#something something 'and they will recognize all the lines of your face / in the face of the daughter (son) of the daughter (son)

[bueckersworld]

hey could you do a angst one shot of how paige and reader are kinda toxic but they always get into arguments but they had a particular one that causes them to break up maybe even if reader or paige cheats anyways then at the end they always go back to eachother no matter how toxic if is

ALWAYS COMING BACK

SYNOPSIS: you and paige have a toxic, all-consuming relationship that finally breaks after she cheats on you. despite the pain, she shows up at your door, angry and desperate, and the two of you crash back into each other like always. no matter how much it hurts, you both keep coming back

WARNING(S): smut - mdni, angst, strap referred to as paige’s dick, mentions of infidelity/cheating, toxicity, profanity.

WORD COUNT: 2.9k. info. masterlist. taglist.

────୨ৎ────

you and paige have always had this thing—this unspoken understanding that things between you are never easy, but they’re always fiery, always intense. you fight like hell one moment, and the next, you’re clinging to each other as if you can’t breathe without the other. it’s the kind of relationship where every argument feels like the last, but it’s never really over. not with paige. not with you.

but tonight, something shifts. tonight, everything cracks.

it started small, like it always does—just an offhand comment about something insignificant, something that usually wouldn’t matter. but with paige, everything becomes something. it always escalates, and you can’t ever just let things slide.

“you’re being ridiculous,” paige snaps, her eyes flashing with irritation. she stands in the middle of your living room, arms crossed defensively over her chest. “i can’t believe you’re making this into a big deal.”

you’ve heard those words a thousand times before, and they never lose their sting. she’s good at deflecting, good at making you feel like the crazy one, like you’re blowing things out of proportion. but you’re not. not this time.

“i’m not being ridiculous, paige. you fucking cheated on me!” the words come out sharper than you mean, but you’re done pretending it’s not the elephant in the room.

paige flinches, but only for a second. then, the walls go up. “i told you it was a mistake. i told you it didn’t mean anything.”

the words cut deeper than you expected. it’s the same line, the same excuse, the same empty apology. you want to scream, want to throw something, but you hold back, the anger bubbling under your skin.

“doesn’t mean anything?” you take a step toward her, your voice tight with rage. “how does that not mean anything? you kissed someone else. you slept with someone else.”

“it didn’t happen like that,” she argues, stepping back, her voice rising now. “it was a mistake, okay? i fucked up. but i’m trying to fix it, aren’t i?”

“fix it?” the irony hits you like a punch to the gut. “you don’t get to fix this. you don’t get to fuck up and then act like i’m the one being unreasonable.”

“i’m not saying that,” paige fires back, voice full of frustration. “you’re just—”

“i’m just what?” you snap, stepping into her space. “i’m just the one who got hurt, right? i’m the one who gets to be the bad guy. well, fuck that.”

paige’s face twists with annoyance, but this time, there’s something else in her eyes—something you recognize as guilt, fleeting as it is. it’s not enough to make you back down, but for a moment, you wonder if she’s actually feeling something real.

but the moment fades too quickly. the walls go back up.

“you always do this,” she mutters, voice low. “you always turn everything around on me. it’s exhausting, you know?”

your heart pounds in your chest, and the air between you two thickens with the weight of everything you haven’t said. everything that’s been building up for months. this isn’t just about the cheating. this isn’t just one argument. it’s the years of lies, of misunderstandings, of moments where neither of you ever really listened to the other.

“you’re right,” you say, the bitterness in your voice more cutting than you expect. “maybe i am exhausting. maybe that’s why i’m so fucking tired of this.”

paige glares at you for a moment, her jaw clenched, and then she says the words that shatter it all.

“i think we should break up,” she says flatly, like she’s not even phased by it. like it’s just another thing to get over with.

the words hang in the air, heavy and final. it feels like the earth has shifted beneath you, the ground cracking, splitting apart. you’re frozen, staring at her, not sure if you’re more angry or hurt. maybe both.

you can’t think straight. you want to scream, to beg her to take it back, to fix everything that’s falling apart. but instead, all you can do is nod, your chest tight with an emotion you can’t name.

“yeah,” you whisper, the words tasting like acid. “maybe that’s for the best.”

paige doesn’t hesitate. she turns her back on you, her footsteps heavy as she walks toward the door. it’s like she’s already done with it. done with you. it makes the ache in your chest grow.

you don’t watch her leave, though you hear the door slam behind her. you stand there for a long time, the silence so loud you can barely hear your own thoughts.

—

the days pass, and you try to move on. it’s not as easy as you thought it would be. paige is everywhere—on your phone, in your mind, in the places you used to go together. every moment feels heavy, and no matter how many times you tell yourself it’s over, it never really feels like it is. not with her.

you think you’re getting used to the emptiness when it happens. the doorbell rings, sharp and unexpected, and for a moment, you think you’re imagining things. but then you hear it again.

you get up slowly, your heart racing as you walk toward the door. and when you open it, you see her standing there. paige. her face flushed with anger, eyes wild with something you can’t quite read.

“paige—” you start, but before you can say another word, she’s already on you.

her hands grab your shoulders, pushing you back into the apartment, the door slamming shut behind her with a force that shakes the walls. she doesn’t say anything at first, just stands there, chest heaving, her breath coming in uneven bursts. it’s clear she’s fuming, but there’s something else in her eyes too—something desperate.

“i can’t fucking do this anymore,” she spits, the words almost a growl. “i fucked up, okay? i know i fucked up. but i’m not letting you go. i’m not letting this die.”

you open your mouth to argue, to say something—anything—but the words die in your throat as paige moves toward you, her hands crashing into your hair, pulling you to her. her lips come down on yours, rough and demanding, a kiss that feels like she’s trying to burn the memory of everything that happened into your skin.

it’s not gentle. it’s not kind. it’s raw. it’s the kind of kiss that leaves you breathless, dizzy, like you’re both drowning in each other’s mistakes. her body presses against yours, forcing you back into the wall, and for a moment, you can’t think. you can’t feel anything except her.

when she pulls away, she’s staring at you, her chest still rising and falling with the force of her emotions. “i don’t care what you say,” she mutters, her voice hoarse. “i’m not fucking walking away from this.”

you pull her in again, crashing your lips to hers, your arms wrapping desperately around her neck like you’re scared she’ll vanish if you let go.

she groans into your mouth, gripping your thighs with ease as she lifts you up, your legs instinctively wrapping around her waist. her body presses against yours like it’s the only place it belongs. she stumbles back, lips never leaving yours, navigating toward the bedroom like muscle memory. you kick the door shut behind you with your foot, giggling into the kiss.

paige smirks against your lips, her eyes shining with that dangerous glint, the one that always made you weak. she lowers you onto the bed gently but with purpose, her hands already sneaking under your shirt, warm palms exploring your skin like she’s relearning every inch of you.

she kisses down your neck, making you shiver.

“paige…” you whisper, barely audible.

her mouth curls into a smirk against your throat.

she glances up at you with that look, the one that turns your stomach to ash and desire. “bottom drawer?” she mumbles.

you blink, confused for a second.

“the strap, baby. that’s where it is, right?” she says, her voice low, teasing, as she leans over you, her arm brushing across your stomach as she reaches into the nightstand. her fingers wrap around the base like they belong there.

“take your shorts off for me,” she murmurs, sliding her sweatpants down and stepping out of them. she adjusts the harness with quick, practiced fingers, tightening it around her hips.

you swallow, your breath hitching as you push your shorts and underwear down, discarding them onto the floor next to hers.

she looks at you—spread out, chest rising fast, eyes wide with a mix of innocence and aching need.

“god, you’re so fucking pretty, baby,” she mutters, her gaze dragging over your bare skin like it’s art.

her hands slide up your thighs, warm and firm, settling between them. she groans when she feels how wet you are.

“you’re soaked,” she smirks. “knew you’d miss me.”

she rubs your clit slowly at first, watching the way your lips part with a soft sound of pleasure.

“think you can take it, or you need my fingers first?” she whispers, lowering herself to kiss your cheek, her voice gentler now.

“i can take it,” you breathe, nodding, your lashes fluttering.

“yeah?” she teases, positioning herself between your thighs. her hands hook under your legs, holding them up by the backs of your thighs as she slowly starts to push in. you both watch as the strap disappears inside of you.

you tense slightly, gasping at the stretch, and she gives you a second, leaning over to kiss your temple.

then she starts to move—slow at first, letting your body adjust, but it doesn’t take long before she’s picking up the rhythm. her grip on your thighs tightens, and you know she’s marking you up, but you don’t care.

“fuck, paige…” you moan, your hands clutching her shoulders for support, for grounding.

her pace deepens, becomes rougher, more desperate, the sound of skin slapping echoing in the room.

“feels good, huh?” she pants, eyes never leaving yours.

you nod quickly, a breathy moan slipping from your lips.

“missed this fuckin’ pussy,” she growls, slamming into you harder, her hand sneaking between your bodies again to rub fast, tight circles on your clit.

your back arches.

“fuck—paige!” you whimper, nails dragging across her back, leaving red trails in your wake.

she groans at the sting, spurred on.

“yeah, take it, baby,” she growls, pace unrelenting. “take that fuckin’ dick. you’ve been craving it, huh?”

you can’t even speak—only breathless whines, your body tightening.

“m’gonna come—” you gasp.

“do it. come for me. make a mess,” she murmurs against your ear, her lips brushing your jaw. “you’re mine, baby. say it.”

“m’yours, paige,” you cry out, voice breaking. “fuck—i’mm coming—”

your whole body tenses, your hands tangled in her hair as waves crash over you, shuddering beneath her. she watches your face the entire time, breathless, entranced.

“yeah…” she whispers, slowing her hips just enough. “that’s it. my fuckin’ girl.”

you collapse back onto the bed, legs still trembling as she finally pulls out and eases herself beside you. the room is thick with heat, with emotion, with everything left unsaid between you.

paige doesn’t say anything at first. she just wraps her arm around your waist, pulling you into her chest like nothing else in the world exists. her hand brushes sweat-slick strands of hair away from your face, her lips pressing to your forehead, then your cheek, then your shoulder.

“you okay?” she murmurs, softer than before. vulnerable.

you nod, snuggling into her warmth. your body still hums from her touch, but it’s the way she’s holding you now—like you’re something fragile and precious—that makes your eyes sting.

she reaches for the blanket at the foot of the bed and drapes it over both of you. her fingers trace lazy patterns on your back, grounding you again.

after a few minutes, she pulls away just far enough to grab a towel from the drawer, cleaning you up gently, like she’s apologizing without words. you stay still, heart thudding as she tucks the towel away, then climbs back into bed and holds you again.

you breathe her in—sweat, lavender detergent, something familiar and dangerous.

neither of you says what this means. neither of you talks about tomorrow. you just lie there, tangled in sheets and silence, her thumb brushing over your hip bone, your heartbeat slowly calming under the weight of her hand on your chest.

you’ll always come back to her.

and she’ll always come back to you.

no matter how toxic.

no matter how broken.

© bueckersworld

𝑤𝑖𝑡𝘩 𝘩𝑢𝑔𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑘𝑖𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑠, 𝑒𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑛𝑜𝑟

taglist: @elswhore @private-but-not-a-secret @paigebaby5 @raimund00 @bravemode @d1paigebueckersglazer @evanpeterstoe @zi0nnnn @jadasogay @fuddaround @jaylie-bee @everyonewatchesuconnwbb @mrsarnold

[studiogrimm810]

Yes, Ma’am

// Est. Dean Winchester x afab!you

summary: after a night out with dean, someone gets a bit touchy with him and you need to reassert yourself in his eyes so he knows exactly who you are to him // 2.7k //quick content: MDNI!!! smut, submissive dean, car sex, kinky sex, dominate woman, eventual praise, make up sex, pwp

A/N: this was a request!! based off of the songs miss possessive and sports car, pleeeease i LOVE submissive dean and i love getting a man to his knees, that is ALL

p.s. im back bitches :]

You knew better than to bring him here. Really, you did. But all you wanted was to dance with your man in a sea of drunk people having the time of their lives. You loved clubbing in your college days- the beat in your chest, dancing until you’re breathless, meeting new people, drinking your paychecks and when you were out of cash, you’d get some poor fucker to buy you a drink under the guise of getting you naked. You knew the moves and it’s easily recognized as the tiny thing with pretty blue eyes, and an outfit you wouldn’t necessarily sport yourself, slithers up to Dean’s side with a pearly grin.

A building bubble of annoyance pressed against your sternum as you wait for the bartender to get done with your drinks. The girl is definitely here on spring break and is using a classic girl-move on your man.

Dean seems unimpressed but he isn’t shooing her away, damn his charm and people-skills. You know he isn’t intentionally flirting, but with a face like that, any attention will be taken as a praise of itself.

With drinks in your hand and a confident posture, you walk back to your shared table and set down his drink in front of him.

“Oh hey, are you lost?” You ask with a head tilt while fingering the straw of your martini to your vibrantly painted lips. The girl seems to deflate some but you can tell she’s persistent.

“Gabby here was just telling me about some friend of hers who saw a ‘monster’,” Dean emphasizes and you squint slightly at his insinuation of a case.

“Yes! Okay,” the girl, Gabby, takes a spare stool and slides in, her chest on full display as she leans in. Honestly you can’t blame her, the dress you chose hugs your ass just at the crease and the breast support in the damn thing could stun a room of men. Under different circumstances, you could see having a fun night out with Gabby, but for the introduction she had in your night, you’re already done with her presence. “My friend swears she saw some crazy shit. Now I haven’t taken shrooms myself, but I was there and when I tell you she was totally freaked!” Gabby laughs, moving her hands as she talks- hands that end up on Dean's arm casually, as if they’re close like that or something.

Dean rolls his eyes, taking a sip of his old fashioned, realizing the girl was just full of it.

“Right,” he nods, giving you a look that says ‘girl is a waste of time’ but you barely acknowledge it as you stare daggers at Gabby- her hand not moving.

“You two ever take any crazy stuff? Most I’ve done is a line that barely made it up my nose, shit burned,” she groans as she pouts, looking up at Dean. “You look like you could take it though.” She bumps him softly, pressing into his side.

“I don’t need substances to act irrationally,” you say before you mean to, alcohol making you overly confident. Gabby just gives you a ‘wtf, girl?’ look but your stone doesn’t shift. Dean just chuckles, seemingly oblivious to the girl’s advances, which pisses you off you may add.

“That’s my girl,” Dean hooks his arm around your waist, bringing you in and kissing your jaw. The height difference of your heels and him sitting on a barstool is just enough to give you a guard-dog mentality. Your lips lift into a claiming smile as Dean kisses your skin, your eyes still locked on the girl.

She sighs, starting to get the hint that maybe she can’t win this one, but damn is she confident.

“You guys could join me and my friends? We know some cool spots, we always come to the city when we’re out of school,” she suggests with a small shrug that hugs her cleavage tighter. Her eye contact remains on its priority of Dean’s emerald gems.

“We’re fine,” you decide, looking down on her, your heel advantage letting you loom over her as well. She looks frustrated at this point and you can tell Dean is enjoying the dominance you have over the situation. It makes you wonder if he entertained her attention just so you could intervene.

“He can speak, yaknow,” Gabby cringes as she folds her arms over her chest.

“Oh, she speaks for me,” Dean plays into it, leaning back and taking another sip of his drink. Gabby works her jaw, squinting up at you.

“Whatever,” she stands, “you both seem toxic anyways,” she scoffs, slithering back into the crowd of nameless dancers and forgotten faces.

Dean chuckles into the rim of his glass, his breath fogging the crystal. You take another sip of your drink, a ring of your lipstick stained to the straw.

“The hell was that?” You ask, setting your drink down and looking over at him, your frustration finding its second victim. He looks over at you, sweet mossy eyes shimmering as he takes in your form, a lazy smile showing sharp canines.

“She was harmless,” he shrugged simply, warm eyes relaxing in your shine.

“She was a pest,” you bite, eyes carrying back to where she vanished to make sure she wouldn’t reappear.

“She’s gone,” he sets his glass down, grabbing your waist and pulling you between his knees. “Relax, baby, she’s just drunk and I thought she would bring us a case,” he says, looking up at you, club’s lights reflecting off his eyes like fireworks.

It’s hard to just forgive and forget, to move on like the jealous rage in your chest didn’t scream at you to assert your claim over your man. I mean, the audacity she had to just come out of nowhere and touch him. She pouted up at him. She was trying to get him to fawn over her and take her home or offer her a drink. You don’t realize the grip on Dean's thigh is just about bruising until he speaks up and brings you out of your graying cloud veined with lightning.

“I’m all yours, baby,” his fingers dig into your hips and he wets his lips. Your eyes draw to his lips, heart racing and throat full. You’re pissed.

You grab the stem of your martini and discard the straw, downing the drink and grabbing Dean's hand. He gets the memo pretty quickly so he finishes his drink swiftly, letting you drag him out of the club.

The bumping music blares from the now abandoned building as you make your way back to Dean's Impala that’s parked along the street. Dean maneuvers in front of you to open your door and help you in. He rounds the car and settles in the driver's side. He looks over at you to gauge your mood and your folded arms as you look out the window doesn’t prove his innocence in your mind, but he can’t help but drool a bit at the skin puffing over the neckline of your dress.

He opens his mouth to speak but you instruct “just drive”. He listens.

Music plays and the engine purrs as Baby runs the paved roads to take you far away from her. God, you just couldn’t get the situation out of your head. The overstepping, the butting in, the pouty face, the touchy hands.

“There,” you point to an empty parking lot behind a closed breakfast spot. Dean raises a brow but follows your instructions. You don’t even know what your plan is- yell at him? Yell about her? Have him explain himself? He didn’t really do anything wrong though, but fuck you just felt misplaced by the whole thing. Like you need to reinsert yourself back in his eyes.

Like you just needed to…

“Is she still bothering you? Sweetheart, I promise you, I don’t have eyes for anyone else,” he leans over after putting Baby in park. You look over at him, arms still folded and a scowl still contorting your features.

Before he can try and speak again, you pounce, grabbing his collar and claiming his lips back. It was unexpected by both of you, that much is obvious, but Dean still melts into your kiss, his hands roaming your body. You slide closer, kicking off your heels and straddling his lap. Your ass hits the horn and Dean chuckles into the kiss but it only pisses you off more. He leans down, hissing along your neck and down your jaw as he reaches for the lever to move the bench back.

Once the seat is shifted back, your manicured nails grip the roots of his dirty blonde hair and he gasps in surprise, his sharp teeth glinting as you take in his gaped mouth.

You bring him back to you, scooting closer and taking his lip between your teeth and he… whimpers?

Did Dean Winchester just whimper under you?

Your fury mends with something darker and it only fuels your need.

His hands hold your ass, running up the curve of your back and right back down, squeezing hard and keeping you close. You can feel him try and settle you on your back but you’re locked on top of him and refuse to move. You can feel his dick pressing into your barely clothed core and the hem of your dress rides up as you grind into him to show the hooks of your thong resting up to your waist. His fingers mess with the strings.

Your grip in his hair reforces and tugs him back so you can kiss along his jaw. The kisses are wet and sloppy, leaving a glistening trail of your mark. You make your way back up to his ear, whispering warm breath over his sensitive flesh.

“That was ridiculous,” you deem softly, taking his earlobe between your teeth and pulling another whimper out of him. God, that sound really melts that anger deep in your chest, but it isn’t enough just yet.

“Sweetheart-.”

“Don’t,” you warn, dropping your hold on his skin and pressing your lips to the other side of his neck as you force his jaw to open for you. He holds back another whine. “Don’t hold back, show me who you fucking belong to,” you demand before biting the skin just under his ear, sucking in his scent and pulling a low moan from him.

You can’t stop your lips from claiming him over and over again, especially as his trapped cock can only barely feel the brush of your distant lips, he can only rely on memory to ease his need.

“Look at me,” you push up, letting your ass rest on his dick with your full weight and his head is thrown back in a loud, whiny moan. You grab his jaw, pulling him back to you and the pressure parts his lips and his eyes are wide and observant, ready to listen.

“Apologize,” you instruct, your face a stone of foreshadowed repercussions.

“I’m so sorry, baby,” he rushes out shaking his head and digging his nails into your hips to press you into him more. His eyes dip down to your tits as they threaten to spill past the low-v of your dress at any moment.

“I didn’t say look there, I said look at me,” you tighten your grip, a drunken haze puppeteering your limbs like an Irene Adler wannabe. You lean in like you’re about to kiss him but you stop, watching as he tries to arc forward to meet you, “I don’t believe you.”

A small, pathetic whine tugs out of his throat and he swallows, looking up at you again. You maneuver your body off of him enough to push him so that he’s laying down in the front seat. He stares up at you, his hands finding any opportunity to hold your hips.

“Baby, I promise, I only want you,” he pleads, looking up at you, panting and flushed. You straddle his waist, running a teasing hand up his chest and latching it between the buttons of his shirt. You manage to rip it open completely and trace your fingers down his chest.

“Those are just words,” you point, your eyes following your fingers but you can still feel his eyes on you. “I need something else,” you meet his gaze again and he practically melts with anticipation as you finally look at him again.

Your eyes on him makes him feel like the most powerful man in the world.

“Anything, gorgeous, anything you want,” he quickly abides, making you smile down at him. It’s a smile that makes him warm inside like he’s done something right.

“Scoot,” you flick a finger for him to move down as you lift off him to do so.

He listens without hesitation, even if his legs don’t have enough room on the driver's side.

“You’re gonna do me a favor and prove to me that I’m the only woman you see,” you reach a warm hand to cup his cheek, speaking softer than you have all night.

“Yes, ma’am,” he smirks, his eyes still wide and lustful, panting and so fucking ready for whatever you have in store.

You pierce an acrylic stiletto through your thong to snip off the fabric that you can easily replace later. He watches your movements, trying to guess what you’ll do next. You reach behind you to unfasten his belt. It’s a little tricky to do without seeing it, but you manage. Dean eyes stay glued to your tits as they ripple with your movement.

He groans as his dick springs free, throbbing in the steamy air of sex in the Impala. He wants so badly to reach down and touch himself but he’s guessing, based on your current control over the night, that it wouldn’t end well for him.

You stuff your shredded thong in his hand and scoot up closer and closer.

“You’re gonna take care of yourself while you take care of me, you got it? Show me how you live to make me happy,” the words leave your lips like a sweet commandment, like a vow he’d happily plead to to keep you smiling.

“Yes, ma’am,” he whispers, repeating the only words he can think of besides your name.

He lets out a low groan as you hook yourself over his shoulders and plant your pussy right at his lips, trapping him between your heat and the squeaky leather seat.

When you decide enough has been enough, you settle fully, allowing him to bury himself in your lips. He’s needy and hungry but he knows your body and knows what you need to feel pure ecstasy. He’s holding back and you can tell.

“Good boy,” you ride, digging your nails into the leather and bracing your left arm on the dash. The praise sends a shiver to his dick as he strokes himself with your thong still in hand.

He moans into you, the hum prickling your sensitive skin and warming you up just right. His nose presses against your clit but he holds still, letting his tongue build you up until you’re right there.

Right on the edge, he waits until he can feel the tremble in your thighs and the squeak in your moans. Right until you grip onto his roots and show him you're ready. His tongue keeps steady and consistent as he now moves his face to circle his nose around your clit, ripping a melodic moan out of your throat.

The feeling is unlike any other and you don’t think you could ever even think straight enough to attempt to put it in words that would never give it justice.

Your body wracks with quaking pulses, and your senses are overstimulated as he moans into you with his own release and you can’t help but grind into him to spasm just right.

You settle back onto his chest, legs still hooked around him and thighs flooding along his face like a lonely island.

His lips shimmer with you and his smile basks under your eyes. His face is hugged by your plush skin and his cock is emptied onto your panties.

This man is yours.

thank you so much for reading!! <3

>> check out my other works here

[uncuredturkeybacon]

𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which you are nothing short of everything

It started on a Tuesday.

Paige hadn’t meant to stop. She’d only been cutting through the west wing of the student center to get to the library faster. That shortcut had never led her anywhere interesting before—just past a few empty classrooms and the occasional music practice room. But that day, as her sneakers squeaked across the linoleum floor, she caught the faintest sound of singing.

Not the kind you’d hear through a phone or headphones someone forgot to mute. It was live. Pure. Like honey in tea.

She slowed, head tilting. The notes floated through the cracked door, spilling like light onto the floor. A soft voice, low and aching, wrapped around the lyrics like it was holding something close. Paige’s hand paused on the strap of her backpack. Her heartbeat slowed.

She didn’t recognize the words, didn’t even try to. She just listened. Maybe a minute. Maybe three. Long enough for her chest to feel tight in a way she couldn’t explain. And then—just as suddenly—she left. Shaking it off. She had things to do. Conditioning at four. Film at six.

But the voice stayed.

It happened again. Two days later. Same hallway. Different song.

Again. 

And again.

It became routine. Paige would find herself lingering, walking a little slower when she reached that stretch of floor. Sometimes she’d stop completely, standing still like an idiot with her ear tilted just enough toward the door.

She never peeked in. That felt too personal, too much like crossing a line. She didn’t want to know what the singer looked like. Not yet. There was something sacred about the not-knowing.

The voice didn’t just sing—it felt. Like it lived every word.

She started timing her library trips around it.

Azzi nudged her shoulder one day at the dining hall. “You’ve been real quiet this week. What’s going on in that deep brooding brain of yours?”

“Nothing,” Paige mumbled.

“Liar,” KK chimed in, tossing a grape at her.

Aubrey raised a brow but didn’t press. She never did. She just watched Paige like she already knew.

Paige didn’t say it, didn’t want to explain why her chest ached a little every time she walked away from that hallway. Why she kept hearing the same voice when she lay in bed at night, headphones in but volume off, trying to match it in her head.

She didn’t even know the girl’s name.

The open mic night wasn’t her idea.

Azzi found the flyer. “It’s across town. Cute cafe vibe. Candlelight. Coffee. Poetry. Music. Let’s go.”

KK looked at her like she was insane. “You lost me at poetry.”

“You can just sip your overpriced matcha and be hot in the corner,” Azzi said, batting her lashes. “C’mon. It’s Friday. No practice tomorrow.”

Even Aubrey nodded. “Might be fun.”

Paige didn’t argue. She had no reason to. A night out would be good. Distract her. Maybe even help her forget.

The place was packed.

Paige slouched in her seat, hoodie half-zipped, sipping a lukewarm vanilla latte KK swore she’d love. The lights were low, the stage small and intimate. People performed slam poetry, a jazz duet, and someone recited something about the moon and loneliness.

Paige’s attention drifted in and out. Nothing gripped her.

Until she heard it.

The first note.

She straightened. Her latte almost slipped.

There you were.

Stepping onto the stage like you didn’t even know you were changing someone’s life.

A guitar rested in your hands. A simple mic. A shy smile.

“Maybe I came on too strong…”

Paige didn’t breathe.

Her fingers curled tight around the paper sleeve of her cup. The world blurred. The clinking cups, the murmured chatter, the coughs and shifting chairs—they all disappeared. It was you. That voice. That voice. Her voice.

And now you had a face.

Lit soft by the string lights, your lashes low, your expression a mirror of the ache in the song. “Dive” by Ed Sheeran. Paige recognized it now. Had never liked it much before. But you—you made it yours. Every lyric lived in your throat like it belonged there.

When you got to “So don’t call me baby… unless you mean it,” Paige’s chest burned.

You weren’t even looking at anyone in particular, just singing into the dark. But Paige felt like it was only her in that room.

Her mouth went dry.

The song ended too soon.

You strummed the last chord, gave a little smile, and walked off stage like you hadn’t just left someone breathless in the third row.

Paige didn’t move.

Her eyes followed you—wide, stunned, quiet.

Azzi leaned over. “Dude. Are you okay?”

KK squinted. “What happened to her? Her face looks like she just saw God.”

Paige opened her mouth.

No words came out.

Aubrey leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, thoroughly entertained. “She’s in love.”

“I am not,” Paige finally snapped, but it came out too fast. Too defensive.

Azzi laughed. “You’re stuttering.”

KK grinned. “You’ve been bewitched.”

Paige stared across the cafe where you stood by the bar, your guitar now slung across your back, chatting with someone and smiling softly.

“I’ve heard her before,” Paige mumbled, finally. “Like… a bunch of times.”

Azzi blinked. “What?”

“In the student center. Some music room or whatever. I didn’t know what she looked like. I just—heard her. Singing.”

“And you didn’t tell us?” KK practically shouted.

“I didn’t know what to say,” Paige muttered, eyes still on you.

Azzi elbowed her. “Well, say something now. She’s right there.”

“Nope,” Paige said, panicking a little. “No, no, no. I can’t. What would I even say?”

Aubrey raised a brow. “Hi would be a start.”

“I can’t,” Paige repeated, now looking genuinely distressed.

KK laughed so hard she nearly dropped her phone. “Basketball superstar, national icon, but she can’t talk to a girl with a guitar.”

“You don’t get it,” Paige said, still watching you. “I—I’ve been hearing her voice for weeks. I built this whole idea of her in my head and now she’s real and she’s right there and what if she doesn’t live up to it? What if I don’t?”

Azzi softened. “Or what if she’s even better?”

Paige didn’t answer.

She just sat there, pulse racing, legs bouncing under the table, until you turned slightly and your eyes scanned the room, then landed on her.

For one second, just one—you smiled.

Right at her.

And Paige smiled back, dazed, like she forgot how to be cool.

You looked away.

She didn’t.

Paige didn’t move for a full five minutes.

Your smile had burned a hole into her brain, and she sat in that little café chair like someone who had just time-traveled. The lights buzzed. The next performer came and went. The chatter picked up again. But Paige only heard the echo of your voice.

KK, predictably, had pulled out her phone and started typing. “I’m making a list of icebreakers. What about… ‘Are you a magician? Because whenever I hear you, everyone else disappears.’”

