#maybe I can just pretend that I never came up with the idea

[cup1drul3z]

★ — It was a bad idea

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 1 : ᴄᴀʟʟɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ ᴜᴘ

ʙꜱꜰꜱɪꜱᴛᴇʀ!ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | 8.1ᴋ ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ

TAGS : hatefucking, sexual objectification of lesbianism, height difference, porn with plot, dub con, drunk sex, messy, angst, A LOT OF SMUT, strap-on, fingering, oral

A/N : hopeless lesbians

Summary : You and Sevika, Your bestfriends sister. fall into a messy, secret fling that was never supposed to happen. What starts as a one-time mistake quickly spirals into something neither of you can control. Now you're both pretending not to care—while wanting each other more than ever.

PROLOGUE NOVEMBER 

The house was dark and too quiet. Somewhere upstairs, your best friend was snoring like she always did—mouth open, dead to the world. You’d tossed and turned for hours before finally giving up, slipping out from the guest bed and creeping down the stairs in nothing but your oversized tank top and cotton sleep shorts.

You just wanted a glass of water. Maybe some cereal. Something to kill time until your brain shut up and let you rest.

You didn’t expect her to be in the kitchen.

Sevika.

Standing in front of the open fridge in the dim glow of the appliance light, like some kind of fucking vision. Barefoot. Shirtless. Her broad back curved as she leaned forward, sweatpants slung low on her hips—dangerously low—and a black sports bra clinging tight across her chest. One hand on the fridge door, the other lifting the milk carton straight to her mouth.

You froze in the doorway.

She didn’t look at you at first. Just tipped the carton back, throat working as she drank, her scars catching silver-blue in the dim light. You saw the flex in her jaw, the lazy tilt of her head. Saw the moment she noticed you and still—still didn’t stop drinking.

Her eyes dragged over you when she finally lowered the carton.

“You lost or just thirsty?” she asked, voice low and dry with sleep. Her lips were wet.

You scoffed and crossed your arms, ignoring the way your tank top rode up a little higher when you did. “I could ask you the same thing. What, they don’t sell cups in this house?”

“Didn’t realize the guest was gonna police my drinking habits.” She leaned back against the counter, milk carton dangling from two fingers, and smirked like she was already ten steps ahead of you. “Didn’t realize you were gonna show up dressed like that, either.”

You looked down—thin fabric, no bra, bare legs.

“Didn’t realize you were gonna ogle your little sister’s best friend.”

That smirk twitched. “Please. You’ve been dying for me to look since you were sixteen.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

Sevika rolled her eyes and stepped closer. “Don’t act surprised. You used to blush every time I looked at you. Couldn’t even say my name without stuttering.”

You laughed once, sharp. “Yeah, maybe back when I was a dumb little kid. But not now.”

“No?” She was right in front of you now. Big, barefoot, heat pouring off her like static. “’Cause you’re looking at me like you still want me to ruin you.”

Your breath caught, stomach dropping in that sick, electric way you’d always hated.

“I came down for water.”

She leaned in, mouth by your ear. “Then drink.”

You turned your head. “Maybe I’ll take the milk. Since you got your filthy mouth all over it.”

She grinned, teeth bared. “Thought you liked it filthy.”

It was so fast you didn’t even register who moved first. One second you were toe-to-toe, and the next her hand was on your hip, your back slammed against the fridge door with a thud. Milk carton hit the floor and rolled.

Your hands flew up to push her off—but you didn’t. Not really.

She leaned in closer, breath hot against your cheek. “Tell me to stop.”

You glared at her. “Go to hell.”

That was enough.

She kissed you like a challenge—like a punishment—teeth clashing, hands rough as they slid down to grab the backs of your thighs and lift. You gasped, arms wrapping tight around her shoulders as she carried you out of the kitchen like you weighed nothing.

The hallway blurred past.

Then the laundry room door slammed shut behind you.

“Sevika—”

“Quiet,” she growled, slamming you against the washer. “Unless you want your little friend to wake up and see how filthy you really are.”

She shoved your tank top up, teeth grazing your ribs. You hissed, fingers digging into her shoulders.

“You think I didn’t notice?” she muttered, dragging her tongue across your stomach. “Strutting around this house. Bending over in those tiny little shorts. Smirking like you own me.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You were,” she said, biting the inside of your thigh. “And now you get what you wanted.”

You groaned, back arching off the cold metal. “You talk a lot of shit for someone who came in less than five minutes last time.”

Her head snapped up. Her eyes—dark, mean, gleaming.

“You’re gonna regret that,” she said.

She dropped to her knees.

You didn’t regret a thing.

You didn’t come down for this.

You weren’t supposed to let this happen.

But your hands were in her hair and your legs were over her shoulders, and Sevika didn’t stop—not when you gasped her name, not when your back arched so hard you knocked over the detergent bottle, not even when you bit down on your own fist to keep from screaming.

She stayed on her knees like she was starving for you. Like she hated you for it. Like you owed her this.

When it was over, she stood slowly, face flushed, mouth wet, eyes sharp and ruined at the same time. Her hands stayed on your thighs for a beat too long, like she wasn’t ready to let go. Like she might pull you back down and do it all over again.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she leaned against the dryer, grabbed the cigarette tucked behind her ear, and lit it like she hadn’t just made you fall apart in a fucking laundry room.

You tugged your tank top down, throat burning. “You’re a fucking asshole.”

She exhaled smoke without looking at you. “You love it.”

You slid off the washer and almost stumbled—legs still jelly. Sevika caught your arm without thinking. Her touch was firm, gentle.

Too gentle.

You yanked away. “Don’t.”

She raised an eyebrow. “What, now you wanna play innocent?”

You didn’t answer. You just bent down, grabbed your stupid shorts off the floor, and shoved your way past her toward the door. Her voice followed you.

“Don’t act like you didn’t want this, sweetheart.”

You turned back. Your hand on the knob, eyes blazing. “I didn’t want this.”

She just looked at you. Silent. Still smoking. Like she knew you were lying.

Like she wasn’t.

You slipped upstairs like a ghost, into your best friend’s room—back under the covers, heart still pounding, skin still flushed with Sevika’s touch. You stared at the ceiling. At the cracks. At the dark.

You didn’t sleep.

And in the morning, when you came downstairs for real this time—hair brushed, socks on, fake-smiling at your best friend pouring cereal—Sevika was already at the table. Sitting there like nothing happened.

She didn’t look at you.

But when her knee brushed yours under the table, slow and deliberate?

You didn’t move away.

You never did.

And that was the problem.

Because two hours later, you were back in her arms—this time behind the closed door of her bedroom, pressed up against the inside of it with your nails dragging down her back and your breath caught on a sob you didn’t want her to hear.

And Sevika? Sevika kissed you like you were a drug she hated herself for craving.

Like she wanted to ruin you a little more every time.

And maybe you let her.

Maybe you liked it.

But the worst part? The part you really don’t talk about? Is that it didn’t start that way.

Not really.

It started with a smile. A party you didn’t want to go to. A girl you hadn’t seen in two years just showing up like that.

It started with a stupid little comment and the slow, slow burn of a match you didn’t know you’d lit.

So yeah. Now you’re standing here with her knee between your thighs under a breakfast table like it’s normal. Like you didn’t spend all night pretending she wasn’t the best mistake you’ve ever made.

But back then?

Back then, you were just an innocent girl.

And she was just your best friend’s sister.

MAY

You glared at your reflection in the mirror, tugging at the hem of your tank top like it would magically make you feel better about being dragged to this party.

“I hate people,” you muttered, leaning closer to smear a little black eyeliner under your lashes. “I hate beer. I hate sticky counters. And I hate this playlist.”

Behind you, your best friend was already sprawled across her bed, vape tucked between her lips as she scrolled mindlessly through her phone. She didn’t even look up.

“You hate everything, dramatic ass,” she said, voice flat. “But you’re still going.”

“I’d rather stay home.”

“It’s my graduation party.”

“Exactly.”

She rolled her eyes and finally sat up, yanking the vape from her mouth with a sigh. “You’re not skipping it just ‘cause you’re in one of your moods. We both survived high school. We deserve to be drunk and messy about it.”

You turned to face her, arms crossed. “You deserve to be drunk and messy. I deserve to eat Hot Cheetos in bed and fall asleep to true crime like a civilized adult.”

She laughed. “Okay, Grandma.”

You gave her a look. “I’m serious. What’s even the point? Everyone’s just gonna get shitfaced and pretend they like each other until someone pukes in the downstairs bathroom.”

“And you’ll be hot and mysterious in the corner like you always are.”

“Hot and mysterious doesn’t mean I want to be there.”

“God, would you listen to yourself?” She climbed off the bed, padding over in her fuzzy socks to stand beside you. “You know what your problem is?”

“Enlighten me.”

“You’ve been a bad bitch for, like, a year now and you still haven’t gotten laid. It’s tragic.”

Your face flushed instantly. “I’ve been busy!”

“Doing what?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it again.

She grinned, wild and wicked. “Exactly.”

You flipped her off. “Not everyone wants to hook up with football guys in the back of their trucks, okay?”

“Well, maybe if you wore something that said ‘please rail me behind a Denny’s,’ you’d have better luck.”

You were about to protest again when she suddenly darted to her laundry hamper, digging through a pile of half-clean clothes before triumphantly yanking something black and slinky free.

“Oh no,” you said, already backing away.

“Oh yes.”

She held it up. A dress. Or the vague suggestion of one—short, tight, borderline illegal.

You stared. “That’s a shirt.”

She grinned around the mouthpiece of her vape. “It’s a dress. I’ve worn it to church.”

“You have not.”

“Fine. I wore it to a concert. And I didn’t wear panties either.”

“Ew.”

“Exactly. Now put this on.” She tossed it at you with a wicked little smirk and blew a cloud of mango vapor in your face. “You’ve got the tits for it now.”

You caught the fabric midair, still frowning but already turning toward the mirror again.

It wasn’t that you didn’t like parties. Not really. You’d just… changed. A lot.

A year after Sevika left for college, something in you flipped. The braces came off, the acne cleared, your curves filled in all at once. You stopped apologizing so much. Stopped waiting for someone to notice you.

People noticed now. Everyone but her.

Sevika hadn’t been home since she moved out three years ago. No holiday visits, no texts. Just a vague shadow in the back of your memory—hoodies, combat boots, the scratch of her voice. Her constant teasing. The way she used to ruffle your hair and call you “kid.”

The house was packed now—bass shaking the floors, the air thick with weed smoke and sweat, and someone was definitely making out on the pool table.

You pushed your way back in from the yard, wiping lip gloss from your mouth with the back of your hand and still trying to remember the name of the guy you'd just made out with in the downstairs bathroom. Brandon? Bradley? Whatever.

You were buzzing. Body warm, head a little floaty. The dress Riley made you wear was riding up again and you didn’t even bother pulling it down.

You found her in the living room, laughing with someone tall, broad, and shadowed under the dim ceiling light. You didn’t recognize the profile at first—not through the blur of movement and cheap LED glow.

“Hey,” you called out, nudging Riley’s shoulder. “I just made out with some dude in your parents' bathroom. He tasted like Fireball and had, like, so much tongue.”

Riley snorted and slung an arm around your waist, pulling you in close, still laughing, face a little pink from whatever jungle juice she’d been downing.

“Sis,” she said, turning you both toward the other figure. “You know who this is?”

You blinked, lips parted, too tipsy to track the shift in her tone.

Then the other girl turned to face you fully.

And your stomach dropped.

You recognized that jaw. That scar. That deadpan stare that always made you feel like she could see through you, even when you were twelve and trying to sneak vodka into your root beer.

Sevika.

Your throat went dry.

She looked so different. Broader. Taller, somehow. A little more ink, a little less patience. Her eyes dragged down your frame—slow, unreadable—and then back up to your face like she wasn’t in any kind of rush.

Riley grinned between you. “You remember Sev, right?”

“Thought her flight wasn’t until next week,” you said dumbly.

“She surprised me!” Riley laughed, smacking Sevika’s arm playfully. “Just showed up at the front door like a creep! I was wearing a towel!”

Sevika rolled her eyes, finally taking the red Solo cup from her sister’s hand and draining the rest of it like it was water.

“I’m not drunk yet,” she muttered, licking her lips once before lifting her gaze to yours. “That’s Y/N.”

She said it so casually.

Like your name didn’t sound heavy in her mouth. Like her eyes hadn’t already dropped to your thighs when you weren’t looking. Like you hadn’t spent three years wondering what it would be like to see her again—and now you were here, wearing a dress that could barely pass as a shirt, pupils blown from weed and nerves, still catching up to the fact that she was real.

That she was here.

You felt yourself swallow hard. And Sevika noticed.

She didn’t smirk. Didn’t tease. She just looked at you.

Like maybe she did remember.

And maybe she regretted coming home at all.

The living room had thinned out a bit. Someone had passed out half-on, half-off the couch, and the playlist had somehow looped back to early 2000s hits no one wanted to admit they knew every word to.

You were slumped in a kitchen barstool now, legs crossed, drink forgotten in your lap as your eyes wandered lazily around the room—landing and lingering on her.

Sevika stood near the counter, one arm braced against it, the other curled loosely around a red cup. The neckline of her black tee was loose, exposing the sharp cut of her collarbone and a flash of ink near her shoulder. She looked good. Too good. And worse? She knew it.

You didn’t realize you were staring until she looked over at you with a lopsided grin.

“You good over there, lightweight?”

Your eyes narrowed, head tilting. “Excuse you?”

She pushed off the counter and strolled over, the heavy thud of her boots somehow louder than the music. She stopped in front of you, towering just a little, smirking down like a damn bully.

“You’ve had, what? Two drinks and a hit off Riley’s vape, and you’re already zoning out like a toddler after cake.”

“I’m not zoning out,” you said, defensively poking her stomach. “I’m observing.”

“Sure. Observing the fridge. Real deep.”

“I’m multitasking, asshole.”

That earned a laugh from her—low and raspy, not unkind. “You’re so faded you almost walked into the screen door earlier.”

“That screen door was invisible, okay?” you said, standing up just to glare at her properly. “It’s a design flaw.”

“Oh my god,” Sevika muttered, taking a sip from her cup and shaking her head. “You’re so full of shit.”

“And you’re so full of yourself,” you shot back, wobbling a little as you pointed at her. “What’s it like being the main character all the time?”

She raised a brow. “What’s it like being this fucking annoying?”

You gasped—gasped, like she’d insulted your mother. “I am delightful.”

“You’re a menace.”

“You’re mean!”

“You’re high.”

You squinted up at her, swaying slightly. “You’re hot.”

That shut her up.

Just for a second.

Her smirk faltered. Her jaw ticked. Her eyes flicked down to your mouth and then right back up again—sharp, unreadable.

You blinked. Realized what you’d said. Realized you didn’t even regret it.

“See?” you mumbled, shrugging and flopping back onto the stool. “You’re quiet now.”

“Not quiet,” she said, voice rougher. She set her cup down and leaned forward, palms on the counter beside your legs. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous,” you teased, heart in your throat now.

“Not as dangerous as you in that dress.”

You stilled.

Her eyes didn’t waver. “You know what you’re doing.”

Maybe you did. Maybe you didn’t.

But either way, you weren’t backing down.

“Good,” you whispered. “It’d be a shame if you missed it.”

You didn’t mean to start something.

But there was no denying the way she was looking at you now—like she was debating whether to shove you back against the counter or walk away before she did something really stupid.

She chose neither.

Instead, Sevika pushed off the counter, grabbed her drink, and mumbled, “You need water.”

You blinked. “What?”

“You’re cooked. Come on.”

She didn’t wait for you to argue, just turned and headed for the hallway without a glance back. You stared after her for a second, dumbfounded, then reluctantly slid off the stool and followed. Your thighs stuck to the fake leather. You were still pulling your dress down when you caught up with her.

She stopped at the kitchen sink, filled a glass, and shoved it toward you.

“Drink.”

You frowned. “You’re bossy.”

“And you’re dehydrated.”

Still, you took the glass. Mostly because you were thirsty—and not just in the literal way. You drank a little too fast, water running down the side of your mouth. Sevika didn’t say anything, just watched with that same unreadable stare.

Then she said, “Come with me.”

You opened your mouth to sass her again, but she was already walking. Down the hall, past the bathroom, and toward the sliding door that led out to the back deck. You followed without thinking. The air outside was cooler now, the night quieter. Most of the party was inside or upstairs. You could still hear bass, muffled behind glass.

Sevika sat on one of the deck chairs and lit a cigarette. She didn’t offer you one.

You stood awkwardly, arms folded. “So… you just wanted me to hydrate and vibe out here with you?”

“Yeah.”

You laughed once. “That’s weirdly wholesome for someone who used to throw lit bottle rockets at me.”

She snorted. “You were annoying.”

“You were an asshole.”

Sevika took a long drag, exhaled slow. “Still am.”

You shifted, legs cold now under the too-short dress. “So why’d you bring me out here?”

She didn’t answer right away.

Then: “Because if you stayed in there, you were gonna do something stupid.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

You narrowed your eyes. “I wasn’t gonna do anything—”

“You already made out with some guy you don’t even remember.”

“That was fun.”

“No it wasn’t.”

You took a step toward her. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t.”

“Then why are you acting like you do?”

Her eyes flicked up to yours. For a second, neither of you moved.

And then she said, “Because I know what you’re doing.”

That shut you up.

Sevika leaned back, cigarette dangling from her lips. “You walk in wearing that dress. You push. You prod. You want a reaction. You want me to look.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it again.

“Truth is?” she said, voice low now. “I’ve been trying not to.”

Silence fell like a drop of rain before a storm.

You stared at her. At the curve of her mouth. The smoke in her breath. The shadow on her cheek.

You could’ve kissed her right then.

But you didn’t.

You just sat down beside her, pulled your knees up to your chest, and whispered:

“…I didn’t think you’d come back.”

She didn’t answer. But after a long moment, she passed you the cigarette.

You took it without a word.

It started with a look.

You didn’t even remember what sparked the argument—something Sevika said in that low, judgmental tone that always rubbed you raw. Something about you not thinking things through. About you not knowing what you wanted.

“I do know what I want,” you’d snapped, standing now, your voice rising. “I’m not some stupid little kid anymore.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

That did it.

You stormed off, dress clinging to your hips, heart hammering in your throat. The sliding door slammed shut behind you as you made your way through the crowd, ignoring the blur of music and sweat and someone puking into a Solo cup behind the couch. You needed something to shut your brain up, to pull you out of that spiral Sevika always shoved you into.

So when you saw the circle forming in the living room—half-drunk friends laughing, a bottle already spinning—you didn’t think.

You just dropped down into the half-empty spot, tucking your legs beneath you and leaning back on your palm like nothing was wrong. Like you weren’t still burning from that fight.

It was stupid. Childish. But that was the point, wasn’t it?

Just one last dumb game before everyone scattered for college, jobs, whatever came after this summer. One last reckless night to feel something sharp and messy and unforgettable.

The bottle spun. People laughed. A few weak kisses happened. Someone dared a guy to take a body shot off a watermelon.

And then—

A girl spun it.

You didn’t even know her that well. Something-Ashley. Hair pulled up in a loose bun, crop top riding high. The bottle slowed… and stopped, pointing right at you.

The group lit up.

“Oooooh!” “Damn, Y/N!” “She’s hot, though—do it!”

You smiled, sweet and slow, letting your eyes drift across the circle… and land on her.

Sevika.

Standing at the edge of the room with her arms crossed over her chest, eyes locked on you. Her jaw clenched. Her shoulders tense. That vein in her neck ticking like a warning.

You turned back to Ashley.

“C’mere,” you said with a shrug.

The girl grinned and leaned in—and you kissed her.

Soft at first. A little shy, a little playful. But then her hand slid into your hair, and your mouth opened, and the kiss turned hot. Messy. Full-on intentional.

The guys went feral.

“HOLY SHIT.” “YESSS.” “Fucking hell—keep going!”

But you didn’t hear them. Not really.

You kissed her harder. Not because she was a girl. Not for the attention. Not for the game.

But because you knew Sevika was watching.

And then she wasn’t.

You caught the movement out of the corner of your eye—her turning sharply, pushing through the crowd, vanishing down the hallway without a word.

You pulled away from Ashley, breath uneven. She blinked at you, lips pink, dazed and clearly questioning every label she’d ever used.

You wiped your mouth.

“Sorry,” you said quickly, standing up. “You’re great. That was just…”

You didn’t finish.

You left them sitting there—Ashley with her fingers still tangled in the hem of her shirt, and the rest of the group laughing like nothing had just cracked open and spilled across the carpet.

You pushed through the kitchen. Past the bathroom line. Down the hall.

You had no idea where Sevika went.

But you were going to find her.

And this time?

You weren’t going to walk away.

The hallway was dim, quiet compared to the chaos still thumping through the rest of the house. You passed the old family photos like a ghost—Riley in braces, Sevika in a high school jersey, both of them years younger and smiling.

You reached the last door on the left.

It was cracked open.

You pushed it gently, just enough to see inside.

Sevika was sitting on the edge of the bed—her old bed, now draped in fresh sheets like it hadn’t been abandoned for three years. Her elbows were on her knees, one hand sliding down her face as she muttered something low under her breath.

You stepped inside before she noticed.

“I didn’t mean to piss you off.”

She looked up sharply.

Her eyes were darker now. Jaw set. That hand dropped from her face and curled into a fist against her thigh.

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

You flinched but shut the door behind you anyway. “Look, I know that was stupid—”

“You think this is about the game?” Her voice was low, dangerous. “It’s not about who you kissed.”

You crossed your arms. “Then what?”

She stood suddenly, towering, and you instinctively stepped back—but only a little.

“You think waving your ass around in that dress and making out with the first girl who looks at you is cute? That it makes you look grown?”

Your stomach dropped.

“I wasn’t doing it for them.”

She scoffed, venom thick in her voice. “You weren’t doing it for her either.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

Sevika’s nostrils flared. She paced once, fingers dragging through her hair. “You used your body to impress a room full of drunk guys who don’t give a fuck about you. That’s what you want? Attention from assholes who only see tits and lip gloss?”

“You don’t get to talk to me like that.”

“You act like you’re some untouchable tease, and the second people look, you fold.”

That hit. You felt it in your gut—shame and heat and fury rising all at once.

“Fuck you,” you spat.

“You wish.”

And then it exploded.

You shoved her chest with both hands. Hard.

She barely moved.

She grabbed your wrists before you could pull back, spinning you around and slamming your back against the door with a thud. Her breath hit your face, fast and hot.

“You think this is a game?”

You glared at her, chest heaving. “You’re just mad you weren’t the one I kissed.”

She didn’t respond.

She grabbed your jaw and kissed you.

Hard.

Teeth clashed. Your nails scraped down her arms. Her thigh pressed between yours, pinning you there like she’d waited years for this.

You whimpered against her mouth and felt her smirk—like she’d won something. Like she always did.

But you kissed her back anyway.

Your fingers found the hem of her shirt. Hers yanked your dress higher. There was no rhythm—just heat, collision, punishment wrapped in need.

You pulled back first, panting. “I hate you.”

“Say it again,” she growled, mouth on your neck now. “Say it while you’re dripping for me.”

You moaned—soft, furious, undone.

And then you kissed her again.

Because you didn’t want to stop. Because you couldn’t. Because this was so, so wrong.

And you’d never wanted anything more.

You didn’t even make it to the bed.

Sevika spun you back against the door, and this time when her hands caught your hips, she didn’t hesitate. She grabbed—fingers bruising, nails digging into the soft skin just above your thighs as she hauled your leg up around her waist and shoved her knee higher between yours.

You gasped, head tipping back to hit the wood with a dull thud. “Fuck—”

“Yeah?” Sevika’s voice was thick, dark, breath hot against your cheek. “This what you wanted, baby?”

You whined and tried to pull her closer, but she caught your wrists again—pinned them above your head with one hand while the other slid up under your dress. Your breath hitched when her fingers grazed your soaked panties.

“Jesus Christ,” she muttered, almost to herself. “You’re dripping.”

You squirmed, hips jerking up against her touch. “Please.”

“Oh, now you’re polite.”

“Shut the fuck up,” you snapped, and that was all it took.

She let go of your wrists and yanked your panties to the side with one hand, the other gripping your jaw as she shoved two fingers inside you—fast. Deep. Like she already knew the exact angle that would make you moan like that.

You nearly collapsed.

She didn’t let you.

She held you up with the weight of her thigh and the thick stretch of her fingers fucking into you, slow and then suddenly not slow at all. Her mouth found your neck, biting hard enough to leave a mark, then soothing it with her tongue.

“God,” you gasped, hips stuttering. “Sevika—”

“I’ve got you,” she growled. “Fuck, I’ve got you.”

She curled her fingers just right and your legs shook. You clung to her shirt, clawed at her back, buried your face in her shoulder so no one would hear you fall apart.

But she felt it.

The way your walls clenched, how your moans turned to sobs, how your body shuddered around her hand.

“That's it,” she muttered, slowing just enough to draw it out, to make you feel every twitch. “Come for me.”

And you did.

Hard.

You sagged against her, chest heaving, lips parted, skin flushed and raw. Your dress was bunched around your waist. Her fingers were still inside you—slow, almost lazy now.

Then she kissed you again.

Slower this time. Still filthy. Still possessive.

When she finally pulled away, she wiped her hand on your thigh and leaned in close, her mouth just barely grazing your ear.

“You kiss anyone else tonight,” she murmured, “I’ll fuck you in front of the whole damn room next time.”

Your pulse spiked.

And all you could do was nod.

Because fuck… You wanted her to mean it.

JUNE

It had been three days.

Three days since the door clicked shut behind her. Three days since she walked down that hallway like nothing had happened—like Sevika’s hand hadn’t still been between her thighs five minutes earlier. Like they hadn’t both sworn, half-dressed and out of breath, “This doesn’t mean anything.”

She said it first. Sevika repeated it.

So why was she the one sending messages at 3 a.m.?

You stared down at your phone, thumb hovering over the most recent one.

3:14 AM

you’re not still thinking about it, right? bc i’m not. seriously.

And before that:

Yesterday, 6:41 PM

you looked good in that dress

Sunday, 12:02 PM

you gonna ignore me forever? cute

You hadn’t answered any of them. Not a single one.

And maybe that was cruel. But fuck it felt good.

You were dressed down today—bootcut leggings clinging to your thighs, a cropped zip-up sweatshirt barely covering the tight white tank underneath, your hair clipped up in a lazy twist. You leaned into the grocery cart like it was the only thing keeping you upright, staring at your screen like it might bite.

"Y/N," your mom called from a few feet away, comparing the price of fabric softeners like it was a life-or-death decision. "Can you grab some pizza rolls for your brother? The off-brand kind, not those overpriced ones."

You nodded absently and turned, still not looking up from your phone as you wandered off. The freezer doors were a blurry, frosty line in your periphery, the kind of quiet section where nothing important happened.

Until it did.

You reached for the handle of the frozen snacks door just as a voice behind you stopped you cold.

“Really? You’re ghosting me now?”

You froze—hand still on the glass, heart lurching, stomach flipping so hard it hurt.

You didn’t need to look to know who it was.

But you did anyway.

Sevika stood a few feet behind you in the aisle, her dark hoodie unzipped over a fitted tee, a six-pack of Modelo in one hand and a bag of something frozen in the other. Her hair was half-tied back, and she looked tired. Annoyed. Wrecked, maybe.

You tilted your head slowly. “Hey.”

“That’s all I get?”

You raised a brow. “We said no strings.”

She scoffed, shifting her weight. “No strings doesn’t mean radio silence.”

You gave a casual shrug and grabbed the pizza rolls, not bothering to hide the smirk tugging at your lips. “Didn’t think you’d be the clingy type.”

Her jaw tensed.

“You think this is funny?”

You turned back to face her, holding the box of pizza rolls against your hip. “A little.”

She stepped closer. Not close enough to draw attention—just enough that her voice dropped a few degrees lower.

“You act like you’re in control, but we both know you’d let me fuck you again if I asked.”

Your smile vanished.

You took a breath.

And then, calmly, “Yeah. But you’re not asking.”

That caught her.

For a moment, Sevika just looked at you. Like she wasn’t sure whether she wanted to grab you by the wrist or slam her head into the freezer door.

Then she muttered, “You’re such a brat.”

“And you’re supposed to be the one who doesn’t care,” you shot back, stepping around her. “Guess we’re both off our game.”

You walked away without looking back.

Sevika didn’t follow.

But the next text came before you made it to the checkout line.

2:46 PM

come over tonight or don’t but i’ll be thinking about how wet you were

You didn’t answer that one either.

Not yet.

You didn’t even knock.

The text had been vague, half-daring, half-desperate, but you knew what it meant. Knew what she wanted. What you wanted, too, even if you were still pretending it didn’t matter.

You pulled up outside just past 10, the house quiet and dark except for the soft orange glow leaking through the living room windows. No car in the driveway but hers. No one home but her.

You pushed open the front door—unlocked, like she was expecting you—and stepped inside without a word.

“Sevika?” you called softly, tone casual, like you weren’t already soaked between the thighs just thinking about her hands on you again.

You barely made it three steps into the house.

Suddenly—there she was.

Coming out of the hallway like a shadow. Loose grey tank, black sweats slung low. Her hair was damp from a shower, curling around her jaw. No greeting. No hello.

Just—“You came.”

You didn’t even have time to speak before her hands were on your waist and your back hit the nearest wall with a thud.

Her mouth crushed against yours, hard, greedy, like she'd been holding back for days. Her body pinned you, thigh already sliding between your legs as you gasped and clutched at her shoulders.

She pulled back just enough to mutter, “You think you can fuck with my head and then show up looking like that?”

You arched into her, heart pounding. “Maybe.”

Sevika growled and ducked down to bite your neck—hard enough to make your knees buckle. Her hands shoved up under your hoodie, yanking your tank top with it, bunching both in her fists until your chest was bared to the cool air.

“Fuck,” she muttered, mouthing at your breast, biting, sucking, palming it like she hated how much she wanted it. “You’ve been ignoring me just to get me like this, huh?”

You gasped. “You think too much of yourself.”

She shoved her thigh up higher. “You’re dripping.”

You whimpered.

Sevika pulled away just long enough to yank your leggings and panties down in one motion, your sneakers scraping against the floor as you tried not to collapse. She spun you around, hands on your hips, and bent you over the hallway console table like you weighed nothing.

“Look at you,” she rasped behind you. “So desperate. So quiet now.”

“Fuck you,” you hissed, cheek pressed to the cool wood.

She grinned, voice low and vicious. “You already did, baby.”

Her fingers slid between your legs, and you sobbed her name the second she pushed in—no warmup, no teasing this time. Just pure need.

She fucked you like she was mad. Like you’d betrayed her somehow. Her other hand gripped your shoulder, holding you down while she drove into you with long, punishing strokes that left your thighs shaking.

“Thought about this,” she muttered, panting, hips snapping harder. “Every night since.”

You couldn’t answer. Could barely breathe.

“Thought about you riding me,” she continued, breath hot against your ear now, bending over you as your body trembled under hers. “Thought about making you beg.”

You choked on a moan as her fingers curved just right.

“You gonna beg, baby?” she whispered, slowing just enough to make you feel it. “You gonna admit who you belong to?”

You didn’t say it.

You didn’t have to.

Your body gave her the answer—hips jerking, voice cracking, falling apart so hard and fast you didn’t even realize you were crying until she wrapped a hand around your throat and groaned, “There she is…”

You came so hard your knees gave out.

She caught you, lifted you like you were nothing, and carried you toward the bedroom—still inside you, still hard, still not done.

And neither were you.

She carried you into the bedroom like she couldn’t bear the thought of letting go.

Your arms were around her neck, head tucked under her chin, body still pulsing from that first orgasm—legs shaky, panties hitting the floor (i aint got no panties on), hair sticking to your cheeks with sweat. Sevika’s hand slid down your thigh as she laid you back against the mattress, her eyes dark and hooded.

She didn’t say anything as she peeled your sweatshirt and tank the rest of the way off. Just watched. Took her time. Dragged her fingers up your stomach like she was memorizing you. Her thumb brushed your ribcage. She looked at you like maybe you weren’t just a brat who ghosted her.

Like maybe you were hers.

You didn’t dare speak.

Not when she kneeled between your legs, shirt off, sweatpants pushed down just enough for you to see the thick black strap she’d already buckled on underneath. Not when she leaned over you, arms braced on either side of your head, gaze locked on your face like she wanted to watch you come undone in slow motion.

