#meant for someone else‚ but still: to get even that small taste of it | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sixeyesonathiel · 3 months ago

Text

no one else needed to notice

pairing — g. satoru x gn reader

synopsis : you weren’t looking for connection when you replied to a quiet post on a jujutsu forum. but what starts as late-night messages with a stranger turns into something warmer, steadier, and unexpectedly real.

sometimes, the person who sees you best is the one you’ve never even seen. until now.

tags –> one shot, 6.4k wc, non-canon compliant au, internet strangers to lovers, emotional intimacy, mutual comfort, secret voice calls, found each other online, reader is from kyoto, soft gojo satoru, extremely mild angst with a happy ending, first kisses, lighthearted moments, a little rain, stupid jokes and late-night feelings, love is about compromise, rip to gakuganji’s office chair. inspired by the song ‘no one noticed’ by the marias.

a/n : writing this made me bawl, to be loved is to be known. there’s just something about being understood by a stranger and finding solace in each other that gets to me. being known & being loved without being seen in a literal sense? sign me up :P i wanna sob because my pookie bear deserved better aaaaa

red string of fate collection m.list

you didn’t mean to answer the thread.

you never do, usually. the forum’s a chaotic sprawl, a digital graveyard of encrypted usernames—like “void_eater69” or “cursed_snacc”—and timestamps mangled by timezones no one bothers to sync. posts pile up like offerings to some forgotten curse: cryptic rants about residual energy, half-baked spell theories, or someone whining about a shikigami that won’t behave. it’s not a place for real talk. more like a dive bar at the edge of a cursed womb, where everyone’s nursing their own ghosts and shouting into the void.

but that night, your room was too quiet. the kind of quiet that creeps under your skin, heavy as a grade-two’s miasma. kyoto’s winter had settled in, and your tiny apartment felt like a box of stale air, the radiator hissing like it was mocking you. your phone glowed on the tatami, a stubborn rectangle of light that wouldn’t let you sleep. your brain was a traitor, replaying the day’s monotony: a sparring session where you’d nearly twisted your ankle, a debrief that dragged until your eyes glazed, the faint smear of cursed blood you’d scrubbed from your sleeve hours ago.

you scrolled the forum to shut it up. past a thread arguing if reversed cursed technique could fix a hangover. past some guy asking if spirits could get drunk—seriously, dude?—and then you saw it. buried under the noise, posted hours ago, short and raw, no punctuation, no pretense:

“does it ever get easier”

you stared at it, your thumb hovering over the screen. the words sat there, small and unadorned, like a stone someone had left on a path. most posts like that were traps—bait for trolls or vents that fizzled into nothing. but this one felt… different. quiet, like a whisper you weren’t meant to hear. genuine, like it had slipped out before the poster could rethink it.

you broke your own rule. typed back without letting yourself second-guess: “define easier. like, emotionally? logistically? existentially?”

he replied in under a minute.

“yes”

and just like that, you were in it.

at first, it was anonymous, the way the forum always is. two sorcerers dodging missions and boredom, tossing words into the dark like talismans. you didn’t know his name, and he didn’t ask yours. just screen names—yours a string of numbers and a bad pun, his something absurd involving mochi and a curse word. you talked about things you’d never say out loud, not to the kyoto higher-ups or the first-years who looked at you like you had all the answers. like how a room full of people could still make you feel like a ghost, drifting just outside their orbit. or how debriefs left a sour taste in your mouth, like you’d bitten into something rotten—guilt, maybe, or just the weight of it all.

he was… unexpected. not funny in a cheap, knock-knock way, but ridiculous, like he’d turned life into a stage and forgotten the script. his jokes were elaborate, stupid, sprawling things, like he was performing for a crowd that didn’t exist. one night, he typed: “i think the veil’s thinning. saw a tanuki trying to do taxes with a stolen abacus.”

you snorted into your pillow, the sound loud in your empty room. “should’ve let it,” you wrote back, fingers flying across the screen. “might’ve gotten a better refund than me. my last one barely covered a coffee.”

he sent a laughing emoji—unironically, the dork—and you could almost hear him cackling somewhere far away. it made you grin, your face half-buried in a blanket that smelled faintly of incense and yesterday’s takeout.

the chats kept going, stretching across weeks. you’d be slumped on your couch, boots still muddy from a mission, when your phone buzzed with his latest nonsense. “ever wonder if curses dream?” he’d ask, and you’d fire back, “only if they’re dreaming of paperwork. that’s the real nightmare.” he’d reply with a string of sobbing emojis, and you’d roll your eyes, but you’d keep typing, because somehow, it felt like he got it.

then came the voice calls.

always at night, when kyoto’s streets went still and the stars pressed against your window like they had something to prove. he’d call from somewhere else—somewhere alive with sound. sometimes it was traffic, a distant honk cutting through his laugh. sometimes it was the ocean, waves hissing like they were gossiping with him. once, a vending machine jingled, coins clinking as he muttered, “what do you want? melon soda? or that sweet corn one that tastes like regret?”

you laughed, your voice muffled by the scarf you hadn’t bothered to unwind from your neck. “melon,” you said, curling your knees to your chest on the couch. “corn’s for masochists.”

“noted,” he said, and you heard the machine whir, then a can crack open. “one melon soda for the meanest sorcerer i know.”

“flatterer,” you deadpanned, but your lips twitched, and you tucked the phone closer to your ear, like his voice could fill the cold corners of your apartment.

you never asked where he was. he never asked your name. it was a rule you didn’t need to speak—just a line neither of you crossed, because crossing it might break whatever this was. but he was your favorite stranger, the one who made the nights less heavy, the one whose voice felt like a tether when everything else was slipping.

the thing was, you weren’t miserable.

not exactly.

just tired, the kind of tired that sleep doesn’t touch, like a curse that’s sunk its claws too deep. your life at the kyoto branch was a loop: wake to the chime of your battered alarm clock, spar until your muscles burned, assist on missions that left your hands smelling of ash and ozone, report to gakuganji in a room that always felt too small. sometimes you mopped blood from training mats, the sponge heavy in your grip. sometimes you taught theory to first-years, their eyes glazed as you droned about residuals, your voice echoing off chalk-dusted walls.

sometimes you lay on your futon, staring at the ceiling’s chipped paint, wondering if you used to feel bigger than this—brighter, like the sky before a storm.

he changed that.

not in a loud way, not at first. it was softer, quieter, like the sound of his breath hitching when you said something sharp. like finding a rhythm with someone, even if your steps didn’t quite match. he’d ask you things no one else did, questions that felt like they were peeling back your edges.

“what color’s the sky in kyoto tonight?” he’d say, and you’d lean against your window, phone cradled against your shoulder, and answer, “pink, like someone spilled their drink on it.” he’d laugh, and you’d feel it in your ribs, a small, stubborn warmth.

“do curses feel pain?” he asked once, his voice muffled, like he was chewing something—probably mochi, knowing him.

you hummed, picking at a loose thread on your sleeve. “maybe. depends if they’re sentient enough to know they’re hurting. what do you think?”

“dunno,” he said, and you heard a rustle, like he was flopping onto a bed somewhere. “but i hope they don’t. makes it easier to sleep after.”

you didn’t reply right away, just listened to him breathe, steady and slow. “you’re softer than you act,” you said finally, and he made a noise—half scoff, half laugh—that made you smile into the dark.

he loved dumb questions, too. “is it immoral to laugh when a cursed spirit looks like a balloon animal?” he asked one night, and you could hear the grin in his voice, like he was picturing it.

you were sprawled on your floor, a half-eaten onigiri beside you, and you snorted so hard you nearly choked. “only if it’s a good balloon animal,” you said. “like, if it’s trying to be a dog, you gotta respect the effort.”

“fair,” he said, and you heard a clink—probably another soda can. “you’re funnier than you think, y’know.”

“and you’re weirder than you sound,” you shot back, but your cheeks were warm, and you pulled your knees up, hugging them like you could trap the feeling.

the best moments, though, were when he dropped the act. when the theatrics fell away, and his voice went low, soft, like he was afraid the words might break if he pushed too hard. one night, after a call that had stretched past midnight, he said, “sometimes… i think i only exist when i’m useful to someone. is that stupid?”

you were half-asleep, your phone slipping against your cheek, but his voice pulled you back. you blinked at the ceiling, the shadows pooling like spilled ink. “no,” you said, quiet but firm. “it’s just sad.”

he laughed—not the emoji kind, not the loud kind, but something small, like he was letting out a breath he’d been holding. “you don’t pull punches, huh?”

“you’d hate it if i did,” you said, and you heard him shift, like he was nodding to himself.

“yeah,” he murmured. “i would.”

it went on like that for months, long enough that you started noticing things. the way he yawned before he said goodnight, a sleepy hum that made your chest ache. the pauses in his sentences when he was choosing his words, like he wanted to get it right for you. the way his voice warmed when you rambled about something small—like the stray cat outside your building that kept stealing your bento scraps, or the time you’d botched a talisman and spent an hour scrubbing ink from your hands.

he’d listen, really listen, he always does and then say something like, “bet that cat’s got better taste than gakuganji,” and you’d laugh until your sides hurt.

you didn’t ask who he was. he didn’t push for your name. it was perfect, fragile, like a bubble you were both afraid to pop.

until one night, your phone buzzed, and it wasn’t the usual late-hour joke or random question. it was a call, his name—or rather, the string of nonsense characters he used—lighting up your screen. you hesitated, thumb grazing the accept button, then pressed it, curling into your futon as the kyoto cold gnawed at the window.

“hey,” he said, his voice softer than usual, like he was speaking through a held breath. there was no hum of traffic tonight, no vending machine jingle—just a faint rustle, maybe his sleeve brushing the phone, and a stillness that made your pulse loud in your ears.

you didn’t answer right away, just listened to him breathe, steady but careful, like he was standing on the edge of something. your apartment felt smaller, the night pressing against the glass, cold and heavy, like it was waiting for you to move first.

“can I…” he started, then paused, a hitch in his voice you hadn’t heard before. “can I visit you?”

you froze, fingers tightening around the phone until it dug into your palm. the words landed like a stone dropped into still water, rippling through the quiet. your eyes flicked to the window, where the dark seemed to lean closer, listening. your heart did something stupid, tripping over itself, and you bit your lip, hard enough to sting.

“like… here?” you said finally, voice low, almost lost in the radiator’s hiss. “in kyoto?”

“yeah,” he said, and it was quiet but firm, like he’d been turning the idea over for hours before daring to say it. “i’m nearby. for a mission. thought… maybe. if it’s okay with you.”

you swallowed, your free hand fidgeting with the blanket’s edge, twisting it until the fabric bunched. you didn’t know what he looked like. he didn’t know your face. but the thought of him—your stranger, your tether—standing in your city, his voice no longer trapped in static… it made your chest ache, like a curse unraveling too fast to catch.

“we don’t even know what we look like,” you said, softer now, half a shield, half a truth, your breath catching as you spoke.

he was quiet for a moment, and you heard a faint shift, like he was leaning closer to the phone, shutting out the world. “i know,” he said, voice low, steady, like a vow he hadn’t meant to make. “but I think I’d recognize you anyway.”

your lips parted, but no sound came out. your heart stumbled again, and you pressed your knees to your chest, the blanket slipping to the floor. you wanted to deflect, to toss back something sharp, but his words sat there, heavy and warm, like they’d carved out a space you didn’t know you’d left empty.

“you’re weird,” you managed, but it came out too soft, too honest, and you winced, tucking your chin to hide the smile you couldn’t stop.

he exhaled, a sound that was half-laugh, half-relief, like he’d been holding it in all night. “you’re mean,” he said, and you could hear the curve of his mouth, faint but real, unguarded in a way that made your ribs tighten.

“you like it,” you said, voice barely above a whisper, and your fingers hovered over the phone’s edge, like you could reach through it if you tried.

he didn’t answer right away. just breathed, slow and close, and when he spoke, it was so quiet it felt like a secret. “yeah,” he said. “i do.”

the call didn’t end, not yet. you stayed there, listening to the silence stretch, his breath a steady rhythm against the night’s weight. and that ache in your chest grew, sharp and warm, like it was making room for something you weren’t ready to name.

that morning, when he texted for the address, you gave him the name of a small café tucked just off the main street near kyoto campus—nothing fancy, barely even marked, just a warm pocket of space where time slowed down and no one asked too many questions. not because you were scared. not exactly. but the idea of him—this faceless voice, this stranger you somehow knew better than people you’d seen every day—being in your space, standing in your doorway, seeing your real life... it made something flutter behind your ribs. something you couldn’t name without sounding stupid.

it rained that day. not hard. just the kind of persistent drizzle that painted everything in shades of grey, slicked the pavement until it gleamed like wet ink, and made your sleeves cling to your wrists. your shoes scuffed softly against the tile as you pushed open the café door. inside, the air was warm, thick with the smell of coffee beans and something sweet rising from the back oven.

a couple of students in uniforms sat by the counter, arguing in low tones about spell theory. the barista barely looked up as you ordered your usual, fingers drumming a quiet rhythm against the side of your phone. you picked the window seat. always the window seat. you liked watching people go by, liked the illusion of being somewhere else.

time passed.

you checked your phone once. then again. your fingers curled around your cup, heat seeping into your palms. condensation fogged the glass. you were early. or maybe he was late. or maybe the whole thing was a joke you’d fallen for, like a damn idiot. your heart did this stupid stuttering thing every time the bell over the door moved.

then it rang.

and he walked in.

white hair, slightly mussed from the rain. the tiniest drop caught in his bangs, trailing down toward the curve of his cheek. his sunglasses sat low on the bridge of his nose, and he was tall—taller than you'd expected, even though you should’ve known—and dressed like he didn’t care how loud he looked. hands in his pockets. shoulders loose. like he’d just wandered in off some catwalk that ended in your direction.

he scanned the room once, those ridiculous glasses perched low on his nose, catching the café’s dim light like twin moons. his eyes—sharp, too sharp for any one place to hold—skipped over the students bickering about cursed residuals, the barista wiping down a steaming espresso machine, and landed square on you.

his smile cracked open, instant, effortless, like the sun spilling through a storm cloud.

“hey.”

you froze mid-sip, your mug hovering an inch from your lips. your eyes locked on his, and the world did that thing where it shrinks to a pinprick, all cinnamon air and rain-slicked windows fading out. the ridiculous truth hit you like a badly timed talisman:

holy shit. that’s gojo satoru.

your mouth opened. closed with a soft click. opened again, because apparently your brain decided to blue-screen.

“you’re fucking kidding me.”

his grin stretched wider, all teeth and mischief, as he sauntered across the floor toward you. long limbs moved like they were choreographed, raindrops clinging to his white hair like tiny glass beads, scattering light. he shoved his hands deeper into his coat pockets, shoulders hiked just enough to betray how stupidly pleased he was with himself.

“surprise?” he said, voice lilting like he’d just pulled off the world’s dumbest magic trick.

you blinked, unblinking, your fingers tightening around the mug until the heat stung. your face was doing something—probably a mix of shock and are you serious right now—because his laugh bubbled up, low and warm, like he’d caught you red-handed.

“you—i—you’re you,” you stammered, eloquent as a first-year tripping over their own incantation.

“i am,” he said, tilting his head. a single droplet slid from his bangs, tracing the sharp line of his jaw before dripping onto the floor. “last i checked, anyway. unless you’ve got a better theory.”

“why didn’t you tell me?”

he paused a step from the table, one hand escaping his pocket to scratch at the back of his neck. his glasses slipped lower, and you caught a flash of those eyes—crystal blue, too bright, like staring into a clear sky after a curse’s miasma. he nudged the frames up with a knuckle, but then, in a move that made your breath hitch, he tugged them off completely. folded them with a click. set them on the table like a dare.

“didn’t wanna scare you off,” he said, quieter now, his gaze unguarded and pinning you in place.

yo squinted, lips pressing into a thin line to choke back a snort. your eyebrow arched, sharp as a well-placed shikigami. “you thought being yourself would scare me off?”

he shrugged, weight shifting from one foot to the other, his coat swaying like it was in on the joke. “it usually does.”

you blinked again, slower, and something in your chest unknotted. for a split second, he looked… smaller. not the gojo satoru who could level a city block with a wink, but a guy who wasn’t sure if he was too much or not enough. his hair was a mess, sticking up where he’d ruffled it outside, and his eyelashes were wet, catching the light like they were trying to apologize.

you set your mug down with a soft clink, the ceramic warm against your palm, and gestured to the chair across from you. “sit down, satoru.”

his grin snapped back, bright as a spark talisman igniting. “yes, ma’am.”

he dropped into the chair with all the grace of a cat knocking over a vase—legs sprawling, then tucking back, elbows hitting the table before he leaned forward like he was about to spill a secret. his coat bunched at his shoulders, and he smelled faintly of rain and something sweeter, like the mochi he’d probably swiped from a vendor on the way here.

“this place smells like cinnamon and potential,” he said, voice dipping low, conspiratorial. he waggled his brows, and you swore his eyes flickered with a tease no technique could replicate. “you sure you don’t wanna marry me right now? i’d get you a ring pop. blue raspberry, your favorite.”

you snorted, the sound punching out before you could stop it. your hand flew to your mouth, but it was too late—he’d heard it, and his whole face lit up like he’d won a bet with the universe.

“you remembered that?” you said, leaning back in your chair, arms crossing like you could shield yourself from his smugness. your lips twitched, betraying you.

“‘course i did,” he said, tapping his temple with a long finger. “you said it during that 2 a.m. ramble about cursed vending machines. blue raspberry ring pop, ‘cause it stains your tongue and freaks out the first-years.” he leaned closer, voice dropping to a mock-whisper. “i pay attention, y’know.”

your cheeks warmed, and you hated how your mouth kept trying to smile. you kicked his shin lightly under the table, just enough to make him yelp—a dramatic ow that had the students at the counter glancing over. “you’re impossible,” you muttered, but your eyes flicked to his glasses, still folded neatly beside his elbow. “and put those back on, idiot. you’re gonna give yourself a migraine squinting like that.”

he blinked, then laughed—a real one, not the showy kind he threw at missions or bad jokes. “what, you worried about my eyes now?” he said, but he didn’t reach for the glasses. instead, he propped his chin on one hand, staring at you like you were the only thing worth seeing. “i took ‘em off for you, y’know. six eyes makes everything loud—too many colors, too many things. but you…” he trailed off, and his voice softened, like he was peeling back a layer he usually kept buried. “you’re clearer without ‘em.”

your breath caught, and for a second, you forgot how to be a smart-ass. your fingers fidgeted with the edge of your sleeve, and you ducked your head, letting your hair fall forward to hide the heat creeping up your neck. “that’s sweet,” you said, voice dry but wobbling just a fraction. “also stupid. you’ll strain yourself, and i’m not dragging your whining ass to a healer when you’re seeing double.”

he grinned, undeterred, and flicked a sugar packet across the table at you. it bounced off your knuckles, and you swatted it back without thinking, starting a lazy game of tabletop tag. “would you rather i didn’t see you?” he asked, catching the packet mid-air with infuriating ease. his fingers were quick, precise, like he could’ve dismantled a curse in the same motion. “c’mon, admit it. you like being seen.”

you rolled your eyes, but your lips curved, and you couldn’t quite stop it. “i like when you’re not a headache,” you shot back, snatching the sugar packet from his hand. you tore it open, dumping half into your coffee just to mess with him—he’d gagged once during a call when you’d done it, claiming it was “coffee abuse.” now, he just watched you with a smirk, like he was cataloging every move you made.

“liar,” he said, stretching his arms above his head until his shirt rode up, flashing a sliver of pale skin above his waistband. you looked away, quick, and he noticed—his smirk grew positively diabolical. “you told me last week you like my voice best at midnight. all raspy and annoying, you said. direct quote.”

you groaned, sinking lower in your chair, but your foot nudged his ankle under the table, a traitor to your own defenses. “i was delirious from a mission,” you said, pointing a stirrer at him like a tiny sword. your brows furrowed, but your eyes were bright, dancing with the kind of energy you hadn’t felt in weeks. “and you were the one who kept talking about cursed tanukis stealing your socks, so who’s the real mess here?”

he laughed again, loud enough to make the barista glance over with a raised brow. his hand dropped to the table, fingers drumming a restless rhythm, and you noticed how his pinky brushed the edge of your mug—like he was testing how close he could get without you pulling away. “guilty,” he said, tilting his head until his bangs fell into his eyes. he shook them away, and the motion was so boyish, so normal, it made your heart do a stupid little flip. “but you laughed. i heard it. best sound in the world, by the way.”

you froze, stirrer halfway to your mouth, and your eyes flicked up to meet his. he wasn’t grinning now—just watching you, steady and soft, like the rain outside had melted all his edges. your lips parted, but no snark came out. instead, you reached across the table, picked up his glasses, and slid them toward him with a pointed look. “put these on before you ruin yourself,” you said, but your voice was quieter, like you were afraid of breaking whatever this was. “i’m not worth a headache, satoru.”

he didn’t touch the glasses. instead, he caught your hand before you could pull it back, his fingers warm and a little calloused, curling around yours like they’d been waiting to. “disagree,” he said, simple as that, and his thumb brushed your knuckle, light as a feather. “you’re worth a lot of things.”

you swallowed, and the café seemed to hum quieter—the clink of cups, the murmur of students, all fading into a soft blur. your pulse was loud, though, thudding in your ears as you looked at him. his hair was drying now, curling at the ends, and his eyes were still bare, unguarded, like he’d stripped away every barrier just to sit here with you. your lips twitched into a smile, small but real, and you squeezed his hand once before letting go.

“you’re gonna regret saying that when i steal your last mochi later,” you said, leaning back to break the spell, but your foot stayed pressed against his under the table, warm and steady.

he gasped, clutching his chest like you’d cursed him. “not the mochi,” he wailed, but his eyes crinkled, and he leaned forward, stealing your stirrer to twirl it between his fingers like a baton. “fine, but only if you say ‘satoru, you’re my hero’ first. gotta earn it.”