Azzi groaned. “Please don’t let her say that.”

Aubrey took a sip of her tea, then muttered, “She won’t say anything. She’s gonna sit here and spiral about it for three months.”

“I’m not spiraling,” Paige muttered, eyes still trained on you as you made your way through the crowd with your guitar case, waving at the barista. “I’m… calculating.”

“Calculating?” Azzi echoed, eyebrows raised.

Paige shrugged. “My odds.”

“Your odds of what? Getting her number?” KK grinned.

“My odds of surviving when I get to say hello.”

She stood up before she could overthink it. Hands slightly clammy, hoodie sleeves tugged down over her knuckles. Her sneakers felt too loud as she crossed the room, weaving through chairs and tables, trying not to trip on someone’s tote bag.

You were alone now, leaning against the far wall near the bathroom hallway, on your phone.

Paige slowed. Stopped. Took one shallow breath.

You looked up.

Eyes met.

You smiled again—so effortlessly kind it made her ribs hurt.

“Hey,” she said, voice softer than usual.

“Hey,” you replied, sliding your phone into your pocket. “You’re Paige Bueckers, right?”

Her stomach flipped. “Uh—yeah. Guilty.”

“I thought you looked familiar. I’ve seen you on the court.” Then, with a playful smirk, “Didn’t expect to see you here, though.”

“I didn’t expect to hear you here,” Paige said, and immediately wanted to smack her forehead. “I mean—I did, obviously, you were on stage, but—what I meant is…”

Your head tilted slightly. “You okay?”

“I’ve heard you before,” she blurted. “In the student center. You sing sometimes—room 205, I think? Every Tuesday. Or Thursday. Or both. I wasn’t… I wasn’t being creepy or anything, I just—your voice—it always stopped me. I didn’t know who you were until tonight.”

The words tumbled out of her like they’d been waiting weeks.

You blinked. “You’ve been listening?”

Paige nodded, sheepish. “Yeah. Every time I walked by.”

Something shifted in your eyes—curiosity, then warmth. “That’s kind of sweet.”

“I didn’t want to interrupt,” Paige said quickly. “You always looked so into it. Like it was just you and the music.”

“It usually is,” you admitted. “It’s kind of my favorite part of the day.”

“Mine too,” Paige said before she could stop herself.

You smiled again, and this time it lingered.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Y/N.”

Paige repeated it under her breath. Like a secret.

You leaned back against the wall and looked at her, fully now. “So. You like Ed Sheeran?”

“I didn’t,” Paige said honestly. “Until you sang that.”

You laughed, and damn—Paige swore she could live off the sound.

“Well,” you said, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Thanks for listening. For… noticing.”

Paige rocked on her heels. “Would it be okay if I… came by next time? I mean—on purpose. Not just walking by.”

“Room 205,” you said. “Tuesdays and Thursdays. Four p.m.”

She grinned. “Noted.”

You glanced down at your shoes, then back at her. “You know… if you’re free after this, there’s this late-night taco truck a block away. I always go there after these open mics.”

Paige’s heart flipped. “Really?”

You gave a tiny shrug, smile shy now. “You could come. If you want.”

She nodded—too fast. “Yeah. Yeah, I want.”

From the other side of the room, KK spotted her and dramatically mimed fainting. Azzi and Aubrey gave each other knowing looks.

You followed Paige’s glance and laughed again. “Your friends?”

“The very loud ones,” she deadpanned.

You zipped up your guitar case. “Then let’s sneak out the side door.”

Paige blinked. “I love you.”

You froze, eyebrows raised.

Paige turned red instantly. “I mean—I—not love-love. I mean I love that idea. Sneaking. Not… okay, yeah, I’m gonna shut up now.”

You laughed so hard she thought she might combust and reached over, hand brushing her forearm. “You’re cute when you’re nervous.”

“I’m never nervous,” Paige lied.

You raised a brow. “You are with me.”

Paige opened the door for you, heart pounding, wondering how it was possible to feel this much after a single song and one very overdue hello.

And just like that, she followed you into the night.

The air was colder outside the café than Paige expected.

She stuffed her hands into her hoodie pockets, trying to ignore the way her heart still hadn’t settled since stepping out with you. The sidewalk was mostly empty—just a few people loitering near parked cars and someone locking up a bike. You walked a step ahead, guitar case slung over your shoulder like it was second nature.

“You sure this taco truck is real?” Paige asked, mostly to fill the silence.

You glanced over your shoulder with a grin. “It’s very real. And very good.”

Paige nodded. “Cool. Cool cool cool.”

You didn’t say anything, just smiled to yourself and kept walking.

The truck was parked on the corner of a quiet intersection, half-lit by a flickering streetlamp. Bright red paint. A little speaker sitting on the counter playing soft reggaeton. The guy running it looked like he’d seen it all and didn’t care anymore.

“Hey, Y/N,” he said without even looking up.

“Hey, Manny.” You stepped up and started reading the chalkboard menu like you didn’t already know what you were getting.

Paige hovered behind you, awkwardly peering over your shoulder. “What’s good?”

“The carnitas,” you said instantly. “Or the lengua. If you’re brave.”

“I’m not brave,” Paige said, then winced. “I mean—like—I could be. If I had to be. But probably not for… tongue.”

You smiled again, but didn’t tease her. “Carnitas it is.”

Manny raised an eyebrow. “For both?”

You glanced at Paige, who nodded. “Yeah.”

Manny scribbled something on the notepad and disappeared inside the truck.

Paige shuffled a little closer to the side of the truck where the heat was spilling out from the open window. “You come here every week?”

“After every open mic,” you said, stepping up beside her. “It’s kind of my thing.”

“That’s cool,” Paige mumbled, unsure of what else to say. “I don’t really… have a thing.”

You looked at her. “Basketball’s not your thing?”

She tilted her head. “I mean—yeah. That’s kind of my whole thing. But it’s… different. It’s not like tacos after singing. That feels more like a… soul thing.”

You were quiet for a second. “Singing is my thing, yeah. But only when no one’s really watching.”

Paige blinked. “You just performed in front of like fifty people.”

“Exactly.” You smirked. “Not enough to feel real. But enough to hide in.”

She didn’t get it—at least not fully—but she liked the way you said it. Like there were layers underneath everything. Paige wasn’t used to layers. Most people just said what they meant. You made her want to ask better questions.

Manny handed you two paper baskets stacked with tacos and napkins.

You walked over to a low brick wall nearby and sat, setting your guitar down beside you. Paige sat a careful foot away. Not too close.

She watched you take a bite and hum in appreciation.

She took a bite too. “Oh, damn.”

You grinned. “Told you.”

The silence wasn’t awkward—but Paige didn’t know how to fill it, either. She picked at her tortilla, chewing slower than usual.

After a while, she asked, “So you majoring in music?”

“Nope,” you said between bites. “Creative writing.”

“Cool. That’s… cool.”

You sipped your drink. “You’re not very good at small talk, huh?”

Paige groaned and flopped backward against the wall. “Is it that obvious?”

“Kinda.”

She covered her face with one hand. “This is why I don’t talk to people.”

“But you walked over,” you said softly.

Paige peeked at you through her fingers. “Yeah. I don’t do that either.”

“Why’d you do it tonight?”

She didn’t have a good answer. Not one that wouldn’t sound stupid.

“I think I just had to,” she said finally. “I heard your voice before I saw you, and it got stuck in my head. Like… really stuck. You made everything else quiet. That’s hard to do.”

You looked down at your basket of tacos. Paige worried she’d overstepped.

But then you said, “That might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said about my singing.”

She flushed and went back to chewing.

“You have a really… still energy,” she said out of nowhere.

“Still?”

“Yeah,” Paige shrugged. “Like… not in a boring way. More like—when I’m near you, I feel like I don’t have to rush. Like I can just sit and not be anyone for a second.”

You blinked. “You’re really bad at flirting.”

“I’m not flirting,” Paige said instantly, then looked horrified. “I mean—not that I wouldn’t—if I was! But I’m not! I just meant that like, platonically… your vibe is chill. Not that I only want it to be platonic. Wait. I’m gonna eat this taco now.”

You buried your face in your hands and shook your head, laughing.

Paige took the biggest bite she could manage just to shut herself up.

You let her flail for a moment before nudging her arm with your elbow.

“You’re weird,” you said gently. “But I like it.”

Her face turned red again. “Thanks.”

“Same time next week?” you asked.

She blinked. “Like, here? After the open mic?”

You gave her a look. “Room 205. Tuesday or Thursday. Four p.m. You listen. I sing.”

Paige nodded too fast. “I’ll be there.”

You stood and tossed your napkin into the nearby trash can, guitar swinging easily over your shoulder again.

“I’ll see you around, Bueckers,” you said, walking off into the cold without needing to look back.

Paige sat there, chewing slowly, staring after you, heart thrumming under her hoodie.

Yeah. She’d definitely be there.

It felt strange walking into Room 205.

She wasn’t used to being on the inside of the door.

Every time Paige had passed by before, it was just a fleeting pause in the hallway. A quiet moment stolen between practice or meetings or pretending like she didn’t hear the music. But now—now she was invited.

She arrived early.

Fifteen minutes early, actually.

She stood outside the room for five of them, pacing the hallway like an indecisive freshman, wondering if she was going to seem too eager. Too intense. Too weird. She considered texting you that she couldn’t make it—just to bail before she embarrassed herself.

But then she heard it.

A strum. A single note. The guitar.

You were already in there.

So she slipped inside.

The room was small—barely more than a practice box with beige walls, a dusty upright piano in the corner, and a few mismatched chairs. You were sitting on the little stool with your guitar, hunched over it, tuning quietly.

Your head lifted when you noticed her. “You came.”

“Yeah.” She cleared her throat. “You said four.”

You smiled. “You’re early.”

“I… like to be on time,” she said, awkward as ever.

You nodded, eyes flicking back to your guitar. “You can sit.”

She took the seat closest to the wall. Sat stiffly. Backpack still on.

The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. Just full.

You played a few chords without singing—simple, steady, like muscle memory. Then your fingers stilled.

“I don’t usually have an audience in here,” you said.

“I don’t usually be the audience,” Paige replied.

You gave her a small look. “Want me to stop?”

“No,” she said quickly. “No. Please don’t.”

You smirked to yourself. “Alright then.”

And you began.

No microphone. No stage. Just you. Your voice.

It was quieter in this space—more intimate. Like you weren’t performing. Like you were just being. Paige hadn’t realized how different it would feel up close. The way your eyes softened when you got lost in a lyric. The tiny creases between your brows as you focused on your fingers. The breath you took before each new line, like it mattered.

She forgot to breathe sometimes.

You sang something she didn’t recognize—a song you wrote, maybe. Paige didn’t ask. She wouldn’t know how.

She just listened.

And when you finished, you didn’t ask for applause. You just looked over.

Paige was staring.

You tilted your head. “What?”

She blinked. “Nothing.”

You laughed lightly, setting the guitar down against the stool. “You look like you’re trying to solve a math problem.”

“I’m just thinking,” she said.

“Dangerous.”

She rolled her eyes but smiled. “You’re really good.”

“Thanks,” you said, your voice soft this time. The cocky teasing gone. “I don’t usually let people hear this part of me.”

Paige’s smile faded into something more sincere. “That’s kind of how I feel when I play ball.”

You leaned back on your palms. “Is that why you didn’t tell your friends about me? About hearing me sing?”

She shifted in her chair. “Honestly… yeah. It felt… mine.”

Your eyes met hers.

There was a long pause.

Paige suddenly felt like she’d said something too honest, too soon.

But you didn’t flinch.

You nodded. “I get that.”

You didn’t press her. Didn’t make a joke. You just let it be what it was.

And Paige relaxed.

You ended up sitting on the floor, legs crossed, the guitar leaning between you both. The air was still but light. No expectations.

“What kind of music do you usually write?” she asked after a while.

You shrugged. “Sad stuff. Melancholy acoustic girl things.”

Paige laughed. “So you’re the reason people cry in coffee shops.”

You smirked. “Someone’s gotta do it.”

She leaned back against the wall, watching you tap your fingers absentmindedly on your knee like there was always a song playing in your head.

You turned to her suddenly. “Do you sing?”

She choked. “God, no.”

“C’mon,” you nudged. “Just a little?”

“I’m an athlete,” she said defensively. “We don’t do that.”

You smiled. “Tell that to the UConn locker room.”

“Okay, yeah, but that’s different. That’s shouting lyrics in a group of sweaty girls, not—this.”

You gave her a mischievous look. “Afraid I’ll judge you?”

“No,” Paige lied.

You grinned wider, but didn’t push.

Eventually, the sun started to dip through the narrow window, turning the room gold. Paige didn’t realize how much time had passed. She checked her phone—Azzi had texted “where r u???” about 30 minutes ago.

“I should go,” she said, but didn’t move.

You were lying flat on the carpet now, arms spread, eyes closed.

You opened one eye. “Then go.”

She didn’t.

You smirked. “Didn’t think you’d be the one to get attached.”

“I’m not.”

You closed your eyes again. “Mmhm.”

Paige stood slowly. Her legs ached from sitting so long on the hard chair, but she didn’t really mind.

“Same time Thursday?” you asked, eyes still shut.

Paige hesitated. “I don’t want to bother you.”

“You’re not,” you said, quiet now. “It’s nice, having someone listen.”

She looked down at you. Your features soft in the fading light. At peace.

“I’ll be here,” she said.

And she meant it.

Two weeks later, Paige didn’t even need to check the time.

It was just automatic now—Tuesday, Room 205, you.

She still pretended like she wasn’t waiting for it every week, but her body gave her away. She’d get antsy around 3:30, check her phone three times, leave whatever gym or classroom she was in by 3:45. No one questioned her anymore.

Not even Azzi.

She didn’t even knock anymore. Just walked in, gave you a soft nod, and sat down while you tuned your guitar like clockwork.

You’d started calling her your “favorite audience.”

She said she preferred “only audience.”

You said, “Still counts.”

On a random Friday afternoon, Paige texted you:

Paige: “You like Mario Kart?”

“I’m not bad at it.”

Paige: “You just said you’re good without saying you’re good.”

“Do you wanna lose or what?”

She didn’t expect how easily you fit into her living room.

You were curled into the corner of her couch in a hoodie she swore used to be hers, holding the controller like it was part of your hand. Your eyes narrowed at the screen. Paige had just blue-shelled you at the finish line. You threw your head back and groaned.

“I hope your joy-cons drift forever,” you muttered.

Paige cackled. “Don’t hate the player.”

“I do, actually.”

“Wow.”

You smirked and tossed a popcorn kernel at her face. She caught it in her mouth. Show-off.

Eventually, the game was paused and forgotten. The controller batteries started dying. Neither of you bothered to fix them.

Instead, you sprawled across the couch, shoes off, half under a blanket. Paige leaned against the opposite armrest, socked feet crossed near your hip.

“What’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever believed as a kid?” you asked randomly.

Paige blinked. “Uh… that the moon followed me specifically? Like it was my thing.”

You snorted. “Narcissist.”

“You asked!”

You told her yours was that if you swallowed watermelon seeds, a full vine would grow out your throat.

“You were dramatic from the start,” Paige said.

“Still am,” you agreed.

The night drifted on. You didn’t leave until close to 2 a.m. Neither of you realized how late it had gotten. Paige watched the front door close after you, a little stunned at how easy the silence had felt.

The next night, you invited her over.

“Movie night,” you said. “My pick.”

Paige said, “What are we watching?”

You smirked. “It’s a surprise.”

That was the warning. She should’ve known.

It was The Notebook.

Of course it was The Notebook.

You acted like you didn’t care much about it, even made jokes during the early scenes.

“Wow, nothing says romance like threatening to kill yourself if a girl won’t go on a date,” you quipped.

“Yeah,” Paige muttered, “real healthy.”

But somewhere around the boat scene, you stopped talking.

And when Allie’s mom gave her that box of letters, Paige looked over.

You sniffed. Subtly.

She blinked. “Wait… are you crying?”

“No,” you said immediately. Too fast.

You wiped your cheek with your sleeve and kept your eyes glued to the screen like if you just didn’t look at her, she wouldn’t know.

But Paige was already scooting closer.

“You’re crying.”

“I’m not.”

“You said this movie was stupid.”

“It is.” Your voice cracked a little. “It’s manipulative. There’s rain and kissing and Alzheimer’s. They’re cheating on people. It’s a mess.”

Paige didn’t say anything. Just watched as another tear slipped down your cheek.

She reached over slowly, gently brushing it away with her thumb.

Your breath caught slightly, but you didn’t move away.

“Shut up,” you whispered.

“I didn’t say anything.”

Her hand hovered for a second longer. Warm against your skin.

You turned toward her slightly, chin tilted. “You’re enjoying this.”

Paige smirked. “A little.”

You narrowed your eyes, then shifted under the blanket and muttered, “Fine. But I get to pick next time too.”

“And you won’t cry this time?”

You shoved her shoulder lightly. “No promises.”

She stayed until the credits rolled.

You didn’t talk about what happened.

You didn’t need to.

But Paige smiled the entire drive home.

It didn’t happen all at once.

There was no sudden realization. No thunderclap. No internal monologue screaming oh my god I’m in love with her. Paige kind of wished it had been like that—quick, clean, definite.

But instead, it was slow.

Annoyingly slow.

Like a song that changes keys so gradually you don’t even notice until you’re standing there, listening, heart in your throat, and everything sounds different.

It was the middle of a Wednesday when she noticed it.

Not a moment, really—just a text from you. No punctuation. No context.

“it’s raining”

That’s it.

Not come outside, not listen to this, not I’m sad and need you.

Paige stared at them for way too long before replying.

“window’s already open”

You sent back a voice memo—just a few seconds of rain hitting the windowsill. A soft hum. Your laugh in the background.

And that was it.

Paige had to sit down.

Azzi was the first to say something.

“You’re smiling at your phone again.”

“I always do that.”

“No you don’t.”

KK chimed in. “You used to smile like that when you watched highlight reels of yourself.”

Aubrey raised an eyebrow. “Now it’s a girl who plays sad songs in practice rooms.”

“I don’t—” Paige started, but even she didn’t sound convincing anymore.

They didn’t tease her the way they usually would. Azzi just looked at her gently, then asked, “Have you told her?”

Paige blinked. “Told her what?”

Aubrey leaned in. “That you like her.”

Paige went quiet.

“Exactly,” KK mumbled.

It’s not that Paige was afraid of feelings.

She was just… unfamiliar with them.

Romance had never been easy for her. She didn’t like being vulnerable. Didn’t like people seeing her shaken. She was used to control. To focus. To knowing the outcome before she took the shot.

But this?

You?

She didn’t know where it was going. Or if it was even going anywhere.

She just knew that things were changing.

Because she started noticing everything.

The way your voice got quiet when you were tired. The way your hoodie sleeves were always a little too long. The way you never asked for help, but always showed up for everyone else.

The way she missed you on the days she didn’t see you.

That was the scariest part.

On Sunday, you came over again. No Mario Kart this time. No movies.

Just you, barefoot on her couch, eating leftover pasta out of a tupperware like you owned the place.

Paige sat on the floor beside the coffee table, legs stretched out, head tilted lazily against the couch cushions.

“What if,” you said suddenly, “you were born in a world where music didn’t exist?”

Paige blinked. “What?”

“No sound. No songs. Nothing but silence. You’d still play basketball, sure. But no rhythm. No hype songs. Just��� empty air.”

“That’s depressing,” she muttered.

You nodded. “I think I’d lose my mind.”

“Yeah,” Paige said after a moment. “You would.”

You glanced down at her. “Would you miss music?”

“I’d miss you,” she said.

Then froze.

You looked at her.

And smiled.

But didn’t say anything.

Didn’t tease her. Didn’t make it weird.

Just said, “Good.”

And kept eating your pasta.

That night, Paige laid in bed and stared at the ceiling.

She tried not to think too hard. Tried not to name it.

But every time she blinked, it was you.

Laughing on her couch.

Crying during The Notebook.

Singing in Room 205.

And suddenly… Paige wasn’t so sure if just being friends would ever feel like enough.

Room 205 felt different today.

It wasn’t the weather—though the windows were foggy from the spring drizzle. And it wasn’t the time—4 p.m. sharp, like always. Paige walked in with the same hoodie, the same messy bun, the same slightly anxious energy she always brought when she didn’t know what you were about to play.

But the air felt heavier. Like something was hanging in the corner, waiting.

You sat cross-legged on top of the piano bench, strumming a quiet chord progression you hadn’t played before. Paige closed the door gently behind her, dropped her backpack in the usual spot, and slid into the chair by the wall.

You didn’t look up. “Hey.”

“Hey,” she said, slower than usual.

She watched your fingers move. You were quieter today too—not in a bad way. Just… focused. Like your mind was somewhere far away and also nowhere at all.

“You okay?” she asked, voice soft.

You nodded. “Just… thinking.”

She didn’t press. Just let the silence settle between you.

After a few minutes, you finally looked up. “Can I play you something?”

Paige sat up straighter. “You always play me something.”

“No, I mean—something I haven’t shown anyone. Ever.”

That made her heart beat a little faster.

She nodded.

You exhaled, fingers settling into place.

Then you began.

We'll play Nintendo though I always lose

‘Cause you watch the TV while I'm watching you

There's not many people I'd honestly say I don't mind losing to

But there's nothing like doing nothing with you

The first line hit Paige like a whisper to the chest.

She froze. Eyes fixed on you. Your voice was soft—not performed, just spoken in melody. You weren’t doing anything fancy with the chords. It didn’t need it.

Paige heard every word.

Dumb conversation, we lose track of time

Have I told you lately I'm grateful you're mine

We watch "The Notebook" for the 17th time

I'll say it's stupid, then you catch me crying

Paige’s expression shifts as the song continues. The lyrics are simple, but the meaning is clear. The way the words flow feels like a quiet confession. Each line hits a little harder than the last. Paige, who’s been so used to guarding herself, begins to feel something stir in her chest. Her heartbeat quickens, the truth behind the words sinking in.

You’re not just singing about love, about waiting for something you want but can’t have. You’re singing about her. The way you feel when you’re around her, the longing, the quiet frustration that she’s been unaware of, or maybe avoiding.

She barely noticed when the song ended. You let the last note linger like it didn’t want to leave either.

Then there was silence. A thick, full silence.

You finally looked at her.

“I know it’s not flashy,” you murmured. “But it’s real. For me, at least.”

Paige didn’t speak right away.

Because something had snapped into place.

All this time, she thought maybe she was imagining it. That maybe she wanted it too much to see it clearly. But this song—your song—was proof.

Not a maybe.

Not a coincidence.

It was her.

It was you seeing her.

And loving her in your quiet, unspoken way.

Her chest felt too full. She didn’t know how to hold everything you’d just given her.

You rubbed the back of your neck. “Sorry. I probably made it weird.”

Paige shook her head fast, voice low. “No. You didn’t.”

“You sure?”

She nodded. “It’s just… I didn’t expect to hear myself in it. In your words.”

You smiled, finally letting yourself look directly at her.

“Well,” you said quietly, “you’ve been in my head for weeks now. Felt fair to put you somewhere else too.”

Paige didn’t know what to say to that.

Her brain was screaming: Say something. Do something.

But she just stared at you, heart pounding, realizing…

This isn’t nothing.

The walk back was quieter than usual.

Not awkward. Just... full.

Like something sacred had been left unspoken between them after you played her that song. The words still clung to Paige’s ribs. They echoed every time your hand brushed against hers as you walked side by side on the sidewalk, neither of you talking, both pretending not to notice.

Your guitar case was slung behind you. Paige carried your notebook. She didn’t ask—you just handed it to her like you trusted her not to drop what was inside.

The sky was dark now, the streets humming with distant traffic and warm porch lights.

“Paige,” you said softly as you reached the last block before your building.

“Yeah?”

You didn’t stop walking, but your voice dropped. “You haven’t said much since the song.”

She looked over. You weren’t anxious, just… open. Waiting. You’d handed her something vulnerable, and now you were giving her the space to either hold it or step away.

Paige took a breath.

“I haven’t said much because I’m scared I’m gonna say the wrong thing,” she admitted. Your lips quirked. “You already told me I’m your favorite audience. I think the bar’s pretty low.”

She smiled with you, but then quieted again.

“I meant what I said,” she continued. “Every line of that song—it was like watching us from the outside. It was weird. And beautiful. And a little terrifying.”

You turned toward her slightly, walking slower now.

“Terrifying?”

She nodded. “Because I didn’t know you were seeing me like that. I thought I was the only one…” Her voice softened. “...feeling all this.”

You stopped walking.

So did she.

The streetlamp above you buzzed faintly. The wind picked up. The moment cracked open.

Your voice was quiet. “You’re not the only one.”

Paige looked at you.

And this time, she didn’t flinch from it.

She took one slow step closer. Her voice barely above a whisper. “You make everything quieter, Y/N. And I didn’t know how much I needed that until you.”

You tilted your head, eyes full and soft. “Are you sure?”

Paige nodded, closer now.

“I’m sure.”

Your breath caught.

She looked at your mouth for just a second.

Then she said, like a confession. “Can I kiss you?”

You didn’t answer with words. You leaned in first.

So she did too.

It was soft. Barely even a press at first. Just the meeting of two people who had spent weeks circling something sacred.

Paige moved slowly, gently, like she didn’t want to startle whatever this was. Your hand came up to rest on her wrist, anchoring her.

She deepened the kiss—just a little—and it felt like everything she’d been holding in finally exhaled.

You pulled away first, barely.

Paige kept her forehead resting against yours.

“I was scared,” you whispered. “That if we crossed this line, it’d stop feeling easy.”

Paige smiled. “It still feels easy.”

You nodded. “Yeah. It does.”

You stayed like that for a while. No rush. No pressure.

Just breathing in the space that had finally, finally opened.

Then you said, “Wanna come upstairs?”

Paige blinked.

You grinned. “Just to hang. I wanna write more. You could help.”

She nodded. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

She followed you inside, heart steady, hand brushing yours.

This wasn’t nothing. This never had been.

[crybabyddl]

In My Room

Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader

Warning: angst, swearing, smut, unprotected sex (PLEASE WRAP IT BEFORE YOU TAP IT!!!), sexual tension, sexual themes, mentions of weed, death, su!c!de, and SH, all characters are 18+, 18+ content. MDNI.

Author's Note: this is something different to what I normally write. Just feeling very sappy and a bit angsty, so here's what I'm giving you. Maybe you'll like it. Inspired by 'In My Room' by Julia Wolf.

I want your things in my room, I miss you all of the time

Eddie's fingers trace a straight line through the dust that's accumulated on the shade of the lamp on your nightstand. It's not much, but it's enough that he has to wipe his hand on the leg of his jeans. The door to your room has been closed for a month now, so your scent is still lingering from the last time you sprayed your Sand & Sable perfume—the one that Eddie finds himself inhaling in large doses, even spraying the bottle you left at his house on himself before leaving for work.

I stalk myself on the internet just to see what you'll find

He's been googling your name at least once every day, just to see if any more news articles came out. They were hard to read; they didn't do you justice. "loved by friends and family" wasn't enough to describe just how much of your heart you'd given the people in your life. He knew it was unrealistic to expect from a journalist, but "angel on earth" was the only true epitaph for you.

I want your things in my room, I miss you all of the time

Too scared to move anything, he sits on your bed, staring at the pale yellow walls before inhaling deeply, allowing his eyes to close. He imagines you coming up behind him and obstructing his vision with your hands.

You make it look so easy, leaving everything behind

The way your life slowly slipped from his hands as he cradled you. He'd tried to stop the bleeding, but there wasn't much else he could do. The last time you looked in his eyes was permanently branded in his brain, burning and scarring in a way that severely wounded Eddie, but was almost comforting in a sense.

I like when it's dark out, October will cure me

He dared to open your closet, immediately recognizing the skirt you wore on Halloween when the two of you dressed up as Bender and Claire from The Breakfast Club. You looked beautiful that night, at the Hellfire Club's Halloween campaign party.

I'm walking these woods, am I thirty or thirteen?

He thinks back to the first time you met, in the woods behind the school. You wanted to try smoking weed, and your friends asked Eddie to meet you there one afternoon the first week of school. He always wondered why you didn't ask him yourself, but he assumed it was because you didn't want to risk your peers hearing that you wanted to buy drugs from the local Satanist freak.

Not asking for much, man, thought maybe you'd call me.

Eddie couldn't help himself. He would call your landline constantly, once in the morning, and once before bed. He never left a message, not wanting your voicemail box to fill up and prevent him from hearing your voice again.

I slit my own throat, just to see if you'd mourn me, yeah

The scene replayed in his mind, the way Vecna had his hand wrapped so tightly around your throat. Just as your breathing was about to cease, he grabbed you by your hair and turned you to face your friends. With a single sharp claw, Vecna dragged his finger deep across your neck, giving Nancy, Steve, Robin, and Eddie a front row seat to your death—the image of blood cascading down the front of your body never to be forgotten.

Eddie knew it was crazy and stupid, but he did it anyway. He took apart an old razor that had been sitting in his bathroom cupboard for a couple years, gliding the metal against the pale skin on his left wrist. Not too deep, he knew that would upset you... he just wanted to see if, maybe, blood sacrifices worked. What if that was all it took to bring you back? But alas, his efforts failed to return you to him.

I want your things in my room, I miss you all of the time

Your favorite jean jacket was on the back of the chair at your vanity. It had been too cold to wear it that fateful day, opting instead for your olive green army jacket with the fleece lining. In a way, Eddie was glad you weren't wearing it, it would've made things feel too real. One month was enough time to still deny the truth, that you were actually gone.

I stalk myself on the internet just to see what you'll find

He saw the terrible articles written about himself following your death. Accusations that you'd killed yourself because your boyfriend filled your head with blasphemy and wizardry. It was bullshit, but it was more believable than a monster from another dimension claiming the lives of people who were struggling to get by.

