#so i thought maybe doing one of these would make me feel better

[unreasonablerobin]

HI BARBIE

Damian Al Ghul x Girly!Reader

Summary: Damian and his... very girly girlfriend??

W.C: 4.3K

Tags: Fluff ♡

Something was different... everyone in the manor could tell that there was something different with Damian Al Ghul Wayne.

Considering he lived in a manor full of detectives, you really wouldn't think he'd have gotten away with his secret rendezvous.

7 months ago...

It all started with Alfred noticing new smells on his clothes as he did the laundry. At first, it seemed that Damian had simply switched to a new shampoo or maybe gotten a cologne. Then, the sharp scent of cologne started to come mixed with floral. Alfred did what any good butler would do. He ignored it. If his master wanted to indulge in wearing floral scents, he wouldn't shame him for it.

Alfred wasn't the only one who noticed the change in scent, though. Dick had been messing around with Damian in the training room. They always liked a good spar with each other. Everything was going as usual until... SNIFF

"Dude, are you wearing perfume?" Dick suddenly asked as he blocked a punch from his little brother. Damian's composure faltered for just a moment before he pulled himself together, grabbing Dick and tossing him over the shoulder. The poor vigilante was too distracted by his discovery to catch himself. He fell to the floor with a thud.

"Don't be ridiculous Grayson." The boy clicked his tongue as he began to walk out of the training room.

"It's one of those Britney Spears ones, Kori has a few," Dick said more to himself than Damian as the boy was choosing to ignore him the more words tumble out of his mouth. "Hold on don't tell, is it the pink one with the little green gems on it?"

Damian had to fight back the urge to inform him that the perfume he was thinking of was called Fantasy. He'd become quite the enthusiast simply from listening to you go on about all sorts of perfumes, and other products, sat at your vanity as he admired your reflection through the mirror.

"Why do you know so much about Britney Spears perfumes Grayson?" Damian retorted.

"Cause I have a very gorgeous girlfriend, Dams. I got her the perfume for her birthday, the bottle reminded me of her." He replied a lovesick grin already forming at the thought of his alien lover. The former assassin took the opportunity to sneak out of the training room as his older brother got lost in a train of hopeless romantic thoughts over his lover.

Once he made it back to his room he sharply inhaled. Yep, it smells like your perfume. Very clearly, like you'd jumped around spraying it before sneaking out this morning. He took a handful of his shirt and lifted it to his nose. Yep, also smells like your perfume and your setting spray. If he wanted to keep your relationship hidden from his lunatic families he'd need to do a better job of covering it, he thought to himself as he began to light any scented candles he could find. An attempt to cover your traces. One of them was a gift from you, so not entirely hiding your presence.

5 months ago...

The two of you were walking through the mall. Hands intertwined and a bundle of shopping bags in his other. He'd insisted on carrying them. No matter how ridiculous he looked. It was a funny sight. His cold hard expression paired with cute bags of clothes, makeup and a Sanrio plushie peeking out from one of them.

"Are you hungry, beloved?" Damian turned his head to face you. You pondered for a moment until your stomach decided for you by making a growling sound.

"Yes..." You said slightly embarrassed. A downturned smile spread on your face.

"Where would you like to go?" You were about to respond when your phone started ringing, a cheery pop song blared from your charm-adorned handbag.

"Sorry, one sec," you reached into the bag. Shoving all sorts of things around to get to your phone. "It's my mom, you pick I'll be back in a minute!" You stepped off to the side and answered the phone.

Damian huffed at the feeling of his empty hand as he began to scan the mall food court up ahead.

'Burger King, McDonalds, Stephanie and Cass, KFC...' He paused his train of thought. Oh shit, he didn't realise Stephanie and Cass would be here and walking towards you both, unaware of your presence.

"Mom, I promised I'd be back home for dinner. 6:30, I know," You laughed at her antics before saying your goodbyes and hanging up.

You didn't get the chance to turn around as your hand was being grabbed and you were getting dragged away.

"Damian?" you looked at the boy as he swerved between the crowds. "Is everything alright?" You watched as he occasionally looked behind the two of you. Taking a small glance back you spotted two girls you recognised from a photo he'd shown you.

"Hold on, is that Damian?" Stephanie stopped Cass in her tracks and pointed ahead. Cass looked up from her milkshake and saw the head of her little brother.

"We should go say hi! Wonder what he's doing in the mall?" Stephanie had taken Cass' arm and was pulling her towards Damian, both unaware that he wasn't alone and trying to get away from them.

Damian noticed the two getting closer and took a sharp left turn into a random clothing store. He used the clothing racks to hide from the persistent girls following them.

"Why's he gone in here?" Stephanie wondered out loud. "It's a women's clothing store." Cass shrugged her shoulders as her mind went to Dick's theory on Damian trying out more feminine things, and being ashamed of it, after the perfume incident. She thought the theory was ridiculous.

Cass looked around quickly to see if the shop was even worth spending time in, but nothing was to her taste. As she scanned the store she spotted what looked to her brother... and a girl? Sneaking into the dressing rooms.

'No, it couldn't be,' Cass thought to herself watching the figure of a boy that looked exactly like her brother disappear into a dressing room with a really pretty girl. 'Could it?'

You and Damian crammed into a little dressing room with all your shopping bags.

"So..." You began, turning to the mirror to fix any out of place hairs.

"We'll have to wait a while, they are unfortunately persistent."

"How long?"

"I do not know, beloved," He shoved your shopping bags into the corner. "Longer than you'd like, I'd imagine."

You stood in silence for a moment.

"I can think of a couple ways to pass the time..." You turned away to prevent yourself from laughing at Damian's flushed face.

3 months ago...

Damian and Jason had been giving each other a hand during patrol that night. Damian was chasing some low-life thugs and they managed to slip out of his grasp and dash all the way to Crime Alley. Thankfully Jason was there and helped him catch the guys. After dealing with them Damian stood up, a vibration surged through his pocket. He reached in about to immediately hit decline. Why would he answer the phone on patrol? That's what he thought until your face graced his peripheral. He quickly turned his back towards his brother. It was a photo of you and your closets friends. (Obviously the contact picture was only focused on you). It was taken on your birthday. You were all dolled up in makeup and a gorgeous outfit you'd insisted you needed his opinion on before going out. He was about to answer when, "Who's that?" Jason called out from behind.

'Oh Shit.' Damian thought to himself. There are so many excuses to use when your brother smells your girlfriend's perfume on you, so many ways to hide from your sisters when out on a date. How does one convince Red Hood that 'Beloved <3' isn't what it looks like? That its no one special on the other end of the line?

"No one," Damian tried his luck with lying anyways. "Mind your business!" He possessively clutched the phone to his chest. Hiding the caller ID and contact photo. That was only for him to see.

Jason stared at him through his helmet, "Uh-huh, sure," Damian could feel the bullshit look on Jason's face behind the helmet. "No one at all."

"No one for you to concern yourself with Todd, mind your business." Damian stuttered out sharply before disappearing into the night. Away from prying eyes.

Jason couldn't help but grin as he watched his brother run off, phone clutched in his hand like a lifeline.

"Idiot."

Damian had perched himself on top of an apartment building. He brought his phone in front of him and called his last missed call. You. He sat in the silence of dawn, only the buzz of his voice and the tires of some earlier commuters to be heard. Until he heard the sweet voice of his favourite person.

"Hello? Damian?" God, how did your voice sound so angelic this early in the morning, through a phone speaker?

"Good morning, beloved," He sighed contently, "Apologies for not picking up when you first called I was finishing up something." He felt at peace hearing your voice and the ruffle of your bedsheets. Even if it was only through a phone and not in person. It would do.

"Oh sorry!" You whisper yelled. The sun was only rising, your family were probably still asleep. "I didn't mean to bother, we can talk la-"

"Nonsense, you are certainly not bothering me, beloved. I'm more than happy to make time for you at any hour of the day or night." He cut you off. It was silent on your end of the line for a few moments. A couple of giggles and some sheet rustling could be heard. Damian could see it in his mind you going slightly rouge and hiding your face in the pastel duvet.

"It's just," you trailed off, "I had a stupid nightmare and I couldn't go back to sleep."

"If my presence is what you seek in order to feel safe than I will always be available." You smiled at that looking out the window by your bed.

"I will be there."

"What!?" You shot up in your bed, shrinking in on yourself when you realised how loud you were being.

"Damian, there's no need-"

"Yes there is very much need," You sighed at his persistence. "You require my comfort to fall back asleep, I know how much you enjoy your weekend sleep." You fell back k down into tour bed with a smile. He was so right. You loved your weekend lie ins.

"I am finished patrol so I will make my way to you."

"Okay, I'll see you in a few, my windows open," you bit your bottom lip for a moment, hesitation filling you, "I love you." There was silence on the other end of the line until the call ended. You looked at your phone in confusion worried you'd accidentally hit the red button or if Damian had decided he actually hated you. A shadow replacing the sunrise light that had been beaming onto you stopped your train of thought. You looked up to see Robin perched on your windowsill. Strategically, as to not damage your flower boxes.

"I love you too." He whispered before he crawled through the window, landing on your bed.

2 months ago...

Damian was sat in the back of the Batcave as Bruce and Tim discussed something about an ongoing case. He was cleaning one of his katanas. Deciding it was clean enough he picked it up and set it to the side. A small sound of metal hitting metal made the two detectives perk up. The sound came again as Damian picked up another blade to clean. Tim turned his head ever so slightly to glance at the boy and in the corner of his eyes, he spotted it. A small ring on his left hand. He gave a small glance to Bruce, who was still staring at the screen before him, but he could tell the scrunch of his face wasn't from the confusion of the case. Damian completely unaware of his brother's and father's change in demeanour continued to clean his blades. The metal ring subtly caught the light as he carefully rubbed the cloth against the sharp edge of the blade. A gentle smile graced his face as he stared at the ring. His mind wandered back to the day he gave you the promise ring. He knew you'd love it but he was still so nervous. He would rather die than let anyone know that though. Little whispers snapped him out of his thoughts. Looking up he spotted Tim leaning in towards Bruce muttering something.

"Can I say something?" Tim questioned in a hushed teasing tone.

"No, you can not." Bruce sternly replied, folding his arms across his chest.

"Oh come on," Tim looked from him to his brother out of the corner of his peripheral. "You can't not be curious about what's up with him?"

Bruce gave the young detective a quick glance before returning to the screen with CCTV footage playing.

"Of course I am, but it is none of our business." He said curtly. "Damian is very capable and I trust that he is independent and mature enough to do as he pleases."

Tim sighed in response to that. He'd have to lay off on the teasing for now, but just know that when he gets a moment alone with his little brother he will become the biggest pain in the ass.

Damian couldn't help but let his smile grow back after hearing his father's words. He spun the ring around his finger for a brief moment before setting his blades aside and exiting the cave.

1 month ago...

Another rare day where you manage to spend the day in Wayne Manor. Today was much easier than all the others. Dick was in his apartment with Kori'ander, Bruce and Tim were away on company business, the girls were all out, and Jason was god knows where. You didn't really care if they were in the Manor or on the other side of the world at this moment. You were sprawled on top of your boyfriend in his bed. Nothing could possibly ruin this day for you. Your head was rested on his chest, listening to his rhythmic heartbeat. His hand held yours and the other played with the ends of your hair. You both layed in the silence of the day as you quite literally watched paint dry. Over on his desk, which was supposed to be used for homework and not art or makeup, like it you had previously been using it for. Two small paintings lay drying; one of batcow and the other of a sunset. A huff of laughter from the chest beneath you made you look up.

"What?"

"There is paint on your face, beloved."

You shot up from his body and where about to run into the bathroom. Damian gently grabbed into your face. The red paint streaks where mostly dry now so he was easily able to rub them off. Even when your face was paint free, you both sat there, your face in his hands and his thumb caressing your skin.

"You are so beautiful, Habibti." You stared with a lovestruck look right back at his lovesick one. He leaned in a little closer.

"May I?" He asked, ever the gentleman. You nodded.

He brought his lips to yours not caring about the sticky sensation of your lip gloss. You sighed into the kiss and brought your hands up to rest of his. They slid down and held onto his wrists. Neither of you would get Iver this feeling. The butterflies, your lips on eachother, the fear that enters your body when you hear a knock of the door. Oh my god. You immediately pulled away.

"Master Damian," Alfred's muffled voice came through the door. "Would like some cookies? They are freshly baked."

"No thanks, Pennyworth." Damian quickly replied. There was an uncomfortable silence for a second before-

"Would your friend like some?" Both of your eyes bulged out and your jaws dropped.

"I won't tell, no need to fret!"

You looked to Damian nervously, who nodded his head, telling you that Alfred really meant what he said.

"Yes please!" You piped up. You could smell those cookies and my god, you wanted them so bad.

"Very well, I'll prepare them and some tea." Alfred laughed before heading back to the kitchen.

Present...

Yesterday had been another one of those rare days where nobody was in the manor, so you had come over and Damian persuaded you to stay the night.

You sleepy made your way into the bathroom attached to his room. Deciding it was time to get ready for the day. Your eyes scanned the counter top covered in skincare and makeup products left here overtime by you. You couldn't help but smile thinking of all the smalls ways you two had been intertwining your life's. You had things in his place, he had things in yours, he carried hair ties for you and you carried bandages for him. It was simple and sweet. It got you thinking about why he didn't want you to meet his family as you did your skincare. He'd met yours, plenty of time at that. He'd spent the night, he'd had dinner with them, hell you're mom bought him an Easter egg! You swore up and down to yourself he didn't have any problem with you or his family. Now picking up your primer you couldn't help but be confused. Why is he so desperate to hide you and your relationship? You shook the thoughts away when you spotted your frown in the mirror, now just focusing on getting ready.

An hour had passed and Damian was awake. He could hear you in the bathroom as he rolled over in the now cold bed.

"Babe, can you help me?" You softly called out as you nudged the bathroom door open. "I can't get my earing in." You informed with you hands at your ear.

He got up from his bed a maneuvered you back into the bathroom, where the lighting was good, shutting the door behind him.

"I can't get it through, it shouldn't be closed up though!" You handed him the earing and stood beside him under the ceiling light.

He tilted your head and began what would be an annoyingly long process of trying to perform the simple task of getting a piece of metal through a hole.

Alfred was in the middle of cooking breakfast and asked Dick to go wake his brother up. Unaware that you were still here. You usually snuck out earlier but you're phone was dead when you woke up so you never checked the time.

Dick trecked up the stairs, past Jason leaving his room and towards Damian's. He softly knocked on the door before swinging it open.

"Uh, Jason?"

"What?" Jason grumbled at the end of the hallway.

"Who's phone is that?" Dick asked pointing towards a phone that definitely wasn't his brother's. Unless he'd taken a sudden liking to charms and bows.

Jason sleepy stared at Dick until the image of Damian's phone with a picture of a girl and suspicious caller ID appeared in his head. Now he was sprinting towards his brother's room.

Jason and Dick stood in the doorway examining the unknown phone plugged in and rested on the nightstand. Jason gasped and pointed at a woman's bag, say on the floor, leaning against the desk leg. Dick dramatically took hold of Jason and put a finger to his lips. He then pointed to the bathroom door.

"Damian it's fine!"

"I don't want to hurt you!"

"It's not going to hurt, babe I promise!"

A girl? Babe!?

This had Dick and Jason turning to eachother, shock written all over their faces as they sprinted to the stairs.

Bruce, Tim, Stephanie and Cass were all sat at the dining table. Bruce was reading the newspaper, Tim was chugging a coffee, Stephanie was talking to Cass while they waited for the other three boys. Same as every morning. At least it was, until-

"Damian has a girlfriend!" Dick shouted like he was the final girl just after discovering who the killer was.

"She's upstairs!" Jason skidded into the kitchen behind him.

Alfred froze, as he watched Tim and Stephanie sprint faster than he'd ever seen before. Dick and Jason following right behind them. Cass subtly followed. She didn't want to be nosy but... she needed to know! Her suspicions were driving her crazy ever since the mall. Bruce sighed, folding up the newspaper and setting it down before heading up to Damian's room as he heard screaming.

You were mortified. Six people just barged into the room and saw you in your pyjamas; your underwear and one of Damian's shirts. You screamed and immediately bolted back into the bathroom. You were panicking. Damian didn't want you to meet his family and you just did it in the worst way possible. Half naked and screaming. What a way to meet the future in-laws. You caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror as you slid to the floor. Atleast your hair and makeup look good.

"Drake, what the fuck!?" Damian yelled.

"Hold on, why am I the only one getting yelled at?" Tim retorted.

Stephanie nudged his shoulder. "You scared her stupid!"

"We barged in at the same time!"

"You're a guy!"

Damian stood there with a frustrated expression watching Tim and Stephanie bicker and the rest of his family pile in. Cass's small smile at him help him relax a little, but only a little. And just for a moment, cause then Dick and Jason piped up.

"So..." Dick began. "Who is she?"

"None of your business."

"That's what you told me when someone named 'beloved' called you on patrol." Jason chimed in with a teasing tone. Damian could only stare at more frustration than before. His cheeks began to flush and that just passed him off more. Stephanie wasn't helping with her "awww's in the background. Damian was about to scream for them to all get out, get physical with Tim if he needed to.

“Damian.”

Everyone turned towards the stern, deep voice in the doorway. Bruce stepped forward to his youngest son.

"Father," Damian started a tangent before Bruce even had a chance to say anything more. "Her name is Y/n. We have been dating for 8 months, and I love her. No matter your approval or disapproval I will continue to see her." Damian informed his father in a stern and determined tone.

“If it’s alright with you I would like to meet her. Properly.” He requested. “I believe the rest would also like to meet her.” Damian didn’t know how to respond. He thought his father would have a bigger reaction to lying and sneaking around with a girl. Especially considering the occupations of everyone present.

“Of course only if she’s alright with it as well.” Bruce added with a light smile.

"Allow me to check." Bruce ushered all of his children out of the young boy's room.

Once they’d all left he slid into the bathroom where you were still sat on the floor.

“Habitat,” he called out softly. “We don’t have to go down there if you don’t want to.” He knelt in front of you.

“No! I want to, I’d love to meet your family.” You countered quickly. “Only if that’s okay with you, I don’t want to overstep.”

“Whatever you want, beloved.” He said with a smile identical to his father’s.

You were now dressed and sat beside Damian at the Wayne dining table. All of the Wayne's were staring at you. It wasn't daggers or disgust. You'd figured it was curiosity.

"How the hell did you even meet?" Jason asked the first question.

"School." Damian answered coldly.

"No offence, but I didn't expect you to end up with someone so..." Dick trailed off as he swung is fork around as if it would conjure up the words he wad looking for.

"Girly?" You suggested. "I get it, you probably thought he'd end up with someone like yourselves."

Everyone at the table felt a bead of sweat drop from their foreheads.

"What?" Stephanie asked with a nervous laugh.

"She knows." They all snapped their necks to look at Damian and then their father at the head of the table.

He sighed, "Damian I trust that you thought about all this before giving us away?"

"Of course I did. Do not suggest that they are not trustworthy." Bruce and Damian had a bit of a stare off. While that was happening Stepahine had kicked Tim out of his chair beside you.

"You're hair is so gorgeous! What do you use?" She asked as she held a strand in her palm.

"Oh, I cannot think of the name! But there's some up in Damian's bathroom, I'll show it to you."

Dick leaned over the table, "I thought I was going crazy when I started smelling perfumes off him!" You laughed at his comment.

"What do you use? It smells similar to the one Kori uses."

You began to chat with the vigilantes about all sorts of things. Telling Cass and Stephanie about the products you use and where you shop, listening to stories about Dick and Kori. Jason chimed in with a few book recommendations and reviews after learning you like to read. Quickly you found yourself having conversations with all the Waynes like it was as easy as breathing. As you were laughing at some Internet joke you and Tim were discussing, you spotted a poute on your boyfriend's face. And it finally clicked.

Damian Al Ghul was jealous of his own family.

He kept your relationship a secret and avoided introducing you for so long because he didn't want them to steal your attention.

You couldn't help but smile at that.

A/N: First piece published!! I welcome back feedback with open arms. Please just don't take this opportunity to be rude. I'd love to know if I write ooc or if my grammars incorrect, ect.

Shout out to Damian Al Ghul my gatekeeping king🙏

[vibelladonna]

✑ 𝓅𝓁𝒶𝓎𝒷𝑜𝓎 𝜗𝜚 𝓉𝓀𝒶𝓉𝒷 𝓂𝑒𝓃

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: It started as a joke—a casual tease whispered into the ears of your closest friends, never meant to go beyond harmless daydreams. You had once donned a bunny suit for them, after all. In my opinion, it was only fair that they returned the favor, right?

What? You didn’t expect them to actually do this right?

Now, one by one, your choice, the men of TKATB + Special Guest ! ! stand before you, ears twitching, tails bouncing, and suits hugging them in ways that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination.

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔: 18+ NO KIDS (Adults Only) This content contains mature themes unsuitable for children. Please respect the creator's intentions. 

My dearest readers, I absolutely adore the artist alyysahh, or what many of us know as Waza on [ TikTok ] and [ Twitter ]. Her art inspires me so much—she even sparked the idea for part two—this from this fanfic [ 𝒷𝓊𝓃𝓃𝓎 𝓈𝓊𝒾𝓉 ] I’m so excited, omg!

The rules are simple: look, but don’t touch... unless, as always you dare to find out just how far the bunny boys are willing to go for your approval.

[ 𝓂𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉 ]

✑ 𝒸𝓇𝑜𝓌𝑒

Such Mister Bunny Blues.

You blink. Once. Twice.

And then you stare, because what else are you supposed to do when Crowe—the ever-composed, polished, practically dream-worthy Crowe—is standing in your living room wearing a dark blue bunny suit?

It fits him too well. Hugging every sculpted line of his body, the matching floppy ears drooping pitifully over his brow, and a tiny, ridiculous puff of a tail perched right above... Places you should definitely not be looking at—You look anyway. You’re only human.

His face is already red, a deep, molten flush darkening his beautiful skin, but he holds his ground like a man about to face a firing squad. Or a firing squad armed with bad pickup lines and worse intentions — yours included.

"You're—" you sputter, laughter clawing its way up your throat, "Crowe, what the hell are you doing? Well, wearing, dear?”

He shifts awkwardly, and the tiny bunny tail wiggles.

You might actually die right then and there, your soul floating out of your body in sheer blissful absurdity.

"I noticed," he says, voice low and steady — the kind of tone he usually reserves for comforting small animals and broken hearts — "you seemed... off lately. Sad." He tugs gently at the loose braid hanging off his shoulder, a nervous habit you know better than you should. "I thought... maybe this would help."

You blink again, your heart doing something catastrophically stupid inside your chest.

He did this—this—for you?

Crowe, the walking embodiment of poise and calm, decided to prance around in a bunny suit because you were a little gloomy?

God, you were going to marry him out of spite.

"You thought dressing up like the world's most handsome Easter reject would cheer me up?" you tease, stalking closer like a predator that's just spotted very, very vulnerable prey.

You reach up and flick one of the floppy ears. It bounces.

Crowe flinches like you just electrocuted him.

"I don't regret it," he mutters, eyes locked on your —deep blue, steady, dangerous in a way that ties knots in your stomach. "If it makes you smile... I'll do a lot worse."

You bite your lip, feeling heat bloom deliciously up your spine. It’s criminal, truly criminal, how he manages to look so devastatingly good even while trying very hard to pretend he isn't internally combusting. Shiiii really and vice versa. YOU tried so hard not to combust. 

His long fingers—those beautiful hands you’ve absolutely not thought about at night, nope, not once—clench and unclench at his sides. His nails, well-kept and gleaming, catch the golden glow of the living room light.

Strands of dark hair have slipped free from his braid, falling across his cheek in a way that demands your attention, demands your touch. The temptation to grab him by the ears—to tug, to pull, to ruin him—is almost overwhelming.

"You're a menace," you whisper, smirking wickedly.

"And you're worth it," he murmurs back, voice low, rough, wrecked.

The room feels too small now. Too hot. The air crackles between you, so thick and heavy you could wrap your fingers around it. You take one daring step closer, close enough to smell him — warm and clean, with the faintest hint of something woodsy and natural underneath, like he’s just come in from standing in the spring rain.

You trail a single finger down his chest, slow enough that Crowe visibly shudders. Poor thing—still trying so hard to stay composed, to stay gentlemanly, even while dressed like a snack-shaped bunny.

You are a cruel, cruel person.

"You know," you muse aloud, drawing innocent little circles against the silk of his costume, feeling the thundering beat of his heart beneath your fingertip, "you didn't have to go this far, Crowe. I mean, if you wanted my attention, you could’ve just, oh, I don’t know..."

You grin up at him, flashing teeth. "Kissed me."

Crowe makes a noise. 

A soft, panicked sound, half-choked at the back of his throat. "I—" He freezes. "I wouldn't... presume—"

You reach up, grab the floppy ears between your hands, and tug him down.

There’s the faintest split-second where he realizes what’s happening—where you see the panic flare bright in those beautiful blue eyes—before you crash your mouth against his.

Crowe melts. Absolutely, spectacularly melts.

One of his arms locks around your waist on instinct, hauling you up against him—so much strength, so much quiet, hidden power—and his other hand fists into your hair like he’s drowning and you’re the only solid thing left in the world.

His mouth is soft and reverent against yours, as if he's memorizing you, as if he's scared to take too much, even when you’re the one who started it.

You smile into the kiss—a little smug, a lot victorious— and nip playfully at his bottom lip.

That does it.

Crowe makes a small, desperate sound, deep in his chest, and kisses you harder. It's not perfect. He's a little clumsy, a little frantic, as if he's scared you'll pull away, laugh at him, regret it—but it's real, and it's messy, and it's him, and you wouldn't trade it for anything.

When you finally break apart for air, Crowe looks wrecked. Flushed, panting, wide-eyed and disheveled, his bunny ears flopping pitifully to one side.

You’ve never seen anything more beautiful in your life.

"You’re... evil," he breathes, voice hoarse.

"And you," you say, cupping his face between your hands, "are mine, mister bunny."

Crowe groans, low and helpless, and buries his face against your shoulder — probably to hide how violently he’s blushing. You pat the fluffy bunny tail mockingly. It wiggles again.

Crowe stands there, his back rigid, the dark blue bunny suit clinging to every inch of his body like it’s made specifically to torture you. You can’t help but let your gaze drop, catching that tiny tail wiggling as he shifts, trying — failing — to act like he’s still the composed, collected man you know.

His breath is still uneven, a bit of flush lingering on his cheeks, and his posture is so stiff it might as well be a marble statue. But there’s something else. Something in his eyes.

That dangerous glint.

And the way his gaze flicks to your lips every few seconds is enough to set your pulse pounding again.

You lean against the couch, arms crossed casually—too casually, almost—watching him with a smirk. "You know," you tease, your voice dripping with sweet venom, "You look a little... flustered there, Crowe. I thought you were the composed one?"

Crowe shoots you a side glance, and you can see the way his hands twitch, like he wants to grab you—or possibly strangle you—but instead, he just exhales sharply and straightens his back even more. His voice is a little tight.

“I’m fine. Just... fine.”

You hum, a sly smile playing at the corners of your lips as you walk toward him, your steps slow and deliberate, each one bringing you closer to his tense form. "I didn’t know bunnies got so... embarrassed. So cute, though. You should try wearing that more often. You know, maybe every day, just to brighten my mood."

His gaze snaps to yours, a brief flicker of guilt passing through those deep blue eyes—or is it resentment? Either way, you can see the crack in his armor. He’s pretending he’s unaffected, but it’s obvious. 

He’s dying inside.

