#like they really will do ANYTHING to keep on driving without letting ANYTHING stop them

[angelsforthenight]

arcane women nsfw headcanons

(vi, caitlyn, sevika, ambessa)

cw: 18+, overstimulation, brief mention of bdsm, choking, spit, i talk about both topping and bottoming with each characters.

vi:

when topping: eats it for her own pleasure: meaning she can have her face buried in between your thighs for hours and hours on end, pushing you back down onto the bed whenever you’d try lift yourself up and get away from the onslaught of overwhelming pleasure. service top when she’s in a good mood, sure — she’d be obsessed with your sounds, the way your walls would flutter around her. it would be making love rather than sex: sweet and tender. but when she isn’t in a good mood? she’d be selfish and greedy. more focused on her own pleasure than yours. her stroke game would be Crazy… ?!?? fast and rough as fuck. like let us breathe, damn!

when bottoming: a shameless MOANER!!! vocal as fuck obviously. she drools, whining in frustration when she doesn’t get what she wants. loves to arch her back. she’d have sensitive ass nipple piercings that would drive her insane if you touched them, crying out if you’d flick your tongue against them. pants like a bitch and breathlessly begs to cum hehehehe

caitlyn:

when topping: would treat you as if you were a fucking science experiment, meaning she’d explore what would stimulate you the most and push you to extreme lengths to see what would truly break you. murmuring ‘ah…’s and humming to herself in fascination when she clocks your reactions, what would make you squirm and twitch like crazy. she’d be pretty cruel, not giving a fuck if you’d start crying. a little ‘poor baby’ would suffice. a freakaleek…. bdsm would go WILDDDD with her, and you wouldn’t expect it too; the way she carries herself so humbly in public.

when bottoming: heavy breather until you’re, like, three rounds in… that’s when the whining and the drawled moans and whimpers start to come out full throttle. power bottom, would communicate if she wanted you to keep doing what you’re doing. “just like that, don’t stop…” would lace her fingers through your hair if you were eating her out, gripping it tightly if the pleasure was truly messing her uppppp! not only your hair, her hands would find purchase in anything to hold on to if you were fucking her good, good.

sevika:

when topping: ohhh this bitch likes to taunt… i mean, taunt taunt you. she’s so teasing, laughing at the helpless look on your face. she’d force you to look up at her, make eye contact as she’s fucking you senseless. would play coy when she’d stop just as you were on the brink of releasing, “oh? is something wrong?” would gently yet patronisingly shush you if you started to cry. oh my fucking god and the smearing??? she would spit on your already weeping pussy and spread it with her fingers, mixing it with your arousal. shit, she’d make you suck her fingers before smearing it all over your face, especially if your face was already wet with tears. she’d love squishing your face, giving it a playful shake whilst knowing you were on the brink of passing out. PET NAMES!!!! bunny, baby, princess, sweetheart would not fail to leave her lips. good at hiding how pathetic she really is, except when she’s eating the fuck out of your pussy, being so driven by your sounds and the way you taste that she’d cum without even being touched.

when bottoming: professional hip buckler. so fucking stupid. you’d see a completely different side to the sevika she usually presents herself as, being a needy and whining mess instead: eyes rolling to the back of her head. loves being overstimulated, babbling words like ‘yesyesyes’ that slur together. if you’d choke her, you’d be able to visibly see her brain kick down a few gears; the foggy eyes, arched eyebrows and slack jaw combo would be sososo cute :(( would nod along like a bobble-head to anything you’d tell or ask her to do, with her lil puppy eyes too. maybe a little bit of a masochist,,,,, shhhhhh

ambessa:

when topping: oh ambessa would know how to FUCK. it would be so easy for her to find your sweet spots, and she’d be vigilant like a hawk about it. she’d hit your g-spot consistently, her movements precise and efficient. she’d enjoy your shyness, your struggle with looking at her in the eye: finding it adorable. would talk you through your orgasm. sweet voice whispering praises in your ear as you teetered on the edge of a searing climax. your waist would be her favourite thing to hold on to, especially if she’s giving you back-shots. her lips would be rested in a satisfied smile throughout the entire thing.

when bottoming: hmmmmm i feel like bottoming would kind of be an extension to her topping, meaning she wouldn’t be a bottom 😭 ambessa is such a dominant, powerful character that it’s quite hard to imagine her as submissive. so she’d just let you pleasure her once in a while, praising you as you’d lap up her juices like a dog, fuelling you to do more. her moans would come from her throat, face falling a little if it felt a little too good.

a/n: fofmfhskejfnsjwjdnnwjw something small whilst i cook up a long abby fic. (i miss writing long story fics🙁) lmk ur nsfw headcanons ab these characters >3<

[fear-is-truth]

loser bf! RODRICK HEFFLEY hc

tags — fem!reader﹒sfw + nsfw﹒headcanons

loser bf!rodrick, who makes a huge show of pda whenever his brother is around. he’ll sling his arm around your shoulder and be like, “yeah, greg. my girlfriend. isn’t she hot?” greg is still fully convinced rodrick’s paying you to be his fake girlfriend, though he has no idea where he’s got the money.

loser bf!rodrick, who lets you sit in on band practice and tries so hard to keep it together, but the second his bandmates start flirting with you, he completely falls apart. his drumming gets so off-tempo that they have to stop and start over.

loser bf!rodrick, who lent you his algebra textbook and completely forgot he’d been doodling your name with his last name all over the margins. when you handed it back, smirking, he looked like he wanted to die.

loser bf!rodrick, whose idea of a date is a night drive to the gas station, where you both load up on slushies and hot dogs. you sit in the parking lot and steal bites off each other’s food (even though you have the same toppings)

loser bf!rodrick, who awkwardly asked his mom to use the “nice-smelling” laundry detergent on his shirts because he knows you like to steal them after having sex and he doesn’t want you thinking he’s gross.

loser bf!rodrick, whose mom acts like you’re already part of the family, offering you snacks and calling you “sweetie” every time you visit. she loves to (unintentionally) embarrassing her eldest son by showing you all of his baby pictures. all the while rodrick hides in the basement.

loser bf!rodrick, whose dad corners you during family dinners and awkwardly tries to sell you on how “rodrick is really a fine young man, despite, uh… some quirks.” you just nod politely while rodrick sits there, sinking into his chair with a beet-red face.

loser bf!rodrick, whose bandmates are constantly making moves on you, asking if you “need anything” during practice or offering to carry your stuff. rodrick will get so pissed that he threatens to kick them out of the band. you think it’s hilarious how defensive he gets.

loser bf!rodrick, who always gives you the front seat in his van, no questions asked. greg has to squish in the back with the instruments, too bad lol.

loser bf!rodrick, who pretends to be terrible at eyeliner just so you’ll do it for him. in return, he paints your nails—or you can also paint his (in exclusively black).

loser bf!rodrick, who acts reluctant whenever you drag him into photobooths at the mall. the two of you end up making the dumbest faces before you lean in and kiss him right on the mouth… with tongue.

loser bf!rodrick, who lets you doodle on his arm with a sharpie, and he refuses to wash them off. they stay there until they fade completely.

loser bf!rodrick, who finally starts wearing deodorant consistently because of you. it’s not even something you asked him to do—he just noticed you sniffing his shirts a little more critically and panicked. now, he’s always freshly applied before seeing you.

loser bf!rodrick, who gets hard every time you kiss him.

loser bf!rodrick, who tries his best to keep his room somewhat presentable whenever you come over. he knows it’s still a fucking disaster by normal standards, but for rodrick, clearing a path to the bed is a grand romantic gesture.

loser bf!rodrick, who’s obsessed so with seeing your hickeys on him. he never bothers to hide them—in fact, he wears them like badges.

loser bf!rodrick, who almost accidentally used the wrong side of the condom when you had sex for the first time.

loser bf!rodrick, who absolutely melts when you tug on his hair during sex. he didn’t even realise he had a thing for it until the first time you did it. now, he practically begs for it without using words, tilting his head back and grinning like a total idiot whenever your fingers get close.

loser bf!rodrick, who keeps every random thing you’ve ever given him — notes you’ve passed to him in class, concert tickets, even candy wrappers.

loser bf!rodrick, who hates being bossed around but will do anything you ask, especially if it involves you kissing his cheek or ruffling his hair in thanks. he’s so whipped and everyone knows it.

loser bf!rodrick, who brags to greg about how sexy and smart and pretty you are, just to rub it in, but secretly feels like he doesn’t deserve you. he gets this dumb, soft look on his face whenever you’re around, like he still can’t believe you chose him.

 fear-is-truth 2024 — all rights reserved. do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarise my content.

[libingan]

—no questions asked.

you’ve always been his, even before the words were ever said—no labels needed when everything else speaks for itself.

i remember candace and jeremy's relationship in phineas and ferb. i liked how jeremy assumed they were already dating and thought to myself "simon riley" so here it is.

it’s always been this way with simon.

the little things you’ve shared, those moments that nobody else gets to see, have slowly built up over time. long drives where the silence is comfortable, quiet moments when you’re wrapped up in a blanket together, his arm draped around your shoulders. you’ve shared soft kisses in the early morning light, whispered words when you think no one’s listening, and occasional touches that linger just a second too long to be deemed innocent. his gruff voice calling you his—just “his,” as if you’re already a part of something bigger, something unspoken.

but the question always lingers in the back of your mind: what are we?

because in your head, you’re not his girlfriend. you never really were. sure, you’ve done couple things—spent hours together, laughed over inside jokes, shared moments that feel like they belong to only the two of you. but whenever you think about it, you can’t quite place a label on what you are. you never had that conversation, the one where he asks you out, where you define what this thing between you is.

and deep down, you’ve always known. maybe it’s not meant to last. maybe simon’s just passing through your life like a storm, wild and unpredictable, leaving you wondering if you’ll ever feel whole again once the dust settles. you’ve never asked for a commitment. it was enough for you to just be close, to keep things easy and fluid, without any promises that might eventually break.

but then, everything changes the moment you decide to confront him.

it’s a quiet night, the kind where the world outside seems to stop, and you’re sitting in the living room, the only sound being the soft hum of the kitchen light. simon’s sprawled across the couch, eyes half-lidded as he scrolls through his phone. you’re sitting on the floor in front of him, leaning your back against the coffee table, and you can’t stop your thoughts from swirling.

the truth has been eating at you for weeks now, months maybe. you have to ask. you need to know if this is really what you want, and more importantly, if it’s what simon wants. so, you let the question slip, unsure of how it’ll come out, but it tumbles from your lips all the same.

“simon,” you begin, your voice quiet but firm, “what are we?”

he doesn’t immediately look up from his phone. it’s as if the question barely registers, but you know he’s heard it. you can feel his attention slowly turning your way, as if his brain needs a second to process the weight of your words.

he puts the phone down, tilting his head slightly to get a better look at you, his gaze soft but intense. he doesn’t say anything at first. instead, his lips curl into a small, knowing smirk.

“what do you mean?” his voice is low, almost like he’s testing the waters.

you swallow, feeling a tightness in your chest, and you try to make your words come out right. “i mean… we do all this stuff, simon. you call me yours, and i… i don’t even know where i stand. we’ve never really talked about what this is. are we… are we dating, or what?”

he blinks at you for a moment, clearly taken aback by your words. it’s almost funny, how much you’ve thought about it, how much you’ve analyzed your every interaction, while simon has likely never questioned it. it’s simple to him. and that’s when it hits you—he’s never even considered that this could be anything other than what it is.

he sighs, a deep, exasperated sound, and leans back into the couch, his arms crossed over his chest. his eyes lock onto yours, unwavering. “what are you on about, woman? you’re my girlfriend.”

the words hang in the air, and for a moment, you can’t quite process them. you blink, unsure if you’ve heard him right. it almost sounds like he’s stating a fact, like it’s something as simple as breathing. his voice is firm, unwavering, as if this was always meant to be the case.

you feel your breath catch, the weight of his words sinking in, and then—just like that—all your worries melt away. you don’t even know why you were so worried in the first place. the uncertainty, the anxiety, it all seems so silly now. you’re not sure whether to laugh or roll your eyes at the absurdity of it all. simon is, as always, so simon about it. there’s no drama, no overthinking, no need for big conversations or declarations.

you’re his. you’re his girlfriend. and there’s no debate.

the relief hits first, followed closely by a mix of amusement and a small flash of annoyance. you try to hold back the grin tugging at your lips. “wait... just like that? no question, no ‘will you be my girlfriend?’ just… you’re my girlfriend?”

he meets your gaze, nonchalant, and shrugs. “that’s right. you’re mine. no need for any of that nonsense. i’ve already decided.”

you stare at him, feeling a warmth spread through you that has nothing to do with the temperature of the room. it’s the way he speaks, like he’s already certain, already claimed you. and it feels… good. reassuring, even. but also, just a little bit frustrating. because, honestly, how do you even argue with that?

“god, you’re impossible,” you mutter, a grin breaking through as you roll your eyes. “seriously. you’re so damn sure about everything.”

he just smirks back, the corner of his mouth lifting ever so slightly. “you should be glad i am, sweetheart. now, come here.”

he pats his lap, and before you can protest, you’re already moving toward him, the tension from moments before completely gone. his arms pull you close, and you settle against him, feeling his familiar warmth. you don’t even need the words anymore. somehow, just being with him like this is enough.

and that, you realize, is exactly what simon’s always known.

[xxsinisterbunniexx]

✮⋆˙ ☠︎︎ ★☠︎ ✮⋆˙ Creepypasta general NSFW headcanons ✮⋆˙ ☠︎︎ ★☠︎ ✮⋆˙

Characters: Jeff the Killer, Ticci Toby, Eyeless Jack, BEN drowned, X Virus

Thought I’d kick off with some NSFW headcanons for the most popular characters (plus X virus simply because I adore him)

Jeff

☠︎︎ need to be on permanent birth control with him, does not pull out and does not care

☠︎︎ he would just be oh so mean

☠︎︎ lots of degradation

☠︎︎"come all over my cock like the fucking slut you are”

☠︎︎ spits in your mouth

☠︎︎ knifeplay!

☠︎︎ generally very rough: choking, slapping, general manhandling

☠︎︎ BUT

☠︎︎ every once in a while he has a bad day and he becomes just so soft

☠︎︎ takes his time with you, touches you gently

☠︎︎ “you know I love you so much”

☠︎︎ fav position is doggy in front of a mirror because he can watch your face while he fucks the shit out of you

Toby

✘ also need permanent birth control with him, but unlike Jeff he would try to pull out if you asked him to but he’s only like 50% consistent about it

✘ but if you didn’t ask him to…

✘ lowkey has a breeding kink so he’d come inside every time

✘ his family is broken so he lowkey wants to have one but do it right

✘ bites you, bites you!!!

✘ cannot feel pain so this man is a SADIST!!!

✘ he would be so intrigued with watching how you react to pain

✘ slips into German if he’s really getting into it

✘“Du fühlst dich so gut an, mein Mädchen. Du wirst so schwach für mich.”

✘ big on marking you (both with bites and hickeys)

✘ talks you through it

✘ “gonna come for me, pretty girl?”

✘ loves eating you out and gets really sloppy with it

✘ and when he’s receiving he’s a head pusher, hair puller, face fucker

✘ loud as fuck, this bro will moan and growl in your ear without shame

✘ his fav position is mating press cause he gets to watch your face while he bruises your cervix <3

Eyeless Jack

⛥ major breeding kink

⛥ would come in you, tell you to keep it in, and when it inevitably starts to seep out he’d breed you again

⛥ also fingers his cum back into you

⛥ “look at how wasteful you are. Guess I’ll have to fill you up again”

⛥ this man is a demon so he’s so feral oml

⛥ can smell when you are ovulating and it drives him WILD

⛥ makes a shit ton of demonic ass noises

⛥ I’m talking growling, groaning, may even purr a bit (in like a demonic scary way LOL)

⛥ ummm SpongeBob why is it in a cage

⛥ because it growled at me

⛥ jk you could not cage this man

⛥ he has multiple tongues and he’s gonna put them to use

⛥ like eating your pussy until you are BEGGING for him to stop

⛥ knows a lot about human anatomy so….