“in your dreams, pretty boy,” you shot back, but you were laughing now, soft and easy, and the sound made his whole face soften, like he’d been chasing it all along.

you stayed in that café for hours, trading sugar packets and stupid stories, your shoes bumping under the table, his glasses still untouched. the rain slowed to a drizzle, painting the windows in lazy streaks, but neither of you noticed. the world was just this—cinnamon air, warm mugs, and the way he looked at you like you were the only thing he’d ever wanted to see clearly.

and somewhere in between the rain tapering off and your drinks going lukewarm, something shifted. not abruptly. not dramatically. but gently, like gravity starting to lean in a different direction. he was exactly the same—annoying, charming, impossible—but there was a quiet steadiness beneath it all. like he looked at you and saw not just a person, but a place. somewhere he could stay.

all while you were still trying to wrap your head around the fact that gojo satoru had been the idiot on the forum sending you tanuki memes at 3am.

he called you a cryptid. you called him emotionally constipated. he told you your voice was the only one he actually waited to hear. you told him he needed better taste. he laughed so hard he knocked his knee on the underside of the table.

when the café finally closed, the barista shooing you out with a tired smile, satoru held the door open, his clear umbrella already unfurled against the drizzle. it was comically small for his ridiculous height, barely shielding his broad shoulders, but he angled it carefully, keeping the rain from kissing your hair. his sleeve darkened, soaked through where the mist clung, but he didn’t seem to care. the night was quiet, steeped in that velvet hush that trails a long rain, streetlights casting blurry halos through the mist, like half-forgotten curses glowing in the dark.

his footsteps matched yours, slow and deliberate, scuffing softly against the wet pavement. he didn’t need to adjust his stride—you noticed how he shortened it, just enough, like he was savoring every second of this walk. his fingers brushed yours once, a fleeting warmth against your knuckles. he didn’t grab your hand. brushed again, lingering, like a question he wasn’t sure he could ask. you didn’t pull away, your pinky curling slightly, grazing his, and the corner of his mouth twitched upward, like he’d caught a secret.

“can I see you again?” he asked, glancing down at you, his voice stripped of its usual swagger. it was quiet, raw, like a wish he’d whispered to the night before daring to say it aloud. his glasses slipped low, catching the streetlight’s gleam, and his eyes—too blue, too open—held yours like you were the only thing tethering him to the ground.

you tilted your head, pretending to mull it over, your lips pursing to hide the smile tugging at them. your scarf fluttered in the breeze, and you tugged it tighter, catching the way his gaze flicked to the motion, like he was memorizing it. “I’d kinda like it if you called me first,” you said, voice dry but warm, your eyes darting to his before skittering away.

his smile softened, reverent, like you’d handed him a talisman he hadn’t earned. he ducked his head, damp hair falling into his eyes, and pushed it back with a quick flick, scattering droplets. “yeah?” he said, and it was so soft, so hopeful, it made your chest ache like a bruise you didn’t mind.

“yeah,” you said, and your fingers brushed his again, deliberate this time, a spark in the quiet.

he didn’t kiss you. not yet. but the way he looked at you—head tilted, eyes tracing your face like he was mapping a new constellation—felt louder than any words. like maybe, finally, he’d found the place he was meant to land, and you were standing right there beside him.

you kept walking, the umbrella tilting as he leaned closer, his shoulder brushing yours. the mist curled around you like a veil, and he started humming—some off-key pop song he’d probably heard on a mission, the kind you’d mocked him for liking during one of your calls. you shot him a look, eyebrow arched, and he only grinned, utterly unrepentant.

“you’re gonna ruin my reputation,” you muttered, but your lips twitched, and you nudged his arm with your elbow, just enough to make him sway.

“too late,” he said, voice lilting like he was sharing a conspiracy. “you laughed at my tanuki tax joke. you’re already doomed.”

you snorted, the sound sharp in the quiet, and he laughed—low, warm, like it was his favorite sound in the world. “you remember that?” you asked, glancing up at him, your scarf slipping to reveal the curve of your neck. his eyes followed it, then snapped back to your face, like he’d been caught.

“‘course I do,” he said, tapping his temple with a long finger. “filed it under ‘proof you’re secretly fun.’ right next to you admitting you like my midnight voice.”

your cheeks warmed, and you shoved your hands into your pockets, muttering, “delirious ramblings don’t count.” but you didn’t step away, and he didn’t either, the umbrella wobbling as he tilted it to keep you dry.

then he stopped walking, abrupt enough that you turned to face him, a brow raised. “what?”

his expression was unreadable, caught somewhere between mischief and something heavier, like he was about to say something that could tilt the world off its axis. his hair was wet now, silver strands curling at the ends, clinging to his forehead, and his glasses fogged slightly at the edges, making his eyes look softer, closer.

“come work in tokyo,” he said, the words spilling out like they’d been waiting all night.

you blinked, your breath catching. “satoru.”

“no, I’m serious,” he said, stepping closer, the umbrella dipping until a stray droplet grazed his cheek. he didn’t wipe it away, just kept looking at you, earnest in a way that made your throat tight. “same uniform, better pay, vending machines that don’t eat your coins. plus—” he leaned in, voice dropping to a mock-whisper—“you get me. scientifically proven to make life less boring.”

you laughed, sharp and startled, and it broke the tension like a snapped thread. “you’re the cause of my stress,” you said, poking his chest with a finger, your nail catching on his damp coat.

“and I’ll keep causing it,” he said, catching your hand before you could pull back. his fingers were warm, curling around yours, and he tilted his head, grin softening. “but I’ll be closer. way better than those kyoto stiffs who don’t know how you take your coffee.”

you froze, lips parting, because he did know—black, no sugar, the way you’d grumbled about during a 3 a.m. call when a mission had you wired. “you’re ridiculous,” you muttered, but your voice wobbled, and you didn’t yank your hand away.

“you don’t belong there,” he said, quieter now, his thumb brushing your knuckle, light as a wish. “they don’t see you. not like I do.”

you opened your mouth to deflect, to toss back something sharp, but nothing came. because he was right, and the way he looked at you—steady, unguarded, like you were more than a shadow in a debrief room—made it impossible to argue. you closed your mouth, exhaling through your nose, and he smiled, small and real, like he’d won something bigger than he’d planned.

two weeks later, after one strongly worded proposal, two forged signatures, and a very public argument with gakuganji that ended with a chair launched across a meeting room, satoru showed up at your apartment, leaning against the doorframe with a grin that screamed trouble. his coat was slung over one shoulder, and he held a crumpled paper bag that smelled suspiciously like mochi.

“congrats,” he said, voice bright as a spark. “you’re moving to tokyo. pack a toothbrush.”

you stared, one socked foot still on the tatami, a half-packed box of books at your side. “what the hell did you do?”

“justice,” he said, tossing the bag onto your counter, where it landed with a soft thud. he stepped inside, kicking the door shut with his heel, and winked like he’d just saved the world. “also, maybe a little bribery. you’re welcome.”

and just like that, you were tokyo’s problem now.

on your first day, he was waiting at the jujutsu tech gates, a paper flower crown perched crookedly on his head, petals fluttering in the breeze. he held a sign—scrawled in marker, “WELCOME HOME, CRYPTID”—and two matcha lattes, one wobbling dangerously in his hand as he waved like a kid spotting their best friend. the other sorcerers passing by shot him looks, but he didn’t care, his grin wide enough to rival the sun spilling over the campus.

you tried to scowl, to keep your cool, but your lips betrayed you, curling into a smile that felt like surrender. “you’re ridiculous,” you muttered, stepping into his orbit, close enough to smell the sugar on his breath and the faint cedar of his cologne.

he looped an arm around your shoulder, easy as breathing, like the space beside him had been yours all along. his lips brushed your temple, a fleeting warmth, then lingered, soft and deliberate, like he was testing if you’d pull away. you didn’t.

“and yet,” he said, voice low, teasing, “you never left.”

you rolled your eyes, but your head tilted into his touch, just a fraction, and you felt him exhale, like he’d been holding it in. “I’m not wearing the flower crown,” you said, flicking the sign with a finger, making it wobble in his grip.

“not yet,” he said, adjusting the crown on his head, petals catching the sunlight like tiny flames. he handed you a latte, the cup warm against your palm, and you noticed he’d drawn a tiny cat face on the lid—lopsided, with one ear missing, like your stray back in kyoto.

“not ever,” you shot back, but you took a sip, and the matcha was perfect—sweet, not too bitter, exactly how you’d mentioned liking it months ago during a call about bad coffee stands.

he laughed, a sound like summer breaking through clouds, and you looked up, catching the way his eyes crinkled, the way his hair glowed gold in the morning light. his thumb brushed your cheek, featherlight, like he was confirming you were real.

and then he kissed you—no fanfare, no dramatic build, just the quiet press of his mouth against yours, soft and certain. it was the kind of kiss that didn’t ask for permission because it already belonged. like the final word in a sentence you’d both been writing in secret.

his lips were warm, moving against yours with a reverence that made your breath catch. his hand cupped the side of your face, fingers splayed gently against your jaw as though afraid to press too hard, like you were something delicate, worth holding and not breaking.

your eyes fluttered closed. the air between you and the world seemed to hush, like even the breeze knew not to interrupt. your fingers curled into the fabric of his coat—soft, heavy, smelling faintly of rain and something that had to be him.

your knees went a little soft. your heart, stupid and loud, climbed up into your throat.

he pulled back just barely, but didn’t let go. his forehead rested against yours, breath fanning across your lips, sweet with matcha and something sweeter beneath it—something like hope.

his grin was criminal. boyish. blinding. like he’d stolen something precious and gotten away clean.

“told you you’d like tokyo,” he said, voice low, still laced with laughter.

and before you could even think of dodging, he plucked the flower crown from his head—now slightly lopsided from the kiss—and dropped it gently onto yours.

you blinked. scowled. felt your cheeks catch fire.

you shoved it back onto him, petals scattering onto his nose, and he sneezed, dramatic and loud, making a passing student jump. “shut up,” you said, but you were laughing now, full and bright, and his fingers laced with yours, warm and steady, like they’d never let go.

and in that moment—the sun dusting your cheeks, his hand anchoring you, you knew one thing for sure:

no one else needed to notice.

because he did.

and that was enough.

(and yeah, he’d submitted three fake transfer forms in your name, because apparently love means committing light fraud. you’d yell at him later. probably.)

tag list : @akeisryna @esotericsorrow @prettilyrisse @cherrymoon55 @linaaeatsfamilies @k0z3me

924 notes · View notes

iydiamartinx · 2 months ago

Text

SCREAM FOR ME

( slasher au )

Pairing: Dick Grayson x Reader

divider by: @cafekitsune & @iydiamartinx word count: 1.1k synopsis: The mask was his secret. But you were always his obsession. a/n: Again I know this is more suited for Halloween but I don't care, we're close enough lol

You’d always thought there was something magnetic about Dick Grayson.

People flocked to him wherever he went. He had that kind of pull that didn’t announce itself—just was. It lingered in the soft curl of his smile, the easy tilt of his head when he listened, the way his laugh lit up the room. He moved through the world like nothing could touch him, like he existed half a step above the rest of Gotham’s grime.

And somehow, he made you feel untouched too.

You remembered the first time his eyes found yours: blue as a summer sky, steady as a heartbeat, and so achingly gentle you forgot how to breathe. He made you feel like the only person in his world when his blue eyes found yours.

He was the kind of man who helped old ladies cross the street without waiting for thanks. Who kissed your knuckles like it was instinct, not performance. Who memorized your coffee order down to the syrup pumps and never once had to ask again.

So when the murders started—when Gotham became a hunting ground, and bodies began to turn up staged like something out of a macabre film set—you never once looked at him.

Why would you?

He was Dick. Gotham’s golden boy. The good one of his brothers.

Even when your neighbour turned up dead, blood-soaked and sprawled across their own welcome mat like a grotesque greeting card, you didn’t question him. Not when the news anchors said the killer was still out there. Not even when your friend Celia stopped answering her texts and you found her apartment door kicked in days later.

No. You didn’t connect the dots.

You were too busy clinging to the comfort of his arms, to the way he made you feel safe when the city outside promised only shadows. Too busy drowning in kisses that tasted like promises. Like safety.

Until the drawer.

You hadn’t meant to find it. You were just looking for your charger. But when you tugged open the third drawer in his dresser and felt the bottom shift under your fingers, instinct took over.

A false panel.

Underneath it: a sleek, black hunting knife. A small voice changer. And a stack of photographs bound by a crimson ribbon—Photos of you.

Some were candid—taken while you walked home from work or stood in line for coffee, smiling at strangers who had no idea how close danger lurked.

Others were… different. Intimate. Vulnerable. Through your bedroom window. From the alley across the street. One from inside the stairwell of your building, looking down on you as you unlocked your front door.

Your fingers trembled as you flipped through them.

Your throat tightened. You didn’t want to believe it. You tried to tell yourself it was for protection. That maybe someone else had been stalking you—and he just hadn’t told you yet because he didn’t want to scare you.

But deep down, you knew. And then you saw it.

Scrawled across the back of one—your face blurred slightly in motion, head turned mid-laugh—was a single word. Written in familiar looping script you’d seen a hundred times in birthday cards, notes on the fridge, the labels on your shared spice rack:

Mine.

You turned the photo over again, as if the word might vanish under your gaze. As if staring hard enough might twist its meaning into something else. Something harmless.

But it didn’t.

Because there was no protecting this. no innocent explanation for the hunting knife. No misunderstanding that could explain the surveillance photos. The voice changer. The false drawer. No explanation that made sense—except the one you didn’t want to face.

A dull roaring filled your ears. Your hand trembled. You didn’t even realize you were backing away until your shoulder bumped the wall. You had to get out. You had to—

You turned to run.

And froze.

“I was really hoping you wouldn’t find that.” He drawled.

You swallowed.

Dick stood in the doorway, one hand braced lightly against the frame, the other in the pocket of his jeans. Golden light spilled in behind him, bathing him in the warm glow of early evening. He looked like he always did—relaxed, unbothered, beautiful.

But there was something in his eyes. Something cold. Like ice beneath the surface of a still lake. You wouldn’t notice it at first. Not unless you were already sinking.

He took a step inside, letting the door click shut behind him.

“Is this a joke?” you asked, voice breaking. “Tell me it’s a joke.”

He tilted his head, almost amused. “Why would I joke about something so personal?”

Your heart pounded in your chest like a war drum. “You killed them.”

“I did.” He said it without pause. No stutter. No remorse. “But in my defense…” he began, stepping forward with the easy grace of a man who had no reason to run, “they were getting too close.”

You stepped back instinctively. Your legs hit the edge of the bed. You didn’t sit—you didn’t dare—but your escape was cut off, your breath coming fast now.

“Too close to what?” you whispered.

“To you.”

Your stomach twisted.

His gaze flicked down—just for a moment—as if seeing you now was almost painful. “Do you know how many people looked at you?” he asked, his voice like velvet rage. “How many touched you? Smiled at you like they had a right to?”

He took another step. You didn’t move.

“You think any of them could’ve loved you like I do?”

His smile softened again. Sweet. Unsettling.

“I couldn’t let them have you.”

You couldn’t breathe. “You lied to me.”

“I loved you,” he corrected. “Still do.”

Your lips parted, but no sound came out.

“You lied to me,” you finally managed, and it felt like a betrayal just to say it out loud.

“No.” His voice was gentle now. Almost tender. “I loved you. I still do.”

He was in front of you now. Close enough to touch. Close enough to—

No.

��But now you know,” he murmured. “So what happens next depends on you.”

Your heart thrashed in your chest, adrenaline kicking like it wanted to tear itself free. You stared at him. At the man you’d kissed goodnight. The man who made you laugh until your ribs hurt. The man who—

Slipped something into your hand.

You looked down.

The mask. Smooth. White. Featureless except for the empty, mocking grin.

Ghostface.

“You can scream,” he said, voice soft, almost coaxing. “Run. Tell them what I did.”

Then his smile shifted—just slightly. Enough.

“But then I’d have to kill you.”

You swallowed hard. Your fingers tightened involuntarily around the mask.

He leaned in, eyes never leaving yours.

“Or… you can stay. And never have to be afraid again.”

He loved you like a prayer. But maybe he prayed in blood.

So what would you choose?

To run from the devil in disguise…Or put on the mask—and stand at his side?

#dick grayson #nightwing #dick grayson x reader #dick grayson x you #richard grayson #dc comics #dc universe #dcu #dick grayson comfort #dick grayson x y/n #dick grayson x oc #batfam #nightwing x you #nightwing x reader #nightwing x y/n #slasher au #ghostface

468 notes · View notes

shaiyasstuff · 3 months ago

Text

in between | sylus

synopsis : You were kids once—mud-streaked promises, pinky swears, laughter echoing through summer nights. He said he’d never change. He lied. content : angst, highschool!au, emotionally constipated sylus

part one

He hadn’t meant to walk through the door.

He told himself he wouldn’t. Told his mom he had things to do—anything to get out of sitting at that table again. In that house. With you.

But somehow, his feet still led him there. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was cowardice. Maybe it was something he didn’t have the language for.

And when you opened the door—

He forgot how to breathe.

You looked different. Not in the way people mean when they say that.

You looked distant.

Like the girl who used to knock on his window was a lifetime behind you.

Like he was just someone you had to be polite to.

And he supposed he was.

He slipped inside quietly. Sat at the table like he still belonged there.

But he didn’t.

Everything looked the same—your mom’s dishes, the chipped ceramic bowl in the center, the floral napkins folded at every plate—but it all felt off. Tilted. Like stepping into a memory that no longer fit right.

When your mom brought him a plate and smiled like nothing had changed, he nodded.

“I couldn’t miss out on the fun. Sorry,”the words felt foreign in his mouth.

“You’re always welcome here,” she said. “You practically grew up with Y/N.”

And that’s when it started.

The tightening in his chest.

He glanced at you. Just for a moment.

You flinched.

It was subtle—barely noticeable to anyone else—but he saw it. The small twitch in your fingers, the way your eyes dropped to your soup like it suddenly demanded your full attention.

It was like watching a bridge collapse that he had spent years pretending was still standing.

He said nothing.

What could he say?

That he missed you? That he was sorry? That every time he saw your name on his phone, he wanted to respond, but the guilt sat so heavy in his stomach that he couldn’t even move?

He didn’t know how to explain the fear. The way he’d watched himself become the person he swore he’d never be—and then chose to stay silent because it was easier than admitting he’d already lost you.

The table erupted into laughter. Stories from childhood. The time he’d fallen from the treehouse. The brownies you once insisted had magical powers. The mud monster incident in the front yard.

You didn’t laugh.

You smiled, a tight little thing that didn’t quite reach your eyes. And then you went quiet again.

He stared at his plate.

He wanted to leave.

But he couldn’t.

Not when you were sitting across from him.

Not when every second was another echo of the past he didn’t know how to let go of.

Then your father said it.

We’re moving.

And the world tipped on its axis.

Your mother’s hand smoothed over your hair, pride in her voice as she said you’d gotten a full scholarship.

That you were leaving.

That this place—this table, this town—would soon be behind you.

His mother turned to him, smiling. “Boy, won’t you congratulate her?”

His head lifted.

And your eyes met his.

He saw it all in a heartbeat.

The hurt. The history. The question.

Do you still care?

He wanted to tell you that he never stopped caring.

That he didn’t know how to say it anymore without sounding like a lie.

That everything he’d pushed down, buried under pride and fear and time, was clawing its way to the surface now that you were slipping through his fingers.

Instead, he swallowed it down.

“‘Grats,” he said.

Barely above a whisper. As if the word itself tasted like ash.

He didn’t dare look at you again.

Because he knew—deep in the pit of his chest—that if he did, he might fall apart.

—•

“Welcome to your first class of Art History…”

Your new lecturer’s voice droned somewhere in the background, muffled and distant, like it was coming from underwater.

You barely registered the words as you sat in your seat near the window, head tilted slightly, gaze fixed on the unfamiliar skyline outside.

New city.

New campus.

New beginning.

And yet, you felt hollow.

The kind of hollow that textbooks couldn’t fill. The kind that sat quietly in your chest, not loud enough to break you—but present enough to remind you of what once was.

Class ended in a blur—names you wouldn’t remember, voices that didn’t belong to anyone yet.

You gathered your books and slung your bag over your shoulder, slipping through the crowded hallway without a word.

Your new home wasn’t far. Your parents had moved again—closer this time, just ten minutes from the college. They said it would make the transition easier.

You weren’t sure if anything could make it easier.

The sun was beginning to set as you stepped outside, casting the sky in shades of orange and soft gold.

You walked slowly, letting the light press against your skin, letting it warm the spaces inside you that still ached when they remembered.

It had been a year.

A year since you stood on that sidewalk. Since Sylus looked at you like he might say something—but didn’t.

Since you told him you were moving on.

You tilted your face toward the sky, breathing in the evening air.

The light touched the rooftops like it was trying to hold onto something.

It was a day like this when you last saw him.

You wondered, fleetingly, where he was. What he looked like now. If he still wore that stupid smirk when he didn’t know what to say.

If he still wasted his time chasing things that didn’t matter.

If he remembered you.

If you were still just someone.

Your thoughts were interrupted by the vibration in your pocket. You reached for your phone, swiping right without glancing at the screen.

“Hello?”

“Y/N!”

You flinched slightly, pulling the phone a few inches from your ear at the sudden volume. You smiled despite yourself.

“Jeez. Watch it, my ears,” you murmured, soft amusement lacing your tone.

“Sorry!” your old friend laughed on the other end, her voice familiar, grounding.

Then another voice came through, gentler.

“Hey. How’s your first day?”

Zayne.

You felt your expression soften, your gaze dropping to the pavement as a shy smile pulled at your lips.

“Yeah, it was great,” you said dryly. “New faces and strangers. Always fun.”

They both chuckled, and you could almost see them, hear them as if they were beside you again—back in that hallway, leaning against lockers, teasing each other before the world changed.

And just like that, the ache in your chest didn’t feel quite as heavy.

Not gone.

But not unbearable, either.

You kicked at the pebbles scattered beneath your shoes, the crunch of gravel beneath your steps grounding you as your thoughts drifted—uninvited—back to that night.

The night where the ache finally spilled over.

The night where your heart stopped pretending it was fine.

You hadn’t meant to cry. Not in front of him. Not like that.

But Zayne had caught you anyway, steady and quiet as your knees buckled beneath the weight you’d carried alone for too long.

You remembered the way he didn’t flinch when your tears soaked into his shirt.

The way he said nothing as you gripped the fabric like it was the only thing keeping you from falling apart completely.

The movie you were supposed to see faded into irrelevance. You never even made it to the ticket booth.

Instead, he led you to a nearby park, settled you gently onto a weathered bench under a flickering streetlamp, and disappeared for a moment—only to return with a popsicle.

Your favorite flavor.

You didn’t even know he remembered.

He didn’t ask.

Didn’t push.

He just sat there, beside you, his presence soft and unwavering. The kind of comfort that didn’t need words to mean everything.

Your fingers curled around the cold plastic wrapper, eyes still stinging as you looked up at him through the blur.

“I’m sorry, Zayne,” you whispered, voice thin and barely there.

You didn’t elaborate.

You didn’t have to.

He understood.

I can’t love you. Not when a part of me is still grieving someone who let me go too late.

He looked at you for a moment, quiet.

And then he smiled. Gentle. Knowing.

“I know,” he said softly.

And that was it.

No bitterness. No disappointment.

Just a boy sitting beside a girl whose heart was still in pieces—offering her something sweet to hold onto, even if it would melt between her fingers.

“Zayne and I are moving some stuff into our new apartment,” she said over the phone, her voice bright with barely-contained excitement.

