time,” he cut in. before you could protest again, his lips crashed against yours. it wasn’t gentle, sandor clegane didn’t do gentle. his kiss was rough, teeth scraping, lips demanding, like he was trying to devour you whole. you gasped, your hands flying up instinctively to push him away, but they betrayed you, tangling in the filthy fabric of his tunic instead.

“sandor—” his name left your lips in a broken gasp as his mouth moved to your jaw, your neck, teeth grazing your skin. his stubble scratched at you, a delicious roughness that sent shivers down your spine.

“you’re alive,” he growled, his voice muffled against your neck. “i’m alive. that’s all that matters right now.”

his hands roamed lower, tugging at your belt with an urgency that made your pulse skyrocket. your protests were half-hearted at best, dissolving into soft, breathless moans as his fingers worked deftly, shoving your trousers down just enough to bare you to him.

“sandor, we’re, we can’t,” your words caught as his hand found you, rough fingers sliding through your slick heat. the battle had left you raw, vulnerable, and somehow that only made the sensation more overwhelming.

the chaos around you, the distant cries of the wounded, the flutter of crows’ wings, faded into nothingness. there was only him, unyielding and unstoppable.

“we’re in the middle of a battlefield,” you managed to say, though your breath hitched when his fingers brushed bare skin.

"let them fucking look,” he growled against your lips, his voice was low and rough, filled with that primal edge that never failed to stir something deep inside you. “doesn't matter, no one’s stopping me.”

you couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped you, though it was quickly cut off when he kissed you again, deeper this time, his tongue teasing your lower lip. your knees felt weak, but sandor’s large hands steadied you, pulling you even closer. his hands slid lower, fingers teasing your pussy with a possessive urgency.

“you’re so godsdamned warm,” he muttered, his breath hot against your ear. his fingers moved with precision, stroking you in a way that made your legs tremble.

you bit your lip, the sound threatening to escape you too loud for the ruins around you. his touch was relentless, his other hand gripping your hip to keep you steady as your body betrayed you, arching into his palm.

“turn around,” he ordered, voice low and commanding, his grip tight on your arm as he spun you with ease, forcing your chest to press against the rough stone of the wall. you didn’t argue, you never did.

the first press of him against you stole your breath. hard, thick and demanding. he didn’t waste any time, grabbing your ass with both hands as he pushed himself into you.

the sensation was overwhelming, “shit,” you hissed, the sting of him filling you in a way that was raw, almost too much, but you didn’t want him to stop.

sandor wasn’t as quiet. his low, guttural groan in your ear made your toes curl. “fuck,” he rasped, his voice guttural, like he was barely holding himself together. he slid in deeper, his hands gripping your hips so tightly you knew you’d have bruises come morning. “so tight, gods.”

“sandor,” you whined, your voice breaking as he set a punishing rhythm, his hips snapping against yours.

“shut it,” he muttered, his mouth brushing against your ear. “you’ll give us away with all that moanin’.”

his hands gripped your hips with bruising force, pulling you back to meet his thrusts. each movement was rougher than the last, driven by an aggression that made you feel like you were barely holding on, the sting of his thrusts cutting through you with every stroke. but the pleasure, the way his body fit so perfectly against yours, had you moaning into the stone, your body instinctively rocking back into his.

“you like it when i fuck you like this?” he growled between gritted teeth, his thrusts deep, relentless. he groaned, his hand reaching around to grip your throat, pulling you up against his chest so you could feel every inch of him. his thrusts didn’t slow, they grew faster, harder, more relentless, as though the force of the battle had somehow transferred into him, and now all he could do was take.

you were dizzy from it, the roughness, the power of his body, the overwhelming pleasure that made everything else disappear. “don’t stop,” you managed to gasp, your voice breaking.

“wasn’t plannin’ to,” he rasped, his breath hot against your face. his teeth grazed your skin again, and the sting of his bite pushed you closer to the edge.

you could hear the faint sounds of soldiers moving through the camp, the clattering of armor, the distant calls of commands. anyone could come around the corner at any moment, and the thought of being caught, of someone seeing you like this, sent a shiver down your spine. it made the heat between your legs burn even hotter.

you knew what this was a quick, filthy encounter, no strings attached, but the sense of risk, the idea of being caught, made it feel like everything was on the line.

"you take me so fucking well," sandor grunted, his pace rough and fast, his thrusts hard and punishing.

your body responded instinctively, moving with his, desperate for the release that was building inside you, a pressure that tightened with each powerful thrust. “sandor,” you gasped, your voice hoarse, “please…”

he let out a dark chuckle, the sound almost menacing. “please what, girl? tell me what you want.” the way he said it, the way he pulled your body into his, was possessive, like you were his to take.

you were so close, the pressure mounting, and all you could think about was the risk, how easily it could all be interrupted. how close you were to being found out, caught in the middle of this mess, exposed in the most primal way possible.

you couldn’t stop it, couldn’t hold back anymore. “sandor, i’m—” you gasped, your words faltering as the tension coiled within you, tight and unrelenting.

his hands moved down to your waist, pulling you even closer as he set a punishing rhythm. “come on then, don’t hold back,” he muttered, his voice thick with desire. you couldn’t answer, couldn’t form the words, only whine uncontrollably, the sound slipping from your throat as your body jerked with every thrust.

your fingers scraped against the stone wall, trying to steady yourself as the pressure inside you grew. each thrust pushed you closer, faster, it wasn’t gentle, nothing about this was, but it was everything your body craved. his cock filled you completely, and the friction between you made it impossible to think, the tension coiling tighter and tighter.

"gods" he growled, his grip tightening. "i can feel how fucking tight you are, squeezing around me." his voice was rough, almost like he was savoring every inch of you, the way you responded to him, the way your body reacted to the force of his movements.

and then, just like that, you shattered. the pressure inside you broke, and you came with a cry, your body jerking in his grip as you clenched around him. sandor didn’t stop, his thrusts unrelenting, his own climax building, the pace never easing. “such a good fucking cunt,” he growled.

you could barely hear him, lost in the aftermath of your own release, but his words cut through the fog. it was all raw and real, no sugar-coated feelings, just the brutal truth of what you were to each other.

as your body still trembled, sandor’s pace didn’t slow. he was relentless, focused entirely on his own need now. “i’m not done with you,” he muttered, the force of each thrust making it clear that he still had something to prove. you could feel him nearing, his thrusts becoming more erratic, more desperate. “take it,” he growled, his breath coming in hot bursts against your ear. “take all of it.”

with a guttural groan, sandor came, his body shuddering as he spilled inside you, his grip on you tightening as he held you through it. “fucking hell,” he breathed, pulling you against him with one final thrust before pulling out, his hands still gripping you tightly.

“you’re fucking lucky i don’t make you carry my seed around,” he muttered, his voice still thick with lust.

“shit,” you muttered, your knees wobbling, trying to regain your balance. you could feel the aftershocks of the encounter running through your body, your limbs trembling with the intensity.

sandor’s hand shot out, gripping your arm to steady you. “easy,” he murmured, his gaze sweeping over you, his eyes flicking to your unsteady form as though making sure you weren’t about to collapse.

once you found your footing, he took a step back, his usual gruffness returning. he grunted, pulling his pants up with a swift motion, buckling them with practiced ease.

“you’re lucky,” he muttered, his voice hoarse, “that no one came looking.” he grumbled, his rough voice low and still carrying that raw edge. "next time, don’t make it so fucking obvious."

you raised an eyebrow, still breathless from the encounter. “i’ll try to keep that in mind,” you replied, your voice dry, but still tinged with lingering heat.

without sparing another glance, sandor adjusted his pants and turned away. his boots thudded against the dirt, heavy and deliberate, as he walked back into the chaos of the battlefield. he joined his men without a second thought, blending in with them as if nothing had happened, his presence as imposing as ever.

[fidothefinch]

“Tim.”

Tim groaned.

Something hard and heavy rubbed insistently into his sternum.

“Tim, you’ve got to wake up.”

The air was so dry it hurt to inhale. Tim gasped against aching ribs as the edges of unconsciousness began to dissolve away. His right side was bathed in an inescapable scorching heat. An attempt to scoot away from it was aborted when it awoke a dozen sharp pains across his body, lit all at once. His breath hitched.

“That’s it.” The grating at his sternum stopped. Instead, cool hands cupped his cheeks. “Come on, Tim. Wake up.”

Tim tried to open his eyes, but it was so bright and hot he had to shut them again immediately. Against the inside of his eyelids, he could still see the blurry negative of a worried face.

“Dick?” Tim’s voice barely came out as a croak. When he licked his lips with his dry tongue, he tasted iron and salt.

“Come on,” Dick repeated, instead of answering. “You’ve got to get out of here.” There was a sense of urgency in his tone that Tim was unable to grasp.

“’S hot,” he muttered.

A strangled laugh. “That’s the fire.”

The heat at his side felt more aggressive at the revelation. “Oh,” was all the reaction Tim managed to summon.

“So you need to get up,” Dick prompted. “Come on, up on your feet.”

Tim groaned again and braced himself. He had to first untangle himself from the heavy thing draped over him, and then he was able to reach blindly for Dick’s hand to help him roll to his side. It exposed his back to the heat instead, and he had the inane thought he understood the plight of a rotisserie chicken.

“Up,” Dick commanded.

The tone made Tim jump. “’m up.” Pushing to a kneeling position made his head ring. There was something wet dripping down his temple. “I’m bleeding.”

“I know. But there isn’t much time.” Strong arms wound beneath his and tugged, forcing him into a higher elevation.

The air was thicker here, and it stung in his chest, making him cough. He tried again to open his eyes, but they watered desperately against the smoke and heat. Trying to wipe it away only smeared grit across his face.

“Can’t see,” Tim said, too out of it to be ashamed of his whimper.

“Just follow me.” Dick weaved himself under Tim’s shoulder for support. “Can you walk?”

In answer, Tim took a shuffling step forward. Something in his shin screamed at the weight, and he would have fallen down again if it weren’t for Dick’s support.

“That’s okay, that’s okay,” Dick muttered, voice tight. “Take it slow.”

Tim’s next step crunched broken glass underfoot. His next sent something small and metallic skittering away. Dick coached him over a large piece of rubble, then around the next when it proved too high. Tim could not place where he was, or what had happened. His world narrowed down to the heat at his back, the obstacles at his feat, and the quiet encouragement in his ear.

The whispers were soon drowned out by piercing sirens and flashing red-blue lights, a cacophony that sent Tim’s head spinning. His temple throbbed. His lungs burned. His leg felt like it had snapped in half. If he could just take a break—

Dick tapped his shoulder, jolting him out of his thoughts. “Just a few more steps. Almost there.”

Tim nodded, dazed and overwhelmed. With gargantuan effort, he took those final steps. They must have passed a threshold, because a breeze carried the smoke away and he was able to take his first clear breath in what felt like years.

“You made it,” Dick sighed. There was something in his tone that Tim couldn’t place. He would worry about it later, when he could think straight.

“I need to sit.”

Dick gently lowered him to the ground. Asphalt. Warm. Road?

When Tim opened his eyes again, it was long enough to make out a hazy Gotham street and the swarm of people and emergency vehicles around them.

A team was already approaching him. “Hey, kid!”

Dick squeezed his shoulder. “The medics will take care of you from here.”

Tim was too slow to grip his hand before it disappeared. He turned around to see Dick walking away. “Wait!” Tim coughed. “Don’t leave.”

Dick stopped long enough to give him a small smile.

And then the medic was gripping his chin, turning his head away to shine a pen light in his eyes. She said something, but Tim couldn’t parse the speech from the noise. Her partner pressed an oxygen mask to his face, and Tim sucked in gratefully. When he searched the crowd for Dick again, he couldn’t find him.

The next hours were a blur of people and machinery and tests. An ambulance ride to the emergency room, then admittance to the hospital. Bruce met him there, expression haggard. Eyes bloodshot. His grip around Tim’s hand was strong but gentle.

Tim’s voice was still rough from the smoke when he asked, “Where’s Dick?” He had looked well enough when he’d left him.

Bruce’s face shuddered, lips quivering. He pressed his eyes shut and back open, and they were glistening. “Dick didn’t make it.”