⛥ fav position is mating press (for obvious reasons)

BEN drowned

⚠︎ he’s a little shit and this would translate to the bedroom

⚠︎ teasing you 24/7 it’s like torture

⚠︎ won’t just eat you out, he’s gotta bite your thighs and then get real close and let his breath fan over your clit just to make you tremble

⚠︎ would love to tie you up so he can torture you even more

⚠︎ likes to hear you beg

⚠︎ edging to the max like bro loves orgasm control

⚠︎ “aw, you wanna come? Better ask real nicely”

⚠︎ plays ur titties like a video game controller LMAO

⚠︎ corruption kink

⚠︎ loves to use toys with you because he can use his influence~

⚠︎ fav position is anything where you’re on top

X Virus

☣︎ so meticulous about it

☣︎ like has precise control over your body and commands it so well

☣︎ also loves orgasm control but less in an edging way and more in a you come when I want you to come kind of way

☣︎ “don’t you dare come without permission. I control when you come”

☣︎ experimentalist, for obvious reasons

☣︎ like bro will genuinely try anything once

☣︎ so when he comes to you with that special look in his eye you know you’re in for it

☣︎ especially if he’s been holed up in the lab for a few days before

☣︎ because you just know that means he’s made you an extra special drug he wants you to try

☣︎ loves giving head but lord when he is receiving…

☣︎ like jaw goes slack, soul leaves his body, he can only run his fingers into your hair and squeeze a little when you tease him too much otherwise he is OUT

☣︎ keeps in control for 95% of the act while he fucks you until the very end when he’s close to coming and then he’s erratically thrusting into you and his voice is cracking

☣︎ his fav position is anything where he can see your face because he needs to observe your reactions

These are my general thoughts on the characters :3 I’m gonna start writing more headcanons and also cross posting my other fics little by little but until then hope you enjoyed <3

[chococolte]

I think a sagau! touch starved/needy childe, scara and zhongli feels very attractive, to have two powerful harbingers on their knees just for a shred of attention from their god makes me wanna pamper them

but also like zhongli?? That man is so touch-starved like poor dude has been worshipping for hundreds of years without a reward for his good work probably drives him insane. I cannot imagine how he hold it together and doesn’t ascend on the spot when he breathes the same air as his god because I genuinely think he’s THAT needy

also your writing really brought me a lot of comfort!! Thank you for running the blog and doing what you do💜💜

word count. 3.8k

୨୧ — ꒰ cw. yandere, unhealthy relationships, possessive & obsessive thoughts/behaviors, religious + cult themes, sagau + cult au, g/n reader. i do not condone yanderes irl.

୨୧ — ꒰ a/n. im so happy you like my writing!! im sorry i took forever to write this, but i still hope you like it !!!!

childe

In the unfathomable dark of the abyss, you were the only thing Childe had to keep himself sane.

Without you, he would've lost himself; without you, he is nothing. He only survived because of your guidance. In his eyes, his ever consuming need of you is only right— he has no need of anything else, and sees no purpose to think otherwise. You've only ever proven how worthy you are of worship.

When light seeps through tree boughs, he sees you. He sees you in the way the leaves leave a shadow. He feels you in the cast of the wind's breath. Every breath he takes is inlaid with your name. The mere thought of the opposite makes him sick.

He's pathetic, but his pitiful appearance is only for your eyes.

Just breathing in your presence is enough for him to feel weak and fluttery, but your eyes on him leave him delirious; the sort of dizzy where he can’t bring himself to move at all. All you have to do is glance at him for his knees to tremble like they're about to buckle underneath his weight.

Somehow, he keeps himself standing each time. He should be ashamed, he knows, embarrassed— but drool pools quickly in his mouth as your eyes linger, and any sort of dignity is discarded in the light of your gaze.

As a Harbinger, he should have more pride than he does, but Childe's only arrogance is his belief that he's special to you. That belief was the only thing he had to ground himself in the abyss, and he clings to it as if to let go would mean death. In his mind, it would be no different.

You were the only thing he had, even if he only knew you in the form of whispers and imperceptible kisses of wind. He didn’t need to touch you, no matter how tortuous of an existence it may be, as long as he could feel you.

That was enough. He thought it would be enough.

Seeing you is an entirely different matter however, and quickly, he finds himself wondering what your skin would feel like under his calloused fingertips.

He wants you to touch him. It's a selfish want, but one he carries with him all the same.

He wants you to play with his hair and hold him close as if he's something precious. He wants you to run your fingers along his spine and see him as he reveals every dark, nasty part of himself. He wants you to look and still find something to love.

Childe doesn't speak a word of his desires. He sits with them in the dark and tries to will them away. He tries to withstand their passage, but only ends up choking on each thought.

He tries to hold himself at night, imagining his arms are yours, but it only makes the ache worse.

He imagines loving you, and you loving him.

When you summon him to your chambers, Childe has to hold every nerve in his body to keep himself from running to you. It’s with a clearly restrained gait that he reaches you, just barely, his knees still wobbly and the floor a shifting kaleidoscope of colors.

It doesn’t bother him. Childe feels weightless, alight with fervor, and it’s a struggle to stop himself from rushing forward just to breathe a little closer to you. He drops to his knees, bowing his head until his forehead sits against your marble flooring.

Touch me, he thinks.

He somehow manages to choke a greeting out of his throat, unable to stop the small shudder that runs through him when he feels your gaze settle on him.

It feels right, being beneath you. It feels right, the slight tension in his body as he waits for you to speak.

Childe doesn’t say anything else. You’re the only one he truly respects, the only one he’s ever felt so fervently for— in your name, he would burn the world and scorch the earth. For you, he’d stain his hands so terribly the waters turn red. He holds no desire to clean his hands with anything other than your forgiveness— and so he doesn't dare to speak out of turn, unable to bear the thought of you being upset with him.

"Come here," he hears you say, your voice gentle and cooing. Childe doesn't hesitate, taking your words as a command, crawling towards you like some sort of dog.

Despite how eager he is to be near you, his hands rest dumbly at his sides. His fingers twitch, aching to touch you for just a moment, but he sits still, trying to be good. Without your permission, all he can do is sit, no better than a well-trained hound.

Childe looks up at you with a dumb, dopey smile on his face. He knows he must look like a fool, dazed just by sitting so close to you— he can already feel heat spreading across his freckled cheeks, and he knows it must be obvious— but he can't find it in himself to care.

It’s you.

You're so close he could touch you if he dared. Your warmth is only a few inches away from him, and he inhales, trying to breathe you in. For a brief moment, he allows himself the blessing to imagine what it would be like to touch you.

He imagines running his fingers against your skin. He imagines brushing against your hand. He imagines his palms gliding across the length of your robe, pretending the silk is your flesh. The thoughts strike him dumb, and he lets out a small whine before he can reel himself back in.

It's a breathless noise, but one he's sure you heard.

Your hand reaches forward to cup his cheek, and he nuzzles into your palm, leaning into your warmth as if trying to drink you in.

"So cute," you say, and every dark, needy part of him lights up all at once.

Childe makes another sound, a soft whimper drawn from the back of his throat. His russet lashes flutter shut, and any sense of propriety is promptly thrown to the side.

Touch me.

Another sharp shudder runs through him when you rub your thumb over his cheek. He almost falls limp against your hand, his breath locked in his throat, but he manages to steady himself in time.

His hands find your ornate robes within a second, and then he's clutching onto them until his knuckles are white. Childe can feel himself digging little crescents into his palms, but your touch means he's unable to focus on anything else, and the thought of lessening his grip makes him afraid you'll pull away.

Childe bites his lips, trying to stifle another noise. He never wants this to end. You could spit in his face, and he would thank you for it.

Just as he jerks forward, chest heaving as he struggles to catch his breath, overwhelmed by how good your touch feels— you're letting go, and pure, unbridled fear rushes over him.

"N-No!" Childe begs hoarsely, unable to realize that he's acting out of what he's allowed. "No, no, d-don't stop, please! Please, please…" he pleads weakly, fingers digging into your robes again, tighter this time.

Unshed tears wet his eyes. If it means having your attention on him, he would do anything. Nothing is too far beneath him. He’s already done unspeakable things in your name, hoping to garner your favor; if it means having your touch for one second longer, then there’s no low he wouldn’t fall too— no covenant he wouldn’t break, divine or mortal. 

As long as it means being by your side at the end of it, any agony would be worth it. No shame is too much for him to bear. 

"Oh, puppy," you murmur softly. One of your hands cups his cheek, while the other gently tugs at his hair. "How could I say no to you?"

The fear coalescing around his heart dissipates, and the fingers that were clutching onto you lessen their grip slightly.

"Mhm," Childe hums at too high of a pitch, but he's much too drunk on you to think about anything else, much less whether he's ruining your perception of him. He hides his face in your hand.

Your puppy, he wants to add, but his mind is too frazzled to get the words out.

Your fingers in his hair tighten, and Childe can't help the little bit of drool that falls from his lips.

scaramouche

He shouldn't be ecstatic with just this much.

All you’d done was look at him. You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye, and it was enough for him to feel every nerve bursting like stars all over, pin pricks dancing under his skin. It was enough for every ugly, horrible little part of himself to reveal themselves like he'd done nothing to hide them.

The sudden surge of emotion, an incessant and desperate need to please you— to give you no reason to give him away— breaches the surface far too quickly. His every move is then dictated by how it might affect you, whether it'll give him your favor or ire; and an ever increasing chittering spawns in the back of his mind, crying for you to touch him.

All you'd done was look at him.

Scaramouche tries to ignore it at first. He, very pointedly, does his best not to think of how his skin burns when a thought of you touching him enters his mind unbidden, nor how it simultaneously destroys whatever preconceived notions he had of himself.

He knows titles are meaningless in front of you, but that doesn't quite quell the petulance he feels when he crumbles each time you look at him. You don't have to touch him for every wall to burst like they were nothing. You don't even have to be near him. Your eyes meet his for a moment, and it's like everything he is shatters.

It makes him feel disgustingly weak and as insignificant as the day he was born.

Scaramouche is one out of many; one interaction you may have out of hundreds. He knows how many clamber for your affection, and how many more would ruin themselves for it.

You hold his gaze for a meaningless amount of time, and he knows it means nothing to you. His body still reacts like it does. He knows once you've turned, you'll have already found something else to capture your attention. His pulse still churns as if you’d just held his face in your hands.

It's nothing to you. It should mean nothing to him.

He hates the fact it bothers him.

He shouldn't care. It's not the same as you abandoning him. That you look at him at all should mean something. But it doesn't change the way fear bundles inside of him when you look away, nor does it change the disgust that rises at the very fact he feels that way at all.

He shouldn’t care. It shouldn’t bother him. But it does. It does.

It eats away at him like a festering wound. It hurts like nothing before it. He wonders if you’ll grace him with a look, and when you do, that’s the only thing that matters. When you turn away, he wonders how he ever got to this point. When you don’t, it’s like his breath’s been wrung from his lungs, and he wonders again, at what point did he let himself fall so far. 

It’s a point of irritability for him, and he ignores it like acknowledging it would be the death of his ego. Knowing that it would only serves to make him suffer more.

Whether you smiled or twitched your brow shouldn't feel the same as being reborn or having life torn from him. 

You haven't left him yet. He constantly feels like you're about too.

Scaramouche has to sit and watch when you interact with others. It feels like torture. You smile, and for some reason, it feels like fire washing over him. You laugh, and somehow, he hears it as vividly as he would if he was next to you; only it hurts because he's not the one you're sharing it with.

He could at least pretend he wasn't so pathetic before. He could hold himself up with some pride, even dignity— mask his emotions well enough they couldn't be used against him. Now, sitting in front of you like this, he can't even have that much.

It's piety, worship, love, or something in between or all of them at once. He's weak all over because of it, and it makes him furious at the same time it makes him euphoric.

He wishes he was stronger. Tempered by the abyss, and he still can't resist falling into you.

Your hand runs across the nape of his neck, and he shivers, skin burning where your fingers brush. A soft, shuddery breath escapes him, and his fingers curl where they're latched onto your robes.

If it was anyone else, maybe he would have mauled them for seeing him in such a state. People are perfidious; quick to betray, and even quicker to exploit whatever they've gleaned. Faster still to take away anything that makes him happy.

It's not just anyone, though. It's you. And despite how terribly he fears and how deeply he wishes to bury his emotions, his want of you runs deeper. If it means holding your attention, then you can have anything. If it means feeling your touch, then he'd let you use whatever you wanted against him.

If it meant having the assurance of your presence, then he'd kneel and discard his every title and name. He'd become nothing, if he knew he'd still have you.

“Good boy,” you whisper, and Scaramouche instinctively moves closer, rubbing his knees raw against marble, trying to breathe in your warmth.

He despises how fast he weakens at your beckoning; how he can't even will himself to resist, or fathom the thought of it— malleable to your every whim, and unable to be truly angered by it. He only shifts to be nearer to you, dreaming of your touch, hoping to share some of your eternity.

A whimper rises from his throat, trying to kill his desperation.

"Don't leave me," he says, the words wrenched from his throat. "Don't leave me."

Don’t betray me, he wants to say instead. Don’t abandon me.

It's a disgusting display of weakness. He wishes he could kill his voice so he wouldn't speak at all, but even without a heart, his emotions feel like they might choke him.

The things you do to him are terrible. Pleas for you to only look at him sit and die on his tongue. He reels himself back in before he can make a fool out of himself even further, but he knows you only have to look at him for a little bit longer for any sense of resistance to die alongside his pride. 

"I won't," you say softly, holding his cheek against your palm. "I'm here."

Scaramouche leans into your touch, hiding his face against your hand. He manages to keep himself from making an improper sound through sheer will, though he has to clench his jaw and close his eyes. 

Even just knowing he has all of your attention makes him feel dazed, and as you rub your thumb over his cheek, he can’t even muster any anger at being reduced to such a state. He hums, somehow leaning even further into your touch. 

“I’m here,” you say again, and Scaramouche whimpers into your palm.

zhongli

Zhongli dreams of you every night.

He knows he shouldn’t. It’s not proper of him, nor is it right for him to sully your image with his thoughts. Still, though, the thoughts come unbidden and leave him a wreck in their wake. 

What troubles him is what he knows to be the cause of them.

Zhongli has always been eternally grateful. He's sat with the love of you until it permeated every thought. He's lived beside the worship of you until it coated his every word and nerve. 

Being able to serve you past fantasies in his imagination brings him purpose, and that should be enough. And for a time, it was. 

He could see you and feel fulfilled. He could breathe your air and feel like the thousands of years spent waiting for you had been worth it. Even following you around like some sort of dog was more gratifying than splitting the earth apart. This, he thought, is enough.

This sense of greed, then, shouldn't exist.

Zhongli pretends it's not his own, but the truth is that every thought is painfully his. 

He imagines you running your fingers through his hair. He imagines touching your skin. He imagines you whispering praises against the pale column of his throat, and he imagines being yours in such a way that he knew he was special to you. He imagines you breathing his name and it feeling like rebirth. He imagines your touch. He imagines being able to worship you selfishly, entirely, in a way that no one but him could claim the honor of.

In a way, he thinks he deserves it. To be tortured with visions of things he knows he doesn't deserve and thoughts he knows you wouldn't approve of. 

Zhongli would think of you often before, when all he had of you were the prayers on his lips and promises of piety. It was difficult to imagine you as something physical, but still, his heart stirred. His most meaningful company was the thought of you beside him.

What he thinks of now is different.

He wouldn't have dared to imagine touching your skin. He wouldn't have let the thought escape the darkest of his subconscious. He wouldn't have dared to let himself the simple fantasy of you speaking his name like he's something precious to you. All he wanted, then, was to share the same plane of existence as you. A selfish want, but it was pure.