"You sure?" she asked, voice low now—not mocking, not teasing. Just... there.

Your throat felt tight.

You nodded.

“Use your words, baby.”

You swallowed. “Yes. Please.”

That made her smile. Not smug. Just quiet. Like maybe it was the first real one you’d seen from her in years.

She kissed you again—slower this time. Less teeth, more tongue. More push and pull and the quiet threat of something deeper blooming under it all. Her hand slid down between your legs again, fingers slipping through the mess she left behind.

“You’re still so fucking wet,” she murmured, not even pretending to hide the groan in her throat. “This all for me?”

You whimpered, hips lifting.

That was all she needed.

Sevika lined herself up and pushed in—slow, careful now, like she wanted to feel every inch of you stretch around her. You gasped, mouth open, one leg curling around her waist instinctively.

She stayed like that for a moment, buried deep inside you, just breathing against your mouth.

You whispered, “Move.”

And she did.

Long, slow thrusts that hit every nerve ending like fire. Her hands gripped your hips, then your jaw, then your thigh again like she didn’t know where to hold you because she wanted all of you. Her forehead pressed to yours. Her breath stuttered. She was whispering things you barely caught—your name, curses, “so tight,” “so pretty like this,” “don’t run from me again.”

You cupped her face, dragged her mouth back to yours, and kissed her like you were already addicted.

The rhythm built slowly, steadily, every push dragging another sound from your throat—until your whole body was shaking again and she growled into your neck, “Come on, baby, let go for me—again. I know you can.”

And you did.

Harder than before. Slower. Deeper.

Sevika held you through it—grinding her hips into yours, letting you ride it out, her arms wrapped around your waist like she couldn’t let you slip away even if she tried.

Your nails dug into her back. Your breath hitched. You clung to her like you didn’t want morning to come.

And maybe you didn’t.

Because when she finally pulled out and collapsed beside you—bare chest rising and falling, lips swollen, jaw slack—neither of you said a word.

You just lay there, tangled in sheets, silent.

Too close. Too warm. Too real.

And it hit you, then.

You were in so much trouble.

The light was different when you opened your eyes.

Warm. Soft. Unforgiving.

You blinked against the morning sun filtering through the blinds, your body sore in all the right places—hips aching, legs tangled in unfamiliar sheets, and the distinct, unbearable weight of reality settling low in your chest.

You turned your head.

Sevika was still asleep.

Flat on her back, one arm thrown above her head, the other resting across her stomach. Her hair was a mess. Her lips were parted slightly, chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm that told you this wasn’t the kind of sleep she got often.

She looked... peaceful. Human. Beautiful.

You hated it.

Because everything in you wanted to curl into her side. To press your face against her shoulder and pretend none of this was complicated. That you weren’t supposed to be her sister’s best friend. That this wasn’t supposed to be just sex.

But it didn’t feel like just sex anymore.

Not after the way she kissed you. Not after the way she held you. Not after the way she didn’t say anything when you finally fell asleep beside her—just shifted closer in the dark and let your hand rest over her chest like it belonged there.

You swallowed hard and sat up slowly.

Every inch of you ached, but you didn’t make a sound. You moved carefully, deliberately. Pulled on your sweatshirt from the floor. Dug around for your phone. Slipped one leg into your leggings, then the other.

You scanned the room, heart hammering, nerves on edge.

No bra. No socks. No—

Your panties.

Gone.

You spotted them a second later—on the floor at the foot of the bed, rumpled and barely visible against the shadows.

You hesitated.

Sevika shifted in her sleep, brow twitching slightly, lips parting just enough to exhale.

You grabbed your phone and backed out instead.

Didn’t bother with the underwear.

Didn’t say goodbye.

You slipped out the front door as quietly as you’d come in, heart racing, skin still flushed, the scent of her still clinging to your clothes.

And Sevika?

She didn’t wake until nearly noon.

When she finally stretched, groggy and warm and half-hard under the sheets, her hand reached for the space beside her.

Empty.

Her eyes opened slowly—confused, heavy.

And there, on the floor near the bed, sat your underwear.

Small.

Soft.

Proof.

She picked them up without a word.

Held them in her hand like a question she didn’t know how to ask.

And the worst part?

She didn’t know if she wanted you to come back and take them…

…or if she wanted to keep them exactly where they were.

You didn’t remember the drive home.

You blinked, and suddenly you were pulling into your driveway, engine still running, hands gripping the wheel like it could hold you together. The world looked too normal outside—bright, quiet, birds chirping like you hadn’t just had reckless, wall-slamming, toe-curling sex with your best friend’s sister.

Twice.

You slammed the car door harder than necessary and made your way inside, heart still pounding in your ears. Your mom wasn’t home. Thank god. The house was still, peaceful, and you felt anything but.

You kicked off your shoes and went straight to your room, peeling off your sweatshirt, tossing your keys onto the dresser, and falling face-first into your bed.

Fuck.

You didn’t cry. Not yet. You just lay there, the silence stretching long and thin around you as last night replayed in pieces. The hallway. The bite on your neck. Her voice in your ear.

You kiss anyone else tonight, I’ll fuck you in front of the whole damn room next time.

You groaned into your pillow.

You hadn’t meant to sleep over. Hell, you hadn’t meant to go over at all. You weren’t supposed to like the way she looked at you after. Like you were hers. Like she wasn’t going to let you go.

And you definitely weren’t supposed to leave your underwear on her bedroom floor.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Your phone buzzed beside you.

You rolled over with a groan, expecting another text from her—another “where are you” or a dirty little memory from last night.

But it wasn’t from Sevika.

It was from Riley.

Your stomach dropped.

Riley 🐍

were you at my house last night?

You sat up so fast you saw stars. The air left your lungs. Your fingers trembled as you stared at the screen, the words blaring back at you like a spotlight.

Shit shit shit.

Your pulse spiked. You could already feel the sweat forming at the back of your neck. You fumbled to type something—anything—that would make sense.

You settled on:

you:

i forgot my wallet at the party sorry

You hit send.

Then immediately threw your phone across the bed like it had caught fire.

You stared at the ceiling, heart in your throat, counting your breaths. One. Two. Three.

Ding.

You launched yourself across the bed, scrambling to grab the phone, praying it wasn’t Sevika saying something stupid

You unlocked the screen.

Riley 🐍

lol ok just wondering, sevika said she heard the door this morning but thought it was her dreams or some shit lmao

You exhaled so hard you almost collapsed.

You let your head fall back against the headboard, phone still in your hand, chest rising and falling like you’d just escaped a firing squad.

You were safe.

For now.

But this wasn’t over.

Not even close.

Because you could still feel her teeth on your neck.

The underwear was still in her hand.

It was soft, pale, a little lace at the trim. Barely anything at all. Just a scrap of fabric, really.

But Sevika stared at it like it had teeth.

She sat on the edge of the bed, hair still damp from sweat and sleep, sheet slung low around her hips. Her fingers curled slowly around the waistband. She could still smell you on it. Still see the shape your body had left in the mattress. Still feel the ghost of your nails dragging down her back.

What the fuck was that?

You were supposed to be a one-time thing. A mistake. A hot, filthy, memory-staining mistake that you both walked away from with a smirk and a shoulder shrug.

So why had you kissed her like you meant it?

Why had you curled into her after? Why hadn’t you said goodbye?

Why the fuck had she reached for you in her sleep?

She rubbed her face with both hands, growling under her breath. “Get it together.”

Then—footsteps.

Shit.

The door opened and Riley’s voice followed, too loud and too fast for Sevika’s half-fried brain to track.

“Sevika, do we have any almond milk left or—what the fuck, are you still in bed?”

Sevika jolted upright, shoving the underwear under the pillow with military precision and grabbing the sheet to yank it tighter across her chest. “Jesus, knock next time.”

Riley stood in the doorway holding a cereal box, one brow arched.

“Ew, are you naked?”

“No.”

“Yes, you fucking are.”

Sevika rolled her eyes and stretched her arms behind her like it was just another lazy morning. “Didn’t know I needed permission to sleep in my own damn bed.”

“Whatever,” Riley muttered, heading toward the kitchen. “I thought I heard the door earlier. Weird dreams or something. You hear anything?”

Sevika shrugged—too casual. “Might’ve. Could’ve been the cat.”

“We don’t have a cat.”

“Then it was a burglar.”

“Funny.” Riley’s voice was already fading into the hall. “Let me know if they took the almond milk.”

The door clicked shut again.

Sevika exhaled, slow and shaky. She waited a beat, then reached under the pillow and pulled the underwear back out.

She stared at it.

Still there. Still real.

Still you.

She dragged her thumb across the fabric once, then set it down on the nightstand like she couldn’t bring herself to throw it out. Like she wasn’t done with you yet.

And her phone?

Still lit up on the floor.

No new messages.

Still nothing from you.

comment to be added to the taglist! @l4dyf1ngers

[undersc0remellow]

The Burden

A u t h o r s n o t e : This may be a big headcanon since im not sure if anything that i wrote could be considered canon . Also im sorry for any spelling mistakes, english is not my first language .

I’ve always been stubborn. I learned to handle things on my own, to trust only myself, and never admit weakness. At the Space Academy, where precision and independence were everything, that mindset helped me survive. And then came Zayne—composed, brilliant, calm like the interstellar void. From the beginning, he stirred something in me that went beyond admiration. But at the same time—next to him, I felt... not enough.

I was afraid that if he saw my weaknesses, he would think I didn’t belong in his world.One day, during a routine research mission on an unknown planet, the ground beneath me gave way. I fell into an old mine, far from the team and out of communication range. My equipment was damaged.

Oxygen was slowly running out. I could’ve activated the emergency beacon, but... I didn’t. I kept telling myself it was temporary, that I just had to endure. I couldn’t bother Zayne, couldn’t ask him to come save me. If he saw me like that—scared, filthy, weak—maybe he’d think I was just a burden.

Time passed, and reality started to blur. Hallucinations, headaches, cold. I saw his face—not the one I knew, but one distorted by my fear. In my mind, he accused me: “Why didn’t you ask? This is your fault.” And he was right—it was my fault. But can you blame me? I was afraid. Afraid of being annoying, of being a burden just because I dared to ask for damn help.

But then, at the last moment, when I had already made peace with the idea that I might die because of my own pride, I heard his voice—quiet, but firm. I felt his hands, as if torn from a dream. Zayne had found me. He broke protocol, risked his career, because he knew. He felt that something was wrong. Because he knew me better than I knew myself.I’ll never forget that moment in the rescue pod. Barely conscious, I said to him:

“I was afraid that if I asked... you’d think I was weak, that I wasn’t worth anything...”

Zayne leaned in, looked me in the eyes, and said:

“You know what would really be weak? If I lost you just because you didn’t have the courage to say you needed me.”

Since then, I’ve known that strength isn’t about silence or pretending everything’s fine. Strength is the ability to trust. And love... it’s not about perfection or being flawless. It’s about being there. It’s the hand that lifts you up when you no longer have the strength to stand.

[shanksbaby]

I got a shanks request if you'd like! I have this idea where reader bakes a cake but hadnt paid attention to shank all day for his birthday (cuz lucky roux is keeping him out of the kitchen) then she surprises him with the cake and goes make a wish and hes like i already got my wish its u. Can also be applied to mihawk as well

Shanks

Shanks was pouting. Yes, a big grown ass man, a Yonko, was pouting because his girlfriend ignored him all day - and on top of that, it was her birthday too! How dare she! On top of that he didn't even wake up next to her but to an empty bed and his girlfriend know how much he loves his cuddling morning session

his darling was being cruel!

little he knows that you were spending the whole day making his birthday cake, you had chosen to make a complicated cake and also with decorations so you had locked yourself in the kitchen and with the collaboration of Lucky Roux who kept your boyfriend out of the kitchen the whole time

the others of the crew were instead organizing his party just as you had requested, obviously secretly from Shanks. In the meantime your boyfriend was wondering why his girlfriend, the one who always made a big deal of any birthday, had disappeared on his birthday

Lucky Roux had also tried to cover for you but it seems that Shanks didn't believe him, and it only made him more suspenseful: what if his darling left him? I mean, maybe he realized that she could do better

but the clothes and all his things were still there on the ship so it couldn't be….what if his darling was cheat on him? But his darling would never be right? She wasn't that kind of girl. He wanted to slap himself for even thinking that

all day he ended up in a spiral of theories one more bizarre than the other, until evening came where waiting in the kitchen was a party for him. He pretends to be surprised because the crew celebrates every birthday - in reality they always find excuses to celebrate - and his eyes immediately look for you.

He walks quickly towards you, his expression a little pouting, already planning to whine about your absence when you kiss him and suddenly the pout disappears and Shanks is lost in your sweet lips.

"Happy birthday, my love" you whisper after pulling away

"Where have you gone? You know I hate waking up without you" he complains jokingly as his hands search and find your back

“I’m sorry,” you say, smiling, and your arms wrap around his neck, “But I’ve been busy making the cake.”

"A cake?"

you nod and walk away from him and then take the cake from the hands of a crew member who was taking it out of the fridgeand after putting the candles, smiling at Shanks you continue "Make a wish"

"Oh my love, I already got my wish" he says smiling with adoration in his eyes "It's you"

[fierceawakening]

Oh, yeah, I do think that culture pressures people to lose weight, and that that’s bad. I steer away from the term “diet culture” though because I see a lot of things described as it or as related to it that I don’t think are necessarily The Thinness Illuminati.

Like, my experience. I wasn’t very overweight at all! And yet a slight change profoundly improved matters for me.

Because I had internalized the idea that weight loss was about “diets” and “diets” mean you’re brainwashed, I worked out. A LOT. An hour at a time, minimum. Almost every day.

And I got strong. It was good! I liked it for various reasons! But it did not solve the problems I was trying to solve, and it took up a MASSIVE amount of time.

What solved them? Calorie counting, which people call “restricting,” and tell you will absolutely give you an eating disorder, and fast.

I work out less now, and yet I have less problems. When I’ve let my portions get large, the problems come back.

So… do I tell other people to lose weight? Dude, no, why would I do that! But if someone asks me, “does weight loss improve health?” My answer is “yes, it did for me, and while I do think bodies and what they need vary, I don’t honestly think what I used to hear a lot, which is that only a very tiny subgroup of people experience improvements when they make slow diet changes that they’re able to tolerate. I think it’s likely that helps most people, actually. But I think whether someone wants to do it is another matter, as is whether they have history or even trauma that means they’re not likely to tolerate it without harming their mental health.”

So yeah, if someone came along and said (and please understand that I am not saying people talk like this), “wow I really like you and if you gained I’d just fucking cum all over the place,” my answer would be “I’m flattered, and happy that I turn you on, and maybe I even like you back, but *I am going to have problems if I do that,* this I already know. So emphatically, very much, not a judgment of your fantasy or of you putting me in it, hell no.”

But more than that, if a friend said, “I really like this feeder and I want to get involved,” I would probably say, “from my own experience, it’s difficult for me not to think that’s likely a bad idea. I’d never stop you, or say you’re stupid for liking this person or wanting this thing. But if you decided you wanted to ask me of all people for some odd reason, I’d advise against it. My experience is that very slight weight gain can do unexpected levels of harm, and I am not you and thus don’t know if it will for you, so that colors my advice.”

(This is why I don’t do breath play. It seems to me the people who say here’s no way of being sure your bottom might not be the unlucky one in however many who just fucking drops dead are most likely correct, and I’d rather not deal with that. So I pretend but don’t do.)

And that’s what I don’t see in the descriptions of these early guys. Which leads me to think they’re not sweethearts being unfairly maligned but people who most likely DIDN’T ask, “hey, you in pain?”

Which doesn’t make everybody evil! But there’s a lot of people out there who use the idea of RACK as like, “oh, it’s fine, im doing RACK, not like those pansies over there” and then you talk to their partners and they’re like “I did one scene with that guy and never again.” Like one of the MOST hardcore masochists I have ever met volunteered to be the demo dummy for this guy who made his reputation on how RACK he was, and I don’t know exactly what went down, but my friend told me later, “I thought I could take anything, but he treated me so badly it still upsets me. Never let him teach here again.”

So when people start looking at someone saying “that looks messed up in the name of kink, I have concerns” and someone says “you sound like a radfem,” it sets me off.

I’m not a fucking radfem, I’m “huh, do you think I can flag black left or not yet?” “Fierce, there was a black hanky hanging out of the left side of your diaper as a baby, wtf.”

So yeah I was pretty enraged.

…wasn’t it though? Every deep dive I’ve seen says that men who fancy fat women were a big part of the movement’s beginning.

Am I looking at biased sources?

(Please note thst “the origin of this movement was people with kinks” does not mean “this is mostly people with kinks now.” Kinky people are very often driven out of movements they helped start. Pride would be another one.)

[tightjeansjavi]

Sitting at my desk, minding my own beeswax, trying to work..and suddenly remember that I have to kill Joel in one of my fics—

[thinkinonsense]

FANTASIZE❦

old!logan howlett x fem!reader

*mdni

cw: cursing, nsfw, age gap (reader is twenty-five)

wc: 1k+

a/n: i have no idea where this came from. i was supposed to be working on something completely different but apparently, this needed to be written first instead. yes it is inspired by the unreleased ariana grande song.

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

Logan couldn't read minds. He never longed for the ability or power; he was better off not knowing what others had going on in their heads. He only wanted to peek into someone's mind when he caught your twinkling eyes lingering in his direction. Luckily, he could still read your mind even without the mutation because your fantasies were written all over your face.

It was obvious to anyone caught in the same room as you and Logan, that there was tension. You burned holes all over his body with your intense gaze. If Logan was in the mood to entertain your little crush, he could compliment you in a way that was sure to make you blush.

"Good form today, kid."

"Lookin' pretty today, sweetheart."

"Lemme fix that lipstick, dollface." That one left you with an ache in between your thighs as his thumb brushed your lower lip. "Can't have you walkin' around here a mess, now can we?"

Logan wasn't sure if he would ever make it to heaven but seeing your lip tremble with need was close enough for him.

If he saw you in a dress with a pair of mary-jane's, he would try to catch a glimpse of your underwear in the reflection of your shoes. It didn't always work but it made him feel young again.

No one was brave enough to address it due to him being twice your age. Despite being twenty-five years old and already having graduated from the school, it was still considered taboo to some. If anyone asked Logan about it, he would brush it off as a schoolgirl crush that you would eventually grow out of.

It was truly harmless he thought. You got the attention you craved and Logan got to see a pretty young woman squirm in her seat because of him. It never went further than flirtatious comments and lingering stares.

❦

Today might be the worst day of your life. You and Logan were being sent out together on a mission to find a mutant that lived two hours away. It wasn't the mission that worried you; it was being stuck in a tiny car with only Logan for one hundred and twenty minutes.

"Why aren't 'cha talkin', dollface?" Logan asked, almost teasingly.

For almost twenty minutes, he was aware of your eyes watching his hand hold the wheel. Logan was also incredibly aware of the effect it had on you. A little broken sigh escapes you when his hand clenches tighter around the leather, making his veins pop even more.

"Too busy fantasizing 'bout me?"

No matter how much you tried to find someone your age to be with, your heart always went back to Logan. He treated you differently than anyone you've ever met. Sure, sometimes he made you feel like a kid but he also knew you could handle your own. Logan wouldn't let anyone underestimate you; that kept you crawling back to him.

"Maybe I am." You shrug, fed up with his games.

"Oh, yeah?" He says, taking a deep inhale of your sent. "What's goin' on in that pretty head of yours, hm?"

You were used to Logan's overly confident personality that he tried to use to intimidate you; and make you stumble over your words. It wasn't gonna work this time. Logan wanted you just as much as you wanted him, but you needed him to admit it first.

"Us in the backseat of the car." You admit, biting the inside of your cheek nervous for his response.

"Really? And what are we doing back there?" He asked, cocking his head curiously as his eyes remained glued to the road.

"You're on top of me, makin' me feel good." Your words were coy but that was the point. Logan liked being the tease; having all the power.

"Keep talkin', dollface."

There it was. You had him right where you wanted him.

You pretended to think about it for a moment before shaking your head and telling him, "No, I shouldn't"

"Why not?"

"Because an old man like yourself can't keep up with me, right? At least that's what I heard you tell the Professor."

Logan couldn't believe you had heard their conversation earlier this week. The Professor was the only person who knew the truth of how Logan felt towards you. When Charles asked him what was stopping him from pursuing you, all Logan had to say was, "I'm too old for her; can't keep up with such a young thing like her".

Which was far from the truth.

"So obsessed with me that you're listenin' to my conversations now?" He growled, pulling the car over.

"Stop acting like you aren't obsessed with me too." You smile at him. "I know a few pairs of my underwear 'mysteriously' disappear from my hamper. I know that you can hear me through the walls late at night, panting your name."

With each sentence, you inch closer to him. Logan could only compare you to the snake in Eve's garden; encouraging him to give into his temptations.

"I also know that you want me." Your eyes were dark with desire, making his pants tighter. "So, if you can't get it up or claim that you don't want me then that's fine with-"

Logan fumed with irritation and lust. Not thinking twice before slamming your lips into yours. He tasted exactly like you imagine; tobacco and mint. You were addicted; no one could ever compare to him.

In a rush, his rough hands pulled you into his inviting lap before one cupped your jaw and his other made its way up your skirt, toying with your lacy underwear. He wasn't going to give it to you that easily.

"L-Logan, please," You moan against his mouth, trying to create some friction on his lap. "Need it."

God, he's waited a long time to hear that; to see you so desperate in his arms. When he pulled back to look at you, Logan couldn't be more pleased with the image in front of him. Your eyes shut tightly, face scrunched, trying to concentrate, and lips pouty with annoyance. Logan removes his hand under your skirt; causing the prettiest whine to escape you. He thought you might be what finally kills him.

"We aren't done, sweetheart." He groaned in your ear. "Get in the backseat because you are gonna tell me every single one of your fuckin' fantasies."

[theonottsbxtch]

THE FLAT NEXT DOOR | OP81

an: @iimplicitt started drawing a firefighter oscar and next thing i knew, i was writing this story. it's so dear to me, firefighter!oscar you mean so much to me. also ive written something similar to this called sunflower syndrome (i dont think ive posted) which i can post, its next door neighbours and shes a single mum as well, its completed just never been posted lol - lemme know if you want it

summary: a firefighter with a soft heart & no idea what he’s doing with his life. a single mum who gave up everything for a tiny pair of shoes. a six-year-old matchmaker with a butterfly painted on her cheek. and the slow, aching kind of love that feels like coming home.

wc: 14.1k

Oscar hadn’t planned on becoming a firefighter. In fact, he hadn’t really planned on anything. Life, so far, had been a series of decisions made more out of avoidance than ambition. Moving to England from Australia at fifteen had felt like starting over in the middle of a film, he’d missed the beginning and had no idea what the plot was meant to be. His accent had softened over the years, but the disorientation never quite left.

By the time he finished school, uni felt like a trap more than an opportunity. He wasn’t academic, not really. His girlfriend back then had big dreams and a UCAS application filled out before the rest of them even figured out their predicted grades. She wanted him to come with her. Scotland, maybe, or Manchester, but he couldn’t pretend to want something just to stay close. Long distance sounded like a slow death, and he was already tired of pretending to care about futures he couldn’t picture. They broke up in late spring, somewhere between the last exam and prom. He barely remembered the conversation now, only the strange mix of guilt and relief afterwards.

The fire service had been a suggestion from someone he barely knew, his mate’s older brother or a careers advisor he met once. The idea stuck, though. It felt solid, practical. So he moved to a town just outside London, somewhere not too fast but not too sleepy either. Now, in his mid-twenties, he still wasn’t sure it was what he wanted, but it was something. A job, a flat, a rhythm.

The flat was part of a red-bricked terrace that hadn’t aged gracefully but wore its wear with a sort of tired charm. Peeling paint on the railings, a communal garden mostly made of grass that didn’t grow right, and neighbours you recognised before you knew their names.

For a while it was quiet on his floor until his neighbour moved in not long after he did, though they didn’t speak properly for months, he always saw her. She was quiet, but not unfriendly. Always rushing, school runs, shopping bags, the sort of tired that didn’t come from lack of sleep but from doing everything yourself. She had a daughter, six years old and full of questions, the kind who shouted hello from the doorstep and thought Oscar was a superhero just because he had boots by the door and came home smelling faintly of smoke.

He didn’t know much about her. She kept to herself, didn’t bring people round, and handled things with a quiet efficiency that made Oscar feel both impressed and slightly in the way. He saw her most often on Sunday mornings, pyjama bottoms tucked into socks, mug in hand while she coaxed the little one into her coat. He wondered, sometimes, if she had ever had a plan, or if she, like him, had simply found herself in a life that looked like it belonged to someone else.

The town had a softness to it in the early mornings, before the cars filled the roads and the high street buzzed with prams and pensioners. The air still held a trace of mist, clinging to hedgerows and the slate roofs that lined the close. Oscar liked this time of day, even if he wasn’t a morning person by nature. There was a quiet permission in the hush, like the world was still deciding what kind of day it wanted to be.

His flat smelled faintly of laundry detergent and burnt toast. He tugged on his jacket, the navy fire service one with the embroidered badge half-unpicked from where it had snagged last month. His boots were by the door, laces loose from habit. The station wasn’t far, a ten-minute walk if he didn’t stop for a coffee or get caught by someone with too many questions.

He swung the door open and nearly collided with her.

“Sorry—” they said at the same time, both stepping back, the awkward shuffle of neighbours not expecting to meet in the narrow shared walkway.

She was crouched beside Aurelia, zipping up a purple puffer coat that was already streaked with breakfast. Her hair fell forward as she glanced up at him, blinking through the unexpected encounter.

Oscar straightened, rubbing the back of his neck. “Didn’t see you there.”

“That’s alright,” she said, standing up. Her voice was warm, light, with the kind of casual tiredness that didn’t sound like complaining.

Aurelia grinned up at him, gap-toothed. “Are you going to fight fires today?”

He chuckled, crouching a little to her level. “If they start, yeah. Hopefully not too many, though. I’ve just cleaned my helmet.”

She giggled at that, and her mum gave him a grateful sort of smile, small, quick, like she wasn’t used to people being gentle with them.

Oscar stood again, unsure what else to say. The kind of silence that stretched just a second too long settled between them.

“School run?” he asked, just to fill it.

“Yeah. She’s already tried to convince me she’s sick twice.”

“I am sick,” Aurelia insisted. “Sick of spelling tests.”

That made her mum laugh, the kind of laugh that sounded like it didn’t come often enough.

Oscar smiled, then pointed toward the road. “I’d better get going before Zak starts calling. My boss has the patience of a gnat.”

She nodded. “Alright. Have a good shift.”

He hesitated for half a beat. “You too. I mean—have a good school run. And day. And… everything.”

She raised an eyebrow, amused. “You too, firefighter.”

As he walked down the path, he heard Aurelia whisper, “Mummy, I think he’s cool.”

He grinned all the way to the station.

The station smelled of instant coffee, damp gear, and the faint chemical tang of smoke that never really washed out. Oscar pushed through the side entrance, nodding at the watch crew already gathered in the mess room. The TV was on mute, rolling through the morning headlines, and someone had burned toast again, the fire alarm had a nasty habit of reacting more to that than actual emergencies.

He dumped his bag in his locker and shrugged off his jacket, already feeling the dry warmth of the place settling into his bones. There was a comfort to the station, rough around the edges, but reliable. It reminded him of the school changing rooms back in Melbourne: paint chipped from too many boots, the faint echo of shouts in the corridor, the shared understanding that none of it was glamorous, but it was theirs.

“Morning, mate,” came a voice from across the room.

Oscar looked up to see Andrea, one of the senior firefighters on his watch, cradling a mug with World’s Okayest Firefighter printed in peeling letters. He had salt and pepper hair, always grumbling about overtime, and somehow managed to be everyone’s uncle without trying.

“Morning,” Oscar replied, reaching for the kettle. “Anything going on?”

“Not yet. Callout at half three, car in a ditch near the A-road, but that’s about it. Oh, Zak wants a word when you’ve got a sec.”

Oscar groaned quietly. “Do I need to be nervous?”

Andrea grinned. “Always.”

He found Zak in his office, chewing on a pen lid and frowning at a stack of paper that looked older than both of them. He waved Oscar in without looking up.

“You busy this weekend?” Zak asked, without preamble.

Oscar blinked. “Uh, not really. Why?”

Zak finally looked up. “We’ve been asked to send someone to this community thing at Chestnut Grove Primary. Little safety talk, couple of demos, let the kids have a go with the hoses, all that, see the truck.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “Chestnut Grove? The one down the road”

“Yeah. Saturday morning. Council’s pushing the whole community engagement thing again. You up for it?”

He could’ve said no. He wasn’t the best with big groups, especially ones full of excitable children and clipboard-wielding parents. But something about the name clicked in his head, a flicker of memory. Hadn’t he seen little Aurelia in a forest green uniform?

“I’ll go,” he said, surprising even himself.

Zak blinked. “Right. Well. That was easy. Cheers.”

He left the office feeling oddly restless. Community events weren’t usually his thing, too many people, too many eyes. But he figured it was just one morning. How bad could it be?

Back in the mess, Andrea glanced up from the paper. “You’ve got that face on.”

“What face?”

“The one where you’ve agreed to something and immediately regretted it.”

Oscar shrugged, pouring himself a coffee that tasted vaguely of plastic and burnt hopes. “Just volunteered for the school event.”

Andrea gave a low whistle. “Brave man. Good luck dodging flying juice cartons.”

Oscar smiled to himself, thinking of Aurelia’s grin that morning, the way she’d looked up at him like he was some kind of action figure come to life. If nothing else, maybe it would be nice to see some children think he was a hero he 100% wasn’t.

It was one of those spring mornings where the sun tried its best, but the chill hadn’t quite loosened its grip yet. The air was sharp, fresh with that faint green smell of grass and new leaves, and the sky had that washed-out blue that promised warmth later, maybe.

Oscar parked the spare appliance near the edge of the school field, just where the tarmac gave way to a patch of uneven grass. The truck was technically out of use, something to do with the hydraulics, Zak had said, but it looked the part and that’s what mattered. He unfolded the little step ladder and opened up a few side panels to make it look more interactive. A pop-up banner flapped in the wind beside him, showing a smiling child in a tiny fire helmet with the slogan Be Cool, Stay Safe in cheerful red letters.

The fair itself was already in full swing: bunting strung between gazebo poles, the smell of frying onions from a burger van, and a trail of small children darting between stalls clutching glittery cupcakes and face paint flyers. Oscar had been given a little corner to himself on the edge of the field, which suited him fine. He liked watching the buzz of it all from a slight distance, present, but not in the thick of things.

He was in full kit except for the heavy jacket and helmet, both left hanging neatly inside the cab. Just his white fire service shirt rolled up at the forearms, and the braces of his overalls snug over his shoulders. He leaned against the side of the truck, hands in his pockets, the breeze tugging gently at the hem of his shirt.

A few curious kids had wandered over already. Two boys who’d wanted to climb inside the cab and press every button, a shy little girl who’d asked if he had ever rescued a cat from a tree, while he hadn’t, he said yes, and a boy who only cared about the siren.

Oscar found himself smiling more than he expected. There was something easy about it. Maybe it was the way kids didn’t expect anything except enthusiasm and the occasional high five. Maybe it was the way parents hovered a few feet away, grateful for five minutes of peace while someone else answered the never-ending questions.

He took a sip from his coffee flask, just as he heard the unmistakable patter of small feet sprinting across grass.

“Neighbour firefighter!”

He turned, and there she was, Aurelia, bounding across the field with a neon butterfly painted across one cheek and a balloon animal in one hand. Her plimsolls were slightly muddy and her coat was half unzipped.

Oscar laughed, straightening up. “Oh, I know you!”

She skidded to a stop in front of him, breathless with excitement. “Mummy said we might see you but I didn’t really think you’d be here!”

“Well, I don’t lie about fire engines,” he said, crouching down to her level. “That’s a very serious thing.”

She grinned, already peering into the open side of the truck. “Can I go in?”

“Course you can—but hang on a sec, where’s—?”

And then he saw her. Walking at a slower pace across the grass, hands deep in her coat pockets, eyes already on him. The breeze lifted the edge of her scarf, and her hair glinted slightly in the sun. She looked different here, more relaxed somehow, out of the usual early morning rush and into something softer.

