#some of the things are what I did tonight and some just in the story for fun~♡ | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hangmanwrites · 2 days ago

Text

three steps behind︱jake seresin

based on the song: from the dining table by harry styles pairing: jake "hangman" seresin x wife!reader synopsis: you wore the dress. he wore a t-shirt. you waited ninety-seven minutes. he smiled like nothing was wrong. and when you said you were tired, he still thought love was enough. content: angst, hurt no comfort, established relationship, slow unraveling, quiet arguments, miscommunication, emotional neglect, anniversary gone wrong, divorce mention, crying in the kitchen, tired love, second person pov, no happy ending author's note: after months away, i'm back on here. new account, clean slate. i don’t really know what i expected coming back, but this story just… came out. it’s quiet, kind of heavy, and maybe a little too honest. if you’ve ever loved someone who stopped noticing, or stayed when it started to feel lonely, i hope this sits with you in the right way. thank you for reading. word count: 4,905 words kofi︱request︱masterlist

The Hard Deck was surprisingly peaceful tonight. The usual buzz of laughter and boots on hardwood had softened into something low and steady, like background noise you stopped noticing after a while.

A few off-duty pilots leaned over pool tables, murmuring bets and half-hearted trash talk. At the bar, Penny was drying a glass with the edge of a towel, listening to some guy talk about a maintenance delay like it was the worst thing in the world.

She gave a polite nod, patient as ever, then slid a drink across the counter without missing a beat. Someone near the jukebox tried and failed to pick a new song, letting an old Eagles track roll into the next without interruption.

The sliding doors were pulled open to let the breeze in, warm with salt and the smell of beer that had settled into the floorboards over time. Nobody was in a rush. The place felt lived-in, a little tired, like everyone inside was just waiting for something, though no one would say what.

Then, there was you. You were tucked into one of the corner booths, half-shadowed and easy to miss unless someone was looking. Your glass had been empty for a while, the condensation long gone, leaving behind a wet ring on the table that you'd started tracing with your finger just to pass the time.

Every now and then, Penny glanced your way, her expression unreadable but not unkind. She hadn’t asked if you wanted another drink. Maybe she already knew the answer. You weren’t drinking to pass time. You were drinking to wait.

It had been about an hour and thirty-seven minutes now. You’d stopped checking your phone after the first hour, but the math still came easy.

At twenty minutes, you told yourself he was just running late. At forty, you told yourself not to be dramatic. At the hour mark, you stopped pretending it didn’t hurt. You didn’t even have a text to read twice. Just silence, and the soft hum of people living their lives around you, none of them holding their breath the way you were.

You watched the front door every time it opened, even though you told yourself not to. You tried to act like you were just out, just sitting, just another person here to pass the time, but your body gave you away, the stillness, the way your eyes lifted every time boots hit the floor, the slight shift in your posture when someone tall walked in and didn’t look your way.

No one noticed, or maybe they did, but pretended not to. Either way, you stayed seated. You hadn’t waited this long just to leave before the ending.

You’d spent the day trying not to look too eager. Picked out an outfit hours earlier than you needed to, changed it twice, then changed back. You even curled your lashes, which you rarely did, and gave yourself more time in the mirror than usual, just in case tonight meant something.

There was a part of you, quietly hopeful, that thought maybe this anniversary would be different. A dinner reservation somewhere a little dressed up, candles on the table, maybe real conversation, and no phones between you. The kind of night you only get if someone plans it like they mean it.

But he hadn’t wanted that. When you asked, gently, if you should dress up, he just laughed and said, “We’re going to the Hard Deck, not a wedding.”

You hesitated for half a second, then smiled, because what else were you going to do? You said sure, of course, that’s fine.

It’s not a bad place, it really isn’t. Penny keeps the drinks cold and the music tolerable. The fries are good. It’s not fancy, but it’s not supposed to be. Still, part of you had pictured something else.

Even now, you keep glancing down at your hands like maybe the booth would change, maybe the place would feel more special if he walked through the door smiling and apologizing for being late.

You told yourself not to care so much about things like dinner spots and ambiance, that what mattered was him showing up, being here with you, but the thing was...he still wasn’t. And somehow, that mattered more than the venue ever could.

With that gentle dragging sound they usually made, the doors opened, and then a chorus of well-known voices and unapologetic laughing rolled in. You knew who it was without having to look. The Dagger squad always moved as if they owned the space, making noise unintentionally and moving effortlessly in a way that hurt more tonight than normal.

Still, your eyes found him, like they always did. He was walking in with the others, head tilted back in a half-laugh, one hand motioning as he told some story you couldn’t hear.

And there it was, that smile. The one that had made you say yes when he got down on one knee with a ring that didn’t fit the first time. The one that had made your mother cry at the wedding. The one that used to come home to you.

You’d been married for three years today, and somehow, that smile still had the power to stop your heart, and then let it fall straight through your ribs when he never looked toward the booth where you sat waiting.

Now, it was just the same smile he gave to everyone else. The one he wore when he was surrounded by people who didn’t know he was late to dinner with his wife. Who didn’t ask why she’d been sitting alone for almost two hours.

He didn’t scan the room, didn’t check his phone, didn’t look like a man who’d forgotten something. He looked like a man who thought he’d shown up right on time.

Eventually, he broke off from the group and wandered over like he wasn’t late. Like this was just when he said he’d be here. You saw him before he saw you, wearing a plain t-shirt and jeans, nothing new, nothing clean-shaven or thoughtful.

He hadn’t changed, and maybe he didn’t think he had to. You looked down at your dress, then back up at him, and something in your chest folded in on itself a little.

He slid into the booth across from you, leaned back like he was settling in, not even a flicker of awareness on his face. “Hey, baby,” he said, like it hadn’t been almost two hours since he said he’d meet you. His eyes ran over you slowly, and he smiled in that way that used to feel like everything. “You look good. Real good. Didn’t know we were dressing up tonight.”

You smiled, just barely. Enough to hide behind. You didn’t say anything at first. Just sat there, hands in your lap, nails pressing into your palms while you pretended your eyes weren’t glassy. He didn’t notice. He reached for a drink menu like everything was fine, like this was just another night and not your third anniversary, not the night you thought he’d try, not the night you’d been hoping might feel different.

He didn’t say anything about the wait. Just leaned back, stretched his arm across the top of the booth, and said, “God, I’m starving. We barely had time to breathe today. Did I tell you about that mess with the fueling crew?”

You shook your head, reached for another fry. It tasted off. A little cold, a little too stiff around the edges. You chewed slowly, nodded like you were listening.

“So I’m coming in, right? Just a standard touch-and-go, and these guys have the fuel truck parked in the worst damn spot. I had to wave off at the last second, nearly clipping the whole left side. Everyone was losing their minds.” He laughed like it was the best part of his day. “But I still stuck the landing. Clean as hell.”

“Sounds like it,” you said quietly, eyes down on your plate. You picked at the fries, stacking two side by side, like that would make them taste better.

Jake reached for one of his own, tossed it in his mouth, then kept going. “And then in the ready room, Phoenix tries to say it would’ve been her best time if she hadn’t had to circle. I told her she’s just mad because I beat her by a second and a half.” He grinned at that, proud in the way he always was when he thought he’d won something.

You gave a small smile. “She probably is.”

He didn’t notice the edge in your voice, or maybe he did and chose to ignore it. He just kept eating, kept talking, kept filling the space with his own words like they were enough, like you weren’t still trying to feel something other than disappointment.

You kept nodding, kept smiling just enough. Your hands stayed busy with the fries, breaking them in half, lining them up, pretending they were more than just something to do. He was still talking, now about something Fanboy said in the locker room, something stupid and loud that had the whole squad laughing.

You gave a soft laugh, because you were supposed to. It wasn’t fake, it just didn’t come from anywhere deep.

He reached across the table and stole one of your fries without asking. “Yours are better than mine,” he said with a grin.

“They’re the same fries,” you murmured.

He chuckled, then grabbed his drink and leaned back again like he was perfectly at home. “I’m just saying. Maybe you’ve got the lucky batch.” He looked around the bar, like he just now realized how full it had gotten. “We should’ve gotten here earlier. The place was packed when we walked in.”

You looked at him for a second. Just looked, and he didn’t meet your eyes. “Yeah,” you said. “Would’ve been nice.”

“Alright,” he said, setting his glass down harder than he meant to. “What’s going on with you?”

You blinked, looked up from the plate, from the last fry you hadn’t touched. “What?”

“You’re being weird.” He huffed a breath, sat back again. “You’ve barely said two words since I got here. You’re just… quiet.”

You stared at him, then let your eyes drop to the table. “I’ve said plenty.”

“Yeah, sure, if you count one-word replies and fake laughs.”

You swallowed, tried to keep your voice steady. “Jake, I waited here for almost two hours.”

His jaw tightened. “I told you we had a long day.”

You looked at him again. Not angry, but just tired. “I know.”

He stared at you for a second, like he was waiting for more. Like he thought that should’ve been enough to explain everything.

You breathed out slowly. “Can we just go home?”

That softened him, but only for a second. “Seriously? We just got here.”

You didn’t answer. Just looked at him, the way you used to when he knew what you meant without you having to say it. Tonight, he looked back like he didn’t recognize it at all.

He rubbed a hand along his jaw, annoyed now. “You could’ve just said something if you didn’t want to come. I wouldn’t’ve dragged you out.”

You shook your head slowly. “It’s not that I didn’t want to come.”

“Then what is it?” His voice dropped, still low but tighter, like he was trying not to make a scene. “You’ve been off all night, acting like I did something wrong just by showing up.”

You blinked at him. For a second, you didn’t speak, and when you finally did, your voice came out smaller than you meant it to. “You forgot, Jake.”

He looked confused. “Forgot what?”

You just looked at him.

There was a beat of silence where you watched it land, the way his face shifted, not in shock, not even guilt, just realization, slow and heavy. He swore under his breath, leaned back in the booth like he needed to buy himself a second.

“I didn’t forget,” he said, but he didn’t sound sure.

You picked up your bag, not rushed, not dramatic. Just done.

“I don’t want to do this here.”

Jake ran a hand through his hair, then stood up with a muttered “Fine,” and followed you out, the same way he always did when he couldn’t figure out why you were upset, but wanted to win the fight anyway.

He paid without looking at the bill, and didn't even wait for his change. He just pulled his wallet out, dropped a few bills on the counter, and left the rest behind like he couldn’t stand to stay a second longer. You followed a few steps behind, quiet, eyes lowered. The door swung shut behind you and the air outside felt heavier than it had before.

You looked up for a second. The sky didn’t give you much. Just a dull stretch of gray and a low haze sitting over everything. No stars. No moon. Just a tired kind of sky, the kind that wasn’t angry or storming, just done. It felt familiar in a way you wished it didn’t. There was nothing left to look at, so you dropped your gaze and caught sight of him already walking ahead.

He didn’t wait. He didn’t say anything. Just moved toward the car like the conversation was over, like the argument didn’t even count. You kept your pace steady, didn’t rush, didn’t trail. When you reached the car, he didn’t bother with the door.

You opened it yourself, slid into the passenger seat, and pulled the belt across your chest without a word. He got in right after, his door slamming harder than necessary. The sound echoed louder than it should have.

Neither of you said anything. He started the engine, hand steady on the wheel, eyes on the road like that was the only thing that mattered. You looked out the window, watching the streetlights blur past.

The silence between you wasn’t new. It had been growing in small, quiet ways for a while now, showing up in missed calls, short replies, and late arrivals. You’d just never sat in it like this before.

The car moved through the night, headlights cutting through the dark like it owed you something. You didn’t speak, and neither did he, but maybe that said more than anything either of you could have come up with.

The drive wasn’t long, but it felt endless. When he pulled into the driveway, he didn’t kill the engine right away. Just sat there for a moment with his hands on the wheel, like maybe he was waiting for you to say something, or maybe trying to decide if he would. You didn’t look at him. You just unbuckled your seatbelt, pushed open the door, and stepped out.

Inside the house, the lights were still off. You didn’t bother turning them on. You kicked your shoes off at the door and walked straight to the kitchen, opening the fridge even though you weren’t hungry. It was just something to do. You heard him behind you, keys hitting the counter harder than they needed to.

“I didn’t forget,” he said again, from somewhere behind you.

You kept your back to him. “You didn’t remember either.”

There was a pause. He let out a short breath, something between a laugh and a sigh. “I said I was sorry.”

“No, you didn’t.”

You closed the fridge, leaned your hands against the counter, kept your head low. You weren’t ready to yell. You didn’t even want to. You just wanted something to make sense. Something to feel like it mattered to him the way it still, somehow, mattered to you.

He stepped further into the room, pacing a little now. “I’ve had a hell of a week. You know that.”

“I know,” you said softly, turning toward him. “I know you’re tired. I just thought maybe today… maybe this one day wouldn’t get pushed to the side.”

He scoffed under his breath and shook his head, pacing once across the living room before turning back toward you. “So that’s it? One bad night and you’re acting like I don’t give a damn about you?”

You didn’t answer right away. You watched him speak, watched the way he filled the room with sound but never really with presence. That has started to happen more often lately. He was there, but not really. Like a shadow of himself that still moved, still talked, still showed up, but only halfway.

He threw his hands a little. “You knew I had a packed week. Command’s been on our asses since Monday, and today just got away from me. You think I wanted to show up late? You think I meant for it to go like this?”

You swallowed, barely audible over his voice. “You didn’t even text.”

That stopped him for a second. His mouth opened like he had a comeback, but nothing came out right away. So instead, he shrugged, like it wasn’t that big of a deal. “I figured I’d just get there and explain. I didn’t think you’d sit there and count every damn minute.”

“I wasn’t counting,” you said quietly. “I was hoping.”

Your voice cracked a little on the last word, and for a second, it went quiet again. He looked away, jaw tense, hands on his hips like he was trying to breathe through it, like this was harder for him than it was for you. That stung in a way you didn’t have words for.

“You always do this,” he muttered, not quite looking at you. “Turn every little thing into something it’s not.”

You stared at him for a moment, blinking like you couldn’t believe what you just heard.

“Every little thing?” you repeated, voice flat. “Is that what this is?”

He ran a hand through his hair again, frustrated. “Come on, I didn’t mean it like that.”

You took a slow breath, stepped away from the counter. “You showed up almost two hours late. On our anniversary. No message. No call. Nothing. And then you sat there, talking about yourself like I hadn’t been sitting alone the entire time.” Your voice stayed even, but it was starting to push. “You think that’s a little thing?”

Jake looked at you, finally really looked, and for a second he didn’t have anything to say.

“I put on a dress,” you said, quieter now, like you were almost saying it to yourself. “I sat at that table thinking maybe this time would be different. That maybe you’d remember before the last minute, maybe you’d actually want to show up and not just be there.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but you stepped in first.

“And I’m not talking about the Hard Deck. I’m not even mad about that,” you said. “It could’ve been burgers in the truck. It could’ve been a walk. I just wanted to feel like you cared enough to try.”

The silence between you stretched out again, but this time it felt different. He looked stuck between anger and guilt, arms crossed, jaw tight.

“You really think I don’t care?” he asked, like the words offended him.

And for the first time tonight, you didn’t look away. “I think you only care when it’s easy.”

Jake let out a short, bitter laugh, the kind that wasn’t really a laugh at all. “That’s bullshit.”

Your arms folded before you even realized. “Is it?”

He stepped forward, shoulders squared now. “You’re acting like I don’t show up for you at all, like I haven’t been breaking my back trying to keep everything together lately.”

“I never asked you to keep everything together,” you snapped, voice rising before you could stop it. “I asked you to be there. For this. For me.”

“I am here.”

“No, Jake,” you said, louder now. “You’re standing in the room, but you’re not here. Not where it counts.”

His hands went to his hips again, pacing a few steps before turning back toward you, eyes sharp now. “So what, I miss dinner and suddenly I’m the villain? You act like I don’t care, like I didn’t want this marriage too.”

“You didn’t miss dinner, Jake. You missed all of it. You missed me sitting there thinking maybe tonight would be the night you show up on time, say something that sounds like you still see me.”

He raised his voice then, something in him finally snapping. “What do you want from me?!”

And that hit harder than you expected. You stared at him, chest tight, hands cold at your sides.

“I want you to stop acting like loving me is something you have to schedule around.”

He opened his mouth again, but you weren’t done this time. The words came fast, your voice not yelling now, but loud enough to shake the quiet between you.

“I want to stop feeling like I have to earn my place in my own marriage.”

That landed. He looked at you, stunned for a second, like he didn’t know who you were. Like maybe he’d finally heard you, but still, he didn’t step closer.

“I’m tired, Jake,” you said, and your voice broke right through the middle.

His mouth opened, but the words didn’t come fast enough. You didn’t wait.

“I’m tired of waiting for you to notice I’m not okay. I’m tired of pretending this feels normal when it doesn’t. I’m tired of being the only one who remembers things like tonight. And I’m so tired of feeling like I have to apologize for wanting more from the person I married.”

Jake looked at you, his face hard but his eyes uncertain now. “I’m doing the best I can—”

“Are you?” you cut in, quieter, breath shaking as you blinked back the tears. “Because it doesn’t feel like it. It feels like I’m begging you for scraps of attention while you show up late and still act like I should be grateful.”

He looked away for a second, jaw tight, and dragged a hand over his face. “You always do this. Twist things around like I don’t care. Like I don’t try.”

“I don’t want to twist things,” you said, the words tumbling out, softer now but raw. “I want to believe you. I want to believe you still care the way you used to. But you don’t even look at me the same. And maybe that’s normal after time, maybe it is, but I can’t be the only one trying to keep us from fading.”

Your voice cracked again and the tears finally slipped down your cheeks, quiet and unchecked. Jake saw them, but he didn’t move toward you. He just stood there, like he didn’t know what to do with them, like they were a problem he didn’t sign up to solve.

“I miss you,” you whispered.

Jake’s hands went to his hips again, pacing like he couldn't sit still in it, like he needed to keep moving so it wouldn’t catch up to him. “You think this is easy for me? You think I like coming home to this? To you looking at me like I’m never enough?”

You flinched, then straightened. “I never said you weren’t enough.”

“Then what is this?” he shouted. “You corner me the second we walk through the door, throw every single thing I’ve done wrong in my face, and now what? I’m the bad guy because I’m not good at anniversaries?”

You laughed once, sharp and tired. “You’re not bad at anniversaries, Jake. You just don’t care.”

He stared at you, chest rising and falling fast now. “That’s not true.”

“Then what is?” Your voice rose with his, loud now, hoarse. “Because I am standing here telling you I’m hurting and all you do is try to win the argument.”

He stepped toward you, hands up like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “What do you want me to say? That I’m sorry I’m not perfect? That I’m not romantic enough, not soft enough, not whatever-the-hell you built up in your head?”

You stared at him, breathing hard, heart in your throat. You’d been holding the words back for weeks, maybe longer. “I want a divorce.”

The words hit the room like a door slamming shut. No build-up, no lead-in, just the truth, finally out in the open. Jake stopped moving. He looked at you like you’d slapped him.

Jake shook his head like he could physically knock the words out of the air. Like hearing them once had been too much. “No,” he said again, sharper this time. “No, you don’t mean that.”

His voice was thin around the edges, like it couldn’t decide if it was anger or panic.

You stood still, your arms at your sides, your hands curled into fists without thinking. The air in the room felt tight. Too full. You felt like you couldn’t take a deep breath.

Jake took a step forward. “You’re upset. You’re mad. We’ve fought before. This isn’t—this isn’t how this ends.”

You didn’t say anything. You just watched him. He looked like a man trying to stop a fire with his bare hands.

“We can fix this,” he said again, louder now, like volume could glue something broken back together. “Whatever this is, we’ll figure it out. I’ll do better. I’ll fucking try harder.”

Your voice came out sharp, louder than you meant. “Why now?” You could feel your heartbeat in your throat. “Why is it always after I say I’m done that you finally try?”

Jake flinched. He rubbed a hand across his mouth, eyes darting like he needed something to land on. “Don’t do this. You said forever. We said forever.”

You were already crying, but it wasn’t gentle. It was hot and hard and sudden. “I know what I said.”

“I stood in front of you,” he said, stepping closer like that might change something. “You were in that dress. Your hair was pinned back and your hands were shaking. I remember. I remember saying I’d stay. Through everything.”

His voice cracked on the word everything, but he pushed through it, chest rising and falling fast. “I said I’d love every version of you, even when you changed, even when I did. That I’d never walk away, that I’d never stop showing up.”

You wanted to believe him. God, you wanted to. But all of that should’ve been said hours ago. Weeks ago. Before you had to ask for it.

“Stop,” you said, voice low, strained.

He kept going, stepping closer like he was reaching back through time. “You looked up at me with those eyes and I knew it then. I meant it. I still mean it. I love you—”

“Stop!” you screamed, cutting through his words like glass shattering on tile.

Your voice echoed in the kitchen. It was too loud. Too full of everything you’d been swallowing for months. Jake froze like you’d hit him. His mouth was still half-open, but nothing else came out. His hands were shaking now. Yours were, too.

You wiped at your face roughly, but the tears kept coming anyway. Not from anger. Not even from heartbreak. You were just... done. And he was still three steps behind.

Jake stayed where he was, frozen in the middle of the kitchen like he couldn’t figure out whether to come closer or disappear. His hands slowly dropped to his sides, his eyes still locked on yours, searching your face like he could find a version of you that hadn’t said it. That hadn’t meant it.

Your shoulders rose and fell, shaky from the way your breath came in uneven pulls. You swiped at your cheeks again, slower this time, like maybe it would make it all stop spinning.

“I didn’t want it to be like this,” you said finally, voice raw. “But I can’t keep pretending this is working.”

Jake moved like his body didn’t want to, taking one small step forward. His voice was quieter now. “So you’re really just giving up.”

You looked at him. Not through him, not around him, but at him.

“I already gave everything I had, Jake,” you said, and your voice didn’t shake this time. It just sounded tired. “You just didn’t notice I was running out.”

He closed his eyes for a second, jaw clenched like he was biting something back. Then he opened them and looked around, like maybe the kitchen, the walls, the clock ticking on the stove might offer some answer he hadn’t thought of, but there was nothing. Just the stale echo of your shouting and the dull hum of the fridge in the background.

“You’re really serious,” he said after a moment, quieter now.

You nodded, your lips parting to speak but nothing coming out right away. When it did, it was softer than either of you expected. “I don’t want to keep resenting you just to stay married to you.”

Jake didn’t say anything.

The silence felt like it had teeth now, heavy and stretching between you both. You didn’t fill it. You just stood there, in the same house where you’d laughed on the floor unpacking dishes, where you’d fallen asleep on the couch more times than you could count, where you thought you'd spend a lifetime.

However, lifetimes don’t always last forever, and not even love was enough if it kept leaving one of you behind.

#jake seresin x reader #jake seresin #jake seresin x you #top gun maverick #top gun fanfiction #jake seresin angst #glen powell

156 notes · View notes

cobaltperun · 1 day ago

Text

Eternal Flame side story 3 - She Is

Jenna Ortega x Female Reader

Chapter Summary: Wednesday comes out, and with it comes the abrupt fame neither of you expected, one threatening to break Jenna, as well as your relationship, entirely.

Spotify playlist

Masterlist / First Part

Word count: 4k

-To figure it out, consider how to find a place to stand instead of walkin' away and instead of nowhere to land-

A sense of nervous excitement bordering on anxiety overcame Jenna the moment she woke up. Tonight would be the big premiere, the big event where the main cast of the show would appear, all together. Both of you had a long day and night ahead of you, and her heart was already beating faster than normal. At least she woke up next to you, with your arm protectively wrapped around her waist during the cold November morning.

Jenna nuzzled into your neck, comforted by your presence, especially when that seemed to stir you awake as you hugged her just a bit tighter. “Morning sleepy head,” she teased before kissing your cheek.

“Hmm, guilty as charged,” you muttered sleepily but Jenna could see the corners of your lips moving up as she peppered small kisses on your neck. “Keep doing that and we won’t make it on time for the meeting,” you warned her playfully.

Jenna faked an offended scoff and tossed the blankets off before getting up. She folded her arms and turned away from you like a fussy child that was denied their favorite food. “Fine, have it your way,” she huffed, smiling when, just as she was about to get up, you lunged from behind and wrapped your arms around her waist, keeping her sitting down.

You looked ridiculous, tangled up in blankets, face down on the side of bed, right next to Jenna and arms somehow keeping hold of her, and Jenna laughed, realizing just how relieved she was now. No pressure from the Wednesday, no pressure from living up to the character’s legacy, or previous flawless portrayals, or the weight of Wednesday finally being portrayed by Latina actress. All of that felt easier to handle because being with you made it all feel easier to deal with. The show would premiere, get some attention because it’s Tim Burton, of course it’ll get some attention, and that would be the end of it, no life-changing attention would come her or your way. With that in mind and you by her side Jenna felt lighter.

“You’re ridiculous,” she said, messing up your hair as you raised your head and looked at her.

“Sure, come back here for a bit longer,” you laughed, and Jenna’s eyes widened and an embarrassing yelp left her mouth as you twisted and pulled her back until she was lying on her back with you on your knees above her.

“Woah!” she grinned and watched you as you leaned your forehead on her shoulder. “Guess all that training is coming in handy,” she only half-joked as she hugged you and gently scratched the back of your head. She loved you so much, every single thing about you, and you as a whole she adored with every atom of her body. And she loved being loved by you, unapologetically, intensely, in ways that made her feel like she was on top of the world, as clich�� as that might sound. “Just five minutes, okay?” because you really needed to get going, otherwise Enrique would have a minor meltdown first thing in the morning.

You nodded, kissing her softly and she was sure everything would be fine.

~X~ For the first time since you and Jenna got together Enrique decided you weren’t allowed to see Jenna’s outfit, and that was actually annoying. What did he mean by it was a surprise? Why? For what reason? And what was with this tuxedo he got for you?

“Hell, I look like I’m going to my own wedding without even knowing I’m getting married,” well, if you ever chose to wear a tuxedo anyway. It was like a heavily upgraded version of your Wednesday Rave’N dance outfit and you were guessing Jenna would be wearing something similar to her dress from the show, but that did not mean you had to wait to see her, damn it!

You fixed your tie and sat down, waiting for the message from Enrique to come and see him and Jenna, and luckily, it only took him an additional half an hour to send the long-awaited text.

You went down the hall and knocked on the doors, letting yourself in when he hollered at you to get inside. And let it be known from now on, that Enrique’s decisions shall never be questioned. You stood there, your mouth hanging open as Jenna stood in front of you, dressed in a black wedding dress that made you feel rather light-headed. Your heart was skipping too many beats.

“Man, you want me dead,” you managed to speak even though your throat was as dry as a desert. She was too beautiful, and you weren’t even trying to hide it as you couldn’t take your eyes off her, not that you wanted to.

“It might be a bit more difficult to hide your relationship though,” Enrique teased, and you finally noticed Jenna had a similar problem to your own, she was watching you like a hawk, taking note of all the details and burning the image of you dressed in a classy, black tuxedo into her mind.

Yeah, no shit. It would be a miracle if you ended the night without making it clear to someone that you were together. Especially since you were supposed to spend a lot of time together tonight, seeing as you were the love-interest and given the whole Addams-raiju bond.

“Well, good luck!” oh, he was loving this, and you couldn’t blame him one bit.

Especially when, due to some unexplainable miracle, you ended the night without revealing you were together. How you managed that was still beyond your understanding. So, in the end, everything turned out fine.

~X~

Things didn’t turn out fine. Not one bit. The TV show blew up, it seemed to engulf every place where Netflix was available like a plague fitting of the Addams family. And that was good, success was good. But the attention that came with it? It was far from good. Overnight Jenna, and to a slightly lesser extent you, got millions of followers on social media, and it was getting overwhelming in way you didn’t think it would be possible. And it wasn’t just that. No, there was the physical side of this promotion that was quickly draining both you and Jenna, all the while you had to keep a smile on your face at all times.

At this point the days were starting to look pretty much alike, with neither you nor Jenna even knowing what day or date today was anymore. It was just one interview after another, one event after another, the show blowing up meant even more promotions and even more live events and it got to a point where neither of you even had the strength to sneak into the other’s room for the night. You couldn’t remember the last time you had a moment of privacy to hold hands, let alone kiss, and it was taking its toll on both of you.

The interviewer nodded at the answer Luis gave her and then turned to you and Jenna. “Jenna, Y/N, this is the second time your characters are semi love interests. What are your comments on some people claiming it is queer-baiting? Especially since original Scream script had your characters kissing,” she asked, and you saw Jenna looking down for a moment.

Anger bubbled withing you, threatening to come to the surface after weeks of exhaustion, but you restrained it, knowing getting angry wouldn’t do either you or Jenna any good. “Right, first of all I don’t know where you got semi from,” you said, forcing a bit of a cheeky grin on your face as the crowd laughed. “There is this little thing called timing. With Tara and C/N it just felt like pushing the characters together when they are so vulnerable wasn’t the right choice, especially with what Tara went through,” you explained, glancing at Jenna for support.

Jenna nodded at that, slowly bringing a microphone up to her lips. “And we shot the kiss scene, and then that night we were talking and it just came up that,” she turned to you, her eyes gazing into yours and you just leaned slightly closer, searching for the permission in her eyes, and when she gave it to you, you reached over and placed your had over her forearm. “It didn’t feel right for the characters. Don’t get me wrong!” she quickly backtracked, her voice shaky, as she subconsciously pulled her arm back and grabbed your hand instead. “In isolation the scene felt right, it felt emotional, raw even, but when we looked at the entire story it just felt rushed.”