What pervades his mind now is some sort of sacrilege. He should know better, but he still sullies you every time he closes his eyes, unable to fight and equally unwilling too. 

His greatest arrogance. Even with thousands of mortal lifetimes lived, he still can't rid himself of it— even with his own self-hatred, his thoughts continue to defy him. 

Even when he knows he's failing you, he falls deeper. 

It's worse when you interact with others. Zhongli hugs your shadow and trails after you always, eager to please but always hiding behind a mask of propriety and decorum. He likes to pretend to have a semblance of control in your presence, though he knows that if you’d only ask, he would rid himself of it entirely and be thankful for it.

You're perfect, which is why you're kind even to those that don't deserve a modicum of your attention. You smile, and each time it's not directed at him, he tries to choke the indignance out of him. It’s selfish of him to expect that he be the only one to receive your affection, despite how his mind whispers it’s because he hasn’t done enough to prove himself to you. 

Why else, it supplies, would you waste your breath on those undeserving of it? 

He reminds himself of his place. It assuages him for only a moment.

Zhongli dreams of your breath. He dreams of you cracking him open and bearing witness to every depravity and every virtue and still whispering your love to him. He dreams of looking at you and knowing that he means something to you. He dreams and he wants so terribly, and he knows none of it is his to imagine.

He reminds himself of his place, repeating the words over and over in his mind. He whispers them to himself at night in hopes that maybe, it'll finally stick this time. 

Be pleased with this much.

He's meant to be. He tells himself that, maybe, if he perseveres well enough, he'll be rewarded. 

Maybe you'd let him touch you?

He wouldn't ask for much. Maybe you would be kind enough to let him hold your fingers in his. He wouldn't do so for long. Maybe, if he was good, you'd let him kiss your fingertips with the reverence you deserve. 

It’s an impossibility, he knows, but it's his sole comfort. If he withstands just for a while more, you'll be proud instead of disappointed that he's fallen so low. 

Then you ask for him to kneel, alone in your chambers, and he doesn't know what to do with himself.

Zhongli does as you say immediately. He falls to his knees so quickly that his mind doesn't have the chance to catch up. Vaguely, he understands that maybe he should be ashamed with how fast his body responds. He decides he doesn't care. All he knows is that you're looking at him, and that it feels sweet and good, and that he doesn't want you to stop. 

His breath is lodged in his throat. His heart sounds like a roar in his ears. Nothing exists but you and your words. All you have to do is whisper a word that could vaguely be understood as a command and he would be at your feet, ready to be used. 

He wants you to touch him. 

You smile, and his nerves feel alight with fervor. Zhongli’s hands stay clenched on his knees, trembling with the strength needed to resist touching you. 

You haven't given him permission, so he keeps himself still. 

You cradle his face in your hands. He can feel the warmth of your palms caressing his cheeks, and he wonders— how can there be anyone who doesn't worship you? 

“Good boy,” you say, and Zhongli inhales sharply. 

For you, he wants to say. Only for you.

He doesn't, afraid to speak; afraid that to murmur even the softest of praises would cause you to pull away. 

Does he tell you, he wonders, that he wants you to play with his hair? Does he tell you he wants you to love him completely, innocently, selfishly? Does he tell you he wants you to touch his skin, anywhere if it means having that small piece of contact? 

“Where do you want me to touch you?” you ask, and he can hear the small tint of mirth in your voice.

The question strikes him dumb. His body burns and his blood is singing. Zhongli doesn't care if you find him amusing. No, he delights in it. It doesn't matter as long as he means something at all to you.

His fingers twitch, and just barely does he manage to keep his hands to himself. 

“Everywhere,” he breathes.

[itneverendshere]

we say we’re different but we got the same eyes - r.c

pairing: bitchy!pogue!reader x rafe

you needed to stop taking other people shift’s. 

it’s not like you wanted to, but at least they were paying you to do so, enough to let you actually chill this summer without stressing about rent or whatever else adulthood decided to throw at you.

all you had to do was show up and do the job. first at lila’s dinner, now at the bougie country club, as a cart girl.

you’d done this before, and sure, the old men were always a little too handsy with their beer guts hanging over their tacky polos, but at least they tipped well. you could tolerate them. smile, giggle at their half-assed jokes, and let them feel like they still had it. 

fine. pay me for my pain, grandpa. 

today however, instead of your usual sugar-daddy wannabes, you were babysitting frat boys. fresh out of their first year of college, probably still hungover from their last keg stand.

nineteen-year-old idiots in pastel shorts and backwards hats, making everything about themselves.

“bro, you remember that party at kappa? dude, swear i blacked out after like, five shots.”

wow, five whole shots? congrats, you absolute child. should i get you a sticker for that?

don’t even get started on their conversations about girls. one of them, chad or brad or whatever his stupid name was, just had to loudly detail how some poor innocent girl “totally wanted him last night but was playing hard to get.”

yeah, bro, she was probably just trying to get through the night without having to mace your entitled ass.

it was constant. the whole damn morning. all they talked about was frat parties, girls they didn’t deserve, and how they "couldn’t wait to get back to school."

you'd give anything to remind them how utterly irrelevant their frat status was in the real world, but you couldn’t. nope. you had to keep your game face on, pour their drinks, and pretend like they weren’t giving you a headache that rivaled your worst hangovers.

at least the elderly snobs tipped well. sure, they were pretentious and acted like you were beneath them, but they'd slip you a twenty or more with a smug little wink. that made it easier to tolerate their "i’ve been golfing here since before you were born" bullshit.

but these brats?

half the time they forgot to tip at all, and when they did remember, it was a crumpled five like they were doing you some grand favor. and of course, of course, they couldn’t just keep their obnoxious, beer-breath comments to themselves. no, they had to make it worse by hitting on you—hard. 

painfully hard. it was like watching a car crash in slow motion, except instead of pulling over to help, you were stuck right in the middle, praying someone would just tow your ass out.

“yo, what’s your name again?” one of them asks. bryce, probably. his face just screams bryce.

he's leaning against the cart like he thinks it's going to make him look cool, but really, he’s just sloshing his drink all over the place. classy.

“it’s on my name tag,” you deadpan, pointing to the little badge pinned to your polo. you're not about to give him any more than that.

but he's not letting it go. “oh yeah? cute name for a cute girl. you single or what?”

jesus christ. here we go.

you resist the urge to roll your eyes so hard they’d get stuck in the back of your head. 

“’m here to work,” you sigh, voice sweet enough to mask the absolute disdain you're feeling. you know what comes next.

they always think they can charm you if they just keep going, like you are some kind of challenge.

“c’mon, don’t be like that,” another one chimes in, this one wearing sunglasses even though it's barely 9 a.m.

who do you think you are, pitbull? 

he gives you this sleazy grin like he thinks he's smoother than he actually is. “we could take you out after your shift. grab a drink. bet you’re fun, huh?”

fun? FUN?! if by fun he means fantasizing about driving this cart straight into the water hazard just to escape this conversation, then sure, you're a real blast.

you look around the course, hoping maybe one of the older golfers needs a refill or something—anything to get you away from this nightmare. no luck. it's just you and these clowns.

“i don’t date customers,” you say, a line you’d perfected at this point.

you plaster on your fakest smile, the kind that said please tip me and then leave me the hell alone. but bryce wasn’t giving up.

“you’re really gonna turn us down? i mean, we’re the best thing on this course right now.”

best thing?

the only thing they're the best at seems to be embarrassing themselves. this is the type of guy who probably thinks buying a girl a drink meant she owns him something.

you can't even be mad; it's almost... sad. almost.

“maybe you should focus on your game,” you suggest, glancing at his scorecard. “you’re, what, ten over par already?”

that shuts him up real quick, his face going from cocky to confused like he didn't expect you to know how golf worked.

his friend with the sunglasses? he's still trying.

“we can show you a good time, y’know. we’ve got a house down on the beach. you like boats?”

ah, yes. the boat move. the go-to for guys who think a half-assed yacht and a cooler full of cheap beer is the height of luxury.

you’d seen it a million times in this godforsaken town.

you're not impressed.

you shoot them another smile, “i like tips.”

they all blink confusedly, clearly not used to a girl calling them out so directly. the frat boys mumble something between themselves, looking awkward for the first time all day.

finally, one of them fishes a crumpled twenty out of his pocket and tosses it your way. 

oh, wow, big spender. 

you scoop it up, shoving it into your pocket and giving them a little nod. “thanks, boys. good luck with your game.”

you thought the twenty bucks might’ve bought you a few minutes of peace, but no. they're back at it, swinging at golf balls like they aren't trying to flirt in between their awful shots.

you roll the cart over to the next part of the course, half-listening to their constant chatter.

something about “last semester” this, and “pledge party” that. god, they just never stop. it's like someone hit the repeat button on the world’s most annoying playlist.

one of them calls you over again, like he can't wait five minutes for his next drink. you start prepping them, half tuning them out, just trying to get through it, when suddenly, miraculously, they shut the hell up.

for a second, you think maybe the universe is finally doing you a favor. you don't even question it, just start pouring drinks faster.

a quiet frat boy is a gift. but then you hear it:

“dude!” one of them practically tackles the other, all wide-eyed and hyped up like a little kid who just saw his favorite cartoon character. “is that rafe fucking cameron?!”

oh, for fuck’s sake.

your stomach drops. of course it has to be him. because clearly, your morning isn't being shitty enough. you don't even look at first. 

one of the guys starts flipping out, hitting his buddy’s shoulder like it's the coolest thing to ever happen.

“bro, no way. no way. that’s rafe cameron? he used to be the president of our frat, man. two years ago! he’s a fucking legend!”

legend? you almost laugh.

the only legend rafe is to you it's a legendary asshole. a smug, infuriating, gorgeous asshole who you have been avoiding like the plague. the same one who has been blowing up your phone nonstop, trying to get back into your life.

the same one you swore down you’d never sleep with again after he pulled that stunt at the dinner—and then, of course, ended up in his bed two nights ago. you haven't spoken to him since. you’d been ignoring him again—well, trying to—but now here he is. in the flesh. and these idiots are drooling over him like he's some kind of frat god.

you turn your head, and he's striding across the green like he doesn't have a care in the world. of course he looks good. he always does.

wayfarer’s pushed up in his hair, that cocky-ass grin on his face, wearing a polo like he's the face of a country club catalog. you know he’d see you any second. hell, he probably already has. 

yeah, you’d been avoiding him, and yeah, maybe you’d blocked his number twice, but that didn’t stop him from calling with a different one. or from somehow finding you the other night at the party when you were weak enough to let him back in, only to get burned again.

“holy shit, he’s coming this way,” one of the frat boys mutters, shaking with excitement.

you don't move, don't acknowledge him. but you can feel his eyes on you. it's like a sixth sense at this point. you'd crave it so much before, when it was all a silly game in your head, see how much you could push until he cracked and gave into you. now it's a curse.

the boys are watching him approach like he's some kind of celebrity.

“should we say something to him?” one whispers. “i heard he’s like, killing it in the business world now. family’s loaded.”

yeah, you think bitterly. killing it. if you count being a trust fund brat as an accomplishment.

rafe's closer now, and you know this moment is inevitable. the frat boys are giddy, already nudging each other, probably ready to beg him for networking advice or whatever the hell frat bros did.

you keep your eyes down, focusing on pouring the drinks, acting like you don't even notice him. like he doesn't phase you in the slightest.

“hey,” a familiar voice drawls. you don't have to lift your head to know it's him. naturally, he stops right by you. because why wouldn’t he?

“rafe fucking cameron!” one of the guys yells, unable to keep it together anymore. “you’re like a legend, man. kappa forever!”

you never cringed so hard in your life.

rafe smirks, that signature look spreading across his face. “yeah, somethin' like that.”

you clench your jaw, forcing yourself to keep your face neutral. no way in hell are you about to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he still gets to you. 

everyone else around you are tripping over their words just to get his attention. it's embarrassing to watch. the kids acting like he's some kind of messiah, not just some white rich guy with a trust fund and a bad attitude half the time.

“man, the outer banks is fucking sick,” one of them says, bouncing on his feet like an overexcited puppy. “we’ve been hitting the beaches, bars, y’know, living it up. and bro, the girls here? smoking hot.”

here we go. 

you pretend to be very invested in the cooler, rearranging the ice just to keep your hands busy. they're about to start pointing at you any second now; you can sense it.

the way they keep looking over at you made it obvious they're gearing up for something.

and then, like clockwork, it happens.

“yeah, man,” one of them gestures way too enthusiastically in your direction. “that cart girl over there? we’ve been trying all morning.”

oh, fuck right off, you resist the urge to throw a bottle at him.

you’d rather die than hear what lame pickup line is coming next, but what you really don't want to hear is whatever rafe's about to say.

there was a pause, as if he's taking a second to let it sink in. and when he finally does speak, his voice is all smooth confidence, casual as anything.

“so,” he starts, still with smirk you hate and know so well, “you’ve met my girl?”

my girl? my fucking girl?

one of them, manages to stammer, “uh—wait, she’s… she’s your girl?”

you can feel the tension creeping up the back of your neck. this's exactly why you’ve been avoiding him.

no matter what happened between you, no matter how messy things got, he always acted like he owned you in private. never in front of his friends, like just because you ended up in his bed, you were his to claim whenever he felt like it.

still keeping your eyes glued to the drinks, you feel your blood boil. you aren't his fucking girl. you're barely on speaking terms, aside from that one weak moment.

he's only saying it to mess with you.

one of the frat boys lets out a low whistle, clearly impressed. “damn, man. didn’t know you were still pulling like that.” he shoots a glance at you again, not even bothering to hide the once-over.

rafe just chuckles, that low, infuriating laugh of his, like he knows exactly how to get under your skin. “what can i say?” he drawls, as if the whole thing is just a game to him. “guess i’ve still got it.”

you're this close—this close—to snapping. you can feel your fists clenching at your sides. you're not giving him the satisfaction of a reaction. not here. not in front of these frat boys who're still looking at you like some kind of trophy.

rafe’s voice is closer now. you don't have to look up to know he's standing right by the cart.

“you good over there?” he asks, that fake casual tone still lingering.

you don't answer. just kept doing your job, biting the inside of your cheek so hard it hurts. but he isn't going to let it go. he never did when he wanted to prove a point.

“hey, baby.” he greets you again, leaning in slightly. you can feel his eyes burning into the side of your face. “you gonna pretend you don’t know me now?”

you take a deep breath, finally turning to face him. he's standing way too close, sunglasses pushed up on his head, that stupid expression plastered across his face.

the frat boys are all watching, wide-eyed, like they just stumbled onto some kind of reality show drama.

“you’re funny, cameron.” the guys all exchange glances, clearly picking up on the tension but too dumb to understand it, “can you guys give us a minute?”

one of them pipes up with an awkward laugh, “wait, but we—”

you don't let him finish. “one. minute.” 

they finally catch on that it isn't a request and before they can awkwardly protest or ask why, rafe tilts his head towards them, craning his neck just enough to raise a single brow. the change in his posture is subtle but enough to have them clamming up instantly.

like magic, their frat-boy bravado melts right off. it's wild how fast a bunch of college boys can shrink under the gaze of someone like him.

the power trip they’ve been riding for the last hour stop.

“uh, yeah, you know what?” one of them coughs out, backing up so fast he almost trips over his golf bag. “we should, uh… we’ll hit the bathroom. real quick.”

“yeah, yeah, we’ll be right back,” another one adds, practically stumbling over himself to follow.

they scatter like scared puppies, tails tucked between their legs, and you can't help the small, satisfied smirk that twitches at the corner of your mouth.

finally, a moment of peace.

except, it's not peace. not with rafe standing there. 

as soon as the frat boys are out of earshot, you spin around, without thinking, you shove him in the chest with both hands, hard enough to catch him off guard. he stumbles back a step, his face twisting into a look of surprise.