Tim stared, uncomprehending. “What?”

Bruce brushed Tim’s hair back. The hand around Tim’s squeezed. “Drunk driver. The truck went straight through the building. Dick was hit first.”

He remembered strong arms under his. The order to get up. Walking through the heat. “That doesn’t make sense. He was there.”

Bruce shook his head. “The coroner said—” he cleared his throat. “Died on impact. No pain.”

Tim remembered arms wrapping around him, cushioning the impact. Or maybe he didn’t.

‘You made it.’

[eepwtf]

MY ATOMS HAVE ALWAYS LOVED YOURS.

jock!ben x nerd!reader

that’s what connection is, right? the swallowing of one soul into another. taking them in, letting their essence burrow into your flesh until you couldn’t tell where they ended, and you began. like a splinter, painful and irritating, but impossible to remove. that’s what you were to ben: a splinter digging beneath his skin, refusing to let go.

and maybe that was all ben wanted—to let you haunt him completely. to be tainted by you, stained in ways that could never be undone. to let the memory of you—the presence of you—sink into his skin, his blood, his bones, until he could no longer tell the difference between himself and the ghost you’d left behind.

tw; boarding school au, slight academic rivals, homophobia, toxic masculinity, might make this a continuation perhaps, ben being a big gay yearner, slight cannibalistic imagery used, shotgunning, weed hazy make out sesh… no actual smut like i said, i’ll probably make a continuation for that! wc; 12k...

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

⎯⎯⎯  𖣂 ⎯⎯⎯

THE boarding school was a monolith of old money and grandeur, tucked away in the rolling countryside where the world felt muted and distant. the architecture itself seemed to loom over its occupants, cloaked in ivy and perpetually blanketed by a haze of mist. it was a place meant for the finest, the best, where boys were molded into men who would conquer whatever battlefield lay ahead, whether in the world of business or the trenches of war.

you didn’t belong here—not really. you were the outlier, the scholarship kid among pedigreed names that dripped from tongues with the weight of generations. yet, even in a world built to dismiss you, you excelled. your mind was a razor, carving through equations and essays, leaving the sons of wealth and privilege scrambling to keep up. you had a knack for reducing their inherited confidence to a quiet simmer of insecurity, your brilliance a sharp contrast to their entitled mediocrity.

then there was ben, the golden boy of said school.

ben had everything: the chiseled features of a carved from marble, the charm that made others forgive his outbursts, and a physicality that turned the sporting fields into his personal stage. he thrived in the chaos of competition, the thrill of victory lighting him from within. but you—oh, how you irritated him.

it was in the classroom where his temper simmered, where his smirk faltered just enough to reveal the cracks. he hated the way your hand shot up before anyone else’s, the way your answers came not with arrogance but an ease that suggested you didn’t even need to try. every time you walked past his desk with another perfect score, another commendation from the professors, ben felt the bitter taste of inadequacy curl on his tongue.

he wasn’t used to losing, least of all to someone like you—a quiet, unassuming boy who didn’t play by the rules of their unspoken hierarchy. he couldn’t pin you down, couldn’t challenge you to a fistfight on the quad and settle it like he did with everyone else. you lived in a world of ideas and intellect, a realm where his strength and bravado were meaningless.

and so, ben did what he did best: he turned his frustration into cruelty.

it started small. a snide remark as you passed him in the hall, his voice low but cutting, designed to stick in your mind. then came the more deliberate acts—your books knocked off your desk when he sauntered by, a "careless" shove in the crowded dining hall that sent your tray spilling to the floor. his friends laughed, their amusement a chorus that fueled his superiority. but it wasn’t enough to satisfy him.

he wanted to break you.

he couldn’t stand the way you remained steadfast, unshaken by his efforts to knock you off your pedestal. your defiance wasn’t loud or confrontational; it was in the way you picked up your books without a word, the way you returned to your seat and continued to outshine him. it was maddening, a mirror held up to his own shortcomings, reflecting a boy who was not the best, not even close, despite everything he’d been told his entire life.

the tension between you grew like a festering wound, unnoticed by the professors who were too enamored with ben’s charm and too indifferent to your quiet suffering. in the dormitories, where the shadows stretched long and the air was thick with the scent of damp wool and boyhood sweat, ben would corner you with his pointed glares and low mutters. you could feel his hatred radiating off him, a scorching heat that threatened to consume you both.

and yet, beneath the animosity, there was something else. something ben didn’t understand and refused to acknowledge. a fascination he couldn’t shake, an obsession born of the way you refused to yield to him. it gnawed at him, this unwanted fixation, turning his frustration inward even as he directed it at you.

for your part, you noticed the way his eyes lingered too long, the way his anger seemed almost personal, as though he despised not just your intelligence but something deeper, something he couldn’t name. you began to feel the weight of his gaze like a tangible thing, pressing against your skin, making your pulse quicken in ways you didn’t want to admit.

THE lacrosse field was a battlefield, churning with the restless energy of aggression. the boys moved like packs of wolves, bodies colliding in fierce pursuit of the ball, cleats tearing into the damp, overworked earth. you didn’t belong here. not really. the game wasn’t yours, not in spirit nor in skill. your talents lay elsewhere—in the orderly realm of equations and analysis, where every move was deliberate, not reactionary. but the school demanded bodies as much as minds, and so you played, driven not by passion but by necessity.

ben, on the other hand, owned the field. his movements were fluid, muscles taut beneath his jersey, every step bursting with the kind of confidence only bred from years of unearned praise. the coaches shouted his name from the sidelines, their booming voices dripping with approval. he thrived on it, fed off their praise like a starved beast. and yet, even in his glory, his focus was fractured, his gaze drawn to you like iron to a magnet.

it was infuriating.

you didn’t belong on his field, didn’t deserve to occupy even a sliver of his thoughts. but there you were, darting past him with that maddening air of quiet competence, your presence a thorn in his side. he loathed you, not just for your brilliance in the classroom but for the way you existed in his world without bending at his will. He couldn’t stand it.

you weren’t fast, and you weren’t strong, but your sharp, calculating mind had a way of slicing through the frenzy of the game. you saw patterns where others saw chaos, predicting movements before they happened, slipping through gaps in the defense like a shadow. it wasn’t enough to make you a star, but it was enough to unsettle ben. to remind him that even here, in the one place he should reign supreme, you found ways to upstage him.

he couldn’t stand it.

the game had reached a fever pitch, players shouting, the ball whipping between sticks like a bullet. the air was electric with sweat and tension, the faint tang of impending rain mingling with the iron bite of blood from scraped knees and bruised lips. you were darting forward, the ball cradled neatly in your stick as you made for an opening.

ben saw you, and something snapped.

it wasn’t enough to win. it wasn’t enough to be the best. he needed you to know you didn’t belong here.

he moved in, a predator stalking prey, his green eyes locked on you with singular intent. his shove was perfectly calculated—not enough to earn him a foul but more than enough to send you staggering. you stumbled, feet slipping in the mud, but you didn’t fall. you were steadying yourself when his stick came down, the blunt edge catching your face with brutal precision.

the sound was sickening, a wet crack that silenced the field as you crumpled to the ground. pain exploded across your face, sharp and immediate, a fire that spread from your nose to your temple. for a moment, the world narrowed to a single point of agony, the coppery tang of blood flooding your senses as you pressed a shaking hand to your face.

and then the laughter started.

it began with ben, his cruel bark of amusement breaking the tension. he leaned casually on his stick, grinning like a boy who’d just pulled off the perfect prank. his friends joined in, their laughter swelling into a chorus of mockery that filled the air like smoke.

“didn’t think lacrosse was a contact sport, huh?” one of them jeered, the others howling in response. ben chimed in, his voice dripping with venomous charm. “guess it’s not a game for delicate types. better stick to books, nerd.”

the words hit harder than the stick had.

you stayed on the ground for a moment, your breath coming in shallow gasps as the blood dripped steadily down your face, soaking into the white of your uniform. the grass beneath you felt cold and damp, grounding you in the midst of the humiliation crashing over you like a wave. but you didn’t cry.

when you finally pushed yourself to your feet, your knees shaking, your vision swam with the effort. your face was a mess of blood and bruises, the metallic taste thick on your tongue. the coaches had yet to intervene, their eyes blind to the golden boy’s cruelty.

ben’s laughter faltered for a split second when your gaze met his. there was something in your eyes—defiance, yes, but also a quiet strength that made his stomach churn. he could hear the blood pounding in his ears, drowning out the cheers and jeers of his friends. for the first time, he felt something other than triumph in your presence.

it was guilt, sharp and unwelcome, gnawing at the edges of his bravado.

ben forced himself to laugh again, louder this time, shoving the flicker of shame deep down where it couldn’t touch him. his grin widened, and he turned back to his friends, letting their approval wash over him like a balm. but as the game resumed, the image of your bloodied face lingered in his mind, a grotesque reminder that even in victory, something about you made him feel defeated.

he told himself he didn’t care. but the knot in his chest told another story.

YOU dreamt of ben’s teeth in your skin that night, or at least you think it was a dream. the memory lingers too vividly, too viscerally, as though your subconscious left it smoldering just beneath the surface of your waking mind. in your dream—or nightmare, perhaps—it wasn’t the boy you knew from the halls and the fields who loomed over you. it was something else. something primal, something that wore ben’s face but moved with a hunger that no human being could possess.

his green eyes burned bright at first, clear and sharp, their intensity the only thing anchoring you to what little humanity remained in him. but then the green began to darken, swallowed by black until his pupils eclipsed everything else. his grin followed, shifting from the boyish smirk you had come to associate with his cruelty to something far more animalistic. it wasn’t a smile anymore—it was a snarl, predatory and sharp, his teeth bared like a beast ready to strike.

you remember the feel of his hands on you, strong and unrelenting, pinning you down with an ease that made your breath catch in your throat. his fingers dug into your arms, their grip just shy of painful, but it wasn’t his hands that truly frightened you. it was his mouth.

his teeth found your flesh, and for a moment, the world became nothing but sensation. you felt the pressure first, the sharp edge of his canines pressing into your skin, threatening to pierce it. then came the pain—hot and electric, spreading through your body like wildfire. your breath hitched, caught somewhere between a gasp and a whimper, your senses overwhelmed by the strange, horrifying intimacy of it.

and yet, even as your dream-self writhed beneath him, a strange thought took root in your mind. it wasn’t just fear you felt. it was something darker, something that churned in your gut like a sickness. there was a perverse fascination in the way he consumed you, a twisted part of you that reveled in his domination, in the way he claimed you as his prey.

when you woke, your body was slick with sweat, the sheets tangled around your limbs like the remnants of a trap you had barely escaped. your chest heaved as you tried to steady your breathing, the phantom pain of his bite still throbbing beneath your skin. your heart raced, not just with the adrenaline of the nightmare but with something else—something you didn’t want to name.

you told yourself it was just a dream, a grotesque product of your mind’s restless wanderings. but as you lay there in the predawn darkness, your room quiet except for the faint rustle of wind against the window, you couldn’t shake the feeling that it had been more than that.

because when you thought of ben, when you recalled the way his gaze lingered on you during the day—those fleeting, almost imperceptible glances—you felt a similar unease, a similar pull. he thought you didn’t notice, but you did. you noticed the way his jaw clenched when you outpaced him in class, the way his hands gripped the edge of his desk so tightly his knuckles turned white.

you noticed the frustration in his voice when he barked orders on the field, the way it always seemed sharper, louder, when directed at you. and, most unsettling of all, you noticed the way his anger gave way to something else entirely in those rare moments when your eyes met.

it wasn’t just hatred that burned in his gaze. there was something deeper, something raw and untamed, something that made your skin prickle with a strange mixture of fear and anticipation. it was as though he was waging a war with himself, his fury at you battling against some unspoken truth he refused to acknowledge.

maybe your dream had simply dredged up all the pieces of him you couldn’t reconcile—the cruelty, the rage, the intensity that bordered on obsession—and twisted them into something monstrous. or maybe, just maybe, your subconscious had glimpsed something real, something lurking beneath the surface of ben’s golden-boy façade.

you lay there for what felt like hours, staring at the ceiling as the first pale rays of dawn crept through the window. the memory of his teeth haunted you, the phantom sensation of his bite refusing to fade. you told yourself it was absurd, that you were letting his presence in your life warp your thoughts.

but deep down, in the quietest corners of your mind, you couldn’t deny the truth. you had seen the way ben looked at you. and worse still, you had felt the way his presence made something inside you stir—a festering thing, raw and ugly, that refused to be ignored.

the morning air felt heavy, clinging to your skin with a dampness that did nothing to ease the lingering unease from the night. you shook yourself off, trying to dispel the fog that clung to your mind, your hands coming up to rub at your eyes in a futile attempt to erase the dream—or nightmare—that still burned at the edges of your memory. the pressure of phantom teeth seemed to linger on your flesh, a strange sensation you couldn’t quite shake.

your uniform hung stiff and scratchy against your skin as you pulled it on, the starched fabric doing little to comfort you. the ritual of dressing, buttoning and tucking with practiced efficiency, was almost enough to settle you. almost. but when you glanced at your reflection, bleary-eyed and pale, the faint shadows under your eyes told the truth you couldn’t ignore. you looked like someone who hadn’t slept, not properly, not peacefully.

the hallways were already stirring with life as you stepped into them, the low murmur of voices mixing with the squeak of shoes on polished wood. you kept your head down, hoping to avoid unnecessary interaction, your thoughts still churning with the vestiges of the dream. your skin crawled at the thought of ben—not the boy from the nightmare, but the one who existed here, in the real world. the one who seemed to take up far too much space in your mind, even when you weren’t asleep.

you were halfway down the corridor, lost in your thoughts, when a hand gripped your shoulder, pulling you to a sudden halt. the touch jolted you, your pulse spiking as you turned quickly, your body bracing instinctively for something worse than what it was.