“And for Wednesday, well, we really didn’t have any kiss scenes or anything. I think the logic behind it was fairly simple. TV, and entertainment in general, nowadays is a lot about instant gratification. Love interests are meant to get together as quickly as possible, or at least within a season, and it just doesn’t feel like Wednesday,” you continued, desperately hoping the camera wasn’t picking up on your thumb gently rubbing the back of Jenna’s hand.

“That’s so true. She has a line in episode one, that she won’t fall in love. It’s more interesting to see her struggling against those feelings, if only for a short while. Forging this strong relationship and then getting that satisfaction of seeing them get together,” Jenna explained, the tone of her voice much calmer now.

“And the two of you?!” someone from the crowd hollered and you felt Jenna’s hold on your hand getting tense. People getting loud wasn’t helping and you could see the tell-tale signs of Jenna’s anxiety creeping up on her. The demands for an answer grew louder despite the host trying to gain control over the situation.

“Well, how do I put this gently? I sure hope you don’t believe I can turn into an actual lightning tiger,” you tried to give them some answer. “Our characters are our characters, and while we do not owe you an answer, our relationship is purely platonic,” Jenna relaxed a bit, but someone from the crowd just pointed at your hands. “Hm? This?” you pointed at your and Jenna’s hands, seeing as more people began pointing as if to tell you you were lying. “What? You never felt the need for some comfort when accused of doing something as despicable as giving a group of people false hopes of representation. Come on! If anyone here has been vocal and emotional about representing her own heritage, it’s Jenna! Get off her back!” you exclaimed and if Jenna’s hold on your hand wasn’t as firm as it was you would have let go, just to make sure she wasn’t uncomfortable. The small grateful smile on her face made the potential backlash you could get more than worth it.

~X~

You snuck through the hotel hall, dead tired but knowing better than anyone Jenna wasn’t fine right now. She recovered during the interview, but those questions affected her. The stares, the judgment, they became louder than the praises, not that she ever believed the praises in the first place.

And after tonight, after those questions? You knew she’d need you by her side, no matter how tired you were. You slipped into her room, using the spare key she got for you, because knocking would be too risky, especially if Jenna couldn’t open the door right away. The dark room greeted you, similar to your own, similar enough to walk through it in the dark. You heard the shuffling on the bed and saw Jenna, wide awake, illuminated only by moonlight coming through the window. “Jen,” you sighed, and she smiled weakly as she turned onto her back and spread her arms toward you, inviting you.

“Thanks for coming,” she whispered as you lay down next to her and she immediately moved to hug you, but she didn’t relax, didn’t seem to melt into your touch like she did. Didn’t call you, even though she clearly needed you, and it made you worried, made you wonder if you should have acted sooner, if you should have done more. Jenna was struggling, and you didn’t notice it quickly enough.

“There’s nothing to thank me for,” you kissed the top of her head, and she leaned a bit closer to you. “You want to talk?” you offered, but she shook her head,

“No. Just hold me, please,” the dark circles under her eyes that were covered by makeup made you frown, this was getting worse than even the worst weeks filming Wednesday, at least back then she’d cry in your arms, releasing everything that was being pent-up inside of her. Now it looked like she was shutting everyone out, you included.

“They can talk all they want. They don’t know you,” yet you unknowingly hit a sore spot, because, at this very point, Jenna herself wasn’t sure who she was. But, without knowing that was what bothered her at the moment, you were left unable to help her, to address her worries in a way that would have helped her. “They don’t know how amazing and wonderful you are,” she used to believe it when you said it, sure that you honestly believed it, even if she didn’t see it herself, but now, while she, unbeknown to you, struggled picking up the pieces of her fragmented sense of self, those words felt more like salt to the wounds, or an acid that ate away at the edges of the pieces she was trying to put back together, making them unable to ever find their place again.

You were supposed to be a source of comfort for her, and in some ways you were. In others, your actions, meant to support and help her, only made her feel guilty instead.

~X~

It was another silent night in your house as you set the food on the table, you tried making all of Jenna’s favorites, hoping they would cheer her up, even a bit. “Jen! Dinner is ready!” you called out from the kitchen, loud enough for her to hear you. She was sitting in the living room, the only source of light the moonlight and her phone. She didn’t respond, but you knew she heard you, she just didn’t feel like saying anything.

You ran your fingers through your hair, not sure what to do anymore, before you forced yourself to focus on the present moment and quickly prepared Raiju’s food. The German Sheppard was already sitting right at your side, patiently waiting for his food. “Hey buddy, at least someone is excited about food,” but even Raiju got affected by the mood in the house. You noticed him sulking in the corner whenever Jenna wouldn’t pet him or throw his ball. “We gotta give her some time, okay?” you were sure he understood every word you said as you finished his meal and set his bowl down in the usual spot. He licked your hand, nuzzled against you, and you scratched him behind his ear. “I know, I know, smells delicious and I’m a great cook,” you joked as he turned his attention to the food and began eating.

You went into the bathroom to wash your hands and then went back into the dining room just in time to see Jenna walking in like a ghost. You could see the exhaustion on her face, she barely slept lately, even with you by her side, and you didn't know what to do. She's been rejecting your attempts to help her, she's been quiet, distracted. Detached. Ever since Wednesday came out you felt like each day, each new interview pulled her away from who she was before Wednesday came out. The sudden explosion of fame and recognition, the praises and criticism, the good, the bad, and the awful, disgusting things that came with it, all of that made you feel like you were slowly losing her.

You tried anything that came to your mind, you tried talking to her, tried giving her space, tried making her laugh, tried her favorite food, her favorite places, driving in the late hours of the night hoping she’d talk, tried setting up small surprises, tried flowers, her favorite movies, hand-written letters, Barbara, Aliyah, the rest of Jenna’s family and friends, tried sending a flower via Raiju express, even got him a tiny hat, not a single thing worked. A rare couple of smiles were small and forced and you didn’t know what else to do.

Jenna sat down, not once looking at you, and you sat down as well on the opposite side of the table. You wouldn’t have, you usually sat down next to one another, but five days ago she moved to the opposite side of the table when you sat down on your usual spot and since then you respected that choice. Minutes passed, and she didn’t touch her food, she did pick up the spoon a couple of times, but that was all. She's been staring at her plate, holding the spoon but not eating anything. "Y/N," she spoke up, starting the conversation herself for the first time in eight days. You looked at her, at her eyes, almost void of any life, almost as if she just made a heart-shattering decision.

"Yeah?" you asked, almost fearfully. Feeling like something was slipping through your fingers without you even realizing.

"It's-" she paused, swallowing hard and looking down as she set the spoon down. "I," she buried her face in her hands and let out a loud exhausted sigh and you could see her squeezing her head.

You got up and hugged her from behind. "It's okay, take your time," you whispered, slowly loosening her grip on her head. "I'm right here with you," and as if that shattered her, she just sobbed, dropping her hands onto your own and leaning her head back so she could lean the back of it on your shoulder as tears streamed down her face uncontrollably. "Let it out, Jen, just let it out," you kissed the side of her head, hugging her a bit tighter.

"I-we, we need to break up!" she wailed and you froze.

You felt like someone pulled a rug from underneath your feet, like the ground opened and you were in free fall. "What?" you still didn't let go of her, but you didn't fight it when she pushed your hands away and got up, still crying. She began pacing as she desperately tried to stop the tears, but nothing she did stopped her as she sobbed.

"I can't do this, I don't have the time, I don't have the energy, I don't know who I am and nothing makes sense! It's like someone shattered my life into pieces and scattered them and I can't pull it back together!" she cried out, turning away from you in frustration and sorrow.

"Jen, hey," you went after her, stopping her in the middle of her pacing. "Talk to me."

"Talk what?!" she snapped grabbing onto your shirt, and this was already more than you’ve gotten out of her in over a week. "I don't know what to say! I am confused, I can't meet my own needs, let alone your own!" she crumbled into your arms and leaned onto you, her fingers desperately clutching onto the back of your shirt as if you were the only thing holding her together.

“Jenna, Love, hey, look at me,” you held her, setting aside her desire to break up, just to first calm her down. She was hurting, panicking, and sure, her words hurt, caught you by surprise, but you tried to see through them, to see what she was really feeling. She shook her head, closing her eyes shut and burying her face in your chest, she was telling you to leave, but everything she was doing begged you to stay, and you’d trust her actions. She sobbed and you held her, keeping her together so she doesn’t fall apart. “It’s okay, just breathe,” she wasn’t even standing anymore, you held all of her weight in your arms, but you remained steady, not for a moment considering that you should make her sit down unless she showed or said she wanted to.

Eventually the sobs slowed down, got quieter, and Jenna slowly found the strength to stand again. She looked at you, eyes shining with pain and despair, an idea that what she was doing wasn’t fair to you. "You're doing everything. You're taking care of my needs, supporting me, comforting me. Look at you now! I told you I want to break up with you and you still put my needs in front of your own!" she nearly burst into tears again, but you cupped her cheek gently.

"Do you love me?" you asked, and sure, you’ve said those words, plenty of times, but you were both more likely to show it, rather than just say it.

Jenna looked up into your eyes. "I do!" and she said it without a hint of hesitation. "But it can't be enough for you!"

You caressed her cheek and leaned down, pressing your foreheads together. "It's enough for me, Jen," you whispered, running your fingers through her hair.

"It shouldn't be, I need to give you more, it needs to be equal," she whispered, shaking her head.

"I love you too," you told her softly. "I love you, okay? I love you."

Jenna hugged you tighter. "Y/N," she whispered, exhausted, in every way imaginable. "I'm not enough," she blurted out, fully believing what she was saying, regardless of how ridiculous it was.

"You are. Don't ever doubt that," you whispered back. “No matter what is going on you’ll always be enough,” nothing would change that.

"I don't want you to suffer because I am a mess," she confessed, a lot calmer now.

“I’ve been a mess too, yet you still took the risk,” sure, it wasn’t smooth sailing back then, but you weren’t in a relationship at the time. And there were tough times after that as well, tough choices, especially when Jenna’s family was involved. She still made all of them, and she stuck by your side, not once complaining about the consequences of her choices.

“Not like this. You never shut down, you never allowed the entire relationship to fall on me,” she argued.

“You can’t be strong all the time, Love, you’re allowed to take a break, or break, and I’ll be here to help you through those times, I just need you to let me,” this time she wouldn’t let you, and that was the only thing you had issues with. You couldn’t support her if she shut you out, but in the end staying patient ended up working out well.

You could feel her breath on your lips, you could feel her getting up on her toes and softly, shyly, kissing you. Just for a second, uncertain if she said something she couldn't take back. “I'm so sorry, I don't want you to leave me, I don't want to break up, I just didn’t want to force you to deal with me right now,” and there they were, the words as honest as her desperate grip on you.

"I know, Love, we'll figure it out together, I promise you," you leaned down and kissed her, properly this time, and Jenna kissed back, gradually relaxing as you held her.

The dinner remained forgotten as you carried Jenna into the bedroom, emotionally and physically exhausted and just needing to hold each other until you fell asleep. Everything else could wait until the morning, and for the first time since Wednesday came out Jenna slept through the night, firmly holding onto you.

Whatever comes you’d just have to take it one day at a time, but, at least for now, what felt like the biggest challenge of your relationship, slowly became a part of the past.

Taglist: @lilbitdepressed27 @freakshow2501 @osnapitzmel1 @belatrixdragon @ijustlovemaths

@niqmandu @justspance @mirage018 @godamnityess

Masterlist / First Part

#jenna ortega x reader #jenna ortega x female reader #x reader #x female reader

55 notes · View notes

her0ine1983 · 2 days ago

Text

Lost in your touch

explicit rpf below, please don't interact if you are not comfortable with this MDNI!!!

description: After Joost's show in Berlin, you meet him by chance at a club there. It doesn't take much for you two to end up at your place, but the rest of the night goes a little differently than you expected. cw: alcohol, fingering, handjob, oral (f!receiving), unprotected piv (pill mentioned), creampie, premature ejaculation word count: 5556

a/n: It wasn't supposed to take that long. I already had part of it written, so I figured finishing the whole thing would take me like two days, but nope... I got so into the story, I actually started feeling the characters' emotions for real and instead of just the pure porn I planned at the beginning, it turned into a mix of smut, angst and fluff all in one. There's no specific time setting, just imagine one of his shows taking place in Berlin. It doesn't have to be this one from the tour, no need to rush off to another city. This story touches on something that might be a pretty sensitive topic, but I've wanted to write about it for a while. We're all human, not robots, things like that can happen to any man, and nobody should be made fun of for it, please keep that in mind. Love <3

You can't believe this.

You can't believe this is actually happening.

It's the middle of the night, but you're buzzing with more energy than you've felt in ages. You still want to dance, to sing, to scream. You'd been counting down to his show ever since you and your friends decided to buy tickets months ago. But nothing, absolutely nothing, could've prepared you for this moment. Not even in your wildest dreams did you think you'd see him afterwards. Not in some random club in Berlin, of all places.

And there he is.

Joost. Standing alone on the other side of the bar, phone in one hand, drink in the other.

You try so hard to look away, you really do, but then he suddenly looks up, his face turning directly toward you. His eyes meet yours and he gives you a small, sincere smile that curls at his plump lips.

Fuck, there's no going back now. It's now or never. Heart pounding. Legs shaky. Mouth dry. You walk up to him slowly, trying to look cool and not like you're about to pass out.

"Your show tonight… was totally insane", you say, somehow managing not to stutter, trying not to blurt out something stupid and unnecessary.

Joost lets out a soft giggle, tilting his head like he's shy, like he's not used to compliments, even though you know girls throw themselves at him daily, constantly thirsting over him.

"Dankjewel. Thank you, I really appreciate that, thank you", he keeps repeating in the sweetest way possible, folding in half and patting his chest.

One thing leads to another, and before you even realize it, you're sitting on his lap, sipping some fancy, overpriced cocktail he ordered for you, nestled into the corner of the VIP booth he's sharing with his crew. And even though neither of you is drunk, you're both just tipsy enough to let yourselves blur the lines. Bold enough to go for more...

The dim, red lights paint his face in soft shadows as your fingers trail along the edge of his jaw, your other hand tangled in the messy, bleached strands at the back of his head. He's watching you now with his blue eyes, a lazy smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, like he's waiting for your next move.

"What do you think about… us getting out of here? I mean… just you and me", you ask, out of nowhere, so eager to kiss him now, but not wanting to push your luck. Not here. Not so soon.

"You're so cute, it'd be a crime to say no", Joost murmurs in low, teasing voice, leaning in a little closer, trying to speak over a pounding music, "But we'd have to go to your place. I didn't bother with hotels this time, I'm crashing at Tantu's and... I don't think he'd appreciate walking in on us", he gives you a crooked smirk, eyes sparkling with mischief, like he's already picturing what's to come.

"Fine by me", you reply smoothly, feeling a subtle twitch in his pants, a silent confirmation that he wants this just as badly as you do.

You tip your glass back and down the rest of your cocktail while Joost throws one last glance toward his crew, raising his hand in a casual goodbye. You rush over to your friends, who are definitely going to ask questions later, and blurt out a quick apology, something vague about getting tired and heading home. Meanwhile, Joost is already on the phone, calling his driver.

"So... let's go, baby", he says just as a black car with tinted windows slows to a stop at the curb by the club's entrance. Joost steps forward and pulls the door open for you, flashing you that crooked little grin that makes your knees weak.

You slide onto the leather backseat as he settles in next to you, slamming the door shut behind him. He asks the driver to turn the music up a bit and angles his body toward you, placing his big, warm hand on your knee for a moment before deliberately sliding it up your bare thigh. His fingertips trace along your inner skin, moving gently, up and down, just barely brushing the seams of your shorts, making you let out a muffled gasp. Joost leans in close to your ear, whispering how beautiful you are, how badly he needs you, how you'll be screaming his name tonight. His words send a bolt of heat straight to your core and your thighs shake in response. You can already feel how wet you are and you're sure he does too.

You're seconds from throwing your leg over his and giving him a full access right here, right now, when the car suddenly shifts. With a slow turn, you finally reach your place.

As you step onto your floor, you're struggling to open your purse and get your damn keys out. The zipper's stuck and your trembling fingers aren't helping at all, especially with him standing behind you, his hands on your hips, kissing the side of your neck, pressing the rough fabric of his jeans right against your ass.

"Need some help, sweetheart?", he whispers into your skin, but before you can even answer, the zipper finally gives in.

You're both too desperate to waste even a second, so the moment you manage to unlock the door, you grab his wrist and pull him inside, leading him straight to your bedroom.

You kick off your boots, then pull off your top and bra in one swift motion, tossing them to the floor. Joost does the same with his Osiris shoes and white football tee. You fall back onto the bed as he leans over you, hovering with his tattooed arms on either side of your body, your bare chests barely touching, his silver necklace with a pearl pendant dangling above you. Your eyes land on the side of his neck, right where his Lola Bunny tattoo sits. The sight alone makes your mouth water. Without hesitation, you start leaving love bites on that sensitive spot, a little reminder of you and the night you're spending together, pressing your lips to his skin and sucking at the pulsing, visible veins. He hisses through his teeth from the sensation, but he doesn't stop you – he tilts his head just a bit more, giving you space, letting you mark his skin with your little work of art.

Soon after, his lips find yours in a kiss and you open your mouth in anticipation, thrilled to have him here, fucking Joost Klein, in your bedroom, leaving the scent of his body between your sheets. He's kissing you like he means it, deep and sloppy, sucking on your tongue, his wet muscle teasing your teeth while your fingertips drift lazily through the soft, light hair on his chest.

You know he's the freaky one, so there's no doubt he's going to do everything he promised you back in the leather backseat. This thought hits you just as you break the kiss to catch your breath. You glance up at his face, blue eyes now dark with lust, pouty lips swollen and stained with your pink lipstick, crooked glasses that you finally decide to take off and place on your nightstand. Still holding your gaze, he slides one hand along your side, slowly tracing every curve until he reaches your boobs, cupping them softly, his thumbs brushing over your sensitive, perked nipples.

"Godverdomme... je bent de mooiste, schatje", Joost groans against your collarbone, placing warm, open-mouthed kisses all over your chest, lingering on your nipples. You don't care if he says those same Dutch phrases to every girl he hooks up with – it doesn't really matter right now. The sound of sweet praises mixed with his eager touch makes your back arch as you pull him closer, fingers tangling in his curls, tugging gently, encouraging him to keep going. He's so impatient, so needy, his free hand already slipping lower, fingers hooking into the waistband of your shorts, craving more of you.

"Can I take it off now? I mean... this one too?", he asks, pointing at your panties peeking out from under your shorts.

"Yes, please", you smile, the words barely out before you're lifting your hips, giving him the green light.

Joost shifts up, dragging his hands down to your waist, warm and firm, before peeling both your shorts and panties down in one deliberate move, revealing your bare pussy. He stays there for a second, cheeks flushed, just staring like he's about to lose his mind. One of his hands comes to rest on your calf, nudging it gently to part your legs a little wider, just enough for him to fully take in the view. His fingers trail down to your folds and the moment he touches your sensitive bundle of nerves, you let out a quiet moan, then quickly bite it back, embarrassed.

"Hey, don't be shy, princess...", Joost chuckles, eyes locked on yours as his fingers move again, "I wanna hear all the sounds coming from that pretty mouth of yours...", you feel his digits, slow and messy, gliding through your already dripping heat.

He slides effortlessly over your clit, spreading the wetness in slick, sinful circles. It's obscene how easily his thick fingers disappear inside you – the middle one dips in first, shallow and teasing, just enough to make your back arch again. Then a second one follows and that's already too much – you gasp at the sudden stretch, your hips jerking forward, your whole body pulsing with pure eagerness. You lift yourself up slightly as you reach for him, hands wrapping around the back of his neck as you pull him closer, completely undone.

"Joost... fuck, can't wait anymore", you plead, voice cracking, "I wanna... I wanna feel you. I need you inside me... I need your cock. Now. Please…"

"Anything you want, liefje", he breaths, placing a kiss at the corner of your mouth in response, "You have any condoms?"

"No. But I'm clean. And on the pill. Please, Joost, trust me... I wanna feel you... feel you raw, please...", you whisper, watching his face closely to see if he really hears you, if he knows how badly you mean it.

You see the effect your words have on him instantly. He is already worked up, not just the flush on his cheeks, but the light sheen of sweat clinging to his skin, his damp bangs sticking to his forehead. And now? Hearing that from you? He looks like he might lose it completely. His eyes darken, jaw clenches and he swallows hard, visibly turned on even more. You feel the tension ripple through him, like he's trying not to come from just the idea of being inside you bare.

Joost gets out of your bed and you notice the way his hands move to his jeans – fingers trembling just slightly, fumbling at the button like he's both in a hurry and nervous all at once. And when he pushes his pants down, your breath stills.

His boxers cling to him, a wet stain darkening the front, and through the thin, black fabric you can see the full outline of his hard dick, begging to be touched. The moment he tugs them off too and lets them drop to the floor, your eyes drink in the sight.

Because his cock is beautiful – thick, veiny and big enough to make you scream. The tip, a soft shade of pink, glistens with a glossy bead of precum, catching the low light like something out of a dream.

As he stands in front of you, completely naked now, one of his hands moves instinctively to cover himself. There's a flicker of something vulnerable and awakward in his posture, like he's suddenly unsure of himself, like he doesn't quite know what to do with all that want burning through his body.

"Who's shy now?", you giggle, biting your lip, wondering what happened to that bold guy who had you melting in the backseat not even an hour ago. The one who said he was gonna fuck the shit out of you.

Joost crawls back into bed, and the second your fingers wrap around him, his cock jerks hard in your palm. You barely even touch him and he's already leaking, wet enough that your hand glides effortlessly along his full length. You stroke him slow, teasing, spreading his arousal up and down his shaft. The sounds your hand makes moving over him are downright filthy, filling the room with pornographic, sticky slaps. You don't need lube, you don't need anything, he's just this ready for you.

You give him a few more deliberate pumps and lean down, lips parting, ready to taste him, to have him sink into the warmth of your mouth... But his voice cuts through the tension.

"Don't– I mean…", he stutters, clearly struggling with himself, "Don't waste time... turn around. Get on your hands and knees for me..."

The command shoots straight through you. You love being taken like that – the angle, the way it makes your body feel owned, the way it lets him take everything single inch of you. So you oblige, thinking maybe he's not ready to look you in the eyes while he fucks you. Maybe he can't. But at least this way, he'll be able to reach you so deep.

You arch your back, putting yourself fully on display for him, and Joost lets out something between a groan and a curse. You hear the rustle of movement behind you, his breathing ragged as he grabs his cock, gives it a few slow strokes and lines himself up with your entrance. He's right there, thick and glistening, and when he presses just the tip inside, stretching you with a deliberate push, you gasp, aching for more. The way your body takes him makes him curse again under his breath. His fingers dig into your hips as he thrusts forward just a little, trying to ease in deeper, to bury himself all the way inside you, but then he suddenly stops with a loud moan falling from his mouth.

"Shit... oh, shit! Fuck... shit, no, no.... no", he cries, voice shaking almost in panic. Like his body is betraying him. Like something's not going to plan.

You turn your head toward him, still hazy, not quite sure what just happened, but then you feel it... That thick, warm stickiness between your thighs, dripping onto the sheets beneath you and suddenly everything makes sense.

He came.

You shift your whole body to face him and the sight is more than enough to confirm it. His dick is still in his hand, slowly softening, slick and covered in white release, just like your pussy.

"Sorry, schat. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry... it wasn't supposed to be like this. Fuck– I'm sorry...", he's stammering now, avoiding your gaze, his voice barely holding itself together.

Joost looks like a kicked dog – wide eyes, full of guilt, a flush of embarrassment creeping up his face like he's searching for somewhere to hide, one breath away from falling apart.

Like he braces for you to lash out.

Like he thinks you're about to mock him.

Tell him to get the fuck out.

And he wouldn't blame you for it.

The only person he could ever blame is himself.

"Don't worry, baby, don't worry... I'm here for you", your voice is soft as you reach out and caress his hand, thumb brushing along his knuckles like you're trying to calm him with nothing but your touch.

You open your arms and he slips into them instantly. Joost folds into you, pressing his body against yours with quiet desperation, like he needs to disappear inside your warmth just to feel okay again.

"I'm so sorry...", he chokes out, breath ragged against your skin, "I didn't wanna let you down. I swear, I just wanted to make you feel good. That's all I wanted, oh god–", his voice breaks, "–but fuck, what kind of man does that? What kind of man am I?"

Joost buries his face in the crook of your neck, his hands clutching at your sides, not rough, not steady, just trembling.

"I'd understand", he whispers, barely audible, "If you told me to get dressed and leave right now... I'd just… go and leave you alone..."

He hates himself for being like this.

For getting excited so easily.

For the way his body betrays him before his mind can even up.

The last time he gathered enough courage to talk to a beautiful woman, someone who seemed kind and sweet, it ended the same way...

They flirted a little, laughed too much and he felt that buzz of hope inside him, the kind that doesn't come around often. She ended up in his bed that night and during a heated makeout session, while she was trying to stroke him through his boxers, he came inside them. Just like that. No warning. No control. His face burned and he tried to stammer out an apology, completely mortified, but she didn't even want to listen. Just pulled her shirt back on, called him a "schoolboy", told him to "grow the fuck up" and walked out. No goodbye. No second chance. Only humilation.

He spent the entire night curled up in bed, shame digging into his chest like a dull knife. Didn't leave his apartment the whole next day. Didn't respond to anyone's texts. After that, he stopped trying. And whenever some girl looked at him with interest, he flinched and got shy.

Until now.

Until you.

And the worst part is he was scared this might end the same way. That he'd fuck it up and never see you again. But despite everything, he let himself trust you.

What scares him even more now… is how much he already cares.

This wasn't supposed to be anything serious.

Just a night. A moment. A nice memory. Nothing more than a hook up.

But somewhere between the way you said his name and smiled at him... something changed.

And now... it doesn't feel like a one-night stand anymore.

"I'm not kicking you out, you silly... don't even think like that", you say gently, your voice steady as you smile and caress his bare back.

"I'm gonna make it up to you... sooner or later", he whispers, barely louder than a breath, "I promise..."

"Shhh, that's okay, baby", you soothe, pressing your lips to his temple, your palm spreading over the warmth of his skin.

"Maybe I work too much, maybe… I don't– I really don't know what's wrong with me", his voice cracks and then a soft, helpless sob escapes him. A single tear rolls down his cheek as you catch it with your thumb, brushing it gently away as you cradle his face in your hand.

"Joost...", you murmur, "Joost, look at me", he hesitates for a moment, but finally, his eyes lift to meet yours – red-rimmed and full of shame.

"Listen…", your voice is firm, but full of kindness, "I'm not mad at you. Not even a little. Please stop blaming yourself. Sometimes these things just… happen. It doesn't make you broken. It doesn't make you less of a man. It makes you a human..."

He nods, small, uncertain, and gives you the faintest smile. You can't quite wrap your head around the fact that this night ended like this. Not breathless from sex. But holding him. Listening to his apologies.

You glance down at him, this tall, tattooed mess of a man curled into you like a boy, and realize you don't mind staying like this. All night. All morning. As long as he needs. Running your fingers through his hair, humming soft reassurances into his ear, letting him fall asleep with your heartbeat as a lullaby.

Because there's something about having a big boy melt in your embrace.

Something about being the one he needs when everything else falls apart.

Something that makes you want to protect him and kiss away all the shame from his face.

Something devastatingly sweet about the weight of his body pressed against yours, his heart somehow lighter just because you didn't push him away.

But Joost seems to have other plans for the rest of the night.

Just when you think he's about to fall asleep in your arms, his head lifts slightly. And before you can ask what he's doing, he's already shifting, crawling lower, pressing kisses down your stomach like a quiet apology.

"Joost...?", you whisper, confused, breath catching in your throat. But instead of giving you an answer, he just slips between your thighs like he belongs there. And then you feel it – his tongue, warm and unhurried, diving into your folds. He starts to clean you up with his mouth, slow and deliberate, licking up every last drop of his release from your pussy.

"Joost...", this time you wince, your voice cracking from the intensity, but he only looks up at you with a smug little smirk on his face.

His lips and mustache are a mess, glistening with his own cum and your slick, a filthy mix of juices shining on his chin. He sticks out his coated tongue, showing it to you like a trophy, then closes his mouth and swallows. When he opens it again, his tongue is clean... and his eyes are locked on yours, searching for your reaction.

"Joost…", you gasp, stunned, your whole body pulsing, "You're really a fucking freak..."

That sight alone nearly sends you over the edge. The way he looks, the way he savors both of you like it's the most delicious thing he's ever tasted. It turns you on so badly, you could cum just from that.

Your hand flies to his hair, fingers tangling deep, grabbing a fistful at the back of his head. You pull him in with a desperation, your hips rising to meet his mouth. His grip tighten around your thighs, anchoring you to the bed like he needs you to stay here for him forever.

"Don't stop", you growl, low and needy, "Fuck, Joost... don't you dare stop", and the way he groans at your words, feral and pleased, you know he won't. Not until he's got you falling apart all over his tongue.

He grinds his hips against the mattress, his leaking cock searching for any kind of friction as he devours you like a man starved, eating you like his last meal. His tongue moves frantically yet skillfully, slick as it laps at your folds, his whole mouth working you over like he's worshipping every inch of your swollen, sensitive cunt.