"are you fucking crazy?" you snap, "do you not get the fucking hint, country club? i don’t want this. i don’t want you here, and i sure as hell don’t want your bullshit claims that ’m your girl in front of those idiots. leave. me. alone.”

he steadies himself, raising both hands as if trying to calm you down. “’m trying to be better, okay? ’m trying. i apologized the other night, didn’t i? ’m—”

“no, you didn’t!” you look at him like he's the dumbest man on earth, cutting him off, your hands balled into fists at your sides. “you didn’t apologize! you said i was overreacting, that i was being ‘dramatic.’ then, you fucked me and acted like that made it all better.”

his jaw tightens, and he takes a deep breath as he glances around the mostly empty golf course before his eyes move back to you, his voice low but firm. "that’s not how i meant it—"

“you always have an excuse,” you interrupt, stepping closer, not backing down. “every time, it’s the same thing. you think a half-assed apology or a night in bed makes up for the way you treat me in public? like ‘m just some thing you get to claim whenever you feel like it?"

he visibly recoils at the word you chose, like it hurts him, “i know,” he finally mutters “i know i was a dick at that dinner. but ’m trying, okay? i’ve been calling you, texting you—”

“i didn’t ask. am i that good in bed? go find someone else.”

rafe’s hand flies up to pinch the bridge of his nose, a frustrated sigh escaping him. he draggs his tongue against his cheek. his voice coming out clipped, “i don’t want someone else,” he grunts out, sounding more exasperated than ever. “jesus fucking christ.”

you let out a laugh, stepping back, eyes rolling.

“oh, right. that’s it? ’m really that good in bed, huh? that’s why you’re here?” you cross your arms, your tone biting, daring him to say otherwise. “that’s all this has ever been, right? physical. you don’t call unless you want something. so what now? why are you trying so hard? what the hell are you trying for?”

he doesn't respond right away, his fingers are digging into the bridge of his nose like he's trying to hold himself together. the silence continues, and you can see him wrestling with his words. he's never been the type to say what he was feeling.

everything is buried under layers of cocky bravado, that impenetrable wall he put up to keep everyone at arm’s length. including you.

finally, he dropps his hand and takes a step closer, his voice coming out rough like he's forcing the words out. “’m here because i don’t want someone else. i want you, alright? can you just get that through your fucking head?”

you scoff, “because i know you and won’t get attached?”

he snaps, raising his voice, “no! fuck, it’s not that simple.”

"not that simple?" your hands are shaking, and you accidentally knock over one of the bottles you’d been holding before, sending it tumbling to the ground. you don't bother picking it up.

“it’s pretty fucking simple. we’re just fucking. so, tell me, what exactly is complicated about that? you call, i come over, we have sex, and that’s it. so why the fuck do you start ignoring me in public like ’m some kind of fucking disease?”

rafe opens his mouth, but you don't spare him the chance to speak, you're on a roll, months of pent-up frustration. 

“i don’t give a fuck if you’re with someone else, rafe!” you can hear the bitterness dripping from every word. you're practically spitting them out, “what pisses me off is that you had the audacity—the fucking nerve—to ask me to stay that night. do you know how fucking stupid i felt? how the fuck do you think i felt when you acted like i didn’t exist the next day?”

you can feel your hands trembling again, the adrenaline making you shaky, cursing under your breath.

“for once, i was nice enough to care about you, to stay, and that’s the shit you pulled. treated me like a ghost. like i was nothing.”

he just stands there, staring at you, his jaw tight, but he doesn't say a word. his face is hard to read, but you don't care about his feelings. you're not done yet.

“i was fine with the sex. i was fine with leaving afterwards and then you had to go and fuck it all over.”

rafe’s blue eyes flash, and you can see the realization hit him, like he's connecting the dots too fast for your liking.

his brows furrow as he breathes out, “wait. you’re mad at me because i made you—” he hesitates, like the word is foreign in his mouth, “care for me?”

you let out a harsh, bitter laugh. “oh, for fuck's sake, country club. don't flatter yourself.”

“you always do that shit,” he points out, stepping closer “you never call me by my name when we’re having a serious conversation. it's almost like you’re running away.”

you arch an eyebrow, incredulous. “are you delusional? you’re the one acting like a child.”

“’m not being delusional. you only say my name in my room when it’s just the two of us.” he leans in slightly, lowering his voice as if he's trying to keep this moment between you, his blue eyes lock onto yours making your stomach twist. “’m clearly not the only one who’s pretending here; you’re just as bad.”

you feel the heat rush to your cheeks as you walk back, trying to create space, but he closes the distance with easy confidence.

“pretending? please. ‘m not the one playing house in my bedroom while acting like i don’t know you outside of it.”

rafe lets out a low, frustrated groan, running his hand through his hair like he's close to losing it. 

“god, you’re fucking infuriating,” he mutters, voice gruff, “you think i don’t fucking feel it too? you’re the only one pissed off, the only one confused?” his voice dipps lower in frustration. “i can’t stop thinking about you, no matter how hard i try. "

“oh, boo-fucking-hoo,” you mocked back, “must be so hard, huh? being obsessed with a girl you can’t even respect in public.”

his hand reaches out to grab your wrist. you gasp, not out of fear but because the heat of his touch awakes the resting butterflies in your stomach. you hate how much your skin reacts to him, how just the feel of his grip makes your brain go foggy and shut down.

“i do respect you,” he growls, as if you just insulted him, “i just—fuck.” his eyes dart between yours, as if searching for something. then, like clockwork, he points at your work uniform—the stupid polo and that absurdly short skirt that's practically a sin in itself.

“this,” he grits out, fingers gesturing to the tight polo that does absolutely nothing but make your boobs look way too inviting, “is not okay.”

you blink, pretending to be unaffected, but his words have a way of crawling under your skin.

“oh, right,” you nod sarcastically, even though your pulse has kicked up a notch. “blame my uniform, like that’s the reason you can’t keep your hands to yourself.”

rafe groans like you're causing him actual physical pain, his hands gripping the edge of the golf cart now, knuckles turning white.

“shit, yeah, i’ll blame the uniform,” he says, eyes blazing as he corners you. “that tiny-ass skirt, walking around in front of me all day, making me lose my goddamn mind.”

just like that, his hand slide right under your mini skirt, his fingers gripping a handful of your ass with a confidence that makes your breath hitch.

the sudden contact sends a rush of heat through you, and a soft gasp escapes your glossy lips.

that’s when he takes his chance.

with another low groan, rafe seizes the moment, pressing his body against yours, leaning down as he kisses you, his tongue sliding into your mouth, the kiss deepening in an instant.

it's not sweet—you can tell that now because you know that hidden part of him, you can tell the difference when it comes out. today he's desperate like he’s been waiting to it for days and can't take it anymore.

he's a starved man on a mission. it's a feverish mess of spit and teeth, his grip on you impossibly tight.

his hand still kneads your ass, blunt fingernails digging into your skin trying to keep you from bolting away. at the same time, his other hand slides up to your neck, firm but not enough to hurt, just enough to keep you locked in place—he's daring you to pull away, knowing full well you won't.

logic doesn't stand a chance against the way his lips move against yours, he's sucking all the fight from you.

his tongue slides against yours, and your stomach jumps at the sensation, making you gasp. you try to pull back for a second, needing air, needing space, but his grip on your neck tightens, holding you in place as his lips move against yours like he'll die if you stop.

and maybe he would. maybe he's just as messed up about all of this as you are.

rafe’s teeth scrape against your bottom lip, and right then and there, you know your panties are already ruined. you can't stop the small whimper that escapes your throat, and he moans at the sound, his hips pressing harder against yours, making you feel just how much he wants you.

“fuck,” he almost whines against your lips, like he's barely keeping himself from fucking you out there in the open, not giving a shit if anyone's watching. his hand on your neck glides around to the back of your head, tangling in your hair as he tuggs slightly, tilting your head back so he can kiss you even harder, his lips moving against yours in a way that makes it impossible to think straight. “you have no idea what you do to me.”

the truth is, you do. you know exactly what you do to him because he's doing the same thing to you.

but there's no way in hell you’ll admit that. not when he already has you completely under his spell, melting into his touch, drowning in the way he kisses you like he owns you.

you attempt to hold onto that edge of disdain you always throw his way when things get too personal. his breath is hot and ragged as he hovers.

his hand, still tangled in your hair, loosens slightly but stays there. it's so fucking unfair—the way he just sneaks under your skin, the way your body betrays you every time he gets close. you hate it.

especially with the way his fingers are already sliding up your bare thigh under that ridiculously skirt, as if he owns every single inch of you, like he has a goddamn right to touch you like that.

and instead of pushing him away like you should, you find yourself leaning into him. and fuck, the look in his eyes—all black, wild, like he it's his last shred of self-control—is enough to make your pulse skyrocket.

“asshole,” it comes out weak, pathetic and almost breathless, and you hate yourself for it.

“yeah,” he whispers back, lips brushing yours, his hand still in your hair, still holding you close. “but you like it.”

god, maybe you did.

the frat boys finally return, their laughter breaking the bubble that had you on a leash.

within seconds, you're pushing rafe’s hands away, stepping back as of them claps him on the back.

“we miss anything?”

“nah, just catchin’ up,” rafe said, brushing off the whole thing as if it's no big deal.

you, on the other hand, pick up one of the empty glasses, avoiding eye contact with any of them.

one of the guys chuckles. “man, you two… y’all good?”

no. not when there's the slightest of the slightest possibility that you're starting to feel something for him. not the stupid crush you had before, or the simple curiosity of figuring out how he was in bed. 

real, scary, big girl feelings. 

no way. not after everything. not after he pulled that same crap, acting like you didn’t know you in front of his friends, then turning around and getting all possessive when it suited him.

 “better than ever.”

eyes locked on rafe, you bite out the final blow.

“yeah, better than ever. just like every other fucking rich frat boy—using daddy’s money, pretending you’re a god. but deep down, you’re all the same. losers. why don’t you keep them company, huh? you’re all family after all.”

his blue eyes drop to the green field at the mention of his dad, but he keeps quiet despite realizing you’re doing this on purpose.

he’ll let you have this one because he knows it’s deserving. fuck he’d probably let you punch him in the face if you asked him to. 

you turn on your heel and walk away, leaving him behind, knowing you hit him exactly where it hurt.

[quokkareactions]

Random attractive things they do: SKZ

Chan: Wearing a suit

He emerged annoyed from your room struggling with his tie.

"I thought I knew how to tie these things"

You chuckled and waved him to yourself.

"These are some talented hands you have. I'm surprised there's anything they can't do"

"Very funny" he rolled his eyes.

"I wasn't being funny... And done"

He pecked your lips and went for the front door.

"Thanks, baby. I'll be back in a few hours"

"Have fun, handsome!"

Minho: Taking charge during plans

"Don't worry about dinner tonight" he said, grabbing his car keys. "I've got it all figured out"

You raised your eyebrows.

"Oh really? Care to share the plan?"

"Not a chance" he replied with a grin. "You'll see"

He drove you to a cozy little restaurant you've never been before, complete with a view of the city lights. It wasn't extravagant, but the effort he put into surprising you in itself was enough to make you melt.

Changbin: Rolling up their sleeves

You watched as he leaned over the kitchen counter, rolling up his sleeves before starting to chop vegetables. The casual movement exposed his forearms, the slight flex of muscle catching your attention. He glanced up, finding you staring.

"What?" he asked, smirking as he kept chopping.

"Nothing" you replied, cheeks flushing "Just... You look good doing that"

He laughed shaking his head, but you could tell he was pleased. For the rest of the night you couldn't stop glancing at those rolled up sleeves and the effortless confidence they added to his demeanour.

Hyunjin: Driving with confidence

The way he handled the car was mesmerising. One hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gearshift, his focus steady but relaxed. You couldn't help but stare.

"Take a picture, it lasts longer"

"Oh no need, this is already etched into my brain" you answered with a teasing smile.

"So this is why you never drive"

"No, I simply suck at driving... You looking hella fine is just an added bonus" you shrugged.

Jisung: Giving genuine compliments

"You know, you’re amazing at what you do" he said out of nowhere as you were walking through the park. You turned to look at him, surprised.

"What brought that on?" you asked, smiling.

"I just realized I don’t tell you enough" he said, hands in his pockets. "The way you handle things with so much passion... It’s inspiring."

Your heart skipped a beat at his sincerity. It wasn’t just the words; it was the way he said them, like he genuinely admired you. That moment stayed with you, a quiet reminder of how much he appreciates you.

Felix: Being good with kids

You were at your nephew's birthday pool party and Felix was in the pool, splashing around ith the kids. After watching them for a while, you leaned back on your sunbed, closing your eyes and enjoying the sun. When the sunlight unexpectedly dissappeared, you opened one eye to glance at the shadow.

"What's gotten you so smiley?" he inquired with a lovestruck grin.

"You..." you confessed while madly blushing "You're really good with kids"

He smiled and leaned down to kiss the top of your head before returning to the pool.

Seungmin: Pulling you close in crowded places

The street was packed with people, and you were struggling to keep up. Without saying a word, he reached for your hand and gently pulled you closer, his arm wrapping protectively around your shoulder.

"Better?"

"Much better"

He didn't let go until you were out of the crowd, and even then you didn't want him to.

Jeongin: Casual stretching

He was sitting on the couch when he suddenly leaned back, stretching his arms over his head with a groan. His shirt lifted slightly, revealing a hint of toned abs. You tried not to stare but couldn't help yourself.

"Everything okay over there?" he asked catching your gaze.

"Uh, yeah" you replied, quickly looking away, cheeks burning.

He smirked, clearly enjoying your reaction and stretching once again, just to tease you.

[byechristopher]

chris & matt s– positions and places.

-HEADCANONS.

Author's note: yes, fav positions in secs. Just because I can't get some images out of my head.

Warnings: smut, obviously. Juat filthy smut, smut, smut. Minors dni!

doggystyle.. he loves, loves, loves watching your ass bounce as he's pounding into you. He'd grab and squeeze it, smack it every now and then, letting you push back against him as he stays still, "come on, baby, move."

⠀⠀

C H R I S

reverse cowgirl.. again, he loves your ass. He loves watching you work for it while he stays still and speeds up only when he feels like you're going too slow. He'd grab a fistful of hair and push your head back while bucking his hips to thrust into you harder, "you like that, ma?"

table/counter sex.. Chris is the kind of guy that would take you anywhere, anytime. I feel like he'd just see you cooking and immediately just grab you, lifting you up to make you sit on the table. He'd eat you out first, sloppy and hungry and passionate, and then fuck you then and there, "you look and taste fucking delicious."

pool/beach sex.. as I said, he'd take you anywhere. He wouldn't be able to see you in bikini without touching you, "you can't do this to me, babe." He'd push you against the wall of the pool and push your bikini to the side, rubbing his clothed cock against you, making sure no one's really looking. Not that he cares.

head.. he loves giving, as much as receiving. But he absolutely fucking loses it when you, out of nowhere, get on your knees and suck him off. Like when he's doing work, or playing, and you're just on your knees, sucking him off, spitting on it, distracting him completely. He'd tease your nipples and pinch them to push you closer and take him in deeper, "that's it.. fuuuuck."

⠀

M A T T

missionary.. Matt absolutely loves keeping eye contact while fucking you senseless. He'd want to see you losing it, to see your eyes roll to the back of your head, unable to have control over anything, "keep looking at me, pretty. Or I'll stop. And you don't want that, do you?"

cowgirl.. he'd sit up, back against the headboard so that he can see you better; he needs to see your tits bounce. He'd never let you do a thing – digging his long fingers into your hips, he'd keep you in place and fuck you mercilessly, "you're so pretty. Fuck."

against the wall.. he just loves wrapping his fingers around your neck while he's balls-deep inside of you, your legs wrapped around his slim waist, "take it, baby, take it". He'd press his forehead against yours and thrust into you deep, and hard.

car sex.. do I even have to say anything? He loves his car so much, but he loves pleasuring you more. While driving around, he'd order you take your panties off and spread your legs wide for him. He'd lick his fingers and touch you in such a delicate way, pushing his fingers inside of you gently while keeping his eyes on the road. Then, he'd stop the car somewhere private, not able to control himself, and push his pants down, making you straddle his lap and sit on his cock with his fingers still wrapped around the steering wheel, "that's my girl.."

shower sex.. that's the only time he'd have you facing the other way. He'd push you against the glass of the shower, if anyone were to see you, they'd see your tits and cheek pressed against it. His fingers would wrap themselves around your neck and push your head back as he pounds into you. He'd make you arch your back so much that even in that position, he'd still see you, even upside down, "gonna cum all over me, doll?"

