#the way his eyes are closed the way his head is leaned back the slow drag from the cigarette OMFGGGGG

[solaceseven]

THINGS THEY DO THAT MAKE YOU SECOUND-GUESS YOUR 'FRIENDSHIP'

→ pairings: gojo satoru, geto suguru, kento nanami, ryomen sukuna, toji fushiguro.

→ a/n: finally had the time to write something!! school has been keeping me busy!! implied female reader for toji’s part.

GOJO - being touchy.

you’re used to gojo’s touch.

the way he drapes himself over your shoulders like a human scarf, pulling you into his side without a second thought. the way his hand finds the small of your back when he guides you through a crowd, his palm pressing firm against you, like he’s staking a silent claim. you’ve grown accustomed to the way he plays with your fingers absentmindedly—twisting your rings, tracing circles over your knuckles—while he rambles about something completely unrelated.

it’s always been like this.

that’s what you tell yourself, at least. that it doesn’t mean anything. that he’s like this with everyone.

but lately, it’s been getting harder to believe that.

because his touches have started to linger. his fingers don’t just graze your wrist anymore—they rest there, warm and grounding, his thumb brushing slow, deliberate strokes against your pulse. when he reaches for something above your head, he doesn’t just stretch over you; he presses his chest against your back, close enough that you feel the heat of him seep into your skin.

and then there’s the way he looks at you.

like right now.

you’re both sprawled out on his couch, half-watching some random movie he insisted was a classic (it’s not), when you feel it—his fingers, absentmindedly tracing shapes on your wrist.

you try not to react, try to focus on the screen, but your breath catches anyway. if he notices, he doesn’t say anything. he just keeps going, slow and lazy, the pads of his fingers skating along your skin like he’s mapping out something only he can see.

your pulse jumps when his fingers move up—tracing the inside of your forearm now, featherlight. it’s not accidental. you know it. he knows it.

but he doesn’t stop.

you sneak a glance at him, expecting that usual smug grin, but he’s still staring at the screen. too casual. too relaxed. he’s testing you.

like he’s waiting for you to do something about it.

you should move your arm. you should pull away. you should call him out.

but you don’t.

because the way he’s touching you now—it’s not friendly. it’s not casual. it’s not something he does with anyone else.

and the worst part?

he knows you know it.

GETO - never correcting people when they assume you’re his partner.

you don’t think anything of it at first.

you and geto move through the grocery store like you always do—bickering over which brand of cereal is better, tossing random snacks into the cart, laughing when he makes fun of your terrible attempts at balancing fruit on top of an already overflowing pile of groceries.

it’s easy. it’s comfortable. it’s just you and him.

and then you get to checkout.

the cashier, an older woman with kind eyes, watches as geto effortlessly lifts the heavy bags before you can even reach for them. he does it without thinking, just like how he had taken the cart from you earlier, just like how he always opens doors for you, just like how his hand had rested on the small of your back when guiding you through the aisles.

she smiles warmly.

“you two make such a lovely couple.”

you freeze.

your brain short-circuits for a split second, mouth already opening to correct her, but then—then you hear nothing from geto.

not a single word of clarification. not even a chuckle or a shake of his head.

nothing.

instead, he just hums, tilting his head slightly as if considering the statement. he doesn’t deny it. doesn’t laugh it off. just lets the words sit there, completely unbothered.

your head snaps toward him, eyes wide.

he meets your gaze, entirely too calm, a slow smirk forming at the corner of his lips. and then—because he’s absolutely insufferable—he leans in slightly, voice smooth as silk.

“you hear that?” he murmurs, just loud enough for you to hear. “we’re a lovely couple.”

you want to strangle him.

your reaction must be obvious because the cashier just beams, clearly convinced she was right. “oh, young love is so sweet. you take good care of them, dear.”

geto chuckles, and before you can protest, he effortlessly places a hand on the back of your head, ruffling your hair like you’re some flustered little thing.

“always,” he says smoothly.

you don’t remember the rest of the transaction. you’re too busy contemplating whether it’s legal to strangle someone with a grocery bag.

as you’re walking out, geto leans in again, voice dripping with amusement.

“you could’ve corrected them,” he muses, lips dangerously close to your ear. “but you didn’t.”

your stomach flips. you hate that he’s right.

NANAMI - always taking care of you.

you don’t plan on staying this late.

but time slips away between deadlines and last-minute emails, and before you know it, the office is nearly empty, the sky outside painted in deep shades of navy. you sigh, rubbing your temples, already dreading the long commute home.

by the time you step out onto the quiet street, the city lights glowing around you, your phone buzzes.

you don’t have to check to know who it is.

nanami: where are you?

your stomach flips.

you: just leaving work. why?

the message is barely delivered before another one comes in.

nanami: stay there. i’ll be there in five.

you frown at your screen. he was nearby?

true to his word, exactly five minutes later, a familiar figure approaches.

nanami, dressed in his usual crisp attire, looking entirely too put together for this hour. he doesn’t say anything at first, just glances at you, scanning you over like he’s checking for any signs of exhaustion.

“you should have left earlier,” he says, voice even, but you catch the slight furrow of his brow.

you roll your eyes. “yeah, well, i got caught up.”

“hm.” he exhales, the sound bordering on exasperation, before tilting his head toward the direction of your apartment. “let’s go.”

you blink. “what?”

“i’ll walk you home.”

you huff a laugh. “nanami, it’s fine. i can handle walking alone.”

he gives you a flat look, as if the idea is so ridiculous it doesn’t even warrant a response. Instead of arguing, he simply starts walking, fully expecting you to follow.

and—of course—you do.

it’s not the first time he’s done this. You know it won’t be the last.

he doesn’t hover, doesn’t lecture you about staying late. but his presence is solid beside you, steady and unwavering. his hands stay in his pockets, but you know—if anything were to happen, if anyone so much as looked at you the wrong way—he’d be on them in a second.

as you near your building, you sneak a glance at him. “you didn’t have to do this, you know.”

nanami sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose like you’re the one giving him a headache. “i know.”

“…then why do you?”

he stops walking. turns to face you, studying you for a long moment.

then, with a sigh—like he’s so tired of explaining the obvious—he simply mutters:

“because you don’t take care of yourself.”

and that’s that. no room for debate. no further explanation.

your heart stumbles in your chest.

because he doesn’t say i worry about you. he doesn’t say i do it because I care.

but he doesn’t have to.

the truth lingers in the quiet, in the way he watches you, in the way he makes sure you’re safe—every single time.

and when you step inside your building, looking back one last time, you catch him still standing there. waiting.

making sure you’re okay.

like he always does.

SUKUNA - being unreasonably jealous.

it starts off as nothing.

a passing comment here, an unimpressed scoff there. sukuna has always been blunt, always had a sharp tongue and an even sharper glare. but lately, you start to notice a pattern—one that becomes impossible to ignore.

it happens again tonight.

you’re out with friends, the atmosphere light and easy, laughter filling the air. you’re mid-conversation with some guy—a friend of a friend, nothing special—when you feel it.

that presence.

it’s not loud or obvious, but it’s there. a weight lingering at your back, pressing into your skin before you even turn around.

and when you do—

sukuna is already watching.

seated across the table, one arm draped over the back of his chair, his gaze locked onto you with an expression that makes your stomach flip. bored. blank. irritated.

you try to ignore it. you keep talking, keep laughing at whatever the guy is saying, but it doesn’t matter. because every time you sneak a glance in sukuna’s direction, his eyes are still on you.

unwavering. unrelenting.

you swallow, trying to shake the weird tension creeping up your spine. but then the guy leans in slightly—just slightly—and that’s all it takes.

there’s a sharp scrape of a chair against the floor.

and then sukuna is there, standing beside you, a hand dropping heavily onto your shoulder.

“alright,” he drawls, voice slow, lazy, but carrying something unmistakably sharp. “this conversation looks thrilling.”

the guy stiffens. you do, too.

you glance up at sukuna, narrowing your eyes. “what are you doing?”

“listening.” his fingers tap idly against your shoulder, his weight sinking into the space beside you like he belongs there. “should i join? or is this, what—special?”

your brows furrow. “are you serious?”

he tilts his head slightly, feigning confusion, but you know that look. the glint in his eyes, the smirk barely tugging at his lips—he’s enjoying this.

the guy across from you clears his throat, shifting uncomfortably. “uh—i was just—”

“no, no,” sukuna interrupts smoothly, finally dragging his gaze away from you to look at him. “you were just what?”

the guy hesitates, then shakes his head. “never mind.”

and just like that, he stands, mumbling something about needing another drink before walking away.

you whip around to face sukuna fully, shoving his arm off your shoulder. “what the hell is wrong with you?”

he doesn’t move, doesn’t even pretend to be remorseful. if anything, he looks amused. “relax,” he hums. “didn’t like the way he was looking at you.”

you scoff. “oh? and how exactly was he looking at me?”

sukuna shrugs, completely nonchalant. “like he could have you.” his head tilts, eyes flickering over your face. “and he can’t.”

your heart stumbles.

you open your mouth, then close it. because what do you even say to that? what does he even mean by that?

he smirks at your silence, reaching out to flick your forehead lightly before leaning in—just close enough that your breath catches.

“relax, brat,” he murmurs, voice deep, low, too much. “i’m just looking out for you.”

you should shove him away. roll your eyes. call him out for acting like an overprotective asshole.

but instead, you just sit there, pulse unsteady, second-guessing everything you thought you knew about this friendship.

because you know sukuna. and you know damn well—

this wasn’t just him looking out for you.

TOJI - flirting with you consistently.

it starts small. barely noticeable at first.

a lazy smirk here, a lingering touch there.

you don’t even think much of it in the beginning. it’s just toji being toji, right? he flirts with everyone—cashiers, waitresses, random people in passing. it’s just how he is.

except… it’s different with you.

because when he leans in close, voice dropping lower just for you to hear— “that color looks real good on ya, sweetheart. what, tryna drive me crazy?”—his eyes don’t leave your face. because when his fingers skim the small of your back, guiding you through a crowd, they stay there a second too long to be casual. because when he throws an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his warmth, he’s comfortable like he belongs there—like he’s claiming that space.

and then there are the compliments.

not just the casual you look nice or that suits you. no, never that simple.

“bet guys lose their damn minds over you.” he says it so offhandedly, like it’s just a fact—just something everyone knows.

you scoff, rolling your eyes. “yeah, sure.”

“i mean it,” he murmurs, and you hate the way your stomach flips when his gaze settles on you, something dark and unreadable in his eyes. “if i were them, i wouldn’t let you outta my sight.”

you tell yourself you’re imagining it—that he’s just messing with you. that’s what he does.

but then it keeps happening.

every single time, without fail.

you’re just trying to grab something from a high shelf? suddenly, he’s behind you, reaching over your head, his chest nearly brushing against your back. he doesn’t have to get that close. he knows it. you know it. but he does it anyway, voice low in your ear as he hands you whatever you needed.

“next time, just ask me, yeah? don’t gotta strain that pretty little neck of yours.”

you push him away, muttering something under your breath, and he just laughs, all smug amusement.

he’s always touching you, like he can’t help himself. a hand grazing the back of your neck when he adjusts your hoodie. his palm resting against your thigh when he leans in to say something. he doesn’t cling to you, doesn’t make a big show of it—but it’s there. subtle. constant. a quiet, unspoken thing.

and then—then, there are the moments that really get to you.

like when you’re out with friends, sitting side by side, and his fingers find the hem of your sleeve. absentmindedly playing with the fabric, rolling it between his fingertips. he doesn’t even seem to notice he’s doing it, just listening to the conversation, relaxed and completely at ease. like touching you is second nature to him.

or when you’re waiting in line for something, standing close, and he leans in just slightly, dropping his voice low.

“keep looking at me like that, sweetheart,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to your lips for half a second. “gonna start thinkin’ you want somethin’ from me.”

your breath catches.

and the worst part? the absolute worst part?

he sees it. every damn time.

sees the way your pulse flutters at your throat. sees the way your fingers twitch, like you don’t know what to do with them. sees the way you avoid his gaze, pretending like your entire body isn’t reacting to him.

and every time, without fail—he just smirks.

like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. like he’s enjoying it. like he’s waiting—patient, unhurried—for you to break first.

and the thing is…

you think he knows you will.

eventually.

[leighsartworks216]

Kiss Me

Sylus x fem!Reader

I need to go back to bed ough

Warnings: fluff, light angst, drunkenness, drinking, crying, cuddling, self-esteem issues, self-worth issues

Word Count: 975

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Sylus holds a wine glass in one hand, holding it to the side as you climb onto his lap. Legs on either side of his, body arched to align with his, face ducked down to stay close to his; you truly are a sight to behold.

"Kiss me," you demand. Your hands trace his jaw, feeling his skin, the warmth underneath it.

He grins softly. It's not quite a smirk, though it holds that same smug amusement. His hand holds your hip respectfully. Fingers tug down the hem of your dress to keep you decent.

"I don't think that's a good idea, sweetie."

You frown. "Why not?"

Oh, you sweet thing. Your eyes keep flickering about his face, lingering on his lips, his eyes, his lips again. He takes his sweet time sipping from his glass. A slight tint of red stains his lips, licked away by his tongue. He can see the way your eyes glaze over as you stare.

"You're drunk," he reminds you. "You almost polished off my nice, expensive wine. Did you forget?"

The wine wasn't important. It was expensive, aged to perfection, sitting on the rack waiting for the best occasion - and you had him refill your glass before he even finished his.

He doesn't envy the headache you'll have come morning.

Your thumbs run along the flat of his cheeks, stroking back to his sideburns, before you slip your hands around his neck and into his hair. You scratch so sweetly at his scalp. He should stop it, stop you from so effortlessly turning him into putty under your attention. But he doesn't.

You brush your nose against his. Your breath carries the subtle notes of the wine with it. "'M not that drunk. And you're pretty... Kiss me, please."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

Something dark flashes across his eyes. A fleeting shadow. If it were not his lap you were in right now, how quickly would anyone else give in to you, with you so demanding and beautiful? "Because you're drunk," he insists again, softly.

You huff in annoyance. "Is that the only reason you're gonna give me? Told you already, I'm not that drunk."

"It's the fact you've been drinking at all, sweetie." You roll your eyes, turning your head away at the rejection. He grabs your chin between his thumb and index finger, drawing your attention back to him. "I want you to be completely sober for our first kiss. Is that such a bad thing?"

You blink at him dumbly for a moment. "First kiss?"

"Mhm."

A beat, and then those gorgeous lips are curling into a wicked little grin. "'First' implies that there'd be more."

He releases your chin to brush loose strands of hair from your face. "And I want you to be sober enough to remember every single one."

"But if we kissed now..." You lean into his touch like a cat, rubbing your cheek against his hand before he can pull it away. "... we could have another first kiss later."

He chuckles. "You really want this, don't you, kitten?"

You whine with a nod. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you draw yourself into him, resting your head on his shoulder and nuzzling into the fabric of his shirt.

"Sometimes it feels hard to love you," you admit in a whisper. "You have everything. And I have nothing. Nothing to give you to- to make it worthwhile. Cuz that's what you deserve."

His heart aches. He sets his glass aside to hug you in return. Your words become slurred as you continue speaking, slow and messy. But genuine. He wishes he had the will to silence you now, to hear it all when you're of sound mind. But he's weak to this truth and the desire to hear it at your most vulnerable.

"But I want to... I want to love you so bad. And I do. So much... But I have nothing. The only thing I can give you is..." You wave a hand limply at your body. "This mess."

You sigh, hiding your face in his warm neck. He leans his head on yours. You sniffle quietly.

"Would kissing me make you happy?"

He squeezes his arms tighter around you. Readjusts so you're sitting more comfortably across his lap instead of straddling him. He even grabs a blanket with his Evol to wrap it around your shoulders, tucking the corners in so you're protected from the cold in your little black dress that drives him wild.

"Being near you makes me happy," he answers. "Seeing you, hearing you, talking with you - everything about you makes me happy. I don't need your body to be happy. You don't need to throw yourself at me to love me."

You sniffle again. Hot droplets of water fall to his skin. Your voice shakes. "But would kissing me make you happy?"

"When you're sober," he begins slowly, carefully, "and I kiss you for the first time, I'll be the happiest man in the universe."

"Really?"

He gently pulls you from his neck. You've got tears already staining your cheeks. Makeup running, lip trembling. You're so beautiful.

He leans in. Your breath hitches in your throat, though he can't tell if it's from excitement or to fight back another sob. His lips brush your cheek. Your eyes flutter shut, squeezing out tears that gather on his lips. They linger there for several seconds, before he finally pulls away. His hand comes up to hold your other cheek, wiping away the evidence of your overwhelming emotions.

"If you can remember that, you can cash it in for the real deal," he says, teasing and light, but with the weight of genuine care and concern. "Alright?"

You nod. "Alright."

He draws you back into him. "Now get some sleep. I'll be here when you wake up."

---

Tag List:

@the-golden-jhope @armycaratlover @sylusfluffymeow @cheesemachine44 @nyx2021 @angel-jupiter @thelittlebutton @pikachuzhc @pomegranatepip @cordidy @an-ever-angry-bi @thejysemongko @deusfoundry @that-lost-one @always-just-red @22carolina08 @lunaizhere @sine-nomine0 @beautifulthingsiadore @lalaluch @burningtrashgentleman @nothankyew @terriblesoup @jeleryyy @nezuswritingdesk @anaathxma @ssushi @mina7820 @monophobix @leiakitty @loliesaregreat

[rafes-slut]

Let me show you

Summary: when you admitt to rafe that you never had sex and that you never even tried to touch yourself. he offers helps and guids you thrue every step on how to do it

Pairing: bsf!Rafe Cameron x Shy!Soft!reader Warnings: Smut (explicit sexual content), virginity loss discussion, self-exploration, mutual pleasure, best friends tension, Rafe being both teasing and patient, lots of praise, heavy sexual tension, explicit language.

----

The living room was dimly lit, the soft glow from the TV screen casting flickering shadows across the couch where you and Rafe sat. Movie nights had become a routine between the two of you—something comfortable, something easy. Best friends, nothing more, nothing less. At least, that’s what you kept telling yourself.

But tonight felt different.

The moment the scene changed, the tension in the air became undeniable. The movie had taken an unexpected turn, shifting from action-packed plotlines to something much more... intimate. The soft moans and the slow, sensual movements of the actors filled the room, making your stomach tighten and heat rush to your cheeks. You swallowed hard, suddenly hyper-aware of how close Rafe was beside you, his long legs sprawled out comfortably, an arm lazily draped over the back of the couch.

You shrank into yourself, pulling your knees up and hugging them close in an attempt to disappear. Maybe if you didn’t move, if you didn’t react, he wouldn’t notice.

But Rafe always noticed.

His head turned toward you, a slow smirk creeping onto his face. "What’s wrong with you?"

You shook your head quickly, refusing to meet his gaze. "Nothing."

He chuckled, clearly unconvinced. "Yeah? Then why are you all curled up like you just saw a damn ghost?" He nudged your arm playfully, but his eyes stayed locked on your face, sharp and calculating.

"I just... I wasn’t expecting that scene," you muttered, your voice embarrassingly small.

"Oh, come on," Rafe scoffed. "What, you never seen a sex scene before?" He paused, and when you didn’t answer, his smirk widened. "Wait... don’t tell me."

Your silence was loud enough.

Rafe blinked. "You’re serious?"

You sighed, forcing yourself to look at him even though your entire body felt like it was burning up. "It’s not a big deal."

"No, it kinda is," he mused, tilting his head as if he were studying you. "Like—never? You've never... done anything?"

You shook your head, fingers gripping the hem of your hoodie. "I mean, I’ve kissed people, obviously, but... I’ve never gone further."

Rafe sat back, running a hand through his hair as he let that information settle. "Huh. Never would’ve guessed."

Your heart pounded in your chest. "Yeah, well. Now you know."

But then he looked at you again, something unreadable flashing behind those sharp blue eyes. "Wait. Are you telling me you’ve never even touched yourself?"

You froze.

A nervous laugh slipped past your lips as you tried to wave him off. "Rafe—"

"No fucking way," he cut you off, grinning like he just discovered something life-changing. "You're actually serious. You’ve never, not even once—"

"Shut up!" you hissed, burying your face in your hands, mortified. "God, why did I even tell you?"

He laughed, but there was something else behind it—something intrigued, something darkly amused. "That’s wild, babe. Like, actually insane. What do you do when you get turned on?"

You groaned. "Can we not—"

"No, no, this is important," he pressed, leaning in closer, his voice lower now. "You just ignore it? You just... let it go away?"

You nodded, still not daring to look at him.

Rafe exhaled sharply, shaking his head in disbelief. "That’s a damn shame."

You dared to peek at him through your fingers. "Why do you even care?"

He grinned. "Because, sweetheart, I think someone should teach you. And lucky for you... I'm a great teacher."

Your breath caught in your throat. "Rafe—"

"Relax, I'm not saying we gotta do anything crazy." His voice had softened, but there was a distinct edge to it, something teasing, something laced with heat. "Just let me show you. You don’t have to do anything, just... follow my lead."

Your thighs clenched instinctively, a new kind of nervousness washing over you. "I don’t know..."

Rafe reached out, fingers gently brushing against yours. "I promise I’ll take care of you, baby." His voice dropped, barely above a whisper. "Let me show you how good it can feel."

Your pulse was racing, the room suddenly feeling way too small, way too warm. You shouldn’t. You really, really shouldn’t.

But then you nodded.

And Rafe smirked like he’d just won the biggest game of his life.

"Good girl."

—

Rafe took his time, his voice smooth and reassuring as he guided you. His hands never left yours, his fingers wrapped around your wrist as he coaxed you into exploring yourself. "Slow," he murmured, his breath hot against your ear. "Don't rush it, baby. Feel everything."

The soft whimper that slipped past your lips had him groaning low in his throat. "Fuck," he muttered, shifting beside you. "You sound so pretty."

You had never felt this before—this throbbing ache, this intoxicating heat pooling in your stomach. Rafe’s presence, his touch, his voice—it was overwhelming in the best way. And when you faltered, unsure, frustrated by your own inexperience, he was right there, his lips brushing against your temple as he whispered, "Let me."

And when you finally caved, when you whispered his name with desperate need, he didn’t hesitate.

His hand replaced yours, firm and confident, his touch sending shockwaves through your trembling body. "That’s it, baby," he praised, watching you with hungry, hooded eyes. "Let me take care of you."

He was slow, deliberate, making sure you felt everything, making sure you knew exactly how good he could make you feel. His fingers curled just right, pressing into the spot that had your back arching and your breath hitching in a broken moan.