“Hi,” she said, when she reached him. “Looks like you’ve got an assistant now.”

“Yeah,” he said, smiling, “bit short for the uniform, but she’s got enthusiasm.”

Aurelia had already clambered halfway up the step ladder, peeking into the cab with the confidence of someone who fully expected to be given the keys. Her balloon animal was now tucked under one arm like a sidekick.

Her mum laughed, folding her arms loosely as she watched. “She’s been bouncing off the walls since breakfast. I think she thought she’d get to drive it.”

Oscar grinned. “Could probably teach her. Might be more focused than some of the lads at the station.”

She gave him a look, one of those amused half-smiles he was starting to recognise, a little dry, a little warm. “You here all day?”

“No, just the morning. Couple of hours, bit of leafleting, bit of ‘don’t play with matches’ chat. Then I get to drag all this lot back to the station and pretend it never happened.”

“Well,” she said, glancing toward Aurelia now balancing with one foot on the step and the other poised mid-air, “you’re already a highlight. She’s going to talk about this for weeks.”

Oscar watched Aurelia for a beat, her complete absorption in twiddling the dials on the dashboard, and then turned back to her mum, catching the moment her eyes dipped.

Just for a second.

A quick flicker downward, over the rolled sleeves, the broad line of his shoulders beneath the white shirt, the dark straps of his overalls snug against his chest.

He smirked. “Careful, you’re staring.”

Her eyes snapped up, sharp and just slightly horrified. “I am not.”

“You are. It’s alright. Happens all the time,” he said, leaning casually back against the truck, utterly insufferable now. 

She scoffed, but her ears had gone pink. “No! I just think it’s a nice shirt. Very crisp. Good cotton, probably.”

Oscar chuckled, folding his arms. “I’ll let the fire service know. Get one sent out to you.”

“Oh, good,” she said dryly. “Nothing says flattering like free uniform merch.”

Aurelia’s voice rang out before he could reply. “Mummy! Come look at the back bit! There’s hoses!”

She gave him a look that said this isn’t over, then stepped past him to help Aurelia down. Oscar caught a whiff of her perfume as she moved, something light and clean, like citrus and soap, and tried not to look too pleased with himself.

He crouched again beside the little girl. “Want to hold the thermal imaging camera?”

Aurelia gasped like he’d offered her a crown. “Can I?”

“Course you can. Let me just grab it.”

While he disappeared momentarily into the side compartment, her mum looked after him, one eyebrow raised, like she was still debating whether to be annoyed or amused. Maybe both.

When he returned, holding the chunky bit of kit with both hands, he caught her smirking to herself.

“What?” he said, passing the camera to Aurelia.

“Nothing,” she said sweetly. “Just admiring the shirt again.”

Oscar grinned. “Thought so.”

And if he stood a little straighter for the rest of the morning, well, no one could blame him, really.

By midday, the fair was starting to wind down. The bouncy castle had deflated into a sad, crumpled mess, and a few stalls were already packing away jars of pick ’n’ mix and rain-speckled flyers. The sun had climbed properly now, still not warm, but bright enough to squint against.

Oscar stood by the truck, arms folded loosely, watching as Aurelia gave the thermal imaging camera a final, dramatic sweep across the grass, pretending to detect imaginary fires. Her mum hovered a few steps behind, rummaging in her bag, trying to locate a missing glove.

He caught her voice, half-muffled by the breeze. “Alright, Rels, we’ve got to go soon. Last bus is at twelve and I’m not chasing it again.”

Oscar straightened a little. She was looking at her watch, already slipping back into that quiet, slightly hurried rhythm he recognised from mornings in the shared walkway.

He pushed off from the side of the truck and wandered over, deliberately soft-footed across the grass. He stopped just behind her.

“Boo.”

She jumped about a foot in the air and turned, hand instinctively going to her chest. “God, don’t do that!”

He grinned. “Sorry. Couldn’t resist.”

She exhaled sharply, trying not to smile. “You’re a menace.”

Oscar nodded toward the road beyond the fence. “You’re heading off?”

She gave a small nod, still a little breathless. “Yeah. Got to catch the bus before it disappears into the void. It’s only once an hour out here.”

“Don’t bother,” he said, hands back in his pockets now. “Let me give you a lift.”

She blinked. “What?”

“I’ve got to drive the truck back to the station anyway, and Aurelia’ll love it. And I brought my car in this morning, first time in ages, I was running late, so I can just take you both home after.”

She stared at him, clearly caught off guard. “Oh. I mean, that’s kind of you. I don’t want to, um…”

“Inconvenience me?” he finished, one brow raised. “You wouldn’t be. It’s just a lift.”

She hesitated, glancing at Aurelia, who was now poking at the truck’s steering wheel with something close to reverence. “We don’t usually talk this much.”

Oscar gave a soft laugh. “Yeah, I’ve noticed. Thought I’d change that.”

She looked like she might say no, just on instinct, like she didn’t want to be a bother, but the words never quite came. Instead, she sighed and gave him a resigned sort of look.

“Fine. But only because Aurelia will probably combust if you offer.”

Oscar turned to the little girl, crouching again beside her with mock seriousness.

“Hey, Aurelia,” he said, “want to ride in the fire truck?”

Her eyes went wide. “What? Really?”

“Really,” he said, gesturing grandly toward the cab. “I need a co-pilot.”

She shrieked in delight and immediately threw herself at her mum, already halfway into the truck in her head. “Mummy, mummy, we’re going in the fire engine!”

Her mum shook her head with a quiet laugh, murmuring as she passed Oscar, “You’re going to regret this.”

But he was still smiling, already opening the cab door, like he doubted that very much.

Once he checked that everything was back in place, Oscar jogged over to the headteacher, a harried-looking man in a tweed jacket with a clipboard under one arm, who, thankfully, tended right to it and began talking to the stall holders.

When he turned back, he found Aurelia had already jumped in and her mother was right behind her attempting to get up herself. He came up behind her quietly, hand brushing gently around her waist as she shifted her weight.

“Easy,” he said near her ear, low and careful. “Didn’t want to startle you again.”

She tensed slightly, then let out a breath that was half a laugh, half something else. “You’re going to give me a heart attack.”

He tightened his hands around her waist and hopped her up into her seat then stood on the ledge. “Right then, Aurelia you’ll have to sit on your mum’s lap,” he told her, lifting her up onto her mother’s lap. “I haven’t got a booster seat, and I reckon you’d get swallowed up by that seatbelt on your own.”

“Okay!” Aurelia chirped, already clambering in. She nestled against her mum, legs swinging slightly, her face bright with excitement.

“Hold still a sec,” Oscar said, reaching in to pull the seatbelt across both of them. His arm brushed hers as he clicked it in, and when their eyes met briefly, he gave her a look that was pure cheek.

“Safe and sound.”

She raised a brow. “You enjoy this far too much.”

“I really do,” he grinned.

He stepped back, shut the door with a solid thunk, and jogged round to the driver’s side. Once inside, he leaned over and handed Aurelia a chunky black handset.

“Alright, Firefighter Aurelia,” he said, reaching for the cab’s radio. “We’ve got a very important mission.”

He pressed the button and spoke into it in his best dramatic voice. “Control, this is Unit Seventeen. We've received reports of a rogue ice cream van, repeat, rogue ice cream van, causing mayhem in the residential zone. Suspect is armed with sprinkles. Requesting permission to pursue.”

Aurelia squealed with laughter and clutched the handset like it was made of gold. Her mum shook her head, but Oscar caught the smile she was trying not to show as he flicked the ignition.

The old appliance groaned slightly as it rolled off the grass and onto the gravel path. The gate swung open ahead of them, and they bumped gently onto the road.

The drive was short, fifteen minutes or so, but it was quiet, in a good way. Aurelia made soft siren noises under her breath the whole time, practically vibrating in place, and her mum kept a steady hand around her middle to stop her launching herself at every passing tree or pigeon.

When they finally pulled into the station yard, the engine still humming beneath them, Oscar spotted Lando through the open shutters. He was parked in a camp chair just inside the bay, arms folded, head tipped back, fast asleep with a half-eaten bag of crisps in his lap.

Oscar flicked his gaze up to Aurelia, then caught her mum’s eye.

“Wanna wake up Sleeping Beauty?”

Aurelia’s face lit up. “Can I? Really?”

“Go on then,” he said, reaching up to the dash. “Just one burst, yeah?”

She bounced in her seat as he tapped the siren switch. The wail screamed to life, echoing through the yard. Lando nearly fell out of his chair, crisps flying in every direction.

Oscar killed the siren after two seconds, laughing as Lando stood up blinking, dazed and scandalised.

“What the bloody hell was that?” Lando shouted, wiping crumbs off his shirt.

Oscar stuck his head out the window. “Community engagement, mate.”

Aurelia was giggling so hard she nearly dropped her balloon animal.

Her mum shook her head, smiling despite herself. “You’re going to get sacked.”

Oscar smirked. “Not unless he grasses.”

He parked the truck, turned off the engine, and helped them both down one at a time.

As he pulled up, he looked at her sideways. “Worth it?”

She gave him a wry look. “You’re completely ridiculous.”

He grinned. “And yet, look at the smile on your daughter’s face”

She didn’t respond straight away, just looked at him, that same half-smile playing at her lips, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes yet. Not because she wasn’t happy, but because she wasn’t used to all this. The ease of it. The way he fit so seamlessly into an afternoon that wasn’t supposed to be anything more than a spring fair and a sugar crash.

Aurelia, oblivious to the grown-up moment passing quietly over her head, was already tugging at her mum’s hand.

“Mum! Look! Look, it’s like Fireman Sam! The pole! Can we slide down it? Can we?”

Oscar chuckled and crouched beside her. “You’ve got a good eye, Aurelia. That’s the real thing. Only the grown-ups are allowed on it though, bit dangerous, that one.”

She pouted, considering the injustice, then lit up again. “When I’m a grown-up, I’m going to work here with you.”

“Deal,” he said, offering her a pinky. “You’ll be the best firefighter in the place.”

She pinky-swore with great ceremony, and then launched into an intense interrogation about hoses, helmets, and whether or not he’d ever saved a dinosaur (he hadn’t, but he’d chased a very angry goose once, which she seemed to find acceptable).

Eventually, the sugar high began to dip and she slumped a little, thumb sneaking toward her mouth before her mum gently steered her hand away. Oscar caught the silent exchange and didn’t say anything, just gestured toward the far end of the garage.

“Car’s parked out the back. You ready?”

Her mum nodded, brushing a stray curl off Aurelia’s forehead. “Yeah. Let’s go before she falls asleep standing up.”

Oscar got changed out of his gear and wore just a hoodie and a pair of shorts as the girls walked to his car. They bundled into his car, Oscar making a show of unlocking the door like it was a limo and she was royalty, and within five minutes, they were on the road again, the fire truck a quiet memory behind them.

Aurelia was asleep before they turned onto their street.

Her head lolled against her mum’s arm, soft snores escaping in little puffs. Her butterfly face paint had mostly faded, a faint smudge of pink and glitter under one eye.

Oscar pulled into the car park behind the flats and cut the engine. The stillness after the hum of the engine felt sudden, like stepping into a moment that didn’t quite belong to the day.

She shifted carefully, not waking Aurelia, and glanced over at him.

“Thanks,” she said softly. “For all of that. You didn’t have to.”

He leaned back in his seat, eyes still on the dashboard for a moment before he looked at her.

“I know,” he said. “That’s kind of the point.”

They got out quietly, and he came round to open the door for her, taking Aurelia gently from her arms and settling her against his shoulder without fuss. She stirred but didn’t wake, hand fisting into the fabric of his shirt as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

They climbed the stairs together, slow and careful, her just a step ahead as they reached their landing. She unlocked her door quietly, reaching out to take her daughter back.

Oscar passed her over gently. “She’s heavier than she looks.”

“She’s all legs,” she whispered, smoothing Aurelia’s hair.

He nodded, hands slipping back into his hoodie pockets. For a second, neither of them moved.

The corridor was still. Just the hum of an old light overhead and the faint smell of fabric softener from someone’s laundry down the hall.

“I should… put her down,” she said, but her voice didn’t carry much urgency.

He looked at her then, really looked at her. “This was nice,” he said. “Spending time. With you.”

She held his gaze, surprised by how much that simple truth settled somewhere deep in her chest.

“Yeah,” she said after a moment, soft and honest. “It was.”

Neither of them quite knew what to say next. But it didn’t feel awkward, just quiet. Comfortable.

Then she smiled, just a little, and nodded toward her door.

“See you tomorrow, neighbour.”

He smiled back, stepping slowly away.

“Sweet dreams, Aurelia,” he said, softly, before turning and heading for his own door, the warmth of the moment still clinging to the edges of him.

And behind her closed door, she stood for a beat longer than she needed to, heart ticking just a little louder than usual.

A couple of days had passed, and the brightness of the spring fair had faded into a more typical grey sort of morning. The kind that didn’t quite rain, but threatened to at any moment. Oscar was shrugging into his station fleece, keys already in hand, when he stepped out into the corridor and nearly tripped over something on the doormat.

He blinked down at the small tupperware tub sitting neatly against his door, like it had been placed there with great care.

Inside, through the foggy plastic lid, he could just about make out a few slightly lopsided fairy cakes, frosting a bit wonky, a generous scattering of rainbow sprinkles on top. They weren’t shop bought. Not a chance. They had that unmistakable homemade charm, the kind that didn’t care about appearances but would taste better than anything in a bakery.

Tucked underneath the corner of the lid was a small card, folded over like a secret note passed in class. His name was scrawled across the front in purple felt-tip, the letters slightly uneven. 

He crouched down, picked it up, and flipped the card open.

Dear Mr Oscar,

Thank you for letting me drive the fire truck. You are the best firefighter in the world. I made you fairy cakes. Mummy helped but I did the mixing.

Love from,

Aurelie (age six and a HALF)

Oscar stared at the note for a long moment, a smile spreading slowly, unstoppably across his face.

He glanced at their door, tempted to knock, but it was early, and quiet behind the wood. Probably the usual hushed breakfast rush in there, uniforms, pony tails and cereal on the floor. He didn’t want to interrupt. Not yet.

So he tucked the card into his jacket pocket and examined the container, before heading off down the stairs with the kind of ridiculous warmth in his chest that made even a dreary Tuesday feel a little golden around the edges.

By the time Oscar got home, it was well past eight. His shift had overrun, as they often did, from a small domestic fire to someone’s car keys that were stuck in the car. He was knackered, hungry, and somehow still smiling like an idiot every time he glanced at the now empty cake tub in his hands.

He’d saved one. The best one, in his opinion. A bit sunken in the middle, heavy on the sprinkles, the icing smudged at the side like someone small had licked their thumb and tried to fix it. It was tucked into a bit of kitchen roll in the pocket of his coat.

The corridor light flickered as he climbed the stairs, his boots quiet on the worn carpet. Their doors faced each other, and for a moment, he just stood there, unsure if he was about to come off charming or really quite tragic.

But then he knocked.

Soft, just enough to be heard over whatever bedtime might sound like on the other side.

A pause. Then the click of the latch, and she opened the door just a crack before widening it when she saw him. She looked cosy, oversized hoodie, hair up, bare feet. The kind of comfort people didn’t wear unless they felt safe at home.

“Hi,” she said, surprised but not in a bad way. “Everything alright?”

Oscar held up the empty container like a peace offering. “Official return of government property. Wouldn’t want to be accused of fairy cake theft.”

She smiled, hand resting on the doorframe. “Did she really give you those?”

“Left them on my doormat. Full note and everything. Genuinely the highlight of my week.”

“She was very serious about it,” she said, laughing gently. “Kept asking if I thought you’d know they were from her. I told her you’d probably figure it out from the purple pen.”

“There was a lot of purple,” he nodded solemnly. “It was a full forensic giveaway.”

She laughed properly then, a hand over her mouth, and the sound curled around his ribs like a warm drink.

“I, um…” he shifted a little, suddenly aware of his own nerves, “I saved one. If she wants it back.”

She raised a brow. “You saved one?”

He held up his hands. “For sentiment, not greed.”

“Mm-hm,” she said, amused. “Well, she’s out like a light. Crashed in the middle of Matilda. Completely missed the part where Miss Trunchbull throws a child across the playground.”

“Shame. That’s the best bit.”

They stood there for a second longer than was casual, silence stretching warm between them.

Then, soft as anything, she said, “You want to come in?”

Oscar blinked. “Yeah,” he said, clearing his throat. “If it’s not weird.”

She stepped aside to let him pass. “It’s a little bit weird,” she said honestly, then smiled. “But not bad-weird.”

He slipped inside, brushing past her in the doorway, and something about the quiet of the flat, the low lamplight, the faint scent of strawberry shampoo in the air, it made him feel like he was somewhere he wasn’t quite ready to leave.

She shut the door behind them, and for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel like just the neighbour with a fire truck.

He felt like someone she wanted to keep close.

The flat was warm in a lived-in sort of way. Not spotless, but comfortable. A couple of cushions on the floor, a half-folded blanket draped across the back of the sofa, a mug left forgotten on the coffee table with a teabag still inside. It felt like somewhere someone lived, not just existed.

Oscar stood a little awkwardly in the middle of the room at first, unsure whether to perch or hover. She motioned towards the sofa, already heading into the kitchen.

“Put the telly on if you want. I’ve got, like, two channels that work properly and one that just plays antiques shows.”

He chuckled, watching her disappear round the corner. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

He heard the clink of mugs and the whirr of the kettle. The sofa gave slightly under him when he sat, still warm where she’d been earlier, and he glanced around, a framed photo on the side, probably her and her daughter at the beach. Wind-swept hair, noses sun-pink, a proper grin on Aurelia’s face. That same grin she’d worn all day at the spring fair.

She came back in with two mugs, one hand curled round each handle.

“I wasn’t sure how you take it, so it’s builder’s,” she said, offering him one. “Strong enough to put hairs on your chest.”

He took it with both hands, the warmth of the ceramic seeping into his fingers. “I’ll risk it.”

They sat, not far, not quite close, but comfortably between. The telly was on in the background, some low-budget crime drama no one was really watching. The soft light pooled across her legs where she’d folded them under her, and the sleeve of her jumper kept slipping over her knuckles as she held her tea.

“Thanks,” he said eventually, nodding at the mug, then motioning towards the kitchen. “And for the cakes. And the note. That really made my day.”

She smiled, eyes soft. “She loves you, you know. Keeps calling you our firefighter.”

“Our?” He raised a brow, teasing. “Possessive, that.”

“Well,” she said, drawing out the word. “You did give her a lift in an actual fire engine. Might’ve set the bar a bit high.”

“Bugger,” he muttered playfully. “Should’ve started with something less exciting. Bin lorry, maybe.”

They both laughed, a quiet, comfortable sound. The kind that filled the little flat without echoing, like it belonged there.

There was a lull then, not awkward, just gentle. She reached down to pull the blanket from the floor and tossed one end over his legs without a word, settling the other across her own.

He blinked down at it, then looked at her, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Sharing blankets now, are we?”

She didn’t even look at him. “You’re the one who looked cold.”

“Right. Humanitarian effort. Got it.”

He sipped his tea to hide the grin, eyes on the telly though he couldn’t have said what was happening. Every so often, her knee brushed his. Not enough to make a thing of, but enough to notice.

Eventually, she said, quiet enough that he almost missed it, “It’s nice. Having you here.”

He turned to her then, properly, softly. “Yeah,” he said. “It is.”

The telly droned on. Outside, the wind rustled the trees. Inside, two mugs slowly cooled on the table, and two people who hadn’t meant to mean anything to each other found themselves sitting shoulder to shoulder beneath a blanket, realising maybe they did.

It had been just over a week since that quiet evening on the sofa, and things had shifted in the sort of way you only noticed once it had already happened. There hadn’t been any grand declarations, no big talk, no labels. Just little things.

Oscar now offered her a lift any time he saw her out shopping, even if she only had a single bag. He’d insist it was on his way, even when it clearly wasn’t. He started carrying her parcels up without being asked, shoulder-barging the stairwell door open with a grin and a “Special delivery!” like it was no big deal. He always handed them over with one hand and a joke but his eyes always lingered just a beat too long. She didn’t seem to mind.

She didn’t say no to him, either.

It wasn’t just about her, though. He was clearly soft on Aurelia too, somehow managing that delicate balance between fun and dependable, chaos and calm. He never tried too hard, never made her feel like a chore. Just… showed up. It mattered.

So when he spotted the two of them coming back from school one afternoon, something in his chest twisted.

Aurelia wasn’t bouncing the way she usually did. Her hand was tucked tightly into her mum’s coat, and her face was blotchy in that telltale just-finished-crying sort of way. She wasn’t sobbing now, but she wasn’t smiling either.

Oscar frowned, stepping out of his doorway just as they reached the landing. “Alright?” he asked gently, eyes flicking between the two.

She gave him a small, weary look, and then crouched to Aurelia’s level. “Go on, love. Go get changed into your pyjamas, yeah? I’ll be in in a minute.”

Aurelia nodded mutely, her little lip still trembling, and padded through the front door. It clicked softly shut behind her.

Oscar stayed quiet for a beat. Then, low and careful, “What happened?”

She let out a slow breath, leaning back against the wall, arms folded. “It’s nothing big. At least, not to anyone else. But to her…”

He waited.

She glanced down at the floor. “It’s bring your dad to school day tomorrow. They’re doing some assembly thing. A lot of the kids’ dads have these big jobs —marine biologist, police, pilot, someone even works at a zoo. And obviously she doesn’t have anyone. She asked if she could take her god father, but he’s away, and my brother’s not really around.”

Oscar’s brows pulled together slightly, the picture forming. He could feel the weight of it even now, the pressure that sort of thing put on a kid. Everyone else parading a parent around like a badge of honour. And her? Just trying to smile through it.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “That’s a lot for her to carry.”

“Yeah,” she said, voice quiet. “She didn’t say anything about it until just now. Said she didn’t want to upset me.” She scoffed lightly at herself, blinking fast. “She’s six, for God’s sake. She shouldn’t be worrying about me.”

Oscar’s gaze dropped to the floor, then lifted slowly to meet hers. “Why don’t I go?”

She blinked. “What?”

“To the school. For the thing. I mean.” he shrugged, awkward now, eyes flicking away “If she wants me to. I’m technically a firefighter. That’s still cool, right?”

She stared at him.

He gave a small, crooked smile. “I’ve got the day off. And I’ve got the uniform. Not the proper helmet, that’s locked up, but I could bring the jacket. Talk about smoke alarms and what happens if you leave your toast in too long.”

“You’d really do that?”

Oscar looked at her properly now, really looked, and all the gentle affection in him softened his voice. “Yeah. If it’ll help. I’d do a lot for her. And you.”

Her lips parted like she might say something, but nothing came out straightaway. Instead, she just nodded, slowly, almost like she didn’t quite trust her voice yet.

“I’ll ask her,” she murmured, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “But thank you, Oscar.”

He gave a half-shrug, like it was nothing, but his heart was thudding behind his ribs.

“Tell her I expect a very professional introduction,” he said, backing away toward his flat, trying to keep it light.

And just before he stepped inside, she called after him, voice soft but sure.

“She’ll be over the moon.”

He didn’t say anything back.

He just smiled.

And his whole chest felt full.

Oscar had never had stage fright in his life. He’d once crawled through a burning pub roof, half convinced it was going to come down on his head, and hadn’t flinched. But standing outside the Year Two classroom, fiddling with the zip on his fire service fleece while a sea of tiny faces peered through the glass?

Yeah. That did it. 

Aurelia stood proudly beside him, hand firmly in his, like she was escorting a VIP. “Don’t be nervous,” she whispered with complete sincerity. “You’re the best one.”

That undid him a bit.

The door opened and a teacher with a rainbow lanyard and a kind smile welcomed them in. Oscar ducked slightly out of habit, as though the ceiling might lower to match the size of the furniture. The classroom was bright and chaotic in the way only a primary room could be. Walls plastered with glittery artwork, phonics charts, paper bunting with all the kid’s faces and a corner reading nook with two bean bags that had seen better days.

Aurelia immediately tugged him by the hand to the back wall. “These are mine,” she said, pointing to a messy collage of tissue-paper flowers, a painted hedgehog, and a bright crayon rainbow. “And that’s my favourite one.”

He leaned in, smiling, and then paused. Nestled in the middle of the display, in a wonky black felt-tip frame, was a drawing of three stick figures.

One tall with brown hair and blue scribbles on his shoulders. One with long lines of hair and a dress in Aurelia’s favourite shade of pink. And one, small and neat, holding both of their hands.

His throat did something strange.

Aurelia tapped it with pride. “That’s you,” she said. “That’s me. And that’s Mummy.”

He blinked. Swallowed. “Right.”

No one had ever drawn him before. Not like that. Not part of something. Not holding hands.

She didn’t notice his pause, already rifling through a drawer of coloured pencils, humming quietly. The rest of the class buzzed around them, but in that little corner, time felt like it had narrowed.

“We’re allowed to make a new picture for home if we want,” she said. “I’m going to do one for Mummy.”

He crouched beside her, watching her draw two wonky hearts and a triangle house with smoke coming from the chimney.

“Can I help?”

She nodded and handed him a green pencil.

He added a little tree with apples. Then, below the drawing, in his slanted, firefighter has to fill forms handwriting, he wrote carefully:

Mummy is the prettiest of them all.

Aurelia giggled and pressed her hands to her cheeks. “I think mummy is going to love that.”

He smiled at her, warm and full. “I hope so.”

The rest of the morning passed in a blur of picture books, wide-eyed questions from excitable children, and a slightly panicked moment when one kid asked how many people he'd "seen explode." 

But through it all, it was Aurelia's face he kept coming back to. The way she looked at him with pride, like she’d brought in something precious to share. The way she whispered his name to her friends, like she was letting them in on a secret. The way she slid her hand into his without even looking, like it was just the natural place for it to be.

And maybe the strangest bit?

It felt like home.

After the school visit, Oscar hadn’t quite been ready to say goodbye. Not yet. So when Aurelia mentioned, rather loudly and unsubtly, that she fancied an ice cream, he’d raised a brow in her mum’s direction and said, “Well, I suppose it is practically summer…”

She didn’t protest.

So they ended up walking to the corner shop, Aurelia skipping ahead with a swirl cone in one hand and rainbow sprinkles already melting down her fingers. He paid for the lot, obviously, brushing off any protests with a lazy, “Call it my speaker’s fee.”

When they got back, Aurelia darted inside first, cone long gone and hands sticky, only to stop dead in the kitchen.

“Mummy! Look!”

Aurelia pulled out the paper from her book bag with sticky hands, but her mum took it delicately, like it was something rare. Her eyes softened as she read the words beneath the sketch. Then, without a word, she reached for a magnet and pinned it to the fridge, pride of place, just above the shopping list.

Oscar watched from the doorway, the weight of something quiet settling in his chest. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

That night, just before he was about to settle in for a late dinner and a bit of telly, there was a soft knock at his door.

He opened it to find her standing there in joggers and an oversized hoodie, a small container in her hands.

“I made this,” she said. “It’s not much. Just lasagne. But it’s a thank you. For today.”

His lips curled into a slow, lopsided smile. “I see where Aurelia gets it from.”

She rolled her eyes, but didn’t deny it. He took the container from her, their fingers brushing for a second too long, and the air between them shifted—just slightly, but enough to notice.

They stood in the corridor for a moment. It was quiet. Still. A pause between heartbeats.

Then, softly, almost shyly, she leaned in and kissed his cheek.

He froze, just for a second. Her lips were warm, gentle. She was already pulling back, the beginnings of an embarrassed smile forming as she started to turn away.

But he caught her.

“Wait.”

His hand came up, firm but tender, fingers tilting her chin towards him. His thumb brushed her cheek, and then—

He kissed her.

Not tentative. Not uncertain.

He kissed her like he’d been thinking about it for weeks. Because he had.

She gasped just a little and then melted into him, her hands sliding up into the front of his hoodie, bunching in the fabric like she needed something to hold onto. And when she let out the tiniest, breathy moan against his mouth, he smiled into the kiss, cocky and utterly undone all at once.

“Alright there?” he murmured against her lips, his forehead resting lightly against hers.

She was breathless. “It’s been a while.”

His eyes softened, thumb still stroking along her jaw. “Worth the wait, though.”

She nodded.

And neither of them moved. Not for a long while.

Just them. Just warmth. Just… something that felt very, very real.

They stood there for a while, neither of them quite ready to let go.

Eventually, she nudged her nose against his cheek and whispered, “Do you want to come in for a bit?”

He blinked at her, lips still curved from the kiss. “Yeah,” he said, voice quiet. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

She led him back into her flat, closing the door softly behind them. The hallway light cast a warm, golden glow over the walls, and the familiar smell of home. He followed her into the living room, everything dim and quiet. Aurelia’s newer drawings were still scattered across the coffee table. A soft throw had been kicked half off the sofa.

She turned to him, suddenly sheepish, running a hand through her hair. “I feel like I’m at uni, sneaking someone in,” she said with a small laugh.

He grinned. “I never went.”

She tilted her head, surprised. “Me neither.”

He looked at her for a second, then nodded towards the closed door down the hall. The one with a glittery star-shaped sticker on it.

“That why?”

She glanced back at the door. Something shifted behind her eyes. A quiet sadness, old but not forgotten.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “I was supposed to. Got in and everything. Nottingham. English Lit. But I was nineteen and stupid and thought I was in love.”

She walked over to the sofa, sat down, and he followed. Their knees brushed. She stared at her hands for a moment before continuing.

“Didn’t know I was pregnant until I’d already turned down the offer. Was going to reapply the next year. But then she happened. And everything got really real, really fast.”

He didn’t say anything. Just listened, his body angled towards her, giving her the space and the safety.

“Her dad left when she was four months old,” she said, with a small, almost apologetic shrug. “Just sort of disappeared. Too young, too overwhelmed, I don’t know. It doesn’t matter now.”

He was quiet for a moment, then leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. His voice was gentle.

“Of course it matters.”

She gave him a tired smile. “Not in the way people expect it to. I’m not bitter. I’m just tired sometimes. It’s a lot. But then she does something like draw me with a crown and a sparkly dress and labels it Queen of Mummies and I forget everything else.”

Oscar looked at her for a long moment. Then, softly, “You’re incredible, you know.”

She let out a breath that was half a laugh, half a sigh. “I’m tired and a bit moody and have approximately seventeen loads of laundry waiting, but thanks.”

He reached out, his hand brushing gently over hers. “I meant it.”

She looked up at him, eyes soft and a little glassy in the low light.

There was a pause, weightless but full of something.

“You’re not sneaking me in,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “You’re letting me in.”

And that, God, that did something to her.

She leaned her head on his shoulder, and he tucked her in without thinking, arms coming round her like they’d always belonged there.

They sat there like that. Still. Quiet. Her fingers tracing absent-minded shapes on his forearm. The world outside fell away, no alarms, no homework, no long nights of dishes and lost socks.

Just this. Just him. Just her.

And the hum of something beginning to bloom.

It had been about a month since that first kiss in the corridor.

Oscar still had his own place, but he spent two, sometimes three, nights a week at hers now. It wasn't official, they hadn’t talked about labels, but the toothbrush beside hers in the bathroom said enough. So did the way he’d taken to calling her flat home without thinking, or how Aurelia would lean sleepily against his leg in the mornings while she waited for her eggs to finish cooking.

They had a rhythm now, dysfunctional but quiet and real.

He’d learnt how not to wake Aurelia when he rolled in late, how to turn the key in the lock with just the right amount of pressure and not let the hinge on the bathroom door creak when he showered after a night shift. She, in turn, had mastered the morning shuffle. Tiptoeing around the flat while he slept off the early hours, even closing cupboard doors with that soft, deliberate touch only mothers and night nurses seemed to perfect.

Some mornings, if his shift ended early and she had a bit more time, she’d curl back into bed beside him for a half hour. No words. Just warm limbs tangled together under the duvet while the outside world waited.

It was gentle, it was something he’d never thought he’d get, something he’d never thought he’d deserve.

That night, though, the fire station ws quiet and all he could think about was home. He was half slumped in one of the chairs in the rec room, sipping lukewarm tea from a chipped mug and watching some repeat quiz show on mute. It was just him, Lando, and two of the more senior lads, all of them looking somewhere between exhausted and wired.