You've never felt anything like this before. Moans start slipping out of you, louder and louder, as Joost goes even deeper, more deliberate. Then, without warning, he adds a finger, curling it inside you just right. His lips leave you only for a second as he gasps for air, and the moment it does, his hot exhale hits your soaked pussy, making your body jolt. But he doesn't give you second to breathe. He's back on you, tongue flicking, finger thrusting, and suddenly that familiar heat begins blooming low in your belly. This tight, pulsing pressure that makes your thighs squeeze. It's coming fast, faster than you can handle, and still he keeps going, like he wants to ruin you with his mouth.

No one's ever taken care of you like this.

No one's ever made your pleasure feel like their mission.

You manage to rise your head just enough to look at him between your thighs. His face is wrecked, hair plastered to his forehead, lips swollen, mustache glistening with your wetness and faint traces of his own cum still clinging to his chin. But it's his eyes that make you whimper, heavy with lust, completely lost in the taste of you.

And in that one moment, that single glance, you know, he's enjoying this just as much as you are. Maybe even more. You drop your head back on a pillow, crying out his name and all you can think is: he loves this, he fucking lives for this.

"Oh, Joost... just like that… I'm close, so close...", you moan over and over, your fingers tightening in his damp, blond strands. Your other hand clutches at the sheets like it's the only thing keeping you tethered to reality.

His tongue moves faster, more precise, and you can feel him rutting harder against the bed, desperate and panting, squelching sounds of his mouth between your thighs echoing inside your brain like a dirty song.

Your orgasm hits you like a storm.

You let out a loud, unrestrained whimper, legs clenching instinctively around his head. Your hand slips from his hair, but Joost doesn't pull away. His palms stay on you, relaxed now, thumbs stroking soothing lines along your thighs, grounding you through the aftershocks – until he places one last tender kiss on your overstimulated pussy and rises to his knees on the mattress, lips glossy, eyes dark and blown-out.

"Schatje–", he breathes, barely louder than the quiet hum of your heartbeat still echoing in your ears, "If you still want this… I think... I think I'm ready again. Can… can we try?"

Almost hesitantly, Joost shows you his cock, hard and throbbing in his hand. There's a flicker of vulnerability on his face as he glances down.

"Could you give me just one more chance to feel you… to feel you inside?", he asks, eyes searching yours, pleading for your consent, for the last chance.

"Yes, please... now", you nod, more certain than ever.

He climbs over you slowly, carefully settling between your thighs, hovering like he's afraid to press too much weight on you. You part your legs wider for him and he lines himself up with an unsteady hand. The flushed tip of his cock nudges at your entrance and then he starts to push in, painfully slow and cautious. He slides into you so easily, your core still slick from your last orgasm and the lingering heat of his mouth. That first stretch makes you gasp, your walls fluttering as you begin to feel every thick inch of him filling you.

He watches himself disappear into you, a little more with each deliberate thrust, until he bottoms out. But he doesn't look at your face. Not yet. His gaze fixed between your connected bodies, like he can't quite believe he's really inside you. His brows furrow as he focuses all his energy just to stay in control, terrified of letting go too soon again. He starts to move with more confidence now, his hips rolling into you deeper with each stroke, though every thrust is still carefully restrained. His muscles are drawn taut like a bowstring – tension coiling in his arms, his back, his thighs – all of him flexing with the effort of holding back.

"Joost...", you whisper between moans, your voice trembling with pleasure as your thumb brushes across his lower lip, trying to pull him back from wherever his mind is spiraling, "Joost, are you with me?"

"Yeah... you feel so good, oh god, so fucking good", he nods shakily, eyes dazed and half-lidded.

"Look at me, please", he does as you ask him, his shy, beautiful gaze locking with yours now.

"Come closer", you say, arms reaching out with invitation, "Come on… just relax, baby..."

Your hands stroke softly over his back as he leans down, the silver chain around his neck swinging above your face, catching the low light before his full weight finally sinks into you. You wrap your arms and legs around him, feeling him press even deeper. The way your bodies fit together like this, skin to skin, heart to heart, makes you melt beneath him.

"You still with me, Joost?", you murmur, lips brushing his ear, "You're doing so well. So fucking well...", you feel him shudder, like your words are the only thing holding him together.

"Yes, Joost, yes... you're amazing. Please... harder, deeper... I want all of you", you keep moaning against his bare, pale skin, words tumbling out between gasps, not just because you're close again, but because you mean them.

And it feels like fucking heaven.

The way Joost moves inside you, purposeful, like he's finally let go of the fear and let himself feel everything you're giving him. With every delightful grind of his hips, you know you're not going to last much longer. The pressure in your core tightens again, sharp and overwhelming. His cock hits that perfect spot, over and over, and you're clawing at his back, breath ragged, vision blurring with tears of building pleasure.

"Joost, oh my god...", your pussy clenches around him, squeezing tight and he groans from deep in his chest, barely holding it together.

"I've got you", he pants, his voice thick and breathless, "Come for me again, schatje, please…"

It crashes over you like a wave, stealing the air from your lungs. You cry out, hips jerking beneath him as he kisses you, his moans half-muffled against your lips, swallowing every sound you make like he wants to keep them inside him forever. Your body still pulses around his length and you can feel he's right there too, teetering on the edge.

"Fuck–", he gasps, pulling out with one final thrust.

Joost throws his head back and then spills all over you, hot ropes of his load painting your belly, some of it splattering higher, leaving sticky droplets on your breasts. His voice breaks with a mix of Dutch curses and ragged breath.

Without thinking twice, he collapses on top of you, chest pressed against your cum-slicked body, his cheek settling over your heartbeat like it's the only steady thing in the world. He doesn't care that everything is sticky now, that you're both covered in sweat and the mess of each other. He just wraps his arms around you and in that moment – bodies tangled, breath shared, hearts racing in sync – you know neither of you will ever forget this night.

You're utterly spent, too weak to move an inch, your body heavy and limp against the mattress. But Joost rises smoothly and scoops you up in his strong arms, holding you close as if you weigh nothing.

"Tell me where your bathroom is", he mutters, his moustache tickling the crook of your neck.

"To the right...", you manage to whisper, eyes heavy, your cheek resting on his chest.

Joost carries you carefully through the quiet apartment, the heat of his body grounding you, until he gently sets you down beneath the shower.

"I'm gonna help you clean up", he says softly, brushing a strand of damp hair from your face, "Mind if I join you? I'm just as sticky as you are…", he gives you a shy smile that makes your heart twist – so polite, like he didn't fuck you a few minutes ago.

You nod, too tired to speak, and he steps in beside you, closing the glass door behind him. The water streams down, warm and soothing, washing away the sweat clinging to your skin. You melt into the sensation of his hands, massaging your sore muscles, fingers gentle as they trace your curves. He holds you steady at the waist, making sure you don't slip from exhaustion, his touch tender and careful as he cleans between your thighs, trying not to overstimulate you. It's a real moment of sacred intimacy, more meaningful than anything you've done together.

Once he finishes washing you, Joost quickly cleans himself, then helps you step out of the shower. You don't argue when he sits you on the closed toilet lid, drying you off and wrapping you in a fluffy towel.

"You don't have to, Joost. I do these things by myself all the time", you murmur with a soft smile, but the tiredness in your eyes gives you away.

"I don't doubt that, liefde", he replies gently, returning your smile, "But I want to..."

And before you can say more, he's already scooping you up again, cradling you against his chest like you're something fragile. He carries you back to bed and lowers you onto the mattress, tucking the comforter around your tired body, his hands lingering a little longer as if making sure you're safe.

"Joost… come here", you whisper, patting the space beside you.

He moves silently, sliding in next to you, his body molding perfectly to yours as his arm snakes around your waist, pulling your back closer to his chest.

"I'm still sorry for earlier", he murmurs into your hair, his voice rough with sleep, "I hope I made it up to you. Even just a little. Slaap lekker, mijn schat...", he presses a kiss to the crown of your head.

You don't get the chance to reply. Sleep pulls you under before the words can form, your body giving in to his embrace. You drift off with a smile on your lips, dreaming that maybe you won't have to convince him to stay in Berlin more often.

Because maybe, just maybe… he's already found a home.

#joost klein smut #joost smut #joost klein fanfic #joost fanfic #joost klein x reader #joost x reader #joost klein x you #joost x you #my one shots

69 notes · View notes

lxvchrismd · 2 days ago

Text

| You never even asked? |

| Pairing: George Clarkey x Reader

| Summary: Y/n has went years with thinking the guy she was in love with slept with her best friend. She sees him at a high school reunion, and all of her feelings are spilled. How does this turn out?

| Warnings: Angst, Smut. 18+ MDNI

| Notes: Hey guys, second time writing smut so it may or may not be good. Enjoy!

✎ lxvchrismd writing below ✎

Y/N hadn’t seen him since Year 11. She didn’t care to. Or so she told herself. He was nothing more than a name in old class group chats and someone she occasionally saw on Instagram stories — mostly with Jackson. And that made her blood boil.

The reunion tonight was at some posh flat in East London. It was loud, packed with people who all knew each other through someone else. One of those high school reunions where old situationships, one night stands, and people with pure hatred for each other were all in one place again.

Y/N had just finished her shot she had agreed to do with some old friends, when she saw him.

George. Taller now, more defined. Hairstyle now a mullet, styled like he barely tried — but of course, it suited him. He laughed with someone across the room, head tilted back, that grin she hated etched across his face.

She turned away quickly, heart racing in spite of herself.

But as the night wore on and drinks loosened tongues, she kept bumping into him — in the kitchen, in the hallway, once at the bathroom door. Until finally, it happened.

They both find themselves alone in Jackson’s bedroom, the others had gone back outside to the fire. Silence wrapped around them like tension waiting to snap. “Still can’t even look at me?” George’s voice was deeper now, sharper with age. Y/N scoffed. “What’s the point?”

He stepped closer, expression unreadable. “You still hate me, even after secondary. What did I ever do to you?” Her jaw tightened. “What did you do?” She turned to him, eyes narrowed. “You fucked my best friend and then acted like I was crazy for being upset.” George looked genuinely stunned, his brows knitting. “You think I slept with Ellie?”

“Jackson told me. You think I just made it up?” He laughed once, bitterly. “Jackson told you? The same Jackson who had a thing for you since Year 10? You believed him over me?” She blinked, her lips parting slightly.

“I never fucked her,” he growled, stepping closer. “I never even kissed her. I liked you, Y/N. I’ve always liked you.”

She stared, breathing uneven. The air between them pulsed.

“Then why didn’t you say anything?” she snapped.

“I was going to, the night of Chloe’s house party.” He says, quietly. “But then you came in, crying, and told me to go fuck myself before I could even speak.” Her mouth opened, no words coming.

“You never even asked me,” he said, quieter now, but with more pain in his voice. “You just hated me. For something I never did.”

A silence settled. Then suddenly she kissed him.

Hard, furious. Lips colliding like a challenge, hands pushing at his chest, his back hitting the wall behind them with a thud.

He groaned into her mouth, pulling her closer, hands gripping her waist as if afraid she’d disappear again.

“Fucking hell, I’ve waited years for this,” he murmured against her lips before kissing her again. Deeper this time, hungrier. Her hands fumbled under his shirt, feeling the tight plane of his stomach, the ridges of muscle as he hissed at her touch. His fingers slid under the hem of her dress, pushing it up with growing urgency.

He kept walking, backing her up against the bed frame until she fell, him softly landing on top of her. His hands roaming around her body, almost as if he’s trying to remember every curve.

“Do you want this?” He asked as he pulled back from the kiss, his voice raw with lust. “Please.” she breathed. He didn’t need to be told twice. She gasped as he slid her panties down, the cool air hitting her skin. He slowly pushed his fingers inside of her, making sure she felt every movement he made, making her almost whimper in pleasure. He chuckled, looking at her reaction to his teasing. “You’re soaked.” “Then do something about it,” she snapped, voice breathless.

Now this? This got him. He immediately unbuckled his belt, taking his boxers and jeans with it. He positioned himself in between her legs almost like he belonged there - he did. He looks at her, almost looking for confirmation, to which she nodded.

She gasped as she felt him enter her. His pace was deep and slow at first, almost teasing. He wanted her to feel everything. “George- please. Faster.” As soon as he heard her pleas, his thrusts became harder, making the tension unravel.

One hand on her hip, the other gripping her hair gently, guiding her movements as they both lost themselves in the moment.

Each thrust drove away the years of silence, of pain, of things unsaid. “Say it,” he growled. She bit her lip, moaning louder. “I want you.” He angled deeper, hitting that spot that made her cry out.

“Louder.” “I want you, George,” she moaned. “I always fucking wanted you.” He let out a low growl, thrusting harder, her name a curse on his lips as they both reached the edge. When they came it was together. messy, loud, and real.

Afterward, breathless and tangled on the bed, she looked over at him. “So... you really didn’t sleep with her?” He groaned, dragging a hand down his face with a grin. “If you ask me that again, I’m fucking you again as punishment.” She smirked. “Good.”

50 notes · View notes

gigiii1sblog · 3 hours ago

Text

I LOVE YOU, IM SORRY 001

Chapter One: Chasing After Our Ends.

YN:

I met Nick at a party in L.A.

One of those nights where I didn’t plan on staying long, someone’s rooftop, music vibrating through the concrete, girls taking flash photos in the hallway, guys handing out drinks like they were trying to impress the sky.

I had just moved to the city.

Barely knew anyone.

I was still using GPS to find my way home.

Nick was one of the first people who made L.A. feel smaller.

He found me standing alone on the edge of the party, drink in hand, phone in the other, the universal signal for “I don’t know what I’m doing here.”

“You look like you need saving,” he’d said with a grin, half-drunk and fully charming.

And that was it.

We clicked instantly. He talked like we’d known each other for years. Like I wasn’t a stranger in his world. He introduced me to everyone, pulled me into his circle without hesitation, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

That’s how I met them, the brothers.

Triplets, apparently.

Nick.

Matt.

Chris.

Chris was easy to get along with. Loud, funny, kind of chaotic in the best way. He made me laugh so hard I choked on my drink and ended up with tequila in my nose. He had this magnetic pull, the kind of person you always knew was in the room.

Matt was… different.

He was quieter. Not in a shy way, in a way that made you want to know what he was thinking. He stood back while Nick did the talking, hands in the pocket of his jeans, observing. Eyes like he’d seen the party a hundred times before and wasn’t impressed anymore.

He didn’t say much when we were introduced. Just a small nod and a quiet, “Hey.”

But something about him stuck.

We didn’t talk much that night. Just shared a few comments here and there while Nick pulled me around. But when Matt laughed, I mean, really laughed, it hit different. It was rare. Soft. Like he didn’t give that part of himself away easily.

I caught him looking at me once, across the room.

Not in a flirty way.

In a curious way.

Like he was trying to figure out if I was going to stay in his life or just pass through it.

I smiled at him.

He didn’t smile back.

But he didn’t look away, either.

That was the beginning.

Nothing dramatic.

Just a glance.

A quiet boy.

And the feeling, deep in my stomach, that this was someone I’d wanna see again.

It wasn’t planned.

I just saw him standing alone near the balcony, hoodie pulled over his curls, staring out at the city like it was talking back to him.

Everyone else was inside, laughing, drinking, posing for stories, but he was out there in the quiet. A solo orbit.

I hesitated for a second, drink in hand, nerves buzzing. But something in me, stupid, brave, maybe both, pushed me forward.

“Not your kind of party?” I asked, stepping next to him.

He looked over, slow and unreadable, like he wasn’t sure if I was talking to him or to the skyline.

“No,” he said after a pause. “Too loud. Too much… pretending.”

I smiled, leaning against the railing beside him. “Same.”

He glanced at me again, this time a little longer. A little softer.

“You’re Nick’s friend?” he asked.

“Not exactly. I met him tonight.”

He nodded, then looked back out over the city. The lights blurred a little from where we stood, endless, golden, pulsing.

“You just move here?” he asked.

“Yeah. Two weeks ago. Still getting lost every time I leave the apartment.”

He gave the smallest smirk. “Welcome to hell.”

That made me laugh.

It was easy after that.

The silence between us wasn’t uncomfortable, it felt intentional. Like neither of us wanted to say too much too fast. But what we did say? It stuck.

He asked what I moved here for. I told him I was still figuring that out.

I asked if he liked living in L.A. He said, “Some days.”

When I shivered, he casually offered me the hoodie he was wearing.

I said no.

He gave it to me anyway.

And then, before I could overthink it, I said:

“Can I get your number?”

He blinked, just once. Then reached into his pocket and handed me his phone like he was surprised but not opposed.

I typed it in, handed it back.

“Cool,” I said, trying not to sound as nervous as I felt.

“Cool,” he echoed.

And that was it.

No fireworks.

No cheesy line.

Just a number, a soft smile, and something in the air that felt like the beginning of something small but real.

I went back inside with his hoodie still clinging to my shoulders.

And even with the music thumping and people shouting and lights flashing,

I only heard his voice.

⸻

It started with a “did you get home okay?”

Simple.

Sweet.

Safe.

Matt texted me later that night, and I smiled when I saw it. Something about the way his name lit up my phone felt… easy. Like I didn’t have to overthink it.

I replied:

“Home. Hoodie still smells like you, btw.”

He sent a laughing emoji and then:

“Return policy: you give it back when you stop thinking about me.”

After that, it didn’t stop.

We texted every day. Every night. About nothing. About everything.

He’d send me a song with no context, and I’d listen to it three times in a row trying to figure out what he was feeling.

I’d send him screenshots of random poems and blurry photos of sunsets from my fire escape.

I made dumb playlists with titled “songs that make me feel like I know you already”

I started waking up to his texts.

Started falling asleep mid-conversation and waking up to “you alive?” or “dream about me?” followed by a single emoji.

It was slow and quiet and addicting.

One night, he texted:

“You ever had In-N-Out?”

I told him once, forever ago, in passing. Didn’t even remember saying it.

He replied:

“Come with me. I’m not letting you live in LA without doing it the right way.”

We met in the parking lot just past 9 p.m.

He was already waiting in his car, music low, hoodie on, windows cracked. The moment I slid into the passenger seat, he looked over at me and said:

“You’re really gonna fall in love with this.”

I grinned. “With the burger or with you?”

He blinked, then smirked, eyes flickering to the road.

“Both.”

We ordered and sat in the parking lot, windows down, drinks sweating in the cupholders, fries between us, something by The Neighborhood playing. The air smelled like summer and salt and something sweet I couldn’t name.

But then—

I caught him pushing something off his burger with a napkin.

“Wait. What are you doing?”

“Ketchup,” he said, face dead serious. “Can’t do it.”

“You’re joking.”

“I wish I was.”

“You’re scared of ketchup?”

“I’m not scared. I just don’t trust it.”

I stared at him, absolutely losing it.

“You trust me but not ketchup?”

He wiped his hands like the burger betrayed him.

“You don’t know what it is. It’s red, it’s weird, it ruins everything.”

I was laughing so hard I nearly choked on my milkshake. He didn’t even smile, which made it funnier.

“I can’t believe I like you,” I said through the laughter.

He looked over at me, soft.

“You do?”

The question came out quiet.

And I felt myself freeze, just for a second, because I hadn’t meant to say it like that. But now it was out there, floating between us with the steam from our food and the night air pressing in close.

I looked at him and nodded, slowly.

“Yeah,” I said. “I think I do.”

Matt didn’t say anything right away.

He just reached over and stole a fry, smirking like it was enough of an answer.

And somehow, it was.

MATT:

I’m not the type to talk to people.

Not really.

Nick does the whole social thing, the constant energy, the introductions, the noise. Chris is worse. Life of the party. Talks to strangers like he’s known them forever. I’ve always kind of… hovered on the edge of that. Kept to myself. Watched more than I joined in.

But her?

I couldn’t stop watching her.

The first night I saw her, she was standing near the balcony with Nick. Laughing at something he said. She had this look like she didn’t quite belong at the party but wasn’t trying to leave either. Calm. Different. Not trying too hard. Just there.

And when she came up to me outside, asked if it was my kind of party, I didn’t know what to say at first. I don’t usually get approached. Definitely not by girls like her.

Girls like her are supposed to talk to guys like Chris not me.

But she stayed.

And talked.

And smiled when I made one dumb comment about L.A. being hell.

And asked for my number like she’d already decided she wanted it.

I should’ve played it cool.

But the second she walked away with my hoodie on?

Yeah. I was gone.

Now we text every day. Every night.

And it’s not just casual.

It’s… easy. Addicting.

She sends me voice notes when she’s walking home from work, tells me about the customers who annoyed her, the way the sky looked at sunset, what song was playing in the car. I listen to every word. Twice.

I wait for her texts now.

Pretend I don’t.

I’ll be sitting with Nick and Chris, phone face down, pretending not to check it every five minutes. And then it’ll light up with her name, and I swear my stomach flips like I’m in high school again.

Last week she sent me a playlist titled “songs that make me feel like I know you already” and I had to walk out of the room for a second.

No one’s ever made me feel like this, not in a long time, maybe not ever.

It scares the hell out of me.

But I don’t want to stop.

Tonight I took her to In-N-Out.

Dumb idea, maybe, but she hadn’t had it in forever and I wanted an excuse to see her again without making it obvious I couldn’t go a day without her voice.

She sat in my passenger seat like she belonged there.

She caught me wiping ketchup off my burger and acted like I’d just confessed to murder.

“You’re scared of ketchup?” she laughed.

I tried to explain it. She wasn’t buying it. I didn’t care.

She was laughing so hard she couldn’t breathe and God,

I’d say the dumbest things in the world just to hear her laugh like that again.

Then she said it.

“I can’t believe I like you.”

Just like that. Like it didn’t matter. Like it wasn’t the thing I’ve been dying to hear but was too scared to hope for.

“You do?” I asked. Quiet. Careful.

She nodded.

“Yeah. I think I do.”

And I didn’t know what to say.

I never do with stuff like that.

So I stole a fry.

Smirked.

I wanted to say: me too.

I wanted to say: I think about you more than I should.

I wanted to say: please don’t go anywhere.

But instead I just let the moment live.

Because somehow, I think she already knew.

I hope you guys enjoy this mini series.

𝘁𝗮𝗴𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁ੈ❀

@izzylovesmatt @riggysworld @amiraisafreakokaysorry @ansteeze @pair-of-pantaloons @kitty-meow-meow44 @sturnslux3

@kalel2005 @sarahsturnn

@teheabrams @prettypriscilla

@my-world-is-poetry @sturniszn

@slutforchrissturniolo2

@alinagrace11 @beardedbernard

@matthewswifeyy @blindedheartp

@chrissfavoritecherry

@jaybirdie34

@courta13 @chriss-slutt

@chrissturniolobendmeovernow

@norahsturns. @chrattstromboli

@iluvchr1s @japblogs @akalizzygrantxo @sturniolobananas1 @franficc

#sturniolo x reader #sturniolo smut #nick sturniolo #christoper sturniolo #christopher sturniolo #sturniolo triplets #matt sturniolo #sturniolotriplets #chris sturniolo #chris sturniolo fanfic #gigiiilsblog #matt stuniolo fanfic #matt x reader #matthew sturniolo #sturniolo #chratt

16 notes · View notes

lochallthedoors · 2 months ago

Text

Noel Versus the Council Skies Tracklist

Context: If you pick just one interview of Noel's to read/listen to from the Council Skies promo run, chances are that interview will feature Noel complaining that he fucked up the tracklist--that he now believes "Think of a Number" should have been first and "I'm Not Giving Up Tonight" should have gone last.

I find his obsession with the album's messaging kind of fascinating in the context of whatever led up to the Oasis reunion, so I thought I'd put together a masterlist of interview excerpts where he explains why he made the choice he did and why he wishes he could go back and get a do-over.

I have thoughts but they're very rambly so they're going in the tags. The focus should be on the transcripts here anyway.

NME Interview Posted 3 June 2023

Noel: "Think of a Number," yeah, it's got a Bowie feel to it. If I had my chance--if I had my time again, I would have had that as the opening track on the album. I've kind of--yeah, that's--that's--I mean, every album that I make, anyway, tends to be flawed in some way, and this is almost perfect, but that's the biggest flaw, is that the opening track, "I'm Not Giving Up Tonight," should be the closing track, and "Think of a Number" should be the opening track. But I didn't think "Think of a Number" was strong enough until it was too late. You know, and, uh, yeah--what a dick. But there you go--I'm allowed to be a dick when it's my own music, so. later in the interview Interviewer: I mean, you talked about how, uh, Council Skies was about you asking "how did we get here, and how did I get here?"--as in you, not me. I know how I got here. Um, did you find any answers? Noel: (pause) No, I think--I think the last line of, um, "Think of a Number," although--although it should be the first track on the album, I think the last line of it is perfect for an ending of an album, which is--is--it's like, "let's drink to the future / I hope it comes round again." Did I find any answers? No, but I will--no, I will find them, though.

Radio X Interview Posted 8 June 2023

On "I'm Not Giving Up Tonight" Noel: The biggest or the most interesting thing, or what I find interesting is I--this should be the closing track on the album because it ends with a lot of hope, you know I mean? "I'm not giving up tonight" and all that. And I, for some reason--the track that closes the album, we'll get to that obviously at the end, but, um, I didn't feel the track that closes the album was strong enough to open a record with. It's a big, epic kind of affair, and I thought that would be a bit obvious. And, uh, I thought "I'm Not Giving Up Tonight" would be a great way to ease into a new record. If I could go back now, I'd--I'd have it closing--closing the record, but it was too late to change my mind. But, um, I do like that song. It's, uh--it's, uh--yeah, it's got a great vibe that's slightly reminiscent of Buffalo Springfield, and, uh, Gem plays a great guitar part on it. And, uh, yeah, I mean, it's--I don't know. Kennedy: Yeah, yeah, no, it's interesting. I mean, it's got the strings on it, it's got the horns on it, and there's a little bit of the gospel choir, and-- Noel: Yeah-- Kennedy: Those are all elements that are through the record. Noel: But I guess the sentiment of it is a song of defiance, you know? "I'm not giving up tonight," and that, you know, obviously writing these things in--in lockdown there was a bit--there was a bit of that in--in a lot of the songs. But, yeah, it's a grand--it kind of sets it up perfectly because it's a--it's a grand kind of opening, but it's a bit laidback as well. On "Think of a Number" Noel: I love the song. Now--and it's me playing the guitar, so it's really epic, and, so, as mad as this sounds, I didn't think that song was strong enough to open a record with. I liked it, right? And I did, and--and something inside of me hung in there with it, and--I don't like closing records on a negative kind of, uh, almost, um, what's the word I'm looking for--uh, pessimistic kind of, um, feel to it. The last line is, you know, "let's drink to the future, I hope it comes around again"--that really should have been the opening track on the album and finished with "I'm Not Giving Up Tonight," you know? That would have been the journey through the lockdown and isolation and all that. But as that song went on, I was like, you know, just didn't feel it was strong enough. I thought it was just a bit standard High Flying Birds rock kind of tune. Obviously, when we finished--when I finished it and mastered it, the penny dropped one night at home, and I was like "Oh, God," you know. And then you do the frantic "Can we change it?" and it was like, "No, we pressed up now. What are you doing?" Um, so it really should have been the opening track, but I love the lyrics on it, and they paint a really pessimistic picture of the future, which is what I was feeling at the time. And, yeah, there's some great--the lyrics are really visual, and, um, yeah, it's--I mean, it's an epic rock tune, and it's--it's got the full production and, yeah, really great.

XS Manchester Drive Posted 9 June 2023

Note: For the clip of Clint calling out Noel's pause, see definitely-rubbish's post here

Noel: Let's do a track called "Think of a Number." Clint: "Think of a Number"--now, this is the--it's the actual last track on the album, innit? Not including the bonus track? Noel: Mm-hmm. Yeah. Clint: When I heard this--and I made some notes--some of the--"Let's drink to the future / I hope it all comes 'round again." It sounds like you reaching out to somebody. Noel: Well, uh-- [Long pause] Clint: That was a brilliant pause! Noel: I could never-- Clint: That pause was amazing. It's gonna sound great on the radio, that! Noel: I could never decide if that track should have been the opening track or the closing track. And if I had my time again, I'd have it as the opening track, because the track that is the opening track, "I'm Not Giving Up Tonight," would end the album on a real--"I'm not giving up tonight"--a kind of sense of hope. But with this song, right up until the death--I never thought it was strong enough to open a record. I thought people would go, "You know, okay, well, I was expecting that from him." And--yeah, I kind of bottled it a little bit and put it as the closing track, which ends on a really bleak note, you know? Uh, but there you go. You know, you live and learn.

SoCal Sound Interview Recorded June 9, 2023

Harcourt: The opening track is "I'm Not Giving Up Tonight," and, I mean, that's full-on. Noel: Mm-hmm. Harcourt: There's bells, there's whistles-- Noel: Oh, yeah. Harcourt: It's--it's the whole thing. Noel: Yeah. Harcourt: Uh, is that at the beginning of the album for a reason? I mean, it sort of seems to set an intention. Noel: Yeah, I should have actually had it as the closing track. I think--I think there would have been a--well, so, the--the closing track is a track called "Think of a Number," and, actually, the entire track listing was set in stone very, very early, apart from these two tracks, and I kept flipping them, just to listen to at home, and I kept flipping them, and I--ludicrously, I actually thought "Think of a Number" wasn't strong enough to open a record, and I thought people would be expecting a big, kind of--and, actually, in hindsight, I should have had that as the opening track, because it would have meant the album would end on a more positive note, whereas it ends on a bit of a bleak note. Harcourt: Mm. Noel: But that's the one change I would make. Um, but, no, it's ["I'm Not Giving Up Tonight"] not there for any specific reason other than I felt like, for this--you know, my albums always open up with something huge, and I thought for this one, maybe something a bit more understated, um. But it's a fucking great song. Harcourt: It is a great song. Noel: Yeah, it's a great song. Harcourt: Yeah. Noel: The way that it--the way that it came out sounding is amazing. Yeah.