I want your things in my room, I miss you all of the time

At least your parents believed him. They knew Eddie loved you too much to let anything happen to you. To their knowledge, you'd died from the earthquake, falling onto a sharp rock that impaled your throat. If this was how it felt to know the truth, he knew it was better for them not to be aware of it, as shitty as it felt to lie to them.

They were kind enough to let him visit whenever he wanted, knowing he'd just skulk to the end of the hallway to the right of the kitchen and quietly observe. They pretended not to hear the choking back of sobs from their perches in the living room, opting instead to start a pot of boiling water in case Eddie wanted a cup of tea before he left.

You make it look so easy, leaving everything behind

He wanted to be angry at you, wanted to scream up at the sky. How could you leave him? How was he supposed to get by without you? You were supposed to be next to him on stage at graduation, slow dancing and sneaking swigs from his flask at the prom you were definitely going to ditch after an hour to get high at Skull Rock. He opened the closet again, imagining what kind of dress you would've worn. He'd assumed everything had stayed the same as you'd left it, but upon further inspection, he noticed a hanger with a plastic covering over it tucked away to the left of the rack. He made a mental note that it belonged between your purple raincoat and your graduation robe that you'd gotten fitted for the week prior to the tragedy.

I want your things in my–

Carefully laying the bagged hanger on the bed, he unzipped the swishy black cover, revealing what was going to be your prom dress. He stared down at his right ring finger. Your dress was navy blue, the exact shade of the stone in the middle of his ring. It made his heart swell, your thoughtfulness present even after you'd left.

You look so cool getting high

It was Eddie's idea, going to the field that turned into a drive-in theater in the summer. He'd rolled a joint, expertly packed and long enough to get the both of you higher than the hills—his version of a rose. He'd gotten so worked up on the drive over to your house. He kept telling himself it wasn't a date, but how could he believe otherwise when you skipped down your porch steps wearing such a sweet outfit? After getting in his van, you immediately started messing with the radio, hoping to find something other than Madonna, to no avail. Eddie noticed your demeanor shift, clearly unhappy with the music.

"Check the glove compartment, I think I've got some tapes in there that might be more your taste."

And you did just that, selecting the I Love Rock 'n Roll tape and putting it in the cassette player.

The drive was short, but felt all too long for the man in the driver's seat, having to settle for stealing quick glances at you as you sang along to Joan Jett with your eyes closed.

You made everything look effortless, at least that's how it felt to Eddie. You were leaning against the rock, peering over his shoulder as he rifled through his backpack in search of his lighter. Your perfume invaded his senses, and it scared him, knowing that the smell of it would instantly bring you to the front of his mind from that day forward.

No handlebars, you wanna fly

Wayne had finally decided to let Eddie take the motorcycle for a spin after an hour of begging. He'd helped repair it all summer, and all he wanted was to go for a ride. But he wanted you with him. He sped down the roads of Hawkins, nearly running over a turtle on his way to your house.

You weren't expecting anyone, so when you heard the doorbell ring, your first instinct was that it was on the television. That is, until it sounded again, this time with a knock on the door to accompany it. You tried to see who it was from the window near the door, but it was too dark and you'd wake up your parents if they saw the glow of the porch lights seeping through their cream-colored voile curtains. So you decided to take the risk, opening the door to find Eddie, helmet in hand, with Wayne's black bike on the side of the street behind him.

"What are you doing?" You whispered with a hiss.

Your parents would tear you a new one if they knew you had become friends with Eddie, but he wasn't anything like the town of Hawkins made him out to be. But they'd absolutely have a cow if they found out you were about to sneak out to ride on his motorcycle. But the smile on your friend's face was too charming to even consider turning him down. He gave you the helmet, much to your protest. He took you for a joyride around the block, passing by the school and flipping off the building. You'd be graduating in a few months, and you were going to do everything in your power to make sure Eddie would be walking in a cap and gown beside you.

The ride was overwhelming in every sense of the word. You were cold, the air whipping against your short-clad legs, only a sweatshirt to protect your arms, but you were also warm, the fire in your spine and cheeks still burning from when Eddie brought your hands around his waist, telling you to hold on tight. You were anxious, playing out the scenario that awaited you if your parents had woken up, picturing the scowls on their faces as you climbed through your bedroom window to already find them waiting for you. On the other hand, you'd never felt more free. If you could do this, what couldn't you do?

You look so cool, I wanna die

Eddie eventually takes you back to your house, but it's the last thing he wants to do. If it were up to him, he'd have you pack a bag and hop back on the motorcycle. He'd ask you where you wanted to go, and he'd ride off in that direction. He'd make sure you had everything you needed to be content. You were the first person to make him feel like himself. He had other friends, sure, but he had a role to play for the underclassmen in Hellfire Club. He didn't have to be anything other than himself for you—the desire to look after you came naturally, and he found it by no means to be a burden.

He gave you a boost so that you could scale the flower trellis below your bedroom. You went to lift the window pane, but it remains in its place. It was locked—you weren't expecting to leave the house tonight. You looked down at Eddie, whispering what the problem was. He instructs you to come down, grabbing you by the hips to guide you to the ground. Being the excellent carjacker and delinquent he was, he knew how to crack open a window before he knew how to even spell the word 'delinquent'. With a shimmy of his multi-tool, the glass of your bedroom window rose like it'd been able to open the whole time. He jumps back down, ready to assist you in returning you to your bedroom safe and sound. He doesn't expect you to wave him in, silently asking him to come up and join you. He wasn't about to say no to you; he'd never dream of it.

Eddie was about to start sweating from places other than his underarms, the physical exertion of climbing up and down multiple times expending more energy than he'd anticipated. You were taking off your sweatshirt that you'd put on to get cozy while watching tv, and your pajama shirt lifted in the process. Eddie wished you were facing the other way. He knew it was wrong, to fantasize about seeing his friend's breasts, but what was he supposed to think about? For him to act like you weren't attractive would be impossible. He'd been fighting off the increasingly frequent thoughts for a few weeks now, hoping they'd subside on their own. However, it seemed like they weren't going anywhere, and he didn't know how much longer he could withstand it. Your shorts were so short—had they gotten shorter since the last time he stared at your ass, five minutes ago? The universe was playing a cruel trick on him, he'd been sure of it. He felt his dick twitch in his jeans at the thought of you hiking them up on purpose, like you were teasing him.

"Could you help me? I think my necklace got caught in my hair."

It felt like fate, the perfect excuse to get closer to you without having to make the move himself. You had in fact gotten your necklace entangled with a knot in your hair, probably from the wind. He stood behind you, assessing how to detangle the piece of jewelry. He tried moving some of your hair out of the way, moving most of it over your left shoulder. He was able to get a clearer view of the problem, but in an attempt to free some of your hair, he might've pulled too hard.

"Ow!"

"Sorry!" Eddie could picture the scowl on your face and how your brows were pinched together in impatience. He refocused on the matter at hand, finally making some progress in the detangling.

He was oblivious to the fact that his breath was hitting your clavicle, causing goosebumps to form on your chest. He continued making steady work with his hands, eventually separating your heart-shaped necklace from the hair at the nape of your neck.

You turned to face him, hand held out to retrieve your jewelry. Eddie complied, placing the dainty chain in your outstretched palm. Before he can stop the thought, he's imagining your freshly painted nails, burgundy, scratching down his back as he thrusts into you just right.

Is it too soon to say what's on my mind?

"So, uh, why'd you want me to come up here?" Eddie asked, suddenly feeling out of place, and slightly paranoid that you could see the filthy things running rampant in his mind.

Without a word, you hung your necklace on the little metal hook on your jewelry holder. Once done, you walked over, standing right in front of him, a smile playing on your lips as your eyes found his. You took one of his hands in yours, interlocking your fingers. It wasn't uncommon for you to hold his hand, but the silence made the air thick with a tension that Eddie only felt when he was fighting off the dirty images being conjured by his traitorous brain.

Next thing he knew, you were leading him to your bed, pulling him to straddle over top of you. He doesn't remember if it was his doing or yours, but somehow, your lips were on each other. He wanted to be a gentleman, give you a chance to stop and change your mind. But when you tug his bottom lip with your teeth, it renders him defenseless. The sigh that slipped out of Eddie was desperate, and he would've been embarrassed if you weren't completely scrambling his senses.

He was hard, painfully so, precum having already created a wet patch on his boxers. He cradled your face in his hands, deepening the hot and heavy embrace. You took a risk, slipping your hands under his shirt, dragging your fingers down his chest, not stopping until you reached below his navel, unknowingly bit your lip when you felt his happy trail peaking just above the waistband of his boxers.

"You're so hot." you breathed, looking up into Eddie's eyes. You had no words to describe them other than beautiful, and you momentarily considered buying eyeliner in that chocolate hue you couldn't get enough of.

He wants to tell you he loves you. It's on the tip of his tongue, though it's preoccupied at the moment, swiping the underside of your top lip. If you kept lifting your hips to meet his like that, he'd end up cumming in his pants. Before he can even open his mouth to warn you, you're tugging down his pants and grabbing his dick through his boxers.

"Fuck, sweetheart," he swallows hard. "I've dreamt of this, you know."

Your giggle is quiet, but it crashes like waves in his ears. You had the advantage, no doubt about it. He would get on his knees and beg if that was what you asked of him. Your lips creep up the side of his neck, leaving ghosts of kisses until they're decorating the shell of his ear.

"So have I."

Fuck it.

Eddie pulled down your shorts, taking a second to admire the cute pair of underwear you'd chosen without expecting to see him. A baby pink thong, a complete contrast to the Led Zeppelin shirt and Hawkins athletics sweatshorts that you'd chosen as pajamas. The thong is discarded somewhere on your bed; it's unimportant right now. A kiss on your lower stomach makes your breath hitch. Eddies hands rubbed along your thighs, his rings only adding to the excitement you felt from his touch.

"You gonna let me taste you?" he asked, wanting to be polite despite knowing the answer.

You nodded.

He lowered himself to meet your pussy, breath fanning over the sensitive area. He could see your arousal starting to drip out of you. The mix of your perfume and your body was intoxicating. He kissed you, licking the skin on your inner thighs before moving closer to where you needed him most. The sounds you made, the gasps, breaths, and whimpers were making Eddie feel drunk. Surely, he was in heaven, and you were the angel making his dreams come true.

His tongue circled your clit, his lips closing around it as he devoured you. He briefly dips the muscle into your hole before replacing it with his middle finger.

"You're so wet, fuck." he groaned, subconsciously grinding his hips into your bed.

"Need you in me, please." the last word becoming a whine as Eddie detached every part of himself from you.

Pulling down his boxers, you grabbed a hold of his cock. You gave it the perfect amount of attention, licking up the shaft before taking all of it. Your hand was gripping his thigh, and it was unclear if you were doing so to stabilize Eddie or yourself.

"Shit, shit! You're too good at that—don't wanna cum yet," Eddie managed to pry you off of him as you frowned. "Don't look at me like that, honey. I'm just giving you what you wanted."

The second part felt slightly patronizing, like you were an impatient brat who needed to be fucked right then and there to feel satisfied. And maybe you were, neither of you was to say. The tip of Eddie's dick prodded your wetness, but he pauses.

"What are you–"

"Condom." was all he said.

"Pill." you countered, reaching out to play with the guitar pick hanging around his neck.

He nudged himself into you, warm, wet, and so inviting. He moaned as he bottomed out, slowly withdrawing. His eyes remained steady on you, wanting to gauge your reaction.

"Fuck, Eddie. I'm good, it's good. Please just keep going."

No further confirmation was needed. He continued his movements, bordering on being torturously slow. But you were making the prettiest noises, and he'd do anything to keep hearing them.

"God, your pussy is so fuckin' tight," Eddie breathed, quickening the rhythm of his hips. "Tryna squeeze me to death?"

You watched as his necklace swayed forward and back, a beat behind his thrusts. It left your brain scrambling for words, only to come up empty.

"So good, fuck. You're so hot, holy fuck."

Eddie didn't even bother trying to suppress the smile that came to his face as a result of your praise. He could hardly believe you found him hot, let alone wanting and enjoying having sex with him.

"You should see yourself. You're the sweetest, sexiest thing I think I've ever seen. I'd do some heinous shit to be able to do this again," he paused to kiss you passionately on the lips, causing his body to shift in a way that had his dick reaching a new angle inside you. He noticed how your lips parted so scandalously, and how your eyebrows knitted, like you were unable to handle the amount of pleasure you were feeling. "Oh, there it is. Needed me there, huh?"

Eddie brought his handup to his mouth, gathering spit before letting it slip past his lips onto the pad of his thumb. He brought it down to your clit, easily finding the swollen bud and rubbing it in deliberate, hypnotizing circles. Your whines only encouraged him, loving how your eyes squeezed shut as you told him you were getting close.

"Fuck," you opened your eyes to see Eddie, staring down at where your bodies connected, focused intently on giving your clit the stimulation it craved. "I'm gonna cum if you keep, doing that."

"Yeah? Do it for me, baby. I want you to feel so good. Want you to soak me like a good girl, c'mon." His coaxings had you unraveling even sooner than you'd anticipated.

"Please, fuck, please! You're close, right?"

Eddie nodded enthusiastically, his hair starting to get slightly damp with sweat. The noises he made were so sweet and honey-drenched. It was so attractive to know you were making him feel that way, and you were still in disbelief that he was doing things to you that made you feel the same after fantasizing about it for so long.

"Fuck," Eddie groaned as he felt you tighten around him even more, climaxing as the sound of your moans mingled with his. "That's it."

He couldn't help but kiss you again, hoping to ease your whimpers as your body became oversensitive to the sensations.

I want your things in my–

Eddie laid on your bed, but not before taking off his boots. He clasped his hands, resting them on his ribcage as he stared at the plain white ceiling. He should've done more. He should've run up to Vecna and started swinging at him. Instead, he stood with everyone else, frozen in horror and disbelief. He knew you wouldn't want him to blame himself, but how could he not? He was your boyfriend, he was supposed to protect you. He made a promise to do just that, and the one time you actually needed him to, he didn't. How was he supposed to carry on, knowing he'd failed you when it mattered the most?

He tried to take his therapist's advice, to not judge his emotions, to show himself compassion when his thoughts turned gloomy. You were watching over him now, weren't you?

With a deep sigh, Eddie couldn't help but imagine you sitting at your vanity, getting ready for one of those semi-formal dances that you'd somehow convinced him to accompany you to, as friends of course. There was only one that you had gone to as a couple, but Eddie didn't need any convincing to attend that one. He still kept his flask inside his jacket pocket, but he genuinely enjoyed himself. It didn't hurt that you were absolutely glowing in the twinkling lights strung around the Hawkins High gymnasium.

Your phantom silhouette dissolved as he started to conjure up memories of the two of you cuddling in bed on those rainy days where you felt like doing absolutely nothing. It was the perfect conditions for a joint, but you were always scared your parents would smell the weed. But you still took the risk, even without much effort to persuade on Eddie's part. You'd banish him to the other side of your room, allowing the rain to soak in between the now exposed window frame before lighting an incense stick. The air held the fragrance, the smoke lingering just above the tops of your bedframe posts, creating a haze similar to the fog hovering above the wet concrete on the sidewalk. The mix of your perfume, the incense, and the herb created a surprisingly harmonious aroma, one that was just as intoxicating as the smoke Eddie inhaled.

He the way you played with his hair, making little braids throughout his waves. He'd asked you to do it for a Corroded Coffin gig, and the crowd was electric that night. He liked to think it was because of your magic touch, the pampering giving him that extra boost of confidence. He longed for your touch, the featherlight caresses that lived under his skin long after your fingers had left. He could almost feel it now, chills creeping up his arms. Your lips were so soft, even when they were chapped from your nervous habit of biting the gentle skin. He wanted to wrap his arms around you, pick you up, and spin you around like he did every time he picked you up from work.

Eddie missed you—beautiful, kindhearted, smart, funny, wonderful you. And all he could do was sit in your room and pretend you were just in the kitchen making tea, a minute away from coming back and joining him in bed.

[lieutenantbatshit]

01 - no good deed | just another player. (hwang in-ho x reader)

|| masterlist ||

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The room was dark. Not the artificial, humming darkness of the dormitories. No flickering overhead lights, no sound of desperate breathing in the shadows. 

This darkness was deeper, becoming quieter, then still.

Hwang In-ho bolts upright in his bed, breath caught in his throat, chest heaving beneath the black robe of the Front Man. Sweat clung to his skin like blood once did. The black mask sits abandoned on the table beside him, and for a moment, he remembers who he is. 

Not Hwang In-ho.

The Front Man.

But the dream, kind of a memory, doesn’t let him go. He can still feel it — the warm pool of his blood beneath him, the shouts, the silence, and the pain.

And then, there was you.

Your gloved hands pressing down his wound with a whisper against the chaos, “If you live, don’t forget who you were.”

In-ho’s hands tremble as he reached for a glass of water beside him. He had forgotten, hadn’t he? Bit by bit, piece by piece, until all that remained was the mask, the control, the machine. 

But that voice —  your voice — it never left.

He brushes his hand through his damp hair, eyes burning as they stare at nothing. You were just a shadow then, a mask among other masks. A rule-breaker in a place where mercy was punishable by death.

He doesn’t even know your face or your name. Yet your presence lives in the cracks of his memory, in the fractured quiet of his mind that he never allowed himself to touch.

Except in his dreams.

Or nightmares.

He rose slowly, each movement deliberate. There’s something cold and restrained about him now, but the weight behind his eyes was unmistakable. He walked to the system terminal as the soft glow of the screens hummed to life, illuminating the sharp edges of his face, the shadow of grief still etched across his expression.

His fingers tapped on the keyboard as the screen flickered.

Pink Guard Personnel Records: 28th Squid Game

He shouldn’t do this.

He knew he shouldn’t. Everything about the games was built on anonymity, everything encrypted as if you were expected to forget, bury the past six feet beneath protocol and power.

But he couldn’t forget you. 

His voice was low, hoarse, as he spoke into the silence. “Who were you?”

The system begins its search as the man behind the mask isn’t the Front Man tonight. Tonight, he’s a survivor… still trying to find the one person who made him feel human again. 

Lines of data flicker across the screen — guard IDs, biometric logs, movement patterns, shift schedules. Thousands of entries. Most were clean, categorized, and controlled.

But one file stalls.

ID: P-132-20152745

In-ho narrowed his eyes as he noticed the file. He hovered his hand on his mouse as he clicked, only for the screen to shudder.

ERROR. FILE CORRUPTED. ACCESS DENIED.

He leaned closer as he squinted at the file number. He doesn’t recognize the number, but something about it pulls at him. The timestamp matches the night he was injured. That narrow window between the second and third round.

His fingers fly over the keys as he bypasses standard security. Firewalls resist him, but he wrote the protocols himself. He cracks through the surface code, digging deeper.

REDACTED ENTRY: UNAUTHORIZED INTERVENTION DETECTED.

P-132-20152745: Disciplinary Report - MISSING

Security Footage - DELETED

Status: UNKNOWN

He sits back slowly, the air tight in his lungs, realizing that someone had scrubbed the record. 

Not just a name or a face. Just plain everything.

As if that guard never existed. 

As if the system had tried to erase the very moment he clung to all these years.

His jaw tightened, rage pulsing beneath the surface. Not just for the system, but for himself for forgetting, surviving, and becoming the very thing he once feared. 

Still, there’s a silver of data remaining. A slashed fragment of a voice file that was compressed and corrupted.

Yet, it was still playable.

The static nearly swallows the sound, but in the middle of the distortion, something cuts through.

“—wasn’t supposed to do this…”

“…remember who you are…” “—forgive me.”

In-ho’s eyes closed, his heart pulsing through his chest. Though it was comforting to feel that you were real, he couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to you. 

As his thoughts almost swayed him, he immediately snapped out of his thoughts as he heard a heavy thud. Not from the room, but from the recording.

He sat up as a sharp intake of breath was heard, then another sound that seemed like a hit. Then, another sound that pierces through even the most distorted noise.

A soft, broken whimper. A woman’s voice.

“Please…” A muffled cry as another strike seemed to be done, and then, there was silence.

In-ho froze as his jaw clenched while the recording looped, replaying that single moment of helplessness. Something cold grips his chest, curling around his ribs like barbed wire. 

Someone definitely made sure he wouldn’t remember it. 

The file ends with one last, choked breath — one that doesn’t quite sound like fear, but grief.

“He wasn’t supposed to see me.”

The silence after felt suffocating. In-ho’s fingers curled into fists as the final realization sank in. This wasn’t just a disappearing act.

Someone silenced you, covered you up, and buried your existence under codes and protocols. In-ho scoffed, a smirk forming as if an idea shone all over his face.

They didn’t bury you well enough.

His eyes hardened as he locked the terminal.

You saved him once, now it was his turn.

——

The incinerator hisses as the body bag disappears into flame.

It was either buried or harvested for organs — you couldn’t care at all. In fact, you don’t flinch anymore. You haven’t, in a long time. 

The stench of burnt cloth and blood clings to your mask, thick and stubborn, as if even the scent refuses to die here. You stand still, posture straight, hands clasped behind you just as protocol demands.

You were only a pink circle guard. Just another pair of obedient boots, another ghost in the machine.

Your boots echo softly down the corridor. Rhythm is everything here—footsteps measured, spine straight, eyes forward behind a mask that tells the world nothing. Now, you’re Guard 427.

You swipe your card at the checkpoint and enter the security control wing. The guards here don’t speak unless ordered. The walls hum with surveillance feeds, and one screen, larger than the rest, projects the black mask of the Front Man. You’ve worked hard to become invisible. You are precise in your tasks, silent in your duties, unremarkable in your movements. You erase yourself every day, bit by bit, in service of survival.

Still, you remember him. Not as the Front Man. But as Player 132.

He was bleeding when you found him, struggling beneath the weight of survival. You should’ve walked away. Left him to die like all the others. But something in his eyes that night — numb but furious, cracked but not yet broken made you stop.

You knelt. Whispered. Touched his bloodied chest with trembling fingers.

“If you live, don’t forget who you were before they made you fight.”

And now, he sits behind the glass of power, voice modulated, mask unshifting, his judgment absolute. You wondered if he dreams of you, if your voice ever slips into his nightmares. You wondered if, when he stares too long at the monitors, he's chasing something his mind won’t give him.

You kept your head down and your steps even. You cleaned blood off the walls. You followed orders. You pretend you’re not the one he’s unknowingly searching for.

Because if he ever does remember… If he ever sees through the perfect circle painted across your mask, what then?

Would he thank you? Punish you? Undo you?

You weren’t sure. In a place where mercy was a foreign concept, such a situation of his finding you would cause more complications.

The alarm blared. A low tone thrums through the walls, and every Circle in the hallway stops in unison.

“VIP arrival. Level Six. Escort detail.”

Your fellow pink guards peel off wordlessly, boots pivoting toward the service lift that leads to the opulent corridors you’re never meant to see. The ones draped in gold and smoke, the ones that reek of indulgence and blood.

But not you.

Your earpiece buzzes with a separate frequency.

“P-427, Report to Sub-Level Three. Clearance Sigma Red.”

Sigma Red.

You hesitate for half a breath before responding.

“Confirmed. On route.”

It wasn’t your first time.

You walked alone now, past the steel hallways, the flickering fluorescents, the guards who pretended not to see. You made your way towards the door marked only by a red triangle and the faint scent of disinfectant beneath it.

Inside the room was quiet, warmer, and cleaner. There was no briefing. No other guards. Just a room with a solitary mirror and a rack of clean clothing with soft fabric, unlike your uniform.

“Change. Protocol 09 is in effect,” the voice over the intercom says.

You obeyed, not needing to be told why. 

You’ve done this before. You remember the way the Front Man had just taken the mask then. How his presence had loomed even before you could name it. The first time, you’d done what you were told because not doing so meant punishment. 

You were a standard circle guard who was quiet, efficient, and obedient. Not until that night during the 28th Season where you chose mercy. 

He was bleeding out during lights out where his eyes had pulled you in — the hollow ache of someone who wanted to die but was too proud to beg for it. You broke the rules, yet they let you live.

Only so they could strip you down slowly — the escort class.

The lowest, most degrading designation in the hierarchy of this twisted system. You are masked, dressed in thin civilian mimicry, and handed over to the VIPs—not for pleasure, necessarily. Sometimes just for company. Sometimes for cruelty. Always for obedience.

“Escort detail begins in thirty minutes. Await further instruction.”

The door clicks shut behind you. You sat and waited, listening to the hum of the walls as you wondered, what if this is the time he speaks to you? What if he looks at you a second too long? What if he asks your name? And what if you're too afraid to give it?

The walls here were too quiet. No screams, gunfire, and barking orders. Only silence — deliberate, echoing, and unnerving.

The mask stays on. It always stays on. It's the only part of yourself you're allowed to keep. As you sat, the intercom crackled again. A different voice this time. One you know. One you’ve heard before during your disciplinary hearing. 

“Protocol 09 in effect,” the speaker hisses.

No acknowledgment required. They know you understand.

“You aided a player in the 28th Season. Unforgivable.”

A pause, long enough to let the weight settle. “You will not speak of it. Not to him. Not to anyone. The Front Man does not know. He must never know. Do you understand?”

You nod silently, because that’s all you're allowed to do now.

“VIPs arrive in thirty. Escort mode active.”

You fixed the mask over your face as you changed layer by layer, its garments feel like silk-wrapped shame. 

You remember how, once, your hands shook as they held a bleeding man. The one who now runs the games, one who sits behind a mask of black steel, haunted by something he can’t quite name.

He lives because of you and now you serve because of him.

He must never know.

But you remember.

Every time.

——

The scent of cologne, alcohol, and smoke clung to the velvet of the VIP lounge. The lighting was warm, golden, and suffocating — designed to flatter the depraved. Laughter cuts the air like broken glass. Masks of beasts and emperors lounge across gilded sofas, their voices slurred, their gaze predatory.

One of the VIPs snaps his fingers lazily. You pour his drink, bow just enough, and say nothing — as trained. You don’t speak. You don’t blink too long. You don’t feel.

“You’re quiet,” the VIP, masked as a Minotaur, slurred, brushing his fingers against your mask. “That’s good. Quiet girls know their place.”

You don’t flinch. At least, not visibly.

He grabbed your wrist, pulling you slightly closer, examining you like a possession. “You’re prettier than the last one. I like the silent ones.”

You remain still and silent. Fighting the urge to pull away because if you did, they win. And if you speak, you lose more. Your hands rest on your knees as you lowered your gaze.

“You’re not new, are you?”

The question stung, but you didn’t flinch. You were burning inside, but you stayed silent. 

“That means you know not to fight.”

A murmur of laughter from the others. One of them raises a toast. Another gestures toward you and makes a cruel joke about how easily the silent ones break.

But something shifts in the room. The air tightens. The laughter dulls into murmurs. 

The door opened, revealing the Front Man.

Black mask. Black coat. His movements sharp and deliberate. Authority trails behind him like a shadow.

Your body reacts before your mind can catch up. You straightened your back, holding your breath as you felt your pulse surge. You kept your head bowed. 

He shouldn't be here. Not during the lounge sessions. Not unless something’s wrong. Yet here he is.

He walked slowly through the room silently as if he were observing and calculating something. His presence stills the most obnoxious of the guests. Even the ones who believe they own this place lower their voices when he moves near.

From across the room, the Front Man’s visor tilts toward you. He seemed to see your… situation. But, he doesn’t stop it. He doesn’t speak.

He simply watches.

You don’t know what’s worse. The VIP’s hand curling around your waist…

…or the silence from the one man who might have stopped it.

The VIP’s hand had finally left your side—only because another escort had arrived, younger and easier to control. You’d bowed out with the grace expected of you, even though your fingers trembled behind your back.

“Go help the servers,” one of the Square guards said. 

You obeyed.

It was almost a relief to stand by the bar cart again, serving champagne, bourbon, whiskey, gin. Anything they asked for. Anything to stop being seen.

“You,” the Square guard pointed at you. “Pour for the Front Man.”

The air around you dropped ten degrees, but your hands moved on instinct. The Front Man stood near the edge of the lounge, silent and still as the walls themselves. You could feel the room shift around him. 

You approached with measured steps, a crystal decanter in hand.

He didn’t look at you when you poured, though you could smell his cologne even beneath your mask. As you were about to finish filling up the glass, he suddenly spoke.

“Stay.”

You froze. You expected to be dismissed. But instead, he stood there, drink in hand, and allowed you to remain beside him. One step behind. Within reach. Claimed without announcement.

“Careful with that one, Front Man!” a portly VIP calls out with a laugh, drink sloshing in his hand. “Keep her too close, and you might find yourself using her for more than just drinks!”

Laughter erupted from his circle as your breath hitched a bit. You didn’t move, and the Front Man didn’t say anything. You weren’t sure if he reacted beneath his mask, but he stayed still. There was no reaction and defense.

He sipped his drink slowly, his gaze never leaving the room. Not even a glance toward the man who joked. Not toward you. But then, you felt a sting inside you.

It wasn’t because of the VIP’s words — you’ve heard worse.

But because he didn’t stop it.

You stood at his side obediently, and he let the insult hang there, untouched. You forced the pain down like glass, straightening your spine. Somehow, his silence hurts more than the joke ever could.

By day, you sweep floors, distribute rations, check that the cameras are functioning. Your circle mask stares back at you from polished metal when you pass the infirmary door. You speak to no one. You salute when required. You blend in easily and invisibly. 

You are not meant to be remembered. That, too, is part of the punishment.

At night, it changes. The suit comes off. The silk goes on. You trade your mask for another kind — faceless still, but far more exposed. An escort — a role no one envies.

No one asks how you ended up there. They already know. 

It’s all because you interfered and saved someone you weren’t meant to. You’re not even sure he remembers. Or if he ever knew. Or if he’s simply chosen to forget because acknowledging what you did would mean acknowledging that even he was once weak enough to bleed.

And weakness isn’t allowed here.