"You're... really pushing it." His voice is soft, but the way his jaw clenches as he grinds out the words says otherwise.

You smirk, and without warning, you slap his ass. Hard.

The sound rings through the room, and his entire body tenses. His head jerks back, and he makes a sharp, strangled noise that, frankly, you didn’t expect.

The fabric of his bunny suit pulls taut against his body as you let your hand rest there for just a moment too long, watching the play of muscles under his skin flex, feeling the warmth of his body.

"Oh, come on," you tease, your fingers trailing dangerously close to where the curve of his ass meets his thighs. "That bubble is so much bigger than mine. Who would've thought, huh?"

Crowe’s eyes flash with something darker—defiant. Before you can blink, his hand shoots out, grabbing your wrist and spinning you around with effortless strength. You stumble, caught off guard, and end up pressed against the nearest wall.

Your breath hitches.

Crowe stands there, inches away, his chest rising and falling, his breath heavy against your neck. His hand still holds your wrist, but the grip is no longer tight.

It’s more... possessive now.

“You think I’m embarrassed?” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your earlobe. "I’m not the one who needs to be embarrassed right now, are we?"

You feel his free hand glide over your body, skimming your waist, your ribs, before settling dangerously close to your hips. He’s leaning into you, his breath hot on your skin, sending a shiver straight through you.

"Don't act like you're not enjoying this." His voice is low, almost a growl, but there’s a smirk in it. He’s not quite teasing anymore. He’s all in control now, leaning into the teasing game in a way you didn’t expect.

And then, like a switch flipping, he presses his lips to your neck—soft, slow kisses at first. But as your breath catches, he intensifies them, biting gently, nipping at the sensitive skin right beneath your ear.

You’re trapped. Not physically, but emotionally. 

He’s got you exactly where he wants you.

You can’t help the way your pulse picks up. You grab the front of his suit, pulling him closer as if you need him to prove that you’re right, that he's just as tangled in this as you are. "Crowe..." you whisper, a mixture of longing and challenge.

Before you can say anything else, his hand slides up your side, cupping your jaw gently but firmly. His thumb brushes your lower lip, a simple, intimate gesture that sends a wave of heat rushing to your core.

"You like me dress up as a bunny, don't you?" His voice is rougher now, darker. 

You open your mouth to respond, to fire back another snarky comment, but you don't get the chance. Crowe closes the gap between you, his lips capturing yours in a kiss so deep, so heated, that it almost knocks the air from your lungs. His kiss is demanding, but there's also a tenderness to it, as if he's trying to show you exactly how much he's willing to do for you. How far he'll go.

And maybe it's the way he presses against you, pinning you into the wall with his weight. Or maybe it's the sudden surge of need between you two—but when he pulls back, there’s a dangerous glint in his eyes.

"Now," he breathes against your lips, "I think this mister bunny should teach you a lesson."

Before you can even brace yourself, Crowe’s hands are on your hips, lifting you off the ground and pinning you up and against the wall, holding you there as his lips return to your neck, kissing and biting with a growing hunger. He’s marking you now—staking his claim.

“Now tell me where I should start first…” he murmurs, his voice breathless, as his lips trail down your collarbone. “…my beautiful starlight.”

He kisses his way back up to your ear, biting down softly as you gasp. “I-I don’t know!!"

"Mhm, nothing? Fine I’ll choose for you ."

 Yep. Fucking. Best. Day. Ever.

no words, like no words, dearest readers, AHHHHHHH.

✑ 𝓈𝑜𝓁

Emo Bunny Attention Seeker.

You’re just sitting there. Minding your business.

Or at least, pretending to, stretched lazily across Sol’s bed like you owned it—because let’s be honest, you kinda did. One leg crossed over the other, twirling your phone between your fingers, content to simply exist in the familiar comfort of his room.

His soft scent wrapped around you like a warm blanket—a mix of cedarwood, something sweet and sharp underneath, and whatever shampoo he used that made you want to bury your face in his hair and never come out again.

You hear the telltale creak of the closet door opening. 

Sol’s quiet, almost suspiciously so, and then you hear it: a small, nervous huff, like he’s working up the courage to face down a firing squad. You glance up casually. And promptly choke on air.

Standing there, awkward and stiff, cheeks burning brighter than a dying sun, is Sol — your sweet, bashful, absolutely doomed Sol — wearing a dark green bunny suit.

And not just any bunny suit.

This thing clings to every muscle, every dip and flex of his body like it was stitched directly onto his skin. His black-and-green streaked hair falls messily around his shoulders, those crimson-orange eyes wide and pleading under the weight of the matching floppy ears drooping pathetically over his forehead.

Fishnet tights hug his long legs, and bruises — old, new, kissed purple and yellow — scatter across his arms and thighs, peeking through the mesh.

You don’t even get the chance to fully process it before — plop — the breast flap of the bunny suit flips down, casually revealing one of his nipple piercings, the little silver barbell gleaming like a beacon in the dim light.

You stare. He stares back. Time stops.

You bite your lip—hard—to keep the howl of laughter that bubbles up from ripping out of your throat. “Oh. My. God," you manage, grinning wide enough to hurt. You sit up on your knees, predatory now, delight buzzing in your veins.

Sol immediately flinches like you physically touched him, his hands scrambling to cover the exposed skin, bunny tail wiggling frantically behind him.

"I—! I d-didn't mean for that to—!" he stammers, voice cracking halfway through, as red floods all the way down his throat, painting him guilty and so, so deliciously adorable.

You lick your lips, slow and deliberate, dragging your gaze up and down his body like you’re memorizing every sinful inch. “Sol, sweetheart,” you purr, tilting your head. “You sure you’re not trying to seduce me?"

His knees buckle. Actually, buckle. The poor thing grips the edge of his desk like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

"I—I just—!" he blurts, eyes wide and glassy, red face, the fishnets squeaking slightly as he shifts his weight. "I just wanted you to— to look at me, and maybe— maybe you’d—"

“Maybe I’d what?" you coax, crawling forward across the bed like a slow, lazy predator, letting him watch you stalk him.

He swallows audibly, throat bobbing.

"Maybe y-you’d touch me," he whispers, so soft you almost don't catch it. His fists tighten, knuckles white. "Y-You always look so good on my bed, and I— I just wanted to—"

You practically purr with amusement, stopping at the edge of the mattress, sitting back on your heels, crossing your arms. "Come here, Emo Bunny," you say, voice like velvet wrapping around a knife.

He doesn't even hesitate—he stumbles forward, bunny tail bouncing, cheeks burning, until he’s standing right in front of you, trembling like a leaf.

You trail a finger up his fishnet-clad thigh, slow and teasing, until you can feel the muscle jump beneath your touch.

He shudders. Whimpers.

"Please," he gasps out, desperate now, the word ripped straight from his soul. His hands flex uselessly at his sides, like he’s aching to grab you but too scared to move without permission.

You smirk. Wicked.

"Please what, bunny?" you ask, tipping your chin up, making him look down into your eyes. "Use your words, pretty boy."

His face crumples, overwhelmed with how much he wants, how much he needs you—it’s almost tragic, really. "I—!" He bites his lip, shaking his head, shame and need warring inside his body. "Please... touch me... please just—!"

You let your hands roam, slow and deliberate, trailing up over his hips, feeling the tremble of his thighs, the heat radiating from his skin under the thin, humiliating fabric. You tug gently at the strap dangling from where the top had flopped down, snapping it lightly against his chest.

He whines. A sound so pathetic, so gorgeous, you could’ve melted into the mattress right then and there.

"You're lucky you're cute," you murmur, thumb brushing teasingly close to his exposed nipple, feeling him jerk under the lightest touch. His hands finally move — only to grip your shoulders, grounding himself like he might float away otherwise.

"Please," he repeats, broken now, voice hoarse, wrecked. "I’m yours—please just—anything you want, I’ll—"

You smile—wide, dangerous, cruel in your affection. "Anything, huh?" you hum, dragging your nails lightly down his sides, watching him physically twitch under the featherlight sensation.

He nods frantically, the floppy bunny ears bouncing with the motion. "Anything," he breathes, reverent. Worshipful.

Fuck, he’s beautiful like this—flushed and trembling and ready to fall apart just because you looked at him like you wanted to eat him alive.

You hook a finger through the key necklace dangling against his chest, tugging him down so he’s eye-level with you.

His breath stutters. His eyes are huge, wide and glassy and so, so ready. "Good boy," you whisper against his lips, just barely brushing, not kissing — no, you control this.

"Now, beg a little prettier for me, Emo Bunny."

You watch him closely, eyes narrowing with that playful, teasing gleam as Sol stands there, trembling like a leaf caught in a storm. His wide, uncertain eyes never leave yours, but there's something else there now—need. A desperate, aching need that you've ignited with just a few words, a flick of your wrist.

“Good boy,” you whisper again, your voice dripping with affection and cruelty in equal measure. You reach up, fingers curling into the strands of his messy hair, tugging him closer. Sol doesn’t resist — hell, his breath catches when you pull on it, his body leaning forward instinctively, as if to be closer to you is the only thing that matters.

He’s so helpless under your touch.

“You want this, don’t you?” you murmur, just a breath away from his lips, savoring the scent of his skin, the electricity between you. Sol nods eagerly, a small sound—something between a moan and a whimper—escaping his throat. His breath is shallow, every word a struggle as he fights to hold himself together.

“Please,” he gasps again, his voice strained with need, “I need you. I’ll do anything. Just please—” His hips shift, like he’s trying to find some kind of release, but you stop him, pressing your palm flat against his chest.

“Down boy,” you command, just one word, but it has all the power.

Sol obeys instantly, his knees buckling as he lowers himself in front of you, the fabric of his bunny suit shifting with every motion. His lips are parted, face flushed with a mix of desire and humiliation, and the sight of him like this—so willing—makes your pulse race.

“On your knees,” you coax, your voice thick with authority, “You want to beg for it? Beg for me. Show me how desperate you really are.”

He obeys again, slower this time, hands trembling as he presses them to the floor. You can feel the tension building in him, his body coiled tight as a spring, ready to break.

Your foot slides out from beneath you, placing it gently—but with intent—on his bulge. The pressure is subtle at first, but you start to push down, slowly, deliberately. Sol gasps sharply, his eyes snapping up to meet yours, looking at you like you’ve just commanded the stars to fall from the sky.

His entire body jerks under the weight of your foot. “Please,” he whispers, voice barely audible, but the word is there, dripping with need. “Please, don’t���don’t tease me anymore.”

You increase the pressure, your foot pushing further against his thigh. Sol’s breath hitches, his entire body trembling like a leaf caught in the wind. His hands shake on the floor, fingers gripping the carpet as if that will ground him.

“Tell me what you want, Emo Bunny,” you say softly, knowing full well what it’ll do to him. His body shudders in response, and he lets out a soft whine, lips trembling.

“I—I want you,” he gasps, his voice cracking as he struggles to speak through the overwhelming wave of emotion and desperation. “Please... I’ll do anything, just please—”

You press down harder, making him gasp, his chest rising and falling rapidly. You can feel his whole body shaking beneath your foot, a soft, almost pitiful sound escaping his lips as he tries to hold back. His breath is ragged now, and his eyes—those fiery orange and crimson eyes—are filled with so much need it’s almost too much to look at.

“You sound so pathetic, Bunny,” you tease, your voice laced with dark amusement. 

“Begging for me like this. You really can’t take much, can you?”

Sol’s entire body shudders, and you watch his face twist with pleasure and frustration. He’s so far gone, he can’t even formulate a proper sentence anymore, just a jumble of desperate pleas.

“Please, please—” he whimpers, his voice breaking as he drags his hands to your legs, clutching at them, trying to pull you closer. His body is taut with tension, and you can see how badly he wants more. 

“I need— please—”

You laugh softly, one hand tracing down the back of his neck, feeling the way he melts into your touch. You can’t help but marvel at how good he looks on his knees for you — how easy it is to make him beg.

“Don’t worry, Bunny,” you murmur, a dark promise in your tone. “I’m not going to leave you hanging. You’ve been so good for me.”

With a swift motion, you shift your foot to the side, and before he can even react, you grab his hair again, forcing his head back, exposing the delicate line of his throat. He lets out a soft gasp, eyes fluttering closed as you pull his head back to give you full access.

“Look at me,” you order, your voice firm, and Sol complies instantly, his eyes locking with yours. They’re full of pleading, full of fire. 

He’s barely holding himself together.

“I want you to beg for it, Sol,” you whisper, pulling harder on his hair until his neck arches. His lips part, but no words come out—just a broken, frustrated moan. His hands scrabble at your sides, gripping your thighs as you shift forward, pressing your leg against his chest.

You smirk, dragging your thigh up until it brushes his lips. “Kiss.”

A shudder wracks through him, but he obeys, pressing his mouth to your skin in a feverish, open-mouthed kiss. His breath is ragged, his lips trembling as you rock against him, teasing the friction he so desperately craves.

“Beg me, Bunny,” you murmur, grinding down just enough to make him whimper. “Beg like you mean it.”

Sol gasps, his hands clutching your hips as he tears his mouth away just to plead, “Please—fuck, please—I can’t—I need—” His voice cracks, his body arching up against yours, seeking more.

You tug his hair again, forcing his head back. His gaze is wild, pupils blown, lips wet from kissing your skin. “Well, then,” you tease, rolling your hips slowly, watching him unravel, “you’ll just have to beg a little more prettily for me, won’t you?”

He chokes out a sob, fingers digging into your flesh. “Please—I need you so much, just—please—anything, I’ll do anything—”

You smile, wicked and satisfied, finally relenting. “Good boy.” You release him, smoothing a hand down his chest, feeling the rapid hammer of his heartbeat. Leaning down, you press a kiss to his forehead. “You’re so good for me, Bunny.” Your lips brush his ear as you whisper, “You’ve earned this.”

Sol shatters for you, right there—whispering desperate, frantic pleas against your skin, hands trembling, body tense and burning and begging you to ruin him in that stupid, adorable, obscenely hot bunny suit.

The tension between you two is electric, your breaths mingling as you press closer. His bunny ears—soft, slightly askew—tilt forward as he leans in, his lips brushing yours in a teasing promise.

"You’re keeping those on," you murmur against his mouth, fingers tangling in his hair just beneath the fuzzy headband. He lets out a low chuckle, warm and wicked, before capturing your lips in a searing kiss.

Every touch burns—his hands gripping your hips, your nails dragging down his back—but it’s the sight of those damn bunny ears that undoes you.

And when he finally loses control, his head tipping back with a groan, those ears flop adorably to the side—just before you yank him back down to you, claiming his mouth again.

"Good boy."

ayyyyy, I’ve might got carried away, what?? I’m a big bully.

✑ 𝑔𝑒𝑜

Mr. Grumpy Bunny

You didn't think the day would ever actually come.

Two months. Two entire months of coaxing, pleading, bargaining—bribing, even. You had tried everything short of selling your soul just to see Geo, the ever-serious, ever-stubborn Geo, in a bunny suit.

And now, here you were, casually sitting on the tatami floor mats, mindlessly dangling a feather toy above his black cat’s head. The little creature—sleek, yellow-eyed, and infinitely more willing to entertain you than his master—batted lazily at the feathers. You were completely engrossed, giggling under your breath, your knees tucked neatly beneath you on the smooth straw flooring.

You didn’t even hear him coming.

Only when a pair of feet entered your peripheral vision did you pause, the toy mid-sway in your hand.

You blinked slowly. 

Sheer black tights. Shiny, bluish-purple bunny suit that hugged his lean figure like sin itself.

Matching gloves. Long, upright bunny ears perched atop his dark, bluish-purple hair, tied back neatly into that stubborn low ponytail you always teased him about.

His usual teal-and-white block earrings swayed slightly, catching the light, and that damn septum piercing glinted mischievously, almost like it was in on it.

You swallowed hard, your eyes dragging up his body like you were trying not to crash a car, until they finally met his aquamarine ones—irritated, narrowed, unmistakably Geo eyes. His arms were crossed tight over his chest, as though holding onto the last shred of his dignity.

"Tsk," he clicked his tongue at you sharply, standing over you like a judge sentencing you to death.

You immediately slapped a hand over your mouth, your cheeks puffing out with the effort to hold in your laughter. Oh, you would not survive this. You would not survive this and you knew it.

Turning away dramatically, you hunched your shoulders to further hide your hysterics, feeling your entire body shake with the sheer force of your suppressed snickers.

"You wanted this," Geo growled lowly, an irritated edge undercutting his words. "Look at me."

You shook your head frantically, tears prickling the corners of your eyes from the strain of holding it all in. The little kitten, sensing the rising chaos, skittered off into another room with an indignant chirp, abandoning you to your fate.

Strong hands gripped your shoulders, not rough but firm, trying to turn you back toward him. "Look," he demanded again, exasperated, and your traitorous body gave in with a helpless, shaky breath.

You turned, finally, and instantly collapsed into giggles, your forehead pressing to his hip in a desperate attempt to smother the sound.

Geo huffed above you, and when you dared glance up again, his flush had traveled all the way to his ears, a pretty dusting of pink that stood out against his normally pale complexion. His expression was murderously unimpressed.

Before he could scold you again, you took your moment. 

Leaping up with a playful tackle, you pushed him backward. Geo let out a startled grunt as he stumbled, catching himself awkwardly with one knee bent, but you used your weight—and frankly, his momentary stunned brain lag—to push him down fully onto the tatami mats, landing squarely on top of him.

His arms instinctively tried to push you away, grabbing at your wrists; however, you were quicker. 

You wriggled your hands free and immediately went for the kill: tugging one floppy bunny ear and cooing dramatically, "Who's the cutest little bunny? Mr. Grumpy Bunny! It's you, Geo! Yes, you are~!"

The noise he made was somewhere between a pained groan and an indignant snarl, eyes squeezing shut like if he didn't see you, you wouldn't exist. "Stop," he gritted out, trying to push your hands away again.

You only laughed harder, dropping your forehead onto his chest briefly to muffle your cackles. His chest rose and fell heavily beneath you, the bunny suit’s material sliding against your clothes, slick and warm.

Before he could mount another defense, you leaned up just enough to plant a quick kiss on his cheek, grinning wickedly.

"Thank you," you whispered, saccharine sweet and deliberately close, your breath fanning across his ear. "You’re the sweetest Grumpy bunny ever."

Geo stiffened underneath you, his entire face exploding into an aggressive, furious red. He jerked his head to the side, refusing to meet your gaze, mumbling curses under his breath that you couldn’t quite catch.

Before you could gloat too much, he moved fast—pressing his face right into your chest with a strangled noise, his hands locking tightly around your sides.

"Shut up," he muttered, voice muffled and embarrassingly high-pitched, sounding more like a pouty child than the usually icy and unbothered Geo you knew.

You blinked down at him, absolutely flabbergasted... then, seeing an opportunity for even more chaos, you shifted slightly, pressing closer, your hand idly stroking his bunny ear again.

"You know," you said slyly, your voice dripping with mischief, "if you keep holding me like this, I’ll start to think you actually like this silly crap."

Geo’s arms tightened briefly around your waist before he gave you a sharp, warning tug downward—yanking you off balance so your whole body collapsed against his, nose brushing his flushed cheek.

"I don't care," he growled quietly, aquamarine eyes flashing dangerously up at you. His voice was low, raw with some emotion you couldn’t immediately place—somewhere between mortification and... maybe a stubborn, reluctant affection he hadn't figured out how to voice yet.

You let out a low whistle, unable to stop yourself.

"Damn, Mr. Grumpy Bunny’s getting bold now," you teased, tapping your finger against the tip of his red nose playfully.

He groaned again, this time with pure suffering, and thumped his forehead lightly against your shoulder as if hoping he could simply phase out of existence.

At this rate, you were starting to think you might actually kill Geo with secondhand embarrassment.

You’d mourn him properly.

But first... you were absolutely getting a picture.

You felt unstoppable now, grinning like you’d just won a gold medal in teasing, ready to pull out your phone and immortalize this rare, once-in-a-lifetime moment of Geo in his bunny suit.

You were this close to snapping the perfect picture of his mortified face, maybe even showing off the ridiculous bunny ears that made it look like he belonged in a very different kind of scene.

However as you reached for your phone, you felt Geo's body tense underneath you, his grip tightening around your waist. "No."

His voice was quiet but low—dangerously so. You immediately knew something had shifted, his stubbornness turning into full-blown defiance as you tried to reach for your phone again.

Without warning, he moved fast—quicker than you expected—and suddenly, your world flipped. You were pinned to the tatami mats in a breath-stealing instant.

Geo’s body was above you now, a solid weight pressing into your back, his arms locked firmly around your wrists, securing them against your back. His movements were fast, precise, like a well-trained assassin.

"Not... not this time," he muttered darkly, his breath hot against the back of your neck, his body straddling your hips to keep you firmly in place. He was like a weight on top of you, his arms crossed over your hands as he gripped you with surprising strength.

The sensation of being held down, restrained—pinned—only served to make the situation even more charged. Your heart skipped a beat as his presence loomed over you, his soft groan against your skin making it all feel way too intimate.

Geo’s voice was rougher now, almost strained.

“You think you can mess with me like that?” he murmured, the words lost in a strange mixture of embarrassment and something darker you couldn’t quite place.

You could feel his chest pressing into your back, the heat of his body seeping through the bunny suit. The fabric, snug and form-fitting, felt like a whisper against your skin, and you were suddenly hyperaware of every inch of him—his body on top of yours, his breath hot on your neck.

The smile never left your face, even as you shifted beneath him, trying to squirm free. The playful tone you’d maintained before had shifted into something more dangerous, a fire in your stomach that matched the heat of the moment. 

"You think you can stop me?" you teased, your voice breathless, barely holding back the excitement in your chest. “You’ve got a lot of nerve for someone in a bunny suit, Geo.”

His grip tightened further, his lips brushing against the back of your neck as he leaned down, his voice now barely a whisper. “Shut up,” he growled.

You couldn’t help it—your body, pressed into the floor, was pulsing with heat, but you couldn’t let up. You twisted your hips to rub against him playfully, laughing when he let out a choked sound, clearly caught off guard.

But before you could escalate it further, Geo did something unexpected—something that made your breath catch in your throat.

In one smooth motion, he shifted his weight, making sure to keep you pinned down, but his face was suddenly right next to yours. You could feel the tension in his body, his breath shallow against your cheek, his soft, furious whisper carrying through the air.

“If you don’t stop this,” he warned, “I swear I’ll make you regret it.”

For a moment, you felt a sudden shift. The teasing energy you’d been enjoying slowly turned into something much more intense, much more loaded with heat and raw emotion. 

You were really pinned now—both physically and emotionally.

Then, something clicked. Geo’s gaze softened ever so slightly as he adjusted his position, bringing his body even closer to yours, until you could feel every inch of him against your back. His grip on your wrists slackened, just a little, but his weight remained firmly above you, locking you in place.

His voice was quieter now, a small thread of uncertainty threading through the harshness. “I’m serious,” he muttered. “This is… this is too much for me. I can’t... you’re—”

You shifted, just enough to meet his gaze, your chest still heaving from the struggle. “You’re what? Not enjoying this?” You knew that tone—teasing, poking, drawing out whatever was left of his already rattled composure.

Geo’s flush deepened. It was almost enough to rival the red of the bunny suit. His eyes closed, and his breath quickened, his voice betraying him. “I’m not… I don’t… You make me feel ridiculous,” he admitted softly, almost too quietly for you to hear.

You smirked at the vulnerability in his voice, and despite the intense physicality of the moment, you realized something—a secoud of warmth spread in your chest. His words had an unexpected effect on you.

But before you could tease him further, Geo seemed to sense the opening he’d given you, and he took the opportunity to shift again. His face—barely inches from yours—turned slightly, but this time, he kissed you.

It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It wasn’t sweet or apologetic. Instead, it was desperate to shut you up, and for once, his urgency made it feel a little less like a game. His lips were pressed hard against yours, his breath mingling with yours as his hands slid from your wrists to grip your shoulders, forcing you to stay still.

The kiss wasn’t long, but, it was enough to stop you.

Geo pulled back slowly, his forehead resting against yours, his chest rising and falling rapidly as if trying to calm himself.

He closed his eyes, his voice quieter now but still carrying the weight of his emotions. “There. That should stop you. You’re a fucking menace, you know that?”

You chuckled softly, savoring the rare moment of intimacy before you responded. “Maybe,” you teased, “but you still kissed me. Guess I’m winning, Bunny Boy.”

Geo made a noise in his throat—part exasperation, part something else entirely. His arms released you, but you didn’t move immediately.

You didn’t need to.

The game had changed. And while he might’ve quieted you in the heat of the moment, there was still that unspoken tension between you two that would be far from settled. You might’ve won this round, but you knew—Geo wouldn’t let you off that easily.

Not by a long shot.

I didn't want to mess with my husband any longer, I felt bad T-T

✑ 𝒽𝓎𝓊𝑔𝑜

Bunny Boy orrrr Chaotic Bunny?

The hotel room smelled faintly of cheap vanilla candles and plastic packaging from the costume bags scattered everywhere, a chaotic battlefield of fabric and makeup brushes.

You were perched on a chair by the little vanity, balancing a handheld mirror in one hand, carefully working on your eyeliner with the precision of a bomb technician.

Your costume was already half on—something dangerously cute and teasing, something that would probably get you mobbed at the con, but that didn’t matter right now. Right now, you were focused on getting the stupid eyeliner wing even. The dull hum of the bathroom fan filled the background, paired with the occasional squeak of shoes slipping against tile.

You were so engrossed in not stabbing your eye out that you almost missed the bathroom door creaking open.

Almost.

Out of the corner of your eye, you caught movement—and then you heard it. The sharp click-clack of cheap platform heels strutting across the hotel carpet, like a model on the world’s most cursed runway.

You slowly lowered your mirror, blinked, and there he was.

Hyugo. In all his radiant, chaotic, bunny-suited glory.

He struck a ridiculous pose, one hand on his narrow hip, the other thrown into a peace sign near his face like some sparkly anime idol. His bunny suit was baby blue, hugging his lean, youthful frame a little too perfectly, highlighting his long legs wrapped tightly in black fishnet tights. Matching satin gloves covered his hands up to the elbows, and those platform heels? Oh, he was walking in them, strutting, like he’d been born in stilettos.

His teal hair was a chaotic mess of shaggy layers, the thick rat tail behind him bobbing slightly with every exaggerated move. The thick middle strand of his bangs flopped into his forehead while his long side pieces framed his baby-faced grin, the sparkle in his soft, sky-blue eyes practically weaponized.

You just... stared. Blinking slowly. Once. Twice. Thrice.

“TA-DAAA!” he sang out, twirling dramatically.

He finished the spin with a high kick that he almost nailed—his heel skidding a bit on the carpet—but he recovered with a flourish so fast you wondered if he'd practiced that in secret.

"Hyugo..." you said slowly, voice dangerously neutral, setting the mirror down onto the cluttered vanity. "What... the hell... are you doing?"

"Living my best life," he declared, teeth flashing in a too-wide, shit-eating grin. The baby blue bunny ears attached to his headband flopped a little when he gave a dramatic hair flip, like he was on the cover of a 2007 fashion magazine. 

And then—without warning, he strutted over to you. 

You backed up an inch in your chair, instinctively wary, sensing his chaotic energy building like a storm front. You didn't even have time to stand before he spun around, back facing you—and plopped himself right down onto your lap. Full weight.

"Lap dance timeeeee~!" Hyugo chirped.

You choked on your own spit.

The little shit started grinding like he was on a pole, wagging his bunny tail-covered ass side to side with such exaggerated, silly movements that you almost cried. 