#think of a number #i'm not giving up tonight #cs album #things #noel interview #noel versus the cs tracklist #2023 #nghfb #lyric analysis #i spend too much fucking time thinking about this #but if council skies is telling a story and if that story has anything to do with liam and an oasis reunion #then i feel like noel's raging internal debate about how he should begin and end the album #is kind of cool to look at #the tracklist we got and the one that apparently seduced noel into going with it means the album opens on a joyful note of defiance #an attention-grabbing message maybe to 'pretty boy' since that was always meant to follow the opener #in INGUT noel's saying he's ALREADY decided he's not giving up #and there's dancing and music and his assurance to someone that he'll be that person's port in the storm etc #like harcourt says it feels very intentional #and then the album ends on sober negotiation and uncertainty about the future--like ok now what? where do we go from here?#noel doesn't say in any of these interviews when he changed his mind--just that he did when it was already too late #but if the oasis reunion became a certainty around that same time then i think it's plausible that he started thinking about the narrative #and how much better it would have been to start the record on the sober negotiation and end with the joyful/defiant message #to make it so that council skies better reflects the journey to the reunion he was already living #also as an aside #noel did tell rolling stone in 2023 that think of a number as well as DTTW are the two songs on CS about his divorce #but i don't think that precludes the possibility that some part of think of a number is also directed at liam #as clint boon seemed to be hinting

32 notes · View notes

quaranmine · 8 months ago

Text

me: i'm super tired what if i go to bed early

my brain: what if you, after attempting to go to sleep, instead sit up in bed again, grab your laptop, and write 2000 words of jimmy having watcher religious trauma

#anyway #i havent even gotten to half the point of this fic yet #the idea is loosely:#1. evo is like a religious cult community for the watchers that jimmy was born into #2. jimmy has like. mega levels of being messed up about slowly loosing his faith/seeing through this #3. the listeners recruit jimmy as they did in evo to defy the watchers #4. the evolutionists (some; there's a lot of off screen ocs) follow the listeners and Get Out of Evo #5. jimmy sort of lives as a real world person. likes it. is still guilty over it.#6. the Games begin.#7. the general ummm. trauma #8. jimmy slips and prays to the watchers again. just anything to stop it <- we have now reached tiktok timeline #idk what happens next #i think martyn should catch him doing this in wild life and maybe call him on it #but i think it should be vague if jimmy's actually gone back or not #this is not a feel good story lmao and i can't say if i will actually finish it. (i have reached to bullet number 2 tonight)#also this whole thing is held together by vibes and prayers because i'm a little rusty on some of my lore knowledge #like i knew all this years ago but i havent exercised the traffic series watcher lore muscle for a hot second #and i dont really care about accuracy

25 notes · View notes

asriel20asi · 2 years ago

Text

Moondrop x Y/N

Drabble below~♡

Procrastinating all night, then looking at the clock reading 6:02 am in big blinking lights, "Whoops, Moon is going to have my head..." shrugging off the concern to grab a bite to eat in the kitchen. Pulls out the green bean casserole, puts some on a plate and mixes salsa verde in and proceeds to eat it cold. Procrastinates more by listening to music on spotify with headphones, listening to a couple of r/aita videos and just lurks around discord and tumblr. "I'm going to hate myself later..." walks back to my room and finds Moon tapping his foot with his arms crossed, a glare that makes one slink into themselves. "Moonie~♡" using the sweetest tone I can muster but a hand enters my view, "Nuh uh..." he stops me before I talk myself out of the situation. Proceeds to lift me as if I weigh nothing into his arms and cradles me close as he marches toward the bed. Climbs into the large nest of pillows, blankets and memory foam comfortably laying down on his back, so I lay atop his warm chest-plate. "Goodnight my Dove~♡"

#moondrop x reader #moondrop x y/n #dca x reader #dca x y/n #dca fandom #dca drabble #dca au #some of the things are what I did tonight and some just in the story for fun~♡#moon x reader #moon x y/n #moon x self insert #moondrop x self insert #dca x self insert

80 notes · View notes

kamisatoayato · 3 months ago

Text

adolin kholin the man that u are...

#finished reading wind and truth tonight #dare i say he had the best arc in this book ?#i have Thoughts.#i dont think this book was as bad as some people are making it out to be but it definitely wasnt sanderson's best #like i probably rank it above rhythm of war but below the first 3 books. which is a shame but w/e #i will say i still liked it and enjoyed it but i think the writing wasnt as good #esp in the beginning it was very like overt and hand holdy lol. which i think is a problem with sandersons writing #in other books but idk it just seemed a LOT here #wasnt a huge fan of the kal szeth story in the beginning but i think there was nice payoff #adolin best arc idc....loved his whole thing....#shallan was fine idk her whole thing w the ghostbloods is so whatever i wish she had actual cool stuff to do #im a shallan defender no matter what tho i love her but yeeesh.#jasnah...gurl whatever. the debate was really dumb. like i think that was so stupid #its hard to write smart characters ig</3 #and as for dalinar....okay. the whole contest thing pissed me AWF cuz wdym tOdium just snatched gav from navani #like that pissed me OFF. if it was when they got separated then fine i accept it #but being like teeheee actually i took him from u right when u got back to the physical realm. like bitch fuck off thats so stupid idc #i knew beforehand that gav was gonna be tOdium champion but in my head it was like ... baby gav LMFAOOOO im like well yeah #no way dalinar is gonna kill baby gav. fsdjhk #well he didnt kill adult gav either.#i guess i liked that this set up books 6-10 pretty well. i like the idea of forcing everyone to have to deal w retribution now #instead of ignoring it and putting it off for generations and generations #ALSOO since i read sunlit man i was kinda like omggg what the fuck did sigzil do. and it was sorta meh.#but the fact that szeths spren was auxiliary.... AUXILIARYYYYYYYYY</3 #i got sad all over again. FUCK OFFFFFFFFFFFF #also wait wit getting vaporized by retribution was tew good he deserved it a teeny bit.#anyways ummmmmmmmmmmm just dumping my thoughts here. wait i should tag spoilers #wind and truth spoilers #stormlight archive spoilers #wat spoilers

15 notes · View notes

haifischkivenchy · 9 months ago

Text

hate when like some of the best stories ever told is in a robot franchise bc nobody will ever take them seriously

#i talk abt them to other people and they just think tf is a kid's interest!!!!#WHAT #the average 10 year old cannot comprehend whatever the fuck is going on in any of the comic continuity #and transformers one trailers did not do it justice :(((( i know it's supposed to appeal to kids but FUCK WHAT????#nobody ever fucking told me it was gonna be a highly progressive film #like yeah #tf will inevitably be for kids #but it's a franchise w loads of other stories that would appeal to adults too you dipshit #and the QUOTES?#im gonna get some of them wrong hold on but #“i have nothing but contempt for this court”#“I've heard it said that we gain wisdom through suffering- and tonight I intend to make you very wise.”#LIKE WHAT #“i have better things to do tonight than die.”#so many others from mtmte too #“you may not be good but you're sure as hell good enough”#FUCK #anyways #im normal about the transing formers franchise #roi rants

7 notes · View notes

deus-ex-mona · 7 months ago

Text

✨noping out✨ of an awkward situation li k e

#(nansu’s mona interview was too cute so i *need* to laugh at lxl to end the night normally im not sorry—)#tonight’s dance is fiancé!!!!!!!!! the camera angles are a thing of beauty in this one y’all h a v e to watch it if you can #ok that’s enough of lxl i can see the gif past the tags anyway so. well~~~~~~~#anyways!!!! the mona interview!!!! the tl;dr of it is basically just nansu talking about mona’s 2nd album + the concert #and how the concert came about (long story short: she said ‘i wanna perform live as mona!’ to the staff in passing and her wish was granted)#***if i didnt read it wrong that is… um. proper tl this weekend if i have the energy i promise~~~~~#yk what since it’s just 2 pages in total i might as well tl the entire thing. it’s not as wordy as some of the past lxl + ft4 interviews so.#since her concert’s on saturday too… aaaaaaaa i wanna go~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~#mona live >>>>>>> lxl live you agree y/y—#only reason to look forward to lxl’s live is for the lxltwt fanartists’ drawings of the performance btw #bc m a n. they actually manage to make the dances seem decent (if only in the form of exquisite drawings)#the spell of the fanartists is lifted the moment the actual lxl dances break free from containment though lmao #i still recall having high expectations of tsuki no hime’s dance thanks to the fanart… then i saw *it*.#b u t since mona’s live will have songs from both albums im expecting lxl’s live to be the same in that regard #at the very least last stage and oshimahou should get dances… i think #i hope they actually do the heart poses in oshimahou though bc that’d be hilariously cringe (and suki.kirai already did it better no cap)#o k that’s enough lxl for one night gnnnnnnnn~~~~ see y’all tomorrow afternoon for a possible mona concert twt!!!!

4 notes · View notes

toonbly · 2 years ago

Text

honestly i have a really have a hard time looking at my old vrai stuff. but going through old stuff for grtv fills me with absolute delight, its been so long but i still hold so much love for this story and the people who followed it

#IM GETTING CORNY ON MAIN TONIGHT BOYS!!!#like i know im tooting my own horn here but like. i still really love grtv. i really do #flipping through it you can Really see the groundwork being laid for tip the ferrymen #and idk. maybe not everyone was totally in character and theres some writing thats a little much here and there #but theres a lot of love there. theres a Lot of love and thats what its all about. it came from me and it came from those of you who were #there for it. and from those of you who saw it after it was done. and i love you for that as much as i can love a stranger yknow?#looking through old work can be really embarrassing and kinda hard if it happened during like. a hard time in your life #which in this case it did. same with cascade crowns. so it was hard to look at for awhile for a Lot of reasons #but im glad that i can now. im glad i made these stories and im glad i shared them with you guys #im just overcome with so much fucking Love for art and storytelling and the way we do these things together every time i look back on it #the way we create things and how it evolves over time. how the seeds of our future creative endeavors are sewn into every little drawing #or bit of writing that we do or whatever your medium is. its delightful. it really is #idk. its 1am and im feeling sentimental. i love you guys. thank you for being here. thank you for letting me share my funny stories

16 notes · View notes

chelliebelle · 5 months ago

Text

I DON'T SEE A RING ON YOUR FINGER | n. kento

꩜ SUMMARY . . having just finalized his divorce, a bitter kento tries to find the end to his sorrows in the bottom of a liquor bottle. but when a pretty young thing comes fluttering by his side, he decides there's no better time to get laid than now. ꩜ WORD COUNT . . 4.9k words of flith <333 ꩜ CONTAINS . . smut, divorcee!kento, reader is described as slutty, age gap (reader is in her early twenties and kento is in his late thirties), sexual frustration, oral (f receiving), overstimulation, pussy slapping, spanking, rough sex, biting, spitting, they're kind of drunk, choking, bruising, pussy drunk!kento ꩜ AUTHOR'S NOTE . . kento's balls practically shriveled during his sexless marriage so best believe he's gonna enjoy himself!!

Nanami Kento had it all.

A two-story house in the suburbs, a high-paying job, a beautiful wife—he had the perfect life. And damn did he hate every second of it. He hated waking up in that house to greet his nosy neighbors, hated driving to his soul sucking office job, and especially hated going home to his wife every night. She’d leave him leftovers in the fridge and kiss him goodnight before bed, and Kento would stay up every night wondering how to escape this limbo.

Tonight was the first time he felt free in years. Sitting at some shitty bar he can't remember the name of, he absentmindedly fiddled with his wedding band. Months ago, this little piece of metal meant everything. A loving marriage. A promise of a future. A sign of success. Now? It's just a worn-out ring that he can't throw out.

Kento sighed, setting it down on the table in favor of a glass of whiskey, letting it burn down his throat as he took a sip. He was never a drinker, but maybe it was something he repressed over the years. What else had he missed out on while trying to play Mr. Perfect?

Right, sex.

Kento was so obsessed with a picture perfect life that he even married someone he barely knew. She was pretty and nice enough—boring as fuck now that he thought about it—but that was enough for him to get down on one knee and take her down the aisle. What he didn't take into account was his own needs. All a man needed after a long day of work was some pussy, and he was no different. Mrs. Nanami was beautiful, sure, but one hell of a prude. If he was lucky, he got laid about once a month. Even then, she'd just lay stiff on the bed while he fucked her. If Kento didn't see the rise and fall of her chest, he'd assume he was sleeping with a corpse.

This meant that every night after his wife fell asleep, he'd go to his study to jack off to porn on his computer. It was enough for him to go to bed without a raging hard-on, but only having his hand to rub his cock raw all the time took a toll on him. Kento stopped initiating anything with Mrs. Nanami, opting to go straight online whenever he felt his dick twitch. For years, he lived like this.

Wake up, go to work, get home, say goodnight to wife, jack off.

Until a few months ago when his wife said she wanted a divorce. She must've been expecting him to start a fight, because her face fell when Kento nodded without a second thought. It was a long time coming. Sure, he believed he should've been the one to divorce her, but at least he was gonna be free. The days after she moved out was the happiest he had ever been. Waking up in an empty bed and coming home to an even colder bed filled him with a sense of contentment he thought he'd never feel again.

Cheers to being single, he thought to himself as he ordered another drink. As he waited, he couldn't help but sigh. The ink on his divorce papers hadn't even dried yet and he was already thinking of getting his dick wet. Kento hadn't had good pussy since he was twenty. The thought of cheating never even passed his mind during his marriage, opting the company of his own right hand over breaking the promise he made to his wife. Ex-wife.

He brought the rim of the glass to his lips, eager to drink himself to sleep, until the scraping of a barstool broke his concentration. "Drinking alone, handsome?"

The voice was soft and feminine, making him turn his head in curiosity. It came from a young girl, probably still in college but wearing a tight dress that looked like it came off a stripper. Kento wasn't a boomer by any means, but he still found himself disapproving how there was more skin than fabric on her body.

Kids these days.

Retrieving his gaze, he let out a quiet hmm before turning back to his drink. That didn't deter you, a girlish giggle leaving your lips as you leaned towards him.

"Seriously, there's no way you're here alone. Is this a set up? Where are the hidden cameras?"

College kids were so weird these days. With a scrunch between his brows, he shakes his head as he lets out a low rumble that makes your stomach twist. "Sorry to disappoint, kid. It's just me, no hidden cameras."

When he turns his head to face you, he's surprised at how close you were to him. Kento could smell the vodka shots off your breath. It reminded him of when he was as young as you were, getting drunk off cheap liquor. A soft pink dusted your cheeks, along with a tipsy smile that made his chest warm for some reason. You seemed to catch him staring, reaching out to rest your hand on his bicep.

"You look like...really put together. Like you do your taxes and sleep early or something."

The choked cough he lets out when you touch him makes the whiskey burn up his nose, hand coming up to cover half his face. Just a friendly gesture from a girl made him act like this? Get it together, Kento. Scoffing, he shrugged off your hand as he looked away. You pout as he does so and the sight fills him with regret immediately. Before he can apologize, you knock your head against his shoulder, nuzzling against him like a spoiled kitten. Guilt pools in the pit of Kento's stomach when his cock twitches in his slacks. Not now!

"Do you have a name, handsome mystery man?" you mumble against his shirt, the action making his loins burn. He seriously considers pushing you away but decides you're probably too drunk to function right now. After a few beats pass, he reluctantly grumbles a "Kento" in response. You're quiet save for a soft hum and Kento is left hating himself for getting hard at how clingy you're being.

Poor girl, you're clinging to someone who you think looks dependable in this shady ass bar. Or at least that's what he thinks until you grab his wrist and bring it up to your face. For a moment, he assumes you're trying to get a look at the Rolex around his wrist, the sleek gold glinting in the air. He has to repress a sigh—until he realizes your attention is actually on his hands. Kento's fingers are lengthy from years of typing at his desk everyday, the digits at least twice as thick as yours. Pretty veins run along his knuckles and up his forearms, disappearing under the fabric of his rolled sleeves. You can't help but sigh, eyes flickering up to his with admiration.

"Your hands are like, really...big."

He immediately pulls his hand away with a bewildered look, clicking his tongue as he adjusted the watch around his wrist, ignoring the whine you let out.

"What does that even mean?" he huffs, his fingers twitching at the traces of heat from your delicate hand grabbing his. You giggle at his reaction, slumping against him until your chest presses against his arm.

"I wonder what you can do with them, m'sure you'd know how to use them good."

Oh. Oh. When his gaze connects with your breasts that are almost spilling out the top of your dress and the sultry look in your eyes, only then does he realize that he's being hit on.

"Look, kid. I'm m—" he catches himself before he finishes his sentence. Fuck, was he going to say he was married? The wedding band in his other hand suddenly felt much heavier and he quickly shoves it in his pocket.

"...much older than you, I'm almost twice your age."

Another mellifluous giggle leaves your lips and Kento has to hold himself back from shutting you up so that blood stops rushing to his dick.

"I think you're flirting with me," you tease, rubbing your chest against his arm. If he focuses, he swears he can feel your hardened buds brushing against him through your dress. Not even wearing a bra, you're begging to be fucked. The thought of being the one to take you home tonight passes his mind but he shoves it away. You're drunk and almost half his age, it'd be wrong. All rational thought comes flying out the window when your hot breath fans against his ear.

"But, I also think you're really hot, Kento. So maybe we can..."

Your words fall on deaf ears as his eyes flutter shut and his head tilts back. Kento was never a religious man, but in this moment he prayed to the gods above for clarity. You were offering yourself up to him like a hog on a silver platter, tied up with an apple in your mouth for him to devour. He couldn't help but imagine your glassy eyes rolling into the back of your head, your sweet lips hanging open when he drives his cock deep into your tight and wet cunt—

Fuck it.

Will he ever get another chance to bring a pretty young thing like you home? The thought is what drives him as he grabs your wrist to drag you out the bar and into his car.

When you approached the hot stranger earlier, you sure didn't expect that it'd end with you moaning with his hand between your legs.

Drunk out of your mind, your gaze had fell onto the brooding man at the bar, eyeing his rippling muscles under his crisp blue shirt. Now that was a back you'd love to scratch up. It didn't take long for you to stumble on your too-high heels towards the blonde man. You were never this forward but something about him had you squeezing your thighs together. Maybe it was the silent classiness that screamed luxury, the heat in his eyes that burned every time his gaze lingered on you—or maybe it was how he practically flung you over his shoulder and ran all the red lights to take you home.

But never in a million years had you expected that man to be this nasty.

His lips tasted like heavy liquor, tongue sloppily tangling with yours as he slammed you against the door, one hand coming up to cup your jaw. You were used to bad french kisses from frat boys, all teeth and smelly breath, but the way Kento was devouring you made you lightheaded.

"What a dirty mouth, wonder if you pussy's even wetter."

He pushed your legs apart with his foot and let his hand wander up your inner thigh. You gasp when he finds your mound, panties thoroughly soaked. The scoff that leaves his lips makes your cheeks flush. He cooes as he drag a thick digit along the clothed slit of your cunt, swallowing up your weak moans with his mouth.

"I don't even need to prep you," he chuckles, shaking his head as his thumb prods at your bud hidden beneath your folds.

"You have such a smart cunt, s' already drooling for me."

Kento pulls his hand from between your legs and grabs the back of your thighs, wrapping your legs around his waist. Head still spinning from the alcohol, you lose your balance, but the death grip he has keeps you upright as he carries you to his bedroom.

It's scantily decorated and you note that the bed it a bit too big for someone living alone, but you forget all about it when your back hits the plush mattress.

His eyes are wide as if he's trying to commit the sight of you to memory, every exposed sliver of skin and plush flesh permanently burned into his mind. Before you know it, Kento's hands are everywhere—gripping your waist, squeezing your thighs, yanking your dress up like he's unwrapping the first real gift he's ever had. Your slutty dress is long forgotten on his bedroom floor, and fuck, he's hard. Painfully so.

How can't he be when your sweet body is all on display for him?

Kento can't find it in him to give a damn about some dress when all he can see are your perky tits, so soft and malleable. He doesn't spare a moment to admire the view, slapping your breasts till they jiggled deliciously. Before you can whine about how mean he's being, he attacks your tender chest, lips wrapping around the mounds of flesh. It catches you off-guard and you tug at his hair, but he only bites down around your nipple, flicking his tongue over the hardened bud.

"Don't."

His voice is a low growl you never heard before, and damn if it didn't make your clit throb with need. Right on cue, he pries your legs apart and gets on his knees between them, mouth never leaving your breast. The way his hips grind against you is vicious, as if he's been waiting years for this. Which, in a way, he has. Kento has spent too many nights in his cold bed, jerking off to the thought of someone warm beneath him. Now that he has it? Best believe he's not letting you go tonight.

Your heat seeps through the fabric of your underwear and he can tell that you're making a mess all over the front of his slacks, his bulge covered in your slick. Clicking his tongue, he pushes your knees against your chest to come face-to-face with your clothed core. His thumb tugs at the lace of your panties, lifting your hips to slide it over your ass and letting the flimsy fabric dangle on your ankle.

He intended to teach you a lesson, but his brain short-circuits when he sees your weeping cunt. Your chubby lips were glistening with slick from his teasing, that pretty clit hidden under your swollen folds. Kento hasn't had a taste of pussy in years, so he can't resist leaning forward to roll his tongue against your slit.

Immediately he's gone.

He laps at you like a man starved, locking his arms around your thighs to keep you spread open for him. Mrs. Nanami was never this wet for him and it had messed with his confidence for a while, but your sweetness was all it took to bring him back. His cock twitches at the sight of you writhing under him, the front of his slacks now completely stained with precum. Kento nearly forgot to breathe with how absorbed he was in your pussy.

“You're like a piece of candy,” he mouths against your sensitive cunt, pushing the tip of his tongue into your warm entrance. “So sweet, can eat you up all night.”

Your thighs tremble and clamp around his head, the action only pushing him closer against your waiting heat, nose bumping against your clit. Kento moaned as he flattened his warm tongue against you, making out with your cunt with more fervor than when he had kissed you. Eyes rolling into the back of his head, Kento completely forgets about his aching hard-on, hips instinctively rutting against the mattress with every swipe of his tongue. Your lips were so puffy that he couldn't resist biting down, latching his lips onto your neglected bud and sucking hard.

You almost cry out at the sensation, reaching your hand down to pull at his hair as you thrash under him, feeling your thighs quiver. "S'too much! Gonna make me come—"

SMACK.

His palm had landed flat on your cunt.

"None of that. You wanted my attention, now take it."

The mean rumble of his voice along with the harsh slap against your sensitive heat sent you over the edge, coming onto Kento's face as your back arched off the bed. He was more than eager, lips hanging open as he swallowed up every drop of your sweetness.

Like heaven on his tongue.

Your taste was addictive, making him groan with every bob of his Adam's apple. Kento slurps up all the wetness he can get, chin glistening with your essence once he pulls away. The sudden orgasm had you panting, only coming back to your senses when you heard the sound of a belt buckle hitting the floor, lifting your head up at the exact moment Kento tugged his ruined boxers down.

His heavy cock slapped against his sweaty washboard abs, leaking onto his abdomen. You had seen enough subpar dicks in your life to know that he was big, the idea of it stretching you open making your pussy drool. Pretty veins ran along the base, leading up to his thick tip that was already dribbling pearls. It was an angry red, sensitive from rubbing against the fabric of his slacks. You could've sworn his cock twitched when his eyes locked with yours.

He reluctantly rolls on a condom, mumbling something under his breath as he strains against the pink rubber. Should just fuck this pussy raw. Luckily, he still had enough common sense to stop him from begging you to let him go in without protection. Kento grabs your thighs, hefty length dragging down your slit as he positioned himself between your legs. With his cock resting on your mound, you can tell he's gonna be so deep in your tummy that you'll feel him tomorrow.

“I'll make sure of it, pretty girl,” he chuckles, slapping his member against your puffy clit.

Did you actually say that out loud—?

Your cheeks puffed up at his words, an embarassed flush on your face at your little slip-up. He's so heavy between your legs that you wonder how he'll even fit. Kento's hand reaches to pull you flush against him by the ankle, propping your leg up his shoulder, groaning as his cock dragged between your lips.

"You're so wet," he muses, pumping himself lazily before he lined himself up your entrance. "Bet you're gonna take me like a good girl, hmm?"

You gasp when he pushes his flushed cockhead between your swollen folds, struggling past tight rings of muscle. So tight. Fuck, he should've known—you were just a little brat who thought she could handle him. He hisses as your walls clamp down around his tip, nails digging into your hips as he tries to catch his breath.

"Loosen up, sweetheart. You're gonna snap off my dick."

Kento stayed like that, tip twitching inside your warm pussy, before he pushes forward once more. He's bigger than any cock you've taken before. Unprepared for the stretch, your brows knit together when he bullies his way into your cunt. He barely makes it a few inches in before your eyes start to water. Your insides were being stuffed to the brim. You take a deep breath, weakly shaking your head as your thighs tremble.

"K-Kento, please—" Please?

You didn't even know what you were begging for, did you? How cute. With a sigh, he pulls out from the comfort of your pussy. You let out a sigh of relief, before a warm liquid hit your bare lips. With the viscosity dribbling between your folds, you realized that was Kento's spit. Your gaze flickered up towards him but he focused on other things—like the way your clit twitched when his saliva hit the neglected bud. Eyes dark and brows knitted, he reached down to thumb at your sensitive nub, a choked moan leaving your lips.

"Ease up, that's right," he praised, using the wetness to roll his hips forward.

Your walls fluttered around him, your moans egging him on as he continued to feed you more of his monster cock. Kento never needed this amount of prep with Mrs. Nanami, considering she always seemed so...bored. He was even beginning to think he was bad at sex! But the way your eyes rolled into the back of your head told him all he needed to know. A low groan rumbled in his chest when he finally bottomed out, his tip kissing your cervix. After so long with only his hand as company, he worried he'd come the second he was inside you. The way you were squeezing his dick didn't help either. Kento swallowed hard, trying to take deep breaths as he let you adjust to his size.

"How are you so tight?"

When his panting reached your ears, you let out a slurred mumble, eyes unfocused as you tried to look up. He leaned down, forehead resting against yours to regain his composure. Body covering yours, he only buried himself deeper all the way to the hilt. It was like your mind went blank.

"Ngh—you're just too big!" you managed to shout, eyes glassy from how he kept nudging against your womb.

That was all it took for Kento to lose his mind.

Locking an arm around your leg, he fucked into you, heavy balls slapping against your ass as his hips snapped forward. His pace was merciless, knocking the breath out of your lungs with every mean thrust.

"Yeah? How deep am I?" he growled, his grip on your waist bruising.

All the way in my tummy, you try to say, but you were too fucked out to answer. Just a few thrusts had you dumb on his cock, glossy lips hanging open weakly. The sight makes Kento chuckle, holding onto your thighs as his skin smacked against yours.

It had been years since he had been in a pussy this wet and eager for him. He was in love with your cunt. The slickness as he slid past your folds, the way your walls tried to milk him—but the cock drunk look in your eyes was the cherry on top. Kento turns his head to the side, pressing kisses onto your calf as he fucked you.

Come back, pretty girl.

When he notices your lack of response, he sinks his teeth into the soft flesh, emphasized with a harsh thrust that made you scream. "Kento, slow down," you cry out, heat churning in your belly from the cruel pistoning of his hips.

He only chuckles, shaking his head before he sped up his pace. The shocked look in your eyes made him reach down to rub tight circles on your clit for relief. Loud squelches and the slapping of skin-on-skin filled the air, the room reeking of sweat and sex. Kento's eyes locked on the way your ass bounced back against his pelvis with every thrust, cock twitching as he thought of taking you from behind. He continued to jackhammer into you, strings of profanities leaving his lips. You had no idea what you were getting yourself into. As you mumbled incoherently on the verge of tears, a hand wrapped around your throat.

"Shh. Your sweet pussy's talkin' to me," he tuts, squeezing your throat to shut you up.

His hand completely engulfed your neck, rough palm pressed tightly against your pulse. Gasping for breath, you could feel your head spin from the lack of air. You rake your nails along his back, digging crescents into his skin to try and make him let go. Kento hissed at the sensation, cockhead slamming hard against your g-spot. It was too much—the delicious stretch of his cock, the way his tip kissed your gummy insides with every thrust, his hand around your throat—the knot in your stomach snapped. Even when you tried to push the heat down, your climax ripped through you like white lightning.

Your back arched off the bed, cursing out Kento's name as your orgasm shook through your body. The man nearly collapsed on top of you, a sharp groan leaving his lips as your walls clamped down and milked his cock so suddenly. His grip on your throat loosens and you thrash under him.

You might die from how good he's dicking you down.

Rolling onto your stomach, you stumble as you get on your hands and knees to try and crawl off the bed. A pair of rough hands grab onto your waist, followed by heavy panting that makes your blood run cold.

"Where the fuck do you think you're going?" Kento spits, dragging you back against him.