"Oh, fuck," he groaned, pressing his forehead against yours. "You’re so fucking wet."

Your nails dug into his arm as pleasure crashed over you in waves, your body shuddering against him as he coaxed you through your first orgasm. And when it was over, when you finally collapsed against his chest, breathless and spent, he chuckled, pressing a lazy kiss to your forehead.

"Told you I was a good teacher."

[uusira]

The first thing Buck notices is the cigarette smoke curling into the night air.

It’s raining.

Not the heavy, drowning kind—just a light drizzle, the kind that clings to skin and soaks into clothes without you even realizing it. The kind that makes the world feel too quiet, too heavy.

Tommy is sitting on the hood of his truck, parked in an empty lot outside some diner that closed hours ago. His head is tilted back, eyes half-closed like he’s listening to something Buck can’t hear. There’s an untouched cup of coffee beside him, long since gone cold. A cigarette dangles loosely between his fingers, barely smoked, the ember flickering faintly in the dim light.

Buck sighs, stepping forward. “Didn’t know you picked up a new habit.”

Tommy doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even look at him. Just lets out a slow breath. “Didn’t.” He looks at the cigarette. “Just felt like it.”

Buck hesitates before sitting next to him. “That bad, huh?”

Tommy huffs a dry laugh. “Been worse.”

Buck studies him in the dim light. The tight set of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands twitch like he’s holding something fragile and doesn’t know what to do with it.

“Wanna talk about it?” Buck offers, keeping his voice light.

Tommy finally turns to him, eyes tired but sharp. “You gonna listen?”

The question stings more than it should. “Yeah,” Buck says quietly. He shrugs. “I’m here.”

Tommy looks at him for a long moment before sighing, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t even know what to say.”

“Try,” Buck presses.

Tommy exhales. “I keep thinking… if I could just have five more minutes. With you. With us. Before everything fell apart.” His voice wavers. “I think I’d do it differently.”

Buck’s fingers curl against the truck. The words hit him like a punch to the ribs. He swallows hard. “Y-yeah,” he murmurs. “Me too.”

Tommy looks at him again, and for a second, Buck swears he sees something like hope flicker in his eyes. But then Tommy blinks, and whatever was there is gone.

He leans back, flicks the cigarette away, watching as the ember fades into the rain. Then he closes his eyes, letting the water soak into his skin. “Just sit with me a little longer, yeah?”

Buck nods. He stays.

Just five more minutes.

Maybe five more after that.

[malicexo]

Unprofessional Thoughts

idol!San x Staff!Reader

smut, mirror sex, overstim, begging, secret fucking, corruption, 18++, MDNI!!

You should have known from the moment you got assigned to be San's stylist for the day, that this would be dangerous.

It started subtly, him lingering too close when you adjusted his mic, the way his eyes would flicker over you during styling sessions, the teasing smirk that never seemed to leave his lips. You told yourself it was all in your head. That he was just like this with everyone.

But you knew better.

“Need something, sweetheart?” San’s voice was a low purr as you fumbled with the in-ear monitors, cursing your shaky hands.

“No,” you said too quickly, clearing your throat as you focused on the task at hand. “Just making sure everything’s secure.”

He chuckled, tilting his head so your fingers brushed against the side of his neck. “You’re always so nervous around me,” he mused. “It’s cute.”

You froze, heat crawling up your spine. “I—I’m not nervous.”

San hummed in amusement, eyes dark as he watched you struggle. “Really? Then why are your hands shaking?”

You yanked back, flustered beyond belief. “I have other things to do,” you mumbled, turning away.

But of course, he wasn’t done with you yet.

Later, backstage, you were checking over his outfit one last time before he went on stage when he suddenly reached for your wrist, his grip firm but not forceful. “You should really stop running from me.”

Your breath hitched as he pulled you just a little closer, his gaze flickering to your lips before meeting your eyes again. “You make this too fun.”

“San,” you whispered, trying to sound firm, but it came out far too weak. Unconvincing.

He grinned, utterly shameless. “You like it when I do this, don’t you?” His fingers ghosted along your wrist before dropping back to his side. “I think you like being flustered.”

You swallowed hard, unable to form a coherent response. The worst part? He was right.

The announcement for showtime cut through the moment, and with one last smirk, San leaned in just enough that his lips barely brushed your ear. “Don’t miss me too much while I’m on stage, sweetheart.”

And then he was gone, leaving you standing there, hot-faced and completely screwed.

Later that night, you were back in the dressing room, gathering scattered accessories and clothes while the staff packed up. Most of the crew had left, and you assumed San had, too until you felt a presence behind you.

“Were alone...” his voice came low and teasing, sending a shiver down your spine.

You turned, only to find him standing much too close, still in his stage outfit, the sweat on his skin making his black shirt cling to his toned chest. His hair was slightly messy from the performance, his lips curved in a knowing smirk.

“I'm leaving.” you stammered, stepping back, but he followed, his fingers catching your wrist again—so casually, like he owned your reactions.

“But I wanted to see you,” he murmured, eyes dark with something unreadable. “Wanted to know if you were still thinking about me.”

You swallowed, heart pounding as his fingers traced slow, deliberate circles on your wrist. “I—I wasn’t.”

San chuckled, clearly entertained by your pathetic attempt at denial. “Lie.”

His free hand lifted, ghosting along the hem of your shirt, his fingers barely brushing your skin beneath the fabric. The air between you felt thick, charged.

“I think about you, you know?” he mused, tilting his head as his gaze roamed your face. “I think about how pretty you look when you get all flustered for me.”

Your breath hitched as he stepped even closer, caging you between his body and the vanity behind you. His lips hovered just above yours, the heat of his breath teasing against your skin.

“I wonder,” he murmured, “if you’d still be this shy if I really touched you.”

Your knees nearly buckled, but before you could even process what was happening, he leaned in—

And then, just like that, he pulled away.

With a wicked smirk, he let go of your wrist, stepping back as if nothing had happened, leaving you breathless and dizzy.

“See you at work tomorrow, sweetheart,” he winked before disappearing through the door, leaving you aching for something you never should have wanted.

“See you at work, sweetheart.”

That one little word had been echoing in your head all fucking night.

Sweetheart.

He said it so casually — like he hadn’t just leaned in close enough to kiss you in the empty dressing room, breath hot against your lips, eyes flicking down to your mouth like he was thinking about breaking every single unspoken rule between you.

You’d been holding your breath — waiting for him to close that tiny little space.

He never did.

Just smirked.

Winked.

Left you standing there flushed and shaking while he disappeared through the door, leaving you aching for something you should have never wanted in the first place.

You told yourself you’d forget about it by morning. That it was just San playing one of his little games — always pushing, always testing how far he could go before you snapped.

But then you walked into the dressing room the next day — clipboard hugged tight to your chest — and San was already sitting in the makeup chair, legs spread wide, black tank top clinging to his chest.

His dark eyes flicked up the second you stepped through the door.

“Morning.”

Your stomach dropped.

Fuck.

You froze — gripping your clipboard like it might stop your hands from shaking.

“A—Morning,” you muttered, bowing, eyes locked on the floor.

You could feel him smirking without even looking.

He knew exactly what he was doing to you.

He was testing you again — waiting to see if you’d pretend last night never happened or if you’d finally crack and let him ruin you the way you both knew he wanted to.

You made a beeline for the rack of stage outfits — pretending like you didn’t feel his eyes dragging down your body.

Professional.

Stay professional.

You were halfway through double-checking the fitting schedule when his voice drifted through the room.

“Didn’t think I’d see you again after last night.”

Your breath caught.

He was still sitting in the chair — arms draped lazy over the armrests, legs spread wide like he was inviting you to climb right into his lap.

His voice was so low, so casual — like the two of you were the only ones in the room.

You glanced around quickly — heat creeping up your neck.

There were three makeup artists in the corner. Staff moving in and out. Cameras tucked into the corners of the ceiling.

He knew you couldn’t react.

That’s exactly why he was doing this.

“I—” You cleared your throat, clutching the clipboard tighter. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

San’s smile flickered — slow and lazy.

“That’s cute.”

His eyes dragged down your body — stopping at the little gap where your blouse was tucked into your high-waisted skirt.

“You always this shy when someone’s about to kiss you?”

Your whole body flushed hot.

Fuck.

He was pushing you right to the edge and he knew you couldn’t say a damn thing.

You swallowed hard, forcing your eyes back on your clipboard.

“I’m here to work, San.”

He leaned back in the chair — all sharp smirks and cocky little tilts of his head.

“But you want me to finish what I started, don’t you?”

Your breath hitched.

His smile flickered wider — so fucking smug.

“That’s why you’re shaking right now, sweetheart.”

You gripped your clipboard tighter — nails digging into the paper.

This was a game to him.

A long, slow game he’d been playing for months — pushing you inch by inch, waiting for the moment you’d finally break.

You hated him for it.

You hated how bad you wanted him to win.

“Need me to help you calm down?” he murmured — voice so low you almost thought you’d imagined it.

Your thighs clenched together automatically.

San’s eyes flicked down.

Ohhhhhh, he fucking saw that.

You needed to get out of this room before you did something stupid — something you couldn’t take back.

You spun on your heel — ready to run — but San’s voice stopped you cold.

“That’s okay, sweetheart.”

“I like watching you squirm.”

You sucked in a sharp breath — heart slamming against your ribs.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you whispered, hating how weak your voice sounded.

San’s fingers brushed down your arm — just the lightest touch — barely enough to be inappropriate.

Enough to wreck you completely.

“Yes, you do.”

You were going to lose your mind.

You were going to let him break you.

He winked again.

Like he already knew you’d spend the next four hours with your thighs pressed tight together — aching and wet under your little skirt — trying to pretend your sweet, polite professional little self wasn’t already completely ruined for him.

You’d been avoiding him all day.

Keeping your head down.

Sticking to the schedule.

But San had been watching you.

Waiting.

It was after rehearsal when he finally made his move.

You were sorting through accessories in the wardrobe closet — pretending you didn’t feel his eyes on you from across the hall— when he shouted your name from across the hallway.

“Y/N… can you help me with something?”

You froze — heart slamming hard against your ribs.

His voice was all polite and sweet — the way it always was in front of everyone.

But when you walked over to him— his dark eyes were already on you.

Waiting.

“What—What do you need?”

San’s smile flickered — slow and lazy.

“My necklace.”

His fingers curled around the silver chain on his neck — thumb dragging along the clasp.

“I can’t get it off.”

You should have made someone else help him.

You should have stayed right where you were — safe behind the racks of clothes.

But your body was already moving — clipboard tucked under your arm, legs carrying you across the room before your brain could catch up.

It wasn’t until you slipped through the doorway that you realized he was standing in one of the back storage rooms — dark, secluded, far away from anyone else.

The door clicked shut behind you.

Locked.

Your stomach dropped.

“San—”

He turned slowly — leaning back against the table like he hadn’t just trapped you on purpose.

“You always come running when I ask, don’t you?”

Your heart was slamming so hard you swore he could hear it.

“This isn’t funny—”

“Never said it was.”

His fingers brushed up the back of his neck — tilting his head just slightly, offering you the chain.

“Come on, sweetheart.”

His dark eyes flicked down to your hands.

“Help me.” he pouted.

You swallowed hard — throat bone-dry.

You were supposed to be professional.

Supposed to keep your hands off him — supposed to forget about last night and every other time he’d whispered filthy little things to you under his breath when no one else was listening.

But you moved anyway — hands shaking as you reached for the clasp at the back of his neck.

He was so warm.

So close.

His head dipped lower — breath fanning soft against your cheek.

“You’re nervous.”

You sucked in a sharp breath — fingers fumbling with the clasp.

“N-No—”

San’s smirk flickered — soft, almost teasing.

“Lie.”

His hands slid down slow — brushing against your waist.

You froze.

“Relax, sweetheart…”

His voice was so soft — barely more than a murmur against your ear.

“It’s just me.”

That’s what made him so dangerous.

He never had to force you.

He just pushed — so soft, so sweet — until you were the one crossing the line without even realizing.

“I… I need to get back to work—”

San’s fingers slipped lower — toying with the hem of your little work skirt.

“But you don’t want to leave, do you?”

Your whole body flushed hot — heat pooling low in your belly.

“San—”

His fingers curled around your chin — tilting your head up until you were staring straight into those dark, lazy eyes.

“Say you want me to stop.”

Your breath caught.

You couldn’t.

You both knew you couldn’t.

That’s exactly why he was doing this.

“That’s what I thought.”

His mouth brushed against your jaw — slow, teasing little kisses down your neck.

“You want to be a good girl for me, don’t you?”

Your knees buckled.

He caught you — one strong hand gripping the back of your thigh, bringing you closer against his waist.

“You’ve been waiting for me to fuck you since the first day you saw me.”

You whimpered — hips grinding up into him completely on instinct.

San’s smile flickered.

“There she is.”

His free hand slid between your thighs — fingers dragging up slow, lazy along your soaked little panties.

“Soaking wet just from me locking the door.”

You let out a broken little sob — nails digging into his shirt.

“You know how long I’ve been waiting to get you alone, sweetheart?”

He pressed two fingers right against your soaked little slit — not pushing inside, just teasing — watching the way you squirmed against him.

“You think I don’t notice how you squeeze your thighs together every time I call you that?”

“You’ve been begging me to fuck you for months without even knowing.”

You were shaking — thighs clenching around his hand.

“I—I’m not—”

San’s fingers slipped inside — two thick fingers stretching you open, making you silently cry out into his shoulder.

“Lie.”

He fucked you with his fingers slow and deep — thumb circling your clit, coaxing out every filthy little sound he knew you were trying to swallow down.

“You gonna let me ruin you in this room, sweetheart?”

“You gonna let me fuck you so hard you can’t even look me in the eye at work tomorrow?”

You sobbed — hips grinding down into his hand like you couldn’t stop yourself anymore.

You went silent.

San’s smile flickered wider — so fucking smug.

“That’s what I thought.”

You were still trembling against him — two fingers buried deep inside you, panties shoved to the side while San whispered filthy little lies into your ear.

“You were made for this, sweetheart.”

His thumb circled your clit slow and lazy — just enough to keep you on the edge without letting you fall over.

“You just needed someone to show you how to beg properly.”

Your whole body shook — tears hot behind your eyes, thighs squeezing tight around his wrist.

“I—I can’t—”

San’s smile flickered — so sweet.

“Yes, you can.”

He squeezed your throat tighter — making your head tip back, breath hitching in little broken gasps.

“You’ve been waiting for me to break you, sweetheart.”

His fingers fucked into you deeper — slow and steady, stretching you out inch by inch.

“You’re not gonna act shy now.”

You whimpered — nails digging into his biceps, hips grinding down into his hand without even meaning to.

“You want me to stop?”

You shook your head — bottom lip wobbling.

San’s smile flickered wider — so fucking smug.

“That’s what I thought.”

He pressed his thumb harder against your clit — slow little circles that made your whole body arch into him.

“You gonna cum for me, sweetheart?”

Your thighs clenched around his hand — head falling back against the wall.

“N-No… I can’t—”

San’s teeth dragged down the side of your neck — biting just hard enough to make you cry out.

“You can.”

“You will.”

His fingers slammed into you harder — wet little sounds filling the room as you fell apart around him, crying into his shoulder while he fucked you through it.

“That’s my good girl…”

You were still shaking — thighs sticky, breath broken — when he finally pulled his fingers out of you.

San held them up between you — two fingers soaked in your slick — watching the way your glassy little eyes flicked down to them.

“You made such a mess for me.”

You were still too wrecked to answer — chest heaving, cheeks flushed hot.

San grabbed your chin — forcing your mouth open with two wet fingers.

“Clean it up.”

Your whole body locked up.

But you opened your mouth anyway — letting him push his fingers down on your tongue.

San leaned in close — thumb smearing your own slick across your swollen bottom lip.

“You gonna let me ruin you in here, sweetheart?”

You whimpered around his fingers — glassy little eyes flicking up to him like you didn’t even know how to say no anymore.

San’s cock twitched hard against your thigh.

"You think I don't see the way you squeeze your thighs together every time I get too close?"

You whimpered - thighs clenching.

San's dark eyes flicked down.

Ohhhhhh, he saw that.

His voice was so soft — so sweet — like he wasn't about to ruin your whole life in this room.

"You just needed someone to break you in."

Your head was spinning — heart slamming against your ribs.

"San-"

He loosened his grip on your throat

His hands yanked your skirt up around your waist - fingers sliding under the waistband of your soaked little panties

Your whole body arched into him — breath catching in little broken gasps.

He ripped your panties clean off - tucking them into his pocket like the psycho he was — before turning you around and shoving you up against the wall.

His hand slid down your spine — pressing you flat against the cold wall.

"You know why I picked this room, sweetheart?"

You shook your head - breath ragged, thighs trembling.

San's hand wrapped tight around the back of your neck - forcing your glassy little eyes up to the mirror mounted on the wall.

"So I could watch what how pretty you are when I fuck you."

You let out a broken little sob - thighs squeezing shut.

San kicked your legs apart — pressing the tip of his cock right up against your soaking little cunt.

"You gonna let me ruin you, sweetheart?"

You nodded frantically - cheeks burning, eyes already glassy.

San smirked - slow and dangerous.

"That's my girl."

He slammed inside you in one deep thrust — making you scream into his hand as he stretched you open.

"So fucking tight..."

He fucked you slow at first — long, deep strokes that had your eyes rolling back into your head.

"You feel how perfect you fit around me, sweetheart?"

His hand slid back up around your throat - squeezing tight as he forced you to look at yourself in the mirror. "Look how pretty you are when you're finally letting me have you."

Your whole body was shaking - face smushed up against the mirror, palms flat against the wall while San's cock dragged deep into you from behind.

"Look at yourself, sweetheart."

His voice was so soft — breath hot against your ear.

"Look how  messy you get for me."

You couldn't stop whimpering - little gasping sobs echoing off the walls as his cock stretched you open, wet little sounds filling the room every time he slammed into you harder.

"You gonna cry for me, baby?"

San's hand wrapped tight around your throat

- squeezing just hard enough to make your head spin.

"You gonna let me have you?"

You blinked up at your reflection - glassy little eyes wide and dumb - tears streaking down your flushed cheeks.

You hated how pretty you looked like this.

How much you loved the way he was wrecking you- Fucking you so deep you could feel him in your fucking stomach -

Dragging out every filthy little sound you didn't even know your body could make.

"You should hate this, shouldn't you?"

San's fingers slipped down between your legs

- circling your swollen little clit in slow, lazy strokes.

"You should tell me to stop..."

You whimpered — hips bucking back into him without even thinking.

"But you like it."

San's breath was hot aginst your ear — soft, syrupy sweet.

You sobbed - legs shaking under him.

"You like knowing you're gonna spend the whole day walking around work with my cum dripping down your thighs."

You squeezed your eyes shut — face burning.

"N-No-"

San laughed softly - cock dragging so slow, so deep inside you it made your whole body tremble.

"Lie."

He slammed into you harder - one hand wrapped tight around your throat, the other circling your clit until you were crying into the mirror.

"You gonna cum for me?"

You whimpered — head falling back against his shoulder, body twitching underneath him.

"You wanna cum on my cock in this little room where anyone could walk in?"

He was so fucking mean - dragging you right to the edge, making you work for it.

"You want me to fill this tight little pussy up?"

Your whole body locked up - walls squeezing tight around him at those filthy little words.

San groaned against your ear - hips snapping harder, slamming you up against the wall.

"That's what you want, huh?"

"You want me to fuck you full and send you back to work?"

You sobbed - nails scratching down the mirror - thighs trembling as the first orgasm hit you so hard your whole brain shut off.

"There she is..."

San grinned against your ear - dragging you through it, fucking you even harder...

"That's my good girl."

You were still crying — half-conscious — when he finally pinned you flat against the wall, hips snapping rough into you, cock buried so deep you couldn't even breathe.

"Can I fill you up, sweetheart?"

You nodded frantically - brain completely broken - too fucked out to even speak.

"Please—"

San's teeth sank into your neck — hips slamming into you one last time as he came so deep inside you  

you could feel it leaking out before he even pulled out.

"Ohhh" he moaned.

He held you there — cock still twitching inside you — hands gripping your hips so hard they were definitely going to bruise.

"You look so pretty like this, sweetheart."

You whimpered - completely wrecked - body boneless in his hands.

But San wasn't done.

He reached down - grabbing your soaked little panties off the floor.

"Open."

Your lips parted on instinct — brain too dumb and cockdrunk to even think about saying no.

He stuffed your panties into your mouth - making you taste yourself while he slid them back up your shaky thighs.

"Don't take them off."

His fingers pressed against the ruined fabric - pushing his cum deep inside you.

"You're gonna wear them all day."

"Every time you feel me dripping out of you, you're gonna remember you're mine."

You were still shaking when he finally fixed your skirt — smoothing it down over your trembling thighs like nothing ever happened.

"Go back to work, sweetheart."

[dulcescorderitas]

dean tilts the bottle to his lips, swigs deep, then sets it down with a loud thunk against the worn motel table. he’s been staring at you for the past five minutes like he’s trying to put together a puzzle where half the pieces are missing. brow furrowed, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek, green eyes flicking from your face to your body like he's comparing something—like he’s seen you before.

then it clicks. you see it click.

“no way.” he huffs out a laugh, disbelieving. shakes his head like he can’t believe what’s right in front of him. “no fucking way.”

sam looks up from his beer, barely paying attention, but dean’s full-body reaction has him raising an eyebrow. “what?”

dean ignores him, leans in closer, eyes locked on yours like you’ve personally blown his mind. “bunny, you—you posed for playboy, didn't you?”

you blink. then grin, slow and teasing, because oh. so that’s what this is about. “maybe,” you hum, taking a sip from your glass, letting the suspense stretch just to mess with him.

“no, no, don’t play coy with me.” dean’s laughing, that low, gravelly chuckle that rumbles from his chest, shaking his head like he’s genuinely baffled. he turns to sam, smacking his arm. “you hearin’ this? our girl was in playboy.”

sam, for the first time in this entire conversation, actually looks interested. “wait, what?”

“that’s what i’m saying!” dean gestures wildly, then turns back to you, still grinning like he just hit the jackpot. “which one? tell me. wait—don’t tell me, i know. you were in that ‘girls of the open road’ spread, weren’t you?”

you tilt your head, feigning surprise. “you remember that?”