He leaned back, resting his head against your shoulder, batting his stupid, gorgeous baby blue eyes up at you. "You like what you see, babe~?" he teased, voice pitching into a playful, breathy whine.

You spluttered, hands frozen in midair, not sure where the hell to even put them.

On his hips? On his waist? Anywhere?!

There was literally no safe place.

Meanwhile, Hyugo was feeling himself, wiggling his hips with the confidence of someone who knew exactly what they were doing—and exactly how much it was breaking you.

You could feel the way the fishnet texture rubbed against your thighs through his movements, could smell the faint sugary cologne he’d spritzed on earlier, could hear the soft, breathy mmms he added for dramatic effect, absolutely laying it on thick.

"You gonna tip me?" he whispered, his voice hot against your ear, grinning like the devil himself. "I take cash, kisses, or compliments~."

You made a small, strangled noise in your throat that sounded vaguely like the death cry of a Victorian maiden. Your face was burning, hotter than a bonfire.

The worst part? He knew it.

You could see it in the tiny, satisfied smirk curling his thin lips. "God, you're—!" you managed to blurt, struggling for words. "You're such a little—!"

"Baby boy?" he offered sweetly, batting his lashes again.

You gripped the edge of the chair so hard your knuckles turned white, breathing heavily through your nose like an angry bull. He was deliberately arching his back now, adding an extra little bounce to his movements, the little rat tail flopping around like a cheerful party favor.

You were going to die.

"You better not do this at the convention," you hissed, trying to maintain some shred of dignity.

"Aww, you don't want me giving everyone else a show too~?" Hyugo cooed, nuzzling your cheek with fake innocence. "You're so possessive, cutie."

He had the audacity to boop your nose with his gloved finger before pulling back with a scandalized gasp.

"Unless..." he mused aloud, a wicked little smile playing on his lips, "...you want a private encore later?"

You shoved him off your lap with a growl, but Hyugo just rolled onto the carpet, kicking his legs in the air like an overexcited puppy, laughing so hard tears were forming in the corners of his glittering eyes.

"You’re insane!" you accused.

"And fabulous!" he shot back, striking another ridiculous pose on the ground like a fallen Broadway star.

You buried your burning face in your hands, muttering curses under your breath. 

The bunny suit squeaked when Hyugo eventually got up again, heels click-clacking as he walked over to the mirror to admire himself—his little blue bunny tail bouncing with every step. "Admit it," he teased, glancing at you through the mirror. "You loved it."

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

The fact that you were still a blushing, frazzled mess was answer enough.

And Hyugo? He knew he’d won this round.

The smug, victorious grin he shot you was just the cherry on top of your slow, inevitable descent into hell. By the time you both actually made it to the convention, you were already emotionally exhausted.

Mostly from fighting the overwhelming urge to throttle Hyugo in his ridiculous, obscenely cute bunny suit every five minutes.

You should’ve known better than to think he would behave.

You should’ve known.

The crowded halls buzzed with energy—people in elaborate cosplays, music thumping from different booths, the smell of popcorn and cheap hot dogs hanging heavy in the air. It was loud, chaotic, and absolutely not a place where you could hide from Hyugo's brand of public humiliation.

You were just trying to mind your own business, flipping through some artist alley prints, when you felt a familiar click-click-click of heels behind you.

You froze. 

"Heeeey, sexy~!" Hyugo’s voice rang out—way too loud.

You turned just in time to see him strutting down the aisle towards you like he was walking a goddamn Victoria's Secret runway.

Heads turned. People stared. Phones came out.

You wanted the earth to open up and swallow you whole.

"Stop. Stop it," you hissed under your breath, waving frantically at him, as if sheer force of will could make him disappear. Hyugo, of course, only sped up, heels tapping the floor in a chaotic rhythm as he leaped the last two feet—and latched onto you. Short, gloved arms wrapping dramatically around your shoulders, bunny ears flopping into your face.

"You left me alooooneee," he whined, giving a fake sob loud enough to turn even more heads.

"I'm literally right here," you muttered, mortified beyond words.

But Hyugo wasn't done. Oh no.

This little menace was just getting started.

He turned to a random group of onlookers, smiling sickeningly sweet.

"Isn’t my partner just the cutest?" he gushed, squeezing your cheeks between his gloved hands like a grandma at Thanksgiving.

The group awwed. Someone even snapped a picture.

You were going to kill him. You were going to murder Hyugo in this convention center and use his rat tail to hide the body. "You’re dead," you whispered to him under your breath, seething.

Hyugo just beamed, not at all intimidated, and whispered back: "Bet you'll miss me when I’m a sexy little ghost haunting your bedroom later~."

You very seriously considered whether jail time would be worth it.

But Hyugo, smug and absolutely thriving on your suffering, linked his arm through yours with a little bounce, dragging you deeper into the con floor.

It only got worse.

Every chance he got, he posed for pictures—always dragging you into them like some chaotic little gremlin. Every time someone complimented his costume, he’d spin dramatically and blow you a kiss. Every time someone pointed at his heels and said "wow, you can actually walk in those??" he'd say, "My partner trained me well~!" with an absolutely filthy wink.

You wanted to crawl under a table and die. But...

When you caught a glimpse of him laughing—really laughing, with that genuine, youthful spark in his sky-blue eyes, his cheeks flushed slightly from excitement—you found yourself smiling in spite of yourself.

Maybe you were doomed. Maybe you were already too far gone. Because even though he was an absolute menace...

Even though he was teasing you to death... 

You wouldn't trade this chaotic, bunny-suited, rat-tailed little disaster of a boy for anything in the world. And you knew—even as he blew you another obnoxious kiss from across the convention floor, making you flip him off while your face burned red—that you were utterly, hopelessly, completely stuck with him. 

And somehow? You didn’t really mind.

Not even a little. "ACK—Hyugo!" You take it back...

Back at the hotel room, you barely managed to throw your bag onto the floor before you heard the door click shut behind you—and felt a sudden, heavy weight slam into your back. You stumbled forward, hands bracing against the bed, as Hyugo cackled in your ear.

"You promised me a reward," he sang, arms snaking around your waist, his baby blue bunny suit pressing tight against your back.

"I didn't promise shit—"

"I heard 'good bunny boys get treats~'," he interrupted sweetly, nuzzling into your neck like some needy, chaotic little demon.

You twisted around, trying to shove him off—but Hyugo was relentless. With a gleeful grin, he gave your hips a firm shove, sending you sprawling face-first onto the bed.

You groaned. "You’re heavy, you little—"

Before you could finish, Hyugo climbed on top of you, straddling your hips with those dangerously smooth legs, heels kicked off somewhere across the room. The soft mesh of his fishnet tights brushed your lower back as he adjusted his seat like he owned you.

You sucked in a breath.

He was wayyyyyy too comfortable with this.

He smirked down at you, cheeks flushed pink from excitement, messy teal bangs falling into his mischievous baby blue eyes. "You know," he drawled, voice dropping lower as he leaned down, ghosting his lips near your ear, "you could just surrender now..."

You shivered involuntarily. "And miss out on the fun of making you work for it?" you shot back, smirking into the blanket.

Hyugo made a delighted noise, like you had just personally delivered him a five-course meal. "Oh, we're playing dirty now?" He shifted, grinding his hips down in an exaggerated roll that made you jolt.

"H-Hyugo—!"

He laughed, giddy, before straightening up again, proudly sitting on your lower back like some smug little king.

Then, he started to move.

Slow, deliberate little rolls of his hips—giving you a literal lap dance, but in reverse, you still pinned under him, helpless to escape. The absurdity of it should've made you laugh, but the heat creeping up your spine was making it very hard to focus.

"Mm... look at you," he teased, dragging his gloved hands up your sides, over your ribs, the light friction of the gloves making you squirm. "Getting all flustered from a little grinding? And you call yourself tough..."

You reached back blindly, trying to grab him.

Hyugo caught your wrists with ease, pinning them down against the bed, his grip surprisingly strong for someone in a damn bunny costume. He leaned in again, noses almost brushing, his voice low and sweet, and dangerous.

"Beg," he whispered, lips ghosting over your ear.

You bit your lip hard enough to see stars. This little shit was serious.

"Hyugo..." you warned, your voice barely holding steady.

"Beg," he repeated, more smug now, dragging his fingers agonizingly slow up your arms, over your shoulders, down your chest—never quite touching where you wanted.

It was maddening.

You glared up at him over your shoulder, breathing heavily.

"You’re gonna regret this," you growled.

Hyugo’s grin widened into something absolutely feral.

"Worth it~."

And with that, he shifted his weight again, fully settling his hips against yours, giving one long, slow, grinding roll that made your mind blank completely for a second. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to stay composed. "Ngh—fuck—Hyugo—"

"Language!" he teased brightly, tapping your nose playfully with one gloved finger.

You couldn't decide if you wanted to kiss him or throw him across the room. Probably both. Definitely both. He loosened his hold just slightly, giving you just enough freedom to flip around beneath him. You caught him by the waist, slamming him down onto the bed with a yelp.

Now you were the one straddling him.

His eyes widened, a little gasp escaping those thin lips—and god, he was so red already, his cheeks burning up to the tips of his ears.

"Who's flustered now, huh?" you smirked, leaning down until your noses brushed.

Hyugo just laughed, breathless, beautiful.

"Still you," he whispered, hands sliding up your thighs, teasing the hem of your costume.

And honestly?

You couldn't even argue.

YESS, I KNOW HOW TO WRITE FOR THIS SWEET BABY BOY, so he's is longer for all the hyugo lovers out there.

✑ 𝒹𝑒𝓇𝓎𝓁

Buff Bunny—that can dance like a man.

You honestly weren’t expecting the evening to spiral into madness. The plan was simple—or at least, it should've been. Just you and Deryl, chilling at his place, knocking out the group project that was already eating your sanity alive.

No chaos. No disasters. No getting sidetracked.

You had even come prepared: laptop, notebooks, highlighters, a giant ass coffee.

Fool. You foolish, foolish soul.

Because this was Deryl.

And Deryl plus "normal" was like... lighter fluid plus a bonfire.

You were sprawled out across the living room floor, papers and pens scattered around you in what could only be described as a beautiful mind collapse, lazily scribbling notes while the TV played some random sports rerun in the background. Deryl, ever the energetic host, had promised to grab food while you worked.

"I'll be back in a sec, I swear!" he'd yelled over his shoulder, vanishing into the kitchen like a golden retriever chasing a stick.

You half-listened to the sounds of him clattering around. There was some humming. Some cabinet doors slamming. A loud whoop that rattled the walls. You sighed, underlining your notes for the third time, trying to focus.

Then—"FOOD’S HERE!!" The words echoed through the house like a goddamn battle cry.

You perked up immediately, like Pavlov's dog.

Food. Real food. Greasy, heavenly food from your shared favorite burger spot—the only thing you were living for at this point.

You pushed yourself up with a groan, knees cracking, and padded toward the kitchen. "Better be my double cheeseburger, Deryl," you called, rounding the corner—

—and immediately lost all ability to form coherent thought. Because standing there, bright as a goddamn traffic cone, was Deryl. In a bright orange bunny suit.

Deryl. In a BRIGHT ORANGE BUNNY SUIT. 

Bright. Orange. Bunny suit.

Not just a hoodie with ears, no — the full-body furry monstrosity, complete with a little cotton tail bouncing when he moves. Matching floppy ears bobbing on his head. Furiously orange polyester clinging to every inch of that massive, buff-as-fuck body—hairy legs and muscular thighs on full display beneath the ridiculous shorts.

Both hands were proudly perched on his hips, like he was posing for a magazine spread titled "DISASTERS MONTHLY."

And to top it all off—

The biggest, brightest, shit-eating grin you had ever seen split his face from ear to ear, green eyes glittering with mischief, tears of laughter already brimming at the corners. He had a burger in one hand, a stupidly wide grin on his face, and you—

—You stood there. Frozen. Absolutely brain-melted.

Not a single logical thought survived the apocalypse happening inside your head. You blinked once. Twice. The bunny ears flopped. "...what," you croaked out, your voice cracking like a dying engine.

Deryl’s laughter exploded, loud and contagious, as he leaned heavily against the kitchen counter, trying and failing to catch his breath.

"Y-you—the look—ON YOUR FACE—!!" He doubled over, wheezing like he'd run a marathon, one hand slapping the counter for balance.

You just stared.

You stared at the fluffy white tail attached to his ass.

You stared at the fact that his thighs looked like they could crush a watermelon. You stared at the unholy union of pure chaos and sex appeal standing proudly before you, like this was the most normal Saturday activity.

Finally, after a solid thirty seconds of internal screaming, you managed to force oxygen back into your lungs. "Deryl..." you started slowly, voice deadpan. "...did you answer the door like that?"

He gasped between bouts of laughter, wiping a tear from his eye. "Hell yeah, I did!!"

Another uncontrollable fit of cackling. 

You dragged a hand down your face, reeling. "The delivery guy—"

"Bro fistbumped me!" he interrupted proudly. "Said I had 'mad drip.'" He mimed the fistbump like it was some sacred ritual, bunny ears flopping with every exaggerated motion.

You were going to die. Right here. 

Buried under the weight of this absurdity.

"Why—" you tried again, your voice halfway between a sob and a laugh, "would you even—when—where did you even GET that—?!"

Deryl straightened up, looking offended at your lack of appreciation.

"Preparedness," he said solemnly, puffing his chest out. "You never know when life’s gonna call for drip." He struck a dramatic pose, flexing one bicep with the bunny paw glove on.

You physically staggered backward, clutching the doorframe.

He looked so goddamn ridiculous. So stupidly hot. So perfect. You covered your mouth to stifle the completely unhinged giggles bubbling up from your chest.

Deryl noticed immediately.

"OHHHH YOU THINK IT’S FUNNY NOW, HUH?!" He charged at you, arms outstretched like a wild animal.

"Deryl—Deryl don't you fucking DARE—" You tried to retreat but there was no escape. He grabbed you in a massive bear hug, lifting you clear off the ground like you weighed nothing, the absurdly soft fur of the bunny suit brushing against your skin. You shrieked, kicking your feet helplessly as he spun you around the kitchen.

"WHO'S LAUGHIN’ NOW, HUH?!" His laugh was pure evil joy, bright and golden and impossibly loud.

You pounded weakly on his shoulder, half-dying from laughter yourself. "PUT ME DOWN YOU GIANT LUNATIC!!"

"No can do!!" he sang, bunny ears bouncing. "Buff Bunny rights!!"

By the time he finally set you down, you were both breathless, faces flushed, grins splitting your cheeks.

You stumbled back, barely keeping your balance. 

He held you steady, hands massive and warm on your arms, that damn playful smirk still on his lips. You looked up at him, chest heaving, trying to find some shred of dignity.

Deryl just winked, tilting his head so the bunny ears flopped cutely to one side. "So..." he said, voice low and teasing, "what's the verdict?"

You swallowed thickly, the sheer ridiculousness and ridiculous hotness of it all frying every neuron in your brain.

"...You're never taking that off, are you?"

He grinned, impossibly wide. "Only if you say please," he purred.

You opened your mouth to respond—and immediately shut it again, defeated, face burning so hard it might've caught fire. You turned sharply on your heel and stomped back toward the living room, muttering curses under your breath.

Behind you, Deryl burst into another fit of hysterical laughter. 

"HEY!" he called after you, voice full of teasing sunshine. "DON'T ACT LIKE YOU DIDN'T LIKE THE VIEW!!"

You flipped him off without turning around, biting your lip to hold back the giddy laugh threatening to spill out. Because... damn it. He was right. Before you can escape fully, you hear Deryl lunging for you. "AHT— NO—" you shriek, trying to dodge, but he's faster—because of course he is, the bastard.

Big hands clamp around your waist, lifting you clean off the floor like you weighed nothing.

"DERYL! Please, not again.” You beat your fists against his shoulders, but he only laughs — that big, rumbly, dangerous laugh — and deposits you right onto the kitchen counter like you were some kind of misbehaving cat. He moves in close, trapping you there, his arms caging you in as his thick thighs press against your legs.

You glare at him.

He grins wider, leaning his face dangerously close to yours.

"You look sooo cute when you're mad," he coos mockingly, poking your cheek.

"Let me go! I'm hungry!" you snap, trying to shove at his chest, but it's like trying to push a wall. A big, hot, stubborn wall.

"Man," Deryl says, tilting his head thoughtfully, the teasing note in his voice dropping an octave lower, making your skin prickle. "I'm so hungry... I could eat you."

Your breath catches.

He’s still smiling, but there’s a flicker in his eyes now—something sharp, focused. Something that makes your stomach flip upside down. His hands flex on the counter, muscles shifting under his skin.

You meet his eyes fully—and realize—

He’s not entirely joking.

You can feel the heat radiating off his body, the way he’s crowding you, not even bothering to hide the way he’s looking at you now. Not just playful, but heavy, molten—like he's seriously considering it.

Your mouth goes dry.

A shiver dances down your spine, and you suddenly forget what air is.

Deryl laughs, low and wicked, close enough that you can feel his breath ghost over your lips. He leans in even closer, until your noses almost brush. "You gonna let me?" he murmurs, voice like a slow burn against your skin.

You swallow. Hard.

For a second, all you can do is stare at him—at the wild curls spilling messily under the bunny ears, the way his stubble roughens his jaw, the sharp green of his eyes glowing like mischief and hunger tangled together.

You should say something. You should shove him away.

Instead, you just breathe, heart hammering, caught — pinned between his arms, his thighs, and his devastating grin. And Deryl? He knows it. Oh, he knows it. He taps your nose with one finger, mischief twinkling in his eyes. "What’s the matter, little bunny? Cat got your tongue?"

You almost punched him. Almost.

But when he leans back with a victorious laugh, grabbing your burger from the counter and offering it to you with a wink, you take it from his hands with a shaky glare, ears burning, knowing full well he won this round.

The worst part?

You kinda didn’t mind losing to him.

now writing him, I was a little lost because I don't recall much of his personality, but I tried—not sure if i'll be writing him as sadly no one talks about him...

[likelysobbing]

nah let reader get her lick back now cause I can’t have us going down like this. Reader needs to get with one of the team immediately but it’s not like no rebound things it’s fr serious and Paige cannot stand it but who cares anymore?

𖥻 STUNNED. azzi fudd x reader x ex!paige bueckers (for the streets 2)

synopsis: paige’s eyes are on other girls, so azzi’s eyes sure as hell won’t let off of you now—and they’re the loveliest you’ve ever had the honor to look back at.

notes: RAHHH here it is! FOR THE STREETS part 2 ! hi nonnie! this is lightly, lightly, lightly LIGHTLY based off a song called makasarili malambing by hev abi and kristina dawn. sorry this took so long i was receiving my education! also, 3k+ words. if u read this u better read it all the way…tell me what u think too. i love interaction hehehe. also, i tried not to make paige suffer VIVIDLY, because i feel like it hurts more for player!paige to just silently regret #EL EM AY OH. thank u. also i put emphasis on eyes (adoration), the color green (envy), and make a lot of references to the previous fic. it’s linked on this post so go on and read it if you haven’t already <3 also, tagging @elalfywhore as per request hehe. hope you guys like it.

cw: READER’S A BIT OF A BITCH AT FIRST, But ends up folding because no one resists azzi bro, readers sassy, azzi is insistent, paige has avoidant attachment issues, no distinct establishment of a relationship but there is an implication of azzi and reader being more and both parties being okay with that (except paige. paige didn’t consent), PLAYER!paige

azzi always watched you.

you ignored it, especially while you were with paige—but she always watched you. azzi’s eyes seemed to favor trailing down your body more than anything else. whenever you ran into her and paige, back when you were still a couple, you had always kissed paige on the cheek—and azzi nearly leaned in everytime you approached her for a hug; maybe she expected a kiss on the cheek too— that’s funny, actually. but that’s unlikely, right? you ignore it. there was no way. no way she could have had any sort of interest in you.

especially now that you’ve practically estranged yourself from paige and her friends; that includes the basketball team. you haven’t said anything to them beyond ‘hi’ , ‘bye’ and ‘have a good day’—and they know why. they understand why. who wouldn’t want to do the equivalent of bury themselves in a hole if their ex girlfriend who they were so intent on marrying ended it all through a phone call while getting head from another woman? come on. you were sure they understood.

included in this very obvious mass-in-real-life-ghosting phase was none other than paige’s closest friend, miss goo goo eyes, miss azzi fuckin’ fudd.

you really tried to get her eyes off you, but it didn’t matter in the end.

azzi always watched you.

or like, maybe it was watch over instead of simply watch. watching over was more akin to what she did—she always checked in on you, maybe when she thought you weren’t looking her eyes would end up somewhere on your body that wasn’t necessarily scandalous—more so the space between your neck and shoulder or a collarbone. regardless, she had her eyes on you.

but watching you or not, you’re sure azzi didn’t mind you distancing yourself. you’re 100% sure she understood you being a bit too far to look at now? there was no need to dwell on it. you’re sure. you’re 100% sure.

… okay, well, maybe you’re 99.99% sure.

azzi sat across from paige, eyes slightly narrowing and widening as she felt the burn of yet another shot. the bass boomed in both of their ears, and each beat rung through their brain, but all azzi could focus on was that paige had let you go.

you. sweet, lovely, you.

she knew she wasn’t being slick when she watched you—her eyes always seemed to rake down every one of your features, and she wasn’t embarrassed about it. you were beautiful, and in paige’s arms you found your place. azzi couldn’t trespass on that—not because of paige, but because of you. you genuinely believed paige was inlove with you—pathetic, unheard of, even—but with how paige treated you, azzi began to believe it too… or she would’ve, if she knew paige less.

azzi didn’t rain on your parade of delusions hemmed by paige’s beautifully sown in lies.

but she wouldn’t deny that you would look better with her.

“you’re thinking again.”

there it is; paige was never one to think a lot, so she always questioned why azzi did. her decisions spoke for themselves. azzi pokes the inside of her cheek with her tongue, tilting her head just enough to turn her nose up at paige, who grins like she knows what this look is. azzi always seem to come up with the craziest shit, and right now—paige’s excited to see what she comes up with next.

“what you thinking of?” uconn’s number five asks, that drunken lilt unmistakable as she balanced speaking to uconn’s #35 and getting a lap dance from the girl she beckoned over (she knew nothing about her besides the fact she had a nice ass). azzi shakes her head, one side of her lips quirking up. that mystery only serves to make paige even more curious—as always, she doesn’t think twice about digging deeper.

“nah, come on, there’s something—“

“no, paige,”

“there’s someone.”

well, azzi can’t deny that, can she?

so, she burrows deeper into her seat and looks away. paige points at her like she just connected all the dots, going “oh!” like a frat boy surprised that his hunch was even correct. “who’s she?”

“she’s a she.”

“she’s a she and her name is what?”

“she.”

“that’s not a name, bro—“

“how do you know she isn’t a name?”

“bro. don’t do this. i’m drunk.”

by this point, azzi’s (a little bit!) drunk too. there’s adrenaline in her veins; sprinkle in that crazy audacity that paige seems to have all the time, and she could simply say what’s on her mind right now. or, maybe she should just say it to get it off her chest.

“your ex.” azzi murmurs. paige’s eyes darken, flickering from the common deviousness azzi’s so familiar with to something genuine she can’t seem to place. her jaw tightens, smile faltering just enough to make azzi’s own quirk up.

the lights flicker from red, yellow, green and purple randomly. by this point, she’s used to the strain—shes even memorized the pattern. the lights are going from red, to yellow, green, purple— purple again. so why … is paige all green?

“sorry, i don’t mean to impose,” was what she said to you first. you couldn’t even register she was near you at all. why was she even here, sitting next to you in a nearly empty library she’d probably benefit more studying alone in? you weren’t even in the same major. if she had a test to study for, you’d be of no help.

it was stupid of you to even assume studying was on her mind.

she just… did her own thing. in silence. she didn’t push, didn’t press, didn’t— she didn’t do anything. she was just on her phone. why was she in the library if she didn’t have any work to do? she had a whole friendgroup—maybe she did it to get away from them? wait, but why would she need to get away from them? did she need to hide? was she annoyed? why would she be annoyed? well, you don’t suppose it was paige, paige would definitely be quite an annoyance—

“yes?”

her voice is soft. softer than a feather landing on your skin. yet, like a feather, amidst how light her voice is—you feel it. it’s one word, but it takes just that to make you feel the one feeling you know will lead to more than multiple disasters.

interest.

you are interested in her.

azzi fudd’s big brown eyes were something you (and anyone in your place) could only resist for so long, and with one bat of her eyelashes and the flash of her sweet smile that—oddly—didn’t leave a bitter taste in your mouth. atleast, not like it usually did. you never saw her as anything more than paige’s bestfriend who was kind of into you (but also simultaneously there was no way she was into you because she was so pretty).

“you’ve been silent for the past two minutes.”

you blink. “… sorry.”

azzi smiles, again, and this time— you can’t help but smile back.

but it’s not that serious, isn’t it? there’s no harm in introducing new people into your life. there’s no harm even if it’s your ex’s bestfriend who’s watched you with for so long, and with such pretty eyes. there’s like, literally no harm.

you wouldn’t let there be any harm. you could open your heart to her a little. deal with her presence if it’s constant. bite back when needed, push away when called for, right?

“that’s okay.” she replies to you smoothly, looking back at her phone. “—just haven’t seen you in a while, you know.” she offers, and you freeze up. she doesn’t stop speaking. “i kind of.. missed you being close. like i get why—i understand, too, i just— you know..”

“yeah, i know you know. paige wasn’t really subtle with the breakup.” you murmured, “did she send you here to check on me, azzi?”

azzi blinks, scandalized by the accusation. “what… no? i don’t—i would never. i’m not like her— i mean, not like that— i just.. wanna be here?”

you raise an eyebrow, skeptically. “at this specific library?” and azzi inhales, “please don’t make me say what i know you know already.”

“i know a lot of things. but i don’t know what you think i know.”

“don’t you?”

“do i?”

“i just wanna be with you.”

that was easier to get out than you expected. hm, okay. okay— you tilt your head. “you’ve been with me enough, with how much you seem to hang around paige.”

“what’s that supposed to mean?”

“it means i’ve only ever known you as one of her minions.”

azzi’s eyes widen, and she nearly gasps—once again— SCANDALIZED, by your statement—but she doesn’t. infact, you don’t expect what she does—because she takes your jab in stride.

“wooow, minions, huh? okay, well—why don’t you try to get to know me beyond it?”

“i’d actually rather not. i know who you hang out with.”

“just because i hang out with her doesn’t mean—“

you interrupt her with the zip of your backpack and the slam! of your books closing. “you’re all talk. you never act.”

azzi tries to cut you off with a little “hey, wait—“, her hand on your wrist, her eyes wide and pleading but you do not budge.

you shake her hand off your wrist when she tries to stop you from standing up. it’s the perfect picture of cold ruthlessness you know paige doesn’t believe you have—and you know what? if azzi is going to act like a messenger pigeon, which you assume she is, then you’re going to make sure she has a lot to say to paige when she comes back.

unbeknownst to you, azzi looks at what was once your chair and frowns. she feels your absence more than paige does. more than paige ever will.

and it stings. both for you, and her.

she comes to you again. this time, you’re in another library, and somehow she has enough devotion to presumably ruining your life that she finds you. she smiles when she sees you, waving with a tiny ‘hello’.

you place your bag onto the chair next to you and go back to work. you’re in the zone, there’s nothing stopping you— apparently besides the girl plopping your bag down onto the (dirty!) floor. how rude. how does she have the nerve to sit next to you? why does she still think you’re good? she may want to ‘be in your presence’ but who said anything about you wanting to be in hers? what the hell does she think shes doing?