He'd be damned if he let the first good pussy he's had in years get away. Even when you try to thrash and break free, your body is too weak from coming so hard! His palm lands a harsh smack against your ass, your arms collapsing under your body as you cried out. Kento pushed your head down into the pillows, propping you up by the back of your knees. Face down, ass up. The sight of you so vulnerable with your glistening pussy on display made him lick his lips, quickly positioning himself behind you.

"Naughty girl, trying to run away from me," he tuts, swiping his tip up and down your creamy folds.

As punishment, he reached down to pinch your clit, earning a choked sob from you. He rolled the bud between his fingers, resting his free hand on the plush of your ass. Cock throbbing for release, he buried himself to the hilt in one thrust, setting up a mean pace immediately.

Yep, might die from this dick.

Every slam of his hips against yours had you sobbing into the pillows, the fabric damp with your salty tears. Your body was still reeling from your multiple orgasms, cunt fluttering around him. Even if it was too much, Kento was fucking you so good your insides had molded to every ridge and vein of his cock. Your tits jiggled with every thrust and he wasted no time in grabbing your hefty breasts, playing with your soft nipples. He buried his head in the tender area where your neck and shoulders connected, groaning against you.

Kento was getting close, you could tell from how frantically he rutted into you. His cock throbbed inside you, pulsing against your gummy walls. You couldn't resist the urge to push your ass back into him, making his dick hit even deeper inside you. You were half sure he was bulging through your tummy at this point. The action made him suck in shallow breaths through his teeth, keeping a death grip on your ass as he bulllied your cunt.

"Fuuuck, I'm gonna come," he groans into your shoulder.

His face scrunched up in pleasure, panting heavily into your skin as he buried his cock deeper and deeper. Seeing such a composed man this broken made your cheeks flush. Your walls were heavenly, every clench pushing him closer to the edge.

Screw his hand. Coming from your pussy squeezing him was better that jacking off to any porno he could watch online.

With a strangled moan, Kento shot thick spurts of cum into the condom, as if he hadn't finished in years. He collapsed on top of you, the orgasm rendering him unable to even hold himself up anymore. It was like losing his virginity all over again. You whine as the rubber began to fill up with his load, heavy in your pussy. After a few moments to catch your breath, you tried to push yourself off him, worried he'd spill into you.

"We should probably take that off—"

Kento shut you up immediately, grabbing your waist to drag your hips back on top of him. Now straddling his lap, his still hard cock prodded new places you had never even touched before, a pathetic moan leaving your lips. His blonde hair was messy and dripping with sweat, eyes glazed over as his cheeks flushed. You felt him twitch inside you when he met your gaze, the same fucked-out look in both your eyes. He definitely wasn't done with you yet.

"It's only midnight, sweetheart."

You'd be lucky to come out of here alive.

You spent the rest of the night going several rounds, trying every position possible before collapsing from exhaustion. What's for sure—sex would never be the same ever again. How could you go back to one night stands with shitty frat bros when an older man just gave you the dicking down of your life?

The next morning, you roll on your side to see Kento sitting at the edge of the bed. His bare back was wrecked, littered with vicious nail marks and lipstick stains. You chew on your bottom lip, pulling the duvet over your chest.

"Are we gonna see each other again?" you croak, voice hoarse from last night.

The muscles in his back tensed at your words. Kento didn't want to see the hickeys and bruises on your skin, undeniable marks of the years of frustration he took out on you. He actually slept with a girl almost half his age right after getting divorced.

Talk about issues.

Though his stomach churned with guilt, the memories of last night flashed through his mind. How eager you were for him, your sopping cunt, your sweet whines. He was even starting to imagine what it'd be like to sink into you raw.

He couldn't deny how addicted he was to your body. Doing this once was one thing, but agreeing to meet you again? Kento let out a deep sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. After a few moments, he spoke up.

"Let me check my schedule, pretty girl."

TAGS: @lucakaneshiroswife @susanhill @hana-patata @kenzieluvsnanami @luvingmyships @sutaagaaru @secretfoxmaker @savannaounana @ilyjupit3r @h4n1vs @supernatrualqueen @mayhaps-nerd @1ennj4 @jiwooahae @gojomaki @raenfall562 @l0v3rgirl-owo @levisjinchuriki @yourgirljasmine5 @nanamiscsleeve @boyimjustaloserforyourlove @jjkmenluver @vmpireslut @namorafushiguro @cindyneko-strider @zeunys @t4matar @c0ckdrunkk @mortallyshadysoul @red-writes @fferairy @vipblinkagase1111 @evieloves @jdopeisdope @cherryreads-blog @itsinherited @sparklyhologramstarfish @hannahhmelv @umiwu @sugurusjaz @miguelsonlywife @lyraa06 @illumissei @aneternallyexhaustedpigeon @celestialhvns @nanamisd0ll @blushedcheri @grr457 @yogichi @kaislashes @briefrebelfanalmond @fictionalytmenhavemyheart @kekeanna266 @airandyeah @hollowwolf22 @ssstingrayyyyyyyy

#chelle's fics #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk #jjk smut #nanami smut #nanami kento #kento nanami #kento smut #nanami kento smut #nanami x reader #jjk nanami #jujutsu nanami #jjk x reader

22K notes · View notes

dollgxtz · 9 days ago

Text

At Your Service

⟡ Word Count: 12k

⟡ Tags: boss!Sylus x housekeeper!reader, fem reader, corruption kink, dubcon, oral sex (cunnilingus), stalking, tw for attempted rape and murder, death, blood warning, sylus is lowkey a perv :3, coercion, possessiveness, manipulation, unbalanced power dynamics

⟡ Summary: You beg Sylus for a job as his housekeeper after he saves you from a violent run-in on the streets of the N109 Zone. What other choice did you have? It was supposed to be simple...clean up, stay quiet, don’t make a fuss. But nothing about Sylus is simple. And his reasons for hiring you go far beyond dust and dishes...

"I knew it was a mistake coming in here," he mutters, his voice taut, eyes unblinking. "Now I have to ask. How much?" Your brows furrow, confusion flickering in your expression. "F-for...?" "A taste," he says flatly. The word lands like a spark in dry brush—no hesitation, no shame, only a simmering edge of something dark and consuming. You freeze in place. The air feels electric, like it's grown too thick to breathe. "Do...you mean—" "Yes." His voice was low, but certain, as if the question itself had been gnawing at him long before you asked it aloud. "To taste you."

Before you can even find your voice, Sylus reaches into the inner pocket of his coat and pulls out an envelope—thick, clean, heavy—and tosses it onto your nightstand with a quiet but deafening thud. Cash. Stacked high, crisp, bound with a strip of paper.

⟡ AN: Hiii guys. This fic idea came to me in a dream haha. So happy to finally get to share with you guys! Lowkey I had an entire plot planned for this but then realized I was writing too much again oops. SO if this is liked enough I'll write a part 2!! I just love building tension its so fun (づ> v <)づ♡

Enjoy!!

@dummiebunny @hyphensei @your-macabre-bestie @seppys-return-to-madness @crazyrichdaughter @deepspace-fishie @altarofsalem @spencermasson @strawberrysweeti

"Hey pretty gal, where ya goin'?" the snarly voice says, peering down at you with an eerie grin. You blink up, dazed, still catching your breath, but you can make out a fatter man looming over you. His smile is crooked, teeth yellowed, and his eyes flick with amusement at your fear. He takes a step closer, his heavy boots thudding against the pavement, and you can smell the stale liquor on his breath even from where you’re sitting. Your pulse quickens.

"Yeah, you stopped before, what's the rush now?" another voice chimes in from behind, smoother but no less unsettling.

You whip your head around, stomach turning, and see a skinnier man approaching. This one looks slightly more put together, like he just got back from the office—suit and tie still clinging to him despite the grime on his cuffs and collar. His slicked-back hair is damp with sweat, his hands stuffed casually into his pockets like this is routine. But the look in his eyes tells a different story. There’s that same predatory glint, the kind of look that makes your skin crawl.

The fat one chuckles low, a sound that vibrates in his chest and makes your stomach knot. "Didn't mean to scare ya, sweetheart. We just wanna talk, yeah?"

You scramble to push yourself backward, heels scraping against the concrete, but there’s nowhere to go. You're boxed in. Your breath is shallow, chest rising and falling too fast as your thoughts race, searching for an escape, a weapon, anything.

The skinny one crouches slightly, trying to meet your eyes. "You don’t have to run. We noticed you earlier...figured you might like some company. You looked lonely."

Your mouth is dry, panic sticking your tongue to the roof. You shake your head slightly, hoping they’ll take the hint and back off. They don’t.

Not even close.

Wasn't your first run-in with creeps from the N109 Zone. Hopefully this would be your last...and not in the demise kind of way. You’d seen enough horror stories unfold around here to know how fast things could go south. But tonight, it felt like your number had finally come up.

"I have an incurable disease. I wouldn't touch me," you say, voice strained and wavering despite your best effort to sound confident. It was a long shot, a gamble born from panic, but maybe, just maybe, it would give them pause.

The two men chuckle in unison. The fat one sneers wider, eyes flashing, and lunges toward you without warning. His arms wrap around you with crushing force, lifting you off the ground like a ragdoll. You scream, loud and raw, your bag tumbling from your shoulder and hitting the pavement with a thud.

He spins you around effortlessly and traps you in a brutal bear hug, pinning your arms to your sides, holding you fast in front of the skinny one, who now steps in with the air of someone approaching a prize.

"Wouldn't doubt it," the fat one murmurs into your ear, breath hot and reeking of beer and decay. "A girl as cute as you is no doubt a whore. Good thing I brought condoms."

Your stomach lurches. The word "whore" hits like a slap, but the real fear twists in your gut when you realize how calm and practiced they both are. This wasn't a spontaneous act. These two had been prowling for someone exactly like you.

You jerk your head back, teeth bared, aiming to sink them into any piece of flesh you can reach. But the fat one squeezes tighter, cutting off your air, forcing a sharp, agonized wheeze from your throat. Your ribs scream, your lungs burn, and your vision starts to spark at the edges.

"Hold fucking still," the skinny one says, voice low and trembling with excitement. He slips a knife from his coat—small, sharp, and chillingly clean. The blade glints under what little light leaks from the busted streetlamps. You writhe, but your body isn’t responding fast enough. He kneels, eyes locked on you, and presses the blade to your shirt.

He starts slicing.

The cold metal kisses your soaked uniform, dragging down the fabric slowly, deliberately. You can hear every fiber snap under the blade, feel the chill rush of night air against newly exposed skin. He’s savoring it, the sick bastard. Every second stretches long and heavy with dread.

The fat one chuckles again, a low rumble that vibrates through his chest and into your spine. "Look, she's already shaking" he snickers. "Can't wait to see that pretty red blood drip down your tits when we're done with you."

Panic claws at your throat. Your mind races.

You're not getting out of this alive.

Had your life truly been destined to be so terrible that it had to end the same way too? Shitty parents, born in a shitty city, working shitty jobs to make ends meet all your shitty life. No breaks, no safety nets...just a constant grind with nothing to show for it but bruises and exhaustion. Every step forward had been a crawl. Every chance you'd hoped for had slipped through your fingers like water.

You tried so damn hard. You kept your head down, followed the rules, did everything the world told you to do. And still, here you were—in some dark alley in the N109 Zone, freezing, humiliated, and helpless. Your chest ached, not just from fear, but from the deep, gnawing sense of betrayal. Like the universe had always had it out for you.

You shut your eyes as you feel the cold air hit your chest. Your bra is exposed now, fabric damp and clinging, offering no warmth or comfort. You bite your lip to keep it from trembling. Well. This was it then? The end? Not even a warning, no last moment of dignity. Just this.

Your fingers twitch at your sides. You don't know what you're reaching for—hope, courage, a miracle—but anything would do. Anything to stop this. Anything to change the ending.

You suck in a shaky breath and prepare for whatever comes next. The pain, the cold, the end.

"Gentlemen, fancy seeing you two here. I was actually just looking for you both. Seems you didn't get the memo on our meeting earlier today," a voice says from behind you.

All three of you freeze.

The air shifts. Like a thunderstorm about to break loose right above your heads. You feel it roll over your skin, the tension clamping around your lungs.

The two men whip their heads around, eyes wide, searching for the source. Their confidence drains from their faces like blood down a sink.

"Shit, don't tell me that's—" the skinny man starts, voice cracking like glass.

But he doesn’t finish.

In a blink, his body is ripped backward like a ragdoll, hurled through the air by a force you can’t see. He slams into the side of a building with a loud, sickening crunch that echoes down the alleyway. Brick cracks from the impact, and he crumples to the ground in a heap, groaning once before going eerily still. The knife he was holding clatters to the ground next to him.

The fat man’s grip loosens instantly. Shock paralyzes him for a heartbeat. Then two. He releases you without a word, hands trembling as they fall to his sides. You drop to the ground like dead weight, landing hard on your ribs. Pain jolts through your body, but it's nothing compared to the relief crashing over you.

You groan and look up, blinking through tears and grime, just in time to see it—

Red mist.

Thick, pulsing, and alive. It weaves through the air like smoke with purpose, coiling around the fat man’s legs first, snaking its way up his body in slow, suffocating loops. He stares down in horror, hands clawing at the red haze like he could somehow peel it off.

You watch, frozen, as his feet lift from the ground. He rises—arms flailing, mouth wide open in a silent scream—as the mist tightens, dragging him up like a puppet.

Then he’s thrown.

He rockets backward with impossible force, crashing into the wall opposite his partner. The impact is brutal—louder, deeper, cracking the stone like thunder. Dust explodes around him, raining down in gritty sheets as the building seems to shudder in protest.

Silence follows. Long and oppressive.

The street goes still. Not even the buzz of broken streetlights.

You sit there, gasping, heart racing, and stare through the lingering red mist.

And then—

Shoes. Slow, deliberate footsteps echo against the concrete. Heavy. Calm. Unbothered.

You stop breathing as a man appears out of the shadows. Tall, broad-shouldered, moving with a slow, confident gait. His hair is white-greyish, short, and groomed neatly as if untouched by the chaos around him. He wears a dark collared shirt, sharp and clean despite the filth of the N109 Zone, and a heavy jacket draped casually across his shoulders like a cape. But the most piercing feature about him? His eyes.

Crimson red.

They glow faintly under the broken streetlights, inhuman and unreadable, like fire simmering behind glass. He glances at you—just for a moment. You can’t read the expression. Indifference? Curiosity? Whatever it is, it sends a chill through your bones.

Without a word to you, he turns and stalks toward the two men groaning on the ground.

"Seems you were too busy harassing women to remember to bring me what I’m rightfully owed," the man snarled, voice low and sharp like broken glass. "No matter. I warned you I'd get it back in blood."

The fat one scrambles, shielding his face with his arms, whimpering. "Sylus! Please! We can sti—"

His begging is cut off by a choked, wet gurgle. His throat clenches under invisible pressure, red mist coiling tighter and tighter around his neck. His eyes bulge. Feet kick. Hands claw at nothing.

The skinny one tries to run. He scrambles up, limping, almost making it two steps before something grabs his ankle. The mist again—faster this time. It twists, tightens, and then—

SNAP.

A sickening crack splits the air, sharp and final. His ankle bends the wrong way, bone giving way with a sound that makes bile rise in your throat. He collapses, screaming in agony.

You can’t take it anymore.

You shut your eyes and cover your ears, curling into yourself as tightly as you can. The screams, the choking, the crunch of bone—it all keeps going, echoing in your skull even through your hands.

You just want it to stop.

A few moments of muffled chokes and screams...and then silence.

Not the kind of silence that feels peaceful, but the thick, eerie kind that makes your skin crawl. Your ears ring faintly, and your breath stutters in your chest as if your body refuses to believe it’s over.

You breathe heavily, chest heaving as you try to calm the shaking in your limbs. The cold from the ground seeps through your soaked clothes, but you barely register it. Your hands are still pressed over your ears, your fingers curled so tightly they’re starting to ache. It takes every ounce of courage to peel them away and crack your eyes open.

You're surprised—no, stunned—not to see the gruesome aftermath you expected. No blood. No bodies. No twisted limbs or broken faces. In fact, there's zero trace of the men who had once stood there, like the earth had swallowed them whole and wiped away the evidence.

You blink rapidly, trying to make sense of the empty space in front of you. Adrenaline is still racing through your veins, making your vision blur slightly around the edges. The only sound now is the soft crunch of gravel beneath a shoe—measured, unhurried.

Your eyes dart toward the movement. You watch as Sylus bends down slowly, like he has all the time in the world, and picks up something small and shiny. At first, it looks like a shard of glass, almost invisible in the dim light. But it catches a flicker from the nearest working lamp—almost clear, glinting faintly with an internal glow that pulses like a heartbeat.

"That's..." you whisper, barely able to hear your own voice. Your eyes widen as the pieces click into place.

A protocore?? You had never seen one so close up before.

They were supposed to be rare. Expensive. Illegal to possess without license, let alone harvest. The kind of stuff people killed over.

You barely get the thought out before he pockets it in one smooth motion. Then he turns toward you.

Those red eyes lock onto yours like he’s been waiting for this moment all night. They burn with a strange intensity, unreadable and terrifying and impossible to look away from. He takes a step closer, and you flinch before you can stop yourself.

But he doesn't speak. He just studies you. Eyes roaming all over you.

And in that instant, you realize something unsettling: he’s not trying to intimidate you. He’s evaluating you. Like he’s sizing you up for something you don’t yet understand.

Your breath hitches, throat dry, mind racing. Who was this man? What had you just witnessed?

You squeeze your eyes shut as he suddenly walks toward you. Shit. You were probably next.

You just watched a man commit murder, two murders no less. Of course you were next as the witness. Your pulse hammers against your ribcage as panic floods you. Why didn’t you run when you had the chance? Why the hell did you freeze?

You brace yourself for the worst, chest tightening as your breath stalls in your throat. Every step he takes echoes louder than the last, like the final countdown to something irreversible. The air around you feels charged, heavy with power and blood.

But instead of pain or a final breath, you feel something else.

A soft, warm weight settles across your shoulders.

Fabric. A jacket.

You flinch at first, confused, until the warmth begins to seep into your frozen skin. The cold on your back evaporates slightly, replaced by the comforting weight of thick, dry fabric. Your eyes flutter open, hesitation making your lashes tremble as you lift your gaze.

He's standing just inches away, crouched down, eyes unreadable in the dim light. No expression.

"For your...situation," the man says evenly, voice low but firm, eyes briefly flicking to your torn shirt and the state of your exposed chest.

Your bra is wet, see-through, and clinging to your skin. You gasp in embarrassment, face flushing hot, and immediately rush to close the jacket over yourself, clutching the lapels with both hands. Your fingers shake, knuckles paling from gripping so tight.

"S-sorry..." you whisper, voice small and shaken. You don’t even know what you’re apologizing for...your appearance, your weakness, your existence? But the word slips out anyway.

He simply sighs, standing up and running his fingers through his hair. The motion is slow, tired—like he’s dragging the weight of something heavier than tonight’s encounter. His fingers rake back through the white-grey strands, revealing the sharp edges of his face, shadowed under the streetlights. His posture eases, but not from comfort—more like indifference. The threat is gone, and so is his interest. But his eyes...they remain hard. Crimson still burns faintly beneath his lashes, like coals left smoldering.

"Do you always apologize for things that aren't your fault?"

The question lands like a blade, too casual to be comforting. Cold. Rhetorical. He doesn’t give you a chance to answer. Doesn’t seem like he wants one.

Without waiting for a response, he turns his back to you.

"I assume you know how to keep your mouth shut. Have a good night."

Your pulse spikes.

His name...his name was Sylus. That was what that man had called him.

It hits you like a gunshot.

That name. You’ve heard it before—in whispers, in rumors passed through alleyway trades and late-night conversations that always ended in warning. There was talk of a syndicate that lived in the bones of the city. Powerful. Untraceable. It didn’t operate within the law. It was the law, in places like this. Onychinus. And at the top of it all, one name. Ruthless. A demon with red eyes they say.

Sylus.

But it was rumored no one had actually seen him. Or not lived long enough to give details.

Could this really be him?

Your breath quickens as your heartbeat stutters in your chest. Slowly, shakily, you get to your feet. The alley feels impossibly long, the lights dimmer than they were before. Your legs tremble beneath you, unstable, the weight of everything finally catching up to your body. The jacket around your shoulders slips slightly, reminding you it's still there. Heavy. Warm. His.

You reach out.

Not because you’ve planned it. But because some part of you needs to.

Instinct. Desperation. A pull you can’t name.

Your fingers brush against his arm and clutch tightly.

"Please wait! Sylus!" you cry, louder than you expect, voice cracking under the strain of exhaustion, fear, and something raw you hadn’t felt in a long time—hope.

He stops mid-step.

The world halts with him.

The buzz of lights, the distant city hum—it all dies. The only thing you hear now is the frantic pounding of your heart.

This is crazy. Absolutely insane. You must have a death wish. What the hell were you thinking, grabbing him like that? Demanding the attention of someone who could crush people without a thought? Your stomach churns with fear, twisting itself into knots, but something inside you refuses to shrink away.

You’re still standing. That has to mean something, right?

If he wanted to kill you—he would’ve already.

And besides, even if he wasn’t Sylus—even if this was all some massive coincidence—he was clearly someone powerful enough to make people vanish into mist. Someone important enough to be feared in this city. And feared men didn’t worry about rent. Feared men had power. And power meant money. And money...

Money meant stability.

A steady job. A real paycheck. Enough to cover groceries without counting every coin. It meant the possibility of fixing your old laptop, maybe even affording a new pair of shoes without soles worn thin. A chance at reclaiming some control, some pride without begging or risking your life.

Sylus doesn’t turn fully. Just tilts his head slightly—enough to glance at you from over his shoulder. It’s a subtle motion, but the weight behind it still makes your breath catch.

The look in his eyes pins you in place. It’s not anger. It’s colder. Calculating. Like he’s measuring you for something. Or deciding if you’re worth the air you’re still breathing.

"Not many are so bold to call me by my name so fiercely on the first meeting," he says. His tone is unreadable, smooth and dry, like stone scraped across silk.

You can’t tell if he's amused. Annoyed. Or seconds away from deciding you’re a loose end that needs cutting.

Then, without a hint of emotion, he adds, "Speak. I have things to attend to."

Your heart skips. Panic swells again in your chest, but it’s different now—warmer, messier. Your fingers tremble as you release his arm. The courage you had seconds ago is unraveling fast under the weight of his presence.

"Sy—I mean, sir..." you stammer, bowing your head quickly, instinctively, as if submission might protect you. "Thank you. For saving me...I just wanted to ask—"

You pause, breath shaky, gathering whatever's left of your pride and resolve. This is insane. This could end so, so badly. But your options ran out a long time ago.

You suck in a breath, chest tightening.

"Please give me a job..."

The words hang there, small but thunderous in the stillness. You know how it sounds. Pathetic. Desperate.

He turns now, slowly, and for the first time you see his full expression. His face twists in slight confusion, one brow raised. "You want...a job? You want me to give you a job?" he repeats, frowning as if the concept itself is absurd. Like you're speaking a language he's never bothered to learn.

Shit. Say something. Make it convincing. Say anything.

You bow your head in shame, your voice wobbling. "I'm sorry, I know it’s sudden! I just...I just got fired and I don’t have many options. I’ll lose my apartment soon if I can’t pay..." Your voice cracks, and you start to sniffle, humiliation burning hot in your chest. You wrap his jacket tighter around yourself like it’s armor, like it can hide how much you're unraveling.

Sylus hums in acknowledgment. It’s not agreement, not exactly—just a sound to let you know he’s still listening. Still watching. Then his voice comes again, even colder this time.

"I'm not a charity. I don't take on the weak."

The words hit like a slap—sharp, final. Your stomach drops, but your mind races.

You scramble for something—anything that’ll keep him from walking away.

"I’m very useful, actually!" you blurt, lifting your head so fast it makes your vision swim. The words come out fast, breathless, desperate. "I can clean, cook, fix things, run errands, I learn fast—I don’t complain, and I don’t need much! Please, I’ll do whatever you need. Just give me a chance. I don’t have anyone else."

Your voice is trembling now, but you keep talking, like if you stop, you’ll shatter. "I’ve worked double shifts on no sleep, I’ve handled angry customers, cleaned up all kinds of fluids from bathroom stalls, learned how to stretch a bag of rice for a week—I’m not weak, I’ve just never been given a shot by someone who matters."

The alley is silent again, dense and waiting. A breeze slips past, carrying the scent of rust and smoke. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wails and fades.

You’re still staring at him, heart pounding so loud it drowns out your thoughts. Hands clenched into tight fists at your sides. You can feel your knees threatening to buckle, but you stay upright. You won’t beg. If he says no again you'll accept your fate.

At least you'll have tried.

Sylus doesn't seem moved by your emotional outburst, but something shifts behind his eyes. He’s not dismissive—he’s pondering. Cold logic at work, turning your words over in his mind with clinical precision.

"Cleaning, huh..." he scoffs softly, the sound low and rough, like gravel underfoot. There's a flicker of something—amusement? Skepticism?—as a small smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. He slips his hands into his coat pockets, the gesture fluid and deliberate. Nothing about him is rushed. He’s the kind of man who never speaks or moves without intent.

"If I had a nickel for every time someone I saved begged to work for me right after...well, I’d have 3 nickels technically." He let out a low chuckle. "This was surely unexpected."

You blink, trying to read his expression. Your heart is hammering in your chest, your breath caught somewhere in your throat. What does that even mean? Three nickels?? What was he talking about?

"So...does that mean—?" you start to ask, your voice cracking under the weight of hesitant hope.

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he turns his head, gaze drifting toward the skyline like he’s already moved on. His silhouette is framed by the hazy orange glow of a streetlamp, the red mist still curling faintly at his feet. When he speaks again, the words cut through the silence like a blade.

"I'll entertain this 'job' for you. But you have to live up to the standard you've set for yourself. Otherwise, you'll be gone faster than you can even breathe."

His tone is flat. Not cruel, but not kind either. It’s a warning—sharp, unflinching, final.

You don’t move. For a moment, you forget how. The alley seems to pause with you, the air thick with something unspoken. And then it hits—

Your heart swells. Joy floods your chest in a violent, overwhelming surge. It feels like your ribs might split from the pressure of it. You almost can’t believe you heard him right.

"Yes! Of course! I won’t let you down!" you blurt out, too fast, too eager, but there’s no stopping the emotion rushing out of you. You bow your head deeply, again, again—grateful, desperate, stunned.

Sylus sighs, long and drawn-out, the sound edged with the kind of exasperation that says you’re already a handful. He rolls his eyes with a quiet mutter—something you can’t make out—and turns on his heel.

He begins walking away without another word.

Panic flares in your chest.

"W-wait... where do I go? When do I start?" you call after him, stumbling a few steps forward. The weight of his jacket is still warm on your shoulders, grounding you in the surreal moment.

He doesn’t break stride. Doesn’t turn. But his voice drifts back to you, clear and crisp as ever.

"I’ll be back in three days. Tallest building in the city. You’ve seen it. Eleven PM. Don’t be late."

And just like that—he’s gone.

His body dissolves into a swirl of red mist that coils around him and bursts outward, vanishing into the night like smoke drawn into a vacuum. It’s silent again. No footsteps. No echoes. As if he’d never been there at all.

You stand frozen, jacket clutched tightly in your fists, staring at the empty space he left behind. The chill of the night wraps around you, but your skin burns from adrenaline.

Three days.

Tallest building in the city.

You whisper the words like a vow, repeating them to yourself again and again, willing them to anchor you to this reality. Your breath is shaky, your pulse pounding, but for the first time in weeks, maybe months, you feel alive.

You weren’t dreaming.

You actually got a job.

Why so late at night, though? Maybe he didn’t want you seen. Maybe it was a test—or maybe the day just wasn’t a place people like you belonged in his world. Then again, in the N109 Zone, there wasn’t much of a day to begin with. The sky was always dark, the sun just a rumor behind a layer of industrial haze. But still...even under dim lights and darker skies, this felt like something new.

A clean slate.

Sylus wasn’t sure what he was doing.

Hiring a random woman he saved to be his housekeeper? It was reckless. It was unnecessary. And it was completely unlike him. Even now, as he sat alone in his office, the question churned at the back of his mind like a splinter he couldn’t remove.

Unbeknownst to you, Onychinus had already had housecleaning staff. A full team, trained and vetted, all handpicked to maintain control and order of the base. But the moment he returned—barely hours after dragging two bodies into the shadows and watching you fall apart in front of him—he’d given a simple, final order: dismiss the entire cleaning unit. No explanation.

He hadn’t cared about anything but the image still seared into his mind: a dirt-covered girl shivering in his coat. His coat.

It had been easier to lie to himself at first. You needed help. That’s all it was. A brief act of pity. A one-time gesture. Something to balance the scales after taking two lives without hesitation. Maybe even a little entertainment to break the monotony.

But something about you unsettled him.

The way you’d looked up at him from the ground—mud streaked across your cheek, clothes soaked and cut, lips trembling, chest exposed but your eyes…There was fear, yes, but beneath it, a defiant glimmer. Something that sparked against the cold stone he called his conscience.

He’d felt it. A pang in his chest. It had no business being there. Unfamiliar and unwanted.

So he did what he always did when something unimportant peeked his interest. Ignore it. He even tried to end the conversation before it even started.

But then you’d grabbed him.

That tiny, trembling hand curling around his arm like he was a lifeline. Not to manipulate. Not to seduce. Just to hold on. And asked him for a job of all things. You had no other options. You were recently fired. About to lose your apartment. The perfect excuse to have his new interest near him.

That had done something to him.