Sometimes, when you stand beside his chair in the VIP lounge and pour his drink, you think about that moment in the dark, years ago. When he was gasping, wounded, barely clinging to life behind a player’s uniform soaked in blood. And you chose to help.

That was the night your position was stripped from you.

Because you weren’t always a circle.

Your hands remember how to hold a gun with authority. Your voice remembers how to give orders.

You were a square.

You remember the weight of command.

But mercy is a betrayal in this place, and your punishment is to be seen and not recognized. It is for you to serve quietly the man you once saved and to suffer silently each time he looks right past you. 

----

A/N: We're back! This time, it's more of a slow burn type of fanfic so please bear with the story. What did you think of how you're a Pink Guard saving the Front Man back when he was still a player and him trying to find you in the crowd? This whole fic will be based on the events of Squid Game Season 1, as it would be like one of the first years of In-ho as the Front Man. :D

Don't forget to leave a comment in this chapter to be tagged on to the next chapter. :)

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|| masterlist ||

taglist: @roachco-k @goingmerry69

[consistencynevermether]

Hihi, I hope you have been well!! I love your writing and characterization of Vere sooo much.

I was wondering if you could write Vere’s reaction to a sick reader and having to take care of them maybe? Thank you so much and have a wonderful day! ❤️

Thank you for your kind words!!!! This fic went through sooo many iterations, would you beleive it if i told you at one point hot springs were involved??? anyways, sorry for the wait and i hope you enjoy!!!

content: Vere x sick GN reader, cannon typical swearing and violence, SFW, 1.6k words

Kuras had warned you not to go out into the rain. But you were so close to chasing down a lead on your curse, you couldn't stop for even a second. Of course, when you got a fever so high you were seeing double, you were forced to stop your hunt. Kuras was correct, you should have quit. But you had trudged through rain-soaked roads before and never gotten so much as a sniffle. Which is part of why this cold annihilating you was so embarrassing. 

Your throat was dry. You felt like your face was on fire. Your limbs were so weak you felt if you tried to stand, you would collapse. Your vision swam with dizziness. 

Nothing could make this worse. You thought to yourself.

At that exact moment, you heard the lock on your door being picked with an ease so smooth it practically begged the intruder to open it. Even with your state, you could recognize the basic features of the man that slinked into your room, his claws gently clicking on the metal of the doorknob. 

Vere was here. And the universe had a sick sense of humor. 

“No,” you managed to croak out.

Vere cackled at your visceral response to his presence. And the fact that the biggest defense you could muster was a simple “no”. 

‘I'm here to help,” he purred, opening the window in your room to air out the smell of sickness and get you some fresh air. 

“I don't believe you,” you grumbled halfheartedly. Despite being sick, you still felt the need to waste energy bantering with Vere. He truly brought out the worst in you, yet you couldn't help but feel a twinge of gratitude at his presence. 

After all, he didn't have to spend his limited free time looking after you, yet here he was. Of course, him just showing up didn't mean he'd actually be helpful. You were 99% sure he'd throw a lukewarm towel on your head and call it a day. You'd bet your last copper on it.

And as you would soon find out, you would lose that copper. 

To your shock, Vere helped you out of bed and moved you into the bathroom, where a bath had been prepared. It was shallow water (Vere was probably trying to minimize the risk of you drowning), and the temperature was lukewarm, which felt cleansing considering the high fever you were running. Vere made sure you weren't going to pass out anytime soon, then left you in the bathroom with a fresh set of clothes and a towel. 

You were in there for a while, running the cool water over your feverish skin and trying to wipe away the thin layer of sweat on your brow. After over an hour, you finally worked up the energy to crawl out of the tub and dry yourself off, then slowly but surely you put on the new clothes.

You could feel your eyelids burning from exhaustion, and your face still burning. But at least you felt refreshed. To your surprise, vere had changed the sheets on your bed and opened the windows, letting the fresh air in.

The room looked significantly better than how you had left it, which was unfortunate, because Vere looked very pleased with himself. 

“Now that you look less like a corpse,” Vere began, “let's get you something to eat. I'll cook.”

At that line, your blood ran cold. Flashbacks to the last time Vere had cooked came rushing in. the pots boiling over. How he would put random spices and sweeteners in a dish without reading what they were. Him trying to sneak some strange looking piece of meat into a stew. How he delighted in the horrors he created in any kitchen.

This was his plan all along. Wait till you were sick then finish you off with his god forsaken awful cooking. 

“You're trying to kill me.” you accused.

“Oh relax, I can actually cook when I try.” he shrugged.

“No. No you cannot. Nobody who can ruin scrambled eggs can cook.”  you countered.

Vere gave you a smirk so devious that even with a fever it sent shivers down your spine.

“If you're wrong, what will you give me?” he questioned. 

“...”

You were sure he couldn't actually cook, but his confidence was making you question yourself. 

“Something within reason?” you offered.

“Your reason or my reason?” Vere questioned 

“My reason”

“Bore.” 

He held out a clawed hand for you to shake, and you reluctantly reached out to shake it. Despite his confidence, you truly believed Vere could not cook. And even if he could, his pension towards mischief would screw him over. You didnt think he could resist fucking with you by adding chocolate to a piece of beef or something stupid. 

You wrapped yourself up in a clean blanket, and shuffled off behind Vere to the kitchen that the Wet Wick had reserved for long term renters. It was a very small setup separate from the main kitchen, and more importantly, there was a couch in the corner next to a table you could lay down on. 

You were there for a total of 2 hours. On the bright side, the bath and fresh air had made you feel a bit better. Your throat had started to hurt less every time you swallowed, and Vere was even kind enough to get you some peppermint tea, which really helped. 

On the downside, you absolutely lost the bet. You stared in shock as Vere started kneading dough to make noodles, heat up some chicken stock he had brought, cut up three chicken breasts, some carrots, garlic, and celery, and cooked them in a mix of spices on the stovetop before shredding the chicken and adding the mix to the broth. He was making chicken noodle soup. With handmade noodles. 

Were you being fucked with? Every single time you had cooked with Vere, it ended in a minimum of one stovetop fire. Why was he suddenly competent? Could he do this the entire time? 

Vere saw your incredulous expression and laughed. 

“I told you so~” he teased while setting down a bowl of soup in front of you. 

You reached for the spoon and took a bite. It was good. The chicken was well seasoned and the vegetables still had a solid crunch to them, while the broth soothed your throat even more. 

“Gods dammit.” you laughed.

Vere snickered along with you. 

“Looks like someone lost the bet. About my reward though-”

“Can this wait till I feel better?” you asked.

“Nope!”

You sighed. “Let's have it then.”

“I want to taste the soup.” Vere stated.

You raised an eyebrow.

“That's it?”

“That's it.” He confirmed. 

“Of course you can.” you replied. “You made it. And for the record, thank you for making this for me.”

You took another spoonful of soup to your mouth, savoring the warmth it brought.

And then Vere kissed you. 

Your eyes went wide, you were so shocked you hadn't even noticed how he had slipped his tongue into your mouth and stolen. a. carrot. From inside your mouth. 

He pulled back, licking his lips as he reclined on the chair on the opposite side of the table you were seated across.

“Wow, I am an incredible cook,” Vere preened. “And your lucky Mhin had some chicken stock I could steal from them.”

What… what had just happened? Had you started hallucinating? Was it the fever?

No, you could still feel the sensation of his tongue in your mouth. 

You opened your mouth to speak, forgetting you needed to swallow the rest of the soup, and proceeded to spit it out as you tried to speak.

“Fuck!” you exclaimed, soup all over your nice clean blanket.

Vere was already laughing hysterically, halfway to falling out of his chair. 

“What the FUCK was that??” you questioned, your tone one of shock, not anger

A prank like this wasn't exactly out of character for Vere, but you were still reeling. 

“You SAID I could have some!” he laughed.

“I didnt- I didnt say- well I didn't-” You attempted to sputter out a coherent sentence, but the feeling of Veres mouth on yours had made your brain entirely reset. His loud cackling didn't help either. 

“You could catch my cold!” you finally exclaimed, finding your words again.

“Didn’t you get sick because you were out in the rain in November? I don't think stupidity is contagious.” Vere stated. 

…

You threw a spoonful of soup at Veres' head. 

Of course he dodged easily enough, a bark of laughter starting up again at your attempt at revenge. 

You spent the next 20 minutes trying to swat Vere with your soup stained blanket, and him effortlessly dodging. 

Eventually you both calmed down, both laughing slightly as Vere turned away to reheat your soup on the stove which had gotten cold as the two of you “fought”.

What you didn't see while Veres' back was turned to you as he heated up the soup was how he lightly brushed his lips with his fingers, as if trying to remember a certain feeling.  

You were glad not to see this though, because if he was turned away from you, he couldn't see the redness in your cheeks as you stared at his back. 

You could pass it off as the fever. But as you finished your food and began to head back up to bed, waving at Vere as he headed out, you knew what would be replaying in your mind the second your head hit the pillow.

[magnais]

The Seelie was well-shaped, at the very least. For all Magnai's disdain for the fae in the war's wake, he recognized the beauty that made them such popular slaves, despite the myriad of behavioral problems they tended to bring with them. But they were fragile, too. That left the alpha with something to work with. He circled the hooked slave, tracing the lines of Briar's tattooed wings with his eyes and then a hand, thumbing over the bottom of one dragonfly-like appendage where it wrapped the Seelie's hip. "You'll have to be more specific," He came back around, stroking over Briar's chest with calloused fingers to tweak one rosy nipple, just to see how the faerie reacted to a more targeted pinch of pain. "Why are we keeping you here? Or why am I doing this?" Magnai had heard plenty of both in his time. "You're a slave now. That's the only answer you need to either of those questions and for all the other ones you're too scared to ask me."

He could smell that fear lingering sour in the other's scent... and something else too. When Magnai's eyes found the Seelie's face again, there was an almost mocking light in his gaze. His fingers skated lower, circling lightly around Briar's cock before he took it in his palm like a curious object to be assessed. It was as pretty as the rest of the boy. "But you say you're no virgin, don't you? I wager this'll be easier for you than you pretend." The alpha had no doubt this slave was as innocent as his demeanor suggested, but that hardly mattered. He was prodding now, seeing what reaction he could get. "You're experienced, then," Magnai said casually, "Plenty of history entertaining strange men. You could make yourself very comfortable here, faerie, if you play your cards right."

His gaze shifted to the cuffs as they were wrapped around his wrists, jaw clenching and unclenching as the fae so obviously fought against the truths that threatened to fall from his lips. Better to say nothing at all at this point he was beginning to realize. His words just reinforced that, be quiet and behave, he wouldn't get hurt, which sounded easy enough. His arms being hauled over his head and the chain catching on the hook had the seelie letting out a gasp of surprise, "Hey! Wait-" His eyes widened like saucers as he was truly exposed, his blush spreading like wildfire to his ears and down his neck. He was pushing his face into his arm immediately to hide himself in anyway he could, able to practically feel the master's stare as he took a step back even if he couldn't see it.

He huffed quietly against his arm at the question, hands gripping the chains of the cuffs tightly like they were providing some kind of support. "No," He answered, voice tight as he willed himself not to just start crying. He had considered himself lucky until Magnai came around, he had been left alone to wallow in his sadness, and now here he was, draped in shame and the smallest hint of badly concealed arousal while on display for the other's enjoyment. "I-.. I don't.. why are you doing this?"

[theinfinitedivides]

runs in the family

[madamechrissy]

Baby You're a Star Masterlist // Pornstar Satoru headcanons

Chapter One - Chapter Two - Chapter Three

Pairings- Pornstar Satoru x shy f!reader

Summary- You meet Satoru Gojo at a wild Hollywood party, insanely out of place, waiting for your friend to show up. The two of you hit it off, spending time together, and share a kiss, but you're a good girl, and you just don't do this, but he is the top pornstar there is, and the top .01 % on OnlyFans. Once you find out, you know there's probably no match, as Satoru doesn't date, and you don't sleep around, but after meeting, you keep in touch- and soon Satoru can't get hard without thinking of you, and you get over curious, and join a livestream.

Warnings- mentions of sex and sexwork, masturbation, mentions of drug use, weed smoking, Gojo has an OF hehe, lots of longing, pining, Satoru can't get hard if it's not you, whipped ass Satoru, explicit sexual content, angst - WC 32k 🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻 Playlist -Ao3 link-Headcanons below!

Pornstar Satoru is one of the most famous pornstars there are, hence him constantly wearing jet black shades and hoodies at times, he never knew just who he'd run into that would recognize him. Whether it's his flicks or his OF - he's the top .01 % - he gets a lot of notice, especially in bustling LA. But, he loves what he does, he especially loves watching his abs flex in the camera as he hits one of his lovely costars from the back.

Pornstar Satoru loves making the costars and girls he collabs with actually cum, where they're shaking and squirting all over his latex covered cock. Not that fake shit like he watches them do with other men- no Satoru makes sure to slam that curved tip against their cervix, to roll his thumb right on their clit with the perfect amount of pressure. Perhaps that's the secret to how famous he really is, along with his good looks.

Pornstar Satoru makes so much money from each shoot and is in high demand, so he can have whoever he wants as a co star. They line up to have a chance at him, watching his videos and aching for a chance to feel his cock hitting them deeper than damn near anyone could hit, to say they got to shoot with the Satoru Gojo. This just makes Satoru fuck them harder, smiling right at that camera, as women dream it's really them that have captured his pretty blue eyed gaze.

Pornstar Satoru thinks it's a pretty damn good life, being rich for fucking beautiful women on camera, as he's inhaling a blunt after a threesome shoot with his best friend - and often costar- Pornstar Suguru, as they talk about who got the girl to squirt more, right in the middle of a bouguie party in East LA. Suguru let's out a throaty laugh, while Satoru narrows his blue eyes. 'I had her cumming so hard she was shaking' he says, taking a hit and handing it back to Suguru. 'Nah, that was all for me, did you see...'

Pornstar Satoru stops listening when he sees you enter the room, completely out of place at the coke filled, booze filled party, wearing a pair of black glasses that cover half of your pretty face, and a little nervous look as you stand there, in a cute white pleated skirt and a big oversized sweater. Satoru smacks Suguru on the shoulder then and he coughs up smoke. 'Shit what is it?' Satoru looks back at you, when you're handed a drink, some guy flirting as you look down shyly. 'Who's she?' Suguru blinks a bit curiously. 'I don't know, she's pretty though'

Pornstar Satoru scowls at Suguru who snorts in laughter then. 'Satoru we don't have 'girlfriends' and she... looks like a good girl' your eyes catch his then, across the room, like something shifts as you smile sweetly, before peering at your phone, biting your lip in concentration. 'I'm talking to her' Suguru chuckles as he watches his friend, and Satoru feels his heart race when he comes too close to you, something he can't say he's felt, even pleasing countless beauties, nothing has quite altered him as your sweet turn of lips, as you look down at your converse, so out of place you're fucking adorable. 'Hey sweetheart... Satoru Gojo' he says, introducing himself with ease, expecting you to maybe notice him, get starstruck, fuck women get wet just near him, but you simply grin, and your name whispers through his mind when it spills from your lips.

Pornstar Satoru has you sitting with him later, you fall into easy conversation, you're a little gamer nerd, you love science and the environment, he just bets you were head of your ecology club in college, which you quickly confirm, all while you're in awe of just how beautiful this man is. He's sweet, he's sexy... you feel he shouldn't even be talking to you. You're pretty but... he's experienced so clearly, by every way he moves, he's worldly, so confident, and you've never really left this little part of LA, but the two of you can't stop talking, to the point you forget what brought you here.

Pornstar Satoru laughs with you, as you're sitting side by side, and he lights up a blunt, leaning back on the burgundy couch on the outskirts of the party, inhaling it deep into his lungs. 'Want a hit, sweets?' he murmurs, you take it nervously, putting it to your lips and inhaling a bit, before coughing, covering your mouth. Satoru chuckles, 'you're cute' earning your cheeks heating up. 'Can you tell I don't do this?' you're nervously tapping your leg now. 'Yeah, what does bring you here, doesn't seem your...' 'my scene?' he nods then. 'yeah, that.'

Pornstar Satoru watches avidly as you sip on your drink, wincing at the strong liquor. 'Well, my friend invited me over, but she's running late' Satoru grins now. 'Party time is different, everyone comes late, that's on time. About fifteen minutes late' 'oh no I came early!' you smack your own forehead, giggling along with him. 'Are you like... a model, or an actor?' you ask, eyeing him and his baby blues, the cheekbones so perfect, those lips that wrap the blunt again. 'You could say I'm a bit of both,' he muses, then spits out his drink when you ask 'what are you in!?'

Pornstar Satoru coughs just a bit, he's never been ashamed of what he does, but he's nervous for some reason to tell you. Why, he doesn't know. 'I'm... into some indie flicks' you brighten up then. 'Oh, let me know, I love lowkey films! I bet you're great' Satoru sighs, gulping down the rest of his drink and eyeing your cup. 'Want more?' you frown now, maybe you're asking too much, or offending this actor that you don't recognize him!? You nod, the amount of people around you making you press against this friendly, pretty white haired stranger just a little more.

Pornstar Satoru has another drink, eyeing the sea of bodies undulating in the extravagant mansion, and soon the two of you are dancing together you're cute and so awkward, Satoru's enjoying this far, far too much. He has plenty of costars and fans come up to the two of you, but he's too interested in showing you how to move your hips to pay them any mind, when finally your friend comes. Satoru instantly recognizes her, she's a pretty famous co star he's collabed with on her Onlyfans not long ago. When she sees you giggling and enjoying yourself so much, she damn near drags you away, making Satoru curse.

Pornstar Satoru eyes you when your friend whispers in your ear- 'you really don't recognize him!?' you blink curiously, looking at him more closely. 'Should I?' she sighs then, eyeing Satoru up and down. 'He was in my OF videos, we collabed' you heat up furiously then. 'I never watched your videos! I just subbed to be supportive!' she giggles. 'You're so cute, I thought you at least watched some?' you shake your head nervously. 'I don't really watch, is he... like an OnlyFans guy?' Satoru is back over with Suguru now, while you sip your drink, feeling your body warm up. 'He's the top pornstar there is, the collab was like a dream. He's really sweet but you should know is all, you're kinda...' you glare. 'kinda what?' she giggles again. 'you're just... sweet, emotional, is all'

Pornstar Satoru expects you to be done with him once you find out, after all you just seem innocent, uncorrupted for this city, not the kind of girl to be at this party where lines are being snorted off bodies, and people are naked and jumping in the pools, a heady, wild atmosphere. But you smile at him, as you murmur - 'he's sweet?' to your friend. She nods then. 'He is, but just know... he doesn't date so, it'd only be physical' you frown at that now, that's not something you think you can do, you're about as demisexual as it gets, hence your very limited experience. 'He doesn't date at all?' Your friend gently touches your shoulder. 'No, love, I'd hate to see you hurt'

Pornstar Satoru catches you before you leave later that night, when you are just feeling too out of place, his big hand wrapped around your delicate wrist, earning you looking up at him. He can't stop thinking how pretty your eyes would look rolled back, how good your lips would feel wrapped around his cock, as you relax a bit, turning and looking up. 'Headed out already?' he asks softly, you flush as you remember just what he does for a living, your friend had just described his cock in far too vivid detail. 'It's not really my thing, but I'm glad we met, Gojo' you smile so cute then, leaning up and pecking him on the cheek, his arm wraps your waist as he leans down, inhaling that sweet vanilla scent cloying to your skin.

Pornstar Satoru pulls you in closer, blue eyes staring under snowy lashes. 'Can I... get your number?' Satoru has never asked for a number a day in his life, but he delights in watching you shift nervously, nodding as you tuck your hair behind your ear. 'Yeah, I'd like that' he exchanges numbers, tilting your chin up then, watching the way your eyes dilate, the color spread on your pretty cheeks. 'She told you?' you clear your throat, nodding a bit, still being captured by his fingers. 'I don't judge at all, Gojo, I'd still like to be... friends...' your whisper is met with the most subtle kiss on your lips, shooting desire hot and heavy until Satoru releases you, plump lips smirking- 'sure, sweets, we can be friends'

Pornstar Satoru can't get you off his mind, the feel of your skin on his, the sweet sigh against his lips. He is on a big shoot and - the Satoru Gojo that never gets soft - is having trouble keeping it up, to the amusement of his costar Pornstar Sukuna. Satoru scowls at his comments, just picturing your sweet lips against his for that brief moment. A man who just fucks and fucks, and doesn't feel, is hung up just on some fucking kiss. He has to take a break after pleasing his costar with his fingers, she's cumming so much she doesn't notice, but the directors wonder why he's off. He's in his own dressing room, eyeing the phone, hands shaking as he decides to type a message - 'could you give me a picture, sweets, to save as your caller id?'

Pornstar Satoru finds his cock is right back on hard when you send one quickly, just a cute selfie with a little peace sign, but he sees your glossy fucking lips, the teeth indentations he aches to rub the tip of his cock on, along with just a hint of your breasts. Your nipples press against the thin material of your little tee shirt- Pokemon, he notices, smiling- his cock throbbing. 'Can I get one too?' you're biting that lower lip nervously as you ask, getting a picture of him shirtless then, doing nothing to stifle the curiosity in your mind, your heart racing as you seee his body. 'You at a shoot?' you ask in the messages, he hesitates before answering - 'yes' - and somehow you feel jealous of whoever his costar is. You message a - kill it, Gojo! - despite the feeling in your tummy, little do you know you're drowning his fucking mind when he performs later, feeling the star squirting all over his latex covered cock.

Pornstar Satoru can't stop texting you that week, he can't even get hard if he doesn't look at that picture, and you can't stop your curiosity, when you friend mentions he's doing a live stream. Since Satoru can hardly perform, he's decided to masturbate on live cam, in minutes making more than he'd make in a shoot, all while having your picture propped up. People are chatting, watching, dollars by the hundreds being tipped every moment, fuck he's making way more than he usually would, and he can think of you. He laughs softly, abs flexing as he hits the right angle, reading the comments, making you dripping wet, this isn't what you do!?

Pornstar Satoru is stroking his wet, slick cock that's glistening, up and down with his huge hand, and you feel your pussy clench, breath coming faster, unsure whether to look away or keep staring, meanwhile he's picturing you in all sorts of positions, on your knees, a fucking mating press. He's shutting his eyes for a moment, grinning as the viewers go crazy. 'I know, it's pretty, huh?' he spits right on that long, veiny cock of his, pinching his pink tip and whining, white lashes fluttering open right when he sees a familiar name enter the chat.

Your name.

hehe it'll be a FULL FIC not a drabble/oneshot - link above

[circe69]

simon riley is simon fucking riley.

why would he need a secretary?

it was price's idea to put up the "help wanted" sign, even though simon never agreed to it. he was completely capable of going through life "assistantless", he had made it this far, hadn't he?

but the way you greeted him, placed your manicured hand out for him to envelop it with his, was something he wasn't prepared for in the slightest. simon found himself whispering your name to himself as he walked to lunch, stapled papers, shaving his face.

you were a phenomenon to him, a spiritual experience that he just didn't recognize yet. and even though he was slowly coming around to this whole thing, the truth was, he'd always be a bitter man.

"sir, I was placed here for your benefit. trust me when I say, whatever you ask of me, I will do-"

"I don't need your fuckin' help, y'hear me?" simon would respond with a bite, even though his words only encouraged your crush more.

and his eyes spoke words his mouth couldn't. they casually wandered down the length of your body, and he took it upon himself to memorize the sight of you. sitting, standing, bending over.

how could he not? the way your plump ass sat in that stupidly tight skirt, how the buttons lining your polo were just seconds away from flying across the room with the help of your black push up bra, it was just too much for him.

every single morning, without fail, you waltzed right into his office. his space, unsolicited. carrying your unnecessarily large purse and an iced coffee, your soft voice rang and bounced off the four walls, "good morning, sir."

you might as well just bow down to him while your at it, with all that sweet talk you give to simon, all the shy little nods and waves you bid him throughout the day, and he ate it right up.

"I finished the spreadsheets you asked me to compartmentalize. will that be all for today?" you'd say, leaning over his mahogany desk as your cleavage spills out of your top. simon was about to lose his cool.

"that'll be all, luv." he cooly spoke over his computer, trying to regain his composure.

it wasn't until a few days later, when you were struggling to put a stack of files on the top shelf, that simon's self control went out the window. he watched as you stood on your tiptoes, losing balance trying to place the items. and he couldn't help but come up behind you, placing a large palm on the small of your back to steady you.

a small gasp came from your throat at the gesture, "easy, luv, just me." he whispered back.

simon was so close, close enough to the point where you could study his face, watching his eyes squint at the effortless reach it took for him to stack the files.

the eye contact alone led your mind astray, and as his hand drifted away from your back to the fat of your hip, your eyes fluttered down to his lips, then neck, then shoulders.

that was all it took. what started as a something simon hated became something he lived for. the hand around your hip pulled you closer to him as the other cradled your face.

"tell me to stop." he whispered, nose rubbing against your own, causing your eyes to flutter shut.

you smiled at the outrageous thought.

"never."

simon's lips crashed against yours in an instant, a clash of teeth and tongue, slow licks and harsh nips were quickly causing your legs to give out beneath you.

he picked you up instantly, "mm, I gotcha,"

that's how you found yourself laid all pretty on his desk, legs up on his shoulders. the slight curve of his dick and veins you could feel with every nerve in your body only created shudders.

"mmhmm, mm, y-you don't hate me?"

you said, interrupting the lewd sounds of him slamming into you, the squelch of the two of you joining made you tighten around him.

"fuck, no. no, don't hate you, lovey,"

and of course, simon being the pussydrunk that he is would casually slip this in,

"love you, fucking love you."

୧ ‧₊˚ 🍮 ⋅ ☆

[ghost-proofbaby]

the hat rule. (e.m. x fem!reader)

the hat rule (n.): you wear the hat, you ride the cowboy.

summary: when eddie dresses up as a cowboy to a night out with friends, you decide to steal his hat.

pairings: eddie munson x fem!reader

warnings: reader is described to be wearing a dress. reader is also dressed up as a black cat. premise is everyone is wearing 'slutty' costumes. overuse of pet names. public teasing, unprotected sex, choking kink, oral (f receiving), ass slapping. 18+.

wc: 13.3k+

happy early valentine's day, babes. shout out to @hellfire--cult for beta reading, as well as @andvys for giving me this idea to begin with.

If someone had told you last week that you’d be attending a slutty costume themed night at a club tonight, you would have laughed in their face.

And yet here you were, at Steve Harrington’s apartment, donned in a black cat costume that shows more skin than you have in years.

The elaborate plan had sparked on a random day after Steve encountered a flyer for the event. It was a nightclub your group had attended before, and one look at the line free drinks for participants had Steve running down your entire group to insist that you all needed to dress up, to participate in this, for the luxury of free Tito’s. 

He’d never considered that the ad might not be targeted towards the male population. And now, you were all gathering at his apartment to pregame, ‘slutted out’ as Robin had so kindly put it – men included.

Nancy pulled out some sort of angel costume she claims she had bought but certainly not worn a few years back, Robin had conglomerated an alluring pirate attire from items you hadn’t even been aware were in her closet. Jonathan arrived in his erotic yet pensive writer’s costume (you’d hardly understood it, but he seemed confident, so you all went with it), Argyle in tow donning some sort of seductive surfer costume, in which you certainly recognized the unbuttoned shirt and cargo shorts that had had a pocket knife taken to them to disregard a few inches. Steve even stuck to his own demands, going all out – a sensual bunny costume.

And then, there was Eddie.

Eddie fuckin’ Munson. 

“Pick your jaw up off the ground, sweetheart,” he teases as he shuffles around you in the kitchen to grab a drink, “Gonna start catching flies otherwise.” 

“There’s a joke in there somewhere about how sweet I am, right?” you blandly reply, keeping your eyes on your room temp cocktail that Steve had so graciously mixed for you upon your arrival, “Something where you call me honey or sugar, yeah?” 

Eddie pauses, bottle of vodka in hand, looking at you with big eyes lined in coal, “Oh, baby, you know me so well.” 

“Cut the pet names, Munson.”

You try to scowl. You really do. But you don’t mean a damn word you say. 

Sweetheart. Baby. Hell, even honey would have done it for you when he was wearing that costume. 

Tight leather pants, flared at the ankle. Worn leather boots that certainly had to have been thrifted, clicking with each of his steps. A cow print vest, and just a vest, over what looked to be an oiled chest. 

And that fucking hat smashing down his curls, adding a shadow across his face that only built into the illusion. 

You hate him. You hate this stupid party. You hate Steve for ever suggesting this. 

“You don’t mean that,” he sing-songs as he pours his own drink into a red solo cup. The vodka mixes with cranberry juice, you think, before he’s dropping a few ice cubes out of the freezer. “Or maybe you do, and I should try saying them with a southern drawl,” Fuck, he does a good southern accent. Slow and syrupy sweet, molasses down the throat as he flutters his lashes at you, “That better, darlin’?” 

You pluck the thin black straw that had been added to your cup for flare, probably stolen from a hotel at some point by Steve and positively meant for drinks of the coffee variety, and flick it in his direction without hesitation. 

“Terrible,” you flatly lie, “Cowboys aren’t even from the south, idiot. They’re from the West.” 

You have no desire to hear Eddie’s Western accent. No desire to hear Texan twang on those lips, putting on his best John Wayne impression. In fact, the faster you can get away from him, the quicker you can get yourself under control. 

It had always been this way between you and Eddie. Push and pull. Will they, won’t they. A game of cosmic shores as the two of you toed at each other’s orbits and bantered effortlessly. Flirtatious threats, inappropriate compliments, lewd innuendos – you had done it all, specifically with Eddie.

That’s just how the friendship worked. 

The friendship. 

Friend. Nothing more, nothing less. 