Then the alarm started blaring.

The tone was different, lower, more urgent. Not a false alarm or a test. Not a bin fire or a smoke detector in a student flat.

Oscar was already on his feet before Control came through the speaker. 

“House fire reported, scratch that, pub fire, multiple reports of visible flames, location. The Fox and Hound, Chapel Lane.”

That made him pause. The Fox and Hound was a big one. Old building. Thatched roof. Always busy on weekdays and visible from his little flat.

It was 2am.

“Let’s go!” Andrea shouted, already moving. Oscar hauled his gear on, the straps familiar and fast now. His thoughts flicked to her, to Aurelia, how they were safe at home but bound to wake up to the sound of sirens. He tucked it away. Couldn’t think about that. Couldn’t think about anything but getting there.

The engine roared to life, tyres heavy on wet tarmac. Blue lights bounced across empty roads and shuttered shopfronts. No one spoke. Lando checked the comms, while Oscar stared out the front window, jaw tight.

As they got closer, they could already see the glow. Not just smoke, flames. Licking skyward in bright, vicious tongues.

He felt it then. That buzz in his blood. Not fear, exactly, something sharper. Something colder.

They pulled up just outside the pub. Heat rushed at them as soon as the doors opened. People were gathered at a safe distance, coats over pyjamas, phones in hand, eyes wide.

Oscar jumped down, helmet secure, heart thudding.

“All right,” came the voice in his earpiece, “we’ve got reports of staff inside, one maybe trapped, two might’ve made it out the back.”

Oscar didn’t hesitate. “Which floor?”

“Upstairs flat. Left side.”

And just like that, they moved. Through the smoke, through the roar and the crack and the chaos.

He didn’t think of her again until they were inside. But when he did, it was like armour.

She’s waiting. You get out. You go home.

The heat hit him like a wall.

By the time Oscar got inside, the fire had already taken hold of the bar. Bottles of spirits cracked and burst like fireworks, sending shards and fuel across the floor. The wood panelling burned fast—too fast. There was a reason fire crews hated pub jobs. Alcohol and timber made for a nasty combination.

His mask filtered the worst of the smoke, but visibility was poor. He ducked low, sweeping the hose with one hand while shouting into the crackling dark, “Fire and Rescue! Anyone inside?”

There was no reply, just the moaning groan of the ceiling starting to go.

They cleared the ground floor quickly. A member of staff had managed to stumble out the back, coughing and panicked, mumbling about another one unaccounted for.

Oscar was halfway out, half a breath from turning back, when he caught sight of the stairs through the smoke.

Stairs.

He froze, then turned back to Control. “This place has rooms. It’s an inn.”

There was a pause in his earpiece.

“Confirmed. It’s a pub with letting rooms. Upstairs. Go careful.”

He didn’t wait for permission. He ran.

The heat intensified as he climbed. Fire moved like a living thing, chewing through floorboards, plaster, lives. The smoke was blacker here, thicker, laced with that acrid sting of burning plastic and varnish.

He moved fast, sweeping left and right. Doors half-open. Sheets scorched. The moan of fire too close.

And then he heard it.

A sob.

Small. Choked. From the far room, left corner.

He found her curled up on a narrow bed, knees hugged to her chest, cheeks streaked with soot and tears. Couldn’t have been more than eight. Long brown hair stuck to her face, and she was shaking.

“Mum?” she whimpered.

Oscar’s breath caught.

For half a second, she wasn’t a stranger. She was Aurelia. She was his little one. In a different place, a different time, but just as small. Just as scared.

He didn’t hesitate. Ripped off his oxygen mask and crouched down beside her, voice steady.

“Hey, hey—it’s okay. I’m here to help. We’re getting out of here, alright?”

She nodded, hiccupping sobs now. He wrapped her in his jacket, pulled her close, and hoisted her into his arms.

“Close your eyes for me, alright? Tight. Don’t look.”

She did.

The flames were close now. He felt the blistering heat crawling up the corridor behind them as he turned, shielding her with his body.

The ceiling above the stairwell was starting to sag. There wasn’t time to think. Only move.

He bolted.

Smoke seared his lungs. His mask hung useless at his hip. He pressed her tighter to his chest, ducked as a beam groaned and crashed just behind him, sparks flying past his shoulders.

The front exit was blocked. Too hot.

He spotted a smashed window in the corridor off the landing—low enough. Maybe.

He didn’t think, just acted.

He lunged for it, twisted his body to take the brunt, and threw his arm over her head as he pushed through.

Glass scraped his back. A cry tore from his throat, but he held her steady.

And then—

Air.

Cool, blessed air.

He stumbled out onto the pavement, coughing, the girl still cradled tight against him.

A medic ran forward and took her. She was sobbing, but alive. Alive.

Oscar slumped to his knees, gasping.

Lando was beside him in seconds. “Mate—what the hell?!”

Oscar waved him off, catching his breath, throat burning.

“She was in there. A kid.” He looked up. “Could’ve been her, Lan.”

Lando didn’t need to ask who her was.

It took another hour to put the fire out completely. They lost the roof, and two rooms, but no lives. None.

Oscar sat on the pavement long after the hoses went still, his turnout gear soaked through, back bleeding, lungs scorched, but he was upright.

He couldn’t stop seeing the girl’s face.

Couldn’t stop seeing Aurelia in it.

By the time they got back to the station, Oscar was soaked through with sweat and soot. His shirt stuck to the grazes along his back, stiff with smoke. His hands trembled when he took his gloves off.

The station was quieter than usual. No jokes. No kettle boiling. No telly. Just that heavy silence that follows the worst kind of shout.

Zak caught his eye as he stepped down from the truck.

“You’re done for the night, Piastri,” Zak said quietly, hand on his shoulder. “Go home, Oscar.”

Oscar opened his mouth to argue, to say he was fine, standard procedure, but the words caught in his throat. He wasn’t fine. He didn’t feel anything close to fine.

So he nodded. Wordless. Stripped off his gear and shoved it in the drying room. Pulled a hoodie from his locker and walked out of the doors with the smell of burny wood still clinging to his hair.

The cab ride home was a blur. He didn’t remember much except asking the driver to leave him on the corner, needing the walk to clear his head.

But it didn’t help.

Because all he could see was her. That little girl, curled up in the bed, sobbing for her mum. The one he carried out. The one who had Aurelia’s eyes.

He didn’t even realise his key had missed the lock twice until the door opposite his flat opened.

And then she was there.

She took one look at him and moved without thinking. “Oh my God—Oscar—”

He barely got the door open before she crossed the hallway, hands on his chest, eyes scanning him like she needed to count all his fingers and toes just to believe he was still whole.

“I heard there was a fire. We could see it from here, someone said it was your station that went out and—” Her voice cracked as she clung to his hoodie. “You didn’t answer your phone so I assumed you’d gone but—”

He didn’t mean to. But his arms went round her like instinct, and his voice finally gave out as he buried his face into the side of her neck.

“I need to see her.”

She didn’t ask who. She just nodded.

He stepped inside her flat and moved straight to the bedroom door. It was slightly ajar, the way it always was. Soft light from her nightlight spilled onto the hallway carpet.

Aurelia was fast asleep, curled on her side, clutching that stuffed bunny she never went to bed without.

Oscar watched her chest rise and fall. Just breathing.

Just alive.

And that was all it took.

His knees buckled slightly, hand braced on the doorframe, and tears spilled hot down his cheeks. She was there in an instant, arms around his waist, and he didn’t try to stop it.

He wept quietly, forehead resting against hers, chest heaving as every unspoken terror bled out of him.

She reached up and cupped his face gently. “Come on,” she said softly, “let me take care of you, yeah?”

He didn’t argue.

She led him by the hand to the bathroom, flicked the light on low, and turned the tap to fill the bath.

Without a word, she reached for the hem of his hoodie, and he let her lift it over his head. Her fingers brushed the grazes on his back, and she exhaled, not quite a gasp, but almost.

He looked down at himself. Soot-stained, battered, worn thin.

She didn’t say anything. Just tugged his joggers off gently, like she was handling something fragile.

When he was bare before her, she stepped closer, pressed a kiss to his sternum, and wrapped her arms around his middle.

He pressed his nose into her hair, breathing her in. Clean. Warm. Real.

“You’re home,” she whispered.

“I thought she was going to die,” he choked. “She was crying for her mum. She was—she looked just like—”

“I know,” she murmured, and her hand found his. “You saved her.”

She helped him into the bath, then climbed in behind him, still in her top having discarded her leggings, gathering him close like he was the one who needed holding now. And maybe he was.

No more sirens. No more shouting. No fear.

Just soft water. Warmth. Her.

Home.

The steam had fogged up the mirror, and the water had gone lukewarm by the time she pulled the plug. Neither of them moved for a moment. Limbs heavy, breath slow, her arms still wrapped around him from behind. His back rested against her chest, and her cheek was pressed to the crown of his head.

Eventually, she stirred first, nudging his shoulder gently.

“Come on,” she whispered, voice hushed like she didn’t want to wake the world. “Let’s get you dry.”

He let her guide him up, hands loose in hers. She reached for a towel and wrapped it round his waist, then took another and ran it through his hair, careful and slow like she was unravelling the knots of the day with each movement. His eyes stayed on hers the whole time, soft and unreadable. She dried herself as he put some clothes on, watching him as he slipped on the pyjamas he left yesterday, while she opted for a pair of shorts and a tank top.

She led him into her bedroom with nothing but the quiet creak of floorboards between them. Her hand rested on the small of his back, grounding him.

When she turned to face him, he didn’t speak. He just looked at her like she was something he still didn’t quite believe was real.

“Lie down,” she said softly.

He did, not like it was an order, more like a suggestion he’d been waiting for. He lay back against the pillows, hair damp, skin warm. He looked younger in the low light. Unarmoured. All soft edges and tired eyes.

She climbed in beside him and straddled his hips, in the vest and shorts she’d pulled on a second ago. Her fingers ghosted over the scrapes on his shoulder, her brow creasing.

“You’re hurt.”

“I’ll live.”

“Still.” She leaned down, brushed her lips over one graze like it deserved an apology. “You gave too much of yourself tonight.”

He let out a slow breath, hands resting on her thighs. “Didn’t feel like I had a choice.”

“I know.” She kissed another spot. Then another. “But you don’t always have to carry everything alone, you know.”

He swallowed, his throat tight. “I don’t know how to do this slowly,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “Not with you. Not after tonight.”

She leaned forward until her forehead rested against his. “It doesn’t have to be slow,” she murmured, lips brushing his. “It just has to be soft.”

And it was.

No rush. No fumbling. Just touch, and breath, and the quietest kind of yes in every movement.

His fingers curled around her hip, grounding himself, and when he kissed her back it was like he needed her to know. I’m here. I’m yours. I came home to you.

She smiled at him, the warmest smile he’d ever seen.

It wasn’t fireworks or declarations.

Just warmth. 

Home.

She kissed him again, this time slower. Deeper. Her fingers slid into his damp hair, anchoring him to her, and his hand found the curve of her hip again, drawing her in without thought.

The air between them felt thick with warmth, not heat, like the moment before a storm breaks, all hush and anticipation. There was no rush in it. No fumbling. Just the steady build of something that had been waiting in the quiet between them for weeks.

She shifted a little, her legs bracketing his, the hem of her vest brushing the tops of his thighs. His hands slid up, tracing her shape like he was learning it by heart. The small of her back, the line of her waist, the softness of her ribs. She leaned down, her breath warm against his cheek.

“Is this alright?” she asked, voice low.

“Yeah,” he murmured, brushing his nose along hers. “More than alright.”

She kissed him again, deeper this time, and he responded with a soft noise at the back of his throat, his hands gripping a little tighter, his body rising to meet hers. Their movements found a rhythm, gentle, reverent. He helped her lift her vest, pulling it slowly over her head, and she let it fall to the floor beside the bed. There was no embarrassment in her. No hesitation. Just trust, and something else, something fragile and burning beneath the surface.

He sat up, mouth brushing her collarbone, then lower, until she gasped, not from surprise, but from the quiet ache of being seen. Wanted. He pressed kisses down her chest, hands steady on her waist, as if every part of her mattered. Like she wasn’t just something beautiful, but something sacred.

Her fingers found the waistband of his joggers and tugged them down with a quiet smile. “I think you’re overdressed.”

He huffed a laugh against her neck. “Been saying that about you for weeks.”

When they came together it wasn’t fireworks. It was warmth, and weight, and breath. Her hand slid into his, fingers laced tightly, like she needed the grounding. He moved slowly, gently, his forehead resting against hers, his free hand stroking up the length of her spine in time with the soft rhythm between them.

Neither of them spoke, not because there was nothing to say, but because everything important was already there, in the way their bodies met, and parted, and met again. In the way she whispered his name like it meant something. In the way he held her like she was the only safe thing left in the world.

And when it was over, when her body relaxed against his, and his arms came around her like instinct, they stayed there, skin to skin, tangled in sweat-damp sheets and the quiet hum of something that felt a lot like love.

He brushed his fingers through her hair, soft and absent.

She pressed a kiss to the side of his throat, her voice barely more than a breath.

“I’ve never had this,” she said.

He kissed the top of her head. “You’ve got it now.”

And she did.

The flat was filled with the kind of early morning stillness that only came after a long night. The light outside hadn’t quite brightened, but it wasn’t dark either, that muted, silvery sort of grey that hinted at a day gently waking up.

Oscar stirred first, arms curled around her, legs tangled in the duvet. Her head was on his chest, one of her hands tucked beneath his shirt like it belonged there, like it always had. He blinked slowly, heart still steady in the after-glow of everything, and let the moment stretch.

No alarms. No radios crackling to life.

Just breath. Just her.

Then came the familiar shuffle of small feet padding across the hallway, a door creaking ever so slightly, the rustle of a blanket being dragged along the floor.

Aurelia.

He felt her tense slightly against him, just a flicker, the instinct of a mum on alert, but she didn’t move to untangle herself from him. Instead, she sighed, soft and sleepy, and whispered, “She’ll come to the kitchen first.”

Sure enough, a cupboard door opened with a tiny clatter. A pause. Then the quiet clink of a cereal bowl.

He smiled. “She does this every time, doesn’t she?”

“She thinks she’s sneaky.”

“Is she?”

“Not even slightly.”

He laughed gently and kissed her hairline before slipping out of bed. He pulled on his joggers and one of her hoodies that hung by the door, the sleeves a little short on him, then padded into the kitchen.

Aurelia looked up from the kitchen table, spoon halfway to her mouth. Her eyes went wide for a second, not surprised, just curious, and then her face broke into a grin.

“You slept over again.”

He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, suddenly a bit shy. “Yeah. That alright?”

She nodded, chewing thoughtfully. “You’re in mummy’s hoodie.”

Oscar laughed. “I am. D’you reckon it suits me?”

She tilted her head, considering. “Yeah. But your sleeves are funny.”

Just then, her mum appeared in the doorway behind him, wrapped in one of his T-shirts, hair tousled, still sleepy-eyed.

Aurelia beamed.

Oscar glanced back at her, and something in his chest pulled, that same quiet tug he’d felt last month, in the classroom, staring at a child’s drawing of a life he hadn’t known he’d wanted until he saw it sketched out in crayon.

The three of them. A little sun in the corner. Lopsided hearts.

She came up behind him and pressed a kiss to his shoulder, a soft morning kind of kiss, and brushed past to the kettle.

Aurelia watched them both, spoon hanging from her mouth. Then, very simply, she said,

“You should just live here now.”

They both looked at her.

She shrugged. “You always make mummy smile.”

Oscar blinked, caught a little off guard. He looked over at her, the woman who’d somehow become the best part of his days, and saw the faint blush creeping up her neck.

“We’re working on it,” she said gently, reaching to ruffle her daughter’s hair.

And maybe they were.

They didn’t have a grand plan, or timelines, or promises inked in stone, but they had something. And in typical child nature, after dropping a bomb like that, Aurelia left her bowl and moved onto drawing.

Oscar was mid grabbing the butter from the fridge when his phone started to buzz with a FaceTime call.

He frowned at the screen, then smiled. “It’s my mum.”

She raised her eyebrows slightly, a teasing smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “You gonna answer?”

“Suppose I’ve got to now,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck and tapping the green button.

His mum’s face filled the screen, tanned and bright-eyed, her hair swept back, sunshine spilling in behind her through the windows of her kitchen in Melbourne.

“Oh! Look who it is!” she grinned. “Took you long enough to answer. I was starting to think you’d moved to the moon.”

Oscar chuckled. “No, still Earth-side.”

She narrowed her eyes, playful. “That is not your flat, Oscar Jack. I know your tiles. Is this Lando’s place?”

He opened his mouth to reply, but just then, Aurelia let out a small triumphant cheer as she held up her finished drawing. “Look, Oscar, it’s us in the fire engine again!”

His mum’s eyebrows shot up. “Well, that’s not Lando either.”

Oscar looked down at the floor for a moment, then gave a sheepish smile.

“Right,” he said, shifting a little. “So… bit of a life update.”

He turned the phone round gently, showing his mum the cosy kitchen, the mess of crayons, the fireman sticker Aurelia had slapped onto the fridge, and finally, her.

She smiled warmly, caught off guard for just a second by being the centre of attention, but not pulling away. She gave a small wave. “Hi.”

Oscar cleared his throat, a little hoarse with nerves. “Mum… meet the woman who’s kept me sane the last couple of months.”

His mum blinked, a beat of silence, and then she smiled so wide it softened every line in her face.

“Oh,” she said softly. “Now that makes sense.”

He laughed, a quiet, breathless sort of sound, and she leaned into his shoulder slightly, her hand resting on the table beside his. Aurelia had already resumed drawing, now completely absorbed in adding stars to the day sky.

His mum nodded, still smiling. “She’s beautiful.”

“She is,” he said, before he could even think to stop himself.

There was no panic in it, no need to explain further. Just truth, warm and steady between them all.

“You look happy, love,” his mum said at last. “Properly happy.”

He glanced sideways, saw the way she was looking at him, like he’d finally landed somewhere soft.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I think I am.”

Just as he was about to speak up again, Aurelia called his name demanding his immediate attention, and to Oscar, she deserved immediate attention so he left the phone on the island with her and wandered off into the living room to see what she needed.

“So,” his mum said, leaning her chin on her hand, “you’re the one that’s brought my son back to life huh.”

She laughed softly, brushing a crumb from the table. “I don’t know about that. He’s done plenty of the heavy lifting.”

His mum tilted her head. “You’ve got no idea, have you?”

She looked up, brow furrowed just slightly.

“That boy,” his mum said, with the fondness she recognised as a parent, “has always been kind. But I haven’t heard him sound like that in years. Like there’s a little bit of sunshine in his voice again.” Her eyes stung, just a little, but she kept her smile. “He makes it easy to be kind to him.” “I’m glad he’s got you,” she said, voice quieter now. “And I’m glad he’s got her too. It seems your little one is a bundle of magic.”

She nodded, looking toward the living room where they were both laughing. “She’s my whole world.”

There was a pause, and then Oscar’s mum said, not unkindly, “Must’ve been hard. Doing this all on your own.” “It was,” she admitted, honest without bitterness. “Still is, some days. But it’s better now. Easier, with him.”

His mum’s smile turned into something a little misty. “Well. If he’s half as good to you as he was to his little cousins back home, you’re in very safe hands.”

“I think I am,” she said, quietly.

Oscar’s voice called from down the hallway then, something about star stickers and him being promoted to co-pilot of the living room space rocket, and they both laughed.

“I should go help him survive his new role,” she said, pushing her chair back.

Oscar’s mum smiled. “Tell him I said he’d better ring again soon. And you, look after each other, yeah?”

“We will.”

And as she ended the call and stood, walking towards the warm sound of her two favourite voices down the hall, she realised it had been a long time since things felt this much like home.

Seven months had passed, and life had woven itself into something steady, soft edges and everyday joy.

Oscar had sold his flat back in April, after a lot of faffing and a surprisingly emotional trip through storage boxes. Now, all his belongings lived here, in the flat that had once felt like hers and hers alone, but now smelled like them. His mugs were in her cupboards, her shoes were tangled up with his by the door, and there were three toothbrushes in the bathroom, hers, Aurelia’s, and his. One day, quietly, it had stopped feeling like he was staying over, and started feeling like home.

They had routines now. Quiet ones. Aurelia would burst into the bedroom at seven on the dot if it was his day off. On early mornings, he’d creep in at six, just off a night shift, and she’d leave the landing light on for him like a lighthouse. He knew how she took her tea, and she’d learnt not to make noise until he’d actually had some of it. He made dinner most nights, unless she’d had a good day at work and was feeling ambitious.

It was simple. Not perfect, not glossy, not always easy. But it was theirs. And it was good.

This morning, the flat was busy with the chaos of first-day-back energy. Year Three. New backpack. New lunchbox. New plaited hairstyle that had taken them two goes to get right.

Aurelia had been buzzing from the moment she opened her eyes.

“Am I late? Is it time? I’m going to forget cursive. I bet I’ve forgotten cursive!”

“You can write better than most adults, you’ll be fine,” Oscar said, dropping a kiss to her forehead as she wriggled into her shoes.

Her mum gave her one last once-over by the door, brushing a bit of fluff off her shoulder. “You look beautiful, baby.”

Oscar grinned. “You look cool. Very Year Three.”

She beamed. “I’m going to boss Year Three.”

He dropped her off that morning, gave her a high five at the gates, and watched her disappear into the swarm of backpacks and bright socks and morning yawns.

But it was that afternoon that stopped him still.

He’d offered to do pick-up. Thought it’d be a nice surprise. He stood by the railings, hands in his jacket pockets, feeling strangely nervous in a sea of parents and buggies and scooters.

Then she came running out of the gates.

Pointed straight at him.

And with the biggest grin, shouted, “My dad is here to pick me up!”

Oscar froze.

The word rang out in his head like a church bell. Like something he wasn’t quite supposed to hear.

Dad.

His chest tightened. Not with panic. Not with fear. But something much bigger. Something messier.

She ran straight into his arms and he lifted her with a small laugh, though it came out shaky. She chattered the whole way home, about spelling tests and Miss Price’s new earrings and how someone brought in a tarantula, but he barely caught any of it.

Because one word had wrapped itself around his ribcage.

Later, once she was tucked up on the sofa with a biscuit and the telly on low, he stepped into the kitchen, where she was rinsing mugs by the sink.

“Hey,” he said, voice a little quieter than usual.

She turned, drying her hands on a tea towel. “Hey, you alright?”

He just looked at her for a moment. His eyes were glassy.

“She called me her dad.”

She paused. Slowly put the towel down.

“I went to pick her up and she saw me and said it. My dad is here to pick me up. Just like that.”

He let out a shaky breath, a small, astonished sort of laugh. “I thought I was going to cry right there in the playground like an idiot.”

Her heart clenched. She stepped toward him, and he pulled her in like a lifeline.

“She meant it, didn’t she?” he whispered into her hair.

“She did,” she said softly. “She really, really did.”

That night, after the dishes had been done and the flat had settled into its usual hush, Oscar found himself stood in the doorway to Aurelia’s room.

She was half asleep already, the telly's low hum from the living room barely audible through her door. She stirred slightly, sensing him, blinking one eye open.

“Hey,” she mumbled.

He stepped in, crouched beside her bed. “Just checking in on you.”

“You always do,” she said sleepily, reaching for his hand.

He smiled. “Habit now.”

She squeezed his fingers. “You’re the best one, you know. I’m really glad you’re mine.”

Oscar swallowed. “I’m really glad I’m yours too, pickle.”

She wriggled a bit, yawning into her blanket. “Love you, Oscar.”

He leaned down and kissed the top of her head. “Love you more.”

And in the quiet of that room, with the soft rise and fall of her breathing, he stayed just a minute longer, heart full in a way he never thought it could be.

Over the years, things changed. For the better and never the worst.

They got married in a small ceremony at the register office, all low-fuss and laughter and Aurelia dropping petals like she was queen of the world. He wore his uniform jacket, she wore a soft blue dress that matched her eyes, and Aurelia insisted on holding both their hands the whole way through the vows.

He officially adopted her not long after that. There was paperwork, a hearing, signatures, all formal, all necessary, but what he remembered most was the moment she looked up at him, fidgeting with the sleeve of her cardigan, and said, “Can I have the same name as you?”

He cried. Fully. In public. No shame.

“You sure?” he’d asked, voice thick.

She nodded with a smile that could’ve split the sky. “I want to be the same as you.”

After that, life kept growing. Gently, beautifully.

They hadn’t planned on having another child. Not because they didn’t want to, more that they’d built a home already, and it felt enough. But life, as ever, had other plans. It happened one quiet spring, and when she told him, he’d gone very still and said, “Are you serious?” and when she nodded, he sank to his knees with his arms round her middle like she was something holy.

That pregnancy was nothing like the first. It wasn’t fraught with fear or pain or the weight of being alone. This time, she had someone holding her hair back when the sickness kicked in. Someone who learnt how to make the weird toast she liked at four in the morning. Someone who ran baths and rubbed her back and whispered “you’ve got this” against her skin when she needed it most.

He took proper paternity leave too, remembering how he told Zak, “Don’t give me grief, Zak, it’s the law”, and when he finally did go back to work, he did it dragging himself out of bed with bags under his eyes, a half-eaten banana in one hand and a tiny sock stuck to the back of his uniform trousers.

But he was happy.

Proper, head-to-toe, bone deep happy.

Oscar, who used to dread going back to his childhood home, now booked flights to Australia every year like clockwork. Family trips, beach towels, squabbles over carry-ons, and Aurelia teaching her little brother how to build sandcastles while their mum took pictures and Oscar applied suncream with the seriousness of a soldier preparing for war.

And when he looked back, years later, in the slow quiet of a Sunday morning, coffee in hand and the flat filled with life, he sometimes thought of the school fair. Of the day he met her. Of balloon animals, and face paint, and one very small girl yelling “Neighbour firefighter!”

And he’d smile, every single time.

Because somehow, against all the odds, it had been the beginning of everything.

the end.

taglist: @lilorose25 @curseofhecate @number-0-iz @dozyisdead @dragonfly047 @ihtscuddlesbeeetchx3 @sluttyharry30 @n0vazsq @carlossainzapologist @iamred-iamyellow @iimplicitt @geauxharry @hzstry @oikarma @chilling-seavey@the-holy-trinity-l @idc4987 @rayaskoalaland @elieanana@bookishnerd1132@mercurymaxine

[lighting-and-shadow]

Ikigai, Part 7

Summary: You’re desperately in love with a man who already belongs to another.

Ikigai (n.) (Japanese): "A reason for being," the thing that gets you up in the morning.

Part 6, Part 8

You thought your heart couldn’t take any more damage. That you were immune to the idea of Sylus and his soulmate hurting you anymore. How naive. For all that you called Sylus a fool, it was you who was the dunce between you two.

Miss Hunter and Sylus came back not too long ago. The atmosphere between the two was even worse than before. And it got even more horrific when they decided to eat together.

You, of course, kept your distance. Being around Sylus was too much for you, and Miss Hunter was always near him. She clearly didn’t want to be, but she was. And there was something going on between the two of them.

Maybe that’s why the sight before you hurt so much. They seem so distance, so uncomfortable in each other’s presence. Any closeness was off the table, and you could pretend that they weren’t destined for one another. Until now.

The two of them are in bed together. Miss Hunter sits on Sylus lap. His robe is open, his hand cuffed to the bed, and he sits there with an amused look on his face. She pats down his body. She moves her hands down his body in such an unbothered way that it makes your blood boil.

Why does she get to do what you’ve abstained yourself for years from doing? Why does she do it with such callousness and such ease? Maybe that’s just another bit of proof that the universe has favorites.

You certainly aren’t one of them.

Further proof comes when Sylus finally notices you and his face drops. You’ve never seen him so… scared. Not for a very long time.

He scrambles to get Miss Hunter off of him. She falls and that’s when she also notices you.

“I-it was part of our deal,” she begins. “He had this brooch and I was trying to get it and one thing lead to another before I—“

You’re gone before she can finish.

The retreat from the room is anything but quiet. Banging footsteps. Sounds of protest from both Sylus and Miss Hunter. Your own heartbeat. You wander the maze of the base until it all stops.

You open a random door and close it. You don’t hear it. You don’t hear anything. And even though you feel yourself breath in and out, there’s no noise. Nothing to cling to. Even your heart has gone silent.

Stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid.

You put your head in your hands. What else were you to do in this situation, a situation you always told yourself you knew and were prepared to happen. You just didn’t expect it so early.

Maybe it’s a good thing your relationship to Sylus had already fallen apart before this.

He’s stopped calling you sweetie or sweetheart since Miss Hunter arrived. And while that’s only been a few days, you’ve missed it. You’ve longed for those stupid nicknames. Now he only calls her them. Granted you also call her sweetie or angel, but that’s different. She’s not your soulmate.

Every pet name, familiar or new (like kitten), makes you die a little more. They make your heart crack a little more. They make your lips looser, desperate to confess the love you’ve held onto for so long. But what you just saw made that desperation vanish. It reminded you of your place.

You begin to get your bearings and look around the refuge you decided to hide in. You recognize it as the room Luke and Kieran fled to during the first few weeks of you knowing the boys. It was the farthest room in the base from Sylus’.

Fitting. Maybe I should camp here until my foolish heart stops loving him.

One would have to go out of their way to find you here. And, apparently, Miss Hunter thought to do exactly that.

“Just let me explain,” her words come out in a rush and her voice is full of panic. “Please! It’s not what you think.”

“You have no earthly idea how much you sound like a partner who’s just got caught cheating, do you?”

Miss Hunter splutters and looks embarrassed for a moment. However, that quickly goes away in favor of a determined gaze. She doesn’t flinch. Your anger just drains away from you at that moment.

Because she never did anything wrong. Sylus never did anything wrong. Only you did. You did something wrong by falling for a man destined for another, for someone better. Someone with less baggage. Someone more beautiful. Someone perfect.

“Calm down. It was just a joke.”

“A poorly worded one.”

“Yes, yes, I know. You’re right. It was poor of me to make such a joke,” you pause for a moment. “That feels strange to say, given my occupation.”

Miss Hunter scoffs. Though she stands at the door, she's close to you. She leans into your space, comfortable and relaxed. So different from how she’s been with you the past few days.

“There a reason you’re so nice to me? Guilty over sleeping with my man?”

You say the last part with the fakest mock scandalized voice you can muster. Which is pretty good given your past experience selling stuff to rich people. Making a false story sound convincing and enthralling was all a part of job back then. And it still applies now.

“Would you please stop saying that!” She can barely look at you, her cheeks burning red, and you chuckle a bit. “I’m trying to have a conversation.”

“We are having a conversation. You just suck at conversing.”

“Maybe if you talked like a normal person…” she mumbles.

“What was that, sweetie?”

She makes a sound of embarrassment again before rolling her eyes at you.

“You’re impossible.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“Ever thought of changing that?”

“Ever thought of not chasing taken men?”

You can’t help yourself. That little voice in the back of your head, the one that blames her for your heartache, speaks up in that moment. It’s far less of a joke. It’s far closer to the truth of your emotions than you care to think about.

Miss Hunter screeches at you. Her face is even more red.

“You really make me regret coming after you.”

“Sounds like your problem, my friend,” you continue when she seems to have no problems with you calling her that. “Ya know, since you slept with my boss?”

“I did not!” She appears even more appalled. “I would never… we would never…”

She takes a moment to collect herself before finishing, “I hardly know your ‘boss’ anyways.”

It won’t be like that for long.

You sigh at Miss Hunter, “Alright, alright. I’m done teasing you. How about you come in? Have some one on one time with someone who didn’t kidnap you at any point whatsoever?”

“That’s such a low bar.”

You laugh a little, “I know. Upstanding citizens aren’t really a thing here, sweetie. I’m just more… morally inclined than the others that live here.”

“You don’t say?”

Miss Hunter closes the door, and you both plop down onto the bed. She sits rather close to you.

“Can I explain now?” She gives you a look for a moment, “Without you making any jokes?”

“I make no promises.”

She rolls her eyes, straightens her spine, and begins. And your blood boils the minute she does.

Experiements… Modification…

All you see is the twins in your minds: their small, scarred bodies. Black crystals taking over one while the other screams in agony. They were just boys; 14 year old, innocent, little, boys who suffered the unspeakable. All in the name of science.

And Sylus tried to the same to her.