Something violent and strange. Something possessive. A pulse beneath the surface that refused to quiet.

And in that instant, Sylus had stopped making excuses.

Now, he stood in his office, watching you on the security feed. You moved through the suite like a ghost trying to prove you still belonged among the living—scrubbing at already clean surfaces, adjusting already perfect details. Your back was straight, shoulders tense, every movement painfully precise.

You were trying so hard. It had been weeks since then and you were still trying to fit in.

Trying not to be a burden. Trying not to mess up. Trying to earn a place no one had offered you.

It was adorable.

It was raw, honest—and it stirred something far more possessive than he liked to admit. You didn’t know how to rest. You only knew how to survive. Every over-polished surface, every obsessively straightened object reeked of someone begging—not for praise, but for permission to exist. It wasn't just endearing. It was maddeningly cute. You were trying so hard, and you didn't even realize who you were trying to impress. Him. All of it was for him.

And he couldn’t look away.

There was something feral in the way you moved, a quiet desperation dressed up in duty. Like a cat that hadn’t been given safety in so long, it wouldn’t know what to do with peace if it had it. That kind of survival wasn’t just familiar, it was intimate.

And you didn’t yet understand that the moment you reached for him in that alley, you stopped being a stray kitten.

You became his.

And you didn’t yet realize that he hadn’t brought you here to mop floors.

He told himself he was still in control. That this was still about curiosity, about amusement. That he was just studying you. Surely, he'd get bored. Fire you, and move on.

But even he didn’t believe that anymore. Not after seeing you a second time when you arrived on your first day. That same feeling had returned—sharper now, more insistent, like something gnawing at the base of his spine. You were under his roof, moving quietly through his space, wearing the weight of his attention like it might crush you. And still you kept going. Still you tried. Even brought him back his jacket. It was infuriating. It was addictive.

What was it about you that made him feel like he couldn’t stop watching? What exactly had ignited this itch under his skin, this tightening in his chest? You weren’t extraordinary—at least not by normal standards. But maybe that was the point. You were quiet. Unassuming. But beneath all of that, he could sense something uncut and wild. Something no one else had tried to reach.

And now it was his.

He needed to know more. He needed to peel back every layer until he understood what, exactly, had hooked him so deep he’d broken his own rules.

Because Sylus never did anything without purpose.

And he hadn’t fired an entire staff, hired only you, and rewired a dozen camera angles…just to be charitable.

He had done it to keep you where he could see you.

Your reaction when he walked out half naked, dripping from the shower a few days ago had been amusing, though he didn’t show it. He'd done it on purpose to see your reaction. The way your face flushed, the way your gaze darted anywhere but at him—it had been a moment he savored quietly, filed away for later. You really thought you could hide it. How flustered you were. How small you felt in his presence.

That habit of apologizing for everything, though—now that grated. Like nails on glass. He’d have to break that out of you eventually. No one in his world got away with empty words, and he didn’t tolerate the kind of weakness that came from guilt without conviction. He often wondered what kind of pain and trauma turned someone into that—into a person who apologized just for breathing.

However…he didn’t completely mind if you were a bit weak.

Weak people were easy to keep an eye on. Easy to understand. Easy to protect.

He watched the screen again, eyes narrowing slightly as you pulled a stool across the polished floor to reach a high shelf. He saw it immediately. You hadn’t pulled one of the legs out all the way.

It would collapse under you.

He exhaled, annoyed but composed, and in a blink—his form dissolved in a swirl of red mist—he was gone from the office. A breath later, he was standing in the kitchen.

You didn’t even notice him behind you, too busy reaching to rearrange items on the top shelf, lips pursed in focus. You were murmuring something under your breath—maybe a list, maybe just the words you used to fill silence, but it didn’t matter. Your voice was soft, distracted, and it did nothing to prepare you for the presence behind you.

Sylus stood silently in the doorway, arms folded, posture impossibly still. His eyes tracked every movement you made with the precision of a predator, narrowed with cold intensity as he studied your choice of outfit.

A skirt again. Of all things. To clean in.

It shouldn’t have surprised him, but it did. It clashed so violently with the rest of you—your quiet demeanor, your constant apologies, your hesitant glances like you were afraid of taking up space. He’d pegged you as cautious. Careful. Maybe even prudish. But a skirt like that? That was either reckless...or intentional.

There was no middle ground.

His gaze moved downward, slow and deliberate, and he didn’t even try to stop it. Your legs were bare, shifting with each tentative movement, the muscles in your calves flexing delicately as you struggled for balance. They looked too smooth, too soft for someone who lived in the N109 Zone. You weren’t made for this place. Not really. And yet, here you were, stretching and tiptoeing as if you had something to prove.

The hem of your skirt lifted slightly as you reached higher, just enough to tease. Just enough to show the dip where your thigh met your hip, the subtle curve of your ass beneath the thin, clinging fabric. He stared, jaw flexing, something animal and possessive threading through his blood like poison.

Quite the choice indeed.

You didn’t know what you were inviting.

And maybe that’s what made it worse.

He inhaled slowly through his nose, his irritation mounting—not at you, not exactly. At the way he responded. At the way his body reacted, heat flooding low in his gut just from watching you stretch in that stupid skirt. You had no idea what you were doing to him, what kind of restraint it took not to close the distance, not to press his hand flat against the small of your back and bend you over the marble counter just to make a point.

Then his attention flicked to the stool.

He noticed it instantly: the leg, barely extended, shaky. A disaster waiting to happen. And you, too distracted to realize it. Too busy trying to impress. Too busy trying to earn your place.

He could’ve called out.

He didn’t.

He watched.

Three seconds passed.

Two.

One.

The stool gave out beneath you, the sharp crack of metal folding breaking the moment like glass.

You yelped, arms flailing, and your body dropped fast, too fast.

But the floor never came.

In one fluid movement, before your breath could even finish escaping your throat, he was there.

His arms snapped around you, catching you mid-fall with unflinching strength—one arm anchoring your waist, the other locked across your back like steel. The force of the motion sent your body into his, chest against chest, your breath stolen not by impact, but by proximity.

You collided not with cold tile—but with him.

With warmth.

You gasped, hands curling instinctively into the front of his shirt. His muscles shifted under your fingers—hard, tense, unwavering.

His face hovered inches from yours. Red eyes locked onto your expression, studying every flicker of panic, every rapid breath you took.

You started flailing in his arms, clearly panicking, eyes wide with embarrassment and confusion. The contact—too sudden, too close—had scrambled your senses. You didn’t know what to do with yourself, writhing slightly in his grip as if you could squirm away from the electricity between you. Your breath hitched, hands pressing feebly against his chest, but he held you like he had no intention of letting go until he was ready.

Inwardly, Sylus chuckled, dark amusement curling behind his otherwise unreadable eyes. You were flustered beyond reason, struggling in his hold like a bird that had flown into the jaws of a predator. It was almost sweet. Ridiculous, really, how easy it would be to keep you. A word, a gesture, a little pressure—and you'd fold like paper.

"I'm so sorry! I didn't realize you were there!" you panted, cheeks burning as you tried harder to escape his grasp. Your voice cracked slightly, high and breathless, and your fingers gripped at his shirt like you weren’t sure whether to push him away or hold on.

Reluctantly, he let you go. His arms unwrapped from around you with a slowness that betrayed how much he didn’t want to. Every inch of lost contact felt like something stolen. He could still feel the impression of your body against his—your warmth, your weight, the exact curve of your waist where his fingers had fit so perfectly.

He’d much rather have you pinned underneath him on the cold marble floor, your wrists above your head, that flushed face staring up at him in breathless silence. The image wasn’t just tempting, it was consuming.

Instead, he straightened calmly. He smoothed his shirt with a deliberate hand, as if nothing had happened, as if his blood wasn’t simmering just beneath the surface. His expression slipped back into its usual cold neutrality, though his eyes lingered.

"What did I say about apologizing for nothing?" he said sternly, his voice cutting through the air like the crack of a whip.

You froze. The sound of his voice triggered a visible change. Your expression fell into sorrow, your shoulders curling inward like a scolded child, your hands falling limp at your sides. You avoided his gaze, eyes cast downward as if you expected punishment.

"I—yeah. Right. I'll work on it," you murmured, voice small and brittle.

He watched the way your lips trembled. The way your posture folded in on itself. You thought apologizing would save you. That submission would earn mercy.

You were far too weak and innocent for your own good.

And he wanted to be the one to destroy it.

Touch by touch, until your shame melted into heat, until your gasps became moans, and the floor beneath you was scattered with torn, forgotten clothing. He’d peel away your innocence like silk, savoring each layer, each tremble, each moment of surrender.

Ignoring the growing hardness in his pants, Sylus turned his attention to his watch, feigning indifference as the tension coiled like a vice in his abdomen. Every nerve in his body felt wound tight, a hum beneath his skin he was trying very hard not to show.

"Aren’t you supposed to be heading home anyway?" he asked, voice cool and measured, each syllable sharp with veiled command. His gaze flicked to you and then lingered, unwilling to fully detach. You never noticed how much he watched you.

You bit your lip before dragging your tongue across it nervously, a subconscious gesture, but one he immediately clocked. That innocent, uncertain movement stirred something primal in him. It was the kind of unintentional tease that made his jaw tighten. That made him want to reach out and tilt your chin up just to see if you'd tremble under the weight of his full attention.

"Yeah...I was just doing some extra work," you replied, voice quiet, almost hesitant. You fidgeted with the hem of your skirt as if trying to distract yourself from his stare. "Hoping it would warm up a little if I waited. It’s freezing today. I'm not looking forward to walking honestly."

He followed your gaze to the wide expanse of floor-to-ceiling windows. Frost clung to the edges of the glass like white scars. The world outside looked like it had been locked in ice. It was the kind of cold that stole the breath from your lungs, bit into skin, made the city feel even more hollow and harsh.

And yet, you'd chosen that outfit.

His eyes dropped again, deliberately this time. The skirt. Thin, flimsy. Just enough fabric to cover you, but not enough to shield you. No tights. No layers. No intention of warmth. Your legs were bare. The skin flushed from chill and movement.

Why?

You weren’t actually this stupid were you? You were cautious. Quiet. Observant. Which meant this wasn’t accidental. Not a miscalculation.

No, this had to be deliberate. Maybe you weren't as innocent as he had previously assumed?

"Ah...I knocked some stuff down when I fell," you muttered, crouching low to gather the scattered cans, trying to appear unfazed, as if your body hadn’t just been caught by his in a moment of pure vulnerability. Your voice was soft, flustered but casual, an obvious cover. You didn’t want him to see the way your hands trembled slightly, or how your breath still hadn’t quite steadied. But to Sylus, nothing about the moment was casual. He remained frozen where he stood, posture straight and calculated, his eyes locked onto you with a focus that felt less like curiosity and more like predation. He was studying. Dissecting. Memorizing.

He waited for the phrase he’d heard so many times from your lips. That anxious, habitual little “I’m sorry” that you wore like a second skin. Your default reaction. But it never came. Instead, you stayed silent, concentrating on your task. Your lips pressed into a thin line.

That flicker of growth—it struck him harder than it should have.

You were learning. Adapting. Sharpening under pressure like a blade honing itself on stone. And it didn’t ignite pride in him. No, pride was far too tame. What he felt clawing its way through his chest was something darker. Possession. The need to mark what was his before anyone else could lay claim. He was already changing you in subtle ways.

His eyes traveled down, following the subtle tension in your limbs as you reached forward. The way the fabric of your skirt tightened over the swell of your hips made his jaw clench. The hem hit just right. Creased around your thighs. Teasing. Just enough to suggest, not enough to reveal. Until you shifted just a bit further, and the lace revealed itself.

Not much. Just a whisper. A delicate edge of pale fabric tracing along your skin.

Lace underwear. Definitely not silk—he knew better. The thread count and finish marked it as something affordable, not luxury. But that didn’t matter. That wasn’t what caught his attention.

It was the fact that you had worn it at all.

Worn something pretty. Something intimate. Something entirely hidden from the world.

Why?

You didn’t strike him as someone who put thought into seduction. You didn’t wear your body with confidence—you shrank into it, hid behind it. And yet…that lace told a different story. Whether it was for comfort, confidence, or something more unspoken, it was a secret softness tucked under the armor of your survival.

Something no one else was meant to see.

And yet here he was, seeing it. Claiming it in his mind. Making it his.

He didn’t realize he’d stopped breathing until his chest ached. The image of you crouched low, vulnerable and unaware, your body wrapped in fabric he now felt a savage urge to tear off seared itself into the hollow of his mind.

The urge to touch you rose inside him like a tidal wave. He imagined gripping you by the waist, hauling you up effortlessly into him. Pin you against the counter just to hear the sound you’d make. The feel of your weight against him. He could already envision the way you’d look pinned against him, breath stuttering, lips parted, eyes wide and unsure—begging without knowing what for.

He ground his teeth. The thoughts were consuming. And entirely uninvited.

No. Not uninvited. Just…unacted upon.

He drew in a breath, a quiet exhale through his nose as he forced the heat back down into the pit of his spine, burying it beneath layers of discipline and ice.

Then, he spoke—voice low, the edges smoothed by control but still thick with gravity.

"How about I take you home today?"

The shift in your expression was immediate. You snapped upright, startled, your eyes wide and flickering with something he didn’t expect.

Hope.

It landed like a blow. Your face opened up, lips parting slightly, shoulders lifting in surprise. For a moment, it looked like you might even smile. But you caught yourself. Reeled it back in like a secret.

Still, the damage was done. He’d seen it.

You looked at him like he was safe. Like his offer meant salvation instead of danger. And the strangest part of it all? That look made something in his chest ache.

You were so damn cute. So reactive.

So completely unguarded.

It made him want to cradle you in his hands. And then use those same hands to crush you with desire.

He envisioned you again...only this time, you were in his bed. That same skirt hiked up around your waist, the lace shredded by his fingers, your thighs parted, eyes glazed and trembling as you whispered his name like a confession.

"I'd really appreciate that...I live a little far. Um... you might not like my neighborhood. It's...old," you said hesitantly, brushing your skirt down as you rose to your feet. Your voice wavered just slightly, betraying the anxiety buried beneath your words. There was something in the way you said it—apologetic, like you were ashamed of this part of your life but knew better than to hide it. You tried to make yourself look more put-together, smoothing the fabric over your thighs as if that alone could shift the image in his mind.

Sylus’s eyes followed your every movement, taking in more than just your body language. He was reading you—dissecting the tone of your voice, the pace of your words, the tight way you held your breath between sentences. The word "old" wasn’t about age. It was a coded confession. He knew exactly what it meant. He’d heard it before from people who came from nothing, who had learned how to make do with what little the world threw them.

It meant you had lived with less for too long.

His jaw ticked slightly as the image built in his mind. He imagined your space, trying to piece it together from the clues you hadn’t meant to give him. He could see the threadbare couch you probably slept on when your bed got too cold. The one lamp with the flickering bulb. The box fan in the window struggling against the summer heat. He imagined you curled up in the corner with a secondhand blanket, your knees drawn up, trying to stay warm while the outside world threatened to bleed in.

He pictured your kitchen. Cramped. One chair missing a leg. A fridge that rattled when it kicked on. Dishes stacked on the counter because the sink wouldn’t drain properly. He imagined you cooking something cheap but warm, something you stretched over a few days, all while wearing that same skirt that had ridden up earlier. That lace underwear hidden underneath. That softness, that sweetness, surrounded by decay.

And it did something to him.

You didn’t belong in a place like that. That life—the struggle, the worry, the scarcity...it didn’t fit someone like you. Not with the way your lips parted when you were flustered, not with the way you bit the inside of your cheek when you were nervous. You weren’t hardened. Not yet. And the idea that the city would only further sink its teeth into you made something sharp twist in his chest.

It didn’t suit you. None of it did.

No, you were meant for softness. For warmth. For luxury. He could see it—clear as day—you draped across one of his penthouse chaise lounges, wearing something silk he bought you. Maybe you’d still be shy at first, still fidget with the hem of your skirt, but it would be different. You’d glow. Comfortable. Fed. Protected. His.

His mind fed on the thought, deeper and darker. He imagined you standing barefoot in his kitchen, reaching for a glass in one of his cabinets, his oversized shirt hanging off your shoulders, lace peeking through. You’d look over your shoulder when he walked in, eyes soft, lips parted just for him.

And he’d take care of you.

You’d never have to beg a landlord for hot water again. You’d never worry about bills or broken locks or freezing nights. You’d live where you belonged, someplace warm. Safe and lavish.

He watched you brush imaginary dust from your skirt, still trying to preserve a scrap of dignity, and the thought struck him again with more weight than before.

You didn’t even know what you deserved.

But he was trying not to get ahead of himself. Not when his thoughts had already begun to spiral too far into territory he’d sworn to avoid. He knew better. He always had. He was a man carved from violence and control, a life defined by taking, by silence, by blood. Someone like him wasn’t good for you.

Someone like him would ruin you. Corrupt you. Strip away that softness he’d started to crave.

And no matter how badly he wanted it—how deeply the image of you in his bed, in his life, had begun to root itself—he wasn’t sure how you’d handle him.

So he kept his expression unreadable, the desire clawing beneath his skin tucked away with practiced precision. Without another word, he simply turned and gestured for you to follow him. His movements were precise, clipped, careful not to betray the storm in his chest.

You hesitated for only a second, then fell into step behind him. Your footsteps were light but uncertain, the rhythm of your shoes against the polished floor betraying your nervousness. You trailed behind like a shadow—obedient, unsure—but still close enough that he could feel your presence pressing faintly at his back.

As you made your way toward the private elevator that led to his parking garage, Sylus kept his eyes forward, jaw tight, every muscle in his body straining not to look at you. Not to reach. Not to touch.

Because if he did...

He might not stop.

The car ride was quiet and long, the kind of stretch that gave Sylus too much time to think. Not that he let it show. His hands remained steady on the wheel, gaze fixed on the road as the city slipped by in shadows and glimmers of neon. You sat beside him in silence, arms tucked tightly against yourself, trying not to fidget, though your body language betrayed you. Five minutes in, he noticed the way you subtly curled inward, trying to conserve warmth. Your shoulders trembled ever so slightly.

Without a word, he reached down and adjusted the temperature. The heater clicked on with a low hum, warmth slowly spilling into the cabin. He didn’t say anything, didn’t look at you. He simply did it. He’d never used it before—not once. He never needed to. He hadn’t even realized it worked. But for you? He made it work.

A few minutes later, you gave him your address, voice low and mumbled, already thick with exhaustion. He barely acknowledged it, just nodded slightly and continued driving. Not because he needed the directions.

He already knew exactly where you lived.

Of course he did.

He’d had Mephisto tail you every night since that first encounter. Every step you took home, every street you crossed, every time you looked over your shoulder or hugged your arms tighter when the wind picked up—he knew it all. He’d seen the route. Studied the pattern. Memorized the way your silhouette moved beneath the flickering street lamps.

He hadn’t told you.

You’d never asked.

While he hadn’t yet stepped foot inside your apartment, he’d seen enough to picture it. The building—old, cracked, unwelcoming—told him more than words ever could. The peeling paint around the doorframe. The stairwell that looked like it might collapse with one wrong step. The busted callbox out front.

And it made something settle heavy in his gut.

But beside him, you had fallen asleep. Head tilted toward the window, lashes soft against your cheek, lips parted just slightly. Completely unaware.

When he finally pulled into the shadowed lot outside your apartment building, Sylus didn’t move to wake you right away. He simply shifted the car into park and turned slightly in his seat, his eyes tracing the soft lines of your sleeping face in the dim glow of the dashboard. There was a rare stillness to you now—your body slack, your breathing deep and steady, lips parted slightly with each quiet exhale. It was a version of you he rarely got to see: unguarded, untouched by the weight of the day, vulnerable in a way that pulled something tight and possessive in his chest.

He studied your expression, searching it like a map for answers he didn’t know he wanted. You looked so docile like this. So soft. Your hair slightly mussed from the ride, lashes casting shadows on your cheeks, arms curled loosely around your midsection. How could someone who had been through so much still sleep like this—still carry a hint of innocence when everything else around you had tried to beat it out?

His thoughts drifted to the checks. The ones he started giving you after your first week. They weren’t modest by any stretch. The amount was enough to make you freeze when he handed you the envelope the first time, your fingers trembling, eyes welling with tears you had tried to blink away. You had thanked him far too many times, voice barely steady.

But since then, he’d noticed something.

No new clothes. No styled hair. No flashy purchases or even a change in your worn-out shoes. You were still the same girl—practical, quiet, unassuming. And that only deepened the mystery. What were you spending it on? Rent, obviously. Maybe food. But beyond that…? Debt perhaps?

You hadn’t changed a thing about your appearance. Not even for vanity’s sake.

His fingers tapped slowly on the steering wheel, restless with curiosity.

You looked so peaceful. Like nothing in the world could touch you in that moment. The sight of it made his throat tighten.

He wondered when he would get to see you like this again.

You're awoken by a gentle shaking at your shoulder. Disoriented, your eyes blink open slowly, only to meet the cool interior of Sylus’s car and the low hum of the engine winding down. The warmth of the heater still lingers on your cheeks, and you sit up, blinking the sleep from your eyes.

Sylus is watching you, his face unreadable, but there’s something oddly soft in the way he looks at you—like he’s memorizing the exact shape of your sleepy expression.

"Ah, thank you. Goodnight," you murmur, still dazed, rubbing your eyes and reaching for the door handle.

"Goodnight," he responds evenly, reaching forward to unlock the passenger side with a click. The sound startles you a little, only now realizing the lock had been engaged from his side the entire time. Your hand lingers on the handle for a second longer, your thoughts slow, muddled. You almost ask about the child safety lock—why it was on in the first place—but you’re too tired to form the question.

Instead, you step out into the cold. The temperature hits you instantly, sharp and biting, and you hug your coat tighter around your shoulders. The street is dark, quiet, the usual chill of the N109 Zone sinking into your bones. You fumble with your pocket, fingers searching for the familiar jingle of your keys.

Keys...keys...

Your heart skips.

Where are your keys?

You pat your coat, your skirt, even dig into your bag, your movements growing frantic.

Nothing.

Panic starts to bloom in your chest as you realize—they’re not on you.

Shit.

Your stomach sinks. There's no avoiding it…you’ll have to ask Sylus. You must have left your keys back at Onychinus’s base during your frantic cleaning and recovery from that near fall. You’d been too flustered. Too distracted.

Defeated, your shoulders slumping, you turn around and hurry back to the car, your footsteps crunching against the gravel with each rushed step. The wind bites at your face as you approach. Sylus, thankfully, hasn’t driven off. He’s still parked in the same spot, one hand on the wheel, the other idly scrolling through something on his phone, bathed in the dim glow of the dashboard lights.

You tap nervously on the passenger window, hugging your arms to your chest. Almost immediately, his gaze flicks up and he rolls it down with a smooth whirr, red eyes pinning you in place.

"My keys...I think I left them back at Onychinus," you say quickly, cheeks already burning with embarrassment. "This might be a stupid question, but...do you know how to pick a lock?"

So...that’s how Sylus, without a single word of instruction, plucked a bobby pin from your hair with deft fingers and picked your lock like it was second nature. It took him less than a minute. You stood by stunned, arms crossed against the cold, watching the door click open like it was nothing.

You were amazed, partly by his skill, but mostly by the way he never hesitated. Like helping you break into your own home was just another item on his to-do list. You felt a strange, pressing urge to thank him. He didn’t have to do any of this. You were just an employee. A cleaner. One he had only met just a few weeks ago.

So it felt right to do something.

You nervously glanced at him, then gestured toward the open door. "Would you like to come in? Just for a minute. I—I'd like to give you something. A treat. For helping."

He nodded kindly, and followed you in.

The inside of your apartment was exactly what you'd feared he might judge: dingy, too small, and colder than it should’ve been. There were cracks in the paint and the floor creaked when you stepped inside. But Sylus didn’t comment. The only thing that gave away his discomfort was the way he had to crouch slightly to pass through the doorway, tall enough that the frame brushed his shoulders.

You hurried to the small kitchen, pulling out a container from the fridge and placing it carefully in the microwave.

"This is my mom’s recipe," you said over your shoulder, fumbling with the buttons. "She gave it to me before she...left."

The quiet stretch between you filled with something unspoken as the microwave hummed.

He didn’t press for details. But you could feel his attention lingering. Not just on your words, but on you—your hands, your nervous movements, the way your voice faltered at the mention of your mother.

Then, softly, he spoke. "You talk about her like she’s still alive. Like maybe there’s still a part of you waiting for her to come back."

You froze, startled—not by the words themselves, but by how gently he said them. Like he saw past what you said and into the truth underneath.

"She left without a word," you murmured. "But I guess...yeah. I still cook this like she's coming home."

You really did not want to talk about this anymore, and Sylus seemed to pick up on that instantly. His eyes flicked to the microwave, then back to you, his expression unreadable as always. Without missing a beat, he changed the subject, his voice shifting into something lighter.

"How does it feel to have your boss step foot inside your own home?"

The question caught you off guard, and you let out a nervous little laugh, rubbing the back of your neck. "I don’t normally have guests... much less my employer, but it’s been a lot less nerve-wracking than I thought it’d be."

You avoided his gaze, pretending to busy yourself with the food as the microwave dinged softly behind you. Your hands moved on autopilot, but your mind stayed tangled in the oddness of the moment. Sylus—here, in your crumbling kitchen, ducking under your doorframe, accepting a homemade dish with quiet interest. There was something surreal about it. Like the roles between you had been suspended, just for a night.

And stranger still, you didn’t hate it.

“Good. I’d hate to find out I’m the most intimidating thing in a room with a flickering lightbulb and a sink from the last century.”

This made you laugh. A real, unfiltered laugh—the kind that caught in your chest and spilled out before you could stop it. It was sharp and sudden, and a little louder than you meant it to be, but you didn’t care. It felt good. You hadn’t done that in a while.

You wiped your eyes, cheeks warm, the sound still lingering in the air as your gaze drifted to Sylus. He was staring. Not blankly. Not like he was studying you. But almost...softly. Like your laugh had surprised him.

Suddenly self-conscious, you tucked your hair behind your ear and looked away. "Ah...it wasn’t that funny, I guess. I’m—"

"Sorry?" he finished for you, his tone edged with irony but his eyes still locked on your face.

You sucked in a breath, caught red-handed, but it melted quickly into another quiet laugh. "Yeah, yeah…I know."

A beat of silence passes, and then he speaks again, but his voice is lower.

"Don't apologize for that. I like when I hear those kinds of sounds from you. They're pretty."

You aren't sure if you heard him right. Your face heats up instantly, the words echoing in your ears like they’ve carved their way in. "Huh?" you ask, voice quieter than you mean it to be, gaze darting anywhere but his.

The air in the room feels heavier now—charged. The warmth from the microwave, the hum of the light overhead, even the distant sound of the city outside—all of it fades into background noise.

He chuckles under his breath, low and unhurried. "Don't pretend you didn't hear me, sweetie."

You stiffen slightly as he moves, rising from the chair he’d been leaning on with effortless grace. He crosses the small space between you, the closeness making your breath catch. You tilt your head up just enough to see his face in the dim, amber lighting—his eyes sharp, but glittering with something unreadable.

"In fact," he murmurs, voice dropping just enough to graze against your spine, "I'm wondering what other sounds come out of that pretty mouth of yours."

The distance between you vanishes with every word, and you feel it—not just in your chest, but everywhere.

A slow burn, threatening to catch fire.

"Sylus..." you breathe, your voice barely audible. His expression has shifted—serious, intense, like he’s bracing himself against something dangerous that’s already clawing its way to the surface. It makes your stomach twist with nerves, your pulse fluttering beneath your skin like a trapped bird.

He lowers himself suddenly, dropping to one knee in front of you, bringing his face level with yours. The motion is fluid, almost graceful, but the way his gaze locks with yours—sharp, possessive, hungry—makes your breath stutter. It’s like he’s trying to memorize you. Or maybe unravel you.

"I knew it was a mistake coming in here," he mutters, his voice taut, eyes unblinking. "Now I have to ask. How much?"

Your brows furrow, confusion flickering in your expression. "F-for...?"

"A taste," he says flatly. The word lands like a spark in dry brush—no hesitation, no shame, only a simmering edge of something dark and consuming.

You freeze in place. The air feels electric, like it's grown too thick to breathe.

"Do...you mean—"

"Yes." His voice was low, but certain, as if the question itself had been gnawing at him long before you asked it aloud. "To taste you."

Your lips part, but no words come out. Your breath catches in your throat, heart lurching. Was he serious? The look in his eyes was anything but playful. This wasn’t a joke, it couldn’t be. His expression was molten intensity, carved from restraint, as if he’d spent weeks biting it back until now.

You blink, stunned. You’ve never been looked at like this. Not with hunger, not with reverence, not with the trembling edge of control threatening to unravel.

Everything in your body screams to move, to react, but you're locked in place, caught in the gravity of something you can't name but feel all the way to your bones.

"Do you want your paycheck early?" he asks, voice softer now, almost coaxing, though there’s a rawness behind it. It sounds like he’s bargaining more with himself than with you.

You shake your head, words tumbling out. "N-no, it’s fine, I—"

"Fuck it," he cuts in sharply, the words punched out of him like he can’t hold them back anymore. He’s breathing harder now, chest rising and falling with restraint that looks like it’s about to shatter. "Do you want three times your paycheck? Just a taste. I promise."

The room feels like it’s spinning. Tension coils so tightly in your chest you feel like it might snap your ribs apart. The look in his eyes is unrelenting—dark, desperate, determined. And still, somehow, controlled. Just barely.