“i think maybe you should let me tell you what i’m doing here.”

“i actually think you should leave.”

“i’ve only sat next to you twice.”

“twice too many.”

theres a silence on the other end and you think you won. you can’t help the smile on your face—the rejection felt good, in a sort of cruel way. azzi didn’t have any part in you and paige’s downfall, but she did stand by and watch it—you—burn.

so you’d set fire to whatever she was dreaming of in return.

“i always thought you looked better with me.”

record scratch.

“you’re crazy.”

“i am not.” she replies, “just a tad bit tipsy.”

“it’s nine pm?” you scoff, and she shrugs, “pre-game. anyway, i mean it. i always thought you looked better with me. you would, wouldn’t you?”

this time, you leave in a hurry. there’s literally nothing but ‘evacuate’ in your head as you rush to pack your bags, spouting whatthefuckwhatthefuck in your brain as azzi, realizing the utter stupidity of her actions, begins to flail her arms around directionless as she tries to stop you from leaving again.

“okay maybe that was a little bit uncalled for, i’m sorry let me rephrase—“

“no, i am not letting you— and no, i do not wanna find out. you got me fucked all the way up—“

“listen, okay, i just think you’ve always been out of her league—“ she tries to reason, and you look at her incredulously.

“you’re talking about paige bueckers.” you say, back now turned to azzi as you begin to walk out.

azzi shakes her head, already toeing behind you— “i’m talking about my close friend. one who couldn’t see your worth— please, will you let me try again? god, i’m sorry— you’re just so pretty, okay? and you’re so fucking sweet, you have such a pretty face and i just can’t help but look at you—“

“that is so creepy, azzi.”

“it is! i’m sorry!” she whines, obviously more than tipsy, “i’m sorry! just—“ she takes you by the hand, and you freeze up because it’s been quite a while since you’ve had physical contact that had even a smidge of romantic intent, and when you look back— god, there it is.

big, brown eyes.

looking right at you, a tad bit glossy—wide, and paired with by far the prettiest pout you’ve ever seen. “please.” she whispers, keeping in mind how you’re technically still in the library and she’s been looked at thrice for her theatrics—“please? just… let me hang around. i’m not going to force anything i just—want to know you.”

you’re stunned.

you’re in no state to properly answer; your mind is going a mile a minute, and so in desparation to just speak— you speak with your heart.

“nnn… okay.”

that was your heart. it forgot all reason, dignity, and self respect, apparently.

maybe azzi giving you a wide, toothy smile was worth it though.

“you’re seeing her?” paige repeated, some drink she forgot the name of swirling in her cup. azzi nodded, “figured she’d need something soft to land on.” she murmured, and though her words seemed casual—there was more meaning to them than paige could understand. azzi’s tone was expectant, hopeful—she wanted something to bloom between the two of you—something nice. pretty. good.

“and what is that? your chest?” paige’s reply interrupts her, and though she tries to sound teasing—she sounds more... irritated.

“maybe.” azzi grins.

“get outta here.” paige scoffs, taking another swig of her drink as she slumps back into her chair. “you can have her, it’s whatever bro. liter-ally whatever.”

“mhm.”

azzi’s nonchalance only bothers paige even more.

“i hope you understand i’m not ready yet.” was the first thing you said right after that awkward moment back at the library, “for a relationship, i mean. like, this fast.” you clarified.

azzi nodded, bouncing off you well, “oh, me too—you don’t need to see me as a threat. i just want to know you. i know it’s going to be hard, considering well.. your ex is my best friend. paige doesn’t mind—“ she pauses, before trying to reword. “i mean that—“

“oh, that’s fine. i can tell she doesn’t.” you wave it off, and azzi just smiles apologetically as she continues. “even if it’s hard on the both of us, i want to see where this goes. i’ve watched you too long to not want to be close.” azzi shyly murmurs, before trying to rekindle a lighter atmosphere— “just don’t get sassy with me, okay? i don’t like fighting with you.”

it’s been five months now. since she’s said that.

specifically, since azzi began to try to woo you. every flower she gave was always your favorite one, every ramble you graced her with was met with actual listening ears and comprehension, and nearly every thing you wanted? you had it in your hands the next day. azzi wasted no time in trying to show you she in fact, wasn’t like bueckers (who seemed to be meaner these past weeks, impossibly)—you never had to doubt her.

like actually. you never had to doubt azzi.

she didn’t knock on your door three times, but she was… special. enough. to have a key by the third month. she didn’t look you in the eye all that much, too shy to properly maintain it, but you knew she watched over you anyway. and when she held your hand, she was the one that squeezed first.

even if she hasn’t popped the question yet, there is no doubt in your mind that she’s yours already. she may have had grandeur, but unlike paige, she did not let it define her love for you. no, she won you over by the littlest things. the things that mattered.

its been five months now. since she’s said that.

and it’s felt like… six / seven … years?

however long it’s been, you know there’s a connection. and azzi knows too, because why wouldn’t she? she somehow knows everything. there’s always solutions to problems with her, always an answer to a math equation or an existential crisis— its all so different.

different from paige, you mean.

with azzi, you’re always… stunned— from how much effort she puts in, how bright her smile is, how she never seems to not have time for you—hell, you’re stunned whenever you see her. you know there’s something there, but you don’t know who’s going to make a move first—or atleast, when she is.

you don’t know if you should care at all. you don’t know if you should put yourself first, or if you even have real questions. you can’t even ask azzi like you’ve formed a habit of doing because she somehow always says the right things—you can’t even muster up a question for her: what would you say? ‘bro please kiss me already?’ no way.

“you ready to go?” azzi’s voice snaps you out of your thoughts, and you blink to see her holding her hand out. ah, that’s right— you’re hanging out tonight. she’s taking you to her favorite spot across the town—that’s nice. you can’t wait to be with her.

you have so many questions you can’t muster, but maybe you don’t need to ask. maybe you just need to feel—her touch lingers far more than it stays, always tingling on your arm or your back; her absence causes you more heartache than you’d like; … it’s just her. maybe there are no more questions. maybe you don’t have questions, but either way, azzi has answers. she might as well be the answer to everything, actually. maybe there’s no need to dwell, no need to label it yet—lord knows what azzi wants.

you take azzi’s hand and she squeezes it first like she always does. it makes you smile wider this time.

this time, love is kind to you. it is soft and slow and yet passionate all the same. you don’t know where it might lead but the look in her eyes is worth it. this tenderness is worth it.

and you’re not afraid, wherever this might lead you.

paige bueckers.

big name. legendary name, even. yet she’s not as big and bad as shes made herself out to be right now. not at all.

in the same booth she was a few months ago, paige now sits alone. there are girls aching to get home with her, and she’s half-picking who should get that honor—but she’s trying to distract herself more.

the lights go red, to yellow, green, purple—purple again. so why does she feel so green?

envy is a rattle snake, and it wraps around her entire body. it squeezes tight, cutting circulation off to the point she’s so stiff she might explode— but it’s not because of you and azzi.

it’s not.

not even when her jaw clenches at the thought of you. and azzi. azzi is her bestfriend, and when she outright admitted to thinking about making moves on you—paige brushed it off with a laugh and a playful “she can’t even talk to half of us, bro—i got her heart broken … or like heartbroken or something.” but now, here she is.

and she’s not heart broken. shes not even bothered at all. she’s not.

she just doesn’t like to see you so close. why would she want you close? she’s done her time. pulled you in closer. you always burrowed in deep, she felt you in her heart. maybe that’s what sickened her— the feeling of endearment. you tried to reach your way in, but to paige it felt like you were tearing her apart—ripping her to shreds to crush the organ in your hands and make the victory against her sweeter.

she’s not heart broken. why would she be? there’s no one here breaking her heart.

there’s no one she lets close enough to even have a shot at it.

there is only her. and while she may not accept it, especially now? now that you are gone? now that she’s driven you away like she once did with every other girl who’s ever tried to come close—although you came closest—who came her way?

paige bueckers.

big name. legendary name, even.

but her heart breaks, and she’s the one breaking it.

@likelysobbing.

[softspiderling]

illicit affairs - part eleven

summary:

“You’re joking, right? You’ve never been interested in a real relationship and you talk to this girl for five minutes and suddenly you’re ready to settle down?” you snorted and Rafe glanced over at you, his eyes finding yours.

“Sometimes a risk is worth the reward, Precious.”

OR; you reap what you sow

pairing: rafe cameron x reader

warnings: kinda emotional damaging, idk what to tell you

word count: 2,4k

author’s note: okay so full psa I did kinda tear up a bit while writing this, but I'm also insanely sensitive so it doesn't have to mean anything idk lmfao I just wanted to warn you beforehand. either way, this chapter also is heavily inspired by is it over now by Taylor swift so do with that info what you will. hope you enjoy it my lovelies <3

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pt. eleven: “look at this idiotic fool that you made me” alternatively: "I think about jumping"

“He is smitten with you, girl. You’re blind if you don’t see that.”

The words kept echoing in your head, even after the dark had settled over Nassau, even as you stood in line for the new club Kelce was raving about where you just had to go. You, Rafe and Topper knew better than to fight Kelce about this, so you all just agreed to go, especially because you had promised him earlier that day. You severely regretted that promise now, absolutely not in the right head to go clubbing.

The woman’s words made you question your entire friendship with Rafe. Had he been feeling the same way all along? Were you just to blind to see the signs? Or was that just some sales ploy, to get you to buy more?

“Hey, come on Precious.”

“What?”

You snapped out of your thoughts, as Rafe waved you forward. Without realizing, the line had moved and you were holding it up. Quickly, you joined your friends and Rafe furrowed his brows at you.

“You good?”

A small laugh escaped your lips as you tried to play it off. “Yeah, sorry. Just didn’t think it would take us this long to getting into a club.”

“Right right, precious is used to skipping the line,” Topper said with a nod, and you swatted his arm, grinning.

“Shut up, Top.”

“I promise it’s gonna be worth it,” Kelce said, looking over the heads of the people who were standing in line in front of you. “Only like, five more groups before we get to go in.”

“Oh, I can’t wait,” Rafe deadpanned and Kelce elbowed him as you laughed.

The time passed quickly as you waited, mostly spent with making fun of Kelce. When the bouncer finally gestured for you inside, the breath nearly stocked in your throat.

“Oh my god, I can barely even move.”

“It’s great, isn’t it!”

At least that was what you assumed Kelce said. It was so loud, you could barely hear yourself speak, let alone anyone else. You moved towards the bar, where you quickly claimed one of the last free stools, the boys crowding around you. Kelce’s head bopped to the music, clearly feeling it.

“Let’s go dance!”

“I need another drink for that,” Rafe snorted, while Topper nodded in agreement, Kelce’s eyes falling on you. You glanced over to the packed dance floor, then back to Kelce, who stretched his hand out to you.

“Come on, Precious.”

A dance wouldn’t hurt. Maybe it would shake out your nerves. Distract you.

“Fine,” you sighed, taking Kelce’s hand and he didn’t even waste a second to drag you towards the dance floor.

“Get me a drink!” you shouted over your shoulder to Rafe and Topper, who only gave you a nod, watching in amusement, but they soon disappeared behind dancing bodies.

You turned back to Kelce, who must have found a decent spot to dance in because he twirled you around, making you laugh, holding onto him when you finally stood straight again. The two of you quickly found your groove, moving to the loud music that was blasting through the speakers. You lost yourself in the music, your worries melting away as you only focused on the rhythm and the beat, that was so loud, you could feel it in your heart.

It wasn’t long until people started to edge closer to you, hoping for a change to share a dance or two. Kelce was quick to weed out the people, especially the ones who were coming up behind you. He seemed to approve of one guy, because he eagerly nodded at you, wagging his eyebrows suggestively.

Glancing over your shoulder, you could tell that the guy was cute, even with the strobing lights, his dark hair curling over his forehead and he had a nice smile. He just wasn’t Rafe.

You didn’t know how to tell Kelce nor this guy that you really weren’t interested, so you just let him dance behind you, what was the harm in one dance?

Kelce gave you an enthusiastic thumbs up, his focus quickly averted when a guy came up behind him, giving him a charming smile, and you could tell he was definitely Kelce’s type. They quickly melted into one, with the way they were dancing and you tried not to grin, happy that Kelce could forget about Malcolm, even if it was for only one night.

You really should take a page out of his book, but alas, you were just a girl.

“I think I need some air,” you told the guy behind you, offering him an apologetic smile. “Thanks for the dance!”

The guy seemed to take the hint, nodding at you with a small smile before you slipped through an opening in the crowd, trying to find your way off the dance floor. The bar was crowded, making it hard to try to spot Topper and Rafe. Craning your head, you finally found Rafe at the side of the bar, Topper nowhere to be seen.

Rafe’s back was towards you as you approached him, so you reached out to tap his shoulder.

“Hey, Rafe I-” the rest of your sentence got lost in your throat when he turned to you, revealing a pretty girl by his side. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t realize you were talking to someone.”

“Hey Precious,” Rafe greeted you, wrapping his arm around your shoulder, so you were standing face to face with the girl, introducing you. “This is my best friend.”

“Hi, I’m Kayla,” the girl said with a bright smile, whereas yours was tight, forced, still trying to process what was happening.

The rest of their conversation passed you by like a blur, honest to god, you didn’t even want to hear what they were saying, but before you knew it, they bid their good byes. When Kayla disappeared from sight, you looked up at Rafe, and you wish you hadn’t.

He was still looking at the spot where Kayla had left.

You were a fucking fool.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to cockblock you,” you said, slipping out from under his arm, taking a sip from the cocktail that stood on the counter next to Rafe. It was strong, lots of rum, but that was exactly what you needed right now. If you were lucky, it’d make you forget the whole night.

“Cockblock me?” Rafe echoed, amused. “How do you know she only wanted to fuck?”

You took another huge sip of your drink because you were in no way drunk enough for this.

“Isn’t that why people talk to other people in a club? To get laid?”

“Think she wanted more than a hook up,” Rafe replied, lifting a piece of paper between his finger tips. You could only make out a row of digits before your eyes flitted to Rafe’s.

“You took her number?”

“She gave it to me.”

Scoffing, you drank the last of your cocktail, pushing the empty glass away from you, which Rafe eyed cautiously.

“You tossed that back in record time, precious, are you okay?” he asked, rubbing your back. You knew he meant well, he always did. But his gesture made you feel like a fucking kid, so you shrugged his hand off.

“I’m fine,” you insisted, annoyed. And because you couldn’t let it go, you asked: “Since when are you interested in anything else but a hook up?”

Rafe shrugged, taking a step away from you, reaching for his beer. “I don’t know. Guess I can see now what’s so apppealing about it.”

“You’re joking, right? You’ve never been interested in a real relationship and you talk to this girl for five minutes and suddenly you’re ready to settle down?” you snorted and Rafe glanced over at you, his eyes finding yours.

“Sometimes a risk is worth the reward, Precious.”

His eyes seemed to bore into yours, so you turned away, staring at the wall behind the bar.

“Just… whatever.”

You just had to ask, didn’t you?

You gripped the counter, your hands starting to shake. To your horror, you could feel tears welling up and you quickly dipped your head, in an attempt to hide your face. Really, here? Just because this girl seemed to have left such an impression on Rafe that he could imagine being in a relationship? With her? While all you, his best friend, were good for was a good fuck?

Out of the corner of your eyes, you could see Rafe shoving his beer on the counter, his hand coming up on your waist.

“Precious-”

Nope.

“Sorry, bathroom,” you pressed out, pushing away from the bar to flee towards the bathroom. The door hit the wall, since you basically kicked it open, nearly scaring the girl inside half to death, but you didn’t care. You pressed yourself against the wall, forehad resting against the cold tiles of the bathroom, your heart nearly beating out of your chest.

How could you be so stupid? Here you were, having sex with your best friend because you told yourself, this. This was the only way you could have him, a relationship was never in the cards, because he just didn’t do them. Well, turned out he did. Just not with you.

You couldn’t believe you let a stranger’s words affect you like that, make yourself hope, that you could ever be more than just his best friend.

The girl came up behind you, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder.

“You good girl?”

You let out a humorless laugh, shaking your head.

“No. No I’m not.”

Someone crown you the biggest fucking idiot on the island.

The next day, you still felt like an idiot. If it were up to you, you’d be on the next flight home, but how would you explain that to your friends? It was just one more day, before you’d go home. You could last a day.

Luckily, Rafe seemed to think your behavior was due to the cocktail you had just poured back. He was waiting in front of the bathroom when you had come out, thinking you had thrown up.

If only he knew.

“You sure you can do boats right now?” Rafe asked, peering at you over his sun glasses. You were tempted to say no. “We could just go do something else, you and me.”

Yeah, that was not gonna happen.

“I’m fine, Rafe,” you sighed, leaning back against the cushioned seat, your blue dress flaring out.

“You know, I get Precious getting to sit back and look pretty, but why are you not helping us?” Kelce asked, shoving the cooler on the floor. He and Topper had been walking back and forth on the marina, carrying food and drinks onto the boat.

Rafe shrugged, reaching for a beer in the cooler. “Well, how about the fact that this is my boat?”

“Told you not to bring it up,” Topper huffed, putting the two bags full of food on the table. “I knew he’d come up with some excuse.”

“Whatever,” Kelce grumbled, snatching the beer right out of Rafe’s hand before he could even get a drop.

Topper plopped down on the seat next to you, throwing his arm around your shoulders. “How’re you Precious?”

You threw a look at him. Out of the three boys, you knew Topper didn’t quite buy the whole “I drank too much” act.

“Fine,” you grumbled, crossing your arms over your chest, clearly not in the mood to elaborate. Rafe picked up on your tone, turning around to slap Topper on his cap.

“Hey, leave her alone.”

Topper pulled a face at him, but Rafe didn’t notice as he already turned away to start the engine, taking the boat out of the marina into the sea.

Despite your realizations from the previous night, you had a great time. You mostly pushed those thoughts away, trying to spend time with your best friends, because that was what they were, right? That was what Rafe was, first and foremost.

The sun had already started to set by the time you got back to the marina, the street lights flickering on.

“I’m gonna go pick up some food asap,” Kelce said, immediately getting off the boat. “I am starving.”

“I’ll get rid of the trash,” Topper said, yawning into his shoulder as he picked up the food wrappers, empty bottles and cans, collecting them in a bag, disappearing onto the pier as well.

You helped Rafe tie the boat, taking everything down, as it was gonna be a while again before someone used it.

“Think that’s it,” he said, throwing a look over the boat, and you gave him a thumbs up, ready to get back on land.

Suddenly his phone went off a couple of times, screen down on the console. It had been going off a lot today, you had noticed him on his phone a few times, but never really questioned it. At least you tried not to.

“Someone’s popular today,” you teased. “Who is it?”

Rafe shrugged, turning off the engine of the boat, ignoring his phone as it pinged once again.

“Oh come on,” you whined, reaching for his phone. “The least you can do is-“

Kaylas’s name flashed across the screen multiple times.

“-text back.”

You swallowed thickly, before you dangled his phone in front of him. “You texted her already?”

“I was bored.”

Rafe grabbed his phone from you, slipping it into his pocket, you barely put up a fight. Even though you had seen this coming a mile away, it still hurt.

“So you’re really serious about this wanting a relationship thing, huh?” you asked and Rafe lifted his head, looking at you.

“Yeah.”

You cleared your throat, nodding your head quickly. This was your own fault. You wanted too much, putting yourself in a position where you knew you’d get hurt.

Was it over then?

“Is it over now?”

“Yeah, Rafe,” you nodded, forcing a snort. “If you wanna get to know her for real, you shouldn’t be messing around with your best friend.”

“Right.”

Rafe’s voice was curt and you gave him a smile. “Let me know how that thing with Kayla goes,” you said, squeezing his arm before you turned your back to him, getting off the boat.

As your foot stepped onto the pier, your heart felt a little tight, as if someone had their fist around it. But the further you walked away from the boat, the freer you felt.

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author's note: feel free (like Precious LOL too early?) to come into my inbox hehehe I wanna know how you feel

[littlegrapejuice]

Too Vanilla | FC43

Pairing: Franco Colapinto x Reader

Summary: Franco is very open about his past sex life - maybe a bit too much for you, which eventually makes you insecure.

Author's Note: this is super short but i got the inspo after seeing a small extract of franco on the nude project (i then proceeded to watch the entire thing even tho i barely speak spanish lol) and yeah, I'll say more in the end notes lol but iykyk😭

F1 MASTERLIST🏎

“You’re quiet tonight”, Franco pointed out. “More than usual.”

Shit, was the only word now echoing in your mind. You didn’t think you had been that quiet. Franco and you were having a peaceful night in, cuddling in bed while watching some stupid show whose laughing track was way funnier than the actual jokes.

“Just enjoying the time with you, that’s all.”

Franco knew better. He knew from the way his arms were around you, your hands on your lap and not holding his like you usually did. He knew from the way your body wasn’t entirely relaxed against his.

He just knew you.

“I kinda wanna call bullshit on that, I know you’re lying. Or at least hiding something,” he clarified.

“And what would I be hiding?”

“I don’t know”, he admitted.

And that was it. You both stayed silent for several minutes after the exchange. But now that it was out there, you could feel Franco’s eyes on you. And with the way that he was now holding one of your hands in his, his thumb gently stroking your skin? It was just a matter of time before you were spilling whatever secret you were hiding. Which you did, when you felt him hugging you a bit tighter from where he was sitting behind you.

“It’s about the videos”, you eventually blurted out.

“The videos?” Franco repeated.

“That one video where you did the put a finger down thing”, you explained. “And the most recent podcast.”

“What about those?” He asked, slightly straightening up, before muting the TV.

“Well, you talked about having had sex in a car before, and the podcast…”

“Did I say something wrong in the podcast?”

“It’s not something you said, it’s just how I felt about it.”

“Okay.” Franco nodded, still a bit confused. “Please communicate with me, how did that make you feel?”

“You were talking about pre-race sex somehow helping with your performance, because it was like– relaxing. You also mentioned that having sex on the first date was more than fine for you... And then, I got insecure about it.”

“You got insecure because I’ve been whoring around?” There were certainly better ways to form the question, but at least Franco was trying his best. “You know it all happened before we got together, yeah? I haven’t done that in a while.”

“And that’s the issue!” You exclaimed as you shifted a bit away from him, your side profile now facing him.

“What? You’re saying you’d want me to do those things again?” Safe to say, he was lost. “I'm not sure I get it, what’s the real issue regarding us?”

“The sex, Franco!” You had raised your voice a bit, immediately regretting it. You moved again to sit cross-legged, now actually facing him. “Or more like the lack of it.”

“And that’s the issue because…?” He encouraged you to keep going, still not getting your point.

“Because I’m not having sex with you?” You tried to make him understand. “Because I will probably never have sex with you? Because everything between us is just too vanilla – even more than a middle schoolers’ relationship?”

You expected any reaction from Franco, literally anything. Except him laughing. But that’s what he was doing right now. He had just bursted out laughing.

But you weren’t laughing, far from it. You were just looking at him, widened eyes at his reaction.

“Oh my… oh God…” Franco did his best to calm down, slowly breathing in and out to stop laughing. “Since when is the lack of sex in our relationship an issue? You never brought this up before.”

“I mean, we did talk about it when we got together.”

“But still, I thought we were on the same wavelength? Why is this so important to you all of a sudden?”

“It’s not like– important…”

“Kinda seems like it is”, Franco interrupted.

“Okay, maybe it is. But it’s just that– like– yes, we had agreed that it wasn’t necessary between us… but just watching the podcast and seeing you talk about it, seeing people comment on it–”

“Fuck the comments.”

“Yeah, I shouldn’t be paying attention to them…” You admitted. “But I just got in my head, and then I started overthinking…”

“And you thought that us not having sex had become a problem for me? Without asking me what my actual opinion was?”

“Bingo,” you confirmed with a dry laugh.

The silence settled once again between the two of you, but it wasn’t as heavy as earlier. Franco took your hands in his, squeezing them in reassurance.

“How much of the podcast did you watch?” He eventually asked.

“The segment of you talking about pre-race sex, obviously.” You rolled your eyes at him as your voice was full of sarcasm. "And the sex-on-the-first-date moment.

“But did you watch what I said after?”

“Yeah, a bit.” You tried to recall how long the extract had been. “The whole thing wasn’t entirely subbed so I didn’t actually watch everything but–”

“So you remember what I talked about after that?” Franco waited for you to nod before he continued. “About the difficulty of creating real bonds with people, finding a connection, something that matters… That’s you”, he claimed. “You’re the person with who I share an actual bond. The person who I know is here for me, who loves me, and who I love back. What’s between us is precious, something I wanna cherish and care for until you’ll stop having me.”

“I’ll never stop, though.” You tried to avoid Franco’s gaze, ashamed of having doubted his feelings.

“Well, I hope so.” Franco squeezed your hands once again, before he let go of them to cup your face and wipe your cheeks. “You shouldn’t be crying because of me.”

“Bro”, you said with a deadpan tone. “You’re out there declaring your love for me and I’m not supposed to cry?”

“When you say it like that…”

He laughed. But this time, you enjoyed hearing it. And it made you laugh too.

The situation shouldn’t have been a laughing matter – not for most people – but still, you were laughing together. Then, Franco leaned in, his hands still on your cheeks. You leaned towards him as well, and he closed the space between you to kiss you.

For every insecurity you would ever have, Franco would be there to appease them. And for every dumb insecurity like this one, Franco would just have to remind you that the ‘vanilla’ relationship between the two of you was worth so much more than any pre-race sex he could ever have. And maybe he would also remind you that despite not having sex, the make out sessions between you two were sometimes far from being vanilla.

..........

Ok so this one's a bit more personal than others (not counting that one logan fic in which i poured my heart lol)

Ik there's this franco persona we all see as being the epitome of no pr training bc bro is sharing loads of private stuff - and it ain't even that deep tbh like he's just a guy🎀 (btw i did watch the entire pod which was super interesting bc i didn't know that much ab franco before f2 so i recommend!!)

But yeah, this one's for my ace girlies out there who, like me, might think that it's impossible to find love bc most people will expect sex in a relationship💜

This was just a short n' sweet fic that i thought went well w franco (who's the green flag we all need in our lives) - mostly written for my own mental health bc i needed some self love & reassurance🤍

Thanks for reading<3 I'll see you soon, take care of yourselves, i love y'all xx

[yourlipstogodsears]

Injured on Duty (Robby x Resident reader)

Summary: she’s one of his residents and works part time as an EMT, she gets hit by an ambulance as it drives off. So she ends up in PTMC.

As soon as the ambulance brings her in, Robby rushes to the trauma bay, his eyes scanning the patient chart. He sees her name and his world stops. He takes charge, barking orders at the nursing staff, "what’s the mechanism of injury?" He rushes to her side when the paramedics tell him she got clipped by an ambulance on duty.

she tries to sit up, “I’m fine. It’s just my shoulder”

His hand immediately presses down on her uninjured shoulder, pushing her back against the gurney. "Like hell you're fine! You got hit by an ambulance! Now lay. The. Fuck. Down before I sedate you!"

she laughs, “okay okay”

He narrows his eyes but can't help cracking a small smile at her laughter. "Only you would find getting clipped by your own company hilarious." He shakes his head as he begins examining her shoulder. "This is going to hurt like a bitch," he warns, probing gently.

she grunts softly as he touches the area of shoulder feeling it distended from the socket and the skin stretching “feels dislocated.. my shoulders dropped.”

His expression turns serious as he confirms his suspicion. "Yep, it's dislocated. I'm going to need to pop it back in." He looks into her eyes, trying to gauge her pain tolerance. "On a scale of one to ten, how bad is the pain?"

