#my mind’s buzzing with other things too

[honeyryewhiskey]

when dean falls in love

or, all the little details that run through dean's mind when he's falling in love. and all the fears and self-doubt that come crashing down on him. warnings ! a pinch of angst | mostly feel good | kissing | confessions | dean admiring reader | dean's internal struggles | reader being patient | sam third wheeling j's note ! this is my apology for that sad one i posted last night. also, i had little baby 26-year-old dean in mind for this one. enjoy <3 5k words

Few rules exist in Dean’s life—most are made to be bent, broken, or ignored altogether. But you?

You’re the exception. You’re the rule he refuses to cross.

You are entirely off-limits.

Not that you seem to care. You crashed into the Winchesters' world like a wildfire, all sharp eyes and steady hands, showing up guns blazing in the middle of a nasty hunt. There was no slow introduction, no time for cautious trust. One minute, it was just another night, another hunt—then suddenly, there you were, standing in the wreckage, breathing heavily, covered in blood that wasn’t yours.

Dean should’ve known to let go right then and there—you were too good to be true. But he didn’t. Instead, you stuck to the corners of his mind like sugar between his teeth, sweet and relentless. Your energy, raw and electric, burned through everything around you. You invaded his thoughts, wrapped around his mind like a constant hum.

You were the kind of girl who made a man forget his own damn rules.

At first, Dean tells himself this newfound trio is temporary.

You’re a lone wolf, and the Winchesters don’t do long-term attachments. But somehow, you weave yourself into their lives like you’ve always belonged.

You slip into the passenger seat of the Impala without waiting for an invitation, kicking your feet up on the dash just to piss him off. You steal fries off his plate like it’s second nature, smirking when he glares at you but never stopping. You roll your eyes at his bravado, call him out when he’s being an ass, and yet—when it matters—you’re always there. Ready to fight. Ready to bleed for this life, for them.

For him.

Dean tells himself he doesn’t notice the little things. The way you hum along to his rock tapes like you’ve known them forever, how your hands—so much softer than he deserves—patch him up without hesitation. The way you meet his teasing with just as much fire, never backing down.

None of it means anything.

Because it can’t.

Not when he’s always been too rough, too jagged around the edges to hold onto something as good as you. Somewhere around his twentieth birthday, he made peace with the fact that he was cursed—fated to be nothing more than a soldier, a brother, a blade meant for war.

Being anything else, wanting anything more—wanting you—would only end in tragedy.

But then he catches Sam talking to you in hushed voices over coffee in the morning, like you’re family. As if every diner table and wobbly motel kitchenette was always meant to sit the three of you. He watches you clean his gun without being asked, like it’s second nature now. He hears your voice on the other end of his phone at 3 a.m., always answering when he calls, asking if he’s okay after a rough hunt. 

And just like that, you’re in. You’re a part of them.

A part of him.

And that? That’s the most dangerous thing of all.

Dean doesn’t know when it happened—when the lines started to blur, when the rule he swore by turned into something fragile, something breakable.

Maybe it’s the way you slip so effortlessly into their lives, settling into the spaces he didn’t even realize were empty—mediating brotherly arguments like you were always meant to be their missing piece. Maybe it’s the sound of your laughter, bright and unshaken, slicing through the heaviness of a bad hunt. Or maybe it’s the way you look at him, like he’s something more than the scars, more than the sharp edges—like he’s worth seeing at all.

Or maybe it’s the small moments like this.

The diner is warm, buzzing with the quiet hum of conversation, the clatter of silverware against plates. Sam’s focus is his laptop, half-listening to whatever you’re saying as you flip through the menu, sitting beside Dean, debating tonight’s meal. Dean’s trying to keep up, trying to ground himself in the normalcy of it all.

And then, without a second thought, you reach for his jacket.

It’s been draped over the back of the booth since he sat down, familiar and worn, carrying the weight of long nights and too many miles. And you just take it, slipping your arms through the sleeves, tugging the collar up like it belongs to you.

Dean’s fingers tighten around the menu.

It’s nothing new—he’s handed it over a dozen times before, thrown it around your shoulders without a second thought on cold nights. But this? This is different. You didn’t ask. Didn’t even hesitate. You just did it, like it was instinct, like it was yours.

He clears his throat, trying to force down the feeling clawing its way up his chest. “Comfy?”

You hum, settling into the fabric, your fingers curling into the sleeves. “Mmhmm.” Your voice is light, easy. “You always run so warm. Thought I’d steal a little of that.”

Dean swallows hard, his mouth suddenly dry. Prying his eyes off of you, he tries again to look like he’s reading the menu. Scanning the small font, even though he’s already decided on a burger and fries like he always gets. 

Across from him, Sam sighs, clicking at his keyboard. “You guys do realize you act like a couple, right?”

Dean shoots him a glare. “Shut up.”

Your laugh falls out sweet and quiet, the sound pressing against his heart with a persistence to make it move faster. Your boot nudges Dean’s under the table, and he takes it as an excuse to look at you again. “You jealous, Sammy? Want me to steal your jacket next?”

Dean barely hears the response. He watches as you burrow further into his jacket, your nose dipping beneath the collar. Then, with that same mischievous glint in your eye that always spells trouble for him, you lift the collar to make a show of taking a slow, exaggerated sniff.

His brows press down, lashes forming a tight squint around his eyes as he braces himself, “What the hell are you doing?”

Your lips twitch like you’re holding back a laugh. “One thing about this old jacket, though,” you muse, taking another thoughtful inhale. “There’s this metallicy smell… buried under all that cologne you drown this poor leather in.”

Dean scoffs, shifting in his seat and turning his head to save himself from letting you see the pink creeping up his cheeks. “I do not drown it in cologne.”

Sam doesn’t even look up from his laptop, but his chuckle doesn’t help ease Dean’s embarrassment. “You kinda do.”

Dean’s head shoots up, tilting slightly as he glares at his brother. You’re already grinning, undeterred, your fingers lazily tracing the worn seam of the sleeve. “It’s faint, but it’s there. Like… gunpowder. And whiskey, I would assume. And maybe a little bit of blood?” Your teasing gaze flicks up to meet his, “What have you been getting into, Winchester?”

Dean should play it cool. Shrug it off. But he can feel his ears burning red and hot from that little teasing smile on your lips and his brain is a few steps behind, caught somewhere between you’re too damn close and when did this get so hard to ignore?

He leans back, arms crossing over his chest. His mind makes quick work to steady buzzing nerves, “Dunno what to tell ya, sweetheart,” he sighs, jaw popping as he finds his barings, “That jacket’s seen more action than you have.”

You feign offense, pressing a hand to your chest. “Wow. First, you over-season your leather, and now you’re just slinging insults?” You shake your head, dramatic as ever. “I thought we had something special, D.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “Yeah, yeah. You done sniffin’ my jacket, or should I be concerned?”

You huff, settling back against the booth so that your arms brush against each other when you shrug. “I dunno. Might need another whiff.”

Dean points a warning finger at you, his smile breaks his attempt at stoicism, and all it does is make you grin wider.

Sam lets out another long-suffering sigh, shutting his laptop with a little more force than necessary. “I’m concerned. And I’m officially done with this conversation.”

You smirk, smug as ever, but Dean? Dean’s just trying to pretend he’s not completely, stupidly gone for you.

The rest of dinner passes in easy conversation—at least, for you. Dean is quieter than usual, letting you and Sam fill the space between bites of food and stolen fries. He tries to focus on anything else—the chipped laminate of the table, the hum of the old diner lights, the way his fingers tap absently against the side of his glass.

Mostly, he tries not to look at you.

Not when you lean forward, chin propped in your palm, laughing at something Sam says. Not when you nudge his boot under the table, stealing the last bite of his pie with a satisfied little smirk. Not when you adjust the lapels of his leather jacket like it’s yours now, like it belongs to you the way he does.

By the time the check hits the table, he’s still got too many thoughts in his head, and none of them are ones he should be having.

Outside, the night air is crisp, the motel’s flickering vacancy sign glowing just across the lot. Sam mutters something about research and trudges off toward their shared room, leaving the two of you lingering by the diner’s door.

Dean shoves his hands into his pockets, suddenly hyper-aware of how quiet it is. You shift on your feet, then tilt your head toward the motel.

“What’s it gonna be tonight, D?” Your voice is soft, slipping into the quiet like it belongs there. “You sticking around for a bit, or heading to bed?”

Dean exhales, shaking his head. “Gotta make sure you get in safe.”

Your laugh rings through the empty parking lot, light and easy, curling around him like warmth against the cool night air. And despite only wearing a flannel, despite the late hour and the breeze whispering through the lot, he feels nothing but warm.

“Ah, yes,” you tease between giggles, nudging his arm. “My knight in shining armor, always keeping me safe.”

The short walk across the lot is quiet but never empty—the kind of silence that lingers in the spaces between you, comfortable and charged all at once.

At your door, you unlock it with a flick of your wrist, pushing it open before leaning lazily against the frame. The dim motel light catches the amusement in your eyes as you glance back at him.

“See?” You gesture to the empty room with a grin. “All’s quiet on the western front.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He waves you off, stepping inside without a second thought, the door clicking shut behind him.

You move past him with easy familiarity, shuffling through your things while Dean leans against the dresser, arms crossed over his chest. He watches as you slip into your usual routine—kicking off your shoes, pulling your hair back, stifling a yawn with the sleeve of your sweater. His jacket, draped over the chair beside your bed, stays untouched. He doesn’t move to take it. If he’s honest, he kind of hopes you’ll sleep in it. Let it take on your scent instead of his.

When you return from the bathroom, fresh-faced and sighing contentedly, you crawl onto the bed and sit cross-legged, flipping absentmindedly through an old paperback—the one you grabbed from the library when you were supposed to be researching.

“You gonna tell me what’s got you so deep in thought tonight?” you break into the silence without looking up, voice soft but knowing.

Dean huffs, tipping his head back. He’s trying to find something other than you to look at, he’s gotta stop watching you so often. “I’m always deep in thought.”

You snort, “yeah, okay. Sure.”

Your eyes flicker over him, he’s always following you into your room like a stray pup, like he doesn’t know where else to go. He lingers in your space, but is careful to maintain a set distance. At first you thought he was trying to claim you as another notch on his bedpost, but all that ever happened on these nights were quiet talks until your eyes grew too heavy to keep open. And by morning, you’d be alone, tucked beneath the blankets like someone made sure they were pulled around you just right.

You watch him for a beat, noting the familiar tension winding through his shoulders. “Seriously, though. You were kinda out of it at dinner.”

Dean hesitates, glancing away like he can pretend he didn’t hear you. His eyes settle on the peeling motel wallpaper, tracing the cracks like they hold some kind of answer. He hadn’t planned on sticking around this late—not when his head is already full of you. Not when it’s dangerous for the sanctity his carefully drawn lines to be near you like this, feeling the way he does.

But neither of you move. You, cross-legged on the bed, book in hand. Him, still leaning against the dresser, pretending he has somewhere else to be.

He should make an excuse, crack a joke, steer this conversation somewhere safer. But your voice, soft and steady, tugs at something in him. And instead of fighting it, he lets himself lean in.

“You ever think about what happens when we stop?”

Your fingers still against the worn pages of your book. “Stop what?”

“This.” He gestures vaguely, like that explains everything. “The hunting, the moving around. All of it.”

Your brows furrow slightly as you consider his words, the weight of them pressing down in a way you don’t want to acknowledge. This life—it’s far from glamorous, but it’s all you’ve got. Stepping away from it is a thought you buried long ago, a fantasy that never had a chance. You shrug, pushing the thought aside. “I don’t know,” you say quietly. “Never really let myself think about it too much.”

Dean exhales a heavy breath, eyes dropping to the floor like the weight of your words is sinking in. “Yeah.”

A beat of quiet settles between you. It’s not uncomfortable, but there’s a weight to it that presses against Dean’s chest, making the space feel tighter than it is. You can feel his tension, like he’s holding something back, but he doesn’t look up.

Then, you shift, breaking the silence with an easy gesture—a pat to the empty space beside you on the bed. “Don’t just trail off on me, D. Sit down. Tell me more.”

Dean hesitates for a split second. This is a bad idea. It’s an invisible line he’s been toeing for too damn long, one he’s tried not to cross—never sit on the bed, never get too close when we’re alone. But then again, it’s you. You’re looking at him like you care, soft and patient, as if whatever’s inside his head actually matters.

And just like that, he gives in. One little exception, just for tonight.

With a quiet sigh, he pushes off the dresser, settling beside you on the bed. He stretches his legs out, but the small mattress makes it impossible to keep any real distance. His legs brush against yours, and his arm brushes yours too. He hopes to hell you don’t see the flush creeping up his neck.

If you notice, you don’t mention it. There’s no teasing, no playful smile—just the quiet comfort of your presence beside him. You don’t push, don’t pry. You just sit there, calm and steady, waiting for him to speak.

“I dunno,” he mutters, “just been thinkin’ lately. About what it all looks like when it’s over. If it ever is.”

You tilt your head, studying him. “And?”

Dean swallows, debating how much to say. How much to admit.

“And… I don’t see much of anything.” He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “Spent my whole life doing this, I don’t see an ending where I’m not dying at the hands of this. Y’know, going down in the fight.”

You’re quiet for a moment, then—so softly he almost doesn’t notice—you shift closer, your arm snaking its way around his. You’re snuggled right up next to him, watching with careful eyes.

“There will always be monsters to hunt,” you murmur, your voice soft yet steady in the dim room. “But you don’t have to be a warrior forever, D. There will always be hunters, too. Doesn’t mean you have to be one.”

Dean chuckles, but it’s a hollow sound, more an exhale than a laugh. His gaze drifts toward the bedspread, unable to meet yours. "Yeah, well... I don't know if I could just walk away." His words come out quieter, like he’s unsure if he’s talking to you or to himself.

You turn slightly toward him, noticing the tension still coiled in his shoulders. The quiet settles deeper now, heavier with each passing moment, but he doesn’t seem to notice the distance between your words.

“What’s got you thinking about all of this?” you keep your voice light, though there’s a weight to it.

Dean rubs the back of his neck, his thoughts at war with the words he wants to say. "I can’t have the things I want, not really," he finally admits, the confession slipping out before he can second-guess it. His gaze drifts to the side, and his fingertips come up almost absentmindedly, dragging across your temple, pushing stray hairs back into their place.

“This life," he continues, barely above a whisper, "it consumes all the good things in my life."

“Not true,” your voice is firm but gentle, like you’re trying to remind him of something he can’t see.

He doesn’t answer immediately, just quirks a skeptical brow at you.

“You have your brother,” you continue, “and you’ve got me. Nothing in this universe can take us from you.”

Dean’s breath catches, and for the briefest moment, he wonders if you understand just how much weight those words hold. He swallows, trying to hold it together, but he can’t ignore the ache that creeps up his spine. He gives a small, almost rueful chuckle, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. "What makes you so sure?"

You meet his gaze with a steady confidence. "Because I know you wouldn’t let it."

His hand lingers by your face, his thumb brushing softly against the warmth of your cheek. There’s an electricity in the touch, something that feels too close and yet too natural. He can feel the way his pulse quickens, how much his body wants to close that last inch of space between you. But he doesn’t.

You don’t push him. You just watch him, like you’re waiting for him to decide whether to take the step—or to retreat.

Dean’s breath catches in his throat, and his eyes drop to your lips for a moment before meeting yours again, like he’s trying to reconcile the gravity of what he’s feeling. His voice drops to almost a whisper, his words thick with something raw. “You have no idea how right you are, little miss.”

Your hand comes up, curling over his with a quiet, deliberate touch. The softness of your skin against his makes it almost impossible for him to remember the times he’s watched you move through the world—handling a gun with precision or a blade like it’s second nature. Most of you makes him forget, really, about everything that doesn’t involve you in this moment.

Your warmth, your softness, it makes him lose himself in daydreams of a version of you—one that doesn’t belong to this life. A version where you’d lean into that gentleness, the part of you that exists outside the hunts and the danger, in a life far away from the chaos that haunts him.

You shift, sitting up, still keeping your gaze on him, and it makes something in his chest tighten. The determined strain in your features catches his attention immediately. It’s the same look you get when you're deep into a lore book, your brow furrowed with that little scowl—like something has piqued your interest, and you won’t rest until you’ve unraveled it completely.

“Dean, there’s more to this than you’re letting on.”

He shakes his head, trying to brush it off with a quick, dismissive shrug, his lips pouting up into his best attempt at nonchalance. “Nope. That’s pretty much it.”

You let out an exasperated huff, and Dean can tell you’re seeing straight through him. It’s not enough to deflect you. What he doesn’t expect, though, is the rough shove to his shoulder. It makes him blink in surprise, but before he can recover, your fingers press right back into the tension of his muscles he’s been trying to ignore all night.

“You’re as stiff as a board,” you point out, your fingers digging in a little harder. “Something’s bothering you.”

His breath comes out shakier now, and for a moment, his whole body feels like it’s been wound too tight. You can feel it, he knows you can. There’s no denying it now, but the words feel too heavy in his throat. He wants to argue, to brush it off again, but something in the way you’re watching him shifts. It’s not just curiosity anymore—it’s concern. And maybe, just maybe, a part of him wants to let you in.

But damn if it doesn’t feel like a risk.

Dean shifts uncomfortably, trying to pull away, but the pressure of your fingers is a subtle anchor, keeping him there. His gaze flits to the floor, anywhere but your eyes, because once he looks at you, he knows he won’t be able to hide.

"I told you, it's nothing," he mutters, his voice rougher than usual, the words escaping before he can stop them. He tries to push himself up, but the weight of your stare presses him back down.

You don’t buy it. You never do.

"No, Dean," you start softly, the concern clear in your voice, "I know you better than that. Something’s been eating at you for a while, and you’re not gonna keep dodging it."

His chest tightens, his heart racing in his ribcage. Every part of him wants to throw up some wall, some excuse. Something to keep you from seeing the rawness of what’s inside. The vulnerability he’s been running from his entire life.

But still, you watch him, waiting, your eyes steady and unwavering.

"Come on, just let it out," you press, your hand moving to his shoulder again, your touch gentle now but insistent. “You don’t have to carry it all by yourself, you know?”

He swallows hard, his jaw tightening, hands suddenly restless at his sides. The fight inside him is crumbling, piece by piece, until he's barely holding on to whatever's left. His voice comes out strained, almost desperate.

“Please, just drop it,” he grinds out, his eyes briefly meeting yours before flicking away again, helplessly. “I’m fine. You don’t... you don’t need to know all of it.”

You sit forward, leaning in just a little, your hand still gently gripping his arm as you search his face. The determination in your gaze doesn’t waver, but there’s something softer there now, almost like a plea. “Dean—”

He jerks back slightly, suddenly standing up with a bit too much force, the air between you thickening with a tension that’s making it harder for him to breathe. He takes a few steps away, running a hand through his hair, his back turned to you as he tries to calm the storm rising inside.

"I can’t do this," he mutters, his voice low, rougher now, like it’s been dragged over gravel. His shoulders still tense with the weight of the world pressing down on him.

You’re silent for a beat, and he knows it’s because you’re giving him space. But he also knows you won’t stop until you get him to say what he’s been holding back.

He exhales sharply, his hands trembling as he clenches them into fists, his back still turned, fighting a battle he knows he’s losing. "God, I don’t want to talk about this." His voice cracks slightly as he says it, and he hates how much it betrays him.

His eyes flick to you then, and there's a crack in the armor—a vulnerability that’s almost painful to see. He looks at you, but he’s not sure he can bear the weight of your gaze anymore. Not when all he wants to do is keep you safe from the wreckage inside him.

His body is coiled tight, but his chest feels like it’s going to implode. He wants to walk away. He wants to escape from the weight of this conversation, from the way you're looking at him like you’re waiting for him to finally crack open and spill it all out.

But when he finally turns back to face you fully, all he sees is that unflinching patience, that quiet insistence that you’re not going to let him go until he finally says what he’s been hiding for so long. It makes him want to burn every rule he’s built for himself.

"You don't get it," he spats roughly, eyes flicking to the floor. "I can’t just... say it. It’s part of me, it’s who I am, this thing that I can’t get away from."

You rise to your feet, crossing the room in one smooth motion. There’s no anger in your steps—just a calm resolve that cuts through the tension between you like a knife.

"I'm not an idiot, Dean," you peek up at him, unfamilarly timid as you cross this uncharted territory. "I see the way you look at me. Hell, at first I thought I was imagining things but I can see it’s eating you alive. And I—” your words cut off in your own shock at the confession, the sincerity in your expression making his knees weak, “I can’t bear to see you like this.” 

Your hands reach up tentatively, like you’re scared he’ll tear himself away again. But he stills, letting your warm hands press into either side of his jaw, “you’re my rock, alright?” your words trail into a soft laugh, easing the tension of your own truth. “I don’t wanna live in a world where I’m not by your side, because you make life worth the fight to stay alive. But you can’t just keep me in the dark, I have to know what you’re feeling.” 

His breath catches in his throat, the weight of your words hitting him harder than he expected. The realization that you know, that you’ve seen through all his defenses, makes everything inside him ache.

"I don’t know what you want from me," it comes out sounding like a plea, still looking for an excuse to retreat into himself.

"I want you to stop hiding from me." Your words are simple, but they strike right at the heart of the matter. "I want you to stop pretending like you can’t have the one thing you want most."

His throat tightens, and he shakes his head, trying to dismiss it. "I don’t get it," he mumbles, though his eyes are locked on yours, searching for the reprieve he still doesn’t believe he’ll find. "I don’t... I’m not fit for this."

"I’m not either, D. I’m just asking you to let it happen." You’re so close now, he can feel the warmth of your body, the soft pressure of your fingers against his jaw. Your gaze doesn’t break, it never wavers.

And that’s when it hits him. He’s been afraid of this—afraid of the way you make him feel like he can finally breathe, like all of his pain and avoidance can cease in your presence. he’s been holding himself together with tattered shreds for so long, and you’re the only thing that’s strong enough to pull him out of the mess he’s made of himself. 

And letting that security live in someone else terrifies him more than any monster he’s faced. 

“I’m not perfect,” he admits quietly, his words like gravel in his throat. “I’m broken, and I’m scared as hell, but god, if you only knew how much I want—”

You stop him with a soft kiss, the sweetest touch of your lips to his. It's gentle, almost hesitant, but it shatters something inside him, enough to freeze him in place. The weight of everything unspoken presses in, and for the first time, it feels like the walls he's built around himself might finally crumble in your hands.

The chains of his tightly kept composure snap at the delicate pressure of your lips, and without thinking, his arms wrap around you, pulling you closer. His hands find purchase at your waist, holding you as if you were the only thing that kept him grounded. The kiss deepens, desperate, as if he's trying to kiss away the years of holding back, the silent fear of letting you see the real him, the uncertainty of if you’d stay with him in the wreckage.

When you finally pull back, your lips linger just above his, breaths mingling. Your voice is a soft whisper, but it cuts through the tension like a thread being pulled taut. “Then say it, Dean. Tell me what you want.”

His heart beats in his chest, loud and frantic, as his walls come crashing down, piece by piece. He can’t think straight with you in his arms, all of his steely armor melts at your touch. And for the first time in what feels like forever, he lets go of some of those fears.

His eyes are nearly consumed by his pupils as he takes in the sight of you slightly out of breath, lips wet and a little more pink. From his doing, from his touch—it makes every broken rule worth the trouble.

“I've fallen for you, Sweetheart,” he breathes, his voice is raw, shaky, but it's honest, every word carrying the weight of what he’s been holding back. “I want to keep falling for you, love and all that crap. And I’m terrified of it, but I can’t keep hiding this from you.”

Your thumb brushes over his cheek, the gesture soft, but nevertheless, grounding. A quiet smile tugs at the corner of your lips, and your eyes hold nothing but certainty. “You’ll never have to hide any part of yourself, Dean. I’ve been here all along, with nothing but love. Just been waiting for you to see that.”

tags <3 @titsout4jackles @floralscented @deansbeer @snowluvvie @dulcescorderitas @bluemerakis

[soltwent]

i just loathe you lately — .✦

ᯓ VI ARCANE X READER

SUMMARY : 15k word count one-shot! (sorry if you dislike longer fan-fiction) ; the secrets of highland parks are kept under lock and key, never to be whispered beyond its borders.

“whatever happens in highland parks, stays in highland parks.” — you’re a registered, licensed FBI agent who's made a name for herself in the world of crime-solving. working alongside a team of sharp-minded professionals, apart of what's become New Jersey's go-to crew for getting things done. their reputation? polished, and trusted.

then, there’s vi west: your work partner, equally sharp but just a step ahead in some ways. almost too close for comfort. who would've thought work partners could be this competitive? the irony? they’re unstoppable together, but neither is quite the same without the other.

WARNINGS : fbi agent! vi ; fbi agent! reader. eventual smut. modern fbi! au. inaccurate descriptions of the profession! i’m not a professional. this is for fun. work rivals (one sided beef) to lovers. SORRY I YAP. female reader with female anatomy. y/n is sort of used. “thorne” is your last name. vi’s last name is “west”. you refer to her by her last name mostly. reader is sorta mean. reader is an overachiever and insecure. vi and powder aren’t related. tons of banter. bottom! reader & top! vi. spitting. a bit of sexual praise. fngering r! rec. pussy eating r! rec. crime scenes mentioned.

A/N : also i’m not that great at writing and my english isn’t spectacular, so i apologize for any confusion! this was previously started as a fic with OCS. if you see the name 'audrey', ignore it!

This isn't my best work ever (i was sick writing it), but it's something.

MINORS + MEN DO NOT INTERACT! GO AWAY!

"Great," you muttered, rolling your eyes at the red light like it had personally offended you. One hand gripped the leather steering wheel, while the other balanced a bagel slathered in thick cream cheese and peppered with everything seasoning. You took a bite, savoring the soft, fresh bread—a far cry from the jaw-breaking bagels they served at the headquarters.

No need to spend the rest of your shift nursing a sore jaw, right?

South Jersey always gave you this weird ghost-town vibe. It was like all the real Jersey energy got stuck up North, and down here? It was all tumbleweeds and out-of-towners. And the drivers? Somehow even worse.

"Dude, go!" you groaned, smacking the horn with your free hand.

The truck in front jolted to life at the sound of your obnoxious horn, hesitating like it couldn't decide if it actually wanted to move. But you were late for work, and patience wasn't exactly on the menu today. The light had barely turned green when the Ford finally screeched forward, turning right without so much as a flick of its blinker.

Not even surprised.

Okay, maybe calling this place a 'ghost town' was a bit dramatic, but it wasn't exactly buzzing with life either. A population of five thousand? It wasn't tiny, but small enough that you pretty much knew everyone, or at least recognized their faces.

You rip off another chunk of your breakfast, chewing thoughtfully as you kept her eyes on the road ahead.

The headquarters sat smack in the middle of town, like the town's claim to fame. Not that it had much else going for it, anyway. The place was known for one thing and one thing only: a team of agents who dealt with crime and shady stuff, navigating the waters of illegal activities with professional ease.

And you were one of them. FBI agent—living the dream. Except for mornings like this, you weren’t so sure. Some days you questioned all of it. Why didn't you go for Wall Street like every other uptight, middle-aged guy who loves his over priced suits and has a receding hairline? But, of course, you were not a man. And would never be a man. So, that was that, unfortunately.

Other days though? Absolutely loved it. The thrill, the purpose. It kept you going.

You slammed your car door shut, the headlights flickering as if saying goodbye. Your boots clicked on the pavement as you tossed her brown paper bag with trash into a nearby bin, finishing off the last bite of the bagel while juggling your bag and keys in one hand.

(Y/N) Thorne. Not exactly the name that struck fear into anyone's heart. You were, after all, everything someone would want in a woman: totally normal. And boring as hell.

"G'morning," you called out, voice rippling through the main office full of her co-workers as you scanned your ID and pressed the door open with your forearm. Inside, it was warmer — nothing fancy, just your typical government building. Functional, plain, and definitely not the kind of place that got decorated for Thanksgiving.

November in Jersey wasn't exactly charming. Sure, it had its cozy moments but it was mostly cold, wet, and kinda depressing. You shrugged off her trench coat, and tossed your bag onto the desk, just as Jayce swiveled around in his stool, that annoying smirk plastered across his face.

"Wow. You're late," he teased, his eyes darting to the clock behind her.

"Like, late-late. Late as hell."

You then shot him a look, knowing full well that you was over half an hour late. Unlike everyone else who was seated and working as usual.

"You think I don't know that? I got caught up in traffic," you say, the lie slipping out as easily as it always did on mornings like these. The truth? There was almost never traffic in Highland Parks. Maybe during the holidays or when something big was going on, but never on a random weekday morning.

You started unloading your personal bag, pulling out the essentials: a still-steaming insulated cup of coffee, pens, some files you’d taken come to look over, and your planner. Everything else was digital of course, but you liked having these things on hand. It just made you feel more grounded.

Jayce raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying her excuse. "Traffic? Don't tell me you're coming down with schizophrenia, (Y/N)."

You then rolled your eyes, brows pinching together. "You don't 'come down' with schizophrenia, Jayce. It's not a cold that comes and goes." You didn't bother looking up at him, already used to the back-and-forth banter. They both were close enough for this to be just another day in the office.

"That still doesn't explain whatever you've got smeared around your mouth," Jayce quipped, pointing at you like he'd just caught you in some criminal act.

You halted, then swiped at your lips, just now realizing the cream cheese from the bagel you were eating earlier had betrayed you. "Shut up."

Jayce spun back around to his dual monitors, both lit up with the usual chaos. One screen was a mess of opened unnamed files, highlighted sections jumping out at him like some kind of fucking neon nightmare. The other? A classified CIA document he probably shouldn't have access to but, hey, Jayce was Jayce. A pain in the ass sure, but damn good at what he did, and you could respect that at least.

You plopped into your chair and rolled it forward, the familiar hum of the workspace coming to life. Resting your head in your hand, and letting out a sigh that felt as if it had been building up for days on end. Sleeping through your alarm again. It was becoming a pattern, and you was starting to seriously think about just camping out here at headquarters.

At least then you wouldn't have to rush to work every other week because of your growing habits.

You glanced around the room. Everyone else was locked in, focused on their screens, their tasks. A hushed few conversations floated in the background — just the usual work chatter between people you’d known for years now. They were solid. Resilient. You felt lucky to be surrounded by a team you could count on, even on days like this where your brain felt like it was running dry.

You wiped away the last remnants of cream cheese from your lips, still mildly annoyed that Jayce had been the only one to point it out. Not that you wanted everyone in the office to make a big deal out of it, but seriously, not one person gave you a heads-up?

Jesus Christ. It was way too early to care about that kind of stuff, especially right now.

Outside, the sky hung heavy with thick clouds, the kind that obviously promised rainfall later — great just what you needed. You moved your hand over the cursor, pulling up the files for the marriage fraud case you’d been slogging through. It was equally as exciting as watching paint dry on a fence. But a job's a job, and no one ever said working for the government was supposed to be fun.

Your eyes scanned the screen, index finger clicking away as you moved through the organized files. Your routine, monotonous. It was keeping your hands busy, at least. If nothing else, the day had nowhere to go but up from here.

"The money transferred to the spouse was unlabeled, and we're talking a decent amount. Anywhere from a grand up to five grand. Normally, separate bank accounts wouldn't draw too much attention, but in this case it's a red flag." You say, half to yourself as you rummaged through the stuffed file drawer. One folder was delicately tucked under your chin, held in place as you flipped through files with your manicured fingers. Brows furrowed in concentration as you searched for a similar case.

Tax fraud cases were like the PP&J to your workload, with a few shady marriage fraud scenarios thrown in to mix things up. Sometimes the scandalous ones were entertaining enough to break the pattern, but this one? Torture.

Jayce stood nearby, leaning back against the spruce-wood counter, which was digging into his lower back. He took a slow sip of his iced oat-milk latte, listening to you work and ramble through your day's work. It had been a quiet morning, with nothing dramatic or exciting happening, which should've been a good thing.

Still, it left you with that uneasy feeling — like the calm before a storm.

You were never relaxed for this long. Clocked in for almost three hours and had surprisingly plowed through a solid amount of work, even with a fried brain that was practically begging for a nap. That was another thing you found weird. You were usually a mess by now, half-distracted or complaining about some new crisis.

The files slapped onto the counter with a loud thud as you set them aside, hands brushing together like you were dusting off the whole ordeal. Jayce’s eyes flicked to your bare hands: no ring, no sign of marriage or any serious relationship. You were always all work, never any talk about a significant other or anything personal.

You slowly sighed pushed your hair back from your face, shutting the file cabinet with a firm click and locking it for good measure. Sliding your personal key into your pocket, ready to move on from whatever boring task awaited you next.

"This Wren Staples woman is kind of smart. I mean," Jayce held up a hand before you could even start to question his logic, giving you that familiar look. "I'm not saying it's right, but if someone offered me five grand a month to stay silent and just show up to some fancy business dinners? You wouldn't have to ask me twice."

He paused, waiting for a reaction, but you just stared at him, face scrunched up like you couldn't decide if you was more irritated or confused. Clearly not amused. Jayce let out a dramatic sigh, rolling his eyes like this conversation was nothing but a lost cause. Adjusting his belt, he gave it one last go, this time sounding more defeated than the first time.

"Forget it." He waved it off dismissively, taking a long sip of his drink while you mentally rubbed a hand down your face in pure frustration.

"Yeah, I will forget it," you say dryly. "Because if anyone heard you say that, you'd be stuck at the front desk while a janitor took your place. Or," you added, picking up your files, "you'd just be fired."

Jayce smirked, a dimple creasing his cheek. "You're obsessed with the idea of me getting fired, but who else would have your back when West over here starts breathing down your neck?"

At the mention of West, your mood took a nose-dive. Violet West — the co-worker from the literal pits of hell. If you had to sum her up in three words it, was be easy: haughty, a know-it-all, and self-indulgent.

You’d like to say you didn't hate West, but that would be a lie. And sure, lying wasn't illegal, but pretending to tolerate Violet felt criminal. The woman was all sharp words, choppy hair, and superiority complex wrapped in a suit.

"Yeah, you mean 'she-who-must-not-be-named'?" you mutter as you both walked down the dim hallways, the usual morning light blocked out by the overcast skies. Jayce snorted.

"What? Is she a forbidden topic now, Ms. Thorne?" Jayce raised an eyebrow, teasing as they headed back to the main room. You shot him a long side-glance, silently telling him to knock it off as they neared West's usual... territory.

You scanned your ID at the door, unlocking it with a beep and pushing it open for the both of them. Your expression blank, and voice deadpan.

“Just very, very taboo.”

You rip a piece of tape off the roll with your teeth, holding it between yours lips for a moment before carefully sticking it onto the document you were patching up. The team had already gone through a ridiculous amount of ink today, and printing another copy of this page would be a waste. A little tape, and it was good as new. Well, good enough. No one would notice unless they were trying to be a detective about it.

Smoothing the tape down with the pad of your thumb, you stood up and pushed your chair back with a small scrape. So far, this week wasn't too bad. It was only Tuesday, but still better than the disaster that was yesterday. Not that it mattered much — work was work, and that was that.

"Lunch started ten minutes ago, (Y/N)."

You turned to see Mel, stirring honey into her ginger tea, the spoon gently clinking against the glass. The smell hit you, and seconds in you were already fighting the urge to grimace. Tea wasn't your thing. It always left this weird aftertaste, like lukewarm juice that had been forgotten in a car on a hot day. Gross, but you get it.

Mel wasn't bad, though. Laid-back, easy to deal with, which was more than you could say about most people at the HQ. In your mind, everyone had something annoying about them, and you weren’t shy about digging for it. Nobody's perfect, why pretend?

You laid your stack of papers down, giving Mel a tight, thin-lined smile with a small shrug. "Who else is gonna organize our cases by date, importance, and agent?"

"You do know there are six other people working in this office, right?" Mel raised an eyebrow, amused but not surprised by your martyr complex.

You knew you were not technically responsible for everything. You weren’t dense. But every time someone else tried to handle the file-work, things ended up in a chaotic mess, and that drove you crazy. You’d rather just do it on your own, your way, even if it meant taking on more. Loosening your tie, slipping a finger into the knot and giving it a tug as you got back to sorting through the paperwork.

Policy guides? Tossed onto the pile on her left. Investigation files? Those got dropped into a drawer with a firm hip-check to shut it. Personnel records? Neatly tucked into a black folder. You had a system, and it worked.