“remember it?” dean scoffs. “i wore that issue out.”

sam makes a noise of pure secondhand embarrassment, running a hand down his face, but dean is fully locked in, grinning like a devil as he shakes his head. “i cannot believe i’m dating a fucking playboy model.”

"an ex-playboy model, it was one photoshoot from last year," you giggle, leaning in, eyes playful. “but, how did i look?”

dean exhales slow, eyes dropping just for a second—just long enough for heat to flicker in them, for his jaw to clench like he’s suddenly remembering every detail of those pictures.

“you looked—” he licks his lips, eyes dragging back up to yours. “sexy as hell.”

his voice is lower now, that gravelly edge deepening just enough to make something stir in your stomach.

“but you know what?” he leans in, real close, his breath warm, voice dipping. “you look even better in person.”

sam groans, shoving his chair back. “okay, you know what? i need another beer.”

dean barely acknowledges him. his gaze flicks down, just for a second. then he grins, teeth flashing, voice dropping to something lusty.

“especially these.” he gestures, open-palmed, vaguely in the direction of your chest. “i mean, damn, bunny. damn.”

you laugh, leaning back, stretching just enough to tease. “you like ‘em?”

dean lets out a low whistle. “babe, playboy did not do you justice.”

sam mutters something about needing stronger alcohol and disappears toward the fridge, while dean just watches you, shaking his head like he still can’t believe his luck.

tags: @soldiersgirl @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @legalmente-loca @bluemerakis @whisperingdaze @cherrygirlfriend @figthoughts @sunsbaby @ambiguous-avery @bocadelinfierno @sunnyteume

[liwinly]

CHASiNG DOPAMiNE ── CATCHiNG YOU !

───── late night car rides and the way sunghoon looks at you messes with your head ( and heart )

MORE ( 800 ) . fluff , romance ✶ skinship , slightly suggestive

rbs & feedback please !

The night air feels thick. The windows are cracked open, letting the breeze slip into the car. City lights blur past like lazy brushstrokes, but all you can feel is the weight of Sunghoon’s gaze flicking between you and the road.

You try not to squirm in your seat, fingers gripping the hem of your skirt. It’s been like this for weeks — this weird, heavy tension hanging in the air whenever you're alone with him.

It’s not like you planned to fall for your best friend’s brother. You knew Sunghoon before he even got his license, back when his hair was too long and he barely talked. But somewhere between then and now, he grew into... well, him. The same sharp jawline, same stupid little eye smile — but everything about him feels different now. More careful. More... intense.

“Why’re you so quiet?” Sunghoon’s voice breaks through the hum of the radio. His fingers drum lazily against the steering wheel.

You force a shrug, pretending like your heart isn't doing that weird stuttery thing in your chest.

“Just tired.”

“Liar.”

You glance at him, but he's already smirking. He knows you too well. You hate that about him.

Sunghoon shifts in his seat, hand reaching down to mess with the AC. The air gets cooler, but your face feels hotter.

His fingers brush against your knee. Barely. Almost like an accident.

But you know better.

Your breath catches, eyes snapping to him, but he just keeps driving — like he didn't just short-circuit your whole nervous system with a single touch.

"You always get quiet when you're nervous," he says casually, like he's not absolutely wrecking you right now.

"I'm not nervous."

"Sure."

You want to punch him. You want to kiss him. You don't know which one would ruin your life more.

The car slows at a red light, bathing the inside in soft, red glow. Sunghoon's fingers trail up — slow, deliberate — brushing against the edge of your thigh.

Your heart is pounding.

"You should stop doing that," you mumble, eyes locked on the windshield.

"Doing what?"

"You know what."

There's a beat of silence — and then you feel him lean in. Just a little. Close enough that his breath warms the shell of your ear.

"Why?"

You hate him. You really, really hate him.

The light turns green. He doesn't move away.

"I thought you were tired," he teases, voice lower now — almost lazy. Like he knows exactly what he's doing to you.

"I am."

"Liar."

You squeeze your thighs together. He definitely saw that. His smirk twitches wider, but he finally pulls back, like he's sparing you.

The rest of the drive is quiet — except it's not. The whole car feels heavy with unsaid things. The kind of silence that feels louder than anything.

When he finally pulls into your driveway, you're halfway out of the car before he can even kill the engine. But Sunghoon moves fast. His fingers wrap around your wrist, gentle but firm.

"Wait."

You freeze.

His eyes flick down — to your lips, then back up — like he's fighting himself.

You feel like you can't breathe.

"I... probably shouldn't like you this much," he murmurs, almost to himself.

Your heart lurches.

"You like me?"

His grip on your wrist tightens, just barely.

"I've liked you since you started stealing my hoodies."

Your whole brain short-circuits. Because... yeah. Maybe you've been doing that.

"I didn't think you'd notice."

"I always notice you."

You swear the whole world tilts a little.

His thumb brushes against your pulse, slow and steady — like he's memorizing the way you're falling apart under his touch.

"Sunghoon..."

He leans in — close enough that you can smell his stupid cologne. Close enough that all you have to do is tilt your chin up and he'd be kissing you.

"Tell me to stop."

You can't. You really, really can't.

So you don't.

Instead, your fingers curl into the collar of his jacket, pulling him in the rest of the way. His lips slot against yours like they were always supposed to be there — soft and warm and so painfully slow.

It's not a perfect kiss. Your teeth knock, and you're pretty sure you're shaking, but none of that matters.

Because the second his hand slides to the back of your neck, tilting your head just right — you're gone. Completely, hopelessly gone.

He pulls back just enough to breathe, forehead resting against yours.

"You always get quiet when you're nervous," he whispers again, smug as hell.

You flick him on the forehead.

"Shut up."

His grin stretches wide — bunny teeth and everything — and you realize you're so, so screwed.

── .✦ @amoressb @chrrific @slayyuna @woniefication @ijustwannareadstuff20 @cheruphic @irasvr

[hoe4hotchner]

Retirement | [A.H]

Pairing: Retired!Aaron Hotchner x Fem!reader | WC: 1.1k | CW: Nothing but cuteness

A/N: Don't worry, Hotch is not an old man he's like late 50's early 60's in this based on Jack being in college ;)

The porch was bathed in the golden light from the afternoon sun, casting long shadows across the wooden planks. The gentle creak of the rocking chair kept rhythm with the distant hum of cicadas, a sound that had become so familiar it felt like part of the air itself.

A soft breeze carried the scent of summer—freshly cut grass, the lingering sweetness of honeysuckle climbing the trellis, and the faint, smoky remnants of the firewood stacked near the house.

You leaned against Hotch’s chest, his arms loosely draped around your waist, fingers idly tracing patterns on your bare legs. The warmth of him seeped into you. You let out a content sigh, snuggling further into his chest.

It had been six months since he left the BAU. Six months of long walks through the countryside, of mornings spent in bed with no reason to rush, of rediscovering a man who had spent years sacrificing himself for the safety of others.

At first, the transition had been difficult. Aaron had been hesitant, unsure of who he was outside of the job, as though his identity had been stitched together by the cases, the late nights, the endless chase of justice.

He had been restless, waking up at odd hours as though his body still expected the call of duty. Some nights, you had found him on the porch, staring into the darkness, lost in thought. And other's you had found him sitting in the kitchen, his phone open on either JJ or Emily's contact in his phone, debating whether he should check in and see how everything was going without him.

But in this almost sanctuary you had built together, he had begun to unravel—layer by layer, breath by breath. The sharp edges of stress had softened, the lines around his mouth no longer weighed down by exhaustion. He still carried the past with him, no doubt he'd always have it with him, but it no longer defined him.

Your legs stretched over his lap, the warmth of his hands resting against your skin. His thumb brushed absentmindedly over your knee, and you smiled, closing your eyes as the wind tousled your hair.

“You’re quiet,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, edged with that lingering gravel that had always made your stomach flip.

You hummed in response. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

You tilted your head back, meeting his eyes. The sunlight hit them just right, turning the brown into something lighter, warmer. “How much I love you.”

His lips twitched, a ghost of a smile appearing as he squeezed your thigh. “You always get sentimental when we sit out here.”

“Can you blame me?” you teased, running your fingers through the graying strands at his temple. “Look at this. It’s peaceful. I never thought we’d have something like this.”

He exhaled, long and slow. “Neither did I.”

There was something about the way he said it, the weight behind the words, that made your chest tighten. You reached for his hand, lacing your fingers together. “Are you happy, Aaron?”

His thumb brushed over your knuckles, his gaze soft but intent. “More than I ever thought possible.”

You kissed his shoulder, letting the moment stretch, settling into the quiet contentment that came so easily now.

You tilted your head slightly against him, voice soft as you asked, "How's Jack?"

Aaron exhaled, a small, fond smile pulling at his lips as he continued tracing patterns against your skin. "I talked to him yesterday," he said, his voice warm with pride. "He sounds happy. Settling into college well, making friends. He even mentioned joining an intramural soccer team."

Your smile widened at that. "That’s wonderful. He always did love playing." You recalled the games Aaron had invited you to when Jack was only a young boy

Hotch nodded, the tension he once carried about Jack leaving for college no longer evident in his expression. "He said his classes are challenging but interesting. And he likes his professors."

You ran your fingers gently along his arm, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under your cheek. "He’s thriving, then. Just like you wanted."

Aaron let out a quiet chuckle. "Just like we wanted. He’s got a good head on his shoulders. I think Haley would be proud."

You squeezed his hand, understanding the weight of his words. "She would be. You’ve raised a good man, Aaron."

His thumb brushed over your knuckles, silent gratitude passing between you. You let the moment settle between you, filled with warmth and love.

A rustling sound caught your attention, and when you glanced to the side, a small smile pulled at your lips. “Aaron,” you whispered, nudging him lightly. “Look.”

He followed your gaze, and there, across the wooden railing of the porch, a handful of ladybugs had gathered, their tiny, spotted bodies crawling along the grain of the wood. One took flight, landing on your outstretched hand.

Hotch chuckled. “Looks like you’re a favorite today.”

You watched the little insect as it wandered across your palm. “You know, my grandmother used to say ladybugs were good luck.”

“Did she?” He tilted his head, watching as another landed near his wrist. “Mmhm.” You met his eyes, a teasing glint in yours. “I think it’s a sign.” He arched a brow. “Of what?”

“That this—” you gestured around you, at the house, the land, the life you had built together— “was always meant to be.”

His expression softened. He brought your joined hands to his lips, pressing a kiss against your fingers. “I don’t need a sign to know that.”

A comfortable silence settled between you, the only sounds the distant chirping of birds, the whisper of leaves rustling in the breeze, and the steady rise and fall of Aaron’s breath. He had a way of making the world feel smaller, simpler—of making you feel like the only thing that mattered.

“Jack texted earlier by the way,” he murmured after a moment, remembering something he had forgotten to tell you when you asked about him. “Said he wants to come up next weekend.”

Your heart warmed at the mention of a visit. “That sounds perfect. Maybe we can take him fishing.”

Hotch’s lips quirked. “You still think you can out-fish me?”

You grinned. “Oh, I don’t think—I know.”

He chuckled, the deep sound reverberating through his chest. “We’ll see about that.”

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, painting the horizon in hues of orange and pink, you leaned back against him, letting the moment settle deep into your bones.

The world felt softer here, free of the chaos and darkness that had once consumed so much of your lives.

[writingsoftarnishedsilver]

Somewhere Safe | Sebastian Sallow x Reader

This story touches on sensitive themes of domestic abuse. If you or someone you know is experiencing abuse, please know that help is available. I've included resources below that offer support, guidance, and ways to take action. You are not alone, and there is always hope for a way out. Please take care of yourself as you read.

International Domestic Abuse Resource Link

Words: ~9,500

Tags: Violence, Abuse, Trauma, Reader Insert, Female MC, No Y/N, No Hogwarts House, Post Hogwarts, Hurt/Comfort

Beta: @newdreamlove95💚

The world tilted when Sebastian pressed his back against the wall, a slow, lazy grin tugging at his lips as the woman in front of him whispered something he didn’t quite catch.

K-something.

Karina? Kelsey? Kate? Fuck, had she even told him? Maybe once, over the roar of the music in the bar, the hum of Ominis and Garreth’s laughter, the clink of glasses and shouted orders. It was distant now, fuzzy around the edges. The only thing sharp was the heat of her breath on his skin, the way her nails scratched lightly over the fabric of his shirt.

He let his head tip back against the wall, eyes slipping closed for just a moment. He was tipsy, not drunk. The whiskey still swam warm in his veins, enough to make everything feel slow and a little surreal, like watching himself from the outside. Too much, probably. He hadn’t planned on drinking that much, but Garreth had been in rare form tonight, rambling about some catastrophic potion mishap that had almost set his shop on fire, and Ominis—miraculously—had tolerated them both for longer than usual before fucking off home.

Sebastian had thought about leaving then, too. He should have. He'd been about to grab his coat, already debating—instinctively—whether to call you.

It was always you. Even after all these years, through all the tangled, unspoken things between you, his first thought was always you.

But then K-something had leaned into him at the bar, laughing, a teasing nail dragging down his arm. The look she gave him was clear, unmistakable—an invitation, no strings attached, nothing complicated, nothing messy. Just one night.

That had been enough. He let her take his hand, let her press against him in the back of the cab, let her perfume wrap around him—something floral, a little too sweet. Not right. Not familiar.

And now, here they were. His apartment. His mind blank where it mattered.

The door had barely clicked shut before her hands were on him, pressing, pulling, trying to unravel him. Her lips were eager, swallowing the taste of whiskey on his tongue, coaxing him toward the bedroom. His fingers ghosted over her hips, hesitant, and for the first time tonight, the thought crept in—

I don’t actually want this.

He ignored it.

Sebastian let her push him back against the wall, let her fingertips skim the waistband of his jeans, let his mind fog over with something other than the sharp edges of thought. He was just loose enough to let his body take over where his mind was absent.

And then—

A thunderous pounding on his front door.

K-something startled against him, pulling back with a little noise of surprise. Another knock—louder, harder, more frantic.

“What the hell?” she murmured, but Sebastian wasn’t listening.

Something was wrong.

If it were Garreth, he’d be yelling something obnoxious through the door. If it were Ominis, he would have texted first, making some sardonic remark about how it was far too late for him to be dealing with Sebastian’s nonsense.

Then—

“Sebastian, are you there?”

Your voice. Hoarse and desperate.

“Who is that?” K-something asked, tilting her head toward the door, annoyance creeping into her tone.

Sebastian didn’t answer. His whole body was already moving—pushing past her, heart pounding.

Another hit—this one shakier, weaker. A small, broken sound from the other side.

His hands were on the lock in an instant, fumbling, his pulse roaring in his ears. The second the front door swung open, his breath caught in his throat.

What the fuck happened to you?

Your hair was a mess, wild and tangled like you’d been running. Your shirt—torn, slipping off one shoulder—was smeared with something dark, and his brain tried to tell him it was just dirt,  instead of what he feared. Your eyebrow was split, a thin trail of blood tracing down your temple. The bruises blooming along your arms and neck were fresh, ugly, fingershaped.

You were shaking, too, and not from the cold. You were wrung out, your breath coming too fast, too shallow, like you were barely holding yourself together.

But it was your expression that really sent ice straight through his veins. Wide, fractured eyes. Lips parted, trembling like you wanted to speak but couldn’t. Like you were afraid.

"Fuck," he breathed. "What—"

Your eyes flickered past him into the apartment, taking in the scene—the woman behind him, her rumpled clothes, the way Sebastian had clearly been in the middle of something when you knocked.

Your face crumpled. Your whole body tensed. You took a step back.

"Sorry, I—I shouldn’t have come." Your voice wavered, raw and too damn small. Your fingers curled against your ribs like something there ached. "I didn’t mean to—"

Oh, hell no.

Sebastian took a step forward, his fingers wrapping around your wrist before you could slip away, but his voice never had the chance to follow—

A voice from behind him cut through the moment.

“Sebastian?” K-something called, her impatience laced with confusion. “Who is—”

She finally stepped closer, eyes widening when she took in your appearance. Her lips parted, expression shifting from irritation to realization. She wasn’t stupid. She could see what this was.

“…I should go.” She sputtered, already grabbing her bag from the counter. “I’ll call a cab.”

Sebastian barely heard her. He didn’t care.

She did hover for a moment, like she expected him to say something—to at least acknowledge her—but his eyes never left you. Eventually, she exhaled sharply and muttered something about Sebastian being a “waste of time” before leaving.

The sound of her footsteps faded down the hall, the distant slam of the stairwell door barely registering in his ears. It was like a pressure valve had released, but it didn’t make anything better.

Because Sebastian had never—not once—seen you like this. Not even out in the field, back-to-back with him, dueling dark wizards without hesitation. Not even on the worst nights, when you were exhausted and bleeding but still smirking, still throwing out some dry remark.

But here? Now?

You were a mess of trembling limbs and wide, haunted eyes. You looked like you were barely holding yourself together, like if he breathed wrong, you might break apart completely.

His grip on your wrist was light—barely there—but your pulse raced beneath his fingers. You hadn’t tried to pull away, but you weren’t looking at him either, gaze flickering somewhere over his shoulder like you wished you could vanish entirely.

He swallowed hard, speaking past the gravel in his throat.

“What happened?”

Your lips parted, but no words came out, just a shaky exhale that barely made it past your teeth.

Sebastian’s stomach twisted.

Slowly, carefully, he pulled you inside, stepping around you to close the door with a quiet click. You stood stiffly in the entryway, one wrist still in his hand, your other arm wrapped around yourself like you were holding your own ribs together.

Sebastian could hear his own heartbeat hammering in his ears. His skin still buzzed with whiskey, his body sluggish from the alcohol, but his mind—fuck, his mind was awake now.

Someone had hurt you. Not just in the way that left bruises blooming across your skin or a sluggish trickle of blood tracing down your brow—but in the way you stood, small and hollowed out, like something inside you had caved in.

And he was going to make them pay for it.

The rage inside him wasn’t just anger—it was something worse. Something deeper. A raw, seething thing that coiled around his spine, tightening with every second he spent looking at you like this. It clawed at his ribs, demanding blood, demanding violence.

Sebastian had done a lot of things in his life—things he wasn’t proud of, things he couldn’t take back—but none of it would compare to what he would do to the person who put their hands on you.

His voice came out strained. “Tell me who did this.”

He watched the hesitation flicker across your face. You shook your head once. No.

He felt his pulse hammer in his throat, hot frustration bubbling up beneath his skin.

“Who?” His voice came sharper than he meant, rough and edged with something dangerous. “Just tell me who—”

Sebastian felt the second he fucked up. The moment the sharp edge of his voice cut the air, you flinched—so small, so fleeting, but there. And suddenly, the anger curdling in his chest didn’t matter. You didn’t need his temper, his anger, the violence simmering beneath his skin. You needed the part of him that knew how to take care of you.

His grip on your wrist loosened instantly, shifting instead into something light, barely-there, just enough to anchor you without holding you in place. His entire body language changed—he softened, dropping the heat, the demand, everything that might make you feel like you were being cornered. Because you weren’t. Never with him.

“Hey, sorry, I didn't mean to push,” he said quickly, voice dropping low, steady, warm. “You’re safe now, love. You’re with me."

Your lips pressed together, a sharp inhale stuttering in your chest, like you were trying to keep yourself from unraveling.

Sebastian took a slow step forward. Not too close. Just enough.

“I’ve got you," he murmured, even softer now. The backs of his knuckles brushed against your arm, barely a touch. Just enough to let you know he was there. That he wasn’t like whoever had put their hands on you tonight.

“You don’t have to tell me anything right now, okay? We’ll deal with it later. You just—” His throat tightened. “Just let me help, alright sweetheart?”

Your gaze flickered to his, and for the first time since he’d opened the door, he saw it—relief. Not much, just a flicker. A tiny, fragile thing. But it was enough.

Sebastian exhaled slowly, nodding once.

“Come here.” His voice was barely above a whisper, like he was making an offering. A place to land. A way out of your own head.

And when you stepped forward—hesitant, small, but willing—he didn’t hesitate.

Sebastian’s arms came around you in an instant, warm and solid, pulling you in carefully, shielding, steady. His hands were broad against your back, his entire frame curving around you, like maybe if he just held you tight enough, nothing could touch you anymore.

Your breath stuttered against his chest, the tension in your shoulders loosening just a fraction. He felt it happen—felt the smallest bit of weight drop from you as your forehead pressed lightly against his collarbone, like you were finally, finally letting yourself breathe.

Sebastian shut his eyes, exhaling slow and controlled. His voice was a low, quiet promise against your hair.

"You're safe. You hear me, love? You're safe now. You're with me."

Your voice came out quiet, fragile in a way he’d never heard before.

“I—I’m sorry, Seb” you murmured shakily against his chest. “I didn’t mean to ruin your night. I just—I ended up here, and—”

Sebastian stiffened. For a second, he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right. His grip on you twitched, and he pulled back just enough to look at you, to see the exhausted tilt of your head, the way your eyes wouldn’t quite meet his, how you were curling in on yourself like you could make yourself smaller, less of an inconvenience.

Something sharp lodged itself in his throat.

His hands ghosted down your arms, then one of them lifted before he could stop himself—fingertips barely brushing the side of your face, near the cut on your eyebrow. A muscle in his jaw twitched.

"You didn't 'ruin' anything. You can always come to me,” he murmured. “No matter what. Doesn’t matter where I am, what I’m doing—you can always come to me. Understand?”

You swallowed hard, lips parting, but no words came out. Instead, your fingers curled weakly into the fabric of his shirt, gripping at him like he was the only thing keeping you upright.

Sebastian exhaled softly. “That’s my girl.”

Your weight was pressing against him now, not quite leaning but… there. Trusting.

Then, so quiet he almost missed it, you hummed softly against his chest.

“I don’t even remember coming here,” you murmured. “I just… walked. It’s like my feet knew where to go before I did.”

Sebastian stilled. His mind tripped over itself, racing to keep up. You walked here? From your flat? That wasn’t close—at least three miles, probably more. At this hour? In this state?

His stomach turned.

Had someone broken in? Had they been waiting for you? Did you even get a chance to fight back? Why didn’t you use magic? His pulse roared in his ears, questions piling up faster than he could process them—

But he didn’t voice any of it.

Instead, he pulled back just enough to look at you, fingers curling lightly beneath your chin, coaxing you to meet his gaze. His eyes were dark, sharp—wide with something like realization.

“You walked here?” His voice was low, too calm, too careful—like he was trying not to startle you. Like he was trying to make sure he’d heard you correctly before he let himself lose it.

You blinked at him, like it hadn’t even occurred to you that this was something he might react to. “…Yeah?”