“don’t you know it’s rude to creep around?” you snapped, the words spilling out before you could soften them. your voice was rough, gravelly from the lack of proper rest, but the irritation in it was genuine.

your friend raised an eyebrow, unbothered by your tone. “you look like shit,” they said bluntly, their arm swinging casually around your shoulders as if to soften the blow of their words.

you rolled your eyes, the corner of your mouth twitching in faint exasperation. “i was studying,” you replied, the lie slipping out easily, though the weight of it settled uncomfortably in your chest.

studying. sure. if “studying” meant spending the night caught in a cycle of half-sleep and vivid, unsettling dreams about ben—dreams that left you waking with your heart pounding and your skin clammy. dreams that made facing him now feel like a task monumental enough to deserve its own place in Dante’s Inferno.

your friend gave you a knowing look, their gaze sharp despite their casual demeanor. “studying,” they repeated, dragging out the word as if testing its weight. “rightt.”

you shrugged them off, stepping out from under their arm and continuing down the hall. “drop it,” you muttered, not looking back.

but as you walked, the knot of unease in your stomach only tightened. you didn’t want to see ben today, not after last night, not after the way his imagined teeth had sunk into your flesh with such terrible intimacy. but you knew you would see him—of course you would. he was everywhere, an unshakable presence in your life that clung to you like a shadow. and despite yourself, a small, treacherous part of you wondered what it would feel like if the dream wasn’t entirely a fabrication. if the pressure of his teeth wasn’t just some cruel trick of your subconscious.

you shook the thought away, your hands balling into fists at your sides as you forced your feet forward. it was a new day, you told yourself. you would face him, endure his glances, his comments, his presence, and you would survive. even if the memory of his grin haunted you all the while.

of course, your friend, blissfully unaware of the strange, festering thing coiling tighter in your chest, slung their arm around you again, jostling you with a kind of ease that only highlighted your growing sense of unease. their presence might have been grounding if it weren’t for the chaos swirling behind your eyes, the dream—or nightmare—still clinging to your thoughts like cobwebs you couldn’t brush away. each step down the corridor felt mechanical, your body moving on autopilot as the slick, oily remnants of the dream seeped deeper, threatening to consume your focus entirely.

christ, you thought bitterly, why couldn’t your mind just give you peace for once? the dream’s claws had sunk deep, its venom spreading even now, and the weight of your friend’s arm was a tether you couldn’t decide whether to cherish or resent. you couldn’t even focus on their words, the low hum of their voice turning into static, a meaningless buzz drowned out by the feverish imagery curling through your mind.

that is, until their voice cut sharply through your spiraling thoughts:

“she has, like, a nice fucking ass.”

the vulgarity slapped you out of your haze, and you blinked, frowning instinctively. the raw disbelief on your face was almost comical as you turned to your friend, your voice rough with irritation. “what the hell are you talking about?”

your friend snorted, their bark of laughter echoing through the otherwise quiet hall. they shoved lightly at your head, their hand ruffling your already unkempt hair with an irritating kind of fondness that only deepened your scowl. “jesus, man, how long did you study last night?” they teased, their tone dripping with faux concern as they rolled their eyes. “i’m talking about the new teacher. you know, the one half the guys are practically drooling over.”

you exhaled sharply through your nose, shaking your head as they continued to chatter, unbothered by your lack of engagement. their arm stayed slung across your shoulders, anchoring you to their easygoing rhythm, their words spilling out in a cascade of exaggerated admiration. descriptions of the teacher’s figure, her looks, and the collective hormonal obsession of the student body filled the air. it was almost laughable how much they cared about something so fleeting.

but their words served their purpose—they drowned out the dream, tamping down the ghost of green eyes and imagined teeth, pulling you further into the mundanity of the day. you grunted noncommittally, letting their words wash over you without actually processing them. you didn’t care about some teacher everyone was ogling like a piece of meat, but their chatter had pulled you far enough from your own thoughts to notice the weight pressing against your ribs had shifted. something darker, heavier, had begun to bloom there.

and then, like a blade of glass slicing through skin, you saw him.

ben stood further down the corridor, leaning against the wall with the kind of casual confidence only he could pull off. he was flanked by a few of his cronies, boys who lingered like shadows, echoing his movements and amplifying his presence. but it wasn’t his posture or his pack of admirers that stopped you dead in your tracks. it was his eyes.

they were locked onto you, glinting like shards of polished emeralds in the muted light of the hallway. you froze under the weight of his gaze, something sharp and disquieting curling in your stomach as he looked—not at you, but at the arm slung so comfortably over your shoulders. his jaw shifted slightly, tension flickering at the corners of his mouth, though his expression remained infuriatingly neutral.

your first thought was that it was hatred. of course it was. what else could it be? ben had spent months making your life a quiet misery, his snide remarks and calculated glances digging under your skin like splinters. the idea that his stare could mean anything other than disdain didn’t even cross your mind.

his lips curled upward, but it wasn’t a smile—not really. it was more like the barest hint of teeth, a silent warning that you couldn’t quite decipher. and yet, something in his eyes felt different, something darker and unfamiliar, like the faint glimmer of green fire.

your friend, blissfully unaware of the tension coiling in the air, kept talking, their voice a low hum in the background as you stood frozen, caught in the snare of ben’s gaze. the weight of their arm around you, once grounding, now felt suffocating, a heat rising in your chest that had nothing to do with your lack of sleep.

ben shifted slightly, his frame leaning off the wall as his gaze flickered back to your face. it lingered for just a moment too long before he turned away, his attention snapping back to his friends as though the moment had never happened.

you exhaled shakily, realizing you’d been holding your breath. the knot in your stomach twisted tighter, a strange mix of unease and... something else. whatever it was, it made you feel raw and exposed, your skin prickling with the faint sensation of being watched, even as you forced yourself to keep walking.

your friend gave you a nudge, oblivious to the storm raging inside you. “earth to you,” they said, their voice teasing. “you okay? look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

you forced a shrug, your movements stiff. “i’m fine,” you muttered, though the tremor in your voice betrayed the lie. fine. sure. if you ignored the way your heart still raced, the way ben’s stare had burned itself into the back of your mind. fine, if you ignored the strange, festering feeling that had been planted in your chest and was now threatening to bloom.

ben sat across from you, his body a picture of restless arrogance, sprawled as though he owned the desk and everything around it. his fingertips tapped a jagged, uneven rhythm against the varnished wood, a staccato counterpoint to the droning monotone of the professor’s voice. the lesson, whatever the hell it was about, was already a blur in his mind—some dull lecture he’d never bother to commit to memory. he let out an gratuitous sigh, sinking lower into his seat with an air of theatrical boredom, the edges of his lips curling in a smirk as a few nearby classmates glanced his way.

but the act was just that—an act. his attention wasn’t really on the class, nor the eyes that occasionally flicked toward him, drawn like moths to the flame of his ever-present bravado. no, his focus was on you.

it always came back to you.

his green eyes found the back of your head as they so often did during these torturous classes. you sat two rows ahead, perfectly aligned to torment him with your quiet diligence. he watched the way you leaned slightly forward, the slight tension in your shoulders betraying the focus you poured into every word spilling from the professor’s lips. your hand moved quickly, a blur of determination as you scrawled across the page in front of you. he couldn’t see exactly what you were writing, but he knew it was notes.

of course, it was notes.

you always took notes, didn’t you? like some kind of academic machine, recording every detail, every thread of information the professor dared to offer. and for reasons ben couldn’t quite articulate, it infuriated him. or maybe “infuriated” wasn’t the right word. maybe it was more complicated than that—more warped.

his fingers stopped their tapping as his gaze narrowed, following the precise movements of your pen. he imagined the lines and curves you etched into the paper, the careful way you transcribed thoughts into words, words into meaning. the idea of it made his stomach twist in a way he didn’t entirely understand.

ben wanted to see it.

no—he needed to see it.

he needed to know what went on inside that overactive mind of yours, what ideas and thoughts swirled in your brain like storms. what made you so goddamn meticulous, so disgustingly perfect in your execution of everything you did? his teeth clenched, his jaw tight as he stared harder, as though sheer will alone could penetrate the barriers between his mind and yours.

he didn’t just want a glimpse into your thoughts—he wanted to crack you open.

the intrusive image came to him unbidden, vivid and visceral: his hands on either side of your skull, his thumbs pressing into the delicate curve of your temples. in his mind, the bone would give way beneath his strength, splitting like an overripe fruit. he’d tear through the lining, past the fragile casing of your brain, his fingers sinking deep into the valleys and folds of sulci and gyri. he’d feel the sticky heat of your thoughts, the pulse of your consciousness against his fingertips.

and maybe then—maybe then—he could understand.

understand how you worked, what made you tick, why you were always so goddamn far ahead of him. why, no matter how hard he tried to best you, to shake you, to drag you down to the level where he felt safe, you always managed to stay just out of reach. it was maddening. it was humiliating.

and it was intoxicating.

ben’s chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, his fixation on you tightening its grip around his ribcage. he wanted to hate you—god, he wanted to hate you. it would have been easier if he could. but there was something else, something darker, slithering in the spaces where hatred should have lived.

infatuation wasn’t the right word for it, but it was close.

you were perfect in a way that was almost grotesque to him, a reminder of everything he lacked, everything he could never be. and yet, he couldn’t stop watching, couldn’t stop wanting to pull you apart piece by piece until he understood the atoms, and cells inside you.

the professor’s voice droned on, a dull hum against the roar of his thoughts. his eyes didn’t leave you, not for a second. to anyone else, ben looked like a bored boy enduring another tedious class. but inside him, something wild and restless clawed at the walls of his chest, something primal and impossible to name.