"Exactly," the words came out as a drawl, not really in the mood for chit-chat as you worked through the stack. You still needed to collect some files, but that could wait until later, maybe even tomorrow. The week had been more relaxed since most of the tasks were in-office, which was honestly a relief. The days when public affairs or training sessions were on the agenda? Those were the ones that pushed you to the edge of madness.

As you started to walk away, Mel called after you, "Tell Jayce his phone's rung fifteen times in the past twenty minutes!"

Of course it had. Jayce avoided work calls like the plague.

You shut the door behind you and slipped a hand into your right pocket, pulling out your cellphone. It was mostly your work phone — you kept your personal life strictly separate. The idea of mixing the two was a disaster waiting to happen. Scrolling through your contacts, you found the number you were searching for, and tapped it. You needed to update the attorney general. Your boots clicked softly against the floor while stroding down the hallway, phone pressed to your ear.

It rang a couple of times before a voice answered. "FBI Legal Division."

You inhaled deeply, exhaling slowly to gather your thoughts before responding. Tone direct, professional. "Thorne, (Y/N), speaking. Just calling to update you. We've covered all files and documents this past week. Fingerprinting is being handled by Shimes, and the lab services are currently in progress. Everything else looks good for now. If anything changes, I'll let you know as soon as possible."

You kept it short and to the point, just the way it needed to be.

A satisfied hum came through the line. "Great work, I'll review the details and let you know if I need anything else."

You thanked your attorney, lowering the phone as you pushed open the doors to the lounge. You had about twenty minutes to eat which was more than enough, though the thought of food didn't exactly thrill you. When your mind was full of work, your stomach didn't have room to complain. Sliding your cellular device into your pocket, you noticed a few co-workers giving you a glance.

"Where've you been?" Powder asked, nosy as ever. Powder Shimes was hunched over, chewing on what looked like the remains of a sad, microwaved breakfast burrito —probably from hours ago— and washing it down with a can of Dr. Pepper that looked far too room temperature. Was that ketchup on her burrito?

Ekko tilted his head, giving her a once-over. "Probably the HQ. She looks pretty pissed."

You rolled your eyes and yanked open the lounge fridge. Taking your time to riffle through the bagged lunches, each marked with large initials to avoid any office food theft drama. You grabbed your pre-prepped Caesar salad —the one you didn't have time for the day before— and a small bottle of water.

"Where's Jayce?" you asked, settling into a chair a seat away from the two of them. You ignored their commentary about your supposed "pissed off" look. It wasn't like you were mad, but your resting face had always given off those vibes. "Matter of fact, where's everyone at?"

Powder and Ekko were always together, so their presence wasn't exactly surprising. Mel was eating at her desk while taking phone calls. Jayce was MIA for reasons unknown, even though he was usually first to hog the entire couch in the break lounge. Caitlyn popped in sometimes after training, but you hadn't really expected to see her today.

You popped the lid off the salad and grabbed a plastic fork from the tin holder nearby. As for West? Well, she wasn't here either, which was a relief. Lunch without Violet West around was a small victory in itself. It wasn't like seeing her would brighten your day. If anything, the distance was a blessing.

You stabbed at the Caesar salad, spearing a few leaves and bringing them to your mouth. A quiet lunch was all you really needed right now.

"Caitlyn went to grab some stuff from Home Depot. Something about the sink breaking. Something with the piping. I don't know," Ekko shrugged, digging into his half-full peanut butter cup ice cream with a plastic spoon. Meanwhile, Powder took another horrific bite of her ketchup-slathered burrito, opening yet another packet of ketchup like it was a delicacy.

You uncomfortably clenched your jaw, doing your absolute best to ignore Powder’s obnoxious eating habits. She gulped down her food with an unnecessary loud sigh and crushed her soda can with a loud crack. "Like Ekko said, Cait’s at the store. Jayce? Off doing whatever, said he'd be back after lunch. Vi?" Powder raised her hands once mentioning the girl in mock surrender, a crumpled napkin in her palm. "No idea where she is, and honestly? Don't care."

You picked at the chicken in the Caesar salad, chewing slowly. You really needed to up your protein intake, especially with how grueling training days had been. But Caesar salads? The only kind you could enjoy without wanting to throw the bowl out the window. "So, it's just you two?"

"Yup," Ekko confirmed, licking his spoon clean.

Spectacular. Stuck with these two for the next fifteen minutes. Not that long, but in moments like this, you found herself wondering how they were the same people she did real-world investigations with. Ekko, a grown man, devouring ice cream like a five-year-old, and Powder, well.

"That's disgusting, Shimes," you deadpanned, eyeing the ungodly amount of ketchup Powder was consuming. Ekko barely stifled a laugh, grinning against his spoon. You rubbed your temples, trying to ease the headache that had started creeping in. Who knew the break room could actually make things worse?

Powder scoffed, leaning back in her chair, her work jacket tossed aside. Now just in a wrinkled button-down, she looked far too comfortable for someone whose eating habits were under fire.

"Like I care. That was delicious. I'd give it like an eight out of ten— only because it was kinda cold in the center."

That earned a grimace from you. You did not need to know how cold her burrito was or how much she enjoyed it in great detail. As much as Jayce could be a pain, you’d trade this scenery for his company any day. At least Jayce wasn't… this.

Just as you were starting to imagine a more peaceful lunch break, a gruff female voice broke through your thoughts. "Thanks for saving me a seat."

The sound of the chair scraping against the floor made you freeze. Ekko shot you a knowing look, and Powder’s shitty grin only widened.

"Surprise guest!" Powder announced with a clap, running a hand through her hair like she was prepping a show.

Surprise guest? More like surprise loss of appetite. Because who else would be sitting next to you, shoulder to shoulder, than Violet West herself. No invitation, no polite "is this seat taken?" just West, plopping down like she owned the place.

Your fork hovered above your salad, chewing coming to an abrupt stop. You stared down at the greens, the moment of peace you had been savoring now utterly ruined.

You've got to be kidding me.

Three shots rang out. You adjusted your earplugs with one hand and tightened your grip on the Glock 19M with the other. The gloves were pulled snug over your hands, and you squeezed the gun a little harder than usual. You didn't bother with safety glasses during training. What was the point? You didn't wear them on the job.

Agents like you often practiced shooting all kinds of targets — stationary, moving, from cover to cover, on the move. The whole deal. Training days like these were crucial for staying sharp, and even though they ran these drills once a week, you always tried to push yourself, especially with your Glock. The gun had a way of making your skin crawl every time you fired it, but you had to be good with it. You hadn't had to use it much in the field, thankfully, but when you did, it never felt great.

"Not bad, Thorne," Caitlyn muttered as she patted your wrist, adjusting it slightly and motioning for you to fix your posture. You hadn't even realized you were holding the gun so close to your body until she gave that look. A lump of saliva slid down your throat and you nodded. Caitlyn was a solid instructor. She didn't sugarcoat anything, if you were doing something wrong, she told you straight up, step by step, how to fix it.

You deeply appreciated that.

The days rotated every week. Monday meant outdoor training, Tuesday indoor, then back outdoors on Wednesday, and so on from there. Weeks of drills. Not your personal favorite, but it was part of the job, and you had to be ready to reach for your waist when things went sideways.

You bit your cheek, thinking about how unpredictable this town was. The citizens too. Not that you were any better — you weren't exactly a poster child for predictability yourself. You let out a breath, firmly holding the handle of the Glock as if it could settle your nerves.

Caitlyn handed you a pair of safety glasses, breaking your focus. "You need to wear these. None of that 'I'm too good for this' nonsense. If you lose an eye because you're being stubborn, you're not touching a firearm again. Take them."

Irritable but not wrong. You weren’t offended. Rumor had it someone lost an eye once because they ignored safety, though that was before her time here at the HQ.

"Thanks," you say, slowly taking the glasses from her hand. She stomped off, her heavy boots thudding against the ground as her vest shifted with each step. You put on the glasses and popped your knuckles, already feeling that strain in your hands that would stick until the end of the month.

Nearby, Powder was lounging with her legs spread, while Jayce gnawed on a marshmallow-studded protein bar. Powder’s face was slick with sweat as she gulped water, some strands of her azure hair sticking to her forehead. Ekko was swapping out his gun, peeling off his thick vector gloves.

You placed your weapon down and rolled your tense shoulders, feeling a knot in your neck release. The relief was short-lived, though, she glanced over at Caitlyn, who was now standing in front of West. Another knot formed in your gut, this one a mix of annoyance and envy. You clenched her jaw unconsciously.

Of course, Caitlyn was probably praising the hell out of West. She was the best with the weapons out of everyone, aside from Caitlyn herself. Powder was more into forensic work, Ekko handled lab services, and Jayce was a crime-solving machine, and you?

Just... good. At a little bit of everything. You were organized, which was great, but that was also Mel’s job. A deep inhale filled your lungs, and you sighed heavily. You were useful — a great help, a mix of skills, but nothing extraordinary.

Ekko’s voice snapped you back to reality. "Dude, instead of choking back a hundred protein bars, try starting with eggs in the morning. Those are food, but God damn."

He was talking to Jayce, who was hunched over, elbows on his knees. You resisted the urge to critique his posture. You didn't, but that was primarily because it would make you a hypocrite. Caitlyn had just corrected yours. You slipped off your own gloves, then decided to stand and stretch your legs, feeling more awake on your feet.

"Eggs are nasty as hell," Jayce waved Ekko off, and he shrugged, half agreeing as he lazily sipped his water.

"Cottage cheese? Tofu? Greek yogurt?" Ekko continued, trying to offer solid protein options, but Jayce’s chewing slowed at his suggestions. Even though Ekko’s advice came from someone who clearly knew what he was talking about, Jayce’s eyes narrowed, his tanned skin glistening under the fluorescent lights.

A firm smack on your back snapped you upright before you could even think about it, body reacting on instinct. Caitlyn’s voice echoed in your mind, reminding you about your posture, and for a split second, you wondered if you'd hunched over under the weight of your responsibilities again. But when you turned to see who had hit you, it wasn't Caitlyn and her sharp, fine eyebrows. Instead, you were met by a different pair — thick and scarred along the edges.

West.

Your stomach dropped. Caitlyn, you respected. Caitlyn had the right to correct your posture, whether in training or in office. Violet, on the other hand, had not. Jayce could get away with being a little touchy sometimes, and Mel, if it was educational, but Violet? No. Never.

"You aren't a Pilates teacher," you say in a calm, yet perfectly passive-aggressive tone. Your brows furrowed as you tried to smooth out the back of the suit jacket you had on, trying to ease any trace of Violet’s unwanted touch. In another timeframe, you might've smacked her hand away, but today you settled for being politely firm.

Violet, of course, gave you another pat, this one being more condescending than the first. "Another profession? I'd be making bank. Every housewife would be in my classes," she replied, her voice smug and dripping with fake charm.

Your skin prickled with irritation, patience running thin by the second. You would've given everything for earplugs at the moment. The sound of Violet’s voice was enough to make your head throb. Meanwhile, Jayce, ever the opportunist, chose this exact moment to stay silent, focusing more on his marshmallow protein bar than on you, who was clearly about to bite down hard enough to crack a molar.

"You'd be making below minimum wage. No one would willingly attend those classes," you dragged out, voice flat and uninterested, though the tension in your jaw spoke volumes. Violet didn't have to do much to get under your skin, and honestly, she didn't even have to try. She was the walking embodiment of something that made your veins itch.

"Realistically, that is."

Violet studied your face, noticing the way your expression had tightened, a visible vein of pure irritation. It wasn't like you abhorrd Violet — if you did, you would've moved locations a long time ago. But there was a fine line between tolerance and whatever the hell this was. Tolerable, in your world, meant zero contact. Silence. Absolute distance. And right now, West was far too close for comfort.

"Realistically, a business run by someone confident in their growth is more likely to succeed than someone who's just a follower."

Violet’s smug response hit you like a match to gasoline. You could feel the heat of your frustration under your skin, a familiar sensation that always seemed to bubble up during your rare, but tense interactions. Most days, you two kept your distance, sticking to cold, judgmental glances. But on days like this, when they were forced into the same space, it was inevitable snarky exchanges, backhanded compliments, and that thick, suffocating air of competition.

You bit back the flood of insults threatening to slip out. Pressing your chapped lips together, irritated by the dry, rough feeling but too focused on the current situation to care. "You can't speak from experience," you finally muttered, knowing full well that it was a weak retort. You weren’t in the mood to come up with anything smart. Keeping it safe was the safest bet for your sanity right now.

Violet, naturally, didn't miss a beat. "I'll have that privilege one day." she flicked her ID badge with a cocky flourish, the engraved letters of her last name catching in the light. Her face was twisted into a self-satisfied smirk, the kind that made you want to roll her eyes so hard they'd get stuck.

There was nothing motivating about Violet’s arrogance. Only aggravating.

You cleared your throat, forcing a thin smile.

"Fun talking to you, as always," you said, determined to get the last word in, as usual. Your exchanges were like a never-ending thumb war, both of you pushing for dominance without truly getting anywhere. Two years of this, and absolutely nothing had changed.

Violet smirked, clearly enjoying herself. "I'm flattered, but I can't help wondering if you're considering stand up comedy for those with lobotomies." She punctuated the remark with a firm hand on your shoulder.

Your stomach churned at the touch, and you shrugged off Violet’s hand like it was a spider crawling on you. Resisting the urge to vomit right then and there, you reached down for your Glock, thumb brushing over the magazine release as it could somehow end this insufferable conversation.

You needed to reload, which at least gave you a reason to focus on something else.

"Be my guest," you said flatly, eyes fixated on the gun, not on the smug asshole hovering over you.

Her lips quirked again in amusement, but she stayed quiet, watching as you methodically reloaded the 19M, clicking the slide back in place with more force than necessary. You were hyper-focused now, anything to block out Violet’s presence.

You slipped the gloves back on, fastening the Velcro tightly, mentally preparing yourself to get back to training.

"Training's over for the day, you know," Violet said, casually reminding you. She was annoyingly familiar with your habits on the range, probably because she always kept an eye on you, just waiting to see if you messed up.

You didn't bother looking up. "I'm aware everyone else is gone. I prefer extra training."

"You hate training," Violet replied, her tone laced with smug knowingness. She clearly enjoyed pushing your buttons, and right now, you kinda wound tighter than the Velcro on your gloves.

"Like you'd know know." you simply say, cocking your head to crack your neck.

Your raised the Glock and fired at the nearest dummy, ending the conversation with a bang.

The sweet relief of coffee never failed to satisfy Violet, even on days when everything else seemed to fall apart. She let her calloused fingers linger on the coffee maker as it hummed, her other hand twiddling a packet of sweetener absentmindedly. With nothing pressing on her mind or plate today, she pulled the pitcher from the machine and dragged her New York embroidered mug forward. The coffee poured steadily, just below the rim, and she tore the sweetener packet, dumping it in with practiced precision.

But before she could savor a sip, her forearm nudged open the lounge door, and—splash. Hot coffee cascaded over her freshly pressed suit, drenching her work pants and top in a scalding, sticky mess.

What—the fuck?

Violet's eyes slowly drifted down to the damage, the burning liquid stinging her skin beneath the fabric.

Her grip tightened on the mug as she looked up, fury already simmering behind her eyes.

And there, frozen in shock with wide eyes, was none other than you. Of course. Violet could see the words forming in your head before they even left your mouth; you never missing an opportunity to make things worse.

"Watch where you're going next time," you grumbled, tone dismissive, like the whole thing was somehow Violet’s fault. You had also whispered something under your breath, and it couldn't have been good. The coffee dripped silently between them, pooling on the floor and marking its territory on Violet’s ruined clothes. She had managed to get through the rain this morning without so much as a spot, but your clumsiness had managed to wreck her in mere seconds.

Violets’s scarred upper lip twitched in irritation. Was she being blamed? Really? "What are you in hurry for, the last few munchkins in the fridge? You don't exactly look busy, Thorne.”

Your eyebrows drew down slowly, eyes narrowing in offended disbelief. Violet might've found it amusing to mess with you in any other circumstance, but right now? Right now, it really irked her. She was being blamed for this, and she wasn't going to let it slide.

"If you've got time to throw insults, why don't you go and do Mel’s job again? After all, you went to school for years to play assistant at headquarters, right?" Violet’s words were sharp, deliberately cutting. It was a bitchy move, but she was indeed not in the mood.

You’d had been riding her nerves all week.

Monday, you’d shredded Violet’s files by "mistake," chalking it up to be tired. Tuesday, you’d nearly wrecked her Glock 17M and tried to convince Caitlyn it was just a mix-up. Wednesday, there were dirty looks and backhanded compliments in the middle of a meeting. And yesterday? You’d almost derailed an entire investigation with your impatience.

Two years of this, and it was finally pushing Violet to her limit. It wasn't just competitive banter anymore — it was real animosity. Violet had always tried to keep things light, a little teasing here and there, but you? You downright hated her or something, and it was getting mutual.

You, ever so unfazed, didn't even glance at the mess you’d made. "Who pissed in your coffee this morning?" you shot back, voice dripping with sarcasm. "And don't worry about how I handle my tasks around here. Why don't you go cozy up to Caitlyn while I keep things easy and simple for you? Sound good?"

Violet clenched her jaw, her fingers tight around the now empty mug. This woman...

"You've got a lot of nerve," Violet snapped, her voice low but sharp, each word deliberate. "I don't have an issue with you, but for some reason, you're always trying to get on my bad side. I try to be halfway decent with you, but you always find a way to ruin that too." Violet stepped closer, exaggerating her words, hoping it would hit you harder. For someone who walks in heeled boots everyday, the shorter woman still hadn't quite figured out how to own them.

Before you could fire back, Violet cut you off.

"And if you want to accuse me of cozying up to Caitlyn, then take a good look at yourself, Thorne. Your surname fits you precisely. You're like a thorn to someone's side."

You let out a sharp huff, clearly caught off guard by Violet's sudden willingness to stand her ground. You weren’t used to being confronted, especially by someone you considered to be an annoyance. Violet could see the gears turning, the effort you put into keeping your voice steady as she shot back.

"At least I have a good relationship with everyone. You pick and choose who you talk to. You're not down to earth, (Y/N). You're just a shitty person."

You felt your blood simmering, but you kept your expression neutral, even as the insult landed. By habit loosening your tie, fingers trembling just slightly with adrenaline, and tossed your now-empty mug into the trash bin by the door without a second thought.

The satisfying crack of glass echoed through the room, but she didn't care.

Not about the mug, not about your words. Not now.

She brushed past you, not sparing a second glance as she headed toward the restroom. The coffee was already soaking into her clothes, the fabric sticking uncomfortably to her skin. She peeled off her ruined pullover as she walked, letting it fall down her arms before she entered the bathroom, where she was greeted by her reflection.

Violet stared at herself for a moment, hair falling messily over one eye. It had grown longer than she liked, brushing just past her nose slightly. She pushed it away impatiently and leaned over the counter, scrubbing at her button-down with frustration. It was practically see through at the stain.

"Come on," she muttered through gritted teeth, working at the larger stains with more force than necessary. The top had cost her over fifty bucks, and the thought of it being ruined because of your clumsiness made her blood boil. If it had been some cheap shirt, she wouldn't have lost her cool like that, but it wasn't.

"Fucking come out, Jesus." Violet’s voice cracked slightly as she scrubbed harder, knowing full well she was only making it worse. But she couldn't walk back into the HQ with this mess on her. Not after what had just happened. She wasn't about to give you the satisfaction of seeing her like this.

As the stains slowly faded, her mind raced. Were you insecure? Violet didn't know, and frankly, she didn't care. The woman was a confusing mess of contradictions, and Violet had no desire to decipher her. All she knew was that you got under her skin, and made her head throb with frustration. An impatient groan escaped her lips as she managed to get some of the deeper stains out, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip.

Violet stared at the shirt, feeling like the whole situation was ridiculous. And yet, here she was, scrubbing out coffee stains and stewing over someone who should've been nothing more than an office inconvenience.

The urge to tell you off bubbled up again, but Violet bit it back. Sure, she was pissed, but wasn't trying to escalate this any further. She had done the right thing by standing up for herself, like anyone else would. There was no point in pushing things to the point of no return, where they might both end up fired and jobless.

She slung her ruined pullover over her shoulder and walked out of the women's restroom, her steps heavier with the weight of her lingering frustration.

She wasn't about to let it go, not completely, but she wasn't going to make it worse either.

If nothing else, she thought, I'm not worse than her. That was for sure. Violet had rattled her pride a little with the teasing, but it wasn't like she'd gone overboard. In fact, if you had any sense of humor, they could've had some fun with the back-and-forth. But no, the hostility from you felt different, like it was more personal. You ribbed Ekko and Powder too at times, but with Violet, it felt deeper, like there was something else fueling it.

As she exhaled slowly, her shoulders dropping, she made her way down the hallways of the HQ, her mind still buzzing with the aftershocks of their argument.

"That was my favorite shirt," she muttered under her breath, glancing down at the faint coffee stains that still clung to the fabric.

You grimace, hesitating before fully letting your eyes take in the crime scene photos clipped to the case folder in front of you. One side is filled with notes detailing the body discovered, the evidence collected by officers and K-9 units, while the other holds the photographs. It’s never easy looking at the dead, but this case in particular —one involving children and animals— settles like a weight in your stomach.

Just suck it up and focus.

Jayce is out today, which means his ridiculous pile of files is now your responsibility. For someone who jokes around constantly and eats while reviewing these kind of things, he’s got a stomach of fucking steel. You, on the other hand, find yourself letting out a quiet, uneasy strings of grunts as you shuffle a set of dated photos into an envelope hastily. You barely register your own signature as you scrawl it across the front before tossing it into the small brown box beside you leveled on Jayce’s chair.

The barely touched coffee on your desk doesn’t help your mood. Mel had been nice enough to bring drinks from the local coffee shop for everyone, but yours? It tasted watered down, and the undissolved brown sugar left a grainy texture that made it hard to enjoy. You had set it aside, already planning to let it get cold so you could toss it out without feeling guilty.

Bad coffee is worse than no coffee. You’d rather suffer through exhaustion than force yourself to drink something made by a barista who clearly didn’t know a basic coffee rule: to stir the damn sugar while it’s hot.

You bite the inside of your cheek, inhaling deeply, forcing yourself back into work mode.

Outside, thunder grumbles in the distance, and the printers rattle beside you, filling the silence of an otherwise empty space. The office is quieter than usual, the seat next to you noticeably unoccupied. Rainy Novembers are typical in Highland Parks, but in all honesty you don’t have much of an opinion on the weather. You spend most of your time indoors anyway.

Working.

Your stomach interrupts your train of thought, rumbling loudly in protest. You unconsciously glance at the digital clock near Jayce’s empty desk, its red numbers flickering back at you. Lunch passed a while ago. Not that it mattered. After spending hours handling Jayce’s case files, your appetite had somewhat disappeared. Your meal, along with your Diet Coke, was probably still sitting untouched in the lounge fridge.

Powder and Ekko are out training one-on-one with Caitlyn. Not your business, but you’re curious anyway. You always are. Why didn’t you ever get one-on-one training? Everyone else did.

Are you lacking something?

You chew on your thumbnail, the thought making an unwelcome home in your head. This always happened.

A sudden tap on the top of your head yanks you from your inner turmoil. You glance over your shoulder, expecting Viktor, the guy who fixes the printers and every other broken thing in HQ. Jayce is good friends with him, so, you are as well in that case. But instead, it’s Mel. Your shoulders loosen slightly. You’ve been tense all week.

“Not exactly the best way to get my attention, Mel,” you say, stacking some of the finished files on your desk, head still heavy with lingering doubt.

“Lighten up a bit. You’re such a pessimist,” Mel hums, dropping the stack of documents onto your desk. “You should go eat. I saw you skipped lunch. Plus, Jayce can finish the rest tomorrow. You’ve done more than enough.”

You exhale, considering her words. Why didn’t you just work a role like Mel? She had a clear job, an essential purpose. Meanwhile, you felt like you spent most of your time quietly filling in the gaps — like a seat filler, temporary, replaceable. All that school for what?

A stubborn voice in your head protests the comment about your pessimism, but your hunger wins out. You push back your chair and stand, rolling your shoulders to shake off the stiffness.

“You can take the file box then. I’ll be back.” Grabbing your ID lanyard, you stride out of the office, making your way through the mostly empty space.

The walk down the same hallway you’d been pacing for two years somehow felt longer every day. Realistically, nothing had changed. It was the same damn stretch of floor, the same fluorescent lights buzzing above. But lately, the need to move your feet, to just get to where you were going, had started to feel like a chore.

You had three keys to this building: one for the main office where the bulk of the work happened, another for the lounge, and the third just to get into the damn building in the first place. Underwhelming. Your pay was the same as Jayce’s, even Ekko’s. You were making more than both Powder and Mel combined.

So why did it still feel like you were scraping for something?

You pushed open the lounge door with your elbow, only to immediately regret it.

Violet.

A grumble of annoyance rumbled in the back of your throat as she turned her head to glance over her shoulder at you. Her cool, ashy-blue eyes flicked to you for only a moment, but it was enough to make your skin prickle uncomfortably.

It felt like every time a coworker looked at you, it was out of pity, not respect. As if all the work you put in was just something to be tolerated, not acknowledged. The thought made your heeled boots feel loose, like you were one wrong step away from rolling your ankle under the weight of Violet’s occasional, unimpressed glances.

Why was she even here?

Yes, this was the employee lounge, but she never lingered here long. And yet, here she was. You weren’t even sure if she had food, and she definitely wasn’t making coffee.

You ignored her gaze, forcing yourself toward the fridge. Your hands were already clammy before you saw her, but now they were straight up sweaty. The cool air from the fridge was a small relief as you reached for your neatly labeled chicken and lettuce wrap, along with your untouched sealed Diet Coke.

It had been this way ever since the coffee incident. Ever since you’d —“accidentally”— ruined an entire month’s worth of her research.

West had actually stopped making jokes around you.

At first, that satisfied you. But now? Now, it made your gut feel like a crumpled-up sticky note.

Had you actually liked the attention? No. Absolutely not. Jayce spoke to you every day, cracked his ridiculous jokes around you, so it wasn’t that. And it wasn’t about communication. You and Violet didn’t even work in the same department. You weren’t exactly friends, either. Strictly coworkers. Two people who knew just enough about each other’s flaws to be annoying and pick at them.

So why was she bothering you so much?

Your flimsy fingers tightened around your wrap as Violet finally looked away. But she didn’t move. Didn’t eat. Didn’t make coffee. Just existed. Silently.

Judgment was awful, but silent judgment? That was even worse.

“Can you quit watching me like that?” you snapped before you could stop yourself, your voice sharp with the bitterness that always seemed to linger between you two. “It’s weird. And aren’t you supposed to be working?”

Violet barely reacted, she just blinked at you, unimpressed.

“Lunch ended three hours ago,” you added, “unless you’re digging for Caitlyn’s crumbs.”

Your jaw clenched as you unwrapped your lunch, your teeth sinking slightly into your torn up bottom lip. Uncalled for. You knew that. And Violet knew exactly how to weaponize the moment.

“Thanks for the reminder, Thorne,” she said, her voice steady but laced with something biting. “But I actually don’t have to make that effort. Cait pays attention to me without me having to act like some crazy addict who thrives off her validation.”

Your fingers stilled.

It wasn’t like you hadn’t said worse to her before. The difference? Violet never hid behind her words. She always said them looking you dead in the eye, unwavering, direct.

The comment shouldn’t have hit a soft spot, but it did.

You exhaled sharply through your nose, forcing yourself to play it off, pretending it didn’t get under your skin.

“You know me so well,” you muttered with a strained chuckle, though your jaw ached with the effort of keeping it together.

Because deep down, you knew exactly where your problem with Violet had started.

It wasn’t out of nowhere.

You’d been intimidated by her from the moment she got the job —without even needing an interview. She made more than you right off the bat. Caitlyn warmed up to her almost immediately. It wasn’t like Violet had ever rubbed it in your face, but envy was something you never handled well.

Do this better. Do that better. Finish this. Try harder. Ask to do more.

Violet ran a hand down the front of her work suit to smooth out the cotton. Ever since the coffee incident, she’d switched to wearing black button-downs under her blazers, likely to avoid another purposeful coffee disaster.

“You don’t exactly make it hard to read you,” she mused, her voice irritatingly casual. “Especially when you have a vein bulging from your forehead every time you see me.”

Your first instinct was to snap back. Who wouldn’t be irritated when you think everyone is your friend? But you knew better. And honestly? You didn’t have the energy for another round of verbal sparring this week either.

Jayce was out. Your workload was heavier than usual. You hadn’t had coffee, and you hadn’t eaten all day.

So, instead of feeding into it, you focused on your food. You took a bite from the edge of your wrap, careful not to let the contents spill from the sides. It hurt to open your mouth too wide. Your lips had been painfully chapped for a month now. February was creeping closer, and with it came dry skin, exhaustion, and the growing desire to sleep at your desk instead of work.

Your bottom lip had split more times than you could count in the past week, but you hadn’t done much to fix it either. No time for chapstick when you could barely keep up with everything else.

Violet had noticed.

You always got like this in the winter; pushier, more irritable. You weren’t as unbearable when the weather warmed up, but your attitude toward her never thawed either. You were always on edge around her, always competing, always watching.

She had caught you staring the day Caitlyn pulled her aside to discuss a raise, the same day you had taken on extra side gigs and hadn’t gotten so much as a mention. She had seen you fist your hair at your desk after downing your fifth cup of coffee. She had been on the receiving end of your little retaliations, the way you’d ruin her things in ways so small they could almost be called accidents.

Violet had always noticed.

“A chicken wrap with a side of blood,” she mused lightly, resting her hip against the counter.

Your chewing slowed for a beat before resuming, brows furrowing just slightly. You still curled and coated your lashes every morning for work with an older tube of mascara you couldn’t seem to let go, still maintained some things about yourself, but you weren’t oblivious. You knew you looked rough lately.

“You seriously need chapstick,” Violet continued, eyeing your lips with something between amusement and concern. “That’s gotta hurt.”

It was the first semi-joke she’d made around you since November. It wasn’t even really a joke, but it was… easier to hear than the usual biting remarks.

You swallowed your food and huffed. “My lips are none of your business, nor your concern. I’m applying chapstick just fine. It’s allergies.”

Wrong.

Allergies were the least of your problems. You had been biting your lips raw and were probably vitamin deficient in more ways than one. Even Jayce had commented on it the other day, asking if you were cosplaying as a grumpy vampire or some other nonsense.

Violet scoffed. “Are you looking to eat your lunch or the skin off your lips?” She rubbed her own lips absently, likely remembering the thin scar that stretched across her upper lip from training. “You’re running on nothing but caffeine. Have you forgotten what real food tastes like?”

You scowled, cutting her off before she could continue. “Why are you in here?”

Violet blinked, seemingly caught off guard by the abrupt change in conversation.

“I mean, I could be just as annoying, but I’m not in the mood, West.”

She raised an eyebrow, then shook her head with a small smirk, arms crossing over her chest. Your eyes hesitated for just a second, catching the way the layers of her uniform —button-down and blazer— did nothing to hide the toned muscle beneath them.

What kind of moron actually wore both their blazer inside HQ?

“Why?” she taunted. “Because you’re finally getting a taste of your own medicine? Or because Jayce isn’t here today to defend you?”

Your jaw clenched.

“Are you fucking serious?” you huffed, your voice laced with disbelief. “You think Jayce not being here affects how I feel?”

The defensiveness in your tone was embarrassingly obvious, and Violet knew it. Her lips quirked upward, her smirk deepening.

“Well,” she dragged the word out in fake thought, pursing her lips in a way that made your eye twitch. “Can you blame me? Your only real friend isn’t here, and now you’re just moping around HQ. Moping around with your head down, and your ass up.”

“Do not say that,” you snapped, your irritation spiking.

Violet grinned like she had just won a prize. “Really? You draw the line at a simile?”

Your brows furrowed. “A what? That’s a metaphor, you slow beet.”

Violet should have been offended. I mean, you had just called her slow, but instead, she froze for half a second, her expression shifting to something almost amused.

“…Did you just call me a beet?”

“Yes,” you deadpanned. “A beet-root. For a choppy haircut, you’d think you’d at least change the color to redeem yourself. You look like a damn beet.”

Audrey’s lips twisted into a half-smirk, half-grin.

“Wow, (Y/N),” she murmured. “Did you just make a joke?”

Your stomach dropped.

Your pride plummeted.

She thought you were joking. Violet—Violet fucking West—thought you had joked with her?

The realization made your grip tighten around your soda can, your lips pressing inward as if disgusted by yourself. You wanted to grab the words back, throw them out, insist that you meant that as an insult, not a joke.

But you couldn’t.

And that grin on her face? That damn grin? (that damn grin...😼)

It made you want to rip your hair out.

“Never-fucking-mind.”

Violet undid the cuffs of her button-down, rolling up the sleeves until the fabric no longer restricted her movements. Tattoo work peeking out. The uniform was fine. Professional, sleek, practical, but nobody actually liked wearing it. Not in the HQ.

Across the office, Jayce’s voice rang out, louder than necessary, pulling her attention. She glanced up briefly, watching as he bantered with one of the techs. Jayce was easy to get along with. Smart, good with computers, and a complete slacker when given the chance. She had no issue with him personally. When the two of them worked together, they wasted time more often than not, but when Jayce worked with you? Somehow, he managed to joke around and get things done. Maybe that’s why Caitlyn didn’t mind having his desk right next to yours.

Violet exhaled in amusement but didn’t say anything. She wasn’t in the office much, her job kept her busy elsewhere. Restocking gear, replenishing ammunition, training the interns who wanted to join the department someday. It was a privilege, but it was also pretty exhausting. Still, she knew she was the favorite around here, and that privilege came with its own set of complications.

Caitlyn had once commented on it —on you and her— during a routine weapons inventory.

“Everything good between you and Thorne? You don’t seem close, but your work styles mesh well. You’re both dedicated.”

The statement had been so off-base she almost laughed. Close? Not even remotely. But that wasn’t on Violet.

You had been different lately. More distant.

No spilled espressos on her desk, no mysteriously shredded files, no petty, one-sided beef getting in the way of the workday. Odd.

Then again, you had been odd lately in general.

The banter had lessened. Sure, a few snide remarks here and there, but the tantrums, as Violet fondly called them, had also significantly decreased. She wasn’t sure if she found that concerning or relieving.

Casually, her gaze drifted across the office until it landed on you.

You sat with your legs crossed, the tip of your heeled boot absently twisting under your desk. Your trench coat hung over the back of your chair as it normally did. You only wore it when the building’s heater was busted or if you had gotten caught in the rain.

Pencil skirt. Off-white ironed button-down. Navy tie. Black pantyhose.

Mel didn’t always bother with the extra layers or formalities, but you did.

Violet huffed at the realization. You had fashion preferences, apparently.

Funny. And a little uncanny, imagining you caring about anything other than being annoyed, irritated, or outright pissed. That’s all you were to her: a tightly wound ball of something pent up and ready to just snap.

Though… she did sort of pity you at times. Emphasis on 'at times'.

You turned in your chair, handing Jayce a stack of printed files, speaking lowly to him before refocusing on your own work.

Violet continued watching, still as an observer. Bored. You, Jayce, Mel, and Viktor held the office together while she spent most of her time outside of it. She only came in once a week, just enough to notice that, despite all your efforts, you were stretching yourself too thin.

You made things harder for yourself. She knew that.

Her gaze dropped, almost unconsciously, to your legs.

She blinked.

Weird.

She had never really looked at you before, not past all the other stuff; the petty rivalry, the constant need to one-up her, the way you made every little thing a competition.

It wasn’t exactly easy to look beyond that.

And yet, she hesitated before glancing back, this time without moving her head, just her eyes.

You weren’t… unattractive.

Her fingers tensed slightly against the armrest of her chair before she shifted, leaning into her palm instead.

You had good facial symmetry. Nice skin — tired, sure, but even Jayce had made jokes about you cosplaying a grumpy vampire lately. It was funny, but to you? You were furious, but hey, you started to apply chapstick more often throughout shifts. Your makeup was always neatly applied, and your uniform fit well—not too tight, not too loose.

You also cared about appearances. Not just your own, but others’.

Violet silently grinned at the memory of your voice echoing through the office just a few weeks ago:

“So unprofessional. It’s embarrassing. Don’t wear a badge and walk around in saggy pants. You went to university for what? To not know how to measure your own waist? Gosh.”

You’d aimed it at Jayce after he had opted for a more relaxed fit, but your commentary extended to everyone who slacked off in dress code.