“The strength of a thousand suns”

He chuckles softly, despite the tension. "Alright, drama queen. I'll take that as an eight or nine." He turns to the nurse standing by. "Get me a quick dose of morphine for pain management. We need to relax her before I reduce this dislocation."

she nods and smiles softly at Dr. Abbott who’s working with Robby today because they’re so short staffed, “does it have to be a small dose?”

Dr. Abbott raises an eyebrow at her question, smirking. Robby, however, fixes her with a stern glare. "if I give you a large dose, you'll be too relaxed and it'll make reducing the dislocation more difficult."

she sighs, “Robby, you are no fun”

He chuckles despite himself, adjusting the angle of her upper arm. "And you're a pain in the ass who can't handle pain like a normal person." Abbott hands him the morphine syringe "Stop complaining and let us do our damn jobs." He administers the morphine.

she relaxes, “you know what they say doctors make the worst patients. Med students are up there…”

He nods in agreement, his touch gentler now that the morphine is taking effect. "Too true. We know too much and expect too much." He positions her arm carefully, preparing to reduce the dislocation. "Alright, here we go. Try to stay still and breathe through it, okay?"

With a swift, practiced motion, he pops her shoulder back into place.

“FUCK- I HATE YOU!” she yells in pain, the entire ER could hear her.

Both he and Abbott burst out laughing despite themselves, with Robby gently pressing a cold pack against her shoulder. "I love you too, kid," he teases, trying to keep his tone light "Was that a nine on the pain scale? Or maybe a ten?"

she nods, “that wasn’t fun”

He smirks sympathetically, adjusting the cold pack. "No, I imagine it wasn't. But you're a trooper. Most people would've passed out or punched me." He smiles playfully, knowing she'll appreciate the dark humor.

“I thought about it”

Robby can't help but grin at her threat, shaking his head with amusement. "I'm terrified. Truly, you're a menace." He leans in conspiratorially, lowering his voice. "For the record, if you had punched me, I wouldn't have blamed you one bit."

“I’m well aware”

He laughs softly, adjusting her blanket to cover her better. "Of course you are." He pauses, his expression turning more serious. "you okay? Really okay? I know that hurts."

“You’re gonna be down a resident for a while if I gotta rest this shoulder. I won’t be able to work Thursday..”

His face falls at the mention of her missing work, a rare display of genuine concern. "Thursday? you can't even lift your arm without wincing. You're not coming in Thursday, or Friday, or possibly even next week." He sets his jaw, his protective instincts kicking in.

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. "You know what? Don't even think about coming in until you're cleared by me. I mean it." He points at her sternly, but his tone softens almost immediately. "And don't give me that look."

“Always the protective one” she mumbles.

He rolls his eyes, trying to maintain his stern facade, but failing miserably. "Shut up. It's my job to be protective. Especially with my favorite resident." He leans back, crossing his arms over his chest. "You're supposed to be resting, not arguing with me."

(First time writing for Robby, not sure how I’m doing but I have more to make this a second part.)

[leclerc-hs]

Chalres x Reader(Brothers best friend)

Reader is Charles younger brothers best friend she has always had a crush on Charles but Charles never seemed interested one day there's like a pool party she wears a very revealing sexy bikini and Charles takes notice of her

All the smut please ✨️

pairing: charles leclerc x fem!reader word count: <900 warnings: smut smut smut, language, 18+ author's note: sorry its kinda short!!! just kinda dove straight into the smut LOL, maybe one day I'll make another version of charles x brother's best friend but this is all I had time to do for now!! xoxo ◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤

You had always been Arthur’s best friend. His sidekick, his shadow. The girl who spent endless summers barefoot at the karting tracks, grease smudged across your skin, weaving yourself into every corner of his life.

You were a constant. A staple.

Another Leclerc, almost. A little sister.

And Charles had never thought twice about it. You were harmless. Safe. Comfortable.

Until now.

Until this party, where you were dripping wet from the pool, the tiniest soft red fucking bikini clinging to your body, laughing loudly at something Arthur said.

It was hardly a swimsuit. Two ragged slivers of soft red fabric, stitched together and tied at your hips in shoulders, would be a better way to describe it. 

Scraps. That’s all it was. Every knot, every flimsy tie, looked like it was one tug away from coming undone.

Indecent, barely there. Exposed.

And so goddamn beautiful it knocked the air from his lungs.

Charles nearly dropped his drink, fingers spasming around the bottle in his hands, as heat pumped in his chest.

He tried. Tried to ignore it as long as he could all day.

But the second you wandered inside alone. Wet, shivering, in nothing but those flimsy scraps of fabric. He snapped.

He followed you inside before he could think better of it, the door clicking shut behind him sharply.

You turned, surprised, smiling like you didn’t even know what you were doing to him.

And he fucking lost it.

One moment he was standing across the room, the next he was in front of you, hands grabbing your face, mouth crashing onto yours like he needed you to breathe. A kiss that tasted like anger and hunger.

You gasp, stunned, but melted into him almost instantly. Fingers slipping into his wet hair like you’d dreamed of this a million times. You have.

Charles pulls back slightly, panting. “This,” he gasps. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

You stare up at him, body trembling. “You don’t even know,” you whisper. “How long I’ve wanted this.”

He groaned. Audibly groaned like it hurt him.

“I never,” he chokes, kissing you again, harder. “Never thought of you like this.”

“But you’re still kissing me,” you whisper.

And you whimper into his mouth, hips rocking into him like fucking instinct.

“You’re so fucking beautiful. Always were.” He mutters, eyes dragging down your body like he hated himself for even looking. But he couldn’t stop. “I just…can’t fucking stop.” He crashes his mouth back over yours.

Charles didn’t ease into you at all. No. He shoved deep inside of you with a brutal, desperate thrust that knocked the air from you.

You cried out, clutching his back, nails digging into his skin.

“Fuck,” he rasps, forehead pressed to yours. “You’re gonna kill me.”

He stayed buried for a second, grinding slowly, making you feel every fucking throbbing inch of him.

“You have no idea,” he groans. “How fucking long I fought this.”

You whimper, clenching around him.

“Used to look at you,” he pulls himself out of you, before slamming back into you, hard. “And tell myself you were safe. You were just Arthur’s best friend.”

And he thrusts deeper, harder, making you moan out loud.

“Harmless.” He laughs at himself. Like he’s angry he didn’t see it earlier.

You sobbed his name. Over fucking whelmed by the pace of his hips. The feel of his cock stretching you.

“Now all I can think about is bending you over every fucking surface possible.” His hips snap harder, making you sob out.

“Can’t sleep without seeing you spread open for me,” His voice is filthy in your ear. 

Your walls clench around him, body shaking from how hard he was fucking into you. Like he wanted to punish you for it.

“Fuckin ruined me,” he hisses against your skin. Fisting your hair and yanking your head to look at him. “You’re mine now, you get that?”

You nod fast. Frantic. Tears forming in the corners of your eyes.

“Say it,” He orders. “Tell me you’re mine.”

“Yours,” your voice breaks, a moan slipping through.

He lets out a filthy groan, fucking you harder, slamming into you until you couldn’t see straight.

“Supposed to be my sister,” He mutters, delirious from the squeeze of your cunt on his cock. “Now all I wanna do is put a baby in you. Fill you up so fuckin full of me.”

And your orgasm crashes into you violently. Ripping through you as you clench around him. Gripping him harshly.

He curses violently, coming with a low groan, grinding into you harshly as he spills into you, filling you full, hips thrusting like he couldn’t stop.

“This doesn’t end here, y’get that?” He rasps. “Think one times enough?” His mouth frags over your jaw, biting into your skin.

“I’m gonna fucking ruin you,” Still grinding into your soaking cunt. “Gonna fuck you so many times you’ll never want another guy again.”

You moan, body trembling. 

“Gonna make you come over and over, until you’re crying for me.” His thrusts don’t stop. “Gonna take you home. Fuck you all over the place if that’s what it takes.”

Then he grabs your hips, slamming into you again. Starting all over again.

[keen-li]

Soft launch | jk

Summary: The one where you’ve been a solo OF creator for some time, but now your viewers are requesting to see you with a partner, but you only have...Jungkook as an option. Your closest friend.

18+ MDNI.

Jungkook x fem reader.

Friends to FWB, smut.

Warnings: filmed coitus, kissing, a down bad Jungkook?, fingering, neck kisses, implied virgin reader, penetration(protected.) sweet after care.

Note: smut practice No.1

A/n: this is just practice and i worked on it so fast there could be errors but I did try to edit it. i don’t know how to write smut so I’m working on it. If you think it’s cringe or don’t like it please don’t tell me 😊, I don’t want to know. This is just for fun and no thought.

Any positive, reply, ask or reblog is appreciated

Wc: 2.2k+

╰⊰♡⊱╮

“Really?” when you ask to clarify and he nods, you’re already getting excited. “Let me restart the video.”

You skip to the camera, making sure to end the previous one.

You’ve been doing filming for over a year now, you’re still new but it’s shocking how you’ve grown a large audience already.

Filming pays you so well that you’ve taken it up full time. And with that you’ve had to get creative.

You always did your work solo, it was comfortable and what made you feel the most confident. The people loved it. But it can get monotonous at times, and they made sure to let you know.

You’ve never minded requests; they help you alleviate the pressure of thinking of how to be creative next. So, when people start requesting you to get a partner, it made you do a double take.

Working with someone isn’t something you mind doing. But what really concerned you was your comfortability. You couldn’t walk up to a random person and ask if they could film with you. You never had friends in the industry, and only one male friend. Your female friends don’t swing that way.

So, you were stuck.

But then your thoughts went back to the only male friend you have. Jungkook. He was single and supported what you did.

So, would he help you?

You were scared to ask, but it was worth the shot. If he said no then you could pretend it was a lie. He was very open minded to things, so could he be to this? It’s definitely playing at the seams of things you’ve never thought of in your friendship.

So, it was a shock to you when he said yes, very quickly as well.

“Maybe you should hold the camera.” You tilt your head to the side, doubting what route you should go with this. “For a better angle you get?” he nods.

Cause of the job people wouldn’t believe you’ve actually never slept with anyone before. That’s the main reason you don’t have other male friends. They’d always try to sleep with you. You were never interested in that. and that’s what made Jungkook different.

He never tried to sleep with you, you’d joke flirtishly, but it was never more than that. That’s why you feel comfortable enough to do this with him.

Plus, the other guys always judged you or slut shamed you for what you did. But Jungkook never did, he’s actually the one who bought you the camera you’re using currently.

He also taught how to set up and direct yourself. And the reason he’s here tonight was to help you film a video.

“I’ll hold it.” He says walking over to grab the camera from your grip, his fingers brushing past you longer than normal.

It’s Jungkook, filming should feel easier. “it’ll feel more natural.”

You just nod. You’ve been filming most of your content by yourself and still don’t get the camera thing.

You’re glad he’s here.

“You want me to--” the gesture you make with your hands has him laughing. You pout though and he stops.

“You want to be a fluffer?” the smile from the laugh lingers.

“I’m just asking.”

He chuckles.

“I’ll be fine.”

Thanks to the video you were recording before, he’s partially there.

Watching the way, you touched yourself, how soft your breaths and moans escaped your plushie rose lips. It was a sight to see.

You know how to touch yourself but you definitely need someone to show you deeper pleasure.

“Kook, stop teasing.”

“Content. I’m sure the people like to see little desperation.”

“This video’s gonna be an hour long if you keep that up.”

“I don’t mind.” He has a cheeky smile on his face but you’re having none of it. “Fine. You’re the boss.” He’s only letting you have your way cause it for your page, and he wants to respect the request. but if it was what he wanted, that mouth would’ve been too caught up to whine.

Jungkook pulls your panties off. You have no clue how he does it so swiftly with one hand. He gets it done and now he can stare at your wetness.

“you’re staring.” You inform him like he wasn’t doing it on purpose. Again...if it was on his terms.

“Is this for me?” he runs a cold finger through your folds. You lay ass at the edge of the bed and he stands between your thighs.

You bite your lower lips the longer he traces through them. Is this what it feels like to have someone else do it.

“it’s for the camera.”

“Hard to believe when I’m the one with a finger in you.” At that a finger slips into you. Slow, but determined you fully settle in. You’ve done it yourself before, so why does it feel new with his.

“Fuck kook.” You call when another is added.

“I was supposed to eat you out but since you’re in a hurry...” they glide in and out, pulling a moan from you eat time. Jungkook grows a lopsided smile watching how you squirm just from his fingers. Sweet girl. “...we can save it for another video.”

Another video? You hadn’t though about that. Your viewers would want more, so it does make sense. But... he’s okay with doing another video.

He’s ecstatic. This would be enough. it is nice, but it wouldn’t be enough. he needs to feel you in everyway. Your weight on him, his face. The way you taste, how long would you last?

And his personal favourite.

How many times can he make you come?

All those things make him want to come back.

Not to say that he’s been thinking about this. He’s loves your friendship and loves how you get along as friends. You’ve been friends for awhile and with that comes him witnesses all the shitty guys you encounter, he’s glad you’ve never given then what they were hoping. Honestly, they wouldn’t know what to do with all this.

He wants to see you succeed and be happy, and if fucking you gets you closer to that then he’ll be here...

Right in your tight cunt...

He’s kind of hating this camera right now. Holding it and trying to touch every part of you is hard. And frustrating.

And you can sense it. “You, okay?” you sit up on your elbows and you’re met with exactly what you felt. His brows knitted and tongue poking his cheek. It’s hot when he does that. and he’s so stupid for not noticing how you drip even more after it.

“Yeah, I just need to put this somewhere.”

You knew he’d get tired of it eventually. “Let me grab the--”

“uh-uh...just lay there.” He commands and you don’t move.

He goes to grab the stand.

When he turns, he finds you on your elbows. He hopes this image of you stays on his mind forever. It’s a dangerous wish. But he’d risk it.

You can feel you mouth water when you catch the bulge clearly begging to be touched. He smacks your hand away when you reach.

“Next video I want to suck you off.” You’re not even staring at him, cause you’d see how he pokes his tongue again and his cheeks turn rosier.

Jungkook can’t deny the effect the words have on him. And now he’s getting impatient.

He loves that you’re settling into the idea. Maybe he’ll become your full-time partner. But for him fucking you is the payment; you can keep all the money you earn.

Not knowing how to respond with words he just smirks.

You want to remark how he doesn’t respond but he’s thumb on your clit shuts you up. He knew it would.

His fingers adjust to the warmth. The sounds you and your body make are ethereal. He needs to be closer. So, leaning over he latches at a nipple and your back arches immediately. You’re making sure you can be heard but unlike others, you really mean it.

He’s all over you, kissing up your chest, wet kisses on your neck. You can barely stay in one position, the pleasure of having someone else pleasure you is overwhelming. It’s a new feeling, but your body adjust quickly and you’re begging for more.

“Kiss me.”

He pauses, and when his face is in your view his eyes soften. “Really?” kissing would feel really intimate and he’s not sure if that’s what you were intending. But he doesn’t mind. Not at all.

Your nod comes out rushed and just as fast his lips capture yours. Your hands immediately move to touching anything you want. His hair, under his shirt, you tease to go lower but the pull at your lips stops you. You smile.

Your lips move simultaneously, the feeling soft but deep; proving how bad you don’t want him to stop. You need more of this feeling.

Your tongues battle for dominance, but how much of a fight is it when he’s winning. He smirks when you moan into the kiss.

And that’s all you can handle, you need more. So you pull away, confusing him.

“I need you.”

“I’m here.”

His lips are on your neck again and as much as you’d love him to keep going just like that. there’s a purpose to all of this.

“Wanna feel you.”

Immediately a hot wave of blood rushes down him. And he can only bite his lips. You really know how to shut him up.

“You’re so fucking perfect.” He says against your lips. It’s unprompted but not really. It’s just everything about you, maybe he’s doomed himself by doing this. Cause even from the little he’s had; you’ve ruined him for anyone else. Not that he was looking for anyone else.

Seeing that you were solo, birth control was not a thing for you. So, he’s quick to grabbing protection. Maybe now you’ll consider the, seeing that you’re considering more of this anyways.

You watch him slip it over, his eyes on you the whole time.

When he’s between your legs, you lift your hips, just to be an inch closer to him.

“So impatient...” he mocks. “I’m not going anywhere baby.”

You hope he doesn’t.

Grabbing himself, he inches to your core but then you stop him...

“The camera kook.’

“Oh yeah.” Forgot about it.

He points the device to where you meet. He pushes your legs apart, when you threaten to close them.

“So tight. fuck” He mumbles, inching deeper and stretching you out. You wish you could reach him, claw at his back and leave marks to remind him how good this feels.

A whimper escapes your lips when he’s in deeper. The stretch stings but soon turns to pleasure. More than you’ve ever given yourself.

“You good?” he pauses and you want to yell at him for it, but you get it. The stretch feels so new and he wouldn’t want to hurt.

“Mhm.”

“Feels good?”

The moan and gasps are enough of an answer for him.

“She’s taking me so well guys.”

Shit you forgot about the camera. Should you post this? Fuck. You have to, that was the point.

Feeling like you’re more settled Jungkook begins rocking, still holding himself for control.

“Feels so good kook.” you whimper, shutting your eyes.

“I know baby.”

He’s not even moving fast and it feel like heaven. You won’t last long...shit.

More slick dripping out aides his movement. And he begins rocking faster.

You have no clue where to hold onto or what to say. You grip your sheets spewing out who knows what...his movements get faster and you’re getting louder.

Your viewer’s will love this. How he’s slipping into your cunt. How you’re inching away but he has to pull you back with one hand. How you whimper and chant his name with curses.

The slapping of skin is melodious with your moans. With the way you twitch around him he knows you’re close. So, he rubs on your clit to intensify the pleasure and you’re seeing lights.

His name spills out your mouth continuously has you feel the pressure. The knot tightens and you’re inching closer to the feeling.

“don’t stop.” You beg.

“wasn’t going to darling.” It’s the pleasure, it’s the hand that grips your thigh and it’s the pet name and if your eyes were open it would be the way he looks and smiles down at you.

He continues you rock into you and rub your clit until the knot snaps. And it’s never snapped like this.

Your body shakes and you tighten around him, bring him closer as well.

“fuck..” He grunts as he twitches into the latex like he’s never done before in a while.

You’re stuck between time. What the fuck just happened?

Jungkook slips out of you and you internally whine and the loss. He throws the rubber in your bathroom. You flinch when you feel a damp cloth on our core.

When did he even leave the room?

“You did so good.” He kisses down your sweaty chest. It feels good. When you’re alone you have no one to reassure you. So, it feels great to hear him say that.

He’s taken by surprise when you pull him and kiss his lips.

“Now, I don’t want to post it.” You pout and he watches ever inch of your features.

“That would be a waste, wouldn’t it?” he stares into your eyes not able to move away cause you’re holding him closer so kiss him. He loves it. He leans into the kiss before you’re pulling away again.

“no.”

╰⊰♡⊱╮

[imnez-daydreams]

"(you’re a little different—he wants to make you believe in yourself more. he wants you to prove it to yourself. make yourself say it and mean it, not just because he’s telling you. that you are capable, that you were meant for this. that this is where you belong. that you have a safety net in the form of your attending—that he’ll be there with an outstretched arm, waiting incase you need him. you won’t, he knows. but you still need to feel him there. it’s working, he knows it is.)"

need me an older man who praises me and believes in me. but its so sweet how even though jack knows reader wont need him, that they are more than equipped to handle things and get it done, he still hovers near. just in case.

"that’s something he’d worked you out of, he thinks, a certain smugness seeping into his veins, satisfaction rolling through every muscle."

grr hes so sure of himself i mean hes right but grrr. i like the inclusion that reader was looking around for him, but that jack knows that reader is more than capable of doing this. and still watches after. and how reader is still watching too. these idiots in love.

"and jack swallows hard. it’s one thing to have a flirtation, to teach you, to mentor you. to make you cups of coffee and tea and buy a box of those protein bars that you like the best, because the other ones taste weird. to defend your yellow cup with his best glare, to stop in the aisle at costco and buy a duplicate pair just incase he ever needs to replace it. you love that yellow mug, and well, he loves—"

acta of service !! defending reader's cup is so sweet wadaheck. it really do be like that in the office but the fact that jack has thought about buying a duplicate in case anyth happens ?? :"(( and also that. that "he loves-" GIVE IT TO MEEE.

he is entirely unworthy of your love. he knows it, deep down. loving him would break you. trying to piece him back together would drain you dry. and he doesn’t want to do that to you, you deserve better. maybe he can take care of you at work, but outside of these four walls, if you saw what he was like with idle hands and an empty apartment, or if you saw him up on that roof-

crying. jack abbot listen to me you are not unworthy of love !! sunshine reader is gonna fill your heart with so much happiness and youre gonna take it >:( !! i that next line of how reader snaps back jack to reality. reader has become his lifeline that reels him back to the present. im soft.

"would you do that? would you tease him about the age difference? or would you prefer to ignore it, set it aside and try to forget about it? it’s a heavy question for breakfast after twelve hours on. "

its realistic to have jack think about the age gap i feel ! (not that id have any problems with it lololol) and i love these small peeks into his mindset, how he thinks he doesnt deserve reader's love, how he's scared of what reader thinks about their age gap. it helps to build more on his character !

"how could he have been so stupid? trying to fight what you did to him when it was like gravity, like the tide, like every other force in this world that he knows about and cannot control. you’re exactly where you’re meant to be, and so is he."

that is such a beautiful beautiful description omg. jack coming to realise that their love, him being loved was inevitable. that it was fate, destiny, bound to happen. how they fit together like 2 peas in a pod.

jack bought matching yellow cups !! the domesticity of it all im so :"((

op/shea this was sooo warm and fluffy to read :). im so soft now !! thank you for writing such a sweet story about jack being taken care of and loved (because he deserves it). i really enjoyed it !! day by day i fall deeper into the rabbit hole of shawn hatosy/the pitt/animal kingdom and the urge to watch gets stronger, i blame my moots haha (affectionate)

𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐰𝐨, 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞

summary: jack abbot thinks he's too broken to fix. you just want to take care of him the way he takes care of you.

author's note: here it is! the first longer night shift reader and jack fic ♡ i hope everyone enjoys!

word count: 3.7k

tags: night shift reader x attending jack, comfort and angst, people are making bets (guess who wins!), patient death/loss, age gap relationship (implied but no ages specified!), idk i went a little crazy for two hours

it’s not an easy thing to take care of him. 

he knows that. there haven’t been that many people in his life who have been able to manage it. his wife was one, robby’s sort of another. jack has this thing—he has to at least try to take care of those around him before he can accept any of their help for himself. it’s almost a test of worth, to determine that it’s not a burden he’s placing unduly on anyone. it’s an exchange, he decides, a fair exchange. that way he’s not forcing anyone, because he knows how hard it is, how hard it can be. robby sees a side of it. his wife saw another.

and out of the black, heading into the blue, you are beginning to see it. he doesn’t know how it happened this way, just knows that the sweet resident who had come onto his night-shift because the day shift was beginning to be too much, was now the very reason he doesn’t head straight up to the roof after a very, very long night. 

he knows it’s not easy, that every time he loses a patient, he glances at the clock. the moment someone’s life was over, and the very moment that is going to ruin the lives of all the people who loved them. before he’d start the countdown—how many hours left on this shift? how many until he can go to the roof and breathe, scream and yell and sit in silence and watch the city wake up beneath him. 

it’s selfish. he momentarily checks out after time of death is called. robby does moments of reflections. maybe that’s how he’s able to manage it sometimes, break up the grief into little pieces throughout the day. 

jack isn’t like that. he’s always been the kind to bury, nestle it somewhere deep inside and keep adding, adding, adding. add until it’s about to burst, and then go to the roof and let some of it out. maybe if he tried robby’s way, he wouldn’t have felt like this for so long.

where can so much grief go? there’s no outlet for it, not the way jack does it. some of the things he buries are lost inside him forever, no escape, no exit.

and then you come along. 

jack’s prided himself in the fact that he’s good to the residents. they get more confident under his tutelage, make decisions more firmly, make them quickly and execute them correctly. that’s why robby had sent you over to him, hadn’t it? because you doubted yourself too much. because you felt like you weren’t making the right call.

from seven in the morning to seven at night, the place is crowded. it’s all hands on deck but there’s just a smidge too many hands, especially when there’s students. you were able to blend into the background for a couple months, but it’s just plainly wrong to let it hinder your education.

that’s why robby had sent you to him, right? for your education. to make you a better doctor, better than you already were, which was saying something. 

because jack abbot thinks that you’re incredibly gifted. gifted in the things that he can’t teach someone, in ways that he can’t explain. you have a special touch. patient-care is your forte. if he had to pick the nicest resident, it would be you. but you don’t believe in yourself. 

and he had sent himself to the task of fixing that. it’s what jack does, what he’s always done. patch it up and send it out.

(you’re a little different—he wants to make you believe in yourself more. he wants you to prove it to yourself. make yourself say it and mean it, not just because he’s telling you. that you are capable, that you were meant for this. that this is where you belong. that you have a safety net in the form of your attending—that he’ll be there with an outstretched arm, waiting incase you need him. you won’t, he knows. but you still need to feel him there. it’s working, he knows it is.)

it had been working perfectly fine so far. you build your routine, get yourself settled, start answering trauma calls with a run. 

one time he has you and ellis start the incoming together. tells parker to ask you questions, justify all of your decisions to her, but let you call the shots. when the charge nurse tells you the details, you head straight outside. you pull a yellow gown for yourself and the gloves in your size—those ones are baby blue. and then you pull another gown and the black gloves—the ones in his size. he watches from the nurse’s station, watches ellis take them and watches you look around, like you’re waiting for him to show up. he doesn’t, not this time.

you handle the case perfectly. oddly enough, he can’t seem to remember any of the specifics about it, even though he’s the one who signed off on your detailed note. 

jack watches from the door. you’ve got your back to him, and ellis looks up and sees him, but he shakes his head. he wants to see how you do without him, after so many with him. and you’re perfect—just like he knew you would be. the nurses move in tandem around you, listening closely to your orders. ellis asks questions and you answer, and you don’t sound like your answers are questions themselves—though you had at one point, not too long ago. 

that’s something he’d worked you out of, he thinks, a certain smugness seeping into his veins, satisfaction rolling through every muscle. 

you look out the other door, the opposite of where he’s standing. you stretch your neck like you’re trying to see what’s out there, and then you turn your attention back to your patient right away.

and once the patient is stable, that’s when he comes in. you’re doing it again, looking out the wrong door and as much as he wants to deny it, as wrong as it is, he knows you’re looking for him.

“good work, doctor,” he says, and you jump a little. you turn to look at him, but he’s looking at your senior resident for the assessment.

“dr. abbot, i-” 

“she did great,” parker comments, and you stop to beam at her.

“thank you.” ellis peels off her gloves and gown, black gloves that had been meant for him going into the bin. she gives you further instructions and you nod, and when it’s just the two of you, he finally turns to meet your eyes.

and the way you smile at him blows him away. it’s all over your face—from your gleaming eyes to the cheeks that must hurt, the lips that he can’t stop thinking about. there’s something else there too. neither of you want to say it, though you try.

“thank you, dr. abbot. i-” the words falter and die on your tongue. but in your joy, how pleased you are with yourself for once, you find the confidence he’s been wanting you to have all along. “i was looking for you.”

and jack swallows hard. it’s one thing to have a flirtation, to teach you, to mentor you. to make you cups of coffee and tea and buy a box of those protein bars that you like the best, because the other ones taste weird. to defend your yellow cup with his best glare, to stop in the aisle at costco and buy a duplicate pair just incase he ever needs to replace it. you love that yellow mug, and well, he loves—

“dr. abbot? you okay?” 

and it’s normally him asking you that.