“He did what?”

Miss Hunter startles. Makes sense, given this is the first time you’ve ever been remotely hostile around her. Anger isn’t really a thing you tend to express to others. It’s harmful in your job.

You force the feeling to fade as soon it comes up. You stuff it down a wave of calm and force it to vanish into the ocean of your heart.

“Apologizes. I was just… perturbed by what you said. I’ll be having a word with him. Continue.”

Your tone is off, judging by her hesitance to speak. But after a little more encouragement, Miss Hunter moves on.

She finishes quickly, scrambling through the details of her deal with Sylus and avoiding your gaze when she talks about it. You don’t press her.

Finally, after she relaxes and you two bask in the brief silence, you speak.

“Ok,” Miss Hunter narrows her eyes at you. “I believe you, alright? No need for such scrutiny.”

You fall back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling and listening to your own heartbeat to calm down. To forget about what you just heard.

Sylus later. Miss Hunter now.

Repetition of those words creep into your thoughts. They’re your mantra at the moment, the thing that keeps you grounded.

Miss Hunter fidgets beside you. You tap the bed to beckon her to lay next to you. She does so with a bit of hesitance.

The two of you just bask in one another’s presence. She occasionally glances at you, but you keep your eyes glued to the ceiling. All the easier to avoid even a glimpse at her damn threads and what they do to your state of mind.

“Why did you come after me?” You say after a bit of silence.

Miss Hunter turns her head to look at you fully, her expression a weave of disbelief and almost pity.

“Because you looked so… betrayed.”

You laugh at her to cover up how vulnerable her words make you feel.

“Betrayed? Sweetie, you and Sylus are grown ass adults. And if there was consent on both sides, it is none of my business what you two get up to.”

You keep your tone bubbly and playful to convince yourself that you believe it.

“For the last time, we weren’t doing anything, “ she huffs before she continues in a softer voice. “Your boss is just an ass who likes to play games with people.”

You smile at that, “You don’t even have the slightest clue.”

“Oh really? He plays those ridiculous games with you too.”

You shrug, “Sort of. He has since the day we met. His games have just… shifted. He knows better than to truly piss me off.”

Maybe that’s why despite how much Sylus clearly wants to speak with you, he doesn’t try to. He’s seen how you can destroy people, how you use your words to bend their reality and use your hands to pull the life out of them. He knows what you’re capable when rage consumes you.

“So you two are close then?”

Miss Hunter lays on her side and props her head up by a hand on her cheek. You mirror her and give her an impish smile.

“I’d say we’re close.”

“Close? Close how? You only really ever call him boss around me.”

“Because he is my boss,” you say with a bit of attitude. “It’s an appropriate title.”

“Boss and employee don’t act the way you two act.”

“How so?” You ask despite it being a stupid question.

Miss Hunter doesn’t say anything for some time.

“He was worried, you know,” she’s so quiet, you almost think you imagine it.

“Hmm?”

“When you…,” she searches for the right word. “Collapsed.”

“You can say it as it is: I fainted due to extreme panic and lack of oxygen. Which is very unbecoming of someone in my position.”

Miss Hunter winces at your callousness.

“I’m not even entirely sure what brought that episode about. It’s not the first time I’ve seen my boss be shot, and it won’t be the last.”

You play off your words with humor, making sure the emotion drips from every syllable that falls from your lips. Even when you know the truth.

Miss Hunter looks like she wants to say something. She closes her mouth as soon as she opens. She does this a few times.

“Spit it out, sweetie. I’m not a mind reader and I believe you said you were trying to have a conversation with me.”

She hesitates, eyes flickering around the room and body squirming. A reassuring smile crosses your lips and you soften your gaze.

“W-what made it different this time?”

You, you almost say. But that wouldn’t be fair.

You play it off, “I was curious about that myself. Maybe the stress of being the sole sane person here in this ridiculous mansion has finally gotten to me?”

Miss Hunter knows you’re lying, judging by the minuscule frown on her face. She doesn’t press. You’re thankful.

Stupid. You pushed for her to ask and give such an inadequate and foolish response. Stupid stupid stupid—

Miss Hunter cuts off your thoughts, “So what exactly is your relationship with Sylus?”

You blink at her.

“He’s my boss turned work partner, sweetie. I don’t know what else you want me say.”

She snorts, “Bullshit.”

Your eyes widen at her sudden crass language.

“Colleagues don’t act the way you two do.”

“You’ve been at your current job for how long now?” She flushes and stutters at your words.

You sigh and roll over your side to face her again, “Sylus and I face death together every day, every second, of our job. It makes sense that we’d form some sort of bond.”

“You say that,” she says your name. “But, you didn’t see his face when started panicking. You didn’t see how held you, and how afraid he was. You didn’t see him fall apart like I did.”

The words she says and the way she says them makes everything click for you. Like the final piece of the puzzle was just discovered and you get to see the whole picture.

Oh.

Suddenly everything makes sense. She thinks Sylus loves you. You want to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. At the irony of it all.

“Sylus and I do have quite the history,” you shrivel at your own words, scared for a moment you might’ve just made things worse.

Your words are ironic. Painful. Pitiful. As if you’re trying to overshadow the history she shares with Sylus and compare to meager one you have with him.

How can you compare the two? She was the one who taught him to be human. She was the one who first showed the fiend love. She took his curse, his burden, and made it into something beautiful. She was his everything.

There was no place for you in all that.

You continue, “He cares for me like I care for him. And regardless of what you think of him, anyone would be frightened by what happened. You barely know me and you’re shaken up.”

Miss Hunter just hums. And you pray that you’ve convinced her. Because nothing’s going on between you and Sylus. Not ever will go on between the two of you.

We’re business partners and friends. Nothing more. You will never have anything more.

Miss Hunter suddenly breaks the tension. Something flickers across her face before she speaks, and for once, you can't tell what it is.

“So, ummm, Sylus gave me this dress, it’s in the room I’ve been staying at apparently, and I, uh…”

You wait for her to find her words. Not judging, but just silent companionship.

“I have no idea what I’m doing. Or what to expect.”

“I figured. Hunter training doesn’t cover fancy galas full of people who’d kill you an instant?”

“No. No it doesn’t.”

“Come with me. I’ll help you get ready. And I’ll give you a few tips.”

“Thank you,” she sighs with relief while you smile.

As you walk with her back to her room you wonder, is this what it’s like to have a little sister?

You don’t know Miss Hunter well. She knows you even less. But you can’t help but be drawn to her. Maybe that’s why she has so many soulmates? Even the universe itself can’t help but love her.

The pair of you arrive in the room, and you see the red dress. It’s perfect for Miss Hunter. It also reminds you of the first gala you went to with Sylus; he had you two match outfits back then as well.

But all you can think is: she’s wearing his color already.

It’s a stupid thought. A useless thought. But it permeates throughout your mind. It infects you as you hold it up against her body and shuttle to the bathroom to try it on. It’s still there once she comes out.

“Here.”

You reach into your pockets to take your mind off of your foolish thoughts.

You take out the earrings there causally, holding them to her ears for a moment before smiling, “They’re perfect.”

The earrings are some of your finest work: small studs of a dragon with red datura flowers as the back piece that holds it to her ears. On the nose in terms of her history with Sylus? Yes. But maybe they'll jog her memory even just a bit.

“Where’d you get these? They’re gorgeous…” she gawks at the pieces and you fluster from both embarrassment and pride.

“I made them, sweetie. For you.”

“Why?”

“Because I thought you’d look pretty in them,” you state, and her cheeks goes red. “And as a precaution, since my boss doesn’t seem to be doing any of that.”

“Precaution?”

“They have built in trackers, which you can disable if you so please,” you add on once she gives you a look and tries to hand the gift back. “The trackers only exist so that if you press here, it’ll send a distress signal to me and only me. God knows what kind of nonsense the twins would pull if they had access to such information. And I know you wouldn’t trust my boss for such an emergency.”

As you explain to her, you think about the bracelets you’ve given the twins and the necklace you’ve given Sylus. They each function the same way. And sure, the twins mostly use theirs to fuck with you. And Sylus uses his to drag you out of your office when you’re buried in your projects or any other time he just wants to spend time with you.

You respond every time, even when you know that it’s more likely to be a nonemergency. Better safe than sorry. And besides, it always makes the boys smile; especially Sylus. Their smiles make whatever frivolous or tired journey you had to make well worth it.

One day, those smiles will be hers as well.

Shockingly, you’re slightly happy at the thought. Because Miss Hunter deserves a family after all she’s been through. She and Sylus deserve happiness and they’ll find that with each other. The twins will also find happiness with her in their lives.

You're simply not needed now that she's here.

“I really must get going. I have my own preparations to begin.”

“Preparations? Are you sure you’re not going to talk to your boss? Because your face says otherwise.”

What face?

You bring your hand up to your face, feeling the familiar furrowed brows and creases of your mouth. Were you truly so lost in thought, in bitterness, that your facial expression changed?

Her openness is rubbing off on me.

“Quiet, you.”

Her laugh follows you out the room until you close the door. You school your expression immediately, retreating to a place of comfort behind a mask of lies.

Author's Note: Also, please go to the original blurb to ask to be added to the taglist (it's impossible for me to keep checking every part every time I update).

Taglist: @eolivy, @rafayelridesfisheatsfish, @animegamerfox, @jasperjokester, @schrodingerskimdokja, @just--crys, @snowdynasty, @shi-thats-kiera, @mansonofmadness, @dwuclvr, @ameilli, @katiedoesstuff101, @everythingistaken00, @napa-the-yappa, @hanaluxx, @lovesick-sylus, @tenaciouszombiewombat, @ladyparamount, @applepi405, @midnight-reverie, @69-gojos-wife-69, @bellagrayson-wayne, @phisen, @idkmanimjusthorny, @munchychuusy, @autumn2534, @poptrim, @sillyfreakfanparty, @zaynesfirefly, @flamedancer13, @thissmartdumbass, @mrsllawliet, @jeondyy, @ssetsuka, @dels-page, @that-lost-one, @johnnysactualgf, @mariquitas-en-verano @toelady, @sinnamon-bunn, @yesbiaswrecked, @doggyteam2028, @little-rays-of-darkness, @albatrossblue, @vyntheria, @silverianni, @browneyedgirl22, @tiklestar, @beaconsxd, @pepperushia

[chrissssssmut]

Can i request eunchae smut when turn to adult now

LATE NIGHT PRACTICE

Eunchae x Male Reader

It started with a text.

[Eunchae 🐣]: u still at the building?

You looked at the screen, surprised. It was already past 11 PM. The practice rooms were mostly empty by now, save for a few die-hard trainees or idols polishing choreo for the hundredth time.

[You]: yeah, just packing up. why?

She replied instantly.

[Eunchae 🐣]: wait there. don’t go.

You blinked.

[You]: ??? okay

You weren’t sure why your heart picked up a little. Eunchae had always been a friend first—chaotic, loud, a little bratty sometimes. But lately... lately she’d been acting strange. Or maybe you were the one who noticed her differently now. The way her voice dropped when it got late. How her gaze lingered when you passed her water after dance practice. The time her hand brushed yours on the couch and neither of you pulled away.

She arrived five minutes later, hoodie up, hair in a messy ponytail, cheeks flushed from running.

"You're still here," she panted, chest rising and falling.

"You told me to wait."

Eunchae stepped inside and closed the door behind her, flicking the lock. That part wasn’t normal. That part made the air change.

You raised an eyebrow. “Why’d you lock the—”

“I didn’t want anyone walking in.”

“Why? You got some big secret you wanna tell me?” you teased.

Her eyes didn’t break from yours. “Maybe.”

You froze for a second, her tone too serious. Too heavy. Too unlike the usual Eunchae.

She stepped closer, biting her lip.

"Why do you always look at me like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like you're pretending not to want me," she said, voice a whisper now, eyes darting between yours.

You couldn’t answer. Your heart was hammering too loud in your ears. Her hoodie slipped down her shoulder slightly, revealing the curve of her neck, a small mole you'd never noticed before.

"You’re the one who keeps teasing," you murmured. "Always crawling onto my lap when we’re with the others, calling me ‘oppa’ in that tone—"

"Because I do want you," she snapped softly, stepping close enough for your bodies to touch.

Her hands clutched your hoodie. You could smell her shampoo—something sweet, peachy, a little floral. Your restraint cracked.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” you said roughly.

“I’m not a kid, oppa,” she murmured, standing on her tiptoes. “You know that.”

You kissed her.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t delicate. It was raw. Built-up tension from months of pretending. You backed her into the wall, her breath hitching as your hands found her waist.

She gasped into your mouth when you lifted her slightly, her legs wrapping around your hips instinctively.

"You really waited this long to touch me?" she whispered as you kissed down her neck. "You must be so fucking stupid."

"Or just respectful," you growled, biting down gently where her neck met her shoulder. She moaned.

You carried her to the mirrored wall, propping her against it.

“Take it off,” she breathed, tugging at your shirt. “I wanna see.”

“You’re bossy.”

She smiled darkly. “And you like it.”

You pulled your shirt over your head, and she immediately reached to touch your chest, fingers brushing down your abs, slow and curious. “Damn,” she whispered, half-laughing. “I had no idea you were hiding this under your hoodie.”

You tugged hers off in return, revealing a black sports bra clinging to her skin, damp from sweat. Your eyes traced every inch.

"Eunchae..."

"Say it again," she whispered, cheeks flushed. “My name.”

“Eunchae.” You cupped her jaw, leaning in. “You sure about this?”

Her hands slid down to your waistband. “Do I look unsure?”

Your lips crashed again. The rest of her clothes came off in pieces—shorts, bra, panties—each time she moaned your name, half-giggling, half-desperate. The mirror behind her fogged as her back hit it, her bare skin arching when your fingers trailed over her thighs.

“Fuck, you’re already soaked,” you murmured, pressing two fingers against her folds. “You wanted this that bad?”

“I thought about you so many nights,” she confessed, breath shaky as you slipped a finger inside. “In bed. After practice. In the dorm when I touched myself. Always you.”

You growled softly, working her slowly. "Show me how loud you can get."

Your thumb circled her clit while your fingers pumped in rhythm. She moaned, legs trembling around your waist, body arching into you as her eyes fluttered shut.

“Don’t stop—don’t stop—” she gasped, grinding on your fingers. “I’m so close—”

You pulled out.

“Oppa—!” she cried out in frustration, gripping your arms. “Why?!”

“Because,” you smirked. “I’m not letting you finish unless it’s around my cock.”

Her expression turned wild—desperate and hungry. “Then fuck me already.”

You freed yourself from your sweats, your cock already aching as you lined up between her legs.

“I’ll go slow,” you whispered, eyes meeting hers.

“Don’t you dare,” she said through gritted teeth. “I want all of it. Now.”

You thrust in.

She gasped, nails digging into your back. Her tight heat clenched around you, warmth consuming, unbearable in the best way.

“Fuck—you feel…” you groaned, gripping her hips. “So fucking good—so tight—”

Eunchae whimpered, rolling her hips. “More, oppa. Please—don’t stop—don’t you fucking stop—”

Your rhythm grew harder, the wet sounds of your bodies colliding filling the practice room along with her cries. Her hands slid up the mirror, back arching beautifully as you kissed down her chest, sucking one nipple into your mouth while your hips snapped forward.

She screamed your name.

“I can’t—I can’t—” she babbled, head thrown back. “I’m gonna cum—oppa—I’m—!”

She shattered around you, legs shaking, voice breaking as she came, clenching around you like a vice.

You groaned, the tight pulsing of her orgasm dragging you to the edge.

“I’m close,” you warned, panting. “Where—?”

“Inside,” she moaned, pulling you closer. “Cum inside me. I want all of it. Please.”

You buried yourself to the hilt, growling her name as you spilled into her, twitching deep inside. Her body jerked with aftershocks, thighs trembling around your waist.

For a long moment, you both just breathed—your forehead pressed to hers, sweat glistening on both your bodies, the mirror behind her slick with condensation.

Then she laughed softly.

“That was... intense.”

You smiled. “Yeah.”

“I can’t feel my legs.”

You kissed her cheek. “You’ll live.”

She slid down slowly from your arms, wincing. “Okay, maybe not.”

You helped her into her hoodie again, the two of you slowly gathering clothes, limbs tangled, lips still brushing every now and then.

“Same time tomorrow?” she asked casually, lips tugging into a smirk.

You stared. “Are you serious?”

“Dead serious. I’ve waited way too long to stop now.”

[tbaluver]

Hi! Wanted to ask if you could maybe do if L&DS men are cat hybrids and went into heat.

love your work

The Love And DeepSpace Men As Cat Hybrids In Heat

parings in order: Cat Hybrid!Xavier x Reader, Cat Hybrid!Zayne x Reader, Cat Hybrid!Rafayel x Reader, Cat Hybrid!Sylus x Reader genre/ tags: MDNI, 18+, breeding kink, fingering, p in v, sylus receiving head a/n: hihi anonnie! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡ im soso sorry this took so long i hope this doesn't disappoint and if it does just pretend it simply doesn't exist ! ദ്ദി ༎ຶ‿༎ຶ ) i was suppose to have this posted around kinktober but i got busy with exams so i barely just got back to it after the new banner trailer came out! thank you for loving my works and i hope you enjoy reading luv ! (∩˃o˂∩)♡

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

Xavier /ᐠ˵- ᴗ -˵マ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 :

you couldn’t help but stir in the sheets as your backside was pressed firmly against Xavier as he pulled you in closer. his head rested in the crook of your neck, running small kitten licks on it. sleep still clouded your mind and it took you a few seconds to realize his bulge was pressing against the plush of your ass.

“it-it hurts....” he lets out a whine. his eyes were half-lidded while his ears were drooped helplessly. he didn’t mean to wake you and never wanted to trouble you but the ache coursed through his lower half was unbearable. he couldn’t help it but he needed you more than ever.

“please can you make it better for me, honey?” he asked desperately as you hummed in response. the plump of his lips against your neck caused goosebumps causing you to arch your back enough to grind against him.

he softly grunts into the shell of your ear when you grind your lower half to grind against his clothed erection. his hands slipped beneath the hem of your shirt, finding the curve of your breasts. his hands kneading them desperately while his fingers circle one of your nipples.

you catch your breath as his fingers looped around the waistband of your panties. little gasps of pleasure manage to escape your lips as his hands find their way to play with your clit. his fingers pressed against your entrance, teasing it slightly as if it begged for him. you let out a moan, your back arching your back more as he pushes a second finger in as he shallowly dips his fingers between your folds, collecting the slick on his fingertips.

“so wet..need to be inside you.” he lets out a low growl, withdrawing his slick-coated fingers from your cunt that earns a whine from you. he quickly removes his boxers, desperate to free his cock from its constriction. in an instant, his hands find their way back to you, placing his hands on the back of your thighs.

without any words, his hands gently guided your thigh upwards. his mind was in a haze, consumed by nothing but thoughts of you- of being inside of you and filling you up full of nothing but him only.

xavier rocks his hips forward, slipping his cock between your lower lips. his hand squeezes your thigh firmly as he teases your entrance. “you’re so soft...so warm.” he lets out a breathy moan as his hair and the soft fur on his ear gently brush against your skin as he watches you slowly take him in. he carefully slowly buries himself inside of you, making sure to pause and let you get used to the sudden girth.

you whimper when he sets a steady pace, his hand moves to your hips to help him. “pretty...” xavier lowly murmurs into your ear, “gonna give you a whole litter,” he stammers out, his words faltering as one of his ears perked up while the other stayed drooped. his eyes were half-lidded and his tone completely shifted with the idea of you being the mother to his future litter.

his pace quickens, his movements are now rougher. his cock hitting so deep inside of you with every thrust as his name continues to slip out of your lips, motivating him further. his left hand rested on your stomach while his right hand found their way back to your breasts, kneading them desperately and pinching it gently with his thumb and index finger.

both of you fill the room with strings of curses and each other’s names as you meet the blinding heat of your climax washing over you both. his hips thrust into you one last time, digging his hands into your hips as he spills his seed into you, filling you whole until it drips to your inner thigh.

you both catch your breath, breathing heavily as he presses his forehead against the back of your shoulder. “thank you..’m sorry for waking you,” he murmurs softly, his fingers drawing circles on your hip.

you gently lift his hand from your hip, pressing a quick kiss to his palm. “t’s alright xavier,” you reassure him.

you feel him shift behind you as he positions himself on top of you and for you to lie on your back. your eyes widened seeing his cock still hard and shimmering in your slick.

“we’re not finished yet.”

Zayne /ᐠ - ˕ -マ :

you couldn’t help but notice the subtle discomfort of your boyfriend. he unusually fidgeted in his seat, shifting his position every few minutes. sometimes he’d get up, only to return to the same spot, often followed by a sigh or a low groan. it was clear to you that something was bothering him.

“is everything alright?” you asked. he didn’t even look up, his gaze remained fixed on the pages in front of him. he’s staring at the pages but he’s not reading the words.

“i’m fine,” but you knew him too well, especially in the condition he was in right now. the way his tail swayed and how his ears flicked from the sound of you gave it away.

you set your book aside, moving in front of him. you gently closed the book he was holding and removed it from his hands. without waiting for a response, you settled yourself in his lap, positioning yourself so you could face him.

“c’mon tell me what’s wrong zayne,” you said softly, trying your best to ease any of his tension. you reached up, gently scratching behind his ears, careful not to press too hard, knowing how sensitive he was. he winced, making you flinch slightly and you immediately lifted your hand, ready to apologize.

but instead of pulling you away, his palm met the back of your hand, guiding it back down to rest on the side of his cheek. he nuzzled into your touch, a deep sigh escaping his lips as he inhaled deeply, savoring the sweet scent of your skin. his hazel green eyes lock onto yours as he presses his lips to your wrist, giving it a teasing but yet gentle bite.

“your scent.. it’s driving me mad..” he lets out a low groan, giving your hand a small lick over the bite. 

“will you help me make it better my love?” his eyes looked needy and desperate, you couldn’t say no.

you let him move his hand down over your thighs between your legs. the cool touch of his fingers grazed over your thin fabric of your panties, adding that attention that you wanted to your body.

he was quick to help you discard your top, letting him have your breasts displayed in front of him in all his glory. whimpers escape your lips as you feel the warm and wetness of his tongue lapping at the sensitive bud that made wet arousal stream out of you. you could almost feel the wetness seeping from you.

he couldn’t ignore his painfully erect cock in the restraint of his pants. he helps you remove your panties down, lifting your hips and leg off to fully slip them off.

“please, i need you,” he pleads, grabbing the side of your ass and desperately rocks his hips up at you.

“i can never say no to you,” you purr, helping him remove his pants and letting them pool at his legs. his cock springs free, slapping against his stomach. he grunts out softly, his hands gripping onto your thighs, squeezing the flesh.

you take his length in your hands, attempting to line him up with your entrance. you rub his tip through your folds, letting him appreciate the presence of your wet folds before you sink down slowly on his cock, a broken whine escaping your lips.

zayne’s head falls against the back of the couch, eyes fluttering shut at the bliss of being inside you. the sensation of having your warm, wet cunt wrapped around his cock gave him the remedy he needed. and he needed more. 

it’s making him lose his composure and letting him kick into the animalistic instinct inside of him the longer you continue to make him feel so good.

his large hands begin to bounce you up and down his length, hungry to feel further inside of you. his pace is not usually this rough at the beginning but given the state he’s in, your priority was to make him feel better, too feel good.

you have to clutch his broad shoulders to stay in place, his thrusts setting your stomach in a blaze of ecstasy. he groans as he watches your face melt in pleasure and your tits bounce up and down, only making him want to fuck you harder.

“i-i can’t hold out that long love,” he pants, burying his face back into your breasts. you pull him in closer, your hands knotting into his hair as you bounce on his cock

you're having trouble keeping up everytime he slams you down into his lap. desperate, he pulls you in an open-mouthed kiss. It's sloppy and messy but yet passionate. you wrap your arms around his neck to deepen the kiss.

you could feel the coil in your stomach tightening to a dangerous extent, parting your lips as pleasure courses through your body. your walls flutter around him as he continues to pump in and out of your poor pussy, letting a low groan out of him.

he feels it, he feels his release coming but he doesn’t want it to end. waves of pleasure washes through him, his cock pumping his seed all into your hole. he watches it dribble down your leg which makes his ear twitch.

he doesn’t pull out, his dick growing back harder inside of you. he refuses to let his seed go to waste. he’ll continue and continue to fuck his cum back into you.

Rafayel ฅᨐฅ :

this was humiliating. his own body has betrayed him once again and turned him into this wretched creature he disliked the most. a cat.

he didn’t like one thing about being a cat, let alone being human-ish and a cat. the only thing he could appreciate this time was the ability to speak to you and tell you all the troubles he had. all of it, except for this.

the burning heat through his lower half of his body was unbearable, his mind and body fought each other as his body called for you.

he wanted you, needed you. but he didn’t want you to see him like this- not with his ears twitching in embarrassment or this annoying tail that betrayed his every move. he paced around in the bathroom, deciding to endure this unbearable urge to pass.

that was until a knock on the other side of the door snapped him from his thoughts. it was you.

“raf is everything okay in there? you’ve been in the bathroom for a while now..” you trailed off, your voice faint and muffled.

“i’m fine! you can go shoo!” but his own body betrayed him as moved toward the door despite what he said. his mind screamed at him to stop but his body pushed forward, yearning for you. his tail swayed, already longing for the sound of your voice. he didn’t want you to go.

he can hear you sigh from the other side of the door. “i know you hate being a cat again but let me help raf.”

it was quiet for a moment from his side of the door until the sound of the lock clicking opened. the door creaked slightly until you pushed it fully open, catching the sight of raf’s back.

“see everything is fineeee.” he says, not bothering to face you, his arms crossed over his chest. even from the back you can tell he’s probably pouting. but you can tell just from the tone of his voice that he’s lying.

you stepped closer, your hand brushing up his tail. his ears twitched while his tail perked up in an instant you touched him. “you-!” his breath hitched and the last shred of whatever control he had slipped away.

he pressed you against the door, his left hand cradling the back of your head to cushion the impact, while his right hand braces beside you, keeping you both in place.

he looks at you up and down, panting before pulling you closer and capturing your lips with urgency. his hand moves to your cheek while his thumb grazes softly.

“i can help raf,” you whisper against his lips, finally understanding the situation. your eyes flutter half closed, drawn to the soft movement of his lips and yours.

he whines softly as he pulls away, his ears drooping while his tail still sways. he didn’t give it a second thought before hoisting you up in his arms and placing you on the cold bathroom counter.

rafayel leans forward again, pressing his mouth to the column of your throat. his warm soft lips trailed your heated skins as his hands fell to your thighs. warm fingers, eager and urgent, explored your skin.

you lean back, pressing your head to the cool glass of the mirror, gripping his shoulder as he gives you small bites and licks over them. his hands snake up to make quick work on your shirt as you help him remove it.

“your scent,” he inhales deeply, his nose grazing against your skin. his cock twitched from the restraints of his pants as he pressed a kiss to the plush of your breast before nuzzling his face between them. “you’re soaked aren’t you?” 

he quickly slips off your panties to the side and presses his mouth the pulse point just beneath your ear as his fingers brush your clit. he groaned at the slick gathered on his fingers, not that surprised that you’re already dripping for him.

a small moan left your lips, your eyes rolling at the back of your head as he pushed his fingers into your entrance. the pleasure was short lived as he pulled away as he unbuckled his belt. his hard cock sprung free from the fabric, begging to be inside of you.

he positioned himself at your entrance, slowly pushing into your wet cunt, earning a loud moan as rafayel tries to fill you up. wet arousal streams out of you as you arch your back and cup one of your breasts, fingers flicking over your hardening nipples.

“soo wett..” he trembles, a whimpering mess he is. he continues to babble curses and praises, making your velvety walls flutter and tighten impossibly around him. a whine escapes him as he ears droop and his mouth partens.

he picks up the pace, his thrusts becoming more merciless. he can’t blame you for the way your pussy wraps around his cock so perfectly. the image of your pretty pussy being so stuffed of him, nearly made him lose his mind

“gods..the way you’re taking me..” he pants out, “wanna breed you. gunna fill you up with soo much of my cum yea?”

your mind is clouded with a haze of lust, feeling his urgent need to feel you up. yeah it could be a litter but fuck it you can change his mind about cats later.

“give it to me raf, all of it,” you huff out between moans, as the pressure starts to bubble in your lower belly. clenching around his cock as his pace sped up, his hips slamming into your walls.

“‘m gonna give you all of it, fill you up so much,” he tightens his grip on your hip, using his free hand to spread you open further to see his cum leaking from your hole around his cock, driving him over the edge.

he blows his load and fills your cunt, rocking your hips with his. you met your high that shaked your entire body while your eyes rolled back and had your toes curling.

you both catch your breath as he still remains inside of you, still throbbing at the sight of you.

“you’re gunna make me wanna fuck another load inside of you.”

Sylus ≽^-˕-^≼ :

sylus 𓅨 sent you a voice message.

he lets out a low grunt in the beginning of the voice message. “sweetie..” he sighs deeply, desperation in his voice. “i don’t mean to trouble you but i’m afraid i need you urgently. please hurry home soon.”

he lets out a low groan as his half lidded eyes fall on you, followed by a chuckle. his crimson gaze locks onto you, his lips slightly parted as he strokes his cock a bit faster than before.

you were still frozen by the doorway to your shared bedroom as you admired the scene that played out in front of you. a surge of lust pulsed through you, a tingling sensation blossomed from your core and spread through  your legs.

he looked good like this. his black button up shirt hung open, revealing the sculpted lines of his abs. his belt undone and his pants pushed down enough to reveal his cock that he lazily stroked in his hand. his face slightly flushed as his mouth remained slightly parted as he let out small pants while his ears drooped low.

you locked the door behind you as you crawled onto the bed, settling yourself right in between his thighs. “enjoying the view?” he teases, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he raises a brow. “care to lend a hand sweetie?”

you let out a breathy chuckle, straightening up to lean in and kiss him. your hand instinctively moved to rub the back of his ears earning a low groan while his eyes fluttered closed at your touch. “always so shameless aren’t you sy?” you whisper against his lips as you continue to stroke the back of his ears.

you place small kisses down his jaw to his neck, teasing him as you trail lower and lower. your tongue tracing the outlines of his abs and muscles.

you come face to face with his cock, already throbbing and hot pink with arousal. you kiss the base of his cock, trailing up and down his length with your lips before tugging on it gently as you place the tip in your mouth.

his hands immediately interlace in your hair. the feeling of your tongue on his sensitive shaft was too much to bear, too good, he wished you’d never stop.

“fuck,” a low groan rumbles at the back of his throat followed by uneven pants. sylus throws his head back a little but looks back down to watch you. your eyes met his crimson ones as you release him from your mouth with a pop.

the feeling of his calloused hand could never compare with your mouth and tongue running up and down his length, your saliva dropping down and squelching on his hard cock.

“taste so good sy,” you moaned, placing a few tender kisses on his tip as you ran your hands up and down on his bare thighs.

his ears perked up once he heard that. he can’t finish in your mouth. he needs to fill you up. breed you till his heart content.

he lost all of his control, pushing you off him, your back hitting the soft plush of the mattress. you yelp in surprise as you feel him work off your shirt and bra urgently. he breathes you in, the scent of your bare skin filling his senses. his warm breath brushing over you, sending goosebumps across your body. “you smell divine,” he murmurs, kissing the skin of your chest before slowly moving towards the swell of your tits.

he takes your nipple into his mouth, dragging his tongue on it while he starts to suck. your eyes flutter close while your hands find their way to the back of his ears, making his ears twitch and his tail perk up.

his hands make quick work, pulling your bottoms down before tugging off the last piece of clothing that restricted him from entering.

“gonna give me a whole litter sweetie? keep you full of me?”

sylus sinks his thick heavy cock into your wet heat, your walls trying to welcome his length. your hands slide over his arms to rest on his broad shoulders, choked whimpers tumble out of your lips.