Violet exhaled slowly.

Then, unfortunately, you caught her staring.

Her body tensed as your gaze flickered to hers, and she immediately cleared her throat, shifting to cover her mouth like she had just zoned out. Definitely not like she had just been looking at you for longer than necessary. Longest than she had ever looked at you, really.

You furrowed your brows, shook your head slightly, then returned to work.

Violet sighed, pressing further into her palm.

Her eyes shifted to Mel as she strode across the office, posture perfect, heels clicking at a steady pace, files balanced in one arm. A sweetheart. Objectively, Mel was a beautiful woman, but Violet didn’t know her too well. Certainly not as well as she knew you.

When Mel passed, she caught sight of you again, now looking down at paperwork with those stupid reading glasses perched on your nose. Looking like you were gonna pop a blood vessel.

They looked ridiculous on you, far too big for your face, because Jayce had so helpfully gotten you the wrong size.

“Didn’t know they’d be big on you, man. Relax, relax.”

Indeed, you did not relax. You had thrown a fit.

It was… kinda cute.

Violet blinked, her lips parting slightly.

What? No.

She must be losing her mind. She straightened in her chair, biting the inside of her cheek. She wasn’t blind, she could admit when someone looked good — but this was you.

You, of all people. The epitome of stress and irritation in her damned life. So what if you were pretty? Every woman was pretty in their own way. It didn’t mean anything.

Violet forced her gaze away, focusing on the stack of paperwork she had been handed—a rare task for her, but one she had to do nonetheless. Maybe she was just stressed. Maybe her cycle was about to start. Definitely not you.

Another week passed. Your workload was heavier than usual, keeping you out of Jayce’s business, out of Mel’s, even out of Viktor’s. Caitlyn had given you a detailed to-do list. You. Not Jayce, not Ekko, not West. Agent Thorne.

You had come into work on Thursday morning already exhausted, having snoozed through all three of your alarms. You almost knew this week was going to end badly. Your track record with jinxing yourself was near flawless. But for once, it didn’t.

Your hands hovered over the case file on your desk. A fresh case. Not one of Jayce’s hand-me-downs, not something already combed through a dozen times. The seal along the side was still intact, a loud, physical reminder that no one had read this yet. Your heartbeat thrummed against your ribs.

Your fingers tensed as you looked up, scanning the office. Everyone was busy.

Was this actually meant for you?

The doubt crept in before you could stop it. Was it bad that you questioned this? That you questioned being given your own case? Mel's voice echoed in the back of your mind — “You’re too hard on yourself. Just take the opportunity.” You wanted this. You had been waiting for this. Caitlyn was trusting you with the first glance, the first look, the first opinions, the first impression.

You exhaled, shaking off the nerves as you sat down. The file was thin, because you were the one who would be passing it around, not the one receiving it after five other agents had already picked it apart.

“Soft tacos,” Jayce whistled in pure delight, stretching his legs out under his desk.

You didn’t even have to look up to know he was grinning like a damn idiot. No one but Jayce would be eating soft tacos at eight in the morning. And not even the good kind, these weren’t the ones he brought back after holidays at his mom’s house. These were microwaved, doused in sour cream, and inhaled like he was running late to something.

Jayce plopped into his chair beside you, lifting the taco to his mouth, but he barely got a bite in before his body jerked forward, his eyes going wide.

You turned, brows pulling together. “Jayce, it’s a Dollar General taco. You—”

“No way! You got a case?”

Jayce cut you off, speaking through the mouthful of scalding hot taco, eyes glued to the file in your hands. You grimaced at the sight. He hadn’t even swallowed before rushing the words out. But then, you realized that’s why he had burned himself. He had been so excited to say something that he hadn’t waited for his food to cool.

Pride? Your heart picked up slightly at the thought. Jayce, your desk partner, your closest ally in this damn office, looked genuinely excited.

“Oh, yeah. I— I think I did?” you said, unsure. “I mean, Caitlyn could’ve meant to leave this on your desk for all I know.”

Jayce raised his brows, leaning back in his chair. His taco hovered in his left hand, airing out now that he’d learned his lesson. “Mel was right. You are a pessimist.”

“What?” You put the file down carefully. “It’s not pessimism. It’s called being realistic.”

“That sounds boring as hell,” Jayce mused, clearly amused. He was a realist too, but unlike you, he had an open mind when it came to cases. You treated every file like it was life or death, like one wrong note would collapse the entire operation.

“Whoever highlighted the third section word for word is an absolute idiot. No one is reading that. It doesn’t support the evidence or the tax fraud either.” You had once scoffed, tearing open a fresh pack of sticky notes.

Or: “Let me guess. Whoever started this case let an intern do the honors. Jesus. What is happening.”

“I’d rather be boring than wrong,” you countered, turning back toward your desk, firing up your computer. You draped your coat over your lap for warmth. Your office chair was always too cold in the mornings.

“You’re often both of those things.”

“Sorry—? Oh. It’s just you.”

Your voice flatlined the second you spotted Violet standing behind Jayce. Your face dropped, irritation slipping in as she leaned against the back of your chair, one hand perched on her hip.

Jayce twisted around, his face lighting up at the sight of her. “West! Cool to see you, as always. Even if Cait put us on opposite ends of the HQ.”

You blinked in confusion as the two of them exchanged a ridiculously complicated handshake, your stomach twisting slightly.

Of course Violet was buttering up Jayce. He was your closest friend in HQ, and yet here they were, shaking hands like they had some kind of inside joke you weren’t a part of. Not even you had a handshake with Jayce.

“Yeah, yeah,” Violet brushed it off. “I’ll talk her into putting me right between you and grumpy over here.” She nodded toward you.

“You wish,” you scoffed, clicking through your unread emails. The blue light from your screen reflected on your face, making your eyes narrow slightly as you read. Your legs pressed together under your coat, absorbing what little warmth you could get.

Violet teasing you in front of Jayce wasn’t new. Not even close. But something else was.

This wasn’t the first time you had caught her looking at you differently.

It wasn’t just the usual watching to make fun of you anymore.

It had happened in the lounge, on the training field, even when she thought you hadn’t noticed. She was good at eye contact —everyone knew this— but lately? Lately, she had been slipping.

Apparently, you had also grown an extra pair of eyes on your uniform. Violet had been staring at you more than usual.

You didn’t know what to do with that.

Unfortunately, Jayce kept talking.

“Thorne got her first case,” he grinned, pointing at you with his thumb. You felt your fingers tighten around the mouse. Jayce. Seriously? Why was he telling her of all people?

Violet tilted her head, attention shifting fully to you. “Cool. I can give her a few tips and tricks, as someone who’s gone through a dozen or so.”

The last thing you needed was Violet West handing you advice. If she did, she’d rub it in your face for weeks. She’d take credit for half the investigation. She’d never shut up about it.

You snapped your gaze up, meeting hers.

“I’m good,” you said, your voice flat. “I don’t need your help.”

You barely moved, but there was a twitch, something small, something almost unnoticeable. Violet’s eyes flickered from yours, down to your tie. Your fingers moved automatically, adjusting it. She reached for her own and tugged it into place like she was mirroring you.

Was she taunting you?

“My desk has enough room for two,” Violet said, pivoting on her heel. As she turned, you caught a glimpse of that Roman numeral tattoo under her left eye, barely concealed beneath a thin layer of lazily blended concealer. It didn’t concern you. Why would it? Who the hell got a tattoo on their face?

So unprofessional.

“Yeah, I bet it does. Call a therapist.” You muttered the words just loud enough to be caught in the silence of the HQ. Violet didn’t miss a beat, letting out a laugh that shook her shoulders slightly. Your eyes flickered to the way her body moved with it, a ripple of motion.

“Not what I meant, but alright, Thorne.”

Jayce, still chewing, raised a brow and looked between you and the door as Violet exited, then turned back to you.

“Is there something going on, or…?”

“Always,” you said, voice rough but not nearly as irritated as it should have been. That realization bothered you. Normally, you’d be clenching your fists, itching with irritation, but the usual sneer wasn’t there. Jayce definitely noticed, blinking at your quick response.

“…Ooookay then.” He dragged the word out but shrugged, returning to his disgusting breakfast taco.

Still nasty.

Never in your life had you thought you’d enjoy working on a murder case. It sounded strange from an outside perspective, but getting your first solo case had been something you had wanted —had waited for— for three years. And it was worth it. You had spent overtime in the office, completely immersed.

Highlighting sections, sticking tabs on documents, writing down key notes. By the time you finished, two markers had dried out, and a busted pen had leaked ink all over your palm from how hard you had pressed it against the paper. But it was done. You finally dropped the completed file on Caitlyn’s desk before clocking out.

Walking outside alone, the night air was cold, biting at the skin of your legs despite the sheer pantyhose you had layered under your knee-high boots. Practical, comfortable. You weren’t a fan of showing too much calf, it just felt better this way.

By the time Monday rolled around, you were dead on your feet. No one enjoyed a Monday morning, especially not in early March when climate change was kicking everyone’s ass. Walking into the HQ, the air inside was warmer than the entrance, and shrugging off your trench coat felt like a small relief.

“Finishing an entire case file in a day. That’s impressive.”

You almost jumped out of your boots.

Some idiot had breathed down your neck, not literally, but close enough. You whipped around, half-asleep daze completely shattered.

West.

Again.

You exhaled sharply, so close to snapping. “Can you not go around scaring people half to death for once?”

Violet didn’t even look sorry. She stood there, perfectly smug, like she had just told the funniest joke of the century. You wet your lips, easing the sting from the cold. Your jaw tensed before you finally said what had been lingering in your mind for the past two weeks.

“Are you okay?”

Violet tilted her head slightly, her sharp eyes flicking up to meet yours. “Yeah, I’m all good. Perfect, actually. Woke up today, had breakfast for once. It was delicious. Had a cup of coffee, and—”

“I don’t care about your damn coffee,” you cut in, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “Or how perfect and sparkly with unicorns your morning has been, West. You know what I’m asking. Don’t act dense.”

You weren’t the only one who had noticed.

The way you two spoke had changed. The fights were less. The banter was different. You had stopped arguing over stupid things; eye contact, for example. It had stopped feeling taunting and started feeling like…

Like something else.

Something you hated.

You scolded yourself for it, constantly. In meetings, when Caitlyn said something that involved Violet, your eyes automatically found her. You expected her to look back.

It made you uncomfortable.

And now, here she was, grinning like this wasn’t a big deal at all. “I think unicorns are pretty cool, though. Can’t lie.”

You inhaled sharply.

“This isn’t about unicorns—! You’re actually going to give me a headache.”

You dragged a hand down your face, exasperated. Violet laughed, the sound light and unbothered, as she toyed with her lanyard. Her ID badge swayed slightly, catching the overhead lighting.

You hated that grin.

Mostly because you had no idea what it meant anymore.

The air felt different. It wasn’t just the stares that carried a new weight — it was the shift in body language, the subtle shifts that were hard to ignore. Your temper had settled, your instinctive irritation toward Violet dulled. Her jokes still grated on your nerves, but the feeling in your chest wasn’t heavy anymore.

Humiliating. That’s what it was.

Not liking Violet was what kept you going. As terrible as it was to admit, hating her pushed you, forced you to be better, to work harder, to be faster than her. But now? Now, that loathing had soured into something sickly, something different. Interest. God, even thinking that word made you feel ridiculous.

You shouldn’t be this hung up on whatever unspoken thing was happening. It was probably a joke. Another way for her to get under your skin. Or maybe she was just bored, looking for entertainment at your expense. You needed to cut this off, now, before it spiraled into something even worse.

You turned, walked back to your desk, and dropped your bag beside your chair with a sigh that rattled through your chest. You weren’t stupid. You were looking for something, some kind of reassurance, confirmation that Violet wasn’t thinking the same things you were. But it wasn’t there. She was still watching. And when she got up, taking something of Caitlyn’s to the lounge, your body moved before your brain caught up.

Jayce didn’t even bother questioning it. You’d been making excuses to leave all week. Tugging down the hem of your skirt, you inhaled deeply and stepped out, boots clicking steadily against the floor. You swiped your ID at the lounge door, pushing it open, already knowing exactly who you’d find.

Violet did a double take.

She hadn’t expected you to follow. A conversation in the office? That was normal. You coming to her without Jayce nowhere nearby? Not so much.

“Had a feeling you’d follow me here,” she lied.

“Sure you did,” you deadpanned, dropping your ID onto the counter and leaning against it. Violet eyes flickered, hesitated. She was staring again, and you noticed. You both noticed.

This wasn’t the usual hostile tension between you two. It wasn’t irritation or resentment. It was something else, something you didn’t want to name. Something that made your skin burn.

“This needs to stop,” you cut in before she could say anything.

Violet's brows knit together, feigning confusion. But you knew she understood.

“Never thought I’d hear those words come out of your mouth, Thorne.” Her voice was slow, calculated. “You started this. All of it, I mean... picking fights, sabotaging me, making this job feel like a competition.”

You didn’t have an ego. That’s what you told yourself. But your pride? It had always been fed by approval. A nod from Caitlyn, praise from the department, respect from your coworkers.

But none of that ever filled the hole, did it?

You exhaled sharply, shifting your weight, irritation slipping into your tone. A familiar reaction. One Violet was used to by now.

It shouldn’t be her attention that made your chest tighten. It shouldn’t be her opinions that made your skin tickle. And yet, here you were. A few days ago, you had actually questioned whether thinner tights would make your legs stand out more. Whether a thicker lash would make your eyes more striking during those lingering glances. Whether she had noticed the slightly darker tie you had worn that day.

She had noticed all of it.

Violet’s gruff voice cut through your thoughts. “Do you hate me?”

Your breath caught. You stiffened. Yes. Yes.

But your lips pressed together.

“No,” you managed.

“No?” Violet repeated.

“Yes, I do,” you corrected, but your voice wobbled. It sounded weak, like even you didn’t believe it. Violet head tilted slightly, her maroon hair slipping over her face the way it always did.

How was she not dying in a suit like that every day?

“Yes, no, yes, no,” she mused, her tone deliberately teasing. “You’re stuttering.”

Your legs pressed together instinctively, your pencil skirt suddenly feeling too much, too tight, too revealing.

You were a pain in the ass. That was the best way to describe you. Someone who knew exactly what to say, what to do, to get a reaction out of you.

Violet was someone who never needed approval, who carried herself like she owned the room. And now, that smugness was focused entirely on you.

The room felt hot. You reached for your collar, but before your fingers could slip beneath the fabric, Violet voice stopped you.

“You don’t have to wear that tie if you have to keep loosening it.” Her voice was softer now, but still edged with something knowing. “But again, you have tons of bad habits. Can’t expect you to just stop.”

Your fingers froze around the fabric.

Then, she stepped forward.

Her presence was impossible to ignore. Broader frame, heavier stance, rougher edges. Her hands slid into her pockets, the motion easy, casual, like she wasn’t closing the space between you two on purpose.

She was.

You were still against the counter, meaning she had the height advantage now. Even though the difference wasn’t that much, standing above you like this, she felt taller.

Her fingers hesitated before brushing against the smooth white collar of your shirt. Your breath hitched. Your skin burned.

Your eyes flickered, searching for an escape — except you didn’t want to escape. Her thumb traced up and down along your pulse, slow and deliberate. Your stomach curled.

Then, she nudged your chin up. The silence was unbearable.

“Violet,” you breathed.

Her hand faltered.

Three years of strict last-name basis, and now you had just said it.

No one called ever really called her Violet. No one. It was always something shorter, sharper, less personal.

You sounded good saying it.

“Violet? So intimate,” she taunted, her fingers tapping against your cheek. It wasn’t meant to piss you off. But you wanted to piss her off.

Your fingers shot out, grabbing the tie between them, yanking her closer. Embarrassingly, your noses bumped. But that didn’t stop you. One hand fisted around the tie, the other gripping her bicep, steady, grounding. You felt the way her muscles tensed beneath your palm, felt the pause as her breath hitched.

You didn’t hesitate.

Your lips caught hers, firm, certain, and when she didn’t pull away —when she didn’t resist— you took.

You finally felt the scar along her upper lip, traced the curve of it with your own mouth, tasted the hesitation that melted into something hotter, something heavier. Mapping her out.

Violet didn’t know what to do with her hands at first. They hovered at your back, hesitant, but her eyes were barely cracked open, watching, waiting. Either you could stop here, or you could throw everything out the window.

Then you bit her fuller bottom lip, tugging and letting it ripple into place.

Violet groaned.

And suddenly, the second option sounded so much more appealing.

Violet hadn’t expected this ever.

You had always been untouchable. Not in the literal sense, but in every way that mattered. Unreachable, impenetrable, untamed in your own rigid way. You did what you needed to do: woke up, worked, excelled, then left the HQ like none of it ever touched you.

But this?

Violet barely had time to register it before her hands moved, gripping your hips, pulling at your pencil skirt with little care, silently begging, urging for things to move further.

Your knees buckled as Violet backed you against the edge of a table, the cool marble pressing into the backs of your thighs as she settled between them, crowding you and consuming every ounce of space.

Her fingers looped through the knot of your tie —that stupid, fidgeted-with-like-a-necklace tie— and with a single sharp tug, it came loose. Slipping down. Forgotten.

Then, her hand cupped the back of your neck, pressing her lips against yours with something so deep, so thick with years of this, years of tension, of misplaced resentment, of fuck, how did we get here.

And yet, neither of you wanted to stop.

Violet's fingers traced from the back of your neck to the front of your throat, just barely gripping. It was already hard to breathe, but the idea of that, of her taking it just a little further? It had your stomach twisting.

Kissing the woman you had despised for years was going to be hilarious to explain.

But later.

Not now.

“Is the door—locked?” you barley managed out, your glossed lips brushing against hers, voice raw, uneven. Violet shook her head, hummed, lips curling against yours.

“Doesn’t matter,” she muttered, Her hands moving. She slid one down to your thigh, gripping and propping it around her waist.

Then her mouth descended.

Hot, wet kisses trailed down the slope of your throat, her tongue flicking out just slightly, savoring the mix of sweat and whatever faint perfume lingered on your skin.

Your pulse pounded beneath her lips, and Violet felt something deep in her tighten at the sound of your breath hitching, the way your body gave just slightly, as if caught between pure instinct and resistance.

Her palm landed against the underside of your thigh, firm, not particularly harsh, but a deliberate smack.

A sharp, raspy gasp broke from your lips, your body twitching against hers, bottom lip swollen from the way you had abused it between sloppy, desperate kisses.

Violet’s eyes flickered, catching the way you tensed, how your cheeks were burning, how your hands trembled against her chest.

Everything needed to come off.

Her fingers dragged up your thigh. Rubbing in slow, lazy circles before moving up, slipping beneath the first few buttons of your work blouse.

One by one with one hand.

Meticulously.

You slowly sucked in a breath, your own hands fisting the fabric of her blazer.

Violet let go of you entirely, her fingers deftly working the rest of your buttons open, sliding the blouse off your shoulders before carelessly tossing it onto the chair beside the table. Her gaze swept over you, dark and unreadable, before she bit her bottom lip, teeth smoothing over it as she exhaled through her nose.

She didn't know what was better: finally having you, the woman who had spent years making her job hell, unraveling beneath her touch, or the sheer fact that you looked this damn good doing it.

Her hand moved instinctively, fingers splaying across the lace covering your chest, feeling the warmth of your skin through the fabric. She pressed a kiss between the valley of your breasts, slowly before trailing up, tongue flicking over your collarbones.

The sounds leaving your lips sent something sharp through her, something she had never allowed herself to acknowledge before now. Your legs tensed around her hips, a burning heat building between them. Your pussy was drenched.

Then, she moved. Rolling her hips forward, pressing herself against you, the friction earning a shaky grunt from your throat.

You felt good.

Her hand traced down your spine, unhooking your bra with ease. The straps loosened, fabric slipping from your body, and Violet took a step back to let her eyes drag over you.

She dampened her lips. "I'm so lucky to see you like this. You're so gorgeous.”

Her voice was lower now, rougher, hands returning to you. Thumbs circling your nipples, before sliding down to your waist.

She sat you up, lips grazing your jaw, before murmuring, "What happened to that mouth of yours?"

Her fingers flicked over your erect breasts, and your breath hitched, body arching slightly before you could stop yourself. The sound you made earned a knowing chuckle from her, and before you could snap at her for it, she was moving again, pressing you back against the table.

Her hands slid down your thighs, rolling your skirt up at an agonizing pace.

Violet huffed, giving your knee a light tap.

"Is the pantyhose really necessary?"

You exhaled sharply. "Yes, It is."

She rolled her eyes, but there was something amused behind it, something fond — before her fingers traced slow circles over the thin, black fabric covering you.

And then, without hesitation, she hooked her fingers through the material and tore it.

A sharp gasp left your lips. "Vi! Those were expen—"

She silenced you with another sharp tug, the ruined fabric giving way enough to give her the space she wanted. She could have pulled them down, but this was much better.

The sight of you like this, obedient beneath her, legs trembling slightly, breath uneven.

She wanted to ruin you further.

Jesus.

Her hands slid beneath your thighs, lifting and adjusting them until they rested over her shoulders.

Your breathing hitched, erratic. You knew what was coming, felt it before it even happened, but when her lips finally met your pussy; wet and painfully slow. You gasped, your spine curving inward, nails curling into the marble beneath you.

A broken sound left you, high and breathless. "That’s so good."

Violet huffed a quiet laugh against you. "I haven't even started yet."

She hooked your panties aside, her mouth pressing against you fully, tongue dragging slow, then flicking, savoring, sucking on your swelled clit. She worked like she had time, like this was something to be unraveled piece by piece, something she could take apart and put back together again.

Your clammy hands flew to grip the edge of the table, your body shifting under her touch, her mouth sending sharp waves of pleasure coursing through you.

"Fuhh—ck, Vi." Your voice cracked.

That only spurred her on, hands gripping your thighs tighter, nails pressing into your skin as she curved her tongue, shifting her movements, searching, memorizing what made you fall apart.

She had spent years watching you, knowing exactly how to get under your skin. It was fun to put it to use.

Violet’s mouth worked you over with hungry desperation, her tongue sucking every inch of skin she could reach. Your folds, pulsing clit, labia — every so often, she flicked her gaze upward, watching you writhe against the table. Back arching, lips parting in helpless, breathless sounds.

If she had known this was the key to shutting you up, to finally silencing that sharp mouth of yours, she would have done this sooner.

Her lips curled against you, satisfaction lacing her voice as she murmured, “Good girl. How’s this? Yeah? So good?”

Her breath was hot and damp against your skin, sending a shudder through your sopping core.

Your only response was a whimper, your hand sliding up to your chest; grasping at yourself, desperate for anything to ground you. But the moment you tried to regain control, Violet sucked on your clit once more with enough force to break it.

Your spine arched off the table. Another sharp, wrecked gasp slipped past your lips. Violet’s grip tightened on your thighs, dragging you closer, forcing your legs to stay apart as she devoured you like you were her last damn meal.

The pleasure was too much —too sharp, too overwhelming— but stopping now wasn’t an option.

“So—” your voice trembled, barely coherent, “so, so good, Violet.”

Your hips rocked against her mouth, helpless against the way she was working you over, keeping you open, keeping you hers.

This was insane.

Doing this in the employee lounge? Absolutely wrong.

“Keep your legs around my shoulders,” Violet ordered, voice rough, edged with something close to command. “If you move, I’m stopping.”

Your breath hitched. Before you could protest, she lifted her hand to her lips, sucking two fingers between them, coating them with her own spit. Saliva moved down the digits in thick beads.

Then, she thrusted them inside of you. Wet enough to take them in one go.

Your body jolted, your nails scraping against the table as the pressure spread you open, slick and hot and perfect. You were definitely breaking a nail today.

Violet whistled lowly, amused, before curling them just right—

“My—God!”

The sound ripped out of you raw and shameless.

Violet hummed, the vibration shattering against you, her fingers sinking deeper, curling again, chasing that sound like it was her new favorite thing in the world.

The sound of your squelching pussy that sucked her in and tightened when she moved even just a second too quickly. She loved it.

“You’re a mess, baby.”

Violet’s voice was thick with amusement, her palm coming down to deliver a second sharp smack against your reddened thigh. Before you could react, she spit. A slow gesture. Watching as it mixed with the release already dripping down your swollen, aching core.

Her right hand never stopped, fingers still working in and out of you, dragging along every sensitive spot. Rough, but slow. Just enough to make sure you felt everything — every curl, every drag, every time she pulled out just to push deeper. Your insides protested, torn between needing a break and wanting more.

She smirked, tilting her head. “Look at you.”

She blew a soft stream of air over your glistening cunt, watching the way your body twitched in response.

Your head was somewhere else. Your hips moved on their own, helpless to the sensation coursing through you. Strings of moans and profanity fell from your lips, your body tightening around her fingers, pulsing — begging without words.

“Vi,” you whimpered. Your lashes damp with unshed tears.

She hummed in response, but didn’t let up, her fingers keeping that same relentless, torturous pace. A shaky moan ripped from your throat, your thighs trembling over her shoulders.

“I think—I think I’m going to come.”

Violet’s ashy eyes flicked up to you at your words, dark and heated, before her lips curled.

“Yeah?”

She then went faster.

Your gasp turned into a cry, body jolting at the sharp, intense pleasure flooding your sensitive nerves. There was no way no one had heard you two—not when you were here, back arched, lips parted, begging for her, falling apart because of her.

“No—! I—Vi! I can’t—!”

Your legs snapped shut around her head as your body tensed, spine bowing as the orgasm hit you. Ripping through your system, spilling over Violet’s fingers and dripping onto the marble beneath you.

Your breathing came in heavy. Overstimulation setting in as your body shuddered through the aftershocks.

Violet finally pulled her fingers from you, gaze flickering between your spent, trembling form and the slick coating her hand. Then, without hesitation, she brought her fingers to her lips and gave them a slow and greedy suck.

Your back falls flat on the cool marble.

Vi had won, again.

[thatonetargaryen]

No Tears Ricochet

Sevika x Reader

Alternate Ending of: My Tears Ricochet

Synopsis: After you catch your wife, Ambessa, in the act of ruining your marriage—you decide to visit the Last Drop for a release. Or, in other words, drowning yourself in alcohol. However, a certain woman suggests that there are better ways of relieving yourself.

cw; afab!reader; mentions of infidelity; alcohol consumption; rough sex; face riding; strap use; biting; Sevika is a warning as a whole…; not proofread; men and minors dni

Special thanks to @hell0-ki55y for original prompt. Hope you enjoy! 🎀

…….

You looked at Mel from across the room as she powdered and sprayed her face. She had just got done comforting you for an embarrassing amount of time after what her mother, your wife, Ambessa had done.

Never in a million years would you think she’d do something like that—to you. The vows you had taken before the preacher all those years ago started blurring years ago. However, it seemed they had finally started to deteriorate.

The paramour Ambessa had perched on her lap flashed in your mind. She’d probably purchased the twink from some underground brothel in Piltover. The brothels there were very secretive, and you’d have to get through a few people to even access one. However, the ones in Zaun were out in the open, and anything but secretive.

Zaun. The thought of the place sparked a thought in your mind. It had been years since you visited the place, and from what’d you heard, the place had just gotten worse throughout the years.

However, one key thing that stuck in your mind was a bar. You couldn’t remember the name, or where it was, but you remembered the feeling. The atmosphere, the smiles and warmth everyone shared, the strong taste of the ale on your tongue. And, right now, you craved a little bit of warmth.

You were pulled from your thoughts as your step-daughter laid a hand on your shoulder. Her smile was soft yet cautious—as if the slightest move might break you.

“I’m going to see Jayce now. Are you sure you don’t need me here?”

You nodded your head as you grip her hand in yours. “I’ll be fine, Mel. I might go have a little bit of fun myself.”

Mel’s eyes widened a little bit. She gave you a sly smile, “Well, you better pick up your phone if I call you.”

You playfully pinched the skin on her forearm, “Oh, hush. I am a woman grown. But if you call me, I’ll pick up.”

The both of you shared a laugh, before you pulled her into your arms for what seemed like the hundredth time that night. “Be safe, my love. And don’t do anything you’ll regret.”

Mel leaned into your embrace, catching the underlying meaning in your words. She internally rolled her eyes, but heeded your advice. “You too, Mum.”

And with that, she threw her purse on her shoulder and walked out of the room. You sighed at her absence, but the feeling of her warmth would soon be replaced by someone unexpected—yet welcomed.

…..

The streets of Zaun were alive and buzzing at this time of night. It was no doubt dirty, and you could smell the fumes through your mask. You pulled forward the hood on your head, and held yourself tighter.

The place hadn’t changed much since when you’d last visited it. The air was still muggy, and the people were still as rude and selfish as ever, not that it was any better than Piltover. At least people here had a reason to be like that.

Your eyes darted around you. You surveyed anyone and everyone closely, not wanting to get caught off guard.

You breathed a sigh of relief as you were finally met with the neon lights of the place you walked far and wide for, The Last Drop.

You stepped inside and you the first thing you noticed was the heat that circulated throughout the place. The smell and alcohol, drugs, and sweat evaded your nose and you grimaced.

The bar across the establishment was calling your name, and you answered its call. You got comfortable in one of the beat-up black leather chairs. It was a little wobbly, but you didn’t mind it.

The man behind the bar worked tirelessly as he dried and shined the glasses. His skin was tan and his dark brown eyes moved skillfully as he made the drinks. It was a stark difference from the man you saw just years prior—his skin lighter and his frame even burlier—but you didn’t dwell on it for long.

The two of you made eye contact, and he immediately turned and made his way to you. “So, what can I get you?”

You hesitated for a second, your mind short-circuited. You saw no sign of a menu anywhere. “Um…what do you have?”

His eyes darted at your words, noticing your slight accent. Despite where you were originally from, living in Noxus for over twenty years heavily influenced how you sounded today. Especially since you had to speak some of the language almost daily.

He looked at you skeptically, “We have whiskey, beer, wine, y’know….what a bar would usually have…”

You were slightly taken aback at his words, not expecting to be talked to like that. You didn’t remember when someone had given you that much attitude—given your position and the power you hold. And who your wife was.

Your wife.

The thought of her churned your stomach like spoiled milk. Your mood dimmed as the thought of her came to mind. You cleared your throat after an awkward moment of silence, “One shot of whiskey, please. No ice.”

He nodded. “Good, cause’ we ain’t got ice anyway.”

You rolled your eyes at his words as you watched him fill a shot glass with whiskey. The bronze liquid poured into the cup gracefully, and you were momentarily distracted by the sight of it.

The sound of the glass gliding across the table and towards you broke your trance. You nodded at the bartender in thanks, but he didn’t acknowledge it as he moved on to the next customer.

You studied the drink for a moment too long, internally not trusting it.

“You gonna babysit that shot all night?”

You looked up from your drink at the sound of a rough, yet calm voice. You were met with a tall, muscular woman with low, dark eyes. Her jet black hair was pulled into a messy bun behind her head, and her black lips were pulled into a sly smirk. She was gorgeous, yet her physique told you she was a force to be reckoned with. You straighten up, trying to make yourself appear less fragile, but the effort only seemed to amuse her.

You turned back ground in your seat, attempting to ignore her presence. But her eyes bore into the side of your head like lasers, and you fight the urge to kick her wear it hurts.

“So, what brings you to Zaun?”, she asked.

Your breath hitched. How’d she know you weren’t from here? You’d dressed in the most dingy and boring clothes you owned, hoping nobody would notice who you really were.

She noticed your surprised look and scoffed, “Oh, you didn’t think throwing on some raggedy clothes would make you look like one of us, did you? I could smell the Piltie on you from a mile away.”

You rolled your eyes at her remark, and before you could think about what you were about to say, you spoke, “I’m actually from Noxus, thank you very much.”

The woman’s smug look turned to one of surprise—and soon realization—as she recognized your voice. She had seen you before, representing Noxus and your original house in a meeting held in Piltover’s walls. You had defended Zaun’s independence and had buildings rebuilt, ones that were once invaded and destroyed by Enforcers. Your name was spoken in Zaun with great recognition, yet suspicion all the same, not knowing your true intentions.

“Y/N?”, she spoke, almost in a whisper.

Your lips clamped shut as you held your coat tighter. You mentally slapped your forehead.

Her once smug smile returned again, “Hm. Seeing the wife of a warlord was definitely not on my bingo card for this week…”

You sighed in annoyance, wishing she’d just go away. “Look, it’s been a long day. I just came here for a release and a good drink. I don’t have time for—”

“A release, huh?”, she interrupted.

You stopped, taken slightly aback.

Her smile widened as she finally took a seat right next to you, “Next drink’s on me. Name’s Sevika by the way.”

…..

Sevika threw you against the wall, and the throbbing in the back of your head was quickly replaced with a large, rough hand cradling it.

Sevika’s lips crashed into yours with an intensity like no other. Your tongues fought for dominance, her ultimately winning. She grinded her body against you, and her heat radiated from her body to yours.

She picked you up, and you wrapped your legs around her. She broke the kiss by roughly pulling your head back, your hair tight in her grip. “Eager, are we?”

You didn’t respond, and instead pushed yourself against her, hoping the friction would quiet the ache in your stomach.

She threw you against the hard mattress, and didn’t waste any time tearing your clothes from your body.

Your nipples hardened as they were met with cold air, but you made no move to cover yourself. You knew you were beautiful, and you relished in the way Sevika studied your body in awe.

She chuckled, “Not too bad…”

You smirked back, studying the way curly hairs enveloped the space between her legs. “Not too bad yourself.”

The humorous mood was quickly replaced with tension as she reached over for something—a strap. It was thick and lengthy, but surprisingly didn’t look cheap. The material was solid in her hands, and she worked with the skill of an expert as she fastened the harness to her hips.

She spread your legs a little further and scooted herself closer to you. The lube in her hands loosened as she studied the way slick covered your walls and entrance. “Looks like I won’t be needin’ this.”

She plunged two fingers into you, and wasted no time as she pumped her fingers in and out of you at a steady rhythm. Your hips bucked towards her.

She leaned down towards you, and her plush chest pressed against yours. Your moans grew louder with each digit she added. Sevika nibbled at the sensitive skin on your neck, and the coil in your stomach tightened.

Her pace became more hurried and erratic, sensing you were close, and she rubbed the strap against your clit, earning a groan in her ear.

You released yourself with a sigh as you came on her fingers, the wet sound enveloping the quiet room. Your moans quieted as you calmed yourself from your high, sweat dribbling down your face and chest.

Sevika rose from your chest as she looked down at you. She lined her strap up with your slick, loose entrance, and placed a hand on your hip to keep you steady. The two of you locked eyes, and she smirked, “You good?”

You nodded your head sluggishly, “Yeah, yeah…”

Sevika hummed in approval, and in one swift motion, thrusted herself into you. You hissed at the stretched, but the slight pain flew by as she started to move in a steady pace.

Her hips moved back and forward as she thrusted into you at a relentless pace, and your moans bounced off the walls.

She leaned forward, and you wrapped your arms around her shoulders. You moaned into her bare shoulder as the smell of her musk evaded your nose.

The sound was wet skin hitting skin made you clench around her, a tears clouded your vision as you stared at the ceiling.

You dug your nails into her back, drawing blood that caked beneath your nails. She groaned at the action, the sound echoing through the room.

“S—Sevika—”, you choked out as your legs curled around her.

You could feel her smirk as she pressed her nose into your shoulder, “Hm?”

Your nails dug deeper into her back, “I—I’m close—”

Her thrusts became deeper, and she slowed her pace as she pulled at your hair from the root. “That’s it, shit—”

You came with a moan as your back arched against her. You could see the way she bit her bottom lip through your blurry vision.

Your moans quieted as she chased her own high, her thrusts refusing to stop. She kneaded one of your soft breasts beneath her hand, her fingers ghosting over your nipple.

She came with a grunt, the last few of her thrusts harder than the last. She threw her head back as she tried to catch her breath. She brought a hand up to her hair, running her hands through it. Sweat glistened her toned body, the valley of her breasts heaving with every breath. You took a moment to admire her beauty, in its rawest form.

She slowly pulled out of you, and you slightly winced at the motion.

You sighed in relief as you raise up, though you were careful not to move your numb legs.

You whispered as you spoke, “Thanks…I needed that.”

Sevika smirked at you, her tooth gap slightly showing. “It’s nothin’. I didn’t have anything better to do tonight anyways…”

You smirked back, “So, how much do I owe you?”

She was taken aback by your comment, but ultimately went along with the joke as she smiled, “It’s on the house, babe.”