SOMETHING about you clung to ben like a splinter buried deep under his skin. no matter how much he tried to scrape it out, it remained lodged there, a constant irritant—and yet, perversely, he didn’t really want it gone. it was the kind of ache that grew familiar, even welcome, as though having a piece of you stuck inside him, digging in, was better than losing the connection altogether.

he told himself it was nothing, just a weird, passing fixation. but mondays tested that lie in ways that made his jaw clench and his heart pound harder than any game ever did. mondays meant your ritual: the library. the coffee beside you, still steaming faintly as you leaned into the table, your head bowed over a fortress of books that seemed to grow taller with each passing hour.

he wasn’t sure what you read—probably something mind-numbingly boring, some dense intellectual nonsense he wouldn’t bother to crack open even if someone paid him. but you, with that maddening concentration etched into your brow and your soft, barely-there frown tugging at your lips, made it look like the most important thing in the world.

and when you read, oh god, when you read—you spoke. not loudly, no. just the faintest whispers, as if the words spilled from your mouth by accident, a soft, private litany that no one else was meant to hear. but ben heard. he always heard.

it wasn’t fair, the way your voice wrapped itself around the silence of the library, low and melodic and unbearably intimate. it felt deliberate somehow, like a knife turned just for him. it was as though you knew he was watching, knew he lingered there in the shadows of the shelves, pretending to look for some book he’d never even crack open.

if he didn’t know any better, he’d almost think you were reading for him.

he should be at practice. that thought nagged at him like a coach’s whistle in the back of his mind, sharp and insistent. practice, where his teammates would already be warming up, their easy camaraderie and loud laughter filling the field. that’s where he belonged, where he thrived. that was his kingdom. but mondays had become something else entirely.

mondays were for you.

ben found himself lingering near the library door, his shoulders slouched just enough to blend into the background. his bag hung limply off one arm, forgotten, as his green eyes tracked every movement you made. the way your fingers flicked over the pages, precise and unhurried, as though you had all the time in the world. the slight tilt of your head when you paused to scribble something in the notebook you always brought with you. the way your lips, soft and just barely parted, formed each word you whispered like a prayer.

you were calm and focused, untouched by the chaotic energy that always seemed to coil beneath his skin. you looked... at peace. it made him burn.

ben clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms. he hated this feeling, this raw, inexplicable pull toward you that felt less like attraction and more like possession. you weren’t doing anything to him—just sitting there, existing, being you. and yet, it was as if you’d reached inside him and turned something vital upside down, leaving him unsteady on his feet.

he didn’t want to care about your stupid coffee cup, the way the steam curled up and caught the faint light spilling through the high library windows. he didn’t want to notice the way your glasses slipped slightly off the bridge of your nose, how you’d brush them back with an absent-minded grace that seemed so effortless it made his chest ache.

and yet, there he was, still standing there.

still watching.

still pretending to give a fuck about some random book he wouldn’t even bother to carry out the door.

ben shifted on his feet, the weight of his indecision heavy in his chest. he should leave. he should walk out, get to practice, and stop wasting his time on you. but the thought of leaving, of stepping away from this quiet moment where he could just... see you without consequence, felt like tearing that splinter from his skin. he’d lose the ache, yes, but he’d also lose the maddening comfort of its presence.

so, instead, he lingered.

and when you whispered another word, your lips brushing the silence like a kiss meant for no one in particular, ben’s grip tightened on the strap of his bag. because deep down, in the part of himself he refused to acknowledge, he wanted to believe it was for him.

it was stupid, reckless even, the way ben’s feet moved without permission, as if something unseen was yanking at invisible strings tied to his ankles. he wasn’t sure why he let it happen, why he allowed this force—this festering pull inside him—to steer him closer and closer to where you sat. he could have stopped himself, forced his body to obey logic, but something in him resisted the idea of turning back.

the quiet sanctity of the library enveloped him, all hushed whispers and the soft rustle of turning pages. the faint, bitter aroma of coffee mingled with the musty scent of old books, filling his lungs as he neared your table. it was overwhelming, suffocating, and yet strangely intoxicating. the closer he got, the more he felt like the world narrowed to just this: you, the fortress of books around you, the steam curling from your cup like it held some secret.

it was too much. too close.

ben swallowed hard, his tongue suddenly dry as he hovered behind you. from this distance, he could see the tiny grooves in the back of your chair, the faint scuff marks on the floor where your restless foot tapped. his pulse thundered in his ears, drowning out the low hum of the library’s fluorescent lights.

what the hell was he even doing?

he didn’t have a plan. of course, he didn’t. ben didn’t do plans; he acted. he relied on brute force, sheer confidence, and the kind of charm that usually bulldozed any obstacle in his way. but here, now, standing behind you, those weapons felt dull and useless.

you shifted slightly, leaning forward to jot something into your notebook, and ben’s eyes tracked the movement like a predator watching its prey. his stomach tightened, not with hunger, but with something worse—something sharper, more desperate.

and then, like some unthinking beast lurching forward, he moved.

the table loomed in front of him, the edge digging into his thigh as he planted himself there, far closer than he should have been. his shadow fell across your books, an expanse of muted light eclipsed by his frame. the breath hitched in his throat, and for a fleeting, wild moment, he considered bolting. running back to the lacrosse field, to the safety of shouting and fists and controlled chaos.

but the thought passed as quickly as it came, crushed beneath the unbearable weight of his need to say something—anything.

he opened his mouth, and what escaped was not a clever remark, not the smooth confidence he wielded on the field or in front of his friends, but a sound. a low, guttural grunt that made him cringe internally the second it left his lips.

you turned at the noise, your brow furrowing as your eyes flicked up to meet his. your expression was a mix of curiosity and mild irritation, as though you were trying to decide whether this interruption was worth your attention.

ben’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, his palms damp and cold despite the heat radiating from his body. the words he’d been grasping for, the half-formed excuse to explain why he’d crossed the boundary of your space, caught in his throat.

what the hell was he supposed to say? that he couldn’t stay away? that your stupid books and coffee and concentrated pout had been haunting him for weeks?

no, he needed something else—something neutral, something that wouldn’t make him look like an idiot.

“i, uh…” his voice came out rough, rasping like sandpaper against the quiet of the library. he cleared his throat, shifting awkwardly. “i need tutoring. in, uh… math.”

the words hung in the air like a poorly thrown pass, wobbling and uncertain. it was a flimsy excuse, half-true at best. sure, he wasn’t exactly excelling in math, but he could’ve asked any of his teammates for help. hell, he could’ve charmed one of the teachers if he’d wanted to. but none of them were you.

you blinked, your lips parting slightly as if you weren’t sure whether to laugh or take him seriously. ben felt a flush crawl up the back of his neck, his pride warring with the strange, gnawing feeling that he might just implode if you said no.

“i’m… not great with numbers,” he added quickly, the words tumbling out in a rush. his hand came up to rub the back of his neck, his posture stiff despite the casual tone he was struggling to maintain. “figured you could help. since, y’know, you’re always… doing all this.” he gestured vaguely to the books and notes sprawled across the table, his movements broad and almost clumsy.

there. it wasn’t perfect, but it was something. a lifeline, thin and fragile, tossed out into the silence between you.

the air is dense, clinging to the library like an unwanted second skin, thick with the sour tang of aged paper, spilled coffee, and the faint decay of something almost alive. it’s the kind of air that wraps itself around your throat and sinks into your lungs, suffocating and intimate, a silent predator. ben breathes it in deeply, like he needs the burn to keep himself tethered to this moment, to you. but there’s something else here, too, something sharper, something that cuts through the miasma and lodges itself inside him.

it’s you.

it shouldn’t be so distinct, yet it is. a clean, woody undertone, with a hint of leather that somehow feels ancient and personal, like it carries stories older than either of you. it threads its way through the stagnant library air like an interloper, lacing itself into ben’s senses until it becomes the only thing he can taste. it doesn’t belong here. it doesn’t belong in this quiet, suffocating place of rot and whispers. but it belongs to you. and that’s enough.

he swallows hard, his throat tightening as though the scent has wrapped itself around his neck like a noose. it fills the hollows of his chest, seeps into the marrow of his bones, and carves itself into the darkest corners of his mind. It’s a scent that shouldn’t linger, but it does, a ghost that haunts him in the silence. you’ve branded him, burned yourself into him without even trying, and he can’t tell if he resents it or if he craves it more than his next breath.

“didn’t think you’d need a tutor,” you had said, a faint smirk on your lips, sharp enough to cut. but you didn’t say no.

and that’s how he found himself here.

the silence between you is a strange kind of beast. ben isn’t used to silence—his life is noise, chaos, endless sound that fills every corner of his world until there’s no room for anything else. his father’s voice, sharp and grating, tearing through the walls. the roar of the crowd on the field, his teammates’ shouts blending into a cacophony that drowns out the sound of his own thoughts.

but this silence isn’t like that.

this silence is alive.

it breathes. it stretches. it crawls into the space between you and grows, not oppressive but thick and full, like it’s waiting for something to happen. it hums with potential, a quiet pulse that syncs with the rhythm of his own heartbeat, and ben finds himself leaning into it, letting it wrap around him.

this silence isn’t empty. it’s full of you.

you sit beside him, close enough that he can feel the faint warmth of your body bleeding through the small gap between you. the edge of your sleeve brushes his forearm when you move, and it’s enough to send a spark of something sharp and electric jolting through him. he shouldn’t be able to feel you this acutely, shouldn’t be so hyperaware of every tiny shift in your posture, every soft inhale you take.

but he is.

the scent of you still lingers, curling around him like smoke from a burning altar, like something ancient and sacrificial. it feels alive, like it’s slithering into his veins, infecting him with the ghost of your presence. he breathes it in and lets it take root, lets it crawl through him and fill the hollow spaces he didn’t even know were there.

and the silence stretches on.

it’s not the kind of silence that demands to be broken. it’s a language all its own, a secret shared between you, full of things unsaid and unspoken truths. ben doesn’t need words to fill it. he doesn’t need to speak to know that you’re here, beside him, so close he can feel the heat radiating from you.

but the quiet is also dangerous. it lets him think. let’s his thoughts spiral into darker, hungrier places.

ben’s gaze flickers to you, catching on the curve of your jaw, the faint furrow of concentration in your brow as you scan the open book in front of you. he lets himself linger there, drinking you in like a starving man given his first taste of water. there’s something almost holy about the way you look right now, bathed in the soft glow of the overhead light, your fingers brushing absently over the edge of the page as though the words have bewitched you.

but ben doesn’t feel holy.

the hunger inside him is sharp and unrelenting, a gnawing thing that writhes beneath his skin. it twists through him, dark and consuming, and for a fleeting moment, he wonders what it would be like to pull you apart, to see what makes you tick. it’s not obsession. not really. obsession implies something fragile, something rooted in longing or insecurity. this is something deeper, more primal.

ben doesn’t need you. not in the way that people talk about need. but he wants you. he wants to unravel you, to pry you open and dig his fingers into the soft, vulnerable parts of you. he wants to understand what makes you sit here every monday with your coffee and your books, what makes you whisper to yourself like you’re reading something meant only for him to hear.

it’s curiosity, he tells himself. nothing more. just curiosity, burning hot and insatiable, spreading through him like wildfire.

but curiosity doesn’t feel like this.

curiosity doesn’t feel like his chest tightening every time you glance his way. it doesn’t feel like his hands itching to touch, to hold, to possess.