You smiled to yourself, already picturing her bouncing around the living room with energy she couldn’t contain, while Zayne—patient and unbothered—quietly did all the heavy lifting.

“I’m happy for you guys,” you said, and you meant it.

Not long after that night at the park—the night you fell apart in Zayne’s arms without needing to explain—something between them had shifted.

It was sudden.

So sudden, in fact, that when they told you they were officially dating, you’d nearly dropped your cup. Your jaw had hit the metaphorical floor and stayed there for a solid minute.

But you weren’t bitter.

Not even a little.

You were surprised, sure. But not hurt. Not jealous. Just… oddly relieved.

You were happy for them.

Truly.

They deserved something soft. Something steady.

And as for you—

You were still learning how to carry the ache without letting it define you.

You were still learning how to grieve Sylus in the quiet moments—without clinging to what never had the chance to become anything more.

Now, there was no pressure. No guilt curled beneath your ribs whenever Zayne looked at you a little too long.

No unspoken tension waiting for answers you didn’t have.

Just space.

To breathe.

To feel.

To heal.

And maybe that, in its own quiet way, was progress.

“I can’t believe you’re not going to college,” you sighed teasingly into the phone, tucking it between your ear and shoulder as your steps echoed down the quiet street.

On the other end, she scoffed without missing a beat.

“I’m going to be an influencer. Don’t need a degree to go viral, babe.”

You laughed, the sound soft, fond. “Sure. Just don’t forget me when you’re famous.”

You could practically hear her salute through the phone, the way she probably struck a dramatic pose in the mirror while doing it.

You smiled.

These were the moments that felt easy—untouched by everything you’d left behind.

“Okay, I’m almost home,” you murmured as the familiar building came into view, its windows catching the last blush of evening light. “Miss you guys. Talk soon.”

Their voices overlapped in a mix of muffled Okays and Good lucks, and then—

Silence.

The call ended.

And you were alone again.

But for once, the quiet didn’t feel heavy.

Just… different.

A stillness that came after the storm.

“Honey, how was your first day?” your mom asked as you set your bag down on the kitchen counter with a quiet sigh.

She placed her cup of tea aside and moved toward you, arms already wrapping around your shoulders before you could answer.

Her embrace was warm and familiar—steady in the way only a mother’s could be. She pulled back just enough to ruffle your hair.

You groaned. “I spent two hours on that.”

“Oh, look at you,” she teased, smiling. “Already talking back to your mother.”

You watched as she moved around the counter, opening the fridge with that habitual grace as if this home wasn’t new and she knows exactly where everything was.

She pulled out a small plate and set it in front of you.

Cheesecake.

The good kind.

She leaned on her elbows across the counter, her expression playful as she wiggled her brows.

“So,” she said, voice laced with mischief, “any cute college boys I’ll be meeting soon?”

You scowled, grabbing your fork and taking a bite without answering.

“Mom. Don’t be gross.”

She laughed—soft and easy, like it was her favorite thing in the world to tease you.

And maybe it was.

A small part of you was grateful for it.

Because after everything, this—your parents, home, cheesecake—felt safe.

And you were learning to find comfort in the small things again.

“Class was ‘aight,” you said with a shrug, leaning your elbows on the kitchen counter. “Though… I do miss our old place.”

It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the whole truth either.

You missed more than the house.

You missed the memories carved into its walls.

The boy with silver-white hair who used to chase dandelions with you, laughing breathlessly as they floated just out of reach.

The front porch swing at his house, where you’d both sit cross-legged and argue over who cheated at checkers.

The warmth of late afternoons and the way time used to feel like it belonged to you.

But you didn’t say any of that.

You didn’t say his name.

Didn’t admit that sometimes, when the wind caught the edge of your sleeve just right, it felt like you were still back there—still ten years old and unaware that people grow apart even when they promise not to.

You weren’t going to admit you missed him.

Not out loud.

Some feelings were quieter than words.

And some losses hurt more when spoken.

—•

He didn’t plan to pull you away.

He didn’t even know what he’d say.

He just saw you—standing there, laughing beside someone else—and everything inside him twisted. Like something old and raw had been torn open again.

So he did what he always does.

He acted without thinking.

He dragged you behind the school like a coward looking for somewhere to hide his guilt.

You yanked your hand away the moment you stopped. Your voice cracked through the silence like a whip.

“What the hell?”

He didn’t flinch. Just stared. Trying to memorize the shape of your anger.

You looked…

God, you looked like everything he used to know.

“You can’t just—”

“Can’t just what?” he cut you off. Not because he didn’t want to hear it.

But because he already knew.

He knew what he’d done.

He just wasn’t ready to hear it from your lips.

Then your finger jabbed into his chest.

“Don’t act like you don’t know why.”

Your voice was shaking.

So was he.

“You don’t get to stand here and play victim. You don’t get to act like you weren’t the one who walked away.”

And you were right. Every word.

Still, he stood there. Still, he said nothing.

For a second, just a second, the air shifted.

You looked at him like you used to. But not with love. Not anymore.

With grief. With betrayal. With the kind of pain that comes from being forgotten.

“How long has it been?” you demanded. “How many years? How many nights have I spent alone just because you couldn’t bother to reply?”

He wanted to say something. Anything.

But his throat closed around the truth.

He saw every message.

He wanted to reply.

But the longer he stayed silent, the harder it became to come back.

And he hated himself for it.

You turned away. He thought you were done.

But you weren’t.

“Not cool enough? Not interesting enough? Was I just some boring neighborhood girl you outgrew once the real world started paying attention to you?”

He snapped out of it then, stepped closer before the shame could pin him in place.

“You’re not them,” he growled, the words tumbling out before he could stop them.

You couldn’t have been further from the truth.

You scoffed. “Then what am I, Sylus?”

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Because what were you, really?

The girl he thought about every time his phone lit up with a message he didn’t answer.

The one he still checked the window for at night out of a habit he never broke.

The only person who ever made him feel like more than just a name passed around by people who liked him for what he wasn’t.

He wanted to say everything.

That’s what you were.

You were everything.

But the words lodged themselves in his throat, too sharp to speak.

And then—

A laugh, loud and careless, broke through the clearing.

A group of guys rounded the corner, the familiar cadence of their voices cutting into the quiet like a blade.

One of them spotted Sylus, grinned.

“Yo, Sylus,” he called, his eyes flicking to you. “Who’s that? Your new girlfriend?”

You turned to Sylus, and in that instant, he felt your stare land like a weight on his chest.

Waiting. Again.

You were always waiting for him to say the right thing.

And he?

He was always too scared to give it.

So the smirk slid onto his face—automatic, defensive, false.

He heard himself say, “No she’s… just someone.”

The moment it left his mouth, he knew.

He knew he’d just ripped something fragile to shreds.

He knew your silence would come next—not because you had nothing to say, but because you had finally given up.

Your laugh was quiet. Not amused. Not bitter. Just… tired.

“Just someone, huh?” you said, voice light but hollow. “I hope you enjoy your life, Sylus.”

Then you stepped around him.

And he didn’t stop you.

Not because he didn’t want to—

But because his friends were still there. Because his mouth was still twisted into that damn smile.

Because he didn’t know how to reach for you without unmaking himself in front of everyone.

So he stood there.

Frozen.

They kept talking, teasing him, nudging his shoulder like none of it mattered.

But he didn’t hear them.

Didn’t move.

Because his eyes were still fixed on your retreating figure.

And for the first time in a long time, Sylus felt something shatter—quietly, irreversibly—inside him.

You weren’t his anymore.

He wasn’t sure you ever were.

But more than that now, he wasn’t even sure he had the right to miss you.

His friends clapped him on the back, loud and oblivious. “Come on, man—coach wants us there for the farewell speech.”

He opened his mouth to protest, to stall, to say not now—but they were already dragging him forward, laughter echoing in his ears like static.

The clearing faded behind him.

You were gone.

He turned once, just over his shoulder, hoping for a glimpse—one last look—but all that met him was the emptiness where you used to stand.

Still, he felt the eyes on him. Expectation. Performance.

So he straightened up. Let the smirk slide back into place like armor.

“Alright,” he said, voice light.

And just like that, he followed them inside.

Leaving the truth—and you—behind.

That night, he lay in bed, phone in hand, the glow of the screen painting his face in cold light.

Your contact was still there.

Still saved under the name Kitten.

Still untouched.

Still yours.

His brow furrowed, thumb hovering just above the call button—so close. Too close.

He stared at the name like it might say something first, like it might make the decision for him.

But he didn’t know what he would say if you answered.

Didn’t know if he even had the right.

I’m sorry felt too small.

I miss you felt too late.

So he didn’t call.

His hand fell away, fingers curling into a fist before he shut the screen off and tossed the phone across the room, where it landed with a dull thud.

The silence that followed was louder than anything.

His hands clutched the hoodie you had returned, the fabric wrinkled from how tightly he held it.

It still smelled faintly like your room—like something warm, like something that used to feel like home.

He exhaled sharply, the breath catching in his throat as he stared down at the worn cotton, the one thing you’d kept—until now.

“Idiot,” he muttered under his breath, cursing himself.

Cursing the silence.

Cursing how easy it had been to become everything he once swore he wouldn’t.

Because somewhere along the way, he had stopped being your friend.

And started being a stranger who hurt you.

“I don’t need it anymore.”

You had said it so clearly, so firmly—like a full stop at the end of a sentence he’d refused to read for years.

But he heard it.

Not just the words, but everything underneath.

The years of silence. The weight of being forgotten. The way your voice trembled just enough to betray what you still hadn’t said.

And he saw it too.

The way the light in your eyes dimmed—not from anger, but from exhaustion. From the kind of pain that doesn’t scream, only lingers.

His chest ached.

His hands flew to his face, fingers tangling in his hair as he let out a shaky breath.

“Fuck,” he whispered into the silence, voice cracking.

He should’ve stopped you.

Should’ve said something—anything.

But he hadn’t.

And now the only thing he could do was sit with the echo of your goodbye.

“You think we’d still be friends when we go to high school?”

Your voice echoed in his mind, soft, hopeful, laced with the kind of innocence that didn’t know what distance felt like yet.

The streets were empty now, save for the dull pound of his footsteps hitting the pavement. He ran—not toward anything, but away. From the weight. From himself.

Back then, he’d linked his pinkie with yours without hesitation.

“I promise,” he’d said. “We’ll still be friends.”

A car honked somewhere in the distance, jarring him back for a breath.

“I won’t turn into a jock,” his memory added, almost bitterly now.

A door creaked open across the street. A light switched on in someone’s hallway.

And then it hit him. The one memory louder than all the others.

“Don’t worry. I’m used to it.”

His pace slowed.

His breath caught.

He hadn’t realized what you meant in the moment. Hadn’t heard the quiet fracture in your voice, the way your eyes didn’t meet his when you said it.

But now?

Now he knew.

You weren’t used to being ignored.

You weren’t born expecting to be left behind.

He made you that way.

With every unanswered message.

Every silence.

Every time he turned away when he should’ve held on.

He made you used to him being gone.

And now that you were leaving—

He had no one to blame but himself.

And now, he was left with nothing but regret.

Heavy. Constant.

The kind that clings to your ribs, that colors every corner of memory in a dull, aching gray.

He’d told himself he wouldn’t see you again.

That maybe it was better that way.

He didn’t deserve another chance—not after the silences, the shoulder shrugs, not after he said you were ‘just someone.’

But then—

He turned the corner.

And there you were.

Just standing there.

Dressed in jeans and that lazy, thrown-on t-shirt—like you always wore on weekends when he used to show up at your door with a half-burnt DVD and snacks neither of you ended up eating.

His breath caught.

Everything else stilled.

You hadn’t seen him yet.

And he let himself look. Just for a moment.

God, you were still you.

But different now. Lighter, somehow. Not because you weren’t hurting—he knew you were—but because you had made peace with the hurt.

Moved through it.

Past him.

Then your eyes met his.

It was like being cracked open in silence.

“Hey,” he said, voice rough, uncertain—like it didn’t belong to him anymore.

“H–Hey.”

You blinked, glanced away, and suddenly the sidewalk was the most fascinating thing in the world.

“How long?” he asked. It came out too fast.

You rubbed your neck, the way you always did when you were nervous.

“A week.”

A week.

Seven days before he would never see you again, never hear your voice or even get the chance to make things right.

Seven days where you would finally be rid of him.

And he hated that he couldn’t stop it.

But he nodded. Looked down.

“I—” you started, and he straightened.

You paused, choosing your words with care.

“I don’t care about all that anymore.”

His heart stuttered.

You looked at him when you said it—really looked. And he knew.

You meant it.

And that hurt in a way he didn’t know how to name.

“I’m going to move on now,” you added, voice quieter. “A new life and all that.”

He wanted to say don’t.

He wanted to reach for you.

To take it all back. To beg.

But the words never made it past his throat.

“I hope you get all the things you want in life, Sylus.”

And you smiled. Soft. Final.

Then you lifted your hand, gave him a small wave, and stepped aside.

Let him pass.

Let him go.

He turned to watch you—hoping, foolishly, that you’d glance back.

But you didn’t.

Because you were no longer waiting.

You were no longer his.

And he…

He stood there long after you disappeared from view, aching in the quiet, wondering if he’d ever be able to forgive himself for the way he lost you—

Not in one moment,

But in all the ones where he stayed silent.

“Sylus, I’m open!”

The sharp squeak of sneakers echoed through the gym, followed by the rhythmic thud of a basketball against polished wood.

“Thanks,” Sylus muttered, tossing a quick pass before jogging toward the bench.

He collapsed onto it, chest rising and falling with every breath, sweat clinging to his skin like second skin. A bottle of water was thrust into his hand. He took it without a word, downing half of it in seconds.

It had been a year.

A year since you left—without goodbyes, without a backward glance. A year since you walked out of his life and took the sun with you.

His teammate plopped down on the floor in front of him, breath ragged, staring up at the ceiling.

“You’re killing it today,” he said between pants. “I can barely guard you. You’re a machine.”

Sylus let out a low chuckle, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’re just small.”

“Fuck off,” his friend laughed, tossing a towel at him.

Basketball had become his refuge. Since the day you left, Sylus threw himself into the game like it was the only thing holding him together.

Hours bled into days in the gym. He skipped college applications, skipped birthdays, skipped chances at moving on.

This was simpler.

This was better.

At least on the court, he didn’t have to think about you.

His friend peeked at him from the corner of his eye, the laughter fading as something more serious took its place.

“You still haven’t contacted her, huh.”

It wasn’t a jab. Just an observation. But it hit harder than any shove on the court.

Sylus stilled.

The bottle in his hands crinkled slightly under his grip. Sweat dripped down his temple, trailing along his jaw as he stared at the floor.

“No.”

Quiet. Like a confession. Like he was finally admitting to something he couldn’t undo.

His friend let out a breath, not surprised. “You should’ve just told her from the start, man.”

There was no malice in his voice. Just the kind of tired honesty that came from watching someone spiral.

He looked at Sylus then, more gently this time. “Hate to say it, but… I told you so.”

Any other day, Sylus would’ve rolled his eyes, thrown a towel at his face, maybe cracked a joke about height.

But not this time.

This time, he didn’t say anything.

Because this time, he knew.

He knew his friend was right.

He glanced at his friend—same look on his face as that day on the bleachers. The day he saw you across the court, laughing with Zayne like you didn’t used to be his.

Sylus let out a breath, low and quiet. “I know,” he murmured.

His friend huffed a short laugh, standing as he offered a hand. “Come on. Break time’s over.”

Sylus finished the last of his water, the plastic crumpling in his grip. Then he took the hand, let himself be pulled back into the court.

Where it was easier to run than to feel.

—•

Sylus dropped his bag by the door with a heavy thud before sinking into the couch.

The sun had already slipped past the rooftops, leaving the living room in a soft, fading gold.

He leaned his head back against the cushions, muscles aching, the weight of the day settling into his bones.

“Sylus has been doing great! He’s actually trying out for a local team soon—”

His mother’s voice echoed down the stairs, light and proud.

He cracked one eye open to watch her descend, phone pressed to her ear, smile tugging at her lips as she caught sight of him.

She always spoke like that. Like he was doing just fine.

Like he hadn’t spent a year trying to outrun everything he never said to you.

Sylus sat up slightly when his mother gave his leg a light tap, where it lay stretched across the coffee table.

“What about Y/N? How’s she doing over there?” she asked casually, her voice bright.

But the moment your name passed her lips, something in him stilled.

His ears perked up, almost involuntarily, and he found himself leaning in just a little—just enough to catch the faint sound of your mother’s voice through the speaker.

“She’s doing well. First day went great, she’s upstairs studying now—”

That was all he caught. But it was enough.

Enough to stir something sharp in his chest.

He didn’t know if he should be relieved, knowing you were okay. Or heartbroken, knowing you were okay without him.

You’d moved on. Quietly, gracefully. Just like you always did.

And yet his heart twisted all the same.

Soon, he was lost in thoughts of you.

Did you still look the same?

He pictured you—brows furrowed, hunched over your desk with a pen in hand, sketching or scribbling notes the way you used to.

The soft light of your room casting shadows on your cheek, hair tied up in that lazy knot you always wore when you were focused.

Were you smiling now?

Were you lighter—freer—now that he wasn’t in the picture?

He swallowed hard, the thought settling like lead in his chest.

Maybe you were happy.

Maybe you were better off, now that you no longer had to carry the weight of loving someone who didn’t know how to hold you right.

“I’m just saying, man—if you hadn’t let Colin’s bullshit get to you, you wouldn’t even be in this mess.”

His friend’s voice crackled over the speakerphone, cutting through the silence of Sylus’ room.

Sylus didn’t answer right away. He just stared at the mirror across from him, at the fading polaroid tucked into the frame—

You, smiling. Him, slightly out of focus beside you, hand on your shoulder.

He exhaled, voice low. “I thought I was doing the right thing.”

There was a pause on the other end, then a sigh. “Yeah, well… there’s no point sulking over it now. It’s been a year.”

Sylus flopped onto his bed, the mattress creaking beneath him as he pressed the phone to his ear. His friend’s voice carried on, unfazed.

“I mean, weren’t you the one who said you promised her? That you’d never be like the others? Then you got into high school and suddenly, being one of the cool kids mattered more.”

Sylus’s jaw tensed. “Hey, cut me some slack, will you?”

A scoff crackled through the speaker. “Dude, I’ve been cutting you slack. Any less and I would’ve dragged your sorry ass to Y/N’s front door years ago.”

Sylus grunted, thumb hovering before he ended the call. The phone fell beside him on the bed with a soft thud as he dragged both hands down his face.

His friend was right. He didn’t need to hear it again to know.

Somewhere along the way, his pride had started speaking louder than you ever did. His image, his place, his need to belong—it all started to matter more than how you felt.

And the worst part?

He knew.

He’d known for a long time now.

But knowing didn’t change anything.

Not when you were already gone.

His eyes drifted to the hoodie draped over the bedrest—the one he had once given you, the one you threw back at him that day without a word.

It still sat there, untouched.

The scent of your home had long faded, replaced by the sterile quiet of his room. Only a faint trace of something remained—something like old warmth, something like grief.

Just memories now.

Faded fabric, frayed edges, and the weight of promises he never kept.

And in that stillness, with nothing but the echo of your absence clinging to the walls, Sylus finally whispered the words he should’ve said years ago.

“I’m sorry.”

Soft. Barely audible.

Meant only for the ghost of you that still lingered in the room.

But it’s too late for apologies now, isn’t it?

Too late for words to fix what silence already broke.

masterlist

494 notes · View notes

adelliet · 3 months ago

Text

Harry Castillo x f!reader

WORTH THE RISK

Summary: Your best friend offered you a job at the restaurant she worked at. It was your last chance to climb out of the hole you’d been stuck in for way too long. But along with the new job came someone new.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, strong language, age gap, oral sex (f & m receiving), unprotected sex (p i v), nicknames, praise kink, aftercare, prejudices, reader is poor (sorry)

A/n: Hi! So, this is not that long (I hope) than my other fic's, but it's still good, trust me. Anyway if you have any ideas, suggestions, or anything else, feel free to text me. Also, I apologize for any grammar mistakes or phrases that might not make sense—English isn’t my first language :3 But I hope you enjoy the story! <3

Masterlist

“Can you take that guy’s order?” your friend asked, pointing discreetly at a man sitting alone at a round table draped in a crisp white tablecloth.

You raised an eyebrow, slightly caught off guard by the fact that he was sitting at a table meant for six, completely alone. But hey, this was a fancy place, and he looked like a fancy guy. What did you know about rich people and their habits anyway?

“Sure,” you muttered, grabbing your notepad in one hand and a pen in the other. As you approached, you put on your best customer-service smile, stopping at a polite distance, close enough to hear each other over the background noise, but not so close that it felt inappropriate.

“Good evening. What can I get you?”

The man was still holding the menu, one finger resting against his lips, visibly lost in thought. It took him a second to register your voice. When he did, his eyes flicked to yours, then did a quick double-take.

His pupils dilated slightly. His previously distant expression softened. And then, just the faintest curl of a smile at the corner of his lips.

You wouldn’t call him unattractive. Not at all. His sharp features were framed by a neatly trimmed brown mustache and slightly wavy hair that fell just past his ears. His eyes, deep and warm, like freshly brewed coffee, held a certain weight, an intensity that was hard to ignore. He looked like comfort. Like stability.

But you weren’t about to fall for that.

A man with money was a dangerous thing. You knew that all too well. So you pushed down any flutter of attraction, forced yourself to focus on what mattered.

He was just another customer.

“Oh, I’m not sure yet… Do you have any recommendations? Maybe the most expensive wine on the menu?”

Ah. There it was. The casual flex. You inhaled deeply, suppressing an eye roll.

“Yes, we have a few top selections. There’s the Château Margaux for $1,500, the Screaming Eagle Cabernet Sauvignon for $3,000, and—”

Before you could finish, he nodded, already deciding.

“I’ll take the Screaming Eagle.”

Of course he would.

You gave him a polite nod and jotted it down, knowing full well that this wouldn’t be the first or last time someone ordered it. Not because of the taste, but because of the price.

“Anything else?”

“Not for now, thank you.”

You nodded once more before walking away. The second you were out of his sight, you let out a deep breath, pulling a face, something between Are you kidding me? and Of course he did.

By the time you finally had the ridiculously expensive bottle of wine in your hands, you knew you had to be extra careful. One wrong move and you’d be responsible for spilling a small fortune onto the restaurant floor.

In one hand, you held the bottle. In the other, a wine glass, filled just about a quarter of the way, some weird restaurant tradition, offering a ‘preview’ sip before pouring the rest.

Anyways, you weren’t sure what did it.

Maybe it was the chaotic energy of the restaurant, the tension in the air. Maybe it was the way your manager had been snapping at everyone all night, dumping his stress onto the staff. Or maybe, maybe you were just having one of those days.