……

I’m finally done with this 😭

I’m sorry it took me so long to post, college has been kicking my ASS left and right. I’ll be updating the Wolf and Dragon series later this week.

Hope you enjoyed 🎀

[swiftiethatlovesf1]

A race for love p.21

Hii guyss, I hope you enjoy this part. If you've missed part 20 or the other parts you can find them on my masterlist :)

Formula 1 is all about speed, but in this story, the real race isn't just on the track. Read on to find out who will win the ultimate race-for your heart

- Monza 2023 -

The race day unfolds in a blur of excitement, tension, and noise. You spend most of it in the McLaren motorhome, surrounded by the buzz of engineers, strategists, and mechanics. Lando and Oscar pass through occasionally, their moods fluctuating with the highs and lows of the day. You manage to laugh at their banter, but your mind keeps circling back to the message. Every time your phone vibrates, your heart skips a beat, half-expecting another cryptic text.

The hours drag on, and though you try to immerse yourself in the race, it's impossible to ignore the weight sitting heavily on your chest. The noise of the paddock fades into the background as you replay the events of the past two days—the call, the voice, the message. They're all connected. They have to be. And you're certain Franco knows something.

By the time the race is over and the motorhome starts to clear out, you know you can't avoid confronting him any longer. You leave the McLaren motorhome, weaving through the bustling paddock with determination. The evening air is cooler now, carrying with it the scent of tires and fuel. It does little to calm your nerves.

When you reach your hotel room, your hand hesitates on the doorknob. You take a deep breath and step inside, not sure what you'll find.

Franco is there, lounging on the bed like nothing is wrong. He's scrolling through his phone, his hair still slightly damp from a shower. When he sees you, his face lights up with a smile, but you can't return it.

"We need to talk," you say, closing the door behind you.

His smile falters as he sits up, the casualness in his demeanor fading. "What's wrong?"

You cross the room, setting your phone down on the desk before turning to face him. "It's about the messages. The ones I got before and I got a new one today. They're all connected, Franco. And I think they're tied to the call from last night."

His expression shifts, and for a moment, he looks away, as though searching for something in the air around him. "It's nothing, cariño," he says softly, standing to approach you. "You're worrying too much. Let's just forget about it—"

"No." Your voice is firmer than you expected, cutting him off. "I can't forget about it. Not when someone's texting me warnings, calling you in the middle of the night, and leaving threats. Franco, I need to know what's going on."

He hesitates, his hand reaching for yours, but you pull back, frustration bubbling beneath your calm exterior. "Please, don't try to brush this off. I deserve the truth."

Franco sighs, running a hand through his hair as he steps back. His face softens, and his shoulders slump slightly, as though he's carrying a weight he's been avoiding for far too long. "I didn't want to tell you because it's in the past," he starts quietly, his voice tinged with guilt. "I didn't think it mattered anymore. I didn't want it to affect what we have."

You cross your arms, your heart pounding. "What didn't matter, Franco?"

He looks at you, his eyes searching yours for understanding. "Before we started dating, there was this girl.... We were talking for a while, but it was never serious. Then I met you."

He pauses, stepping closer as though to reassure you. "When things got serious between us, I broke it off with her. Completely. I blocked her everywhere, stopped answering her calls—everything. I thought that was the end of it."

You blink, processing his words. "But she hasn't stopped trying to contact you?"

He shakes his head, guilt etched across his face. "No. She's been calling me from different numbers, sending messages. I didn't know how to make it stop. And I didn't want to tell you because I was afraid."

"Afraid of what?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Of losing you," he says simply, his eyes pleading. "I didn't want you to think I was still involved with her, because I'm not. You're the only one I care about."

His words hang in the air, heavy with emotion, but they do little to ease the knot in your stomach. "Franco, I would have understood if you'd told me earlier. But now..." You trail off, taking a deep breath. "Now it feels like you've been keeping this from me. And she's dragging me into it, too. Do you know how terrifying it is to get messages like that? To hear her voice and not know what she means or what she might do?"

"I'm sorry," he says, his voice cracking. "I didn't know it had gone this far. I thought ignoring her would make it stop."

You stare at him, the mixture of fear and frustration churning inside you. But as much as you want to be angry, you can see the regret in his eyes, the vulnerability he's trying to hide.

After a long pause, you take a deep breath and close the distance between you, placing a hand on his arm. "We'll get through this," you say softly. "But we have to face it together. No more secrets, Franco."

He exhales shakily, his hand covering yours. "You're right. I'll handle this. I'll find a way to make it stop. But I need you to know, te amo, and I'd never let anyone come between us."

You nod, your chest tightening at his words. "I love you too, but this has to end. No more running from it."

He leans down, his lips brushing against yours, the kiss lingering longer than usual. It's sweet and filled with unspoken promises, but there's still a shadow hanging over you both.

As the kiss ends, he rests his forehead against yours. "Thank you for believing in me."

You manage a small smile, but your mind is already racing with thoughts of what comes next. Whatever this is, you'll face it together.

For now, that's enough.

Tag list: @hs2016, @a-beaverhausen

[grubbymunchkin]

I was thinking of making a comic about my new au but I think I'm just going to write a quick fic here instead

*ahem* ok here goes nothing

Spy drives through the streets of Boston, making his merry way back to the team's base.

His car suddenly swerves when he spots a little orange ball in the middle of the road.

Spy brings the car to a stop, mildly shaken. Annoyed, he gets out of the car. The little orange ball screams at him.

Spy stares at the rude little ball, shaking and screaming in the middle of the road. He walks over to it, and realizes that it's not a ball- it's a cat.

The cat meows loudly, with such volume and force that Spy fears the little thing's heart might give out. Unsure what else to do, he grabs the cat by the scruff of the neck.

The cat continues to loudly protest, throwing its scruffy fists through the air. Spy chuckles, narrowing his eyes at the angry creature.

The cat narrows it eyes right back and screams again.

Spy walks back to his car, opens the boot and opens his suitcase. He retrieves a spare clean sock and gently places the kitten inside so that only its face sticks out.

The kitten, predictably, screams at him, no longer able to scratch or ruin his car. Spy tuts, grinning in amusement as he closes the boot and hops into the front seat, popping the sock into the cardboard box in the passenger seat held in place by a seatbelt.

Spy starts the car and starts driving extra carefully back to base, the cardboard box screaming the whole way there.

Spy opens the front door of the base, holding a conspicuous cardboard box. The other members of the team that take up residence in the lounge all turn their attention to him.

The box meows.

Spy rolls his eyes as his teammates each raise their eyebrows. He dumps the box onto the table and steps back.

The box meows again, more indignantly this time.

Engineer steps forward and opens the box up and sure enough- inside is a tiny, dirty orange kitten swaddled in a sock. The kitten screams at him in response.

Engineer looks up at Spy. "You brought a cat back to base??"

Spy takes out a cigarette. "The stupid thing was sitting in the middle of the road, what was I supposed to do?"

Engineer grins and raises an eyebrow. "You felt bad for a cat?"

Spy fumbles his cigarette as he tries to light it. He glares at Engineer. "Non. I just thought that one of you might want it."

Engineer scoffs disbelievingly, but doesn't tease the man any further. "Well, what are ya gonna name him then?"

Spy frowns, almost offendedly. "I don't want him, YOU name him."

Engineer turns to the rest of the team. Medic steps forward and opens his mouth to speak, looking excited.

"Doc, if you're about to suggest giving him a second head or something, you can forget it right now."

Medic stops short, closes his mouth and grumbles as he steps back.

The box meows again. Medic shoots it a mocking face and folds his arms.

Engineer continues. "That means you too, Pyro. And you Solly. No harm will come to any helpless critters on my watch, y'hear?"

That just left Demoman, Heavy and Sniper. Engineer gives each of them a pointed look.

"Ach, lad, I cannae hardly even take care of meself."

"Yeah, sorry mate. I don't have much space in my van for a cat."

"Heavy is... more of a dog person. Besides, Heavy might crush tiny baby kitty by accident."

Engineer sighs. "I guess that just leaves me then. Fine, he can stay in my room til you sourpusses warm up to him."

Engineer opens the box again and takes the sock covered cat out. It looks up at him, momentarily silent. Engineer looks down, baffled by the sensation of holding a living, breathing being in his very hands.

They lock eye contact for a moment, feeling each other's hearts beat in unison. Then the tiny kitten lets out an earsplitting scream as he twists like a worm in his sock.

Engineer chuckles, careful not to let the creature fall out of his hands. His mind buzzes with new inventions as he holds his new son gently.

Engineer doesn't take his eyes off the tiny cat as he makes his way into the workshop, failing to notice everyone else staring at him as he goes.

[kathlare]

emails i can't send

Lando Norris x Amelie Dayman

Summary: Lando picks up Luisinha from the airport, but an unspoken tension lingers between them. As Amelie’s debut album emails i can't send dominates conversations online, Luisinha struggles with the media’s obsession over Lando and Amelie’s past.

Wordcount: 1.3 k

Warnings: none

full masterlist // request over here!

July 15th, 2022 - London, United Kingdom

liked by alexwolffofficial, jackdayman, and others

ameliedayman: emails i can't send is out now 💌

this feels really surreal, i kind of had to unlearn myself and learn myself again in order to make this album. it's the one i'm most proud of thus far in my life. it's the one i hope you listen to and feel like we were hanging and confiding in each other for an hour. me and the mic were like this the whooole time 🤞🏼 i never thought i would finish it because it was really scary to close the chapter. but i closed it so you can open it! and i hope you do. and i hope you love it. the way i have for so long.

couldn't have made it without some of the most special souls 🤍

rant over for nooow please stream this shit a lot if u don't mind it took me years to make lol

View all 921 comments

maddieziegler: Just finished listening and I’m SOBBING 😭👏 → ameliedayman: @maddieziegler Same, but in a happy way! 💌

stelladayman: Proud of you more than words can explain. Can't stop crying. → ameliedayman: @stelladayman Love you sis 💖

pitstoptea: THIS ALBUM DESERVES A GRAMMY, NO QUESTION.

hayesgrier: BANGERS ONLY. Can't believe this is YOUR voice, holy shit. → ameliedayman: @hayesgrier I'm still processing it too LOL! 😅

georgerussell63: My playlist just got a serious upgrade 🔥 → ameliedayman: @gerogerussell63 Glad you approve!! 😏🔥

pitstopgossip: Amelie’s growth is unmatched. I’m addicted to every track.

charles_leclerc: You did it, you absolute legend. This is what dreams are made of. → ameliedayman: @charles_leclerc Feeling like a dream, appreciate you so much 🖤

taylorswift: I knew this would be perfection. So proud of you. → ameliedayman: @taylorswift Coming from you, I’m crying 💖

emmachamberlain: Just played it from start to finish, it’s everything. → ameliedayman: @emmachamberlain THANK YOU for the love, it means so much!! 💖

nikki_kaz: Honestly, we didn’t deserve this album, but I’m so glad we got it.

-------------

Lando pulled into the airport parking lot, the familiar hum of his car a dull background noise to the swarm of thoughts buzzing in his mind. His relationship with Luisinha had been going smoothly lately—at least, it seemed that way on the surface. The media frenzy surrounding his past with Amelie had faded for the most part, but there was still the occasional article, the comments, the whispers. Lando hadn’t really paid attention to any of it. Until now.

Today, Amelie’s debut album, emails i can't send, had dropped. He hadn’t listened to it yet, but he couldn’t escape the chatter. Fans, journalists—everyone had been speculating about which songs were about him. The whole thing was uncomfortable. Lando had tried to avoid it, but he had the sinking feeling that it was about to be front and center again.

He spotted Luisinha as she exited the terminal, her hair catching the sunlight, her small frame moving through the crowd with the grace that always seemed to make heads turn. She was smiling as she waved at him, but there was something off about the way her eyes met his.

Lando parked and jumped out of the car, walking towards her. She had always been the kind of person who carried herself with confidence, but today, there was something subdued about her.

—Hey,— Lando said, greeting her with a quick kiss on the cheek. He noticed how she seemed to stiffen, almost imperceptibly, but didn’t think much of it at first.

—Hey,— she replied, forcing a smile. But there was something in her voice that caught his attention. It was quiet, distant.

They both climbed into the car, the awkward silence between them settling in. Lando tried to make small talk, asking her how her flight was, but she didn’t seem to be in the mood for conversation. She stared out of the window, her lips pressed together, clearly not paying attention to anything he was saying.

Lando couldn't ignore the tension that seemed to hang in the air. He glanced at her a few times as he navigated the streets, trying to figure out what was going on. Luisinha had always been easy to talk to, but today, something was different. She was distant, her usually warm presence almost cold.

He exhaled, glancing over at her again. —You okay?— he asked, trying to keep his tone light.

Luisinha didn’t immediately answer, but she shifted in her seat, adjusting her legs as if she were uncomfortable. Finally, after a long silence, she spoke, her voice quieter than usual. —Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired from the flight. Nothing to worry about.—

Lando frowned, unconvinced. He knew her well enough to know that something was off, and the more she brushed it off, the more frustrated he became. —Don’t lie to me, Lu. I can tell you’re not okay. What’s going on?— he pressed.

She let out a small, almost defeated sigh, before turning to face him. Her lips parted as if she were about to speak, but she hesitated, the words caught in her throat.

Lando’s patience wore thin. —Look, I know something’s up. Just tell me.—

Luisinha's fingers gripped the edge of her seat as she finally spoke, her voice cracking slightly. —It’s just… all this shit with Amelie, Lando.—

He shot her a glance, not fully understanding. —What do you mean?—

Her eyes flashed, her brow furrowing. —The media. The fucking fans. They’re still talking about you two. I thought it was over, but now with her album out, fuck, now it’s even worse. Everyone’s fucking speculating about the songs. Everyone’s saying they’re about you.—

Lando’s grip on the steering wheel tightened, his knuckles going white. He knew where this was going, but he couldn’t hold back his irritation. —I can’t control what people say or what they think, Luisinha. You know that. I don’t care about the fucking rumors.—

Luisinha’s face flushed with frustration. —But I do! It’s not like I can just ignore it! It’s everywhere! The fucking media’s obsessed with you two, and I can’t fucking stand it!— Her voice was getting louder, more agitated. —I’m supposed to just sit here while people talk about how you two were this perfect couple? When I know you were with her, when I know how things were between you two?—

Lando exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening. He felt the anger bubbling up inside him. —I never asked for this. I never asked for them to keep bringing her up! I’m not the one who fucking wrote the album!— He slammed his hand on the steering wheel, making the car jerk slightly.

Luisinha recoiled, her face paling. Her eyes flickered with hurt. —You didn’t have to do anything. You were a part of her life, and now she’s putting it all out there. It’s like I don’t even matter to you because this is still hanging over us!— She shook her head in disbelief, her voice quieter now, but no less hurt. —You don’t even seem to care that it’s making me uncomfortable. That it’s making me feel like shit. That it’s making me feel like I’m just another footnote in your fucking history.—

Lando’s anger flared, and he didn’t hold back. —It’s not my fucking fault she decided to put all this shit out there, okay? I’m not the one who’s still stuck on the past! It’s not like I fucking planned for any of this to happen, but here we are. Deal with it. I’m not gonna apologize for her album or for whatever people want to think!— His words hung in the air, harsh and biting.

Luisinha went silent. The hurt in her eyes was clear, but it only seemed to make her angrier. She turned her head away from him, staring out of the window, her lip trembling slightly. The tension in the car was suffocating.

After a long silence, she finally spoke, her voice low and strained. —I don’t want to be here right now. Drop me off at a hotel, Lando. I can’t be with you like this.—

Lando felt a pang of guilt, but it was quickly overshadowed by frustration. —Lu, come on, don’t do this. I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just—shit, I don’t know what you want me to say! It’s not like I can fix any of this, okay?— He was pleading now, his voice softer, but the damage had already been done.

Luisinha shook her head, her tone firm. —No. Just take me to the hotel. I need some space. You need some space. We’ll talk when I’m not so fucking pissed off. Right now, I just… I can’t.—

Lando’s heart sank. He wasn’t used to this—the coldness, the distance, the anger. He wanted to fix it, but everything he said only seemed to make it worse. The way she was looking at him, like she couldn’t even stand to be in the same car as him, made him sick to his stomach.

He didn’t argue. With a heavy sigh, he turned the car in the direction of the nearest hotel. The silence between them was almost unbearable. Lando couldn’t help but replay the argument in his head, wishing he could take back the things he’d said. But it was too late now.

When they finally arrived at the hotel, Luisinha didn’t wait for him to open the door. She got out of the car on her own, slamming the door behind her before walking briskly toward the entrance. Lando stayed in the car, watching her leave, his heart aching in a way that he hadn’t felt in a long time.

He didn’t want to feel like this. He didn’t want to have this fight. He just wanted things to be normal again.

But nothing felt normal anymore. Not with Luisinha. Not with Amelie.

Lando sat there for a long moment, the weight of everything pressing down on him. Finally, he pulled out his phone, his thumb hovering over Amelie’s number. But he didn’t call. He didn’t text. Instead, he opened up the playlist for emails i can't send.

Maybe he needed to hear it.

Maybe he needed to remember.

But he didn’t know how much more he could take.

-------------

[onika-t-maraj]

…

[autisticlee]

sometimes I think about how when I went to college for a year before I dropped out (basically failed out,) the counselors/dean told me they can't help me at all or give any accommodations unless I have an official autism/adhd diagnosis. that might sound logical at first, but when you think about it more, it's actually quite fucked up. if someone is struggling really bad, what's the harm in helping them? why do they require a paper to get even the smallest amount of help? people who don't need help aren't going to be failing miserably without help! even NTs could benefit from some adjustments to the horrible school system! (but changing the entire system is a whole other conversation that the school system isnt ready for)

but even if you do agree to jump through their hoops, you realize it's even more fucked up that the diagnosis process requires YEARS in most cases (in my case it took 4 or 5 years, can't recall exactly now, for autism/adhd diagnosis, which would have meant i finished school before getting it if i managed to mot fail out, or i wait that long before going back, which is a whole struggle itself) and they also tried billing me for THOUSANDS of dollars because of insurance issues!!

so you put a ton of time and money into this, and then get told the only accommodation they are willing to give you for autism and adhd is "a little extra time on tests"

....

my test scores were the best part of my whole class experience. that was NOT what I struggled with!!!!! those tests were all online and could be done in the comfort of your home where you can accommodate yourself and have plenty of time left over when you finish them because you are comfy in your own space, (and also, no one was stopping you from having your notes/books/google open to find the answers,) and you don't even need a time consuming, expensive diagnosis for that!

SO WHAT'S THE POINT!!!!!!!

[mothbeasts]

okay cleaver in dst would be interesting too i think personally. Something something can couriers survive HELL. cleaver voice ummm i dont think this is the mojave.

[sufficientlylargen]

It always gets me that the name "Gandalf" literally just means "Wand-Elf" or "Stick-Elf". I'm imagining old Gondorians just being like:

Librarian: I saw that weird guy at the library again today.

Guard 1: What weird guy?

Librarian: The old guy with the beard? Kinda elfy-looking, apart from the beard?

Guard 1: Oh, with the big-ass stick?

Librarian: Yeah, looked like he was carrying an entire tree branch.

Guard 2: Yeah, that's the Stick Elf.

Guard 1: Hell yeah, I fuckin' love the Stick Elf.

Librarian: The "Stick Elf"?

Guard 2: He comes by every few years, usually after some weird book or other.

Librarian: Oh. Yeah, he wanted a treatise on goblin breeding habits.

Guard 2: Like, how they have sex? We have books on that?

Librarian: Yeah, turns out we do. I was as surprised as you are.

Guard 1: What'd the Stick Elf need a fuckin' goblin-fuckin' book for?

Librarian: I didn't ask. So you just call him "Stick Elf"?

Guard 2: I mean, he looks kinda elfy and he always has that stick, so, like, yeah.

Guard 1: Dude also has some fuckin' dope pipeweed.

Guard 2: Oh yeah, his pipeweed is awesome.

Librarian: How long has he been coming here?

Guard 2: Oh, for decades. He's, like, super old.

Guard 1: More like fuckin' centuries. Dude's old as balls.

Guard 2: Wait, really?

Guard 1: Yeah, my gran-gran used to talk about him. She loved his pipeweed too.

Librarian: So he's… an immortal pipeweed dealer?

Guard 2: I think he's just, like, a connoisseur. He doesn't sell it or anything. He just always has some really top-notch pipeweed on him.

Archivist: Oh, are we talking about Stick Elf?

Guard 1: Hell yeah we are!

Librarian: You know about the Stick Elf, too?

Archivist: Oh, totally. Stick-Elf's a super chill dude. Gave me some awesome pipeweed when I was maybe 12, and tee-bee-aitch I think I'm still a little buzzed from it.

Guard 1: What'd I tell ya, fuckin' dope pipeweed!

Archivist: Also he's really old.

Guard 1: Old as balls.

Librarian: Yeah, so Éodan and Jenniforomir were telling me.

Archivist: My grandpa used to tell me stories - he said one time he saw Stick Elf enter a smoke-ring contest.

Guard 1: Ooh, I'll bet he kicked fuckin' ass.

Archivist: Apparently the guy made an entire warship out of smoke and it flew around shooting down the other rings.

Librarian: And how much of this "fuckin' dope" pipeweed had your grandfather had by this point?

Guard 1: No no, that's totally plausible. Dude's got weird elf powers and shit for sure.

Archivist: He brought fireworks for the king's birthday one year, too.

Guard 1: Oh fuck, I forgot about those! Fuckin' incredible fireworks! Dragons and knights and glowy trees and shit! I was fuckin' 6 years old or something, they totally blew my mind. Hey Éodan, did you see that shit?

Guard 2: No, I think that's before I lived in Gondor.

Guard 1: Wait, you're not from here?

Guard 2: Oh, no, I grew up in Rohan. We moved here when I was, like, thirteen because my uncle Éojeff said he could get my dad a sweet job. And also that there were houses that didn't smell like horseshit.

Guard 1: Oh shit, are you related to Éojeff and Éosteve who run that æbleskiver stand on Norndîl St?

Guard 2: Yeah, they're my uncles!

Guard 1: Shit, they cook a fuckin' great æbleskiver!

Librarian: Ok, hold up a sec, "Stick Elf" can't possibly be his real name.

Guard 1: Why not?

Librarian: What? You think his parents named him in the hopes that he would carry around a fucking tree when he got older?

Guard 2: Maybe they gave him the tree when he was born!

Archivist: I don't think a baby could carry that stick.

Guard 1: You ever seen a baby hanging onto something? They're hella strong.

Archivist: It's not a strength thing, their hands are tiny. That staff is enormous!

Guard 1: My halberd's bigger 'n I am, I can hold it just fine.

Archivist: You're not a baby.

Librarian: Also why would elf parents name their kid "stick ELF"?! Presumably they know that their kid's going to be an elf!

Archivist: Is he actually an elf? I didn't think they grew beards.

Guard 1: How'd he get old as balls if he's not an elf?

Guard 2: His ears aren't that pointy. Maybe he's just a really old guy? Like, a Numémoriam or something?

Guard 1: Did you just say "Numémoriam"?

Guard 2: Nûnenorman? Munimõrbitan? Y'know, those guys like the king that can get super old.

Guard 1: You mean the fuckin' Númenóreans?

Guard 2: Yeah, the Númenóreums.

Archivist: Even the Númenóreans don't live THAT long.

Guard 1: Plus he carries that fuckin' stick around.

Guard 2: Wait, what does the stick have to do with it?

Guard 1: That's an elf thing. Y'know, trees and shit? Very elfy.

Librarian: Ok, look, but his parents naming him "Stick Elf" would be weird whether or not he's an elf. In fact, it's even weirder if he's not - what human names their kid "elf"?

Archivist: Huh. Yeah, you're right, he probably does have another name.

Guard 2: Yeah, I guess so.

Librarian: He's been coming here for decades and nobody's ever asked his real name?

Archivist: I dunno what to tell you, he's Stick Elf. Even his library card just says 'Stick Elf'.

Guard 1: Fuck yeah, the Stick Elf!

Guard 2: Maybe we could, like, ask him his name sometime?

Guard 1: Hey, look, Elrond's over there. He's old as balls too, maybe he knows?

Guard 2: Oh, we shouldn't interru-

Guard 1: HEY ELROND, YOU'RE OLD AS BALLS, RIGHT? WHAT'S THAT OLD ELF WITH THE STICK'S NAME?

Elrond (coming over): Do you mean an old man cloaked all in grey and blue, leaning on a rough-cut staff, who came to the great library this day?

Guard 1: Yeah, the Stick-Elf!

Guard 2: (Sorry to bother you, sir...)

Librarian: He's got to have a real name besides 'the Stick Elf', right?

Elrond: Indeed, for no elf is he. You speak of the wizard Olórin, wisest of the Maiar, older even than Eä itself. Many are his names in many countries: Tharkûn among the Dwarves; Incánus to the south; Mithrandir he is called among my people, the Grey Pilgrim.

Librarian: Oh.

Elrond: And here in the North he is called Stick-Elf.

Librarian: Oh.

Guard 1: Fuck yeah!

[s0dium]

Creep

Warnings: Creepy/stalker behavior, breeding kink, pussydrunk behavior, cumflation, stomach bulge, subspace, premature ejaculation, orgasms

~

You know it's wrong, so wrong to enjoy the attention of a creep.

At least, that's what people call him. But through the snickers and sidelong glances that surround him, there's something about him that intrigues you, attracts you, something you can't seem to get out of your head.

It starts off small, letting him eye you from across the room and flashing him a small smile. Then you notice he starts to get bolder, more confident in his advances. As the days pass, his presence becomes a constant in your routine. He waits for you after class, catches you alone in elevators, leans in closer during conversations, and even starts to find excuses to touch your arm or shoulder. Each interaction feels like a challenge, a test of boundaries that seems he's all too willing to push.

In the beginning, you almost listen to the unease flickering in the back of your mind, warning that maybe you are playing with fire. But as the tension builds, you find your resolve slowly melting, small touches on your arm turn grazes against your ass and the quick glances evolve into him blatantly checking you out.

So only you can be blamed for the situation you're in right now. Only you can be blamed for letting it get like this.

His hips snapped so fast you can't think, you can breathe. Pleasure courses through your body in electric flesh arrows and you could feel your pussy clench around his length in a futile attempt to adjust for his massive size. How could a creep like him be so big? Jesus, you could feel his mushroom tip press against your cervix every time he slammed into you. Countless loads of cum dripped from where you two were connected onto the white sheets below. At any given time he'd blow his load right into you and without much of a stutter fuck the liquid back into you, until he reached his high again and started the cycle over again.

"Mine," he grunts out, his breath hot against your cheek from the brutal mating press he has you in. The bed shook with every thrust, the head board banging against the wall from the way your cervix was getting absolutely abused. The friction, the way he filled you up so perfectly, his hot skin against yours, it was too much, too overwhelming, and your brain couldn't handle the pleasure. You could feel the euphoria absorb your body, making your toes curl and uncurl from the sheer pleasure.

"G-gonna cum in you again" He says through a moan, peppering kissed along your jaw. "Gonna fill you up, make you feel so so good." He doesn’t slow his movement, instead picking up one of your legs and throwing it over his shoulder so he can reach even deeper. He places his other hand on your belly, rubbing your skin with his thumb.

"You feel me?" He coos, pressing down on your stomach, intensifying the pressure of his cock inside you and making your moans grow even louder.

"I can feel you, I can feel you squeezing me, feel so good, better than my fist." He chuckles and grabs your throat, squeezing it so your brain goes fuzzy with the slight light of oxygen.

His breathing becomes jagged and with a soft whimper followed by a silent "oh-fu", he blows his load into your battered pussy. There is no warning when cums into you, only the slight stutter of his hips that does nothing to deter his brutal pace. You are soaked down there, his sticky cum leaking out of you as he pushes into you over and over again. But you couldn't be bothered to look right now, you couldn’t open your eyes and ignore the colors you were seeing behind your eyelids. Everything was good - so, so, so good. Your skin was buzzing, mind cloudy, and the only thing you could focus on was the throbbing that was taking over your body.

"You gonna cum?" He coos into your ear, punctuating his words with an extra sharp thrust. "Cum for me, please." 

As if on cue, you gasp, and let your orgasm wash over you. He doesn't stop his movements, instead, he fucks you through your orgasm until your crying for him to stop.

"Not gonna stop, gonna fuck you until m' shooting blanks okay?"

SHIGARAKI, YUUTA OKKATSU, L LAWLIET, SHINSO, KENMA, GYUTARO

[mononijikayu]

you belong with me — nanami kento.

"Hi….I’m Kento."

“Kento, huh.” you said, testing the name again like you were rolling it around in your head, trying to get the feel of it. After a moment, you nodded, satisfied.

“Yeah, that’s my name.”

“That’s a good name.” You declared it with the authority of a five-year-old who had decided someone was officially worth their time.

“Your name’s okay too... I guess,” Kento replied, his tone so nonchalant it was almost teasing.

GENRE: alternate universe - no curses au!;

WARNING/S: afab! reader, childhood friends, best friends to lovers, romance, nsfw, rated 18 and above, explicit content, kissing, making out, rough sex, fingering, p to v sex, car sex, orgasm, humor, profanity, pet names (my love, etc), possessiveness, jealousy, characters speaking in sexual innuendo, mention of sexual euphemisms, depiction of explicit sexual content, best friend! nanami kento, best friend! reader;

WORD COUNT: 14k words.

NOTE: hello everyone, this is the final fic for 2024!!! wah, there's a lot to say. first and foremost, this fic would not be possible if it wasn't for the lovely person who commissioned it from me awhile back. please give them a lot of love and a lot of thanks.

they were my first ever commission here and still it flutters my heart with joy to have worked them. they were so good to me and continues to do so, with how they want to share this fic with you too.

also, i want to thank you all for sticking with me this 2024. it was a long road and a really painful time. i wrote to escape these painful times and i got through 2024 with you guys, just enjoying stories in my head. so thank you!!! there were a lot and there are still a lot i haven't published here.

i hope we continue to be together in 2025 too. i'll continue to write for both of us, to have solace in hard times. i bow to you in all ways that i can. thank you for being good to me!!! i love you all. this is kayu signing off for 2024. please have a lovely and wonderful new year and i'll see you on january 2025 <33333

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if you want to, tip! <3

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EVEN AS A CHILD, YOU THOUGHT THAT HE BELONGED TO YOU. It was a childish little thing, you knew that much. But the moment you met Nanami Kento at the park when you were five years old, you just knew he was going to be your best friend.

And no one else could claim that from you. It wasn’t something you decided after a long debate in your head. If anything, it was instinctive, instant, like the way a flower turns toward the sun. What surprised you even more was that he didn’t seem to mind it.

That day, Nanami Kento was sitting on the swings, looking unusually serious for a kid. His little legs dangled, barely brushing the ground, and he rocked back and forth so slightly it was as if he wasn’t even moving. It was odd. 

Most kids treated the swings like they were flying machines, pumping their legs wildly, laughing as they soared. But not Kento. He just sat there, his small hands gripping the chains, his gaze fixed on the ground as though it held all the answers to the universe.

It wasn’t sadness—not exactly. He didn’t look miserable or lonely. No, it was more like he was... satisfied. Content in his little bubble of silence, where the noise of the playground seemed to slide right past him.

You, however, were not content with his quiet. What could a kid possibly have to think about so deeply? Why wasn’t he running around, chasing someone, or shouting nonsense with the other kids? How could he stomach sitting there alone for so long?

The questions buzzed in your head, but more than that, you felt a pull. You wanted to know him. You wanted him to talk to you, to share whatever thoughts were hiding behind those serious brown eyes. And if he wouldn’t come to you, well, that was fine. You’d go to him.

You had the kind of confidence that only comes from being five years old and utterly fearless. The kind of confidence that didn’t know rejection or hesitation, only the certainty that the world would say "yes" if you asked it nicely enough.

So, you marched right up to him, your pigtails bouncing with each determined step. You put on your brightest smile, the kind of smile that has always gotten adults to bend down and coo. “Aren’t you just the sweetest?”

"Hi!" you announced, planting yourself firmly in front of him like he had no choice but to acknowledge you. You told him your name, grinning at him. 

He blinked, startled out of his deep, secured thoughts to the sight of you. It took a while, but he  lifted his caramel gaze to meet yours. For a moment, he just looked at you, like he wasn’t sure if you were real. No one has ever approached him before, well not as brazenly as this. Then, finally, he answered you back. 

"Hi….I’m Kento."

“Kento, huh.” you said, testing the name again like you were rolling it around in your head, trying to get the feel of it. After a moment, you nodded, satisfied. 

“Yeah, that’s my name.”

“That’s a good name.” You declared it with the authority of a five-year-old who had decided someone was officially worth their time.

“Your name’s okay too... I guess,” Kento replied, his tone so nonchalant it was almost teasing.

“Huh? It’s pretty!” you retorted, your hands flying to your hips, a slight pout settling on your lips. “My mom thought hard about it, you know!”

“So did mine.” Kento shot back, a flicker of mischief lighting his normally serious face. Then, in a tone that was just a little too smug, he added, “It’s a good name too.”

For a second, you just stared at him, caught off guard by the slyness in his tone. Then, to your own surprise, you burst out laughing. It wasn’t just the words that got to you—it was the way he said them, so calm and deliberate, like he was throwing you a challenge wrapped in politeness.

“You’re funny, you know that?” you decided, grinning widely.

Kento raised an eyebrow at that, his lips twitching into the barest hint of a smile. “I wasn’t trying to be.”

“Well, you are.” you said firmly, as though your opinion was final. “So, Kento, what do you wanna do? We could swing, or climb the jungle gym, or—oh! We could build a sandcastle!”

He blinked, caught off guard by your rapid-fire suggestions. “I don’t know,” he said slowly, like he wasn’t used to making decisions for playtime.

You rolled your eyes and grabbed his hand without a second thought. “Then we’re doing the sandcastle! Come on, you’re gonna love it.”

He let you pull him along, his steps falling into rhythm with yours. “What if I don’t?” he asked, his voice so soft you almost missed the challenge in it.

“You will!” you said confidently, already imagining the crooked towers you’d build together. “Because I said so.”

Nanami Kento didn’t argue. Instead, he let out a quiet laugh, the sound so small you might’ve missed it if you weren’t paying attention. But you were paying attention, because something about this boy made you want to see every little detail he kept hidden in that quiet bubble of his.

From that moment, Kento Nanami became yours.

He knew that just as much as you did, even then.

And he was certain you were just as much his from then.

It wasn’t long into your days of playdates before you started staking your claim. You didn’t mean to—well, maybe you did. That really didn’t matter. What mattered was that you and Kento were having fun. Like the time some other kids approached while you and Kento were hard at work in the sandbox, trying to make your castle less crooked.

"Hey, kid!" one of them called, pointing at the little shovel in Kento’s hands. "Can I borrow that?"

"No way." you said firmly before Kento could even open his mouth. You shot the kid a look that clearly said back off. "We’re using it."

"But—"

"Nope. Sorry. It’s ours to play with." you cut them off, turning back to your castle as if the conversation was over. "Right, Kento?"

Kento hesitated for a second, glancing between you and the other kid, before quietly nodding. "Right."

The other kids' faces were filled with harsh looks at what you said. But you didn’t care. All they could do was huff and puff until they were blue in the face. You would never budge, not even if they wanted you too. 

You were a tough girl. And you always got what you wanted. And you wanted your new friend and his attention only on you. So you didn't care what you did. You’ll keep your friend, no matter what they want. 

Soon enough, they gave in and went to wander off. You can only smile. You didn’t feel the slightest bit bad. If anything, you had wished that they had left much sooner. 

You turned to Kento with a satisfied smile. "Good. They’d just mess it up anyway. It’s better if we play together, only us!"

Kento tilted his head, watching you with that quiet curiosity he always seemed to have. You seemed to be content about playing just by yourself, by his side. Not many kids seem to be content about wanting to do that at all.

"Why don’t you let other kids play with us?" he asked.

You looked at him like the answer should’ve been obvious. "Because you’re my friend. I found you first. That means you’re mine."

For a moment, he just stared at you.

Then, slowly, that tiny, barely-there smile returned.

"Okay." he said simply, like he didn’t mind one bit.

══════════════════

YEARS DRAGGED ON IN A FLASH FOR BOTH OF YOU. From that day forward, Nanami Kento was your shadow. Or maybe you were his—it often depended on who was asking and whose ego needed inflating at the moment.

But that was just how it was between the two of you. And you were content about how that goes. You knew he was just the same. Not because you went around declaring it (okay, maybe you did once or twice), but because your actions left no room for doubt.