THATS how it went. mondays transformed into something entirely different, a new ritual that ben couldn’t explain and wouldn’t dare question. practice? a memory. the familiar rhythm of drills, the roar of his teammates, the barked orders of the coach—it all faded into insignificance the moment you came into focus. he told the coaches he was studying, his voice steady, unwavering, despite the lie rolling off his tongue like poison disguised as honey. they believed him, of course. why wouldn’t they?

ben didn’t bother telling himself he cared about the material. the textbooks, the equations, the neatly drawn graphs—they were background noise, static that faded into nothing the second you started speaking. he told himself he was there because it was convenient, because it was an excuse to escape, but deep down, in some festering corner of his mind, he knew that wasn’t true.

it was you.

you, with your quiet focus, the way your lips would move ever so slightly as you read aloud to yourself without realizing it. you, with your unwavering concentration, the crease that formed between your brows as you worked through a particularly complicated problem. you, who seemed completely oblivious to the way your presence had carved itself into ben’s very bones, anchoring you there like some unwanted parasite he couldn’t bring himself to kill.

ben would sit there, his body rigid and his mind anything but, trying to focus on the numbers sprawled across the page but failing every single time. he wasn’t looking at the work. he was looking at you. watching the way your fingers skimmed the edge of the paper, how your pen would tap against the table in rhythmic little bursts as you thought. every tiny movement, every subtle shift in your posture, dug deeper into him, threading itself into the marrow of his being until it felt like you had become a part of him.

when you spoke, your voice soft and even as you explained some mathematical concept that should have been straightforward but felt like greek to him, ben didn’t hear the words. he wasn’t listening to the numbers or the logic. he was too busy taking in the way you looked. the curve of your mouth as you formed each syllable. the way your eyes would light up, ever so slightly, when you solved something particularly tricky.

fuck, it wasn’t fair.

it wasn’t fair how easily you filled the empty spaces inside him, how effortlessly you seemed to occupy the corners of his mind he didn’t even know existed. you didn’t just exist in the same room as him; you invaded it. you seeped into him, into the cracks and fractures he thought he’d hidden so well, spreading like rot until you were everywhere.

and he let you.

even as he told himself he didn’t care, that it didn’t matter, that this was just about studying—just a convenient excuse to avoid practice—he knew the truth. he cared too much. he cared in a way that scared him, a way that felt too big, too heavy, too impossible to contain. he cared about the way your voice would drop into a lower register when you were focused, the way your laughter—soft and fleeting—would bubble out when you realized you’d made a mistake and corrected it.

he cared about how you made him feel.

like he was tethered. like he was drowning. like he was alive in a way he hadn’t been in years.

and maybe, just maybe, a part of you already knew. maybe you sensed the way he hung onto every word, every glance, every accidental brush of your hand against his when you passed him a paper or a pen. maybe you could feel the weight of him sitting across from you, silent and heavy, his presence wrapping itself around you like an unspoken confession.

or maybe you didn’t notice at all.

maybe it was all in ben’s head, this strange, suffocating thing that had planted itself inside him and grown wild and unruly, its roots digging deeper with every passing monday.

but it didn’t matter.

because mondays weren’t about practice anymore. mondays weren’t about drills or games or any of the things that used to define him.

mondays were you.

this monday was different. this monday, you were in his dorm. the space felt alien with you in it, as though your presence had shifted the walls closer, warped the air, and made the small room hum with something electric and volatile. you sat on his bed, legs crossed, one deft hand tapping against the spine of a book you hadn’t opened yet. ben’s eyes were drawn to your fingers, tracing the slow rhythm of your movements, catching on the faint smudges of ink and the tiny doodles that crawled over the back of your hand. they looked like they were singing to him, little glyphs alive with secrets, symbols carved straight from your soul and offered up to him like a taunt.

he couldn’t stop staring.

the thought came unbidden, crashing through him like a breaking wave: if i could, i’d swallow you whole.

not in some grotesque, animalistic way—at least, he didn’t think so. no teeth or sinew or blood. it was something deeper, stranger, something even more horrifying. he didn’t want to eat you; he wanted to absorb you. to make you a part of him. he wanted to pull you inside him, past skin and muscle, past the fragile shield of his ribs, until you were tucked deep into the raw, pulsing places no one else could see. he wanted you to haunt him, to bury yourself in the cracks and crevices of his very being, until you became inseparable from the rest of him.

that’s what connection is, right? the swallowing of one soul into another. taking them in, letting their essence burrow into your flesh until you couldn’t tell where they ended, and you began. like a splinter, painful and irritating, but impossible to remove. that’s what you were to ben: a splinter digging beneath his skin, refusing to let go.

he wondered, if he did it—if he somehow consumed you, if he allowed the essence of you to dissolve into him like sugar in water—would a part of your soul become his? would it taint him, change him, twist him into something unrecognizable? and, more importantly, would it leave anything of you behind?

would he be carrying the ghost of you forever, absorbed into his marrow, etched into the fabric of his being? would you haunt him in every heartbeat, every breath, every restless night spent lying awake, staring at the ceiling and tracing the memory of you through the air?

ben’s gaze drifted back to your hands, to the tiny movements of your fingers, the way they danced against the book like they were keeping a secret. his own fingers twitched, aching to reach out, to press his palm against the back of your hand and feel the warmth of you seeping through his skin. would it burn? would it leave a mark?

his chest tightened, and he swallowed hard, the sound loud and awkward in the thick, oppressive silence of the room. you didn’t look up. you were so focused on whatever small thought was flitting through your head, your brows furrowed, your lips pressed into a soft line. you had no idea, did you? no idea that you were unmaking him with every passing second, tearing him apart piece by piece, leaving him raw and exposed in a way he’d never been before.

maybe this was what ghosts were, he thought. absorbed parts. fragments of someone else clinging to the living, refusing to let go. maybe you were already haunting him, slipping between the cracks in his thoughts, curling around the jagged edges of his mind.

and maybe that was all ben wanted—to let you haunt him completely. to be tainted by you, stained in ways that could never be undone. to let the memory of you—the presence of you—sink into his skin, his blood, his bones, until he could no longer tell the difference between himself and the ghost you’d left behind.

maybe he was already swallowing you. piece by piece. moment by moment.

and maybe you didn’t even notice.

ben turned toward his bedside locker, moving with a calmness that betrayed the storm inside him. his hands, rough and deliberate, fumbled just slightly as he tugged the drawer open and reached beneath a clutter of barely concealed items. a tin rattled faintly as he pulled it free, his movements revealing a quick flash of glossy porno mags and a half-used tube of KY jelly. he didn’t flinch at the sight; shame wasn’t something he had much room for these days. instead, his fingers found the prize he was looking for—a small plastic bag filled with neatly rolled joints, their pale paper taut and waiting.

the tin hit the desk with a soft thud, and ben’s lips curved into something between a smirk and a grimace as he turned back to you. the dim dorm light caught the faint sheen of sweat on his brow, but his voice came out smooth, easy, coaxing. “you should relax,” he said, rolling a joint between his fingers as though it were the most casual thing in the world. his green eyes flicked over you, your expression caught somewhere between curious and wary. “we’ve been at this all week.”

it sounded reasonable enough, like he cared about the tension in your shoulders, the furrow of your brow, the way you kept pushing yourself harder and harder. but it wasn’t reason that fueled him—it was desperation. he wanted to see you like this, to be the one who unraveled you. the idea of you finding comfort, your edges softening under the haze of weed, made his pulse quicken in a way that felt dangerous, electric.

he thought about it as he pulled a lighter from his pocket, the small metallic click breaking the thick silence between you. the flame danced for a moment before he brought it to the end of the joint, inhaling deeply, the embers flaring bright red. he let the smoke roll out slow, curling upward in tendrils that hung heavy in the air between you.

ben could almost feel it already—the way the weed would soften your movements, blur your sharp edges, make you pliant and lightheaded. the image lodged itself in his brain, searing there like a brand. he didn’t just want you to relax; he wanted you to sink into his orbit, to feel like the world outside his dorm didn’t exist anymore. he wanted you in the palm of his hand, trusting him with that quiet, unspoken vulnerability.

he held the joint out toward you, fingers brushing yours as you took it, and he didn’t miss the way the slight contact sent something sparking through his veins. you hesitated for a moment, your lips parting like you were about to protest, but instead, you leaned in, bringing the joint to your mouth.

ben watched, captivated, as your lips curled around the paper, as you inhaled slow, tentative. he wondered if you could feel him watching you, if you knew the way your every move seemed to carve into him, marking him deeper and deeper.

he leaned back against the edge of the bed, feigning nonchalance, though his body felt taut as a bowstring. smoke curled lazily around you, and ben’s voice cut through it, low and coaxing. “better, right?” he said, the words deliberate, his green eyes glinting like embers in the low light. he wanted to keep you here, tethered to him, letting him smooth out your edges until there was nothing left but the two of you and the thick haze of smoke.

and maybe—just maybe—you’d feel it too. that pull, that invisible thread that kept bringing him closer to you, no matter how hard he tried to fight it.

ben’s breath hitched as he watched you, utterly transfixed by the way your eyelids fluttered shut while the smoke swirled slow and steady from your lips. you looked at ease in a way he’d never seen before, and the sight carved into him, leaving grooves he didn’t want to smooth over. when you handed the joint back to him, the faint dampness of the paper and filter from your saliva caught his attention like a beacon. it wasn’t just a joint anymore—it was touched by you, part of you lingering there. that tiny, fleeting connection left his pulse skittering wildly beneath his skin, though he’d never admit it.

“would you believe me if i said this was my first time?” you asked, your voice light, tinged with nervousness but carrying that easy charm that made ben feel like you’d handed him a piece of yourself. he took the joint from your fingers with a nonchalant shrug, though his heart thundered like a war drum beneath the surface.

“yeah,” he said, his voice low and teasing as he brought the joint to his mouth. the ember flared red as he inhaled, using the moment to steady himself. “i don’t doubt that for a second.” he exhaled slow, the smoke curling between you, a fragile wall of haze that couldn’t stop the pull he felt toward you. as the words left his mouth, ben forced a smile, throwing it your way in what he hoped passed as charming. but his smile faltered slightly when he caught the way your cheeks flushed, a soft bloom of red spreading over your skin.

god, red looked so good on you.

it wasn’t just the color—it was the way it transformed you, made you seem more tangible, more real. the heat rising in your cheeks told him he’d affected you, that his words, his smile, had reached you in some small, undeniable way. it was addictive, watching your reaction, seeing how you twisted under the weight of his gaze without even realizing it.

ben’s grip tightened on the joint, his thumb running over the paper as he took another hit, letting the sharp burn fill his lungs. he needed the edge of it, the distraction, because the truth was threatening to claw its way out of him. the truth that he wanted more than this. more than just mondays, more than stolen moments of proximity. He wanted to press closer, to watch the way that blush deepened when he was too near, to feel your breath against his skin as you stumbled through words you didn’t yet know how to say.

“you’re a natural, though,” he said, his voice a little rougher now, smoke coiling in his throat. “could’ve fooled me.”

it was a lie, of course, but he said it anyway, watching as your lips twitched into a small, bashful smile. and he wondered—did you know what you were doing to him? did you know that with every glance, every word, every touch of your fingers against his when you passed the joint back, you were branding him, marking him as yours?

"yeah, whatever, man," you mutter, the words slipping out on a breath of smoke, your tone carrying that threadbare edge of disinterest. disbelieving. coy. ben’s ears latch onto the inflection like a predator catching the faintest rustle of prey in the underbrush. coy he can work with. coy feeds his craving in a way that’s both maddening and exhilarating, like the sharp burn of whiskey sliding down a raw throat.

coy is fragile. it’s the flickering light of a candle before the flame gutters out. it’s a wounded fawn—big, trembling eyes and wobbling legs—abandoned in an open meadow where every shadow hides teeth. vulnerability wrapped in a thin veneer of bravado. It invites, dares, the predator to inch closer, closer, until there’s nothing but a gasp between them. you, he realizes, are his own personal Bambi. and he, the beast in the long grass, stalking, waiting, savoring the taste of the moment before the pounce.