Either way, the second you opened your mouth to speak, the glass slipped from your fingers. And the wine? Right onto his lap.

“Oh, fuck—” you cursed, immediately realizing your mistake.

Not only had you just sworn, loudly, in a high-end restaurant, but you had also spilled a glass of the most expensive wine on a man who, with one phone call, could probably have you fired and blacklisted from every fine dining establishment in the city.

Oh, you were so getting fired.

“I—I am so sorry!”

In a rush, you set the now-empty glass and the bottle onto the table, grabbing the nearest napkin in sheer panic.

He just chuckled, shaking his head. “It’s okay,” he said, over and over. But it was definitely not okay.

Before your brain could fully process what you were doing, you had already dropped to your knees in front of him, frantically dabbing at the fabric of his pants with the napkin. It wasn’t until a second later that you realized how it looked.

How bad it looked. How absolutely, utterly humiliatingly wrong it looked. Oh, you were definitely getting fired.

“Sh— I am sorry, I—”

The panic in your voice was impossible to hide. He definitely noticed. But somehow, he didn’t seem the least bit upset. If anything, he looked… amused. Which he shouldn’t be. Not after getting drenched in the most expensive wine on the menu. Not after his server nearly touched his-

Oh god. You wanted to die.

You shot up from your knees so fast, you nearly lost your balance. Your face was burning. Absolutely on fire from the sheer humiliation of it all.

But no. You were not about to let your embarrassment control the situation. It was time to act like a real server. A professional. Definitely not a panicked, flustered mess.

“Sir, I am so, so sorry,” you started, quickly pulling out your notebook and pen, trying desperately to salvage the situation. “As compensation for this incident, you have the right to order anything on the menu, completely free of charge.”

Before you could jot anything down, you suddenly felt his hand on your wrist, stopping you.

“Sweetheart, it’s fine. I don’t want anything.”

He looked like he didn’t want anything. Unlike you, who was still visibly spiraling, he seemed completely unfazed. Relaxed, even.

“Sir, it’s my responsibility to—”

“Really, it’s nothing,” he interrupted smoothly, his voice carrying that effortless confidence. “Money’s not an issue for me.”

Well, that was obvious.

His face held that same unwavering calm, like he could simply talk his way out of this, and honestly? He probably could. But your conscience wouldn’t let you walk away that easily. You had ruined his expensive suit pants. An apology alone didn’t feel like enough.

“Alright, sir, but there must be something I can offer you. I can’t just—”

“You know what? There is something,” he leaned back in his chair, resting his arm on the backrest as a slow, knowing smile curled at his lips. A smile that was dangerous. A smile that could strip a woman down to her lingerie with just a single glance. And god, you were so close to being one of them.

But no, you held your ground. Barely.

“Dinner,” he finally said, his voice smooth as silk. “That’ll make up for it.”

You froze. Like, actually froze. Did you hear him right? You blinked, still frozen. Did you understand him right? But when he kept looking at you with that same flirtatious expression, you realized. Oh, you definitely understood him right.

“Oh—no, no, that’s—”

“It’s the only offer I’ll accept,” he cut in, leaving you zero room to argue. Which made this so much harder. On one hand, this man, this incredibly rich, insanely attractive man, had just asked you out.

On the other hand, he was a customer. A snob. And men with money? They were dangerous. And yet against your better judgment, your head gave the tiniest nod.

“Alright,” you said hesitantly. His eyes lit up. His smile stretched wider. Still confident. Still composed. Still oozing wealth and charm.

“Great. Tomorrow, 8:00 PM. Dinner at this place. Don’t be late.” He reached into his pocket, pulling out a small card, which he handed to you. You took it carefully. It was fancy. Even the texture of it felt expensive. A white business card with bold, black print, the name of a restaurant you had never even heard of.

You stared at it for a second, studying it. Then, finally, you nodded, shifting your eyes back to him.

“Harry, by the way. Harry Castillo,” he introduced himself, offering his hand. You quickly tucked the card, your notepad, and pen into the pocket around your waist before shaking his hand in return. It was more out of politeness than interest.

Or at least, that’s what you told yourself.

The moment your hand slipped from his, you practically fled from his presence. And judging by the heat in your cheeks, you were definitely as red as a tomato.

“Hey, what the hell just happened out there?”

The moment you stepped into the kitchen, your friend was on you. She looked way too eager, like she was dying to hear whatever mess you’d gotten yourself into, just so she could laugh in your face. Honestly? You couldn’t even blame her. If the roles were reversed, you’d laugh at her too.

“That guy just asked me out to dinner,” you admitted, breathless but also, exasperated. Your tone completely threw her off.

She glanced back through the small window in the kitchen door, looking at the man in question before turning back to you, eyebrows furrowed.

“You’re joking, right?”

You shook your head, leaning back against the nearest table. She let out a short huff, then took a step closer. “Him? He asked you out?” There was a clear emphasis on who asked who, and that, unsettled you.

“I can’t believe it either—”

“So why aren’t you screaming right now?! He’s probably a multimillionaire, and instead of jumping for joy, you’re—what? Having a meltdown?” She grabbed your shoulders, looking way more excited about this than you were.

You just sighed, shaking your head, eyes dropping to the floor. “I don’t know… it doesn’t feel real.”

You shrugged, finally meeting her eyes. And she got it. She understood why you weren’t letting yourself be excited. Because you’d been broken one too many times. And if you just expected nothing, you wouldn’t be disappointed.

“I get it,” she said, softer now. “But listen to me-he means it. That guy comes here all the time, and not once has he asked a server out before.”

You raised an eyebrow, skeptical.

“I’m serious!” she insisted, turning you toward the door, both of you peeking through the window. “And, ugh, god, he’s so sexy.”

You nudged her playfully with your shoulder, but deep down? Yeah. You agreed, he was sexy. Maybe a little older than what you’d typically go for, but still, workable.

The two of you watched him, not-so-subtly, until more men approached his table. Black suits. Slicked-back hair. Money so rich you could smell it all the way from the kitchen.

And just like that, the excitement. That tiny flicker of hope. Gone. Your stomach dropped. You turned away immediately. Your friend lingered at the window for a second longer before following after you, now completely confused.

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

You shook your head. Frustrated. “I knew this was bullshit,” you muttered, adjusting your uniform, glancing at her again. But she still didn’t get it.

“The guys sitting with him,” you nodded toward the door. “I guarantee he made a bet with them. A bet to see if he could land the most pathetic desperate whore in the area.”

Your friend’s face went blank before she groaned, rubbing her hands down her face in pure frustration. Then, she fixed you with a deadpan stare. “You cannot be serious right now.”

You stared at the floor, still fussing with your uniform, still seething.

“Oh my god. Do you have to overthink everything? Babe, that definitely didn’t happen—”

“You don’t know that.” You cut her off. She could see how pissed off you were. But more than the anger, it was fear showing in your eyes. Fear of another failure. Another rejection. And whether she believed it or not, you just didn’t have the capacity for that.

Not again.

She sighed, then pulled you into a comforting hug. She didn’t say anything at first. Just held you, tightly. Then, when she finally pulled back, she started speaking.

“Listen. Go to that dinner. Take the opportunity. And if that asshole hurts you in any way? I swear to god, I will break his fucking face.”

You laughed, even though you knew she meant every word.

“Thanks,” you murmured, smiling as the two of you hugged again. And despite the doubt clawing at the back of your mind, despite wanting to pretend like you never even got that stupid little card, you decided to take her advice.

To ‘Take the opportunity’ or however she said it.

The evening air was cool, streetlights flickered to life one by one, casting a warm golden glow over the quiet city. The sky was a deep navy blue, speckled with the first few stars peeking through the clouds. A gentle breeze kissed your skin as you stepped out, the distant hum of traffic blending into the soft rustling of leaves.

You looked breathtaking.

The black dress you wore wasn’t anything extravagant, but god, did it know how to hug your body in all the right places. The way it shaped your waist, the way it flowed down your thighs, teasing just enough skin to be dangerous. Every curve was perfectly framed, every movement of yours had a new level of grace and temptation.

And your makeup? Flawless.

Even after all the failed attempts, the frustrated groans, the “I’m not going!” breakdowns, the questioning-your-entire-life-choices moment, you pulled through. And damn, you looked stunning. Before stepping out, there was one last thing left to do. Selfie, and a private one for your best friend.

Her reply never miss.

A text so filthy you nearly threw your phone across the room. Something about how she’d absolutely devour you if she were into women. You gagged. You laughed. You loved her.

But right now, it was 7:50. According to Google Maps, the restaurant wasn’t too far. Except, you didn’t have a car. And a taxi? With what money? So, your only option was to power-walk like your life depended on it and pray you’d make it in ten minutes.

Even though you felt like every second of running had stripped away another layer of makeup and drained the last bit of life from your body, you made it.

You stood before the entrance. And yes, this was the place. And damn, it looked the part.

Marble stairs. Massive wooden doors that looked like they belonged in a palace. Golden accents along the walls. Flower-shaped lamps. A fountain right at the entrance. It was the kind of detail that made you feel both impressed and slightly terrified.

With a small stumble in your heels, which thankfully, no one seemed to notice, you approached the reception desk.

“Reservation under… Castillo,” you said softly.

The receptionist smiled, as if he’d been expecting you all along.

“Of course. Table fifteen. He’s already here.”

“Thank you,” you murmured before making a sharp turn toward the restroom. A quick pit stop was absolutely necessary.

Facing the mirror, you launched into full recovery mode. Fixing makeup, fluffing your hair, making sure you didn’t look like you had sprinted here. A touch of gloss, a final tug at your dress, and there you were again. Put together. Ready.

Then you stepped inside the dining hall and everything shimmered.

The chandeliers sparkled like frozen light. The pristine white tablecloths, the waiters in their spotless uniforms, the golden silverware—it was overwhelming in the best and worst way. Moving carefully, like someone who both belonged and absolutely did not, you scanned the room. Searching.

And then, there he was. Harry Castillo.

Sitting effortlessly poised, elbow resting on the table, finger near his lips, just like yesterday. He looked composed. Unreadable. Devastatingly attractive. You inhaled deeply and walked toward him.

“Hey! Sorry I hope I’m not late,” you said, voice softer than you intended. It took him a second to register your presence. But when he did…

His entire demeanor shifted.

The moment his gaze landed on you, his thoughts simply ceased to function. That dress. The way it sculpted around your curves. The delicate line of your neck. The subtle, hypnotizing sway of your chest as you moved, yes, he noticed. It was right then that he realized: keeping his thoughts entirely proper tonight? Yeah. Not happening.

Fuck. If this was your backup outfit, he'd kill to see what plan A looked like… without the dress.

“You look stunning,” he murmured, standing immediately like a gentleman from another era. Taking your hand, he pressed a soft kiss to the back of it. A shiver ran down your spine.

For a fraction of a second, you forgot how to breathe, and when you finally managed words, they came out in a breathless, “Thank you.”

You settled into your seat, praying the chair wouldn’t make an awkward screech, and picked up the menu, doing your absolute best to not embarrass yourself in the first five minutes.

“Was it a long trip?” he asked, reaching for his glass of water.

“Uh… no,” you lied smoothly. Absolutely no way you were going to tell him you walked here, face half-melting and muttering curses under your breath.

“And you?” you asked in return.

He chuckled, shaking his head.

“Nah, I live just around the corner. I know most of the restaurants around here.”

“I believe that. This place is… a different level.”

He nodded, leaning in just slightly. “Yeah, but you know what? People forget that food is just food. Great company is what makes it unforgettable, even in the smallest, messiest little pizza joint.”

That was surprisingly sweet. And unexpected.

“So you’re telling me you could’ve taken me to a kebab place by the train station?”

“Exactly. And if I’d known you’d show up looking like my most expensive investment, I’d have worn a tux.”

You laughed, glancing down at the menu. The tension in your shoulders was starting to ease. For the first time tonight, you felt… comfortable.

“I swear the food here’s good,” he added. “But if you ever want real pizza—I know a guy. One tooth, slaps the dough with his bare hands.”

“That sounds… hygienic.”

“It’s the best pizza in the city. But yeah, I only take people there if I know they’ve got a strong immune system.”

You laughed again. And for the first time in a long while, you didn’t feel the need to play a role. To impress, to overthink, to be perfect. You just felt like yourself. And that was refreshing in a way you hadn’t expected.

“Have you decided yet?”

You shook your head, lips pressed into a tight line. The menu was a battlefield of options. So many dishes, so many exotic names, and those prices? Just looking at them made your stomach twist. You didn’t want to come across as some broke girl who had no idea what foie gras was, but also not like a high-maintenance snob who’d order truffle oil on a toothpick just to impress.

Making a good first impression was hard, though technically, you already blew it the moment you spilled wine on his very expensive pants and ended up scrubbing his legs like some panicked Cinderella with a death wish.

“I get it,” he said with a slight nod. After a few seconds, you let out a quiet sigh and finally gave up. “Pick for me. I’m sure you know what’s good way better than I do.”

He looked up at you with the sweetest puppy eyes you’d ever seen, and your heart melted.

“Are you sure? It’s only polite to let the lady choose.”

“I’m sure, Mr. Castillo,” you said with a soft smile and a small tilt of your head.

“Well then,” he replied, closing his menu with a confident snap, “let’s hope you won’t regret it.” And just like that, he turned his full attention to you.

The dinner went surprisingly normal. Actually, scratch that—wonderfully.

Harry wasn’t the snob you half expected him to be. He didn’t name-drop luxury brands every two sentences, didn’t mention his bank account once. In fact, he didn’t flaunt anything at all, except maybe the way he actually listened to you.

Of course, you couldn’t tell him everything.

Like the fact that your restaurant job was the only thing keeping you from ending up on the street. Or that your family had basically washed their hands of you. Or that you’d once come dangerously close to selling weed just to afford rent.

Those charming little details didn’t need to make it to the dinner table.

But your favorite color? Rose type? Chocolate preference? You gave him those happily.

By the time you were halfway through your second glass of wine, your tongue was definitely loosening up. Your boldness had grown legs and was strutting confidently across the room.

“Mr. Castillo,” you said, setting your glass down, eyes twinkling. “I have a question for you.”

Harry turned toward you instantly, his posture subtly shifting as if bracing for something wild.

“This…” —you made a slow circle with your finger, gesturing at everything around you— “this whole thing. Is it… a bet?”

He blinked a few times, clearly not expecting that. Then a slow smile curled on his lips. But when he saw how serious your expression was, his smile faded slightly. “No… Why would you think that?”

You hesitated, then shook your head and waved it off. “Never mind, it’s nothing—”

“No, wait. If something made you think that, I want to know.” He wasn’t letting it slide. And honestly? That little fire in his eyes? Kind of hot.

You paused. Should you say it and sound like a complete idiot? The wine in your bloodstream whispered, screw it.

“I saw you yesterday. With a couple of guys. And I just… thought maybe you bet with them about this. About… me.”

Harry laughed. Not just a polite chuckle, he actually laughed. It wasn’t loud, but it was deep, warm, and ridiculously contagious.

You couldn’t help it, you started laughing too. Not at the situation, but because his laugh was so good, it practically reached inside you and pulled it out of you.

“Oh no,” he said, still smiling, “those were some of my coworkers. And I promise you, we don’t do things like that.”

The relief hit you like a wave, and you nodded slowly. Sure, he could be lying. He could be playing a game. But in that moment, you chose to believe him. No overthinking. No spiraling.

Just a beautiful dinner with a man who made you laugh, who looked at you like you mattered, who, somehow, made you feel like the main character in a life that wasn’t always kind.

And tonight? Tonight felt like it was finally giving you a break.

You laughed. You weren’t even sure what at anymore, but laughter had become the most natural reaction to anything that came out of his mouth.

Harry was… different. Unpredictable. Smart. And most of all, he listened. Not the fake ‘I’m nodding but thinking about steak’ kind of listening. No. He actually paid attention. Remembered things. Asked follow-up questions.

And the more you opened up, the easier it felt. Like you didn’t have to be anyone else to be enough.

You laughed at your own awkward moments, told him stories from your childhood, even admitted you used to eat sand when you were little, with chocolate ice cream, of course.

And he listened like it was the most fascinating thing he’d ever heard.

And one thing you had to admit, throughout the whole dinner, you caught him stealing glances at your chest more than once. At first, he tried to be discreet, quick flicks of the eyes when you were sipping wine or looking at the menu. But later on? Yeah, he didn’t even pretend anymore.

But it wasn’t a gross, sleazy kind of stare. No. It was something else entirely. It was elegant, intense… reverent. Like he admired you, every curve, every breath, the way your collarbones caught the light, the subtle movement of your chest when you laughed.

It didn’t make you shrink. It made you pulse. Around nothing, yet. And if something shifted down there, let’s just say a full-blown waterfall was now a national emergency.

“Excuse me,” a voice interrupted you gently. “But we’re closing in ten minutes.”

One of the waiters had appeared beside your table. He spoke softly, his voice almost trembling. You didn’t blame him. You were, in a way, just like him, same position, same nervous awe around someone like Harry.

“Oh!” you gasped. “God, we’re so sorry! We totally lost track of time.”

Harry looked at you with a smile. But not the usual charming, practiced one. No, this one was warm. Genuine. The kind that makes your heart flutter… and maybe something else too.

You both started gathering your things. Harry reached into his coat, pulled out a wad of bills and tossed them on the table, no counting, no hesitation.

You almost choked. What you’d give for that amount of money? Better left unsaid.

“Thank you. Keep the change,” Harry said, patting the waiter gently on the shoulder.

You gave the poor guy a quick smile and followed your dinner date like he was leading you into battle… or heaven.

He walked with ease. Command. Confidence. You? You felt like a princess being led by her knight out of the ballroom. Maybe it was the wine. Or maybe it was the fact that, for the first time in ages, you actually felt like you yourself.

The moment you stepped outside, cold air slapped your skin.

“Are you cold? Where’s your coat?” Harry asked, brow slightly furrowed.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, unintentionally pushing your boobs up a bit more in the process, bonus points, apparently.

“Oh… I forgot it at home,” you said innocently. Truth was, you didn’t own one. Couldn’t afford it. But he didn’t need to know that.

Harry gave you a look. The kind that didn’t need words. Then, like a man on a mission, he took off his jacket.

“Oh wait, you really don’t have to—”

“Yes I do,” he cut in gently. “Can’t have you freezing, can we?”

Before you could argue, he was already draping the warm fabric over your shoulders. No asking. No drama. Just… doing.

And suddenly, you were warmer. Not just from the jacket, but from the man himself. And yeah, another point for Harry Castillo. And damn, was he stacking them up fast.

You pulled your phone out of your purse, pretending to check the time, but in truth, you were stalling. “I should probably go,” you murmured, still a little breathless from the whole evening.

Harry tilted his head. “Let me take you home. I’ve got a car waiting.”

Shit.

Panic crawled up your spine like a vine. You couldn’t let him see where you lived. It wasn’t horrible, but it also wasn’t this. Not this golden-drenched world of chandeliers and silk napkins. You bit your lip.

“Actually,” you blurted before you could stop yourself, “what if we went to yours instead?”

His eyebrows lifted slightly—just a flicker—but enough for your face to burst into flames.

“Wait, no—I didn’t mean it like that!” you rushed out. “I mean—God, I’m not trying to come off like… like one of those girls. I’m not, I swear, I just…” Your words tangled into a panicked mess. “It’s just complicated. My place is, well, complicated.”

Harry blinked once, then twice, and slowly, smiled. The kind of smile that made your stomach dip and your pulse skip a beat.

“I get it,” he said softly. “Believe me, I’m not one of those guys either. I don’t usually bring someone over after the first night.”

You exhaled in relief, feeling like your entire soul unclenched.

“That’s why,” he continued, stepping closer, “I booked us a suite for the night. Neutral territory.”

Your heart did a front flip.

It sounded crazy, no, was crazy, but in that moment, it somehow made sense. Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was the way he said it with zero pressure in his tone, like it was just a comfortable, no-expectations solution.

The drive was smooth and silent, your heart hammering against your ribs the closer you got. And then the hotel. Oh. My. God.

From the outside, the hotel didn’t just whisper wealth, it screamed it, elegantly. The building towered above the street, wrapped in sleek black glass that reflected the city lights like diamonds scattered across velvet. The entrance was framed by golden accents that shimmered under the glow of artfully placed spotlights, and a long crimson carpet stretched from the sidewalk all the way to the rotating glass doors, guarded by men in tailored suits and pristine gloves.

It wasn’t just a hotel. It was an experience. And you were suddenly part of it.

As soon as you stepped inside, you were swallowed by soft lighting and opulence. The marble floors gleamed under your heels, catching little stars from the massive crystal chandelier that cascaded from the ceiling like frozen rain. There were velvet armchairs in deep emerald green, tall indoor plants trimmed like they belonged in a palace, and staff that glided across the space like well-trained shadows, every movement graceful and hushed.

The scent of expensive perfume lingered in the air, sweet, musky, seductive. Even the air conditioning felt richer here.

You couldn’t help but glance at Harry, who walked beside you with that calm confidence like he owned the whole damn place. And honestly? He might as well have. And of course, everyone at the front desk knew him. Knew his name, his favorite drink, his room preference. Harry Castillo wasn’t just rich. He was a regular.

When you reached the elevator, the doors opened with a soft chime, revealing an interior wrapped in mirrored gold and black marble. You stepped in first, and the second the doors slid shut, something shifted.

The air between you thickened, like velvet, like smoke, like something unnamed but entirely understood. It was silent, except for the hum of the elevator. And yet your heart beat like a drum.

Harry stood next to you, close but not touching, his cologne crawling over your skin like a secret. His reflection in the mirror caught yours. He smirked slightly, nothing cocky, just that quiet kind of power that says I know exactly what I’m doing to you. You could feel it in your chest, in your stomach, between your thighs.

The elevator didn’t just take you up floors. It lifted something else. Something electric. Something that buzzed under your skin and begged to unravel.

As the elevator doors slid open with a soft ding, Harry stepped forward, pulling a sleek black card from his wallet. In one smooth, practiced motion, he swiped it through the lock. There was a quiet click, and the door unlocked.

“Ladies first,” he said, voice low and velvety. You stepped inside and your jaw nearly hit the floor.

The suite was massive. Not just hotel-room massive, penthouse massive. The kind of place you only see in movies or on Instagram when influencers casually spend the night with billionaires.

Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched across the far wall, revealing the glowing skyline of the city. Thick ivory curtains were pulled back like theater drapes. The bed wasn’t just king-sized—it looked like it belonged in a palace. Silk sheets, a gold-accented headboard, and pillows that probably cost more than your entire rent.

A marble bar gleamed in the corner with tiny gold bottles lined up like jewelry. Plush velvet sofas sat near a sleek fireplace, and a massive flat screen was mounted on the wall. There was even a balcony, shimmering with the reflection of city lights.