Sebastian’s jaw clenched.

“That’s—” He exhaled sharply. “That’s miles away.”

You flinched, just barely, but this time it wasn’t from him—it was like you were only just now realizing what you had done, the reality settling in now that he had said it aloud.

“I—” Your voice wavered. “I didn’t even think about it, I just—” You shook your head, swallowing hard. “I wasn’t thinking about anything, I just needed to go. And I guess—”

Sebastian didn’t let you finish.

His hands were tightening around you in an instant—not gripping, not pulling, just there. Solid. Like he needed to convince himself that you weren’t still out there wandering the streets, hurt and vulnerable and alone.

“Fuck,” he breathed, his forehead dropping briefly against yours, eyes screwing shut. “Fuck, fuck—”

The thought of you, alone, stumbling through the dark like a ghost, disoriented, wrecked, bleeding—it made him sick. You could have collapsed. You could have gotten lost. You could have—he couldn't even finish the thought.

Sebastian sucked in a slow breath, forcing himself to breathe, to be what you needed.

“Alright.” His voice was softer now, quieter. “Alright, sweetheart. Let’s sit you down so I can clean you up, yeah?”

You hesitated, but only for a second. Then, finally, you nodded.

Sebastian exhaled slowly, nodding once in return.

“Good girl.” The words slipped out without thought, low and full of quiet, genuine relief.

Then, before you could process that—before he could process that—Sebastian was already moving, guiding you carefully toward his bedroom.

The dim glow from the bedside lamp bathed the space in soft, golden light, stretching long shadows across the floor. It was familiar, safe. You’d been here a thousand times before—kicking off your shoes without a second thought, making yourself at home on his bed, wrapped in that massive, worn-out blanket you always stole whenever you stayed over.

Sebastian barely had to nudge you down before you were sinking onto the edge of the mattress, exhausted, hands twisting together in your lap like you didn’t know what to do with them.

Without a word, Sebastian pulled the heavy blanket from the foot of the bed and wrapped it around your shoulders, tucking it in carefully. You sank into it immediately, pulling the edges closer.

"Just sit tight," Sebastian murmured. "I’ll be right back."

You nodded—slow, small—and he gave your shoulder the lightest squeeze before pushing himself to his feet.

The moment he stepped into the ensuite, he exhaled sharply, pressing his palms against the cool porcelain of the sink. His reflection in the mirror looked as wrecked as he felt—jaw clenched, eyes dark with something raw and sharp.

The cabinet door creaked as he yanked it open, hands moving fast. A clean washcloth, warm from the sink. A Dixie cup of water. The first aid kit he’d barely ever needed but always kept—just in case. He nearly knocked over a bottle of cologne reaching for it.

When he returned, you hadn’t moved much. Still perched on the edge of his bed, shoulders drawn in, hands curled loosely in your lap. The trembling had eased, but not completely.

Sebastian set everything on the floor and knelt in front of you, careful, steady, slipping effortlessly into the version of himself you needed right now. The one who would take care of you.

“Here.” He held out the paper cup, his fingers brushing against yours as you took it. “Drink.”

You brought it to your lips, taking slow, small sips. Sebastian didn’t look away, watching carefully, making sure you drank enough. Making sure you weren’t about to fold in on yourself.

Then, once you’d set the cup aside, he reached for the washcloth, folding it into a neat square.

“Okay,” he murmured. “This might sting.”

Your gaze flicked toward his, cautious but steady, and you nodded.

His fingers were steady when they cupped your cheek, tilting your face just enough to give him a better look at the cut above your eyebrow. He barely even touched you, just the ghost of his palm against your jaw, his thumb resting near your temple.

And fuck, seeing it up close was worse.

The cut wasn’t deep, but it was still bleeding sluggishly. The skin around it was red and raw, like you had wiped at it with the sleeve of your shirt at some point. There were bruises along your temple too, darkening by the second.

Sebastian clenched his jaw so hard it sent a dull ache down his neck.

Breathe. Focus.

He kept his touch gentle, dabbing carefully at the blood along your brow, slow enough to avoid hurting you more than necessary.

You winced, breath hitching just slightly, but you didn’t pull away. Your eyes fluttered for a moment before settling on him. And that was when he felt it. Like a thread pulling taut between you—delicate but unbreakable.

He knew that look. He’d known it for years. Had seen it a thousand times in fleeting moments—across the rim of a coffee mug, under the hazy glow of streetlights on late-night walks, in the quiet of stolen glances when you thought he wasn’t paying attention.

Soft. Open. Trusting. Loving.

Even now. Even after tonight—after whatever fresh hell you’d been put through—you still looked at him like that. Like he was safe. Like he was yours.

Sebastian swallowed hard, forcing down the impossible tightness in his throat.

“Good news is,” he managed, trying to keep his voice light, normal, like he wasn’t seconds away from completely fucking losing it, “you still got your pretty face intact.”

That earned him the faintest twitch of your lips. Not quite a smile, but close—softer than anything he’d seen from you all night. More importantly, it earned him the softest exhale, a breath of sound barely there, barely audible, but approaching a laugh.

Sebastian let himself smile—small, reassuring, nothing too much.

His thumb moved before he could stop it, brushing over your cheekbone, the lightest, most absent-minded touch.

"Let me see your hands," he murmured.

There was hesitation—he felt it before he even saw it. Your fingers curled into the blanket, your body tensing, as if you weren’t sure you wanted him to look. Then, slowly, you unwound your fingers, releasing the fabric, and let him take your hands.

And fuck. Even your knuckles were torn up—split, raw, some still sluggishly weeping where the skin had broken open. Dark smudges of dried blood clung between your fingers, across your palms. The skin along your wrist was bruised, as if someone had grabbed you.

He felt his pulse slam against his ribs.

You’d fought back. Of course you did. Of course you fucking did.

Because you were you. Because you were strong, stubborn, fierce even when the odds were stacked against you. But the thought of you having to fight—having to defend yourself like this, having to claw your way out of something horrible—

Sebastian inhaled sharply through his nose.

He forced it down—the fire, the violence curling under his skin, the instinct to demand names, places, details—he swallowed all of it.

Later. He’d deal with that later. Right now, you needed him.

Sebastian lifted the washcloth again, pressing it carefully to your knuckles. You hissed softly at the sting, hands jerking slightly in his grip.

“Easy, love,” he murmured, his voice low and steady, thick with something that sounded like devotion. “I’ve got you.”

He cleaned away the blood with slow, deliberate strokes, careful and methodical. Taking his time, as if it might make a difference. As if he could erase what had happened, wipe it from your skin, lift the weight from your shoulders and take it onto his own.

The silence between you settled, thick and heavy but not suffocating. Not tense. Just… there. A presence in the room.

When he finished, he set the washcloth aside and reached for the first aid kit again, fingers brushing over the zipper before he pulled it open. His hands were steady, practiced, as he found what he needed—a small tube of antibiotic ointment.

He twisted the cap off and squeezed a little onto his fingertip.

Neither of you spoke when he smoothed it gently over the cut above your eyebrow, his touch featherlight. You didn’t flinch, didn’t tense, just let him. And when he moved to your knuckles, carefully spreading the ointment over the split skin, you watched him—eyes dark, unreadable, but there. Present.

When he was finished, he squeezed your hand. That part wasn’t strictly necessary, but he did it anyway. A small thing. A quiet reassurance. And thenyour fingers curled around his, squeezing back—just barely.

Sebastian swallowed, forcing himself to keep his voice steady. “I’m getting you a clean shirt,” he said softly.

He turned to his dresser, yanking open a drawer and rifling through the mess. Because you were not staying in that fucking t-shirt. Not when the collar was torn, stretched where it shouldn’t be, the fabric stained with blood.

The thought of you still wearing it made something ugly curl in his stomach.

So he found the softest thing he owned—one of his old hoodies, oversized and warm, worn to hell but clean. Safe. Something that smelled like him.

He turned back to you, pressing it into your hands.

"Thanks," you murmured, your fingers curling into the fabric, the sleeves bunched between your knuckles.

Sebastian cleared his throat. “You can change in here,” he said. “Or the bathroom. Whatever’s—”

“I don’t want to be alone.”

His entire body went still. The words weren’t loud. If the room had been any noisier from the traffic outside, he might have missed them. But they hit like a gut punch, like a fist curling around his ribs and squeezing tight.

You weren’t looking at him. Your gaze was downcast, fixed somewhere near the floor, but your posture told him everything. Shoulders curled inward. Small. Hesitant.

Sebastian turned back to you instantly.

"Alright," he murmured, voice steady, unwavering. "I'll stay right here."

Something in your expression shifted, like the tension in your chest eased just slightly. Then slowly, carefully you peeled off your ruined t-shirt.

Sebastian tore his gaze away, jaw clenching. Not because he didn’t want to look—fuck, that was never the problem.

But because this wasn’t about that.

You needed comfort, not whatever mess of feelings he was shoving down, not whatever heat curled low in his stomach whenever you were close. Not the part of him that had spent years wanting to touch you, years wanting you in ways he’d never said aloud.

So he clenched his fists and stared at the wall, listening to the soft rustle of fabric as you pulled his hoodie over your head.

A moment of silence stretched between you.

“Okay,” you murmured.

Sebastian turned back.

The hoodie was massive on you, the sleeves swallowing your hands, the hem brushing the tops of your thighs.

He exhaled slowly, raking a hand through his hair before nodding once. “Better?”

You gave the smallest nod.

“Good.” His voice softer now, the rough edge smoothed just slightly. “Right then, let’s get you settled.”

Sebastian reached for the bed, moving on instinct. He pulled back the messy covers, shaking them out before propping up the pillows against the headboard, making sure they were stacked just right. Then, with quiet purpose, he turned back to you, nodding toward the bed.

“Come on,” he murmured, voice low, steady.

Your gaze flickered up at him, exhaustion dulling your eyes, but beneath it—gratitude. Silent, unspoken, but undeniable.

Slowly, you crawled onto the mattress, shifting beneath the blankets, and the second your head hit the pillow, you curled in on yourself, like your body had been waiting for this—this warmth, this safety—to finally let go.

Sebastian grabbed the blanket—your blanket—and tucked it securely over you, smoothing it over your shoulders before sitting on the edge of the bed, just close enough to reach you if you needed him.

“Anything I can get you?” he asked. “Tea? A snack? Whatever you want, love, just say the word.”

Your fingers curled into the edge of the blanket, your brows drawing together slightly like you hadn’t even considered that option.

“I—” Your voice was quiet, hesitant. “I don’t know.”

Sebastian huffed a quiet, almost amused sound. “Not exactly a helpful answer.”

You exhaled a soft breath—one that might have been the ghost of a laugh if you weren’t so drawn out—and ducked your chin into the blanket.

Sebastian watched you for a second, then nodded to himself, already making up his mind.

“Alright,” he murmured, standing. “Something to eat, then.”

You blinked up at him, looking so small, so tired, but you didn’t protest. Sebastian took that as a win.

He pulled his phone from his pocket, already scrolling through the UberEats app with single-minded focus. He wasn’t just looking for just anything—he was looking for your favorite restaurant.

He knew what you liked. Knew what you always ordered when you were too exhausted to cook, when you’d had a rough day, when you needed something warm and familiar to make the world feel a little less harsh.

And besides, it wasn’t like he had anything useful in his kitchen. The last time he’d checked, his fridge contained precisely one beer, a half-empty bottle of hot sauce, and something that might have once been a loaf of bread but was now a science experiment.

Not exactly ideal.

But even if he had groceries, it wouldn’t have mattered. You’d said you didn’t want to be alone. So he wasn’t going anywhere—not even to the damn kitchen.

As he flicked through the menu, your voice broke the silence.

“…Seb?”

He glanced up immediately, his full attention snapping back to you in an instant.

“Yeah?”

“…Will you lay with me?”

Something thick and impossible to name lodged itself in his throat, pressing against his ribs.

“Yeah,” he murmured, already moving. “Of course.”

He climbed into the bed beside you, careful and deliberate, mindful to keep a respectful distance—giving you space to breathe, to settle, to feel safe. But the second he was still, the second the warmth of him fully registered beside you, you scooted closer, the space between you vanishing in an instant. You curled into him, pressing into his side, burrowing against his chest like it was the only place you wanted to be.

Sebastian barely had a second to process it before instinct took over.

His free arm came around you automatically, pulling you in, keeping you there. He didn’t even think about it—just moved, just held.

And fuck, you fit against him so perfectly it made his heart lurch.

He ignored it.

Ignored the way your warmth seeped through the fabric of his shirt, ignored the way your breath ghosted against his neck, ignored the way his own pulse stupidly, traitorously picked up speed as you curled your fingers into the hem of his hoodie like you had no plans to let go.

Instead, he adjusted the angle of his phone so you could see the screen, keeping his voice casual. Normal. Like his brain wasn’t short-circuiting at the feeling of you wrapped around him.

“Here,” he murmured. “Do you want your usual?”

“…Yeah,” you said, voice half-muffled against his chest. “That sounds good.”

Sebastian hummed, tapping the order in without question.

“Alright,” he said. “Then it’s settled.”

His fingers flexed lightly against your waist, soothing, absent-minded, and you sighed, breath warm against his throat.

Sebastian swallowed hard, ignoring the way something deep in his chest ached at the feeling. He was in trouble.

But fuck it.

He’d deal with that later.

The next little while passed in silence—not the uncomfortable kind, not tense or heavy, just quiet. Steady.

Sebastian didn’t say anything. Neither did you. You just lay there, curled into him, your breath even and slow, the warmth of you pressed into his side.

But Sebastian didn’t need words.

He was just thankful you were here, that your body had finally started to relax, that the tension had drained from your limbs.

Then, eventually, the soft buzz of his phone vibrating on the nightstand broke the stillness.

The food was here.

Sebastian sighed, shifting slightly, preparing to get up, but the second he moved, he felt it. You stiffened. Barely perceptible, just the slightest tensing of your fingers against his shirt, but enough. Enough for something cold to crawl up his spine.

So instead of pulling away completely, he murmured, “Alright, come on then,” and reached down, slipping his arm around you.

You made a soft, startled sound as he shifted, rolling forward until you were draped across his back. His hands hooked securely under your thighs as he straightened, carrying you with him as he padded toward the door.

You didn’t protest. You just buried your face into the crook of his neck, fingers loosely gripping his shoulders as he moved.

Sebastian grabbed the takeout bag with one hand, snatched a couple of forks from the kitchen drawer on his way back, and carried you straight back to bed.

He placed the food between you, climbed in beside you again, and grabbed the remote, flipping on the TV. Some random YouTube video started playing—something dumb, nothing serious, just background noise to keep things from feeling too quiet.

You didn’t eat much. Just picked at your food, nudging pieces around with your fork.

That was fine. Sebastian didn’t push. Didn’t say anything about it. Just sat beside you, eating in easy silence, letting you take what you needed at your own pace.

And then, finally, you spoke.

Your voice was soft, quiet, but clear.

“…Sebastian.”

He glanced over immediately. “Yeah, love?”

You swallowed, staring at your food like you weren’t really seeing it. Then, slowly, you set your fork aside, taking in a shaky breath.

“I'm... I'm ready to tell you what happened.”

Sebastian’s fork stopped midway to his mouth.

The words settled between you, quiet but heavy, sinking into his ribs like a slow, aching weight.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just watched you as you stared down at your takeout, your breath uneven like you were preparing yourself.

Slowly, he reached for the remote. The video playing in the background cut off instantly, plunging the room into a thick, expectant silence. Sebastian set his fork down on the nightstand and turned his full attention to you.

“Alright,” he murmured. “I’m listening.”

You inhaled sharply, like you were bracing yourself, and when you spoke, your voice wavered—small and fragile in a way that made something in his chest splinter.

“It was him.”

The second the words left your mouth, his stomach dropped, and a sharp, seething hatred coiled hot and violent in his chest.

Sebastian knew who you meant. It was him. 

And fuck, of course it was. How hadn't he put it together sooner?

Sebastian had never liked your boyfriend. Never. Not even in the beginning, when everyone else had acted like he was some goddamn catch. Sebastian hadn’t needed a reason, hadn’t needed proof—he just knew there was something off about him. Something that never sat right with Sebastian, no matter how many times you swore he was nice.

He’d never said anything, though. Not outright. You were happy, or at least that's what you said, and Sebastian—Sebastian, who was a selfish bastard on the best of days when it came to you—hadn’t wanted to be the bitter one. The one sitting on the sidelines, waiting for something to go wrong.

But now—now—he was fucking furious at himself for not pushing harder.

Because if he had, if he’d done something, maybe you wouldn’t be sitting here, hands trembling, voice wrecked, telling him about how the person who was supposed to love you had put his fucking hands on you.

His fists clenched in the blanket.

He had never understood why the fuck you got with him in the first place. A Muggle, sure, fine—Sebastian didn’t give a shit about blood status—but him?

You were brilliant, sharp, always three steps ahead in a conversation, in a duel, in everything. You had a way of reading people, of understanding things too quickly, like your mind was always moving, always making connections that no one else could see.

And your boyfriend? The guy was dense. It wasn’t even an insult, just a fact.

Sebastian had been baffled when you first introduced him. Because what the hell did you even talk about? He wasn’t clever, or funny, or anything that made sense for you. He was just… there. All tall, broad-shouldered, perfect-featured statue of a man, like some idiot Greek god who had never had a thought deeper than his own reflection.

And you, who could debate theory for hours, who could outduel anyone, who never backed down from an argument—had ended up with him?

It made no fucking sense.

At first, Sebastian had assumed it was just a passing thing. Maybe you were into the whole tall, hot, and dumb aesthetic. Maybe you just wanted something easy. Someone who wouldn’t challenge you, someone who wouldn’t drag you into the kind of shit Sebastian always did.

But then the relationship had lasted. For months.

Sebastian tried telling himself that his problem with your boyfriend was just jealousy, that it was something ugly in him that hated seeing you with someone else.

But deep down, it wasn’t just that.

He had never liked him. Never trusted him. And now—now he fucking knew why.

Your fingers tightened in the fabric of Sebastian’s hoodie, but you didn’t look at him. Your gaze stayed locked on the blanket draped over your lap, like you couldn’t bear to meet his eyes.

“He went out drinking,” you murmured, voice thin and raw. “Came home late. I was already in bed, and I—I could hear him from the other room. Slamming drawers, throwing shit. He was mad about something—probably work, or maybe just the fucking weather, I don’t know. But I knew it was bad. I knew the second I heard him that it was one of those nights.”

Sebastian didn’t move. His entire body had gone tight, coiled like a wire stretched too thin. One of those nights?

How many times had you stood there, listening to him throw shit around the apartment, waiting for him to come for you? How many nights had you lain awake, breath shallow, heart pounding, afraid of the man who was supposed to love you? How many times had you flinched at the sound of keys in the door?

Sebastian's breath was slow, measured—too controlled. He had to keep himself in check. Because if he let himself fully think about it, if he let himself process the fact that this wasn’t just some freak incident, that you had lived like this—

You kept talking, your voice quiet but raw, and he forced himself to listen.

“I tried to pretend I was asleep,” you muttered. “Hoped he’d just pass out on the couch. But then he came into the bedroom. Flicked on the light. Stood in the doorway for a second, just looking at me.”

Sebastian clenched his jaw so hard it ached.

“And then he started talking—no, ranting—about everything that had gone wrong today. Like it was my fault. Like I was supposed to fix it. I told him to calm down, but that just made it worse.”

Sebastian swallowed, his throat dry as fucking sandpaper.

Your fingers curled into your sleeves, knuckles pressing against your ribs like you were trying to hold yourself together. “He got in my face,” you continued. “He does that sometimes, to intimidate me, I think. I told him to back off, but he didn’t.” Your voice broke slightly, and you sucked in a sharp breath. “I—I reached for my wand.”

Sebastian inhaled sharply.

And then, he knew. He knew what was coming. Knew it.

But when you finally said it—when the words left your mouth, shaking, broken—he still felt like the fucking floor had been ripped out from under him.

“He grabbed it out of my hand,” you whispered. “And he snapped it in half.”

But you weren’t done.

“And then he grabbed me.”

Sebastian barely resisted the urge to fucking break something.

“I hit him,” you whispered, voice shaking. “I tried. That’s why my knuckles are—” You gestured vaguely to one hand with the other, your fingers trembling. “But obviously I was never going to win against him. Then he shoved me, slammed me against the wall so hard I thought my head was gonna split open.”

Sebastian’s fingers twitched against the blanket. His breath was coming too fast, too sharp. He needed to stay still, needed to stay quiet because this wasn’t about him, but—fuck. You were shaking now, and it took everything in him not to pull you into his arms right then and there.

“I—I must have hit the dresser on the way down,” you said, voice thick as you reached up, brushing a fingertip over your eyebrow.

Sebastian felt sick.

“He grabbed me again,” you continued, voice unsteady. “By the arms. He was yelling, I don’t even know what the fuck he was saying anymore. I—I tried to claw him off, and then he—”

You stopped. Sebastian’s pulse roared in his ears.

He didn’t move, didn’t breathe. He could feel what was coming next, and it terrified him more than anything else you’d said.

His voice, when it finally came, was low. Too low.

“He what?”

You swallowed, voice thick with unshed tears. “He put his hands around my throat.”

Sebastian’s world went fucking silent. The breath was knocked out of him. His heart slammed so hard against his ribs he thought it might crack them.

“And I—I couldn’t—” Your voice wavered, raw and unsteady. “I couldn’t breathe. I was kicking, and I—I think I got him in the ribs or something, because he let go just long enough for me to shove him and run.”

Sebastian clenched his jaw so hard it ached.

“ I didn’t think. I didn’t even grab anything,” you whispered, voice thick with emotion. “I just—I had to get out, so I ran, and… and I dunno, I ended up here.”

Sebastian couldn’t breathe. You had to run from your own home. You had to run for your life.

Sebastian was going to kill him. No—he was going to do worse.

And then, then, his mind supplied the worst possible thought.

His voice came out strained. Tight. Lethal. “…Did he do anything else? Did he— did he touch you?”

You shook your head. Small. Quick. Immediate.

“No,” you whispered, voice thick. “No. He didn’t.”

Sebastian barely resisted the urge to collapse with relief. But the fact that he even had to ask—the fact that he had even worried about it—was enough to send another wave of fury rolling through his chest.

His voice, when it finally came, was flat, cold in a way that barely sounded like him.

“Where is he now?”

You let out a humorless laugh, shaking your head. “I don’t know.”

Sebastian’s fingers curled into the blanket, his jaw locking so hard it ached.