“so fucking tight,” he curses breathlessly,  your mind turning static with each drag of his cock against your sweet spot. it’s normally not like this with him, but he’s so desperate and feral right now.

the restraints of his animalistic urges were crumbling once he was finally inside of you. the way he effortlessly yanks you up with his calloused hands and wraps them around your thighs to fill you to the brim. he groans at the idea of stuffing you full of his seed, the warmth of your pussy was addicting that he didn’t want to leave. 

a guttural groan and curses escape him as he picks up the pace and thrusts upwards mercilessly. “i’m close sweetie..will you let me fill you sweetie? pump your tight pussy full of my cum,”

you let out a breathless yes as his hand rests on your stomach and presses it down. his words were barely audible to you now as he leaves open mouthed kisses. his teeth sinking into your soft skin, marking you his.

he could almost taste blood on his lips from biting his bottom lip too hard as he watches your belly bulge with each hard thrusts he gives. heavy balls slap against the curve of your ass, each thrusts of his seems to grow harsher, more deeper.

in absolute bliss, he finally fills you up and paints your insides white with thick spurts of his seed. obviously he doesn’t forget you. your orgasm hits you when he continues to pump inside of you, circling your sensitive clit in slow motion, incoherent whimpers until you feel your voice giving out.

“so good to me,” he murmurs, running a hand through your hair. he lowers himself toward you, peppering your face with sweet kisses and giving you kitten licks on the marks he’s bitten you on as you recover from your high.

“you’re gonna make a wonderful mother to my litter sweetie.” he murmurs, before sitting up, his cock still hard.

“sy please..’s too much” you whine as he lets out a low chuckle, “relax, you can handle it sweetie.”

this is my only blog. i do not have any other accounts where i post my content.

[sturnswiftie]

there's just something about the way matt chews his gum...

that drives you absolutely insane.

and it’s stupid, really. ridiculous. there’s absolutely no reason for you to feel this way over something so insignificant. but you can’t help it—not when matt is sitting across from you, chewing his gum like he has no idea what he’s doing to you.

your eyes drift to his mouth, to the slow, lazy movements of his jaw. the rhythmic flex and release of muscle, the way his tongue flicks out just barely before pulling the gum back between his teeth—it’s messing with your head. with your pulse. with the heat steadily pooling low in your stomach.

somehow, he doesn’t even notice. instead, he sits there, chewing, oblivious to the way your breath has gone just a little too shallow. it shouldn’t be this attractive, shouldn’t make you press your thighs together while your boyfriend talks on the phone. but it does.

then, as if sensing your stare, matt’s gaze lifts to yours from the opposite couch. “yeah, i told you i could be there later. still plannin’ on it.” his voice is low and disinterested in his response, his attention more so focused on you now.

his chewing slows. one brow arches as the ghost of a smirk tugs at his lips. “what?” he mouths to you, amusement playing on his features. he knows that look. he knows your body language. he knows you.

but in an effort to save your dignity, you suppose, you swallow and shake your head, heat creeping up your neck. “nothing.”

only you pretty much give yourself away the second your gaze falls back to his mouth, causing matt’s smirk to deepen. he shifts the gum between his teeth again, exaggerated this time, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you, what you must be thinking about.

your breath hitches in your throat as you tear your eyes away, pretending to focus on something else, but it’s useless. even without looking, you can hear the quiet, slow pop of the gum between his teeth, can imagine the way his tongue rolls it back, the way his jaw flexes with every lazy bite; it’s maddening.

“hey, let me give you a call back, yeah? somethin’ came up.” you can hear the amusement dripping from your boyfriend’s deep voice, and you try to regulate your breathing again.

your fingers curl into the fabric of your sweater, a poor distraction from the warmth spreading through your body. it’s stupid. so, so stupid to get turned on from something like this, but the proof is in the way your skin prickles, in the way your thighs press together to relieve some of that building heat between them.

“baby?” you hear from the other side of the room, and a shiver runs down your spine. “y’sure you’re okay?” matt asks, leaning forward with his forearms on his knees, blue eyes studying every inch of you. his voice is teasing, like he already knows the answer, and it somehow goes straight to your core.

but he doesn’t stop.

“y’look kinda...” his tongue drags over his bottom lip, teeth sinking into the flesh lightly, just for a second. “flushed.”

your breath leaves in a sharp exhale. “you’re annoying,” you mutter, but there’s no conviction behind it, and it only serves to further amuse your boyfriend.

he chuckles, shaking his head. “i don’t think that’s it.” he chews again—slower this time, exaggerated. when your body betrays you once again by shifting in your seat, his smirk deepens.

you could kill him. or kiss him. maybe both.

you can feel your resolve beginning to dissipate, your body squirming as it tries to relieve the tension building within. matt’s gaze never leaves you as he watches you unfold carefully, like he’s a predator enjoying the show, right before his meal.

“matt,” you whine quietly to him, your face crumpling with need. he can see just how desperate you are for a fix, for him, and he’s all too willing to oblige.

“i know, baby,” he all but coos to you from his seat on the opposite couch. you watch as he leans back into it, a smug smirk resting on his mouth as he lifts one finger towards you. “come let me fix it f’you.”

you need no further invitation. as soon as the words leave his mouth, you’re abandoning the uncomfortable seat so far away from him in favor of seating yourself right on top of his lap. you relish in the way his strong hands immediately find their home on your hips as you duck your head to find his warm lips, the taste of his minty treat still so frustratingly present.

you should be embarrassed. you are embarrassed. but that doesn’t stop the way you move against his lap, doesn’t stop the heat burning through your every nerve each time matt’s stupid, smug mouth curls into that teasing smirk.

“all this,” he murmurs, voice low and amused but also heavy with desire, “jus’ from me chewing some gum?” his hands squeeze your hips as he leans further into the couch, watching you with lazy satisfaction. “’s kinda pathetic, princess.”

you should tell him to shutup. should at least try to act like you have some dignity left. but the way he looks at you as you grind down into his lap, the way his fingers drag slow circles against your hips as you roll against him—it makes your brain short-circuit.

“y’should see yourself,” he continues, tilting his head, his voice dipping even lower. “breathless. squirmin’ around. all from watchin’ my mouth.” his smirk widens as he presses his hips up to meet you, making you gasp. “what is it, huh? got ya’ thinkin’ about what else i could do with it?”

a low whimper leaves your throat as your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, holding on like it can ground you, but it doesn’t. not when he’s right.

the brunette chuckles as he leans forward, his grip on your hips firm as he drags his lips along the column of your throat, his breath warm against your skin. “bet you were picturin’ my mouth somewhere else, huh?” he murmurs, voice dripping with amusement. “thinkin’ about how i’d sound with my face between your thighs... how i’d tease you just like this.”

you moan softly before you can stop it, and you can feel his smirk against your neck.

“yeah, baby?” he muses, rolling his hips up into yours again, slow and deliberate compared to the needy, quick movements of your own body. “that’s what y’want?”

you don’t answer—not verbally, at least. but the way your body reacts, the way you press down harder against him, desperate for more friction, more anything, tells him all he needs to know. his grip tightens on your hips, helping push you even harder against the erection in his sweatpants, a groan rippling quietly through his throat at the same time you gasp, the ridge of his tip hitting just right against your clit.

matt hums, dragging his tongue over the spot he’d just kissed, making you shudder. “you’re fuckin’ soaked,” he mutters, almost like he’s talking to himself, like he’s genuinely fascinated. “just from this.” he pulls back enough to look at you, his eyes dark now, hungry. “didn’t even have to touch you properly. got y’self worked up all on your own like a big girl, huh?”

your cheeks burn, but you can’t stop. your hips work faster to push down on the thick, hard bulge in his pants, chasing the pressure and heat coiling tighter and tighter in the pit of your stomach. you’re so lost in the mind-numbing pleasure that you almost don’t register the way matt lets out a quiet, breathy laugh like he’s just been hit with some sort of realization.

“shit,” he murmurs, his voice low and gruff. his long fingers dig into your hips as he rocks up into you. “you’re really ‘bout to come like this, huh?”

it’s like the first time either of you are truly realizing it, matt’s eyes slightly wide with the truth, by the sight of your face burning with embarrassment, and yet contradicting it entirely by the way your desperate hands cling to his broad shoulders, searching for better leverage for your soaked pussy to grind onto his clothed cock.

you whine, burying your face into his neck, too far gone to care about how pathetic you sound. you can hear his own breathing hitch, his grip almost bruising at this point as he helps you chase that pleasure, as he helps himself to the same delicious feeling.

“you’re close,” he mutters, his previously amused tone now turning into something a little more needy. “fuck—so am i.”

you barely have time to process his warning before it hits you. the tension snaps, pleasure crashing over in waves, your whole body tensing up as you come with a strangled gasp. matt curses in your ear, his hips jerking up into yours one last time before he follows, his grip tightening as he groans into your shoulder.

for a moment, the only sound is your ragged breathing, the slow, steady comedown as reality sinks back in. you can feel the damp fabric of his sweats clinging to your sticky pussy beneath you, your bunched-up skirt no longer hiding the evidence of your need and release, but you don’t care. embarrassment can no longer find you now that your mind is hazy with the euphoria of a much-needed release.

soft and breathless, matt lets out a quiet chuckle. “guess i’ll have to keep some gum on me more often,” he murmurs, pressing a lazy kiss to your shoulder.

you groan, smacking his shoulder weakly, but he only grins as he gives your supple hips one more gentle squeeze.

“relax, baby,” he teases, his voice still low and rough, satisfied, “i’ll put it to even better use next time.”

a/n. i've been thinking abt this ever since that stream where someone told him he looked hot chewing gum and i'd just like to say thank u to the queen who informed him tbh.

©sturnswiftie

divider by; @strangergraphics

[solastarr]

Both Ain’t Shit- Smoke vers.

Smoke Moore x Black Reader

Genre: Smut with plot

Word count: 6.2k+

Summary: You and Smoke have been having a little fling for a while now. But Smoke pushes you too far. And now it’s time to show him you can play the game just as well as him, and remind him who he’s dealing with.

Warnings: cheating if you squint, p in v, fem receiving oral, use of n word, banter, and cussing

Authors notes: i’m so sorry for making yall wait so long for this. This was very long so i think my next few pieces will be short. I have a lot more ideas to come tho! Enjoy!!

He is not my man.

I mean, yeah he be at my place more than his own. He got a designated space in my closet for his clothes, he sometimes gets packages sent to my address, and my neighbors think he’s my husband…

But Elijah Moore is not my man.

And I wasn’t his woman neither.

Or at least that's what we tell everyone…

Me and Smoke wasn’t nothing but a good time to each other at first. The risky nights, flirty texts, and playing house was fun and all at first. But then I fell too deep into our fake fantasy. 

Smoke has everything I want in a man–drive, ambition, quite confidence and he gave me sex that made me forget my own name. Everything I dreamed of, but he didn’t give me the security, honesty, and title of the relationship I wanted. 

I used to care, I used to ask, I used to cry about the women that approached us in public like I was some homewrecker, the days when he would leave and not talk to me, the late nights where he would up and go handle “business” without putting on proper clothes or packing his work bag. And I say this with my chest because I will never again fall for his games. 

He use to gaslight me so well I thought I was going crazy and made up the entire thing. And I tried to leave, put the mess of a relationship behind me but Smoke can make you feel like you the only one, even when you know for a fact you’re not. 

And I always knew, I always knew.

Between the late replies, dirty stares from women I don’t know in shops giving me dirty stares, and the way his phone magically stayed face down every time he came over.

I’d have to be stupid to not know. 

But now?

I play it cool. Smile in his face, moan in his ear, and act like I’m not being used. Because I know I can run game too. He wants to be a player? Bet you I can play dirty too if not dirtier.

Because even when he’s out chasing whatever new girl that caught his eye, he still ends up in my bed. He might go ghost for a day or two, but he always shows back up with that same sorry ass smirk like he ain’t been doing me wrong. But I know I mean something to him because I’m the one he slips up and calls when he’s drunk, the one he trusts with his silence, his stress, his secrets. I’m not stupid—I know I’m not the only one he touches, but I’m the only one that sees Elijah Moore. They might get Smoke, but I get both. And maybe that makes me just as dumb as them, but at least I’m the one he always runs back to. Even if he pretends like he’s just passing through.

 I don’t return the energy to the same extent—not 'cause I’m loyal, but 'cause none of them other dudes make me feel what Smoke do. They don’t got that pull on me. They don’t got that calm but dangerous aura that make your knees weak and pride nonexistent. And I hate that. I hate that I crave the same man that got me second-guessing my worth, but still got the power to fuck me like I’m the only woman in the world. They couldn’t handle me anyway—not like he can. So I let him think he winning… while I lose my damn mind behind closed doors.

But tonight he did something that was a new low.

I should have know something was off when he showed up to my door with flowers.  

Smoke ain’t ever gave me no fucking flowers. He do give orgasms and headaches. He do “You good?” texts at 2 in the morning. But flowers. Roses? Never .But there he was—standing in the doorway like a fever dream—holding roses like that alone could undo months of hurt. They were fresh too, like he’d actually cared enough to stop and pick the best ones for me. The red looked loud against the cool evening light, too loud for a man who whispered lies in a voice so calm it sounded like love.

That was guilt wrapped in a heart shaped box. With a weak ass smirk. 

“What’s this for?” I asked, leaning against the doorframe of my front door with my arms crossed. Staring at him with confusion and surprise in my voice.

He smirked. “ I can’t do something nice for you?” He says dressed in his typical grey suit with a blue tie, with a caring but deceitful look in his eyes.

He walked past me like he owned the place– even though some days he practically lived here. He dropped the roses in the middle of my dining room table like they meant something to me and then found his way back to me by sliding his arm around my waist. I let him. I always let him. Because I deserve some fun out of this too. 

The night started like our normal routine. Dinner. Jokes. Laying in his chest while telling him about my day. He even started talking to me about how he wants to take me on a getaway trip so he can show me the world. Which should have been red flag number two. But again I just wanted to get the most out of him being with me.

The third flag was what got me though. 

I was looking for one of my heels that I had recently broken on accident in hopes I could get a little money out of him for all the problems that come with him. But while I was looking I saw a little velvet box tucked in the bag he packed to spend the night. 

At first, my heart jumped–thinking that maybe something came over him and knocked him into his senses to commit to me. Thinking maybe it was a promise ring or something stupid like that.

But as I got closer I realized how familiar the box looked. When me and Smoke started messing around he gave me a gold anklet as a little keep me in mind gift. And I still wear it to this day because you cant see it under my clothes in public, it makes him pound me into the mattress when he sees while we fucking, and because I thought it was a genuine gift he was giving me because he cared.(you’re a dummy bitch)

Out of curiosity I kneeled down checking my surroundings to make sure he wasn’t about to come help me look for whatever I came in my room for. I opened the box to see the exact anklet that was on my leg. The box has a note attached to it that read, 

“To J.”

“J… Who the fuck is J?” I thought to myself. My blood immediately started to boil. Vision blurring. But I collected myself to steady my hands as I closed the box and zipped his bag right back up with a smirk on my face. This was my green light to start fucking with him.

I walked back into the living room. I didn’t ask no questions. Didn’t start a fight. Didn’t even make a petty remark. I gave him one more night, one last kiss, and last moan. Letting him think everything was sweet. Made it real good too, gave him my all.

Because tomorrow?

I’m getting my lick back.

Next day 

I woke up like I knew nothing.

Played the same role—sweet, soft, and familiar. I kissed him good morning, made him breakfast, even ironed the shirt he accidentally wrinkled from throwing it in his bag.

He was still in bed by the time I was done, shirtless in only his underwear, stretching like he ain’t just spent the whole night with his tongue in me. The sun crept in through the blinds, laying golden ribbons across his broad muscular back. He looked good—too damn good for someone who didn’t deserve me.

I walked past the bedroom doorway with my coffee in hand, making sure to get all his shit together so he could be on his way. I looked like a woman coming down from a long night—curls falling messily from the makeshift bun, nightgown straps slipping off my shoulders from running round the house. But the second I heard his voice, I paused.

“Damn, you just gon’ walk past me like that?” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep and fake concern.

“Didn’t know you were still here,” I replied over my shoulder, taking a slow sip from my mug. “Usually you’d be gone by now.”

He chuckled, that lazy one he does when he thinks he’s charming.

“That how we acting today?”

I kept moving, gathering his keys, wallet, phone charger—placing everything neatly by the door.

“I made breakfast. Even ironed your shirt. What else you want?”

“I thought maybe we could chill for a second.”

I glanced over at him, leaving my bed, half-dressed and stretching. Taking his sweet time like he ain’t planning to meet another girl in a few hours. “I’ve got stuff to do. You got places to be and people to see, don’t you?” I tilt my head, all sweet like honey over broken glass.

He raised an eyebrow, trying to read me.

“You good? I just wanted to make sure my girl was alright after last night.” He grinned—half pervert, half innocent—as if the memory of his mouth on me gave him the right to ask.

“I’m great,” I said with a smile that didn’t reach my eyes. “Got what I needed, didn’t I?”

He laughed, low and amused like he thought I was playing. But I wasn’t.

I brushed past him, slow enough to feel his heat, fast enough to pretend it didn’t burn. Before I left the room, I paused.

“Your shirt’s on the couch, still warm. Coffee on the counter, take it to go.”

I walked toward the hallway mirror, pretending to fix a loose curl, but really, I was watching him through the reflection. Watching him fake like he wasn’t confused.

He moved slow, dragging himself out into the hall, “Damn, you rushing me out?”

I turned, still calm. “Not rushing,” I shrugged. “Just... reminding you that you do have somewhere else to be. I mean, don’t you have brunch plans? I know I’m not the only per—I mean, thing you tend to in your day-to-day.” I offered a soft, fake smile

He smirked. “Why you always doin’ that?” he asked, pulling his shirt over his head, voice dipped in charm and guilt like he didn’t know where he stood.

I turned back to the mirror. “Doing what?”

He walked into the hallway like he owned it—coffee in one hand, confusion in the other. “Throwing lil’ jabs like I ain’t been here every night this week.”

I tilted my head, slow. “And yet somehow, still not doing right.”

That shut him up for a second.

“If you got something to say—”

I cut him off with a soft laugh, eyes still on my reflection. “I don’t. Nothing to say. Nothing new, anyway.”

I walked to the door, held it open like a polite hostess.

“I don’t want to stand between you and your business. They seem to be getting impatient.” I nodded toward his phone lighting up again with a text he didn’t bother hiding.

He looked at it, then back at me. “You really on one today, huh?”

I shrugged. “Not really. Just on schedule.”

He stepped onto the porch, shirt tugged, ego bruised, still confused

“You good though?” he asked again, this time softer. Smaller.

I leaned against the doorframe, cool and casual. 

“Always,” I said.

And then I slammed the door in his face.

Later that day

The silence in the apartment after he left was thick. Like the walls were holding their breath, waiting for me to fall apart.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I ran a hot shower, scrubbed him off my skin, and let the steam cleanse every trace of him from my pores. Then I pulled open my closet and picked the one dress I knew would make someone stare too long and think too hard.

It was satin—deep red, the kind of red that doesn’t beg for attention but demands it. It clung in all the right places and slid over my thighs like water. I slipped on gold hoops, sprayed the perfume he used to compliment before he stopped noticing, and glossed my lips.

I needed to get back at Elijah in a way that would make his blood boil. Elijah used to have a friend named Darius that always showed me a little too much attention when me and Elijah would run into him. Compliments that were too attentive, gifts too expensive, and hugs that were intended to be more than friendly. 

Elijah hated it. Hated him.

Then my phone lit up:

Darius: I’m outside.

I smiled to myself, grabbed my bag, and walked to the door with the same grin smoke gives when he’s fucked me over. 

We walked into Club Eden like we’d done it before. Darius had one hand on the small of my back, the other in his pocket, grinning like we go together. I kept my chin high, every step deliberate, the red satin of my dress catching the lights just right. Heads turned, we looked good, and I knew it. But I wasn’t here for the stares. I was searching for one face in the crowd. Just smiling, slow and sweet, as Darius guided me deeper inside the club I knew too well.

Smoke wasn’t hard to spot.

Even in the low-lit haze of Club Eden, he stood out like sin dressed in success. Black slacks tailored to perfection, button-up open just enough to show that gold chain he never took off, and a gold watch to match catching flashes of light as he leaned back, calm and calculating.

And he wasn’t alone.

She sat next to him, legs crossed, laughing because she didn’t know about our twinning anklets. It shimmered around her ankle like a middle finger straight to my face.

I didn’t react. Couldn’t give him the satisfaction.

Instead, I leaned back against Darius, legs draped over his lap like it was second nature. I smiled, slow and sweet, twirling my straw in my drink as if I wasn’t locked in a silent war with the man across the room.

Smoke’s eyes met mine—dark, unreadable, but I knew that look. His jaw was clenched. His tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek. The girl next to him leaned in to whisper something, and he didn’t flinch, didn’t move. Just kept his gaze on me like I had his whole night wrapped around my finger.

Good.

I tilted my head, let my curls fall over one shoulder, and whispered something in Darius’s ear. Didn’t matter what, I just needed to see Smoke look at me.

He did and I knew I had him right where I wanted him.

“Wanna dance?” I asked Darius, my voice soft but just loud enough. He grinned like he’d been waiting for the invite. “You know I do.”

The second I stood, I felt Elijah’s stare follow every step I took. I didn’t look back. Just led Darius to the dance floor like we owned it. The bass hit heavy, the colorful led lights spun soft, and I let my body move—slow, effortless, sensual. Darius tried to keep up, hands respectful but curious. I didn’t care. I wasn’t dancing with him for him. I was dancing for the man sitting in the corner pretending he didn’t care.

Elijah didn’t move. Didn’t blink. But when I twirled to catch his gaze again—he was gone.

Just like that.

I smirked, satisfied, even as my chest tightened.

“I’ll be right back,” I told Darius, brushing a kiss on his cheek before slipping toward the restroom.

The bathroom was cool and quiet. I touched up my lip gloss, adjusted my dress, and took a deep breath. The game was fun, but it was stressful. And I was starting to feel the heat of it rise to my skin.

I opened the door, and there he was.

Smoke.

Leaning against the wall like. His arms were crossed. His shirt sleeves rolled up just enough to show the tattoos on his forearms, jaw tight, eyes darker than I remembered.

I blinked. “You lost?”

He didn’t smile. “Was about to ask you the same thing.”

I crossed my arms, mirroring him. “Bathroom’s not your usual hangout, is it?”

“I saw you dancing,” he said, voice low and clipped. “Looked like you were real comfortable.”

“Why wouldn’t I be? Darius is sweet,” I said, letting the name linger to make sure it burns.

His jaw flexed. “He’s a clown.”

“He’s not you,” I shrugged. “That’s kind of the point.”I look at him with amusement because I know i’m getting under his skin.

“You really brought him here?” he asked, stepping closer. “To my spot?”

“Oh, my bad,” I said with mock concern. “Didn’t realize I needed permission to come to the club. Should I check in next time?”

His tongue dragged across his teeth like he was trying not to snap. “You knew I’d be here.”

I tilted my head. “Did I?”

He scoffed, stepping in just close enough that I could smell his cologne. “You doing all this for what? Huh? To make me jealous?”

I smiled. “Ain’t nobody checkin for you Smoke?”

His hand came up, not touching me—just hovering near my waist like muscle memory. As he towered looking down at me,  “You think I care about Darius? You think I give a fuck about that lame ass nigga?” 

I leaned in, just a breath from his lips. “Well… he was talking real good about having dessert back at my place. So maybe I will leave your “spot”.”I give him a menacing grin.

His whole body tensed.

“You lyin’,” he said, but his voice cracked just enough to expose the panic under the rage.

I laughed. “Am I?”

I stared up at him, not moving. “See, I think you care more than you wanna admit. But I think you should head back to your little date. I wouldn’t want her ankles to get sore waiting on you.”

He flinched. Just a flicker. But I saw it.

“Keep playin’ with me,” he warned, voice almost a whisper. “You forget, I know how to handle you.”

I laughed, low and bitter. “Yeah? If that’s what you want to call your lame ass stroke game.”

His mouth opened—but I started to walk away before he could respond. Because I was definitely lying about his stroke game unfortunately.

“Have fun tonight, Elijah,” I said, brushing past him, the scent of my perfume trailing between us like a dare.

And then I walked away—hips swaying, heels clicking, heart pounding—but head held high.

As the night continued I still felt the heat of Smoke and his date that hes not paying any attention to anymore on me. I continued to dance, flirt, and laugh with Darious to prove that I can play game too. I even let Darious’s hands explore my body a little. Rub my thighs, grip my ass a little while dancing, let his hands run up and down my curves. By the time the lights came on in the club and all the drunks were scrambling out to their rides. I let Darious drive me home. 

The car ride was actually nice. The moon was bright and full, soft R&B music was playing, and the conversation we had was amazing. Darious is a really sweet guy, but I know it would be wrong to drag him into me and Smoke’s mess. Plus I don’t want smoke to kill him…

We made it to my apartment and I knew I wouldn’t have much time until Smoke showed up at my door to interrogate me. Darious wanted to come up, but I knew if he did someone would end up in jail. So I said my goodbyes to Darious and promised him another night out soon as I walked back into my apartment. 

As soon as I walked through the door I took a quick shower, changed into a silk blue night gown with white lace trimming, fluffed my curls, removed my make up and prepped my skin for whatever is going to happen in the next few hours. Lastly I got myself a glass of wine and sat on my couch and read a book as I waited for him. I didn’t know what I was going to say, but I needed to be ready nonetheless.

Not even twenty minutes late I hear a loud banging at my door. Three quick, violent knocks. Like the wood itself owed him an answer. I didn’t rush.

I took my time taking a last sip of wine, stood slowly, let my silk nightgown cling to my hips like it was made to tease. I walked barefoot to the door, cool and collected, like I hadn’t been waiting on this exact moment since I walked out of that damn club.

I opened the door just enough so he could see me. And there he was leaning against the door frame using one of arms for leverage.

Pupils dilated with nothing but anger. Jaw tight. Other hand clenched at his sides trying to contain himself.

“Where that nigga at?”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t play with me,” he snarled, stepping inside like this was his home. His head was on a swivel. “You let him fuck you?”

I shut the door. Walked right past his rage and sat on the edge of the couch, crossing my legs with purpose.

“Hello to you too Elijah, come one in?” I stated.

“Answer the question,” he snapped.

I smiled, slow and dangerous. “I don’t have to do shit.”

Smoke stepped closer, his whole body on fire with fury.

“You wasn’t gon’ fuck him.”He looked at me like he was challenging me to give him the wrong answer to send him over the edge. 

“Wanna bet?” I raise an eyebrow and give a deceitful smirk.

He snatched the glass from my hand, set it down with a rough thunk, and stepped between my knees. Boiling with anger waiting for me to say the wrong thing to make him explode.

“Say that shit again.”

I looked up at him, lips parted just slightly.

“I was gon’ let him taste every inch of me… then let him sleep right where you do.”

His hand wrapped around my throat in a flash—tight, hot, possessive.

“You gon’ let another man lay where I sleep?” he growled.

I smiled, the tension around my neck turning me on, breath hitching. “I was gon’ let him do more than that.”

He paused. That’s when I stood up. No fear. Just slow, deliberate grace as I walked past him and down the hall.

“You can keep lookin’ for him if you want,” I said over my shoulder, “but if you was really scared I let that man touch me, you’d be too late. He left already.”

I didn’t wait to see if he followed. I went straight to my bedroom, sat at the vanity, touched up my lip gloss with calm hands. Behind me, I heard heavy footsteps pause in the doorway.

His eyes were all over the room. Searching. Burning.

“You think this shit cute?” he asked, voice gravel-thick. His eyes looked me up and down almost in disgust and jealousy.

I met his gaze in the mirror. “No. I think it’s fair.”

He stepped inside, slower now. Confused. Angry. Hurt. “What the fuck mean by that?”

I turned on the stool and faced him, legs crossed again. My night gown starting to rise a bit up my thighs.

“It means I’ve been waiting on you to choose me, Elijah. Or at least grow a pair and tell me that this bullshit we got going on isn’t going nowhere. But you’d rather keep me close, fuck me, then go back to pretending I don’t exist.”

His mouth opened, but nothing came out. His shoulders dropped like the weight of my words finally registered.

“I’ve given you space, time, silence. I’ve let you spin this thing however you wanted, and I stayed. Quiet. Loyal. Patient. But I’m done beggin’ a “grown-ass” man to act like one.”

Smoke’s jaw flexed. His hands were twitching at his sides like he didn’t know whether to grab me or punch a wall.

“So yeah,” I said softly. “I let him touch me. I let his hands roam a little. Not ‘cause I wanted him. But because I needed you to feel what it’s like to watch the person you believed was yours go play boyfriend to other bitches.”

Smoke’s jaw clenched hard enough to crack bone.

I watched him. Calm on the outside. Heart thudding like a war drum on the inside.

“You really was thinking of letting that nigga touch you?” His voice was low now. Dangerous. “He don’t even know what to do with you.”

I stood up slow, walked toward him like prey that didn’t fear the predator. “He may not know how to handle me,” I said, standing chest to chest. “But at least he acts like he wanted me.”

That landed. Hard. He blinked once—tight, sharp—like the words had cut straight through his ribcage. His hand gripped the back of my neck, and whispered against the shell of my ear.

“I ain’t act like I wanted you, huh? Was that before or after I fucked you outside that club becuase you was letting niggas grind on you and I had you cryin’ and creamin’ on my dick?”

My breath caught.

“Or when I had you bent over your own counter, sayin’ you was mine with a mouth full of my name? Because you like flirting with dudes in front of me. That's not ‘wantin’ you’ either?”

My knees pressed together tight.

“You sayin’ he acted like he wanted you…” he scoffed. “Cool. But did he make you cum in under five minutes on your bedroom floor? Did he eat you ‘til your voice broke because you was hitting up the dudes in your DM’s?”

“Shut up,” I breathed, voice shaking.

“Say it,” he taunted, eyes on fire now. “Tell me he could have touched you like I did. Tell me he could have made you forget your own fuckin’ name. When you go out half naked with your girls and come back with ten new numbers in your phone”

“I—” My chest rose and fell too fast. “He didn’t.”

Smoke’s gaze burned through me.

“I didn’t lose you,” he muttered, mostly to himself. “Even when you out here pretending like I’m the only one fucking up. You ain’t been right by me either.”

My mouth parted, but I didn’t respond.

“You mine,” he said. “Still mine.”

He stepped forward as I kept moving back, until the backs of my knees hit the bed. Still, he hadn’t laid a single hand on me—but I could feel every word on my skin.

“Say it.”

“Say what?”, I give him a confused but intrigued look. 

“You know what the fuck I’m askin’, ma.”

My mouth opened, but he didn’t wait.

He dropped to his knees and pushed me back on to the bed.

“I should make you beg,” he growled. “After that bullshit you pulled tonight.”

“But I missed this pussy…” he muttered, shoving me back onto the bed, hands pushing my nightgown up slow.

He paused. Smirked. “No panties?”

I smiled, real smug. “Why wear ‘em when I knew you was gonna end up on your knees anyway?”

His eyes darkened. Jaw clenched.

Then his mouth was on my clit immediately. Hot, angry, wild.

He licked me like he was punishing me, tongue stiff and fast, nose buried deep like he needed every drop. He groaned when I whimpered. Flattened his tongue against my clit, then flicked it until my hips jerked.

“Say who it belongs to,” he growled against me.

I gasped. “Fuck—”

He sucked my clit hard enough to pull the words out of me.

“Say it.”

“Fuck you Elija–”

He slapped the inside of my thigh. “Try again.” starting like and suck faster. 

I gave in, my climax was near and continued to build, “It’s yours! It’s your pussy!”

His eyes locked on mine, lips shiny and glistening with me. “Damn right.” He licked me slower now, dragging it out, two fingers slipping inside me, curling just right.

My back arched off the bed.

“Louder,” he whispered. “Let the whole fuckin’ building know who got you cryin’ like this.”I whimpered his name, high and cracked, as he tongue-fucked me like he needed it to breathe.

“Had me stressing bout you letting some other dude in here?” he muttered between licks. “In this pussy?”

“Wanted you to feel it,” I moaned. “Wanted you to know—what it felt like.”

“Never again,” he growled. “You mine. You hear me?”

“Then act like it,” I snapped, as I begin grinding against his face. “Act like I’m yours.” I say as I grab the back of his head to push him further in to me. 

He laughed low, filthy. “Oh I’m ‘bout to show you, baby.”

Then he dove back in, no mercy, dragging me through a climax so hard I shook, hands fisting the sheets, moaning his name like a prayer and a curse all in one.

My thighs were still shaking when he stood, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand like he’d just devoured something messy and rare.