Eddie won’t leave you alone, though, choosing to lean up against the counter beside you, forcing his way into your peripherals, “Damn. You’re right. Wayne would kill me if he knew I mixed that up.” 

“Oh, I think he has plenty of reasons to knock some sense into you.” 

“Yeah?” he leans forward, tauntingly, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, “Why don’t you do it for him? I think I’d like a slap more coming from you, honestly.”

He’s acting like he always does. This is normal. The fact that his entire torso is on show and you can’t stop staring at the way his tattoo on his peck is shimmering doesn’t change that. 

You play the role, knowing your part well as you lean in as well, forcing a smile right back at him, “Wanna kiss my knuckles before I do it, or am I gonna have to do all the hard work here?” 

“Oh, trust me, you’d never have to do all the work with me, ba-”

“Can you two get a fucking room?” Robin interrupts as she enters the room, clearly coming in for a refill but getting more than she bargained for. 

You’re aflame with the shame and embarrassment, feeling it lick from your ankles up to your throat, as Eddie only chuckles lowly. 

“Sorry, Robs,” Eddie chirps, not sounding apologetic at all, “I promise I’ll behave myself the rest of the night.” 

And yet, despite the words you’re hearing him say out loud, he does the exact opposite. 

There’s no real need for him to do it. There’s plenty of space amongst the kitchen for him to maneuver his way out without laying a single hand on you – and yet he still fucking does. 

His palm is shockingly warm when it curls around your hip, his other hand occupied with a drink, encouraging you to move a step forward so that he can brush behind you far too close for comfort. You nearly stumble over himself as he does it. The feeling of his barren chest barely bumping your bare shoulder blades sends your mind reeling, and his staple rings that have incorporated into his costume press right through the thin fabric of your dress.

Your breathing stops entirely as he pauses, the slightest bit of skin still brushing against yours, and leans in with a boyish grin, “We’ll both be on our best behavior tonight – right, kitty?” 

Something clicks in your mind. The way the nickname rolls off his tongue as he’s looking at you with eyes flaming with mischief, hand lingering on your hip for far too long. 

Your eyes flicker up to the hat on his head, and you smile slowly, meeting his toying gaze, “Right, cowboy.”

Best behavior, your ass. Tonight, you have decided, ends the will they, won’t they of it all. 

It’s about to either be the best night of your life, or the worst. 

—

Another shot with Nancy. Another smoke with Argyle. Another adjusting of Steve’s corset when he complains he can’t breathe (he certainly can, but you’re starting to think he just likes the attention). The pregaming continues on as more of Steve’s friends from work show up, the apartment slowly beginning to buzz with the chatter of more strangers than you can count on one hand.

You’re not even at the club yet and you’re already regretting your revealing attire.

Eddie stays mostly preoccupied with his own devices, and only gets scolded a handful of times by Nancy. You can hear every lewd joke he makes, of course. At some point, you make a private drinking game out of it; a sip for every time he makes the stereotypical joke of ‘save a horse, ride a cowboy’. 

Well, it was a sip the first time. A slightly larger gulp the second time. A chugging of half your drink the third time. 

“There’s no fucking way,” Steve laments at the table the boys as well as a few guests you don’t recognize have taken over for a game of strip poker, “Jonathan is cheating. Or counting cards.”

“I concur,” Eddie mutters around his cigarette, scowling at his losing hand. 

“You’re also cheating, asshole. This is the first round you’ve lost the entire game.”

“Or maybe I’m just really good at cards, Harrington.” 

“Oh, yeah? Well, maybe I’m really good at-”

“He’s not cheating,” Nancy interrupts with a sigh from the couch, lounging as she’s served as a referee of sorts for the group. Her entire body weight is draped against Robin, and you’re certainly not going to comment on Robin’s hands toying with her permed locks, “Stop being a sore loser and just strip.” 

You get why Steve was the most upset. He was down to his underwear and socks, corset tossed somewhere far behind him and bunny ears placed on Robin’s head in place of her pirate hat that she had claimed became too warm. 

“I think Steve should trade both socks and put back on the bunny ears,” she quips as she reaches up for the headband, flicking at one of the floppy ears, “He’d look cuter that way.” 

“Fuck off,” he snaps, throwing up a middle finger as Argyle finally loses his shirt. 

When your attention has drifted, you know he did exactly that, though. 

The game had been boring you half to death, honestly. Watching Steve strip without fail every round, hearing the loud cheers from Argyle when he managed to win a few rounds in a row and exclaimed it was a turkey (it had taken a ten minute intermission to explain to him that was bowling, not poker), watching a few of the girls that Steve had invited fawn over him as they carefully removed boots and gloves when they lost – none of it sparked your interest. The only saving grace had been every smug look Eddie offered as he’d win, time and time again. So far, he’d only lost his boots. 

He was hot when he was cocky. There was no way around it.

And now, as he carefully pondered as to which part of his precious costume to part with, you were on the edge of your seat. He was lovely and enticing when he was excited, when he was jubilant with victory, but as a sore loser? 

Dear God, Eddie Munson was a gorgeous specimen with a pout on his lips. 

“Trying to decide what to take off, Munson?” Jonathan notices the way Eddie is hesitating, even through the offset of conversations that had sparked up in the brief pause amongst the growing group.

You lean forward on the couch, almost subconsciously. 

You don’t care what Stacy from Steve’s job thinks of their manager or the latest drama ongoing there, and Steve would probably agree with you if it weren’t for Stacy’s all-red, latex Devil costume.

Eddie scoffs, waving a hand over his attire, “Obviously. You know, it’s not easy to choose when you have a costume as damn good as mine.” 

“What? Don’t think you’ll be as pretty without your hat?” you decide to contribute to the teasing, shocking yourself in the process. 

The last thing you should do when you’re staring him down in this way, is bring attention to yourself. And yet you were, like some fucking idiot with a death wish. 

“You think I’m pretty?”

It’s the fluttering of his lashes as he says it that gives you the courage. They match all that fluttering in your stomach, all that buzzing across your nerves. Because – yeah, you thought he was real fucking pretty. You’d spent the last half hour imagining how pretty he’d look in all sorts of places, too, especially between your sheets and between your thighs. 

You’re up off the couch, taking confident steps towards where he’s seated at the ground on the other side of the coffee table. It’s a little inconvenient now, but it had been a blessing in disguise for most of the game as you’d had a front row seat to the sight of him. 

“Oh, don’t get ahead of yourself,” you tease, entirely ignoring that lightheaded feeling you get anytime Eddie looks up at you this way. Half-lidded eyes, crooked grin. He’s dangerous and he doesn’t even know it, “I only meant you were pretty with the hat.” 

“You wound me,” he gasps, dropping back on his hands dramatically, his pout now for dramatics rather than genuine, “Gonna stand there and tell me I’m not pretty when I dressed up just for you?”

You have to take a deep breath to compose yourself, cross your arms to steady your guard, “Just for me?” 

He was playing that same old, tired game of yours. The same dance the two of you had memorized the steps to – and something inside of you has grown restless of it. You don’t want to keep skirting around each other with double-meaning jokes, you don’t want to keep painting humor over your flirtatious remarks. You want a damn answer to the age old question of will they, won’t they?

And you want that answer to be will they – terribly, terribly so.

His eyes trail along the room slowly, not avoiding you but trying to draw out the anticipation in you as he sucks in a breath, “Okay, and maybe for Steve. And Nancy. And Argyle. And Jonathan. And- Well, I’d say Robin, but I don’t think she’s looked twice in my direction all night.” 

“I haven’t,” the brunette chirps happily from the couch, still letting the weight of Nancy comfortably dig into her. 

You have no idea how she’s tuned into the conversation, given the way most of everyone else around the room was entirely ignoring the two of you. 

“So,” you all but purr, leaning down to be more level with Eddie. You already know where his focus wanders when his eyes don’t meet yours, “Not just for me, cowboy.” 

He’s distracted, staring at your chest as you notice him slip up in his brave facade for a second. Almost as though you’ve gone too far, pushed the limits a bit too hard. Good. You want to break this. You want to shatter whatever cage the two of you have built.

In one smooth movement, your hand reaches out and snatches the hat right off his head. 

He lets out a yelp and tries to grab it away from you, but you have the advantage as you stand up straight once more. Your free hand reaches up and tears off the cat ears you had donned, and in their place, the hat is deposited. 

It fits you a little big, and you nearly make a joke about the size of Eddie’s head. 

“Hey!” he argues, moving as though he might stand up and put up more of a fight, “I didn’t say the hat is what I wanted to take off.” 

“Took too long,” you shrug innocently. 

“Yeah, well, just carefully add it to the pile,” he jabs his thumb over his shoulder, towards his boots, as he relaxes back into his recline.

You should probably behave yourself. 

“No.”

But this is more fun. 

Eddie’s eyebrows shoot up in shot, disappearing behind the bangs that are flattened far more than usual. The entire crown of his head is absolutely crushed. No sign of his usual frizzy roots and unruly volume, “No?”

“No,” you confirm a second time. 

And you’re done with this game of back and forth. 

The hat’s staying on your head. It smells ever so faintly of his shampoo, the slightest whiff of his cologne even, and it’s staying on your head for the exact reason he believes is about to be a gotcha! moment.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he’s just tipsy enough that he’s not putting on any specific accent. Instead, his natural Appalachian accent inherited from his uncle begins to break the surface, “Surely you know about the hat rule.” 

Damn right, you know about the hat rule.

You cross your arms, huff a little, tilt the hat for effect, “The hat rule? Please, enlighten me.” 

“You wear the hat, you ride the cowboy.” 

Perfect. 

You don’t even attempt any sort of surprised act. No exaggerated gasps, no fumbling to remove the hat. You knew all about this rule, and it had been one of the first things to come to mind when you’d seen him enter this damn party with the hat on. 

“Yeah?” you question, mocking raising your eyebrows at best, “Hm. What a shame.”

And then you turn on your heel, not awaiting a single response from Eddie as you escape to the kitchen.

You almost wish you would have stayed an extra second to properly witness his reaction. There’s no doubt in your mind that he’s gone pretty and pink, a flustered mess for at least a second as low laughter sounds from the rest of your friends. A tell-tale snort from Robin, and a silent cackle from Nancy. You swear you even pick up on one of the extra guests muttering a confused what just happened? that goes entirely unanswered.

Strip poker doesn’t continue on for long after that.

You refill your drink, this time sans the alcohol, and return to find Steve has officially begun to call for cabs to the club. He busies away on his phone as everyone debates who’s riding with who, the entire party slowly coming to life as everyone stands to prepare to leave for the main attraction. 

When you meet Eddie’s gaze from across the room, the shadow of the brim of his hat cutting into your vision a little, his cheeks match the cranberry juice in your cup. 

Good. 

—

The ride to the club is a blur, and all that really stands out to you is that Eddie makes sure he does not ride in the same cab as you.

Which is fine. Really. It doesn’t cause a single spark of panic in your chest. Not one. 

You’re definitely not working yourself up over the thought that your plan is crumbling right before your eyes, that you’ve gone too far and entirely misinterpreted everything Eddie has ever done during your entire friendship. You’re not mulling over every dirty joke, not dissecting every single line that felt like he was flirting with you and attempting to look at it with fresh eyes. No, the entire ride to the club, you are definitely not beating a dead horse dead. 

Maybe you should have set off to ride the dead horse and not the cowboy. Maybe, then, Eddie would have gotten into the fucking cab with you. 

Your anxieties only worsen once you get inside the club. Pulsing beneath your skin, right in rhythm with the music. Your entire group had each been handed a drink ticket on your way in, and you had noted the fact that the girls of the group were slipped extra tickets. 

Nancy had given all her tickets to Robin, and Steve had given his singular ticket to Stacy. 

“So,” Robin runs up to your side, Nancy not far behind, “Do we waste our drink tickets on shots or real drinks?” 

“Real drinks,” you immediately reply, eyes scanning the bouncing crowd for a certain head of curly hair, “Shots are… well, they can be cheap. We can just avoid the top-shelf shit.”

Was Eddie really going to ignore you the entire night? 

He needed his hat. He couldn’t ignore you the entire night. 

“You’re right,” Robin shuffles the drink tickets in her hands, turning to Nancy, “On a scale of one to ten, how bad would it be me to ask you to flirt with men to get me-”

“Give me ten minutes and I’ll have us a round.” 

Nancy’s smile is sweet, courteous, as she gives Robin’s shoulder a squeeze on her way past her. 

Where the fuck is Eddie? 

“Did you see where the guys ran off to?” you blurt out. Most of the guys, aside from Steve, took the same cab. 

Robin also joins you in a quick survey of the club, lifting onto her tippy toes to squint over the current light show, “Honestly? I have no idea.” 

Fuck. 

As she drops back down onto her heels, Robin looks at you knowingly, eyes flicking up between your twisted expression and the hat on your head. 

“Trying to find a certain cowboy?” 

“What?” you look at her, already defensive, even if it was stupid at this point. Who cares if everyone knows you have a crush on Eddie? Who cares if everyone finds out the very foundations of your friendship with him were built upon quite a bit of truth? “I mean- yeah, he kind of needs his hat to complete his outfit.” 

“Should have just given him your ears for an even trade,” Robin shrugs, clinging to your elbow to avoid getting separated as a few bodies push past the two of you, “I’m sure he’ll pop up soon enough, though. Besides, I don’t think anyone’s too focused on what everyone’s costumes are as long as they’re… well…”

“Slutted out,” you finish for her flatly, trying to not get jealous as your eyes look across the sweaty crowd, stomach churning as you wonder how many other sexy black cats in the crowd would be approaching your cowboy. 

You fucked up. You shouldn’t have taken his hat. 

“Exactly!” she’s excited, unaware of your crisis, already moving along from the topic as she spots Nancy somewhere near the bar top, “Look, free shots!” 

The free shots don’t do much to quell your unease, but free alcohol is always nice.

You take the liquid down, burn and all, more than willingly. And then again, not even five minutes later when Nancy has caught the attention of another random man at the end of the bar. You almost partake in a third, but you finally hear a familiar voice saying a far too familiar joke. 

“You know what they say,” he’s flirting – he’s using a tone of voice that he has never used with you, and it’s clear he’s fucking flirting, “Save a horse, ride a cowboy.” 

Instead of continuing your drinking game from Steve’s apartment, you slam the shot back down and mutter some sorry excuse of being right back to Robin and Nancy before taking off in the direction of Eddie.

He’s stood a few stools down at the bar, hands leaning against the worn wood as his arms bracket a pretty blonde. It almost looks as if the line might be working on her. 

“If you’re a cowboy,” she giggles, and you almost stop dead in your tracks, “Then where’s your hat?” 

Well, that’s as good of a queue for your arrival if any. 

“Good question,” you pipe up as you take a few brave steps towards him, “Where is your hat, cowboy?” 

You’d expected him to be angry, or startled, or possibly even immediately take off running in the opposite direction of you. He doesn’t. 

He slowly turns, and his flirtatious smile has turned into more of a salacious grin as he faces you, “Well, well, well. Nice of you to join us, Kitty.” 

The blonde looks between you two a few times before shimmying down off her stool, “I think…. I’m gonna go. Nice to meet you, cowboy.”

You expect Eddie to react, but he hardly does. A quick glance in her direction, a pathetic wave. 

You’ve just trampled over one of his chances of getting properly lucky tonight, and he isn’t even phased. 

“Been lookin’ for you,” you mumble, looking over him. His hair seems to have been unstuck from his scalp a little, at least. As though he may have been running his hands through it repeatedly, “Thought you might have gone home without your hat.” 

“Not a chance. I haven’t forgotten about the rule, you know.” 

Something twists in you, deep in your gut, between your hips. 

“No?” you hold your breath as he leans in a bit closer to you to be able to hear over the music, “Good thing I haven’t either.” 

He tilts his head, eyes glittering in the multi-colored lights, “You haven’t? Then that means you’ll be giving it back, right?” 

Over my dead body. 

You’re on a mission tonight. You’ll either be ending this night in sore disappointment, drinking away your sorrows of rejection, or you’ll be ending up in a bed with Eddie. It’s up to him. 

You lift a hand to the worn rim, tugging it a bit more securely onto your head, “Not a chance, Munson. You know where to find me once you’re done playing around.”

As soon as your fingers leave the rim, holding tense eye contact with him, his own hand is coming up. You tense, worried he’s about to steal the hat back now, but he doesn’t. Instead, his fingers pinch the same spot yours just had, slow tracing over the rim as his tongue darts out to carefully wet his bottom lip. 

From the front point, around to the side. When he reaches the bit above your ear, his touch drops to your cheek and tucks back some of the baby hairs sticking to your skin with sweat. 

“I do, don’t I?” he hums, voice dropping a bit lower, focused entirely on you. “I don’t think I’m the one playing around right now, though, Kitty.” 

Does he think you’re joking? Does he actually, genuinely think this is all a game to you? 

You nearly make the decision to grab him right there, right at this moment, and shatter all the tension. Get his lips on yours and drag him into the darkest corner just to prove to him how serious you truly were. 

Suddenly, his hand drops away from you entirely, and you almost want to whine. You miss that warmth, that feathery caress, until it aches. “It’s okay, though. Always knew cats were playful things.” 

Is there a dark corner somewhere near you two? Is there a dark hallway to drag him into? Just enough shadow to cover all the sins you’re desperate to commit, just enough light to see that blush rise across his cheeks again. 

“I’m not playing,” you whisper, eyes drifting down to his hand cradling a glass. Something deep and russet, just like his eyes. Likely whiskey. You wonder if you’d be able to taste it all over his tongue before you had him putting it to work where you need him most right now. “Whenever you get that through your big head, come find me.” 

“Big head?” he throws his head back in a laugh, and the tension mists away in seconds. “Who says I have a big head?” 

“I do, as the one wearing your hat,” you readjust it for emphasis. 

You thought the tension had misted away until he’s smirking, tsking a little, “Oh, thought you meant the other one.” 

It’s a replay of the scene in Steve’s apartment, but this time, the roles are reversed. You’re the one left in shock, mouth agape, as Eddie spins around and walks away, leaving you to sit with what he’s just said. 

“Bastard,” you breathe out as you watch him disappear in the crowd, eyes locked on his broad shoulders until one too many bodies separate the two of you. 

A bastard you want awfully, terribly, bad. 

—

You wish you could say you threw back drink, after drink, after drink. You wish you could say you danced with a hundred different beautiful strangers, and each one strayed your mind farther from Eddie. 

You wish you could say you did anything but what the reality of your night had been.

A few men had approached you, only to be turned down repeatedly. Most of your night was spent all but moping at the bar, eyes diligently scanning the bouncing crowd for a certain curly haired figure that seemed to escape you. One moment, you’d catch him pressed against a flirty stranger, hands holding onto whatever bare skin was available to him. And then, his eyes would find yours, and there would be a spark; a wink, a smile, a whisper across a bustling room daring you to come out and play with him. 

You never did. You’d look away, take a sip of your plain coke, and wait a few seconds until it was safe to look back and find him seemingly vanished. 

That in itself had started to become a game. Just like the hat, weighing heavy on your head. 

You’re starting to accept that maybe you had just been a bit too brave. You’d jumped the gun, flown feet first into cold and ragged waters you weren’t prepared to navigate. You knew you wanted a change with Eddie, but were you ready? If you had been, you would have accepted one of his various invites. Would have strode across the room, shoved away whatever man or woman he was dancing with, and slotted yourself into their place. You would have been swaying your hips in rhythm with his rather than allowing him to cycle through strangers, and you’d be reminding him that you wore his hat. 

You’d be the one bringing up the hat rule to him consistently, not him to you. 

When the night begins to wane, you’ve already talked yourself out of it all. 

“I’m heading out,” you announce to Robin when she finally returns back to where you’ve sat at the bar to babysit their drinks, hopping down from the stool before she could argue, “I’m getting way too tired.” 

“What?” your friend gasps, face pink from the heat of being in the crowd, a shimmering sheen of sweat across her forehead, “No! Stay! We can take turns watching the drinks, or just-”

“Robs,” you smile as sweetly as possible, patting yourself down to make sure you have all your belongings. A whistle sounds from a group down the way at the bar, and you ignore them, “It’s seriously okay. You’re having fun! I’m just a senior citizen who needs some sleep. My bedtime was like…. An hour ago.” 

You highly doubt you’ll be getting any rest when you return to your apartment. Maybe some confidence can be built out of fantasies, letting your hands wander and sheets catch fire with all that could have been if you hadn’t talked yourself out of your perfect plan. 

Maybe, imagining Eddie’s hot hands on you rather than getting to properly feel them will light a damn fire under your ass for the next opportunity that arises. 

“I…” she sighs, glancing over her shoulder in the general direction of Nancy, “Okay, fine. But do we want to do brunch or something tomorrow?” 

Not a chance, you think rather quickly, eyes scanning once more for the metal-head-turned-cowboy. Not if Eddie’s going to be there.

“Sure,” you lie, already knowing he will be there, “Just text me.” 

With that, you make your grand escape. 

Borrowed hat on head, phone in hand, you push your way out of the club with a newfound determination. You want to get home and take off this uncomfortable dress, finally do away with the thigh highs that have been rolling down at the most inconvenient of times, driving you insane the entire night. Trade the sexy attire for something comfy – stay true to the cat essence as you curl up beneath your blankets for the night. Hang that damn cowboy hat on your door as a cursed reminder-

“Where do you think you’re going, Kitty?” 

You stop a few feet short of the curb, a cab ordered as you turn to find that bastard leaning against the wall. Cigarette smoke is still clinging to the air around him as he looks at you curiously. 

“Home,” you shrug, trying to ignore your pounding heart. You’d figured you wouldn’t see him again tonight, that your fate had been sealed. “What are you doing out here?” 

“Smoke break,” he lifts his hand with the cigarette pinched between two fingers casually, pushing off the wall to come closer, “It’s hard work, keeping you entertained all night.” 

You scoff, falling back into what’s almost a normal rhythm for you two, “You were not the one keeping me entertained all night.” 

“I hardly saw you dance with anyone at all.” 

“I did!” you try to defend yourself, deciding this could be fine. Some casual conversation as you wait for your ride, a way to pass the time. This is fine. “Robin dragged me out into the crowd at least twice.” 

“I watched you swat a guy’s hands away not once, but three times.” 

“Unsolicited touching isn’t a compliment. He should have taken the hint the first time.” 

Eddie nods in eager agreement, taking another drag of his cigarette, “Damn right. If he had gone in for a fourth try, I was considering dragging him out here for an early smoke break.” 

“Why do I highly doubt it would just be a smoke break?” you question, glancing at him with a smile. Scandalous plans aside for the night, embarrassment swallowed down whole, it’s nice to remember that Eddie is a friend. Albeit a bit flirty, and capable of driving you fucking insane, but he’s a friend.

And maybe that isn’t the worst thing in the world. 

“Oh, no, yeah. You’d be posting my bail.”

“Why me?”

“Because you’ve got my hat, ” he reaches out and flicks the brim with his free hand, and you freeze up a little. You had hoped he wouldn’t mention it again, “Kind of makes me your problem until the end of the night. Speaking of….” 

You already know what he’s about to request as he trails off. This is it. You either give up the bit, hand the hat back over, and go home for the night – or you make one final attempt to get what you had wanted.

Eddie. You wanted Eddie, as more than a friend. 

“I’m gonna need that back, sweetheart.”

At least he’s asking politely, you consider, before it hits you why he’s asking rather than taking. 

The looks across the room. The way he’d been unbothered by the girl he’d been flirting with running off at your appearance. The way he never just took back that fucking hat when he’d been provided ample opportunity. 

He thinks it’s a game for you, and keeps bringing it up, because it isn’t for him. He’s giving you one last chance to back out, or to stand your ground. To say you really want this. 

And fuck, you really want this. 

“Nope,” you lean into his space, pressing closer, fully committed. Your phone dings with the notification of your ride approaching, and you fully ignore it. “My hat now, cowboy.” 

He quirks an eyebrow, and you hear the crunch of gravel behind you. Your ride. “Is that so?” 

“Yep.”

Another ding, another buzz of your phone.

Go ahead. Bring up the hat rule. 

“That your ride?” he asks, tilting his chin in the direction of the car. 

You glance over your shoulder, “Pretty sure it is, yeah.” 

“And you remember the hat rule?” 

Your stomach twists with excitement. Your previous pity party is long forgotten – you’re still hoping to get out of this dress, but you highly doubt you’ll be slipping anything on after it. “I do.”

“Great,” those hot hands you’d been fantasizing about the entire night suddenly reach out to you, gripping your hips tightly as he tugs you into his body. You collide with his chest as he leans down and whispers in your ear, “In that case, that’s my pussy now.” 

His lips linger against the shell of your ear an extra second, warm breath sending chills up your spine before he’s keeping an arm around your shoulders as he guides you to the car. His cologne and the scent of tobacco is suffocating, and you crave to drown in it. You want him to consume you; you want him to take over every breath you breathe, every move you make, to finally get those hot hands and lips everywhere you’ve only dreamt of. 

You barely hear him confirm with the driver that it is in fact your ride – you can only focus on that hand on your lower back, palm heavy on you as his thumb traces arcs that nearly spend you spiraling. 

“After you, kitty,” he murmurs, motioning for you to slide into the backseat first. 

In that case, that’s my pussy now.

You hope he ruins you. 

In the backseat of the ride, it’s all polite distance and hands to yourself. You can’t even make eye contact with the driver, terrified he might be able to mindread and see all the filthy thoughts racing through your head. 

Eddie between your thighs, mouthing at your hips. 

Eddie hovering over you, pulling your knees to your chest as he stretches you out. 

Eddie, proving that your pussy is in fact his for the night. That it was made for him, sculpted out to fit the curvature and every single vein of him. 

Eddie simply fucking your brains out. 

Some polite conversation is exchanged, mostly between Eddie and the driver. The classic questioning of how the night has gone, small talk that buzzes in your ears mindlessly. 

The entire time, you can see Eddie’s hand in the space between you two, fingers tapping away at dark leather incessantly. His rings shimmer like a siren calling to you. 

It’s a small movement, when your own hand drops near his. You keep your eyes trained forward once you begin your mission, inching your pinky closer and closer until it finally collides with his. You swear, you feel him fully jump out of his seat. 

Slowly warming the water, you start off simple – playing with his fingers. Gentle caresses over his knuckles, little pricks to the pads of his fingers. He tries to capture your hand in his, but you have bigger plans at play here. 

You’ve spent the entire fucking night waiting for this. You’re going to have fun with it. 

He huffs after you deter his second attempt at properly holding hands, his knees falling apart a little further. You twist at the ring on his middle finger, a clunky skull you’ve always admired. It has minimal signs of wear, probably pure silver if you had to guess, and you can only imagine how cold it’s going to feel against your skin. 

You can only imagine the imprints it’ll leave if he grabs your hips just right. 

“You know,” the driver hums mindlessly over the low volume of the radio, “You guys are my first ride of the night, surprisingly. Thought it might be busier with all the parties and clubs, but I think it’s just barely picking up now.”

“Yeah?” Eddie asks politely, nodding as he looks out his window. Perfect, “I think you’re right. It is getting pretty late-”

He’s entirely distracted, your hand out of his line of sight as it moves in on its target. 

His thigh. 

Just a few inches above his knee, your hand grips at what is clearly sensitive flesh. You watch his entire body turn to stone when you do it, and he moves his head quickly to look in your direction. 

You’re looking straight ahead. 

There had been a time, a few weeks ago, where you’d learned Eddie had… sensitive knees. You’d been joking around about one thing or another, and when your palms had gripped at them through the torn fabric of ripped jeans, he’d nearly launched himself across the room. He just kept insisting they were ticklish, that that skin was just delicate.

You’d seen the tent in his jeans then. You’d just been a bit more polite, a bit better behaved that day. 

“What are you doing?” he hisses in a whisper, reaching for your hand, but you’re quick to slide it even higher. 

His hips jump a little, and the driver is none the wiser. 

“Nothing,” you innocently say, still looking ahead, watching the passing streetlights with intense interest. “Absolutely nothing at all.” 

The entire ride, at every red light, your hand inches higher. 

And every time, you relish the way he squirms in your peripherals.

By the time you’re five minutes out from your place, you’ve riled him up to impossible heights. Every little noise has him on edge, constant twitching and shifting in his seat as he tries to get you to just look at him. You know he’s catching every sly smile that attempts to creep up on your lips – you’re pathetically failing at every turn to cover them up. 

You think you have him like putty in your palms as you give yet another squeeze to his thigh, fingers starting to dance up even higher. When your eyes flicker to his crotch for just a second, you see him straining against that tight leather. 

And then he flips the script. 

You’re so focused on your own goals, you never see that ringed hand creep to your own thigh. It’s not until cool metal nips at you, briefly, before you feel the warmth of his hand overtake, that you realize the predicament you’ve gotten into. 

Just as your hand was beginning to skim over his crotch, Eddie’s hand found solace between the meat of your thighs. Even as you try to clench them together, deny him the access he was seeking out, he finds his way in. Scandalous fingers dipping under the hem of your dress, fighting fire with fire when he lets his middle finger brush across the fabric of your underwear. 

Your touch from him nearly retracts entirely. 

“What?” he leans in closer to you, the driver still focused on the road, “Don’t like a taste of your own medicine?”

As he says it, his fingers dip lower. Hovering right over your protected clit, making your entire abdomen clench. 

You swallow hard, a bit of your jagged pride somewhere amongst the spit as you turn your head to look at him, “I don’t know what you mean.” 

“Still playing games I see.” 

In sync, the two of you lock eyes as you continue to test waters. You apply pressure with your palm and note the way his breathing hitches, and he draws a feather-light circle around the wet patch forming in your underwear. You can feel your bottom lip quiver as you try to refuse to give him any satisfaction, but when he’s this close, it’s a hopeless battle.

When had he gotten so near you? What happened to all that static distance from when you’d first crawled into the backseat?