“I don’t know if he chased me down the street,” you muttered, voice distant, "or if he just passed out on the floor in the flat.” Your mouth twisted slightly, bitter. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Sebastian saw red. Wouldn’t be the first time. Wouldn’t be the first fucking time. The words slammed into him like a punch to the gut, a brutal, taunting echo that wouldn’t stop.

How long? How long had this been happening? Had there been times when you’d wanted to tell him? When the words had almost left your lips, only to be swallowed back down by fear? How many times had you thought about leaving but been too scared?

Sebastian’s stomach twisted violently, a sickening, nauseating weight settling deep in his ribs.

Had he ever looked at you and missed it? Had you ever shown up to work, to his flat, tired or distracted, wearing long sleeves even when it was warm? Had he ever caught a glimpse of something he should have seen—some hidden bruise, some flicker of fear in your eyes—and fucking ignored it?

His vision blurred at the edges. He should have known. He should have fucking known.

And now—now it was too late, because it had already happened, and you were sitting right here, bruised and battered, wearing his hoodie because your own clothes were ruined, voice small and wrecked as you told him about how you had run for your life.

Sebastian couldn’t sit still.

The rage was too much, too sharp, clawing up his throat, curling around his spine, making his limbs itch with the need to move, to do something, to fucking fix this.

So he shoved his takeout onto the nightstand, barely registering the sound it made, and pushed off the bed before the anger swallowed him whole.

But he didn’t get far.

The second he was standing, he felt it—your fingers catching weakly at the fabric of his shirt, not pulling, not stopping him, just… holding.

Sebastian froze. His hands twitched at his sides, and he exhaled sharply through his nose, rolling his shoulders back, forcing himself to breathe, swallowing the violence in his throat.

“Tomorrow,” he said, voice hard with finality, “I’m getting all your stuff from your place.”

Your head snapped up, eyes widening slightly, but Sebastian didn’t let you speak.

“You’re never going back there,” he continued, unmoving. “You live here now.”

Your lips parted, and for a second, he saw it—that flicker of resistance, the part of you that was always so fucking stubborn, always ready to argue, to find some logical excuse for why you couldn't—

Sebastian didn’t give you the chance.

“No.” His tone was unyielding, “You don’t get to argue with me on this."

Sebastian steeled himself, forcing himself to be rational, to speak in the way you’d actually listen instead of just demanding you do what he fucking said.

“You don’t have a wand,” he reminded you, voice rough but steady. “You don’t know where he is. I’m not letting you walk back into that flat. Ever.”

You swallowed hard. “But—”

Sebastian shook his head.

“No. This is your home now,” he said. “For as long as you need. As long as you want.”

Your breath hitched slightly, but finally—so quietly he almost didn’t hear it—

“…Okay.”

Sebastian exhaled sharply, tension bleeding from his shoulders just slightly, just enough that his hands didn’t feel like they were about to break something.

“If you want to report it,” he said, steady, certain, determined, “we’ll figure it out. We’ll go to the Ministry if we need to, or the Muggle police.” His throat felt tight, but he pushed through it. “Whatever you need. Whatever justice looks like for you—we’ll get it.”

Your breath stuttered slightly, but you didn’t speak.

Sebastian exhaled slowly, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “We can ask Ominis which one to go to. He’s good with this shit—he’ll know what to do.” He hesitated for a second, then added, “And if you don’t want to tell him… that’s fine, too. I’ll sort it out myself.”

Because he would. If you wanted to handle this the legal way, he’d be right there beside you, every step of the way. And if you didn’t—

“But if you don’t want to do that,” he said, voice dropping lower, gentler, softer in a way that made his ribs ache, “that’s okay.”

It was your choice. All of it. For what was probably the first time in months, it was yours.

Sebastian was about to say more—was about to ask if you wanted him to do something now, to go to the flat, to find that fucking bastard—but then you made a sound. A small, barely there sound, like something breaking apart inside you. And before he could even process it, your shoulders shook, your face crumpling as the first sob ripped out of you.

Sebastian's stomach dropped.

Fuck—

What did he say? What did he do?

He had tried to be so careful, but now you were crying—really crying, for the first time all night—and fuck, had he pushed too hard? Had he said something—

Your hands were reaching for him.

Sebastian barely had time to breathe before you were clutching at him, holding him with all the strength left in you.

He melted. His arms came around you instantly, pulling you in, one hand cupping the back of your head as you buried your face into his chest. He felt the shudder of your breath, the way your whole body trembled as you broke apart against him, sobbing into his shoulder.

"Hey, hey—" His voice was low, rough, but so fucking gentle. "I've got you. It’s alright. Just—just let it out."

You gasped between sobs, fists curling into him like you needed him to keep you steady.

And then, through the shaking, through the broken sobs, “Thank you.”

Sebastian's breath stuttered, his grip tightening around you. You were still crying, still wrecked, still clinging to him, but the words were so raw, so genuine, it made something ache deep in his chest.

"Don’t thank me," he muttered, pressing his cheek against the top of your head. "You don’t have to thank me, sweetheart. This—" He exhaled, his voice barely above a whisper. "I would do anything for you. You do know that, don't you?"

You let out a soft, breathy laugh against his chest, barely more than a shaky exhale. It wasn’t light, wasn’t joyful. It was exhausted, raw, frayed at the edges like you didn’t quite have the energy for it but couldn’t help yourself. A sound that came from somewhere deep, somewhere aching.

And then, you whispered, "Yeah, Seb… I know."

Your voice was hoarse, wrecked—but sure in a way that made his ribs feel like they were caving in. Like there had never been a doubt in your mind. Like you had always known.

And something inside him cracked.

All the anger, the panic, the terror that had been keeping him upright—keeping him steady—just snapped, and suddenly he was unraveling too, spilling apart at the seams before he could even think to stop it.

Because the truth, the reality of this finally hit him—really hit him, slamming into him all at once like a freight train, like a fist to the ribs, like something he would never recover from.

You could have not made it here. He could have lost you. Not in some abstract, distant, what if kind of way.

No.

This had been real. This had happened. And if things had gone just a little differently—if you hadn’t gotten away, if that bastard had held on just a second longer—

The thought suffocated him, dragged him under, wrenched something raw and painful out of his chest. His breath hitched sharply against your hair. His shoulders trembled. And then, before he could stop it, before he could even fight it, a choked, wrecked sob ripped out of him.

Sebastian never cried.

Not when his uncle died. Not when he thought he’d lost Ominis for good. Not even when he lost Anne and the weight of his own mistakes had nearly crushed him. He’d swallowed it all down, shoved it away, because crying never changed anything.

But this—

This was different. This wasn’t grief. This wasn’t regret or guilt or self-hatred.

This was terror.

Pure. Crippling. The kind that hollowed you out, carved into you like a knife, left you feeling like there was nothing inside but raw, open wounds.

He could’ve lost you.

His breath came too fast, uneven, the pressure in his chest too much, and his mouth was already moving before he could stop it.

“I swear to God, I don’t— I don’t know what I would have done if—” His voice cracked, a raw, fractured thing that barely made it out past his lips.

“I—I should’ve known, I should’ve done something—” His grip flexed, desperate. “I knew something was off about him, I fucking knew, and I didn’t say anything—”

“Sebastian—”

“And I—fuck, I can’t stop picturing it. You— you walked here, you were just, just out there, all alone, and I wasn’t—” His voice cracked again, barely holding together. “I wasn’t there, I didn’t know—”

Your hand lifted, soft and soothing, brushing against the side of his face, and it wrecked him, because fuck, you shouldn’t have to comfort him. Not after what you had just been through. Not when he was supposed to be taking care of you.

But you did. You just held him.

Sebastian let out another ragged breath, desperately clinging to you. “I could have lost you.”

Your thumbs swept across his cheekbones, gentle, careful, steady. "You didn’t.”

He let out a sound—somewhere between a sharp exhale and a broken laugh, because that wasn’t the point. The point was that it had been so fucking close.

“I—” His fingers curled against the nape of your neck, into your hair, gripping you like a lifeline. "You have no fucking idea—I just—I thought—" He inhaled sharply, his forehead pressing against yours, his voice turning frantic, desperate.

"Sebastian—"

"I knew he was wrong for you, I knew it, and I—fuck—I just let it happen—"

"Seb—"

"I love you."

It ripped out of him.

Messy. Raw. Completely unfiltered.

“I love you and—fuck—" his voice was wild, frantic, cracking over itself. "And I swear to God, I’m going to kill him." His breath hitched, a sharp, furious sound. " I’m going to bury him, I’m going to make him suffer, I’m going to make sure he knows—"

His breath came hard, uneven, furious, but it wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough.

"He’s done," His laugh was sharp, bitter, wrecked. "I mean it—I mean it, I will put him in the fucking ground, I will tear him apart with my bare hands—"

His voice was getting rougher, more desperate, more unhinged with every word that tumbled out. He couldn’t stop—couldn’t stop picturing it, him, with his hands on you, hurting you, breaking your wand, stealing your power, making you run for your life—

"I should’ve stopped this, I should’ve—fuck, I should’ve done something the second I saw him looking at you like you were his, I should’ve fucking known—"

"Seb—"

"You don’t understand—he put his hands on you. On you. Do you have any idea what that means to me? Do you have any clue what I would do for you?" His breath came sharp and fast, his words spilling out unchecked, unstoppable. "You—you’re everything to me—I love you, fuck, I love you—"

And that was when it hit him.

He said it.

Again.

For the fourth fucking time, actually.

He had said the one thing he was never supposed to say, the thing he had spent years shoving down under layers of denial and cowardice and self-preservation because it was safer that way. Because it was easier to pretend, easier to be your friend, easier to just be there for you without ruining everything.

But it was out now. It was out, and there was no taking it back, and fuck, he shouldn’t have said it—not like this, not when this wasn’t about him, not when you had just been through hell—

And suddenly, fresh panic was clawing up his throat, his mind spinning too fast, spiraling, trying to fix it, trying to backpedal—

And then you kissed him.

Sebastian’s mind blipped.

Just shut off completely.

One second, he was losing his goddamn mind, his body shaking, his hands gripping onto you like you were the only thing keeping him from self-destructing, and the next, your lips were on his, soft and desperate and real.

It was like slamming into a wall at full speed.

Every thought cut out at once.

The rage. The panic. The terror.

Gone.

All that was left was this. You. The feeling of your hands curling into the neckline of his shirt, pulling him closer. The way your breath hitched against his lips, the way your body melted against his like you had wanted this just as much as he had.

Sebastian made a noise in the back of his throat—wrecked, wild—before he sank into you completely.

His hands flew up, cupping your face, tilting your head like he needed more, like he was drowning and this was the only thing that could save him.

He felt your fingers shaking, gripping him like you needed him as much as he needed you, and fuck, if that wasn’t enough to destroy him.

He broke away just long enough to suck in a breath, his forehead dropping to yours, his whole body shaking.

And then—softly, like he couldn’t help himself—he let out a ragged, disbelieving laugh.

“…Okay,” he breathed, his lips barely an inch from yours. “Okay. That was—yeah. That was a good way to shut me up.”

Your lips twitched—small, barely there—

But there.

[hhughes]

𐔌 　 ⁺　 𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐄𝐒𝐇 𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘 𓂃۶ৎ

𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚 , in which jude notices the work you’ve been putting in at the gym.

𝒇𝒆𝒂𝒕. jude bellingham x gf!reader 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒕. flirty. cute. cheeky. groping. 𝒙𝒐 𝒄𝒂𝒎𝒊. this is my first time writing for jude. I just got this idea with him and it would not get out of my head. I hope I did it justice and that the jude girlies like it. as always reblogs and feedback is appreciated and I hope you liked it <3

the front door opening steals jude’s attention from the match playing on TV, his gaze flicking toward the entrance just as you stumble through, arms weighed down with two brown bags filled with groceries. an automatic smile tugs at his lips.

he’d woken up to an empty bed and a note on your pillow — gone to the gym. stopping at the store after. love you, lazybones.

lazybones. he’d scoffed at that one, stretching his arm across the empty mattress where you should’ve been. but now, as he watches you huff dramatically, nudging the door shut with your hip, he thinks maybe he doesn’t mind being called that. especially if it means getting to see you walk through the door looking like that.

because, yeah — jude notices immediately.

the outfit is nothing new, just a sports bra and leggings, but something about it is different. or maybe, more accurately, you are.

he watches you set the bags down on the counter, then stretch your arms over your head, rolling your shoulders with a soft groan. his eyes drop, trailing over the curve of your body, the way your leggings cling to you just right.

fuck’s sake.

“hey you” you greet as he slides off the couch and saunters over to you.

“hey sexy” he mumbles, hands catching your hips and placing a sexy little kiss on your lips, that has your pulse stuttering and body leaning into him. he lingers, hands firm on your waist, thumbs brushing over the fabric of your leggings in slow, deliberate strokes. his touch is casual, lazy even, but there’s something unmistakable about the way his fingers press just a little harder as they drift downward.

jude’s hands are planted firmly on your ass by the time you pull away, both of you a little breathless. he squeezes the flesh, biting his lip as he leans to the side slightly, and it takes you a minute but your cheeks heat up when you realize what he’s doing.

“jude” you scold and his eyes shoot up from your ass, catching yours as he smiles sheepishly.

“what baby?” he asks innocently, hand still roaming over your backside.

you narrow your eyes, but jude just grins, completely unashamed, still palming at your ass like it belongs to him — which, okay, it kind of does, but still.

"don’t what baby me," you huff, swatting at his arm. "were you just checking out my ass?"

jude bites his lip, as if debating whether or not to lie, before eventually shrugging. "maybe."

you groan, covering your face with your hands, but he just laughs, spinning you in his hold so your back is pressed to his chest. his hands stay exactly where they are, fingers gripping at the soft curve of your ass, thumbs rubbing in slow circles over the fabric.

"babe," he mutters, voice thick with something dangerously close to awe. "I swear, it was not like this a month ago."

your face burns hotter. "jude."

"what?" his grip tightens, and you can feel his smirk against your skin as he dips his head to press a kiss to your shoulder. "I mean, you always had a nice ass, but fuck — this? this is next level. turn around for me will ya?" he asks, and you hesitate for a second before obliging him.

he pushes on your upper back slightly, urging you to lean forward slightly and you humour him by placing your elbows on the counter, back arching perfectly as he runs his fingers down your spine.

a low whistle leaves jude’s lips as his hands trail down, fingertips ghosting over the fabric of your leggings before settling firmly on your hips. his thumbs stroke at your waist, slow and teasing, before they move lower, kneading at the flesh with a kind of reverence that has your breath catching in your throat.

you let out a soft yelp when you suddenly feel a sharp sting on your left cheek, turning around just in time to see jude’s playful smirk, accompanied by that little glint in his eyes.

“sheesh baby” he says, running his hand over his face as if the sight of you alone is enough to wreck him. his palm lingers over his mouth for a moment, but you can still see his grin, all cocky and smug.

"you trying to kill me or something?" he teases, his voice dripping with amusement, though there’s something else lurking beneath it—something darker, something heated. his hands are back on you in an instant, fingers splaying over your hips like he can’t help himself. "you’ve been keeping this from me, huh?"

you scoff, rolling your eyes even as your stomach flutters. "keeping what from you?"

jude lets out a low chuckle, his thumbs rubbing slow, deliberate circles against your skin. "this ass, baby." his voice is borderline sinful now, thick and appreciative as his hands squeeze at the flesh, sending another spark of heat through you. "you been hiding it or what?"

your face burns, and you swat at his arm. "jude, shut up—"

"nah, nah," he interrupts, shaking his head with a smirk. "I think we need to talk about how you’ve been putting in work at the gym and didn’t warn me." his hands slide down to cup you fully again, his grip firm, his touch nothing short of worshipful. "like, you knew this was gonna do things to me, right?"

you groan, covering your face with your hands, but it does nothing to hide your flustered expression. "you’re so annoying," you mumble, and jude just grins, entirely unbothered.

"annoying, huh?" he muses, his hands never leaving you, his voice a slow, teasing drawl. "funny, ‘cause you don’t seem to be pushing me away."

you stay silent, and he chuckles again, dipping his head to press a lazy, lingering kiss to your shoulder. "you’re so cute when you’re embarrassed, y’know that?"

you groan louder. "jude—"

"alright, alright," he relents, though his hands still don’t budge. "I’ll stop teasing — for now." he pulls back slightly, only to spin you around so you’re facing him. his eyes flicker over your features before settling on your lips, and the playful glint in his gaze softens just a bit. "but seriously, baby —proud of you. you look fucking incredible. or should I say edible” he says, taking a little bite out of your bottom lip, soothing the sting with his tongue.

your heart melts at the sincerity in his voice, the warmth in his eyes, and you bite your lip, suddenly shy under his gaze. "yeah?"

jude smiles, all charm, before leaning in to brush his lips against yours. "yeah," he murmurs. “you’ll always be perfect to me. no matter what. but I’m definitely gonna be your number-one supporter in this fitness journey — especially if it keeps coming with benefits like this."

you smack his chest, but he only laughs, pulling you closer, his lips finding yours again, lingering this time, deepening — because, yeah, maybe you don’t mind his little appreciation session after all.

𝒙𝒐 𝒄𝒂𝒎𝒊. thank you for reading and feel free to drop by the inbox and share any and all thoughts <333

[rafes-slut]

Could you do some smut with a Reader who is a bit insecure about being so naked/exposed, feeling unattractive and gets in her head during sex and can't relax, and because of that tenses up (therefor pain) so Rafe is really soft with her and understanding

Hope you will like it <3

Let me show you

Pairing: soft!Rafe Cameron x insecure!reader

Warnings: Smut, insecurity/self-consciousness, body image struggles, soft!Rafe, praise kink, gentle and reassuring intimacy, established relationship.

Summary: you are insecure and always feeling exposed about yourself, as rafe tries to praise you and make you feel comfortable in any way. Giving you all the time you need about it

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

Rafe's room is dimly lit, the warm glow of the bedside lamp casting soft shadows along the walls. The bed beneath you feels impossibly plush, but no amount of comfort can settle the nervous knot twisting inside your stomach.

You should be used to this by now—you and Rafe have been together for a while, and he's never given you a reason to doubt how much he wants you. But still, every time things get intimate, you can’t shake the overwhelming self-consciousness that creeps in. Every touch feels like a spotlight on the parts of yourself you wish you could hide. Every second that passes without him saying something makes you spiral, convinced that maybe—just maybe—he’s finally seeing what you see when you look in the mirror.

You’re tense, your body rigid beneath him as his hands trace down your sides. He notices. He always does.

“Baby,” Rafe murmurs, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your collarbone. “Relax for me.” His voice is low, soothing, but you still can’t bring yourself to fully let go.

“I’m fine,” you whisper, but it doesn’t sound convincing.

Rafe pulls back slightly, resting his weight on his forearm as his other hand moves to cup your cheek. His thumb strokes over your skin, eyes searching yours with a kind of tenderness that makes your chest ache.

“You’re not,” he says softly. “Talk to me, angel.”

You swallow hard, feeling your throat tighten. You don’t want to ruin the moment, but the words are already forming, slipping out before you can stop them.

“I just…” You hesitate, eyes flickering away in embarrassment. “I feel… exposed.”

Rafe stills for a moment, and you brace yourself for him to be annoyed or frustrated, but instead, he leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to the tip of your nose. “You’re supposed to be,” he murmurs. “That’s the whole point, baby. You don’t have to hide from me.”

His fingers trail down your arm, slow and deliberate, like he’s memorizing every inch of you. “I wish you could see what I see,” he continues, voice thick with emotion. “You’re so fucking beautiful. Every part of you.”

You shake your head slightly, but Rafe doesn’t let you pull away. Instead, he tilts your chin up, forcing you to look at him.

“You are,” he insists. “And I don’t just mean when you’re all dressed up or when you’re wearing something cute. I mean right now. Just like this.”

Your heart stumbles over itself at the sincerity in his voice.

“I love your body,” he murmurs, dragging his lips along your jaw. “I love the way you feel under me, the way you fit so fucking perfectly against me.” His hand moves down, tracing the dip of your waist. “You were made for me, angel. You know that, right?”

Heat spreads through your body, replacing some of the doubt with something softer—something warm and safe.

Rafe presses his lips to yours, slow and deep, his hands never straying too far, never moving too fast. He wants you to feel wanted, not just desired. There’s a difference, and he knows you need to feel it.

“You’re perfect,” he breathes between kisses. “So goddamn perfect for me.”

Rafe watches you closely, waiting for any hesitation, any sign that you still feel unsure. His fingers brush over your skin like he’s trying to soothe the nerves buzzing under the surface. His lips trail down your neck, lingering there as he whispers, “I’m not going to rush you, baby. We have all night.”

His patience makes your chest ache. He always takes his time with you, never pushing, never making you feel like you have to be anything other than what you are. But even now, as his hands move lower, you still feel the tension clinging to you, the weight of your insecurities trying to pull you under.

“Come here,” he murmurs, shifting slightly so that you’re fully beneath him. He presses his forehead against yours, his body warm and steady against your own. “Tell me what you need.”

You chew on your lip, your fingers instinctively reaching for the fabric of his shirt. “I just… I don’t want you to look at me too much,” you admit quietly, feeling ridiculous even as you say it.

Rafe exhales slowly, his thumb tracing circles on your hip. “Baby…” He lifts your chin gently, his blue eyes soft yet unwavering. “I love looking at you. I could stare at you all fucking day.”

Your stomach twists, your instincts telling you to shrink away, but Rafe won’t let you. His hand moves to your waist, fingers pressing just firm enough to ground you.

“You’re mine,” he murmurs, his voice laced with something possessive yet impossibly tender. “Every part of you belongs to me, and I love what’s mine.”

A shiver runs down your spine at his words, but you still can’t help the way your body tenses as his hands move lower, brushing over the parts of yourself you always try to hide.

“Hey,” Rafe whispers, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, then another along your collarbone. “Relax, angel. I got you.”

His touch is slow, reverent, giving you time to adjust, to breathe. Every movement is filled with purpose, meant to remind you that this is him, that you’re safe here, that he’s not going anywhere.

When his hands finally push your shirt up, his gaze doesn’t drop to your exposed skin like you expect it to. Instead, he keeps his eyes locked on yours.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice almost aching. “I don’t know how you don’t see it.”

Your heart clenches, your breath stuttering slightly as his fingers graze over your stomach. He traces patterns there, his touch gentle but deliberate. “Every time I touch you, I just—” He exhales, shaking his head like he can’t find the right words. “I can’t get enough of you, baby.”