“i’m fine, kid. you did great.” 

“so did you.” 

-

when jack walks by dana at around seven-ten, her and the other nurses go remarkably silent. 

“yes?” he asks, grabbing the black thermos from the counter where he’d been finishing his notes. it’s also from costco—chipped and bent all over the place, little flecks of silver making an appearance around the bottom. you’d made a joke about it once—even your cup is salt and pepper. and now he thinks about it every time he picks it up.

“what? i didn’t say anything,” dana replies, settling an ipad back in the charging port, moving around papers at the station. “but just so you know, the pool’s up to three hundred.”

jack sets his cup down a little harder than he means to, forearms resting on the sterile counter.

“what pool?” he demands, and dana shrugs. if he didn’t love her so much he would kill her.

“i’m just saying. if you’d like to help your favorite nurse contribute to her retirement fund, then you can—”

“oh? i can what?” 

it’s just not this easy for him anymore. you are full of all the good things that he so clearly lacks, made of so much sunshine it’s pouring out of you. you have love in stores, ready to be doled out at any time, to anyone. patients, coworkers, even the medical students you just met a couple minutes ago. he hears you—offering the flashcards you made for boards and the interview tips that got you to match at your top choice. 

he is entirely unworthy of your love. he knows it, deep down. loving him would break you. trying to piece him back together would drain you dry. and he doesn’t want to do that to you, you deserve better. maybe he can take care of you at work, but outside of these four walls, if you saw what he was like with idle hands and an empty apartment, or if you saw him up on that roof-

“dr. abbot?” 

your voice seems to always be enough to snap him out of it. 

“goodbye, dana,” he says, walking up next to you, thermos in hand. your eyes briefly glance down at it, smiling. “what’s going on, kid?” 

“remember what you had said? about breakfast?” and you smile at him like getting breakfast with jack abbot sounds like the great thing in the world right now. it’s almost seven-thirty and you probably haven’t slept in fifteen hours, and yet you keep smiling, big eyes blinking at him while you wait patiently for an answer.

“yeah.” he clears his throat, looking back at dana momentarily. she’s smiling at him, and then she turns to smack the side of robby’s arm, pointing him the direction of you two. “that sounds great. after you.” 

he shouldn’t have said yes. he knows what’ll happen if you start thinking that you can fix whatever is wrong with jack abbot, and he would like to avoid that entirely. but you beam at him again like you had earlier with ellis, and jack is a lot of things, but one thing is he is not, is a jerk. he won’t disappoint you about this, not when he’s secretly relieved you’re eating after shift. he’s seen you with sugary granola bars and pastries when you should be filling up on protein after a shift like this.

so he follows you out, ignoring the exchange of money behind him. 

breakfast is nice. you get chocolate-chip pancakes and he makes you get eggs too, and then hands you strips of bacon from his plate too. he hasn’t seen you like this before, and he tries to soak it into his memory. 

(something deep inside says that he should cut the tether before you get too attached. it’ll only hurt more to prolong it, to let it linger. the possibility of something between the two of you. and then you offer him a bite of a pancake drenched in syrup and everything in his head goes silent.)

breakfast becomes a weekly recurrence. there’s a twenty-four seven diner he loves just up the road from the hospital, and he’s been before with shen once, robby a couple times if their schedules lined up. it’s not particularly unusual to see him there with you, though he feels like he’s committing some sort of a crime.

you wear pullovers from your alma mater. the backpack you bring to work is the same one you used all four years of college and medical school, a fact you are very proud of. when he looks at it—his chest hurts. it’s hardly worn, looks like it’s in great condition—a couple of pins tacked on the side where your water bottle sits and a pocket for your badge and wallet in the front. he has to force himself to remember that you’re younger than any woman he’s seriously talked to before. his wife had been two months older than him, something he used to tease her about all the time. 

would you do that? would you tease him about the age difference? or would you prefer to ignore it, set it aside and try to forget about it? it’s a heavy question for breakfast after twelve hours on. 

you take him to another place that you like, too, closer to your apartment. you both eat bagels and sip on juice—orange for him, apple for you—and that’s where you learn more about his time as a medic. the breakfast burrito place near the park is where you tell him about how you’ve wanted to be a doctor since you were twelve, that you thought you’d had a calling for pediatrics and you’d even been the president of the peds club in medical school. and then you’d rotated through the emergency department third year and completely changed your plan.

you share a stack of waffles—chocolate chip with strawberries and whipped cream, at your insistence. he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to say no to you, not when you ask him so sweetly. he learns about your kitten and how you’ve always been scared that you’re going to do the wrong thing and until very recently, that you’ve just been playing pretend and you’ll get caught one day. 

and back at the diner is where he tells you about his wife. and you listen intently and nod and hold his hands when his voice breaks and run your fingers over his knuckles. you don’t let go of his hand the entire walk back to your apartment, and outside the door, you give him a hug. and the two of you stay like that for a while. that’s when you and jack kiss for the first time. slow, steady, a kiss that you’ve been dreaming of for months. it takes all the air out of your lungs and when you finally go inside, you realize your shoulder is a little wet and your lips are swollen. 

even hours later, jack can still taste apple juice on his tongue.

another week after that, you both answer the incoming trauma together. it’s six-thirty, so someone might come and take over, but it doesn’t work out that way. it’s a man who got t-boned at an intersection on the way to school drop-off. his wife and daughter are getting their cuts stitched, you think, and the patient had been slurring at you when he came in. thank god i put her behind her mom today. thank god, thank god- and jack does something he doesn’t always do. 

“get the mom, get the kid. let-let them talk.” 

and while you do the ultrasound and the e-fast and order for type and cross-match, you hear his daughter crying and a wife telling her husband how much she loves him. 

and you and jack try everything, everything you can think of, but sometimes, there’s just no coming back. he doesn’t even make it to surgery. jack walks out first, and then you, and you see his daughter turn away from the medical student that’s tending to her wound, standing up with hopeful eyes like you and jack have good news for her.

and you feel incredibly broken. your day hasn’t even started yet. and you lock eyes with jack for a second—just a second, and he stares back at you, hardened, in a way you haven’t seen before. you’ve both lost patients, lost patients together. sometimes it’s just different, in a way that you can’t explain. 

it must have been an hour, an hour and a half you spent in the trauma room. the entire day shift is there now. 

“head home, kid,” jack says. “i’ll talk to the family.” 

you bring your hand to his shoulder, pulling back until he turns to face you. 

“i’ll talk to the family.” 

it’s not an easy thing to take care of. he tries to tell you something but you shake your head at him, the hand on his shoulder lingering. people are looking, he thinks. but then again, he’s never cared that much. and in this moment, neither do you. 

you head over to the family, excuse the nurses and the student doing the stitches. you pull the curtains, and all he hears is sobbing. 

and when you come back out, he know you held it together in front of them, but your shoulders are shaking, your chin is wobbling. and in front of all those people, he brings you in for a hug. 

a real hug—like the one you had in front of your apartment. jack’s grip is tight on you, his arms caging you in, covering everything so you can’t see anything, can’t think about anything else but him. he rests his chin on your head, and closes his eyes, and then the two of you walk back to the lockers together. 

it’s not an easy thing to take care of him. and somehow, without ever telling you, you know all about how to do it. you know a lot of things about him. you know what this job does to him and that if he had gone to tell that family they lost their father and husband, that he would’ve ended up on the roof this morning. you know that jack abbot doesn’t halve any of his burdens, that he’s been afraid to rely on you like how you rely on him. to need you in the way that you need him. and you know that he won’t tell you what he needs, but you’ve gotten somewhat adept at figuring him out, just like how he has with you.

that day you leave holding hands. neither of you are in the right mood to go out for breakfast, so he elects to take you back to his apartment, an arm swung around your shoulder the entire walk there. you’re still a little teary-eyed, wiping them away at his front door while you head inside with him. 

you’ve never seen the inside of jack’s apartment, but he’s mentioned it in one of your many conversations. the record collection, his wife’s plants that he takes care of, the kitchen that’s too big for one person. 

the morning light hits the place beautifully. you stare out of his window while he heads to the kitchen, and you look around. first the records, then the plants, just like he’d described. there’s pothos and peace lily and little succulents along the windowsill. you look at the rest of it—incredibly fitting. a brown leather couch and a bookshelf with medical textbooks and a couple of mystery thrillers. you laugh to yourself, imagining jack curling up with one of those books at night.

when you turn back, he’s cracking eggs and laying out strips of bacon on the pan. you head over to the other side of the island, taking a seat on one of the stools. 

“no pancakes?”

“you’re gonna get cavities, y’know,” jack says, and you smile at him. 

“it’s worth it.”

“i love your smile the way it is right now. don’t go changing it on me.” and that does make you smile, staring at jack making breakfast for the two of you. it all feels so domestic. like you’re just walking into the life that was meant for you all along.

you’ve only been on the night shift for a couple of months. 

how could he have been so stupid? trying to fight what you did to him when it was like gravity, like the tide, like every other force in this world that he knows about and cannot control. you’re exactly where you’re meant to be, and so is he.

“mel texted me. she won the bet,” you say, setting your phone down. you lean against your hand, inhaling the smell of the first of many home-cooked meals you’ll eat, made by jack abbot.

“that so? i thought dana was a shoo-in.” 

“dana got the timing wrong. thought it’d happen during the night shift. but technically, you hugged me at eight-thirty, so..” 

“and what was the winning combo?” he stares at you, probably for the millionth time since you met him. and still, somehow, it’s enough that you feel it in your bones. you want to look away but you don’t. “you want toast, kid?” 

“yes please. she didn’t say, but i’ll ask. later.” 

you and jack settle at his wooden dining table ten minutes later, a plate full of protein and a promise that he’ll get you something sweet when you wake up later. jack lifts up his pant leg and takes off his prosthetic, setting it against the chair and relaxing a little bit more. you can see his shoulders loosen up. when he catches you staring, he smiles back.

“what?”

“nothing. do you have juice?”

“i think there’s some apple in there. i can-”

“no, i got it.” you get up, walking towards to the fridge. “i thought you didn’t like apple.” you know he doesn’t—he prefers orange. 

“i changed my mind.” you smile back at him, finding the apple juice and setting it on the counter. 

“cups?” 

“the cabinet on your right. no, your other right.”

you laugh and open it up, your laugh dying in your throat as you stare at two yellow mugs sitting front and center in the cupboard. you pick them up, bringing them over to the table with jack, and stare at him.

“oh,” he says. “i can explain. it’s incase-” but you don’t want to listen for another second, so you sit on his lap, pressing your lips together and forgetting all about breakfast and apple juice.

♡ thanks for reading!

[mqdilen]

⭒ .๋ ࣭ ⊹ ˖ 「𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐢𝐧 𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞—𝐯𝐞𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐲.」

fandom.: bungou stray dogs

synopsis.: bungou stray dogs characters reacting to seeing you in lingerie

ft.: dazai, chuuya, yosano, ranpo, atsushi & fyodor x afab!reader

cw.: !nsfw!, established relationship, vaginal sex, fingering, light bondage, oral sex, pet names, vulgar language

word count.: 2.6k (approximate reading time; nine minutes)

note.: wrote this instead of learning for my a-levels and i really just wanted to practice my character deception and smut writing (?) anyway, hope you enjoy!

☪︎

dazai.:

dazai doesn’t particularly care whether you’re wearing lingerie or not. don’t get him wrong—he appreciates the fine black lace and the way it frames your tits so nicely, making you look absolutely delectable. and the fact that you’ve taken the time, wondering if he would like it, makes his heart swell. but you could just as well be wearing knee-high socks and one of his shirts, and he’d still consider it lingerie.

that said, it is dazai we’re talking about, so expect a lot of teasing—either direct or laced with much innuendo. he absolutely notices the small things too—like the ribbon detailing, or if the lace has any patterns on it—really just letting the sight sink in. something about the sheerness of it all, about seeing you but not seeing everything, just arouses him. it feels scandalous. enticing.

---

dazai smirks the moment you start to undress, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he looks you over. “my, my, belladonna. look at you, all dressed up so prettily for me,” he coos, slowly tracing the lace with his fingers, admiring the delicate fabric. he’s careful not to tear it. “you know, since you go to the trouble of wearing these, you might as well put on a show for me,” he says, and it doesn’t take long before you’re rubbing your clit through your panties, a noticeable stain already soaking the fabric.

desperate little moans escape your lips while he watches you, condescending but oh-so-sweet words falling from his mouth. “come on, bella. you can do better than that. right now, you’re not really deserving of my cock.” he says, seemingly having no regard for the current state you’re in and how much you want to feel him inside of you.

he fists his own cock right in front of you for a little extra motivation, the tip already leaking pre-cum and practically begging for your warm, slick cunt, almost making you drool at how ethereal he looks. every lazy stroke of his hand makes you whimper, the need between your legs growing unbearable. only when you’re soaking wet, your movements slower and more urgent, does he finally let you ride his aching cock—his eyes leaving your bouncing tits only to drink in your fucked-out expression. “tired already, love? aah, just a bit longer… your expression looks so beautiful right now.”

chuuya.:

chuuya likes you going out of your way to surprise him, especially with such a nice setting—your bedroom dim, jazz playing low, wine already poured. however, he never would have thought you’d surprise him with lingerie. not that he’s complaining, though. in fact, he loves seeing you like this, seeing the thigh stockings squeezing your plump flesh just right. he loves that you chose a bolder color too! although it wouldn’t really matter since anything looks gorgeous on you, but the red really has his focus. it’s striking, fiery, and impossible to ignore—just like you. and it’s such a nice contrast against your skin.

if he had known you were going to buy lingerie for him, he definitely would have kept you company, maybe made you try different sets on too, and perhaps have you suck him off in the dressing room.

---

as you slowly undress in front of chuuya, revealing your red lingerie, he’s momentarily stunned before letting out an amused huff. “appreciate the sight, doll,” he says, taking his sweet time admiring the stitching, drawn to the way the lace hugs your curves.

he orders you to take a spin, slowly, stopping once your ass is in view. he runs a gloved hand along the curve, snapping the fabric of the lace against your skin teasingly before spanking you once. you let out a whine at the slightly painful sensation before he traces soothing circles around the pink mark. his hand then slides between your thighs, one finger gliding along your clothed slit. he admires the way your body reacts to his touch before his hand reaches the curve of your ass again. this time, he delivers another slap—harder than the last, but still bearable.

despite his earlier reverence and the restraint he was showing, his patience eventually snaps, and he pushes you face-first against the window, tearing the fabric with ease. in his mind, you could always buy a new one, and he’ll gladly lend you the money for it if it means he gets to see you like this more often. he rubs his dick against your ass leisurely, drawing out little moans from you before he thrusts it into your already drenched cunt. “damn, you’re so fucking hot, darling. gonna fill you up good tonight. god—you have no idea how pretty you look right now.”

yosano.:

yosano had never seen you in any form of special lingerie besides the usual matching bra and panties you wear daily, perhaps sometimes decorated with a bit of lace. so it comes as a surprise when she sees you walking out of the bathroom in a delicate ivory lace set instead of a towel, especially when you said you’d only take a shower.

she’s confused for a second but definitely appreciates the sight, particularly since the set you chose looks somewhat vintage—much to her delight and in line with her sense of style. yet, there’s a subtle hint of disappointment in her, that you chose to reveal yourself in such a tempting outfit only now. then again, she could have taken the lead as well, considering how much she likes to tease you, especially when it involves such sensuality.

---

yosano hums in approval, arms crossed, a faint smirk playing on her lips. “well, look at you. i didn’t know you had such refined taste.” she steps closer, fingers grazing the hem of the lace, inspecting its quality. the floral details catch her attention, and she traces the pattern with a velvety touch before slowly beginning to strip the top off of you. as much as she enjoys seeing the creamy lace on you, she’d much rather see you without it, caressing your smooth skin with her bare hands.

“don’t worry. i think these might come in handy later,” she says in a suggestive manner, clearly hinting at something. and that something isn’t far off as she continues to strip you, planting feathery kisses along your soft skin. you enjoy the attention she’s giving you, feeling your cheeks grow warmer as her kisses become more demanding. eventually, she uses the lingerie to lightly tie your hands to the bed frame, your expression earning an amused chuckle from her.

she continues to plant kisses down your neck to your breasts, sucking on one of your nipples while teasing your clit with a deft touch. a soft moan escapes your lips as your body tenses up at the sensation, and you rub yourself against her, wanting her to touch you more. your gaze grows pleading as you look up at her, and she teases your entrance before pushing two fingers inside of you. you arch your back ever so slightly, craving her to push deeper. “tsk, tsk, tsk, what an impatient little thing you are,” she says before removing her hand, enjoying seeing you struggle, unable to feel her touch no matter how much you want to or how much you beg. “aw, don’t give me that look, dear. if you’re being good, then i’ll continue.”

ranpo.:

ranpo loves attention—your attention especially. he’s shameless about it too, always acting like he deserves to be pampered, spoiled, adored. even when he’s not trying to be sexy, somehow he still is—lying around lazily, smirking at you like he knows exactly what he does to you. he’s a brat sometimes, but that only makes it even better when you finally get to catch him off guard. though, that’s hard, considering he’s able to deduce what you’re planning from a mile away.

still, you try anyway, hoping he’ll miss just this one small detail that makes everything click into place. however, it seems you failed today’s attempt at surprising him. when you enter the bedroom in a sheer, soft pink lingerie set—the color reminding him of one of his favorite candies, which was probably intentional—he looks nowhere near surprised. or is he?

---

ranpo blinks up at you from where he’s sprawled out on the bed, having already suspected you were up to something since you took too long to change and he heard the shuffle of clothes. however, he didn’t expect this—so he’s definitely surprised, if only for a second. he’s blushing slightly before clearing his throat, trying to mask his flustered state. “oh? what’s this? a gift? for me?” he purrs, stretching like a cat as he sits up straight.

you roll your eyes playfully, noticing the faint blush on his cheeks and teasing him about it. upon hearing all your embarrassing words, he grows pouty, crossing his arms and looking away—though only slightly. a tinge of guilt gnaws at you as you crawl onto the bed with him, earning a chuckle when you try to comfort him, but he only acted out so you’d come closer without him needing to get up. you played right into his hands. “look at you... all sweet and concerned just for me,” he hums, brushing a finger along the curve of your breast as he admires the neat stitching of your top. “hope you don’t mind if i skip unwrapping you—i’m a little impatient tonight.”

before you can even tease him back, ranpo mouths hungrily along your throat, his fingers already slipping beneath the lace, shameless and greedy. your breath hitches as he suddenly clings to you, and you return the favor, kissing him with just as much desire. however, ranpo doesn’t hold out long, so he’s out of breath pretty soon, which means he makes you do all the work. of course, that includes you sucking him off with your tits out, too lazy to do anything himself despite the effort you put into wearing this just for him. but you oblige his wishes, knowing that what comes after will be even sweeter. “don’t worry, i’ll reward you after you finish, sweetheart.”

atsushi.:

atsushi isn’t used to being the center of attention, especially not the kind you give him. it doesn’t matter how many times you compliment him, how many lingering looks you throw his way—he’s still easily flustered. but deep down, he craves it, craves being wanted. he just can’t get over the fact that someone as beautiful as you actually likes him, wants him. it’s deeply rooted inside his mind from years of abuse at the orphanage that he’s not worthy of such love. though you slowly get him accustomed to it, step by step.

today is another step, where you want to show just how much you appreciate him with a little gift. he looks confused and nervous when he shows up, probably wondering if he missed your anniversary or something after you texted him to come over, saying you have a surprise for him. and when he sees you waiting for him in a white lace set, his heart races and his cheeks turn red. turns out, atsushi is utterly weak for white lingerie. the color feels so delicate, pure, and almost bridal, and the symbolism absolutely scrambles his brain—even if you didn’t intend it to be.

---

“you… what are you–!” he stammers, his eyes darting everywhere but you. it’s only when you tell him to look at you that he slowly drags his gaze back, seemingly a bit embarrassed. you take a few steps closer, allowing him to better notice the gorgeous yet simple set. it’s not too much, but not too little, and he appreciates that.

he wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you closer, his breath hitching slightly. “you’re absolutely breathtaking. of course, y-you’re always breathtaking, but you know… this really suits you. i mean, everything you wear suits you but–” you shut him up with a kiss, asking if he likes what he sees with a teasing smile on your lips. he looks at you, a bit flustered, before sighing to regain his composure, burying his face in the crook of your neck. “shut up,” he says sarcastically, nipping at your neck before picking you up and laying you down on the bed. you giggle at the sudden movement, and he climbs on top of you, seeming a tad more confident than before.

“just so you know, it’s totally your fault if these get ruined,” he teases lightly before kissing down your chest, trailing lower until he reaches your pussy. he pushes the fabric aside and drags a slow, teasing stripe through your folds with his tongue. his hands grip your thighs, holding you firmly in place as his tongue circles and flicks, drawing desperate moans from you. when you’re gasping for air, he pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, his voice low and sincere. “you’re so beautiful, just like this,” he murmurs before diving back in, making your world spin with every lap of his tongue.

fyodor.:

fyodor and you don’t have sex very often, but when you do, it’s always a pleasure in itself. however, lately, you start feeling bored with the same old routine, craving something new. the timing just wasn’t right until now, and my god, do you look absolutely stunning in that white lingerie set. so pure, so innocent, and so angelic. he just loves seeing you in that color. it stirs something inside of him, like he’s defiling something sacred.

he just can't stop thinking about how beautiful you look... and how satisfying it will be to ruin you, to corrupt you. and the fact you did all of this out of your own will, just to please him, gives him such a power trip. it shows your devotion and submission to him, all the while feeding into his superiority complex, making him think you offer yourself to him—which, essentially, you do.

---

fyodor freezes in the doorway the moment he sees you—bathed in soft, warm light, delicate white lace hugging your body like a second skin. for a moment, he doesn’t move, doesn’t even breathe, his eyes drinking you in with a kind of reverence. a small smile tugs at his lips, deceptively gentle, as he steps closer. “how sweet of you,” he murmurs, voice velvety, a finger coming up to trace the curve of your bare shoulder. “dressing yourself up just for me… like a lamb to the slaughter.” before you can even respond, his hand tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze—the soft white lace suddenly feeling far too fragile for the things he has in mind.

you chuckle faintly, enjoying the way he undresses you with his eyes alone. fyodor toys with the lace, sliding the delicate fabric up your thighs while dragging his fingertips along your skin so lightly it makes you shiver. he hums thoughtfully, pretending to admire you as if he has all the time in the world, even as he feels you growing impatient. his hands peel away the layers of fabric, piece by piece, with agonizing slowness, making you desperate for him to finally touch you. “you dressed so prettily, myshka,” he says, his voice dripping with false sweetness, “and you expect me to ruin you so quickly?” his lips brush over your ear, sending goosebumps down your spine. he loves having this much control over you…

when you’re finally bare for him, he doesn’t waste a second, pressing you down against the bed and slipping between your thighs almost ferally. his fingers dig into your hips as he pushes into you, slow but deep, dragging a broken moan from your lips. the stretch burns just right, and he savors the way you clutch at him, needy and trembling beneath his weight. “so perfect,” he breathes against your throat, rolling his hips harder, deeper, like he’s trying to carve the feeling of him into you.

↪thanks for reading! reblogs are appreciated! MLIST

copyright © mqdilen 2025 all rights reserved.

[daxisyzz]

Why so serious? Sergeant

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Sunshine!Reader

Trope: Grumpy x Sunshine, Domestic Fluff

Summary: It’s a lazy weekend and you’re bored, so naturally, you ask to practice makeup on your very serious, very grumpy boyfriend. He reluctantly agrees… not knowing you’re about to Joker-fy him and put it on tiktok. The twist? He looks too good, and now you’re the one suffering.

Warnings and tags: grumpy!bucky, but he loves her so soft for her, joker!bucky??, chaotic avengers' group chat, reader is clearly turned on by him.

Word count: 1k+

A/n: yes, this was inspired by Sebastian's role in the short film "The magic of passion", but he's a magician in that. Check it out if you haven't already. 500 followers special.

Saturdays were for pancakes, questionable movie choices, and Bucky grumbling around the apartment like a feral cat learning to be domestic.

Today, however, you were dangerously bored.

You were sprawled out on the living room rug in one of Bucky’s ancient hoodies, surrounded by your makeup collection like it was a war zone. He walked in slowly, suspiciously, like he was approaching some kind of trap.

“What... are you doing?” he asked, voice still gravelly from sleep.

You sat up like a puppy spotting a treat. “I’m bored.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “That’s never ended well for me.”

You gasped dramatically. “Rude. I’m an angel when I’m bored.”

“You convinced me to sign up for goat yoga last time.”

“And your glutes looked amazing for weeks, so you’re welcome.”

He sighed, already regretting asking. “What do you want?”

You grinned. “Can I do your makeup?”

Dead silence. The kind that stretched just long enough for a tumbleweed to roll by.

“No.”

“Pleeeease? You have the best face. Like, if Michelangelo did eyeliner.”

“No.”

You crawled over on your knees, giving him the full wide-eyed, pouty-lip, you-know-you-love-me look. “Pretty please? You’d be helping me grow as an artist. You’re like… my beautiful, brooding canvas.”

Bucky blinked. “That sentence gave me secondhand embarrassment.”

You clutched your heart. “That’s a yes.”

He groaned but sat on the edge of the couch anyway. “Fine. But no glitter, no lashes, no weird colors. Normal makeup.”

“Of course,” you lied sweetly, already grabbing a white foundation stick.

The man was so tragically trusting when he loved someone. He let you brush and blend and buff without question, arms crossed like a sulking statue while you worked.

He muttered under his breath, “This better not end up on TikTok…”

You gave a noncommittal hum. Because, obviously, this was not going to be a natural glam look.

And of course you filmed it. You’d propped your phone up sneakily on the bookshelf, recording the whole transformation in time-lapse: serious, scowling Bucky slowly morphing into a chaos-clown masterpiece.

You whispered to the camera, “Trust. The. Process.” before cackling silently.

No, this was Heath Ledger Joker territory. And the best part? Bucky hadn’t caught on.

You smeared more white across his face, added deep shadows around his eyes, a little black liner for depth… and then came the red. You dragged the lipstick in that jagged grin shape across his cheeks, trying not to burst out laughing.

“This feels clowny,” he said, suspicious now.

“Shhh,” you whispered. “Trust the process.”

When you were done, you stepped back with a breathless grin. “Okay. Ready?”

Bucky opened his eyes. You handed him the mirror. He stared.

“…You made me the Joker.”

You waited for the grumbling, the classic “Doll, I said normal!” speech—but instead, something entirely different hit you.

You blinked.

Because… damn.

The chaos of it. The cheekbones. The angry smudges. The “I might burn the world for you” look in his eyes.

You felt something stir in your soul. And maybe lower.

“…You good?” Bucky asked, brow furrowing.

You stared at him. “Okay but like… why is this kind of hot?”

He froze. “What?”

You stepped closer, eyes wide. “Like—I thought this would be funny, but now I want to crawl into your lap and make out while ‘Candy’ plays in the background.”

His expression flickered between horrified and smug. “You’re insane.”

You whispered, “Say it like you’re threatening Gotham, please.”

Bucky covered his face with one hand. “I knew this was a bad idea.”

You were already straddling his lap, giggling like a woman possessed. “Do the voice.”

“No.”

“Do the voice, James.”

He exhaled, deadpan. “Why so serious, doll?”

You gasped. “I’m going to combust.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, hands settling on your hips anyway. “You have issues.”

“Oh my god,” you gasped suddenly. “This is going to break my feed.”