You’re trying to only focus on your own hand. Eyes darting to guarantee the driver is still oblivious as you roll the heel of your hand harder against the seam of his pants, and biting your lip to hold back a successful grin when he has to cover a gasp with a cough. It’s all fun and games until the action is rewarded with his payback; his knuckle curling up against your cunt through your panties, pressing in hard before slowly sliding his way up, up, up. 

He deliberately stops when he catches on your clit, and you’re the one coughing now. 

“Had enough?” he mutters under his breath, looking at you with half-lidded eyes. He looks good in this lighting, flashes of the streetlights bathing him in soft yellow, headlights of other cars fluttering in through the windshield as they hit his brown eyes just right to bronze them. 

“Never.”

You almost think you’ve won when his knuckle pulls back. 

But suddenly, his entire hand is cupping your cunt, two fingers pressing against your fluttering hole as another drags up your slit slowly once more. This time, when he reaches your clit, he continues moving in small circles. 

You have to bite your lip to hold back any noises, eyes closing for just a second as you hear him huff out a laugh. 

The final damnation is when he brings his lips to your bare shoulder, merely grazing your skin with them as he mumbles, “You sure about that, Kitty?” 

You clench around nothing, and you know when he feels it from where his fingers remain pressed against you. His own hand twitches as the finger circling your clit stutters for a moment. 

“I-”

“We’re here!” the driver says, not having looked into the backseat yet as he finds a safe place to pull the car into. In an instant, you and Eddie remove your hands from each other. You’re both visibly flustered – you can feel how warm your cheeks have gotten, and you can see clouds of pink splattering over Eddie’s chest and neck. 

“Thanks,” Eddie is the one to speak up as the car comes to a halt, not even waiting for the driver to put the vehicle in park as he throws the door open. 

A bit rushed, but still polite as ever before he’s grabbing you by your bicep to pull you out of the cramped space right along with him. 

You can hardly muster a weak wave to the man as Eddie is dragging you towards your apartment building, knees still a bit weak and mind still blank after getting a taste of your own medicine, as Eddie had put it. 

He doesn’t let go of you until you’re at your front door, those cursed shaking hands of yours fumbling with your key ring. 

“Here, let me-” he starts to offer, reaching for the keys that continue to clank together, just as you find the one you’re looking for. 

“I’ve got it-” you try to cut him off, just as you drop the fucking keys in your haste. “Shit.” 

You quickly drop to the ground to grab them, pausing once you have the metal digging into your palms once more. There’s no real reason for you to do it, but you do – you take a second to look up at Eddie from this position, and nearly drool at the sight of it.

Him, standing over you, still a bit flushed and still visibly uncomfortable in his pants. Pretty curls a mess and lips darkening from how much he’s been biting them. 

You want him to ruin you. You want him to absolutely, entirely and utterly destroy you.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he laughs, chest heaving a bit as he watches you carefully, pupils slowly growing in the dim light of your building’s hallway. 

You can see his bare torso clenching, the twitch of his hands at his sides – the same fingers that had just been caressing you over your underwear in the backseat of a stranger’s car. 

“Like what?” you’re dragging out the moment, taking time to appreciate the sight of him. 

“Like you want me to just press you up against the wall and fuck you out here, for everyone to see.” 

That’s a new one. That’s a vision that hadn’t come to you in all your dirtiest dreams of the night. 

It sends your clit throbbing. 

You rise slowly, pushing the hat back a bit to see him better, keeping your voice quiet so your neighbors won’t hear as you ask, “Would you? If I asked nicely?” 

He doesn’t let out a laugh, but a breath of air, like you’ve just sucked all of the oxygen out of his lungs. 

No need to say it – you know he would. You probably wouldn’t even have to ask nicely. 

You’re staring at him when he finally moves, one hand snatching your keys out of your hand and the other gripping you around the waist. Back to pulling you, man-handling you to get you right where he wants you – where he needs you. 

One second, you’re pressed against his body in the hallway. The next, he’s managed to unlock your front door and throw you both into the safety of your apartment. 

Hidden from the world, and you’re still reeling as you wonder what it’d be like for the entire building to witness you calling out his name. Or him calling out your name. 

Here within these four walls, Eddie has put some space between the two of you, staring with blown out eyes and a shaking chest as he breathes out, “Sweetheart.”

A few seconds pass, the two of you just standing there, the click of the front door’s lock being the only thing echoing in the silence. If you focused over the roar of the blood pounding in your ears, you might catch every single gasp of his as he stares in awe – but your focus is elsewhere. Far away and out of grasp for the time being. You can only think of one thing, and one thing only. 

Your body isn’t your own as you move to get exactly what you want; you drop to your knees hard enough that you should cringe at the thought of the pain that will linger, possibly for days, but it doesn’t even cross your mind as your hands begin to fumble with Eddie’s pants. The oversized, gaudy belt buckle is in your way, glinting at you as if mocking the way your shaking hands can’t undo it fast enough. You’re about to give up and just start unzipping the leather pants, desperate to get your hands, and your mouth, and your eyes on him properly, when he stops you. 

“Hey,” he sounds breathless - he is breathless - as his own hands quiver a bit and grab onto yours, “Hey, hey, hey. Slow down.”

Those hands let go of your wrists and reach for the hat, and you’re quick to try and swat them away only for him to grab at you, surprisingly gentle, as he drags you back up to your feet. 

“Wear the hat, ride the cowboy – right?” you insist, chin held high, your gaze refusing to waver from his. 

His slow and buttery grin makes you lightheaded, his low chuckle sends shakes through every nerve and bone. “That’s right, but maybe the cowboy wants to take his time. Ever think of that, hm?” 

Were you moving too fast? Were you going to scare him off? 

Small, baby steps are taken by Eddie, the click of his heels shattering against your wooden floors until his hips are flush with yours. 

And - oh.

Oh. 

That surely didn’t feel like you were scaring him off. 

You could feel the outline of his cock, hard against your hip, as he gives a little roll. He catches his bottom lip between his teeth, nostrils flaring with a hard breath, and the fear leaves as quickly as it had arrived. 

He wants this. You want him. 

“I’m not a very patient person,” you murmur, eyes glued to his lips now as his head leans in closer, and his hands begin to explore your body. Taking their time as they travel down your arms from where he’d held onto your biceps, slowing as they reach your wrists. Even the press of his thumb against the sensitive inner skin there sends jolts up your spine, little gasps attempting to escape your mouth. 

His fingers tangle loosely with your own for a few moments before his palms find your hips, and he continues his journey. 

“That’s okay,” he whispers back, close enough now that his lips have begun to brush against your own. His nose bumps yours as his hands skate up over your ribcage, thumb sweeping out over the hill of your breast and intentionally avoiding your nipple, “I can teach you, baby.”

Your mouth finally collides with him at the words, nearly going limp in his arms at the words. 

You’ve thought about kissing Eddie for a while now. Every time a snarky remark fell from his lips, you’d wonder how his tongue might taste afterwards. Every time he’d pout his lips at one of your comebacks, or blow a kiss teasingly in your direction from across a room, you’d wonder how hard you might have to bite down to make him bleed. Every drag of a cigarette you’d witnessed, every hard gasp in faux offense, every breathless chuckle at a joke he didn’t want to find funny but did – you had spent a lot of time wondering what it might be like to steal all the air from his lungs, to kiss him until the two of you were both blue in the face. 

“Can’t the lesson wait until tomorrow?” you mumble against him as his mouth, your own fists now gripping onto the lapels of his vest. His hands have reached your shoulders, memorizing the outlines of the curve of your neck where it meets your collarbones, the slope of your chest as you take hot and heavy breaths. 

“Nope,” he insists, pulling back from the kiss, a little bit of spit on his pink lips, “But it’s nice to know you’re thinking about tomorrow.” 

A hand finally finds your chin and pinches it carefully between his thumb and fingers, a careful grip on you to angle you just right so he can all but devour you. Lips, tongues, teeth – it’s a messy ordeal, and you almost make a smart-ass remark that this kiss doesn’t feel very patient. 

But you can’t. Eddie’s taken away all your breaths, all your words, as he starts to guide you backwards. 

Your knees hit the cushions of your sofa, making you jump back from him with a gasp, palms going flat against his chest. 

He feels good. Tender skin soft to the touch beneath your hand, tattoos tempting to trace the outline of. Later. 

“Figured you might want a more comfortable ride,” he laughs against you, breath smelling ever so faintly of mint and whiskey washing over you, before he dips to mouth away at your neck.

You drop back onto the sofa, bite your tongue on a comment about how this cheap piece of furniture most definitely wasn’t the most comfortable option, simply eager at the fact he was letting this move along. 

You want him, you need him, and you have no time for patience. 

His exploration of touches have lit you aflame, and you’re growing a bit desperate at this point. It might be pathetic, it should be embarrassing, but you really don’t care. 

“By all means,” you break out of his hold entirely, catching the way his hand holding your chin lingers a few extra seconds, reluctant to let you go, “Take your seat, Cowboy.” 

He joins you on the couch, eyes never leaving yours even as he throws himself down. Knees spread wide, inviting lap on show, cock still straining against his pants. 

The best seat in the house, as far as you’re concerned. 

“You just gonna keep starin’,” he mocks lightly, looking you over slowly. Taking his time, you suppose, “Or you gonna get over here?” 

His words are all you need. You’re quick to climb onto his lap, swinging your legs so that each thigh brackets his hips, your cunt pressing down on crotch carelessly. You love the way it feels – the outline of him hard against you, the cooling effect of the leather, the sharp edges of the zipper catching just right. 

“There,” he huffs out, grabbing onto you when you give the slightest roll of your hips, “Now we’re both in our seats.” 

When you go to press down harder, guiding yourself over his lap, hands steadying you by gripping his shoulders, he surprises you by his hips jumping up to meet your slow rhythm.

“What happened to being patient?” you try to tease him right back as your forehead meets his, hat comically struggling to stay on between the two of you, “Thought you were gonna take your time with me-”

“Between you and me, I’m not gonna last,” he pants out, hands finding your hips. Those rings you’d been fantasizing of leaving an imprint on you are doing just that as he guides you, “Been dreaming of you too long, sweetheart. Wanted this for so long.” 

Your heart nearly stops. Your hips stutter, pausing as his words rush over you. 

“What?” 

Your head lifts away from his completely, grip on his shoulders tightening. 

He’s wanted this, too? This entire time? 

Eddie takes your pause as a bad thing, a terrible omen as his face pales, “I mean- I just-”

“Munson,” you say lowly, narrowing your eyes at him, “You’re telling me, this entire time, you’ve been flirting with me?” 

Had that tone he used with the girl at the bar been flirting as you’d thought, or simple for show? You’d so cluelessly assumed he’d never used that tone with you because he’d never genuinely flirted with you – and yet, it seems, he’d never used that tone because he’d been genuinely flirting with you. 

“I-” his cheeks are brilliant red, and the wide eyes are from something different than lust now, “Maybe?” 

“Maybe?” you almost laugh, throwing your head back. The hat falls off, but Eddie is quick to retrieve it, “My God, we’re fucking idiots.” 

“Hey, I’m not the one who stole my hat-”

“I like you, dumb ass,” you state plainly, “I wanted this for a while, too.” 

He pauses, one arm outstretched as his hand grips onto the hat, “What?” 

“Been thinking about this, too,” your voice drops a little, almost a whisper, even though you two are the only ones in the room. For all you know, you two might be the only two people left in the world with the way he’s looking at you, “Thinking about you and your lips. Thinking ‘bout your hands and the places they’d go,” as you point out every detail, his body seemingly reacts. A lick of his lips, a squeeze of his hand still on your hip, “Thought about your fingers and tongue a lot, too. How good they’d feel inside me.” 

His hips thrust up at that, and suddenly, he’s placing his hat back atop your head. 

That, it seems, was all the encouragement Eddie needed. 

He deals with that belt buckle that had given you hell, bouncing you a bit on his lap as he fumbles with yanking the entire belt off and tossing it to the side. One hand busies with undoing the button and zipper of his jeans, as the other starts to bunch your dress. 

“Nice and slow,” he insists, looking up at you, absolutely vibrant. Somewhere between the tightness between your hips, all the throbbing between your thighs and in your chest, you feel a sort of bubbly delight creeping up along your spine. “Got it, kitty?” 

You nod once. Twice. On the third nod, he cuts you off with a kiss. 

Your dress is up to your waist, and you don’t know how, but he manages to shimmy off his pants without throwing you off his lap entirely. It’s impressive, really. Probably a symptom of him having thought about this, dreamt about this. He’d probably thought up every scenario possible, and was prepared. 

“Oh, and these?” his fingers find the waistband of your panties, tsking a little as he pulls at the elastic and lets it slap back against your skin, “Those definitely have to come off.” 

“Whatever you say, cowboy.” 

You take your time sliding off his lap, making sure to grind against him before you properly lift away. He throws his head back in a groan, Adam’s apple bobbing as you stand up straight. You take that moment to just admire him, capturing the clench of his jaw to memory, the way his eyes screw shut in pleasure at your influence. 

He’s fucking perfect. You’re sure there’s others who disagree, but you’d pay them no mind. He’s perfect, and he’s all yours. 

You make a show of taking off your panties only once he’s properly looking at you once more, craving his eyes on you as you keep all your movements fluid and steady. No rush, exuding all that patience he’d prattled on about. 

You want to see his face when you gently toss the black lacey piece in his direction, watch him fumble with his own desperation to catch them. 

“Seems a bit unfair that I’m the only one undressing,” you hum as you go a step further and begin to shimmy out of the dress.

“Yeah, well,” he grins cheekily at you, fisting your panties, a hand trailing down to the waistband of his boxers as he eyes you, “One of us was showing a bit more skin than the other.”

“Take off the vest, Eddie.” 

Your command is velvet, and he’s quick to obey. His hand stubbornly refuses to let go of your panties as he rushes to shrug out of the thin fabric over his shoulders, tossing the vest to join his pants and your dress on the floor. 

“And the boxers.” 

You stand there, in nothing but his cowboy hat, as you wait pretty and patient for him to listen. And listen he does. 

The moment his boxers are discarded, his cock is standing at attention, leaking from the tip and deep shade of pink that matches his kiss-bitten lips. You think it might be the prettiest color you’ve ever laid eyes on as you watch a drop of  precum slip down his shaft. 

He’s pretty, even in the fucking pants. 

Girthy, thick enough you almost arch your back before you’ve even sunk down on him. All veins and soft skin, a sensitive tip that you’d trace your tongue over for hours if he let you. 

“Gonna just stand there, or are you going to ride your cowboy?” 

He surely meant to sound more cocky, but the words come out as more of a whine as you watch him twitch under your stare. 

He’s right though, and you’d rather get him inside you than spend another second gawking. There will be time to pay more attention to him and his pretty cock tomorrow. Right now, you need to finish this god-forsaken mission. 

Your thighs find his hips just as his hands find yours, choosing to grip the couch rather than his shoulders as you steady yourself. 

Nice and slow, his words echo in your mind. 

You could have prepared yourself more, but you’d already made it clear to Eddie that you are not a patient person. The fact that you even take your time as you sink down on him, going as far as to grab him by his base and guide his tip to smear precum across your clit, is impressive. 

The stretch is a bit painful. A bit much. A bit dizzying. But you refuse to stop as your jaw drops, eyes fluttering shut in ecstasy. 

“Fuck,” you breathe out softly as you feel him fill you, “Fuck, Eddie.” 

“Feel good, baby?” he questions, reaching up to grab your chin just as he had before. Forcing you closer to him, forcing you to look him in the eyes just as he bottoms out. 

You don’t answer him as you both moan out. 

You stay there for a second, unmoving as you swim in the feeling. Feeling him press into the depths of you, the overwhelming warmth and the coil in your abdomen tightening ever so slightly. 

It’s better than you had imagined it. No daydreams could compare to the feeling of Eddie’s cock finally, finally filling you. Stretching you out, making you his. 

“Go ahead,” he grits out, entire body tense, clearly holding out on you, “Ride your cowboy, kitty. Don’t make me ask twice.” 

Nice. And. Slow.

Three little words that ricochet through your mind as you start to slowly bounce on him. Lifting ever so slightly, dropping back down, aching to feel him even deeper inside of you. Feeling the quiver of his thighs to match yours as you repeat the action, gasps and whimpers falling from both your lips. You’re about to try and kiss him, try and swallow all those delicate noises from him, when he stops you. 

“No, no, no,” he’s chuckling, giving your hips a few squeezes before his palms rub down your thighs, the friction sending you on edge, “C’mon, now. We both know that’s not how you ride.” 

His hands rake over your skin, down to your knees, lighting scratching and squeezing along their entire pathway until they make their way back up to your waist and hips. 

“Do it like this, sweetheart.”

He guides you, no longer allowing you to lift up. You sink all the way down on his cock, whining out at the fullness, before he starts the pattern. 

Back and forth. Gentle circles amidst the rocking. Your clit grazes his pubes, and the coil in between your hips has never tightened more quickly. 

The motion feels familiar - like riding a bull. 

This feels right. You still press down, still clench down on him hard enough to make you both slip out obscenities, but it’s getting you there. 

At some point, Eddie’s grip on your hips slips, but it’s fine – you’ve got the rhythm down perfectly. Slow, intermittent figure eights between the rolls of your hips, his occasionally slamming upward to reward you with that deepness you need. You can feel him in your stomach, in your chest, in your throat. 

You get a bit daring, and take one hand to his shoulders, as the other reaches up for the top of the hat on your head. 

Just like a cowboy. 

“Like this?” you pant out between harsher rolls, eliciting curses that continue to grow louder from Eddie. 

“Fuck, baby, yes,” he groans out, head thrown back, mouth open in gratification, “Just like that. Keep- keep going just,” he thrusts up, “Like,” another thrust, “That.” 

You nearly lose balance, falling forward a bit, too stubborn to let go of the hat. There’s a grin glimmering at the corners of your mouth, and it fully blooms when Eddie throws up a hand to catch you .

A hand on your throat. 

He doesn’t squeeze, doesn’t cut off blood flow or breathing. He keeps that warm palm there at the base of your neck, cradling you, holding you. A reminder that he could squeeze if he wanted, that he held you in the palm of his hands currently, but he won’t. 

“You like that?” his eyes shine as he looks up at you, the sight of his rings decorating your neck. 

You nod.

“Tell me with your words,” he commands.

“I like it,” you whimper, looking up further, stretching more of your neck to be vulnerable to Eddie. “I like it so much, baby.” 

When the pet name falls from your lips, you can feel him twitch inside of you. The sudden jut of his hips, the sharp intake of breath. 

“You like that,” you laugh breathlessly, your hand atop the hat the only thing keeping it from falling as you lean your head fully back, eyes beginning to roll back into your head. “Wanna be my baby, Munson?” 

“Always have,” he grunts, the hand on your throat slipping up to cup your face to drag you towards him, “Since the fucking moment I met you, sweetheart.”

When he kisses you, it tastes like the closest to Heaven you might ever get. Soft, plump lips, and an eager tongue. All the wasted time hiding behind jokes and teasing, playing pretend like the flirting was never serious.

It was serious. And if you’d just come clean sooner, you would have had this long ago. 

Your hips are still rolling as your hands begin to roam. You’ve found your balance again, lips pressed to Eddie, and it’s your turn to explore all he has to give you. Your nails graze his stomach when your clit catches once more on that rough thatch of hair against the base of his cock. Your fingers dig into flesh wherever they can find it – his chest, his arms, his hips. At some point, you throw a hand out behind you, grasping for his knee. Learning every curve and every point of his body as he had done for you. 

You wanna memorize the roadmap of him. Take a snapshot in your mind so that next time, none of it is unfamiliar territory. 

Your touch is driving him insane; it doesn’t take a genius to pick up on the way his hips falter to meet your movements, or how he keeps breaking the kiss to gasp, letting his jaw fall slack when he hits a particular deep spot within you. 

It’s when your lips finally trail down the stubble sprouting across his jawline, mouth sucking on the soft skin below his ear, that he’s finally a goner. 

“‘M close,” he gasps out, almost sounding drunk as he slurs through his pants, “Ah, fuck, I’m gonna-”

“Cum for me, Eddie.” 

Maybe it’s the way you had been touching him, or the way your cunt had been fluttering around him, or the persistent rolling of your hips that had become so focused on his pleasure. Maybe it was the sight of you in his hat, looking at him like that. Maybe it was the way his name sounded on your tongue. 

Either way, when Eddie Munson comes undone, he’s beautiful. 

Your own movements slow involuntarily as you gaze starry eyed, watching the way his face scrunches and feeling his grip on you tighten impossibly. Leaving their mark, making you his in yet another way. Warmth fills your cunt and every curse word under the summer sun is falling from his lips. 

Your name, curses, prayers, gratitude – a jumbled mess, and it sounds fucking fantastic when it’s said in Eddie’s desperate tone. 

“Shit,” he gasps out, finally coming back down to Earth, “Shit.”

You sit still on his lap, skin sticky with sweat, lips spread thin in a cheeky grin, “Sounds like I get to keep your hat, cowboy.” 

His eyes shoot open, and for a second, you’re terrified.

Those aren’t the eyes of someone satisfied. 

“You didn’t cum.”

“What?”

“You,” he says, stressing the word as he shifts you off his lap. You don’t miss the way he winces, clearly a bit sensitive, “Did not cum.” 

You hadn’t really noticed, too wrapped up in him to notice your high slipping away from you. You’d been too focused on Eddie: on feeling him cum inside you, on watching him break apart, on tracing the outline of the blood rushing to his cheeks with your eyes and that fresh burst of violet on his neck in the shape of your lips. 

“It’s fine,” you start to argue, feeling the warmth of him leaking down your thighs. You should be a lot more worried about making a mess all over your sofa. You should be, but you aren’t. “I can-”

“You’re not keeping that fucking hat until you cum for me, sweetheart.” 

And, oh, maybe your own orgasm wasn’t racing as far away from you as you’d believed, because those words nearly push you over the edge for him. 

“Get on all fours for me, baby.” 

Yeah. You definitely could still be close. For him.

When you don’t move to follow his command immediately, he’s using those gentle hands to guide you. Encouraging a twist of your hips from how you’re reclining back across the couch, letting you press your cheek down against the cushion.

You open your mouth to argue, to insist it was fine, to say anything, but you’re cut silent when a sudden slap lands on your ass. 

A silent command this time, and you’re finally listening. 

You lift your ass up for him on shaky knees, elbows digging into the cushion now instead of your face. The hat on your head is lopsided, and you almost reach up to fix it when- 

“I’ll be taking that,” For the first time since you’d stolen his hat, Eddie takes it back. Right off your head, too fast for you to protest. When you dig your chin into your shoulder to look back at him, he’s smiling, hat back in its rightful place atop his curls, “You can have it back after you cum for me, at least once.”

“At least once?” you mean to laugh, to sound cocky, but it comes out as more of a squeak. 

He shrugs, leaning forward, his bare chest pressing against the skin of your bare ass – right where an imprint of his hand still sings, “At least. By all means, if you feel the need, don’t hesitate to give me a few. God knows you’ve earned it.” 

You don’t have time to banter back; he retracts before bring his mouth down to your cunt, and your elbows quickly give out at the first long stride of his tongue. 

“Gotta get you cleaned up,” he murmurs, a bit muffled, against your cunt. 

Another stride, and this time, his tongue spends an extra second at your clit, circling it salaciously. 

“Oh, God,” you moan out into a mouthful of couch cushion, tempted to bite down to hide all the noises creeping up your throat when his tongue draws yet another circle, tip of his nose pressed to your sensitive hole.

He brings his tongue back to that space, that hole that feels gaping without him filling you now, and you try to bury your cheek only to earn another slap on the ass.

“Don’t be shy now, kitty. Let me hear you.” 

And let him hear you, you do. 

Each lick, short and timid or long and confident, is dredging up obscene mewls from you. When he enters you with it, curling it and pressing as deep as he can, truly cleaning you up as he had said, you’re chanting his name. 

“Fuck, Eddie,” you cry softly, rocking your body back against his mouth, “Your fingers. P-Please, use your fingers.” 

Your wish is his command as he brings his hand up between your legs, breaking from having his tongue buried inside of you and using a calloused pad of his finger to trace over your clit before he begs, “Say my name again.” 

You do. Over, and over, and over as his mouth and his fingers begin to work against you. Careful focus is placed on your clit, and his mouth runs amok between your cunt and thighs. You feel what will no doubt be hickies along the curve of your ass, nips of teeth against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh as he presses two fingers into you. With every thrust of his hand, your hips are rocking back to match his rhythm, wanting more. 

More, more, more. 

There’s nothing nice and slow about this. You’re chasing after a high, and Eddie is listening to you every step of the way. 

Your thighs begin to shake terribly right around the time your vision blurs, unable to contain the whines that have grown to echoing volumes. Surely, your neighbors can hear. Probably confused as to who Eddie is, probably considering how embarrassing it would be to knock down your door and complain about the noises. 

You really, really don’t give a fuck when white speckles flood your vision, even with your eyes screwed shut, and that tension between your hips threatens to snap. 

Right before your knees give out, your entire body trembling, Eddie pulls back and grabs your hips. You cry out, so close yet so far, until he’s flipping you back over. 

You get one glimpse of him before he goes to work to bring you over that edge – lips and chin slick with you, hair frizzing beneath his hat, a determined glint in his eyes that have your thighs clenching around his ears. 

You were right. Eddie Munson looks damn good between your thighs. 

He quickly returns to his mitigations, and this time, it’s all a bit more strategic. Lips suctioned around your clit and three fingers curling deep within you, a beckoning motion as he urges you to let go for him. 

The white returns behind your eyelids. Your back arches up off the sofa. Your ankles lock as they cross behind Eddie’s back, almost effectively trapping him in place.

You cum hard for him. 

You’re entirely unaware if you scream his name in the process, but you hope you do. As that relief, that ecstasy, floods your system, you hope you make sure everyone within a five mile radius knows who’s responsible. Your entire body continues to shake for far longer than you believe it ever has before. Your hips had lifted, begging for Eddie to keep going even as it all grew painful.

He does. He keeps going, sucking you dry for every drop you have to give him, until you’re physically having to shove him away. 

Your hands are weak as you sink down into the cushion, eyes still closed as you hear him chuckle before you feel him crawl his way back up your body. 

“There,” you don’t even need to see his face to see that smug satisfaction – his voice is dripping in it. “Now you can keep the hat.” 

One of your hands blindly throws itself through the air to smack him, missing entirely as you drift through the afterglow of it all. 

“I’m not sure I’ve earned it,” you mumble as he catches your wrist, limp in the air, “Pretty sure I didn’t break you when I made you cum.”

“Oh, you did,” he notes, hand curling around your wrist. You watch as he slowly brings it to his lips, peppering a few chaste kisses on the soft skin, “Just in a different way.” 

You raise your eyebrows, smiling at the tingling feeling left behind on your skin in the wake of his mouth, “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

He tugs you to sit up despite your groan of protest, somehow smoothly maneuvering the two of you so that he’s now the one beneath you, letting the full weight of you bear down on his chest as you lay on top of him. The hand wrapped around your wrist brings it back up for more kisses, more repetitive gentle pecks of affection, as his other arm is quick to wrap around you. Holding you in place, as though he’s scared you might disappear. 

“Well,” you whisper against the bare skin of his chest, nearly shivering when his free hand starts to trail slowly up and down your spine, “Good.” 

Your cheek feels the vibrations of his chuckle, “That’s all you have to say?” 

“Give me a few minutes to recover,” you insist, all but nuzzling into him, “I’m sure I’ll have a smartass comeback for you once I’m…” you trail off, heavy eyes looking up at him, the words lost on your tongue and in the air. 

The gentle curve of his cupid’s bow. The roundness at the end of his nose, still a fading hue of pink. The freckle beneath his right eye. The way the phantom of the dimple of his left cheek never quite leaves his face.

All the things you’ve dreamt of seeing so up close, never knowing it could have been a reality. 

He lets go of your wrist, smiling softly with a shake of his head, “Can’t believe you’re gonna fall asleep on me.”

“Am not,” you nearly say under your breath, sighing in content. 

“Am too,” he mocks, a certain docility to all his teasing before he sighs as well, “It’s okay. You can. I’ll still be here when you wake up.”

You hum, eyes fluttering shut as you hear some rustling, “Promise, cowboy?” 

“Absolutely, kitty. You said something about tomorrow, remember?” 

You both laugh in sync as your couch suddenly becomes the most comfortable place in the world. 

Just before losing consciousness, right as you feel Eddie’s breathing even out along with your own, you decide to open your eyes one last time to catch sight of the cowboy hat perched carefully on your coffee table. 

Tomorrow. You hope for a thousand tomorrows as you decide that that hat is definitely yours now.

[gloomwitchwrites]

Oh please, please, please something short, funny with 141 where their wife calls them on their way home from work “yea, I think I’m having contractions!” And by the time they rush home, she’s sitting in the bath tub with their new baby. And she’s all casual like ‘Hey! Look at this cool thing I’ve got!’ And it’s their baby.

(My Grandmother had this happen! Each kid under an hour. My grandfather nearly had a heart attack! He’d always hesitate to leave her alone. Suspicious she was ‘purposefully’ going into labor when he wasn’t there to help her. Lol…)

Okay, that is so funny and adorable! Hehe, omg, I love this. Dad!141 is my favorite. I love writing them as fathers or as potential fathers. And this prompt is just an excuse to do that! Thank you so much for sending it in. Enjoy!!

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings (MDNI): married life, pregnancy, childbirth, domestic fluff, swearing, humor

Word Count: 2.1k

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // imagines & what if series

John Price

Price rubs at his temple, releasing a deep sigh.

It’s late. The base is nearly empty. Another late night filled with paperwork.

His phone buzzes, the cellular device vibrating on the desk. Price reaches for it, checking the screen. It’s you calling him, and his stomach flips.

“Cabbage,” he greets with a smile, answering the phone.