“no, really,” ben murmurs, his voice dropping an octave, taking on a warmth that shouldn’t be there, a softness that belies the feral pull beneath his skin. he watches you carefully, the way your lips curve slightly around the filter of the joint, how your lashes cast soft shadows against your cheekbones in the dim light of the dorm.

something inside him sparks, an idea crawling up from the depths of that writhing, unnamed thing he keeps locked in his chest. before he can think twice, he’s moving. “here, let me.”

the joint burns between his fingers as ben takes a deliberate, slow drag, holding the smoke deep in his lungs until it stings. and then, before you can react, his hand comes up, warm and sure, and it cradles your jaw like he’s done it a hundred times before. his thumb brushes over your cheekbone, just barely, but it leaves a trail of heat that lingers, sets your pulse stuttering in your throat.

you blink, caught off guard but not pulling away, and that’s all the invitation he needs. ben leans in, the space between you vanishing in an instant, his breath warm against your lips as he exhales the smoke directly into your mouth. it’s intimate in a way that feels invasive, his lips hovering a whisper away from yours. the smoke curls between you, sliding over your tongue, into your lungs, leaving its bitter trail in its wake.

your eyes widen, and ben feels the way your breath catches, just barely, but enough. enough to tell him you’re unsteady, uncertain, caught in the moment like a fly in a spider’s web. your vulnerability is intoxicating, your wide-eyed stare a silent surrender.

his lips barely graze yours, not enough to call it a kiss, but enough to blur the line between audacity and desire. his grip on your chin tightens ever so slightly, grounding you, tethering you to him in this suspended moment.

the seconds stretch thin before he finally pulls back, his eyes dark, hooded, like he’s barely holding himself together. “see?” ben’s voice is rough now, a low rasp that scrapes at the edges of silence. “easy.”

ben doesn’t get the chance to say anything—doesn’t even get the time to process the swirl of thoughts clawing at his mind—because your lips crash against his. the force of it sends him sprawling back into the pillows, his head hitting the worn fabric with a muffled thud.

oh.

oh, this is something he can work with. this is something he’s dreamed of, imagined in fragments during sleepless nights when the thought of you wouldn’t leave him alone. but this—this is better.

this is you. raw. over him. devouring him like he’s something worth breaking.

ben’s always been a master manipulator, a professional at weaponizing sexuality, at using it to tilt the odds in his favor. it’s a game to him—one he always wins. and now? now he has you, ravenous and unrestrained, a perfect storm pressing him into the mattress. he knows how this should go: make you pliable, make you vulnerable, use your hunger to turn the tides in his favor. but the second your lips meet his, it’s like the script is ripped out of his hands, and all he can do is follow where you lead.

and god, are you leading.

you don’t taste like he expected. ben thought you’d taste bitter, sharp, like the sting of smoke lingering on the back of his tongue. but instead, there’s something sweeter, softer beneath the haze of weed—something that feels like a reward he hasn’t earned. the thought sends a shiver through him, his hands gripping at you like you’re the only thing tethering him to the world.

you’re relentless, teeth dragging across his bottom lip, tugging with a force that’s just shy of painful. a sharp gasp escapes him, swallowed by the heat of your mouth. you’re moving now, climbing on top of him, your knees pressing into the mattress on either side of his hips. your weight settles over him, and he’s distantly aware of how you’ve slotted yourself perfectly between his legs, forcing them open, pinning him in place with nothing but your body.

the desperation in your movements is a mirror of his own—hands tangling in the fabric of his shirt, dragging him closer, deeper, harder. until he wonders if you mean to tear him open and climb inside. it’s messy and frantic, all teeth and tongues and muffled moans, the kind of kiss that’s more a battle than an embrace. but ben loves it. He loves the way your hands roam across him like you’re mapping him out, pressing against his thigh, his waist, his chest, leaving a trail of heat in their wake.

your fingers find his throat, wrapping around it with a precision that makes his breath catch. it’s not enough to choke him, not enough to hurt, but enough to hold him still, to remind him who’s in control. and that—oh, that sends a spark of something electric racing through him, pooling low in his stomach. his neck has always been a weak spot, something he’s never fully admitted, and the way your grip steadies him, grounds him—it’s almost too much. it feels like you’ve reached inside his chest and curled your fingers around his ribs, cracking them apart to get at the soft, beating thing underneath.

a small, breathy whimper escapes him before he can stop it, barely audible but undeniably there. it’s embarrassing, humiliating, but he can’t bring himself to care when your mouth is on his again, swallowing the sound like it’s the most natural thing in the world. his hands find your back, sliding under the fabric of your shirt to press against the bare skin beneath, feeling the way your muscles shift and tense under his touch.

ben’s lips part, his tongue sliding against yours in a move that’s both practiced and desperate. you both moan at the contact, the sound muffled but unmistakable, a shared release of tension that only feeds the frenzy between you. his heart thrums in his ears, loud and insistent, and he can’t help but think of prey animals in their final moments, blood pounding as the predator’s jaws close in.

“if i’d known you’d like shotgunning this much,” ben pants against your lips, his voice rough and uneven, “i would’ve done it sooner.”

the words are punctuated by a low groan as you press into him harder, your hands fisting in his shirt to pull him impossibly closer. the scent of you—smoke and sweat and something uniquely yours—fills his senses, drowning out everything else. it’s overwhelming, intoxicating, and ben can feel himself unraveling beneath you, his carefully constructed facade slipping away piece by piece.

your lips travel from ben’s mouth to his jaw, teeth sinking into the flesh like you mean to strip it away, gnaw it clean from the bone. it’s violent, carnal, the sound of your bite wet and obscene, and ben feels the sharp pressure like a knife slipping under his skin. he’s powerless to stop the groan that escapes him, low and guttural, as your hand clamps down on his jaw, your fingers digging into the hinge with a precision that feels surgical, deliberate, inhuman. he’s the mangy dog under your heel, and the dull ache of your grip feels like worship.

his green eyes squeeze shut, his breath hitching as the pain shifts to something addictive, something alive. every nerve in his body sparks to life beneath your touch, the sensation of your nails scraping against his flesh leaving a trail of fire in their wake. his blood sings for you, a desperate hymn to the beast in you that has claimed him for its feast.

“and i think you don’t hate me as much as you pretend,” you growl against his throat, the words coming out like gravel churned in a rusted, grinding machine.

ben laughs, the sound ragged, hollow. “i think you’re full of shit,” he manages, but the way his head tilts to bare his neck betrays him. your hands are satin-soft as they explore him, but the sharpness of your intent is anything but. ben’s hands, by contrast, are rough, leather-worn, and scarred—hands made for tearing, clawing, and surviving. yet here, under you, they’re useless, twitching at his sides as if unsure where to land, as if afraid to touch the thing consuming him.

your hips grind against him, deliberate and cruel, and he feels every drag like it’s carving him open, splitting him down the middle. the pressure is maddening, a firestorm radiating from every point of contact. “oh, fuck,” he breathes, the words barely more than a rasp. his head falls back, exposing more of his throat to your hungry mouth, his body betraying him further with every grind of your hips.

you pull back just enough to meet his gaze, your hands grab at his shirt, tugging with a force that feels like you’d tear it clean off him if it wouldn’t come loose fast enough. “take this fucking thing off.”

ben’s too far gone to resist, his laugh airy and broken as his fingers fumble to obey. “mm, yes, sir,” he teases, the words forced through a grin that barely holds together. he doesn’t miss the flash of something dangerous behind your irises—a flicker of control you’re savoring like a wolf tasting the first blood on its tongue.

ben’s known guys like you. guys who’ve been crushed, splintered into jagged pieces by the weight of the world. broken little boys fumbling to piece themselves back together but too desperate, too fucking hungry for control to do anything but burn. and ben? ben’s always been the kindling, the spark, the gasoline-soaked rag ready to go up in flames for someone like you.

your hands work with fervor, helping him strip the shirt off his body. it’s discarded to the ground like the wrappings of a fruit too ripe to resist, and your fingers trace the lines of his chest. your fingernails rake across his chest, leaving pale, raw lines in the tan expanse of his skin. they sting, those scratches, like ghost wounds from some darker thing, as though you’ve marked him for death. ben doesn’t care. he wants to wear your marks, wants to let them fester, to let a part of you be with him.

your mouth crashes against his again, desperate and sloppy, all teeth and tongues. he can taste the bitterness of smoke still clinging to you, mingling with the salt of his own blood where your teeth have nicked his lip. the metallic tang hits his tongue like a blade, and he moans into your mouth, a sound thick with surrender.

as one hand pops the button of his pants and slips beneath the waistband, the other wraps around his neck, digging into his flesh like it’s meat you intend to rip apart. your lips travel down his throat, sucking, biting, leaving bruises that bloom like rot beneath his skin. you pull back long enough to mutter against his neck, “i’m guessing you’ve done this before.”

ben can barely suppresses an eye roll. don’t get respectful on me now. he doesn’t need your reverence, your curiosity. he needs you to keep consuming him. he nods, the motion jerky and strained. “obviously.”

he reaches for your belt, his fingers trembling as they tug the leather free from its loops. he’s rushing now, frantic to get it off, his hands moving like they belong to someone else. “condoms. lube. drawer,” he rasps, the words cracking as they leave his throat. his hands are shaking, distracted by the way your teeth drag over his collarbone, the way you bite down hard enough that he thinks he can feel the crack of bone beneath the surface.

your hand fumbles blindly through the chaos of his locker, searching for the stash he swore was there—a condom, lube, anything to keep the fire between you burning. your fingers brush over cold metal, loose papers, the faint grit of something unidentifiable, but the haze in your brain and the heat building in your gut make the task feel impossible.

behind you, ben curses under his breath, the sound more growl than word as he wriggles out of his jeans. the fabric catches on his knees, and he fights with it, hips lifting off the mattress as he struggles to free himself. there’s something almost pitiful about the way he moves, so desperate and clumsy in his rush to shed the last barriers between him and you.

you’re so focused on your task—so consumed by the feverish need to keep this moment alive—that you don’t hear the door at first. the creak of the hinges barely registers, a ghost of a sound swallowed by the pounding in your ears. but then:

“ben?!”

the voice slams into the room like a thunderclap, shattering the fragile intimacy you’d built. it’s loud, sharp, cutting through the thick fog of arousal like a jagged blade.

your hand freezes mid-rummage. ben freezes too, mid-push, his jeans tangled around his thighs in a way that makes him look utterly ridiculous. ben groans—a guttural, agonized sound that’s halfway between a growl and a plea for mercy. “oh, for fuck’s sake,” he mutters, his head falling back against the pillow. his voice is muffled, but the irritation in it is clear, as palpable as the sweat clinging to his chest.

the voice called again, louder this time, followed by the unmistakable sound of the doorknob jiggling. “ben, you in there?”

ben’s brain scrambled for a plan, any plan, but his thoughts were a tangled mess, caught between the ache of his body and the dread clawing its way up his spine. of course it had to be now. of course his teammates couldn’t pick a better time to come barging into his dorm, not when he was like this—half-naked, flushed, with you practically draped over him like some pagan offering.

he looked down at himself—his jeans bunched awkwardly around his knees, his shirt discarded somewhere on the floor, his boxers doing a piss-poor job of hiding just how far this had gone. the situation was bad. no, worse than bad—it was catastrophic.

“shit,” ben whispered, his voice barely more than a rasp as he reached for his jeans, yanking them up in a hurried, graceless motion. the denim stuck to his skin, damp with sweat and urgency, and he cursed under his breath as he fumbled with the zipper.

you didn’t move at first, still hovering over him like a statue caught mid-motion, your eyes wide and dark with something that wasn’t fear—but something close to it. “do we answer?” you whispered, your voice low and hoarse, and ben almost laughed at the absurdity of the question.

“yeah, sure,” he muttered sarcastically, his hands fumbling at his belt. “let’s just invite them in, have a nice little chat while i’ve got a fucking hard-on.”

the knock came again, sharper this time, more insistent. “ben, come on, man! open up!”

they wouldn’t leave. ben knew they wouldn’t. his teammates were persistent, nosy bastards who treated each other’s business like communal property. if they thought something was up, they’d dig until they unearthed it, and ben couldn’t let them. because if they saw you here—if they saw him like this, disheveled and flushed and exposed—it wouldn’t just be teasing. it would be annihilation. they’d tear him apart, not in private, but where it hurt most: the locker room, the field, the hallways. his every movement would be shadowed by whispers and pointed laughter. they’d know.

they’d know he wasn’t like them, wasn’t the ben they thought they knew—the one who made dirty jokes and leered at teachers and bragged about conquests that never existed. they’d know he was a fraud.

ben shoved at you lightly, a signal to get off him, to move, to do something, but the moment his hands touched your sides, you didn’t budge. if anything, you leaned in closer, your lips quirking into that infuriating small smile.

“oh, this is funny to you?” he spat, his voice a harsh whisper, trembling with frustration and fear.

your lips twitched, the corner of your mouth curling into a grin you couldn’t quite suppress. “it’s a little funny,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

ben rolled his eyes, running a hand through his hair in exasperation as he stumbled off the bed. his jeans still weren’t properly fastened, and he could feel the waistband slipping down with every step. he grabbed a discarded hoodie from the floor and threw it over his head, the fabric clinging to his sweat-slick skin as he stalked toward the door. he needed to look normal. casual. like he wasn’t all over you, like you weren’t tearing him apart.

before opening the door, he turned to you, his eyes flashing with a mix of desperation and warning. “not a word,” he hissed, the words as sharp as a blade pressed to your throat.

ben took a deep breath, his face schooled into a mask of nonchalance, as he yanked the door open. his teammates stood there, grinning like idiots, and ben felt a fresh wave of dread wash over him.

“what the hell took you so long?” one of them asked, stepping forward as if he had any right to barge in.

“busy,” ben grunted, leaning against the doorframe to block their view of the room. he prayed they couldn’t see you through the narrow crack, prayed they wouldn’t notice the flush on his cheeks or the faint bruises forming on his neck.