Bucky froze mid-eye roll. “You filmed it?”

You nodded gleefully, already editing it to the “Joker stairs” soundtrack.

“If this ends up on the internet, I swear—”

You kissed his cheek, smearing more red on his jaw. “Too late, internet’s already falling in love with you.”

He groaned into his hands. “I hate Saturdays.”

He tried to fight it. He really did. But you looked too happy, too deranged, and clearly too turned on by the Joker makeup to argue.

“Alright,” he muttered. “You got your fun. Take it off.”

“Not yet,” you said, eyes gleaming. “We’re gonna reenact that ‘You complete me’ scene.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Bucky, please, I need it emotionally.”

“You’re lucky I love you,” he grumbled, but he didn’t stop you as you dragged him toward the bedroom, red lipstick still smeared across his perfect jaw.

And maybe—just maybe—he did the voice again.

The next morning...

(The avengers find the tiktok you filmed, which may or may not have gone viral)

Avengers GC: “Earth’s Mightiest Disaster 💥”

Sam: nah. NAH. you let her joker you up AND film it???

Tony: I just choked on espresso why did that actually go hard

Peter: I don’t know whether to scream or hide he looked into the camera like it owed him money

Bruce: the eyeliner is flawless why was the growl necessary

Steve: …what did I just watch? why is Bucky in clown makeup? why is he talking like that?

Loki: because Midgard is rotting.

Thor: I thought it was performance art

Wanda: he did the voice now I’m rethinking some things

Nat: my soul left my body i need to lie down

Sam: [NAME]. [NAME] GET IN HERE. you enabled this

[Name]: I was bored he was sitting still what did you expect

Steve: what is “break me like a glowstick” and why is it the top comment? what does that even mean?

Peter: I googled it i regret everything

Bruce: there’s fan edits already one has “Toxic” playing over it i need bleach for my brain

Bucky: no one talk to me ever again

Sam: too late joker boy you’re the main character now

Clint: someone printed a screenshot and put it on the fridge in the kitchen btw not saying who but it’s me

[azsazz]

Over Ice (Part 12)

Hockey!Rhysand x Reader

Summary: Anon Req: She’s walking around Campus and BOOM right smack dab into Broody McBrooder!! She THEN finds out he’s the tutor for one of her hardest courses (personally Psych would be a good one) and they become super duper close with him and the team!!!

Warnings:

Word Count: 2957

(Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3) (Part 4) (Part 5) (Part 6) (Part 7) (Part 8) (Part 9) (Part 10) (Part 11)

_________________________________________

“I’m still not sure I understand,” you say, rubbing the grit from your tired eyes. “Would you mind walking me through it one more time?”

You swear you see Emerie roll her eyes in exasperation. You’re not even upset with your new tutor, it’s late, and you’re just as annoyed as she is, but there’s something about the way she’s explaining biological bases of behavior that you’re just not getting.

It doesn’t help that your entire week has been a juggle of avoiding almost everyone in your life.

You’ve felt just as sick as Gwyn was the night of her birthday all week long. For more reasons than one.

For one, you kissed one of your best friend’s cousin. For the second time. After she deliberately told you not to, and you agreed. For two, Rhysand hasn’t stopped trying to contact you since the incident, which you haven’t been able to stop thinking about. You haven’t answered him once, too worked up about the possibility of word somehow reaching Mor.

And the worst part is, you don’t even know if Gwyn remembers what she witnessed that night. Your legs around his waist, his hands gripping your butt. Mouths fused together, so tightly, so desperately. You had no intentions of stopping yourself, couldn’t if you wanted to. You’ve been thinking about his mouth pressed against yours since the very first time you kissed, and with a few drinks in your system, your confidence was off the charts. There was no one to stop you from taking what you wanted, what you both wanted, until your roommate barged through the door to catch you in the act.

You’ve been skirting Gwyn, walking on eggshells around your apartment, spending as much time as you possibly can outside your dorm, tucked between stacks of books in the library, hiding out in the commons. You’ve even gone as far as finding a dingy diner named Rita’s to hunker down and try to instill psychology into your brain. It’s mostly empty, and you’ve sort of befriended the waitress, or maybe she feels bad for you, growling down at your books in a futile attempt at studying, because the Shirly temples she delivers to your table somehow never make it onto your bill.

You’ve even managed to find a new tutor, though she’s about as good at teaching you as Rhysand is.

“I’ve already told you,” she points to the diagram in your textbook with the tip of her pen a little more forcefully than you’d like. Frustration furrows your brow, and you manage to keep your glare aimed at the book. “The cerebrum is the part that starts and manages conscious thoughts, and the cerebellum is the part that processes and regulates signals between other parts of your brain and body.”

It sounds like she’s read it straight from your textbook. Wait a second. You squint at the highlighted text right beside the photo. She is reading this right off the page!

You could fucking do that. You have, and you’re still just as confused. You need some real-life fucking examples, or you’re never going to pick this up. You have a practice quiz on Thursday, and even though it doesn’t count toward your grade, you want to do well.

Do well on the practice, ace the exam.

Simple.

Or, it would be if you could fucking understand.

You set your jaw, grinding your teeth. Rhysand would be so much better at explaining how all of these brain functions work. He’d even give you real life examples and flash cards to help you out. Emerie is doing none of that. She’s spent about half of the hour you’ve been here scrolling through her phone, and you’re pretty sure you’re just prone to having easily distracted tutors.

What have you put out into the universe to be gifted this back?

“Okay, I think I get it now,” you lie. If anything, you can come back to this. Emerie’s phone lights up on the table beside her and you slyly check the time. 8:30. Gods, when did it get so late? One minute, you were tucking your drawing pad in your cubby after the life drawing class you signed up for and the next moment, you’re seconds away from stabbing your pencil into your eye in the middle of the study room at the library. “Can we move onto the next thing?”

But Emerie isn’t even listening to you anymore. She’s frowning down at her cellphone, completely engrossed. Her face scrunches in the same disappointed look you’ve seen from her thrice tonight before she begins tapping a response.

You’re almost impressed at the number of letters she punches in in such a short amount of time. You’d hate to be the person on the other end of the phone with the essay of a message she seems to be writing. It must be almost as bad as being on the other side of her tutoring skills.

You decide to use the reprieve to check your own phone. There’s a message from your mother, something about a conversation she had at the convention her work sent her to. You don’t really understand what she’s talking about, so you click out of the thread with an air of disappointment. There aren’t any other texts.

Rhysand’s name calls to you like a siren. You hover over the chain, sadness curdling your stomach. You made the right decision to cut him from your life, but you’d be lying if you said it was easy. You’ve missed his flirtatious nature, the feeling of being wanted by someone, even if it was just for fun. You miss how helpful he was in your tutoring sessions, even if he was late on more than one occasion. You miss his violet eyes, gleaming with mischief as he teased you. You missed the curve of his wicked smile, the way they slotted perfectly against yours—

The door to your study room opens, drawing your and Emerie’s attention.

Your breath hitches as the very boy you’d successfully avoided for five days and counting saunters through the door like he fucking owns the place.

Your heart stammers in your chest at the sight of him. You don’t know how he found you, tucked away in the most discreet room in the library you could find. You would have invited Emerie over to your dorm room to study, if it weren’t for the whole avoiding your roommate’s thing you have going on right now.

Rhys looks just as fuckable as he did the last time you saw him. A waffled, white shirt stretches across his broad shoulders. The sleeves are shoved up to his elbows, offering you the perfect view of his forearms. To your dismay, he’s not wearing those sweatpants you love to see him in, but the dark wash jeans that fit snugly around his hips do just as much justice. A Velaris U snapback sits backwards atop his dark hair that curls around the edges post shower. You swallow hard, trying very hard not to think about how he’d look in the shower, toned body on display and water cascading down his muscles, down between thick thighs and dripping off the tip of his cock.

You clear your throat, cheeks heating as Rhys tilts his head. There’s a hint of a smile on his mouth, like he knows exactly where your mind went, because he’s thinking the same thing. His eyes trail slowly across your face, down your chest and torso to where the table hides the rest of your body.

Good thing, so he doesn’t see the way you have to clench your legs together.

“And who are you?” Emerie questions, but with her dry tone, you don’t think she really cares all that much.

You do, however.

“I’m her tutor.”

Emerie’s caramel eyes flicker between you and Rhys with a flash of intrigue. You hold your breath carefully as she decides if the captain of the hockey team looming over you is enough hot gossip to stay for the show. Anyone would be interested in watching this play out, but your new tutor seems less than interested in Rhys’ interruption.

Maybe she thinks you’re a lost cause, you think as she silently begins packing her things without so much as a mumble or an apologetic glance in your direction. If she is thinking there’s no hope for you in psychology, she’d be right. It’s been over an hour of working through the questions you got wrong on your last test and all you’ve managed is one corrected answer and a whole lot of mind-wandering to the boy who currently stares at you like you’re across from him in a faceoff. His brows are flat, eyes sharp, mouth drawn in a firm line.

“You’re not,” you insist vehemently. Maybe Emerie will stay if you refuse to give your attention to Rhys. Your warning glare does nothing to deter him. He doesn’t falter. His shoulders don’t wither under your harsh look. He stands tall, straightens his shoulders even, and stands his ground.

Rhys’ lips quirk when your tutor stands. Your attention is diverted to Emerie as she slides her backpack over her shoulder. “Emerie, please—”

“I’m sorry,” she shakes her head solemnly. Rhys’ triumphant smirk quickly disappears when you whirl his way. You’re about to give him a verbal lashing when Emerie slows by his side. She holds her hand out and your jaw continues its descent toward the floor as Rhys proceeds to tug out his wallet and hand her a wad of folded bills.

His trickery slides down your spine like an ice cube down your shirt. What the actual fuck? He paid Emerie to get you here, all because you’ve been avoiding him? A part of you is flattered, but the feeling is smothered by his cunning. You knew Rhys was sly in the rink, but you didn’t know that extended into his daily life. Not like this.

“Thanks, Rhys.” Emerie shoots you a ‘what can you do?’ look and shoves her way from the room. Your shoulders fall in defeat, your mind reeling. Has she ever even taken a psychology class? You want to slam your head into the open book on the table. Surely, that will be more help than the hour you just wasted as an unknowing pawn in Rhysand’s little game.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Rhys starts, and flames course through your veins. You can feel the path they inch to your cheeks, anger flushing your skin bright red. How dare he? How dare he pay someone to pretend to tutor you so he can ambush you?

Good, then I’m doing exactly what I’m supposed to be doing. You give yourself a mental pat on the back. You’ve made it nearly an entire week without reaching out to Rhys no matter how many times you typed out responses went unsent or fell asleep to your text threads. Small wins.

“And you’ve just ruined my night,” you snip back, slamming your book shut. The test you’d been working through is trapped between the pages, squashed in half, but you’re too annoyed to care. An off-center crease on your paper will be something to distract you from studying later. “I can’t believe you faked me out like that! Is she even in psych?”

Rhys winces and that’s all you need to know. Frustration presses hot behind your eyes, prickling your sinuses as it tries to escape. You could explode on him right now, but you bite your tongue. He doesn’t deserve your words or your tears.

“Not technically, no,” he answers sheepishly, but you’re much too angry to think about how cute Rhys is when his face scrunches in concern like that. You avert your eyes and chuck your book into your bag. “Was she any help?”

Of course she wasn’t any help. Although, that means the single question you reworked and corrected is either another small win or you need to double-check your work.

You don’t deign Rhys with a response.

“Look,” he says when you exchange your pencils in the front pocket of your bag for your headphones. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to show up this late but watching film ran late, and I swear I was going to help you study, darling, after I had the chance to talk to you.”

“We have nothing to talk about,” you reply stubbornly. You can’t even look at him right now.

“We do,” he argues. He rounds the table and plants a hand on the back of your chair, keeping you from sliding back to make your escape.

You can feel his breath on the back of your neck. You can’t turn to peer over your shoulder because you know it will bring you face-to-face, maybe even so close your lips might brush. You fight the shiver that crawls up your spine at the thought, the warmth that pools between your legs.

“Please, Rhys,” you sigh. Your gaze is drawn to his broad body like a magnet as he lowers himself into the freshly unoccupied chair. Staring at you with those determined, violet eyes tugs at the wound in your chest you’ve been trying to plaster shut all week. “Can we be adults about this?”

“Sure,” he shrugs, kicking his chair back on its hind legs. “You start.”

You pin him with an unimpressed look.

“Fine,” he rolls his eyes. “You can’t tell me that kiss didn’t mean anything to you.”

“It didn’t,” you respond all too quickly. The fact that your eyes have fallen to the table again doesn’t help your façade.

In truth, the kiss meant more than it should have. You haven’t felt that sudden rush in a long time. You were left buzzing afterward in more ways than one, could still feel the shape of Rhys’ lips against yours all the way back to your dorm that night, could still see that hungry look in his eyes. Even the sight of Gwyn retching into the toilet afterward didn’t chase that image away.

“Liar,” he argues.

“It can’t mean anything, Rhys!” You bite. You cross your arms tightly over your chest and stare at the table, swallowing tightly.

The silence that falls is heavy. His stare is heavy. Everything is fucking heavy.

Suddenly, you’re exhausted. All you want to do is slink your way home and curl up beneath your blankets and avoid everyone for a little bit longer. You hadn’t expected Rhysand to drop in on your tutoring session, nor set up your tutoring session for you. It’s late, and your test is in two days, and you don’t feel any more confident in the material than you should.

You don’t want to fail another exam. You need his help.

After a beat of silence, Rhys asks softly, “Why?”

“Because Mor is my friend,” you repeat for the umpteenth time. You force your gaze to Rhys and your chest aches at the concern on his face. He’s normally so rugged and cocky, winking and smirking, to see him like this needle’s holes in your chest. “And I won’t ruin our friendship over a guy.”

“I can handle Mor,” Rhys says like all of this is so easy. Maybe for him, it is. He’s her family, and she can’t stay made at him forever. You on the other hand, have no such ties. If she found out that you went behind her back to be with Rhys…you don’t know how you’d recover from that. You know Mor, and you know that while she’s confident on the outside, your betrayal would scar her deep inside. “Just give me a chance.”

“It’s not that simple, Rhys,” you respond with a sigh. You wish it were. You wish you could slide from your chair onto his, straddle him and hold him close, let him console you with pretty words and soft kisses until you’ve relaxed enough to keep studying.

You’d love to see him outside of school, outside of hockey, where you can have all of his attention, but there are too many factors that play into being more than friends with Rhys. You need to pass this class, and he has so much on his plate you don’t even know how he has the time to sleep, let alone date.

“It could be.”

You shake your head. You would give him the chance, but you don’t know how. Your fears rear their heads and bare their teeth. The loss of a relationship with one of your best friends in the entire world.

You couldn’t do that to Mor.

Rhys must see your inner turmoil. He plants his chair back on the ground and places a gentle hand over yours to stop you from wringing them together anxiously. Oh. You didn’t even know you were doing that.

Emotion pricks your sinuses as the warmth from his hands spreads throughout your body. He strokes a thumb across the back of your hand, and your bones ache with the need to flip your hand and intertwine your fingers with his. But you can’t. You can’t do any of it.

His eyes are soft when you’re able to look at him.

“It won’t happen again, I swear,” he promises, though there’s a sad twist to his mouth that tells you he doesn’t quite believe it’s possible. He’s telling you right now that he wants more, but he’ll give you the time that you need, as long as you need it.

You don’t tell him that this is going to last a lifetime.

“We can…we can be friends,” Rhys says like he doesn’t like what he’s agreeing to. You don’t like it very much, either. “Just…don’t replace me as your tutor.”

_________________________________________

Over Ice Taglist:

@saltedcoffeescotch @acourtofbatboydreams @mrsjna @velarisdusk @bionic-donut @tenshis-cake @eleganttravelercloud @lilah-asteria @serena05 @bwormie @soph1644 @house-husband-of-castlemurdock @tothestarsandwhateverend @topaz125 @judig92 @se7enteen--black-blog @thecraziestcrayon @cherry-cin @itsinherited @justafictionalnerd @bookishbroadwaybish @405rry @w0nderw0manly @bbykaixx @marina468 @taechvita @marigold-morelli @esahintzkanen @miakxn @ssmay123 @webvics @shylahstarzz @yourallaround-simp

[fluentmoviequoter]

Damaged

Requested Here!

Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!cop!reader

Summary: After a bad evening with your parents, Tim Bradford reminds you that you aren't damaged, and if your family won't be there for you, he will.

Warnings: abuse (emotional, verbal, and physical), 3rd party alcohol consumption, fluff and comfort, protective!Tim, platonic leading toward romantic

Word Count: 1.6k+ words

Masterlist Directory | Tim Bradford Masterlist | Request Info

“Slacking off?” Tim asks. “A little early for civvies.”

You look up quickly, surprised by his presence outside the locker room. “I’m leaving early,” you explain weakly.

“I remember,” he replies, observing you. “Dinner with your parents.”

“Right.”

“Enjoy.”

Dropping your eyes to his boots, you nod and answer, “I will. Bye.”

Tim watches you go, wondering why dinner with your parents puts you on edge. Every time you mention them, your eyes shift, you grow nervous and jumpy, and the strong, confident cop he knows retreats into the shell of a scared woman. It’s a change he recognizes, one he understands, and he knows you lied when you said you’d enjoy yourself.

“You know what I think?” your dad asks.

You’re going to tell me no matter what, you think.

“Your job is bad enough,” he says, interrupting himself to take a drink. “But you could at least dress like a woman while you’re off the clock.”

Glancing down at your outfit, you try not to let his words affect you. Your parents have been like this for your entire life. Some might call it verbal abuse, while others consider it an absence of a filter. Regardless, your parents have never hesitated to point out your every insecurity. The worst part of seeing them, you think, is that they see your scars and rip those old wounds open again, tearing you down with every word they speak.

“Can you afford some new clothes?” your mother asks. “Maybe then you could find a man who’d give you a second thought.”

Chewing your inner lip, you nod silently. You feel like you’re twelve years old again, too big for the frame they try to shove you into. It’s been years since you gave up on trying to please them, but it doesn’t take away the pain.

“Although,” your dad continues, “who would want to start a family with a beat cop who could get shot at any moment?”

“Beat cops are a real family,” you mumble under your breath, fiddling with the napkin in your lap.

You don’t see your mom move, but the sharp slap sound of her palm hitting your face startles you enough that you finally look her in the eye. Your hand raises to your stinging cheek without thought. You know it won’t bruise, and something deep inside you tells you to stand up for yourself, to leave, and never look back.

“I’m getting another drink,” your dad states, stumbling slightly as he stands.

You’ve been in this exact spot too many times, you realize. So, you decide to play the part until they’re ready to leave. Sitting still, you listen, nod, and apologize as you hold back the tears threatening to spill.

“Look at the time,” your mom mutters after you serve dessert.

“And we have people who give a crap about where we are,” your dad adds, laughing at you. “We better head out. Next time we do this, don’t make the- the food like that and buy more drinks.”

“Will do,” you answer, standing.

“That didn’t sound like an apology,” your mother patronizes.

“I’m sorry,” you say immediately. “I’ll do better next time.”

“That means we have to come back,” your dad grumbles.

Not if we can help it, you think.

“Sweetheart,” your mother says, wrapping her hand around your wrist. Her nails dig into the sensitive skin above your pulse point, but you level your expression. “You need to try harder.”

“Sure. I will.”

She releases your hand, but your dad takes it just as quickly, his grip tighter and stronger than hers. You pull back instinctively, and he raises his other hand. When you cower away from him, dropping your chin, he laughs and twists the skin of your arm harshly.

“Better food,” he seethes. “Better news. If we come over here again and you’re still a disappointment… Just don’t.”

“Yes, sir,” you force out.

You stand in place, staring at the dirty dishes on your table as the door slams behind them. Alone, you stumble backward until you hit the wall, your vision growing blurry with tears. Sinking to the floor, you let yourself cry, and within a minute, heavy sobs shake your entire body. You feel paralyzed, your mind viciously reminding you that you and your parents are on a crashing course that only worsens with time.

But, you remember, they are your parents. They loved you at some point, but it’s always been like this. Maybe you are the problem, a voice you don’t recognize says in your mind.

You want to forget tonight, forget the pain in your chest and along your skin, so you reach for your phone. You’re texting Tim before you think about it. You don’t know what to say, but you’re desperate. Anything would be a welcome distraction, so you ask if he’s busy.

It changes from Delivered to Read, but he doesn’t reply. So, you toss your phone aside and pull your knees to your chest, curling in on yourself as if it will make the world disappear. 

A knock on your front door pulls you out of your teary reverie that is on the constant brink of returning to the nightmare of reality. Walking to the door, you hope that it isn’t your parents. You look through the peephole before you open the door, sure your surprise is evident.

“What happened?” Tim asks, his face softening when he sees your tear-stained face and red cheek.

You shake your head as you step back, and Tim follows you inside, closing the door softly.

“Did your parents come over?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you answer, laughing humorlessly. “They were here.”

“Hey,” Tim says. You hold the back of your chair and stare at the table again. “Hey,” he repeats firmly. “Look at me.”

You turn your chin toward him, your eyes glassy and your skin blotchy.

“You’re okay,” he promises, spreading his hands with his palms toward you. “Whatever they said, whatever they made you believe, it’s a lie. Your parents are… they’re abusive.”

“They just-”

“Crossed a line,” Tim interrupts. “I see it every time you mention them. I don’t know what they said or did, but if it brought you here, they are the problem. Not you.”

You rub your chest, failing to lessen the pressure there before Tim steps toward you. When you don’t stop him, he lays his hand on your shoulder.

“What if they’re right?” you whisper, leaning into his touch.

Tim looks between your eyes, then says, “What if my dad was right?”

Your eyes clear as you look at Tim. His question, his vulnerability, brings you back into this moment. Tim is here because he saw something in you. Despite his gruff exterior, he cares about you. And now he’s sharing something about himself to help you. To save you.

“My dad was abusive,” he says. “He shoved my head through plaster, yelled at me, belittled me, made me doubt myself and all that I could do. You? You’re stronger than you think, stronger than your parents make you feel. You are not what or who they say.”

“Then why am I like this?” you wonder.

“There is nothing wrong with you,” Tim repeats, his thumb brushing kindly, comfortingly over your shoulder.

“They…” you begin. “Their voices are in my head constantly, and it’s so loud.”

“They talk with razors on their tongue just to provoke your combat, use new weapons to snap those final strings just to watch you fall back,” Tim replies. “I get it. Their voices, their lies, they follow you everywhere because they’ve ingrained them into you.”

“How do you do it?” you ask, wiping the tears from your face. “How do you do everything that you do, and do it well and confidently, after going through it?”

“You know who you are and what you can do. Place your confidence and your belief in that, not the words they yell trying to make themselves feel like they’re better than you.”

“I don’t think I can do that, Tim,” you argue, shaking your head as you sink into your chair.

“Then shut them up, drown them out, listen to me,” Tim encourages, moving with you. “Whatever it takes.”

“I don’t think it’s that easy. I’m not as strong as you Tim.”

“You’re stronger,” he insists. “And I’m here for you. You’re not alone, okay?”

You nod, willing yourself to believe him. Tim takes your hand, and when your sleeve shifts, he sees the bruise forming around your wrist. Without hesitation, he pushes the fabric up to your elbow, revealing the darkening patch and angry red scratch marks.

“They touched you?” he asks, his voice different than before as he stares at your arm.

“Yes,” you whisper.

“Was it the first time?”

“I…”

Tim releases your hand as he stands. Your unwillingness to answer was better confirmation than he would have received if you had said yes. Tim moves toward the door, on his way to leaving you alone. Again.

“Tim,” you call, your voice strained as tears well in your eyes once more. 

He slows, his hand on the doorknob. “They touched you.”

“Please,” you plead.

“I can make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

“Tim, please don’t leave me,” you whisper, fresh tears running down your face, the salt stinging your raw skin.

He sighs, turning toward you. As he returns to your side, he makes a promise to himself. No one will ever hurt you like this again. He let his dad impact his life for years after he moved away from home. When his dad got sick, it felt as if a strong current was pulling him into the nightmare his dad created all over again. If your parents are so willing to take you for granted, to hurt you, then Tim Bradford will be at your side to stop them from damaging you.

You’re not alone. As long as Tim is breathing, you never will be.

[oidingus]

(unsolicited feedback re: disability, feel free to ignore /gen) you’ve made some really charming animations but i unfollowed around the time of the bloody one because of how often you make Viktor collapse and separate him from his mobility aid made me uncomfortable as a disabled person. coming across your recent tender animation reminded me of this discomfort and thought i’d idk let you know in good faith in case it’s helpful. for context, my disability makes me esp. prone to falls but they’re almost never a surprise and i’ve lived with it so long it almost never happens because even when i’m not taking care of myself as well as i should, adjusting my behavior to prevent them is a crucial part of symptom management and just like getting shit done. i know Viktor’s a fictional character but to me it feels infantilizing. i also see it so much in fics (despite it never happening in the show, certainly not under normal circumstances as an adult) that it gets a little frustrating. like Viktor, my condition is also getting progressively worse but you generally get better at managing it with age. certainly being on your deathbeds could contribute to worsening symptoms but when you’ve been doing it your whole life you’ll literally be in a condition that would send others to the ER, faceplant, then be right back at it ASAP—no blink, no acknowledgement besides maybe needing to get shit back in place/occasionally take a breather. obviously idk your background—maybe you’re disabled too and you’re pulling from your own experiences—but just in case not i wanted to share as honest, well-intentioned food for thought, esp. b/c ableism is the default and so incredibly baked into (esp. US) culture that even many otherwise very progressive people literally hold views closer to eugenicists than those guided by equity/disability justice. oh and re: canes admittedly there are days i might not use it to go a couple steps in my own house but others attention/concern (even from people you love) can be tiring, so unless it’s very early in their partnership when Viktor is more stable/sucking it up more because he still believes he can overcome prejudice by projecting a good enough image, Viktor ain’t going anywhere without that cane/crutch. frankly he needs a powered wheelchair BUT ANYWAY if you chose to read all the way through i genuinely appreciate your time and hope it’s helpful food for thought.

That was actually very helpful and thank you so much for taking the time to write it! Yes i focus mostly on the earlier years of their knowing each other, but still. And to anyone reading it: I would really appreciate any insights on how to approach Vik's disability better, feel free to dm me if you can help me with the factchecking

[hwaretic]

Accidentally Yours | j.yh

Chapter 5 : The Dare That Did It

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∿∿∿∿∿∿∿∿∿∿∿∿∿∿∿∿∿∿∿∿∿∿∿∿∿∿∿∿∿∿∿∿

pairing : roommate! yunho x roommate! reader

word count : 2.3k

genre : fluff, comedy

note : finally.. a kiss???

chapter 6

It started with a board game.

You should’ve known better. You really should’ve. Because nothing good ever came from Yunho saying, “Let’s make it interesting.”

He’d found a dusty old game buried in the back of the closet—some off-brand mix between charades, trivia, and truth-or-dare. You didn’t even remember buying it. Maybe it was cursed. That would explain a lot.

By the second round, you were curled up on the floor of the living room with Yunho, both of you slightly tipsy on spiked hot chocolate, and laughing so hard your cheeks hurt.

“Okay,” Yunho said, reading the next card aloud. “Dare. ‘Let the person next to you pick your challenge.’”

He looked at you with a smirk. “Well, well. Your move.”

You grinned wickedly. “I dare you… to call Wooyoung and tell him you’ve finally confessed your love to me.”

Yunho froze. “That’s your dare?”

You sipped your drink innocently. “Scared?”

“Of Wooyoung’s reaction? Always.”