Jesus Christ.

You turned slowly, breath caught in your throat. “This place… I don’t think I could afford it even if I lived five lives.”

Harry stepped in behind you, quietly shutting the door. He leaned against it with that signature casual confidence. “Do you like it?” he asked, watching you, not the room.

You turned to face him, still half in disbelief. “I mean, yeah. It’s like stepping into a dream. I didn’t even know places like this existed outside of Pinterest.”

He chuckled, stepping further inside. “I figured if we’re not going home, we might as well do it right.”

You nodded, heart fluttering in your chest like it had a mind of its own. “You really know how to set the mood, Mr. Castillo.”

“Well,” he said, smirking, “I try.”

You both wandered through the space, giggling and pointing at ridiculous features like the heated floors or remote-controlled curtains. He poured you both glasses of champagne from the minibar, something expensive you couldn’t pronounce, and you toasted to, whatever this night had become.

Then it happened.

You turned too quickly mid-laugh, champagne in hand, and your heel caught the edge of the rug. You stumbled, not dramatically, but enough to make your stomach lurch. You gasped and instinctively reached out for balance. Harry was already there.

One hand caught your wrist, the other your champagne glass, and in the span of a breath, your bodies were inches apart. Close enough to feel his warmth. Close enough to smell his cologne. Your laughter faded.

The air between you thickened. Your heart thudded in your chest as your eyes met his. Time slowed, or maybe just stopped. You weren’t thinking anymore. You weren’t nervous. You weren’t holding back.

You leaned in.

So did he.

The kiss was slow at first, gentle, uncertain. But it deepened quickly, growing warmer, more assured. It wasn’t reckless. It wasn’t rushed. It felt like everything that had been building between you had finally reached its breaking point.

It wasn’t just a kiss.

It was release. Tension melting. Electricity sparking. Breath shared between two people who, for some reason neither of you could explain, felt like they needed this moment. And maybe each other.

The kiss deepened with every passing second, slow and simmering, yet charged with a hunger you hadn’t realized was burning under your skin all night. His lips were soft but confident, like he’d been waiting for this as long as you had, maybe longer.

His hands slid to your waist, holding you gently but firmly, and yours found their way to the collar of his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric as if to anchor yourself.

There was no fumbling. No rush. Just the smooth, dangerous rhythm of something that felt inevitable.

He pulled you closer, guiding your body against his with a quiet, reverent care. You could feel his heartbeat through his shirt, or maybe it was your own pulse echoing everywhere, especially in places it had no business being so loud.

It was too much. Too good. Too fast.

You pulled back suddenly, breathing hard, your fingertips pressing lightly against his chest. He looked at you immediately, concerned, respectful, but still burning.

“I—I can’t,” you whispered, your voice shaking slightly. “I mean… I don’t sleep with someone on the first date. That’s not… me.”

His expression didn’t falter. He didn’t pout or try to convince you. Instead, he smiled, a slow, genuine smile that made your knees weak all over again.

“I don’t either,” he said softly. “Which is probably why I don’t go on dates often.”

You let out a breathy laugh, your nerves starting to untangle. Then he leaned in, kissed your forehead gently, and looked into your eyes like he was seeing straight through you.

“But… maybe tonight we both break a rule.”

You didn’t answer, not with words. Instead, your hands found the hem of his shirt and pulled him in, youd lips met again, hungrier, messier. Passion had cracked open the surface, and now it poured out like wildfire.

You felt wanted. Desired. Seen. And above all—you felt alive. Tonight wasn’t just a night. It was a beginning you hadn’t expected. And it was burning.

Your heels tapped softly against the polished floor, the long black dress hugging every curve as you let him guide you toward the bedroom. His grip was firm but reverent—like he couldn’t believe you were real, and didn’t want to risk you slipping away.

He guided you backwards, one slow step at a time and you let him lead.

The soft lighting from the minibar flickered behind him as you moved through the luxurious apartment, every step closer to the bedroom thickening the air between you. Your hand slid up to his chest, feeling the warmth through his shirt as your fingers moved to the buttons, undoing them one by one, never breaking the kiss.

One hand tangled in your hair and the other settled firmly on your waist, fingertips pressing into the silk of your dress. You gasped softly, and he took the chance to deepen the kiss, growling just enough against your lips to send a jolt straight through you.

“Fuck, you taste so good,” he muttered between kisses. You smiled into his mouth, pulling him closer.

“I could worship this mouth all night,” he whispered, lips brushing your jaw, “and still not get enough of you.”

With each step back, your bodies collided, heat to heat, and he couldn’t stop touching you. His hand slipped behind you, running down your spine as the zipper of your dress gave way under his fingers.

“You’re stunning,” he breathed, his voice lower now, thicker. “Do you even realize what you’re doing to me?”

His hand slid down to your hip, gripping it just enough to make you bite your lip, and his mouth moved to your neck, kissing and grazing teeth just enough to pull a shaky moan from you.

“I want to ruin you,” he whispered, “let me take care of you.” Every word made your knees weaker, every kiss made your pulse wilder.

Your dress slipped off one shoulder. His bowtie came undone and fell somewhere behind you. Buttons popped open under your fingers as you walked, kissed, stumbled your way to the bedroom.

And just before the bed, he paused. Pulled back. Looked at you like you were carved out of stardust.

“You have no idea how good you look right now,” he said, his hands gliding down your waist, then gripping your thighs. “So fucking good. Like a dream I didn’t know I had.”

You barely had time to catch your breath before he kissed you again and lifted you effortlessly into his arms. The world tilted, and the next second, you landed on the bed in a pool of silk sheets and undone kisses.

Looking up at him, shirt halfway open, hair slightly messed, and desire radiating off his skin, you knew. You weren’t just about to be touched. You were about to be fucked, in the most sweetest way possible.

You still technically had your dress on, but it was a complete mess by now—half-unzipped, one strap hanging loosely off your shoulder. Harry didn’t look much better; his usually perfect hair was tousled, and a few buttons of his shirt had been undone, revealing a teasing glimpse of his toned chest.

But what truly caught your attention was the undeniable evidence of his arousal pressing against the front of his tailored pants. It knocked the air right out of your lungs.

Your pulse stumbled, your breath hitched, and you felt your mouth go dry, yet somehow flood with need at the same time. You tried to say something, anything, but words failed you. You were completely overwhelmed by the intensity of the moment.

Harry caught your stunned expression and simply smiled, a quiet, knowing smile that made your core pulsating ever more. He didn’t say a word. Instead, he leaned closer, his fingers brushing against your skin as he carefully slipped the rest of your dress down. The fabric pooled silently around your ankles, forgotten.

The moment you laid there, almost fully exposed to him, he dropped to his knees without hesitation. Soft, open-mouthed kisses landed against your legs first—hot, wet, and breathtaking. His lips traveled up slowly, lingering in places that made your whole body shiver and gasp. Some kisses were featherlight and ticklish, others deep and lingering, stealing the breath straight from your lungs.

By the time he reached your hips, your entire body was burning, vibrating with anticipation, and you realized just how desperately you craved every single touch he gave you.

As his mouth traveled over your body, Harry’s hands didn’t stay idle. They roamed your curves with a deliberate, possessive touch, sometimes gliding smoothly, other times gripping firmly enough to make you gasp his name and let out a soft, high-pitched squeal that made him chuckle low in his throat. Every reaction you gave him only seemed to encourage him more, fueling a dark gleam in his eyes.

Every so often, he murmured things against your skin, his voice rough with arousal.

“You’re unbelievable… so damn beautiful,” he whispered into the hollow of your hip, sending shivers rippling up your spine.

“I wanted this the moment I saw you.” His words fell like hot velvet, wrapping around you and making you feel even more helpless under his touch.

After what felt like an eternity of teasing and worshipping your skin with kisses, he leaned in again, his eyes never leaving yours as he slowly reached behind you to unhook your bra.

The moment he threw it away, he let out a low, appreciative breath. His hands immediately found your breasts, cupping and caressing them with a mixture of reverence and hunger, his thumbs brushing over your sensitive peaks until you whimpered and arched into him, desperate for more.

Harry took his time, lavishing attention on every inch of you like you were the most exquisite treasure he’d ever laid eyes on. His kisses grew hungrier, his hands a little rougher, but always careful, always worshipful.

When he knelt again to hook his fingers into the waistband of your panties, his gaze flicked down and caught sight of the wet patch soaking through the delicate fabric. A wicked smirk curled his lips.

“Already this wet for me, darling?” he murmured, the teasing lilt in his voice making your cheeks burn with embarrassment and excitement all at once.

He peeled the panties down torturously slow, making you shudder with anticipation. Once they hit the floor, you were completely bare for him, trembling under the weight of his gaze. Harry looked at you like you were something rare, precious, something he could never get enough of.

And despite how exposed you were, you had never felt more wanted, more craved, than you did in that moment, laying there trembling, your skin marked with his kisses and your heart racing wildly in your chest.

“You have the most beautiful pussy I've ever seen,” Harry’s eyes locked onto yours, dark and molten with desire, as his hands slid slowly up from your ankles, gliding along your calves and thighs. His touch was firm, claiming, yet never rough. When he reached your inner thighs, he gripped them tightly, split them, grounding you, holding you exactly where he wanted you.

It wasn’t painful—far from it. It was commanding, reassuring, a silent way of saying you’re mine right now. Your breath hitched, your body trembling with anticipation. You were already so sensitive, so worked up, that even the brush of his fingers made you whimper.

Soft, desperate sounds slipped from your parted lips almost constantly now, tiny moans and gasps that Harry drank in like a man starved. His smirk deepened, pride flickering in his gaze at just how undone you were under his touch.

He gave you one last, heated look, a look so intense it made your stomach flip, before lowering himself between your thighs, disappearing beneath you with a predatory grace.

The moment his mouth met you, you nearly sobbed. His tongue was hot, deliberate, and devastatingly slow. He tasted you with a reverence that made your head spin, his hands squeezing your thighs tighter whenever you tried to move away from the overwhelming pleasure.

“F-fuck Harry—“ one hand of yours flying to his hair, gripping it as if it was the only thing anchoring you to reality.

Harry wasn’t in a hurry. He explored you like he had all the time in the world, dragging his tongue through your folds, pausing only to plant slow, sucking kisses that left you panting his name. When you cried out particularly loud, his hands tightened just a little more, keeping you firmly against his mouth.

His tongue was thorough, not missing a tiny spot, licking all your juices from just the surface of your labia. From time to time, he looked at your expression, at your tightly shut eyes, eyebrows furrowed upwards, how hard you were trying to be quiet by biting your lower lip, and how you were trembling under his touch.

You could feel his pleased growl vibrate against you, the sound shooting straight through your core and making you arch off the bed. The world blurred around you, your only focus the man between your thighs, the relentless, exquisite way he worshipped you with his mouth.

Harry groaned low in his throat as he pressed his mouth harder against you, his tongue slipping inside you with a slow, deliberate thrust that made your entire body jolt.

You let out a desperate, broken moan, as he moved his tongue deep and slow at first, teasing, exploring, savoring every reaction he dragged out of you.

Every time he curled his tongue just right, your hips bucked involuntarily against his mouth. His hands on your thighs tightened their hold, keeping you exactly where he wanted you, utterly at his mercy.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmured against you between strokes of his tongue, the vibration of his voice sending new waves of pleasure coursing through your veins. “You’re doing so fucking good for me. Tasting so sweet…”

You couldn’t even form words. Only desperate whimpers and high, keening moans fell from your lips, one after another, growing louder the deeper he went. Your whole body trembled beneath him, your fingers tugging harder at his hair in a silent plea for more, for everything.

Harry’s cock strained painfully against his trousers, throbbing with need, but he didn’t stop. No, he couldn’t stop, even if he wanted to. Watching you fall apart under him, hearing those beautiful sounds pouring from your mouth, feeling the way you clenched around his tongue—it was better than any release he could imagine.

His tongue moved faster now, plunging and flicking, occasionally circling your clit just to hear the wrecked cries it tore from you.

“Fuck, you’re so good, you know that?” he panted between kisses, his voice rough with hunger and awe. “So fucking perfect for me, angel. Look at you…”

You glanced down through heavy, lidded eyes and the sight of him between your thighs—his dark hair tousled, his lips slick and red, his eyes burning with adoration and hunger—nearly broke you.

The pressure in your core tightened unbearably. Every stroke of his tongue, every graze of his teeth against your sensitive skin, every whispered praise in that low, sinful voice pushed you closer and closer to the edge.

Your moans turned into cries, your body tensing, hips rocking against his face as pleasure coiled tighter, hotter, until you were right there, teetering on the brink, completely and utterly lost in him.

It was messy. It was wet. It was dizzyingly perfect. And Harry seemed addicted to every second of it.

Your body was trembling uncontrollably, every muscle tight, every nerve alight with pure, overwhelming pleasure. With a final, deep stroke of his tongue, Harry sent you flying over the edge.

You cried out his name, back arching off the bed, fingers tangling in his hair. Waves of ecstasy crashed through you, one after another, leaving you gasping, moaning, trembling beneath him.

Harry didn’t stop. He slowed, soothing you through the aftershocks with soft kisses and gentle strokes of his hands along your thighs, grounding you, worshipping you.

“There you go, beautiful,” he whispered, voice wrecked but so full of love. “Tasted even better than I though… fuck, you’re everything.”

You could barely catch your breath, your entire body humming, still quivering. Harry pressed a few more soft kisses to your thighs before slowly rising, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

It was only then that he began undoing the rest of his shirt, shrugging it off his shoulders with slow, deliberate movements. His skin was flushed, muscles flexing under the low light, and you couldn’t look away.

When he kicked off his pants too, leaving himself in nothing but his boxers, the sight of him nearly made your heart stop. Something primal lit up inside you.

The exhaustion from before was gone, replaced with a burning need so fierce you didn’t even recognize yourself. Hormones raged through you, clouding every thought except for him.

When he crawled on top of you, you barely gave him a chance to react before you grabbed him and flipped him onto his back, your body moving on pure instinct.

Harry let out a surprised, delighted laugh. “Oh, so I’ve got a little dragoness here, huh?”

You just smirked down at him, your eyes dark with lust, and then you began your own form of sweet revenge.

You kissed down his chest slowly, teasingly, making sure your lips barely brushed his skin, feeling him shiver under you. You trailed even lower, biting gently at his hipbone, smiling when he let out a low, desperate groan.

His hands fisted the sheets, muscles straining as he tried to keep himself still for you.

“Tease,” he rasped, but there was nothing but pure worship in his voice. “Fuck, you’re driving me insane, baby.”

You hooked your fingers into the waistband of his boxers, pulling them down, painfuly slow. His cock sprang free, heavy and flushed and so ready for you, making your mouth water.

You took your time, pressing soft kisses along his thighs first, deliberately avoiding where he needed you most. He kept murmuring under his breath, calling you “so good,” “so beautiful,” “my perfect girl,” between ragged breaths.

Finally, finally, you let your mouth wrap around him, slow and deep. But only at his pink tip, already leaking with pre-cum.

Harry threw his head back with a broken moan, one hand flying to your hair but not forcing, just holding, like he needed you to stay connected.

Then you went deeper, making him hissed and jolt. You moved at your own pace, swirling your tongue, hollowing your cheeks, occasionally pulling off just to tease him with slow licks along his length. Every time you did, he cursed under his breath, voice rough and needy.

“You’re gonna be the death of me, sweetheart… fuck, keep going,” he gasped, hips trembling as he fought not to thrust into your mouth.

You loved it. How undone he was for you, how he melted under your touch, how every sound he made was raw and real and just for you. The more you moved, the louder his breathing grew, the more his thighs tensed under your hands. His praise became broken, desperate:

“So good… my good girl… my sweet, sweet girl—ah, fuck—don’t stop—”

You could feel him getting closer, every muscle in his body pulled taut like a bowstring, his dick twitching inside your spongy mouth. His hands gripped you tighter, his voice wrecked and pleading.

“D-darlin' I am gonna cu—“ but before he could finish his warning, he threw his head all the way back and with every force in his body he tried not to move his hips upwards and pushed himself deeper into your mouth.

When he finally came, it was with a loud, wrecked cry of your name, his whole body shuddering violently beneath you.

It was messy and hot and overwhelming, and you didn’t mind it one bit. You stayed there, swallowing every bit of him. He tasted sweet yet bitterly, but the combination itself was tasty. You felt his fingers stroke through your hair in shaky, adoring motions as he tried to catch his breath.

“Jesus Christ, baby…” he panted when he finally managed words, looking down at you with a gaze so full of love and awe it made your heart ache. “You were absolutely insane…” you chuckled, before pulling him out of your mouth, slowly, but he still groans. The sudden cold air touching his swollen tip, it's always a shock.

You slowly licked your lips and fingers clean, tasting him, savoring the salty, intoxicating flavor of him. Harry’s gaze darkened instantly. He looked absolutely wrecked, completely undone by the sight of you. Wild, messy, glistening just for him.

Without warning, he couldn't help himself and he surged forward, grabbing your face and kissing you hard.

The kiss was filthy and desperate, your mouths colliding, teeth clashing, tongues tangling as you both tasted each other fully, the unique mixture of your essences fueling the fire even higher.

Harry groaned low in his chest, pulling you against him like he couldn’t get enough. His dominance returned in full force, his hands strong and sure as he rolled you onto your back, covering your body with his own.

His eyes locked with yours, burning with love and raw hunger. He cupped your cheek, breathing heavily, giving you a moment.

“Are you ready, beautiful?” he murmured against your lips, voice low and rough. “You’re doing so good for me. I'm so proud of you.”

You nodded breathlessly, heart hammering so loud you were sure he could hear it. He kissed you once more, softer now, full of unspoken promises, before positioning himself carefully at your entrance.

His tip brushed youe folds, your juices served as a natural lubricant, so it wasn't really hard for Harry to go in. The first push was slow, cautious, his body trembling with restraint. You whimpered at the initial stretch, clinging to his shoulders.

Harry immediately started stroking your cheek, murmuring against your skin. “That’s it, sweetheart. Doing so good for me. Let me in, yeah? Breathe, baby… I’ve got you.”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, from the intensity, from the overwhelming feeling of being so close to him. He moved slowly, giving you time, whispering soft encouragements, letting you adjust to the fullness of him.

You felt like he was endless. He kept pushing deeper and deeper, reaching places you could only dream of, stretching you out so much, that he left no room for anything else, barely for air.

When he was fully inside, he stilled, pressing kisses along your jaw and neck, both of you panting heavily, your bodies trembling from the connection. For a moment, it was pure intimacy, your bodies fitting together perfectly, hearts beating wildly against each other, soft whimpers escaping both your mouths.

Harry rocked into you with slow, shallow thrusts, just enough to keep you connected, to let you feel every inch of him.

“You’re perfect,” he breathed, resting his forehead against yours. “You’re mine.”

But as the minutes passed and your body relaxed around him, the pace shifted.

Harry’s movements became deeper, stronger, pulling moans from your throat you couldn’t have held back if you tried. The bed began to creak with the force of his thrusts, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room alongside your gasps and desperate cries.

Harry didn’t let up with the sweet words. If anything, he poured them over you even more, his voice hoarse and wrecked with feeling.

“My beautiful girl… so tight, so good for me… fuck, taking me so well.”

Inside, you felt completely lost—lost in him, in the pleasure, in the overwhelming love radiating from every touch, every thrust. You clung to him like a lifeline, nails digging into his back, head thrown back in ecstasy as he hit deeper, harder, dragging whimpers and desperate moans from you.

Then, just when you thought you couldn’t take any more, Harry shifted one hand between your bodies, expertly finding your clit with his fingers. You gasped, your body jolting under him, the added stimulation sending electric shocks of pleasure through your entire being.

“That’s it, baby… let go for me,” he murmured against your neck, his voice shaking with how close he was too. You were spiraling fast, the pleasure building higher and higher, unstoppable.

But then Harry suddenly slowed, breathing heavily, and with a gentle grip on your hips, he flipped you over onto him, guiding you into his lap.

“You’re so amazing,” he said, smiling up at you, still breathless. “Ride me, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

You were shaky, overwhelmed, but Harry’s hands on your hips steadied you, supporting you as you sank down onto him again.

The new angle was deeper, more intense, and when he reached down and found your clit again with his fingers, you nearly sobbed from how good it felt. He was doing regular circles, at the same speed as you were bouncing on him, creating a perfect balance that won't hold you back for too long.

You moved together, messy and desperate, the sounds of wet skin and desperate gasps filling the room. Harry’s praises continued, slurred and broken with pleasure:

“So good… so fucking beautiful… look at you, riding me like a goddess.”

You clung to him, barely able to keep moving as the pleasure built to an unbearable peak. Your nails dug deeply into his shoulders, definitely leaving a bruise there, but he didn't care. He takes it as a souvenir from this night. You screamed so loudly, your core clenching around his twitching dick, every muscle, every nerve in your body tensed and you swear in one particular moment, you saw white stars.

When you finally came, your entire body locked up as you shattered around him. The clenching of your walls around him pulled Harry over the edge right after, his hips jerking up into you, his arms wrapping tightly around your trembling form. He buried his head in your shoulder and growled loudly, his voice stammering and jerky.

He held you close in a bear hug, not letting go, grounding you as you both rode out the aftershocks together. Breathless, sweaty and completely ruined.

Your body feels like it’s melting into his. The aftershocks are still rippling through you both, and neither of you moves for a long moment. Harry’s chest rises and falls against yours, his forehead pressed to your shoulder, his breathing uneven.

Slowly, he lifts his head to look at you. His eyes are soft, a little dazed, full of something so raw it makes your heart ache.

“Hi,” he whispers, a lazy smile tugging at his lips. You laugh quietly, feeling shy and overwhelmed all at once. You reach up and brush a strand of hair off his forehead.

Harry kisses your fingers and then, with a soft grunt, carefully pulls out of you, making sure he’s gentle, murmuring soft apologies against your skin when you wince at the sensitivity.

Before you can even blink, he’s scooping you up into his arms, carrying you like a princess, strong and secure. You squeal softly, burying your face against his neck, and he chuckles, the sound vibrating through his chest.

The bathroom is warm and steamy within seconds. You step into the shower together, the hot water raining down, and he pulls you back against his chest, wrapping his arms tightly around you. He treats you like you’re made of glass, tender, slow, patient.

Neither of you says much.

It’s just quiet touches, soft kisses along your damp skin, the shared breaths between you. He washes you gently, his hands steady, his touch reverent. You tilt your head back against him, letting your eyes close, feeling completely weightless in his care.

Every once in a while, he whispers something into your ear. Sweet things, praises, promises you can barely catch over the sound of the water. You feel worshipped. Safe.