“busy with what?”

“homework,” ben said, deadpan, and the lie was so ridiculous that even he almost believed it.

[tinytinyblogs]

Can you write something for yandere!skz where they are the reader best friend and they find her going on a date or texting / hanging with another guy? They love her romantically, it's just they're not dating because you know ... friendzone lol

You Don't Need Anyone Else But Me

They wouldn't allow you to think of them as just a friend or let anyone else have you.

Hyung line, Maknae line (coming soon)

💬 I’m posting this a bit late, and realizing it’s the last story I’ll share in 2024, I just want to say thank you once again for all the requests and feedback—your support means so much!

Stray Kids Masterlist 1.0 & 2.0

Your insights and reactions make these posts come alive. Love reblogs, comments, and all the good vibes welcome ✨

Chan

Chan noticed you texting someone else, and though his expression remained calm, a storm was brewing behind his composed demeanor. He didn’t say anything at first, simply watching out of the corner of his eye. It wasn’t like you were hiding it, but that didn’t make it any easier for him. Every time he saw you typing away with a soft smile or noticed the screen lighting up with another notification, his chest tightened. He kept his distance, but inside, his mind was racing. At first, he convinced himself it wasn’t worth reacting to. You had your own life, your own friends, and he didn’t want to seem possessive—at least not openly. But he couldn’t resist the temptation to look over your shoulder when he thought you weren’t paying attention or find a reason to glance at your phone when you set it down. Eventually, his curiosity got the better of him, and he found a way to monitor your texts without you noticing. Each message he read felt like a dagger to his chest. The casual words, the emojis, the tone—he hated all of it. His fingers curled tightly around his own phone, the plastic creaking under the pressure. More than once, he had to stop himself from smashing it out of sheer frustration.

After days of silent agony, he couldn’t hold it in any longer. One evening, as you sat on the couch scrolling through your messages, he leaned over casually, his tone light and conversational. “Who’s that?” he asked, keeping his voice steady despite the tension in his chest. You glanced up briefly, not thinking much of the question. “Just a friend,” you replied with a small shrug before returning your attention to the screen. His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes as he nodded. “Just a friend, huh?” The words tasted bitter on his tongue. Even if that was the truth, the idea of you giving anyone else your time, your attention, made his blood boil. For a moment, he just sat there, watching you text, his jaw tightening. The room felt heavier, the air more charged. Finally, his voice broke the silence again, low and calm but carrying an unsettling weight. “So... what are we?” You paused, looking up at him in confusion. “Friends,” you said simply, offering another nonchalant shrug before returning to your phone. That was the final straw.

The second you glanced back at the screen, he moved. In one swift motion, he snatched the phone from your hands and hurled it across the room. The sharp sound of it colliding with the wall echoed, followed by the unmistakable crunch of plastic and glass shattering. You stared in stunned silence as the remnants of your phone clattered to the floor. When you looked back at him, his expression had shifted entirely. His usual warmth was gone, replaced by a cold, unyielding intensity. “Wrong answer, darling,” he said, his voice low and dripping with menace. There was a dangerous edge to his tone that sent a shiver down your spine. Slowly, he stepped closer, his dark eyes locking onto yours, daring you to look away. He leaned in slightly, his lips curling into a faint, almost mocking smile. “Try again,” he demanded, his voice soft but laced with a threat. “What are we?” The room was utterly silent, the weight of his presence pressing down on you as you struggled to find your voice. The person standing before you was no longer the kind, reassuring Chan you thought you knew—this was someone who would do anything to keep you by his side, no matter the cost.

Minho

Minho’s sharp eyes flicker to your phone as you type away, completely engrossed in your conversation. The soft smile playing on your lips as you stare at the screen makes his chest tighten, though he doesn’t let it show. He remains composed, calm, and collected, his expression betraying nothing. Silently, he observes, pretending not to care. You don’t even notice the way his sharp gaze traces every movement, catching the name and bits of the chat whenever the screen lights up. For Minho, life is meant to be orderly, controlled, and simple. He doesn’t like unnecessary complications or disruptions, and right now, this person you’re texting is an unwelcome disturbance. It’s not jealousy—at least, not in the way most people would understand it. To him, it’s about maintaining balance and control. A smile flickers on his lips, but it isn’t a warm or reassuring smile. It’s calculated, knowing. You think he’ll just let it go, that he’ll sit idly by while you let someone else occupy your attention? That’s cute. But Minho doesn’t tolerate things—or people—that threaten the order of his carefully constructed world. And in that world, you belong to him. He lets you enjoy your little conversation for now, even playing along with your obliviousness.

He pretends not to notice as you giggle softly at the messages, but in his mind, he’s already made his decision. He’ll deal with it, efficiently and thoroughly. He’s not the type to create unnecessary drama, but when the time comes, he knows exactly how to make sure this “friendship” of yours is dealt with. The next day, your texting buddy gets an unexpected visitor. Minho arrives at their door, his posture relaxed, his expression unreadable. The slight curve of his lips might be mistaken for friendliness at first glance, but there’s something off about it, something chilling. His voice is calm, polite even, as he speaks to them, but there’s an unspoken warning in every word. The intensity in his gaze leaves no room for misunderstanding. By the time Minho leaves, the person knows better than to contact you again. Whatever charm or quiet menace he uses to mask his darker intentions, it’s devastatingly effective. Meanwhile, you remain oblivious, sitting with your phone later that evening, confused. The texts have stopped. No replies, no notifications. You’re left staring at the empty screen, wondering what went wrong. That’s when Minho makes his move. He doesn’t say a word at first, just silently watching as you frown at your phone. Then, like a shadow, he steps behind you, his presence looming but quiet. When you finally turn around, startled by the intensity of his closeness, he traps you in place.

His arms cage you against the nearest surface, leaving no room for escape. His face is close, so close that you can feel the heat of his breath. His dark eyes lock onto yours with an intensity that makes your heart skip a beat. His slight smirk sends a chill down your spine, a perfect balance of amusement and something much darker. “He’s not worth waiting for,” Minho murmurs, his voice low and steady. The weight of his words hangs heavily in the air, sending a shiver through you. “Why can’t you see that I’m always here for you?” There’s a softness in his tone, but it’s deceptive. Beneath the surface, there’s an unyielding finality, a truth that you can’t ignore. The way he looks at you, as if you’re the only thing in his world, is overwhelming. You try to process his words, but the sheer force of his presence makes it hard to think straight. His closeness, the intensity of his gaze—it’s all too much. Minho tilts his head slightly, studying your expression with quiet amusement. “You don’t need anyone else,” he continues, his voice soft yet firm. “I’ll take care of everything, so you don’t have to.” The tension in the air is suffocating, the unspoken truth in his words impossible to ignore. There’s no escape from him—not that he would let you go anyway. To him, you’re the center of his carefully constructed world, and he’ll do whatever it takes to keep it that way.

Changbin

Changbin’s behavior has taken a noticeable turn lately. At first, it was subtle—him sitting closer than usual, always leaning in to hear your thoughts or opinions, and laughing as he playfully took your phone out of your hands. It seemed harmless at first, just him being his usual teasing self. But over time, the teasing became more frequent, and his hold on your attention grew tighter. He’s constantly hovering now, his presence impossible to ignore. Every notification from your phone earns a sharp glance from him, his eyes darting to the screen before you can even react. You notice the way his body tenses slightly at the sound, his jaw tightening before he schools his features back into a grin. “Who is it?” he’d ask casually, though his tone always carries a subtle edge. If you hesitate to answer, he doesn’t push too hard, but you can feel the weight of his stare. More often than not, he’ll find a way to redirect your focus back to him, his fingers brushing against yours as he takes your phone, tossing it onto the couch or placing it somewhere out of reach. “You don’t need that right now,” he’d say with a laugh. “I’m way more fun, aren’t I?”

Sometimes, you catch him staring—not at you, but at your phone—with an expression you can’t quite read. It’s not jealousy, not entirely, but something more possessive, more calculating. His demeanor shifts whenever a message comes in, his eyes narrowing slightly before he shakes it off with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. What you don’t know is that Changbin has been working behind the scenes, his determination taking him down a path you wouldn’t have imagined. Step by step, he’s piecing together information about the person you’ve been texting. A quick glance at your screen here, a casual question there—it’s all he needs to get their number. When he finally gets it, it feels like a small victory, the first step in his carefully crafted plan. He doesn’t waste time. Behind your back, he initiates contact, his tone friendly but firm as he makes his intentions clear to this person. The conversations are short, but Changbin’s words have an impact. Slowly but surely, your messages from this person become less frequent, their replies shorter and more distant until, eventually, they stop altogether. You notice the change, confused by the sudden silence from someone you used to talk to so often.

“Weird,” you mutter to yourself, but Changbin only smiles, his expression smug yet unreadable. To him, this is a victory—a testament to his persistence and the lengths he’s willing to go to for you. “Why? You no longer texting anyone?” he asks one day, his voice light but laced with satisfaction. He steps closer, his fingers reaching out to gently tilt your chin so you’re looking directly at him. “I told you they don’t know you as well as I do.” There’s something both comforting and unsettling in his gaze, the way his dark eyes seem to see right through you. His thumb brushes against your cheek in a gesture so tender it sends shivers down your spine. “And for me,” he continues, his voice dropping to a softer, more intimate tone, “I care for you the most. More than I probably should.” His words linger in the air, heavy with meaning, as his hand caresses your cheek with a touch so gentle it’s almost disarming. You try to focus on his words, but it’s hard when his gaze is so intense, so unwavering. The weight of his presence feels suffocating, yet there’s an undeniable pull, as though his world is the only place you should be. Changbin isn’t just pulling you closer physically—he’s drawing you into his world, a place where he’s the only one who truly understands and cares for you.

Hyunjin

Everything spiraled when Hyunjin discovered you were texting someone else. At first, it was disbelief—a quiet, unsettling pang in his chest that grew heavier with each passing second. But the true blow came when he realized you didn’t see him as anything more than a friend. His carefully constructed fantasy of you and him felt like it was falling apart. Hyunjin wasn’t one to let it end there. His mind raced, desperately piecing together a way to reclaim what he believed was his. He couldn’t accept this reality, so he decided to bend it to his will. Each step was carefully calculated, his determination unwavering. Getting rid of that person you were texting wasn’t just an idea—it became his mission. He didn’t rely on obvious tactics like scaring them away; no, that would’ve been too crude. Instead, he crafted a more subtle, insidious plan, weaving a web of lies designed to trap you. Hyunjin’s natural charisma made it easy to spread rumors. Fabricated stories about this person’s character found their way to your ears, whispered through mutual acquaintances and amplified by the people around you. He planted seeds of doubt, ensuring that even your friends began to echo his concerns.

The world started to feel unsafe, untrustworthy—except for him. When you finally asked him about what you’d heard, his response was heartbreakingly vulnerable. His soft eyes brimmed with concern, his voice trembling just enough to tug at your heartstrings. “I don’t want you to get hurt by the wrong person,” he whispered, his tone so genuine it was impossible to ignore. “They’re not good for you. Please, believe me.” Hyunjin was a master manipulator, wielding his vulnerability like a weapon. He knew exactly how to guilt-trip you, how to make you question your own instincts. His innocent façade was so convincing that even you, who thought you knew him well, couldn’t see through it. Over time, the person you were texting began to pull away. Their messages grew infrequent, distant, until one day, they stopped entirely. You didn’t understand why—until you began to notice how others talked about them. The judgment in their voices mirrored everything Hyunjin had warned you about, reinforcing his narrative. Confused and hurt, you turned to Hyunjin for comfort. “I warned you,” he murmured, his hands gentle as they reached for yours. “I just want to protect you.” His words felt like a balm, his gaze filled with a mix of tenderness and quiet triumph.