You feel your pulse quicken at his words, the sincerity in them making it harder to hold onto your doubts.

Rafe leans down, lips brushing against your ear as he whispers, “Let me take care of you.”

His hands move to your shorts, but he doesn’t do anything yet. He just watches you, waiting for you to give him some kind of sign.

And for once, you don’t let the insecurities win. You give him a small nod, and the soft smile that spreads across his lips makes your chest feel warm.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your lips before slowly—so slowly—helping you out of the rest of your clothes.

Your body stiffens instinctively as you’re left bare beneath him, the rush of vulnerability making you want to hide, but Rafe doesn’t let you. His hands are warm as they smooth over your thighs, his gaze locked on yours, unwavering.

“You’re breathtaking,” he says, and the way he says it—like it’s an undeniable fact—makes you believe him, even if just for a moment.

Then his hands are moving, his lips following, and all you can do is feel.

Every kiss, every touch, every whispered praise is meant to replace the doubts in your mind with something softer, something better.

[cursedcanon]

Cuddles

sorry not posting im just extremely lazy 😕

how JJK men cuddle with you.

Characters:Gojo, Choso , Sakuna , Geto, Toji, Nanami ,Yuji and megumi

Gojo – The Enthusiastic and Teasing Cuddler Gojo isn’t one to do things halfway, so when he cuddles, it’s with full energy. He’ll pull you into his arms and position you so you're practically lying on top of him, all while teasing you with lighthearted comments about how you're “so small” or “so cute.” But his cuddles are surprisingly warm and comforting, despite the jokes. He loves holding you close, his arms wrapped around you like a personal blanket, and he’ll often tuck his head into your hair or kiss the top of your head. Expect random, playful tickling or his fingers brushing your sides as he enjoys being a bit of a nuisance—but in a loving way.

Choso – The Protective and Gentle Cuddler Choso’s cuddles are safe and nurturing. When he wraps his arms around you, you feel completely protected, like nothing in the world could hurt you while he's holding you. He’s calm, careful not to overwhelm you, and enjoys being close without being too touchy. His arms will gently encircle you, pulling you into his chest or resting his chin on your head as he closes his eyes in contentment. He enjoys those quiet, intimate moments where it’s just the two of you, and his presence is like a calming force that melts away any stress.

Sukuna – The Possessive but Loving Cuddler Sukuna’s cuddles are intense, possessive, and marked with an underlying dominance. When he pulls you into his embrace, you’re not going anywhere unless he wants you to. His arm will be around you, firmly holding you against his chest or his lap. He’ll lazily stroke your hair or run his fingers down your back, his touch both tender and controlling. Sukuna might not always show it, but he’s deeply comfortable when you're close to him, and he’ll let his guard down during these moments. Don’t expect a lot of words; he prefers to enjoy the quiet with you, but every now and then, he’ll grumble about how “you’re not allowed to leave this spot” as a way to keep you close.

Geto – The Calm and Reassuring Cuddler Geto’s cuddles are soothing and calming, like a quiet refuge from the world. He’ll hold you close, always making sure you're comfortable, whether that’s cuddling on the couch or in bed. His hand might gently stroke your hair or back, and he’ll rest his head against yours, letting out a soft sigh of contentment. When you cuddle, it’s as if the world slows down around you, and nothing else matters except the peace of the moment. He’s always mindful of your needs, adjusting his position if you’re not perfectly comfortable. He might not initiate it as much, but when you do cuddle, he’s fully present.

Toji – The Comforting but Protective Cuddler Toji’s cuddles are warm and protective, but there’s a slight roughness to them. When he holds you, it’s clear he’s not letting anything happen to you. He’ll pull you into his chest, pressing you against him like a shield, often with his arm draped across your shoulders or your waist. His hold is strong and secure, but there’s tenderness in the way he lets you get comfortable in his arms. If you’re resting on his chest, you can feel his steady heartbeat, and even though he might not say much, his protective nature shines through in his embrace. Sometimes he’ll rest his chin on your head, just savoring the quiet.

Nanami – The Relaxed and Affectionate Cuddler Nanami’s cuddles are warm, relaxed, and easy. He’s the kind of person who will curl up with you after a long day, just wanting to share the peaceful moment. His arms will wrap around you naturally, holding you in a way that makes you feel both loved and safe. He’ll lean back into the couch, letting you rest your head on his chest or on his shoulder, enjoying the simplicity of the moment. Nanami is not one for excessive cuddling, but when he does, it’s with a softness that reassures you. His gentle kisses on your forehead or hand are his way of showing affection while keeping things calm and natural.

Yuji – The Affectionate and Playful Cuddler Yuji’s cuddles are full of warmth and affection, with a good dose of energy. He’s the type to scoop you up into his arms or pull you onto his lap, not letting you go even when you protest. His hands will be all over you, but in a way that’s loving and playful. He might nuzzle into your neck or rest his face in your hair, just to feel close to you. When he’s in a cuddling mood, expect it to be full of giggles, light teasing, and the occasional tickle attack, especially if you're not expecting it. His cuddles are spontaneous, and he’ll do anything to make sure you’re laughing or smiling when you’re close to him.

Megumi – The Shy but Loving Cuddler Megumi is a bit shy when it comes to cuddling, but once you’re in his arms, you’ll feel how much he enjoys the closeness. He’s not overly forward with affection, but when he does cuddle, he’s all in. His arms will be around you in a protective, yet gentle way, as he leans his head against yours or presses a soft kiss to the top of your head. He enjoys the quiet intimacy of being close to you, and sometimes, he’ll just hold you without speaking, savoring the peace. He might get a little embarrassed if you initiate a cuddle, but once it’s happening, he’ll relax and hold you tightly, as if he never wants to let go.

[haartemis]

THE ALCHEMY | PART IV

pairing: kylian mbappe x fem!reader

word count: 6.7k

warnings: smut

summary: working at real madrid is a dream come true— until kylian mbappe, football's biggest star and the last person you ever want to see, joins the club. as tensions rise between you two and the lines between frustration and fascination blur, you wonder: can you truly resist the man you've sworn to hate?

A/N: as always, let me know what yall think :)

PART ONE PART TWO PART THREE

two months later 

he dreams of you.

it’s not the first time. but it is the first time it feels this real - like you’re actually there, warm and soft beneath him, your body a magnet, pulling him in like gravity itself.

he’s between your thighs, the view in front of him making his head spin. you’re already soaked, needy and desperate, and fuck, that does something to him. his fingers skim the inside of your thigh, spreading you open further. he watches you intently, the way your chest rises and falls, the way your lips part as you breathe out a soft, pleading "kylian…"

his name, spilling from your lips like a prayer.

he groans.

"this good?" he murmurs, dark eyes flickering up to meet yours.

you nod quickly, impatient.

he chuckles, smug, because he loves seeing you like this, loves the way you can barely stay still, the way you need him.

"are you always this greedy?" he teases, dragging a finger through your slick heat.

your breath hitches, hips twitching as you chase his touch.

"are you always this slow?" you manage to quip.

he smirks. you’re never one to hide your annoyance at him.

then he leans in.

the first swipe of his tongue makes you gasp. he groans at the taste of you, wet and addictive, and he instantly wants more. he devours you like it’s his favorite thing in the world, his mouth soft but insistent, a little teasing.

you fall apart for him. your fingers press against his close cropped hair, nails grazing his scalp, and he grins against you because he likes that - likes the way you lose yourself, the way you let him ruin you.

he flicks his tongue against your clit, then sucks, slow and deep.

"fuck-" you gasp, back arching, and that’s it - that’s the sound he wants, the sound he could listen to forever.

"knew you’d be this sweet for me" he murmurs, the words vibrating against your skin.

his fingers slide inside you, easing in effortlessly, curling just right. you’re so warm, so tight around him, and fuck - his cock throbs at the thought of being buried inside you instead.

"you feel good" he rasps, voice thick with desire.

you just moan in response, pressing yourself against his mouth. desperate. needy. perfect.

he wants you completely undone. so he moves his fingers faster, deep, precise, and your whole body trembles.

"kylian" you pant, whimpering, losing control, on the edge.

"let go" he commands softly. "come for me"

and you do. you break apart, shattering, and he groans at the way you grip the nape of his neck, the way you cry out for him.

he keeps going until you’re whimpering, until you can barely catch your breath, until he knows you feel him even in your bones.

when you finally slump back against the sheets, wrecked, he drags his mouth up your body, lips wet as he leans into your ear. this time, his voice isn’t cocky. its soft, almost vulnerable.  " ma cherie, don’t disappear on me again, please"

kylian’s  eyes snap open, chest rising and falling with slow, heavy breaths. his body is hot, his sheets are twisted, and his pulse is still pounding. for a brief second, he isn’t sure if he’s still dreaming, if he can still taste you on his tongue, still feel the ghost of your fingers against his scalp.

but then reality crashes down on him - he’s alone in his bed, embarrassingly hard from a sex dream where he was giving head to someone he hasn’t spoken to in two months. 

yes, you haven’t seen or spoken to each other in two months.

two months since you were pressed against him, your body writhing with pleasure on his lap, every pretense and restraint dropped. since you fell asleep against his chest, the soft glow of the tv casting shadows while meg ryan and billy crystal got their happy ending on the screen. he remembers it vividly - the scent of your perfume.  holding his breath, trying to slow his pounding heart, hoping you wouldn’t hear it. 

his own words from the dream echo in his head. don’t disappear on me again, please.

like dream-kylian had any right to say that.

this was his doing. his MO, executed to perfection. he'd thought that if he put enough space between you, whatever this was - this annoying, unrelenting pull that so far he’s pretended is nothing more than sexual attraction - would fade. if he ignored the way you looked at him that night on his couch, if he pretended it hadn’t meant anything, then eventually, it wouldn’t. except it hasn’t. 

he was good at this, keeping people at arm’s length, creating just enough distance to keep himself safe. but this time, it doesn’t feel protective. it feels like suffocation. 

after that movie night at his place, you’d both floated vague plans to stay in touch. nothing concrete - just the kind of half-promises made in the soft haze of a morning after. kylian was heading into a relentless stretch of the season, bouncing between competitions, sometimes playing three matches a week. and you, working for the club, understood better than most how demanding a footballer’s schedule could be.

there were no real expectations, from either of you. but there had been an understanding- an unspoken acknowledgment that the all-out loathing had morphed into something else.

he’d known from the start that you wouldn’t be the one to reach out first. you’d make him chase you, let him feel the weight of his mistakes. it was your way of punishing him for his antics, and maybe, deep down, he knew he deserved it.

but days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months and he never reached out and neither did you. there were no more coincidental run-ins, no more crossing paths by chance. you worked in the corporate offices, far removed from the world of valdebebas where he spent his days. its been a stretch of time full of silence, distance, of not seeing each other at all.

now, two months later, with your dream moans still echoing in his head, he wonders if he miscalculated. if maybe, this time, the game he was so used to playing  was costing him more than he expected.

it's a shoot day for kylian, an ad for one of the club sponsors. he’s already on set, ready to go, but for some reason, the production team isn’t. apparently, someone essential from the marketing department is missing. he tries to hide his impatience; his schedule is relentless, every minute accounted for and time spent waiting is time he could be using to decompress, even if just for a moment.

he’s letting out an irritated huff when the door barges open and you walk into the room, frazzled , out of breath, and looking completely out of place. kylian’s face drops, because, well, he doesn’t expect to see you here at all. 

“julia had an emergency” you’re murmuring to the production assistant. “everyone else from marketing is on that retreat, so she asked me to fill in. it was very last minute, i came here as soon as i could”

kylian shuffles on his feet as he watches you converse with the production team, nervously waiting for you to look up and notice him. his eyes zero in on your hands, on the ring on your pinkie finger - gold, with an intricate engraving at the center. you play with it absentmindedly, turning as you speak. 

the photographer, taller than kylian, scruffy looking, and far too familiar for his liking, seems to notice it too.

"that’s a beautiful ring" he remarks, stepping closer to you. "vintage?"

you glance up, caught slightly off guard. "oh-yeah, it was my grandfather’s”

the photographer grins, nodding in admiration. "where's it from?" 

his tone is friendly, maybe just being curious. 

“he bought it in morocco, back in the eighties” you say, smiling genuinely. 

this irritates kylian. immediately, he hates that you’re smiling at this guy while not even sparing him a glance. he hates the fact that he’s never noticed that ring before, that he doesn’t know the story behind it, that some random photographer has now seen more of you in the past five minutes than kylian has in the past two months.

finally, he interjects, voice sharper than intended. "can we get started?" 

the photographer blinks, momentarily thrown off, before nodding and moving along to set up the shot. you, however, finally acknowledge kylian with a detached and professional: “good morning, kylian”

that’s it. you look down to your clipboard before he can respond, already focused on something else.  feeling dismissed, kylian just walks away.

the shoot drags. kylian’s patience ,which was never in abundance to begin with this morning, is wearing thin. the lights are hot (which means the room is hot), the photographer keeps making him repeat the same movements, and the jersey he has on is kind of itchy. 

then there’s you. your nonchalance only builds on his irritation. he doesn’t like that you’re standing there flipping through your notes like this is any other work day. doesn’t like that you’re answering questions, talking with the photographer, even laughing a little all while acting like he’s just another player to manage.

when the photographer finally calls for a break, kylian walks straight to you, stopping just close enough that you have to acknowledge him.

"let’s get lunch after this"

it’s not a request. more of a statement, delivered in what he hopes is a confident tone.

you don’t even glance up from your clipboard. "no"

his jaw flexes. "why?"

this time, you do look at him, your expression so blank it makes his stomach tighten.

"i already have plans" you say, tone flat. "meeting a friend"

"cancel" he says before he can stop himself.

you raise your eyebrows. "excuse me?"

"cancel" he repeats, slower this time. "have lunch with me instead"

you let out an incredulous chuckle, amusement flickering in your eyes, like you can’t believe his audacity. "oh so because kylian mbappé decided he wants my attention today i’m obligated to drop everything right?"

"that’s not -"

"no, because this is interesting" you continue. "two months of silence, and now i’m supposed to rearrange my plans just because you’re suddenly feeling social"

kylian cringes hard at himself. he rubs his fingers between his brows, exhaling sharply. “okay, yeah. that came out bad, i’m sorry”

“i’ll try again” he straightens, clearing his throat. “can i take you out to lunch or dinner? any time you’re free”

“no” you snap immediately, rolling your eyes. “and can you get the fuck on with this stupid shoot? the sooner you do what the photographer asks, the sooner we can all leave this sauna” you point to his hairline. “and better get the good shots in before your sprayed on corners melt”

kylian’s completely speechless as you flash him the sweetest, fakest smile and saunter away, leaving him standing alone. he should be annoyed. maybe even embarrassed. instead, his lips twitch, fighting back a grin.

he doesn’t know why he’s drawn to someone so hellbent on putting him in his place, but he is. and god help him he likes it.

joining a book club might just be the most ridiculous thing kylian has ever done for a woman. and you're not even his woman (yet).

he gets the idea from his mother. they’re in a meeting discussing a project for his foundation when she notices how often he glances at his phone, hoping for a reply to the texts he keeps sending you. none come, of course. you’re nothing if not stubborn.

"what’s wrong?" she asks finally.

"nothing" kylian mutters.

she gives him a look, one he’s known since childhood, the kind that strips away any chance of deception. don’t even try lying to me.

he caves immediately. “waiting for someone to text me”

“y/n, the girl you claim you hate but won’t admit you like” she says matter of factly. then her brows furrow in a mix of confusion and mild disgust. “why aren’t you texting first?”

“i am” he says, as if it’s obvious. “and how do you know about her?”

“your brother loves to sing about your less than finer moments” she says as she shuffles her notes. “something about a watch and throwing a fit at a restaurant?”

kylian snorts. “ i didn’t throw a fit, and that’s not even the whole story”

she gives him an unimpressed look, the kind that says go on then. he hesitates for a moment, then decides to let it all out - because his mother is his confidant, always has been. he tells her everything, sparing only the explicit details, of course. no need to mention his self sabotaging tendencies either, she knows him better than anyone after all. 

when he’s done, she just sighs. “mon coeur, you have a bad habit of getting in your own way”

kylian stays quiet, staring at the floor. he knows she’s right. he’s always known.

after a moment, she nudges his foot with hers. “so, what are you going to do about it?”

he looks up, jaw tight. “i don’t know”

she clicks her tongue. "figure it out, before someone emotionally available and uninterested in wasting her time comes around and sweeps her off her feet"

kylian groans, dropping his head into his arms. “the thing is, I don’t even know how to see her. she’s ignoring me as it is. how am I supposed to -”

“get creative” she interrupts, smirking now, thoroughly entertained by his suffering. “read a romance novel or something. maybe it’ll give you an idea”

it clicks for him just then. at rafael’s dinner party, you’d mentioned a book club offhandedly, saying that’s how you two knew each other. 

the next day at training, he sidles up to the physio, voice carefully casual. "what’s the book of the month?"

rafael blinks at him, caught off guard. "what?"

“the book club” kylian clarifies, like it’s something he always asks about. “what are you guys reading?”

rafael gives him a look, but he humors him and tells him the title.

 “i love that book!”

rafael squints. "really? you read?"

"of course" kylian lies. he hasn’t touched a book since he was in school.

he claps rafael on the back. “i should join your next meeting. would love to discuss it. such a  lovely read, I mean-”

“sure” the physio says, still eyeing him like he’s lost his mind. “you should know its just me and y/n though, and  we do a lot of talking. you should come prepared”

and kylian does prepare. as soon as training ends, he texts his assistant asking to pick up the book, and by the time he gets home, the paperback is waiting for him. he immediately dives in. it’s just as boring an activity as he remembered from school; his eyes skim, his mind wanders, but he endures. because, somehow, there’s a need to impress. a desire to make you think highly of him. so he reads. and when he’s done, he finds analysis videos on youtube and watches them too. 

when the sunday of the meeting comes, rafael texts to the both of you that his cat is not feeling well and he has to take it to the vet. kylian quickly texts back - hope your cat’s okay - all while in disbelief at his luck; he’s getting one on one time with you, which is something he wasn’t expecting at all. it feels like divine intervention. bless rafael’s cat. may its suffering not be in vain. 

he calls you next. surprisingly you pick up. 

“why are you hijacking my book club?” you demand before he can even get a word in. 

“I’m not hijacking” kylian says innocently. “i politely asked to join. anyway, do you want to come to my place instead of your usual cafe? you know its a hassle for me to get around in public”

“your place? ” you laugh. “so you can get me in your bed again?”

“we didn’t make it to my bed last time” kylian smirks. “we can fix that though, if you’d like”

“i'll pass” you mutter. “It's either the cafe or nothing”

then you hang up. 

kylian, somewhat anxiously, puts on a mask and a cap, and makes his way to the cafe you and rafael frequent for your two person book club.

he gets there first, and when you finally walk in, his eyes lock onto you. there’s an effortless confidence in your walk, your posture perfect, and of course you make heads turn. for a brief moment, his mind runs wild and falls into a daydream. he imagines you beside him on a red carpet, a possessive hand on the small of your back as you pose for the cameras. the ritual he usually dreads, turned into a spectacle where he gets to show you off. it’s a fleeting thought, but clear: if you were his, he’d want the world to know. 

you take a seat across from him, murmuring your greetings. again, kylian is struck by your beauty, by the way you effortlessly infiltrate his senses, leaving no room for anything else. 

"you're late," kylian says as you settle into your seat.

"oops" you reply, entirely unbothered.

he huffs out a laugh, then signals the waiter. coffee for you, herbal tea for him - he doesn’t do caffeine. 

“how are you?” he asks. “how’s life? did you cut your hair again, by the way? It looks nice”

you blink, caught off guard. “...yes” then, with a smirk: “you pay too much attention to me, lottin. you need a hobby”

you tap the book on the table, a clear attempt to steer the conversation away from yourself. “like reading, maybe. how’d you like this one?”

kylian slides the book away from your reach. "first i want to say sorry-"

you groan, cutting him off. "not this again"

“no, i’m serious” kylian exhales. here goes - first time being honest about this to someone out loud. “ i tend to self sabotage sometimes, to run away when i get scared - emotionally i mean. that's why i've sort of gone quiet the past couple months. it's been like that for a long time, and obviously its nothing to do with you and everything to do with me”

“clearly” you snort.

kylian gawks at you.

you arch a brow. "what? you think i was sitting here wondering, why isn’t he calling me? there must be something wrong with me?" you scoff. "i’m a catch. obviously you’re the problem"

you flick a stray curl out of your face, smirking, and kylian can’t help but stare.

then, leaning in, your voice drops, more serious now. "it wasn’t like that at first, though. i resented you for how you treated me that night in paris. it messed with my self esteem for a while. you made me feel... inadequate” a pause. “but now i know better. you were the problem, not me. so, like... it’s whatever. and you did apologize"

his stomach twists. he knew he'd hurt you that night, but hearing it put so plainly and so directly makes him hate himself a little for it.

he meets your gaze again, face turning more solemn. " i'm really sorry for that. i regret it so much.. i think it's the ugliest manifestation of my stupid issues, and it had to be on you, someone i really liked from the get go"

you play with a napkin on the table. "and after the night at your place… well, you said it yourself. you run"

"i want to change" kylian says earnestly. "i want to do better, because i like you. and i want to get to know you, not just sleep with you, and -"

the waiter arrives with your drinks, cutting him off. kylian silently prays he hasn't overheard much of your conversation - the last thing he wants and needs is his business to be all over the internet. 

"thanks" he murmurs to the waiter as he watches you take a careful first sip of your cappuccino. a small cloud of foam clings to your lips, and he watches, slightly transfixed, as your tongue peeks out of your mouth and lick it away. this shouldn't be as sensual as it is, but kylian who’s been left to fend for himself with nothing but his hands lately (and is bizarrely haunted by dreams where he begs for you) finds the simple action oddly obscene. he’s so distracted, he barely registers the sting when he tears open a sugar packet too carelessly, the sharp edge giving him a papercut. kylian snaps his eyes away from you, hissing under his breath and shaking his hand out.

"smooth" you tease, watching him examine the tiny wound.

he glances up at you, a small smile on his face. "you want to kiss it better?"