When you’re both clean, Harry grabs a towel and dries you off himself, smiling softly the entire time like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever held. Without a word, he lifts you into his arms again, carrying you back to the bed.

He lays you down gently, crawling in next to you immediately, not letting you go for even a second. He pulls the covers over both of you, wrapping himself around you like a protective shield.

Your head rests against his chest, and you listen to the steady thump of his heartbeat, feeling your eyelids grow heavier and heavier. Harry’s fingers trace lazy patterns along your back.

“I’ve got you.” he whispers against your hair and without minutes, you fall asleep wrapped in him, both naked, both tired but both happy.

The morning sun beamed into your room, which still smelled like sex. It hit you right in the face, so you had no choice but to wake up. You opened your eyes, sunlight spills across the room, highlighting every little detail: Harry’s messy hair, his relaxed face, the way he’s still smiling even in sleep.

And suddenly, the guilt hits you like a tidal wave and you can't breath. You slept with him. On the first night. Harry Castillo.

He belongs to a different world—wealth, fame, endless connections—and you’re barely scraping by, struggling just to keep up with bills. What if he wakes up and realizes? What if he thinks you used him?

Your chest tightens painfully. You need to leave. Before you ruin everything. Slowly, carefully, you begin to untangle yourself from his arms. The cool air prickles against your bare skin as you quietly pick up your clothes from the floor, trying not to make a sound.

Just as you slip into your dress, you hear his sleepy voice behind you:

“Where are you going?”

You freeze. Turning around, you see him blinking up at you, completely disheveled and adorably confused, reaching out a hand to pull you back into bed.

“I… I have to go,” you whisper.

He frowns, sitting up, the blanket pooling around his waist. His bare chest is bathed in the soft morning light, and he looks almost too good to be real.

“Don’t go,” he mumbles, still half-asleep. “Just stay…”

You want to. God, you want to. But the guilt is too heavy. It weighs down your every breath.

“I… I have to,” you say again, voice shaking. You grab your heels with trembling fingers, your heart breaking with every step away from him. But Harry is already getting out of bed. He walks straight to you, no hesitation, and cups your face in his hands, forcing you to look into his eyes.

“Hey,” he says softly. “Talk to me. What’s wrong?”

Tears well up in your eyes before you can stop them.

“I feel awful,” you manage to say. “I feel like… like I used you. I don’t want you to think I’m only here because of who you are, because of your money, your name, your connections. I don’t want to be that person.”

For a long, terrifying second, he says nothing. And then Harry smiles. A soft, heart-melting smile.

“I would never think that about you,” he murmurs. “Not for a second.” His thumbs brush away your tears, his touch achingly tender.

“From the moment I saw you — messy apron, tired smile, kind eyes — I knew you were different. I knew you were good. You have no idea how rare that is.”

He pulls you into his arms again, holding you tightly, as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

“I’m not letting you go just because you’re scared,” he says quietly, meaning every word. And this time, you let yourself stay. You bury your face into his warm skin, feeling his heartbeat against your cheek, and you finally allow yourself to exhale, to trust.

When he finally pulls back a little, his smile is soft and teasing.

“You’re not seriously thinking about sleeping in that, are you?” he says, glancing pointedly at your half-buttoned shirt and crumpled jeans.

You let out a breathy laugh, feeling your cheeks flush. “No,” you murmur.

“Good,” he grins as you drop your things on the floor, not caring where they land. Holding intense eye contact, you start removing your dress.

He helps you, his face once again filled with surprise as he sees you bare—like it’s the very first time all over again.

“You’re gorgeous,” he whimpers, brushing his nose against your neck and making you laugh.

Before you can even catch your breath, he lifts you up and throws you both back onto the bed, your laughter echoing through the room.

When you wake up, again, you blink sleepily and stretch, only to find Harry already awake, propped up on one elbow, smiling down at you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“Morning, gorgeous,” he says, voice still rough from sleep. You can’t help but smile back. He leans down and kisses you, slow and sweet.

“Come on,” he says, tilting his head. “I’m making you breakfast.”

You pad after him into the kitchen, wrapped in nothing but his white shirt, that hangs down to your thighs. Harry looks completely at home, hair messy, only wearing boxers, barefoot on the cool floor.

He moves around the kitchen like he’s done it a thousand times, making pancakes from scratch, humming under his breath. Every so often he steals a glance at you and smirks when he catches you staring. You sit on the counter, legs swinging, watching him.

And somehow, sitting there in his kitchen, wearing his clothes, laughing with him like you’ve known him forever, you realize you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

With him.

Hi!! Thank you so much for reading!

I hope you guys enjoyed it! This was my very first fic about Harry Castillo and I’m absolutely freaking out because he’s just so RAAA. Anyway, if you have any suggestions, don’t hesitate to let me know! I’d also be super happy for any feedback; whether it’s a reblog, comment, like, or even a follow.

Have a beautiful day,

Love ya🦋🩵

#smut #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x you #pedrohub #zaddy pedro #pedro x reader #pedro pascal x y/n #pedro smut #pedro pascal smut #harry castillo #harry castillo x reader #harry castillo x you #harry castillo smut #materialists #pedro pascal x f!reader #pedro pascal x female reader #harry castillo x f!reader

498 notes · View notes

izzih22 · 22 days ago

Note

more jealous paige plss

Claim You

Note: yall just love some jealous Paige… me too

The bass thumped low in Paige’s chest, and the lights of the crowded bar cast streaks of color across flushed faces and glittering drinks. UConn had just clinched a gritty win, and the team had swarmed Ted’s for a rare night out. Paige hadn’t wanted to go too many people, too many distractions but Azzi had flashed that smile, the one that knocked the breath from Paige’s lungs every time. So here she was. Watching.

Watching her.

Azzi was laughing. Loose, head back, glowing. And he was standing too close. Some guy in a Celtics jersey who had no idea what kind of fire he was playing with.

Paige saw his hand brush Azzi’s lower back when he leaned in to say something, saw Azzi smile polite, step away slightly. Paige’s grip tightened around her drink. The straw bent in half. Her jaw clenched.

She knew she didn’t have to worry. Knew Azzi loved her. Knew they’d been them since they were sixteen. But none of that mattered right now. Right now, Paige’s blood was running hot, and all she could think was:

Mine. Mine. Mine.

She slammed her drink down and crossed the bar in five sharp steps, not caring who was watching. Azzi turned at the last second, surprise flashing across her face.

“Paige—?”

Paige didn’t answer.

She just grabbed her by the wrist, firm but gentle, threading their fingers together before tugging her away from the crowd. Azzi stumbled to keep up, her eyes wide, heart already racing. The guy started to say something, but Paige didn’t even turn around.

They barely made it out the door before Azzi stopped her.

“Baby—what was that?”

Paige didn’t let go. She turned, the jealousy still burning behind her eyes, but now tangled with something hungrier. Hotter.

“You really don’t get it, do you?”

Azzi blinked. “Get what?”

“That I don’t like sharing,” Paige said low, stepping into her space. “I don’t like guys thinking they even have a shot. I don’t like someone else making you laugh like that.”

Azzi’s breath caught in her throat. “It was just small talk.”

“I don’t care.” Paige’s voice dropped, thick with heat. “You’re mine.”

And just like that, she kissed her.

Hard. Possessive. Fingers slipping into Azzi’s hair, the other hand splayed against her lower back, pulling her flush. Azzi gasped into her mouth, momentarily stunned, then melted completely into Paige.

The door to Ted’s was still swinging shut behind them, but Paige didn’t stop. Didn’t give Azzi time to overthink. Just walked her backward toward the car with kisses that tasted like jealousy and hours of restraint snapping.

Azzi could barely keep up. “Paige—”

“Get in.”

Her voice had dropped into something dangerous. Something only Azzi got to see. Azzi smirked.

By the time the car door slammed shut behind them, Paige was already on her, lips crashing again like she couldn’t wait another second. Azzi didn’t want her to.

She wanted all of her.

Wanted to feel what it meant to be Paige’s.

Every kiss said it. Every breath. Every tug of fabric and whispered curse and desperate moan between the moments when their mouths weren’t touching. Azzi tangled her fingers in the front of Paige’s hoodie, clinging, gasping, needing—

And Paige gave. All fire and hands and a low voice murmuring, “Let me show you who you belong to.”

⸻

Later, when Azzi was curled up on Paige’s lap in the back seat, hair messy and cheeks still flushed, Paige pressed her lips to her shoulder and said softly:

“You know I trust you, right?”

Azzi smiled, sated and glowing. “Yeah. But I kinda liked you jealous.”

Paige grinned into her skin. “Good. Because you’re mine.”

And Azzi whispered, “Always.”

#pazzi fics #paige x azzi #pazzi #paige and azzi #paige bueckers #uconn wbb #azzi fudd

345 notes · View notes

loserboysandlithium · 1 year ago

Text

18+ hoes (I miss ex boyfriend Eddie so..)

Ex boyfriend Eddie who “accidentally” sends you a slutty bathroom mirror pic. Water dripping from his curls, running in little rivers down across his inked body. A grungy towel barely covering his cock. A stupid little smirk on his pretty face. A complete accident. It was meant to go to “Stacy” he follows up with a text after the pic, knowing it was a lie but also knowing your jealous brain couldn’t handle the possibility of someone else getting that picture. Someone else kissing his lips. Someone else’s fingers tangled in his hair. Someone else writhing beneath him. Fucking asshole. He knew you too well. He knew what would come next.

“Holy shit, Eddie!” you cry out, fingers gripping his hair as tight as possible. His strong hands keeping your legs spread apart as he devours you. Every time he ate your pussy it was like it was going to be the last. Like he couldn’t get enough. He craved your sweet taste. Your pretty sounds. Your body reacting in a way only he could pull out of you.

He moans into your dripping cunt as you grind your hips upward, pulling him in even deeper by his curls, the pain making him moan even louder, sending vibrations straight to your pussy. “G-gonna.. gonna cum. Baby don’t stop. Please don’t stop.” you whine, your moans increasing with every lap of his tongue.

He pulls away making you whimper at the loss of his tongue as he meets your eyes with a smirk. “Not your baby, remember?” he winks up at you, his tone playful.

“God you’re such a dick.” you mumble, your chest still rising and falling rapidly. So close to your high only to have it ripped away.

“Oh stop being dramatic, sweetheart. I’m gonna make you cum. Just wanna hear you beg a little.” he smirks, leaning back down, kissing your swollen clit once. The action making your hips jolt up, aching for more of him. You grit your teeth, mumbling under your breath.

“Can’t hear you, baby.” Eddie teases, taking his tongue, licking one long stripe against your pussy. “Fuck…” you moan desperately making him smile.

He stops again and raises an eyebrow in your direction, waiting for you to beg. “Please.” you whisper, your need for him overtaking any rational part of your brain.

“Please what?” Eddie pushes, taking his thumb and lightly beginning small circles over your clit.

“Please make me cum. Eddie please.” you give in entirely, your pathetic tone makes him even more hard.

“That’s my girl. Now where were we?”

🖤🖤🖤

More ex boyfriend Eddie found here

#eddie munson x reader #Eddie Munson blurb #eddie munson smut #Eddie Munson x you #eddie munson x fem!reader smut

2K notes · View notes

owuwi · 4 months ago

Text

SEVIKA.ᐟ

➤ sevika x pregnant!reader

.ᐣ after a bad day, sevika says things she quickly regrets.

⤷ cw: angst, sevika not knowing how to handle her feelings, crying.

requested

──────────────────────

Sevika wouldn't be Sevika without that big mouth of hers.

If such things came from someone else's mouth, they wouldn't last a day in the undercity—but Sevika was different. Truth be told, it was one of the reasons why you fell in love with her: the way she could do and say whatever she wanted and get no consequences due to how terrified everyone was of her.

Though now, with the baby on its way, she swore she was going to tone her attitude down.

She didn't want the baby's first word to be some type of profanity, she wanted everything to go perfectly, so she started being perfect. Despite everything that happened between Zaun and Piltover, what happened with Jinx and Isha, she was still trying to be a better version of herself—especially with her new job as a councilor—. So far, she had been doing great, expect for tonight.

Tonight, she came back home with the most terrible headache ever—her ears lightly buzzing, her body trembling, her jaw clenched—and it was all thanks to them. Those fucking Pilties didn't listen to her, not a single of her suggestions had been considered, and she couldn't take it anymore. She didn't hesitate to pour herself a glass of whisky the moment she stepped home and she gulped it down quickly—not bothering to properly taste it.

Since the older woman was never quiet when she was angry, it didn't take long before you woke up and left the comfort of your warm room to go check on her.

But oh, a small part of you wish you didn't.

Sure, there were times when the two of you would have arguments but all couples had them, and the fact that neither of you could stay mad at each other was the reason why the silent treatment never lasted long.

Yet tonight was different.

Sevika was pissed and you were very emotional thanks to the hormones, which definitely didn’t help her mood. When tears started rolling down your soft cheeks thanks to her behavior, she snapped.

"Why the fuck are you crying?" She quickly asked you, her voice sharper than she meant it to be, her tone being one she would use with others and not with you—though that didn't stop her from continuing. "Acting like a damn child.." She then added, letting out a low chuckle before pouring herself more of the strong liquor, bringing her glass up to her lips and taking a long sip from it.

If you didn't know her, you'd just blame it on the alcohol, but Sevika's tolerance had always been admirable.

"Oh i wonder why t-that might be." You replied in a slightly sarcastic tone of voice as one of your hands slowly caressed the bump of your pregnant stomach, your words shaky and hesitant when they fell from your lips. On another moment, your girlfriend would've found this action—you delicately touching where her baby was growing—absolutely adorable, but right now she couldn't think properly.

"Yeah well, you wouldn't be in such a fucking mood if things had stayed normal!" She yelled, looking at you with a glossy yet roughened gaze. She then slammed her glass on the table—the contained liquid spilling a bit—and ran her hand through her short hair.

Hearing the woman you loved saying something like that, regretting the child the two of you were going to raise together, it broke something in you—primarily your heart—.

Sevika had been so happy lately; had been the one rubbing your back when the morning sickness hit you so hard you couldn’t even stand, the one who had built the crib herself—muttering under her breath about how those shitty instructions made no damn sense—, the one who pressed her lips against your stomach at night when she thought you were asleep—murmuring something too quiet for you to hear.

But now, with the way she was standing there, glaring at you like this was all your fault, like the life growing inside you was a mistake, you couldn't help but ask yourself if it had all been a lie.

"Sev—..." You started yet got interrupted by your own sobs, both of your hands coming up to desperately wipe the tears away from your face. "T-Talk to me... what is going on? Why are you—... why are you acting like this?" You begged her in between cries, begged her to explain why the sudden change of heart.

And seeing you like this was something the muscular woman had never been able to handle. Despite how awful her day had been, how her mind was filled with nothing but rage, she finally acknowledged the fact that she shouldn't have treated you like this—shouldn't have acted like she hated what she's built with you—.

Suddenly, your knees felt too weak. Your world was crumbling down and so were you, so you quickly rushed to the couch and sat down. Your eyes were burning and your throat felt way too tight for your liking, your body shaking and shivering like crazy. Your hands quickly found your face and covered it.

The feeling of a warm, sweaty palm on your leg caused you to slightly jolt. When you lifted your head from the shield created by your hands, you were greeted with the sight of your girlfriend crying. Sevika had learned how to be more open with you over the last few years, but you've never seen her cry.

"Fuck i—... i'm so fucking sorry.." She apologized, her voice now sounding way softer than before and actually regretful. Hesitantly, she brought her hand up to your face and wiped your tears away—her rough thumb being a sensation you've missed. "I didn't mean to snap..." She added while continuing holding you.

"You're my whole life, you're the reason why i wanna be better. You and—... our baby are why i keep fighting.." She admitted some seconds later, her bottom lip trembling as she fought back more tears. "You're not acting like a child, you're pregnant with our baby and i should've never raised my voice at you.."

Subconsciously, you wrapped your hand around her wrist and gripped it—as if you were keeping her close to you. This was the Sevika you knew, your Sevika, and this was the Sevika you wanted to raise your child with. You didn't want the scary lady the whole undercity feared, you didn't want Silco's number two, you wanted this.

"T-Then why did you say that?" You questioned, feeling yourself starting to calm down slowly. If you meant so much to her, why say such things? "Because i—... fuck, i'm scared of screwing up, okay?" She revealed, leaning in and lightly resting her head on your lap.

"I've always been fighting; for myself, for my people. And now i got a family to protect and i'm fucking scared. I can't lose you, and i don't know how to handle everything i'm feeling.." She then mumbled so quietly you thought it was just a fiction of your imagination.

"You're never going to lose me, but you hurt me whenever you say things like that.." You replied, slowly placing her palm over your bump. "You hurt us..."

"I know... i'm so sorry.." She immediately said, nuzzling her teary cheek against your lap and allowing her body to relax. "Please.. i promise you i'll never say that again, especially because i didn't mean it." She whispered, and you could tell how sorry she truly was.

Sevika had always been a difficult woman but you loved her, and she made sure to make it easier for you since she loved you too. So with a softened voice, you accepted her apology and knew her words were nothing but the truth.

And Sevika was more than relieved to receive your reassurance. With her strong arms, she lifted you up the couch and carried you back to bed.

Carefully, she lifted your sleeping shirt up and immediately placed a tender kiss on your belly. "I'm sorry to you too, yeah?" She murmured, leaning in again to press her—slightly dry—lips against your skin.

Your girlfriend's strong personality could be an issue at times but that didn't make her less perfect.

#sevika #arcane #sevika arcane #arcane season 2 #sevika x you #sevika x reader #sevika x fem!reader #wlw #lesbian #angst #lol #league of legends #arcane league of legends

609 notes · View notes

beloveds-embrace · 5 months ago

Note

same anon btw

i can just imagine the guys taking turns feeding wet-cat!reader during mealtimes to make sure they don’t starve themselves, subtly snacking around them and offering them some, pretty much anything to make sure they get some sustenance

and it becomes a bit of a routine, something they don’t even think about until johnny makes a joke about it in passing and they’re suddenly reevaluating every little word, every little action from the 141

Original Post

Ghost doesn’t think much of it at first. Some soldiers have weird eating habits- superstitions, routines, whatever keeps them going. But with you, it’s different.

You always take your standard-issue MRE like everyone else. Always accept whatever rations are handed out, no complaints about how they taste or what flavors they are. But Ghost rarely sees you actually eat them. Instead, they disappear into your pack, tucked away like something to be saved for later.

He starts noticing the patterns, then.

You always have something on you- an extra protein bar, a spare pack of nuts, an untouched meal shoved into your vest pocket. He’s seen you slip them into your bag, seen you hoard them away like a scavenger preparing for winter. But not once has he ever seen you take one out for yourself.

Instead, you give them away.

The first time he notices it is during a long mission in the mountains. They’ve been hiking for hours, waiting on exfil, and Soap mutters something about being starving. Before anyone else reacts, you’re already holding out a ration bar, wordlessly passing it over like it was always meant for him. No hesitation, no second thought.

Soap doesn’t question it- just grins, takes it with a quick “Cheers, soldier.” And Ghost watches as you go right back to scanning the horizon, your own pockets still full of untouched food.

The second time is on base, late at night, when he spots you slipping an extra MRE onto a younger recruit’s bunk while they’re asleep. A quiet, unseen gesture, like it’s second nature. Like you weren’t even thinking about it. Like it was never originally meant for you.

That’s when he starts really paying attention.

You never eat in front of them unless someone directly prompts you. Even then, it’s slow, hesitant—like eating is something you have to remind yourself to do. You pick at your food, taking small bites but never finishing a full plate. The only reason the food on your plate lessens is because he can see you seperating what parts can last longer and wrapping them in tissues to pocket.

When the team eats together after a mission- when John makes a point of ordering extra portions, a rare comfort- you never take more than what you were initially given. Even when everyone else is going back for seconds, even when Soap jokingly piles extra on Gaz’s plate, nudging him with an exaggerated “C’mon, mate, eat up!” You just sit there, nursing whatever small portion you allowed yourself, quietly watching but never joining in.

It isn’t just frugality. It isn’t pickiness.

It’s habit.

A deep, ingrained instinct- hoard what you can, give it to someone else, take only what you need (if that). It’s not just about food. It’s about utility. You’ve carved out a role for yourself, a quiet, invisible way to be useful, even if it means sacrificing your own well-being.

Unacceptable.

So they- because bit by bit, the others notice as well- begin fixing it in a simple way.

During a stakeout, Ghost opens a protein bar and hands you half without a word. He doesn’t even look at you, just keeps his eyes on the horizon like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You stare at it for a second before taking it, chewing slowly, like you’re trying to figure out what the catch is (there isn’t one).

Gaz tosses you bags of trail mixes, always saying it’s too much for him so now you have to finish it before him- the spirit of competitiveness.

Soap and John? They basically stare you down until you actually eat everything on your plate. They don’t order you, or pressure you verbally- just this expectant air around them.

And they pretend, for your sake, that they don’t see your tears when they make the food for you themselves- a warm and home-cooked meal after a tough mission.

(My brain frizzled out for the last part sorry anon 💔)

#noona.asks #noona.reads #cod x reader #cod x you #cod #tf 141 x reader #tf 141 x you #tf 141 #poly!141 x you #poly 141 x you #poly!141 x reader #poly 141 x reader #poly!141 #poly 141

571 notes · View notes

dakotalun · 2 years ago

Text

"Oops" | Eddie Munson

pairing: Eddie Munson X Fem Reader

summary: Part 1--Eddie "accidentally" sends a tasteful pic to his best friend.

warnings: mutual pining, pet names (sweetheart), strong language, description of naked Eddie

word count: 3.4k

Part 2

a/n: went a little crazy at 3am the other night and wrote this. Part two will be up later this week!! Luv y'all <3

*******NOT MY GIF, CREDIT TO OWNERS*******

Eddie is your best friend of many years, the two of you being inseparable from the moment you met. So when you got a text from him tonight you don’t think much of it, figuring it was just a dumb meme he saw or a random thing from today.

What you didn’t expect to see was a picture of Eddie standing in his bathroom, towel slung over his shoulders with a prominent boner happening.

His hair is wet as if he just got out of the shower and hadn’t bothered to dry it yet. The long dark brown locks stick to his neck and chest in a way that can only be described as godly. The tattoos on his skin are glistening but covered by the towel around his neck and as you move your eyes downward the path of hair that leads to his dick is delicious.

And talking about his dick it is, mag-fucking-nificent! The way that it hangs there, the tip swollen and red, leaking the smallest bit of precum. It has your mouth watering.

You nearly choked on your own spit when you saw it. Never in a million years did you think that Eddie would be sending you of all people nudes. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t wonder what he was packing but you never really indulged in those thoughts, until now. You couldn’t tear your eyes away from the screen, memorizing every little detail in the photo.

Eddie sends another text but you’re too distracted to see what it is. Then a stream of texts start flooding in from him.