The two of you were inseparable, and everyone knew it. In a way, both your parents were both glad and concerned about it. Glad that you both were in each other’s lives, nurturing and caring for each other. That means you both weren’t lonely, and you both were happily playing with each other day in and out of school.

But concerned that you weren’t letting each other find any other people in your lives and explore other friendships. But that hardly mattered to the two of you. Both of you didn’t budge. You didn’t need anyone else. If anything, you only need each other. You were both content with that. 

If there was a school project, Nanami Kento was your partner. No debates, no negotiation. You made sure of it every single time. It got to the point where teachers didn’t even bother asking anymore. By third grade, the class roster might as well have been printed with your name and his own written in bold under "Partners" for every project.

“Do you guys ever work with anyone else?” a classmate once dared to ask.

“Why would we?” you replied, looking genuinely puzzled. “He’s the best at making the physical parts.I don’t need anyone else.”

Kento, standing beside you, simply shrugged. “She’s good at explaining the messy, hard parts.” he said, so matter-of-factly it left no room for argument.

At lunch, it was no different. You always saved him a spot, waving him over like a VIP guest being ushered past the velvet rope. And no one dared sit with the two of you. Not after The Incident.

There was one time where a new kid made the mistake of sliding into the seat next to Nanami Kento before he got there. You didn’t even hesitate to act as quickly as you could. 

“Excuse me, new kid.” you said, your voice sugary sweet, but your eyes narrowing dangerously.

“What?” the kid asked, glancing up at you.

“That’s his seat.” You pointed toward Kento, who was still in the lunch line, entirely oblivious to the showdown brewing at the table.

“Seats are for everyone in the school.” the kid said, with all the defiance of someone who didn’t know better yet. “I can sit wherever I want.”

And that’s when you did it. You reached out and swatted their hand as they tried to open their milk carton. You glared at him, almost as cold as the North Pole. He gulped at your glare. You were terrifying for a middle schooler.

“Go. Somewhere. Else.” you said, every word punctuated with a glare that could have sent a grown man packing. “That’s HIS seat!”

The new kid was terrified and immediately scurried off, muttering something about "territorial weirdos." — that was another thing for the school to whisper about in their past time. But you didn’t care. 

By the time that he got out of the boy’s toilets, Nanami Kento got to the table, his spot was as clear as always, and you were already peeling the wrapper off the sandwich your mom made for him like nothing had happened.

“Thanks.” he said, sitting down without even asking why the kid from earlier was now eating on the other side of the cafeteria. He saw that of course. But he didn’t dare ask. “Thank your mom for me, about the sandwich.”

“You’re welcome.” you replied, sliding his sandwich over to him. You smiled as he opened his own lunch bag and started to pull out chocolate pudding in a tupperware. “Ohhhh, your mom thought of dessert!”

“Hm, I asked her.” Kento retorts back to you, smiling softly at your excitement. “Since you like chocolate pudding.”

“Thank your mama for me, okay?”

“Hm, I will.”

But of course, your protectiveness didn’t stop at lunch seats. If anything, you were protective of him to the point that it was already insane. If anyone so much as thought about teasing him, you were on them like a hawk. It didn’t matter if it was a stupid nickname or a poorly aimed joke. Nanami Kento wasn’t going to deal with any of it, not on your watch.

“Hey, Kento, why are you so quiet all the time?” one boy snickered during recess, his tone dripping with mockery.

Before Kento could even respond, you were already there, hands on your hips and glaring like you were ready to call down the wrath of the heavens. You glared at the kid as though he was meeting to face a thousand suns. 

“Maybe he’s quiet because he doesn’t waste time saying dumb things like you do.” you snapped, tilting your head and raising an eyebrow for maximum effect. “Stop being a weird waste of space and leave him alone, you freak!”

The boy tried to stammer something in response, but you didn’t wait to hear it. You didn’t care for what they said. Only for what Kento says. You rolled your eyes at the kid, as though he bored you and looked away. Soon enough, you turned back to Kento, your expression softening immediately. 

“Come on, Kento.” you said, grabbing his hand. “We’re going to the swings.”

Kento didn’t say much about that. But later, when that same boy made a malicious face at you from across the playground and had made a plan to chase you with a bottle of water to throw, Nanami Kento was the first to sense a threat against you.

He sighed heavily and without even looking up from his picture book muttered just loud enough for you to hear. “She’s faster than you, you know? She would wet your hair and make fun of you for it. So, I wouldn’t try it.”

The boy stayed far away after that.

And you could only giggle at what he said.

Nanami Kento knew you all too well.

But just as much as you were ready to fight Nanami Kento’s battles, he was ready to fight yours. And while you often took on challenges with the energy of a charging bull, Kento’s approach was quieter, deadlier—like a knife slipping between ribs before anyone even noticed it was there. He was just that type of kid, you think.

You first realized just how far Kento was willing to go for you one day when a group of older girls decided to target your ponytails. It wasn’t a big deal to you at first; you were used to the occasional teasing. But this time, something about their tone, or maybe the way they crowded around, everything about it had made your stomach twist.

“Why do you always look like you just rolled out of bed?” one of them sneered, her voice dripping with faux innocence.

Her friends burst into laughter, as if she’d just delivered the punchline of the century. You bristled, the words forming on your tongue to snap back. But before you could speak, Kento appeared, slipping between you and the girls like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Why do you care?” he asked, his tone calm, his hands tucked casually into his pockets.

It was such a simple question, but somehow it silenced the entire group. The girl blinked at him, thrown off by his directness. Kento yawned, as though he was already bored with her. She had never expected anything from him. Kento was quiet and reserved. 

He was also popular and quite a handsome young boy that people had a crush on. Even when he didn’t talk or pay any mind to any of them. You glared at this girl, as though she was the worst of them all. She’s always been trying to take Kento from you.

“Uh, excuse me?” she said, attempting to regain her composure.

“You heard me.” Kento’s gaze was steady, his expression as unreadable as ever, but there was an edge to his voice that made it clear he wasn’t messing around. “Why do you care what she looks like? Or are you just bored?”

The giggling stopped. 

“Well, I—” The girl floundered, her cheeks turning pink. 

“She looks fine to me.” Kento interrupted smoothly, tilting his head slightly as if he were assessing them. “Better than you, anyway. I mean, those pants with that shirt? What are you thinking? Does your mom even love you if she allows you to wear something like that?”

You could’ve heard a pin drop at what he had said. You look at him, blinkingly. Before finding yourself bellowing at laughter at how blunt he had worked everything. The girls gasped, their mouths falling open in perfect synchronization. One of them muttered something about “rude boys” and then, just like that, they were gone, retreating with their tails between their legs.

You stood there, stunned, as Kento turned back to you like nothing had happened. You finally straightened yourself from your laughing form. You wiped your eyes as you turned back at him. You grinned at his words. 

“Better than her?” you repeated later as the two of you walked back to class. You were trying not to laugh, but the corners of your mouth kept twitching upward.

“It’s true. You already know that.” he said simply, not bothering to look up from the book he’d already opened, as if the whole thing hadn’t even fazed him.

“Aw, you think I’m cute, don’t you?” you teased, nudging him with your elbow.

“Don’t push it.” he replied dryly, but the tiny smirk playing at the corner of his lips betrayed him.

══════════════════

BUT OF COURSE, THIS ONLY INTENSIFIED ONCE YOU BOTH GREW OLDER. Entering this new environment, in high school — one could say nothing had ever changed. If anything, it has only grown more concrete that you and Nanami Kento, no one can separate the two of you even if they tried. 

If one were to describe how you both were, it would be like being a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Inseparable. And even when people questioned it, you turned them down just as easily. Little by little, people barely questioned it anymore. 

You had long since reached the point where your friendship was so solid that it seemed like a fact of life. If anyone tried to ask about it, the answer was already clear: You two were a package deal. And while you liked it that way, not everyone seemed to get the memo.

It didn’t take long for the attention to roll in once high school started. You were used to it by now. After all, you and Kento had always been a pair of conspicuously close friends, so naturally, people were curious. 

But this was a different kind of curiosity, the kind that came with stares and whispers behind your backs. Everyone seemed to have suddenly developed a keen interest in your best friend, and you couldn’t decide if it was because of his brooding good looks or that deep, mysterious aura he carried, but maybe, probably both.

It started with the girls, as it usually did. They would hover around Kento in class, a little too eager to engage in conversations about anything—his favorite books, his thoughts on the weather, even the random things he’d written in the margins of his notes. It didn’t matter what they brought up; they were just looking for an excuse to get a reaction out of him. 

They wanted to be the one to crack the mystery that was Nanami Kento. And of course, they expected him to open up, to smile, to laugh, to do something that would confirm they were special enough to make him forget his usual quiet, studious demeanor.

But Kento, being the stoic, no-nonsense guy he was, would respond with quiet politeness, barely even registering their presence. He would tilt his head slightly when they asked questions, look at them through the edge of his glasses, and give just enough of an answer to keep things from getting awkward.

The girls would often stare at him a little longer than necessary, hoping for a second of warmth or acknowledgment. But no matter how many times they tried, all they got was that polite, impersonal smile that didn’t reach his eyes. And it wasn’t that he didn’t care; it was just that he didn’t care about them, not in the way they wanted. 

To Nanami Kento, it was all just noise. So, he’d just keep his focus on what mattered, which was probably the latest algebra problem or his ongoing internal monologue about the best way to prepare his next snack.

Even as an emo guy with that black hoodie, messy blond hair, brooding eyes that screamed ‘don’t talk to me, but if you do, be prepared for my sarcasm’—people still flocked to him. It was almost unfair, you thought. He had this combination of boy-next-door charm and detached, almost tragic mystique that girls couldn’t resist. 

He was a pretty boy, you knew that much. You’d known him long enough to appreciate the way his eyes glinted in the sunlight, how his messy hair always looked effortlessly perfect, how he somehow made a monotone voice sound like the most hypnotic thing in the room.

And it wasn’t just the girls, either. The guys were starting to notice, too. Sure, they didn’t hover the same way, but they’d get a little too chatty when Kento was around, laughing a little too hard at his dry jokes, trying just a bit too hard to be friendly.

Everyone knew he wasn’t the type to just buddy up with anyone, and that mystery only made him more desirable. So when they’d get too close, you’d notice the slight twitch of Kento’s eyebrow, the way he’d lean just a little bit further away to make it clear that he was not interested in their company.

But the one thing you didn’t doubt was this: Kento was really polite. He never outright rejected anyone, and that politeness was a plus. Sure, it drove you a little crazy when they’d swarm him like bees to honey.

But you had to admit that his politeness was a rare commodity in a world where most people had no issue turning someone down rudely or making them feel uncomfortable. Kento didn’t do that. He’d simply nod back at people and get back to whatever it was he was doing, never making a fuss about the attention.

Well, it was better than over half the school, that’s for sure. You’d seen the way people treated each other, cold and snide, brushing off others without so much as a second thought. Kento was a rare gem in that regard. He was a gentleman, even in the face of all the attention he was getting, and that made it all the more frustrating. 

It wasn’t that you didn’t want people to admire him; you just didn’t like the thought of anyone thinking they could replace you. You and Kento had this bond, a strong one, one that didn’t need words to be understood. But here was the thing—everyone else didn’t get it. And that was where the fun (and by fun, you mean sneaky sabotage) began.

After all, who else could say they knew all his little quirks? Who else had shared so many quiet lunches under that same oak tree, or been the one to force him to eat a full meal instead of staring at his book? You were his best friend, and that meant you had a certain, special claim on him, no matter how many girls wanted to make themselves part of his world.

But, like the selfless best friend you were, you’d keep that fact under wraps. No one needed to know you had a stake in him—especially when you were also the one helping him avoid the chaos of all his newfound admirers. Let them keep fighting over who could be the one to crack Kento's cold exterior; you'd be the one to keep it safe.

But that wasn’t enough. No, they wanted more. They wanted to peel back the layers, crack open that cool exterior, and find whatever hidden treasure lay beneath. And that was where you came in. That’s where you always have to come in. He was your best friend, after all.

It wasn’t that you hated the attention Kento was getting, but it was yours, wasn’t it? You didn’t want anyone to think they could just stroll up and waltz into the little bubble you and Kento had created. And you know he agreed. He doesn’t really need anyone else, he’s said that to you numerous times.

So naturally, you and Kento found creative ways to sabotage any admirer who dared to get too close. It wasn’t malicious, exactly. Well, not to you or Kento. it was more like you were just “protecting” him, and, on occasion, he did the same for you.

It started with the simple things. You'd hover near him during lunch, casually tossing your snacks at him in a way that made it obvious you didn’t want him interacting too much with anyone else. It was like a game of cat-and-mouse between the two of you. Both of you pretended you weren’t doing it, but everyone knew exactly what you were up to.

For example, when this girl from the other class named Yuki asked to sit with Kento one day during lunch time, you quickly swooped in, plopping down next to him like you were the most important thing in his world. You grinned at him and he hummed.

“Hey, Kentooooo!” you said, dropping your lunch tray in front of him. “Did you get those history notes I gave you this morning?”

Yuki opened her mouth to say something, but before she could, you continued to talk to him with a brighter grin. You nonchalantly handed your strawberry milk carton to him and he started to open it for you with the same amount of cool. 

“I was thinking of making brownies this weekend. You like chocolate, right? The ones that we used to buy at the mart? It hasn’t changed, right?” You sent her an apologetic smile. "Sorry, I know it's probably too sweet, but it’s his favorite.”

Kento nodded back at you as he placed your strawberry milk carton on the side. You thanked him happily as you started to drink with happy sounds. Kento simply looked at Yuki with the politest expression he could muster and muttered back at her. 

“Sorry, I’ve got a study group with her after school. Maybe next time.”

Yuki didn’t even bother trying to argue, just nodding stiffly before retreating. You shot Kento a quick grin, but before you could say anything, he just sighed and went back to his book.

“You didn’t have to do that, you know.” he muttered under his breath. “Could have handled that myself.”

“But I have to. You know that.” you said with a grin, popping a piece of fruit into your mouth. “You’re my best friend, not hers.”

One day at lunch, as you and Kento sat under the shade of the old oak tree, munching on your usual snacks, a girl named Mia from your history class walked by. She glanced at Kento, then at you, then back at Kento, before finally stopping a few feet away.

"Hey, Kento!" she called, her voice way too sweet for your liking. “Mind if I join you guys?”

You didn’t even have to look up from your crackers. “Sure, but he doesn’t bite.” you said, not even looking at Mia. “I mean, I don’t think so...”

Kento, who had been engrossed in a textbook the size of a brick, glanced up at you before looking back at Mia. "I can sit alone, you know." he said, a little too casually, not even bothering to hide the fact that he didn’t care much for the attention.

Mia, undeterred, tried again. “Are you sure? I heard you like this band, too. Maybe we could—”

But before she could finish her sentence, you leaned forward, dropping a half-eaten cracker dramatically into your lap as if to make your point clear. 

"If you want to talk about music, you’re gonna have to take it up with me right now, okay?" you declared, giving her your best “this is my turf” look. "Kento here’s more into his book right now, not whatever band you think you have in common with him."

Kento blinked slowly, clearly trying to figure out why he was being pulled into this, but didn't argue. He just glanced at you and nodded, an expression you knew meant, I’m not getting involved in this one.

Mia looked between you and Kento, her shoulders slumping in defeat. “Okay, fine.” she muttered before turning around and walking off, her face flushed red.

"Good job, hero," Kento muttered under his breath, voice dry.

You smirked at him. "You’re welcome, sunshine."

Of course, it wasn’t like you were the only one who was possessive. Nanami Kento hated that you were constantly getting hit on. It drove him absolutely insane. Apparently, teenage boys had this ridiculous notion that your consistent rejections made you more appealing. The more you turned them down, the more determined they became, like you were some kind of prize to be won.

Nanami Kento of course, naturally, found this logic baffling—and irritating. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust you to handle yourself; he absolutely did. He hated everyone else, maybe most of all the men around him and of course — you. 

But watching those guys swarm around you, trying to impress you with their lame jokes or over-the-top compliments, made his jaw tighten and his grip on his pen just a little too firm. Oh, he hated men even more like that. And, well, Kento was never one to sit back and let something annoy him for too long. Not when it comes to you.

But of course, there are things that come as unexpected too.

Maybe it was because Nanami Kento was too perceptive.

Maybe he was just good at dissecting situations happening.

He doesn’t know how this happened, or how this came to pass.

But today would change his life for good, that was certain.

A week after one particularly bold senior cornered you after class to “ask for your number” Kento decided to return the favor—not with dramatics, of course, but with his usual understated, calm assertiveness.

You were sitting in the library, animatedly telling Kento about your latest sketch. It was a concept you were certain would win the upcoming art contest. He was actually paying attention, nodding slightly as you explained your technique, when suddenly, a guy from the senior class decided to interrupt.

“Hey, you’re the girl who draws, right?” the senior asked, leaning against the edge of the table with a grin that screamed overconfident.

You blinked, caught off guard. “Uh… yeah, that’s me.”

“Well,” he continued, practically oozing smugness, “I was thinking, maybe you’d want to collaborate on some sketches sometime. You know, we could—”

Before he could finish whatever weak line he’d rehearsed, Kento smoothly slid into the seat beside you, his broad shoulders cutting off your view of the guy. He didn’t even spare him a glance. Instead, he turned to you, his voice calm but laced with just enough edge to make his point.

“I’m pretty sure sketching is a solitary activity.” Kento said matter-of-factly. “You know, for concentration… unless, of course, you want a distraction?”

The guy blinked, clearly caught off guard by Kento’s sudden presence. “Uh, no, I—”

Kento didn’t let him finish. “You know….” he continued, still not looking at the guy. “It’s actually better if you’re alone when you’re working. Less… interruptions.” 

He then picked up your sketchbook, flipping through it with the kind of casual indifference that somehow made it clear he wasn’t going anywhere. Your jaw dropped at what he’s done.He’s silly like this sometimes, you think to yourself. 

“Kento!” you half-laughed, half-scolded, reaching for your sketchbook. “That’s my sketchbook!”

“Yeah, I know, I know.” he replied nonchalantly, not even pretending to give it back. His attention wasn’t on your sketches anymore, though. His eyes were fixed on the poor senior, who was now fidgeting uncomfortably under Kento’s unnervingly calm stare. 

“Do you mind?” Kento said coolly. “She’s busy.”

The guy stammered something unintelligible, his confidence evaporating faster than a spilled soda in the sun. “Uh… yeah, maybe another time, I guess.” he mumbled before slinking off, clearly realizing he was no match for Nanami Kento’s level of subtle intimidation.

Once the guy was gone, you turned back to Kento, crossing your arms with a mix of exasperation and amusement. You giggled to yourself for a moment. He sighed, looking at how amused you were. It was always like this with you, getting giddy when he does things like this.

“Nice one, Kento.” you said, smirking. “You do know I could have handled that, right?”

Kento raised an eyebrow, setting your sketchbook back down and leaning back in his chair like nothing had happened. You take it back from him, giving him a small thanks. He couldn’t stop looking at you. But when you looked up again, he'd already looked away.

“Sure.” he said, his lips curling into that faint, almost-smile of his. “But it looked like you were busy… talking to him.”

You rolled your eyes, swatting his arm. “What was that even about? You’re not my bodyguard, you know.”

“I wasn’t being a bodyguard.” he replied, his tone annoyingly calm. “I was just... pointing out how distracting he was being.”

“Right, right.” you said, narrowing your eyes at him. “And that had nothing to do with you hating that he interrupted us?”

Kento didn’t answer right away, but the way his eyes flickered with quiet amusement gave him away. He never likes admitting it out loud, but he feels glad. He feels glad when he makes sure you both are alone. You were all he needed after all.

“Maybe.” he finally admitted, his voice as casual as ever. “Or maybe I just wanted to look at your sketchbook.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “You’re impossible.”

“And you talk too much.” he countered, eyes shining softly against your own.

You giggled back at him, your lips smiling beautifully at him. Beautifully more than ever before. “But you like it that way, don’t you?”

Huh, what was that? He thought to himself.

Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump.

Was that his heart beating like that just now?

For a moment, he stops and looks at you. You were unaware about what happened just now. Instead, you were back on your sketching, humming to some song you were obsessed with right now. Kento swallowed hard, suddenly hyper-aware of how he was looking at you. He cleared his throat. 

“We should get going.” he said finally, his voice a little quieter than usual. “The library closes soon.”

You nodded, falling into step beside him as you always did. But as you walked, Kento couldn’t help sneaking a glance at you out of the corner of his eye. He’d always thought of himself as someone who was good at keeping his emotions in check, but now he wasn’t so sure.

Is this what it feels like? Kento wondered as he watched you walk off in front of him. 

He stops. He takes in the sight of you. You were laughing, hopping on the tiles one by one. The sun glows behind you like a beacon leading him to the direction of life. You nearly fell, making him jump forward. But you held your balance. 

And then you laughed. Laughed so beautifully that he doesn’t know what to do.  He could feel every fiber of him turning warm, warmer and redder than ever before. His heart beating out of rhythm again. 

Ah, shit. Kento once more thinks to himself. I’m screwed.

══════════════════

HE DOESN’T THINK TO SAY ANYTHING. How could he, when he’s scared about the outcome? But as the time flew by as fast as it could, he knew he can’t keep being a coward about it. He had to say something. He should do it soon.

It was going to come out anyway. College was looming on both your shoulders. And with that, a lot of uncertainty came. If he says something, at the very least there would be something certain, concrete as your friendship. 

The two of you sat cross-legged on the floor of Kento’s family home, a single bottle of sake between you. Neither of you had much experience with alcohol, but the thrill of being eighteen and toeing the line of rebellion was too tempting to resist.

Kento poured carefully into the mismatched cups you'd found in his cupboard, his movements precise, even in the low light.

"Cheers, cheers!" you yell with that bright eyed grin, raising your cup to him.

"To...?" he asked, his brow arching slightly, always wanting things to have a purpose.

"To us!" you said simply, eyes sparkling with mischief.

He hesitated, his breath catching in his chest, before clicking his cup against yours. "To us."

The first sip was sharp, burning its way down, but it wasn’t long before the alcohol began to work its magic with swift effectivity. You laughed more freely, leaning closer to him, and your words came faster, your thoughts unfiltered.

"You know, Kentooooo." you said, poking his shoulder with a pout. "You’re, like, ridiculously handsome, right?"

Kento froze mid-sip, his ears instantly turning as pink as your sweater. "W–what?"

"I mean it! You’re so... ugh…." you groaned, tossing your head back dramatically. "How am I supposed to focus when you look at me like that?"

"Like what?" he asked, his voice soft, betraying the nervous flutter in his chest.

"Like you’re trying not to smile, but your eyes are giving you away." you teased, your grin widening as you poked his cheek this time.

Nanami Kento could feel his heart pounding so loud he was sure you could hear it. Every word you spoke chipped away at his usual composure, and he could feel himself unraveling under the weight of your drunken admiration. In just this moment, you wholly outwit him. You make him come undone. Only you can have that effect on him. Only you. 

"You’re unbelievable, you know that?" he muttered, trying to look away, but you caught his chin, turning his face back to yours.

"Admit it already, won’t you?" you said, your voice lower now, but no less playful. "You like me. Maybe even a little too much."

Kento stared at you, the world blurring slightly around the edges, whether from the alcohol or the way you were looking at him, he wasn’t sure. He didn’t want to do it like this. He didn’t want to put up his hopes that you would be sober enough to know the truth. Or for you to have sober truths pouring out of your sharp grinning lips. 

"I think…" he began, his voice steady but his heart anything but.

“You think?”

"I’m falling for you. More and more. Every second."

You blinked at what had just shifted in the air, your teasing expression softening as you processed his words. Then, to his surprise, you smiled—not mischievously this time, but gently, sweetly. Full with a merry drink, you smiled.

"Good." you whispered, leaning in so close he could smell the faint sweetness of the sake on your breath. "You said really good words.”

Kento barely had time to breathe before you pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, leaving his face on fire and his heart completely, utterly yours. Kento froze, the warmth of your lips lingering on his cheek like a brand. His breath hitched as your words sank into the alcohol-drenched air between you. 

“I think I’m already there.”

He stared at you, his usually composed mind now an unsteady swirl of emotions—exhilaration, disbelief, and a flicker of hesitation. Your gaze was soft, dreamy, and undeniably sincere, but the alcohol in your system clouded everything. He said it out loud. But are you sure? How could you be, with how merry the drink is in your belly?

"You don’t mean that." he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, as though saying it too loud would shatter the fragile moment.

"I do. I do." you said, your expression serious despite the light flush of intoxication on your cheeks. You reached for his hand, holding it with a gentle firmness that made his heart stumble in its rhythm.

Kento's fingers curled instinctively around yours before he could stop himself, but his grip was careful, steady. "You're drunk. I just…you can’t say that drunk." he pointed out, his voice more tender than reprimanding.

You frowned, tilting your head like you were trying to understand him through the haze. "So? That doesn’t mean it’s not true."

He sighed, looking down at your joined hands. He wanted so desperately to believe you, to let his heart leap completely into your words, but his rational side, his ever-present voice of reason. It held him back.

"It matters. It matters to me." he said softly, his thumb brushing over your knuckles absentmindedly. "If you mean it, I need to hear it when you’re sober. When you’re sure."

"But I am sure, Kento." you insisted, leaning closer, your warmth almost overwhelming him. Your free hand reached up to brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead, and he felt the breath leave his lungs in a rush.

Kento shook his head, his smile faint but aching with restraint. "Not like this." he murmured. "You’ll wake up tomorrow and—"

"And what? Pretend this didn’t happen?" you interrupted, your brows knitting together. "Do you think I’d forget how much I lo—"

His hand shifted, gently pressing a single finger to your lips to quiet you, though it was more for his sake than yours. He wasn’t sure he could take it, hearing those words from you while your judgment was fogged.

"Stop. Please." he said, his voice barely steady. "Don’t say it now. Not tonight."

Your eyes searched hisfrustration flickering in their depths before softening. You saw the way his shoulders tensed, the way he looked at you like he was holding back an ocean of feelings.

"You're such a romantic, aren’t you?" you murmured, a teasing lilt to your voice as a lazy smile spread across your face.

He gave a quiet chuckle, his fingers brushing against your cheek now without realizing it. "Maybe." he admitted, his tone gentler than ever. "But I want this—want us—to start right. I’ll wait until you’re ready to tell me again."

You let out a small sigh but didn’t argue. Instead, you leaned into his touch, your head coming to rest on his shoulder as your eyelids grew heavy. You always liked this, taking in his warmth. You don’t think there was any other place you belonged in but his arms.

If you were being honest, you were afraid. He was right. Your words could mean something, and maybe it wouldn’t be as clear as his own. You were drunk. You were really drunk. And feels hazy in your head. It wouldn’t be fair. It wouldn’t be fair to your Kento. Not like this.

"Fine." you murmured, your words slurring slightly. "But you’d better be ready for me to say it a hundred times tomorrow. Maybe a thousand."

Kento chuckled again, the sound low and warm in his chest, as he rested his chin lightly on top of your head. "I’ll be ready." he promised, even as his own heart thudded wildly at the thought. “I’m always waiting for you. Always.”

And as you drifted off, still clutching his hand like it was the most natural thing in the world, Kento silently vowed to himself: when the time came, he’d tell you how deeply, how completely he felt for you too. He just needed to be sure you knew what it meant.

The morning after that night, you woke up on Kento's couch, the faint remnants of sake lingering in the air. Your head throbbed lightly, and your memories were fuzzy around the edges. Kento, ever thoughtful, had left a glass of water and some aspirin on the table beside you.

"Rough night?" he asked from the kitchen, his voice steady but carefully neutral as he busied himself making coffee.

You groaned, rubbing your temples. "What did I even say last night? I barely remember anything."

He hesitated, his hand tightening briefly on the handle of the coffee pot. He looked over at you, your half-asleep face free of the weight of your drunken confessions. For a moment, he considered saying something, but the words got caught in his throat.

"Nothing too embarrassing," he said instead, forcing a faint smile.

You laughed, your cheeks reddening slightly. "Good. I’d hate to think I made a fool of myself in front of you."

Kento gave a small nod, but his heart felt heavy. You didn’t remember, and he couldn’t bring himself to remind you. Not like this. So, he lets himself break apart. He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t let you have guilt. Because if he did, how is that loving you?

So Nanami Kento buried those words, locking them away where they couldn’t touch the fragile balance between you. He told himself it was better this way. But he hopes, maybe one day — just one day. You’ll see him too. Sober with your love for him.

══════════════════

THINGS DID CHANGE A BIT WHEN YOU WENT TO COLLEGE. Of course, you both got into the same university. But there’s a rough difference between not only being in different departments, but also being in different campuses. It was a rough travel back and forth. But Nanami Kento was determined to go and visit you.

You often feel a little bad when you look back on those days. Engineering classes were no joke. Too many long hours, grueling projects, and the constant pressure to keep up left you drained most of the time.

You barely had the energy to go out, even when you wanted to. But Kento never minded. He understood in the quiet, steady way that only he could, and instead of waiting for you to have time, he made sure to visit you instead.

It didn’t matter where for him. Whether it was the bustling campus lunch hall, where the two of you would share a plate of something warm while you tried to finish an assignment, or your dorm room, which was always a little messy with textbooks and half-drunk cups of coffee.

What mattered to him wasn’t the place or even what you were doing. What mattered was just being with you.

And that thought? It never fails to make your heart skip a beat. Even now, after everything, it feels just as special as it did back then. You still held dearest to him after all this time. Ever since you were kids, you were his everything. And you were sure, more than ever now, that he was yours too. In all sense of the word.

It’s been a year and a half since that time, since you confessed to Kento. Well, technically, drunk you confessed to him. It was late, and you’d had just enough to drink to make your heart bolder than your brain. You didn’t want to say a word. And you think that Kento was just as much waiting for you to say something.

You were ready to die of embarrassment when you remembered that you had said that. But then you remembered, with just as much horror and embarrassment — he’d confessed too. With that same calm sincerity, he told you he’d felt the same way for a while.

Looking back, it was a little messy, maybe even a lot embarrassing. But it was also sweet, earnest, and so perfect for you two. And honestly? You wouldn’t change a thing. You had said something that clarified things for you.

After all, that drunken confession was the start of something that would make all the challenges of those days worth it, every late-night study session, every coffee-fueled conversation, every stolen moment in between. It wasn’t perfect, but it was yours.

You were falling for Kento more and more every day, and it was starting to feel like a problem. A big problem. How were you supposed to act normal around him when everything he did—from the way he fixed his tie to the way he said your name—made your heart do backflips?

It wasn’t fair, really. How was it possible that the same person who once laughed so hard he choked on a piece of rice during lunch was also the one making you reconsider your entire perception of love? He was your best friend, and now you couldn’t even look at him without overthinking every little thing.

And to make matters worse, he was visiting you today.

You had approximately 15 minutes to get your life together before Kento arrived, which was nowhere near enough time to deal with the tornado that was your dorm room or the emotional hurricane swirling inside you.

“Okay, okay, calm your tits.” you muttered to yourself, grabbing stray socks off the floor. “Just play it cool. It’s just Kento. You know him best. Real well. He’s been here a million times. No big deal. Totally normal.”

You shoved a pile of notebooks into your desk drawer, praying it wouldn’t jam, and quickly rearranged the pillows on your bed. By the time you heard the knock at your door, your dorm was passable, well barely. And you were mostly sure you didn’t look like a total disaster.

When you opened the door, there he was, Nanami Kento in all of his huge handsome stature, standing there with his usual calm demeanor, holding a bag of snacks. You yelped quietly as you looked at him. Your roommates must have let him inside. 

“Thought you might need these.” he said, giving you one of those small, knowing smiles that made your brain short-circuit.

You blinked at him. “Nanami Kento, are you a psychic?”

He raised an eyebrow. “No, but you texted me at 2 AM complaining about running out of your favorite chips, so I figured this might help. You still have some paperwork to do, right? And you won’t eat unless I come by to remind you. So, I got it.”

“Oh.” You tried to laugh, but it came out more like a nervous croak. “Right. Thanks. You’re, uh…you’re a hero.”

He stepped inside, his gaze sweeping over the room. “Did a tornado hit your room? It was clean last time I came by.”

“What? No!” You crossed your arms defensively. “I cleaned! Mostly.”

Kento gave you a skeptical look before setting the bag of snacks on your desk. “If this is what ‘clean’ looks like to you, remind me never to see it messy.”

You threw a pillow at him, and he caught it effortlessly, smirking. “Careful. That’s my best throw pillow. If you damage it, I’ll charge you emotional damages.”

“Noted, little miss engineer.” he replied, setting the pillow down with exaggerated care. “What’s the rate for emotional damages these days?”

“Depends. How many snacks did you bring?”

“Enough to keep you from suing me.” He tells you with a grin. “Still have some in my car, just in case you wanted more.”

The two of you laughed, and for a moment, it felt like old times. A little bit easy, comfortable, effortless. But then, as Kento sat down on the edge of your bed, something in your chest tightened. How had this annoying, perfect, infuriatingly kind man become someone you couldn’t stop thinking about? Someone you don’t think you could live without?

He looked up at you, tilting his head slightly. “What’s with the staring? Do I have something on my face?”

“What? No!” You blinked rapidly, your cheeks heating. “I was just—uh—zoning out. Engineering stuff. Very complicated. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Right, right.” he said, clearly unconvinced. “Because I’m definitely not the one who helped you with that last project.”

“Details, details, Nanami Kento. Don’t get bogged down in the details.”

He chuckled, and the sound was so warm and familiar that you almost forgot why you were freaking out in the first place. Almost. Kento takes a moment. He then looks at you as though examining you with careful abandon. Kento wanted to take in the sight of you, after not seeing you for a while.

“You’re weird today, do you know that?” he said, leaning back slightly. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, totally fine. Super fine.” You waved a hand dismissively. “Just tired, you know? Engineering. It’s a grind.”

Kento studied you for a moment, his expression softening. “You’re a terrible liar, you know that?”

Your stomach flipped, and you forced a laugh. “Who, me? No way. I’m like…a professional liar. Best in the business.”

“Uh-huh.” He hums back in retort.

He didn’t press further, but the way he looked at you. Everything about his caramel gaze was gentle, understanding, like he already knew what you weren’t saying. Everything about it, everything about him made your heart squeeze.

You sighed internally. How were you supposed to handle this? You couldn’t just blurt out, “Hey, Kento, I think I’m in love with you, and it’s driving me absolutely insane!”

But as he opened the bag of snacks and handed you your favorite, you couldn’t help but think maybe, just maybe, he already knew that you knew. And that maybe he knew that you felt deeply about him. You sighed. Maybe you’re just imagining it.

As the minutes ticked by, Kento made himself right at home in your dorm, sitting cross-legged on your bed and munching on the snacks he’d brought. Meanwhile, you had plopped into your desk chair, scrolling on your phone under the pretense of “taking a break.” 

But in reality, you were desperately trying to distract yourself from the way he looked way too good just casually existing in your space. How could he look that good even as a law major? How can he have time to make your heart feel like this?

As you flicked through your social media feed, you stumbled upon a post that made your stomach twist uncomfortably. It was a picture—Kento, smiling (smiling!) with a group of classmates, apparently from earlier that day. Some of them were girls. Really pretty girls. Those really pretty preppy law girls!

Your first thought was When does Kento even smile like that? He never smiles like that around me!

Your second thought was Who’s the one leaning so close to him? Is she, like, whispering in his ear or something?

You shot a quick, subtle glance at him. He was still on your bed, completely unaware of the emotional spiral you were going through. He crunched on a chip like it was the most normal day in the world.

“Did you have fun today?” you blurted out before you could stop yourself.

Kento raised an eyebrow. “Uh…what?”

“Today. You were with…people from your department.” you said, trying to sound casual and failing miserably.

His brow furrowed toward you slightly. “I mean, yeah, I had a class project meeting. It was fine. Why?”

“Oh, no reason.” you said, voice a little too high-pitched. Fuck, you  were too obvious. You looked back at your phone, scrolling furiously to hide your face. “Just…wondering. Looked fun.”

“Wait.” Kento’s tone shifted. Suddenly you felt his gaze on you. “How do you know about that?”

Your heart dropped. “Uh, I saw it. Online. A picture. No big deal!”

There was a beat of silence before he spoke again, amusement clear in his voice. “Are you…jealous?”

“What?!” Your head whipped up so fast you almost gave yourself whiplash. “Me? Jealous? Of what? Why would I be jealous?”