“you’re such a baby” you sigh, shaking your head.

but then you reach across the table, taking his hand in yours, running your thumb over the tiny cut. kylian stills, his breath hitching a little.

you slip your hand into your bag and pull out a tube of aquaphor. he watches, swallowing, as you dab his finger with a napkin. there’s something absurdly intimate about it, the tenderness in your touch, the way you hold his hand like it's something delicate. “anyway” he says, voice quieter now, “what i was getting at before is that i promise i'll cut out this bullshit going forward. obviously i haven't done much to prove my worth, but i want to show you. can i take you out on a date?”

you don’t look up as you smooth a tiny amount of ointment over the cut.  "kylian, you say you want to change. i want to believe you, because i like you too, and i want to get to know you better. but first you need to prove to me you actually mean what you say"

"there" you say when you’re done. you meet his gaze, your touch featherlight. “all better”

not quite. 

for a moment, disappointment flickers inside him. rejection, no matter how gentle, stings. and kylian isn’t used to that feeling. but it doesn’t linger, not really, because kylian thrives on challenges. his entire life has been built on discipline, persistence, proving himself to people. he has never ever wanted anything more than to be worthy of the things he desires most. and if that’s what it takes to win you over, then so be it.

his fingers shift, brushing against yours, his grip tightening just slightly. when he speaks, it’s with quiet conviction: "i will"

you give him a shy smile, a hopeful one. for now its enough.

"okay" he blurts, a few moments later. "can we talk about the book now? i actually did read it "

you laugh, and its the best sound he’s heard in a while. 

three months later

"mbappé is so well spoken" ana, your co-worker from the comms department, remarks over lunch one day, her tone full of admiration. "not too wordy, always straight to the point. every time i upload his press conference quotes, i’m like, ‘damn’”

"i know, right?" you perk up slightly. "he’s actually really smart. i don’t think people give him enough credit for that, and he’s also-"

you stop mid-sentence, suddenly aware of the way your friends are staring at you, wide eyed, like you've just declared the earth is flat.

"am i hearing this right?" daniel asks, incredulous. "are you... complimenting mbappé?"

you shrug, quickly dropping your gaze to your food, hoping they won’t make a big deal out of it.

“he’s a decent guy, i’ve realized” you shrug, trying to sound casual. in reality, and not for the first time, a paranoid part of you feels like you let something slip, like i have a crush on kylian mbappé is suddenly embarrassingly scrawled across your forehead in big bold letters.

you can’t help but find it amusing, how everything has shifted since the three months since he said he’d ‘prove’ himself to you. what started as pure loathing, then morphed into annoyance, then grudging respect and acceptance of attraction, is now teetering on something more scary. your entire perspective on him is being rewritten. that supposed arrogance? turns out, it was just confidence, a man aware of his capabilities and potential, someone moving through life unapologetically self-assured. and that self-absorbed image you once had of him? it couldn’t be farther from the truth – you see it now, in the way he interacts with people around him, how everyone who knows him speaks highly of him, the way he quirks his eyebrows whenever he gives someone his undivided attention in conversation , eyes sparkling slightly.

yes, you think about his eyes sparkling often. it's quite troubling.

he’s a regular fixure in your life now, a constant you never thought he’d become the day you saw him walk into your office for the very first time. a close friend, if you will. 

it started with him showing up to the book club again. you’d thought it was a one time thing the first time, but kylian kept coming, kept reading the books. then he started inviting you over whenever ethan visited (you’d stayed in touch with his little brother over instagram, bonding over your shared love for bullying kylian). little by little, you got to know him better, and it was terrifying, because everything you learned just made you like him more.

there’s no denying he’s your dream man, kind, ambitious, funny. he gets on your nerves a lot; you bicker over the most trivial things, and somehow, every argument leaves you wanting to kiss him senseless. not that he doesn’t know. he probably knows full well how much you want him, but this time he’s waiting for you to break first. after all, you’re the one who set an ultimatum. 

you never thought there'd be a list of things about him you'd find endearing, but there are: his very loud laugh, which never fails to make you smile, the childlike joy he gets from playing football, he way he adorably messes up the pronunciation of some english words in an effort to sound perfect.

time passes. your liking of him grows. for his birthday, you get him a cake that says happy birthday to my fave manwhore who can’t drive. he gives you a long, slightly confused look when he sees it, and that same evening, you and kylian spend his 26th birthday watching clueless.

you send him memes of himself, clips from tiktok of people making fun of his interviews. there are some edits, the kind that make your eyes go wide that you save but don’t send. not that you’re lacking in kylian thirst traps: when he goes to dubai for christmas break, he sends you shirtless pictures unprovoked, to which you keep replying with a '???' but stare at for far too long. 

he sends you pictures of himself at the beach too, playing with his niece and nephew who he doesn’t get to see nearly enough these days because of the distance. one evening, you even meet his niece over facetime, a sweet, chatty little girl who instantly makes things awkward by asking if you’re tonton kyky’s girlfriend. her mother hurriedly comes into frame profusely apologizing, before whisking her daughter away. kylian just chuckles awkwardly and changes the subject. 

you joke that he should throw away his bucket hats if he ever wants a shot at taking you out. the next day, he’s not wearing one, opting for a cap instead. when you clarify that you were joking (because, unfortunately, his sometimes questionable fashion sense isn’t putting you off this man), the ugly bucket hats make a triumphant return.

when he gets back, he gifts you a corny will you be my habibti? t shirt and an expensive bottle of perfume. that’s another thing you learn about kylian: he’s generous to people he cares about. with his money, yes, but also with his time - what little of it he actually gets to dictate. he’s attentive, remembering things you mention offhandedly, things even you forget you’ve said.

and you can’t help it, you open up to him, confiding in him your fears, your anxieties. you tell him your growing dissatisfaction at your job, how your boss keeps singing your praises but drags his feet on the promotion he said would come months ago. how you’re secretly interviewing at other jobs, testing the waters, seeing if there’s anything else out there that’s going to enable the growth you envision for yourself. little by little, kylian lets you in a well, telling you about how it really feels adjusting to life in madrid, how the loneliness he initially felt was waning thanks to his new friends, his teammates he’s now closer to, and you. it makes your stomach flutter, the knowledge that you’re becoming an important part of his daily life, like he is becoming in yours. 

one day, while working from home, your laptop propped on the kitchen table, you hear an insistent knock at the door. when you open it, you’re met with an unexpected sight - kylian, standing on your doorstep, holding a massive bouquet of flowers and a small gift bag.

"kylian?" you blink, caught off guard. "what are you doing here?" then, before he can answer, you add quickly "come in"

you step aside to let him in, still trying to process his presence in your tiny apartment. he shouldn’t be here, not when he’s recovering from a flu that’s kept him out of the copa del rey match today. you’d sent him a text checking on him in the morning, and the worrying update he’d given afterwards was a brief complaint about the fever being bad enough that he had to warn the coaching staff. so you really didn’t expect him to see him at your door today. 

yet here he is, cheeks slightly puffy, eyes watery and bleary with exhaustion, bundled up in a warm sweater.

“congratulations!” he says weakly, brandishing the flowers to you. “had to personally deliver these”

you take the beautiful flowers from his hand, face heating, not really sure what you’re being congratulated for. “...thank you?”

he sees the confusion on your face. “i heard you got that promotion. your boss is a blabber mouth by the way, i ran into him at the car park the other day”

“ohh” you say in realization, chuckling. “thanks. i’m not taking the promotion, though. i actually just put in my two week notice. i got the job i was telling you about”

kylian's brows lift in surprise, and for a moment, he just stares at you, processing your words. then, slowly, he grins.

“no way” his voice is hoarse and croaky from being sick, but there’s warmth in it. you can tell he’s really happy for you.  “you got it?”

“i got it” you confirm, a little breathless, still getting used to saying it out loud.

his eyes soften, and he shoves the small gift bag into your hands. “open it”

you rip off the wrapping and find a jewelry box inside. when you open it, a beautiful gold necklace catches your eye. you can’t help but gasp a little, totally taken by how pretty the pendant is as you hold it up to the light. but then you gasp even louder when you realize the pendant has the same design as the signet ring you’ve had forever - your grandfather’s ring, the one you’ve kept all these years.

“how-what-”  you stutter, totally speechless.

kylian watches you with a small smile, clearly enjoying your reaction. "i saw you wearing the ring during that photoshoot a while back" he says. "and when i went to morocco a couple weeks ago.. well you know i have my ways-” he winks, but sneezes loudly immediately after, throwing off his attempt at being smooth. “- anyway, i asked around and found the jeweler who made it, and luckily they’re still in business. had them make a matching necklace”

“thank you, kylian,” you say softly, blinking against the tears welling up in your eyes. this is, without a doubt, the most thoughtful gift you’ve ever received. you run your fingers over the pendant, still in awe, your chest tightening with something overwhelming and warm

before you can overthink it, you step forward and wrap your arms around him. he stiffens for half a second, probably because you never hug him, but then he melts into it, sighing against your hair as his arms slide around your waist.

“i really love it” you mumble against his shoulder.

“yeah?” his voice is quieter.

“yeah”

he pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you. his hands linger at your waist, maybe intentionally, and you don’t miss his eyes flickering down to your lips for a second. 

“come here” he murmurs. “i want to put it on you”

you turn around, heart hammering as he gently lifts your hair and clasps the necklace around your neck. his fingers brush against your skin, and you feel goosebumps rise where he’s touched you. you don’t want his touch to leave you. 

“perfect” he says, and when you turn back to face him, he’s already watching you like he’s thinking the same thing.

but of course, the moment is ruined when he screws up his face, and after muttering a quick ‘sorry’, sneezes loudly. 

with his grand romantic gesture interrupted by sneezing two times now, you sit him down on your couch and make him tea, and somehow, some minutes later he ends up stretched out on your couch like he lives here, bundled up in a blanket he stole from your bed.

“you know what’s great about you quitting?” kylian mutters from the couch. “i mean, besides the pay raise and growth opportunities you’ll get at your new job”

you hum in expectation, raising an eyebrow as you glance over from your laptop.

“we when we start dating, it won’t cause complications” he says, chuckling. “you won’t have to tell hr, or anything”

“when, and not if?” you tease. “that confident?”

“very confident” he says. “and you know what, i already know where our first date will be: paris. I’ll show you my city”

you laugh, shaking your head at him. 

you fall into a comfortable silence where you keep working, fingers tapping against the keyboard as he lounges there, half asleep. every now and then, you hear him shift, adjusting the blanket or sighing softly. at one point, he mutters something incoherent, and when you glance over, he’s blinking at you sleepily, like he’s fighting to stay awake.

“what?” you ask.

he just stares at you for a second, eyes heavy lidded, voice thick with exhaustion when he finally says, “nothing. just.. you look nice when you’re focused”

your fingers falter over the keyboard. you try to ignore the way your pulse stutters at his words, how the weight of his gaze lingers on you even after he closes his eyes again.

thankfully for kylian, being a football prodigy means he has never known (and will never know) the trauma of a microsoft teams notification ping. so he sleeps on, undisturbed, curled up in the middle of your space like he belongs there.

you touch the necklace laying on your chest every couple minutes as you work. your eyes keep wandering to the flowers now sitting in a vase. you’re so giddy, so happy to be seen and to be known like this. and all from the man napping on your couch. the person you thought you’d never like as a person, much less romantically. funny how life works.

employees get the occasional perk: a ticket to a home game at the bernabeu. seeing as these are your last few days as a real madrid employee, you don’t want to miss what could be your final chance to watch a match from the stands. you want to soak it up, to fully live in it. 

so here you are, inside the stadium, weaving through the crowd on your way to your seat. but first, a quick stop at the restroom - you’ve come straight from the office after a long day, and you could use a splash of cold water to the face.

as you stand at the sink, washing your hands, you catch a woman glancing at you in the mirror. when you turn to offer a polite smile, she meets your gaze.

“hi” she says warmly. “you probably don’t remember me, but i remember you”

you blink, trying to place her. “hi…yeah, i don’t think i do” you admit sheepishly.

she laughs. “no worries. you must have a lot of people running around like headless chickens, asking where the conference rooms are”

and then it clicks. last year, in the office, on your way to the break room, she had stopped you to ask for directions. she even complimented your nails, you remember now. 

“i do remember!” you brighten. yet, something about her still tugs at you, like you’ve seen her face a thousand times before.

“i was here negotiating my son’s contract” she adds with a knowing smile.

and that’s when it hits you. the resemblance is unmistakable. she looks just like him.

“oh” your stomach flips. this isn’t how you imagined meeting kylian’s mother. “well, i’m glad you’re back, its good to see you again. i hope you enjoy the match tonight”

you move to dry your hands, but she stops you, eyes twinkling. “ you’re y/n, right? i’ve heard a lot about you.” her tone is teasing. “why don’t you join me tonight? the seats are pretty nice”

and just like that, you find yourself watching the game from the vip section, seated next to kylian’s mother. 

before kickoff, you shoot kylian a quick text: ran into your mom and now we’re sitting together. she’s already told me a million embarrassing stories, and i’ll dig for more if you bore me!!

he doesn’t bore you. in fact, the entire team plays what is probably their best match of the season. kylian scores a hat trick, and the stadium erupts with every goal. his mother remains composed each time he scores, but you catch the glint of pride in her eyes, the quiet joy of a mother watching her son finally hit his stride after a rough start to the season.

after the match, fayza invites you to join her and kylian for dinner at his house. you hesitate, not wanting to intrude on what’s likely one of the rare moments they get to catch up, but she doesn’t let you get away that easily.

“please” she insists. “i want to get to know my son’s best friend in madrid”

you don’t stand a chance. now you understand where kylian gets his charm from.

“okay” you say, smiling shyly as you nod.

together, you make your way to the underground car park to wait for him. he’s still making his rounds—talking to journalists, answering questions, stopping for pictures with fans. it’s quieter down here, the hum of engines and the distant murmur of departing spectators filling the space. from where you stand, you catch glimpses of him through the crowd. his energy is magnetic. it’s his night, his hattrick, his triumph, and the joy radiating off of him is infectious.

when he finally joins you, he’s bouncing his signed match ball against the floor, his excitement still buzzing through him. his mother greets him first, and then he turns to you, wrapping you in a tight hug that catches you off guard. he smells like body wash and his usual cologne, the warmth of his hoodie pressed against you, and beneath it all, you can hear the steady, fast beat of his heart.

“congratulations” you murmur. “you were amazing”

“thanks” he grins again, bouncing the ball again before holding it up to you and pulling out a sharpie from his pocket. “can you sign this for me?”

you blink at him, surprised. “me?”

he nods, his expression softening. “it’s your last day here. i feel like we should mark it somehow”

the sentiment catches you off guard, but you’re extremely touched.  kylian has been surprising you a lot lately. and every single day, you keep falling.

you take the sharpie from him, searching for a free spot among the messages from his teammates - inside jokes, congratulations, doodles squeezed between signatures. finally, you find a space just big enough. you hesitate for a second, then, biting back a smile, you write:

congratulations, ky <3. trip to paris to celebrate?

later, in the car, the night stretching out around you, you sit side by side in the backseat. somehow, your hands find each other in the dark, fingers intertwining like second nature. his thumb brushes absentmindedly over the back of your hand as if he’d done it a hundred times before.

you watch as he turns the match ball in his lap, examining the messages under the shifting yellow glow of the streetlights. then, he pauses. his fingers trace over your writing slowly, as if reading it again and again. 

when he finally looks up, his smile is so wide his dimples pop. and in that moment, you know he knows he’s won.

tags: @idontknowwhatthisvis555 @nowrosesaredead @iuoiyr @acarolnzinhaa-03 @ynkfreeastheocean @scottishthistle @user6373738 @loonworld @whateveryouloser @greyishbach @ajsboys @kyliansonlygf @lucysantos6-blog @tuliptopiasstuff @kennasutopia @cinderellawithashoe @akiracim @kymb-10 @germanapples @heartbreakylian @ishaaglobus2002 @flawlessdiamond1 @ouiouibaguettei @kylianmb9 @peaceiswonderful @maricciardo @monodolan @borikenlovee

[literallywtflol]

Red, Red Wine

Synopsis: Sharing a drink with Mydei---however, your means to drink may be deemed a bit... unconventional.

Warnings: NSFW, slight(?) spoilers, suggestive, implied dom!mydei, implied sub!reader, gn!reader

MDNI, DO NOT TRANSLATE, DO NOT REPOST OUTSIDE OF TUMBLR.

Divider by: aquazero

Drink with me. When you hear these words, normally, one would imagine a time of relaxation within the warm waters of the baths, the most luxurious of which, belonging to the Chrysos Heirs. Straddled on the lap of Mydeimos, however, was your reality. His body was your throne, as you grasped onto his shoulders, and timidly let your legs rest atop the large muscles of his thighs. A golden chalice in his right hand, he made quite the show of drinking from it. His head tilted back ever so slightly; Eyes half lidded, and his pupils refused to move from your face. His Adam's apple would bob every so often, signaling his current act to satiate a thirst within him. An internal thirst---one that wine could only pretend to quench. When he brought the chalice down, his head remained in position. His eyes failed to become any brighter. It was clear, then, that he was seeking to satiate yet another thing within him---a sort of thirst that could only be quenched by you.

I wish to share this drink with you, he would acclaim. His voice was near lost, breathy as his chest heaved in anticipation. Skeptically, you leaned forward into the man to connect your lips to the chalice. Just when you were about to meet the gold material, he pulled the drink away from your lips, causing you to fall all the way forward. Your hands flew up instinctively to soften your fall onto the bare, chiseled torso before you. With hands dwarfed by his pectorals, you hesitated to look up at him. Once you did, however, you'd find he was already looking down at you. He brought the chalice close to his chest, tilting it slightly---an act that was paired with a deep inhale. His torso swelled in natural response. A breath caught in your throat and, in the same instant, the chalice drink finally began to pour. You both watched in fascination as crimson wine flowed down Mydei's body. In between his pectorals, down to the ridges of his abs. Very small streams would flow off to the side, and trace his obliques. Your breathing slows, watching the way his body twitched lightly at the slightly cold drink flowing down his skin; Small reflections of yourself could be found, shimmering in the head of the ruby streams, before they disappeared from your vision---partly because they continued to flow down his body, and partly because you raised your gaze back to his.

You couldn't help but shiver when the wine slowly dragged itself all the way down to where you two connected, soaking the both of you even more, before rolling down your thighs and onto the seat. Well, what are you waiting for? He rumbled, voice low as he rolled his hips from under you---making you whine. One arm braced behind his head, taut bicep on full display. The other found it's way to your back, tracing upwards of your spine, before intertwining his fingers in your hair. Go on. Drink from me. From your king. With little guidance from his hand on the back of your head, you lowered yourself and stuck out your tongue, providing kitten licks to the skin in between his pectorals. The soft remnants of the wine that once passed through the valley of muscle intertwined with the taste of Mydeimos himself.

A groan emerged from deep within his chest---when it rolled from his throat, it told stories of true carnality. Desire, hardly tamed within his own body---veins bulging, muscles tense at the ministrations of your tongue. You began to whimper softly yourself, as he slowly rubbed his fingers against your scalp. The scent of his skin became overwhelming as your vision blurred. He pressed your head into his chest, ever so slightly, before suddenly (and very roughly) grabbing your scalp and pulling you away from his skin. The sight was breathtaking; A stain of the crimson wine was visible on your bottom lip---tears of excitement pricked at the corners of your eyes, and your hands had moved back up to his shoulders, attempting to grasp them for dear life. No, he growled. Not like this. You will not lick at me, like a starved animal. No---you will savor me. Savor the taste of wine on my skin. Draw your tongue and capture the most of it. Taste me, truly, and revere. Revel in it, as you would the most decadent wine from a golden chalice. He let go of your hair, dropping you back onto your torso. His arms lounged at the edge of the seat behind him; Rounded shoulders now fully on display as he rolled his hips under you once more, a moan rasping from his throat, unabashed---his eyes never leaving yours, fully intent on displaying his desire of pure filth; Sin, his sin, was never something he intended to hide. Properly, this time. Don't you dare restrain yourself. Taste your king, and quench the thirst you're afraid to show me---and let me watch you satisfy yourself. Go on, now.

[misswynters]

Picking baby names isnt easy...

short drabble

featuring. ekko x pregnant! reader

a/n. im sorry i just cant get enough of it, seriously (idk what this is but here you go everyone!) back from the dead

Soft rain sounds pattered against the windows as you sat in Ekko’s hideout, your feet propped up on a stack of cushions. The dim light cast a warm glow over the room, highlighting the scattered trinkets and gadgets Ekko had been working on. You were wrapped in one of his oversized hoodies, feeling cozy despite the growing weight of your belly.

Ekko paced back and forth across the room, muttering to himself as he tinkered with two small devices. He recently told you he was working on there cute anklets for the twins that would alert him if they were ever in danger. He already made one for you, at the back of it there was a small watch that could turn back time. But he emphasized that it should only be used if you were in a situation you knew you couldn't make it out alive. Luckily you never needed to use it. ANYWAYS. His movements were restless, like he couldn’t sit still. You watched him with a small smile, finding his energy endearing.

“Ekko,” you called softly, and he glanced up, his hands still fiddling with the wires.

“Yeah, Firefly?” he replied, tilting his head at you.

“Come sit with me,” you said, patting the space next to you.

His face softened immediately. “In a minute,” he said, though you could see him hesitating.

“Ekko,” you said again, a bit more pointedly. “I’m pregnant, and I want cuddles. Now.”

That did it. He set the baby anklets down with a laugh and crossed the room to you. “You always know how to get your way, huh?” he teased, plopping down beside you.

You leaned into him with a grin. “It’s a talent of mine.”

He wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. His other hand instinctively went to your belly, where the twins gave a small kick in response. Ekko’s eyes lit up, his grin spreading across his face.

“The little ones active today,” he murmured, rubbing slow circles over your stomach.

You hummed in agreement, resting your head on his shoulder. “Probably because their dad never sits still.”

“Hey!” he protested, though his laugh gave him away. “I’m totally calm and chill.”

“Sure you are,” you teased, giving him a playful nudge.

For a moment, the two of you just sat there, listening to the rain and enjoying the quiet. Then, out of nowhere, you felt a small pang in your back. A sharp pain that made you wince.

Ekko noticed immediately, his eyes wide with concern. “What’s wrong? Are you okay? Is it the twins?”

You shook your head, trying to wave him off. “It’s just a little back pain. Comes with the territory.”

But Ekko wasn’t having it. “Alright, that’s it,” he declared, gently guiding you to lean forward a bit. “You’re getting a massage.”

You laughed, trying to protest. “Ekko, you don’t have to—”

“Shhh,” he cut you off, already starting to work his hands over your shoulders and back. His touch was surprisingly gentle, and you felt yourself relax almost immediately.

“Better?” he asked, his voice soft.

“Much better,” you admitted, melting under his care.