‘SHIT!’

‘I DID NOT NMEAN TO SNED YIU THAT!’

‘IGNORE THE PICTUREA’

‘HOW THE HELL DO I DELETE THE PIC?!?!?!’

‘GOD I AM SOSOSOSOSOSOSSOO SOORRY!!’

You giggle at his frantic typing, noting all the typos. Curiosity gets the better of you and you scroll up a little to see what he had said after he sent the picture. You’re eyes go wide at the words displayed on your screen.

‘Couldn’t stop thinkin’ about you. Jerked off twice while in the shower and I’m still hard. Wish you were here with me right now ;)’

You had no clue who this was really meant for but if it was meant for you you would 100 percent be on your way to him right now. The bottom half of the picture stares back at you as your eyes acan over the text again and again. You can’t deny the small hint of wetness that you feel on your underwear while looking at the two.

Twice? He came twice and is still hard. Whoever he thought about must be really hot if he can go 3 rounds without breaking a sweat. Could he go more?

Your thoughts were interrupted by your phone receiving a call, from none other than Eddie himself. You sit up in bed and pull your knees towards you as you answer his call.

“Sweetheart I am so so so sorry I sent you that. It was clearly meant for someone else. If I had known it was your contact that I was on I would have never sent that at all. I want you to know that I don’t go around sending nudes to everyone or anything, I’m not a slut I was just-”

“Eddie it’s fine. No need to apologize. I figured it wasn’t meant for me anyways.” It pains you a little at the thought that someone else was supposed to receive that message from your best friend.

“I’m still sorry. Is there any way I can make it up to you?” His voice sounds smooth like spreading butter onto fresh pancakes.

“Hmm,” You fake thinking about what you want even though you know exactly what it is you want, “You’ve gotta tell me who that text was really meant for.” Silence. For a whole minute there is just silence on Eddie’s end, you’d think he was dead if it weren’t for the fast pace of his breathing.

“Sweetheart,” The nickname is not helping the situation you have going on right now, “You don’t mean that. Can’t I just take you to breakfast or buy you a new outfit?”

“Nope.” You respond popping the ‘p’ as you say it. “Either tell me who it was meant for or I send it to the groupchat.” You were bluffing. You couldn’t let the others see him like that, that was for your eyes only. Not that anyone needed to know that.

“You wouldn’t dare,” His voice turned deep and threatening.

“Try. Me.” You challenge back.

Eddie groans, “Fine. You win,” A smile spreads across your face, “It was meant for Callie. This girl in my chem class, we’ve been talking for a little bit.”

You’re a mix of emotions right now; happy that Eddie found someone he’s interested in and took his shot, confused because he never told you about it, sad because you thought he trusted you with things like that, and slightly jealous because you want to be the one Eddie sent nudes to, purposefully.

“Sweetheart? You still there?” You completely forget that you’re still on the phone with Eddie until he says something.

“Uh yeah yeah I’m here. I’m um happy for you Ed. Glad you found someone. Look I gotta go to sleep, big test tomorrow, talk later. Bye.” You hang up before he can say anything else.

Why did you feel this way about all this? You shouldn’t be thinking of Eddie in this way, he was your best friend. Best friends don’t think about going down on each other, or the way it would feel to have his cock inside you, or the moans he would release when he finally cums in you.

You shake it off and lay back down, setting your phone on your nightstand to charge. You try for half an hour to fall asleep but your mind can’t stop thinking about that damn picture. So you unlock your phone and go back to your messages with Eddie, looking to see if he deleted the picture or not. And to your luck it was the latter, the picture and text below still there for your viewing pleasure.

You’re still horny from the initial thought of him so it doesn’t take long for your hand to wander under your shorts and underwear to your clit. The thought that your fingers were his and the way he would whisper in your ear egging you on to finish.

The images of him jerking himself off in the shower flood you, his hand on the cold tiles, water hitting his back as he fists his cock, rubbing it slowly at first but becoming impatient and going faster until he cums all over the wall and his hand.

The image of his face when he does and the moans that would leave his mouth is what throws you over the edge yourself. Wishing it were him between your legs pulling it from you not your own fingers. Finally your body is tired enough to let you go to sleep, dreaming of Eddie once more.

---

You’re sitting with Eddie and the rest of Hellfire at lunch a week later. Neither of you have talked about what happened that night, both too embarrassed to say anything.

Things were normal though, Eddie would pick you up and drop you off to and from school. You’d talk on the phone every night about whatever happened that day that the other wasn’t there for. You liked the thought that the text didn’t hinder your friendship but you can’t help but be a little jealous about Eddie fucking someone else. It’s not like you were expecting him to confess his hidden undying love for you the next day but the realization that Eddie really did send you that accidentally; hurt.

The freshman are talking about some video game coming out when Eddie lean over to you.

“Whatcha’ thinking about?” There’s a smile on his face, one that you always loved seeing.

“Nothing,” You go back to eating your fruit.

“Alrighty then. Hey I was wondering what time you wanted to come over tonight?”

Your eyes grow wide, mind going back to the text, “Why?”

“Um it’s Wednesday. Horror movie marathon night, remember?” His head cocks to the side a little, his hair falling into his face. It reminds you of a dog questioning what it’s owner has in their hand.

“Oh right yeah. Um I don’t know if I can make it tonight.” That was a lie, you had nothing going on. But being in the trailer alone with Eddie after knowing what he looks like naked is not what you need right now.

“Awe come on! I rented Scream, Saw, and Halloween for tonight. You can’t make me watch them all alone,” He lowers his voice and leans closer, “What if I need protection from the bad guys?” His big doe eyes large and pleading with you.

You roll your eyes and push his face away from you, “Ugh fine. I’ll be there, how’s 8?”

“Perfect! I’ll order the pizzas, do you think you could make those amazing cookies for us?”

“You mean for you?”

“No. I mean for us, I would never eat all the cookies myself.”

“You did like 3 weeks ago! There were 30 cookies there and I had none of them.” You stare at him as he thinks back to then.

“Nope don’t remember which means it didn’t happen. So will you?” There are those puppy dog eyes again.

“Whatever but I swear if you eat all of them again I’ll castrate you.”

Eddie’s hands fly to his groin, protecting it from your threat. “Ouch, sweetheart. Didn’t know you hated my dick that much.”

I don’t. Just hate that it’s not mine. You thought, but you just rolled your eyes and continued on eating lunch until the bell rang.

---

Eddie rushed around his room looking for his favorite shirt when you showed up for movie night. You let yourself in, per usual and set the cookies down on the coffee table before heading to Eddie’s room. He was squating in front of his closet when you come in, you don’t announce yourself just stand there staring at his back.

He got a few new tattoos since last summer, two of which on his back. A skull and crossbones along with a knife wrapped in barbed wire. You haven’t seen them in person yet, it still being too cold to sit out in the sun. But looking at them now was a pleasure, the detail popping out as his muscles flex.

Eddie huffs and stands, defeated about not finding the shirt he wanted. He turns around and finds you standing in his doorway.

“Jesus! Why didn’t you say you were here?” His hand is over his heart as he catches his breath from the unintentional jump scare.

“I texted you like 20 minutes ago that I was on my way. Figured you knew I’d be here soon,” You say as you enter his room fully to sit on his bed.

“I did not see the text, I was in the shower,” The mention of this brought back memories of the photo, and what you did whilst looking at it, “Anyways pizza should be here soon and I’ve got beers and soda in the fridge.”

Eddie walks around you to his dresser, grabbing a random shirt and throwing it on. You’re sad at the loss of his bare skin but quickly shake the thought away. You get up from his bed and head to his living room, Eddie following in toe.

“So what are we watching first? I’ve seen Scream a few times but the other two I haven’t seen,” Eddie remarks as he grabs two beers from the fridge, opening them before handing you one.

You mumble a thanks before taking a sip, the bitter liquid coating your tastebuds. “I’ve seen Scream and Saw but not Halloween. Heard good things about it though, at least that’s what Robin said, Steve had other opinions.”

“Lemme guess pretty boy hated it and wished he never saw it?” Eddie laughs as he sets up Halloween on the tv.

“Yeah pretty much,” You laugh along. The thought of your friend sitting there watching the movie curled up in a blanket next to Robin bringing a smile to your face.

Eddie finishes setting up the movie and walks back the kitchen. He grabs a bag of chips and some dip before returning to your side on the couch. He opens the chips and pops one in his mouth, crunching it loudly.

You smile at the normalcy of everything right now, it’s as if nothing ever happened between the two of you. Which if we’re being honest nothing really did happen, Eddie just sent you a nude on accident. It’s not like you kissed or anything. Not that you’d hate it if you did.

You snack on the chips and dip with him while waiting for the pizza to show up, never starting the movie without it. The two of you talk about nothing in particular while you sit there. Eddie tells you about the upcoming DnD campaign he’s been working on.

His eyes lighting up and hands flying around erratically as he explains what he planned, the animation in his character brings an even bigger smile to your face.

Just as Eddie concludes his explanation, inviting you to come sit in and watch it at the end, the doorbell rings notifying the both of you that the pizza was here and it was now time for movie night to begin.

Eddie pays the guy and happily walks over to the couch and sets the food on the table in front of the two of you, he can’t even wait til the movie starts playing to begin eating. You laugh at him as he opens and closes his mouth quickly trying to cool the hot pizza in his mouth, you just hit play and start watching the movie.

The pizza is gone, same with half the bag of chips and the cookies. Eddie actually let you eat a few of them before he scarfed down the others. You’re nearing the end of Scream, the third and final movie of the night when you look at your phone for the time. 12:25 stares back at you, you groan knowing that your parents are going to kill you for coming home so late on a school night.

Eddie hears you and turns to see why you made that noise. You just wave him off and go back to watching the movie, watching as Skeet Ulrich gets shot for the final time in the head. A few minutes later the credits roll and Eddie turns off the tv, letting the trailer fade into silence.

“Wanna tell me what that groaning was about?” Eddie asks turning to face you completely.

“Nothing, just didn’t realize that it had gotten so late. Parents are gonna kill me if I go home at this hour.”

“So just stay here,” He says with no hesitation, “You still have a few clothes here after last movie night. They’re just siting in my drawer.”

You think about it for a minute. You and Eddie have had sleepovers in the past, nothing special about them, just two people sharing a bed, occasionally cuddling because of the small size of it. But now the thought of it made you nervous, having him so close to you, so near yet not being able to touch him. It killed you, but it’s better than going back home right now and having your mom and dad rip you a new one.

“Alright, I’m gonna need to shower though. Coach had us run the mile today at practice and I still feel disgusting.”

“Yeah no problem, you go ahead and shower, I’ll clean up here.” He stands and starts clearing the trash from the table. You get up too and head into his bathroom, but no matter how hot the water is or how long you stand under it you can't get the thought of the picture and the words under it out of your mind.

He was right here, jerking off to the thought of someone. You scold yourself for thinking about him like that, again. But you couldn’t help it.

Recently you’ve thought about him more and more; his smile, the dimples that show when he’s really happy, how animatedly he talks, the way his hair is always unkempt but still looks so damn soft. You thought about him in ways you never did before seeing that picture; his arms, his muscles, his hands, his rings. Everything about him turned you on and you needed it to go away.

Eddie finished up cleaning and sat down on his bed, beer in hand while he took out his metal lunchbox for a joint. You walk into his room, towel wrapped around yourself, hair dripping wet from the shower. He stops his actions to just stare at you, the same way you did earlier that night.

“Uh could I borrow some clothes? I don’t have anything to sleep in,” You say wrapping your arms under your boobs, pushing them up ever so slightly.

Eddie clears his throat, “Yeah, sure.” He gets up and walks over to his dresser, rummaging through it to look for something you can wear tonight. He pulls out a pair on your underwear that you “left” there a while back and one of his Hellfire shirts. You denied his offer of some pants, saying they would be way to big on you and you’d rather just sleep in the shirt.

Eddie’s mind went straight to the gutter at that thought, you sleeping next to him, in just his Hellfire shirt and a pair of underwear he stole from you. His dick was growing hard just thinking about it. He quickly got back to looking for his joint and lighting it upon it’s appearance. He took a few hits while you changed in the bathroom, his mind slowly fogging over.

You return, hair still slightly wet with the towel in your hand. You toss it into his hamper before laying on his bed, grabbing his beer and taking a sip. You lay back and close your eyes, letting the serenity of this moment wash over you. Eddie offers you a hit but you decline, being that you don’t ever mix weed and booze together.

He finishes the joint while you finish his beer. The two of you just sitting there with the light sound of whatever record Eddie has playing. Your thoughts are quiet for the most part, just soaking in the time with your best friend, until you think of something. A question you’ve been meaning to ask for a little bit.

“Eddie?”

“Hmm?” He responds head leaning back onto the wall where a headboard should be.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure, hit me.” You reach your hand out and hit him in the thigh.

“Ouch! Not literally, I meant with the question, sweetheart.”

“I know,” You giggle.

“Brat,” He mumbles back.

“Anyways, I was gonna ask -and you don’t have to answer this if you don’t want to it’s just something I’ve been thinking about- but did you really not know it was me you were sending that picture to?” The words lay heavy on your tongue as you say them aloud. You’ve been thinking about this for a while, it’s hard not to.

How did he not know it was you he was texting, your name was right there at the top of the screen. And if he was sending it to someone else how could he not double-check to make sure he wasn’t sending it to someone like Wayne or Robin.

He’s quiet for a moment, thinking about the best way to tell you that, yes he did know it was you he was sending it to. And yes he knew it was stupid but he wanted to try something to see if you felt the same way about him that he does you. Eddie’s loved you for about a year and a half now, never saying anything to anyone in fear of running your friendship.

But that night he was watching a show and one of the characters did this thing where they pretended to send a text to someone “they didn’t mean to”, to see how they’d respond. He thought that maybe this was an easy way of figuring out how you felt about him. But when you didn’t respond to his photo or texts he got scared and called you. Needing to clarify what he sent, and why.

Eddie Taglist: @ali-r3n @dixontardis

#eddie stranger things #munson #eddie munson #eddie my love #eddie my beloved #female reader #oneshot #smut #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson fic #eddie munson x you #stranger things #stranger things 4 #st4 #stranger things season 4 #eddie x reader

7K notes · View notes

lummachriss · 1 month ago

Text

⠀⠀𝅄ㅤ .ᐟ pairing: nerdy!matt x cheerleader!reader

⠀⠀𝅄ㅤ .ᐟ warning: smut, public play, slight exhibitionism, fingering, grinding

⠀⠀𝅄ㅤ .ᐟ glasses slip & heart skips Sitting on his lap was supposed to be innocent. But the way he stiffened, the way he looked at you—helpless and desperate—told a different story. And you weren’t even sorry.

You knew he didn’t like parties.

Didn’t like the noise, the sweat, the red cups littering the floor or the unfamiliar faces crowding too close. But being you meant going—cheerleader, popular, always invited—and being his meant following. You’d begged him with wide eyes and that soft please, baby, tugged his sleeve and pouted until he finally said yes, too sweet and soft-spoken to deny you.

Now he was perched on the edge of a couch in some stranger’s house, shoulders hunched, flushed and visibly miserable, nursing the taste of a single shot like it had personally betrayed him.

You hadn’t even stayed.

You’d dragged him out, cooed over how cute he looked in his hoodie, then let your already tipsy friend shove a red cup at him and slur something like, “You have to, nerd boy, you’re so tense—loosen up!” before you’d giggled and wandered off. He hadn’t even wanted it—he hated the taste, but he downed it anyway, just to be polite. Just because you were watching. Just because you were smiling at him.

Then you'd dropped into his lap without thinking. Like it was nothing. Like he was just your seat. You were laughing at something on your phone, skirt shifting as you sat squarely in his lap, the warm weight of you pressing into his thighs—and maybe, maybe it wasn’t on purpose, the little roll of your hips to get comfortable, the rock against the bulge that’d been forming ever since he walked in beside you.

You didn’t mean to make him hard.

But now he was sitting there alone. Still.

Fists clenched tight between his knees, his cheeks hot and pink. He was blinking a little slower, the cheap shot buzzing faintly in his veins, but it wasn’t alcohol making him dizzy—it was you. The press of your body, the warmth you left in his lap, the scent of your perfume still clinging to his hoodie. And now you were across the room, smiling with your friends, dancing, hips swaying like you didn’t know what you’d done to him.

And Matt?

Matt was trying not to cry.

His cock throbbed under the denim, so hard it hurt, and all he could do was sit there—flushed, glassy-eyed, trying not to palm himself like a loser in someone else’s living room. You looked back once. Maybe. And he thought he saw your lips curl up in a smile, thought he caught your eye before you turned away.

He felt small. Forgotten. Like you’d dragged him out into the world and left him behind.

He didn’t make a decision. He just moved.

Legs a little unsteady, vision swimming, breath caught somewhere behind his teeth. He followed the sound of your voice until it led him down the hallway—away from the bass, away from the noise—until he found you in the dim light of a bedroom, scrolling through your phone at the foot of the bed, cup forgotten beside you.

“Baby…” His voice cracked as he said it.

You looked up, brows lifting, a slow smile creeping across your lips. “Yeah?”

He didn’t answer.

Just walked straight to you, grabbed your waist, and turned you gently—pushed you forward until your palms hit the wall, and his body crowded up behind you, his chest warm against your back, breathing hard like he’d run miles to get here.

“Matt—”

“You can’t…” His voice was thin, broken. “You can’t do...that— w- why just leave me.”.

Your mouth opened, but he kept going, grinding forward helplessly, hips already rutting against you from behind like he didn’t know how to stop. “You...y- you sat on me—and then you rocked—just a little, j- just...ngh enough—and then you were gone. Just laughing. With them.”

He was humping now.

Soft, clumsy little thrusts, so needy it made your heart ache. His hands held your hips like you might disappear again, face buried in the crook of your neck, mumbling against your skin.

“Hurts,” he whispered, voice thick and baby-soft. “I didn’t touch it, I promise—I didn’t—I was just sitting there, and it got worse...nghh and I waited...b- but you didn’t come back— b- baby, why?”

The door clicked softly behind you both, and before you could even steady your breath, Matt’s hands were braced on the wall beside your head, pinning you gently but firmly as his chest pressed flush against your back. His warmth seeped through your clothes, grounding you, but the tension humming through his body was impossible to miss.

He began grinding into you, hips rocking forward with small, desperate thrusts that left you breathless. His jeans and boxers were tight, but then, with a shaky motion, he tugged the waistband of his boxers down just enough to free his tip. His fingers trembled as he pushed the fabric down, revealing his already hard, flushed length.

“Baby…” His voice was soft, broken, needy. “I… I can’t stop…”

His fingers slipped down to the hem of your shorts, pulling them down just enough to expose the bare skin of your hips and thighs. Then, almost shyly, he used his fingers to spread your folds apart through your underwear, making room for his tip to press snugly between the warm, slick skin.

His cock nudged gently against you, pushing past the soft fabric, teasing that sensitive spot beneath your folds. His hips rocked in slow, clumsy circles as he sought a rhythm, each movement shaky but desperate, his breath hitching with every press. “I don’t wanna make a mess,” he whimpered, voice barely above a whisper, desperation clear.

“You poor thing…” you murmured, sliding your hands down to cup him, feeling the tension there.

“Don’t—don’t wanna mess your shorts, or your legs—I’m sorry—I just need—” His voice cracked as he stuttered, fingers working awkwardly but eagerly inside you, tracing uncertain paths over your folds.

“Are you gonna hump like a puppy? Baby?” you teased softly, voice low, warm.

He whimpered, hips bucking harder against you, fingers slipping clumsily inside, trying to find the right spot. “I just… wanna make you feel good,” he breathed, tongue catching on his lip. His thumb pressed against your clit in slow, uneven circles, and his breath hitched, hips stuttering with helpless desperation.

“I’m gonna—gonna cum,” he whispered, face flushed bright with shame and want. “Please—please don’t wanna make a mess…”

Your hand slid down, palming him firmly, stroking his sensitive length as his fingers worked inside you, unsteady but devoted.

He gasped, body trembling, hips bucking into your touch as he spilled release after release, breath ragged and face flushed with relief. His pluse sprunting, thick—rope by rope as His entire body softened, melting into you like you were the only thing holding him upright.

You kissed his temple, voice soft and soothing. “You did so good, baby. Next time, I’ll show you more.”

He whimpered again, already half-hard, pressing back into you, needy and fragile, clinging to you like you were his whole world.

You wrapped your arms around him, holding him close as he melted into you, breath slowing, eyes fluttering shut—completely yours

⊹ㅤ @sturniolo-szn2 @slvt4subchratt @grace-sturnz @starsashley00 @cayleeuhithinknott @courtenaybird @rriverscuomo @ifwdominicfike @mattsplaything @whore4-chrissturniolo @bernardsbendystraws @h8aaz ㅤ. .ㅤ. @tezzzzzzzz ⠀!

#ֺ ｡ nerdy .ᐟmatt x cheerleader!reader⠀࣪♥︎#🪽̸ㅤㅤּㅤㅤ⎯𝖫𝖴𝖬𝖬𝖠ㅤㅤ©!#sturniolo fanfic #sturniolo tumblr #matt sturniolo #matt sturniolo x reader #matt sturniolo imagine #matt sturniolo smut #matthew sturniolo #matt sturniolo x you #matt sturniolo fanfic #matthew sturniolo x you #matthew sturniolo fanfic #matthew sturniolo smut #matthew sturniolo x reader #matt stuniolo fanfic

314 notes · View notes

5starluvr · 13 days ago

Text

Three lies deep

Part 1 > Part 2

Pairing: Hyunjin x Felix x Reader

Genre: Smut • fluff • slight angst

Summary:

You didn’t mean to get caught in their gravity.Felix was soft smiles and reckless touch. Hyunjin was silence, precision, and heat.You thought you were just filling the space between them—until you found yourself beneath them, between them, and finally… chosen by both.

Warnings: Warnings: 18+ / MDNI • Dom/sub dynamics • Praise & degradation kink • M/M & M/M/F content • Oral (f receiving) • Double penetration • Emotional vulnerability • Aftercare • Self-conscious sub • Gentle possessiveness • Kissing between all parties • Soft angst with resolution • jealousy

The door creaked open.

She never knocked. It wasn't out of rudeness—she just had a way of moving through the house like she already owned it. Like it had been built around her and everyone else was just visiting.

Hyunjin didn't look up. Pencil steady in his fingers, he shaded the edge of a collarbone in the sketchbook sprawled across his lap. The girl on the page wasn't anyone specific. Just a curve of a shoulder, a hint of hair tied back in tension. He'd been working on it for an hour and still hadn't decided if he hated it.

The floor creaked again. Bare feet, soft. She always walked barefoot, no matter how cold the marble tiles got at night.

"Do you have toothpaste?" she asked.