Before you can even find your voice, he reaches into the inner pocket of his coat and pulls out an envelope, thick and heavy, and tosses it onto your nightstand with a quiet but deafening thud.

You stare at it.

Cash. Stacked high, crisp, bound with a strip of paper.

Three thousand dollars.

Enough to pay off everything.

Your rent, your utilities, the credit card bills you’ve been dodging, the mounting stack of final notices tucked inside your kitchen drawer. The broken heater you’ve been hoping would last just a little longer. Even groceries for the rest of the month—maybe two. Gone. All of it, gone. Just like that.

Three thousand dollars was more than relief—it was oxygen. It was the first exhale after being held underwater too long. It was a full night of sleep. It was a moment of silence after endless noise.

And yet, it sat there on the nightstand like a loaded weapon, wrapped in clean paper and cold temptation. A gleaming symbol of power—and surrender.

And all for a taste.

Your heart is racing now, thudding so loud in your chest you can barely think over it. Your mouth feels dry. Your limbs are frozen. You’re not sure what terrifies you more—the offer, or how much you want to take it.

He hasn’t moved.

He’s just watching you, waiting, like a wolf crouched at the edge of a line you didn't know you were drawing.

"It'll feel good. I won't hurt you," he says, his voice dropping to something low and coaxing—soothing like warm velvet, but beneath it, a thrumming urgency that vibrates in the stillness between you. There’s a tremor in his restraint, a sharp tension in the way his fingers flex and release at his sides, like he’s physically holding himself back from reaching for you.

You swallow hard, your breath stuttering in your throat as the atmosphere in the room thickens. The heat in his gaze scorches, pressing against your skin like a physical touch. Your pulse skitters against your ribs, every nerve raw and acutely aware of how close he is.

"I don't know..."

"I know I’m coming off strong," he says again, a note of frustration edging his voice—but it’s not aimed at you. It’s aimed at himself. His eyes don’t waver, locked on you like you’re the only thing anchoring him to the ground. "Every second. I see you and I can’t breathe. If I do it now, if I can just touch you, just once, maybe I can finally get it out of my head."

You don't say anything for a bit. Your lips part, but the words are stuck—thick and tangled in your throat. Your heart is hammering, each beat echoing against your ribs like it’s trying to shake loose the answer you can’t seem to give. It’s not that you don’t want to speak—it’s that you’re overwhelmed. The offer. The money. The tension so tight between your bodies it feels like it could snap. The way he looks at you, like he’s barely holding himself back. Like he’s one breath away from devouring you.

Finally, you manage to whisper, "I don’t believe you…three thousand for a...taste? Why not ask to go all the way...?"

Sylus exhales through his nose, slow and measured, but there’s a weight in that breath. "Because I know you can’t handle that," he says, his voice low but firm. There’s no smugness in it. And yet, beneath the calm surface, there’s a tremble—barely perceptible but unmistakable. He’s not unaffected by this. Not even close.

"It would hurt you," he continues, eyes narrowing slightly, his jaw tight. "I don’t want that. You think I haven’t thought about it? That I haven’t imagined it in every possible way? I have. Every day. But I’m trying to be better than that."

He pauses, and the room stretches out around his silence, dense and vibrating. His eyes stay locked on yours, unblinking. "This...this is my compromise with myself. To not be greedy and just take you."

You’re frozen, your skin hot, your pulse crashing through your veins. The intensity of his words, the weight of his restraint—it’s almost more intimate than if he’d touched you. There’s something terrifying in how controlled he’s being. How much he's holding back.

You swallow, throat tight, and glance back at the envelope on the nightstand.

The money is still there. Staring back at you like a second pair of eyes in the room. It’s more than just a bundle of cash, it’s a symbol. Of his temptation. Of your need. Of the space where control and desire blur.

It’s real. Heavy. Life-altering.

Your head is spinning. You know in your heart this is a terrible idea—you should say no, shouldn't be entertaining any of this. Every moral fiber in your body is screaming to get up, walk away, salvage whatever shred of dignity you have left. But your brain, more practical, more battered by life, is screaming even louder: you'd be stupid to say no.

You stare down at the floor, the stained edges of your cheap rug blurring in your vision. You can’t make sense of it. Why would someone like him want to do this? To you? Of all people? You weren’t glamorous, weren't the kind of girl who got attention from men like him. So why was he here, offering money, lowering himself to his knees, saying he wanted to...bury his head between your legs?

Your heart hammers as the silence thickens, every second a pressure cooker of conflicting thoughts and desperate what-ifs.

"Is the amount the issue? I can give more. It’s no issue," he suddenly interrupts, his voice firm but almost...breathless. The words slice through your spiraling thoughts like a blade, yanking you back to reality. Back to the weight of the moment—and the intensity in his gaze that hasn't faltered once.

"No...I just don't do things like this," you whine, covering your face in shame. Your voice trembles, not just from embarrassment, but from the sheer weight of the moment pressing down on you. Is this really what it had come to? Trading your body for cash? For survival? The idea claws at your insides, a slow burn of humiliation rising in your chest. And worse still, the fear gnaws louder—if you said no, would he fire you? Would he rescind the only lifeline you’ve been given in weeks? This strange, fragile opportunity he’d extended might vanish, and with it, the fragile thread holding your life together.

You weren't sure what to think, and that scared you most of all. Because a part of you, a small, shaky part you didn’t want to acknowledge, wasn’t completely horrified. Not at him.

"I can tell," he says quietly, his voice low and steady. He reaches out and gently moves your fingers away from your face, his touch feather-light, surprisingly careful. It’s not the grasp of someone impatient or predatory—it’s...something else. Something worse, maybe. His eyes meet yours, searching with an intensity that makes your breath hitch. You can’t read him.

"You don’t have to do anything. Just lay there," he murmurs.

His words are soft, almost comforting, but the promise woven into them is anything but. You feel that pressure behind every syllable he speaks, like the tension that’s been building between you has finally reached its breaking point.

He suddenly moves much closer to you, and instinctively, your body reacts—you back away, your breath hitching in your throat. The room feels smaller now, his presence taking up all the space like a storm cloud pressing in. You manage to slip past him, heart racing, but your escape is short-lived. The backs of your legs bump against the edge of your bed, halting your retreat with a jolt.

"Are you scared, kitten?" Sylus asks, his voice velvet-soft but unmistakably firm. He steps forward with unsettling calm, each stride deliberate, controlled, like a predator circling prey that it already knows won’t run far. You stumble backward and fall onto the mattress, your palms bracing behind you, eyes wide.

He's over you in an instant—towering, his body blocking out the low light in the room. His hands brace on either side of your waist, caging you in without touching you. You can feel his warmth, the restrained energy radiating from his skin. Your breath quickens as you look up at him, throat tight, heart hammering a wild rhythm against your ribs.

"Do you think I'm going to hurt you?" he asks, his gaze locked onto yours with unnerving intensity. His voice holds no menace, only quiet certainty, like he’s stating a fact he already knows the answer to.

You shake your head, voice barely a whisper. "N-no, but...are you going to...force me?"

A low chuckle escapes his lips, dark, amused, and disturbingly composed. "If I wanted to force you," he murmurs, his tone like a blade wrapped in silk, "you wouldn't be asking that question. It would be obvious."

One of his hands slides down your side slowly, deliberately, before gliding up your leg. His fingers graze bare skin, teasingly light as they slip beneath your skirt. The contact sends a jolt through you, your muscles tensing—not entirely from fear, but from something hotter, more primal, curling in your stomach.

His touch lingers just long enough to test your reaction, to feel the tremble in your thighs. He’s watching you like he’s memorizing every micro-expression, every hitched breath, every second of hesitation.

"But you would be a fool to turn down my offer," he says, voice lower now, more dangerous. The calmness in him is unsettling, like he’s already decided how this ends and is simply waiting for you to catch up. "And we both know this."

The way he says it—so certain, so assured—doesn’t feel like a question. It feels like inevitability. Like a fuse already lit, burning closer and closer to whatever explosion he’s been holding back.

You can barely think past the rush of blood in your ears, past the heat that’s rising to your cheeks, to your chest. Your thoughts spiral, second-guessing every feeling that bubbles up inside you. It’s too much. Too fast. Too intense.

He's right...right? This is your best chance to pay off your debt. And he's not even asking for more than a taste. Just a taste. You should just...say yes...right? You try to convince yourself it’s nothing—but deep down, you know that’s a lie. Nothing about this is simple. Nothing about Sylus has ever been.

Your mind is a whirlwind of panic and pressure, too tangled to form a coherent answer. Thoughts crash into each other—fear, doubt, curiosity, need. Before you can gather your thoughts, your breath catches—"I-I...ah!"

Sylus lowers his head and begins kissing the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. The contact sends a jolt through your body like white-hot electricity, sparking every nerve as it travels down your spine. Your entire body tenses at the sensation, and then melts a second later. Your stomach tightens, breath stuttering as a sharp, unfamiliar heat coils low in your belly, twisting into a knot of want and confusion.

He doesn’t rush. No, he’s slow, achingly slow. He savors every inch of skin, every flinch and tremble, as though he’s memorizing the map of your reactions. Each kiss is soft, but deliberate, searing a path into you that lingers long after his lips have moved on. It’s excruciating in the most maddening way, the kind of teasing that blurs the line between pleasure and torture.

You let out a breathy, broken whine, your fingers clenching in the bedsheets like they’re the only thing grounding you. He continues, lips trailing with devotion, worship, obsession. His control is terrifying—and thrilling. It’s as if he owns you already, and he’s just now getting to unwrap his prize.

"You sound beautiful, sweetie" Sylus murmurs, voice low, rough, vibrating with restrained hunger. It sends another shock of heat through you. He sounds almost pained, like holding himself back is costing him something.

He pauses just long enough to lift his gaze to yours, locking eyes with you in the low light. His mouth still hovers against your skin, warm breath tickling. "Just let me make you feel good."

The words hit like a drug, warm and dizzying, wrapping around your spine and sinking into your thoughts, your bones. His voice pulls you deeper, makes it harder to hold onto doubt. Harder to breathe. You still don't know if you should say yes. You don’t even know what you want anymore.

Sylus's fingers slide up under your skirt further, his touch firm and insistent as they wrap over the hem of your panties. "Ah! Wait—" you start to protest, but his grip tightens, cutting you off. His eyes are filled with a primal hunger, a look that sends a shiver down your spine.

"I'll make it six times your paycheck," he growls, his voice low and commanding. "Lay back and keep still." You can feel the urgency in his tone, the barely restrained desire that threatens to consume him. The cold air hits your now exposed cunt as he roughly pulls off your panties, leaving you vulnerable and at his mercy.

He can't wait for a clear answer anymore. His darkened gaze drinks in the sight of your glistening arousal.

You gasped, a soft "A-ah! Sylus...okay..." escaping your lips as your body reacted instinctively—your thighs tensing, a flush spreading across your cheeks, and a warm ache building deep inside.

You cover your face in heated shame as Sylus pries your thighs apart, his strength leaving no room for resistance. You gasp as he leaves a sudden, hot wet streak of saliva trailing up your inner folds with his tongue, the sensation sending a jolt of pleasure mixed with embarrassment through your body. Your lower half feels like it's on fire, every nerve ending alight with anticipation.

"S-stop...!"

You struggle in his grip, trying to back away from the wet sensation, but his hold on you is unyielding. He drags you back into position, lowering his head between your pussy once more. His warm breath teases your sensitive flesh as he begins intricate circles around your swollen bud, his tongue a masterful instrument of pleasure. "Mghn..." you moan, your hands gripping his hair subconsciously, torn between the urge to push him away and the desire to pull him closer, to deepen the exquisite torture of his touch.

"You taste even better than I imagined," Sylus coos, his voice a low, throaty murmur that vibrates against your most sensitive spots. He gives your throbbing clit a break, instead pushing his tongue deeper inside your cunt, exploring your depths with a skill that leaves you breathless. "Ahh!" You nearly arch off the bed, the intensity of the sensation overwhelming.

Only Sylus's steady and strong hands keep you in place, grounding you as waves of pleasure crash over you. You've never felt anything like this before, the vibrations of his voice adding to the aching pleasure that builds with each tortuous stroke of his tongue pushing in and out of your walls. "Don't...talk like that. Just hurry...mghn!" you manage to gasp out, your voice a mix of desperation and shame, urging him to bring you to the edge and over. Sylus truly had no shame with how blunt he often came across. You had often admired that about him.

In this situation though? It was mortifying.

A deep chuckle rumbles in Sylus's chest, a sound that vibrates through you, sending shivers down your spine. He pauses, looking up briefly to gaze into your eyes, studying your distraught and shameful expression with a mix of amusement and hunger. "As you wish, kitten," he murmurs, his voice laced with a promise of pleasure. He moves his tongue back to circle your clit, his touch both teasing and demanding.

As he begins to suck lightly, you let out a sound so primal and filthy that it surprises even you. Your whole body tenses, your core building with a tense pressure that threatens to explode. The sensation is overwhelming, a mix of pleasure and vulnerability that leaves you gasping and clutching the sheets, desperate for release.

"Hah...hah...hah..."

Your breath comes in ragged gasps, your skin glistening with a fine sheen of sweat as Sylus licks and devours your pussy with an insatiable hunger. He switches between sucking your clit and licking in between your folds, his tongue relentless in its movements. Each stroke, each suck, builds the tension inside you, pushing you closer to the edge. You can feel the pressure coiling tighter, your body trembling with anticipation. The room fills with the sounds of your desperate pants and his wet, hungry licks, a symphony of raw, unfiltered desire.

You manage to crack open your eyes, catching a glimpse of Sylus's flushed and heated face, his expression one of pure, unadulterated pleasure. He's clearly enjoying himself, his eyes dark with desire and his breath coming in ragged gasps. When you try to quiet your moans by biting down on your lip, he only sucks on your clit harder, drawing out the pleasure until you're practically screaming.

Your legs lock around his head, but he doesn't seem to mind, his focus entirely on the task at hand. Suddenly, he looks up, his eyes narrowed and intense as he locks his gaze with yours. You're a moaning, writhing mess, your body trembling on the edge of release. The last thing you need is to cum with him looking at you like that, his gaze searing into your soul. But it's clear he has no intention of looking away, his stare unyielding and demanding, as if he's determined to watch you unravel completely.

"Fuck! Sylus!" The words tear from your throat, a desperate cry that echoes through the room. But it's too late, the pressure has built to a crescendo, and with one final, powerful suck, it explodes. Your whole body tenses and shivers as a crash of aching pleasure overfills your lower half, waves of ecstasy washing over you, leaving you breathless and trembling.

Your face tears up and you gasp for breath as you ride out the intense orgasm. Sylus watches, his eyes locked on yours, as you unravel on his tongue. He laps up your juices, his movements slow and deliberate, savoring every drop. You twitch and jerk on his mouth, your body convulsing with aftershocks of pleasure, each one sending new waves of sensation coursing through you. He doesn't let up, his tongue continuing to tease and explore, drawing out the feeling until you're a quivering, spent mess, completely at his mercy.

Eventually, the sensations of Sylus's tongue continuing to lick your oversensitive bud become too much, the pleasure bordering on pain. You plead with him to stop, your voice breaking as you burst into tears, overwhelmed by the intensity of the experience. Sylus pauses, his tongue stilling as he licks his mouth, his face softening with a mix of satisfaction and tenderness. He's breathless, his chest heaving as he leans closer to your face. Through your tears and sobs, you can barely see him, but you feel him lean in, his lips capturing yours in a firm, passionate kiss. It's strong and demanding, leaving you helpless to do anything except lean into it. He pries open your mouth with his tongue, exploring and claiming. He pauses between each breath to speak.

"Everything you do...is so damn cute. Even when you're crying... God...what am I supposed to do with you?"

He doesn’t ask; he takes, yet not without a strange reverence, like he’s claiming something that was always his to begin with. Your body responds before your mind can catch up. Instinct, surrender, exhaustion, maybe all three. You lean into the kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue, powerless against the storm he’s become.

Everything becomes a blur after that. Your senses dull, body limp from exhaustion, nerves frayed to the point of collapse. Your eyes begin to feel unbearably heavy, each blink slower than the last. You vaguely register movement—his hands, still careful despite the storm that had just passed, adjusting your position on the bed, guiding your head to the pillow.

You think you hear him murmur something near your ear. It’s low, almost regretful. “I think I’ve just made things worse for myself.” Or maybe you imagined it. You can’t be sure.

There’s the faint rustle of fabric, the cool sensation of a cloth against your skin. You open your eyes just enough to catch the shape of him cleaning you with surprising gentleness. Another flutter of vision: a fresh pair of underwear, slipped back into place with care. Then, a sudden weight is placed on the bed beside you. A second envelope of cash.

And then…nothing. He’s gone. The room is quiet again.

Your eyes finally close, this time for good.

When you wake up the next morning, for a split second, you almost believe you dreamed the whole thing. A strange haze clings to your thoughts, like your mind is desperately trying to rewrite reality into something softer. But the two thick envelopes of cash sitting ominously on your nightstand and bed say otherwise.

You sit up slowly, the ache in your body making it clear last night wasn’t just a vivid fantasy. Shame floods your chest as the memories return in jagged pieces. You grip your hair, curling forward on the bed.

"Shit, shit, shit…" you whisper harshly to yourself, your stomach twisting into knots. How were you supposed to go back to work and face him after that? Could you even look him in the eye? Should you even bother showing up again? Or was it better to disappear, let this whole thing vanish behind you like a nightmare?

You try to steady your breathing, to ground yourself, but your thoughts are a chaotic mess. As you sit there, overwhelmed, something shifts in your periphery. You glance toward your front door.

Boxes.

Taped, sealed boxes. You blink, confused. You hadn’t ordered anything. You hadn’t expected anything. Yet there they were—stacked neatly by the door like they belonged.

A strange chill rolls down your spine.

What the hell is this?

The first was a box of winter clothes. Not just any clothes—thick, soft-lined wool leggings, a heavy coat with a fur-lined hood, warm gloves that fit your fingers perfectly, thermal socks, and a sturdy pair of boots that looked brand new. The fabric was clearly expensive, designed for someone who actually had to walk in freezing weather. All of it in muted, neutral tones—deep gray, soft beige, dark burgundy, as if selected not just for practicality, but to suit you.

The second box held a phone.

Your breath hitched. A brand new, high-end smartphone. Sleek, lightweight, and already powered on. The screen displayed nothing but a single message: a contact preloaded into the device. Just one name.

Sylus.

You swallowed hard. You had only mentioned in passing that you didn’t own a phone, something about saving up for one eventually, tossed out in conversation and barely remembered. But he had remembered. Not only that, he had acted on it. Gone out of his way to give you something you hadn’t even asked for. He'd even noticed you didn't have proper winter clothes.

Your heart pounded, warmth blooming in your chest so abruptly it startled you. Was this guilt? Remorse for how things had gone last night? Did he feel bad for pushing you past your limits? Or…was this something else?

You didn’t know. But whatever the reason, gratitude surged through your veins like a wave.

You had to thank him. But you were too nervous to text him.

The idea of crafting a message was too much. So instead, you threw yourself into getting ready, tugging on the new winter clothes he’d sent. The coat fit like it was tailored for you, hugging your body in a way that made you feel both secure and...oddly seen. The boots were warm and sturdy. Even the gloves made your hands feel less forgotten by the cold.

You rushed to work without checking the time. Your heart beat like a drum in your chest the entire way, thoughts looping back to last night. That moment—those moments—had unraveled something deep in you. Something that had never been touched before. Even now, thinking about it made your cheeks burn. The heat crawled up your neck as flashes of memory danced behind your eyes.

It had felt good. Too good. Even if it had been unexpected and confusing, the way he’d touched you, spoken to you, looked at you—it all stayed with you. And now...your debts were gone. Cleared. Just like that.

Because of him.

You owed him more than money could ever measure. Even if the circumstances had been a little strange. You had to say something. Anything. You felt awful for blacking out on him so suddenly, for never even thanking him properly.

As you stepped into the elevator, thoughts still tangled and storming inside you, the soft chime of the top floor arriving pulled you from your haze. The doors slid open.

You entered the suite, heart pounding, nerves buzzing, a mixture of anticipation and unease swirling in your chest like a storm barely held at bay. Your palms were clammy inside your gloves, your breath caught somewhere between hope and dread. But the moment you stepped inside and spotted Sylus, your face instinctively lit up, a flicker of relief sparking in your chest.

He had his back to you, seated with an almost lazy confidence on one of the sleek leather couches that made the massive living room feel even more expansive. You took a breath, readying yourself, rehearsing the words you'd been building up the courage to say.

"Sylus...I just wanted to say I—"

And then you stopped cold.

A voice—low, smooth, unmistakably feminine—slipped through the air like smoke.

Your eyes shifted. Next to him on the couch sat a woman. A vision. Slender and poised, legs elegantly crossed, a cigarette balanced with casual grace between long, painted fingers. Her dark hair fell in effortless waves, and her eyes, smoky, lined to perfection, scanned the room like she owned it. She looked like she stepped out of a magazine spread or a high-society gala. Everything about her screamed power, ease, control.

And Sylus…

He wasn’t the man you usually saw—sharp, unreadable, and cold. No, this version of him was relaxed. Too relaxed. His posture loose, one arm slung along the back of the couch, the other resting on her thigh like it belonged there. They laughed together, the sound low and intimate. It was a touch that spoke of familiarity, not formality. Not business. Personal.

The air thickened around you.

They both turned as the door clicked shut behind you.

And you froze in place.

All the breath you’d been holding escaped you in a shallow, silent gasp.

Your fingers gripped the sleeves of your coat tightly, a useless attempt to hold onto something solid as the ground beneath your feet shifted. For a single, endless heartbeat, all you could hear was the blood rushing past your ears.

"Oh? Who's this, Sylus?" the woman asked, her tone light and teasing, yet unmistakably edged with curiosity. She tilted her head, dark lashes framing her amused eyes as she took another slow drag of her cigarette. Smoke curled around her like perfume, adding a haze to the air as she studied you from across the room, her gaze settling on you like a cat watching a cornered mouse.

Sylus didn’t even spare you a glance. His voice, when he spoke, was flat, indifferent, practically clinical. "Just the housekeeper. We got a new supply of rags for you, since the others were torn or bleached. The kitchen floor needs scrubbing today."

Just the housekeeper.

The phrase echoed in your head, each syllable heavier than the last. You stood there, frozen, trying to pretend those words hadn’t hit you like a slap to the face. Trying to pretend the tight knot in your chest was anything but what it was.

He turned back to the woman without pause, without a flicker of acknowledgment that you might have had something to say. His fingers remained lazily draped on her thigh, his posture relaxed, comfortable in a way you’d never seen before. He chuckled at something she whispered in his ear, his lips curling in a way that made your stomach twist with something sharp and bitter.

Your heart dropped, heavy and cold, like it had been cut loose and left to sink. Your arms felt numb. Your breath felt caught in your throat.

You didn’t even fully understand why it stung this much. Maybe it was the sudden switch from last night’s intensity to this cold dismissal. Maybe it was the look in his eyes when he’d touched you, compared to the easy comfort he now gave so freely to someone else.

You had just gotten the stark reminder that you were nothing but the help. A background character in his real life.

You managed to speak without choking. "Oh...yeah. I’ll get right on that," you mumbled, your voice tight and fragile, like it might crack if pushed any further. You turned away before either of them could see your expression.

The hallway felt darker as you walked away, the soft echo of their laughter following you like a ghost. It clung to you, taunting, curling around your shoulders like smoke.

Just the housekeeper, huh?

All of that—every touch, every look, every whispered word—had just been for his own amusement. For him to get off. A way to toy with you, distract himself, maybe pass some time. Nothing more. The money, the clothes, the phone—it had all been out of pity. A rich man’s guilt dressed up as generosity.

Of course. He was the leader of Onychinus. A man of unshakable power and influence. What had you honestly expected? That someone like him would look at someone like you and see something worth wanting? That he had good intentions with you? Of course it had meant nothing. He got what he wanted and you got the money.

Nothing more. Nothing less.

You were stupid to overthink it otherwise.

You were nothing but a desperate girl from the N109 Zone—barely scraping by, barely surviving. You weren’t beautiful like that woman on the couch. You weren’t polished, or confident, or powerful. You were a speck in his world. A faceless, voiceless shadow.

Stupid. So, so stupid. You felt utter shame now. Felt used.

The self-loathing came in waves, sharp and consuming as you scrubbed at the kitchen floor, harder than you needed to. Each movement was angry, bitter, punishing. Scrub, rinse, repeat. The pain in your knees didn’t matter. The sting in your fingers didn’t matter. The tears threatening to fall, those didn’t matter either.

Because this was your place.

Not in his lap. Not in his bed. Not in his thoughts.

Here. On your hands and knees. Scrubbing. Silent. Invisible.

You were a nobody. Lowlife scum. Best to remember that.

Best to know your place.

And keep being the quiet, disposable housekeeper he’d hired you to be.

3K notes · View notes

smileysuh · 2 months ago

Text

camera man

🌙 starring. Choi Seungcheol x afab!Reader

🔮 preview. He’s this big, strong, business major and frat president- but right now, he’s putty in your hands… and you’d be lying if you said you weren’t feeling extremely powerful from this.

tw/cw. Unprotected sex, cam girl reader, mentions of alcohol/drugs/porn, masturbation, use of sex toys, multiple reader orgasms, oral (both m/f recieving), blow job, pussy eating, overstim, multiple sex positions, dirty talk, praise, etc… I pet names: (hers) baby.

👹 rating.18+ explicit I wc. 6.3k

🍭 aus. Svt cam boy au, frat au, university au, etc…

☀️ mlist + an. This is part 2 of a 3 part cam boy svt au. Each story can be read as a stand-alone, but exists within the same universe :) Wonwoo is April, Seungcheol is May, and Mingyu will be in June. The complete masterlist is here.

Prologue:

It’s a generally unspoken secret amongst the frats and sororities at your university that some of the students within the ‘Greek system’ are a part of the adult entertainment camming industry. When notorious gaming streamer ‘No Face’ had made his debut in the more erotic style of video making, there had been whispers about Sigma Veta Tau’s Jeon Wonwoo being the man behind the mask.

“I swear to God,” your friend Kelly says one night as you’re all watching Legally Blonde for the tenth time, “No Face had another cam show last night, and I’m like a hundred percent sure he was talking to someone behind the camera.”

“So?” you sigh.

“So… everyone knows Wonwoo has that new girlfriend! I would bet my scholarship that Wonwoo is No Face, and he and his girlfriend are into some weird in front of camera and behind the camera masturbation type of shit.”

“If they are, that’s their own business,” you shrug.

“I wonder how much money they make,” Kelly frowns. “Like… No Face is huge- I wonder if he makes like… thousands every month.”

Now your friend's words draw your attention. It’s one of those weird things, you’re aware of camboys and camgirls, aware of the porn industry and everything, of OnlyFans- but with so many easily accessible free porn sites, you’d forgotten that a lot of content creator’s have switched to behind paywall options in order to make actual income on their work.

“I heard he’s making over ten thousand a month,” another sorority sister pipes in. “There are rumours that Sigma Veta Tau’s frat president, you know, the business major one, supports the whole thing and helps with marketing and style and all sorts of stuff so that it’s more profitable.”

Your skin is prickling now… ten thousand a month? Just for… diddling yourself on camera? Wearing a mask would make you anonymous, and as a female, if you did a wig, it would be even better…

You shake your head at yourself, you can’t actually be considering this… can you?

One:

It’s been about six months since you started camgirling, and it’s going alright. It had been a definite learning curve, as you don’t have some business major to talk you through the ropes, and unlike No Face, you didn’t start with a preexisting following from being a gaming streamer- no, it’s slow going, but sometimes with things like this, it just is what it is.

Being an anonymous camgirl doesn’t stop you from having fun though, and tonight, you’re with Kelly at a Sigma Veta Tau frat party.

There had been talk about frat president Choi Seungcheol being a mastermind behind the possible camboy ring in this frat, notably No Face being the most famous, but you push that aside. You’ve been into Seungcheol since you first saw him, and, expertise or not, you’d do anything for a chance with him.

The two of you know each other in passing; you’re both in the ‘Greek system’ after all, so when you get to the party, you zero in on Cheol by the beer pong table.

He looks up as you approach, a smirk working its way onto his mouth.

You’ve had near misses with this man, misses that you’ve since dwelled on incessantly.

There had been that time your sorority and his fraternity were doing a bake sale together, and the two of you had been stuck at the booth all day due to scheduling conflicts with other volunteers. The booth had been small, and there had been numerous moments of contact, you trailing your hand along his shoulders as you moved behind him to grab cupcakes, his hands on your hips to gently guide you out of his way so he could access the cash box-

Christmas had been interesting, with the two of you stuck under the mistletoe only to be interrupted by first-year Dino, who had come to warn Seungcheol that Hoshi and Seokmin had spiked the punch with LSD by accident- how had it been an accident, you might ask? Well, the jury is still out on that one.

Seungcheol is definitely your ‘maybe’ man, the man you maybe will kiss, the man you maybe will fuck, the man you maybe will fall for… if the situation allows it.

“How are you doing?” Seungcheol says, immediately wrapping his arm around your shoulders to pull you in.

It’s a forward approach, but you don’t mind as you snuggle up to the big, muscular frat boy.

“Doing good, you?”

“Been drinking,” he notes, holding up his red solo cup for you. “Promise there’s no LSD in this one.”