You’re pregnant, due date just a week or two away. Price doesn’t like leaving you home alone, but this is the last push. After tonight, he can come home early.

“John?”

His name is a question. There’s a hint of worry—of nervousness—and Price immediately picks up on it.

“Everything okay, love?” he asks, slowly standing, paperwork suddenly forgotten.

“John. I—I think—”

“What’s wrong?”

“I think I’m having contractions.”

By the time the words leave your mouth, Price is already grabbing his coat. “Okay,” he says. “Okay.” He swallows, pushing down his own anxiety, smothering it so he can be strong for you. “Stay on the phone with me. I’m coming home.”

On the other end of the line, you breathe heavily. Each whimper worries him.

“John,” you gasp, voice strangled as he throws himself into his car and turns it on.

 “I know. I know. I’m coming.”

Price is doing his best to stay calm, to stay alert as he drives off base and heads for home, but all he can focus is on you.

“Keep talking to me, love,” he says, attempting to sound encouraging.

“Okay,” you reply, but then go quiet.

 “Cabbage?”

When you don’t answer him, Price uses your name. Nothing. No sound at all as if the line’s gone dead.

“Shit,” he mutters, holding the phone out to check.

Call Dropped.

“Fucking shit,” he says, louder.

Price continues to dial—continues to call. Every time, he expects you to pick up, but you never do. The worry grows, becoming deafening as the seconds tick by. Traffic laws are broken, but it gets him home faster.

He’s throwing himself out of the car, dashing to the house, not caring if he forgot to put the vehicle in park. In the front entryway, he calls out to you, using your name.

There is no response.

 “Fuck,” he whispers as he dashes up the stairs, heading for the bedroom. He enters, and it’s—

Empty.

“Where are you?” he breathes, turning away to check the rest of the house.

But then Price hears your voice, soft and soothing. Frowning, he checks the bedroom again, only to head toward the bathroom.

You’re sitting on the floor, back pressed against the tub. There’s blood and a fluid Price doesn’t recognize smearing the floor between your legs.

You glance up. Smile. “Hi,” you laugh as Price drops to his knees beside you.

There’s a baby in your arms. Its hands are tight fists, face pinched like it’s annoyed to be here.

“No wonder you didn’t answer the phone,” sighs Price, placing his hand against yours that cradles the infant’s head.

“A bit busy,” you chuckle.

Price laughs with you, taking his phone out his jacket pocket to dial the hospital.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

“I’m not leaving.”

“It’s fine, Simon. Really.”

Simon crosses his arms over his chest. “The last time I left you this close to your due date, you gave birth while I wasn’t here.”

You dismiss him with a wave of your hand. “That’s not going to happen again.”

“It might,” he growls.

“It won’t,” you insist.

As you start to walk away, Simon blocks your path. “You’ve been complaining about your lower back all morning.”

You sigh, rolling your eyes. “I always complain about my lower back.” Simon begins to object but you continue on. “And we need milk. And eggs. And bread.”

“Fine,” mutters Simon. “Fine. I’ll go. But you call me immediately if anything happens.”

 “Okay, dad,” you reply, mocking him.

Simon drapes his arm over your shoulders, pulling you in to kiss the top of your head. “Pumpkin,” he replies, and you hear the smile in it.

“The sooner you go the sooner you’ll be back. You can worry and fuss over me all you want then.”

Simon pulls you in for another kiss before heading out the door. The trip to the store isn’t peaceful. In the back of his mind, Simon stews, a little voice telling him that you’re going to call him any second and tell him you’re in labor. That’s what happened with your first, and Simon came home after you’d given birth.

He was devasted. Upset. Not with you—never with you. He was upset with himself for not being there to support you through it. To hold your hand. To encourage and shower you with love.

Simon is standing in line at the meat counter when you call him.

“Don’t be angry,” you say when he answers the phone.

“Are you having contractions?”

“…Yes.”

“Goddamn it.”

Simon abandons the shopping trolley, apologizing to the workers as he rushes out the door and to the car. When he enters the house, he hears your labored cry. Dashing up the stairs, Simon enters the bathroom at the same moment you cry out, clearly pushing. You’re on your hands and knees, sweat beads your brow, hair sticking to your face.

He dives to his knees, arms outstretched and reaching beneath you as the baby’s head emerges.

“I’m here,” Simon says, keeping his voice calm and soothing.

You start crying, head tilting to lean against his shoulder.

Another push, and then the rest of the baby is out and in Simon’s hands. The infant is silent at first, then releases a cry of displeasure.

“Bloody hell,” exhales Simon, “I’m never leaving you alone again.”

John "Soap" MacTavish

I’m having contractions, reads the text.

Johnny’s mouth drops open, gaze growing distant.

You’re having contractions. You’re having contractions, and he is on the other side of the city. With traffic, he’s likely an entire hour away from you.

“Soap?” asks Gaz, waving his hand in front of Johnny’s face.

“I have to go,” says Johnny quickly, shooting up from his chair, almost knocking it over.

Gaz and Ghost both stand abruptly, clearly startled by Johnny’s sudden panic.

“Everything good?” asks Ghost.

Johnny shakes his head. “The missus is having contractions.”

“Oh,” replies Gaz, eyes growing a bit wide. “Damn. Go. You should go.”

“We’ll cover your tab,” adds Ghost.

Johnny groans. “Her due date isn’t for another bloody week.” He grabs his jacket.

“You’re going to be a father, Soap,” chuckles Ghost, punching him in the shoulder.

“Fuck. What if she has it while I’m not there?”

“Don’t these things take forever anyway?” muses Ghost. “Contractions don’t mean anything. Right?” He glances at Gaz.

Gaz shrugs. “I think you should worry if it’s close together.” Gaz holds his hands close to indicate the lack of time.

“Shit,” mutters Johnny, tapping away at his phone.

Are they close together?

It’s a few seconds and then the three little circles pop up, indicating that you’re typing back.

They’re close. A few minutes apart. I’m on the phone with the midwife.

“Oh fuck,” mutters Johnny, elongating the vowel as he tugs on his jacket.

Gaz grimaces. “It’ll be fine,” he tries to reassure as Johnny rushes past him. “Congrats!”

Johnny hardly hears him, he’s too focused on getting to the car. Every second is agony—not knowing what’s happening while he’s driving. When he pulls up to the house almost an hour later, there’s a car Johnny doesn’t recognize in the drive.

As bursts through the door, he hears calming music. Rushing forward into the living room, he finds you on the floor, wrapped up in a blanket, propped up by a nest of pillows. The midwife putters about as you gently rock back and forth, cradling an infant in your arms.

You glance up. “Look,” you laugh, lifting the infant that you’ve just birthed, presenting it like you’ve completed a fun DIY craft project.

Johnny almost faints.

“Oh, babe,” he exhales. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.��

The midwife makes a sound of annoyed agreement and Johnny winces.

“It’s okay,” you murmur. “She came quickly.”

“I should have been here,” he groans, sliding to the floor next to you, draping an arm over your shoulders.

You lean into him. “You’re here now,” you sigh, eyes closing as you snuggle against him.

Johnny looks to the midwife, and she smiles at him—a reassurance. You’re fine, and so is his daughter.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

Kyle’s phone vibrates in his pocket. Ignoring it, Kyle keeps his attention on Captain Price, focusing on the briefing for the upcoming mission. The phone goes silent. Seconds later, it starts up again. Frowning, Kyle reaches into his pocket, sliding out the phone just enough to see the screen. Your name and picture appear on the screen, your smile bright and lovely.

“Need to answer that?”

Kyle’s head snaps up at the sound of Captain Price’s voice.

“Sorry, Captain. It’s the missus.”

Price inclines his head, the middle of his brow creasing slightly. “It’s she pregnant?”

“She is,” affirms Kyle.

“Then you should answer it.”

Kyle gives him, Ghost, and Soap a brief nod. “Excuse me,” he mutters, standing and heading for the door.

When the meeting room door slams shut, the phone starts up again.

Kyle answers, his words falling from his mouth quickly, sounding like one solid word instead of several. “What’s going on, love?”

“I’m having contractions.”

You sound panicked.

 “You’re—are you sure?”

“Pretty sure,” you gasp. “Water broke earlier—"

Kyle’s voice rises slightly. “Your water broke and you didn’t call me?”

“I wasn’t feeling anything,” you reply, as if that makes it okay. “But now, it’s constant.” Your sigh is labored. Tired. “They’ve come on so suddenly, Kyle. I’m sorry.”

“No. No, love. Don’t apologize.” You have nothing to be sorry for. He’s just happy you called. “I’m coming home. Right now.”

“But you have that meeting. You can’t—”

“I’m coming home,” he reiterates. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“Hang in there, dove. I’ll be there soon.” Kyle disconnects the call and bursts through the meeting room doors. “It’s happening,” he announces.

Soap blinks, confused. “What’s happening?”

Ghost side-eyes him. “He’s about to become a dad.”

“Fucking shit. Really?” Soap turns to Kyle, beaming. “Congrats.”

Price crosses his arms over his chest, a look of pride on his face. “Go, Sergeant.”

Kyle nods, giving a half-wave as he backs out through the toward, heading toward the parking lot. He’s practically running—rushing to turn the car on. Taking off, Kyle hardly cares if he hits anything, and he doesn’t blink when breaking nearly a dozen traffic laws.

He makes it home in half the time he usually does. Every second counts. Every moment important. If the contractions are coming quickly and close together, it means the baby is ready, and he needs to get you to the hospital.

As he enters the front door, he calls out to you. Your answer comes, but it’s distant. Upstairs. Kyle takes the stairs two at a time, walking into the bedroom to find it empty. But the bathroom light is on.

A few steps, and he pushes open the door.

You’re not standing at the sink putting on your makeup or getting ready to leave. You sit inside the shower on the tile floor, the glass door wide open, pantless, and cradling an infant in your arms.

“Shit,” he breathes, moving forward. “Shit.” Kyle crouches just outside the shower door.

You grin sheepishly, lifting the baby like it’s an accident. “She came minutes after I got off the phone with you.”

“Oh, bloody hell, love,” laughs Kyle.

There are tears in your eyes, but you’re smiling. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Don’t be, my love.” Reaching out, he grasps the back of your neck. Leaning in, he presses his lips to your forehead. “She’s beautiful.”

taglist:

@glitterypirateduck @suhmie @z-wantstowrite @kylies-love-letter @keiva1000

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@km-ffluv @thriving-n-jiving @carbonnite-copy @sobbangchan @codeseven

@youre-a-wallflower-charlie

[julietsf1]

For Her - Lando Norris x Reader

summary: She came to support him. Instead, she was met with hate and a paddock full of people who acted like she didn’t exist. But if there was one thing about Lando Norris, it was that he loved out loud (3.2k words)

content: protective boyfriend, public relationship, public displays of affection, romantic grand gesture

AN: happy new season guys!!! what a race, I hope china will be kinder with my heart :') here's another fic for our race winner! muah <3

........................................................................

The first race of the season should have been magical.

It should have been the kind of morning you’d always imagined—walking through the paddock with the giddy excitement of someone witnessing greatness up close, feeling the electricity in the air, the intoxicating mix of tire smoke, adrenaline, and champagne already waiting for its moment in the podium spray. You had thought of how proud you would feel watching Lando, how thrilling it would be to see him in his element, how belonging you might feel in a world that, until now, had existed for you in stories and through screens.

You had not imagined being denied entry.

"Miss, I’m going to have to ask you to step back."

The security guard barely spared you a glance, already moving on to the next person in line, his voice impassive, as if he had done this a hundred times before and you were simply another face in a sea of hopeful girls who had tried to talk their way into the paddock.

You gripped your lanyard a little tighter, your heart skipping slightly. "I have a pass," you said, voice gentle but firm as you lifted it to eye level, the McLaren logo glinting in the sunlight.

The guard exhaled sharply through his nose, unimpressed. "We've had a lot of fans trying to sneak in today. If you don’t have the right accreditation, I can’t let you through."

Your stomach twisted.

"I do have the right accreditation," you tried again, as kindly as possible, despite the heat creeping up your neck. "I’m with McLaren. My boyfriend-"

"Yeah, that’s what they all say."

The words were clipped, dismissive, and spoken with the kind of flat finality that suggested he had already decided you were lying.

Embarrassment coiled in your chest, wrapping itself around your lungs, making it suddenly difficult to breathe.

You stood there, cheeks burning, as people brushed past you, throwing curious glances your way. The seconds stretched endlessly, each one more excruciating than the last.

It wasn’t until a McLaren staff member recognized you—"Oh, she’s with Lando," they had said offhandedly—that the security guard finally stepped aside, not bothering with so much as an apology.

By the time you walked through the gates, the joy you had carried that morning had dulled into something smaller, something fragile.

And then, somehow, it got worse.

...

The McLaren motorhome stood like a beacon in the paddock, its sleek glass windows reflecting the bustle of team personnel moving inside. You exhaled slowly, shaking off the earlier embarrassment, and made your way toward the hospitality lounge, longing for something warm and familiar.

A latte, perhaps. Something to reset the day.

You stepped up to the hospitality counter with a practiced sort of grace, the kind that had been instilled in you from your childhood—shoulders back, chin lifted, a polite smile even when you wanted to disappear.

The woman behind the counter was stunning in a sharp, effortless way, her McLaren uniform crisp, her dark eyes shrewd, assessing. She barely looked up when you stepped forward.

"Good morning," you greeted, your voice light, pleasant. "Could I get an oat latte, please?"

The woman’s gaze flicked to you then, sweeping over you in a way that wasn’t unkind but wasn’t exactly warm, either.

"Are you with media?" she asked, already sounding bored.

You shook your head, still polite. "No, I’m—"

"Hospitality is for team guests only," she interrupted, her words clipped, a polite but unmistakable dismissal.

There was something about the way she said it, the way her lips curled just slightly, that sent something sharp down your spine.

You held up your accreditation again, your expression kind but unwavering. "I am a team guest. It is my first race though! I'm with Lando."

A pause. A flicker of something in her gaze.

And then, a small, almost imperceptible smirk.

"Ah," she said slowly, like she was only just now realizing. "Of course you are."

There was something else behind her tone, something you recognized.

You had met people like her before, in glittering lobbies, at perfectly curated events, in spaces where perception was everything. People who measured others in careful glances and quiet, ruthless judgments.

The woman tilted her head, her smile suddenly saccharine. "I’m afraid we’re only serving certain guests at the moment."

The words landed with the soft cruelty of a velvet dagger.

She wasn’t saying no outright.

She was refusing you while pretending it was about something else entirely.

You stared at her for a moment, your fingers tightening slightly over the strap of your bag.

You could have fought. Could have pointed out that this was ridiculous, that you had every right to be here, that her behavior was as transparent as it was petty.

But instead, you simply let out a soft breath and smiled.

Not the kind of smile that was warm and grateful.

The kind of smile that veiled the frustration you were feeling.

"No worries," you said gently, dipping your head, your voice smooth, graceful. "I wouldn’t want to trouble you."

And with that, you turned and walked away, back straight, head held high, because if nothing else—you were not the kind of woman who begged.

But it still stung.

...

The hotel room is quiet except for the faint murmur of the city outside. The occasional car hums past beneath the window, the distant noises of Melbourne nightlife drifting in through the small gap in the balcony door. Inside, the glow from the bedside lamp casts soft golden light over the pristine sheets, the half-finished cup of tea you abandoned hours ago, and your phone—face-down, untouched, deliberately ignored.

You had set it aside like it burned you.

And in a way, it had.

You don’t need to look at the screen to know what’s waiting for you there.

A photo. You, walking alone through the paddock, caught at an unflattering angle—your hands adjusting the strap of your bag, your gaze flicking off to the side. Out of context, impersonal, just another frame in someone else’s story.

But the caption beneath it?

That made it personal.

The caption beneath it, however, was anything but subtle.

"Classic gold digger. No personality, no job, just another wag looking for a paycheck."

The replies were worse.

"She looks so full of herself. I bet she spends his money like crazy."

"Lando deserves better. She looks disgusting."

"Does she even like racing or just his wallet?"

You had expected something like this eventually. Being seen always came at a cost.

But expectation doesn’t soften the blow.

It doesn’t make the words less sharp. It doesn’t stop them from settling in the quiet places of your mind, the ones that whisper in the dark when the world is still.

You exhale slowly, smoothing your hand over the sheets, willing away the tightness in your throat.

It’s fine.

You were raised to handle things like this with grace, with an understanding that women who stand beside successful men are often reduced to spectators, accessories, footnotes in their own stories.

You know who you are. You know your worth.

And yet, knowing doesn’t stop the sting.

A keycard beeps at the door.

Then, the soft sound of it swinging open, of footsteps—light, easy, carrying a kind of restless energy even now.

"Hi, darling," Lando’s voice fills the space before he does.

You don’t turn immediately, letting yourself blink once, twice, composing yourself in the quiet before offering a small smile as he steps inside.

He looks effortlessly disheveled—his hair still damp from the rain outside, his McLaren polo slightly untucked, the fabric creased like he’d run a hand over it one too many times.

He is still buzzing—from the high of the weekend, from the thrill of being back in the car, from the sheer joy of doing what he loves.

And then he looks at you.

And everything shifts.

His grin falters. His brows pull together.

"Hey," he says again, but softer this time, slower. "What’s wrong?"

You hesitate, fingers brushing against the sheets. "It’s nothing."

Lando stills.

"You’re upset."

It’s not a question.

You exhale, tilting your head slightly, lips curving in something almost amused. "No big deal, this is your weekend."

But Lando doesn’t smile.

Instead, he moves—crossing the room in three long strides, sinking down in front of you, his hands warm against your thighs, his gaze level, intent.

"Tell me," he says, quiet but firm.

All day, you have been ignored, dismissed, treated like an inconvenience. And yet, here he is, giving you his undivided attention, his entire world narrowing down to this moment, to you.

You hesitate. Then, finally, you murmur, "People weren’t exactly kind today."

His grip on your legs tightens just slightly.

"Security thought I was a fan trying to sneak in. Hospitality wouldn’t serve me." You let out a small, humorless laugh, shaking your head. "And now there’s a photo of me online. People saying I’m a disgusting gold digger."

Lando doesn’t move.

Doesn’t even breathe.

Then, slowly, he reaches for your phone, flipping it over with careful precision before scrolling. He doesn’t need you to guide him—he finds it immediately.

His jaw tightens.

And then, in a tone so low and steady that it makes your stomach flip:

"Are you joking?"

You open your mouth, but he’s already shaking his head, pushing himself up, pacing now, running a hand through his curls.

"Such bullshit," he starts, turning sharply, voice too controlled, too even, "that after everything—after how much effort you’ve put into being here, after how much of your life you’ve adjusted for me—these people had the nerve to treat you like that?"

You shift under his gaze, biting your lip. "Lando, it’s not—"

"No, no, hold on," he interrupts, hands in the air like he needs a second to process. He lets out a short, disbelieving laugh, but there’s nothing amused about it.

"Because from where I’m standing, you’re the easiest person to love in any room, and I genuinely don’t understand how anyone could be that dense."

He exhales sharply, shaking his head, jaw tight. "Honestly, I don’t even know whether to be pissed or impressed by their level of dickheadness."

He stops, inhales sharply, then turns back to you.

"Tomorrow," he says, voice steady now, decisive. "We fix this."

You raise a brow. "We?"

Lando tilts his head, giving you a look like you have just asked if the sky is blue.

"Obviously."

...

There are very few things in life that can silence an entire paddock.

Lando Norris walking in hand-in-hand with you is apparently one of them.

The usual morning commotion—the hurried strides of engineers, the murmured strategy discussions, the distant hum of espresso machines—all of it seems to slow, the air shifting as one by one, heads turn.

Eyes follow you as you move through the paddock, curiosity crackling in the air like static before a storm.Conversations taper off, whispers trailing in your wake, phones discreetly lifted, cameras capturing the moment in real time.

Lando, of course, is unbothered.

If anything, he thrives under the weight of their attention. His grip on your hand remains firm, steady, unwavering, his strides unhurried, his smirk bordering on self-satisfied.

He wants them to see.

It’s deliberate—the way he holds you close, the way his fingers brush over yours in soft, thoughtless patterns, the way his head tilts toward you slightly every time you speak, like you are the only thing worth listening to.

There is no question about what this is.

There is no question about where you belong.

He makes sure of it.

And then, with perfect, almost cinematic timing, he steers you toward McLaren hospitality.

Right to the coffee bar.

The barista from yesterday stands behind the counter, the same sharp-cut uniform, the same perfectly applied lipstick, the same calculating gaze.

Only now, it falters.

She sees Lando before she sees you, her posture straightening, professional mask slipping into place like second nature. But then, her eyes flick toward you—toward your hands intertwined, toward the subtle, unspoken intimacy of the way he keeps close.

You watch as realization dawns.

Oh.

Lando leans against the counter, effortless, grinning.

"Two oat lattes," he says, voice bright, easy, amused. "One for me, one for my girl."

The silence that follows is exquisite.

The barista hesitates—just for a fraction of a second, just long enough for you to see it.

Panic.

"Of course," she says, voice smooth but not quite as sharp as before.

And just like that, there are no shortages, no waiting, no excuses.

The coffees are made within seconds.

Lando watches, humming thoughtfully, tapping his fingers lightly against the counter as she slides the first cup toward him. He lifts it to his lips, taking a slow, exaggerated sip before letting out a long, obnoxiously satisfied hum.

"Mm," he muses, shifting his weight, sparing her a glance. "Tastes better today."

His smirk is dangerous.

"Must be the service."

The barista’s lips press together just slightly.

You take your coffee, cradling the cup in your hands, offering her a soft, serene smile.

"Thank you," you say lightly.

You watch as she winces.

And Lando, the ever-efficient instigator that he is, takes it one step further.

"You know," he muses, as if the thought has just occurred to him, "I think I should make this a tradition."

He turns to you then, eyes bright with mischief, voice just loud enough for the surrounding staff to hear.

"Morning coffee," he says smoothly. "Every race weekend. For the foreseeable future."

The barista looks like she wants to disappear.

You, on the other hand, can’t help but smile.

...

The checkered flag had waved, the roar of the crowd still vibrating through the air, but none of it mattered—not the celebrations, not the flashing cameras, not the McLaren team swarming the pit wall in victory.

Because the moment Lando climbed out of the car, eyes scanning the chaos, he found you.

And then—he ran.

Straight toward you, helmet discarded, race suit half-unzipped, curls a disheveled mess from the heat of the cockpit.

You barely have time to react before he collides into you, arms wrapping around your waist, lifting you off the ground like you weigh nothing.

You shriek—an actual, real shriek—as your feet leave the pavement, the entire world tilting as he spins you in circles,laughter spilling from his lips like he can’t contain it.

And then—he kisses you.

Right there, in front of thousands of fans, in front of cameras, reporters, his entire team.

Hard. Fierce. Like he’d won the race and you in the same breath.

The world erupts around you—cheering, chanting, Oscar groaning dramatically in the background.

"Oh my god. You two are disgusting."

None of it matters.

Because Lando is grinning against your lips, breathless, victorious, yours.

When he finally sets you back down, he doesn’t let go.

Doesn’t even try to.

Instead, he beams down at you, cheeks flushed, curls damp with sweat, voice all cocky, all Lando.

"So, did I impress you or what?"

You roll your eyes, fond and exasperated all at once. "Eh. You were alright."

He gasps. Actually gasps.

"You’re joking." He turns toward the cameras, mock-betrayed. "Did you guys hear that? I win a Grand Prix, and she says I’m ‘alright.’"

You bite your lip, pretending to consider. "You were pretty fast, I guess."

"Pretty fast?" he repeats, positively scandalized. "Babe. I am literally the fastest man in Australia right now."

You burst out laughing. "I was kind of rooting for Oscar."

Oscar, mid-drink of water behind you, chokes.

"Lies." Lando pulls you back in, forehead resting against yours, his voice dropping into something softer, something just for you.

"Say you’re proud of me."

You sigh dramatically. "I guess I’m—"

"Say it."

You grin, heart pounding. "Fine. I’m proud of you, Norris."

He hums, satisfied, smug, still absolutely glowing. "Thought so."

...

Lando was still riding the high when he got to the media pen, his race suit unzipped to his waist, curls damp with sweat, and that stupidly charming grin still plastered across his face.

It wasn’t just a ‘first win of the season’ grin.

It was a ‘my girlfriend is here, and I just won a whole-ass race for her’ grin.

The interviewer barely got a word in before Lando pointed directly at you, standing just off-camera.

"Her."

You blink. "Me?"

"Yeah, you!" He turns back to the cameras, nodding enthusiastically. "Let’s just get this straight—I did this for her. Like, entirely. One hundred percent. Full motivation. If she hadn’t shown up, I probably would’ve parked it in a gravel trap on lap ten."

The interviewer laughed. "So, you’re saying she’s your good luck charm?"

"Absolutely," Lando replied, dead serious. "I mean, have you seen her? Look at her."

The camera did not pan to you, thank god. The poor guy running the live feed probably had no idea what to do.

But Lando? Oh, he was just getting started.

"She walked into this paddock today looking like an actual goddess, completely unaware that she is, in fact, the sun incarnate, and people want me to talk about tire degradation? No. I want to talk about her."

The interviewer tried so hard to stay professional.

"You—uh, you had great pace today—"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Lando waved him off.

"Lando, I don’t think—"

"Listen, I need to emphasize something." Lando leaned in, tone conspiratorial. "Do you know how lucky I am? Not only is she breathtaking, but she’s also, like, annoyingly smart. Like, did you know she reads all the time? Real books.Not just memes and Twitter threads like me."

He gestured vaguely, suddenly overwhelmed by his own emotions.

"She doesn’t even realize how much people admire her. But I see it. I see everything. And I just think the world needs to start appreciating her at my level."

"That is… very sweet." The interviewer was visibly struggling to keep up.

"Just had to get that out there."

"Well, congratulations on the win, Lando," the interviewer finally managed, skimming over his list of unanswered questions he had prepared.

"Thank you." He nodded seriously, finally letting go of the mic. "And big thanks to the team, of course."

You rolled your eyes from behind the cameras, suppressing a smile.

...

The internet had seen many things, but no one was prepared for Lando Norris using his post-race interview as a full-blown love letter. 

"Lando’s race pace was great, but his girlfriend propaganda was even stronger."

"THE WAY HE JUST POINTED AT HER IMMEDIATELY I CAN’T."

"Lando Norris said ‘this win is for my girlfriend’ and proceeded to recite a romantic sonnet on live TV. My standards are ruined."

Later, as the two of you curled up in the hotel room, finally away from the cameras, Lando buried his face in your neck with a content sigh.

"You know," he murmured, voice sleepy, warm, full of love. "I really did win that for you."

You ran your fingers through his curls. "I know."

"I meant every word, too."

You smiled. "Don't you think it was a bit much?"

"I don't think it was nearly enough," he said, already half-asleep, grinning like he had never been happier.

[freakycore]

🎧 now playing: queen never cry

ryomen sukuna x fem!reader

sukuna’s queen should never cry. so when he finds her in tears, he’s ready to unleash his wrath— only to be met with a situation he never expected.

sukuna never believed there was a force in this world that could bring him to his knees— until he saw you crying.

the faint sound of muffled sniffles greeted him as he stepped into your shared chambers. his crimson eyes narrowed, searching for the source. then he saw you, perched on the edge of the bed, your face buried in your hands, shoulders trembling with each shaky breath.

his chest tightened, a feeling he didn’t recognize—or perhaps refused to admit—clawing at his heart. who dared to hurt her? his jaw clenched, and his cursed energy began to crackle in the air.

“who did this to you?” sukuna’s voice thundered through the room, sharp and biting, his rage barely contained. “tell me, and I’ll flay them alive. I’ll make them beg for—”

“it’s not a person!” you interrupted, looking up at him with teary eyes.

his fury faltered for a moment as confusion replaced it. he stalked closer, crouching before you so he could see your face. his large hands cupped your cheeks, rough thumbs brushing away stray tears. “then what is it?” he growled.

your lip quivered as you tried to form the words. “i… i dropped my favorite dessert.”

sukuna blinked. once. twice. his expression was blank, but his crimson eyes burned with disbelief.

“you’re crying… over that?”

“yes!” you wailed, fresh tears spilling over. “it was the last one, and i was saving it for today! and now it’s gone!”

the room was silent for a beat. sukuna’s hands dropped from your face as he straightened, his cursed energy dissipating into the air. he crossed his arms, his lips pressing into a tight line as his eyes bore into you. “you mean to tell me i nearly destroyed this entire palace… over a shit of sugar?”

you sniffed, your watery gaze meeting his. “it was a really good shit of sugar..”

for a moment, sukuna said nothing, his temple visibly throbbing as he tried to process the situation. then he let out a harsh, frustrated groan, dragging a hand down his face. “you’re insufferable,” he muttered.

despite his irritation, he reached out and pulled you into his lap, cradling you as if you were the most precious thing in the world. “stop crying,” he ordered, voice gruff but quieter now. “queens never shed tears over something pathetic.”

you let out a soft laugh, burying your face in his chest. “you’re so cute when you’re mad.”

sukuna froze, his scowl deepening. “excuse me?”

“ you heard me,” you teased, tilting your head up to meet his gaze. your fingers lightly traced the sharp lines of his jaw, and despite himself, sukuna leaned into your touch.

“you’re lucky i adore you,” he muttered under his breath, his arms tightening around you protectively. “otherwise, i’d throw you out for being this ridiculous.”

but as much as he grumbled, you knew he wasn’t truly angry. later that evening, when he thought you weren’t paying attention, sukuna disappeared for a short while. he returned with a boxes containing even larger, more decadent version of your lost dessert.

he didn’t say a word as he set them all down before you, his expression carefully neutral. but the slight twitch of his lips betrayed him when you squealed with delight and launched yourself into his arms.

no one makes his queen cry— not even herself.