Not a greeting. Just the question, straight through the quiet.

Hyunjin exhaled through his nose, slowly. "In the bathroom cabinet."

"Yours is better than mine," she said, already walking in. "Mine tastes like fake mint and it's too spicy."

He finally looked up.

She was wearing a tank top—threadbare and low on one side, like it didn't fit quite right—and tiny pink shorts with white trim that clung too close to her hips. Her hair was in a loose braid down one side, a few strands around her cheek. Her skin looked too pretty against the dark fabric. Too soft.

Hyunjin looked back down at his sketchbook.

She stepped into the en suite bathroom. He heard the cabinet open, heard the soft rattle of things shifting inside. Then the sound of her brushing. Loud, on purpose.

He tried to focus on the sketch again, but it was ruined. His pencil pressed too hard into the paper, scratching the page. He flipped it closed.

She emerged a moment later, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

"You hate when I come in here," she said, as if she was reminding him of the weather.

He didn't answer.

"You used to say something. Now you just get all quiet and murdery."

He leaned back in his chair, arms folding. "Why are you here, y/n?"

She tilted her head. "In Korea or in your room?"

"Start with my room."

She moved to the edge of his bed and sat down without asking. The mattress dipped slightly under her weight.

"Your room has better air-conditioning."

A lie. Her room was directly under the fan unit. She just liked saying things she knew he wouldn't challenge.

Hyunjin stared at her. Her legs were crossed, one bare foot swinging lazily. She didn't even look at him while she spoke—her eyes wandered across his desk, the half-finished drawings, the closed sketchbook.

She picked up a pencil, rolled it between her fingers.

"You have someone coming over today?" she asked.

He blinked. "No."

"Mmh. Shame." She smiled faintly. "I like watching you get awkward around people."

"I'm not awkward."

She looked directly at him now. "You are around me."

He didn't answer.

A long pause settled between them. The kind that made the cicadas outside seem louder, the ceiling fan heavier as it spun above.

"You know Felix wants to come over tomorrow, right?" she said.

Hyunjin's shoulders tensed. Just slightly. "Yeah."

She leaned back on her palms, stretching her spine. "He texted me."

Hyunjin's gaze sharpened.

"Why?" he asked.

She smiled again, small and infuriating. "He said he wants to see the house."

That wasn't what he meant and she knew it.

Hyunjin stood, suddenly, too quickly. The chair scraped the floor. He walked toward the door. "Get out."She blinked. "Excuse me?"

"I'm not your entertainment," he muttered, reaching for the handle.

She stood too, in no rush. Walked past him, brushing too close. She smelled like coconut shampoo and something faintly like vanilla —something he didn't recognize from the bathroom shelf.

At the door, she paused. Turned.

"You know," she said softly, "if you hate me so much, you shouldn't watch me all the time."

Then she left. Quiet as she came.

The door clicked shut behind her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Three months ago.

A table at a glossy restaurant in Gangnam. All glass and gold accents. The kind of place you reserved weeks in advance unless you were his father, who just made a phone call.

Hyunjin hadn't known why they were meeting until the woman arrived—tall, elegant, fur-lined coat even though it wasn't cold enough for it. Her lipstick was red and perfect. She kissed his father on the cheek like they were old lovers.

They weren't.

She was his father's dentist. They'd met four months ago after a cracked molar and a cancelled meeting. She'd done the procedure herself— she was precise, unflinching, and just charming enough to make pain feel like conversation. His father had been taken with her before the anesthesia wore off.

Hyunjin didn't care. He was used to his father getting what he wanted.

But then she'd said, with a careful accent, "I'd like you to meet my daughter. She's just flown in."

And then she stepped around the corner.

Not nervous. Not smiling. Just... looking. A girl in a black dress and thick eyeliner, posture too confident for someone her age. One hand on the back of the chair, like she wasn't sure if she was going to sit or leave.She'd met his eyes for the first time and tilted her head—just slightly.

That was all.

No handshake. No polite Korean greeting. No wide-eyed step-sister cliché.

She just looked at him, then sat down.

They'd all eaten steak that night while the adults talked about logistics and joint assets and summer properties in Nice. Hyunjin barely touched his food.She drank red wine with practiced ease and didn't speak unless spoken to.

They got married two weeks later. A private ceremony. No guests.

She moved into the house one week after that. Her clothes took over the upstairs closet. Her perfume replaced the citrusy diffusers his father liked. Her laughter started echoing down the hall at night when she was on the phone with friends he didn't know.

And Hyunjin had no idea what to do with her.

She didn't try to befriend him. Didn't try to make him like her.

She just existed—boldly, quietly—like she had always belonged here. And worse, she noticed everything.

When he didn't answer.

When he looked too long.

When he looked away too fast.

She never asked him to talk. But she made it impossible to ignore her.

And now... she walked in and out of his room like the house was hers.

Maybe it was.

Maybe he was.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The door had been closed for fifteen minutes. Maybe twenty.

Hyunjin still hadn't moved.

He stood at the edge of the desk, sketchbook closed, pencil untouched. His eyes flicked toward the floor where she had walked, then toward the chair she had leaned against, the sheets she had wrinkled just by sitting there.

He wasn't supposed to care.

She was nothing. His father's new wife's daughter. An interloper. A guest who never left.

Except she wasn't a guest. She was here. Every day. In his hallway. In his kitchen. In his space.

In his head.

Hyunjin let out a breath and forced himself to move—step by step toward the window. The room was dim now. The sky outside had darkened to a bluish-grey, that electric color that came before real nightfall. A few garden lights flickered on.

Then he saw her.

Outside. Alone.

She was down by the pool, standing barefoot on the pale stone tiles. Her hair was down now, loose and falling down her back in a soft wave. She'd changed into one of those oversized linen shirts she stole from the laundry room—his father's, probably. Too big, the sleeves slipping past her wrists.

She wasn't swimming. Just walking along the edge, trailing her fingers across the surface of the water. She didn't know he was watching.

Or maybe she did.

She paused at the far side, turned toward the house—and tilted her face up slightly, toward his window. Not enough to be sure. Just enough to make his pulse spike. He should close the curtain.

He didn't.

Instead, he leaned closer. Just slightly. His forehead grazed the edge of the windowpane.

She sat down at the edge of the pool. Rolled up her sleeves. Dipped her legs in the water.

The shirt slid up her thighs.

Hyunjin's jaw clenched. He stepped back, abruptly, like the glass might accuse him.

It was wrong to look. She wasn't just a girl.

She was her.

And yet—he looked again.

She was smiling now, just barely, at something in her hand. Her phone screen lit her face in pale blue.

Texting.

Probably Felix.

Hyunjin swallowed hard.

He turned away, back to his desk. Sat down. Opened the sketchbook to a blank page.

The pencil hovered over the paper, waiting.

He started to draw. Not from imagination this time.A girl. Cross-legged. Hair down. Shirt slipping over one shoulder.Her face was turned slightly away. But he didn't need to see her eyes to know them.

He drew anyway.

Then the doorbell rang at 2:17 p.m.—five minutes earlier than expected.

Hyunjin was already halfway down the stairs, barefoot, grey sweatshirt clinging slightly from the heat. He didn't like the doorbell. It always sounded too sharp, too formal, like someone rich had designed it to remind you they were home.

Felix didn't wait. By the time Hyunjin opened the door, he was already grinning, shifting his weight on one sneakered foot, arms open like he lived there."Hyung" Felix said, dragging out the vowel. "You look like you've been in quarantine for three weeks."Hyunjin stepped back silently and let him in. "It's hot."

Felix kicked his shoes off and walked straight to the kitchen like he always did. "You don't have AC upstairs?"

"I do."

Felix paused, turned over his shoulder. "Then why do you look like a tortured poet right now?"

Hyunjin didn't answer. He followed.

The kitchen was clean, the way Hyunjin kept it. Light poured in from the windows, catching the thin streak of blonde in Felix's hair. He'd redyed it since last time—more contrast now. More trouble."Water?" Hyunjin asked, already opening the fridge.

"Something cold. Something evil. Do you still have those peach sodas?"

He handed one over without comment.

Felix cracked the can open and leaned against the counter, sipping loudly. "So. Where's your mysterious stepsister?"

Hyunjin froze for just a second. "Upstairs, I think."Ohhh," Felix said, eyebrows up. "She's real, then. I was starting to think you made her up."

Hyunjin gave him a look.

"What? You never post her. Never mention her. Never say anything except, 'she lives here now.' That's creepy. You made it sound like a ghost moved in."

"She's not a ghost," came a voice from behind them.

Felix turned.

There she stood at the edge of the hallway. Barefoot again. Same oversized linen shirt—maybe the same one from last night. Her hair was down, wet at the ends. She had a towel slung over one shoulder and no expression on her face.

Felix blinked. Then smiled wide. "You must be y/n."She tilted her head. "You must be loud."

Felix laughed. "Guilty."

She walked past them into the kitchen and opened the fridge without asking. Pulled out a bottle of chilled water. Drank half of it in one go.

Hyunjin watched Felix watching her.

Felix leaned slightly toward her, elbow on the counter. "You're taller than I thought."

"Flats," she said simply.

"Ah." He let his eyes drop to her feet. "Still. You're like... terrifyingly elegant."

Y/n raised an eyebrow. "Terrifying?"

"In a good way."

Hyunjin's jaw tensed.

She turned, looking straight at him. "Your friend flirts like he's being timed."

Hyunjin didn't respond. Felix grinned.

"I'm just efficient," Felix said. "Kinda like your sarcasm. You two really are related."

"We're not," y/n and Hyunjin said at the same time.

A beat of silence.

Felix blinked. "Right. Step. Got it."

She walked past them again, heading for the stairs.

"I'm changing," she called over her shoulder. "Don't wait."

Felix watched her go until she disappeared down the hall. Then turned back to Hyunjin with a slow grin.

"Hyung.."

Hyunjin opened another can of soda, not looking at him. "Don't."

Felix's grin widened. "Too late."

~~~~~~~~

The dining table wasn't meant for three people.

It seated ten—glass-topped, surrounded by velvet chairs that Hyunjin's father claimed were imported from Milan. It always felt like too much. Tonight it felt like a stage.

Y/n took her time coming down. She appeared just as Hyunjin and Felix finished setting plates—slow steps, silk robe loosely knotted, her hair brushed and still damp from her shower.

Felix looked up from the salad bowl and nearly dropped the tongs.

"Jesus."

"Too much?" She asked, glancing down at herself without concern.

It wasn't a dress. Just the robe, dark red, falling open at the collar and too short to be accidental. Hyunjin could see the hem of black shorts beneath it, barely.

Felix recovered with a grin. "Not enough, technically. But I'm not complaining."

"Mm. That's new," she said, sitting across from him. "Men usually start with fake modesty."

Felix smiled. "I'm Australian."

"As if that explains everything."

" It kind of does."

Hyunjin took the seat at the head of the table. He didn't speak.

They ate in half-silence—forks clicking, glasses clinking. The kind of silence full of things being thought but not said.

"So.." Felix said eventually, picking at his chicken. "What's it like living with this guy?"

He jerked a thumb at Hyunjin without looking.

Shs smiled faintly, chewing slowly. "Quiet."

Hyunjin's fork paused over his plate.

Felix snorted. "That sounds accurate."

"He doesn't like music," she continued, voice light. "Doesn't like clutter. Doesn't like when people move things."

"Are you describing a serial killer or your stepbrother?"

She turned to Felix. "What's the difference?"

Felix let out a laugh.Hyunjin didn't. He drank from his water glass and stared at the edge of his plate.

"I do like music," he said quietly.

"Oh?" Y/n tilted her head. "Then why did you unplug my speaker from the bathroom?"

"Because it was two a.m.," he said sharply.

She raised her glass, unbothered. "I like to shower with soundtrack."Felix looked between them, eyebrows high. "This is the weirdest dinner I've ever had and I once ate goat brain in Morocco."

"You haven't seen anything yet," she said.

Her eyes didn't leave Hyunjin's.

There was a long pause. Something invisible passed between them—too quiet for words, too heavy to ignore.Felix leaned forward slightly. "Okay. I have to ask."

"No, you don't," Hyunjin said, voice low.

Felix ignored him. "You two have like... a thing, right?"She looked amused. "Define 'thing.'"

"I don't know. This... electricity. Like I walked into a soap opera where everyone's too hot and no one's saying what they mean."

Hyunjin stood abruptly. Picked up his plate. Walked it to the sink.

Felix whistled under his breath. "Wow. I was kidding."

Y/n sipped her wine. "Were you?"

Felix looked back at her. His grin had softened. "Maybe not."She looked at him a beat longer than necessary. Then stood too, gathering her own plate.

"Good food," she said simply. "I'm going outside."

And she disappeared into the hallway.

Felix watched her go, then turned back to Hyunjin at the sink.

"You're really not gonna say anything?"

Hyunjin didn't look at him.

Felix tilted his head. "You're staring at the knife block like it insulted you."

"Don't push it," Hyunjin muttered.

Felix just grinned.

"I don't have to," he said. "She's already pushing you hard enough."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The door to the patio slid open with a whisper.

Hyunjin stepped out into the night air—thick and warm, clinging to his skin like breath. The cicadas had quieted, replaced by the occasional chirp of frogs and the gentle hum of the pool filter. The water glowed cerulean under the lights, making the tiles look like glass.

Nastya sat at the edge again, just like last night.

Only this time, her robe was gone.

She wore a black tank top, thin straps slipping off one shoulder, and those same shorts—legs bare, toes dipped into the water. Her phone sat abandoned beside her. Her hair glinting in the moonlight.

She didn't turn around when she heard him.

"I thought you were done watching," she said.

Hyunjin stayed where he was, just outside the door. "You're not making it easy."

She smiled without looking at him. "You think I do it on purpose?"

"Yes."

That made her laugh. A short, soft thing, like air slipping through teeth. "Maybe."

He stepped closer. Slowly. Stopped a few feet behind her.

"You think you're clever," he said.

"I am."

She finally turned, chin over her shoulder. Her expression unreadable. "You think you're in control."

Hyunjin's jaw tightened. "What do you want from me?"

She stood. Smoothly. Water dripped from her feet as she walked toward him, closing the distance. One step. Two.

"Want?" she repeated, voice low.

He could smell her—something sweet, like vanilla again . Her eyes searched his face, calm, unblinking.

"I don't want anything," she whispered. "But you do."

He didn't move. Couldn't.

"Tell me to stop," she said.

And just like that, the sliding door opened again.

Felix stepped out into the silence, holding a beer in one hand.

He stopped mid-step. Took in the scene.Her close to Hyunjin, Hyunjin frozen like a wire about to snap.

"Well," Felix said cheerfully. "Don't let me interrupt."

She didn't look away from Hyunjin. "Too late."

Felix raised his beer. "You two have zero subtlety, you know that?"

Neither of them answered.

Felix walked closer, slow, casual, completely in control. He stopped beside them, then glanced at Hyunjin. "You gonna lose it now or later?"

Hyunjin's voice came out quieter than expected. "Go inside."

Felix's eyes narrowed slightly. "No."

Hyunjin turned toward him. "This isn't your business."

"It is when you look like you're about to combust and she's standing there waiting for you to do it."

Y/n finally moved. Stepped away from Hyunjin—just slightly—and faced Felix.

"Funny," she said. "You're always around when things start getting interesting."

Felix tilted his head. "You think I'm not interesting on my own?"

She didn't answer. Just looked at him. Looked through him.

Felix smiled again—but this one was different. Lower. Tighter.

He stepped toward her, only a little, and said, "You think he's jealous of me, don't you?"

She blinked once. "Isn't he?"

Felix turned to Hyunjin. "Are you?"

Hyunjin's fists clenched at his sides.

No one spoke.

The night held still. The pool glowed. The air between all three of them thickened, like it might snap with one wrong move.

And then—

Hyunjin stepped forward.

He didn't say a word. Just reached out.

His hand brushed her wrist. Deliberate. Slow.

Her breath hitched.

Felix didn't speak either. But he was watching. Every second. Every shift.

Felix stepped closer—but slower this time.

There was no smirk. No easy laugh. Just a steady gaze, fixed between them.

His eyes flicked to where Hyunjin's hand still rested on her hip. His fingers had stopped moving, but they hadn't let go.

Y/n's breath hitched—not from fear, not from surprise. From the sheer weight of silence between all three of them. Every second stretched tight, pulling like a thread caught between teeth.

Felix's voice, when it came, was soft.

"You were never going to tell me, were you?"

Hyunjin didn't move. "There was nothing to tell."

Felix laughed, low, bitter. "You think I don't know what it looks like when you want something you're not supposed to?"

Hyunjin turned slightly toward him, jaw clenched. "This isn't about you."

"It's always about me," Felix said quietly. "You made sure of that."

The words hit harder than either of them expected.

She looked between them now, her expression unreadable—but her body tense. Still pinned by Hyunjin's presence, still aware of Felix's slow advance.

Felix stopped just in front of them, his gaze on Hyunjin.

"You've been avoiding me for weeks. Pulling away. Acting like everything's fine. And now I walk in and find you—" he gestured faintly toward her"—here, like this."

Hyunjin looked at him fully now. His face unreadable, but his voice was softer when he said, "I didn't plan this."

Felix's eyes narrowed. "But you didn't stop it."

Y/n leaned forward slightly. "Are you asking for an explanation or permission?"

They both looked at her.

She wasn't smiling now. Her voice was calm, but her hands had curled into the fabric of her shorts. She was bracing herself—against judgment, maybe. Or something worse: rejection.

Felix's breath came slow. Then, without speaking, he reached out.

One hand.

Not to her.

To Hyunjin.

His fingers brushed the edge of Hyunjin's wrist. The touch was featherlight. Not flirtatious. Not teasing.

Just real.

Hyunjin didn't flinch.

He looked down at the hand. Then up at Felix. Something shifted in his eyes—sharpness fading, replaced by something softer, something cracked.

For a second, no one moved.

And then Hyunjin whispered, "I don't know what I'm doing."

It wasn't an excuse.

It was a confession.

Felix's hand didn't move. "Neither do I."

Y/n exhaled, shakily. Like she'd been holding her breath all along.

Felix stepped closer—not intruding, just entering the space they'd been protecting so fiercely.

"Then maybe stop trying to do it right," he said. "And just feel it."

Hyunjin looked at him for a long time.

Then slowly—so slowly—he turned his hand in Felix's.

Their fingers touched. Interlocked.

She losed her eyes for half a second.

When she opened them, both of them were looking at her.

Waiting.

Not for permission.

For what came next.

She stepped back.

Just one quiet step. Bare feet against cool tile. She didn't speak. Didn't explain.

She saw it—knew it—the moment Hyunjin's gaze stopped looking past Felix and finally settled on him.

Everything in the air shifted.

They stood so close now, hands still loosely laced, breathing in sync but just offbeat enough to betray tension. The kind that had no name. The kind built from years of glances held too long and words never said right.

Felix didn't smile.

He didn't tease.

His voice was low, steady. "Is this what you've been trying not to say?"

Hyunjin didn't answer at first.

Then: "You always knew."

Felix nodded once. "Doesn't mean I understood."

His thumb brushed Hyunjin's. A simple gesture. But it felt like a key turning in a door they'd both pretended was never there.

"You hate when I look at her," Felix said.

Hyunjin's eyes flicked to the side, toward the pool, toward anything else—but Felix didn't let go.

"It's not just because she's her," Felix added.

Hyunjin's voice dropped to a whisper. "No."

Another silence.

Then Felix moved.

Just barely—his forehead rested against Hyunjin's, a touch so gentle it didn't even register as a kiss. Their breaths mingled. No rush. No fear.

Hyunjin's eyes fluttered closed.

He whispered, "I don't know how to want this and survive it."

Felix let out the faintest laugh—pained and sweet. "Then don't survive it. Just feel it."

And then their lips met.

Not messy. Not desperate.

Just real.

The first touch was a question. The second was an answer.

Hyunjin's hands gripped Felix's shirt—not to pull him closer, but to anchor himself. Like if he didn't hold on, something in him might fall away completely.

Felix deepened the kiss slowly, carefully. His other hand came up to cup the side of Hyunjin's neck. Not forceful. Just there. Like he'd always wanted to know what it felt like.

They broke apart with breathless silence, foreheads still pressed together.

Hyunjin's chest rose and fell too fast. Felix was still watching him, but softer now. He touched his thumb to the corner of Hyunjin's mouth, barely there.

"You're okay," he whispered.

Hyunjin opened his eyes.

Y/n stood a few feet away, watching them.

But she wasn't angry.

She looked...calm. Present. Like this was exactly what she'd expected.

Felix looked at her. Then back at Hyunjin.

Then he said, so quietly it almost disappeared, "So what now?"

No one moved at first.

Hyunjin and Felix stood forehead to forehead, breathless from a kiss that had taken years to happen in seconds. The poollight behind them painted their shadows long and strange.

And then she stepped forward.

Not hurried. Not loud. Like she belonged in the pause between them.

Hyunjin looked at her first.

There was no guilt in his eyes now—just something raw, open. Like he'd stopped trying to shove everything down and was waiting to see what she'd do with the truth.

She didn't speak.

She reached up and touched Felix's cheek.

He leaned into her palm, eyes fluttering closed for just a beat. Then opened again. Looked at her. Looked at Hyunjin.

None of them said anything.

She stepped in between them—not to separate, but to close the triangle. One hand on Hyunjin's chest. One still at Felix's jaw. She was touching them both now. Present between them. Holding the weight of everything unspoken.

"You both want everything," she said softly. "And you both try not to ask for it."

Felix smiled faintly. "Is that a problem?"

Her voice didn't change. "It's exhausting."

Hyunjin swallowed. "Then what are we doing?"

She looked up at him. Then at Felix. Then back.

Her hands didn't move. Her voice dropped, softer than the dark around them.

"We stop pretending," she said. "We take it—all of it. Together."

Hyunjin exhaled shakily. "What does that even mean?"

Felix answered this time. "It means we stop thinking. For once."

And somehow, that was enough.

She leaned forward, pressing her lips to Hyunjin's—different from before. Slower. Tender. She didn't push. She just... stayed. Her hand gripped his shirt lightly, like she knew exactly how fragile the moment was.

When she pulled back, Felix was there—close again, not waiting for permission anymore.

He kissed her too.

And she kissed him back.

They were careful. Almost reverent. Like touching something dangerous that could also be holy.

Then Hyunjin's hand slipped to Felix's back—steady, grounding. Felix turned, and their mouths met again, this time deeper, fuller, as if something had finally clicked open between them.

No one led. No one followed.

They moved like parts of one breath, one body, one question finally allowed to be asked without shame.

The poollight flickered once.

Inside, the house stood silent—rooms untouched, rules forgotten.

And outside, three hearts beat just slightly out of sync—tangled now, impossibly, into something none of them could ever take back.

172 notes · View notes