Chat. I am not okay.

⠀

[simonbrain]

ghoap being selfish bastards and stringing you along with their affection. it's hard letting someone into their lives; so many risks come with the job, and to add a civvie to that mess? it's not fair to you.

but they also can't seem to leave you alone. even when they push you away after you show the slightest sign of wanting to take things further than being fuck-buddies, they still keep an eye on you. even when you tell them you don't want anything to do with them anymore, they still show up at your front door. even with teary eyes while you're spitting venom at them, rightfully hurt by their confusing actions, they still think you're beautiful.

you just want to know why they rub it in your face. why they flaunt their unbreakable bond, knowing that there's no space for you except for when they want to sink deep into your holes, leaving their marks. why they can't just decide if they want you or not. it's a risk being with them, you know this, but you just want something for yourself for once in your life. it seems like they're not even giving you a damn chance to prove yourself worthy of their love.

(it hurts so badly to push you away, but they must.)

they're causing you so much distress, not to mention the stress from your job piled on top of that. who wouldn't become resentful towards them? you open your home to them, your legs, your heart—god. what fucking assholes. what did you expect from two military men? they really are just heartless machines.

(no one else has made you feel so whole in years, for the best and for the worst.)

you stop responding to their messages and calls; you curse them both out when they show up at your door separately and again when they show up together, and now you just want to heal from something that didn't even fucking happen. it's pathetic, but you really did love like them. it's hard falling asleep without johnny's obnoxious snoring in your ear or simon's big arms wrapped securely around you, but you'll manage. it's quiet on the drive to work without johnny cranking up some random scottish rapper before simon scolds him and hands the aux to you, giving you the best start to your day, but you'll be fine. it's disheartening when you return home to nothing but a dim lamp in the corner, no greasy takeout waiting for you on the table, or two pairs of ears eager to listen to the shit that went down at work today, but you'll get over it.

then months later they see you at a bar. johnny's trying his best to not just slide up to you and purr into your ear about how gorgeous you look, how blue's his favourite colour and this shade looks so good on you, and did ye wear this tight lil thing just for me, hen? simon's not doing any better; there's a you-shaped hole in his chest, and he wants nothing more than to go home with you and johnny under each arm, but they know they lost their chance with you.

they know this because when you finally catch the source of whoever the hell is staring holes into your head, there's no falter. there's nothing in your eyes that says you want them anymore—you look at them, then look away.

(they don't know your heart still aches for them.)

[very-merry-birthday]

The Voicemail

Summary: When Dean leaves a voicemail late one night, you can't help but listen- and get a lot more than you bargained for.