[nezuscribe]

(slightly suggestive)

another little drabble for arranged marriage!gojo but imagine a moment before he confessed but something was looming over the two of you. it was crossing the line of friends, not necessarily husband and wife, but two people desperately in love and didn't know how to say it.

you were in one of your late-night frenzies, your brain so muddled with every thought that you decided to do what you knew best: bake.

you often find yourself in this situation as of late, but it truly seems to be the only thing that helps. you wanted to tell gojo how you were feeling, but it was too far in, so you decided something simple and sugary would help you in the moment.

at this point, the walk to the kitchens was something you could do blind, and considering how many times you did this, you already knew where all the ingredients were.

you set out your sugar and flower, and go rummaging in the cold cellar for some butter and eggs. you try not to think about how at dinner gojo slid closer to you, your arms touching as he leaned in to whisper something in your ear. or how a couple days ago he had found you in the library, reading next to a windowsill, cozying up next to you as he read the book over your shoulder.

you're so lost in your head with sifting the ingredients that you fail to realize that the very man himself had come up secretly behind you, curiously watching you in your element.

(he'd never admit that he'd first gone to your room, and only came down here after he realized you were gone).

but, unlike the last couple of times, you'd gotten used to his stealthy ways. he was quiet, sure, but you could recognize him by his slight breath alone, or the way he smelled faintly of cloves.

you try not to let your breathing hitch, or let a smile grow on your face as you decide to break the silence.

"if you try to scare me while i'm baking you better rethink your choices," you warn him and hear gojo snicker quietly behind you.

gojo moves from where he was standing, and he leans his back against the counter next to you, craning his neck to look over at your bowl.

your eyes dart to the side, to the way his arms are resting behind him as he balances himself back on them (or the way his arms bulge and veins pop).

"what's on your mind tonight?" gojo asks, knowing you only do this now whenever you're stressed out.

"not much," you mutter, despite wanting to say you, you're on my mind.

he tsks, not buying your lie as he leans in a little close, his head blocking your view of your mixing bowl as he tries to get a little taste with his fingers.

"hey!" you cry, smacking him lightly on the back of his neck, "your hands are all grimy!"

you watch as he peers at you from the corner of his eyes, glaring at your offensive remark as he retracts away, a small pout on his face as you grin in slight victory.

"my hands are clean," you hear him mumble petulantly and you chuckle, rolling your eyes at his antics. the closer the two of you got, the more you found out that his closed-off and aloof demeanor was just a facade for a dramatic, grouchy man-child.

there's a comfortable silence for a moment, one where you're mixing and one where he watches you mix. you don't really notice the quiet anymore, just another added sound when you and gojo grow more comfortable together.

"how was your day?" he finally asks, a simple question, but you know he's using it as a mask to find out what was wrong with you.

"good," you say with a shrug, starting to gently fold in your wet mixture with your dry one, "you weren't at dinner so i was actually able to eat in peace," you add, trying to sound indifferent when really it's what spurred this entire thing on. how, when you realized that you missed seeing him, talking to him, being near him, you were really, really, missing him. and that's not how friends are supposed to act. or, at least, from what you've heard.

gojo smiles, a soft look on his face. you're trying to be sarcastic, he knows that, but there's something...deeper behind your words, something that he too feels.

"the eastern tribe took up more time than i thought they would," he explains, his blue eyes glowing when he notices the way you slightly relax, "i tried telling them that my wife was waiting for me, but apparently peace negotiations can't be postponed."

you bite your lips, trying to hold back your giddy smile at his words. you know he's probably teasing you, using the phrase my wife as a way to get out of a boring meeting, but you love it nonetheless.

he knows you do.

"those bastards," you murmur teasingly, hearing his loud laugh as he lightly shoves you with the point of his boot.

"yeah, well, they don't have wives back home," he crosses his arms over his chest, pressing his lips into a thin line, "so they don't know the feeling."

you swallow thickly, not looking over at him when he says that.

there's another silence as you continue to fold the batter, sensing that same feeling wash over the two of you.

"let me grab a..." you turn around, head craning to look for a spoon to dip in the batter, needing to make sure the sweetness wasn't too overbearing (and because you liked tasting the batter before it was sent off to be baked thoroughly), but stop when gojo pulls the bowl in closer to him.

you watch as he glides his finger across the sides, not letting it touch the actual bulk of the mixture, and brings it forth towards your lips.

his brows cock upwards, as if he was waiting for you to try it.

you give him a look, nose slightly wrinkled.

"i swear my hands are clean," he promises, crossing one hand over his chest as a sort of pledge, but that's not what holding you back, shouldn't he know that?

your mind is working to beat the thrill of your heart, the one that's pulling you towards him like a magnet, the one that desperately wants to have his finger in your mouth.

you bite your cheek for a second, eyes flickering up from his to his finger, and some sort of heat in you takes control as one hand gently grabs his wrist, pulling his hand closer to your parted lips.

your tongue darts out, your mouth closing over the digit as you taste the sugary batter coating your tongue. you feel dizzy, your stomach twisting, a heat taking over your body as your tongue swipes over it, licking it clean.

it's nothing overexaggerated, nothing too crazy. you lick his finger the way you'd like your own, but fuck, this isn't your own finger and gojo's looking at you with his pupils blown wide, the blacks overtaking the blue in his eyes.

your hand is still holding his wrist, your lips gliding over it as you pull away, breathing slightly less when you glance up at him.

gojo swallows thickly, hoping you don't see the bulge that's growing in his pants.

"good?" he chokes out, his voice thick in his throat.

"yeah," you mutter, the batter still lingering on your tastebuds, "it's perfect."

fuck, you're both screwed.

[fairy-angel222]

Pornstar Dream ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅

—in which your friends help you make something other than solo porn for your onlyfans (with a week full of dick appointments of course).

—nanami, choso, sukuna, toji, gojo n geto

—cw: smut, daddy kink, overstimulation, mommy kink, passing out, bondage, gagging, threesome, choking, pussy eating, degradation, praise, breeding, pussy/clit slapping, double penetration, cervix fucking, belly bulge, mask kink, a lot more.

—repost from @/fairyhub

Nanami. Monday 10:00 a.m. to 12:00 p.m.

Hearing the ring of your doorbell, you smiled. Jogging down the stairs in just a sexy black robe to swing open the door. Nanami’s cheeks tinted red as he greeted you.

“Hi Kento!” you grinned, embracing him into a hug, “thank you so much for agreeing to this.”

Clearing his throat, Nanami half hugged you back with a short nod. Trying his hardest to keep his eyes off of you. “Yeah, no problem.”

Pulling away, you grabbed the man’s hand and pulled him into your home. Leading him upstairs into the massive guest bedroom where you filmed.

“Okay,” you started, picking up a pitch black ski mask and handing it to him. “The camera won’t be picking up your face, but you can put this one if you’d like.”

Nanami shook his head, “No it’s fine.”

“Great! Well let’s get started kay?”

Nanami found himself sat on your bed as you climbed onto his lap. His head straight forward to avoid falling into the camera’s line of sight. Despite you being able to crop him out.

He groaned when you brought yourself down on his cock. Letting out a soft mewl as your pussy took him all the way it. “Hmm,” you moaned, beginning to bounce up and down slowly while grinding your hips. “Fuck.. daddy,”

Nanami’s eyes widened, his cock throbbing against your walls as his grip on your hips tightened. Helping you speed up your pace to begin fucking yourself on his cock. The man let out a string of deep grunts, the sight of you whimpering while rutting yourself on his cock was almost enough for him.

“Nngh— so good daddy,” you breathed, “sooo fucking good, ahh.” Your lip between your teeth as you gripped his shoulders. Rocking your hips back and forth at a fast pace, your clit rubbing against his base region with each movement.

Your head fell back with your lips parted, your eyes closing as you clenched down on him. “O-oh—” Nanami noticing the way your movements got sloppy before gripping your ass. Fucking up into you at an almost inhuman pace. “F-fuckk—“ you cried out. A silent scream falling past your lips as your eyes rolled back. Allowing Nanami to do the work while you simply moaned and cried, his veiny hand curling around your neck.

“Shit- that’s it doll.“ the man cursed, his breathing getting heavy as your wetness coated his cock. Blunt tip bumping into your g spot each time it grazed your walls.

“D-daddy.. feels so good,” you let out a high pitched mewl, “‘m so close.”

Nanami’s cock fucking up into you making your stomach fill with heat, a coil building up as you were engulfed in pleasure. You could feel your head becoming dizzy as you neared your orgasm, your body trembling as your noises increased in volume.

Your toes curled with a chant of daddy’s. Your nails piercing past the muscular man’s skin. Nanami trying to keep his words limited incase someone recognized him, letting out a low husky string of curses while watching his cock disappear within your sopping cunt.

“F-fuck,” you let out your final cry, a shiver raking through your body before you were cumming on his cock. Drenching him in your clear liquid with a choked whimper.

Nanami groaned, his fingers squeezing into your ass and around your neck as he buried himself deep. Pumping ropes of thick cum onto your slippery walls.

You hummed in content, turning your body in his lap when he pulled out. Using your fingers to spread your folds for his cum to spurt out lewdly.

When you were done you ran to turn off all cameras. Grinning at Nanami before pressing a kiss to his lips, “Thank you again Kento.”

Choso. Tuesday 1:00 p.m. to 3:00 p.m.

Choso was nervous when you had asked him to be in your video, but agreed nonetheless. Walking up shyly to your door before ringing the bell.

Running his hand through his hair to fluff it right before the door swung open. The man swallowing hard as he saw your robe clad frame. “Choso! you made it.” you smiled. And he only nodded while handing you a mini bouquet of flowers. “Y-yeah. And i uh.. i got you these.”

You cooed, pulling him in for a hug making his face burn red. He’d seen your solo content, so it was very hard for him to look at you without thinking back to all the loads he’d blown to the sight.

You led Choso upstairs after getting a vase for the flowers. Pulling him into your recording room while breaking down what would be happening.

“So you can put this on to hide your face.” you offered, holding out a black ski mask which Choso took with no protest. Putting it on after peeling his clothes off of him.

You sat him down of a chair instead of your bed. Tying his hands behind him and kneeling in between his legs. The cameras already rolling, “Ready?”

Choso nodded, “Mhm.”

Choso whimpered as you began stroking his cock slowly. Your touch soft on his skin as you teasingly circled your wrist on his tip. Spreading his precum and using it to fist his cock. Your lip in between your teeth as you smiled to the camera. Choso’s mewls loud and whiny as his body jerked.

“Aww, you like that baby?” you teased, “Like when mommy fist fucks your pretty cock?”

He nodded with a moan, his back arching as you sped up your movements, his cock throbbing when you raked a nail up his distinct vein. “Nngh— l-love ittt, o-oh fuck, love it mommy.”

You hummed, your face seductive as you switched between teasing his aching red tip and stroking down his length. The man tugging at the ropes in an attempt to rut his hips upward into your fist.

“Nngh— more- ahh, please m-more.”

You squeezed down on his base, his head falling back with a needy whimper as his breathing sped.

“You take what i give you okay baby?”

He let out a cry, his chest rising and falling heavily as you continued to tease him. “Nngh- m-mommy..” Choso’s back arched when you placed a kiss to his tip. Swirling your tongue around the glistening mushroom head.

Choso let out a string of moans, his hips thrusting up when you took his cock past your lips. Letting out a long shaky breath as you bobbed your head. Taking him all the way into your throat with a tiny gag.

His abs glistened with sweat as you sucked him off. Adorable noises filling the room as you brought him to his release. “F-fuck mommy- ‘m cumming. Nngh ‘m cumming mommy.” his voice cracked as it got high pitched.

Choso let out a broken whine when you stepped all movements. “N-no.. why?” you could hear the tears forming in his eyes.

“Shh baby, mommy’s gonna give you something even better.” climbing on top of him and sinking down on his cock. “There we go.. good boy.” His cries of pleasure even louder than before as you fucked him with your tightness.

His mewls and whimpers making you even more wet as you lifted yourself off and back onto his cock. Your ass flush on his lap every time you bottomed down.

Your moans mixed with his. Hands secure on his shoulders as you rocked yourself back and forth, his cock prodding your g spot each time. “Fuck, does that feel good baby?”

“Uh huh,” Choso choked out, “s-so good, haah.”

You could feel his cock twitching against your walls. Your head falling back and your lips parting in soft mewls. “Gonna cum baby? Gonna let it out f’ me.”

Choso nodded, “yeah,” he breathed, “‘m there mommy.”

“Cum in me okay? Fill my pussy with your cum.” your demanded, grinding your hips quickly as you approached your own orgasm. Drenching Choso’s cock with a cry before he was doing the same. Pumping you full of his cum with a whimper.

When you were both finished you panted heavily. Momentarily turning to the camera and thrusting two fingers into you for Choso’s cum to run out.

Eventually untying him and pulling off his mask with a giggle. His face fucked out and flushed as he looked up at you.

“Thanks Cho,” pressing a kiss to his lips.

Sukuna. Wednesday 2:00 p.m. to 4:00 p.m.

Sukuna didn’t even knock when he got to your house. Waltzing in like he owned the place and making his way straight up to your recording room.

You let out a yelp when you saw the man by the door, a smirk on his face as he took in all the technology. “So you’re a full time slut huh?” He scoffed jokingly. Opening his arms for you to jump into. Wrapping your arms around his neck with a grin. “Hi Kuna.”

“Hi princess, i see you’re pretty much all set up.” You nodded with your lips between your teeth, clad in nothing but your black robe as Sukuna hummed. Allowing you to lead him to the bed while explaining everything.

“Handcuffs, ropes, gag..” Sukuna listed with a grin, “I like it.” Peeling off his shirt to reveal a litter of tattoos on his pale skin and a half sleeve full. His muscles prominent as he stretched. “Gonna do this pussy real good.”

You found yourself on your bed. Your hands handcuffed to the headboard and your feet tied in their spread out position. You whimpered as Sukuna placed a blindfold on your eyes. Getting ready to gag you next. “K-Kuna? You sure you wanna let your face show?”

“They’ve gotta know who’s making you scream somehow, and if you blur out my face i’m spanking that ass red.”

You nodded shakily, Sukuna strapping the ball between your lips before biting your neck softly. Trailing hot kisses down your chest with a groan. “Fuck.. wish you had called me for this earlier. Could’ve made a fortune outta this.” he mumbled lowly.

Your breath hitched when you no longer felt Sukuna against you. You shivered when his touch was replaced by a sharp nail raking up your chest. Circling each one of your breasts before tracing the sides of your waists. He was silent, keeping you breathing heavily in anticipation as a smirk graced his features.

Your back arched with a muffled mewl when Sukuna’s hand came down hard on one of your tits. The stinging sensation sending wetness straight to your pussy. Your chest rose and fell as Sukuna continued trailing your chest. Pressing his lips to your stomach before his hand came down on your other one.

Pulling another muffled cry from you with a hum. He twisted your nipples between his fingers as he kissed down to your cunt. Teasingly kissing everywhere else but where you craved to feel him. When he finally reached your pussy he groaned. “So fucking wet f’me.” Kissing your clit while his finger ran between your folds.

You could only moan behind the gag when he licked a stripe up your slit. Making out with your clit before dragging his tongue back down into your wetness. Your body jerked with a broken whimper when Sukuna’s hand laded directly on your clit. The sensitive bud throbbing at the contact.

You mewled, tugging at your restraints when Sukuna began lapping at your wetness. His tongue darting out to collect your sweetness with his mouth latched onto your pussy.

Another jerk passing through your body with a cry when his hand came down even harder. His tongue still working wonders as it dipped into you, his fingers pinching at your clit before coming down in two more consecutive hits.

Your eyes grew teary under the fabric. The blinking camera picking up the way your breaths became heavier by the time Sukuna had swapped his tongue and fingers. Curling the long digits into your walls while he tongued the rest of you.

Your body was filled with heat when Sukuna gripped your hip. Not being able to see the way he looked darkly at your trembling body. Basking in your incoherent noises as he feasted, feeling his cock grow hard underneath him.

The coil in your stomach grew stronger and. stronger. Unable to voice your release as you clenched down on his fingers with a silent scream, pussy gushing onto his hand and chin making him grunt into you. “Fuck, that’s it.” Replacing his fingers with his mouth to swallow down your juices.

Sukuna’s cock was collecting your wetness before you knew it. Roughly thrusting into you with a deep breath. His thick cock stretching you almost painfully as he bottomed out.

You mewled when he began fucking into you. His pace immediately hard and fast as his massive girth rammed into your tightness. You let out a string of loud cries, Sukuna’s hand wrapping around your neck as he glanced to the camera right in front of him. Giving it a grin before focusing his attention back onto you.

“Shit, taking me so well. Pretty little slut, fuckk.” he groaned, his tip hammering into your g spot making your back arch. Both your hands and legs pulling at their ties at the immense pleasure.

Drool ran past your lips as your body was rocked back and forth with Sukuna’s harsh thrusts. Tears staining your cheeks as he pierced deep into you. His hips holding no mercy as he moved.

Sukuna reached up to wipe your chin with his thumb. His deep voice sending shivers down your spine when he teased, “So messy,” using his hand to spread to spit all over your face before landing his palm on your cheek.

A loud cry leaving you at the burning sensation in your face. Only to have your head turned to the side when he landed another one. “So fucking pretty like this.” Tightening his grip on your neck to allow him to drill into your cunt.

Short screams matching his brutal thrusts as his cock fucked past your cervix entrance. Grazing your gummy walls perfectly on its way in and out.

You clenched down on him hard, letting out a series of muffled noises as you came. Soaking the sheets while you creamed Sukuna’s cock. The man letting out a deep groan with sped up breaths, “Fuck, can i cum in you?” Cursing out when you nodded, his head falling back as he stilled. Spilling ropes if his warm sticky cum deep into you.

“Shit..” he breathed, panting as he pulled out. The camera behind him picking up the way the liquid seeped out of you.

Sukuna untied you before removing the gag and blindfold. Watching as you sleepily blinked up at him through wet lashes. He helped you up, chucking at your messy face before kissing your nose. “Lemme help you get cleaned up yeah? You’ll worry about the cameras afterwards.” Knowing that you had tons of editing to do anyways, meaning that you could just cut the last part out.

Toji. Thursday 2:00 p.m. to 6:00 p.m.

When you opened the door for Toji, he smirked widely. His hands on your waist forcing you to the tips of your toes to kiss you. “You look so fucking hot in that robe. Just wanna rip it off you already.”

You giggled, doing a little spin for him and listening to the way he groaned. Pulling you into him for a hug. His nose buried in your neck while he groped your ass in hiss large hand. “Fuck.. we haven’t even started and i’m hard.”

When you bring him up to your room, you explain how things would be going. Toji barely paying attention as he scanned the room. “Can i wear my own mask?” he cut you off, finally turning his attention to you as pulled a ghost face mask out of his pocket.

“It’s a bit late for halloween Toji.”

“But it’s never too late to make a pretty little slut like you squirm.” His deep voice spoke lowly, stalking towards you with the mask on his face. His head tilted as you were backed into your bed. Falling into a sitting position with Toji standing over you, his fingers gripping your chin to make you look up at him. “Hmm, that’s exactly what i’m talking about,” running his thumb over your bottom lip after seeing the way your thighs clenched.

“F-fine.. you can wear the mask,” you grumbled.

“Was gonna wear it either way but thanks sweetheart.” he chuckled shortly, his demeanor going serious when he sighed, “Now, when do i get to ruin that tight cunt of yours?” His eyes darkening with lust as he watched your breathing speed up.

“Y-yeah.. uh l-let me just set up the c-cameras and we’re good to go.” you stuttered, wetness pooling between your legs as you went to set up.

Toji began fucking into you like a mad man. First fingering you to stretch you out before he was full on hammering into your pussy. The blinking camera capturing the way his muscular body flexed with each slam of his hips.

Your eyes were teary as you moaned and cried out. Your body rocking back and forth with every bruising thrust. Toji grunted on top of you, his hand holding tightly onto your neck as he bullied his fat cock even deeper.

Your noises increasing in volume as you turned to look at the camera to let them see how good you were getting fucked. Your tits bouncing wildly as Toji’s force shook the entire bed.

“Fucking look at me.” he growled out, and you whimpered as he tightened his grip on you. “These fucks get to see your dumbed out face all the time, it’s my turn.” Letting out a groan before his hips took an inhuman pace.

You could not see his face, only the image of ghostface looking down at you making you moan loudly. Your back arching as you clenched down on Toji. “Nngh— o-oh f-uckk.. so good- ahh— so g-good.” you cried. Feeling yourself grow closer to orgasm.

“A-ahh, fuck— To- nngh,” you caught your almost slip up, eyes rolling back in a string of shaky mewls when Toji’s other hand pinned your wrists above your head. Masked face coming down to your ear in a deep husk, “Ya like that you little slut? Being fucked in front of a camera for hundreds to see. Such a dirty fucking girl.”

Toji’s smirk widened under his mask, “Let’s give these idiots a show.”

After you came once, he roughly twisted and turned your body into his desired position. Your face in the sheets and your ass in the air. His hand on the back of your neck forcing you to stay down while he bounced himself off your ass.

A dragged out cry leaving your mouth each time his cock rammed deep into you. Threatening to push past your cervix when he sped up his movements.

Your toes curled, drool soaking the sheets as Toji fucked you dumb. Your puffy clit throbbing from the harsh hits of Toji’s heavy balls. “Nnh— ‘s so deep.” you mewled, getting nothing in return but a hard slap to your ass. “Yeah? Better fucking take it.” Toji grunted, his tip kissing your g spot meanly before poking against the skin of your stomach. Creating a visible bulge for everyone to see.

Toji’s head fell back with a groan, his other hand on your hip pulling you onto his cock to match his thrusting pace.

Your brain was foggy. Dizzy even. Your vision clouding as you approached yet another orgasm. Toji’s hand on your neck forcing your head up to face the main camera. “That’s it, show them how good this dick is fucking you. Wanna hear you say it.”

You let out a scream like moan, your stomach burning with heat as your back arched. “F-fuckk— feels so good. Your cock is fucking me soooo good.” you mewled.

“Good girl. Now make a fucking mess.”

You came with a cry, squirting messily onto Toji’s cock and the bed below. Your body trembling and your eyes closing as you were fucked through your high.

In the next few hours Toji had fucked you in all kinds of positions. Your bottom half on the bed while your hands support med your frame on the floor. Toji at the end of the bed lowering his hips onto your sopping cunt. Your cries whiny at the overstimulation.

“Look at you, taking my cock like a fucking champ, bet those men must be wishing to get a feel of that pussy while jerking off.”

“Nngh— you’re not supposed to say that.” you let out a broken whine. Toji’s cock fucking down hard into you as gravity forced your wetness to run down your torso.

“Shit- it’s true. Pussy feels like fucking heaven, i’d want a feel if i was in their place.” He rasped, his breathing getting heavy as his cock twitched. Bringing you to another orgasm before manhandling you some more.

Fucking you in full nelson as you sobbed from all the pleasure. “I can’t— nngh, i can’t.. ‘s too much.” Sweat covering his body as he breathed into your ear. “You can take it. Fuck- just give me two more yeah?”

Holding you directly in the camera’s sight when your pussy gushed. Streams of the clear liquid spraying messily into the air. Toji whistling lowly at the distance it reached.

Then he was bouncing you on his cock, your body falling limp into his chest as he moved your hips. Incoherent babbles falling past your lips as you drenched his thighs. An accidental daddy slipping past your lips as you began to rock back and forth weakly.

“Shit, call me that again.”

“Nngh— d-daddy,” you mewled loudly, your noises high pitched as your clit bumped against his pelvic region.

Toji groaned, “Fuck- you’re driving me crazy. Who’s your daddy baby? Who’s fucking this slutty pussy so good?”

Your legs quivered, clenching down hard as your head fell onto his shoulders. “Y-you. Haah.. you are.” Letting out a short choked scream as your orgasm washed over you painfully. Creaming his cock with a shaky string of whimpers.

Toji letting out a deep chant of curses as he finally allowed himself to release. “Shit- can i cum in ya sweetheart?” Only to look down to find you gone. Passed out against him as your chest rose and fell softly. “Fucking hell.” His voice cracking ever so slightly as he pumped endless amounts of cum into you. Stuffing your cunt to the brim in the thick white substance.

Lifting you off his cock for the camera to see your pussy flutter, his cum running lewdly out of your in spurts.

“Shit.. really fucked ya hard didn’t i,” Toji bit his lip from under his mask. Pulling it off his face to wink at the camera with a short wave and a smirk. “Hey there.” Laying you down onto the bed and placing a kiss to your lips with a sigh. “Let’s see if i can find anything in this big ass place.”

Walking away to find a warm rag or something to clean you up. Leaving the camera running not only because he didn’t know how to use it. But to at least show these people what even the slightest aftercare looked like.

If you decided to keep that part in, that was.

Gojo n Geto. Friday 4:00 p.m. to 6:00 p.m.

When you asked Gojo and Geto, the two insisted that they tag teamed you. And you were more than willing to try.

You greeted the two at the door with a smile, being embraced on both sides by the towering men. Gojo smirked, “hi baby,” while Geto placed a kiss to your neck, “hello princess.”

“Hey guys.”

Gojo whistled, “You look so fucking hot in that robe baby, can’t wait to take it off ya.” You giggled, grabbing their hands and pulling them up to the room. “So this is what fucking yourself for some horny men gets you..” Geto laughed.

“So you guys have two options, i can crop and blur out your faces or you can wear these.” Holding up two masks for which both men shook their heads. Geto grinned, “Fuck.. i’m hard just thinking about what we’re going to do to you.”

You found yourself on your hands and knees, Geto fucking roughly into while Gojo fucked your face. Your moans and cries muffled as you were rocked back and forth.

“Shit,” Geto grunted, kneading at the soft flesh of your ass before landing a hard smack, “pussy’s so fucking tight.” You mewled onto Gojo’s cock, gagging and sputtering slightly at his length as he mercilessly slammed into your throat. Heavy balls slapping your chin with each movement.

Your eyes became teary, the feeling of Geto’s cock hammering your g spot making your head feel fuzzy as you whimpered. Your back arching with a string of cries and your breathing speeding up.

The two men watched as your body trembled, your tits shaking lewdly as squelching noises filled the air. Gojo groaned, his hand on your head forcing you to bob up and down his cock even faster as tears stained your cheeks.

The angled camera picking up the way you were destroyed on both ends. Your pussy clenching on Geto’s cock as a thick creamy ring formed at his base. You let out a short moan each time Geto’s cock bullied its way deeper.

Your words incoherent as you shakily announced that you were close. Your hand reaching down to rub at your clit with a high pitched cry.

“That’s it pretty girl. Fucking cum for us.” Gojo groaned, his head falling back as he approached his own release. Your eyes rolled back as you came messily, squirting uncontrollably onto the bed and Geto’s thighs. The black haired man only grunting deeply at the force. “Good fucking girl.. making a mess just like a little slut.”

“Think you can take both of us at once?” Gojo questioned, and you swallowed hard when he pulled out of your mouth. His cock dripping sloppily with your spit. His fingers reached under your chin, lifting your head to look up at him. “What do you say baby?”

You whimpered, “O-okay.” Making both males grin.

Gojo grabbed the black mask, hurriedly putting it over his head before throwing one to Geto, the other man putting his on as well before getting themselves in place.

Geto sat at the edge of the bed with you on his lap, his lips on your ear as he whispered, “If it hurts too much at any point i will stop okay?” You nodded in agreement, shivering as Geto used your wetness as lube.

His cock prodding at your ass before lowering you down slowly. You’d used toys for anal before, so it wasn’t bad apart from the small sting from his girth.

You moaned softly, your back on Geto’s chest with your front facing the main camera. The side camera picking up the way Gojo came up in front of you, Geto holding your legs up for his best friend to line up with your tightness.

You mewled loudly when Gojo thrusted into you. Your chest rising and falling rapidly at the fullness. You could feel both their cocks pushing against each other as they went deeper. Feeling them all the way in your stomach as you allowed yourself to get used to it.

You gave a nod signaling you were ready, your head resting on Geto’s shoulder while your nails dug into his biceps. Moaning loudly when they wasted no time in simultaneously fucking into you.

Matching each other’s rhythm until you were crying out shakily, small tears staining your cheek as you clenched down in both ends. The two men grunting as they relentlessly drilled both your holes. Geto pulling out when Gojo thrusted in and Gojo pulling out when Geto thrusted in.

The two worked to find a pace that drove you over the edge, your mouth hung open in non stop cries as a coil built in your stomach. “Nngh— ‘m close.. feels so good.” You moaned, your vision blurring as your toes curled.

Gojo’s thumb swiped across your bottom lip, “Yeah? Is our little baby gonna cum for us again?” He cooed, pushing his thumb past your lips for you to swirl your tongue around. A hum sounding in his throat before his palm connected with your cheek. A small yelp leaving you before your mouth was stuffed by his fingers again.

“Look at you taking both of us so well. Little fucking slut.” Geto gritted before groaning deeply, “If ya keep squeezing me like that sweetheart, i’m gonna cum.”

You barely processed his words, your own high washing over you as you came. Your body shaking as you slobbered all over Gojo’s hand. Moaning out loudly while creaming his cock.

“Shit— there we go.” Geto breathed. Both he and Gojo husking out a curse as they both stilled. Pumping you full of cum from both ends. You swore you could feel your stomach swell when they finished.

You whimpered when Gojo slipped out of you first, his cum seeping out your pussy in spurts before Geto followed suit. Pulling out of your ass and allowing his cum to run out of the small gape.

Lifting you up and bending your folded body back. Revealing your leaking cunt and ass to the camera while you batted your lashes.

When you were done, both men fixed their hair from the mask. Gojo smirking widely as he panted, “Fuck baby, should’ve let us fuck you like this way sooner.”

Geto nodding in agreement, “Yeah, if i knew you could take cock so well i’d be dicking you down more often.”

Your cheeks heated, the two chuckling as you led them into your master bathroom for a group shower.. and more.