You laugh, accepting the liquor. It’s a mixed drink, something strong, and now you know why Seungcheol is so relaxed. This is pure giggle juice, and if you’d had a whole cup of this, you’d be just as forward with Seungcheol as he’s being with you right now.

“What did you put in this?” you ask.

“I don’t know, Dino made it.”

Sometimes you forget that Seungcheol is one of the older men here, and he’s the president, so he has a whole house of dudes ready to do anything he asks. It’s funny how often he picks on Dino, but at the same time, you know Seungcheol loves the kid and sees him like a little brother.

“Are you sure there’s no LSD in this, then?” you tease.

Seungcheol chuckles. “Dino’s more of a weed guy, and Vernon only sells the flower shit, which would be hard to hide in a drink, so you don’t have to worry.”

You love the inner workings of this community. Hoshi and Seokmin are the trouble makers with a thing for getting too messed up on alcohol or anything they can get their hands on. Seungkwan, their bitchy mother figure/younger cohort who always runs around with them, or with Vernon - the resident weed seller - even though Seungkwan is a total musical theater kid and hasn’t touched any drug in his entire life.

Then you have the likes of Jeonghan, Joshua, and Seungcheol, three of the older members, the business majors. Woozi and Wonwoo are more on the quiet end of the spectrum, avoiding parties. There are Jun and Minghao, who can have a crazy streak, but also prefer to seclude together rather than come to big gatherings. Mingyu and Dino are both just puppies, and they’re constantly running around and getting into trouble.

No, you love this frat, and regardless of the camboy rumours, you’re happy that they’re the brother frat to your sorority.

You continue to sip on the drink, standing with Seungcheol while you watch Seokmin and Hoshi versus Jeonghan and Joshua in beer pong. It’s a riveting game, with all sorts of fake-outs, crying, screaming- Hoshi pretending to sip his drink, then doing a trick shot that fails, only for him to sprawl onto the floor in disappointment. Seokmin laughing at his teammate’s antics can probably be heard over the music throughout the whole house.

Jeonghan and Joshua end up winning, and the ‘evil twins’ - as some call them - celebrate accordingly with shots.

Seungcheol can only laugh, turning to look at you. “How’s that drink working out?”

“Are you trying to get me drunk, mister Choi?”

“Just a little tipsy, not drunk,” he smirks.

“And why would you want me to be tipsy?”

“So you’ll dance with me,” he admits, and for the first time, he actually looks kind of shy. This big, beefy, muscle-head businessman who always fills out his suits - or his blue jeans - is shy about asking you to dance… You couldn’t be more into him than you are in this moment.

“Cheol, you need to be more confident,” you tell him, grabbing his hand to lead him onto the dance floor.

“I am confident,” he argues.

“Yeah? I don’t believe you.”

Seungcheol swallows thickly, and then he grabs the back of your neck. He tugs you to his chest, closing the distance between your mouths. You kiss him back eagerly, latching onto his plain white t-shirt as your tongues begin to clash deliciously.

Seungcheol groans, his hand slipping from the small of your back to your ass, and you realize that maybe this man wasn’t being shy at all, maybe he just wanted your first kiss to feel right. After all, there have been so many near misses-

No, this is perfect, and you get lost in the taste of Seungcheol as he kisses you on the dance floor.

You don’t feel exposed even though you’re in a crowd like this- you know no one is paying attention to you, and you also know you’re not the only couple making out on the dance floor right now.

Your heart is racing when Seungcheol finally pulls away, and he looks down at you with a grin.

“My room?”

“Fuck, yeah.”

He grabs your hand, pulling you off the dance floor.

Your heart is still thundering as you follow him. He takes you up two flights of stairs, all the way to his back corner room.

Lots of frat boys have double rooms that they share with others, but there’s a select handful that have solo lodging like Cheol’s.

You’ve never actually been in his room before- most of the frat boys keep their doors locked, and you’re shocked at the neon blue hue created by many panels of mood lighting along the walls. There’s a massive gaming station in the corner, a desk, a big bed- it looks like a room that suits Seungcheol, but there’s something about the aesthetic that’s throwing you off.

The neon blues are No Face’s colours- but you know Cheol is not No Face, he’s much too big to be the lean, thick anonymous gamer turned OnlyFans celebrity.

“You good?” Seungcheol asks, closing the door behind you.

“Yeah, just never been in here before,” you lie, shaking your head as you grab Seungcheol again, pressing your lips to his desperately.

He wraps you up in his large arms, leading you over to the bed. You fall onto the mattress as gracefully as gravity allows, looking up at Seungcheol.

His expression is one of complete lust, you can tell you’ve both been waiting for this for a while.

“Here,” you offer, undoing your jeans and lifting your hips so you can shimmy out of them.

He immediately grabs at the fabric, helping you tug it off. Next is your shirt, and you remove that too-

Then you notice Seungcheol staring at you, but his expression has shifted to one of confusion.

You look down and realize he’s staring at a faint birthmark on your inner thigh.

“Wait…” he shakes his head, “are you camgirl BabyDoll246?”

Two:

Seungcheol’s whole world has stopped. Things had been a little fuzzy from drinking mixed booze for a couple of hours, but now, the world is extremely clear. He can’t stop looking at the mark on your thigh, the tiny mark- so small you could miss it, so small it would likely be insignificant in every scenario- except Seungcheol has been looking at that mark nearly every night for the better part of two months.

As someone involved with unofficial guidance in the camming industry, Seungcheol has made it his job to keep an eye out for competition… but at the same time, Seungcheol’s not about to watch all the male camboys. No, he’s taken to watching the girls, seeing what works, what doesn't-

And then he’d found anonymous, mask and wig-wearing camgirl BabyDoll246, and he’d become obsessed.

You… you can’t be camgirl BabyDoll246… except, it’s your mark, on your thigh- and now that Seungcheol thinks about it, other things are starting to fit too.

“Y/N,” Seungcheol repeats, “Are you camgirl BabyDoll246?”

“Cheol…”

“I’ve got so many business tips for you!” Seungcheol belts out, his grooming as a businessman taking over, without the aid of his usual charming lines, which are blurred by his tispy countenance.

“What?” You blink up at him in confusion. “You’re not mad that I’m a camgirl?”

“Why would I be mad?” Seungcheol asks in shock.

“Because, uh… well, some men are very controlling and protective over the girls they sleep with?”

“Some men need to grow some balls, and also, we haven’t slept together yet.”

“Which brings me back to the fact that I’m in my bra and panties on your bed, so are we doing this, or what?” You chuckle, but there’s a nervousness to it.

Seungcheol gets the impression that the whole camgirl thing is a touchy subject for you. Not many cam people are proud and loud about what they do for work, and Seungcheol knows it’s hard to face the judgment that comes with being an adult entertainer while also trying to get a university degree.

His mind is spinning, and Seungcheol does his best to push it all down.

He thinks maybe he’d had too much to drink earlier, and Seungcheol’s the kind of man who struggles to get hard when he’s been excessive with his alcohol consumption. But he’s not about to pass up this opportunity, not when his mouth still works.

The frat president sinks to his knees, hooking his fingers in your panties to remove them.

“Eat you out now, talk business another time, when I’m sober,” he promises.

“You’re not going to fuck me after eating me out?” you question.

Seungcheol would normally be open about his failings as a man, but now that he knows you’re camgirl BabyDoll246, he doesn’t want to embarrass himself in front of you. So instead, he tells you, “I don’t want to rush things,” then he pulls your core to his tongue.

You don’t question him further, your head lolling back, a whimper escaping you.

God, you sound even prettier in person, and it encourages Seungcheol to go harder, giving you everything his mouth has to give.

He’s watched you cum on toys of all sorts, and he’ll be damned if he can’t make you cum on his tongue.

Three:

You can’t believe you’ve agreed to a ‘buisness meeting’ with Choi Seungcheol- but after he’d made you cum on his tongue three times, you hadn’t been in the mindset to argue with him about anything.

So here you are, after dinner on a Tuesday, walking through the nearly deserted library until you find the frat president in a far corner on his laptop.

Seungcheol waves you over, and he even stands to give you a lingering hug.

“Missed you,” he whispers, and if he didn’t sound so sincere, you might find it laughable.

By now, you’ve worked it out that Seungcheol is a major fanboy of yours. What had felt like a push-pull power dynamic ‘maybe’ relationship has been flipped on its head, and now, you’re acutely aware that you hold all of the cards.

“I made a PowerPoint,” Seungcheol announces as you both sit down next to each other.

“What?”

He opens his laptop, and you find yourself staring at a Google Slides document with the apt title ‘BabyDoll246 - rebranding prospects for financial gain.’ In tiny font at the bottom, there’s a ‘by Choi Seungcheol’ note, and you find yourself laughing.

“You can’t be serious,” you tell him.

“Deadly serious,” he warns you. “Now, if I could have five minutes of your uninterrupted time, I can present this for you.”

You sigh. “Okay, I’m listening.”

“I wanted to start my presentation today by discussing my qualifications,” Seungcheol announces - as if this is some sort of job interview - as he clicks the next slide. “Although I should be maintaining client and marketing manager anonymity, I need you to know that I’m the mastermind behind streamer No Face’s success on OnlyFans. I helped guide him into the world of adult content by keeping his brand simple and focused, which is what I can help you with too.”

He hits the next slide, but pauses momentarily.

“I also want you to know that I think it would be a lot easier for you to get big on OnlyFans because more men watch that kind of shit than women do.”

“Do you have the statistics on that?” you tease.

“In a recent study, OnlyFans estimated that seventy-nine percent of their monthly traffic came from male users, as opposed to twenty-one percent for female users.”

“Oh, you actually had the stats.” You blink at him in shock.

“I’m a business major, I come prepared,” he reminds you. “Anyways, there are a few avenues for growth when it comes to you. First, we need to get your brand narrowed down. I’ve noticed you switch a lot between masks and wigs and lighting, there’s no set mood or colour, which makes it hard for repeat watchers to realize it’s you and not one of the many other anonymous camgirls.”

You consider his words.

“So… you mean like No Face has his whole blue thing, and one mask, and that’s it- you always know it’s him,” you clarify.

“Exactly, you need to find your brand, and stick to it. You can mess around with outfits, but one mask, one wig or wig colour, and one lighting set up.”

“That could work,” you admit.

“I also think it would be interesting for you to have a…” he hits the next slide, which just says, “Camera man.”

You laugh, but then you realize he’s being serious. “Cheol, this is camgirl stuff, it’s not real porn with a real director-”

“But a lot of male audiences like the whole ‘pov’ style of thing, and also, as a man… if I were your camera man, I could help direct you with things your audience would want to see.”

“Oh, so you’re my cameraman now?” you chuckle.

“I think it would help your platform. Not always camera man videos, but sometimes… I’ve also found it helps some cam performers to have a partner behind the camera, someone to talk to, to make the dirty talk more real.”

“Like Wonwoo and his girlfriend?”

“Wonwoo?” Seungcheol’s skin turns pink. “I never mentioned Wonwoo- Wonwoo’s not No Face-”

“Cheol, you don’t have to hide that Wonwoo is No Face, I’m pretty sure everyone knows.” You release a breath and look back down at his PowerPoint. “If I’m being honest, these aren’t the worst ideas in the world.”

“Then think about it,” Seungcheol says. “You don’t have to agree to anything right now, but just… think about it.”

Four:

You’ve taken some of Seungcheol’s suggestions to heart. Getting ready with a pink wig, a pink purge mask and pink lighting, you can’t help but think you might be ripping off No Face- but to be fair, Seungcheol had helped Wonwoo’s marketing, so you’re not stealing anyone’s ideas of Seungcheol’s the one who told you to do this.

If this whole thing works, then it works. You know Wonwoo’s not about to sue you for ‘copyright of camming aesthetics’ or something stupid, so you take a breath and turn the camera on, inspecting yourself on the screen.

One of the good things about the mask is that you can just stare at yourself. There’s no awkward eye contact since no one can see your eyes… however, the mask and wig do get stuffy.

Pushing the uncomfortable sensation aside, you relax against your bed.

You’ve worn a pink babydoll-style lingerie set, and when you spread your thighs, it shows off your crotchless panties.

“I’m so wet already,” you murmur, playing it up for the camera. In the back of your mind, you consider what you’d be saying if Seungcheol were with you right now, so you draw on that for inspiration.

“I’ve been wanting you inside me,” you groan, reaching down to rub your clit. “Want to feel your tongue again, want to feel your thick fingers and your massive cock.”

You can see donations coming in, and you realize Seungcheol was onto something with upping your dirty talk game by being in the moment.

“My little fingers just aren’t enough,” you continue, pushing one inside of yourself. “Maybe I should add another.”

You continue teasing yourself and dirty-talking to the camera until you have enough donations, and then you reach for your vibrator.

Thinking about Seungcheol is making you wetter than than ever before, and as you bring the toy to your clit, you know you’re not going to last long tonight.

You throw your head back, deciding to moan and whimper instead of dirty-talking further. You imagine it’s Seungcheol holding this toy to your clit- and thinking about that brings back the memory of him eating you out, which only makes you more turned on.

God, his tongue had felt so good that night-

You’d gripped his hair, riding his face for the third orgasm, your chest heaving, heart racing, skin clammy from exhaustion.

You get lost in the memory, the tension building in the pit of your stomach. Soon, you’re falling over the edge, your pussy clamping down on nothing while desperately aching for Seungcheol to be filling you up-

You ride out your orgasm, waves of pleasure surging through you with each wiggle of your hips.

Seungcheol’s voice swirls through your head, and as the show comes to an end, you realize you want to take him up on his offer.

Five:

It’s been all of ten minutes since you turned off your cam show, your wig is off, and you’re resting in bed just trying to collect yourself, when there’s a knock at your door.

“Uh… busy?!” you call, thinking it’s a sorority sister.

“It’s me.”

Seungcheol’s voice makes you sit up abruptly. “One second!”

You wrap a robe around your body, nearly falling on your face in an effort to hop off the bed. You unlock your door, opening it to find the business major standing there.

He looks disheveled, frantic even, and he immediately pushes into your room.

“You took my advice,” he says.

“Hmm?”

“I just watched your stream. All pink monochrome colours and aesthetics- of course you’d choose pink, fuck you look so good in pink.” Seungcheol is practically pacing in front of you, and you wrap your rope tighter around your naked body.

“Are you alright?” you ask.

“I got too caught up in drinking and business last time, I should have fucked you, but I didn’t, and you have no idea how much I’ve been regretting that.”

You realize he’s still hung up on the night of the frat party, and you also realize maybe Seungcheol’s been thinking about you as much as you’ve been thinking about him.

“I’m not used to this,” Seungcheol admits, taking a seat on your bed and running his hand through his hair. “I’m a business major, I’m supposed to keep a level head, but fuck- I found out you were BabyDoll246 and I think it just made me feral.”

“You’re cute when you’re a fanboy,” you tease, sitting next to him.

Seungcheol groans, but he accepts it when you open your arms for him, and he cuddles close to your chest, breathing in heavily. You stroke his hair, giving him space to speak.

“I want you,” he says finally. “I want you so fucking bad. I offered the cameraman thing to be close to you, and I’ll still do that for you, I’ll help you with your brand, but- even before I knew you were BabyDoll246, I’ve been into you for months.”

“So why did you never make a move?”

“I’ve got a porn addiction,” he admits. “Well… maybe not an addiction. I’m pretty ingrained in the OnlyFans industry, not personally, but… I’m involved, and I know that can be rough on partnerships in this day and age-”

“So this situation is kind of perfect, huh?” you grin. “Can’t microcheat on me by watching porn if I’m the one you always want to watch.”

Seungcheol chuckles. “Guess that’s true.”

“What if you only like me because I’m BabyDoll246?” you joke.

“Fuck,” Seungcheol shakes his head and lets out a sigh. “I’m going to simp for you so hard.”

“I think you already are,” you grin. “Making me cum three times on your tongue, not even fucking me yourself- how were the blue balls after that party?”

“So bad.”

“And how are they right now after watching my show?”

“Maybe you should take my pants off and see for yourself,” Seungcheol teases.

You stare at him for a moment, and then you sink to your knees next to the bed. You push open his thighs, hands reaching for his button and zipper.

“Shit,” Seungcheol cusses, letting out a shaky breath as you begin to tug his pants down.

“Didn’t think I’d actually do it, did you?” you grin.

“I guess not,” he chuckles, swallowing thickly. “Are you sure about this?”

“I am, are you?”

Seungcheol nods. “Yeah, but uh… no pressure.”

Now it’s your turn to laugh, and you pause to look up at him. “Seungcheol, you made me cum three times with your mouth, I think you deserve this in return.”

“I don’t uh… keep track like that,” he says shyly.

“Then don’t keep track. Sit back, relax, and let me do this.”

Seungcheol nods, watching you carefully as you hook your fingers in his underwear, tearing them down his legs.

God, he’s so thick. His shoulders are broad, his thighs are juicy, and his cock looks like something out of a fever dream, all hard and big-

He might have the biggest cock you’ve ever seen, and when you wrap your hand around the base, you realize you’re already practically drooling.

“Try not to choke,” Seungcheol says, and you flash a glare up at him.

“For someone who seems shy at points, you’re actually pretty cocky aren’t you?”

“I mean…” he bites his lip, “I think I’ve got a lot to work with.”

You have no response to that, because it’s true. You simply shake your head, taking a breath before leaning forward.

You start by licking at his tip, teasing it while he groans above you. You like his sounds, and they prompt you to take more of him into your mouth. You continue to suckle on him, paying attention to the sensitive mushroom head.

Men always want more, they always want to see how much you can fit inside your mouth- so to start like this, well, it will tease Seungcheol and make him even more eager for you than he already is.

His hand finds your hair, and he strokes you as you suck on him.

“Feels good,” he groans, shifting a little so he can lean back, his other hand now pressed against your mattress.

You moan a sound of affirmation, sinking down on him further.

“Fuck,” Seungcheol breathes. “You’re so good at this.”

You’re a glutton for praise, and you do your best to hollow your cheeks, moving up and down on his length.

When it comes to sexual activities, blow jobs aren’t usually at the top of your preference list, but there’s something about pleasuring this man- about hearing him come undone for you.

He’s this big, strong, business major and frat president- but right now, he’s putty in your hands… and you’d be lying if you said you weren’t feeling extremely powerful from this.

You’re practically slurping on him now, your mouth starting to make obscene sounds from the effort, and Seungcheol echoes the noises with groans and grunts of his own.

“Fuck, baby, I don’t want to cum from this.”

You pull off of him. “Then don’t cum?”

He lets out a shocked laugh. “It’s not that easy.”

“No?” You trail your tongue from his base to his tip. “Can’t control yourself?”

Seungcheol meets your gaze, and you see something harden in his eyes.

“No, I can’t.”

He grabs you suddenly, lifting you off the ground and tossing you onto the bed.

Then Seungcheol stands up, tearing off his shirt so he’s now naked for you. God, he’s so gorgeous- he’s all big and muscled and-

Seungcheol reaches down, opening your robe with one motion, and just like that, you’re both naked.

“Condoms?” Seungcheol asks.

“I’m protected, as long as you’re not some STI-riddled frat boy.”

“I’m clean,” he laughs.

“Me too.”

“So… you’re okay with this?”

“Stop talking and fuck me,” you whine, opening your thighs to expose yourself to him.

You’re wet already, and it’s not just from the orgasms you’d had on cam half an hour ago. No, you’re more turned on than you ever have been before, your pussy already practically aching for something- anything, to lessen the feeling of complete emptiness.

Seungcheol joins you on the bed, and your thighs wrap around his hips.

He presses his lips to yours eagerly, your tongues immediately clashing in a passionate dance.

Your hands grab his strong shoulders, and you love the feeling of your chests pressed together like this. Seungcheol moans, rutting his hips so he can grind down against your wet core.

The sensation of his hard cock teasing your clit has you whimpering, and the kiss deepens.

You’re eager for him, but just as you’d played around by making him wait when you sucked him off, it seems Seungcheol is intent on making you be patient as well.

God, each grind of his hips has your core tensing, your clit nearly throbbing with need.

“Seungcheol,” you whimper, breaking the kiss so you can gasp at the feeling. “Please-”

His lips move down to your throat, and he teases your sweet spot there, making you moan even louder.

“Please!” you say again, with more force.

This time, Seungcheol does as you ask, his hand slipping between your bodies to grab the base of his cock. He lines himself up with your core, slowly sinking into you inch by inch.

You gasp at the stretch, loving the feeling of his big cock as it splits you open.

“Fuck,” Seungcheol groans. “So fucking tight.”

You can’t say anything in response, you can only writhe against your bed, your core finally appeased. The sensation of his thick length working every inch of your inner walls- it has you feeling dizzy already, and when he begins to thrust, your mind goes practically blank except for the pleasure that washes over you.

Seungcheol adjusts your thigh, spreading you open so he can sink even deeper. He hits every spot perfectly, and you feel feral as you lay there, taking everything he can give while moaning like a whore in heat.

“You look so good like this,” Seungcheol tells you, panting from the effort. “Could fuck you for hours.”

“Cheol- I’m sensitive!” you warn him.

“Came a few times on cam, but you can still take more, right?” He lets out a small laugh. “What would be the point if you can’t take more?”

“I can cum,” you tell him, nodding enthusiastically. “Just- don’t break me.”

“In one of your shows, you came five times, I think that’s your limit. You just came three times on your show tonight, so I think that gives me two to work with.”

Your muscles clench at the idea of cumming two more times tonight, but you’re not about to argue with him, so instead you just whimper, “Please.”

“Anything for you, baby.”

Seungcheol pulls out of you suddenly, and you look at him in confusion, only for his lips to wrap around your nipple. He gropes your other breast, and you can’t help but moan, tangling your fingers in his hair desperately.

He gives your chest the attention it deserves, and then his mouth continues its descent.

Seungcheol is lying on the bed now, his hands adjusting your thighs so they’re braced over his shoulders.

“Been thinking about eating this pussy every fucking day,” he tells you.

“Me too,” you admit.

“Yeah? Bet you were thinking about it during your show earlier.”

“I was,” you whimper, wiggling against the bed, your clit stimulated from his breath alone.

“Guess I shouldn’t make you wait.”

Seungcheol dives in, not holding anything back as he pushes his tongue into your core, rubbing his nose against your clit at the same time.

Your thighs are already beginning to shake, and you grab at the bedding, trying to keep yourself anchored while your muscles begin to tense.

Neither of you needs to say anything else. It’s clear Seungcheol has a goal in mind, and he’s quickly approaching the finish line. There’s something so sexy about a man who’s messy while eating you out, a man who clearly enjoys himself and doesn’t hold anything back.

“Shit,” you whimper, feeling the build up as it begins to tingle through you.

Seungcheol groans against your core, turning his attention to your clit. At the same time he shifts so he can push two fingers into your wet pussy, crooking them so he can stimulate your g-spot.

“Just like that!” you cry out. “Don’t stop!”

Seungcheol has no intentions of stopping, and he works you all the way to your high.

“Cumming!” you announce, core clamping down on his fingers as intense throbbing errupts through you.

You know enough about Seungcheol from the last three times he made you cum with his mouth to know he’s not the type of man who stops the moment you orgasm. No, he’s the type to work you through it, to eat you out with even more vigour until your legs are shaking, your heart is racing, and you’re physically pushing him away.

You’re still sensitive from cumming on cam, so it takes very little for you to reach the point of being overstimulated.

One push to his head makes Seungcheol pull away, and he looks up at you.

You’re both breathing heavily, and you watch him lick his lips, his pupils blown as he stares at you.

“That was one of two,” he warns you, and you would find it comical that he’s keeping track like this if you weren’t so overwhelmed from that orgasm.

You open your arms, a wordless urging for him to join you again.

But Seungcheol doesn’t comply, instead, he moves to sit next to you, his back against your headboard.

“Come here,” he says softly, helping you up. You straddle him, and he guides you down onto his cock, which fills your still aching core deliciously.

You both groan from the sensation, and you simply cockwarm him while you get your bearings.

He begins to kiss you, soft kisses that tease your skin.

One of his hands begins to massage your breast, and you let out a sigh of pleasure, throwing your head back.

You grab at his shoulders to anchor yourself, beginning to circle your hips so you can feel how deep he is inside of you.

Seungcheol wraps his arms around you, pulling you closer, his lips now moving to your throat.

“You look so good like this,” he tells you, and your core throbs from his words.

You take a breath, steadying yourself so you can begin to move.

Bouncing is effort, and you know you’re not going nearly as fast as Seuncgheol can go when it comes to fucking, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He lavishes on you, kissing your body, groping your breasts, all the while moaning, which turns you on even more.

Soon, he’s grabbing your hips, helping you bounce on him. You love how fucking strong he is, the way his biceps bulge with effort.

There’s something so slow and sensual about this, for you to be on top but still controlled by him. It feels amazing, and you feel very close to Seungcheol. There’s no rush; it’s simply an enjoyment of each other, and it allows you to lose yourself in the feeling.

However, soon, you can’t help yourself.

Your hand reaches for your clit, and your entire pussy clenches around Seungcheol as you begin to rub your sensitive bud.

“Fuck,” Seungcheol groans, moving you faster on his cock.

“Want you to cum with me,” you whimper, eyes closed as you focus entirely on the feeling beginning to build inside of you again.

“Let me know when you’re close,” he tells you, continuing to bounce you on his cock.

You give yourself grace to enjoy the build-up, there’s no pressure or time constraints, and soon, you’re nodding. “Okay, I’m almost there.”

Seungcheol nods, and with one motion, he flips you onto your back so you’re in missionary again. Now he has full control, and Seungcheol begins to fuck you fast and hard. It’s a contrast to the slow way you’d been moving on top of him, and the new change of pace feels amazing.

You rub your clit even harder, your eyes clenching shut as you get closer and closer to the edge-

“Cheol!” you whimper.

“I’m almost there, too,” he tells you, panting against your throat.

“Fuck, fuck-” Your entire body tenses, and then you fall over the edge. Your pussy clamps down on Seungcheol like a vice and he groans deeply, signalling his own release as he fucks you through your shared high.

You’re both gasping, panting, and clutching each other desperately, with Seungcheol all but burying his face against your throat. You thread your fingers through his hair, holding him close as his motions start to slow.

The pleasure is surging through you, all the more amplified by the sensation of closeness with Seungcheol.

Soon, he comes to a stop, and you hold him tight, both of you just trying to catch your breath.

You feel Seungcheol swallow, and he pulls away from your neck, looking down at you. “That was amazing.”

“It was,” you agree, teasing your thumb across his cheekbone. “So… you’re my new cameraman.”

He chuckles. “Going to be hard to watch you do any solo things.”

“You’ll just fuck me right after, like this,” you say simply.

“Fuck, what a life.”

☀️ mlist + an. thank you for reading! If you're interested in Wonwoo's chapter about No Face, find it here

🍭 support me by. sending a tip here or here - or become a patron to access monthly bonus content and extensions for fics like this one :) find the Patreon teaser below!

🔮 preview. Seungcheol has been learning your body, inside and out, and you love that he’s taken the time to understand what makes you tick.

cw/ tw. Unprotected sex, cam show/ porn, dirty talk, multiple sex positions, multiple reader orgasms, cum kink, creampie kink, sexual catering to audience, use of vibrator toy, spanking, ‘pov’ video filming, Seungcheol is her mute fuck toy for the cam show, overstim, squirting, hand job, masturbation, edging, etc… I petnames. (hers) baby.

👹 rating. 18+ explicit I wc. 2.1k I teaser wc. 130

🌙 starring. Choi Seungcheol x afab!Reader

bonus

It’s been a few months of Seungcheol being your cameraman, and your streams have definitely improved.

It helps to have a businessman with a vision in your corner, and when he’s behind the camera, it’s especially helpful for your content. Seungcheol brings realism to everything, because you can almost act as if there’s no camera at all. It’s just you and Seungcheol, and that taste of reality has brought in a ton of new subscribers.

He’s your official boyfriend now, but you know he’s been whipped for you from the start. Any man who’s willing to help their girlfriend succeed in the adult content industry is a bit of a simp, but you kind of love that about Seungcheol. In fact, you wouldn’t want it any other way.

☀️ to read the full fic AND 2.1k bonus NOW, subscribe to my Patreon, then click here

👹 or check out what else is on my patreon here

🔮if nothing strikes your fancy, check out my m.list

general taglist

@gotshinct - @subhyuck - @fraechan - @learnthisfeeling

@runahways - @d-abin - @milkteade - @woogyuhae

@anothershorthuman - @nihxxy - @vantxx95 - @bangshii

@poutypoutybin - @notbeforelong - @creepybakeoven

@ninetechculture - @yungiland - @suhsfam - @binchangf

@meowniee - @learnthisfeeling - @gigilame - @cumtrov3rsy

@mocha000 - @darthlunaa - @just-here-to-read-01 - @shiningnono

@lovelyhan - @grilledbananas - @sourkimchi

I'm also taggling those who I thought might like this :)

@bobathi - @amazinggraxia - @bluempire425-blog -

@twililty - @cheolaholic - @babieculture

@meowniee - @ridenotpark - @ollieollieoctopus

@axo-l0tl - @blspphr3 - @roseandpeaches

#seungcheol #thediamondlifenetwork #seungcheol smut #choi seungcheol #choi seungcheol smut #svt #svt smut #seventeen #seventeen smut #scoups #scoups smut #s.coups #s.coups smut #seungcheol x reader #seungcheol x reader smut #seungcheol svt #svt seungcheol

2K notes · View notes