Kento’s lips quivered into a rare, brat–like smirk, and you immediately knew you were in trouble. “No reason at all.” he said smoothly. “Just seems like you’re a little…interested in what I’m doing when I’m not here.”

“Interested? Pfft, no. I was just—just checking to make sure you’re not hanging out with the wrong crowd.” you stammered, flailing for a decent excuse. “You know, bad influences. Peer pressure. That sort of thing.”

“Right, I see.” he said, clearly unconvinced. “Because I’m the type to fall victim to peer pressure.”

“Well, I don’t know that part of your life right now!” you snapped, feeling your face heat up. “Maybe one of those girls was trying to…to make you join a pyramid scheme or something!”

Kento leaned back on your bed, folding his arms behind his head, clearly enjoying this far too much. “You’re terrible at hiding things, you know.”

“I’m not hiding anything!” you shot back, spinning your chair around so you didn’t have to look at him.

There was a rustle of movement, and then suddenly, he was right behind you, his hand resting lightly on the back of your chair. You could feel your ears redden at the feeling of him. You squeaked, loud enough for him to hear.

“You’re really bad at lying, too. How come you haven’t evolved at lying? It’s been years and somehow, you’re still bad at it.” he said softly, his voice just teasing enough to make your heart race.

You spun around to face him, glaring. “Okay, fine! Maybe I was a little jealous. Are you happy now?”

Kento blinked, clearly surprised by your sudden outburst. But then, to your absolute horror, he started laughing—actual, full-on laughing. He hadn’t expected for you to just come out and say it like that. You were a prideful little flower, you always have been. 

“You’re laughing at me?!” you cried, swatting at his arm.

“I’m not laughing at you, you know.” he said, still chuckling. “I just didn’t think you’d actually admit it.”

“Well, I did!” You crossed your arms, trying to look annoyed even as your face burned. “So what are you gonna do about it?”

Kento’s laughter softened into a small, fond smile, and for a moment, the teasing disappeared. He didn’t know how much he missed you until now. Somehow, the world seemed like it was in proper orbit when he’s with you like this.

“Nothing, nothing.” he said, his voice low and sincere. “Because you don’t need to be jealous. If I wanted to spend my time with anyone else, I wouldn’t be here right now.”

You stared at him, your brain short-circuiting as he straightened up and walked back to the bed like he hadn’t just casually wrecked you with one sentence. You looked away, crossing your arms as though to shield yourself from him. But he could still see the redness of your ears.

“Well….” you muttered under your breath, plopping dramatically onto your desk. “Now I’m jealous of myself.”

Kento paused mid-bite of a chip and turned to you with an amused look. “What was that?”

“Nothing!” you said quickly, sitting up straight like you hadn’t just been caught having an existential crisis.

But of course, Kento being Kento, he wasn’t about to let it slide. “No, no, go ahead.” he said, his smirk returning as he leaned back against the headboard. “Explain how you’re jealous of yourself. This, I have to hear.”

You groaned, hiding your face in your hands. “Forget I said anything. It’s dumb.”

“I doubt that at all.” he replied, his tone annoyingly smug. “But fine, I’ll drop it. For now.”

You peeked at him through your fingers, only to find him watching you with a mix of amusement and something softer, something that made your heart flip all over again. You wanted to throw a pillow at him or maybe yourself—just to get rid of the growing warmth in your chest.

Instead, you grabbed the bag of chips from the desk and walked over to him, shoving it into his hands. “Here. Eat some of the snacks and stop psychoanalyzing me.”

“I wasn’t psychoanalyzing you.” he said, popping another chip into his mouth. “But you’re making it very tempting.”

“Unbelievable, Kento.” you muttered, plopping down onto the bed beside him. “This is why I can’t stand you sometimes, you know that?”

“Uh-huh.” He glanced at you, one eyebrow raised. “So much so that you admitted to being jealous of people spending time with me. Makes perfect sense.”

You huffed, grabbing a handful of chips just to give your hands something to do. “Okay, fine, you got me. I was a little jealous. Big deal. You’re my best friend. It’s normal to feel weird about you hanging out with other people, right?”

“Is it?” he asked, his voice teasing but his eyes studying you closely.

“Yes!” you said, refusing to meet his gaze. “Because we’re close. And I don’t like sharing, okay? You’ve known that since we met!”

“Hmm, hmm.” he said thoughtfully, leaning a little closer. “So what you’re saying is, you want me all to yourself?”

You choked on your chip, coughing violently as Kento sat back, looking far too pleased with himself. “You—ugh! Don’t say things like that!”

“Why not? I’m just repeating what you said to me.” he replied innocently.

“That is not what I said!”

“Sounded like it to me.”

You glared at him, your face burning. “You’re the worst.”

“Sure, sure,” he said, smiling slightly. “But I’m your worst.”

And just like that, you were done for. Completely, utterly done for. You threw a pillow at him once again. Because what else could you do to him like that? He wasn’t wrong. Sure enough, he caught it effortlessly, laughing rather softly as he set it down beside him.

“Stop overthinking about it.” he said after a moment, his tone quieter now. “I’m here because I want to be. No one else matters, okay?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden sincerity in his voice. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” he said simply, reaching into the chip bag again like he hadn’t just made your heart implode for the second time that evening.

And you sat there, staring at him like an idiot, thinking that maybe, just maybe, falling for him wasn’t the worst thing in the world after all.

══════════════════

IT WAS ONE OF THE RARE OPPORTUNITIES WHERE YOU HAD A DAY OFF. So of course, you took the time to call Kento and ask him to hang out with you. And as usual, all he had said was that short, sure yes and nothing more.

He’d pick you up in thirty minutes, like usual. And of course, Nanami Kento was never late. If anything, he was always ten minutes early. He couldn’t have you waiting, after all.

The bar was warm and lively, filled with the hum of conversation and the clinking of glasses. You and Kento had decided to spend your day off together, and while the original plan had been something low-key like a café or a bookstore, somehow you’d ended up here, nursing a drink and trying to act normal around him. 

He’d never been here before, but he saw it from across the road and if the cafe or bookstore was closed — an afternoon at a bar wasn’t going to be a bad idea for college kids wanting to have some adventure beyond the campus walls.

Normal. Just normal. Yeah, act like you do. Well, whatever normal looks like to you now.

You could only mentally sigh as your peripheral was only stuck on him more than usual.

As if that was possible when you were utterly, hopelessly in love with the man sitting across from you.

Kento, of course, looked effortlessly composed, like he always did—leaning back in his seat, one hand resting on the table, the other holding his drink. He wasn’t a flashy guy, but there was something about the way he carried himself that made it impossible not to stare. And you were staring. Again.

“You’re staring at me again.” he said, his voice calm but with a hint of amusement.

“I am not!” you shot back, quickly taking a sip of your drink to cover up your flustered state.

“You’ve been doing it all evening.” he continued, raising an eyebrow. “Is there something on my face?”

“No, no.” you muttered, feeling the heat creep up your neck. “I was just…zoning out. Thinking about…stuff.”

“Stuff. You sure….about stuff as an excuse?” he repeated, his tone skeptical.

“Yes, stuff.” you said firmly, glaring at him. “You wouldn’t understand.”

He chuckled softly, and you were both annoyed and utterly charmed by the sound. Why did he have to be so effortlessly perfect? It wasn’t fair. You hated how good he is at being everything you love. As you tried to regain your composure, a voice interrupted your thoughts. 

“Hey there, sweetie–pie.” a man said, sliding up to your table with a confident grin. “Mind if I join you?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Uh…”

Before you could say anything else, the man pulled up a chair and sat down, clearly not waiting for permission. He leaned forward slightly, his gaze fixed on you. You felt disgusted by the way he looked at you. He wasn’t your type at all. And moreover, he’s creepy as hell.

“I couldn’t help but notice you from across the room.” he said smoothly. “You’ve got a great smile.”

“Um, thanks?” you said awkwardly, glancing at Kento.

Kento’s expression didn’t change much, but there was a subtle shift in his posture. He sat up a little straighter, his jaw tightening just slightly. Kento’s eyes were glaring hard enough that you could find those eyes were blades cutting you whole.

“So, what’s your name?” the guy asked, ignoring Kento entirely.

You opened your mouth to answer, but Kento beat you to it. 

“She’s not interested in you.” he said flatly, his voice calm but with an edge that made the guy pause.

The man glanced at Kento, raising an eyebrow. “And you are?”

“Person she’s with.” Kento replied smoothly, though his tone made it clear that he wasn’t just a friend. “Who also happens to know she’s too polite to tell you to leave, so I’ll do it for her. What else are you waiting for? Leave.”

Your heart skipped a beat. Was Kento…jealous?

The man hesitated for a moment, clearly debating whether to push back, but something about Kento’s steady gaze seemed to make him think twice. With a shrug, he stood up. He wasn’t going to get anything out of you. Lest he wants to get bitten by a tiger waiting to eat him. Well, at least he’s smart about that.

“Alright, alright. No need to get territorial.” He winked at you before walking away.

You shuddered at his wink.

Have men always been weird?

You shake it off quickly, drinking your pint.

You turned to Kento, your cheeks burning. “Territorial? Really?”

Kento shrugged, taking a sip of his drink like nothing had happened. “He was bothering you. I handled it.”

“I could’ve handled it myself, you know.” you said, crossing your arms.

“I’m sure you could’ve.” he replied, setting his glass down. “But I didn’t feel like watching you pretend to be polite to someone who clearly couldn’t take a hint.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “You’re impossible.”

“Maybe.” he said, a small smirk playing on his lips. “But at least you don’t have to deal with him anymore.”

You huffed, turning back to your drink. But as you took a sip, you couldn’t help but notice the way Kento’s gaze lingered on you, softer now, like he was trying to gauge your reaction. You drink your pint once again in some somber silence. 

“Was that really necessary?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady.

“Yes.” he said simply, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You glanced at him, your heart doing that stupid fluttering thing again. “Why?”

Kento held your gaze for a long moment before replying. “Because I don’t like the idea of anyone else thinking they can have what’s mine.”

Your brain short-circuited. “W-what?”

He didn’t elaborate, just leaned back in his chair with that same calm composure, as if he hadn’t just wrecked your entire evening with one casual sentence. You stared at him, utterly flustered and more in love than ever, wondering how on earth you were supposed to survive the rest of the night without completely losing your mind.

For the rest of the night, Kento didn’t let you out of his sight. He was subtle about it at first—the way he leaned in whenever someone walked by, his hand resting casually on the back of your chair. But as the minutes passed, it became glaringly obvious: Kento was on high alert, and every glance from a stranger only made his protective aura grow stronger.

When a group of guys walked by your table and one dared to look at you a second too long, Kento’s hand dropped from the chair to your shoulder, the weight of it warm and grounding. He didn’t even glance at the guy, his focus entirely on you, but the message was clear: Don’t even try it. Back off.

You tried to act normal, but it was impossible. Sitting beside him, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body, you were acutely aware of every little thing about him—the way his sleeves were rolled up just enough to show his forearms, the way his voice dropped into a lower register whenever he spoke to you.

“You’re quiet again.” he said, his voice low as he leaned a fraction closer.

“I’m fine, Kento. Really.” you mumbled, staring into your drink to avoid looking at him.

“Liar.” he murmured, his tone edged with amusement. “You’ve been squirming all night.”

“I have not!” you protested, but the way your voice cracked didn’t help your case.

Kento just smirked, and that was the last straw. You stood abruptly, your chair scraping against the floor. “I’m going to the bathroom.”

“Not alone, you’re not.” he said immediately, rising from his seat with an ease that made you want to throw something.

“What, are you my bodyguard now?” you snapped, trying to ignore the way your pulse quickened at his possessive tone.

“If that’s what it takes, then yes.” he said simply, his gaze steady and unyielding.

Before you could argue, he took your hand—firm, unrelenting—and led you toward the exit.

“Kento, the bathroom’s that way.” you pointed out, trying to tug your hand free.

“We’re leaving.” he said without looking back.

“Wait, what? Why?”

“Because I’m done watching people think they can look at you like you’re up for grabs.” he said, his voice calm but with an edge that sent a shiver down your spine.

Your protests died in your throat. Nanami Kento rarely raised his voice or lost his composure, but there was something in his tone now. It was something raw and unmistakable. And every bit of it just left you speechless.

The car ride was silent, tension thick in the air. When he pulled into a quiet, empty lot, he turned off the engine and finally looked at you. His gaze was dark, intense, and it sent a jolt of electricity through you.

“Kento, what’s going on?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

“You.” he said, his tone low and rough. “You’re what’s going on. Do you have any idea how hard it is to sit there and pretend I’m okay with watching other people look at you like they have a chance?”

Your breath hitched. “I… I didn’t think you—”

“Didn’t think I’d care?” he interrupted, leaning closer. “Didn’t think I’d notice? God, you drive me insane, you know that?”

“Kento…”

“You’re mine.” he said, his voice leaving no room for argument. “You’ve always been mine. You always have been since we were kids. I just didn’t want to scare you off by saying it out loud again.”

Your heart pounded so loudly you were sure he could hear it. “I— I….I know.” you admitted, your voice trembling. “But I thought you wouldn’t say it again and I just…maybe with time passing… I thought I was the only one now.”

His lips curled into a dark, almost predatory smile. “You’re not. Never. Not when I’ve marked you since we met at that playground when we were kids.”

Before you could process his words, Kento leaned in, capturing your lips with his in a kiss that was anything but gentle. It was animalistic, it was wanton. It was full of possessiveness, claiming, as if he were branding the truth into you.

You matched his intensity, your hands gripping the front of his shirt as you pulled him closer. The kiss deepened, and any hesitation you’d felt earlier melted away, replaced by a burning need that had been building for far too long.

He broke away just long enough to murmur against your lips, “Say it. Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours.” you whispered, your voice shaky but resolute.

“You belong with me.”

You looked at him with your doe like eyes. “I belong with you.”

“Good.” he growled, pulling you into his lap without hesitation. His hands gripped your waist firmly, his touch both grounding and electrifying. “Because I’m done holding back.”

Your fingers tangled in his hair, and you couldn’t stop the smile that spread across your face as you whispered, “Then don’t.”

And he didn’t.

══════════════════

YOU DIDN’T EXPECT HIM TO BE THIS HUNGRY FOR YOU. But with the way he’s going at it. Kento has been hungry for you for a very long time. Kento’s lips linger, soft and insistent, as if savoring every inch of your skin.

The warmth of his breath trails higher, leaving behind a delicate ache where his mouth was. His hands rest firmly on your thighs, fingers pressing just enough to make your breath hitch.

“You’re trembling.” he murmurs, his voice a rich baritone, teasing but laced with tenderness. He looks up, his gaze heavy with desire, his lips brushing against your inner thigh as he speaks. “Do I make you nervous?”

A shaky laugh escapes your lips, betraying your composure. “Not nervous... just—” Your words cut off as he presses another kiss, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin.

“Just what?” he asks, his tone low and deliberate, his lips curving into a smile against your skin. His hands slide upward, thumbs drawing small circles that make your heart race.

“Kento.” you breathe his name like a plea, your voice catching as he moves closer, the space between you charged with electricity.

The dim glow of the streetlamp filters through the windshield, casting golden lines across his sharp features. The intimacy of the confined space amplifies every touch, every sound between the two of you in these leather seats. The soft rustle of fabric, the quiet hum of his breathing, the slap of flesh against flesh.

“I love when you say my name like that, you know?” he says, voice dark and velvety. His mouth moves with purpose now, leaving faint marks of love on your skin, each one deliberate, each one staking his claim. “I love hearing it like that. Wanton f’r me.”

You gasp, your head falling back against the car seat, fingers threading through his hair, tugging gently. He groans at the sensation, the sound sending heat coursing through you. How has he ever been this good at getting under your skin?

“I want to hear more from you.” he murmurs against your skin, his voice a mix of command and yearning. His lips hover for a moment, teasing you with their proximity. “But only if you’re ready.”

Kento’s lips trail higher, each kiss softer yet more possessive, leaving warmth that lingers long after his mouth moves on. He pauses for a moment, his breath hot against your skin as his hands tighten slightly on your thighs, his thumbs stroking slow, deliberate circles.

“Don’t hold back your noises from me, okay?” he murmurs, his voice a sultry whisper that sends a shiver racing through you. He looks up, his golden-brown eyes locking with yours, a smirk tugging at his lips. “I want to hear you clearly.”

The command in his tone makes your pulse quicken. You bite your lip, but the sound escapes anyway, a soft, breathy whimper that only seems to spur him on. Kento’s touch made you feel as though a thousand flames were burning all at once.

“That’s better, isn’t it?” he says, his voice thick with satisfaction. His teeth graze the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, and he chuckles darkly when your hips shift involuntarily toward him.

“Kento.” you gasp, your voice trembling with both restraint and longing.

“Hm?” he hums against your skin, the vibration sending a jolt straight through you. “I told you—no holding back.” 

His hands glide upward, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh of your thighs, anchoring you in place as his mouth continues its slow, maddening journey lower and lower. You could feel your lips mutter a weak groan against him. 

The dim light of the streetlamp catches the sheen of his messy blond hair, illuminating the faint smile on his lips as he drinks in every reaction you give him. The intimacy of the moment wraps around you both, the world outside the car fading entirely.

“Kento, please.” you whisper, your voice raw with need, your fingers tightening in his hair.

He pauses, his lips hovering just above your skin, his breath ghosting over you. He takes in the sight of you, almost as though a hunter to a prey. Nanami Kento is your hunter, he always has been. And he’s been keeping this inside him for way too long. This desire, for you. Only you.

“That’s what I wanted to hear from you.” he murmurs, his tone dark and full of promise, before pressing another kiss, softer this time, but no less consuming.

Kento’s words hang in the air, thick with authority and desire, as his lips return to your skin with renewed purpose. He’s slow, methodical, as if every kiss, every graze of his teeth is a language only he can speak—and you’re utterly fluent in his meaning.

“Such sweet sounds from you, hm?” he murmurs against your thigh, the deep timbre of his voice reverberating through you. “Don’t hold them back from me. Let me hear what I do to you.”

Your breath hitches, a soft moan slipping past your lips, and the way his lips curl into a grin tells you he’s satisfied—but not done. His hands are firm but gentle as they slide further up your inner thighs, fingers brushing dangerously close to where you want him most. 

His touch sets your skin alight, the heat pooling low in your stomach as your chest rises and falls in uneven rhythm. You could feel his long fingers making their journey to that space, their cool touch melting you whole in a pleasurable moan.

“Kento.” you whisper, barely able to find your voice, your hands trembling as they clutch at the seat beneath you.

He glances up, his caramel eyes catching the faint glow of the streetlight streaming through the windshield, giving him an almost otherworldly allure. His gaze is dark, hungry, but there’s a softness there too. There was that endless reverence in the way he looks at you, as though you’re something precious.

“Yes, my love?” he asks, his voice laced with feigned innocence, though the smirk pulling at his lips betrays him. Your heart drummed at your new nickname from him. It was real. You were lovers. Doing what lovers do. “Tell me what you need. I want to hear it.”

You let out a shaky exhale, your fingers threading into the lower depths of sandy blond undercut for stability as much as desperation. Slowly, it trailed down on his neck, your touch sleuthing through him. Temptingly, almost like a wanting vixen.

“I need you… closer.” you admit, voice breaking, the vulnerability of the words making heat rise to your cheeks.

Kento hums in approval, the sound low and pleased at your words. He leans closer and his fingers echo deeper and deeper into you. Your head throws back hard against the leather’s pristine touch. He playfully moves inside. One moment in a circle. One moment a thrust. Over and over again, rinse and repeat, force and pleasure. And all you could do was surrender.

“Good girl of mine, my love.” he murmurs, his praise sending a wave of warmth coursing through you. 

That had surely made you even more wet inside. His lips press higher against your jaw, his stubble grazing your sensitive skin, drawing a sharp gasp from your lips. He continues on and on. You don’t know where he learned it. How he got so good at knowing how to take you to paradise. BUt you could hardly care. You were focused on how deep his fingers were in you. 

“You’re so beautiful like this, my love.” he continues, his voice velvet against the charged air. His hands grip your thighs tighter, pulling them apart just enough for him to settle more firmly between them. “Completely undone for me.”

A sound escapes you, part moan, part plea, and his response is immediate. There was a broken groan deep in his chest as he nuzzled against you, the vibrations of his voice making your whole body tremble and shake as  he rushed more and more, in and out, with his masterful fingers.

“That’s it. Go on, my love.” he breathes, his voice dark, dripping with satisfaction. “Just let go for me, honey. No one else is here. Just us. Just me and the way you fall apart under my touch.”

The world outside the car feels impossibly distant now. The soft flicker of the streetlamp, the faint hum of passing cars. It’s all drowned out by the thrum of your heartbeat and the way Kento’s lips, and his fingers worship every part of you they touch, in and out.

“Kento, Kento.” you gasp again, your voice a desperate whisper.

His name on your lips seems to be his motivation, pushing more and more as his fingers tighten inside of you as he shifts closer, his movements becoming more deliberate, more consuming. You could only feel your tears rush in pleasurable waterfalls on your cheek.

“Say it again, my love.” he demands softly, his lips grazing the edge of your hip. “Say my name like that again.”

And when you do, your voice trembling and raw, and broken — he lets out a sound that’s pure need, his control slipping as he loses himself in you entirely. His fingers dug deeper and deeper until they couldn’t anymore. Your slick brushing through his fingers as he repeats it over and over again.

Kento’s name spills from your lips again, breathless and aching, and he growls softly against your skin. There was a sound that sent a ripple of heat straight to your core. You cry out loudly as you come undone on his touch, so hard that you see stars. 

“You’re trembling so much, my love.” he murmurs, his voice molten and rich. “Is it because of me, hm?”

His fingers slowly exit through your crevices, slick and full of you. He looks satisfied with the mess he made of you. It doesn’t matter if you pool your pleasure on his leather seats. The sight was satisfying to look at. Because you’re his. And this was proof.

Your answer is a shaky exhale, your head falling back against the seat as your hazy gaze saw him slowly eat at the slick of your pleasure. You had just come undone from his touch and now you could feel yourself wanting more. You were wanton for more. Only he could make you feel this way.

“Words in full, my love.” he coaxes, his tone teasing but firm. “I want to hear you say it.”

“Yes, Kento.” you admit, voice breaking as you finally surrender to his command. “It’s you—only you.It’s always been you.”

And with that, he kisses you as he finds himself wanting more of you, as much as you wanted more of him. You gave him everything, and he gave you everything. You wanted to be whole, consumed by the existence of the other.

The air thickens with desire as his touch shifts from lingering to deliberate, the rhythm between you growing more urgent.  You brace yourself, your body trembling in anticipation, and then, with a careful, controlled movement, he enters you. 

A sharp inhale catches in your throat, the sensation overwhelming as he fills you completely. You gasp, every inch of him stretching you, pushing you to the edge of something deeper, something more consuming. Your body trembles in the wholeness of him. 

He began to move at a slow pace and then soon enough, with that eager speed. Your legs crossed against his back, and your arms crossed against his shoulders. You could only hold on for dear life as he pushes in and out of you in a pace that took your breath away.

Every inch of him stretches you, each motion slow yet intentional, designed to leave you breathless, wanting more. Kento’s gaze never leaves yours, intense and searching, as though he’s reading the unspoken desires written in the way your body responds. The heat between you builds steadily, a slow burn that makes your pulse quicken, your limbs aching with the need to surrender to him entirely.

Everything felt so good.

He made you feel good.

Only he could do it like this.

"Are you okay?" His voice is low, almost reverent, as he pulls back just enough to meet your gaze. 

There’s a softness in his caramel eyes, a tenderness beneath the storm of desire that mirrors the vulnerability you feel. His breath is heavy, and yet there’s a careful concern in his touch, as if he's trying to read you, to make sure you're ready for what comes next.

You nod, but words fail you, the overwhelming sensations clouding your ability to speak. Every inch of your being is attuned to him now, to the heat of his body against yours, the steady rhythm of his breathing. 

You inhale deeply, trying to steady yourself, yet all that fills your senses is him. The scent of him, the taste of his skin, the press of his chest against yours. Your slick blending against his own. It was all consuming. How you both fit together. How you were made for each other.

"More, Kento." you whisper, the word barely audible but laced with desperation. It’s not just a plea. No, you were saying it as it is. “Faster.”

You needed him. Every bit of him, every part of him. You wanted it all. The craving in your voice is clear, raw, and unfiltered. The desire that had been simmering between you both is now an undeniable force, impossible to resist.

His lips curl into a small, knowing smile, and something in his gaze shifts, darkens. Without breaking eye contact, he presses forward again, moving with an intensity that speaks of his own growing hunger. His movements are deliberate and calculated, even with the speed he was going at. 

It was as if  he was savoring every inch, every moment with you. Each stroke is measured, calculated, and yet there's an undercurrent of urgency, as though he's trying to pull you deeper into him, deeper into this shared space where only the two of you exist.

His gaze is intense, a silent communication passing between you both. It's not just about the way he moves or the way he touches you. Everything about it felt like magic. It's how he reads every subtle shift in your body, every small intake of breath, every whisper of need. 

He’s attuned to you in a way that goes beyond words, understanding the unspoken pleas you can't voice. It’s like he knows you better than you do yourself. It’s like he’s memorized every part of you. He just knew how to love you whole, completely.

You cried out as he hit that pleasure spot, in and out. The car windows were fogging up with the hot breath echoing out of your lips over and over again. You were certain that just as much, people had noticed the car shaking and rearing with activity at the stop. It was too obvious to see.

The heat between you builds steadily, a slow burn that makes your pulse race, that quickens the rhythm of your heart. You feel it in the way your body responds, how the pressure inside you grows with every shift, every stroke, until it feels like the world is narrowing down to just the two of you. You both were lost in this rhythm of connection, of craving, of surrender. This was all that there was, this universe of you, together.

Your body aches with the need to give in completely, to let him take you fully, to become lost in the feeling of him, of the shared moment. He looked at you and leaned forward, letting his lips take yours. His tongue pushes through against your own in a delicious melee of pleasure. You hummed against his lips as his thrusts got deeper, faster. More desperate. 

When he parts from you to gather air in his lungs, he slows for a bit and pulls out, earning a whine. But then in a steady shock, he pushes back in, his hands straying to your back, pulling you closer to him. It was as though he wanted you to melt and blend with his flesh. To become one. He thrusts deeper and deeper, harsher than before. You cry out against his ear. 

"Let go, my love." he murmurs, his voice a low, breathy whisper against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. "I’ve got you." 

There’s an assurance in his words, a promise that you can surrender, that he’ll be there to catch you, to guide you through whatever comes next. And with those words, everything inside you snaps. The tension, the anticipation, the desire. 

Everything unravels in a wave of release, a deep, consuming surrender. You cry out so loud that you think that you were gasping for air for the first time. Nanami Kento hit on your body with a harsh desire last time and felt his own hot pleasure flow through you with a loud roar.

Your body trembles beneath his touch as you lose yourself in him, the rhythm of his movements pulling you deeper into the moment, into the raw intensity of it all. Your grip on him tightens involuntarily, fingers digging into the hardness of his skin, anchoring yourself to the sensation of him. 

Each breath comes quicker, more erratic, as you struggle to keep up with the waves of pleasure crashing over you. Your eyes flutter closed, and a few tears escape, blurring your vision. But the tears are not from pain. They are from the overwhelming satisfaction, the complete surrender of everything you’d been holding back.

For a moment, you can’t see anything, your body entirely consumed by the sensations coursing through you. It’s like you’ve been plunged into a haze, where nothing exists but the pulse of his touch, the heat of his body against yours. You feel your senses heighten, every movement, every sound reverberating inside you, making your heart race.

And then, slowly, your sight begins to return. Everything is foggy, distorted at first, the edges of the world softened by the force of your pleasure. But as the fog clears, everything sharpens, every detail comes into focus. 

And in that moment, it feels like you’ve stepped into something infinite. The universe itself is laid bare before you, and standing at the center of it all, consumed by the same overwhelming force, is him. Everything felt like enlightenment. Life started here.

Kento’s eyes are locked onto yours, dark and intense, holding you captive with every glance, every word unspoken. His face, usually so composed, is now etched with a mixture of hunger and satisfaction, his own breath coming in ragged pulls. You are drawn to him, to the way he fills every corner of your mind, your heart, your body.

"You're... breathtaking, my love." he murmurs, his voice rough, barely audible as he moves against you, his hands cradling your face gently. "So beautiful, at this moment."

The words make your heart ache, the vulnerability in his tone striking you deeply. Your gaze never wavers from his, even as the pleasure inside you begins to coil again, threatening to pull you under once more. It’s not just his touch, not just the way he moves inside you. It’s the way he sees you, the way he makes you feel like you’re the only one who matters in the world.

"You’re mine. You always will be." you whisper, your voice trembling with the truth of it. The words come from somewhere deep, primal, raw. You don’t even know where they’ve come from, only that they’re true. 

“Am I really?” He snickers, pecking at your jaw with small peppering kisses with exhaustion.

You nodded shyly, smiling at him. "I need you... like this. Always."

Kento smiles at your confession. His grip tightens around you, his lips pressing against your forehead in a soft kiss, almost reverent. For a moment, it was like he’d fallen in love with you again for the very first time again.

"And you have me, my love." he responds, his voice low and full of promise. "All of me. Always."

[poisonf0rest]

Overc*mming Writer's Block 3

𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐈, 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐈𝐈, 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐈𝐈𝐈, 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐈𝐕

♱⋅── zayne x reader

♱⋅── about: Between being in the midst of your medical residency and being an up-and-coming author, it’s safe to say your personal life has been placed on stand-still. That is, until your editor decided that your next novel needed explicit smut scenes. That is, until your mentor and boss ends up striking a deal for you to help with “inspiration” for said novel. That is, until you fuck Zayne four times and your life changes forever. Partially inspired by manga of the same name by Nae Awaji

♱⋅── word count: 10.8k holy

♱⋅── warnings: mdni, smut, bondage, oral, pussydrunk zayne, PRAISE kink, breeding kink, actual sex this time, no more blue balling, nightly rendezvous card

art credit to @/chimmyming on X

“So, you and Dr. Zayne?”

You damn near choke on your salad. Coughing, you place your fork down before turning to glare at Anvi. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She smiles, as if that was confirmation enough. “I’ve heard a thing or two from hospital gossips—“

“Vi, you are the hospital gossip.”

“—that the cold, yet steaming hot doctor was finally seen accepting the company of someone else. Not to mention at the gala last weekend he was by your side all night long. Or so I was told.” 

Anvi leans in, smiling wide enough to burst her pretty face as you scowl down at your lunch, unable to meet her eyes. Fighting to keep your voice even, you nudge her off, stabbing a carrot. “You’re ridiculous. I’m not involved with Dr. Zayne, he’s too—“ Attentive? Intelligent? God don’t think of him eating you out right now. “He’s not my type.”

You feel your ears burn, but by the grace of some god Anvi doesn’t seem to notice. Pouting she sighs and sinks back into the cafeteria booth. “Aww man, I was really rooting for you, too.”

“Rooting for a nonexistent relationship?” 

Anvi’s about to say something, big doe eyes almost frantically darting between yours before she huffs and shakes her head, something akin to pity tightening her smile.

You raise a brow but she only shrugs, going back to picking at her lunch. “Just as well, a relationship between a resident and her boss would be quite the juicy scandal. Something straight out of a romcom, no?” 

Laughter rips from your chest, the sheer irony of both her words and your reality too much to bear. Anvi’s windshield wiper giggles join your own, and soon the two of you are wheezing under your breath as you get side-eyed by the other surgeons trying to enjoy their lunch. 

Really, whoever your author was had a fucked up sense of humor. 

But the moment is ruined by the buzz of your pager, and you barely say bye to Anvi before you’re rushed to the operating bay. 

As of today, you have two days to finish your manuscript. 

Today's shift was exhausting, but you’ve learned early into your career that writing is a discipline, and as fickle of a muse as inspiration is, a writer cannot simply wait for her to grace you with her presence. Whether you feel like it or not, this book has to get done. 

Besides, what better mindset was there to churn out unhinged shenanigans than when you’re delirious and half-asleep, tucked away in the on-call room? 

Okay, so perhaps not the best place to be, but logically if your shift finished only minutes ago and you had to page in at five AM yet again, you’re better off just staying here rather than driving back to your apartment and all the way back to the hospital again.

Opening your personal laptop, you tab onto your novel's draft, the flashing cursor taunting you as your editor’s comments blur into an overwhelming mess of red. While you’ve worked your way through just about half of her six-thousand comments, that still leaves far too many, especially on your novel’s villain slash love interest as the trope always goes. 

You’re halfway through cutting cringey dialogue on a specific scene, but your thoughts keep drifting. Your conversation with Anvi keeps playing in your mind— romcom, dating, scandal, boss. You suppress the heat rising in your chest, trying to ignore the reality you really don't want to face. 

Zayne is… too much. Too intelligent, too caring, too perfect at catching you off guard.

Shaking your head, you try re-focusing, but between sleep deprivation and the realization that you haven’t actually done anything physical with Zayne for nearly a week, you get far too distracted. 

It’s not that you haven’t seen him since the gala. Far from it, really. Nearly every night if your shifts happen to end around the same time, he offers to drive you home. And when your shifts don’t align, you always make the effort to cook something together, breakfast or dinner, at ungodly hours of the morning or evening. And if neither of those happened, you would watch a movie, at least for a few minutes till one or both of you fell asleep on your ratty couch. 

God, you’re a fool. You can’t help but want him by your side even now, loving the way he reacts to your inappropriate comments, loving the way he scoffs at your jokes, loving the way he notices even the most minute things about you. And yet there’s a distance you can’t explain, a growing space you’re both too afraid to fill.

You close your laptop with a soft sigh, rubbing your eyes as you lay back on the small cot, trying to block out the nagging ache in your chest.

Your phone buzzes from under the cot, and you glance at it absently. You nearly jump at Zayne’s icon flashing on your screen.

grumpy snowman: Under recent developments I’d like to inform you of two things. One, you are banned from the hospital all of tomorrow under strict orders by me. Two, I currently have Mr. Whiskers held hostage, and should you fail to return home by 02:59 I will be forced to perform pulmonary bypass puncture and stop his heart. 

Dumbfounded, you stare at Zayne’s text, blinking in confusion. Did your sleep deprivation just hallucinate a text? Violently shaking your head, you look back at your phone with slightly spinning vision just to confirm that no, this was very much real and Zayne has very much lost it. 

ms. author: Is this a threat?

Another text follows immediately after.

grumpy snowman: Consider it your last chance. Come back and save him, or else... this may as well be his final night. 

An image sends then, your favorite calico cat plushy all tied up with what appears to be Zayne’s tie, dangling the poor thing as though being held hostage. Your gaze lingers for longer than it should on how Zayne’s hands look in the dim lighting of the photo, so busy trailing up the veins on his lithe fingers that you nearly miss his next text. 

grumpy snowman: I’ve already called an Uber. It’s waiting outside. 

You snort into the empty room, rolling to sit up straight.He’s the last person you’d expect to pull this sort of thing. It’s nothing short of ridiculous, but truly you don’t know the last time you’ve smiled this wide, and it’s precisely the distraction you need right now, especially if he’s already gone through the trouble of organizing it all himself. But like you’d go down without a fight. 

ms. author: You’re being ridiculous, you’d never hurt Mr. Whiskers you devil. You don’t have the guts.

His reply is swift, almost immediate.

grumpy snowman: Do I now? Care to test that theory?

You can practically hear the smugness in his text, the playful challenge laced with a quiet but unmistakable sincerity. Your heart gives an unexpected flutter, the weight in your chest easing, if only slightly. Quite a villain, indeed.

You know what Zayne’s doing. He’s not just playing around; he’s pulling you out of your head, out of the self-imposed spiral you’ve yet again been retreating into. You’ve spent the better half of the week in it. 

You bite your lip, considering your options. On one hand, you could brush him off—continue working, ignore the text, but something inside of you craves this attention. Craves his uncharacteristic ridiculousness. Craves the break from your mind that he’s offering.

ms. author: If you harm a single fur on my son’s head I’ll put an end to your tyranny myself.

Zayne doesn’t waste a second, sending only a single warning: Hurry. 

You stand, grabbing your jacket and keys, and only then do you second guess this. The easy, safe choice would be to stay buried in your work, it would be to politely decline and place must-needed distance and formality back. 

But for the first time in a while there’s something you want more than work, and as you slip out of the on-call room, the image of Mr. Whiskers hanging helplessly from Zayne’s tie is enough to pull you out of the hospital.