Warnings: Smut, Mutual masturbation (over the phone)

~~~

You paced around the empty bunker, desperately looking for something to do. Trust them to leave you here by yourself while they went off hunting. You'd already spent three days trying to fill the time with menial tasks, and you were bored as hell.

More importantly, though, you missed Dean. You didn't think you would. You weren't supposed to! But having him around every day just felt right. As much as you'd deny that you were flirting, that maybe there was something between you, with him gone you suddenly realized what you'd been trying to hide from yourself. You had the biggest crush on that man.

You thought of the way he'd laugh at your jokes, the way he'd walk around in that stupid robe, the way the corner of his eyes would crease when he smiled...

You shook your head. You were better than this! You didn't need to be pining after him, especially when he wasn't even here to pine after!

As if he could read your thoughts from three states away, you felt your phone vibrate, a message from Dean popping up on the screen.

I hope you're keeping out of trouble ;)

You couldn't help but laugh at his message- he really was an old man trapped in the body of- well the body of a god. You resisted the urge to reply straight away, your mind filling with all the awful flirty messages you wanted to send. You felt stupid, like a school girl with a crush on her teacher- of course he didn't feel the same way. You put your phone down without replying, trying to seem nonchalant, to yourself more than anyone.

You tried to think of anything else, anything but Dean, anything but that stupid winking face. You went back to your laptop, trying to find another hunt, maybe one you and Dean could go on... Just the two of you, long drives, small motel rooms...

You pushed the thought from your mind. You were strong, you didn't need him for a hunt. When he came back that's what you'd show him, that you were independent, that you could handle yourself. You picked up your phone, typing out your message before you could overthink it.

All good here. Hope the motel is ok? You up for some more fight training when you get back? Xx

As soon as you clicked send you regretted it. Kisses? Oh you felt like an idiot.

You threw your phone back down on the bed, you wouldn't let him win. Not that he even knew there was something he was supposed to be winning. You left the room, leaving your phone, trying to clear the thoughts of him from your mind.

But there he was, for the rest of the day. Trying to clean the bunker? His legs. Cooking dinner? His hands. Brushing your teeth? His chest. While you were showering? Just Dean.

You couldn't get him out of your head, even as you patted yourself dry from the shower. You looked in the corner of the room, one of his screwed up shirts he never put away laid crumpled on the floor. That's when you decided: if he wasn't here you'd let yourself crush. Why not? It wasn't like he could stop you.

You reached down to pick up his shirt and pulled it over your head. Looking at yourself in the mirror you smiled. Sure, maybe he didn't have feelings for you, but even he couldn't deny you looked hot wearing nothing but his shirt.

You slunk back to your room, reinvigorated by your decision. You let your mind wander, picturing him walking in on you wearing his clothes. You liked the thought.

That's when you remembered your phone, laying in the middle of your bed exactly where you'd thrown it earlier. A knot formed in your stomach, had he replied? Had he even seen your message.

Looking down at it your breath hitched as you read the notifications:

Dean: Missed Call

One new voicemail.

You sat on the edge of your bed as you clicked the notification. The monotonous computer voice replied.

☏You have one new message : "Hey sweetheart, just wanted to call to check you're okay? The motels fine, we'll be home in a few days anyway- and I'll take you up on that offer. Be warned though, I'm gonna exhaust you until you can't walk the next day." Press one to replay, press two to call back, press three to delete-☏

You put your phone down and lay back on the bed, arousal growing between your legs. He had to know what he was doing- surely. You let your hand roam down between your thighs, thinking about his words. Exhaust you until you can't walk? You bit your lip just thinking about it.

But thinking about it wasn't enough. You had to hear him. You had to picture him in front of you, saying it directly to you. You picked up your phone again, ready to replay the voicemail.

☏"Hey sweetheart, just wanted to call to check you're okay?"☏

You liked the nickname, even if you knew he didn't mean anything by it. And you liked that he was checking in on you. You pushed your fingers down, tentatively settling just above your wetness.

☏ The motels fine, we'll be home in a few days anyway- and I'll take you up on that offer. Be warned though,"☏

You bit your lip. This felt wrong. Getting yourself off to this message? When he was hundreds of miles away? When he didn't even know you had feelings for him?

☏ "I'm gonna exhaust you until you can't walk the next day." ☏

Oh what the hell! You pushed your fingers through your already wet folds, picturing him saying it, the way he'd tense his jaw after, let his eyes flick over your body. You stifled a moan, and then let it escape your lips. If they were going to leave you alone in the bunker you were going to make the most of it. You were going to be loud.

☏ Press one to replay, press two to call back, press three to delete-☏

You looked back down at your phone. #1.

☏ "Hey sweetheart-" ☏

You let his words wash over you like silk as you pushed a finger into yourself. God he sounded so good. You moved your fingers carefully, touching yourself in a way only you could, small movements that sent waves through your body. You allowed yourself to carefully brush over your clit, another loud moan escaping your lips.

☏ "-until you can't walk the next day." Press one to replay, press two-" ☏

You positioned yourself properly on the bed, one hand between your legs, the other on your phone next to you, finger hovering above the #1. Your imagination wasn't enough, you needed to hear him, you needed that voice.

#1

☏ "Hey sweetheart," ☏

You got into a steady movement, your fingers pushing into yourself, the occasion tease of your own clit. You let out a moan at every opportunity, the pornographic sounds that you usually hid trapped in thin walls finally able to fill the bunker. As soon as the message had started, it finished, and you pushed the #1 again, needy for his voice.

☏ "Hey sweetheart," ☏

You let your fingers circle your clit, barely listening to the words anymore, just the sultry tone of his voice. Your other hand hovered over your phone, you found yourself in a pattern of barely letting the message finish before you were pressing the button to make it restart again. You let yourself get louder as you felt your arousal growing, eventually calling out his name into the silent night air.

☏ "Hey sweetheart, " ☏

You were getting close, your back arching off the bed, pushing your fingers deep into yourself, the pool between your legs dripping over your digits. You needed him, all you wanted was to hear him.

"Hey sweetheart,"

You let out a loud moan as your fingers circled your clit.

"-are you okay?"

That wasn't right. You didn't know what wasn't but... Something.

"Is everything alright?"

You looked down at your phone. This wasn't the voicemail. This was a call.

You scrambled, pulling your hands back up and bolting upright, your chest heaving as you panted. There was no way, how could you have been so stupid to call him back. You picked up your phone, ready to hang up,

"Y/N? What's going on?" He sounded worried. You felt bad, you knew you couldn't hang up, he'd be calling you back within seconds. And if you still didn't pick up he'd drive down here himself just to check you were okay.

"Y- yeah, I'm fine-" you said hesitantly, trying to pull yourself together, your breathing finally evening out. You looked down at yourself, still dressed in nothing but Dean's shirt, feeling like he could see you, a deer caught in headlights. You shook away the thought, of course he couldn't. You just had to get through this conversation.

"What the hell is happening over there?" His tone grew louder, obvious caution in his voice, still not entirely satisfied you were safe.

"I didn't mean to call, Dean, it was an accident. I'm fine, I've got to go now I-"

"What were you doing?" You could hear the panic leaving his voice, an obvious smile on the other end of the phone.

"It wasn't anything, I'm going to go now-"

He laughed to himself, "Because if you're not in the middle of a fight... sweetheart it almost sounded like moaning?"

You bit your lip, your brain going blank as you tried to think of a reply.

"Are you watching porn?" He laughed again.

"Dean I'm not watching anything-"

He sucked in a breath, "Oh so that was all you?"

You stopped talking, knowing anything you'd say would just make it worse.

His tone grew thicker as he spoke. This wasn't his usual lighthearted flirting, this came from deeper. "Don't get all shy now, I want to know what you were thinking about."

"I... I was listening to your message." Your words felt like honey leaving your throat.

That caught him off guard, there was a pause as he thought carefully about what you said. "That moaning was because of me?"

"Dean this is stupid I'm hanging up-"

"No! No-" he cut you off, desperation in his voice turning into assurance, "I want to hear more."

You swallowed hard at his words, laying back down on the bed, your whole body exhausted from the adrenaline.

His voice became more certain, "I've never heard you be that loud before. Sure I've heard you moaning through the walls when you think we're all asleep but-"

Your face flushed at his confession, picturing him hearing you late at night, stifling your moans.

"-I've never heard you sound like that before." He continued, "I've been trying to picture it. Every night I think about what you'd sound like if I was in your room, my hands on you instead of your own... Fuck you don't know what you do to me sweetheart."

"You- you were listening to me?"

"I tried not to at first but- god baby- the thought of what you're doing late at night got my cock throbbing. It got to the point where the only thing that really got me going was the sounds of your little hidden moans and whimpers. God I wish I was there right now to see you darlin'... What are you wearing?"

You looked down at your ill-timed outfit, "I'm just wearing your shirt..."

You heard him let out a strained chuckle as he imagined it, "You're full of surprises aren't you? What were you doing, I gotta hear you say it..."

You swallowed hard, sinking into the soft bed, "I was listening to your message, your voice and- touching myself."

He sucked in another sharp breath. "Touch yourself, now, for me."

You bit your lip, once again placing your hand between your thighs.

"Are you doing it darlin'?"

You murmured in agreement as you pushed your fingers through your soaked folds.

"I want to hear you moaning, don't hide it, I need to hear you. Push a finger into yourself baby."

You did as he said, slowly pushing a finger into yourself. You half bit back your moan, still embarrassed, before letting it out, letting him hear you.

"God baby you sound so good. I wish I was there, I want to see you touching yourself darlin'. Does it feel good?"

"Yeah Dean- It feels so fucking good... I wish it was your hands-"

You heard him let out a small grunt, clearly he was touching himself at the same time. You pictured it, his hand around his hard cock as he listened to you, the feeling flooding through your body.

"Add another finger baby, I want you to fill yourself up-"

You did as he said, pushing two fingers into yourself and letting out a small gasp.

"- that's it baby, fuck yourself with your fingers. I can picture how hot you are right now, just wearing my shirt, you've got me so fucking hard over here- just wish you were here to see it, see what you're doing to me-"

You laid there, listening to each other's moans, gasps, his panting. You pictured his hands on you, pushing into you.

"You wanna touch your clit for me baby? Picture me teasing you?"

You did what he said, teasing yourself with your fingers, circling your desperate bundle of nerves. You let out a loud gasp, wanting him to hear what he was doing to you.

"Good girl, you sound so good for me, darlin'. You want to cum don't you, I can hear it."

"Yes Dean- fuck-" you felt your orgasm rising, a tight coil forming in your stomach.

"Hold on, not just yet." His voice sounded so smooth, so calm, even as he was pumping his own cock he was fully in control. "Keep yourself there baby, just for a moment."

"Dean please-" you felt so ready, so desperate for release, holding yourself almost past the point of breaking.

"Just for a second baby, keep going, keep touching yourself, I want you to keep going for me baby. You're so fucking hot- I want to touch you so bad, wish it was my tongue on your clit right now baby. You want to cum for me darlin'?"

"Dean please- yes!"

He paused for a moment, keeping you on the edge, you held your breath, unable to focus on anything but holding yourself back.

"Cum for me darlin'."

You felt a wave overcome you, shaking your body, the coil in your body finally releasing. You let out a loud gasp, Dean listening intently down the phone as you finally let yourself cum. You came harder than you ever had before, his words flowing through you, his voice felt like hands hot on your skin.

You lay there panting, your chest heaving as the waves kept flowing, finally melting off of you as you regained clarity. You blinked hard in the empty room, almost surprised that Dean wasn't laying there with you, finally lifting the phone back up again to speak.

"Dean I- I can't believe I phoned you." You felt embarrassment flush on your face once again.

"I'm so glad you did darlin', you wouldn't believe how long I've wanted to hear that- God I just want to see you- when I'm back, will you let me?" All the control had left his voice, vulnerability creeping in.

"Fuck Dean- of course." You sighed against the phone, "I want to see you too."

He paused, an inaudible smile, "I ought to go darlin', but we can talk about this more when I get back?"

You hummed in affirmation.

"God darlin' I can't fuckin' wait... You stay out of trouble will you?" He chuckled as he hung up the phone, leaving your imagination filled with his return.

[peachdues]

Sanemi doesn’t think masturbation is a worthwhile use of his time.

For one, it’s a distraction. There’s a million things he’d rather do, most of which center around killing every damn demon he can get his hands on, and he can’t do that if he’s wasting time keeping his hand down his pants. Besides, the few seconds of watery pleasure is never worth the cleanup that comes after. Rarely is he ever left satisfied.

But, Sanemi is a man, and unfortunately, his cock sometimes has a mind of its own. Particularly when he’s frustrated and pent up, and left without much in the way of options to deal with it.

When the mood strikes him, he approaches it with the same utilitarianism as he does with everything else. So, today, when his frustration is tightly coiled in his stomach like an asp waiting to strike, and he finds he can’t focus on anything — not his training, not the handful of missions he probably could take, not even the battered practice dummy in his garden, begging to have his fist shatter its face — Sanemi knows there’s only one way to relieve his tension. Fast and quick.

Oh, he grumbles about it all the way into his Manor, though no one is around to hear or care. But bitch he does, all the way down the hall and to his bedroom, his hands jerking irritably at his belt.

The blankets on his futon are rumpled and unmade, but Sanemi doesn’t care. Probably for the best, given that he’ll have to wash everything once he’s done, anyways.

Belt loose and pants unfastened, Sanemi flops down into his bed. He’s half-hard already, which means he’s really on his last thread. All the more incentive to get this the fuck over with.

Except. He can’t fucking focus; not on this, not on anything. He’s too strung out, yet he’s unable to concentrate enough on this base need of his, and that only pisses him off more. His touch is too rough, his fingers, too calloused to be enjoyable.

Groaning, Sanemi throws an arm over his eyes and tries to let his limited imagination run. He pictures a faceless woman, shrouded in shadow, but her touch is softer than his, more certain. Fingers slide up the burgeoning length of him, turning over his head before trailing back down to take him in hand and slowly, Sanemi begins to pump at himself. Steady, even strokes, quick and efficient, like everything else he does. He will work through this frustration and then he will go back out and train until his limbs give out and he has to drag himself back inside.

Behind his eyelids, Sanemi tries to give the woman a face. He always does, and he always comes up woefully empty, even when his spend is smeared across his lower abdomen. He doesn’t know why; it’s not like he’s never seen a beautiful woman. He just didn’t notice them. Not enough to remember them, it seems. Not enough to make it count during these shameful moments of weakness.

Exhaling forcefully through his nose, Sanemi pumps harder at himself. If he could just peel back the curtain in his mind, see a face that looked at him not with fear or disgust, but want, sensual and heady. Then, he could finally finish this salacious act and get back to what mattered. Training; becoming stronger, faster, deadlier —

A familiar scent creeps in from the recesses of his conscience, sudden and unbidden. A memory of flowers and honey, first smelled on a distant training yard only a few weeks before. At first, this association confuses him; he knows that faint perfume — it belongs to a certain, pain-in-the-ass Kinoe whose sole mission in life has been to drive him up a fucking wall. He hasn’t seen you since that last training, so he sure as fuck doesn’t know why you’re trying to invade his thoughts — his bed — now.

But, does he stop?

No. No he doesn’t.

A few, hesitant strokes along his shaft helps the picture in his head grow clearer. He sees familiar hair tickling his cheek; hands smaller than his roaming his chest. Those immaculate nails raking across his skin, over his nipples and down his abdomen.

A feeble moan escapes past his lips and Sanemi’s hand tightens around his cock, now stiff and aching. His fantasy runs wild faster than he can reel it back in, and he finds himself unwilling to try. Because now, now he pictures silky skin against his own and one of your shapely legs curled around his hips, rocking him against you. Reflexively, his own hips buck up into empty air, desperately chasing the friction you withhold from him in his dreams. Teasing; taunting. Daring him to follow you down, down into the futon with that challenging tilt of your brow, the very one that always set his stomach twisting with anticipation.

He’s close, now; dangerously close, and the knot behind his navel is tighter than ever. Whatever it is mounting inside him is unlike anything he’s ever felt. It’s precarious and frightening, yet he still cannot stop chasing it. Cannot stop chasing you and those lips, those gorgeous, plump lips that part with a breathy moan that is not his. It’s yours, and your voice a siren’s song that he is too happy to drown to.

The coil in his stomach seizes as your face blooms in his mind, sharper than any photograph. Your eyes glisten with the same need burning in his chest, and there’s a flush in your cheeks that deepens when he bucks again. Somewhere, over the broken moan that vibrates in his throat as he spills fast and hot over his fist, Sanemi swears he hears you sigh his name. His true name, whispered like a prayer rather than a curse.

Every muscle in his body tenses, his body tauter than a live wire. Your face whites out under the punishing force of his high as it ricochets through him, starting low in his navel. His fist turns sticky and the grip he has on himself becomes sloppy. But he only comes harder, and he’ll be mortified in a few seconds when he realizes he can’t tell whether he’s coming to you or for you.

Sanemi gives himself a last, few languid pumps before he collapses against his futon. Spent yet not sated, and scowling at the mess he’s made of himself and his bedding.

Part of him scowls too at you; at the way you so easily invaded his secret space. But his annoyance is quickly tempered by the guilt that wells up inside him, creeping up his throat. Who is he, to think of you in that way? Sanemi Shinazugawa has a better chance of getting ripped apart by some low rank, bastard demon than ever touching you the way his dreams demanded. Not to mention hell itself would freeze over before a woman like you ever wanted him, stripped and bare and vulnerable.

Sanemi doesn’t know how to be a lover, and no one would be stupid enough to ask him to try. He knows this.

Yet, he cannot get the memory of your perfume out of his head any more than he can silence that alluring call of his name reverberating around his skull. And he finds himself hardening again, as he imagines what you might look like bent over or — fucking hell — on top of him, and Sanemi realizes he’s not going back to training. Not any time soon.

divider credit to @strangergraphics !

[domm1etae]

the soft glow of the tv lit up yunho’s focused face, his fingers flying over the controller as he sat cross-legged on the floor. you didn’t mean to distract him, not really, but when you shuffled out of the bathroom wearing just his hoodie, the hem barely skimming your thighs, it was game over.

he didn’t even register his teammate shouting through his headset. his eyes locked on you instead, trailing from your bare legs up to the hoodie swallowing your frame.

“baby,” his voice dropped, thick and heavy, “are you seriously walking around like that?”

you paused mid-step, turning to look at him, all fake innocence. “like what?”

he groaned, tossing the controller aside as he got up, towering over you in seconds. his hands found your hips, gripping them tightly, his thumbs brushing against your skin just beneath the fabric. “don’t play dumb. you’re not wearing anything under this, are you?”

your lips curved into a shy smile, and that’s all it took. yunho’s restraint snapped.

he backed you up against the wall, his large hands sliding under the hoodie to confirm what he already knew. no panties. nothing at all.

“fuck,” he hissed, his fingertips kneading your bare ass. “you’re gonna drive me insane just by existing.”

before you could respond, his lips crashed against yours, desperate and hungry. his tongue slipped into your mouth, claiming you completely, while his hands explored every inch of bare skin hidden beneath his hoodie.

one hand slid down between your thighs, his long fingers gliding over your slick heat. “already so wet for me,” he groaned, his forehead pressing against yours as he circled your clit lazily. “you knew what you were doing, didn’t you?”

you nodded, breath hitching as his fingers teased your entrance. “wanted your attention,” you whispered, biting your lip.

“well, you’ve got it now,” he muttered, slipping two fingers inside you without warning.

your back arched, a moan spilling from your lips as he pumped his fingers deep and slow, curling them just right. his thumb pressed against your clit, rubbing circles that had your legs trembling.

“so fucking tight,” he growled, his lips brushing against your ear. “you love this, don’t you? letting me do whatever I want to you.”

all you could do was whimper, your hands clutching at his hoodie as he fucked you with his fingers, his pace picking up. the wet sounds of his fingers moving inside you filled the room, mingling with your moans and his ragged breathing.