Still, he pulled out his phone with a sigh and dialed.

You tried not to laugh as he put it on speaker.

“Hello?” Wooyoung’s voice crackled through.

Yunho cleared his throat dramatically. “I just wanted you to know… I confessed my love to my roommate.”

A pause.

Then—

“FINALLY!” Wooyoung screamed. “It’s about damn time! I’ve been saying you two have chemistry since week one!”

You choked on your drink.

Yunho was red, eyes wide. “Wait, what—”

“No, seriously,” Wooyoung continued. “Do you know how many times I’ve told Seonghwa, ‘They’re either gonna kill each other or make out’? I had money on this.”

“Okay, wow—”

“Tell them I want details later. K bye!”

Click.

Silence.

You looked at Yunho.

He looked at you.

And then you both burst out laughing.

“I can’t believe that backfired,” you wheezed.

He clutched his stomach. “He’s too invested in our lives.”

But as the laughter faded, something lingered in the air.

Because the words were still out there. I confessed my love.

Even if it was a joke… it didn’t feel like one.

Later, the game lay forgotten on the floor, and you both sat on the couch, legs tucked up, blanket shared between you.

Yunho had gone quiet—something that rarely happened.

You nudged him. “You okay?”

He turned his head slowly, eyes locked on yours. “Can I ask you something?”

You nodded, heartbeat already picking up.

“Do you think we’d work? Like… if we weren’t just roommates.”

The air went still.

“I…” you started, then stopped. “Are you still playing the game?”

“No,” he said softly. “Not this time.”

Your throat tightened. “Yunho…”

He looked nervous—nervous. Like he hadn’t been teasing you for months. Like this wasn’t a game anymore.

“You don’t have to answer,” he said quickly. “I just—I’ve been thinking about it a lot. About us. And how good this feels. And I just needed to know if I was the only one.”

You opened your mouth.

Closed it.

Then opened it again, because screw it—you were tired of pretending.

“You’re not the only one.”

His eyes snapped to yours.

“I’ve been thinking about it too,” you admitted, voice low. “Ever since the pillow fort. Probably before that.”

He stared at you like he was memorizing every detail of your face.

Then, so quietly you almost missed it, he whispered, “So what do we do now?”

You didn’t have an answer.

Not yet.

But you did know one thing

You didn’t want to stop whatever this was becoming.

You found yourself standing in the kitchen later, alone, trying to breathe through the storm of thoughts in your head.

Then you heard Yunho’s voice behind you.

“You forgot to draw your dare.”

You turned to find him leaning in the doorway, holding the card deck.

You raised an eyebrow. “We’re still doing that?”

He grinned. “Just one more.”

You rolled your eyes but reached out and drew a card.

You read it.

Froze.

Then looked up at him.

“What’s it say?” he asked, stepping closer.

Your pulse kicked into overdrive.

“Kiss the person next to you.”

Yunho blinked.

You blinked.

Neither of you moved.

Then—slowly, slowly—he took a step closer.

“If it’s still a game,” he said, voice barely above a whisper, “you can say no.”

You shook your head. “I don’t want to.”

His gaze flickered to your lips.

“Then we stop pretending?”

You nodded.

And just like that, his hand came up to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek so gently it made your knees go weak.

When his lips met yours, it wasn’t rushed or messy or dramatic.

It was soft.

Tender.

Like something that had been waiting for the right moment to bloom.

And now it had.

The kiss deepened slowly—his other hand sliding around your waist, your fingers tangling in his hoodie. You leaned into him, warmth pooling in your chest as he kissed you like he’d been holding back for weeks.

Maybe he had.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, breath mingling.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Yeah. This definitely isn’t just a game.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “No. Definitely not.”

Then you kissed him again.

Just to be sure.

taglist !!

@moonlitarcade @dejatiny @flambychan

[luvfae]

BEST FRIENDS MAKE THE WORST LOVERS

summary: he was yours first and if you can’t have him, no one can.

parings: thanos x f!reader

warnings: cheating, smut, swearing

You've always had a thing for your best friend, Su-bong.

You don't know exactly when it happened — the shift, the slip, the quiet fall. Maybe it was after that night at a mutual friend's seventeenth birthday, both of you half-drunk and grinning, tipsy on cheap vodka and shared frustration. You'd looked at each other, shrugged, and decided you were tired of waiting, tired of wondering. Virginity was overrated anyway. So you'd fucked — clumsy, curious, urgent. Just to say you had.

Or maybe it was before that. Before you ever touched. When the laughter came easy, and his hoodie always ended up on your shoulders, and you'd catch yourself staring at the slope of his neck, wondering how it would taste. Wondering why no one else ever made you feel quite the same.

Whatever the case — the truth settled in after. Quiet and permanent. A part of you.

You want him.

But not in the way that's noble or romantic. Not in the way you could explain to your friends without sounding unhinged. You want him selfishly — he doesn’t have to love you or be your boyfriend.

You just want him to be yours.

In the way that matters in private. In the way that doesn't need labels, or promises, or futures. In the way that makes you the only one who knows how he sounds when he comes.

And he's still your best friend. Always has been. You're good at that part — loyal, ride-or-die, first to answer the phone at 3am. You show up. You look out. You hold the parts of him that no one else gets to see. The sharp and the soft.

But you also keep his bed warm when he needs it. Keep his mouth busy. Keep his balls empty.

And for a while, that was enough.

Until he got a girlfriend.

At first, it was fine. Truly. She was pretty in a harmless way. Nice in a way that didn't raise your hackles. She didn't try to separate him from you — not at first. She smiled when you walked into the room. Laughed at your jokes. Let him lean against you at parties and never questioned how easily your bodies fit together.

You even tried to be happy for him. Because you do love him — in that complicated, sideways, back-of-your-throat kind of way.

And you thought you could handle it. Thought you could go without. Thought you could be just friends again.

At first.

Until the jealousy started to rot you from the inside.

Not loud. Not sharp. Just a slow, creeping burn that sank into your bones.

It wasn't just the loss of the best dick of your life — it was the silence. No more lazy smoke sessions on your balcony. No more co-op missions at midnight, legs tangled on the couch. No more FaceTime rings answered on the first buzz, no matter the hour, no matter the reason.

You weren't just losing the sex.

You were losing him.

And you could live without the fucking, maybe. But not the version of him that belonged to you. The version that lived on your couch, barefoot and loud. The version that rolled your joints better than you did, who knew your Panda Express order by heart, who'd watched you cry over boys he never liked anyway.

You could feel her pulling him away in inches. And you were never one to beg. So you made sure he remembered where he came from.

The first fight hits hard — and loud.

You don't get the details. You don't ask. He just shows up at your apartment at 11:42PM, hoodie half-zipped, phone clenched in one fist like he wants to throw it through the wall.

"Bad night?" you ask.

He exhales, tight and bitter. "You have no idea."

You hand him the joint before you say anything else. He takes it wordlessly, flicks the lighter like second nature, and leans against your kitchen counter like it's his.

Like he never left.

"She says I don't talk to her," he mutters, exhaling smoke. "Says I shut down. But then when I do say something, it's wrong. Too much, too blunt, too—" he waves a hand, "—me."

You let him talk.

Let him pace.

He moves like the words are eating him alive, like if he stands still too long they'll rot a hole through his ribs.

You sit on the couch, pull your knees up. Watch him unravel.

"I try," he mutters. "I fucking try. But I'm not soft like she wants me to be. I'm not—"

You tilt your head. "You don't have to be soft with me."

His gaze flicks to you.

You tap the cushion beside you. He doesn't hesitate. Just drops down, exhales hard, passes the joint back.

The silence that follows is familiar.

Laced with old habits. Old sins.

Your legs are over his in the next minute — casual, innocent on the surface. Then your hand on his chest. Then your lips at his jaw.

He doesn't move.

"She just doesn't get me, you know?" he murmurs, voice low, almost broken.

You kiss his neck. Slow. You feel him shudder. Feel his hand drop to your thigh.

"I do," you whisper.

And then, without thinking — or maybe because you've thought about it too much — you straddle him, rock your hips against him.

Just once.

It's not enough to cross the line.

But it's enough to smear it.

His head drops back against the couch, a low sound breaking in his throat. Your name, half-spoken.

You move again. A little slower. A little deeper.

He doesn't stop you.

Doesn't even try.

His hand grabs your hip, hard.

And then he's fucking into you — desperate, panting like he's been starving for weeks. You're still on top of him, still pretending you didn't plan this, and he's still trying to pretend he's not cheating.

But he is.

And you're moaning into his mouth like it's the first time all over again.

You're his best friend.

And you've never made it so easy to forget someone else.

It becomes a pattern — ritual, even. Every time they fight, he ends up here. Knuckles tense. Mouth tight. Carrying anger like it's stuffed in the lining of his jacket, waiting for you to tear it out of him.

And you always do.

You fuck him like you own him. Like you're the only one who could ever handle him. You ride him until his voice cracks and his grip bruises and the heat behind his eyes dissolves into something messier. Needier.

His fury fades between your thighs — swallowed by how fucking tight you are, how perfectly you take him, how your pussy milks the stress out of him like it's your job.

And maybe it is. Maybe you made it your job the night he chose someone else.

You drag orgasms out of him like confessions. Make him moan in ways she's never heard. Make him forget what he was mad about in the first place.

Because she argues.

You open your legs.

She gives him space.

You give him your throat.

And when you sink to your knees, slow and smug, dragging your tongue along the base of his cock before wrapping your mouth around him like you're starved — he breaks.

Every time.

One hand in your hair, the other gripping the back of your neck like he needs to feel you taking it. Eyes rolling back. Chest heaving.

"Fuck, you're warm," he groans, voice wrecked. "Always so good to me."

You hum around him. Eyes glassy. Drool on your chin.

She never sucked him like this. Never let him fuck her face until he was twitching, nearly crying, emptying everything down your throat because he couldn't hold back even if he wanted to.

And the worst part?

You know that.

You want him ruined. You want him addicted. You want him thinking about you when he's inside her.

And he does.

Because her moans are soft.

Yours are filthy.

She kisses him sweet.

You beg him to breed you.

You whisper, between gasps and trembles, "I want your cum. Want it deep. Want to feel it leaking out when I walk."

She tells him to slow down.

You tell him to break you.

She arches away.

You arch into it.

And every time he's sure he's going to end it — every time he's buttoning his jeans with shaking hands and the taste of you still in his mouth — he remembers.

She's not you.

But you're not her, either.

Because where you fuck and praise and give him everything he wants, she holds his face and tells him things he doesn't want to hear. Things that make him better. Things that make him human.

You make him forget.

She makes him try.

And that's the difference. That's why he hasn't left her.

But you? You don't need him to stay. You just need him to come back.

And he always does.

It's happened enough times now that it feels like fate.

Fucked-up. Familiar. You, bent over your bed. Him, buried inside you. Whispering things he swore he'd never say again. Praising your cunt. Cursing himself. Saying your name like a sin and a salvation.

And still — he goes back to her.

You know this pattern by heart.

You know she doesn't suspect yet — but she will.

Because she's not blind. Not anymore.

It starts at a party.

It always starts at a party.

You're wearing that dress you know he likes — the one that rides a little too high when you bend, clings a little too tight when you sit.

You feel his eyes before you see them. Heavy. Heat-soaked. Lingering too long on your legs. His beer stalls halfway to his mouth. Frozen. Like he forgot anyone else existed.

You don't look at him. Not directly. You just sip your drink and laugh at something someone else said — as if you can't feel the weight of his stare branded into the inside of your thigh.

But she sees it.

The way his jaw tightens.

The way his chest rises when you cross your legs.

The way his pupils don't move until you finally get up to leave the room.

She doesn't say anything then. But it eats at her.

Later, when the noise fades and they're alone in her car, she turns to him. "Do you have feelings for her?"

He scoffs. Too quick. Too sharp. "She's just my best friend."

And maybe he believes it.

Or maybe he's just repeating it — like a mantra.

Like a lie he's told so often it's starting to sound like truth. But his voice cracks just slightly when he says it. And she hears that too.

It's not just that night.

It's not just the look.

There are other moments — quiet things, easy to brush off on the surface, but wrong if you stare too long.

She stares too long now.

You're curled up on the couch in Su-bong's hoodie, barefoot, legs tucked under you. He's in the kitchen pouring drinks, and she watches the way he glances at you — like a habit, like gravity. You don't notice. Or pretend not to.

When he comes back and hands you a glass, she says, a little too light, "Su-bong never lets me wear that hoodie."

You grin. Sip. "I was cold."

Her laugh is thin. She doesn't say what she's thinking. That you're never cold when she's around. Only when she isn't.

Or the time, she walked in on him helping you zip up a dress. His fingers are at your spine. Your hair is swept to the side. He's laughing at something you said, low and under his breath.

You both freeze when she opens the door.

You turn. Smile. "This thing's impossible without help."

She nods. Smiles back.

But later that night, she whispers in the dark, "Why didn't she just ask me?"

He doesn't have an answer. He just kisses her shoulder and pulls her closer, like she won't notice how his hands don't linger the way they lingered on you.

The parties were always the worst. Too much alcohol. Too many people.

One time, she finds you both in the hallway, laughing too hard. Your hand on his chest. His arm above your head on the wall.

The moment stretches.

"What's going on?" she asks, voice sharp.

You pull away immediately. Too quick. "Nothing," you say. "He was just being an idiot."

Su-bong nods. Eyes down. "Just messing around."

But she sees the way your lipstick's smudged.

The way his hand brushes your back when he walks past her.

She doesn't say anything that night. Doesn't cause a scene. But when they get home, she doesn't kiss him. She doesn't even look at him.

And he doesn't ask why.

Because he already knows.

It's well past midnight when the knock comes.

Soft. Hesitant. Familiar.

You're not even surprised — just rise from the couch in silence, heart already bruising in your chest.

You open the door and he's there.

Su-bong.

Shoulders hunched. Hoodie soaked from the rain. Eyes rimmed red.

His mouth moves like he's trying to speak, but nothing comes out. Just a breath, jagged and raw, and then he's pulling you into him, holding you like you're the only solid thing left in the world.

And that's when you feel it — not just the weight of him, not just the tremble in his arms, but the wet warmth that hits your collarbone.

Tears.

You freeze. You've seen him at his worst — high, drunk, bruised, broken. But never this.

He's crying.

And not because he lost her.

Because he didn't.

Because she's still there, still waiting for him to come home.

And he's not sorry.

Not really.

Not enough.

That's what's killing him.

You guide him inside without a word. Sit him down. Wrap a blanket around his shoulders like you're bandaging a wound that never bled right. He stares at the floor like it's going to collapse under him.

Minutes pass.

Then, softly — voice shredded, "she doesn't deserve a fucking asshole like me."

You smile.

Not cruel. Not smug. Just... knowing. You reach out. Brush wet strands of hair from his forehead. Let your fingers linger.

"Maybe not," you hum, warm and quiet. "But I do."

He looks at you. Eyes wide. Bloodshot. Searching.

And you say the thing that's lived in your chest for years.

"I've never asked you to be anyone but yourself, Su-bong."

Something breaks in him then. Not the way it did in her hallway, not in anger or panic — but quietly.

Like relief.

Like love.

His hand finds yours. Brings it to his mouth. Kisses your knuckles like he's never touched you before.

And when he leans in, when his lips meet yours, it's not rushed. Not hungry.

It's soft. Slow. The kind of kiss that tastes like apology and something almost sacred.

He doesn't take you to the bed. He follows you there.

Undresses you carefully, like he's worried you'll disappear. Like this version of you is something new — or maybe something he's just now letting himself see.

And when he pushes into you, slow and deep, chest to chest, your name on his tongue — it hits different.

Not like every other time. Not like fucking to forget. He's not fucking you now. He's making love to you.

And that terrifies you.

Because when he groans into your neck, "God, you feel like home," your body arches into his and your heart whispers, Please. Choose me.

And for the first time, you let yourself imagine what that might look like. Not the secret. Not the backup. Not the girl he runs to when he's wrecked.

But the girl he stays with when he's okay.

The girl he wakes up beside in the morning.

The girl he picks.

Out loud.

All the way.

And when he holds your face after, panting and dazed, whispering thank you, you don't say anything back. You just press your lips to his cheek and let yourself hope.

You don't sleep that night.

He does.

Right beside you, sprawled on your sheets like he's always belonged there, like the fight that sent him here never existed. One arm draped over your waist, breath slow and steady, skin still damp with the memory of what you let him do — of what he let himself feel.

And you watch him. In the quiet. In the dark.

You trace the lines of his jaw with your eyes, the way his mouth softens in sleep, the curve of his bare shoulder where it catches the first hint of dawn.

You could love him like this.

You do.

But it's no longer enough.

Because you're tired of hiding. Tired of being the secret he comes to when he's aching, the mouth he fucks when he's angry, the name he moans into a pillow he doesn't get to keep.

You're tired of being good at it.

Of being his best friend.

Of being the one who listens, and waits, and swallows.

You've seen what's left of him after a fight. You've seen what he looks like when he breaks. And now you've seen what he looks like when he gives himself to you — not rough, not reckless — but soft.

Yours.

And if you can have that version of him — even for one night — you know you can have it again.

If she wasn't in the way.

You think about her when you kiss his temple. Think about how she clings to what little of him he gives her.

How she thinks she knows him.

Thinks she has him.

But you've felt him cry.

You've felt him come apart.

You've felt him say nothing and mean everything.

She doesn't have that.

She never did.

So maybe it's time she finds out what you already know — That he was never really hers to begin with.

Not the way that matters. Not where it counts.

And maybe that makes you cruel. But cruelty is a small price for ownership.

For love.

For him.

So you lay back down beside him, head on his chest, heart thudding with quiet resolve.

You're done sharing.

And if he won't choose you outright — you'll make it so he can't keep hiding.

It starts small.

A text.

I miss you, when you know he's in bed with her.

You don't expect him to answer — not right away.

But you know he sees it. You know he thinks about it. And that's enough. At first.

Then come the games.

You start leaving things behind — panties tucked half-visible under his pillow, lip gloss on his sink, a stray earring on the floor of his passenger seat. Things she'll find if she's even half paying attention.

You press hickeys just above his collarbone — places too risky to ignore, but too intimate to blame on anyone else.

He gets mad, sometimes. Tells you to be careful. Says she's suspicious.

But you know him.

If he really wanted to stop you, he would.

And when he doesn't?

You push harder.

Nudes at 3:14AM.

Soft lighting. Lip bitten. Panties pushed aside.

Wish you were here.

You pray she checks his phone. That she sees the way his hands linger too long, the way he won't meet her eyes the morning after he's been inside you.

But it doesn't work.

She never finds the panties. He wears hoodies to hide the bruises. She doesn't go through his phone.

So you get bolder.

The comments come next. Sweet. Polished. Laced with venom.

When Su-bong is out of earshot — fetching drinks, answering a call — you smile at her, too wide, too warm, and say things like:

"I hope you don't mind that he still comes to me when he's upset. Old habits die hard, I guess."

"He's always been... generous. I'm sure you appreciate that, too."

"It's the little things, you know? Like how he knows just where to put his hands. Always so intuitive."

"I've always loved how... responsive he is. Even the smallest touch gets a reaction."

And you get a reaction. Every time. She flinches. Smiles too tight. Looks to Su-bong with that look — like she's trying to catch him looking at you first.

She never does.

Because he's careful.

But not careful enough.

Eventually, she tells him:

"I don't want you seeing her anymore."

And for a while — you don't hear from him. No texts. No calls. Not even a half-assed excuse.

So you show up. Late afternoon. Hair down. Hoodie oversized. Nothing underneath but perfume and patience.

She's not home.

He opens the door like he expected this — like he hoped you wouldn't come, and knew you would anyway.

He doesn't invite you in.

You step in anyway.

His voice is quiet. Heavy.

"She's onto us." A beat. "She wants me to stop seeing you."

You nod. Say nothing. Let the silence choke him for a moment before you sit on the edge of his bed.

Then you say it.

"I was the one who held you when you were nothing." Not loud. Not bitter. Just... true. "You only love her because I taught you how."

And he doesn't move.

Doesn't blink.

So you stand. Walk up slow. Put your hand on his chest — right where you can feel the thud of his guilty heart — and lean in.

You kiss him.

Soft. Final.

And he kisses you back.

Because he always does.

His mouth is still on yours.

Soft. Then not.

The kind of kiss that shouldn't happen. The kind that tastes like final decisions and fucked-up truths and everything he swore he wasn't going to do again.

But he doesn't pull away.

And you don't let him.

His hands slide to your waist — grip tightening like he's trying to stop himself from shaking. He presses his forehead to yours for a beat, breath shallow.

"I shouldn't," he whispers.

You smile against his lips. "Then don't."

He groans. A low, guttural sound that vibrates in his throat — and then he kisses you again, this time deeper, hungrier, teeth grazing, tongue pushing past your lips like he needs to taste every second you've been apart.

Your fingers curl in his shirt. Tug. Yank. You want skin.

"Su-bong—" you gasp into his mouth, "—I want you to touch me."

"I fucking am touching you," he snaps, hand sliding down to your ass, squeezing hard.

"Not enough."

He curses under his breath — like the request hurts — like it lights something up under his ribs.

You shove him back a step, just enough to grab the edge of your hoodie and pull it over your head in one motion. No bra. Just skin.

His breath catches. "Jesus fuck."

He stares for a second too long — like he forgot how good you looked underneath all your attitude — then grabs your jaw and kisses you hard, dragging his other hand up your side, palm rough against your bare breast. He groans into your mouth when your nipple tightens under his thumb.

"You do this on purpose," he growls. "Show up like this, act like you didn't plan the whole fucking thing."

You moan, arching into his touch. "Of course I did."

"Brat," he mutters. "You're fucking evil."

You just grin, gasping when his mouth drops to your neck, tongue dragging over your pulse before he bites — not gently — and sucks a bruise into the skin just below your collarbone.

You gasp again as he starts walking you backward, fast and clumsy, until the backs of your knees hit his bed. You fall with a soft thud, legs spreading instinctively, panties already damp and sticking to your skin.

"I don't have time—" he pants, eyes locked on the wet patch.

"You have time," you breathe.

He grabs your thighs, spreads them wide, pushes them up until your knees are almost to your chest, panties stretched tight across your cunt.

"I should make you beg," he mutters.

"I already am," you whisper.

His mouth crashes down.

Right over your panties.

And you cry out — hips lifting, thighs twitching — as he drags his tongue hard over the soaked fabric, lips curling when he feels how fucking wet you are.

"Goddamn," he groans. "You missed me that bad?"

You nod, breathless.

"I didn't even touch you yet."

"You don't need to," you whimper.

He's licking you through your panties like it's the only thing keeping him sane, but when his watch buzzes on his wrist, he pulls back just an inch — breathless, flushed, mouth glistening.

"Shit," he mutters. Checks the time. "She's gonna be home soon."

Your head tips back, eyes fluttering. "Then you better be quick."

That breaks him.

His mouth crashes to yours as he fumbles for his belt, yanking it open one-handed, pants halfway down his thighs. You reach for him at the same time, push your panties to the side, pull him between your legs like he belongs there — like he never left.

"I shouldn't be doing this," he pants against your lips.

"Then don't make it slow," you whisper. "Just make it worth it."

And he does.

He shoves into you in one desperate thrust — so deep, so fucking full it rips a moan straight out of your chest. His hands are braced on either side of your head for a second before one slides to your throat, gripping just enough to make your breath catch.

"Fuck—this pussy," he gasps. "Every fucking time. It's like you were made to fuck me."

You choke out a laugh, nails digging into his back. "Maybe I was."

He fucks you hard. Deep. Not rushed — but urgent. Like he's trying to memorize every sound you make, every clench, every tremble. His body presses you down into the mattress, your legs over his shoulders, angle so brutal it leaves you speechless.

"You like this?" he grunts, tightening his grip on your throat.

You can't even answer. Just nod, eyes rolled back, mouth open in a silent scream.

"Use your words," he growls. "You want it like this, don't you?"

"Y-Yes—yes—Su-bong—please—"

"Say what you want, baby," he pants, eyes locked on your face. "Tell me."

"Choke me—fuck—choke me harder," you gasp. "You know I love it. You know I love when you ruin me—"

He does.

His hand tightens. Your head tips back.

He leans in close, mouth brushing your cheek, voice rough and tender all at once.

"My girl," he murmurs. "My pretty fucking girl. Gonna fill you up. Don't worry."

Your breath hitches. "Please—please—inside—please—"

And that's when the door opens.

A pause.

The world stops.

You don't see her.

But you hear her.

A gasp. A stutter.

And then—shattered glass.

You twist your head toward the doorway — and she's there. Frozen. Face pale. Eyes wide. Tears spilling.

Su-bong freezes inside you. Hands still on your throat.

Your eyes widen. You try to speak, but nothing comes out.

She breaks the silence.

"You told me not to worry about her!" Her voice cracks. "You said she was your best friend!" She's shaking now, yelling, chest heaving. "You told me I could trust you!"

Su-bong still hasn't moved.

He looks down at you — stunned, guilty, still hard inside you. And you — eyes glassy, lips parted — look up at him like this is the moment you've been waiting for.

Because now?

There's no hiding.

There's no going back.

And someone's about to burn for it.

The silence stretches thick — heavy enough to suffocate.

Your chest rises and falls, your heart hammering somewhere near your throat, but your smile is steady.

You sit there, half-naked under the covers, legs spread slightly, still slick and throbbing, Su-bong's cock still twitching against your inner thigh.

You meet her eyes.

Hold her gaze.

And you smirk.

Soft. Lethal.

The final nail in the coffin.

Then you tilt your head, voice syrupy sweet, “he only fucks me like this because he can't with you."

The words land like a slap.

Her whole face crumples — color draining, mouth trembling — and Su-bong jolts like you physically punched him. His hand shoots out, grabbing the edge of the bed, knuckles white.

"Jesus—" he growls under his breath, glaring at you. “Why the fuck would you say that?"

But it's too late.

The damage is done.

She stumbles backward, tears spilling down her cheeks, choking on a sob so broken it barely sounds human.

Su-bong yanks the covers over your body, muttering furious, useless curses under his breath as he shoves away from the bed — pulling his jeans up, erection angrily straining against the denim.

He catches her in the hallway.

"Babe, wait—"

You hear her voice crack like glass, “don’t call me that. Don't you dare fucking call me that."

A slam of a door.

And then silence.

You give it a beat. Two.

Then you slide out of his bed, bare feet padding across the floor, still naked, sticky, shameless. You find him slumped on the couch, head in his hands, shoulders hunched like he's trying to disappear inside himself.

For a second — just a second — you feel almost sorry for him.

But then the old ache tugs at your ribs — the jealousy, the hunger, the way he always picked her first even if it was just for the sake of appearances — and it washes clean away.

You move without thinking.

Sink to your knees between his legs.

His hands tense where they grip his hair, but he doesn't look up — not even when you rub your palms soothingly along his thighs, slow, careful, patient.

You nudge your head under his hands, tipping your chin up.

His red-rimmed eyes meet yours.

Broken. Defeated. Addicted.

"Want me to make it better?" you murmur, voice dripping with false innocence. You blink up at him, lashes fluttering sweet and slow. “Want me to finish you off, baby?"

He exhales — wrecked, trembling.

You see the exact second he caves. The way his shoulders drop, his mouth slackens, his thighs part just slightly under your touch.

He nods. Small. Miserable.

"Yeah," he rasps, almost inaudible. “Yeah, baby. Please."

You smile — soft, secret — and lean forward, pressing a kiss to the damp denim over his cock.

He shudders.

He's still hard for you.

Even after all that.

Even after her.

And that?

That's the sweetest victory of all.