He looked down at me—lips glistening, chest rising and falling, jaw tight with hunger.

“You talk too much,” he muttered.

“I was making a point.” I snap back, out of breath.

He grabbed my waist, flipped me over onto my stomach like I weighed nothing.

“Yeah?” His voice dropped. “Make it now.”

I didn’t have time to speak—he yanked my hips back, arching my ass high in the air, pressing my face down into the mattress with one heavy hand on the back of my neck.

“Say that shit again,” he hissed into my ear, breath hot. “Say how he acted like he wanted you.”

“Elijah—”

“Mm-mm.” He pressed harder on my neck, not enough to hurt, but enough to let me know who was in control. “You wanted Daddy’s attention?”

He lined himself up, thick and heavy against my soaked entrance. His other hand gripped my ass, spreading me open.

“Well, you got it now.”

And then—he thrust inside me, deep and fast. No hesitation. No gentleness. Just raw, angry, need.

“Fuck!” I try to muffle my moan as I pushed my face into the mattress.

“Nah, don’t get shy now,” he growled, snapping his hips against me again, again. “You was runnin’ your mouth a minute ago. Where all that shit talk go?”

The slapping of skin echoed through the room, loud and wet. His hips slammed into mine, balls smacking against my clit with each brutal stroke. The bedframe creaked under the force, the mattress giving under the weight of his big, muscular body.

Smoke’s build was all lean muscle and hard edges—wide back, thick arms caging me in as he pounded into me from behind, I could feel the tension radiating off him.

“You wanted to make me jealous? You wanted me mad?” he breathed, chest pressing into my back. “Well, now you got me.”

He drove deeper, grunting, hips rolling in filthy rhythm. “This what you wanted, huh? Daddy stretchin’ you out like this? Say it.”

I whimpered, arching into him, my ass bouncing back against his thrusts.

“Say it.”

“It’s what I wanted,” I moaned into the pillow. “I wanted you—fuck—I needed you.”

He leaned in closer, biting the curve of my shoulder.

“You mine, baby. You don’t gotta play games for me to see you. You all I ever see.”

He fucked me harder then, no mercy. My pussy clenching around him, trying to keep him in with every stroke.

“Look at this pussy suckin’ me in,” he growled, voice thick with possessiveness. “You act up just to get it like this, don’t you?”

His palm came down on my ass, the sting making me cry out.

“You love it when I fuck you back into your place, huh?.”

I could barely respond, the way he was hitting made my thoughts scatter like dust. All I could do was moan and take it.

“You gon’ behave now?” he asked, yanking my hair so I lifted my face off the pillow. “Or you need another round?”

“Give it to me,” I panted. “I can take it.”

That did something to him. His next thrust knocked the wind outta me.

“You do all this talkin’, just to shut the fuck up when this dick in you. That’s your problem.”

The pace got even filthier—fast, relentless, dragging sounds out of both of us that had no place outside of a bedroom.

The air was thick with heat and sweat and desperation.

“Say you mine again,” he ordered, breath ragged. “Say it like you mean it.”

“I’m—fuck— i’m yours, Daddy.”

That sent him over. He slammed into me one last time, deep and hard, filling me up with a loud groan that vibrated against my spine.

I followed right after, walls pulsing around him, toes curling, throat raw from moaning his name.

We collapsed together, breathless and shaking, tangled in the mess we made.

He was still catching his breath, eyes fluttered shut, mouth open like he was trying to gather himself.

I sat there for a second, letting the weight of what just happened settle between us. Sweat slicked my skin, my curls wild and frizzy from all the grinding and grabbing and all that heat. My chest heaved. I watched his body twitch—sensitive, eyes closed, overwhelmed, but still so hard for me.

He didn’t even notice me move.

Until I straddled him again. Hovered over him, lined us up—

And slammed down on his dick.

“Shit—!” he yelped, eyes snapping open like I’d snatched his soul. “Wait—wait—baby—”

I bounce on him hard, grinning down at him like a beast that finally caught its prey.

“You good?” I asked sweetly, breathless.

He gasped barely able to make a sound. “Damn, girl—”

“Thought so.”

I started to move. Slow at first. Just enough to hit him right. His whole body tensed, trying to brace, but he couldn’t. He was too sensitive, and I was overriding his nerves.

“I’m tired of bullshit, Elijah. I want to settle down,” I reminded him, voice low, sultry, taunting. “You going to be better for me, baby?”

“I—I am,” he stammered, jaw tight. “I am, baby—I swear—”

I sped up.

That had him groaning, loud and full in his chest. His hands shot to my thighs, gripping, begging me to slow down—and I didn’t.

“You gon’ answer when I call?” I asked, breath hitching from how deep he was hitting. “No more games?”

“Yes! I got you, baby, just don’t—don’t stop—”

I moved faster.

“Say it again,” I demanded, hips rolling harder, rougher. “Louder.”

“I’m gon’ do right! I swear to God, I’m—fuck—”

He tried to hold my hips, tried to make it last, but he couldn’t keep up. He was shaking, whining, and I loved every second of it.

But so did I.

Every stroke had my moans cracking, turning breathy and sharp, like I was losing the same control I held over him. I started to tremble too, thighs quaking, chest heaving. He was hitting that spot, again and again—stretching me just right.

My hands landed on his chest to steady myself, nails digging in. “You better,” I gasped, voice splintering. “You better fucking do right by me.”

“I will—I swear—baby, please��”

I felt it creeping up on me—my legs tightening, the heat coiling in my belly. “Oh my God—Elijah—”

“Come for me,” he begged, hips bucking under me. “Let go, baby. I got you.”

That did it. I shattered around him with a loud, raw cry, my walls clenching hard, dragging his name out like a prayer. My body folded forward as I pulsed around him, riding every wave, every tremor, until my whole frame shook.

His voice broke under me, hands locking around my hips like he never wanted me to move again. “That’s it, baby… fuck, that’s it.”

Breathless, dazed, I slumped against his chest, heart pounding, sweat glistening on my skin.

“I’m sorry,” I moaned against his neck. “I know I ain’t been fair either.”

His hands slid up my back, holding me tighter.

“I ain’t mean to hurt you,” I whispered. “I just needed to feel wanted too.”

“You got me, ma,” he said hoarsely. “You been had me.”

“I don’t wanna fight no more,” I breathed. “But you gotta do better.”

“I will,” he promised, kissing the side of my face. “You got my word.”

We laid there tangled in silence, both of us wrecked and breathless

~ I hope you liked it! Also send me some asks if you have a request, question, or fic ideas!!

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[ggukivrse]

THE ART OF PRETENDING - JJK | 03

summary. when you and jungkook show up to your much anticipated graduation trip and realise neither of you had the guts to tell your friends about your recent break up, there’s only one thing you can do to keep the trip from falling apart: pretend.

but somewhere between fake kisses and real feelings, you start to wonder if letting go was ever the right choice at all.

pairing: jeon jungkook x f!reader

genre/warnings: exes to lovers, fake dating, idiots to lovers, mutual pining, fluff, (eventual) explicit sexual content, swearing, pov switches (1), jk is an acts of service king and a pathetic simp for oc, ft. seokjin, namjoon, hoseok, jimin, taehyung, yoongi + four female ocs

word count: 5.5k

notes: i procrastinated the shit out of this chapter omfg, i’m so sorry for the wait. tysm to my bae isa @page-isa for beta-reading and providing me with concerts on call while i wrote lolol. likes, comments, reblogs, asks and feedback are so so appreciated!! enjoy reading my loves <33

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⤷ chapter three — ivy

i could hate you now / it’s quite alright to hate me now / but we both know that deep down / the feeling still deep down is good

The knife makes a soft thunk against the cutting board as you slice through the last of the strawberries, bright red, juice bleeding out onto the wood. You scoop the pieces into a bowl with the others — kiwi, pineapple, blueberries, a few slices of watermelon. Colourful. Easy to share. Refreshing enough for the heat outside, you hope.

A headache throbs behind your temple. It’s been sitting there since you woke up, dull but insistent. Usually, you would've had a few painkillers in your purse for this exact situation, but you had been certain that you'd be fine on the trip.

You let out a soft sigh. If it weren’t for your own spectacular decision-making.

You tilt your head back gently, reaching up to rub your forehead with the back of your wrist, careful not to smear fruit juice across your skin. The cool tile under your bare feet helps. A little.

From the kitchen, you can just about make out the voices outside.

Laughter and chatter carries faintly. Someone shouts something you can't quite make out, and there's a burst of response.

You should be out there with them. You would be, on any other day. But you’re not risking it — not with your head pounding like this, like your brain is bruised beneath your skull. One hour under that sun, and you know you’ll spend the rest of the day curled up in the dark, miserable.

Well... at least, that’s the excuse you went with.

You haven’t talked to Jungkook since last night.

Not after you walked away, leaving him with nothing but the weight of his own words and the silence you wrapped yourself in.

'I figured… you’d be here.'

Like it was obvious. Like he still knew you. Like he hadn’t made the choice to not be part of your life anymore.

Last night, your anger had been sharp. You’d felt it in your jaw, your chest, your hands. But now, it’s dulled into something muddier.

You’d been telling yourself he’d moved on — that whatever the breakup had done to you, it hadn’t touched him the same way. That he was fine. Probably relieved. Probably already halfway into his next chapter, while you were still here, trying to rewrite your ending like it didn’t hurt. And maybe that assumption had made it easier. Easier to be mad. Easier to hate him a little.

But then last night… he said he came here for you. Like he missed you. Like you still mattered.

And that? That messed with things.

Because how are you supposed to stay angry at someone who walked away, then looked you in the eye like they never wanted to? How are you supposed to keep the space intact when he was the one reaching across it — gently, quietly, like he didn’t know he was doing it?

You’d built your resentment around the idea that he let go easily. That he wanted out more than he wanted you. But now, with the weight of his words still sitting heavy in your chest, the whole picture feels harder to hold. Blurrier.

Turns out, hate’s a lot easier when you think the other person never looked back. And you're clearly a weak link.

The sound of the sliding door pulls you out of your thoughts, and you don't have to look to know exactly who it is.

There’s a soft pad of bare feet on tile, a steady, unhurried rhythm you’ve heard a thousand times before. You keep your eyes on the bowl of fruit in front of you, pretending to rearrange a few pieces like it matters.

“Hey,” Jungkook says, his voice calm.

You don’t turn around. “Hey.”

There’s a pause, just long enough for you to feel it.

”You okay?”

“Yeah. I’m fine,” you answer, automatic. Then you exhale, conceding a little. “Just a headache.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see him move closer. He’s wearing black swim shorts that cling slightly at the waist, water still darkening the edges. A loose white t-shirt hangs off his frame — a little translucent from where it’s stuck to his chest.

His hair’s damp, curls pushed back from his forehead like he ran his fingers through it and let it dry that way. He smells faintly like sunscreen and chlorine and the heat outside.

“Did you drink enough water?” he asks.

A laughing breath tumbles from your lips before you can stop yourself. You shake your head, mostly to yourself, and glance at him over your shoulder.

He raises an eyebrow, like he already knows why you're laughing.

“You say that every time,” you say.

“Because every time, it’s true,” he says, not missing a beat.

His tone is easy, but his eyes search your face like he’s still trying to make sure. You give him a look — not annoyed, just tired — and sip from the water bottle already in your hand.

“Yes,” you say. “I’ve had water. It’s probably nothing.”

Jungkook doesn’t respond right away. He just leans against the counter beside you, one hand bracing the edge. A droplet of water slides down the inside of his veiny forearm.

You pretend not to notice.

“You take anything for it?” he asks eventually.

You shake your head. “Didn’t bring any.”

He scoffs, low and amused. “Oh, so smart.”

You roll your eyes. “Thanks. Really helpful.”

He grins — not wide, not smug. Just soft around the edges. Familiar. The kind of grin he probably doesn’t realise he’s making.

He reaches into the drawer next to you without asking, pulling it open with a scrape of wood on wood. You glance sideways, eyebrows pulling together.

“What are you doing?”

“Checking if this place is stocked like a normal rental or if we’re screwed,” he says, sifting through half-empty tea boxes, a roll of foil, batteries, and a mostly dead flashlight. “And… yeah. Screwed.”

You exhale through your nose, more of a puff than a laugh. “Should’ve figured.”

“You know what you need?” he says, straightening up. “Cold compress. Or a wet towel.”

“I’m not that desperate.”

“You say that now,” he murmurs, stepping away and heading toward the sink. He grabs a dish towel from the rack, runs it under cool water, wrings it out with practiced ease.

He turns, holding it out to you — not pushing it into your hands, just waiting, giving you the option.

You hesitate.

You want to say no. You should. But your head throbs again, dull and pulsing behind your eyes, and maybe your pride’s not worth it right now.

You reach out, take it from him.

His fingers brush yours, just for a second. Your grip's not as steady as you’d like.

You fold the cloth once, press it to the side of your head, and close your eyes for a second. The coolness helps. Not enough, but it’s something.

When you open your eyes again, he’s still there, simply watching.

“What?” you ask.

He shakes his head, but there's a small smile on his face. "Nothing."

You narrow your eyes at him, but no further words leave your mouth.

He leans a little heavier into the counter, arms folded, eyes flicking over the kitchen like he’s killing time — like he knows you well enough to wait you out.

The kitchen settles into a soft hush, filled only by the faint hum of the fridge and the occasional burst of laughter from outside.

You keep your eyes forward, focused on nothing, the damp towel warming slowly in your hand. You can feel him looking — not staring, but thinking. Sitting on something.

He shifts his weight slightly, arms still folded across his chest. Then finally, he says, low and cautious, “Hey.”

You glance over, just barely. “Yeah?”

He hesitates, just long enough for you to brace yourself.

“About what I said last night.”

You blink, eyes flicking back to the counter.

Jungkook keeps going anyway. “I didn’t mean to… dump that on you, or say it like that. I wasn’t trying to make things harder. I just… I don’t know. I guess I didn’t think.”

You let the silence hang a moment, long enough for the words to settle.

“It’s fine,” you say eventually, quietly. “I’d already forgotten about it.”

He nods, lips pressing together. “Still. I’m sorry.”

You don’t answer this time. Just give a small shrug, like it’s not worth talking about.

Another hush washes over the kitchen, this one heavier.

You both sit in it for a moment, like neither of you knows exactly where to go next, but he shifts slightly and clears his throat.

A beat passes. You watch him out of the corner of your eye as he squints at the counter.

“So...” he says, dragging the word out just enough to be obvious. “Are you gonna tell me what’s in the bowl, or do I have to guess?”

The question is stupid. It’s clearly fruit. But it works. It’s light enough to crack the silence without pretending it wasn’t there.

You don’t say anything for a second. Just press the cloth a little firmer to your temple and exhale, slow.

“Fruit,” you say. "Strawberries, kiwi, watermelon, pineapple. Some other stuff."

Jungkook leans over to peek into the bowl, then reaches for the spoon. You slide it away before he can grab it.

He blinks at you, a beat of surprise. “Seriously?”

“I didn’t say you could have any.”

“Since when do I need permission?” he asks, brow raised.

You give him a flat look. “Since always. You just never listened.”

He grins like that’s not even close to a deterrent. “C’mon. I kept you from passing out on the kitchen floor. That’s at least worth a bite.”

You shift the spoon just slightly further out of reach, not smiling — not fully — but your mouth twitches like it’s thinking about it. “One bite.”

“I’m starving.”

“Should’ve thought of that before cannonballing off the deep end for an hour.”

He steps closer — not too close — but enough to peer over your shoulder again, dramatic and exaggerated. “You’re telling me I generously helped your migraine and you’re gonna gatekeep the fruit bowl?”

You roll your eyes. “Fine,” you mutter, sliding the spoon toward him with one finger. “You can have some. As long as you take the rest out to the others.”

He grabs the spoon like it’s a prize, already scooping a chunk of watermelon into his mouth. “Deal,” he says around it.

He chews slowly, gaze still fixed on the bowl, like he’s giving the fruit his full concentration.

Then he nods once, eyebrows furrowed. “It’s good.”

You say nothing, just shift the towel slightly against your temple, adjusting it where it’s starting to lose its chill.

He takes another bite — slower this time, as if he’s savouring the taste.

You glance over at him, just briefly. The light from the sliding door paints a soft sheen across his skin, catches in the damp ends of his hair. His profile is calm, unreadable. You know that look. He’s thinking about something he won’t say.

“You gonna take that out?” you ask eventually, nodding at the bowl.

He looks up like he forgot it was in his hands. “Yeah. Right.”

Jungkook lingers for a second longer than necessary, still holding the spoon. Then, finally, he turns toward the door.

Just before he slides it open, he pauses, glancing back over his shoulder.

“If you still feel bad later… I can run into town, grab something.”

"I can take care of myself, Jungkook.”

"I— right. I didn't mean it like that." He lets out a sigh. "Just don't die, yeah?"

You nod, and the door slides open again, letting in a gust of sun and the very distant echo of your friends yelling over music.

You let out a slow breath and rest both elbows on the counter, head still heavy.

And even though the ache behind your eyes is still there — stubborn and dull — it’s softened now. Just a little.

Your headache is mostly gone.

Not completely — there’s still a faint buzz behind your right eye — but it’s somewhat bearable now. The dull kind of pressure you can forget about if you keep still and breathe slow.

What really helped, you think, was the nap. A quiet hour stretched out on the couch with the curtains drawn halfway closed and the cold cloth still folded gently against your forehead.

You don’t remember falling asleep. One minute, you were lying there, your arm slung over your eyes to block the light, and the next, you were waking up to the distant sound of laughter outside, the ache in your head a few degrees cooler.

The towel was still cold when you stirred. Not freezing, but fresher than it had any right to be after an hour against your skin.

You hadn’t put it back in the freezer.

You’re almost sure you didn’t move at all.

Which means… someone had to have changed it amidst your slumber.

You’re not sure how you feel about it. If it even happened. If it means anything.

It shouldn’t. You tell yourself that. It shouldn’t mean anything.

But something about it sticks in your chest.

You’d asked for space — not out loud, not exactly, but in all the ways that mattered. In how you walked away, in how you haven’t reached for him since. And yet… here you are. Picking apart the temperature of a towel like it holds any real weight.

You’re trying not to read into things.

Really, you are.

But it’s hard when the lines keep blurring.

Pretending in front of the others is one thing. A mutual act, a lie with rules and boundaries. But the quiet moments are harder — the ones where no one is looking. Those feel like the truth, leaking out in small, inconvenient ways.

And now here you are.

The beach is stretched out before you in all its sleepy, golden haze. You’ve only been out here for ten minutes; just long enough to settle on your towel and feel the sun warm the backs of your legs.

When you stepped out of the house, the last serve of a makeshift volleyball game had just hit the sand. Taehyung and Hoseok stood dramatically with their arms raised like they'd won the Olympics, while Jimin fell to his knees with an exaggerated groan, sand puffing up beneath him. Seokjin declared the whole thing rigged.

Now, the energy has dipped.

Yoongi is passed out with a bucket hat covering his face. Seokjin’s sitting near the cooler, sipping something canned and cold with his arm lazily slung around Haeun’s waist. Everyone else lies scattered across the sand

The air smells like sunscreen and salt. The ocean hums steady in the background, lapping up against the shore.

And beside it all — Jungkook is somewhere behind you.

You haven’t looked directly at him since you laid your towel down, but you can almost feel his presence.

You shift on your stomach, resting your cheek against your folded arms as you watch Ari walk toward the water, her ankles sinking into the wet sand with each step. The back of your neck is starting to warm. A little too much.

“You're gonna get sunburnt,” comes Jungkook’s voice, low and close behind you.

You don’t lift your head. Just let out a small noise, somewhere between a sigh and a groan.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” he replies, not unkindly. “Do you really wanna deal with a migraine and a sun burn at the same time?”

You squint forward, not at anything in particular. The sun is still high, still hot. That tell tale sting is starting to spread across your shoulders, the heat clawing at your skin.

But still, you don’t move.

“I’m too comfortable,” you mumble into your arms.

Behind you, there’s a pause. A quiet snort. The soft click of a bottle opening.

“Then don’t move,” Jungkook says. “I’ve got it.”

You could say no. Could roll away, wave him off, insist on doing it yourself. But you don’t. Whether it’s the heat, the sleep still clinging to your limbs, or just the fact that resisting feels like more effort than it’s worth — you stay where you are.

You hear him kneel beside you in the sand, shifting his weight until his shadow falls across your back.

A second later, the first touch of sunscreen lands cool and smooth on your skin, right between your shoulder blades. His hands follow, spreading it across your back with steady, practiced pressure.

You tense at first, your body instinctively stiffening beneath the weight of his palms. But it’s not like you don’t know how he touches. You do. That knowledge is in your bones, no matter how much time has passed.

He’s methodical about it. No lingering, no hesitation — just slow, firm strokes. Across your shoulders. Down the curve of your spine. It doesn't feel like anything more than it is. It shouldn't.

Still, you keep your face turned away, your sunglasses hiding the part of you that can’t stop reading into this.

He’s just doing it to show the others.

His hand drags slightly higher, toward the back of your neck — just above where your bikini strap cuts across your skin — and slows.

His fingers brush lightly over the spot where your tattoo is inked into your skin: small, fine-lined, nothing dramatic. Just a single, understated flower.

His birth flower. A small tiger lily.

He’s quiet for a beat. Long enough that you notice.

It was years ago. You’d gotten them together after a night out with the group — a bit drunk and feeling impulsive. You’d been walking past a tiny tattoo studio near campus while on the way home, a place you’d both seen a hundred times but never gone into. And for some reason that night, you did.

It was an idea that made sense at the time.

He has your birth flower on the back of his neck too, low enough to hide beneath the collar of a hoodie. Yours a mirror of his, but a small bit higher.

You never talked about what they meant. Not out loud. They weren’t anything too special. Just... markers of time. Of who you were to each other then.

And now here he is, brushing sunscreen over it like he’s trying not to think about the fact that it’s still there.

You feel his fingers hesitate — just for a second — right over the ink. His thumb grazes the edge of it, subtle enough that you almost miss it. But you don’t. You feel everything.

Then he clears his throat softly and moves on, his hands smoothing down the rest of your back with the same quiet efficiency as before. Like nothing happened. Like it didn’t matter.

And maybe it doesn’t.

But the tension in your jaw says otherwise.

By the time he’s finished, your skin feels slick and protected, the burn averted. But something else lingers — not on your back, but under your ribs. Low and restless.

"Thanks," you mumble.

He lets out a small hum in response, his hand resting lightly on your shoulder. For a second, you think he's going to say something, but instead, he scoots over to his own towel placed a few feet away from yours.

Minutes slip by in a blur of warmth and white noise.

You stay there, cheek pressed against the crook of your arm, letting the sun soak into your back. The sounds around you start to flatten — laughter, crashing waves, the thump of footsteps on sand — all melting together into something distant and slow. You’re not sure how long you lie there, half-awake, thoughts drifting somewhere between now and then, between what was and what isn’t anymore.

You don’t notice the shape that settles beside you until it casts a shadow across your towel.

“Wow,” Kiara says, dropping onto the sand with a dramatic exhale, “you’ve been so boring today.”

You lift your head slightly, squinting at her through your sunglasses. “Rude.”

“I’m serious,” she says, unbothered, propping herself up on her elbows. “You’re usually all over the place. But today?” She sighs. “Nothing. It’s been tragic.”

You snort, the sound muffled by your arm. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“I’m just saying,” she says, nudging your leg lightly with hers. “You’re throwing off the group dynamic."

You laugh for real this time — small, but genuine — and lift yourself slightly off your towel. Your head feels better, the pressure dulled to a faint hum. Manageable.

"You are good though, right?"

“I’m fine,” you say, rubbing at your temple with the back of your hand. “Just needed a break.”

“Well,” she drawls, sitting upright, “if you’re feeling human again, please tell me you’ll play one more round of volleyball.”

You blink. “Volleyball?”

“Yes,” she says, as if it’s obvious. “We need even teams, and I’m tired of getting stuck with Taehyung. He's genuinely a lost cause.”

You hesitate, and she watches you closely. Then, with a tilt of her head, she adds, “If you're feeling well, that is. Jungkook said that you had a headache earlier. He told all of us to keep it down when he saw you walking out, so I figured you were dying or something.”

“Oh,” you say, voice a little thinner than you’d like. “Right.” You force a breath through your nose. “I’m okay now. The nap helped.”

“Good,” she grins, bright and unbothered. “Because I refuse to lose to Jimin and this asshole again." She glances over at Jungkook with narrowed eyes, and you hear him chuckle. "My dignity can’t handle it," she adds, voice dropping a tiny bit.

You laugh and push yourself upright, brushing sand from your arms. “Fine. But Kiara, if someone spikes the ball at my face, you'll be the one that ends up dead.”

She beams, grabbing your hand and pulling you up to your feet. “No promises, but sure.”

She lets go of your hand as soon as you’re steady, then turns and jogs toward Hoseok to try and convince him to play too.

You dust off your legs with a sigh, flexing your toes in the warm sand. The heat radiates up through your soles, grounding. The sun is relentless now, painting everything in gold and glare.

You glance sideways toward the towel a few feet away.

Jungkook is still there, stretched out on his back with one arm slung across his forehead, shielding his eyes from the sun. From here, he looks peaceful. Like the ocean and the warmth and the quiet are all he needs.

You hesitate, then step closer.

“You playing?” you ask, voice light, careful.

Jungkook peeks one eye open, blinking up at you. “Nah,” he says, dragging the word out. “Too tired.”

You pause. Your first instinct is to roll your eyes. Maybe push. Maybe say something along the lines of 'Scared I'll beat you?'

But you don’t.

You open your mouth, but the words dry up before they form. Instead, you just give him a simple, “Alright.”

You turn toward the lazy line drawn into the sand (their version of a volleyball net), pretending you don’t hear the voice in your head asking why you even bothered in the first place.

It's not like you care.

You’re sitting on the edge of the pool, ankles skimming the surface, the pads of your feet just brushing cool water. There’s a half-empty glass of something fruity beside you on the tile. Hoseok’s cracking up mid-story, animated like always, throwing his arms out as he re-enacts some tragic college memory that has you clutching your stomach with laughter.

You’re glowing. Not in the cliché way — not some poetic, golden-hour kind of glow — but in that real, visceral way you used to around him. Like the air is lighter in your lungs when you’re surrounded by the people who get you. Like joy just leaks out of you without asking for permission.

And Jungkook?

He sits beside you. A little too close. Not close enough.

His legs are in the water too, knees bent, toes flexing every now and then as Namjoon speaks beside him, something low and thoughtful and typical of Namjoon — philosophy or music or that book he never shuts up about. Jungkook nods, murmurs something back, throws a quiet smile when Namjoon teases him for zoning out, but his attention never really leaves you.

You.

Laughing like you used to, shoulders shaking, head thrown back.

You reach out mid-laugh, fingers curling instinctively around Hoseok’s arm as you recover, and Jungkook’s heart does this pathetic little stutter in his chest. It shouldn’t matter. He knows that. Hoseok is family — your friend, his friend, everyone’s friend — and nothing more. But it’s the way you touch. So easy. So natural. So unguarded.

Like the version of you that still belongs to everyone else hasn’t changed.

The version of you he gets, though?

Guarded. Quiet. Careful.

And he deserves it. He knows that.

But still, it hurts.

It’s stupid, really. How he sits here, nodding along to a conversation he’s not even hearing, all while tracking your every laugh like it’s the air he breathes; like he’s parched and it’s the only thing that could quench it.

He doesn’t mean to do it. He tries to stop. But it’s been a month — just a month — and already he’s forgotten how to breathe in a world where your joy doesn’t belong to him.

Your fingers swipe at your eyes, wiping away tears from the laughter, and Jungkook can’t help but notice how your guard drops when you’re surrounded by them. How you’ve drawn a clear line around him, and only him.

You talk to everyone but him with that voice. The one that dances. The one he used to fall asleep to on long nights when sleep wouldn’t come unless your words wrapped around the edges of his mind first.

Now?

You barely look at him unless you have to.

Even now, you’re angled slightly away. Just enough to remind him that he lost access to something no one else even realises is sacred.

And he let it happen.

He chose this. And fuck, does he regret it.

It’s a strange kind of punishment — being near you like this. Close enough to hear your laughter, to count the freckles on your shoulders, to smell the sunscreen on your skin — and still feel completely shut out. He’s sitting in the middle of everything, surrounded by friends, summer heat, fading sun — and yet all he can think about is how badly he wants to reach for you, and how he can’t.

A splash breaks Jungkook out of his thoughts, followed by a sharp, familiar voice.

“Jimin, seriously, if you drop that in—”

“I’m not gonna drop it!”

He twists just slightly enough to see Jimin in the pool, chest deep, both arms stretched upward to keep Yasmine’s baby pink digital camera above the water. The strap is wrapped twice around his wrist, but he still moves like the thing’s made of glass, carefully navigating the shallow end of the pool.

He’s grinning, eyes curled into crescent moons behind the camera as he wades closer.

“Smile!” he shouts, voice echoing a little off the tile.

Jungkook barely has enough time to throw up a casual peace sign before the shutter snaps.

Jimin squints at the screen, adjusting the angle slightly before lifting the camera again.

“One more! The lighting’s really good right now.”

The sky is washed in that honey-orange haze that only happens for a few precious minutes before dusk. The pool reflects it all — golden ripples catching light, soft shadows stretching across the deck.

You sit still beside Jungkook, your laughter cooling into a smile. Your hand brushes your hair back absently, and it takes everything in him not to follow the movement.

Jimin lowers the camera again, brows lifting. “Wait, I wanna get one of just you two."

You hesitate, eyes flicking toward Jungkook for the briefest second. He meets your gaze and he can see the hesitance swimming in your mind.

But before he can open his mouth to tell Jimin that the picture isn't needed, you adjust your legs, turning slightly so your shoulder brushes his.

It’s not much. But it’s not nothing.

Jungkook lifts an arm, pausing for half a second, then lets his hand settle at your waist, fingers just grazing the curve of your side.

You lean into his touch, your shoulder slipping under his arm, your hand moving to rest on his knee, and Jungkook's heart trips. No warning, no rhythm. It just skips — sharp and stupid and immediate.

Because this feels familiar. And fuck, he’s missed this.

“Okay,” Jimin calls. “Say cheese!”

You smile.

Click.

He turns his head ever so slightly to sneak a glance at you, and his breath catches.

Your smile isn’t fake. Not forced. Not the stiff, polite kind you’ve been tossing his way when the group’s looking. It’s real — soft and bright, with your eyes crinkling at the corners and your nose doing that little scrunch it always does when you’re genuinely happy. Your eyelashes catch the light, casting faint shadows on your cheeks.

Click.

The sound barely fades before something reckless flickers in Jungkook.

His hand tightens slightly at your waist, like he’s grounding himself, or maybe trying to stop himself from doing exactly what he’s about to do. He knows he shouldn’t. He’s not entitled to moments like this anymore.

But God, you’re right there. Glowing. Laughing like you used to. And it’s killing him.

He watches the way your lips part slightly after your smile, the way your eyes dart to the camera and then away again. You look happy — not with him, but still. And it’s that exact version of you he aches for. The one that used to look at him like that on purpose.

He should look away.

He should remember that you're not his anymore. That whatever you're doing right now — playing pretend, leaning into the role for the sake of everyone else — isn’t real.

He tells himself not to do it.

Tells himself to breathe. To sit still. To just let this moment exist without taking anything from it.

But he doesn’t listen.

He never could, when it comes to you.

So before he can think twice — before reason has a chance to claw its way back in — he leans in, slow and quiet and aching.

And presses a kiss to your cheek.

It’s soft. A touch more than a breath, less than a second.

His lips barely linger, but it’s enough. Enough to remember. Enough to want

Click.

To his surprise, you don’t flinch or pull away.

You just… sit there. Letting it happen.

Jimin chirps something about the photo, already moving on, flipping the camera around to show Taehyung and Yasmine as they ask him to take a similar picture of them too.

But Jungkook barely hears them.

He can’t hear much over the pounding in his chest, anyway. Can’t think beyond the feel of your skin under his lips, the way your shoulder fit under his arm like it still belongs there. Like nothing’s changed.

Maybe that’s why his voice comes out quieter than he means it to.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, eyes fixed straight ahead. “Habit.”

You don’t look at him. But you don’t move away either. Your hand stays on his knee, almost as if you know that the second either of you move, the moment is over.