You push your front door open, the silence of your apartment making the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. The lights are off— odd, considering you could have sworn you left a lamp on. You always do, a force of habit since you live in a slightly less safe area of Linkon. Oh, the things you do for cheaper rent. 

Pausing, your eyes scan the deceptively empty hallway and kitchen. Everything feels still, almost eerie, and your pulse quickens as you take your shoes off, right beside Zayne’s much larger dress shoes, to venture further into your apartment. 

The faintest creak of floorboards makes you freeze. Your heart stutters slightly, the scare making you grip your chest as you whirl around, cursing out your cowardice. You’ve seen worse things wheeled into the ER. Please, get a grip. 

You shake off the nerves just as your phone buzzes in your pocket, breaking the silence once more.

grumpy snowman: You’re cutting it close. Five minutes before Mr. Whiskers meets an untimely demise.

You can't help the amused snort that escapes you, the tension in your body breaking.

ms. author: You really went this far? What now, villain?

The response is almost immediate.

grumpy snowman: It’s a matter of life or death. I hope you're prepared.

Another photo attachment follows—your favorite Christmas blanket thrown over the couch cushions in disarray, the faintest corner of Mr. Whiskers peeking out beneath it. The living room. You shake your head, muttering under your breath about the audacity of smug geniuses with far too much time on their hands.

You make your way to the living room in the dark, you flick on a lamp as you approach the couch. Lifting the blanket to find… nothing but a sticky note.

It reads, in painfully pretty cursive: Nice try, but you’ll have to be quicker.

Another buzz.

grumpy snowman: You fell for that as well? I expected better. Already 02:56, time’s running out.

You scoff, unable to stop yourself from laughing despite the absurdity.

ms. author: Do you even have anything better to do?

grumpy snowman: Not lately. Someone’s been too busy to properly entertain me.

You read it once, twice, and still something in your chest squeezes painfully at that.

Folding up the note, you stare at the text a moment longer before you hear the echoing click of a door. It’s coming from upstairs. 

Another buzz.

grumpy snowman: While you’re lost in thought again, care to explain why you’ve been running yourself into the ground? 

You pause, stalling as you make your way to your stairs.

ms. author: I am writing.

grumpy snowman: Poorly, if you’re overworking. Can’t imagine the tension’s working out if it’s still stuck in your head.

ms. author: Gasp. Excuse you—

Another buzz interrupts, just as you make it to your bedroom door, old wood announcing your arrival with a groan. The culprit has to be just behind it. 

grumpy snowman: 3 minutes remaining. Mr. Whiskers won’t be around much longer.

You can practically feel Zayne’s grin through the phone, and for a brief moment, you’re glad he’s here, even if it’s all in jest. He’s right although you might never admit it; this whole absurd situation—your plushie, the stupid texts, the teasing—has done what no amount of coffee or sleepless daydreaming could.

ms. author: If you harm a single fur on my son’s head, I swear I’ll come for you.

Your hand latches onto your bedroom handle, biting your lip as you pause to type one last jab. 

ms. author: I don’t know why I’m indulging you.

grumpy snowman: Because you love it when I win.

A laugh bursts from your lips before you can stop it. Shaking your head, you push the door open.

Your bedroom is dim, the curtains drawn, but moonlight spills through the dusky purple veils, illuminating the bed.

Perched atop lies Mr. Whiskers, your darling calico plushie sitting in the center, fully unharmed even though his crystalline eyes speak of unimaginable horrors at the hands of his captor. 

Before you can grab him, movement from the corner of the room nearly startles you into jumping halfway across the room. Zayne, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watches you with a slight upturned grin that makes your stomach twist.

“You’re a horrible villain.” You huff, all but lunging on your bed to hug Mr. Whiskers to your chest like a shield.

His lips twitch into a smile, the bastard, and you can't help but notice how handsome he looks with his hair a little mussed and his glasses slipping down his nose. He doesn’t have his coat or suit jacket on, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up, a sight you haven’t grown tired of.

God, you really have a thing for forearms. Or maybe it’s just a thing for Zayne.

“Since we’re critiquing each other, you’re not much of a hero. Hiding behind a plushie doesn’t exactly inspire confidence.” 

“Confidence isn’t my priority right now.” You clutch Mr. Whiskers tighter, narrowing your eyes. He’s not here to talk about morals and heroism, though. “I’ve been fine. Nothing more than proofreading left… that and a few problem-children scenes.”

“Then consider this me fulfilling my half of the contract,” Zayne says, effortlessly seeing past your usual bullshit. “For someone who claims they’re adequately inspired, you’ve been more distant than usual.”

“I don’t need a lecture.”

“No lecture.” He steps closer, “I just missed you.”

Again, Zayne's words catch you off guard, so blunt they make your chest ache. No empty flattery, no pretty words, simply stated as though they were facts. 

He takes another step forward, and you have to lean back on your elbows— nearly lying back on the bed— to maintain eye contact as he looms above you. 

And then, Zayne drops to his knees before you.

It’s a far more graceful movement than it has any right to be, all six foot something of him kneeling against the foot of your bed as you instinctively make room for him there. Slowly, his hands come up to your thighs, the two of you slotting together with ease.

“Admit it,” Zayne whispers, the sweet, minty heat of his breath caressing your lips as you shiver, leaning closer despite yourself. “This helped.” A wry smile, “and that I make a convincing villain.”

“What’s this, is the doctor Zayne fishing for compliments?”

“I don’t need compliments. I just want you to stop pretending in front of me– no more performances.” 

Heat rises to your face, and your stomach twists. He's too close, he's always too close, but god, why has this domesticity become so natural around him? 

Despite yourself, you look down at his hands again, taking in how easily his scarred palms cup your thighs, the pale contrast of his skin against yours. Lithe, long fingers, and the memory of how well they’ve treated you. You swear he must feel your heart pound where his thumbs brush circles against your inner thighs, your body nothing but responsive for him. 

But if he does, he spares you the embarrassment. Zayne only continues to look up into your face, and just as you begin thinking of equally inappropriate jokes or fun facts to break the silence, Zayne moves closer, his knee pressing between your thighs as the mattress dips to accommodate his weight. 

“Perhaps there is a performance you could help me with, since you’re clearly the expert here.”

You blink, one step behind Zayne’s master plan yet again. “What- help you?”

“Yes. See, I’ve been thinking about my next move as a villain, and…” Before you can even follow Zayne’s words, Mr. Whiskers is yanked from your grasp once more. One hand raises him into the air and the other lunges for your outstretched arms, pinning them to the bed as it creaks and groans under the sudden assault. “I think I’ll take Mr. Whiskers as my captive once again.”

A soft gasp leaves your lips as Zayne shifts above you, his knee grinding up just enough to have you aching between your legs. Everything spins, torn between the desire to rescue Mr. Whiskers and the overwhelming urge to give in, to pull Zayne closer, to finally, finally fuck him yourself.

But before you can decide, the hand pinning your wrists tightens, his thumb rubbing circles as he effortlessly restrains you.

“You’re ridiculous,” you curse, though the tremor in your voice betrays your excitement.

“Ridiculous?” Zayne repeats, arching a brow. “Perhaps you should start taking this seriously, my dear protagonist.” He drops his voice into something rich, dark, and deliciously villainous. The hand that pins you down holds firm, the other dangles your plushie overhead with mocking menace. 

You scoff, though it comes out shakier than intended. “I could write circles around your attempts at being evil.”

“Could you?” Unbuttoning his shirt, Zayne gets only halfway before abandoning it entirely, letting the buttons skew across his chest. He watches with a growing smile as your eyes flutter downward against your better judgment. “Then why don’t you show me.”

Zayne nods to your phone, eyes narrowed from behind his glasses. “Open the doc, show me the scene. Any attempts to rescue the captive will be met with appropriate punishment.” 

The way Zayne looks down at you, waiting—daring— to see if you would make him stop, sends a sinful flutter through your core, ricocheting up your spine. No longer trusting your voice, you nod and feel the pressure loosen ever so slightly on your wrists. 

You only have time to pull your phone out from your scrub’s back pocket before Zayne captures your wrists again, the tie once used on Mr. Whiskers now knotted efficiently right above your wrists. It should be frightening, how easy it is for him to manhandle you, but you feel nothing but painful arousal at that fact.

You’re still growling out faux protests when Zayne plucks the phone from your hands, his knee keeping your hips firmly pinned against the mattress.

“Ah,” Zayne murmurs, scrolling casually through your doc. “A scene involving betrayal, a chase, and…” He raises a brow. “Passionate accusations of treachery.”

You thrash beneath him, trying to buck off his weight as your face burns in embarrassment. “Enough! You’re supposed to help, not—”

“Not what?” He glances at you briefly, lips pursed in a halfhearted attempt to mask his amusement. “Not put your villain to the test? I’ll admit I might have ulterior motives, but you’ll have to try harder than that.”

Zayne then waves the plushie just out of reach before dangling him on the windowsill for dramatic emphasis.

“I swear to god, if you harm Mr. Whiskers!”

He cuts you off with a chuckle. “Hush. You’ll want to hear this.” 

Zayne clears his throat, the smirk on his lips unmistakable as he picks up where you left off in editing your manuscript. His voice drops into a faux-sinister drawl as he begins to narrate. “‘You can hate me all you want,’ the villain growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. ‘But that fire in your eyes only makes me want to break you more.’”

It's horrible, the way he reads the words, the tone and cadence he gives the prose, and worst of all, the way his unblinking gaze remains completely, utterly, fixed on you as he speaks.

“Zayne, please, don’t- this is embarrassing,” you beg to appeal to reason, still writhing against his tie, when you realize his grip against your hips has loosened.

Zayne’s attention is momentarily diverted as he scrolls through the doc, looking for another section to read, and you kick your knee up with a shout, jabbing it into his side as the two of you tumble across the bed. 

Lunging, you manage to grab Mr. Whiskers for all of two seconds before Zayne hauls you up by your bound wrists, forcing you arms above your head as you are pulled back against him. He’s rough, forcing your spine to arch against his chest as you hiss on impact, head thrown back against Zayne’s shoulder. “Ah-ah. What did I say about attempts to rescue the captive?” 

His tone is all mockery, grip iron against your waist even though you can tell he’s still holding himself back. Feeling each hot, ragged breath against the back of your neck, the smell of ambroxan and sandalwood surrounding you. You breathe in deeper, shaking despite yourself.

“Let go of me!”

‘’Close. I believe the actual line was ‘unhand me.’”

Zayne hauls you further up the mattress, hooking your bound wrists onto the post of your bedframe as this new position forces you to face the wall, all while his free hand adjusts his glasses, scanning the next few lines. “‘I’d rather die than let you win!’ she spat, her chest heaving with defiance—” He glances at you with deadpan incredulity. “Why is everyone always heaving in these scenes? Do they all have asthma?”

“You’re the worst,” you hiss, breathless from the struggle. See? Heaving, no asthma involved, just foreplay. 

“And yet…” Zayne’s voice comes closer, and you feel his bare chest once again at your back, “you’re the one who wrote it. I’m simply giving you an immersive experience.”

“Can’t be fully immersive if I have yet to believe you, villain.” Scoffing, you turn around, craning your neck just to glare him in the eyes. “You don’t have what it takes.”

Zayne chuckles, then silence. Forcing your head towards the wall again, you feel him lean down, still out of sight despite the heat radiating off his body, his nose brushing down your bare throat as he spits out the next line.

“Brat.”

You hate how immediately your body responds to that. How you shiver and lean back despite the restraints, how a part of you wants to fight, to keep the act going, because god, the idea of letting Zayne do anything he wants to you is enough to make your head spin.

Zayne’s teeth press against your neck, just below your ear, and you whine, the sound so small and deprived that you instantly bite your tongue and curse yourself for reacting like this.

So then he does it again.

A pitched gasp.

A broken moan.

Each noise he elicits from you is another cruel victory, and when you grind your ass back against Zayne’s increasingly obvious erection, he all but tears your scrubs down your thighs, the cotton of your panties not standing a chance against his desperation. 

In truth, Zayne had never been harder in his life. Did he intentionally pick the most on-the-nose dialogue just to watch you squirm? Perhaps. But he’d be lying if he said seeing you battle against primal desire beneath him, feeling your half-hearted attempts to fight him, accidentally grinding your ass against him with every squirm didn’t make him want to push you even further. 

Every breath came out heavy, chest heaving as he continued his performative reading, large palms alternating between slapping and gently squeezing your ass. 

“You’re greedy,” a kiss against your shoulder, shucking your scrubs down your knees. “Impatient,” another kiss, this time down your spine, throwing your pants across the bedroom. “And utterly disobedient.” 

You’re already stripped bare from the chest down. 

He can't deny the sight of you in such a compromising position is a sight to behold, and the urge to keep reading just to see how far he can push you is intoxicating. Panting, he pauses only to readjust his glasses, foggy and slipping down his nose. 

You, however, are too impatient.

"Zayne, please, you got your point across. You win. Just— ah, just fuck me already."

It's the first time in nearly a week that Zayne gets to hear you ask for him, beg for him, and it's all the reminder he needs for his body to fail him, shuttering against you with a moan of his own. How did he survive so long without this? Without you? 

Your voice rings against his skull, and it’s all he ever wants to hear. Moan his name, beg for him, scream it, call it out, anything. He needs you, irreversibly.

And not just for this.

So instead, Zayne looks back at your doc one last time, reading, “To think this is the city’s great hero. How I’ll enjoy breaking you.”

With a click, your phone turns off, tossed carelessly to the floor with a heavy thud that would have sent you into a panic had Zayne not chosen that exact moment to bite into the soft flesh behind your neck, thumb instantly finding your clit. 

The sensation alone is enough to make you cry, arching further up against the bindings. His hand snakes back around your hip, grounding, just barely brushing against the heat of your cunt, and the way he breathes out a low, half-delirious chuckle at the sound of you panting his name has your core fluttering for more.

"Please, Zayne, please," you whine, and the second the pleas leave your mouth, his thumb presses delicious circles into your neglected bundle of nerves. You whine, loud and needy, the second his fingers sink inside, held up only by Zayne’s arm wrapped around your waist and the tie pinning you against the bed frame. 

“Already begging? I wonder how much more obedient you’ll be after I fuck it all out of you.” And god, Zayne wanted to mock such an obscenely written line just to watch you blush all over, because what sort of villain would actually say such a thing? 

But when he sees you whimper at his words, when you arch so willingly into his punishment, when he feels your heartbeat quicken under his fingertips, he suddenly can’t say he faults any of these romance writers, for he now knows he’d do far worse than any of their cardboard villains. 

Zayne doesn’t even need to read the next line in the doc to know exactly what he’d do next. 

All but falling to the mattress, Zayne pulls your hips up, up until you’re atop his face, sinking his tongue between your folds before dragging all the way up to your clit, sucking with enough tension to make you scream. 

Your hands burn from where they chafe and fight against the tie, bucking violently against Zayne’s face, the cold kiss of his glasses frames making you jolt as he pulls your hips toward him like it’s the last thing keeping him sane.

“No,” Zayne groans between breaths, unable to part with you as he messily kisses your inner thigh before coaxing two fingers inside you with a thrust. “Don’t run. Do not run from me.”

Every scissor of his fingers forces obscene sounds from your cunt, silenced only by Zayne’s mouth and his own muffled praises. Granted, it didn’t matter how loud he was being, not with all of your delirious moans, completely unsuppressed as Zayne’s calculated ministrations took you apart thrust by thrust. 

At least you can remember being thankful that your apartment walls were sound-proofed. Breath ragged, mind spinning, only mindlessly fighting back as you babble, “Wait, you’re so- ah- fuck. Zayne!”

Quite canonically to your villain, Zayne’s hips buck into empty air in time to every thrust of his fingers, imagining it was his cock fucking deep into you instead. It’s a line he’s fantasized about crossing time and time again. 

But that’s where it stops. Fantasy. Because just the thought of it has Zayne groaning into your cunt, the taste and feel of you alone driving him insane, a point of obsession where he cannot allow himself to go any further. He can’t. He can’t, he really shouldn’t. 

He’d never recover, he’d never stop wanting— needing you. He’s addicted enough as is.

Zayne’s shirt had almost fully unbuttoned but his trousers remained, bulging as his cock wept from its prison against his thigh, fabric dark and painfully restraining. The mere friction was too little and overstimulating all at once. Even so, he can’t help but chase the phantom feeling, grinding against nothing as you fall apart above him.

When your shaking thighs finally begin to lock around his jaw, he welcomes the cage, burrowing his face deeper as the strong arch of his nose presses against your throbbing clit. Zayne’s slick fingers are delegated to merely keeping your hips still, his tongue fucking you through your orgasm as his hips follow your same rhythm.

One touch, one touch is all he needs to cum with you, but Zayne refuses to do anything but work you through your high. He swallows the taste of you, open-mouthed and needy, a moan rumbling deep in his chest as you feel it hum through you. 

Gasping, you look down, and immediately you feel your core flutter— the sight enough to have you wishing he was back in between your thighs already.

Zayne’s entire body shakes beneath you, dark hair mused and hands digging into your hips in ways you know will leave half-moon marks. But what has you trembling is the sight of his hazel eyes eclipsed to near black, completely blown out and teary as they try and fail to focus on anything other than your pussy still fluttering above him. Something you can barely see at all, not with the amount of cum that squirted across his glasses, foggy and skewed across his nose as it too glistens with your release. 

It’s an obscene picture you only get for a moment before Zayne chucks his glasses off just to place a closer, deeper set of kisses on your cunt. Practically chasing every buck of your hips, he happily lets you ride his face until your room begins to blur yet again, weightless and utterly fucked. 

You’re panting, vision still coming back in waves as you register Zayne untying your hands, all the while kissing the light bruises that remain. 

And yet you can hardly think of anything other than the fact that he still hasn’t properly fucked you.

“Zayne,” you call, and god, something in your chest squeezes at just how fast he whips his head around, already ducking to meet your eyes as he scans down your face. There’s worry etched into his features, his eyes scanning yours like he’s already bracing for whatever you’ll say next.

“I’m sorry, I knew I should have taken better precautions. If your hands hurt I can get a salve from—”

“Fuck me.”

Silence. 

Zayne blinks, his mouth parting and eyes squinting as though he misheard– or somehow misread–  you.

“What?” he manages, his voice barely above a whisper. 

You sit up on your knees, pulling off your shirt one swift movement so you’re completely naked, then lean forward until your noses nearly touch, his eyes dropping to your breasts. The boldness only shakes him further. “I’m sorry, I can’t let you run away this time. I want—” Reaching your hand out, your fingers trail down Zayne’s bare chest, hardly even pushing for him to fall backward. And for you to follow on top. “I want to do this for you. I want you.”

Zayne’s breath is deceptively steady, and if you couldn't feel the ragged rhythm of his chest, rising and falling as it burns against your palm, you wouldn’t have believed he was affected at all. 

“You don’t-wait- have to—” he starts, but his voice breaks when your fingers trace the curve of his ribs, lips following suit as you place gentle kisses down his sternum, his slender abs, dangerously close to the v-line dipping into his pants that you can’t help but lick, smiling in delight as his words finally fail him. 

“Neither did you. You’re rather stubborn, doctor,” you insist, soft but unwavering. Resting your head against his thigh, you coax his jaw down to look at you, the palm still resting against his chest finding the erratic thrum of his heartbeat beneath your touch. “Let me take care of you for once. Don’t you know good patients listen?”

Zayne huffs a quiet laugh, the sound strained as he looks down at you, right side of his lips curving into a faint smirk despite the way his body seems to ignite at your touch. “Bringing in our professional titles seems a little underhanded, don’t you think?” 

 “Ah, but it got your attention, didn’t it?” You don’t let him stall anyone— already he’s managed to keep this from you for weeks, really it’s a shame you haven’t stripped him earlier— letting your tongue trace the dip of his hip once more, humming as his muscles tense under the sudden attention. 

Greedy, your lips continue to worship every sharp edge and curve of Zayne’s abdomen, hands busy with his buckle until you manage to find a particularly sensitive spot just above his right hip bone. 

All his composure, all his calculated confidence, you want to break it apart until there’s nothing left but Zayne. Just Zayne. 

Zayne inhales sharply, eyes screwing shut as his mouth falls open in a picture of perfect debauchery you want etched into your mind forever. One hand fists into the sheets beside him, the other flying to your hair as your kisses turn to a dizzying mix of licks and nips. Hard enough to mark, you bite into skin, tongue flicking between your teeth, echoing across the room alongside the wet sounds of your mouth at work. 

“Ah, fuck.”

Cursing already? Perhaps this would be easier than you thought, but where’s the fun in that?

You pull back, watching Zayne blink in confusion as his hips twitch up toward your mouth, and you have to force back a laugh as he stares, bewildered, like he can hardly believe the sight in front of him.

His voice comes out huskier than before, low and coated with desire. "Why did you stop?"

You pull back just enough to look up at him, cheek resting on his thigh as you play with his zipper, never looking away from Zayne’s eyes even as they flutter closed in frustration, desperate for more. Tension practically radiates off of him, but you only smile, taking your time as you trail your fingers away from his zipper and bulge, teasing the sensitive edges of his hip and the skin peaking just over the edge of his trousers. 

“Don’t worry, doctor,” you murmur, your voice low and teasing. “I’ll be sure to complete your procedure just as thoroughly as you did on me.” 

Oh, and Zayne must realize how utterly fucked he is, for you won’t be letting him go not until you’ve adequately paid him back for all the times he’s deliberately edged you to the point of tears, all the times he’s reprimanded your attitude, all the sweet punishments you’ve ensured that you’re going to give back to him tenfold. 

But before he can try and sweet-talk his way into mercy, your teeth catch on his zipper, dragging it down as your free hand unlaces his belt, tossing it across the room by the time his bulge presses out from between the metal teeth all on its own.

Achingly hard already, and you haven't even begun.

The fact that you know he’s this hard just from eating you out certainly doesn’t help. 

His boxers are soaking, the obvious bulge only emphasized by the way the damp cotton seems to stick to him, and god does the size of him make your core flutter. 

Maybe next time you’ll get him to come just by eating you out. 

Next time, though.

Without warning, your fingers wrap around his cock, freeing it from the confines of his boxers. A hiss grits out through Zayne’s teeth as his jaw clicks and a vein thrums against his neck from the pressure. 

You're so used to having Zayne above you, between your legs, teasing you senseless as his fingers or tongue bring you to the edge over and over again. And now, here he is. Spread out, and all yours to ravage.

The realization alone has you throbbing, prior orgasm all but forgotten as you feel the want burn between your thighs again.

If only he could see how wet you were already.

How could he not, with the way your hips were rocking against his still-clothed thigh, searching for the friction he wouldn’t give?

And yet, despite your impatience, your eyes never leave Zayne, watching the way his muscles flex as he resists the urge to move, ever obedient for you.

"Good boy," you purr, meaning only to tease him further, but instead of the faux glare or inscrutable comment you were expecting, Zayne tenses beneath you, his cock jumping against your palm. Your eyebrows raise, a breathless giggle betraying your intentions as you lean in closer.

"Oh? Do you like that, baby? Being told just how perfect you are for me?”

You're not sure what's more arousing, the fact that Zayne is practically coming undone at your words, or the fact that he hasn't denied a thing.

God, his body feels hot. The mere praise has a dusky blush racing down his gorgeously sculpted chest all the way to the tips of his ears, his bottom lip tucked between his teeth as he looks down between the two of you, to where you’re still teasing the weeping slit of his dick. He moans before he could even stop himself. Fuck. 

Shivering, Zayne reaches out to grasp your wrist, and for a moment you think he's going to put a stop to your little power trip. But his hand only comes up to guide yours, urging you to pump his cock a bit faster, stopping to put more pressure against the base, and you can't help but smirk knowing he must be truly desperate if he's already rushing you to jerk him off properly. 

"My, my, doctor. I suppose I’m not the only one who’s been holding back.” You click your tongue, a teasing edge to your voice. "Were you really so desperate to feel me around your cock, hmm?"

Hazel eyes narrow at the pure filth behind your words, but you see the furrow between his brows, the way Zayne’s throat bobs as he throws his head back with a choked groan. If he looks so damn pretty now, you wonder what kind of faces he’ll make when he cums. 

“You truly are horrible,” He groans, hesitating, hands clenching into the sheets before they fly up to your waist, gently bucking his hips into your awaiting palm. “Mhm- please.”

You hum, lazily sinking to your stomach so your bare chest presses against his still-clothed thighs. With each stroke you can feel his muscles twitch beneath you, see the way his jaw clenches and unclenches, the way his hand guides yours, tightening and loosening, urging you to go faster, harder.

Your mouth waters, and the urge to taste him is far too tempting to resist. 

Plus, you’ve had enough with denying yourself, and more than enough of Zayne denying himself as well. 

So right as Zayne’s head rolls back against the pillows you rock forward, licking a slow stripe up his dick, up between the gap of your fingers where they grip his base. 

Zayne chokes on his breath, hand immediately tangling in your hair, rough enough that it has you wrenched away with a breathless whine. He groans, words shaking out in breathless huffs, “You, hah- this isn’t, fuck—”

"Ah, ah, pretty boy, let me take care of you, yeah?" You fight to come back to him, smiling as Zayne’s grip immediately loosened, and you kiss his tip in thanks.

Rubbing teasing circles into his thighs, your thumbs then move up, tracing his v-line, addicted to the way his muscles tense under your nails and to the red lines that follow. It makes you want to mark him up more. So you do, with your nails again, then with your teeth and tongue. 

“Look at how- shit- how excited you are for me. So pretty.” You lean forward, pressing wet, messy kisses just below his navel and all around his already sticky thighs, heady and coated in pre-cum. 

Another bite, and you squeeze his balls with just enough pressure as you watch his eyes roll back in time. "I'm going to make this so, so good for you, baby.” 

Zayne all but sobs at that.

Every carefully restrained thought breaks completely at the praise, a raspy moan grinding through his teeth before his jaw falls open with every ragged huff of breath. 

“Mhm that’s it, you’re doing so well,” you say, smiling at the way his cock twitches, violently leaking, pre-cum pooling into your palm and dripping down your wrist. “So pretty, so perfect just for me.”

With one last kiss on Zayne’s tip, your hands steadies itself against his abdomen before you kitten-lick around the tip of his cock, and then greedily shove as much of his throbbing erection as you can down your throat.

Zayne tenses, gasping, and the sound sends a thrill down your spine. You press further, tongue flattening along the underside of his shaft, and fuck he’s so thick you nearly choke, forgetting to breathe in through your nose as the lack of oxygen gets to you embarrassingly fast. 

If only you had some more time to properly adjust, you'd force him to the hilt without a doubt. But patience has never been your virtue. 

You’re already edging yourself with every slow grind of your clit against Zayne’s thigh, and you can feel his desperation in every throb along the underside of his cock in your mouth, letting his tip hit the back of your throat, breaching as deep as you could allow.

Zayne begins to buck forward only to freeze halfway, a low hiss leaving him as his hand twitches against the sheets, knuckles turning white as he fights his own self-restraint as you urge him deeper into your hot mouth. Trying to pull you off him, Zayne’s hand laces through your hair as a warning, large enough to cup the back of your neck entirely, but the action only lets you take him further. 

Then he makes the fatal mistake of looking down at you, locking eyes with your teary gaze as you maintain eye contact before licking up his length, and then swallowing him back down, crying as mascara and drool runs down your chin. His hips stutter upwards, and then he catches the shallow bulge now pressing against the base of your throat. Up and down and back again.

The sight breaks him.

He throws his head back with a whine, and fuck, his sounds thrums against your skull, reverberating through your very being as he snaps, hips bucking wildly into your mouth, his powerful thighs trembling around your head. You’re being used as nothing more than a fucktoy now, hands scrambling for purchase against his abdomen for a semblance of control as you take it.

Fuck, maybe it’s the praise, because you make Zayne want to be greedy with the way you were gagging and choking around him.

The mere feeling of you drooling around his length, the way your moans come out muffled and wet with drool and his slick, like a messy kiss to his cock, has his hips stuttering deeper, arching up into your body until Zayne can practically feel the spark of his orgasm behind his eyes. 

But no, that won't do.

After all, you won’t be satisfied until he’s finally fucking himself inside you tonight. He can’t cum anywhere else. You won’t let him.

And right when you feel his cock go rigid, you tighten your hand around the base, and pull off. 

Heaving, you shakily prop yourself back onto your elbows, Zayne's length glistening with saliva between your bodies, twitching violently and leaking all across his abdomen and your chest from its angry red tip. 

“S’pretty, Zayne.”

Zayne moans, hips chasing after the heat of your mouth, hissing when all he feels is the cold air. He wants to protest, wants to ask for more, but you shush him with a kiss.

Your tongue laps across his skin, tracing the ridges of his abs, lapping the pre-cum and sweat that gathers there. You lick a trail, following the sharp cut of his hips.

"What, is that all you can take?" you ask, a teasing smirk on your face.

Zayne curses, a frown tugging at the corner of his lips. “Depends.” His voice is fucked rough, raw, and you never want him to stop talking. ”Was that the full treatment?” 

You hum, biting the inside of his thigh. He gasps, and it turns into a deep groan when you press an open-mouthed kiss over the forming mark.

“No,” you admit, “You’re not escaping until I get to watch you come undone.”

You smile at the shudder both your words and actions draw, the way his fingers tighten in your hair. “Ah, but not here. In me. I want you to fill me up, baby, make a mess of me. I can take it, I promise. And when you're done, I'm going to ride you until you come again. Sound good, my pretty boy?"

Zayne throws his head back with a moan, eyes squeezed painfully shut as though he can’t decide if this really is real or if a succubus was haunting his dreams to every sinful memory he has of you.

Zayne leans into your touch, following your palm as he nuzzles into you with a huff of hot breath. A little like a kitten in a man's body— a sexy body no doubt— but you wonder, not for the first time, if the reason he always holds back is simply because he was afraid. As you were. Until Zayne came to you, until he showed you what pleasure felt like.

So you take his face in your hands, forcing him to look at you, and then kiss him.

He lunges up to meet you halfway, licking into your mouth, fisting into your hair, breathing in every moan and whimper of his name as he hums it right back. Needy, so damn needy for it. 

You smile through the kiss, grinding up and down his muscular thigh alongside the desperate smashing of mouths. Tongue-heavy, teeth scraping, sucking at the corner of your lips. So fucking hungry for you that he’s practically lifting you right off the mattress with just one arm. 

His mouth distractedly chases down your throat leaving opened-mouth kisses before slotting back against your lips, hot and demanding and urgent. 

“Zayne, ah—” you’re cut off with another kiss, “Mhm, please, need you,” another, Zayne looping two arms around your thighs, hiking your knees up to his shoulders, the stretch burning. “Need you in me, now.”

He moans into your open mouth at those words, eager enough that he chases you up, nearly pinning you beneath him until you break the kiss with a gasp, shoving him back down. Zayne whines at the break of your lips, brows furrowed as his back hits the mattress, trapped under you once again, panting.

"Need you, pretty boy." You whisper against his lips, and it sounds just like a promise. "Please, let me take care of you.”

Zayne takes a shaky breath, nodding, drunk on the praise and readjusts himself against the pillows. He watches, eyes half-lidded, as you straddle his waist. Rough hands find your hips and hold them steady as you settle climbing atop him, the head of his cock rubbing between the folds of your soaked cunt. 

It isn’t lost on you how Zayne can barely stop staring at the slick that trails down your thighs, all of it coating his shaft in slick as your pussy hovers over him, connecting the two of you in wet, sticky strands.

"Like what you see, doctor?"

You lick down the milky column of his neck and Zayne groans, leaning back to grant you access. "You and your smart-ass mouth."

“You love it.”

Ya, he does. He could probably cum just from watching you like this.

Leaning forward, you line his cock up with your entrance, smirking at the way his eyes narrow, heart racing beneath your palms as you balance yourself on his pecks, shamelessly groping them.

"Do you have any idea how many times I've thought about this? How many times I've imagined riding your cock, hearing the sweet noises you make as I make a mess of you?"

Zayne opens his mouth, as if to say something, but whatever it is doesn't matter, not as you guide the swollen red tip of his cock through your folds, thick tip pushing and sliding past your entrance, unable to fit even with your combined slick. Teasing, swollen pussy lips drooling right down onto his leaky head when just a simple nudge of Zayne’s squirming hips would end this torment and have you fucked flush against him— raw.

"Please," he groans, his voice raspy and hoarse, eyes fluttering closed, glassy with lust, "I can't- I can't take this. Please,” a low moan of your name has you delirious, and god, you’d give him anything he’d ask for. “I admit it, I need you. So please.”

Were you more than happy to oblige. 

Lifting yourself all the way up on your knees, you steadily apply more pressure to your entrance, working yourself further and further until you could feel your slick drip down your thighs and his cock, each movement now accompanied by an unholy squelch. You slide his cock over your cunt—back, then forward—stimulating your clit with the head each time he fucks it through your folds, desperate as your movements become rougher and more forced.

Zayne’s cock catches against your entrance once again, and a low, breathy moan escapes his lips. He could feel your cunt finally yield to the pressure of his large, overbearing cock, could feel the way your legs trembled, threatening to give way, and he can't help but wonder if this is how you would look, how you would sound and feel, when he fucked you.

As soon as he feels the flutter of your core against his tip, he knows he’s lost, the head of Zayne’s cock sliding into you with a lewd pop as you both moan. 

"Mhm, yes," you moan, voice a high-pitched keen. "Just- ah, like that."

Zayne bites his lip, fingers digging into your hips, and fuck, after being edged not once but twice today he already feels deliciously overstimulated and close, too close.

So it certainly doesn't help when you rock yourself up onto your knees, then drop yourself all the way back down his shaft, taking him all the way in until his balls slap against your ass.

You even don't wait for either of you to adjust before doing it again, and the velvety hot squeeze of your cunt has Zayne seeing stars.

“Ah, f-fuck, oh, shit. S’good Zayne,“ you coo, "Feels so good, fuck."

You’re dripping down your thighs, gushing around him like a vice as he watches his cock disappear into your cunt with a creamy white ring already at his base. 

It’s all turning Zayne delirious with the way you continue to feed him compliment after compliment. It’s all so much, too much, and a low moan is forced out of Zayne’s chest as he begins rocking his hips up to meet yours, hardly even letting you pull out before bullying his way back into you. 

Fuck, you can feel him everywhere, his cock hitting your cervix, your walls stretched tight around him, a mixture of his and your slick pooling onto his abdomen as you chase your way up and down his length.

But god, what you feel is nothing compared to how absolutely wrecked Zayne looks.

His eyes are screwed shut, chest rising and falling rapidly, the flush from his ears having spread to his gorgeously marked-up chest, his neck, the angry red tip of his cock. His brows are drawn together, jaw clenched, the muscles in his neck and shoulders strained as he holds himself back, every part of him curling up to meet yours and press you down, closer. 

But then he turns away, eyes screwed shut as you feel his tip jerk against your cervix once more. 

No. No, no, no that won’t do.

Zayne has watched you come undone countless times. He’s been a worshiper and witness to pleasures you didn’t think you could feel, and this time, you want him to be the subject of all your adoration. To finally give him back all the love he’s taught you to feel and more. 

So you lean down, cupping Zayne’s cheek with one hand as you continue to ride him. “Look at me, baby. Y-you're so, fuck, so big, Zayne, fuck—” You gasp a sharp breath as he twitches violently inside you at the praise, slurring your words. “Mhm, love your cock so much."

But you doubted he could hear you— fuck, you wouldn’t even be able to tell if Zayne was breathing at this point if it wasn’t for the throbbing of his cock against your walls in time to his erratic heartbeat— because his eyes rolled back into his skull, jaw slack as a silent moan rips from his chest, shuddering down his spine right before his hips snap up into yours, throwing you off balance, pinpointing your g-spot with cruel accuracy as you scream.

Your sounds and babble of praises have him dizzy, eyes half-lidded and hazy as he struggles to focus on your face. It almost looks like he’s about to cry, dark lashes wet with unshed tears. You’d tease him for it, had you the capacity to think at all. But no, each thrust continues to bully into that sweet, spongy spot inside you as you moan, and Zayne’s mouth falls open with a cry of his own.

You chase into it with a kiss, clashing your teeth as you feel his tongue lap against yours, sucking hard. You feel the wrecked, blissed-out smile on your face, breaking away from him just long enough for Zayne to see how ruined and turned on he’s making you.