“look at you,” yunho rasped, his free hand gripping your thigh to keep you steady as your legs threatened to give out. “wearing just my hoodie, dripping all over my hand. you’re so fucking perfect.”

your head fell back against the wall, pleasure building fast as he worked you over, his fingers relentless. “yunho, i—”

“come for me,” he ordered, his voice low and commanding. “let me feel you.”

with a cry of his name, you shattered, your walls clenching around his fingers as waves of pleasure crashed over you. yunho didn’t stop, drawing out every last tremor before finally pulling his fingers free.

he brought them to his lips, licking them clean with a low groan. “sweetest fucking thing,” he murmured, his eyes dark as they met yours.

you barely had time to catch your breath before he leaned in, a smirk tugging at his lips. “next time, just sit in my lap, baby. let’s skip the teasing.”

[teojira]

[Dance with The Devil] [movie!Shadow x reader headcanons]

Summary: a collection of random headcanons/small scenarios based on my "Click Click Boom" post for Shadow!

Word count: 1.5k

Disclaimer (1): Harkness scale people, he is of age and can consent and is sentient. I'm allowed to want to kiss the hedgehog.

Disclaimer (2): This can be read as Romantic or Platonic! Though I did write it to be implied romance.

A/N: Yall asked for more, who am I to deny the people (I imagine kissing him every second of the day). I tried to hit a lot of asks all in one to give eveyrone what they asked for! I hope y'all enjoy! Reblogs and comments are super appreciated and motivate me to write more <3

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Shadow is so extremely overprotective of you, borderline to an unhealthy agree but is it really when you're welcoming to it??

You, by all means, shouldn't encourage him. He's one of the strongest beings on the planet. He can't just make threats, God knows if he'll act out on them.

You can't help but let it happen though, a warm fuzzy feeling deep in your chest clouds your judgment for a few moments. Knowing that Shadow sees you as someone worth protecting, of caring for.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Shadow baring his fangs at Sonic and fucking growling is new though.

"Shadow did you just- did you just fucking growl?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Sonic was just trying to hug me dude, relax.'

"He'll get his scent all over you. No."

Shadow turns his back on you, so he misses the blush that overtakes your entire face.

He has an inkling though, if the strangled cry from your throat is any indication.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Riding ! With ! Him !!! He takes you on drives all the time, it helps him clear his head and it's his way of asking for physical contact without giving you idea, feeling you against his back and your body pressed up against his does wonder for his mental health, he'll purposefully take longer routes and side roads at night to keep you close.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

If you fall asleep on the couch, Shadow isn't gonna curl up with you, but he's next to the couch, head propped up against the arm rest as he watches over you. He's well aware he could just teleport you both to your room, but you look too peaceful :( and he knows he takes up all your time and energy, so he rather let you rest.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Shadow always walks behind you. It's a nervous habit. If he wanders behind, he has the perfect view to scan for threats.

You go to tell him he's being paranoid, but stop yourself. The last person he cared for died, the girl who gave him a purpose. You shut your joke down fast, shaking your head when Shadow raises an eye bridge at your expression.

"Do you want to hold my hand?" You go with that instead.

"Absolutely not."

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Please god can you imagine shopping for him, getting his leather jackets and what not bc he fucking deserves it, especially when you nervously claim that he needs the correct gear for riding his motorcycle and he hits you with:

"That's useless, I can easily chaos control if need be."

BUT HE DOESN'T RIDE WITHOUT IT EVER !!!! You even got it monogrammed, and he runs his thumb across it often, scoffing at himself when he realizes, snatching his hand away.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Shadow likes to be useful, even though you tell him again and again that he doesn't owe you anything, he doesn't listen.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

If you wear makeup and ever fall asleep in it, you can't ever seem to remember if it was you who took it off, your memories jumbling up together to the point you're not sure.

It was Shadow, he knows you don't like showing others your bare face, which he thinks is ridiculous as shit, he likes you as you are, whether with makeup or bare, you're you.

Please I could cry imagining him so gently taking a makeup wipe and rubbing small circles to get that waterproof eyeliner off of you, eyes laser focused into his task. I'm gonna throw up.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

In the colder months, he's susceptible to being more mellow and relaxed. Despite being the ultimate life form and having fur, he still gets cold and hates the feeling.

This brings me to the fact that bro steals your blankets, he has no remorse and will walk right into your room to take your heated blanket. He's an asshole.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Fully believes that nicknames are stupid and that they don't matter, the best he's gonna do for you is call you by your first Intial (ex: Teddy = T) It's rare that he'll do call you by it regardless, but beggers cannot be choosers.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Getting matching bangles to match his inhibitor rings!! Makes him go stupid for a second, brain computing that oh??? You want to match him?? He's gonna tease you, but when you threaten to just take them off, he immediately goes quiet.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

The subject of being sick came up often in asks, and he struggles really hard with it. It's not obvious, but if you look closely, his quills are pin straight, and he's easily more agitated.

He's not mad at you, it's not your fault, it's just that seeing you curl up into bed brings back so many bad memories of when Maria has flare ups and couldn't leave her bed.

It made him feel useless. His whole reason for being was to help cure illness, maybe not the common cold. He's aware of that, but the point remains.

Shadow gets more docile, even going to ask Maddie what to do. The woman offers to come over and take care of you instead, but Shadow shuts her down quickly. He's more than capable, and he's a little overprotective.

"Are you sure? I don't mind, I don't have anything going on."

"That isn't necessary."

"But it might be better if it's m-"

"I can take care of them."

It's hard to argue with a 5ft hedgehog that can easily snap your neck, so she regents and hands him over some cold and flu medicine along with painkillers and vaporub and instructions. He looks so silly with all of it in his arms, Gatorade, water, the medicine, some food, but it warms your heart. You haven't had anyone really look after you when you were sick, always left to fend for yourself, so it's nice.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

For my period havers, I am on mine, so this made it in:

Shadow using his hands as personal heating pads for your stomach or the small of your back, you can't seem to remember where you put your heating pad so he sits there with you and just, shoves his hand onto your skin, it's added comfort due to his fur.

"Oh my god, that feels good."

You groan into your pillow, curling up into a ball, your back facing the ultimate lifeform.

"Is it really that bad?"

Shadow hums, moving to ever so slightly knead the skin, smirking to himself when you damn near moan at the feeling.

"You know damn fucking well it's that bad."

Shadow snorts.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Once you're both closer, he allows you to touch him alot more, so long as you ask him first if you can run your fingers over his quills, he finds it soothing, it's common to find you both on the couch, fast asleep together with the TV set to come true crime YouTube video.

Sonic takes a million pictures, to which he sends to Shadow later. The black hedgehog doesn't say anything, but he secretly saves each one.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Speaking of the others, you try and force him to spend time with team Sonic to varying degrees of success. Mainly the success being if you will also be there and be by his side. The team likes you well enough, always playfully telling you that they can handle Shadow if he ever hurts you.

Which gets them Shadow staring them down, his eyes lighting up as a warning.

You'd think they'd learn that this man doesn't play when it comes to you, but they're a bit stupid.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

When it comes to any insecurities you may have, he shuts that shit down IMMEDIATELY, you think it's because he genuinely doesn't give a fuck, but no, it's because he cares about you and will logically tell you facts. Does it help? It's varying, but he still tries.

Issue with your weight. He doesn't care. Are you healthy? That's all that matters. He's strong enough to lift you up, and he'll demonstrate it on you if need be. He doesn't know who put it into your head that there's any issue with it, but he'll fix it.

"Shadow, can I ask you something?"

"Go on."

"Does my weight ever bother you?"

"I am not like human men."

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

You're insecure about talking about your interests/hyperfixations? He actively will sit down and listen, eyes intense as he takes in every single word you're saying. He'll nod and hum, but his ears are flicked towards you, and Shadow will ask questions pertaining about the characters.

The motherfucker is healing you slowly but surely, mentally and sometimes physically.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

No one thinks that Shadow would be a good companion and will make jokes offhandily that they're sorry that YOU'RE stuck with him, and you don't correct them. They don't deserve to know him.

They don't get to know how the lifeform curls up next to you on his bad days, seeking your affection.

The hedgehog who helps you dry the dishes after every meal with a way too focused look on his face.

The Shadow that always cracks dry ass jokes in hopes to make you smile after a long day.

It's your little secret, and it's one you gladly keep to yourself.

"Oh, he's stuck with me." You wave them off with a smug smirk on your face.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

[stars-inthe-sky]

if there's solid ground below

It's been five years, but I wrote a whole fic this week thanks in no small part to the singular @iphyslitterator!

[Cross-posted to AO3]

“H—hey, Tommy?”

Tommy startles and bangs his head on the hood of his truck, recovering fast enough that none of the oil he was nearly done changing spilled but not so fast that it would have escaped Evan’s notice. “You okay?”

“Yeah, just surprised,” he says, grabbing for a spare rag to wipe his hands on. “Hi.”

“Got a sec?” Evan rocks onto the balls of his feet and back again, hands shoved deep in the pockets of a hoodie that, in southern California in May, it should really be too warm for. But he runs cold, and the layers always have the added bonus of making Tommy want to rip them off in some kind of Pavlovian response.

Had. Last summer, they’d had that effect. This summer was shaping up differently.

Evan tilts his head, a little quizzical, and Tommy realizes he’s been frozen in place for a few beats too long, dazedly dragging the rag between his fingers.

“Sorry, yeah, go ahead.” He glances down at the car, which hasn’t moved, then back at Evan, who’s still rocking but who looks, Tommy’s now realizing, noticeably lighter than he has in a while—certainly since the funeral, but maybe even more so than that night in the bar all those weeks ago. His smile is far too small, but it’s there. “Although if you need another helicopter, I’m gonna have to start charging you at some point.”

“That’s okay, I heard your fees are competitive,” he chirps, and if his grin isn’t yet lethal, it’s shifted to shit-eating. Which, for Tommy, is lethal anyway, and Evan knows it. “But no, I just…just wanted to talk this time. For real, for once.”

Oh. “Okay…?”

“You can keep doing whatever you were doing; I know you like to have something to do with your hands.”

“Uh, thanks.” He stuffs the rag in the back pocket of his jeans and fishes the oil canister out of his car’s innards. This might be easier without eye contact. “What’s up?”

“I’m taking a sabbatical from the LAFD,” Evan says. Tommy freezes again, more of a twitch than a full stop, and makes himself continue the actual task at hand. “Three months. Mostly thanks to an insane amount of unused PTO, because I realized I kinda haven’t taken a vacation that wasn’t just medical leave in like…ever. And I need a break, you know, after everything? Like, I spent a bunch of my twenties driving around, odd jobs and stuff, and the world is—is so much bigger than the firehouse, or this city, and…yeah.  I think I need that space for a bit. Just got it approved today. And then I came here.”

He pauses for breath, and Tommy stares unseeing at some perfectly intact wiring he could reconnect by touch alone if asked. “That’s great they’re letting you do that, Evan. I’m sure it’ll be good for you. How’d the others take it?”

There’s a little sigh. “I haven’t told them yet. Battalion chief said I’d always have a job to come back to, but they couldn’t hold my spot indefinitely. Depends on the new captain and how they want to staff up. Makes sense, obviously, so.” His sniffle is nearly inaudible, but Tommy’s never been able to tune out Evan’s frequency.

He gives up on the car, closing the hood with a quiet click and resuming with the rag, even though his hands aren’t especially dirty. “Never thought you’d voluntarily leave the 118.”

“I know, right?” Evan’s mouth twitches, and it’s not quite a smile now, but there’s something genuine growing back. “I mean, I guess I might not be, but. Things change, and it’s…time, maybe. I’m doing this, in any case. I—I—I just need to clear my head for a while. Go visit Minnesota, never been there, but then…I don’t know, maybe touch the Atlantic Ocean again. Camp out in some national parks. Go see the sky in Montana—it’s so big, Tommy, I’ve never seen anything like it, not since those years, and the last couple of months…it’s like the smog is just in everything right now, you know?”

Tommy nods. He can relate, despite how often he gets to soar above the chokehold of Los Angeles; smoke is smoke, and heat still rises. “I get it. So…this is goodbye, then?” He swallows, bites his lip, stares down at his fingers and the rag still entwined in them.

“No!” Evan leans forward for a breath, arm lifting, but he seems to stop himself, like he’s remembering they don’t know where they stand with each other, if he’s allowed to grab Tommy’s shoulder. “No, no, I’m coming back. LA is still home, my—my stuff’s going into a storage unit next week, my sister and my niece are here, and the new baby—the job—no, yeah, I’m coming back.”

“That’s good,” Tommy muses. “So…”

“So, I wanted to ask—I—I—I’m asking if you’d maybe be up for thinking about coming with me.”

Tommy freezes so suddenly, and so thoroughly, that the rag drops to the ground. “You—you’re going on a three-month road trip to get away from it all, and you want me to come with you?”

“Yeah, I do,” Evan says softly, surely, ducking his head in that bashful way he pretends not to know is so damn effective. “I need a break from everything, and everyone—but you, you’re not everyone. I meant what I said about being together, before. I still mean it.” Tommy feels both arms drop to his sides, heavy and limp like emptied hoses, and the air jerks out of his lungs as his throat closes tight.

Evan plows ahead. “I—if—if you don’t want to, or you can’t swing it with work, or whatever—I get it, that’s why I’m asking and not—not telling you what to do. I don’t—even if you don’t come, I’d wait. And, and text or call, maybe? If you wanted to? Even if it’s just as friends, my life is always better when you’re in it. Kinda hoping that goes both ways here.”

Tommy croaks, “And when you get tired of me before we hit Reno?”

“I won’t,” he says, no hesitation. Tommy’s slack face must do something, because he repeats, “Tommy, I won’t. I won’t. I just want time with you, more time, all the time. I want to try again, so, so bad. And if we fight, we can talk, and not just think the worst, and keep going, be—because I want to eat crappy gas station food with you and not think about the inside of a gym for weeks. I want to drive out somewhere where it feels like we’re the only people on the planet, and fuck in the back of your truck, and then figure out a map that’s older than either of us because there’s no cell service. Maybe rent a chopper in Montana so we can see that sky up close—there’s, there’s so many stars, and you’re the only person I’d want to see them with like that. I want to be locked in a moving vehicle with you all day, except for bathroom stops, and see your face when you realize it’s been 16 hours and we still have more to talk about, and we’ll just keep going, because I’m never gonna get tired of you.”

He pauses and swallows thickly, and Tommy can’t look away. For all that Evan Buckley wears his heart on his sleeve so easily for anyone to see, actually opening it up and offering to hand it over to someone else—that’s still work. “So—that’s what I came to say. That’s what I want. J—just think about it. No rush, I’m not—I’ll wait. If it’s what you want. You…you get to want things, too. So. Yeah.”

Evan nods to himself, rubs the back of his neck, and turns to walk back to his car, parked on the street. Tommy has to move, has to say something, but the soles of his boots are melting, fused to the cement of the driveway, his throat is still closed, and Evan—Evan is walking away.

Tommy wants things, too.

He forces a breath, in and out, on a four-count, licks his lips, and asks, “When do we leave?”

Evan radiates a warmth that scatters out, tangible and visible like a sunrise before he even turns around, beaming. “I was thinking a few weeks after the baby comes, but—but—yeah?”

“Yeah, I, uh, I could chase some stars over the Rockies. With you.” Tommy’s insides unknot, and the life rushes back into his limbs. “And the rest, too. I noticed it’s my truck in this scenario?”

Suddenly Evan is in front of him, closer than they’d managed even that morning after, pressed gently against him from chest to knees, arms winding around his waist. “Much more cargo space. Very practical. And I kinda thought you might be in the same boat, you know, with the unused vacation. Maybe enough seniority to hang onto your spot.”

“Probably, yeah, they generally…” He doesn’t even know how that sentence might have ended, has rarely thought about anything more than a long weekend away, but then Evan’s kissing him, deep and slow and sweet like they might already be the only people on the planet. His warmth flashes over through Tommy, nerve by nerve, until he’s lit up and burning, flammable in places he’d spent months trying to forget this man could expose.

When Evan pulls back, it’s with Tommy’s face between his hands, his relief and hope palpable. Like life might go on, like the world might really be bigger, could even be better, sometimes, than it had been.

“Let’s go,” he whispers, so close and so quiet that Tommy can feel each syllable rumble against his skin, tires steady on a gravel road away from this scene and toward the next.

[cupofteatoyou]

Dreaming in Blaugrana pt3

The door clicked shut behind you with a dull thud.

Laughter still spilled through the walls of Mapi’s apartment—shouts, clinking glasses, a playlist someone had definitely stolen from Patri’s workout queue. It all felt too loud. Too bright. Like you were watching it from the wrong side of a window.

You tugged your hoodie tighter and stepped out into the night.

The street was quiet, washed in soft orange from the old streetlamps. The air smelled like leftover smoke from the barbecue and damp concrete. Your shoes scuffed lightly as you walked, slow and unhurried, like you didn’t want to be anywhere in particular—just away.

You didn’t hear her at first.

Not until the door swung open behind you and her voice, hesitant and unsure, cut through the quiet.

“Hey.”

You turned.

Alexia stood on the top step, her hand gripping the edge of the railing like she wasn’t sure if she was supposed to be there. Her jacket was half-zipped. Her curls were a little frizzy from the heat of the room, and her brows were drawn tight.

“I—” she started, then stopped. You waited.

She tried again. “You were just... leaving?”

You nodded. “Yeah. It is getting late.”

She stepped down onto the sidewalk but didn’t come closer. “You didn’t say goodbye.”

Your mouth twisted. “Didn’t think anyone would notice.”

Alexia flinched at that. Just slightly. But she didn’t deny it.

“I noticed,” she said. Quiet. Like it was hard to admit.

You didn’t know what to do with that. So you just nod your head and turned slightly, eyes back on the empty road ahead.

Behind you, she let out a breath. The kind you release after thinking too long. “I wasn’t sure if I should come after you.”

You kept your voice light, but didn’t faced her . “You didn’t have to.”

“But I wanted to.”

That made you pause.

Alexia shifted behind you, hands tucked into her sleeves like she didn’t know what to do with them. “I keep thinking about that day. About how I just… left.”

You looked down at the pavement. “You didn’t owe me anything.”

“I know,” she said, and then added, softer, “But I still should’ve said something.”

The silence stretched again.

“You know,” she continued, “for a while, I really believed it was the mascot I liked.”

You glanced over, finally. Her face was in shadow, but you could hear the emotion threading through her voice.

“But the truth is,” she said, “you were the one who made me feel safe. Not the fur. Not the foam. Just... you. Underneath it all.”

You swallowed. Hard.

Alexia stepped closer—just enough for her shoulder to brush yours. Barely there. Like she was testing the air between you.

“I got so used to pretending I didn’t need anyone,” she said. “Then there you were. Sitting next to me after training. Not asking anything. Just... being there.”

She looked at you, really looked, and something unspoken passed between you—like she was seeing your face for the first time without the guilt or the weight or the distance.

“I miss that,” she said, her voice a whisper now. “I miss you.”

A gust of wind blew past. You crossed your arms instinctively, but you didn’t step away.

You didn’t want to.

Alexia reached into her jacket pocket, pulled out her car keys, then paused—offering them up like an olive branch.

“Can I drive you home?”

You hesitated. But , you didn’t say no. You nodded, and that was all it took.

She gave you a small smile. Careful. Almost shy.

And the two of you started walking—side by side, silent for a while. But it wasn’t the same kind of silence as before.

It wasn’t avoidance. Or guilt.

It was something softer.

Something new.

She clicked the car unlocked and opened the passenger door for you. Waited until you were in before getting behind the wheel..

Her hand rested lightly on the steering wheel. Her profile calm, but focused. Like she wasn’t rushing this. Like she wanted to get it right.

You weren’t sure where things would go after this.

But for the first time since everything started—

you weren’t afraid to find out.