The air goes still between you. And for the first time all day, Jungkook lets himself breathe.

Not fully. Not the kind of breath that fills your lungs and clears your head. But something. Something real enough that it almost feels like hope.

Then you shift.

Just slightly.

Your hand slides off his knee, fingers brushing the fabric of his shorts as you pull away.

You stand up slowly, brushing the back of your hand across your cheek where he kissed you, like you’re wiping away sweat — or maybe just trying to reset the moment.

You don’t say anything. Just pick up your drink, half-finished and watered down by melted ice, and move toward Haeun and Ari near the deep end who welcome you with a small wave of their fingers.

Jungkook watches you go.

He should feel stupid. Regretful. Humiliated, even. But he doesn’t. Not really.

Because for one second — just one — you didn’t pull away.

You let him exist beside you. With you. Like maybe some part of you remembered, too.

And maybe that means nothing.

Maybe it was just muscle memory.

But maybe — maybe — there’s still something left to hold onto.

Even if it hurts.

Even if it’s only for one more week.

Even if all he gets now are seconds.

And he’ll take them.

Because when it comes to you, he always would.

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[burreauxoxo]

transformation - joe burrow

best friend/boyfriend/dad!joe x fem!reader

summary: you and joe watch each other transform from a girl and a boy to a mom and a dad.

warnings: 1 use of y/n, slight swearing, suggestion of NSFW content but nothing is described, pregnancy

word count: 4.6k

note: seen an instagram reel by kadin kerns about his wife turning into a mother from a girl and had so many ideas swarm in my head. i think it turned out pretty cute, feel free to let me know!

pictures above and divider below do not belong to me! credits to the owners!

~

when it came to the relationship joe had with you, the only words he could use to describe it would be lengthy and loving.

let’s rewind it back to when you two first met.

it all starts at athens high school. well known football player, joe burrow, just had a show-out performance on the schools football field.

you were born into and grew up in a football family. you started wearing jerseys to school at a young age and you were never afraid to show your support towards your favorite team and its players.

so, when you are in the stands for that football game and see that he is taking pictures with people, you knew exactly what you wanted.

“this may be an extremely odd question coming from me but… can we take a picture together?” you asked as you motioned towards the camera you held in your hand.

“sure!” he says and leans down to stand behind you, wrapping his arm over your shoulders.

“i love how you play. i know you’re going to get far with your capabilities.” you say with a nervous smile at the end.

if you had to stand in front of someone and tell them the cold, hard truth, it would be that he is making you weak in the knees.

his bleached hair that sat there all messy from his helmet. his jersey that wasn’t as dirty as the rest of the players because he was a clean and flawless quarterback. everything about him was a gorgeous view just waiting to be admired.

“why, thank you.” he says and turns to say something to another player that stood next to him.

you hung around for a minute to process the atmosphere around you. it was surreal, this was the american dream that the movies represented for a teenage girl. talking to the popular guy who is the star quarterback of their school’s football team. all you had to do was become a cheerleader and you could pretend to be someone in one of those movies.

just as you were about to leave, you noticed joe whip his head back around. you were expecting him to give you an odd look for lingering around him.

“oh good, you’re still here. do you go here? or are you from the opposing teams school?” he asks you.

“no, i go here. i think we even have biology together.” you say and watch him think.

“oh! you’re the girl who is always wearing the jerseys! you sit behind me somewhere, right?” he asks.

“that’s me.”

“hey, you’re cool. i hope i see you around more often.” joe says and your insides start to melt.

“same for you. maybe i’ll see you in class.” you say and start to turn away.

little did you know, asking for that picture was going to light a fire that was never going to be put out.

you two did end up running into each other that following monday. he tapped you on the shoulder, resulting in a startled turn in your seat that caused him to smile.

“glad i found you.” was all he said before he went and found his own seat.

eventually, you would go on to spend almost the entirety of your free time with joe. whether it would be studying for that biology class, attending practice that he asked you to come to, talking about the games that happened the prior weekend. all while sitting at the same lunch table you never would have been able to sit at otherwise.

it became such an established friendship that hanging out after school was a must. you would have movie nights, dinners, sleepovers or even gatherings in his room with his friends.

you would run the streets with him late at night going to and from the nearest gas station where you would spend the money you didn’t have on snacks that you didn’t need.

there was a time where it started to rain while you two were on the way back to your house, when you slipped and couldn’t get up.

you started out laughing, in which joe obviously joined in on. but the longer you were on the ground, the more it hurt and the colder you got.

“ouch, it hurts.” you start to choke out between laughs and tears that were threatening to spill.

“duh, that wasn’t an easy fall. you’re getting soaked, stand up.” joe says, trying to stop the laughter.

“i don’t want to.” you whine.

joe eventually squats down and sits next to you. he pulls open the bag of chips he had gotten and popped one in his mouth, immediately reaching back into the bag to grab you one.

he hovers the chip above your lips and waits for you to open. once you do, you smile while crunching on the snack. joe had no intentions on having you hurry up and stand up. he was comfortable where he was as long as he was with you; even if the ground was wet and you two heard thunder in the distance.

“excuse me! what are you two doing?” an older lady steps out of her house to say.

you hadn’t even realized that this definitely looked suspicious. maybe it was time to get up.

“she slipped on the wet ground and her back is kind of sore so we were just sitting here for a second.” joe quickly explains.

“okay, you two be careful.” she says and goes back inside.

“ready to get up now?” joe asks and you nod.

he flies up to his feet and takes both of your hands and assists in pulling you up.

you were definitely sore but it was manageable. it definitely wouldn’t be so doable if joe wasn’t there to help you out.

and that’s how things continued.

he would continue to take care of you until he couldn’t.

“what happens when we go to college? we’ve been inseparable for years now.” joe would ask as you two sat at the lunch table you sat at every day.

it was a matter of days before the fall semester would end and that meant commitments were soon. closing time was quickly approaching.

“have you decided where you want to go?” you ask.

“i wanted nebraska but, that isn’t happening.” joe says with a shrug.

“what are the other options?”

“i only have ohio state to pick from.” joe says, not even looking up from his lunch tray.

“well that’s good! they have a solid team!” you try to help him along the same way he’d help you along.

“yeah, but the issue with that is, i’d be a backup. there would be no chance of me even starting until maybe next season and who wants to wait that long?”

“good things come to those who wait. what if another school calls you up and wants you while you’re waiting? or even a sick transfer offer comes up.” you say and he shrugs, yet again.

“would it help if i tell you where i'm committing?” you say quietly, leaning in towards joe.

“you decided already? why haven’t you told me before right now?” joe says, surprised.

“because. i wanted to hear yours first.” you admit.

“okay well, i have to go to ohio state. where are you going? don’t even tell me you committed to stanford or ucla or some shit.” he says and you shake your head.

“i’ll give you a hint. what lives here, will live on through college.” you say and wait for him to understand.

“what? what do you mean? just tell me where you’re go-” joe says and then stops, mouth opening wider.

“you decided on ohio state?” he says, shocked.

“mhm.” you nod and smile.

joe stands up from the lunch table and throws his fists up in the air, celebrating.

“yeahhh! hell yes! this makes it so much better!” joe says and displays the widest, and cutest, smile ever.

and again, against all odds, whatever flame that was lit between you two, was still never put out.

you moved into dorm buildings across from each other, you had a common core class together and the same wednesday’s free every week, but there was one thing that stuck out to you.

you and joe were still only considered ‘best friends.’ you were grateful and forever will be grateful to call him your best friend but, there was a part of your heart that wanted just a little bit more.

you wanted to be able to touch him. hug him. caress his cheek. run your fingers through the hair that was no longer the same blond it was when you two first met. when halloween came and went, the couples costumes haunted you. the batman and catwoman daydreams slowly but surely dying a slow and painful death. joe was never a halloween person anyways, but it was the thought that counted the most.

you thought something was going to happen on multiple occasions.

one of them being the time he snuck into your dorm room and fell asleep on that tiny twin-sized bed with you. he was basically on top of you all night. you were never a back-sleeper but that night, your favorite way to sleep was on your back.

joe snuck out of your dorm room around six in the morning, blending in with the other people that were getting ready for the day.

other than that, he has fallen asleep in your lap multiple times even throughout high school. he would ask you how he looked which you thought was a hidden way to see if you felt the same way in any manner.

but you weren’t even sure if he felt even an ounce of the same way you had felt.

you attended every game he was told to attend even if he didn’t get a chance to play. you came to practice when you were allowed to. you went to the gym with him almost every day. you were even going to parties with him. all of this happening in public.

there had to be at least one person out there who thought you were together at some point. but nope, just friends.

you had been this close to giving up on him in that aspect when you decided to go out on a date with someone. you were a girl, wasting her freshman year of college, waiting around.

not anymore.

first it was a coffee date and a ‘where are you?’ text. then it was a dinner date and a ‘come over? roomie gave me a cool new movie’ text. finally, it was a party and a ‘what the hell have you been doing?’ verbal confrontation.

“i’m sorry?” you answered, your date at the drink area.

“you flake on my last game, you leave me hanging on a rough night, you won’t study with me anymore, and now come to find out you’ve been spending your time with another guy?” joe says, hurt displayed on his face like no other emotion was able to come through.

“joe, i have a life, too.” you admit.

“we’ve spent all these years together, doing these things together and you drop them like they are nothing. it’s been like a month since we last had a free day to ourselves… like we used to. you’re my best friend, am i not allowed to miss you?”

“joe-”

you’re cut off when he approaches you even more, never breaking eye contact. he snakes his hand over your cheek and down to your neck, resting his hand on your neck, slowly making his fingers find space within the hair on the back of your head.

“would it help if i finally give into the feelings i’ve felt for years? would i finally relay a message that’s up to your liking?” joe whispers into your ear.

“i-” you manage to get out before he has his finger on your lips.

“i know, y/n, i know.” he says and kisses your cheek, moving over to the bridge of your nose. he looks at your eyes and then down at your lips.

“can i?” he asks.

you nod your head and somehow, you squeeze out a verbal ‘yes’ to answer his request. his eyes move down to your lips once again, taking in the moment.

“of course i know.”

the situation quickly escalates to a red-alert moment. you break away from the steamy kiss and tell joe to pause.

you walk over to your date and grab your stomach.

“i’m feeling absolutely awful, i have to go.” you say.

“wait! let me take you home!” he says.

“i already called someone. i’m sorry.” you say and your date frowns.

“have fun here, i’ll be okay.” you say and he nods.

you find your way to the front door and you text joe to hurry up. once he finds you outside, he pulls you in and kisses you, even deeper than last time.

you grab his hand and guide him to where the car was waiting. he grabs the door handle to the passenger side and climbs into the car.

“get it, burrow!” you hear from the front yard; joe sticks his middle finger up but all in a friendly matter.

“my place. nobody is there.” joe says as he is trying to speed up the process.

once you got to his dorm, that was the start of a series of events between you two.

the day after that night happened, joe brought coffee and flowers for both you and your roommate. he left a note for you in yours that read,

“i love and appreciate everything you do for me and with me. thank you for being in my life.”

you kept that note pressed in a diary you kept and have been writing in since your sophomore year. you knew you’d need it again one day.

it didn’t take long for you two to become a real ‘thing.’ more flowers in front of your dorm room door was all it took. obviously, joe hiding behind the corner to catch your reaction was something else, but the flowers and the note were what sealed the deal.

“for all you are, there is no other love, it’s only yours, you’re all i want”

the endless nights of cuddling, the studying sessions that never changed from how they were before you two became ‘official.’ it’s like that thing called love was made for the two of you. it just fit into your relationship so well.

things continued to be great for the months to come. minor arguments here and there and days where you two couldn’t see each other due to his games and your work schedule, but that was about it.

you two were able to manage such a strong friendship within the years prior, the rest just came naturally.

but things take a turn after you both are able to finish your degree work in three years and joe decides his college football career isn’t over yet.

you stayed up in the early hours of the morning with him, trying to figure out if an immediate graduate transfer would do him any good. this was an everlasting dream that joe has had his whole life and the cards he was dealt at ohio state just weren’t fair. his potential and ability to play were trashed the same way the garbage on the curb was. completely disregarded.

you promised you’d be his biggest supporter and you’d do anything you were able to do if it meant he was able to continue this dream.

so when you deliver the news that an apartment in louisiana awaits you two because he is officially playing for louisiana state university, things started to feel more and more complete.

you find a job that will keep your apartment and it’s expenses afloat and you let him play his heart out.

things go incredibly well. he’s finally given a chance here and is slowly but surely proving everyone that he can play.

that is… until he gets injured.

it’s the college football playoff national championship and they are about two quarters in when he gets slammed by the linebacker on the other team. you were immediately able to tell that he was in discomfort but you weren’t exactly sure what happened.

but once they are labeled champions of this season and he welcomes you down to join the celebration, you are finally able to ask what happened.

“something with my ribs. i’m fine.” he says and wipes the sweat from his forehead.

you give him a caring once over before you are finally able to congratulate him.

“oh, i’m so proud of you!” you finally say and pull him in for a kiss.

turns out, torn rib cartilage is not something to mess with. but when it comes to injuries, it was something you were sadly going to have to get used to.

when joe is drafted first overall to the cincinnati bengals, you never would have guessed all the downsides playing in the NFL brought.

torn rib cartilage was almost nothing compared to what joe has gone through while playing for this team.

a few tears, sprains, strains, and dislocations; all within the first few years of his career.

he spent a ton of time relaxing and resting even though he didn’t want to. he often told you that he felt claustrophobic and like life was shutting down because these injuries were taking away his freedom.

not only were they all physically painful, the strain it puts on someone’s mental health is almost just as bad.

tearing almost everything in his knee his rookie season in the NFL felt more degrading than you would think.

“they wasted the first pick on this guy?”

“healthy my ass!”

“injury prone to high hell. what a waste.”

you learned that turning his phone off, as well as any sort of program that would mention sports to avoid any negative exposure, was the best thing to do.

kids movies and kids shows were a go-to.

when he wasn’t up being active to the point that he was allowed to be, you two spent the days in bed or on the couch. it was fun for the most part but it killed you knowing that he was hurting on the inside.

he lost his independence when it came to showers (which was about the only thing he was okay with because he’d find any little reason to get you in the shower with him), cooking, using the bathroom in the beginning, and getting dressed. you don’t realize how much you use both hands in every day activities.

but once he is back to a healthy state and back up and playing, you were both happy with life. yeah, the team wasn’t up to certain standards and that would leave joe upset. once again, you were there to ease the pain.

but when he is out of town for an away game and you take a pregnancy test that turns out positive, you start to question things.

what if he gets injured again? that means you have to take care of a baby and an injured loved one.

you started to think that having a baby wasn’t the best of ideas.

but once joe finds out, he’s a puddle.

it’s all he’s ever wanted with you. he wants to prove that even if he is an injury prone, sucky football player, he’s still a killer dad.

he watches you go through this pregnancy like a champion. all the morning sickness he helped you through, you never complained. all the times the baby wouldn’t allow you to eat the food you wanted, you never complained.

the same thing continues once the baby is actually here.

with your hormones being all over the place, the only thing you were able to complain about was the fact that joe was giving all of his attention to the baby.

“it’s all i’ve known. i haven’t spent an average day without you in years. but it’s okay, the baby needs you anyways.” you say as you cried.

“baby, you know i love you and i can’t do life without you. i just met the little one, give me some time.” joe says softly.

“okay. i’ll be patient.” you say and joe smiles.

it hit you once the baby was a couple weeks old that nothing was going to be the same.

when joe calls out, “i love you” he is going to change it to “i love you guys” or when he kisses you goodnight, he’s going to kiss the baby goodnight as well.

it’s not that you were jealous of your own child, it’s just the thought of change.

you’ve spent almost every day with joe since you guys were seventeen. now you guys are deep in your twenties. it’s weird knowing that, that specific time frame will always be a piece of time you guys spent together that you’ll never get back- because it’s not just you two anymore.

it’s always been you two. for over ten years.

but now it’s you three.

while you were adjusting to the mom life, joe would admire you the same exact way he would when you two were teenagers.

you were just as beautiful, if not more now, opposed to when you two were younger.

you dealt with him in high school and two different colleges, you dealt with all of his football shit, you nursed him back to health with a smile on your face every day (and on multiple occasions), and now you carried his baby. in his eyes, everything about you was attractive.

“i know what’s going through that pretty head of yours.” joe says randomly one night when you are feeding the baby.

“what do you mean?” you ask.

“you miss the alone time.”

“what?”

“you miss when it was just us all cuddled up in bed or making out on the couch. or even the showers we’d take. the silly shit we’d do when we felt like having fun. maybe you even miss how it was in college.” joe says.

all you did was watch your baby eat because if you paid too close attention to joe, you’d cry.

“you actually might even miss high school. no injuries, no jobs, no professional football.” joe says and tucks a few pieces of falling hair behind your ear.

“i know you love our baby but you miss when we were young and not old and full of responsibilities.”

“i don’t know how you can read me like that.” you say, extremely quiet.

“it’s not a secret baby, i feel the same way. i want to go back to the day you slipped in the rain when we were trying to get back to your place. it’s nothing to feel guilty about either. you love your baby, you love and miss the old times but… with a different love.”

and joe was correct. it’s okay to mourn a part of you that you’ll never get back. it’s all stemmed from love. the type of love you give out is different now.

you’re a mom. not just a teenager or a girlfriend to whoever. you’re a mom who had a baby with an NFL player that you met back in high school when you wanted a picture with him. now you have his baby in your arms and he’s comforting you.

“i am sure it’s just the hormones but… it’s an adjustment.” you admit.

“it’s all going to take time. that little baby is slowly teaching you a new type of love and some day soon it will hit you that, that love is what you’ve needed this whole time. it’s not a love i can give you.” joe says and that’s all it took for a tear to fall.

“i love you. never forget that. i loved you first, the ‘us’ pre-professional adult stuff will live within us forever. i am slowly watching you transform into a new person and its been an honor to be able to do so.” joe says and leans over to kiss your forehead.

it was hard to process but there were a lot of things that have happened that took a while to process. everything was going to work out eventually.

joe was there to remind you of that every day moving forward.

it’s all going to be okay. we all have to transform into someone new at one point. it might shock you at first, but it’s inevitable.

eventually, time passes and things settle down.

your hormones adjust a little more and you realize that life is great just how it is.

you and your baby are best friends, joe has to give a password to enter the playroom now.

the child who once was your guys’ baby, is now a full grown kid and loves playing football ‘just like dad.’

visiting ‘the uncles’ was always the best time of day when the time came. whether it be joe’s brothers or the guys on the team, they were all considered uncles.

a pre-game handshake was an absolute must and had to happen or else ‘daddy will be upset and the team isn’t going to be happy because we have to win.’

that quickly became a lesson because joe didn’t want his child to see him upset over a game. over the years, joe has learned to loosen up even after a loss because it was just a game and it wasn’t worth teaching poor sportsmanship to a child who is learning things by watching their father’s every move.

it has been nothing short of a dream come true to watch many dreams play out throughout these last few years. you had embraced all of the changes that came your way and learned to not dwell on stuff that can’t be changed.

except when another positive pregnancy test is practically thrown in your face like big, red block letters that exclaim something in a cartoon.

“wait, you’re serious?” joe says when you finally tell him.

joe took this announcement a little more to heart since this baby would arrive a matter of weeks after his final season in the NFL. he was finally going to be able to witness every moment of growth that he missed out on with your first born. he was going to be able to fully soak in the newborn phase and not have to leave for a game a week after you give birth and come back to a toddler; at least that’s what it felt like.

his decision to retire wasn’t easy. he was going to miss running the field the same way he has been doing all these years. he thought he’d be able to last just as long, if not longer, as aaron rodgers. but, like he taught you, life happens.

his bones ached more than they did his rookie season. he couldn’t play cold weather games the same way he used to. he craved to stay in bed longer every morning that he’s woken up by his alarm. he was just tired.

he’s lived his dream. he made it to the pros. he got his super bowl ring. he got labeled mvp. he’s played for almost ten years. he has a family now. what else is there to do?

transforming into the man that he is now was a huge success and it was a dream to be able to witness it standing by his side every step of the way. all starting from that day on the football field; which the picture is now hung along the staircase in the burrow family home.

from that seventeen year old with bleached hair that stood on that high school football field to a dad with grey hairs poking through his classy hair styles. from not knowing what was next after being benched for three years to being a super bowl champion and an mvp. to being best friends and now husband and wife which also turned into mom and dad.

it was a unique and transformative experience that only you two can say you’ve experienced.

and the both of you were lucky to say so.

hope everyone enjoyed this one!! see you next time <3

[neferaskingdom]

♡ Too Precious | LN4

NEFERASKINGDOM

Summary: Lando loves the party life. She prefers quiet nights in. When their differences start to build, so does the tension.

A/N: This is part of my Playlist Roulette series, where I shuffle my playlists and write a story inspired by the first song that pops up. This story is inspired by the song Too Precious by Em Beihold.

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'Cause according to you, I'm too precious You're wishin' that I was more reckless You're wishin' that I would smoke 'til I'm high And play with the guys, regret this You're wishin' that I was more trouble Sorry for being a struggle I do what I want and may not be your type Sorry I can't be a person you like

Lando had always been the type to take things too far.

He lived for the noise. Loud music, louder people, places where the drinks never stopped flowing and sleep was something you caught on a plane. It was easier that way. Fill every second, don’t let your mind slow down enough to catch up.

Since he was sixteen, life had been a blur of tracks and cameras and fake smiles at dinners with sponsors. So when the weekends came, when the pressure finally let up, he wanted to feel like he had some control. He wanted to drink, to laugh too hard, to forget.

And at first, she hadn’t minded. She was different from everyone else in his circle. Calm. Private. Comfortable in silence. Lando had thought it was refreshing. Being with Lando meant fast flights to Ibiza, impulsive parties, nights where the sunrise came too soon. But the novelty wore off. Now she just felt tired. Like she was always trying to catch up to a version of him that wouldn’t sit still. She’d thought maybe he’d slow down for her. He thought she’d go along with him.

They were both wrong.

"Just try it," he said, holding out the glass. "It’s literally one drink."

She didn’t even look at it. "I’m fine."

"You always say that."

"And I always mean it."

Lando leaned back against the kitchen counter, the glass still in his hand. "You’re kind of allergic to fun, aren’t you?"

She glanced up, eyes narrowing. "Excuse me?"

He took a sip and shrugged. "Nothing. Just... you’re too precious sometimes."

She blinked, like she wasn’t sure she heard him right. "Too precious?"

"Yeah." He grinned, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "Too good for all this. For drinks, for staying out past midnight, for letting loose like the rest of us."

She crossed her arms. "That’s not fair."

"It’s not an insult."

"It sounds like one."

Lando tossed the rest of his drink back, ignoring the way her face tightened.

"I’m not going to pretend I’m into something I’m not. That’s not fair to either of us."

He pulled back slightly. "Right. Of course. You're too precious."

"Stop saying that."

He smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "Why? If the label fits."

Another night, another party.

She sat in the corner of the room, watching him move through the crowd like he belonged to everyone. He was surrounded by friends, or at least people who laughed when he made a joke and handed him a joint without asking questions.

One of the guys passed it to her.

"I’m good," she said quickly, waving it away.

Lando saw from across the room and walked over, slightly buzzed and way too confident.

"Come on," he said, voice low against her ear. "One puff won't turn you into a delinquent."

"Can we not do this here?"

He straightened, irritated. "We’re just having fun."

"I know. It’s just... not my idea of fun."

His smile faded. "Right. I forgot. You don’t like anything messy."

"That’s not true."

"You say that, but every time things get a little wild, you check out. You sit on the couch and stare at your phone until it’s time to leave."

"Because I don’t want to pretend to enjoy something that makes me uncomfortable."

Lando’s mouth opened, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he turned back toward the crowd. She watched him go, heart sinking.

The fight came later that week.

He showed up late to dinner, still wearing a wristband from some club he never mentioned he was going to. She had cooked for once, tried to make something that wasn’t takeout.

Lando kicked his shoes off and tossed his keys onto the table like nothing was wrong.

"You look nice," he said, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

"You’re late."

He pulled back. "Traffic."

She just stared at him. The lie was too easy.

"You said we’d have a quiet night."

"And we are."

"You went to a party."

He grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge. "For like, an hour. Don’t make it a thing."

"You could’ve told me."

"I didn’t think I needed permission."

She bit the inside of her cheek. "That’s not what I said."

Lando set the bottle down harder than necessary. "Is this really about me being late, or is this about how I live my life again?"

She met his gaze. "It’s about you never being fully present unless there’s a camera on or a drink in your hand."

He scoffed. "There it is."

"There’s what?"

"The judgment."

"It’s not judgment."

"You keep saying that, but every word out of your mouth is just a more polite way of saying you think I’m a screw-up."

"I just think your... lifestyle. It isn’t healthy."

He blinked, like she’d slapped him. "Wow. That’s what you think of me?"

"It’s just I think you’re constantly burning the candle at both ends and pretending it doesn’t affect you."

He laughed, but it wasn’t light. "So now I need saving?"

"That’s not what I said."

"You didn’t have to."

She stepped closer, trying to stay calm. "I’m not trying to change you, Lando. I just want you to see that this isn’t sustainable."

"You think I haven’t heard that before?" His voice was rising now. "From my team, my parents, everyone who wants a piece of me? I don’t need to hear it from you too."

"I’m not trying to pile on, Lando. I just—"

"What? Want me to grow up? Stay in? Light some candles and watch a movie like everything’s normal?"

"Yes," she said softly. "Sometimes I do."

He stared at her, something shifting in his face. "You want to fix me."

"No," she whispered. "I want to reach you. But you’re always somewhere else."

He laughed, bitter. "That’s rich, coming from you."

"What’s that supposed to mean?"

"I want you to stop treating me like some broken kid who needs to be fixed."

"That’s not fair. I didn’t mean anything like that-"

"You know what’s not fair? You walking around acting like you’re better than all of it. Too perfect to ever mess up. Too perfect to actually live a little."

"I don’t think I’m perfect."

"You act like it. You sit there with your tea and your books and your damn moral compass, and every time I step out of line, you look at me like I’m some kind of disappointment. And now you’re trying to control how I live?"

"I’m not trying to control you."

"You told me my lifestyle isn’t healthy. You basically just said you’re embarrassed by the way I live."

"I said I’m worried."

"Yeah, sorry you can’t mold me into someone you like."

Her throat tightened. "I don’t want to mold you. I want to feel like I’m not losing you to a version of yourself you don’t even like."

"Don’t psychoanalyze me. You don’t get it."

"Partying every night isn’t healthy!"

He went still.

"There it is again!" His tone turned sharp, defensive.

"I think you’re drowning and pretending you’re swimming."

His jaw clenched. "And I think you’re a control freak who’s afraid of anything she can’t schedule two weeks in advance."

"Wow."

"Yeah. Wow."

There was a long pause. Neither of them moved.

Finally, she spoke. "I can’t keep pretending I’m okay with this."

Lando’s jaw tensed. "Then maybe you’re not the person I should be with."

She swallowed hard. "Maybe I’m not."

The silence between them stretched out like a chasm.

He picked up his keys again.

"Let me know when you’re ready to stop looking at me like I’m a problem. I’ll leave you to your quiet night" he said, and walked out the door.

She didn’t cry. Not right away.

Instead, she sat on the couch alone, staring at the plate of food that had gone cold hours ago.

She hadn’t meant to make him feel small. She just wanted him to slow down long enough to see that not everything good had to be loud and fleeting.

But maybe that was the problem.

He didn’t want quiet. And she couldn’t keep pretending to love the noise.

[gojoest]

“there is never a moment in which i do not adore you” — g. satoru

established relationship, gn!reader, tooth rotting fluff bc i love him terribly and sickeningly, the title quote is from marie antoinette’s letter to axel von fersen, dividers by @/cafekitsune

it is way past midnight when the door clicks open. your ears catch on the barely audible sound of keys being carefully placed on the counter.

satoru is home, finally — after a long day of duties, teaching, meetings and missions, he made it back to you.

and he is being quiet, stepping lightly and silently sneaking in — he doesn’t want to wake you up.

but you are awake anyway, curled up in your shared bed. the shirt he slept in last night clutched against your chest; it smells like him still, and it brings a sense of safety and comfort knowing that he was here this morning, wearing the cloth hugged between your arms; that he took it off and placed it there, on the bed, to wear again tonight.

you know before he makes his way to the bathroom for a quick shower to wash the weight of the day off his body, he will come to give you a kiss. he always does. his lips trace the skin on your cheek ever so delicately, in fact so delicately one could barely feel them even when awake.

but you know, you can feel his breath on you. because you are never sleeping when he does this — just pretending. and part of him knows it — he can easily tell if you’re in slumber or not based on your breathing patter alone that he came to know in his marrow — and his lips curl into a silent smile, soft and loving, grateful to have you wait for him. thankful that there is one person looking forward for his return. that there is a home he can go back to. that there is you.

maybe he also knows that you can never sleep without him. and that the bed feels like an unfamiliar place, the emptiness on the mattress — unnatural. that it makes you restless. that you toss and turn, similar to when you are laid on a new bed you’re not accustomed to, perhaps in someone else’s house or at a hotel, and you can’t fall asleep because it’s not your bed. that you wait, for him to come and make the bed familiar and warm, make it yours again.

maybe this is why he’s been coming back home earlier, or at least trying to, but it’s not always up to him.

“you’re back”, you mutter, turning around to catch him just as he was about to plant a soft peck on the side of your face but paused to take your scent into his lungs. your nose nuzzles against his, arm snaking around his neck and pulling him closer to draw his lips near yours, and the kiss both of you have longed to taste all day finally comes to light.

if yearning was a sound, it would be that of the air you both breath in from the closed space between your faces just the moment before the kiss. the air that enters through your nostrils and lets the scent of the other in, and once it reaches your senses it births a moan in your throats. like that of a thirsty man in the blazing hot desert tasting water for the first time in days.

“you are awake”, he pulls away, but remains connected with you. forehead glued to yours, blindfold off and eyes gazing softly into yours in the dark. he can see you perfectly, and he is afraid to blink. because anytime he does, it robs him of the time he could spend looking at you.

“i just happened to be”, you tell him, fingers gently scratching at his undercut, earning a soft hum from him followed by a “you’re a bad liar, but keep practicing”

you chuckle. he always sees through you.

satoru is leaning over you, avoiding to even sit by your side in his work clothes. the idea of possibly bringing residuals of the curses he’s exorcised that day into the place that he considers closest to heaven is just unacceptable to him. not that he’s ever admitted this, but it’s a pattern you’ve noticed.

but to you it doesn’t matter. you love the mess in him.

you wrap your other hand around him, an attempt to drag him into the bed. “come closer”, you coo.

he is resisting. “i need a shower first — i am sweaty. i smell bad”

“my satoru never smells bad”, you correct him.

he giggles. “you say that because i am your satoru”

“first, there’s no way you can ever be someone else’s satoru. second, please do not ruin my romantic moment — it’s rude”, you pout with a heavy sigh, but playfully.

this time he laughs — he’s missed this banter with you all day.

you can tell by the way his body shivers that he is wavering. his conscience might be in a dilemma right now whether he should break his rule just this once or not, but his muscles aren’t — they always lead him to you by default, like muscle memory. the fight is pointless. this one, he will lose. and he knows it.

and he caves.

the mattress sinks down as his massive self lays himself next to you, taking you into his arms. your forehead buried in his chest, his lips glued to the top of your head — you stay unmoving, in silence. in the dark, but in the warm — just breathing together.

a sigh breaks from his throat when you shift away from him. only slightly though — just to look at him.

“so— where was i before you interrupted my lovely speech”

“you were saying that your satoru never smells bad”, caressing your cheek he reminds you.

“right”, you nod, and then continue — “of course, it is because my satoru is mine — what a silly thing to state the obvious. but also because—“, you pause, charging your lips towards his, not to kiss. but to feed him your love, to pour it from your mouth and into his — “…because, there is never a moment in which i do not adore you”

a smile grows on your lips, but it isn’t your smile — you can feel his lips softly stretch against yours, curl up from the corners — it belongs to him.

and then the smile grows into a kiss, swallowing the love you give him. all of it, hungrily.

“i’ll take the day off tomorrow”, he pulls away, barely.

you smile, “i’ll make breakfast”

satoru thinks he got too lucky with you. and maybe he did.

but so did you, with him.