"Y-you're close, aren't you, my sweet boy?" You ask, the words coming out strained as Zayne fucks up into you. Pumping upwards, it’s like he wasn’t even trying every time his weeping head rams your sensitive spots. Just stuffing you full of his cock he denied you for so long, furious enough to mold you to his very shape. "C'mon, cum for me, Zayne. In me, please–ah."

You pull away even as his lips chase yours, arching your back so that your full weight grinds back on his hips. Zayne all but whimpers at the change in angle, his hands gripping the bed sheets as he tries not to starve off his orgasm. 

"Please, please," he groans, his jaw clenching.

"Look at me, Zayne."

He does, and his pupils are so blown, his eyes nearly black.

"Cum for me, baby," you beg again, grinding down against him as his hand comes up to grope your chest the same moment your palm leaves to cup his balls, and that's all it takes.

Zayne comes, a cry ripped from his throat, his cock throbbing inside of you. You can feel the sheer warmth filling you, his seed spilling out and leaking onto the sheets, and god, there’s so much of it that cum squirts out from between the two of you, splattering up his abs and your thighs. 

He’s trembling, head falling back as his hips jolt and stutter, still fucking up into you as though it can’t bear to part. You’re probably not helping with the way you still rocking on his length, your cunt milking his orgasm, and he can't take it, it's too much, too fucking good, he can't stop, never wants to.

But, fuck, one look at his face, and you already want him to cum again.

Zayne looks like sin, sweat slicking his hair to his forehead, his body writhing and straining as he gasps for breath, his skin shining in the afterglow of his release. The muscles of his neck are taut, veins pulsing and straining, his lips bitten red. He is fucking gorgeous, and the thought that he has done this for you, to you, has another wave of arousal shooting up your spine. 

“You…” Zayne’s brows pinch together, but his voice is low, dangerous. Unyielding. “You didn’t cum.”

“I already did, besides I-I ah, Zayne—!”

You’re cut off by your own pussy, lewd squelching accompanying every brutal thrust Zayne overstimulates the both of you with, bullying his own cum out of you with each rhythmless thrust back in. He plants his feet into the mattress, thrusting his hips up as you claw at his shoulders, chest, the slap of skin on skin ringing in your ears.

“No, that isn’t-” Zayne’s words slur, feverish and mindless as his gaze zero’s in to where the two of you meet, the sound of every wet, messy thrust and the slight bulge he now sees in time to his thrusts. “Not enough. With me. Please, hah, cum with me, love.”

Transfixed, one hand drifts to the bulge at your navel, and before he can stop himself, he grinds the heel of his palm against it. Immediately, overbearing pressure shoots up your spine, a broken scream leaving you as you tremble above him, arching violently forward. 

You try and speak, protests leaving as nothing more than garbled whimpers as you claw at Zayne’s wrist, trying and failing to pry his punishing grip off you. 

He doesn’t relent.

How could he, when you’ve finally given him yourself? When this was everything he’s denied himself and more? 

Fuck control, fuck discipline, fuck holding himself back. Zayne wants you. 

Vision blurry, drool dribbling down the corner of your mouth, your combined cum gushes out of your overfilled pussy and spreads in a lewd little pool beneath you. It’s all you can do to take it, Zayne overstimulating the both of you to insanity, but his hips keep the same punishing rhythm. Two slow, deep thrusts before something snaps and he hammers into you twice. Thrice. Then begins all over. 

It’s effortless, the way he bounces your body up and down with one hand, the other remaining pressed against your abdomen, massaging the outline of his dick showing through with every grind forward, rolling your clit between his forefinger and thumb. 

Large hands splay your thighs wider, closer, impossibly stretching you out until all you can feel is Zayne, Zayne, Zayne. You don’t realize you’re chanting his name out loud too. And you never felt more gloriously out of control than when he abruptly jerks his thigh upwards– driving you right along with it– hitting your cervix all at once.

There’s no rhythm. Not anymore. You’re hardly lucid, dropping your full weight down just to meet Zayne’s cock as he pulls you down prone atop of him to catch your mouth in an open kiss as he hits your g-spot again. And again. And again and again and—

“Love,” he all but moans it into your lips, low and broken and oh so addicting. “My love, please.” God, he’s still so painfully hard but the feeling of you fluttering around him, getting tighter each time he calls you love, must be a sort of heaven. “Please– hah, fuck– cum. Cum all over my cock.”

You whine, surging forward to kiss him again, and he feels it, couldn’t do or think of anything but it as you cum around his cock for the first time. 

Zayne’s eyes open even as you continue to suck and lick into his mouth, brows furrowed and vision blurring, lost in every hot pulse of your walls as they coaxed him further and further in, your release squirting against him as you struggle to drag your hips off him again, pussy sucking his cock in deeper, unwilling to let him go. 

Shaking, his hands find their way back to your hips, settling over the light bruises as he guides you up and down again, startling you as you moan into his lips. 

“Zayne,” you whine his name between kisses, strings of spit snapping between you, Zayne chasing hazily after your mouth before you cup his face in your hands. 

God, the sound of his name on your lips is enough to have him keening, pressing his forehead to yours as his entire body trembles. 

You’re coming again before you even realize it, vision spinning in and out as Zayne continues to fuck you through it. Zayne makes a noise, something between a moan and a whimper, his hips slowing despite himself. 

You're gorgeous, the sight of you atop him, still slurring out compliments, and it's too much, fuck, too fucking much, too fucking perfect, his perfect woman. 

With a final snap of his hips, Zayne comes alongside you. 

His orgasm has him gasping and his entire body bows forward, arms wrapping around your middle as he buries his face in your shoulder, kissing into the tender flesh as he just keeps cumming. 

He can't find the need to hold back this time. Not when the pleasure is so intense that his vision is turning white, not when your cunt is hot and pulsing and clenching around him, not when the praise and encouragement keep pouring out of your lips, whispering into the crook of his neck, "good job, Zayne, such a good boy for me, you did so well, my sweet boy, my love, hah, I love you."

When you finally come down from your high your body is sore and aching, the feeling of his hot cum deep inside making you whine, the sensation so much better than his fingers or toys, so much more warm and full.

Zayne’s arms are wrapped protectively across you, hugging you down atop of him even as his cock remains motionless within you, not an inch of skin untouched as his hands rub careful circles down your spine and thighs. 

You nuzzle closer, whispering more nonsensical praises into Zayne’s hair, raising a shaking arm to comb through it as he still keeps his face tucks into your shoulder, hidden and shaking softly still. 

A shift, and you feel his hot breath on your neck, a sudden drop of wetness against your skin, and you realize with a start that Zayne is crying.

He’s crying. Soft, unrestrained sobs muffle into your shoulder as he tucks you close, burrowing his face into the crook of your neck between breaths. You let him. You curl up as close as you can get onto his lap and then closer still, one hand raking through his hair in gentle reverence as you let him cry.

It is silent, save for the sound of his sobs and his labored breaths.

"I love you, Zayne," you say, as if it was the easiest thing in the world. "You really are perfect, thank you, thank you."

You kiss his forehead, then down his cheek and jaw until he finally relaxes under you. Tracing lazy patterns up and down his chest, you coax him down until he finally raises his eyes to meet yours with a flutter of tear-stained kisses to your palm. 

The first thing you notice is the way his cheeks are flushed, his eyes wavering and hazy. The second is the way his lips are swollen, the marks on his neck and chest blooming darker with each passing minute. The third is how the sweat on his skin is beginning to dry, making his hair stick up in all sorts of directions.

The fourth is the look on his face.

The look on his face is soft, tender, and unsure. Nothing like the infallible surgeon the whole city reveres, or the smart-mouthed mentor you’ve grown to admire and respect. Just Zayne. 

You brush the damp locks away from his eyes, pressing a chaste kiss to his forehead, the tip of his nose, and finally his lips, and he melts, his body falling forward onto you as he curls you into his side, tucking you down onto the bed alongside him.

“Stay with me?” He asks, his voice low, as though afraid to ask. Afraid to know.

Always. 

“You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

[sourcherryandsprinkles]

Rafe was so hot this season. Need more of him plsss Can you do Topper sister reader getting caught touching herself and then they start sexting and she ask him to fuck her? reader is 18, of course!

I have a few more Rafe requests in the work. Please keep them coming, I miss this man (and JJ!!)

Warnings: 18+, smut, brother’s best friend, sexting, daddy kink, protected p + v, 

—

Rafe never bought your sweet and innocent bullshit you put up in front of people. He knew that under your appearance, under the preppy clothes, the big doe eyes and the angelic laugh, you were anything but innocent. 

Him and Topper have been friends for over ten years, and have been hanging out almost everyday. He watched you grow two feet taller, and when your little girl body turned into a woman’s. He saw you. He studied you. 

It wasn’t until that afternoon the boys came back from the golf course that Rafe had his confirmation. Topper told him to use your bathroom since the main one was being reconstructed, thinking you weren’t home, but when Rafe walked into your room, he saw you naked on your bed, humping your pillow. It wasn’t just any pillow. It was the one with the face on it — a pillow pet, you had called it. The nose of the turtle was rubbing perfectly on your clit, drawing out the softest whimpers and mewls. 

He watched for a few seconds in silence as you rocked down on the pillow back and forth, a smirk curling on his lips. 

‘’Having fun here?’’ he said in a teasing tone, snapping you out of your bubble.

‘’What the fu—’’ You turned around, startled, and saw Rafe standing in your doorway. ‘’Rafe! What are you doing in my room?’’ 

‘’Just needed the bathroom,’’ he explained. His eyes trailed down your body, seeing it for the first time. ‘’Didn’t know you were busy.’’

You threw a plushie at him, hitting him square in the chest. ‘’Get out!’’ 

Rafe laughed and obeyed, closing the door behind him. ‘’If you want to do some naughty things and not get caught, you should lock the door.’’ 

୨୧˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖୨୧

Since that afternoon, Rafe couldn't help but shift his eyes to you whenever you were around. Now that he knew what was underneath the skirts and girls tops, his imagination had free rein. He was careful, though, making sure your brother never caught on —Topper would kill him if he knew the things he was thinking about you. He made it crystal clear to Rafe and Kelce: you were off-limits.

You didn’t care about your brother’s rule though. Rafe was your brother’s hot best friend. Every girl in Kildare was begging to get in his pants — and now you got it too. But it didn’t cross your mind until the other day when he walked in your room. Maybe it was because you’d always known him, seen him as a kind of second big brother. But now? That image had changed, and there was no going back.

One evening, Rafe was hanging in his bedroom, ready to go out with nowhere to go since Kelce had bailed on him for a Tinder hook up. The asshole. Rafe was annoyed, but there was nothing he could say to make Kelce choose beers over sex. To be fair, He would choose sex too.  

He had texted Topper, but he was at Ruthie’s, which meant Rafe was completely on his own tonight. He’ll probably smoke a bit of weed and watch some porn later, a cozy evening. But Wheezie was still home and Rafe promised her he had quit smoking. 

As he waited, his phone buzzed on his bed where he left it. Rafe picked it up, confused when he had received a picture from an unknown number. It was a faceless girl in a delicate sheer pink cami, and her tits looked fantastic. He frowned as he typed ‘who’s that?’. Must be a mistake.

A reply came five seconds later.

You: You don’t recognize my tits Rafey?

Instantly, he knew it was you. It was a nickname you gave him when you were younger. No one but you called him that — Rafey. 

Rafe: How did you get my number?

You: Stole it from Top’s phone 🤭

Rafe: Naughty girl 

You: Did you like it?

Rafe: Like what?

You: My pic! 📸

You: [picture attached]

It wasn’t the same picture. Not exactly. This time, your sheer cami was pulled up and your tits were completely out. 

Rafe cursed and ran a hand through his hair. How did that happen? It was clear that you sent this picture with the intention of initiating something with him. But why was this happening now? What made you go and send him a picture of your tits tonight? You never flirted with him before, or showed signals that you were interested. 

He reached down to rub himself over his pants as he typed a reply. 

Rafe: Fuck those are nice 🥵 

You: They’re cold…🧊❄️ Can you come warm them up? 

Rafe had to do a double take when he read your message to make sure he hadn’t misread it. Can you come warm them up? It was right there on his phone screen. He looked down at his pants, tented and tight, and groaned. He wasn't sure if he should go through with this or not. Did he want to go to you? Absolutely. Should he break his best friend’s trust for a good fuck? 

Rafe: As long as you warm me up too. 

He sent a picture of his tented pants, which he was incredibly hard under.

You: Waiting for you 💕 

 ୨୧˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖୨୧

When he arrived, Rafe turned off the truck’s headlights and made sure the neighbors didn't see him. The lady that lived in front of the Thornton house was a country club member and loved to spread gossip around. It wasn’t unusual for him to be at the Thornton’s, but Topper’s truck was not in the driveway. 

The last thing he needed was her spying through her curtains. 

You were sitting on your bed in a pair of panties your mom didn’t know you owned and your pink cami, waiting for Rafe to show up. Tannyhill was seven minutes away, he shouldn’t be long.

‘’Hi, Rafey,’’ you greeted with the most innocent smile and doe eyes.

Rafe shook his head, tsking. ‘’Uh, uh. Don’t play that game with me.’’ 

Your lips curled into a smile. ''Took you long.''

He rolled his eyes. ‘’What’s the hurry? Are your parents coming home soon?’’ 

You shook your head. ‘’I’m just so fucking horny.’’ 

Rafe laughed out loud. He never heard you speak like that, so raunchy and bold. 

You stood on your knees and lifted your cami off, leaving you topless. Your nipples were peaked and pretty, as if greeting Rafe. ''Are you gonna come and warm them up?''  

No need to ask twice. Rafe pulled you onto his lap and put his large hands on you, groping and playing with your tits. His calloused fingers kneaded into the soft flesh expertly. He found your hardened nipples, pinching and rolling them between his thumbs and forefingers, causing you to whimper at the sensation. 

‘’You like when I give your tits attention, uh?’’ he murmured, his breath hot against your skin.

You nodded, shifting so your needy cunt would come in contact with Rafe’s rock hard erection. He noticed what you were trying to do, and a smirk played on his lips before he attached them to your neck. 

‘’Can't get enough?’’ Rafe asked between kisses. ‘’Didn’t know you were such a needy little thing.’’ His hips rocked up into yours, grinding his thick cock against your clothed cunt. 

The friction sent sparks of pleasure shooting through your body, making you whimper and cling to his shoulders. ‘’Rafe.’’ 

‘’I'm going to fuck this sweet cunt until you can't walk straight,’’ he promised darkly, nipping over the sensitive spot where your pulse raced, making you gasp and arch into him. 

You’ve thought a lot about Rafe touching you these past days. You knew from overheard conversations with the boys — and talks around the island — and that he was experienced, that he knew how to please a girl. He had a reputation. And goddamn he didn’t disappoint. 

One of his hands left your breasts to slide down your stomach, slipping beneath the waistband of your panties to rub over your folds...which were slick with arousal. Rafe groaned. ''Fuck, you're already soaked.'' He rubbed slow circles over your clit, feeling how swollen it had gotten. ''Did you grind on that turtle of yours before I arrived? Turtles are an endangered species or some shit, can’t torture them like that.’’ 

A laugh bubbled out. ‘’Rafe…’’ 

‘’What?’’ 

‘’Don’t want you to make me laugh. Want you to fuck me,’’ you said, looking right into his blue eyes. 

Rafe raised an eyebrow, holding your gaze. ‘’You want my cock, babygirl? Want me to fill this pussy up real good?’’ His fingers dipped lower, teasing your entrance before pushing inside. 

Your walls clenched around him. 

‘’Rafe…’’ you whined again. 

‘’Okay, okay.’’ He kissed your jawline sweetly, then removed his hand from your panties and swiftly stripped them down your legs. ‘’Might keep these as a keepsake,’’ he joked, holding your lacy thong.  

If you hadn’t been so horny, you would have argued with him to get it back — you didn’t have many and you really liked this pair  —, but all you could think about was the beast in Rafe’s pants pounding into you and making you scream. He could get you on your fours like a dog or fold you like a little pretzel if he wished. 

You just needed him.

You reached for his belt and worked to unbuckle it, but Rafe pushed you back and told you to bend over your vanity. His request surprised you, but you complied. The cool air on your wet cunt made you shiver. You never tried that position before. 

You could hear the sound of Rafe undressing — the rustling of fabric, the undoing of a zipper and the clinking of his belt buckle on the floor. You wanted to look at him — at his cock, more precisely —, but he was already behind you, a hand on your back, making you lean down lower, and nudged your legs further apart. 

The air leaked out of your lungs in a squeaky rush when he pressed the tip, gently tearing through your tight walls. The sensation had you gripping the edge of your vanity. 

‘’You okay, baby?’’ he asked with genuine concern in his voice. 

You nodded. ‘’Y-yeah.’’ 

Once the first uncomfortable thrusts passed, you forgot about the initial pain and felt the pleasure flow through your body. Rafe gripped your hips tighter, fingers digging into your soft skin as he picked up pace. The vanity creaked, a rhythmic beat that matched your increasingly frantic movements.

Your tightness enveloped him like a vice as he pounded into you mercilessly. Christ, you felt incredible. Each deep stroke dragged a gasp from your lips, and he reveled in the sounds of pleasure you made.

''You feel so fucking good, baby,'' he grunted, gripping your hips and digging his fingers into your soft flesh. ''Is this what you wanted when you stole my number through Topper's phone? For me to fuck your tight cunt?'' 

Tears were pricking your eyes, your mouth hanging open while wanton sounds kept spilling out. ''Yes, Daddy!'' you uttered out.

The word slipped without noticing, sending a jolt straight to Rafe’s cock, making him throb inside you. ‘’That's it, baby,’’ he growled, even more turned on. ‘’Let Daddy know how much you love being fucked.’’

He pistoned into you harder, the force causing your breasts to bounce with each thrust. The obscene slapping of skin against skin echoed through the room, adding to the soundtrack of your other sounds. It looked like a scene straight from a spicy booktok romance.

Rafe brought a hand around your neck, forcing you to look up. “Look at yourself.”

You lifted your eyes to the reflection in the mirror. It was a view that was erotic. Seeing yourself nude and flushed along with him, and feeling it at the same time was nearly mesmerizing. The look on your face was hazy, strained, and blissful, eyes half-lidded and lips parted. You locked eyes with Rafe through the mirror, and he kissed below your ear.

Behind you, sweat was sticking to Rafe’s smooth chest, but he didn't slow down. He must have really good stamina. You locked eyes with him through the mirror, and he kissed below your ear. 

‘’Are we putting on a good show?’’ he asked, his voice hoarse and low. His words made your cunt clench around Rafe like a vice. He threw his head back with a groan, his whole body tightening. ''Fuck, you're gonna cut my blood flow if you keep squeezing me like that.''

You wanted to stop, but you couldn’t. You had lost all control of your body, gasping and clenching and rutting hard against Rafe until you came with a drawn-out moan. You shivered through your orgasm and Rafe's steady thrusts. 

When he started to shake, you swallowed hard and found your voice. ‘’Come on, Rafey. Fill me up. Cum deep in my pussy, Daddy!’’ 

That pushed him over the edge, his whole body spasming, cock forced all the way in and filling up the condom. Your chest heaving, trying to catch a breath as he rode out the high, grunts and groans leaving his lips. 

You've never heard anything sexier. 

When he was finished, Rafe pulled out and stepped back, leaving alone on your wobbly legs. You started to lose balance, and quickly grabbed the vanity's edge.

‘’Shit, you good?’’ Rafe asked, his tone hovering between concern and smug satisfaction.

You gave a small nod. You just needed to sit. 

His eyes scanned slowly down your body. ''Fucked you that good, uh?'' he said with a smirk, teasing. 

You shot him a playful glare, going to sit on your bed. ‘’Fuck you, Cameron.’’ 

Rafe laughed as he removed and tossed the condom in your trash. ‘’Just did, Princess.’’ 

God. Could he be more exasperating?

He checked on the way back, reading something that made him frown. ‘’Eh, I gotta go.’’

‘’Now?! We just fucked.’’ 

Although this was a casual fuck and that it’s usually how it ends, you didn’t want him to leave right after. You didn’t expect him to cuddle, but you had hoped he would stay a little. To talk or watch something on Netflix. 

Rafe dressed quickly, explaining that Wheezie needed to drive her to her friend’s house because Rose’s car was not starting. 

Before exiting your room, he called your name. ‘’You sound so pretty when you cum.''

Your cheeks flushed and you hid your face with a pillow. ''Rafe...'' 

The corners of his lips curved into a smug smile. He wasn’t done. ‘’Oh, and I liked when you called me Daddy. It's hot.''

—

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[roanofarcc]

WORTH YOUR WHILE

pairing. Tyler Owens x fem!reader

summary. as the local weather woman, you shared an interesting rivalry with your hometown storm-chaser. while you always reported on the dangerous weather from a safe distance, tyler barreled into it head-first. but things change the night of the county fair when you find yourself in the middle of a storm rather than in the safely of a newsroom. 

warnings. dramatic fluff, hurt/comfort, description of tornados, a curse word or two, description of injury, slightly inaccurate meteorological info.

word count. 2.9k || masterlist

a/n. hopping on the glen powell bandwagon bc he and daisy absolutely killed it in twisters!! feel free to send me requests for tyler, kate, and javi!

“If you keep looking at him like that your face will get stuck in a scowl, which is really bad for television,” your friend said, leaning into your side. With a roll of your eyes, you managed to pull your attention away from the self-titled ‘tornado wrangler’ who had stirred up a fuss in the line for funnel cakes. People buzzed all around him as he signed shirts and took photos, never dropping his smile that you often dreamed about smacking right off of his face. 

You had grown up alongside Tyler Owens, never as friends but as friends of friends. After you both split off for school to study meteorology, you returned to your hometown for very different reasons. Tyler started in the business of storm chasing, live streaming his adventures to people all across the internet who sensationalized the dangerous weather, and you scored a job as your hometown’s Weather Woman. Your job was to warn people about the threat of tornados while his was to drive head-on into them. 

That was where you two drew your lines in the sand when it came to each other. He thought you were scared of taking risks while you thought his thrill-seeking was stupid and would eventually get him or one of his team members hurt. Those opinions on each other's job led to you two butting heads every time you encountered one another. His mere presence was enough to annoy you, especially at your favorite event of the summer, the fair. 

“Look who it is,” Tyler’s voice sounded near you and your friend nudged your arm in the direction of it. You looked away from her just as he approached you, tipping his hat and flashing his teeth in a smile. “Didn’t know they still let you out of the newsroom these days.” 

You crossed your arms over your chest, as the air of arrogance surrounding him nearly choked you out. “Don’t you have a tornado to chase?” you asked, wanting to end the conversation before it fully started. Unfortunately, he never seemed put off by your jabs, but he was assumed by them. 

“I took the night off,” he replied. “I wanted to see if there was anything worth my while here tonight.” 

You raised your brows. “Oh really?” He nodded, smiling brightly at you. “Find anything yet?” 

“Maybe,” he shrugged. “It’d be easier if she answered my phone calls.” 

Tyler disliked you a whole lot less than you disliked him. After you graduated and he started storm chasing, he tried at every given opportunity to get you to join his team. Even years later he still tried to, no matter how many times you told him the risk he was putting himself and his team in every time they barreled into a storm cell. He was relentless but you were happy where you were at. You wanted to help people when it came to severe weather, not make the storm look enticing for internet audiences. 

“I already told you, I’m not interested.” Storm chasing was a dangerous game that you had no intention of playing. Being from the Midwest, you had lived through your share of tornados. Chasing them was not in apart of your career path.

His smile faded slightly before he seemed to snap back to himself. “All I’m saying is, we could use a mind like yours out in the field.” The compliment was nice, you could admit that to yourself, but it wouldn’t win you over. He knew that too. “But suit yourself.” And with that he walked off, meeting up with the rest of his team that joined him at the fair that night. 

Your friend whistled lowly. “I don’t know how you do it,” she said. 

“Do what?” 

“Say no to a man like that.” You rolled your eyes once more as the line you were in moved. As she stepped forward to order, you threw a quick glance over your shoulder in the direction Tyler had walked off in. You saw him happily chatting with his team before glancing back at you for just a moment before you returned your gaze forward.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of colorful lights, sticky heat, and enough fried food to make your stomach ache in the best possible way. Your friend left after a couple hours of roaming the prize barns and laughing at the kids screaming their heads off on the carnival rides, but you stuck around for a little longer, relishing in the sweet nostalgia the fair brought you. 

Before you had taken a couple of well-deserved days of work, you and your team had predicted a storm front moving. Later that night was supposed to bring rainfall and a thunderstorm or two popping up around the county and neighboring areas. You thought you’d have plenty of time to roam the fair for a little longer until it hit, but you noticed the shift in the weather almost immediately. The sudden uptick in wind pricked the back of your neck as the distant rumble of thunder echoed above the fair chaos. 

It was difficult to predict everything, that you had learned early on in your career. It also was hard to predict how quickly weather could change from bad to deadly. One moment you’re gazing up through the lights into the night sky, trying to gauge the incoming storm, and the next, the sirens are blaring across the fairgrounds. 

The crowd of people running in every direction made the walkways hazardous. You were knocked into and jostled around as you tried to run toward the restrooms that doubled as storm shelters. They were clear at the opposite end of the walkway, but they were your closest option. You dodged and weaved through the swarms of people, trying to stay on your feet. 

You only made it halfway to the shelter when you were stopped by the awful cries of a little girl who sat under the counter of one of the carnival games. She hugged her knees to her chest and called out for her mom, but no one who rushed by stopped. You didn’t think twice before you sidestepped the fleeing crowd and crouched down in front of the little girl. The wind picked up significantly, blowing the cheap prizes right out of the booths and sending everything flying around and knocking into people. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” you raised your voice above the howl of wind and frantic people. 

“My mom!” she cried harder. “I lost her. I don’t know where she is!” 

You glanced back up at the sky. The lightning strikes illuminated the massive, dark mass moving in quickly. “Come with me, and I’ll help you find her, okay?” 

The noise all around grew louder, frightening the little girl, along with yourself, but as you outstretched your hand, she took it, and you quickly pulled her to her feet before you both took off running. The speakers urged everyone to seek shelter immediately, but you watched as people raced in the opposite direction of the shelters, probably bee-lining to cars in an awful call. They’d never out race it. 

“Charlotte!” Someone screamed and the little girl whipped her head around before she tugged hard on your hand. From behind you, the little girl’s mother appeared, immediately scooping up her daughter in her arms. “Oh my, God. Thank you!” she said, looking at you with teary eyes. 

“We have to take cover,” you told her, gently pushing her forward. “The shelter’s just up that way.” She thanked you again before she took off with her daughter in her arms. You wanted to follow, it was stupid not to when the wind gusts became more powerful, rattling everything dangerously and making it hard to think. But there were more people unsure of where to go and what to do. Groups of kids who had been dropped off for the evening stumbling frantically out of the rides and still dizzy. You stepped from the path and tried to direct people as best you could, shouting in tune with the speaker and the sirens for them to hurry into the shelter. 

It wasn’t until larger objects were plucked from the ground and tossed into the air like paper did you abandoned your aiding. The tornado screeched to life, ripping apart pieces of the show barns and rides with ease. You tried to close the distance between yourself and the shelter once more, but it wasn’t people in need that stopped you, it was a sheet of metal pried from the side of one of the food trucks. You tried to dodge the hurling objects, but the sheet came at you hard and fast. 

It sliced your shin, sending a wave of pain up through the rest of your leg. You stumbled, determined to stay upright, but the wind was too strong for your limping figure, and you toppled against the concrete, slamming your knees against the ground before you rolled over into the lousy shelter of a game’s tent somehow still standing. 

Panic started to set in as the storm raged around you, loud and monstrous. You covered your wound with your hands, unsure of where the blaring of the tornado ended and the fast-paced beat of your heart started, drumming in your ears and beating against your skull. You knew you couldn’t stay there, but leaving was just as dangerous as every attraction of the fair swirled around in the air. The cut from your leg painted your hands red and throbbed; it would only slow you down if you tried to run, creating even more of a risk. 

You didn’t know what to do. All of your life, the storms you had faced you’d always been lucky enough to find shelter in plenty of time, from the cellar in your backyard to your high school’s basement created just for such an occasion. 

Through the freight train sounding winds and your thundering heart, you heard a couple of voices that had to be close. Tearing your eyes away from the cut on your leg, you watched as another group of people sprinted down the walkway as someone yelled behind them to run. 

In all of your life, you’d never been so relieved to see Tyler Owens’s face standing just a few feet away; he hadn’t spotted you, and for a terrifying moment you thought he’d be unable to hear you yell out above the screaming storm. But somehow, he did. His head snapped in your direction, rain-coated and windblown, looking both out of sorts and in his element. 

“What the hell are you doing?” he yelled as he ran over to you, dodging flying debris that grew larger by the minute. The second he crouched down in front of you, his eyes flickered onto your legs, and the blood seeping out between your fingers as you tried to keep pressure on the wound. 

“I thought I’d just hang out here,” you said, your sarcasm watered down by the fear clear in your teary eyes.

His brows furrowed, deep in thought for a moment as he looked between you and the distance there was still to cross to the only close shelter. Without saying a word, he peeled off his wet flannel, leaving himself in a shirt that was already nearly soaked through as the sideways rain beat down against the both of you. “I’m gonna tie this around your leg and then we’re gonna run, okay?” 

You shook your head frantically. The ache in your legs was intense and you had already lost a good amount of blood, not enough to make you woozy but you were well on your way. It felt like your heart had crawled up your throat, making it hard to breathe as panic soaked you to the bone along with the rain. Everything around you seemed to be ripped from the ground, even the anchored tent you were under was seconds away from being picked up. 

“Hey,” he said, grabbing a hold of your shoulders, shaking you slightly. “It’ll be alright. You gotta trust me, though.” The sincerity shined in his eyes, bright as the rest of the power around you flickered wickedly. With a nod of your head, you dropped your hands from your leg and let him tie the flannel around your cut. As he pulled it tight, you cried out in pain. “I’m sorry,” he kept repeating until it was knotted. Quickly, he jumped to his feet and helped you up, looping an arm around your waist as you slung an arm around his shoulders. 

“Ready?” You didn’t get a chance to respond as the tent you were under was plucked from the ground, anchors and all, and flung backward into the tornado as it tore through the front entrance of the fairgrounds. Tyler took off, giving you no choice but to follow. 

You two stayed low, trying desperately to avoid the flying objects. With each step your leg burned, but Tyler’s hold on you was strong, not giving any room for you to lag behind or slip away. It felt like hours of running, but it was no more than a minute or two before you reached the shelter. The only major injury between the two of you was your leg, otherwise, you both collected a series of little cuts and bruises from your journey. 

Stumbling into the restroom, you were met with a hoard of scared fairgoers. You two managed to find a spot to slot yourself in with everyone else. He helped you lower yourself to the floor back in the corner just as the tornado was fully on top of you. You brought your knees up to your chest and covered your head. Tyler sat flushed against your side; you felt his hands rest over the top of yours as the building rattled violently. Squeezing your eyes shut, you refused to see the damage until the howl of wind subsided and people started to stir. 

Once it was over, everyone stumbled out of the shelter, getting jumbled together as police and ambulances rushed to the scene. Amongst people pushing and shoving to find their loved ones and get the hell home, you and Tyler were separated and before you could look for him, an EMT caught sight of your bloodied leg and ushered you to one of the ambulances. 

You sat on the back after the EMT stitched up your leg, looking over the torn-apart fairgrounds. Debris was littered everywhere, food trucks and carts overturned and some demolished, and rides were dislocated and strewn about in pieces. 

You clutched the bloodied flannel to your chest, shivering in the loss of adrenaline and temperature drop, and watched the sea of people until a familiar face popped into view, looking a little frantic as he stumbled through the crowd looking like he was in search of something. His eyes finally settled on you before he quickly pushed his way through the crowd until he reached you. 

“Hi,” you greeted, smiling tiredly. 

“I was looking for you everywhere,” he said, sounding slightly out of breath. “I looked away for a second and you were gone and-” You continued to smile, and he stopped himself. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?” 

“Nothing,” you replied quietly before clearing your throat. “I, um, I just wanted to thank you. And I’m sorry for ruining your flannel.” You gestured to the ruined piece of clothing resting in your lap. 

Tyler was quiet for a moment, looking at the large bandage around your shin. “Don’t mention it,” he said, brushing off your thanks like he hadn’t just pretty much saved your life. “What were you doing out there anyway?” 

You sighed, feeling a creep of embarrassment up your spine. You should’ve known better but at the moment you just wanted to help people and had little regard for your own safety, until your leg was sliced open, that was. “There were people still out there, trying to figure out where to go. I was trying to help.” 

“That was stupid,” he said. “But brave. Stupidly brave, maybe.” 

“Funny. I think I’ve said the same thing about you a time for two.” 

His signature smirk slowly fell onto his lips. “Not to my face.”

“Oh, no. Never.” 

Tyler laughed, gently patting your knee, lingering for a moment before he dropped his hand back at his side. Someone called out your name, and you spotted your friend running back through the crowd. She had called you as soon as you had made it to the ambulance and told you she’d come back to take you home. 

“You should get some rest,” he said. “I’ll see you around.” As he turned around to walk away, you called out to him. 

“Tyler, wait.” He paused. “You should try calling me again. Maybe I’ll answer this time.” Breaking out in a grin, he tipped his hat in another goodbye, leaving you with a new feeling stirring inside your chest. 

Bonus! 

Hours later, after you had cleaned yourself up, you were tucked into bed, reading by the lamp light knowing sleep was probably far off after the events of the night. You didn’t expect your phone to ring that late into the night, and when you glanced at it, you couldn’t help but roll your eyes at the caller ID, but that time it was something besides annoyance that you felt. 

You answered, discarding your book on your nightstand. “You don’t waste any time do you,” you teased. 

“What I can say,” Tyler said on the other line. “I know when I find something worth my while.” 

[urfriendlywriter]

How to write angst ?

@urfriendlywriter | req by @everynowandthenihaveacrisis @aidyaiden :)

know your character. from their deepest fears to what they cherish the most. know your deepest fear, ask yourself how you will react and feel at that moment. "oh shit, if this happened to me I'll lose my mind" what's that type of scenario for you? write it. :)

decide on the type of angst you are going for!

major, minor, physical, emotional, paranormal, spiritual, verbal, abusive, quarrel, misunderstanding, etc.

and then, decide on--what reaction you can take out of your character by doing what to them.

are they gonna be, held at a gunpoint to give something up? or have their soul wrecked by whom they thought were close to them? or is it going be horror, or etctec, decide on it.

moving on to actually writing it-

Tip 1 - Use sensory details.

her eyes brimmed with tears

his chest heaved

pain clawed at his heart, as his face twisted with hurt

his scream pierced my heart

her lips quivered

she dug her nails into her palms (to distract herself, to stop it from shaking, etc)

show what is happening to ur MC, instead of telling it.

Tip 2 - how to actually write it.

If they're panicking, make them notice too many things at once, show every detail that they're seeing, feeling, from touch, to that burning sensation on their eyes, the blood on the ground, that dryness of their throat, the buzzing in their head and their parted lips unable to trust their own sight, and--and, boom! have them register that they're really really in trouble. and that they've to act fast.

use short, very minimal type of writing for this. make it long, but not long enough that it feels like it's being dragged.

the readers should hold themselves back from skimming the page out of curiousity, they should be in their toes to find out what happens next.

what does your MC do in times of panic? do they chant calm down to themselves, do they get angry, or start crying.. or?? what makes your character genuinely feel an emotion so hard that they'll burst?

there's always something, someone that'll always give them love and easily can be that something or someone to take it away. yk.

Tip 3 - crying.

what is close to your character that u can deprive them of? will it make them cry? beg for it?

what will make ur character cry so hard, that their scream fills everyone's ear, stays in their minds like ghosts and always haunts them?

make a character who never cries, burst out with tears.

while writing crying, focus on the 5 senses, one after the other.

focus it on their breath, make them run out of breath, gasp for air, feel like they're being choked, cry so scrutinizingly. it shud punch the reader's gut.

have them replay what had just happened over and over again in their head

best books and writing styles (for angst) to analyse and learn from (in my opinion);

3rd book in the AGGTM series (yk it hit hard like a truck. it got me depressed in bed the entire time lmao)

Five Survive by Holly Jackson. The moments of red outside of the truck, and moments leading to it.

there's this book called " Warm by @untalentedwriter127 " in wattpad. the author served angst for breakfast, lunch anddd dinner.

and if there's more angsty ones, drop em in the comments! :)

Hope this helps, tag me when yall write a masterpiece! ;)