He leaned down, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Good. Gotta take care of my Firefly.” You couldn’t help but smile at the nickname, your heart swelling with affection. Ekko always had a way of making you feel like the most important person in the world.

“Y’know,” he said after a moment, his hands still kneading your shoulders, “I’ve been thinking about what we should name the them.”

“Oh?” you said, raising an eyebrow. “What ideas do you have?”

He grinned, clearly excited. “Okay, hear me out: what if we name them something cool, like Blaze and Nova?”

You laughed, the sound filling the room. “Ekko, those sound like superhero names.”

“Exactly!” he said, his grin widening. “Our twins are going to be heroes. Just like their mom.”

You rolled your eyes playfully. “And their dad,” you added.

You sat there for a bit pondering about names to give the twins since you were going to be due soon. Never even given the though of giving them a name yet. "What about Noa and April?" you added looking at him, with cute clear eyes. Trying your hardest to find the twins some good names. Who knew it would be tough.

"Eh, Personally I don't like it. Anyways," Ekko’s expression softened at that, his hand coming up to cup your cheek. You couldn't believe he quickly switched the subject. “We’re gonna be a good team, Firefly. You, me, and the little ones.”

You leaned into his touch, feeling tears prick at the corners of your eyes. “I know,” you said softly.

Suddenly, Ekko shifted, kneeling down in front of you so he was eye-level with your belly. “Alright, babies,” he said, his tone has a hint of mockery with serious undertone. “You better behave in there and stop giving your mom back pain, or we’re gonna have a few words when you get out.”

You burst out laughing, covering your face with your hands. “Ekko, you’re hilarious!”

He grinned up at you, his eyes sparkling. “Yeah of course i am.”

“I love you,” you admitted, reaching out to run your fingers through his hair.

He leaned into your touch, closing his eyes for a moment before pressing a soft kiss to your belly. “And I love you, too. All three of you.”

The sweetness of the moment made your heart ache in the best way. Ekko was everything you could’ve hoped for: supportive, loving, and just the right amount of goofy.

As he climbed back onto the couch beside you, he wrapped you in his arms, holding you close like he never wanted to let go. You rested your head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

“I’m really lucky to have you,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

Ekko tightened his hold on you, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Nah, Firefly. I’m the lucky one.”

And as the rain continued to fall outside, the two of you stayed curled up together, safe and warm in each other’s arms, dreaming of the bright future ahead.

this is absolutely lazy of a drabble… 0-o

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[biblical-chronicles]

Locked out

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where you lock yourself out of your hotel room and end up in Noel's.

[18+ !!!] [enemies to lovers]

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The job had its perks. Traveling the world, working with some of the biggest gigs, free booze—Oasis had money to burn, after all. But there was one massive, massive downside.

Noel fucking Gallagher.

It wasn’t just that he was a sarcastic, self-important, grumpy bastard (which he absolutely was). It wasn’t even that he always had some smart-arse comment locked and loaded, ready to wind you up. It was the fact that he seemed to enjoy it, like taking the piss out of you was a personal hobby.

The lads had clocked it ages ago.

"How old are you two, seriously?" Guigs had said just the other night, shaking his head as you and Noel argued over god knows what. "You’re worse than me Nan and Grandad, swear down."

"Yeah, the sexual tension’s killin’ me," Bonehead had added, smirking as he took a drag from his cigarette.

Noel had scoffed, shaking his head. "Fucking hell, mate. I’d sooner shag the local nitty than deal with this one."

You flipped him off, unfazed. "Oh, yeah? I bet the nitty would be the one having to get tested after that, dickhead."

It was constant, this back-and-forth, from the moment you woke up to the second you clocked out. Noel loved to threaten to fire you at least once a day, always with the same lazy reasoning.

"Should’ve sacked you ages ago," he’d mutter, watching you tune his guitar before a gig. "Only reason you’re still ‘ere is ‘cause I can’t be arsed teachin’ some other muppet how I like it."

"Yeah, yeah," you’d reply, never looking up. "Don’t do me any favors, Gallagher."

And so it went.

Now, though, none of that mattered. Not the bickering, not the jabs. Because right now? You were stood in the dimly lit hotel lobby, staring at a handwritten sign that might as well have been a death sentence.

"LOBBY CLOSED. OPERATING HOURS: 6 AM - 12 PM."

"Fucking great," you muttered, running a hand down your face.

It had been a long day, and all you wanted was a shower, a bed, and maybe a few hours of peace before having to deal with Noel’s bullshit all over again tomorrow. But no, instead, you had to stand here like a mug because somehow, in your exhaustion, you’d managed to lock yourself out of your room.

Just as you were debating whether you could break into your own room with sheer willpower alone, the sound of footsteps echoed through the lobby.

And just like fucking clockwork—

"Eh?"

You knew that voice.

"Did you get lost, or what?"

You shut your eyes for a brief moment, praying for strength, then turned to see Noel strolling in through the revolving door.

He was still dressed from wherever the fuck he’d been; jeans, adidas trainers, a zip-up jacket with the collar popped just enough to make him look like he was about to sell you dodgy gear in a car park.

You gritted your teeth. "Fuck off, Noel."

His smirk widened, slow and knowing. "Ohh, someone’s touchy."

You turned back to the desk, hoping he’d get bored and leave. No such luck. He sauntered up beside you, eyes flicking to the sign before back to you.

Realization dawned, and then he just laughed.

"No." He pointed at you, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe his luck. "No fuckin’ way. You locked yourself out, didn’t you?"

You glared at him, crossing your arms. "No."

He raised an eyebrow, amused.

You exhaled sharply. "Okay, maybe, and no one is even here! How is a lobby not 24/7?"

"And you didn’t take your key, and you didn’t check the sign first," he said, as if reading from a list of your stupid decisions. "Jesus Christ, love. That’s incredible."

You scowled. "Piss off."

Noel, clearly enjoying himself, leaned against the counter, eyes twinkling with pure delight. "Me? Oh, nah. I think I’ll stick around, actually. This is too fuckin’ good."

You groaned. "Go to bed, Noel."

"Bed?" He feigned a yawn, stretching his arms dramatically. "Oh, yeah. That’s right. I can go to bed. Because I have access to me own fuckin’ room."

You clenched your fists. "I have a backstage pass. I’ll just sleep in the tour bus."

Noel snorted. "Yeah? Or on one of them couches over there?" He gestured vaguely to the dimly lit lobby seating area. "Might be comfy, if no one nicks your shite first."

You stilled.

He grinned. "Ohh, right. Didn’t think about that, did ya?"

You huffed. "Fuck."

Noel pressed a hand to his chest in mock sympathy. "Tragic, really." Then, after a beat, "... Guess you’re stuck here then."

You gave him a flat look. "Guess so."

He smirked, clearly waiting for you to crack.

Which is why it pained you—physically—when you exhaled and muttered, "Or… I could stay in yours. Just ‘til the desk opens."

Noel blinked. "Oh?"

You clenched your jaw. "So no one nicks me shite."

His smirk returned, slow and victorious. "Yeah, yeah. ‘Course. Wouldn’t want anyone robbin’ your precious little pass, would we?"

You resisted the urge to deck him.

"Alright then," he said, turning toward the lifts, his voice filled with pure satisfaction. "C’mon, roomie."

You glared at his back as you followed him down the corridors.

Noel shut the door behind him and turned to face you, arms crossed, an insufferable smirk plastered across his face.

"Well, well," he said, leaning back against the door. "Never thought I’d see the day you begged to stay in me room."

You scoffed, rolling your eyes as you dropped your bag by the chair. "Begged? Fuck off, Noel. I suggested it ‘cause I had no choice."

He clicked his tongue, shaking his head. "Ahh, see, that’s where you’re wrong, love. You had a choice." He gestured vaguely toward the lobby. "Could’ve stayed down there, kept them couches company."

"And let some knobhead nick me pass? Yeah, right." You crossed your arms. "This is just survival, mate. Has nothing to do with you."

His smirk widened. "Yeah? Then why’re you lookin’ at me like that?"

You blinked. "Like what?"

Noel tilted his head, eyes sweeping over you, unreadable. "Like you wanna throttle me."

You huffed, exasperated. "That’s just me natural state when you’re around, Gallagher."

"Ahh." He grinned. "See, I knew you liked me."

You let out a sharp laugh. "Like you? Jesus, Noel, I wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire."

His grin didn’t falter. In fact, it only grew.

"Yeah? Funny," he mused, stepping closer, voice low, lazy. "‘Cause you’re still ‘ere, ain’t ya?"

You swallowed but held your ground. "I don’t have a room, Noel."

He hummed, nodding slowly. "Right, yeah. That’s why you’re ‘ere. Not ‘cause you wanna get me alone, see what all the fuss is about."

You scoffed, shaking your head. "You are so full of yourself."

He gave you a slow once-over, something dark and knowing flickering in his gaze. "Yeah?"

You inhaled sharply, blood running hot. "Fuck you."

Noel’s smirk twitched—almost like he’d been waiting for you to say that.

"Ohh, wouldn’t you like that?"

The air shifted.

You were on him before you could think, hands grabbing at his shirt, pulling him down, crashing your mouth against his.

Noel barely had a second to react before he was pushing back, hands gripping your waist, shoving you up against the nearest wall. The impact sent a lamp wobbling on the bedside table, the dull thud of your back against the wall swallowed by the sound of both your ragged breaths.

His lips were warm, rough, demanding. His fingers dug into your waist, like he needed to anchor himself.

You bit his bottom lip, hard, just to be a dickhead.

Noel groaned against your mouth, grip tightening. "Oh, you wanna play it like that, do ya?"

Before you could smirk, he grabbed your wrists and pinned them against the wall, pressing in, chest flush against yours.

You yanked a hand free, fingers tangling in his hair, tugging just to make him groan—and when he did, when his breath stuttered, you felt it everywhere.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered against your lips.

You smirked. "What’s wrong, Gallagher?" you breathed, voice teasing, drunk on the power shift. "Thought you could handle me?"

Noel laughed. "Oh, sweetheart," he murmured, lips grazing your jaw, "I could ruin you."

Your stomach dropped.

You clenched your jaw. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Your grip tightened in his hair again, yanking his head back just enough to make him hiss. His smirk didn’t falter, though—if anything, it widened, smug and infuriating.

"You arrogant twat," you breathed, dragging your nails down the back of his neck. "Think you’re some fuckin’ god, don’t ya?"

Noel chuckled—dark, low. "Please, love," he murmured, voice dripping with mockery. "You’ve been gaggin’ for this since the day we met. Don’t pretend otherwise."

Your teeth gritted. "You’re deluded."

"Yeah?" He stepped closer, the heat of him pressing against you, trapping you between his body and the wall. "Then why ain’t you pushin’ me away?"

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt before you even realized it, and that was all it took.

One second, you were glaring up at him, seething, and the next—you were airborne.

A breathless gasp tore from your throat as he threw you onto the bed, the mattress dipping beneath the sudden force of your body. Before you could even scramble upright, he was on you—knees bracketing your hips, hands gripping your wrists, pressing them into the sheets.

"You bastard—"

A sharp smack landed on your thigh, jolting you, heat blooming where his palm connected.

You froze.

Noel grinned. "What was that, sweetheart?"

Your breathing was uneven, chest rising and falling rapidly beneath him. You hated the way your body betrayed you—the way your back arched, the way your thighs instinctively clenched together at the sting of his hand.

He noticed.

Of course he noticed.

His smirk deepened. "Ohhh, that’s what you like, is it?" Another sharp slap—same spot, same deliberate pressure, just enough to make you jolt. "That why you’ve been windin’ me up all this time? Hopin’ I’d do this?"

You bit back a gasp as his teeth grazed your jaw, lips teasing over the heated skin just below your ear, fingers tightening where he held you down.

"You gonna let me go, or you just gonna sit here runnin’ your gob all night?" you shot back, arching up slightly beneath him, trying to gain some kind of control back.

Noel laughed, a little breathless. "Oh, you love this, don’t ya?" His hands shifted, releasing your wrists just to drag down your arms, over your waist, gripping your hips hard. "All that fight, all that fuckin’ attitude—"

"You love it," you shot back, daring.

Something snapped behind his eyes.

Before you could say another word, his mouth crashed against yours again.

It was all teeth, all tension, years of resentment and frustration and something else entirely spilling out between you.

You clawed at him in return, nails dragging up his back, yanking at his hair, swallowing the groan that tore from his throat.

"Still wanna tell me to fuck off, love?" Noel rasped against your lips, breath uneven.

Your fingers fisted in his shirt, pulling him back down. "Shut up." you muttered, crashing your mouth against his again.

He barely hesitated before paying you back, fisting a hand into your hair and pulling your head back, exposing the curve of your throat. His mouth was on you in an instant, hot and open, biting down just enough to make you gasp.

"Fuckin’ knew it," he muttered, voice thick with something triumphant. "Knew you’d be like this—mouthy little thing until you’re under me."

"And yet again, shut it." you snapped, even as your back arched, chasing the feel of him.

He laughed, breathless and sharp, his free hand sliding down to your thigh, gripping hard. Without warning, he flipped you onto your stomach, pressing you down against the mattress with the weight of him. You let out a sound somewhere between frustration and something else entirely, but any protest died in your throat when his hand slapped against your arse, the sting shooting straight through you.

"That shut you up quick, didn’t it?" he murmured, lips ghosting over the shell of your ear.

You tried to glare at him over your shoulder, but the effect was ruined by the way your breath hitched when he did it again, the sharp slap sending heat curling low in your stomach.

"Say it," he taunted, his grip tightening on your hip. "Say you want me."

You clenched your jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

But Noel was nothing if not persistent. His hand slid lower, teasing, just enough to make you squirm beneath him. His teeth grazed your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin. "C’mon, sweetheart. We both know you do."

Your pride was a stubborn thing, but your body was a traitor.

You turned your head just enough to meet his gaze, eyes dark with something heady and reckless. "Go on, then," you breathed. "Do your worst."

His fingers dug into your hips as he dragged you back against him, his grip bruising, possessive. You barely had a moment to catch your breath before his teeth found your shoulder again, biting down just enough to make you jolt beneath him. He groaned at the way you twitched, how your body betrayed that last shred of resistance you were so desperately clinging to.

"That’s more like it," he muttered against your skin, his voice thick with amusement. "Knew you just needed someone to put you in your place."

You scoffed, even as your breath came quicker. "You think that’s you?"

He laughed. "Oh, love," he murmured, dragging his mouth up the side of your neck, "I know it is."

His hands slid lower, mapping the shape of you, fingers pressing into every curve like he wanted to commit it to memory. He moved with a slow, deliberate kind of cruelty, reveling in every shudder, every little sound you didn’t mean to make. You clenched your jaw, still stubborn, but it only made him smirk against your skin.

"Still holding out on me?" he whispered, lips brushing your ear. "Let’s see how long that lasts."

Then his hands gripped tighter, and he moved—a slow, devastating roll of his hips that had you sucking in a sharp breath. You felt the shape of him pressed firmly against you, the sheer heat of him burning through the layers between you both.

And then, just to be cruel, he stilled.

You let out an involuntary sound of frustration, which only made his grin widen. "Oh, what’s that?" he teased, rolling his hips just slightly, barely giving you anything. "Getting impatient, are we?"

You gritted your teeth, refusing to play into it.

His breath ghosted over your ear, smug and infuriating. "You wanna try that again, sweetheart?" His hand slid down, teasing at the edge of your waistband, making heat curl low in your stomach. "Or am I gonna have to make you say it?"

You swallowed hard, every nerve in your body alive, burning with the heat of him. Your pride screamed at you to hold out just a little longer, to refuse him one last time.

But then he rocked against you again, the friction sending sparks up your spine, and every ounce of stubbornness melted right out of you.

"Fuck," you muttered, barely more than a breath. "Please."

Noel chuckled, dragging his lips over your shoulder. "There she is."

The moment that single word fell from your lips, his control snapped. His fingers curled into the waistband of your clothes, yanking them down with a rough impatience that sent a shiver racing through you. His trousers quickly followed, ending up in a pile on the floor.

A sharp gasp tore from your throat as he pressed against you again, now with nothing between you. The heat of him, how hard he already was, it made your stomach twist in anticipation. But instead of giving you what you were desperate for, he dragged the moment out, hands roaming over your bare skin, taking his time.

"You feel that?" he murmured, rolling his hips just enough for you to feel the full length of him pressing against you, the slow friction making your breath catch. "That’s what you’ve been fighting, sweetheart. Tell me—was it worth it?"

You barely had time to shudder before he reached back, guiding himself against you, teasing, just barely pressing in before retreating again.

You shifted, pushing back against him, but his grip tightened immediately, holding you in place. "Ah, ah," he taunted, fingers still digging into your hips. "You finally beg for it, and now you think you’re in charge?"

You opened your mouth to snap something back—maybe something sharp, maybe something desperate, you weren’t even sure—but before you could, he thrust inside you in one smooth, deep motion.

The air left your lungs in a sharp, broken gasp.

"There you go." he muttered, his voice a little rougher now.

He barely gave you a moment to adjust before he set a brutal pace, dragging out only to slam back in, the force of it driving you further into the mattress. The sounds of skin against skin, breathless, ragged gasps, and the creak of the bed quickly were the only things filling the space between you.

You fisted the sheets, struggling to hold onto even a shred of composure, but Noel was relentless. His fingers curled around your jaw, tilting your head back slightly. "Listen to yourself" he murmured, lips brushing your ear. "Tried so hard to act like you didn’t want this. And now you’re dripping for me."

The humiliation only made the heat in your belly coil tighter.

As if sensing it, Noel let out a low chuckle. "You like that, don’t you?" He drove into you harder, just to hear the little choked noise that escaped your throat. "Fuck, you’re taking me so well."

His other hand slid between your bodies, fingers finding that sensitive spot between your legs. The second he touched you, you clenched harder around him, and Noel groaned, sending a fresh wave of arousal crashing through you.

"Shit," Noel rasped, his pace stuttering for half a second before he caught himself. "Filthy fuckin’ thing, aren’t you?"

His grip on your hips was bruising, each snap of his hips knocking you further into the mattress, dragging another broken sound from your throat. You couldn’t even think, couldn’t do anything but take it, your body molded to his will, wrecked under the sheer force of him.

And he knew it.

"Where’s all that attitude now, huh?" His voice was tinged with mockery, as his hand smoothed up the curve of your spine, just for a moment, just long enough to make you think he might show some mercy.

Then he fisted his hand into your hair and yanked.

A sharp gasp ripped from your lips as your head was wrenched back, the burn at your scalp sending a jolt straight through you. Your back arched instinctively, pressing you closer against him, the new angle making you whimper.

"That’s more like it," Noel murmured, his grip in your hair tightening as he used it to pull you back against him, making you feel every inch of him sinking even deeper.

His other hand slid up your throat, fingers pressing just enough to make your pulse hammer under his touch.

"You like when I handle you like this, don’t you?" he muttered, voice a low rasp against your ear.

He loosened his grip on your throat just enough for you to speak, but your words failed you. All you could do was let out a broken, pleading sound.

Noel groaned, his fingers flexing around your throat like he felt the way you clenched around him. "Fuck, you’re gonna make me come just with these sweet desperate moans love."

He wrenched your head back a bit further, forcing your spine into a deeper arch, forcing you to take him exactly how he wanted. Every thrust was rough, deliberate, his hips slamming against you hard enough to bruise. Your body had no choice but to follow, every nerve ending alight, a coil of unbearable tension winding tighter and tighter in your core.

"No more remarks? No more telling me to fuck off?" he taunted, breath hot against your cheek.

Your fingers scrambled for purchase against the sheets, your mind a haze of pleasure and frustration. You wanted to say something, wanted to bite back just to spite him, but he was wrecking you, and you could barely form a single coherent thought.

So instead, you just whimpered his name.

"Fuck, that’s it," he rasped, voice wrecked. "You gonna come for me, sweetheart? You gonna fall apart just like this, with my cock buried inside you?"

His fingers dipped lower again, rubbing against your clit in tight, unrelenting circles, the pace of his thrusts turning ragged, desperate. The coil inside you twisted tighter, pleasure crashing over you in waves until you could barely breathe.

"You close?" he taunted, yanking your head back again, making sure you felt every single inch of him. "I can feel it, sweetheart, feel you gripping me so fuckin’ tight. Just let go. Come for me."

Your body locked up, pleasure blinding, white-hot and overwhelming as it crashed over you in wave after wave. You were dimly aware of your own broken cries, of the way your walls clenched around him like a vice, but nothing existed beyond the pure bliss of it.

Noel groaned, voice strangled, as he fucked you through it, dragging out every last shudder, his pace turning frantic. His grip on your hair tightened, his hips slamming against yours one last time before he buried himself deep with a low, wrecked curse.

For a moment, the only sound in the room was the sharp, uneven rhythm of your breathing.

Noel was still draped over you, his weight grounding, his skin hot where it pressed against yours. Neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke. It was like neither of you wanted to be the first to break whatever fragile thing had settled between you.

Eventually, he exhaled, a deep, satisfied sound, before rolling onto his side, taking you with him. His arm hooked around your waist, pulling you flush against him, his chest rising and falling against your back.

"Well," he murmured, voice hoarse, teasing, but softer than before. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

You huffed a breath, still too dazed to formulate a proper response. He felt the way you relaxed against him, how you didn’t immediately shove him away.

A quiet beat passed before he spoke again, voice low but sincere.

"Didn’t think you’d actually let me touch you like that."

You hesitated, your fingers idly tracing over his forearm where it rested against your stomach. "Didn’t think I’d want you to," you admitted.

He made a sound—half amusement, half something thoughtful. "And now?"

You swallowed, feeling the weight of the question.

There was no point in denying it, not now.

"I do want you to now, but you’re still a mug." you muttered.

Noel chuckled, low and lazy, nuzzling his nose against the curve of your shoulder.

You turned slightly in his hold, just enough to meet his gaze. He was already watching you, eyes half-lidded.

"Maybe we should stop pretending we hate each other," you said, voice softer now, more thoughtful.

Noel’s lips twitched, amusement flickering in his gaze. "Oh, love," he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from your face, fingers lingering at your cheek. "I never hated you."

Your heart stumbled.

He let the words settle, his thumb grazing the curve of your jaw, before he smirked. "Just really, really wanted to shut you up."

You rolled your eyes, but the bite was gone, replaced by something warm. "And what do you want now?"

His expression turned serious—just for a second. Then, he tugged you closer, pressing his mouth against yours, slow and lingering.

"You," he murmured against your lips. "Think I always have."

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oh who doesn't love some slight enemies to lovers, thanks to whoever suggested this xx