Little by little, you started to rely on him more. The walls he built around you didn’t feel like a trap—they felt like a safe haven. His presence was comforting, his attention all-encompassing. And just as he’d planned, you began to see him differently—not just as a friend, but as something more. “Promise me,” he whispered one evening, his voice low and filled with quiet desperation. “Promise you’ll always be here for me.” His eyes searched yours, and without hesitation, you nodded, the words tumbling out before you could second-guess them. “I promise.” That was all he needed. Hyunjin’s lips curved into a soft smile, his hand brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Good,” he said, his voice soothing, almost hypnotic. “Because I’ll always be here for you, too. I’ll protect you from everything—even yourself, if I have to.” You didn’t realize it then, but you’d walked straight into his trap. The doubts, the rumors, the guilt—it had all been part of his carefully laid plan to bring you closer to him. Now, with you by his side, Hyunjin made it his mission to ensure you’d never leave. He didn’t just want you to love him—he wanted you to believe you couldn’t exist without him. To him, this was how it was always meant to be.

[silkpout]

𖦹 Toji + feet (hear me out) cw: feet kissing/licking, dirty talk, my first post on his blog, (hey!) hopefully this is somewhat good. 𖦹

Toji smirked down at you, his eyes gleaming with amusement as you knelt at his feet. His sheer presence and size were almost suffocating. He leaned back in his armchair, one arm lazily draped over the backrest, legs spread wide, while his other hand rubbed slow circles on your head.

“Look at you,” he mused, tugging on one of your pigtails that were fashioned neatly with a small black bow. His rough fingers tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze as he drank in the slight blush on your skin. “On your knees like a good little whore. You’re pathetic, y’know that? ”

Your cheeks burned at his words, knowing exactly what was coming next. The anticipation of it making you dizzy with arousal. His lips curled in a grin, as he lifted his left foot, pressing it against your chest. The weight of it forcing you back slightly.

“Well, go on” he drawled, nudging you with his foot. “Kiss it.” The words hung heavy in the air, he placed his foot back on the ground, waiting. Waiting for a second too long for his liking as he spoke up once more.

“Did I stutter?” he asked, his tone edged with mockery as he spread his legs impossibly wider. Your body trembled slightly as you lowered your head, pressing your lips to the top of his foot. The taste of his skin was salty, his scent musky, and a wave of arousal coiled in your chest. You were painfully aware of how pathetic you must look, painfully aware of how much Toji enjoyed seeing you like this. You trailed kisses along his foot, your lips brushing his skin with desperate devotion.

Toji chuckled above you, the sound dark and condescending. “Look at you,” his voice dripped with amusement. “Kissing Daddy’s feet like the little slut you are. Bet you’re soaking wet right now, huh?”

Your face burned hotter as you squeezed your thighs together, trying (and failing) to conceal your reaction. Toji glinted at your obvious arousal. “Yeah, that’s what I fucking thought,” he sneered. “You’re fucking pathetic, getting off on this shit. You’re lucky I even let you touch me.” His words making you whimper.

Then, as if to punctuate your current state, he lifted his foot again, this time using it to deliver light, mocking slaps to your cheek. The force was just enough to turn your head slightly. “Come on, baby” the feigned sweetness in his voice only heightening your humiliation. “You can do better than that. Or are you really that pathetic?” He looked at you with a nasty grin before giving his next command. “Lick it.”

The words left no room for argument. As his foot returned to the ground your stomach flipped. You lowered your head as your tongue darted out, running sloppily along the entire length of his foot, the saliva pouring out of your mouth wantonly. You could hear the sultry and downright depraved noises your mouth was making and you swore you could feel the thin material of your underwear soaking through.

“Good girl,” He mumbled, leaning forward slightly to pat your head. His fingers tangling in your hair to pull your head back. “Tongue out” you obeyed instantly sticking your tongue out as he leaned closer, the gob of spit landing to the back of your throat before you swallowed obediently. “Pretty girl” he leaned back in his chair with a satisfied smirk, before brining his foot closer to your face again. “Now do it again. And this time don’t half-ass it.”

[crybabyddl]

Balcony Cigarettes

Eddie Munson x Reader

Warning: swearing, miscommunication/cluelessness, friends to lovers, kissing, smoking

Author’s Note: I’m at work and this popped into my head. I wish I had a whole story behind this, but I don’t. I was just thinking about the sunsets at the college I went to, and how it would’ve been cool to smoke there. Now I’m here, writing a random thing and making it about a fictional character that I’m in love with. Second Note: I'm home now and really want to publish this, so I'm forcing myself to finish it one way or another. I apologize if that makes it end up sucking, but I just need to get this finished or else it will sit in my drafts for eternity. I'm considering just posting what I have in my drafts even if they're unfinished because I have like, 80 drafts and I think at least 70 of them are actual pieces of writing and I feel selfish holding onto them bc some of them are not too bad. Most of them are from 2021, but that was when I was writing like a fiend and had a bunch of motivation, so they might not be terrible, probably a tad cringey though.

—

God, what you wouldn’t do to be smoking a cigarette right now…

Almost as if the universe heard you, the sliding door of the balcony swishes and shuts. Without needing to look, you know it’s Eddie—the sound of heavy bootsteps tipping you off.

“Mind if I join you?” He asks softly, just shy of mumbling. He mirrors you as he rests his elbows along the railing.

“Not at all,” you keep your head forward, too entranced by the flow of cars passing by on the streets below. “By any chance, do you have a pack of ciggies on you?”

Eddie can’t help but laugh.

“What kind of question is that?” His tone is lighthearted, but not energetic enough to disrupt the mood. It was a stupid question, Eddie was rarely ever seen without a cigarette between his lips.

He fishes a half-used box of Newports and a lighter out of his pocket. You turn to watch as he pulls two cigarettes out of the pack, putting both between his lips. You feel the corners of your mouth turn upwards as he brings the lighter closer, igniting your vices before handing one to you. You take the cigarette from between his index and middle fingers.

From the first inhale, you can feel the menthol working its magic. It wasn’t something you did often—smoking. You knew it was a nasty habit, but you figured if this was the worst thing you did tonight, you’d be okay with that.

“Do you ever miss Shores Hollow?” Eddie poses the question casually, but it still causes the nervous pit in your stomach to sink like a stone.

“All the time. Don’t get me wrong, I love it here,” you take another drag. “But nothing compares to those sunsets.”

It’s silent between the two of you as you finish your cigarettes, getting lost in the swirls of smoke that float around you. The logical part of your brain blames the cigarette for the uneasy feeling that starts to reside in your stomach and leaves pitter-pattering knocks on your temples, but the sentimental part of you wins and blames it on the man keeping you company.

You dare to look over at the culprit of your mixed feelings, his eyes fixated on the cloudy night sky. You want to say something, you want him to say something, but no words seem to fit in this moment. It’s like torture—having the one thing, the one person you want the most right in front of you, in addition to the weighted memories that come along for the ride, but it’s all just out of your grasp.

Your lips part, no ammunition loaded on your tongue. Eddie’s head turns rather quickly, as if he too was waiting for you to say something. He’s staring at you through windows of deep brown, like a wooded forest just before snowfall. You wish you knew what was making his mind turn, because the hopeless romantic in you looks into his eyes and reads

Tell me you want me the way I want you.

It’s too much of a risk to interpret a simple look in such a way. Maybe if you were a more confident person, you’d be willing to take that risk. But you’re not, and it seems neither is Eddie. He’s turning on his heel to leave, dropping his cigarette butt into the ashtray that sits near the folding chairs along the exterior wall. You realize this is the last time you’ll ever see him if you don’t do something, anything.

“Eddie,"

His name is all you can force yourself to say, but it’s enough. He turns around and something about the look in your eyes lets him know you need him to come back over, so he returns to his previous position, at your side, leaning over the railing.

Another minute of silence is shared between the two of you, and throughout its duration, your mind is plagued with the possible outcomes of all the different things you could utter to the patient man beside you. Just when you felt your brain was about to explode, you mentally scream fuck it and decide to express what you’ve wanted to for the past couple months.

"Please stay here."

It wasn't exactly what you were trying to convey, but it didn't fully matter. It seemed as though Eddie understood, or at least to the best of his ability--he wasn't a mind reader.

"I'm here." his voice was soft, reassuring.

He places his hand over top of yours, an unexpected gesture you welcomed fully--albeit flustered.

"I really need to get better at articulating my thoughts." you were thinking out loud, but it was something Eddie deserved to know as well.

"Is there any way I can help you with that?"

"Maybe."

Eddie looked down, taking both of your hands in his now, giving them a comforting squeeze.

"Is what's on your mind something recent, or is it a thought you've had for a while that you've been holding onto?"

"The second one."

"Okay, that's a start," the smile that graces his features burns your insides like a shot of whiskey. How was it even possible for one man to be so effortlessly attractive? "Is it something you specifically wanted to tell me?"

You nod.

"Well, that makes this a lot more interesting. And to think I almost went back inside!"

You smile sheepishly, thankful that there were no bright lights to illuminate the redness of your cheeks.

"Hmm. Is it something positive or negative?"

"Uh, I think that would be dependent upon you."

"Well shit, Y/N. At this point you've gotta just tell me."

"Fucking hell," you whine. "Fine. But you can't hold it against me."

"No promises."

"I think I'm falling for you."

"Oh."

Eddie's face is pale, but his expression isn't one you can decipher. He's still looking at you, and as much as you wanted to tear your eyes away, look anywhere else but in his beautiful brown eyes, you were frozen. It wouldn't matter if you ran inside, you uttered the words out loud and he heard them--there was no coming back from this.

"Yeah." It was all you could offer, too scared to make excuses for making things unbelievably awkward.

"How long?"

"Hmm?"

"How long have you been feeling this way?"

That wasn't the direction you expected the conversation to go, not that you expected the conversation to even continue.

"A month... or two."

Eddie's quiet. You realize you probably just freaked him the fuck out and he was most likely planning his escape route, despite his only options being to walk through a door or jump from a third story balcony.

"I'd say you're pretty lucky. I've been going on five months."

Huh?

"Huh?" Your confusion was the first thought you didn't worry about expressing the entire conversation.

"I've been thinking the same thing about you for five months."

"Really?"

"Mmhm." he nods. Eddie was hardly ever one to be shy--seeing him like this was cute.

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"Probably for the same reason you didn't."

Fair enough.

"Now what?" you asked, not sure what to do with your hands, your face, or any part of you.

"I'm not sure. We could just stay here and take in our surroundings, or we could go back to my place and make out-"

"That one. The second one."

"Someone's eager."

"You don't seem eager enough!"

"I've had a lot of time to learn how to be patient. Five months to be exact."

"You say that like it's my fault!"

"Maybe it is! It's not like I was being subtle, I flirted with you every chance I got! I figured you were just too scared to flat-out reject me."

"You flirted with me?"

"A million times!"

"You're joking."

"Dead serious."

"When?"

"Remember your birthday party?"

"Yeah...?"

"I literally told you that you looked sexy!"

"I figured that was just 'cause I was the birthday girl!"

"Then explain why I called you a few weeks ago and told you all about this girl I couldn't get off my mind, and literally just described you!"

"You were talking about me?"

"Oh my god, Y/N! Seriously?"

"Well unless you say it's me, I'm not going to assume you're talking about me!"

"Jesus Christ. Okay, what about the time I brought you flowers at work?"

"Those were from you?"

"Uh, yes. I literally handed them to you!"

"I figured you intercepted the delivery guy and that they were from my parents! My mom texted me earlier that day and asked me if I had decorated my apartment yet, so I just assumed that she sent me flowers so I'd have something to put on the kitchen table."

"Just my luck, honestly."

"Maybe you should've left a note."

"God damn it," Eddie slapped his forehead with his palm. "What about when your car broke down and we had to stop in that diner and the waitress told us we were such a cute couple and she gave us free coffee while we waited for the tow truck?"

"What about that?"

"We played along! I gave you a kiss on the cheek and everything! Friends don't do that, Y/N!"

"They do when a sweet old lady gives you free coffee and you don't want to break her heart!"

"Okay this is getting ridiculous. Clearly, we misread some things, but now we know we both feel the same way. You like me, I like you, right?"

"Right."

"So can I kiss you, on the lips?"

"Please."

Eddie took a swift step forward, his hands reaching and grabbing either side of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair as he brought his lips against yours. The kiss was passionate, fervent with all the emotions the two of you had been withholding from one another for far too long.

You separated after a moment, looking at one another with blown out pupils, blushed faces, and a newfound tenderness that cleared away any doubt that threatened to tear you apart.

--

sorry the second half of this lowkey sucks. I just kinda ran with it. Sorry again.