Alexia had turned down the radio after the first few seconds, fingers adjusting the volume like it was more for comfort than for company. The quiet that settled between you wasn’t uncomfortable—but it wasn’t easy either. It was the kind that buzzed in your chest. The kind that made your hands feel too still in your lap.

Outside the window, the city passed in soft streaks of orange light and blurry storefronts. You could still hear faint echoes of Mapi’s party behind you—shouts, laughter, music—but they faded the farther you got.

Alexia cleared her throat softly. “So…”

You glanced over.

She looked straight ahead, one hand on the wheel, the other drumming absently against her thigh. “Where am I taking you?”

You hesitated.

Not because you didn’t know your own address. But because saying it out loud made this real. Made this moment real. Made her real again.

You gave it to her quietly, almost like you were telling a secret.

She repeated it under her breath, testing the shape of it in her mouth. “Yeah… I know that area.”

You nodded, eyes back on the road. “It’s not far.”

She glanced at you again, briefly. “Still glad you said yes.”

Your throat tightened. “To the ride?”

A beat. “To me.”

That caught you off guard.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t know how.

The only sound in the car was the steady rhythm of the tires beneath you and the soft sigh of the AC. It made everything feel more intimate. Like the two of you had slipped into some pocket of the world where things moved slower—safer.

You looked at her hands on the wheel. The same hands that once reached out for a mascot’s paw like it meant something. Like you meant something. Even when she didn’t know who you were.

Alexia spoke again, quieter this time. “I should’ve said something sooner.”

You stared ahead. “You didn’t have to.”

“Maybe not,” she said, “but I wanted to. I just… didn’t know how to be honest with you once I realized I hadn’t been.”

Your fingers curled into your sleeves. “Me either.”

She turned down your street a few minutes later, slowing in front of your building. She didn’t pull right away. Just let the car idle at the curb, headlights pooling against the sidewalk.

“Thanks for trusting me with it,” she said suddenly.

You blinked. “With what?”

“Your address.” Her voice was light, but not joking. “Letting me get close again.”

You looked at her, and this time, you didn’t look away.

Because yeah—maybe it was just an address.

But maybe it wasn’t.

Maybe it was the first thing you’d handed her without hiding.

And maybe she knew that.

It had been three days since the car ride.

Three days since she walked you to your door, since her jacket brushed yours on the sidewalk, since the quiet between you stopped feeling like a goodbye.

And then… nothing.

Not a text. Not a call.

And you weren’t exactly surprised. You knew Alexia—knew how she retreated when things got too real, how she lived inside her own head sometimes longer than was good for her. Still, every time the café door chimed, your heart gave a little tug. Just in case.

It was mid-afternoon, halfway through your shift, when the bell rang again.

You barely glanced up from restocking the napkin holders, already anticipating another regular or someone with too much foam in their order.

Then a voice said, loud and smug:

“Look who’s out here pretending she’s not a celebrity.”

You blinked. Looked up.

Mapi León was sauntering toward the counter like she owned the place, sunglasses on indoors, hair pulled into a loose bun. And behind her—quiet, hesitant, hands in the pockets of her jacket—was Alexia.

Your heart immediately stuttered.

Mapi leaned against the counter, squinting at the pastry display. “What’s the sweetest thing you have that won’t actually kill me?”

You blinked again. “I—I thought you were training this afternoon?”

Mapi shrugged. “Ingrid thinks I’m at the physio. I told her I had a hot date with my blood sugar.”

You laughed softly, then flicked your eyes toward Alexia.

She wasn’t saying anything. But she wasn’t looking away either.

“Hi,” she said, finally.

Your voice almost caught. “Hi.”

Mapi spun toward her with a gasp. “She said hi back. Are we witnessing a soft launch right now? Should I leave?”

Alexia sighed. “Mapi.”

“What? I’m just saying. Eye contact was made. Civil greetings were exchanged. History has been written.”

You shook your head, trying not to smile, and grabbed two cups. “Drinks on the house.”

Mapi leaned over the counter, stage whispering, “You hear that? She likes us.”

“She likes you,” Alexia deadpanned, then glanced at you, a little smile creeping in. “I’m not sure I’ve earned mine yet.”

Your stomach fluttered.

Mapi snorted and pointed at Alexia dramatically. “See? Self-aware. Growth.”

You busied yourself behind the counter—grateful for the distraction—but your hands were a little clumsy, your pulse a little too fast. You could feel Alexia’s eyes on you, even as she pretended to study the drink menu like it had changed since she walked in.

When you slid her coffee across the counter, her fingers brushed yours.

“I didn’t come here for the coffee,” she said quietly.

You met her eyes. “No?”

She shook her head. “I came to see if I still get to look at you like this.”

You blinked. Every nerve in your body lit up.

Before you could say anything, Mapi reappeared—now holding a cookie the size of her face. “Okay, wow, I leave you two alone for five seconds and suddenly it’s The Notebook. Should I leave you with mood lighting? Burn some incense?”

Alexia shot her a look, but there was a flicker of gratitude behind it. Like she needed Mapi’s chaos just to keep her grounded.

You laughed. And this time it wasn’t awkward. It was light. Easy.

“Why don’t you take your cookie and go be disruptive... over there?” you offered, nodding toward the corner table.

Mapi bowed. “As you wish. Lovebirds.”

“We’re not—” you and Alexia said at the same time, then froze.

Mapi cackled. “YET.”

She retreated to the corner with her cookie and her giant grin, and you and Alexia were left in the quiet again—only this time, it didn’t feel uncertain.

Alexia leaned forward on her elbows, her coffee cradled between her hands. “I mean it,” she said softly. “I want to show up. Keep showing up. If that’s something you’d let me do.”

You nodded. “Yeah. It is.”

She smiled.

And this time, it wasn’t shy.

It was real. Solid.

Something beginning again.

The day passed like most others did now—slow, quiet, ordinary.

You wiped down tables. Refilled sugar jars. Burned your tongue taste-testing a new syrup no one had asked for. The café stayed mostly calm, save for the usual afternoon rush and an espresso machine that made more noise than necessary.

By the time your shift ended, the sky outside had shifted into that soft golden haze, just shy of dusk. You walked home with your headphones in, hood up, hands in your pockets, letting the city blur around you. Nothing felt out of place. Nothing felt like it was building toward anything.

You got home. Kicked off your shoes. Let your bag drop somewhere by the couch. The place was still, the kind of quiet that settles over everything like a blanket. Comforting, but also heavy. Familiar.

You changed into your favorite oversized shirt. Lit a candle you didn’t really need. Pulled your hair up. Normal things.

Then your phone buzzed.

You didn’t rush to check it. You figured it was another promo text from the café manager or Mapi sending you a cursed meme.

But when you finally did glance at it—

your breath caught.

Unknown number.

No name. No photo. Just a single message.

I would love to see you there. –Alexia

You stared at it.

Attached beneath the message were two tickets.

Barça vs. Levante.

Home match. Front row.

Your thumb hovered above the screen, like touching it might make the whole thing vanish.

There was no pressure. No expectations. No apology wrapped in poetic words.

Just... seven words and her name. Quiet. Personal. Intentional.

She didn’t have to sign it.

But she did.

–Alexia

Your pulse thudded somewhere behind your ribs.

Because that message? That wasn’t for Cat Culer.

It wasn’t performative, it wasn’t an inside joke, and it wasn’t sent to a version of you she couldn’t face.

It was for you.

No mask. No foam. No pretending.

You didn’t respond—not yet.

You just sat down on the edge of your couch, holding your phone like it was something fragile, something real.

You read it again. And again.

And then you let yourself smile.

Because in eight words and two tickets, she said everything you’d been waiting to hear.

No drama. No disguise.

Just her.

And maybe—

a new beginning.

Then match day came.

And you woke up with that familiar buzz in your chest—the one that always used to come when you pulled on the Cat Culer suit. When you became someone who could be loud. Unafraid.

And somehow, you didn’t need the suit this time.

You just needed to show up.

So you did.

You kept it simple—black jeans, team hoodie, no makeup, hair down. You weren’t here to work. Not today.

The stadium felt bigger as a spectator.

The buzz in the air was electric—fans in jerseys shouting, flags waving, the hum of drums pulsing through your ribs. The energy of thousands, but your heart was focused on one person.

You found your seat.

Front row. Just like the ticket said.

It was loud. It was overwhelming. But you stayed.

You scanned the pitch, but she wasn’t out yet. The players were still trickling out from the tunnel, coaches barking last-minute things, photographers darting across the sidelines.

And then—

She appeared.

Hair braided back. Armband snug against her sleeve. Boots already scuffed. That signature walk—composed, grounded, sharp. She looked exactly how she always had on match day.

Except this time, she wasn’t looking at the bench.

She was scanning the crowd.

And when her eyes found you?

She stilled.

Just for a second. Just long enough for you to know she’d been searching.

She didn’t wave. Didn’t smile.

She just looked at you like she knew.

And that was enough.

She turned back to her team, barked something to Mapi, and fell into warmups like it was second nature. But her posture had changed.

And for the rest of that match—every time she drifted to your side of the pitch, every glance toward the stands—she never looked over the crowd.

She looked at you.

Not the mascot.

Not the intern in the background.

Just you.

And for the first time, you didn’t need anything else.

The final whistle had echoed, the stadium now more shadows than sound.

Most of the crowd had begun to thin, the high of the win slowly giving way to the usual post-match rush—families rounding up their kids, fans still shouting chants as they spilled out into the streets, stadium staff moving like clockwork to start the reset for next time.

But you stayed.

You didn’t even realize how tightly you were gripping the strap of your bag until the lights began to dim and the noise faded enough for your pulse to catch up.

You found yourself near the players’ tunnel—not out of place, but not exactly belonging either. Just close enough. Just waiting.

And then there she was.

Alexia stepped out of the tunnel, her jersey damp and clinging to her frame, hair messy and damp, socks slouched from the match. She looked powerful and real and tired in the most human way.

She was talking to one of the staffers. Laughing a little. But then her eyes swept the edge of the stands—and stopped.

She saw you.

And everything else about her seemed to pause.

You didn’t wave. Didn’t smile.

You didn’t have to.

She said something short to the staffer, gave a nod, then crossed the distance between you with long, purposeful strides. You could hear the gravel under her cleats. Feel the beat of your heart in your throat.

When she stopped in front of you, she didn’t look hesitant.

She just looked sure.

“You came,” she said, breath hitching just slightly.

You nodded. “You sent the tickets.”

“I wasn’t sure you’d use them.”

“I wasn’t sure either,” you admitted. “But then… I didn’t want to miss it.”

That softened her.

She glanced back toward the tunnel like she could still hear the team inside—Mapi shouting something about champagne and victory shots—but then turned back to you.

“I should be in the locker room,” she said. “Media, cooldown, all that. But…”

She trailed off, suddenly a little shy.

“But?” you asked, voice quiet.

Her fingers curled around the hem of her jersey. “I kind of want to take you home instead.”

Your breath caught.

She rushed to clarify, cheeks slightly flushed. “Not like—not that—I just meant… can I drive you home?”

You blinked. Then smiled. “You asking out of guilt? Or convenience?”

Alexia grinned. “Would it be awful if I said both?”

“Yes.”

She laughed, then added, gently this time: “I just want more time with you.”

And that? That was the truth underneath it all.

Not about the ride. Or the win. Or the message she sent three nights ago.

Just her, asking if this thing between you still had space to exist.

You nodded. “I’d like that.”

Her smile softened. “Come on. It’s parked in the back. I’ll even let you pick the playlist.”

“That’s suspiciously generous of you.”

“Don’t ruin it.”

You walked beside her through the quiet hallways of the stadium, the adrenaline still buzzing in the walls, the hum of something different alive between you now.

She opened the passenger door for you without thinking. Like it was instinct.

And when you both slid into the car—warm from the engine, seats a little too low, the smell of turf and sweat and something faintly citrus still clinging to her—you didn’t rush to speak.

Alexia turned the key in the ignition. The headlights lit up the road ahead.

And then she glanced at you.

“You okay?”

You looked over. She was watching you like the answer mattered.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “I think I am.”

She shifted into drive, smiled to herself, and pulled away from the stadium.

And this time—

she wasn’t catching up.

She wasn’t chasing.

She was just beside you.

Finally.

The car ride had been soft with silence.

Not the kind that presses down on your chest—but the kind that settles in your bones. That quiet hum of something real, something shifting, something both of you were still figuring out how to hold.

When Alexia pulled up in front of your building, neither of you moved for a few seconds.

She didn’t need to ask if this was the place. She remembered the porch. The cracked brick step. The little light above the door that flickered every third blink. She’d seen it before—from the outside.

But tonight wasn’t about standing on the edge anymore.

Her fingers lightly tapped the steering wheel, like she was trying to ground herself. You looked at her. She looked at you.

And in that quiet, she asked without asking.

And you answered without speaking.

You opened the passenger door and stepped into the cold, your breath visible as you looked back at her.

She followed.

You didn’t talk as you climbed the stairs. But your hands brushed once—twice—until finally, hers settled beside yours. A light touch. Intentional. Just enough to make your heart stutter.

You unlocked the door and pushed it open, letting the familiar warmth of your apartment spill into the hallway. She stood just behind you, still on the threshold.

You turned, met her eyes, and said, barely above a whisper, “You don’t have to come in.”

“I want to,” she replied, without missing a beat.

Her voice was low. Steady. Sure.

She stepped inside.

And stopped.

She looked around like she’d walked into something sacred. Not because your apartment was impressive—it wasn’t. The lighting was soft but a little too yellow. The throw pillows didn’t match. A stack of books leaned dangerously sideways on the coffee table.

But still, she looked like she’d been invited into something rare.

She didn’t speak right away. Just moved her eyes slowly across the space.

The half-melted candle on the windowsill. The chipped mug on the counter. The hoodie draped over the back of the couch. The framed photo by the door—one you thought no one would ever look too closely at.

“This is… you,” she finally said.

There was something reverent in her voice.

You felt suddenly, completely seen. And it was terrifying.

You rubbed your palms against your thighs. “Is that… weird?”

Alexia’s eyes found yours.

“No,” she said. “It’s kind of perfect.”

You smiled softly and took her jacket, hanging it by the door.

“Tea? Water? I have terrible apple juice.”

She laughed—really laughed—and shook her head.”I’m good,” she said, voice warm. “I’m not here for a drink.”

You nodded, heart fluttering.

You didn’t move at first. Neither did she.

You both just stood there, in the center of your living room, with the world quieting down around you and the air buzzing between your ribs.

Then, slowly, you stepped toward her.

And she didn’t wait.

Her hands found your waist as yours reached for her face, fingertips brushing over her cheek like you were still trying to believe this was real.

When your lips met, it wasn’t urgent. It wasn’t rushed.

It was soft.

Earnest.

A quiet thank you.

A quiet I see you.

A quiet finally.

She pulled back just an inch, just enough to speak. Her breath still tangled with yours.

“I’ve wanted to do that since the bench,” she whispered.

You smiled. “You were busy falling for a cat back then.”

“I wasn’t,” she said. “I was falling for who was underneath.”

You kissed her again.

Longer this time. Deeper. Like the door had been unlocked, and you’d both finally stepped inside.

When she rested her forehead against yours, you didn’t move.

She stood in your apartment, in your space, and you let her. Fully. Completely.

Not the player. Not the suit. Just her.

And for the first time, you realized something quietly, beautifully terrifying:

She wasn’t leaving.

Not emotionally. Not this time.

She was in.

And you?

You weren’t just letting her stay.

You were letting her belong.

The end

[duvetchico]

ugh!

summary minjeong gets insanely jealous when you hang out with other people, marking her territory in the most possessive and hilarious way possible. but the problem is, you gays aren't even dating

genre fluff / humor / jealousy / slight angst

pairing kim minjeong x fem!reader

warning/s possessive winter

masterlist.

you’d been hanging out with some friends at a café, having a good time, when you felt the familiar presence of minjeong creeping up behind you. you barely had time to react before her arms were wrapped around your waist, pulling you back into her chest like she was trying to claim you as her personal property.

“hey,” you say, trying to act casual even though you feel the heat radiating off her. “what’s up?”

she just grunts, clearly pissed about something. you glance over at her face, and yep, there’s the all-too-familiar frown. “what’s wrong?” you ask, giving her a look. “why do you look like someone just stole your puppy?”

minjeong doesn’t respond immediately. instead, she just stays glued to your back, her chin resting on your shoulder. you can feel her eyes scanning the group of friends you’re with, and it’s starting to get way too tense.

“are you seriously jealous right now?” you ask, laughing nervously. “you know they’re just my friends, right?”

“no, i’m not jealous,” minjeong snaps, her grip tightening around your waist as if to say you’re mine without saying a word. “i just don’t like how you’re getting all cozy with other people. especially when they’re not me.”

you blink, taken aback. “seriously? you’re getting jealous because i’m sitting next to my friends? it’s not like i’m making out with them or anything.”

“well,” she mutters, her voice low and grumbly, “you’re sitting way too close to that one guy. and your hand keeps brushing against his. like, what the fuck is that?”

you stare at her, eyes wide. “minjeong, that’s literally nothing. we’re just talking.”

but minjeong’s not having any of it. she’s now fully attached to your side, her arms draped over you, and she’s not letting go. “i don’t like it,” she grumbles, still eyeing your friend group like they’ve done something wrong. “it’s like you’re flirting with them or something. and i don’t like sharing.”

“uh, you know we’re not even dating, right?” you say, trying to get some space between the two of you but failing miserably because minjeong’s like a fucking octopus.

“i don’t care,” she mutters under her breath, her fingers digging into your side. “i’m not gonna let anyone get too close to you. no one touches what’s mine.”

you burst out laughing at how ridiculous she’s being. “oh my god, you’re so dramatic. no one’s gonna steal me away from you. chill.”

but minjeong’s not having it. she’s getting more touchy by the second, pulling you closer to her, like she’s trying to create some forcefield around you. at this point, you’re starting to feel like she’s about to explode if you even look at your friends again.

“okay, fine,” you say, giving her a playful nudge. “but if you’re this possessive over me, we have to start dating. seriously, it’s the only way to make sense of this.”

minjeong’s eyes narrow, and you can see the wheels turning in her head. “yeah, maybe i will make you mine officially,” she says, voice dropping low, but it’s not in the flirty way you expect. it’s like she’s dead serious. “then maybe i won’t have to watch you get all touchy-feely with other people.”

you blink. “minjeong, we’re literally just friends—”

“yeah, well, i don’t care,” she cuts you off, her lips pressed against your ear now as she practically whispers into it. “i want to be the one who’s always touching you. who’s always holding your hand. not them.”

you laugh nervously. “jeez, you’re crazy.”

minjeong ignores you and rubs her hand up and down your arm like she’s marking her territory. then, as if to really drive the point home, she leans in and presses a kiss to your cheek, so obviously possessive and jealous that it has your head spinning.

“stop that,” you mumble, trying to avoid making eye contact with anyone around you because now you’re definitely feeling awkward.

minjeong just smirks, looking way too satisfied with herself. “what? can’t a girl kiss her own person?”

“we’re not even—” you start, but she cuts you off again, her hand slipping into yours and not letting go.

“yes, we are. You’re mine. Don’t you get it?” she says it so seriously, but you can hear the smugness in her voice, and it’s driving you insane.

you’re just about to retort when one of your friends speaks up, clearly seeing how intense the situation is getting.

“hey, y/n, you good? looks like your girlfriend’s about to burn us all alive with her glare.”

minjeong’s face immediately lights up at the word “girlfriend,” and she grins like she just won the lottery.

“yup,” she says smugly, her grip on your hand tightening even more. “i’m her girlfriend. and you guys better watch your fucking hands.”

you have no words. no words at all. you just stare at her, wide-eyed, watching her proudly stake her claim on you in front of your entire friend group.

“seriously?” you mumble, feeling both embarrassed and slightly flustered because wow, she is making this way more obvious than it needs to be.

“yup,” minjeong says again, completely oblivious to your internal panic. “she’s mine, so back the fuck off.”

“god, you’re crazy,” you mutter, rubbing your forehead like you’re dealing with an actual lunatic.

“i’m not crazy,” she says, her voice unreasonably calm now. “i’m just protective. You’re mine, and i don’t want anyone else even thinking about getting close to you.”

you’re just about to argue when your friend cuts in again, trying to ease the tension. “okay, okay. no need to claim her so publicly. we get it. she’s yours. chill.”

minjeong, however, doesn’t chill. instead, she leans in, giving you one last squeeze before letting go and turning to your friend group with that same possessive smile.

“yeah, she is,” she says, making sure everyone in the room knows exactly who’s in charge. then she turns back to you, the softest smile on her face. “mine.”

you’ve officially been claimed.